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29582	----	Transcriber's Note: The original spelling and capitalization of the original book published in 1732 have been retained. THE TRICKS OF THE TOWN: OR, WAYS and MEANS for getting _MONEY_. WHEREIN The various LURES, WILES, and ARTIFICES, practised by the Designing and Crafty upon the Weak and Unwary, are fully exposed. Recommended to the serious Perusal of all ADVENTURERS and SHARERS in _Bubble-Undertakings_, the PURSUERS of _Pennyworths_, and _Bargain-Buyers_. Chiefly collected from some Papers of the Ingenious Mr. JOHN THOMSON, scattered between _Laurence-Pountney's-Hill_ and _Dover_. _LONDON_: Printed for J. ROBERTS, near the _Oxford-Arms_ in _Warwick-Lane_: And sold by the Booksellers of _London_ and _Westminster_. 1732. (Price One Shilling.) * * * * * THE TRICKS of the TOWN; OR DIAMONDS _cut_ DIAMONDS. My Son get Money, said a wiser Man than you or I, honest Reader: That is the Precept; but he went no farther, leaving the Business of _Committee Men_, _Ways and Means_, &c. to the peculiar Turn of Thought, or Biass of Invention of every individual _Money-Getter_. Of all the Methods made use of to attain this great End, I believe it will be allow'd that he who gains his point the easiest way, is the wisest Person: For instance, I know there are Mines of _Gold_ and _Silver_ in _Peru_ and _Mexico_; but when one considers at what a very inconvenient distance these are, and what Toils and Dangers must be undergone before an _Ingot_ of either can be pocketed, what is to be done in the Case? We cannot go to them, and they will not come to us. In this plunge of Affairs, we resolve to pick it up by _Shillings_, _Crowns_, _Guineas_, _Moidores_, &c. at home. That the one half of this great over-grown Metropolis knows but little how the other is truly supported, is a Maxim, I believe, older than the Walls themselves; that a considerable number of Persons are daily employed and kept in constant pay to go about damaging and destroying all manner of wearing Apparel, when they can find an Opportunity of doing it without any Inconveniences to themselves, is a Fact that will admit of no manner of Dispute. I have been inform'd, that if a _Coachman_ or _Carter_ can decently dash a _Gentleman_ or a _Lady_ that are richly dress'd, when they are walking the Streets, over their Head and Ears, and make due Proof of the Fact, there is not a _Draper_ or _Mercer_ within half a Mile of the Place where the Exploit was perform'd, but who will readily tip the Man a Shilling for his Trouble. Every body knows, that when a _Foot-Soldier_ was taken in the Court of _Requests_ at _Westminster_, bedaubing a noble Lord's new Suit of Clothes upon his Back, with a composition of Powders that in a Week's time would have render'd them not worth the acceptance of his _Valet de Chambre_; the _honest Man_, upon a very strict Examination before a Magistrate, was at last brought, though with great reluctancy, to confess his receiving a Salary of Thirty Pounds _per Ann._ from certain _Drapers_, _Taylors_, and _Scowrers_, for those kinds of Services. A few Weeks since I happen'd into a very large promiscuous Company of Gentlemen and Tradesmen, at a Tavern near the _Royal-Exchange_; I had not been seated amongst them a Quarter of an Hour, before a Waiter came to top the Candles, and let a Snuff fall upon the Sleeve of my Coat, which instantly burnt a great hole in the Cloth. All the Satisfaction I had, was in calling him careless Rascal, and his begging my pardon. This was soon follow'd by a great Glass of Wine one of the Company let fall upon the Table, which wetted three or four Peoples Clothes pretty heartily. By and by a full Flask was overset, which put half a dozen more of us into the same pickle; so that nothing was heard for some time, but, _Sir, I am heartily sorry_; _I beg your pardon_; _Mischances will happen, but I hope it won't stain_; and the like. We were all up from our Chairs, wiping and cleaning one another. We were no sooner got into order again, and begun to be merry, forgetting what was past, but Supper came to be set upon the Table; when the Cook, in handing a Dish of Fish over our Shoulders, let fall the Bason, with all the Sauce in it, upon half a score of us. We now were in a worse Condition than ever, and all got upon our Legs again in the utmost Confusion and Disorder; and with rumbling and tumbling about, a huge Pewter Piss-pot, with about half a dozen Gallons of Urine in it, was thrown down from its Stand. I got a Pocket full to my share, and there were few of the Company but what had their Dividends of it. Bless me, says I, sure never such a Series and Train of Disasters fell out so before. In short, I could stand it no longer, but paid my Shot, and came away with my Clothes in such a condition, that I had scarce ever seen the like, and was forc'd to give them away the next Morning. In a Day or two after, I was thoroughly satisfied with the real Cause of these _Accidents_, _viz._ that the House in which I had met with this Mischief, was entirely supported by _Woollen Drapers_, _Taylors_, and _Button-sellers_; and that we had got several of 'em that Night in our Company. Women of Quality and Fashion will perhaps think themselves no ways liable to any of these Mischances; but I shall convince them, that howsoever secure they may imagine themselves to be from them by their Coaches and Chairs, and other Accommodations, they are yet to be come at by some People they are not well aware of. There are few Women of any Fashion, that make a tolerable Figure in the _Beau Monde_, but what have a continual clatter of Manteaumakers, Milliners, and Sempstresses about their Ears; besides Tire-Women, and Fortune-Tellers by Coffee-Grounds; together with a Train of Chamber-maids, and old Housekeepers, who have got married, and are permitted to visit the Families they once lived in. These, with a Croud of Midwives, Twelve-penny Lottery-Women, and other _How d'ye do_ People, are for ever plaguing them with this new Fancy and Pattern, and recommending such and such Persons to their Custom for Teas, China, and Trumpery. And while a Story is telling of who's a going to be Married, who is brought to Bed, or who has Miscarried, down goes the Cup and Saucer, and the Tea all over her Ladyship's Petticoat; then do they _curse their unlucky Hands_, and beg _ten thousand Pardons for the Mischance_; and threaten to go to _India_, but they will match the Set, so as not to be distinguish'd by the nicest Judgment. The whole Suit of Clothes, perhaps, becomes the Perquisite of my Lady's Woman, and the Set of China is not to be match'd in the Kingdom. The Dealers soon get Intelligence of the Accident, from the _Person_ by whose Hands it was done; and the Lady is teaz'd almost to death with People shewing her new _Sets_, new _Patterns_, and what not: and as soon as she has purchased, the Gossip, by whose dextrous Management the Traffick was brought about, not only begs and gets the damaged Set of China for herself, but moreover receives a Moiety out of the Shopkeeper's Profit who sold the new Set; as well as Poundage from the Mercer, for what he shall sell the Lady. I knew a Woman of Quality who was so strangely pester'd with this kind of _Visitants_, that she could never keep a clean Manteau to her Tail, nor a complete Set of China to her Tea-Table; and yet continued so incredulous, as not to be persuaded that there was any _Art_ and _Design_ in the _Disasters_ that so frequently happen'd to her. How many great Ladies have had their Gown-Tails cut from their Backsides at Balls and Operas, not so much for the sake of what Profit could be made of them, as has been apparent, but for the promoting of Trade and Commerce; and have return'd home in Jackets, like _Dutch_ Burgomasters Wives, to their Families? The _Methods_ made use of to _Gripe_, _Surfeit_, _Cholick_, and otherwise disorder the Bodies of Children, as well as _Persons_ of riper Years, in order to render them due Objects of _Advice_ and _Physick_, I believe are obvious enough to every ingenious Person who is conversant with Families, and the Streets of _London_. What Person is there, of common Humanity amongst us, but must look with the utmost Grief and Concern upon that intolerable number of _Wheel-barrows_, _Stands_, and _Benches_, which are so industriously ranged and disposed thro' all the _Streets_, _Lanes_, and _Alleys_ of the Town, retailing various Kinds of damaged and unwholesome Fruits to the Passengers? all which manifestly tend to destroy the Healths of those who are weak enough to purchase them, and oftentimes are the Cause of epidemical Diseases. I hope none of my Readers will be so uncharitable as to suggest that there is a Combination amongst _Quacks_, _Apothecaries_ or _Druggists_; for furnishing these _moving Shopkeepers_ with _Barrows_, _Baskets_, Money to purchase unwholesome Fruit, or any other Necessaries and Conveniences for carrying on this dangerous Traffick with the middling People: but thus much must be said, that we generally find them posted at, or near the Doors and Shops of those _Traders_. And then, what a horrible Squall and Outcry is there, according to the Season, of _Green Goosberries by the Gallon_, _Cherries by the Pound_, _Plumbs by the Hat-full_, _Cucumbers by the Dozen_, and _rare lumping Half-penny-worths of Pears, Pippins, and Pearmains_, &c. The People are constantly complaining of Disorders they produce, but cannot refrain from them, because they are, as it were, thrust down their Throats in this manner; and when _Advice_ is had, the Patient is rarely told that his Malady proceeded from the real Cause, but that _Fruit is held to be good and cooling to the Blood at all Times and Seasons, and by all Countries and Constitutions_. Thus the _Patient_ repeats his Poison, the _Prescriber_ his Fees, and the _Apothecary_ his Potion. I once catch'd an _Apothecary_ at the side of a Wheel-barrow enquiring of a dirty Hussey what Quantities of _Goods_ she had disposed of for a Day or two; doubtless that he might thereby proportion the Quantity of his _Medicines_ suitable to the Execution her _Trash_ must have done amongst his Neighbours. Another time I saw a Physician vouchsafe to descend from his Chariot to become an Advocate in the open Street for a Flat-Cap Retailer of _Golden Rennets_, who had caus'd a great Riot at a Door she was permitted to place her _Barrow_ against, and pleaded as strenuously for her Continuance at it, as a Barrister would have done for a Fee of five Guineas; urging, among other Reasons, the _Cruelty_, and _what an unchristian Action it would be in any one to obstruct a poor Wretch in procuring a small Livelihood in an honest industrious Way_. This Argument had the more Weight with the People, because every one was surprized to hear so humane a Sentiment from a Practitioner in Physick. Some Shopkeepers Wives being got together at a Merry-making, an Apothecary's _Mortar-piece_ of the Company was complaining of the bad Situation her Husband's Affairs would have been in, if that it had not pleased G--d the _Apricots, Plumbs and Nectarins had turned out vastly bad and plentiful this Year_. Sometimes when the Mischiefs arising from unwholesome Fruits are too apparent, and a general Outcry is raised by Nurses and Old Women against People's indulging themselves too freely in them; then Care is taken to conceal the _Poison_ under little kind of _Crusts_ in the nature of _Pyes_ and _Tarts_: and besides what are sold in great Shops, itinerant Pastry-Cooks are dispersed all over the City and Suburbs to tempt liquorish Women and Children to become the Properties of an Apothecary's Shop. Many there are, who would be inclined to think it something romantick, when I venture to assure them, that above an hundred Families in and about this City and Suburbs are actually supported and maintain'd by no other Means than those of _stealing Dogs_ from the Doors and Houses of Persons of Quality and Condition; and that Children are actually put forth Apprentice for a certain Term of Years, and have Money given with them, to be instructed in this _Art and Mystery_. We see, that when some of these _innocent Animals_ are missing, what a Value is set upon them, by the round Sums offer'd by publick Advertisement. How many great Ladies are there, that would sooner be reconcil'd to the death of a Child, or a near Relation, than to that of a favourite Lap-Dog? And how often have we seen Families in deep Mourning on these _sad Occasions_? From Air to Air, and from Mineral to Mineral, have they been shifted upon the slightest Disorder. I have known a tip-top Physician sent for by an Express, and several Sets of Horses laid on the Road for him, to go with the utmost Expedition to visit a Lap-Dog that has been only ill of a sullen Fit, or so, in _Yorkshire_. A Woman of the first Quality, who, when all other Remedies fail'd her, found great Benefit by Walking, was obliged to give over that beneficial Exercise, for no other reason, forsooth, but that her favourite Dog could not keep pace with her, and what was found to be advantageous to her Constitution, was detrimental to his. The _Artificers_ who make a _Livelihood_ by decoying these _pretty Puppets_ away, for the sake of the _Guineas_ and _Half Guineas_ that are usually given for their recovery to the Owners, are fond to pay a close and diligent Attendance near the Doors of such Houses where they are held in the highest Estimation, and at the most proper Seasons. Four in the Afternoon is deem'd a good Hour for a Dog of Quality and Distinction: _The dear pretty Soul_ has had a good Meal, and a thousand Kisses bestow'd on him; and my Lady, perhaps, has been too free with her _Clary_ after Dinner, and so is gone to take a Nap. The Valet is kissing her Woman behind the Skreen in the Dining-Room: In the mean time, _Jewel_ trips down stairs into the Hall, while the Porter is down in the Kitchen at a Horse-Laughter with the Footmen and Maids, and the Door committed to the Care of some drunken Chairman, or poor Fellow out of Place; and a poor-looking Creature is peeping in, under pretence of asking Charity. The Dog is instantly snapp'd up, and convey'd away under an old louzy Great-Coat, or a greasy Ridinghood, to some filthy Cellar or Garret. By and by my Lady wakes, and wants her _Companion_: 'Sdeath and Fireballs, the House is search'd from top to bottom, as tho' a Warrant for High-Treason was got into it. Mrs. _Abigail_ has warning given her, and the _Porter_ is turn'd out of doors. Every thing is in the greatest Confusion, and nothing but fear and sorrow appears upon every Countenance. The Footmen and Stablemen are dispatch'd, like Madmen, North, East, West, and South. The Trades-People, not immediately knowing the Occasion of this sudden Consternation, send from all Corners, and hope _my Lord and Lady are well_. Next Morning the Crier and the News-Papers go to work. My Lady sees no Company, forbears Plays and Operas, and every Room of the House looks as if a pestilential Distemper was raging in the Family. Towards the close of the Evening, a Fellow in a _Soldier's Coat_, with the Dog very carefully wrapp'd up in one of the Lappets, is knocking at the Door. A Reprieve to a Malefactor the Morning of Execution, or the News of a rich Father's Death to an extravagant Heir, cannot be more welcome than two or three _Yelps_ of the _absent Animal_ shall be to all the Servants: Happy is that Servant who has the good fortune first to carry the glad Tidings to my Lady. The Fellow tells a long Story of his being at his Post in St. _James's Park_, and of his seeing the Dog under a Woman's Arm; and how he suspected her coming honestly by it, and what Fatigues and Difficulties he met with in wresting the poor Creature from her: How the Mob took part against him, and the risque he run of being sent to the _Savoy_; with twenty other Falsehoods, all which are greedily swallowed: Every Face, with Tears of Joy, standing with great Faith and Patience to hear his impudent Narration of the great Dangers that the poor _little Creature_ and _himself_ had escaped. The Thief receives the _Reward_, with perhaps a _Guinea_ over, and goes away loaded with Applauses and Blessings, for restoring Peace and Tranquillity in the Family. The _Dogs_ that belong to private Families, and Shopkeepers, the proper time for _setting_ them is generally soon after Seven in the Morning, when the Maid neglects her _Entry_ and the _Stairs_ for a Conversation with the Baker's Journeyman, or her Master's Prentice; and a general _Tête-a-Tête_ of all the Mops and Brooms in the Neighbourhood is going forward; and a Sash Window, or a Street Door left carelesly open, whereby an opportunity is given for _Tray_ to be trick'd out of House and Home by a bit of Meat, that is generally shewn him as a Bait for that purpose. _Half a Guinea_ for bringing him home is repeated three or four times in the Advertisements, and then a _Guinea_ once or twice more; so that about Forty Shillings must be expended, before the poor _Fool_ shall be put into _statu quo_. In the Evening, when the Ladies are going to make their Visits, their _pretty Favourites_ are too apt to follow them from the Parlour to the Street Door; and if their _Guardians_ and _Trustees_ are not sufficiently upon the watch, a Person under pretence of wanting Alms, shall not only mump Money, but carry off their _Ward_ into the bargain. When Service is over at the Churches and Meeting-Houses on a _Sunday_, we find a great many Hands at work plying the Doors and Avenues; in hopes of picking up now and then one of these straggling _Gentry_: For there are very staunch _Church_-Folks, as well as rigid _Presbyterians_ of this Species; and I have seen some of them, whose Zeal has transported them so far, as to render themselves liable to the Penalty of Twenty Pounds, in disturbing a Preacher by loudly snarling at him, when they have been pleased not to approve of his Countenance or Doctrine. The _Quakers_ may entertain a great many of them at their Habitations, but I believe, have few or none that can be truly said to be of their Persuasion; for I could never learn that any were ever affected with their Principles, and much less frequented their Places of Religious Worship. Those honest City-Tradesmen and others, who so lovingly carry their Wives and Mistresses to the neighbouring Villages in Chaises to regale them on a _Sunday_, are seldom sensible of the great Inconveniences and Dangers they are exposed to: for besides the common Accidents of the Road, there are a Set of regular Rogues kept constantly in Pay to incommode them in their Passage; and these are the Drivers of what are called _Waiting Jobbs_, and other _Hackney Travelling-Coaches_ with Sets of Horses, who are commissioned by their Masters to annoy, sink, and destroy all the single and double Horse-Chaises they can conveniently meet with, or overtake in their Way, without regard to the Lives or Limbs of the Persons who travel in them. What Havock these industrious Sons of Blood and Wounds have made within twenty Miles of _London_ in the Compass of a Summer's Season, is best known by the Articles of Accidents in the common News-Papers: The miserable Shrieks of Women and Children not being sufficient to deter the Villains from doing what they call _their Duty to their Masters_; for besides their Daily or Weekly Wages, they have an extraordinary stated Allowance for every Chaise they can _reverse_, _ditch_, or _bring by the Road_, as the Term or Phrase is. I heard a Fellow, who drove a hired Coach and four Horses, give a long Detail of a _hard Chace_ he gave last Summer to a Two-Horse Chaise, which was going with a Gentleman and three Ladies to _Windsor_. He said he first came in view of the Chaise at _Knights-Bridge_, and there put on hard after it to _Kensington_; but that being drawn by a Pair of good Cattle, and the Gentleman in the Seat pretty expert at driving, they made the Town before him; and there stopping at a Tavern-Door to take a Glass of Wine, he halted also, and whistled for his Horses to _stale_: but the Chaise not yet coming on, he affected another Delay, by pretending that one of his Horses had taken up a Stone, and so dismounting, as if to search, lay by, till the _Enemy_ had passed him; that then they kept a _Trot on_ together to _Turnham-Green_, when the People suspecting his Design again, put on: that he then whipp'd after them _for dear Blood_, thinking to have done their Business between that Place and _Brentford_. But here he was again disappointed, for the two Horses still kept their Courage, till they came between _Longford_ and _Colnbrook_, where he plainly perceived 'em begin to droop or _knock up_, and found he had then a sure Game on't. He went on leisurely after them, till both Parties came into a narrow Lane, where there was no Possibility of an Escape, when he gave his Horses a sudden Jerk, and came with such Violence upon the People, that he pull'd their Machine quite over. He said, the Cries of the Women were so loud that _the B--ches might be heard to his Master's Yard in_ Piccadilly; that there being no-body near to assist the People, he got clear off with two or three blind old Women his Passengers some Miles beyond _Maidenhead_, safe both from Pursuit and Evidence. I have been credibly informed, that many of the Coachmen and Postillions belonging to the Quality are seduced by the Masters of the Travelling-Coaches to involve themselves in the Guilt of this monstrous Enormity, and have certain Fees for dismounting Persons on single Horses, and over-turning Chaises, when it shall suit with their Convenience to do it with _Safety_, (that is, within the Verge of the Law;) and in case of an _Action_ or _Indictment_, if the Master or Mistress will not stand by their Servant, and believe the Mischief was merely accidental, the Offender is then defended by a general Contribution from all the Stage-Coach Masters within the Bills of Mortality. Those Hackney-Gentlemen who drive about the City and Suburbs of _London_, have by their over-grown Insolence obliged the Government to take notice of them, and make Laws for their Regulation; and as there are Commissioners for receiving the Tax they pay to the Publick, so those Commissioners have Power to hear and determine between the Drivers and their Passengers upon any Abuse that happens: and yet these ordinary Coachmen abate very little of their abusive Conduct, but not only impose in Price upon those that hire them, but refuse to go this or that way as they are call'd: whereas the Law obliges them to go wherever they are legally required, and at reasonable Hours. This Treatment, and the particular saucy impudent Behaviour of the Coachmen in demanding _t'other Twelver or Tester_ above their Fare, has been the occasion of innumerable Quarrels, Fighting and Abuses; affronting Gentlemen; frighting and insulting Women; and such Rudenesses, that no civil Government will, or indeed ought to suffer; and above all, has been the occasion of the killing several Coachmen by Gentlemen that have been provoked by the villainous Tongues of those Fellows beyond the Extent of their Patience. Their intolerable Behaviour has rendered them so contemptible and odious in the Eyes of all Degrees of People whatever, that there is more Joy seen for one Hackney-Coachman's going to the Gallows, than for a Dozen Highway-men and Street-Robbers. The Driver of a Hackney-Coach having the Misfortune to break a Leg and an Arm by a Fall from his Box, was rendred incapable of following that Business any longer; and therefore posted himself at the Corner of one of the principal Avenues leading to _Covent-Garden_ with his Limbs bound up to the most advantageous Manner to move the Passengers to Commiseration. He told his deplorable Case to all, but all passed without Pity; and the Man must have inevitably perish'd, had it not come into his head to shift the Scene and his Situation. The Transition was easy, he whipt on a Leathern-Apron, and from a _Coachman_ became a poor _Joiner_, with a Wife and four Children, that had broke his Limbs by a Fall from the Top of a House. Showers of Copper poured daily into his Hat, and in a few Years he became able to purchase many _Figures_, as well as Horses; and he is now Master of one of the most considerable Livery-Stables in _London_. The next are the _Watermen_; and indeed the Insolence of these, though they are under some Limitations too, is yet such at this time, that it stands in greater need than any other of severe Laws, and those Laws being put in speedy execution. A few Months ago, one of these very People being Steers-man of a Passage-Boat between _Queenhithe_ and _Windsor_, drowned fifteen People at one time; and when many of them begg'd of him to put them on Shore, or take down his Sails, he impudently mock'd them, ask'd some of the poor frighted Women, if they were afraid of going to the Devil; and bid them say their Prayers: then used a vulgar Water-Phrase which such Fellows have in their Mouths, _Blow Devil, the more Wind the better Boat_. A Man of a very considerable Substance perishing with the rest of the unfortunate Passengers, this Villain, who had saved himself by swimming, had the surprizing Impudence to go the next Morning to his Widow, who lived at _Kingston_ upon _Thames_. The poor Woman, surrounded with a number of sorrowful Friends, was astonished to think what could be the occasion of the Fellow's coming to her; but thinking he was come to give some Account of her Husband's Body being found, at last she condescended to see him. After a scurvy Scrape or two, the Monster very modestly _hoped his good Mistress would give him half a Crown to drink her Health, by way of Satisfaction for a Pair of Oars and a Sail he had lost the Night before, when he had drowned her Husband_. I have many times pass'd between _London_ and _Gravesend_ with these Fellows; when I have seen them, in spite of the shrieks and cries of the Women, and the persuasions of the Men-Passengers, and indeed, as if they were the more bold by how much the Passengers were the more afraid; I say, I have seen them run needless hazards, and go as it were within an Inch of Death, when they have been under no necessity of it: and if not in contempt of the Passengers, it has been in meer laziness, to avoid their rowing. And I have been sometimes oblig'd, especially when there have been more Men in the Boat of the same Mind, so that we have been strong enough for them, to threaten to cut their Throats, to make them hand their Sails, and keep under Shore, not to fright, as well as hazard the Lives of the Passengers, when there was no need of it. But I am satisfied, that the less frighted and timorous their Passengers are, the more cautious and careful the Watermen are, and the least apt to run into Danger. Whereas, if their Passengers appear frighted, then the Watermen grow saucy and audacious, show themselves venturous, and contemn the Dangers they are really expos'd to. _Set one Knave to catch another_, is a proverbial Saying of great Antiquity and Repute in this Kingdom. Thus the vigilant _Vintner_, notwithstanding all his little Arts of base Brewings, abridging his Bottles, and connecting his Guests together, does not always reap the Fruits of his own Care and Industry. Few People being aware of the underhand Understandings and Petty-Partnerships these Sons of _Benecarlo_ and _Cyder_ have topp'd upon them; and the many other private Inconveniences that they, in the course of their Business, are subjected to. Now, to let my Readers into this great _Arcanum_ or Secret, I must acquaint them, that nothing is more certain and frequent than for some of the principal Customers to a Tavern, to have a secret Allowance, by way of Drawback, of Six-pence or Seven-Pence, nay sometimes I have heard of Eight-pence, on every Bottle of Port-Wine that themselves shall drink, or cause to be drank in the House, and for which they have seemingly paid the full Price of two Shillings; and so are a sort of _Vintners in Vizards_, and _Setters of Society_. These are mostly sharping Shopkeepers, who, by being considerable Dealers, hold numbers of other inferiour Trades-people in a State of Dependency upon them; Officers of Parishes; old season'd Soakers, who by having serv'd an Age to Tippling, have contracted a boundless Acquaintance; House-Stewards; Clerks of Kitchens; Song-Singers; Horse-Racers; Valet de Chambres; Merry Story-Tellers, Attorneys and Sollicitors, with Legions of wrangling Clients always at their Elbows. Wherefore, as they have got the Lead upon a great part of Mankind, they are for ever establishing Clubs and Friendly-Societies at Taverns, and drawing to them every Soul they have any Dealings or Acquaintance with. The young Fellows are mostly sure to be their Followers and Admirers, as esteeming it a great Favour to be admitted amongst their _Seniors_ and _Betters_, thinking to _learn to know the World and themselves_. One constant Topick of Conversation, is the _Civility of the People, the diligent Attendance_, together with the _Goodness of the Wines, and Cheapness of the Eatables_; with a Side-wind Reflection on another House. And if at any time, when the Wine is complain'd of, it is answer'd with _Peoples Palates are not at all times alike; my Landlord generally hath as good, or better, than any one in the Town_. And oftentimes the poor innocent _Bottle_, or else the Cork, falls under a false and heavy Accusation. In a Morning there is no passing thro' any part of the Town, without being _Hemm'd_ and _Yelp'd_ after by these Locusts from the Windows of Taverns, where they post themselves at the most convenient Views, to observe such Passengers as they have but the least knowledge of; and if a Person be in the greatest haste, going upon extraordinary Occasions, or not caring to vitiate his Palate before Dinner, and so attempts an Escape, then, like a Pack of Hounds, they join in full Cry after him, and the Landlord is detach'd upon his Dropsical Pedestals, or else a more nimble-footed Drawer is at your Heels, bawling out, _Sir, Sir, 'tis your old Friend Mr. Swallow, who wants you upon particular Business_. The Sums which are expended daily by this Method, are realy surprizing. I knew a Clerk to a Vestry, a Half-pay Officer, a Chancery Sollicitor, and a broken Apothecary, that made a tolerable good Livelihood, by calling into a Tavern all their Friends that passed by the Window in this manner. Their Custom was to sit with a Quart of White-_Port_ before them in a Morning; every Person they decoy'd into their Company for a Minute or two, never threw down less than his Six-pence, and few drank more than one Gill; and if two or three Glasses, he seldom came off with less than one Shilling. The Master of the House constantly provided them with a plain Dinner, _gratis_. All Dinner-time they kept their Room still, in full view of the Street, and so sate _catching Gudgeons_, (as they used to call it) from Morning till Night; when, besides amply filling their own Carcasses, and discharging the whole Reckoning, they seldom divided less than seven or eight Shillings a Man _per Diem_. Some People, unacquainted with this _Fellow-feeling_ at Taverns, often wonder how such a one does to hold it; that he spends a confounded deal of Money, is seldom out of a Tavern, and never in his Business: when, in reality, he is thus never out of his Business, and so helps to run away with the chief Profits of the House. Nor are these all the Hardships many of the Vintners lie under; for besides, their Purses must too often stand a private Examination behind the Bar, when any of these sort of Customers Necessities shall require it. 'Tis such Dealings drive the poor Devils to all the little Shifts and Tricks imaginable. I went one day into a Tavern near _Charing-Cross_, to inquire after a Person whom I knew had once us'd the House: The Mistress being in the Bar, cry'd out, _What an unfortunate thing it was, Mr. ---- being that instant gone out of the House, and was surprized I did not meet him at the Door; but that he had left Word he expected a Gentleman to come to him, and would return immediately._ I staid the sipping of two or three Half-pints, and begun to shew some uneasiness that he did not come according to her Expectation; when she again _wonder'd at it_, saying, _it was just one of his Times of coming; for that he was a worthy good Gentleman, and constantly whetted four or five times in a Morning_. At length, being out of all patience, I paid, and went to my Friend's House, about twenty Doors farther; where his Wife inform'd me, _he had been gone about three Months before to_ Jamaica. The Bankruptcies so frequently happening among the Sons of _Bacchus_, are doubtless to be attributed chiefly to such Leeches as I have been describing, lying so closely upon them; and then an innocent industrious Man is to be call'd forsworn Rogue, Villain, and what not; and to be told that he hath affected a Failure, to sink a dozen or fourteen Shillings in the Pound upon his Creditors, when, in reality, he hath not a single Shilling left in the World; and shall oftentimes be oblig'd to become a common Waiter to a more fortunate Fellow, and one perhaps too, that he once had thoughts of circumventing in his Business and Trade, by no other means, than a more humble and tractable Behaviour. A Vintner, who has been look'd upon by all Mankind to have been a 20,000_l._ Man at least, hath died not worth Eighteen-pence; and then the poor Wretch has been worried to his Grave, with the Character of a private Whore-master or Gamester. A few Years since _Peter Dapper_ came into a naked and ruin'd Bawdy-House Tavern in the heart of the City; he resolv'd upon a thorough Reformation of its Customs and Manners, and when a Male and Female came in together, he order'd his Servants to shew them into the open Kitchen. He declar'd that he would make no difference or distinction in the Price of his Wines, but would be above-board with all Mankind. He redress'd the exorbitant Grievances of the _Gridiron_ and the _Spit_, and protested his Heart and his Larder free and open to all that should vouchsafe to visit either. He invited all the single Mercers, Druggists, and Drapers, that lived within sight of his _Bush_, to eat a piece of Mutton with him every Day at Noon, and upon the removal of the Cloth, _Peter_ proclaim'd a free general Indemnity and Oblivion for all the Mischief their Forks and Knives had done to two or three substantial Dishes that stood before them. By these, and other uncommon Acts of Generosity, he rais'd the Reputation of his House to a greater pitch than any other in the Neighbourhood, and reap'd the Fruits of his own Labours and Ingenuity. _Peter_, in a few Years, having laid hands on a good number of Acres, and got an Equipage about his Ears, has now very fairly turn'd his A--se upon all the Taverns in the Kingdom. A certain great BANKER, whose Name it is altogether needless to mention, (the Fact being too well known to many Peoples Misfortune) having by some indiscreet Management greatly hurt his Reputation, and several Stories of a suspicious nature, tending to depreciate his Character, being whisper'd about; which coming in time to his knowledge, he thought of a notable Device to prevent the Consequences that generally ensue on those occasions to Persons in his way of Life. His first step was to order Glaziers and Painters to new-ornament his House in the most genteel manner. He next hurried to the _Pool_, and order'd in about a hundred Chaldrons of Coals, tho' it was the warm Season of the Year. These _Circumstances_ seem'd to _demonstrate_ a Continuance in his House, and for three or four Days together, when the People came either to draw, or bring their Cash, their was scarce a possibility of getting into the Shop, for a number of dirty Fellows who were incessantly carrying Sacks of Coals on their Backs to the Cellars. The Stratagem succeeded even beyond expectation; the Creditors Apprehensions clear'd up, and one ridicul'd another for their _foolish_ and _ill-grounded_ Fears. The _Run_ that was begun to be made, not only ceased, but numbers of Strangers now thought fit to constitute him the _Custodé_ of their Fortunes; and the Man was look'd upon to be one of the most flourishing of his Business in the City, and his Credit equal to that of the _Bank of England_. This went on for about a Fortnight or three Weeks longer, when this pains-taking Tradesman thought fit to shut up his Shop, and rub off with 100,000_l._ of his Creditors Money to _Antwerp_. Another time a young Fellow, with a pitiful Patrimony, open'd a LINNEN-DRAPER'S Shop in the heart of the City; his Stock was equal to his Fortune, and, like most raw unexperienc'd Persons, his Soul vastly bigger than both. Tho' he set out with great Ambition, he condescended to bow to all the Fair-Sex who pass'd his Door in Coaches or on Foot; his Success was humble, for he bowed to little purpose. Revolving Quarters, with Rent and Taxes, were his principal Customers. These, together with the apprehensions of his being soon named with other of his Majesty's loving Subjects in the _London Gazette_, gave him great Pain and Anxiety. One Morning he bless'd himself for a lucky Dog, having arose from his Pillow with the most happy Thought that had ever enter'd his Head. He call'd for Pen, Ink, and Paper, and enjoining his Journeyman Secrecy, went to his Compting-House, and drew up a Paper to the Effect following: _viz._ "_Whereas there was, on the 10th Day of this Instant October, dropp'd in the Shop of Mr._ Probity, Linnen-Draper, _at the ...... in_ Cheapside, London, _a green Silk Purse, in which was contain'd a large Rose Diamond Ring, a great number of pieces of Foreign Gold, together with sundry Notes,_ &c. _of great value; whoever will apply to the said Mr._ Probity, _and prove their Property to the same, shall have it restor'd them, on paying only the Charge of this Advertisement._" This he caused to be printed in all the publick News-Papers, and although there was no such Purse lost, and consequently no Claim made, the Action was cry'd up through the Town as the most just and laudable that was ever done by a Citizen, and particularly by a young Beginner; some saying, _How many were there in the World that would have been silent enough on such an occasion?_ And others, _Ay, Ay; if it were not for some such honest People left amongst us, the World would never stand._ Trade and Business now flow'd in so fast upon him, that he was scarce able to undergo the Fatigue of his Shop; which was constantly crouded with _Women_ of all Ranks and Conditions, who, they said, _were sure to meet with fairer Usage there, than in any other in the City_. His barely _averring, upon the Word of an honest Man, that the Goods in dispute lay him in more prime-cost than was bid him_, would go further than the Oaths of a dozen Witnesses in _Guild-hall_; and when he was urged to say, as _I'm a Christian_, or, _if one living Soul may believe another_, it would satisfy the most Judicious and Thrifty, and remove from his Shop the worst of Goods at the most extravagant Prices. The great Dealer in _India_ Goods is to sell as much China, Silks, and Muslins, _&c._ as he can, by which he shall get what he proposes to be reasonable, according to the customary Profits of his Business. As to a Lady, what she would be at, is to please her Fancy, and buy cheaper by a Shilling or two in the Pound, than the Things she wants are commonly sold at. Upon the approach of her Chariot to one of these Magazines of Trifles, up steps a Gentleman-like Man, that has every thing clean and fashionable about him; who, in low obeisance, pays her homage; and as soon as her pleasure is known that she has a mind to come in, hands her into the Shop; where immediately he slips from her, and in half a Moment, with great Address, entrenches himself behind the Compter. Here facing her, with a profound Reverence and modish Phrase, he begs the favour of knowing her Commands. Let her say and dislike what she pleases, she can never be directly contradicted. She deals with a Man in whom consummate Patience is one of the Mysteries of his Trade; and whatever Trouble she creates, she is sure to hear nothing but the most obliging Language; and has always before her a chearful Countenance, where Joy and Respect seem to be blended with Good-Humour, and all together make up an artificial Serenity, more ingaging than untaught Nature is able to produce. When two Persons are so well met, the Conversation must be very agreeable, as well as extremely mannerly, tho' they talk about Trifles. Whist she remains irresolute what to take, he seems to be the same in advising her, and is very cautious how to direct her Choice: but when once she has made it, and is fix'd, he immediately becomes positive that it is the best of the sort; extols her Fancy, and the more he looks upon it, the more he wonders he should not before have discovered the pre-eminence of it over any thing he has in his Shop. By Precept, Example, and great Application, he has learn'd and observ'd to slide into the inmost Recesses of the Soul, found the Capacity of his Customers, and discover'd their blind side unknown to them: By all which he is instructed in fifty other Stratagems, to make her overvalue her own Judgment; as well as the Commodity she would purchase. The greatest Advantage he has had over her, lies in the most material part of the Commerce between them, the Debate about the Price, which he knows to a Farthing, and she is wholly ignorant of: therefore he no where more egregiously imposes on her Understanding: and tho' here he has the liberty of telling what Lyes he pleases, as to the _Prime-Cost_, and _the Money he has refused_, yet he trusts not to them only; but attacking her Vanity, makes her believe the most incredible things in the World, concerning his own Weakness, and her superior Abilities. _He had taken a Resolution_, he says, _never to part with that_ Piece _or_ Set _under such a Price, but she has the power of talking him out of his Goods beyond any body he ever sold to_: He _protests, that he loses by what she offers; but seeing that she has a fancy for it, and is resolv'd to give no more, rather than disoblige a Lady he has such an uncommon value for, he'll let her have it; and only begs, that another time she will not stand so hard with him._ In the mean time the Buyer, who has a voluble Tongue, and imagines herself no Fool, is easily persuaded that she has a very winning way of Talking; and thinking it sufficient, for the sake of Good Breeding, to disown her Merit, and in some witty Repartee retort the Compliment, he makes her swallow very contentedly the substance of every thing he tells her. The upshot is, that with the satisfaction of having bought, as she thinks, according to her expectation, she has paid exactly the same Price as any body else would have done; and give much more than, rather than not have sold his Goods, he would have taken. Those who have never minded an Accident that once happened to a spruce Mercer on _Ludgate-Hill_, have neglected a Scene of Life that is very entertaining. A genteel young Lady, very richly apparelled, made a full stop, in a Hackney-Coach, at the Door of this sharp-sighted Citizen; who, with his wonted Civility, conducted her into his Shop. After she had spent two or three Hours in tumbling over his Goods, and exclaiming against his _frightful Prices_, and after divers _Doubts_ and _Hesitations_, she fix'd her Determination on Silks and Brocades to the value or amount of 100_l._ and then, with a handsome Apology for Women's seldom gadding abroad with such a Sum of Money in their Pockets, desires he would do her the honour to wait upon her, with the Goods, to her Husband's House, naming a very eminent Surgeon at St. _James's_. In the _interim_ Dinner is gone up, and the Mercer invites his fair Customer to take a Family Morsel with him, before they went to St. _James's_. At Dinner many Excuses pass'd on the side of the Mercer and his Wife, for the _indifferent Fare_; and on the Lady's side as many Declarations, _that all was mighty good and well_; and faithfully promis'd, that if his Goods answer'd her expectation, she would never quit his Shop, but would also procure most of her Friends and Acquaintance to deal with him. She was seiz'd with a fainting Fit or two, with other pretty affected Symptoms of a _breeding Lady_, which led on a great deal of good humour upon the subject of Marriage. When Dinner was over, a Coach was call'd, the Lady and her Purchase were handed in with the greatest alacrity, and order'd to go to Mr. ---- a _Surgeon's_. All the way, a great deal of obliging Discourse pass'd on both sides; and the Mercer, not a little proud of his pretty Customer, and the large Roll of Silk that lay in sight, took care to bow to all his Acquaintance as he pass'd along. When the Coach stopp'd, she very pertly ask'd the Servant that open'd the Door, if his Master was in the Surgery; and being answer'd he was, she says, take care, put that Parcel by carefully, and shew this Gentleman into the Parlour. In the mean time, herself went up to the Master, and addresses herself to the following purpose; _viz._ "That about two years since, her too indulgent Parents," _naming a Family of good account in the Country_, "had unfortunately married her to Mr. ---- a Mercer on _Ludgate-Hill_; but that his Life, since their Marriage, had been so scandalous and dissolute, that, in short, he had not only ruin'd her Fortune, but she fear'd her Constitution, by his Conversation with Scrumpets; and that her Condition was such, she knew not what to do with herself, nor how to make her Case known to any living Creature." He was going directly to examine her, but that she desired he would desist, and talk first with Mr. ----, her Husband, naming the Mercer, who, she said, was below stairs waiting for that purpose. She begg'd not to be present, for she could scarce bear the sight of a Wretch who had used her so cruelly. She being withdrawn, the Surgeon went down stairs, and invited the Mercer into the Surgery; and began with asking, _How he found himself?_ The Mercer answer'd, _truly he could not boast of a large share of Health, but that he made a shift to rub on_; but adds he, _Sir, your Lady had a sudden Disorder this Day, as she was at Dinner at my House_; then, with a Smile, _we once thought we must have made her your Patient, by sending for you to her assistance_. _Zounds_, says the Surgeon in a surprize, _what, my Wife dine at your House! I knew she went into the City_. Replies the Mercer, _We had but a sorry Entertainment for her; however, she hath made herself amends in her Bargain_; and then presents him with a Bill of Parcels for 100_l._ for Silks sold and delivered. The Surgeon, in a violent agony, rang the Bell for his Servants, bidding them run all over the City, and find their Mistress. _Sir_, says the Mercer, _you need not give your self that trouble, to be sure she's in the House, for the Lady came with me in a Coach from the City_. This put him into a greater fury; _D--mn ye, Sir, your own pocky Slut, you mean; I'd have ye know, my Wife keeps no such Rascals company_. To blows they went, and the Bones of the Skeletons rattled as fast in the Glasses, as those of the Combatants. A Constable was call'd, and charged with the Mercer, for endeavouring to defraud the Surgeon of 100_l._ by false Tokens and Pretences. And both the Men continued so hot and outrageous, and such Scurrilities pass'd between them, that the Mistake was vastly far from being clear'd up, and the Cheat set to rights. The Mercer was carried in Custody to a Tavern, in order to go before a Magistrate, cursing and reviling all the Surgeons as he went along; saying, _if those were their Tricks, it was time to give over Trade_; and what still vex'd him more, to have his poor innocent Wife call'd pocky B--ch, and himself all the debauch'd Villains into the Bargain. The Surgeon, on the other hand, cries out, _A new piece of Villany, a Fellow brings a Whore, and a Bill of Parcels, to rob my House, and has withal the Impudence to boast of a Conversation he has truly had with my Wife in a Hackney-Coach_. The Surgeon's Wife had been found over a Dish of Tea at a Relation's House in _Crutched-Fryars_, where she had dined, and had hurried home in such a manner, that the Horses stood in a dropping Sweat at the Door. Soon after comes the Mercer's Wife, almost frighted to death, accompanied with half her Relations, and finds a Mob of a thousand People about the House where her Husband was kept Prisoner. An Hour more past before the Fraud was discover'd by either Party, and the Affair set in a true light; when, upon enquiring, the _Fair Cheat_ it seems had, so soon as the Mercer was invited out of the Room he was placed in, given the Servant half a Crown, and went off with the Silks, and it has not been known who she was to this day. While the State-Lottery was Drawing at the _Guild-hall_ in _London_, an _Irishman_ stood amongst the Croud, meditating upon Ways and Means to procure a Meal's Meat; his Belly, it seems, having been a Bankrupt for many Days before. At length, hearing a Prize of 1000_l._ proclaimed, he fell into an Exstacy, crying out, the Ticket was his, which drew the Eyes of all the People present upon him: he ran up to the _Hustings_ among the Managers, and for better Satisfaction, desired to be inform'd of the principal Clerks whether the Number he had heard in the _Hall_ was entitled to the 1000_l._ Prize. They assured him it was, and gave him Joy on his Success. He told the Clerks and Proclaimers, that when the Wheels were clos'd, and the Day's Drawing concluded, he should be glad of their Company to eat a bit of something or other with him at a neighbouring Tavern. When the Lottery-Men had done their Business, they accordingly came, like so many Millers, powdering every one that brush'd against them to the Tavern, where the Spits, Boilers and Stew-pans were all a going Tantivy; the Master of the House sent privately to the Ringers, to tell them he had a Gentleman, his Guest, whom Fortune had favour'd in the Lottery, that if his Vanity was touch'd up with a Peal or two, he would warrant them a Pair of Pieces for the Complement. St. _Lawrence's_ Bells were at it in an instant, and when the Ringers came to pay their Respects to _his Honour_, he order'd them three Guineas at the Bar. The Landlord, when he was paying the Money, was not a little proud of his own Foresight, saying, _Gentlemen, did not I tell you how it would be?_ Dinner was served up, when the Vintner and all his Servants were at their Stations, in close and diligent Attendance upon the Company. The Discourse turn'd chiefly upon the niggardly Dispositions of some, whom Fortune had favour'd in the same Manner, and the various Humours and Tempers of Mankind: what unaccountable Successes attended on some People, and the Misfortunes that others were visibly destin'd to. In the Evening, the Reckoning was call'd for, together with three or four peremptory Bottles: the Bill came to five Pounds; the _Master_ of the _Feast_, perusing it, excepted to one of the _Articles_, as being an exorbitant Charge; and as he said, _making a Property of Good-Nature_. All the Company join'd with much Warmth in the Complaint; upon which, he said he would go down and _give_ it the Landlord in his Bar. When he was got below Stairs, in a careless Manner, with a Pipe in his Mouth, and without his Hat; he saunter'd about for a Minute or two, and then found an Opportunity to slip away, leaving the Reck'ning to be paid by his Companions above stairs. The Master of the House had the more reason to be shock'd when he heard of the Imposture, because he had not only paid the three Guineas for the Steeple-Musick, but had lent him ten Guineas more out of his Pocket for pretended Exigencies. The Gentlemen could not afterwards pass through the Hall without being insulted; one unlucky Rogue bawling out, _What was the Reck'ning at the Tavern?_ and another answering, FIVE POUNDS _principal Money_. We have had instances of Jurymen, who have had their Pockets pick'd when they have been sitting upon Trials of Life and Death; and whilst a Prosecutor has been giving Evidence against one Rogue, another has at that very instant robb'd him of his Snuff-Box and Handkerchief. There are eight Sessions of _Oyer_ and _Terminer_ and Jail-Delivery usually holden in _London_ in a Year, many of which, through the great Number of Prisoners try'd, continue four or five Days successively; during which time, the _Old-Bailey-Yard_ is crouded with an idle disorderly Crew of Persons of both Sexes, who have no other Business but to obstruct those who have any unwish'd for Avocation to the Place----In one Corner stands a Circle, compos'd of, perhaps, a Baker's-Boy, a Journeyman-Shoemaker, a Butcher's-'Prentice, and a Bailiff's-Follower, telling _how it was_; By what _means such a Robber was taken_; _Who his Relations are_; One boasting of _being his near Neighbour_; and another of an intimate _Acquaintance with him_, &c.----In another, a heap of Earthen-ware Women, with Straw Hats, and their black and blue Eyes and swoln Faces, lamenting the Fate of _poor Bob_, or _Jemmy_, _hoping the L--d will deliver him out of the Hands of his Adversaries_; meaning the Laws of his Country----In a third, is a row of _Spittle-field Weavers_, with the Lice passing in Review over their Shoulders, before two or three lazy Silver-button'd Alehouse Fellows at their Elbows; near whom, are four or five old Women, shaking their Heads _at the Wickedness of the Times_, and what _a likely young Fellow pass'd just now to his Trial_, wondering _that Youth won't take warning_, &c.----A Yard farther, two or three Grenadiers together, with a red-faced Serjeant or Corporal of the Foot Guards, ready to rap a Reputation for some offending Brother. These, together with two or three Dozen of Whores and Thieves from _Rosemary-lane_ and St. _Giles's_, and a Company of idle Sailors from _Wapping_, resolve themselves into Committees of threes, fours, and fives, all over the Sessions-house-yard, and there debate on the Fates and Circumstances of the Criminals, till the latest Hour of the Court's sitting, be the Season ever so rigorous, or their Affairs at home ever so pressing. But sometimes, by the sudden and hasty turning in of a Coach, these Committees are all suspended, and squeez'd up against the Walls, or else oftentimes, through their being a little too verbose and vociferous; the Court, by their Officer upon the Leads, calls them to Peace and Order. Nor are the Taverns, Ale-houses, and Brandy-shops in the Neighbourhood less fill'd with idle Spectators: for, besides the Prosecutors and their Witnesses, (which must necessarily attend) there are infinite Numbers of _Watch-makers_, _Barbers_, _Poulterers_, _Engravers_, and other Artizans and Handicraft Tradesmen, who have no other Business there, but to hearken to the Stories of the _Newgate_ Solicitors and their Companions, and so neglecting their Callings and Families at home, sit tippling one half Pint after another, till they become as fuddled as a _Beef-Eater_ at a _Tavern_ on a _Sunday_ Morning, and go home mightily edified with the particulars of a Trial for a Rape, or a Highway Robbery. That Figure which the _Sextons_ of Parishes has made in the World of late Years, is an evident Token of the flourishing State of the _Worshipful Corporation_ of _Corps-stealers_. There seldom passes a Night, but we hear of some Defunct _Plebeian_ eloping out of one Church-yard or other: nor are those of _better Blood_ more secure, for all their Bolts and Barricadoes. This felonious _Commodity_, I am told, is sold by _Weight_, and that the _Purchasers_ generally consider and weigh well what they are about, before they strike a Bargain. The Corpse of a plain _Milk-Maid_ is said to fetch at least 7_d._ in the Pound more than that of a _Countess_; and, notwithstanding the highest feeding and fattening, a common _Joiner_'s has had vastly the preference of a _Major General_'s in the Market. But, however, this _Calling_ is liable to many Hazards and Losses as well as others, for oftentimes the Dealers meet with _Crosses_, which they are oblig'd, though very unwillingly, to _bear on their Backs_. I must say something to those People who have introduced a kind of Fraud of late Years, which now and then runs through the Town like a Contagion: It is call'd _Auctioneering_, or vending various kinds of Goods by way of Cant or Auction. Soon after a Man of any Note has obtained a _Mors Janua Vitæ_ against his Wife, and publish'd it over his Door, or a Woman has done the same thing by her Husband; a Gang of People, call'd _Bughunters_, take possession of the House, by displaying their Standard, a huge rotten Carpet, and wage War against all the good Housewives in the Town. _Moor-fields_ and _Knaves-acre_ are drain'd of their Lumber, and scarce a thirtieth Part of the deceased Person's real Furniture is on the Premisses. Next, a News-paper proclaims the Goods of Lady _Good-for-nothing lately deceased_, to be sold, or rather given away to such as shall take the trouble to fetch them. All the thrifty Ladies take the Hint, and away to the place of Auction; the _Orator_, or _Mouth_ of the Sale, surrounded by his _Puffs_ and _Setters_, shows away. One Fellow is professing his Astonishment at the _low Prices_ the things go at, while a Hussey dress'd out for the Day, is bidding against a Woman of Quality, with no intention to buy, but to bring up those that are come thither for no other Purpose to a Price far beyond the real Value. A third Person in the same Circumstance pretends to raise a Dispute, and rails at the _Rostrum_ in behalf of the Company, as a Disguise that he may either decoy or postpone, as occasion shall require. The Ladies return home mightily pleased and satisfied with their fine _Pennyworths_, and their Judgments are sure to be admired by their _Women_, and every poor _dependant Cousin_. The Auctioneers and their Setters retire to the next Tavern, where they drink their Healths, and join in a _Chorus_ for getting rid of their crazy Furniture, _&c._ such that, perhaps, nothing but a _Fire_ or an _Execution_ besides could have moved out of their Shops. A Set of gay young Fellows, who have been reduced by Play, and other common Accidents of the Town, have discover'd a Means of obtaining a Livelyhood within a Year past, that cannot but fail of meeting with the Approbation of the ingenious Mr. _Roger Johnson_: They dress exceeding well, and have a Chair attending them every Evening to such Taverns and Coffee-Houses as they have pitch'd upon in the Day, as most proper for the execution of their Designs. They enquire for one another, and People that they are sure not to meet with; and after taking out a fine Snuff-Box, and displaying a pretty Ring, with several other Airs, call for a Pint of Wine, if it be in a Tavern; and for a Glass of Arrack, be it in a Coffee-House, the Chairmen waiting the mean time in the Passage. After the Beau has turned himself about in the Glass, and asked a number of insignificant Questions, he desires Change for a _Guinea_, or perhaps some other large Piece of _Gold_, which he carelessly throws upon the Bar, and then leaps again towards the Glass or the Fire. Presently the Bar-keeper cries _Laud, Sir, this is not a good one!_ The Man or Woman is answer'd by a Volley of Oaths, and the Words run vastly high, till the Chairmen, by peeping through the Windows, perceive their Master has the worst of the Dispute; and then come in bowing with their Heads as crooked as Dolphins, to know if _his Honour_ has any Commands? The Place is all silent upon the appearance of the Fellows with their Straps; and a Customer, in kindness to the House, interferes in the Dispute, and bids the Bar-keeper not be too rash; for, to be sure, the Mistake must be in her: for, that a Gentleman of such an Appearance, and so attended, must certainly be in the right on't. The Fellow receives a good Piece for his bad one, and not content with that alone, insists upon their publick acknowledging their _Error_, and begging his Pardon for the Affront; to which the People readily comply, and away he is gone in his Chair, to serve as many more Houses as he can in the same manner. There are at least thirty People that I have my Eye upon every Day who dress in Pig-tail Perriwigs and Velvet Breeches, and appear at Plays and Operas, that have not a Shilling in the World but what they get by these Practices. A sober _Citizen_, who had been yoked about fourteen Years, and had several _Children_ by his Wife, happen'd to have a Call to the Town of _Northampton_ to transact some Business of Importance to his Family. In the course of his Life he had not exceeded the Bounds of _Highgate_ or _Greenwich_, though some say he once ventured to make the Tour of _Epsom_; however, be that as it will, the dreadful Day for his Departure is come, his _Will_ has been made in due Form, and his Affairs entirely settled before he undertook so tedious and hazardous a _Journey_. Had the poor Creature been going to _Babylon_ or _Damascus_, the Wife could not have shed more Tears, and shewn more Grief than she did on the Occasion; she fainted several times, and the People, that were about her, had much ado to keep Life in her; all Endeavours to comfort her not availing, she remain'd inconsolable, telling them, _It was fine Talking for those that had never felt the Pain of parting with a Husband_. The _last tender_ parting Kiss is given an hundred times over, and her Tears bring his Handkerchief out of his Pocket, in deep Sorrow to leave his _dear Betty_ and his _poor Babes_. In a Flood of briny Tears he is beseeched not to fail writing by every Post, and every other Opportunity which shall offer: she promising faithfully not to omit doing the like on her part. At last he is mounted, and the Eyes of the whole Family continue upon him till his Horse and he are quite out of sight. By that time he had reach'd the Town of _Barnet_, his Horse chanced to fall lame, and himself was so disorder'd, having not rid for many Years before, that he found himself altogether unable to proceed any further, and therefore waited till the Evening, when he got Passage in a Coach that was coming from the North to _London_. When he came into his Shop at about Twelve at Night, the first thing he met with was his 'Prentice with his Pockets largely stuffed out with Goods to the Value of Twenty Pounds, which he was going to sell for his own Benefit; the House-Maid and Nursery-Maid, with a jovial Company, had got an elegant Supper before them with some of his best Wines on the Table; the Journeyman and his Cook he found upon a Pack in the Warehouse in the most tender Embraces. Next, to his Wife's Chamber, that he found fast lock'd on the Inside, and for all his kicking and swearing for half an Hour together, he could not find Admittance. Presently the Street was in an Uproar with the Cry of _Thieves! Thieves!_ a good-sized Animal being seen sliding by a white Sheet down from the Chamber-Window by a Watchman who had laid hands on him; and when he was brought into the House by a number of People with only his Breeches and Shoes on, he appeared to be an Attorney of _Furnival's-Inn_, who had been constantly employed in doing this _Citizen's Business_, and was now doing _Business_ for his Wife. A young Gentleman, that had made his Addresses for a long time to the only Daughter of a Widow-Lady, and every one looking upon the thing that it would one Day be a _Match_, they were permitted to be together frequently alone; to which _Opportunity_ he joined those pressing and prevailing _Importunities_, that were too hard for a young innocent Creature to withstand. In a word, she granted all that was in her power to give, and surrendred at Discretion the last Favour. A Maid-Servant, who had kept a watchful Eye upon the Conduct of these two _Lovers_, as knowing by Experience what it was for a young Girl to be left alone with a pretty Fellow, peep'd thro' a Key-Hole, and saw them very fairly go _sans Ceremony_ to bed together. The Maid having now pretty well secured her Game, steals privately up to her old Mistress's Chamber, and gave her an Account of the hopeful way her young Lady was in. The old Lady causes her Brother, who lodg'd in the House with her, and was a resolute Sea-Officer, to be call'd up, to give her his Advice and Assistance in so nice and critical a _Conjuncture_. The Captain, as well as his Sister, were warm'd with the highest Resentment for so horrid a Violation of the Laws of Honour and Hospitality; the one declared he would do the Business of the Man, and the other was resolv'd to turn her Daughter out into the Street, altho' it was more than Midnight. In this Disposition they both came to Miss's Chamber-Door, and demanded Entrance. It may be easy to imagine what an Interruption this sudden and unexpected Accident gave to the Joys of the amorous Couple, and the Terror that it laid them under. The young Fellow begg'd his _dear Creature_ to recover her Surprize, to be directed by his Conduct, and follow the Example he should give her; which would extricate them both out of the Difficulty, into which their rash Loves had involv'd them. Both leap'd out of the Bed in their Shifts, and called out to the Assailants on the other side of the Chamber-Door, he bidding them to offer no farther Disturbance at their Peril, for that he would protect and defend his _lawful Wife_ to the last Extremity; but that, if they had a mind to enter civilly, and hearken to Reason, he would not give them the trouble of breaking open the Door. The Words _lawful Wife_ deeply affected the old Woman, who began to compose herself, upon hearing so comfortable an Expression; her Passion and Violence being abated, she cry'd _Dear_ Molly, _open the Door, 'tis none but your Uncle and my self_. As soon as they enter'd, both the young People went on their Knees, and ask'd the old Lady Blessing; she could give them no Answer till she had given vent to her Tears, and then said, _She had not been so unkind a Parent, but that she might have been acquainted with the Thing: but, since it was done, she wished them both well together_, and intreated them to return into Bed again; _for, that she could not bear to see them stand in that manner in the Cold_. The Uncle saluted his _Niece_ and _Nephew_, giving them his Compliments on their Nuptials, and then retired with his _Sister_. The young Folks soon got to Bed again. The Fellow lay till five in the Morning, and then found an Opportunity to get out of the House before the Family was stirring; so that when the good old Lady arose, she saw no more of her _quondam Son-in-law_. A Man who keeps an Half-Crown or Twelve-penny Ordinary, looks not more for Money from his Customers, than a _Footman_ does from every Guest that dines or sups with his Master; and I question whether the one does not often think a Shilling or Half a Crown, according to the Quality of the Person, his Due as much as the other. I have seen a decay'd Gentleman of as antient and honourable a Family as any in the Kingdom, sit in great pain at a Person of Quality's Table for want of Half a Crown in his Pocket to _pay_ the _Butler_ and _Footman_ for his Dinner. And if a Person is known to fail in this respect, the next time he comes to the House, he is sure to have the _Look_ which a Court Table-keeper bestows upon a hungry Poet or an Officer in Half-pay, who shall be invited by any Gentleman-Waiter to Dinner, fix'd on him all the time he is eating. People in the middle Station of Life must pay as regularly for their Admission to the Persons of the Great, as those do who enter into beneficial Offices and Places. I have been informed, that there is affix'd up in several Ale-houses and other publick Places where Servants resort to at the other End of the Town, a List or Table of Fees to be taken by Noblemen's _Porters_, _Footmen_, and _Valets de Chambre_, for People's having Access to their Masters, _viz_. For a Tradesman to be heard } _l._ _s._ _d._ _vivâ voce_, upon the Subject of a } 0 10 6 large Debt of a long standing, } For a poor Clergyman supplicating } a Chaplainship, or any other } 0 5 0 Ecclesiastical Preferment. } For a Poet to present a Dedication 0 2 6 For a Mercer or Draper to } exhibit a choice new Pattern. } 0 2 0 For a Person's obtaining the } _Promise_ of a Place. } 0 5 0 For every Tradesman's Bill that } is suffered to lie upon the Table for } 0 1 0 my Lord and Lady's Perusal. } For every paid-off Bill above Ten } Pounds } 0 10 0 If any Tradesman has been injuriously treated by the _Steward_ or the _House-keeper_, who seldom stand high in the Esteem of these lower Domesticks, the Fees are then dispensed with, and they are admitted _gratis_, or more properly in _forma Pauperis_, because the Complaint may prove of such a nature, as to bring about a Change in the Ministry of the House, and be the Means of an insolent, haughty, over-bearing Spirit being dismiss'd the Family, and _Te Deum_ sung in the _Kitchen_ and the other lower Offices for a Revolution _above-stairs_. A Man stone-blind may as soon attempt to view the Sun, as a _Tradesman_ or a _Pauper_ to attempt the sight of a Great Man without paying the above Dues; for my Lord shall at one time be _very ill_, and at another _just gone out_: one Day he is _indisposed_, and _rested badly_, and another Day _better_, but _sees no Company_; and have these constant regular Intermissions of _Sickness_ and _Health_ for three or four Months together. Sometimes _Credit_ has indeed been given in these Cases, but then they have known, and been pretty sure of their Men. A Gentleman, who had many times met with these _Put-offs_ at the Door of a Nobleman, came one day to the Porter with two Half-Crown Pieces, chinking them from one Hand to the other, upon which his Lordship happened to be _at home_. Having got his Pass to him, and done his Business, he return'd thro' the Hall with the Money in his Pocket, smiling upon the Porter, who he had thus decently deceiv'd. A Widow, who had once sold a Fan of Half a Guinea Price to a Person of Quality, the Porter refused to let her go out of the Door without paying _her Fee_, and kept her in durance. She desired to know his Demands; he told her, a Shilling: Upon this, she gave him a Crown, bidding him give her Change, which he did. It happen'd to be a Brass Piece, which he not perceiving, the Woman got out in haste, to avoid being detected; but when she came to look on her Money, she found the Fellow had given her four Leaden Shillings in the change of it. The Duties of Tonnage and Poundage, which the _Upper Servants_, as they call themselves, have imposed upon Tradesmen who serve the Families that entertain them, are very far from being thought sufficient and satisfactory. For besides a Butcher, Poulterer, or Fishmonger's being at the constant beck of the Clerk to a Kitchin, or the Groom of a Chamber, to follow him to a Tavern in the Morning, and bring something that's _pretty_, to compose a Breakfast for two or three hungry Fellows out of Business, as he shall have in his Company, they must, I say, moreover learn the Art of Brewing, and keep constantly a Cup of good nappy Ale in their Houses, to entertain the Cook, and all the other Gentry of the Kitchen, when they shall please to make a _Visit_. A Tradesman must lend his Money, pass his Word, stand Bail for Arrests, and Sponsor at Christenings, and now and then be a Surety to the Parish for a Bastard Child. He must do all this, and a great deal more, or else every thing he furnishes shall be found fault with: They shall tell him what application has been made by others for the Custom, what pains they have taken to defeat it, and how often they are forc'd to stand in the Gap for him, when his Goods have been complain'd of, and his Discharge actually order'd. A Coachmaker once assured me, that he seldom made a Coach or Chariot for any Person of great Quality, but that what with the chief of the Men-servants running after himself, and the Women-servants after his Wife, he has been put to such an Expence, as would have fairly bought a pair of Horses to have drawn the Equipage. As _many_ of our News-Papers are charged with playing _Tricks_ with the Publick, I shall make bold to mention a few of them; and they are chiefly these, _Falsity_, _Absurdity_, and _Trifling_. We are frequently amused with the _Lives_ and _Actions_ of Persons that were never _born_; and with the _Deaths_ of those that never _liv'd_; and large Estates devis'd by People that never enjoy'd them, nor indeed ever claim'd any Right so to do. An Author, in the _Morning_, gives us an Account of the Death of a Person of Note and Eminence, whose Condition hath entitled him to a Place in his Paper; he tells us the Place, Day, Hour, and the Minute he expir'd, with a long detail of the Fortune and Merit he was possessed of. A Writer for the _Evening_ enters his _Caveat_ against some Particulars of the _Fact_, and declares his Brother hath had an _ill Information_; for that the Party did not depart at the Time mention'd in his Paper, and that himself only is in possession of the truth; and avers, that it happen'd above half an Hour after that Time, and at a different Place than what the other has reported it. The next Day a Third starts up, with a grievous Complaint of the _Town's being impos'd upon_, and triumphs in a more genuine and exact Account than either of 'em. He insists upon it, that he did not fairly leave the World till full fourteen Minutes and fifty nine Seconds after the time both the others have brought it down to; and moreover maintains, that the Demise in dispute happen'd at a Seat in the Country, and not at an House in the Town, _as has been falsly publish'd in the other Papers_. They are now all together by the ears about settling of the _Will_, and disposing of the _Estate_. After a great deal of wrangling upon those Heads, they begin to consider that the _Corpse_ must have Christian Burial; they turn their Thoughts to that Point, and begin to settle the _Funeral_. One Author is for _its lying in State_; another will not come into it, but declares for a _private Interment_. At last a Writer _buries it in a most magnificent manner_, in a Church some Miles distant from _London_; and his Antagonist performs the _Funeral_ at another Church fifty Miles farther than that, and in a more _decent way_. Next a Paper gives us the Names of those that supported the _Pall_, together with who was the _chief Mourner_. This is so provoking to him who could not lay hold on this _Intelligence in time_, that he is resolv'd to be even with his Rival; so that the next News we hear, are the Heads of the _Sermon_ that was preach'd at the _Funeral_. The Friends and Acquaintance of the _Deceas'd_, that may be remote from the Town, and have nothing else to govern them but these _Advices_, believe the main of them; and notwithstanding their Perplexities and Variation, all credit the _Death_ of their old _Friend_, and begin to descant on the Actions of his _Life_, some conjecturing what he must have _died worth_, and what a Man he might have been, was it not for such a Failing; and others, how long they had remembred and been acquainted with him, _&c._ When the Story has gone this length, and begins to be old, and almost obliterated, the News-Paper that was most forward in publishing it, to the astonishment of all Mankind, cries out _peccavi_, and confesses how he was _imposed on_; acknowledges _his Sorrow and Contrition_, and _heartily begs Pardon of the Publick_, _and the Person_, whom he now maintains to be _alive, and in good health_; and says, that _the Report of his Death, as publish'd in his, and_ OTHER PAPERS, is entirely _false, groundless, and without any manner of Foundation_. There have been Instances of Women who have been frighten'd into _Miscarriages_, and some even to _Death_, at the unexpected Visits of their Friends, (whom, upon the _Credit_ of the Papers) they have verily believed to have been as really dead as their great Grandmothers were. A Lady of Quality, that is become superannuated, is not to confine herself to Books of Devotion alone; People are not born for themselves only; no, no, as ancient as she is, she must yet do some Service to the Society. Says an Author, what, Shall _her Grace_ fancy herself as hail at Fourscore as she was at Forty? Accordingly, he lends her his Hand, and she is led _very dangerously ill_ into his Paper. The next Morning he is obliged to retract it, and so the Publick are Gainers _two_ Paragraphs by it. Nor shall a Lord _Spiritual_ or _Temporal_, that has attain'd his Grand Climacterical Year, and yet remains in a good state of Mind and Body, lie idle, but must occasionally be _extremely ill, attended by sundry Physicians_, and _given over_; when a Dearth of Tales and Tidings shall cause a Chasm in the Paper. The Persons so mention'd, read these Relations themselves, and oftentimes with much pleasure, because they receive a real Benefit by 'em: for they divert the Spleen and Vapours, natural to old Age, and so prove a happy Means of preserving them alive, much longer than some People perhaps may care for. A noble Lord, in a high Station, that is pretty far advanced in Years, never rises from his Bed, but asks, _Am I in the Papers?_ For it has been an Observation made by most People, that his Name has been made use of for being _greatly indispos'd_; _finely mended_; _dangerously relaps'd_; _in a fair way of Recovery_; _going to, and returning from the Country_; and being _sent for by Expresses to assist at Councils_, that have not been held, and _Boards_ that have not met, _on Business of great Importance_, constantly _de Die in Diem_, in one Paper or other, for several years together. A Man may better venture to take a Purse from a Merchant upon _Change_, than a _Judge_ to take an airing in his Coach, without being taken into _Custody_ of a News-Writer for it. I have known them give such minute Accounts of the times of the Judges _setting out_ for this Place and from that Place in their private Capacities, that some of them have actually suspended their Journeys, to prevent Highway-mens taking the Hint, and lying in ambush for them on the Roads. I am told of a certain _Great Man_ who hath been most grosly affronted and vilify'd by _certain Papers_ from Week to Week, Month to Month, and from Year to Year, for a very long Series of Time; and who hath publickly declar'd, that nothing shall provoke him to depart from a Maxim which he has long laid down, _viz. That 'tis better one Man be perpetually abus'd, than Thousands perish_. About _Michaelmas_, an Author has told us in _Print_, he was _assured_ that _Christmas-Day would be on the 25th of_ December _following_. If the Man has not been starv'd before the time, but surviv'd to St. _Stephen_'s Day, and seen his wonderful Prediction happen and come to pass; 'tis pleasant to observe, how he glories and exults in his next Paper, telling us, _It is agreeable to what was formerly publish'd in his, and in no other Paper_; and sets a high value on his Judgment for anticipating his Brethren, the other Writers, who look like Fools at one another, to see themselves thus jockey'd out of so _remarkable_ a piece of _Intelligence_. One Day we are told of a _Reform_ of the _Army_, and the next of a _Promotion_ of _General Officers_. 'Tis merry enough to see a Colonel of a Regiment in a Coffee-House, reading a News-Paper, that informs him of a Gentleman being made _Lieutenant-Colonel to a Company of Foot_; and of a _General_ of _Horse_ being promoted to the Rank of _Captain-Lieutenant_ in his own Regiment; of which the Papers extant have afforded us numberless Instances. We often read of some _Duke_, who is called eldest Son and Heir apparent to a _Viscount_ or _Baron_, going to, or returning from his Travels. A dignify'd Clergyman, who had given a few Sacks of Coals amongst some poor People in hard Weather, happen'd to come into _Brown_'s Coffee-House in _Spring-Garden_, where some of the Gentlemen cry'd out, _Doctor, you're in the Papers_. The Gentleman seem'd to be greatly surprized at the thing: _What impudent Rascal has made free with my Character?_ answers the Priest. Upon which one, with an audible Voice, read out the Paragraph, which contained nothing more than a fine Encomium on his Charity. The Doctor said, indeed there was some _Truth_ in it; but then, _how impertinent it was in any Fellow to make such a trifling Affair the Burden of his Paper_. This gave occasion for various Reflections on the Papers in general. The _Printer_ happen'd to be present, and heard himself, and others of his Fraternity abused, in this manner for some time. Several Gentlemen that were his Acquaintance, thought it far better to be silent, than to interfere in his favour, because that might tend to expose him to the Doctor's farther Clamour and Resentment. After the _Divine_ had harangued the Company with a long _Discourse_ upon the Insolence of Authors, Printers, and Publishers; the _Printer_ pull'd out of his Pocket the _Copy_ from which this _injurious Article_ had been printed, and which appear'd, to the entire Satisfaction of every one present, to be the Doctor's own Hand-Writing. The Printer further declar'd, that he knew no more of the matter, than that his Servants, in his absence, receiv'd the usual Price of three Shillings and Six-pence, for its being inserted in his Paper. The Tricks which have been put upon the weak and credulous part of Mankind during the Drawing of the late State-Lottery by letting out what were called _Horses_ and _Chances_ to Women and Children, are wonderful. There was a Gentlewoman, not far from St. _Dunstan_'s Church in _Fleet-Street_, who having the Misfortune to fall in with the Opinion of many, that the Tickets would still come down to _Par_, had therefore neglected to provide herself till the Premiums were got so high that she chose rather than purchase a _Ticket_, to put herself _in Fortune's Way_ by _Riding_. Being recommended to the _honestest Broker_ in the _Alley_, she got _mounted_ upon a very _odd Number_, and one which had been successful in a former Lottery. She grew more familiar with Morning and Evening Prayers than ever. One day she fasted, another day feasted, and when a sturdy Beggar ask'd her Assistance, they were not put off with _You're able to work_, but were sure of Relief. Her Maids were treated as though they had been her nearest Relations, and her Children could do nothing to ruffle her Temper. In a word, she declared for nothing but Acts of Charity and Piety, and never had such a Harmony been seen before in the Family. If anyone knocked at the Door in haste, she grew pale, and was all over in a Trembling, expecting it to be the _joyful News_; and, by way of Precaution, she had spoke to a _Surgeon_ to be ready upon a short Notice, because she intended to lose _a few Ounces_, to prevent the Consequence of a _Surprize_. She kept _de die in diem_ renewing her Ticket, upon the Information of a little blind Office whither the Broker carried her, that it remain'd _undrawn_. Three Weeks past, and she could hear no Tales or Tidings of either of the _Ten Thousands_, notwithstanding the many thousand good things she vow'd to do, if Madam _Fortune_ would but for once vouchsafe to become her humble Servant; resolving not to be discouraged, because her _Dreams_ still assured that there was some good thing in store for her in the _Wheel_. She continued renewing her Ticket till the last Week of the Drawing, when being advised to consult the Register at the Lottery-Office in _Whitehall_, she had the sorrowful Satisfaction to find how she had been abused, the _Ticket_ which she had hired for thirty-two Days at the different Prices the _Horses_ bore, having been drawn a _Blank_ the second day of the _Lottery_. A little Lottery _of all Prizes and no Blanks_, for disposing of a few Trifles, being put up by a Tradesman in the City, the highest Prize was a _Pint Silver Mug_: any one might become an Adventurer for Six-pence, and the Adventurers were to put their Hands in the Glass, and draw the Tickets themselves. A Sharper having got amongst the Croud, contrived a Ticket like those in the Glass, and wrote upon it a _Pint Silver Mug_, and then dextrously concealing it in the Palm of his Hand, put in to draw the Lot: the Ticket being opened, the Master of the Lottery called him all the vile cheating Rogues, saying, he would go before a Magistrate, and make Oath, that the Prize of the _Silver Mug_ had never been put into the Glass. There are many Persons subsisted merely by frequenting the most noted _Ordinaries_ and _Eating-Houses_ where the second-hand sort of Gentlemen resort; and there, when they find a better Sword, Hat or Cane, than their own at leisure, make no scruple to bring them away, and are oftentimes so ungenerous as not to leave their old ones in lieu of them. The Persons who fall into this _Way of Life_, I have observed, are for the most part of pretty voluble Tongues, and are generally well versed in the Politicks and Histories of their own Times, so as to be able to harangue a Company into a good opinion of their Parts and Capacity; so that when they are taking Leave, to go away, the Company may not regard the Pegs on which those Moveables hang. They also appear decently dress'd, so as to avoid being suspected of making a _Trade_ instead of a _Mistake_ when they are detected in these Practices. I have known a large Number of People, after they have heartily filled their Bellies with Beef and Pudding, do notable Services to their Country; two or three have made Reprisals upon the _Spanish Guard la Costa's_ in the _West-Indies_. Others have reduced the Army, and added to the Sinking-Fund. Some have made a safe and honourable Peace, and brought us all to rights at last; and after all this Merit, be rewarded with the loss of their Hats, Canes and Swords, and be forced to march out of a Cook's Shop like a Garrison that has surrendred Prisoners at Discretion, when some of the _Gentlemen_ of this _Profession_ have been amongst them. A Gentleman-like Person being on a _Christmas-Day_ taking a Walk in _Queen-Square_ near _Ormond-Street_, and observing a handsome Table decked out with the best Damask Linnen, and a Side-Board richly cover'd with Plate, _&c._ he concluded that an elegant Dinner must not be very distant from those Preparations. Immediately a Coach, containing two Ladies and a Gentleman, stopt at the Door: with an Air of Vivacity he steps forward, and assists the Ladies in coming out of the Coach, and after the mutual Civilities, they all enter the House together, and are received and conducted by the Gentleman of the Family into the Dining-Room; his Lady, Sisters, Daughters, and Nieces are saluted by the _Gentlemen_ in the usual manner. Dinner is called, and served up; and the _Stranger_ calls about him for Water, Wine, and every thing he wanted, as though he had been intimately acquainted with the Table. From the Discourse which passed, he became Master of every one's Name present, and made use of them on proper Occasions; and then by a short Story relating to a Rencounter, which he said he was engaged in at _Paris_, the Company laid hold of his Name likewise, and every one became jocose, free, and obliging to each other. When he was called upon for his Toast, he named the most celebrated Beauties of the Age, and the Healths of such Gentlemen as he found were agreeable to the Ladies. In a word, he acquitted himself as became a Man of Mode, and one who kept the best Company. Towards the Evening the Conversation breaks up, and the Gentlemen with the two Ladies take Leave, after a great many Compliments for their Entertainment; and the strange Gentleman having helped to conduct the Ladies into their Coach in the same manner as he had handed them out of it, they in Civility desire to set him down, which he accepted of, and they heard no more of him till they went again to dine at their Friend's House in _Queen's-Square_, when the Gentleman of the House and all the Ladies roundly rallied them for not bringing their Friend, the well-bred Mr. ---- with them to Dinner. They were more surprized, as supposing him to have been an Intimate of the Family's, and had not seen him before the time he had imposed himself upon all the Company for a Dinner. A certain small Portion of the People obtain Food and Raiment by plying closely the Avenues that lead into _St. James's Park_, and the other privileged Places within the Verge of the Court; they appear like Porters and Chairmen, and some like Operators for the Feet; and have had such Experience in their Business, and are so well skill'd in Physiognomy, that they know an _insolvent Person_ upon the first sight. The severe Usage his Apparel has met with from the Bristles, or else his conscious Countenance in the shy and suspicious Look he casts over his Shoulder upon every one he hears treading behind him, are the infallible Tokens by which they form their Judgment. Having pitch'd upon their Man, they pursue him at a proper Distance, till they find an Opportunity to speak with him alone, and then tell him a Person has hired them to watch diligently the Route he shall take for that Day, and upon giving notice thereof, they are to be rewarded; but that, being an unfortunate Man himself, and owing much Money, he would not for his Right-hand set a Gentleman into the hands of a Bailiff. The Information carrying such an honest Face with it, cannot fail of being received with due Gratitude. The Insolvent is now obliged to look to himself, and instead of stealing to _Chelsea_ or _Kensington_ for a little Air, is forced to confine himself to bad Punch and worse Wine at some blind Hedge Coffee-house or Tavern within the Verge of the Court. The Rascal by whom he has thus been impudently imposed upon and terrified, never meets him but begs a Shilling or Six-pence; and having brought, perhaps, a dozen unfortunate Gentlemen more under the same Apprehensions, makes a comfortable Livelyhood of them. Sometimes they are really employ'd by the Bailiffs to keep a Look-out upon a Gentleman that is appointed to be unharboured; then they betray their Masters by giving him timely Notice of what is intended, and so get more by the Discovery than the Officer would have done by executing the Writ. A Gentleman had once taken Sanctuary in the Verge, but such pressing Importunities were made to the _Green-Cloth_, that he was left to the Mercy of his Creditors, if they could get him into their Power: As his Debts were large, so large Rewards were offered to any Officer who should undertake his Reprizal. A Bailiff for the Sum of Twenty Guineas at last undertook the Job. The Insolvent confined himself close to his Chamber, and had all his Eatables dressed at a Tavern: Having one Night ordered an elegant Supper for a few Ladies at his Lodgings, the Bailiffs got Intelligence of the Hour it was directed to be ready; and having equipp'd himself with a black Callimanco-Waistcoat and Napkin-Cap like a Cook, and his two Followers like Drawers, and furnish'd themselves with cover'd Dishes, Plates, and every thing necessary for Eating: A few Minutes before the time appointed they were all admitted into the Chamber, the Ladies were all in a Hurry to get themselves seated, crying _Supper was come_; but the Gentleman perceiving the Cheat, was for taking to his Pistols, but they secured and brought him off Prisoner to the County-Jayl immediately. A Foreigner of Distinction, who had formerly made the Tour of _England_, and during his Stay, had contracted very large Debts with several Trades-People, happened a few Months since to return to _London_: he chose to lodge privately, and seldom appeared abroad; but, having purchased some Tickets in the State-Lottery, and entered them at an Office in the City for an Account of their Success to be transmitted to him; his Creditors got knowledge of his Arrival, and the Place of his Abode. One Morning, when he was in a _Dishabilié_, and playing with his Dog, a Sheriff's Officer _sans Ceremonie_ entered the Room, and taking a Writ out of his Pocket, shew'd it to the _Count_, telling him, _he arrested him in an Action for Five Hundred Pounds_. The _Foreigner_ understanding but very little _English_, fell to hugging the Bailiff in his Arms, and thrust eight Guineas into his Hand as a Reward, thinking he had brought him the News of a Five Hundred Pound Prize in the Lottery; and then capered about the Room like a Dancing-Master, calling in _French_ to his _Valet_ and _Interpreter_, who were in an adjacent Room, to come to partake of his Joy. By this time three dirty Ruffians like Street-Robbers were at the Chamber-door, and the whole House in an Uproar. The _Count_ was soon convinced of his Error, and obliged to find Bail to the Action; and there being none in the Room but the Bailiff and himself when the Writ was executed, the Rascal absolutely denied the Present of _Eight Guineas_, and got three more for his _Civility_, in not carrying him out of the House. A noted Town-Sharper being in Company with others of his Acquaintance, and tossing about his Purse with Fifty Guineas in it, swore he must make them an Hundred between Sun and Sun, or else he must be liable to an Arrest, and go to Jayl for the Money. He went to his Lodgings in _Westminster_, and taking off his Coat and Neckcloth, put on his Night-Gown, and stuck a Pen under his Perriwig, and laying aside his Hat, ordered a Hackney-Coach to be called to the Door; his Order was to be set down at _Stocks-Market_, from thence he walked into a Banker's Shop in _Lombard-Street_, and pointing towards one of the neighbouring Lanes, said, there was an old whimsical Lady at his Shop just come to Town, who had required him to get her fifty of _Queen Anne_'s Guineas in Change of others to carry home with her into the Country; and that, being an extraordinary good Customer, he could not fail obliging her. The Banker's Servant answered, they had, no doubt, a good number of them, but it would give him a great deal of Trouble to tumble over the Cash to find 'em. Upon this the Sharper threw him down three Half-Crowns as a Gratuity, and then several Bags of Gold opened their Mouths upon the Compter: while the Servant was busy in looking them out, the other was as busy to assist him, and every Minute was darting his Hand upon the Heaps, crying, _Here's one: there's another_, &c. and by the help of some Wax in the hollow of his Hand, he drew away several Guineas every time, which he conveyed into a Handkerchief he held in his Left-hand. When the Number was compleated, they parted, with much Complaisance on each side: but when the Banker came the next Morning to settle the Account of his Cash, he found in his _Gold_ a Deficiency of _Sixty Guineas_. A most satyrical Pamphlet against some Persons in Power, having been ushered into the World by an unknown Hand, and being wrote with much Spirit and Vehemence, the Thing had a prodigious Run upon the Town, so that the Profits arising from the Sale were very considerable. A _Bookseller_ in the City, who happened to be the Proprietor of this _Lucky Hit_, being at his Shop-door one Evening, a Gentleman pretty humbly habited accosted him, and desired leave to exhibit to him a _Copy_ upon a curious Subject, which, he said, was his own Performance, and which he believed _wou'd do_; he told him of what _University_ he was, and by what Means his Merit had miss'd of it's Reward: He was going to apologize for the meanness of his Apparel, when the Bookseller interrupted him with a great Oath, and pointed to a Warehouse of Waste-Paper, which he said was, to his sorrow, the Production of Beaus and Blockheads of Quality; adding, it was a Maxim held by the whole Trade, that _a bad Coat always betoken'd a good Poet_; and that if he approv'd of his _Work_, his _Dress_ should be no Obstacle to a Bargain: but that withal he seem'd to be Master of too much Modesty, he fear'd, to undertake the Business of his Shop; but if he turn'd out otherwise, and had any tolerable hand at Defamation, he had a _Fifth Floor_, with other Favours at his Service. The Shopkeeper said it was not customary to treat of these Matters at home, and having carried him to his Tavern, he enquir'd the Hour of the _Poet_'s Appetite. A Bottle, with a monstrous Beef-Stake, were soon upon the Table. They now come to Business; the Bookseller was ask'd, _If he was a Man of Honour, and could keep a Secret?_ No Man, _he thank'd God, could say otherwise, for that he always endeavour'd to preserve the Character of as honest a Man as the Trade and Business would admit of_. The Poet then assur'd him, he was the real Author of that severe Pamphlet against the M--n--ry, which had made such a noise in the World. The Bookseller had not been acquainted with Books alone, he knew something of Men also, and had therefore the Presence of Mind to conceal his Surprize at the monstrous Impudence of the Fellow; and giving him a fast squeeze by the Hand, says, _Sir, you're my Man:_ and being willing to have some other Witness of this extraordinary Event, said, Then I must let you into another Secret; and gave him to understand that there was a private Contract between him and another Bookseller in the same Street, by which both their Interests were so consolidated, that the one durst not engross or monopolize to himself any Copy or Author, without the Knowledge and Consent of the other; and so desired he would give leave for his Partner to be sent for, which was readily comply'd with. The poor Man had now two upon his hands; the Bottle went briskly about, and the more merry, the more unmerciful they grew, for the Room was soon fill'd with more Booksellers, Printers, and Stationers, to see this Prodigy of Wit and Satyr: who were all recommended to him as _Friends_, and _Well-wishers to the Cause_. He became more unguarded, till at last they extorted from him the Profits accruing by the ingenious Pamphlet, for the writing of which he had set so high a Value upon himself. He was very particular and prolix on that Head, and so soon as he had ended his Relation, the first Bookseller produced, before all the Company, a Receipt, under the Hand of the true Author, for the Money he had paid him for the Copy. FINIS. * * * * * 
56602	----	[Illustration: KATY O'GRADY'S VICTORY.] FRANK HUNTER'S PERIL BY HORATIO ALGER, JR. AUTHOR OF "RAGGED DICK SERIES," "LUCK AND PLUCK SERIES," "TATTERED TOM SERIES," ETC. PHILADELPHIA HENRY T. COATES & CO. COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY HENRY T. COATES & CO. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. FRANK AND BEN, 5 II. MR. CRAVEN'S COURTSHIP, 15 III. UNWELCOME NEWS, 21 IV. MR. CRAVEN'S FOUR-LEGGED ENEMY, 30 V. MR. CRAVEN'S RETURN, 40 VI. THE DIFFICULTY OF KILLING A DOG, 50 VII. MISS O'GRADY'S VICTORY, 59 VIII. FRANK IS OBSTINATE, 69 IX. A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE, 79 X. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST FRANK, 84 XI. TRAPPED, 96 XII. TWO BOY FRIENDS, 105 XIII. JONATHAN TARBOX, OF SQUASHBORO', 114 XIV. THE LONDON CLERK, 123 XV. MR. TARBOX IS OBSTINATE, 133 XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN LONDON, 142 XVII. COLONEL SHARPLEY'S RUSE, 152 XVIII. MR. TARBOX AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION, 162 XIX. FRANK ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS, 172 XX. FRANK LEAVES PARIS, 182 XXI. THE HOTEL DU GLACIER, 192 XXII. OVER THE BRINK, 202 XXIII. GIVING THE ALARM, 208 XXIV. SHARPLEY DISSEMBLES, 212 XXV. A USELESS SEARCH, 217 XXVI. MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL, 222 XXVII. TARBOX TO THE RESCUE, 232 XXVIII. SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE, 237 XXIX. FRANK'S PEDESTRIAN TOUR, 242 XXX. NEW FRIENDS, 252 XXXI. HOW THE NEWS WENT HOME, 261 XXXII. BEN BRINGS GOOD NEWS, 269 XXXIII. ALPINE EXPLORATIONS OF MR. TARBOX, 279 XXXIV. THE PLOW IS A SUCCESS, 287 XXXV. MR. CRAVEN MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES, 296 XXXVI. SHARPLEY'S RETURN, 306 XXXVII. MRS. CRAVEN'S FIXED IDEA, 315 XXXVIII. RETRIBUTION, 325 FRANK HUNTER'S PERIL. CHAPTER I. FRANK AND BEN. "Is your mother at home, Frank?" asked a soft voice. Frank Hunter was stretched on the lawn in a careless posture, but looked up quickly as the question fell upon his ear. A man of middle height and middle age was looking at him from the other side of the gate. Frank rose from his grassy couch and answered coldly: "Yes, sir; I believe so. I will go in and see." "Oh, don't trouble yourself, my young friend," said Mr. Craven, opening the gate and advancing toward the door with a brisk step. "I will ring the bell; I want to see your mother on a little business." "Seems to me he has a good deal of business with mother," Frank said to himself. "There's something about the man I don't like, though he always treats me well enough. Perhaps it's his looks." "How are you, Frank?" Frank looked around, and saw his particular friend, Ben Cameron, just entering the gate. "Tip-top, Ben," he answered, cordially. "I'm glad you've come." "I'm glad to hear it; I thought you might be engaged." "Engaged? What do you mean, Ben?" asked Frank, with a puzzled expression. "Engaged in entertaining your future step-father," said Ben, laughing. "My future step-father!" returned Frank, quickly; "you are speaking in riddles, Ben." "Oh! well, if I must speak out, I saw Mr. Craven ahead of me." "Mr. Craven! Well, what if you did?" "Why, Frank, you must know the cause of his attentions to your mother." "Ben," said Frank, his face flushing with anger, "you are my friend, but I don't want even you to hint at such a thing as that." "Have I displeased you, Frank?" "No, no; I won't think of it any more." "I am afraid, Frank, you will have to think of it more," said his companion, gravely. "You surely don't mean, Ben, that you have the least idea that my mother would marry such a man as that?" exclaimed Frank, pronouncing the last words contemptuously. "It's what all the village is talking about," said Ben, significantly. "Then I wish all the village would mind its own business," said Frank, hotly. "I hope they are wrong, I am sure. Craven's a mean, sneaking sort of man, in my opinion. I should be sorry to have him your step-father." "It's a hateful idea that such a man should take the place of my dear, noble father," exclaimed Frank, with excitement. "My mother wouldn't think of it." But even as he spoke, there was a fear in his heart that there might be something in the rumor after all. He could not be blind to the frequent visits which Mr. Craven had made at the house of late. He knew that his mother had come to depend on him greatly in matters of business. He had heard her even consult him about her plans for himself, and this had annoyed him. Once he had intimated his dislike of Mr. Craven, but his mother had reproved him, saying that she considered him a true friend, and did not know how to do without him. But he stifled this apprehension, and assured Ben, in the most positive terms, that there was nothing whatever in the report. Whether there was or not, we shall be able to judge better by entering the house and being present at the interview. Mrs. Hunter was sitting in a rocking-chair, with a piece of needle-work in her hand. She was a small, delicate-looking woman, still pretty, though nearer forty than thirty, and with the look of one who would never depend on herself, if she could find some one to lean upon for counsel and guidance. Frank, who was strong and resolute, had inherited these characteristics not from her but from his father, who had died two years previous, his strong and vigorous constitution succumbing to a sudden fever, which in his sturdy frame found plenty to prey upon. And who was Mr. Craven? He was, or professed to be, a lawyer, who six months before had come to the town of Shelby. He had learned that Mrs. Hunter was possessed of a handsome competence, and had managed an early introduction. He succeeded in getting her to employ him in some business matters, and under cover of this had called very often at her house. From the first he meant to marry her if he could, as his professional income was next to nothing, and with the money of the late Mr. Hunter he knew that he would be comfortably provided for for life. This very afternoon he had selected to make his proposal, and he knew so well the character and the weakness of the lady that he felt a tolerable assurance of success. He knew very well that Frank did not like him, and he in turn liked our young hero no better, but he always treated him with the utmost graciousness and suavity from motives of policy. The room in which they were seated was very neatly and tastefully furnished. He looked, to employ a common phrase, "as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth," and his voice was soft and full of suavity. They had evidently been talking on business, for he is saying, "Now that our business interview is over, there is another subject, my dear Mrs. Hunter, on which I wish to speak to you." She looked up, not suspecting what was coming, and said, "What is it, Mr. Craven?" "It's a very delicate matter. I hardly know how to introduce it." Something in his look led her to suspect now, and she said, a little nervously, "Go on, Mr. Craven." "My dear Mrs. Hunter, the frequent visits I have made here have given me such a view of your many amiable qualities, that almost without knowing it, I have come to love you." Mrs. Hunter dropped her work nervously, and seemed agitated. "I esteem you, Mr. Craven," she said, in a low voice, "but I have never thought of marrying again." "Then think of it now, I entreat you. My happiness depends upon it--think of that. When I first discovered that I loved you, I tried hard to bury the secret in my own breast, but--but it became too strong for me, and now I place my fate in your hands." By this time he had edged round to her side, and lifted her hand gently in his, and pressed it to his lips. "Do not drive me to despair," he murmured softly. "I--I never thought you loved me so much, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Hunter, in agitation. "Because I tried to hide it." "Can you not still be my friend and give up such thoughts?" "Never, never!" he answered, shaking his head. "If you deny my suit, I shall at once leave this village, and bury my sorrow and desolation of heart in some wild prairie scene, far from the haunts of men, where I shall linger out the remnant of my wretched life." "Don't--pray don't, Mr. Craven," she said, in a tone of distress. But, feeling that surrender was at hand, he determined to carry the fortress at once. He sank down on his knees, and, lifting his eyes, said: "Say yes, I entreat you, dear Mrs. Hunter, or I shall be miserable for life." "Pray get up, Mr. Craven." "Never, till I hear the sweet word, 'yes.'" "Yes, then," she answered, hastily, scarcely knowing what she said. At this moment, while Mr. Craven was yet on his knees, the door opened suddenly, and Katy, the Irish maid-of-all-work, entered: "Holy St. Pathrick!" she exclaimed, as she witnessed the tableau. Mrs. Hunter blushed crimson, but Mr. Craven was master of the situation. Cleverly taking advantage of it to fix the hasty consent he had obtained, he turned to Katy with his habitual smirk. "Katy, my good girl," he said, "you must not be too much startled. Shall I explain to her, dear Mrs. Hunter?" The widow, with scarlet face, was about to utter a feeble remonstrance, but he did not wait for it. "Your mistress and I are engaged, Katy," he said, briskly. "You shall be the first to congratulate us." "Indade, sir!" exclaimed Katy. "Is it goin' to be married, ye are?" "Yes, Katy." "I congratulate you, sir," she said, significantly. "Plague take her!" thought Mr. Craven; "so she has the impudence to object, has she? I'll soon set her packing when I come into possession." But he only said, with his usual suavity: "You are quite right, Katy. I feel that I am indeed fortunate." "Indade, mum, I didn't think you wud marry ag'in," said Katy, bluntly. "I--I didn't intend to, Katy, but--" "I couldn't be happy without her," said Mr. Craven, playfully. "But, Katy, you had something to say to Mrs. Hunter." "What will I get for supper, mum?" "Anything you like, Katy," said Mrs. Hunter, who felt too much flustered to give orders. "Will you stay to supper, Mr. Craven?" "Not to-night, dear Mrs. Hunter. I am sure you will want to think over the new plans of happiness we have formed. I will stay a few minutes yet, and then bid you farewell till to-morrow." "That's the worst news Katy O'Grady's heard yet," said Katy, as she left the room and returned to her own department. "How can my mistress, that's a rale lady, if ever there was one, take up wid such a mane apology for a man. Shure I wouldn't take him meself, not if he'd go down on forty knees to me--no, I wouldn't," and Katy tossed her head. CHAPTER II. MR. CRAVEN'S COURTSHIP. When Katy left the room, Mr. Craven still kept his place at the side of the widow. "I hope," he said softly, "you were not very much annoyed at Katy's sudden entrance?" "It was awkward," said Mrs. Hunter. "True, but, after all, is there anything to be ashamed of in our love?" "I am afraid, Mr. Craven, I do not love you." "Not yet, but you will. I am sure you will when you see how completely I am devoted to you." "It seems so sudden," faltered Mrs. Hunter. "But, setting aside my affection, think how much it will relieve you of care. Dear Mrs. Hunter, the care of your property and the responsibility of educating and training your son is too much for a woman." "Frank never gives me any trouble," said Mrs. Hunter. "He is a good boy." "He is a disagreeable young scamp, in my opinion," thought Mr. Craven, but he said, unwittingly speaking the truth: "He is indeed a noble boy, with excellent qualities, but you will soon be called upon to form plans for his future, and here you will need the assistance of a man." "I don't know but what you are right, Mr. Craven. I should have consulted you." "Only one who fills a father's place, dear Mrs. Hunter, can do him justice." "I am afraid Frank won't like the idea of my marrying again," said Mrs. Hunter, anxiously. "He may not like it at first, but he will be amenable to reason. Tell him that it is for your happiness." "But I don't know. I can't feel sure that it is." "I am having more trouble than I expected," thought Mr. Craven. "I must hurry up the marriage or I may lose her, and, what is of more importance, the money she represents. By the way, I had better speak on that subject." "There are some who will tell you that I have only sought you because you are rich in this world's goods--that I am a base and mercenary man, who desires to improve his circumstances by marriage, but you, I hope, dear Mrs. Hunter--may I say, dear Mary--will never do me that injustice." "I do not suspect you of it," said Mrs. Hunter, who was never ready to suspect the motives of others, though in this case Mr. Craven had truly represented his object in seeking her. "I knew you would not, but others may try to misrepresent me, and therefore I feel it necessary to explain to you that my wealth, though not equal to your own, is still considerable." "I have never thought whether you were rich or poor," said Mrs. Hunter. "It would not influence my decision." While she spoke, however, it did excite in her a momentary surprise to learn that since Mr. Craven was rich, he should settle down in so small and unimportant a place as Shelby, where he could expect little business of a professional nature. "I know your generous, disinterested character," he said; "but still I wish to explain to you frankly my position, to prove to you that I am no fortune-hunter. I have twenty thousand dollars invested in Lake Superior mining stocks, and I own a small house in New York City, worth about fifteen thousand dollars. It is not much," he added, modestly, "but is enough to support me comfortably, and will make it clear that I need not marry from mercenary motives. I shall ask the privilege of assisting to carry out your plans for Frank, in whom I feel a warm interest." "You are very generous and kind, Mr. Craven," said Mrs. Hunter, "but his father amply provided for him. Two-thirds of his property was left to Frank, and will go to him on his twenty-first birth-day." "Drat the boy," thought Mr. Craven, "he stands between me and a fortune." But this thought was not suffered to appear in his face. "I am almost sorry," he said, with consummate hypocrisy, "that he is so well provided for, since now he does not stand in need of my help, that is, in a pecuniary way. But my experience of the world can at least be of service to him, and I will do my best to make up to him for the loss of his dear father." These last words were feelingly spoken. She realized how much she was wanting in the ability to guide and direct a boy of Frank's age. Mr. Craven was a lawyer, and a man of the world. He would be able, as he said, to relieve her from all care about his future, and it was for Frank that she now lived. Her feelings were not enlisted in this marriage with Mr. Craven. Indeed, on some accounts it would be a sacrifice. The result was, that twenty minutes later, when he started homeward, Mrs. Hunter had ratified her promise, and consented to an early marriage. Mr. Craven felt that he had, indeed, achieved a victory, and left the house with a heart exulting in his coming prosperity. Frank Hunter and Ben Cameron were on the lawn, conversing, when the lawyer passed them. "Good afternoon, Frank," he said with suavity. "Good afternoon, sir," answered Frank, gravely. "The old fellow is very familiar," said Ben, when Mr. Craven had passed out of the gate. "He is more familiar than I like," answered Frank. "I don't know why it is, Ben, but I can't help disliking him." He had reason to dislike Mr. Craven, and he was destined to have still further cause, though he did not know it at the time. CHAPTER III. UNWELCOME NEWS. Shortly after Mr. Craven's departure, Ben announced that he must be going. Left alone, Frank went into the house. He felt rather sober, for though he did not believe that his mother was in any danger of marrying again--least of all, Mr. Craven--the mere possibility disturbed him. "Is mother up stairs, Katy?" he asked. "Yes," said Katy, looking very knowing. "She went up as soon as Mr. Craven went away." "He staid a long time. He seems to come here pretty often." "May be he'll come oftener and stay longer, soon," said Katy, nodding her head vigorously. "What do you mean, Katy? What makes you say such things?" "What do I mane? Why do I say such things? You'll know pretty soon, I'm thinking." "I wish you'd tell me at once what you mean?" said Frank, impatiently. "Mr. Craven doesn't come here for nothing, bad 'cess to him," said Katy, oracularly. "You don't mean, Katy--" exclaimed Frank, in excitement. "I mean that you're goin' to have a step-father, Master Frank, and a mighty mane one, too; but if your mother's satisfied, it ain't for Katy O'Grady to say a word, though he isn't fit for her to wipe her shoes on him." "Who told you such a ridiculous story?" demanded Frank, angrily. "He told me himself shure," said Katy. "Didn't I pop in when he was on his knees at your mother's feet, and didn't he ask me to congratulate him, and your mother said never a word? What do you say to that Master Frank, now?" "I think there must be some mistake, Katy," said Frank, turning pale. "I will go and ask my mother." "No wonder the child can't abide havin' such a mane step-father as that," soliloquized Katy. "He looks like a sneakin' hyppercrite, that he does, and I'd like to tell him so." Mrs. Hunter was an amiable woman, but rather weak of will, and easily controlled by a stronger spirit. She had yielded to Mr. Craven's persuasions because she had not the power to resist for any length of time. That she did not feel a spark of affection for him, it is hardly necessary to say, but she had already begun to feel a little reconciled to an arrangement which would relieve her from so large a share of care and responsibility. She was placidly thinking it all over when Frank entered the room hastily. "Have you wiped your feet, Frank?" she asked, for she had a passion for neatness. "I am afraid you will track dirt into the room." "Yes--no--I don't know," answered Frank, whose thoughts were on another subject. "Has Mr. Craven been here?" "Yes," replied his mother, blushing a little. "He seemed to stay pretty long." "He was here about an hour." "He comes pretty often, too." "I consult him about my business affairs, Frank." "Look here, mother, what do you think Ben Cameron told me to-day?" "I don't know, I am sure, Frank." "He said it was all over the village that you were going to marry him." "I--I didn't think it had got round so soon," said the widow, nervously. "So soon! Why, you don't mean to say there's anything in it, mother?" said Frank, impetuously. "I hope it won't displease you very much, Frank," said Mrs. Hunter, in embarrassment. "Is it true? Are you really going to marry that man?" "He didn't ask me till this afternoon, and, of course, it took me by surprise, and I said so, but he urged me so much that I finally consented." "You don't love him, mother? I am sure you can't love such a man as that." "I never shall love any one again in that way, Frank--never any one like your poor father." "Then why do you marry him?" "He doesn't ask me to love him. But he can relieve me of a great many cares and look after you." "I don't want anybody to look after me, mother--that is, anybody but you. I hate Mr. Craven!" "Now that is wrong, Frank. He speaks very kindly of you--very kindly indeed. He says he takes a great interest in you." "I am sorry I cannot return the interest he professes. I dislike him, and I always have. I hope you won't be angry, mother, if I tell you just what I think of him. I think he's after your property, and that is what made him offer himself. He is poor as poverty, though I don't care half so much for that as I do for other things." "No, Frank; you are mistaken there," said credulous Mrs. Hunter, eagerly. "He is not poor." "How do you know?" "He told me that he had twenty thousand dollars' worth of mining stock out West somewhere, besides owning a house in New York." Frank looked astonished. "If he has as much property as that," he said, "I don't see what makes him come here. I don't believe his business brings him in three hundred dollars a year." "That's the very reason, Frank. He has money enough, and doesn't mind if business is dull. He generously offered to pay--or was it help pay?--the expenses of your education; but I told him that you didn't need it." "If I did, I wouldn't take it from him. But what you tell me surprises me, mother. He doesn't look as if he was worth five hundred dollars in the world. What made him tell you all this?" "He said that some people would accuse him of being a fortune-hunter, and he wanted to convince me that he was not one." "It may be a true story, and it may not," said Frank. "You are really very unjust, Frank," said his mother. "I don't pretend to love Mr. Craven, and he doesn't expect it, but I am sure he has been very kind, and he takes a great deal of interest in you, and you will learn to know him better." "When you are married to him?" "Yes." "Mother," exclaimed Frank, impetuously, "don't marry this man! Let us live alone, as we have done. We don't want any third person to come in, no matter who he is. I'll take care of you." "You are only a boy, Frank." "But I am already fifteen. I shall soon be a man at any rate, and I am sure we can get along as well as we have done." Mrs. Hunter was not a strong or a resolute woman, but even women of her type can be obstinate at times. She had convinced herself, chiefly through Mr. Craven's suggestion, that the step she was about to take was for Frank's interest, and the thought pleased her that she was sacrificing herself for him. The fact that she didn't fancy Mr. Craven, of course heightened the sacrifice, and so Frank found her far more difficult of persuasion than he anticipated. She considered that he was but a boy and did not understand his own interests, but would realize in future the wisdom of her conduct. "I have given my promise, Frank," she said. "But you can recall it." "It would not be right. My dear Frank, why can you not see this matter as I do? I marry for your sake." "Then, mother, I have the right to ask you not to do it. It will make me unhappy." "Frank, you do not know what is best. You are too young." "Then you are quite determined, mother?" asked Frank, sadly. "I cannot draw back now, Frank. I--I hope you won't make me unhappy by opposing it." "I won't say another word, mother, since you have made up your mind," said Frank, slowly. "When is it going to be?" "I do not know yet. Mr. Craven wants it to be soon." "You will let me know when it is decided, mother?" "Certainly, Frank." He left the room sad at heart. He felt that for him home would soon lose its charms, and that he would never get over the repugnance which he felt against his future step-father. CHAPTER IV. MR. CRAVEN'S FOUR-LEGGED ENEMY. Mr. Craven sought his office in a self-complacent mood. "By Jove!" he said to himself, "I'm in luck. It's lucky I thought to tell her that I was rich. I wish somebody would come along and buy that Lake Superior mining stock at five cents on a dollar," he soliloquized, laughing softly; "and if he'd be good enough to let me know whereabouts that house in New York is, I should feel very much obliged. However, she believes it, and that's enough. No, on the whole, it isn't quite enough, for I must have some ready money to buy a wedding suit, as well as to pay for my wedding tour. I can't very well call upon Mrs. Craven that is to be for that. Once married, I'm all right." The result of these cogitations was that having first secured Mrs. Hunter's consent to a marriage at the end of two months, he went to New York to see how he could solve the financial problem. He went straightway to a dingy room in Nassau Street, occupied by an old man as shabby as the apartment he occupied. Yet this old man was a capitalist, who had for thirty years lent money at usurious interest, taking advantage of a tight money market and the needs of embarrassed men, and there are always plenty of the latter class in a great city like New York. In this way he had accumulated a large fortune, without altering his style of living. He slept in a small room connected with his office, and took his meals at some one of the cheap restaurants in the neighborhood. He was an old man, of nearly seventy, with bent form, long white beard, face seamed with wrinkles, and thick, bushy eyebrows, beneath which peered a pair of sharp, keen eyes. Such was Job Green, the money-lender. "Good morning," said Mr. Craven, entering his office. "Good morning, Mr. Craven," answered the old man. He had not met his visitor for a long time, but he seldom forgot a face. "I haven't seen you for years." "No, I'm living in the country now." "In the country?" "Yes, in the town of Shelby, fifty miles from the city." "Aha! you have retired on a fortune?" inquired the old man, waggishly. "Not yet, but I shall soon, I hope." "Indeed!" returned Job, lifting his eyebrows as he emphasized the word. "Then you find business better in the country than in the city?" "Business doesn't amount to much." "Then how will you retire on the fortune, Mr. Craven? I really should like to know. Perhaps I might move out there myself." "I don't think, Mr. Green," said Craven, with his soft smile, "you would take the same course to step into a fortune." "And why not?" inquired the old man, innocently. "Because I am to marry a rich widow," said Mr. Craven. "Aha! that is very good," said Job, laughing. "Marrying isn't exactly in my line, to be sure. Who is the lucky woman?" "I will tell you, Mr. Green, for I want you to help me in the matter." "How can I help you? You don't want money if you are going to marry a fortune," said Job, beginning to be suspicious that this was a story trumped up to deceive him. "Yes, I do, and I will tell you why. She thinks I am rich." "And marries you for your money? Aha! that is very good," and the man laughed. "I told her I owned twenty thousand dollars' worth of stock in a Lake Superior mine." "Very good." "And a fifteen-thousand-dollar house in this city." "Oh, you droll dog! You'll kill me with laughing, Mr. Craven; I shall certainly choke," and old Job, struck with the drollness of regarding the man before him as a capitalist, laughed till he was seized with a coughing spell. "Well, well, Craven, you're a genius," said Job, recovering himself. "You wouldn't--ha! ha!--like to have me advance you a few thousand on the mines, would you now, or take a mortgage on the house?" "Yes, I would." "I'll give you a check on the bank of Patagonia, shall I?" "I see you will have your joke, Mr. Green. But I do want some money, and I'll tell you why. You see I am to be married in two months, and I must have a new suit of clothes, and go on a wedding tour. That'll cost me two or three hundred dollars." "Ask Mrs. Craven for the money." "I would, if she were Mrs. Craven, but it won't do to undeceive her too soon." "You don't expect me to furnish the money, Craven, do you?" "Yes, I do." "What security have you to offer?" "The security of my marriage." "Are you sure there is to be a marriage?" demanded Job, keenly. "Tell me, now, is the rich widow a humbug to swindle me out of my money? Aha! Craven, I have you." "No, you haven't, Mr. Green," said Craven, earnestly. "It's a real thing; it's a Mrs. Hunter of Shelby; her husband died two years ago." "How much money has she got?" "Sixty thousand dollars." "What, in her own right?" "Why, there's a son--a boy of fifteen," said Mr. Craven, reluctantly. "Aha! Well how much has he got of this money?" "I'll tell you the plain truth, Mr. Green. He is to have two-thirds when he comes of age. His mother has the balance, and enjoys the income of the whole, of course providing for him till that time." "That's good," said Job, thoughtfully. "Of course, what she has I shall have," added Craven. "To tell the truth," he continued, smiling softly, "I shan't spoil the young gentleman by indulgence when he is my step-son. I shan't waste much of his income on him." "Perhaps the mother will raise a fuss," suggested Job. "No, she won't. She's a weak, yielding woman. I can turn her round my finger." "Well, what do you want then?" "I want three hundred and fifty dollars for ninety days." "And suppose I let you have it?" "I will pay you five hundred. That will allow fifty dollars a month for the loan." "But you see, Craven, she might give you the slip. There's a risk about it." "Come to Shelby yourself, and make all the inquiries you see fit. Then you will see that I have spoken the truth, and there is no risk at all." "Well, well, perhaps I will. If all is right, I may let you have the money." Two days afterward the old man came to Shelby, stipulating that his traveling expenses should be paid by Craven. He inquired around cautiously, and was convinced that the story was correct. Finally he agreed to lend the money, but drove a harder bargain than first proposed--exacting six hundred dollars in return for his loan of three hundred and fifty. It was outrageous, of course, but he knew how important it was to Mr. Craven, and that he must consent. Frank, according to his determination, said not a word further to his mother about the marriage. He avoided mentioning Mr. Craven's name even. But an incident about this time, though Frank was quite innocent in the matter, served to increase Mr. Craven's dislike for him. He had spent the evening with Mrs. Hunter, and was about to leave the house when a watch-dog, which Frank had just purchased, sprang upon him, and, seizing him by the coat-tails, shook him fiercely. Mr. Craven disliked dogs, and was thoroughly frightened. He gave a loud shriek, and tried to escape, but the dog held on grimly. "Help, help!" he shrieked, at the top of his voice. Frank heard the cry from the house, and ran out. At this juncture he managed to break away from the dog, and made a rush for the garden wall. "Down, Pompey! Ain't you ashamed of yourself?" said Frank, sternly, seizing the dog by the collar. "I am very sorry, Mr. Craven," he added. Mr. Craven turned wild with rage, and his soft voice trembled as he said: "Really, Frank, it is hardly fair to your visitors to keep such a fierce animal about." "He didn't know you, sir. To-morrow I will make you acquainted, and then there will be no danger of this occurring again." "I really hope not," said Craven, laughing rather discordantly. "I hope he hasn't bitten you, sir." "No, but he has torn my coat badly. However, it's of no consequence. Accidents will happen." "He takes it very well," thought Frank, as Mr. Craven said good-night. But it was by a strong effort that his future step-father had done so. "Curse the dog!" he said to himself, with suppressed passion. "After I am married and fairly settled down, I will shoot him. Thus I will spite the boy and revenge myself on the brute at the same time." CHAPTER V. MR. CRAVEN'S RETURN. Mr. Craven called the next day, as usual. Frank apologized again for Pompey's rude treatment of the evening previous, and, as far as he could, established friendly relations between the parties. Pompey, who had nothing vicious about him, and was only anxious to do his duty, looked meek and contrite, and Mr. Craven, to all appearance, had quite forgiven him. "Good dog!" he exclaimed, patting Pompey's head. "Say no more about it, Frank," he said, in his usual soft voice; "it was only an accident. I foresee that Pompey and I will be excellent friends in future." "I hope your coat isn't much torn, sir." "It can easily be repaired. It isn't worth mentioning. Is your mother at home." "Yes, sir. Walk in." "He behaves very well about it," thought Frank. "He may be a better man than I thought. I wish I could like him, as he is to be my step-father; but I think there are some persons it is impossible to like." So the time passed, and the wedding-day drew near. Frank did not consider it honorable to make any further objection to the marriage, though he often sighed as he thought of the stranger who was about to be introduced into their small circle. "Mother will seem different to me when she is that man's wife," he said to himself. "I shall love her as much, but she won't seem to belong to me as much as she did." In due time the wedding was celebrated. Mrs. Hunter wished it to be quiet, and Mr. Craven interposed no objection. Quiet or not, he felt that the substantial advantages of the union would be his all the same. Mrs. Hunter looked a little nervous during the ceremony, but Mr. Craven was smiling and suave as ever. When he kissed his wife, saluting her as Mrs. Craven, she shuddered a little, and with difficulty restrained her tears, for it reminded her of her first marriage, so different from this, in which she wedded a man to whom she was devoted in heart and soul. The ceremony took place at eleven o'clock, and the newly-wedded pair started on a tour as previously arranged. So for two weeks Frank and Katy O'Grady were left alone in the house. Katy was a privileged character, having been in the family ever since Frank was a baby, and she had no hesitation in declaring her opinion of Mr. Craven. "What possessed the mistress to marry such a mane specimen of a man, I can't tell," she said. "I don't like him myself," said Frank; "but we must remember that he's my mother's husband now, and make the best of him." "And a mighty poor best it will be," said Katy. "There you go again, Katy!" "I can't help it, shure. It vexes me intirely that my dear mistress should throw herself away on such a man." "What can't be cured must be endured, you know. You mustn't talk that way after Mr. Craven comes back." "And what for will I not. Do you think I'm afraid of him?" asked Katy, defiantly. "If he is a man, I could bate him in a square fight." "I don't know but you could, Katy," said Frank, glancing at the muscular arms and powerful frame of the handmaiden; "but I really hope you won't get into a fight," he added, smiling. "It wouldn't look well, you know." "Then he'd better not interfare wid me," said Katy, shaking her head. "You must remember that he will be master of the house, Katy." "But he sha'n't be master of Katy O'Grady," said that lady, in a very decided tone. "I don't suppose you'll have much to do with him," said Frank. He sympathized with Katy more than he was willing to acknowledge, and wondered how far Mr. Craven would see fit to exercise the authority of a step-father. He meant to treat him with the respect due to his mother's husband, but to regard him as a father was very repugnant to him. But he must be guided by circumstances, and he earnestly hoped that he would be able to live peacefully and harmoniously with Mr. Craven. Days passed, and at length Frank received a dispatch, announcing the return home. "They will be home to-night, Katy," he said. "I'll be glad to see your mother, shure," said Katy, "but I wish that man wasn't comin' wid her." "But we know he is, and we must treat him with respect." "I don't feel no respect for him." "You must not show your feelings, then, for my mother's sake." At five o'clock the stage deposited Mr. and Mrs. Craven at the gate. Frank ran to his mother, and was folded in her embrace. Then he turned to Mr. Craven, who was standing by, with his usual smile, showing his white teeth. "I hope you have had a pleasant journey, sir," he said. "Thank you, Frank, it has been very pleasant, but we are glad to get home, are we not, my dear?" "I am very glad," said Mrs. Craven, thankfully, and she spoke the truth; for though Mr. Craven had been all attention (he had not yet thought it prudent to show himself in his true colors), there being no tie of affection between them, she had grown inexpressibly weary of the soft voice and artificial smile of her new husband, and had yearned for the companionship of Frank, and even her faithful handmaiden, Katy O'Grady, who was standing on the lawn to welcome her, and only waiting till Frank had finished his welcome. "How do you do, Katy," said her mistress. "I'm well, mum, thankin' you for askin', and I'm mighty glad to see you back." "I hope you are glad to see me also, Katy," said Mr. Craven, but his soft voice and insinuating smile didn't melt the hostility of Miss O'Grady. "I'm glad you've brought the mistress home safe," she said, with a low bow; "we've missed her from morning till night, sure; haven't we, Master Frank?" "I see she isn't my friend," thought Mr. Craven. "She'd better change her tune, or she won't stay long in my house." He had already begun to think of himself as the sole proprietor of the establishment, and his wife as an unimportant appendage. "I hope you have some supper for us, Katy," said he, not choosing at present to betray his feelings, "for I am quite sure Mrs. Craven and myself have a good appetite." "Mrs. Craven!" repeated Katy, in pretended ignorance. "Oh, you mean the mistress, sure." "Of course I do," said Mr. Craven, with a frown, for once betraying himself. "Supper is all ready, ma'am," said Katy, turning to Mrs. Craven. "It'll be ready as soon as you've took off your things." When they sat down to the table, Frank made a little mistake. He had always been accustomed to sit at the head of the table, opposite his mother, and on the frequent occasions of Mr. Craven's taking a meal there during the engagement, the latter had taken the visitor's place at the side. So to-night, without thinking of the latter's new relations to him, Frank took his old place. Mr. Craven noticed it, and soft and compliant as he was, he determined to assert his position at once. "I believe that is my place," he said, with an unpleasant smile. "Oh, I beg pardon," said Frank, his face flushing. "You forgot, I suppose," said Mr. Craven, still smiling. "Yes, sir." "You'll soon get used to the change," said his step-father, as he seated himself in the chair Frank had relinquished. Mrs. Craven looked a little uncomfortable. She began to realize that she had introduced a stranger into the family, and that this would interfere to a considerable extent with their old pleasant way of living. No one seemed inclined to talk except Mr. Craven. He seemed disposed to be sociable, and passed from one subject to another, regardless of the brief answers he received. "Well, Frank, and how have you got along since we were away?" he asked. "Very well, sir." "And you haven't missed us then?" "I have missed my mother, and should have missed you," he added politely, "if you had been accustomed to live here." "And how is Pompey?" asked Mr. Craven, again showing his teeth. "The same as usual. I wonder he was not out on the lawn to receive you and my mother." "I hope he wouldn't receive me in the same way as he did once," said Mr. Craven, again displaying his teeth. "No danger, sir. He didn't know you then." "That's true, but I will take care that he knows me now," said Mr. Craven, softly. "I think he will remember you, sir; he is a good dog, and very peaceable unless he thinks there are improper persons about." "I hope he didn't think me an improper person," said Mr. Craven. "No fear, sir." Frank wondered why Mr. Craven should devote so much time to Pompey, but he was destined to be enlightened very soon. CHAPTER VI. THE DIFFICULTY OF KILLING A DOG. If Frank supposed that Mr. Craven had forgotten or forgiven Pompey's attack upon him, he was mistaken. Within a week after Mr. Craven had been established as a permanent member of the household, Katy, looking out of the kitchen window, saw him advancing stealthily to a corner of the back yard with a piece of raw meat in his hand. He dropped it on the ground, and then, with a stealthy look around, he withdrew hastily. "What is he doin', sure?" said the astonished Katy to herself; then, with a flash of intelligence, she exclaimed, "I know what he manes, the dirty villain! The meat is p'isoned, and it's put there to kill the dog. But he shan't do it, not if Katy O'Grady can prevint him." The resolute handmaid rushed to the pantry, cut off a piece of the meat meant for the morrow's breakfast, and carrying it out into the yard, was able, unobserved by Mr. Craven, to substitute it for the piece he had dropped. This she brought into the kitchen, and lifting it to her nose, smelled it. It might have been Katy's imagination, but she thought she detected an uncanny smell. "It's p'isoned, sure!" she said. "I smell it plain; but it shan't harm poor Pomp! I'll put it where it'll never do any harm." She wrapped it in a paper, and carrying it out into the garden, dug a hole in which she deposited it. "Won't the ould villain be surprised when he sees the dog alive and well to morrow morning?" she said to herself, with exultation. Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Craven, from an upper window, had the satisfaction of seeing the dog greedily eating what he supposed would be his last meal on earth. "That'll fix him!" he muttered, smiling viciously. "He won't attack me again very soon. Young impudence will never know what hurt the brute. That's the way I mean to dispose of my enemies." Probably Mr. Craven did not mean exactly what might be inferred from his remarks, but he certainly intended to revenge himself on all who were unwise enough to oppose him. Mr. Craven watched Pompey till he had consumed the last morsel of the meat, and then retired from the window, little guessing that his scheme had been detected and baffled. The next morning he got up earlier than usual, on purpose to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing his four-footed enemy stretched out stiff and stark. What was his astonishment to see the dog jumping over a stick at the command of his young master. Had he suddenly seen Pompey's ghost (supposing dogs to have ghosts), he could scarcely have been more astonished or dismayed. "Goodness gracious! that dog must have a cast-iron constitution!" he said to himself. "There was enough strychnine on that meat to kill ten men. I don't understand it at all." "He looks as if his grandmother had died and left him nothin' at all in her will," said Katy to herself, slyly watching him out of the window. "The ould villain's disappinted sure, and it's Katy O'Grady he's got to thank for it, if he only knew it." "Good morning, sir," said Frank, for the first time noticing the presence of Mr. Craven. "Good morning, Frank," replied his step-father, opening his mouth with his customary smile. "Pompey seems lively this morning." "Yes, sir. I am teaching him to jump over this stick." "Good dog!" said Mr. Craven, patting him softly. "Oh, the ould hypocrite!" ejaculated Katy, who had slyly opened the window a trifle and heard what he said. "He tries to p'ison the poor creeter, and thin calls him good dog." Mr. Craven meanwhile was surveying Pompey curiously. "I certainly saw him eat the meat," he said to himself, "and I am sure it was tainted with a deadly poison. Yet here the dog is alive and well, after devouring every morsel of it. It is certainly the most curious case I ever heard of." Mr. Craven went into the house, and turned to the article on strychnine in an encyclopædia, but the statements he there found corroborated his previously formed opinion as to the deadly character and great strength of the poison. Pompey must certainly be an extraordinary dog. Mr. Craven was puzzled. Meanwhile Katy said to herself: "Shall I tell Master Frank what Mr. Craven tried to do? Not yit. I'll wait a bit, and while I'm waitin' I'll watch. He don't suspect that Katy O'Grady's eyes are on him, the villain!" It may not be considered suitable generally for a maid-of-all-work to speak of her employer as a villain; but then Katy had some grounds for her use of this term, and being a lady very decided in her language, it is not singular that such should have been her practice. Notwithstanding the apparent superiority of Pompey's constitution to the deadliest poison, Mr. Craven's murderous intent was by no means laid aside. He concluded to try another method of getting him out of the way. He had a pistol in his trunk, and he resolved to see if Pompey was bullet-proof as well as poison-proof. Three days later, therefore, when Frank was at school, and Mrs. Craven was in attendance at the house of a neighbor, at a meeting of the village sewing-circle, Mr. Craven slipped the pistol into his pocket and repaired to the back yard, where Pompey, as he anticipated, was stretched out in the sun, having a comfortable nap. "Pompey," said Mr. Craven, in a low tone, "come here. Good dog." Pompey walked up, and, grateful for attention, began to fawn upon the man who sought to lure him to death. "Good dog! Fine fellow!" repeated Mr. Craven, stroking him. Pompey seemed to be gratefully appreciative of the kindness. Low and soft as were his tones--for he did not wish to attract any attention--Mr. Craven was overheard. Katy O'Grady's ears were sharp, and at the first sound she drew near to the window, where, herself unobserved, she was an eye and ear witness of Mr. Craven's blandishments. "What is the ould villain doin' now?" she said to herself. "Is he going to thry p'isonin' him again?" But no piece of meat was produced. Mr. Craven had other intentions. "Come here, Pompey," said he, soothingly; "follow me, sir." So saying, he rose and beckoned the dog to follow him. Pompey rose, stretching his limbs, and obediently trotted after his deadly foe. "Where's he takin' him to?" thought Katy. "He manes mischief, I'll be bound. The misthress is gone, and Master Frank's gone, and he thinks there ain't nobody to interfere. Katy O'Grady, you must go after him and see what he's up to." Katy was in the midst of her work, but she didn't stop for that. She had in her hand a glass tumbler, which she had been in the act of wiping, but she didn't think to put it down. Throwing her apron over her head, she followed Mr. Craven at a little distance. He made his way into a field in the rear of the house. She went in the same direction, but on the other side of a stone wall which divided it from a neighboring field. From time to time she could catch glimpses, through the loosely laid rocks, of her employer, and she could distinctly hear what he was saying. "My friend Pompey," he said, with a smile full of deadly meaning, "you are going to your death, though you don't know it. That was a bad job for you when you attacked me, my four-footed friend. You won't be likely to trouble me much longer." "What's he going to do to him?" thought Katy; "it's not p'ison, for he hasn't got any meat. May be it's shootin' him he manes." Mr. Craven went on. "Poison doesn't seem to do you any harm, but I fancy you can't stand powder and ball quite so well." "Yes, he's goin' to shoot him. What will I do?" thought Katy. "I'm afraid I can't save the poor creetur's life." By this time Mr. Craven had got so far that he considered it very unlikely that the report of the pistol would be heard at the house. He stopped short, and, with a look of triumphant malice, drew the pistol from his pocket. Pompey stood still, and looked up in his face. "How can he shoot the poor creetur, and him lookin' up at him so innocent?" thought Katy. "What will I do? Oh, I know--I'll astonish him a little." Mr. Craven was just pointing the pistol at Pompey, when Katy flung the tumbler with force against his hat, which rolled off. In his fright at the unexpected attack, the pistol went off, but its contents were lodged in a tree near by, and Pompey was unhurt. Mr. Craven looked around him with startled eyes, but he could not see Katy crouching behind the wall, nor did he understand from what direction the missile had come. CHAPTER VII. MISS O'GRADY'S VICTORY. Crouching behind the stone wall, Katy enjoyed the effect of what she had done. She particularly enjoyed the bewildered look, of Mr. Craven, who, bare-headed, looked on this side and on that, unable to conjecture who had thrown the missile. Pompey, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, walked up to the tumbler and smelt of it. This attracted the attention of Mr. Craven, who stooped and picked it up. His bewilderment increased. If it had been a stone, he would have understood better, but how a tumbler should have found its way here as a missile was incomprehensible. It slowly dawned upon him that the person who threw it must be somewhere near. Then again, on examining it further, he began to suspect that it was one of his wife's tumblers, and he jumped to the conclusion that it was Frank who threw it. "If it is he, I'll wring his neck!" he murmured, revengefully. "I mean to find out." "Pompey," he said, calling the dog, "do you see this tumbler?" Pompey wagged his tail. "Who threw it?" Pompey looked up, as if for instructions. "Go find him!" said Mr. Craven, in a tone of command. The dog seemed to understand, for he put his nose to the ground and began to run along, as if in search. "Oh, murther! What if he finds me?" thought Katy, crouching a little lower. "Won't he be mad, jist?" Katy might have crawled away unobserved, very possibly, if she had started as soon as the missile was thrown. Now, that dog and man were both on the lookout, escape was cut off. "Will he find me?" Katy asked herself, with some anxiety. The question was soon answered. Pompey jumped over the wall, and a joyous bark announced his discovery. He knew Katy, and seemed to fancy that she had concealed herself in joke. He jumped upon her, and wagged his tail intelligently, as if to say: "You see, I've found you out, after all." Mr. Craven hurried to the wall, eagerly expecting to detect Frank in the person concealed. He started back in astonishment as Katy O'Grady rose and faced him. Then he became wrathful, as he realized that his own hired servant had had the audacity to fling a tumbler at his hat. "What brings you out here, Katy?" he demanded, with a frown. "Shure, sir," said Katy, nonchalantly, "I was tired wid stayin' in the hot kitchen, and I thought I'd come out and take the air jist." "And so you neglected the work." "The worruk will be done; niver you mind about that." "Did you fling this tumbler at my head?" demanded Mr. Craven, sternly. "Let me look at it, sir." Katy looked at it scrutinizingly, and made answer: "Very likely, sir." "Don't you know?" "I wouldn't swear it was the same one, sir, but it looks like it." "Then you admit throwing a tumbler at my head, do you?" "No, sir." "Didn't you say you did just now?" "I threw it at your hat." "It is the same thing. How came you to have the cursed impudence to do such a thing?" asked her master, wrathfully. "Because you was goin' to shoot the dog," said Katy, coolly. "Suppose I was, is it any business of yours?" "The dog doesn't belong to you, Mr. Craven. It belongs to Master Frank." "I don't think it expedient for him to keep such an ill-natured brute around." "He calls you a brute, Pomp," said Katy, caressing Pompey--"you that's such a good dog. It's a shame!" "Catherine," said Mr. Craven, with outraged dignity, "your conduct is very improper. You have insulted me." "By the powers, how did I do it?" asked Katy, with an affectation of innocent wonder. "It was an insult to throw that tumbler at my head. I might order the constable to arrest you." "I'd like to see him thry it!" said Katy, putting her arms akimbo in such a resolute fashion that Mr. Craven involuntarily stepped back slightly. "Are you aware that I am your master?" continued Mr. Craven, severely. "No, I'm not," answered Katy, promptly. "You are a servant in my house." "No, I'm not. The house don't belong to you at all, sir. It belongs to my mistress and Master Frank." "That's the same thing. According to the law, I am in control of their property," said Mr. Craven, resolved upon a master-stroke which, he felt confident, would overwhelm his adversary. "After the great impropriety of which you have been guilty this afternoon, I discharge you from my employment." "You discharge me!" exclaimed Katy, with incredulous scorn. "I discharge you, and I desire you to leave the house to-morrow." "You discharge me!" repeated Katy, with a ringing laugh. "That's a good one." Mr. Craven's cadaverous face colored with anger. "If you don't go quietly, I'll help you out," he added, incautiously. "Come on, then," said Katy, assuming a warlike attitude. "Come on, then, and we'll see whether you can put out Katy O'Grady." "Your impudence will not avail you. I am determined to get rid of you." "And do ye think I'm goin' to lave the house, and my ould misthress, and Master Frank, at the orders of such an interloper as you, Mr. Craven?" she cried, angrily. "I don't propose to multiply words about it," said Mr. Craven, with an assumption of dignity. "If you had behaved well, you might have stayed. Now you must go." "Must I?" sniffed Katy, indignantly. "Must I, indade?" "Yes, you must, and the less fuss you make about it the better." Mr. Craven supposed that he had the decided advantage, and that Katy, angry as she was, would eventually succumb to his authority. But he did not know the independent spirit of Catherine O'Grady, whose will was quite as resolute as his own. "And ye think I'm goin' at your word--I that's been in the family since Master Frank was a baby?" "I am sorry for you, Katy," said Mr. Craven, in triumphant magnanimity. "But I cannot permit a servant to remain in my house who is guilty of the gross impropriety of insulting me." "I know why you want to get rid of me," said Katy, nodding her head vigorously. "Why?" asked Craven, with some curiosity. "You want to p'ison the dog." Mr. Craven started. How had his secret leaked out? "What do you mean?" "Mane! I mane that I saw you lavin' the p'isoned mate for the dog three days agone, and if it hadn't been for me he'd have eaten it, and the poor creetur would be stiff in death." "He did eat it. I saw him," said Mr. Craven, hastily. "No, he didn't. It wasn't the same mate!" said Katy, triumphantly. "What was it, then?" "It was a piece I cut off and carried out to him," said Katy. "The other I wrapped up in a piece of paper, and buried it in the field." Mr. Craven's eyes were opened. Pompey's cast-iron constitution was explained. After all, he was not that natural phenomenon which Mr. Craven had supposed him to be. But he was angry at Katy's interference no less. "Say no more," he said. "You must go. You have no right to interfere with my plans." "Say no more? Won't I be tellin' the misthress and Master Frank how you tried to kill the poor dog, first with p'ison, and nixt wid a pistol?" There was something in this speech that made Mr. Craven hesitate and reflect. He knew that Katy's revelation would provoke Frank, and make him an enemy, and he feared the boy's influence on his mother, particularly as he was concocting plans for inducing his wife to place some of her money in his hand under pretext of a new investment. He must be careful not to court hostile influences, and after all, he resolved to bear with Katy, much as he disliked her. "On the whole, Katy," he said, after a pause, "I will accept your apology, and you may stay." "My apology!" said Katy, in astonishment. "Yes, your explanation. I see your motives were good, and I will think no more about it. You had better not mention this matter to Mrs. Craven or Frank, as it might disturb them." "And won't you try to kill Pomp agin?" asked Katy. "No; I dislike dogs, especially as they are apt to run mad, but as Frank is attached to Pompey, I won't interfere. You had better take this tumbler and wash it, as it is uninjured." "All right, sir," said Katy, who felt that she had gained a victory, although Mr. Craven assumed that it was his. "I am very glad you are so devoted to your mistress," said Mr. Craven, who had assumed his old suavity. "I shall propose to her to increase your wages." "He's a mighty quare man!" thought the bewildered Katy, as she hurried back to her work, followed by Pompey. CHAPTER VIII. FRANK IS OBSTINATE. Mr. Craven had as yet gained nothing from his marriage. He was itching to get possession of his wife's property. Then his next step would be Frank's more considerable property. He was beginning to be low in pocket, and in the course of a month or so Mr. Green's note for six hundred dollars would fall due. He knew enough of that estimable gentleman to decide that it must be met, and, of course, out of his wife's money. "My dear," he said one day, after breakfast, Frank being on his way to school, "I believe I told you before our marriage that I had twenty thousand dollars invested in Lake Superior mines." "Yes, Mr. Craven, I remember it." "It is a very profitable investment," continued her husband. "What per cent. do you think it pays me?" "Ten per cent.," guessed Mrs. Craven. "More than that. During the last year it has paid me twenty per cent." "That is a great deal," said his wife, in surprise. "To be sure it is, but not at all uncommon. You, I suppose, have not got more than seven or eight per cent. for your money?" "Only six per cent." Mr. Craven laughed softly, as if to say, "What a simpleton you must be!" "I didn't know about these investments," said his wife. "I don't know much about business." "No, no. I suppose not. Few women do. Well, my dear, the best thing you can do is to empower me to invest your money for you in future." "If you think it best," said Mrs. Craven. "Certainly; it is my business to invest money. And, by the way, the income of Frank's property is paid to you, I believe." "Yes." "He does not come into possession till twenty-one." "That was his father's direction." "And a very proper one. He intended that you should have the benefit of the income, which is, of course, a good deal more than Frank needs till he comes of age." "I thought perhaps I ought to save up the surplus for Frank," said Mrs. Craven, hesitating. "That is not necessary. Frank is amply provided for. He might be spoiled by too much money." "I don't think so. Frank is an excellent boy," said his mother, warmly. "So he is," said Mr. Craven. "He has a noble, generous disposition, and for that very reason is more liable to be led astray." "I hope he won't be led astray. I should feel wretched if I thought anything would befall him," said his mother, shuddering. "We will look after him; we will see that he goes straight," said Mr. Craven, cheerfully. "But I wanted to suggest, my dear, that it would be proper that I should be appointed joint guardian with you." "I am not sure whether Frank will like it," said his mother, who was aware that Frank, though scrupulously polite to his step-father, had no cordial liking or respect for him. "As to that, my dear, I count upon you exerting your influence in the matter. If you recommend it he will yield." "Don't you think it just as well as it is?" said Mrs. Craven, hesitatingly. "Of course, we shall go to you for counsel and advice in anything important." "You don't seem to have confidence in me," said Mr. Craven, with an injured air. "I hope you won't think that, Mr. Craven," said his wife, hastily. "How can I help it? You know my interest in Frank, yet you are unwilling to have me associated in the guardianship." "I didn't say I objected. I said Frank might." "You are not willing to urge him to favor the measure." "You misunderstand me. Yes, I will," said yielding Mrs. Craven. "Thank you, my dear," said Mr. Craven, with one of his most unctuous smiles. "I was quite sure you would do me justice in the end. By the way, what disposition is made of Frank's property if he does not live to come of age?" "You--you don't think he is likely to be taken away?" said Mrs. Craven, in distress. "You are a goose," said her husband, laughing softly. "Of course not. But then we are all mortal. Frank is strong, and will, I hope, live to smooth our dying pillows. But, of course, however improbable, the contingency is to be thought of." "I believe the property comes to me in that case, but I am sure I should not live to enjoy it." "My dear, don't make yourself miserable about nothing. Our boy is strong, and has every prospect of reaching old age. But it is best to understand clearly how matters stand. By the way, you need not say anything about the guardianship to him till I tell you." Mrs. Craven not only complied with this request, but she surrendered to Mr. Craven the entire control of her money within an hour. She raised one or two timid objections, but these were overruled by her husband, and in the end she yielded. Mr. Craven was now in funds to pay the note held by Job Green, and this afforded him no little relief. A few evenings later, Frank was about to take his cap and go out, when Mr. Craven stopped him. "Frank," he said, "if you have no important engagement, your mother and I desire to speak to you on a matter of some consequence." "I was only going to call on one of my friends," said Frank. "I will defer that and hear what you have to say." "Thank you," said Mr. Craven, smiling sweetly. "I wished to speak to you on the subject of your property." "Very well, sir." "Your mother is your guardian, she tells me." "Yes, sir." "The responsibilities of a guardian are very great," proceeded Mr. Craven, leaning back upon his chair. "Naturally there are some of them to which a woman cannot attend as well as a man." Frank began to understand what was coming, and, as it was not to his taste, he determined to declare himself at once. "I couldn't have a better guardian than my mother," he said. "Of course not. (I am afraid I shall find trouble with him, thought Mr. Craven.) Of course not. You couldn't possibly find any one as much interested in your welfare as your mother." "Certainly not, sir." "As your step-father, I naturally feel a strong interest in you, but I do not pretend to have the same interest as your mother." "I never expected you would, sir," said Frank, "and I don't want you to," he added, to himself. "But your mother is not used to business, and, as I said, the responsibilities of a guardian are great." "What do you propose, sir?" asked Frank, gazing at his step-father steadily. "Do you recommend me to change guardians--to give up my mother?" "No, by no means. It is best that your mother should retain the guardianship." "Then, sir, I don't quite understand what you mean." "I mean to suggest that it would be well for another to be associated in the guardianship, who might relieve your mother of a part of her cares and responsibilities." "I suppose you mean yourself, sir," said Frank. "Yes--ahem!" answered Mr. Craven, coughing softly, "as your step-father, it would naturally occur to your mind that I am the most suitable person. Your mother thinks as I do." "Do you want Mr. Craven to be guardian with you, mother?" asked Frank, turning to his mother. "Mr. Craven thinks it best," said his mother, in a little embarrassment. "He knows more about business matters than I do, and I have no doubt he is right." Frank understood that it was entirely Mr. Craven's idea, and something made it very repugnant to him. He did not want to be under the control of that man. Though he knew nothing to his disadvantage, he distrusted him. He had never ceased to regret that his mother married him, and he meant to have as little to do with him as politeness would permit. He answered, therefore: "I hope, Mr. Craven, that you won't be offended if I say that I don't wish any change in the guardianship. If another were to be added, I suppose it would be proper that you should be the one, but I am content with my mother as guardian, and wish no other." "I am afraid," said Mr. Craven, with a softness of tone which by no means accorded with his inward rage, "that you are unmindful of the care the sole guardianship will impose on your mother." "Has it been much care for you, mother?" asked Frank. "Not yet," said Mrs. Craven, hesitating, "but perhaps it may." "I suppose Mr. Craven will always be ready to give you advice if you need it," said Frank, though the suggestion was not altogether to his taste, "but I would rather have you only as my guardian." "Well, let us drop the subject," said Mr. Craven, gayly. "As you say, I shall always be ready to advise, if called upon. Now, my dear Frank, go to your engagement, I won't detain you any longer." But when Mr. Craven was alone, his countenance underwent a change. "That boy is a thorn in my side," he muttered, with compressed lips. "Sooner or later, he must be in my power, and his fortune under my control. Patience, Richard Craven! A dull-witted boy cannot defeat your plans!" CHAPTER IX. A STRANGER APPEARS ON THE SCENE. "How do you like your step-father, Frank," asked Ben Cameron as the two boys were walking home from school together. "You mean Mr. Craven?" "Of course. He is your step-father, isn't he?" "I suppose he is, but I don't like to think of him in that way." "Is he disagreeable, then?" "He treats me well enough," said Frank, slowly; "but, for all that, I dislike him. His appearance, his manners, his soft voice and stealthy ways are all disagreeable to me. As he is my mother's husband, I wish I could like him, but I can't." "I don't wonder at it, Frank. I don't fancy him myself." "Somehow, everything seems changed since he came. He seems to separate my mother from me." "Well, Frank, I suppose you must make the best of it. If he doesn't interfere with you, that is one good thing. Some step-fathers would, you know." "He hasn't, so far; but sometimes I fear that he will in the future." "Have you any reason for thinking so?" "A day or two since he called me, just as I was leaving the house to come and see you, and asked if I were willing to have him join with my mother as my guardian." "What did you say?" "That I didn't want any change. He said the responsibility was too great for a woman." "What answer did you make?" "That my mother could get as much help and advice as she needed, even if she were sole guardian." "Did he seem angry?" "Not at all. He turned it off very pleasantly, and said he would not detain me any longer." "Then why should you feel uneasy?" "I think there's something underhand about him. He seems to me like a cat that purrs and rubs herself against you, but has claws concealed, and is open to scratch when she gets ready." Ben laughed. "The comparison does you credit, Frank," said he. "There's something in it, too. Mr. Craven is like a cat--that is, in his ways; but I hope he won't show his claws." "When he does I shall be ready for him," said Frank, stoutly. "I am not afraid of him, but I don't like the idea of having such a person in the family." They had arrived at this point in the conversation when they were met by a tall man, of dark complexion, who was evidently a stranger in the village. In a small town of two thousand inhabitants, where every person is known to every other, a strange face attracts attention, and the boys regarded this man with curiosity. He paused as they neared him, and, looking from one to the other, inquired: "Can you direct me to Mr. Craven's office?" The two boys exchanged glances. Frank answered: "It is that small building on the left-hand side of the street, but I am not sure whether he is there yet." Curious to know how the boy came to know so much of Mr. Craven's movements, the stranger said: "Do you know him?" "Yes, sir; he is my step-father." It was the first time he had ever made the statement, and, true as he knew it to be, he made it with rising color and a strange reluctance. "Oh, indeed!" returned the stranger, looking very much surprised. "He is your step-father?" "Yes; he married my mother," said Frank, hurriedly. "Then you think he may not have come to the office yet?" "There he is, just opening the door," said Ben, pointing to Mr. Craven, who, unaware of the interest his appearance excited, was just opening the door of the office, in which he was really beginning to do a little business. His marriage to a woman of property, and the reports which had leaked out that he had a competence of his own, had inspired a degree of confidence in him which before had not existed. "Thank you," said the stranger. "As he is in, I will call upon him." CHAPTER X. A CONSPIRACY AGAINST FRANK. "So he's married again, the sly villain!" muttered the stranger, as, after leaving the boys, he proceeded on his way to Mr. Craven's office. "That will be good news for my sister, won't it? And so that's his step-son? A nice-looking, well-dressed boy. Likely Craven has feathered his nest, and married a fortune. If so, all the better. I may get a few feathers for my own nest, if I work my cards right." Meanwhile Mr. Craven had seated himself at an office table, and was looking over a paper of instructions, having been commissioned to write a will for one of the town's people. He had drawn out a printed form, and had just dipped his pen in the ink, when a knock was heard at the outer door that opened upon the street. "I suppose it's Mr. Negley, come for the will. He'll have to wait," thought Craven, and as the thought passed through his mind, he said, "Come in!" The door opened. He mechanically raised his eyes, and his glance rested upon the man whom we have introduced in the last chapter. A remarkable change came over Mr. Craven's face. First surprise, then palpable dismay, drove the color from his cheeks, and he stood up in silent consternation. The other appeared to enjoy the sensation caused by his arrival, and laughed. "Why, man, you look as if I were a ghost. No such thing. I'm alive and well, and delighted to see you again," he added, significantly. "By Jove, I've had hard work finding you, but here I am, you see." "How--did--you--find--me?" asked Craven, huskily. "How did I find you? Well, I got upon your tracks in New York. Never mind how, as long as I have found you. Well, have you no welcome for me?" "What do you want of me?" asked Mr. Craven, sullenly. "What do I want of you?" echoed the other, with a laugh. "Why, considering the relationship between us--" Mr. Craven's pallor increased, and he shifted his position uneasily. "Considering the relationship between us, it is only natural that I should want to see you." He paused, but Mr. Craven did not offer any reply. "By the way, your wife is very uneasy at your long absence," continued the newcomer, fixing his eyes steadily upon the shrinking Craven. "For Heaven's sake stop, or speak lower!" exclaimed Craven, exhibiting the greatest alarm. "Come, now, Craven, is any allusion to your wife so disagreeable? Considering that she is my sister, it strikes me that I shall have something to say on that subject." "Don't allude to her, Sharpley," said the other, doggedly. "I shall never see her again. We--we didn't live happily, and are better apart." "You may think so, but do you think I am going to have my sister treated in this way--deserted and scorned?" "I can't help it," was the dogged reply. "You can't? Why not?" And the man addressed as Sharpley fixed his eyes upon his brother-in-law. "Why do you come here to torment me?" said Craven, fiercely, brought to bay. "Why can't you leave me alone? Your sister is better off without me. I never was a model husband." "That is where you are right, Craven; but, hark you!" he added, bending forward, "do you think we are going to stand by and do nothing while you are in the enjoyment of wealth and the good things of life?" "Wealth? What do you mean?" stammered Craven. The other laughed slightly. "Do you take me for a mole? Did you suppose I wouldn't discover that you are married again, and that your marriage has brought you money?" "So you have found it out?" said Mr. Craven, whose worst apprehensions were now confirmed. "I met your step-son a few minutes ago, and he directed me here." "Did you tell him?" asked Craven, in dismay. "Tell him? No, not yet. I wanted to see you first." "I'm glad you didn't. He doesn't like me. It would be all up with me if you had." "Don't be frightened, Craven. It may not be so bad as you think. We may be able to make some friendly arrangement. Tell me about it, and then we'll consult together. Only don't leave anything untold. Situated as we are, I demand your entire confidence." Here the door opened, and Mr. Negley appeared. "Have you finished that 'ere dokkyment, Mr. Craven?" asked the old-fashioned farmer, to whom the name belonged. "No, Mr. Negley," said Mr. Craven, with his customary suavity, "not yet, I am sorry to say. I've had a great deal to do, and I am even now consulting with a client on an important matter. Could you wait till to-morrow?" "Sartain, Mr. Craven. I ain't in no hurry. Only, as I was passing, I thought I'd just inquire. Good mornin', squire." "Good morning, Mr. Negley." "So you are in the lawyer's line again, Craven?" said Sharpley. "You are turning to good account that eight months you spent in a law office in the old country?" "Yes, I do a little in that line." "Now, tell me all about this affair of yours. I don't want to ruin you. May be we can make an arrangement that will be mutually satisfactory." Thus adjured, and incited from time to time by questions from his visitor, Mr. Craven unfolded the particulars of his situation. "Well, the upshot of it is, Craven, that you've feathered your nest, and made yourself comfortable. That's all very well; but it seems to me, that your English wife has some rights in the matter." "You need not tell her," said Craven, hastily. "What good will it do?" "It won't do you any good, but it may benefit her and me." "How can it benefit 'her and me?' How can it benefit either of you, if I am found out, and obliged to flee from this place into penury?" "Why, not exactly in that way. In fact, I may feel disposed to let you alone, if you'll come down handsomely. The fact is, Craven, my circumstances are not over prosperous, and of course I don't forget that I have a rich brother-in-law." "You call me rich. You are mistaken. I get a living, but the money is my wife's." "If it is hers, you can easily get possession of it." "Only one-third of it belongs to her. Two-thirds belong to that boy you met--my step-son." "Suppose he dies?" "It goes to my wife." "Then you have some chance of it." "Not much; he is a stout, healthy boy." "Look here, Craven, you must make up your mind to do something for me. Give me a thousand dollars down." "I couldn't without my wife finding out. Besides you would be coming back for more." "Well, perhaps I might," said the other, coolly. "You would ruin me," exclaimed Craven, sullenly. "Do you think I am made of money?" "I know this--that it will be better for you to share your prosperity with me, and so insure not being disturbed. Half a loaf is better than no bread." Mr. Craven fixed his eyes upon the table, seriously disturbed. "How much is the boy worth?" asked Sharpley, after a pause. "Forty thousand dollars." "Forty thousand dollars!" exclaimed Sharpley, his eyes sparkling with greed. "That's splendid." "For him, yes. It doesn't do me any good." "Didn't you say, that in the event of his death the money would go to your wife?" "Yes." "He may die." "So may we. That's more likely. He's a stout boy, as you must have observed, since you have met him." "Life is uncertain. Suppose he should have a fever, or meet with an accident." "Suppose he shouldn't." "My dear Craven," said Sharpley, drawing his chair nearer that of his brother-in-law, "it strikes me that you are slightly obtuse, and you a lawyer, too. Fie upon you! My meaning is plain enough, it strikes me." "What do you mean?" inquired Craven, coloring, and shifting uneasily in his chair. "You wouldn't have me murder him, would you?" "Don't name such a thing. I only mean, that if we got a good opportunity to expose him to some sickness, and he happened to die of it, it would be money in our pockets." Craven looked startled, and his sallow face betrayed by its pallor his inward disturbance. "That is absurd," he said. "There is no chance of that here. If the boy should die I shouldn't mourn much, but he may live to eighty. There's not much chance of any pestilence reaching this town." "Perhaps so," said the other, shrugging his shoulders, "but then this little village isn't the whole world." "You seem to have some plan to propose," said Mr. Craven, eagerly. "What is it?" "I propose," said Sharpley, "that you send the boy to Europe with me." "To Europe?" "Yes; on a traveling tour, for his education, improvement, anything. Only send him under my paternal care, and--possibly he might never come back." Mr. Craven was not a scrupulous man, and this proposal didn't shock him as it should have done, but he was a timid man, and he could not suppress a tremor of alarm. "But isn't there danger in it?" he faltered. "Not if it is rightly managed," said Sharpley. "And how do you mean to manage it?" "Can't tell yet," answered the other, carelessly. "The thought has just occurred to me, and I have had no time to think it over. But that needn't trouble you. You can safely leave all that to me." Mr. Craven leaned his head on his hand and reflected. Here was a way out of two embarrassments. This plan offered him present safety and a continuance of his good fortune, with the chance of soon obtaining control of Frank's fortune. "Well, what do you say?" asked Sharpley. "I should like it well enough, but I don't know what my wife and the boy will say." "Has Mrs. Craven the--second--a will of her own?" "No, she is very yielding." "Doesn't trouble you, eh? By the way, what did she see in you, Craven, or my sister either, for that matter, to attract her? There's no accounting for tastes, surely." "That is not to the point," said Craven, impatiently. "You are right. That is not to the point. Suppose we come to the point, then. If your wife is not strong-minded she can be brought over, and the boy, if he is like most boys, will be eager to embrace the chance of visiting Europe, say for three months. It will be best, I suppose, that the offer should come from me. I'll tell you what you must do. Invite me to supper to-night and offer me a bed, and I'll lay the train. Shall it be so?" "Agreed," said Craven, and thus the iniquitous compact was made. CHAPTER XI. TRAPPED. "Mrs. Craven, I have pleasure in introducing to you one of my oldest friends, Colonel Sharpley." As this was the first friend of her husband who had come in her way, his wife regarded the stranger with some curiosity, which, however, was veiled by her quiet manner. "I am glad to meet a friend of yours, Mr. Craven," she said, offering her hand. "I have invited the colonel to supper, and pass the night with us, Mary." "I am glad you did so. I will see that a chamber is got ready." After she had left the room, Sharpley looked about him approvingly. "On my life, Craven, you are well provided for. This house is decidedly comfortable." "It is the best in the village," said Craven, complacently. "Evidently, your predecessor had taste as well as money. It is a pity that there is a little legal impediment in the way of your permanent enjoyment of all this luxury." "Hush, hush, Sharpley!" said Mr. Craven, nervously. "You might be heard." "So I might, and as that would interfere with my plans as well as yours, I will be careful. By the way, that's a good idea making me a colonel. It sounds well--Colonel Sharpley, eh? Let me see. I'll call myself an officer in the English service--served for a while in the East Indies, and for a short period in Canada." "Whatever you like. But here's my step-son coming in." "The young man I'm to take charge of. I must ingratiate myself with him." Here Frank entered the room. He paused when he saw the stranger. "Frank," said Mr. Craven, "this is my friend, Colonel Sharpley. I believe you have already made his acquaintance." "Yes, sir, I saw him this morning." "I didn't suspect when I first spoke to you that you were related to my old friend, Craven," said Sharpley, smiling. Mr. Sharpley was a man not overburdened--in fact, not burdened at all--with principle, but he could make himself personally more agreeable than Mr. Craven, nor did Frank feel for him the instinctive aversion which he entertained for his step-father. The stranger had drifted about the world, and, being naturally intelligent and observing, he had accumulated a fund of information which enabled him to make himself agreeable to those who were unacquainted with his real character. He laid himself out now to entertain Frank. "Ah, my young friend," he said, "how I envy you your youth and hope. I am an old, battered man of the world, who has been everywhere, seen a great deal, and yet, in all the wide world, I am without a home." "Have you traveled much, sir," asked Frank. "I have been in Europe, Asia, Africa, America and Australia," answered Sharpley. "Yes, Botany Bay," thought Craven, but it was not his cue to insinuate suspicions of his friend. "How much you must have seen!" said Frank, interested. "You're right; I've seen a great deal." "Have you ever been in Switzerland?" "Yes, I've clambered about among the Alps. I tried to ascend Mont Blanc, but had not endurance enough." Frank was interested. He had read books of travels, and he had dreamed of visiting foreign lands. He had thought more than once how much he should enjoy roaming about in countries beyond the sea, but he had never, in his quiet country home, even met one who had made this journey, and he eagerly listened to what Colonel Sharpley had to tell him about these distant lands. Here supper was announced, and the four sat down. "Do you take your tea strong, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Mrs. Craven. "As strong as you can make it. Tea is a favorite drink of mine. I have drunk it in its native land--in fact, everywhere." "Have you been in China, Colonel Sharpley?" "Yes, madam. I spent three months there--learned to talk broken China a little," he added, with a laugh. "Yes, Mrs. Craven, I have been a rover." "He has been telling me about Switzerland, mother," said Frank, eagerly. "How splendid it must be to travel there." "I am going back to Europe in three or four weeks," said Sharpley, ready now to spring his trap. "Were you ever there, Mrs. Craven?" "No, sir; I am timid about traveling." "I was going to ask why you and my friend Craven didn't pull up stakes and go abroad for a time?" "I am afraid I am getting too old to travel, Colonel Sharpley." "Old! my dear madam? Why you're in the prime of life. If you are getting old, what shall I say about myself?" "I suppose I am not quite venerable," said Mrs. Craven, smiling, "but I should shrink from the voyage." "I may persuade her to go some time," said Mr. Craven, with a glance at his wife, "Just now it would be a little inconvenient for me to leave my business." "I fancy this young man would like to go," said Sharpley, turning to Frank. "Indeed I should," said Frank, eagerly. "There is nothing in the world I should like better." "Come, I have an idea to propose," said Sharpley, as if it had struck him; "if you'll let him go with me, I will look after him, and at the end of three months, or any other period you may name, I will put him on board a steamer bound for New York. It will do him an immense deal of good." Mrs. Craven was startled by the suddenness of the proposal. "How could he come home alone?" she said. "He couldn't leave the steamer till it reached New York, and I am sure he could find his way home from there, or you could meet him at the steamer." "Oh, mother, let me go!" said Frank, all on fire with the idea. "It would seem lonely without you, Frank." "I would write twice--three times a week, and I should have ever so much to tell you after I got home." "What do you think, Mr. Craven?" asked his wife, hesitatingly. "I think it a very good plan, Mary, but, as you know, I don't wish to interfere with your management of Frank. If you say yes, I have no sort of objection." Just at that moment Frank felt more kindly toward Mr. Craven than he had ever done before. He could not, of course, penetrate the treachery which he meditated. "I hardly know what to say. Do you think there would be any danger?" "I have great confidence in my friend, Colonel Sharpley. He is an experienced traveler--has been everywhere, as he has told you. I really wish I could go myself in the party." This Frank did not wish, though he would prefer to go with Mr. Craven rather than stay at home. "Would it not interrupt his studies?" asked his mother, as a final objection. "Summer is near at hand, and he would have a vacation at any rate. He will probably study all the better after he returns." "That I will," said Frank. "Then, if you really think it best, I will consent," said Mrs. Craven. Frank was so overjoyed that he jumped from his chair and threw his arms around his mother's neck. A flush of pleasure came to her cheek, and she felt repaid for the sacrifice she must make of Frank's society. She knew beforehand that her husband's company would not go far toward compensating that. "I congratulate you, my young friend," said Colonel Sharpley (for we may as well address him by his stolen title), "upon the pleasure before you." "I am very much obliged to you, sir, for being willing to take so much trouble on my account." "No need of thanks on that score. The fact is, I shall enjoy the trip all the more in watching your enjoyment. I am rather _blase_ myself, but it will be a treat to me to see what impressions foreign scenes make on you." "How soon do you go, sir?" asked Frank, eagerly. "Let me see; this is the fifth. I will engage passage for the nineteenth--that is, if you can get ready at such short notice." "No fear of that," said Frank, confidently. "He'll be on hand promptly, you may be sure," said Mr. Craven, smiling. "Really, Frank, we shall miss you very much." "Thank you, sir," said Frank, feeling almost cordial to his step-father; "but it won't be long, and I shall write home regularly." During the evening Frank kept Sharpley busy telling him about foreign parts. Mr. Craven listened, with a crafty smile, watching him as a spider does an entangled fly. "He's trapped!" he said to himself Poor Frank! How little could he read of the future! CHAPTER XII. TWO BOY FRIENDS. "Going to Europe, Frank!" repeated his friend, Ben Cameron, in unbounded astonishment. "I can hardly believe it." "I can hardly believe it myself; but it's true." "How did it come about?" "Colonel Sharpley, Mr. Craven's friend, is going, and offered to take me." "Didn't Mr. Craven object?" "No; why should he? He thought it was a good plan." "And your mother?" "She was a little afraid at first that something might happen to me; but, as Colonel Sharpley and Mr. Craven were in favor of it, she yielded." "Well, Frank, all I can say is, that I wish I were in your shoes." "I wish you were going with me, Ben. Wouldn't it be jolly?" "Unfortunately, Frank, I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you. You are the son of rich parents, while my father is a poor carpenter, working by the day." "I like you as much as if you were worth half a million, Ben." "I know you do, Frank; but that doesn't give me the half-million. I must postpone going to Europe till I have earned money enough with my own hands." "Don't be too sure of that, Ben." "What do you mean, Frank?" "I mean this, that when I am twenty-one I come into possession of about forty thousand dollars. Now, the interest on that is two thousand four hundred. I'll invite you to go abroad with me, and spend a year there. If the interest isn't enough to pay our expenses, I will take a few hundred dollars of the principal." "That's a generous offer, Frank," said Ben; "but you don't consider that at that time I shall be a journeyman carpenter, very likely, while you will be a young gentleman, just graduated from college. You may not want such company then." "My dear Ben," said Frank, laying his hand affectionately on the other's shoulder, "if you think I'm a snob or likely to become one, say so at once; but I hope you think better of me than to believe that I will ever be ashamed of my dearest friend, even if he is a journeyman carpenter. I should despise myself if I thought such a thing possible." "Then I won't think so, Frank." "That's right, Ben. We'll be friends for life, or, if we are not, it shall be your fault, not mine. But there's one favor I am going to ask of you." "What is it?" "That while I am gone you will call round often and see mother. She will miss me a great deal, for I have always been with her, and it will be a pleasure to her to see you, whom she knows to be my dearest friend, and talk with you about me. Will you go?" "Certainly I will, Frank, if you think she would like to have me." "I know she would. You see, Ben, though Mr. Craven and my mother get along well enough, I am sure she doesn't love him. He may be a fair sort of man, and I am bound to say that I have no fault to find with him, but I don't think she finds a great deal of pleasure in his society. Of course, Ben, you won't repeat this?" "Certainly not." "And you will call often?" "Yes, Frank." "I will tell mother so. Then I shall leave home with a light heart. Just think of it, Ben--it's now the sixth of the month, and on the nineteenth I sail. I wish it were to-morrow." "It will soon be here, Frank." "Yes, I know it. I am afraid I can't fix my mind on my studies much for the next week or so. I shall be thinking of Europe all the time." Meanwhile, Mr. Craven and Colonel Sharpley, in the office of the former, were discussing the same subject. "So we have succeeded, Craven," said Sharpley, taking out a cigar and beginning to smoke. "Yes, you managed it quite cleverly." "Neither Mrs. Craven nor the boy will suspect that you are particularly interested in getting him out of the country." "No," said Craven, complacently; "I believe I scored a point in my favor with the boy by favoring the project. Had I opposed it, his mother would not have consented, and he knows it." "Yes, that is well. It will avert suspicion hereafter. Now there is an important point to be considered. What funds are you going to place in my hands to start with?" "How much shall you need?" "Well, you must supply me with money at once to pay for tickets--say two hundred and fifty dollars, and a bill of exchange for a thousand dollars, to begin with. More can be sent afterward." "I hope you won't be too extravagant, Sharpley," said Mr. Craven, a little uneasily. "Extravagant! Why, zounds, man, two persons can't travel for nothing. Besides, the money doesn't come out of your purse; it comes out of the boy's fortune." "If I draw too much, his mother, who is his guardian, will be startled." "Then draw part from her funds. You have the control of those." "I don't know as I have a right to." "Pooh, man, get over your ridiculous scruples. I know your real reason. You look upon her money as yours, and don't like to part with any of it. But just consider, if things turn out as we expect, you will shortly get possession of the boy's forty thousand dollars, and can then pay yourself. Don't you see it?" "Perhaps the boy may return in safety," suggested Craven. "In that case our plans are all dished." "Don't be afraid of that," said Sharpley, with wicked significance. "I will take care of that." "It shall be as you say, then," said Craven. "You shall have two hundred dollars for the purchase of tickets and a bill of exchange for a thousand." "You may as well say three hundred, Craven, as there will be some extra preliminary expenses, and you had better give me the money now, as I am going up to the city this morning to procure tickets." "Very well, three hundred let it be." "And there's another point to be settled, a very important one, and we may as well settle it now." "What is it?" "How much am I to receive in case our plans work well?" "How much?" repeated Craven, hesitatingly. "Yes, how much?" "Well, say two thousand dollars." "Two thousand devils!" exclaimed Sharpley, indignantly. "Why, Craven, you must take me for a fool." Mr. Craven hastily disclaimed this imputation. "You expect me to do your dirty work for any such paltry sum as that! No! I don't sell myself so cheap." "Two thousand dollars is a good deal of money." "Not for such services as that, especially as it leaves you nineteen times as much. Craven, it won't do!" "Say five thousand dollars, then!" said Craven, reluctantly. "That's a little more like the figure, but it isn't enough." "What will satisfy you, then?" "Ten thousand." "Ten thousand!" repeated Craven, in dismay. "Yes, ten thousand," said Sharpley, firmly. "Not a cent less." Mr. Craven expostulated, but his expostulations were all in vain. His companion felt that he had him in his power, and was not disposed to abate his demands. Finally the agreement was made. "Shall it be in writing, Craven?" asked Sharpley, jocosely. "No, no." "I didn't know but you might want to bind me. When does the train leave for New York?" "In an hour." "Then I'll trouble you to look up three hundred dollars for me, and I'll take it." By the ten o'clock train Colonel Sharpley was a passenger. Mr. Craven saw him off, and then returned thoughtfully to his office. "It's a bold plan," thus he soliloquized; "but I think it will succeed. If it does, I shall no longer be dependent upon the will or caprice of my wife. I shall be my own master, and possessed of an abundant fortune. "If only Sharpley and the boy could die together, it would be a great relief. While that man lives I shall not feel wholly safe. However, one at a time. Let the boy be got out of the way, and I will see what can be done for the other. The cards are in my favor, and if I play a crafty game, I shall win in the end." CHAPTER XIII. JONATHAN TARBOX, OF SQUASHBORO'. A great steamer was plowing its way through the Atlantic waves. Fifteen hundred miles were traversed, and nearly the same remained to be crossed. The sea had been rough in consequence of a storm, and even now there was considerable motion. A few passengers were on deck, among them our young hero, who felt better in the open air than in the closer atmosphere below; besides, he admired the grandeur of the sea, spreading out on all sides of him, farther than his eyes could reach. He had got over his first sadness at parting with his mother, and he was now looking forward with the most eager anticipation to setting foot upon European soil. He shared a state-room with Sharpley, but the latter spent little time in the boy's company. He had discovered some congenial company among the other passengers, and spent most of the time smoking with them or playing cards below. Frank did not miss him much, as he found plenty to engage his attention on board. As he stood looking out on the wild waste of waters, trying to see if anywhere he could discover another vessel, he was aroused by the salutation: "I say, you boy!" Looking around, he saw a tall, thin man, dressed in a blue swallow-tail coat with brass buttons, a high standing dickey, and pants three or four inches too short in the legs. He was an admirable specimen of the Yankee--as he is represented on the stage--an exceptional specimen, though some of our foreign friends may regard him as the rule. It was not the first time Frank had seen him. Two or three times he had appeared at the table; but he had been stricken with seasickness, and for the greater part of the voyage thus far had remained in his state-room. "Good morning, sir," said Frank, politely. "You have been seasick, haven't you?" "Seasick! I guess I have," returned the other, energetically. "I thought I was goin' to kick the bucket more'n once." "It is not a very agreeable feeling," said Frank. "I guess not. If I'd known what kind of a time I was a-goin' to have, I wouldn't have left Squashboro', you bet!" "Are you from Squashboro'?" asked Frank, amused. "Yes, I'm from Squashboro', State of Maine, and I wish I was there just now, I tell you." "You won't feel so when you get on the other side," said Frank, consolingly. "Well, may be not; but I tell you, boy, it feels kinder risky bein' out here on the mill-pond with nothin' but a plank between you and drownin'. I guess I wouldn't make a very good sailor." "Are you going to travel much?" asked Frank. "Wal, you see, I go mostly on business. My name's Jonathan Tarbox. My father's name is Elnathan Tarbox. He's got a nice farm in Squashboro', next to old Deacon Perkins'. Was you ever in Squashboro'?" "No; I think not." "It's a thrivin' place, is Squashboro'. Wal, now, I guess you are wonderin' what sets me out to go to Europe, ain't you?" "I suppose you want to see the country, Mr. Tarbox." "Ef that was all, you wouldn't catch me goin' over and spendin' a heap of money, all for nothin'. That ain't business." "Then I suppose you go on business?" "I guess I do. You see I've invented a new plow, that, I guess, is goin' to take the shine off of any other that's in use, and it kinder struck me that ef I should take it to the Paris Exhibition, I might, may be, make somethin' out of it. I've heerd that they're a good deal behind in farm tools in the old European countries, and I guess I'll open their eyes a little with my plow." "I hope you'll succeed, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, politely. "I guess I shall. You see, I've risked considerable money onto it--that is, in travelin' expenses and such like. You see, my Uncle Abner--he wasn't my real uncle, that is, by blood, but he was the husband of my Aunt Matilda, my mother's oldest sister--didn't have no children of his own, so he left me two thousand dollars in his will." Mr. Tarbox paused in order to see what effect the mention of this great inheritance would have upon his auditor. "Indeed you were lucky, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank. "I guess I felt tickled when I heard of it. I jist kicked like a two-year-old colt. Wal, now, dad wanted me to buy a thirty-acre farm that was for sale about half a mile from his'n, but I wouldn't. I'd about fetched my plow out right, and I wa'n't goin' to settle down on no two-thousand-dollar farm. Catch me! No; I heerd of this Paris Exhibition, and I vowed I'd come out here and see what could be did. So here I am. I ain't sorry I cum, though I was about sick enough to die. Thought I should a-turned inside out one night when the vessel was goin' every which way." "I was sick myself that night," said Frank. Mr. Tarbox having now communicated all his own business, naturally felt a degree of curiosity about that of his young companion. "Are you goin' to the Paris Exhibition?" he asked. "I suppose so. It depends upon Colonel Sharpley." "The man you're travelin' with? Yes; I saw him at the table--tall man, black hair, and slim, ain't he?" "Yes, sir." "So he's a colonel, is he?" "Yes." "Did he fight in any of our wars?" "No, he's an Englishman." "Oh!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, with a slight contempt in his voice. "He wouldn't be no match for an American officer." "I don't know," said Frank. "Wal, I do--the Yankees always could whip any other nation, not but the colonel seems a respectable man, though he's a foreigner." "It is we who will be foreigners when we get to England," said Frank. This aroused the controversial spirit of Mr. Tarbox. "Do you mean to say that you and me will turn to furriners?" he asked, indignantly. "We shall be foreigners in England." "No, we won't," said Jonathan, energetically. "At any rate, I won't. I shall always be a free-born American citizen, and a free-born American citizen can't be a furriner." "Not in America, Mr. Tarbox, but in England, I am saying." "A free-born American citizen ain't a furriner anywhere," said Mr. Tarbox, emphatically. Frank was amused, but felt it wise to discontinue the discussion. "Are you goin' to Europe on business?" inquired the other. "No, only for pleasure." "Sho! I guess you must have a considerable pile of money!" suggested Mr. Tarbox, inquiringly. "I have a little money," said Frank, modestly. "Left you?" "Yes, by my father." "Wal, so you're in luck, too. Is the colonel related to you?" "No. He is a friend of my step-father." "Sho! So your mother married again. How long are you going to stay on the other side?" "Only three or four months, I think." "Do you know how much they ask for board in Paris?" asked Jonathan, with considerable interest. "No, Mr. Tarbox, I have no idea. I suppose it's according to what kind of rooms and board you take." "Wal, you see, Mr.--what did you say your name was?" "Hunter." "I once knowed a Hunter--I think he was took up for stealing." "I don't think he was any relation of mine, Mr. Tarbox." "Likely not. What was I a-goin' to say? Oh, Mr. Hunter, I ain't very particular about my fodder. I don't mind havin' baked beans half the time--pork and beans--and you know them are cheap." "So I've heard." "And as to a room, I don't mind it's bein' fixed up with fiddle-de-dee work and sich. Ef it's only comfortable--that'll suit me." "Then I think you'll be able to get along cheap, Mr. Tarbox." "That's what I calc'late. Likely I'll see you over there. What's that bell for?" "Lunch." "Let's go down. Fact is, I've been so tarnal sea-sick I'm empty as a well-bucket dried in the sun. I guess I can eat to-day." They went down to the saloon, and Mr. Tarbox's prophecy was verified. He shoveled in the food with great energy, and did considerable toward making up for past deficiencies. Frank looked on amused. He was rather inclined to like his countryman, though he acknowledged him to be very deficient in polish and refinements. CHAPTER XIV. THE LONDON CLERK. Jonathan Tarbox seemed to have taken a fancy to our hero, for immediately after lunch he followed him on deck. "I want to show you a drawin' of my plow, Mr. Hunter," he said. "I should like to see it, Mr. Tarbox, but I am no judge of such things." Mr. Tarbox drew a paper from his coat-pocket containing a sketch of his invention. He entered into a voluble explanation of it, to which Frank listened good-naturedly, though without much comprehension. "Do you think it'll work?" asked the inventor. "I should think it might. Mr. Tarbox, but then I don't know much about such things." "I don't believe they've got anything in Europe that'll come up to it," said Mr. Tarbox, complacently. "Ef I can get it introduced into England and France, it'll pay me handsome." "Have you shown it to any Englishman yet?" "No, I haven't. I don't know any." "There are some on board this steamer." "Are there? Where?" "There's one." Frank pointed out a young man with weak eyes and auburn hair, a London clerk, who visited the United States on a business errand, and was now returning. He was at this moment standing on deck, with his arms folded, looking out to sea. "I guess I'll go and speak to him," said Mr. Tarbox. "May be he can help me introduce my plow in London." Frank watched with some amusement the interview between Mr. Tarbox and the London clerk, which he shrewdly suspected was not likely to lead to any satisfactory results. Mr. Tarbox approached the Englishman from behind, and unceremoniously slapped him on the back. The clerk whirled round suddenly and surveyed Mr. Tarbox with mingled surprise and indignation. "What did you say?" he inquired. "How are you, old hoss?" "Do you mean to call me a 'oss?" "No, I call you a hoss. How do you feel?" "I don't feel any better for your hitting me on the back, sir," said the clerk, angrily. "Sho! your back must be weak. Been sea-sick?" "I have suffered some from sea-sickness," returned the person addressed, with an air of restraint. "So have I. I tell you I thought something was goin' to cave in." "Of what earthly interest does he suppose that is to me?" thought the clerk, superciliously. "Fact is," continued Mr. Tarbox, "I'd a good deal rather be to home in Squashboro', livin' on baked beans, than be here livin' on all their chicken fixin's. I suppose you've heard of Squashboro' hain't you?" "I can't say I have," said the clerk, coldly, adjusting his eye-glasses, and turning away from his uncongenial companion. "Squashboro', State o' Maine. It's a pooty smart place--got three stores, a blacksmith's shop, a grist mill, and two meetin'-houses." "Really, my friend," said the Englishman, "Squashboro' may be as smart a place as you say, but it doesn't interest me." "Don't it? That's because you haven't been there. We've got some smart men in Squashboro'." "You don't say so?" said the other, in a sarcastic tone. "There's Squire Perkins, selectman, town clerk and auctioneer. You'd ought to hear his tongue go when he auctioneers. Then there's Parson Pratt--knows a sight of Latin, Greek and Hebrew." "Are you one of the smart men of Squashboro'?" asked the clerk, in the same tone. "Wal, that ain't for me to say," answered Mr. Tarbox, modestly. "You never can tell what may happen, as the hen said when she hatched a lot of geese. But I'll tell you what, Mr. Englishman--" "My name is Robinson," interrupted the other, stiffly. "Why, howdy do, Mr. Robinson!" exclaimed Jonathan, seizing the unwilling hand of the other and shaking it vigorously. "My name is Tarbox--Jonathan Tarbox, named after my grandfather. His name was Jonathan, too." "Really, your family history is very interesting." "Glad you think so. But as I was sayin', when you spoke about me bein' smart, I've got up a new plow that's goin' to take the shine off all that's goin'," and he plunged his hand into his pocket. "You don't carry a plow round in your pocket, do you?" asked Mr. Robinson, arching his eyebrows. "Come, now, Mr. Robinson, that's a good joke for you. I've got a plan of it here on this piece of paper. If you'll squat down somewhere, I'll explain it to you." "I prefer standing, Mr.--Mr. Tarbarrel." "Tarbox is my name." "Ah--Tarbox, then. No great difference." "You see, Mr. Robberson--" "Robinson, sir." "Ah--is it?" said Jonathan, innocently. "No great difference." Mr. Robinson looked suspicious, but the expression of his companion's face was unchanged, and betrayed no malice prepense. "I don't know anything about plows," said the clerk, coldly. "You'd better show it to somebody else--I never saw a plow in my life." "Never saw a plow!" ejaculated Jonathan, in the utmost surprise. "Why, where have you been livin' all your life?" "In London." "And don't they have plows in the stores?" "I suppose they may, but they're not in my line." "Why, I knowed a plow as soon as I could walk," said Mr. Tarbox. "I leave such things to laborers," said Mr. Robinson, superciliously. "I feel no interest in them." "Ain't you a laborer yourself?" asked Jonathan. "I--a laborer!" exclaimed Mr. Robinson, with natural indignation. "Do you mean to insult me?" "I never insult nobody. But don't you work for a livin'? That's what I mean." "I am engaged in trade," answered the clerk, haughtily. "Then you do work for a livin', and so, of course, you're a laborer." "Sir, men in my business are not laborers--they are merchants." "What's the difference?" "I perceive, sir, that you are not accustomed to society. I excuse you on account of your ignorance." "Ignorance! What do you mean by that?" demanded Mr. Tarbox, in his turn indignant. Jonathan looked threatening, and as he was physically the Englishman's superior, the latter answered hastily: "I only meant to say that you were not versed in the requirements and conventionalities of society." "Is that English?" asked Jonathan, with a puzzled look. "I believe so." "Well, I never heard sich jawbreakers before, but, if it's an apology, it's all right. Won't you look at the plow, then?" "It would be of no use, Mr. Tarbox--I don't know about such things, I assure you. You had better show it to somebody else. My life has been passed in London, and I really am profoundly ignorant of agricultural implements." As he spoke, he turned away and walked down stairs. Mr. Tarbox followed him with his eyes, ejaculating: "That's a queer critter. He's over thirty years old, I guess, and he's never sot eyes on a plow! He'd ought to be ashamed of his ignorance." "Well, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, when his new friend rejoined him, "did you explain your new invention to the Englishman?" "I was goin' to, but he said he never seed one in the whole course of his life, and didn't take no interest in them. What do you think of that?" "He can't have been in the country much, I should think." "He keeps store in London, he says; but he's a poor, ignorant creetur, and he don't want to learn. I wanted to explain all about my invention, but he wouldn't look at it." "There are other Englishmen who will take more interest in it, Mr. Tarbox--men who live in the country and cultivate the land." "I hope so. I hope they ain't all as ignorant as that creetur. Do you think that colonel that you're travelin' with would like to look at it?" "I don't believe he would, Mr. Tarbox. I don't know much about him, but he seems to me like a man that has always lived in the city." "Just as you say. I'd just as lief explain it to him." "Are you going to put it in the exhibition?" "Yes; I've got it packed in my trunk in pieces. I'm going to put it together on the other side, and take it along with me." This was not the last conversation Frank had with Mr. Tarbox. He always listened with sympathy to the recital of the other's plans and purposes, and Jonathan showed a marked predilection for the society of our young hero. Without knowing it, Frank was making a friend who would be of value in the future. CHAPTER XV. MR. TARBOX IS OBSTINATE. Early on Wednesday morning, eleven days from the date of sailing, the good steamer which bore our hero as passenger, steamed into the harbor of Liverpool. As may readily be supposed, Frank was on deck, gazing with eager expectation at the great city before him, with its solid docks, and the indications of its wide-spreading commerce. "Well, Frank, we are almost there," said Colonel Sharpley. "Yes, sir. Isn't it glorious!" exclaimed our hero, with enthusiasm. "I don't see anything glorious," said a voice at his side. The speaker was Mr. Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine. "Don't you like it, Mr. Tarbox?" asked Frank. "Liverpool ain't a circumstance to New York," said the Yankee, with patriotic pride. "New York's bigger and finer than this town ever will see." "I don't care whether it's bigger or not," said Frank. "It's jolly being here. What a splendid time I mean to have." "Enjoy yourself while you may," said Sharpley to himself. "Your time is short." "What tavern are you goin' to put up at?" asked Mr. Tarbox. "I don't know," said Frank. "Perhaps Colonel Sharpley can tell you." Sharpley turned around, and looked at the Yankee superciliously. "I really have not decided," he said. "I thought I'd like to put up at the same," said Mr. Tarbox, "seein' as I know you. May be we might ride in the same carriage to the tavern." "I prefer not to add to my party, sir," said Colonel Sharpley, frigidly. "Oh, you needn't flare up," said Jonathan Tarbox, coolly. "I'm willin' to pay my share of the bill." "I must decline making any arrangement with you, sir," said Sharpley as he moved away. "Kinder offish, ain't he?" said Mr. Tarbox, addressing Frank. "He seems a little so," said Frank; "but I hope, Mr. Tarbox, you won't think I am unwilling to be in your company." "No, I don't," said the Yankee, cordially. "You ain't a bit stuck up. I'd like to let that chap know that I'm as good as he is, if he does call himself colonel." "No doubt of it." "And if I can only make my plow go, I'll be rich some day." "I hope you will, Mr. Tarbox." "So do I. Do you know what I'll do then?" "What?" "You see, there's a gal in our town; her name is Sally Sprague, and she's about the nicest gal I ever sot eyes on. Ef things goes well with me, that gal will have a chance to be Mrs. Tarbox," said Jonathan, energetically. "I hope she will," said Frank, in amused sympathy. "I like you--I do!" said Mr. Tarbox. "Ef ever I git a chance to do you a good turn, I'll do it." "Thank you, Mr. Tarbox. I am sorry Colonel Sharpley was rude to you." "I can stand it," said Jonathan; "and I mean to go to the same tavern, too." The custom-house officials came on board and examined the luggage. This over, the passengers were permitted to land. On shore they encountered a crowd of hackmen. "To the St. George Hotel," said Colonel Sharpley, selecting one of the number. "Here, Frank, get in." Just behind was Mr. Tarbox, standing guard over a dilapidated trunk and a green chest, the latter of which contained his precious plow. "Have a cab, sir?" asked a short, stout hackman. "What are you goin' to charge?" asked Jonathan. "Where do you want me to drive, sir?" "St. George Tavern. Oh, stop a minute. Do they pile up the prices steep there?" "It's reasonable, sir." "That's all I want. I ain't goin' to pay no fancy prices. How much are you goin' to charge for carryin' me there?" "Half a crown, sir." "What in thunder's half a crown?" "Ain't he precious green?" thought cabby. But he answered, respectfully: "It's two-and-six, sir." "Two dollars and six cents?" "No, sir; two shillin's and sixpence." "It's too much." "Reg'lar price." "I don't believe it. Here, you other chap," beckoning to another cabman, "what'll you charge to take me to the St. George Tavern?" This brought the first cabby to terms. "Jump in, sir. I'll take you round for two shillin's," he said. "All right," said Jonathan. "I'll help you with that chist. Now put her over the road. I'm hungry, and want some vittles." Five minutes after Frank arrived at the St. George with his guardian, Mr. Tarbox drove up, bag and baggage. "You see I'm here most as soon as you," said Tarbox, nodding. "We ain't separated yet. It's a pooty nice tavern, Mr. Sharpley," accosting Frank's guardian with easy forgetfulness of the latter's repellant manner. "What is your object in following us, sir?" asked Sharpley, frigidly. "You haven't engaged this tavern all to yourself, have you?" demanded Jonathan. "Ain't it free to other travelers?" Sharpley saw the other had him at advantage. "Didn't you come here because we were here?" he asked. "May be I did, and then again may be I didn't," the other replied. "There ain't any law ag'in it, is there?" "I should hardly suppose you would wish to thrust yourself into the society of those who don't want you." "I won't run up no bills on your account," said Mr. Tarbox; "but I'm goin' just where I please, even if you are there already. Frank here ain't no way troubled about it." "Frank, as you call him, is under my guardianship," said Mr. Sharpley, with a sneer. "I don't wish him to associate with improper persons." "Do you call me an improper person?" demanded Mr. Tarbox, offended. "You can draw your own inferences, Mr.--I really don't know who." "Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine." "Then, Mr. Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine, I have already wasted as much time as I choose to do on you, and must close the conversation." "All right, sir. You'd better shut up Frank in a glass case, if you don't want him to associate with any improper persons." But Colonel Sharpley had turned on his heel and moved away. "I can't have that fellow following us everywhere," he said to himself. "The task I have before me is one which demands secrecy, in order to avert all suspicion in case anything happens. This inquisitive, prying Yankee may spoil all. He won't take a hint, and I suspect it would be dangerous to try a kick. The trouble with these Yankees is that they are afraid of nothing, and are bent on carrying out their own purposes, however disagreeable to others. I must ask Frank about this fellow and his plans." "Frank," he commenced, when they were alone, "I must congratulate you on this Yankee friend of yours. He has fastened on us like a leech." "He is a good-natured fellow," said Frank. "He is an impudent scoundrel!" said Sharpley, impatiently. "Not so bad as that. He is not used to the ways of the world, and he seems to have taken a fancy to me." "He ought to see that his company's not wanted." "He is not disagreeable to me. I am rather amused by his odd ways and talk." "I am not. He is confoundedly disagreeable to me. We must shake him off. We can't have him following us all over Europe." "He won't do that. He is going to the Paris Exposition." "What's he going to do there--exhibit himself?" "Not exactly," said Frank, good humoredly. "He's invented a plow that will take the shine off all others, so he says. So he will be detained there for some time." "I am glad to hear that; but I mean to get rid of him beforehand. When we leave here we mustn't tell where we are going." "I can't," answered Frank; "for I don't know, unless it is to London." "Then I won't tell you, or you might let it out accidentally." Meanwhile, Jonathan, who had ordered a couple of chops, was sitting in the coffee-room, making a vigorous onslaught upon them. "I wonder what makes that Sharpley so skittish about me and Frank bein' together?" he thought. "He needn't think I want to stick near him. I wouldn't give half a cent for his company. But that boy's a good sort of a chap and a gentleman. I'll keep him in sight if I can." CHAPTER XVI. AN ADVENTURE IN LONDON. The next day Sharpley took advantage of Mr. Tarbox's temporary absence from the hotel to hurry Frank off to the London train. "I hope we have seen the last of that intrusive Yankee," said Sharpley to our hero, when they were fairly installed in the railway carriage. "I should like to have bidden him good-by," said Frank. "You can associate with him as much as you like after we have parted company," said Sharpley. "But, for my part, I don't want to see anything of him." "I wonder what makes him so prejudiced," thought Frank. "It can't be because he is a Yankee, for I am a Yankee, myself, and yet he takes the trouble of looking after me." Sharpley was not very social. He bought a paper, and spent most of the time in reading. But Frank did not find the time hang heavily upon his hands. He was in England, that was his glad thought. On either side, as the train sped along, was spread out a beautiful English landscape, and his eyes were never tired of watching it. To Sharpley there was no novelty in the scene. He had enough to think of in his past life--enough to occupy his mind in planning how to carry out his present wicked designs upon the life of the innocent boy at his side. At last they reached London, and drove in a hansom to a quiet hotel, located in one of the streets leading from the Strand, a business thoroughfare well known to all who have ever visited the great metropolis. "How long are we going to stay in London, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Two or three days. I can't tell exactly how long." "That will be rather a short time to see so large a city," returned Frank, considerably disappointed. "I am in a hurry to go to the continent," was the reply. "We can stop here longer on our return." With this Frank was forced to be content, though he would have preferred to remain in London long enough now to see the principal objects of interest. There was, he could not help remarking, a considerable difference in Colonel Sharpley's manner from that which he exhibited when he first called upon his step-father. Then he was very social and agreeable; now he was taciturn, and at times sullen and irritable. Whatever the reason might be, the change was very marked. "Perhaps he has some business that annoys him," thought Frank, charitably. "I will give him as little trouble as possible. But for his kind offer, I should not have my present chance of seeing foreign countries." The next morning Sharpley said: "Frank, you must wander around by yourself, as I have business to attend to." "All right, sir," said Frank. In fact, he was rather pleased with the idea of finding his own way in the great city of which he had heard so much, and which he had just entered as a stranger. He felt a little like the celebrated explorer, Dr. Livingstone, as he set out to explore a region as new and blind to him as the mysterious tracts of Central Africa to the older traveler. But he had this advantage over the eminent doctor, that, whereas the latter had no maps or charts to guide him, he was able for the small sum of an English shilling, or about twenty-five cents, to obtain a map of London. When his eye glanced for the first time over the labyrinth, he felt bewildered and lost, but after a short time he made up his mind what course to take, and found his way to Charing Cross, and from thence to Piccadilly, Rupert Street, and the parks. Time flew by, and in the delight of the ever-recurring novelty, he found that it was two o'clock. He stepped into a pastry-cook's to get some lunch. Then he hailed a passing stage, and rode a long distance, but whether he was near or far from his hotel he could not tell. He decided to leave the stage, and inquire in some shop near by where he was, and then, by examining his map, ascertain the most direct course to his hotel. As he reached the sidewalk, a little girl of ten years, apparently, with a thin, sad face, fixed her eyes upon him. She said nothing, but there was a mute appeal in her look which Frank, who was by nature compassionate, could not resist. "What is the matter, little girl?" he asked. "Mother is sick, and we have nothing to eat," answered the little girl, sorrowfully. "Have you no father?" "He has gone away." "Where?" "I don't know." "Has your mother been sick long?" "She made herself sick working so hard to buy us bread." "Then you are not the only child," inquired Frank. "I have a little sister, four years old." "How old are you?" "I am ten." "What is your name?" "Alice Craven." The announcement of her name made Frank start. "What!" he exclaimed, for, except his step-father, he had never till now met anyone by that name. "Alice Craven," answered the little girl, supposing he had not understood aright. "Where does your mother live?" asked Frank. "In Hurst court." "Is it far from here?" "Only about five minutes' walk." "I will go with you," said Frank, with sudden resolution, "and if I find your mother is as badly off as you say, I will give you something." "Come, then, sir; I will show you the way." Frank followed the little girl till he found himself in a miserable court, shut in by wretched tenements. Alice entered one of the dirtiest of these, and Frank followed her up a rickety staircase to the fourth floor. Here, his guide opened a door and led the way into a dark room, almost bare of furniture, where, upon a bed in the corner, lay a wan, attenuated woman. Beside her sat the little girl of four to whom Alice had referred. "Mother," said Alice, "here is a kind young gentleman, who has come to help us." "Heaven bless him!" said the woman, feebly. "We are in dire want of help." "How long have you been sick?" asked Frank, compassionately. "It is long since I have been well," answered the invalid, "but I have been able to work till two weeks since. For two weeks I have earned nothing, and, but for the neighbors, I and my two poor children would have starved." "Is your husband dead?" "I do not know. He left me three years ago, and I have never seen him since." "Did he desert you?" asked Frank, indignantly. "Did he leave you to shift for yourself?" "He promised to come back, but he has never come," said the woman, sighing. "Your little girl tells me your name is Craven." "Yes, sir. That is my husband's name." "I know a gentleman by that name." "Where?" asked the invalid, eagerly. "In America. But it cannot be your husband," he added, quickly, not caring to excite hope in the poor woman's breast, only to be succeeded by disappointment, "for he has a wife there. I didn't know but it might be your husband's brother." "My husband had no brother," said the woman, sinking back, her momentary hope extinguished. "Oh, if he only knew how hard it has been for me to struggle for food for these poor children, he would surely come back." Frank's heart was filled with pity. He drew from his pocket two gold sovereigns, and placed them in the hands of Alice. "It won't last you long," he said, "but it will give you some relief." "Bless you, bless you!" said the invalid, gratefully. "It will keep us till I am well again and can work for my children. What is your name, generous, noble boy?" "Frank Hunter," said our hero, modestly; "but don't think too much of what I have done. I shall fare no worse for parting with this money." "I will remember you in my prayers," said Mrs. Craven. "So young and so generous!" "Give me your address, Mrs. Craven, and when I am in London again I will come and see you." "No. 10 Hurst Court," said the invalid. "I will put it down." Frank now left the court, and, as it was late, hailed a cab, and was soon set down in front of his hotel. "Where have you been so long," asked Sharpley. "It is past three o'clock." "I went about seeing the sights," said Frank. "I saw the parks, and Buckingham Palace, and Regent Street; but I have just left a poor woman who was very destitute, whom I visited in her miserable room. Oddly enough, her name was Craven." "Craven," repeated Sharpley, his attention at once roused. "Yes; she had two children, the oldest, Alice, a girl of ten." "Great Heaven!" ejaculated Sharpley. Frank looked at him in surprise. "I daresay they were humbugs," said Sharpley. "Did you give them any money?" "Two sovereigns; but I am sure they were not humbugs." "'A fool and his money are soon parted,'" sneered Sharpley. "Where did you find them?" "No. 10 Hurst Court." "I advise you not to be so ready to part with your money the next time. I'll wager they are imposters." "What cursed chance brought him in contact with these people?" said Sharpley to himself after Frank had left him to arrange his toilet. "He little dreams that the woman he has relieved is the true wife of the man who has married his mother." CHAPTER XVII. COLONEL SHARPLEY'S RUSE. Later in the day Mr. Sharpley found his way to Hurst Court, and paused before Number 10. Though a selfish man, he was not without feeling, and the miserable quarters in which he found his sister excited his pity. He made inquiry of some of the lower tenants, and soon stood at his sister's door. Without waiting to knock, he opened the door and stepped in. The sick woman looked up mechanically, supposing it to be a neighbor who had been kind to her. But when she recognized her brother, she uttered a feeble cry of joy. "Oh, Robert, have you come back?" she cried. "How long it is since I have seen you!" He was shocked at her wan and wasted appearance. "Helen," he said, taking a seat beside the bed, "you look very sick." "No, Robert, not very sick. It is only the effect of overwork and scanty food." "That is enough. How long have you been sick?" "A fortnight. Things looked very dark for me. I feared my poor children would starve, but this morning a noble boy, whom Providence must have sent to me in my extremity, gave me two sovereigns, and they will last me till I am well. But where have you been, Robert?" "I have been to America." "And did you--did you see anything of my husband?" she asked, fixing her eyes anxiously upon him. "Do you think of him still? He does not deserve it. He has treated you like a scoundrel." "I know he has not treated me right, Robert, but he is the father of my children. Then you did not find him?" "I obtained a clew," said Sharpley, evasively. "It may or may not lead to anything. I am about to leave London now on a journey connected with that clew. If it results in anything, I will let you know." "Where are you going?" "On the Continent. I cannot say precisely where, but you will hear from me. But what a hole you are living in," and he looked around him in disgust at the bare walls and naked condition of the miserable room. "I don't mind it, Robert. I feel glad to have the shelter of any roof." "Have you been so poor?" "So poor that I could not well be poorer." "Come, this must be remedied. I am not rich, but I can do something for you. To-morrow morning I will move you to a better room. Do you think you can bear to be moved?" "Yes, brother. You are very kind," murmured the sick woman, not aware that her brother's motives were complex, and that his chief reason for the removal was not dictated by sympathy or pity. "Then I shall be here to-morrow at ten, with a cab. You must all of you be ready. By the way, do you know any of the people in the house?" "Yes; they are poor, but some of them have been kind to me." "Don't let them know where you are moving to?" said Sharpley. "Not let them know!" repeated Mrs. Craven, in surprise. "Why not?" "I have a reason, but I don't want to tell you." "I don't understand it, Robert. What harm can it do?" Sharpley bit his lip. He was annoyed by her persistency, but he was not prepared to give the real reason. Fortunately, a plausible explanation occurred to him. "Listen, sister," he said. "You have an enemy." "An enemy!" "Yes, who is trying to find you out. He has a clew, and if you remain here he may succeed." "But how can I have an enemy, and what could he do to me?" "Suppose he should kidnap one of your children?" The suggestion was made on the spur of the moment, but the effect was immediate. The poor woman turned pale--paler even than before--and trembled. "Say no more, Robert," she answered. "I will promise." "You promise to let no one of your neighbors know where you are going?" "Yes. But, Robert, is it my husband--is it Mr. Craven who is in search of me?" "Ask no more," said Sharpley. "You may know some time, but I have told you all I wish you at present to know. But I must be going. To-morrow, at ten, remember." "I will be ready." "Cleverly managed!" said Sharpley to himself. "I must take care that that boy does not meet my sister again. The name has already struck him. If he sees her again he may come to suspect the truth, and suspicion once aroused, he may suspect me." He didn't at once return to the hotel, but going to a part of London two miles distant, engaged a somewhat better lodging for his sister. The next morning he went to Hurst Court, and, finding her ready, moved her at once to her new home. "How kind you are, Robert!" she said. "I would do more if I had the means. I may be richer soon. I have a good prospect before me, but it requires me to go away for a time." "How long will you be gone?" "I cannot tell. It may be a month; it may be two or three. I have paid the rent of this lodging for three months in advance. There is the receipt." She looked at it mechanically, then handed it back. "This is not the receipt," she said. "The name is wrong." "How is it wrong?" "It is made out to Mrs. Chipman." "It is the right paper." "But my name is not Mrs. Chipman." "Yes, it is." "What do you mean, Robert?" asked his sister, lifting her eyes in surprise. "Just what I say. I want you to be Mrs. Chipman." "But why should I give up my name?" "Do you remember what I told you yesterday--about the man who was on your track?" "You didn't say it was a man." "Well, I say so now." "Well, Robert?" "He will find it harder to trace you if you change your name." "If you think it right, Robert, I will be guided by your advice." "I do think it best for reasons which I cannot fully explain. You must tell your children, also." "I will do so." "Have you any of the money that boy gave you?" "I have nearly all." "Here are three sovereigns more. With your rent paid for three months, if you use it economically, you will not again be reduced to destitution." "I shall feel rich with so much money," said Mrs. Craven, smiling faintly. "Take care that you are not robbed." "I will be careful. But it seems strange to me that I should have occasion for any fears." "Before the three months are over, I shall probably be back in London. I will come to you at once, and let you know if I have heard anything." "Thank you, Robert. Good-by, then, for the present." "Good-by. I hope you will soon be well." "I shall. It was anxiety for my children that was wearing upon me. Now, thanks to your kindness, I am easy in mind. But, brother, there is one question I forgot to ask. How came you to know that I lived at Hurst Court?" Sharpley was posed for a moment, and knew not what to say. He could not, of course, tell the truth; but he was a man fertile in suggestions, and he was silent for a moment only. "I employed a detective," he answered. "These London detectives are wonderfully sharp. He soon found you out." "And you took all this trouble about me," said Mrs. Craven, gratefully, not for a moment doubting the accuracy of the story. "Is it strange that I should take the trouble to find my only sister? But I cannot delay longer. Good-by, Helen." He stooped and lightly touched her cheek with his lips, and hurried from the room. "There," he said to himself, after reaching the street; "I have cut off all possibility of a second meeting between Frank and my sister during the brief remainder of our stay in London. When I come back it will be alone!" Four days afterward they left London for Paris. The day before, Frank made his way again to Hurst Court, meaning to leave a little more money with Mrs. Craven, questioning her at the same time about her husband, whom he could not help connecting in some way with his step-father. But his visit was made in vain. Mrs. Craven had disappeared, and not one of the tenants could say where she had gone: but all agreed that she had been taken away in a cab by a tall gentleman. It seemed mysterious, but no suspicion as to the identity of the gentleman entered Frank's mind. "I hope she has found a friend able to help her," he said to himself, and then dismissed the subject from his mind. CHAPTER XVIII. MR. TARBOX AT THE PARIS EXPOSITION. "So this is Paris," said Frank to himself, as he rode into the court-yard of the Hotel de Rivoli, situated on the fine street of the same name. He had already, from the carriage window, obtained a good view of the palace of the Tuileries, occupied at that time by Louis Napoleon, in the plentitude of his power, and of the large garden which it faces. The sun was shining brightly, and as he glanced at the signs on either side of the streets through which he passed, he realized, even more clearly than on English soil, that he was in a foreign country. "What a beautiful city!" he exclaimed, turning to his companion. "Humph! so, so," said Sharpley, in a tone quite devoid of enthusiasm. "I suppose you have been here before, Colonel Sharpley?" "Often." "But it is new to me; so I suppose it strikes me more." "It is always enjoyed best the first time. Can you speak French?" "A little. I can read the language pretty well. Shall we stay here long?" "I can't tell yet." The exhibition was open, and the city was full to overflowing. They were compelled to take rooms high up, the most desirable being already occupied. But for this Frank cared little. He was in Paris; he was going to see its wonders, and this thought filled him with happiness. The next day they went to the exhibition together, but Colonel Sharpley soon tired of it. After an hour, he turned to Frank, saying: "Do you want to stay longer?" "Yes; I have scarcely seen anything yet." "I suppose you can find your way back to the hotel?" "Oh, yes." "Then I will go out. I don't care much for this sort of thing." So Frank wandered on alone--alone, but surrounded by a crowd of all nationalities, visitors like himself to the great exhibition. On all sides he was surrounded by triumphs of art and skill gathered from all parts of the world. "I wish I had some friend with me," he thought. "It's a splendid sight, but I should enjoy it better if I had somebody I liked to talk to. Wouldn't it be jolly if Ben Cameron were here! How he would enjoy it! Poor fellow! he's got his own way to make in the world--though I don't know as that is much of a misfortune, after all. I don't think I would mind it, though, of course, it's pleasant to have money." As these thoughts passed through our hero's mind, he suddenly heard his name called in a loud voice, whose nasal twang could not be mistaken. Turning in the direction from which it came, his face lighted up with pleasure as he recognized his fellow-passenger, Jonathan Tarbox. The Yankee, looking as countrified as ever in the midst of the brilliant scene, was standing guard over his plow, which had been put together, and was occupying a place assigned it by the Committee of Arrangements. "Why, Mr. Tarbox, I'm glad to see you!" said Frank, heartily, hurrying through the crowd and offering his hand, which was seized in a tight grip. "How long have you been here?" "Three days," said Jonathan, "and I'm eenamost tired to death, standin' here, with nobody to talk to." "I should think you would be lonely. I have only just come. Where are you staying?" "I put up over to the Latin Quarter," said Mr. Tarbox; "though why they call it Latin, when they don't talk Latin there, I don't know. It's cheap livin' there, and I don't want to spend too much. There was a feller on the cars took me in when I jest come. As I heard him talk English, I asked him if he could recommend a good, cheap tavern for me to stop at. He told me the best he knew for a cheap one was the Hotel de Villy. So I hired a boy to lead me there. It was a big walk, and when I got there I found the scamp had sent me to the town hall of Paris. I'd like to give him a lickin'! But I met another chap that was more polite, and he directed me to where I am. He lives there himself. He is a poor artist, and I've took the room jest opposite to his. Where are you stoppin'?" "At the Hotel Rivoli." "That's a hotel where the big-bugs stop, ain't it--near Lewis Napoleon's house." "Yes, I believe so," said Frank, smiling; "but I don't claim to be a big-bug." "That colonel you're traveling with sets up for one. Is he here?" "He is in the city. He came to the exhibition with me, but he didn't stop long. How do you like Paris, Mr. Tarbox?" "I really don't know, Frank. The streets and buildin's are pooty handsome, but they do talk the most outlandish stuff I ever heerd. They rattle off jest like parrots, and I can't understand a word." [Illustration: JONATHAN TARBOX GREETS AN OLD FRIEND.] "I suppose you have not studied the French language," said Frank, smiling. "No, and I don't want to. I'd be ashamed o' myself to talk like them. Why in thunder don't they talk English?" asked Jonathan, with an expression of disgust. "I suppose they wonder that Americans don't speak French." "Why, they do say that young ones call their mothers a mare," continued Mr. Tarbox. "That's what I call sassy. Ef I'd called my mother a mare when I was a youngster, she'd have keeled me over quicker'n a wink. Then a gal is called a filly. That's most as bad. And what do you think I saw on the programme at the restorant where I go to get dinner?" "What was it?" asked Frank, amused. "It was poison, only it wasn't spelled right. The ignorant critters spelled it with a double s. I say they'd ought to be indicted for keepin' p'ison among their vittles." "You have made a little mistake, Mr. Tarbox. The word you refer to--_poisson_--is the French word for fish." "By gracious!" ejaculated Jonathan; "you don't say so! Then it's a mighty queer language, that's all I've got to say. But speakin' of eatin', I ain't had a decent meal of vittles since I came here." "I am surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Tarbox. The French have a high reputation for their cookery." "I can't help that. I haven't lived so mean since I was born." "Perhaps it is because you don't know the names of the dishes you want." "Wall, there may be somethin' in that. Why, the first day I p'inted to the first thing in the programme. It was among the pottages. They brought me some thin, watery stuff that would turn a pig sick. Somebody told me it was meant for soup. When my mother made soup, she put potatoes and meat in it, and carrots and turnips. Her soup was satisfying and would stay a feller's stummick. It wa'n't like this thin stuff. It would take a hogshead of it to keep a baby alive till night." "What else did you get, Mr. Tarbox," asked Frank. "I looked all through the programme for baked beans, and, would you believe it, they didn't have it at all." "I believe it is not a French dish." "Then the French don't know what's good, I can tell 'em that. Folks say they eat frogs, and it stands to reason if they like frogs, and don't like baked beans, they must be an ignorant set. I didn't understand any of the darned names, but I come across pommy de terry, and I thought that might be somethin' solid, so I told the gossoon to bring it. What do you think he brought?" "Potatoes." "Yes; I was so wild I come near flinging 'em in his face, but I concluded to keep 'em, and happened to see some mutton put down on the bill, though they didn't spell it right, so I pointed it out to the gossoon, and he brought it. It was pretty fair, but I tell you my mother can beat all the French cooks that's goin'. I jest wish she was here." "We must go together some time, Mr. Tarbox. I know some French, and I can tell you the names of some things you like, though I am afraid you will have to do without baked beans." "I wish you would go with me, Frank. May be I can get along better with you." "How about your invention, Mr. Tarbox? Is it attracting attention?" "Nobody looks at it," said Jonathan, a little depressed. "The ladies turn up their noses, as if it wa'n't worth lookin' at. One old Frenchman come up and began to ask me about it, but I couldn't make head or tail of what he said. Then he offered me a pinch of snuff. I saw he meant to be polite, so I took a good dose, and 'most sneezed my head off. But about the plow; I've been thinkin' whether Lewis Napoleon would let me plow a few furrers in his garden, jest to let the French see how it works. Do you think he would?" "I hardly think he would." "You see, folks can't get much idea about it, jest lookin' at it here." "You don't have to stay by it all the time, do you?" "No." "Then suppose you take a little walk with me round the buildings." Being socially disposed, Mr. Tarbox accepted the proposal, and the two sauntered about together, Frank being continually amused by the unconsciously droll remarks of his countryman. CHAPTER XIX. FRANK ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS. "Who was that you were walking with yesterday, Frank?" asked Sharpley. "Mr. Tarbox." "What, that confounded Yankee?" ejaculated Sharpley, roughly. "What harm is there in him?" asked Frank, quietly. "He is an ignorant barbarian. Mr. Craven wouldn't like to have you associate with such a man." "I care very little what Mr. Craven would like," said Frank. "He is your step-father." "If he is, I can't help it. I am only responsible to my mother for my conduct, and she would not object to my keeping company with a countryman." "I shouldn't want to own it," sneered Sharpley. "Why not?" "This Tarbox, if that is his name, is as green as his native hills, and an ignorant boor." "I don't agree with you, Colonel Sharpley," said Frank, undaunted. "He is not well educated, but he has brains enough to have invented a plow of an improved pattern, which he is exhibiting here. He is young yet, and if he succeeds he will get rid of his awkwardness, and may in time occupy a prominent position in the community." "I don't approve of elevating the rabble," said Sharpley; "and as you are my ward, I desire you not to associate with this Tarbox." "If you had any good reason to offer, Colonel Sharpley, or if Mr. Tarbox were an improper person, I would obey; but, under the present circumstances, I must decline." "What! You dare to defy me!" exclaimed Sharpley, who was in a worse temper than usual, having lost money at cards the evening before. "I don't wish to defy you, sir, but I must beg you to be reasonable." "Do you dare insinuate that I am unreasonable?" said Sharpley, advancing as if to strike him. Frank looked calmly in his face and didn't shrink. There was something in his eye which prevented the blow from falling. Sharpley bethought himself of another way of "coming up with" his rebellious charge. "If you are going to act in this way," he said, "I shall send you home." "I don't propose to go home, Colonel Sharpley," said Frank, firmly. "Now that I am here, I shall stay through the summer." "Do you think you can compel me to keep charge of you?" "No, sir; but since it is a trouble to you, I will place myself under the charge of Mr. Tarbox, though I feel quite competent to travel alone. If you will place in his hands what funds you have of mine, this will relieve you of all trouble." "The deuce it will!" thought Sharpley, who knew that such a course would leave him absolutely helpless and penniless. He began to see that he had overshot the mark. He would risk the utter failure of all his plans if a separation should take place between them. So, though it went against his grain, he resolved to make up with Frank. Forcing a smile, therefore, he said: "Are you really anxious to leave me, Frank?" Our hero was bewildered by the unexpected change of manner. "I thought you were tired of me, sir," he said. "I am afraid I give you trouble and interfere with your plans." "Not at all. I am sorry if I have given you such an impression. The fact is, I am vexed and irritated at some news I have heard, and that made me disposed to vent my irritation on you." "I am sorry, sir, if you have had bad news. Is it anything serious?" "Not very serious," said Sharpley; "but," he added, with ready invention, "it is vexatious to hear that I have lost a thousand pounds." "Yes; that is a serious loss," said Frank, with sympathy. "It was invested, as I thought, safely; but the concern proves to be rotten, and my loss is total." "I hope it won't seriously inconvenience you, Colonel Sharpley?" "Oh, no; it is fortunately but a small part of my fortune," said Sharpley, with barefaced falsehood. "Still, it is annoying. But let it pass. To-morrow I shall feel all right. Meanwhile, if you really care to associate with this Tarbox, do so by all means. I confess he is not to my taste." "He is not a countryman of yours, sir; he reminds me of home." "Just so. By the way, I have letters for you from home." "Oh, give them to me!" said Frank, eagerly. "I am longing to hear." He eagerly opened the letters. One, a long one, crossed and recrossed, was from his mother. I will only quote one paragraph: "I need hardly tell you, my dear son, how much I miss you. The house seems very dull and lonely without you. But I am glad you are enjoying yourself amid new scenes, and look forward with great interest to hear your accounts of what you have seen. I send a great deal of love, and hope to hear from you often. "Your affectionate mother, "MARY CRAVEN. "P.S.--Mr. Craven has written a note to you, which will go by the same mail as this." The other letter, written in a masculine hand, Frank opened with some curiosity. He had not expected to hear from Mr. Craven, and wondered what he would have to say. His letter being short, will be given entire: "MY DEAR FRANK: As your mother is writing you, I cannot resist the temptation of sending a line also. We both miss you very much, but are consoled for your absence by the knowledge that you are enjoying and improving yourself in the Old World. Had circumstances been favorable, how pleasant it would have been if your mother and myself could have accompanied you. Let us hope that sometime such a plan may be carried out. Meanwhile, I feel truly happy to think that you are under the care of my friend, Colonel Sharpley, whom I know to be a gentleman every way qualified for such a responsible trust. We are hoping to receive letters from you describing your travels. I will not write more now, but subscribe myself "Your affectionate step-father, "SAMUEL CRAVEN." There was nothing to complain of in this letter. It was kind and cordial, and exhibited a strong and affectionate interest in our hero. Yet Frank read it without any special feeling of gratitude; nor was he drawn by it any nearer to the writer. He blamed himself for his coldness. "Why can't I like him?" he said to himself. "He seems very kind, and wants me to enjoy myself. I suppose he was partly the means of my coming out on this tour. Yet that doesn't make me like him." Frank could not tell why he felt so, but it was an instinctive perception of Mr. Craven's insincerity, and the falseness of his character and professions that influenced him. He folded the letters, first reading his mother's a second time, and went out, Colonel Sharpley having already departed. He bent his steps to the exhibition building, and made his way to Mr. Tarbox. "Good morning, Mr. Tarbox," he said. "How do you feel to-day?" "Pooty smart. You look as if you've heerd good news." "I have had two letters from home." "So have I." "Any news?" "Yes," said Jonathan; "the brindle cow's got a calf." Frank smiled. "That's my cow," said Mr. Tarbox, seriously; "she's a stunner for givin' milk; she gives a pailful in the mornin', and two pailfuls at night. I'm goin' to make money out of that cow." "And out of that plow, too, I hope." "I don't know," said Mr. Tarbox, shaking his head. "These ignorant furriners don't seem to care nothin' about plows. They care more about silks and laces, and sich like." "Was that all the news you got--about the cow, I mean?" "No," said Jonathan, chuckling a little, and lowering his voice; "I got a letter from her." "From her?" "Yes, from my gal." "Oh, I understand," said Frank, laughing. "How glad you must be." "Yes, sir-ee. I feel like a fly in a molasses keg--all over sweetness." "Then she hasn't forgotten you?" "I guess not. How do you think she ended her letter?" "I can't tell." "Wait a minute, and I'll read you the endin' off. Here it is: 'If you love me as I love you, No knife can cut our love in two.' "Arn't that scrumptious?" "I should think it was. I hope you'll introduce me some day, when she's Mrs. Tarbox." "Yes, I will. You must come up to the farm, and stay a week in the summer." "By that time you'll have made your fortune out of the plow." "I hope so. Where are you goin'?" "I am going to visit the French department of the exhibition." "Wal, I'll go along with you. I want to see if they've got any plow here to compare with mine. I don't believe they know enough to make anything useful." Mr. Tarbox certainly did the French injustice, but he was under the sway of prejudice, and was quite disposed to exalt the useful at the expense of the beautiful. CHAPTER XX. FRANK LEAVES PARIS. There was a letter from Mr. Craven to Sharpley, which came by the same mail as those mentioned in the preceding chapter. It contained the following paragraph: "I suppose you will travel to Switzerland with Frank. I suppose so, because in the summer it is very attractive to the tourist. As accidents are very apt to happen to careless travelers, let me request you to keep a good lookout for him, and not let him approach too near the edge of precipices, or clefts in the mountains. He might easily fall over, and I shudder, not only to think of his fate in that case, but of the grief which would overwhelm his mother and myself. I beg you will keep us apprised of his health, and should any accident happen, write at once." Sharpley read over this passage with attention. Then he folded the letter, and muttered to himself: "What a consummate hypocrite that villain Craven is! Any one, to read this letter, would suppose that he was actuated by the warmest attachment for his step-son; and all the while he is planning his death, and coolly suggesting to me an easy way of bringing it about. I am bad enough, or I would not lend myself to carry out his plans, but I'm not such a miserable hypocrite as he is. However, I've seen too much of the world to be shocked at anybody's depravity, having a fair share of wickedness myself. As to the suggestion, I must confess that it's a good one, and relieves me from a good deal of anxious thought. I've been considering how best I could get rid of the young incumbrance. It occurred to me that I could lock him up, and set some charcoal to burning in his room; but, heating the room--it's too hot already. Then, again, I thought of poison. But there's a chance of a post-mortem examination. That won't do. But Craven's plan is best. As far as I can see it will be effectual, and free from danger also. As soon as I can decently get away from Paris, I'll take the boy to Switzerland. I must stay here a week at least, especially as the exhibition is open, or it might draw suspicion upon me. When I'm rid of the boy I shall breathe freer. Then for America, and a final reckoning with Craven. With ten thousand dollars--and more, if I can extort it from him--I will set up for respectability, and develop into a substantial citizen. Good-by, then, to the gambling table. It has been my bane, but, with a fair competence, I will try to resist its fascinations." Sharpley and our hero met at the _table d'hôte_ dinner and at breakfast. For the remainder of the day Frank was left to his own devices; but for this he cared little. Either alone, or in company with Mr. Tarbox, he went about the city, often as an outside passenger on the street stages which ply from one end of Paris to the other, and in this way he came to have a very good idea of the plan of the brilliant capital. On the sixth day, while they were at dinner, Sharpley said: "Well, Frank, have you seen considerable of Paris?" "Oh, yes, sir; I am getting to know my way around pretty well." "I am sorry I have not been able to go about with you more." "That is of no consequence, sir. I have got on very well alone." "Have you written home?" "Yes, sir." "I am afraid you will be disappointed at what I am going to say." "What is it, sir?" "I have arranged for our leaving Paris to-morrow evening." "Not to go back to England?" asked Frank, hastily. "No. I propose to go to Switzerland." "I should like that," said our hero, brightening up. "I have always wanted to see Switzerland." "I didn't know but you would be sorry to leave Paris." "So I should be if I thought we were not coming back this way. We shall, sha'n't we?" "Yes." "And we shall have time to stay here a little while then?" "No doubt." "Then I can defer the rest of my sight-seeing till then. What route shall we take?" "As to that, there is a variety of routes. It doesn't matter much to me. I will leave the choice to you." "Will you?" said Frank, eagerly. "Then I will get out my map after dinner and pick it out." "Very well. You can tell me to-morrow morning." The next morning Sharpley put the question to Frank: "Well, have you decided by what route you would like to travel?" "Can't we go east to the Rhine, and go up that river to Mayence, and thence to Geneva by rail?" "Certainly, if you like. It will be quite a pleasant route." "I always thought I should like to go up the Rhine. I have been up the Hudson, which I have often heard compared to the Rhine." "There is no comparison between them," said Sharpley, who, not being an American, was not influenced by a patriotic prejudice in favor of the Hudson. "The Rhine has ruined castles and vine-clad hills, and is far more interesting." "Very likely," said Frank. "At any rate, I want to see it." "We will start to-morrow night, then. Morning will bring us across the frontier. You will be ready, of course?" "Yes, sir." The next morning Frank went to the exposition to acquaint Mr. Tarbox with his approaching departure. "Are you goin'? I'm real sorry, Frank," said the Yankee. "I shall kinder hanker arter you, boy. You seem like home. As to them chatterin', frog-eatin' furriners, I can't understand a word they say, and ef I could I wouldn't want to." "I am afraid you are prejudiced, Mr. Tarbox. I have met some very agreeable French people." "I haven't," said Mr. Tarbox. "They don't suit me. There ain't nothin' solid or substantial about 'em." "You may get acquainted with some English people. You can understand them." "I don't like 'em," said Jonathan. "They think they can whip all creation. We gave 'em a lesson, I guess, at Bunker Hill." "Let by-gones be by-gones, Mr. Tarbox; or, as Longfellow says: "'Let the dead Past bury its dead.'" "Did Longfellow write that?" "Yes." "Then he ain't so smart as I thought he was. How can anybody that's dead bury himself, I'd like to know? It's ridiculous." "I suppose it's figurative." "It ain't sense. But that aint to the point. Where-abouts in Switzerland are you goin', Frank?" "I don't know, except that we go to Geneva." "Can you write me a letter from there?" "Certainly. I will do so with pleasure, and shall be glad to hear from you." "All right. I ain't much on scribblin'. I can hold a plow better'n a pen. But I guess I can write a few pot-hooks, jest to let yer know I'm alive an' kickin'." "It's a bargain, then." "Jest give me your name on a piece of paper, so I shall know where to write." "All right. I happen to know where we are going to stop there. Mr. Sharpley mentioned that we should stop at the Hotel des Bergues. I haven't got a card with me, but I'll put the address on an old envelope." Frank took from his pocket what he supposed to be Mr. Craven's letter to him, and on the reverse side wrote: FRANK HUNTER, _Hotel des Bergues_, Geneva, Switzerland. Mr. Tarbox took it and surveyed it critically; then read it as follows: "'Frank Hunter, Hotel dese Bugs.' Wal, that's a queer name for a tavern," he said. "I s'pose that's French for bugs?" "It means that the big bugs stop there," said Frank, jocosely. "Some of the big bugs are humbugs," said Jonathan, laughing grimly at his own wit. When, after leaving Mr. Tarbox, Frank happened to examine his pockets, he drew out the two letters he had received. This puzzled him. What letter was that which he had given his Yankee friend, then? He could not tell. We are wiser. Sharpley had incautiously left on the table Craven's letter to him, and Frank had put it into his pocket, supposing it to be his. This it was which had passed into the possession of Mr. Tarbox. Three days later Mr. Tarbox discovered the letter, and curiosity made him unscrupulous. He read it through, including the paragraph already quoted. "By hokey!" he muttered. "That's queer. 'Should any accident happen, write at once.' He seems to expect an accident will happen. I'll bet that man is a snake in the grass. He's Frank's guardian, and he's got up some plot ag'in him. I always disliked that Sharpley. He's a skunk. I'll start for Switzerland to-morrow, and let the old plow go to thunder. I'm bound to look out for Frank." Mr. Tarbox was energetic. He went to his lodgings, packed his carpet-bag, and early next morning started in pursuit of Frank and Sharpley. CHAPTER XXI. THE HOTEL DU GLACIER. High up among the Bernese Alps stands the Hotel du Glacier. It is a small hotel, of limited accommodations, but during the season it is generally full of visitors. The advantage is, that a comparatively short walk carries one to a point where he has a fine view of that mountain scenery which is the glory of Switzerland, and draws thither thousands of pilgrims annually. In rustic chairs outside sat at eight o'clock in the morning our young hero, Frank Hunter, and his temporary guardian, Colonel Sharpley. In front a beautiful prospect spread out before the two travelers. Snowy peaks, their rough surface softened by distance, abounding in beetling cliffs and fearful gorges, but overlooking smiling valleys, were plainly visible. "Isn't it magnificent?" exclaimed Frank, with the enthusiasm of youth. "Yes, I dare say," said Sharpley, yawning, "but I'm not romantic; I've outlived all that." "I don't believe I shall ever outlive my admiration for such scenery as this," thought Frank. "Don't you enjoy it?" he asked. "Oh, so so; but the fact is, I came here chiefly because I thought you would like it. I've been the regular Swiss tour more than once." "You are very kind to take so much trouble on my account," said Frank. "Oh, I might as well be here as anywhere," said Sharpley. "Just at present there is nothing in particular to take up my attention. Did you order breakfast?" "Yes, Colonel Sharpley." "Go and ask if it isn't ready, will you?" Frank entered the inn, and soon returned with the information that breakfast was ready. They entered a small dining-room, where they found the simple meal awaiting them. The regular Swiss breakfast consists of coffee, bread and butter, and honey, and costs, let me add, for the gratification of my reader's curiosity, thirty cents in gold. Dinner comprises soup, three courses of meat, and a pudding or fruit, and costs from sixty cents to a dollar, according to the pretensions of the hotel. In fact, so far as hotel expenses go, two dollars a day in gold will be quite sufficient in the majority of cases. If meat is required for breakfast, that is additional. "How good the coffee is," said Frank. "I never tasted it as good in America." "They know how to make it here, but why didn't you order breakfast?" "I thought they would supply meat without an order." "I always want meat; I have got beyond my bread-and-butter days," said Sharpley, with a dash of sarcasm. "I have not," said Frank, "especially when both are so good. What are your plans for the day, Colonel Sharpley?" "I think we'll take a climb after breakfast," said Sharpley. "What do you say?" "I should like nothing better," said Frank, eagerly. "But," he added, "I am afraid you are going entirely on my account." "How well the boy has guessed it," thought Sharpley. "It is on his account I am going, but he must not know that." "Oh, no," he said; "I feel like taking a ramble among the hills. It would be stupid staying at the inn." "Then," said Frank, with satisfaction, "I shall be glad to go. Shall we take a guide?" "Not this morning," said Sharpley. "Let us have the pleasure of exploring independently. To-morrow we will arrange a long excursion with guides." "I suppose it is quite safe?" "Oh, yes, if we don't wander too far. I shall be ready in about half an hour." "I will be ready," said Frank. "And I'll smoke a cigar." Just then a gentleman came up, whose acquaintance they had made the previous day. It was a Mr. Abercrombie, an American gentleman, from Chicago, who was accompanied by his son Henry, a boy about Frank's age. "What are your plans for to-day, Mr. Sharpley?" he asked. "I hope he isn't going to thrust himself upon us," thought Sharpley, savagely, for he was impatient of anything that was likely to interfere with his wicked design. "I have none in particular," he answered. "You are not going to remain at the inn, are you? That would be dull." "Confound the man's curiosity!" muttered Sharpley, to himself. "I may wander about a little, but I shall make no excursion worth speaking of till to-morrow." "Why can't we join company?" said Mr. Abercrombie, in a friendly manner. "Our young people are well acquainted, and we can keep each other company. Enlarge your plan a little, and take a guide." "I wish the man was back in America," thought Sharpley. "Why won't he see that he's a bore?" "Really," he said, stiffly, "you must excuse me; I don't feel equal to any sort of an excursion to-day." "Then," said the other, still in a friendly way, "let your boy come with us. I will look after him, and my son will like his company." Frank heard this application, and as he had taken a fancy to Henry and his father, he hoped that Sharpley would reply favorably. He felt that he should enjoy their company better than his guardian's. Sharpley was greatly irritated, but obliged to keep within the bounds of politeness to avoid suspicion, when something had happened, as he meant something should happen before the sun set. "I hope you won't think me impolite," he said, "but I mean, by and by, to walk a little, and would like Frank's company. To-morrow I shall be very happy to join you." Nothing more could be said, of course, but Henry Abercrombie whispered to Frank: "I'm sorry we're not going to be together to-day." "So am I," answered Frank; "but we'll have a bully time to-morrow. I suppose I ought to stay with Colonel Sharpley." "He isn't any relation of yours, is he?" "Oh, no; I am only traveling in his company." "So I thought. You don't look much alike." "No; I suppose not." Half an hour passed, but the Abercrombies were still there. "Shall we go?" asked Frank. "Not, yet," said Sharpley, shortly. He did not mean to start till the other travelers were gone, lest he should be followed. For he had screwed his courage to the sticking point, and made up his mind that he would that day do the deed which he had covenanted with Mr. Craven to do. The sooner the better, he thought, for it would bring him nearer the large sum of money which he expected to realize as the price of our hero's murder. Twenty minutes afterward the Abercrombies, equipped for a mountain walk, swinging their alpenstocks, started off, accompanied by a guide. "Won't you reconsider your determination and go?" asked the father. Sharpley shook his head. "I don't feel equal to the exertion," he answered. "I hope you'll have a pleasant excursion, Henry," said Frank, looking wistfully after his young friend. "It would be pleasanter if you were going along," said Henry. "Thank you." Frank said no more, but waited till Sharpley had smoked another cigar. By this time twenty minutes had elapsed. "I think we'll go now, Frank," said Sharpley. At the welcome intimation Frank jumped up briskly. "Shall I order some lunch to be packed for us?" he asked. "No; we sha'n't need it," said Sharpley. Frank laughed. "I think I'll get some for myself," said Frank, laughing, as he added: "I've got a healthy appetite, Colonel Sharpley, and I am sure the exertion of climbing these hills will make me fearfully hungry." "I don't want to be delayed," said Sharpley, frowning. "We sha'n't be gone long enough to need lunch." "It won't take me a minute," said Frank, running into the inn. "It is strange he is so much in a hurry all at once," thought our young hero, "when he has been lounging about for an hour without appearing in the least haste." However, he did not spend much thought on Sharpley's wayward humor, which he was beginning to see was regulated by no rules. Less than five minutes afterward he appeared, provided with a tourist's lunch-box. "I've got enough for you, Colonel Sharpley," he said, "in case we stay out longer than we anticipate." The landlord closely followed him, and addressed himself to Sharpley: "Will not monsieur have a guide?" he asked. "No," said Sharpley. "My son, Baptiste, is an experienced guide, and can show monsieur and his young friend the finest prospects." "I shall need no guide," said Sharpley, impatiently. "Frank, come along." "It will only be six francs," persisted the landlord, "and Baptiste--" "I don't want Baptiste," said Sharpley, gruffly. "Plague take the man!" he muttered to himself. "He is making himself a regular nuisance." "I wish he would take a guide," thought Frank, no suspicion of the importance to himself of having one entering his mind. CHAPTER XXII. OVER THE BRINK. They started on their walk provided with alpenstocks, for just above them was the snow-line, and they could not go far without encountering ice also. The Hotel du Glacier stood thousands of feet above the sea-level, and was a favorite resort with those who enjoyed the sublimity of mountain scenery. Though Sharpley was by no means the companion he would have best liked, Frank was in high spirits, as he realized that he was really four thousand miles from home, surrounded by the famous mountains of which he had so often read. "Have you ever been up this mountain before, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Not up this mountain. I have ascended others, however. I once crossed over Mount Cenis to Italy." "How? Did you walk?" "No. I went in a diligence." "It must have been fine. Shall we go into Italy?" "Perhaps so." "I should like it very much. I have read so much about Italy." "How I wish Ben Cameron were here!" said Frank, after a pause. He did not so much mean to say this to Sharpley, but the thought entered his mind, and he unconsciously uttered it aloud. "Who is Ben Cameron?" "He is a friend of mine at home. We were a great deal together." "Was he the boy that was with you when I first met you?" "Yes, sir." "Humph! I have no desire for his company," thought Sharpley. "Have you a glass with you, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Frank. "Yes. Would you like to use it?" "If you please." It was a small spy-glass, not powerful, but serviceable. Frank adjusted it to his eye, and looked earnestly in a certain direction. "What do you see?" asked his companion. "Wait a minute. I am not certain. Yes, it is they." "Who?" demanded Sharpley, impatiently. "The Abercrombies. They are higher up than we, over there, but not very much out of our way. Shall we join them?" asked Frank, hopefully. "Where are they? Let me see," said Sharpley, seizing the glass. He thought Frank might be mistaken, but a glance through the glass satisfied him that he was right. There was Mr. Abercrombie, toiling up a steep ascent, with his son following, the latter assisted by the guide. "Do you see them?" "Yes." "Don't you think we can overtake them?" "Perhaps we might, but I for one don't intend to try." Frank looked at him inquiringly. "Why not?" "I thought you heard me decline to join them at the hotel. I have no fancy for company to-day." "Excuse me," said Frank, politely. "I might have remembered it." "You can join them to-morrow if you feel like it," said Sharpley, emphasizing the last clause. Frank noticed the emphasis, and wondered at it a little. It seemed to imply that he might not choose to do it, and that did not seem very likely. However, possibly the emphasis was unconscious, and his mind did not dwell upon it. They were now walking along a ledge scarcely more than six feet wide, terminating in a sheer precipice. "I wonder if accidents often happen here?" suggested Frank. "Such as what?" sharply interrogated his companion. "I mean such as slipping over these cliffs." "Not often, I presume," said Sharpley. "No one who exercises common prudence need fear slipping." His heart began to beat quicker, for he saw that the moment was approaching in which his fearful work was to be done. "The dangers of the Alps are very greatly exaggerated," he said, indifferently. "It looks dangerous," said Frank. "Yes, I presume so. Suppose we approach the edge cautiously and look down." There is a fatal fascination about danger. Just as the moth hovers persistently about the flame, to which in the end he falls a victim, so we are disposed to draw near dangers at which we shudder. We like to see it for ourselves, and, shuddering, to say: "Suppose I should fall in." Our young hero was of a daring disposition. He had never been timid or nervous, inheriting his father's physical traits, not his mother's. So Sharpley's proposal struck him favorably, being an appeal to his courage. "I should like to look over," he said. As he spoke he drew near the fatal brink, not observing that his companion was not at his side, but just behind him. "Now for it!" thought Sharpley, his breath coming thick and fast. One push from behind, and Frank was over the ledge, falling--falling--falling. There was one scream of terror, and Sharpley found himself alone upon the cliff. CHAPTER XXIII. GIVING THE ALARM. There are not many men who can commit a crime of violence without an inward shudder and a thrill of horror. Sharpley was not a professional murderer. He had never before taken life. His offences against law had been many, but none had stained his soul with blood till now. He felt faint as he saw the disappearance of his young ward, sped by his own hand to a death so fearful. "It is done and can't be undone," he muttered. "He will never know what hurt him. I am glad it's over. It was a dirty job, but I had to do it. Craven forced me to this. He must pay well for it." "Shall I look over the cliff?" he asked himself. [Illustration: OVER THE LEDGE.] He advanced a step, but drew back with a shudder. "No, I can't do it," he said to himself. "It will make me dizzy. I shall run the risk of falling over myself." He retraced his steps for a few rods, and then sat down to think. It was necessary that he should concoct some plausible account of the accident, in order to avoid suspicion, though that was not likely to fall upon him. Who could dream of any motive that would impel him to such a deed? Yet there was such a motive, as he well knew, but the only one who shared the knowledge was in America, and he was criminally connected with the crime. Sharpley soon determined upon his course and his explanation. The latter would necessitate a search for the boy, and this made him pause. "But, pshaw!" he said, "the boy is dead. He must have been killed at once; and the dead tell no tales. I must get back to the hotel and give the alarm." An hour later Sharpley approached the inn. He had walked quietly till then, but now he had a part to play. He rushed into the inn in breathless haste, nearly knocking over the portly landlord, whom he encountered in the passage. "What is the matter, monsieur?" asked the landlord, with eyes distended. "The boy!" gasped Sharpley. "What of the boy, monsieur?" "He has fallen over a precipice," he exclaimed. "_Oh, ciel!_" exclaimed the landlord. "How did it happen?" "We were walking on a narrow ledge," explained Sharpley. "On one side there was a steep descent. I don't know how many hundreds of feet deep. The boy approached the edge. I warned him to be careful, but he was very rash. He did not obey me. He leaned too far, lost his balance, and fell over. I sprang forward to save him, but it was too late." "It is horrible!" said the landlord. "Was he your son?" "No, but he was the son of a dear friend. Oh, how shall I break the sad tidings to his father and mother? Is there no hope of his life being saved?" "I fear not," said the landlord, gravely. "You should have taken Baptiste with you, as I advised." "Oh, my friend, I wish I had!" said the hypocrite, fervently. "Where is Baptiste? Let us go and see if we can find the poor boy?" "Here I am at your service, monsieur," said Baptiste. "I will take a comrade with me. We will save him if we can, but I fear there is no hope." Ten minutes later Sharpley, accompanied by two guides, and some of the guests of the hotel, who had been struck with horror on hearing the news, were wending their way up the mountain in quest of our hero. CHAPTER XXIV. SHARPLEY DISSEMBLES. There was some delay about starting, but at length the party got under way. Very little conversation took place, and that little related only to the accident. The spell of the awful tragedy was upon them, and their faces were grave and their spirits depressed. And what shall we say of the guilty man, who alone could unlock the mystery?--who alone could account for the boy's tragic end? His mind was in a tumult of contradictory emotions. He was glad that it was all over--that the fearful task which in America he had agreed to execute, which had haunted him for these many days and nights, was no longer before him to do, that it was already done. He saw before him, mercenary wretch that he was, the promised reward, in a sum of money which would be to him a competence, and which, carefully husbanded, would relieve all his money anxieties for the future. But, on the other hand, there came the shuddering thought that he had wrought the death of an unoffending boy, who had looked up to him as a guide and protector, but whom he had only lured to his ruin. "Are accidents frequent among the mountains?" asked one of the guests, addressing Baptiste, the guide. "No, monsieur; not in this part. When travelers are hurt or killed, it is because they are careless or go without guides." "As I did," said Sharpley, who felt it would be polite to take upon himself this blame, and so skilfully evade suspicion of a graver fault. "You are right, and I am much to blame; but I did not expect to go so far, nor did I think Frank would be so imprudent. But it is not for me to blame the poor boy, who has been so fearfully punished for his boldness. You would not have let him go so near the edge of the cliff?" "No, monsieur; or, if he went, I would have held him while he looked down." "It is what I should have done. Oh, how horrible it was to see him fall over the cliff!" And Sharpley shuddered, a genuine shudder; for, guilty as he was, the picture was one to appall him. "Oh, how shall I tell his poor mother?" he continued, acting wonderfully well. The rest were silent, respecting what they thought to be his grief. They had, perhaps, half achieved the ascent, when they fell in with the Abercrombies, who were just returning from their excursion. They regarded the ascending party with surprise. "What!" said Mr. Abercrombie to Sharpley, "are you just going up the mountain? You are very late." "Where is Frank?" asked Henry Abercrombie, looking in vain among the party for our hero, to whom, as already said, he had taken a fancy. There was silence at first, each of those in the secret regarding the rest. But it was to Sharpley that Mr. Abercrombie looked for a reply. The delay surprised him. "What is the matter?" he asked, at length. "Has anything happened?" "Somebody tell him," said Sharpley, in pretended emotion. Baptiste was the one to respond. "Monsieur," he said, gravely, "a terrible thing has happened. The poor boy has fallen into a ravine." "What!" exclaimed father and son, in horror. "Frank fallen? Why I saw him only this morning. I asked him to go with us. Is this true?" said Henry. "It is only too true, my boy," said Sharpley, covering his face. And he repeated his version of the accident with well-counterfeited emotion. "Is there no hope?" asked Henry, with pale face. Baptiste shook his head. "I am afraid not," he said; "but I can tell better when I see the place." "How can there be any hope?" asked Mr. Abercrombie. "He might have fallen on the deep snow, or on some intermediate ledge, and so saved his life." "Good Heaven!" thought Sharpley, in dismay. "Suppose it should be so? Suppose he is alive, and should expose me? I should be ruined. But no! It cannot be. There is not one chance in a hundred. Yet that one chance disturbs me. I must find out as soon as possible, in order that my mind may be at ease." "Come on!" he said, aloud. "While we are lingering here the boy may die. Let us make haste." "I will go with you," said Mr. Abercrombie. "And I," said Henry. CHAPTER XXV. A USELESS SEARCH. "Is this the place?" asked Baptiste, as, half an hour later, they stood on the fatal cliff. "This is the place," said Sharpley. "Let me look over," said Henry, advancing to the edge. "Are you mad?" exclaimed his father, drawing him back hastily. "I will look, gentlemen," said the guide. "It will be safest for me." He threw himself flat upon his stomach, and thus in safety peeped into the chasm. "Do you see anything?" asked Sharpley, agitated. "Wait till I look earnestly," and after a breathless pause, he answered slowly: "No, I see nothing; but the cliff is not so steep or so high as I thought. There are some bushes growing in parts. He might be stopped by these." "You can't see any traces of him, can you?" Another pause. "No. The snow seems disturbed in one place, but if he had fallen there, he would be there still." "Might he not have fallen there and rolled to the bottom?" "Perhaps so. I cannot tell." "Let me look," said Sharpley. The suggestion of the possibility that Frank might have escaped was fraught to him with danger. All his hopes of safety and success depended upon the boy's death. He wanted to see for himself. The guide rose, and Sharpley, imitating his posture, threw himself on the ground and looked over, borrowing the glass. But such a sense of horror, brought on by his own criminality, overcame him as he lay there that his vision was blurred, and he came near dropping the glass. He rose, trembling. "I can see nothing of him," he said. "He is certainly dead. Poor boy! He could not possibly have escaped." "Let me look," said Abercrombie. But he also could see no trace of the body. "I think," he said, rising, "that our best course will be to descend and explore at the bottom of the cliff." "It will be of no use," said Sharpley. "We can at least find the body and give it decent burial. Baptiste, is there no way of descending?" "Yes," said Baptiste, "but we shall need to go a long distance around." "How long will it take?" "An hour; perhaps more." "I am ready to go, for one," said Mr. Abercrombie. "Will you go, Mr. Sharpley?" "I do not feel equal to the exertion. I am too agitated." Glances of pity were directed toward him. "Baptiste," said Abercrombie, "if you will guide me, and any one else who chooses to join the expedition, I will pay you double price." "Monsieur," said Baptiste, who had feelings, though not indifferent to money, "I will guide you for nothing, out of regard for the poor boy." "You are an honest fellow," said Mr. Abercrombie, grasping his hand warmly. "You shall not lose by it." "May I go, father?" asked Henry. "No, my son. The exertion will be too great for you. Go home with the rest of the party." In silence the party returned to the Hotel du Glacier. Most were appalled by the sad fate of Frank Hunter, but Sharpley was moved by another feeling. There was not much chance of Frank's being found alive, or in a condition to expose his murderous attempt, but, of course, there was a slight possibility. While that existed he felt ill at ease. He would gladly have left the place at once, but this he could not do without exciting suspicion. He must wait till the return of the party. It was not till nightfall that the party were seen returning. Sharpley waited for their report in great suspense. "Have you found him?" he demanded, pale with excitement. Baptiste shook his head. He gave a sigh of quiet relief, which was interpreted to be a sigh of sorrow. "I thought you would not," he said. The next day he left the hotel. "I must go to America," he said, "to tell Frank's mother the terrible truth. I cannot trust it to a letter." "But suppose the body is found," said Baptiste. "Bury it decently and write instantly to me, and I will transmit the necessary sum. Or, hold, here are a hundred and fifty francs. If he is not found, keep them yourself." An hour later he was on his way to Paris. CHAPTER XXVI. MR. TARBOX ON THE TRAIL. "So this is the Hotel de Bugs," said Jonathan Tarbox, as, carpet-bag in hand, he approached, with long strides, the well-known Hotel des Bergues in Geneva. "It looks like a nice sort of a hotel. I wonder if Frank and that rascally humbug are stoppin' here. I'd give twenty-five cents to see that boy's face. Strange what a fancy I've took to him. He's a reg'lar gentleman; as quick and sharp as a steel-trap." Mr. Tarbox had walked from the railway station. He was naturally economical, and, having all his life been accustomed to walk, thought it a waste and extravagance to take a carriage. He had inquired his way by simply pronouncing the name of the hotel as above. The similarity in sound was sufficient to insure a correction. He entered the hotel and found the landlord. "I say, captain, I want to put up here to-night." "Will monsieur have a room?" asked the host, politely. "If you mean me, that's what I want; but I ain't a monseer at all. I'm a Yankee." "Monsieur Yang-kee?" said the landlord, a little puzzled. "Look here, captain, I ain't a monseer--I don't eat frogs. Do I look like it. No, I'm a straight-down, dyed-in-the-wool Yankee, from Squashboro', State o' Maine." "Will you have a room?" asked the landlord, avoiding the word monsieur, which he perceived the other disclaimed, for some reason which he could not very well comprehend. "Yes, I will, if I can get one cheap. I don't want none of your big apartments, that cost like blazes. I want a little room, with a bed in it, and a chair." "We have _petits apartements_--very small price." "Give me one, then. Oh, hold on; is there a boy named Frank Hunter stoppin' here, with a man named Sharpley?" "_Non_, monsieur. He has been here, but he is gone." "Gone? When did he go?" "Three days ago." "Three days!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, thoughtfully. "He didn't stay long, then?" "Only one night." "Seems to me he was in a hurry. Isn't there nothin' worth seein' round here?" "Oh, yes, monsieur," said the landlord, with animation. "_Geneve_ is a very interesting city. Would you not like to see how they make the watches, and the boxes of _musique_? There are many places here that strangers do visit. There is the cathedral and the _Musee_. Monsieur should stay here one--two weeks." "And put up at your tavern?" "Eh?" "And stop up at your hotel?" "_Certainement_, monsieur." "That's what I thought. Anyhow, I'll stay here till to-morrow. But about this old rascal--" "Monsieur?" "I mean this Sharpley, and the boy--where did they go?" "I know not, monsieur. They went to see the mountains." "Well, captain, as mountains in this neighborhood are about as thick as huckleberry bushes in a pastur', I ain't none the wiser for that. Couldn't you tell me a little plainer?" But this the landlord, or captain, as Mr. Tarbox insisted upon calling him, was unable to do. As there was nothing else to be done, our Yankee friend selected a room on the top floor, which, by reason of its elevation, he was enabled to get for two francs a day. In European hotels the rooms become cheaper the higher up they are, and thus various prices are paid at the same hotel. It is not necessarily expensive, therefore, sojourning at a first-class hotel abroad; and, indeed, it is better than to take lower rooms in an inferior inn, supposing the traveler's means to be limited. "Well," said Mr. Tarbox, looking about him, when he was fairly installed in his room, "my journey ain't going to cost me so much, after all. I come third class to Geneva for less'n ten dollars, and I can live here pretty cheap. But that ain't the question. Where-abouts among these hills is Frank? That's what I'd like to know. I wonder what that step-father of his meant by his talk about accidents? If anything happens to Frank, and I find it out, I'll stir 'em up, as sure as my name's Jonathan Tarbox. But I'm getting hungry; I'll go down and see what kind of fodder they can give me. I guess I'd better clean up first, for I'm as dirty as ef I'd been out in the field plowin'." Mr. Tarbox made a satisfactory supper at moderate expense. He didn't go to the _table d'hôte_, for, as he said, "They bring you a mouthful of this, and a mouthful of that, and when you're through ten or eleven courses, you have to pay a dollar, more or less, and are as hungry as when you began. I'd rather order something _a la carte_, as they call it, though what it has to do with a cart is more than I can tell, and then I can get enough, and don't have so much to pay neither." Mr. Tarbox made further inquiries the next day, but could not ascertain definitely in what direction the travelers had gone. There were several possible routes, and they were as likely to have gone by one as by another. Under the circumstances it seemed to him that it was better to remain where he was. There was a chance of the two returning by way of Geneva, and they would be likely to come to the same hotel; while if he started off in one direction, it would very probably turn out that they had gone by another. One circumstance certainly favored his decision--it was cheaper remaining in Geneva than in journeying off at random in search of Frank, and Mr. Tarbox, therefore, decided to patronize the Hotel des Bergues for a short time at least, trying, meanwhile, to get some clew to the whereabouts of the travelers. He improved the time by visiting the objects of interest in Geneva, bewildering the natives by his singular remarks, and amusing strangers with whom he came in contact. Some were disposed to regard him as a specimen of the average American. Indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to the typical American introduced by our English friends in their books of travel and in their dramatic productions. He did indeed possess some national characteristics. He was independent, fearless, self-reliant, hating injustice and oppression, but he was without the polish, or culture, or refinement which are to be found in the traveling Americans quite as commonly as in the traveling Englishman or German. He is presented here as a type of a class which does exist, but not as an average American. It struck Mr. Tarbox that he might obtain some information of those whom he sought by inquiring of the travelers who came daily to the hotel, whether they had met with such a party. No diffidence held him back from questioning closely all who came. Some treated him with hauteur, and tried to abash him by impressing him with the unwarrantable liberty he was taking in intruding himself upon their notice. In general, however, these were snobs, of some wealth, but doubtful social position, who felt it necessary to assert themselves upon all occasions. But Mr. Tarbox was not one to be daunted by coldness, or abashed by a repellant manner. He persisted in his questions until he learned what he wanted. But his questions were without a satisfactory answer until one day he saw a gentleman and his son, whom by their appearance he took to be fellow-countrymen. They were, in fact, Henry Abercrombie and his father, fresh from the scene of the accident. Mr. Tarbox introduced himself and propounded his question. Father and son exchanged a look of sadness. "He means poor Frank, father," said Henry. "Poor Frank!" repeated Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "What makes you say that?" "Were you a friend of the boy?" asked Mr. Abercrombie. "Yes, and I am still. He's a tip-top fellow, Frank is." "I am sorry, then, to be the bearer of sad tidings." "What do you mean?" asked Jonathan, quickly. "Don't say anything has happened to the boy." "But there has. He fell over a cliff, and though his body has not been found, he was probably killed instantly." "Who was with him when he fell?" asked Mr. Tarbox, excited. "His guardian, Mr. Sharpley. The two had wandered off by themselves, without a guide. Frank approached too near the edge of the cliff, lost his balance, and fell." "That confounded skunk pushed him over!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, in high excitement. "You don't mean Colonel Sharpley?" exclaimed Mr. Abercrombie, in surprise. "Yes, I do. I followed them from Paris, because I was afraid of it." "But it is incredible. I assure you Colonel Sharpley showed great sorrow for the accident." "Then he's a hypocrite! If you want proof of what I say, just read that letter." CHAPTER XXVII. TARBOX TO THE RESCUE. Thus invited, Mr. Abercrombie read the letter of Mr. Craven, in which he referred to the possibility of an accident befalling Frank. "What does this prove?" asked the reader, looking up. "It proves that Sharpley pushed Frank over the cliff," said Mr. Tarbox, excitedly. "I don't see that it does." "Don't you see how he speaks of what is to be done if an accident happens?" "Yes, but--" "Doesn't that show that he expects it?" "But we must establish a motive. What reason could Mr. Craven have for the murder of his step-son?" "I'll tell you, for Frank told me all about it. Frank's got money, and so has his mother, but Frank's got the most. If he dies, his property goes to his mother. His loss will kill her, for she's delicate, so Frank says, and then this Craven will step into the whole of it. Don't you see?" "There is something in that," said Mr. Abercrombie, thoughtfully. "Indeed, it would explain a part of Colonel Sharpley's conduct on the day of the accident." "What did he do?" asked Mr. Tarbox, eagerly. "I invited him to accompany my son and myself on an excursion. He refused, saying that he didn't feel like the exertion of an ascent. Then I invited Frank to accompany us, but he refused to let him go. He said he might take a short tramp, and wanted his company." "The skunk!" "Again, though urged afterward to take a guide, he refused to do so, but took a long walk--he and the boy being alone." "I'd like to wring his neck!" ejaculated Jonathan. "Besides, Frank could not have fallen unless he was very imprudent. Now, he never struck me as a rash or heedless boy." "He wasn't." "It doesn't seem at all like him voluntarily to place himself in such peril, yet Colonel Sharpley says he did." "He lies, the murderous skunk!" "It did not strike me at first, but I fear that you are right, and that the poor boy has been foully dealt with." "Isn't there any hope?" asked Mr. Tarbox, blowing his nose violently in order to get a chance to wipe away the tears which the supposed sad fate of our hero called forth. "How high was the hill?" "I fear there is no hope. We searched for the body, but did not find it." "Then he may be living," said Mr. Tarbox, brightening up. "There is hardly a chance of it, I should say," returned Mr. Abercrombie, gravely. "The descent was deep and precipitous." "Where is the villain Sharpley?" "He left the next day. He said he should hurry back to America to carry the sad news to the parents of the poor boy." "And get his pay from Craven." "I hope, Mr. Tarbox, that your suspicions are groundless. I should be very unwilling to believe in such wickedness." "I hope so, too. If it was an accident I should think it was the will of God; but if that villain has murdered him I know it ain't. I wish I could overhaul Sharpley." "What do you propose to do, Mr. Tarbox?" "I'll tell you, Mr. Abercrombie. Fust and foremost, I'm going to that place where the accident happened, and I mean to find Frank dead or alive. If he's dead, I'll try to find out if he was murdered or not. If he's alive, I'll take care of him, and he'll tell me all about it." "Mr. Tarbox," said the other, taking his hand, "I respect you for the strength of your attachment to the poor lad. I saw but little of him, but enough to be assured that he was a bold, manly boy, of a noble nature and a kind disposition. Pardon me for the offer I am about to make, but I hope you will allow me to pay the expenses of this investigation. You give your time; let me give my money, which is of less value." "Thank you, Mr. Abercrombie," said Mr. Tarbox. "You're a gentleman; but I've got a little money, and I'd just as lief use it for Frank. I'll pay my own expenses." "At any rate, I will give you my address, and if you get short of money I hope you will apply to me without fail." "I will, squire," said Jonathan. So they parted. Mr. Tarbox set out immediately for the Hotel du Glacier. CHAPTER XXVIII. SAVED AS BY A MIRACLE. But where all this while was Frank? Had he really fallen a victim to the murderous designs of his treacherous guardian? My readers have been kept too long in suspense as to his fate. At the moment of falling he was fully conscious, but too late, of his companion's treachery. In that terrible moment there flashed upon him a full knowledge of the plot of which he was a victim, and he had time to connect with it his step-father as the prime author and instigator of the deed. It was indeed a terrible experience. In the full flush of youthful life and strength the gates of death swung open before him, and he gave himself up for lost, resigning himself to his fearful fate as well as he could. But there was one thought of anguish--his mother! How would she grieve over his untimely death! And the wretch who had instigated his murder, would he stop short, content, or would he next assail her? In times of danger the mind acts quickly. All these thoughts passed through the mind of our hero as he fell, but all at once there was a violent shock. He had stopped falling, yet he was not dead, only stunned. There was a ledge part way down, a hollow filled with soft snow--making a natural bed, and it was upon this that he had fallen. Yet, soft as it was, the shock was sufficient to deprive him of consciousness. When he became sensible of surrounding objects--that is, when his consciousness returned--he looked about him in bewilderment. Where was he? Not surely on the ledge, for, looking around him, he saw the walls of a small and humble apartment, scantily provided with needful furniture. He was lying upon a bed, a poor wooden bedstead. There was another person in the room--a woman, so humbly attired that he knew she was a Swiss peasant. "Where am I?" he asked, bewildered. The woman turned quickly, and her homely, sun-browned face glowed with pleasure. "You are awake, monsieur?" she said, in the French language. I have already said that Frank was a French scholar, and could understand the language to a limited extent, as well as speak it somewhat. He understood her, and answered in French: "Yes, madame, I am awake. Will you kindly tell me where I am?" "You met with an accident, monsieur. My husband and my brother were upon the mountain, and found you on a ledge covered with snow." "I remember," said Frank, shuddering. "When was that?" "Yesterday. You have slept since then. How do you feel?" "I feel sore and bruised. Are any of my limbs broken?" He moved his arms and legs, but, to his great joy, ascertained that though sore, no bones were broken. "It was a wonderful escape," said the woman. "You must have fallen from the cliff above." "I did." "But for falling on the ledge, you would have been killed." "Yes," answered Frank, "but Heaven be thanked, I have escaped." "How did you fall?" asked the woman. "That was what my husband and my brother, Antoine, could not understand. You must have been leaning over." Frank paused. "I cannot tell you now," he answered. "Perhaps I will soon." "When you please, monsieur, but you must be hungry." "I am indeed hungry, madame. I suppose it is more than twenty-four hours since I have tasted anything." "Poor boy!" said the woman, compassionately. "I will at once get you something to eat. We are poor people, monsieur, and you may not like our plain fare." "Don't speak of it, madame. You are only too kind to me. I can eat anything." Frank had only spoken the truth. He was almost famished; and when the food was set before him, plain as it was, he ate with eager satisfaction, to the evident pleasure of his kindly hostess. But in sitting up, he realized by the soreness of his limbs and the aching of his back, that though no bones were broken, he was far from being in a condition to get up. It was with a feeling of relief that he sank back upon the bed, and with listless eyes watched the movements of his hostess. He was not equal to the exertion of forming plans for the future. CHAPTER XXIX. FRANK'S PEDESTRIAN TOUR. Although Frank was pretty well bruised by his fall, his youth and the vigor of his constitution enabled him to recover rapidly from the effects of the shock. On the third day he got up and took a short walk. On the fifth day he felt well enough to leave his hospitable entertainers. But where should he go? Should he return to the Hotel du Glacier and place himself again in the clutches of his treacherous guardian? He felt that to be out of the question. Besides, he rightly conjectured that Sharpley had already left the hotel. No, he must detach himself wholly from his enemy. He must rely upon himself. He must get home the best way he could, and then expose the conspirators, for he was convinced that Mr. Craven was involved in it. But a serious difficulty presented itself. He was about four thousand miles from home, and to return, as well as to stay where he was, required money. This led him to an examination of his finances. He never carried much money with him. Sharpley being treasurer. Opening his pocket-book, he found he had sixty francs only, or about twelve dollars in gold. Now, as my readers will readily judge, twelve dollars is hardly adequate for a return journey from Switzerland to America. Had Frank been dismayed at this situation it would hardly have created surprise, but, on the contrary, he felt in very good spirits. "I don't believe I shall starve," he said to himself. "If I can only get to Paris, I will seek out Mr. Tarbox, and I am sure he will lend me money enough to get home." But had he enough to get to Paris? Barely enough to travel third class; but then he must remember the good people who had found and taken care of him. For this alone, twelve dollars was inadequate. But he could take their names, and promise to send them more from America. His difficulty would have been far less great had he known that at that very moment Mr. Tarbox had just arrived at the Hotel du Glacier in search of him, prepared to help him to the best of his ability. But of this he knew nothing. So, on the morning of the fifth day, Frank announced to his humble friends that he must leave them. "But are you strong enough, monsieur?" asked the peasant's wife. "Oh, yes, madame; thanks to your kind care, I am quite recovered." "And monsieur will go to his friends?" "I have no friends in Europe." "What! so young and alone?" "I did not come alone. I came in charge of a man whom I thought friendly, but it was he who threw me over the cliff and nearly killed me." "Surely, monsieur is mistaken!" exclaimed the woman, astonished. "No," answered Frank. "He is my enemy. It is a long story; but at home I am rich, and I think he is employed by my step-father to kill me." In answer to questions, Frank gave a general account of the circumstances to the worthy people, and closed by saying: "When I have returned to America, I shall send you suitable compensation for your kindness. Now, I can only give you enough to pay what you have expended for me." He drew from his pocket two Napoleons (two-thirds of his available means), and insisted upon their acceptance. They at first refused to take the money, but finally accepted it. Had they known that Frank would be left with but twenty francs himself, they would have taken nothing, but Americans abroad are popularly supposed to be even richer than they are, and it never occurred to them to suspect our hero's present poverty. They stood in the doorway, watching him as he started off with a firm step, and a heart almost as light as his purse, and heartily joined in the wish, "Bon voyage, monsieur." Frank waved his hat, smiling, and set out on his way. Had our hero been well provided with money, nothing could have been more agreeable than a pedestrian journey amid the beautiful scenery of the Alps. Even as it was, Frank felt the exhilarating influences of the fresh morning air and the grand scenery, visible on all sides, for he was hemmed in by mountains. His proposed terminus being Paris, he kept a general northwesterly course, making inquiries when at all at a loss as to the road. At midday he found himself in a little village. By this time he was hungry. He did not go to a hotel. He felt that his slender store of money would not justify it. He stopped, instead, at a cottage, and for a few cents obtained a pint of milk and a small loaf. This fare was plain enough, but appetite is the best sauce, and his hunger made it taste delicious. He rested for three hours, then, when the sun's rays were less powerful, he resumed his journey. At seven o'clock in the evening he had accomplished about twenty-five miles, and was foot-sore and weary. He selected another cottage, and made application for supper and a bed. "Monsieur will do better to go to the hotel," said the peasant. "We are poor people, and our accommodations are too humble for a gentleman like monsieur." Frank smiled. He saw that they judged of his means by his clothing, which was of fine texture and fashionable cut, for he had purchased a traveling suit in London. "I have been robbed of nearly all my money," he explained (this was true, for it was in Sharpley's possession), "and I cannot afford to go to the hotel. If you will let me stay here, I will gladly accept what accommodations you have to offer." "Oh, in that case, monsieur," said the peasant's wife, cheerfully, "you are quite welcome. Come right in." Frank entered. He soon had set before him a supper of bread, milk and honey, to which he did ample justice. Then he asked permission to bathe his feet, which were sore. At nine o'clock he went to bed, and, as might have been expected, enjoyed a sound sleep, which refreshed him not a little. I have described this one day as a specimen of the manner in which Frank traveled. The charges were so small that he made his money go a long way. But the stock was so small that it steadily became less with formidable rapidity, and our young hero found himself with poverty staring him in the face. He had traveled over a hundred miles, nearly a hundred and fifty, when, on counting his money, he found that he had but forty cents (or two francs) left. This was a serious state of things. "What shall I do?" thought Frank, as he sat down by the wayside to reflect on his situation. "To-morrow I shall be penniless, and I must be six or seven hundred miles from Paris, more or less. One thing is certain, I can't travel for nothing. What shall I do?" Frank reflected that if he were in America he would seek for a job at sawing wood, or any other kind of unskilled labor for which he was competent. He could hire himself out for a month, till he could obtain money enough to prosecute his journey. But it was evident that there was very little chance of this resource here. The peasants at whose cottages he stopped were poor in money; they had none to spare, and they did their own work. Besides, it was not likely that his services would be worth much to them. There was one thing he might do. He might remain over a few days somewhere, and write meanwhile to Jonathan Tarbox, in Paris, asking him to send him fifty francs or so. But, somehow, Frank did not like to do this. As we know, it would have done no good, as Mr. Tarbox was now in Switzerland seeking him. He felt that he would like to make his way to Paris unaided if possible. But how to do it was a difficult problem. He was plunged in deep reflection on this point when his attention was called to a boy of seven, who came running past crying and sobbing. "_Qu' avez vous?_" asked Frank; or, "What is the matter with you?" "Oh, I can't understand French," said the boy. "What is the matter?" asked our hero, in English. "I am lost," was the reply. "I don't know where papa or sister is." "Don't cry. I will help you to find them. But, first, tell me what is your name, and how you happened to get lost." "My name is Herbert Grosvenor," answered the little fellow. He went on to say that his father was a London merchant, who was traveling with himself and his sister Beatrice. He had walked out in charge of a servant, but the latter had stopped at an inn and became drunk. Then he became so violent that Herbert was afraid and ran away. But he was too young to know the road, and had lost his way. "I shall never see my papa again," he sobbed. "Oh, yes, you will," said Frank, encouragingly. "I will take you to him. Do you remember where he is stopping?" The boy was luckily able to answer correctly that his father was stopping at the Hotel de la Couronne, in a large town, which Frank knew to be only two miles distant. "Come, Herbert," he said, cheerfully, "I will carry you back to your father. Take my hand, and we will set out at once, if you are not tired." "Oh, no, I am not tired. I can walk," said the little boy, brightening up, and putting his hand with confidence in that of his young protector. CHAPTER XXX. NEW FRIENDS. When Frank arrived at the hotel with his young charge he found the Grosvenor family in great dismay. The servant had returned, evidently under the influence of liquor, quite unable to give any account of the little boy. A party, headed by Mr. Grosvenor, was about starting out in search of him, when he made his appearance, clinging trustfully to the hand of our hero. "Oh, you naughty runaway!" said his sister Beatrice, a lovely girl of twelve, folding Herbert in a sisterly embrace. "How you have frightened us!" "I couldn't help it, sister," said Herbert. "What made you run away from Thomas, my boy?" asked his father. "I was afraid of him," said Herbert. "He was so strange." The cause of the strange conduct was evident enough to any one who saw the servant's present condition, for he was too stupefied even to defend himself. [Illustration: THE LITTLE RUNAWAY.] "It's a shame, father," said Beatrice. "Only think, our darling little Herbie might have been lost. I hope you will never trust him again with Thomas." "I shall not," said the father, decidedly. "Thomas has forfeited my confidence, and he must leave my service. I shall pay his passage back to London, and there he must shift for himself." "You have not thanked the young gentleman who brought him back, father," said Beatrice, in a low voice. Mr. Grosvenor turned to Frank. "Accept my warmest thanks, young gentleman," he said, "for your kindness to my little son." "It was only a trifle, sir," said our hero, modestly. "It was no trifle to us. How did you happen to meet him?" "I was resting by the road-side, when he came along, crying. I asked him what was the matter, and he told me. Then I offered to guide him to you." "And thereby relieved our deep anxiety. We were very much frightened when Thomas returned without him." "I don't wonder, sir." "You are English, I infer," said Mr. Grosvenor. "No, sir; I am an American." "You are not traveling alone--at your age?" said the merchant, in surprise. "I was not--that is, I came from America with another person, but I parted from him in Switzerland." Frank refrained from explaining under what circumstances he parted from Sharpley, partly from a natural reluctance to revive so unpleasant a subject, partly because he did not like to trouble the Grosvenors with his affairs. "It must be lonely traveling without friends," said Mr. Grosvenor. "My daughter and I would feel glad to have you join our party." "Oh, yes, papa!" said Beatrice. Frank turned towards the beautiful girl who spoke so impulsively, and he could not help feeling that it would indeed be a pleasure to travel in her society. I don't mean to represent him as in love, for at his age that would be foolish; but he had never had a sister, and it seemed to him that he would have been glad to have such a sister as Beatrice. But how could he, with less than forty sous to defray his traveling expenses, join the party of a wealthy London merchant? Had he the money that rightfully belonged to him, now in Sharpley's hands, there would have been no difficulty. "You hesitate," said Mr. Grosvenor. "Perhaps it would interfere with your plans to go with us." "No, sir; it is not that," and Frank hesitated again. It was an embarrassing moment, but he decided quickly to make the merchant acquainted with his circumstances. "If you will favor me with five minutes' private conversation," he said, "I will tell you why I hesitate." "Certainly," said Mr. Grosvenor, politely, and led the way into the hotel. The nature of Frank's explanation is, of course, anticipated by the reader. He related, as briefly as possible, the particulars of Sharpley's plot. The merchant listened with surprise. "This is certainly a singular story," he said, "and you have been treated with the blackest treachery. Do you know, or do you guess, what has become of this man?" "I don't know. I think he has started to return to America, or will do so soon." "And what are your plans?" "I mean to go to Paris. There I have a friend who I think will help me--an American with whom I became acquainted on the voyage over." "I suppose you are poorly provided with money?" "I have less than two francs left," Frank acknowledged. The merchant looked amazed. "You were actually reduced to that?" he exclaimed. "Yes, sir." "How did you expect to get to Paris?" Frank smiled. "That is what puzzled me," he owned. "I was sitting by the road-side thinking how I should accomplish it when your little boy came along." Now it was Mr. Grosvenor's turn to smile. "He solved it," he said. "Who, sir?" asked Frank. "My little boy," said Mr. Grosvenor, still smiling. "I don't understand," said our hero, puzzled. "I mean that Herbert shall act as your banker. That is, on account of your kindness to him, I propose to add you to my party, and advance you such sums as you may require." "You are very kind, sir," said Frank, relieved and grateful. "I really don't know what I should have done without some such assistance." "Then it is arranged, and you will join us at dinner, which is already ordered. I will order a room to be made ready for you." "I hope, sir, you will excuse my dress," said Frank, who, it must be confessed, might have looked neater. He had walked for several days, and was in consequence very dusty. Then again, his shirt and collar had been worn ever since his accident, and were decidedly dirty. "I am ashamed of my appearance, sir," continued our hero; "but Colonel Sharpley's treachery compelled me to travel without my trunk, and I have not even a change of linen." Mr. Grosvenor could not forbear smiling. "You are certainly in an awkward condition," he said. "I will apologize for you to Beatrice, the only lady of our party, and we will see after dinner if we cannot repair your loss." Frank used a brush diligently, and succeeded in making his outer clothes presentable; but, alas! no brush could restore the original whiteness of his dingy linen; and he flushed crimson as he entered the dining-room, and by direction of Mr. Grosvenor took a seat next to Beatrice, who looked so fresh and rosy and clean as to make the contrast even more glaring. But her cordial greeting soon put him at ease. "Papa has been telling me of that horrid man who tried to kill you," she commenced. "What a wretch he must be!" "I think he is one," said Frank; "but until the accident happened--that is, till he pushed me over the cliff--I had no idea of his design." "And he left you without any money, didn't he?" "With very little--just what I happened to have about me. I paid most of that to the peasant who found me and took care of me." "Didn't you almost starve?" "No; but my meals were very plain. I didn't dare to eat as much as I would have liked." "And I suppose that horrid man has gone off with your money?" said Beatrice, indignantly. "Yes, miss." "Her name isn't miss," said little Herbert. "It's Beatrice." "Herbert is right," said Beatrice, smiling. "I am not a young lady yet--I am only twelve." "Then," said our hero, who was fast getting to feel at home in his new surroundings, "as I am not a young gentleman yet, I suppose you will call me Frank." "I will call you Frank," said Herbert. "Then I suppose I must do so to be in fashion," said Beatrice, laughing. "I certainly don't look like a young gentleman in these dirty clothes," said our hero. "Perhaps Herbert will lend me a suit?" "I think," said Mr. Grosvenor, "we shall be able to refit you without drawing from Herbert's wardrobe." So the conversation went on, and our hero, before the dinner closed, found himself entirely at his ease in spite of his soiled clothes. CHAPTER XXXI. HOW THE NEWS WENT HOME. Frank had one source of anxiety and embarrassment connected with his recent adventure which had occupied a considerable space of his thoughts. It was this. How could he let his mother know that he was still alive without its coming to the knowledge of Mr. Craven? Convinced, as he was, that his step-father was at the bottom of the treacherous plot to which he had nearly fallen a victim, he wished him to suppose that it had succeeded in order to see what course he would pursue in consequence. His subsequent course would confirm his share in the plot or relieve him from any complicity, and Frank wanted to know, once for all, whether he was to regard his step-father as a disguised and dangerous foe or not. But he was not willing that his mother should rest long under the impression that he had perished among the Alps. In her delicate state of health he feared that it would prove too much for her, and that it might bring on a fit of sickness. He wished, therefore, in some way, to communicate to her secretly the knowledge that he had escaped. But if he wrote Mr. Craven would see the letter or know that one had been received. Evidently, therefore, he could not write directly to her. After some perplexity, he saw a way out of the difficulty. He had recently received a letter from his old friend and school companion, Ben Cameron, stating that the latter had gone to Wakefield, ten miles distant, to spend two months with an uncle, and asking Frank to direct his next letter there. It flashed upon our hero that he could write to Ben, giving him an account of what had happened, and asking him to acquaint his mother secretly, saying nothing of this letter in case he should hear that he, Frank, was dead. The day after he joined the Grosvenor party he carried out this plan, writing a long letter to Ben, which terminated as follows: "I feel sure that Mr. Craven is at the bottom of this attempt upon my life, and I think that his plan is to get possession of my money. He knows that mother's health would be very much affected by the news of any fatal accident to me, and that she would easily be induced to put all business into his hands. He would find it very easy to cheat a woman. You may ask why Colonel Sharpley should be induced to join in such a plot. That I can't tell, but I think he is not very rich, and that Mr. Craven has offered to divide with him in case they succeed. Otherwise, I can think of no motive he could have for attempting to kill me. We have always been on good terms so far as I know. "I may be wrong in all this, but I don't think I am. I suppose Colonel Sharpley has written home that I am dead, and I think that he will soon go to America to receive his pay for the deed. Now, Ben, as you are my friend, I want you to manage to see my mother privately, and tell her that I am well--perfectly well--that I have escaped almost by a miracle, and that though without money, I have found friends who will supply all my needs and give me money to return to America. She is not to let anybody know that she has heard from me, but to wait till I come home, as I shall soon. Especially if Mr. Craven tries to get hold of my property, tell mother to resist and refuse utterly to allow it. I advise her also to take care how she trusts Mr. Craven with her own money. "I shall not write you again, Ben, for fear my letters might be seen. But some day I shall come home unexpectedly. Let mother see this letter and then destroy it. "Your affectionate friend, "FRANK HUNTER." It was fortunate that Frank wrote this letter; but we must precede it, and, after a long interval, look in upon the home he had left. One day Mr. Craven took from the village post-office a letter. He opened it eagerly, and, as he read it, his face showed the gratification which he felt. But lest this should be noticed, he immediately smoothed his face and assumed a look of grave and hypocritical sadness. This was the letter: "DEAR MR CRAVEN:--It is with great sorrow that I sit down to write you this letter. I would, if I could, commit to another hand the task of communicating the terrible news which I have to impart. Not to keep you longer in suspense, your step-son, Frank Hunter, met with a fatal accident yesterday, while ascending the Alps with me. He approached too near the edge of a precipice, though I warned him of his danger, and insisted on looking over. Whether he became dizzy or slipped I cannot explain, but, to my horror, a moment later I saw the unfortunate boy slip over the edge and fall into the terrible abyss. I sprang forward, hoping to catch him, but was too late. I nearly fell over myself in the vain attempt to save him. I almost wish I had done so; for, though the act was the result of his own imprudence, I cannot help feeling responsible. I ought to have exercised my authority and forcibly restrained him from drawing near the fatal brink. Yet I did not like to be too strict with a boy of his age; I feared he would dislike me. But I wish I had run that risk. Anything would have been better than to feel that I might have saved him and neglected to do it. "I sympathize deeply with you and his mother in your sorrow at this bereavement. I shall sail for America in two or three weeks, in order to give Mrs. Craven and yourself a detailed account of this calamity. I will bring home what things I have of Frank's, thinking that it may be a sad satisfaction to his mother to have them. "I cannot write further. I have a terrible head-ache, and am completely used up by the sad scene through which I have passed. "Yours truly, "SHARPLEY." Mr. Craven took out this letter and read it a second time on his way home. "That's a good letter," he said to himself, sardonically, "so full of sympathy, regret, and that sort of thing. I couldn't have done it better myself, and I have rather a talent for such things. Egad! Sharpley has surpassed himself. I didn't give the fellow credit for so much hypocrisy. So he's coming to America to give us a detailed account of this calamity, is he? I know why he's coming. It's to get pay for his share of the plot. Well, if all goes well, I can afford to pay him well, though I really think his price was too high. Now that the young one is out of the way, I must manage his mother, so as to get his property into my hands. Forty thousand dollars! It will relieve me from all money cares for the rest of my life." As Mr. Craven approached the house, his face assumed a grave and sorrowful expression. He was preparing to inflict a crushing blow upon the devoted mother, who was even then counting the days to the probable return of her beloved boy. Entering the house, he met Katy in the hall. "Is your mistress in?" he asked. "Yes, sir; she's up stairs. Have you heard from Frank, sir?" "Yes, Katy," he answered in a significantly doleful tone. "Is anything the matter of him, sir?" asked Katy, taking the hint. "Oh, Katy, I've heard bad news," said Mr. Craven, pulling out his white handkerchief, and elaborately wiping his eyes. "Bad news! What is it, sir?" demanded Katy. "I can't tell it," wailed Mr. Craven. "Spit it out like a man!" exclaimed Katy, impatiently. "Is the dear boy sick?" "Worse." "He ain't dead!" ejaculated Katy, horror-struck. "Yes, he is; he fell over a precipice in the Alps, and was instantly killed." "What's a precipice, sir?" "He was on a steep hill and he slipped over the edge." Katy uttered a loud shriek, and sank on the lower stair, and throwing her apron over her face, began to utter what can only be designated as howls of grief. Mrs. Craven from above was drawn to the head of the landing by what she heard. "What's the matter?" she asked, in affright. "Oh! it's Master Frank, mum. He's kilt dead, he is!" "Is this true?" ejaculated Mrs. Craven, looking toward her husband with pale face. "Yes, my dear." There was a low shriek, and the poor mother sank to the floor in a dead faint. CHAPTER XXXII. BEN BRINGS GOOD NEWS. The news of Frank's death--or supposed death--was a terrible shock to Mrs. Craven. She was of a nervous organization, and her attachment to her son was the greater because he was her only child. She felt that after his death she would have nothing left worth living for. All her future plans and prospects of happiness were connected with him. Her husband, as we know, was nothing to her. She had married him partly because she thought he might be useful to Frank. "I wish I could die, Katy," she wailed, addressing her faithful attendant. In this hour of her affliction, Katy was nearer to her than Mr. Craven. "Don't say that, missis," said Katy, sobbing herself the while. "What have I to live for, now that my poor boy is dead?" And she indulged in a fresh outburst of grief. "My heart is broken, Katy." "So is mine, mum--broke right in two!" answered Katy, sympathetically. "To think that my poor boy should have met with such a terrible death." "He never knew what hurt him, mum. That's one comfort." "But I shall never see him again, Katy," said the poor mother, sobbing. "Yes, you will, mum--in heaven." "Then I hope I shall go there soon. Oh, I wish I had never let him go." "So do I, mum. He was so bright when he went away, poor lad. He little thought what was coming." It was a comfort to Mrs. Craven in her distress to speak to Katy, whose devotion she knew. To Mr. Craven she did not feel like speaking much. She knew that Frank had never liked him, and this closed her lips. She even, poor woman, accused herself for marrying again, since, had she not done so, Frank would not have gone abroad, and would still be spared to her. Mr. Craven wisely kept out of the way for a time. He wanted to introduce business matters, and so carry out the concluding portion of his arrangement, but he felt that it would be impolitic to do it at once. Mrs. Craven was in no frame of mind to give attention to such things. He could wait, though it was irksome to do so. Several days passed. Mrs. Craven's sharp sorrow had given way to a dull feeling of utter despondency. She kept to her room the greater part of the time, looking as if she had just emerged from a lengthened sickness. Mr. Craven wandered about the village, suppressing his good spirits with difficulty when he was at home, and assuming an expression of sympathetic sadness. But, when by himself, he would rub his hands and congratulate himself on the near accomplishment of his plans. One day, when matters were in this state of depression, Ben Cameron knocked at the door. He had received Frank's letter, and had come over at once to deliver his message. The door was opened by Katy, who knew Ben well as the most intimate friend of our hero. "Oh, Ben, we've had bad news," said Katy, wiping her eyes. "Yes, I've heard it," said Ben. "How is Mrs. Craven?" "Poor lady! she's struck down wid grief. It's killin' her. She doted on that boy." "Can I see her?" asked Ben. "She don't feel like seein' anybody." "I think she'll see me, because I was Frank's friend." "May be she will. She know'd you was always intimate friends." "Is Mr. Craven at home?" "No. Did you want to see him?" "No. I wanted to see Mrs. Craven alone." "You don't like him no better'n I do," said Katy. "I hate him!" exclaimed Ben, energetically, bearing in mind Frank's suspicions that Mr. Craven was concerned in the attack upon him. "Good on your head!" said Katy, whose manners and education did not preclude her making occasional use of the slang of the day. "I'll go up and see if my missis will see you." She returned almost immediately. "Come right up," she said. "She'll be glad to see Frank's friend." When Ben entered the room where Mrs. Craven, pale and wasted, sat in a rocking-chair, she burst into tears. The sight of Ben brought her boy more vividly to mind. "How do you do, Mrs. Craven?" said Ben. "My heart is broken, Benjamin," she answered, sadly. "You have heard of my poor boy's death?" "Yes, I have heard of it." "You were his friend. You know how good he was." "Yes, Frank is the best fellow I know," said Ben, warmly. "You say is. Alas! you forget that he is no more." Katy had descended to the kitchen. Ben looked cautiously around him. "Mrs. Craven," he said, "can you keep a secret?" She looked surprised. "Yes," she answered, faintly. "I am going to tell you something which must be kept secret for awhile. Can you bear good news? Frank is alive!" "Alive!" exclaimed the mother, jumping from her chair, and fixing her eyes imploringly, almost incredulously, on her visitor. "Yes. Don't be agitated, Mrs. Craven. I have received a letter from him." "Is it true? Oh, tell me quickly. Didn't he fall over the precipice?" "Yes, he fell, but it was on a soft spot, and he was saved." "Heaven be praised! Bless you for bringing such news. Tell me all about it." Ben told the story in a few words, and then showed the letter. How it eased and comforted the poor mother's heart I need not say. She felt as if life had been restored to her once more. "You see, Mrs. Craven, that there is need of silence and secrecy. We cannot tell whether Frank's suspicions have any foundation or not. We must wait and see." "Do you think Mr. Craven could have had anything to do with the wicked plot?" exclaimed Mrs. Craven, indignantly. "Frank thinks so." "I will tax him with it. If he framed such a plot he shall answer for it." "Hush, Mrs. Craven. Remember Frank's wish. It will defeat his plans." "It is true. I forgot. But how can I live in the same house with a man who sought the life of my poor boy?" "We are not sure of it." "Do not fear. I will do as my boy wishes. But I may tell him that I do not think he is dead?" "Yes, if you give no reason." "And I should like to tell Katy. She, poor girl, loves Frank almost as much as I do." "Do you think Katy can keep it secret?" "Yes, if I ask her to, and tell her it is Frank's wish." "Then I think you can venture. I will take the letter and destroy it, as Frank wanted me to." "Don't destroy it. You can keep it where no one will see it." When Ben went out he told Katy that her mistress wished to see her. She went up, and to her surprise found that Mrs. Craven had thrown open the blind of the hitherto darkened chamber, and actually received her with a smile. Katy looked bewildered. "Come here, Katy," said her mistress. Then she whispered in Katy's ear, "Katy, he's alive!" "What!" exclaimed the handmaiden, incredulously. "Yes, it's true. He's written to Ben. But you must keep it secret. Sit down, and I'll tell you all about it." "Oh, the ould villain!" was Katy's comment upon the story. "I'd like to wring his neck," meaning Mr. Craven's. "You must be careful, Katy. He isn't to know we've heard anything." "But he'll guess from your lavin' off mournin'." "I'll tell him I have dreamed that my boy escaped." "That'll do, mum. When will Master Frank be comin' home?" "Soon, I hope, but now I can wait patiently since Heaven has spared him to me." When Mr. Craven returned home at the close of the afternoon, he was astonished to hear Katy singing at her work, and to find Mrs. Craven dressed and down stairs, quite self-controlled, though grave. In the morning she was in the depths of despondency, and Katy was gloomy and sad. "What's up?" he thought. "My dear," he said, "I am glad that you are bearing your affliction better. It is a terrible loss, but we should be resigned to the will of the Almighty." "I don't think Frank is dead," answered Mrs. Craven. "Not think he is dead? I wish there were any chance of your being right, but I cannot encourage you in such a delusion. There is, unhappily, no chance of the poor boy surviving such a fearful accident." "You may call it foolish, if you will, Mr. Craven, but I have a presentiment that he is alive." "But, my dear, it is impossible." "Katy thinks so, too." Mr. Craven shrugged his shoulders. "I wish it were true, but there is no hope. You saw my friend's letter?" "Yes." "He said there was no hope." "He thought so. I am firmly convinced that Frank is alive." Mr. Craven tried to undermine her confidence, but, of course, without avail. He was troubled, for if she continued to cherish this belief she would not take possession of Frank's fortune, and thus he would be cut off from it. CHAPTER XXXIII. ALPINE EXPLORATIONS OF MR. TARBOX. Arrived at the Hotel du Glacier, Mr. Tarbox immediately instituted inquiries about the fate of Frank, and soon learned all that was known by the people at the inn. Being a decidedly straightforward person, he did not fail to insinuate, or rather to make direct charges, against Sharpley, but these found no credence. Sharpley's hypocritical sorrow, and his plausible explanation, had imposed upon them, and they informed Mr. Tarbox that Colonel Sharpley was an excellent gentleman, and was deeply affected by the accident which had befallen Monsieur Frank. "Deeply affected--in a horn!" returned the disgusted Jonathan. "In a horn!" repeated the landlord, with a perplexed expression. "What is it to be deeply affected in a horn?" "Over the left, then," amended Mr. Tarbox, impatiently. "I do not understand over the left," said the other. "Look here, my friend. Where was you raised?" demanded Mr. Tarbox. "Raised?" "Yes; brought up--born." "I was born here, among these mountains, monsieur." "Did you ever go to school?" "To school--_a l'cole? Certainement._ I am not one ignorant person," said the landlord, beginning to get angry. "And you never learned 'in a horn,' or 'over the left?'" "_Non_, monsieur." "Then," said Mr. Tarbox, "it is high time the schools in Switzerland were reorganized. I should like to speak to your school committee." "School committee?" "Yes. You have a school committee, haven't you?" "_Non_, monsieur." "That accounts for it. You need a smart school committee to see that the right things are taught in your schools. But about Frank--has his body been found?" "_Non_, monsieur." "Not been found! Why not?" "We have looked for it, but we cannot find it." "Poor boy!" said Mr. Tarbox, wiping away a tear. "So he has been left all the time lying dead in some hole in the mountains." "We have looked for him." "Then you didn't look sharp. I'll look for him myself, and when I've found the poor boy I'll give him decent burial. I'd rather bury that skunk Sharpley a darned sight. I'd bury him with pleasure, and I wouldn't grudge the expense of the coffin. Now tell me where the poor boy fell." "My son Baptiste shall go and show monsieur the way." "All right. It don't make any difference to me if he is a Baptist. I'm a Methodist myself, and there ain't much difference, I guess. So just tell the Baptist to hurry up and we'll set out. What's his name?" "My son's name?" "Yes." "Did I not say it was Baptiste?" "Oh, that's his name, is it? I thought it was his religion. Funny name, ain't it? But that makes no difference." Baptiste was soon ready, and the two set out together. The guide found it rather difficult to follow Mr. Tarbox in his eccentric remarks, but they got on very well together, and after a time stood on the fatal ledge. "Here it was the poor boy fell off," said Baptiste. "I don't believe it," said Mr. Tarbox. "The boy wasn't a fool, and he couldn't have fell unless he was--it was that skunk, Sharpley, that pushed him off." "Monsieur Sharpley was deeply grieved. How could he push him off?" It will be remembered that Sharpley left a sum of money in the hands of the guide to defray the burial expenses in case Frank's body was found. This naturally made an impression in his favor on Baptiste's mind, particularly as the money had not been required, and the probability was that he would be free to convert it to his own use. Accordingly, both he and his father were ready to defend the absent Sharpley against the accusations of Mr. Tarbox. "How could he push him off? Jest as easy as winking," replied Jonathan. "Jest as easy as I could push you off," and Mr. Tarbox placed his hand on the guide's shoulder. Baptiste jumped back in affright. "Why, you didn't think I was goin' to do it, you jackass!" said the Yankee. "You're scared before you're hurt. I only wanted to show you how it could be done. Now, jest hold on to my coat-tail while I look over." "Monsieur had better lie down and look over. It is more safe." "I don't know but you're right, Baptiste," and Mr. Tarbox proceeded to follow his advice. "It's a pesky ways to fall," he said, after a pause. "Poor Frank! it don't seem as if there was much chance of his bein' alive." "No, monsieur. He is doubtless dead!" "Then, where is his body? It is strange that it is not found." "Yes, it is strange." "I mean to look for it myself. Is there any way to get down here?" "Yes, but it is a long way." "Never mind that. We will try it. I've got a good pair of legs, and I can hold out if you can." "Very well, monsieur." They accordingly descended and explored the chasm beneath, climbing part way up, looking everywhere for the remains of our hero, but, as we know, there was a very good reason why they were not found. Frank was, at that very moment, eating a hearty breakfast with his friends, the Grosvenors, in Coblentz, preparatory to crossing the river and ascending the heights of Ehrenbreitstein. He little dreamed that his Yankee friend was at that moment looking for his body. Had Mr. Tarbox been able to see the said body, he would have been relieved from all apprehensions. After continuing his search for the greater part of a day, Mr. Tarbox was obliged to give it up. Though possessed of a considerable share of physical strength, obtained by working on his father's farm from the age of ten, he was obliged to own that he was about "tuckered out." He was surprised to find that the guide appeared comparatively fresh. "Ain't you tired, Baptiste?" he asked. "_Non_, monsieur." "Well, that's strange. You're a little feller, compared with me. I could swaller you almost, and I'm as tired as a dog--clean tuckered out." "I was born among these mountains, monsieur. I have always been accustomed to climbing among them; and that is the reason." "I guess you're right, Baptiste. I don't think I shall take up the business of an Alpine guide jest yet. What sort of plows do you have in Switzerland, Baptiste?" "I will show monsieur when we go back." "All right. You see, Baptiste, I've invented a plow that goes ahead of all your old-fashioned concerns, and I'd like to introduce it into Switzerland." "You can speak to my father, monsieur, I have nothing to do with the plowing." Mr. Tarbox did speak to the landlord, after first expressing his disgust at the manner in which agricultural operations were carried on in Switzerland; but he soon found that the Swiss mind is not one that yearns for new inventions, and that the prospect of selling his patent in Switzerland for a good round sum was very small. As he had failed in his search for Frank, and as there seemed no business inducements for remaining, he decided to leave the Hotel du Glacier and return at once to Paris. He did so with a heavy heart, for he really felt attached to Frank, and was grieved by his unhappy fate. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE PLOW IS A SUCCESS. The Grosvenors traveled in a leisurely manner, stopping at places of interest on the way, so that they did not reach Paris for a fortnight. Mr. Tarbox had been back over a week before Frank arrived at the Hotel du Louvre. Our hero had by this time got very well acquainted with his party, and the favorable impression which he at first made was considerably strengthened. Little Herbert took a great fancy to him, and Frank allowed the little boy to accompany him in many of his walks. Frequently, also, Beatrice was of the party. She, too, was much pleased with our hero, and treated him in a frank, sisterly way, which Frank found agreeable. Mr. Grosvenor noticed the intimacy established between his children and Frank, but he saw that our hero was well brought up, and very polite and gentlemanly, and therefore was not displeased by it. In fact he was gratified, for he saw that it added considerably to the pleasure which they derived from the journey. On the morning after their arrival in Paris Frank prepared to go out. "Where are you going, Frank?" asked little Herbert. Beatrice also looked up, inquiringly. "To see a friend of mine, Herbert." "What is his name?" "It seems to me that you are inquisitive, Herbert," said his father. "Oh, it is no secret," said Frank, laughing. "It is Jonathan Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine." "What a funny name!" "Yes, it is a queer name, and its owner is a little queer, also, but he is a good fellow for all that. He is a genuine specimen of the Yankee, Mr. Grosvenor." "I should like to see him," said Mr. Grosvenor, smiling. "Invite him to call." "I will, sir, thank you. Though he is unpolished, I believe you will find that he has something in him." Mr. Tarbox was back in his place in the exposition building. He had not ceased to mourn for Frank. Still he felt in better spirits than usual, for he had had an interview with a wealthy American capitalist, who had looked into the merits of his plow, and half-promised that he would pay him ten thousand dollars for a half ownership of the patent. This would make Mr. Tarbox a man of great wealth in his native place (Squashboro', State o' Maine), and enable him to triumph over his friends and relations, who had thought him a fool for going to the expense of a trip to Europe, when he might have invested the same sum in a small farm at home. He was busily engaged in thinking over his prospects, when he was startled by a familiar voice. "How do you do, Mr. Tarbox?" said Frank, saluting him. "What!" gasped Mr. Tarbox, fixing his eyes upon our hero in a strange mixture of incredulity, wonder, bewilderment and joy. "Why, Mr. Tarbox, you don't seem glad to see me," said Frank. "You haven't forgotten me, have you?" "Are you alive?" asked Mr. Tarbox, cautiously, eying him askance. "Alive? I rather think I am. Just give me your hand." The Yankee mechanically extended his hand, and Frank gave him a grip which convinced him that he was flesh and blood. "But I thought you were dead!" "You see I am not." "I saw the cliff where you tumbled off, and broke your neck." "I got it mended again," said Frank, laughing. "But you say you saw the cliff. Have you been to Switzerland?" "Yes. I mistrusted something was goin' to happen to you." "How could you mistrust? What led to your suspicions?" "A letter that your step-father wrote to that skunk, Sharpley, in which he talks about your meeting with an accident." "But," inquired Frank, in surprise, "how did you get hold of such a letter? I knew nothing about it." "You left it here one day by accident." "Where is it? Let me read it." "First, let me ask you a question. Didn't that skunk push you off the cliff?" "Yes," said Frank, gravely. "And how did you escape?" "Some peasants found me on a snow-covered ledge on which I had fallen. They took me home, and nursed me till I was well enough to travel." "Are you with that skunk now?" "No; I never would travel with him again," said Frank, shuddering. "Where is he?" "I don't know. But let me have the letter." He read in silence the paragraph which has been quoted in an earlier chapter. When he had finished he looked up. "I am afraid," he said, gravely, "there is no doubt that Mr. Craven employed Colonel Sharpley to make away with me." "Then he is a skunk, too!" "Mr. Tarbox, I would not mind it so much but for one thing." "What is that, Frank?" "He is married to my mother. If he lays this plot for me, what will he do against her?" "He will try to get hold of her money." "I fear so, and if she resists I am afraid he will try to injure her." "May be you're right, Frank." "I think I ought to go home at once; don't you think so?" "I don't know but you're right, Frank. I'm almost ready to go too." "Oh, I forgot to ask you what luck you had met with." "I expect I'll do first-rate. There's a gentleman that's talkin' of buyin' one-half my plow for ten thousand dollars." "I congratulate you, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, heartily; "I hope he'll do it." "I guess he won't back out. He's been inquirin' about it pretty close. He thinks it's a big thing." "I've no doubt he's right, Mr. Tarbox." "It'll take the shine off all the plows that's goin'." "Perhaps business will detain you, then, Mr. Tarbox." "No, Mr. Peterson--that's his name--is goin' back to America in a week or two, and if he strikes a bargain I'll go too. Won't dad open his eyes when his son comes home with ten thousand dollars in his pocket? May be he won't think me quite such a fool as he thought when I started off for Europe, and wouldn't buy a farm, as he wanted me to, with that money I got as a legacy." "But you will have half your patent also." "Of course I will, and if that don't bring me in a fortun' it's because folks can't tell a good plow when they see it. But there's one thing I can't understand, Frank." "What's that?" "Where did you get all your money to travel after you got pitched over the precipice by that skunk?" "Oh, I didn't tell you that. Well, after I was able to travel I examined my purse, and found I had only twelve dollars." "That wa'n't much." "No, particularly as I had to pay ten dollars to the good people who picked me up. I shall send them more as soon as I have it." "Jest draw on me, Frank. I ain't rich, but ef you want a hundred dollars or more, jest say so." "Thank you, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, gratefully. "I wouldn't hesitate to accept your very kind offer, but I do not now need it." He then proceeded to explain his meeting with the Grosvenors just when he stood in most need of assistance. He dwelt upon the kindness they had shown him, and the pleasure he had experienced in their society. "I'm glad you've been so lucky. Grosvenor is a brick, but it ain't surprisin' he should take a fancy to you." "I suppose that is a compliment, Mr. Tarbox," said Frank, smiling. "Perhaps it is. I don't know much about compliments, but I know I felt awful bad when I thought you was dead. I wanted to thrash that skunk within an inch of his life." "I guess you could do it," said Frank, surveying the athletic form of his Yankee friend. "I'll do it now if I ever come across him. Where do you think he is?" "I think he has gone to America to ask pay for disposing of me." "I guess so, too. They told me at that Hotel du Glacier (the last word Mr. Tarbox pronounced in two syllables) that he was goin' home to break the news to your folks. I guess your step-father won't break his heart badly." "I must follow him," said Frank. "I shall feel uneasy till I reach home and unmask their villany." "I hope we'll go together." "I'll let you know, Mr. Tarbox, when I take passage. Then, if your business is concluded, we will be fellow-passengers once more." CHAPTER XXXV. MR. CRAVEN MEETS WITH UNEXPECTED DIFFICULTIES. Mrs. Craven was placed in a difficult position. At the special request of Frank, as conveyed in his letter, she had agreed to keep secret her knowledge of his safety. Of course, she could no longer indulge in her sorrow, which at first overwhelmed her. Her only course was to affirm her belief in his deliverance, though she was not at liberty to name the grounds upon which her belief was based. This must necessarily seem strange, as a "presentiment" was a very slender reason for the change in her manner. Had she been willing to play a part, Mrs. Craven might still have counterfeited grief, but this, again, was not in accordance with her nature. She preferred to be misunderstood, and to excite surprise in those who were ignorant of the facts. But this was not her only perplexity. There was the haunting suspicion that the man whom, unhappily for herself, she called husband, had instigated the wicked plot against the life of her only son. Frank believed it. It might not be true; yet, while there was a possibility of its truth, how could she continue to treat him with her usual courtesy? She sought to do it, but she could not. Though studiously polite, her manner became very cold--almost repellent. When Mr. Craven approached her she could hardly avoid shuddering. Of course, this change became perceptible to him, and he was puzzled and disturbed. It upset all his calculations. He thought she would accept the fact of Frank's death--of which, by the way, he had no doubt himself--and would be so overcome by sorrow that he could readily obtain her consent to those business steps which would place the entire control of Frank's fortune in his hands. Yet here she was, declining to believe that he was dead, and evidently her confidence in him was, for some reason, chilled and impaired. Mr. Craven was impatient to broach the subject, and finding his wife's manner still the same, and with no prospect of alteration, he devised a plausible mode of approaching the subject which was so near his heart. One evening, after the supper dishes were removed, just as Mrs. Craven was leaving the room, he called her back. "My dear," he said, "will you sit down a few minutes? I have a few words to say to you." She complied with his request. "Ahem!" he commenced. "I have taken a step to-day of which I wish to apprize you." "Indeed." "Yes, my dear. Sensible of the uncertainty of life, I have to-day made my will." "Indeed!" she said again, exhibiting no particular interest in Mr. Craven's communication. "You do not ask me in what way I have left my money!" "I do not suppose it concerns me." "But it does, materially. I have no near relatives--at least, none that I care for. I have bequeathed all my property to you." As Mr. Craven possessed nothing whatever apart from the money which his wife permitted him to control, this magnanimous liberality did not require any great self-denial or evince any special affection on his part. However, his wife did not know that, and upon her ignorance he relied. He expected her to thank him, but her manner continued cold. "I am obliged to you for your intention," she said, "but I am not likely to survive you." "We cannot tell, my dear. Should you live to be my widow, I should wish you to inherit all I left behind me." "Thank you, but I should prefer that you would leave all you possess to the relatives you refer to." "I have none that I care for." "I suppose we must sometimes leave property to those we do not particularly like." Mr. Craven was very much disappointed by the coldness with which his liberality was received. He wanted to suggest that his wife should follow his example and leave him her fortune, increased as it was by Frank's, of which she was the legal heir. But this proposal was not so easy to make. Nevertheless, he determined, at any rate, to try for the control of Frank's estate. "There's but one thing more I want to mention," he said. "But first let me say, that my will must stand without alteration. Of course, you can make such disposition of my property as you like when it falls to you, but to you it must go. Now, for the other matter. I beg you will excuse me from saying anything to grieve you, but it must be said. It is necessary for us to take some measures about poor Frank's property." "Why is it necessary?" "Since he is dead--" "But he is not dead," said Mrs. Craven, quickly. "Not dead? Have we not Colonel Sharpley's testimony? He saw the poor boy fall over the cliff." Mr. Craven drew out his handkerchief and pressed it to his eyes, but his wife displayed no emotion. "Then I don't believe Colonel Sharpley," said Mrs. Craven. "Don't believe him!" exclaimed Mr. Craven. "What possible motive can he have for stating what is not true?" "It may be that Frank fell, but that would not necessarily kill him." Still she shuddered, as fancy conjured up the terrible scene. Mr. Craven shook his head. "My dear," he said, "I regret to destroy your hopes. If such a fancy could be indulged without interfering with what ought to be done, I would say nothing to disturb your dream, wild and improbable as it is. But Frank left property. The law requires that it should be legally administered." "Let it accumulate till my boy returns." "That would be foolish and idle. The poor boy will never need it more;" and again Mr. Craven buried his emotion in the depth of his handkerchief. "His bright and promising career is over for this world. He has gone where worldly riches will never benefit him more." But for her private knowledge of Frank's safety, Mrs. Craven would have been moved by his pathetic reference; but, as it was, she stood it without manifesting any emotion, thus plunging her husband into deeper and more angry bewilderment. "As I said before," returned his wife, "I firmly believe that Frank is still alive." "What proof--what reason can you offer?" demanded Mr. Craven, impatiently. "None, except my fixed conviction." "Based upon nothing at all, and contradicted by the most convincing testimony of eye-witnesses." "That is your view." "It is the view of common sense." "There is no need of doing anything about the property at present, is there? I am the legal heir, am I not?" "Ahem! Yes." "Then it is for me to say what shall be done. I am in no hurry to assume possession of my boy's fortune." Mr. Craven bit his lip. Here was an impracticable woman. Apparently, nothing could be done with her--at least as long as she shared this delusion. "I shall soon be able to convince you," he said, "that you are laboring under a happy but an untenable delusion. I expect Colonel Sharpley in the next steamer." Mrs. Craven looked up now. "Is he coming here?" she asked. "Yes; so he writes. He wishes to tell you all about the accident--how it happened, and some details of poor Frank's last experiences in Europe. He felt that it would be a satisfaction to you to hear them from his own lips. He has, therefore, made this journey expressly on your account." Mrs. Craven looked upon Sharpley as the murderer of her boy. It was his hand, she believed, that thrust him from the cliff and meant to compass his death. Could she receive such a man as a guest? "Mr. Craven," she said, abruptly, "if Colonel Sharpley comes here, I have one request to make." "What is it, my dear?" "That you do not invite him to stay in this house." "Why, my dear? I thought you would like to see the last companion of poor Frank," returned Mr. Craven, surprised. "I cannot bear the sight of that man. But for him, Frank would not have incurred such peril." "But Sharpley is not to blame for an accident. He could not help it. I regret that you should be so unreasonably prejudiced." "Call it prejudice if you will. I could not endure the thought of entertaining him as a guest." "This is very strange, my dear. What will he think?" "I cannot say, but you must not invite him here." Mrs. Craven left the room, leaving her husband angry and perplexed. "Surely she can't suspect anything!" he thought, startled at the suggestion. "But no, it is impossible. We have covered our tracks too carefully for that. On my soul, I don't know what to do. This obstinate woman threatens to upset all my plans. I will consult Sharpley when he comes." CHAPTER XXXVI. SHARPLEY'S RETURN. A few days later, as Mr. Craven sat in his office smoking a cigar, while meditating upon the best method of overcoming his wife's opposition to his plans, the outer door opened, and Sharpley entered. "Well, Craven," he said, coolly, "you appear to be taking it easy." "When did you arrive?" asked Mr. Craven. "Yesterday. You ought to feel complimented by my first call. You see I've lost no time in waiting upon you." "I received your letter," said Craven. "Both of them?" "Yes." "Then you know that your apprehensions were verified," said Sharpley, significantly. "The boy was as imprudent as you anticipated. He actually leaned over too far, in looking over an Alpine precipice, and tumbled. Singular coincidence, wasn't it?" "Then he is really dead?" said Mr. Craven, anxiously. "Dead? I should think so. A boy couldn't fall three or four hundred feet, more or less, without breaking his neck. Unless he was made of India rubber, he'd be apt to smash something." "Did you find his body?" "No; I didn't stop long enough. I came away the next day. But, fearing that I might seem indifferent, and that might arouse, suspicion, I left some money with a guide, the son of the landlord of the Hotel du Glacier, to find him and bury him." "I would rather you had yourself seen the body interred. It would have been more satisfactory." "Oh, well, I'll swear that he is dead. That will be sufficient for all purposes. But how does your wife take it?" "In a very singular way," answered Mr. Craven. "In a singular way? I suppose she is overwhelmed with grief, but I shouldn't call that singular--under the circumstances." "But you are mistaken. She is not overwhelmed with grief." Sharpley started. "You don't mean to say she doesn't mind it?" he asked. "No, it isn't that." "What is it, then?" "She won't believe the boy's dead." "Won't believe he is dead? Did you show her my letter?" "Yes." "That ought to have been convincing." "Of course it ought. Nothing could be more direct or straightforward. At first it did seem to have the proper effect. She fainted away, and for days kept her room, refusing to see any one, even me." "Well, that must have been a sacrifice," said Sharpley, ironically; "not to see her devoted husband." "But all at once there was a change. One day I came home at the close of the afternoon, supposing, as usual, that my wife was in her room, but, to my surprise, she was below. She had ceased weeping and seemed even cheerful--though cold in her manner. On complimenting her upon her resignation, she astonished me by saying that she was convinced that Frank was still alive." "Did she assign any reason for this belief?" asked Sharpley, thoughtfully. "Only that she had a presentiment that he had escaped." "Nothing more than this?" "Nothing more." "Pooh! She is only hoping to the last." "It seems to be something more than that. If it was only hope, she would have fear also, and would show all the suspicion and anxiety of such a state of mind. But she is calm and cheerful, and appears to suffer no anxiety." "That is singular to be sure," said Sharpley; "but I suppose it will not interfere with our designs?" "But it will. When I ventured delicately to insinuate that Frank's property ought, according to law, to be administered upon, she absolutely declined, saying that there would be time enough for that when he was proved to be dead." "I can remove that difficulty," said Sharpley. "She will hardly need more than my oral testimony." Mr. Craven shook his head. "I forgot to say that she has taken an unaccountable prejudice against you. She doesn't want me to invite you to the house. She insists that she is not willing to meet you as her guest." "What does this mean?" asked Sharpley, abruptly. "Do you think," he continued, in a lower tone, "that she has any suspicions?" "I don't see how she can," answered Craven. "Then why should she take such a prejudice against me?" "She says, that but for you, Frank would never have gone abroad." "And so, of course, not have met with this accident?" "Yes." "Then, it's all right. It's a woman's unreasonable whim," said Sharpley, apparently relieved by this explanation. "That may be; but it is equally inconvenient. She won't believe your testimony, and will still insist that Frank is alive." A new suspicion entered Sharpley's mind--this time, a suspicion of the good faith of his confederate, of whom, truth to tell, he had very little reason to form a good opinion. "Look here, Craven," he said, his countenance changing. "I believe you are at the bottom of this." "At the bottom of what?" exclaimed Mr. Craven, in genuine astonishment. "I believe you've put your wife up to this." "What should I do that for? Why should I bite my own nose off--in other words frustrate my own plans?" "I am not sure that you would," returned Sharpley, suspiciously. "How could it be otherwise?" "You want to cheat me out of the sum I was to receive for this service." "How?" "By pretending you can't get possession of the boy's property. Then you can plead inability, and keep it all yourself." "On my honor, you do me injustice," said Craven, earnestly. "Your honor!" sneered Sharpley. "The least said about that the better." "Be it so; but you must see that my interests are identified with yours. I will prove to you that all I have said is true." "How will you prove it?" "By bringing you face to face with Mrs. Craven. By asking you to come home with me." "She said she did not want to receive me." "You shall learn that from her manner. After you are convinced of it, after you find she won't credit your tale of Frank's death, we will consult as to what shall be done.' "Very well. It will be strange if, after what has already been accomplished, we cannot circumvent an obstinate woman." "I think we can, with your help." "Very well. When shall we try the experiment?" "At once." Mr. Craven took his hat and led the way out of his office, followed by Sharpley. They walked at a good pace to the handsome dwelling already referred to, and entered. "Katy," said Mr. Craven, "go up stairs and tell your mistress that Colonel Sharpley is here. He has just returned from Europe." "Yes, sir," said Katy, looking askance at Sharpley, whom, in common with her mistress, she regarded as a would-be murderer. "Ma'am," said she, a moment later, in Mrs. Craven's chamber, "he's here." "Who's here?" "That murderin' villain, ma'am." "What! Colonel Sharpley?" said Mrs. Craven, dropping her work in agitation. "Yes, ma'am; and Mr. Craven wants you to come down and see him." "How can I see that man, who tried to take the life of my dear boy?" said Mrs. Craven, in continued agitation. "What shall I do, Katy?" "I'll tell you what I'd do, ma'am. I'd go down and see what I can find out about it. Jest ax him questions, and see what he's got to say for himself." Mrs. Craven hesitated, but she wanted to learn something of her absent boy, and followed Katy's advice. As she entered the room, Sharpley advanced to meet her, with extended hand. She did not seem to see it, but passed him coldly and sank into a rocking chair. He bit his lip with vexation, but otherwise did not show his chagrin. CHAPTER XXXVII. MRS. CRAVEN'S FIXED IDEA. "You will probably wish to ask Colonel Sharpley about the circumstances attending poor Frank's loss," said Craven, in a soft voice. "I am ready to hear what Colonel Sharpley has to say," returned Mrs. Craven, coldly. "I see you are displeased with me, madame," said Sharpley. "I can understand your feelings. You associate me with the loss of your son." "I do!" said Mrs. Craven, with emphasis. "But that is not just, my dear," said Mr. Craven. "Accidents may happen at any time--they are beyond human foresight or control. It is my friend Sharpley's misfortune that our Frank came to his sad end while in his company." "While in his company?" repeated Mrs. Craven, looking keenly at Sharpley. "You think I should have prevented it, Mrs. Craven. Gladly would I have done so, but Frank was too quick for me. With a boy's curiosity he leaned over the precipice, lost his balance and fell." "When did this happen--what day of the month?" "It was the eighteenth of August." Mrs. Craven remembered with joy that the letter which she had read, addressed to Ben Cameron, was dated a week later; it was a convincing proof of Frank's safety. "You are sure that it was the eighteenth?" "Yes, perfectly so," answered Sharpley, not, of course, seeing the drift of her question. "Did you find Frank's body?" asked Mrs. Craven, with less emotion than Sharpley expected from the nature of the question. "No," he answered, and immediately afterward wished he had said yes. "Then," said Mrs. Craven, "Frank may be alive." "Impossible!" exclaimed Mr. Craven and Sharpley in unison. "Why impossible?" "The precipice was too high; it was absolutely impossible that any one could have fallen from such a height and not lose his life." "But you did not find the body?" "Because I started for home the very next day to let you know what had happened. I left directions with a guide to search for and bury the body when found. He has doubtless done it. A letter from him may be on the way to me now announcing his success." "When you receive the letter you can show it to me," said Mrs. Craven, quietly. "Certainly," said Sharpley. Then he regretted that he had not, while in Europe, forged such a letter, or, failing this, that he had not positively declared that he had personally witnessed Frank's burial. This would have removed all difficulty. "I have not expressed my sympathy in your loss," said Sharpley; "but that is hardly necessary." "It is not at all necessary," said Mrs. Craven, "for I believe Frank to be alive." "How can you believe it," asked Sharpley, with difficulty repressing his irritation, "in the face of my testimony?" "You are not sure of Frank's death." "I am as sure as I can be." "I am not," said Mrs. Craven, quietly. "But, permit me to ask, how could he possibly escape from the consequences of such a fall?" "That I cannot explain; but there have been escapes quite as wonderful. I have a presentiment that Frank is alive." "I did not think you were so superstitious, my dear," said Mr. Craven. "Call it superstition if you please. With me it is conviction." Involuntarily the eyes of the two--Craven and Sharpley--met. There were irritation and perplexity in the expression of each. What could be done with such a perverse woman, so wholly inaccessible to reason? "Confound it!" thought Sharpley. "If I had foreseen all this trouble, I would have stayed and seen the brat under ground. Of all the unreasonable women I ever met, Mrs. Craven takes the palm." "I have not yet told the circumstances," he said, aloud. "Let me do so. You will then, probably, understand that your hopes have nothing to rest upon." He gave a detailed account, exaggerating the dangerous character of the cliff purposely. "What do you think now, my dear?" asked Mr. Craven. "I believe that Frank escaped. If he has, he will come home, sooner or later. I shall wait patiently. I must now beg to be excused." She rose from her chair, and left the room. "What do you think of that, Sharpley?" demanded Craven, when she was out of ear-shot. "Did I not tell you the truth?" "Yes, your wife is the most perverse, unreasonable woman it was ever my lot to encounter." "You see the difficulty of our position, don't you?" "As to the property?" "Yes. Of course, that's all I care for. Believing, as she does, that Frank is alive, she won't have his property touched." "It is a pity you are not the guardian, instead of your wife." "It is a thousand pities. But what can we do? I want your advice." Sharpley sat in silent thought for five minutes. "Will it answer if I show your wife a certificate from the guide that he has found and buried Frank?" "Where will you get such a certificate?" "Write it myself if necessary." "That's a good plan," said Craven, nodding. "Do you think she will resist the weight of such a document as that?" "I don't see how she can." "Then it shall be tried." Three days later, as soon as it was deemed prudent, Sharpley called again at the house. He had boarded meanwhile at the hotel in the village, comprehending very clearly that Mr. Craven was not at liberty to receive him as a guest. Mrs. Craven descended, at her husband's request, to meet the man whom she detested. She had received a second call from Ben, who, with all secrecy, showed her a line from Frank, to the effect that he was well, had found good friends, and should very shortly embark for America. It was an effort for the mother to conceal her joy, but she did so for the sake of expediency. "When I was last here, Mrs. Craven," said Sharpley, "you expressed doubt as to your son's death." "I did." "I wish you had had good reason for your doubt, but I knew only too well that there was no chance for his safety." "Well?" "I am now prepared to prove to you that he is dead." "How will you prove it?" "Read that, madame," he said, extending a paper. She took the paper extended to her, and read as follows: "HONORED SIR:--As you requested, I searched for the body of the poor boy who fell over the cliff. I found it concealed among some bushes at the bottom of the cliff. It was very much bruised and disfigured, but the face was less harmed than the body, so that we knew it at once. As you directed, I had it buried in our little cemetery. I will point out the grave to you when you come this way. "I hope what I have done will meet your approval, and I remain, honored sir, your servant, "BAPTISTE LAMOUREUX, "Alpine Guide." "That removes every doubt," said Mr. Craven, applying his handkerchief to his eyes. "Poor Frank!" "When did you receive this letter, Colonel Sharpley?" asked Mrs. Craven. "Yesterday." "It was written by a Swiss guide?" "Yes, madame." "He shows an astonishing knowledge of the English language," she said, with quiet meaning. "He probably got some one to write it for him," said Sharpley, hastily. "So I thought," she said, significantly. "What difference can that make, my dear?" demanded Mr. Craven. "It seems to me of no importance whether he wrote it himself, or some traveler for him. You can't doubt Frank's death now?" "I do." "Good heavens! What do you mean?" "I mean that I am confident that my boy is alive. No one can convince me to the contrary," and she rose and left the room. "The woman is mad!" muttered Sharpley. "So she is," said Craven, rubbing his hands, as an evil thought entered his mind. "She is the subject of a mad delusion. Now I see my way clear." "What do you mean?" "I mean this. I will obtain a certificate of her madness from two physicians, and have her confined in an asylum. Of course, a mad woman cannot control property. Everything will come into my hands, and all will be right." "You've hit it at last, Craven!" said Sharpley, with exultation. "That plan will work. We'll feather our nests, and then she may come out of the asylum, or stay there, it will be all the same to us." CHAPTER XXXVIII. RETRIBUTION. The two rogues lost no time in carrying out their villanous design. They thirsted for the gold, and were impatient to get rid of the only obstacle to its acquisition. Sharpley found two disreputable hangers-on upon the medical profession in the city of New York who, for twenty-five dollars a piece, agreed to pronounce Mrs. Craven insane. They came to the village, and were introduced to Mrs. Craven as business friends. The subject of Frank's loss was cunningly introduced, and she once more affirmed her belief in his safety. This was enough. An hour later, in Mr. Craven's office, the two physicians signed a paper certifying that his wife was insane. They received their money and went back to the city. The next day was fixed upon by the conspirators for taking Mrs. Craven to an insane asylum. Late the day previous a Cunard steamer arrived at its dock. Among the passengers were two of our acquaintances. One was Frank Hunter, our hero, sun-browned and healthy, heavier and taller, and more self-reliant than when, three months before, he sailed from the port of New York bound for Liverpool. The other no one can mistake. The blue coat and brass buttons, the tall and somewhat awkward form, the thin but shrewd and good-humored face, are those of Jonathan Tarbox, of Squashboro', State o' Maine. "Well, Frank, I'm tarnal glad to be here," said Mr. Tarbox. "It seems kind of nat'ral. Wonder what they'll say in Squashboro' when they see me come home a man of fortun'." "Your plow is a great success, Mr. Tarbox. You ought to be proud of it." "I be, Frank. My pardner says he wouldn't take twenty thousand for his half of the invention, but I'm satisfied with the ten thousand he gave me. I didn't never expect to be worth ten thousand dollars." "You'll be worth a hundred thousand before you're through." "Sho! you don't mean it. Any how, I guess Sally Sprague'll be glad she's going to be Mrs. Tarbox. I say, Frank we'll live in style. Sally shall sit in the parlor, and play on the pianner. She wouldn't have done that if she'd took up with Tom North. He's a shiftless, good-for-nothin' feller. But, I say, Frank, what'll your folks say to see you?" "Mother'll be overjoyed, but Mr. Craven won't laugh much. I hope," he added, gravely, "he hain't been playing any of his tricks on mother." "Do you think that skunk, Sharpley, has got back?" "I think he has, and it makes me anxious. Mr. Tarbox, will you do me a favor?" "Sartin, Frank." "Then, come home with me. I may need a friend." "I'll do it, Frank," said Jonathan, grasping our hero's hand. "Ef that skunk's round the neighborhood, I'll give him a piece of my mind." "Thank you," said Frank. "I am not afraid of him, but I am only a boy, and they might be too much for me. With you I have no cause to fear." They reached the village depot, and set out to walk. Frank met two or three friends, who looked upon him as one raised from the dead. He merely spoke and hurried on. When a few rods from the house, their attention was called to a woman, who was running up the street, without any covering upon her head, sobbing like one in distress. "Why, it's our Katy!" exclaimed Frank, in great agitation. "Good heavens! what can have happened?" "Katy!" he cried out. "Oh, Master Frank, is it you?" exclaimed Katy, laughing hysterically. "You're come in time. Run home as fast as ever you can." "Why, what's the matter?" demanded Frank, in great alarm. "Them rascals, Mr. Craven and Sharpley, pretend that your mother is crazy, just because she won't hear to your bein' dead, and they're takin' her to the crazy 'sylum. I couldn't stand it, and I run out to see if I couldn't get help." "The blamed skunk!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, swinging his arms threateningly. "Let me get a hold of him and he won't never know what hurt him." Meanwhile, Craven and Sharpley had forced Mrs. Craven into a close carriage, and they were just driving out of the yard when our hero and his friend rushed to the rescue. Mr. Tarbox sprang to the horses' heads and brought them to a stop, while Frank hurried to the door of the coach, which he pulled open. Inside were Mrs. Craven, her husband and Sharpley. They looked angrily to the door, but their dismay may be conceived when they met the angry face of one whom both believed to be dead. "Oh, Frank!" screamed Mrs. Craven. "You are come home at last." "Yes, mother. Let me help you out of the carriage." "You shall not go!" said Mr. Craven, desperately. "Frank, your mother's insane. We are taking her to the asylum. It is for her good." "Save me, Frank!" implored Mrs. Craven. "I will save you, mother," said Frank, firmly. "Drive on!" shouted Sharpley, savagely. "Look a here!" exclaimed a new voice, that of Jonathan Tarbox, who was now peeping into the carriage. "That is the skunk that tried to murder you." "What do you mean, fellow?" demanded Sharpley. "If you don't understand, come out and I'll lick it into you, you skunk! Tell your mother to come out, and let that skunk stop her if he dares!" and Mr. Tarbox coolly drew out a revolver and pointed it at Sharpley. "I'll get out, too," said Mr. Craven, faintly. "No, you won't. I've got a letter of yourn, written to that skunk, advisin' him to pitch Frank over a precipice." "It's a lie!" ejaculated Craven, pallid with fear. "It comes to the same thing," said Mr. Tarbox, coolly. "When he's tried for murder, you'll come in second fiddle." Sharpley saw his danger. Mr. Craven was already out of the carriage. He made a dash for the door, but found himself in Jonathan's powerful grasp. In a moment he was sprawling on his back in the yard. "Jest lie there till I tell you to get up," he said. By this time two neighbors--athletic farmers--entered the yard. Frank briefly explained the matter to them, and Mr. Tarbox asked their assistance to secure Sharpley and Craven. "Let me go, Frank. I'm your step-father," implored Craven. "If that man has attempted your life, I know nothing of it. Blame him; not me." "Oh, that is your game," said Sharpley, "you cowardly hound! You want to sell me and go scot-free yourself. Then, gentlemen, it becomes my duty to say that this man has no business here. At the time he married this boys mother he had a wife living in London." "It's a lie!" faltered Craven. "It's the truth. I saw her two months since, and so did the boy. You remember Mrs. Craven, whom you relieved?" "Yes," said Frank, in astonishment. "She is that man's wife." "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Frank. "Then my mother is free." "Moreover, he hired me to carry you abroad, with the understanding that you should not return, in order that he might enjoy your fortune." "You miserable snake in the grass!" exclaimed Mr. Tarbox, energetically. Mr. Craven, who was a coward at heart, was thoroughly overwhelmed at the revelations of his baseness, and made no resistance when taken into custody. Sharpley and he were closely confined until indictments could be found against them, and, to anticipate matters a little, were tried, convicted and sentenced to ten years in the State prison. It was found that Mr. Craven had squandered several thousand dollars belonging to his wife, but Frank's fortune was intact, and they indulged in no useless regrets for the money that was gone. Frank went back to school, where he remained until the next summer, when he induced his mother to visit Europe under his guidance. They visited his friends, the Grosvenors, by whom they were cordially received. They went to Switzerland, where Mrs. Hunter (Craven no longer), beheld, with a shudder, the scene of her son's fall and escape. Some years have now elapsed. Frank is a young man, and junior partner in a prosperous New York firm. He is not married, but rumor has it that next fall he is to visit London for the purpose of uniting his fortunes to those of Beatrice Grosvenor, whose early fancy for our hero has ripened into a mature affection. It is probable that Mr. Grosvenor will be induced, after his daughter's marriage, to establish himself in New York, in order to be near her. Frank's mother still lives, happy in the goodness and the prosperity of her son. She has improved in health, and is likely to live many years, an honored member of Frank's household. Our Yankee friend, Jonathan Tarbox, is one of the magnates of Squashboro', State o' Maine. He and his partner have built a large manufactory, from which plows are turned out by hundreds and thousands annually. He is now Squire Tarbox, and Sally Sprague has changed her last name for one beginning with T. I should not be surprised to see him a member of Congress, or Governor of Maine some time. Frank has settled a pension upon the real Mrs. Craven, who will probably never see her husband again, as he is reported in poor health, and not likely to leave the prison alive. Sharpley succeeded in effecting his escape, and it is not known where he has taken refuge. Ben Cameron is a trusted clerk in Frank's employ, and our hero will take care that his old school friend prospers. Though his path lies in sunshine, Frank is not likely to forget the peril from which he so narrowly escaped. THE END. -------------------------------------------- Transcriber's Notes: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Punctuation has been silently corrected. Archaic and variable spelling have been preserved. Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
34942	----	SCAMPING TRICKS AND ODD KNOWLEDGE OCCASIONALLY PRACTISED UPON PUBLIC WORKS. CHRONICLED FROM THE CONFESSIONS OF SOME OLD PRACTITIONERS. BY JOHN NEWMAN, ASSOC. M. INST. C.E., AUTHOR OF 'EARTHWORK SLIPS AND SUBSIDENCES UPON PUBLIC WORKS'; 'NOTES ON CONCRETE AND WORKS IN CONCRETE'; 'IRON CYLINDER BRIDGE PIERS'; 'QUEER SCENES OF RAILWAY LIFE.' E. & F. N. SPON, 125, STRAND, LONDON. NEW YORK: 12, CORTLANDT STREET. 1891. PREFACE. The following pages have been written with the view to record a few scamping tricks occasionally practised upon public works, and to name some methods founded on practical experience adopted by sub-contractors and others to cheaply and quickly execute work. All who have had the direction or charge of an extensive or even comparatively insignificant public enterprise will agree that it is impossible for a resident or contractor's engineer to know the manner in which everything is proceeding on his division, and in some measure he is compelled to rely upon others; nevertheless, it is quite as important to ascertain that the work is carried out according to the specification and drawings as to elaborate a perfect specification and then have to partly leave the execution to the care of the beneficent fairies. If a finger-post has been correctly pointed in the direction in which a favourable field for scamping tricks may exist, the author's object in writing this book will have been attained. To the less experienced, the incidents and scrap-knowledge described may be more particularly useful, and on consideration it was thought that the conversational tone adopted would best expose the subject and indicate the ethics of somewhat conscience-proof sub-contractors and workmen, and also the way in which their earnest endeavours to practise the science of scamping may be exercised upon materials and under circumstances not especially referred to herein. J. N. LONDON, 1891. CONTENTS. PAGE CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION 1 CHAPTER II. SCREW PILES--GENERAL CONSIDERATION--MANIPULATION FOR "EXTRA PROFIT" 3 CHAPTER III. SCREW PILES--DETAILS 13 CHAPTER IV. IRON PILES--ARRANGEMENT--DRIVING--SINKING BY WATER-JET 25 CHAPTER V. TIMBER PILES--PILE-DRIVING--GENERAL CONSIDERATION 32 CHAPTER VI. TIMBER PILES--MANIPULATION FOR "EXTRA" PROFIT 42 CHAPTER VII. MASONRY BRIDGES 53 CHAPTER VIII. TUNNELS 61 CHAPTER IX. CYLINDER BRIDGE PIERS 69 CHAPTER X. DRAIN PIPES--BLASTING, AND POWDER-CARRIAGE 76 CHAPTER XI. CONCRETE--PUDDLE 85 CHAPTER XII. BRICKWORK--TIDAL WARNINGS--PIPE JOINTS--DREDGING 93 CHAPTER XIII. PERMANENT WAY 103 CHAPTER XIV. "EXTRA" MEASUREMENTS--TOAD-STOOL CONTRACTORS--TESTIMONIALS 114 CHAPTER XV. MEN AND WAGES--"SUB" FROM THE WOOD--A SUB-CONTRACTOR'S SCOUT AND FREE TRAVELLER 121 SCAMPING TRICKS AND ODD KNOWLEDGE OCCASIONALLY PRACTISED UPON PUBLIC WORKS. CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTION. "Take this letter to my old partner as quickly as you can. Wait for an answer, and come back straight." "All right, sir." "Now, my wife, when my old partner arrives, leave the room. I want the coast clear as I am going to talk and have a sort of mutual confession of some tricks and dodges we have played and learned during the last forty years or so to get a bit 'extra' on the quiet; and forty years knocking about with your eyes bound to be on full glare ought to teach one a thing or two, and they have. They have! Yes; and I have been in the swim. "Stir up the fire, if only to keep things all alike and as hot as possible; and put a couple of glasses handy, and some water and.... "So you've got back. Where is the letter?" "Have got no letter, sir; but it is all right; your old partner will be round about 7 o'clock and will stay till he is turned out, so he said." "Oh! I am glad." "Why, sir, he is knocking now." "So he is." "Here I am, old chap, what's the matter?" "I feel pasty, but am better now you have come. Bring your chair near the fire. Well, I want to talk to you on the quiet very badly. It will do me good, and I am sure it will not be long before the white muslin is spread over me and I'm still in death. You've come to stop?" "Yes, as long as you like." "That is good, and I am glad and feel better now you have said it. Before I begin, taste our home-brewed elder. It's all right, for my wife was a cook, but it's a long time ago; and between you and me, my profits don't run to providing her with as large an assortment of materials as she says is necessary to keep her fairly up to art in the cookery department." "That is very good--the best I have tasted. Well, what is it, old partner? Shake fins." "It's to talk over old times, and the tricks and dodges we have played, and known others do, to get 'extra' profit on the different works we have been." "A kind of confession?" "That's it. Don't laugh. I can't help it now." "I understand you. Start the fun, and I will follow." "We can talk pretty to each other, and lucky the young master is not here, for he would think that we are as bad as old Nick himself; still, we have not done many tricks for some time, and could, perhaps, put him up to a thing or two concerning the execution of work." "Very likely; but we are all tarred with the same brush; it's only a question of quantity and thickness and what colour the paint is." "I suppose we are bound to work up an excuse somehow or other; and if I moralize a bit tender at first, by way of a diversion, you won't mind, for it is part of the stock in trade of such rare old sharks as us, and I will cut it as short and tasty as I can. "I was brought up right, like you; and many a time have had my shoulder patted by the good folks and been told not to think of myself too much, and to remember the feelings of others. In my salad days, you know, I used to think whether or not it was coming it rough on chaps, innocent unborn babes that will have to work in the next century, should the world hold out till then, putting in too strong work, and said to myself, Is it acting kindly towards them? No, I said, it is not treating them right to give them so much trouble to make alterations. I won't call them repairs and additions, nor improvements. I soon humbugged myself into thinking it was not being really benevolent to those who will have to work when we are all lying flat, and I hope quiet--but there, of course, such thoughts hardly make one act honestly; however, I have done moralizing now, and perhaps it ill becomes me, and I will have no more of it or it may stop my tongue. Now to business, and I am going to speak pretty freely." CHAPTER II. SCREW PILES. General Consideration--Manipulation for "extra" profit. "You want to know my experiences with screw piles first." "Yes." "They do very well when the water is not deep and the ground loose sand, silty sand, or sandy fine gravel, and nothing else; and I prefer disc piles for sand, provided the water power can be easily obtained. "The whole area of a screw blade is often taken as bearing support; but I doubt if it should be, for it is not a bared foundation--that is, one you can see and know the character of, as in a cylinder pier, for instance; but some appear to assume it is, and then claim that a lot of metal is saved and the same or more bearing obtained. The screw blade may always be right and it may not be, and no one positively knows; because no one can see whether it is down straight, turned, or broken, but the difference between the actual and the breaking strain comes to the rescue. "Still, it is no certainty that the screw blade is resting upon the same soil, and even if it does it may not receive the load in a vertical line, and may be strained more upon one side than another. And how about the rusting of the blade, for it is thin, and seldom more than half an inch at the ends and two and a half at the pile shaft, and nearly all surface? In a cylinder pier the hearting is placed on the bared ground, and you know it is there, and it cannot rust, that's certain. I don't see the good of iron rings above a few feet higher than highest flood level, for after the hearting is set, if it be of Portland cement concrete, you can give it a coating of nearly neat Portland cement. However, we are talking about screw piles. "I have seen screw piles screwed into soft ground for fully fifteen feet, and they seemed quite right, and yet when they were loaded they vanished. I have also known them to be twisted about something like a corkscrew, and to be impossible to get down at all when they have reached a hard layer of gravel, and nearly so when they met with a streak of hard stiff clay. Sometimes they are overscrewed, and made to penetrate somehow or other; and I remember once, when they were loaded for testing and were thought to be right, a washout occurred at one place, owing to a mistake in dredging, and the piles, although they screwed, were found to be twisted about into all sorts of shapes, and at the bottom were turned up a trifle and never went down more than a few feet, and while it was thought we were screwing them down we were screwing part of them aside. They were small solid wrought-iron piles. It is well not to forget that sand varies very much; for it is found nearly everywhere, and may be anything from large hard angular deposit that will bind, to little round mites easily blown away, and it is mixed with pretty well everything; and therefore sand is a thing you must be careful with before you take it to be just the thing for watersunk disc piles or screw piles, and you ought to know all about it. Well, assuming that it is right, and the soil will not become jammed in the screw blade, it is always advisable to try whether the sand grains will roll well together and do not wedge; for you want sand, if it is to be nice for pile sinking, just the reverse of sand for mortar or concrete, for that with round grains is the kind to screw in and not that with sharp angular grains, and if it is slimy, so much the better--just the opposite of that for mortar or concrete. "The soil must be loose, and if it is silty so much the better. Don't undertake to screw piles into hard and compact sand, gravel, stiff clay, or where there are boulders in the ground or streaks or layers of soil of which you hardly know the character. If you do, good-bye to profit from any screwing, and may be to the screw blades, and your fishes must be got out of 'extras' by omitting a length, smashing a screw blade, or short screwing. Be careful to be paid for all piles you have screwed down directly you have done them, and take no maintenance; for I have known a ship drift, or a gale arise, and sweep away the unbraced piles like sticks, and if you are only paid when you have finished screwing a cluster of them, where are you then, and who's which? Suppose you have nearly fixed a cluster of piles, they will say you ought to have braced them at once, and you will be charged for breakages, and not be paid for having screwed them. You may talk as long as you like, and say, How could I get them all braced when the piles must be screwed separately? You will only be told that is your look-out, and that you knew the terms of the contract and must have considered any risk in the prices. So I bar injury from waves or wind, earthquakes and shakes, collisions from vessels or other floating or moving substances; and believe the last to cover all fishes, from sea-serpents, whales, porpoises, and sprats, to balloons, stray air-balls, wreckage, and mermaids; and it gives you a chance of wriggling out of squalls with an I'm-so-sorry-at-your-loss sort of countenance. "You have to think over the staging. Fixed staging may be out of the question because of the expense; then you must either screw from the finished end of the pier as you proceed with the work, or from a floating stage, but you may not be able to get sufficient power to screw the piles from any moored floating stage. The shore piles of a pier may screw easily, but when you get out in the sea fixed staging may soon be smashed, and in that case you are compelled to do it from the end of the finished portion of the pier. There is a good deal of uncertainty, as you can judge, and you want to well consider whether and how you can get the power cheaply to screw the piles. "The idea of the screw pile was that it should easily enter the ground and push aside any obstruction in its descent without much disturbance of the soil, with the ultimate object of obtaining, by reason of the screw blade, a strong resistance to upward and downward strain. Well, it is all right if the whole of the blade bears equally upon the soil and the earth is of the same character; but if it is not, the strain upon the screw blade is unequal, and it will sooner or later crack or break; and except in any earth like fine sand or silt and all of one kind, I should be sorry to say that the whole area of the blade does the work as I said before. And here comes in the value of an allowance of extra strength, for you cannot tell how much it has been weakened by corrosion, nor can you inspect, paint, or do anything to the screws when they are down. If I was engineer of an iron pile structure, I should have a few piles screwed at convenient places independently of the pier, but near to it, and have, say, one or two taken up every few years--say every seven or ten--just to have a look to see how matters seemed to be, and have a piece of the iron analysed, and compare it with the original analysis; and I should take care the piles were all the same quality of metal, so that the makers should not get up to fun at the foundry. "The piles have to bear a heavy twisting strain during screwing; and take my advice, always see that the joint flanges are not light, for when piles break in screwing, they usually fail at the flanges. What I have learned shows me it is a great mistake to have the screws of very large diameter, so as to have few of them; let the blades be small rather than large, and they are best for screwing when of moderate size, and are also likely to be sounder metal. There is not the same risk of breaking them in screwing, and you may be able to screw a small blade when a big one would be smashed, and besides it is as well to have the load distributed as much as possible. A screw pile shaft should not be a thin casting because of the strain upon it in screwing, and it should be thicker on this account than a disc pile, but the latter will not do for any soils except those named before. I have known screw piles to penetrate hard and dense sand, gravel, soft sandy ground, limy gravel, loose silt, limy clay ground something like marl, stiff mud, chalk, clay, marl, and all kinds of water-deposited soil, and in almost every earth except firm rock, but it is not advisable to use them for anything much harder than fine sandy gravel, for the blades must then be strained very much and the pile and screw may be injured. It is not using them rightly, or for the purpose for which they were designed, and another system of foundations should be used except under special circumstances. "Don't attempt to screw piles into ground having boulders in it. It is always difficult to penetrate, as also is spongy mud and stiff tenacious clay. In any ground harder than loose sand, silty and alluvial soil screwing is not easy, and you cannot say what it will cost to obtain the necessary power to screw. As regards that kind of screwing I always feel so benevolent that I like some one else to do it. Do you understand?" "Yes; when you know a loss looks more likely than profit." "If you like to put it that way it is not in me to object. I'm too polite. Saying 'yes' and agreeing with every one, gets you a nice character as an agreeable man, whereas you are a big fraud and a high old liar." "Parliamentary language, please; no matter what you think." "All right, then. You know what pure sand is?" "You mean quite clean angular grains, and hard, too, like broken-up quartz rock?" "Yes. Well, avoid it for screw piles, for then it is very difficult to screw them to any considerable depth. You can't displace the sand enough. It wedges and binds almost like rock." "You mean it wedges up, and will not move?" "That's near enough. Well, avoid clean, sharp, angular sand and shingle gravel as much as you can, and take screwing in dirty sand instead. I mean round-grained dirty sand with some clay upon it, or sandy gravel. What is wanted is something to separate the particles of the soil and act like grease so as to make them roll and not compress and become bound. You can't be too careful about this." "I will put that down in my note-book so as not to forget it." "To save bother, be sure to ascertain whether the work is in rough ground; and if you are abroad see that about five per cent. is allowed for breakages of all kinds, or the piles may run short. "I have seen piles screwed into a kind of clay rock seam, the end of the pile was made like a saw, toothed, in fact, and stiffened from the bottom to the underside of the screw blade with ribs shaped to cut the ground as the pile was turned, and I doubt if they could have been screwed without. They seemed to steady the pile; but care must be taken when there is a projecting end and it is tapered to a less diameter than the pile shaft, as generally is the case, that the axis is true, or the pile will not screw vertically. "Once I had to screw a few wrought-iron unpointed piles with a small screw blade made of angle iron fixed _inside_ as well as the large screw blade outside. The outside blade was about 4 feet in diameter, and of half-inch plate, the inside blade projected about 3-1/2 inches, and both blades had the same pitch; but the engineer, after having tried a few, discontinued having an inside screw, and said he thought it even arrested progress, because it interfered with the internal excavation. The experience we had with them was against their use, and they seemed to make the screwing harder, and no one was able to discover any advantage in them, although they did all they knew to flatter the novelty. "Now a word as to cast or wrought-iron for screw piles. The question of relative corrosion can be decided at some scientific institution, and there will be hot fighting over that between the cast-iron and the wrought-iron partisans. I merely refer to screwing cast or wrought-iron screw piles into the ground. As regards the blade of the screw, it should be as stiff as possible, and therefore cast-iron is better than wrought-iron, also cheaper; and although a cast-iron screw will break easily, a wrought-iron blade will buckle and bend and give. To me, cast-iron blades seem somewhat easier to screw, if they are good clean castings. I have screwed wrought-iron piles or columns when they have been fixed to cast-iron screws, but in any case when the piles must be long, to have them of cast-iron is my wish. Solid wrought-iron piles can be obtained of a long length, but the price increases, and when they are long and of small diameter, as they must be, they are difficult to screw in a desired direction." "What do you think of solid piles as against hollow ones?" "Well, I heard a discussion between two engineers about it, and they agreed that solid piles only do for little or medium heights, and I asked one to write a line or two for my guidance, and this is what he dashed off. Read it." "No. Read it to me." "Well, it runs:--'In designing solid piles it should be remembered that the strength of solid round columns to resist torsion, torsional _strength_ (he means strength against twisting strain) is as the cubes of their diameters, therefore a solid round bar 4 inches in diameter will bear eight times the torsional strain of a bar 2 inches, the lengths being the same.'" "How's that?" "Why, 2 � 2 � 2 = 8, 4 � 4 � 4 = 64, and 64/8 = 8." "I understand." "In the case of hollow columns, the exterior diameter must be cubed, and the cube of the interior diameter deducted from it when the relative values of different-sized columns can be compared. For transmitting motion, and here torsional _stiffness_ is referred to, the resistance of shafts of equal stiffness is proportional to the fourth power of their diameters. A 2-inch shaft will transmit 16 times the force which would be transmitted by a 1-inch shaft without being twisted through a greater angle. When the height of the pile is considerable the diameter should be relatively larger, in order that the metal may not be subject to severe torsional strain. So don't forget the piles should be of large and not small diameter, or you may have trouble in screwing them." "You remember old Bill Marr?" "Rather, who did the iron pilework on the Shore Railway. I should think I did, for old Spoil'em, we called him, and I were in 'Co.' together more than once." "Oh! you were, were you?" "Yes. Well, there is not much to be got that way unless it is soft ground for a good depth and the piles are long and the range of tide considerable, then you may pick an odd plum now and again by a bit of useful forgetfulness. I mean this way:--By using an odd making-up length or two instead of the right length, and getting it fixed on the quiet just as the tide is rising, then you have a nice peaceful few hours in which to get the joint well covered and down before next low water; but it wants some management to keep the coast clear, and you can't do very much at it--still little fish are sweet. One day I was nearly caught at the game of 'extra' profit, and as we had only just begun, of course at the shore end, it would have been awkward for me if I had been found out, and I might have been ordered change of air and scene by the engineer. It happened like this, the piles had been going down very easily, and acting up to the principle of making hay while the sun shines, I had a couple of short lengths put on six of them. We were screwing them in triangles, so one I got to right length, and two did not find the same home, because they could not, not being long enough. I dodged the lengths so that the joints were all right for the bracing above low water. Now the road was clear, so I ordered a new length to be put on all of them before the tide turned, and that each of them was to be down 3 feet or so before the tide began falling to allow them to set, and told them that then they were to proceed as before. Now, I consider the chap that first went in for making up lengths was born right and with an eye to business and nicked profits. We were working two triangles of screw piles I thought lovely, and said, innocent-like, to my ganger, 'Get the joint of each one down say 3 feet below low-water mark so as to protect it, for no joint is so strong as the solid pile, and then you can screw them down till all the tops are level and right for the bracing.' Of course they said nothing, and I am sure never thought anything or wanted to do, too much trouble. It is not my place to teach them, either." "No, certainly not; there you are right." "Well, somehow or other, the ground turned hard, or we got into a streak of compact gravel. I did not trouble further about the piles after I had given orders, as the tide had started rising and the joints were well covered. It was rather an up and down shore. I felt certain in a few hours none of them could be seen except by divers, so I had a bit of business on shore which took me nearly two hours before I got back on the work. My ganger said, 'I am glad you have come back, because they stick; I have tried to get the lot down, but not one has screwed in more than a foot.' That was not exactly what I wanted, and said, 'Why, the long ones went down easily?' 'Yes,' said my ganger, 'but they were at the point of the triangle, and these others are all on one line or nearly so, and have struck hard ground.' I will cut it short, although it got exciting, for it was a race between screwing and, I might say, banging them in, and the tide that was going down; and I was clocking and measuring, and hot and cold, according as the race went, as I thought they would find me out; but I was left pretty well alone, as they cared much more about inspecting the piles than knowing how they were screwed down, besides the engineer was very busy with a lot of groynes and ticklish work improving the harbour channel. However, we just managed; but it made me feverish, and I expect the blades, if they could be seen, are not exactly as when they left the foundry; but there, there is a good deal in pilework that has to be taken on trust, it is not like a foundation you can see and walk upon if so minded. Still, screw piles are all right for some soils, but I like disc piles better for sand, those that sink by water-pressure I mean. I don't think there is the same fear of the disc being broken as there is in the case of the screw, and the sinking is so easy and soft that no parts get strained as in screwing, but the ground must be soft, or there may be a bother. "After this shave from being bowled out, I always took care to dodge in a short one, now and then, when I knew the ground must be right, and I never got scared again. It was lucky, too, that a good many of the lengths varied, as on most jobs they are all the same, except the making-up lengths, and then down they all have to go unless a whole length can be left out when a seam of hard soil is reached, and that is not often the case, and there is not much chance of a bit of 'extras' that way on the quiet. I have known the game of 'extra' profit carried to breaking off a screw blade purposely, but I draw the line before I come to that." "Do you? I should not have thought it, as you don't mind cutting off the heads of timber piles, so you have promised to tell me." "That is a different material and consequently requires different treatment. You understand? Let me also tell you, I once heard a big Westminster engineer say, 'Timber we understand, iron we know a good deal about, and steel also; but we have plenty to find out yet both in the manufacture and use of nearly all metals,' or something like that, he said. "I acted up to that; and always say to myself, We understand timber, and know how to treat it--and so I don't mind cutting it, as I know what I am about with it, although I represent unskilled more than skilled labour. Metals are different goods, and it wants skilled labour to tackle them nicely." "There you are right." "Yes, different goods. So, following the lead of the engineer, I leave the iron piles as delivered, as we have yet something to learn about the metal; and things that I don't know much about I avoid as much as possible, and consequently there are good grounds for getting in some short lengths as occasion offers, just to have as little to do with the material that you don't know much about and that is a bit mysterious in its behaviour. So I lessen the handling of it, and shorten the lengths, and so increase the odds against the chance of it not turning out as one thought it would; and I ought to be thanked for it, I consider. You look a bit puzzled. I tell you, you are getting thick, and want fresh pointing up to sharpen you. Listen to me. Now, suppose you buy a dozen eggs, and you think and know, on the average, at the price two are bad; you take one away and find it's bad, then you have 11 to 1 odds as against 12 to 2 or 6 to 1, and there can't be so much chance of another bad one turning up so quickly. If you don't understand my meaning I can't make you. There may or may not be a different application of explaining the egg business, but mine is what I mean you to take, and I don't intend to bother about any one else. You are younger than I thought you were, or your brain is all of a tangle." "Wait a minute. All right. I understand now; you lessen the chances of failure and the extent of it when it occurs by having a little less to do with goods that are made of material no one seems to knows everything about." "Now you have it. Shake fins. Glad we have worked on to the right road again, as it looked like a collision just now." CHAPTER III. SCREW PILES. Details. "Now for some details. "Solid piles are usually from 4 to 8 inches in diameter, and hollow cast-iron from 10 to 30 inches, and generally 10 to 20 inches. Avoid any cast-iron screw piles that are less than half an inch in thickness. When they are from 1/12th to 1/18th of the diameter is perhaps the best, according as their length is little or great; but of course they have to be of a thickness that will stand the load, and what is the best foundry practice should not be forgotten. "Now as to the blade of the screw. If of wrought-iron, which seems to me the wrong material for that purpose, it should not be less than half an inch in thickness; if of cast-iron, as usually is the case, the thickness of the blade of the screw at the pile shaft should be about 1·25 to 1·50 that of the column, and at the edge not less than half an inch, and it should taper equally on both sides, and care be taken that the metal is the very best and so cast as to ensure uniformity and strength. "All sizes of screws from twice to six times the diameter of the pile when hollow I have screwed, but the best are from 2 to 1 to 3 to 1, and when they are more than 4 to 1 it is to be feared they will break before they can be made to penetrate far enough to say nothing about. Solid piles with screws four to seven times the diameter of pile I have also fixed, and 5 to 1 to 6 to 1 is quite large enough; but the kind of ground and the depth to which they must be got down should govern the size and the pitch. The greatest depth, apart from imagination for measurement, to which I have ever screwed a pile is about 25 feet. Without special tackle I have made a 2 feet in diameter screw penetrate hard clay, dense sand, and other hard soil from 8 to as much as 17 feet; but then 10 to 15 feet is deep enough, for there is such a thing as overscrewing. A 3 to 4 feet in diameter screw I have fixed all depths from 10 to 20 feet in ordinary sand, clay, and sandy gravel. A 4 feet to as large as a 5 feet screw, which great size should only be used for soft soils, from 15 to 25 feet, and the most usual depth is about 15 feet, and hardly ever above 20 feet. "A 9 feet 6 inches screw blade has been used on a 7 feet in diameter cylinder, but that is the largest I have heard of, but then it only projected 2 feet 6 inches beyond the column. Five feet is usually about the largest, and is only used for very soft soils. When more than that size they are unwieldy and very liable to be broken, and if the screws are fixed to a shaft and have to be shipped they are awkward things, and the freight becomes expensive. For hard soil, and that which will not compress nicely, about 2 to 3 feet is large enough for the diameter of the screw, and 3 to 5 feet for soft soils. The pitch of the screw is generally from one-third to one-seventh of the outside diameter of the blade. It varies according to the hardness and softness of the ground and is steeper as it becomes harder. When the pitch is increased the effect of the power applied to screw it is reduced, therefore the steeper or greater the pitch the harder the screwing. "Piles can be screwed with a small pitch when sufficient power cannot be obtained to make a steep-pitched screw penetrate. Piles with a single turn of the screw, it seems to me, are the best, although the double-threaded screw may be right in soft marshy ground; but the usefulness of a double thread is doubtful, for I believe it breaks up the ground for no good, although some state that the screw threads work in parallel lines, and that a double-threaded screw is steadier; for they say a single-threaded pile is always likely to turn on the outside edge of the blade, and that the double-threaded is not, as it has a lip on both sides. "Generally the screw has rather more than one entire turn round the pile, and when it is below the ground each side of the blade steadies the other, for the turns range from one to about two. Sometimes the edge of the blade is notched like a saw; but it is a question whether the saw-edge blade will screw into ground that an ordinary blade will not, and until it is proved by experiment it can only be a matter of opinion; but there is one thing to consider, a saw-cut edge blade may to some extent wedge the soil between the teeth; still, I have used them, and they penetrated thin limestone, chalk, and compact gravel seams. Instead of double threads, double points are the thing, and all screw piles should have a point of some kind. For soft ground, a single gimlet, and a double for hard soils, and I have noticed what I call a double gimlet point is best for keeping a pile in the required position, as each point prevents the other departing from a correct line. By points I mean the ends are spread out about 3 to 4 inches on each side of the axis of pile like spiral cutters. "Unless it is certain the ground is easy and uniform, a pile with a screw having one turn to two turns for bearing purposes, and two, three, or four solid inclined screw-threads projecting about three-quarters of an inch with two end spiral cutters as just named, is my desire, or in addition to the bearing blade a single-turn thread of about 3 to 4 inches projection and the same kind of point; then unless it will screw, none will. They are less trouble when cast in one piece with the pile; but not for transport or shipping, or foreign work generally, because to be able to detach the screws is an advantage in many ways, such as packing, defects, breakages, carriage, and I think the castings are better when the blade is not cast on the pile. It may also happen that a rocky bed is unexpectedly encountered, then the pile is useless with the screw, but might be fixed firmly in Portland cement without the blade in a hole made in the rock. At the top of the screw blade seat in which a pile has to be fixed there should be a wrought-iron ring about half to three-quarters of an inch in thickness, and not less than 2 inches in width, to relieve any strain on the casting. It may be put on hot, so as to cool sufficiently tight but not strain the casting. A firm and even bearing for the pile on the socket seat is important, and it should fit accurately. "I have heard of screw piles in which the blade was made of two or more separate segments so as to obtain, it was supposed, equal pressure all round, and to ease screwing, but rather fancy they might be inclined to jam the ground, as they would be not unlike a lot of very large round saw teeth. They may be right, but it has to be proved they will screw where a plain blade will not, provided the latter pile has double cutter-points to steady it. "Give me a screw blade not more than about 2 feet from the points, and not one with a blade 10 feet or so above the points and say from 5 to 6 feet in the ground, for then, should the screw work at all crooked and the pile be not exactly upright at the commencement of screwing, it is no easy task to get it to stand vertically upon applying the power, because such piles are generally long and slender, and shift about until the blade is screwed. They want careful and constant guidance. Of course, the idea of placing the screw a little way down is that when the ground bears as well at that place as at the point, and there is no scour, it is no use putting the bearing blade lower. That is right; but then it always occurs to me to ask what is the use of anything below the bearing level if the foundation be protected from scour, for a thin pile by itself has little lateral strength. "Of course, you are bound to make out a pile requires a lot of screwing or you will be considered as making too much profit, but always take care to watch how the first pile screws, and measure the distance every few minutes. What the ground is can then be judged, and you will be able to think out things for 'extra' profit. It causes me a lot of consideration sometimes, but after a struggle I generally manage to think rightly for my pocket, and work it all serene. What a beautiful sharpener of one's brain 'extras' are! "It is not always an experimental pile is screwed so as to judge of the distance the permanent piles should penetrate, and therefore a guess has to be made from the experience of screw piles under the same conditions of screwing and in the same soil. There is a good deal of chance about it, for although the soil may be of the same general character it often varies in hardness; and that is where the bother is, for it makes the 'extras' to be wrong way about for some time. What I do then is to work the oracle, and try to make out the screw blades will be broken or injured for certain if I am compelled to screw them as ordered, and I work on the proverb that equal support is not to be obtained at a uniform depth when the ground varies, which is true; and I state that the resistance is different and offer to screw on, but say am afraid the blade may be broken, and in that how-kind-I-am-to-consider-your-interests sort of way generally manage to obtain a bit 'extra,' or save something that would have been loss, and get the pile measured at once for a making-up length, and really without damaging any one, for if the ground is harder at one place than at another there is no occasion to go so deep, always provided scour is not to be feared. So I am pleased, and it does not hurt them. "Now for a hint or two on screwing piles. I shall not refer to the columns above the ground, but to the bearing piles below, i.e., the part that has to be screwed into the ground. However, I will just say that upon the top of some of the columns the usual hinged shoes of bearing-blocks should be placed to receive the ends of the girders, and by that means the pressure on the columns will be on the centre of the pile, and allowance be made for expansion and contraction, and that is important. "Fixed staging is far the best from which to screw piles, but the chances must be considered of its being swept away by floods in a river, or smashed by the sea, and on any exposed coast there may not be time to construct it during the working season, so as to give a sufficient number of days for screwing operations. When a fixed stage cannot be erected, or the work be done from the end of a finished pier, pontoons or rafts are then a makeshift, but care must be taken that they do not break from the moorings. A couple of pontoons well braced together will do with a space between them to screw the pile, but in a steady or shallow river, perhaps making a timber stage upon the shore and floating it out can be done if a centre pile is fixed on the bed of the river to be certain it is in the right position when grounded. The staging must be equally weighted to make it sink, and arrangements made so that it can be floated away at any time if necessary. "Piles can also be fixed in a medium depth of water by ordinary gantries, but if they are in the sea the road on the staging should be kept from 12 to 15 feet above high water on an open sea coast or the inclined struts and ties and rail tops as well are very likely to be destroyed, and it is also advisable to construct the flooring of the stage so that it can be easily taken away in case of storms. The stage piles also require to be well stiffened by struts, transoms, diagonals, and capping sills. I have screwed piles from a floor that has been suspended from staging by chains and ropes to the height wanted, and when lowered it was fixed temporarily and as many guides as possible were made for the piles. Perhaps as good a way as any is to fix, say four guide piles having a space between them a shade larger than the outside dimensions of the screw blade and braced to the rest of the stage, and after the screw is in position and ready for screwing in the ground, place, say a couple of frames, one at top and one as low as possible between the guide piles, about an eighth of an inch more than the outside dimension of the pile shaft, for then the pile is kept in its right position as it is screwed. The guide frames should be at about every 10 or 15 feet of the height above the ground, and at some point between the capstan level and the ground. Should it be a tidal river, fix guide booms if a properly made iron frame cannot be placed, and remember the more a pile is guided the easier it is to screw, and especially so at the start. "The size and strength of the staging must be regulated according to the power available for screwing the piles, but the length of the lever arms and the capstan bars require a space in which to revolve, from, say, 35 to 60 feet square. No timber stage is immovable, for the wood yields. It is well to have two floors in a stage if it does not cost too much, and there is plenty of tackle and a lot of screwing to do; say, one fixed above high-water level and the other about half tide in order to obtain double power, and sufficient power to screw the piles cannot sometimes be otherwise secured. A word about floating stages. With them it is not easy to make a pile screw vertically unless the ground is uniform, and should a pile meet a boulder it will most probably be forced out of position. According to the power required--which really means the nature of the ground, as the harder the soil the harder the screwing--the form of the pile and the depth to which it has to be screwed, so must be the size and strength of the raft, pontoon, or lighter, and the moorings must hold it tightly. In some places a screw cannot be fixed from a floating stage, for the water may nearly always be too disturbed, and the pontoons may sway too much, for in all cases men, horses, or bullocks must have a steady footing, and screwing machinery also requires a firm base. Unless the moorings are very secure the platform will be unsteady. Its level should be as little above the water as practicable for work, so as to keep the point of resistance and that at which the screwing power is applied as near together as possible, and the lower the pontoon the less it rolls. It does not matter much what craft is used so long as it is broad and steady and not high, as a platform or deck must be made upon it in any case. To do any good with floating stages the power required should be little, and the ground soft and uniform, for sufficient force to screw may not be obtainable from a floating body, and in hard soil it may only be possible to screw piles a little way down and not to a sufficient depth for the load they will have to bear. "Of course, vertical pile screwing is the easiest, and to try to screw them at a greater angle than 63°, or about 1/2 to 1, is unadvisable, and may not succeed, and even if they do it is too steep to be nice. 1 in 10 to 1 in 20 for raking piles is enough; for if they have to carry girder ends, the more the batter the greater the strain on the pile, and the same during screwing. "Sometimes in loose soil it is difficult to start screwing, and then a good plan is to cast some clay or solid earth round the pitch; it steadies the pile and will probably make it bite properly, or a heavy weight placed on the pile may make it catch hold of the ground; if not, a few blows from a ram may do it. As a hollow pile penetrates, the core requires to be removed, so as to help it to descend. If it is not large enough for boys to get inside, scoops and tackle can be used. Water forced down makes sand boil round the screw blade, and when the pile is empty the unbalanced head of water outside relieves the pile and the screw blade from some of the surface friction. If water pressure cannot be used, the water inside the pile should be removed either by pumps or buckets so as to help to loosen the ground. "Piles do not generally screw to the full pitch, but when a pile descends _more_ than the pitch at the last turn, it can be considered the weight of the pile is too great for the ground. The slip usually increases according to the yielding or plastic nature of the soil, and the depth to which the pile is screwed. When water reaches such soils the slip is increased, but not perceptibly in sand and loose grained soils. Suppose the full pitch is 9 inches. The slip may be anything from about 1 inch to as much as 4 inches. By watching the way in which the screw penetrates, and whether it descends about the same distance _each_ turn, or regularly decreases, it can be judged whether the bite of the screw is right. Some slip will generally take place, therefore note at first how much it is, and consider whether it will not churn up the ground, for if the screw blade turns on nearly the same lines, the bite will be gradually destroyed, and then it may be very difficult to obtain a fresh hold of the ground, and the pile will most probably not screw vertically, and the screw blade is liable to be injured and may become worn away considerably. "Piles can be screwed by means of men, horses, oxen, and machines. Man-power can be used anywhere, machines in most places, but horses and oxen only on land when the piles are screwed on a foreshore or between tides; of course all live power works at the end of the capstan bars. Once I had the option of screwing by horses or oxen, and chose oxen. Another man had horses. I made more profit than he did, and the piles screwed easier than his. I did not let him come near me when screwing; but if you have the choice, use oxen in preference to horses. Of course, I am speaking of those countries where they are used to the yoke." "Why?" "Because they do not stop at any time or back like horses, not even when the resistance of the pile becomes too great without more power, but continue to pull, and therefore backward motion of the pile is prevented. The oxen were yoked to two cross-arms attached to the end of the lever. "There are several machines for screwing piles worked by steam or other power, and when the ground is not easy to penetrate, and a large number of piles have to be screwed, their cost will be saved in the regularity, quickness, and ease in screwing, and in stiff soil by machine power I have known them screwed at the rate of 4 to 6 inches per minute. Of course, it is a special machine, and not easily sold when not further wanted except at a much less price than has been paid for it, and that has to be considered. There are several different methods of screwing piles from a fixed stage; for instance, suppose a pile of sufficient length and with the screw attached is brought to the site by barge or otherwise, the capstan head is then fixed, and the pile swung vertically over the pitch by sling-chains fastened to temporary eye-bolts passing through the bolt-holes in the flanges or otherwise, and is moved either by a jib crane, a derrick upon a raft, or some such hoisting apparatus; it is lowered into its place between the guide-piles or steadied by sling-chains or other means, then the capstan bars are put into the sockets of the capstan head, which should be at equal distances apart, and the pile is ready for screwing after it is known that it is vertical. "Where circumstances did not allow of room for capstan bars of sufficient length for men to walk round, I have screwed piles by ropes, but it will only do when the soil is easy to penetrate. The way we worked was something like this, we had two endless ropes passing round the ends of short capstan bars and round two double purchase crabs placed upon opposite sides of the pile, about six or eight men worked at each crab, four or five winding, and two or three hauling in the slack, one rope being passed through a sufficiently deep upper slot in the capstan bar end so that it did not slip, also one in the lower slot same end. Both the taut and the slack ends of the lower and upper ropes were attached each to its own crab. A man must be stationed at the end of the capstan bars to put the slack ends of the taut and slack ropes into the slots. One rope gives the capstan half a turn when it is taut, and then it falls out of its slot and is slack, and so with the other rope, but it is not easy to keep the two ends of the rope equally tight, and the power obtained is not great and may not be sufficient. It is a kind of makeshift." "How do you fix the capstan head to the pile shaft?" "In many different ways. Sometimes it is keyed on or clamped tightly to the top of the pile length by steel wedges, also placed upon the pile length and fixed by temporary bolts passing through the top flanges of the pile length, and also by fixing a temporary ribbed pile into the capstan head, and by connecting it with the permanent pile by bolts or slots, and so wedging is not wanted and it can be raised and lowered. Another way is, two of the internal sides of the pile at top are cast flat for a foot or so down into which the capstan head fits, and the inside diameter is lessened for an inch or two to prevent the capstan head slipping down, but it generally can't do that, even without the narrowing of the pile for that object. "As the capstan is subject to great wear and tear and sudden strain, it should be strong, for if it breaks the work is stopped. Wrought-iron capstan heads are used, but cast-iron are perhaps better. Sometimes the capstan sockets are made to fit the ends of rails, if rails instead of timber are used for the capstan bars, but rail bars are rather heavy and are not nice to handle. The capstan socket is generally made to receive from eight to ten or more radial lever arms, and the lengths of the bars are anything from 5 to 40 feet, but the latter is rather too long as it is very difficult to control the strain and the bar usually bends and springs. The best working lengths are from about 8 to 20 feet, if the staging is so large. The best height for the capstan bars above the floor stage is from 3 feet 6 inches to 4 feet 6 inches. The capstan bars have to be lifted and again fixed as the pile penetrates, or a temporary pile of different length has to be fixed in it, unless the capstan head can be slipped up and down on a ribbed pile, hence you may want a platform you can raise or lower easily when required. If you use double-headed rails of the same section top and bottom for the bars, you can have them bent up a little near the capstan head, and when you start, the bent end is lowest, and then the bars can be reversed and so the work proceeds. "Put the men, horses, or oxen in the most natural position for exerting their full strength or a loss of power will result, and therefore it will cost more to screw the piles. "Should there be gantry staging on the site, the piles can be pitched from a traverser, or by means of an ordinary crab winch. They can also be screwed from the permanent structure by means of a projecting stage temporarily fixed to it, and of a length sufficient to reach the next span. The pile is run forward upon rollers and placed in the right position. Then it is screwed on the endless rope system previously described, or by passing the rope round a deep groove in the capstan bar ends, and the rope is held tightly by being placed round a smaller grooved pulley fixed about a hundred feet or so back towards the shore. The men haul the endless rope and so the screwing is done. The worst of screwing by endless ropes this way is that the pile very probably may be pulled over towards the source of power as it comes from _one_ direction, therefore, support is required on the side of the pile to prevent this tendency. The circumference of the ropes used varied from 4-1/2 to 6 inches, but I have used a 10 inch rope. Small ropes are generally relatively stronger than large ones. Stretch a rope well before using, as it yields, especially hemp ropes. The distance between the point at which the power is applied, and the ground should be as little as possible. In firm sand, when the power has been more than about 20 to 25 feet above the ground, it is often very difficult to screw piles by ordinary means to more than a small depth, as two places in the pile are wanted from which to apply the screwing force, and both as low down as convenient; but in screwing from a second stage care should be taken that the pile shaft is not bent, for it may then be strained like a girder and not merely as a column, also when much power to screw is required it is not easy to avoid pulling them out of the vertical. Always screw them steadily and prevent jerking. Any obstruction, such as a boulder, tends to displace a pile, and loosens the ground around it. In soft soils it may be possible to pull piles upright by pushing aside an obstruction if the pile is given a turn or two after meeting it and before pulling; but it must be carefully done, or the pile may be smashed, and it is only safe to pull it over in easy soils and when much force is not required." "How much power is generally wanted for screwing?" "That is not so easily answered as asked. It varies very much, and, of course, depends upon the kind of soil and the size and pitch of the screw. Ten men may be sufficient and a single stage, but two stages may be necessary should the pile be 50 or 60 feet in length, and then not far from one hundred men. An engineer told me the force generally required for piles of usual sizes under ordinary screwing circumstances varies from about 8 to 10 tons to as much as 50 tons, and usually from about 10 to 25 tons, and, of course, the number of men to screw in proportion. "Ordinary piles and screws have gone down 21 feet in sand in eight hours, and by steam machinery in clay at the rate of 6 inches per minute, and also, to my loss only about 1 foot in a day--and then it is time to stop altogether, should many piles hold like that. To compare what has been done with what has to be done is misleading unless the conditions are alike, for if they are otherwise the power required, cost, and rate of screwing will all be different. I have screwed a 6-inch pile with a 2-feet one-turn screw into 20 feet of ordinary sand with an applied power of 30 tons as calculated by an engineer from measurements and the force of men applied at the capstan bars. There is the surface friction on the screw blade and the pile shaft in the ground, the cutting of the earth by the edge of the blade and the points, and the loss of power from torsion and that applied compared with the effective force, slip, friction, &c., to consider; and the relative surface of the blades, width, and thickness of the cutting edge and the pitch--for a steep pitch means harder screwing. By using capstan bars and men at them, instead of ropes at the ends of the arms worked by crabs, you will find about one-fifth more power is gained, or rather is not lost. Of course, place the men as near to the end of the capstan bar as convenient for work. My lecture is finished, and I am parched." CHAPTER IV. IRON PILES. Arrangement--Driving--Sinking by Water-jet. "Tell me what you have learned about iron pile fixing, same as you have promised me you will about timber piles." "Very well. Here goes, then; first a word as to iron piles generally. "Although a group of piles when properly strutted, tied, and braced have plenty of stiffness, if you have to deal with them singly they are never stiff, but they can be made steadier when getting them down by having two large pieces of wood with a half hole in them, something like the shape of the old village stocks, and by putting or lowering it at low water until it is bedded in the ground. It must be weighted though, so as to prevent it floating. It acts like a waling, and is useful when the ground is treacherous, and provided it is level. "From watching the behaviour of piles when doing repairs and at other times, I think it wants a lot of careful arrangement to be sure the load is acting equally on the whole group, or, as may be intended, on say a few piles, and straight down the centre of each pile, for it makes a lot of difference to the strain on them, and it is not easy to make them all take the load at once as wished. It wants a good deal of attention, and the piles are not unlike a pair of horses that are not matched and don't work together properly--kind of now me, now you business. Before finishing reference to driving and screwing, let me say all the parts should be properly fitted together at the works and numbered so that the putting up on the ground is easier and in order to be certain all the bolt-holes agree; and it is well to have the lengths interchangeable and all the same, except the making-up pieces, and all bolt-holes as well as the flanges should fit in every respect. "When columns rest on a masonry, brickwork, or concrete base the piles ought to have a ring or base-plate right round them to hold them tightly together. It lessens the pier being shaken, and saves the side pushing of the holding-down bolts. I heard an engineer say the weight of the pier above their ends should be not less than about four times any force that might tend to lift them. The anchor-plates should be well bedded upon a solid mass or the strain upon the pier may go in one direction, and that the one not wanted. Don't be afraid of bracing and strutting piles, the more of it the better. I don't think much of a single turn of a screw blade a few feet below the ground for taking a load, although some good for steadying purposes generally, because the bed may become scoured out below the blade and then the screw is no use. Therefore the depth of possible scour ought to be positively known before relying upon the blade for permanent support. A lot can be said as to the grouping of piles, whether in triangles or in rows. In a triangle, although the load upon the foundations is spread over a larger area, it does not give as much lateral strength as when the piles are placed in one row, and taking everything into consideration I think if I had six piles to put down I should not place one at the top of a triangle, two lower down, and three at the base, but have two parallel rows of three piles; besides it lessens the length of the struts and the bracing, and that is something, but, of course, each case requires to be treated in a special way, and I have noticed when doing repairs that if there are six piles fixed thus, [Illustration] in a triangle, the wind and other force acts principally upon the bracing between the parallel rows, and the pile at the point does not do much towards keeping the others in the right place; anyhow the bracing there does not seem to hold as tightly as it does between the parallel rows, and I have had to watch groups of them in storms, and when the sea has been high, and that is my opinion." "Now, as to fixing iron piles." "When the ends have to be placed in rock, which has sometimes to be done in shore pieces, 'jumping' the holes in more than about 2 feet of water is to be avoided, for if the water is not still the holes become filled with sand and drift, and you must not take the jumper out but keep on continuously making the hole. It is ticklish business, because sometimes the rock grinds the jumper, and then the wings and point wear away. Occasionally they have to be worked inside a cylinder by ropes, rods, and gearing fixed in it, the cylinder being movable and held from the end of the part of the pier that is finished, but where the water is deep the ends must be put in the rock in Portland cement by divers. "I have driven a good many iron piles with a ram, but you have to be careful, no matter whether the soil is sand, gravel, clay, or silt. I like a copper ring on the head of the iron pile and a good long timber 'dolly,' not less than 4 or 5 feet in length, and then the ram does not burst the top. When the ground is hard the best way is to make a hole by jumpers of about 3 inches less diameter than the pile to be fixed, and in chalk soil it is doubtful whether they will go down right unless that is done; perhaps they won't drive at all, or a lot of them will be broken. I have used a ram weighing from 1 to 1-1/2 ton for an 8 to a 10 inch pile and about a 3-feet fall, and never more than 4 feet, unless you want to deal with some old metal merchant that will give a good price for the scrap, and it does not matter how many get broken, or it is a positive advantage to break a certain quantity out of every lot, so as to have a big price for such difficult driving, and get 'extras' that way." "I understand, no breakages deducted." "That's it. I have driven them at the rate of fully 6 inches a minute for a few feet. They often rebound, so I had a boy with a lever, the end of it being clinched to the pile. Directly the ram fell, he gave the pile from quarter to half a turn for the first 4 or 5 feet of driving, and they scarcely rebounded at all; and he earned his wages, for I considered fully one pile extra was got down out of about every ten by the turning movement. The points require to be regulated according to the ground. From 1-1/2 to twice the diameter or width for the length of the point is about right, but if it is made too sharp it may break. Iron piles that have to be driven are seldom more than 12 inches in width, and the thickness of the metal is generally from one-ninth to one-twelfth of the diameter. I heard an engineer say, I think it was Mr. Cubitt, experiments showed that a T-shaped cast-iron pile about 30 feet in length, should have the top of the T two and a quarter times the length of the upright part, and the thickness a twelfth of the top. Of course, the length of the pile must be considered. I doubt if you can get equally sound metal throughout when the thickness is much more than 2-1/2 inches. From 3/4 to 1-1/2 inch is best, and piles I have broken up always seemed more even throughout about those thicknesses; but there, I suppose it is all a question of care in casting and proper machinery. "One thing, don't drive any piles from a floating stage on the sea if you can help it, it will make you pay for the privilege; besides I have known some places where the sea was always so disturbed it could not be done, even if the moorings were as tight as you dare make them. Driven iron piles are not much seen now, and Portland cement concrete seems the fashion, and no doubt it is better. Still, iron piles can be driven in deep water without much trouble from it, and one might combine the two nicely--the iron to act as a shield to the concrete while depositing it, and give it time to set without disturbance and preserve the face." "Have you sunk any disc piles?" "Yes, they are all right for fine sand and silt, but you must be careful the discs are the same in form and dimensions upon all sides, or a pile will almost certainly tilt and sink crookedly. I was busy on the Lancashire coast once, and heard that Mr., now Sir James Brunlees, tried a lot of different kinds of hollow disc piles, and that the best was one with a plain flange base three times the diameter of the pile, and circular, with the bottom nearly closed, it only having a hole in it in the centre of the base 3 inches in diameter. Some ribs and cutters were cast on the bottom of the disc to break the ground up if it was hard. This is what I know about disc piles and have been put up to. "When piles have to be sunk by water pressure, rotate the pile, and don't let it be still long, so as to lessen or prevent surface friction on the pile shaft and the sand settling round it. Always have circular discs and not too large, not above 3 feet in diameter, for they do not sink nearly so easily as the size of the disc is increased. About 2 feet discs are my choice as they go down much quicker than 2 feet 6 inches or 3 feet. "Don't try to sink them in sand to a greater depth than 18 to 20 feet, and remember that although they may sink easily for about 12 or 15 feet, afterwards they will want some labour. When you have finished sinking piles with the water-jet, it is best to drive them down an inch or two further by a heavy ram and a very small fall, or heavily weight them as soon as possible after having done with the jet; then the disc has a bearing on firm and undisturbed ground, and if you are afraid of a blow on the pile you can have a heavy weight placed on it to help it into position and the sand to become solid. Obtain considerable pressure of water, and always cause the pile to rotate when sinking. Don't let the pressure get much below 40 lbs. per square inch, and use about 60 lbs. if you can get it. I have worked up to 100 lbs. per square inch but not beyond, and fancy there is then too much pressure, and that more sand is disturbed than is necessary. All that is wanted is to make the sand boil and remove itself from the underside of the pile and disc, but always have a few ribs or cutters on the underside of the disc as they loosen the sand as the pile is rotated--besides, should there be a strip of harder soil, it may be impossible to sink the pile without them. A rather large tube and a moderate pressure are best, and a tube not less than about 2 to 4 inches in diameter according to the size of the pile, and it is better from 3 to 6 inches, of course, if the pressure is high a larger size jet can be used, but if it is less than 2 inches it will only make a small hole, and too much below the disc, and not enough water passes through it. Try to ascertain what pressure of water makes the piles sink the easiest. Sometimes they will go down at the start as much as 3 feet in a minute, and often 2 feet, and from that to 1 foot they should do for about the first 6 or 8 feet in sand, but then the rate quickly decreases. The nozzle should be properly shaped so that the jet is whole. I mean the shape of the pipe at the place where it touches the sand. What is wanted is to get just enough force to cause the sand to separate and boil and to push it away from the disc and no further, or some of the water power is wasted, therefore a good volume of water is as necessary as a high pressure. You understand?" "Yes." "The tube should project about 6 inches below the bottom of the disc. A toothed tube can be fixed round it so as to help to disturb the ground and strengthen the pipe. The water supply may perhaps be obtained at a sufficient pressure from the local water-works company, then, probably, a force pump will not be required, but the pressure that can always be relied upon should be known. "In sand, and when the water power can be easily obtained, I prefer disc piles to screw piles, because there is hardly any chance of breaking or injuring the disc; you always know where the disc is, but cannot positively say where the screw is--it may be sound and may not be; in addition, the disc is stronger than a screw blade, as it can be strengthened by ribs almost as much as one likes, and the disc in sinking is hardly strained at all compared with a screw pile. They can be sunk quicker, and do not require nearly as much plant to do it, for when you have a force pump, a guide frame--something like an ordinary pile-driving machine 25 or 30 feet in height, with a grooved pulley at top in which the chain or rope runs so that one end can be attached to the pile flange either by jaws or temporary bolts, and the other to a crab winch, which, with the guide frame, is used for lowering and keeping the pile in position, and stay the top of the guide frame by ropes to short piles driven into the ground--and a hose and two levers, with a collar to grasp the pile so as to rotate it, you have about all the _special_ plant that is wanted. "Of course, piles can be sunk by water pressure from a floating stage such as a barge, pontoon, or raft, so long as the pile is kept vertical, but there are the same objections to that method as with other piles. Piles are, however, got down much quicker and easier by the water jet than by screwing or driving, but the ground must be loose granular soil, such as ordinary sand. "There is not much 'extra' to be got out of iron piles. You can only dodge a bit with a length short now and then when you have the right parties to work with, and the inspector is cross-eyed or a star-gazer, but you may get something 'extra' out of the filling them in. As usual I draw the line somewhere. Everything on earth has a boundary line. This is where I draw it. Listen! "After as much water as possible--possible is a nice elastic word--is got out of the pile, and it is as clear of deposit as convenient--another nice easy word--and before commencing the filling, I put inside the pile everything I can get hold of that is dry, for just then I have but one way of looking at anything, and that is to consider it Portland cement concrete, unless it costs me more to use it; but when the filling is concrete, I make that as dry as mixing will allow, and sometimes hardly that. The inside of the pile is sure to be wet, and that will help the mixing. I never ram the concrete, but gently cast it in. It is only a sort of anti-rust covering, and is put in for that and to keep water out, and no weight comes upon it--it is not like the hearting of cylinder bridge piers. Ramming the concrete is not far from being a mistake, because the pile should have a chance of contracting without straining, and may be it will crack; and it is just as well to remember that although by ramming tightly you may get more solid filling and better protect the inside from rust, the pile may be strained, and it is a choice of evils, possible rust, or strain." CHAPTER V. TIMBER PILES. PILE-DRIVING. General Consideration. "Now, as promised, I will tell you of a little bit of free trade with some timber pilework." "That's it. I am waiting for it." "Well, they let me have 400 feet run of pile-driving. Double row of 16 to 12 inch piles, and there were some fine sticks nearly 55 feet long, and that is a long length for a sound pile, and you have to pay for them." "Before you begin to tell me how you scamped it, give me a hint or two about piling, and say what you have learned from experience." "All right. First, when a pile is some distance below the bottom waling, which should be fixed as low as possible, a lot must be taken for granted, and it cannot be controlled much. I know this from drawing many piles; hundreds, I may say. After they are down about 5 or 6 feet they begin to do as they like, and take to irregular habits, and you cannot be certain the points are straight unless the ground is the same throughout, and it hardly ever is. In fact, the resistance they meet with varies, and then they accommodate themselves to circumstances; and even when the ground is very soft they turn to the line of least resistance, and if they have to be driven through several feet of soft earth to reach the solid, they may play tricks and bend about in the soft soil in go-as-you-please style, yet seem to be driving nicely; or they may stick between boulders and can't be driven further and appear to be firm as a rock, and so they may be as long as the boulders do not move, but they often do after a time, should the ground become wet, and sometimes when the next pile is being driven. "Always be careful to see that the shoe has as large a bearing as possible for the end of the pile, and is long in the point, and more pointed as the soil is harder. Take a 12-inch pile with a 4-inch or so seat in the shoe for the stick. Well, 12 by 12 is 144, and 4 by 4 is 16, and therefore the pile end has a bearing area upon the pile shoe of one-ninth of the area of the pile. No wonder the bottom often becomes ragged and the pile shifts. The shoe should have a good hold of the timber, and be put on true to a hair, so that the point is in the exact centre line of the pile, or look out for squalls. Now high falls and light monkeys are out of fashion, and short falls and heavy monkeys are the thing, not so many piles are injured. Pushing them down is better than breaking them to bits. You should have the monkey so that its centre falls upon the centre line of the pile. The average centre of the pile should be marked on as exact as possible, and the end of the pile be cut to a template, so as to make it fit tightly to the shoe, or it may not drive straightly. I always take a lot of trouble that way and seldom have to draw a ragged one, and believe they used to drive straight. I mean from start to finish about the same number of blows and to the same depth and vertically. "When hand-driving in soft earth--it's slow business at the best--weight the pile when the monkey is being lifted so as to stop the quivering and press it down and keep it from springing. Provided the work was of importance, and I was the Cæsar of it, before any pile was pitched ready for driving it should be inspected, its dimensions taken, it should be numbered, numbers be burnt in, and every foot from top to bottom should be marked on by a brand; and perhaps the numbers should begin at the bottom and work up, as there is not so much chance to tamper with two figures as with one, &c. "Pile-driving is fickle work, for sometimes the piles stick because the points can't pierce the earth, and at others because they are held by friction on the surface of the piles. I have known the shoe to be cast, and the pile end look like a bass broom, and to be all in shreds. When piles split a great deal and they must be driven, the best thing to do is to get harder wood, lessen the fall and increase the weight of the monkey; same as in tunnel lining, when stock bricks are crushed, blue bricks have to be put in. The nature of the ground should govern the hardness of the wood for piles. I always pick out darkish even-coloured wood, and sniff for the resin, and the more in it the better for me. You don't catch me driving many white wood piles, for they become dry and break off short, and are not the timber for piles. Once a bother arose about some piles. There was a layer of hard gravel, and by the way the piles were driving I knew they would split, so I gave the word that Memel piles were not hard enough for such gravel; and I worked it humble like, and said to the engineer, 'I think you will agree, sir, you can't expect me to be answerable for smashing them until we get into the soft ground again. It wants rock elm or as strong timber for this soil.' After smashing a few to shreds, they supplied us with rock elm piles, and then we managed. It is true to say in the same soil the harder the pile the better it will drive, and therefore with less trouble and expense. The monkey should have an even widened-out base where it touches the pile head, so as to get the weight as near the head of the pile as possible; it also falls straighter than the long thin rams of nearly the same width throughout. Grease the ways well, and take care they are as straight as a die, and exactly vertical if it is upright pile-driving, and you'll save money. Make the blows quickly in fine-grained soil, so that it has not time to settle round the pile. In clay there is no occasion for such quick-driving, but take care to prevent the piles rebounding. Remember the same system does not do for every soil, for quick driving in hard soil sometimes smashes the piles; perhaps the earth has not had time to become displaced nicely and settle before being jammed again, and then the pile point turns and quivers and soon shreds, and cannot be driven down properly. Anyone that says piles make the ground itself firmer when they are driven into it, and so cause it to support a heavier load, will have to prove it before that can be swallowed. It is the friction on the sides of the piles that principally sustains them and not the bearing of the points. In hard soils drive slowly, for it is like chipping up a stone with a hammer. You must do it gently, or it will break the tool; and as you can't clear out the hole in driving piles, it seems to me time is required instead, so that the pressed out soil may settle away and take a bearing. I tricked a chap once pile-driving from a barge." "How did you do it?" "Well, it was bound to be driving from a barge or nothing, and there were three pile-drivers for us, almost as many as we could work, as the driving had to be done by degrees. Some of the work was let to a chap I did not like too much, and the rest to me. They gave me the choice of plant, so I said to the engineer, 'May I have two of the pile-drivers upon my barge, as Faggitts'--that was the other chap's name--'only wants one.' I got the two. Now Faggitts knew about driving piles on land, but had never done any driving from a barge, so I had a bit in hand of him. If you take any pile-driving and it has to be done from a barge, have more than one pile-driver on it if you have the chance; but don't place them close together, make one steady the other, and have as many as you can conveniently work at once; because, in my experience, the more you have the less the swaying, and the piles drive more regularly and the barge is steadier, and you don't have so much bother with the moorings. Of course, if the monkey does not fall flat upon the pile head the pile does not receive the full force of the blow in the right direction, the pile may be driven slightly crooked and it does not get properly treated and won't penetrate so easily, and therefore you lose money. Old Faggitts found that out in the soft soil we were driving them into. I said nothing to him, but he did to me. I never told him. "I have read somewhere that it is wearying work going into details, but when you have to do the work yourself, unless you take care of the details you'll find they will make it hot for you; and after all, any one can speak generally, but when they have to explain in detail what they think they mean, and have to do the work themselves, they will soon find out that unless you know the details and attend to them carefully, that you won't make a profit nor anyone else. Anybody can talk tallish after about a fortnight's training, but then they have to pull up or they will fall at the next fence, which I label 'details wanted.' That's by the way, and I may have made it too strong, but it is as well to sound your engineer. No general is successful unless he knows the strength of his enemy and as much more about him as he can, and acts accordingly, and chooses his own time and place for a battle. "Driving piles in groups, especially if the ground is soft, and not singly, is good. They go down more regularly and fit tighter, and they seem to drive quicker. I have driven cheap fir piles between elm piles that way, and a good many of the soft ones split when we had to drive them singly. Have as few key piles as possible, because they are liable to be jammed before they are down to the right depth, and then, if it is a cofferdam, it is probable a leak will occur under the key pile, because it is the easiest place for the water to soak through, and the other piles being down below it, stop the flow, and it soon finds out the short-driven key pile. When I notice a spot in a cofferdam at which water leaks through the bottom, unless it is an old stream bed, it occurs to me that the piles have not gone down properly, have got bruised, bent, turned up, or broken off, and I have found out that was the case on drawing them when the cofferdam was of no further use. Once I was ordered to drive some three-cornered piles at the turns in a cofferdam on a river front, but said, 'Square or circular shall be driven, but any other shape I will try to get down properly, provided they are carefully fitted and bevelled, but you really can't expect me to be answerable.' They deducted a fixed amount if after the piles were pitched there were more than a certain number visibly damaged or smashed, so you may depend I had a good look at the sticks before they were driven. "I have driven piles 60 feet in length, kind of giant sticks, but 45 to 50 feet is long enough for good sound piles. Socket pile driving piecework I avoid, for the joints are ticklish business; and if a pile of ordinary length will not do, I throw out a mild hint whether the better system to use would not be Indian brick or concrete wells, or to spread out the foundations so as to get a sufficiently large bearing, or have a fascine platform, and sink it till it is firm, and test its stability properly by a load. "There is a great deal in starting the driving correctly. I always am very careful at the start, and experiment and watch how the piles drive, and vary the fall a little until the best is known. Few considerable stretches of ground are of the same kind, and to fix a certain fall throughout is not the thing, it generally wants varying. I have easily driven piles in fine sand by having two small pipes, one each back and front, reaching a few inches below the point of the pile, and sending water down them under pressure, and by keeping the pipes on the move so that they can't be gripped. I worked out with the pipes the place where the pile had to be pitched and made a profit that way, because not only did the piles go down much quicker, and a lot of blows were therefore saved, but the piles were easier to start right. I used to call my two pipes the two bobbies, because they steered straight for their station, and these two did the same office for the piles. "Now a word as to systems of driving; the method must suit the ground. I knew a man that believed in nothing but driving by gunpowder; he must have been going in strong for gunpowder tea, or have been in the militia, for the soil he had to do with was not homogeneous, and had boulders and other hard obstructions in it. It was not like soft sand and clay, consequently many of the piles were broken. The noise also was a nuisance in the dock, and cattle that had to be unshipped from the steamers were so unruly that they had to stop the gunpowder pile-drivers; besides, to do much good with them, a large charge is required, or it costs too much. The power necessary to work the machines is better obtained by other means, and can be without so much noise or shock. "I have used all sorts and sizes of monkeys, from half a hundredweight to four tons, but heavy rams and short falls are the best, and steam for the power if the contract is considerable and will pay for such plant; otherwise hand, unless the piles are large and have to be driven a long way. A sixteen hundredweight monkey is about heavy enough to work nicely by hand, but it is not sufficiently heavy for a 12-inch pile, except in soft ground. For sheet piles a hand machine is good enough, for it can be moved easily, and six to eight tons weight, being about that of a steam pile-driver, costs something to shift, unless there are rails and tackle handy. Of course the blows are quicker with a steam pile-driver, and in sand that is a great point as the ground has no time to settle round a pile; but should the soil vary and be hard and soft, it is well to slow down the machine at first to lessen the fear of smashing the piles and shaking them till they tremble to destruction. I have worked a lot of different kinds of plant, and driven many piles at once, and the power was obtained from one engine giving the motion by driving bands, and in another case with drums fixed on the engine shafts, the chains being carried over sheaves to the different pile engines. "This is my idea of pile-driving:-- "1. Steam driving. 2. Hand driving, if the piles must be driven very slowly, and there are not many to drive. 3. Never use gunpowder pile-drivers, always prefer steam, hydraulic, atmospheric, or some other motive power. "Gunpowder is more for blowing up than anything else, in my opinion, and I know the pile shoes often shed in driving with it; that is, they loose their hold of the piles and become detached. "A pile should penetrate regularly, and after the first few blows drive less and less, as then you have a good idea it is all right and uninjured. Uneven penetration is a proof that piles are not all right, and when they sink suddenly there is almost sure to be something wrong, and they are most likely being over-driven, shredded, frayed, shoe-cast, or split up. The rate of descent should be noted. It may be considered they are driving properly if they sink about a foot at a blow for the first one or more, and then 8 or 6 inches, and when they get down to one-eighth, one-fourth, or half-an-inch a blow for some successive blows it is time to stop and consider. I have driven piles with as few as ten blows in sand with the aid of two water pipes at work fore and aft, as mentioned before, and have had to give a pile as many as 300 blows, and when they want as many as that, with all due deference to everyone, the ground is firm enough to build upon for permanent foundations without piles. My experience goes to show that piles are often driven further than they need be, if only for use as a cofferdam, and that back struts and counterforts are better than extra depth in the ground, provided leakage is prevented. 8 to 10 feet down for solid clay, 10 to 12 feet in gravel, and about 15 feet for ordinary soils, and more care taken to ascertain the piles are where they should be, and that they are sound and whole, and not turned aside, bulged, and injured, would be my practice. In boulder ground, in my opinion, piles should not be adopted; for broken, crushed, and twisted fibre bass-broom shreds are not piles; they are out of place and should be used for clearing leaves from garden walks. The longer the piles the softer should be the ground they have to be driven into, or they shake so much, and cost more to drive. "Unless always well buried and at such a depth that neither the moistness nor condition of the earth vary, I scarcely believe in timber pile foundations at all, except in very peculiar cases, and as a kind of aid to the main support or to help to prevent the toe of a wall from being thrust forward, but for cofferdams, jetties, piers, and such structures, of course they are useful. In hard and most gravelly soil avoid them, and also in sharp sand, if you cannot use the previously-mentioned water-pipe arrangement fore and aft; and although in ordinary clays they drive nicely, and you make a bigger profit than in sand, it puzzles me to discern what is the use of them for permanent foundations, except to help to prevent a wall sliding forward, because when a pile is driven into most clays the clay becomes tempered and softer, and a layer of concrete put in a proper distance down is better and much more certain, and distributes the load more equally. Elastic soil is bad in which to drive piles, for it yields and then rebounds. A pile will sometimes spring back almost as much as it is driven, and in such a case it is well to let the ram or monkey rest on the pile immediately after the blow is given, if you are hand-driving, or have an arrangement so that it is weighted directly each blow is delivered, and perhaps the best way is to hang heavy weights on the pile. In driving in firm sand the ground at the surface becomes considerably displaced, in clay about half as much as in sand. "Pile-driving is different to masonry, and I always read the specification for pile work, and then judge whether and how a bit 'extra' is to be obtained, and guess as to the knowledge of those I have to deal with, and act accordingly. Sometimes a specification simply says all the piles are to be driven to the same depth or as shown on the drawings. That may be right should the ground have been tested by experimental driving, or the nature of it be known; but if not, I don't take much notice of the specification, because I hate waste, and can't afford the luxury; and it stands to reason that simply because a lot of piles are driven to the same depth they are not equally firm, nor will they support the same load unless the soil is exactly the same, and they drive well and regularly to the same depth and all nearly alike inches by inches, and this seldom occurs. Often 'extra' profit is to be had, as you will soon hear described, for when piles will not drive further than half or a quarter of an inch a blow they satisfy me they are tight enough for the purpose intended if they are at a fair depth and not wedged by boulders; but between ourselves, should a building of any kind have to be erected on piles, and anyone I really cared about had to live in it, I should always weight the piles for as long a time as possible after finishing the driving and reasonably more than the permanent load, watch the effects, and act accordingly, particularly in elastic soil. "Remember a pile sinks less after it has rested than if it be driven continuously, therefore always take note of the set when the driving is proceeding, and not just at the start, or after an interval, although one does that for one's own benefit, and with a view to 'extras'; and no one wants to drive a pile an inch more than can be helped--at least I don't, nor have I, and it is certain never shall. "You want to know when to stop driving. The time has arrived when a pile penetrates very little, and nearly equal for several successive blows of the heaviest ram by which it has been driven at the usual fall. "A word as to tie and sheet piles before referring to the way I have worked piles for 'extra' profit. It is difficult to make a main pile and a tie act together, one or the other is nearly sure to have to bear more than its proper strain, and the tie rod becomes eaten by rust, bent, and loose in the piles. In taking down old banks and quays you will generally find the main pile and the tie pile are not held tightly by the tie rod, the tie pile is loose or pulled over, perhaps when first strained, and then becomes disengaged when the main pile has set to the strain. The tie rods want to be very carefully and frequently adjusted, if possible, and big washers and cleats on them are required. They hold best in firm sand, not so well in clay, and in large light loose soil, such as ashes, they are not much good. It is an impotent arrangement and it is always uncertain whether they will act together. Don't undertake to tighten up the rods. Fix the piles, and let the engineer see to the tightening up, as you may injure the piles. "When I have to drive a lot of sheet piles, of course the piles are supplied to me, and I only take the driving. You may be sure the timber is right, and that the edges are sawn square so as to drive tightly together, and that the point is in order. I find it always pays well to temporarily place a baulk at the ground line like a waling, but not fixed to the sheet piling, as it guides the piles, lessens the shaking, and they drive easier and better. It appears to me piles cannot vibrate without force, and that is not where it is wanted, so it is wasted motion. Agitation when drawing piles is all right, but when you are driving you want it in the ground itself, and not in the piles. Once when I had to drive some thin sheet piles, I made a movable guide frame, the side against the sheet piling being planed and greased. It was like one bay of a timber-lattice bridge, and it well paid for itself as it steadied the piles. "In taking a contract for drawing piles always find out how long the piles have been driven, for if they have been down many years they will be much harder to draw than if they have only been fixed a few months. They can be drawn by lever, hydraulic jack, and chains, and pontoons in a tide way." CHAPTER VI. TIMBER PILES. Manipulation for "Extra" Profit. "Now, I'll tell you about a bit of 'extra' dodging that rather scared me. First, let me say, no one can ever know how much I hate waste--it can't be measured." "You and me are alike, a couple of turtle doves on that question." "We are. Finish up, and we will have another. I remember Lord Palmerston said, dirt was matter out of place, or something like that. Now I think piles are often good timber out of place, so I followed that lesson and said to myself 'What a lot of good timber is going to be buried; and really it is breaking and loosening the ground too much to please me, and that's a mistake, besides placing extra weight on it'; so after dwelling on the subject as much as suited me, I decided it was waste, and that it was poison to me. I had trouble on my mind about it and it made me feel thirsty and does now. Pour another out." "There you are." "I'm better now. Well, I wrestled over the waste question some time, and finally made up my mind not to be a party to it, it being against my principles, and, like us all, no man shall make me swerve from them, especially when they agree with my pocket." "Certainly; shake hands. That is good!" "Well, there was only one way to do it, so in order that every one might have their way to a certain extent I decided to drive first one pile to the depth as ordered and one to the depth that suited me, and therefore both parties were satisfied and believed they had got what they wanted; for while I left the other man, that is the engineer--excuse the disrespect--to his happy thoughts, I descended to simple practice in a way very comforting to me. Knowing it is not every pile which is driven that drives whole, or is according to drawing, many often being twisted and knocked to shreds--although I have seen them driven through a layer of old brickwork, and whole, too--and that there is a lot of uncertainty about them in some ground, I dwelt on the matter, and came to the conclusion that according to the drawings every other pile would be driven about 3 to 4 feet too far down, and that all concerned hardly agreed upon the depth to which all of them should be driven, and that I was the chief one to be considered; so I cut off a few feet of the top of nearly every other pile, and varied the length according to whether the pile happened to drive hardly or went down gently." "Precisely." "Somehow or other the ground seemed really grateful to me, for more of the piles were cut off than I originally intended. They must have passed the tip--may be the worms did it; anyhow the ground, after a few had been driven, seemed to become harder, and we had more sawing to do than ever. I like sawing. You see your work, and all is above board and nothing hidden and no deception. Suits our principles. Now, you are like me, you don't wish to disturb other people's minds, we are built on the lines of love too much, and tenderness is better than anger any day." "That's it. I consider you were doing a kindness all round, or as near to it as makes no difference!" "Well, in order not to disturb any one, it took some thinking over as to the best time to ease off the tops. I mean cut the heads off and put the rings on again, and give the tops a properly seasoned appearance. I used to call it put their hair right. Now, you know docks are not like railway works, for the men are nearly all at one place; here we were in the middle of a large town, but you'll excuse my naming the place, I am too polite to do such a thing without permission. No one was about at dinner time, for all the chaps passed the gates. The place where my work was was shut in nicely, and as there was always a row going on from the traffic close by on road and river, and loading and unloading, it was a really nice little home in which to do a bit of engineering-up-to-date." "I understand; a convenient spot for scientific experiments in saving labour and the waste of good material." "That's the lesson. I found dinner time was the best after a week's scouting, and that the road was clear as daylight, for all the spies were away, and there was only one that ever hung about, and he was a young engineer just come to the docks straight from Westminster. He was a nice sort of chap, and a smart one, and had the kind of face a girl looks fond upon from what I have noticed of their tricks. Of course, he did not know much of actual work, being a new pupil, I heard. By the way, what a lot of pupils to be sure some engineers turn out. I almost fancy a few of them must make as much from the schooling branch of the profession as they do from work; but let them, it is nothing to do with me, but this pupil I can say was no fool, though, the same as all new hands, the work was a novelty to him, like a new toy to a child. "Now, the only thing to interfere with the 'extra' business as described was this pupil, so I decided to fix his attention, if I could, in another direction, and sweetly, so thought it out, and said to myself, 'You have had more difficult things to steer through than this--rather hotter, I fancy.' "It so happened, just then, they had pulled down an old tavern, and built on the site a showy crib with balcony overlooking the river, and they had a lot of relics on view, and two nicish girls were there. Good figures, you know, and fairly on; so I made myself particularly gracious to Mr. Pupil and pointed out, submissive to his superior knowledge like, a few things on the work. Then the plot was let loose this way. I started a kind expression on my face, and said-- "'I'm afraid you find it rather rough, sir, here; there are not the nice feeding places they have in town, in fact, I think there is only one near here, sir, at all fit for you.'" "'Where is that?' "'It is the Anchor and Hope Hotel, sir. I can hardly direct you to it; but you have plenty of time to go there and get back fully a quarter of an hour before the men's dinner time is over, if you will allow me to show you the place, and they have almost a museum of relics of the river.' "The relics settled it, and he took on all right, and I knew then things were working smoothly and the wind was getting round to a nice steady breeze from the proper quarter. He was a good-natured chap, and one could see liked inspecting the woman portion of creation better than works, at least, during dinner-time, and I don't blame him; some men are built that way, and can hardly say 'no' to a woman, for if they do they think they have done wrong and been unkind. Poor things! Well, we got to the place, and, fortunately, no one was in the private bar." "You mean lobby. Don't insult the place." "I humbly beg pardon. "In we went, and it was lucky, for the better of the two girls was on parade; they were nieces of the landlord, so had more latitude than paid slaves. I went in first, and Mr. Pupil turned to me and said, 'I will be with you in a minute.' Now, that was just what I wanted, a word or two of priming for Polly. So after shaking hands with her, said:-- "'Polly, in a second or two a young swell will be here just new on the works, and will be on the job to the finish, three years, so make yourself pleasant as possible. Three years' presents and fun, to say nothing of odd trips out, are not to be snuffed at; and he is rich they tell me, and should be real good business all round, if you work him right.' "She laughed; and before I could say any more the door was on the move, and in Mr. Pupil came. I kept my weather eye on him, for I can generally tell, when they run young, whether a chap is smitten sufficient. I saw the place would be a pleasant diversion, just seeing one of the tender gender occasionally, after being all day among men; so to make it appear I was a wolf on business, said, 'Please excuse me, sir, but I have to meet a gentleman at half-past twelve.' "'Certainly. Do not let me detain you.' "I just turned to Polly, and said, 'Show this gentleman your museum of relics, and the private room looking across the river, as I think it may perhaps suit him for an odd lunch now and then.' Polly twigged. "I saw they were started on the road of mutual admiration, and travelling pretty, and that he meant calling again. She also seemed to like the prospect, and knew how to work the game of fascination right, and she did; so the only one in the way of preventing my doing a bit of engineering-up-to-date with the pile-driving was now removed in a nice harmonious way, and to the entire satisfaction of the company's resident engineer--no, hardly that, I mean mine. I consider I did a kind action to all parties, not excepting myself. What a blessing women are, if you use them right. Mr. Pupil had his lunch at the place every day, and Polly and he understood each other, and got on A 1, so I was told. It is soothing work bringing happiness to two young hearts as beat soft. "_Next day we started cutting off the pile-heads_, while Polly and Mr. Pupil were occasionally very likely pitching their heads together so that I should not have all the fun. Well, we managed to so drive the piles after a day or two as to be able to cut off, generally during dinner time, from 2 to 4 feet, and I should think must have done over 200, when one day, just as we had nearly sawn one through, up turned Mr. Pupil. Polly and her sister were visiting, and never told me they were going, so the Anchor and Hope did not weigh-in much from him that day. My ganger, who was doing the sawing trick with me, looked a bit down, but he is not so educated as me; so I turned to Mr. Pupil and said--as he asked me what I was doing, and what was the matter--'Got the pile down wrong, sir, and shall have to lift it. I think it's broken off, or gone ragged, may be it has struck an old anchor.' "He just looked very hard at me, nodded, and went away. It was a close shave, and lucky it was not the chief engineer. However, we had a quarter of an hour to work on that pile before the men came back, and we soon ruined it with bars and tackle. Anyhow, we raised it in no time, for we had the best tackle and everything you could wish for. We split the pile right across. It was only down 5 feet, and most of it in mud. We quickly cut it up into cleats; and out of misfortunes, between you and me, I always make as much as I can. So when Mr. Pupil returned I said to him, 'It wants a lot of experience to know when piles are not driving right, but 25 years has not been lost on me, sir, and I will have good work or none.' Perhaps 'none' would have been the correct word; but anyhow I used it coupled, and you can't complain, for if the pile had been cut there would have been none in the place where it was thought there was. We saved a lot of driving, and I said to myself, 'It is lucky this bit of wharf wall is left to me pretty well, because, as nearly most of the piles are a bit short, the wall may settle if they load it much or build on it; still I think it will settle equally, and then it won't matter so much, and they are not going to build on or near it, that I know,' so I saved nearly 1000 feet of driving on the lot; but here comes the shake. I forgot to say the piles were driven, and a platform fixed on the top for the wall in the old style, but it has gone out now, since Portland cement concrete came into fashion. One day the engineer walked over the work with two or three directors, and, after a lot of talk, they decided to build some 3-floor warehouses upon the quay, after some figuring and dwelling on it. That made me think. I heard someone say, 'The piles are 15 feet in the solid ground, and therefore will safely bear the load.' So they would if they had been, but not many hundreds of them were, and many were in 5 feet of little better than mud, and as some had been cut off 4 feet, those piles were only 6 feet in the solid ground. Understand, this wharf piling was only the beginning of a long two or three years profit for me, and I knew the warehouses would be sure to settle, and if they did unequally, over would go the show. I always avoided the quay wall afterwards; it seemed like a sort of spectre to me. "One day the engineer sent for me to come to the office. Of course I was there sharp. He said:-- "'I want you to tell me your idea of the character of the ground upon which the western quay wall is erected?' "Don't you think I was lucky, old pal? Here was my deliverance. It was not exactly a path of roses--there are not many knocking about now--because if I said it was soft ground he could reply, 'You had a very high price for such driving.' If I said it was firm, I felt sure, should they build a warehouse on it such as I heard them talk about, it would sink or topple over, so I had to be careful how the ship was sailed. I answered the engineer like this: 'If you'll excuse me talking to you freely, sir, I will speak my mind; but I most feel abashed with such as you, for you know a thousand times better than me.' He then said to me:-- "'Be at your ease. I wish to hear exactly what you would do in the matter if you were in my position. I have made up my mind; in fact, I have already committed my views to writing.' "'Thank you, sir. Well, sir, I think it is a risky place, although the piles were many of them dreadfully hard to drive, and wanted a lot of care and all had it, I think, judging from the variation in the depth to which they went down under the same number of blows, that the ground is a bit mixed, and therefore I should choose another site, as there is plenty of room.' "'Your opinion somewhat coincides with mine. Your idea, I may say, is one which the configuration of the ground leads me to think is the case without doubt. It is therefore probable that in a few days I may have a considerable length of the quay loaded with rails, nearly 2000 tons will arrive for the main and branch lines before the end of the week, as I intend to load part of the quay with about 8 tons per square foot in order to test it. In any case, much as I am urged to commence the warehouses at once, I shall not do so until the quay has withstood the test during at least a month.' "'That is a heavy test, sir.' "'You can go now!' He bowed, and smiled his thanks, and I withdrew. Of course, I said nothing to anyone. It don't do to annoy the guv'nor. Well, in a few days the rails came, about 2500 tons of them. The engineer sent for me again and said, 'I wish you to see the rails stacked on part of the quay in accordance with instructions you will receive.' "I could only say, 'Very well, sir,' and withdraw. I felt I was had again, and went straight away and had a pull of rum. There was no help for it now. I was in the fix and had to get out of it somehow, and what made it doubly worse was being ordered to superintend my own ruin. Listen, for you will when I tell you I might have been tried for having killed or injured 400 men and one director! It was a near squeak for the lot, and as it was--No! I'll tell you in a few minutes what happened. "Well, we stacked the rails over the place according to the engineer's directions, after Mr. Pupil had taken the levels--he also took them every day, to see how things were going. I made no remarks, for fear I might say something that would lead to further enquiries, and took the cue from a chap I once knew, the biggest rogue out he was; he could please them pretty, and never had any fixed opinions about anything, like some of our politicians, or could twist them about to suit the times; and he set his sails according to circumstances, so as to be pleasant to everyone, and was liked and respected by a lot that knew no better and could not see through him, but he had not a bit of honesty in him. Fact was, knowing I had got all I could out of short driving and cutting off these piles, I played a mild game of respectful bluff, more particularly as Mr. Pupil told me the ground had only gone down a mere decimal of an inch. "One day the engineer walked over by himself and said to me, 'Come to the quay wall.' "We got there, and I felt I had soft sawder enough in me for anything. He led off by saying, 'Although this is a severe test it is not altogether satisfactory to me. The rails shall remain in their present position for at least another month. I have known, as in cylinder sinking, subsidence to occur very suddenly and unexpectedly. I do not like the system of foundations upon piles, but have been overruled here.' "Now what he said pleased me much, because I thought to myself if the wall does break up it will not be exactly a heart-breaking trial to him. Well, all went on as usual for a fortnight, and I heard nothing further till one Friday about 5 o'clock. It was near low water, and Mr. Pupil came to me and said the engineer wanted to see me. I went towards the office, but on the way met him and the engineer and three or four other swells, two of them that came before. I touched my hat, and walked behind. I heard the engineer say, 'Mr. Selectus, although the position is very good, I am not satisfied with regard to the foundations, more especially as I believe the ground to be varied in character; and on an old plan, dated 1720, I note a stream marked here; in fact, Mr. Pupil has searched and found a water-course existed almost from the earliest known times.' "If he did not say exactly that, it was just like it, anyhow he spoke up pretty straight. One of the directors (I heard they were all such afterwards) said, addressing the engineer, 'I have an idea. The men will cease work, I think, very soon?' 'They will,' said the engineer. 'Have you any objection to their marching and marking time, as it were, upon the rails, as a final test, as I remember we so tested a suspension bridge I had erected at my place?' "The engineer assented, and remarked that although the weight of 500 men was not much compared to the weight of the rails, the vibration they would create might cause a sudden subsidence. However, he slightly bowed to the director, and said, 'I leave the experiment entirely to you, although I may say it is not unattended with risk; for the test load now imposed is a very severe one for such unstable soil, and the effects of vibratory motion are usually most deleterious.' "However, the director, after some talking, had his way, so the men were fetched. We had about 700 at work then, the company's own men. I will cut it short. Well, the director told the foreman, as the engineer asked him to do so, what he wished to be done, and the men marched up and down I should think six or seven times. It did not take long, and they soon got into step, for we had a lot of militia chaps at work; and then the director, who seemed to be enjoying himself, said, 'Now we will try three trips, double quick,' so the men went by once all on the smile, and we were as near laughing as smiling allows, when!---- "It chokes me to think of it. Fill up the glass, so that I may keep my pipes open. Thank you, I was near being blocked up. Well, about half of the men were behind the rails, and we were all, except the director-in-command I'll call him, looking on and stationed on a mound close by. I shouted out--seemed a sort of sudden impulse-- "'Look out! the ground is settling. Run for your lives.' About half of the men heard me, and got away, but the front lot went on. I should think 200 of them. Bless you, the ground began to yaw and sink with the rails very quickly, and the wall pressed forward and toppled over in one place for about a 30-feet length with men upon the top of it, and the director as well, and fell very slowly, and quite majestically, right into the river, and there was a splash and crash. I said before it was nearly low water, and I should think there was about 5 feet on the sill and 2 feet of mud. After all, somehow or other, only about thirty men and the director were cast, and they were all taken out right, for there was plenty of assistance. Still one man had his arm broken, which was a good thing for him as it turned out, for the director made him one of his lodge-keepers; but as he was a smart-looking chap, and had been brought up right, and could not work much after, it was an even bargain." "How about the director?" "Ah! that's the only fun we had; for I tell you, when I saw the men and the wall go over it made me take root, and my boots were nearly pressed into the ground, and they said I went awfully white in the face. It did give me a shock; but it was lucky the break-up was so slow, for those that could not get off had time to jump and get clear of the rails, but I tell you it was a shave. As it turned out, the director had the worst ducking of the lot that fell in. He went sprawling into the mud; but he could swim, and when we saw him I nearly burst out laughing, only my feelings had been so shaken, for he was smothered in slime from head to foot, and looked like a real savage. All his hair, face, and beard were thick with mud, to say nothing of his tailoring; and I tell you he put me in mind of a baboon just then, and I don't think he will attempt any more testing. "Of course, the warehouses were not erected upon the quay, and the engineer was not sorry at the way things had turned out. Anyhow, he let me do the clearing away the rails and the rebuilding; and I drove in the piles just the same length as the others, and nothing was said to me or suspected. It worked all right; but suppose a lot of the men had been killed, and the director as well! I tell you it was a near shave, and all before my eyes. It would just have killed me; for I should have known about another 3 feet down of those piles would have made them stand all serene. As it was, my wife said I was that disturbed in my sleep, and kicked so, that she hardly got a wink of rest, and had to double herself up in bed for fear of having her legs broken; however, it wore off in time, although once I sent myself and my old woman clean off the bedstead, and I saw by the light of the moon we were sitting on the floor, and the clothes were all of a heap close by. It made a nice picture of domestic bliss. My wife gave it me hot, and she said she would stand it no longer. I said, 'Don't grumble, you have not got to stand. You are sitting down now, and you ought to know it.' She said she heard me mumble several times in my sleep 'Cut 3 feet off her, Bill!' That was my ganger's name, and, of course, my brain was alluding to cutting off the piles; she thought it was her--no fear. Still, she always makes out I was not so good as I once was, and she felt sure Old Nick and me had night conversations. I laugh over the whole thing now. I hardly did then." CHAPTER VII. MASONRY BRIDGES. "Now I'll tell you how we got on with some masonry bridges. Being more of a scholar than most of them--thanks to the parish school--and being able to read, write, and sum a bit, I knew a trifle extra to the other chaps, and was made a ganger when very young. Somehow or other, I drifted into being crafty, and just then made friends with a man that was up to every game, and remembered old George Stephenson. He could tell and teach you something, and did me; but even I have known the time when we hardly ever had a drawing to work to, except the section, and have walked many miles behind an engineer, and heard him say to my partner--who was a mason, and a real good one--'Joe, put a bridge there, the same span and width between the inside of the parapets as the others.' 'All right, sir!' "You know that was the time of the rush for railways, and few understood the business. Too many do now, I think, and the old country is too full of mouths generally. Then there was scarcely time to think, much more for many drawings; they were made after. "We used to take a bridge at a time, at so much the cubic yard, and we did put it in thick, abutments, counterforts, wingwalls, and parapets, and all the work was as straight as could be made; and I have known my partner, Joe, nearly drawn into tears when he was forced by circumstances over which he had no control to own an arch to a bridge was not exactly a straight line. Spirals and winders made him that waspish as I took good care to make myself particularly wanted somewhere else than at the bridge at which he was busy when he had to do them. "Some of the bridges we built have enough masonry in them to nearly build a church or a small breakwater, and lucky they have, as it gave one the chance of a bit of profit; and the depth of the foundations was hardly so deep as shown in the drawings made after we had built a bridge. Somehow or other our imagination used to scare away reality, and we generally were paid for a foot or more extra depth all round. "Joe said that was the way he got his professional fees for building a bridge without a drawing, and the only way he could and, moreover, did; but he always put the masonry in solid, that is to say, when he considered it should be, although hardly, perhaps, to the specification throughout, but the face looked lovely; and if the inside work was rather rough and tumble and really "random," he knew what a good bond was, and would have it, and was really clever at selecting the right rock in the cuttings for masonry; but there, no one can expect the filling-in work to be done the same way as the facework. "Of course, it was not exactly honest to be paid for more work than we had done; but it is only fair to say we were generous with our _extra_ profits, and always treated the inspector and our men right. We were bound to educate them and enlighten their minds. I own it was not right, and, after all, it would want an 'old parliamentary hand' to tell the difference in dishonesty between over-measurement founded on lies and stealing. However, one is supposed to be the result of cleverness, the other, crime. "I forgot to tell you we took a cue from a director who occasionally walked over the line, and who always showed about half-an-inch of his cheque-book sticking up out of his pocket. We were told he wore his cheque-book like the mashers do their pocket-handkerchiefs; but that he was not worth much, and was on the war path for 'plunder,' and so were we, and took his tip. I said to myself, as he has brought a new fashion into play in these parts, let us take the hint. "'So we will,' said my partner. "'How long is the specification for masonry? "'I am sure I don't know. What _are_ you talking about? I never read such things. All I want to know is for what purpose the bridge is to be erected, and whether it is to be coursed work, ashlar, or the same as the others, and up it goes according to my specification. I'm above other people's specifications, thank you. What's the use of my education if I am not? Do you think the alphabet must be again taught me?' "'I beg pardon, partner, you are right; but appearances go a long way, and shamming is fashionable.' "'Oh, well, have your way; we all look better when we are properly clothed; and I once heard an engineer say he never felt right when on any works without a plan in his hand, and we know a music-hall singer is generally not at home without a hat; besides, it will please them to see we have the specification always on the premises.' "'That is what I think.' "Well, I made two copies of it, one for Joe, my partner then, and one for me, and wrote in large letters on the top, 'Specification--masonry --bridges and culverts.' Then we both showed the top out of our pockets, with that writing on it, in the same way the director did his cheque-book. It worked beautifully; for a few days after a big engineer came down, and we heard he had said he thought we were the smartest masons on the work, and he was pleased to see we appeared careful to comply with the specification, for he noticed we each had a copy in our pockets. "The fun was, my partner had never read it at all; I only when copying. "The game worked really lovely; we were looked upon as downright straight ones, and the inspector--who wanted some dodging, I can tell you, as well as a tip, now and again--was taken away and posted at the other end of the work, and then we made hay while the sun shone, and no mistake. We used to make the bridges rise out of the ground; we gave some drink to our chaps; and then, as soon as the wagons with the rock arrived from the cutting, in it went. The difficulty was to keep the face going fast enough for the filling-in work. It was a game. First a wagon-load of rock, and then--well, I suppose I must say--the mortar, but it is squeezing the truth very hard indeed. There was Joe, my partner, superintending in his own style, the raking and mortar business, and I was busy at the facework looking after our best mason. "Give my partner his due, he was always careful about bond and throughs, and he was fond of mixing up the flat stones a bit, for he said it prevented their sliding on the beds, and always maintained that the weight above kept all tight enough and more than the mortar, so long as the stones were flat and large. I said, it's lucky it did. "One day he frightened me. We were short of stone, owing to a mistake in the cutting, and so the facework was up a good height. At last Joe caught sight of the engine and wagons coming round the hill, and said to me-- "'Hold hard, here they come, thirteen wagons; they will fill you up both sides.' "'I agree with you; they will, and more.' "It was then past one o'clock, and Joe called out to me-- "'Before we leave I mean to be level with you, but you must help.' "'Joe, it can't be done.' "'Away with your cant's; it _shall_ be done.' "Well, it was tempting us too much, such a lot of rock to work on all at once; if we had only had a little more than sufficient for one day's work at a time, we could not have done what we did. By Jove, he did go it. Down came the rock--I know you will kindly excuse me from calling it building stone. "'Easy does it, Joe, or you will burst the show.' "'Not I,' he shouted. "Now listen to me, for this _is_ truth. Never since the foundation of this world did bridges grow at this rate. It beats mustard-and-cress raising and high farming into fits. "'Smash them in, lads, bar them down; give them a dose of gravel liquor. Now then, for some real cream mortar.'" "These, and such-like, were his war-cries." "'Bless me, if the mortar is not as thin-placed as the powder on a girl's face, Joe.'" "'It's pretty.' "'Now, lads, five minutes for beer.' "All was soon comparatively silent. "'Joe, you must draw it milder, for the row going on is more like an earthquake let loose than anything else I can think of, and it may spoil the game, for it is bound to draw a crowd.' "'All right, partner, I never thought of that. Talk about Jack and the beanstalk, this beats it to squash. It's lucky the rock works in flat, and is not hollow. Of course, all the stones are on their natural beds, according to the specification--understand that. Don't let us have any mistake as to the catechism; if they are not, they will grow used to their new ones and shake down to rest.' "I've never built a bridge that fell or gave much, perhaps a wingwall has bulged, but then it is the want of proper drainage and backing and nothing to do with the masonry. _We_ only attend to the masonry according to the specification. Chorus--According to the specification. But they all do it, as the song says. "It's my firm conviction that the man that invented wall-plates ought to have a marble monument in his native town, for they are beautiful distributors of weight, and when the stones are small, they are salvation for such masonry as we made rise." "I agree with you, they cover a multitude of sins, and are powerful agents in the cause of unity and good behaviour." "That is right." "Have a sip?" "Yes." "I nearly got bowled out once at the masonry game. This is between ourselves." "Of course, we understand each other; shake hands." "They nearly caught me." "How?" "We were walking over the work--when I say we, I mean a party of directors, a couple of engineers, and the resident engineer. An unlucky thing happened. Someone said, 'I should think a good view of the surrounding country is to be obtained from the top of this bridge.' Now, you know, in those days, some engineers liked offsets at the back of a wall very close together, say about every two feet, as they thought the backing remained on them, and helped to prevent the wall overturning; but it seldom does, the backing is usually drawn away from such off-sets. However, unfortunately, most of these directors had only recently returned from Switzerland, and had been up the Mortarhorn, I think they said--or thought they had, or read about it in a guide book. Anyhow, they started climbing up the back of one of the abutments. They ought to have known our work is not quite so solid as nature, nor as the Romans made in the old slow days when they were not fighting; but it is all right for the purpose intended, at least, for what we intend it, and that is enough. The abutment of the bridge I am referring to was 50 feet in length, and what must they all do but start at once at the climbing business, like a lot of schoolboys eager to get there first, and I had only time to think a moment, and to shout, "'Be careful, gentlemen, please, the mortar has not had time to set yet, it's green.' "Lucky, I said 'yet'; but between you and me, I should be an old one, and no mistake, if I had to wait till it set right. "They got upon the first offset all serene; but when they footed it on the third, down they came, and humpty-dumpty was not in it with the show. It was a flat procession and a general lay-out, and such a rubbing of mid-backs occurred as few have seen before. They fell soft, though, as we had partly finished backing up the bridge. I was nearly had; but I had a bit in hand with which to squeeze home at the finish, and get in the first words. They were:-- "'Gentlemen, I had no time to warn you, but the mortar has not had time to set all round, it is green; and where it has set, it is that powerful it often shifts the stones first, and then clenches them tight, and there is no parting them at all; they become gripped together just as by nature in the quarry. It is wonderful material, and the best lime known, or that I have had to do with during thirty years of hard working experience." "Of course, the directors could say nothing; they were bankers and solicitors, or such-like, nor could the engineers. It did not do to make out the masonry had not been properly executed. I thought I had got off beautifully, and the whole party were just going to start when out of the blessed wall, there and then, flew two pheasants!" "Well, I never!" "You wait. Yes; and before we could speak, out came a fox. I own I was nearly beaten, but one of the directors, turning to us, said, 'You appear to have a veritable Noah's ark here, and we know a pheasant is a gallinaceous bird.' "We all laughed. He then went on to say, 'Perhaps if we wait long enough the procession will continue. This may be the ancestral home of the dodo or the mastodon. Who can say it is not?' They again laughed. "Now, you know, there is no denying, neither a pheasant nor a fox can squeeze themselves through an ordinary-sized mortar joint. While laughing I got my mind right, and said, 'Gentlemen, I feel sure the poachers have been on the prowl here, and have disturbed the work.' "'Yes,' said the director. The others seemed afraid to speak. There is always a cock in every farmyard, and he was in this. 'A four-legged poacher--the fox; and I am afraid, if we do not exercise due care, the board will be charged with larceny.' "Then we all thought we ought to laugh, and did. 'Gentlemen,' I said, 'I'm sure the bridge has been tampered with, and no doubt if we keep watch we shall find the rascals.' "Excuse me now saying 'rascals' to you, but, old chum, of course between ourselves, that is you and me, we have never done any poaching." "Not we, certainly: at least we forget doing it if we did. A good memory is not always a blessing, or to be owned to, although it's useful." "Shake. That's right. As we understand each other, I will now tell you how things ended. I went on to say to the gentlemen, 'I will root out this matter; and may I ask you to say nothing to anyone. My partner and myself will get to the bottom of it. Trust your old servants, gentlemen.' Then I raised my hat. That fetched them; for one turned, and said to me:-- "'I cannot send my keepers to-night, but to-morrow they shall meet you here at six. Please watch to-night.' "He then handed to me a five-pound note. Blessed if he did not own the land for miles round and I did not know it. I beamed all over, and said I would, and looked as humble as only an old sinner can; and I was just going to forget to tell you I put that 'fiver' carefully away, to keep it from the poachers." "I could believe that of you; I could, old chap, without your saying it." "Well, now talk about 'all's well that ends well;' this was better than that--simply crumbs of comfort, except the awkwardness of the situation before the finish. "I suppose you want to know all about the cause of the tumbling show." "Yes; I am waiting to know." "Very well, I will tell you. I had become greedy, and as there was not much more work for me on that railway, I used to make it a rule, wherever I was, and before leaving, to have a final haul in by way of a loving remembrance of a past country in which I had spent some part of my life in opening up to civilization, and the immeasurable benefits of rapid and cheap locomotion. Is that good enough?" "Rather; it likes me much." "Now this bridge was a beauty to draw on, so we just left a few voids here and there. Tipping the backing must have broken a bit of the wall unknown to me, or something must have given way in the night; and I suppose the birds walked in, and the fox after them, and then the abutment settled and the backing pushed it closer together. Now the birds got to a place where the fox could not reach, and there very likely they would have been, three caged-up skeletons; but the Swiss mountain climbing spoilt that fun, and pulled down the wall sufficiently to raise the curtain on the show. "It so happened that all the engineers and residents had to go away on some land case--I like _other_ people to go to law; and so we had three clear days to put things in order; and we did, you bet, and began almost before the break of day. I had an untarnished reputation at stake, and was on my metal. My partner and myself just about both smiled over the fun real mutual admiration." "The engineers did not say much for we had been paid, and they knew they would get nothing out of us, and therefore proceeded on the principle that it is no use stirring dirty water, and I say, and maintain, that on the whole--not _in_ the hole, mind you--never was more solid and firmer masonry put together than our work, although we took care to do as we liked, and relieved the foundations of some strain now and again, and improved the specification. "I forget whether I watched for poachers that night, but I might have done for a few minutes, so as to make it all right; but as my memory is not clear on the point, I had better say I fancy I did not, but I met the keepers next night; and did a three hours watch and told them a lot, and got well rewarded. Pay me and I'll patter pretty; but no pay, no patter, is my motto. The only thing that grieved me was losing those pheasants and the fox's brush and head. That was hard luck, but there! life is full of disappointments which are hard to bear." CHAPTER VIII. TUNNELS. "Have I told you of my scare in a tunnel I got some 'extra' profit out of by real scamping?" "Not that I remember." "Well, that was a whitener, for I was almost trapped, nearly caught, and paid out. Retributed, I think it is called, but there, I am not sufficiently educated, although you and me have had a good deal more schooling than any others on this work, which perhaps is not too much of a recommendation. Anyhow, you agree, don't you?" "Of course I do!" "Well, let us drink. Now we are oiled, the machinery will start again easy and soft, and continue going for some time, but don't you consider we know enough to suit us. I have watched various guv'nors I have had, and they seem to be thinking and puzzling their brains even when they are eating, and I don't think their digestion is improved by it. A peaceful mind needs no pills. It is medicine for the upper works, and exercise and good food is the right physic for the body unless you are half a corpse when born. Now, when we eat, we have a look at the goods first, and all we trouble about is to divide the vegetables, meat, and bread, and beer, so that they last the show out in their proper quantity to the finish." "That's it, but what has that to do with the scare at the tunnel and the scamping?" "You wait. Really you should know impatience is not polite; and to be a good listener, and look as if every word that was said to you was virgin information and pure wisdom, is the best game to play." "That is enough, get to the tunnel scare and scamping." "Well, why I named about my food was, my old woman was queer just then, a lying up on the cherub business, and the party that she had to look after things was no cook, few are, and I believe she was paid by some of those pill proprietors to make people ill and then pill them. Anyhow I got queer and dreadfully out of sorts, and just at the time I was a regular nigger, and had taken a length of tunnel lining, and in such ground, horrid dark yellow clay, and it smelt awfully bad. We called the tunnel the pest-hole. What with the food being wrong, and the hateful place, I did the worst bit of scamping I ever was guilty of." "Fortunately, the engineer knew what he was about, and our profiles were nearly round, that is, the section of the tunnel was nearly circular; if they had not been, that tunnel would have been filled up by this time, and perhaps been the grave of hundreds, and it nearly was. There were eight rings in the lining, and therefore some bulk to play with. I got frightfully pesky about the job, and meant getting out of it as quickly as possible, and did. I am not the one to play about and squat, action is my motto; and I am busy if there is anything to be got, and keen on the scent." "You are right there. You generally find a fox, and get his brush, too." "I was roused. The brickwork was in Portland cement, and believe me, I never would have done what I did if it had been lime mortar. Must draw the line somewhere, and the easiest conscience has a limit to being trifled with. You know, tunnel work gives one chances that are not to be had in the open, and the temptation is strong. I dropped word on the quiet, 'Be careful to-night with the first two rings and then'--well, they twigged, and I had no occasion to say much. Afterwards, the material that was given them went in anyhow. But bless me, we had Portland cement, it was supplied by the company, you understand. It held almost anything together, firm as a rock. I said to my ganger, whatever material you are given, so long as it is clean, will do, and it will be just like conglomerate. The inspector was inclined to be my way of thinking, and, by a manual operation on my part, he fully agreed with me, and said he had always been of the same opinion, only other people failed to comprehend his meaning. It has been said the pen is mightier than the sword, and so it may be; but ten hours writing, and a ten hours speech full of argument, have not the same force with some inspectors as a few sovereigns judiciously placed to aid them in arriving at a proper view of a subject." "You are right; bribes and lies are twin brothers." "Well, it was just a scamper all round. Yes, scamper and scamping. I had some good brickies then--militia chaps, smart, and they could stay. They made the rings grow; I forget how much we got in that night, but a good length, for the bricks ran short at one end of the tunnel, and we were close up to the face at the other end. No one that I did not want to see was about. After measuring, I found we were short at least twenty yards of bricks, and only about two thousand or so left, so I said, 'Lads, if you finish the ring by five o'clock, you shall have a quid amongst you; but do it, and keep the beautiful clean face on for all you are worth.' "I looked a bit crafty at them, and they twigged the tune to play. I took old Bond--he was my ganger--with me, and said to him, 'How are we going to do the lining?' We can't fetch bricks from the other end, and I draw the line at timber to do duty as bricks. I waited, and the 'extra' profit string of my brain worked right, and I pointed and said, 'There is a heap of broken bricks and no one knows what; well, twenty yards of that won't be noticed if you take it equally all round; put that in, and dose it with cement, and rake it well on the top of the rings, and don't forget to finish the top nicely and clean to a hair if you have not time to fill in all of it. Keep the best stuff for near the finish, and enough bricks to make a solid strip or two, and I am otherwise engaged or tired-out till four. Wake me then; I'm off for a peaceful snooze.' Well, they got it all in, and nothing was known till--I won't name it yet, it must wait." "I suppose the bricks you took from the brick-yard were tallied, and deliveries checked with the work done in the lining?" "Yes; but there is tallying of all sorts, and, of course, the right amount of bricks were taken from the yard early next morning, but where they went is best known to the yard foreman, the inspector of brickwork, and the dealer; but as my partnership with them is now at an end, of course my memory fails me, and I am sorry I can't give you any more information in that direction. It grieves me to keep back anything from you, and is so unlike me." "I don't want to hurt your feelings. All right, I understand." "Talk about varieties of concrete, why we had sardine and meat tins, all sorts and sizes and weights and ages, tiles, ashes, bones, glass, broken crockery, oyster shells, and a lot of black-beetles and such-like shining members of creation. They all did their duty to the best of their ability. What else there was I would rather not try to remember, but it was _not_ bricks." "Don't trouble, I can understand. We are all pushed a bit for the right goods sometimes, and have to make shift; but it is hard, very hard, to have to do it." "Well, I found out that the bricks were not quite so many as I thought, and for a 5 feet length, about 15 feet from shaft No. 7, they had to do with one ring of brickwork, and the rest, my patent midnight conglomerate. That frightened me, and had I known it at the time, I would have stopped the show; of course I would, you know me. I always draw the line somewhere." "Right you are; although 'somewhere' is an easy-stretching sort of place, and there is not much of a fixed abode about it; but it can generally be found on a foggy night." "It's my belief they did not put in enough cement mortar, and carry out my orders, which indeed was very wrong of them." "What do you mean, your orders were wrong?" "Oh dear no, of course not, not likely--_their_ orders were wrong, not mine. You don't follow me rightly. You understand now? Dwell on it, and I'll wait." "Oh yes, it was stupid of me. There, I am not so young as I was, nor so quick." "Now we are coming to the scare. Pass my glass, it makes me feel weak, it does. "That conglomerate length stood all right, more by luck than anything else, till one night, although all the rest was sound work and done properly, for it was well looked after, and there was no chance of a slide towards extra profit; besides, the ground would not have stood unbared long, and, of course, short lengths had to be the order, and were bound to be carried out, for the clay soon got dropsy and swelled. "Well, my guv'nor took a contract for a line about 20 miles away from the tunnel. I had some work on it, and had to go to London, it was abroad, for I was called up by him, It was a slow train, and followed an express goods. There was a signal box at each end of the tunnel, and a fair traffic, and fast trains passed. Something got wrong with a wagon of the express goods train--I never knew exactly what it was but anyhow, nothing very serious, for the permanent way was all right and so were the wheels and axles. We were stopped by hand-signal in the tunnel, and there may have been something wrong with the signals, but that does not matter for what I am going to tell you." "Were you scared to think the train after you would telescope you?" "No, for there was none for an hour and a half. "Well, the carriage I was in pulled up just under the place where that patent midnight conglomerate length was put in, and I looked up and saw the old spot had bulged, and was yawning, and looked to me as wide and moving as the Straits of Dover in a S.W. gale, and a lot worse, and it seemed to be getting wider every minute, and I saw something drop. I was alone in the compartment, and it was fortunate I was for many reasons or I know they would have found me out. I knew the place. How could I forget it? It was just by the shaft. The passengers were talking to the guards, or were otherwise engaged. Presently I heard the down mail coming at a rare speed. I said to myself, 'There is not much the matter, or they would not let her go through.' She was the last passenger train down that night, and lucky she was, you will soon say. Oh! dear me, when I heard her I felt cold and hot, and my heart got to my teeth, and I believe if I had not kept my mouth shut it would have jumped out, that's true. What scared me most was not about the mail train, I knew she would be right, and would be past the spot before the ground had time to tumble in. She was going too quick, but our train, _and me_, right under the place, and bound to be there _after_ the mail had shaken it to bits! That's what made me feverish. "I said to myself, 'You are paid out in your own coin, you are.' Before I had time to think more the mail went by all serene, and I hardly dare move, but slid up on the seat just in time to see her tail lights vanish. I then looked up, and if it had been my scaffold it could not have been worse. Oh! fill my glass up, nearly neat, while I wipe my forehead. Thank you. Yes, I looked up, and saw the crack had widened and was becoming wider, and chips were falling now and again as large as hailstones! I knew it was bound to come down. I looked to my watch, another full hour had to pass before the next train was due behind us. I was just going to get out, when I heard the guard coming along on the footboard, and he said, 'Another five minutes and we are off, gentlemen.' He did not see the falling pieces, as the carriage hid them, but I did, and the engine blowing off steam prevented him hearing them. Soon he reached my carriage, and said, 'You are the only gentleman in this carriage.' He would not say anything more. I heard him repeat the same words almost as he moved along the train, 'Five minutes and we are off, gentlemen.' "I said to myself, 'Five minutes more and I am buried and off for ever somewhere,' for I was certain in five-and-a-half the lining would burst and down everything would come and crush us to powder. I did not care to think what else or how much. I cannot describe how I felt, but drink squalls are nothing to it. I kept my watch out of my pocket, and gazed at it till I hated it. One minute passed--two--three--and then I watched the second-hand go round. What I suffered cannot be told. I looked out of the window. I heard a whistle. It did not sound like our engine, it seemed too shrill. I had no fear of a train being behind us as I knew our road was blocked. Was it a down special excursion, or a down special goods, I said, tremblingly, to myself, for I knew all the down ordinaries had gone for the night. 'If it is,' I said to myself, 'you are settled and corpsed, and have made your own grave, and it will be a rough one.' I won't say what I did then, but know it would suit a clergyman. "Thank goodness I was wrong, the whistle was from _our_ engine, but it had been low and now was shrill. I was so feverish that I forgot the steam was blowing off. At last we started, and I looked at my watch. It was five minutes ten seconds from when the guard spoke. I knew I was safe, but thought I would look back. I was just able to see in the glimmering, as the fire-box was open, and by the tail lamps the last carriage had well cleared the shaft when there was a horrid hollow sound like waves breaking in a long cavern, and I saw something come down like a veil across the metals. The tunnel was in, fallen in with a slow smash, and not a minute after we started! "I don't know how long it took the train to get to the signal-box at the entrance, but we pulled up there, and the first thing I remembered was the guard saying to me, 'No one is hurt, you need not be frightened, but we have to thank God for it. Terrible shave. The tunnel has fallen in, and just where your carriage stood!' "I said, 'Oh!' and sank back upon the seat. The guard again came to me and popped his head in and said 'You are the only passenger that knows what is up. Keep it quiet, if you please. Shouting will do no good, and I shall be much obliged to you. It's no fault of mine or the Company's. Are you ill, sir?' "'No, but I saw the tunnel fall in.'" "'Traffic is stopped, sir, at both ends. The wires are right as we had reply from the other end of the tunnel. I thought you must have seen it fall in, because you looked very white, and were clasping the window frame with both hands and shaking so. I was afraid you had been almost scared with fright.' "'No, I am not ill, but I saw it fall.'" "'Well, sir, it is no fault of mine or the Company's, although I am sorry it has frightened you a little.' He then went away and we started again." "When he said, 'It is no fault of mine,' bless you, it near cut my vitals out, it did; for I knew it was my fault and no other person's, and that it was only by the act of Providence the mail was not smashed to bits, and us too. I made a vow there and then never to have anything more to do with tunnels, and whenever I go through one I always feel wrong and twitchy, and shut my eyes till the rattle tones down and I know we are in the open." "How much fell in?" "About 20 yards altogether in length. Traffic had to go round for a month, but the rest of the work was all-right, and so it really was, and I ought to know. No one found out that nearly the whole of the fallen length had been scamped, for everything was broken and mixed up, and, as luck would have it, a spring burst out there and the flow had to be led away to one entrance, and the falling-in was always put down to that, and that only; still I know the ground was a bit cracked, and underground waters have mighty force, and are best guided and not tried to be stopped, for they will come out somewhere. "I met my guv'nor next day, and he quietly said to me, 'I have let the tunnel work on your length to an old foreman,' and then he looked clean through me. I know he thought a lot, and I'm afraid I can't play the game of bluff as good as some can, and so work 'extra' profit out of ruins. What do you think of that scare?" "I don't want to think about it. Glad I had nothing to do with it. Dreadful! No wonder you have a wrinkle or two. What shocking hardships we all have to pass through in getting 'extra' profit, and so undeserved!" CHAPTER IX. CYLINDER BRIDGE PIERS. "Deep river bridge foundations are not to be easily worked for 'extra' profit as they are generally too carefully looked after; still, even there, you get a chance occasionally, if you know how to work things. I was always on the scent for 'extras,' and once got a bit out of a cylinder bridge, more by luck than anything else." "How did you do it?" "Listen, and then you'll know." "The bed of the river was soft for a depth of nearly 50 feet, then firm watertight ground, and into that we had to go about 15 feet. Our cylinders were 15 feet in diameter, of cast-iron, and in one piece 6 feet in height I will just name that there is more chance of a bit 'extra' profit when the rings are little in height than if they are in pieces and have vertical joints and are about 9 feet long as usual. A 15 feet ring, 6 feet in length in one piece was not often seen then, but they are now cast much heavier; still, they may be made too large to handle nicely without special tackle, and foundry cleverness should be considered less than ease in fixing on the site." "Why are short lengths best for 'extra' profit?" "Because you may have a chance of leaving out a ring if the coast is clear, and nice people around you." "I see." "Well, the Company's foreman had to lay up for three days, for he had ricked himself, and I had an old pal with me, and two of my nephews working the crane, and other relations about. All had been properly schooled, and knew crumbs of comfort were to be got out of a bit 'extra,' so I embraced the opportunity as we were such a charming family party, quite a happy farmyard. "The rings went down rather easily as the bed of the river was soft; in fact, they sunk into the mud for the first 6 to 10 feet by their own weight. So I gave the office, and we just dropped a 6 feet ring over the side into the mud, for I knew it would sink all right, and that by the time the Company's foreman returned to work we should have pumped out the water from the cylinder and got enough concrete in to seal the bottom; of course, after the resident engineer had gone down to see the foundation was right, and I felt sure it would be, and that he would only look at the foundation, and not bother about the height of the cylinder or the number of rings; and if he did, we could dodge him a bit, as there would be four or five of us, and stages were fixed on the horizontal ring-flanges, and no numbers were cast on the rings, as they all were made to fit together. He went down, just as I thought, to see the foundation only, although he measured about a bit, and enjoyed himself. We worked the tape right--it takes two with a tape. By-the-bye, I hate measuring-rods, they are not good business for 'extras.' They are so unobliging. A tape you can pull a bit, and tuck under, according as you want a thing to appear to be of a different length to what it is. One of my gangers made a false end for a tape. He used to turn the end of the true tape under for a few inches and slip on his false end, or he added a false length if he wanted. He took good care to hold the end, and he could slip it on and off like a flash of lightning, and good enough for a conjurer. He could lengthen or shorten a tape a few inches at will; all he wanted was to hold the ring at the end. His false end was a bit of a real tape with his attachment, and I have seen him trick them really pretty. "Considering we had about sixteen rings altogether, top to bottom; there was a good length on which to dodge, but our game would have been too risky I fancy with eight or ten rings, and in a strong light, because one could count the flanges pretty easily; but it is not many that suspect a ring may be omitted. "We were some 8 feet in the hard soil, and I considered that enough, for the ground did not help much to keep the cylinders in place for 50 feet of the height above it, but they were well braced above high water and at top. When I consider a thing enough, you don't catch me let them have much more if I can help it. I hate waste. "The foundations were declared to be all right, and so they were, and we at once began the hearting, and sealed up the bottom after cleaning up, and we put in good Portland cement concrete, for all the materials were supplied to us. "Of course, the Company's foreman, when he came back, could not tell, nor could anyone else, that we had been having a happy time; but give him his due, he did all he knew to find the rings were in. You know the ring we got rid of for 'extras' we took care should be sunk in the middle, between the two columns, and well away from each one. The bridge was wide,--about four lines of rails on top--so we slung the ring out very quickly, after the men had gone for the day, just about midway between the cylinders, and down it went pretty quickly, and it was bound to be in the mud fully 8 feet by the morning, and sure to sink a bit more, for I had it dropped sharp, and I thought it would be certain to break up where it fell. We worked it so nicely, and all was as lovely and serene and merry as a marriage, and real crumbs of comfort, and I thought no more about it. "We sank the ring purposely midway between the other two cylinders, so that if the bridge had to be widened it would not be found. But we were had for once, and no mistake this time, and all our own fault, and just where we thought we had been clever, for one day the engineer came down and sniffed about. I wish he had stopped at home instead of coming bothering; however, he did not, but came. The result was the resident engineer handed to me a tracing with a new cylinder marked on in the middle of a line drawn through the centre of the two cylinders, and just where I had sunk the 6 feet length I thought I had got a bit 'extra' out of so sweet, and I might have just as well sunk it outside. Well, I took two pills that night to brace me up and set my machinery in perfect trim; and no one can know what I suffered, for I meant getting out of the fix somehow or other, but could not see my road much ahead. "You know I was certain we were bound to find that 'extra' ring. If we could have broken it up, or have been sure it was broken, there might have been no harm; but we did not know exactly where it was, and if we did we could not raise it. I felt certain we should come to it, and tried the crane to see if we could fix the spot, but we had to chance it. It was no use humbugging ourselves into thinking we knew where it was, when no one could possibly know. As I said before, I was positive we should meet it in sinking the cylinder, and as the ground was soft for some distance that it would tilt the centre rings--and then the game I had played would be found out, for cast-iron is hardly as soft as mud. "I felt my reputation was at stake--in fact, all my noble past--and all for a 15 feet cast-iron cylinder, 6 feet in height, and 1-1/4 inch in thickness! I thought of blowing up the surface before the men were at work, and doing a bit of subaqueous mining; but it was too risky and desperate, so I saved myself for the final round, that is, I waited with my teeth set till I met that sunken 'extra' ring, and meant getting clear and settling it in one round, you bet, for I considered the situation very degrading, not to say insulting. "We quickly erected the staging, and I tried all I knew to get the foreman away and the resident engineer. Still I dare not play the same tune too much, or they would suspect, but they were too 'fly' to be drawn off. I arranged with my nephews at the crane to give me the office, if I was not on the spot, by sharply twice turning on the blow-off cock. "I happened to be on the top of a column on the next land-pier with the resident engineer who had called me, and the foreman was there also, when I heard the two puffs. I pretended to take no notice, nor did he or the foreman, and I managed to govern myself and keep myself quiet, just like the old nobility do, and think a lot. "Before I left the resident engineer I found he was going at once to some meeting, and I just wished he would take the foreman with him, if only out of the love I had for him and give him a holiday; however, I got to know on the quiet he had to superintend some unloading at a wharf half a mile or more away, so the road was pretty clear. Directly I got to the cylinder I knew what was up, for it had tilted. "We could not pump out the water, and divers could not go down unless the bottom was sealed, because of the almost liquid mud at the depth we had reached, but in another 8 or 10 feet it could have been done. I thought for an instant and then gave the word. 'Weight her down, lads, get some more kentledge and then we will pull her straight. It's only a piece of a wreck, or a bit of timber or stone.' "I forget whether I told you that it was only my family party that knew of the 'extra' ring being sunk, the rest of my men did not. My game was to wreck the cylinder if I could, and tilt it over so that it would fall, and then fetch the foreman when I knew it would go. If I could manage that I felt I was right. Anyhow I was bound to smash up the bottom ring, at least, I thought so then. Cutting out the obstruction I was thankful could not be done, nor drawing it in, nor splitting it up inside the cylinder. That was certain. I did not much care to tackle lifting the rings. I wanted to smash them. Compressed air I did not want to hear of, for that would have bowled me clean out, and shown the whole game. I wanted to try to thrust the cylinder through the obstruction, although, of course, I was not supposed to know what it was, as that usually fails and ends in smash more or less, and I was certain it would in this case, for it was cast-iron against cast-iron on an earth bed. Attempting to thrust a cylinder ring through anything and everything is always a dangerous operation, and one to be avoided. "Now they knew exactly how many cylinder rings had been delivered by the manufacturers, and if they had found the one we played 'extras' with, they could soon see it was the same size and make, and could easily tell how many were on the work and in the piers. I beg pardon, I should have said, _supposed_ to have been in, and it was 1000 to 1 all would not be well. "It occurred in the summer, and the foreman came and sent a telegram to the resident engineer, and before he arrived we had weighted the side that was up and endeavoured to get it straight by hauling, but it was no good; at least I think I tried to get it vertical, but I may also have tried to smash it. I expected, and was afraid, they would lift it by pontoons the next tide. "Well, the resident engineer came. He tried a few figures over, and said to the foreman, 'If we do not mind, it will cost more trying to right it than it will to lift the lot.' "Anyhow we got more power and more weights. He had the soil loosened on the upper side of the ring; but, of course, as it was iron at the bottom, it did not do much good; and we tried pretty well every dodge in turn that is known, but I need hardly say with very little effect. "The resident engineer said, 'Compressed air will be too expensive for this one cylinder, but I think we can sufficiently clear the interior by a force pump and dredger for a diver to go down.' Now the chief engineer was abroad for a fortnight, so we left it alone that night; but I tried all I knew, bar hammering, for that I dare not do, to smash the rings and they would not break, the soil was too soft and even. I was certain I could pull them over, but then they would most likely lift the rings and might find out the cause of the bother. "However, I let everything rest, and trusted to luck. The resident engineer decided to have the cylinder raised, as we had two large pontoons handy, so the top rings were removed to as low a depth above water as possible, and chains were fixed round the rings and also to bolts in the flanges, and in two tides all the rings were pulled up." "'So you got out of the trouble all right?" "You wait, don't be too sure. The resident engineer and the foreman were pacing up and down just as we were lifting the cutting ring, and we did that by the crane. They were at the other end of the staging though. The cutting edge was within a few inches of the water-level when I saw that a bit of the ring I had sunk for 'extras' was actually jammed into and hanging to the cutting ring." "Oh! save my nerves, that was bad." "Well, I had the crane stopped in a second, for my nephew was watching like a vulture, and I and my ganger had provided ourselves with a bar each, and were standing on the flanges. The cutting ring was only 3 feet 6 inches in height, and after two smashing taps it dropped, neither the foreman nor the resident engineer saw the fun closely; but as the resident asked us what we had been barring at, I said 'A small bit of a wreck got wedged on, sir, and would have stuck between the pontoons, and I am very sorry we could not land it to show you." "That's good enough old pal. Pass on, please." "I thought you would laugh. Well, the pontoon had been brought to the side of the staging as a precaution in case the chains might break or an accident occur, so as to be away from the line of the bridge, and so it did not matter where we dropped the cylinder ring I had 'extra' out of, but it was an ugly fish to hook I can tell you, and is about the only one I ever wished to get away, or did not want to see. "Of course the cylinder went down all right afterwards, and the cause of the tilting was considered to be the remains of a wreck; but it strikes me, should they have to drive piles or sink cylinders anywhere near that pier, they may meet with some obstruction, and perhaps think they have struck rock; anyhow they will find out they have not 'struck oil,' and may send forth the news that a recent discovery has shown the early Britons built ironclads, and it was certain they sank, but there was not sufficient evidence to show whether the warships floated for many days." CHAPTER X. DRAIN PIPES. BLASTING, AND POWDER-CARRIAGE. "The experience you had with cylinder bridge piers reminds me of a near shave for a bowl out I had. They let me a quarter of a mile of work, and I had to put in an 18-inch pipe at the deepest part of an embankment, just to take any surface-water that might accumulate now and again. Of course, an 18-inch pipe will take a lot of water, and I think we agree it is hardly right and proper to throw away good material or provide against events which, an earthquake always excepted, cannot occur in the opinion of the most experienced. You can't accuse me of being wasteful, it's not in me; for I've heard my mother say she never knew me upset anything I could eat or drink, and that I always licked my plate and never lost a crumb. You know it is a quality born in you, and I don't wish to take any credit myself, not me; I'm constructed different. Nor do I wish to say you are not so careful as me, and perhaps more; only, of course, you may put in a lot of strong work when I am not looking, and I think you'll have to do to get level with me. It never was in my heart to see anything wasted. It is against my principles. I hate it, I do. "I said to myself, 'You shall not waste any material.' So what I did was to put five lengths of 18-inch pipe at each end of the slope, and 9-inch in the middle. The tip was almost on the spot, so I put in the 18-inch and the other pipes, and left a couple of lengths bare each end. The embankment was over 40 feet in height, the slopes were one and a-half to one, and the drain was about 50 yards in length, so it was not bad business. "I never forget what the engineers tell me, and when I hear a discussion among them I always make a note of it, and wait till I have an opportunity of making a bit 'extra' profit by it. What is the use to the likes of us of a bit of education if we can't turn it into gold? Not much; almost sheer waste, and I hate waste--abominate it. Well, one day the resident engineer was talking to another swell about how a splayed nozzle to a pipe caused an increased discharge. "So, ever ready to learn, as you and me always are, I said to myself, fond-like and quiet, 'Try it; put it into practice.' And I did, as I told you just now, by the insertion in true scientific manner of smaller pipes in the middle. I wrestled with the subject, and said to myself, 'Now, look here, if I put in all 18-inch pipes that drain can't have a splayed nozzle, that's sure; in fact, it is fact.' So I said, continuing the discussion with myself, 'Don't be beaten. Let science lead you.' And I did." "Fill up your glass, lad. Grasp. I'm hearty to you." "Now, it was in the summer, and we are coming to my scare. I said to my men, 'Come an hour earlier to-morrow morning, for I have got a little extra work, and some of you call at my place on your road.' "They came, and I had the 9-inch pipes handy, and away we went, about fifty of us, with a pipe or two each. It did not take long laying the pipes, nor covering up the lot. In any case you could hardly see through such a length, but as a precaution, I had the pipes put in a shade zigzag after the first six or seven lengths, so everything seemed all serene, at least, I thought so; but it was not, for I had the nearest shave for a bowl out that I ever had, and all on account of a bow-wow." "How did it happen?" "Well, the resident engineer came over with his pet dog, and I took to patting him, and felt really happy at the little bit of 'extra' I was to get out of these pipes, when the blessed dog began sniffing about one end and jumping up. The resident engineer got a bit excited. "'Rat, is it, Dasher?' he said to his dog. "The dog barked his reply to his master. The resident then said to me, 'Stop here with Dasher until I call him at the other end, as I intend him to go through the drain.' "Before I could say a word, he was up and down the slopes, and at the other end of the pipe. I sat, or fell down, I don't know which, I did feel bad. I heard him call 'Dasher, Dasher.' The blessed dog rushed in, and then came back. His size was right for the 18-inch pipes but he was near too big in the barrel for a 9-inch pipe. "To think that after working the show so smoothly and lovely to the satisfaction of all mankind as knew of it, and then to be bowled out by a 'phobia-breeding animal as hardly knows how to scratch his back, was too much. So I braced myself up, and said to myself, 'Mister Dasher you have not done me yet, not you, hardly. It will take a man to do it.' "I patted him, and smiled pretty at him, and gave him a bit of biscuit, and grasped him round the middle just to see if he could get through the 9-inch lengths. I felt seven years younger when I found he could just manage it, but he would have to do it more like swimming than walking. "Now I knew the pipes were all sound and whole, for I never put in broken goods, however small they may be. "The engineer kept calling 'Dasher, Dasher,' so I said to him, through the pipe, 'Wait a minute, sir; Dasher, I fancy is not so used to tunnels as you and me. What do you say to try the other way in, sir, we all have our fancies?' "I knew it was no use attempting to work him off, as he meant what he said, and would be sure to get suspicious--as he was no flat, I can tell you. "Well, after a lot of urging, in went the blessed dog, and Stanley's journey in Darkest Africa was outdone then, I'm sure, and Dasher's rear-guard was in trouble. "We waited, and called, and whistled, but could hear nothing. We must have waited half an hour I should say, at least it seemed to me as long, and the resident engineer shouted to me two or three times, 'If Dasher does not appear in a few minutes, your men must dig him out.' "Lawks me, it makes me ill to think of the squalls there would have been if I had had to do that. I wished just then that no dogs had ever been made nor nothing on four legs except horses, cattle, sheep, and pigs; but I turned sympathetic like and went to the top of the embankment, and said, 'Perhaps there may be vermin up there; and I know Dasher is a game one, and won't back.' "This pleased the resident engineer. Believe me, I would have given at that moment a sovereign to anyone who could have produced that dog. "Old pal, you need not put your hand out, I said, 'at that moment.' Don't excite yourself. I know you are always thirsty, but you have got the gold hunger bad as well. Just keep quiet, and put your hand in your pocket." "I beg your pardon, I was forgetting myself." "All right. Now I'll go on again. Well, I thought the dog had got jammed in, and knew what tight lacing was, and so he did. At last we thought we heard him, and he came out looking more like a turnspit than a well-bred fox terrier. "Some blood was on him. He had had a squeeze and no mistake, and was about done, but no bones were broken. "I said slow and solemn like, 'Sir, he has tackled them.' "'What do you think it was?' "I said, 'You mean they, sir. He has had more than one against him.' "I then took up Dasher and carried him to a tub of water and washed him. I did feel very sorry for the dog. I said, 'He has had a regular battle of Waterloo, but it is his high-breeding and proper training that has pulled him through the fight He has finished the lot, sir, you bet.' "The resident engineer looked pleased, and I am sure I was. Dasher soon recovered and we walked away. Don't forget, what the eye does not see the heart does not grieve for, that is to say, I escaped all right; and those pipes were considered to be 18 inches in diameter, and you know it is not right and proper nor becoming to differ with one's superiors too much, it almost amounts to foolishness I consider in such cases. I always keep my brain in curb till I get a lean measurement, and then I speak, but it don't do to differ with your governor too much. The wheedling lay is the best game to play, and I have an aversion to a quarrel with anyone when you can get more by oil and smiles. "Take my advice, and before you try splayed nozzles, know whether your guv'nors or the engineers have dogs, and, if so, the size of their barrels and whether they have done growing and laying on bulk, because, to be safe, you must work the pipes to fit the bow-wows. Remember I had a near squeak, and so did the dog. I always keep in with them now, and Dasher gets a biscuit from me whenever I see him, but he nearly cost me all I had. It is indeed a real pleasure to have the opportunity of rewarding virtue in men or dogs." "That's right. Fill them up." "The thought of that day rather makes me nervous and dry." "That pipe and dog business was not exactly a holiday, but I had a worse nerve-shaker than that, for it is a wonder you see me now when I come to think of it. But there, Providence shields us all, good and bad, just to give the bad ones a chance to alter, and to test whether the good ones are really good. Still, I never meant anything wrong, of course not--no one ever does. It is always the surrounding circumstances that make things bad; and so we all humbug ourselves into thinking we are very right and proper and good, and we have our private opinion about other people." "Stop that. Speak for yourself, and never mind about other people." "All right. Don't get testy." "Well, they let me take a cutting in hard marl down at Throatisfield Junction. It wanted a lot of blasting, for it was deceptive material. The powder used to go very quick and not split or move the ground much either. I would fifty times rather had a real rock cutting than this hardened lime and clay soil that won't cleave, and when the blast is fixed it only about blows up the tamping and makes a noise for nothing, but blasting marl rock is often vexatious work. One day, by a mistake, the firm I had the powder from did not send the weekly quantity by road as they ought to have done. I always paid for it prompt. They knew me, as I was an old customer. It was nothing to do with the cash, but a mistake in their office, so the only thing to be done was to fetch it; and as seventy pounds' weight of powder is no joke, and I did not want to lose a relation just then, I got it myself by train, and it nearly cost me my life. I took a large box, just like a cheese box, planed inside and as smooth as glass. We used the large-grained glazed powder. I thought to myself, 'I'll take it in the front van, and ride with it, and then I know all will be safe.' "Now, there never was much luggage by this local train, although a lot of passengers, and hardly ever above a case or two in the front van. I knew the guards, and all would have gone pretty, but the usual front one had got a day off to bury a relation, and that nearly buried me and a lot more. After the front guard knew from the other who I was, he let me ride in his van when I showed my ticket. We had about 30 miles to travel, and stopped at nearly every station, about six of them altogether. It was nearly a two hours' journey. I got a chap to pack the powder safely for me, and all I had to do was to keep it from flame and heat and being knocked about. Of course the guard did not know what was in my box, and did not seem to care--he had other things to attend to that were, or seemed to be, more important. I sat on the box, and began a yarn about railway travelling, and was making the necessary impression upon him, just to show I knew a few swells and things. There may have been a trifle more imagination than fact about my talk, but not too much, just enough to season it. We were getting on very pleasantly, and nothing ugly occurred till we got two stations from home, then there was a crowd on the platform. Been a football match. The result was that three swells got into the guard's van. The old guard always locked the door, this new one did not. No room in the first, or anywhere else. Now I should not have cared a rap, as these three swells were as sober as judges, but one turned to the guard and said, 'You will not object to our smoking, I suppose?' Asking a question that way always seems to me more than half a command. The guard took it that way, I think, for he said, 'No, gentlemen, as the carriages are full; but if you can keep it as quiet as you can at the stations I shall thank you kindly, as there is a superintendent here as has pickled pork and coffee for tea, that considers smoking worse than poison, and it is against the rules.' "Well, you can imagine I was just about fit to sink, as I knew there was enough pent-up force in that box to elevate me higher than I wanted to go by that sort of machinery. Two of the swells were free and easy kind, the other rather a lady's man, sort of feminine man--the latter began the game, and said, 'Charlie, have you a Vesuvian?' "I dared not say a word, but I thought, 'My noble swell, I have not, but I have a Vesuvius here--in fact, I'm sitting on it--and if you are not careful the real one will have to take a back seat, and ashes will be large goods to what we shall be like.' Well, they all started smoking, and threw the fusees out of the window. After all, I thought to myself, there's nothing much to fear now, although it would be considerably more pleasant if you were in some other train somewhere. When I got in I put my box just a little way from the side, so that it should not jar, and there they had me. Soon we got near to the last station we had to stop before mine, and these swells all took their cigars out of their mouths, and as there was no place upon which to put them except on my box, _they put them there_! Pass me the bottle. Oh dear, oh dear, the thought of it! and they said to me, so nicely, 'You won't mind, I know.' Before I could think almost there were three cigars alight and red, been well puffed, and within 2 inches of 70 lbs. of the best glazed blasting powder, and me sitting on it as a sort of stoker! "I dared not say anything; but worse was to come, for they kept taking a whiff and putting the cigars down again! "After the train started the van jerked a bit over the crossing or a badly-packed sleeper, and just as one of the swells was going to pick up his cigar, it slipped, fell upon the top of my box of powder and then upon the floor, and the sparks did fly!" "No wonder you felt bad. I feel for you now, I do. It makes me dry." "Stop! Worse is to come--worse. Pass the bottle. Wait a minute; I can say no more until I have loosened my collar." "Well, true as I am here, if there was not a fizz, a few grains had got loose. My box had a hole in it; a knot in the wood had shaken out! I knew the fizz was not like that of sporting powder, but my powder--and to think there might have been a train self-laid right up to the bottom of the box! Providence again." "Shake." "I'm hearty to you. It must have been an angel that broke the train of powder, for on looking carefully about I saw a dozen or more grains. Luckily for me, the guard had his head out of the window all the time, as the whistle had been sounding. The swells only laughed at the fizzle. I did not; I knew what a fearfully narrow squeak I had had. I expect they thought it was a match end. However, I have had a life of narrow squeaks, and so I got over it pretty soon, and said, 'The next station is mine, gentlemen!' I moved my box a trifle, and noticed there was a bit of paper on one side sticking out. I saw one of the swells also noticed it, and seemed thoughtful. He soon made me understand that he knew the paper. It was specially prepared, and a peculiar colour. His father was the owner of the powder mills, and lived about five miles from my cutting. If I was not previously blown up, I knew it was in his power to have me fined fearfully heavy, if not imprisoned. He stared at me, and as we were going down a long 1 in 50 gradient and corkscrew line the guard looked out for squalls and two of the swells on the other side. He then whispered in my ear, 'Is your name Dark?' "I could not speak, it took me back so; but I managed to nod. He said, 'Why did you not telegraph? I would have had it delivered specially'; and he pointed to my box. He gave me a half-dollar, and put out his cigar. I quickly and carefully filled up the hole and picked up the stray grains, and no one knew anything, except him and me. He then said, 'Take my advice, don't try that game again; for if you manage to struggle through such a journey without becoming a million or two atoms you will probably be hanged'; and he motioned with hand to his throat. 'This time I shall say nothing.' "I thanked him. I never felt so small and weak in my life. Well, I arrived at my station, and got my box out and sat upon it for some time till the reaction on my nervous system had worked; but I would have given just then some one else's gold-mines for a strong lap-up of something neat. Mind you, about five minutes before we stopped the up mail passed us, and we were both going full forty miles an hour. Suppose the box had fizzled out just then, it would have wrecked both trains, killed a few hundreds, blown a big hole in the line, spoilt the dividends for some time, shocked the world, made widows and orphans of half the country round pretty nigh, have ruined a few speculators who were on the 'bull' lay in the main line shares, and have smashed into chips more than half the 'bucket-shop' outside benevolent (?) institutions for the distribution of wealth as were operating for a rise." "It seems to me you lost a grand opportunity of being a big pot for once, and showing them who's which--but there! you always had a kind heart, and I remember you have often said a too sudden rise in the world never did any one much lasting good." "You are right; but perhaps it is as well for me. I am so modest, and ambition knows me not." _Note._--On all public works it is advisable to know by what means any blasting agents are brought to the works. Daily use not infrequently causes the men to be very reckless, and stringent regulations in conformity with the various Acts and general experience should be made, and every care taken to have them faithfully observed. CHAPTER XI. CONCRETE. PUDDLE. "Have you managed to squeeze any 'extra' profit on the quiet out of concrete?" "Yes, twenty or thirty years ago, but there is not much to be got now. Since a few engineers took to writing upon the subject they have reminded or informed others pretty well what to look after, but there were not many thirty years back that knew how it ought to be made; and you see, although one receives the materials, the concrete has to be made with them, manufactured, as it were, on the work, and you can spoil the best Portland cement that is, was, or ever will be made in the proportioning, mixing, and blending it with bad sand and gravel, or dirty broken rock. "They handed me the Portland cement, and all the specification said was, 'All concrete shall consist of 1 of Portland cement to 6 of clean gravel, and shall be mixed and deposited in a workmanlike manner [which we consider means as the workmen like] to the entire satisfaction of the Company's engineer.' "This was drawn up by a civil and mechanical engineer, which is a big-drum kind of title, and I should think covered corkscrews and manufacturing machinery, and everything else under the sun that can be handled at any time, including a 6-inch drain, the Forth Bridge, and the Channel Tunnel thrown in. It's too much, it seems to me, for one man to completely understand; and I once heard a celebrated engineer say that, with a few brilliant exceptions, such a man knew thoroughly neither civil nor mechanical engineering--life was too short. I don't presume to say anything, but his specifications of our kind of work might have been more exact; still they were sources of joy and comfort to us. "Machine mixing was hardly known at the time I am particularly referring to, and the Portland cement was of all qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, and some as I really can't say had any quality in it at all, and was utterly unlike what you get now. It was then sometimes bought on the same principle as going to the first shop handy, and saying, 'Small bag of cement. How much?' There was no name on the bag, for no one wished to own he had made the cement, and it was indeed of illegitimate origin, and had no parents. "The cement came, and we did pretty well as we liked, for the inspector knew nothing about it; in fact, we were all in the same boat. But what a lucky thing it is that there is such a thing as a margin of safety!" "You mean the difference between the strain a thing has to bear in ordinary use and what will break it?" "Yes, that is it. One day an engineer said to me, 'There is a large factor of safety in this case, which is fortunate.' I thought he was talking about a flour factor near the works that also sold fire-escapes and fire-extinguishers, so I said, 'He weighs nearly eighteen stone, and I should call him big rather than large, for he is like the prices at which he sells flour, and charges a penny a quartern too much; but he is greatly respected in the neighbourhood by those who don't know what fair prices are, for he is so oily and civil, as just suits a lot.' Between you and me, he swindled them, and beat us for 'extra' profit. "The engineer looked as if he could not at first make out what I was talking about, and, as it turned out, I did not know what _he_ was. He seemed to enjoy himself, and let me finish my sermon. He then explained to me what we call 'margins' of safety, and what they call 'factors' of safety are the same goods." "You have learnt something now." "I have, another name; no doubt their word is the right one, but they ought to consider the likes of us are not poets, or fed on stewed grammar, and should remember we were boss-gangers once, and have blossomed into sub-contractors. "Let that pass. You should have seen the cement. It was lucky we never had to sift it as we do now, or we should never have got any through a forty-to-the-inch mesh. It was just like fine sand, and nearly the colour of it, too, instead of grey. I have had a fair experience with Portland cement now, for we had testing-rooms, machines and troughs, fresh and sea water, slabs, and a host of other detective apparatus at the last dock works I was on. However, the cement we had and I was just referring to, was pretty nearly all residue, and of course it did not stick the gravel together except in streaks that had good luck rather than anything else. And the gravel! Well, it is an elastic truth to call it gravel, for it was dirty; and I conscientiously feel I am close to thinking I am not speaking in accordance with the principles of strict veracity if I call it gravel. "And the mixing! Well, there was not much of it, just a turning over or two, and we deluged the stuff with water so as to make it easy to handle, and we hurled it into the foundations as we pleased and at all sorts of heights, just as might happen to be convenient. I did not trouble myself about it then, but I do now, for I had a month or two in and about the testing places when there was no other job for me that suited, and I firmly believe almost all the failures of Portland cement concrete occur because the men that used it do not understand it, or the specification is not carried out, or is wrong somewhere. The best goods in the world want proper treatment, and, after all, the abuse of a thing is no argument against its use. Some quarry owners and stone merchants don't like cement concrete; it is poison to them, because it hurts their trade. It is my opinion, founded on what I have seen and know, that Portland cement concrete is grand stuff when properly made; but you can't make the 'extra' profit on it you could, unless you can forget to rightly proportion the material. I mean leave out anything on the quiet you find is more profitable when it is absent; and now mixing machines are always used on works of importance where concrete is made in any considerable quantity, that is the only way you get a chance of a bit 'extra,' at least so runs my experience. "Bless me! when I come to think of it, it is really wonderful that some of the concrete I have cast in has set at all, and don't believe it can all have set; for, first, the cement was wrong, then the gravel was not gravel, the sand was like road siftings, no trouble was taken to proportion the materials properly, and no mixing was done rightly, only an apology for it. The water was dirty, and used anyhow, and if a lump got a bit stiff it was rolled over, broken up in the trench and watered down below. Some went in like the soup that has balls in it, and we threw the concrete (?) down just anyhow. The inspector, as I said before, knew nothing much about it, although he was a beautiful kidder and could patter sweet and pretty just as if he were courting, and the engineer was away, so the road was clear for a bit 'extra,' and we took it." "Now, how the dickens could any concrete be right with such treatment? It is cruelty to expect it." "I left those works, and the engineer got corpsed, so he is past blaming; but, fortunately, the middle wall of the dock that got strained the most--the one in which was some of the concrete (?) I have been telling you about--had to be removed for improvements, and when they pulled it down I heard the concrete was in layers like thick streaky bacon, a layer of gravel with hardly a bit of cement in it, then a few lumps of solid on the top and hard as all would have been if the cement, gravel, sand, proportioning, mixing, and the putting into place had been done properly; then another layer of open stuff that had stuck together a bit, and then a lot of soft oozy rubbish, like decayed cheese, bad, coarse cement, you know, that would not or could not hold together and had done the 'fly' trick, you know, had cracked about, the coarsest part of the cement The streaks were there because we watered the cement so much that it was not concrete but weak grout, and bad too; and it could not drain down because one of the thin, hardish streaks, already set, stopped it, and it was bound to make friends with the gravel and dirt somehow, although trying to shun such company by running away and so get off duty. It was the same all the way through, and there were a lot of holes in it caused by the nearly set lumps coming together and slightly sticking, and therefore preventing the other material from filling the voids. _Hardly a cubic yard of the whole mass was the same._ "That is what I call a real bit of scamping; but, honestly, I did not think I was putting it in so bad as that, but I then knew hardly anything about the material. I shall never do it again, for I know I shall not get the chance, besides we all must draw the line somewhere; but there, a lot is now known about concrete that was only in the brains of a very few then. "As the cement is now supplied to you, I often put it in a bit thick, that is when I have to find the gravel and sand. It would be the other way about under different circumstances; but at the present time, with Carey's concrete mixer--which, luckily for plunder for us, is the only machine that measures and mixes the materials mechanically, and turns out from 10 to 70 cubic yards of concrete per hour--you do not get much chance of 'extras' and none with it; and concrete mixing is now nearly done as carefully as mixing medicine, and I don't regard concrete as fondly as I used to, for no 'extras' worth thinking of are to be made out of it. My old love, consequently, is cooling off, becoming warm and perhaps distant respect, not much else; but good Portland cement concrete is the best material, bar granite, I know of, if properly used, as it is then all the same strength--that is when the Portland cement is right, the proportions, mixing, and depositing even and proper, and the gravel and sand really clean sharp gravel and sand. You see, in that case, it is uniform throughout, and, after all, what is the good of the hardest stone or brick when you have a weak mortar to join them together which cannot nearly stand the same strain in any direction as the stone or brick?" "You are right, it is simply waste. Like deluging good spirits with pure water, and spoiling them both. Lucky you had finally left those dock works before they pulled the middle wall down, or you might have had a bad quarter of an hour in a very sultry atmosphere." "After that we will have a toothful neat." "That's warming and is real comfort." "I have never had much to do with concrete, but I remember seeing a lot go in on some dock works where I had some puddle to make for the cofferdam, and I got something 'extra' out of that." "How did you do it?" "Well, you know, working such stuff all day and nothing else makes anyone rather sick of it, it is like breaking stones for metalling, I should think, and the weariness of it makes the big stones have a tendency to hide and cause the face to look small and even. I had a dozen men besides casuals, and all old hands at the game of 'extras.' We had to, or were supposed to, work up a certain right proportion of sand with the clay so as to prevent the puddle cracking and keep it sufficiently moist. I own we sometimes let the clay have a taste of peace; in fact, between you and me, we were going express speed, and 'extras' was the name of our engine. "One day the resident engineer came, and somehow got up close to us rather unawares, and took us by surprise. Of course, the material ought to have been worked the same throughout, and we nearly did it, but nearly is not quite. He seemed to sniff out that all was not just as right as it might be, and said:-- "'Don't forget to work it up thoroughly. You have a good price, and it is important the clay should be uniformly mixed with a little sand.' "'Certainly, sir.' "I generally agree with my boss, it pays best. So I at once called out sharp to my chaps, as if all I loved in this world was at stake, 'Don't fear mixing it, lads. Get it well mixed.' "One of them, he was a new chap to me, and belonged to the militia I found out, turned round, and said:-- "'All right, boss; I always make the broad-arrow kitchens in the camp, and the flues and the openings for the Flanders kettles, so I know how it ought to be done; but if you think I'm a white-faced doughey [i.e. a baker's man] I am not, and you had better fetch a batch of dougheys and start them at work feet and hands. It will make them sweat. That puddle, I tell you, is as well mixed as the dougheys do the different kinds of flour, and call all the bake the best and purest bread, and make it smell sweet with hay water.'" "I suppose you silenced him quickly?" "No, I pretended to take no notice, for I knew I had spoken too sharp, but the resident engineer smiled downwards and passed on. "We had a heap of clay on one side and the same of sand on the other, and the inspector saw we had from time to time a small mound of clay and one of sand put separate and measured ready for mixing. We had a few piles of clay and sand at first measured exactly, and then we got used to it, and did it by sight only. We were close to the river, or rather estuary, and used to fill a barrow now and again with the sand and shoot it over the entrance jetty. A little was taken from each heap. The engineer knew his book, and would not have it worked from one or two big heaps, and the sand brought to it, but he would have separate mounds of about 20 cubic yards at a time. There were nearly 5000 cubic yards of puddle to work up, and as the clay came from the trenches so we worked it up. A kind of filling and discharging, and everything on the move. "I made a nice thing 'extra' that way, but nearly got bowled out, for one day there was an extraordinary low tide, a low tide was expected, but a land wind was blowing great guns, and it was the lowest tide known for fifty years or so. Now, when you start the game of 'extra' profit you will agree with me, it is necessary to have someone you can rely upon, or else things may not go exactly as you expect. They may work wrong, and then you have to look out for squalls when they lay you bare and find out all. Here, I had been getting a rise out of my bosses, and blessed if old Ginger's snip, his boy, whom I paid a bit extra to do the harrowing well out, did not get a rise out of me. It caused a near shave, too. "Well, the tide ran down till it laid dry a little sandbank, that is, some of the stuff that should have been at home in the puddle, had travelled by the wrong road by the entrance jetty. I did give Ginger's snip a talking-to, I tell you, after; but it was a near shave, as you will soon know. I saw the bank, so I sent him down the jetty with two chaps that knew what was up and got duly rewarded by me. They knew me. I never forget friends--too good, I am. Not even to borrow from them, if occasion requires, so that they should remember me in their dreams. I said to them: 'Stir up the sand, lads, for I think I saw a leg in it, and a bit of a dress; it may be there has been another midnight horror. It's really shocking!' And that was true, for I thought the sand was shocking, and that murder will out, as the saying goes. It was a shave, for just as the tide began to turn, up came the resident engineer, and there could not have been more than an inch or two over the sand, but it soon rises, as you know, and almost walks up. I had not time to call the men, and there they were, stirring away. It was lucky I thought of the leg and the woman's dress. So I shouted, 'Come up, lads, it's nothing.' "Then the resident engineer started asking me questions; and I was afraid he might ask the men something, so I kept him as long as I could, and spun a yarn, and pointed out the spot where a body was found some time ago, and talked away like a paid spouter, for every minute that passed was good business, for the water was rising quickly, and I knew the tide would soon just about put it right. After a little while the resident engineer went away, and I was rubbing my waistcoat thinking I had been in another near squeak, but won on the post by a short head owing to jockeyship, when I saw him down below with a large black retriever, and the blessed dog was half out of the water. I kept as far away as I could, but I saw he had taken off his boots and turned up his trousers, and was walking about on the heap probing with his stick. He did not stop long, as he knew the tide was rising, and then he came to me afterwards and said that a sandbank had been deposited at least 30 feet in length. "'Very likely, sir; but did you find the leg, or body, or dress of a woman?' 'No. But I found a lot of sand that would have been better in the puddle.' And he looked straight at me. "Well, I had to put on my best sweet, innocent child face, and I hazarded the mild remark, 'It's the eddies that have done it. I have known them bring stuff for miles, sir.' It was no use saying from the other side or nearer, because there was no sand like we had to mix with the clay for the puddle for many miles, nor could I declare that a barge had got upset. He did not say anything more, but called his dog and went to the office. Let me impress upon you that the last 1500 or so yards of puddle had more sand in them than the first 3500. Tides I like, and they are healthy and useful; but it is the deuce to pay if you think you can go against them, as King Canute showed his courtiers, when he did the chair trick upon the sea-shore. Do you know I go so far as to think that if a floating caisson were taken about and sunk so as to lay bare the bed of the Thames in certain places, things would be found by a little digging that neither you nor me dream of, and perhaps might not like to see, for even sandbanks at certain times and places are not pleasant to gaze upon. Eh?" CHAPTER XII. BRICKWORK. TIDAL WARNINGS. PIPE JOINTS. DREDGING. "You remember my old partner on the last dock works we were on?" "Rather. He had been properly educated, and knew the time of day, and there are few things he ever had to do with he did not get a bit 'extra' out of. On that you can bet the family plate." "Right you are. Old partner, do you know I have a weakness. I liked the old times when there was plenty of work to be had, and few that knew how to do it. Then the likes of you and me were regarded at their proper value, and estimated as worth something extra. Now there are about a million too many of us, and not half the work to be done. Old England is not like a big place that wants opening up, and it is a rare high old breeding country, and a lot of folks seem to wish it to be nothing else. "My then partner took, labour only, a lot of brickwork in cement. It was a dock wall, and it averaged not far from 20 feet in thickness. It was a wall, and not a mere facing like little bridges. It gave a man a chance of something to work on. When a chap takes a contract, labour only, not having to find the materials, it is no use turning your attention to saving them; the only game to play is to use the mortar nearly liquid, so that it runs about of itself almost, and put some random work in between the face work and the back, and trust to mortar-rakes and grout, and oiling the human wheels as much as required. I don't like the word bribe the inspectors. For two chaps like us, that will have what we consider good work, it is not bribery, it is downright pure philanthropy that prompts us to give a sovereign away now and then in the proper and most deserving direction, which I generally find to be the inspector. I never give gold away without knowing it will come back well married, and may bring a family, and they are welcome to my best spread. That's just where our education enables us to grasp things right. What a shame it is for people to find fault with the School Board rate, when it is only about four times more than its promised highest figure, and the school buildings are such models of art and strength; and how thankful we ought to be to the teachers for their kind attendance, given for almost nothing! How pleased our old schoolmaster would be when he knew we took every advantage to make a profit somehow or other from what he taught us." "I guess he would be, the joy might kill him; but how did you apply your schooling to the brickwork?" "Wait, patience please! As I said before, or nearly did, there was not much face work compared with bulk in the wall. I had a lot of militia chaps, and well paid and lushed them. They were something like brickies. Bless me, the wall used to rise up; and I was half afraid if those at the office worked out the check time, and compared it with our cubic measurement, they would think I was paying all my chaps more than any other member of creation ever did, or making too big a profit to suit them, and don't you mistake. But there! the Company did the work themselves, or let it in bits, and of course the check-time game was not played anything like so strong as if we had been working for a boss contractor. "Well, we were doing trench work, and had shoots for the materials to travel from the surface down to the wall, and the trench was about 50 feet in depth from the top to the foundation. We had one shoot for bricks and another for mortar in between each frame, and that would have been plenty if all the work had been laid to a bond, but when only about 4 feet in the front and 2 feet at the back was, and the rest raked in level, except a course or two now and again, we used to want a couple of shoots for each. I had the face of the wall made really pretty, just like a doll's house, and pointed up lovely; but let me give a bit of credit to the Company, for they gave us the best materials with which I ever had to do." "You mean the bricks and mortar were such that it would have been a downright waste of good muscle to put the bond the same throughout, simply pampering up the materials and turning them sickly, like some people do children, so as to appear so fond of them before other people!" "Precisely; so after my partner got the face in right, the stuff went down and in. All we had to be careful about was not to smash the bricks. We soon managed that, and we had few broken ones, for they were good, hard, and dark. Well, in they went, and when we began to work the show, some of the scenery was hard to get right. Of course the inspector began to find fault, that was what he was paid for, and was about the only way he could work round for his 'extras.' After oiling him a little, and pleasing him in the old-fashioned way, we managed gradually to overcome the natural dulness of his mind, and we became a happy crew--a lot of brickies with a single thought, and hearts that beat as one. "Well, in the stuff went; and after working out the averages according to the rules of the exact sciences, me and my partner arrived at the conclusion accordingly that about one-half or a trifle more bricks were put in by hand, and the rest were like machine-made bread, unsoiled by hand, and therefore must have been good and pure, as those alone know who work on the same lines. My partner, in his younger days, before he took to brickwork, had been to sea, and all the men used to call him 'Captain.' When he wanted to give the chaps in the office the straight griffin, he used to say, 'Nelson's my guide.' That meant give them 'biff,' in other words, finish off the enemy as quick as you know how." "You mean get the bricks in as fast as you can _only get them in quick_." "Yes, that's it. If good old Nelson sent his shots in as fast as these bricks were squatted, all I can say is the guns did not get much time to cool. Let me give my partner all praise, for although he had a nice spot to work on--as of course the timber in the trenches hid a lot of the work, and made a nice gloom--as a precaution he kept the ladder away from the top of the trenches, so that anyone had to walk along the top strut and then get down, consequently there was not much chance of being caught; and after the bottom courses were in and the face and back right, it was easy work, because there was always time to get the road right and all went as peacefully as could be wished. But the old Captain, on the same dock, nearly overdid it one day, and all to save him scarcely one hundred pence, but he got so eager that money to him was food, and it is my opinion if he had been born rich he would have made a fine miser; but apart from that, he knew how to make a contract and what work was, and the training on board ship he had in his young days set him right, and he was always on the work looking out for a bit 'extra,' or on scout. But once he nearly overreached himself." "How did he do that?" "I will tell you, if you keep quiet." "Right away." "It happened like this, and might have wrecked the whole place, and was the consequence of working against orders. At one part of the works there was an old slope at the end of the dock which was no use without a new entrance. Where the trenches had been dug out for a wall a piece of earth was left in at the dock end, and was stepped down like a retaining wall, although only earth. Well, the orders were to keep it 4 feet above a certain level, which made it not so nice for unloading from barges as 2 feet or so. As that end of the dock was only sloped off, and left to itself, for no one ever seemed to go there, and it was a good height, and up and down a bit at top, been stuff run to spoil, my partner, the old Captain thought he might as well take another 2 feet off for about 10 feet or so, and ease the unloading the bricks, cement, and sand, and made certain it would not be noticed. Now of course it did not take long to pare a slice from that short length sufficient to help the unloading, and I should have said this was done soon after we began the brickwork. I remember the day well enough, for if I had not have happened to have been having my dinner by myself on the cofferdam, I believe we might have been flooded out and wrecked. "The wind was blowing strong and had been for several days from the same quarter, and it brought the water up till it was heaped. Before the wind began to blow it had been very wet, and it was also the time high tides were expected, so everything worked in the direction for a real high one. I began my dinner before the usual time, feeling a bit hollow, and had done by a quarter of an hour after the whistle had blown. I was just lighting my pipe when I happened to look upon the water. It wanted about an hour or more to high water, I watched the tide flowing up, and, all of a sudden, it struck me it would be a topper; but as the cofferdam was a long way above high water, so as to stop any waves breaking over, for the estuary was nearly one mile in width, and as this dam was a really well strutted one, it did not trouble me. I dare say I smoked for nearly ten minutes, and was thinking it was a nice job, and that 'extras' would have a good look in, when, just as things that frighten you do occur to you very quickly, it struck me--How about the Captain and his two feet off, pared off, up at the trench end bank? Well, I did not stop, but went at once to the place, although a good half mile away, and was soon there. I saw it must be a near squeak, and I knew there was no chance of the entrance gates being shut because a lot of craft was waiting to go into the dock, besides it would give the office that something was wrong, and I knew the chances were a thousand to one no one would come near as it was right away one end of the works, and nothing doing there except for us when we were unloading. Most of the chaps had never been that end of the works at all. Now this was all very pretty looked at from getting a bit of 'extra,' but it was hardly the same when that game was played by the tide putting in a bit 'extra' and rising nearly 2 feet more than ever recorded before. I looked at my watch and knew the tide had about an hour yet to run up. I got out my rule and measured, and then I was sure it would not be far off two feet over the dip the old Captain had cut to save an odd penny or two. I was just turning round to go to fetch him--for I knew where he was, and of course we always let one another know, although we don't name it--when I saw him coming pretty sharp with his ganger and a few trusty chaps. I beckoned to him. He was alongside very quickly, and I said, 'The tide will be over.' "He answered: 'I thought it might, as the bottom of the tenth step down on the landing place was just the same level as the top of the dip. I knew it by the water.' "I said, 'There may be a chance about it, but I don't think so, for this tide is running up so strongly that I know, from experience of the estuary, that it will beat the highest tide ever recorded.' "While I was speaking he measured, and took out his watch and timed five minutes. He measured again, and then off went his coat like greased lightning, and we all followed suit as if we were a lot of figures pulled by strings, and he shouted, 'We have not a moment to lose. It will rise 1 foot 6 inches above where we are.' "He then clenched his teeth. 'Planks, stakes, bags, tarpaulins, bring anything you can get, and come back at once or we are drowned out, wrecked, and lost, all ends up.' "We soon got some stakes in, and some planks, and we set to work, all six of us, raising the dip in the bank the old captain had made. He turned white as a sheet, and said, 'She is on us, simply romping in. Half a dollar each if you can stop her.' "We all worked like black devils flying from torture, for we only had half an inch start of the tide. It was a sort of life and death race, and death for choice. "'She is still rising, Captain.' "He then cried out: 'By thunder! She's over the far end at the plank dip. Once really over, and all will go.' "He stood still for a moment and then dashed to the place and laid down on his side full length, and shouted: 'Give me a short plank, and my coat.' He would not get up although we asked him. He had got the frights, so we let him be. He placed the plank in front of him, and his coat over it, and there we were filling in stuff at the back of him as fast as we could, and putting in stakes for the planks. The tide was still rising, He turned his head, and said: 'Are you ready?' "'Yes.' "He then rose, and a pretty mess he was in. "'By thunder! that was a close shave. If we had only had another tarpaulin or two we should have been right sooner. There was some sand there, I remember we upset a wagon-load.' "He looked scared, but soon brightened up and said: 'We are right now though. The tide has stopped, but keep at it, lads, we must bury everything and get a good 2 feet higher, for if once the water runs over, the tail-race of the largest mill stream in creation will be a fool to it, and it would only be a question of minutes before the whole earth-bank would burst and let in ten acres or more of dock water, and the sea, and perhaps break up a lot of craft and wreck the whole place. Lads, I well remember seeing a catch-water earth-bank give way, and it is soon over when the water runs down the back slope, and there is not much chance of stopping a breach.' "The men went away, and the captain said to me: 'My word, I shall not forget this.' He then sat down and wiped his forehead and said on the quiet to me: 'There is one blessing, no one on the work knows about it but us, and, if we are careful, no one will.' "'You had better get home at once and have a rub down and change and sixpenn'orth or more, hot. I know what to do, and will see all is put right.' He took the hint and skipped, but came back in half an hour, and then we had a talk.' "I tell you what it is, one can play a lot of tricks on land, and get 'extras' many roads, but water won't stand it. It is too honest, and turns upon you and soon finds you out. I never did like water much, you can't beat it, that's why I left the sea. It's an unsociable element, and is most always in the way except when you're boating, washing, fishing, or mixing something. You can't educate it so as to look at work from an 'extras' point of view, for it cares for no one. "Take my advice and always give it a margin and allow in temporary structures a good 3 feet above the highest recorded water line, unless you want the work wrecked, and then add a height necessary to keep out the waves." "You are right, for I remember getting a bit 'extra' out of some pipe joints. Instead of making all the joints according to the specification, we made a good many with brown paper and covered them up quickly. The pipes were laid at a depth of some 20 feet, and it took a considerable time before they began to leak. At last there was a burst up, but it was so powerful that all the jointing was washed out, so they never knew who was to blame. The place where that happened is fully a couple of hundred miles away, and will never see me in it again as I did not like the people, so I said to myself, all right, I will leave something behind that will tickle you up, and cost the lot of you some beans to put right, and I did, and so got even with them all. It was one of those lovely small towns where everyone knew everybody's business much better than their own." "Do you remember Carotty Jack?" "Yes, rather. You mean him who was up to snuff in spoon-bag dredging. 'Old tenpenny labor' only was his 'chaff' name." "He was the sharpest card, so I was told, on the river for getting 'extras' out of dredging. He was measured by the barge, and paid accordingly. I confess I don't quite know how he worked it, but he did for years, and never got found out. You see, what is ten or twenty yards of dredging, nothing either way? It is never noticed, and you can't measure under the water as you can on land. It can't be done, except in new cuts, when new cross-sections have been taken over the ground. The beds of most rivers being always more or less on the move, water then becomes a nice servant to work a bit of 'extras' out of, and that is about the only way I am aware of where it comes in useful in that direction. "How Carotty did it, as I said before, I don't quite know, although I saw the thing, but he used to work it somehow or other by movable boards fixed on a pivot. He had three or four of them, and could fit them together just about as quick as the roulette tables are fastened by racecourse thieves and stowed away. They had two flaps at the sides covered with stiff tarpaulin, and the ends were closed by planks loosely fastened by a catch to the pivot. They were well made and fitted splendidly, just like hinged box-lids, and the whole thing was similar to a box with the bottom out and the sides hinged and ends to slide up and down. I believe Carotty would have made furniture A 1, if he had turned his attention to it. "He had an old ship's boat of his own. The apparatus was stowed away in it, and I might further say it resembled a shallow box upside down, with the lid off, working on a saddle, and the flaps at the sides moved as the box got pushed down on either side; but they kept the stuff from getting under it almost always; for when they measured the barge-load for depth, if they put the measuring-rod down on one side and touched the board, it went up a foot or so on the other, and no one suspected anything. The barges were all narrow ones, as usual with spoon-bag dredging. The measurer used to walk round the barge and be busy trying the stuff here and there, to see if there was no gammon. The mud was thick, and went up and down very slowly. Carotty always had two or three of these boxes fixed on the saddle, and just the right distance to be out of reach, and he did not fix them on the same line. He kept the frames two or three feet apart, so that if by any chance two men started probing on the same line he would soon shift them a little, and say it was an odd brick, or a tin, or a bottle, and then everything went down easily upon both sides, and for one place where they were extra sharp, he made the machinery in very short lengths, and zigzag fashion. He told me he got pretty nearly from six to ten yards extra out of every barge, according as the stuff and the size of the barge was kind towards 'extras.' Of course, from the solid dredging he had the best haul. Carotty was a cool card at the game of 'extras,' and had a face on him like a nun, and could look that innocent and lamb-like as only humbugs can. He used to laugh over it. "He told me that he had known the time when no 'extra' machinery such as his was needed, for plenty of water, some boxes, a false bottom, and a few planks, were all the things that were wanted. Then they had to be given up, and he said he was really compelled to make himself a present of the first small pump he could privately annex, and soon found the chance on one of the works where he had a little contract. "He got some old bags, mended them, and soaked them in some solution that made them tight, and he used to fill them with water and weight them with a stone or two. He had a rope with a draw-knot attached to short lengths of line so that he could let the bags loose or fasten them against a hook when he discharged the barge out at sea or elsewhere. Generally he used to unscrew the stopper of each bag at the side of the barge, and when on the return journey let out the water and then haul up. Although it cost him some labour, he said he used to get one way or other a bit of gold 'extra' by that means every barge load, or, rather, what was thought to be; and sometimes he did not let the water out of the bags at all if the people he had to deal with were easy, but now times were very hard on him, as he had to work at night to keep the machinery right, and he thought it very cruel of them, as it gave him a very short eight hours' recreation, as was the cry now for the third part of a day. "He was clever, and I believe he could have made an iron-clad out of old fire-irons and coal scuttles if they had given him enough goods, plenty of time, and paid him sufficiently, and you may bet the ship would have answered its rudder all serene. "He told me he actually got twopence a yard more on one occasion by using the boxes right for a week, on the ground of extra hard dredging, for, of course, all the stones and heaviest dredgings fall to the bottom. He put in his machinery pretty close together, and heaped up the stuff in the middle, and did the injured innocence business properly, and after they had done a lot of probing about, during which he told me the machinery worked lovely, they gave him another twopence a cubic yard. Measurement by the ton would have spoilt that game, though; but then it was not canal dredging he was doing, but in the open. Give Carotty his due, I was told there was not a man on the river who could dredge to a section as he could, and he did the work quickly and well, but he always managed to get paid for more than he did, and he told me he never meant to do otherwise. He said he considered he was cheap goods at the price, and wholesome; but he complained tremendously of the dredgers and excavators introduced lately, for they spoilt him, and there was but little chance of 'extras' now worth the trouble or the risk. In consequence, he had given up doing dredging." CHAPTER XIII. PERMANENT WAY. "Will you listen to me for a few minutes?" "Yes. I notice you have something pent up in your head." "Well, this was rather an amusing bit I am going to tell you, but was a near shave for real squalls, as you will agree when you hear about it. "I got the guv'nor to let me do a bit of linking in at so much per chain. Of course, he supplied the rails--they were flange rails--sleepers and fastenings, and they were all right. I linked in the road. We had a mixed up permanent way, nine by four and a half half-rounds, and ten by five rectangular sleepers. Check pattern, an odd and even road. Between you and me, I think mixing them up betwixt the joint sleepers is a mistake. It makes the road stiff one place and loose at another, and a train cannot run steadily, and I would rather have all rectangulars, and put them wider apart, and give the rail flange a bit of bearing, for half-rounds are mere sticks, although they are lighter to handle, and in that respect nicer. You see they have only about three-fifths of the bulk of rectangulars, and when they are adzed less than that, and not more than half the bearing for the rail flange. If I had to do the maintenance, no half-rounds for me, still they do for light traffic and for cheap agricultural lines." "I agree, they are temporary goods." "Well, it was funny, but here we had too much and too little of a good thing, and were as near in hot squalls as could be. I expect they made a mistake in loading them; anyhow, young Jack, my ganger, found he had no half-rounds, but a lot of rectangulars. He is a bit impetuous, and would not wait, it's not in him, so he put in all rectangulars that day, and, of course, with the result that they had not enough rectangulars left for the other road all through, so about six or seven chains were nearly all half-rounds, and he actually placed one rectangular one side of a rail joint, and a half-round on its back, flat end upwards, on the other, and so a lot of the half-rounds did duty for rectangulars. "It was a bit of a scurry, and as soon as the road was in the spikers, ballasters and packers were on us, and no time for thinking. Well, neither me nor Jack gained much by the fun, except our men would have been stopped, and they were not, and things would have been put out a bit for the day. My guv'nor did not know, or would have made us pull it all up and put it in right. Now, they knew the number of sleepers, &c., that had been served out, and had sufficient confidence in me to be sure I never scamped the materials, except a bit of ballast here and there, and that is soon made up. "Of course, there was no mistake six or seven chains of road were weak, and I told Jack to put in a little extra good ballast and pack the sleepers well there, and what he did extra at that place was to come out of the part where all the rectangulars were, for I never throw away or lose anything on purpose." "Quite right, we agree. Shake, for I'm hearty to you." "He understood how I wanted the wind to blow, and it would have gone on all serene, but you know, just when you think you are out of a scrape, you sometimes find you are in it, or as near to it as wants 'an old parliamentary hand' to explain and fog away. I was down at the junction, when I saw the engineer, and some swells with him. The resident engineer was away that day. After a bit of jaw among them, they beckoned to me, and said they wanted to go to the end of the line, the very place where some of the sleepers were lying turned on their round faces. There was a bit of luck. I felt dead wrong. However, they had to walk about a couple of miles, and then wait till the engine had returned with the empties; so I said to the engineer, 'Please excuse me, sir, but I will arrange that the engine is at the ballast hole at four o'clock, as you wish, and I will be back to attend upon you as quickly as I can.' "I scampered up the slope of the cutting and out with an envelope. I always keep one or two about me handy. I tore out a leaf of my note-book, and called young Snipper, the brake boy, and said to him, 'Jump on old Leather's nag. Take this to young Jack, and I'll make it all right for you when I see you next time; but go quickly, and give this letter to no one else but young Jack. If he is away for more than a few minutes bring the letter back to me. No--wait till he comes up, and send someone to fetch him to you. You understand.' 'Yes, sir, I know what you mean.' 'Now do a bit of the Johnny Gilpin business.' Off he went, and was busy. "This is what I wrote to young Jack, my ganger:--'Bosses has come, and will be up to you in about an hour. X.... them. Cover up the ends of the half-rounds, and sprinkle them pretty with fine ballast if you can do it in an hour. Then shunt the empties or the full wagons over where the half-rounds are, and look innocent, as if you had never moved above a foot all day, and be busy, or I'll pull your throat out, much as I love you. Smooth it right, and leave rest to me. Pull all your gumption out ready. Keep this, and hand it back to me. Show no one, or I'll have you hung. If I find all right, there are two pints, and something else.' That's what I call a business letter. No double meaning about it. "Young Snipper got there in double quick time, and young Jack was there as well. I saw he had carried out my letter of instructions. Still, I knew the engineer would be likely to twig, as he was near to being hawk-eyed. Now, I felt sure they would be hanging about for an hour, perhaps two, as most of them had never been up there before, and they thought of carrying the line on further to somewhere or other, but they did not on account of the expense, for several tunnels, viaducts, high retaining walls, and other heavy work would be required. Here was the very place for a rack railway on some system like Abt's, it seemed to me. I saw one at work in Germany, and know they are safely used in Austria, Switzerland, Italy, and in North and South America. As you know, you cannot nicely work a railway by adhesion only much above a gradient of one in fifty with sharp curves upon it, or one in forty on a straight line, consequently the rack is the thing to use then, I fancy, for on the Abt rack railway the pinions on the engine can be easily put in and out of gear on the rack, and the journey be continued by simple adhesion, as by an ordinary locomotive, and the rack system works all right round moderate curves. "I should think, in hilly parts of the country there are many places where 4 feet 8-1/2 inch gauge railways could be laid out almost on the surface of the ground, and at such gradients as about one in fourteen, and there should be no difficulty in working them safely, because similar lines have been worked for many years. There must be many little feeder lines that end nowhere almost now, that could be so continued over the hills to a main line, and thus join two large traffic trunk lines, and raise the feeder from obscurity to some importance, and from the state of a mere agricultural 5l. to 10l. per mile per week line of railway to one earning more than double. However, that's by the way. Now, my best game was to draw the swells away as quickly as I could, and yet not show them my hand. I started badly, though, for I said, 'Gentlemen, I think a shower is coming up over the hills, and if you command me, I will tell the engine driver to run you down quickly by himself, and come back for these empties. It won't delay the work in any way, gentlemen all.' They said, 'Never mind; if there was a shower they could stand upon the sleepers by the wagons and get sufficient shelter.' "That meant on the sleepers I was trying to hide. Just fancy, the very half-rounds that troubled me. I felt I could sink through the earth, as I saw the engineer's eyes were doing full time as lighthouse revolving lights. I thought, he will have me chucked from this job, sure as half-rounds are not rectangulars, for he would not have bad work. "Now the wagons did not quite reach all over the half round road, the swells took to walking between the roads. Why, I never knew, but they did. I felt certain, if any of them took to walking upon the half-rounds, they would find it all out. I got to young Jack, and on the quiet he returned to me my letter to him, which I burnt afterwards. By luck, one of the directors--that's what they were--drew the attention of the engineer to something on the station road close by; and all except two of them passed on, but two directors kept behind with me, and one started walking on the half-rounds, and on those too that were on their tops, as should have been uppermost, and one nearly got upset before he travelled five yards. So I went for him there and then, and said, 'Please, sir, the road is not packed yet, and has only just been put in to take these few empties. It will be as firm as a rock in two days, sir.' I left the rest to him. He looked at me and said, 'I hope it will be, or passengers will think they are travelling over the Rocky Mountains.' "I smiled, and looked as pleasant and truthful as I knew how, but thought, hope with you, as with me, is grand goods, but fact is better business. They were a smart lot, and no one was going to move them on till they had seen just about all they felt inclined to, but I had a bit of luck then, and ever after have liked birds." "What was it?" "Well, a cocktail rose almost at our feet. The line passed between two coppices. From that moment I was safe, as both the directors talked of nothing but shooting. I kept the game alive for all I knew and more than I did, that's certain, and before I had done had made out it was the finest part of the whole country for game, although they ran a bit wild, and wanted stopping. It is convenient to always ease down a strong sentence, then you can alter its meaning a bit when what you have said don't agree with what you are saying; so I warned them the birds wanted stopping. They all got talking and pointing about till they had no time to spare to get back so as to catch the train at the junction. I tell you it was a near squeak, and shook my constitution more than a trifle, and no fault of mine, but it ended all serene." "Your escape reminds me of one I had. It was a long while ago, must be about forty years back, when railways in many parts were a sort of novelty, and the natives used to turn out, swells and all, to see what was going on, and made a line a free show. One day about seven or eight swells came bearing down on me. One I knew had put a lot of money in the line, although he was not a director, and I have no doubt got it well back in a few years by the good the railway did his estate, for houses began to spring up all round soon after we had finished. I remember, and you will, that old Jack Slurry used to say married folks were nothing to a new railway for increasing the population in certain parts. It brings people together as never could come before, and so up goes the number of mouths, and no sooner do houses rise than shops follow, then churches and chapels and clubs and halls and so on like a procession, till the old folks almost wonder where they are. I'm talking a bit astray of my subject, and will now to it again. "These swells came straight to me and asked me to show them through a few of the cuttings, and I did. I met my ganger in one, and managed to get in front of them and ask on the quiet who they were. He said, 'Them is nobs. They be hanteaquariums. They are searching for as old goods as can be found!' I knew what he meant, so I broke a small boulder or two and showed them the impressions of shells, and I called to my young Snipper and he got them a specimen each, and they were pleased. One gave me a quid when they left. They were real gentlemen, at least one was; and it is only charitable to suppose the others were in company, and this one was banker!" "I agree with you." "After looking at a few of the cuttings, and my putting in some pleasant words which seemed to be food to them, one of them opened a gate and they commenced to walk back along the fields and through the wood, near to where a culvert is, and close to a bit of marsh. They did not seem to mind the dirt or brushwood, and they asked me to come with them, and point out and say anything I thought they would like to hear, and I did. Perhaps they would have liked to have known what the prices were I was paid, but I had not the heart to distract their minds from their own true-love study to such a plain thing as £ _s._ _d._ I ought to have told you our engineer we used to call 'Old Fangbolts.' They were his hobby, and it is my opinion that if he has as long fangs to his teeth as the bolts he would have put down, when they get decayed he will know what pain is, and wish they were short spikes. He had his way, of course, although there was a great waste of metal. Now fangbolts are good things for getting a through grip of the sleepers when the fangs are screwed on tight, but still they don't keep the rails from spreading much more, if any, and I rather think less, than flat-faced spikes of fair length. At least, that is my experience." "And so it is mine." "Between you and me the chap that first had the stern end of a bolt put uppermost in the rail, so that he could be sure the nut was on, knew what he was about, because fangs are nasty goods to screw on, and, bless you, tricks are sometimes played that way. I have known them just turned round once and then wedged by a piece of ballast, and they appeared to be tight; and when a bit of the road had to be taken up and the fang had got loose it was on the premises--perhaps, it is truer to say, just outside and at the door--and then you could always say the threads were wrong and blame the maker, or wriggle out and wrestle with the subject in the direction that looked the most serene." "You mean work your lay according to circumstances." "Precisely. Besides I have had two fang bolts with triangular fangs to fix in the flange of a rail almost in line, one each side of the web, and they could not be both screwed tightly, for the points of the fangs under the sleeper met when you turned them. This time, of course, none of these nobs knew what a fangbolt was, and if I had told them I dare say at first they might have believed it was a Roman tooth, or a piece of chain armour, or part of an early Briton's war paint. Well, we were walking through a wood--it belonged to one of them--and clearing our way, for the brushwood was rather thick, when we came to a small mound, and I own I did not know what it was. One of the swells smiled, and said, 'How very interesting. This is a tumulus.' I said, 'Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am always glad to learn anything, and you don't mean to say some earth has tumours and, swells a bit, because if you will tell me how to work it it would save me and others money and a lot of work forming embankments, if it does not cost too much to start the swelling.' "They smiled, and one said 'A tu-mu-lus was not a tumour, but an artificial mound raised over those who were buried in ancient times.' I touched my hat and said 'I thought there was something wrong, gentlemen;' and told them I knew there were a good many women round these parts that had wens and they swell up as big as marrows, but I did not know the ground had tumours, and was eager to learn it had, as I thought I saw a useful application of them, and they might be a new form of wonder produced by inoculation. One of them then said, 'No doubt the women have their whims and playful humours, but he trusted they were free from wens or other tumours.' Then they all laughed, and one of them hazarded a remark and said, 'This is the ... formation.' It sounded to me like upper railroadian formation. I forgot myself, and turned round sharp to him and said, 'It is nothing of the kind, gentlemen. There is no such thing as a upper railroadian formation.' They did stare. I went straight on, and said straight out, 'There is no formation here at all, besides upper railroadian formation is utterly unknown on railways. The formation is at the bottom of the cuttings or the tops of the banks and nowhere else." "They stared just as if I was going to shoot them, and one of them laughed and said, 'I am afraid there is a slight misunderstanding somewhere.' Then the others smiled. I thought it was time to stop my tongue. The same one turned to me and said, 'My friend was alluding to the geological character of the locality. It undoubtedly is Upper Si-lu-rian.' So I touched my hat, and said, 'I hoped they would excuse me, and would they kindly remember I was a bit rough.' They all said, 'Oh! certainly!' and they seemed to like the business that had just passed, and were enjoying themselves, I could see that. "Well, all this passed when we pulled up at the mound, which was about fifty feet away from the line, and in the thick of the brushwood. One of them began poking about with a stick, and bless me, I saw about half-a-dozen fangs here and there. I thought to myself it is lucky Old Fangbolts is not here. He would have shot me, and killed himself right off, or gone loose. I twigged what the mound was made of. It was only a small one, but the gentleman was at first mistaken, and no wonder, because there are a lot of real ancient mounds round and about the wood. However, this mound was a mixture of fangs that should have been screwed on the bolts and were not, that's certain, and earth and turf, and had been artfully covered up, for it was quite green except one little streak. I expect some vermin had tried it, and found it no good, and scratched away a bit, and bared it. Anyhow, it might have been awkward for me, for one of the party picked up a rusty old fang, and turned to the other nobs, and said, 'I don't think that is very ancient; at least, if it be so, it is a Birmingham-made ancient relic, and has been deposited upon the wrong battlefield.' "I believe that was only a sly hint to me that he meant the battlefield to be the permanent way; but, of course, I took no notice. He threw down the fang, and then we all walked on. No patter is sometimes the best game to play, and look as if you were learning a lot. However, on being asked about the mound, I said, 'It's only an old earth mound that has grown over green. It may have been there fifty years, not more, perhaps less.' "Really, it was full of fangs that ought to have been screwed on the bolts, a heap of them, too. So I gave the office in the right quarter, and two of us went next morning very early, and soon dug a hole, and buried the mound, and carefully cast the excavation as close by as possible, and covered it up with a nice green top, so as to look quite natural and pretty, and when we had done we considered we had improved the scenery. It was a near squeak though, and it was lucky no engineer was with them, or I should have been had. "It is my opinion, from what I have noticed, that the engine does a good deal to keep down the rails, and as long as the rails and sleepers are right, and the ballast good, and the sleepers well packed, the fastenings have more to prevent the rails spreading, and the road bursting than keeping the rails down, although, of course, that is necessary and should be done as well." "I think you are quite right there." "Old Fangbolts was all for the through grip, and did not seem to care much about preventing spreading. Well, engineers work in all grooves. Some have one way of thinking, some another, and all perhaps are partly right, and if they would but balance accounts, instead of harping on one string, it would be a smoother world." "There we agree." "Did you ever get a bit 'extra' out of rock ballast?" "No; never had a chance." "I did this way. Of course, rock ballast is not equal to shingle and clean gravel, but there is more chance of 'extra' profit, for you can pitch it in big, if you have a nice cover of small ballast, so as to make it look pretty at the finish, and like a garden path, and as occasion offers you can pare off the cess between the ballast wall and the top of the slope in embankments and the foot of the slope in cuttings, a couple of inches or so and sometimes get paid the specified depth that way, although the real depth of ballast throughout is not within 2 or 3 inches of it on the average. When the guv'nors are walking over the line keep them on the outside rail on curves as much as you can, as the cant makes the ballast wall look big. You have to be careful with the packing under the rail, because, if you don't mind, it may happen the centre of the sleeper is on a bit of rock, and then the sleeper may split when doing the see-saw trick as the trains pass and sway about. "Just so. You must be careful not to pack them upon a middle pivot." "I had two chaps who would almost have done for masons. They used to pack the sleepers with a few lumps where the rails rested on them, just to get the rail top nice and the rest was filled up anyhow, like nature on the sea shore; and we can't do wrong in taking a hint there, you know, for the cue is right, particularly when it runs towards 'extra' profit. Still, I don't like to chance breaking a sleeper's back, so I let them lie easy between the rails, or rather under the parts of the sleepers where no rails rest." "I understand. You pack the sleepers only where they are under the rail-flange." "Yes. One day the engineer said to the inspector who was a kind-hearted man and bred right, 'Mind the sleepers are evenly packed and not with large pieces of rock.' He called me up and repeated it extra treble to me. 'Very well, sir; but some of the rock will soon weather, and don't you think it better to keep it a bit large rather than small? The quarry runs very uneven. Some of the rock is as hard as nails, sir, and some soft, and it is not exactly the best ballast to handle or in the world; and if you will excuse me, don't you think, sir, on these soft banks another 3 inches under the sleeper would be advisable?' "He did not seem to want to agree, but after a week, an order came from my guv'nor for 3 inches extra depth upon all banks. That was a good stroke, as it enabled me to do with larger stuff, and lessened the breaking it up. He was right in what he did, and so was I. I like rock ballast for 'extras,' although the walling is a nuisance. There is more chance for expansion of profits than in gravel ballast, and that is a great recommendation to us, anyhow, and is good enough apart from what things really are. I gave the tip on the quiet in the quarry to send half the rock down a trifle bigger, and it did not want so much getting or handling in the quarry, so they liked the new order, and it saved some breaking. Consequently I prefer rock ballast that weathers quickly sometimes, although, of course, an engineer should avoid it for ballast if he can, and the money allows." CHAPTER XIV. "EXTRA" MEASUREMENTS. TOAD-STOOL CONTRACTORS, TESTIMONIALS. "Have you managed to get a bit 'extra' out of measurements?" "Yes, occasionally, but that game is about played out. In the good old times they used to let us all kinds of work, for we did business in company more then than we do now, and what one did not know the other did, and so we could do pretty nearly everything except metal work, so long as they supplied us with the materials. "I have already named about the 'extra' depth of foundations in bridges, and pipes that were not so large as thought. I have also got a bit 'extra' from side ditching when they had taken no cross sections of the ground by leaving a few buoys or mounds at the highest parts. I have also had a trifle out of the cuttings by rounding off the slopes a few inches when they were long but working right to the slope peg at top and nicking in an inch or two at the foot of the slope; but the game is hardly worth the candle, as they have almost given up soiling the slopes. Then there was a chance both ways. You got more measurement than the actual excavation, and also a bit 'extra' for soiling that was not put in, but it does not run into enough money to make it pay safely, and as the slopes and formation are so much on show the fun is hardly worth the risk. There is more to be had, so far as earthworks are concerned, in road approaches than railway cuttings, and in docks than either." "I think you are right there." "You see the earthwork is not so much in patches in dockwork, but all together, and there is often as much in an acre or so of dock as in a whole railway four or five miles in length, and inches in dockwork are worth remembering. Besides they are not noticed so much, and the excavation is soon covered up; and if it is in clay, and found out, you can always say to the bosses--'I never saw such clay to swell in patches.' Be sure to say 'in patches' for then you have an excuse handy if the clay 'swells' nowhere else except at the place you have not excavated to the right depth. You can generally get the surface not exactly level throughout, and you have a large space to work on then, and every inch means sovereigns. Really I think it does no one any harm, and does good to me if the bottom is a trifle elevated. It comes rather easy to most of us to make ourselves think a thing is good and nice when it would cost us something to think otherwise." "Yes. Money and our wishes usually work on the same main line." "I once got done out of a bit 'extra' measurement by an engineer really lovely." "Did you. How was that?" "I don't mind telling you, but there will be squalls if you blab. It happened like this. It was a line that had been commenced and most of the easy work done. It was in the days when every jerry-builder and parish sewer contractor, and big linen-draper too, thought he was a railway and dock contractor. You know they borrowed a bit from a local bank, and would take any contract from a bridge of balloons to the moon to a tunnel through the earth to Australia. Channel Tunnels, Forth Bridges, and Panama Canals would have been toys to them, and they could have made them on their heads. They sprung up just like toad-stools--can't call them mushrooms, it would be a libel on the plants--and every one of them thought they were quite as good as Brassey, and could have given him points. They had cheek, that was all, just like quack doctors. Well, what with, so they told me, big local loan-mongers to work the oracle and swim with them, and general recommendations--which I never take much notice of unless I know what a man has seen or done--saying they were full of the sublimest honesty and wisdom as ever had been known, and were that clever as few indeed could hope to be, the game was worked trumps for a time. Tests, not general testimonials, is my motto. What you have done or seen done, not what people are kind enough to say they think you can do, and which they don't know you can do. The man that asks a chap that he is friendly with to write a recommendation has his sentimental feelings worked on, and then truth takes a back seat, and of course you are bound to say your friend is the best man that could be made for the place, just that and nothing else. It costs a chap nothing to write it, and it is only very few that care to refuse, because it does not do to tell a man whom you wish to be friendly with that you don't think much of him, and that he is quite sufficiently a shirker and polite humbug to suit a good many, or that your own private opinion is he is not far off being twin-brother to a mouse-coloured beast of burden that brays. It is not good form, so we all, from kindness I suppose, write pretty of one another except when we are owed money and can't get it, then adjectives are often necessary, and as strong as you can find, with a few put in as are only known to chaps like you and me, and are not taught in schools, although they learn a lot there as they should not. Do you know when I read general testimonials I always think what a lot of saints and Solomons there are wanting situations, and it must be only the sinners and fools as are in harness. What you want to know from a reliable source is, how did a chap get on upon any particular bit of work he had to do, and have it specified what it was, and in what position he was, and whether all was and is right. Therefore, if I asked for a testimonial I want one specially written for the occasion and with reference to the kind of work that is in hand, and not as if I was going to let a man walk out with my daughter. I name this because, between you and me, I've found when a man is praised up as a sort of saint, and nothing said as to what he has done in work that he is near to being either a humbug or an ass. That was just the case here, for it was to one of these toad-stool contractors that the directors let the first contract, and engineers who do not advise their directors to have nothing to do with such public works contractors (!) I think deserve all the trouble they get into. Surely it is better to have a contractor who knows what work is and should be, even if he has but a small capital, than one who knows next to nothing about construction, and is financed by some loan-monger, or is at the mercy of some wire-puller?" "I say, you are hot on the question." "Well, I consider it about poisons some works that would otherwise have been made all right, and would have paid well too at the original capital. Besides it ought to be known a man must be specially educated to properly execute large public works, and should be bred an engineer, for one that can make shanties, dust-bins and privies, may blossom into a jerry runner-up of two-story stucco villas that have the faces and insides covered with lime and mud and half-penny paper, but it wants a contractor that is just about an engineer to know how to properly carry out railways, docks, bridges, canals, harbours, and all sea works and similar undertakings, and not a bell-pull mender and drain maker, because then he hardly knows anything himself of what has to be done and he is at the mercy of others. He tenders at figures below what he ought, and then the work cannot be properly executed, or the easy portion is done somehow or other and then the man goes smash. It is just the difference between our sterling building firms and the jerry-shanty-raisers who ought not to be called builders. Well, this one started with a rattle and scraped about, and then went to splinters. That's why I have named it, and because on this railway there was a road diversion. About a quarter of it was excavated and it was in an awful mess. It was in gravelly sand, and taken out in dabs, and in and out, all widths and depths. "I thought I saw a chance of a bit 'extra' and said nothing. One day I got rather fierce for 'extras,' and I sniffed out some small heaps at intervals up the approach. They were about a yard in height and four or five yards round. I felt sure they had not been put on the cross sections, which I got to know had been taken in some places as close as 15 feet apart, so I thought, 'Before I get the wagon roads in and move another heap, I will see the young guv'nor.' "Well, I had to go to the office, and he knew of the heaps and said 'I will allow you 30 yards for those. I had not forgotten them.' Now that was what they were to a spadeful, so I thought it was good business as I knew they were not shown on the sections. He said 'In case anything should happen to you or me I will write what I mean and have it attached to the agreement.' I thought that was kind of him. Now, we had worked for about a week, and I was keen on plunder. He then dictated a few lines to the timekeeper, saying that it was agreed 30 cubic yards of earth were in the heaps and they were to be paid for as an allowance in addition to the 9239 cubic yards, the total measurement of the excavation I had to do under the contract. Of course it was worded right, but I give you the meaning. This I signed, and it was witnessed by the time-keeper and the young guv'nor. I made just about the same as he did of the total measurement, but was so eager after the 30 cubic yards in the heaps that I signed the paper off hand, but of course I knew then what was written, but thought no more about it. I left the office and had six of neat right off on the strength of those heaps. I will cut it short now. "Well, I finished the job quickly, and one day, just before I had done, I thought to myself, 'There have not been any "extras" on this approach road, for what with slope and fence pegs being set out there has actually been no chance of a bit "extra."' After thinking I said to myself, 'It is an awkward place to measure. I will make my measurements so that they work out five hundred yards more, add a little all over, I can but give way in the end, have a nice, warm, genteel wrangle that will shake up the cockles of my heart, and I may get half or something extra if I do the oily persuasive trick, and look wronged in my countenance.' So up I went to the office and said, 'I shall about finish to-morrow, sir, and I think you will say I have done the job well and quickly, and deserve another. It has been a tight fit, and has only just kept me going.' "Usual patter followed that is required on such occasions, and is kept in stock for them. I was beginning to feel real happy, and thinking I had got twenty pounds at least, and no mistake for talking pretty. So I said, 'As I am here, sir, do you mind telling me what you make the measurement?'" "'Certainly. 9239 cubic yards, and 30 yards allowed for heaps. Total, 9269 cubic yards.' "That did not suit me, so I started on the injured innocence lay, and said meekly and persuasive like, 'You have left out something, I think, sir.' "'No; I have not.' "'Well, sir, I make 500 yards more than you; and if I don't get it it will be very bad for me, for I shall not be able to pay my men.' That did not seem to flurry him. He opened the safe, and read from the paper I had signed some months ago. Blessed if it ever occurred to me to think that I had signed for the total quantities, but I had, for I was then so taken up with the 30 yards. Like you, I am old enough to know that no contract is indisputable, and that many things in law have to be tried before they are law when a question arises, and that there is not much finality about the show; but here I was caught, and had made my own net, and no mistake; so, after putting in all I knew and saying to him, 'I did not take that bit of paper to mean the same as he did,' I considered it best to shake down easy as I saw I was grassed, so I took his measurement; but I wished blue ruin to the heaps, and may where they were tipped be well worried by worms and vermin. Look out! I shall break something." "Don't slap the table with your clenched fist like that, or we shall have to pay for damages, and have nothing left for drinks." "Right you are; but it does make me wild to think of it." "You were had at your own game there!" "Yes; but after all said and done, except the ground is level throughout, I heard two engineers say earthwork measurements are generally a matter of fair averaging; and if tables are used, some like this table and others that, so all are happy; but they agreed cross-sections are the best, and unless a plaster cast is made of the surface of some ground, no one could say what the measurement really was to a few yards, and that it does not much matter as the price per cubic yard is so little compared with most prices of work, such as masonry, brickwork, concrete, &c." "You have finished, I fancy?" "Yes." "Now I'll tell you how I once got a bit 'extra' from measurements in rather an odd way. The work was done without a contractor, it was principally let in pieces to sub-contractors, and the rest day-work; but I heard they did not gain much, if anything, by it. Came to nearly the same thing, and all the bother and risk themselves, and about the same good work. "Well, the funny way I made some extra profit, of course, as usual, very much against my will, was this. I happened to be in the engineer's office, and heard the resident say to his assistant, 'Mr. ----, please make a list of timber required for the quay sheds, and take out the quantities.' Now it is only fair to say the assistant knew his book and was up to snuff, but we are all caught tripping sometimes, and whether it was his anxiety to ascertain the exact quantities, I don't know, but he got mixed, and blessed if the timber was not ordered net lengths, and nothing allowed for mortises and making joints. Just as we were going to start on the sheds they took us away, and before the foundations were excavated for the walls. It was fortunate they did, as it happened, for it afterwards occurred to the assistant that he had forgotten to allow for mortises and joints. So the sheds had to be made about a foot less width than they should have been, and we got paid for the foot or so at each end that was left out; and the inspector got the tip, I suppose, for nothing was said, and it was not noticed, for they were wide store sheds, with a line of rails through the centre, and it really did not matter at all. So you see I was forced to take a bit 'extra,' but that is the only time in the whole of my life. Of course it worried me much." "No doubt it caused another wrinkle to set on your forehead." "Very likely; but an old partner of mine told me he once was paid for the corners of a lot of level-crossing lodges twice over by taking the outside wall measurements all round instead of two outside and two inside, but only once, when things had to be done at a great rush; it was a case of hurry up all round, for all the final measurements of the whole line had to be done in a fortnight." CHAPTER XV. MEN AND WAGES. 'SUB' FROM THE WOOD. A SUB-CONTRACTOR'S SCOUT AND FREE TRAVELLER. "It is nearly midnight. I am game for another hour, are you?" "Yes. I like talking on the quiet, it draws you together, you know; you feel for a time as if we all belonged to one family, although we do not, and don't want; that's a fact." "Precisely, old pal. Let us grip and sip." "Did any of your men ever play rough on you?" "Not often; but I remember one. He was a good working hand, and I did not mean to lose him. Ted Skip was his name. This is how it occurred. One Saturday night I was in the village, and saw at the corner of a lane a man standing up in a cart spouting away fit to give him heart disease, or break a blood-vessel, and getting hot so quick, that I am sure he was going to beat record time. I believe he was fed on dictionaries and stewed Socialist pamphlets that did not agree with him. He was pouring it out. He said in effect that pretty nearly everybody was a thief except himself and his comrades, and that nearly all things were poison as they were, and unless we all did as he said we were fools and felons, and worse. Then he went on to say, beer was poison, tobacco was poison, and the way things were now, and all went on, was worse than poison. Then he talked about us, called us railway slave drivers and slaves, and I am sure there was no one or nothing that existed that was not poison to him except himself and what he possessed, and the fools that paid him. I got wild after a bit, hearing him lying away as fast as he could speak, and I shouted, 'You are all poison, you old bit of arsenic, for what is not ass about you is from old Nick.' He was then shouting out 'Your constitution is wrong. All the bills are of no use.' That was too much for me, so I pushed my way in and showed him my fist, and said, 'I'll soon show you whether all the Bills are of no use and whether my constitution is wrong. My name is Bill Dark, and there are numbers of people here that know I have never been sick or sorry since I was born, and I have taken beer and smoked tobacco from the time I was fifteen. In moderation, I believe in this country it does good to most of us, and pretty well all except those that are built up peculiar, and if you want to see if I'm of no use, come on; only get a sack first, so that the pieces of you that remain, and are large enough to be found, can be taken away and burnt to-night instead of later on. You understand what I mean.' "Our chaps cheered me like mad, and I suppose old Arsenic thought his show was being wasted, for he threw up his arms and drove off, and we yelled him out of the village. Well, now you'll hear what came of it. Teddy Skip was there, and heard me say that beer and tobacco in moderation in this country I believe did good to most of us. A week or so passed, and I forgot all about old Arsenic when Teddy Skip came to me, and said, 'Guv'nor, after hearing you down in the village, and feeling a bit cold now and then, I thought I would try a pipe. I find it suits me, and is quite a friend, but it costs me nearly twopence a day, at least that is what I reckon it does. I have been with you a long time, and hope you won't mind another twopence a day just to buy the tobacco as you recommended to be used in moderation.' "He had me there, so I made no bones about it, and said, 'Very well then, another twopence from Monday;' but I gave him a parting shot in this way, 'I know you are courting Mary Plush, and may be joined soon, but don't you come to me for a rise after each lot of twins is born, and say you have done a kindness to me and the public generally; because the wife and ten children lay is played out for increase of wages, and folks do with them that show as much moderation in size of families as remember I said should be used with beer and tobacco.' He began to move, and said smiling, as he cleared out, 'All right, guv'nor, thank you, I understand.'" "That was pretty for you; but did I ever tell you how I got well insulted by one of my chaps?" "No. Out with it." "It was in my early days, about the first work I had on the piece. It was clearing and forming through a wood, and there were more rabbits there than trees. The contract was just started, and you know what the chaps are then, they want 'sub' nearly to their full time. Well, I was not flush, in fact they nearly drained me out, so the rabbits were too much for me, besides they were wasted in my sight where they were, simply gold running loose; so I bagged a fair lot, in fact as many as I could catch. Now, my men finding I was subbing them nicely seemed to think I was the man they had been looking to serve since they took to work, so I considered I ought to stop their game with another variety of sport. It does not do to let wrong ideas rest quiet in any man. It is not kind. It was Thursday, and on Saturday I should have a fairish draw for myself on account of work done; but as things were, I was nearly run out. About six wanted 'sub,' so I threw a rabbit to each of them, and said, 'That is tenpence, and it ought to be a shilling, for they are as big as hares and more feeding, and they are not half the trouble to cook.' They grumbled, so I growled out, 'Except on Saturdays, it is that this week and next most likely, or nothing, so choose your time.' One stayed behind, and said, 'Boss, just you look here: eightpence is enough for that, and too much, because I know it is poached, for I saw you doing a lift among the "furrers," and when I receive stolen goods I am paid for holding them, and chancing the consequences, and I don't pay for taking care of them. Do you understand? It is the last I take, and don't you mistake.' "This 'riled' me, so I said, 'Off you go, or I'll flatten you out.' I was had there. Of course, he was at the same game as I had been, and rabbits to him were not exactly a novelty. Well, I carried on the fun there to such a tune that at last it became too hot. A dealer used to fetch them. He had an old cart. It looked like a baker's, and had some name on it, and there was a bit of green baize, and a basket or two, and a few loaves to keep up the illusion. We worked it till it turned on us, and the business had to be stopped." "I never have done much at that. Not enough money for the risk to please me." "Believe me, I have given up the game twenty years or more. I soon found in taking work by the piece I was bound to have a bit of capital, and, as a rule, what I want I get if it is to be had by anyone, and I generally find it is. I overdid it though, that's the worst of money, the more you get the more you want, and it's the biggest slave-driver out and spares no one. Well, complaints about poaching went up to head-quarters and I was called before the guv'nor. He said to me very sharp, 'I shall measure up your work unless from this day I hear no more of your poaching.' "Of course I bluffed it a bit, but it was no good. However, knowing he always liked fun, he listened to me and I went off fond as a lamb. After promising I would keep watch on the men, which he did not let me finish saying before he had advised me to have assistance, he meant someone to watch me, I went straight for some joking, just to get the venom out of the subject. There is nothing like flattery to start a talk easy, so I said, 'You, sir, know a host of things more than me, and no doubt can explain how it was my father told me when I was a boy that all the family had a natural power of attracting animals. He said it was born in us. One day, sir, he drew me close to him and whispered, after feeling my head, 'You have the family gift very powerful.' You'll excuse me, sir, but I just name this because game always follows me about, and when these rabbits come on the work there is no mistake they are trespassing, and so I punish them by taking them into custody according to the law. When I walk up and down the line they seem to be that joyful, sir, as is real touching. They will come, and the bigger they are the more they seem to like me (between ourselves, that is you and me, to-night talking quiet, small 'uns don't suit me). I have not got the heart to frighten them away, and so they come to me, and sooner than let them go back to their savage life I take them up and become like a parent to them. You cut me so hard in price for the work, sir, I cannot afford to keep them long, so they have to partly keep me." "Did your guv'nor stand that?" "Yes. He was a good listener and always gave a man enough rope to hang himself." "I should have punched your head if I had been him." "Very likely you would have tried to, but he did not, so I went on to say, 'Well, sir, it is my undoubted belief the big rabbits down here can tell the difference between some letters and others, in the same way, I suppose, as they know the difference between some shot through their ears and a cabbage leaf in their mouth, or a horse and a fox; for they always run away from every cart but mine. I was just thinking I had said enough when the guv'nor had his turn and said:-- "'After what you have told me, attach a dozen white boards to the fencing, and have these words painted upon them in six-inch black letters--"Rabbits are vermin," and have your name put underneath. As you say some of them can read, that will cause them to cease following you. I am determined that this poaching shall be stopped once and for all.' "'Excuse me, sir, but suppose they still will come to me after the notices are up, and I can't keep them away?' "He answered, 'In such an event fix notice boards painted thus: "Any rabbit found trespassing upon this railway will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law, and any rabbit found destroying the fences or hedges, or committing any damage of whatsoever kind will be shot.' Have your name put on it as before.' "After that I thought it was time to go, and as I went out I could hear laughter. He had me, you know, so I was compelled to take to butcher's meat again throughout, and only a spare rabbit now and then went home to see his relations by aid of my mouth." "What a row there is outside?" "It's my dog barking. He must have heard you talk of rabbits. He is clever. I trained him so that I always knew when any engineers or inspectors were on the prowl. I call him 'Spot,' because he can 'spot' them so well. I made him do the spy business right round our end of the docks I was then on, and also on railway work." "What did he do?" "He used to do a tramp up and down quite naturally, about quarter of a mile in front of the tip and a quarter of a mile back of the gullet, or anywhere I had work, and not even the men knew he was on scout. He is the best watchman I have known; and so long as things were right and no bosses about he never came close to me unless I called him, but if anyone was prowling about he soon was close to me, and three pats communicated to him that I twigged, and he went on the scent again. He seemed to sniff out the faces of all my guv'nors in an instant, and looked anxious till I patted him three times, and then he turned up his eyes to meet mine, and a lovely beam of satisfaction came over him and he was as happy as he could be, and then he vanished. He was a sly dog, and useful too. He slept at the bottom of my bed in a basket. My wife did not like him on the bed; said dogs were dogs, and carried too many relations on their persons, so I hung a big basket to the tail end of our sleeping apparatus, and there he snoozed. Now, wherever I was, he was, or near to; he did not seem happy except he knew where I was. I always took him wherever I went, and on free pass. It's not very often I am travelling far, except when the works are finished; still, I easily trained him to be a good free traveller after a few trials, so that I never took a ticket for him. Not me. I always think it is hard, provided you have no luggage for the van, and have your dog well under control, that you cannot take him with you free, like you do a stick, an umbrella, or your pipe. A dog does not occupy a seat nor make a noise the same as a baby; but there, I don't mean to argue the question, and, personally, have no occasion, because I have not paid anything for my dog's travelling for years. The problem is solved as far as I am concerned, and the rest of creation will have to look out for themselves." "How do you do it?" "You mean, how does my dog, Spot, do it? In this way. I take my ticket, and before putting it into my pocket hold it in my hand for a moment. I then go on my right platform. Spot, that is my dog, then knows he is to get on that platform. He usually waits till a good many people want to pass, then he slips in beautifully quiet, sometimes by the side of a lady, or under cover of a group of passengers, and I have never known him noticed at the doors, as the ticket collectors are busy ticket snipping. I don't interfere with Spot's platform arrangements, for properly educated and well-brought-up dogs would object; but there is no doubt at some of the terminal stations the game could not be worked unless all the platforms are open. Suppose he was noticed on a platform, and they tried to find him, he was so good at hiding that they always thought he had gone; besides, they had plenty to do, and more serious business to look after. Once I saw they were searching for him, but they did not find him. He was not on the platform at all, but under a truck in the siding and enjoying the fun. He rested there, or at a convenient place till he heard the train coming, or saw I was about to get in. He timed his movements very cleverly, and has taken me by surprise sometimes, but he was sure to be under the seat, and hiding as quietly as a mouse, and taking no notice of me; not he. "When I arrived at my station, if it was a big one, there was no trouble, I got out and Spot sneaked out without taking any notice of me, nor did I of him then. He used to make straight for the wall, and you bet he got out of the station quick, or was turned out. I have seen him driven out, as the porters took him for a stray dog. Once they threw a stool at him, it just caught his tail, and made him squall a trifle; but although it was a hard trial for me, I suppressed my feelings, as I had no ticket for him. I have known him sit down after following me out of the carriage, close up to the wall one end of a platform, and wait till the ticket-collector was busy sorting the tickets, and then Spot would walk out like a nobleman. I waited for him at a respectful and safe distance from the station, and then we had an affectionate meeting, and he had a biscuit and I had a drink, and we were a happy two. Spot is a real good dog, and as honest as the day, for I trained him in the right direction from the time he was a pup. He is a cool one; but there, it is a gift of nature like a swell singer's voice." "Precisely." "Now, listen; for once I was nearly had, even with Spot. There were about ten people in the compartment of a long carriage, and I sat next to a fly-looking chap, and only got in just in time, with my dog handy. Off the train went, and I was trying to consider what I ought to think about during the journey, when we all started, for Spot barked really fierce; and I said, 'Quiet.' Blessed if there was not another bark, and from another member of the dog creation. I knew it was not Spot, so I looked under the seat, and saw two bags, and Spot looking very warm and ready on one of them, with his head a little on one side. I knew it was live game, and I saw the other bag move. I thought the railway company had got the office and caught me, and that it was a 'put up job,' but I was wrong. It was all right. The chap next to me whispered in my ear that he was a rat-catcher, and had live rats in one bag, and his dog in the other, and they were travelling as passengers' luggage. I winked, and he did. Then it occurred to me, I was too friendly with him. However, of course his dog was trained to keep quiet, but mine was not in the presence of rats, so I had to look under again, and put out my stick, and say. 'Quiet, bosses.' Spot knew what that meant, and was quiet. "Now, the other passengers steadied down very quickly, for of course they did not know we had not paid for the dogs. It was a fast local train and only stopped at the terminus, so there was no chance of their getting out before me at the station. I took care of that. It might have been awkward otherwise. The beauty of it was, this rat-catcher, I could see was not altogether satisfied when he came to dwell on it, for I fancy he thought I was a spy, and that he was caught; and I was not quite convinced he was not a detective. Still, a bold game generally pays the best; anyhow, I pretended I was dozing. It was evening, and when the train had barely stopped, after saying. 'Good-night all,' I got out first, and did not wait to see how the rat-catcher fared. I had Spot to look after, and was afraid the guard might have heard the barking; but he did not, for if he had we should both have been had lovely, all through a bag of rats. What my dog suffered from having to leave the game alone, it grieves me to think. All I know is, he was really bad for days after; but I should say the rats were tuning up to sing, 'We are all surrounded.'" "I'm off now. Good-bye, old chap. Cheer up." "Thank you for coming to see me, and having a good chat. It's lucky no one has heard us though, still, we have not confessed all. Have we?" "Not exactly. Good-bye." "Mind how you go, and I hope to see you to-morrow." "All right; I'm safe enough, for I have been in too many squalls not to be careful. I won't say artful." FINIS. _Crown 8vo, cloth, Price 4s. 6d._ NOTES ON CONCRETE AND WORKS IN CONCRETE. By JOHN NEWMAN, ASSOC. M. INST. C.E. REVIEWS OF THE PRESS. ENGINEERING: _"An epitome of the best practice which may be relied upon not to mislead."_ "The successful construction of works in concrete is a difficult matter to explain in books." "All the points which open the way to bad work are carefully pointed out by our Author with a pertinacious insistance which demonstrates his clear appreciation of their value." IRON: "As numerous examples are cited of the use of concrete in public works, and details supplied, _the book will greatly assist engineers engaged upon such works_." THE BUILDER: "A very practical little book, carefully compiled, and _one which all writers of specifications for concrete work would do well to peruse_." "_The book contains reliable information for all engaged upon public works._" "A perusal of Mr. Newman's valuable little handbook will point out the importance of a more careful investigation of the subject than is usually supposed to be necessary." AMERICAN PRESS. BUILDING: "To accomplish so much in so limited a space, the subject-matter has been confined to chapters." "_We take pleasure in saying that this is the most admirable and complete handbook on concretes for engineers of which we have knowledge._" E. & F. N. SPON, 125, STRAND, LONDON. _Crown 8vo, cloth, 7s. 6d._ EARTHWORK SLIPS AND SUBSIDENCES UPON PUBLIC WORKS. By JOHN NEWMAN, ASSOC. M. INST. C.E. REVIEWS OF THE PRESS. THE BUILDER: "We gladly welcome Mr. Newman's book on slips in earthworks as an important contribution to a right comprehension of such matters." "There is much in this book that will at all events guide the mind of the student to the points--and there are many of them--which have to be weighed by designers of engineering works, and which, if attended to and fixed on the memory, will certainly guard them against probable if not against possible slips in earthwork." "There is much to read, and read carefully, on all these points." "He then presents us with sixteen maxims to be observed, where practicable, in the consideration of the location of earthworks (hints as to what should be avoided, which are of considerable value).... The capital cost of a work and the cost of its maintenance may both be very sensibly reduced by attention to all the points alluded to by the author." "We are glad to see that the author enters at some length into the subject of the due provision of drainage at the backs of retaining walls, a matter so often neglected or overlooked, and carries this subject to a far larger one, the causes which tend to disturb the repose of dock walls. His remarks on these matters are well worthy of consideration, and are thoroughly practical, and the items which have to be taken into account in the necessary statical calculations very well introduced." "In conclusion we may say that there is plenty of good useful information to be obtained from this work, which touches a subject possessing an exceedingly scanty vocabulary." "It contains an immense deal of matter which must be swallowed sooner or later by every one who desires to be a good engineer." &c. &c. &c. &c. BUILDING NEWS: "Mr. John Newman, Assoc. M. Inst. C.E., has written a volume on a subject that has hitherto only been treated of cursorily." "Useful advice is given which the railway engineer and earthwork contractor may profit by." "The book contains a fund of useful information." &c. &c. &c. &c. BUILDER'S REPORTER AND ENGINEERING TIMES: "The book which Mr. John Newman has written imparts a new interest to earthworks. It is in fact a sort of pathological treatise, and as such may be said to be unique among books on construction, for in them failures are rarely recognised. Now in Mr. Newman's volume the majority of the pages relate to failures, and from them the reader infers how they are to be avoided, and thus to form earthworks that will endure longer than those which are executed without much regard to risks." "The manner of dealing with the subsidences when they occur, as well as providing against them, will be found described in the book." "It can be said that the subject is thoroughly investigated, and contractors as well as engineers can learn much from Mr. Newman's book." &c. &c. &c. &c. E. & F. N. SPON, 125, STRAND, LONDON. 1891. BOOKS RELATING TO APPLIED SCIENCE PUBLISHED BY E. & F. N. SPON, LONDON: 125, STRAND. NEW YORK: 12, CORTLANDT STREET. _The Engineers' Sketch-Book of Mechanical Movements, Devices, Appliances, Contrivances, Details employed in the Design and Construction of Machinery for every purpose._ Collected from numerous Sources and from Actual Work. Classified and Arranged for Reference. _Nearly 2000 Illustrations._ By T. B. BARBER, Engineer. 8vo, cloth, 7_s._ 6_d._ _A Pocket-Book for Chemists, Chemical Manufacturers, Metallurgists, Dyers, Distillers, Brewers, Sugar Refiners, Photographers, Students, etc., etc._ By THOMAS BAYLEY, Assoc. R.C. Sc. Ireland, Analytical and Consulting Chemist and Assayer. Fourth edition, with additions, 437 pp., royal 32mo, roan, gilt edges, 5_s._ SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS: Atomic Weights and Factors--Useful Data--Chemical Calculations-- Rules for Indirect Analysis--Weights and Measures--Thermometers and Barometers--Chemical Physics--Boiling Points, etc.--Solubility of Substances--Methods of Obtaining Specific Gravity--Conversion of Hydrometers--Strength of Solutions by Specific Gravity--Analysis-- Gas Analysis--Water Analysis--Qualitative Analysis and Reactions-- Volumetric Analysis--Manipulation--Mineralogy--Assaying--Alcohol --Beer--Sugar--Miscellaneous Technological matter relating to Potash, Soda, Sulphuric Acid, Chlorine, Tar Products, Petroleum, Milk, Tallow, Photography, Prices, Wages, Appendix, etc., etc. _The Mechanician_: A Treatise on the Construction and Manipulation of Tools, for the use and instruction of Young Engineers and Scientific Amateurs, comprising the Arts of Blacksmithing and Forging; the Construction and Manufacture of Hand Tools, and the various Methods of Using and Grinding them; description of Hand and Machine Processes; Turning and Screw Cutting. By CAMERON KNIGHT, Engineer. _Containing 1147 illustrations_, and 397 pages of letter-press. Fourth edition, 4to, cloth, 18_s._ _Just Published, in Demy 8vo, cloth, containing 975 pages and 250 Illustrations, price 7s. 6d._ SPONS' HOUSEHOLD MANUAL: A Treasury of Domestic Receipts and Guide for Home Management. PRINCIPAL CONTENTS. Hints for selecting a good House, pointing out the essential requirements for a good house as to the Site, Soil, Trees, Aspect, Construction, and General Arrangement; with instructions for Reducing Echoes, Waterproofing Damp Walls, Curing Damp Cellars. Sanitation.--What should constitute a good Sanitary Arrangement; Examples (with Illustrations) of Well- and Ill-drained Houses; How to Test Drains; Ventilating Pipes, etc. Water Supply.--Care of Cisterns; Sources of Supply; Pipes; Pumps; Purification and Filtration of Water. 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L. MOLESWORTH, M.I.C.E. 32mo, cloth, 1_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: General--Linear Measures--Square Measures--Cubic Measures--Measures of Capacity--Weights--Combinations--Thermometers. _Elements of Construction for Electro-Magnets._ By Count TH. DU MONCEL, Mem. de l'Institut de France. Translated from the French by C. J. WHARTON. Crown 8vo, cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ _A Treatise on the Use of Belting for the Transmission of Power._ By J. H. COOPER. Second edition, _illustrated_, 8vo, cloth, 15_s._ _A Pocket-Book of Useful Formulæ and Memoranda for Civil and Mechanical Engineers._ By Sir GUILFORD L. MOLESWORTH, Mem. Inst. C.E. _With numerous illustrations_, 744 pp. Twenty-second edition, 32mo, roan, 6_s._ SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS: Surveying, Levelling, etc.--Strength and Weight of Materials-- Earthwork, Brickwork, Masonry, Arches, etc.--Struts, Columns, Beams, and Trusses--Flooring, Roofing, and Roof Trusses--Girders, Bridges, etc.--Railways and Roads--Hydraulic Formulæ--Canals, Sewers, Waterworks, Docks--Irrigation and Breakwaters--Gas, Ventilation, and Warming--Heat, Light, Colour, and Sound--Gravity: Centres, Forces, and Powers--Millwork, Teeth of Wheels, Shafting, etc.--Workshop Recipes--Sundry Machinery--Animal Power--Steam and the Steam Engine--Water-power, Water-wheels, Turbines, etc.--Wind and Windmills--Steam Navigation, Ship Building, Tonnage, etc.-- Gunnery, Projectiles, etc.--Weights, Measures, and Money-- Trigonometry, Conic Sections, and Curves--Telegraphy--Mensuration --Tables of Areas and Circumference, and Arcs of Circles-- Logarithms, Square and Cube Roots, Powers--Reciprocals, etc.-- Useful Numbers--Differential and Integral Calculus--Algebraic Signs--Telegraphic Construction and Formulæ. _Hints on Architectural Draughtsmanship._ By _G. W. Tuxford Hallatt_. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 1_s._ 6_d._ _Spons' Tables and Memoranda for Engineers_; selected and arranged by J. T. HURST, C.E., Author of 'Architectural Surveyors' Handbook,' 'Hurst's Tredgold's Carpentry,' etc. Eleventh edition, 64mo, roan, gilt edges, 1_s._; or in cloth case, 1_s._ 6_d._ This work is printed in a pearl type, and is so small, measuring only 2-1/2 in. by 1-3/4 in. by 1/4 in. thick, that it may be easily carried in the waistcoat pocket. "It is certainly an extremely rare thing for a reviewer to be called upon to notice a volume measuring but 2-1/2 in. by 1-3/4 in., yet these dimensions faithfully represent the size of the handy little book before us. The volume--which contains 118 printed pages, besides a few blank pages for memoranda--is, in fact, a true pocket-book, adapted for being carried in the waistcoat pocket, and containing a far greater amount and variety of information than most people would imagine could be compressed into so small a space.... The little volume has been compiled with considerable care and judgment, and we can cordially recommend it to our readers as a useful little pocket companion."--_Engineering._ _A Practical Treatise on Natural and Artificial Concrete, its Varieties and Constructive Adaptations._ By HENRY REID, Author of the 'Science and Art of the Manufacture of Portland Cement.' New Edition, _with 59 woodcuts and 5 plates_, 8vo, cloth, 15_s._ _Notes on Concrete and Works in Concrete_; especially written to assist those engaged upon Public Works. By JOHN NEWMAN, Assoc. Mem. Inst. C.E., crown 8vo, cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ _Electricity as a Motive Power._ By Count TH. DU MONCEL, Membre de l'Institut de France, and FRANK GERALDY, Ingénieur des Ponts et Chaussées. Translated and Edited, with Additions, by C. J. WHARTON, Assoc. Soc. Tel. Eng. and Elec. _With 113 engravings and diagrams_, crown 8vo, cloth, 7_s._ 6_d._ _Treatise on Valve-Gears_, with special consideration of the Link-Motions of Locomotive Engines. By Dr. GUSTAV ZEUNER, Professor of Applied Mechanics at the Confederated Polytechnikum of Zurich. Translated from the Fourth German Edition, by Professor J. F. KLEIN, Lehigh University, Bethlehem, Pa. _Illustrated_, 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _The French-Polisher's Manual._ By a French-Polisher; containing Timber Staining, Washing, Matching, Improving, Painting, Imitations, Directions for Staining, Sizing, Embodying, Smoothing, Spirit Varnishing, French-Polishing, Directions for Re-polishing. Third edition, royal 32mo, sewed, 6_d._ _Hops, their Cultivation, Commerce, and Uses in various Countries._ By P. L. SIMMONDS. Crown 8vo, cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ _The Principles of Graphic Statics._ By GEORGE SYDENHAM CLARKE, Major Royal Engineers. _With 112 illustrations._ Second edition, 4to, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _Dynamo Tenders' Hand-Book._ By F. B. BADT, late 1st Lieut. Royal Prussian Artillery. _With 70 illustrations._ Third edition, 18mo, cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ _Practical Geometry, Perspective, and Engineering Drawing_; a Course of Descriptive Geometry adapted to the Requirements of the Engineering Draughtsman, including the determination of cast shadows and Isometric Projection, each chapter being followed by numerous examples; to which are added rules for Shading, Shade-lining, etc., together with practical instructions as to the Lining, Colouring, Printing, and general treatment of Engineering Drawings, with a chapter on drawing Instruments. By GEORGE S. CLARKE, Capt. R.E. Second edition, _with 21 plates_. 2 vols., cloth, 10_s._ 6_d._ _The Elements of Graphic Statics._ By Professor KARL VON OTT, translated from the German by G. S. CLARKE, Capt. R.E., Instructor in Mechanical Drawing, Royal Indian Engineering College. _With 93 illustrations_, crown 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture and Distribution of Coal Gas._ By WILLIAM RICHARDS. Demy 4to, with _numerous wood engravings and 29 plates_, cloth, 28_s._ SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS: Introduction--History of Gas Lighting--Chemistry of Gas Manufacture, by Lewis Thompson, Esq., M.R.C.S.--Coal, with Analyses, by J. Paterson, Lewis Thompson, and G. R. Hislop, Esqrs.--Retorts, Iron and Clay--Retort Setting--Hydraulic Main--Condensers--Exhausters-- Washers and Scrubbers--Purifiers--Purification--History of Gas Holder--Tanks, Brick and Stone, Composite, Concrete, Cast-iron, Compound Annular Wrought-iron--Specifications--Gas Holders-- Station Meter--Governor--Distribution--Mains--Gas Mathematics, or Formulæ for the Distribution of Gas, by Lewis Thompson, Esq.--Services--Consumers' Meters--Regulators--Burners--Fittings-- Photometer--Carburization of Gas--Air Gas and Water Gas-- Composition of Coal Gas, by Lewis Thompson, Esq.--Analyses of Gas--Influence of Atmospheric Pressure and Temperature on Gas--Residual Products--Appendix--Description of Retort Settings, Buildings, etc., etc. _The New Formula for Mean Velocity of Discharge of Rivers and Canals._ By W. R. KUTTER. Translated from articles in the 'Cultur-Ingénieur,' by LOWIS D'A. JACKSON, Assoc. Inst. C.E. 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _The Practical Millwright and Engineers Ready Reckoner_; or Tables for finding the diameter and power of cog-wheels, diameter, weight, and power of shafts, diameter and strength of bolts, etc. By THOMAS DIXON. Fourth edition, 12mo, cloth, 3_s._ _Tin_: Describing the Chief Methods of Mining, Dressing and Smelting it abroad; with Notes upon Arsenic, Bismuth and Wolfram. By ARTHUR G. CHARLETON, Mem. American Inst. of Mining Engineers. _With plates_, 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _Perspective, Explained and Illustrated._ By G. S. CLARKE, Capt. R.E. _With illustrations_, 8vo, cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._ _Practical Hydraulics;_ a Series of Rules and Tables for the use of Engineers, etc., etc. By THOMAS BOX. Ninth edition, _numerous plates_, post 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _The Essential Elements of Practical Mechanics; based on the Principle of Work_, designed for Engineering Students. By OLIVER BYRNE, formerly Professor of Mathematics, College for Civil Engineers. Third edition, _with 148 wood engravings_, post 8vo, cloth, 7_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: Chap. 1. How Work is Measured by a Unit, both with and without reference to a Unit of Time--Chap. 2. The Work of Living Agents, the Influence of Friction, and introduces one of the most beautiful Laws of Motion--Chap. 3. The principles expounded in the first and second chapters are applied to the Motion of Bodies--Chap. 4. The Transmission of Work by simple Machines--Chap. 5. Useful Propositions and Rules. _Breweries and Maltings_: their Arrangement, Construction, Machinery, and Plant. By G. SCAMELL, F.R.I.B.A. Second edition, revised, enlarged, and partly rewritten. By F. COLYER, M.I.C.E., M.I.M.E. _With 20 plates_, 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _A Practical Treatise on the Construction of Horizontal and Vertical Waterwheels_, specially designed for the use of operative mechanics. By WILLIAM CULLEN, Millwright and Engineer. _With 11 plates._ Second edition, revised and enlarged, small 4to, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _A Practical Treatise on Mill-gearing, Wheels, Shafts, Riggers, etc._; for the use of Engineers. By THOMAS BOX. Third edition, _with 11 plates_. Crown 8vo, cloth, 7_s._ 6_d._ _Mining Machinery_: a Descriptive Treatise on the Machinery, Tools, and other Appliances used in Mining. By G. G. ANDR�, F.G.S., Assoc. Inst. C.E., Mem. of the Society of Engineers. Royal 4to, uniform with the Author's Treatise on Coal Mining, containing 182 _plates_, accurately drawn to scale, with descriptive text, in 2 vols., cloth, 3_l._ 12_s._ CONTENTS: Machinery for Prospecting, Excavating, Hauling, and Hoisting-- Ventilation--Pumping--Treatment of Mineral Products, including Gold and Silver, Copper, Tin, and Lead, Iron, Coal Sulphur, China Clay, Brick Earth, etc. _Tables for Setting out Curves for Railways, Canals, Roads, etc._, varying from a radius of five chains to three miles. By A. KENNEDY and R. W. HACKWOOD. _Illustrated_ 32mo, cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ _Practical Electrical Notes and Definitions for the use of Engineering Students and Practical Men._ By W. PERREN MAYCOCK, Assoc. M. Inst. E.E., Instructor in Electrical Engineering at the Pitlake Institute, Croydon, together with the Rules and Regulations to be observed in Electrical Installation Work. Second edition. Royal 32mo, roan, gilt edges, 4_s._ 6_d._ _The Draughtsman's Handbook of Plan and Map Drawing_; including instructions for the preparation of Engineering, Architectural, and Mechanical Drawings. _With numerous illustrations in the text, and 33 plates (15 printed in colours)._ By G. G. ANDR�, F.G.S., Assoc. Inst. C.E. 4to, cloth, 9_s._ CONTENTS: The Drawing Office and its Furnishings--Geometrical Problems-- Lines, Dots, and their Combinations--Colours, Shading, Lettering, Bordering, and North Points--Scales--Plotting--Civil Engineers' and Surveyors' Plans--Map Drawing--Mechanical and Architectural Drawing--Copying and Reducing Trigonometrical Formulæ, etc., etc. _The Boiler-maker's and Iron Ship-builder's Companion_, comprising a series of original and carefully calculated tables, of the utmost utility to persons interested in the iron trades. By JAMES FODEN, author of 'Mechanical Tables,' etc. Second edition revised, _with illustrations_, crown 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _Rock Blasting_: a Practical Treatise on the means employed in Blasting Rocks for Industrial Purposes. By G. G. ANDR�, F.G.S., Assoc. Inst. C.E. _With 56 illustrations and 12 plates_, 8vo, cloth, 10_s._ 6_d._ _Experimental Science_: Elementary, Practical, and Experimental Physics. By GEO. M. HOPKINS. _Illustrated by 672 engravings._ In one large vol., 8vo, cloth, 18_s._ _A Treatise on Ropemaking as practised in public and private Rope-yards_, with a Description of the Manufacture, Rules, Tables of Weights, etc., adapted to the Trade, Shipping, Mining, Railways, Builders, etc. By R. CHAPMAN, formerly foreman to Messrs. Huddart and Co., Limehouse, and late Master Ropemaker to H. M. Dockyard, Deptford. Second edition, 12mo, cloth, 3_s._ _Laxton's Builders' and Contractors' Tables_; for the use of Engineers, Architects, Surveyors, Builders, Land Agents, and others. Bricklayer, containing 22 tables, with nearly 30,000 calculations. 4to, cloth, 5_s._ _Laxton's Builders' and Contractors' Tables._ Excavator, Earth, Land, Water, and Gas, containing 53 tables, with nearly 24,000 calculations. 4to, cloth, 5_s._ _Egyptian Irrigation._ By W. WILLCOCKS, M.I.C.E., Indian Public Works Department, Inspector of Irrigation, Egypt. With Introduction by Lieut.-Col. J. C. Ross, R.E., Inspector-General of Irrigation. _With numerous lithographs and wood engravings_, royal 8vo, cloth, 1_l._ 16_s._ _Screw Cutting Tables for Engineers and Machinists_, giving the values of the different trains of Wheels required to produce Screws of any pitch, calculated by Lord Lindsay, M.P., F.R.S., F.R.A.S., etc. Cloth, oblong, 2_s._ _Screw Cutting Tables_, for the use of Mechanical Engineers, showing the proper arrangement of Wheels for cutting the Threads of Screws of any required pitch, with a Table for making the Universal Gas-pipe Threads and Taps. By W. A. MARTIN, Engineer. Second, edition, oblong, cloth, 1_s._, or sewed, 6_d._ _A Treatise on a Practical Method of Designing Slide-Valve Gears by Simple Geometrical Construction_, based upon the principles enunciated in Euclid's Elements, and comprising the various forms of Plain Slide-Valve and Expansion Gearing; together with Stephenson's, Gooch's, and Allan's Link-Motions, as applied either to reversing or to variable expansion combinations. By EDWARD J. COWLING WELCH, Memb. Inst. Mechanical Engineers. Crown 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ _Cleaning and Scouring_: a Manual for Dyers, Laundresses, and for Domestic Use. By S. CHRISTOPHER. 18mo, sewed, 6_d._ _A Glossary of Terms used in Coal Mining._ By WILLIAM STUKELEY GRESLEY, Assoc. Mem. Inst C.E., F.G.S., Member of the North of England Institute of Mining Engineers. _Illustrated with numerous woodcuts and diagrams_, crown 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _A Pocket-Book for Boiler Makers and Steam Users_, comprising a variety of useful information for Employer and Workman, Government Inspectors, Board of Trade Surveyors, Engineers in charge of Works and Slips, Foremen of Manufactories, and the general Steam-using Public. By MAURICE JOHN SEXTON. Second edition, royal 32mo, roan, gilt edges, 5_s._ _Electrolysis_: a Practical Treatise on Nickeling, Coppering, Gilding, Silvering, the Refining of Metals, and the treatment of Ores by means of Electricity. By HIPPOLYTE FONTAINE, translated from the French by J. A. BERLY, C.E., Assoc. S.T.E. _With engravings._ 8vo, cloth, 9_s._ _Barlow's Tables of Squares, Cubes, Square Roots, Cube Roots, Reciprocals of all Integer Numbers up to 10,000._ Post 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ _A Practical Treatise on the Steam Engine_, containing Plans and Arrangements of Details for Fixed Steam Engines, with Essays on the Principles involved in Design and Construction. By ARTHUR RIGG, Engineer, Member of the Society of Engineers and of the Royal Institution of Great Britain. Demy 4to, _copiously illustrated with woodcuts and 96 plates_, in one Volume, half-bound morocco, 2_l._ 2_s._; or cheaper edition, cloth, 25_s._ This work is not, in any sense, an elementary treatise, or history of the steam engine, but is intended to describe examples of Fixed Steam Engines without entering into the wide domain of locomotive or marine practice. To this end illustrations will be given of the most recent arrangements of Horizontal, Vertical, Beam, Pumping, Winding, Portable, Semi-portable, Corliss, Allen, Compound, and other similar Engines, by the most eminent Firms in Great Britain and America. The laws relating to the action and precautions to be observed in the construction of the various details, such as Cylinders, Pistons, Piston-rods, Connecting-rods, Cross-heads, Motion-blocks, Eccentrics, Simple, Expansion, Balanced, and Equilibrium Slide-valves, and Valve-gearing will be minutely dealt with. In this connection will be found articles upon the Velocity of Reciprocating Parts and the Mode of Applying the Indicator, Heat and Expansion of Steam Governors, and the like. It is the writer's desire to draw illustrations from every possible source, and give only those rules that present practice deems correct. _A Practical Treatise on the Science of Land and Engineering Surveying, Levelling, Estimating Quantities, etc._, with a general description of the several Instruments required for Surveying, Levelling, Plotting, etc. By H. S. MERRETT. Fourth edition, revised by G. W. USILL, Assoc. Mem. Inst. C.E. _41 plates, with illustrations and tables_, royal 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ PRINCIPAL CONTENTS: Part 1. Introduction and the Principles of Geometry. Part 2. Land Surveying; comprising General Observations--The Chain--Offsets Surveying by the Chain only--Surveying Hilly Ground--To Survey an Estate or Parish by the Chain only--Surveying with the Theodolite --Mining and Town Surveying--Railroad Surveying--Mapping-- Division and Laying out of Land--Observations on Enclosures-- Plane Trigonometry. Part 3. Levelling--Simple and Compound Levelling--The Level Book--Parliamentary Plan and Section-- Levelling with a Theodolite--Gradients--Wooden Curves--To Lay out a Railway Curve--Setting out Widths. Part 4. Calculating Quantities generally for Estimates--Cuttings and Embankments-- Tunnels--Brickwork--Ironwork--Timber Measuring. Part 5. Description and Use of Instruments in Surveying and Plotting-- The Improved Dumpy Level--Troughton's Level--The Prismatic Compass--Proportional Compass--Box Sextant--Vernier--Pantagraph-- Merrett's Improved Quadrant--Improved Computation Scale--The Diagonal Scale--Straight Edge and Sector. Part 6. Logarithms of Numbers--Logarithmic Sines and Co-Sines, Tangents and Co-Tangents --Natural Sines and Co-Sines--Tables for Earthwork, for Setting out Curves, and for various Calculations, etc., etc., etc. _Mechanical Graphics._ A Second Course of Mechanical Drawing. With Preface by Prof. PERRY, B.Sc., F.R.S. Arranged for use in Technical and Science and Art Institutes, Schools and Colleges, by GEORGE HALLIDAY, Whitworth Scholar. 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ _The Assayers Manual_: an Abridged Treatise on the Docimastic Examination of Ores and Furnace and other Artificial Products. By BRUNO KERL. Translated by W. T. BRANNT. _With 65 illustrations_, 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _Dynamo-Electric Machinery_: a Text-Book for Students of Electro-Technology. By SILVANUS P. THOMPSON, B.A., D.Sc., M.S.T.E. [_New edition in the press._ _The Practice of Hand Turning in Wood, Ivory, Shell, etc._, with Instructions for Turning such Work in Metal as may be required in the Practice of Turning in Wood, Ivory, etc.; also an Appendix on Ornamental Turning. (A book for beginners.) By FRANCIS CAMPIN. Third edition, _with wood engravings_, crown 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ CONTENTS: On Lathes--Turning Tools--Turning Wood--Drilling--Screw Cutting-- Miscellaneous Apparatus and Processes--Turning Particular Forms-- Staining--Polishing--Spinning Metals--Materials--Ornamental Turning, etc. _Treatise on Watchwork, Past and Present._ By the Rev. H. L. NELTHROPP, M.A., F.S.A. _With 32 illustrations_, crown 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: Definitions of Words and Terms used in Watchwork--Tools--Time-- Historical Summary--On Calculations of the Numbers for Wheels and Pinions; their Proportional Sizes, Trains, etc.--Of Dial Wheels, or Motion Work--Length of Time of Going without Winding up--The Verge--The Horizontal--The Duplex--The Lever--The Chronometer-- Repeating Watches--Keyless Watches--The Pendulum, or Spiral Spring-- Compensation--Jewelling of Pivot Holes--Clerkenwell--Fallacies of the Trade--Incapacity of Workmen--How to Choose and Use a Watch, etc. _Algebra Self-Taught._ By W. P. HIGGS, M.A., D.Sc., LL.D., Assoc. Inst C.E., Author of 'A Handbook of the Differential Calculus,' etc. Second edition, crown 8vo, cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: Symbols and the Signs of Operation--The Equation and the Unknown Quantity--Positive and Negative Quantities--Multiplication-- Involution--Exponents--Negative Exponents--Roots, and the Use of Exponents as Logarithms--Logarithms--Tables of Logarithms and Proportionate Parts--Transformation of System of Logarithms-- Common Uses of Common Logarithms--Compound Multiplication and the Binomial Theorem--Division, Fractions, and Ratio--Continued Proportion--The Series and the Summation of the Series--Limit of Series--Square and Cube Roots--Equations--List of Formulæ, etc. _Spons' Dictionary of Engineering, Civil, Mechanical, Military, and Naval_; with technical terms in French, German, Italian, and Spanish, 3100 pp., and _nearly 8000 engravings_, in super-royal 8vo, in 8 divisions, 5_l._ 8_s._ Complete in 3 vols., cloth, 5_l._ 5_s._ Bound in a superior manner, half-morocco, top edge gilt, 3 vols., 6_l._ 12_s._ _Notes in Mechanical Engineering._ Compiled principally for the use of the Students attending the Classes on this subject at the City of London College. By HENRY ADAMS, Mem. Inst. M.E., Mem. Inst. C.E., Mem. Soc. of Engineers. Crown 8vo, cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ _Canoe and Boat Building_: a complete Manual for Amateurs, containing plain and comprehensive directions for the construction of Canoes, Rowing and Sailing Boats, and Hunting Craft. By W. P. STEPHENS. _With numerous illustrations and 24 plates of Working Drawings._ Crown 8vo, cloth, 9_s._ _Proceedings of the National Conference of Electricians, Philadelphia_, October 8th to 13th, 1884. 18mo, cloth, 3_s._ _Dynamo-Electricity_, its Generation, Application, Transmission, Storage, and Measurement. By G. B. PRESCOTT. _With 545 illustrations._ 8vo, cloth, 1_l._ 1_s._ _Domestic Electricity for Amateurs._ Translated from the French of E. HOSPITALIER, Editor of "L'Electricien," by C. J. WHARTON, Assoc. Soc. Tel. Eng. _Numerous illustrations._ Demy 8vo, cloth, 6_s._ CONTENTS: 1. Production of the Electric Current--2. Electric Bells--3. Automatic Alarms--4. Domestic Telephones--5. Electric Clocks--6. Electric Lighters--7. Domestic Electric Lighting--8. Domestic Application of the Electric Light--9. Electric Motors--10. Electrical Locomotion--11. Electrotyping, Plating, and Gilding--12. Electric Recreations--13. Various applications--Workshop of the Electrician. _Wrinkles in Electric Lighting._ By VINCENT STEPHEN. _With illustrations._ 18mo, cloth, 2_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: 1. The Electric Current and its production by Chemical means--2. Production of Electric Currents by Mechanical means--3. Dynamo-Electric Machines--4. Electric Lamps--5. Lead--6. Ship Lighting. _Foundations and Foundation Walls for all classes of Buildings_, Pile Driving, Building Stones and Bricks, Pier and Wall construction, Mortars, Limes, Cements, Concretes, Stuccos, &c. _64 illustrations._ By G. T. POWELL and F. BAUMAN. 8vo, cloth, 10_s._ 6_d._ _Manual for Gas Engineering Students._ By D. LEE. 18mo, cloth, 1_s._ _Telephones, their Construction and Management._ By F. C. ALLSOP. Crown 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _Hydraulic Machinery, Past and Present._ A Lecture delivered to the London and Suburban Railway Officials' Association. By H. ADAMS, Mem. Inst. C.E. _Folding plate._ 8vo, sewed, 1_s._ _Twenty Years with the Indicator._ By THOMAS PRAY, Jun., C.E., M.E., Member of the American Society of Civil Engineers. 2 vols., royal 8vo, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ _Annual Statistical Report of the Secretary to the Members of the Iron and Steel Association on the Home and Foreign Iron and Steel Industries in 1889._ Issued June 1890. 8vo, sewed, 5_s._ _Bad Drains, and How to Test them_; with Notes on the Ventilation of Sewers, Drains, and Sanitary Fittings, and the Origin and Transmission of Zymotic Disease. By R. HARRIS REEVES. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3_s._ 6_d._ _Well Sinking._ The modern practice of Sinking and Boring Wells, with geological considerations and examples of Wells. By ERNEST SPON, Assoc. Mem. Inst. C.E., Mem. Soc. Eng., and of the Franklin Inst., etc. Second edition, revised and enlarged. Crown 8vo, cloth, 10_s._ 6_d._ _The Voltaic Accumulator_: an Elementary Treatise. By �MILE REYNIER. Translated by J. A. BERLY, Assoc. Inst. E.E. _With 62 illustrations_, 8vo, cloth, 9_s._ _Ten Years' Experience in Works of Intermittent Downward Filtration._ By J. BAILEY DENTON, Mem. Inst. C.E. Second edition, with additions. Royal 8vo, cloth, 5_s._ _Land Surveying on the Meridian and Perpendicular System._ By WILLIAM PENMAN, C.E. 8vo, cloth, 8_s._ 6_d._ _The Electromagnet and Electromagnetic Mechanism._ By SILVANUS P. THOMPSON, D.Sc., F.R.S. 8vo, cloth, 15_s._ _Incandescent Wiring Hand-Book._ By F. B. BADT, late 1st Lieut. Royal Prussian Artillery. _With 41 illustrations and 5 tables._ 18mo, cloth, 4_s._ 6_d._ _A Pocket-book for Pharmacists, Medical Practitioners, Students, etc., etc. (British, Colonial, and American)._ By THOMAS BAYLEY, Assoc. R. Coll. of Science, Consulting Chemist, Analyst, and Assayer, Author of a 'Pocket-book for Chemists,' 'The Assay and Analysis of Iron and Steel, Iron Ores, and Fuel,' etc., etc. Royal 32mo, boards, gilt edges, 6_s._ _The Fireman's Guide_; a Handbook on the Care of Boilers. By TEKNOLOG, föreningen T. I. Stockholm. Translated from the third edition, and revised by KARL P. DAHLSTROM, M.E. Second edition. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, 2_s._ _A Treatise on Modern Steam Engines and Boilers_, including Land Locomotive, and Marine Engines and Boilers, for the use of Students. By FREDERICK COLYER, M. Inst. C.E., Mem. Inst. M.E. _With 36 plates._ 4to, cloth, 12_s._ 6_d._ CONTENTS: 1. Introduction--2. Original Engines--3. Boilers--4. High-Pressure Beam Engines--5. Cornish Beam Engines--6. Horizontal Engines--7. Oscillating Engines--8. Vertical High-Pressure Engines--9. Special Engines--10. Portable Engines--11. Locomotive Engines--12. Marine Engines. _Steam Engine Management_; a Treatise on the Working and Management of Steam Boilers. By F. COLYER, M. Inst. C.E., Mem. Inst. M.E. 18mo, cloth, 2_s._ _A Text-Book of Tanning_, embracing the Preparation of all kinds of Leather. By HARRY R. PROCTOR, F.C.S., of Low Lights Tanneries. _With illustrations._ Crown 8vo, cloth, 10_s._ 6_d._ _Aid Book to Engineering Enterprise._ By EWING MATHESON, M. Inst. C.E. The Inception of Public Works, Parliamentary Procedure for Railways, Concessions for Foreign Works, and means of Providing Money, the Points which determine Success or Failure, Contract and Purchase, Commerce in Coal, Iron, and Steel, &c. Second edition, revised and enlarged, 8vo, cloth, 21_s._ _Pumps, Historically, Theoretically, and Practically Considered._ By P. R. 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21043	----	Reginald Cruden A Tale of City Life By Talbot Baines Reed ________________________________________________________________________ I suppose this book is not so much aimed at schoolboys as most of this author's books are, as at the young adult starting out in life. For the story here is one almost of warning about the mistakes a young man of good will might make in trying to find employment in a hard time. The first job he takes is interesting because it is in a typesetting office, which the author knew a great deal about, having inherited a similar business from his father. The second job is, quite unknown to the young hero, rather a shady one. It is obvious to us, the readers, because we are allowed certain information that Reginald could not have. You would enjoy hearing it, or reading it if you must. NH. ________________________________________________________________________ REGINALD CRUDEN A TALE OF CITY LIFE BY TALBOT BAINES REED CHAPTER ONE. AN INTERRUPTED BATHE. It was a desperately hot day. There had been no day like it all the summer. Indeed, Squires, the head gardener at Garden Vale, positively asserted that there had been none like it since he had been employed on the place, which was fourteen years last March. Squires, by the way, never lost an opportunity of reminding himself and the world generally of the length of his services to the family at Garden Vale; and on the strength of those fourteen years he gave himself airs as if the place belonged not to Mr Cruden at all, but to himself. He was the terror of his mistress, who scarcely dared to peep into a greenhouse without his leave, and although he could never exactly obtain from the two young gentlemen the respect to which he considered himself entitled, he still flattered himself in secret "they couldn't do exactly what they liked with his garden!" To-day, however, it was so hot that even Squires, after having expressed the opinion on the weather above mentioned, withdrew himself into the coolest recess of his snug lodge and slept sweetly, leaving the young gentlemen, had they been so minded, to take any liberty they liked with "his" garden. The young gentlemen, however, were not so minded. They had been doing their best to play lawn tennis in the blazing sun with two of their friends, but it was too hot to run, too hot to hit, and far too hot to score, so the attempt had died away, and three of them now reclined on the sloping bank under the laurel hedge, dividing their time between lazily gazing up at the dark-blue sky and watching the proceedings of the fourth of their party, who still remained in the courts. This last-mentioned youth, who, to judge by his countenance, was brother to one of those who lolled on the bank, presented a curious contrast to the general languor of the afternoon. Deserted by his companions in the sport, he was relieving himself of some of his superfluous energy by the novel diversion of playing tennis with himself. This he accomplished by serving the ball high up in the air and then jumping the net, so as to take it on the other side, following up his return by another leap over the net, and so on till either he or the ball came to grief. On an ordinary day the exertion involved in this pastime would be quite enough for any ordinary individual, but on a day like the present, with the thermometer at ninety in the shade, it was a trifle too much even to watch. "For goodness' sake shut up, Horrors," said the elder brother. "We might as well be playing ourselves as watch you at that sort of thing." The young gentleman addressed as Horrors was at that moment in the midst of one of his aerial flights, and had neither leisure nor breath to answer. "Do you hear?" repeated the other. "If you want to keep warm, go indoors and put on a great-coat, but don't fag us to death with that foolery." "Eight!" exclaimed the young athlete, scoring the number of times the ball had crossed the net, and starting for another jump. "Shut up, Reg, till I've done." He soon was done. Even Horace Cruden could not keep it up for ever, and at his tenth bound his foot caught in the net, and he came all fours on to the court. "There, now you're happy!" said his brother. "Now you may as well come and sit here out of the cold." Horace picked himself up, laughing. "All very well," said he. "I'm certain I should have done it twelve times if you hadn't put me off my jump. Never mind, I'll do it yet." "Oh, Horace," interposed one of the others, beseechingly, "if you love us, lie down now. I'm quite ill watching you, I assure you. We'll all vow we saw you do it twelve times; we'll put it in the _Times_ if you like, and say the net was five feet ten; anything, as long as you don't start at it again." This appeal had the effect of reducing the volatile Horace to a state of quiescence, and inducing him to come and share the shade with his companions. "Never saw such a lazy lot," said he, lying flat on his back and balancing his racquet on his finger; "you won't do anything yourselves and you won't let any one else do anything. Regular dogs in the manger." "My dear fellow," said the fourth of the party in a half drawl, "we've been doing nothing but invite you in to the manger for the last hour, and you wouldn't come. Can't you take a holiday while we've got one?" "Bad luck to it," said Reginald; "there's only a week more." "I don't see why you need growl, old man," said the visitor who had spoken first; "you'll get into the sixth and have a study to yourself, and no mathematics unless you like." "Poor Harker," said Horace, "he's always down on mathematics. Anyhow, I shan't be sorry to show up at Wilderham again, shall you, Bland?" "Depends on the set we get," drawled Bland (whose full name was Blandford). "I hear there's a crowd of new fellows coming, and I hate new fellows." "A fellow must be new some time or other," said Horace. "Harker and I were new boys once, weren't we, Harker?" Harker, who had shared the distinction of being tossed with Horace in the same blanket every night for the first week of his sojourn at Wilderham, had not forgotten the fact, and ejaculated,-- "Rather!" "The mischief is," continued Blandford, "they get such a shady lot of fellows there now. The school's not half as respectable as it was-- there are far too many shopkeepers' sons and that sort of--" "Sort of animal, he'd like to say," laughed Horace. "Bland can't get over being beaten for the French prize by Barber, the tailor's son." Blandford flushed up, and was going to answer when Reginald interposed. "Well, and suppose he can't, it's no wonder. I don't see why those fellows shouldn't have a school for themselves. It's not pleasant to have the fellow who cuts your waistcoat crowing over you in class." Horace began to whistle, as he generally did when the conversation took a turn that did not please him. "Best way to remedy that," said he, presently, "is not to get beaten by your tailor's son." "Shut up, Horace," said the elder brother; "what's the use of making yourself disagreeable? Bland's quite right, and you know you think so yourself." "Oh, all serene," said Horace, cheerfully; "shouldn't have known I thought so unless you had told me. What do you think, Harker?" "Well," said Harker, laughing, "as I am disreputable enough to be the only son of a widow who has barely enough to live on, and who depends on the charity of a cousin or some one of the sort for my education, I'm afraid Bland and I would have to go to different schools." Every one laughed at this confession, and Reginald said,-- "Oh, but you're different, Harker--besides, it isn't money makes the difference--" "The thing is," interposed Horace, "was your father in the wholesale or retail trade?--that's the difference!" "I wish you'd shut up, Horace," said Reginald tartly; "you always spoil any argument with your foolery." "Now that's hard lines," said Horace, "when I thought I was putting the case beautifully for you. Never mind. What do you say to a bathe in the river, you fellows?" "Too much fag to get towels," said Reginald; "but if you like to go for them, and don't ask us to look at our watches and see in how many seconds you run up to the house and back, we'll think about it." "Thanks," said Horace, and started up to the house whistling cheerily. "Awfully hot that brother of yours make? a fellow," said Blandford, watching him disappear. "Yes," said Reginald, yawning, "he is rather flighty, but he'll turn out all right, I hope." "Turn out!" said Harker; "why he's all right already, from the crown of his head to the sole of his boot." "Except," said Blandford, "for a slight crack in the crown of his head. It's just as well, perhaps, he's not the eldest son, Reg." "Well," said Reginald laughing, "I can hardly fancy Horace the head of the family." "Must be a rum sensation," said Harker, "to be an heir and not have to bother your head about how you'll get your bread and butter some day. How many hundred millions of pounds is it you'll come in for, Reg? I forget." "What a humbug you are!" said Reginald; "my father's no better off than a lot of other people." "That's a mild way of putting it, anyhow," said Blandford. And here the conversation ended. The boys lay basking in the sun waiting for Horace's return. He was unusually long in coming. "Seems to me," said Blandford, "he's trying how long he can be instead of how quick--for a variety." "Just like him," said Reginald. Five minutes passed away, and ten, and fifteen, and then, just as the boys were thinking of stirring themselves to inquire what had become of him, they heard his steps returning rapidly down the gravel walk. "Well," cried Reginald, without sitting up, "have you got them at last?" Horace's voice startled them all as he cried,-- "Reg! Reg! come quick, quick!" There was no mistaking either the tones or the white face of the boy who uttered them. Reginald was on his feet in an instant, rushing in the direction of the house, towards which his brother had already started. "What is it, Horace?" he said as he overtook him. "Something about father--a telegram," gasped the other. Not another word was spoken as they ran on and reached the hall door. The hall door stood open. Just outside on the hot stone steps lay the towels where Horace had dropped them five minutes ago. Carlo, the dog, lay across the mat, and lazily lifted his head as his master approached. Within stood Mrs Cruden, pale and trembling, with a telegram in her hand, and in the back-ground hovered three or four servants, with mingled curiosity and anxiety on their faces. Despite the heat, Reginald shivered as he stood a moment at the door, and then sprang towards the telegram, which his mother gave into his hand. It was from Mr Cruden's coachman, dated from Saint Nathaniel's Hospital. "Master was took ill driving from City--brought here, where he is very bad indeed. Doctor says no hope." One needs to have received such a message oneself to understand the emotions with which the two brothers read and re-read the pitiless words. Nothing but their own hard breathing broke the stillness of those few minutes, and who knows in that brief space what a lifetime seemed crowded? Horace was the first to recover his self-possession. "Mother," said he, and his voice sounded strange and startling in the silence, "there's a train to the City in five minutes. I'll go by that." And he was off. It was three-quarters of a mile to the station, and there was no time to parley. Even on an errand like this, many would have abandoned the endeavour as an impossibility, especially in such a heat. But Horace was a good runner, and the feat was nothing uncommon for him. As he flung himself into the train he gave one quick glance round, to see if Reginald had possibly followed him; but no, he was alone; and as the whistle shrieked and the train steamed out of the station, Horace for the first time had a moment to reflect. Not half an hour ago he had been lying with his brother and companions on the tennis lawn, utterly unconscious of any impending calamity. What ages ago that seemed! For a few minutes all appeared so confused and unreal that his mind was a blank, and he seemed even to forget on what errand he was bound. But Horace was a practical youth, and before that half-hour's journey to the City was accomplished he was at least collected in mind, and prepared to face the trial that awaited him. There was something about the telegram that convinced him it meant more than it said. Still, a boy's hopefulness will grasp at a straw, and he battled with his despair. His father was not dead--he would recover--at the hospital he would have the best medical assistance possible. The coachman who sent the telegram would be sure to make things out at the worst. Yes, when he got to Saint Nathaniel's he would find it was a false alarm, that there was nothing much the matter at all, and when his mother and Reginald arrived by the next train, he would be able to meet them with reassuring news. It was not more than a ten-minutes' cab- drive from the terminus--the train was just in now; in twelve minutes this awful suspense would be at an end. Such was the hurried rush of thoughts through the poor boy's brain during that dismal journey. He had sprung from the carriage to a hansom cab almost before the train had pulled up, and in another moment was clattering over the stones towards the hospital. The hopes of a few minutes before oozed away as every street corner brought him nearer his destination, and when at last the stately front of Saint Nathaniel's loomed before him, he wished his journey could never end. He gazed with faltering heart up at the ward windows, as if he could read his fate there. The place seemed deserted. A few street boys were playing on the pavement, and at the door of the in-patients' ward a little cluster of visitors were collected round a flower stall buying sweet mementoes of the country to brighten the bedsides of their friends within. No one heeded the pale scared boy as he alighted and went up the steps. A porter opened the door. "My father, Mr Cruden, is here; how is he?" "Is it the gentleman that was brought in in a fit?" "Yes, in his carriage--is he better?" "Will you step in and see the doctor?" The doctor was not in his room when the boy was ushered in, and it seemed an age before he entered. "You are Mr Cruden's son?" said he gravely. "Yes--is he better?" "He was brought here about half-past three, insensible, with apoplexy." "Is he better now?" asked Horace again, knowing perfectly well what the dreaded answer would be. "He is not, my boy," said the doctor gravely. "We telegraphed to your mother at once, as you know--but before that telegram could have reached her your poor father--" It was enough. Poor Horace closed his ears convulsively against the fatal word, and dropped back on his chair with a gasp. The doctor put his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder. "Are you here alone?" said he, presently. "My mother and brother will be here directly." "Your father lies in a private ward. Will you wait till they come, or will you go up now?" A struggle passed through the boy's mind. An instinctive horror of a sight hitherto unknown struggled hard with the impulse to rush at once to his father's bedside. At length he said, falteringly,-- "I will go now, please." When Mrs Cruden and Reginald arrived half an hour later, they found Horace where the doctor had left him, on his knees at his father's bedside. CHAPTER TWO. A COME-DOWN IN THE WORLD. Mr Cruden had the reputation of being one of the most respectable as well as one of the richest men in his part of the county. And it is fair to say he took far more pride in the former quality than the latter. Indeed, he made no secret of the fact that he had not always been the rich man he was when our story opens. But he was touchy on the subject of his good family and his title to the name of gentleman, which he had taught his sons to value far more than the wealth which accompanied it, and which they might some day expect to inherit. His choice of a school for them was quite consistent with his views on this point. Wilderham was not exactly an aristocratic school, but it was a school where money was thought less of than "good style," as the boys called it, and where poverty was far less of a disgrace than even a remote connection with a "shop." The Crudens had always been great heroes in the eyes of their schoolfellows, for their family was unimpeachable, and even with others who had greater claims to be considered as aristocratic, their ample pocket-money commended them as most desirable companions. Mr Cruden, however, with all his virtues and respectability, was not a good man of business. People said he let himself be imposed upon by others who knew the value of money far better than he did. His own beautiful estate at Garden Vale, Rumour said, was managed at double the expense it should be; and of his money transactions and speculations in the City--well, he had need to be the wealthy man he was, said his friends, to be able to stand all the fleecing he came in for there! Nevertheless, no one ever questioned the wealth of the Crudens, least of all did the Crudens themselves, who took it as much for granted as the atmosphere they breathed in. On the day on which our story opens Mr Cruden had driven down into the City on business. No one knew exactly what the business was, for he kept such matters to himself. It was an ordinary expedition, which consisted usually of half a dozen calls on half a dozen stockbrokers or secretaries of companies, with perhaps an occasional visit to the family lawyer or the family bank. To-day, however, it had consisted of but one visit, and that was to the bank. And it was whilst returning thence that Mr Cruden was suddenly seized with the stroke which ended in his death. Had immediate assistance been at hand the calamity might have been averted, but neither the coachman nor footman was aware of what had happened till the carriage was some distance on its homeward journey, and a passer-by caught sight of the senseless figure within. They promptly drove him to the nearest hospital, and telegraphed the news to Garden Vale; but Mr Cruden never recovered consciousness, and, as the doctor told Horace, before even the message could have reached its destination he was dead. We may draw a veil over the sad scenes of the few days which followed-- of the meeting of the widow and her sons at the bedside of the dead, of the removal of the loved remains home, of the dismal preparations for the funeral, and all the dreary details which occupy mourners in the house of death. For some time Mrs Cruden, prostrated by the shock of her bereavement, was unable to leave her room, and the burden of the care fell on the two inexperienced boys, who had to face it almost single-handed. For the Crudens had no near relatives in England, and those of their friends who might have been of service at such a time feared to intrude, and so stayed away. Blandford and Harker, the boys' two friends who had been visiting at Garden Vale at the time of Mr Cruden's death, had left as quietly and considerately as possible; and so great was the distraction of those few sad days that no one even noticed their absence till letters of condolence arrived from each. It was a dreary week, and Reginald, on whom, as the elder son and the heir to the property, the chief responsibility rested, was of the two least equal to the emergency. "I don't know what I should have done without you, old man," said he to Horace on the evening before the funeral, when, all the preparations being ended, the two boys strolled dismally down towards the river. "You ought to have been the eldest son. I should never have thought of half the things there were to be done if you hadn't been here." "Of course, mother would have known what was to be done," said Horace, "if she hadn't been laid up. She's to get up this evening." "Well, I shall be glad when to-morrow's over," said Reginald; "it's awful to have it all hanging over one like this. I can't believe father was alive a week ago, you know." "No more can I," said the other; "and I'm certain we shall not realise how we miss him for long enough yet." They walked on for some distance in silence, each full of his own reflections. Then Horace said, "Mother is sure to want to stay on here, she's so fond of the place." "Yes, it's a comfort she won't have to move. By the way, I wonder if she will want us to leave Wilderham and stay at home now." "I fancy not. Father wanted you to go to Oxford in a couple of years, and she is sure not to change his plan." "Well, I must say," said Reginald, "if I am to settle down as a country gentleman some day, I shall be glad to have gone through college and all that sort of thing before. If I go up in two years, I shall have finished before I'm twenty-three. Hullo, here's mother!" The boys ran forward to greet Mrs Cruden, who, pale but smiling, came quietly down the garden towards them, and after a fond embrace laid her hands on the arm of each and walked slowly on between them. "You two brave boys," said she, and there was a cheery ring in her voice that sent comfort into the hearts of both her sons, "how sorry I am to think of all you have had to go through, while I, like a silly weak woman, have been lying in bed." "Oh, mother," said Horace, with a face that reflected already the sunshine of hers, "how absurd to talk like that! I don't believe you ought to be out here now." "Oh yes, I ought. I've done with that, and I am strong enough now to stand beside the boys who have stood so bravely by their mother." "We'd be a nice pair of boys if we didn't, eh, Reg?" said Horace. Reginald's reply was a pressure of his mother's hand, and with a rainbow of smiles over their sorrowful hearts the three walked on lovingly together; the mother with many a brave, cheery word striving to lift her sons above their trouble, not only to hope of earthly comfort, but to trust in that great Father of the fatherless, beside whom all the love of this world is poor and fleeting. At length they turned to go in, and Mrs Cruden said,-- "There is a letter from Mr Richmond, the lawyer, saying he will call this evening to talk over some business matters. I suppose he will be here by now." "Couldn't he have waited till after to-morrow?" said Horace. "He particularly asked to come to-night," said the mother. "At any rate, I would like you both to be with me while he is here. We must not have any secrets from one another now." "I suppose it's about the will or the estate," said Reginald. "I suppose so. I don't know," said Mrs Cruden. "Mr Richmond always managed your father's business affairs, you know, so he will be able to tell us how matters stand." They reached the house, and found Mr Richmond had already arrived and was awaiting them in the library. Mr Richmond was a solemn, grave personage, whose profession was written on his countenance. His lips were so closely set that it seemed as if speaking must be a positive pain to him, his eyes had the knack of looking past you, as though he was addressing not you but your shadow on the wall, and he ended every sentence, no matter what its import, with a mechanical smile, as though he were at that instant having his photograph taken. Why Mr Cruden should have selected Mr Richmond as his man of business was a matter only known to Mr Cruden himself, for those who knew the lawyer best did not care for him, and, without being able to deny that he was an honest man and a well-meaning man, were at least glad that their affairs were in the hands of some one else. He rose and solemnly greeted the widow and her two sons as they entered. "I am sorry to intrude at such a time," said he, "but as your late husband's adviser, I considered it right to call and make you acquainted with his affairs." Here Mr Richmond smiled, greatly to Reginald's indignation. "Thank you," said Mrs Cruden; "sit down, please, Mr Richmond." Mr Richmond obeyed, dubiously eyeing the two boys as he did so. "These are your sons, I presume?" said he to Mrs Cruden. "They are," said she. Mr Richmond rose and solemnly shook hands with each of the lads, informing each with a smile as he did so that he was pleased to make his acquaintance. "You wish the young gentlemen to remain, perhaps?" he inquired, as he resumed his seat. "To be sure," said Mrs Cruden, somewhat nettled at the question; "go on, please, Mr Richmond." "Certainly, madam," said the lawyer. "May I ask if you are acquainted with the late Mr Cruden's state of affairs?" "I wish to hear that from you," said the widow, "and with as little delay as possible, Mr Richmond." "Certainly, madam. Mr Cruden honoured me with his confidence on these matters, and I believe, next to himself, I knew more about them than any one else." Here Mr Richmond paused and smiled. "In fact," continued he, "I may almost say I knew more about them than he did himself, for your excellent husband, Mrs Cruden, was not a good man of business." Reginald could not stand the smile which accompanied this observation, and said, somewhat hotly,-- "Look here, Mr Richmond, if you will say what you've got to say without laughing and speaking disrespectfully of my father, we shall be glad." "Certainly, Master Cruden," said the lawyer, a trifle disconcerted by this unexpected interruption. Then turning to the widow he continued,-- "The fact is, madam, the late Mr Cruden was, I fear, under the impression that he was considerably better off than he was." Mr Richmond paused as if for a reply, but as no one spoke he continued,-- "I am sorry to say this appears to have been the case to a much larger extent than even I imagined. Your late husband, Mrs Cruden, I believe spent largely on his estate here, and unfortunately kept no accounts. I have frequently entreated him to reckon over his expenditure, but he always replied that it was considerably under his income, and that there was no need, as long as that was the case, to trouble himself about it." A nervous movement among his listeners was the only reply the lawyer received to this last announcement, or to the smile which accompanied it. "Mr Cruden _may_ have been correct in his conjecture, madam, although I fear the contrary." "If my father said a thing," blurted out Reginald at this point, "I see no reason for doubting his word." "None in the least, my dear Master Cruden; but unfortunately your father did not know either what his income was or what his expenditure was." "Do _you_ know what they were?" said Reginald, not heeding the deprecating touch of his mother's hand on his. "As far as I understand the state of your father's affairs," said Mr Richmond, undisturbed by the rude tone of his inquisitor, "his income was entirely derived from interest in the stock of two American railways, in which he placed implicit confidence, and in one or the other of which he insisted on investing all capital which came to his hand. The total income from these two sources would in my opinion just about cover Mr Cruden's various expenses of all kinds." There was something like a sigh of relief from the listeners as Mr Richmond reached this point. But it died away as he proceeded. "In his choice of an investment for his capital Mr Cruden consulted no one, I believe, beyond himself. For some time it seemed a fortunate investment, and the shares rose in value, but latterly they took a turn for the worse, and early this year I am sorry to say one of the railways suspended payment altogether, and Mr Cruden lost a considerable portion of his fortune thereby." "I heard my husband say some months ago that he had made some slight loss in the City," said Mrs Cruden, "but I imagined from the light manner in which he treated it that it was quite trifling, and would be quickly repaired." "He did hope that would be the case. Although all his friends urged him to sell out at once, he insisted on holding on, in the hope of the railway recovering itself." "And has it recovered?" asked Mrs Cruden, with a tremble in her voice. "I regret to say it has not, Mrs Cruden. On the contrary, it was declared bankrupt a few days ago, and what is still more deplorable, it has involved in its own ruin the other railway in which the remainder of your husband's property was invested, so that all the shares which stand in his name in both concerns are now worth no more than the paper they are printed on." Mr Richmond came to the point at last with startling abruptness, so much so that for a moment or two his listeners sat almost petrified by the bad news, and unable to say a word. The lawyer finished what he had to say without waiting. "Your husband heard this lamentable news, Mrs Cruden, on the occasion of his last visit to the City. The only call he made that day was at his banker's, where he was told all, and there is no reason to doubt that the shock produced the stroke from which he died." "Mr Richmond," said Mrs Cruden, after a while, like one in a dream, "can this be true? What _does_ it all mean?" "Alas! madam," said the lawyer, "it would be no kindness on my part to deny the truth of what I have told you. It means that unless you or your late husband are possessed of some means of income of which I know nothing, your circumstances are reduced to a very low point." "But there must be some mistake," said Horace. "_Both_ railways can't have gone wrong; we shall surely save something?" "I wish I could hold out any hope. I have all the documents at my office, and shall be only too glad, Mrs Cruden, to accompany you to the bank for your own satisfaction." Mrs Cruden shuddered and struggled bravely to keep down the rising tears. A long pause ensued, every moment of which made the terrible truth clearer to all three of the hearers, and closed every loophole of hope. "What can be done?" said Horace at last. "Happily there is Garden Vale," said Reginald, and there was a choking in the throat of the heir as he spoke; "we shall have to sell it." "The contents of it, you will, Master Cruden," said the lawyer; "the estate itself is held on lease." "Well, the contents of it," said Reginald, bitterly; "you are not going to make out they don't belong to us?" "Certainly not," said Mr Richmond, on whom the taunt was quite lost; "unless, as I trust is not the case, your father died in debt." "Do you mean to say," said Horace, slowly, like one waking from a dream, "do you mean to say we are ruined, Mr Richmond?" "I fear it is so," said the lawyer, "unless Mr Cruden was possessed of some means of income with which I was not acquainted. I regret very much, Mrs Cruden, having to be the bearer of such bad news, and I can only say the respect I had for your late husband will make any assistance I can offer you, by way of advice or otherwise, a pleasure." And Mr Richmond bowed himself out of the room with a smile. It was a relief to be left alone, and Mrs Cruden, despite her weakness and misery, struggled hard for the sake of her boys to put a brave face on their trouble. "Reg, dear," said she to her eldest son, who had fairly broken down, and with his head on his hand was giving vent to his misery, "try to bear it. After all, we are left to one another, and--" The poor mother could not finish her sentence, but bent down and kissed the wet cheek of the boy. "Of course it means," said Horace, after a pause, "we shall have to give up Garden Vale, and leave Wilderham too. And Reg was sure of a scholarship next term. I say, mother, what _are_ we to do?" "We are all strong enough to do something, dear boy," said Mrs Cruden. "I'll take care _you_ don't have to do anything, mother," said Reginald, looking up. "I'll work my fingers to the bones before you have to come down to that." He spoke with clenched teeth, half savagely. "Even if we can sell all the furniture," continued Horace, taking a practical view of the situation, "it wouldn't give us much to live on." "Shut up, Horace!" said Reginald. "What's the use of making the worst of everything? Hasn't mother had quite enough to bear already?" Horace subsided, and the three sat there in silence until the daylight faded and the footman brought in the lights and announced that coffee was ready in the drawing-room. There was something like a shock about this interruption. What had they to do with men-servants and coffee in the drawing-room, they who an hour or two ago had supposed themselves wealthy, but now knew that they were little better than beggars? "We shall not want coffee," said Mrs Cruden, answering for all three. Then when the footman had withdrawn, she said,-- "Boys, I must go to bed. God bless you, and give us all brave hearts, for we shall need them!" The funeral took place next day. Happily it was of a simple character, and only a few friends were invited, so that it was not thought necessary to alter the arrangements in consequence of Mr Richmond's announcement of the evening before. But even the slight expense involved in this melancholy ceremony grated painfully on the minds of the boys, who forgot even their dead father in the sense that they were riding in carriages for which they could not pay, and offering their guests refreshments which were not theirs to give. The little cemetery was crowded with friends and acquaintances of the dead--country gentry most of them, who sought to show their respect for their late neighbour by falling into the long funeral procession and joining the throng at the graveside. It was a severe ordeal for the two boys to find themselves the centres of observation, and to feel that more than half the interest exhibited in them was on account of their supposed inheritance. One bluff squire came up after the funeral and patted Reginald on the back. "Never mind, my boy," said he; "I was left without a father at your age. You'll soon get over it, and your mother will have plenty of friends. Glad to see you up at the Hall any day, and your brother too. You must join our hunt next winter, and keep up the family name. God bless you!" Reginald shrank from this greeting like a guilty being, and the two desolate boys were glad to escape further encounters by retreating to their carriage and ordering the coachman to drive home at once. A few days disclosed all that was wanting to make their position quite clear. Mr Cruden's will confirmed Mr Richmond's statement as to the source of his income. All his money was invested in shares of the two ruined railways, and all he had to leave besides these was the furniture and contents of Garden Vale. Even this, when realised, would do little more than cover the debts which the next week or two brought to light. It was pitiful the way in which that unrelenting tide of bills flowed in, swamping gradually the last hope of a competency, or even means of bare existence, for the survivors. Neither Mrs Cruden nor her sons had been able to endure a day's delay at Garden Vale after the funeral, but had hurried for shelter to quiet lodgings at the seaside, kept by an old servant, where in an agony of suspense they awaited the final result of Mr Richmond's investigations. It came at last, and, bad as it was, it was a comfort to know the worst. The furniture, carriages, and other contents of Garden Vale had sufficed to pay all debts of every description, with a balance of about £350 remaining over and above, to represent the entire worldly possessions of the Cruden family, which only a month ago had ranked with the wealthiest in the county. "So," said Mrs Cruden, with a shadow of her old smile, as she folded up the lawyer's letter and put it back in her pocket, "we know the worst at last, boys." "Which is," said Reginald, bitterly, "we are worth among us the magnificent sum of sixteen pounds per annum. Quite princely!" "Reg, dear," said his mother, "let us be thankful that we have anything, and still more that we may start life owing nothing to any one." "Start life!" exclaimed Reginald; "I wish we could end it with--" "Oh, hush, hush, my precious boy!" exclaimed the widow; "you will break my heart if you talk like that! Think how many there are to whom this little sum would seem a fortune. Why, it may keep a roof over our heads, at any rate, or help you into situations." "Or bury us!" groaned Reginald. The mother looked at her eldest son, half in pity, half in reproach, and then burst into tears. Reginald sprang to her side in an instant. "What a beast I am!" he exclaimed. "Oh, mother, do forgive me! I really didn't think what I was saying." "No, dear Reggie, I know you didn't," said Mrs Cruden, recovering herself with a desperate effort. "You mustn't mind me, I--I scarcely-- know--I--" It was no use trying. The poor mother broke down completely, and on that evening it was impossible to talk more about the future. Next morning, however, all three were in a calmer mood, and Horace said at breakfast, "We can't do any good here, mother. Hadn't we better go to London?" "I think so; and Parker here knows of a small furnished lodging in Dull Street, which she says is cheap. We might try there to begin with. Eh, Reg?" Reginald winced, and then replied, "Oh, certainly; the sooner we get down to our right level the better." That evening the three Crudens arrived in London. CHAPTER THREE. NUMBER SIX, DULL STREET. Probably no London street ever rejoiced in a more expressive name than Dull Street. It was not a specially dirty street, or a specially disreputable street, or a specially dark street. The neighbourhood might a hundred years ago have been considered "genteel," and the houses even fashionable, and some audacious antiquarians went so far as to assert that the street took its name not from its general appearance at all, but from a worthy London alderman, who in the reign of George the First had owned most of the neighbouring property. Be that as it may, Dull Street was--and for all I know may still be--one of the dullest streets in London. A universal seediness pervaded its houses from roof to cellar; nothing was as it should be anywhere. The window sashes had to be made air-tight by wedges of wood or paper stuck into the frames; a bell in Dull Street rarely sounded after less than six pulls; there was scarcely a sitting-room but had a crack in its grimy ceiling, or a handle off its ill-hung door, or a strip of wall- paper peeling off its walls. There were more chairs in the furnished apartments of Dull Street with three legs than there were with four, and there was scarcely horsehair enough in the twenty-four sofas of its twenty-four parlours to suffice for an equal quantity of bolsters. In short, Dull Street was the shabbiest genteel street in the metropolis, and nothing could make it otherwise. A well-built, tastefully-furnished house in the middle of it would have been as incongruous as a new patch in an old garment, and no one dreamt of disturbing the traditional aspect of the place by any attempt to repair or beautify it. Indeed, the people who lived in Dull Street were as much a part of its dulness as the houses they inhabited. They were for the most part retired tradesmen, or decayed milliners, or broken-down Government clerks, most of whom tried to eke out their little pensions by letting part of their lodgings to others as decayed and broken-down as themselves. These interesting colonists, whose one bond of sympathy was a mutual seediness, amused themselves, for the most part, by doing nothing all day long, except perhaps staring out of the window, in the remote hope of catching sight of a distant cab passing the street corner, or watching to see how much milk their opposite neighbour took in, or reading the news of the week before last in a borrowed newspaper, or talking scandal of one neighbour to another. "Jemima, my dear," said a middle-aged lady, who, with her son and daughter, was the proud occupant of Number 4, Dull Street--"Jemima, my dear, I see to-day the bill is hout of the winder of number six." "Never!" replied Jemima, a sharp-looking young woman of twenty, who had once in her life spent a month at a ladies' boarding-school, and was therefore decidedly genteel. "I wonder who's coming." "A party of three, so I hear from Miss Moulden's maid, which is niece to Mrs Grimley: a widow,"--here the speaker snuffled slightly--"and two childer--like me." "Go on!" said Jemima. "Any more about them, ma?" "Well, my dear, I do hear as they 'ave come down a bit." "Oh, ah! lag!" put in the speaker's son, a lawyer's clerk in the receipt of two pounds a week, to whom this intelligence appeared particularly amusing; "we know all about that--never heard that sort of tale before, have we, ma? Oh no!" and the speaker emphasised the question by giving his widowed mother a smart dig in the ribs. "For shame, Sam! don't be vulgar!" cried the worthy lady; "how many times have I told you?" "All right, ma," replied the legal young gentleman; "but it is rather a wonner, you know. What were they before they came down?" "Gentlefolk, so I'm told," replied the lady, drawing herself up at the very mention of the name; "and I hintend, and I 'ope my children will do the same, to treat them as fellow-creatures with hevery consideration." "And how old is the babies, ma?" inquired Miss Jemima, whose gentility sometimes had the advantage of her grammar. "The babies!" said the mother; "why, they're young gentlemen, both of 'em--old enough to be your sweethearts!" Sam laughed profusely. "Then what did you say they was babies for?" demanded Jemima, pettishly. "I never!" "You did, ma, I heard you! Didn't she, Sam?" "So you did, ma. Come now, no crackers!" said Sam. "I never; I said `childer,'" pleaded the mother. "And ain't babies childer?" thundered Miss Jemima. "'Ad 'er there, Jim!" chuckled the dutiful Samuel, this time favouring his sister with a sympathetic nudge. "Better give in, and own you told a cracker, ma!" "Shan't!" said the lady, beginning to whimper. "Oh, I wish my poor 'Oward was here to protect me! He was a gentleman, and I'm glad he didn't live to see what a pair of vulgar brats he'd left behind him, that I am!" "There you go!" said Sam; "taking on at nothing, as per usual! No one was saying anything to hurt you, old girl. Simmer down, and you'll be all the better for it. There now, dry your eyes; it's all that Jim, she's got such a tongue! Next time I catch you using language to ma, Jim, I'll turn you out of the house! Come, cheer up, ma." "Yes, cheer up, ma," chimed in Jemima; "no one supposes you meant to tell fibs; you couldn't help it." Amid consolations such as these the poor flurried lady subsided, and regained her former tranquillity of spirit. The Shucklefords--such was the name of this amiable family--were comparatively recent sojourners in Dull Street. They had come there six years previously, on the death of Mr Shuckleford, a respectable wharfinger, who had saved up money enough to leave his wife a small annuity. Shortly before his death he had been promoted to the command of one of the Thames steamboats plying between Chelsea and London Bridge, in virtue of which office he had taken to himself--or rather his wife had claimed for him--the title of "captain," and with this patent of gentility had held up her head ever since. Her children, following her good example, were not slow to hold up their heads too, and were fully convinced of their own gentility. Samuel Shuckleford had, as his mother termed it, been "entered for the law" shortly after his father's death, and Miss Jemima Shuckleford, after the month's sojourn at a ladies' boarding-school already referred to, had settled down to assist her mother in the housework and maintain the dignity of the family by living on her income. Such were the new next-door neighbours of the Crudens when at last they arrived, sadly, and with the new world before them, at Number 6, Dull Street. Mr Richmond, who, with all his unfortunate manner, had acted a friend's part all along, had undertaken the task of clearing up affairs at Garden Vale, superintending the payment of Mr Cruden's debts, the sale of his furniture, and the removal to Dull Street of what little remained to the family to remind them of their former comforts. It might have been better if in this last respect the boys and their mother had acted for themselves, for Mr Richmond appeared to have hazy notions as to what the family would most value. The first sight which met the boys' eyes as they arrived was their tennis-racquets in a corner of the room. A very small case of trinkets was on Mrs Cruden's dressing-table, and not one of the twenty or thirty books arranged on the top of the sideboard was one which any member of the small household cared anything about. But Mr Richmond had done his best, and being left entirely to his own devices, was not to be blamed for the few mistakes he had made. He was there to receive Mrs Cruden when she arrived, and after conducting the little party hurriedly through the three rooms destined for their accommodation, considerately retired. Until the moment when they were left to themselves in the shabby little Dull Street parlour, not one of the Crudens had understood the change which had come over their lot. All had been so sudden, so exciting, so unlooked-for during the last few weeks, that all three of them had seemed to go through it as through a dream. But the awakening came now, and a rude and cruel one it was. The little room, dignified by the name of a parlour, was a dingy, stuffy apartment of the true Dull Street type. The paper was faded and torn, the ceiling was discoloured, the furniture was decrepit, the carpet was threadbare, and the cheap engraving on the wall, with its title, "As Happy as a King," seemed to brood over the scene like some mocking spirit. They passed into Mrs Cruden's bedroom, and the thought of the delightful snug little boudoir at Garden Vale sent a shiver through them as they glanced at the bare walls, the dilapidated half-tester, the chipped and oddly assorted crockery. The boys' room was equally cheerless. One narrow bed, a chair, and a small washstand, was all the furniture it boasted of, and a few old cuttings of an antiquated illustrated paper pinned on to the wall afforded its sole decoration. A low, dreary whistle escaped from Horace's lips as he surveyed his new quarters, followed almost immediately by an equally dreary laugh. "Why," gasped he, "there's no looking-glass! However is Reg to shave?" It was an heroic effort, and it succeeded. Mrs Cruden's face lit up at the sound of her son's voice with its old sunshine, and even Reginald smiled grimly. "I must let my beard grow," said he. "But, mother, I say," and his voice quavered as he spoke, "what a miserable room yours is! I can't bear to think of your being cooped up there." "Oh, it's not so bad," said Mrs Cruden, cheerily. "The pink in the chintz doesn't go well with the scarlet in the wall-paper, certainly, but I dare say I shall sleep soundly in the bed all the same." "But such a wretched look-out from the window, mother, and such a _vile_ jug and basin!" Mrs Cruden laughed. "Never mind about the jug and basin," said she, "as long as they hold water; and as for the look-out--well, as long as I can see my two boys' faces happy, that's the best view I covet." "You never think about yourself," said Reginald, sadly. "I say, mother," said Horace, "suppose we call up the spirits from the vasty deep and ask them to get tea ready." This practical suggestion met with general approbation, and the little party returned more cheerily to the parlour, where Horace performed marvellous exploits with the bell-handle, and succeeded, in the incredible time of seven minutes, in bringing up a small slipshod girl, who, after a good deal of staring about her, and a critical survey of the pattern of Mrs Cruden's dress, contrived to gather a general idea of what was required of her. It was a queer meal, half ludicrous, half despairing, that first little tea-party in Dull Street. They tried to be gay. Reginald declared that the tea his mother poured out was far better than any the footman at Garden Vale used to dispense. Horace tried to make fun of the heterogeneous cups and saucers. Mrs Cruden tried hard to appear as though she was taking a hearty meal, while she tasted nothing. But it was a relief when the girl reappeared and cleared the table. Then they unpacked their few belongings, and tried to enliven their dreary lodgings with a few precious mementoes of happier days. Finally, worn out in mind and body, they took shelter in bed, and for a blessed season forgot all their misery and forebodings in sleep. There is no magic equal to that which a night's sleep will sometimes work. The little party assembled cheerfully at the breakfast-table next morning, prepared to face the day bravely. A large letter, in Mr Richmond's handwriting, lay on Mrs Cruden's plate. It contained three letters--one from the lawyer himself, and one for each of the boys from Wilderham. Mr Richmond's letter was brief and business-like. "Dear Madam,--Enclosed please find two letters, which I found lying at Garden Vale yesterday. With regard to balance of your late husband's assets in your favour, I have an opportunity of investing same at an unusually good rate of interest in sound security. Shall be pleased to wait on you with particulars. Am also in a position to introduce the young gentlemen to a business opening, which, if not at first important, may seem to you a favourable opportunity. On these points I shall have the honour of waiting on you during to-morrow afternoon, and meanwhile beg to remain,-- "Your obedient servant,-- "R. Richmond." "We ought to make sure what the investment is," said Reginald, after hearing the letter read, "before we hand over all our money to him." "To be sure, dear," said Mrs Cruden, who hated the sound of the word investment. "I wonder what he proposes for us?" said Horace. "Some clerkship, I suppose." "Perhaps in his own office," said Reginald. "_What_ an opening that would be!" "Never you mind. The law's very respectable; but I know I'd be no good for that. I might manage to serve tea and raisins behind a grocer's counter, or run errands, or--" "Or black boots," suggested Reginald. "Black boots! I bet you neither you nor I could black a pair of boots properly to save our lives." "It seems to me we shall have to try it this very morning," said Reginald, "for no one has touched mine since last night." "But who are your letters from?" said Mrs Cruden. "Are they very private?" "Not mine," said Horace. "It's from old Harker. You may read it if you like, mother." Mrs Cruden took the letter and read aloud,-- "Dear Horrors--" ("That's what he calls me, you know," explained Horace, in a parenthesis.) "I am so awfully sorry to hear of your new trouble about money matters, and that you will have to leave Garden Vale. I wish I could come over to see you and help you. All the fellows here are awfully cut up about it, and lots of them want me to send you messages. I don't know what I shall do without you this term, old man, you were always a brick to me. Be sure and write to me and tell me everything. As soon as I can get away for a day I'll come and see you, and I'll write as often as I can. "Your affectionate,-- "T. Harker. "P.S.--Wilkins, I expect, will be the new monitor in our house. He is sure now to get the scholarship Reg was certain of. I wish to goodness you were both back here." "He might just as well have left out that about the scholarship," said Reginald; "it's not very cheering news to hear of another fellow stepping into your place like that." "I suppose he thought we'd be curious to know," said Horace. "Precious curious!" growled Reginald. "But who's your letter from, Reg?" asked Mrs Cruden. "Oh, just a line from Bland," replied he, hastily putting it into his pocket; "he gives no news." If truth must be told, Blandford's letter was not a very nice one, and Reginald felt it. He did not care to hear it read aloud in contrast with Harker's warm-hearted letter. Blandford had written,-- "Dear Cruden,--I hope it's not true about your father's money going all wrong. It is a great sell, and fellows here, I know, will be very sorry. Never mind, I suppose there's enough left to make a decent show; and between you and me it would go down awfully well with the fellows here if you could send your usual subscription to the football club. Harker says you'll have to leave Garden Vale. I'm awfully sorry, as I always enjoyed my visits there so much. What are you going to do? Why don't you try for the army? The exams are not very hard, my brother told me, and of course it's awfully respectable, if one must work for one's living. I must stop now, or I shall miss tennis. Excuse more. "Yours truly,-- "G. Blandford." Reginald knew the letter was a cold and selfish one, but it left two things sticking in his mind which rankled there for a long time. One was that, come what would, he would send a guinea to the school football club. The other was--was it _quite_ out of the question that he should go into the army? "Awfully rough on Reg," said Horace, "being so near that scholarship. It'll be no use to Wilkins, not a bit, and fifty pounds a year would be something to--" Horace was going to say "us," but he pulled up in time and said "Reg." "Well," said Reg, "as things have turned out it might have come in useful. I wonder if it wouldn't have been wiser, mother, for me to have stayed up this term and made sure of it?" "I wish you could, Reg; but we have no right to think of it. Besides, you could only have held it if you had gone to college." "Oh, of course," said Reg; "but then it would have paid a good bit of my expenses there; and I might have gone on from there to the army, you know, and got my commission." Mrs Cruden sighed. What an awakening the boy had still to pass through! "We must think of something less grand than that, my poor Reg," said she; "and something we can share all together. I hope Mr Richmond will be able to hear of some business opening for me, as well as you, for we shall need to put our resources together to get on." "Mother," exclaimed Reginald, overwhelmed with sudden contrition, "what a selfish brute you must think me! You don't think I'd let you work while I had a nerve left. I'll do anything--so will Horace, but you _shall not_, mother, you _shall not_." Mrs Cruden did not argue the point just then, and in due time Mr Richmond arrived to give a new direction to their thoughts. The investment he proposed seemed a good one. But, in fact, the little family knew so little about business generally, and money matters in particular, that had it been the worst security possible they would have hardly been the wiser. This point settled, Mr Richmond turned to his proposals for the boys. "As I said in my letter, Mrs Cruden," said he, "the opening is only a modest one. A company has lately been formed to print and publish an evening paper in the city, and as solicitor to the company I had an opportunity of mentioning your sons to the manager. He is willing to take them, provided they are willing to work. The pay will begin at eighteen shillings a week, but I hope they will soon make their value felt, and command a better position. They are young yet." "What shall we have to do?" asked Horace. "That I cannot exactly say," said the lawyer; "but I believe the manager would expect you to learn the printer's business from the beginning." "What would the hours be?" asked Mrs Cruden. "Well, as it is an evening paper, there will fortunately be no late night work. I believe seven in the morning to eight at night were the hours the manager mentioned." "And--and," faltered the poor mother, who was beginning to realise the boys' lot better than they did themselves--"and what sort of companions are they likely to have, Mr Richmond?" "I believe the manager is succeeding in getting respectable men as workmen. I hope so." "Workmen!" exclaimed Reginald, suddenly. "Do you mean we are to be workmen, Mr Richmond? Just like any fellows in the street. Couldn't you find anything better than that for us?" "My dear Master Cruden, I am very sorry for you, and would gladly see you in a better position. But it is not a case where we can choose. This opening has offered itself. Of course, you are not bound to accept it, but my advice is, take what you can get in these hard times." "Oh, of course, we're paupers, I--forgot," said Reg, bitterly, "and beggars mayn't be choosers. Anything you like, mother," added he, meeting Mrs Cruden's sorrowful look with forced gaiety. "I'll sweep a crossing if you like, Mr Richmond, or black your office-boy's boots,-- anything to get a living." Poor boy! He broke down before he could finish the sentence, and his flourish ended in something very like a sob. Horace was hardly less miserable, but he said less. Evidently, as Reg himself had said, beggars could not be choosers, and when presently Mr Richmond left, and the little family talked the matter over late into the afternoon, it was finally decided that the offer of the manager of the _Rocket_ Newspaper Company, Limited, should be accepted, and that the boys should make their new start in life on the Monday morning following. CHAPTER FOUR. THE "ROCKET" NEWSPAPER COMPANY, LIMITED. The reader may imagine that the walk our two heroes took Citywards that Monday morning was not a very cheerful one. It seemed like walking out of one life into another. Behind, like a dream, were the joyous, merry days spent at Garden Vale and Wilderham, with no care for the future, and no want for the present. Before them, still more like a dream, lay the prospect of their new work, with all its anxiety, and drudgery, and weariness, and the miserable eighteen shillings a week it promised them; and, equally wretched at the present moment, there was the vision of their desolate mother, alone in the Dull Street lodgings, where they had just left her, unable at the last to hide the misery with which she saw her two boys start out into the pitiless world. The boys walked for some time in silence; then Horace said,-- "Old man, I hope, whatever they do, they'll let us be together at this place." "We needn't expect any such luck," said Reginald. "It wouldn't be half so bad if they would." "You know," said Horace, "I can't help hoping they'll take us as clerks, at least. They must know we're educated, and more fit for that sort of work than--" "Than doing common labourer's work," said Reg. "Rather! If they'd put us to some of the literary work, you know, Horace--editing, or correcting, or reporting, or that sort of thing, I could stand that. There are plenty of swells who began like that. I'm pretty well up in classics, you know, and--well, they might be rather glad to have some one who was." Horace sighed. "Richmond spoke as if we were to be taken on as ordinary workmen." "Oh, Richmond's an ass," said Reg, full of his new idea; "he knows nothing about it. I tell you, Horace, they wouldn't be such idiots as to waste our education when they could make use of it. Richmond only knows the manager, but the editor is the chief man, after all." By this time they had reached Fleet Street, and their attention was absorbed in finding the by-street in which was situated the scene of their coming labours. They found it at last, and with beating hearts saw before them a building surmounted by a board, bearing in characters of gold the legend, _Rocket_ Newspaper Company, Limited. The boys stood a moment outside, and the courage which had been slowly rising during the walk evaporated in an instant. Ugly and grimy as the building was, it seemed to them like some fairy castle before which they shrank into insignificance. A board inscribed, "Work-people's Entrance," with a hand on it pointing to a narrow side court, confronted them, and mechanically they turned that way. Reginald did for a moment hesitate as he passed the editor's door, but it was no use. The two boys turned slowly into the court, where, amid the din of machinery, and a stifling smell of ink and rollers, they found the narrow passage which conducted them to their destination. A man at a desk half way down the passage intercepted their progress. "Now, then, young fellows, what is it?" "We want to see the manager, please," said Horace. "No use to-day, my lad. No boys wanted; we're full up." "We want to see the manager," said Reginald, offended at the man's tone, and not disposed to humour it. "Tell you we want no boys; can't you see the notice up outside?" "Look here!" said Reginald, firing up, and heedless of his brother's deprecating look; "we don't want any of your cheek. Tell the manager we're here, will you, and look sharp?" The timekeeper stared at the boy in amazement for a moment, and then broke out with,-- "Take your hook, do you hear, you--or I'll warm you." "It's a mistake," put in Horace, hurriedly. "Mr Richmond said we were to come here to see the manager at nine o'clock." "And couldn't you have said so at first?" growled the man, with his hand still on his ruler, and glaring at Reginald, "without giving yourselves airs as if you were gentry? Go on in, and don't stand gaping there." "For goodness' sake, Reg," whispered Horace, as they knocked at the manager's door, "don't flare up like that, you'll spoil all our chance." Reg said nothing, but he breathed hard, and his face was angry still. "Come in!" cried a sharp voice, in answer to their knock. They obeyed, and found a man standing with a pen in his mouth at a desk, searching through a file of papers. He went on with his work till he found what he wanted, apparently quite unconscious of the boys' presence. Then he rang a bell for an overseer, whistled down a tube for a clerk, and shouted out of the door for a messenger, and gave orders to each. Then he sent for some one else, and gave him a scolding that made the unlucky recipient's hair stand on end; then he received a visit from a friend, with whom he chatted and joked for a pleasant quarter of an hour; then he took up the morning paper and skimmed through it, whistling to himself as he did so; then he rang another bell and told the errand-boy who answered it to bring him in at one o'clock sharp a large boiled beef underdone, with carrots and turnips, and a pint of "s. and b." (whatever that might mean). Then he suddenly became aware of the fact that he had visitors, and turned inquiringly to the two boys. "Mr Richmond--" began Horace, in answer to his look. But the manager cut him short. "Oh, ah! yes," he said. "Nuisance! Go to the composing-room and ask for Mr Durfy." Saying which he sat down again at his desk, and became absorbed in his papers. It was hardly a flattering reception, and gave our heroes very little chance of showing off their classical proficiency. They had at least expected, as Mr Richmond's nominees, rather more than a half glance from the manager; and to be thus summarily turned over to a Mr Durfy before they had as much as opened their mouths was decidedly unpromising. Reginald did make one feeble effort to prolong the interview, and to impress the manager at the same time. "Excuse me," said he, in his politest tones, "would you mind directing us to the composing-room? My brother and I don't know the geography of the place yet." "Eh? Composing-room? Get a boy to show you. Plenty outside." It was no go, evidently; and they turned dismally from the room. The errand-boy was coming up the passage as they emerged--the same errand-boy they had seen half an hour ago in the manager's room; but, as their classical friends would say-- "Quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore!" His two arms were strung with the handles of frothing tin cans from the elbow to the wrist. He carried two tin cans in his mouth. His apron was loaded to bursting with bread, fish, cheese, potatoes, and other edibles; the necks of bottles protruded from all his pocket's,--from the bosom of his jacket and from the fob of his breeches,--and round his neck hung a ponderous chain of onions. In short, the errand-boy was busy; and our heroes, even with their short experience of business life, saw that there was little hope of extracting information from him under present circumstances. So they let him pass, and waited for another. They had not to wait long, for the passage appeared to be a regular highway for the junior members of the staff of the _Rocket_ Newspaper Company, Limited. But though several boys came, it was some time before one appeared whose convenience it suited to conduct our heroes to the presence of Mr Durfy. Just, however, as their patience was getting exhausted, and Reginald was making up his mind to shake the dust of the place from his feet, a boy appeared and offered to escort them to the composing-room. They followed him up several flights of a rickety staircase, and down some labyrinthine passages to a large room where some forty or fifty men were busy setting up type. At the far end of this room, at a small table, crowded with "proofs," sat a red-faced individual whom the boy pointed out as "Duffy." "Well, now, what do _you_ want?" asked he, as the brothers approached. "The manager said we were to ask for Mr Durfy," said Reginald. "I wish to goodness he'd keep you down there; he knows I'm crowded out with boys. He always serves me that way, and I'll tell him so one of these days." This last speech, though apparently addressed to the boys, was really a soliloquy on Mr Durfy's part; but for all that it failed to enchant his audience. They had not, in their most sanguine moments, expected much, but this was even rather less than they had counted on. Mr Durfy mused for some time, then, turning to Reginald, he said,-- "Do you know your letters?" Here was a question to put to the captain of the fifth at Wilderham! "I believe I do," said Reginald, with a touch of scorn in his voice which was quite lost on the practical Mr Durfy. "What do you mean by believe? Do you, or do you not?" "Of course I do." "Then why couldn't you say so at once? Take this bit of copy and set it up at that case there. And you, young fellow, take these proofs to the sub-editor's room, and say I've not had the last sheet of the copy of the railway accident yet, and I'm standing for it. Cut away." Horace went off. "After all," thought he to himself, "what's the use of being particular? I suppose I'm what they call a `printer's devil'; nothing like starting modestly! Here goes for my lords the sub-editors, and the last page of the railway accident." And he spent a festive ten-minutes hunting out the sub-editor's domains, and possessing himself of the missing copy. With Reginald, however, it fared otherwise. A fellow may be head of the fifth at a public school, and yet not know his letters in a printing- office, and after five or ten-minutes' hopeless endeavour to comprehend the geography of a typecase, he was obliged to acknowledge himself beaten and apprise Mr Durfy of the fact. "I'm sorry I misunderstood you," said he, putting the copy down on the table. "I'm not used to printing." "No," said Mr Durfy, scornfully, "I guessed not. You're too stuck-up for us, I can tell you. Here, Barber." An unhealthy-looking young man answered to the name. "Take this chap here to the back case-room, and see he sweeps it out and dusts the cases. See if that'll suit your abilities, my dandy"; and without waiting to hear Reginald's explanations or remonstrances, Mr Durfy walked off, leaving the unlucky boy in the hands of Mr Barber. "Now, then, stir your stumps, Mr Dandy," said the latter. "It'll take you all your time to get that shop straight, I can tell you, so you'd better pull up your boots. Got a broom?" "No," muttered Reg, through his teeth, "I've not got a broom." "Go and get that one, then, out of the corner there." Reginald flushed crimson, and hesitated a moment. "Do you 'ear? Are you deaf? Get that one there." Reginald got it, and trailing it behind him dismally, followed his guide to the back case-room. It was a small room, which apparently had known neither broom nor water for years. The floor was thick with dirt, and the cases ranged in the racks against the walls were coated with dust. "There you are," said Mr Barber. "Open the window, do you 'ear? and don't let none of the dust get out into the composing-room, or there'll be a row. Come and tell me when you've done the floor, and I'll show you 'ow to do them cases. Rattle along, do you 'ear? or you won't get it done to-day;" and Mr Barber, who had had his day of sweeping out the shops, departed, slamming the door behind him. Things had come to a crisis with Reginald Cruden early in his business career. He had _come_ into the City that morning prepared to face a good deal. He had not counted on much sympathy or consideration from his new employers; he had even vaguely made up his mind he would have to rough it at first; but to be shut up in a dirty room with a broom in his hand by a cad who could not even talk grammar was a humiliation on which he had never once calculated. Tossing the broom unceremoniously into a corner, he opened the door and walked out of the room. Barber was already out of sight, chuckling inwardly over the delicious task he had been privileged to set to his dandy subordinate, and none of the men working near knew or cared what this pale, handsome new boy did either in or out of the back case-room. Reginald walked through them to the passage outside, not much caring where he went or whom he met. If he were to meet Mr Barber, or Mr Durfy, or the manager himself, so much the better. As it happened, he met Horace, looking comparatively cheerful, with some papers in his hand. "Hullo, Reg," said he; "have they promoted you to a `printer's devil' too? Fancy what Bland would say if he saw us! Never mind, there's four hours gone, and in about another six we shall be home with mother again." "I shall be home before then," said Reg. "I'm going now. I can't stand it, Horace." Horace stared at his brother in consternation. "Oh, Reg, old man, you mustn't; really you mustn't. Do let's stick together, however miserable it is. It's sure to seem worse at first." "It's all very well for you, Horace, doing messenger work. You haven't been set to sweep out a room." Horace whistled. "Whew! that _is_ a drop too much! But," he added, taking his brother's arm, "don't cut it yet, old man, for mother's sake, don't. I'll come and help you do it if I can. Why couldn't they have given it me to do, and let you go the messages!" Reginald said nothing, but let his brother lead him back slowly to the big room presided over by Mr Durfy. "Where is it?" Horace inquired of him at the door. "That little room in the corner." "All right. I'll come if I possibly can. Do try it, old man, won't you?" "I'll try it," said Reginald, with something very like a groan as he opened the door and walked grimly back to the back case-room. Horace, full of fear and trembling on his brother's account, hurried with his copy to Mr Durfy, and waited impatiently till that grandee condescended to relieve him of it. "Is there anything else?" he inquired, as he gave it up. "Anything else? Yes, plenty; but don't come bothering me now." Horace waited for no more elaborate statement of Mr Durfy's wishes, but thankfully withdrew, and made straight for Reginald. He found him half hidden, half choked by the dust of his own raising, as he drew his broom in a spiritless way across the black dry floor. He paused in his occupation as Horace entered, and for a moment, as the two stood face to face coughing and sneezing, a sense of the ludicrous overcame them, and they finished up their duet with a laugh. "I say," said Horace, as soon as he could get words, "I fancy a little water would be an improvement here." "Where are we to get it from?" said Reg. "I suppose there must be some about. Shall I go and see?" "We might tip one of those fellows outside a sixpence to go and get us some." "Hold hard, old man!" said Horace, laughing again. "We're not so flush of sixpences as all that. I guess if we want any water we shall have to get it ourselves. I'll be back directly." Poor Reg, spirited up for a while by his brother's courage, proceeded more gingerly with his sweeping, much amazed in the midst of his misery to discover how many walks in life there are beyond the capacity even of the captain of the fifth of a public school. He was not, however, destined on the present occasion to perfect himself in the one that was then engaging his attention. Horace had scarcely disappeared in quest of water when the door opened, and no less a personage than the manager himself entered the room. He was evidently prepared neither for the dust nor the duster, and started back for a moment, as though he were under the impression that the clouds filling the apartment were clouds of smoke, and Reginald was another Guy Fawkes caught in the act. He recovered himself shortly, however, and demanded sharply,-- "What are you doing here, making all this mess?" "I'm trying to carry out Mr Durfy's instructions," replied Reginald, leaning on his broom, and not at all displeased at the interruption. "Durfy's instructions? What do you mean, sir?" "Mr Durfy's--" "That will do. Here you," said the manager, opening the door, and speaking to the nearest workman, "tell Mr Durfy to step here." Mr Durfy appeared in a very brief space. "Durfy," said the manager, wrathfully, "what do you mean by having this room in such a filthy mess? Aren't your instructions to have it swept out once a week? When was it swept last?" "Some little time ago. We've been so busy in our department, sir, that--" "Yes, I know; you always say that. I'm sick of hearing it. Don't let me find this sort of thing again. Send some one at once to sweep it out; this lad doesn't know how to hold a broom. Take care it's done by four o'clock, and ready for use. Pheugh! it's enough to choke one." And the manager went off in a rage, coughing. Satisfactory as this was, in a certain sense, for Reginald, it was not a flattering way of ending his difficulties, nor did the spirit in which Mr Durfy accepted his chief's reprimand at all tend to restore him to cheerfulness. "Bah, you miserable idiot, you! Give up that broom, and get out of this, or I'll chuck you out." "I don't think you will," said Reginald, coolly dropping the broom and facing his enemy. He was happier at that moment than he had been for a long time. He could imagine himself back at Wilderham, with the school bully shouting at him, and his spirits rose within him accordingly. "What do you say? you hugger-mugger puppy you--you--" Mr Durfy's adjectives frequently had the merit of being more forcible than appropriate, and on the present occasion, what with the dust and his own rage, the one he wanted stuck in his throat altogether. "I said I don't think you will," repeated Reginald. Mr Durfy looked at his man and hesitated. Reginald stood five foot nine, and his shoulders were square and broad, besides, he was as cool as a cucumber, and didn't even trouble to take his hands out of his pockets. All this Mr Durfy took in, and did not relish; but he must not cave in too precipitately, so he replied, with a sneer,-- "Think! A lot you know about thinking! Can't even hold a broom. Clear out of here, I tell you, double quick; do you hear?" Reginald's spirits fell. It was clear from Mr Durfy's tone he was not going to attempt to "chuck him out," and nothing therefore could be gained by remaining. He turned scornfully on his heel, knowing that he had made one enemy, at any rate, during his short connection with his new business. And if he had known all, he could have counted two; for Mr Durfy, finding himself in a mood to wreak his wrath on some one, summoned the ill-favoured Barber to sweep out the back case-room, and gave his orders so viciously that Barber felt distinctly aggrieved, and jumping to the conclusion that Reginald had somehow contrived to turn the tables on him, he registered a secret vow, there and then, that he would on the first opportunity, and on all subsequent opportunities, be square with that luckless youth. Caring very little about who hated him or who liked him, Reginald wandered forth, to intercept the faithful Horace with the now unnecessary water; and the two boys, finding very little to occupy them during the rest of the day, remained in comparative seclusion until the seven o'clock bell rang, when they walked home, possibly wiser, and certainly sadder, for their first day with the _Rocket_ Newspaper Company, Limited. CHAPTER FIVE. THE CRUDENS AT HOME. If anything could have made up to the two boys for the hardships and miseries of the day, it was the sight of their mother's bright face as she awaited them that evening at the door of Number 6, Dull Street. If the day had been a sad and lonely one for Mrs Cruden, she was not the woman to betray the secret to her sons; and, indeed, the happiness of seeing them back was enough to drive away all other care for the time being. Shabby as the lodgings were, and lacking in all the comforts and luxuries of former days, the little family felt that evening, as they gathered round the tea-table and unburdened their hearts to one another, more of the true meaning of the word "home" than they had ever done before. "Now, dear boys," said Mrs Cruden, when the meal was over, and they drew their chairs to the open window, "I'm longing to hear your day's adventures. How did you get on? Was it as bad as you expected?" "It wasn't particularly jolly," said Reginald, shrugging his shoulders--"nothing like Wilderham, was it, Horrors?" "Well, it was a different sort of fun, certainly," said Horace. "You see, mother, our education has been rather neglected in some things, so we didn't get on as well as we might have done." "Do you mean in the literary work?" said Mrs Cruden. "I'm quite sure you'll get into it with a little practice." "But it's not the literary work, unluckily," said Reginald. "Ah! you mean clerk's work. You aren't as quick at figures, perhaps, as you might be?" "That's not exactly it," said Horace. "The fact is, mother, we're neither in the literary not the clerical department. I'm a `printer's devil'!" "Oh, Horace! what _do_ you mean?" said the horrified mother. "Oh, I'm most innocently employed. I run messages; I fetch and carry for a gentleman called Durfy. He gives me some parliamentary news to carry to one place, and some police news to carry to another place--and, by-the-way, they read very much alike--and when I'm not running backwards or forwards I have to sit on a stool and watch him, and be ready to jump up and wag my tail the moment he whistles. It's a fact, mother! Think of getting eighteen shillings a week for that! It's a fraud!" Mrs Cruden could hardly tell whether to laugh or cry. "My poor boy!" she murmured; then, turning to Reginald, she said, "And what do you do, Reg?" "Oh, I sweep rooms," said Reg, solemnly; "but they've got such a shocking bad broom there that I can't make it act. If you could give me a new broom-head, mother, and put me up to a dodge or two about working out corners, I might rise in my profession!" There was a tell-tale quaver in the speaker's voice which made this jaunty speech a very sad one to the mother's ears. It was all she could do to conceal her misery, and when Horace came to the rescue with a racy account of the day's proceedings, told in his liveliest manner, she was glad to turn her head and hide from her boys the trouble in her face. However, she soon recovered herself, and by the time Horace's story was done she was ready to join her smiles with those which the history had drawn even from Reginald's serious countenance. "After all," said she, presently, "we must be thankful for what we have. Some one was saying the other day there never was a time when so many young fellows were out of work and thankful to get anything to do. And it's very likely too, Reg, that just now, when they seem rather in confusion at the office, they really haven't time to see about what your regular work is to be. Wait a little, and they're sure to find out your value." "They seem to have done that already as far as sweeping is concerned. The manager said I didn't know how to hold a broom. I was quite offended," said Reginald. "You are a dear brave pair of boys!" said the mother, warmly; "and I am prouder of you in your humble work than if you were kings!" "Hullo," said Horace, "there's some one coming up our stairs!" Sure enough there was, and more than one person, as it happened. There was a knock at the door, followed straightway by the entrance of an elderly lady, accompanied by a young lady and a young gentleman, who sailed into the room, much to the amazement and consternation of its occupants. "Mrs Cruden, I believe?" said the elderly lady, in her politest tones. "Yes," replied the owner of that name. "Let me hintroduce myself--Mrs Captain Shuckleford, my son and daughter--neighbours of yours, Mrs Cruden, and wishing to be friendly. We're sorry to hear of your trouble; very trying it is. My 'usband, Mrs Cruden, has gone too." "Pray take a seat," said Mrs Cruden. "Reg, will you put chairs?" Reg obeyed, with a groan. "These are your boys, are they?" said the visitor, eyeing the youths. "Will you come and shake 'ands with me, Reggie? What a dear, good- looking boy he is, Mrs Cruden! And 'ow do you do, too, my man?" said she, addressing Horace. "Pretty well? And what do they call you?" "My name is Horace," said "my man," blushing very decidedly, and retreating precipitately to a far corner of the room. "Ah, dear me! And my 'usband's name, Mrs Cruden, was 'Oward. I never 'ear the name without affliction." This was very awkward, for as the unfortunate widow could not fail to hear her own voice, it was necessary for consistency's sake that she should show some emotion, which she proceeded to do, when her daughter hurriedly interposed in an audible whisper, "Ma, don't make a goose of yourself! Behave yourself, do!" "So I am be'aving myself, Jemima," replied the outraged parent, "and I don't need lessons from you." "It's very kind of you to call in," said Mrs Cruden, feeling it time to say something; "do you live near here?" "We live next door, at number four," said Miss Jemima; "put that handkerchief away, ma." "What next, I wonder! if my 'andkerchief's not my hown, I'd like to know what is? Yes, Mrs Cruden. We heard you were coming, and we wish to treat you with consideration, knowing your circumstances. It's all one gentlefolk can do to another. Yes, and I 'ope the boys will be good friends. Sam, talk to the boys." Sam needed no such maternal encouragement, as it happened, and had already swaggered up to Horace with a familiar air. "Jolly weather, ain't it?" "Yes," said Horace, looking round wildly for any avenue of escape, but finding none. "Pretty hot in your shop, ain't it?" said the lawyer's clerk. "Yes," again said Horace, with a peculiar tingling sensation in his toes which his visitor little dreamed of. Horace was not naturally a short-tempered youth, but there was something in the tone of this self-satisfied lawyer's clerk which raised his dander. "Not much of a berth, is it?" pursued the catechist. "No," said Horace. "Not a very chirrupy screw, so I'm told--eh?" This was rather too much. Either Horace must escape by flight, which would be ignominious, or he must knock his visitor down, which would be rude, or he must grin and bear it. The middle course was what he most inclined to, but failing that, he decided on the latter. So he shook his head and waited patiently for the next question. "What do you do, eh? dirty work, ain't it?" "Yes, isn't yours?" said Horace, in a tone that rather surprised the limb of the law. "Mine? No. What makes you ask that?" he inquired. "Only because I thought I'd like to know," said Horace artlessly. Mr Shuckleford looked perplexed. He didn't understand exactly what Horace meant, and yet, whatever it was, it put him off the thread of his discourse for a time. So he changed the subject. "I once thought of going into business myself," he said; "but they seemed to think I'd do better at the law. Same time, don't think I'm a nailer on business chaps. I know one or two very respectable chaps in business." "Do you?" replied Horace, with a touch of satire in his voice which was quite lost on the complacent Sam. "Yes. Why, in our club--do you know our club?" "No," said Horace. "Oh--I must take you one evening--yes, in our club we've a good many business chaps--well-behaved chaps, too." Horace hardly looked as overwhelmed by this announcement as his visitor expected. "Would you like to join?" "No, thank you." "Eh? you're afraid of being black-balled, I suppose? No fear, I can work it with them. I can walk round any of them, I let you know; they wouldn't do it, especially when they knew I'd a fancy for you, my boy." If Horace was grateful for this expression of favour, he managed to conceal his feelings wonderfully well. At the same time he had sense enough to see that, vulgar and conceited as Samuel Shuckleford was, he meant to be friendly, and inwardly gave him credit accordingly. He did his best to be civil, and to listen to all the bumptious talk of his visitor patiently, and Sam rattled away greatly to his own satisfaction, fully believing he was impressing his hearer with a sense of his importance, and cheering his heart by the promise of his favours and protection. With the unlucky Reginald, meanwhile, it fared far less comfortably. "Jemima, my dear," said Mrs Shuckleford, who in all her domestic confidences to Mrs Cruden kept a sharp eye on her family--"Jemima, my dear, I think Reggie would like to show you his album!" An electric shock could not have startled and confused our hero more. It was bad enough to hear himself called "Reggie," but that was nothing to the assumption that he was pining to make himself agreeable to Miss Jemima--he to whom any lady except his mother was a cause of trepidation, and to whom a female like Miss Jemima was nothing short of an ogress! "I've not got an album," he gasped, with an appealing look towards his mother. But before Mrs Cruden could interpose to rescue him, the ladylike Miss Jemima, who had already regarded the good-looking shy youth with approval, entered the lists on her own account, and moving her chair a trifle in his direction, said, in a confidential whisper,-- "Ma thinks we're not a very sociable couple, that's what it is." A couple! He and Jemima a couple! Reginald was ready to faint, and looked towards the open window as if he meditated a headlong escape that way. As to any other way of escape, that was impossible, for he was fairly cornered between the enemy and the wall, and unless he were to cut his way through the one or the other, he must sit where he was. "I hope you don't mind talking to me, Mr Reggie," continued the young lady, when Reginald gave no symptom of having heard the last observation. "We shall have to be friends, you know, now we are neighbours. So you haven't got an album?" This abrupt question drove poor Reginald still further into the corner. What business was it of hers whether he had got an album or not? What right had she to pester him with questions like that in his own house? In fact, what right had she and her mother and her brother to come there at all? Those were the thoughts that passed through his mind, and as they did so indignation got the better of good manners and everything else. "Find out," he said. He could have bitten his tongue off the moment he had spoken. For Reginald was a gentleman, and the sound of these rude words in his own voice startled him into a sense of shame and confusion tenfold worse than any Miss Shuckleford had succeeded in producing. "I beg your pardon," he gasped hurriedly. "I--I didn't mean to be rude." Now was the hour of Miss Jemima's triumph. She had the unhappy youth at her mercy, and she took full advantage of her power. She forgave him, and made him sit and listen to her and answer her questions for as long as she chose; and if ever he showed signs of mutiny, the slightest hint, such as "You'll be telling me to mind my own business again," was enough to reduce him to instant subjection. It was a bad quarter of an hour for Reginald, and the climax arrived when presently Mrs Shuckleford looked towards them and said across the room,-- "Now I wonder what you two young people are talking about in that snug corner. Oh, never mind, if it's secrets! Nice it is, Mrs Cruden, to see young people such good friends so soon. We must be going now, children," she added. "We shall soon see our friends in our own 'ouse, I 'ope." A tender leave-taking ensued. For a while, as the retreating footsteps of the visitors gradually died away on the stairs, the little family stood motionless, as though the slightest sound might recall them. But when at last the street-door slammed below, Reginald flung himself into a chair and groaned. "Mother, we can't stay here. We must leave to-morrow!" Horace could not help laughing. "Why, Reg," he said, "you seemed to be enjoying yourself no end." "Shut up, Horace, it's nothing to laugh about." "My dear boy," said Mrs Cruden, "you think far more about it than you need. After all, they seem kindly disposed persons, and I don't think we should be unfriendly." "That's all very well," said Reg, "if there was no Jemima in the question." "I should say it's all very well," said Horace, "if there was no Sam in the question; though I dare say he means to be friendly. But didn't you and Jemima hit it, then, Reg? I quite thought you did." "Didn't I tell you to shut up?" repeated Reg, this time half angrily. "I don't see, mother," he added, "however poor we are, we are called on to associate with a lot like that." "They have not polished manners, certainly," said Mrs Cruden; "but I do think they are good-natured, and that's a great thing." "I should think so," said Horace. "What do you think? Samuel wants to propose me for his club, which seems to be a very select affair." "All I know is," said Reginald, "nothing will induce me to go into their house. It may be rude, but I'm certain I'd be still more rude if I did go." "Well," said Horace, "I vote we take a walk, as it's a fine evening. I feel a trifle warm after it all. What do you say?" They said Yes, and in the empty streets that evening the mother and her two sons walked happy in one another's company, and trying each in his or her own way to gain courage for the days of trial that were to follow. The brothers had a short consultation that night as they went to bed, _not_ on the subject of their next door neighbours. "Horrors," said Reg, "what's to be done about the _Rocket_? I can't stop there." "It's awful," said Horace; "but what else can we do? If we cut it, there's mother left a beggar." "Couldn't we get into something else?" "What? Who'd take us? There are thousands of fellows wanting work as it is." "But surely we're better than most of them. We're gentlemen and well educated." "So much the worse, it seems," said Horace. "What good is it to us when we're put to sweep rooms and carry messages?" "Do you mean to say you intend to stick to that sort of thing all your life?" asked Reg. "Till I can find something better," said Horace. "After all, old man, it's honest work, and not very fagging, and it's eighteen shillings a week." "Anyhow, I think we might let Richmond know what a nice berth he's let us in for. Why, his office-boy's better off." "Yes, and if we knew as much about book-keeping and agreement stamps and copying presses as his office-boy does, we might be as well off. What's the good of knowing how many ships fought at Salamis, when we don't even know how many ounces you can send by post for twopence? At least, I don't. Good-night, old man." And Horace, really scarcely less miserable at heart than his brother, buried his nose in the Dull Street pillow and tried to go to sleep. CHAPTER SIX. REGINALD'S PROSPECTS DEVELOP. It was in anything but exuberant spirits that the two Crudens presented themselves on the following morning at the workman's entrance of the _Rocket_ Newspaper Company, Limited. The bell was beginning to sound as they did so, and their enemy the timekeeper looked as though he would fain discover a pretext for pouncing on them and giving them a specimen of his importance. But even his ingenuity failed in this respect, and as Horace passed him with a good-humoured nod, he had, much against his will, to nod back, and forego his amiable intentions. The brothers naturally turned their steps to the room presided over by Mr Durfy. That magnate had not yet arrived, much to their relief, and they consoled themselves in his absence by standing at the table watching their fellow-workmen as they crowded in and proceeded with more or less alacrity to settle down to their day's work. Among those who displayed no unseemly haste in applying themselves to their tasks was Barber, who, with the dust of the back case-room still in his mind, and equally on his countenance, considered the present opportunity of squaring up accounts with Reginald too good to be neglected. For reasons best known to himself, Mr Barber determined that his victim's flagellation should be moral rather than physical. He would have liked to punch Reginald's head, or, better still, to have knocked Reginald's and Horace's heads together. But he saw reasons for denying himself that pleasure, and fell back on the more ethereal weapons of his own wit. "Hullo, puddin' 'ead," he began, "'ow's your pa and your ma to-day? Find the Old Bailey a 'ealthy place, don't they?" Reginald favoured the speaker by way of answer with a stare of mingled scorn and wrath, which greatly elevated that gentleman's spirits. "'Ow long is it they've got? Seven years, ain't it? My eye, they won't know you when they come out, you'll be so growed." The wrath slowly faded from Reginald's face, as the speaker proceeded, leaving only the scorn to testify to the interest he took in this intellectual display. Horace, delighted to see there was no prospect of a "flare-up," smiled, and began almost to enjoy himself. "I say," continued Barber, just a little disappointed to find that his exquisite humour was not as electrical in its effect as it would have been on any one less dense than the Crudens, "'ow is it you ain't got a clean collar on to-day, and no scent on your 'andkerchers--eh?" This was getting feeble. Even Mr Barber felt it, for he continued, in a more lively tone,-- "Glad we ain't got many of your sickening sort 'ere; snivelling school- boy brats, that's what you are, tired of pickin' pockets, and think you're goin' to show us your manners. Yah! if you wasn't such a dirty ugly pair of puppy dogs I'd stick you under the pump--so I would." Reginald yawned, and walked off to watch a compositor picking up type out of a case. Horace, on the other hand, appeared to be deeply interested in Mr Barber's eloquent observations, and inquired quite artlessly, but with a twinkle in his eye,--"Is the pump near here? I was looking for it everywhere yesterday." It was Mr Barber's turn to stare. He had not expected this, and he did not like it, especially when one or two of the men and boys near, who had failed to be convulsed by his wit, laughed at Horace's question. After all, moral flagellation does not always answer, and when one of the victims yawns and the other asks a matter-of-fact questions it is disconcerting even to an accomplished operator. However, Barber gallantly determined on one more effort. "Ugh--trying to be funny, are you, Mr Snubnose? Best try and be honest if you can, you and your mealy-mug brother. It'll be 'ard work, I know, to keep your 'ands in your own pockets, but you'd best do it, do you 'ear--pair of psalm-singin' twopenny-ha'penny puppy dogs!" This picturesque peroration certainly deserved some recognition, and might possibly have received it, had not Mr Durfy's entrance at that particular moment sent the idlers back suddenly to their cases. Reginald, either heedless of or unconcerned at the new arrival, remained listlessly watching the operations of the compositor near him, an act of audacity which highly exasperated the overseer, and furnished the key- note for the day's entertainment. For Mr Durfy, to use an expressive term, had "got out of bed the wrong side" this morning. For the matter of that, after the blowing-up about the back case-room, he had got into it the wrong side last night, so that he was doubly perturbed in spirit, and a short conversation he had just had with the manager below had not tended to compose him. "Durfy," said that brusque official, as the overseer passed his open door, "come in. What about those two lads I sent up to you yesterday? Are they any good?" "Not a bit," growled Mr Durfy; "fools both of them." "Which is the bigger fool?" "The old one." "Then keep him for yourself--put him to composing, and send the other one down here. Send him at once, Durfy, do you hear?" With this considerately worded injunction in his ears it is hardly to be wondered at that Mr Durfy was not all smiles as he entered the domain which owned his sway. His eye naturally lit on Reginald as the most suitable object on which to relieve his feelings. "Now, then, there," he called out. "What do you mean by interfering with the men in their work?" "I'm not interfering with anybody," said Reginald, looking up with glowing cheeks, "I'm watching this man." "Come out of it, do you hear me? Why don't you go about your own work?" "I've been waiting here ten-minutes for you." "Look here," said Mr Durfy, his tones getting lower as his passion rose; "if you think we're going to keep you here to give us any of your impudence you're mistaken; so I can tell you. It's bad enough to have a big fool put into the place for charity, without any of your nonsense. If I had my way I'd give you your beggarly eighteen shillings a week to keep you away. Go to your work." Reginald's eyes blazed out for a moment on the speaker in a way which made Horace, who heard and saw all, tremble. But he overcame himself with a mighty effort, and said,-- "Where?" Mr Durfy glanced round the room. "Young Gedge!" he called out. A boy answered the summons. "Clear that rack between you and Barber, and put up a pair of cases for this fool here, and look after him. Off you go! and off _you_ go," added he, rounding on Reginald, "and if we don't make it hot for you among us I'm precious mistaken." It was a proud moment certainly for the cock of the fifth at Wilderham to find himself following meekly at the heels of a youngster like Gedge, who had been commissioned to put him to work and look after him. But Reginald was too sick at heart and disgusted to care what became of himself, as long as Mr Durfy's odious voice ceased to torment his ears. The only thing he did care about was what was to become of Horace. Was he to be put in charge of some one too, or was he to remain a printer's devil? Mr Durfy soon answered that question. "What are you standing there for?" demanded he, turning round on the younger brother as soon as he had disposed of the elder. "Go down to the manager's room at once; you're not wanted here." So they were to be separated! There was only time to exchange one glance of mutual commiseration and then Horace slowly left the room with sad forebodings, more on his brother's account than his own, and feeling that as far as helping one another was concerned they might as well be doomed to serve their time at opposite ends of London. Gedge, under whose imposing auspices Reginald was to begin his typographical career, was a diminutive youth who, to all outward appearances, was somewhere about the tender age of fourteen, instead of, as was really the case, being almost as old as Reginald himself. He was facetiously styled "Magog" by his shopmates, in allusion to his small stature, which required the assistance of a good-sized box under his feet to enable him to reach his "upper case." His face was not an unpleasant one, and his voice, which still retained its boyish treble, was an agreeable contrast to that of most of the "gentlemen of the case" in Mr Durfy's department. For all that, Reginald considered himself much outraged by being put in charge of this chit of a child, and glowered down on him much as a mastiff might glower on a terrier who presumed to do the honour of his back yard for his benefit. However, the terrier in this case was not at all disheartened by his reception, and said cheerily as he began to clear the frame,-- "You don't seem to fancy it, I say. I don't wonder. Never mind, I shan't lick you unless you make me." "Thanks," said Reginald, drily, but scarcely able to conceal a smile at this magnanimous declaration. "Magog" worked busily away, putting away cases in the rack, dusting the frame down with his apron, and whistling softly to himself. "Thanks for helping me," said he, after a time, as Reginald still stood by doing nothing. "I could never have done it all by myself." Reginald blushed a little at this broad hint, and proceeded to lift down a case. But he nearly upset it in doing so, greatly to his companion's horror. "You'd better rest," he said, "you'll be fagged out. Here, let me do it. There you are. Now we're ready to start you. I've a good mind to go and get old Tacker to ring up the big bell and let them know you're just going to begin." Reginald could hardly be offended at this good-natured banter, and, as Gedge was after all a decent-looking boy, and aspirated his "h's," and did not smell of onions, he began to think that if he were doomed to drudge in this place he might have been saddled with a more offensive companion. "It's a pity to put Tacker to the trouble, young 'un," said he; "he'll probably ring when I'm going to leave off, and that'll do as well." "That's not bad for you," said Gedge, approvingly; "not half bad. Go on like that, and you'll make a joke in about a fortnight." "Look here," said Reginald, smiling at last. "I shall either have to punch your head or begin work. You'd better decide which you'd like best." "Well, as Durfy is looking this way," said Gedge, "I suppose you'd better begin work. Stick that pair of empty cases up there--the one with the big holes below and the other one above. You needn't stick them upside down, though, unless you particularly want to; they look quite as well the right way. Now, then, you'd better watch me fill them, and see what boxes the sorts go in. No larks, now. Here goes for the `m's.'" So saying, Mr "Magog" proceeded to fill up one box with types of the letter "m," and another box some distance off with "a's," and another with "b's," and so on, till presently the lower of the two cases was nearly full. Reginald watched him with something like admiration, inwardly wondering if he would ever be able to find his way about this labyrinth of boxes, and strongly of opinion that only muffs like printers would think of arranging the alphabet in such an absurdly haphazard manner. The lower case being full up, Gedge meekly suggested that as he was yet several feet from his full size, they might as well lift the upper case down while it was being filled. Which done, the same process was repeated, only with more apparent regularity, and the case having been finally tilted up on the frame above the lower case, the operator turned round with a pleased expression, and said,-- "What do you think of that?" "Why, I think it's very ridiculous not to put the `capital J' next to the `capital I,'" said Reginald. Gedge laughed. "Go and tell Durfy that; he'd like to hear it." Reginald, however, denied himself the pleasure of entertaining Mr Durfy on this occasion, and occupied himself with picking up the types and inspecting them, and trying to learn the geography of his cases. "Now," said "Magog," mounting his box, and taking his composing-stick in his hand, "keep your eye on me, young fellow, and you'll know all about it." And he proceeded to "set-up" a paragraph for the newspaper from a manuscript in front of him at a speed which bewildered Reginald and baffled any attempt on his part to follow the movements of the operator's hand among the boxes. He watched for several minutes in silence until Gedge, considering he had exhibited his agility sufficiently, halted in his work, and with a passing shade across his face turned to his companion and said,-- "I say, isn't this a beastly place?" There was something in his voice and manner which struck Reginald. It was unlike a common workman, and still more unlike a boy of Gedge's size and age. "It is beastly," he said. "I'm awfully sorry for you, you know," continued Gedge, in a half- whisper, and going on with his work at the same time, "because I guess it's not what you're used to." "I'm not used to it," said Reginald. "Nor was I when I came. My old screw of an uncle took it into his head to apprentice me here because he'd been an apprentice once, and didn't see why I should start higher up the ladder than he did. Are you an apprentice?" "No, not that I know of," said Reginald, not knowing exactly what he was. "Lucky beggar! I'm booked here for nobody knows how much longer. I'd have cut it long ago if I could. I say, what's your name?" "Cruden." "Well, Cruden, I'm precious glad you've turned up. It'll make all the difference to me. I was getting as big a cad as any of those fellows there, for you're bound to be sociable. But you're a nicer sort, and it's a good job for me, I can tell you." Apart from the flattery of these words, there was a touch of earnestness in the boy's voice which struck a sympathetic chord in Reginald's nature, and drew him mysteriously to this new hour-old acquaintance. He told him of his own hard fortunes, and by what means he had come down to his present position. Gedge listened to it all eagerly. "Were you really captain of the fifth at your school?" said he, almost reverentially. "I say! what an awful drop this must be! You must feel as if you'd sooner be dead." "I do sometimes," said Reginald. "I know I would," replied Gedge, solemnly, "if I was you. Was that other fellow your brother, then?" "Yes." Gedge mused a bit, and then laughed quietly. "How beautifully you two shut up Barber between you just now," he said; "it's the first snub he's had since I've been here, and all the fellows swear by him. I say, Cruden, it's a merciful thing for me you've come. I was bound to go to the dogs if I'd gone on as I was much longer." Reginald brightened. It pleased him just now to think any one was glad to see him, and the spontaneous way in which this boy had come under his wing won him over completely. "We must manage to stick together," he said. "Horace, you know, is working in another part of the office. It's awfully hard lines, for we set our minds on being together. But it can't be helped; and I'm glad, any way, you're here, young 'un." The young 'un beamed gratefully by way of response. The paragraph by this time was nearly set-up, and the conversation was interrupted by the critical operation of lifting the "matter" from the stick and transferring it to a "galley," a feat which the experienced "Magog" accomplished very deftly, and greatly to the amazement of his companion. Just as it was over, and Reginald was laughingly hoping he would not soon be expected to arrive at such a pitch of dexterity, Mr Durfy walked up. "So that's what you call doing your work, is it? playing the fool, and getting in another man's way. Is that all you've done?" Reginald glared at him, and answered,-- "I'm not playing the fool." "Hold your tongue and don't answer me, you miserable puppy! Let me see what you have done." "I've been learning the boxes in the case," said Reginald. Mr Durfy sneered. "You have, have you? That's what you've been doing the last hour, I suppose. Since you've been so industrious, pick me out a lower-case `x,' do you hear?" Reginald made a vague dive at one of the boxes, but not the right one, for he produced a `z.' "Ah, I thought so," said Mr Durfy, with a sneer that made Reginald long to cram the type into his mouth. "Now let's try a capital `J.'" As it happened, Reginald knew where the capital "J" was, but he made no attempt to reach it, and answered,-- "If you want a capital `J,' Mr Durfy, you can help yourself." "Magog" nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard this audacious reply, and scarcely ventured to look round to notice the effect of it on Mr Durfy. The effect was on the whole not bad. For a moment the overseer was dumbfounded and could not speak. But a glance at the resolute pale boy in front of him checked him in his impulse to use some other retort but the tongue. As soon as words came he snarled,-- "Ho! is it that you mean, my beauty? All right, we'll see who's master here; and if I am, I'm sorry for you." And he turned on his heel and went. "You've done it now," said "Magog," in an agitated whisper--"done it clean." "Done what?" asked Reginald. "Done it with Durfy. He will make it hot for you, and no mistake. Never mind, if the worst comes to the worst you can cut. But hold on as long as you can. He'll make you go some time or another." "He won't make me go till I choose," replied Reginald. "I'll stick here to disappoint him, if I do nothing else." The reader may have made up his mind already that Reginald was a fool. I'm afraid he was. But do not judge him harshly yet, for his troubles are only beginning. CHAPTER SEVEN. AN EXCITING END TO A DULL DAY. Horace meanwhile had wended his way with some trepidation and curiosity to the manager's sanctum. He felt uncomfortable in being separated from Reginald at all, especially when the latter was left single-handed in such an uncongenial atmosphere as that breathed by Mr Durfy and Barber. He could only hope for the best, and, meanwhile, what fate was in store for himself? He knocked at the manager's door doubtfully and obeyed the summons to enter. Brusque man as the manager was, there was nothing disagreeable about his face as he looked up and said, "Oh--you're the youngster Mr Richmond put in here?" "Yes, sir, my brother and I are." "Yes, and I hear you're both fools. Is that the case?" "Reginald isn't, whatever I am," said Horace, boldly. "Isn't he? I'm told he's the bigger fool of the two. Never mind that, though--" "I assure you," began Horace, but the manager stopped him. "Yes, yes. I know all about that. Now, listen to me. I dare say you're both well-meaning boys, and Mr Richmond is interested in you. So I've promised to make room for you here, though it's not convenient, and the wages you are to get are out of all proportion to your value--so far." Horace was glad at least that the manager dropped in those last two words. "If your brother is clever and picks up his work soon and doesn't give himself airs he'll get on faster than you. I can't put you at case, but they want a lad in the sub-editor's room. Do you know where that is?" "Yes, sir," said Horace, "I took some proofs there yesterday. But, sir--" "Well, what?" said the manager, sharply. "Is there no possibility of Reginald and me being together?" faltered the boy. "Yes--outside if you're discontented," said the manager. It was evidently no use, and Horace walked dismally to the door. The manager looked after him. "Take my advice," said he, rather more kindly than he had hitherto spoken; "make the best of what you've got, young fellow, and it'll be better still in time. Shut the door after you." The sub-editor's room--or rooms, for there was an inner and an outer sanctum--was in a remote dark corner of the building, so dark that gas was generally burning in it all day long, giving its occupants generally the washed-out pallid appearance of men who do not know when day ends or night begins. The chief sub-editor was a young, bald-headed, spectacled man of meek appearance, who received Horace in a resigned way, and referred him to the clerks in the outer room, who would show him how he could make himself useful. Feeling that, so far as he was concerned, he had fallen on his feet, and secretly wishing poor Reginald was in his shoes, Horace obeyed and retired to the outer room. The occupants of that apartment were two young gentlemen of from eighteen to twenty years of age, who, it was evident at a glance, were not brothers. One was short and fair and chubby, the other was lank and lean and cadaverous; one was sorrowful and lugubrious in countenance; the other seemed to be spending his time in trying hard not to smile, and not succeeding. The only thing they did appear to share in common was hard work, and in this they were so fully engrossed that Horace had to stand a full minute at the table before they had leisure to look up and notice him. "The gentleman in there," said Horace, addressing the lugubrious youth as being the more imposing of the two, "said if I came to you you could set me to work." The sad one gave a sort of groan and said,-- "Ah, he was right there. It _is_ work." "I say," said the other youth, looking up, "don't frighten the kid, Booms; you'll make him run away." "I wish _I_ could run away," said Booms, in an audible soliloquy. "So you can if you like, you old crocodile. I say, young 'un, have you got a chair?" Horace had to confess he had not a chair about him. "That's a go; we've only two here. We shall have to take turns on them. Booms will stand first, won't you, Booms?" "Oh, of course," said Booms, rising and pushing his chair towards Horace. "Thanks," said Horace, "but I'd sooner stand, really." "No, no," said Booms, resignedly; "I'm to stand, Waterford says so." "Sit down, young 'un," said Waterford, "and don't mind him. He won't say so, but he's awfully glad to stand up for a bit and stretch his legs. Now, do you see this lot of morning papers--you'll see a lot of paragraphs marked at the side with a blue pencil. You've got to cut them out. Mind you don't miss any. Sure you understand?" Horace expressed himself equal to this enormous task, and set to work busily with his scissors. If he had had no one but himself to consider he would have felt comparatively happy. He found himself in a department of work which he liked, and which, though at first not very exciting, promised some day to become interesting. His chief was a gentleman not likely to interfere with him as long as he did his work steadily, and his companions were not only friendly but entertaining. If only Reginald could have a seat at this table too, Horace felt he could face the future cheerily. How, he wondered, was the poor fellow getting on that moment in his distant uncongenial work? "You're not obliged to read all the paragraphs, you know," said Waterford, as Horace's hand slackened amid these musings. "It's a close shave to get done as it is, and he's marked a frightful lot this morning." He was right. All the cuttings had to be taken out and pasted on sheets before twelve o'clock, and it took the three of them, hard at work with scissors and paste, to get the task accomplished. They talked very little, and joked still less; but when it was all done, like three honest men, they felt pleased with themselves, and decidedly amiable towards one another. "Now Booms is going out for the grub, aren't you, Booms? He'll get some for you too, young 'un, if you like." "No, thanks; I'd be very glad, but I promised to have dinner with my brother--he's a compositor here." "Lucky man!" groaned Booms. "Think of having nothing to do but pick up types instead of slaving like this every day!" "See the sausages are hot this time, won't you, Booms? And look alive, there's a dear fellow." Booms retired sadly. "Good-natured chap, Booms," said Waterford; "rather a risk of imposing on him if one isn't careful. He's an awfully decent fellow, but it's a sad pity he's such a masher." "A what?" asked Horace. "A masher. He mayn't look it, but he goes it rather strong in that line after hours. He doesn't mean it, poor soul; but he's mixed up with some of our reporters, and tries to go the pace with them. I don't care for that sort of thing myself, but if you do, he's just your man. You wouldn't think it to look at him, would you?" "Certainly not," replied Horace, much impressed by this confidence and the revelation it afforded. As Booms re-entered shortly afterwards, looking very gloomy, burdened with two plates, two mugs, and a sheaf of knives and forks under his arm, he certainly did not give one the impression of a very rakish character, and Horace could scarcely refrain from smiling as he tried to picture him in his after-hours character. He left the couple to their sausages, and went out, in the vain hope of finding Reginald somewhere. But there was no sign of workmen anywhere, and, to his disgust, he ascertained from a passing boy that the compositors' dinner-hour did not begin till he was due back at his work. Everything seemed to conspire to sever the two brothers, and Horace dejectedly took a solitary and frugal repast. He determined, at all hazards, to wait a minute after the bell summoning him back to work had ceased pealing, and was rewarded by a hasty glimpse of his brother, and the exchange of a few hurried sentences. It was better than nothing, and he rushed back to his room just in time to save his reputation for punctuality. The afternoon passed scarcely less busily than the morning. They sat-- and Booms had contrived to raise a third chair somewhere--with a pile of work in front of them which at first seemed hopeless to expect to overtake. There were effusions to "decline with thanks," and others to enter in a book and send up to the composing-room; there were some letters to write and others to answer; there were reporters' notes to string together and telegrams to transcribe. And all the while a dropping fire of proofs and revises and messages was kept up at them from without, which they had to carry to their chief and deal with according to his orders. Horace, being inexperienced, was only able to take up the simpler portions of this miscellaneous work, but these kept him busy, "hammer and tongs," with scarcely time to sneeze till well on in the afternoon. The _Rocket_, unlike most evening papers, waited till the evening before it appeared, and did not go to press till five o'clock. After that it issued later editions once an hour till eight o'clock, and on special occasions even as late as ten. The great rush of the day, therefore, as Horace soon discovered, was over at five o'clock, but between that hour and seven there was always plenty to do in connection with the late editions and the following day's work. At seven o'clock every one left except a sub-editor and one of the clerks, and one or two compositors, to see after the eight o'clock and any possible later edition. "As soon as you get your hand in, young 'un, you'll have to take your turn at late work. Booms and I take every other night now." Horace could say nothing against this arrangement, though it meant more separation from Reginald. At present, however, his hand not being in, he had nothing to keep him after the seven o'clock bell, and he eagerly escaped at its first sound to look for Reginald. Not, however, till he had witnessed a strange sight. About a quarter to seven Booms, whose early evening it was, showed signs of uneasiness. He glanced sorrowfully once or twice at the clock, then at Horace, then at Waterford. Then he got up and put his papers away. Finally he mused on a washhand basin in a corner of the room, and said dolefully,-- "I must dress, I think, Waterford." "All serene," said Waterford, briskly, "the young 'un and I will finish up here." Then nudging Horace, he added in a whisper, "He's going to rig up now. Don't pretend to notice him, that's all." Booms proceeded to divest himself of his office coat and waistcoat and collar, and to roll up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, preparatory to an energetic wash. He then opened a small box in a corner of the room, from which he produced, first a clothes-brush, with which he carefully removed all traces of dust from his nether garments; after that came a pair of light-coloured "pats," which he fitted on to his boots; then came a bottle of hair-oil, and afterwards a highly-starched "dicky," or shirt-front, with a stud in it, which by a complicated series of strings the owner contrived to fasten round his neck so as to conceal effectually the flannel shirt-front underneath. Once more he dived, and this time the magic box yielded up what seemed to Horace's uninitiated eyes to be a broad strip of stiff cardboard, but which turned out to be a collar of fearful and wonderful proportions, which, when once adjusted, fully explained the wisdom displayed by the wearer in not deferring the brushing of his trousers and the donning of his "pats" to a later stage of the proceedings. For nothing, not even a pickpocket at his gilt watch-chain with its pendant "charms," could lower his chin a quarter of an inch till bed-time. But more was yet to come. There were cuffs to put on, which left one to guess what had become of Mr Booms's knuckles, and a light jaunty necktie to embellish the "dicky." Then, with a plaintive sigh, he produced a blue figured waistcoat, and after it a coat shaped like the coat of a robin to cover all. Finally there appeared a hat, broad-brimmed, low-crowned, and dazzling in its glossiness, a pair of gay dogskin gloves, a crutch walking-stick, a pink silk handkerchief, and then this joint work of art and nature was complete! "All right?" said he, in melancholy tones, as he set his hat a little on one side of his head, and, with his stick under his arm, began with his gloves. Waterford got up and walked slowly and critically round him, giving a few touches here and there, and brushing a little stray dust from his collar. "All right, dear boy. Mind how you go, and--" "Oh!" groaned Booms, in tones of dire distress, "I knew I should forget something. Would you mind, Waterford?" "What is it?" "My glass--it's in the box, and--and I should have got it out before I put the collar on. Thanks; I should have been lost without it. Oh! if I _had_ forgotten it!" With this awful reflection in his mind he bade a sorrowful good-night and walked off, with his head very erect, his elbows high up, and one hand fondling the nearly-neglected eyeglass. "Pretty, isn't it?" said Waterford, as he disappeared. "It is--rot," said Horace, emphatically. "Why ever don't you laugh him out of it?" "My dear boy, you might as well try to laugh the hair off his head. I've tried it a dozen times. After all, the poor dear fellow means no harm." "But what does he do now?" "Oh, don't ask me. According to his own account he's the fastest man about town--goes to all the shows, hobnobs with all the swells, smokes furious cigars, and generally `mashes.' But my private notion is he moons about the streets with the handle of his stick in his mouth and looks in a few shop windows, and gets half a dozen oysters for supper, and then goes home to bed. You see he couldn't well get into much mischief with that collar on. If he went in for turn-downs I'd be afraid of him." The bell cut further conversation short, and in another minute Horace and Reginald were walking arm-in-arm in the street outside. There was much to talk about, much to lament over, and a little to rejoice over. Horace felt half guilty as he told his brother of his good fortune, and the easy quarters into which he had fallen. But Reginald was in too defiant a mood to share these regrets as much as he would have done at any other time. As long as Durfy wanted to get rid of him, so long was he determined to stay where he was, and meanwhile in young Gedge he had some one to look after, which would make the drudgery of his daily work tolerable. Horace did not altogether like it, but he knew it was no use arguing then on the subject. They mutually agreed to put the best face on everything before their mother. She was there to meet them at the door, and it rejoiced her heart to hear their brave talk and the cheery story of their day's adventures. All day long her heart had gone out to them in yearnings of prayer and hope and love, and it repaid her a hundred- fold, this hour of happy meeting, with the sunlight of their faces and the music of their voices filling her soul. As soon as supper was over Reginald suggested a precipitate retreat into the streets, for fear of another neighbourly incursion. Mrs Cruden laughingly yielded, and the trio had a long walk, heedless where they went, so long as they were together. They wandered as far as Oxford Street, looking into what shops were open, and interested still more in the ever-changing stream of people who even at ten o'clock at night crowded the pavements. They met no one they knew, not even Booms. But it mattered little to them that no one noticed them. They had one another, and there was a sense of security and comfort in that which before these last few weeks they had never dreamed of. They were about to turn out of Oxford Street on their homeward journey when a loud shout close by arrested their attention. Looking round, they saw a boy with disordered dress and unsteady gait attempting to cross the road just as a hansom cab was bearing down at full speed on the place where he stood. They only saw his back, but it was evident he was either ill or dazed, for he stood stupidly where he was, with the peril in full-view, but somehow helpless to avoid it. The cabman shouted and pulled at his horse's head. But to the horrified onlookers it was only too clear that nothing could stop his career in time. He was already within a yard or two of the luckless boy when Reginald made a sudden dash into the road, charging at him with a violence that sent him staggering forward two paces and then brought him to the earth. Reginald fell too, on the top of him, and as the cab dashed past it just grazed the sole of his boot where he lay. It was all the work of a moment--the shout, the vision of the boy, and the rescue--so sudden, indeed, that Mrs Cruden had barely time to clutch Horace by the arm before Reginald lay prone in the middle of the road. In another moment Horace was beside his brother, helping him up out of the mud. "Are you hurt, old man?" "Not a bit," said Reginald, very pale and breathless, but rising to his feet without help. "Look out--there's a crowd--take mother home, and I'll come on as soon as I've seen this fellow safe. I'm not damaged a bit." With this assurance Horace darted back to his mother in time to extricate her from the crowd which, whatever happens, is sure to collect in the streets of London at a minute's warning. "He's all right," said Horace--"not hurt a bit. Come on, mother, out of this; he'll probably catch us up before we're home. I say," said he, and his voice trembled with excitement and brotherly pride as he spoke, "wasn't it splendid?" Mrs Cruden would fain have stayed near, but the crowd made it impossible to be of any use. So she let Horace lead her home, trembling, but with a heart full of thankfulness and pride and love for her young hero. Reginald, meanwhile, with the coolness of an old football captain, proceeded to pick up his man, and appealed to the crowd to stand back and give the fellow room. The boy lay half-stunned with his fall, his face covered with mud, but to Reginald's delight he was able to move and with a little help stand on his feet. As he did so the light from the lamp of the cab fell on his face, and caused Reginald to utter an exclamation of surprise and horror. "Young Gedge!" The boy looked at him for a moment in a stupid bewildered way, and then gave a short startled cry. "Are you hurt?" said Reginald, putting his arm round him. "No--I--I don't think--let's get away." Reginald called to the crowd to stand back and let them out, an order which the crowd obeyed surlily and with a disappointed grunt. Not even a broken leg! not even the cabman's number taken down! One or two who had seen the accident patted Reginald on the back as he went by, but he hurried past them as quickly as he could, and presently stood in the seclusion of a by-street, still supporting his companion on his arm. "Are you hurt?" he inquired again. "No," said Gedge; "I can walk." The two stood facing one another for a moment in silence, breathless still, and trembling with the excitement of the last few minutes. "Oh, Cruden!" cried the boy at last, seizing Reginald's arm, "what will you think of me? I was--I--I'd been drinking--I'm sober now, but--" Reginald cut him short gently but firmly. "I know," said he. "You'd better go home now, young 'un." Gedge made no answer, but walked on, with his arm still in that of his protector. Reginald saw him into an omnibus, and then returned sadly and thoughtfully homeward. "Humph!" said he to himself, as he reached Dull Street, "I suppose I shall have to stick on at the _Rocket_ after all." CHAPTER EIGHT. MR. DURFY GIVES REGINALD A TESTIMONIAL. Reginald Cruden was a young man who took life hard and seriously. He was not brilliant--indeed, he was not clever. He lacked both the good sense and the good-humour which would have enabled him, like Horace, to accept and make the best of his present lot. He felt aggrieved by the family calamity, and just enough ashamed of his poverty to make him touchy and intractable to a degree which, as we have seen already, amounted sometimes almost to stupidity. Still Reginald was honest. He made no pretence of enjoying life when he did not enjoy it. He disliked Mr Durfy, and therefore he flared up if Mr Durfy so much as looked at him. He liked young Gedge, and therefore it was impossible to leave the youngster to his fate and let him ruin himself without an effort at rescue. It is one thing to snatch a heedless one from under the hoofs of a cab- horse and another to pick him up from the slippery path of vice and set him firmly on his feet. Reginald had thought nothing of the one, but he looked forward with considerable trepidation to meeting the boy next morning and attempting the other. Gedge was there when he arrived, working very busily, and looking rather troubled. He flushed up as Reginald approached, and put down his composing-stick to shake hands with him. Reginald looked and felt by a long way the more uncomfortable and guilty of the two, and he was at least thankful that Gedge spared him the trouble of beginning. "Oh! Cruden," said the boy, "I know exactly what you're going to say. You're going to tell me you're deceived in me, and that I'm a young fool and going to the dogs as hard as I can. I don't wonder you think so." "I wasn't going to say that," said Reginald. "I was going to ask you how you were." "Oh, I'm all right; but I know you're going to lecture me, Cruden, and I'm sure you may. There's nothing you can say I don't deserve. I only wish I could make you believe I'll never be such a fool again. I've been making resolutions all night, and now you've come here I'm sure I shall be able to break it off. If you will only stand by me, Cruden! I owe you such a lot. If you only knew how grateful I was!" "Perhaps we'd better not talk about it now," said Reginald, feeling very uncomfortable and rather disconcerted at this glib flow of penitence. But young Gedge was full of it yet, and went on,-- "I'm going to turn over a new leaf this very day, Cruden. I've told the errand-boy he's not to get me any beer, and I'm determined next time that beast Durfy asks me to go--" "What!" exclaimed Reginald; "was it with him you used to go?" "Yes. I know you'll think all the worse of me for it, after the blackguard way he's got on to you. You see, before you came I didn't like--that is, I couldn't well refuse him; he'd have made it so hot for me here. I fancy he found out I had some pocket-money of my own, for he generally picked on me to come and have drinks with him, and of course I had to pay. Why, only last night--look out, here he comes!" Sure enough he was, and in his usual amiable frame of mind. "Oh, there you are, are you?" he said to Reginald, with a sneer. "Do you know where the lower-case `x' is now, eh?" Reginald, swelling with the indignation Gedge's story had roused in him, turned his back and made no answer. Nothing, as he might have known by this time, could have irritated Mr Durfy more. "Look here, young gentleman," said the latter, coming close up to Reginald's side and hissing the words very disagreeably in his ear, "when I ask a question in this shop I expect to get an answer; mind that. And what's more, I'll have one, or you leave this place in five minutes. Come, now, give me a lower-case `x.'" Reginald hesitated a moment. Suppose Mr Durfy had it in him to be as good as his word. What then about young Gedge? He picked up an "x" sullenly, and tossed it at the overseer's feet. "That's not giving it to me," said the latter, with a sneer of triumph already on his face. "Pick it up directly, do you hear? and give it to me." Reginald stood and glared first at Mr Durfy, then at the type. Yesterday he would have defiantly told him to pick it up himself, caring little what the cost might be. But things had changed since then. Humiliating as it was to own it, he could not afford to be turned off. His pride could not afford it, his care for young Gedge could not afford it, the slender family purse could not afford it. Why ever did he not think of it all before, and spare himself this double indignity? With a groan which represented as much inward misery and humiliation as could well be compressed into a single action, he stooped down and picked up the type and handed it to Mr Durfy. It was well for him he did not raise his eyes to see the smile with which that gentleman received it. "Next time it'll save you trouble to do what you're told at once, Mr Puppy," he said. "Get on with your work, and don't let me catch you idling your time any more." And he walked off crowned with victory and as happy in his mind as if he had just heard of the decease of his enemy the manager. It was a bad beginning to the day for Reginald. He had come to work that morning in a virtuous frame of mind, determined, if possible, to do his duty peaceably and to hold out a helping hand to young Gedge. It was hard enough now to think of anything but his own indignities and the wretch to whom he owed them. He turned to his work almost viciously, and for an hour buried himself in it, without saying a word or lifting his eyes from his case. Then young Gedge, stealing a nervous glance at his face, ventured to say,-- "I say, Cruden, I wish I could stand things like you. I don't know what I should have done if that blackguard had treated me like that." "What's the use?" said Reginald. "He wants to get rid of me, and I'm not going to let him." "I'm jolly glad of it for my sake. I wish I could pay him out for you." "So you can." "How?" "Next time he wants you to go and drink, say No," said Reginald. "Upon my word I will," said Gedge; "and I don't care how hot he makes it for me, if you stick by me, Cruden." "You know I'll stick by you, young 'un," said Reginald; "but that won't do you much good, unless you stick by yourself. Suppose Durfy managed to get rid of me after all--" "Then I should go to--to the dogs," said Gedge, emphatically. "You're a greater fool than I took you for, then," said Reginald. "If you only knew," he added more gently, "what a job it is to do what's right myself, and how often I don't do it, you'd see it's no use expecting me to be good for you and myself both." "What on earth am I to do, then? I'm certain I can't keep square myself; I never could. Who's to look after me if you don't?" Like a brave man, Reginald, shy and reserved as he was, told him. I need not repeat what was said that morning over the type cases. It was not a sermon, nor a catechism; only a few stammering laboured words spoken by a boy who felt himself half a hypocrite as he said them, and who yet, for the affection he bore his friend, had the courage to go through with a task which cost him twenty times the effort of rescuing the boy yesterday from his bodily peril. Little good, you will say, such a sermon from such a perverse, bad- humoured preacher as Reginald Cruden, could do! Very likely, reader; but, after all, who are you or I to say so? Had any one told Reginald a week ago what would be taking place to-day, he would have coloured up indignantly and hoped he was not quite such a prig as all that. As it was, when it was all over, it was with no self-satisfied smile or inward gratulation that he returned to his work, but rather with the nervous uncomfortable misgivings of one who says to himself,-- "After all I may have done more harm than good." By the end of a fortnight Reginald, greatly to Mr Durfy's dissatisfaction, was an accomplished compositor. He could set-up almost as quickly as Gedge, and his "proofs" showed far fewer corrections. Moreover, as he was punctual in his hours, and diligent at his work, it was extremely difficult for the overseer or any one else to find any pretext for abusing him. It is true, Mr Barber, who had not yet given up the idea of asserting his moral and intellectual superiority, continued by the ingenious device of "squabbling" his case, and tampering with the screw of his composing-stick, and other such pleasing jokes not unknown to printers, to disconcert the new beginner on one or two occasions. But ever since Reginald one morning, catching him in the act of mixing up his e's with his a's, had carried him by the collar of his coat and the belt of his breeches to the water tank and dipped his head therein three times with no interval for refreshment between, Mr Barber had moderated his attentions and become less exuberant in his humour. With the exception of Gedge, now his fast ally, Reginald's other fellow- workmen concerned themselves very little with his proceedings. One or two, indeed, noticing his proficiency, hinted to him that he was a fool to work for the wages he was getting, and some went so far as to say he had no right to do so, and had better join the "chapel" to save trouble. What the "chapel" was Reginald did not trouble even to inquire, and replied curtly that it was no business of any one else what his wages were. "Wasn't it?" said the deputation. "What was to become of them if fellows did their work for half wages, they should like to know?" "Are you going off, or must I make you?" demanded Reginald, feeling he had had enough of it. And the deputation, remembering Barber's head and the water tank, withdrew, very much perplexed what to do to uphold the dignity of the "chapel." They decided to keep their "eye" on him, and as they were able to do this at a distance, Reginald had no objection at all to their decision. He meanwhile was keeping his eye on Gedge and Mr Durfy, and about a fortnight after his arrival at the _Rocket_, a passage of arms occurred which, slight as it was, had a serious influence on the future of all three parties concerned. The seven o'clock bell had rung, and this being one of Horace's late evenings, Reginald proposed to Gedge to stroll home with him and call and see Mrs Cruden. The boy accepted readily, and the two were starting off arm in arm when Mr Durfy confronted them. Reginald, who had never met his adversary beyond the precincts of the _Rocket_ before, did not for a moment recognise the vulgar, loudly dressed little man, sucking his big cigar and wearing his pot hat ostentatiously on one side; but when he did he turned contemptuously aside and said,-- "Come on, young 'un." "Come on, young 'un!" echoed Mr Durfy, taking his cigar from his mouth and flicking the ashes in Reginald's direction, "that's just what I was going to say. Young Gedge, you're coming with me to-night. I've got orders for the Alhambra, my boy, and supper afterwards." "Thank you," said Gedge, rather uncomfortably, "it's very kind of you, Mr Durfy, but I've promised Cruden to go with him." "Promised Cruden! What do you mean? Cruden'll keep till to-morrow; the orders won't." "I'm afraid I can't," said Gedge. "Afraid! I tell you I don't mean to stand here all night begging you. Just come along and no more nonsense. We'll have a night of it." "You must excuse me," said the boy, torn between Reginald on the one hand and the fear of offending Durfy on the other. The latter began to take in the position of affairs, and his temper evaporated accordingly. "I won't excuse you; that's all about it," he said; "let go that snivelling lout's arm and do what you're told. Let the boy alone, do you hear?" added he, addressing Reginald, "and take yourself off. Come along, Gedge." "Gedge is not going with you," said Reginald, keeping the boy's arm in his; "he's coming with me, aren't you, young 'un?" The boy pressed his arm gratefully, but made no reply. This was all Mr Durfy wanted to fill up the vials of his wrath. "You miserable young hound you," said he, with an oath; "let go the boy this moment, or I'll turn you out of the place--and him too." Reginald made no reply. His face was pale, but he kept the boy's arm still fast in his own. "Going with you, indeed?" shouted Mr Durfy; "going with you, is he? to learn how to cant and sing psalms! Not if I know it--or if he does, you and he and your brother and your old fool of a mother--" Mr Durfy never got to the end of that sentence. A blow straight from the shoulder of the Wilderham captain sent him sprawling on the pavement before the word was well out of his mouth. It had come now. It had been bound to come sooner or later, and Reginald, as he drew the boy's arm once more under his own, felt almost a sense of relief as he stood and watched Mr Durfy slowly pick himself up and collect his scattered wardrobe. It was some time before the operation was complete, and even then Mr Durfy's powers of speech had not returned. With a malignant scowl he stepped up to his enemy and hissed the one menace,-- "All right!" and then walked away. Reginald waited till he had disappeared round the corner, and then, turning to his companion, took a long breath and said,-- "Come along, young 'un; it can't be helped." The reader must forgive me if I ask him to leave the two lads to walk to Dull Street by themselves, while he accompanies me in the wake of the outraged and mud-stained Mr Durfy. That gentleman was far more wounded in his mind than in his person. He may have been knocked down before in his life, but he had never, as far as he could recollect, been quite so summarily routed by a boy half his age earning only eighteen shillings a week! And the conviction that some people would think he had only got his deserts in what he had suffered, pained him very much indeed. He did not go to the Alhambra. His clothes were too dirty, and his spirits were far too low. He did, in the thriftiness of his soul, attempt to sell his orders in the crowd at the theatre door. But no one rose to the bait, so he had to put them back in his pocket on the chance of being able to "doctor up" the date and crush in with them some other day. Then he mooned listlessly up and down the streets for an hour till his clothes were dry, and then turned into a public-house to get a brush down and while away another hour. Still the vision of Reginald standing where he had last seen him with young Gedge at his side haunted him and spoiled his pleasure. He wandered forth again, feeling quite lonely, and wishing some one or something would turn up to comfort him. Nor was he disappointed. "The very chap," said a voice suddenly at his side when he was beginning to despair of any diversion. "So it is. How are you, my man? We were talking of you not two minutes ago." Durfy pulled up and found himself confronted by two gentlemen, one about forty and the other a fashionable young man of twenty-five. "How are you, Mr Medlock?" said he to the elder in as familiar a tone as he could assume; "glad to see you, sir. How are you, too, Mr Shanklin, pretty well?" "Pretty fair," said Mr Shanklin. "Come and have a drink, Durfy. You look all in the blues. Gone in love, I suppose, eh? or been speculating on the Stock Exchange? You shouldn't, you know, a respectable man like you." "He looks as if he'd been speculating in mud," said Mr Medlock, pointing to the unfortunate overseer's collar and hat, which still bore traces of his recent calamity. "Never mind; we'll wash it off in the Bodega. Come along." Durfy felt rather shy at first in his grand company, especially with the consciousness of his muddy collar. But after about half an hour in the Bodega he recovered his self-possession, and felt himself at home. "By the way," said Mr Medlock, filling up his visitor's glass, "last time we saw you you did us nicely over that tip for the Park Races, my boy! If Alf and I hadn't been hedged close up, we should have lost a pot of money." "I'm very sorry," said Durfy. "You see, another telegram came after the one I showed you, that I never saw; that's how it happened. I really did my best for you." "But it's a bad job, if we pay you to get hold of the _Rocket's_ telegrams and then lose our money over it," said Mr Medlock. "Never mind this time, but you'd better look a little sharper, my boy. There's the Brummagem Cup next week, you know, and we shall want to know the latest scratches on the night before. It'll be worth a fiver to you if you work it well, Durfy. Fill up your glass." Mr Durfy obeyed, glad enough to turn the conversation from the miscarriage of his last attempt to filch his employers' telegrams for the benefit of his betting friends' and his own pocket. "By the way," said Mr Shanklin, presently, "Moses and I have got a little Company on hand just now, Durfy. What do you think of that?" "A company?" said Mr Durfy; "I'll wager it's not a limited one, if you're at the bottom of it! What's your little game now?" "It's a little idea of Alf's," said Mr Medlock, whose Christian name was Moses, "and it ought to come off too. This is something the way of it. Suppose you were a young greenhorn, Durfy--which I'm afraid you aren't--and saw an advertisement in the _Rocket_ saying you could make two hundred and fifty pounds a year easy without interfering with your business, eh? what would you do?" "If I was a greenhorn," said Durfy, "I'd answer the advertisement and enclose a stamped envelope for a reply." "To be sure you would! And the reply would be, we'd like to have a look at you, and if you looked as green as we took you for, we'd ask for a deposit, and then allow you to sell wines and cigars and that sort of fancy goods to your friends. You'd sell a dozen of port at sixty shillings, do you see? half the cash down and half on delivery. We'd send your friend a dozen at twelve and six, and if he didn't shell out the other thirty bob on delivery, we'd still have the thirty bob he paid down to cover our loss. Do you twig?" Durfy laughed. "Do you dream all these things," he said, "or how do you ever think of them?" "Genius, my boy; genius," said Mr Medlock. "Of course," he added, "it couldn't run for long, but we might give it a turn for a month or two." "The worst of it is," put in Mr Shanklin, "it's a ticklish sort of business that some people are uncommon sharp at smelling out; one has to be very careful. There's the advertisement, for instance. You'll have to smuggle it into the _Rocket_, my boy. It wouldn't do for the governors to see it; they'd be up to it. But they'd never see it after it was in, and the _Rocket's_ just the paper for us." "I'll try and manage that," said Durfy. "You give it me, and I'll stick it in with a batch of others somehow." "Alf thinks we'd better do the thing from Liverpool," continued Mr Medlock, "and all we want is a good secretary--a nice, green, innocent, stupid, honest young fellow--that's what we want. If we could pick up one of that sort, there's no doubt of the thing working." Mr Durfy started and coloured up, and then looked first at Mr Medlock and then at Mr Shanklin. "What's the matter? Do you think _you'd_ suit the place?" asked the former, with a laugh. "No; but I know who will!" "You do! Who?" "A young puppy under me at the _Rocket_?" said Durfy, excitedly; "the very man to a T!" And he thereupon launched into a description of Reginald's character in a way which showed that not only was he a shrewd observer of human nature in his way, but, when it served his purpose, could see the good even in a man he hated. "I tell you," said he, "he's born for you, if you can only get him! And if you don't think so after what I've said, perhaps you'll believe me when I tell you, on the quiet, he knocked me down in the gutter this very evening because I wanted to carry off a young convert of his to make a night of it at the Alhambra. There, what do you think of that? I wouldn't tell tales of myself like that for fun, I can tell you!" "There's no mistake about that being the sort of chap we want," said Mr Medlock. "If only we can get hold of him," said Mr Shanklin. "Leave that to me," said Mr Durfy; "only if he comes to you never say a word about me, or he'll shy off." Whereupon these three guileless friends finished their glasses and separated in great good spirits and mutual admiration. CHAPTER NINE. SAMUEL SHUCKLEFORD COMES OF AGE. Reginald, meanwhile, blissfully unconscious of the arrangements which were being made for him, spent as comfortable an evening as he could in the conviction that to-morrow would witness his dismissal from the _Rocket_, and see him a waif on the great ocean of London life. To his mother, and even to young Gedge, he said nothing of his misgivings, but to Horace, as the two lay awake that night, he made a clean breast of all. "You'll call me a fool, I suppose," he said; "but how could I help it?" "A fool! Why, Reg, I know I should have done the same. But for all that, it _is_ unlucky." "It is. Even eighteen shillings a week is better than nothing," said Reginald, with a groan. "Poor mother was saying only yesterday we were just paying for our keep, and nothing more. What will she do now?" "Oh, you'll get into something, I'm certain," said Horace; "and meanwhile--" "Meanwhile I'll do anything rather than live on you and mother, Horrors; I've made up my mind to that. Why," continued he, "you wouldn't believe what a sneak I've been already. You know what Bland said about the football club in his letter? No, I didn't show it to you. He said it would go down awfully well if I sent the fellows my usual subscription. I couldn't bear not to do it after that, and I--I sold my tennis-bat for five shillings, and took another five shillings out of my last two weeks' wages, and sent them half a sov. the other day." Horace gave an involuntary whistle of dismay, but added, quickly,-- "I hope the fellows will be grateful for it, old man; they ought to be. Never mind, I'm certain we shall pull through it some day. We must hope for the best, anyhow." And with a brotherly grip of the hand they turned over and went to sleep. Reginald presented himself at the _Rocket_ next morning in an unusual state of trepidation. He had half made up his mind to march straight to the manager's room and tell him boldly what had happened, and take his discharge from him. But Horace dissuaded him. "After all," he said, "Durfy may think better of it." "Upon my word I hardly know whether I want him to," said Reginald, "except for young Gedge's sake and mother's. Anyhow, I'll wait and see, if you like." Mr Durfy was there when he arrived, bearing no traces of last night's _fracas_, except a scowl and a sneer, which deepened as he caught sight of his adversary. Reginald passed close to his table, in order to give him an opportunity of coming to the point at once; but to his surprise the overseer took no apparent notice of him, and allowed him to go to his place and begin work as usual. "I'd sooner see him tearing his hair than grinning like that," said young Gedge, in a whisper. "You may be sure there's something in the wind." Whatever it was, Mr Durfy kept his own counsel, and though Reginald looked up now and then and caught him scowling viciously in his direction, he made no attempt at hostilities, and rather appeared to ignore him altogether. Even when he was giving out the "copy" he sent Reginald his by a boy, instead of, as was usually his practice, calling him up to the table to receive it. Reginald's copy on this occasion consisted of a number of advertisements, a class of work not nearly as easy and far less interesting than the paragraphs of news which generally fell to his share. However, he attacked them boldly, and, unattractive as they were, contrived to get some occupation from them for his mind as well as his hand. Here, for instance, was some one who wanted "a groom, young, good- looking, and used to horses." How would that suit him? And why need he be good-looking? And what was the use of saying he must be used to horses? Who ever heard of a groom that wasn't? The man who put in that advertisement was a muff. Here was another of a different sort: "J.S. Come back to your afflicted mother and all shall be forgiven." Heigho! suppose "J.S." had got a mother like Mrs Cruden, what a brute he must be to cut away. What had he been doing to her? robbing her? or bullying her? or what? Reginald worked himself into a state of wrath over the prodigal, and very nearly persuaded himself to leave out the promise of forgiveness altogether. "If the young gentleman who dropped an envelope in the Putney omnibus on the evening of the 6th instant will apply to B, at 16, Grip Street, he may hear of something to his advantage." How some people were born to luck! Think of making your fortune by dropping an envelope in a Putney omnibus. How gladly he would pave the floor of every omnibus he rode in with envelopes if only he could thereby hear anything to his advantage! He had a great mind to stroll round by Number 16, Grip Street that evening to see who this mysterious "B" could be. "To intelligent young men in business.--Add £50 a year to your income without any risk or hindrance whatever to ordinary work.--Apply confidentially to Omega, 13, Shy Street, Liverpool, with stamp for reply. None but respectable intelligent young men need apply." Hullo! Reginald laid down his composing-stick and read the advertisement over again: and after that he read it again, word by word, most carefully. £50 a year! Why, that was as much again as his present income, and without risk or interfering with his present work too! Well, his present work might be his past work to-morrow; but even so, with £50 a year he would be no worse off, and of course he could get something else to do as well by way of ordinary work. If only he could bring in £100 a year to the meagre family store! What little luxuries might it not procure for his mother! What a difference it might make in that dreary, poky Dull Street parlour, where she sat all day! Or if they decided not to spend it, but save it up, think of a pound a week ready against a rainy day! Reginald used to have loose enough ideas of the value of money; but the last few weeks had taught him lessons, and one of them was that a pound a week could work wonders. "Apply confidentially." Yes, of course, or else any duffer might snatch at the prize. It was considerate, too, to put it that way, for of course it would be awkward for any one in a situation to apply unless he could do it confidentially--and quite right too to enclose a stamp for a reply. No one who wasn't in earnest would do so, and thus it would keep out fellows who applied out of mere idle curiosity. "None but respectable intelligent young men need apply." Humph! Reginald's conscience told him he was respectable, and he hoped he was also moderately intelligent, though opinions might differ on that point. "Omega"--that sounded well! The man knew Greek--possibly he was a classical scholar, and therefore sure to be a gentleman. Oh, what a contrast to the cad Durfy! "Liverpool." Ah, there was the one drawback; and yet of course it did not follow the £50 a year was to be earned in Liverpool, otherwise how could it fail to interfere with ordinary business? Besides, why should he advertise in the _Rocket_ unless he meant to get applications from Londoners? Altogether Reginald was pleased with the advertisement. He liked the way it was put, and the conditions it imposed, and, indeed, was so much taken up with the study of it that he almost forgot to set it up in type. "Whatever are you dreaming about?" said young Gedge. "You've stood like that for a quarter of an hour at least. You'll have Durfy after you if you don't mind." The name startled Reginald into industry, and he set the advertisement up very clearly and carefully, and re-read it once or twice in the type before he could make up his mind to go on to the next. The thought of it haunted him all day. Should he tell Horace, or Gedge, or his mother of it? Should he go and give Durfy notice then and there? No, he would reply to it before he told any one; and then, if the answer _was_ unsatisfactory--which he could not think possible--then no one would be the wiser or the worse for it. The day flew on leaden wings. Gedge put his friend's silence down to anxiety as to the consequences of yesterday's adventure and did and said what he could to express his sympathy. Mr Durfy alone, sitting at his table, and directing sharp glances every now and then in his direction, could guess the real meaning of his pre-occupation, and chuckled to himself as he saw it. Reginald spent threepence on his way home that evening--one in procuring a copy of the _Rocket_, and two on a couple of postage-stamps. Armed with these he walked rapidly home with Horace, giving him in an absent sort of way a chronicle of the day's doings, but breathing not a word to him or his mother subsequently about the advertisement. After supper he excused himself from joining in the usual walk by saying he had a letter to write, and for the first time in his life felt relieved to see his mother and brother go and leave him behind them. Then he pulled out the newspaper and eagerly read the advertisement once more in print. There it was, not a bit changed! Lots of fellows had seen it by this time, and some of them very likely were at this moment answering it. They shouldn't get the start of him, though! He sat down and wrote-- "Sir,--Having seen your advertisement in the _Rocket_, I beg to apply for particulars. I am respectable and fairly intelligent, and am at present employed as compositor in the _Rocket_ newspaper-office. I shall be glad to increase my income. I am 18 years of age, and beg to enclose stamp for a reply to this address. "Yours truly,-- "Reginald Cruden." He was not altogether pleased with this letter, but it would have to do. If he had had any idea what the advertiser wanted intelligent young men for, he might have been able to state his qualifications better. But what was the use of saying "I think I shall suit you," when possibly he might not suit after all? He addressed the letter carefully, and wrote "private and confidential" on the envelope; and then walked out to post it, just in time, after doing so, to meet his mother and Horace returning from their excursion. "Well, Reg, have you written your letter?" said his mother, cheerily. "Was it to some old schoolfellow?" "No, mother," said Reginald, in a tone which meant, "I would rather you did not ask me." And Mrs Cruden did not ask. "I think," said she, as they stopped at their door--"I almost think, boys, we ought to return the Shucklefords' call. It's only nine o'clock. We might go in for a few minutes. I know you don't care about it; but we must not be rude, you know. What do you think, Reg?" Reg sighed and groaned and said, "If we must we must"; and so, instead of going in at their own door, they knocked at the next. The tinkle of a piano upstairs, and the sound of Sam's voice, audible even in the street, announced only too unmistakably that the family was at home, and a collection of pot hats and shawls in the hall betrayed the appalling fact, when it was _too_ late to retreat, that the Shucklefords had visitors! Mrs Shuckleford came out and received them with open arms. "'Ow 'appy I am to see you and the boys," said she. "I suppose you saw the extra lights and came in. Very neighbourly it was. We thought about sending you an invite, but didn't like while you was in black for your 'usband. But it's all the same now you're here. Very 'appy to see you. Jemima, my dear, come and tell Mrs Cruden and the boys you're 'appy to see them; Sam too--it's Sam's majority, Mrs Cruden; twenty-one he is to-day, and his pa all over--oh, 'ow 'appy I am you've come." "We had no idea you had friends," said Mrs Cruden, nervously. "We'll call again, please." "No you don't, Mrs Cruden," said the effusive Mrs Shuckleford; "'ere you are, and 'ere you stays--I am so 'appy to see you. You and I can 'ave a cosy chat in the corner while the young folk enjoy theirselves. Jemima, put a chair for Mrs C. alongside o' mine; and, Sam, take the boys and see they have some one to talk to 'em." The dutiful Sam, who appeared entirely to share his mother's jubilation at the arrival of these new visitors, obeyed the order with alacrity. "Come on, young fellows," said he; "just in time for shouting proverbs. You go and sit down by Miss Tomkins, Horace, her in the green frock; and you had better go next Jemima, Cruden. When I say `three and away' you've got to shout. Anything'll do, so long as you make a noise." "No, they must shout their right word," said Miss Tomkins, a vivacious- looking young person of thirty. "Come close," said she to Horace, "and I'll whisper what you've got to shout. Whisper, `Dog,' that's your word." Horace seated himself dreamily where he was told, and received the confidential communication of his partner with pathetic resignation. He only wished the signal to shout might soon arrive. As for Reginald, when he felt himself once more in the clutches of the captivating Jemima, and heard her whisper in his ear the mysterious monosyllable "love," his heart became as ice within him, and he sat like a statue in his chair, looking straight before him. Oh, how he hoped "Omega" would give him some occupation for his evenings that would save him from this sort of thing! "Now call them in," said Sam. A signal was accordingly given at the door, and in marched a young lady, really a pleasant, sensible-looking young person, accompanied by a magnificently-attired young gentleman, who, to Horace's amazement, proved to be no other than the melancholy Booms. There was, however, no time just now for an exchange of greetings. Mr Booms and his partner were placed standing in the middle of the floor, and the rest of the company were seated in a crescent round them. There was a pause, and you might have heard a pin drop as Samuel slowly lifted his hand and said in a stage whisper,-- "Now then, mind what you're at. When I say `away.' One, two, three, and a--" At the last syllable there arose a sudden and terrific shout which sent Mrs Cruden nearly into a fit, and made the loosely-hung windows rattle as if an infernal machine had just exploded on the premises. The shout was immediately followed by a loud chorus of laughter, and cries of,-- "Well, have you guessed it?" "Yes, I know what it is," said the pleasant young lady. "Do you know, Mr Booms?" "No," he said, sadly; "how could I guess? What is it, Miss Crisp?" "Why, `Love me, _love_ my dog,' isn't it?" "Right. Well guessed!" cried every one; and amid the general felicitation that ensued the successful proverb-guessers were made room for in the magic circle, and Horace had a chance of exchanging "How d'ye do?" with Mr Booms. "Who'd have thought of meeting you here?" said he, in a whisper. "I didn't expect to meet you," said the melancholy one. "I say, Cruden, please don't mention--_her_." "Her? Whom?" said Horace, bewildered. Booms's reply was a mournful inclination of the head in the direction of Miss Crisp. "Oh, I see. All right, old man. You're a lucky fellow, I think. She looks a jolly sort of girl." "Lucky! Jolly! Oh, Cruden," ejaculated his depressed friend. "Why, what's wrong?" said Horace. "Don't you think she's nice?" "She is; but Shuckleford, Cruden, is not." "Hullo, you two," said the voice of the gentleman in question at this moment; "you seem jolly thick. Oh, of course, shopmates; I forgot; both in the news line. Eh? Now, who's for musical chairs? Don't all speak at once." "I shall have to play the piano now, Mr Reginald," said Miss Jemima, making a last effort to get a word out of her silent companion. "I'm afraid you're not enjoying yourself a bit." Reginald rose instinctively as she did, and offered her his arm. He was half dreaming as he did so, and fancying himself back at Garden Vale. It was to his credit that when he discovered what he was doing he did not withdraw his arm, but conducted his partner gallantly to the piano, and said,-- "I'm afraid I'm a bad hand at games." "Musical chairs is great fun," said Miss Jemima. "I wish I could play it and the piano both. You have to run round and round, and then, when the music stops, you flop down on the nearest chair, and there's always one left out, and the last one wins the game. Do try it." Reginald gave a scared glance at the chairs being arranged back to back in a long line down the room, and said,-- "May I play the piano instead? and then you can join in the game." "What! do _you_ play the piano?" exclaimed the young lady, forgetting her dignity and clapping her hands. "Oh, my eye, what a novelty! Ma, Mr Reginald's going to play for musical chairs! Sam, do you hear? Mr Cruden plays the piano! Isn't it fun?" Reginald flung himself with a sigh down on the cracked music-stool. Music was his one passion, and the last few months had been bitter to him for want of it. He would go out of his way even to hear a street piano, and the brightest moments of his Sundays were often those spent within sound of the roll of the organ. It was like a snatch of the old life to find his fingers once more laid caressingly on the notes of a piano; and as he touched them and began to play, the Shucklefords, the _Rocket_, "Omega," all faded from his thoughts, and he was lost in his music. What a piano it was! Tinny and cracked and out of tune. The music was in the boy's soul, and it mattered comparatively little. He began with Weber's "last waltz," and dreamed off from it into a gavotte of Corelli's, and from that into something else, calling up favourite after favourite to suit the passing moods of his spirit, and feeling happier than he had felt for months. But Weber's "last waltz" and Corelli's gavottes are not the music one would naturally select for musical chairs; and when the strains continue uninterrupted for five or ten-minutes, during the whole of which time the company is perambulating round and round an array of empty chairs, the effect is somewhat monotonous. Mrs Shuckleford's guests trotted round good-humouredly for some time, then they got a little tired, then a little impatient, and finally Samuel, as he passed close behind the music-stool, gave the performer a dig in the back, which had the desired effect of stopping the music suddenly. Whereupon everybody flopped down on the seat nearest within reach. Some found vacancies at once, others had to scamper frantically round in search of them, and finally, as the chairs were one fewer in number than the company, one luckless player was left out to enjoy the fun of those who remained in. "All right," said Samuel, when the first round was decided, and a chair withdrawn in anticipation of the next; "I only nudged you to stop a bit sooner, Cruden. The game will last till midnight if you give us such long doses." Doses! Reginald turned again to the piano and tried once more to lose himself in its comforting music. He played a short German air of only four lines, which ended in a plaintive, wailing cadence. Again the moment the music ceased he heard the scuffling and scampering and laughter behind him, and shouts of,-- "Polly's out! Polly's out!" "I say," said Shuckleford, as they stood ready for the next round, "give us a jingle, Cruden; `Pop goes the Weasel,' or something of that sort. That last was like the tune the cow died of. And stop short in the middle of a line, anyhow." Reginald rose from the piano with flushed cheeks, and said,--"I'm afraid I'm not used to this sort of music. Perhaps Miss Shuckleford--" "Yes, Jim, you play. You know the way. You change places with Jim, Cruden, and come and run round." But Reginald declined the invitation with thanks, and took up a comic paper, in which he attempted to bury himself, while Miss Shuckleford hammered out the latest polka on the piano, stopping abruptly and frequently enough to finish half a dozen rounds in the time it had taken him to dispose of two. Fresh games followed, and to all except the Crudens the evening passed merrily and happily. Even Horace felt the infection of the prevalent good-humour, and threw off the reserve he had at first been tempted to wear in an effort to make himself generally agreeable. Mrs Cruden, cooped up in a corner with her loquacious hostess, did her best too not to be a damper on the general festivity. But Reginald made no effort to be other than he felt himself. He could not have done it if he had tried. But as scarcely any one seemed afflicted on his account, even his unsociability failed to make Samuel Shuckleford's majority party anything but a brilliant success. In due time supper appeared to crown the evening's delights. And after supper a gentleman got up and proposed a toast, which of course was the health of the hero of the occasion. Samuel replied in a facetious County Court address, in which he expressed himself "jolly pleased to see so many friends around him, and hoping they'd all enjoyed their evening, and that if there were any of them still to come of age--(laughter)--they'd have as high an old time of it as he had had to-night. He was sure ma and Jim said ditto to all he said. And before he sat down he was very glad to see their new next- door neighbours. (Hear, hear.) They'd had their troubles, but they could reckon on friends in that room. The young fellows were bound to get on if they stuck to their shop, and he'd like to drink the health of them and their ma." (Cheers.) The health was drunk. Mrs Cruden looked at Reginald, Horace looked at Reginald, but Reginald looked straight before him and bit his lips and breathed hard. Whereupon Horace rose and said,-- "We think it very kind of you to drink our healths; and I am sure we are much obliged to you all for doing so." Which said, the Shucklefords' party broke up, and the Crudens went home. CHAPTER TEN. "WILL YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOUR?" SAID THE SPIDER TO THE FLY. The two days which followed the despatch of the letter to "Omega" were long and anxious ones for Reginald Cruden. It would have been a great relief to him had he felt free to talk the matter over with Horace; but somehow that word "confidential" in the advertisement deterred him. For all that, he made a point of leaving the paper containing it in his brother's way, if by any chance the invitation to an additional £50 a year might meet his eye. Had it done so, it is doubtful whether Reginald would have been pleased, for he knew that if it came to selecting one of the two, Horace would probably pass for quite as respectable and considerably more intelligent a young man than himself. Still, he had no right to stand in his brother's way if fate ordained that he too should be attracted by the advertisement. He therefore left the paper lying conspicuously about with the advertisement sheet turned toward the beholder. Horace, however, had too much of the _Rocket_ in his business hours to crave for a further perusal of it during his leisure. He kicked it unceremoniously out of his way the first time he encountered it; and when Reginald saw it next it was in a mangled condition under the stairs in the suspicious company of the servant-girl's cinder-shovel. On the second morning, when he arrived at his work, a letter lay on his case with the Liverpool postmark, addressed R. Cruden, Esquire, _Rocket_ Office, London. In his excitement and haste to learn its contents it never occurred to him to notice the unexpected compliment conveyed in the word "Esquire"; and he might have remained for ever in blissful ignorance of the fact, had not his left-hand neighbour, the satirical Mr Barber, considered the occasion a good one for a few flashes of wit. "'Ullo, Esquire, 'ow are you, Esquire? There is somebody knows you, then. Liverpool, too! That's where all the chaps who rob the till go to. R. Cruden, Esquire--my eye! What's the use of putting any more than `London' on the envelope--such a well-known character as you? Stuck-up idiot!" To this address Reginald attended sufficiently to discover that it was not worth listening to; after which he did not even hear the concluding passages of his neighbour's declamation, being absorbed in far more interesting inquiries. He tore the envelope open and hurriedly read-- "Sir,--Your favour is to hand, and in reply we beg to say we shall be glad to arrange an interview. One of our directors will be in town on Monday next, and can see you between one and two o'clock at Weaver's Hotel. Be good enough to treat this and all further communications as strictly confidential.--We are, Sir, yours faithfully,-- "The Select Agency Corporation. "P.S.--Ask at Weaver's Hotel for Mr Medlock. "Liverpool." The welcome contents of this short note fairly staggered him. If the tone of the advertisement had been encouraging, that of this letter was positively convincing. It was concise, business-like, grammatical and courteous. Since his trouble Reginald had never been addressed by any one in the terms of respect conveyed in this communication. Furthermore, the appointment being between one and two--the dinner- hour--he would be able to keep it without difficulty or observation, particularly as Weaver's Hotel was not a stone's throw from the _Rocket_ office. Then again, the fact of his letter being from a "corporation" gratified and encouraged him. A Select Agency Corporation was not the sort of company to do things meanly or inconsiderately. They were doubtless a select body of men themselves, and they required the services of select servants; and it was perfectly reasonable that in an affair like this, which _might_ lead to nothing, strict mutual confidence should be observed. Supposing in the end he should see reason to decline to connect himself with the Corporation (Reginald liked to think this possible, though he felt sure it was not probable), why, if he had said much about it previously, it _might_ be to the prejudice of the Corporation! Finally, he thought the name "Medlock" agreeable, and was generally highly gratified with the letter, and wished devoutly Monday would come round quickly. The one drawback to his satisfaction was that he was still as far as ever from knowing in what direction his respectable and intelligent services were likely to be required. Monday came at last. When he went up on the Saturday to receive his wages he had fully expected to learn Mr Durfy's intentions with regard to him, and was duly surprised when that gentleman actually handed him his money without a word, and with the faintest suspicion of a smile. "He's got a nailer on you, old man, and no mistake," said Gedge, dolefully. "I'd advise you to keep your eye open for a new berth, if you get the chance; and, I say, if you can only hear of one for two!" This last appeal went to Reginald's heart, and he inwardly resolved, if Mr Medlock turned out to be as amiable a man as he took him for, to put in a word on Gedge's behalf as well as his own at the coming interview. The dinner-bell that Monday tolled solemnly in Reginald's ears as he put on a clean collar and brushed his hair previously to embarking on his journey to Weaver's Hotel. What change might not have taken place in his lot before that same bell summoned him once more to work? He left the _Rocket_ a needy youth of £47 10 shillings a year. Was he to return to it passing rich of £97 10 shillings? Weaver's Hotel was a respectable quiet resort for country visitors in London, and Reginald, as he stood in its homely entrance hall, felt secretly glad that the Corporation selected a place like this for its London headquarters rather than one of the more showy but less respectable hotels or restaurants with which the neighbourhood abounded. Mr Medlock was in his room, the waiter said, and Mr Cruden was to step up. He did step up, and was ushered into a little sitting-room, where a middle-aged gentleman stood before the fire-place reading the paper and softly humming to himself as he did so. "Mr Cruden, sir," said the waiter. "Ah! Mr Cruden, good morning. Take a seat. John, I shall be ready for lunch in about ten-minutes." Reginald, with the agitating conviction that his fate would be sealed one way or another in ten-minutes, obeyed, and darted a nervous glance at his new acquaintance. He rather liked the looks of him. He looked a comfortable, well-to-do gentleman, with rather a handsome face, and a manner by no means disheartening. Mr Medlock in turn indulged in a careful survey of the boy as he sat shyly before him trying to look self-possessed, but not man of the world enough to conceal his anxiety or excitement. "Let me see," said Mr Medlock, putting his hands in his pocket and leaning against the mantel-piece, "you replied to the advertisement, didn't you?" "Yes, sir," said Reginald. "And what made you think you would suit us?" "Well, sir," stammered Reginald, "you wanted respectable intelligent young men--and--and I thought I--that is, I hoped I might answer that description." Mr Medlock took one hand out of his pocket and stroked his chin. "Have you been in the printing trade long?" "Only a few weeks, sir." "What were you doing before that?" Reginald flushed. "I was at school, sir--at Wilderham." "Wilderham? Why, that's a school for gentlemen's sons." "My father was a gentleman, sir," said the boy, proudly. "He's dead then?" said Mr Medlock. "That is sad. But did he leave nothing behind him?" "He died suddenly, sir," said Reginald, speaking with an effort, "and left scarcely anything." "Did he die in debt? You must excuse these questions, Mr Cruden," added the gentleman, with an amiable smile; "it is necessary to ask them or I would spare you the trouble." "He did die in debt," said Reginald, "but we were able to pay off every penny he owed." "And left nothing for yourself when it was done? Very honourable, my lad; it will always be a satisfaction to you." "It is, sir," said Reginald, cheering up. "You naturally would be glad to improve your income. How much do you get where you are?" "Eighteen shillings a week." Mr Medlock whistled softly. "Eighteen shillings; that's very little, very poor pay," said he. "I should have thought, with your education, you could have got more than that." It pleased Reginald to have his education recognised in this delicate way. "We had to be thankful for what we could get," said he; "there are so many fellows out of work." "Very true, very true," said Mr Medlock, shaking his head impressively, "we had no less than 450 replies to our advertisement." Reginald gave a gasp. What chance had he among 450 competitors? Mr Medlock took a turn or two up and down the room, meditating with himself and keeping his eye all the time on the boy. "Yes," said he, "450--a lot, isn't it? Very sad to think of it." "Very sad," said Reginald, feeling called upon to say something. "Now," said Mr Medlock, coming to a halt in his walk in front of the boy, "I suppose you guess I wouldn't have asked you to call here if I and my fellow-directors hadn't been pleased with your letter." Reginald looked pleased and said nothing. "And now I've seen you and heard what you've got to say, I think you're not a bad young fellow; but--" Mr Medlock paused, and Reginald's face changed to one of keen anxiety. "I'm afraid, Mr Cruden, you're not altogether the sort we want." The boy's face fell sadly. "I would do my best," he said, as bravely as he could, "if you'd try me. I don't know what the work is yet, but I'm ready to do anything I can." "Humph!" said Mr Medlock. "What we advertise for is sharp agents, to sell goods on commission among their friends. Now, do you think you could sell £500 worth of wine and cigars and that sort of thing every year among your friends? You'd need to do that to make £50 a year, you know. You understand? Could you go round to your old neighbours and crack up our goods, and book their orders and that sort of thing? I don't think you could, myself. It strikes me you are too much of a gentleman." Reginald sat silent for a moment, with the colour coming and going in his cheeks; then he looked up and said, slowly-- "I'm afraid I could not do that, sir--I didn't know you wanted that." So saying he took up his hat and rose to go. Mr Medlock watched him with a smile, if not of sympathy, at any rate of approval, and when he rose motioned him back to his seat. "Not so fast, my man; I like your spirit, and we may hit it yet." Reginald resumed his seat with a new interest in his anxious face. "You wouldn't suit us as a drummer--that is," said Mr Medlock, hastily correcting himself, "as a tout--an agent; but you might suit us in another way. We're looking out for a gentlemanly young fellow for secretary--to superintend the concern for the directors, and be the medium of communication between them and the agents. We want an educated young man, and one we can depend upon. As to the work, that's picked up in a week easily. Now, suppose--suppose when I go back to Liverpool I were to recommend you for a post like that, what would you say?" Reginald was almost too overwhelmed for words; he could only stammer,-- "Oh, sir, how kind of you!" "The directors would appoint any one I recommended," continued Mr Medlock, looking down with satisfaction on the boy's eagerness; "you're young, of course, but you seem to be honest, that's the great thing." "I think I can promise that," said Reginald, proudly. "The salary would begin at £150 a year, but we should improve it if you turned out well. And you would, of course, occupy the Company's house at Liverpool. We should not ask for a premium in your case, but you would have to put £50 into the shares of the Corporation to qualify you, and of course you would get interest on that. Now," said he, as Reginald began to speak, "don't be in a hurry. Take your time and think it well over. If you say `Yes,' you may consider the thing settled, and if you say `No'--well, we shall be able to find some one else. Ah, here comes lunch--stop and have some with me--bring another plate, waiter." Reginald felt too bewildered to know what to think or say. He a secretary of a company with £150 a year! It was nearly intoxicating. And for the post spontaneously offered to him in the almost flattering way it had been--this was more gratifying still. In his wildest dreams just now he never pictured himself sitting down as secretary to the Select Agency Corporation to lunch with one of its leading directors! Mr Medlock said no more about "business", but made himself generally agreeable, asking Reginald about his father and the old days, inquiring as to his mother and brother, and all about his friends and acquaintances in London. Reginald felt he could talk freely to this friend, and he did so. He confided to him all about Mr Durfy's tyranny, about his brother's work at the _Rocket_, and even went so far as to drop out a hint in young Gedge's favour. He told him all about Wilderham and his schoolfellows there, about the books he liked, about the way he spent his evenings, about Dull Street--in fact, he felt as if he had known Mr Medlock for years and could talk to him accordingly. "I declare," said that gentleman, pulling out his watch, after this pleasant talk had been going on a long time, "it's five minutes past two. I'm afraid you'll be late." Reginald started up. "So I shall, I'd no idea it was so late. I'm afraid I had better go, sir." "Well, write me a letter to Liverpool to-morrow, or Wednesday at the latest, as we must fill up the place soon. Think it well over. Good- bye, my man. I hope I shall see you again before long. By the way, of course, you won't talk about all this out of doors." "Oh, no," said Reginald, "I haven't even mentioned it yet at home." Mr Medlock laughed. "Well, if you come to Liverpool you'll have to tell them something about it. See, here's a list of our directors, your mother may recognise some of the names. But beyond your mother and brother don't talk about it yet, as the Corporation is only just starting." Reginald heartily concurred in this caution, and promised to act on it, and then after a friendly farewell hastened back to the _Rocket_ office. The clock pointed nearly a quarter past two when he entered. He was not the sort of fellow to slink in when no one was looking. In fact, he had such a detestation of that sort of thing that he went to the other extreme, and marched ostentatiously past Mr Durfy's table, as though to challenge his observation. If that was his intention he was not disappointed. "Oh," said the overseer, with a return of the old sneer, which had been dormant ever since the night Reginald had knocked him down. "You _have_ come, have you? And you know the hour, do you?" "Yes, it's a quarter past two," said Reginald. "Is it?" sneered Mr Durfy, in his most offensive way. "Yes, it is," replied the boy, hotly. What did he care for Durfy now? To-morrow in all probability he would have the satisfaction of walking up to that table and saying, "Mr Durfy, I leave here on Saturday," meanwhile he was not disposed to stand any of his insolence. But he hardly expected what was coming next. "Very well, then you can just put your hat on your head and go back the way you came, sir." "What do you mean?" said Reginald, in startled tones. "Mean? what I say!" shouted Durfy. "You're dismissed, kicked out, and the sooner you go the better." So this was the dignified leave-taking to which he had secretly looked forward! Kicked out! and kicked out by Durfy! Reginald's toes tingled at the very thought. "You've no right to dismiss me for being a few minutes late," said he. It was Durfy's turn now to be dignified. He went on writing, and did his best to affect oblivion of his enemy's presence. Reginald, too indignant to know the folly of such an outburst, broke out,-- "I shall not take my dismissal from you. I shall stay here as long as I choose, and when I go I'll go of my own accord, you cad, you--" Mr Durfy still went on writing with a cheerful smile on his countenance. "Do you hear?" said Reginald, almost shouting the words. "I'm not going to please you. I shall go to please myself. I give _you_ notice, and thank Heaven I've done with you." Durfy looked up with a laugh. "Go and make that noise outside," he said. "We can do without you here. Gedge, my man, put those cases beside you back into the rack, and go and tell the porter he's wanted." The mention of Gedge's name cowed Reginald in an instant, and in the sudden revulsion of feeling which ensued he was glad enough to escape from the room before fairly breaking down under a crushing sense of injury, mortification, and helplessness. Gedge was at the door as he went out. "Oh, Cruden," he whispered, "what will become of me now? Wait for me outside at seven o'clock; please do." That afternoon Reginald paced the streets more like a hunted beast than a human being. All the bad side of his nature--his pride, his conceit, his selfishness--was stirred within him under a bitter sense of shame and indignity. He forgot how much his own intractable temper and stupid self-importance had contributed to his fall, and could think of nothing but Durfy's triumph and the evil fate which at the very moment, when he was able to snap his fingers in the tyrant's face, had driven him forth in disgrace with the tyrant's fingers snapped in his face. He had not spirit or resolution enough to wait to see Gedge or any one that evening, but slunk away, hating the sight of everybody, and wishing only he could lose himself and forget that such a wretch as Reginald Cruden existed. Ah! Reginald. It's a long race to escape from oneself. Men have tried it before now with better reason than you, and failed. Wait till you have something worse to run from, my honest, foolish friend. Face round like a man, and stand up to your pursuer. You have hit out straight from the shoulder before to-day. Do it again now. One smart round will finish the business, for this false Reginald is a poor creature after all, and you can knock him out of time and over the ropes with one hand if you like. Try it, and save your running powers for an uglier foeman some other day! Reginald did fight it out with himself as he walked mile after mile that afternoon through the London streets, and by the time he reached home in the evening he was himself again. He met his mother's tears and Horace's dismal looks with a smile of triumph. "So you've heard all about it, have you?" said he. "Oh, Reginald," said his mother, in deep distress, "how grieved I am for you!" "You needn't be, mother," said Reginald, "for I've got another situation far better and worth three times as much." And then he told them, as far as he felt justified in doing so, of the advertisement and what it had led to, finishing up with a glowing description of Mr Medlock, whom he only regretted he had not had the courage to ask up to tea that very evening. But there was a cloud on the bright horizon which his mother and Horace were quicker to observe than he. "But, Reg," said the latter, "surely it means you'd have to go to Liverpool?" "Yes; I'm afraid it does. That's the one drawback." "But surely you won't accept it, then?" said the younger brother. Reginald looked up. Horace's tone, if not imperious, had not been sympathetic, and it jarred on him in the fulness of his projects to encounter an obstacle. "Why not?" he replied. "It's all very well for you, in your snug berth, but I must get a living, mustn't I?" "I should have thought something might turn up in London," persisted Horace. "Things don't turn up as we want them," said Reginald, tartly. "Look here, Horace, you surely don't suppose I prefer to go to Liverpool to staying here?" "Of course not," said Horace, beginning to whistle softly to himself. It was a bad omen, and Mrs Cruden knew it. "Come," said she, cheerily, "we must make the best of it. These names, Reg, in the list of directors Mr Medlock gave you, seem all very respectable." "Do you know any of them?" asked Reginald. "Mr Medlock thought you might." "I know one or two by name," replied she. "There's the Bishop of S--, I see, and Major Wakeman, who I suppose is the officer who has been doing so well in India. There's a Member of Parliament, too, I see. It seems a good set of directors." "Of course they aren't likely all to turn up at board meetings," said Reginald, with an explanatory air. "I don't see myself what business a bishop has with a Select Agency Corporation," said Horace, determined not to see matters in a favourable light. "My dear fellow," said Reginald, trying hard to keep his temper, "I can't help whether you see it or not. By the way, mother, about the £50 to invest. I think Mr Richmond--" Mrs Cruden started. "This exciting news," said she, "drove it out of my head for the moment. Boys, I am very sorry to say I had a note to-day stating that Mr Richmond was taken ill while in France, and is dead. He was one of our few old friends, and it is a very sad blow." She was right. The Crudens never stood in greater need of a wise friend than they did now. CHAPTER ELEVEN. REGINALD TAKES HIS FATE INTO HIS OWN HANDS. The next day Reginald wrote and accepted the invitation of the directors of the Select Agency Corporation. He flattered himself he was acting deliberately, and after fully weighing the pros and cons of the question. True, he still knew very little about his new duties, and had yet to make the acquaintance of the Bishop of S-- and the other directors. But, on the other hand, he had seen Mr Medlock, and heard what he had to say, and was quite satisfied in his own mind that everything was all right. And, greatest argument of all, he had no other place to go to, and £150 a year was a salary not to be thrown away when put into one's hands. Still, he felt a trifle uncomfortable about the necessity of going to Liverpool and breaking up the old home. Of course, he could not help himself, and Horace had no right to insinuate otherwise. All the same, it was a pity, and if there had not been the compensating certainty of being able to send up regular contributions to the family purse, which would help his mother to not a few comforts hitherto denied, he would have been more troubled still about it. "What will you do about the £50?" said Horace next day, forcing himself to appear interested in what he inwardly disapproved. "Oh," said Reginald, "I'd intended to ask Richmond to lend it me. It's not exactly a loan either; it would be the same as his investing in the company in my name. The money would be safe, and he'd get his interest into the bargain. But of course I can't go to him now." "No; and I don't know whom else you could ask," said Horace. "They might let me put in a pound a week out of my salary," said Reginald. "That would still leave me two pounds a week, and of that I could send home at least twenty-five shillings." Horace mused. "It seems to me rather queer to expect you to put the money in," said he. "It may be queer, but it's their rule, Mr Medlock says." "And whatever does the Corporation do? It's precious hazy to my mind." "I can't tell you anything about it now," said Reginald; "the concern is only just started, and I have promised to treat all Mr Medlock told me as confidential. But I'm quite satisfied in my mind, and you may be too, Horace." Horace did not feel encouraged to pursue the discussion after this, and went off alone to work in low spirits, and feeling unusually dismal. "By the way," said Reginald, as he started, "bring young Gedge home with you. I meant to see him last night, but forgot." Reginald spent the day uneasily for himself and his mother in trying to feel absolutely satisfied with the decision he had come to, and in speculating on his future work. Towards afternoon, weary of being all day in the house, he went out for a stroll. It was a beautiful day, and the prospect of a walk in the park by daylight was a tempting one. As he was passing down Piccadilly, he became aware of some one approaching him whom he knew, and whom, in another moment, he recognised as Blandford. There was some excuse certainly for not taking in his old schoolfellow's identity all at once, for the boy he had known at Wilderham only a few months ago had suddenly blossomed forth into a man, and had exchanged the airy bearing of a school-boy for the half-languid swagger of a man about town. "Hullo, Bland, old man!" exclaimed Reginald, lighting up jubilantly at the sight of an old familiar face, "how are you? Who would have thought of seeing you?" Blandford was surprised too, and for a moment critically surveyed the boy in front of him before he replied. "Ah, Cruden, that you? I shouldn't have known you." Reginald's face fell. He became suddenly aware, and for the first time in his life, that his clothes were shabby, and that his boots were in holes. "I shouldn't have known you," he replied; "you look so much older than when I saw you last." "So I am; but, I say," added Bland, reddening as an acquaintance passed and nodded to him, "I'm rather in a hurry, Cruden, just now. If you're not engaged this evening, come and dine with me at seven at the Shades, and we can have a talk. Good-bye." And he went on hurriedly, leaving Reginald with an uncomfortable suspicion that if he--Reginald--had been more smartly dressed, and had worn gloves and a tall hat, the interview would have been more cordial and less hasty. However, the longing he felt for the old happy days that were past decided him to appear at the Shades at the hour appointed, although it meant absence from home on one of his few remaining evenings, and, still more, a further desertion of young Gedge. He repented of his resolution almost as soon as he had made it. What was to be gained by assuming a false position for an evening, and trying to delude himself into the notion that he was the equal of his old comrade? Did not his clothes, his empty pockets, the smart of Durfy's tongue, and even the letter now on its way to Mr Medlock, all disprove it? And yet, three months ago, he was a better man all round than Blandford, who had been glad to claim his friendship and accept his father's hospitality. Reginald rebelled against the idea that they two could still be anything to one another than the friends they had once been; but all the while the old school saw came back into his mind--that imposition sentence he had in his day written out hundreds of times without once thinking of its meaning: _Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis_. He reached the Shades a few minutes before seven, and waited outside till his friend arrived. He had not to wait long, for Blandford and a couple of companions drove up punctually in a hansom--all of them, to Reginald's horror, being arrayed in full evening dress. "Hullo, Cruden, you've turned up then," said Blandford. "What, not in regimentals? You usen't to be backward in that way. Never mind; they say dress after seven o'clock here, but they're not strict. We can smuggle you in." Oh, how Reginald wished he was safe back in Dull Street! "By the way," continued Blandford, "these are two friends of mine, Cruden--Mr Shanklin and Mr Pillans. Cruden's an old Wilderham fellow, you know," he added, in an explanatory aside. The gentleman introduced as Mr Shanklin stared curiously at Reginald for a few seconds, and then shook hands. Had the boy known as much of that gentleman as the reader does, he would probably have displayed considerably more interest in his new acquaintance than he did. As it was, he would have been glad of an excuse to avoid shaking hands with either him or his empty-headed companion, Mr Pillans. He went through the ceremony as stiffly as possible, and then followed the party within. "Now, then," said Blandford, as they sat down at one of the tables, "what do you say? It'll save trouble to take the table d'hote, eh? are you game, you fellows? Table d'hote for four, waiter. What shall we have to drink? I say hock to start with." "I wont take any wine," said Reginald, with an effort. "Why not? You're not a teetotaler, are you?" "I won't take any wine," repeated Reginald decisively; and, to his satisfaction, he was allowed to do as he pleased. The dinner passed as such entertainments usually do, diminishing in interest as it went on. In his happiest days, Reginald always hated what the boys used to call "feeds," and he found that three months' altered circumstances had by no means reconciled him to the infliction. He shirked the last two or three courses, and grew heartily tired of the sight of a plate. "You wondered how I came to be in town?" said Blandford. "The fact is, my uncle went off the hooks a few weeks ago, and as I'm his heir, you know, I came up, and haven't gone back yet. I don't think I shall either." "No; what's the use, with the pot of money you've come in for?" said Mr Shanklin. "You're far more comfortable up in town." "Yes, and _you're_ a nice boy to show a fellow about town," said Blandford, laughing, "Wilderham's all very well, you know, Cruden," continued he, "but it's a grind being cooped up there when you've got your chance of a fling." "Well, you've not wasted your chances, my boy," said Mr Pillans, who, besides being empty-headed, was unhealthy in complexion, and red about the eyes. Blandford appeared rather flattered than otherwise by this observation, and told Mr Pillans to shut up and not tell tales out of school. "I suppose Wilderham hasn't changed much since last term?" asked Reginald wistfully. "Oh no; plenty of fellows left and new ones come--rather a better lot, take them all round, than we had last term." "Has the football club been doing well again?" asked the old boy. "Oh, middling. By the way, the fellows growled rather when you only sent them half-a-sov. instead of a sov." Reginald coloured up. Little his comrade knew what that half-sovereign had cost him! He relapsed into silence, and had to derive what compensation he could from the fast talk in which the other three engaged, apparently heedless of his presence. In due time the meal ended, and Blandford called for the bills. Until that moment Reginald had never imagined for a moment but that he had been dining as his old schoolfellow's guest. He had understood Blandford's request of his company as an invitation, and as an invitation he had accepted it, and as an invitation he had repented of it. What, then, was his embarrassment to find a bill for six shillings and sixpence laid down before him as his share of the entertainment! For a moment a flush of relief passed across his face. He was glad not to find himself under obligations to Blandford after all. But in another moment relief was changed to horror as he remembered that three shillings was all the money he had about him. Oh, the humiliation, the anguish of this discovery! He would have had anything happen rather than this. He sat staring at the bill like a being petrified. "Come along," said Blandford, "let's go to the smoking-room. I suppose you fellows will have coffee there. Coffee for four, waiter. Are you ready?" But Reginald did not move, nor did the waiter. "What's the row?" said Blandford to the latter. The waiter pointed to Reginald's bill. "Oh, he's waiting for your bill, Cruden. Look sharp, old man!" The colour came and went in Reginald's face, as though he had been charged with some hideous crime. And it seemed like a deliberate mockery of his trouble that his three companions and the waiter stood silent at the table, eyeing him, and waiting for his answer. "I'm sorry," he said at length, bringing up the words with a tremendous effort, "I find I've not money enough to pay it. I made a mistake in coming here." All four listeners stood with faces of mingled amazement and amusement at the boy's agitation and the tragic manner in which he accounted for it. Any one else would have carried it off with a jest; but to Reginald it was like passing through the fire. "Would you mind--may I trouble you--that is, will you lend me three-and- sixpence, Blandford?" he said at last. Blandford burst out laughing. "I thought at least you'd swallowed a silver spoon!" said he. "Here, waiter, I'll settle that bill. How much is it?" "No," said Reginald, laying down his three shillings; "if you can lend me three-and-sixpence, that's all I want." "Bosh!" said Blandford, pitching half a sovereign to the waiter; "take it out of that, and this coffee too, and come along into the smoking- room, you fellows." Reginald would fain have escaped; but the horrid dread of being suspected of caring more about his dinner than his company deterred him, and he followed dejectedly to the luxurious smoking-room of the Shades. He positively refused to touch the coffee or the cigar, even though Blandford took care to remind him they had been paid for. Nor, except when spoken to, could he bring himself to open his lips or take part in the general talk. Blandford, however, who, ever since the incident of the bill, seemed to consider himself entitled to play a patronising part towards his schoolfellow, continued to keep him from lapsing into obscurity. "Where's your brother living?" he asked presently. "He's in town, too," said Reginald. "My mother and he and I live together." "Where? I'd like to call on your mother." "We live in Dull Street," said Reginald, beginning in sheer desperation to pluck up heart and hang out no more false colours. "Dull Street? That's rather a shady locality, isn't it?" said Mr Pillans. Reginald rounded on him. Blandford might have a right to catechise him; but what business was it of this numbskull's where he lived? "You're not obliged to go there," he said, with a curl of his lip, "unless you like." Mr Shanklin smiled at this sally, a demonstration which considerably incensed the not too amiable Mr Pillans. "I'll take precious care I don't," said the latter. Reginald said "Thanks!" drily, and in a way so cutting that Mr Shanklin and Blandford both laughed this time. "Look here," said the unwholesome Pillans, looking very warm, "what do you say that for? Do you want to cheek me?" "Don't be a fool, Pillans. It doesn't matter to you where he lives," said Blandford. "Thank goodness it don't--or whether he pays his rent either." "It's a pity you had to leave Garden Vale," said Blandford, apparently anxious to turn the conversation into a more pacific channel; "such a jolly place it was. What do you do with yourself all day long in town?" Reginald smiled. "I work for my living," said he, keeping his eye steadily fixed on Mr Pillans, as if waiting to catch the first sign of an insult on his part. "That's what we all do, more or less," said Mr Shanklin. "Blandford here works like a nigger to spend his money, don't you, old man?" "I do so," said Blandford, "with your valuable assistance." "And with somebody else's assistance too," said Mr Pillans, with a shrug in the direction of Reginald. Reginald understood the taunt, and rose to his feet. "You're not going?" said Blandford. "I am. I don't forget I owe you for my dinner, Blandford; and I shan't forget that I owe you also for introducing me to a blackguard. Good- night." And without allowing his hearers time to recover from the astonishment into which these words had thrown them, he marched out of the Shades with his head in the air. It was a minute before any of the three disconcerted companions could recover the gift of speech. At last Mr Shanklin burst out into a laugh. "Capital, that was," he said; "there's something in the fellow. And," he added internally, and not in the hearing of either of his companions, "if he's the same fellow Medlock has hooked, our fortune's made." "All very well," said Pillans; "but he called me a blackguard." This simple discovery caused still greater merriment at the expense of the outraged owner of the appellation. "I've a good mind to go after him, and pull his nose," growled he. "Nothing would please him better," said Blandford. "But you'd better leave your own nose behind, my boy, before you start, or there won't be much of it left. I know Cruden of old." "You won't see much more of him now," sneered Pillans, "now he owes you for his dinner." "It strikes me, Bland was never safer of a six-and-six in his life than he is of the one he lent to-night," said Mr Shanklin. "Unless I'm mistaken, the fellow would walk across England on his bare feet to pay it back." Mr Shanklin, it was evident, could appreciate honesty in any one else. He was highly delighted with what he had seen of the new secretary. If anything could float the Select Agency Corporation, the lad's unsuspicious honesty would do it. In fact, things were looking up all round for the precious confederates. With Reginald to supply them with honesty, with easy-going spendthrifts, like Blandford and Pillans, to supply them with money, and with a cad like Durfy to do their dirty work for them, they were in as comfortable and hopeful a way as the promoters of such an enterprise could reasonably hope to be. The trio at the Shades soon forgot Reginald in the delights of one another's sweet society. They played billiards, at which Mr Shanklin won. They also played cards, at which, by a singular coincidence, Mr Shanklin won too. They then went to call on a friend who knew the "straight tip" for the Saint Leger, and under his advice they laid out a good deal of money, which (such are the freaks of fortune) also found its way somehow into Mr Shanklin's pocket-book. Finally, they supped together, and then went home to bed, each one under the delusion that he had spent a very pleasant evening. Reginald was far from sharing the same opinion as he paced home that evening. How glad he should be to be out of this hateful London, where everything went wrong, and reminded him that he was a pauper, dependent on others for his living, for his clothes, for his--faugh! for his dinner! Happily he had not to endure it much longer. At Liverpool, he would be independent. He would hold a position not degrading to a gentleman; he would associate with men of intellect and breeding; he would even have the joy of helping his mother to many a little luxury which, as long as he remained in London, he could never have given her. He quickened his pace, and reached home. Gedge had been there, spiritless and forlorn, and had left as soon as he could excuse himself. "Out of sight, out of mind," he had said, with a forced laugh, to Horace when the latter expressed his regret at Reginald's absence. Mrs Cruden and Horace both tried to look cheerful; but the cloud on the horizon was too large now to be covered with a hand. When Reginald announced that he had written and accepted the invitation to Liverpool, there was no jubilation, no eager congratulation. "What shall we do without you?" said Mrs Cruden. "It is horrid having to go, mother," said the boy; "but we must make the best of it. If you look so unhappy, I shall be sorry I ever thought of it." His mother tried to smile, and said,-- "Yes, we must try and make the best of it, dear boys; and if we cannot seem as glad as we should like to be, it's not to be wondered at at first, is it?" "I hope you'll get holidays enough now and then to run up," said Horace. "Oh yes; I don't fancy there'll be much difficulty about that," replied Reg. "In fact, it's possible I may have to come up now and then on business." There was a silence for a few seconds, and then he added rather nervously,-- "By the way, mother, about the £50. I had intended to ask Mr Richmond to advance it, although I should have hated to do so. But now, I was wondering--do you think there would be any objection to taking it out of our money, and letting it be invested in my name in the Corporation? It really wouldn't make any difference, for you'd get exactly the same interest for it as you got through Mr Richmond; and, of course, the principal would belong to you too." "I see no objection," said Mrs Cruden. "It's our common stock, and if we can use it for the common good, so much the better." "Thanks," said Reginald. "If you wouldn't mind sending a line to Mr Richmond's clerk to-morrow, he could let me have the cheque to take down or Monday with me." The three days that followed were dismal ones for the three Crudens. There are few miseries like that of an impending separation. We wish the fatal moment to arrive and end our suspense. We know of a thousand things we want to say, but the time slips by wasted, and hangs drearily on our hands. We have not the spirit to look forward, or the heart to look back. We long to have it all over, and yet every stroke of the clock falls like a cruel knell on our ears. We long that we could fall asleep, and wake to find ourselves on the other side of the crisis we dread. So it was with the Crudens; and when at last the little trio stood on the Monday on the platform of Euston Station, all three felt that they would give anything to have the last few days back again. "I'll write, mother, as often as ever I can," said Reginald, trying to speak as if the words did not stick in his throat. "Tell us all about your quarters, and what you have to do, and all that," said Horace. Mrs Cruden had no words. She stood with her eyes fixed on her boy, and felt she needed all her courage to do that steadily. "Horrors," said Reg, as the guard locked the carriage door, and the usual silence which precedes the blowing of the whistle ensued, "keep your eye on young Gedge, will you? there's a good fellow." "I will, and I'll--" But here the whistle sounded, and amid the farewells that followed, Reginald went out into his new world, leaving them behind, straining their eyes for a last look, but little dreaming how and when that little family should meet again. CHAPTER TWELVE. HORACE LEARNS AN ART, PAYS A BILL, AND LENDS A HELPING HAND. "I say, Cruden," said Waterford to Horace one morning, shortly after Reginald's departure from London, "I shall get jealous if you don't pull up." "Jealous of me?" said Horace. "Whatever for?" "Why, before you came I flattered myself I was a bit of a dab at the scissors-and-paste business, but you've gone and cut me out completely." "What rot!" said Horace, laughing. "There's more than enough cutting out to do with the morning papers to leave any time for operating on you. Besides, any duffer can do work like that." "That's all very well," said Waterford. "There's only one duffer here that can do as much as me and Booms put together, and that's you. Now, if you weren't such a racehorse, I'd propose to you to join our shorthand class. You'll have to learn it some time or other, you know." "The very thing I'd like," said Horace. "That is," he added, "if it won't take up all a fellow's evenings. How often are the classes?" "Well, as often as we like. Generally once a week. Booms's washerwoman--" "Whatever has she to do with shorthand?" asked Horace. "More than you think, my boy. She always takes eight days to wash his collars and cuffs. He sends them to her on Wednesdays, and gets them back on the next day week, so that we always practise shorthand on the Wednesday evening. Don't we, Booms?" he inquired, as the proud owner of that name entered the office at that moment. "There you are," sighed he. "How do I know what you are talking about?" "I was saying we always worked up our shorthand on Wednesday evenings." "If you say so," said the melancholy one, "it must be so." "I was telling Cruden he might join us this winter." "Very well," said the other, resignedly; "but where are you going to meet? Mrs Megson has gone away, and we've no reader." "Bother you, Booms, for always spotting difficulties in a thing. You see," added he, to Horace, "we used to meet at a good lady's house who kept a day school. She let us go there one evening a week, and read aloud to us, for us to take it down in shorthand. She's gone now, bad luck to her, and the worst of it is we're bound to get a lady to take us in, as we've got ladies in our class, you see." At the mention of ladies Booms groaned deeply. "Why, I tell you what," said Horace, struck by a brilliant idea. "What should you say to my mother? I think she would be delighted; and if you want a good reader aloud, she's the very woman for you." Waterford clapped his friend enthusiastically on the back. "You're a trump, Cruden, to lend us your mother; isn't he, Booms?" "Oh yes," said Booms. "I've seen her, and--" here he appeared to undergo a mental struggle--"I like her." "At any rate, I'll sound her on the matter. By the way, she'll want to know who the ladies are." "It'll only be one this winter, I'm afraid," said Waterford, "as the Megsons have gone. It's a Miss Crisp, Cruden, a friend of Booms's, who--" "Whom I met the other night at the Shucklefords'?" said Horace. Booms answered the question with such an agonised sigh that both his companions burst out laughing. "Dear old Booms can tell you more about her than I can," said Waterford. "All I know is she's a very nice girl indeed." "I agree with you," said Horace; "I'm sure she is. You think so too, don't you, Booms?" "You don't know what I think," said Booms; which was very true. One difficulty still remained, and this appeared to trouble Horace considerably. He did not like to refer to it as long as the melancholy masher was present, but as soon as he had gone in to fetch the papers, Horace inquired of his friend,-- "I say, Waterford, do you mean to say he chooses the very night he hasn't got a high collar to--" "Hush!" cried Waterford, mysteriously, "it's a sore question with him; but _he couldn't write if he had one_. We never mention it, though." It is needless to say Mrs Cruden fell in most cordially with the new proposal. She needed little persuasion to induce her to agree to a plan which meant the bright presence of her son and his friends in her house, and it gave her special satisfaction to find her services on such occasions not only invited, but indispensable; and it is doubtful whether any of the party looked forward more eagerly to the cheery Wednesday evenings than she did. It was up-hill work, of course, for Horace, at first; in fact, during the first evening he could do nothing but sit and admire the pace at which Miss Crisp, followed more haltingly by Booms and Waterford, took down the words of _Ivanhoe_ as fast as Mrs Cruden read them. But, by dint of hard, unsparing practice, he was able, a week later, to make some sort of a show, and as the lessons went on he even had the delight of finding himself, as Waterford said, `in the running' with his fellow- scholars. This success was not achieved without considerable determination on the boy's part; but Horace, when he did take a thing up, went through with it. He gave himself no relaxation for the first week or two. Every evening after supper he produced his pencil and paper, and his mother produced her book, and for two steady hours the work went on. Even at the office, in the intervals of work, he reported everything his ears could catch, not excepting the melancholy utterances of Booms and the vulgar conversation of the errand-boy. One day the sub-editor summoned him to the inner room to give him some instructions as to a letter to be written, when the boy much astonished his chief by taking a note of every word, and producing the letter in a few moments in the identical language in which it had been dictated. "You know shorthand, then?" inquired the mild sub-editor. "Yes, sir, a little." "I did not know of this before." "No, sir; I only began lately. Booms and Waterford and I are all working it up." The sub-editor said nothing just then, but in future availed himself freely of the new talent of his juniors. And what was still more satisfactory, it was intimated not many days later to Horace from headquarters, that as he appeared to be making himself generally useful, the nominal wages at which he had been admitted would be increased henceforth to twenty-four shillings a week. This piece of good fortune was most opportune; for now that Reginald's weekly contribution was withdrawn, and pending the payment of his first quarter's salary at Christmas, the family means had been sorely reduced, and Horace and his mother had been hard put to it to make both ends meet. Even with this augmented pay it might still have been beyond accomplishment had not their income been still further improved in a manner which Horace little suspected, and which, had he known, would have sorely distressed him. Mrs Cruden, between whom and the bright Miss Crisp a pleasant friendship had sprung up, had, almost the first time the two ladies found themselves together, inquired of her new acquaintance as to the possibility of finding any light employment for herself during the hours when she was alone. Miss Crisp, as it happened, did know of some work, though hardly to be called light work, which she herself, having just at present other duties on hand, had been obliged to decline. This was the transcribing of the manuscript of a novel, written by a lady, in a handwriting so enigmatical that the publishers would not look at it unless presented in a legible form. The lady was, therefore, anxious to get it copied out, and had offered Miss Crisp a small sum for the service. Mrs Cruden clutched eagerly at the opportunity thus presented. The work was laborious and dreary in the extreme, for the story was long and insipid, and the wretched handwriting danced under her eyes till they ached and grew weak. But she persevered boldly, and for three hours a day pored over her self-imposed task. When Horace returned at evening no trace of it was to be seen, only the pale face and weary eyes of his mother, who yet was ready with a smile to read aloud as long as the boy wished, and pretend that she only enjoyed a labour which was really taxing her both in health and eyesight. Reginald had written home once or twice since his departure, but none of his letters had contained much news. He said very little either about his work or his employers, but from the dismal tone in which he drew comparisons between London and Liverpool, and between his present loneliness and days before their separation, it was evident enough he was homesick. In a letter to Horace he said,-- "I get precious little time just now for anything but work, and what I do get I don't know a soul here to spend it with. There's a football club here, but of course I can't join it. I go walks occasionally, though I can't get far, as I cannot be away from here for long at a time, and never of an evening. You might send me a _Rocket_ now and then, or something to read. What about young Gedge? See Durfy doesn't get hold of him. Could you ever scrape up six-and-six, and pay it for me to Blandford, whose address I give below? It's something he lent me for a particular purpose when I last saw him. Do try. I would enclose it, but till Christmas I have scarcely enough to keep myself. I wish they would pay weekly instead of quarterly. I would be awfully obliged if you would manage to pay the six-and-six somehow or other. If you do, see he gets it, and knows it comes from me, and send me a line to say he has got it. Don't forget, there's a brick. Love to mother and young Gedge. I wish I could see you all this minute." Horace felt decidedly blue after receiving this letter, and purposely withheld it from his mother. Had he been sure Reginald was prosperous and happy in his new work, this separation would not have mattered so much, but all along he had had his doubts on both these points, and the letter only confirmed them. At any rate he determined to lose no time in easing his brother's mind of the two chief causes of his anxiety. The very next Saturday he appropriated six-and-six of his slender wages, and devoted the evening to finding out Blandford's rooms, and paying him the money. Fortunately his man was at home, an unusual circumstance at that hour of the night, and due solely to the fact that he and Pillans, his fellow- lodger, were expecting company; indeed, the page-boy (for our two gay sparks maintained a "tiger" between them) showed Horace up the moment he arrived, under the delusion that he was one of the guests. Blandford and his friend, sitting in state to receive their distinguished visitors, among whom were to be the real owner of a racehorse, a real jockey, a real actor, and a real wine-merchant, these open-hearted and knowing young men were considerably taken aback to find a boy of Horace's age and toilet ushered into their august presence. Blandford would have preferred to appear ignorant of the identity of the intruder, but Horace left him no room for that amiable fraud. "Hullo, Bland!" said he, just as if he had seen him only yesterday at Wilderham, "what a jolly lot of stairs you keep in this place. I thought I should never smoke you out. How are you, old man?" And before the horrified dandy could recover from his surprise, he found his hand being warmly shaken by his old schoolfellow. Horace, sublimely unconscious of the impression he was creating, indulged in a critical survey of the apartment, and said,-- "Snug little crib you've got--not quite so jolly, though, as the old study you and Reg had at Wilderham. How's Harker, by the way?" And he proceeded to stroll across the room to look at a picture. Blandford and Pillans exchanged glances. Wrath was in the face of the one, bewilderment in the face of the other. "Who's your friend?" whispered the latter. "An old schoolfellow who--" "Nice lot of fellows you seem to have been brought up with, upon my word," said Mr Pillans. "I suppose he'll be up for Christmas," pursued Horace. "Jolly glad I shall be to see him, too. I say, why don't you come and look us up? The _mater_ would be awfully glad, though we've not very showy quarters to ask you to. Ah! that's one of the prints you had in the study at school. Do you remember Reg chipping that corner of the frame with a singlestick?" "Excuse me, Cruden," began Blandford, in a severe tone; "my friend and I are just expecting company." "Are you? Well, I couldn't have stayed if you'd asked me. Are any of the old school lot coming?" "The fact is, we can do without you, young fellow," said Mr Pillans. Horace stared. It had not occurred to him till that moment that his old schoolfellow could be anything but glad to see him, and he didn't believe it now. "Will Harker be coming?" he inquired, ignoring Mr Pillans' presence. "No, no one you know is coming," said Blandford, half angrily, half nervously. "That's a pity. I'd have liked to see some of the old lot. Ever since we came to grief none of them has been near us except Harker. He called one day, like a brick, but he won't be up again till Christmas." "Good-night," said Blandford. His tone was quite lost on Horace. "Good-night, old man. By the way, Reg--you know he's up in the North now--asked me to pay you six-and-six he owed you. He said you'd know about it. Is it all right?" Blandford coloured up violently. "I'm not going to take it. I told him so," said he. "Oh yes, you are, you old humbug," said Horace, "so catch hold. A debt's a debt, you know." "It's not a debt," said Blandford. "I gave it to him, so good-night." "No, that won't do," said Horace. "He doesn't think so--" "The fact is, the beggar couldn't pay for his own dinner, and Blandford had to pay it for him. He managed it very neatly," said Mr Pillans. Horace fired up fiercely. "What do you mean? Who's this cad you keep about the place, Blandford?" "If you don't go I'll kick you down the stairs!" cried Mr Pillans, by this time in a rage. Horace laughed. Mr Pillans was his senior in years and his superior in inches, but there was nothing in his unhealthy face to dismay the sturdy school-boy. "Do you want me to try?" shouted Mr Pillans. "Not unless you like," replied Horace, putting the money down on the table and holding out his hand to Blandford. The latter took it mechanically, too glad to see his visitor departing to offer any obstacle. "I'll look you up again some day," said Horace, "when your bulldog here is chained up. When Reg and Harker are up this Christmas, we must all get a day together. Good-night." And he made for the door, brushing up against the outraged Mr Pillans on his way. "Take that for an impudent young beggar!" said the latter as he passed, suiting the action to the word with a smart cuff directed at the visitor's head. Horace, however, was quick enough to ward it off. "I thought you'd try that on," he said, with a laugh; "you're--" But Mr Pillans, who had by this time worked himself into a fury by a method known only to himself, cut short further parley by making a desperate rush at him just as he reached the door. The wary Horace had not played football for three seasons for nothing. He quietly ducked, allowing his unscientific assailant to overbalance himself, and topple head first on the lobby outside, at the particular moment when the real owner of the racehorse and the real wine-merchant, who had just arrived, reached the top of the stairs. "Hullo, young fellow!" said the sporting gentleman; "practising croppers, are you? or getting up an appetite? or what? High old times you're having up here among you! Who's the kid?" "Stop him!" gasped Pillans, picking himself up; "don't let him go! hold him fast!" The wine-merchant obligingly took possession of Horace by the collar, and the company returned in solemn procession to the room. "Now, then," said Horace's captor, "what's the row? Let's hear all about it. Has he been collaring any of your spoons? or setting the house on fire? or what? Who is he?" "He's cheeked me!" said Pillans, brushing the dust off his coat. "Hold him fast, will you? till I take it out of him." But the horse-racer was far too much of a sportsman for that. "No, no," said he, laughing; "make a mill of it and I'm your man. I'll bet two to one on the young 'un to start with." The wine-merchant said he would go double that on Pillans, whereupon the sporting man offered a five-pound note against a half-sovereign on his man, and called out to have the room cleared and a sponge brought in. How far his scientific enthusiasm would have been rewarded it is hard to say, for Blandford at this juncture most inconsiderately interposed. "No, no," said he, "I'm not going to have the place made a cock-pit. Shut up, Pillans, and don't make an ass of yourself; and you, Cruden, cut off. What did you ever come here for? See what a row you've made." "It wasn't I made the row," said Horace. "I'm awfully sorry, Bland. I'd advise you to cut that friend of yours, I say. He's an idiot. Good-bye." And while the horse-racer and the wine-merchant were still discussing preliminaries, and Mr Pillans was privately ascertaining whether his nose was bleeding, Horace departed in peace, partly amused, partly vexed, and decidedly of opinion that Blandford had taken to keeping very queer company since he last saw him. The great thing was that Horace could now write and report to Reg that the debt had been paid. His way home led him past the _Rocket_ office. It was half-past ten, and the place looked dark and deserted. Even the lights in the editor's windows were out, and the late hands had gone home. Just at the corner Horace encountered Gedge, one of the late hands in question. "Hullo, young 'un!" he said. "Going home?" "Yes, I'm going home," said young Gedge. "I heard from my brother yesterday. He was asking after you." "Was he?" said the boy half-sarcastically. "He does remember my name, then?" "Whatever do you mean? Of course he does," said Horace. "You know that well enough." "I shouldn't have known it unless you'd told me," said Gedge, with a cloud on his face; "he's never sent me a word since he left." "He's been awfully busy--he's scarcely had time to write home. I say, young 'un, what's the row with you? What makes you so queer?" "Oh, I don't know," said the boy wearily; "I used to fancy somebody cared for me, but I was mistaken. I was going to the dogs fast enough when Cruden came here; I pulled up then, because I thought he'd stand by me; but now he's gone and forgotten all about me. I'll--well, there's nothing to prevent me going to the bad; and I may as well make up my mind to it." "No, no," said Horace, taking his arm kindly; "you mustn't say that, young 'un. The last words Reg said to me when he went off were, `Keep your eye on young Gedge, don't forget'; the very last words, and he's reminded me of my promise in every letter since. I've been a cad, I know, not to see more of you; but you mustn't go thinking that you've no friends. If it were only for Reg's sake I'd stick to you. Don't blame him, though, for I know he thinks a lot about you, and it would break his heart if you went to the bad. Of course you can help going to the bad, old man; we can all help it." The boy looked up with the clouds half brushed away from his face. "I don't want to go to the bad," said he; "but I sort of feel I'm bound to go, unless some one sticks up for me. I'm so awfully weak-minded, I'm not fit to be trusted alone." "Hullo, I say," whispered Horace, suddenly stopping short in his walk, "who's that fellow sneaking about there by the editor's door?" "He looks precious like Durfy," said Gedge; "I believe it is he." "What does he want there, I wonder--he wasn't on the late shift to- night, was he?" "No; he went at seven." "I don't see what he wants hanging about when everybody's gone," said Horace. "Unless he's screwed and can't get home--I've known him like that. That fellow's not screwed, though," he added; "see, he's heard some one coming, and he's off steady enough on his legs." "Rum," said Horace. "It looked like Durfy, too. Never mind, whoever it is, we've routed him out this time. Good-night, old man; don't go down on your luck, mind, and don't go abusing Reg behind his back, and don't forget you're booked to come home to supper with me on Monday, and see my mother. Ta-ta." CHAPTER THIRTEEN. THE NEW SECRETARY TAKES THE REINS. It is high time to return to Reginald, whom we left in a somewhat dismal fashion, straining his eyes for a last sight of his mother and brother as they waved farewell to him on the Euston platform. If the reader expects me to tell him that on finding himself alone our hero burst into tears, or broke out into repentant lamentations, or wished himself under the wheels of the carriage, I'm afraid he will be disappointed. Reginald spent the first half-hour of his solitary journey in speculating how the oil in the lamp got round at the wick. He considered the matter most attentively, and kept his eyes fixed on the dim light until London was miles behind him, and the hedges and grey autumn fields on either hand proclaimed the country. Then his mind abandoned its problems, and for another half-hour he tried with all his might to prevent the beat of the engine taking up the rhythm of one of the old Wilderham cricket songs. That too he gave up eventually, and let his imagination wander at large over those happy school days, when all was merry, when every friend was a brick, and every exertion a sport, when the future beckoned him forward with coaxing hand. What grand times they were! Should he ever forget the last cricket match of the summer term, when he bowled three men in one over, and made the hardest catch on record in the Wilderham Close? He and Blandford-- Ah, Blandford! His mind swerved on the points here, and branched off into the recollection of that ill-starred dinner at the Shades, and the unhealthy bloated face of the cad Pillans. How he would have liked to knock the idiot down, just as he had knocked Durfy down that night when young Gedge-- Ah, another point here and another swerve. Would Horace be sure and keep his eye on the young 'un, and was there any chance of getting him down to Liverpool? Once more a swerve, and this time into a straight reach of meditation for miles and miles ahead. He thought of everything. He pictured his own little office and living-room. He drew a mental portrait of the housekeeper, and the cups and saucers he would use at his well-earned meals. He made up his mind the board-room would be furnished in green leather, and that the Bishop of S-- would be a jolly sort of fellow and fond of his joke. He even imagined what the directors would say among themselves respecting himself after he had been introduced and made his first impression. At any rate they should not say he lacked in interest for their affairs, and when he wrote home-- Ah! this was the last of all the points, and his thoughts after that ran on the same lines till the train plunged into the smoke and gloom of the great city which was henceforth to extend to him its tender mercies. If Reginald had reckoned on a deputation of directors of the Select Agency Corporation to meet their new secretary at the station, he was destined to be disappointed. There were plenty of people there, but none concerning themselves with him as he dragged his carpet-bag from under the seat and set foot on the platform. The bag was very heavy, and Shy Street, so he was told, was ten-minutes' walk from the station. It did occur to him that most secretaries of companies would take a cab under such circumstances and charge it to "general expenses." But he did not care to spend either the Corporation's money or his own for so luxurious a purpose, and therefore gripped his bag manfully and wrestled with it out into the street. The ten-minutes grew to considerably more than twenty before they both found themselves in Shy Street. A long, old-fashioned, dismal street it was, with some shops in the middle, and small offices at either end. No imposing-looking edifice, chaste in architecture and luxurious in proportions, stood with open doors to receive its future lord. Reginald and his bag stumbled up a side staircase to the first floor over a chemist's shop, where a door with the name "Medlock" loomed before him, and told him he had come to his journey's end. Waiting a moment to wipe the perspiration from his face, he turned the handle and found himself in a large, bare, carpetless room, with a table and a few chairs in the middle of it, a clock over the chimneypiece, a few directories piled up in one corner, and a bundle of circulars and wrappers in another; and a little back room screened off from the general observation with the word "private" on the door. Such was the impression formed in Reginald's mind by a single glance round his new quarters. In the flutter of his first entrance, however, he entirely overlooked one important piece of furniture--namely, a small boy with long lank hair and pale blotched face, who was sitting on a low stool near the window, greedily devouring the contents of a pink-covered periodical. This young gentleman, on becoming aware of the presence of a stranger, crumpled his paper hurriedly into his pocket and rose to his feet. "What do yer want?" he demanded. "Is Mr Medlock here?" asked Reginald. "No fear," replied the boy. "Has he left any message?" "Don't know who you are. What's yer name?" "I'm Mr Cruden, the new secretary." "Oh, you're 'im, are yer? Yes, you've got to address them there envellups, and 'e'll be up in the morning." This was depressing. Reginald's castles in the air were beginning to tumble about his ears in rapid succession. The bare room he could excuse, on the ground that the Corporation was only just beginning its operations. Doubtless the carpet was on order, and was to be delivered soon. He could even afford not to afflict himself much about this vulgar, irreverent little boy, who was probably put in, as they put in a little watch-dog, to see to the place until he and his staff of assistants rendered his further presence unnecessary. But it did chill him to find that after his long journey, and his farewell to his own home, no one should think it worth while to be here to meet him and install him with common friendliness into his new quarters. However, Mr Medlock was a man of business, and was possibly prevented by circumstances over which he had no control from being present to receive him. "Where's the housekeeper?" demanded he, putting down his bag and relieving himself of his overcoat. "'Ousekeeper! Oh yus," said the boy, with a snigger; "no 'ousekeepers 'ere." "Where are my rooms, then?" asked Reginald, beginning to think it a pity the Corporation had brought him down all that way before they were ready for him. "Ain't this room big enough for yer?" said the boy; "ain't no more 'sep' your bedroom--no droring-rooms in this shop." "Show me the bedroom," said Reginald. The boy shuffled to the door and up another flight of stairs, at the head of which he opened the door of a very small room, about the size of one of the Wilderham studies, with just room to squeeze round a low iron bedstead without scraping the wall. "There you are--clean and haired and no error. I've slep' in it myself." Reginald motioned him from the room, and then sitting down on the bed, looked round him. He could not understand it. Any common butcher's boy would be better put up. A little box of a bedroom like this, with no better testimonial to its cleanliness and airiness than could be derived from the fact that the dirty little watch-dog downstairs had occupied it! And in place of a parlour that bare gaunt room below in which to sit of an evening and take his meals and enjoy himself. Why ever had the Corporation not had the ordinary decency to have his permanent accommodation ready for him before he arrived? He washed himself as well as he could without soap and towel, and returned to the first floor, where he found the boy back on his old stool, and once more absorbed in his paper. The reader looked up as Reginald entered. "Say, what's yer name," said he, "ever read _Tim Tigerskin_?" "No, I've not," replied Reginald, staring at his questioner, and wondering whether he was as erratic in his intellect as he was mealy in his countenance. "'Tain't a bad 'un, but 'tain't 'arf as prime as _The Pirate's Bride_. The bloke there pisons two on 'em with prussic acid, and wouldn't ever 'ave got nabbed if he 'adn't took some hisself by mistake, the flat!" Reginald could hardly help smiling at this appetising _resume_. "I want something to eat," he said. "Is there any place near here where I can get it?" "Trum's, but 'is sosseges is off at three o'clock. Better try Cupper's--he's a good 'un for bloaters; _I_ deals with 'im." Reginald felt neither the spirit nor the inclination to make a personal examination into the merits of the rival caterers. "You'd better go and get me something," he said to the boy; "coffee and fish or cold meat will do." "No fear; I ain't a-goin' for nothing," replied the boy. "I'll do your errands for a tanner a week and your leavings, but not no less." "You shall have it," said Reginald. Whereupon the boy undertook the commission and departed. The meal was a dismal one. The herrings were badly over-smoked and the coffee was like mud, and the boy's conversation, which filled in a running accompaniment, was not conducive to digestion. "I'd 'most a mind to try some prussic in that corfee," said that bloodthirsty young gentleman, "if I'd a known where the chemist downstairs keeps his'n. Then they'd 'a said you'd poisoned yourself 'cos you was blue coming to this 'ere 'ole. I'd 'a been put in the box at the inquige, and I'd 'a said Yes, you was blue, and I thought there was a screw loose the minit I see yer, and I'd seen yer empty a paper of powder in your corfee while you thort nobody wasn't a-looking. And the jury'd say it was tempory 'sanity and sooiside, and say they considers I was a honest young feller, and vote me a bob out of the poor-box. There you are. What do you think of that?" "I suppose that's what the man in _The Pirate's Bride_ ought to have done," said Reginald, with a faint smile. "To be sure he ought. Why, it's enough to disgust any one with the flat, when he goes and takes the prussic hisself. Of course he'd get found out." "Well, it's just as well you've not put any in my coffee," said Reginald. "It's none too nice as it is. And I'd advise you, young fellow, to burn all those precious story-books of yours, if that's the sort of stuff they put into your head." The boy stared at him in horrified amazement. "Burn 'em! Oh, Walker!" "What's your name?" demanded Reginald. "Why, Love," replied the boy, in a tone as if to say you had only to look at him to know his name. "Well then, young Love, clear these things away and come and make a start with these envelopes." "No fear. I ain't got to do no envellups. You're got to do 'em." "I say you've got to do them too," said Reginald, sternly; "and if you don't choose to do what you're told I can't keep you here." The boy looked up in astonishment. "You ain't my governor," said he. "I am, though," said Reginald, "and you'd better make up your mind to it. If you choose to do as you're told we shall get on all right, but I'll not keep you here if you don't." His tone and manner effectually overawed the mutinous youngster. He could not have spoken like that unless he possessed sufficient authority to back it up, and as it did not suit the convenience of Mr Love just then to receive the "sack" from any one, he capitulated with the honours of war, put his _Tim Tigerskin_ into his pocket, and placed himself at his new "governor's" disposal. The evening's work consisted in addressing some two hundred or three hundred envelopes to persons whose names Mr Medlock had ticked in a directory, and enclosing prospectuses therein. It was not very entertaining work; still, as it was his first introduction to the operations of the Corporation, it had its attractions for the new secretary. A very fair division of labour was mutually agreed upon by the two workers before starting. Reginald was to copy out the addresses, and Master Love, whose appetite was always good, was to fold and insert the circulars and "lick up" the envelopes. This being decided, the work went on briskly and quietly. Reginald had leisure to notice one or two little points as he went on, which, though trivial in themselves, still interested him. He observed for one thing that the largest proportion of the names marked in the directory were either ladies or clergymen, and most of them residing in the south of England. Very few of them appeared to reside in any large town, but to prefer rural retreats "far from the madding crowd," where doubtless a letter, even on the business of the Corporation, would be a welcome diversion to the monotony of existence. As to the clergy, doubtless their names had been suggested by the good Bishop of S--, who would be in a position to introduce a considerable connection to his fellow- directors. Reginald also noticed that only one name had been marked in each village, it doubtless being assumed that every one in these places being on intimate terms with his neighbour, it was unnecessary to waste stamps and paper in making the Corporation known to two people where one would answer the same purpose. He was curious enough to read one of the circulars, and he was on the whole pleased with its contents. It was as follows:-- "Select Agency Corporation, Shy Street, Liverpool.--Reverend Sir," (for the ladies there were other circulars headed "Dear Madam"), "The approach of winter, with all the hardships that bitter season entails on those whom Providence has not blessed with sufficient means, induces us to call your attention to an unusual opportunity for providing yourself and those dear to you with a most desirable comfort at a merely nominal outlay. Having acquired an enormous bankrupt stock of _winter clothing_ of most excellent material, and suitable for all measures, we wish, in testimony to our respect for the profession of which you are an honoured representative, to acquaint you _privately_ with the fact before disposing of the stock in the open market. For £3 we can supply you with a complete clerical suit of the best make, including overcoat and gloves, etcetera, etcetera, the whole comprising an outfit which would be cheap at £10. In _your_ case we should have no objection to meet you by taking £2 with your order and the balance _any time within six months_. Should you be disposed to show this to any of your friends, we may say we shall be pleased to appoint you our agent, and to allow you ten per cent, on all sales effected by you, which you are at liberty to deduct from the amount you remit to us with the orders. We subjoin full list of winter clothing for gentlemen, ladies, and children. Money orders to be made payable to Cruden Reginald, Esquire, Secretary, 13, Shy Street, Liverpool." "Hullo!" said Reginald, looking up excitedly, "don't fold up any more of those, boy. They've made a mistake in my name and called me Cruden Reginald instead of Reginald Cruden. It will have to be altered." "Oh, ah. There's on'y a couple of billions on 'em printed; that won't take no time at all," said Master Love, beginning to think longingly of _Tim Tigerskin_. "It won't do to send them out like that," said Reginald. "Oh yes, it will. Bless you, what's the odds if you call me Tommy Love or Love Tommy? I knows who you mean. And the governor, 'e is awful partickler about these here being done to-night. And we sent off millions on 'em last week. My eye, wasn't it a treat lickin' up the envellups!" "Do you mean to say a lot of the circulars have been sent already?" "'Undreds of grillions on 'em," replied the boy. Of course it was no use after that delaying these; so Reginald finished off his task, not a little vexed at the mistake, and determined to have it put right without delay. It was this cause of irritation, most likely, which prevented his dwelling too critically on the substance of the circular so affectionately dedicated to the poor country clergy. Beyond vaguely wondering where the Corporation kept their "bankrupt" stock of clothing, and how by the unaided light of nature they were to decide whether their applicants were stout or lean, or tall or short, he dismissed the matter from his mind for the time being, and made as short work as possible of the remainder of the task. Then he wrote a short line home, announcing his arrival in as cheerful words as he could muster, and walked out to post it. The pavements were thronged with a crowd of jostling men and women, returning home from the day's work; but among them all the boy felt more lonely than had he been the sole inhabitant of Liverpool. Nobody knew him, nobody looked at him, nobody cared two straws about him. So he dropped his letter dismally into the box, and turned back to Shy Street, where at least there was one human being who knew his name and heeded his voice. Master Love had made the most of his opportunities. He had lit a candle and stuck it into the mouth of an ink-bottle, and by its friendly light was already deep once more in the history of his hero. "Say, what's yer name," said he, looking up as Reginald re-entered, "this here chap" as scuttled a ship, and drowned twenty on 'em. _'E_ was a cute 'un, and no error. He rigs hisself up as a carpenter, and takes a tile off the ship's bottom just as the storm was a-coming on; and in corse she flounders and all 'ands." "And what became of him?" asked Reginald. "Oh, in corse he stows hisself away in the boat with a lifebelt, and gets washed ashore; and he kills a tiger for 'is breakfast, and--" "It's a pity you waste your time over bosh like that," said Reginald, not interested to hear the conclusion of the heroic Tim's adventures; "if you're fond of reading, why don't you get something better?" "No fear--I like jam; don't you make no error, governor." With which philosophical albeit enigmatical conclusion he buried his face once more in his hands, and immersed himself in the literary "jam" before him. Reginald half envied him as he himself sat listless and unoccupied during that gloomy evening. He did his best to acquaint himself, by the aid of papers and circulars scattered about the room, with the work that lay before him. He made a careful tour of the premises, with a view to possible alterations and improvements. He settled in his own mind where the directors' table should stand, and in which corner of the private room he should establish his own desk. He went to the length of designing a seal for the Corporation, and in scribbling, for his own amusement, the imaginary minutes of an imaginary meeting of the directors. How would this do? "A meeting of directors of the Select Agency Corporation"--by the way, was it "Limited"? He didn't very clearly understand what that meant. Still, most companies had the word after their name, and he made a note to inquire of Mr Medlock whether it applied to them--"was held on October 31st at the company's offices. Present, the Bishop of S-- in the chair, Messrs. Medlock, Blank, M.P., So-and-so, etcetera. The secretary, Mr Cruden, having been introduced, took his seat and thanked the directors for their confidence. It was reported that the receipts for the last month had been (well, say) £1,000, including £50 deposited against shares by the new secretary, and the expenses £750. Mr Medlock reported the acquisition of a large bankrupt stock of clothing, which it was proposed to offer privately to a number of clergymen and others as per a list furnished by the right reverend the chairman. The following cheques were drawn:--Rent for offices for a month, £5; printing and postage, £25; secretary's salary for one month, £12 10 shillings; ditto, interest on the £50 deposit, 4 shillings 2 pence; office-boy (one month), £2; Mr Medlock for bankrupt stock of clothing, £150; etcetera, etcetera. The secretary suggested various improvements in the offices and fittings, and was requested to take any necessary steps. After sundry other routine business the Board adjourned." This literary experiment concluded, Reginald, who after the fatigues and excitement of the day felt ready for sleep, decided to adjourn too. "Do you stay here all night?" said he to Love. "Me? You and me sleeps upstairs." "I'm afraid there's no room up there for two persons," said Reginald; "you had better go home to-night, Love, and be here at nine in the morning." "Go on--as if I 'ad lodgin's in the town. If you don't want me I know one as do. Me and the chemist's boy ain't too big for the attick." "Very well," said Reginald, "you had better go up to bed now, it's late." "Don't you think you're having a lark with me," said the boy; "'tain't eleven, and I ain't done this here Tigerskin yet. There's a lump of reading in it, I can tell you. When he'd killed them tigers he rigged hisself up in their skins, and--" "Yes, yes," said Reginald. "I'm not going to let you stay up all night reading that rot. Cut up to bed now, do you hear?" Strange to say, the boy obeyed. There was something about Reginald which reduced him to obedience, though much against his will. So he shambled off with his book under his arm, secretly congratulating himself that the bed in the attic was close to the window, so that he would be able to get a jolly long read in the morning. After he had gone, Reginald followed his example, and retired to his own very spare bed, where he forgot all his cares in a night of sound refreshing sleep. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE SELECT AGENCY CORPORATION LOSES ITS OFFICE-BOY. Mr Medlock duly appeared next morning. He greeted the new secretary with much friendliness, hoped he had a good journey and left them all well at home, and so on. He further hoped Reginald would find his new quarters comfortable. Most unfortunately they had missed securing the lease of a very fine suite of offices in Lord Street, and had to put up with these for the present. Reginald must see everything was comfortable; and as of course he would be pretty closely tied to the place (for the directors would not like the offices left in charge of a mere office-boy), he must make it as much of a home as possible. As to money, salaries were always paid quarterly, and on Christmas Day Reginald would receive his first instalment. Meanwhile, as there were sure to be a few expenses, Reginald would receive five pounds on account (a princely allowance, equal to about thirteen shillings a week for the eight weeks between now and Christmas!) The directors, Mr Medlock said, placed implicit confidence in the new secretary. He was authorised to open all letters that came. Any money they might contain he was strictly to account for and pay into the bank daily to Mr Medlock's account. He needn't send receipts, Mr Medlock would see to that. Any orders that came he was to take copies of, and then forward them to Mr John Smith, Weaver's Hotel, London, "to be called for," for execution. He would have to answer the questions of any who called to make inquiries, without of course disclosing any business secrets. In fact, as the aim of the Corporation was to supply their supporters with goods at the lowest possible price, they naturally met with a good deal of jealousy from tradesmen and persons of that sort, so that Reginald must be most guarded in all he said. If it became known how their business was carried on, others would be sure to attempt an imitation; and the whole scheme would fail. "You know, Mr Reginald," said he-- "Excuse me," interrupted Reginald, "I'm afraid you're mistaken about my name. You've printed it Cruden Reginald, it should be Reginald Cruden." "Dear me, how extraordinarily unfortunate!" said Mr Medlock; "I quite understood that was your name. And the unlucky part of it is, we have got all the circulars printed, and many of them circulated. I have also given your name as Mr Reginald to the directors, and advertised it, so that I don't see what can be done, except to keep it as it is. After all, it is a common thing, and it would put us to the greatest inconvenience to alter it now. Dear me, when I saw you in London I called you Mr Reginald, didn't I?" "No, sir; you called me Mr Cruden." "I must have supposed it was your Christian name, then." "Perhaps it doesn't matter much," said Reginald; "and I don't wish to put the directors to any trouble." "To be sure I knew you would not. Well, I was saying, Reginald (that's right, whatever way you take it!) the directors look upon you as a gentleman of character and education, and are satisfied to allow you to use your discretion and good sense in conducting their business. You have their names, which you can show to any one. They are greatly scattered, so that our Board meetings will be rare. Meanwhile they will be glad to hear how you are getting on, and will, I know, appreciate and recognise your services. By the way, I believe I mentioned (but really my memory is so bad) that we should ask you to qualify to the extent of £50 in the shares of the company?" "Oh yes, I have the cheque here," said Reginald, taking it out of his pocket. "That's right. And of course you will give yourself a receipt for it in the company's name. Curious, isn't it?" With which pleasantry Mr Medlock departed, promising to look in frequently, and meanwhile to send in a fresh directory marked, and some new circulars for him to get on with. Reginald, not quite sure whether it was all as good as he expected, set to work without delay to put into practice the various instructions he had received. Mr Medlock's invitation to him to see everything was comfortable could hardly be fully realised on 13 shillings a week. That must wait for Christmas, and meanwhile he must make the best of what he had. He set Love to work folding and enclosing the new circulars (this time calling attention to some extremely cheap globes and blackboards for ladies' and infants' schools), while he drew himself up a programme of his daily duties, in accordance with his impression of the directors' wishes. The result of this was that he came to the conclusion he should have his hands very full indeed--a possibility he by no means objected to. But it was not clear to him how he was to get much outdoor exercise or recreation, or how he was to go to church on Sundays, or even to the bank on weekdays, if the office was never to be left. On this point he consulted Mr Medlock when he called in later in the day, and arranged that for two hours on Sunday, and an hour every evening, besides the necessary walk to the bank, he might lock up the office and take his walks abroad. Whereat he felt grateful and a little relieved. It was not till about four days after his arrival that the first crop of circulars sown among the clergy yielded their firstfruits. On that day it was a harvest with a vengeance. At least 150 letters arrived. Most of them contained the two pounds and an order for the suit. In some cases most elaborate measurements accompanied the order. Some asked for High Church waistcoats, others for Low; some wished for wideawake hats, others for broad-brimmed clericals. Some sent extra money for a school- boy's suit as well, and some contained instructions for a complete family outfit. All were very eager about the matter, and one or two begged that the parcel might be sent marked "private." Reginald had a busy day from morning till nearly midnight, entering and paying in the cash and forwarding the orders to Mr John Smith. He organised a beautiful tabular account, in which were entered the name and address of each correspondent, the date of their letters, the goods they ordered, and the amount they enclosed, and before the day was over the list had grown to a startling extent. The next day brought a similar number of applications and remittances as to the globes and blackboards, and of course some more also about the clerical suits. And so, from day to day, the post showered letters in at the door, and the secretary of the Select Agency Corporation was one of the hardest worked men in Liverpool. Master Love meanwhile had very little time for his "penny dreadfuls," and complained bitterly of his hardships. And indeed he looked so pale and unhealthy that Reginald began to fear the constant "licking" was undermining his constitution, and ordered him to use a sponge instead of his tongue. But on this point Love's loyalty made a stand. Nothing would induce him to use the artificial expedient. He deliberately made away with the sponge, and after a battle royal was allowed his own way, and continued to lick till his tongue literally clave to the roof of his mouth. By the end of a fortnight the first rush of work was over, and Reginald and his henchman had time to draw breath. Mr Medlock had gone to London, presumably to superintend the dispatch of the various articles ordered. It was about this time that Reginald had written home to Horace complaining of the dulness of his life, and begging him to repay Blandford the 6 shillings 6 pence, which had been weighing like lead on his mind ever since he left town, and which he now despaired of ever being able to spare out of the slender pittance on which he was doomed to subsist till Christmas. Happily that festive season was only a few weeks away now, and then how delighted he should be to send home a round half of his income, and convince himself he was after all a main prop to that dear distant little household. Had he been gifted with ears sharp enough to catch a conversation that took place at the Bodega in London one evening about the same time, the Christmas spirit within him might have experienced a considerable chill. The company consisted of Mr Medlock, Mr Shanklin, and Mr Durfy. The latter was present by sufferance, not because he was wanted or invited, but because he felt inclined for a good supper, and was sharp enough to know that neither of his employers could afford to fall out with him just then. "Well, how goes it?" said Mr Shanklin. "You've had a run lately, and no mistake." "Yes, I flatter myself we've done pretty well. One hundred pounds a day for ten days makes how much, Durfy?" "A thousand," said Durfy. "Humph!" said Mr Shanklin. "Time to think of our Christmas holidays." "Wait a bit. We've not done yet. You say your two young mashers are still in tow, Alf?" "Yes; green as duckweed. But they're nearly played out, I guess. One of them has a little bill for fifty pounds coming due in a fortnight, and t'other--well, he wagered me a hundred pounds on a horse that never ran for the Leger, and he's got one or two trifles besides down in my books." "Yes, I got you that tip about the Leger," said Durfy, beginning to think himself neglected in this dialogue of self-congratulation. "Yes; you managed to do it this time without botching it, for a wonder!" said Mr Shanklin. "Yes; and I hope you'll manage to give me the ten-pound note you promised me for it, Mr S.," replied Durfy, with a snarl. "You seem to have forgotten that, and my commission too for finding you your new secretary." "Yes. By the way," said Mr Medlock, "he deserves something for that; it's the best stroke of business we've done for a long time. It's worth three weeks to us to have him there to answer questions and choke off the inquisitive. He's got his busy time coming on, I fancy. Bless you, Durfy, the fellow was born for us! He swallows anything. I've allowed him thirteen shillings a week till Christmas, and he says, `Thank you.' He's had his name turned inside out, and I do believe he thinks it an improvement! He sticks in the place all day with that young cockney gaol-bird you picked us up too, Durfy, and never growls." "Does he help himself to any of the money?" "Not a brass farthing! I do believe he buys his own postage-stamps when he writes home to his mamma!" This last announcement was too comical to be received gravely. "Ha, ha! he ought to be exhibited!" said Shanklin. "He ought to be starved!" said Durfy viciously. "He knocked me down once, and I wouldn't have told you of him if I didn't owe him a grudge-- the puppy!" "Oh, well, I daresay you'll be gratified some day or other," said Medlock. "I tell you one thing," said Durfy; "you'd better put a stopper on his writing home too often; I believe he's put his precious brother up to watch me. Why, the other night, when I was waiting for the postman to get hold of that letter you wanted, I'm blessed if he didn't turn up and rout me out--he and a young chum of his brother's that used to be in the swim with me. I don't think they saw me, luckily; but it was a shave, and of course I missed the letter." "Yes, you did; there was no mistake about that!" said Mr Shanklin viciously. "When did you ever not miss it?" "How can I help it, when it's your own secretary is dogging me?" "Bless you! think of him dogging any one, the innocent! Anyhow, we can cut off his letters home for a bit, so as to give you no excuse next time." "And what's the next job to be, then?" asked Durfy. "The most particular of all," replied the sporting man. "I want a letter with the Boldham postmark, or perhaps a telegram, that will be delivered to-morrow night by the last post. There's a fifty pounds turns on it, and I must have it before the morning papers are out. Never mind what it is; you must get it somehow, and you'll get a fiver for it. As soon as that's done, Medlock, and the young dandies' bills have come due, we can order a cab. Your secretary at Liverpool will hold out long enough for us to get to the moon before we're wanted." "You're right there!" said Mr Medlock, laughing. "I'll go down and look him up to-morrow, and clear up, and then I fancy he'll manage the rest himself; and we can clear out. Ha, ha! capital sherry, this brand. Have some more, Durfy." Mr Medlock kept his promise and cheered Reginald in his loneliness by a friendly visit. "I've been away longer than I expected, and I must say the way you have managed matters in my absence does you the greatest credit, Reginald. I shall feel perfectly comfortable in future when I am absent." A flush of pleasure rose to Reginald's cheeks, such as would have moved to pity any heart less cold-blooded than Mr Medlock's. "No one has called, I suppose?" "No, sir. There's been a letter, though, from the Rev. T. Mulberry, of Woolford-in-the-Meadow, to ask why the suit he ordered has not yet been delivered." Mr Medlock smiled. "These good men are so impatient," said he; "they imagine their order is the only one we have to think of. What would they think of the four hundred and odd suits we have on order, eh, Mr Reginald?" "I suppose I had better write and say the orders will be taken in rotation, and that his will be forwarded in a few days." "Better say a few weeks. You've no notion of the difficulty we have in trying to meet every one's wishes. Say before Christmas--and the same with the globes and other things. The time and trouble taken in packing the things really cuts into the profits terribly." "Could we do any of it down here?" said Reginald. "Love and I have often nothing to do." It was well the speaker did not notice the fiendish grimace with which the young gentleman referred to accepted the statement. "You're very good," said Mr Medlock; "but I shouldn't think of it. We want you for head work. There are plenty to be hired in London to do the hand work. By the way, I will take up the register of orders and cash you have been keeping, to check with the letters in town. You won't want it for a few days." Reginald felt sorry to part with a work in which he felt such pride as this beautifully kept register. However, he had made it for the use of the Corporation, and it was not his to withhold. After clearing up cautiously all round, with the result that Reginald had very little besides pen, ink, and paper left him, Mr Medlock said good morning. "I may have to run up to town for a few days," he said, "but I shall see you again very soon, I hope. Meanwhile, make yourself comfortable. The directors are very favourably impressed with you already, and I hope at Christmas they may meet and tell you so in person. Boy, make a parcel of these books and papers and bring them for me to my hotel." Love obeyed surlily. He was only waiting for Mr Medlock's departure to dive into the mystery of _Trumpery Toadstool, or Murdered for a Lark_, in which he had that morning invested. He made a clumsy parcel of the books, and then shambled forth in a somewhat homicidal spirit in Mr Medlock's wake down the street. At the corner that gentleman halted till he came up. "Well, young fellow, picked any pockets lately?" The boy scowled at him inquisitively. "All right," said Mr Medlock. "I never said you had. I'm not going to take you to the police-station, I'm going to give you half a crown." This put a new aspect on the situation. Love brightened up as he watched Mr Medlock's hand dive into his pocket. "What should you do with a half-crown if you had it?" "Do? I know, and no error. I'd get the _Noogate Calendar_, that's what I'd do." "You can read, then?" "Ray-ther; oh no, not me." "Can you read writing?" "In corse." "Do you always go to the post with the letters?" "In corse." "Do you ever see any addressed to Mrs Cruden or Mr Cruden in London?" "'Bout once a week. That there sekketery always gives 'em to me separate, and says I'm to be sure and post 'em." "Well, I say they're not to be posted," said Mr Medlock. "Here's half a crown; and listen: next time you get any to post put them on one side; and every one you can show me you shall have sixpence for. Mind what you're at, or he'll flay you alive if he catches you. Off you go, there's a good boy." And Love pocketed his half-crown greedily, and with a knowing wink at his employer sped back to the office. That afternoon Reginald wrote a short polite note to the Rev. T. Mulberry, explaining to him the reason for any apparent delay in the execution of his order, and promising that he should duly receive it before Christmas. This was the only letter for the post that day, and Love had no opportunity of earning a further sixpence. He had an opportunity of spending his half-crown, however, and when he returned from the post he was radiant in face and stouter under the waistcoat by the thickness of the coveted volume of the _Newgate Calendar_ series. With the impetuosity characteristic of his age, he plunged into its contents the moment he found himself free of work, and by the time Reginald returned from his short evening stroll he was master of several of its stories. _Tim Tigerskin_ and _The Pirate's Bride_ were nothing to it. They all performed their incredible exploits on the other side of the world, but these heroes were beings of flesh and blood like himself, and, for all he knew, he might have seen them and talked to them, and have known some of the very spots in London which they frequented. He felt a personal interest in their achievements. "Say, governor," said he as soon as Reginald entered, "do you know Southwark Road?" "In London? Yes," said Reginald. "This 'ere chap, Bright, was a light porter to a cove as kep' a grocer's shop there, and one night when he was asleep in the arm-cheer he puts a sack on 'is 'ead and chokes 'im. The old cove he struggles a bit, but--" "Shut up!" said Reginald angrily. "I've told you quite often enough. Give me that book." At the words and the tones in which they were uttered Love suddenly turned into a small fiend. He struggled, he kicked, he cursed, he howled to keep his treasure. Reginald was inexorable, and of course it was only a matter of time until the book was in his hands. A glance at its contents satisfied him. "Look here," said he, holding the book behind his back and parrying all the boy's frantic efforts to recover it, "don't make a fool of yourself, youngster." "Give it to me! Give me my book, you--" And the boy broke into a volley of oaths and flung himself once more tooth-and-nail on Reginald. Already Reginald saw he had made a mistake. He had done about the most unwise thing he possibly could have done. But it was too late to undo it. The only thing, apparently, was to go through with it now. So he flung the book into the fire, and, catching the boy by the arm, told him if he did not stop swearing and struggling at once he would make him. The boy did not stop, and Reginald did make him. It was a poor sort of victory, and no one knew it better than Reginald. If the boy was awed into silence, he was no nearer listening to reason-- nay, further than ever. He slunk sulkily into a corner, glowering at his oppressor and deaf to every word he uttered. In vain Reginald expostulated, coaxed, reasoned, even apologised. The boy met it all with a sullen scowl. Reginald offered to pay him for the book, to buy him another, to read aloud to him, to give him an extra hour a day--it was all no use; the injury was too deep to wash out so easily; and finally he had to give it up and trust that time might do what arguments and threats had failed to effect. But in this he was disappointed; for next morning when nine o'clock arrived, no Love was there, nor as the day wore on did he put in an appearance. When at last evening came, and still no signs of him, Reginald began to discover that the sole result of his well-meant interference had been to drive his only companion from him, and doom himself henceforth to the miseries of solitary confinement. For days he scarcely spoke a word. The silence of that office was unearthly. He opened the window, winter as it was, to let in the sound of cabs and footsteps for company. He missed even the familiar rustle of the "penny dreadfuls" as the boy turned their pages. He wished anybody, even his direst foe, might turn up to save him from dying of loneliness. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A LETTER FROM HORACE. "Dear Reg," (so ran a letter from Horace which Reginald received a day or two after Master Love's desertion), "I'm afraid you are having rather a slow time up there, which is more than can be said for us here. There's been no end of a row at the _Rocket_, which you may like to hear about, especially as two of the chief persons concerned were your friend Durfy and your affectionate brother. "Granville, the sub-editor, came into the office where Booms and Waterford and I were working on Friday morning, and said, in his usual mild way,-- "`I should like to know who generally clears the post-box in the morning?' "`I do,' said Booms. You know the way he groans when he speaks. "`The reason I want to know is, because I have an idea one or two letters lately have either been looked at or tampered with before the editor or I see them.' "`I suppose I'm to be given in charge?' said Booms. `I didn't do it; but when once a man's suspected, what's the use of saying anything?' "Even Granville couldn't help grinning at this. "`Nonsense, Booms. I'm glad to say I know you three fellows well enough by this time to feel sure it wasn't one of you. I shouldn't have spoken to you about it if I had.' "Booms seemed quite disappointed he wasn't to be made a martyr of after all. "`You think I know all about it?' he said. "`No, I don't; and if you'll just listen without running away with ridiculous notions, Booms,' said Granville, warming up a bit, `I'll explain myself. Two letters during the last fortnight have been undoubtedly opened before I saw them. They both arrived between eight o'clock in the evening and nine next morning, and they both came from sporting correspondents of ours in the country, and contained information of a private nature intended for our paper the next day. In one case it was about a horse race, and in the other about an important football match. The letters were not tampered with for the purpose of giving information to any other papers, because we were still the only paper who gave the news, so the probability is some one who wanted to bet on the event has tried to get hold of the news beforehand.' "`I never made a bet in my life,' said Booms. "We couldn't help laughing at this, for the stories he tells us of his terrific sporting exploits when he goes out of an evening in his high collar would make you think he was the loudest betting man in London. "Granville laughed too. "`Better not begin,' he said, and then blushed very red, as it occurred to him he had made an unintentional pun. But we looked quite grave, and did not give any sign of having seen it, and that put him on his feet again. "`It's not a comfortable thing to happen,' said he, `and what I want to propose is that one or two of you should stay late for a night or two and see if you can find out how it occurs. There are one or two events coming off during the next few days about which we expect special communications, so that very likely whoever it is may try again. You must be very careful, and I shall have to leave you to use your discretion, for I'm so busy with the new Literary Supplement that I cannot stay myself.' "Well, when he'd gone we had a consultation, and of course it ended in Waterford and me determining to sit up. Poor Booms's heart would break if he couldn't go `on the mash' as usual; and though he tried to seem very much hurt that he was not to stay, we could see he was greatly relieved. Waterford and I were rather glad, as it happened, for we'd some work on hand it just suited us to get a quiet evening for. "So I wrote a note to Miss Crisp. Don't get excited, old man; she's a very nice girl, but she's another's. [By the way, Jemima asks after you every time I meet her, which is once a week now; she's invited herself into our shorthand class.] And after helping to rig old Booms up to the ninety-nines, which wasn't easy work, for his `dicky' kept twisting round to the side of his neck, and we had to pin it in three places before it would keep steady, I gave him the note and asked him would he ever be so kind as to take it round for me, as it was to ask Miss Crisp if she would go and keep my mother company during my absence. "After that I thought we should never get rid of him. He insisted on overhauling every article of his toilet. At least four more pins were added to fix the restless dicky in its place on his manly breast. We polished up his eye-glasses with wash-leather till the pewter nearly all rubbed off; we helped him roll his flannel shirt-sleeves up to the elbows for fear--horrible idea!--they should chance to peep out from below his cuffs; we devoted an anxious two minutes to the poising of his hat at the right angle, and then passed him affectionately from one to the other to see he was all right. After which he went off, holding my letter carefully in his scented handkerchief and saying--dear gay deceiver!--that he envied us spending a cosy evening in that snug office by the fire! "The work Waterford and I have on hand is--tell it not in Gath, old man, and don't scorn a fellow off the face of the earth--to try to write something that will get into the Literary Supplement. This supplement is a new idea of the editor's, and makes a sort of weekly magazine. He writes a lot of it himself, and we chip a lot of stuff for him out of other papers. The idea of having a shot at it occurred to us both independently, in a funny and rather humiliating way. It seems Waterford, without saying a word to me or anybody, had sat down and composed some lines on the `Swallow'--appropriate topic for this season of the year. I at the same time, without saying a word to Waterford or anybody except mother, had sat down and, with awful groanings and wrestlings of mind, evolved a lucubration in prose on `Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports.' Of course I crammed a lot of it up out of encyclopaedias and that sort of thing. It was the driest rot you ever read, and I knew it was doomed before I sent it in. But as it was written I thought I might try. So, as of course I couldn't send it in under my own name, I asked Miss Crisp if I might send it under hers. The obliging little lady laughed and said, `Yes,' but she didn't tell me at the same time that Waterford had come to her with his `Swallow' and asked the very same thing. A rare laugh she must have had at our expense! Well, I sent mine in and Waterford sent in his. "We were both very abstracted for the next few days, but little guessed our perturbation arose from the same cause. Then came the fatal Wednesday--the `d.w.t.' day as we call it--for Granville always saves up his rejected addresses for us to `decline with thanks' for Wednesdays. There was a good batch of them this day, so Waterford and I took half each. I took a hurried skim through mine, but no `Ancient and Modern Athletic Sports' were there. I concluded therefore Waterford had it. Granville writes in the corner of each `d.w.t.,' or `d.w.t. note,' which means `declined with thanks' pure and simple, or `declined with thanks' and a short polite note to be written at the same time stating that the sub-editor, while recognising some merit in the contribution, regretted it was not suitable for the Supplement. I polished off my pure and simple first, and then began to tackle the notes. About the fourth I came to considerably astonished me. It was a couple of mild sonnets on the `Swallow,' with the name M.E. Crisp attached! "`Hullo,' I said to Waterford, tossing the paper over to him, `here's Miss Crisp writing some verses. I should have thought she could write better stuff than that, shouldn't you?' "Waterford, very red in the face, snatched up the paper and glanced at it. "`Do you think they're so bad?' said he. "`Frightful twaddle,' said I; `fancy any one saying--'" "The drowsy year from winter's sleep ye wake, Yet two of ye do not a summer make." "`Well,' said he, grinning, `you'd better tell her straight off it's bosh, and then she's not likely to make a fool of herself again. Hullo, though, I say,' he exclaimed, picking up a paper in front of him, every smudge and blot of which I knew only too well, `why, she's at it again. What's this? "`"Ancient and Mod--" Why, it's in your writing; did you copy it out for her?' "`I wrote that out, yes,' said I, feeling it my turn to colour up and look sheepish. "Waterford glanced rapidly through the first few lines, and then said,-- "`Well, all I can say is, it's a pity she didn't stick to poetry. I'm sure the line about waking the drowsy year is a jolly sight better than this awful rot.' "`Though we are not told so in so many words, we may reasonably conclude that athletic sports were not unpractised by Cain and Abel prior to the death of the latter! "`As if they could have done it after!' "`I never said they could,' I said, feeling very much taken down. "`Oh--it was you composed it as well as wrote it, was it?' said he laughing. `Ho, ho! that's the best joke I ever heard. Poor little Crisp, what a shame to get her to father--or mother a thing like this; ha, ha! "prior to the death of the latter"--that's something like a play of language! My eye, what a game she's been having with us!' "`_Us_! then you're the idiot who wrote about the Swallows!' said I. "`Suppose I am,' said he, blushing all over, `suppose I am.' "`Well, all I can say is, I'm precious glad the little Crisp isn't guilty of it. "Two of ye do not a summer make," indeed!' "`Well, they don't,' said he. "`I know they don't,' said I, half dead with laughing, `but you needn't go and tell everybody.' "`I'm sure it's just as interesting as "Cain and Abel"--' "`There now, we don't want to hear any more about them,' said I, `but I think we ought to send them both back to Miss Crisp, to give her her laugh against us too.' "We did so; and I needn't tell you she lets us have it whenever we get within twenty yards of her. "Here's a long digression, but it may amuse you; and you said you wanted something to read. "Well, Waterford and I recovered in a few days from our first reverse, and decided to have another shot; and so we were rather glad of the quiet evening at the office to make our new attempts. We half thought of writing a piece between us, but decided we'd better go on our own hooks after all, as our styles were not yet broken in to one another. We agreed we had better this time both write on subjects we knew something about; Waterford accordingly selected `A Day in a Sub-Sub- Editor's Life' as a topic he really could claim to be familiar with; while I pitched upon `Early Rising,' a branch of science in which I flatter myself, old man, _you_ are not competent to tell me whether I excel or not. Half the battle was done when we had fixed on our subjects; so as soon as every one was gone we poked up the fire and made ourselves snug, and settled down to work. "We plodded on steadily till we heard the half-past nine letters dropped into the box. Then it occurred to us we had better turn down the lights and give our office as deserted a look as we could. It was rather slow work sitting in the dark for a couple of hours, not speaking a word or daring to move a toe. The fire got low, but we dared not make it up; and of course we both had awful desires to sneeze and cough--you always do at such times--and half killed ourselves in our efforts to smother them. We could hear the cabs and omnibuses in Fleet Street keeping up a regular roar; but no footsteps came near us, except once when a telegraph boy (as we guessed by his shrill whistling and his smart step) came and dropped a telegram into the box. I assure you the click the flap of the letter-box made that moment, although I knew what it was and why it was, made my heart beat like a steam-engine. "It was beginning to get rather slow when twelve came and still nothing to disturb us. We might have been forging ahead with our writing all this time if we had only known. "Presently Waterford whispered,-- "`They won't try to-night now.' "Just as he spoke we heard a creak on the stairs outside. We had heard lots of creaks already, but somehow this one startled us both. I instinctively picked up the ruler from the table, and Waterford took my arm and motioned me close to the wall beside him. Another creak came presently and then another. Evidently some one was coming down the stairs cautiously, and in the dark too, for we saw no glimmer of a light through the partly-opened door. We were behind it, so that if it opened we should be quite hidden unless the fellow groped round it. "Down he came slowly, and there was no mistake now about its being a human being and not a ghost, for we heard him clearing his throat very quietly and snuffling as he reached the bottom step. I can tell you it was rather exciting, even for a fellow of my dull nerves. "Waterford nudged me to creep a little nearer the gas, ready to turn it up at a moment's notice, while he kept at the door, to prevent our man getting out after he was once in. "Presently the door opened very quietly. He did not fling it wide open, luckily, or he was bound to spot us behind it; but he opened it just enough to squeeze in, and then, feeling his way round by the wall, made straight for the letter-box. Although it was dark he seemed to know his way pretty well, and in a few seconds we heard him stop and fumble with a key in the lock. In a second or two he had opened it, and then, crouching down, began cautiously to rub a match on the floor. The light was too dim to see anything but the crouching figure of a man bending over the box and examining the addresses of one or two of the letters in it. His match went out before he had found what he wanted. "It was hard work to keep from giving him a little unexpected light, for my fingers itched to turn up the gas. However, it was evidently better to wait a little longer and see what he really was up to before we were down on him. "He lit another match, and this time seemed to find what he wanted, for we saw him put one letter in his pocket and drop all the others back into the box, blowing out his match as he did so. "Now was our time. I felt a nudge from Waterford and turned the gas full on, while he quietly closed the door and turned the key. "I felt quite sorry for the poor scared beggar as he knelt there and turned his white face to the light, unable to move or speak or do anything. You'll have guessed who it was. "`So, Mr Durfy,' said Waterford, leaning up against the door and folding his arms, `it's you, is it?' "The culprit glared at him and then at me, and rose to his feet with a forced laugh. "`It looks like it,' he said. "`So it does,' said Waterford, taking the key out of the door and putting it in his pocket; `very like it. And it looks very much as if he would have to make himself comfortable here till Mr Granville comes!' "`What do you mean?' exclaimed the fellow. `I've as much right to be here as you have, for the matter of that, at this hour.' "`Very _well_, then,' said Waterford, as cool as a cucumber, `we'll all three stay here. Eh, Cruden?' "`I'm game,' said I. "He evidently didn't like the turn things were taking, and changed his tack. "`Come, don't play the fool!' he said coaxingly, `The fact is, I expected a letter from a friend, and as it was very important I came to get it. It's all right.' "`You may think so,' said Waterford; `you may think it's all right to come here on tiptoe at midnight with a false key, and steal, but other people may differ from you, that's all! Besides, you're telling a lie; the letter you've got in your pocket doesn't belong to you!' "It was rather a rash challenge, but we could see by the way his face fell it was a good shot. "He uttered an oath, and advanced threateningly towards the door. "`Sit down,' said Waterford, `unless you want to be tied up. There are two of us here, and we're not going to stand any nonsense, I can tell you!' "`You've no right--' "`Sit down, and shut up!' repeated Waterford. "`I tell you if you--' "`Cruden, you'll find some cord in one of those drawers. If you don't shut up, and sit down, Durfy, we shall make you.' "He caved in after that, and I was rather glad we hadn't to go to extremes. "`Hadn't we better get the letter?' whispered I. "`No; he'd better fork it out to Granville,' said Waterford. "He was wrong for once, as you shall hear. "Durfy slunk off and sat down on a chair in the far corner of the room, swearing to himself, but not venturing to raise his voice above a growl. "It was now about half-past twelve, and we had the lively prospect of waiting at least eight hours before Granville turned up. "`Don't you bother to stay,' said Waterford. `I can look after him.' "But I scouted the idea, and said nothing would induce me to go. "`Very well, then,' said he; `we may as well get on with our writing.' "So we pulled our chairs up to the table, with a full-view of Durfy in the corner, and tried to continue our lucubrations. "But when you are sitting up at dead of night, with a prisoner in the corner of the room cursing and gnashing his teeth at you, it is not easy to grow eloquent either on the subject of `A Day in a Sub-sub-Editor's Life,' or `Early Rising.' And so we found. We gave it up presently, and made up the fire and chatted together in a whisper. "Once or twice Durfy broke the silence. "`I'm hungry,' growled he, about two o'clock. "`So are we,' said Waterford. "`Well, go and get something. I'm not going to be starved, I tell you. I'll make you smart for it, both of you.' "`You've been told to shut up,' said Waterford, rising to his feet with a glance towards the drawer where the cord was kept. "Durfy was quiet after that for an hour or so. Then I suppose he must have overheard me saying something to Waterford about you, for he broke out with a vicious laugh,-- "`Reginald! Yes, he'll thank you for this. I'll make it so hot for him--' "`Look here,' said Waterford, `this is the last time you're going to be cautioned, Durfy. If you open your mouth once more you'll be gagged; mind that. I mean what I say.' "This was quite enough for Durfy. He made no further attempt to speak, but curled himself up on the floor and turned his face to the wall, and disposed himself to all appearances to sleep. Whether he succeeded or not I can't say. But towards morning he glowered round at us. Then he took out some tobacco and commenced chewing it, and finally turned his back on us again and continued dozing and chewing alternately till the eight o'clock bell rang and aroused us. "Half an hour later Granville arrived, and a glance at our group was quite sufficient to acquaint him with the state of affairs. "`So this is the man,' said he, pointing to Durfy. "`Yes, sir. We caught him in the act of taking a letter out of the box at midnight. In fact, he's got it in his pocket this moment.' "Durfy gave a fiendish grin, and said,-- "`That's a lie. I've no letter in my pocket!' "And he proceeded to turn his pockets one after the other inside out. "`All I know is we both saw him take a letter out of the box and put it in his pocket,' said Waterford. "`Yes,' snarled Durfy, `and I told you it was a private letter of my own.' "`Whatever the letter is, you took it out of the box, and you had better show it quietly,' said Granville; `it will save you trouble.' "`I tell you I have no letter,' replied Durfy again. "`Very well, then, Cruden, perhaps you will kindly fetch a policeman.' "I started to go, but Durfy broke out, this time in tones of sincere terror,-- "`Don't do that, don't ruin me! I did take it, but--' "`Give it to me then.' "`I can't. I've eaten it!' "Wasn't this a thunderbolt! How were we to prove whose the letter was? Wild thoughts of a stomach-pump, or soap and warm water, did flash through my mind, but what was the use? The fellow had done us after all, and we had to admit it. "No one stopped him as he went to the door, half scowling, half grinning. "`Good morning, gentlemen!' said he. `I hope you'll get a better night's rest to-morrow. I promise not to disturb you,' (here followed a few oaths). `But I'll pay you out, some of you--Crudens, Reginalds, sneaks, prigs--all of you!' "With which neat peroration he took his leave, and the _Rocket_ has not seen him since. "Here's a long screed! I must pull up now. "Mother's not very well, she's fretting, I'm afraid, and her eyes trouble her. I can't say we shall be sorry when Christmas comes, for try all we can, we're in debt at one or two of the shops. I know you'll hate to hear it, but it's simply unavoidable on our present means. I wish I could come down and see you; but for one thing, I can't afford it, and for another, I can't leave mother. Mrs Shuckleford is really very kind, though she's not a congenial spirit. "Young Gedge and I see plenty of one another: he's joined our shorthand class, and is going in for a little steady work all round. He owes you a lot for befriending him at the time you did, and he's not forgotten it. I promised to send you his love next time I wrote. Harker will be in town next week, which will be jolly. I've never seen Bland since I called to pay the 6 shillings 6 pence. I fancy he's got into rather a fast lot, and is making a fool of himself, which is a pity. "You tell us very little about your Corporation; I hope it is going on all right. I wish to goodness you were back in town. I never was in love with the concern, as you know, and at the risk of putting you in a rage, I can't help saying it's a pity we couldn't all have stayed together just now. Forgive this growl, old man. "Your affectionate brother,-- "Horace. "Wednesday, `d.w.t.' day. To our surprise and trepidation, neither the `Day in a Sub-Sub-editor's Life' nor `Early Rising' were among the papers given out to-day to be `declined with thanks.' Granville may have put them into the fire as not even worth returning, or he may actually--_O mirabile dictu_--be going to put us into print?" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. VISITORS AT NUMBER 13, SHY STREET. The concluding sentences of Horace's long letter, particularly those which referred to his mother's poor health and the straitened circumstances of the little household, were sufficiently unwelcome to eclipse in Reginald's mind the other exciting news the letter had contained. They brought on a fit of the blues which lasted more than one day. For now that he had neither companion nor occupation (for the business of the Select Agency Corporation had fallen off completely) there was nothing to prevent his indulgence in low spirits. He began to chafe at his imprisonment, and still more at his helplessness even were he at liberty to do anything. Christmas was still a fortnight off, and till then what could he do on thirteen shillings a week? He might cut down his commissariat certainly, to, say, a shilling a day, and send home the rest. But then, what about coals and postage-stamps and other incidental expenses, which had to be met in Mr Medlock's absence out of his own pocket? The weather was very cold--he could hardly do without coals, and he was bound in the interests of the Corporation to keep stamps enough in the place to cover the necessary correspondence. When all was said, two shillings seemed to be the utmost he could save out of his weekly pittance, and this he sent home by the very next post, with a long, would-be cheerful, but really dismal letter, stoutly denying that he was either miserable or disappointed with his new work, and anticipating with pleasure the possibility of being able to run up at Christmas and bring with him the welcome funds which would clear the family of debt and give it a good start for the New Year. When he had finished his letter home he wrote to Mr Medlock, very respectfully suggesting that as he had been working pretty hard and for the last few days single-handed, Mr Medlock might not object to advance him at any rate part of the salary due in a fortnight, as he was rather in need of money. And he ventured to ask, as Christmas Day fell on a Thursday, and no business was likely to be done between that day and the following Monday, might he take the _two_ or three days' holiday, undertaking, of course, to be back at his post on the Monday morning? He enclosed a few post-office orders which had come to hand since he last wrote, and hoped he should soon have the pleasure of seeing Mr Medlock--"or anybody," he added to himself as he closed the letter and looked wearily round the gaunt, empty room. Now, if Reginald had been a believer in fairies he would hardly have started as much as he did when, almost as the words escaped his lips, the door opened, and a female marched into the room. A little prim female it was, with stiff curls down on her forehead and a very sharp nose and very thin lips and fidgety fingers that seemed not to know whether to cling to one another for support or fly at the countenance of somebody else. This formidable visitor spared Reginald the trouble of inquiring to what fortunate circumstance he was indebted for the honour of so unlooked-for a visit. "Now, sir!" said she, panting a little, after her ascent of the stairs, but very emphatic, all the same. The observation was not one which left much scope for argument, and Reginald did not exactly know what to reply. At last, however, he summoned up resolution enough to say politely,-- "Now, madam, can I be of any service?" Inoffensive as the observation was, it had the effect of greatly irritating the lady. "None of your sauce, young gentleman," said she, putting down her bag and umbrella, and folding her arms defiantly. "I've not come here to take any of your impertinence." Reginald's impertinence! He had never been rude to a lady in all his life except once, and the penance he had paid for that sin had been bitter enough, as the reader can testify. "You needn't pretend not to know what I've come here for," continued the lady, taking a hasty glance round the room, as if mentally calculating from what door or window her victim would be most likely to attempt to escape. "Perhaps she's Love's mother!" gasped Reginald, to himself.--"Oh, but what a Venus!" This classical reflection he prudently kept to himself, and waited for his visitor to explain her errand further. "You know who I am," she said, walking up to him. "No, indeed," said Reginald, hardly liking to retreat, but not quite comfortable to be standing still. "Unless--unless your name is Love." "Love!" screamed the outraged "Venus." "I'll Love you, young gentleman, before I've done with you. Love, indeed, you impudent sauce-box, you!" "I beg your pardon," began Reginald. "Love, indeed! I'd like to scratch you, so I would!" cried the lady, with a gesture so ominously like suiting the action to the word, that Reginald fairly deserted his post and retreated two full paces. This was getting critical. Either the lady was mad, or she had mistaken Reginald for some one else. In either case he felt utterly powerless to deal with the difficulty. So like a prudent man he decided to hold his tongue and let the lady explain herself. "Love, indeed!" said she, for the third time. "You saucy jackanapes, you. No, sir, my name's Wrigley!" She evidently supposed this announcement would fall like a thunderbolt on the head of her victim, and it disconcerted her not a little when he merely raised his eyebrows and inclined his head politely. "Now do you know what I'm come about?" said she. "No," replied he. "Yes you do. You needn't think to deceive me, sir. It won't do, I can tell you." "I _really_ don't know," said poor Reginald. "Who are you?" "I'm the lady who ordered the globe and blackboard, and sent two pounds along with the order to you, Mr Cruden Reginald. There! _Now_ perhaps you know what I've come for!" If she had expected Reginald to fly out of the window, or seek refuge up the chimney, at this announcement, the composure with which he received the overpowering disclosure must have considerably astonished her. "Eh?" she said. "Eh? Do you know me now?" "I have no doubt you are right," said he. "We had more than a hundred orders for the globes and boards, and expect they will be delivered this week or next." "Oh! then you have been imposing on more than me?" said the lady, who till this moment had imagined she had been the only correspondent of the Corporation on the subject. "We've been imposing on no one," said Reginald warmly. "You have no right to say that, Mrs Wrigley." His honest indignation startled the good lady. "Then why don't you send the things?" she demanded, in a milder tone. "There are a great many orders to attend to, and they have to be taken in order as we receive them. Probably yours came a good deal later than others." "No, it didn't. I wrote by return of post, and put an extra stamp on too. You must have got mine one of the very first." "In that case you will be one of the first to receive your globe and board." "I know that, young man," said she. "I'm going to take them with me now!" "I'm afraid you can't do that," said Reginald. "They are being sent off from London." The lady, who had somewhat moderated her wrath in the presence of the secretary's unruffled politeness, fired up as fiercely as ever at this. "There! I _knew_ it was a swindle! From London, indeed! Might as well say New York at once! _I'm_ not going to believe your lies, you young robber! Don't expect it!" It was a considerable tax on Reginald's temper to be addressed in language like this, even by a lady, and he could not help retorting rather hotly, "I'm glad you are only a woman, Mrs Wrigley, for I wouldn't stand being called a thief by a man, I assure you!" "Oh, don't let that make any difference!" said she, fairly in a rage, and advancing up to him. "Knock me down and welcome! You may just as well murder a woman as rob her!" "I can only tell you again your order is being executed in London." "And I can tell you I don't believe a word you say, and I'll just have my two pounds back, and have done with you! Come, you can't say you never got _that_!" "If you sent it, I certainly did," said Reginald. "Then perhaps you'll hand it up this moment?" "I would gladly do so if I had it, but--" "I suppose it's gone to London too?" said she, with supernatural calmness. "It has been paid in with all the money to the bank," said Reginald. "But if you wish it I will write to the managing director and ask him to return it by next post." "Will you?" said she, in tones that might have frozen any one less heated than Reginald. "And you suppose I've come all the way from Dorsetshire to get that for an answer, do you? You're mistaken, sir! I don't leave this place till I get my money or my things! So now!" "Then," said Reginald, feeling the case desperate, and pushing a chair in her direction, "perhaps you'd better sit down." She glared round at him indignantly. But perhaps it was the sight of his haggard, troubled face, or the faint suspicion that he, after all, might be more honest than his employers, or the reflection that she could get her rights better out of the place than in it. Whatever the reason was, she changed her mind. "You shall hear of me again, sir!" said she; "mind that! Love, indeed!" whereupon she bounced out of the office and slammed the door behind her. Reginald sat with his eyes on the door for a full two minutes before he could sufficiently collect his wits to know where he was or what had happened. Then a sense of indignation overpowered all his other feelings--not against Mrs Wrigley, but against Mr Medlock, for leaving him in a position where he could be, even in the remotest degree, open to so unpleasant a charge as that he had just listened to. Why could he not be trusted with sufficient money and control over the operations of the Corporation to enable him to meet so unfounded a charge? What would the Bishop of S-- or the other directors think if they heard that a lady had come all the way from Dorsetshire to tell them they were a set of swindlers and thieves? If he had had the sending off of the orders to see to, he was confident he could have got every one of them off by this time, even if he had made up every parcel with his own hands. What, in short, was the use of being called a secretary if he was armed with no greater authority than a common junior clerk? He opened the letter he had just written to Mr Medlock, and sat down to write another, more aggrieved in its tone and more urgent in its request that Mr Medlock would come down to Liverpool at once to arrange matters on a more satisfactory footing. It was difficult to write a letter which altogether pleased him; but at last he managed to do it, and for fear his warmth should evaporate he went out to post it, locking the office up behind him. He took a walk before returning--the first he had taken for a week. It was a beautiful crisp December day, when, even through the murky atmosphere of Liverpool, the sun looked down joyously, and the blue sky, flecked with little fleecy clouds, seemed to challenge the smoke and steam of a thousand chimneys to touch its purity. Reginald's steps turned away from the city, through a quiet suburb towards the country. He would have to walk too far, he knew, to reach real open fields and green lanes, but there was at least a suggestion of the country here which to his weary mind was refreshing. His walk took him past a large public school, in the playground of which an exciting football match was in active progress. Like an old war horse, Reginald gazed through the palings and snorted as the cry of battle rose in the air. "Hack it through, sir!" "Well run!" "Collar him there!" As he heard those old familiar cries it seemed to him as if the old life had come back to him with a sudden rush. He was no longer a poor baited secretary, but a joyous school-boy, head of his form, lord and master of half a dozen fags, and a caution and example to the whole junior school. He had chums by the score; his study was always crowded with fellows wanting him to do this or help them in that. How jolly to be popular! How jolly, when the ball came out of the scrimmage, to hear every one shout, "Let Cruden have it!" How jolly, as he snatched it up and rushed, cleaving his way to the enemy's goal, to hear that roar behind him, "Run indeed, sir!" "Back him up!" "Well played!" Yes, he heard them still, like music; and as he watched the shifting fortunes of this game he felt the blood course through his veins with a strange, familiar ardour. Ah, here came the ball out of the scrimmage straight towards him! Oh, the thrill of such a moment! Who does not know it? A second more and he would have it-- Alas! poor Reginald awoke as suddenly as he had dreamed. A hideous paling stood between him and the ball. He was not in the game at all. Nothing but a lonely, friendless drudge, whom nobody wanted, nobody cared about. With a glistening in his eyes which he would have scornfully protested was not a tear, he turned away and walked moodily back to Shy Street, caring little if it were to be the last walk he should ever take. He was not, however, to be allowed much time for indulging his gloomy reflections on reaching his journey's end. A person was waiting outside the office, pacing up and down the pavement to keep himself warm. The stranger took a good look at Reginald as he entered and let himself in, and then followed up the stairs and presented himself. "Is Mr Reginald at home?" inquired he blandly. Reginald noticed that he was a middle-aged person, dressed in a sort of very shabby clerical costume, awkward in his manner, but not unintelligent in face. "That is my name," replied he. "Thank you. I am glad to see you, Mr Reginald. You were kind enough to send me a communication not long ago about--well, about a suit of clothes." His evident hesitation to mention anything that would call attention to his own well-worn garb made Reginald feel quite sorry for him. "Oh yes," said he, taking good care not to look at his visitor's toilet, "we sent a good many of the circulars to clergymen." "Very considerate," said the visitor. "I was away from home and have only just received it." And he took the circular out of his pocket, and seating himself on a chair began to peruse it. Presently he looked up and said,-- "Are there any left?" "Any of the suits? Oh yes, I expect so. We had a large number." "Could I--can you show me one?" "Unfortunately I haven't got them here; they are all in London." "How unfortunate! I did so want to get one." Then he perused the paper again. "How soon could I have one?" he said. "Oh very soon now; before Christmas certainly," replied Reginald. "You are sure?" "Oh yes. They will all be delivered before then." "And have you had many orders?" said the clergyman. "A great many," said Reginald. "Hundreds, I daresay. There are many to whom it would be a boon at this season to get so cheap an outfit." "Two hundred, I should say," said Reginald. "Would you like to leave an order with me?" "Two hundred! Dear me! And did they all send the two pounds, as stated here, along with their order?" "Oh yes. Some sent more," said Reginald, quite thankful to have some one to talk to, who did not regard him either as a fool or a knave. "It must have been a very extensive bankrupt stock you acquired," said the clergyman musingly. "And were all the applicants clergymen like myself?" "Nearly all." "Dear me, how sad to think how many there are to whom such an opportunity is a godsend! We are sadly underpaid, many of us, Mr Reginald, and are apt to envy you gentlemen of business your comfortable means. Now you, I daresay, get as much as three or four of us poor curates get together." "I hope not," said Reginald with a smile. "Well, if I even had your £200 a year I should be thankful," said the poor curate. "But I haven't that by £50," said Reginald. "Shall I put you down for a complete suit, as mentioned in the circular?" "Yes, I'm afraid I cannot well do without it," said the other. "And what name and address?" said Reginald. "Well, perhaps the simplest way would be, as I am going back to London, for you to give me an order for the things to present at your depot there. It will save carriage, you know." "Very well," said Reginald, "I will write one for you. You notice," added he, "that we ask for £2 with the order." "Ah, yes," said the visitor, with a sigh, "that appears to be a stern necessity. Here it is, Mr Reginald." "Thank you," said Reginald. "I will write you a receipt; and here is a note to Mr John Smith, at Weaver's Hotel, London, who has charge of the clothing. I have no doubt he will be able to suit you with just what you want." "John Smith? I fancy I have heard his name somewhere. Is he one of your principals--a dark tall man?" "I have never seen him," said Reginald, "but all our orders go to him for execution." "Oh, well, thank you very much. I am sure I am much obliged to you. You seem to be single-handed here. It must be hard work for you." "Pretty hard sometimes." "I suppose clothing is what you chiefly supply?" "We have also been sending out a lot of globes and blackboards to schools." "Dear me, I should be glad to get a pair of globes for our parish school--very glad. Have you them here?" "No, they are in London too." "And how do you sell them? I fear they are very expensive." "They cost £3 the set, but we only ask £2 with the order." "That really seems moderate. I shall be strongly tempted to ask our Vicar to let me get a pair when in London. Will Mr Smith be able to show them to me?" "Yes, he is superintending the sending off of them too." "How crowded Weaver's Hotel must be, with so many bulky articles!" said the curate. "Oh, you know, I don't suppose Mr Smith keeps them there; but he lives there while he's in town, that's all. Our directors generally put up at Weaver's Hotel." "I should greatly like to see a list of the directors, if I may," said the clergyman. "There's nothing gives one so much confidence as to see honoured names on the directorate of a company like yours." "I can give you a list if you like," said Reginald. "I daresay you know by name the Bishop of S--, our chairman?" "To be sure, and--dear me, what a very good list of names! Thank you, if I may take one of these, I should like to show it to my friends. Well, then, I will call on Mr Smith in London, and meanwhile I am very much obliged to you, Mr Reginald, for your courtesy. Very glad to have made your acquaintance. Good afternoon." And he shook hands cordially with the secretary, and departed, leaving Reginald considerably soothed in spirit, as he reflected that he had really done a stroke of work for the Corporation that day on his own account. It was well for his peace of mind that he did not know that the clergyman, on turning the corner of Shy Street, rubbed his hands merrily together, and said to himself, in tones of self-satisfaction,-- "Well, if that wasn't the neatest bit of work I've done since I came on the beat. The innocent! He'd sit up, I guess, if he knew the nice pleasant-spoken parson he's been blabbing to was Sniff of the detective office. My eye--it's all so easy, there's not much credit about the business after all. But it's pounds, shillings and pence to Sniff, and that's better!" CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. SAMUEL SHUCKLEFORD FINDS HIMSELF BUSY. "Jemima, my dear," said Mrs Shuckleford one day, as the little family in Number 4, Dull Street, sat round their evening meal, "I don't like the looks of Mrs Cruden. It's my opinion she don't get enough to eat." "Really, ma, how you talk!" replied the daughter. "The butcher's boy left there this very afternoon. I saw him." "I'm afraid, my dear, he didn't leave anything more filling than a bill. In fact, I 'eard myself that the butcher told Mrs Marks he thought Number 6 'ad gone far enough for 'im." "Oh, ma! you don't mean to say they're in debt?" said Jemima, who, by the way, had been somewhat more pensive and addicted to sitting by herself since Reginald had gone north. "Well, if it was only the butcher I heard it from I wouldn't take much account of it, but Parker the baker 'as 'is doubts of them; so I 'eard the Grinsons' maid tell Ford when I was in 'is shop this very day. And I'm sure you've only to look at 'Orace's coat and 'at to see they must be in debt: the poor boy looks a reg'lar scarecrow. It all comes, my dear, of Reginald's going off and leaving them. Oh, 'ow I pity them that 'as a wild son." "Don't talk nonsense, ma," said Miss Jemima, firing up. "He's no more wild than Sam here." "You seem to know more about Reginald than most people, my dear," said her mother significantly. To the surprise of the mother and brother, Jemima replied to this insinuation by bursting into tears and walking out of the room. "Did you ever see the like of that? She always takes on if any one mentions that boy's name; and she's old enough to be his aunt, too!" "The sooner she cures herself of that craze the better," said Sam, pouring himself out some more tea. "She don't know quite so much about him as I do!" "Why, what do you know about 'im, then?" inquired Mrs Shuckleford, in tones of curiosity. "Never you mind; we don't talk business out of the office. All I can tell you is, he's a bad lot." "Poor Mrs Cruden! no wonder she takes on. What an infliction a wicked son is to a mother, Sam!" "That'll do," said the dutiful Sam. "What do you know about it? I tell you what, ma, you're thick enough with Number 6. You'd better draw off a bit." "Oh, Sam, why so?" "Because I give you the tip, that's all. The old lady may not be in it, but I don't fancy the connection." "But, Sam, she's starving herself, and 'Orace is in rags." "Send her in a rump-steak and a suit of my old togs by the housemaid," said Sam; "or else do as you like, and don't blame me if you're sorry for it." Mrs Shuckleford knew it was no use trying to extract any more lucid information from her legal offspring, and did not try, but she made another effort to soften his heart with regard to the Widow Cruden and her son. "After all they're gentlefolk in trouble, as we might be," said she, "and they do behave very nice at the short-'and class to Jemima." "Gentlefolk or not," said Sam decisively, spreading a slice of toast with jam, "I tell you you'd better draw off, ma--and Jim must chuck up the class. I'm not going to have her mixing with them." "But the child's 'eart would break, Sam, if--" "Let it break. She cares no more about shorthand than she does about county courts. It's all part of her craze to tack herself on that lot. She's setting her cap at _him_ while she's making up to his ma; any flat might see that; but she's got to jack up the whole boiling now--there. We needn't say any more about it." And, having finished his tea, Mr Samuel Shuckleford went down to his "club" to take part in a debate on "Cruelty to Animals." Now the worthy captain's widow, Mrs Shuckleford, had lived long enough in this world to find that human nature is a more powerful law even than parental obedience; she therefore took to heart just so much of her son's discourse as fitted with the one, and overlooked just so much as exacted the latter. In other words, she was ready to believe that Reginald Cruden was a "bad lot," but she was not able to bring herself on that account to desert her neighbour at the time of her trouble. Accordingly that same evening, while Samuel was pleading eloquently on behalf of our dumb fellow-creatures, and Jemima, having recovered from her tears, was sitting abstractedly over a shorthand exercise in her own bedroom, Mrs Shuckleford took upon herself to pay a friendly call at Number 6. It happened to be one of Horace's late evenings, so that Mrs Cruden was alone. She was lying wearily on the uncomfortable sofa, with her eyes shaded from the light, dividing her time between knitting and musing, the latter occupation receiving a very decided preference. "Pray don't get up," said Mrs Shuckleford, the moment she entered. "I only looked in to see 'ow you was. You're looking bad, Mrs Cruden." "Thank you, I am quite well," said Mrs Cruden, "only a little tired." "And down in your spirits, too; and well you may be, poor dear," said the visitor soothingly. "No, Mrs Shuckleford," said Mrs Cruden brightly. "Indeed, I ought not to be in bad spirits to-day. We've had quite a little family triumph to-day. Horace has had an article published in the _Rocket_, and we are so proud." "Ah, yes; he's the steady one," said Mrs Shuckleford. "There's no rolling stone about 'Orace." "No," said the mother warmly. "If they was only both alike," said the visitor, approaching her subject delicately. "Ah! but it often happens two brothers may be very different in temper and mind. It's not always a misfortune." "Certainly not, Mrs Cruden; but when one's good and the other's wicked--" "Oh, then, of course, it is very sad," said Mrs Cruden. "Sad's no name for it," replied the visitor, with emotion. "Oh, Mrs Cruden, 'ow sorry I am for you." "You are very kind. It is a sad trial to be separated from my boy, but I've not given up hopes of seeing him back soon." Mrs Shuckleford shook her head. "'Ow you must suffer on 'is account," said she. "If your 'eart don't break with it, it must be made of tougher stuff than mine." "But after all, Mrs Shuckleford," said Mrs Cruden, "there are worse troubles in this life than separation." "You're right. Oh, I'm so sorry for you." "Why for me? I have only the lighter sorrow." "Oh, Mrs Cruden, do you call a wicked son a light sorrow?" "Certainly not, but my sons, thank God, are good, brave boys, both of them." "And who told you 'e was a good, brave boy? Reggie, I mean." "Who told me?" said Mrs Cruden, with surprise. "Who told me he was anything else?" "Oh, Mrs Cruden! Oh, Mrs Cruden!" said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to cry. Mrs Cruden at last began to grow uneasy and alarmed. She sat up on the sofa, and said, in an agitated voice,-- "What _do_ you mean, Mrs Shuckleford? Has anything happened? Is there any bad news about Reginald?" "Oh, Mrs Cruden, I made sure you knew all about it." "What is it?" cried Mrs Cruden, now thoroughly terrified and trembling all over. "Has anything happened to him? Is he--dead?" and she seized her visitor's hand as she asked the question. "No, Mrs Cruden, not dead. Maybe it would be better for 'im if he was." "Better if he was dead? Oh, please, have pity and tell me what you mean!" cried the poor mother, dropping back on to the sofa with a face as white as a sheet. "Come, don't take on," said Mrs Shuckleford, greatly disconcerted to see the effect of her delicate breaking of the news. "Perhaps it's not as bad as it seems." "Oh, what is it? what is it? I can't bear this suspense. Why don't you tell me?" and she trembled so violently and looked so deadly pale that Mrs Shuckleford began to get alarmed. "There, there," said she soothingly; "I'll tell you another time. You're not equal to it now. I'll come in to-morrow, or the next day, when you've had a good night's rest, poor dear." "For pity's sake tell me all now!" gasped Mrs Cruden; "unless you want to kill me." It dawned at last on the well-meaning Mrs Shuckleford that no good was being done by prolonging her neighbour's suspense any further. "Well, well! It's only that I'm afraid he's been doing something-- well--dreadful. Oh, Mrs Cruden, how sorry I am for you!" Mrs Cruden lay motionless, like one who had received a stab. "What has he done?" she whispered slowly. "I don't know, dear--really I don't," said Mrs Shuckleford, beginning to whimper at the sight of the desolation she had caused. "It was Sam, my son, told me--he wouldn't say what it was--and I 'ope you won't let 'im know it was me you 'eard it from, Mrs Cruden, for he'd be very-- Mercy on us!" Mrs Cruden had fainted. Help was summoned, and she was carried to her bed. When Horace arrived shortly afterwards he found her still unconscious, with Mrs Shuckleford bathing her forehead, and tending her most gently. "You had better run for a doctor, 'Orace," whispered she, as the scared boy entered the room. "What is the matter? What has happened?" gasped he. "Poor dear, she's broken down--she's-- But go quick for the doctor, 'Orace." Horace went as fast as his fleet feet would carry him. The doctor pronounced Mrs Cruden to be in a state of high fever, produced by nervous prostration and poor living. He advised Horace, if possible, to get a nurse to tend her while the fever lasted, especially as she would probably awake from her swoon delirious, and would for several days remain in a very critical condition. In less than five minutes Horace was at Miss Crisp's, imploring her assistance. The warm-hearted little lady undertook the duty without a moment's hesitation, and from that night, and for a fortnight to come, hardly quitted her friend's bedside. Mrs Shuckleford, deeming it prudent not to refer again to the unpleasant subject which had been the immediate cause of Mrs Cruden's seizure, waited till she was assured that at present she could be of no further use, and then withdrew, full of sympathy and commiseration, which she manifested in all sorts of womanly ways during her neighbour's illness. Not a day passed but she called in, morning and afternoon, to inquire after the patient, generally the bearer of some home-made delicacy, and sometimes to take her post by the sick bed while Miss Crisp snatched an hour or so of well-earned repose. As for Horace, he could hardly be persuaded to leave the sick chamber. But the stern necessity of work, greater than ever now at this time of special emergency, compelled him to take the rest necessary for his own health and daily duties. With an effort he dragged himself to the office every morning, and like an arrow he returned from it every evening, and often paid a flying visit at midday. His good-natured companions voluntarily relieved him of all late work, and, indeed, every one who had in the least degree come into contact with the gentle patient seemed to vie in showing sympathy and offering help. Young Gedge was amongst the most eager of the inquirers at the house. He squandered shillings in flowers and grapes, and sometimes even ran the risk of disgrace at the _Rocket_ by lingering outside the house during a doctor's visit, in order to hear the latest bulletin before he went back to work. In his mind, as well as in Horace's, a faint hope had lurked that somehow Reginald might contrive to run up to London for a day or two at least, to cheer the house of watching. Mrs Cruden, in her delirium, often moaned her absent son's name, and called for him, and they believed if only he were to come, her restless troubled mind might cease its wanderings and find rest. But Reginald neither came nor wrote. Since Horace, on the first day of her illness, had written, telling him all, no one had heard a word from him. At last, when after a week Horace wrote again, saying,-- "Come to us, if you love us," and still no letter or message came back, a new cloud of anxiety fell over the house. Reginald must be ill, or away from Liverpool, or something must have happened to him, or assuredly, they said, he would have been at his mother's side at the first breath of danger. Mrs Shuckleford only, as day passed day, and the prodigal never returned, shook her head and said to herself, it was a blessing no one knew the reason, not even the poor delirious sufferer herself. Poor people! they had trouble enough on them not to need any more just now! so she kept her own counsel, even from Jemima. This was the more easy to do because she knew nothing either of Reginald or his doings beyond what her son had hinted, and as Samuel was at present in the country on business, she had no opportunity of prosecuting her inquiries on the subject. Sam, in fact, whether he liked it or not, happened just now to hold the fortunes of the family of Cruden pretty much in his own hands. A few days before the conversation with his mother already reported, he had been sitting in his room at the office, his partner and the head clerk both being absent on County Court business. Samuel felt all the dignity of a commander-in-chief, and was therefore not at all displeased when the office-boy had come and knocked at his door, and said that a lady of the name of Wrigley had called, and wished to see him. "Show the lady in," said Sam grandly, "and put a chair." Mrs Wrigley was accordingly ushered in, the dust of travel still on her, for she had come direct from Liverpool by the night train, determined to put her wrongs in the hands of the law. Mr Crawley, Samuel's principal, had been legal adviser to the late Mr Wrigley; it was only natural, therefore, that the widow, not liking to entrust her secret to the pettifogging practitioner of her own village, should make use of a two hours' break in her journey to seek his aid. "Your master's not in, young man?" said she, as she took the proffered seat. "That's a pity." "I'm sure he'll be very sorry," said Sam; "but if it's anything I can do--" "If you can save poor defenceless women from being plundered, and punish those that plunder them--then you can." Here was a slice of luck for Samuel! The first bit of practice on his own account that had ever fallen in his way. If he did not make a good thing out of it his initials were not S.S.! He drew his chair confidentially beside that of the injured Mrs Wrigley, and drank in the story of her woes with an interest that quite won her heart. At first he failed to recognise either the name of the delinquent Corporation or its secretary, but when presently his client produced one of the identical circulars sent out, with the name Cruden Reginald at the foot, his professional instincts told him he had discovered a "real job, and no mistake." He made Mrs Wrigley go back and begin her story over again (a task she was extremely ready to perform), and took copious notes during the recital. He impounded the document, envelope and all, cross-examined and brow-beat his own witness--in fact, did all a rising young lawyer ought to do, and concluded in judicial tones, "Very good, Mrs Wrigley; I think we can do something for you. I think we know something of the parties. Leave it to us, madam; we will put you right." "I hope you will," said the lady. "You see, as I've been all the way up to Liverpool and back, I think I ought to be put right." "Most certainly you ought, and you shall be." "And to think of his brazen-faced impudence in calling me `Love,' young man. There's a profligate for you!" Samuel was knowing enough to see that it would greatly please the outraged lady if he took a special note of this disclosure, which he accordingly did, and then rising, once more assured his client of his determination to put her right, and bade her a very good morning. "Well, if that ain't a go," said he to himself, as he returned to his desk. "I never did have much faith in the chap, but I didn't fancy he was that sort. Cruden Reginald, eh? Nice boy you are. Never mind! I'm dead on you this time. Nuisance it is that ma's gone and mixed herself up with that lot. Can't be helped, though; business is business; and such a bit of practice too. Cruden Reginald! But you don't get round Sam Shuckleford when he's once round your way, my beauty." To the legal mind of Sam this transposition of Reginald's name was in itself as good as a verdict and sentence against him. Any one else but himself might have been taken in by it, but you needed to get up very early in the morning to take in a cute one like S.S.! He said nothing about the affair to his principal when he returned, preferring to "nurse" it as a little bit of business of his own, which he would manage by himself for once in a way. And that very evening fortune threw into his way a most unexpected and invaluable auxiliary. He was down at his "club," smoking his usual evening pipe over the _Rocket_, when a man he had once or twice seen before in the place came up and said,-- "After you with that paper." "All serene," said Sam; "I'll be done with it in about an hour." "You don't take long," said the other. "Considering I'm on the committee," said Sam, with ruffled dignity, "I've a right to keep it just as long as I please. Are you a member here?" "No, but I'm introduced." "What's your name?" "Durfy." "Oh, you're the man who was in the _Rocket_. I heard of you from a friend of mine. By the way," and here his manner became quite civil, as a brilliant idea occurred to him, "look here, it was only my chaff about keeping the paper; you can have it. I'll look at it afterwards." "All right, thanks," said Durfy, who felt no excuse for not being civil too. "By the way," said Sam, as he was going off with the paper, "there was a fellow at your office, what was his name, now--Crowder, Crundell? Some name of that sort--I forget." "Cruden you mean, perhaps," said Durfy, with a scowl. "Ah, yes--Cruden. Is he still with you? What sort of chap is he?" Durfy described him in terms far more forcible than affectionate, and added, "No, he's not there now; oh no. I kicked him out long ago. But I've not done with him yet, my boy." Sam felt jubilant. Was ever luck like his? Here was a man who evidently knew Reginald's real character, and could, doubtless, if properly handled, put him on the scent, and, as he metaphorically put it to himself, "give him a clean leg up over the job." So he called for refreshments for two, and then entered on a friendly discourse with Durfy on things in general, and offered to make him a member of the club; then bringing the conversation round to Reginald, he hinted gently that _he_ too had his eye on that young gentleman, and was at the present moment engaged in bowling him out. Whereupon Durfy, after a slight hesitation, and stipulating that his name should not be mentioned in the matter, gave Sam what information he considered would be useful to him, suppressing, of course, all mention of the real promoters of the Select Agency Corporation, and giving the secretary credit for all the ingenuity and cunning displayed in its operations. The two new friends spent a most agreeable evening, Sam flattering himself he was squeezing Durfy beautifully into the service of his "big job," and Durfy flattering himself that this bumptious young pettifogger was the very person to get hold of to help him pay off all his old scores with Reginald Cruden. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. POVERTY AND LOVE BOTH COME IN AT THE DOOR. We left Reginald in a somewhat comfortable frame of mind after his interview with the pleasant clergyman and the stroke of business he had transacted on behalf of the Corporation. It had been refreshing to him to converse in terms of peace with any fellow-mortal; and the ready satisfaction of this visitor with the method of business adopted by the Company went far to dispel the uneasy impressions which Mrs Wrigley's visit had left earlier in the day. After all, he felt that he was yet on probation. When Christmas came, and he was able to discuss matters personally with the directors, he had no doubt his position would be improved. He flattered himself they might think he was useful enough to be worth while keeping; and in that case of course he would have a right to ask to be put on rather more comfortable a footing than he possessed at present, and to be entrusted with a certain amount of control over the business of the Corporation. He would also be able mildly to suggest that it would be more convenient to him to receive his salary monthly than quarterly, so as to enable him not only to live respectably himself, as became their secretary, but also to give regular help to his mother at home. As it was, with a beggarly thirteen shillings a week to live on, he was little better than a common office-boy, he would have said to himself, but at that particular moment the door opened, and the very individual whom his thoughts connected with the words appeared before him. It was the very last apparition Reginald could have looked for. He had given up all idea of seeing the young desperado any more. Though he could not exactly say, "Poverty had come in at the door and Love had flown out of the window"--for the young gentleman had departed by the door--he yet had made up his mind that Cupid had taken to himself wings and flown away, with no intention of ever returning to the scene of his late struggle. But a glance at the starved, emaciated figure before him explained very simply the mystery of this strange apparition. The boy's hands and lips were blue with cold, and his cheek-bones seemed almost to protrude through his pallid, grimy cheeks. He looked, in fact, what he was, the picture of misery, and he had no need of any other eloquence to open the heart of his late "governor." "Say, what's yer name," he said, in a hollow imitation of his old voice, "beg yer pardon, gov'nor--won't do it no more if yer overlook it this time." "Come in out of the cold and warm yourself by the fire," said Reginald, poking it up to a blaze. The boy obeyed, half timidly. He seemed to be not quite sure whether Reginald was luring him in to his own destruction. But at any rate the sight of the fire roused him to heroism, and, reckless of all consequences, he walked in. "Don't do nothink to me this time, gov'nor," whimpered he, as he got within arm's length; "let us off, do you hear? this time." "Poor boy," said Reginald kindly, putting a stool for him close beside the fire; "I'm not going to do anything but warm you. Sit down, and don't be afraid." The boy dropped almost exhausted on the stool, and gazed in a sort of rapture into the fire. Then, looking up at Reginald, he said,-- "Beg your pardon, gov'nor,--ain't got a crust of bread you don't want, 'ave yer?" The hint was quite enough to send Reginald flying to his little "larder." The boy devoured the bread set before him with a fierceness that looked as if he had scarcely touched food since he had gone away. He made clear decks of all Reginald had in the place; and then, slipping off the stool, curled himself up on the floor before the fire like a dog, and dropped off into a heavy sleep. Reginald took the opportunity to make a hurried excursion to the nearest provision shop to lay in what store his little means would allow. He might have spared himself the trouble of locking the door behind him, though, for on his return the boy had never stirred. The little sleeper lay there all night, until, in fact, the coals could hold out no longer, and the fire went out. Then Reginald woke him and carried him off to his own bed, where he dropped off into another long sleep which lasted till midday. After partaking of the meal his benefactor had ready for him on waking, he seemed more like himself, and disposed to make himself useful. "Ain't got no envellups to lick, then?" said he, looking round the deserted room. "No, there's nothing to do here just now," said Reginald. The boy looked a little disappointed, but said, presently,-- "Want any errands fetched, gov'nor?" "No, not now. I've got all I want in for the present." "Like yer winders cleaned?" "Not much use with this frost on them," said Reginald. Thwarted thus on every hand, the boy asked no more questions, but took upon himself to go round the office and dust it as well as he could with the ragged tail of his coat. It was evidently his way of saying, "Thank you," and he seemed more easy in his mind when it was done. He stopped once in the middle of his task as he caught Reginald's eyes fixed half curiously, half pityingly upon him. "Say--gov'nor, I ain't going to read no more books; do ye hear?" There was something quite pathetic in the tones in which this declaration of renunciation was made. It was evidently a supreme effort of repentance, and Reginald felt almost uncomfortable as he heard it. "That there _Noogate Calendar_ made a rare flare-up, didn't it, gov'nor?" continued Love, looking wistfully towards the grate, if perchance any stray leaves should have escaped the conflagration. "Not such a flare-up as you did," said Reginald, laughing. "Never mind, we'll try and get something nicer to read." "No fear! Never no more. I ain't a-goin' to read nothink again, I tell yer," said the boy, quite warmly. And for fear of wavering in his resolution he went round the room once more, rubbing up the cheap furniture till it shone, and ending with polishing up the very hearth that had served as the sacrificial altar to his beloved _Newgate Calendar_ only a few days before. There was little or no more work to be done during the day. A few letters had come by the morning's post, angrily complaining of the delay in delivering the promised goods. To these Reginald had replied in the usual form, leaving to Love the privilege of "licking them up." He also wrote to Mr Medlock, enclosing the two pounds the pleasant clergyman had left the day before, and once more urging that gentleman to come down to Liverpool. He went out, happily unconscious of the fact that a detective dogged every step he took, to post these letters himself, and at the same time to lay in a day's provisions for two. It was with something like a qualm that he saw his last half-sovereign broken over this purchase. With nine shillings left in his pocket, and twelve days yet to Christmas, it was as clear as daylight that things were rapidly approaching a crisis. It was almost a relief to feel it. On his way back to the office he passed a secondhand book-stall. He had lingered in front of it many times before now, turning over the leaves of this and that odd volume, and picking up the scraps of amusement and information which are always to be found in such an occupation. To-day, however, he overhauled the contents of the trays with rather more curiosity than usual; not because he expected to find a pearl of great price among the dust and dog's ears of the "threepenny" tray. Reginald was the last person in the world to consider himself a child of fortune in that respect. No! he had Master Love on his mind, and the memory of that blazing _Newgate Calendar_ on his conscience, and, even at the cost of a further reduction of his vanishing income, he determined not to return provided with food for Love's body only, but also for Love's mind. Accordingly he selected two very shabby and tattered volumes from the "threepenny" tray--one a fragment of _Robinson Crusoe_, the other Part One of the _Pilgrim's Progress_, and with these in his pocket and the eatables in his hands, he returned to his charge as proud as a general who has just relieved a starving garrison. After the frugal supper the books were triumphantly produced, but Master Love, still mindful of his recent tribulations, regarded them shyly at first, as another possible bait to his own undoing; but presently curiosity, and the sight of a wonderful picture of Giant Despair, overcame his scruples, and he held out his hand eagerly. It was amusing to watch the critical look on his face as he took a preliminary glance through the pages of the two books. Reginald was half sorry he had not produced them one at a time; but it being too late now to recall either, he awaited with no little excitement the decision of the young connoisseur upon them. Apparently Love found considerable traces of what he would call "jam" in both. The picture of Crusoe coming upon the footprint in the sand, and that of the great battle between Christian and Apollyon, seemed to gather into themselves the final claims of the two rivals, and for a few moments victory trembled in the balance. At last he shut up _Robinson Crusoe_ and stuffed it in his pocket. "Say, what's yer name," said he, looking up and laying his finger on the battle scene; "which of them two does for t'other?" "The one in the armour," said Reginald. "Thought so--t'other one's a flat to fight with that there long flagpole. Soon as 'e's chucked it away 'e's a dead 'un. Say, what did they do with 'is dead body? No use a 'idin' of it. If I was 'im I'd a cut 'is throat, and left the razor in 'is 'and, and they'd a brought it in soosanside. Bless you, coroners' juries is reg'lar flats at findin' out them sort of things." "Suppose you read what it says," said Reginald, hardly able to restrain a laugh; "if you like you can read it aloud; I'd like to hear it again myself." The boy agreed, and that evening the two queerly assorted friends sat side by side in the dim candle-light, going over the wonderful story of the Pilgrim. Reginald judiciously steered the course through the most thrilling parts of the narrative, carefully avoiding whatever might have seemed to the boy dull or digressive. Love stopped in his reading frequently to discuss the merits of the story and deliver himself of his opinion as to what he would have done under similar circumstances. He would have made short work with the lions chained by the roadside; he would have taken a bull's-eye lantern through the dark valley; and as for the river at the end, he couldn't understand anybody coming to grief there. Why, at Victoria Park last Whit Monday he had swum three-quarters of a mile himself! In vain Reginald pointed out that Christian had his armour on. The young critic would not allow this as an excuse, and brought up cases of gentlemen of his acquaintance who had swum incredible distances in their clothes and boots. But the story that delighted him most was that of the man who hacked his way into the palace. This was an adventure after his own heart. He read it over and over again, and was unsparing in his admiration of the hero, whom he compared for prowess with "Will Warspite the Pirate," and "Dick Turpin," and even his late favourite "Tim Tigerskin." His interest in him was indeed so great that he allowed Reginald in a few simple words to say what it meant, and to explain how we could all, if we went the right way about it, do as great things as he did. "Why you, youngster, when you made up your mind you wouldn't read any more of those bad books, you knocked over one of your enemies." "Did I, though? how far in did I get?" "You got over the doorstep, anyhow; but you've got plenty more to knock over before you get right into the place. So have I." "My eye, gov'nor," cried the boy, his grimy face lighting up with an excited flush, "we'll let 'em 'ave it!" They read and discussed and argued far into the night; and when at last Reginald gave the order to go to bed there were no two friends more devoted than the Secretary of the Select Agency Corporation and his office-boy. Love's sleep that night was like the sleep of a pugilistic terrier, who in his dreams encounters and overcomes even deep-mouthed mastiffs and colossal Saint Bernards. He sniffed and snorted defiance as he lay, and his brow was damp with the sweat of battle, and his lips curled with the smile of victory. As soon as he awoke his hand sought the pocket where the wonderful book lay; and even as he tidied up the office and prepared the gov'nor's breakfast, he was engaged in mortal inward combats. "Say, gov'nor," cried he, with jubilant face, as Reginald entered, "I've done for another of 'em. Topped him clean over." "Another of whom?" said Reginald. "Them pals a-waitin' in the 'all," said he; "you know, in that there pallis." "Oh! in the Beautiful Palace we were reading about," said Reginald. "Who have you done for this time?" "That there Medlock," said the boy. "Medlock! What _are_ you talking about?" said Reginald, in blank amazement. "Oh, I've give him a wonner," said the boy, beaming. "He says to me, `Collar all the letters your gov'nor writes 'ome,' he says, `and I'll give you a tanner for every one you shows me.'" "Love, you're talking rubbish!" said Reginald indignantly. "Are I? don't you make no mistake," said the boy confidently; "I knows what he says; and that there letter you wrote home last night and leaves on the table, `That's a tanner to me,' says I to myself when I sees it this morning. `A lie,' says I, recollecting of that chap in the story- book. So I lets it be; and my eye, ain't that a topper for somebody--oh no!" Reginald stared at the boy, half stupefied. The room whirled round him; and with a sudden rush the hopes of his life seemed to go from under him. It was not for some time that he could find words to say, hoarsely,-- "Love, is this the truth, or a lie you are telling me?" "Lie--don't you make no error, gov'nor--I ain't on that lay, I can tell you. I'm goin' right into that there pallis, and there's two on 'em topped a'ready." "You mean to say Mr Medlock told you to steal my letters and give them to him?" "Yes, and a tanner apiece on 'em, too. But don't you be afraid, he don't get none out of me, not if I swings for it." "You can go out for a run, Love," said Reginald. "Come back in an hour. I want to be alone." "You aren't a-giving me the sack?" asked the boy with falling countenance. "No, no." "And you ain't a-goin' to commit soosanside while I'm gone, are yer?" he inquired, with a suspicious glance at Reginald's blanched face. "No. Be quick and go." "'Cos if you do, they do say as a charcoal fire--" "Will you go?" said Reginald, almost angrily, and the boy vanished. I need not describe to the reader all that passed through the poor fellow's mind as he paced up and down the bare office that morning. The floodgates had suddenly been opened upon him, and he felt himself overwhelmed in a deluge of doubt and shame and horror. It was long before he could collect his thoughts sufficiently to see anything clearly. Why Mr Medlock should take the trouble to prevent his home letters reaching their destination was incomprehensible, and indeed it weighed little with him beside the fact that the man who had given him his situation, and on whom he was actually depending for his living, was the same who could bribe his office-boy to steal his letters. If he were capable of such a meanness, was he to be trusted in anything else? How was Reginald to know whether the money he had regularly remitted to him was properly accounted for, or whether the orders were being conscientiously executed? Then it occurred to him the whole business of the Corporation had been done in his--Reginald's--name, that all the circulars had been signed by him, and that all the money had come addressed to him. Then there was that awkward mistake about his name, which, accidental or intentional, was Mr Medlock's doing. And beyond all that was the fact that Mr Medlock had taken away the only record Reginald possessed of the names of those who had replied to the circulars and sent money. He found himself confronted with a mountain of responsibility, of which he had never before dreamed, and for the clearing of which he was entirely dependent on the good faith of a man who had, not a week ago, played him one of the meanest tricks imaginable. What was he to make of it--what else could he make of it except that he was a miserable dupe, with ruin staring him in the face? His one grain of comfort was in the names of some of the directors. Unless that list were fictitious, they would not be likely to allow a concern with which they were identified to collapse in discredit. Was it genuine or not? His doubts on this question were very speedily resolved by a letter which arrived that very afternoon. It was dated London, and ran as follows:-- "Cruden Reginald, Esquire. "Sir,--The attention of the Bishop of S-- having been called to the unauthorised, and, as it would appear, fraudulent use of his name in connection with a company styled the Select Agency Corporation, of which you are secretary, I am instructed, before his lordship enters on legal proceedings, to request you to furnish me with your authority for using his lordship's name in the manner stated. Awaiting your reply by return, I am, sir, yours, etcetera,-- "A. Turner, Secretary." This was a finishing stroke to the disillusion. In all his troubles and perplexities the good Bishop of S-- had been a rock to lean on for the poor secretary. But now even that prop was snatched away, and he was left alone in the ruins of his own hopes. He could see it all at last. As he went back over the whole history of his connection with the Corporation he was able to recognise how at every step he had been duped and fooled; how his very honesty had been turned to account; how his intelligence had been the one thing disliked and discouraged. And what was to become of him now? Anything but desert the sinking ship--that question never cost Reginald two thoughts. He would right himself if he could. He would protest his innocence of all fraud or connivance at fraud. He would even do what he could to bring the real offenders to justice; but as long as the Corporation had a creditor left he would be there to face him and suffer the consequence of his own folly and stupidity. Young Love got little sympathy that day in his reading. Indeed, he could not but notice that something unusual had happened to the "gov'nor," and that being so, not even the adventures of Christian or the unexplored marvels of Robinson Crusoe could satisfy him. He polished up the furniture half a dozen times, and watched Reginald's eye like a dog, ready to catch the first sign of a want or a question. Presently he could stand it no longer, and said,--"Say, gov'nor, what's up? 'taint nothing along of me, are it?" "No, my boy," said Reginald. "Is it along of that there Medlock?" Reginald nodded. It was well for Mr Medlock that he was not in the room at that moment. "I'll top 'im, see if I don't," muttered the boy; "I owes 'im one for carting me down 'ere, and I owes 'im four or five now; and you'll see if I don't go for 'im, gov'nor." "You'd better go back to your home," said Reginald, with a kindly tremor in his voice; "I'm afraid you'll get into trouble by staying with me." It was fine to see the flash of scorn in the boy's face as he said,-- "Oh yus, me go 'ome and leave yer! Walker--I stays 'ere." "Very well, then," said Reginald, with a sigh. "We may as well go on with the book. Suppose you read me about Giant Despair." CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE SHADES LOSE SEVERAL GOOD CUSTOMERS. It would be unfair to Samuel Shuckleford to say that he had no compunction whatever in deciding upon a course of action which he knew would involve the ruin of Reginald Cruden. He did not like it at all. It was a nuisance; it was a complication likely to hamper him. He wished his mother and sister would be less gushing in the friendships they made. What right had they to interfere with his business prospects by tacking themselves on to the family of a man who was afterwards to turn out a swindler? Yes, it was a nuisance; but for all that it must not be allowed to interfere with the course that lay before the rising lawyer. Business is business after all, and if Cruden is a swindler, whose fault is it if Cruden's mother breaks her heart? Not S.S.'s, at any rate. But S.S.'s fault it would be if he made a mess of this "big job"! That was a reproach no one should lay at his door. Samuel may not have been quite the Solomon he was wont to estimate himself. Still, to do him justice once more, he displayed no little ability in tracing out the different frauds of the Select Agency Corporation and establishing Reginald's guilt conclusively in his own mind. It all fitted in like a curious puzzle. His sudden mysterious departure from London--his change of name--the selection of Liverpool as headquarters--the distribution of the circulars among unsuspecting schoolmistresses in the south of England--the demand for money to be enclosed with the order--and the fiction of the dispatch of the goods from London. What else could it point to but a deliberate, deeply-laid scheme of fraud? The further Samuel went, the clearer it all appeared, and the less compunction he felt for running to earth such a scoundrel. But he was going to do nothing in a hurry. S.S. was not the man to dish himself by showing his cards till he was sure he had them all in his hand. Possibly Cruden was not alone in the swindle. He might have accomplices. Even his mother and brother--who can answer for the duplicity of human nature?--might know more of his operations than they professed to know. He might have confederates among his old companions at the _Rocket_, or even among his old school acquaintances. Yes; there was plenty to go into before Samuel put down his foot, and who knew better how to go into it than S.S.? So he kept his own counsel, and, except for cautioning his mother and sister to "draw off" from the undesirable connection, and intimidating the maid-of-all-work at Number 6, Dull Street, by most horrible threats of the penalties of the law, to detain and give to him every letter bearing the Liverpool postmark which should from that time forward come to the house, no matter to whom addressed--for in his zeal it was easy to forget that by such a proceeding he was sailing uncommonly close to the wind himself--showed no sign of taking any immediate step either in this or any other matter. Had he been aware that one Sniff, of the Liverpool detective police, had some days ago arrived, by a series of independent and far more artistic investigations, at as much knowledge as he himself possessed of the doings of the Corporation, Samuel would probably have been content to make the most of the cards he held before the chance of using them at all had slipped by. It is doubtful, however, whether in any case he would have succeeded in forestalling the wary Mr Sniff. That gentleman had discovered in a few hours what it had taken Samuel days of patient grubbing to unearth. And his discoveries would have decidedly astonished the self-complacent little practitioner. He would have been astonished, for instance, to hear that the Liverpool post-office had received instructions from the Home Office to hand over every letter addressed to Cruden Reginald, 13, Shy Street, to the police. He would also have been astonished if he had known that a detective in plain clothes dined every evening at the Shades, near to the table occupied by Mr Durfy and his friends; that the hall-porter of Weaver's Hotel was a representative of the police in disguise, and that representatives of the police had called on business at the _Rocket_ office, had brushed up against Blandford at street- corners, and had even taken the trouble to follow him--Samuel Shuckleford--here and there in his evening's perambulations. Yes, small job as it was in Mr Sniff's estimation, he knew the way to go about it, and had a very good notion what was the right scent to go on and what the wrong. The one thing that did put him out at first was Reginald's absolutely truthful replies to all the pleasant clergyman's questions. This really did bother Mr Sniff. For when a swindler is face to face with his victim the very last thing you expect of him is straightforward honesty. So when Reginald had talked about Weaver's Hotel and Mr John Smith, and had mentioned the number of orders that had arrived, and the account of money that had accompanied them, and had even confided the amount of his own salary, Mr Sniff had closed one of his mental eyes and said to himself, "Yes; we know all about that." But when it turned out that, so far from such statements being fabrications to delude him, they were simply true--when the letter Reginald had written to Mr Medlock that very evening lay in his hands and corroborated all he had said--when he himself followed the poor fellow an hour or two later on his errand of mercy, and stood beside him as he spent that precious sixpence over _Robinson Crusoe_ and the _Pilgrim's Progress_, Mr Sniff did feel for a moment disconcerted. But, unusual as it was, he made the bold venture of jumping to the conviction of Reginald's innocence; and that theory once started, everything went beautifully. On the evening following Mrs Cruden's sudden illness, Mr Durfy strolled down in rather a disconsolate frame of mind towards the Shades. Since his expulsion from the _Rocket_ office things had not been going pleasantly with him. For a day or two he had deemed it expedient to keep in retirement, and when at last he did venture forth, in the vague hope of picking up some employment worthy of his talents, he took care to keep clear of the haunts of his former confederates, whom, after his last failure, he rather dreaded meeting. It had been during this period that he had made the acquaintance of Shuckleford, and the prospect of revenge which that intimacy opened to him was a welcome diversion to the monotony of his existence. But prospects of revenge do not fill empty stomachs, and Durfy at the end of a week began to discover that there might be an end even to the private resources of the late overseer of an evening newspaper and the part proprietor of an Agency Corporation. He was, in fact, getting hard up, and therefore, putting his pride in his empty pocket, he strolled down moodily to the Shades, determined at any rate to have a supper at somebody else's expense. He had not reckoned without his host, for after about half an hour's impatient kicking of his heels outside, Mr Medlock and Mr Shanklin appeared on the scene, arm in arm. They appeared by no means elated at seeing him, but that mattered very little to the hungry Durfy, who followed them into the supper-room and took his seat at the table beside them. If he had been possessed of any sensitiveness, it might have been wounded by the utter indifference, after the first signs of displeasure, they paid to his presence. They continued their conversation as though no third party had been near, and except that Mr Medlock nodded when the waiter said "For three?" seemed to see as little of him as Hamlet's mother did of the Ghost. However, for the time being that nod of Mr Medlock's was all Durfy particularly coveted. He was hungry. Time enough to stand on his dignity when the knife and fork had done their work. "Yes," said Mr Shanklin, "time's up to-day. I've told him where to find us. If he doesn't, you must go your trip by yourself; I can safely stay and screw my man up." "Think he will turn up?" "Can't say. He seems to be flush enough of money still." "Well, he can't say you've not helped him to get rid of it." "I've done my best," said Mr Shanklin, laughing. "I shall be glad of a holiday. It's as hard work sponging one fool as it is fleecing a couple of hundred sheep, eh?" "Well, the wool came off very easily, I must say. I reckon there'll be a clean £500 to divide on the Liverpool business alone." "Nice occupation that'll be on the Boulogne steamer to-morrow," said Mr Shanklin. "Dear me, I hope it won't be rough, I'm such a bad sailor!" "Then, of course," said Mr Medlock, "there'll be your little takings to add to that. Your working expenses can't have been much." Mr Shanklin laughed again. "No. I've done without circulars and a salaried secretary. By the way, do you fancy any one smells anything wrong up in the North yet?" "Bless you, no. The fellow's pretty near starving, and yet he sent me up a stray £2 he received the other day. It's as good as a play to read the letters he sends me up about getting the orders executed in strict rotation, as entered in a beautiful register he kept, and which I borrowed, my boy. Ha! ha! He wants me to run down to Liverpool, he says, as he's not quite satisfied with his position there. Ho! ho! And he'd like a little money on account, as he's had to buy stamps and coals and all that sort of thing out of his own thirteen shillings a week. It's enough to make one die of laughing, isn't it?" "It is funny," said Mr Shanklin. "But you're quite right to be on the safe side and start to-morrow. You did everything in his name, I suppose--took the office, ordered the printing, and all that sort of thing?" "Oh yes, I took care of that. My name or yours was never mentioned, except mine on the dummy list of directors. That won't hurt." "Well, the Corporation's had a short life and a merry one; and your precious secretary's likely to have a merry Christmas after it all-- unless you'd like to go down and spend it with him, Durfy," added Mr Shanklin, taking notice for the first time of the presence of their visitor. Durfy replied by a scowl. "I shall be far enough away by then," said he. "Why, where are you going?" "I'm going with you, to be sure," said he, doggedly. Messrs. Medlock and Shanklin greeted this announcement with a laugh of genuine amusement. "I'm glad you told us," said Mr Shanklin. "We should have forgotten to take a ticket for you." "You may grin," said Durfy. "I'm going, for all that." "You're a bigger fool even than you look," said Mr Medlock, "to think so. You can consider yourself lucky to get a supper out of us this last night." "You forget I can make it precious awkward for you if I like," growled Durfy. "Awkward! _You've_ a right to be a judge of what's awkward after the neat way you've managed things," sneered Shanklin. "It takes you all your time to make things awkward for yourself, let alone troubling about us." Durfy always hated when Mr Shanklin alluded to his blunders, and he scowled all the more viciously now because he felt that, after all, he could do little against his two patrons which would not recoil with twofold violence on his own head. No, he had better confine his reprisals to the Crudens by Mr Shuckleford's assistance, and meanwhile make what he could out of these ungrateful sharpers. "If you don't want me with you," said he, "you'll have to make it worth my while to stay away, that's all. You'd think it a fine joke if you found yourself in the police-station instead of the railway-station to- morrow morning, wouldn't you?" And Mr Durfy's face actually relaxed into a smile at this flash of pleasantry. "You'd find it past a joke if you found yourself neck-and-crop in the gutter in two minutes," said Mr Shanklin, in a rage, "as you will do if you don't take care." "I'll take care for fifty pounds," said Durfy. "It's precious little share I've had out of the business, and if you want me mum, that's what will do it. There, I could tell you a thing or two already; you don't know--" "Tush! Durfy, you're a born ass! Come round to my hotel to-morrow at eight, and I'll see what I can do for you," said Mr Medlock. Durfy knew how to value such promises, and did not look by any means jubilant at the prospect held out. However, at this moment Blandford and Pillans entered the supper-room, and his hosts had something better to think about than him. He was hustled from his place to make room for the new guests, and surlily retired to a neighbouring table, where, if he could not hear all that was said, he could at least see all that went on. "Hullo!" said Shanklin gaily, "here's a nice time to turn up, dear boys. Medlock and I have nearly done supper." "Couldn't help. We've been to the theatre, haven't we, Pillans?" said Blandford, who appeared already to be rather the worse for drink. "I have. _You've_ been in the bar most of the time," said Pillans. "Ha! ha! I was told Bland was studying for the Bar. I do like application," said Mr Medlock. Blandford seemed to regard this as a compliment, and sitting down at the table, told the waiter to bring a bottle of champagne and some more glasses. "Well," he said, with a simper, "what I say I'll do, I'll do. I said I'd turn up here and pay you that bill, Shanklin, and I have turned up, haven't I?" "Upon my honour, I'd almost forgotten that bill," said Mr Shanklin, who had thought of little else for the last week. "It's not inconvenient, I hope?" Blandford laughed stupidly. "Sorry if a trifle like that was inconvenient," said he, with all the languor of a millionaire. "Forget what it was about. Some take in, I'll swear. Never mind, a debt's a debt, and here goes. How much is it?" "Fifty," said Mr Shanklin. Blandford produced a pocket-book with a flourish, and took from it a handful of notes that made Durfy's eyes, as he sat at the distant table, gleam. The half-tipsy spendthrift was almost too muddled to count them correctly, but finally he succeeded in extracting five ten-pound notes from the bundle, which he tossed to Shanklin. "Thanks, very much," said that gentleman, putting them in his pocket. "I find I've left your bill at home, but I'll send it round to you in the morning." "Oh, all serene!" said Blandford, putting his pocketbook back into his pocket. "Have another bottle of cham--do--just to celebrate--settling-- old scores. Hullo, where are you, Pillans?" Pillans had gone off to play billiards with Mr Medlock, so Blandford and Mr Shanklin attacked the bottle themselves. When it was done, the former rose unsteadily, and, bidding his friend good-night, said he would go home, as he'd got a headache. Which was about as true an observation as man ever uttered. "Good-night--old--feller," said he; "see you to-morrow." And he staggered out of the place, assisted to the door by Mr Shanklin, who, after an affectionate farewell, sauntered to the billiard-room, where Mr Medlock had already won a five-pound note from the ingenuous Mr Pillans. "Your friend's in good spirits to-night," said Mr Shanklin. "Capital fellow is Bland." "So he is," said Pillans. "Capital fellow, with plenty of capital, eh?" said Mr Medlock; "your shoot, Pillans, and I don't mind going a sov. with you on the cannon." Of course Pillans lost his sovereign, as he did several others before the game was over. Then, feeling he had had enough enjoyment for one evening, he said good-bye and followed his friend home. But some one else had already followed his friend home. Durfy, in whose bosom the glimpse of that well-lined pocket-book had roused unusual interest, found himself ready to go home a very few moments after Blandford had quitted the Shades. It may have been only coincidence, or it may have been idle curiosity to see if the tipsy lad could find his way home without an accident, or it may have been a laudable determination that, no one should take advantage of his helpless condition to deprive him of that comfortable pocket-book. Whatever it was, Durfy followed the reeling figure along the pavement as it threaded its way westward from the Shades. Blandford may have had reason enough left to tell him that it would be better for his headache to walk in the night air than to take a cab, and Mr Durfy highly approved of the decision. He was able without difficulty or obtrusiveness to follow his man at a few yards' distance, and even give proof of his solicitude by an occasional steadying hand on his arm. Presently the wanderer turned out of the crowded thoroughfare up a by- street, where he had the pavement more to himself. Indeed, except for a few stragglers hurrying home from theatres or concerts, he encountered no one; and as he penetrated farther beyond the region of public houses and tobacco-shops into the serener realms of offices and chambers, and beyond that into the solitude of a West-end square, not a footstep save his own and that of his escort broke the midnight silence. Durfy's heart beat fast, for he had a heart to beat on occasions like this. A hundred chances on which he had never calculated suddenly presented themselves. What if some one might be peering out into the night from one of the black windows of those silent houses? Suppose some motionless policeman under the shadow of a wall were near enough to see and hear! Suppose the cool night air had already done its work and sobered the wayfarer enough to render him obstinate or even dangerous! He seemed to walk more steadily. If anything was to be done, every moment was of consequence. And the risk? The vision of that pocket-book and the crisp white notes flashed across Durfy's memory by way of answer. Yes, to Durfy, the outcast, the dupe, the baffled adventurer, the risk was worth running. He quickened his step and opened the blade of the penknife in his pocket as he did so. Not that he meant to use it, but in case-- Faugh! the fellow was staggering as helplessly as ever! He never even heeded the pursuing steps, but reeled on, muttering to himself, now close to the palings, now on the kerb, his hat back on his head and the cigar between his lips not even alight. Durfy crept silently behind, and with a sudden dash locked one arm tightly round his victim's neck, while with the other he made a swift dive at the pocket where lay the coveted treasure. It was all so quickly done that before Blandford could exclaim or even gasp the pocket-book was in the thief's hands. Then as the arm round his neck was relaxed, he faced round, terribly sobered, and made a wild spring at his assailant. "Thief!" he shouted, making the quiet square ring and ring again with the echo of that word. His hand was upon Durfy's collar, so fiercely that nothing but a hand- to-hand struggle could release its grip; unless-- Durfy's hand dropped to his pocket. There was a flash and a scream, and next moment Blandford was clinging, groaning, to the railings of the square, while Durfy's footsteps died away in the gloomy mazes of a network of back streets. When Pillans got home to his lodgings that night he found his comrade in bed with a severe wound in the shoulder, unable to give any account of himself but that he had been first garotted, then robbed, and finally stabbed, on his way home from the Shades. Mr Durfy did not present himself at Mr Medlock's hotel at the appointed hour next morning. Nor, although it was a fine calm day, and their luggage was all packed up and labelled, did Mr Medlock and his friend Mr Shanklin succeed in making their promised trip across the Channel. A deputation of police awaited them on the Victoria platform, and completely disconcerted their arrangements by taking them in a cab to the nearest police-station on a charge of fraud and conspiracy. CHAPTER TWENTY. SAMUEL SHUCKLEFORD FINDS VIRTUE ITS OWN REWARD. It was just as well for Horace's peace of mind, during his time of anxious watching, that two short paragraphs in the morning papers of the following day escaped his observation. "At--police-court yesterday, two men named Medlock and Shanklin were brought before the magistrate on various charges of fraud connected with sham companies in different parts of the country. After some formal evidence they were remanded for a week, bail being refused." "A youth named Reginald was yesterday charged at Liverpool with conspiracy to defraud by means of fictitious circulars addressed in the name of a trading company. He was remanded for three days without bail, pending inquiries." It so happened that it fell to Booms's lot to cut the latter paragraph out. And as he was barely aware of the existence of Cruden's brother, and in no case would have recognised him by his assumed name, the news, even if he read it, could have conveyed no intelligence to his mind. Horace certainly did not read it. Even when he had nothing better to do, he always regarded newspapers as a discipline not to be meddled with out of office hours. And just now, with his mother lying in a critical condition, and with no news day after day of Reginald, he had more serious food for reflection than the idle gossip of a newspaper. The only other person in London whom the news could have interested was Samuel Shuckleford. But as he was that morning riding blithely in the train to Liverpool, reading the _Law Times_, and flattering himself he would soon make the public "sit up" to a recognition of his astuteness, he saw nothing of them. He found himself on the Liverpool platform just where, scarcely three months ago, Reginald had found himself that dreary afternoon of his arrival. But, unlike Reginald, it cost the young ornament of the law not a moment's hesitation as to whether he should take a cab or not to his destination. If only the cabman knew whom he had the honour to carry, how he would touch up his horse! "Shy Street. Put me down at the corner," said Samuel, swinging himself into the hansom. So this was Liverpool. He had never been there before, and consequently it was not to be wondered at that the crowds jostling by on the pavement, without so much as a glance in his direction, neither knew him nor had heard of him. He could forgive them, and smiled to think how different it would be in a few days, when all the world would point at him as he drove back to the station, and say,-- "There goes Shuckleford, the clever lawyer, who first exposed the Select Agency Corporation, don't you know?" Don't you know? What a question to ask respecting S.S.! At the corner of Shy Street he alighted, and sauntered gently down the street, keeping a sharp look-out on both sides of him, without appearing to regard anything but the pavement. Humph! The odd numbers were on the left side, so S.S. would walk on the right, and get a good survey of Number 13 from a modest distance. What, thought he, would the precious Cruden Reginald (ha! ha!) think if he knew who was walking down the other side of the road? Ah! he was getting near it now. Here was 17, a baker's; 15, a greengrocer's; and 13--eh? a chemist's? Ah, yes, he noticed that the first floors of all the shops were let for offices, and the first floor of the chemist's shop was the place he wanted. He could see through the grimy window the top rail of a chair-back and the corner of a table, on which stood an inkpot and a tattered directory. No occupant of the room was visible; doubtless he found it prudent to keep away from the window; or he might possibly have seen the figure of S.S. advancing down the street. Samuel crossed over. No name was on the chemist's side-door, but it stood ajar, and he pushed it open and peered up the gloomy staircase. There was a name on the door at the top, so he crept stealthily up the stairs to decipher the word "Medlock" in dim characters on the plate. "Medlock!" Ho! ho! He was getting warm now. Not only was his man going about with his own name turned inside out, but he had the effrontery to stick up the name of one of his own directors on his door! Samuel knew Mr Medlock--whom didn't he know? He had been introduced to him by Durfy, and had supped with him once at the Shades. A nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, who had made some very complimentary little speeches about Samuel in Samuel's own hearing. This was the man whose name Cruden had borrowed for his door-plate, in the hope of further mystifying the public as to his own personality! Ah! ah! He might mystify the public, but there was one whose initials were S.S. whom it would need a cleverer cheat than Cruden Reginald, Esquire, to mystify! He listened for a moment at the door, and, hearing no sound, made bold to enter. Had Reginald been in, he was prepared to represent that, being on a chance visit to Liverpool, he had been unable to pass the door of an old neighbour without giving him a friendly call. But he was not put to this shift, for the room was empty. "Gone out to his dinner, I suppose," said Sam to himself. "Well, I'll take a good look round while I am here." Which he proceeded to do, much to his own satisfaction, but very little to his information, for scarcely a torn-up envelope was to be found to reward the spy for his trouble. The only thing that did attract his attention as likely to be remotely useful was a fragment of a pink paper with the letters "gerskin" on it--a relic Love would have recognised as part of the cover of an old favourite, but which to the inquiring mind of the lawyer appeared to be a document worth impounding in the interests of justice. As nobody appeared after the lapse of half an hour, Samuel considered his time was being wasted, and therefore withdrew. He looked into the chemist's shop as he went down, but the chemist was not at home; so he strolled into the greengrocer's next door, and bought an orange, which he proceeded to consume, making himself meanwhile cunningly agreeable to the lady who presided over the establishment. "Fine Christmas weather," said he, looking up in the middle of a prolonged suck. "Yes," said the lady. "Plenty of customers?" She shrugged her shoulders. Sam might interpret that as he liked. "I suppose you supply the Corporation next door?" said Sam, digging his countenance once more into the orange. "Eh?" said the lady. "The--what's-his-name?--Mr Reginald--I suppose he deals with you?" "He did, if you want to know." "I thought so--a friend of mine, you know." "Oh, is he?" said the lady, finding words at last, and bridling up in a way that astonished her cross-examiner; "then the sooner you go and walk off after him the better!" "Oh, very well," said Sam. "He's not at home just now, though." "Oh, ain't he?" said the woman, "that's funny!" "Why, what do you mean?" "Oh, nothing--what should I? If you're a friend of his, you'd better take yourself off! That's what I mean." "All right; no offence, old lady. Perhaps he's come in by this time." The lady laughed disagreeably. The Corporation had bought coals of her three months ago. Samuel returned to the office, but it was as deserted as ever. He therefore resolved to try what his blandishments could do with the chemist's boy downstairs in the way of obtaining information. That young gentleman, as the reader will remember, had been a bosom friend of Love in his day, and was animated to some extent by the spirit of his comrade. "Hullo, my man!" said Sam, walking into the shop. "Governor's out, then?" "Yus." "Got any lollipops in those bottles?" "Yus." "Any brandy-balls?" "No." "Any acid-drops?" "Yus." "I'll take a penn'orth, then. I suppose you don't know when the gentleman upstairs will be back?" The boy stopped short in his occupation and stared at Sam. "What gentleman?" he asked. "Mr Medlock, is it? or Reginald, or some name like that?" "Oh yus, I do!" said the boy, with a grin. "When?" "Six months all but a day. That's what I reckon." "Six months! Has he gone away, then?" "Oh no--he was took off." "Took off--you don't mean to say he's dead?" "Oh, ain't you a rum 'un! As if you didn't know he's been beaked." "Beaked! what's that?" The boy looked disgusted at the fellow's obtuseness. "'Ad up in the p'lice-court, of course. What else could I mean?" Samuel jumped off his stool as if he had been electrified. "What do you say?" said he, gaping wildly at the boy. "Go on; if you're deaf, it's no use talkin' to you. He's been up in the p'lice-court," said he, raising his voice to a shout. "Yesterday--there you are--and there's your drops, and you ain't give me the penny for them." Samuel threw down the penny, and, too excited to take up the drops, dashed out into the street. What! yesterday--while he was lounging about town, fancying he had the game all to himself. Was ever luck like his? He rushed to a shop and bought a morning paper. There, sure enough, was a short notice of yesterday's proceedings, and you might have knocked S.S. down with a feather as he read it. "Anyhow," said he to himself, crumpling up the paper in sheer vexation, "they won't be able to do without me, I'll take care of that. I can tell them all about it--but catch me doing it now, the snobs, unless they're civil." With which valiant determination he swung himself into another cab, and ordered the man to drive to the head police-station. The inspector was not in, but his second-in-command was, and to him, much against his will, Samuel had to explain his business. "Well, what do you know about the prisoner?" asked the official. "Oh, plenty. You'd better subpoena me for the next examination," said Sam. The sub-inspector smiled. "You're like all the rest of them," he said, "think you know all about it. Come, let's hear what you've got to say, young fellow; there's plenty of work to be done here, I can tell you, without dawdling our time." "Thank you," said Sam, "I'd sooner tell the magistrate." "Go and tell the magistrate then!" shouted the official, "and don't stay blocking up the room here." This was not what Samuel expected. There was little chance of the magistrate being more impressed with his importance than a sub- inspector. So he felt the only thing for it was to bring himself to the unpleasant task of showing his cards after all. "The fact is--" he began. "If you're going to say what you know about the case, I'll listen to you," said the sub-inspector, interrupting him, "if not, go and talk in the street." "I am going to say what I know," said the crestfallen Sam. "Very well. It's a pity you couldn't do it at first," said the official, getting up and standing with his back turned, warming his hands at the fire. Under these depressing circumstances Samuel began his story, showing his weakest cards first, and saving up his trumps as long as he could. The sub-inspector listened to him impassively, rubbing his hands, and warming first one toe and then the other in the fender. At length it was all finished, and he turned round. "That's all you know?" "Yes--at present--I expect to discover more, though, in a day or two." "Just write your name and address on one of those envelopes," said the sub-inspector, pointing to a stationery case on his table. Sam obeyed, and handed the address to the official. "Very well," said the latter, folding the paper up without looking at it, and putting it into his waistcoat pocket, "if we want you, we'll fetch you." "I suppose I had better put my statement down in writing?" said Samuel, making a last effort at pomposity. "Can if you like," said the sub-inspector, yawning, "when you've nothing else to do." And he ended the conference by calling to a constable outside to tell 190 C he might come in. Grievously crestfallen, Samuel withdrew, bemoaning the hour when he first heard the name of Cruden, and was fool enough to dirty his hands with a "big job." What else was he to expect when once these official snobs took a thing up? Of course they would put every obstacle and humiliation in the way of an outsider that jealousy could suggest. He had very little doubt that this sub-inspector, the moment his back was turned, would sit down and make notes of his information, and then take all the credit of it to himself. Never mind, they were bound to want him when the trial came on, and wouldn't he just show up their tricks! Oh no! S.S. wasn't going to be flouted and snubbed for nothing, he could tell them, and so they'd discover. It was no use staying in Liverpool, that was clear. The Liverpool police should have the pleasure of fetching him all the way from London when they wanted him; and possibly, with Durfy's aid, he might succeed in getting hold of another trump-card meanwhile to turn up when they least expected it. The journey south next day was less blithe and less occupied with the _Law Times_ than the journey north had been. But as he got farther away from inhospitable Liverpool his spirits revived, and before London was reached he was once more in imagination "the clever lawyer, Shuckleford, don't you know, who gave the Liverpool police a slap in the face over that Agency Corporation business, don't you know." Two "don't you knows" this time! On reaching home, any natural joy he might be expected to feel on being restored to the bosom of his family was damped by the discovery that his mother was that very moment in next door relieving guard with Miss Crisp at the bedside of Mrs Cruden. "What business has she to do it when I told her not?" demanded Sam wrathfully of his sister. "She's not bound to obey you," said Jemima; "she's your mother." "She is. And a nice respectable mother, too, to go mixing with a lot of low, swindling jail-birds! It's sickening!" "You've no right to talk like that, Sam," said Jemima, flushing up; "they're as honest as you are--more so, perhaps. There!" "Go it; say on," said Samuel. "All I can tell you is, if you don't both of you turn the Cruden lot up, I'll go and live in lodgings by myself." "Why should we turn them or anybody up for you, I should like to know?" said Jemima, with a toss of her head. "What have they done to you?" "You're an idiot," said Sam, "or you wouldn't talk bosh. Your dear Reginald--" "Well, what about him?" said Jemima, her trembling lip betraying the inward flutter with which she heard the name. "How would you like to know your precious Reginald was this moment in prison?" "What!" shrieked Jemima, with a clutch at her brother's arm. He was glad to see there was some one he could make "sit up," and replied, with brutal directness,-- "Yes--in prison, I tell you; charged with swindling and theft ever since he set foot in Liverpool. There, if that's not reason enough for turning them up, I give you up. You can tell mother so, and say I'm down at the club, and she'd better leave supper up for me; do you hear?" Jemima did not hear. She sat rocking herself in her chair, and sobbing as if her heart would break. Vulgar young person as she was, she had a heart, and, quite apart from everything else, the thought of the calamity which had befallen the fatherless family was in itself enough to move her deep pity; but when to that was added her own strange but constant affection for Reginald himself, despite all his aversion to her, it was a blow that fell heavily upon her. She would not believe Reginald was guilty of the odious crimes Sam had so glibly catalogued; but guilty or not guilty, he was in prison, and it is only due to the honest, warm-hearted Jemima to say that she wished a hundred times that wretched evening that she could be in his place. But could nothing be done? She knew it was no use trying to extract any more particulars from Samuel. As it was, she guessed only too truly that he would be raging with himself for telling her so much. Her mother could do nothing. She would probably fly with the news to Mrs Cruden's bedside, and possibly kill her outright. Horace! She might tell him, but she was afraid. The news would fall on him like a thunderbolt, and she dreaded being the person to inflict the blow. Yet he ought to knew, even if it doubled his misery and ended in no good to Reginald. Suppose she wrote to him. At that moment a knock came at the door, followed by the entrance of Booms in all the gorgeousness of his evening costume. He frequently dropped in like this, especially since Mrs Cruden's illness, to hear how she was, and to inquire after Miss Crisp; and this was his errand this evening. "No better, I suppose?" said he, dolefully, sitting down very slowly by reason of the tightness of his garments. "Yes, the doctor says she's better; a little, a very little," said Jemima. "And _she_, of course she's quite knocked up?" said he, with a groan. "No. Miss Crisp's taking a nap, that's all; and mother's keeping watch next door." Booms sat very uncomfortably, not knowing what fresh topic to discourse on. But an inspiration seized him presently. "Oh, I see you're crying," he said. "You're in trouble, too." "So I am," said Jemima. "Something I've done, I suppose?" said Booms. "No, it isn't. It's about--about the Crudens." "Oh, of course. What about them?" "Well, isn't it bad enough they have this dreadful trouble?" said Jemima; "but it isn't half the trouble they really are in." "You know I can't understand what you mean when you talk like that," said Booms. "Will you promise, if I tell you, to keep it a secret?" "Oh, of course. I hate secrets, but go on." "Oh, Mr Booms, Mr Reginald is in prison at Liverpool, on a charge--a false charge, I'm certain--of fraud. Isn't it dreadful? And Mr Horace ought to know of it. Could you break it to him?" "How can I keep it a secret and break it to him?" said Mr Booms, in a pained tone. "Oh yes, I'll try, if you like." "Oh, thank you. Do it very gently, and be sure not to let my mother, or his, or anybody else hear of it, won't you?" "I'll try. Of course every one will put all the blame on me if it does spread." "No, I won't. Do it first thing to-morrow, won't you, Mr Booms?" "Oh yes"; and then, as if determined to be in time for the interview, he added, "I'd better go now." And he departed very like a man walking to the gallows. Shuckleford returned at midnight, and found the supper waiting for him, but, to his relief, neither of the ladies. He wrote the following short note before he partook of his evening meal:-- "Dear D.,--Come round first thing in the morning. The police have dished us for once, but we'll be quits with them if we put our heads together. Be sure and come. Yours, S. S." After having posted this eloquent epistle with his own hand at the pillar-box he returned to his supper, and then went, somewhat dejected, to bed. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. REGINALD FINDS HIMSELF "DISMISSED WITH A CAUTION." There is a famous saying of a famous modern poet which runs-- "Sudden the worst turns the best to the brave." And so it was with Reginald Cruden when finally the whole bitter truth of his position broke in upon his mind. If the first sudden shock drove him into the dungeon of Giant Despair, a night's quiet reflection, and the consciousness of innocence within, helped him to shake off the fetters, and emerge bravely and serenely from the crisis. He knew he had nothing to be proud of--nothing to excuse his own folly and shortsightedness--nothing to flatter his self-esteem; but no one could accuse him of dishonour, or point the finger of shame in his way. So he rose next morning armed for the worst. What that would be he could not say, but whatever it was he would face it, confident in his own integrity and the might of right to clear him. He endeavoured, in a few words, to explain the position of affairs to Love, who was characteristically quick at grasping it, and suggesting a remedy. "That there Medlock's got to be served, and no error!" he said. "I'll murder 'im!" "Nonsense!" said Reginald; "you can't make things right by doing wrong yourself. And you know you wouldn't do such a thing." "Do I know? Tell you I would, gov'nor! I'd serve him just like that there 'Pollyon in the book. Or else I'd put rat p'ison in his beer, and--my! wouldn't it be a game to see the tet'nus a-comin' on 'im, and--" "Be quiet," said Reginald; "I won't allow you to talk like that. It's as bad as the _Tim Tigerskin_ days, Love, and we've both done with them." "You're right there!" said the boy, pulling his _Pilgrim's Progress_ from his pocket. "My! don't I wish I had the feller to myself in the Slough o' Despond! Wouldn't I 'old 'is 'ead under! Oh no, not me! None o' yer Mr 'Elpses to give 'im a leg out, if I knows it!" "Perhaps he'll get punished enough without us," said Reginald. "It wouldn't do us any good to see him suffering." "Wouldn't it, though? Would me, I can tell yer!" said the uncompromising Love. It was evidently hopeless to attempt to divert his young champion's mind into channels of mercy. Reginald therefore, for lack of anything else to do, suggested to him to go on with the reading aloud, a command the boy obeyed with alacrity, starting of his own accord at the beginning of the book. So the two sat there, and followed their pilgrim through the perils and triumphs of his way, each acknowledging in his heart the spell of the wonderful story, and feeling himself a braver man for every step he took along with the valiant Christian. The morning went by and noon had come, and still the boy read on, until heavy footsteps on the stairs below startled them both, and sent a quick flush into Reginald's cheeks. It needed no divination to guess what it meant, and it was almost with a sigh of relief that he saw the door open and a policeman enter. He rose to his feet and drew himself up as the man approached. "Is your name Cruden Reginald?" said the officer. "No; it's Reginald Cruden." "You call yourself Cruden Reginald?" "I have done so; yes." "Then I must trouble you to come along with me, young gentleman." "Very well," said Reginald, quietly. "What am I charged with?" "Conspiracy to defraud, that's what's on the warrant. Are you ready now?" "Yes, quite ready. Where are you going to take me?" "Well, we shall have to look in at the station on our way, and then go on to the police-court. Won't take long. Bound to remand you, you know, for a week or something like that, and then you'll get committed, and the assizes are on directly after the new year, so three weeks from now will see it all over." The man talked in a pleasant, civil way, in a tone as if he quite supposed Reginald might be pleased to hear the programme arranged on his behalf. "We'd better go," said Reginald, moving towards the door. His face was very white and determined. But there was a tell-tale quiver in his tightly-pressed lips which told that he needed all his courage to help him through the ordeal before him. Till this moment the thought of having to walk through Liverpool in custody had not entered into his calculations, and he recoiled from it with a shiver. "I needn't trouble you with these," said the policeman, taking a pair of handcuffs from his pocket; "not yet, anyhow." "Oh no. I'll come quite quietly." "All right. I've my mate below. You can walk between. Hulloa!" This last exclamation was addressed to Master Love, who, having witnessed thus much of the interview in a state of stupefied bewilderment, now recovered his presence of mind sufficiently to make a furious dash at the burly policeman. "Do you hear? Let him be; let my governor go. He ain't done nothink to you or nobody. It's me, I tell yer. I've murdered dozens, do you 'ear? and robbed the till, and set the Manshing 'Ouse o' fire, do you 'ear? You let 'im go. It's me done it!" And he accompanied the protest with such a furious kick at the policeman's leg that that functionary grew very red in the face, and making a grab at the offender, seized him by the collar. "Don't hurt him, please," said Reginald. "He doesn't mean any harm." "Tell you it's me," cried the boy, trembling in the grasp of the law, "me and that there Medlock. My gov'nor ain't done it." "Hush, be quiet, Love," said Reginald. "It'll do no good to make a noise. It can't be helped. Good-bye." The boy fairly broke down, and began to blubber piteously. Reginald, unmanned enough as it was, had not the heart to wait longer, and walked hurriedly to the door, followed by the policeman. This movement once more raised the faithful Love to a final effort. "Let 'im go, do you 'ear?" shouted he, rushing down the stairs after them. "I'll do for yer if you don't. Oh, guv'nor, take me too, can't yer?" But Reginald could only steel his heart for once, and feign not to hear the appeal. The other policeman was waiting outside, and between his two custodians he walked, sick at heart, and faltering in courage, longing only to get out of the reach of the curious, critical eyes that turned on him from every side, and beyond the sound of that pitiful whimper of the faithful little friend as it followed him step by step to the very door of the police-station. At the station Mr Sniff awaited the party with a pleasant smile of welcome. "That's right," said he to Reginald, encouragingly; "much better to come quietly, looks better. Look here, young fellow," he added, rather more confidentially, "the first question you'll be asked is whether you're guilty or not. Take my advice, and make a clean breast of it." "I shall say not guilty, which will be the truth." Mr Sniff, as the reader has been told, had already come to the same conclusion. Still, it being the rule of his profession always to assume a man to be guilty till he can prove himself innocent, he felt it was no business of his to assist the magistrate in coming to the decision by stating what he _thought_. All he had to do was to state what he _knew_, and meanwhile, if the prisoner choose to simplify matters by pleading guilty, well, why shouldn't he? "Please yourself about that. Have you made your entries, Jones? The van will be here directly. See you later on," added he, nodding to Reginald. Reginald waited there for the van like a man in a dream. People came in and out, spoke, laughed, looked about them, even mentioned his name. But they all seemed part of some curious pageant, of which he himself formed not the least unreal portion. His mind wandered off on a hundred little insignificant topics. Snatches of the _Pilgrim's Progress_ came into his mind, half-forgotten airs of music crossed his memory, the vision of young Gedge as he last saw him fleeted before his eyes. He tried in vain to collect his thoughts, but they were hopelessly astray, leaving him for the time barely conscious, and wholly uninterested in what was taking place around him. The van came at last, a vehicle he had often eyed curiously as it rumbled past him in the streets. Little had he ever dreamed of riding one day inside it. The usual knot of loungers waited at the door of the police-court to see the van disgorge its freight. Sometimes they had been rewarded for their patience by the glimpse of a real murderer, or wife-kicker, or burglar, and sometimes they had had their bit of fun over a "tough customer," who, if he must travel at her Majesty's expense, was determined to travel all the way, and insisted on being carried by the arms and legs across the pavement into the tribunal of justice. There was no such fun to be got out of Reginald as he stepped hurriedly from the van, and with downcast eyes entered by the prisoners' door into the court-house. A case was already in progress, and he had to wait in a dimly-lit underground lobby for his summons. The constable who had arrested him was still beside him, and other groups, mostly of police, filled up the place. But he heeded none, longing--oh! how intensely--to hear his name called and to know the worst. Presently there was a bustle near the door, and he knew the case upstairs was at an end. "Six months," some one said. Some one else whistled softly. "Whew--old Fogey's in one of his tantrums, then. He'd have only got three at Dark Street." Then some one called the name "Reginald," and the policeman near him said "Coming." Then, turning to the prisoner, he said,-- "Fogey's on the bench to-day, and he's particular. Look alive." Reginald found himself being hurried to the door through a lane of officials and others towards the stairs. "Your turn next, Grinder," he heard some one say as he passed. "Ten- minutes will do this case." To Reginald the stairs seemed interminable. There was a hum of voices above, and a shuffling of feet as of people taking a momentary relaxation in the interval of some performance. Then a loud voice cried, "Silence--order in the court, sit down, gentlemen," and there fell an unearthly stillness on the place. "To the right," said the policeman, coming beside him, and taking his arm as if to direct him. He was conscious of a score of curious faces turned on him, of some one on the bench folding up a newspaper and adjusting his glasses, of a man at a table throwing aside a quill pen and taking another, of a click of a latch closing behind him, of a row of spikes in front of him. Then he found himself alone. What followed he scarcely could tell. He was vaguely aware of some one with Mr Sniff's voice making a statement in which his (Reginald's) own name occurred, another voice from the bench breaking in every now and then, and yet another voice from the table talking too, accompanied by the squeaking of a pen across paper. Then the constable who had arrested him said something, and after the constable some one else. Then followed a dialogue in undertone between the bench and the table, and once more Mr Sniff's voice, and at last the voice from the bench, a gruff, unsympathetic voice, said,-- "Now, sir, what have you got to say for yourself?" The question roused him. It was intended for him, and he awoke to the consciousness that, after all, he had some interest in what was going on. He raised his head and said,-- "I'm not guilty." "You reserve your defence, then?" "Tell him yes," said the policeman. "Yes, sir." "Very well, then. I shall remand you for three days. Bring him up again on Friday." And the magistrate took up his newspaper, the clerk at the table laying down his pen; the bustle and shuffling of feet filled the room, and in another moment Reginald was down the staircase, and the voice he had heard before called,-- "Remand three days. Now then, Grinder, up you go--" In all his conjectures as to what might befall him, the possibility of being actually sent to prison had never entered Reginald's head. That he would be suspected, arrested, taken to the police-station, and finally brought before a magistrate, he had foreseen. That was bad enough, but he had steeled his resolution to the pitch of going through with it, sure that the clearing of his character would follow any inquiry into the case. But to be lodged for three days as a common felon in a police cell was a fate he had not once realised, and which, when its full meaning broke upon him, crushed the spirit out of him. He made no resistance, no protest, no complaint as they hustled him back into the van, and from the van to the cell which was to be his dreary lodging for those three days. He felt degraded, dishonoured, disgraced, and as he sat hour after hour brooding over his lot, his mind, already overwrought, lost its courage and let go its hope. Suppose he really had done something to be ashamed of? Suppose he had all along had his vague suspicions of the honesty of the Corporation, and yet had continued to serve them? Suppose, with the best of intentions, he had shut his eyes wilfully to what he might and must have seen? Suppose, in fact, his negligence had been criminal? How was he ever to hold up his head again and face the world like an honest man, and say he had defrauded no man? And then there came up in terrible array that long list of customers to the Corporation whom he had lured and enticed by promises he had never taken the trouble to inquire into to part with their money. And the burden of their loss lay like an incubus on his spirit, till he actually persuaded himself he was guilty. I need not sadden the reader with dwelling on the misery of those three days. Any one almost could have endured them better than Reginald. He began a letter to Horace, but he tore it up when half-written. He drew up a statement of his own defence, but when fact after fact appeared in array on the paper it seemed more like an indictment than a defence, and he tore it up too. At length the weary suspense was over, and once more he found himself in the outer air, stepping with almost familiar tread across the pavement into the van, and taking his place among the waiters in the dim lobby at the foot of the police-court stairs. When at last he stood once more in the dock none of his former bewilderment remained to befriend him. It was all too real this time. When some one spoke of the "prisoner" he knew it meant himself, and when they spoke of fraud he knew they referred to something he had done. Oh, that he could see it all in a dream once more, and wake up to find himself on the other side! "Now, Mr Sniff, you've got something to say?" said the magistrate. "Yes, your worship," replied Mr Sniff, not moving to the witness-box, but speaking from his seat. "We don't propose to continue this case." "What? It's a clear case, isn't it?" said the magistrate, with the air of a man who is being trifled with. "No, your worship. There's not evidence enough to ask you to send the prisoner to trial." "Then I'd better sentence him myself." "I think not, your worship. Our evidence only went to show that the prisoner was in the employment of the men who started the company. But we have no evidence that he was aware that the concern was fraudulent, and as he does not appear to have appropriated any of the money, we advise dismissing the case. The real offenders are in custody, and have practically admitted their guilt." The magistrate looked very ill-tempered and offended. He did not like being told what he was told, especially by the police, and he had a righteous horror of cases being withdrawn from his authority. He held a snappish consultation with his clerk, which by no means tended to pacify him, for that functionary whispered his opinion that as the case had been withdrawn there was nothing for it but for his worship to dismiss the case. Somebody, at any rate, should smart for his injured feelings, and as he did not know law enough to abuse Mr Sniff, and had not pretext sufficient to abuse his clerk, he gathered himself for a castigation of the prisoner, which should not only serve as a caution to that youth for his future guidance, but should also relieve his own magisterial mind. "Now, prisoner," began he, setting his spectacles and leaning forward in his seat, "you've heard what the officer has said. You may consider yourself fortunate--very fortunate--there is not enough evidence to convict you. Don't flatter yourself that a breakdown in the prosecution clears your character. In the eyes of the law you may be clear, but morally, let me tell you, you are far from being so. It's affectation to tell me you could live for three months the centre of a system of fraud and yet have your hands clean. You must make good your account between your own conscience and the hundreds of helpless, unfortunate poor men and women you have been the means of depriving of their hard- earned money. You have already been kept in prison for three days. Let me hope that will be a warning to you not to meddle in future with fraud, if you wish to pass as an honest man. If you touch pitch, sir, you must expect to be denied. Return to paths of honesty, young man, and seek to recover the character you have forfeited, and bear in mind the warning you have had, if you wish to avoid a more serious stain in the future. The case is dismissed." With which elegant peroration the magistrate, much relieved in his own mind, took up his newspaper, and Reginald was hurried once more down those steep stairs a free man. "Slice of luck for you, young shaver!" said the friendly policeman, slipping off the handcuffs. "Regular one of Sniff's little games!" said another standing near; "he always lets his little fish go when he's landed his big ones! To my mind it's a risky business. Never mind." "You can go when you like now," said the policeman to Reginald; "and whenever we come across a shilling for a drink we'll drink your health, my lad." Reginald saw the hint, and handed the policeman one of his last shillings. Then, buttoning his coat against the cold winter wind, he walked out, a free man, into the street. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. THE DARKEST HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN. If the worshipful magistrate flattered himself that the reprimand he had addressed to Reginald that afternoon would move his hearer to self- abasement or penitence, he had sadly miscalculated the power of his own language. Every word of that "caution" had entered like iron into the boy's soul, and had roused in him every evil passion of which his nature was capable. A single word of sympathy or kindly advice might have won him heart and soul. But those stinging, brutal sentences goaded him almost to madness, and left him desperate. What was the use of honesty, of principle, of conscientiousness, if they were all with one accord to rise against him and degrade him? What was the use of trying to be better than others when the result was an infamy which, had he been a little more greedy or a little less upright, he might have avoided? What was the use of conscious innocence and unstained honour, when they could not save him from a sense of shame of which no convicted felon could know the bitterness? It would go out to all the world that Reginald Cruden, the suspected swindler, had been "let off" for lack of evidence after three days' imprisonment. The victims of the Corporation would read it, and regret the failure of justice to overtake the man who had robbed them. His father's old county friends would read it, and shake their heads over poor Cruden's prodigal. The Wilderham fellows would read it, and set him down as one more who had gone to the bad. Young Gedge would read it, and scorn him for a hypocrite and a humbug. Durfy would read it, and chuckle. His mother and Horace would read it. Yes, and what would they think? Nothing he could say would convince them or anybody. They might forgive him, but-- The thought made his blood boil within him. He would take forgiveness from no man or woman. If they chose to believe him guilty, let them; but let them keep their forgiveness to themselves. Rather let them give the dog a bad name and hang him. He did not care! Would that they could! Such was the rush of thought that passed through his mind as he stood that bleak winter afternoon in the street, a free man. Free! he laughed at the word, and envied the burglar with his six months. What spirit of malignity had hindered Mr Sniff from letting him lose himself in a felon's cell rather than turn him out "free" into a world every creature of which was an enemy? Are you disgusted with him, reader? With his poor spirit, his weak purpose, his blind folly? Do you say that you, in his shoes, would have done better? that you would never have lost courage? that you would have held up your head still, and braved the storm? Alas, alas, that the Reginalds are so many and the heroes of your sort so few! Alas for the sensitive natures whom injustice can crush and make cowards of! You are not sensitive, thank God, and you do not know what crushing is. Pray that you never may; but till you have felt it deal leniently with poor Reginald, as he goes recklessly out into the winter gloom without a friend--not even himself. It mattered little to him where he went or what became of him. It made no odds how and when he should spend his last shilling. He was hungry now. Since early that morning nothing had passed his lips. Why not spend it now and have done with it? So he turned into a coffee-shop, and ordered coffee and a plate of beef. "My last meal," said he to himself, with a bitter smile. His appetite failed him when the food appeared, but he ate and drank out of sheer bravado. His enemies--Durfy, and the magistrate, and the victims of the Corporation--would rejoice to see him turn with a shudder from his food. He would devour it to spite them. "How much?" said he, when it was done. "Ninepence, please," said the rosy-cheeked girl who waited. Reginald tossed her the shilling. "Keep the change for yourself," said he, and walked out of the shop. He was free now with a vengeance! He might do what he liked, go where he liked, starve where he liked. He wandered up and down the streets that winter evening recklessly indifferent to what became of him. The shops were gaily lighted and adorned with Christmas decorations. Boys and girls, men and women, thronged them, eager in their purchases and radiant in the prospect of the coming festival. There went a grave father, parading the pavement with a football under his arm for the boy at home; and here a lad, with his mother's arm in his, stood halted before an array of fur cloaks, and bade her choose the best among them. Bright-eyed school-girls brushed past him with their brothers, smiling and talking in holiday glee; and here a trio of school-chums, arm-in-arm, bore down upon him, laughing over some last-term joke. He watched them all. Times were when his heart would warm and soften within him at the memories sights like these inspired; but they were nothing to him now; or if they were anything, they were part of a universal conspiracy to mock him. Let them mock him; what cared he? The night drew on. One by one the gay lights in the shops went out, and the shutters hid the crowded windows. One by one the passengers dispersed, some to besiege the railway-stations, some to invade the trams, others to walk in cheery parties by the frosty roads; all to go home. Even the weary shopmen and shop-girls, released from the day's labours, hurried past him homeward, and the sleepy cabman whipped up his horse for his last fare before going home, and the tramps and beggars vanished down their alleys, and sought every man his home. Home! The word had no meaning to-night for Reginald as he watched the streets empty, and found himself a solitary wayfarer in the deserted thoroughfares. The hum of traffic ceased. One by one the bedroom lights went out, the clocks chimed midnight clearly in the frosty air, and still he wandered on. He passed a newspaper-office, where the thunder of machinery and the glare of the case-room reminded him of his own bitter apprenticeship at the _Rocket_. They might find him a job here if he applied. Faugh! who would take a gaol-bird, a "let-off" swindler, into their employ? He strolled down to the docks. The great river lay asleep. The docks were, deserted; the dockyards silent. Only here and there a darting light, or the distant throb of an engine, broke the slumber of the scene. A man came up to him as he stood on the jetty. "Now then, sheer off; do you hear?" he said. "What do you want here?" "Mayn't I watch the river?" said Reginald. "Not here. We've had enough of your sort watching the river. Off you go," and he laid his hand on the boy's collar and marched him off the pier. Of course! Who had not had enough of his sort? Who would not suspect him wherever he went? Cain went about with a mark on his forehead for every one to know him by. In what respect was he better off, when men seemed to know by instinct and in the dark that he was a character to mistrust and suspect? The hours wore on. Even the printing-office when he passed it again was going to rest. The compositors one by one were flitting home, and the engine was dropping asleep. He stood and watched the men come out, and wondered if any of them were like himself--whether among them was a young Gedge or a Durfy? Then he wandered off back into the heart of the town. A wretched outcast woman, with a child in her arms, stood at the street corner and accosted him. "Do, kind gentleman, give me a penny. The child's starving, and we're so cold and hungry." "I'd give you one if I had one," said Reginald; "but I'm as poor as you are." The woman sighed, and drew her rags round the infant. Reginald watched her for a moment, and then, taking off his overcoat, said,-- "You'd better put this round you." And he dropped it at her feet, and hurried away before she could pick up the gift, or bless the giver. He gave himself no credit for the deed, and he wanted none. What did he care about a coat? he who had been frozen to the heart already. Would a coat revive his good name, or cover the disgrace of that magisterial caution? The clocks struck four, and the long winter night grew bleaker and darker. It was eleven hours since he had taken that last defiant meal, and Nature began slowly to assert her own with the poor outcast. He was faint and tired out, and the breeze cut him through. Still the rebel spirit within him denied that he was in distress. No food or rest or shelter for him! All he craved was leave to lose himself and forget his own name. Is it any use bidding him, as we bade him once before, turn round and face the evil genius that is pursuing him? or is there nothing for him now but to run? He has run all night, but he is no farther ahead than when he stood at the police-court door. On the contrary, it is running him down fast, and as he staggers forward into the darkest hour of that cruel night, it treads on his heels and begins to drag him back. Is there no home? no voice of a friend? no helping hand to save him from that worst of all enemies--his evil self? It was nearly five o'clock when, without knowing how he got there, he found himself on the familiar ground of Shy Street. In the dim lamplight he scarcely recognised it at first, but when he did it seemed like a final stroke of irony to bring him there, at such a time, in such a mood. What else could it be meant for but to remind him there was no escape, no hope of losing himself, no chance of forgetting? That gaunt, empty window of Number 13, with the reflected glare of the lamp opposite upon it, seemed to leer down on him like a mocking ghost, claiming him as its own. What was the use of keeping up the struggle any longer? After all, was there not one way of escape? What was it crouching at the door of Number 13, half hidden in the shade? A dog? a woman? a child? He stood still a moment, with beating heart, straining his eyes through the gloom. Then he crossed. As he did so the figure sprang to its feet and rushed to meet him. "I knowed it, gov'nor; I knowed you was a-comin'," cried a familiar boy's voice. "It's all right now. It's all right, gov'nor!" Never did sweeter music fall on mortal ears than these broken, breathless words on the spirit of Reginald. It was the voice he had been waiting for to save him in his extremity--the voice of love to remind him he was not forsaken; the voice of trust to remind him some one believed in him still; the voice of hope to remind him all was not lost yet. It called him back to himself; it thawed the chill at his heart, and sent new life into his soul. It was like a key to liberate him from the dungeon of Giant Despair. "Why, Love, is that you, my boy?" he cried, seizing the lad's hand. "It is so, gov'nor," whimpered the boy, trembling with excitement, and clinging to his protector's hand. "I knowed you was a-comin', but I was a'most feared I wouldn't see you too." "What made you think I would come?" said Reginald, looking down with tears in his eyes on the poor wizened upturned face. "I knowed you was a-comin'," repeated the boy, as if he could not say it too often; "and I waited and waited, and there you are. It's all right, gov'nor." "It _is_ all right, old fellow," said Reginald. "You don't know what you've saved me from." "Go on," said the boy, recovering his composure in the great content of his discovery. "I ain't saved you from nothink. Leastways unless you was a-goin' to commit soosanside. If you was, you was a flat to come this way. That there railway-cutting's where I'd go, and then at the inkwidge they don't know if you did it a-purpose or was topped over by the train, and they gives you the benefit of the doubt, and says, `Found dead.'" "We won't talk about it," said Reginald, smiling, the first smile that had crossed his lips for a week. "Do you know, young 'un, I'm hungry; are you?" "Got any browns?" said Love. "Not a farthing." "More ain't I, but I'll--" He paused, and a shade of doubt crossed his face as he went on. "Say, gov'nor, think they'd give us a brown for this 'ere _Robinson_?" And he pulled out his _Robinson Crusoe_ bravely and held it up. "I'm afraid not. It only cost threepence." Another inward debate took place; then drawing out his beloved _Pilgrim's Progress_, he put the two books together, and said,-- "Suppose they'd give us one for them two?" "Don't let's part with them if we can help," said Reginald. "Suppose we try to earn something?" The boy said nothing, but trudged on beside his protector till they emerged from Shy Street and stood in one of the broad empty main streets of the city. Here Reginald, worn out with hunger and fatigue, and borne up no longer by the energy of desperation, sank half fainting into a doorstep. "I'm--so tired," he said; "let's rest a bit. I'll be all right--in a minute." Love looked at him anxiously for a moment, and then saying, "Stay you there, gov'nor, till I come back," started off to run. How long Reginald remained half-unconscious where the boy left him he could not exactly tell; but when he came to himself an early streak of dawn was lighting the sky, and Love was kneeling beside him. "It's all right, gov'nor," said he, holding up a can of hot coffee and a slice of bread in his hands. "Chuck these here inside yer; do you 'ear?" Reginald put his lips eagerly to the can. It was nearly sixteen hours since he had touched food. He drained it half empty; then stopping suddenly, he said,-- "Have you had any yourself?" "Me? In corse! Do you suppose I ain't 'ad a pull at it?" "You haven't," said Reginald, eyeing him sharply, and detecting the well-meant fraud in his looks. "Unless you take what's left there, I'll throw it all into the road." In vain Love protested, vowed he loathed coffee, that it made him sick, that he preferred prussic acid; Reginald was inexorable, and the boy was obliged to submit. In like manner, no wile or device could save him from having to share the slice of bread; nor, when he did put it to his lips, could any grimace or protest hide the almost ravenous eagerness with which at last he devoured it. "Now you wait till I take back the can," said Love. "I'll not be a minute," and he darted off, leaving Reginald strengthened in mind and body by the frugal repast. It was not till the boy returned that he noticed he wore no coat. "What have you done with it?" he demanded sternly. "Me? What are you talking about?" said the boy, looking guiltily uneasy. "Don't deceive me!" said Reginald. "Where's your coat?" "What do I want with coats? Do you--" "Have you sold it for our breakfast?" "Go on! Do you think--" "Have you?" repeated Reginald, this time almost angrily. "Maybe I 'ave," said the boy; "ain't I got a right to?" "No, you haven't; and you'll have to wear mine now." And he proceeded to take it off, when the boy said,-- "All right. If you take that off, gov'nor, I slides--I mean it--so I do." There was a look of such wild determination in his pinched face that Reginald gave up the struggle for the present. "We'll share it between us, at any rate," said he. "Whatever induced you to do such a foolish thing, Love?" "Bless you, I ain't got no sense," replied the boy cheerily. Day broke at last, and Liverpool once more became alive with bustle and traffic. No one noticed the two shivering boys as they wended their way through the streets, trying here and there, but in vain, for work, and wondering where and when they should find their next meal. But for Reginald that walk, faint and footsore as he was, was a pleasure-trip compared with the night's wanderings. Towards afternoon Love had the rare good fortune to see a gentleman drop a purse on the pavement. There was no chance of appropriating it, had he been so minded, which, to do him justice, he was not, for the purse fell in a most public manner in the sight of several onlookers. But Love was the first to reach it and hand it back to its owner. Now Love's old story-books had told him that honesty of this sort is a very paying sort of business; and though he hardly expected the wonderful consequences to follow his own act which always befall the superfluously honest boys in the "penny dreadfuls," he was yet low- souled enough to linger sufficiently long in the neighbourhood of the owner of the purse to give him an opportunity of proving the truth of the story-book moral. Nor was he disappointed; for the good gentleman, happening to have no less than fifty pounds in gold and notes stored up in this particular purse, was magnanimous enough to award Love a shilling for his lucky piece of honesty, a result which made that young gentleman's countenance glow with a grin of the profoundest satisfaction. "My eye, gov'nor," said he, returning radiant with his treasure to Reginald, and thrusting it into his hand; "'ere, lay 'old. 'Ere's a slice o' luck. Somethink like that there daily bread you was a-tellin' me of t'other day. No fear, I ain't forgot it. Now, I say sassages. What do you say?" Reginald said "sausages" too; and the two friends, armed with their magic shilling, marched boldly into a cosy coffee-shop where there was a blazing fire and a snug corner, and called for sausages for two. And they never enjoyed such a meal in all their lives. How they did make those sausages last! And what life and comfort they got out of that fire, and what rest out of those cane-bottomed chairs! At the end of it all they had fourpence left, which, after serious consultation, it was decided to expend in a bed for the night. "If we can get a good sleep," said Reginald, "and pull ourselves together, we're bound to get a job of some sort to-morrow. Do you know any lodging-house?" "Me? don't I? That there time you jacked me up I was a night in a place down by the river. It ain't a dainty place, gov'nor, but it's on'y twopence a piece or threepence a couple on us, and that'll leave a brown for the morning." "All right. Let's go there soon, and get a long night." Love led the way through several low streets beside the wharves until he came to a court in which stood a tumble-down tenement with the legend "Lodgings" scrawled on a board above the door. Here they entered, and Love in a few words bargained with the sour landlady for a night's lodging. She protested at first at their coming so early, but finally yielded, on condition they would make the threepence into fourpence. They had nothing for it but to yield. "Up you go, then," said the woman, pointing to a rickety ladder which served the house for a staircase. "There's one there already. Never mind him; you take the next." Reginald turned almost sick as he entered the big, stifling, filthy loft which was to serve him for a night's lodging. About a dozen beds were ranged along the walls on either side, one of which, that in the far corner of the room, was, as the woman had said, occupied. The atmosphere of the place was awful already. What would it be when a dozen or possibly two dozen persons slept there? Reginald's first impulse was to retreat and rather spend another night in the streets than in such a place. But his weary limbs and aching bones forbade it. He must stay where he was now. Already Love was curled up and asleep on the bed next to that where the other lodger lay; and Reginald, stifling every feeling but his weariness, flung himself by his side and soon forgot both place and surroundings in a heavy sleep. Heavy but fitful. He had scarcely lain an hour when he found himself suddenly wide awake. Love still lay breathing heavily beside him. The other lodger turned restlessly from side to side, muttering to himself, and sometimes moaning like a person in pain. It must have been these latter sounds which awoke Reginald. He lay for some minutes listening and watching in the dim candle-light the restless tossing of the bed- clothes. Presently the sick man--for it was evident sickness was the cause of his uneasiness--lifted himself on his elbow with a groan, and said,-- "For God's sake--help me!" In a moment Reginald had sprung to his feet, and was beside the sufferer. "Are you ill," he said. "What is the matter?" But the man, instead of replying, groaned and fell heavily back on the bed. And as the dim light of the candle fell upon his upturned face, Reginald, with a cry of horror, recognised the features of Mr Durfy, already released by death from the agonies of smallpox. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. LOST AND FOUND. Booms was not exactly the sort of man to be elated by the mission which Miss Shuckleford had thrust upon him. He passed a restless night in turning the matter over in his mind and wondering how he could break the news gently to his friend. For he was fond of Horace, and in his saturnine way felt deeply for him in his trouble. And on this account he wished Jemima had chosen any other confidant to discharge the unpleasant task. He hung about outside Mrs Cruden's house for an hour early that morning, in the hope of being able to entrap Miss Crisp and get her to take the duty off his hands. But Miss Crisp had been sitting up all night with the patient and did not appear. He knocked at the door and asked the servant-girl how Mrs Cruden was. She was a little better, but very weak and not able to speak to anybody. "Any news from Liverpool?" inquired Booms. This had become a daily question among those who inquired at Number 6, Dull Street. "No, no news," said the girl, with a guilty blush. She knew the reason why. Reginald's last letter, written just before his arrest, was at that moment in her pocket. "Has Mr Horace started to the office?" "No; he's a-going to wait and see the doctor, and he says I was to ask you to tell the gentleman so." "Can I see him?" "No; he's asleep just now," said the girl. So Booms had to go down alone to the _Rocket_, as far as ever from getting the burden of Jemima's secret off his mind. He had a good mind to pass it on to Waterford, and might have done so, had not that young gentleman been engaged all the morning on special duty, which kept him in Mr Granville's room. Booms grew more and more dispirited and nervous. Every footstep that came to the door made him tremble, for fear it should be the signal for the unhappy disclosure. He tried hard to persuade himself it would be kinder after all to say nothing about it. What good could it do now? Booms, as the reader knows, had not a very large mind. But what there was of it was honest, and it told him, try how he would, there was no getting out of a promise. So he busied himself with concocting imaginary phrases and letters, by way of experiment as to the neatest way of breaking his bad news. Still he dreaded his friend's arrival more and more; and when at last a brisk footstep halted at the door, he started and turned pale like a guilty thing, and wished Jemima at the bottom of the sea! But the footstep was not Horace's. Whoever the arrival was, he tapped at the door before entering, and then, without waiting for a reply, walked in. It was a youth of about seventeen or eighteen, with a bright honest face and cheery smile. "Is Horace Cruden here?" he inquired eagerly. "Oh no," said Booms, in his most doleful accents. "Isn't this where he works?" "It is indeed." "Well, then, is anything wrong? Is he ill?" "No. _He_ is not ill," said Booms, emphasising the pronoun. "Is Reginald ill, then, or their mother?" A ray of hope crossed Booms's mind. This stranger was evidently a friend of the family. He called the boys by their Christian names, and knew their mother. Would he take charge of the dismal secret? "His mother is ill," said he. "Do you know them?" "Rather. I was Horace's chum at Wilderham, you know, and used to spend my holidays regularly at Garden Vale. Is she very ill?" "Very," said Booms; "and the worst of it is, Reginald is not at home." "Where is he. Horrors told me he had gone to the country." Booms _would_ tell him. For the visitor called his friend Horrors, a pet name none but his own family were ever known to use. "They don't know where he is. But I do," said Booms, with a tragic gesture. "Where? where? What's wrong, I say? Tell me, there's a good fellow." "He's in prison," said Booms, throwing himself back in his chair, and panting with the effort the disclosure had cost him. "In prison! and Horace doesn't know it! What _do_ you mean? Tell me all you know." Booms did tell him, and very little it was. All he knew was from Jemima's secondhand report, and the magnitude of the news had quite prevented him from inquiring as to particulars. "When did you hear this?" said Harker; for the reader will have guessed by this time that the visitor was no other than Horace's old Wilderham ally. "Yesterday." "And he doesn't know yet?" "How could I tell him? Of course I'm to get all the blame. I expected it." "Who's blaming you?" said Harker, whom the news had suddenly brought on terms of familiarity with his friend's friend. "When will he be here?" "Very soon, I suppose." "And then you'll tell him?" "You will, please," said Booms, quite eagerly for him. "Somebody must, poor fellow!" said Harker. "We don't know what we may be losing by the delay." "Of course it's my fault for not waking him up in the middle of the night and telling him," said Booms dismally. "Is there anything about it in the papers?" said Harker, taking up a _Times_. "I've seen nothing." "You say it was a day or two ago. Have you got the _Times_ for the last few days?" "Yes; it's there." Harker hastily turned over the file, and eagerly searched the police and country intelligence. In a minute or two he looked up and said,-- "Had Cruden senior changed his name?" "How _do_ I know?" said Booms, with a bewildered look. "I mean, had he dropped his surname? Look here." And he showed Booms the paragraph which appeared in the London papers the morning after Reginald's arrest. "That looks very much as if it was meant for Cruden," said Harker--"all except the name. If it is, that was Tuesday he was remanded, and to-day is the day he is to be brought up again. Oh, why didn't we know this before?" "Yes. I knew I was to blame. I knew it all along," said Booms, taking every expression of regret as a personal castigation. "It will be all over before any one can do a thing," said Harker, getting up and pacing the room in his agitation. "Why _doesn't_ Horace come?" As if in answer to the appeal, Horace at that moment opened the door. "Why, Harker, old man!" he exclaimed with delight in his face and voice as he sprang towards his friend. "Horrors, my poor dear boy," said Harker, "don't be glad to see me. I've bad news, and there's no time to break it gently. It's about Reginald. He's in trouble--in prison. I'll come with you to Liverpool this morning; there is a train in twenty minutes." Horace said nothing. He turned deadly pale and gazed for a moment half scared, half appealing, at his friend. Booms remembered something he had to do in another room, and went to the door. "Do you mind getting a hansom?" said Harker. The words roused Horace from his stupor. "Mother," he gasped, "she's ill." "We shall be home again to-night most likely," said Harker. "I must tell Granville," said Horace. "Your chief. Well, be quick, the cab will be here directly." Horace went to the inner room and in a minute returned, his face still white but with a burning spot on either cheek. "All right?" inquired Harker. Horace nodded, and followed him to the door. In a quarter of an hour they were at Euston in the booking office. "I have no money," said Horace. "I have, plenty for us both. Go and get some papers, especially Liverpool ones, at the book-stall while I get the tickets." It was a long memorable journey. The papers were soon exhausted. They contained little or no additional news respecting the obscure suspect in Liverpool, and beyond that they had no interest for either traveller. "We shall get down at three," said Harker; "there's a chance of being in time." "In time for what? what can we do?" "Try and get another remand, if only for a couple of days. I can't believe it of Reg. There must be some mistake." "Of course there must," said Horace, with a touch of scorn in his voice, "but how are we to prove it?" "It's no use trying just now. All we can do is to get a remand." The train seemed to drag forward with cruel slowness, and the precious moments sped by with no less cruel haste. It was five minutes past three when they found themselves on the platform of Liverpool station. "It's touch and go if we're in time, old boy," said Harker, as they took their seats in a hansom and ordered the man to drive hard for the police-court; "but you mustn't give up hope even if we're late. We'll pull poor old Reg through somehow." His cheery words and the brotherly grip on his arm were like life and hope to Horace. "Oh, yes," he replied. "What would I have done if you hadn't turned up like an angel of help, Harker, old man?" As they neared the police-court the cabman pulled up to allow a police van to turn in the road. The two friends shuddered. It was like an evil omen to daunt them. Was _he_ in that van--so near them, yet so hopelessly beyond their reach? "For goodness' sake drive on!" shouted Harker to the cabman. It seemed ages before the lumbering obstruction had completed its revolution and drawn to one side sufficiently to allow them to pass. In another minute the cab dashed to the door of the court. It was open, and the knot of idlers on the pavement showed them that some case of interest was at that moment going on. They made their way to the policeman who stood on duty. "Court's full--stand back, please. Can't go in," said that official. "What case is it?" "Stand back, please--can't go in," repeated the stolid functionary. "Please tell us--" "Stand back there!" once more shouted the sentinel, growing rather more peremptory. It was clearly no use mincing matters. At this very moment Reginald might be standing defenceless within, with his last chance of liberty slipping from under his feet. Harker drew a shilling from his pocket and slipped it into the hand of the law. "Tell us the name of the case, there's a good fellow," said he coaxingly. "Bilcher--wife murder. Stand back, please--court's full." Bilcher! Wife murder! It was for this the crowd had gathered, it was for the result of this that that knot of idlers were waiting so patiently outside. Bilcher was the hero of this day's gathering. Who was likely to care a rush about such a lesser light as a secretary charged with a commonplace fraud. "Has the case of Cruden come on yet?" asked Horace anxiously. The policeman answered him with a vacant stare. "No," said Harker, "the name would be Reginald, you know. I say," added he to the policeman, "when does Reginald's case come on?" "Stand back there--Reginald--he was the last but one before this--don't crowd, please." "We're too late, then. What was--what did he get?" Now the policeman considered he had answered quite enough for his shilling. If he went on, people would think he was an easy fish to catch. So he affected deafness, and looking straight past his eager questioners again repeated his stentorian request to the public generally. "Oh, pray tell us what he got," said Harker, in tones of genuine entreaty; "this is his brother, and we've only just heard of it." The policeman for a moment turned a curious eye on Horace, as if to convince himself of the truth of the story. Then, apparently satisfied, and weary of the whole business, he said,-- "Let off. _Will you_ keep back, please? Stand back. Court's full." Let off. Horace's heart gave a bound of triumph as he heard the words. Of course he was! Who could even suspect him of such a thing as fraud? Unjustly accused he might be, but Reg's character was proof against that any day. Harker shared his friend's feelings of relief and thankfulness at the good news, but his face was still not without anxiety. "We had better try to find him," said he. "Oh, of course. He'll probably be back at Shy Street." But no one was at Shy Street. The dingy office was deserted and locked, and a little street urchin on the doorstep glowered at them as they peered up the staircase and read the name on the plate. "Had we better ask in the shop? they may know," said Horace. But the chemist looked black when Reginald's name was mentioned, and hoped he should never see him again. He'd got into trouble and loss enough with him as it was--a hypocritical young-- "Look here," said Horace, "you're speaking of my brother, and you'd better be careful. He's no more a hypocrite than you. He's an honest man, and he's been acquitted of the charge brought against him." "I didn't know you were his brother," said the chemist, rather sheepishly, "but for all that I don't want to see him again, and I don't expect I shall either. He won't come near here in a hurry, unless I'm mistaken." "The fellow's right, I'm afraid," said Harker, as they left the shop. "He's had enough of this place, from what you tell me. It strikes me the best thing is to go and inquire at the police-station. They may know something there." To the police-station accordingly they went, and chanced to light on one no less important than Mr Sniff himself. "We are interested in Reginald Cruden, who was before the magistrate to- day," said Harker. "In fact, this is his brother, and I am an old schoolfellow. We hear the charge against him was dismissed, and we should be much obliged if you could tell us where to find him." Mr Sniff regarded the two boys with interest, and not without a slight trace of uneasiness. He had never really suspected Reginald, but it had appeared necessary to arrest him on suspicion, not only to satisfy the victims of the Corporation, but on the off chance of his knowing rather more than he seemed to know about the doings of that virtuous association. It had been a relief to Mr Sniff to find his first impressions as to the lad's innocence confirmed, and to be able to withdraw the charge against him. But the manner in which the magistrate had dismissed the case had roused even his phlegmatic mind to indignation, and had set his conscience troubling him a little as to his own conduct of the affair. This was why he now felt and looked not quite happy in the presence of Reginald's brother and friend. "Afraid I can't tell you," said he. "He left the court as soon as the case was over, and of course we've no more to do with him." "He is not back at his old office," said Horace, "and I don't know of any other place in Liverpool he would be likely to go to." "It struck me, from the looks of him," said Mr Sniff, quite despising himself for being so unprofessionally communicative--"it struck me he didn't very much care where he went. Very down in the mouth he was." "Why, but he was acquitted; his character was cleared. Whatever should he be down in the mouth about?" said Horace. Mr Sniff smiled pityingly. "He was let off with a caution," he said; "that's rather a different thing from having your character cleared, especially when our friend Fogey's on the bench. I was sorry for the lad, so I was." This was a great deal to come from the lips of a cast-iron individual like Mr Sniff, and it explained the state of the case forcibly enough to his two hearers. Horace knew his brother's nature well enough to imagine the effect upon him of such a reprimand, and his spirits sank within him. "Who can tell us now where we are to look for him?" said he to Harker. "Anything like injustice drives him desperate. He may have gone off, as the detective says, not caring where. And then Liverpool is a fearfully big place." "We won't give it up till we have found him," said Harker; "and if you can't stay, old man, I will." "I can't go," said Horace, with a groan. "Poor Reg!" "Well, let us call round at the post-office and see if Waterford has remembered to telegraph about your mother." They went to the post-office and found a telegram from Miss Crisp: "Good day. Better, decidedly. Knows you are in Liverpool, but nothing more. Any news? Do not telegraph unless all right." "It's pretty evident," said Horace, handing the message to his friend, "we can't telegraph to-day. I'll write to Waterford and get him to tell the others. But what is the next thing to be done?" "We can only be patient," said Harker. "We are bound to come across him or hear of him in time." "He's not likely to have gone home?" suggested Horace. "How could he with no money?" "Or to try to get on an American ship? We might try that." "Oh yes, we shall have to try all that sort of thing." "Well, let's begin at once," said Horace impatiently, "every minute may be of consequence." But for a week they sought in vain--among the busy streets by day and in the empty courts by night, among the shipping, in the railway-stations, in the workhouses, at the printing-offices. Mr Sniff did them more than one friendly turn, and armed them with the talisman of his name to get them admittance where no other key would pass them. They inquired at public-houses, coffee-houses, lodging- houses, but all in vain. No one had seen a youth answering their description, or if they had it was only for a moment, and he had passed from their sight and memory. False scents there were in plenty--some which seemed to lead up hopefully to the very last, and then end in nothing, others too vague even to attempt to follow. Once they heard that the body of a youth had been found floating in the Mersey--and with terrible forebodings they rushed to the place and demanded to see it. But he was not there. The dead upturned face they looked on was not his, and they turned away, feeling more than ever discouraged in their quest. At length at the end of a week a man who kept an early coffee-stall in one of the main streets told them that a week ago a ragged little urchin had come to him with a pitiful tale about a gentleman who was starving, and had begged for a can of coffee and a slice of bread to take to him, offering in proof of his good faith his own coat as payment. It was a bitterly cold morning, and the man trusted him. He had never seen the gentleman, but the boy brought back the empty can in a few minutes. The coffee man had kept the jacket, as it was about the size of a little chap of his own. But he had noticed the boy before parting with it take two ragged little books out of its pockets and transfer them to the bosom of his shirt. That was all he remembered, and the gentleman might take it for what it was worth. It was worth something, for it pointed to the possibility of Reginald not being alone in his wanderings. And putting one thing and another together they somehow connected this little urchin with the boy they saw crouching on the doorstep of Number 13, Shy Street the day of their arrival, and with the office-boy whom Mr Sniff described as having been Reginald's companion during his last days at the office. They would neither of them believe Reginald was not still in Liverpool, and cheered by the very feeble light of this discovery they resumed their search with unabated vigour and even greater thoroughness. Happily the news from home continued favourable, and, equally important, the officials at the _Rocket_ made no demur to Horace's prolonged stay. As for Harker, his hopefulness and pocket-money vied with one another in sustaining the seekers and keeping alive within them the certainty of a reward, sooner or later, for their patience. Ten days had passed, and no fresh clue. Once or twice they had heard of the pale young gentleman and the little boy, but always vaguely, as a fleeting vision which had been seen about a fortnight ago. On this day they called in while passing to see Mr Sniff, and were met by that gentleman with a smile which told them he had some news of consequence to impart. "I heard to-day," said he, "that a patient--a young man--was removed very ill from a low lodging-house near the river--to the smallpox hospital yesterday. His name is supposed to be Cruden (a common name in this country), but he was too ill to give any account of himself. It may be worth your while following it up." In less than half an hour they were at the hospital, and Horace was kneeling at the bedside of his long-lost brother. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. LOVE FIGHTS HIS WAY INTO THE BEAUTIFUL PALACE. Reginald recollected little of what happened on that terrible night when he found himself suddenly face to face with his dead enemy. He had a vague impression of calling the landlady and of seeing the body carried from the pestiferous room. But whether he helped to carry it himself or not he could not remember. When he next was conscious of anything the sun was struggling through the rafters over his head, as he lay in the bed beside Love, who slept still, heavily but uneasily. The other lodgers had all risen and left the place; and when with a shudder he glanced towards the corner where the sick man last night had died, that bed was empty too. He rose silently, without disturbing his companion, and made his way unsteadily down the ladder in search of the woman. She met him with a scowl. She had found two five-pound notes in the dead man's pocket, and consequently wanted to hear no more about him. "Took to the mortuary, of course," said she, in answer to Reginald's question. "Where else do you expect?" "Can you tell me his name, or anything about him? I knew him once." She looked blacker than ever at this. It seemed to her guilty conscience like a covert claim to the dead man's belongings, and she bridled up accordingly. "I know nothing about him--no more than I know about you." "Don't you know his name?" said Reginald. "No. Do I know _your_ name? No! And I don't want to!" "Don't be angry," he said. "No one means any harm to you. How long has he been here?" "I don't know. A week. And he was bad when he came. He never caught it here." "Did any doctor see him?" "Doctor! no," snarled the woman. "Isn't it bad enough to have a man bring smallpox into a place without calling in doctors, to give the place a bad name and take a body's living from them? I suppose you'll go and give me a character now. I wish I'd never took you in. I hated the sight of you from the first." She spoke so bitterly, and at the same time so anxiously, that Reginald felt half sorry for her. "I'll do you no harm," said he, gently. "Goodness knows I've done harm enough in my time." The last words, though muttered to himself, did not escape the quick ear of the woman, and they pleased her. She was used to strange characters in her place, seeking a night's shelter before escaping to America, or while hiding from justice. It was neither her habit nor her business to answer questions. All she asked was to be let alone and paid for her lodgings. She knew Reginald had her in a sense at his mercy, for he knew the disease the man had died of, and a word from him out of doors would bring her own pestiferous house about her ears and ruin her. But when he muttered those words to himself she concluded he was a criminal of some sort in hiding, and criminals in hiding, as she knew, were not the people to go and report the sanitary arrangements of their lodgings to the police. So she mollified towards him somewhat, and told him she would look after her affairs if he looked after his, and as he had not had a good night last night, well, if no one else wanted the bed to-night he could have it at half-price; and after that she hoped she would have done with him. Reginald returned to the foul garret, and found Love still asleep, but tossing restlessly, and muttering to himself the while. He sat down beside him and waited till he opened his eyes. At first the boy looked round in a bewildered way as though he were hardly yet awake, but presently his eyes fell on Reginald and his face lit up. "Gov'nor," he said, with a smile, sitting up. "Well, old boy," said Reginald, "what a long sleep you've had. Are you rested?" "I 'ave 'ad sich dreams, gov'nor, and--my, ain't it cold!" And he shivered. The room was stifling. Scarcely a breath of fresh air penetrated through its battered roof, still less through the tiny unopened window at the other end. "We'll get some breakfast to make you warm," said Reginald. "This horrible place is enough to make any one feel sick." The boy got slowly out of bed. "We 'ave got to earn some browns," he said, "afore we can get any breakfast." He shivered still, and sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment. Then he gathered himself together with an effort and walked to the ladder. Reginald's heart sank within him. The boy was not well. His face was flushed, his walk was uncertain, and his teeth chattered incessantly. It might be only the foul atmosphere of the room, or it might be something worse. And as he thought of it he too shivered, but not on account of the cold. They descended the ladder, and for a little while the boy seemed revived by the fresh morning air. Reginald insisted on his taking their one coat, and the boy seemed to lack the energy to contest the matter. For an hour they wandered about the wharves, till at last Love stopped short and said,-- "Gov'nor, I don't want no breakfast. I'll just go back and--" The sentence ended in a whimper, and but for Reginald's arm round him he would have fallen. Reginald knew now that his worst fears were realised. Love was ill, and it was only too easy to surmise what his illness was, especially when he called to mind the boy's statement that he had been taking shelter in the infected lodging-house ten days ago, during his temporary exile from Shy Street. He helped him back tenderly to the place--for other shelter they had none--and laid him in his bed. The boy protested that he was only tired, that his back and legs ached, and would soon be well. Reginald, inexperienced as he was, knew better, or rather worse. He had a battle royal, as he expected, with the landlady on the subject of his little patient. At first she would listen to nothing, and threatened to turn both out by force. But Reginald, with an eloquence which only extremities can inspire, reasoned with her, coaxed her, flattered her, bribed her with promises, and finally got far enough on the right side of her to obtain leave for the boy to occupy Durfy's bed until some other lodger should want it. But she must have a shilling down, or off they must go. It was a desperate alternative,--to quit his little charge in his distress, or to see him turned out to die in the street. Reginald, however, had little difficulty in making his choice. "Are you comfortable?" said he to the boy, leaning over him and soothing the coarse pillow. "Yes, gov'nor--all right--that there ache will be gone soon, and see if I don't pick up some browns afore evening." "Do you think you can get on if I leave you a bit? I think I know where I can earn a little, and I'll be back before night, never fear." "Maybe you'll find me up and about when you comes," said the boy; "mayhap the old gal would give me a job sweeping or somethink." "You must not think of it," said Reginald, almost sternly. "Mind, I trust you to be quiet till I come. How I wish I had some food!" With heavy heart he departed, appealing to the woman, for pity's sake, not to let harm come to the boy in his absence. Where should he go? what should he do? Half a crown would make him feel the richest man in Liverpool, and yet how hard, how cruelly hard, it is to find a half-crown when you most want it! He forgot all his pride, all his sensitiveness, all his own weariness-- everything but the sick boy, and left no stone unturned to procure even a copper. He even begged, when nothing else succeeded. Nobody seemed to want anything done. There were scores of hungry applicants at the riverside and dozens outside the printing-office. There were no horses that wanted holding, no boxes or bags that wanted carrying, no messages or errands that wanted running. No shop or factory window that he saw had a notice of "Boys Wanted" posted in it; no junior clerk was advertised for in any paper he caught sight of; not even a scavenger boy was wanted to clean the road. At last he was giving it up in despair, and coming to the conclusion he might just as well hasten back to his little charge and share his fate with him, when he caught sight of a stout elderly lady standing in a state of flurry and trepidation on the kerb of one of the most crowded crossings in the city. With the instinct of desperation he rushed towards her, and, lifting his hat, said,-- "Can I help you across, ma'am?" The lady started to hear words so polite and in so well-bred a tone, coming from a boy of Reginald's poor appearance, for he was still without his coat. But she jumped at his offer, and allowed him to pilot her and her parcels over the dangerous crossing. "It may be worth twopence to me," said Reginald to himself as he landed her safe on the other side. How circumstances change us! At another time Reginald would have flushed crimson at the bare idea of being paid for an act of politeness. Now his heart beat high with hope as he saw the lady's hand feel for her pocket. "You're a very civil young man," said she, "and--dear me, how ill you look." "I'm not ill," said Reginald, with a boldness he himself marvelled at, "but a little boy I love is--very ill--and I have no money to get him either food or lodging. I know you'll think I'm an impostor, ma'am, but could you, for pity's sake, give me a shilling? I couldn't pay you back, but I'd bless you always." "Dear, dear!" said the lady, "it's very sad--just at Christmas-time, too. Poor little fellow! Here's something for him. I think you look honest, young man; I hope you are, and trust in God." And to Reginald's unbounded delight she slipped two half-crowns into his hand and walked away. He could only say, "God bless you for it." It seemed like an angel's gift in his hour of direst need, and with a heart full of comfort he hastened back to the lodgings, calling on his way at a cookshop and spending sixpence of his treasure on some bread and meat for his patient. He was horror-struck to notice the change even a few hours had wrought on the sufferer. There was no mistaking his ailment now. Though not delirious, he was in a high state of fever, and apparently of pain, for he tossed incessantly and moaned to himself. The sight of Reginald revived him. "I knowed you was comin'," said he; "but I don't want nothing to eat, gov'nor. On'y some water; I do want some water." Reginald flew to get it, and the boy swallowed it with avidity. Then, somewhat revived, he lay back and said, "I 'ave got 'em, then?" "Yes, I'm afraid it's smallpox," said Reginald; "but you'll soon be better." "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Say, gov'nor, you don't ought to stop here; you'll be cotchin' 'em too!" "No fear of that," said Reginald, "I've been vaccinated. Besides, who'd look after you?" "My! you're a good 'un to me!" said the boy. "Think of that there Medlock--" "Don't let's think of anything so unpleasant," said Reginald, seeing that even this short talk had excited his patient unduly. "Let me see if I can make the bed more comfortable, and then, if you like, I can read to you. How would you like that?" The boy beamed his gratitude, and Reginald, after doing his best to smooth the wretched bed and make him comfortable, produced the _Pilgrim's Progress_ and settled down to read. "That there _Robinson_ ain't a bad 'un," said Love, before the reading began; "I read 'im while I was a-waitin' for you. But 'e ain't so good as the Christian. Read about that there pallis ag'in, gov'nor." And Reginald read it--more than once. The evening closed in, the room grew dark, and he shut the book. The boy was already asleep, tossing and moaning to himself, sometimes seeming to wake for a moment, but dropping off again before he could tell what he wanted or what was wrong with him. Once or twice Reginald moistened his parched mouth with water, but as the evening wore on the boy became so much worse that he felt, at all hazards, he must seek help. "I _must_ bring a doctor to see him," said he to the landlady; "he's so ill." "You'll bring no doctor--unless you want to see the boy chucked out in the road!" said she. "The idea! just when my lodgers will be coming home to bed too!" "It's only eight o'clock; no one will come till ten. There'll be plenty of time." "What's the use? You know as well as I do the child won't last above a day or two in his state. What's the use of making a disturbance for nothing?" said the woman. "He won't die--he shall not die!" said Reginald, feeling in his heart how foolish the words were. "At any rate, I must fetch a doctor. I might have fetched one without saying a word to you, but I promised I wouldn't, and now I want you to let me off the promise." The woman fretted and fumed, and wished ill to the day when she had ever seen either Reginald or Love. He bore her vituperation patiently, as it was his only chance of getting his way. Presently she said, "If you're bent on it, go to Mr Pilch, round the corner; he's the only doctor I'll let come in my house. You can have him or nobody, that's flat!" In two minutes Reginald was battering wildly at Mr Pilch's door. That gentleman--a small dealer in herbs, who eked out his livelihood by occasional unauthorised medical practice--happened to be in, and offered, for two shillings, to come and see the sick boy. Reginald tossed down the coin with eager thankfulness, and almost dragged him to the bedside of his little charge. Mr Pilch may have known very little of medicine, but he knew enough to make him shake his head as he saw the boy. "Regular bad case that. Smallpox and half a dozen things on the top of it. I can't do anything." "Can you give me no medicine for him, or tell me what food he ought to take or what? Surely there's a _chance_ of his getting better?" Mr Pilch laughed quietly. "About as much chance of his pulling through that as of jumping over the moon. The kindest thing you can do is to let him die as soon as he can. He may last a day or two. If you want to feed him, give him anything he will take, and that won't be much, you'll find. It's a bad case, young fellow, and it won't do you any good to stop too near him. No use my coming again. Good-night." And the brusque but not unkindly little quack trotted away, leaving Reginald in the dark without a gleam of hope to comfort him. "Gov'nor," said the weak little voice from the bed, "that there doctor says I are a-goin' to die, don't he?" "He says you're very ill, old boy, but let's hope you'll soon be better." "Me--no fear. On'y I wish it would come soon. I'm afeared of gettin' frightened." And the voice trembled away into a little sob. They lay there side by side that long restless night. The other lodgers, rough degraded men and women, crowded into the room, but no one heeded the little bed in the dark corner, where the big boy lay with his arm round the little uneasy sufferer. There was little sleep either for patient or nurse. Every few minutes the boy begged for water, which Reginald held to his lips, and when after a time the thirst ceased and only the pain remained, nothing soothed and tranquillised him so much as the repetition time after time of his favourite stories from the wonderful book, which, happily, Reginald now knew almost by heart. So the night passed. Before daylight the lodgers one by one rose and left the place, and when about half-past seven light struggled once more in between the rafters these two were alone. The boy seemed a little revived, and sipped some milk which Reginald had darted out to procure. But the pain and the fever returned twofold as the day wore on, and even to Reginald's unpractised eye it was evident the boy's release was not far distant. "Gov'nor," said the boy once, with his mind apparently wandering back over old days, "what's the meaning of `Jesus Christ's sake, Amen,' what comes at the end of that there prayer you taught me at the office--is He the same one that's in the _Pilgrim_ book?" "Yes, old boy; would you like to hear about Him?" "I would so," said the boy, eagerly. And that afternoon, as the shadows darkened and the fleeting ray of the sun crossed the floor of their room, Love lay and heard the old, old story told in simple broken words. He had heard of it before, but till now he had never heeded it. Yet it seemed to him more wonderful even than _Robinson Crusoe_ or the _Pilgrim's Progress_. Now and then he broke in with some comment or criticism, or even one of his old familiar tirades against the enemies of his new hero. The room grew darker, and still Reginald went on. When at last the light had all gone, the boy's hand stole outside the blanket and sought that of his protector, and held it till the story came to an end. Then he seemed to drop into a fitful sleep, and Reginald, with the hand still on his, sat motionless, listening to the hard breathing, and living over in thought the days since Heaven in mercy joined his life to that of his little friend. How long he sat thus he knew not. He heard the voices and tread of the other lodgers in the room; he heard the harsh groan of the bolt on the outer door downstairs; and he saw the candle die down in its socket. But he never moved or let go the boy's hand. Presently--about one or two in the morning, he thought--the hard breathing ceased, and a turn of the head on the pillow told him the sleeper was awake. "Gov'nor, you there?" whispered the boy. "Yes, old fellow." "It's dark; I'm most afeared." Reginald lay on the bed beside him, and put an arm round him. The boy became more easy after this, and seemed to settle himself once more to sleep. But the breathing was shorter and more laboured, and the little brow that rested against the watcher's cheek grew cold and damp. For half an hour more the feeble flame of life flickered on, every breath seeming to Reginald as he lay there motionless, scarcely daring to breathe himself, like the last. Then the boy seemed suddenly to rouse himself and lifted his head. "Gov'nor--that pallis!--I'm gettin' in--I hear them calling--come there too, gov'nor!" And the head sank back on the pillow, and Reginald, as he turned his lips to the forehead, knew that the little valiant soul had fought his way into the beautiful palace at last, and was already hearing the music of those voices within as they welcomed him to his hero's reward. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THERE IS NO PLACE LIKE HOME. It is strange how often our fortunes and misfortunes, which we are so apt to suppose depend on our own successes or failures, turn out to have fallen into hands we least expected, and to have been depending on trains of circumstances utterly beyond our range of imagination. Who, for instance, would have guessed that a meeting of half a dozen business men in a first-floor room of a New York office could have any bearing on the fate of the Cruden family? Or that an accident to Major Lambert's horse while clearing a fence at one of the --shire hunts should also affect their prospects in life? But so it was. While Reginald, tenderly nursed by his old school friend, was slowly recovering from his illness in Liverpool, and while Mrs Cruden and Horace, in their shabby London lodging, were breaking into their last hundred pounds, and wondering how, even with the boy's improved wages and promise of literary success, they should be able to keep a comfortable home for their scattered but shortly to be reunited family-- at this very time a few of the leading creditors of the Wishwash and Longstop Railway assembled in the old office of that bankrupt undertaking, and decided to accept an offer from the Grand Roundabout Railway to buy up their undertaking at half-price, and add its few hundred miles of line to their own few thousand. A very important decision this for the little Dull Street family. For among the English creditors of this same Wishwash and Longstop Railway Mr Cruden had been one of the most considerable--so considerable that the shares he held in it had amounted to about half his fortune. And when the division of the proceeds of the sale of the railway came to be divided it turned out that Mr Cruden's administrators, heirs, and assigns were entitled to about a third of the value of that gentleman's shares, or in other words, something like a sixth of their old property, which little windfall, after a good deal of wandering about and search for an owner, came finally under the notice of Mr Richmond's successors, who in turn passed it over to Mrs Cruden with a very neat little note of congratulation on the good fortune which had made her and her sons the joint proprietors of a snug little income of from £300 to £400 a year. Of course the sagacious reader will remark on this that it is only natural that towards the end of my story something of this sort should happen, in order to finish up with the remark that "they lived happily ever after." And his opinion of me will, I fear, be considerably lowered when he finds that instead of Reginald dying in the smallpox hospital, and Mrs Cruden and Horace ending their days in the workhouse, things looked up a little for them towards the finish, and promised a rather more comfortable future than one had been led to expect. It is sad, of course, to lose any one's good esteem, but as things really did look up for the Crudens--as Reginald really did recover, as Mrs Cruden and Horace really did not go to the workhouse, and as the Grand Roundabout Railway really was spirited enough to buy up the Wishwash and Longstop Railway at half-price, I cannot help saying so, whatever the consequences may be. But several weeks before Mr Richmond's successors announced this windfall to their clients, the accident to Major Lambert's horse had resulted in comfort to the Crudens of another kind, which, if truth must be told, they expected quite as little and valued quite as much. That worthy Nimrod, once an acquaintance and neighbour of the Garden Vale family in the days of their prosperity, was never known to miss a winter's hunting in his own county if he could possibly help it, and during the present season had actually come all the way from Malta, where his regiment was stationed, on short leave, for the sake of two or three days of his favourite sport in the old country. Such enthusiasm was worthy of a happier fate than that which befell him. For on his first ride out his horse came to grief, as we have said, over a hedge, and left the gallant major somewhat knocked about himself, with nothing to do for half a day but to saunter disconsolately up and down the country lanes and pay afternoon calls on some of his old comrades. Among others, he knocked at the door of an elderly dowager named Osborn, who was very sympathetic with him in his misfortunes, and did her best to comfort him with afternoon tea and gossip. The latter lasted a good deal longer than the former. One after another the major's old friends were mentioned and discussed and talked about as only folk can be talked about over afternoon tea. "By the way," said the caller, "I hear poor Cruden didn't leave much behind him after all. Is Mrs Cruden still at Garden Vale?" "No, indeed," said the lady; "it's a sad story altogether. Mr Cruden left nothing behind him, and Garden Vale had to be sold, and the family went to London, so I was told, in very poor circumstances." "Bless me!" said the honest major, "haven't you looked them up? Cruden was a good sort of a fellow, you know." "Well, I've always intended to try and find out where they are living, but really, major, you have no idea how one's time gets filled up." "I've a very good idea," said the major with a groan. "I have to sail in a week, and there's not much spare time between now and then, I can tell you. Still, I'd like to call and pay my respects to Mrs Cruden if I knew where she lived." "I daresay you could find out. But I was going to say that only yesterday I saw something in the paper which will hardly make Mrs Cruden anxious to see any of her old friends at present. The eldest son, I fear, has turned out badly." "Who? young--what was his name?--Reginald? Can't believe it. He always seemed one of the right sort. A bit of a prig perhaps, but straight enough. What has he been up to?" "You'd better see for yourself, major," said the lady, extracting a newspaper from a heap under the dinner-waggon. "He seems to have been mixed up in a rather discreditable affair, as far as I could make out, but I didn't read the report through." The major took the paper, and read a short report of the proceedings at the Liverpool Police-Court. "You didn't read it through, you say," observed he, when he had finished; "you saw he was let off?" "Yes, but I'm afraid--well, it's very sad for them all." "Of course it is," blurted out the soldier, "especially when none of their old friends seem to care anything about them. Excuse me, Mrs Osborn," added he, seeing that the lady coloured. "I wasn't meaning you, but myself. Cruden was on old comrade, who did me more than one good turn. I must certainly take a day in town on my way back and find them out. As for the boy, I don't believe he's got it in him to be a blackleg." The major was as good as his word. He sacrificed a day of his loved pastime to look for his old friend's widow in London. After a good deal of hunting he discovered her address, and presented himself, with not a little wonderment at the shabbiness of her quarters, at Dull Street. Barely convalescent, and still in the agony of suspense as to Reginald's fate, Mrs Cruden was able to see no one. But the major was not thus to be baulked of his friendly intentions. Before he left the house he wrote a letter, which in due time lay in the widow's hands and brought tears to her eyes. "Dear Mrs Cruden,--I am on my way back to Malta, and sorry not to see you. We all have our troubles, but you seem to have had more than your share; and what I should have liked would be to see whether there was anything an old friend of your husband could do to serve you. I trust you will not resent the liberty I take when I say I have instructed my agent, whose address is enclosed, to put himself at your disposal in any emergency when you may need either advice or any other sort of aid. He is a good fellow, and understands any service you may require (and emergencies often do arise) is to be rendered on my account. As to your eldest son, about whom I read a paragraph in the papers the other day, nothing will make me believe he is anything but his honest father's honest son. My brother-in-law, whom you will remember, is likely shortly to have an opportunity of introducing a young fellow into an East India house in the City. I may mention this because, should you think well to tell Reginald of it, I believe there would not be much difficulty in his getting the post. But you will hear about this from my brother-in-law, whom I have asked to write to you. I don't expect to get leave again, for eighteen months; but I hope then to find you all well. "Believe me, dear Mrs Cruden,-- "Yours truly,-- "Thomas Lambert." This simple warm-hearted letter came to Mrs Cruden as the first gleam of better things on the troubled waters of her life. Things were just then at their worst. Reginald lost, Horace away in search of him, herself slowly recovering from a sad illness into a still more sad life, with little prospect either of happiness or competency, nothing to look forward to but a renewal of the old struggles, possibly single-handed. At such a time Major Lambert's letter came to revive her drooping spirits and remind her of a Providence that never sleeps less than when we are ready to consider ourselves forgotten. All she could do was to write a grateful reply back, and then await news from Horace, trusting meanwhile it would not be necessary to draw on the major's offered help. A few days later Horace was home again, jubilant at having found his brother, but anxious both as to his immediate recovery and the state of mind in which restored health would find him. "He told me lots about the past, mother," said he. "No one can conceive what a terrible three months he has had since he left us, or how heroically he has borne it. He doesn't think so himself, and is awfully depressed about his trial and the way in which the magistrate spoke to him--the brute!" "Poor boy! he is the very last to bear that sort of thing well." "He's got a sort of idea he's a branded man, and is to be dragged down all his life by it. Perhaps when he hears that an old friend like Major Lambert believes in him, he may pick up. You know, mother, I believe his heart is in the grave where that little office-boy of his lies, and that he would have been thankful if--well, perhaps not so bad as that-- but just at present he can't speak or even think of the boy without breaking down." "According to the letter from Major Lambert's brother-in-law, the post that is offered him is one he will like, I think," said Mrs Cruden. "I do hope he will take it. To have nothing to do would be the worst thing that could happen to him." "To say nothing of the necessity of it for you, mother," said Horace; "for there's to be no more copying out manuscripts, mind, even if we all go to the workhouse." Mrs Cruden sighed. She knew her son was right, but the wolf was at the door, and she shrank from becoming a useless burden on her boys' shoulders. "I wonder, Horace," said she, presently, "whether we could possibly find less expensive quarters than these. They are--" "Hullo, there's the postman!" said Horace, who had been looking from the window; "ten to one there's a line from Harker." And he flew down the stairs, just in time to see the servant-girl take a letter from the box and put it in her pocket. "None for us?" said he. The girl, who till this moment was not aware of his presence, turned round and coloured very violently, but said nothing. "Show me the letter you put into your pocket just now," said Horace, who had had experience before now in predicaments of this kind. The girl made no reply, but tried to go back to the kitchen. Horace, however, stopped her. "Be quick!" said he. "You've a letter for me in your pocket, and if I don't have it before I count twenty I'll give you in charge;" and he proceeded to count. Before he had reached ten the girl broke out into tears, and took from her pocket not only the letter in question, but three or four others. "There you are; that's all of them. I've done with it!" sobbed she. Horace glanced over them in bewilderment. One was in Reginald's writing, written three weeks ago; two were from himself to his mother, written last week, and the last was from Harker, written yesterday. "Why," exclaimed he, too much taken aback almost to find words, "what does it mean? How do you come--" "Oh, I'll tell you," said the girl; "I don't care what they do to me. I'd sooner be sent to prison than go on at it. He told me to do it, and threatened me all sorts of things if I didn't. Oh dear! oh dear!" "Who told you?" "Why, Mr Shuckleford. He said Mr Reginald was a convict, or something, and if I didn't mind every letter that came to the house from Liverpool I'd get sent to prison too for abetting him. I'm sure I don't want to abet no one, and I can't help if they do lock me up." "You mean to say Mr Shuckleford told you to do this?" said--or rather roared--Horace. "Yes, he did; and he had them all before that one," said the girl, pointing to the letter from Reginald. "But he's never been for these, and I didn't dare not to keep them for him. Please, sir, look over it this time." Horace was too agitated to heed her tears or entreaties. He rushed from the house with the letters in his hand, and made straight for the Shucklefords' door. But, with his hand on the bell, he hesitated. Mrs Shuckleford and her daughter had been good to his mother; he could not relieve his mind to Samuel in their presence. So he resolved to postpone that pleasure till he could find the young lawyer alone, and meanwhile hurried back to his mother and rejoiced her heart with the good news of Reginald contained in Harker's letter. How and when Horace and Shuckleford settled accounts no one exactly knew, but one evening, about a week afterwards, the latter came home looking very scared and uncomfortable, and announced that he was getting tired of London, the air of which did not agree with his constitution. He intended to close with an offer he had received some time ago from a firm in the country to act as their clerk; and although the sacrifice was considerable, still the country air and change of scene he felt would do him good. So he went, much lamented by his mother and sister and club. But of all his acquaintances there was only one who knew the exact reason why, just at that particular time, the country air promised to be so beneficial for his constitution. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Three weeks passed, and then one afternoon a cab rolled slowly up to the door of Number 6, Dull Street. Horace was away at the office, and Mrs Cruden herself was out taking a walk. So the two young men who alighted from the cab found themselves monarchs of all they surveyed, and proceeded upstairs to the parlour with no one to ask what their business was. "Now, old man," said the sturdier of the two, "I won't stay. I've brought you safe home, and you needn't pretend you'll be sorry to see my back." "I won't pretend," said the other, with a smile on his pale face, "but if you're not back very soon, in an hour or two, I shall be very very sorry." "Never fear, I'll be back." And he went. The pale youth sat down, and looked with a strange mixture of sadness and eagerness round the little room. He had seen it before, and yet he seemed hardly to recognise it. He got up and glanced at a few envelopes lying on the mantel-piece. He took into his hands a piece of knitting that lay on one of the chairs and examined it. He turned over the leaves of a stray book, and read the name on the title-page. It all seemed so strange--yet so familiar. Then he crept silently to the half- open door of a little bedroom and peeped in, and his heart beat strangely as he recognised a photograph on the dressing-table, and by its side a letter written in his own handwriting. From this room he turned to another still smaller and more roughly furnished. A walking- stick stood in the corner that he knew well, and there was a cap on the peg behind the door, the sight of which sent a thrill through him. Yet he felt he dared touch nothing--that he scarcely dare let his foot be heard as he paced across the room, or venture even to stir the little fire that was dying out in the grate. The slight flush which the excitement of his first arrival had called up faded from his cheeks as the minutes wore on. Presently his ears caught a light footfall on the pavement outside, and his heart almost stood still as it halted and the bell rang below. It was one of those occasions when a man may live a lifetime in a minute. With a mighty rush his thoughts flew back to the last time he had heard that step. What goodness, what hope, what love did it not bring back to his life! He had taken it all for granted, and thought so little of it; but now, after months of loveless, cheerless drudgery and disappointment, that light step fell with a music which flooded his whole soul. He sat almost spell-bound as the street-door closed and the steps ascended the stairs. The room seemed to swim round him, and to his broken nerves it seemed for a moment as though he dreaded rather than longed for what was coming. But as the door opened the spell broke and all the mists vanished; he was his own self once more--nothing but the long-lost boy springing to the arms of the long-lost mother. "Mother!" "My boy!" That was all they said. And in those few words Reginald Cruden's life entered on a new era. When Horace half an hour later came flying on to the scene they still sat there hand in hand, trying to realise it all, but not succeeding. Horace, however, helped them back to speech, and far into the night they talked. About ten o'clock Harker looked in for a moment, and after them young Gedge, unable to wait till the morning. But they stayed only a moment, and scarcely interrupted the little family reunion. What those three talked about it would be hard for me to say. What they did not talk about in the past, the present, and the future would be almost easier to set down. And when at last Mrs Cruden rose, and in her old familiar tones said,-- "It's time to go to bed, boys," the boys obeyed, as in the days long ago, and came up to her and kissed her, and then went off like children, and slept, like those who never knew what care was, all the happy night. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. TURNING OVER LEAVES, NEW AND OLD. A very few words more, reader, and my story is done. The trial of Medlock and Shanklin took place in due time, and among the witnesses the most important, but the most reluctant, was Reginald Cruden. It was like a hateful return to the old life to find himself face to face with those men, and to have to tell over again the story of their knavery and his own folly. But he went through with it like a man. The prisoners, who were far more at their ease than the witness, troubled him with no awkward cross-examination, and when presently the jury retired, he retired too, having neither the curiosity nor the vindictiveness to remain and hear their sentence. On his way out a familiar voice accosted him. "Cruden, old man, will you shake hands? I've been a cad to you, but I'm sorry for it now." It was Blandford, looking weak and pale, with one arm still in a sling. Reginald took his proffered hand eagerly and wrung it. "I've been bitten over this affair, as you know," continued Blandford, "and I've paid up for my folly. I wish I could come out of it all with as easy a conscience as you do, that's all! Among them all I've lost a good deal more than money; but if you and Horrors will take me back in your set there'll be a chance for me yet. I'm going to University College, you know, so I shall be staying in town. Harker and I will probably be lodging together, and it won't be my fault if it's far away from your quarters." And arm in arm the old schoolfellows walked, with their backs on the dark past and their faces turned hopefully to the future. Had Reginald remained to hear the end of the trial, he would have found himself the object of a demonstration he little counted on. The jury having returned with their expected verdict, and sentence having been passed on the prisoners, the counsel for the prosecution got up and asked his lordship for leave to make one observation. He spoke in the name of the various victims of the sham Corporation when he stated that his clients desired to express their conviction that the former secretary of the Corporation, whose evidence that day had mainly contributed to the exposure of the fraud, was himself entirely clear of any imputation in connection with the conspiracy. "I should not mention this, my lord," said the counsel, "had not a certain magistrate, in another place, at an earlier stage of this inquiry, used language--in my humble opinion harsh and unwarranted-- calculated to cast a slur on that gentleman's character, if not to interfere seriously with his future prospects. I merely wish to say, my lord, that my clients, and those of us who have gone fully into the case, and may be expected to know as much about it even as a north- country magistrate, are fully convinced that Mr Cruden comes out of this case with an unsullied character, and we feel it our duty publicly to state our opinion to that effect." The counsel sat down amid signs of approval from the Court, not unmixed with amusement at the expense of the north-country magistrate, and the judge, calling for order, replied, "I make no objection whatever to the statement which has just fallen from the lips of the learned counsel, and as it commends itself entirely to my own judgment in the matter, I am glad to inform Mr Cruden, if he be still in court, that he will quit it to-day clear of the slightest imputation on his character unbecoming an upright but unfortunate gentleman." Reginald was not in court, but he read every word of it next day with grateful and overflowing heart. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Three months have passed. The winter has given way to spring, and Number 3, Dull Street is empty. Jemima Shuckleford still nurses her sorrow in secret, and it will be a year or two yet before the happy man is to turn up who shall reconcile her to life, and disestablish the image of Reginald Cruden from her soft heart. Meanwhile she and her mother are constant visitors at the little house in Highbury where the Crudens now live, and as often as they go they find a welcome. Samuel writes home from the country that he is doing great things, and expects to become Lord Chancellor in a few years. Meanwhile he too contemplates matrimony with a widow and four children, who will probably leave him among them very little leisure for another experiment in the amateur detective business. The Shuckleford ladies were invited, but unfortunately were unable to go, to a little quiet house-warming given by the Crudens on the occasion of their taking possession of the new house. But though they could not go, Miss Crisp could, and, as a matter of course, Mr Booms, in all the magnificence of last year's spring costume. And Waterford came too, and young Gedge, as did also the faithful Harker, and--with some little trepidation--the now sobered Blandford. The company had quite enough to talk about without having to fall back on shouting proverbs or musical chairs. Indeed, there were several little excitements in the wind which came out one by one, and made the evening a sort of epoch in the lives of most of those present. For instance, young Gedge was there no longer as a common compositor. He had lately been made, youth as he was, overseer in the room of Durfy; and the dignity of his new office filled him with sobriety and good- humour. "It's no fault of mine," said he, when Mrs Cruden congratulated him on his promotion. "If Cruden hadn't stood by me that time he first came to the _Rocket_, I should have gone clean to the dogs. I mean it. I was going full tilt that way." "But I went off and left you after all," said Reginald. "I know you did; and I was sorry at the time you hadn't left that cab- horse to finish his business the evening you picked me up. But Horace here and Mrs Cruden--" "Picked you up again," said Waterford. "Regular fellow for being picked up, you are. All comes of your habit of picking up types. One of nature's revenges--and the last to pick you up is the _Rocket_. What an appetite she's got, to be sure!" "I should think so from the way she swallows your and Horace's lucubrations every week," says Gedge, laughing. "Why, I actually know a fellow who knows a fellow who laughed at one of your jokes." "Come, none of your chaff," said Horace, looking not at all displeased. "You never laughed at a joke, I know, because you never see one." "No more I do. That's what I complain of," replied the incorrigible young overseer. "Never mind, we shall have our revenge when he has to put our joint novel in print," said Waterford. "Ah, I thought you'd sit up there, my boy. Never mind, you'll know about it some day. The first chapter is half done already." "Jolly work that must be," says Harker. "More fun than higher mathematics and Locke on the Understanding, eh, Bland?" "Perhaps they would be glad to change places with us before they are through with it, though," observes Blandford. "Never knew such a beggar for grinding as Bland is turning out," says Harker. "He takes the shine out of me; and I'm certain he'll knock me into a cocked hat at the matric.." "You forget I've lost time to make up," replies Blandford, gravely; "and I'm not going to be content if I don't take honours." "Don't knock yourself up, that's all," says Reginald, "especially now cricket's beginning. We ought to turn out a good eleven with four old Wilderhams to give it a backbone, eh?" And at the signal the four chums somehow get together in a corner, and the talk flies off to the old schooldays, and the battles and triumphs of the famous Wilderham Close. Meanwhile Booms and Miss Crisp whisper very confidentially together in another corner. What they talk about no one can guess. It may be collars, or it may be four-roomed cottages, or it may be only the weather. Whatever it is, Booms's doleful face relaxes presently into a solemn smile, and Miss Crisp goes over and sits by Mrs Cruden, who puts her arm round the blushing girl and kisses her in a very motherly way on the forehead. It is a curious piece of business altogether, and it is just as well the four young men are too engrossed in football and cricket to notice it, and that Gedge and Waterford find their whole attention occupied by the contents of the little bookcase in the corner to have eyes for anything else. "Jolly lot of books you've got," says Waterford, when presently the little groups break up and the big circle forms again. "I always think they are such nice furniture in a room, don't you, Mrs Cruden?" "Yes, I do," says Mrs Cruden; "especially when they are all old friends." "Some of these seem older friends than others," says Waterford, pointing to a corner where several unbound tattered works break the ranks of green-cloth gilt-lettered volumes. "Look at this weatherbeaten little fellow, for instance, a bit of a _Pilgrim's Progress_. That must be a very poor relation; surely you don't count him in?" "Don't I," says Reginald, taking the book in his hands, and speaking in a tone which makes every one look up at him. "This little book is worth more to me than all the rest put together." And as he bends his head over the precious little relic, and turns its well-thumbed pages one by one, he forgets where he is, or who is looking on. And a tear steals into his eyes as his mind flies far away to a little green grave in the north country over which the soft breezes of spring play lovingly, and seem to whisper in a voice he knows and loves to remember--"Come there too, guv'nor." THE END. 
19802	----	COBWEBS AND CABLES. BY HESBA STRETTON, AUTHOR OF "THROUGH A NEEDLE'S EYE," "IN PRISON AND OUT," "BEDE'S CHARITY," ETC. NEW YORK: DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS. _AUTHOR'S CARD._ _It is my wish that Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Company alone should publish this story in the United States, and I appeal to the generosity and courtesy of other Publishers, to allow me to gain some benefit from my work on the American as well as English side of the Atlantic._ _HESBA STRETTON._ CONTENTS. PART I. CHAPTER I. ABSCONDED II. PHEBE MARLOWE III. FELICITA IV. UPFOLD FARM V. A CONFESSION VI. THE OLD BANK VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER IX. FAST BOUND X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH XI. OLD MARLOWE XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE XIII. SUSPENSE XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS XV. A SECOND FRAUD XVI. PARTING WORDS XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF XXI. PLATO AND PAUL XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD PART II. CHAPTER I. AFTER MANY YEARS II. CANON PASCAL III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL IV. TAKING ORDERS V. A LONDON CURACY VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS X. ALICE PASCAL XI. COMING TO HIMSELF XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE XIII. A LONDON GARRET XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET XXII. NEAR THE END XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE XXVI. IN LUCERNE XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME XXIX. FAREWELL XXX. QUITE ALONE XXXI. LAST WORDS COBWEBS AND CABLES PART I. CHAPTER I. ABSCONDED. Late as it was, though the handsome office-clock on the chimney-piece had already struck eleven, Roland Sefton did not move. He had not stirred hand or foot for a long while now; no more than if he had been bound fast by many strong cords, which no effort could break or untie. His confidential clerk had left him two hours ago, and the undisturbed stillness of night had surrounded him ever since he had listened to his retreating footsteps. "Poor Acton!" he had said half aloud, and with a heavy sigh. As he sat there, his clasped hands resting on his desk and his face hidden on them, all his life seemed to unfold itself before him; not in painful memories of the past only, but in terrified prevision of the black future. How dear his native town was to him! He had always loved it from his very babyhood. The wide old streets, with ancient houses still standing here and there, rising or falling in gentle slopes, and called by quaint old names such as he never heard elsewhere; the fine old churches crowning the hills, and lifting up delicate tall spires, visible a score of miles away; the grammar school where he had spent the happiest days of his boyhood; the rapid river, brown and swirling, which swept past the town, and came back again as if it could not leave it; the ancient bridges spanning it, and the sharp-cornered recesses on them where he had spent many an idle hour, watching the boats row in and out under the arches; he saw every familiar nook and corner of his native town vividly and suddenly, as if he caught glimpses of them by the capricious play of lightning. And this pleasant home of his; these walls which inclosed his birth-place, and the birth-place of his children! He could not imagine himself finding true rest and a peaceful shelter elsewhere. The spacious old rooms, with brown wainscoted walls and carved ceilings; the tall and narrow windows, with deep window-sills, where as a child he had so often knelt, gazing out on the wide green landscape and the far distant, almost level line of the horizon. His boy, Felix, had knelt in one of them a few hours ago, looking out with grave childish eyes on the sunset. The broad, shallow steps of the oaken staircase, trodden so many years by the feet of all who were dearest to him; the quiet chambers above where his mother, his wife, and his children were at this moment sleeping peacefully. How unutterably and painfully sweet all his home was to him! Very prosperous his life had been; hardly overshadowed by a single cloud. His father, who had been the third partner in the oldest bank in Riversborough, had lived until he was old enough to step into his place. The bank had been established in the last century, and was looked upon as being as safe as the Bank of England. The second partner was dead; and the eldest, Mr. Clifford, had left everything in his hands for the last five years. No man in Riversborough had led a more prosperous life than he had. His wife was from one of the county families; without fortune, indeed, but with all the advantages of high connections, which lifted him above the rank of mere business men, and admitted him into society hitherto closed even to the head partner in the old bank; in spite even of the fact that he still occupied the fine old house adjoining the bank premises. There was scarcely a townsman who was held to be his equal; not one who was considered his superior. Though he was little over thirty yet, he was at the head of all municipal affairs. He had already held the office of mayor for one year, and might have been re-elected, if his wife had not somewhat scorned the homely bourgeois dignity. There was no more popular man in the whole town than he was. But he had been building on the sands, and the storm was rising. He could hear the moan of the winds growing louder, and the rush of the on-coming floods drawing nearer. He must make good his escape now, or never. If he put off flight till to-morrow, he would be crushed with the falling of his house. He lifted himself up heavily, and looked round the room. It was his private office, at the back of the bank, handsomely furnished as a bank parlor should be. Over the fire-place hung the portrait of old Clifford, the senior partner, faithfully painted by a local artist, who had not attempted to soften the hard, stern face, and the fixed stare of the cold blue eyes, which seemed fastened pitilessly upon him. He had never seen the likeness before as he saw it now. Would such a man overlook a fault, or have any mercy for an offender? Never! He turned away from it, feeling cold and sick at heart; and with a heavy, and very bitter sigh he locked the door upon the room where he had spent so large a portion of his life. The place which had known him would know him no more. As noiselessly and warily as if he was a thief breaking into the quiet house, he stole up the dimly-lighted staircase, and paused for a minute or two before a door, listening intently. Then he crept in. A low shaded lamp was burning, giving light enough to guide him to the cot where Felix was sleeping. It would be his birthday to-morrow, and the child must not lose his birthday gift, though the relentless floods were rushing on toward him also. Close by was the cot where his baby daughter, Hilda, was at rest. He stood between them, and could lay a hand on each. How soundly the children slept while his heart was breaking! Dear as they had been to him, he had never realized till now how priceless beyond all words such little tender creatures could be. He had called them into existence; and now the greatest good that could befall them was his death. It was unutterable agony to him. His gift was a Bible, the boy's own choice; and he laid it on the pillow where Felix would find it as soon as his eyes opened. He bent over him, and kissed him with trembling lips. Hilda stirred a little when his lips touched her soft, rosy face, and she half opened her eyes, whispering "Father," and then fell asleep again smiling. He dared not linger another moment, but passing stealthily away, he paused listening at another door, his face white with anguish. "I dare not see Felicita," he murmured to himself, "but I must look on my mother's face once again." The door made no sound as he opened it, and his feet fell noiselessly on the thick carpet; but as he drew near his mother's bed, her eyes opened with a clear steady gaze as if she had been awaiting his coming. There was a light burning here as well as in the night-nursery adjoining, for it was his mother who had charge of the children, and who would be the first the nurse would call if anything was the matter. She awoke as one who expects to be called upon at any hour; but the light was too dim to betray the misery on her son's face. "Roland!" she said, in a slightly foreign accent. "Were you calling, mother?" he asked. "I was passing by, and I came in here to see if you wanted anything." "I did not call, my son," she answered, "but what have you the matter? Is Felicita ill? or the babies? Your voice is sad, Roland." "No, no," he said, forcing himself to speak in a cheerful voice, "Felicita is asleep, I hope, and the babies are all right. But I have been late at bank-work; and I turned in just to have a look at you, mother, before I go to bed." "That's my good son," she said, smiling, and taking his hand between her own in a fond clasp. "Am I a good son?" he asked. His mother's face was a fair, sweet face still, the soft brown hair scarcely touched with white, and with clear, dark gray eyes gazing up frankly into his own. They were eyes like these, with their truthful light shining through them, inherited from her, which in himself had won the unquestioning trust and confidence of those who were brought into contact with him. There was no warning signal of disloyalty in his face to set others on their guard. His mother looked up at him tenderly. "Always a good son, the best of sons, Roland," she replied, "and a good husband, and a good father. Only one little fault in my good son: too spendthrift, too lavish. You are not a fine, rich lord, with large lands, and much, very much money, my boy. I do my best in the house; but women can only save pennies, while men fling about pounds." "But you love me with all my faults, mother?" he said. "As my own soul," she answered. There was a profound solemnity in her voice and look, which penetrated to his very heart. She was not speaking lightly. It was in the same spirit with which. Paul wrote, after saying, "For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord;" "I could wish that myself were separate from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh." His mother had reached that sublime height of love for him. He stood silent, looking down on her with dull, aching eyes, as he said to himself it was perhaps for the last time. It was the last time she would ever see him as her good son. With her, in her heart and memory, all his life dwelt; she knew the whole of it, with no break or interruption. Only this one hidden thread, which had been woven into the web in secret, and which was about to stand out with such clear and open disclosure; of this she had no faint suspicion. For a minute or two he felt as if he must tell her of it; that he must roll off this horrible weight from himself, and crush her faithful heart with it. But what could his mother do? Her love could not stay the storm; she had no power to bid the winds and waves be still. It would be best for all of them if he could make his escape secretly, and be altogether lost in impenetrable darkness. At that moment a clock in the hall below struck one. "Well," he said wearily, "if I'm to get any sleep to-night I must be off to bed. Good-by, mother." "Good-by?" she repeated with a smile. "Good-night, of course," he replied, bending over her and kissing her tenderly. "God bless you, my son," she said, putting both her hands upon his head, and pressing his face close to her own. He could not break away from her fond embrace; but in a few moments she let him go, bidding him get some rest before the night was passed. Once more he stood in the dimly-lighted passage, listening at his wife's door, with his fingers involuntarily clasping the handle. But he dared not go in. If he looked upon Felicita again he could not leave her, even to escape from ruin and disgrace. An agony of love and of terror took possession of him. Never to see her again was horrible; but to see her shrink from him as a base and dishonest man, his name an infamy to her, would be worse than death. Did she love him enough to forgive a sin committed chiefly for her sake? In the depths of his own soul the answer was no. He stole down stairs again, and passed out by a side door into the streets. It was raining heavily, and the wind was moaning through the deserted thoroughfares, where no sound of footsteps could be heard. Behind him lay his pleasant home, never so precious as at this moment. He looked up at the windows, the two faintly lit up, and that other darkened window of the chamber he had not dared to enter. In a few hours those women, so unutterably dear to him, would be overwhelmed by the great sorrow he had prepared for them; those children would become the inheritors of his sin. He looked back longingly and despairingly, as if there only was life for him; and then hurrying on swiftly he lost sight of the old home, and felt as a drowning wretch at sea feels when the heaving billows hide from him the glimmering light of the beacon, which, however, can offer no harbor of refuge to him. CHAPTER II. PHEBE MARLOWE. Though the night had been stormy, the sun rose brightly on the rain-washed streets, and the roofs and walls stood out with a peculiar clearness, and with a more vivid color than usual, against the deep blue of the sky. It was May-day, and most hearts were stirred with a pleasant feeling as of a holiday; not altogether a common day, though the shops were all open, and business was going on as usual. The old be-thought themselves of the days when they had gone a-Maying; and the young felt less disposed to work, and were inclined to wander out in search of May-flowers in the green meadows, or along the sunny banks of the river, which surrounded the town. Early, very early considering the ten miles she had ridden on her rough hill-pony, came a young country girl across one of the ancient bridges, with a large market-basket on her arm, brimful of golden May-flowers, set off well by their own glossy leaves, and by the dark blue of her dress. She checked her pony and lingered for a few minutes, looking over the parapet at the swift rushing of the current through the narrow arches. A thin line of alders grew along the margin of the river, with their pale green leaves half unfolded; and in the midst of the swirling waters, parting them into two streams, lay a narrow islet on which tall willow wands were springing, with soft, white buds on every rod, and glistening in the sunshine. Not far away a lofty avenue of lime-trees stretched along the banks, casting wavering shadows on the brown river; while beyond it, on the summit of one of the hills on which the town was built, there rose the spires of two churches built close together, with the gilded crosses on their tapering points glittering more brightly than anything else in the joyous light. For a little while the girl gazed dreamily at the landscape, her color coming and going quickly, and then with a deep-drawn sigh of delight she roused herself and her pony, and passed on into the town. The church clocks struck nine as she turned into Whitefriars Road, the street where the old bank of Riversborough stood. The houses on each side of the broad and quiet street were handsome, old-fashioned dwelling-places, not one of which had as yet been turned into a shop. The most eminent lawyers and doctors lived in it; and there was more than one frontage which displayed a hatchment, left to grow faded and discolored long after the year of mourning was ended. Here too was the judge's residence, set apart for his occupation during the assizes. But the old bank was the most handsome and most ancient of all those urban mansions. It had originally stood alone on the brow of the hill overlooking the river and the Whitefriars Abbey. Toward the street, when Ronald Sefton's forefathers had realized a fortune by banking, now a hundred years ago, there had been a new frontage built to it, with the massive red brick workmanship and tall narrow windows of the eighteenth century. But on the river side it was still an old Elizabethan mansion, with gabled roofs standing boldly up against the sky; and low broad casements, latticed and filled with lozenge-shaped panes; and half-timber walls, with black beams fashioned into many forms: and with one story jutting out beyond that below, until the attic window under the gable seemed to hang in mid-air, without visible support, over the garden sloping down a steep bank to the river-side. Phebe Marlowe, in her coarse dark blue merino dress, and with her market-basket of golden blossoms on her arm, walked with a quick step along the quiet street, having left her pony at a stable near the entrance to the town. There were few persons about; but those whom she met she looked at with a pleasant, shy, slight smile on her face, as if she almost claimed acquaintance with them, and was ready, even wishful, to bid them good-morning on a day so fine and bright. Two or three responded to this inarticulate greeting, and then her lips parted gladly, and her voice, clear though low, answered them with a sweet good-humor that had something at once peculiar and pathetic in it. She passed under a broad archway at one side of the bank offices, leading to the house entrance, and to the sloping garden beyond. A private door into the bank was ajar, and a dark, sombre face was peering out of it into the semi-darkness. Phebe's feet paused for an instant. "Good-morning, Mr. Acton," she said, with a little rustic courtesy. But he drew back quickly, and she heard him draw the bolt inside the door, as if he had neither seen nor heard her. Yet the face, with its eager and scared expression, had been too quickly seen by her, and too vividly impressed upon her keen perception; and she went on, chilled a little, as if some cloud had come over the clear brightness of the morning. Phebe was so much at home in the house, that when she found the housemaid on her knees cleaning the hall floor, she passed on unceremoniously to the dining-room, where she felt sure of finding some of the family. It was a spacious room, with a low ceiling where black beams crossed and recrossed each other; with wainscoted walls, and a carved chimney-piece of almost black oak. A sombre place in gloomy weather, yet so decorated with old china vases, and great brass salvers, and silver cups and tankards catching every ray of light, that the whole room glistened in this bright May-day. In the broad cushioned seat formed by the sill of the oriel window, which was almost as large as a room itself, there sat the elder Mrs. Sefton, Roland Sefton's foreign mother, with his two children standing before her. They had their hands clasped behind them, and their faces were turned toward her with the grave earnestness children's faces often wear. She was giving them their daily Bible lesson, and she held up her small brown hand as a signal to Phebe to keep silence, and to wait a moment until the lesson was ended. "And so," she said, "those who know the will of God, and do not keep it, will be beaten with many stripes. Remember that, my little Felix." "I shall always try to do it," answered the boy solemnly. "I'm nine years old to-day; and when I'm a man I'm going to be a pastor, like your father, grandmamma; my great-grandfather, you know, in the Jura. Tell us how he used to go about the snow mountains seeing his poor people, and how he met with wolves sometimes, and was never frightened." "Ah! my little children," she answered, "you have had a good father, and a good grandfather, and a good great-grandfather. How very good you ought to be." "We will," cried both the children, clinging round her as she rose from her chair, until they caught sight of Phebe standing in the doorway. Then with cries of delight they flew to her, and threw themselves upon her with almost rough caresses, as if they knew she could well bear it. She received them with merry laughter, and knelt down that their arms might be thrown more easily round her neck. "See," she said, "I was up so early, while you were all in bed, finding May-roses for you, with the May-dew on them. And if your father and mother will let us go, I'll take you up the river to the osier island; or you shall ride my Ruby, and we'll go off a long, long way into the country, us three, and have dinner in a new place, where you have never been. Because it's Felix's birthday." She was still kneeling on the floor, with the children about her, when the door opened, and the same troubled and haggard face, which had peered out upon her under the archway, looked into the room with restless and bloodshot eyes. Phebe felt a sudden chill again, and rising to her feet put the children behind her, as if she feared some danger for them. "Where is Mr. Sefton?" he asked in a deep, hoarse voice; "is he at home, Madame?" Ever since the elder Mr. Sefton had brought his young foreign wife home, now more than thirty years ago, the people of Riversborough had called her Madame, giving to her no other title or surname. It had always seemed to set her apart, and at a distance, as a foreigner, and so quiet had she been, so homely and domesticated, that she had remained a stranger, keeping her old habits of life and thought, and often yearning for the old pastor's home among the Jura Mountains. "But yes," she answered, "my son is late this morning; but all the world is early, I think. It is not much beyond nine o'clock, Mr. Acton. The bank is not open yet." "No, no," he answered hurriedly, while his eyes wandered restlessly about the room; "he is not ill, Madame?" "I hope so not," she replied, with some vague uneasiness stirring in her heart. "Nor dead?" he muttered. "Dead!" exclaimed both Madame and Phebe in one breath; "dead!" "All men die," he went on, "and it is a pleasant thing to lie down quietly in one's own grave, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. He could rest soundly in the grave." "I will go and see," cried Madame, catching Phebe by the arm. "Pray God you may find him dead," he answered, with a low, miserable laugh, ending in a sob. He was mad; neither Madame nor Phebe had a doubt of it. They put the children before them, and bade them run away to the nursery, while they followed up the broad old staircase. Madame went into her son's bedroom; but in a few seconds she returned to Phebe with an anxious face. "He is not there," she said, "nor Felicita. She is in her own sitting-room, where she likes not to be followed. It is her sacred place, and I go there never, Phebe." "But she knows where Mr. Sefton is," answered Phebe, "and we must ask her. We cannot leave poor Mr. Acton alone. If nobody else dare disturb her, I will." "She will not be vexed with you," said Madame Sefton. "Knock at this door, Phebe; knock till she answers. I am miserable about my son." Several times Phebe knocked, more loudly each time, until at last a low voice, sounding far away, bade them go in. Very quietly, as if indeed they were stepping into some holy place barefooted, they crossed the threshold. CHAPTER III. FELICITA. The room was a small one, with a dim, many-colored light pervading it; for the upper part of the mullioned casement was filled with painted glass, and even the panes of the lower part were of faintly tinted green. Like all the rest of the old house, the walls were wainscoted, but here there was no piece of china or silver to sparkle; the only glitter was that of the gilding on the handsomely bound books arranged in two bookcases. In this green gloom sat Felicita Sefton, leaning back in her chair, with her head resting languidly on the cushions, and her dark eyes turned dimly and dreamily toward the quietly opening door. "Phebe Marlowe!" she said, her eyes brightening a little, as the fresh, sweet face of the young country girl met her gaze. Phebe stepped softly forward into the dim room, and laid the finest of the golden flowers she had gathered that morning upon Felicita's lap. It brought a gleam of spring sunshine into the gloom which caught Felicita's eye, and she uttered a low cry of delight as she took it up in her small, delicate hand. Phebe stooped down shyly and kissed the small hand, her face all aglow with smiles and blushes. "Felicita," said Madame, her voice altering a little, "where is my son this morning?" "Roland!" she repeated absently; "Roland? Didn't he say last night he was going to London?" "To London!" exclaimed his mother. "Yes," she answered, "he bade me good-by last night; I remember now. He said he would not disturb me again; he was going by the mail-train. He was sorry to be away on poor little Felix's birthday. I recollect quite distinctly now." "He said not one word to me," said Madame. "It is strange." "Very strange," asserted Felicita languidly, as if she were wandering away again into the reverie they had broken in upon. "Did he say when he would be back?" asked his mother. "In a few days, of course," she answered. "But he has not told Acton," resumed Madame. "Who did you say?" inquired Felicita. "The head clerk, the manager when Roland is away," she said. "He has not said anything to him." "Very strange," said Felicita again. It was plainly irksome to her to be disturbed by questions like these, and she was withdrawing herself into the remote and unapproachable distance where no one could follow her. Her finely-chiselled features and colorless skin gave her a singular resemblance to marble; and they might almost as well have addressed themselves to a marble image. "Come," said Madame, "we must see Acton again." They found him in the bank parlor, where Roland was usually to be met with at this hour. There was an unspoken hope in their hearts that he would be there, and so deliver them from the undefined trouble and terror they were suffering. But only Acton was there, seated at Roland's desk, and turning over the papers in it with a rapid and reckless hand. His face was hidden behind the great flap of the desk, and though he glanced over it for an instant as the door opened he concealed himself again, as if feigning unconsciousness of any one's presence. "My son is gone to London," said Madame, keeping at a safe distance from him, with the door open behind her and Phebe to secure a speedy retreat. The flap of the desk fell with a loud crash, and Acton flung his arms above his head with a gesture of despair. "I knew it," he exclaimed. "Oh, my dear young master! God grant he may get away safe. All is lost!" "What do you mean?" cried Madame, forgetting one terror in another, and catching him by the arm; "what is lost?" "He is gone!" he answered, "and it was more my fault than his--mine and Mrs. Sefton's. Whatever wrong he has done it was for her. Remember that, Madame, and you, Phebe Marlowe. If anything happens, remember it's my fault more than his, and Mrs. Sefton's fault more than mine." "Tell me what you mean," urged Madame breathlessly. "You'll know when Mr. Sefton returns, Madame," he answered, with a sudden return to his usually calm tone and manner, which was as startling as his former vehemence had been; "he'll explain all when he comes home. We must open the bank now; it is striking ten." He locked the desk and passed out of the comfortably-furnished parlor into the office beyond, leaving them nothing to do but to return into the house with their curiosity unsatisfied, and the mother's vague trouble unsoothed. "Phebe, Phebe!" cried Felix, as they slowly re-entered the pleasant home, "my mother says we may go up the river to the osier island; and, oh, Phebe, she will go with us her own self!" He had run down the broad staircase to meet them, almost breathless with delight, and with eyes shining with almost serious rapture. He clasped Phebe's arm, and, leaning toward her, whispered into her ear, "She took me in her arms, and said, 'I love you, Felix,' and then she kissed me as if she meant it, Phebe. It was better than all my birthday presents put together. My father said to me one day he adored her; and I adore her. She is my mother, you know--the mother of me, Felix; and I lie down on the floor and kiss her feet every day, only she does not know it. When she looks at me her eyes seem to go through me; but, oh, she does not look at me often." "She is so different; not like most people," answered Phebe, with her arms round the boy. Madame had gone on sadly enough up-stairs to see if she could find out anything about her son; and Phebe and Felix had turned into the terraced garden where the boat-house was built close under the bank of the river. "I should be sorry for my mother to be like other people," said Felix proudly. "She is like the evening star, my father says, and I always look out at night to see if it is shining. You know, Phebe, when we row her up the river, my father and me, we keep quite quiet, only nodding at one another which way to pull, and she sits silent with eyes that shine like stars. We would not speak for anything, not one little word, lest we should disturb her. My father says she is a great genius; not at all like other people, and worth thousands and thousands of common women. But I don't think you are a common woman, Phebe," he added, lifting up his eager face to hers, as if afraid of hurting her feelings, "and my father does not think so, I know." "Your father has known me all my life, and has always been my best friend," said Phebe, with a pleasant smile. "But I am a working-woman, Felix, and your mother is a lady and a great genius. It is God who has ordered it so." She would have laughed if she had been less simple-hearted than she was, at the anxious care with which the boy arranged the boat for his mother. No cushions were soft enough and no shawls warm enough for the precious guest. When at length all was ready, and he fetched her himself from the house, it was not until she was comfortably seated in the low seat, with a well-padded sloping back, against which she could recline at ease, and with a soft, warm shawl wrapped round her--not till then did the slight cloud of care pass away from his face, and the little pucker of anxiety which knitted his brows grow smooth. The little girl of five, Hilda, nestled down by her mother, and Felix took his post at the helm. In unbroken silence they pushed off into the middle of the stream, the boat rowed easily by Phebe's strong young arms. So silent were they all that they could hear the rustling of the young leaves on the trees, under whose shadows they passed, and the joyous singing of the larks in the meadows on each side of the sunny reaches of water, down which they floated. It was not until they landed the children on the osier island, and bade them run about to play, and not then until they were some distance away, that their merry young voices were heard. "Phebe," said Felicita, in her low-toned, softly-modulated voice, always languid and deliberate, "talk to me. Tell me how you spend your life." Phebe was sitting face to face with her, balancing the boat with the oars against the swift flowing of the river, with smiles coming and going on her face as rapidly as the shadows and the sunshine chasing each other over the fields this May morning. "You know," she answered simply, "we live a mile away from the nearest house, and that is only a cottage where an old farm laborer lives with his wife. It's very lonesome up there on the hills. Days and days go by, and I never hear a voice speaking, and I feel as if I could not bear the sound of my own voice when I call the cattle home, or the fowls to come for their corn. If it wasn't for the living things around me, that know me as well as they know one another, and love me more, I should feel sometimes as if I was dead. And I long so to hear somebody speak--to be near more of my fellow-creatures. Why, when I touch the hand of any one I love--yours, or Mr. Sefton's, or Madame's--it's almost a pain to me; it seems to bring me so close to you. I always feel as if I became a part of father when I touch him. Oh, you do not know what it is to be alone!" "No," said Felicita, sighing; "never have I been alone, and I would give worlds to be as free as you are. You cannot imagine what it is," she went on, speaking rapidly and with intense eagerness, "never to belong to yourself, or to be alone; for it is not being alone to have only four thin walls separating you from a husband and children and a large busy household. 'What are you thinking, my darling?' Roland is always asking me; and the children break in upon me. Body, soul, and spirit, I am held down a captive; I have been in bondage all my life. I have never even thought as I should think if I could be free." "But I cannot understand that," cried Phebe. "I could never be too near those I love. I should like to live in a large house, with many people all smiling and talking around me. And everybody worships you." She uttered the last words shyly, partly afraid of bringing a frown on the lovely face opposite to her, which was quickly losing its vivid expression and sinking back into statuesque coldness. "It is simply weariness to me and vexation of spirit," she answered. "If I could be quite alone, as you are, with only a father like yours, I think I could get free; but I have never been left alone from my babyhood; just as Felix and Hilda are never left alone. Oh, Phebe, you do not know how happy you are." "No," she said cheerfully, "sometimes when I stand at our garden-gate, and look round me for miles and miles away, and the sweet air blows past me, and the bees are humming, and the birds calling to one another, and everything is so peaceful, with father happy over his work not far off, I think I don't know how happy I am. I try to catch hold of the feeling and keep it, but it slips away somehow. Only I thank God I am happy." "I was never happy enough to thank God," Felicita murmured, lying back in her seat and shutting her eyes. Presently the children returned, and, after another silent row, slower and more toilsome, as it was up the river, they drew near home again, and saw Madame's anxious face watching for them over the low garden wall. Her heart had been too heavy for her to join them in their pleasure-taking, and it was no lighter now. CHAPTER IV. UPFOLD FARM. Phebe rode slowly homeward in the dusk of the evening, her brain too busy with the varied events of the day for her to be in any haste to reach the end. For the last four miles her road lay in long by-lanes, shady with high hedgerows and trees which grew less frequent and more stunted as she rose gradually higher up the long spurs of the hills, whose rounded outlines showed dark against the clear orange tint of the western sky. She could hear the brown cattle chewing the cud, and the bleating of some solitary sheep on the open moor, calling to the flock from which it had strayed during the daytime, with the angry yelping of a dog in answer to its cry from some distant farm-yard. The air was fresh and chilly with dew, and the low wind, which only lifted the branches of the trees a little in the lower land she had left, was growing keener, and would blow sharply enough across the unsheltered table-land she was reaching. But still she loitered, letting her rough pony snatch tufts of fresh grass from the banks, and shamble leisurely along as he strayed from one side of the road to another. Phebe was not so much thinking as pondering in a confused and unconnected manner over all the circumstances of the day, when suddenly the tall figure of a man rose from under the black hedgerow, and laid his arm across the pony's neck, with his face turned up to her. Her heart throbbed quickly, but not altogether with terror. "Mr. Roland!" she cried. "You know me in the dark then," he answered. "I have been watching for you all day, Phebe. You come from home?" She knew he meant his home, not hers. "Yes, it was Felix's birthday, and we have been down the river," she said. "Is anything known yet?" he asked. Though it was so solitary a spot that Phebe had passed no one for the last three miles, and he had been haunting the hills all day without seeing a soul, yet he spoke in a whisper, as if fearful of betraying himself. "Only that you are away," she replied; "and they think you are in London." "Is not Mr. Clifford come?" he asked. "No, sir, he comes to-morrow," she answered. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, in a louder tone. When he spoke again he did so without looking into her face, which indeed was scarcely visible in the deepening dusk. "Phebe," he said, "we have known each other for many years." "All my life, sir," she responded eagerly; "father and me, we are proud of knowing you." Before speaking again he led her pony up the steep lane to a gate which opened on the moorland. It was not so dark here, from under the hedgerows and trees, and a little pool beside the gate caught the last lingering light in the west, and reflected it like a dim and dusty mirror. They could see one another's faces; his was working with strong excitement, and hers, earnest and friendly, looked frankly down upon him. He clasped her hand with the strong, desperate grip of a sinking man, and her fingers responded with a warm clasp. "Can I trust you, Phebe?" he cried. "I have no other chance." "I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she answered. The girlish fervor of her manner struck him mournfully. Why should he burden her with his crime? What right had he to demand any sacrifice from her? Yet he felt she spoke the truth. Phebe Marlowe would rejoice in helping, even unto death, not only him, but any other fellow-creature who was sinking under sorrow or sin. "Come on home," she said, "it is bitterly cold here; and you can tell me what to do." He placed himself at the pony's head again, and trudged on speechlessly along the rough road, which was now nothing more than the tracks made by cart-wheels across the moor, with deep ruts over which he stumbled like a man who is worn out with fatigue. In a quarter of an hour the low cottage was reached, surrounded by a little belt of fields and a few storm-beaten fir-trees. There was a dull glow of red to be seen through the lattice window, telling Phebe of a smouldering fire, made up for her by her father before going back to his workshop at the end of the field behind the house. She stirred up the wood-ashes and threw upon them some dry, light fagots of gorse, and in a few seconds a dazzling light filled the little room from end to end. It was a familiar place to Roland Sefton, and he took no notice of it. But it was a curious interior. Every niche of the walls was covered with carved oak; no wainscoted hall in the country could be more richly or more fancifully decorated. The chimney-piece over the open hearth-stone, a wide chimney-piece, was deeply carved with curious devices. The doors and window-frames, the cupboards and the shelves for the crockery, were all of dark oak, fashioned into leaves and ferns, with birds on their nests, and timid rabbits, and still more timid wood-mice peeping out of their coverts, cocks crowing with uplifted crest, and chickens nestling under the hen-mother's wings, sheaves of corn, and tall, club-headed bulrushes--all the objects familiar to a country life. The dancing light played upon them, and shone also upon Roland Sefton's sad and weary face. Phebe drew her father's carved arm-chair close to the fire. "Sit down," she said, "and let me get you something to eat." "Yes," he answered, sinking down wearily in the chair, "I am nearly dying of hunger. Good Heavens! is it possible I can be hungry?" He spoke with an indescribable expression of mingled astonishment and dread. Suddenly there broke upon him the possibility of suffering want in many forms in the future, and yet he felt ashamed of foreseeing them in this, the first day of his great calamity. Until this moment he had been too absorbed in dwelling upon the moral and social consequences of his crime, to realize how utterly worn out he was; but all his physical strength appeared to collapse in an instant. And now for the first time Phebe beheld the change in him, and stood gazing at him in mute surprise and sorrow. He had always been careful of his personal appearance, with a refinement and daintiness which had grown especially fastidious since his marriage. But now his coat, wet through during the night, and dried only by the keen air of the hills, was creased and soiled, and his boots were thickly covered with mud and clay. His face and hands were unwashed, and his hair hung unbrushed over his forehead. Phebe's whole heart was stirred at this pitiful change, and she laid her hand on his shoulder with a timid but affectionate touch. "Mr. Roland," she said, "go up-stairs and put yourself to rights a little; and give me your clothes and your boots to brush. You'll feel better when you are more like yourself." He smiled faintly as he looked up at her quivering lips and eyes full of unshed tears. But her homely advice was good, and he was glad to follow it. Her little room above was lined with richly carved oak panels like the kitchen below, and a bookcase contained her books, many of which he had himself given to her. There was an easel standing under the highest part of the shelving roof, where a sky-light was let into the thatch, and a half-finished painting rested on it. But he did not give a glance toward it. There was very little interest to him just now in Phebe's pursuits, though she owed most of them to him. By the time he was ready to go down, supper was waiting for him on the warm and bright hearth, and he fell upon it almost ravenously. It was twenty-four hours since he had last eaten. Phebe sat almost out of sight in the shadow of a large settle, with her knitting in her hand, and her eyes only seeking his face when any movement seemed to indicate that she could serve him in some way. But in these brief glances she noticed the color coming back to his face, and new vigor and resolution changing his whole aspect. "And now," he said, when his hunger was satisfied, "I can talk to you, Phebe." CHAPTER V. A CONFESSION. But Roland Sefton sat silent, with his shapely hands resting on his knees, and his handsome face turned toward the hearth, where the logs had burned down and emitted only a low and fitful flame. The little room was scarcely lighted by it, and looked all the darker for the blackness of the small uncurtained window, through which the ebony face of night was peering in. This bare, uncovered casement troubled him, and from time to time he turned his eyes uneasily toward it. But what need could there be of a curtain, when they were a mile away from any habitation, and where no road crossed the moor, except the rugged green pathway, worn into deep ruts by old Marlowe's own wagon? Yet as if touched by some vague sympathy with him, Phebe rose, and pinned one of her large rough working-aprons across it. "Phebe," he said, as she stepped softly back to her seat, "you and I have been friends a long time; and your father and I have been friends all my life. Do you recollect me staying here a whole week when I was a school-boy?" "Yes," she answered, her eyes glistening in the dusky light; "but for you I should have known nothing, only what work had to be done for father. You taught me my alphabet that week, and the hymns I have said every night since then before I go to sleep. You helped me to teach myself painting; and if I ever paint a picture worth looking at it will be your doing." "No, no; you are a born artist, Phebe Marlowe," he said, "though perhaps the world may never know it. But being such friends as you say, I will trust you. Do you think me worthy of trust, true and honest as a man should be, Phebe?" "As true and honest as the day," she cried, with eager emphasis. "And a Christian?" he added, in a lower voice. "Yes," she answered, "I do not know a Christian if you are not one." "That is the sting of it," he groaned; "true, and honest, and a Christian! And yet, Phebe, if I were taken by the police to-night, or if I be taken by them to-morrow, I shall be lodged in Riversborough jail, and tried before a jury of my towns-people at the assizes next month." "No, it is impossible!" she cried, stretching out her brown, hard-working hand, and laying it on his white and shapely one, which had never known toil. "You would not send me to jail," he said, "I know that well enough. But I deserve it, my poor girl. They would find me guilty and sentence me to a convict prison. I saw Dartmoor prison on my wedding journey with Felicita, Heaven help me! She liked the wild, solitary moor, with its great tors and its desolate stillness, and one day we went near to the prison. Those grim walls seemed to take possession of me; I felt oppressed and crushed by them. I could not forget them for days after, even with Felicita by my side." His voice trembled as he spoke, and a quiver ran through his whole frame, which seemed to thrill through Phebe's; but she only pressed her pitiful hand more closely on his. "I might have escaped last night," he went on, "but I stumbled over a poor girl in the street, dying. A young girl, no older than you, without a penny or a friend; a sinner too like myself; and I could not leave her there alone. Only in finding help for her I lost my chance. The train to London was gone, and there was no other till ten this morning. I expected Mr. Clifford to be at the bank to-day; if I had only known he would not be there I could have got away then. But I came here, why I hardly know. You could not hide me for long if you would; but there was no one else to help me." "But what have you done, sir?" she asked, with a tremulous, long-drawn sigh. "Done?" he repeated; "ay! there's the question. I wonder if I can be honest and true now with only Phebe Marlowe listening. I could have told my mother, perhaps, if it had been of any use; but I would die rather than tell Felicita. Done, Phebe! I've appropriated securities trusted to my keeping, pledging some and selling others for my own use. I've stolen £10,000." "And you could be sent to prison for it?" she said, in a low voice, glancing uneasily round as if she fancied she would be overheard. "For I don't know how many years," he answered. "It would kill Mrs. Sefton," she said. "Oh! how could you do it?" "It was for Felicita I did it," he replied absently; "for my Felicita only." For a few minutes Phebe's brain was busy, but not yet with the most sorrowful thoughts. There could be no shadow of doubt in her mind that this dearest friend of hers, sitting beside her in the twilight, was guilty of the crime he had confessed. But she could not as yet dwell upon the crime. He was in imminent peril; and his peril threatened the welfare of nearly all whom she loved. Ruin and infamy for him meant ruin and infamy for them all. She must save him if possible. "Phebe," he said, breaking the dreary silence, "I ought to tell you one thing more. The money your father left with me--the savings of his life--six hundred pounds--it is all gone. He intrusted it to me, and made his will, appointing me your guardian; such confidence he had in me. I have made both him and you penniless." "I think nothing of that," she answered. "What should I ever have been but for you? A dull, ignorant country girl, living a life little higher than my sheep and cattle. We are rich enough, my father and me. This cottage, and the fields about it, are our own. But I must go and tell father." "Must he be told?" asked Roland Sefton anxiously. "We've no secrets," she replied; "and there's no fear of him, you know. He would see if I was in trouble; and I shall be in trouble," she added, in a sorrowful voice. She opened the cottage door, and going out left him alone. It was a familiar place to him; but hitherto it had been only the haunt of happy holidays, from the time when he had been a school-boy until his last autumn's shooting of grouse and woodcock on the wide moors. Old Marlowe had been one of his earliest friends, and Phebe had been something like a humble younger sister to him. If any one in the world could be depended upon to help him, outside his own family, it must be old Marlowe and his daughter. And yet, when she left him, his first impulse was to rise and flee while yet there was time--before old Marlowe knew his secret. Phebe was a girl, living as girls do, in a region of sentiment and feeling, hardly understanding a crime against property. A girl like her had no idea of what his responsibility and his guilt were, money ranking so low in her estimate of life. But old Marlowe would look at it quite differently. His own careful earnings, scraped together by untiring industry and ceaseless self-denial, were lost--stolen by the man he had trusted implicitly. For Roland Sefton did not spare himself any reproaches; he did not attempt to hide or palliate his sin. There were other securities for small sums, like old Marlowe's, gone like his, and ruin would overtake half a dozen poor families, though the bulk of the loss would fall upon his senior partner, who was a hard man, of unbending sternness and integrity. If old Marlowe proved a man of the same inflexible stamp, he was lost. But he sat still, waiting and listening. Round that lonely cottage, as he well knew, the wind swept from whatever quarter it was blowing; sighing softly, or wailing, moaning, or roaring past it, as ceaselessly as the sound of waves against a fisherman's hut on the sea-coast. It was crying and sobbing now, rising at intervals into a shriek, as if to warn him of coming peril. He went to the window and met the black face of the night, hiding everything from his eye. Neither moon nor star gleamed in the sky. But even if old Marlowe was merciful he could not stay there, but must go out, as he had done last night from his own home, lashed like a dog from every familiar hearth by an unseen hand and a heavy scourge. Phebe had not lingered, though she seemed long away. As she drew near the little workshop she saw the wagon half-laden with some church furniture her father had been carving, and with which he and she were to start at daybreak for a village about twenty miles off. She heard the light tap of his carving tools as she opened the door, and found him finishing the wings of a spread-eagle. He had pushed back the paper cap he wore from his forehead, which was deeply furrowed, and shaded by a few straggling tufts of gray hair. He took no notice of her entrance until she touched his arm with her hand; and then he looked at her with eyes, blue like her own, but growing dim with age, and full of the pitiful, uncomplaining gaze of one who is deaf and dumb. But his face brightened and his smile was cheerful, as he began to talk eagerly with his fingers, throwing in many gestures to aid his slow speech. Phebe, too, smiled and gesticulated in silent answer, before she told him her errand. "The carving is finished, father," she said. "Could we not start at once, and be at Upchurch before five to-morrow morning?" "Twenty miles; eight hours; easily," he answered; "but why?" "To help Mr. Sefton," she said. "He wants to get down to Southampton, and Upchurch is in the way. Father, it must be done; you would never see a smile upon my face again if we did not do it." The keen, wistful eyes of her father were fastened alternately upon her troubled face and her moving hands, as slowly and silently she spelt out on her fingers the sad story she had just listened to. His own face changed rapidly from astonishment to dismay, and from dismay to a passionate rage. If Roland Sefton could have seen it he would have made good his escape. But still Phebe's fingers went on pleading for him; and the smile, which she said her father would never see again--a pale, wan smile--met his eyes as he watched her. "He has been so good to you and me," she went on, with a sob in her throat; and unconsciously she spoke out the words aloud and slowly as she told them off on her fingers; "he learned to talk with you as I do, and he is the only person almost in the world who can talk to you without your slate and pencil, father. It was good of him to take that trouble. And his father was your best friend, wasn't he? How good Madame used to be when I was a little girl, and you were carving all that woodwork at the old bank, and she let me stay there with you! All our happiest days have come through them. And now we can deliver them from great misery." "But my money?" he interposed. "Money is nothing between friends," she said eagerly. "Will you make my life miserable, father? I shall be thinking of them always, night and day; and they will never see me again if he is sent to jail through our fault. There never was a kinder man than he is; and I always thought him a good man till now." "A thief; worse than a common thief," said her father. "What will become of my little daughter when I am dead?" Phebe made no answer except by tears. For a few minutes old Marlowe watched her bowed head and face hidden in her hands, till a gray hue came upon his withered face, and the angry gleam died away from his eyes. Hitherto her slightest wish had been a law to him, and to see her weeping was anguish to him. To have a child who could hear and speak had been a joy that had redeemed his life from wretchedness, and crowned it with an inexhaustible delight. If he never saw her smile again, what would become of him? She was hiding her face from him even now, and there was no medium of communication between them save by touch. He must call her attention to what he had to say by making her look at him. Almost timidly he stretched out his withered and cramped hand to lay it upon her head. "I must do whatever you please," he said, when she lifted up her face and looked at him with tearful eyes; "if it killed me I must do it. But it is a hard thing you bid me do, Phebe." He turned away to brush the last speck of dust from the eagle's wings, and lifting it up carefully carried it away to pack in his wagon, Phebe holding the lantern for him till all was done. Then hand in hand they walked down the foot-worn path across the field to the house, as they had done ever since she had been a tottering little child, hardly able to clasp his one finger with her baby hand. Roland Sefton was crouching over the dying embers on the hearth, more in the utter misery of soul than in bodily chilliness, though he felt cold and shivering, as if stripped of all that made life desirable to him. There is no icy chill like that. He did not look round when the door opened, though Phebe spoke to him; for he could not face old Marlowe, or force himself to read the silent yet eloquent fingers, which only could utter words of reproach. The dumb old man stood on the threshold, gazing at his averted face and downcast head, and an inarticulate cry of mingled rage and grief broke from his silent lips, such as Phebe herself had never heard before, and which, years afterward, sounded at times in Roland Sefton's ears. It was nearly ten o'clock before they were on the road, old Marlowe marching at the head of his horse, and Phebe mounted on her wiry little pony, while Roland Sefton rode in front of the wagon at times. Their progress was slow, for the oak furniture was heavy and the roads were rough, leading across the moor and down steep hills into valleys, with equally steep hills on the other side. The sky was covered with a thin mist drifting slowly before the wind, and when the moon shone through it, about two o'clock in the morning, it was the waning-moon looking sad and forlorn amid the floating vapor. The houses they passed were few and far between, showing no light or sign of life. All the land lay around them dark and desolate under the midnight sky; and the slow creaking of the wheels and sluggish hoof-beats of the horse dragging the wagon were the only sounds that broke the stillness. In this gloom old Marlowe could hold no conversation either with Phebe or Roland Sefton, but from time to time they could hear him sob aloud as he trudged on in his speechless isolation. It was a sad sound, which pierced them to the heart. From time to time Roland Sefton walked up the long hills beside Phebe's pony, pouring out his whole heart to her. They could hardly see each other's faces in the dimness, and words came the more readily to him. All the burden of his confession was that he had fallen through seeking Felicita's happiness. For her sake he had longed for more wealth, and speculated in the hope of gaining it, and tampered with the securities intrusted to him in the hope of retrieving losses. It was for her, and her only, he maintained; and now he had brought infamy and wretchedness and poverty upon her and his innocent children. "Would to God I could die to-night!" he exclaimed; "my death would save them from some portion of their trouble." Phebe listened to him almost as heart-broken as himself. In her singularly solitary life, so far apart from ordinary human society, she had never been brought into contact with sin, and its profound, fathomless misery; and now it was the one friend, whom she had loved the longest and the best, who was walking beside her a guilty man, fleeing through the night from all he himself cared for, to seek a refuge from the consequences of his crime in an uncertain exile. In years afterward it seemed to her as if that night had been rather a terrible dream than a reality. At length the pale dawn broke, and the utter separation caused by the darkness between them and old Marlowe passed away with it. He stopped his horse and came to them, turning a gray, despairing face upon Roland Sefton. "It is time to leave you," he said; "over these fields lies the nearest station, where you can escape from a just punishment. You have made us beggars to keep up your own grandeur. God will see that you do not go unpunished." "Hush, hush!" cried Phebe aloud, stretching out her hand to Roland Sefton; "he will forgive you by and by. Tell me: have you no message to send by me, sir? When shall we hear from you?" "If I get away safe," he answered, in a broken voice, "and if nothing is heard of me before, tell Felicita I will be in the place where I saw her first, this day six months. Do not tell her till the time is near. It will be best for her to know nothing of me at present." They were standing at the stile over which his road lay. The sun was not yet risen, but the gray clouds overhead were taking rosy and golden tints. Here and there in the quiet farmsteads around them the cocks were beginning to crow lazily; and there were low, drowsy twitterings in the hedges, where the nests were still new little homes. It was a more peaceful hour than sunset can ever be with its memories of the day's toils and troubles. All the world seemed bathed in rest and quietness except themselves. Their dark journey through the silent night had been almost a crime. "Your father turns his back upon me, as all honest men will do," said Roland Sefton. Old Marlowe had gone back to his horse, and stood there without looking round. The tears ran down Phebe's face; but she did not touch her father, and ask him to bid his old friend's son good-by. "Some day no man will turn his back upon you, sir," she answered; "I would die now rather than do it. You will regain your good name some day." "Never!" he exclaimed; "it is past recall. There is no place of repentance for me, Phebe. I have staked all, and lost all." CHAPTER VI. THE OLD BANK. About the same hour that Roland Sefton set off under shelter of old Marlowe's wagon to attempt his escape, Mr. Clifford, the senior partner in the firm, reached Riversborough by the last train from London. It was too late for him to intrude on the household of his young partner, and he spent the night at a hotel. The old bank at Riversborough had been flourishing for the last hundred years. It had the power of issuing its own notes; and until lately these notes, bearing the familiar names of Clifford and Sefton, had been preferred by the country people round to those of the Bank of England itself. For nobody knew who were the managers of the Bank of England; while one of the Seftons, either father or son, could be seen at any time for the last fifty years. On ordinary days there were but few customers to be seen in its handsome office, and a single clerk might easily have transacted all the business. But on market-days and fair-days the place was crowded by loud-voiced, red-faced country gentlemen, and by awkward and burly farmers, from the moment its doors were opened until they were closed at the last stroke of four sounding from the church clock near at hand. The strong room of the Old Bank was filled full with chests containing valuable securities and heirlooms, belonging to most of the county families in the neighborhood. For the last twenty years Mr. Clifford had left the management of the bank entirely to the elder Sefton, and upon his death to his son, who was already a partner. He had lived abroad, and had not visited England for more than ten years. There was a report, somewhat more circumstantial than a rumor, but the truth of which none but the elder Sefton had ever known, that Mr. Clifford, offended by his only son, had let him die of absolute starvation in Paris. Added to this rumor was a vague story of some crime committed by the younger Clifford, which his father would not overlook or forgive. That he was a hard man, austere to utter pitilessness, everybody averred. No transgressor need look to him for pardon. When Roland Sefton had laid his hands upon the private personal securities belonging to his senior partner, it was with no idea that he would escape the most rigorous prosecution, should his proceedings ever come to the light. But it was with the fixed conviction that Mr. Clifford would never return to England, or certainly not to Riversborough, where this hard report had been circulated and partly accepted concerning him. The very bonds he had dealt with, first borrowing money upon them, and at last selling them, had been bequeathed to him in Mr. Clifford's will, of which he was himself the executor. He had, as he persuaded himself, only forestalled the possession of them. But a letter he had received from Mr. Clifford, informing him that he was on his way home, with the purpose of thoroughly investigating the affairs of the bank, had fallen like a thunderbolt upon him, and upon Acton, through whose agency he had managed to dispose of the securities without arousing any suspicion. Early the next morning Mr. Clifford arrived at the bank, and heard to his great surprise that his partner had started for London, and had been away the day before; possibly, Madame Sefton suggested with some anxiety, in the hope of meeting him there. No doubt he would be back early, for it was the day of the May fair, when there was always an unusual stir of business. Mr. Clifford took his place in the vacant bank parlor, and waited somewhat grimly for the arrival of the head clerk, Acton. There was a not unpleasant excitement among the clerks, as they whispered to each other on arrival that old Clifford was come and Roland Sefton was still absent. But this excitement deepened into agitation and misgiving as the hour for opening the bank drew near and Acton did not arrive. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, for Acton had made himself unpopular with those beneath him by expecting devotion equal to his own to the interests of the firm. When ten o'clock was close at hand a clerk ran round to Acton's lodgings; but before he could return a breathless messenger rushed into the bank as the doors were thrown open, with the tidings that the head clerk had been found by his landlady lying dead in his bed. More quickly than if the town-crier had been sent round the streets with his bell to announce the news, it was known that Roland Sefton was missing and the managing clerk had committed suicide. The populace from all the country round was flocking into the town for the fair, three fourths of whom did business with the Old Bank. No wonder that a panic took possession of them. In an hour's time the tranquil street was thronged with a dense mass of town's-people and country-people, numbers of whom were fighting their way to the bank as if for dear life. There was not room within for the crowds who struggled to get to the counters and present their checks and bank-notes, and demand instant settlement of their accounts. In vain Mr. Clifford assured them there was no fear of the firm being unable to meet its liabilities. In cases like these the panic cannot be allayed by words. As long as the funds held out the checks and notes were paid over the counter; but this could not go on. Mr. Clifford himself was in the dark as to the state of affairs, and did not know how his credit stood. Soon after midday the funds were exhausted, and with the utmost difficulty the bank was cleared and the doors closed. But the crowd did not disperse; rather it grew denser as the news spread like wildfire that the Old Bank had stopped! It was at the moment that the bank doors were closed that Phebe turned into Whitefriars Road. She had taken a train from Upchurch, leaving her father to return home alone with the empty wagon. It was a strange sight which met her. The usually quiet street was thronged from end to end, and the babble of many voices made all sounds indistinct. Even on the outskirts of the crowd there were men, some pale and some red with anxiety, struggling with elbows and shoulders to make their way through to the bank, in the vain hope that it would not be too late. A strongly-built, robust farmer fainted quietly away beside her, like a delicate woman, when he heard that the doors were shut; and his wife and son, who were following him, bore him out of the crush as well as they could. Phebe, pressing gently forward, and gliding in wherever a chance movement gave her an opportunity, at last reached the archway at the side of the house, and rapped urgently for admittance. A scared-looking man-servant, who opened the door with the chain upon it, let her in as soon as he recognized who she was. "It's a fearsome day," he said; "master's away, gone nobody knows where; and old Acton's poisoned himself. Nobody dare tell Mrs. Sefton; but Madame knows. She is in the dining-room, Miss Marlowe." Phebe found her, as she had done the day before, sitting in the oriel window; but the usually placid-looking little woman was in a state of nervous agitation. As soon as she caught sight of Phebe's pitiful face she ran to her, and clasping her in her arms, burst into a passion of tears and sobs. "My son!" she cried; "what can have become of him, Phebe? Where can he be gone? If he would only come home, all these people would be satisfied, and go away. They don't know Mr. Clifford, but they know Roland; he is so popular. The servants say the bank is broken; what does that mean, Phebe? And poor Acton! They say he is dead--he did kill himself by poison. Is it not true, Phebe? Tell me it is not true!" But Phebe could say nothing to comfort her; she knew better than any one else the whole truth of the calamity. But she held the weeping little woman in her strong young arms, and there was something consoling in her loving clasp. "And where are the children?" she asked, after a while. "I sent them to play in the garden," answered Madame; "their own little plots are far away, out of sight of the dreadful street. What good is it that they should know all this trouble?" "No good at all," replied Phebe. "And where is Mrs. Sefton?" "Alas, my Phebe!" she exclaimed, "who dare tell her? Not me; no, no! She is shut up in her little chamber, and she forgets all the world--her children even, and Roland himself. It is as if she went away into another life, far away from ours; and when she comes home again she is like one in a dream. Will you dare to tell her?" "Yes, I will go," she said. Yet with very slow and reluctant steps Phebe climbed the staircase, pausing long at the window midway, which overlooked the wide and sunny landscape in the distance, and the garden just below. She watched the children busy at their little plots of ground, utterly unconscious of the utter ruin that had befallen them. How lovely and how happy they looked! She could have cried out aloud, a bitter and lamentable cry. But as yet she must not yield to the flood of her own grief; she must keep it back until she was at home again, in her solitary home, where nobody could hear her sobs and cries. Just now she must think for, and comfort, if comfort were possible, these others, who stood even nearer than she did to the sin and the sinner. Gathering up all her courage, she quickened her footsteps and ran hurriedly up the remaining steps. But at the drawing-room door, which was partly open, her feet were arrested. Within, standing behind the rose-colored curtains, stood the tall, slender figure of Felicita, with her clear and colorless face catching a delicate flush from the tint of the hangings that concealed her from the street. She was looking down on the crowd below, with the perplexity of a foreigner gazing on some unfamiliar scene in a strange land. There was a half-smile playing about her lips; but her whole attention was so absorbed by the spectacle beneath her that she did not see or hear Phebe until she was standing beside her, looking down also on the excited crowd. "Phebe!" she exclaimed, "you here again? Then you can tell me, are the good people of Riversborough gone mad? or is it possible there is an election going on, of which I have heard nothing? Nothing less than an election could rouse them to such a pitch of excitement." "Have you heard nothing of what they say?" asked Phebe. "There is such a Babel," she answered; "of course I hear my husband's name. It would be just like him if he got himself elected member for Riversborough without telling me anything about it till it was over. He loves surprises; and I--why I hate to be surprised." "But he is gone!" said Phebe. "Yes, he told me he was going to London," she went on; "but if it is no election scene, what is it, Phebe? Why are all the people gathered here in such excitement?" "Shall I tell you plainly?" asked Phebe, looking steadily into Felicita's dark, inscrutable eyes. "Tell me the simple truth," she replied, somewhat haughtily; "if any human being can tell it." "Then the bank has stopped payment," answered Phebe. "Poor Mr. Acton has been found dead in bed this morning; and Mr. Sefton is gone away, nobody knows where. It is the May fair to-day, and all the people are coming in from the country. There's been a run on the bank till they are forced to stop payment. That is what brings the crowd here." Felicita dropped the curtain which she had been holding back with her hand, and stepped back a pace or two from the window. But her face scarcely changed; she listened calmly and collectedly, as if Phebe was speaking of some persons she hardly knew. "My husband will come back immediately," she said. "Is not Mr. Clifford there?" "Yes," said Phebe. "Are you telling me all?" asked Felicita. "No," she answered; "Mr. Clifford says he has been robbed. Securities worth nearly ten thousand pounds are missing. He must have found it out already." "Who does he suspect?" she asked again imperiously; "he does not dare suspect my husband?" Phebe replied only by a mute gesture. She had never had any secret to conceal before, and she did not see that she had betrayed herself by the words she had uttered. The deep gloom on her bright young face struck Felicita for the first time. "Do you think it was Roland?" she asked. Again the same dumb, hopeless gesture answered the question. Phebe could not bring her lips to shape a word of accusation against him. It was agony to her to feel her idol disgraced and cast down from his high pedestal; yet she had not learned any way of concealing or misrepresenting the truth. "You know he did it?" said Felicita. "Yes, I know it," she whispered. For a minute or two Felicita stood, with her white hands resting on Phebe's shoulders, gazing into her mournful face with keen, questioning eyes. Then, with a rapid flush of crimson, betraying a strong and painful heart-throb, which suffused her face for an instant and left it paler than before, she pressed her lips on the girl's sunburnt forehead. "Tell nobody else," she murmured; "keep the secret for his sake and mine." Before Phebe could reply she turned away, and, with a steady, unfaltering step, went back to her study and locked herself in. CHAPTER VII. AN INTERRUPTED DAY-DREAM. Felicita's study was so quiet a room, quite remote from the street, that it was almost a wonder the noise of the crowd had reached her. But this morning there had been a pleasant tumult of excitement in her own brain, which had prevented her from falling into an absorbed reverie, such as she usually indulged in, and rendered her peculiarly susceptible to outward influences. All her senses had been awake to-day. On her desk lay the two volumes of a new book, handsomely got up, with pages yet uncut as it had come from the publishers. A dozen times she had looked at the title-page, as if unable to convince herself of the reality, and read her own name--Felicita Riversdale Sefton. It was the first time her name as an author had been published, though for the last three years she had from time to time written anonymously for magazines. This was her own book; thought out, written, revised, and completed in her chosen solitude and secrecy. No one knew of it; possibly Roland suspected something, but he had not ventured to make any inquiries, and she had no reason to believe that he even suspected its existence. It was simply altogether her own; no other mind had any part or share in it. There was something like rapture in her delight. The book was a good book, she was sure of it. She had not succeeded in making it as perfect as her ideal, but she had not signally failed. It did in a fair degree represent her inmost thoughts and fancies. Yet she could not feel quite sure that the two volumes were real, and the letter from the publisher, a friendly and pleasant letter enough, seemed necessary to vouch for them. She read and re-read it. The little room seemed too small and close for her. She opened the window to let in the white daylight, undisguised by the faint green tint of the glass, and she leaned out to breathe the fresh sweet air of the spring morning. Life was very pleasurable to her to-day. There were golden gleams too upon the future. She would no longer be the unknown wife of a country banker, moving in a narrow sphere, which was altogether painful to her in its provincial philistinism. It was a sphere to which she had descended in girlish ignorance. Her uncle, Lord Riversdale, had been willing to let his portionless niece marry this prosperous young banker, who was madly in love with her, and a little gentle pressure had been brought to bear on the girl of eighteen, who had been placed by her father's death in a position of dependence. Since then a smouldering fire of ambition and of dissatisfaction with her lot had been lurking unsuspected under her cold and self-absorbed manner. But her thoughts turned with more tenderness than usual toward her husband. She had aroused in him also a restless spirit of ambition, though in him it was for her sake, not his own. He wished to restore her if possible to the position she had sacrificed for him; and Felicita knew it. Her heart beating faster with her success was softened toward him; and tears suffused her dark eyes for an instant as she thought of his astonishment and exultation. The children were at play in the garden below her, and their merry voices greeted her ear pleasantly. The one human being who really dwelt in her inmost heart was her boy Felix, her first-born child. Hilda was an unnecessary supplement to the page of her maternal love. But for Felix she dreamed day-dreams of extravagant aspiration; no lot on earth seemed too high or too good for him. He was a handsome boy, the very image of her father, the late Lord Riversdale, and now as she gazed down on him, her eyes slightly dewed with tears, he looked up to her window. She kissed her hand to him, and the boy waved his little cap toward her with almost passionate gesticulations of delight. Felix would be a great man some day; this book of hers was a stone in the foundation of his fame as well as of her own. It was upon this mood of exultation, a rare mood for Felicita, that the cry and roar from the street had broken. With a half-smile at herself, the thought flashed across her mind that it was like a shout of applause and admiration, such as might greet Felix some day when he had proved himself a leader of men. But it aroused her dormant curiosity, and she had condescended to be drawn by it to the window of the drawing-room overlooking Whitefriars Road, in order to ascertain its cause. The crowd filling the street was deeply in earnest, and the aim of those who were fighting their way through it was plainly the bank offices in the floor below her. The sole idea that occurred to her, for she was utterly ignorant of her husband's business, was that some unexpected crisis in the borough had arisen, and its people were coming to Roland Sefton as their leading townsman. When Phebe found her she was quietly studying the crowd and its various features, that she might describe a throng from memory, whenever a need should arise for it. Felicita regained her luxurious little study, and sat down before her desk, on which the new volumes lay, with more outward calm than her face and movements had manifested before she left it. The transient glow of triumph had died away from her face, and the happy tears from her eyes. She closed the casement to shut out the bright, clear sunlight, and the merry voices of her children, before she sat down to think. For a little while she had been burning incense to herself; but the treacherous fire was gone out, and the sweet, bewildering, intoxicating vapors were scattered to the winds. The recollection of her short-lived folly made her shiver as if a cold breath had passed over her. Not for a moment did she doubt Roland's guilt. There was such a certainty of it lying behind Phebe's sorrowful eyes as she whispered "I know it," that Felicita had not cared to ask how she knew it. She did not trouble herself with details. The one fact was there: her husband had absconded. A dreamy panorama of their past life flitted across her brain--his passionate love for her, which had never cooled, though it had failed to meet with a response from her; his insatiable desire to make her life more full of pomp and luxury and display than that of her cousins at Riversdale; his constant thraldom to her, which had ministered only to her pride and coldness. His queen he had called her. It was all over now. His extraordinary absence was against any hope that he could clear himself. Her husband had brought fatal and indelible disgrace upon his name, the name he had given to her and their children. Her name! This morning, and for many days to come, it would be advertised as the author of the new book, which was to have been one of her stepping-stones to fame. She had grasped at fame, and her hand had closed upon infamy. There was no fear now that she would remain among the crowd of the unknown. As the wife of a fraudulent banker she would be only too well and too widely talked of. Why had she let her own full name be published? She had yielded, though with some reluctance, to the business-like policy of her publisher, who had sought to catch the public eye by it; for her father, Lord Riversdale, was hardly yet forgotten as an author. A vague sentiment of loyalty to her husband had caused her to add her married name. She hated to see the two blazoned together on the title-page. Sick at heart, she sat for hours brooding over what would happen if Roland was arrested. The assizes held twice a year at Riversborough had been to her, as to many people of her position, an occasion of pleasurable excitement. The judges' lodgings were in the next house to the Old Bank, and for the few days the judges were Roland Sefton's neighbors there had been a friendly interchange of civilities. An assize ball was still held, though it was falling into some neglect and disrepute. Whenever any cause of special local interest took place she had commanded the best seat in the court, and had obsequious attention paid to her. She had learned well the aspect of the place, and the mode of procedure. But hitherto her recollections of a court of justice were all agreeable, and her impressions those of a superior being looking down from above on the miseries and crimes of another race. How different was the vision that branded itself on her brain this morning! She saw her husband standing at the dock, instead of some coarse, ignorant, brutish criminal; the stern gravity of the judge; the flippant curiosity of the barristers not connected with the case, and the cruel eagerness of his fellow-townsmen to get good places to hear and see him. It would make a holiday for all who could get within the walls. She could have written almost word for word the report of the trial as it would appear in the two papers published in Riversborough. She could foretell how lavish would be the use of the words "felon" and "convict;" and she would be that felon and convict's wife. Oh, this intolerable burden of disgrace! To be borne through the long, long years of life; and not by herself alone, but by her children. They had come into a miserable heritage. What became of the families of notorious criminals? She could believe that the poor did not suffer from so cruel a notoriety, being quickly lost in the oblivious waters of poverty and distress, amid refuges and workhouses. But what would become of her? She must go away into endless exile, with her two little children, and live where there was no chance of being recognized. This was what her husband's sin had done for her. "God help me! God deliver me!" she moaned with white lips. But she did not pray for him. In the first moments of anguish the spirit flies to that which lies at the very core. While Roland's mother and Phebe were weeping together and praying for him, Felicita was crying for help and deliverance for herself. CHAPTER VIII. THE SENIOR PARTNER. Long as the daylight lasts in May it was after nightfall when Felicita left her study and went down to the drawing-room, more elegantly and expensively furnished for her than the drawing-room at Riversdale had been. Its extravagant display seemed to strike upon her suddenly as she entered it. Phebe was gone home, and Madame had retired to her own room, having given up the expectation of seeing Felicita that day. Mr. Clifford, the servant told her, was still in the bank, with his lawyer, for whom he had telegraphed to London. Felicita sent him a message that if he was not too busy she wished to see him for a few minutes. Mr. Clifford almost immediately appeared, and Felicita saw him for the first time. She had always heard him called old; but he was a strong, erect, stern-looking man of sixty, with keen, cold eyes that could not be avoided. Felicita did not seek to avoid them. She looked as steadily at him as he did at her. There were traces of tears on her face, but there was no tremor or weakness about her. They exchanged a few civil words as calmly as if they were ordinary acquaintances. "Tell me briefly what has happened," she said to him, when he had taken a seat near to her. "Briefly," he repeated. "Well! I find myself robbed of securities worth nearly £8000; private securities, bond and scrip, left in custody only, not belonging to the firm. No one but Acton or Roland could have access to them. Acton has eluded me; but if Roland is found he must take the consequences." "And what are those?" asked Felicita. "I shall prosecute him as I would prosecute a common thief or burglar," answered Mr. Clifford. "His crime is more dishonorable and cowardly." "Is it not cruel to say this to me?" she asked, yet in a tranquil tone which startled him. "Cruel!" he repeated again; "I have not been in the habit of choosing words. You asked me a question, and I gave you the answer that was in my mind. I never forgive. Those who pass over crimes make themselves partakers in those crimes. Roland has robbed not only me, but half a dozen poor persons, to whom such a loss is ruin. Would it be right to let such a man escape justice?" "You think he has gone away on purpose?" she said. "He has absconded," answered Mr. Clifford, "and the matter is already in the hands of the police. A description of him has been telegraphed to every police station in the kingdom. If he is not out of it he can barely escape now." Felicita's pale face could not grow paler, but she shivered perceptibly. "I am telling you bluntly," he said, "because I believe it is best to know the worst at once. It is terrible to have it falling drop by drop. You have courage and strength; I see it. Take an old man's word for it, it is better to know all in its naked ugliness, than have it brought to light bit by bit. There is not the shadow of a doubt of Roland's crime. You do not believe him innocent yourself?" "No," she replied in a low, yet steady voice; "no. I must tell the truth. I cannot comfort myself with the belief that he is innocent." Mr. Clifford's keen eyes were fastened upon Felicita with admiration. Here was a woman, young and pallid with grief and dread, who neither tried to move him by prayers and floods of tears, nor shrank from acknowledging a truth, however painful. He had never seen her before, though the costly set of jewels she was wearing had been his own gift to her on her wedding. He recognized them with pleasure, and looked more attentively at her beautiful but gloomy face. When he spoke again it was in a manner less harsh and abrupt than it had been before. "I am not going to ask you any questions about Roland," he said; "you have a right, the best right in the world, to screen him, and aid him in escaping from the just consequences of his folly and crime." "You might ask me," she interrupted, "and I should tell you the simple truth. I do so now, when I say I know nothing about him. He told me he was going to London. But is it not possible that poor Acton alone was guilty?" Mr. Clifford shook his head in reply. For a few minutes he paced up and down the floor, and then placed himself at the back of Felicita, with his hand upon her chair, as if to support him. In a glass opposite she could see the reflection of his face, gray and agitated, with closed eyes and quivering lips--a face that looked ten years older than that which she had seen when he entered the room. She felt the chair shaken by his trembling hand. "I will tell you," he said in a voice which he strove to render steady. "I did not spare my own son when he had defrauded Roland's father. Though Sefton would not prosecute him, I left him to reap the harvest of his deed to the full; and it was worse than the penalty the law would have exacted. He perished, disgraced and forsaken, of starvation in Paris, the city of pleasures and of crimes. They told me that my son was little more than a living skeleton when he was found, so slowly had the end come. If I did not spare him, can I relent toward Roland? The justice I demand is, in comparison, mercy for him." As he finished speaking he opened his eyes, and saw those of Felicita fastened on the reflection of his face in the mirror. He turned away, and in a minute or two resumed his seat, and spoke again in his ordinary abrupt tone. "What will you do?" he asked. "I cannot tell yet," she answered; "I must wait till suspense is over. If Roland comes back, or is brought back," she faltered, "then I must decide what to do. I shall keep to myself till then. Is there anything I can do?" "Could you go to your uncle, Lord Riversdale?" suggested Mr. Clifford. "No, no," she cried; "I will not ask any help from him. He arranged my marriage for me, and he will feel this disgrace keenly. I will keep out of their way; they shall not be compelled to forbid me their society." "But to-morrow you had better go away for the day," he answered; "there will be people coming and going, who will disturb you. There will be a rigorous search made. There is a detective now with my lawyer, who is looking through the papers in the bank. The police have taken possession of Acton's lodgings." "I have nowhere to go," she replied, "and I cannot show my face out of doors. Madame and the children shall go to Phebe Marlowe, but I must bear it as well as I can." "Well," he said after a brief pause, "I will make it as easy as I can for you. You are thinking me a hard man? Yes, I have grown hard. I was soft enough once. But if I forgave any sinner now I should do my boy, who is dead, an awful injustice. I would not pass over his sin, and I dare not pass over any other. I know I shall pursue Roland until his death or mine; my son's fate cries out for it. But I'm not a hard man toward innocent sufferers, like you and his poor mother. Try to think of me as your friend; nay, even Roland's friend, for what would a few years' penal servitude be compared with my boy's death? Shake hands with me before I go." The small, delicate hand she offered him was icy cold, though her face was still calm and her eyes clear and dry. He was himself more moved and agitated than she appeared to be. The mention of his son always shook him to the very centre of his soul; yet he had not been able to resist uttering the words that had passed his lips during this painful interview with Roland's young wife. Unshed tears were burning under his eyelids. But if it had not been for that death-like hand he might have imagined her almost unmoved. Felicita was down-stairs before Madame the next morning, and had ordered the carriage to be ready to take her and the children to Upfold Farm directly after breakfast. It was so rare an incident for their mother to be present at the breakfast-table that Felix and Hilda felt as if it were a holiday. Madame was pale and sad, and for the first time Felicita thought of her as being a sufferer by Roland's crime. Her husband's mother had been little more to her than a superior housekeeper, who had been faithfully attached to her and her children. The homely, gentle, domestic foreigner, from a humble Swiss home, had looked up to her young aristocratic daughter-in-law as a being from a higher sphere. But now the downcast, sorrowful face of the elder woman touched Felicita's sympathy. "Mother!" she said, as soon as the children had run away to get ready for their drive. She had never before called Madame "mother," and a startled look, almost of delight, crossed Madame's sad face. "My daughter!" she cried, running to Felicita's side, and throwing her arms timidly about her, "he is sure to come back soon--to-day, I think. Oh, yes, he will be here when we return! You do well to stay to meet him; and I should be glad to be here, but for the children. Yes, the little ones must be out of the way. They must not see their father's house searched; they must never know how he is suspect. Acton did say it was all his fault; his fault and--" But here Madame paused for an instant, for had not Acton said it was Felicita's fault more than any one's? "Phebe heard him," she went on hastily; "and if it is not his fault, why did he kill himself? Oh, it is an ill-fortune that my son went to London that day! It would all be right if he were here; but he is sure to come to-day and explain it all; and the bank will be opened again. So be of good comfort, my daughter; for God is present with us, and with my son also." It was a sorrowful day at the Upfold Farm in spite of the children's unconscious mirthfulness. Old Marlowe locked himself into his workshop, and would see none of them, taking his meals there in sullen anger. Phebe's heart was almost broken with listening to Madame's earnest asseverations of her son's perfect innocence, and her eager hopes to find him when she reached home. It was nearly impossible to her to keep the oppressive secret, which seemed crushing her into deception and misery, and her own muteness appeared to herself more condemnatory than any words could be. But Madame did not notice her silence, and her grief was only natural. Phebe's tears fell like balm on Madame's aching heart. Felicita had not wept; but this young girl, and her abandonment to passionate bursts of tears, who needed consoling herself, was a consolation to the poor mother. They knelt together in Phebe's little bedroom, while the children were playing on the wide uplands around them, and they prayed silently, if heavy sobs and sighs could be called silence; but they prayed together, and for her son; and Madame returned home comforted and hopeful. It had been a day of fierce trial to Felicita. She had not formed any idea of how searching would be the investigation of the places where any of her husband's papers might be found. Her own study was not exempt from the prying eyes of the detectives. This room, sacred to her, which Roland himself never entered without permission was ransacked, and forever desecrated in her eyes. This official meddling with her books and her papers could never be forgotten. The pleasant place was made an abomination to her. The bank was reopened the next morning at the accustomed hour, for a very short investigation by Mr. Clifford and the experienced advisers summoned from London to assist him proved that the revenues of the firm were almost as good as ever. The panic had been caused by the vague rumor afloat of some mysterious complicity in crime between the absent partner and the clerk who had committed suicide. It was, therefore, considered necessary for the prosperous re-establishment of the bank to put forth a cautiously worded circular, in which Mr. Clifford's return was made the reason for the absence on a long journey of Roland Sefton, whose disappearance had to be accounted for. By the time he was arrested and brought to trial the confidence of the bank's customers in its stability would in some measure be regained. There was thus a good deal of conjecture and of contradictory opinion abroad in Riversborough concerning Roland Sefton, which continued to be the town's-talk for some weeks. Even Madame began to believe in a half-bewildered manner that her son had gone on a journey of business connected with the bank, though she could not account for his total silence. Sometimes she wondered if he and Felicita could have had some fatal quarrel, which had driven him away from home in a paroxysm of passionate disappointment and bitterness. Felicita's coldness and indifference might have done it. With this thought, and the hope of his return some day, she turned for relief to the discharge of her household duties, and to the companionship of the children, who knew nothing except that their father was gone away on a journey, and might come back any day. Neither Madame nor the children knew that whenever they left the house they were followed by a detective, and every movement was closely watched. But Felicita was conscious of it by some delicate sensitiveness of her imaginative temperament. She refused to quit the house except in the evening, when she rambled about the garden, and felt the fresh air from the river breathing against her often aching temples. Even then she fancied an eye upon her--an unsleeping, unblinking eye; the unwearying vigilance of justice on the watch for a criminal. Night and day she felt herself living under its stony gaze. It was a positive pain to her when reviews of her book appeared in various papers, and were forwarded to her with congratulatory letters from her publishers. She was living far enough from London to be easily persuaded, without much vanity, that her name was upon everybody's lips there. She read the reviews, but with a sick heart, and the words were forgotten as soon as she put them away; but the Riversborough papers, which had been very guarded in their statements about the death of Acton and the events at the Old Bank, took up the book with what appeared to her fulsome and offensive enthusiasm. It had never occurred to her that local criticism was certain to follow the appearance of a local writer; and she shrank from it with morbid and exaggerated disgust. Even if all had been well, if Roland had been beside her, their notices would have been well-nigh intolerable to her. She could not have endured being stared at and pointed out in the streets of her own little town. But now Fame had come to her with broken wings and a cracked trumpet, and she shuddered at the sound of her own name harshly proclaimed through it. It soon became evident that Roland Sefton had succeeded in getting away out of the country. The police were at fault; and as no one in his own home knew how to communicate with him, no clew had been discovered by close surveillance of their movements. Such vigilance could be kept up only for a few months at longest, and as the summer drew toward the end it ceased. CHAPTER IX. FAST BOUND. Roland Sefton had met with but few difficulties in getting clear away out of England, and there was little chance of his being identified, from description merely, by any of the foreign police, or by any English detective on the Continent who was not as familiar with his personal appearance as the Riversborough force were. In his boyhood he had spent many months, years even, in his mother's native village with her father, M. Roland Merle, the pastor of a parish among the Jura Mountains. It was as easy for him to assume the character of a Swiss mountaineer as to sustain that of a prosperous English banker. The dress, the patois, the habits of the peasant were all familiar to him, and his disguise in them was as complete as disguise ever can be. The keen eye either of love or hate can pierce through all disguises. Switzerland was all fatherland to him, as much so as his native country, and the county in which Riversborough was situated. There was no ignorance in him of any little town, or the least known of the Alps, which might betray the stranger. He would never need to attract notice by asking a question. He had become a member of an Alpine club as soon as his boyish thews and sinews were strong enough for stiff and perilous climbing. He had crossed the most difficult passes and scaled some of the worst peaks. And there had been within him that passionate love of the country common to the Swiss which an English Alpine climber can never feel. His mother's land had filled him with an ardent flame, smouldering at times amid the absorbing interests of his somewhat prominent place in English life, but every now and then breaking out into an irrepressible longing for the sight of its white mountains and swift, strong streams. It was at once the safest and the most dangerous of refuges. He would be certainly sought for there; but there he could most effectually conceal himself. He flew thither with his burden of sin and shame. Roland adopted at once the dress of a decent artisan of the Jura--such a man as he had known in his boyhood as a watchmaker of Locle or the Doubs. For a few days he stayed in Geneva, lodging in such a street as a Locle artisan would have chosen; but he could not feel secure there, in spite of his own certainty that his transformation was complete. A restless dread haunted him. He knew well that there are in every one little personal traits, tricks of gesture, and certain tones of voice always ready to betray us. It was yet too early in the year for many travellers to be journeying to Switzerland; but already a few straggling pioneers of the summer flight were appearing in the larger towns, and what would be his fate if any one of them recognized him? He quitted Geneva, and wandered away into the mountain villages. It was May-time, and the snow-line was still lingering low down on the steep slopes, though the flowers were springing into life up to its very margin, seeming to drive it higher and higher every day. The High Alps were still fast locked in midwinter, and with untrodden wastes and plains of snow lying all around them. The deserted mountain farms and great solitary hotels, so thronged last summer, were empty. But in the valleys and the little villages lying on the warm southern slopes, or sheltered by precipitous rocks from the biting winds, there was everywhere a joyous stir of awakening from the deep sleep of winter. The frozen streams were thawed and ran bubbling and gurgling along their channels, turning water-wheels and filling all the quiet places with their merry noise. The air itself was full of sweet exhilaration. In the forests there was the scent of stirring sap and of the up-springing wild-flowers, and the rosy blossoms of the tender young larch-trees shone like jewels in the bright sunshine. The mountain-peaks overhead, gleaming through the mists and clouds, were of dazzling whiteness, for none of the frozen snow had yet fallen from their sharp, lance-like summits. Journeying on foot from one village to another, Roland roamed about aimlessly, yet as one hunted, seeking for a safe asylum. He bore his troubled conscience and aching heart from one busy spot to another, homesick and self-exiled. Oh, what a fool he had been! Life had been full to the brim for him with gladness and prosperity, and in trying to make its cup run over he had dashed it away from his lips forever. His money was not yet spent, for a very little went a long way among these simple mountain villages, and in his manner of travelling. He had not yet been forced to try to earn a living, and he felt no anxiety for the future. In his boyhood he had learned wood-carving, both in Switzerland and from old Marlowe, and he had acquired considerable skill in the art. Some of the panels in his home at Riversborough were the workmanship of his own hands. It was a craft to turn to in extremity; but he did not think of it yet. Labor of any kind would have made the interminable hours pass more quickly. The carving of a piece of wood might have kept him from torturing his own heart perpetually; but he did not turn to this slight solace. There were times when he sat for hours, for a whole age, as it seemed to him, in some lonely spot, hidden behind a great rock or half lost in a forest, thinking. And yet it was not thought, but a vague, mournful longing and remembrance, the past and the absent blended in dim, shadowy reverie, of which nothing was clear but the sharp anguish of having forfeited them. There was a Garden of Eden still upon earth, and he had been dwelling in it. But he had banished himself from it by his own folly and sin, and when he turned his eyes toward it he could see only the "flaming brand, and the gate with dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms." But even Adam had his Eve with him, "to drop some natural tears, and wipe them soon." He was utterly alone. If his thoughts, so dazed and bewildered usually, became clear for a little while, it was always Felicita whose image stood out most distinctly before him. He had loved her passionately; surely never had any man loved a woman with the same intensity--so he said to himself. Even now the very crime he had committed seemed as nothing to him, because he had been guilty of it for her. His love for her covered its heinousness from his eyes. His conscience had become the blind and dumb slave of his passion. So blind and dumb had it been that it had scarcely stirred or murmured until his sin was found out, and it was scarcely aroused to life even yet. In a certain sense he had been religious, having been most sedulously trained in religion from his earliest consciousness. He had accepted the ordinary teachings of our nineteenth-century Christianity. His place in church, beside his mother or his wife, had seldom been empty, and several times in the year he had knelt with them at the Lord's table, and taken the Lord's Supper, feeling himself distinctly a more religious man than usual on such occasions. No man had ever heard him utter a profane word, nor had he transgressed any of the outward rules of a religious life. It is true he had never made a vehement and extraordinary profession of piety, such as some men do; but there was not a person in Riversborough who would not have spoken of him as a good churchman and a Christian. While he had been gradually appropriating Mr. Clifford's money and the hard-earned savings of poorer men confided to him, he had felt no qualm of conscience in giving liberally to many a religious and philanthropic object, contributing such sums as figure well in a subscription list; though it was generally his wife's name that figured there. He had never taken up a subscription list without glancing first for that beloved name, Mrs. Roland Sefton. In those days he had never doubted that he was a Christian. So far as he knew, so far as words could teach him, he was living a Christian life. Did he not believe in God, the Father Almighty? Yes, as fully as those who lived about him. Had he not followed Christ? As closely as the mass of people who call themselves Christians. Nay, more than most of them. Not as much as his mother perhaps, in her simple, devout faith. But then religion is always a different thing with women than with men, a fairer and more delicate thing, wearing a finer bloom and gloss, which does not wear well in a work-a-day world such as he did battle in. But if he had not lived a Christian life, what man in Riversborough had done so, except a few fanatics? But his religion had been powerless to keep him from falling into subtle temptations, and into a crime so heinous in the sight of his fellow-men that it was only to be expiated by the loss of character, the loss of liberty, and the loss of every honorable man's esteem. The web had been closely and cunningly woven, and now he was fast bound in it, with no way of escape. CHAPTER X. LEAVING RIVERSBOROUGH. The weeks passed by in Riversborough, and brought no satisfactory conclusion to the guarded investigations of the police. A close search made among Acton's private papers produced no discovery. His will was among them, leaving all he had to leave, which was not much, to Felix, the son of his friend and employer, Roland Sefton. There was no memorandum or letter which could throw any light upon the transactions, or give any clew to what had been done with Mr. Clifford's securities. Nor was the watch kept over the movements of the family more successful. The police were certain that no letter was posted by any member of the household, which could be intended for the missing culprit. Even Phebe Marlowe's correspondence was subject to their vigilance. But not a trace could be discovered. He was gone; whether he had fled to America, or concealed himself nearer home on the Continent, no one could make a guess. Mr. Clifford remained in Riversborough, and resumed his position as head of the firm. He had returned with the intention of doing so, having heard abroad of the extravagant manner in which his junior partner was living. The bank, though seriously crippled in its credit and resources, was in no danger of insolvency, and there seemed no reason why it should not regain its former prosperity, if only confidence could be restored. He had reserved to himself the power of taking in another partner, if he should deem it advisable; and an eligible one presenting himself, in the person of a Manchester man of known wealth, the deeds of partnership were drawn up, and the Old Bank was once more set up on a firm basis. During the time that elapsed while these arrangements were being made, Felicita was visibly suffering, and failing in health. So sensitive had she grown to the dread of seeing any one not in the immediate circle of her household, that it became impossible to her to leave her home. The clear colorlessness of her face had taken on a transparency and delicacy which did not lessen its beauty, but added to it an unearthly grace. She no longer spent hours alone in her desecrated room; it had grown intolerable to her; but she sat speechless, and almost motionless, in the oriel window overlooking the garden and the river; and Felix, a child of dreamy and sensitive temperament, would sit hour after hour at her feet, pressing his cheek against her knee, or with his uplifted eyes gazing into her face. "Mother," he said one day, when Roland had been gone more than a month, "how long will my father be away on his journey? Doesn't he ever write to you, and send messages to me? Grandmamma says she does not know how soon he will be back. Do you know, mother?" Felicita looked down on him with her beautiful dark eyes, which seemed larger and sadder than of old, sending a strange thrill through the boy's heart, and for a minute or two she seemed uncertain what to say. "I cannot tell you, Felix," she answered; "there are many things in life which children cannot understand. If I told you what was true about your father, your little brain would turn it into an untruth. You could not understand it if I told you." "But I shall understand it some day," he said, lifting his head up proudly; "will you tell me when I am old enough, mother?" How could she promise him to do that? This proud young head, tossed back with the expectant triumph of some day knowing all that his father and mother knew, must be bowed down with grief and shame then, as hers was now. It was a sad knowledge he must inherit. How would she ever be able to tell him that the father who had given him life, and whose name he bore, was a criminal; a convict if he was arrested and brought to judgment; an outlaw and an exile if he made good his escape? Roland had never been as dear to her as Felix was. She was one of those women who love more deeply and tenderly as mothers than as wives. To see that bright, fond face of his clouded with disgrace would be a ceaseless torment to her. There would be no suffering to compare with it. "But you will tell me all about it some day, mother," urged the boy. "If I ever tell you," she answered, "it will be when you are a man, and can understand the whole truth. You will never hear me tell a falsehood, Felix." "I know that, mother," he replied, "but oh! I miss my father! He used to come to my bedside at nights, and kiss me, and say 'God bless you.' I tried always to keep awake till he came; but I was asleep the last time of all, and missed him. Sometimes I feel frightened, as if he would never come again. But grandmamma says he is gone on a long journey, and will come home some day, only she doesn't know when. Phebe cries when I ask her. Would it be too much trouble for you to come in at night sometimes, like my father did?" he asked timidly. "But I am not like your father," she answered. "I could not say 'God bless you' in the same way. You must ask God yourself for His blessing." For Felicita's soul had been thrust down into the depths of darkness. Her early training had been simply and solely for this world: how to make life here graceful and enjoyable. She could look back upon none but the vaguest aspirations after something higher in her girlhood. It had been almost like a new revelation to her to see her mother-in-law's simple and devout piety, and to witness her husband's cheerful and manly profession of religion. This was the point in his character which had attracted her most, and had been most likely to bind her to him. Not his passionate love to herself, but his unselfishness toward others, his apparently happy religion, his energetic interest in all good and charitable schemes--these had reconciled her more than anything else to the step she had taken, the downward step, in marrying him. This unconscious influence of Roland's life and character had been working secretly and slowly upon her nature for several years. They were very young when they were married, and her first feeling of resentment toward her own family for pressing on the marriage had at the outset somewhat embittered her against her young husband. But this had gradually worn away, and Felicita had never been so near loving him heartily and deeply as during the last year or two, when it was evident that his attachment to her was as loyal and as tender as ever. He had almost won her, when he staked all and lost all. For now, she asked herself, what was the worth of all this religion, which presented so fair a face to her? She had a delicate sense of honor and truthfulness, which never permitted her to swerve into any byways of expediency or convenience. What use was Roland's religion without truthfulness and honor? She said to herself that there was no excuse for him even feeling tempted to deal with another man's property. It ought to have been as impossible to him as it was impossible to her to steal goods from a tradesman's counter. Was it possible to serve God--and Roland professed to serve Him--yet cheat his fellow-men? The service of God itself must then be a vanity--a mere bubble, like all the other bubbles of life. It had never been her habit to speak out her thoughts, even to her husband. Speech seemed an inefficient and blundering medium of communication, and she found it easier to write than to talk. There was a natural taciturnity about her which sealed her lips, even when her children were prattling to her. Only in writing could she give expression to the multitude of her thoughts within her; and her letters were charming, and of exceeding interest. But in this great crisis in her life she could not write. She would sit for hours vainly striving to arouse her languid brain. It seemed to her that she had lost this gift also in the utter ruin that had overtaken her. Felicita's white, silent, benumbed grief, accepting the conviction of her husband's guilt with no feminine contradicting or loud lamenting, touched Mr. Clifford with more pity than he felt for Madame, who bore her son's mysterious absence with a more simple and natural sorrow. There was something irritating to him in the fact that Roland's mother ignored the accusation he made against him. But when Roland had been away three months, and the police authorities had given up all expectation of discovering anything by watching his home and family, Mr. Clifford felt that it was time something should be arranged which would deliver Felicita from her voluntary imprisonment. "Why do you not go away?" he asked her; "you cannot continue to live mewed up here all your days. If Roland should be found, it would be better for you not to be in Riversborough. And I for one have given up the expectation that he will be found; the only chance is that he may return and give himself up. Go to some place where you are not known. There is Scarborough; take Madame and the children there for a few months, and then settle in London for the winter. Nobody will know you in London." "But how can we leave this house?" she said, with a gleam of light in her sad eyes. "Let me come in just as it is," he answered. "I will pay you a good rent for it, and you can take a part of the furniture to London, to make your new dwelling there more like home. It would be a great convenience to me, and it would be the best thing for you, depend upon it. If Roland returns he never will live here again." "No, he could never do that," she said, sighing deeply. "Mr. Clifford, sometimes I think he must be dead." "I have thought so too," he replied gravely; "and if it were so, it would be the salvation of you and your children. There would be no public trial and conviction, and though suspicion might always rest upon his memory, he would not be remembered for long. Justice would be defrauded, yet on the whole I should rejoice for your sake to hear that he was dead." Felicita's lips almost echoed the words. Her heart did so, though it smote her as she recollected his passionate love for her. But Mr. Clifford's speech sank deeply into her mind, and she brooded over it incessantly. Roland's death meant honor and fair fame for herself and her children; his life was perpetual shame and contempt to them. It was soon settled that they must quit Riversborough; but though Felicita welcomed the change, and was convinced it would be the best thing to do, Madame grieved sorely over leaving the only home which had been hers, except the little manse in the Jura, where her girlhood had passed swiftly and happily away. She had brought with her the homely, thrifty ways in which she had been trained, and every spot in her husband's dwelling had been taken under her own care and supervision. Her affections had rooted themselves to the place, and she had never dreamed of dying anywhere else than among the familiar scenes which had surrounded her for more than thirty years. The change too could not be made without her consent, for her marriage settlement was secured upon the house, and her husband had left to her the right of accepting or refusing a tenant. To leave the familiar, picturesque old mansion, and to carry away with her only a few of the household treasures, went far to break her heart. "It is where my husband intended for me to live and die," she moaned to Phebe Marlowe; "and, oh, if I go away I can never fancy I see him sitting in his own chair as he used to do, at the head of the table, or by the fire. I have not altogether lost him, though he's gone, as long as I can think of how he used to come in and go out of this room, always with a smile for me. But if I go where he never was, how can I think I see him there? And my son will be angry if we go; he will come back, and clear up all this mystery, and he will think we went away because we thought he had done evil. Ought we not to come home again after we have been to Scarborough?" "I think Mrs. Sefton will die if she stays here," said Phebe. "It is necessary for her to make this change; and you'd rather go with her and the children than live here alone without them." "Oh, yes, yes!" answered Madame; "I cannot leave my little Felix and Hilda, or Felicita: she is my son's dear wife. But he will come home some day, and we can return then; you hope so, don't you, Phebe?" "If God pleases!" said Phebe, sighing. "In truth, if God pleases!" repeated Madame. When the last hour came in which Phebe could see Roland's wife, she sought for her in her study, where she was choosing the books to be sent after her. In the very words in which Roland had sent his message he delivered it to Felicita. The cold, sad, marble-like face did not change, though her heart gave a throb of disappointment and anguish as the dread hope that he was no longer alive died out of it. "I will meet him there," she said. But she asked Phebe no questions, and did not tell her where she was to meet her husband. CHAPTER XI. OLD MARLOWE. Life had put on for Phebe a very changed aspect. The lonely farmstead on the uplands had been till now a very happy and tranquil home. She had had no sorrow since her mother died when she was eight years of age, too young to grieve very sorely. On the other hand, she was not so young as to require a woman's care, and old Marlowe had made her absolute mistress of the little home. His wife, a prudent, timid woman, had always repressed his artistic tendencies, preferring the certainty of daily bread to the vague chances of gaining renown and fortune. Old Marlowe, so marred and imperfect in his physical powers, had submitted to her shrewd, ignorant authority, and earned his living and hers by working on his little farm and going out occasionally as a carpenter. But when she was gone, and his little girl's eyes only were watching him at his work, and the child's soul delighted in all the beautiful forms his busy hands could fashion, he gave up his out-door toil, and, with all the pent-up ardor of the lost years, he threw himself absorbingly into the pleasant occupation of the present. Though he mourned faithfully for his wife, the woman who had given to him Phebe, he felt happier and freer without her. Phebe's girlhood also had been both free and happy. All the seasons had been sweet to her: dear to her was "the summer, clothing the general earth with greenness," and the winter, when "the redbreast sits and sings be-twixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch of the mossy apple-tree." She had listened to "the eave-drops falling in the trances of the blast," and seen them "hang in silent icicles, quietly shining to the quiet moon." There had been no change in nature unnoticed or unbeloved by her. The unbroken silence reigning around her, heightened by the mute speech between herself and her father, which needed eyes only, not lips, had grown so familiar as to be almost dear to her, in spite of her strong delight in fellowship with others. The artistic temperament she had inherited from her father, which very early took vivid pleasure in expressing itself in color as well as in form, had furnished her with an occupation of which she could never tire. As long as there was light in the sky, long after the sun had gone down, in the lingering twilight, loath to forsake the uplands, she was at her canvas catching the soft gray tones, and dim-colored tints, and clearer masses of foliage, which only the evening could show. To supply her need of general companionship there had been so full and satisfying a sense of friendship between herself and the household at the Old Bank at Riversborough that one day spent with them gave her thought for a month. Every word uttered by Roland and Felicita was treasured up in her memory and turned over in her mind for days after. Madame's simple and cheerful nature made her almost like a mother to the simple and cheerful country girl; and Felix and Hilda had been objects of the deepest interest to her from the days of their birth. But it was Roland, who had known her best and longest, to whom she owed the direction and cultivation of her tastes and intellect, who had been almost like a god to her in her childhood; it was he who dominated over her simple heart the most. He was to Phebe so perfect that she had never imagined that there could be a fault in him. There is one token to us that we are meant for a higher and happier life than this, in the fact that sorrow and sin always come upon us as a surprise. Happy days do not astonish us, and the goodness of our beloved ones awakens no amazement. But if a sorrow comes we cry aloud to let our neighbors know something untoward has befallen us; and if one we love has sinned, we feel as if the heavens themselves were darkened. It was so with Phebe Marlowe. All her earthly luminaries, the greater lights and the lesser lights, were under an eclipse, and a strange darkness had fallen upon her. For the first time in her life she found herself brooding over the sin of one who had been her guide, her dearest friend, her hero. From the time when as a child she had learned to look up to him as the paragon of all perfection, until now, as a girl on the verge of womanhood, she had offered up to him a very pure and maidenly worship. There was no one else whom she could love as much; for her dumb and deaf father she loved in quite a different manner--with more of pity and compassion than of admiration. Roland too had sometimes talked with her, especially while she was a child, about God and Christ; and she had regarded him as a spiritual director. Now her guide was lost in the dense darkness. There was no sure example for her to follow. She had told her father he would never see her smile again if Roland Sefton was taken to jail. There had been, of course, an implied promise in this, but the promise was broken. Old Marlowe looked in vain for the sweet and merry smiles that had been used to play upon her face. She was too young and too unversed in human nature to know how jealously her father would watch her, with inward curses on him who had wrought the change. When he saw her stand for an hour or more, listlessly gazing with troubled, absent eyes across the wide-spreading moor, with its broad sweep of deep-purpled bloom, and golden gorse, and rich green fern, yet taking no notice, nor hastening to fix the gorgeous hues upon her canvas while the summer lasted; and when he watched her in the long dusk of the autumn evenings sit motionless in the chimney corner opposite to him, her fingers lying idly on her lap instead of busily prattling some merry nonsense to him, and with a sad preoccupation in her girlish face; then he felt that he had received his own death-blow, and had no more to live for. The loss of his hard-earned money had taken a deeper hold upon him than a girl so young as Phebe could imagine. For what is money to a young nature but the merest dross, compared with the love and faith it has lavished upon some fellow-mortal? While she was mourning over the shipwreck of all her best affections, old Marlowe was brooding over his six hundred pounds. They represented so much to him, so many years of toil and austere self-denial. He had risen early, and late taken rest, and eaten the bread of carefulness. His grief was not all ignoble, for it was for his girl he grieved most; his wonderful child, so much more gifted than the children of other men, whom nature had treated more kindly than himself, men who could hear and speak, but whose daughters were only commonplace creatures. The money was hers, not his; and it was too late now for him to make up the heavy loss. The blow which had deprived him of the fruits of his labor seemed to have incapacitated him for further work. Moreover, Phebe was away oftener than usual: gone to the house of the spoiler. Nor did she come home, as she had been wont to do, with radiant eyes, and a soft, sweet smile coming and going, and many a pleasant piece of news to tell off on her nimble fingers. She returned with tear-stained eyelids and a downcast air, and was often altogether silent as to the result of the day's absence. He strove, notwithstanding a haunting dread of failure, to resume his old occupation. Doggedly every morning he put on his brown paper cap, and went off to his crowded little workshop, but with unequal footsteps, quite unlike his former firm tread. But it would not do. He stood for hours before his half-shaped blocks of oak, with birds and leaves and heads partly traced upon them; but he found himself powerless to complete his own designs. Between him and them stood the image of Phebe, a poverty-stricken, work-worn woman, toiling with her hands, in all weathers, upon their three or four barren fields, which were now the only property left to him. It had been pleasant to him to see her milk the cows, and help him to fetch in the sheep from the moors; but until now he had been able to pay for the rougher work on the farmstead. His neighbor, Samuel Nixey, had let his laborers do it for him, since he had kept his own hands and time for his artistic pursuit. But he could afford this no longer, and the thought of the next winter's work which lay before him and Phebe harassed him terribly. "Father," she said to him one evening, after she had been at Riversborough, "they are all going away--Mrs. Sefton, and Madame, and the children. They are going Scarborough, and after that to London, never to come back. I shall not see them again." "Thank God!" thought the dumb old man, and his eyes gleamed brightly from under their thick gray eyebrows. But he did not utter the words, so much less easy was it for his fingers to betray his thoughts than it would have been for his lips. And Phebe did not guess them. "Is there any news of him?" he asked. "Not a word," she answered. "Mr. Clifford has almost given it up. He is an unforgiving man, an awful man." "No, no; he is a just man," said old Marlowe; "he wants nothing but his own again, like me, and that a scoundrel should not get off scot free. I want my money back; it's not money merely, but my years, and my brain, and my love for thee, and my power to work: that's what he has robbed me of. Let me have my money back, and I'll forgive him." "Poor father!" said Phebe aloud, with a little sob. How easy it seemed to her to forgive a wrong that could be definitely stated at six hundred pounds! All her inward grief was that Roland had fallen--he himself. If by a whole sacrifice of herself she could have reinstated him in the place he had forfeited, she would not have hesitated for an instant. But no sacrifice she could make would restore him. "Does Mrs. Sefton know what he has done?" inquired her father. She nodded only in reply. "Does she believe him innocent?" he asked. "No," answered Phebe. "And Madame, his mother?" he pursued. "No, no, no! she cannot believe him guilty," she replied; "she thinks he could free himself, if he would only come home. She is far happier than Mrs. Sefton or me. I would lay down my life to have him true and honest and good again, as he used to be. I feel as if I was in a miserable dream." They were sitting together outside their cottage-door, with the level rays of the setting sun shining across the uplands upon them, and the fresh air of the evening breathing upon their faces. It was an hour they both loved, but neither of them felt its beauty and tranquillity now. "You love him next to me?" asked old Marlowe. "Next to you, father," she repeated. But the subtle jealousy in the father's heart whispered that his daughter loved these grand friends of hers more than himself. What could he be to her, deaf mute that he was? What could he do for her? All he had done had been swept away by the wrong-doing of this fine gentleman, for whom she was willing to lay down her life. He looked at her with wistful eyes, longing to hold closer, swifter communication with her than could be held by their slow finger-speech. How could he ever make her know all the love and pride pent up in his voiceless heart? Phebe, in her girlish, blind preoccupation, saw nothing of his eager, wistful gaze, did not even notice the nervous trembling of his stammering fingers; and the old man felt thrown back upon himself, in more utter loneliness of spirit than his life had ever experienced before. Yet he was not so old a man, for he was little over sixty, but his hard life of incessant toil and his isolation from his fellow-creatures had aged him. This bitter calamity added many years to his actual age, and he began to realize that his right hand was forgetting its cunning, his eye for beauty was growing dim, and his craft failing him. The long, light summer days kept him for a while from utter hopelessness. But as the autumn winds began to moan and mutter round the house he told himself that his work was done, and that soon Phebe would be a friendless and penniless orphan. "I ought not to have let Roland Sefton go," he thought to himself; "if I'd done my duty he would have been paying for his sin now, and maybe there would have been some redress for us that lost by him. None of his people will come to poverty like my Phebe. I could have held up my head if I had not helped him to escape from punishment." CHAPTER XII. RECKLESS OF LIFE. If old Marlowe, or Mr. Clifford himself, could have followed Roland Sefton during his homeless wanderings, their rigorous sense of justice would have been satisfied that he was not escaping punishment, though he might elude the arbitrary penalty of the law. As the summer advanced, and the throng of yearly tourists poured into the playground of Europe from every country, but especially from England, he was driven away from all the towns and villages where he might by chance be recognized by some fellow-countryman. Up into the mountain pastures he retreated, where he rambled from one chalet to another, sleeping on beds of fodder, with its keen night air piercing through the apertures of the roof and walls, yet bringing with it those intolerable stenches which exhale from the manure and mire lying ankle-deep round each picturesque little hut. The yelping of the watch-dogs; the snoring of the tired herdsmen lying within arm's length of him; the shrill tinkling of cow-bells, musical enough by day and in the distance, but driving sleep away too harshly; the sickness and depression produced by unwholesome food, and the utter compulsory abandonment of all his fastidious and dainty personal habits, made his mere bodily life intolerable to him. He had borne something like these discomforts and privations for a day or two at a time, when engaged in Alpine climbing, but that he should be forced to live a life compared with which that of an Irish bog-trotter was decent and civilized, was a daily torment to him. It is true that during the long hours of daylight he wandered among the most sublime scenery. Sometimes he scaled solitary peaks and looked down upon far-stretching landscapes below him, with broad dead rivers of glaciers winding between the high and terrible masses of snow-clad rocks, and creeping down into peaceful valleys, where little living streams of silvery gray wandered among chalets looking no larger than the rocks strewn around them, with a tiny church in their midst lifting up its spire of glittering metal with a kind of childish confidence and exultation. Here and there in deep sunken hollows lay small tarns, black as night, and guilty looking, with precipices overhanging them fringed with pointed pine-trees, which sought in vain to mirror themselves in those pitch-dark waters. And above them all, gazing down in silent greatness, rose the snow-mountains, very cold, whiter than any other whiteness on earth, pure and stainless, and apparently as unapproachable in their far-off loveliness as the deep blue of the pure sky behind them. But there was something unutterably awful to Roland Sefton in this sublimity. A bad man, whose ear has never heard the voice of Nature, and whose eye is blind to her ineffable beauty, may dwell in such places and not be crushed by them. The dull herdsmen, thinking only of their cattle and of the milking to be done twice a day, might live their own stupid, commonplace lives there. The chance visitor who spent a few hours in scaling difficult cliffs would perhaps catch a brief and fleeting sense of their awfulness, only too quickly dissipated by the unwonted toil and peril of his situation. But Roland Sefton felt himself exiled to their ice-bound solitudes, cut off from all companionship, and attended only by an accusing conscience. Morning after morning, when his short and feverish night was ended, he went out in the early dawn while all the valleys below were still slumbering in darkness, self-driven into the wilderness of rock and snow rising above the wretched chalets. With coarse food sufficient for the wants of the day he strayed wherever his aimless footsteps led him. It was seldom that he stayed more than a night or two in the same herdsman's hut. When he was well out of the track of tourists he ventured down into the lower villages now and then, seeking a few days of comparative comfort. But some rumor, or the arrival of some chance traveller more enterprising and investigating than the mass, always drove him away again. There was no peace for him, either in the high Alps or the most secluded valleys. How could there be peace while memory and conscience were gnawing at his heart? In a dreary round his thoughts went back to the first beginnings of the road that had led him hither; with that vague feeling which all of us have when retracing the irrevocable past, as if by some mighty effort of our will we could place ourselves at the starting-point again and run our race--oh, how differently! Roland could almost fix the date when he had first wished that Mr. Clifford's bonds, bequeathed to him, were already his own. He recollected the very day when old Marlowe had asked him to invest his money for him in some safe manner for Phebe's benefit, and how he had persuaded himself that nothing could be safer than to use it for his own purposes, and to pay a higher interest than the old man could get elsewhere. What he had done for him had been still easier to do for other clients--ignorant men and women who knew nothing of business, and left it all to him, gratefully pleased with the good interest he paid them. The web had been woven with almost invisible threads at the first, but the finest thread among them was a heavy cable now. But the one thought that haunted him, never leaving him for an instant in these terrible solitudes, was the thought of Felicita. His mother he could forget sometimes, or remember her with a dewy tenderness at his heart, as if he could feel her pitiful love clinging to him still; and his children he dreamed of at times in a day-dream, as playing merrily without him, in the blissful ignorance of childhood. But Felicita, who did not love him as his mother did, and could not remain in ignorance of his crime! Was she not something like these pure, distant snowy pinnacles, inapproachable and repellent, with icy-cold breath which petrified all lips that drew too near to them? And he had set a stain upon that purity as white as the driven snow. The name he had given to her was tarnished, and would be publicly dishonored if he failed in evading the penalty he merited. His death alone could save her from notorious and intolerable disgrace. But though he was reckless of his life, he could not bring himself to be guilty of suicide. Death was wooing him in many forms, day by day, to seek refuge with him. When his feet slipped among the yawning crevasses of the glaciers, the smallest wilful negligence would have buried him in their blue depths. The common impulse to cast himself down the precipices along whose margin he crept had only to be yielded to, and all his earthly woe would be over. Even to give way to the weary drowsiness that overtook him at times as the sun went down, and the night fell upon him far away from shelter, might have soothed him into the slumber from which there is no awaking. But he dared not. He was willing enough to die, if dying had been all. But he believed in the punishment of sin here, or hereafter; in the dealing out of a righteous judgment to every man, whether he be good or evil. As the autumn passed by, and the mountain chalets were shut up, the cattle and the herdsmen descending to the lower pastures, Roland Sefton was compelled to descend too. There was little chance of encountering any one who knew him at this late season; yet there were still stragglers lingering among the Alps. But when he saw himself again in a looking-glass, his face burned and blistered with the sun, and now almost past recognition, and his ragged hair and beard serving him better than any disguise, he was no longer afraid of being detected. He began to wonder in mingled hope and dread whether Felicita would come out to seek him. The message he had sent to her by Phebe could be interpreted by her alone. Would she avail herself of it to find him out? Or would she shrink from the toil and pain and danger of quitting England? A few weeks more would answer the question. Sometimes he was overwhelmed with terror lest she should be watched, and her movements tracked, and that behind her would come the pursuers he had so successfully evaded. At other times an unutterable heart-sickness possessed him to see her once more, to hear her voice, to press his lips, if he dared, to her pale cheeks; to discover whether she would suffer him to hold her in his arms for one moment only. He longed to hear from her lips what had happened at home since he fled from it six months ago; what she had done, and was going to do, supposing that he were not arrested and brought to justice. Would she forgive him? would she listen to his pleas and explanations? He feared that she would hate him for the shame he had brought upon her. Yet there was a possibility that she might pity him, with a pity so much akin to love as that with which the angels look down upon sinful human beings. Every day brought the solution of his doubts nearer. The rains of autumn had begun, and fell in torrents, driving him to any shelter he could find, to brood there hour after hour upon these hopes and fears. The fog and thick clouds hid the mountains, and all the valleys lay forlorn and cold under clinging veils of mist, through which the few brown leaves left upon the trees hung limp and dying on the bare branches. The villagers were settling down to their winter life; and though along the frequented routes a few travellers were still passing to and fro, the less known were deserted. It was safe now to go down to Engelberg, where, if ever again except as a prisoner in the hands of justice, he would see Felicita. Impatient to anticipate the day on which he might again see her, he reached Engelberg a week before the appointed time. The green meadows and the forests of the little valley were hidden in mist and rain, and the towering dome of the Titlis was folded from sight in dense clouds, with only a cold gleam now and then as its snowy summit glanced through them for a minute. The innumerable waterfalls were swollen, and fell with a restless roar through the black depths of the forests. The daylight was short, for the sun rose late behind the encircling mountains, and hastened to sink again below them. But the place where he had first met Felicita was dear to him, though dark and gloomy with the cloudy days. He hastened to the church where his eyes had fallen upon the young, silent, absorbed girl so many years ago; and here, where the sun was shining fitfully for a brief half hour, he paced up and down the aisles, wondering what the coming interview would bring. Day after day he lingered there, with the loud chanting of the monks ringing in his ears, until the evening came when he said to himself, "To-morrow I shall see her once more." CHAPTER XIII. SUSPENSE. Roland Sefton did not sleep that night. As the time drew near for Felicita to act upon his message to her, he grew more desponding of her response to it; yet he could not give up the feeble hope still flickering in his heart. If she did not come he would be a hopeless outcast indeed; yet if she came, what succor could she bring to him? He had not once cherished the idea that Mr. Clifford would forbear to prosecute him; yet he knew well that if he could be propitiated, the other men and women who had claims upon him would be easily satisfied and appeased. But how many things might have happened during the long six months, which had seemed almost an eternity to him. It was not impossible that Mr. Clifford might be dead. If so, and if a path was thus open to him to re-enter life, how different should his career be in the future! How warily would he walk; with what earnest penitence and thorough uprightness would he order all his ways! He would be what he had only seemed to be hitherto: a man following Christ, as his forefathers had done. He was staying at a quiet inn in the village, and as soon as daybreak came he started down the road along which Felicita must come, and waited at the entrance of the valley, four miles from the little village. The road was bad, for the heavy rains had washed much of it away, and it had been roughly repaired by fir-trees laid along the broken edges; but it was not impassable, and a one-horse carriage could run along it safely. The rain had passed away, and the sun was shining. The high mountains and the great rocks were clear from base to summit. If she came to-day there was a splendid scene prepared for her eyes. Hour after hour passed by, the short autumnal day faded into the dusk, and the dusk slowly deepened into the blackness of night. Still he waited, late on into the night, till the monastery bells chimed for the last time; but there was no sign of her coming. The next day passed as that had done. Felicita, then, had deserted him! He felt so sure of Phebe that he never doubted that she had not received his message. He had left only one thread of communication between himself and home--a slender thread--and Felicita had broken it. There was now no hope for him, no chance of learning what had befallen all his dear ones, unless he ran the risk of discovery, and ventured back to England. But for Felicita and his children, he said to himself, it would be better to go back, and pay the utmost penalty he owed to the broken laws of his country. No hardships could be greater than those he had already endured; no separation from companionship could be more complete. The hard labor he would be doomed to perform would be a relief. His conscience might smite him less sharply and less ceaselessly if he was suffering the due punishment for his sin, in the society of his fellow-criminals. Dartmoor Prison would be better for him than his miserable and degrading freedom. Still, as long as he could elude publicity and preserve his name from notoriety, the burden would not fall upon Felicita and his children. His mother would not shrink from bearing her share of any burden of his. But he must keep out of the dock, lest their father and husband should be branded as a convict. A dreary round his thoughts ran. But ever in the centre of the circling thoughts lay the conviction that he had lost his wife and children forever. Whether he dragged out a wretched life in concealment, or was discovered, or gave himself up to justice, Felicita was lost to him. There were some women--Phebe Marlowe was one--who could have lived through the shame of his conviction and the dreary term of his imprisonment, praying to God for her husband, and pitying him with a kind of heavenly grace, and at the end of the time met him at the prison door, and gone out with him, tenderly and faithfully, to begin a new life in another country. But Felicita was not one of these women. He could never think of her as pardoning a transgression like his, though committed for her sake. Even now she would not stoop so low as to seek a meeting with one who deserved a penal punishment. Night had set in, and he was trudging along the road, still heavy with recent rains, though the sky above was hung with glittering stars, and the crystal snow on Titlis shone against the deep blue depths, casting a wan light over the valley. Suddenly upon the stillness there came the sound of several voices, and a shrill yodel, pitched in a key that rang through the village, to call attention to the approaching party. It was in advance of him, nearer to Engelberg; yet though he had been watching the route from Stans all day, and was satisfied that Felicita could not have entered the valley unseen by himself, the hope flashed through him that she was before him, belated by the state of the roads. He hurried on, seeing before him a small group of men carrying lanterns. But in their midst they bore a rude litter, made of a gate taken hastily off the hinges. They passed out of sight behind a house as he caught sight of the litter, and for a minute or two he could not follow them, from the mere shock of dread lest the litter held her. Then he hurried on, and reached the hotel door as the procession marched into the hall and laid their burden cautiously down. "An accident?" said the landlord. "Yes," answered one of the peasants; "we found him under Pfaffenwand. He must have been coming from Engstlensee Alp; how much farther the good God alone knows. The paths are slippery this wet weather, and he had no guide, or there was no guide to be seen." "That must be searched into," said the landlord; "is he dead?" "No, no," replied two or three together. "He has spoken twice," continued the peasant who had answered before, "and groaned much. But none of us knew what he said. He is dying, poor fellow!" "English?" asked the landlord, looking down on the scarred face and eager eyes of the stranger, who lay silent on the litter, glancing round uneasily at the faces about him. "Some of us would have known French, or German, or Italian," was the reply, "but not one of us knows English." "Nor I," said the landlord; "and our English speaker went away last week, over the St. Gothard to Italy for the winter. Send round, Marie," he went on, speaking to his wife, "and find out any one in Engelberg who knows English. See! The poor fellow is trying to say something now." "I can speak English," said Roland, pushing his way in amid the crowd and kneeling down beside the litter, on which a rough bed of fir pine-branches had been made. The unknown face beneath his eyes was drawn with pain, and the gaze that met his was one of earnest entreaty. "I am dying," he murmured; "don't let them torture me. Only let me be laid on a bed to die in peace." "I will take care of you," said Roland in his pleasant and soothing voice, speaking as tenderly as if he had been saying "God bless you!" to Felix in his little cot; "trust yourself to me. They shall do for you only what I think best." The stranger closed his eyes with an expression of relief, and Roland, taking up one corner of the litter, helped to carry it gently into the nearest bedroom. He was gifted with something of a woman's softness of touch, and with a woman's delicate sympathy with pain; and presently, though not without some moans and cries, the injured man was resting peacefully on a bed: not unconscious, but looking keenly from face to face on the people surrounding him. "Are you English?" he asked, looking at Roland's blistered face and his worn peasant's dress. "Yes," he answered. "Is there any surgeon here?" he inquired. "No English surgeon," replied Roland. "I do not know if there is one even at Lucerne, and none could come to you for many hours. But there must be some one at the monastery close by, if not in the village--" "No, no!" he interrupted, "I shall not live many hours; but promise me--I am quite helpless as you see--promise me that you will not let any village doctor pull me about." "They are sometimes very skilful," urged Roland, "and you do not know that you must really die." "I knew it as I was slipping," he answered; "at the first moment I knew it, though I clutched at the very stones to keep me from falling. Why! I was dead when they found me; only the pain of being pulled about brought me back to life. I'm not afraid to die if they will let me die in peace." "I will promise not to leave you," replied Roland; "and if you must die, it shall be in peace." That he must die, and was actually dying, was affirmed by all about him. One of the brothers from the monastery, skilled in surgery, came in unrecognized as a doctor by the stranger, and shook his head hopelessly when he saw him, telling Roland to let him do whatever he pleased so long as he lived, and to learn all he could from him during the hours of the coming night. There was no hope, he said; and if he had not been found by the peasants he would have been dead now. Roland must ask if he was a good Catholic or a heretic. When the monk heard that he was a heretic and needed none of the consolations of the Church, he bade him farewell kindly, and went his way. Roland Sefton sat beside the dying man all the night, while he lingered from hour to hour: free from pain at times, at others restless and racked with agony. He wandered a little in delirium, and when his brain was clear he had not much to say. "Have you no message to send to your friends?" inquired Roland, in one of these lucid intervals. "I have no friends," he answered, "and no money. It makes death easier." "There must be some one who would care to hear of you," said Roland. "They'll see it in the papers," he replied. "No, I come from India, and was going to England. I have no near relations, and there is no one to care much. 'Poor Austin,' they'll say; 'he wasn't a bad fellow.' That's all. You've been kinder to me than anybody I know. There's about fifty pounds in my pocket-book. Bury me decently and take the rest." He dozed a little, or was unconscious for a few minutes. His sunburnt face, lying on the white pillow, still looked full of health and the promise of life, except when it was contracted with pain. There was no weakness in his voice or dimness in his eye. It seemed impossible to believe that this strong young man was dying. "I lost my valise when I fell," he said, opening his eyes again and speaking in a tranquil tone; "but there was nothing of value in it. My money and my papers are in my pocket-book. Let me see you take possession of it." He watched Roland search for the book in the torn coat on the chair beside him, and his eyes followed its transfer to his breast-pocket under his blue blouse. "You are an English gentleman, though you look a Swiss peasant," he said; "you are poor, perhaps, and my money will be of use to you. It is the only return I can make to you. I should like you to write down that I give it to you, and let me sign the paper." "Presently," said Roland; "you must not exert yourself. I shall find your name and address here?" "I have no address; of course I have a name," he answered; "but never mind that now. Tell me, what do you think of Christ? Does He indeed save sinners?" "Yes," said Roland reluctantly; "He says, 'I came to seek and to save that which was lost.' Those are His own words." "Kneel down quickly," murmured the dying man. "Say 'Our Father!' so that I can hear every word. My mother used to teach it to me." "And she is dead?" said Roland. "Years ago," he gasped. Roland knelt down. How familiar, with what a touch of bygone days, the attitude came to him; how homely the words sounded! He had uttered them innumerable times; never quite without a feeling of their sacredness and sweetness. But he had not dared to take them into his lips of late. His voice faltered, though he strove to keep it steady and distinct, to reach the dying ears that listened to him. The prayer brought to him the picture of his children kneeling, morning and evening, with the self-same petitions. They had said them only a few hours ago, and would say them again a few hours hence. Even the dying man felt there was something more than mere emotion for him expressed in the tremulous tones of Roland Sefton's voice. He held out his hand to him when he had finished, and grasped his warmly. "God bless you!" he said. But he was weary, and his strength was failing him. He slumbered again fitfully, and his mind wandered. Now and then during the rest of the night he looked up with a faint smile, and his lips moved inarticulately. He thought he had spoken, but no sound disturbed the unbroken silence. CHAPTER XIV. ON THE ALTAR STEPS. It was as the bells of the Abbey rang for matins that the stranger died. For a few minutes Roland remained beside him, and then he called in the women to attend to the dead, and went out into the fresh morning air. It was the third day that the mountains had been clear from fog and cloud, and they stood out against the sky in perfect whiteness. The snow-line had come lower down upon the slopes, and the beautiful crystals of frost hung on the tapering boughs of the pine-trees in the forests about Engelberg. Here and there a few villagers were going toward the church, and almost unconsciously Roland followed slowly in their track. The short service was over and the congregation was dispersing when he crossed the well-worn door-sill. But a few women, especially the late comers, were still scattered about praying mechanically, with their eyes wandering around them. The High Altar was deserted, but candles burning on it made a light in the dim place, and he listlessly sauntered up the centre aisle. A woman was kneeling on the steps leading up to it, and as the echo of his footsteps resounded in the quiet church she rose and looked round. It was Felicita! At that moment he was not thinking of her; yet there was no doubt or surprise in the first moment of recognition. The uncontrollable rapture of seeing her again arrested his steps, and he stood looking at her, with a few paces between them. It was plain that she did not know him. How could she know him, he thought bitterly, in the rough blue blouse and coarse clothing and heavy hobnail boots of a Swiss peasant? His hair was shaggy and uncut, and the skin of his face was so peeled and blistered and scorched that his disguise was sufficient to conceal him even from his wife. Yet as he stood there with downcast head, as a devout peasant might have done before the altar, he saw Felicita make a slight but imperious sign to him to advance. She did not take a step toward him, but leaning against the altar rails she waited till he was near to her, within hearing. There Roland paused. "Felicita," he said, not daring to draw closer to her. "I am here," she answered, not looking toward him; her large, dark, mournful eyes lifted up to the cross above the altar, before which a lamp was burning, whose light was reflected in her unshed tears. Neither of them spoke again for a while. It seemed as if there could be nothing said, so great was the anguish of them both. The man who had just died had passed away tranquilly, but they were drinking of a cup more bitter than death. Yet the few persons lingering over their morning devotions before the shrines in the side aisles saw nothing but a stranger looking at the painting over the altar, and a peasant kneeling on the lowest step deep in prayer. "I come from watching a fellow-man die," he said at last; "would to God it had been myself!" "Yes!" sighed Felicita, "that would have been best for us all." "You wish me dead!" he exclaimed, in a tone of anguish. "For the children's sake," she murmured, still looking away from him; "yes! and for the sake of our name, your father's name, and mine. I thought to bring honor to it, and you have brought flagrant dishonor to it." "That can never be wiped away," he added. "Never!" she repeated. As if exhausted by these passionate words, they fell again into silence. The murmur of whispered prayers was about them, and the faint scent of incense floated under the arched roof. A gleam of morning light, growing stronger, though the sun was still far below the eastern mountains, glittered through a painted window, and threw a glow of color upon them. Roland saw her standing in its many-tinted brightness, but her wan and sorrowful face was not turned to look at him. He had not caught a glance from her yet. How vividly he remembered the first moment his eyes had ever beheld her, standing as she did now on these very altar steps, with uplifted eyes and a sweet seriousness on her young face! It was only a poor village church, but it was the most sacred spot in the whole world to him; for there he had met Felicita and received her image into his inmost heart. His ambition as well as his love had centred in her, the penniless daughter of the late Lord Riversford, an orphan, and dependent upon her father's brother and successor. But to Roland his wife Felicita was immeasurably dearer than the girl Felicita Riversford had been. All the happy days since he had won her, all the satisfied desires, all his successes were centred in her and represented by her. All his crime too. "I have loved you," he cried, "better than the whole world." There was no answer by word or look to his passionate words. "I have loved you," he said, more sadly, "better than God." "But you have brought me to shame!" she answered; "if I am tracked here--and who can tell that I am not?--and if you are taken and tried and convicted, I shall be the wife of the fraudulent banker and condemned felon, Roland Sefton. And Felix and Hilda will be his children." "It is true," he groaned; "I could not escape conviction." He buried his face in his hands, and rested them on the altar-rails. Now his bowed-down head was immediately beneath her eyes, and she looked down upon it with a mournful gaze; it could not have been more mournful if she had been contemplating his dead face lying at rest in his coffin. How was all this shame and misery for him and her to end? "Felicita," he said, lifting up his head, and meeting the sorrowful farewell expression in her face, "if I could die it would be best for the children and you." "Yes," she answered, in the sweet, too dearly loved voice he had listened to in happy days. "I dare not open that door of escape for myself," he went on, "and God does not send death to me. But I see a way, a possible way. I only see it this moment; but whether it be for good or evil I cannot tell." "Will it save us?" she asked eagerly. "All of us," he replied. "This stranger, whose corpse I have just left--nobody knows him, and he has no friends to trouble about him--shall I give to him my name, and bury him as myself? Then I shall be dead to all the world, Felicita; dead even to you; but you will be saved. I too shall be safe in the grave, for death covers all sins. Even old Clifford will be satisfied by my death." "Could it be done?" she asked breathlessly. "Yes," he said; "if you consent it shall be done. For my own sake I would rather go back to England and deliver myself up to the law I have broken. But you shall decide, my darling. If I return you will be known as the wife of the convict Sefton. Say: shall I be henceforth dead forever to you and my mother and the children? Shall it be a living death for me, and deliverance and safety and honor for you all? You must choose between my infamy or my death." "It must be," she answered, slowly yet without hesitation, looking away from him to the cross above the altar, "your death." A shudder ran through her slight frame as she spoke, and thrilled through him as he listened. It seemed to them both as if they stood beside an open grave, on either side one, and parted thus. He stretched out his hand to her, and laid it on her dress, as if appealing for mercy; but she did not turn to him, or look upon him, or open her white lips to utter another word. Then there came more stir and noise in the church, footsteps sounded upon the pavement, and an inquisitive face peeped out of the vestry near the altar where they stood. It was no longer prudent to remain as they were, subject to curiosity and scrutiny. Roland rose from his knees, and without glancing again toward her, he spoke in a low voice of unutterable grief and supplication. "Let me see you and speak to you once more," he said. "Once more," she repeated. "This evening," he continued, "at your hotel." "Yes," she answered. "I am travelling under Phebe Marlowe's name. Ask for Mrs. Marlowe." She turned away and walked slowly and feebly down the aisle; and he watched her, as he had watched the light tread of the young girl eleven years ago, passing through alternate sunshine and shadow. There was no sunshine now. Was it possible that so long a time had passed since then? Could it be true that for ten years she had been his wife, and that the tie between them was forever dissolved? From this day he was to be dead to her and to all the world. He was about to pass voluntarily into a condition of death amid life, as utterly bereft of all that had once been his as if the grave had closed over him. Roland Sefton was to exist no more. CHAPTER XV. A SECOND FRAUD. Roland Sefton went back to the room in which the corpse of the stranger was now lying. The women were gone, and he turned down the sheet to look at the face of the man who was about to bear his name and the disgrace of his crime into the safe asylum of the grave. It was perfectly calm, with no trace of the night's suffering upon it; there was even a faint vestige of a smile about the mouth, as of one who sleeps well, and has pleasant dreams. He was apparently about Roland's own age, and a description given by strangers would not be such as would lead to any suspicion that there could have been a mistake as to identity. Roland looked long upon it before covering it up again, and then he sat down beside the bed and opened the pocket-book. There were notes in it worth fifty pounds, but not many papers. There was a memorandum made here and there of the places he had visited, and the last entry was dated the day before at Engstlenalp. Roland knew every step of the road, and for a while he seemed to himself to be this traveller, starting from the little inn, not yet vacated by its peasant landlord, but soon to be left to icy solitude, and taking the narrow path along the Engstlensee, toiling up the Joch pass under the mighty Wendenstöcke and the snowy Titlis, clear of clouds from base to summit yesterday. The traveller must have had a guide with him, some peasant or herdsman probably, as far as the Trübsee Alp; for even in summer the route was difficult to find. The guide had put him on to the path for Engelberg, and left him to make his way along the precipitous slopes of the Pfaffenwand. All this would be discovered when an official inquiry was made into the accident. In the mean time it was necessary to invest this stranger with his own identity. There were two or three well-worn letters in the pocket-book, but they contained nothing of importance. It seemed true, what the dying man had said, that there was no link of kinship or friendship binding him specially to his fellow-men. Roland opened his own pocket-book, and looked over a letter or two which he had carried about with him, one of them a childish note from Felix, preferring some simple request. His passport was there also, and his mother's portrait and those of the children, over which his eyes brooded with a hungry sorrow in his heart. He looked at them for the last time. But Felicita's portrait he could not bring himself to give up. She would be dead to him, and he to her. In England she would live among her friends as his widow, pitied, and comforted, and beloved. But what would the coming years bring to him? All that would remain to him of the past would be a fading photograph only. So long he lingered over this mournful conflict that he was at last aroused from it by the entrance of the landlord, and the mayor and other officials, who had come to look at the body of the dead. Roland's pocket-book lay open on the bed, and he was still gazing at the portraits of his children. He raised his sunburnt face as they came in, and rose to meet them. "This traveller," he said, "gave to me his pocket-book as I watched beside him last night. It is here, containing his passport, a few letters, and fifty pounds in notes, which he told me to keep, but which I wish to give to the commune." "They must be taken charge of," said the mayor; "but we will look over them first. Did he tell you who he was?" "The passport discloses that," answered Roland; "he desired only a decent funeral." "Ah!" said the mayor, taking out the passport, "an English traveller; name Roland Sefton; and these letters, and these portraits--they will be enough for identification." "He said he had no friends or family in England," pursued Roland, "and there is no address among his letters. He told me he came from India." "Then there need be no delay about the interment," remarked the mayor, "if he had no family in England, and was just come from India. Bah! we could not keep him till any friends came from India. It is enough. We must make an inquiry; but the corpse cannot be kept above ground. The interment may take place as soon as you please, Monsieur." "I suppose you will wish for some trifle as payment?" said the landlord, addressing Roland. "No," he answered, "I only watched by him through the night; and I am but a passing traveller like himself." "You will assist at the funeral?" he asked. "If it can be to-morrow," replied Roland; "if not I must go on to Lucerne. But I shall come back to Engelberg. If it be necessary for me to stay, and the commune will pay my expenses, I will stay." "Not necessary at all," said the mayor; "the accident is too simple, and he has no friends. Why should the commune lose by him?" "There are the fifty pounds," suggested Roland. "And there are the expenses!" said the mayor. "No, no. It is not necessary for you to stay; not at all. If you are coming back again to Engelberg it will be all right. You say you are coming back?" "I am sure to come back to Engelberg," he answered, with gloomy emphasis. For already Roland began to feel that he, himself, was dead, and a new life, utterly different from the old, was beginning for him. And this new life, beginning here, would often draw him back to its birth-place. There would be an attraction for him here, even in the humble grave where men thought they had buried Roland Sefton. It would be the only link with his former life, and it would draw him to it irresistibly. "And what is your name and employment, my good fellow?" asked the mayor. "Jean Merle," he answered promptly. "I am a wood-carver." The deed he had only thought of an hour ago was accomplished, and there could be no undoing it. This passport and these papers would be forwarded to the embassy at Berne, where doubtless his name was already known as a fugitive criminal. He could not reclaim them, for with them he took up again the burden of his sin. He had condemned himself to a penalty and sacrifice the most complete that man could think of, or put into execution. Roland Sefton was dead, and his wife and children were set free from the degradation he had brought upon them. He spent the remaining hours of the day in wandering about the forests in the Alpine valley. The autumn fogs and the dense rain-clouds were gathering again. But it was nothing to him that the snowy crests of the surrounding mountains were once more shrouded from view, or that the torrents and waterfalls which he could not see were thundering and roaring along their rocky channels with a vast effluence of waters. He saw and heard no more than the dead man who bore his name. He was insensible to hunger or fatigue. Except for Felicita's presence in the village behind him he would have felt himself in another world; in a beamless and lifeless abyss, where there was no creature like unto himself; only eternal gloom and solitude. It was quite dark before he passed again through the village on his way to Felicita's hotel. The common light of lamps, and the every-day life of ordinary men and women busy over their evening meal, astonished him, as if he had come from another state of existence. He lingered awhile, looking on as at some extraordinary spectacle. Then he went on to the hotel standing a little out of and above the village. The place, so crowded in the summer, was quiet enough now. A bright light, however, streamed through the window of the salon, which was uncurtained. He stopped and looked in at Felicita, who was sitting alone by the log fire, with her white forehead resting on her small hand, which partly hid her face. How often had he seen her sitting thus by the fireside at home! But though he stood without in the dark and cold for many minutes, she did not stir; neither hand nor foot moved. At last he grew terrified at this utter immobility, and stepping through the hall he told the landlady that the English lady had business with him. He opened the door, and then Felicita looked up. CHAPTER XVI. PARTING WORDS. Roland advanced a few paces into the gaudy salon, with its mirrors reflecting his and Felicita's figures over and over again, and stood still, at a little distance from her, with his rough cap in his hand. He looked like one of the herdsmen with whom he had been living during the summer. There was no one else in the large room, but the night was peering in through half a dozen great uncurtained windows, which might hold many spectators watching them, as he had watched her a minute ago. She scarcely moved, but the deadly pallor of her face and the dark shining of her tearless eyes fixed upon him made him tremble as if he had been a woman weaker than herself. "It is done," he said. "Yes," she answered, "I have been to see him." There was an accent in her voice, of terror and repugnance, as of one who had witnessed some horrifying sight and was compelled to bear a reluctant testimony to it. Roland himself felt a shock of antipathy at the thought of his wife seeing this unknown corpse bearing his name. He seemed to see her standing beside the dead, and looking down with those beloved eyes upon the strange face, which would dwell for evermore in her memory as well as his. Why had she subjected herself to this needless pang? "You wished it?" he said. "You consented to my plan?" "Yes," she answered in the same monotonous tone of reluctant testimony. "And it was best so, Felicita," he said tenderly; "we have done the dead man no wrong. Remember he was alone, and had no friends to grieve over his strange absence. If it had been otherwise there would have been a terrible sin in our act. But it has set you free; it saves you and my mother and the children. As long as I lived you would have been in peril; but now there is a clear, safe course laid open for you. You will go home to England, where in a few months it will be forgotten that your husband was suspected of crime. Only old Clifford, and Marlowe, and two or three others will remember it. When you have the means, repay those poor people the money I owe them. And take comfort, Felicita. It would have done them no good if I had been taken and convicted; that would not have restored their money. My name then will be clear of all but suspicion, and you will make it a name for our children to inherit." "And you?" she breathed with lips that scarcely moved. "I?" he said. "Why, I shall be dead! A man's life is not simply the breath he draws: it is his country, his honor, his home. You are my life, Felicita: you and my mother and Felix and Hilda; the old home where my forefathers dwelt; my townsmen's esteem and good-will; the work I could do, and hoped to do. Losing those I lost my life. I began to die when I first went wrong. The way seemed right in my own eyes, but the end of it was death. I told old Marlowe his money was as safe as in the Bank of England, when I was keeping it in my own hands; but I believed it then. That was the first step; this is the last. Henceforth I am dead." "But how will you live?" she asked. "Never fear; Jean Merle will earn his living," he answered. "Let us think of your future, my darling. Nay, let me call you darling once more. My death provides for you, for your marriage-settlement will come into force. You will have to live differently, my Felicita; all the splendor and the luxury I would have surrounded you with must be lost. But there will be enough, and my mother will manage your household well for you. Be kind to my poor mother, and comfort her. And do not let my children grow up with hard thoughts of their father. It will be a painful task to you." "Yes," she said. "Oh, Roland, we ought not to have done this thing!" "Yet you chose," he replied. "Yes; and I should choose it again, though I hate the falsehood," she exclaimed vehemently. "I cannot endure shame. But all our future life will be founded on a lie." "Let the blame be mine, not yours," he said; "it was my plan, and there is no going back from it now. But tell me about home. How are my children and my mother? They are still at home?" "No," she answered; "the police watched it day and night, till it grew hateful to me. I shall never enter it again. We went away to the sea-side three months ago, and there our mother and the children are still. But when I get back we shall remove to London." "To London!" he repeated. "Will you never go home to Riversborough?" "Never again!" she replied. "I could not live there now; it is a hateful spot to me. Your mother grieves bitterly over leaving it; but even she sees that we can never live there again." "I shall not even know how to think of you all!" he cried. "You will be living in some strange house, which I can never picture to myself. And the old home will be empty." "Mr. Clifford is living in it," she said. He threw up his hands with a gesture of grief and vexation. Whenever his thoughts flew to the old home, the only home he had ever known, it would be only to remember that the man he most dreaded, he who was his most implacable enemy, was dwelling in it. And when would he cease to think of his own birth-place and the birth-place of his children, the home where Felicita had lived? It would be impossible to blot the vivid memory of it from his brain. "I shall never see it again," he said; "but I should have felt less banished from you if I could have thought of you as still at home. We are about to part forever, Felicita--as fully as if I lay dead down yonder, as men will think I do." "Yes," she answered, with a mournful stillness. "Even if we wished to hold any intercourse with each other," he continued, gazing wistfully at her, "it would be dangerous to us both. It is best for us both to be dead to one another." "It is best," she assented; "only if you were ever in great straits, if you could not earn your living, you might contrive to let me know." "There is no fear of that," he answered bitterly. "Felicita, you never loved me as I love you." "No," she said, with the same inexpressible sadness, yet calmness, in her voice and face; "how could I? I was a child when you married me; we were both children. There is such a difference between us. I suppose I should never love any one very much--not as you mean. It is not in my nature. I can live alone, Roland. All of you, even the children, seem very far away from me. But I grieve for you in my inmost soul. If I could undo what you have done I would gladly lay down my life. If I could only undo what we did this morning! The shadow of it is growing darker and darker upon me. And yet it seemed so wise; it seems so still. We shall be safe again, all of us, and we have done that dead man no wrong." "None," he said. "But when I think of you," she went on, "how you, still living, will long to know what is befalling us, how the children are growing up, and how your mother is, and how I live, yet never be able to satisfy this longing; how you will have to give us up, and never dare to make a sign; how you will drag on your life from year to year, a poor man among poor, ignorant, stupid men; how I may die, and you not know it, or you may die, and I not know it; I wonder how we could have done what we did this morning." "Oh, hush, hush, Felicita!" he exclaimed; "I have said all this to myself all this day, until I feel that my punishment is harder than I can bear. Tell me, shall we undo it? Shall I go to the mayor and deliver myself up as the man whose name I have given to the dead? It can be done still; it is not too late. You shall decide again." "No; I cannot accept disgrace," she answered passionately; "it is an evil thing to do, but it must be done. We must take the consequences. You and I are dead to one another for evermore; but your death is more terrible than mine. I shall grieve over you more than if you were really dead. Why does not God send death to those that desire it? Good-by now forever, Roland. I return to England to act this lie, and you must never, never seek me out as your wife. Promise me that. I would repudiate you if I lay on my death-bed." "I will never seek you out and bring you to shame," he said; "I promise it faithfully, by my love for you. As I hope ever to obtain pardon, I promise it." "Then leave me," she cried; "I can bear this no longer. Good-by, Roland." They were still some paces apart, he with his shaggy mountain cap in his hand standing respectfully at a distance, and she, sitting by the low, open hearth with her white, quiet face turned toward him. All the village might have witnessed their interview through the uncurtained windows. Slowly, almost mechanically, Felicita left her seat and advanced toward him with an outstretched hand. It was cold as ice as he seized it eagerly in his own; the hand of the dead man could not have been colder or more lifeless. He held it fast in a hard, unconscious grip. "Good-by, my wife," he said; "God bless and keep you!" "Is there any God?" she sobbed. But there was a sound at the door, the handle was being turned, and they fell apart guiltily. A maid entered to tell Madame her chamber was prepared, and without another word Felicita walked quickly from the salon, leaving him alone. He caught a glimpse of her again the next morning as she came down-stairs and entered the little carriage which was to take her down to Stansstad in time to catch the boat to Lucerne. She was starting early, before it was fairly dawn, and he saw her only by the dim light of lamps, which burned but feebly in the chilly damp of the autumn atmosphere. For a little distance he followed the sound of the carriage wheels, but he arrested his own footsteps. For what good was it to pursue one whom he must never find again? She was gone from him forever. He was a young man yet, and she still younger. But for his folly and crime a long and prosperous life might have stretched before them, each year knitting their hearts and souls more closely together; and he had forfeited all. He turned back up the valley broken-hearted. Later in the day he stood beside the grave of the man who was bearing away his name from disgrace. The funeral had been hurried on, and the stranger was buried in a neglected part of the churchyard, being friendless and a heretic. It was quickly done, and when the few persons who had taken part in it were dispersed, Roland Sefton lingered alone beside the desolate grave. CHAPTER XVII. WAITING FOR THE NEWS. Felicita hurried homeward night and day without stopping, as if she had been pursued by a deadly enemy. Madame and the children were not at Scarborough, but at a quiet little fishing village on the eastern coast; for Felicita had found Scarborough too gay in the month of August, and her cousins, the Riversfords, having appeared there, she retreated to the quietest spot that could be found. To this village she returned, after being absent little more than a week. Madame knew nothing of her journey; but the mere fact that Felicita was going away alone had aroused in her the hope that it was connected in some way with Roland. In some vague manner this idea had been communicated to Felix, and both were expecting to see the long-lost father and son come back with her. Roland's prolonged and mysterious absence had been a sore trial to his mother, though her placid and trustful nature had borne it patiently. Surely, she thought, the trial was coming to an end. Felicita reached their lodgings utterly exhausted and worn out. She was a delicate woman, in no way inured to fatigue, and though she had been insensible to the overstrain of the unbroken journey as she was whirled along railways and passed from station to station, a sense of complete prostration seized upon her as soon as she found herself at home. Day after day she lay in bed, in a darkened room, unwilling to lift her voice above a whisper, waiting in a kind of torpid dread for the intelligence that she knew must soon come. She had been at home several days, and still there was no news. Was it possible, she asked herself, that this unknown traveller, and his calamitous fate, should pass on into perfect oblivion and leave matters as they were before? For a cloud would hang over her and her children as long as Roland was the object of pursuit. While he was a fugitive criminal, of interest to the police officers of all countries, there was no security for their future. The lie to which she had given a guilty consent was horrible to her, but her morbid dread of shame was more horrible. She had done evil that good might come; but if the good failed, the evil would still remain as a dark stain upon her soul, visible to herself, if to none else. "I will get up to-day," she said at last, to Madame's great delight. She never ventured to exert any authority over her beautiful and clever daughter-in-law--not even the authority of a mildly expressed wish. She was willing to be to Felicita anything that Felicita pleased--her servant and drudge, her fond mother, or her quiet, attentive companion. Since her return from her mysterious journey she had been very tender to her, as tenderly and gently demonstrative as Felicita would ever permit her to be. "Have you seen any newspapers lately?" asked Felicita. "I never read the papers, my love," answered Madame. "I should like to see to-day's _Times_," said Felicita. But it was impossible to get it in this village without ordering it beforehand, and Felicita gave up her wish with the listless indifference of an invalid. When the late sun of the November day had risen from behind a heavy bank of clouds she ventured down to the quiet shore. There were no visitors left beside themselves, so there were no curious eyes to scan her white, sad face. For a short time Felix and Hilda played about her; but by and by Madame, thinking she was weary and worried, allured them away to a point where they were still in sight, though out of hearing. The low, cold sun shed its languid and watery rays upon the rocks and creeping tide, and, unnoticed, almost unseen, Felicita could sit there in stillness, gazing out over the chilly and mournful sea. There was something so unutterably sad about Felicita's condition that it awed the simple, cheerful nature of Madame. It was more than illness and exhaustion. The white, unsmiling face, the drooping head, the languor of the thin, long hands, the fathomless sorrow lurking behind her dark eyes--all spoke of a heart-sickness such as Madame had never seen or dreamed of. The children did not cheer their mother. When she saw that, Madame felt that there was nothing to be done but to leave her in the cold solitude she loved. But as Felicita sat alone on the shore, looking listlessly at the fleeting sails which were passing to and fro upon the sea, she saw afar off the figure of a girl coming swiftly toward her from the village, and before many moments had passed she recognized Phebe Marlowe's face. A great throb of mingled relief and dread made her heart beat violently. Nothing could have brought Phebe away, so far from home, except the news of Roland's death. The rosy color on Phebe's face was gone, and the brightness of her blue eyes was faded; but there was the same out-looking of a strong, simple, unselfish soul shining through them. As she drew near to Felicita she stretched out her arms with the instinctive gesture of one who was come to comfort and support, and Felicita, with a strange, impulsive feeling that she brought consolation and help, threw herself into them. "I know it all," said Phebe in a low voice. "Oh, what you must have suffered! He was going to Engelberg to meet you, and you never saw him alive! Oh, why did not God let you meet each other once again? But God loved him. I can never think that God had not forgiven him, for he was grieved because of his sin when I saw him the night he got away. And in all things else he was so good! Oh, how good he was!" Phebe's tears were falling fast, and her words were choked with sobs. But Felicita's face was hidden against her neck, and she could not see if she was weeping. "Everybody is talking of him in Riversborough," she went on, "and now they all say how good he always was, and how unlikely it is that he was guilty. They will forget it soon. Those who remember him will think kindly of him, and be grieved for him. But oh, I would give worlds for him to have lived and made amends! If he could only have proved that he had repented! If he could only have outlived it all, and made everybody know that he was really a good man, one whom God had delivered out of sin!" "It was impossible!" murmured Felicita. "No, not impossible!" she cried earnestly; "it was not an unpardonable sin. Even if he had gone to prison, as he would, he might have faced the world when he came out again; and if he'd done all the good he could in it, it might have been hard to convince them he was good, but it would never be impossible. If God forgives us, sooner or later our fellow-creatures will forgive us, if we live a true life. I would have stood by him in the face of the world, and you would, and Madame and the children. He would not have been left alone, and it would have ended in every one else coming round to us. Oh, why should he die when you were just going to see each other again!" Felicita had sunk down again into the chair which had been carried for her to the shore, and Phebe sat down on the sands at her feet. She looked up tearfully into Felicita's wan and shrunken face. "Did any one ever win back their good name?" asked Felicita with quivering lips. "Among us they do sometimes," she answered. "I knew a working-man who had been in jail five years, and he became a Christian while he was there, and he came back home to his own village. He was one of the best men I ever knew, and when he died there was such a funeral as had never been seen in the parish church. Why should it not be so? If God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, why shouldn't we forgive? If we are faithful and just, we shall." "It could never be," said Felicita; "it cannot be the same as if Roland had not been guilty. No one can blot out the past; it is eternal." "Yes," she replied, covering Felicita's hand with kisses and tears; "but oh, we love him more now than ever. He is gone into the land of thick darkness, and I cannot follow him in my thoughts. It is like a gulf between us and him. Even if he had been farthest away from us in the world--anywhere--we could imagine what he was doing; but we cannot see him or call across the gulf to him. It is all unknown. Only God knows!" "God!" echoed Felicita; "if there is a God, let Him help me, for I am the most wretched woman on His earth to-day." "God cannot keep from helping us all," answered Phebe. "He cannot rest while we are wretched. I understand it better than I used to do. I cannot rest myself while the poorest creature about me is in pain that I can help. It is impossible that He should not care. That would be an awful thing to think; that would make His love and pity less than ours. This I know, that God loves every creature He has made. And oh, He must have loved him, though he was suffered to fall over that dreadful precipice, and die before you saw him. It happened before you reached Engelberg?" "Yes," said Felicita, shivering. "The papers were sent on to Mr. Clifford," continued Phebe, "and he sent for me to come with him, and see you before the news got into the papers. It will be in to-morrow. But I knew more than he did, and I came on here to speak to you. Shall you tell him you went there to meet him?" "Oh, no, no!" cried Felicita; "it must never be known, dear Phebe." "And his mother and the children--they, know nothing?" she said. "Not a word, and it is you who must tell them, Phebe," she answered. "How could I bear to tell them that he is dead? Never let them speak about it to me; never let his name be mentioned." "How can I comfort you?" cried Phebe. "I can never be comforted," she replied despairingly; "but it is like death to hear his name." The voices of the children coming nearer reached their ears. They had seen from their distant playground another figure sitting close beside Felicita, and their curiosity had led them to approach. Now they recognized Phebe, and a glad shout rang through the air. She bent down hurriedly to kiss Felicita's cold hand once again, and then she rose to meet them, and prevent them from seeing their mother's deep grief. "I will go and tell them, poor little things!" she said, "and Madame. Oh, what can I do to help you all? Mr. Clifford is at your lodgings, waiting to see you as soon as you can meet him." She did not stay for an answer, but ran to meet Felix and Hilda; while slowly, and with much guilty shrinking from the coming interview, Felicita went back to the village, where Mr. Clifford was awaiting her. CHAPTER XVIII. THE DEAD ARE FORGIVEN. Roland Sefton's pocket-book, containing his passport and the papers and photographs, had reached Mr. Clifford the day before, with an official intimation of his death from the consulate at Berne. The identification was complete, and the inquiry into the fatal accident had resulted in blame to no one, as the traveller had declined the services of a trustworthy guide from Meirengen to Engelberg. This was precisely what Roland would have done, the whole country being as familiar to him as to any native. No doubt crossed Mr. Clifford's mind that his old friend's son had met his untimely end while a fugitive from his country, from dread chiefly of his own implacable sense of justice. Roland was dead, but justice was not satisfied. Mr. Clifford knew perfectly well that the news of his tragic fate would create an immediate and complete reaction in his favor among his fellow-townsmen. Hitherto he had been only vaguely accused of crime, which his absence chiefly had tended to fasten upon him; but as there had been no opportunity of bringing him to public trial, it would soon be believed that there was no evidence against him. Many persons thought already that the junior partner was away either on pleasure or business, because the senior had taken his place. Only a few, himself and the three or four obscure people who actually suffered from his defalcations, would recollect them. By and by Roland Sefton would be remembered as the kind, benevolent, even Christian man, whose life, so soon cut short, had been full of promise for his native town. Mr. Clifford himself felt a pang of regret and sorrow when he heard the news. Years ago he had loved the frank, warm-hearted boy, his friend's only child, with a very true affection. He had an only boy, too, older than Roland by a few years, and these two were to succeed their fathers in the long-established firm. Then came the bitter disappointment in his own son. But since he had suffered his son to die in his sins, reaping the full harvest of his transgressions, he had felt that any forgiveness shown to other offenders would be a cruel injustice to him. Yet as Roland's passport and the children's photographs lay before him on his office desk--the same desk at which Roland was sitting but a few months ago, a man in the full vigor of life, with an apparently prosperous and happy future lying before him--Mr. Clifford for a moment or two yielded to the vain wish that Roland had thrown himself on his mercy. Yet his conscience told him that he would have refused to show him mercy, and his regret was mingled with a tinge of remorse. His first care was to prevent the intelligence reaching Felicita by means of the newspapers, and he sent immediately for Phebe Marlowe to accompany him to the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. Phebe's excessive grief astonished him, though she had so much natural control over herself, in her sympathy for others, as to relieve him of all anxiety on her account, and to keep Felicita's secret journey from being suspected. But to Phebe, Roland's death was fraught with more tragic circumstances than any one else could conceive. He was hastening to meet his wife, possibly with some scheme for their future, which might have hope and deliverance in it, when this calamity hurried him away into the awful, unknown world, on whose threshold we are ever standing. But for her ardent sympathy for Felicita, Phebe would have been herself overwhelmed. It was the thought of her, with this terrible and secret addition to her sorrow, which bore her through the long journey and helped her to meet Felicita with something like calmness. From the bay-window of the lodging-house Mr. Clifford watched Felicita coming slowly and feebly toward the house. So fragile she looked, so unutterably sorrow-stricken, that a rush of compassion and pity opened the floodgates of his heart, and suffused his stern eyes with tears. Doubtless Phebe had told her all. Yet she was coming alone to meet him, her husband's enemy and persecutor, as if he was a friend. He would be a friend such as she had never known before. There would be no vain weeping, no womanish wailing in her; her grief was too deep for that. And he would respect it; he would spare her all the pain he could. At this moment, if Roland could have risen from the dead, he would have clasped him in his arms, and wept upon his neck, as the father welcomed his prodigal son. Felicita did not speak when she entered the room, but looked at him with a steadfastness in her dark sad eyes which again dimmed his with tears. Almost fondly he pressed her hands in his, and led her to a chair, and placed another near enough for him to speak to her in a low and quiet voice, altogether unlike the awful tones he used in the bank, which made the clerks quail before him. His hand trembled as he took the little photographs out of their envelope, so worn and stained, and laid them before her. She looked at them with tearless eyes, and let them fall upon her lap as things of little interest. "Phebe has told you?" he said pitifully. "Yes," she whispered. "You did not know before?" he said. She shook her head mutely. A long, intricate path of falsehood stretched before her, from which she could not turn aside, a maze in which she was already entangled and lost; but her lips were reluctant to utter the first words of untruth. "These were found on him," he continued, pointing to the children's portraits. "I am afraid we cannot doubt the facts. The description is like him, and his papers and passport place the identity beyond a question. But I have dispatched a trusty messenger to Switzerland to make further inquiries, and ascertain every particular." "Will he see him?" asked Felicita with a start of terror. "No, my poor girl," said the old banker; "it happened ten days ago, and he was buried, so they say, almost immediately. But I wish to have a memorial stone put over his grave, that if any of us, I or you, or the children, should wish to visit it at some future time, it should not be past finding." He spoke tenderly and sorrowfully, as if he imagined himself standing beside the grave of his old friend's son, recalling the past and grieving over it. His own boy was buried in some unknown common _fosse_ in Paris. Felicita looked up at him with her strange, steady, searching gaze. "You have forgiven him?" she said. "Yes," he answered; "men always forgive the dead." "Oh, Roland! Roland!" she cried, wringing her hands for an instant. Then, resuming her composure, she gazed quietly into his pitiful face again. "It is kind of you to think of his grave," she said; "but I shall never go there, nor shall the children go, if I can help it." "Hush!" he answered imperatively. "You, then, have not forgiven him? Yet I forgive him, who have lost most." "You!" she exclaimed, with a sudden outburst of passion. "You have lost a few thousand pounds; but what have I lost? My faith and trust in goodness; my husband's love and care. I have lost him, the father of my children, my home--nay, even myself. I am no longer what I thought I was. That is what Roland robs me of; and you say it is more for you to forgive than for me!" He had never seen her thus moved and vehement, and he shrank a little from it, as most men shrink from any unusual exhibition of emotion. Though she had not wept, he was afraid now of a scene, and hastened to speak of another subject. "Well, well," he said soothingly, "that is all true, no doubt. Poor Roland! But I am your husband's executor and the children's guardian, conjointly with yourself. It will be proved immediately, and I shall take charge of your affairs." "I thought," she answered, in a hesitating manner, "that there was nothing left, that we were ruined and had nothing. Why did Roland take your bonds if he had money? Why did he defraud other people? There cannot be any money coming to me and the children, and why should the will be proved?" "My dear girl," he said, "you know nothing about affairs. Your uncle, Lord Riversford, would never have allowed Roland to marry you without a settlement, and a good one too. His death was the best thing for you. It saves you from poverty and dependence, as well as from disgrace. I hardly know yet how matters stand, but you will have little less than a thousand a year. You need not trouble yourself about these matters; leave them to me and Lord Riversford. He called upon me yesterday, as soon as he heard the sad news, and we arranged everything." Felicita did not hear his words distinctly, though her brain caught their meaning vaguely. She was picturing herself free from poverty, surrounded with most of her accustomed luxuries, and shielded from every hardship, while Roland was homeless and penniless, cast upon his own resources to earn his daily bread and a shelter for every night, with nothing but a poor handicraft to support him. She had not expected this contrast in their lot. Poverty had seemed to lie before her also. But now how often would his image start up before her as she had seen him last, gaunt and haggard, with rough hair and blistered skin serving him as a mask, clad in coarse clothing, already worn and ragged, not at rest in the grave, as every one but herself believed him, but dragging out a miserable and sordid existence year by year, with no hopes for the future, and no happy memories of the past! "Mr. Clifford," she said, when the sound of his voice humming in her ears had ceased, "I shall not take one farthing of any money settled upon me by my husband. I have no right to it. Let it go to pay the sums he appropriated. I will maintain myself and my children." "You cannot do it," he replied; "you do not know what you are talking about. The money is settled upon your children; all that belongs to you is the yearly income from it." "That, at least, I will never touch," she said earnestly; "it shall be set aside to repay those just claims. When all those are paid I will take it, but not before. Yours is the largest, and I will take means to find out the others. With my mother's two hundred a year and what I earn myself, we shall keep the children. Lord Riversford has no control over me. I am a woman, and I will act for myself." "You cannot do it," he repeated; "you have no notion of what you are undertaking to do. Mrs. Sefton, my dear young lady, I am come, with Lord Riversford's sanction, to ask you to return to your home again, to Madame's old home--your children's birth-place. I think, and Lord Riversford thinks, you should come back, and bring up Felix to take his grandfather's and father's place." "His father's place!" interrupted Felicita. "No, my son shall never enter into business. I would rather see him a common soldier or sailor, or day-laborer, earning his bread by any honest toil. He shall have no traffic in money, such as his father had; he shall have no such temptations. Whatever my son is, he shall never be a banker." "Good heavens, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford. Felicita's stony quietude was gone, and in its place was such a passionate energy as he had never witnessed before in any woman. "It was money that tempted Roland to defraud you and dishonor himself," she said; "it drove poor Acton to commit suicide, and it hardened your heart against your friend's son. Felix shall be free from it. He shall earn his bread and his place in the world in some other way, and till he can do that I will earn it for him. Every shilling I spend from henceforth shall be clean, the fruit of my own hands, not Roland's--not his, whether he be alive or dead." Before Mr. Clifford could answer, the door was flung open, and Felix, breathless with rapid running, rushed into the room and flung himself into his mother's arms. No words could come at first; but he drew long and terrible sobs. The boy's upturned face was pale, and his eyes, tearless as her own had been, were fastened in an agony upon hers. She could not soothe or comfort him, for she knew his grief was wasted on a falsehood; but she looked down on her son's face with a feeling of terror. "Oh, my father! my beloved father!" he sobbed at last. "Is he dead, mother? You never told me anything that wasn't true. He can't be dead, though Phebe says so. Is it true, mother?" Felicita bent her head till it rested on the boy's uplifted face. His sobs shook her, and the close clasp of his arms was painful; but she neither spoke nor moved. She heard Phebe coming in, and knew that Roland's mother was there, and Hilda came to clasp her little arms about her as Felix was doing. But her heart had gone back to the moment when Roland had knelt beside her in the quiet little church, and she had said to him deliberately, "I choose your death." He was dead to her. "Is it true, mother?" wailed Felix. "Oh, tell me it isn't true!" "It is true," she answered. But the long, tense strain had been too much for her strength, and she sank fainting on the ground. CHAPTER XIX. AUTHOR AND PUBLISHER. It was all in vain that Mr. Clifford tried to turn Felicita from her resolution. Phebe cordially upheld her, and gave her courage to persist against all arguments. Both of them cared little for poverty--Phebe because she knew it, Felicita because she did not know it. Felicita had never known a time when money had to be considered; it had come to her pretty much in the same way as the air she breathed and the food she ate, without any care or prevision of her own. Phebe, on the other hand, knew that she could earn her own living at any time by the work of her strong young arms, and her wants were so few that they could easily be supplied. It was decided before Phebe went home again, and decided in the face of Mr. Clifford's opposition, that a small house should be taken in London, and partly furnished from the old house at Riversborough, where Felicita would be in closer and easier communication with the publishers. Mr. Clifford laughed to himself at the idea that she could gain a maintenance by literature, as all the literary people he had ever met or heard of bewailed their poverty. But there was Madame's little income of two hundred a year: that formed a basis, not altogether an insecure or despicable one. It would pay more than the rent, with the rates and taxes. The yearly income from Felicita's marriage settlement, which no representations could persuade her to touch, was to go to the gradual repayment of Roland's debts, the poorest men being paid first, and Mr. Clifford, who reluctantly consented to the scheme, to receive his the last. Though Madame had never believed in her son's guilt, her just and simple soul was satisfied and set at rest by this arrangement. She had not been able to blame him, but it had been a heavy burden to her to think of others suffering loss through him. It was then almost with cheerfulness that she set herself to keep house for her daughter-in-law and her grand-children under such widely different circumstances. Before Christmas a house was found for them in Cheyne Walk. The Chelsea Embankment was not then thought of, and the streets leading to it, like those now lying behind it, were mean and crowded. It was a narrow house, with rooms so small that when the massive furniture from their old house was set up in it there was no space for moving about freely. Madame had known only two houses--the old straggling, picturesque country manse in the Jura, with its walnut-trees shading the windows, and tossing up their branches now and then to give glimpses of snow-mountains on the horizon, and her husband's pleasant and luxurious house at Riversborough, with every comfort that could be devised gathered into it. There was the river certainly flowing past this new habitation, and bearing on its full and rapid tide a constantly shifting panorama of boats, of which the children never tired, and from Felicita's window there was a fair reach of the river in view, while from the dormer windows of the attic above, where Felix slept, there was a still wider prospect. But in the close back room, which Madame allotted to herself and Hilda, there was only a view of back streets and slums, with sights and sounds which filled her with dismay and disgust. But Madame made the best of the woeful change. The deep, quiet love she had given to her son she transferred to Felicita, who, she well knew, had been his idol. She believed that the sorrows of these last few months had not sprung out of the ground, but had for some reason come down from God, the God of her fathers, in whom she put her trust. Her son had been called away by Him; but three were left, her daughter and her grand-children, and she could do nothing better in life than devote herself to them. But to Felicita her new life was like walking barefoot on a path of thorns. Until now she had been so sheltered and guarded, kept from the wind blowing too roughly upon her, that every hour brought a sharp pin-prick to her. To have no carriage at her command, no maid to wait upon, her--not even a skilful servant to discharge ordinary household duties well and quickly--to live in a little room where she felt as if she could hardly breathe, to hear every sound through the walls, to have the smell of cooking pervade the house--these and numberless similar discomforts made her initiation into her new sphere a series of surprises and disappointments. But she must bestir herself if even this small amount of comfort and well-being were to be kept up. Madame's income would not maintain their household even on its present humble footing. Felicita's first book had done well; it had been fairly reviewed by some papers, and flatteringly reviewed by other critics who had known the late Lord Riversford. On the whole it had been a good success, and her name was no longer quite unknown. Her publishers were willing to take another book as soon as it could be ready: they did more, they condescended to ask for it. But the £50 they had paid for the first, though it had seemed a sufficient sum to her when regarded from the stand-point of a woman surrounded by every luxury, and able to spend the whole of it on some trinket, looked small enough--too small--as the result of many weeks of labor, by which she and her children were to be fed. If her work was worth no more than that, she must write at least six such books in the year, and every year! Felicita's heart sank at the thought! There seemed to be only one resource, since one of her publishers had offered an advance of £10 only, saying they were doing very well for her, and running a risk themselves. She must take her manuscript and offer it as so much merchandise from house to house, selling it to the best bidder. This was against all her instincts as an author, and if she had remained a wealthy woman she would not have borne it. She was too true and original an artist not to feel how sacred a thing earnest and truthful work like hers was. She loved it, and did it conscientiously. She would not let it go out of her hands disgraced with blunders. Her thoughts were like children to her, not to be sent out into the world ragged and uncouth, exposed to just ridicule and to shame. Felicita and Madame set out on their search after a liberal publisher on a gloomy day in January. For the first time in her life Felicita found herself in an omnibus, with her feet buried in damp straw, and strange fellow-passengers crushing against her. In no part of London do the omnibuses bear comparison with the well-appointed carriages rich people are accustomed to; and this one, besides other discomforts, was crowded till there was barely room to move hand or foot. "It is very cheap," said Madame cheerfully after she had paid the fare when they were set down in Trafalgar Square "and not so very inconvenient." A fog filled the air and shrouded all the surrounding buildings in dull obscurity; while the fountains, rising and falling with an odd and ghostly movement as of gigantic living creatures, were seen dimly white in the midst of the gray gloom. The ceaseless stream of hurrying passers-by lost itself in darkness only a few paces from them. The chimes of unseen belfries and the roll of carriages visible only for a few seconds fell upon their ears. Felicita, in the secret excitement of her mood, felt herself in some impossible world, some phantasmagoria of a dream, which must presently disperse, and she would find herself at home again, in her quiet, dainty study at Riversborough, where most of the manuscript, which she held so closely in her hand, had been written. But the dream was dispelled when she found herself entering the publishing-house she had fixed upon as her first scene of venture. It was a quiet place, with two or three clerks busily engaged in some private conversation, too interesting to be abruptly terminated by the entrance of two ladies dressed in mourning, one of whom carried a roll of manuscript. If Felicita had been wise the manuscript would not have been there to betray her. It made it exceedingly difficult for her to obtain admission to the publisher, in his private room beyond; and it was only when she turned away to go, with a sudden outflashing of aristocratic haughtiness, that the clerk reluctantly offered to take her card and a message to his employer. In a few moments Felicita was entering the dark den where the fate of her book was in the balance. Unfortunately for her she presented too close a resemblance to the well-known type of a distressed author. Her deep mourning, the thick veil almost concealing her face; a straw clinging to the hem of her dress and telling too plainly of omnibus-riding; her somewhat sad and agitated voice; Madame's widow's cap, and unpretending demeanor--all were against her chances of attention. The publisher, who had risen from his desk, did not invite them to be seated. He glanced at Felicita's card, which bore the simple inscription, "Mrs. Sefton." "You know my name?" she asked, faltering a little before his keen-eyed, shrewd, business-like observation. He shook his head slightly. "I am the writer of a book called 'Haughmond Towers,'" she added, "published by Messrs. Price and Gould. It came out last May." "I never heard of it," he answered solemnly. Felicita felt as if he had struck her. This was an unaccountable thing; he was a publisher, and she an author; yet he had never heard of her book. It was impossible that she had understood him, and she spoke again eagerly. "It was noticed in all the reviews," she said, "and my publishers assured me it was quite a success. I could send you the reviews of it." "Pray do not trouble yourself," he answered; "I do not doubt it in the least. But there are hundreds of books published every season, and it is impossible for one head, even a publisher's, to retain all the titles and the names of the authors." "But I hope mine was not like hundreds of others," remarked Felicita. "Every author hopes so," he said; "and besides the mass that is printed, somehow, at some one's expense, there are hundreds of manuscripts submitted to us. Pardon me, but may I ask if you write for amusement or for remuneration." "For my living," she replied, with a sorrowful inflection of her voice which alarmed the publisher. How often had he faced a widowed mother and her daughter, in mourning so deep as to suggest the recentness of their loss. There was a slight movement of his hand, unperceived by either of them, and a brisk rap was heard on the door behind them. "In a moment," he said, looking over their heads. "I am afraid," he went on, "if I asked you to leave your manuscript on approbation, it might be months before our readers could look at it. We have scores, if not hundreds, waiting." "Could you recommend any publisher to me?" asked Felicita. "Why not go again to Price and Gould?" he inquired. "I must get more money than they pay me," she answered ingenuously. The publisher shrugged his shoulders. If her manuscript had contained Milton's "Paradise Lost" or Goldsmith's "Vicar of Wakefield," such an admission would have swamped it. There is no fate swift enough for an unknown author who asks for more money than that which a publisher's sense of justice awards to him. "I am sorry I can do nothing for you," he said, "but my time is very precious. Good-morning--No thanks, I beg. It would be a pleasure, I am sure, if I could do anything." Felicita's heart sank very low as she turned into the dismal street and trod the muddy pavement. A few illusions shrivelled up that wintry morning under that murky sky. The name she was so fearful of staining; the name she had fondly imagined as noised from mouth to mouth; the name for which she had demanded so great a sacrifice, and had sacrificed so much herself, was not known in those circles where she might most have expected to find it a passport to attention and esteem. It had travelled very little indeed beyond the narrow sphere of Riversborough. CHAPTER XX. A DUMB MAN'S GRIEF. The winter fogs which made London so gloomy did not leave the country sky clear and bright. All the land lay under a shroud of mist and vapor; and even on the uplands round old Marlowe's little farmstead the heavens were gray and cold, and the wide prospect shut out by a curtain of dim clouds. The rude natural tracks leading over the moor to the farm became almost impassable. The thatched roof was sodden with damp, and the deep eaves shed off the water with the sound of a perpetual dropping. Behind the house the dark, storm-beaten, distorted firs, and the solitary yew-tree blown all to one side, grew black with the damp. The isolation of the little dwelling-place was as complete as if a flood had covered the face of the earth, leaving its two inmates the sole survivors of the human race. Several months had passed since old Marlowe had executed his last piece of finished work. The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all kinds of paralysis. He could still go about, handle his tools, set his thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips. There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows. Any solace of this kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his grief and anger struck inward more deeply. Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, too, was sorely stricken, and she was young. She tried to set him an example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted. Now and then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy. Sometimes, too, she forgot all about her, and fell into an absorbed reverie, brooding over the past, until a sob or half-articulate cry from her father aroused her. These outcries of his troubled her more than any other change in him. He had been altogether mute in the former tranquil and placid days, satisfied to talk with her in silent signs; but there was something in his mind to express now which quiet and dumb signs could not convey. At intervals, both by day and night, her affection for him was tortured by these hoarse and stifled cries of grief mingled with rage. There was a certain sense of the duties of citizenship in old Marlowe's mind which very few women, certainly not a girl as young as Phebe, could have shared. Many years ago the elder Sefton had perceived that the companionless man was groping vaguely after many a dim thought, political and social, which few men of his class would have been troubled with. He had given to him several books, which old Marlowe had pondered over. Now he felt that, quite apart from his own personal ground of resentment, he had done wrong to the laws of his country by aiding an offender of them to escape and elude the just penalty. He felt almost a contempt for Roland Sefton that he had not remained to bear the consequences of his crime. The news of Roland's death brought something like satisfaction to his mind; there was a chill, dejected sense of justice having been done. He had not prospered in his crime. Though he had eluded man's judgment, yet vengeance had not suffered him to live. There was no relenting toward him, as there was in Mr. Clifford's mind. Something like the old heathen conception of a divine righteousness in this arbitrary punishment of the evil-doer gave him a transient content. He did not object therefore to Phebe's hasty visit to Mrs. Sefton at the sea-side, in order to break the news to her. The inward satisfaction he felt sustained him, and he even set about a piece of work long since begun, a hawk swooping down upon his prey. The evening on which Phebe reached home again he was more like his former self. He asked her many questions about the sea, which he had never seen, and told her what he had been doing while she was away. An old, well-thumbed translation of Plato's Dialogues was lying on the carved dresser behind him, in which he had been reading every night. Instead of the Bible, he said. "It was him, Mr. Roland, that gave it to me," he continued; "and listen to what I read last night: 'Those who have committed crimes, great yet not unpardonable, they are plunged into Tartarus, where they go who betray their friends for money, the pains of which they undergo for a year. But at the end of the year they come forth again to a lake, over which the souls of the dead are taken to be judged. And then they lift up their voices, and call upon the souls of them they have wronged to have pity upon them, and to forgive them, and let them come out of their prison. And if they prevail they come forth, and cease from their troubles; but if not they are carried back again into Tartarus, until they obtain mercy of them whom they have wronged.' But it seems as if they have to wait until them they have wronged are dead themselves." The brown, crooked fingers ceased spelling out the solemn words, and Phebe lifted up her eyes from them to her father's face. She noticed for the first time how sunken and sallow it was, and how dimly and wearily his eyes looked out from under their shaggy eyebrows. She buried her face in her hands, and broke down into a passion of tears. The vivid picture her father's quotation brought before her mind filled it with horror and grief that passed all words. The wind was wailing round the house with a ceaseless moan of pain, in which she could almost distinguish the tones of a human voice lamenting its lost and wretched fate. The cry rose and fell, and passed on, and came back again, muttering and calling, but never dying away altogether. It sounded to her like the cry of a belated wanderer calling for help. She rose hastily and opened the cottage door, as if she could hear Roland Sefton's voice through the darkness and the distance. But he was dead, and had been in his grave for many days already. Was she to hear that lost, forlorn cry ringing in her ears forever? Oh, if she could but have known something of him between that night, when he walked beside her through the dark deserted roads, pouring out his whole sorrowful soul to her, and the hour when in the darkness again he had strayed from his path, and been swallowed up of death! Was it true that he had gone down into that great gulf of secrecy and silence, without a word of comfort spoken, or a ray of light shed upon its profound mystery? The cold wind blew in through the open door, and she shut it again, going back to her low chair on the hearth. Through her blinding tears she saw her father's brown hands stretched out to her, and the withered fingers speaking eagerly. "I shall be there before long," he said; "he will not have to wait very long for me. And if you bid me I will forgive him at once. I cannot bear to see your tears. Tell me: must I forgive him? I will do anything, if you will look up at me again and smile." It was a strange smile that gleamed through Phebe's tears, but she had never heard an appeal like this from her dumb father without responding to it. "Must I forgive him?" he asked. "'If ye forgive men their trespasses,'" she answered, "'your heavenly Father will also forgive yours; but if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive yours.' It was our Lord Jesus Christ who said that, not your old Socrates, father." "It is a hard saying," he replied. "I don't think so," she said; "it was what Jesus Christ was doing every day he lived." From that time old Marlowe did not mention Roland Sefton again, or his sin against him. As the dark stormy days passed on he sometimes put a touch or two to the outstretched wings of his swooping hawk, but it did not get on fast. With a pathetic clinging to Phebe he seldom let her stay long out of his sight, but followed her about like a child, or sat on the hearth watching her as she went about her house-work. Only by those unconscious sobs and outcries, inaudible to himself, did he betray the grief that was gnawing at his heart. Very often did Phebe put aside her work, and standing before him ask such questions as the following on her swiftly moving fingers. "Don't you believe in God, our Father in heaven, the Father Almighty, who made us?" "Yes," he would reply by a nod. "And in Jesus Christ, His Son, our Lord, who lived, and died for us, and rose again?" "Yes, yes," was the silent, emphatic answer. "And yet you grieve and fret over the loss of money!" she would say, with a wistful smile on her young face. "You are a child; you know nothing," he replied. For without a sigh the old man was going forward consciously to meet death. Every morning when the dawn awoke him he felt weaker as he rose from his bed; every day his sight was dimmer and his hand less steady; every night the steep flight of stairs seemed steeper, and he ascended them feebly by his hands as well as feet. He could not bring himself to write upon his slate or to spell out upon his fingers the dread words, "I am dying;" and Phebe was not old or experienced enough to read the signs of an approaching death. That her father should be taken away from her never crossed her thoughts. It was the vague, mournful prospect of soon leaving her alone in the wide world that made his loss loom more largely and persistently before the dumb old man's mind. Certainly he believed all that Phebe said to him. God loved her, cared for her, ordered her life; yet he, her father, could not reconcile himself to the idea of her being left penniless and friendless in the cold and cruel world. He could have left her more peacefully in God's hands if she had those six hundred pounds of his earnings to inherit. The sad winter wore slowly away. Now and then the table-land around them put on its white familiar livery of snow, and old Marlowe's dim eyes gazed at it through his lattice window, recollecting the winters of long years ago, when neither snow nor storm came amiss to him. But the slight sprinkling soon melted away, and the dun-colored fog and cloudy curtain shut them in again, cutting them off from the rest of the world as if their little dwelling was the ark stranded on the hill's summit amid a waste of water. CHAPTER XXI. PLATO AND PAUL. Phebe's nearest neighbor, except the farm-laborer who did an occasional day's labor for her father, was Mrs. Nixey, the tenant of a farmhouse, which lay at the head of a valley running up into the range of hills. Mrs. Nixey had given as much supervision to Phebe's motherless childhood as her father had permitted, in his jealous determination to be everything to his little daughter. Of late years, ever since old Marlowe in the triumph of making an investment had communicated that important fact to her on his slate, she had indulged in a day-dream of her own, which had filled her head for hours while sitting beside her kitchen fire busily knitting long worsted stockings for her son Simon. Simon was thirty years of age, and it was high time she found a wife for him. Who could be better than Phebe, who had grown up under her own eyes, a good, strong, industrious girl, with six hundred pounds and Upfold Farm for her fortune? As she brooded over this idea, a second thought grew out of it. How convenient it would be if she herself married the dumb old father, and retired to the little farmstead, changing places with Phebe, her daughter-in-law. She would still be near enough to come down to her son's house at harvest-time and pig-killing, and when the milk was abundant and cheese and butter to make. And the little house on the hills was built with walls a yard thick, and well lined with good oak wainscoting; she could keep it warm for herself and the old man. The scheme had as much interest and charm for her as if she had been a peeress looking out for an eligible alliance for her son. But it had always proved difficult to take the first steps toward so delicate a negotiation. She was not a ready writer; and even if she had been, Mrs. Nixey felt that it would be almost impossible to write her day-dream in bold and plain words upon old Marlowe's slate. If Marlowe was deaf, Phebe was singularly blind and dull. Simon Nixey had played with her when she was a child, but it had been always as a big, grown-up boy, doing man's work; and it was only of late that she had realized that he was not almost an old man. For the last year or two he had lingered at the church door to walk home with her and her father, but she had thought little of it. He was their nearest neighbor, and made himself useful in giving her father hints about his little farm, besides sparing his laborer to do them an occasional day's work. It seemed perfectly natural that he should walk home with them across the moors from their distant parish church. But as soon as the roads were passable Mrs. Nixey made her way up to the solitary farmstead. The last time she had seen old Marlowe he had been ailing, yet she was quite unprepared for the rapid change that had passed over him. He was cowering in the chimney-corner, his face yellow and shrivelled, and his eyes, once blue as Phebe's own, sunken in their sockets, and glowering dimly at her, with the strange intensity of gaze in the deaf and dumb. There was a little oak table before him, with his copy of Plato's Dialogues and a black leather Bible that had belonged to his forefathers, lying upon it; but both of them were closed, and he looked drowsy and listless. "Good sakes! Phebe," cried Mrs. Nixey, "whatever ails thy father? He looks more like dust and ashes than a livin' man. Hast thou sent for no physic for him?" "I didn't know he was ill," answered Phebe. "Father always feels the winter long and trying. He'll be all right when the spring comes." "I'll ask him what's the matter with him," said Mrs. Nixey, drawing his slate to her, and writing in the boldest letters she could form, as if his deafness made it needful to write large. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Nothing, save old age," he answered in his small, neat hand-writing. There was a gentle smile on his face as he pushed the slate under the eyes of Mrs. Nixey and Phebe. He had sometimes thought he must tell Phebe he would not be long with her, but his hands refused to convey such sad warnings to his young daughter. He had put it off from day to day, though he was not sorry now to give some slight hint of his fears. "Old! he's no older nor me," said Mrs. Nixey. "A pretty thing it'ud be if folks gave up at sixty or so. There's another ten years' work in you," she wrote on the slate. "Ten years' work." How earnestly he wished it was true! He might still earn a little fortune for Phebe; for he was known all through the county, and beyond, and could get a good price for his carving. He stretched out his hand and took down his unfinished work, looking longingly at it. Phebe's fingers were moving fast, so fast that he could not follow them. Of late he had been unable to seize the meaning of those swift, glancing finger-tips. He had reached the stage of a man who can no longer catch the lower tones of a familiar voice, and has to guess at the words thus spoken. If he lived long enough to lose his sight he would be cut off from all communion with the outer world, even with his daughter. "Come close to me, and speak more slowly," he said to her. "I am growing old and dark. Yet I am only sixty, and my father lived to be over seventy. I was over forty when you were born. It was a sunny day, and I kept away from the house, in the shed, till I saw Mrs. Nixey there beckoning to me. And when I came in the house here she laid you in my arms. God was very good to me that day." "He is always good," answered Phebe. "So the parson teaches us," he continued; "but it was very hard for me to lose that money. It struck me a dreadful blow, Phebe. If I'd been twenty years younger I could have borne it; but when a man's turned sixty there's no chance. And he robbed me of more than money: he robbed me of love. I loved him next to you." She knew that so well that she did not answer him. Her love for Roland Sefton lived still; but it was altogether changed from the bright, girlish admiration and trustful confidence it had once been. His conduct had altered life itself to her; it was colder and darker, with deeper and longer shadows in it. And now there was coming the darkest shadow of all. "Read this," he said, opening the "Phædo," and pointing to some words with his crooked and trembling finger. She stooped her head till her soft cheek rested against his with a caressing and soothing touch. "I go to die, you to live; but which is best God alone can know," she read. Her arm stole round his neck, and her cheek was pressed more closely against his. Mrs. Nixey's hard face softened a little as she looked at them; but she could not help thinking of the new turn affairs were taking. If old Marlowe died, it might be more convenient, on the whole, than for her to marry him. How snugly she could live up here, with a cow or two, and a little maid from the workhouse to be her companion and drudge! Quite unconscious of Mrs. Nixey's plans, Phebe had drawn the old black leather Bible toward her, turning over the stained and yellow leaves with one hand, for she would not withdraw her arm from her father's neck. She did not know exactly where to find the words she wanted; but at last she came upon them. The gray shaggy locks of the old man and the rippling glossy waves of Phebe's brown hair mingled as they bent their heads again over the same page. "For whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the Lord: whether we live therefore or die, we are the Lord's. For to this end Christ both died, and rose, and revived, that he might be Lord both of the dead and the living." "That is better than your old Socrates," said Phebe, with tears in her eyes and a faint smile playing about her lips. "Our Lord has gone on before us, through life and death. There is nothing we can have to bear that He has not borne." "He never had to leave a young girl like you alone in the world," answered her father. For a moment Phebe's fingers were still, and old Marlowe looked up at her like one who has gained a miserable victory over a messenger of glad tidings. "But He had to leave His mother, who was growing old, when the sword had pierced through her very soul," answered Phebe. "That was a hard thing to do." The old man nodded, and his withered hands folded over each other on the open page before him. Mrs. Nixey, who could understand nothing of their silent speech, was staring at them inquisitively, as if trying to discover what they said by the expression of their faces. "Ask thy father if he's made his will," she said. "I've heard say as land canno' go to a woman if there's no will; and it'ud niver do for Upfold to go to a far-away stranger. May be he reckons on all he has goin' to you quite natural. But there's law agen' it; the agent told me so years ago. I niver heard of any relations thy father had, but they'll find what's called an heir-at-law, take my word for it, if he doesn't leave iver a will." But, instead of answering, Phebe rushed past her up the steep, dark staircase, and Mrs. Nixey heard her sobbing and crying in the little room above. It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will?" The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his answer to Mrs. Nixey. "And left all to Phebe?" she wrote again. Again he nodded. It was all right so far, and Mrs. Nixey felt glad she had made sure of the ground. The little farm was worth £15 a year, and old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in £36 yearly, without a stroke of work on his part. How money could be gained in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand. But here was Phebe Marlowe with £50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to be lost by her son Simon. She hesitated for a few minutes, listening to the soft low sobs overhead, but her sense of judicious forestalling of the future prevailed over her sympathy with the troubled girl. "Phebe'll be very lonesome," she wrote, and old Marlowe looked sadly into her face with his sunken eyes. There was no need to nod assent to her words. "I've been like a mother to her," wrote Mrs. Nixey, and she rubbed both the sentences off the slate with her pocket-handkerchief, and sat pondering over the wording of her next communication. It was difficult and embarrassing, this mode of intercourse on a subject which even she felt to be delicate. How much easier it would have been if old Marlowe could hear and speak like other men! He watched her closely as she wrote word after word and rubbed them out again, unable to satisfy herself. At last he stretched out his hand and seized the slate, just as she was again about to rub out the sentence. "Our Simon'd marry her to-morrow," was written upon it. Old Marlowe sat looking at the words without raising his eyes or making any sign. He had never seen the man yet worthy of being the husband of his daughter, and Simon Nixey was not much to his mind. Still, he was a kind-hearted man, and well-to-do for his station; he kept a servant to wait on his mother, and he would do no less for his wife. Phebe would not be left desolate if she could make up her mind to marry him. But with a deep instinctive jealousy, born of his absolute separation from his kind, he could not bear the thought of sharing her love with any one. She must continue to be all his own for the little time he had to live. "If Phebe likes to marry him when I'm gone, I've no objection," he wrote, and then, with a feeling of irritation and bitterness, he rubbed out the words with the palm of his hand and turned his back upon Mrs. Nixey. CHAPTER XXII. A REJECTED SUITOR. All the next day Phebe remained very near to her father, leaving her house-work and painting to sit beside him on the low chair he had carved for her when she was a child. For the first time she noticed how slowly he caught her meaning when she spoke to him, and how he himself was forgetting how to express his thoughts on his fingers. The time might come when he could no longer hold any intercourse with her or she with him. There was unutterable sadness in this new dread. "You used to laugh and sing," he said, "but you never do it now: never since he robbed me. He robbed me of that too. I'm a poor, helpless, deaf old man; and God never let me hear my child's voice. He used to tell me it was sweet and pleasant to hear; and your laugh made every one merry who heard it. But I could see you laugh, and now I never see it." She could not laugh now, and her smile was sadder than tears; so she bent down her head and laid it against his knee where he could not see her face. By and by he touched her, and she lifted up her tear-dimmed eyes to his fingers. "Promise me," he said, "not to sell this old place. It has belonged to the Marlowes from generation to generation. Who can tell but the dead come back to the place where they've lived so long? If you can, keep it for my sake." "I promise it," she answered. "I will never sell it." "Perhaps I shall lose my power to speak to you," he went on, "but don't you fret as if I did not forgive him as robbed me. He learnt to talk on his fingers for my sake, and I'll say 'God bless him' for your sake. If we meet one another in the next world I'll forgive him freely, and if need be I'll ask pardon for him. Phebe, I do forgive him." As he spoke there was a brighter light in his sunken eyes, and a smile on his face such as she had not seen since the day he had helped Roland Sefton to escape. She took both of his hands into hers and kissed them fondly. But by and by, though it was yet clear day, he crept feebly up-stairs to his dark little loft under the thatched roof, and lay down on the bed where his father and grandfather had died before him. At first he was able to talk a little in short, brief sentences; but very soon that which he had dreaded came upon him. His fingers grew too stiff to form the signs, and his eyes too dim to discern even the slowest movement of her dear hands. There was now no communication between them but that of touch, and he could not bear to miss the gentle clasp of Phebe's hand. When she moved away from him he tossed wearily from side to side, groping restlessly with his thin fingers. In utter silence and darkness, but hand to hand with her, he at last passed away. The next few days was a strange and bewildering time to Phebe. Neighbors were coming and going, and taking the arrangements for the funeral into their own hands, with little reference to her. The clergyman of the parish, who lived three miles off, rode over the hills to hold a solemn interview with her. Mrs. Nixey would not leave her alone, and if she could have had her way would have carried her off to her own house. But this Phebe would not submit to; except the two nights she had been away when she went to the sea-side to break the news of Roland's death to Felicita and her mother, she had never been absent for a night from home. Why should she be afraid of that quiet, still form, which even in death was dearer to her than any other upon earth? But Mrs. Nixey walked beside her, next the coffin, when the small funeral procession wound its way slowly over the uplands to the country churchyard, where the deaf and dumb old wood-carver was laid in a grave beside his wife. It was almost impossible to shake her off on their return, but Phebe could bear companionship no longer. She must walk back alone along the familiar fields, where the green corn was springing among the furrows, and under the brown hedgerows where all the buds were swelling, to the open moor lying clear and barren in an unbroken plain before her. How often had she walked along these narrow sheep-tracks with her father pacing on in front, speechless, but so full of silent sympathy with her that words were not missed between them. Their little homestead lay like an island in a sea of heather and fern, with no other dwelling in sight; but, oh, how empty and desolate it seemed! The old house-dog crept up quietly to her, and whined softly; and the cow, as she went into the shed to milk her, turned and licked her hand gently, as if these dumb creatures knew her sorrow. There were some evening tasks to be performed, for the laborer, who had been to the funeral, was staying in the village with the other men who had helped to carry her father's coffin, to rest themselves and have some refreshment in the little inn there. She lingered over each duty with a dreary sense of the emptiness of the house haunting her, and of the silence of the hearth where all the long evening must be spent alone. It was late in February, and though the fern and heather and gorse were not yet in bud, there was a purple tinge upon the moor fore-telling the quickly coming spring. The birds that had been silent all winter were chirping under the eaves, or fluttered up from the causeway where she had been scattering corn, at the sound of her footsteps across the little farm-yard. The sun, near its setting, was shining across the uplands, and throwing long shadows from every low bush and brake. Phebe mounted the old horse-block by the garden wicket, and looked around her, shading her eyes with her hands. The soft west wind, blowing over many miles of moor and meadows and kissing her cheek, seemed like the touch of a dear old friend, and the thin gray cloud overhead appeared only as a slight veil scarcely hiding a beloved face. It would not have startled her if she had seen her father come to the door, beckoning to her with his quiet smile, or if she had caught sight of Roland Sefton crossing the moor, with his swift, strong stride, and his face all aglow with the delight of his mountain ramble. "But they are both dead," she said to herself. "If only Mr. Roland had been living in Riversborough he would have told me what to do." She was too young to connect her father's death in any way with Roland Sefton's crime. They two were the dearest persons in the world to her; and both were now gone into the mysterious darkness of the next world, meeting there perhaps with all earthly discords forgiven and forgotten more perfectly than they could have been here. She remembered how her father's dull, joyless face used to brighten when Roland was talking to him--talking with slow, unaccustomed fingers, which the dumb man would watch intently, and catch the meaning of the phrase before it was half finished, flashing back an eager answer by signs and changeful expression of his features. There would be no need of signs and gestures where they had gone. Her father, perhaps, was speaking to him now. Phebe had passed into a reverie, as full of pleasure as of pain, and she fancied she heard her father's voice--that voice which she had never heard. She started, and awoke herself. It was growing dusk, and she was faint with hunger and fatigue. The wintry sun had sunk some time since behind the brow of the hill, leaving only a few faint lines of clouds running across a clear amber light. She stepped down from the horse-block reluctantly, and with slow steps loitered up the garden-path to the deserted cottage. It might have been better, she thought, if she had let Mrs. Nixey come home with her; but, oh, how tired she was of her aimless chatter, which seemed to din the ear and drive away all quiet thought from the heart. She had been very weary of all the fuss that had made a Babel of the little homestead since her father's death. But now she was absolutely alone, the loneliness seemed awful. It was quite dark before the fire burned up and threw its flickering light over her old home. She sat down on the hearth opposite her father's empty chair, in her own place--the place which had been hers ever since she could remember. How long would it be hers? She knew that one volume of her life was ended and closed; the new volume was all hidden from her. She was not afraid of opening it, for there was a fund of courage and hope in her nature of which she did not know all the wealth. There was also the simple trust of a child in the goodness of God. She had finished her tea and was sitting apparently idle, with her hands lying on her lap, when a sudden knock at the door startled and almost frightened her. Until this moment she had never thought of the loneliness of the house as possessing any element of danger; but now she turned her eyes to the uncurtained window, through which she had been so plainly visible, and wished that she had taken the precaution of putting the bar on the door. It was too late, for the latch was already lifted, and she had scarcely time to say with a tremulous voice, "Come in." "It's me--Simon Nixey," said a loud, familiar voice, as the door opened and the tall ungainly figure of the farmer filled up the doorway. He had been at her father's funeral, and was still in his Sunday suit, standing sheepishly within the door and stroking the mourning-band round his hat, as he gazed at her with a shamefaced expression, altogether unlike the bluntness of his usual manner. "Is there anything the matter, Mr. Nixey?" asked Phebe. "Have you time to take a seat?" "Oh, ay! I'll sit down," he answered, stepping forward readily and settling himself down in her father's chair, in spite of her hasty movement to prevent it. "Mother thought as you'd be lonesome," he continued; "her and me've been talking of nothing else but you all evening. And mother said your heart'ud be sore and tender to-night, and more likely to take to comfort. And I'd my best clothes on, and couldn't go to fodder up, so I said I'd step up here and see if you was as lonesome as we thought. You looked pretty lonesome through the window. You wouldn't mind me staying a half hour or so?" "Oh, no," said Phebe simply; "you're kindly welcome." "That's what I'd like to be always," he went on, "and there's a deal about me to make me welcome, come to think on it. Our house is a good one, and the buildings they're all good; and I got the first prize for my pigs at the last show, and the second prize for my bull the show before that. Nobody can call me a poor farmer. You recollect painting my prize-bull for me, don't you, Phebe?" "To be sure I do," she answered. "Ay! and mother shook like a leaf when I told her you'd gone into his shed, and him not tied up. 'Never you mind, mother,' I says, 'there's neither man nor beast'ud hurt little Phebe.' You'd enjoy painting my prize-pigs, I know; and there'd be plenty o' time. Wouldn't you now?" "Very much," she said, "if I have time." "That's something to look forward to," he continued. "I'm always thinking what you'd like to paint, and make a picture of. I should like to be painted myself, and mother; and there'll be plenty o' time. For I'm not a man to see you overdone with work, Phebe. I've been thinking about it for the last five year, ever since you were a pretty young lass of fifteen. 'She'll be a good girl,' mother said, 'and if old Marlowe dies before you're wed, Simon, you'd best marry Phebe.' I've put it off, Phebe, over and over again, when there's been girls only waiting the asking; and now I'm glad I can bring you comfort. There's a home all ready for you, with cows and poultry for you to manage and get the good of, for mother always has the butter money and the egg money, and you'll have it now. And there's stores of linen, mother says, and everything that any farmer's wife could desire." Phebe laughed, a low, gentle, musical laugh, which had surprise in it, but no derision. The sight of the gaunt embarrassed man opposite to her, his face burning red, and his clumsy hands twisting and untwisting as he uttered his persuasive sentences, drove her sadness away for the moment. Her pleasant, surprised laugh made him laugh too. "Ay! mother was right; she always is," said Nixey, rubbing his great hands gleefully. "'There'll be scores of lads after her,' says mother, 'for old Marlowe has piles o' money in Sefton's Old Bank, everybody knows that.' But, Phebe, there aren't a many houses like mine for you to step right into. I'm glad I came to bring you comfort to-night." "But father lost all his money in the Old Bank nine months ago," answered Phebe. "Lost all his money!" repeated Nixey slowly and emphatically. There was a deep silence in the little house, while he gazed at her with open mouth and astonished eyes. Phebe had covered her face with her hands, forgetting him and everything else in the recollection of that bitter sorrow of hers nine months ago; worse than her sorrow now. Nixey spoke again after a few minutes, in a husky and melancholy voice. "It shan't make no difference, Phebe," he said; "I came to bring you comfort, and I'll not take it away again. There they all are for you, linen and pigs, and cows and poultry. I don't mind a straw what mother'ill say. Only you wipe away those tears and laugh again, my pretty dear. Look up at Simon and laugh again." "It's very good of you," she answered, looking up into his face with her blue eyes simply and frankly, "and I shall never forget it. But I could not marry you. I could not marry anybody." "But you must," he said imperiously; "a pretty young girl like you can't live alone here in this lonesome place. Mother says it wouldn't be decent or safe. You'll want a home, and it had best be mine. Come, now. You'll never have a better offer if you've lost all your money. But your land lies nighest to my farm, and it's worth more to me than anybody else. It wouldn't be a bad bargain for me, Phebe; and I've waited five years for you besides. If you'll only say yes, I'll go down and face mother, and have it out with her at once." But Phebe could not be brought to say yes, though Nixey used every argument and persuasion he could think. He went away at last, in dudgeon, leaving her alone, but not so sad as before. The new volume of her life had already been opened. CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER OFFER. The next day Phebe locked up her house and rode down to Riversborough. As she descended into the valley and the open plain beyond her sorrowfulness fell away from her. Her social instincts were strong, and she delighted in companionship and in the help she could render to any fellow-creature. If she overtook a boy trudging reluctantly to school she would dismount from her rough pony and give him a ride; or if she met with a woman carrying a heavy load, she took the burden from her, and let her pony saunter slowly along, while she listened to the homely gossip of the neighborhood. Phebe was a great favorite along these roads, which she had traversed every week during summer to attend Riversborough market for the last eight years. Her spirits rose as she rode along, receiving many a kindly word, and more invitations to spend a little while in different houses than she could have accepted if she had been willing to give twelve months to visiting. It was market-day at Riversborough, and the greetings there were still more numerous, and, if possible, more kindly. Everybody had a word for Phebe Marlowe; especially to-day, when her pretty black dress told of the loss she had suffered. She made her way to Whitefriars Road. The Old Bank was not so full as it had formerly been, for immediately after the panic last May a new bank had been opened more in the centre of the town, and a good many of the tradesmen and farmers had transferred their accounts to it. The outer office was fairly busy, but Phebe had not long to wait before being summoned to see Mr. Clifford. The muscles of his stern and careworn features relaxed into something approaching a smile as she entered, and he caught sight of her sweet and frank young face. "Sit down, Phebe," he said. "I did not hear of your loss before yesterday; and I was just about to send for you to see your father's will. It is in our strong room. You are not one-and-twenty yet?" "Not till next December, sir," she replied. "Roland Sefton is the only executor appointed," he continued, his face contracting for an instant, as if some painful memory flashed across him; "and, since he is dead, I succeed to the charge as his executor. You will be my ward, Phebe, till you are of age." "Will it be much trouble, sir?" she asked anxiously. "None at all," he answered; "I hope it will be a pleasure; for, Phebe, it will not be fit for you to live alone at Upfold Farm; and I wish you to come here--to make your home with me till you are of age. It would be a great pleasure to me, and I would take care you should have every opportunity for self-improvement. I know you are not a fine young lady, my dear, but you are sensible, modest, and sweet-tempered, and we should get on well together. If you were happy with me I should regard you as my adopted daughter, and provide accordingly for you. Think of it for a few minutes while I look over these letters. Perhaps I seem a grim and surly old man to you; but I am not naturally so. You would never disappoint me." He turned away to his desk, and appeared to occupy himself with his letters, but he did not take in a single line of them. He had set his heart once more on the hope of winning love and gratitude from some young wayfarer on life's rough road, whose path he could make smooth and bright. He had been bitterly disappointed in his own son and his friend's son. But if this simple, unspoiled, little country maiden would leave her future life in his keeping, how easy and how happy it should be! "It's very good of you," said Phebe, in a trembling voice; "and I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Clifford, not in the least; but I could not keep from fretting in this house. Oh, I loved them so, every one of them; but Mr. Roland most of all. No one was ever so good to me as he was. If it hadn't been for him I should have learned nothing, and father himself would have been a dull, ignorant man. Mr. Roland learnt to talk to father, and nobody else could talk with him but me. I used to think it was as much like our Lord Jesus Christ as anything any one could do. Mr. Roland could not open father's ears, but he learned how to talk to him, to make him less lonely. That was the kindest thing any one on earth could do." "Do you believe Mr. Roland was innocent?" asked Mr. Clifford. "I know he was guilty," answered Phebe sadly. "He told me all about it himself, and I saw his sorrow. Before that he always seemed to me more like what I think Jesus Christ was than any one else. He could never think of himself while there were other people to care for. And I know," she went on, with simple sagacity, "that it was not Mr. Roland's sin that fretted father, but the loss of the money. If he had made six hundred pounds by using it without his consent, and said, 'Here, Marlowe, are twelve hundred pounds for you instead of six; I did not put your money up as you wanted, but used it instead;' why, father would have praised him up to the skies, and could never have been grateful enough." Mr. Clifford's conscience smote him as he listened to Phebe's unworldly comment on Roland Sefton's conduct. If Roland had met him with the announcement of a gain of ten thousand pounds by a lucky though unauthorized speculation, he knew very well his own feeling would have been utterly different from that with which he had heard of the loss of ten thousand pounds. The world itself would have cried out against him if he had prosecuted a man by whose disregard of the laws he had gained so large a profit. Was it, then, a simple love of justice that had actuated him? Yet the breach of trust would have been the same. "But if you will not come to live with me, my dear," he said, "what do you propose to do? You cannot live alone in your old home." "May I tell you what I should like to do?" she asked. "Certainly," he answered. "I am bound to know it." "Those two who are dead," she said, "thought so much of my painting. Mr. Roland was always wishing I could go to a school of art, and father said when he was gone he should wish it too. But now we have lost our money, the next best thing will be for me to go to live as servant to some great artist, where I could see something of painting till I've saved enough money to go to school. I can let Upfold Farm for fifteen pounds a year to Simon Nixey, so I shall soon have money enough. I promised father I would never sell our farm, that has belonged to Marlowes ever since it was inclosed from the common. And if I go to London, I shall be near Madame and the children, and Mrs. Roland Sefton." The color had come back to Phebe's face, and her voice was steady and musical again. There was a clear, frank shining in her blue eyes, looking so pleasantly into his, that Mr. Clifford sighed regretfully as he thought of his solitary and friendless life--self-chosen partly, but growing more dreary as old age, with its infirmities, crept on. "No, no; you need not go into service," he said; "there is money enough of your own to do what you wish with. Mrs. Roland refuses to receive the income from her marriage settlement till every claim against her husband is paid off. I shall pay your claim off at the rate of one hundred a year, or more, if you like. You may have a sum sufficient to keep you at an art school as long as you need be there." "Why, I shall be very rich!" exclaimed Phebe; "and father dreaded I should be poor." "I will run up to London and see what arrangements I can make for you," he continued. "Perhaps Mrs. Roland Sefton could find a corner for you in her own house, small as it is, and Madame would make you as welcome as a daughter. You are more of a daughter to her than Felicita. Only I must make a bargain, that you and the children come down often to see me here in the old house. I should have grown very fond of you, Phebe; and then you would have married some man whom I detested, and disappointed me bitterly again. It is best as it is, I suppose. But if you will change your mind now, and stay with me as my adopted daughter, I'll run the risk." "If it was anywhere else!" she answered with a wistful look into his face, "but not here. If Mrs. Roland Sefton could find room for me I'd rather live with them than anywhere else in the world. Only don't think I'm ungrateful because I can't stay here." "No, no, Phebe," he replied; "it was for my own sake I asked it. As you grow older, child, you'll find out that the secret root of nine tenths of the benevolence you see is selfishness." Six weeks later all the arrangements for Phebe leaving her old home and entering upon an utterly new life were completed. Simon Nixey, after vainly urging her to accept himself, and to give herself and her little farm and her restored fortune to him, offered to become her tenant at £10 a year for the land, leaving the cottage uninhabited; for Phebe could not bear the idea of any farm laborer and his family dwelling in it, and destroying or injuring the curious carvings with which her father had lined its walls. The spot was far out of the way of tramps and wandering vagabonds, and there was no danger of damage being done to it by the neighbors. Mrs. Nixey undertook to see that it was kept from damp and dirt, promising to have a fire lighted there occasionally, and Simon would see to the thatch being kept in repair, on condition that Phebe would come herself once a year to receive her rent, and see how the place was cared for. There was but a forlorn hope in Mrs. Nixey's heart that Phebe would ever have Simon now she was going to London; but it might possibly come about in the long run if he met with no girl to accept him with as much fortune. Before leaving Upfold Farm Phebe received the following letter from Felicita: "DEAR PHEBE: I shall be very glad to have you under my roof. I believe I see in you a freshness and truthfulness of nature on which I can rely for sympathy. I have always felt a sincere regard for you, but of late I have learned to love you, and to think of you as my friend. I love you next to my children. Let me be a friend to you. Your pursuits will interest me, and you must let me share them as your friend. "But one favor I must ask. Never mention my husband's name to me. Madame will feel solace in talking of him, but the very sound of his name is intolerable to me. It is my fault; but spare me. You are the dearer to me because you love him, and because he prized your affections so highly; but he must never be mentioned, if possible not thought of, in my presence. If you think of him I shall feel it, and be wounded. I say this before you come that you may spare me as much pain as you can. "This is the only thing I dread. Otherwise your coming to us would be the happiest thing that has befallen me for the last year. "Yours faithfully, "Felicita." If Felicita was glad to have her, Phebe knew that Madame and the children would be enraptured. Nor had she judged wrongly. Madame received her as if she had been a favorite child, whose presence was the very comfort and help she stood most in need of. Though she devoted herself to Felicita, there was a distance between them, an impenetrable reserve, that chilled her spirits and threw her love back upon herself. But to Phebe she could pour out her heart unrestrainedly, dwelling upon the memory of her lost son, and mourning openly for him. And Phebe never spoke a word that could lead Roland's mother to think she believed him to be guilty. With a loving tact she avoided all discussion on that point; and, though again and again the pang of her own loss made itself poignantly felt, she knew how to pour consolation into the heart of Roland's mother. But to Felix and Hilda Phebe's companionship was an endless delight. She came from her lonely homestead on the hills into the full stream of London life, and it had a ceaseless interest for her. She could not grow weary of the streets with their crowd of passers-by; and the shop windows filled with wealth and curiosities fascinated her. All the stir and tumult were joyous to her, and the faces she met as she walked along the pavement possessed an unceasing influence over her. The love of humanity, scarcely called into existence before, developed rapidly in her. Felix and Hilda shared in her childish pleasure without understanding the deep springs from which it came. It was an education in itself for the children. A drive in an omnibus, with its frequent stoppages and its constant change of passengers, was delightful to Phebe, and never lost its charm for her. She and the children explored London, seeing all its sights, which Phebe, in her rustic curiosity, wished to see. From west to east, from north to south, they became acquainted with the great capital as few children, rich or poor, have a chance of doing. They sought out all its public buildings, every museum and picture gallery, the birthplaces of its famous men, the places where they died, and their tombs if they were within London. Westminster Abbey was as familiar to them as their own home. It seemed as if Phebe was compensating herself for her lonely girlhood on the barren and solitary uplands. Yet it was not simply sight-seeing, but the outcome of an intelligent and genuine curiosity, which was only satisfied by understanding all she could about the things and places she saw. To the children, as well as to Madame, she often talked of Roland Sefton. Felix loved nothing more than to listen to her recollections of his lost father, who had so strangely disappeared out of his life. On a Sunday evening when, of course, their wanderings were over, she would sit with them in summer by the attic window, which, overlooked the river, and in winter by the fireside, recounting again and again all she knew of him, especially of how good he always was to her. There were a vividness and vivacity in all she said of him which charmed their imagination and kept the memory of him alive in their hearts. Phebe gave dramatic effect to her stories of him. Hilda could scarcely remember him, though she believed she did; but to Felix he remained the tall, handsome, kindly father, who was his ideal of all a man should be; while Phebe, perhaps unconsciously, portrayed him as all that was great and good. For neither Madame nor Phebe could find it in their hearts to tell the boy, so proud and fond of his father's memory, that any suspicion had ever been attached to his name. Madame, who had mourned so bitterly over his premature death in her native land, but so far from his own, had never believed in his guilt; and Phebe, who knew him to be guilty, had forgiven him with that forgiveness which possesses an almost sacred forgetfulness. If she had been urged to look back and down into that dark abyss in which he had been lost to her, she must have owned reluctantly that he had once done wrong. But it was hard to remember anything against the dead. CHAPTER XXIV. AT HOME IN LONDON. Every summer Phebe went down to her own home on the uplands, according to her promise to the Nixeys. Felix and Hilda always accompanied her, for a change was necessary for the children, and Felicita seldom cared to go far from London, and then only to some sea-side resort near at hand, when Madame always went with her. Every summer Simon Nixey repeated his offer the first evening of Phebe's residence under her own roof; for, as Mrs. Nixey said, as long as she was wed to nobody else there was a chance for him. Though they could see with sharp and envious eyes the change that was coming over her, transforming her from the simple, untaught country girl into an educated and self-possessed woman, marking out her own path in life, yet the sweetness and the frankness of Phebe's nature remained unchanged. "She's growing a notch or two higher every time she comes down," said Mrs. Nixey regretfully; "she'll be far above thee, lad, next summer." "She's only old Dummy's daughter after all," answered Simon; "I'll never give her up." To Phebe they were always old friends, whom she must care for as long as she lived, however far she might travel from them or rise above them. The free, homely life on the hills was as dear to her and the children as their life in London. The little house, with its beautiful and curious decorations; the small fields and twisted trees surrounding it; the wide, purple moors, and all the associations Phebe conjured up for them connected with their father, made the dumb old wood-carver's place a second home to them. The happiest season of the year to Mr. Clifford was that when Phebe and Roland Sefton's children were in his neighborhood. Felicita remained firm to her resolution that Felix should have nothing to do with his father's business, and the boy himself had decided in his very childhood that he would follow in the footsteps of his ancestor, Felix Merle, the brave pastor of the Jura. There was no hope of having him to train up for the Old Bank. But every summer they spent a few days with him, in the very house where their father had lived, and where Felix could still associate him with the wainscoted rooms and the terraced garden. When Felix talked of his father and asked questions about him, Mr. Clifford always spoke of him in a regretful and affectionate tone. No hint reached the boy that his father's memory was not revered in his native town. "There is no stone to my father in the church," he said, one Sunday, after he had been looking again and again at a tablet to his grandfather on the church walls. "No; but I had a granite cross put over his grave in Engelberg," answered Mr. Clifford; "when you can go to Switzerland you'll have no trouble in finding it. Perhaps you and I may go there together some day. I have some thoughts of it." "But my mother will not hear a word of any of us ever going to Switzerland," said Felix. "I've asked her how soon she would think us old enough to go, and she said never! Of course we don't expect she would ever bear to go to the place where he was killed; but Phebe would love to go, and so would I. We've saved enough money, Phebe and I; and my mother will not let me say one word about it. She says I am never, never to think of such a thing." "She is afraid of losing you as well as him," replied Mr. Clifford; "but when you are more of a man she will let you go. You are all she has." "Except Hilda," said the boy fondly, "and I know she loves me most of all. I do not wonder she cannot bear to hear about my father. My mother is not like other women." "Your mother is a famous woman," rejoined Mr. Clifford; "you ought to be proud of her." For as years passed on Felicita had attained some portion of her ambition. In Riversborough it seemed as if she was the first writer of the age; and though in London she had not won one of those extraordinary successes which place an author suddenly at the top of the ladder, she was steadily climbing upward, and was well known for her good and conscientious work. The books she wrote were clever, though cynical and captious; yet here and there they contained passages of pathos and beauty which insured a fair amount of favor. Her work was always welcome and well paid, so well that she could live comfortably on the income she made for herself, without falling back on her marriage settlement. Without an undue strain upon her mental powers she could earn a thousand a year, which was amply sufficient for her small household. Though Roland Sefton had lavished upon his high-born wife all the pomp and luxury he considered fitting to the position she had left for him, Felicita's own tastes and habits were simple. Her father, Lord Riversford, had been but a poor baron with an encumbered estate, and his only child had been brought up in no extravagant ways. Now that she had to earn most of the income of the household, for herself she had very few personal expenses to curtail. Thanks to Madame and Phebe, the house was kept in exquisite order, saving Felicita the shock of seeing the rooms she dwelt in dingy and shabby. Excepting the use of a carriage, there was no luxury that she greatly missed. As she became more widely known, Felicita was almost compelled to enter into society, though she did it reluctantly. Old friends of her father's, himself a literary man, sought her out; and her cousins from Riversford insisted upon visiting her and being visited as her relations. She could not altogether resist their overtures, partly on account of her children, who, as they grew up, ought not to find themselves without friends. But she went from home with unwillingness, and returned to the refuge of her quiet study with alacrity. There was only one house where she visited voluntarily. A distant cousin of hers had married a country clergyman, whose parish was about thirty miles from London, in the flat, green meadows of Essex. The Pascals had children the same age as Felix and Hilda; and when they engaged a tutor for their own boys and girls they proposed to Felicita that her children should join them. In Mr. Pascal's quiet country parsonage were to be met some of the clearest and deepest thinkers of the day, who escaped from the conventionalities of London society to the simple and pleasant freedom they found there. Mr. Pascal himself was a leading spirit among them, with an intellect and a heart large and broad enough to find companionship in every human being who crossed his path. There was no pleasure in life to Felicita equal to going down for a few days' rest to this country parsonage. That she was still mourning bitterly for the husband, whose name could never be mentioned to her, all the world believed. It made those who loved her most feel very tenderly toward her. Though she never put on a widow's garb she always wore black dresses. The jewels Roland had bought for her in profusion lay in their cases, and never saw the light. She could not bring herself to look at them; for she understood better now the temptation that had assailed and conquered him. She knew that it was for her chiefly, to gratify an ambition cherished on her account, that he had fallen into crime. "I worship my mother still," said Felix one day to Phebe, "but I feel more and more awe of her every day. What is it that separates her from us? It would be different if my father had not died." "Yes, it would have been different," answered Phebe, thinking of how terrible a change it must have made in their young lives if Roland Sefton had not died. She, too, understood better what his crime had been, and how the world regarded it; and she thanked God in her secret soul that Roland was dead, and his wife and children saved from sharing his punishment. It had all been for the best, sad as it was at the time. Madame also was comforted, though she had not forgotten her son. It was the will of God: it was God who had called him, as He would call her some day. There was no bitterness in her grief, and she did not perplex her soul with brooding over the impenetrable mystery of death. CHAPTER XXV. DEAD TO THE WORLD. In an hospital at Lucerne a peasant had been lying ill for many weeks of a brain fever, which left him so absolutely helpless that it was impossible to turn him out into the streets on his recovery from the fever, as he had no home or friends to go to. When his mind seemed clear enough to give some account of himself, he was incoherent and bewildered in the few statements he made. He did not answer to his own name, Jean Merle; and he appeared incapable of understanding even a simple question. That his brain had been, perhaps, permanently affected by the fever was highly probable. When at length the authorities of the hospital were obliged to discharge him, a purse was made up for him, containing enough money to keep him in his own station for the next three months. By this time Jean Merle was no longer confused and unintelligible when he opened his lips, but he very rarely uttered a word beyond what was absolutely necessary. He appeared to the physicians attending him to be bent on recollecting something that had occurred in the past before his brain gave way. His face was always preoccupied and moody, and scarcely any sound would catch his ear and make him lift up his head. There must be mania somewhere, but it could not be discovered. "Have you any plans for the future, Merle?" he was asked the day he was discharged as cured. "Yes, Monsieur," he replied; "I am a wood-carver by trade." "And where are you going to now?" was the next question. "I must go to Engelberg," answered Merle, with a shudder. "Ah! to Monsieur Nicodemus; then," said the doctor, "you must be a good hand at your work to please him, my good fellow." "I am a good hand," replied Merle. The valley of Engelberg lies high, and is little more than a cleft in the huge mass of mountains; a narrow gap where storms gather, and bring themselves into a focus. In the summer thunder-clouds draw together, and fill up the whole valley, while rain falls in torrents, and the streams war and rage along their stony channels. But when Jean Merle returned to it in March, after four months' absence, the valley was covered with snow stretching up to the summits of the mountains around it, save only where the rocks were too precipitous for it to lodge. He had come back to Engelberg because there was the grave of the friendless man who bore his former name. It had a fascination for him, this grave, where he was supposed to be at rest. The handsome granite cross, bearing only the name of Roland Sefton and the date of his death, attracted him, and held him by an irresistible spell. At first, in the strange weakness of his mind, he could hardly believe but that he was dead, and this inexplicable second life as Jean Merle was an illusion. It would not have amazed him if he had been invisible and inaudible to those about him. That which filled him with astonishment and terror was the fact that the people took him to be what he said he was, a Swiss peasant, and a wood-carver. He had no difficulty in getting work as soon as he had done a piece as a specimen of his skill. Monsieur Nicodemus recognized a delicate and cultivated hand, and a faithful delineator of nature. As he acquired more skill with steady practice he surpassed the master's most dexterous helper, and bid fair to rival Monsieur Nicodemus himself. But Jean Merle had no ambition; there was no desire to make himself known, or put his productions forward. He was content with receiving liberal wages, such as the master, with the generosity of a true artist, paid to him. But for the unflagging care he expended upon his work, his fellow-craftsmen would have thought him indifferent to it. For nine months in the year Jean Merle remained in Engelberg, giving himself no holiday, no leisure, no breathing time. He lived on the poorest fare, and in the meanest lodging. His clothing was often little better than rags. His wages brought him no relaxation from toil, or delivered him from self-chosen wretchedness. Silent and morose, he lived apart from all his fellows, who regarded him as a half-witted miser. When the summer season brought flights of foreign tourists, Merle disappeared, and was seen no more till autumn. Nobody knew whither he went, but it was believed he acted as a guide to some of the highest and most perilous of the Alps. When he came back to his work at the end of the season, his blackened and swarthy face, from which the skin had peeled, and his hands wounded and torn as if from scaling jagged cliffs, bore testimony to these conjectures. He never entered the church when mass was performed, or any congregation assembled; but at rare intervals he might be seen kneeling on the steps before the high altar, his shaggy head bent down, and his frame shaken with repressed sobs which no one could hear. The curé had tried to win his confidence, but had failed. Jean Merle was a heretic. When he was spoken to he would speak, but he never addressed himself to any one. He was not a native-born Swiss, and he did not seek naturalization, or claim any right in the canton. He did not seek permission to marry or to build a house, but as he was skilful and industrious and thrifty, a man in the prime of life, the commune left him alone. He seemed to have taken it as a self-imposed task that he should have the charge of the granite cross, erected over the man whose death he had witnessed. He was recognized in Engelberg as the man who had spent the last hours with the buried Englishman, but no suspicion attached to him. So careful was he of the monument that it was generally rumored he received a sum of money yearly for keeping it in order. No doubt the friends of the rich Englishman, who had erected so handsome a stone to his memory, made it worth the man's while to attend to it. Besides this grave, which he could not keep himself from haunting, Engelberg attracted him by its double association with Felicita. Here he had seen her for the first and for the last time. There was no other spot in the world, except the home he had lost forever, so full of memories of her. He could live over again every instant of each interview with her, with all the happy interval that lay between them. The rest of his life was steeped in shadow; the earlier years before he knew Felicita were pale and dim; the time since he lost her was unreal and empty, like a confused dream. After a while a dull despondency succeeded to the acute misery of his first winter and summer. His second fraud had been terribly successful; in a certain measure he was duped by it himself. All the world believed him to be dead, and he lived as a shadow among shadows. The wild and solitary ice-peaks he sometimes scaled seemed to him the unsubstantial phantasmagoria of a troubled sleep. He wondered with a dull amazement if the crevasses which yawned before him would swallow him up, or the shuddering violence of an avalanche bury him beneath it. His life had been as a tale that is told, even to its last word, death. PART II. CHAPTER I. AFTER MANY YEARS. The busy, monotonous years ran through their course tranquilly, marked only by a change of residence from the narrow little house suited to Felicita's slender means to a larger, more commodious, and more fashionable dwelling-place in a West End square. Both Felicita and Phebe had won their share of public favor and a fair measure of fame; and the new home was chosen partly on account of an artist's studio with a separate entrance, through which Phebe could go in and out, and admit her visitors and sitters, in independence of the rest of the household. Never once had Felix wavered in his desire to take orders and become a clergyman, from the time his boyish imagination had been fired by the stories of his great-grandfather's perils and labors in the Jura. Felicita had looked coldly on his resolution, having a quiet contempt for English clergymen, in spite of her friendship for Mr. Pascal, if friendship it could be called. For each year as it passed over Felicita left her in a separation from her fellow-creatures, always growing more chilly and dreary. It seemed to herself as if her lips were even losing the use of language, and that only with her pen could she find vent in expression. And these written thoughts of hers, printed and published for any eye to read, how unutterably empty of all but bitterness she found them. She almost marvelled at the popularity of her own books. How could it be that the cynical, scornful pictures she drew of human nature and human fellowship could be read so eagerly? She felt ashamed of her children seeing them, lest they should learn to distrust all men's truth and honor, and she would not suffer a word to be said about them in her own family. But Madame Sefton, in her failing old age, was always ready to sympathize with Felix, and to help to keep him steady to her own simple faith; and Phebe was on the same side. These two women, with their quiet, unquestioning trust in God, and sweet charity toward their fellow-men, did more for Felix than all the opposing influences of college life could undo; and when his grandmother's peaceful and happy death set the last seal on her truthful life, Felix devoted himself with renewed earnestness to the career he had chosen. To enter the lists in the battle against darkness, and ignorance, and sin, wherever these foes were to be met in close quarters, was his ambition; and the enthusiasm with which he followed it made Felicita smile, yet sigh with unutterable bitterness as she looked into the midnight gloom of her own soul. It became quite plain to Felicita as the years passed by that her son was no genius. At present there was a freshness and singleness of purpose about him, which, with the charm of his handsome young face and the genial simplicity of his manners, made him everywhere a favorite, and carried him into circles where a graver man and a deeper thinker could not find entrance; but let twenty years pass by, and Felix, she said to herself, would be nothing but a commonplace country clergyman, looking after his glebe lands and riding lazily about his parish, talking with old women and consulting farmers about his crops and cattle. She felt disappointed in him; and this disappointment removed him far away from her. The enchanted circle of her own isolation was complete. The subtle influence of Felicita's dissatisfaction was vaguely felt by Felix. He had done well at Oxford, and had satisfied his friend and tutor, Mr. Pascal; but he knew that his mother wished him to make a great name there, and he had failed to do it. Every day, when he spent a few minutes in Felicita's library, lined with books which were her only companions, their conversation grew more and more vapid, unless his mother gave utterance to some of her sarcastic sayings, which he only half understood and altogether disliked. But in Phebe's studio all was different; he was at home there. Though it was separate from the house, it had from the first been the favorite haunt of all the other members of the family. Madame had been wont to bring her knitting and sit beside Phebe's easel, talking of old times, and of the dear son she had lost so sorrowfully. Felix had read his school-boy stories aloud to her whilst she was painting; and Hilda flitted in and out restlessly, carrying every bit of news she picked up from her girl friends to Phebe. Even Felicita was used to steal in silently in the dusk, when no one else was there, and talk in her low sad voice as she talked to no one else. As soon as Felix was old enough, within a few months of Madame's death, he took orders, and accepted a curacy in a poor and densely populated London district. It was not much more than two miles from home, but it was considered advisable that he should take lodgings near his vicar's church, and dwell in the midst of the people with whom he had to do. The separation was not so complete as if he had gone into a country parish, but it brought another blank into the home, which had not yet ceased to miss the tranquil and quiet presence of the old grandmother. "I shall not have to fight with wolves like Felix Merle, my great-grandfather," said Felix, the evening before he left home, as he and Phebe were sitting over her studio fire. "I think sometimes I ought to go out as a missionary to some wild country. Yet there are dangers to meet here in London, and risks to run; ay! and battles to fight. I shall have a good fist for drunken men beating helpless women in my parish. I couldn't stand by and see a woman ill-used without striking a blow, could I, Phebe?" "I hope you'll strike as few blows as you can," she answered, smiling. "How could I help standing up for a woman when I think of my mother, and you, and little Hilda, and her who is gone?" asked Felix. "Is there nobody else?" inquired Phebe, with a mischievous tone in her pleasant voice. "When I think of the good women I have known," he answered evasively, "the sweet true, noble women, I feel my blood boil at the thought of any man ill-using any woman. Phebe, I can just remember my father speaking of it with the utmost contempt and anger, with a fire in his eyes and a sternness in his voice which made me tremble with fear. He was in a righteous passion; it was the other side of his worship of my mother." "He was always kind and tender toward all women," answered Phebe. "All the Seftons have been like that; they could never be harsh to any woman. But your father almost worshipped the ground your mother trod upon; nothing on earth was good enough for her. Look here, my dear boy, I've been trying to paint a picture for you." She lifted up a stretcher which had been turned with the canvas to the wall, and placed it on her easel in the full light of a shaded lamp. For a moment she stood between him and it, gazing at it with tears in her blue eyes. Then she fell back to his side to look at it with him, clasping his hand in hers, and holding it in a warm, fond grasp. It was a portrait of Roland Sefton, painted from her faithful memory, which had been aided by a photograph taken when he was the same age Felix was now. Phebe could only see it dimly through her tears, and for a moment or two both of them were silent. "My father?" said Felix, his face flushing and his voice faltering; "is it like him, Phebe? Yes, yes! I recollect him now; only he looked happier or merrier than he does there. There is something sad about his face that I do not remember. What a king he was among men! I'm not worthy to be the son of such a man and such a woman." "No, no; don't say that," she answered eagerly; "you're not as handsome, or as strong, or as clever as he was; but you may be as good a man--yes, a better man." She spoke with a deep, low sigh that was almost a sob, as the memory of how she had seen him last--crushed under a weight of sin and flying from the penalty of crime--flashed across her brain. She knew now why there had lurked a subtle sadness in the face she had been painting, which she had not been able to banish. "I think," she said, as if speaking to herself, "that the sense of sin links us to God almost as closely as love does. I never understood Jesus Christ until I knew something of the wickedness of the world, and the frailty of our nature at its best. It is when a good man has to cry, 'Against Thee, Thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in Thy sight,' that we feel something of the awful sinfulness of sin." "And have you this sense of sin, Phebe?" asked Felix in a low voice. "I have thought sometimes that you, and my mother, and men like my father and Mr. Pascal, felt but little of the inward strength of sin. Your lives stand out so clear and true. If there is a stain upon them it is so slight, so plainly a defect of the physical nature, that it often seems to me you do not know what evil is." "We all know it," she answered, "and that shadow of sorrow you see in your father's face must bear witness for him to you that he has passed through the same conflict you may be fighting. The sins of good men are greater than the sins of bad men. One lie from a truthful man is more hurtful than all the lies of a liar. The sins of a man after God's own heart have done more harm than all the crimes of all the Pagan emperors." "It is true," he said thoughtfully. "If I told you a falsehood, what would you think of me?" "I believe it would almost break my heart if you or my mother told me a falsehood," he answered. "I could not paint this portrait while your grandmother was living," said Phebe, after a short silence; "I tried it once or twice, but I could never succeed. See; here is the photograph your father gave me when I was quite a little girl, because I cried so bitterly at his going away for a few months on his wedding trip. There were only two taken, and your mother has the other. They were both very young; he was only your age, and your mother was not twenty. But Lord Riversford was dead, and she was not happy with her cousins; and your grandfather, who was living then, was eager for the match. Everybody said it was a great match for your father." "They were very happy; they were not too young to be married," answered Felix, with a deep flush on his handsome face. "Why should not people marry young, if they love one another?" "I would ask Canon Pascal that question if I were you," she said, smiling significantly. "I have a good mind to ask him to-night," he replied, stooping down to kiss Phebe's cheek; "he is at Westminster, and Alice is there too. Bid me good speed, Phebe." "God bless you, my Felix," she whispered. He turned abruptly away, though he lingered for a minute or two longer, gazing at his father's portrait. How like him, and yet how unlike him, he was in Phebe's eyes! Then, with a gentle pressure of her hand, he went away in silence; while she took down the painting, and set it again with its face to the wall, lest Felicita coming in should catch a sight of it. CHAPTER II. CANON PASCAL. The massive pile of the old Abbey stood darkly against the sky, with not a glimmer of light shining through its many windows; whilst behind it the Houses of Parliament, now in full session, glittered from roof to basement with innumerable lamps. All about them there was the rush and rattle of busy life, but the Abbey seemed inclosed in a magic circle of solitude and stillness. Overhead a countless host of little silvery clouds covered the sky, with fine threads and interspaces of dark blue lying between them. The moon, pale and bright, seemed to be drifting slowly among them, sometimes behind them, and faintly veiled by their light vapor; but more often the little clouds made way for her, and clustered round, in a circle of vaguely outlined cherub-heads, golden brown in the halo she shed about her. These child-like angel-heads, floating over the greater part of the sky, seemed pressing forward, one behind the other, and hastening into the narrow ring of light, with a gentle eagerness; and fading softly away as the moon passed by. Felix stood still for a minute or two looking up from the dark and silent front of the Abbey to the silent and silvery clouds above it. Almost every stone of the venerable old walls was familiar and dear to him. For Phebe, when she came from the broad, grand solitude of her native moors, had fixed at once upon the Abbey as the one spot in London where she could find something of the repose she had been accustomed to meet with in the sight of the far-stretching horizon, and the unbroken vault of heaven overarching it. Felicita, too, had attended the cathedral service every Sunday morning, since she had been wealthy enough to set up a carriage, which was the first luxury she had allowed herself. The music, the chants, the dim light of the colored windows, the long aisle of lofty arches, and the many persistent and dominant associations taking possession of her memory and imagination, made the Abbey almost as dear to Felicita as it was through its mysterious and sacred repose to Phebe. Felix had paced along the streets with rapid and headlong haste, but now he hesitated before turning into Dean's Yard. When he did so, he sauntered round the inclosure two or three times, wondering in what words he could best move the Canon, and framing half a dozen speeches in his mind, which seemed ridiculous to himself when he whispered them half aloud. At last, with a sudden determination to trust to the inspiration of the moment, he turned his steps hurriedly into the dark, low arches of the cloisters. But he had not many steps to take. The tall, somewhat stooping figure of Canon Pascal, so familiar to him, was leaving through one of the archways, with head upturned to the little field of sky above the quadrangle, where the moon was to be seen with her attendant clouds. Felix could read every line in his strongly marked features, and the deep furrows which lay between his thick brows. The tinge of gray in his dark hair was visible in the moonlight, or rather the pale gleam caused all his hair to seem silvery. His eyes were glistening with delight, and as he heard steps pausing at his side, he turned, and at the sight of Felix his harsh face melted into almost a womanly smile of greeting. "Welcome, my son," he said, in a pleasant and deep voice; "you are just in time to share this glorious sight with me. Pity 'tis it vanishes so soon!" He clasped Felix's hand with a warm, hearty pressure, such as few hands know how to give; though it is one of the most tender and most refined expressions of friendship. Felix grasped his with an unconscious grip which made Canon Pascal wince, though he said nothing. For a few minutes the two men stood gazing upward in reverent silence, each brain busy with its own thoughts. "You were coming to see me?" said Canon Pascal at last. "Yes," answered Felix, in a voice faltering with eager emotion. "On some special errand?" pursued Canon Pascal. "Don't let us lose time in beating about the bush, then. You cannot say anything that will not be interesting to me, Felix; for I always find a lad like you, and at your age, has something in his mind worth listening to. What is it, my son?" "I don't want to beat about the bush," stammered Felix, "but oh! if you only knew how I love Alice! More than words can tell. You've known me all my life, and Alice has known me. Will you let her be my wife?" The smile was gone from Canon Pascal's face. A moment ago, and he, gazing up at the moon, had been recalling, with a boyish freshness of heart, the days of his own happy though protracted courtship of the dear wife, who might be gazing at the same scene from her window in his country rectory. His face grew almost harsh with its grave thoughtfulness as his eyes fastened upon the agitated features of the young man beside him. A fine-looking young fellow, he said to himself; with a frank, open nature, and a constitution and disposition unspoiled by the world. He needed nobody to tell him what his old pupil was, for he knew him as well as he knew his own boys, but he had never thought of him as any other than a boy. Alice, too, was a child still. This sudden demand struck him into a mood of silent and serious thought; and he paced to and fro for a while along the corridor, with Felix equally silent and serious at his side. "You've no idea how much I love her!" Felix at last ventured to say. "Hush, my boy!" he answered, with a sharp, imperative tone in his voice. "I loved Alice's mother before you were born; and I love her more every day of my life. You children don't know what love means." Felix answered by a gesture of protest. Not know what love meant, when neither day nor night was the thought of Alice absent from his inmost heart! He had been almost afraid of the vehemence of his own passion, lest it should prove a hindrance to him in God's service. Canon Pascal drew his arm affectionately through his and turned back to pace the cloister once more. "I'm trying to think," he said, in a gentler voice, "that Alice is out of the nursery, and you out of the schoolroom. It is difficult, Felix." "You were present at my ordination last week," exclaimed Felix, in an aggrieved tone; "the Church, and the Bishop, and you did not think me too young to take charge of souls. Surely you cannot urge that I am not old enough to take care of one whom I love better than my own life!" Canon Pascal pressed Felix's arm closer to his side. "Oh, my boy!" he said, "you will discover that it is easier to commit unknown souls to anybody's charge, than to give away one's child, body, soul, and spirit. It is a solemn thing we are talking of; more solemn, in some respects, than my girl's death. I would rather follow Alice to the grave than see her enter into a marriage not made for her in heaven." "So would I," answered Felix tremulously. "And to make sure that any marriage is made in heaven!" mused the Canon, speaking as if to himself, with his head sunk in thought. "There's the grand difficulty! For oh! Felix, my son, it is not love only that is needed, but wisdom; yes! the highest wisdom, that which cometh down from above, and is first pure, and then peaceable. For how could Christ Himself be the husband of the Church, if He was not both the wisdom of God and the love of God? How could God be the heavenly Father of us all, if He was not infinite in wisdom? Know you not what Bacon saith; 'To love and to be wise is not granted unto man?'" "I dare not say I am wise," answered Felix, "but surely such love as I bear to Alice will bring wisdom." "And does Alice love you?" asked Canon Pascal. "I did not think it right to ask her?" he replied. "Then there's some hope still," said the Canon, more joyously; "the child is scarcely twenty yet. Do not you be in a hurry, my boy. You do not know what woman is yet; how delicately and tenderly organized; how full of seeming contradictions and uncertainties, often with a blessed meaning in them, ah, a heavenly meaning, but hard to be understood and apprehended by the rougher portion of humanity. Study them a little longer, Felix; take another year or two before you fix on your life mistress." "You forget how many years I have lived under the same roof as Alice," replied Felix eagerly, "and how many women I have lived with; my mother, my grandmother, Phebe, and Hilda. Surely I know more about them than most men." "All good women," he answered, "happy lad! blessed lad, I should rather say. They have been better to thee than angels. Phebe has been more than a guardian angel to thee, though thou knowest not all thou owest to her yet. But a wife, Felix, is different, God knows, from mother, or sister, or friend. God chooses our kinsfolk for us; but man chooses his own wife; having free will in that choice on which hangs his own life, and the lives of others. Yet the wisest of men said, 'Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lord.' Ay, a good wife is the token of such loving favor as we know not yet in this world." The Canon's voice had fallen into a low and gentle tone, little louder than a whisper. The dim, obscure light in the cloisters scarcely gave Felix a chance of seeing the expression of his face; but the young man's heart beat high with hope. "You don't say No to me?" he faltered. "How can I say No or Yes?" asked Canon Pascal, almost with an accent of surprise. "I will talk it over with your mother and Alice's mother; but the Yes or No must come from Alice herself. What am I that I should stand between you two and God, if it is His will to bestow His sweet boon upon you both? Only do not disturb the child, Felix. Leave her fancy-free a little longer." "And you are willing to take me as your son? You do not count me unworthy?" he exclaimed. "I've boys of my own," he answered, "whose up-growing I've watched from the day of their birth, and who are precious to me as my own soul; and you, Felix, come next to them. You've been like another son to me. But I must see your mother. Who knows what thoughts she may not have for her only son?" "None, none that can come between Alice and me," cried Felix rapturously. "Father! yes, I shall know again what it is to have a father." A sob rose to his throat as he uttered the word. He seemed to see his own father again, as he remembered him in his childhood, and as Phebe's portrait had recalled him vividly to his mind. If he had only lived till now to witness, and to share in this new happiness! It seemed as if his early death gathered an additional sadness about it, since he had left the world while so much joy and gladness had been enfolded in the future. Even in this first moment of ineffable happiness he promised himself that he would go and visit his father's foreign grave. CHAPTER III. FELICITA'S REFUSAL. Now there was no longer a doubt weighing upon his spirit, Felix longed to tell his mother all. The slight cloud that had arisen of late years between them was so gossamer-like yet, that the faintest breath could drive it away. Though her boy was not the brilliant genius she had secretly and fondly hoped he would prove, he was still dearer to Felicita than ought else on earth or, indeed, in heaven; and her love for him was deeper than she supposed. On his part he had never lost that chivalrous tenderness, blended with deferential awe, with which he had regarded her from his early boyhood. His love for Alice was so utterly different from his devotion to her, that he had never compared them, and they had not come into any kind of collision yet. Felix sought his mother in her library. Felicita was alone, reading in the light of a lamp which shed a strong illumination over her. In his eyes she was incomparably the loveliest woman he had ever seen, not even excepting Alice; and the stately magnificence of her velvet dress, and rich lace, and costly jewels, was utterly different from that of any other woman he knew. For Mrs. Pascal dressed simply, as became the wife of a country rector; and Phebe, in her studio, always wore a blouse or apron of brown holland, which suited her well, making her homely and domestic in appearance as she was in nature. Felicita looked like a queen in his eyes. When she heard his voice speaking to her, having not caught the sound of his step on the soft carpet, Felicita looked up with a smile in her dark eyes. In a day or two her son was about to leave her roof, and her heart felt very soft toward him. She had scarcely realized that he was a man, until she knew that he had decided to have a place and a dwelling of his own. She stretched out both hands to him, with a gesture of tenderness peculiar to herself, and shown only to him. It was as if one hand could not link them closely enough; could not bring them so nearly heart to heart. Felix took them both into his own, and knelt down before her; his young face flushed with eagerness, and his eyes, so like her own, fastened upon hers. "Your face speaks for you," she said, pressing one of her rare kisses upon it. "What is it my boy has to tell me?" "Oh, mother," he cried, "you will never think I love you less than I have always done? See, I kiss your feet still as I used to do when I was a boy." He bent his head to caress the little feet, and then laid it on his mother's lap, while she let her white fingers play with his hair. "Why should you love me less than you have always done?" she asked, in a sweet languid voice. "Have I ever changed toward you, Felix?" "No, mother, no," he answered, "but to-night I feel how different I am from what I was but a year or two ago. I am a man now; I was a boy then." "You will always be a boy to me," she said, with a tender smile. "Yet I am as old as my father was when you were married," he replied. Felicita's face grew white, and she leaned back in her chair with a sudden feeling of faintness. It was years since the boy had spoken of his father; why should he utter his name now? He had raised his head when he felt her move, and her dim and failing eyes saw his face in a mist, looking so like his father when she had known him first, that she shrank from him, with a terror and aversion too deep to be concealed. "Roland!" she cried. He did not speak or move, being too bewildered and wonderstruck at his mother's agitation. Felicita hid her face in her white hands, and sat still recovering herself. The pang had been sudden, and poignant; it had smitten her so unawares that she had betrayed its anguish. But, she felt in an instant, her boy had no thought of wounding her; and for her own sake, as well as his, she must conquer this painful excitement. There must be no scene to awaken observation or suspicion. "Mother, forgive me," he exclaimed, "I did not mean to distress you." "No," she breathed with difficulty, "I am sure of it. Go on Felix." "I came to tell you," he said gravely, "that as long as I can remember--at least as long as we have been in London and known the Pascals--I have loved Alice. Oh, mother, I've thought sometimes you seemed as fond of her as you are of Hilda. You will be glad to have her as your daughter?" Felicita closed her eyes with a feeling of helpless misery. She could hardly give a thought to Felix and the words he uttered; yet it was those words which brought a flood of hidden memories and fears sweeping over her shrinking soul. It was so long since she had thought much of Roland! She had persuaded herself that as so many years had passed by bringing to her no hint or token of his existence, he must be dead; and as one dead passes presently out of the active thoughts, busy only with the present, so had her husband passed away from her mind into some dim, hidden cell of memory, with which she had long ceased to trouble herself. Her husband seemed to stand before her as she had seen him last, a haggard, way-worn, ruined man, beggared and stripped of all that makes life desirable. And this was only six months after he had lost all. What would he be after thirteen years if he was living still? But if it had appeared to her out of the question to face and bear the ignominy and disgrace he had brought upon her thirteen years ago, how utterly impossible it was now. She could never retrace her steps. To confess the deception she had herself consented to, and taken part in, would be to pull down with her own hands the fair edifice of her life. The very name she had made for herself, and the broader light in which her fame had placed her, made any repentance impossible. "A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid." Her hill was not as lofty as she had once fancied it would be; but still she was not on the low and safer level of the plain. She was honorably famous. She could not stain her honor by the acknowledgment of dishonor. The chief question, after all, was whether Roland was alive or dead. Her colorless face and closed eyes, the expression of unutterable perplexity and anguish in her knitted brows and quivering lips, filled Felix with wonder and grief. He had risen from his kneeling posture at her feet, and now his reverential awe of her yielded to the tender compassion of a man for a weak and suffering woman. He drew her beloved head on to his breast, and held her in a firm and loving grasp. "I would not grieve or pain you for worlds," he said falteringly, "nor would Alice. I love you better than myself; as much as I love her. We will talk of it another day, mother." She pressed close to him, and he felt her arms strained about him, as if she could not hold him near enough to her. It seemed to him as if she was striving to draw him into the very heart of her motherhood; but she knew how deep the gulf was between her and him, and shuddered at her own loneliness. "It is losing you, my son," she whispered with her quivering lips. "No, no," he said eagerly; "it is not losing me, but finding another child. Don't take a gloomy view of it, mother. I shall be as happy as my father was with you." He could not keep himself from thinking of his father, or of speaking of him. He understood more perfectly now what his father's worship of his mother had been; the tenderness of a stronger being toward a weaker one, blended with the chivalrous homage of a generous nature to the one woman chosen to represent all womanhood. There was a keener trouble to him to-night, than ever before, in the thought that his mother was a widow. "Leave me now, Felix," she said, loosing him from her close embrace, and shutting her eyes from the sight of him. "Do not let any one come to me again to-night. I must be alone." But when she was alone it was only to let her thoughts whirl round and round in one monotonous circle. If Roland was dead, her secret was safe, and Felix might be happy. If he was not dead, Felix must not marry Alice Pascal. She had not looked forward to this difficulty. There had been an unconscious and vague feeling in her heart that her son loved her too passionately to be easily pleased by any girl; and, almost unawares to herself, she had been in the habit of comparing her own attractions and loveliness with those of the younger women who crossed his path. Yet there was no personal vanity in the calm conviction she possessed that Felix had never seen a woman more beautiful and fascinating than the mother he had always admired with so much enthusiasm. She was not jealous of Alice Pascal, she said to herself, and yet her heart was sore when she said it. Why could not Felix remain simply constant to her? He was the only being she had ever really loved; and her love for him was deeper than she had known it to be. Yet to crush his hopes, to wound him, would be like the bitterness of death to her. If she could but let him marry his Alice, how much easier it would be than throwing obstacles in the way of his happiness; obstacles that would seem but the weak and wilful caprices of a foolish mother. When the morning came, and Canon Pascal made his appearance, Felicita received him in her library, apparently composed, but grave and almost stern in her manner. They were old friends; but the friendship on his side was warm and genial, while on hers it was cold and reserved. He lost no time in beginning on the subject which had brought him to her. "My dear Felicita," he said, "Felix tells me he had some talk with you last night. What do you think of our young people?" "What does Alice say?" she asked. "Oh, Alice!" he answered in an amused yet tender tone; "she would be of one mind with Felix. There is something beautiful in the innocent, unworldly love of children like these, who are ready to build a nest under any eaves. Felicita, you do not disapprove of it?" "I cannot disapprove of Alice," she replied gloomily; "but I do disapprove of Felix marrying so young. A man should not marry under thirty." "Thirty!" echoed Canon Pascal; "that would be in seven years. It is a long time; but if they do not object I should not. I'm in no hurry to lose my daughter. But they will not wait so long." "Do not let them be engaged yet," she said in hurried and sad tones. "They may see others whom they would love more. Early marriages and long engagements are both bad. Tell them from me that it is better for them to be free a while longer, till they know themselves and the world better. I would rather Felix and Hilda never married. When I see Phebe so free from all the gnawing cares and anxieties of this life, and so joyous in her freedom, I wish to heaven I could have had a single life like hers." "Why! Felicita!" he exclaimed; "this is morbid. You have never forgiven God for taking away your husband. You have been keeping a grudge against Him all these years of your widowhood." "No, no!" she interrupted; "it is not that. They married me too soon, my uncle and Mr. Sefton. I never loved Roland as I ought. Oh! if I had loved him, how different my life would have been, and his!" Her voice faltered and broke into deep sobs, which cut off all further speech. For a few minutes Canon Pascal endeavored to reason with her and comfort her, but in vain. At length he quietly went away and sent Phebe to her. There could be no more discussion of the subject for the present. CHAPTER IV. TAKING ORDERS. The darkness that had dwelt so long in the heart of Felicita began now to cast its gloom over the whole household. A sharp attack of illness, which followed immediately upon her great and inexplicable agitation, caused great consternation to her friends, and above all to Felix. The eminent physician who was called in said her brain had been over-worked, and she must be kept absolutely free of all worry and anxiety. How easily is this direction given, and how difficult, how impossible, in many cases, is it to follow! That any soul, except that of a child, can be freed from all anxiety, is possible only to the soul that knows and trusts God. All further mention of his love for Alice was out of the question now for Felix. Bitter as silence was, it was imperative; for while his mother's objections and prejudices were not overcome, Canon Pascal would not hear of any closer tie than that which already existed being formed between the young people. He had, however, the comfort of believing that Alice had heard so much of what had passed from her mother, as that she knew he loved her, and had owned his love to her father. There was a subtle change in her manner toward him; she was more silent in his presence, and there was a tremulous tone in her voice at times when she spoke to him, yet she lingered beside him, and listened more closely to all he had to say; and when they left Westminster to return to their country rectory the tears glistened in her eyes as they had never done before when he bade her good-by. "Come and see us as soon as it will not vex your mother, my boy," said Canon Pascal; "you may always think of our home as your own." The only person who was not perplexed by Felicita's inexplicable conduct and her illness, was Phebe Marlowe, who believed that she knew the cause, and was drawn closer to her in the deepest sympathy and pity. It seemed to Phebe that Felicita was creating the obstacle, which existed chiefly in her fancy; and with her usual frankness and directness she went to Canon Pascal's abode in the Cloisters at Westminster, to tell him simply what she thought. "I want to ask you," she said, with her clear, honest gaze fastened on his face, "if you know why Mrs. Sefton left Riversborough thirteen years ago?" "Partly," he answered; "my wife is a Riversdale, you know, Felicita's second or third cousin. There was some painful suspicion attaching to Roland Sefton." "Yes," answered Phebe sadly. "Was it not quite cleared up?" asked Canon Pascal. Phebe shook her head. "We heard," he went on, "that it was believed Roland Sefton's confidential clerk was the actual culprit; and Sefton himself was only guilty of negligence. Mr. Clifford himself told Lord Riversdale that Sefton was gone away on a long holiday, and might not be back for months; and something of the same kind was put forth in a circular issued from the Old Bank. I had one sent to me; for some little business of my wife's was in the hands of the firm. I recollect thinking it was an odd affair, but it passed out of my mind; and the poor fellow's death quite obliterated all accusing thoughts against him." "That is the scruple in Felicita's mind," said Phebe in a sorrowful tone; "she feels that you ought to know everything before you consent to Alice marrying Felix, and she cannot bring herself to speak of it." "But how morbid that is!" he answered; "as if I did not know Felix, every thought of him, and every motion of his soul! His father was a careless, negligent man. He was nothing worse, was he, Phebe?" "He was the best friend I ever had," she answered earnestly, though her face grew pale, and her eyelids drooped, "I owe all I am to him. But it was not Acton who was guilty. It was Felix and Hilda's father." "And Felicita knew it?" he exclaimed. "She knew nothing about it until I told her," answered Phebe. "Roland Sefton came to me when he was trying to escape out of the country, and my father and I helped him to get away. He told me all; and oh! he was not so much to blame as you might think. But he was guilty of the crime; and if he had been taken he would have been sent to jail. I would have died then sooner than let him be taken to jail." "If I had only known this from the beginning!" said Canon Pascal. "What would you have done?" asked Phebe eagerly. "Would you have refused to take Felix into your home? He has done no wrong. Hilda has done no wrong. There would have been disgrace and shame for them if their father had been sent to jail; but his death saved them from all danger of that. Nobody would ever speak a word against Roland Sefton now. Yet this is what is preying on Felicita's mind. If she was sure you knew all, and still consented to Felix marrying Alice, she would be at peace again. And I too think you ought to know all. But you-will not visit the sins of the father upon the son----" "Divine providence does so," he interrupted; "if the fathers eat sour grapes the teeth of the sons are set on edge. Phebe, Phebe, that is only too true." "But Roland's death set the children free from the curse," answered Phebe, weeping. "If he had been taken, they would have gone away to some foreign land where they were not known; or even if he had not died, we must have done differently from what we have done. But there is no one now to bring this condemnation against them. Even old Mr. Clifford has more than forgiven Roland; and if possible would have the time back again, that he might act so as to reinstate him in his position. No one in the world bears a grudge against Roland." "I'm not hard-hearted, God knows," he answered, "but no man likes to give his child to the son of a felon, convicted or unconvicted." "Then I have done harm by telling you." "No, no; you have done rightly," he replied, "it was good for me to know the truth. We will let things be for awhile. And yet," he added, his grave, stern face softening a little, "if it would be good for Felicita, tell her that I know all, and that after a battle or two with myself, I am sure to yield. I could not see Alice unhappy; and that lad holds her heart in his hands. After all, she too must bear her part in the sins of the world." But though Phebe watched for an opportunity for telling Felicita what she had done, no chance came. If Felicita had been reserved before, she inclosed herself in almost unbroken silence now. During her illness she had been on the verge of delirium; and then she had shut her lips with a stern determination, which even her weak and fevered brain could not break. She had once begged Phebe, if she grew really delirious, to dismiss all other attendants, so that no ear but hers might hear her wanderings; but this emergency had not arisen. And since then she had sunk more and more into a stern silence. Felix had left home, and entered into his lodgings, taking his father's portrait with him. He was not so far from home but that he either visited it, or received visitors from it almost every day. His mother's illness troubled him; or otherwise the change in his life, his first step in independent manhood, would have been one of great happiness to him. He did not feel any deep misgivings as to Alice, and the blessedness of the future with her; and in the mean-time, while he was waiting, there was his work to do. He had taken orders, not from ambition or any hope of worldly gain, those lay quite apart from the path he had chosen, but from the simple desire of fighting as best he might against the growing vices and miseries of civilization. Step for step with the ever-increasing luxury of the rich he saw marching beside it the gaunt degradation of the poor. The life of refined self-indulgence in the one class was caricatured by loathsome self-indulgence in the other. On the one hand he saw, young as he was, something of the languor and weariness of life of those who have nothing to do, and from satiety have little to hope or to fear; and on the other the ignorance and want which deprived both mind and body of all healthful activity, and in the pressure of utter need left but little scope for hope or fear. He fancied that such civilization sank its victims into deeper depths of misery than those of barbarism. Before him seemed to lie a huge, weltering mass of slime, a very quagmire of foulness and miasma, in the depths and darkness of which he could dimly discern the innumerable coils of a deadly dragon, breathing forth poison and death into the air, which those beloved of God and himself must breathe, and crushing in its pestilential folds the bodies and souls of immortal men. He was one of the young St. Michaels called by God to give combat to that old serpent, called the Devil and Satan, which was deceiving the old world. CHAPTER V. A LONDON CURACY. The district on which his vicar directed Felix to concentrate his efforts was by no means a neglected one. It was rather suffering from the multitude of laborers, who had chosen it as their part of the great vineyard. Lying close to a wealthy and fashionable neighborhood, it had long been a kind of pleasure-ground, or park for hunting sinners in, to the charitable and religious inhabitants of the comfortable dwellings standing within a stone's throw of the wretched streets. There was interest and excitement to be found there for their own unoccupied time, and a pleasant glow of approbation for their consciences. Every denomination had a mission there; and the mission-halls stood thickly on the ground. There were Bible-women, nurses, city missionaries, tract distributors at work; mothers' meetings were held; classes of all sorts were open; infirmaries and medical mission-rooms were established; and coffee-rooms were to be found in nearly every street. Each body of Christians acted as if there were no other workers in the field; each was striving to hunt souls into its own special fold; and each distributed its funds as if no money but theirs was being laid out for the welfare of the poor district. Hence there were greater pauperism and more complete poverty than in many a neglected quarter of the East End, with all its untold misery. Spirit-vaults flourished; the low lodging-houses were crowded to excess; rents rose rapidly; and the narrow ill lighted streets swarmed with riff-raff after nightfall, when the greater part of the wealthy district-visitors were spending their evening hours in their comfortable homes, satisfied with their day's work for the Lord. But Felix began his work in the evenings, when the few decent working men, who still continued to live in the Brickfields, had come home from their day's toil, and the throng of professional beggars and thieves, who found themselves in good quarters there, poured in from their day's prowling. It was well for him that he had an athletic and muscular frame, well-knitted together, and strengthened by exercise, for many a time he had to force his way out of houses, where he found himself surrounded by a crew of half-drunken and dangerous men. Presently they got to know and respect him both for his strength and forbearance, which he exercised with good temper and generosity. He could give a blow, as well as take one, when it was necessary. At one time his absence from church was compulsory, because he had received a black eye when defending a querulous old crone from her drunken son; he was seen about the wretched streets of the Brickfields with this too familiar decoration, but he took care not to go home until it was lost. With the more decent inhabitants of the district he was soon a great favorite; but he was feared and abhorred by the others. Felix belonged to the new school of philanthropic economy, which discerns, and protests against thoughtless almsgiving; and above all, against doles to street beggars. He would have made giving equally illegal with begging. But he soon began to despair of effecting a reformation in this direction; for even Phebe could not always refrain from finding a penny for some poor little shivering urchin, dogging her steps on a winter's day. "You do not stop to think how cruel you are," Felix would say indignantly; "if it was not for women giving to them, these poor little wretches would never be sent out, with their naked feet on the frozen pavement, and scarcely rags enough to hide their bodies, blue with cold. If you could only step inside the gin-shops as I do, you would see a drunken sinner of a father or a mother drinking down the pence you drop into the children's hands. Your thoughtless kindness is as cruel as their vice." But still, with all that fresh ardor and energy which is sneered at in the familiar proverb, "A new broom sweeps clean," Felix swept away at the misery, and the ignorance, and the vice of his degraded district. He was not going to spare himself; it should be no sham fight with him. The place was his first battlefield; and it had a strong attraction for him. So through the pleasant months of spring, which for the last four years had been spent at Oxford, and into the hot weeks of summer, Felix was indefatigably at work, giving himself no rest and no recreation, besides writing long and frequent letters to Mrs. Pascal, or rather to Alice. For would not Alice always read those letters, every word of them? would she not even often be the first to open them? it being the pleasant custom of the Pascal household for most letters to be in common, excepting such as were actually marked "private." And Mrs. Pascal's answer might have been dictated by Alice herself, so exactly did they express her mind. They did not as yet stand on the footing of betrothed lovers; but neither of them doubted but that they soon would do so. It was not without a sharp pang, however, that Felix learned that the Pascals were going to Switzerland for the summer. He had an intense longing to visit the land, of which his grandmother had so often spoken to him, and where his father's grave lay. But quite apart from his duty to the district placed under his charge, there was an obstacle in the absolute interdiction Felicita laid upon the country where her husband had met with his terrible death. It was impossible even to hint at going to Switzerland whilst she was in her present state of health. She had only partially recovered from the low, nervous fever which had attacked her during the winter; and still those about her strove their utmost to save her from all worry and anxiety. The sultry, fervid days of August came; and if possible the narrow thoroughfares of the Brickfields seemed more wretched than in the winter. The pavements burned like an oven, and the thin walls of the houses did not screen their inmates from the reeking heat. Not a breath of fresh air seemed to wander through the low-lying streets, and a sickly glare and heaviness brooded over them. No wonder there was fever about. The fields were too far away to be reached in this tiring weather; and when the men and women returned home from their day's work, they sunk down in silent and languid groups on their door-steps, or on the dirty flag-stones of the causeway. Even the professional beggars suffered more than in the winter, for the tide of almsgiving is at its lowest ebb during the summer, when the rich have many other and pleasanter occupations. Felix walked through his "parish," as he called it, with slow and weary steps. Yet his holiday was come, and this was the last evening he would work thus for the present. The Pascals were in Switzerland; he had had a letter from Mrs. Pascal, with a few lines from Alice herself in a postscript, telling him she and her father were about to start for Engelberg to visit his father's grave for him. It was a loving and gracious thing to do, just suited to Canon Pascal's kindly nature; and Felix felt his whole being lifted up by it to a happier level. Phebe and Hilda were gone to their usual summer haunt, Phebe's quaint little cottage on the solitary mountain-moor; where he was going to join them for a day or two, before they went to Mr. Clifford, in the old house at Riversborough. His mother alone, of all the friends he had, was remaining in London; and she had refused to leave until Phebe and Hilda had first paid their yearly visits to the old places. He reached his mission-room at last, through the close, unwholesome atmosphere, and found it fairly filled, chiefly with working men, some of whom had turned into it as being a trifle less hot and noisy than the baking pavements without, crowded with quarrelsome children. It was, moreover, the pay-night for a Providence club which Felix had established for any, either men or women, who chose to contribute to it. There was a short and simple lecture given first; and afterwards the club-books were brought out, and a committee of working men received the weekly subscriptions, and attended to the affairs of the little club. The lecture was near its close, when a drunken man, in the quarrelsome stage of intoxication, stumbled in through the open door. Felix knew him by sight well; a confirmed drunkard, a mere miserable sot, who hung about the spirit-vaults, and lived only for the drink he could pour down his throat. There had been a vague instinctive dread and disgust for the man, mingled with a deep interest he could not understand, in Felix's mind. He paused for an instant, looking at the dirty rags, and bleared eyes, and degraded face of the drunkard standing just in the doorway, with the summer's light behind him. "What's the parson's name?" he called in a thick, unsteady voice. "Is it Sefton?" "Hush! hush!" cried two or three voices in answer. "I'll not hush! If it's Sefton, it were his father as made me what I am. It were his father as stole every blessed penny of my earnings. It were his father as drove me to drink, and ruined me, soul and body. Sefton! I've a right to know the name of Sefton if any man on earth does. Curse it!" Felix had ceased speaking, and stood facing his little congregation, listening as in a dream. The men caught the drunken accuser by the arms, and were violently expelling him, but his rough voice rose above the noise of the scuffle. "Ay!" he shouted, "the parson won't hear the truth told. But take care of your money, mates, or it'll go where mine went." "Don't turn him out," called Felix; "it's a mistake, my men. Let him alone. He never knew my father." The drunkard turned round and confronted him, and the little assembly was quiet again, with an intense quietness, waiting to hear what would follow. "Your father's name was Roland Sefton?" said the drunkard. "Yes," answered Felix. "And he was banker of the Old Bank at Riversborough?" he asked. "Yes," said Felix. "Then what I've got to say is this," went on the rough, thick voice of the half-drunken man; "and the tale's true, mates. Roland Sefton, o' Riversborough, cheated me out o' all my hard earnings--one hundred and nineteen pounds--as I'd trusted him with, and drove me to drink. I were a steady man till then, as steady as the best of ye; and he were a fine, handsome, fair-spoken gentleman as ever walked; and we poor folks trusted him as if he'd been God Almighty. There was a old deaf and dumb man, called Marlowe, lost six hundred pound by him, and it broke his heart; he never held his head up after, and he died. Me, it drove to drink. That's the father o' the parson who stands here telling you about Jesus Christ, and maybe trusted with your money, as I trusted mine with him as cheated me. It's a true tale, mates, if God Almighty struck me dead for it this moment." There was such a tone of truth in the hoarse and passionate tones, which grew steadier as the speaker gained assurance by the silence of the audience, that there was not one there who did not believe the story. Even Felix, listening with white face and flaming eyes, dared not cry out that the accusation was a lie. Horrible as it was, he could not say to himself that it was all untrue. There came flashing across his mind confused reminiscences of the time when his father had disappeared from out of his life. He remembered asking his mother how long he would be away, and did he never write to her? and she had answered him that he was too young to understand the truth about his father. Was it possible that this was the truth? In after years he never forgot that sultry evening, with the close, noisome atmosphere of the hot mission-hall, and the confused buzzing of many voices, which after a short silence began to hum in his ears. The drunkard was still standing in the doorway, the very wreck and ruin of a man; and every detail of his loathsome, degraded appearance was burnt in on Felix's brain. He felt stupefied and bewildered--as if he had received almost a death-blow. But in his inmost soul a cry went up to heaven, "Lord, Thou also hast been a man!" Then he saw that the cross lay before him in his path. "Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me." It had seemed to Felix at times as if he had never been called upon to bear any cross. But now it lay there close before him. He could not take another step forward unless he lifted it up and laid it on his shoulders, whatever its weight might be. The cross of shame--the bearing of another's sin--his father's sin. His whole soul recoiled from it. Any other cross but this he could have borne after Christ with willing feet and rejoicing heart. But to know that his father was a criminal; and to bear the shame of it openly! Yet he could not stand there longer, fighting his battle, in the presence of these curious eyes so keenly fastened upon him. The clock over the door showed upon its dial only a minute or two gone; but to Felix the time consumed in his brief foretaste of the cross seemed years. He gathered together so much of his self-possession as could be summoned at a moment's notice, and looked straight into the faces of his audience. "Friends," he said, "if this is true, it is as new to me as it is to you. My father died when I was a boy of ten; and no one had a heart hard enough to tell me then my father was a rogue. But if I find it is true, I'll not rest day nor night till this man has his money again. What is his name?" "Nixey," called out three or four voices; "John Nixey." Again Felix's heart sank, for he knew Simon Nixey, whose farm lay nearest to Phebe's little homestead; and there was a familiar ring in the name. "Ay, ay!" stammered Nixey; "but old Clifford o' the Bank paid me the money back all right; only I'd sworn a dreadful oath I'd never lay by another farthin', and it soon came to an end. It were me as were lost as well as the money." "Then what do you come bothering here for," asked one of the men, "if you've had your money back all right? Get out with you." For a minute or two there was a scuffle, and then the drunkard was hustled outside and the door shut behind him. For another half hour Felix mechanically conducted the business of the club, as if he had been in a dream; and then, bidding the members of the little committee good night, he paced swiftly away from his district in the direction of his home. CHAPTER VI. OTHER PEOPLE'S SINS. "But why go home?" Felix stopped as he asked himself this question. He could not face his mother with any inquiry about the mystery that surrounded his father's memory, that mystery which was slowly dissipating like the mists which vanish imperceptibly from a landscape. He was beginning to read his mother's life in a more intelligible light, and all along the clearer line new meanings were springing into sight. The solitude and sadness, the bitterness of spirit, which had separated her from the genial influences of a society that had courted her, was plain to him now at their fountain-head. She had known--if this terrible thing was true--that shame, not glory, was hers; confusion of face, not the bearing of the palm. His heart ached for her more than for himself. In his heart of hearts, Felix had triumphed greatly in his mother's fame. From his very babyhood the first thought impressed upon his mind had been that his mother was different from other women; far above them. It had been his father who had given him that first impression, but it had grown with strong and vigorous growth from its deep root, through all the years which had passed since his father died. Even his love for Alice had not touched his passionate loyalty and devotion to his mother. He had rejoiced in thinking that she was known, not in England alone, but in other countries into whose language her books had been translated. Her celebrity shone in his eyes with a very strong and brilliant splendor. How could he tell her that he had been thrust into the secret of his father's infamy! There was only Phebe to whom he could just yet lay open the doubt and terror of his soul. If it was true that her father, old Marlowe, had died broken-hearted from the loss of his money, she would be sure to know of it. His preparations for his journey to-morrow morning were complete; and if he chose there was time enough for him to catch the night train, and start at once for Riversborough. There would be no sleep for him until some of these tormenting questions were answered. It was a little after sunrise when he reached Riversborough, where with some difficulty he roused up a hostler and obtained a horse at one of the inns. Before six he was riding up the long, steep lanes, fresh and cool with dew, and overhung with tall hedgerows, which led up to the moor. He had not met a living soul since he left the sleeping town behind him, and it seemed to him as if he was in quite a different world from the close, crowded, and noisome streets he had traversed only a few hours ago. In the natural exhilaration of the sweet mountain air, and the silence broken only by the singing of the birds, his fears fell from him. There must be some mistake which Phebe would clear up. It was nothing but the accusation of a besotted brain which had frightened him. He shouted boyishly when the quaint little cottage came in sight, with a thin column of blue smoke floating upward from its ivy-clad chimney. Phebe herself came to the door, and Hilda, with ruffled hair and a sleepy face, looked out of the little window in the thatched roof. There was nothing in his appearance a few hours earlier than he was expected to alarm them, and their surprise and pleasure were complete. Even to himself it seemed singular that he should sit down at the little breakfast-table with them, the almost level rays of the morning sun shining through the lattice window, instead of in the dingy parlor of his London lodgings. "Come with me on to the moors, Phebe," he said as soon as breakfast was over. She went out with him bareheaded, as she had been used to do when a girl at home, and led him to a little knoll covered with short heath and ferns, from which a broad landscape of many miles stretched under their eyes to a far-off horizon. The hollow of the earth curved upwards in perfect lines to meet the perfect curve of the blue dome of the sky bending over it. They were resting as some small bird might rest in the rounded shelter of two hands which held it safely. For a few minutes they sat silent, gazing over the wide sweep of sky and land, till Felix caught sight of a faint haze, through which two or three spires were dimly visible. It was where Riversborough was lying. "Phebe," he said, "I want you to tell me the naked truth. Did my father defraud yours of some money?" "Felix!" she cried, in startled tones. "Say only yes or no to me first," he continued; "explain it afterward. Only say yes or no." Through Phebe's brain came trooping the vivid memories of the past. She saw Roland again hurrying over the moors from his day's shooting to mount his horse, which she had saddled for him, and to ride off down the steep lanes, with a cheery shout of "Good-night" to her when he reached the last point where she could catch sight of him; and she saw him as his dark form walked beside her pony that night when he was already crushed down beneath his weight of sin and shame, pouring out his burdened heart into her ears. If Felix had asked her this question in London it might have hurt her less poignantly; but here, where Roland and her father filled all the place with the memory of their presence, it wounded her like the thrust of a sword. She burst into a passion of tears. "Yes or no?" urged Felix, setting his face like a flint, and striking out blindly and pitilessly. "Yes!" she sobbed; "but, oh, your father was the dearest friend I ever had!" The sharp, cruel sound of the yes smote him with a deadly force. He could not tell himself what he had expected to hear; but now for a certainty, his father, whom he had been taught to regard as a hero and a saint, proved no other than a rogue. It was a long time before he spoke again, or lifted up his head; so long that Phebe ceased weeping, and laid her hand tenderly on his to comfort him by her mute sympathy. But he took no notice of her silent fellowship in his suffering; it was too bitter for him to feel as yet that any one could share it. "I must give up Alice!" he groaned at last. "No, no!" said Phebe. "I told Canon Pascal all, and he does not say so. It is your mother who cannot give her consent, and she will do it some day." "Does he know all?" cried Felix. "Is it possible he knows all, and will let me love Alice still? I think I could bear anything if that is true. But, oh! how could I offer to her a name stained like mine?" "Nay, the name was saved by his death," answered Phebe sadly. "There are only three who knew he was guilty--Mr. Clifford, and your mother, and I. If he had lived he might have been brought to trial and sent to a convict prison; I suppose he would; but his death saved him and you. Down in Riversborough yonder some few uncharitable people might tell you there was some suspicion about him, but most of them speak of him still as the kindest and the best man they ever knew. It Was covered up skilfully, Felix, and nobody knew the truth but we three." "Alice is visiting my father's grave this very day," he said falteringly. "Ah! how like that is to Canon Pascal!" answered Phebe; "he will not tell Alice; no, she will never know, nor Hilda. Why should they be told? But he will stand there by the grave, sorrowing over the sin which drove your father into exile, and brought him to his sorrowful death. And his heart will feel more tenderly than ever for you and your mother. He will be devising some means for overcoming your mother's scruples and making you and Alice happy." "I never ran be happy again," he exclaimed. "I never thought of such a sorrow as this." "It was the sorrow that fell to Christ's lot," she answered; "the burden of other people's sins." "Phebe," he said, "if I felt the misery of my fellow-man before, and I did feel it, how can I bear now to remember the horrible degradation of the man who told me of my father's sin? It was a drunkard----" "John Nixey," she interrupted; "ay, but he caught at your father's sin as an excuse for his own. He was always a drinking man. No man is forced into sin. Nothing can harm them who are the followers of God. Don't lay on your father's shoulders more than his own wrong-doing. Sin spreads misery around it only when there is ground ready for the bad seed. Your father's sin opened my soul to deeper influences from God; I did not love him less because he had fallen, but I learned to trust God more, and walk more closely with Him. You, too, will be drawn nearer to God by this sorrow." "Phebe," he said, "can I speak to Mr. Clifford about it? It would be impossible to speak to my mother." "Quite impossible," she answered emphatically. "Yes, go down to Riversborough, and hear what Mr. Clifford can tell you. Your father repented of his sin bitterly, and paid a heavy price for it; but he was forgiven. If my poor old father could not withhold his forgiveness, would our heavenly Father fall short of it? You, too, must forgive him, my Felix." CHAPTER VII. AN OLD MAN'S PARDON. To forgive his father--that was a strange inversion of the attitude of Felix's mind in regard to his father's memory. He had been taught to think of him with reverence, and admiration, and deep filial love. As Felicita looked back on the long line of her distinguished ancestry with an exaltation of feeling which, if it was pride, was a legitimate pride, so had Felix looked back upon the line of good men from whom his own being had sprung. He had felt himself pledged to a Christian life by the eminently Christian lives of his forefathers. Now, suddenly, with no warning, he was called upon to forgive his father for a crime which had made him amenable to the penal laws of his country; a mean, treacherous, cowardly crime. Like Judas, he had borne the bag, and his fellow-pilgrims had trusted him with their money; and, like Judas, he had been a thief. Felix could not understand how a Christian man could be tempted by money. To attempt to serve Mammon as well as God seemed utterly comtemptible and incredible to him. His heart was very heavy as he rode slowly down the lanes and along the highway to Riversborough, which his father had so often traversed before him. When he had come this way in the freshness and stillness of the early morning there had been more hope in his soul than he had been aware of, that Phebe would be able to remove this load from him; but now he knew for a certainty that his father had left to him a heritage of dishonor. She had told him all the circumstances known to her, and he was going to learn more from Mr. Clifford. He entered his old home with more bitterness of spirit than he had ever felt before in his young life. Here, of all places in the world, clustered memories of his father; memories which he had fondly cherished and graved as deeply as he could upon his mind. He could almost hear the joyous tones of his father's voice, and see the summer gladness of his face, as he remembered them. How was it possible that with such a hidden load of shame he could have been so happy. Mr. Clifford, though a very old man, was still in full and clear possession of his faculties, and had not yet given up an occasional attention to the business of the bank. He was nearly eighty years of age, and his hair was white, and the cold, stern blue eyes were watery and sunken in their sockets. Some years ago, when Samuel Nixey had given up his last hope of winning Phebe, and had married a farmer's daughter, his mother, Mrs. Nixey, had come to the Old Bank as housekeeper to Mr. Clifford, and looked well after his welfare. Felix found him sitting in the wainscoted parlor, a withered, bent, old man, seldom leaving the warm hearth, but keen in sight and memory, living over again in his solitude the many years that had passed over him from his childhood until now. He welcomed Felix with delight, holding his hands, and looking earnestly into his face, with the half-childlike affection of old age. "I've not seen you since you became a parson," he said, with a sigh; "ah, my lad, you ought to have come to me. You don't get half as much as my cashier, and not a tenth part of what I give my manager. But there! that's your mother's fault, who would never let you touch business. She would never hear of you taking your father's place." "How could she?" said Felix, indignantly. "Do you think my mother would let me come into the house my father had disgraced and almost ruined?" "So you've plucked that bitter apple at last!" he answered, in a tone of regret. "I thought it was possible you might never have to taste it. Felix, my boy, your mother paid every farthing of the money your father had, with interest and compound interest; even to me, who begged and entreated to bear the loss. Your mother is a noble woman." A blessed ray of comfort shot across the gloom in Felix's heart, and lit up his dejected face with a momentary smile; and Mr. Clifford stretched out his thin old hand again, and clasped his feebly. "Ah, my boy!" he said, "and your father was not a bad man. I know how you are sitting in judgment upon him, as young people do, who do not know what it is to be sorely tempted. I judged him, and my son before him, as harshly as man could do. Remember we judge hardest where we love the most; there's selfishness in it. Our children, our fathers, must be better than other folk's children and fathers. Don't begin to reckon up your father's sins before you are thirty, and don't pass sentence till you're fifty. Judges ought to be old men." Felix sat down near to the old man, whose chair was in the oriel window, on which the sun was shining warmly. There below him lay the garden where he had played as a child, with the river flowing swiftly past it, and the boat-house in the corner, from which his father and he had so often started for a pleasant hour or two on the rapid current. But he could never think of his father again without sorrow and shame. "Sin hurts us most as it comes nearest to us," said old Mr. Clifford; "the crime of a Frenchman does not make our blood boil as the crime of an Englishman; our neighbor's sin is not half as black as our kinsman's sin. But when we have to look it in the face in a son, in a father, then we see the exceeding sinfulness of it. Why, Felix, you knew that men defrauded one another; that even men professing godliness were sometimes dishonest." "I knew it," he answered, "but I never felt it before." "And I never felt it till I saw it in my son," continued the old man, sadly; "but there are other sins besides dishonesty, of a deeper dye, perhaps, in the sight of our Creator. If Roland Sefton had met with a more merciful man than I am he might have been saved." For a minute or two his white head was bowed down, and his wrinkled eyelids were closed, whilst Felix sat beside him as sorrowful as himself. "I could not be merciful," he burst out with a sudden fierceness in his face and tone, "I could not spare him, because I had not spared my own son. I had let one life go down into darkness, refusing to stretch out so much as a little finger in help, though he was as dear to me as my own life; and God required me yet again to see a life perish because of my hardness of heart. I think sometimes if Roland had come and cast himself on my mercy, I should have pardoned him; but again I think my heart was too hard then to know what mercy was. But those two, Felix, my son Robert, who died of starvation in the streets of Paris, and your father, who perished on a winter's night in Switzerland, they are my daily companions. They sit down beside me here, and by the fireside, and at my solitary meals; and they watch beside me in the night. They will never leave me till I see them again, and confess my sin to them." "It was not you alone whom my father wronged," said Felix, "there were others besides you who might have prosecuted him." "Yes, but they were ignorant, simple men," replied Mr. Clifford, "they need never have known of his crime. All their money could have been replaced without their knowledge; it was of me Roland was afraid. If the time could come over again--and I go over and over it in my own mind all in vain--I would act altogether differently. I would make him feel to the utmost the sin and peril of his course; but I would keep his secret. Even Felicita should know nothing. It was partly my fault too. If I had fulfilled my duty, and looked after my affairs instead of dreaming my time away in Italy, your father, as the junior partner, could not have fallen into this snare. When a crime is committed the criminal is not the only one to be blamed. Consciously or unconsciously those about him have been helping by their own carelessness and indolence, by cowardice, by indifference to right and wrong. By a thousand subtle influences we help our brother to disobey God; and when he is found out we stand aloof and raise an outcry against him. God has made every one of us his brother's keeper." "Then you too have forgiven him," said Felix, with a glowing sense of comfort in his heart. "Forgiven him? ay!" he answered, "as he sits by me at the fireside, invisible to all but me, I say to him again and again in words inaudible to all but him: 'Even as I hope for pardon in that day, When the great Judge of heaven in scarlet sits, So be thou pardoned.'" The tremulous, weak old voice paused, and the withered hands lay feebly on his knees as he looked out on the summer sky, seeing nothing of its brightness, for the thoughts and memories that were flocking to his brain. Felix's younger eyes caught every familiar object on which the sun was shining, and knitted them up for ever with the memory of that hour. "God help me!" he cried, "I forgive my father too; but I have lost him. I never knew the real man." CHAPTER VIII. THE GRAVE AT ENGELBERG. On the same August morning when Felix was riding up the long lovely lanes to Phebe Marlowe's little farmstead, Canon Pascal and Alice were starting by the earliest boat which left Lucerne for Stansstad, in the dewy coolness of the dawn. The short transit was quickly over, and an omnibus carried them into Stans, where they left their knapsacks to be sent on after them during the day. The long pleasant walk of fourteen miles to Engelberg lay before them, to be taken leisurely, with many a rest in the deep cool shades of the woods, or under the shadow of some great rock. The only impediment with which Alice burdened herself was a little green slip of ivy, which Felix had gathered from the walls of her country home, and which she had carried in a little flower-pot filled with English soil, to plant on his father's grave. It had been a sacred, though somewhat troublesome charge to her, as they had travelled from place to place, and she had not permitted any one to take the care of it off her hands. This evening, with her own hands, she was going to plant it upon the foreign grave of Roland Sefton; which had been so long neglected, and unvisited by those whom he had left behind him. That Felicita should never have made a pilgrimage to this sacred spot was a wonder to her; but that she should so steadily resist the wish of Felix to visit his father's resting-place, filled Alice's heart with grave misgivings for her own future happiness. But she was not troubling herself with any misgivings to-day, as they journeyed onward and upward through the rich meadows and thick forests leading to the Alpine valley which lay under the snowy dome of the Titlis. Her father's enjoyment of the sweet solitude and changeful beauty of their pathway was too perfect for her to mar it by any mournful forebodings. He walked beside her under the arched aisles of the pine-woods bareheaded, singing snatches of song as joyously as a school-boy, or waded off through marshy and miry places in quest of some rare plant which ought to be growing there, splashing back to her farther on in the winding road, scarcely less happy if he had not found it than if he had. How could she be troubled whilst her father was treading on enchanted ground? But the last time they allowed themselves to sit down to rest before entering the village, Canon Pascal's face grew grave, and his manner toward his daughter became more tender and caressing than usual. The secret which Phebe had told him of Roland Sefton had been pondered over these many weeks in his heart. If it had concerned Felix only he would have felt himself grieved at this story of his father's sin, but he knew too well it concerned Alice as closely. This little ivy-slip, so carefully though silently guarded through all the journey, had been a daily reminder to him of his girl's love for her old playfellow and companion. Though she had not told him of its destiny he had guessed it, and now as she screened it from the too direct rays of the hot sun it spoke to her of Felix, and to him of his father's crime. He had no resolve to make his daughter miserable by raising obstacles to her marriage with Felix, who was truly as dear to him as his own sons. But yet, if he had only known this dishonest strain in the blood, would he, years ago, have taken Felix into his home, and exposed Alice to the danger of loving him? Felix was out of the way of temptation; there was no stream of money passing through his hands, and it would be hard and vile indeed for him to fall into any dishonest trickery. But it might be that his children, Alice's children, might tread in the steps of their forefather, Roland Sefton, and pursue the same devious course. Thieves breed thieves, it was said, in the lowest dregs of social life. Would there be some fatal weakness, some insidious improbity, in the nature of those descending from Roland Sefton? It was a wrong against God, a faithless distrust of Him, he said to himself, to let these dark thoughts distress his mind, at the close of a day such as that which had been granted to him, almost as a direct and perfect gift from heaven itself. He looked into the sweet, tranquil face of his girl, and the trustful loving eyes which met his anxious gaze with so open and frank an expression; yet he could not altogether shake off the feeling of solicitude and foreboding which had fallen upon his spirit. "Let us go on, and have a quiet dinner by ourselves," said Alice, at last, "and then we shall have all the cool of the evening to wander about as we please." They left their resting-place, and walked on in silence, as if they were overawed by the snow-clad mountains and towering peaks hanging over the valley. A little way off the road they saw a poor and miserable hut, built on piles of stones, with deep, sheltering eaves, but with a broken roof, and no light except such as entered it by the door. In the dimness of the interior they just caught sight of a gray-headed man, sitting on the floor, with his face hidden on his knees. It was an attitude telling of deep wretchedness, and heaviness of heart; and though neither of them spoke of the glimpse they had had, they drew nearer to one another, and walked closely together until they reached the hotel. It was still broad daylight, though the sun had sunk behind the lofty mountains when they strolled out again into the picturesque, irregular street of the village. The clear blue sky above them was of the color of the wild hyacinth, the simplest, purest blue, against which the pure and simple white of the snowy domes and pinnacles of the mountain ranges inclosing the valley stood out in sharp, bold outlines; whilst the dark green of the solemn pine-forests climbing up the steep slopes looked almost black against the pale grey peaks jutting up from among them, with silver lines of snow marking out every line and crevice in their furrowed and fretted architecture. Canon Pascal bared his head, as if he had been entering his beloved Abbey in Westminster. "God is very glorious!" he said, in a low and reverent tone. "God is very good!" In silence they sauntered on, with loitering steps, to the little cemetery, where lay the grave they had come to seek. They found it in a forlorn and deserted corner, but there was no trace of neglect about the grey unpolished granite of the cross that marked it. No weeds were growing around it, and no moss was gathering upon it; the lettering, telling the name, and age, and date of death, of the man who lay beneath it, was as clear as if it had just come from the chisel of the graver. The tears sprang to Alice's eyes as she stood before it with reverently bowed head, looking down on Roland Sefton's grave. "Did you ever see him, father?" she asked, almost in a whisper. "I saw him once," he answered, "at Riversdale Towers, when Felix was still only a baby. He was a finer and handsomer man than Felix will ever be; and there was more foreign blood in his veins, which gave him greater gaiety and simpler vivacity than Englishmen usually have. I remember how he watched over Felicita, and waited on her in an almost womanly fashion; and fetched his baby himself for us to see, carrying him in his own arms with the deft skill of a nurse. Felix is as tender-hearted, but he would not make a show of it so openly." "Cousin Felicita must have loved him with her whole heart," sighed Alice, "yet if I were in her place, I should come here often; it would be the one place I loved to come to. She is a hard woman, father; hard, and bitter, and obstinate. Do you think Felix's father would have set himself against me as she has done?" She turned to him, her sad and pensive face, almost the dearest face in the world to him; and he gazed into it with penetrating and loving eyes. Would it not be best to tell the child the secret this grave covered, here, by the grave itself? Better for her to know the truth concerning the dead, than cherish hard and unjust thoughts of the living. Even if Felicita consented, he could not let her marry Felix ignorant of the facts which Phebe had disclosed to him. Felix himself must know them some day; and was not this the hour and the place for revealing them to Alice? "My darling," he said, "I know why Felicita never comes here, nor lets her children come; and also why she is at present opposed to the thought of Felix marrying. Roland Sefton, her husband, the unhappy man whose body lies here, was guilty of a crime; and died miserably while a fugitive from our country. His death consigned the crime to oblivion; no one remembered it against her and her children. But if he had lived he would have been a convict; and she, and Felix, and Hilda would have shared his ignominy. She feels that she must not suffer Felix to enter our family until she has told me this; and it is the mere thought and dread of such a disclosure that has made her ill. We must wait till her mind recovers its strength." "What was it he had done?" asked Alice, with quivering lips. "He had misappropriated a number of securities left in his charge," answered Canon Pascal, "Phebe says to the amount of over £10,000; most of it belonging to Mr. Clifford." "Is that all?" cried Alice, the color rushing back again to her face, and the light to her eyes, "was it only money? Oh! I thought it was more dreadful than that. Why! we should never blame cousin Felicita because her husband misappropriated some securities belonging to old Mr. Clifford. And Felix is not to blame at all; how could he be? Poor Felix!" "But, Alice," he said, with a half smile, "if, instead of being buried here, Roland Sefton had lived, and been arrested, and sent to a convict prison for a term of imprisonment, Felicita's life, and the life of her children, would have been altogether overshadowed by the disgrace and infamy of it. There could have been no love between you and Felix." "It was a good thing that he died," she answered, looking down on the grave again almost gladly. "Does Felix know this? But I am sure he does not," she added quickly, and looking up with a heightened color into her father's face, "he is all honor, and truth, and unselfishness. He could not be guilty of a crime against any one." "I believe in Felix; I love him dearly," her father said, "but if I had known of this I do not think I could have brought him up in my own home, with my own boys and girls. God knows it would have been a difficult point to settle; but it was not given to my poor wisdom to decide." "I shall not love Felix one jot less," she said, "or reverence him less. If all his forefathers had been bad men I should be sure still that he was good. I never knew him do or say anything that was mean or selfish. My poor Felix! Oh, father! I shall love him more than ever now I know there is something in his life that needs pity. When he knows it he will come to me for comfort; and I will comfort him. His father shall hear me promise it by this grave here. I will never, never visit Roland Sefton's sin on his son; I will never in my heart think of it as a thing against him. And if all the world came to know it, I would never once feel a moment's shame of him." Her voice faltered a little, and she knelt down on the parched grass at the foot of the cross, hiding her face in her hands. Canon Pascal laid his hand fondly on her bowed head; and then he left her that she might be alone with the grave, and God. CHAPTER IX. THE LOWEST DEEPS. The miserable, delapidated hut at the entrance of Engelberg, with no light save that which entered by the doorway, had been Jean Merle's home since he had fixed his abode in the valley, drawn thither irresistibly by the grave which bore Roland Sefton's name. There was less provision for comfort in this dark hovel than in a monk's cell. A log of rough, unbarked timber from the forest was the only seat, and a rude framework of wood filled with straw or dry ferns was his bed. The floor was bare, except near the door, the upper half of which usually stood open, and here it was covered with fine chips of box and oak-wood, and the dust which fell from his busy graver, the tool which was never out of his fingers while the light served him. There was no more decoration then there was comfort; except that on the smoke-stained walls the mildew had pencilled out some strange and grotesque lines, as if some mural painting had mouldered into ruin there. Two or three English books alone, of the cheap continental editions, lay at one end of a clumsy shelf; with the few cooking utensils which were absolutely necessary, piled together on the other. There was a small stove in one corner of the hovel, where a handful of embers could be seen at times, like the eye of some wild creature lurking in the deep gloom. Jean Merle, though still two or three years under fifty, was looked upon by his neighbors as being a man of great, though unknown age. Yet, though he stooped in the shoulders a little, and walked with his head bent down, he was not infirm, nor had he the appearance of infirmity. His long mountain expeditions kept his muscles in full force and activity. But his grey face was marked with many lines, so fine as to be seen only at close quarters; yet on the whole forming a wrinkled and aged mask as of one far advanced in life. In addition to this singularity of aspect there was the extraordinary seclusion and sordid miserliness of his mode of existence, more in harmony with the passiveness of extreme old age, than with the energy of a man still in the prime of his days. The village mothers frightened their children with tales about Jean Merle's gigantic strength, which made him an object of terror to them. He sought acquaintanceship with none of his neighbors; and they avoided him as a heretic and a stranger. The rugged, simple, narrow life of his Swiss forefathers gathered around him, and hedged him in. They had been peasant-farmers, with the exception of the mountain-pastor his grandfather, and he still well-remembered Felix Merle, after whom his boy had been called. All of them had been men toiling with their own hands, with a never-ceasing bodily activity, which had left them but little time or faculty for any mental pursuit. This half of his nature fitted him well for the life that now lay before him. As his Swiss ancestors had been for many generations toil-worn and weather-beaten men, whose faces were sunburnt and sun-blistered, whose backs were bent with labor, and whose weary feet dragged heavily along the rough paths, so he became. The social refinement of the prosperous Englishman, skin deep as it is, vanished in the coarse and narrow life to which he had partly doomed himself, had partly been doomed, by the dull, despondent apathy which had possessed his soul, when he first left the hospital in Lucerne. His mode of living was as monotonous as it was solitary. His work only gave him some passing interest, for in the bitterness of his spirit he kept himself quite apart from all relation with his fellow-men. As far as in him lay he shut out the memory of the irrevocable past, and forbade his heart to wander back to the years that were gone. He strove to concentrate himself upon his daily toil, and the few daily wants of his body; and after a while a small degree of calm and composure had been won by him. Roland Sefton was dead; let him lie motionless, as a corpse should do, in the silence of his grave. But Jean Merle was living, and might continue to live another twenty years or more, thus solitarily and monotonously. But there was one project which he formed early in his new state of existence, which linked him by a living link to the old. As soon as he found he could earn handsome wages for his skilled and delicate work, wages which he could in no way spend, and yet continue the penance which he pronounced upon himself, the thought came to him of restoring the money which had been intrusted to him by old Marlowe, and the other poor men who had placed their savings in his care. To repay the larger amount to which he was indebted to Mr. Clifford would be impossible; but to earn the other sums, though it might be the work of years, was still practicable, especially if from time to time he could make safe and prudent speculations, such as his knowledge of the money-market might enable him to do, so as to insure more rapid returns. At the village inn he could see the newspapers, with their lists of the various continental funds, and the share and stock markets; and without entering at all into the world he could direct the buying in and selling out of his stock through some bankers in Lucerne. Even this restitution must be made in secret, and be so wrapped up in darkness and stealth that no one could suspect the hand from which it came. For he knew that the net he had woven about himself was too strong and intricate to be broken through without deadly injury to others, and above all to Felicita. The grave yonder, and the stone cross above it, barred the way to any return by the path he had come. But would it be utterly impossible for him to venture back, changed as he was by these many years, to England? It would be only Jean Merle who would travel thither, there could be no resurrection for Roland Sefton. But could not Jean Merle see from afar off the old home; or Phebe Marlowe's cottage on the hill-side; or possibly his mother, or his children; nay, Felicita herself? Only afar off; as some banished, repentant soul, drawing a little nearer to the walls of the eternal city, might be favored with a glimpse of the golden streets, and the white-robed citizens therein, the memory of which would dwell within him for evermore. As he drew nearer the end he grew more eager to reach it. The dull apathy of the past thirteen years was transformed into a feverish anticipation of his secret journey to England with the accumulated proceeds of his work and his speculations; which in some way or other must find their way into the hands of the men who had trusted him in time past. But at this juncture the bankers at Lucerne failed him, as he had failed others. It was not simply that his speculations turned out badly; but the men to whom he had intrusted the conduct of them, from his solitary mountain-home, had defrauded him; and the bank broke. The measure he had meted out to others had been measured to him again. Whatsoever he had done unto men they had done unto him. For three days Jean Merle wandered about the eternal frosts of the ice-bound peaks and snow-fields of the mountains around him, living he did not himself know how. It was not money he had lost. Like old Marlowe he realized how poor a symbol money was of the long years of ceaseless toil, the days of self-denial, the hours of anxious thoughts it represented. And besides this darker side, it stood also for the hopes he had cherished, vaguely, almost unconsciously, but still with strong earnestness. He had fled from the penalty the just laws of his country demanded from him, taking refuge in a second and more terrible fraud, and now God suffered him not to make this small reparation for his sin, or to taste the single drop of satisfaction that he hoped for in realizing the object he had set before him. There was no place of repentance for him; not a foot-hold in all the wide wilderness of his banishment on which he could stand, and repair one jot a little of the injury he had inflicted upon his fellow-men. What passed through his soul those three days, amidst the ice-solitudes where no life was, and where the only sounds that spoke to him were the wild awful tones of nature in her dreariest haunts, he could never tell; he could hardly recall it to his own memory. He felt as utterly alone as if no other human being existed on the face of the earth; yet as if he alone had to bear the burden of all the falsehood, and dishonesty and dishonor of the countless generations of false and dishonorable men which this earth has seen. All hope was dead now. There was nothing more to work for, or to look forward to. Nothing lay before him but his solitary blank life in the miserable hut below. There was no interest in the world for him but Roland Sefton's grave. He descended the mountain-side at last. For the first time since he had left the valley he noticed that the sun was shining, and that the whole landscape below him was bathed in light. The village was all astir, and travellers were coming and going. It was not in the sight of all the world that he could drag his weary feet to the cemetery, where Roland Sefton's grave was; and he turned aside into his own hut to wait till the evening was come. At last the sun went down upon his misery, and the cool shades of the long twilight crept on. He made a circuit round the village to reach the spot he longed to visit. His downcast eyes saw nothing but the rough ground he trod, and the narrow path his footsteps had made to the solitary grave, until he was close to it; and then, looking up to read the name upon the cross, he discerned the figure of a girl kneeling before it, and carefully planting a little slip of ivy into the soil beneath it. CHAPTER X. ALICE PASCAL. Alice Pascal looked up into Jean Merle's face with the frank and easy self-possession of a well-bred English woman; coloring a little with girlish shyness, yet at the same time smiling with a pleasant light in her dark eyes. The oval of her face, and the color of her hair and eyes, resembled, though slightly, the more beautiful face of Felicita in her girlhood; it was simply the curious likeness which runs through some families to the remotest branches. But her smile, the shape of her eyes, the kneeling attitude, riveted him to the spot where he stood, and struck him dumb. A fancy flashed across his brain, which shone like a light from heaven. Could this girl be Hilda, his little daughter, whom he had seen last sleeping in her cot? Was she then come, after many years, to visit her father's grave? There had always been a corroding grief to him in the thought that it was Felicita herself who had erected that cross over the tomb of the stranger, with whom his name was buried. He did not know that it was Mr. Clifford alone who had thus set a mark upon the place where he believed that the son of his old friend was lying. It had pained Jean Merle to think that Felicita had commemorated their mutual sin by the erection of an imperishable monument; and it had never surprised him that no one had visited the grave. His astonishment came now. Was it possible that Felicita had revisited Switzerland? Could she be near at hand, in the village down yonder? His mother, also, and his boy, Felix, could they be treading the same soil, and breathing the same air as himself? An agony of mingled terror and rapture shot through his inmost soul. His lips were dry, and his throat parched: he could not articulate a syllable. He did not know what a gaunt and haggard madman he appeared. His grey hair was ragged and tangled, and his sunken eyes gleamed with a strange brightness. The villagers, who were wont at times to call him an imbecile, would have been sure they were right at this moment, as he stood motionless and dumb, staring at Alice; but to her he looked more like one whose reason was just trembling in the balance. She was alone, her father was no longer in sight; but she was not easily frightened. Rather a sense of sacred pity for the forlorn wretch before her filled her heart. "See!" she said, in clear and penetrating accents, full, however, of gentle kindness, and she spoke unconsciously in English, "see! I have carried this little slip of ivy all the way from England to plant it here. This is the grave of a man I should have loved very dearly." A rapid flush of color passed over her face as she spoke, leaving it paler than before, while a slight sadness clouded the smile in her eyes. "Was he your father?" he articulated, with an immense effort. "No," she answered; "not my father, but the father of my dearest friends. They cannot come here; but it was his son who gathered this slip of ivy from our porch at home, and asked me to plant it here for him. Will it grow, do you think?" "It shall grow," he muttered. It was not his daughter, then; none of his own blood was at hand. But this English girl fascinated him; he could not turn away his eyes, but watched every slight movement as she carefully gathered the soil about the root of the little plant, which he vowed within himself should grow. She was rather long about her task, for she wished this madman to go away, and leave her alone beside Roland Sefton's grave. What her father had told her about him was still strange to her, and she wanted to familiarize it to herself. But still the haggard-looking peasant lingered at her side, gazing at her with his glowering and sunken eyes; yet neither moving nor speaking. "You know English?" she said, as all at once it occurred to her that she had spoken to him as she would have spoken to one of the villagers in their own country churchyard at home, and that he had answered her. He replied only by a gesture. "Can you find me some one who will take charge of this little plant?" she asked. Jean Merle raised his head and lifted up his dim eyes to the eastern mountain-peaks, which were still shining in the rays of the sinking sun, though the twilight was darkening everywhere in the valley. Only last night he had slept among some juniper-bushes just below the boundary of that everlasting snow, feeling himself cast out forever from any glimpse of his old Paradise. But now, if he could only find words and utterance, there was come to him, even to him, a messenger, an angel direct from the very heart of his home, who could tell him all that last night he believed that he should never know. The tears sprang to his eyes, blessed tears; and a rush of uncontrollable longing overwhelmed him. He must hear all he could of those whom he loved; and then, whether he lived long or died soon, he would thank God as long as his miserable life continued. "It is I who take care of this grave," he said; "I was with him when he died. He spoke to me of Felix and Hilda and his mother; and I saw their portraits. You hear? I know them all." "Was it you who watched beside him?" asked Alice eagerly. "Oh! sit down here and tell me all about it; all you can remember. I will tell it all again to Felix, and Hilda, and Phebe Marlowe; and oh! how glad, and how sorry they will be to listen!" There was no mention of Felicita's name, and Jean Merle felt a terrible dread come over him at this omission. He sank down on the ground beside the grave, and looked up into Alice's bright young face, with eyes that to her were no longer lit up with the fire of insanity, however intense and eager they might seem. It was an undreamed-of chance which had brought to her side the man who had watched by the death-bed of Felix's father. "Tell me all you remember," she urged. "I remember nothing," he answered, pressing his dark hard hand against his forehead, "it is more than thirteen years ago. But he showed to me their portraits. Is his wife still living?" "Oh, yes!" she answered, "but she will not let either of them come to Switzerland; neither Felix nor Hilda. Nobody speaks of this country in her hearing; and his name is never uttered. But his mother used to talk to us about him; and Phebe Marlowe does so still. She has painted a portrait of him for Felix." "Is Roland Sefton's mother yet alive?" he asked, with a dull, aching foreboding of her reply. "No," she said. "Oh! how we all loved dear old Madame Sefton! She was always more like Felix and Hilda's mother than Cousin Felicita was. We loved her more a hundred times than Cousin Felicita, for we are afraid of her. It was her husband's death that spoiled her whole life and set her quite apart from everybody else. But Madame--she was not made so utterly miserable by it; she knew she would meet her son again in heaven. When she was dying she said to Cousin Felicita, 'He did not return to me, but I go to him; I go gladly to see again my dear son.' The very last words they heard her say were, 'I come, Roland!'" Alice's voice trembled, and she laid her hand caressingly on the name of Roland Sefton graved on the cross above her. Jean Merle listened, as if he heard the words whispered a long way off, or as by some one speaking in a dream. The meaning had not reached his brain, but was travelling slowly to it, and would surely pierce his heart with a new sorrow and a fresh pang of remorse. The loud chanting of the monks in the abbey close by broke in upon their solemn silence, and awoke Alice from the reverie into which she had fallen. "Can you tell me nothing about him?" she asked. "Talk to me as if I was his child." "I have nothing to tell you," answered Jean Merle. "I remember nothing he said." She looked down on the poor ragged peasant at her feet, with his gaunt and scarred features, and his slowly articulated speech. There seemed nothing strange in such a man not being able to recall Roland Sefton's dying words. It was probable that he barely understood them; and most likely he could not gather up the meaning of what she herself was saying. The few words he uttered were English, but they were very few and forced. "I am sorry," she said gently, "but I will tell them you promised to take care of the ivy I have planted here." She wished the dull, gray-headed villager would go home, and leave her alone for awhile in this solemn and sacred place; but he crouched still on the ground, stirring neither hand nor foot. When at last she moved as if to go away, he stretched out a toil-worn hand, and laid it on her dress. "Stay," he said, "tell me more about Roland Sefton's children; I will think of it when I am tending this grave." "What am I to tell you?" she asked gently, "Hilda is three years younger than me, and people say we are like sisters. She and Felix were brought up with me and my brothers in my father's house; we were like brothers and sisters. And Felix is like another son to my father, who says he will be both good and great some day. Good he is now; as good as man can be." "And you love him!" said Jean Merle, in a low and humble voice, with his head turned away from her, and resting on the lowest step of the cross. Alice started and trembled as she looked down on the grave and the prostrate man. It seemed to her as if the words had almost come out of this sad, and solitary, and forsaken grave, where Roland Sefton had lain unvisited so many years. The last gleam of daylight had vanished from the snowy peaks, leaving them wan and pallid as the dead. A sudden chill came into the evening air which made her shiver; but she was not terrified, though she felt a certain bewilderment and agitation creeping through her. She could not resist the impulse to answer the strange question. "Yes, I love Felix," she said simply. "We love each other dearly." "God bless you!" cried Jean Merle, in a tremulous voice. "God in heaven bless you both, and preserve you to each other." He had lifted himself up, and was kneeling before her, eagerly scanning her face, as if to impress it on his memory. He bent down his gray head and kissed her hand humbly and reverently, touching it only with his lips. Then starting to his feet he hastened away from the cemetery, and was soon lost to her sight in the gathering gloom of the dusk. For a little while longer Alice lingered at the grave, thinking over what had passed. It was not much as she recalled it, but it left her agitated and disturbed. Yet after all she had only uttered aloud what her heart would have said at the grave of Felix's father. But this strange peasant, so miserable and poverty-stricken, so haggard and hopeless-looking, haunted her thoughts both waking and sleeping. Early the next morning she and Canon Pascal went to the hovel inhabited by Jean Merle, but found it deserted and locked up. Some laborers had seen him start off at daybreak up the Trübsee Alps, from which he might be either ascending the Titlis or taking the route to the Joch-Pass. There was no chance of his return that day, and Jean Merle's absence might last for several days, as he was eccentric, and bestowed his confidence on nobody. There was little more to be learned of him, except that he was a heretic, a stranger, and a miser. Canon Pascal and Alice visited once more Roland Sefton's grave, and then they went on their way over the Joch-Pass, with some faint hopes of meeting with Jean Merle on their route, hopes that were not fulfilled. CHAPTER XI. COMING TO HIMSELF. When he left the cemetery Jean Merle went home to his wretched chalet, flung himself down on his rough bed, and slept for some hours the profound and dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. The last three nights he had passed under the stars, and stretched upon the low juniper-bushes. He awoke suddenly, from the bright, clear moonlight of a cloudless sky and dry atmosphere streaming in through his door, which he had left open. There was light enough for him to withdraw some money from a safe hiding-place he had constructed in his crazy old hut, and to make up a packet of most of the clothing he possessed. There were between twenty and thirty pounds in gold pieces of twenty francs each--the only money he was master of now his Lucerne bankers had failed him. A vague purpose, dimly shaping itself, was in his brain, but he was in no hurry to see it take definite form. With his small bundle of clothes and his leathern purse he started off in the earliest rays of the dawn to escape being visited by the young English girl, whom he had seen at the grave, and who would probably seek him out in the morning with her father. Who they were he could find out if he himself returned to Engelberg. _If_ he returned; for, as he ascended the steep path leading up to the Trübsee Alp, he turned back to look at the high mountain-valley where he had dwelt so long, as though he was looking upon it for the last time. It seemed to him as if he was awaking out of a long lethargy and paralysis. Three days ago the dull round of incessant toil and parsimonious hoarding had been abruptly broken up by the loss of all he had toiled for and hoarded up, and the shock had driven him out like a maniac, to wander about the desolate heights of Engelberg in a mood bordering on despair, which had made him utterly reckless of his life. Since then news had come to him from home--stray gleams from the Paradise he had forfeited. Strongest of them all was the thought that these fourteen years had transformed his little son Felix into a man, loving as he himself had loved, and already called to take his part in the battle of life. He had never realized this before, and it stirred his heart to the very depths. His children had been but soft, vague memories to him; it was Felicita who had engrossed all his thought. All at once he comprehended that he was a father, the father of a son and daughter, who had their own separate life and career. A deep and poignant interest in these beings took possession of him. He had called them into existence; they belonged to him by a tie which nothing on earth, in heaven, or in hell itself could destroy. As long as they lived there must be an indestructible interest for him in this world. Felicita was no longer the first in his thoughts. The dim veil which time had drawn around them was rent asunder, and they stood before him bathed in light, but placed on the other side of a gulf as fathomless, as impassable, and as death-like as the ice-crevasses yawning at his feet. He gazed down into the cold, gleaming abyss, and across it to the sharp and slippery margin where there could be no foot-hold, and he pictured to himself the springing across that horrible gulf to reach them on the other side, and the falling, with outstretched hands and clutching fingers, into the unseen icy depths below him. For the first time in his life he shrank back shivering and terror-stricken from the edge of the crevasse, with palsied limbs and treacherous nerves. He felt that he must get back into safer standing-ground than this solitary and perilous glacier. He reached at last a point of safety, where he could lie down and let his trembling limbs rest awhile. The whole slope of the valley lay below him, with its rich meadows of emerald green, and its silvery streams wandering through them. Little farms and chalets were dotted about, some of them clinging to the sides of the rocks opposite to him, or resting on the very edge of precipices thousands of feet deep, and looking as if they were about to slip over them. He felt his head grow giddy as he looked at them, and thought of the children at play in such dangerous playgrounds. There were a few gray clouds hanging about the Titlis, and caught upon the sharp horns of the rugged peaks around the valley. Every peak and precipice he knew; they had been his refuge in the hours of his greatest anguish. But these palsied limbs and this giddy head could not be trusted to carry him there again. He had lost his last hope of making any atonement. Hope was gone; was he to lose his indomitable courage also? It was the last faculty which made his present life endurable. He lay motionless for hours, neither listening nor looking. Yet he heard, for the memory of it often came back to him in after years, the tinkling of innumerable bells from the pastures below him, and around him; and the voices of many waterfalls rushing down through the pine-forests into the valley; and the tossing to and fro of the interwoven branches of the trees. And he saw the sunlight stealing from one point to another, chased by the shadows of the clouds, that gathered and dispersed, dimming the blue sky for a little time, and then leaving it brighter and deeper than before. He was unconscious of it all; he was even unaware that his brain was at work at all, until suddenly, like a flash, there rose upon him the clear, resolute, unchangeable determination, "I will go to England." He started up at once, and seized his bundle and his alpenstock. The afternoon was far advanced, but there was time enough to reach the Engstlenalp, where he could stay the night, and go on in the morning to Meiringen. He could be in England in three days. Three days: so short a time separated him from the country and the home from which he had been exiled so many years. Any day during those fourteen years he might have started homeward as he was doing now; but there had not been the irresistible hunger in his heart that at this moment drove him thither. He had been vainly seeking to satisfy himself with husks; but even these, dry and empty, and bitter as they were, had failed him. He had lost all; and having lost all, he was coming to himself. There was not the slightest fear of detection in his mind. A gray-haired man with bowed shoulders, and seamed and marred face, who had lost every trace of the fastidiousness, which had verged upon foppery in the handsome and prosperous Roland Sefton, ran no risk of recognition, more especially as Roland Sefton had been reckoned among the dead and buried for many a long year. The lineaments of the dead die with them, however cunningly the artist may have used his skill to preserve them. The face is gone, and the memory of it. Some hearts may long to keep it engraven sharp and clear in their remembrance; but oh, when the "inward eye" comes to look for it how dull and blurred it lies there, like a forgotten photograph which has grown faded and stained in some seldom-visited cabinet! Jean Merle travelled, as a man of his class would travel, in a third-class wagon and a slow train; but he kept on, stopping nowhere for rest, and advancing as rapidly as he could, until on the third day, in the gray of the evening, he saw the chalk-line of the English coast rising against the faint yellow light of the sunset; and as night fell his feet once more trod upon his native soil. So far he had been simply yielding to his blind and irresistible longing to get back to England, and nearer to his unknown children. He had heard so little of them from Alice Pascal, that he could no longer rest without knowing more. How to carry out his intention he did not know, and he had hardly given it a thought. But now, as he strolled slowly along the flat and sandy shore for an hour or two, with the darkness hiding both sea and land from him, except the spot on which he stood, he began to consider what steps he must take to learn what he wanted to know, and to see their happiness afar off without in any way endangering it. He had purchased it at too heavy a price to be willing to place it in any peril now. That Felicita had left Riversborough he had heard from her own lips, but there was no other place where he was sure of discovering her present abode, for London was too wide a city, even if she had carried out her intention of living there, for him to ascertain where she dwelt. Phebe Marlowe would certainly know where he could find them, for the English girl at Roland Sefton's grave had spoken of Phebe as familiarly as of Felix and Hilda--spoken of her, in fact, as if she was quite one of the family. There would be no danger in seeking out Phebe Marlowe. If his own mother could not have recognized her son in the rugged peasant he had become, there was no chance of a young girl such as Phebe had been ever thinking of Roland Sefton in connection with him; and he could learn all he wished to know from her. He was careful to take the precaution of exchanging his foreign garb of a Swiss peasant for the dress of an English mechanic. The change did not make him look any more like his old self, for there was no longer any incongruity in his appearance. No soul on earth knew that he had not died many years ago, except Felicita. He might saunter down the streets of his native town in broad daylight on a market-day, and not a suspicion would cross any brain that here was their old townsman, Roland Sefton, the fraudulent banker. Yet he timed his journey so as not to reach Riversborough before the evening of the next day; and it was growing dusk when he paced once more the familiar streets, slowly, and at every step gathering up some sharp reminiscence of the past. How little were they changed! The old grammar-school, with its gray walls and mullioned windows, looked exactly as it had done when he was yet a boy wearing his college-cap and carrying his satchel of school-books. His name, he knew, was painted in gold on a black tablet on the walls inside as a scholar who had gained a scholarship. Most of the shops on each side of the streets bore the same names and looked but little altered. In the churchyard the same grave-stones were standing as they stood when he, as a child, spelt out their inscriptions through the open railings which separated them from the causeway. There was a zigzag crack in one of the flag-stones, which was one of his earliest recollections; he stood and put his clumsy boot upon it as he had often placed his little foot in those childish years, and leaning his head against the railings of the churchyard, where all his English forefathers for many a generation were buried, he waited as if for some voice to speak to him. Suddenly the bells in the dark tower above him rang out a peal, clanging and clashing noisily together as if to give him a welcome. They had rung so the day he brought Felicita home after their long wedding journey. It was Friday night, the night when the ringers had always been used to practise, in the days when he was churchwarden. The pain of hearing them was intolerable; he could bear no more that night. Not daring to go on and look at the house where he was born, and where his children had been born, but which he could never more enter, he sought out a quiet inn, and shut himself up in a garret there to think, and at last to sleep. CHAPTER XII. A GLIMPSE INTO PARADISE. I cannot tell whether it was fancy merely, but the morning light which streamed into his room seemed more familiar and home-like to him than it had ever done in Switzerland. He was awakened by one of those sounds which dwell longest in the memory--the chiming of the church bells nearest home, which in childhood had so often called to him to shake off his slumbers, and which spoke to him now in sweet and friendly tones, as if he was still an innocent child. The tempest-tossed, sinful man lay listening to them for a minute or two, half asleep yet. He had been dreaming that he was in truth dead, but that the task assigned to him was that of an invisible guardian and defender to those who had lost him. He had been present all these years with his wife, and mother, and children, going out and coming in with them, hearing all their conversation, and sharing their family life, but himself unseen and unheard, felt only by the spiritual influence he could exercise over them. It had been a blissful dream, such as had never visited him in his exile; and as the familiar chiming of the bells, high up in the belfry not far from his attic, fell upon his ear, the dream for a brief moment gathered a stronger sense of reality. It was with a strange feeling, as if he was himself a phantom mingling with creatures of flesh and blood, that he went out into the streets. His whole former life lay unrolled before him, but there was no point at which he could touch it. Every object and every spot was commonplace, yet invested with a singular and intense significance. Many a man among the townsfolk he knew by name and history, whose eyes glanced at him as a stranger, with no surprise at his appearance, and no show of suspicion or of welcome. Certainly he was nothing but a ghost revisiting the scenes of a life to which there was no possible return. Yet how he longed to stretch out his hand and grasp those of these old towns-people of his! Even the least interesting of the shopkeepers in the streets, bestirring themselves to meet the business of a new day, seemed to him one of the most desirable of companions. His heart was drawing him to Whitefriars Road, to that spot on earth of all others most his own, but his resolution failed him whenever he turned his face that way. He rambled into the ancient market square, where stood a statue of his Felicita's great uncle, the first Baron Riversdale. The long shadow of it fell across him as he lingered to look in at a bookseller's window. He and the bookseller had been school-fellows together at the grammar-school, and their friendship had lasted after each was started in his own career. Hundreds of times he had crossed this door-sill to have a chat with the studious and quiet bookworm within whose modest life was so great a contrast with his own. Jean Merle stopped at the well-remembered shop-window. His eyes glanced aimlessly along the crowded shelves, but suddenly his attention was arrested, and his pulses, which had been beating somewhat fast, throbbed with eager rapidity. A dozen volumes or more, ranged together, were labelled, "Works by Mrs. Roland Sefton." Surprise, and pride, and pleasure were in the rapid beatings of his heart. By Felicita! He read over the titles with a new sense of delight and admiration; and in the first glow of his astonishment he stepped quickly into the shop, with erect head and firm tread, and found himself face to face with his old school-fellow. The sight of his blank, unrecognizing gaze brought him back to the consciousness of the utter change in himself. He looked down at his coarse hands and mechanic's dress, and remembered that he was no longer Roland Sefton. His tongue was parched; it was difficult to stammer out a word. "Do you want anything, my good man?" asked the bookseller quietly. There was something in the words "my good man" that brought home to him at once the complete separation between his former life and the present, and the perfect security that existed for him in the conviction that Roland Sefton was dead. With a great effort he commanded himself, and answered the bookseller's question collectedly. "There are some books in the window by Mrs. Roland Sefton," he said, "how much are they?" "That is the six shilling edition," replied the bookseller. Jean Merle was on the point of saying he would take them all, but he checked himself. He must possess them all, and read every line that Felicita had ever written, but not now, and not here. "Which do you think is the best?" he asked. "They are all good," was the answer; "we are very proud of Mrs. Roland Sefton, who belongs to Riversborough. That is her great uncle yonder, the first Lord Riversdale; and she married a prominent townsman, Roland Sefton, of the Old Bank. I have a soiled copy or two, which I could sell to you for half the price of the new ones." "She is famous then?" said Jean Merle. "She has won her rank as an author," replied the bookseller. "I knew her husband well, and he always foretold that she would make her mark; and she has. He died fourteen years ago; and, strange to say, there was something about your step as you came in which reminded me of him. Do you belong to Riversborough?" "No," he answered; "but my name is Jean Merle, and I am related to Madame Sefton, his mother. I suppose there is some of the same blood in Roland Sefton and me." "That is it," said the bookseller cordially. "I thought you were a foreigner, though you speak English so well." "There was some mystery about Roland Sefton's death?" remarked Jean Merle. "No, no; at least not much," was the answer. "He went away on a long holiday, unluckily without announcing it, on account of bank business; but Mr. Clifford, the senior partner, was on his way to take charge of affairs. There was but one day between Roland Sefton's departure and Mr. Clifford's arrival, but during that very day, for some reason or other unknown, the head clerk committed suicide, and there was a panic and a run upon the bank. Unfortunately there was no means of communicating with Sefton, who had started at once for the continent. Mr. Clifford did not see any necessity for his return, as the mischief was done; but just as his six months' absence was over--not all holiday, as folks said, for there was foreign business to see after--he died by accident in Switzerland. I knew the truth better than most people; for Mr. Clifford came here often, and dropped many a hint. Some persons still say the police were seeking for Roland; but that is not true. It was an unfortunate concatenation of circumstances." "You knew him well?" said Jean Merle. "Yes; we were school-fellows and friends," answered the bookseller, "and a finer fellow never breathed. He was always eager to get on, and to help other people on. We have not had such a public-spirited man amongst us since he died. It cuts me to the heart when anybody pretends that he absconded. Absconded! Why! there were dozens of us who would have made him welcome to every penny we could command. But I own appearances were against him, and he never came back to clear them up, and prove his innocence." "And this is his wife's best book," said Jean Merle, holding it with shaking, nerveless hands. Felicita's book! The tears burned under his eyelids as he looked down on it. "I won't say it is the best; it is my favorite," replied the bookseller. "Her son, Felix Sefton, a clergyman now, was in here yesterday, asking the same question. If you are related to Madame Sefton, you'll be very welcome at the Old Bank; and you'll find both of Madame's grand-children visiting old Mr. Clifford. I'll send one of my boys to show you the house." "Not now," said Jean Merle. If Mr. Clifford was living yet he must be careful what risks he ran. Hatred has eyes as keen as love; and if any one could break through his secret it would be the implacable old man, who had still the power of sending him to a convict prison. A shudder ran through him at the dread idea of detection. What would it be to Felicita now, when her name was famous, to have it dragged down to ignominy and utter disgrace? The dishonor would be a hundred-fold the greater for the fair reputation she had won, and the popularity she had secured. And her children too! Worse for them past all words would it be than if they were still little creatures, ignorant of the value of the world's opinion. He bade the bookseller good-morning, and threaded his way through many alleys and by-lanes of the old town until he reached a ferry and a boat-house, where many a boat lay ready for him, as they had always done when he was a boy. He seated himself in one of them, and taking the oars fell down with the current to the willows under the garden-wall of his old home. He steered his boat aside into a small creek, where the willow-wands grew tall and thick, from which he could see the whole river frontage of the old house. Was there any change in it? His keen, despairing gaze could not detect one. The high tilted gables in the roof stood out clear against the sky, with their spiral wooden rods projecting above them. The oriel window cast its slowly moving shadow on the half-timber walls; and the many lattice casements, with their small diamond-shaped panes, glistened in the sun as in the days gone by. The garden-plots were unchanged, and the smooth turf on the terraces was as green and soft as when he ran along them at his mother's side. The old house brought to his mind his mother rather than his wife. It was full of associations and memories of her, with her sweet, humble, self-sacrificing nature. There was repose and healing in the very thought of her, which seemed to touch his anguish with a strong and soothing hand. Was there an echo of her voice still lingering for him about the old spot where he had listened to it so often? Could he hear her calling to him by his name, the name he had buried irrecoverably in a foreign grave? For the first time for many years he bent down his face upon his hands, and wept many tears; not bitter ones, full of grief as they were. His mother was dead; he had not wept for her till now. Presently there came upon the summer silence the sound of a young, clear, laughing voice, calling "Phebe;" and he lifted up his head to look once more at the house. An old man, with silvery white hair was pacing slowly to and fro on the upper terrace, and a slight girlish figure was beside him. That was old Clifford, his enemy; but could that girl be Hilda? A face looked out of one of the windows, smiling down upon this young girl, which he knew again as Phebe Marlowe's. By and by she came down to the terrace, with a tall, fine-looking young man walking beside her; and all three, bidding farewell to the old man, descended from terrace to terrace, becoming every minute more distinct to his eyes. Yes, there was Phebe; and these others must be his girl Hilda and his son Felix. They were near to him, every word they spoke reached his ears, and penetrated to his heart. They seemed more beautiful, more perfect than any young creatures he had ever beheld. He listened to them unfastening the chain which secured the boat, and to the creaking of the row-locks as they fitted the oars into them. It was as if one of his own long-lost days was come back again to earth, when he had sat where Felix was now sitting, with Felicita instead of Hilda dipping her little white hand into the water. He had scarcely eyes for Phebe; but he was conscious that she was there, for Hilda was speaking to her in a low voice which just reached him. "See," she said, "that man has one of my mother's books! And he is quite a common man!" "As much a common man, perhaps, as I am a common woman," answered Phebe, in a gentle though half-reproving tone. As long as his eyes could see them they were fastened upon the receding boat; and long after, he gazed in the direction in which they had gone. He had had the passing glimpse he longed for into the Paradise he had forfeited. This had been his place, appointed to him by God, where he could have served God best, and served Him in as perfect gladness and freedom as the earth gives to any of her children. What lot could have been more blessed? The lines had fallen unto him in pleasant places; he had had a goodly heritage, and he had lost it through grasping dishonestly at a larger share of what this world called success. The madness and the folly of his sin smote him with unutterable bitterness. He could bear to look at it no longer. The yearning he had felt to see his old home was satisfied; but the satisfaction seemed an increase of sorrow. He would not wait to witness the return of his children. The old man was gone into the house, and the garden was quiet and deserted. With weary strokes he rowed back again up the river; and with a heavier weight of sorrow and a keener consciousness of sin he made his way through the streets so familiar to his tread. It was as if no eye saw him, and no heart warmed to him in his native town. He was a stranger in a strange place; there was none to say to him, here or elsewhere on earth, "You are one of us." CHAPTER XIII. A LONDON GARRET. There was one other place he must see before he went out again from this region of many memories, to which all that he could call life was linked--the little farmstead on the hills, which, of all places, had been his favorite haunt when a boy, and which had been the last spot he had visited before fleeing from England. Phebe Marlowe he had seen; if he went away at once he could see her home before her return to it. Next to his mother and his wife, he knew that Phebe was most likely to recognize him, if recognition by any one was possible. Most likely old Marlowe was dead; but if not, his senses would surely be too dull to detect him. The long, hot, white highway, dusty with a week's drought, carried back his thoughts so fully to old times that he walked on unconscious of the noontide heat and the sultriness of the road. Yet when he came to the lanes, green overhead and underfoot, and as silent as the mountain-heights round Engelberg, he felt the solace of the change. All the recollections treasured up in the secret cells of memory were springing into light at every step; and these were remembrances less bitter than those the sight of his lost home had called to mind. He felt himself less of a phantom here, where no one met him or crossed his path, than in the streets where many faces looking blankly at him wore the well-known features of old comrades. By the time he gained the moorlands, and looked across its purple heather and yellow gorse, his mind was in a healthier mood than it had been for years. The low thatched roof of the small homestead, and the stunted and twisted trees surrounding it, seemed like a possible refuge to him, where for a little while he might find shelter from the storm of life. He pressed on with eagerness, and found himself quickly at the door, which he had never met with fastened. But it was locked now. After knocking twice he tried the latch, but it did not open. He went to the little window, uncurtained as usual and peered in, but all was still and dark; there was not a glimmer of light on the hearth, where he had always seen some glimmering embers. There was no sign of life about the place; no dog barking, no sheep bleating, or fowls fluttering about the little farm-yard. All the innocent, joyous gayety of the place had vanished; yet he could see that it was not falling into decay; the thatch was in repair, the dark interior, dimly visible through the window, was as it used to be. It was not a ruin, but it was not a home. A home might have received him with its hospitable walls, or a ruin might have given him an hour's shelter. But Phebe's door was shut against him, though it would have done him good to stand within it once more, a penitent man. He was turning away sadly, when a loud rustic voice called to him; and Simon Nixey, almost hidden under a huge load of dried ferns, came into sight. Jean Merle stepped down the stone causeway of the farm-yard to open the gate for him. "What are you doing here?" he inquired suspiciously. "A wood-carver, called old Marlowe, used to live here," he answered, "what has become of him?" "Dead!" said Simon; "dead this many a year. Why, if you know anything you ought to know that." "What did he die of?" asked Jean Merle. "A broken heart, if ever man did," answered Simon; "he'd saved a mint o' money by scraping and moiling; and he lost it all when there was a run on the Old Bank over thirteen years ago. He couldn't talk about it like other folks, poor old Dummy! and it struck inwards, as you may say. It killed him as certain as if they'd shot a bullet into him." Jean Merle staggered as if Simon had struck him a heavy blow. He had not thought of anything like this, old Marlowe dying broken-hearted, and Phebe left alone in the world. Simon Nixey seemed pleased at the impression his words had produced. "Ay!" he said, "it was hard on old Marlowe; and drove my cousin, John Nixey, into desperate ways o' drinking. Not but all the money was paid up; only it was too late for them two. Every penny was paid, so as folks had nothing to say against the Old Bank. Only money won't bring a dead man back to life again. I offered Phebe to make her my wife before I knew it'ud be paid back; but she always said no, till I grew tired of it, and married somebody else." "And where is she now?" inquired Jean Merle. "Oh! she's quite the fine lady," answered Simon. "Mrs. Roland Sefton, Lord Riversdale's daughter that was, took quite a fancy to her, and had her to live with her in London; not as a servant, you know, but as a friend; and she paints pictures wonderful. My mother, who lives housekeeper with Mr. Clifford, hears say she can get sixty pounds or more for one likeness. Think of that now! If she'd been my wife what a fortune she'd have been to me!" "Has she sold this place?" asked Jean Merle. "There it is," he replied; "she gave her father a faithful promise never to part with it, or I'd have bought it myself. She comes here once a year with Miss Hilda and Mr. Felix, and they stay a week or two; and it's shut up all the rest of the time. I've got the key here if you'd like to look inside at old Dummy's carving." How familiar, yet how different, the interior of the cottage seemed! He knew all these carvings, curious and beautiful, which lined the walls and decorated every article of the old oak furniture. But the hearth was cold, and there was no pleasant disorder about the small house telling its story of daily work. In the deep recess of the window-frame, where the western sun was already shining, stood old Marlowe's copy of a carved crucifix, which he had himself once brought from the Tyrol, and lent to him before finding a place for it in his own home. The sacred head was bowed down so low as to be almost hidden under the shadow of the crown of thorns. At the foot of the cross, in delicately small old English letters, the old man had carved the words, "Come unto me all ye that be weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He remembered pointing out the mistake that he had made to old Marlowe. "I like it best," said the dumb man; "I have often been weary, but not with labor; weary of myself, weary of the world, weary of life, weary of everything but my Phebe. That is what Christ says to me." Jean Merle could see the old man's speaking face again, and the fingers moving less swiftly when spelling out the words to him, than when he was talking to Phebe. Weary! weary! was it not so with him? Could any man on earth be more weary than he was? He loitered back to Riversborough through the cool of the evening, with the pale stars shining dimly in the twilight of the summer sky; pondering, brooding over what he had seen and heard that day. He had already done much of what he had come to England to do; but what next? What was the path he ought to take now? He was in a labyrinth, where there were many false openings leading no-whither; and he had no clue to guide him. All these years he had lain as one dead in the coil he had wound about himself, but now he was living again. There was agony in the life that he had entered into, but it was better than the apathy of his death in life. He returned to London, and hired a garret for a small weekly rent, where he would lodge until he could resolve what to do. But week after week passed without bringing to his mind the solution of the problem. Remorse had given place to repentance; but despair had not been succeeded by hope. There was nothing to hope for. The irrevocable past stood between him and any reparation for his sin which his soul earnestly desired to make. An easy thing, and light, it would have been to put himself into the power of his enemy, Mr. Clifford, and bear the penalty of the law. He had suffered a hundred fold more than justice would have exacted. The broken law demanded satisfaction, and it would have been a blessed relief to him to give it. But that could never be. He could never bear the penalty of his crime without dragging Felicita into depths of shame and suffering deeper than they would have been if he had borne it at first. The fame she had won for herself would lift up his infamy and hers to the intolerable gaze of a keen and bitter publicity. He must blacken her fair reputation if he sought to appease his own conscience. He made no effort to find out where she and his children were living. But one after another, in the solitude of his garret, he read every book Felicita had written. They gave him no pleasure, and awoke in him no admiration, for he read them through different eyes from her other readers. There was great bitterness of soul for him in many of the sentences she had penned; now and then he came upon some to which he alone held the true key. He felt that he, her husband, was dwelling in her mind as a type of subtle selfishness and weak ambition. When she depicted a good or noble character it was almost invariably a woman, not a man; it was never a man past his early manhood. However varied their circumstances and temperaments, they were in the main worldly and mean; sometimes they were successful hypocrites, deceiving those nearest and dearest to them. It was a wholesome penance to him, perhaps, but it shook and troubled his soul to its very depths. His sin had ruined the poor weakminded drunkard, John Nixey, and hastened the end of dumb old Marlowe; these consequences of it must, at any time, have clouded his own after-life. But it had also wrought a baneful change in the spirit of the woman whom he loved. It was he who had slain within her the hope, and the love, and the faith in her fellow-men which had been needed for the full perfecting of her genius. CHAPTER XIV. HIS FATHER'S SIN. When Felix returned from his brief and clouded holiday to his work in that corner of the great vineyard, so overcrowded with busy husbandmen that they were always plucking up each others' plants, and pruning and repruning each others' vines, till they made a wilderness where there should have been a harvest, he found that his special plot there had suffered much damage. John Nixey, following up the impression he had so successfully made, had spread his story abroad, and found ears willing to listen to it, and hearts willing to believe it. The small Provident Club, instituted by Felix to check the waste and thriftlessness of the people, had already, in his short absence, elected another treasurer of its scanty funds; and the members who formed it, working men and women who had been gathered together by his personal influence, treated him with but scant civility. His evening lectures in the church mission-house were sometimes scarcely attended, whilst on other days there was an influx of hearers, among whom John Nixey was prominent, with half-a-dozen rough and turbulent fellows like himself, hangers-on at the nearest spirit-vaults, who were ready for any turn that might lead to a row. The women and children who had been accustomed to come stayed away, or went to some other of the numerous preaching-places, as though afraid of this boisterous element in his little congregation. Now and then, too, he heard his name called out aloud in the streets by some of Nixey's friends, as he passed the prospering gin-palaces with their groups of loungers about the doors; but though he could catch the sound of the laugh and the sneer that followed him, he could take no notice. He could not turn round in righteous indignation and tell the fellows, and the listening bystanders, that what they said of his father was a lie. The poor young curate, with his high hopes and his enthusiastic love of the work he had chosen for the sake of his fellow-men, was compelled to pass on with bowed head, and silent lips, and a heart burdened with the conviction that his influence was altogether blighted and uprooted. "It isn't true, sir, is it, what folks are tellin' about your father?" was a question put to him more than once, when he entered some squalid home, in the hope of giving counsel, or help, or comfort. There was something highly welcome and agreeable to these people, themselves thieves or bordering on thievedom, in the idea that this fine, handsome, gentlemanly young clergyman, who had set to work among them with so much energy and zeal, was the son of a dishonest rogue, who ought to have been sent to jail as many of them had been. Felix had not failed to make enemies in the Brickfields by his youthful intolerance of idleness, beggary, and drunkenness. The owners of the gin-palaces hated him, and not a few of the rival religious sects were, to say the least, uncharitably disposed towards one who had drawn so many of their followers to himself. There was very little common social interest in the population of the district, for the tramping classes of the lowest London poor, such as were drawn to the Brickfields by its overflowing charities, have as little cohesion as a rope of sand; but Felix was so conspicuous a figure in its narrow and dirty streets, that even strangers would nudge one another's elbows, and almost before he was gone by narrate Nixey's story, with curious additions and alterations. It was gall and wormwood to Felix that he was unable to contradict the story in full. He could say that his father had never been a convict; but no inducement on earth could have wrung from him the declaration that his father had never been guilty of fraud. Sometimes he wondered whether it would not be well to own the simple truth, and endure the shame: if he had been the sole survivor of his father's sin this he would have done, and gone on toilsomely regaining the influence he had lost. But the secret touched his mother even more closely than himself, and Hilda was equally concerned in it. It had been sacredly kept by those older than he was, and it was not for him to betray it. "My poor mother!" he called her. Never, before he learned the secret burden she had borne, had he called her by that tender and pitiful epithet; but as often as he thought of her now his heart said, "My poor mother!" As soon as Canon Pascal returned to England Felix took a day's holiday, and ran down by train to the quiet rectory in Essex, where he had spent the greater portion of his boyhood. Only a few years separated him from that careless and happiest period of his life; yet the last three months had driven it into the far background. He almost smiled at the recollection of how young he was half-a-year ago, when he had declared his love for Alice. How far dearer to him she was now than then! The one letter he had received from her, written in Switzerland, and telling him in loving detail of her visit to his father's grave, would be forever one of his most precious treasures. But he was not going to share his blemished name with her. He had had nothing worthy of her, or of his father, to lay at her feet, whilst he was yet in utter ignorance of the shame he had inherited; and now? He must never more think of her as his wife. She was at home, he knew; but he sternly forbade himself to seek for her. It was Canon Pascal he had come down to see, and he went straight on to his well-known study. He was busy in the preparation of next Sunday's sermons, but at the sight of Felix's dejected, unsmiling face, he swept away his books and papers with one hand, whilst he stretched out his hand to give him such a warm, strong, hearty grip as he might have given to a drowning man. "What is it, my son?" he asked. There was such a full sympathetic tone in the friendly voice speaking to him, that Felix felt his burden already shared, and pressing less heavily on his bruised spirit. He stood a little behind Canon Pascal, with his hand upon his shoulder, as he had often placed himself before when he was pleading for some boyish indulgence, or begging pardon for some boyish fault. "You have been like a true father to me, and I come to tell you a great trouble," he began in a tremulous voice. "I know it, my boy," replied Canon Pascal; "you have found out how true it is, 'The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.' Ah! Felix, life teaches us so, as well as this wise old Book." "You know it?" stammered Felix. "Phebe told me," he interrupted, "six months since. And now you and I can understand Felicita. There was no prejudice against our Alice in her mind; no unkindness to either of you. But she could not bring herself to say the truth against the husband whom she has wept and mourned over so long. And your mother is the soul of truth and honor; she could not let you marry whilst we were ignorant of this matter. It has been a terrible cross to bear, and she has borne it in silence. I love and revere your mother more than ever." "Yes!" said Felix with a sob. He had not yet seen her since coming to this fateful knowledge; for Phebe and Hilda had joined her at the sea-side where they were still staying. But if his father had gone down into depths of darkness, his mother had risen so much the higher in his reverence and love. She had become a saint and a martyr in his eyes; and to save her from a moment's grief seemed to be a cause worth dying for. "I came to tell you all," he went on, "and to say I cannot any more hope that you will give Alice to me. God alone knows what it costs me to give her up: and she will suffer too for a while, a long while, I fear; for we have grown together so. But it must be. Alice cannot marry a man who has not even an unblemished name to offer to her." "You should ask Alice herself about that," said Canon Pascal quietly. A thrill of rapture ran through Felix, and he grasped the shoulder, on which his hand still rested, more firmly. What! was it possible that this second father of his knew all his disgrace and dishonor, how his teeth were set on edge by the sour grapes which he had not eaten, and yet was willing that Alice should share his name and his lot? There was no fear as to what Alice would say. He recollected how Phebe spoke, as if her thoughts dwelt more on his father's sorrow and sad death, than on his sin; and Alice would be the same. She would cover it with a woman's sweet charity. He could not command his voice to speak; and after a minute's pause Canon Pascal continued-- "Yes! Alice, too, knows all about it. I told her beside your father's grave. And do you suppose she said, 'Here is cause enough for me to break with Felix'? Nay, I believe if the sin had been your own, Alice would have said it was her duty to share it, and your repentance. Shall our Lord come to save sinners, and we turn away from their blameless children? Yet I thought it must be so at first, I own it, Felix; at first, while my eyes were blinded and my heart hardened; and I looked at it in the light of the world. But then I be-thought me of your mother. Shall not she make good to you the evil your father has wrought? If he dishonored your name in the eyes of a few, she has brought honor to it, and made it known far beyond the limits it could have been known through him. The world will regard you as her son, not as his." "But I came also to tell you that I wish to leave the country," said Felix. "There is a difficulty in getting young men for our colonial work; and I am young and strong, stronger than most young men in the Church. I could endure hardships, and go in for work that feebler men must leave untried; you have taken care of that for me. Such a life would be more like old Felix Merle's than a London curacy. You let your own sons emigrate, believing that the old country is getting over-populated; and I thought I would go too." "Why?" asked Canon Pascal, turning round in his chair, and looking up searchingly into his face. In a few words, and in short broken sentences, Felix told him of Nixey's charge, and the change it had wrought in the London curacy, upon which he had entered with so much enthusiasm and delight. "It will be the same wherever I go in England," he said in conclusion; "and I cannot face them boldly and say it is all a falsehood." "You must live it down," answered Canon Pascal; "go on, and take no notice of it." "But it hinders my work sadly," said Felix, "and I cannot go on in the Brickfields. There might be a row any evening, and then the story would come out in the police-courts; and what could I say? At least, I must give up that." For a few minutes Canon Pascal was lost in thought. If Felix was right in his apprehension, and the whole story came out in the police-court, there were journals pandering to public curiosity that would gladly lay hold of any gossip or scandal connected with Mrs. Roland Sefton. Her name would ensure its publicity. And how could Felicita endure that, especially now that her health was affected? If the dread of disclosing her secret to him had wrought so powerfully upon her physical and mental constitution, what would she suffer if it became a nine days' talk for the world? "I will get your rector to exchange curates with me till we can see our way clear," he said. "He is Alice's godfather, you know, and will do it willingly. I am going up to Westminster in November, and you will be here in my place, where everybody knows your face and you know theirs. There will be no question here about your father, for you are looked upon as my son. Now go away, and find Alice." When Felix turned out of Liverpool Street station that evening, a tall, gaunt-looking workman man offered to carry his bag for him. It was filled with choice fruit from the rectory garden, grown on trees grafted and pruned by Canon Pascal's own hands; and Felix had helped Alice to gather it for some of his sick parishioners in the unwholesome dwelling-places he visited. "I am going no farther than the Mansion House," he answered, "and I can carry it myself." "You'd do me a kindness if you'd let me carry it," said the man. It was not the tone of a common loafer, hanging about the station for any chance job, and Felix turned to look at him in the light of the street-lamp. It was the old story, he thought to himself, a decent mechanic from the country, out of work, and lost in this great labyrinth of a city. He handed his bag to him and walked on along the crowded thoroughfare, soon forgetting that he was treading the flagged streets of a city; he was back again, strolling through dewy fields in the cool twilight, with Alice beside him, accompanying him to the quiet little station. He thought no more of the stranger behind him, or of the bag he carried, until he hailed an omnibus travelling westward. "Here is your bag, sir," said the man. "Ah! I'd forgotten it," exclaimed Felix. "Good night, and thank you." He had just time to drop a shilling into his hand before the omnibus was off. But the man stood there in front of the Mansion House, motionless, with all the busy sea of life roaring around him, hearing nothing and seeing nothing. This coin that lay in his hand had been given to him by his son; his son's voice was still sounding in his ears. He had walked behind him taking note of his firm strong step, his upright carriage and manly bearing. It had been too swift a march for him, full of exquisite pain and pleasure, which chance might never offer to him again. "Move on, will you?" said a policeman authoritatively; and Jean Merle, rousing himself from his reverie, went back to his lonely garret. CHAPTER XV. HAUNTING MEMORIES. Felicita was slowly recovering her strength at the sea-side. She had never before felt so seriously shaken in health, as since she had known of the attachment of Felix to Alice Pascal; an attachment which would have been quite to her mind, if there was no loss of honor in allowing it whilst she held a secret which, in all probability, would seem an insuperable barrier in the eyes of Canon Pascal. This secret she had kept resolutely in the background of her own memory, conscious of its existence, but never turning her eyes towards it. The fact that it was absolutely a secret, suspected by no one, made this more possible; for there was no gleam of cognizance in any eye meeting hers which could awaken even a momentary recollection of it. It seemed so certain that her husband was dead to every one but herself, that she came at last almost to believe that it was true. And was it not most likely to be true? Through all these long years there had come no hint to her in any way that he was living. She had never seen or heard of any man lingering about her home where she and her children lived, all whom Roland loved, and loved so passionately. Certainly she had made no effort to discover whether he was yet alive; but though it would be well for her if he was dead--a cause of rest almost amounting to satisfaction--it was not likely that he would remain content with unbroken and complete ignorance of how she and her children were faring. If he had been living, surely he would have given her some sign. There was a terrible duty now lying in her path. Before she could give her consent to Felix marrying Alice, she must ascertain positively if her husband was dead. Should it be so, her secret was safe, and would die with her. Nobody need ever know of this fraud, so successfully carried out. But if not? Then she knew in herself that her lips could never confess the sin in which she had shared; and nothing would remain for her to do but to oppose with all the energy and persistence possible the marriage either of her son or daughter. And she fully believed that neither of them would marry against her will. Her health had not permitted her hitherto to make the exertion necessary for ascertaining this fact, on which her whole future depended--hers and her children's. The physician whom she had consulted in London had urged upon her the imperative necessity of avoiding all excitement and fatigue, and had ordered her down to this dull little village of Freshwater, where not even a brass band on the unfinished pier or the arrival of an excursion steamer could disturb or agitate her. She had nothing to do but to sit on the quiet downs, where no sound could startle her, and no spectacle flutter her, until the sea-breezes had brought back her usual tone of health. How long this promised restoration was in coming! Phebe, who watched for it anxiously, saw but little sign of it. Felicita was more silent than ever, more withdrawn into herself, gazing for hours upon the changeful surface of the sea with absent eyes, through which the brain was not looking out. Neither sound nor sight reached the absorbed soul, that was wandering through some intricate mazes to which Phebe had no clue. But no color came to Felicita's pale face, and no light into her dim eyes. There was a painful and weird feeling often in Phebe's heart that Felicita herself was not there; only the fair, frail form, which was as insensible as a corpse, until this spirit came back to it. At such times Phebe was impelled to touch her, and speak to her, and call her back again, though it might be to irritability and displeasure. "Phebe," said Felicita, one day when they sat on the cliff, so near the edge that nothing but the sea lay within the range of their sight, "how should you feel if, instead of helping a fellow-creature to save himself from drowning, you had thrust him back into the water, and left him, sure that he would perish?" "But I cannot tell you how I should feel," answered Phebe, "because I could never do it. It makes me shudder to think of such a thing. No human being could do it." "But if you had thrust the one fellow-creature nearest to you, the one who loved you the most," pursued Felicita, "into sin, down into a deeper gulf than he could have fallen into but for you--" "My dear, my dear!" cried Phebe, interrupting her in a tone of the tenderest pity. "Oh! I know now what is preying upon you. Because Felix loves Alice it has brought back all the sorrowful past to you, and you are letting it kill you. Listen! Let me speak this once, and then I will never speak again, if you wish it. Canon Pascal knows it all; I told him. And Felix knows it, and he loves you more than ever; you are dearer to him a hundred times than you were before. And he forgives his father--fully. God has cast his sin as a stone into the depths of the sea, to be remembered against him no more forever!" A slight flush crept over Felicita's pale face. It was a relief to her to learn that Canon Pascal and Felix knew so much of the truth. The darker secret must be hidden still in the depths of her heart until she found out whether she was altogether free from the chance of discovery. "It was right they should know," she said in a low and dreamy tone; "and Canon Pascal makes no difficulty of it?" "Canon Pascal said to me," answered Phebe, "that your noble life and the fame you had won atoned for the error of which Felix and Hilda's father had been guilty. He said they were your children, brought up under your training and example, not their father's. Why do you dwell so bitterly upon the past? It is all forgotten now." "Not by me," murmured Felicita, "nor by you, Phebe." "No; I have never forgotten him," cried Phebe, with a passionate sorrow in her voice. "How good he was to me, and to all about him! Yes, he was guilty of a sin before God and against man; I know it. But oh! if he had only suffered the penalty, and come back to us again, for us to comfort him, and to help him to live down the shame! Possibly we could not have done it in Riversborough; I do not know; but I would have gone with you, as your servant, to the ends of the earth, and you would have lived happy days again--happier than the former days. And he would have proved himself a good man, in spite of his sin; a Christian man, whom Christ would not have been ashamed to own." "No, no," said Felicita; "that is impossible. I never loved Roland; can you believe that, Phebe?" "Yes," she answered in a whisper, and with downcast eyes. "Not as I think of love," continued Felicita in a dreary voice. "I have tried to love you all; but you seem so far away from me, as if I could never touch you. Even Felix and Hilda, they are like phantom children, who do not warm my heart, or gladden it, as other mothers are made happy by their children. Sometimes I have dreamed of what life would have been if I had given myself to some man for whom I would have forfeited the world, and counted the loss as nothing. But that is past now, and I feel old. There is nothing more before me; all is gray and flat and cold, a desolate monotony of years, till death comes." "You make me unhappy," said Phebe. "Ought we not to love God first, and man for God's sake? There is no passion in that; but there is inexhaustible faithfulness and tenderness." "How far away from me you are!" answered Felicita with a faint smile. She turned her sad face again towards the sea, and sat silent, watching the flitting sails pass by, but holding Phebe's hand fast in her own, as if she craved her companionship. Phebe, too, was silent, the tears dimming her blue eyes and blotting out the scene before her. Her heart was very heavy and troubled for Felicita. "Will you go to Engelberg with me by-and-by?" asked Felicita suddenly, but in a calm and tranquil tone. "To Engelberg!" echoed Phebe. "I must go there before Felix thinks of marrying," she answered in short and broken sentences; "but it cannot be till spring. Yet I cannot write again until I have been there; the thought of it haunts me intolerably. Sometimes, nay, often, the word Engelberg has slipped from my pen unawares when I have tried to write; so I shall do no more work till I have fulfilled this duty; but I will rest another few months. When I have been to Engelberg again, for the last time, I shall be not happy, but less miserable." "I will go with you wherever you wish," said Phebe. It was so great a relief to have said this much to Phebe, to have broken through so much of the icy reserve which froze her heart, that Felicita's spirits at once grew more cheerful. The dreaded words had been uttered, and the plan was settled; though its fulfilment was postponed till spring; a reprieve to Felicita. She regained health and strength rapidly, and returned to London so far recovered that her physician gave her permission to return to work. But she did not wish to take up her work again. It had long ago lost the charm of novelty to her, and though circumstances had compelled her to write, or to live upon her marriage settlement, which in her eyes was to live upon the proceeds of a sin successfully carried out, her writing itself had become tedious to her. "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity!" and there is much vexation of spirit, as well as weariness of the flesh, in the making of many books. She had made enemies who were spiteful, and friends who were exacting; she, who felt equally the irksomeness of petty enmities and of small friendships, which, like gnats buzzing monotonously about her, were now and then ready to sting. The sting itself might be trivial, but it was irritating. Felicita had soon found out how limited is the circle of fame for even a successful writer. For one person who would read a book, there were fifty who would go to hear a famous singer or actor, and a hundred who would crowd to see a clever acrobat. As she read more she discovered that what she had fondly imagined were ideas originated by her own intellect, was, in reality, the echo only of thought long since given to mankind by other minds, in other words, often better than her own. Her own silent claim to genius was greatly modified; she was humbler than she had been. But she knew painfully that her name was now a hundred-fold better known than it had been while she was yet only the wife of a Riversborough banker. All her work for the last fourteen years had placed it more and more prominently before the public. Any scandal attaching to it now would be blazoned farther and wider, in deeper and more enduring characters, than if her life as an author had been a failure. The subtle hope, very real, vague as it was, that her husband was in truth dead, gathered strength. The silence that had engulfed him had been so profound that it seemed impossible he should still be treading the same earth as herself, and wearing through its slow and commonplace days, sleeping and waking, eating and drinking like other men. Felicita was not superstitious, but there was in her that deep-rooted, instinctive sense of mystery in this double life of ours, dividing our time into sleeping and waking hours, which is often apt to make our dreams themselves omens of importance. She had never dreamed of Roland as she did of those belonging to her who had already passed into the invisible world about us. His spirit was not free, perhaps, from its earthly fetters so as to be able to visit her, and haunt her sleeping fancies. But now she began to dream of him frequently, and often in the daytime flashes of memory darted vividly across her brain, lighting up the dark forgotten past, and recalling to her some word of his, or a glance merely. It was an inward persecution from which she could not escape, but it seemed to her to indicate that her persecutor was no more a denizen of this world. To get rid of these haunting memories as much as possible, she made such a change in her mode of life as astonished all about her. She no longer shut herself up in her library; as she had told Phebe, she resolved to write no more, nor attempt to write, until she had been to Engelberg. She seemed wishful to attract friends to her, and she renewed old acquaintanceships with members of her own family which she had allowed to drop during these many years. No sooner was it evident that Felicita Sefton was willing to come out of the extremely quiet and solitary life she had led hitherto, and take her place in society both as Lord Riversdale's daughter and as the author of many popular books, than the current of fashion set towards her. She was still a remarkably lovely woman, possessing irresistible attractions in her refined face and soft yet distant manners, as of one walking in a trance, and seeing and hearing things invisible and inaudible to less favored mortals. Quite unconsciously to herself she became the lion of the season, when the next season opened. She had been so difficult to know, that as soon as she was willing to be known invitations poured in upon her, and her house was invaded by a throng of visitors, many of them more or less distantly related to her. To Hilda this new life was one of unexpected and exquisite delight. Phebe, also, with her genuine interest in her fellow-creatures, and her warm sympathy in all human joys and sorrows, enjoyed the change, though it perplexed her, and caused her to watch Felicita with anxiety. Felix saw less of it than any one, for he was down in Essex, leading the tranquil and not very laborious life of a country curate, chafing a little now and then at his inactivity, yet blissful beyond words in the close daily intercourse with Alice. There was no talk of their marriage, but they were young and together. Their happiness was untroubled. CHAPTER XVI. THE VOICE OF THE DEAD. In his lonely garret in the East End, Jean Merle was living in an isolation more complete even than that of Engelberg. There he had known at least the names of those about him, and their faces had grown familiar to him. More than once he had been asked to help when help was sorely needed, and he had felt, though not quite consciously, that there was still a link or two binding him to his fellow-men. But here, an unit among millions, who hustled him at every step, breathed the same air, and shared the common light with him, he was utterly alone. "Isolation is the sum total of wretchedness to man," and no man could be more completely isolated than he. Strangely enough, his Swiss proclivities seemed to have fallen from him like a worn-out garment. The narrow, humble existence of his peasant forefathers, to which he had so readily adapted himself, was no longer tolerable in his eyes. He felt all the force and energy of the life of the great city which surrounded him. His birthright as an Englishman presented itself to his imagination with a splendor and importance that it had never possessed before, even in those palmy days when it was no unthought-of honor that he might some day take his place in the House of Commons. He called himself Jean Merle, for no other name belonged to him; but he felt himself to be an Englishman again, to whom the life of a Swiss peasant would be a purgatory. Other natural instincts were asserting themselves. He had been a man of genial, social habits, glad to gather round him smiling faces and friendly voices; and this bias of his was stirring into life and shaking off its long stupor. He longed, with intense longing, for some mortal ear into which he could pour the story of his sins and sufferings, and for some human tongue to utter friendly words of counsel to him. It was not enough to pour out his confessions before God in agonizing prayer; that he had done, and was doing daily. But it was not all. The natural yearning for man's forgiveness, spoken in living human speech, grew stronger within him. There was no longer a chance for him to make even a partial reparation of the wrong he had committed; he felt himself without courage to begin the long conflict again. What his soul hungered for now was to see his life through another man's eyes. But his money, economize it as he might, was slowly melting away. Unless he could get work--and all his efforts to find it failed--it would not do to remain in England. At Engelberg had secured a position as a wood carver, and his livelihood was assured. There, too, he possessed a scanty knowledge of the neighbors, and they of him. It would be his wisest course to return there, to forget what he had been, and to draw nearer to him the simple and ignorant people, who might yet be won over to regard him with good-will. This must be done before he found himself penniless as well as friendless. He set aside a certain sum, when that was spent he must once more be an exile. Until then, it was his life to pace to and fro along the streets of London. Somewhere in this vast labyrinth there was a home to which he had a right; a hearth where he could plant himself and claim it for his own. He was master of it, and of a wife, and children; he, the lonely, almost penniless man. It would be a small thing to him to pay the penalty the law could demand of him. A few years more or less in Dartmoor Prison would be nothing to him, if at the end of them he saw a home waiting for him to return to it. But he never sought to look at the exterior even of that spot to which he had a right. He made no effort to see Felicita. He stayed till he touched his last shilling. It was already winter, and the short, dark days, with their thick fogs, made the wintry months little better than one long night. To-morrow he must leave England, never to return to it. He strayed aimlessly about the gloomy streets, letting his feet bear him whither they would, until he found himself looking down through the iron railings upon the deserted yard in front of the Houses of Parliament. The dark mass of the building loomed heavily through the yellow fog, but beyond it came the sound of bells ringing in the invisible Abbey. It was the hour for morning prayer, and Jean Merle sauntered listlessly onwards until he reached the northern entrance and turned into the transept. The dim daylight scarcely lit up the lofty arches in the roof or the farther end of the long aisles, but he gave no heed to either. He sank down on a chair and bent his gray head on the back of the chair before him; the sweet solemn chanting of the white-robed choristers echoed under the roof, and the sacred and soothing tones of prayer floated pest him. But he did not move or lift his head. He sat there absorbed in his own thoughts, and the hours seemed only as floating minutes to him. Visitors came and went, chatting close beside him, and the vergers, with their quiet footsteps, came one by one to look at this motionless, poverty-stricken form, whose face no man could see, but nobody disturbed him. He had a right to be there, as still, and as solitary, and as silent as he pleased. But when Canon Pascal came up the long aisle to evening prayers and saw again the same gray head bowed down in the same despondent attitude as he had left it in the morning, he could scarcely refrain himself from pausing then and there, before the evening service proceeded, to speak to this man. He had caught a momentary glimpse of his face, and it had haunted him in his study in the interval, until he had half reproached himself for not answering to that silent appeal its wretchedness had made. But he had had no expectation of seeing it again. It was dark by the time the evening service was over, and Canon Pascal hastily divested himself of his surplice, that he might not seem to approach the stranger as a clergyman, but rather as an equal. The Abbey was being cleared of its visitors, and the lights were being put out one by one, when he sat down on the seat next to Jean Merle's, and laid his hand with a gentle pressure on his arm. Jean Merle started and lifted up his head. It was too dark for them to see each other well; but Canon Pascal's voice was full of friendly urgency. "They are going to close the Abbey," he said; "and you've been here all day, without food, my friend. Is there any special reason why you should pass a long, dark winter's day in such a manner? I would be glad to serve you if I can. Perhaps you are a stranger in London?" "I have been seeking the guidance of God," answered Jean Merle, in a bewildered yet unutterably sorrowful voice. "That is good," replied Canon Pascal; "that is the best. But it is good also at times to seek man's guidance. It is God, doubtless, who has sent me to you. As His servant, I earnestly desire to serve you." "If you would listen to me under a solemn seal of secrecy!" cried Jean Merle. "Are you a Catholic?" asked Canon Pascal. "Is it a confessor you want?" "I am not a Catholic," he answered; "but there is a strong desire in my soul to confess. My burden would be lighter if any man would share it, so far as to keep my secret." "Does it touch the life of any fellow-creature?" inquired Canon Pascal; "is there any great crime in it?" "No; not what you are thinking," he said; "there is sin in it; ay, and crime; but not a crime like that." "Then I will listen to it under a solemn promise of secrecy, whatever it may be," replied Canon Pascal. "But the vergers are waiting to close the Abbey. Come with me; my home is close by, within the precincts." Jean Merle had risen obediently as he spoke, but, exhausted and weary, he staggered as he stood upon his feet. Canon Pascal drew his arm within his own. This simple action was to him full of a friendliness to which he had been long a stranger. To clasp another man's hand, to walk arm-in-arm with him, he felt keenly how much of implied brotherhood was in them. He was ready to go anywhere with Canon Pascal, almost as a child guided and cared for by an older and wiser brother. They passed out of the Abbey into the cloisters, dimly lighted by the lamps, which had been lit in good time this dark November evening. The low, black-browed arches, which had echoed to the footsteps of sorrow-stricken men for more than eight hundred years, resounded to their tread as they walked beneath them in silence. Jean Merle suffered himself to be led without a question, like one in a dream. There seemed some faint reminiscence from the past of this man, with his harsh features, and kindly, genial expression, the deep-set eyes, beaming with a benign light from under the rugged eyebrows, and the firm yet friendly pressure of his guiding arm; and his mind was groping about the dark labyrinth of memory to seize his former knowledge of him, if there had ever been any. There was a vague apprehension about him lest he should discover that this friend was no stranger, and his tongue must be tied, even though what he was about to say would be under the inviolable seal of secrecy. They had not far to go, for Canon Pascal turned aside into a little square, open to the black November sky, and stopping at a door in the gray, old walls, opened it with a latch-key. They entered a narrow passage, and Canon Pascal turned at once to his study, which was close by. As he pushed open the door, he said, "Go in, my friend; I will be with you in a moment." Jean Merle saw before him an old-fashioned room with a low ceiling. There was no light besides the warm, red glow of a fire, which was no longer burning with yellow flame, but which lit up sufficiently the figure of a woman seated on a low stool on the hearth, with her head resting on the hand that shaded her eyes. It was a figure familiar to him in his old life--that life which lay on the other side of Roland Sefton's grave. He had seen the same well-shaped head, with its soft brown hair, and the round outline of the averted cheek and chin, a thousand times in old Marlowe's cottage on the uplands, sitting in the red firelight as she was sitting now. All the intervening years were swept away in an instant--his bitter anguish and unavailing repentance--the long solitude and gnawing remorse--all was swept clean away from his mind. He felt the strength and freshness of his boyhood come back to him, as if the breeze of the uplands was blowing softly yet keenly across his throbbing and fevered temples. Even his voice caught back for the moment the ring of his early youth as he stood on the threshold, forgetting all else but the sight that filled his eyes. "Phebe!" he cried; "little Phebe Marlowe!" The cry startled Phebe, but she did not move. It was the voice of one long since dead that rang in her ears--dead, and faithfully mourned over; and every nerve tingled, and her heart seemed to stay its beating. Roland Sefton's voice! She did not doubt it or mistake it. The call had been too real. She had answered to it too many times to be mistaken now. In those days of utter silence, when dumb signs only had passed between her and her father, Roland's pleasant voice had sounded too gladly in her ears ever to be forgotten or confounded with another. But how could she hear it now? The voice of the dead! how could it reach her? A strange pang of mingled joy and terror paralyzed her. She sat motionless and bewildered, with a thrill of passionate expectation quivering through her. Let Roland speak again; she could not answer his first call! "Phebe!" She heard the cry again; but this time the voice was low, and lamentable, and despairing. For in the few seconds he had been standing, arrested on the threshold, the whole past had flitted through his brain in dismal procession. She lifted herself up slowly and mechanically from her low seat, and turned her face reluctantly towards the spot from which the startling call had come. In the dusky, red light stood the form of the one friend to whom she had been faithful with the utter faithfulness of her nature. Whence he came she knew not--she was afraid of knowing. But he was there, himself, and not another like him. There was a change, she could see that dimly; but not such a change as could disguise him from her. Of late, whilst she had been painting his portrait from memory, every recollection of him had been revived with keener vividness. Yet the terror of beholding him again on this side of death struck her dumb. She stretched out her hands towards him, but she could not speak. "I must speak to Phebe Marlowe alone," said Jean Merle to Canon Pascal, and speaking in a tone of irresistible earnestness. "I have that to say to her which no one else can hear. She is God's messenger to me." "Shall I leave you with this stranger, Phebe?" asked Canon Pascal. She made a gesture simply; her lips were too parched to open. "My dear girl, I will stay, if you please," he said again. "No," she breathed, in a voice scarcely audible. "There is a bell close at your hand," he went on, "and I shall be within hearing of it. I will come myself if you ring it however faintly. You know this man?" "Yes," she answered. She saw him look across at her with an encouraging smile; and then the door was shut, and she was alone with her mysterious visitor. CHAPTER XVII. NO PLACE FOR REPENTANCE. They stood silent for a few moments;--moments which seemed hours to Phebe. The stranger--for who could be so great a stranger as one who had been many years dead?--had advanced only a step or two from the threshold, and paused as if some invisible barrier was set up between them. She had shrunk back, and stood leaning against the wall for the support her trembling limbs needed. It was with a vehement effort that at last she spoke. "Roland Sefton!" she faltered. "Yes!" he answered, "I am that most miserable man." "But you died," she said with quivering lips, "fourteen years ago." "No, Phebe, no," he replied; "would to God I had died then." Once more an agony of mingled fear and joy overwhelmed her. This dear voice, so lamentable and hopeless, so well remembered in all its tones, told her that he was still living, whom she had mourned over so many years. But what could this mystery mean? What had he passed through? What was about to happen now? A tumult of thoughts thronged to her brain. But clearest of all came the assurance that he was alive, standing there, desolate, changed, and friendless. She ran to him and clasped his hands in hers; stooping down and kissing them, those hard worn hands, which he left unresistingly in her grasp. These loving, and deferential caresses belonged to the time when she was a humble country girl, and he the friend very far above her. "Come closer to the fire, your hands are cold, Mr. Roland," she said, speaking in the old long-disused accent of her early days, as she might have spoken to him while she was yet a child. She threw a few logs on the fire, and drew up Canon Pascal's chair to the hearth for him. She felt spell-bound; and as if she had been suddenly thrust back upon those old times. "I am no longer Roland Sefton," he said, sinking down into the chair; "he died, as you say, many a long year ago. Do not light the lamp, Phebe; let us talk by the firelight." The flicker of the flames creeping round the dry wood played upon his face, and her eyes were fastened on it. Could this man really be Roland Sefton, or was she being tricked by her fancy? Here was a scarred and wrinkled face, blistered and burnt by the summer's sun, and cut and frost-bitten by the winter's cold; the hair was gray and ragged, and the eyes far sunk in the head met her gaze with a despairing and uneasy glance, as if he shrank from her close scrutiny. His bowed shoulders and hands roughened by toil, and worn-out mechanic's dress, were such a change, that perhaps, she acknowledged it reluctantly to herself, if he had not spoken as he did she might have passed him by undiscovered. "I am Jean Merle," he said, "not Roland Sefton." "Jean Merle?" she repeated in a low, bewildered tone, "not Roland Sefton, but Jean Merle?" But she could not be bewildered or in doubt much longer. This was Roland indeed, the hero of her life, come back to her a broken-down, desolate, and hopeless man. She knelt down on the hearth beside him, and laid her hand compassionately on his. "But you are Roland himself to me!" she cried. "Oh! be quick, and tell me all about it. Why did we ever think you were dead?" "It was best for them all," he answered. "God knows I believed it was best. But it was a second sin, worse than the first, Phebe. I did the man who died no wrong, for he told me as he lay dying that he had no friends to grieve for him, and no property to leave. All he wanted was a decent grave; and he has it, and my name with it. The grave at Engelberg contains a stranger. And I, Jean Merle, have taken charge of it." "Oh!" cried Phebe, with a pang of dread, "how will Felicita bear it?" "Felicita has known it; she consented to it," said Jean Merle. "If she had uttered one word against my desperate plan, I should have recoiled from it. To be dead whilst you are yet in the body; to have eyes to see and ears to hear with, and a thinking brain and a hungry heart, whilst there is no sign, or sound, or memory, or love from your former life; you cannot conceive what that is, Phebe. I was dead, yet I was too keenly alive in Jean Merle, the poor wood-carver and miser. They thought I was imbecile; and I was almost a madman. I could not tear myself away from the grave where Roland Sefton was buried; but oh! what I have suffered!" He ended with a long shuddering sigh, which pierced Phebe to the heart. The joy of seeing him again was vanishing in the sight of his suffering; but the thought uppermost in her mind was of Felicita. "And she has known all along that you were not dead?" she said, in a tone of awe. "Yes, Felicita knew," he answered. "And has she never seen you, never written to you?" she asked. "She knows nothing of me," he replied. "I was to be dead to her, and to every one else. We parted forever in Engelberg fourteen years ago this very month. Perhaps she believes me to be dead in reality. But I could live no longer without knowing something of you all, of Felix and Hilda; and I came over to England in August. I have seen all of you, except Felicita." "Oh! it was wicked! it was cruel!" sobbed Phebe, shivering. "Your mother died, believing she was going to rejoin you; and I, oh! how I have mourned for you!" "Have you, Phebe?" he said sorrowfully; "but Felicita has been saved from shame, and has been successful. She is too famous now for me to retrace my steps, and get back into truthfulness. I can find no place for repentance, let me seek it ever so carefully and with tears." "But you have repented?" she whispered. "Before God? yes!" he answered, "and I believe He has forgiven me. But there is no way by which I can retrieve the past. I have forfeited everything, and I am now shut out even from the duties of life. What ought I to have done, Phebe? There was this way to save my mother, and my children, and Felicita; and I took it. It has prospered for all of them; they hold a different position in the world this day than they could have done if I had lived." "In this world, yes!" answered Phebe, with a touch of scorn in her voice; "but cannot you see what you have done for Felicita? Oh! it would have been better for her to have endured the shame of your first sin, than bear such a burden of guilt. And you might have outlived the disgrace. There are Christian people in the world who can forgive sin, even as Christ forgives it. Even my poor father forgave it; and Mr. Clifford, he is repenting now that he did not forgive you; it weighs him down in his old age. It would have been better for you and Felicita if you had borne the penalty of your crime." "And our children, Phebe?" he said. "Could not God have made it up to them?" she asked. "Did He make it necessary for you to sin again on their account? Oh! if you had only trusted Him! If you had only waited to see how Christ could turn even the sins of the father into blessings for his children! They have missed you; it may be, I cannot see clearly, they must miss you now all their lives. It would break their hearts to learn all this. Whether they must know it, I cannot tell." "To what end should they know it?" he said. "Don't you see, Phebe, that the distinction Felicita has won binds us to keep this secret? It cannot be disclosed either to her or to them. I came to tell it to the man who brought me here under a seal of secrecy." "To Canon Pascal?" she exclaimed. "Pascal?" he repeated, "ay? I remember him now. It would have been terrible to have told it to him." "Let me think about it," said Phebe, "it has come too suddenly upon me. There must be something we ought to do, but I cannot see it yet. I must have time to recollect it all. And yet I am afraid to let you go, lest you should disappear again, and all this should seem like a dreadful dream." "You care for me still, Phebe?" he answered mournfully. "No, I shall not disappear from you; I shall hold fast by you, now you have seen me again. If that poor wretch in hell who lifted up his eyes, being in torments, had caught sight of some pitying angel, who would now and then dip the tip of her finger in water and cool his tongue, would he have disappeared from her vision? Wouldn't he rather have had a horrible dread lest she should disappear? But you will not forsake me, Phebe?" "Never!" replied Phebe, with an intense and mournful earnestness. "Then I will go," he said, rising reluctantly to his feet. The deep tones of the Abbey clock were striking for the second time since he had entered Canon Pascal's study, and they had been left in uninterrupted conversation. It was time for him to go; yet it seemed to him as if he had still so much to pour into Phebe's ear, that many hours would not give him time enough. Unconstrained speech had proved a source of ineffable solace and strength to him. He had been dying of thirst, and he had found a spring of living waters. To Phebe, and to her alone, he was still a living man, unless sometimes Felicita thought of him. "If you are still my friend, knowing all," he said, "I shall no longer despair. When will you see me again?" "I will come to morning service in the Abbey to-morrow," she answered. CHAPTER XVIII. WITHIN AND WITHOUT. After speaking to Canon Pascal for a few minutes, with an agitation and a reserve which he could not but observe, Phebe left the house to go home. In one of the darkest corners of the cloisters she caught sight of the figure of Jean Merle, watching for her to come out. For an instant Phebe paused, as if to speak to him once more; but her heart was over-fraught with conflicting emotions, whilst bewildering thoughts oppressed her brain. She longed for a solitary walk homewards, along the two or three miles of a crowded thoroughfare, where she could how feel as much alone as she had ever done on the solitary uplands about her birth-place. She had always delighted to ramble about the streets alone after nightfall, catching brief glimpses of the great out-door population, who were content if they could get a shelter for their heads during the few, short hours they could give to sleep, without indulging in the luxury of a home. When talking to them she could return to the rustic and homely dialect of her childhood; and from her own early experience she could understand their wants, and look at them from their stand-point, whilst feeling for them a sympathy and pity intensified by the education which had lifted her above them. But to-night she passed along the busy streets both deaf and dumb, mechanically choosing the right way between the Abbey and her home, nearly three miles away. There was only one circumstance of which she was conscious--that Jean Merle was following her. Possibly he was afraid in the depths of his heart that she would fail him when she came to deliberately consider all he had told her. He wronged her, she said to herself indignantly. Still, whenever she turned her head she caught sight of his tall, bent figure and gray head, stealing after her at some distance, but never losing her. So mournful was it to Phebe, to see her oldest and her dearest friend thus dogging her footsteps, that once or twice she paused at a street corner to give him time to overtake her; but he kept aloof. He wished only to see where she lived, for there also lived Felicita and Hilda. She turned at last into the square where their house was. It was brilliantly lighted up, for Felicita was having one of her rare receptions that evening, and in another hour or two the rooms would be filled with guests. It was too early yet, and Hilda was playing on her piano in the drawing-room, the merry notes ringing out into the quiet night. There was a side door to Phebe's studio, by which she could go in and out at pleasure, and she stood at it trying to fit her latch-key into the lock with her trembling hands. Looking back she saw Jean Merle some little distance away, leaning against the railings that enclosed the Square garden. "Oh! I must run back to him! I must speak to him again!" she cried to her own heart. In another instant she was at his side, with her hands clasping his. "Oh!" she sobbed, "what can I do for you? This is too miserable for you; and for me as well. Tell me what I can do." "Nothing," he answered. "Why, you make me feel as if I had sinned again in telling you all this. I ought not to have troubled your happy heart with my sorrow." "It was not you," she said, "you did not even come to tell me; God brought you. I can bear it. But oh! to see you shut out, and inside, yonder, Hilda is playing, and Felix, perhaps, is there. They will be singing by-and-by, and never know who is standing outside, in the foggy night, listening to them." Her voice broke into sobs, but Jean Merle did not notice them. "And Felicita?" he said. Phebe could not answer him for weeping. Just yet she could hardly bring herself to think distinctly of Felicita; though in fact her thoughts were full of her. She ran back to her private door, and this time opened it readily. There was a low light in the studio from a shaded lamp standing on the chimney-piece, which made the hearth bright, but left all the rest of the room in shadow. Phebe threw off her bonnet and cloak with a very heavy and troubled sigh. "What can make you sigh, Phebe?" asked a low-toned and plaintive voice. In the chair by the fire-place, pushed out of the circle of the light, she saw Felicita leaning back, and looking up at her. The beauty of her face had never struck harshly upon Phebe until now; at this moment it was absolutely painful to her. The rich folds of her velvet dress, and the soft and costly lace of her head-dress, distinct from though resembling a widow's cap, set off both her face and figure to the utmost advantage. Phebe's eyes seemed to behold her more distinctly and vividly than they had done for some years past; for she was looking through them with a dark background for what she saw in her own brain. She was a strikingly beautiful woman; but the thought of what anguish and dread had been concealed under her reserved and stately air, so cold yet so gentle, filled Phebe's soul with a sudden terror. What an awful life of self-approved, stoical falsehood she had been living! She could see the man, from whom she had just parted, standing without, homeless and friendless, on the verge of pennilessness; a dead man in a living world, cut off from all the ties and duties of the home and the society he loved. But to Phebe he did not appear so wretched as Felicita was. She sank down on a seat near Felicita, with such a feeling of heart-sickness and heart-faintness as she had never experienced before. The dreariness and perplexity of the present stretched before her into the coming years. For almost the first time in her life she felt worn-out; physically weary and exhausted, as if her strength had been overtaxed. Her childhood on the fresh, breezy uplands, and her happy, tranquil temperament had hitherto kept her in perfect health. But now she felt as if the sins of those whom she had loved so tenderly and loyally touched the very springs of her life. She could have shared any other burden with them, and borne it with an unbroken spirit and an uncrushed heart. But such a sin as this, so full of woe and bewilderment to them all, entangled her soul also in its poisonous web. "Why did you sigh so bitterly?" asked Felicita again. "The world is so full of misery," she answered, in a tremulous and troubled voice; "its happiness is such a mockery!" "Have you found that out at last, dear Phebe?" said Felicita. "I have been telling you so for years. The Son of Man fainting under the Cross--that is the true emblem of human life. Even He had not strength enough to bear His cross to the place called Golgotha. Whenever I think of what most truly represents our life here, I see Jesus, faltering along the rough road, with Simon behind Him, whom they compelled to bear His cross." "He fainted under the sins of the world," murmured Phebe. "It is possible to bear the sorrows of others; but oh! it is hard to carry their sins." "We all find that out," said Felicita, her face growing wan and white even to the lips. "Can one man do evil without the whole world suffering for it? Does the effect of a sin ever die out? What is done cannot be undone through all eternity. There is the wretchedness of it, Phebe." "I never felt it as I do now," she answered. "Because you have kept yourself free from earthly ties," said Felicita mournfully; "you have neither husband nor child to increase your power of suffering a hundred-fold. I am entering upon another term of tribulation in Felix and Hilda. If I had only been like you, dear Phebe, I could have passed through life as happily as you do; but my life has never belonged to myself; it has been forced to run in channels made by others." Somewhere in the house behind them a door was left open accidentally, and the sound of Hilda's piano and of voices singing broke in upon the quiet studio. Phebe listened to them, and thought of the desolate, broken-hearted man without, who was listening too. The clear young voices of their children fell upon his ears as upon Felicita's; so near they were to one another, yet so far apart. She shivered and drew nearer to the fire. "I feel as cold as if I was a poor outcast in the streets," she said. "And I, too," responded Felicita; "but oh! Phebe, do not you lose heart and courage, like me. You have always seemed in the sunshine, and I have looked up to you and felt cheered. Don't come down into the darkness to me." Phebe could not answer, for the darkness was closing round her. Until now there had happened no perplexity in her life which made it difficult to decide upon the right or the wrong. But here was come a coil. The long years had reconciled her to Roland's death, and made the memory of him sacred and sorrowfully sweet, to be brooded over in solitary hours in the silent depths of her loyal heart. But he was alive again, with no right to be alive, having no explanation to give which could reinstate him in his old position. And Felicita? Oh! what a cruel, unwomanly wrong Felicita had been guilty of! She could not command her voice to speak again. "I must go," said Felicita, at last. "I wish I had not invited visitors for to-night." "I cannot come in this evening," Phebe answered; "but Felix is there, and Canon Pascal is coming. You will do very well without me." She breathed more freely when Felicita was gone. The dimly-lighted studio, with the canvases she was at work upon, and the pictures she had painted hanging on the walls, and her easels standing as she had left them three or four hours ago, when the early dusk came on, soothed her agitated spirit now she was alone. She moved slowly about, putting everything into its place, and feeling as if her thoughts grew more orderly as she did so. When all was done she opened the outer door stealthily, and peeped out. Yes; he was there, leaning against the railings, and looking up at the brilliantly-lighted windows. Carriages were driving up and setting down Felicita's guests. Phebe's heart cried out against the contrast between the lives of these two. She longed to run out and stand beside him in the darkness and dampness of the November night. But what good could she do? she asked bitterly. She did not dare even to ask him in to sit beside her studio fire. The same roof could not cover him and Felicita, without unspeakable pain to him. It was late before the house was quiet, and long after midnight when the last light was put out. That was in Phebe's bedroom, and once again she looked out, and saw the motionless figure, looking black amidst the general darkness, as if it had never stirred since she had seen it first. But whilst she was gazing, with quivering mouth and tear-dimmed eyes, a policeman came up and spoke to Jean Merle, giving him an authoritative shake, which seemed to arouse him. He moved gently away, closely followed by the policeman till he passed out of her sight. There was no sleep for Phebe; she did not want to sleep. All night long her brain was awake and busy; but it found no way out of the coil. Who can make a crooked thing straight? or undo that which has been done? CHAPTER XIX. IN HIS FATHER'S HOUSE. When Phebe entered Westminster Abbey the next day the morning service was already begun. Upon the bench nearest the door sat a working-man, in worn-out clothes, whose gray hair was long and ragged, and whose whole appearance was one of poverty and suffering. She was passing by, when a gleam of recognition in the dark and sunken eyes of this poor man arrested her. Could he possibly be Roland Sefton? The night before she had seen him only in a friendly obscurity, which concealed the ravages time, and sorrow, and labor had effected; but now the daylight, in revealing them, cast a chill shadow of doubt into her heart. It was his voice she had known and acknowledged the night before; but now he was silent, and, revealed by the daylight, she felt troubled and distrustful. Such a man she might have met a thousand times without once recalling to her memory the handsome, manly presence and prosperous bearing of Roland Sefton. Yet she sat down beside him in answer to that appealing gleam in his eyes, and as his well-known voice joined hers in the responses to the prayers, she acknowledged him again in her heart of hearts. And now all thought of the sacred place, and of the worship she was engaged in, fled from her mind. She was a girl at home again, dwelling in the silent society of her dumb father, with this voice of Roland Sefton's coming to break the stillness from time to time, and to fill it with that sweetest music, the sound of human speech. If he had lost every vestige of resemblance to his former self, his voice only, calling "Phebe" as he had done the evening before, must have betrayed him to her. Not an accent of it had been forgotten. To Jean Merle Phebe Marlowe was little altered, save that she had grown from a simple rustic maiden into a cultivated and refined woman. The sweet and gentle face beside him, with the deep peaceful blue of her eyes, and the sensitive mouth so ready to break into a smile, was the same he had seen when, on that terrible evening so many years ago, he had craved her help to escape from his dreaded punishment. "I will help you, even to dying for you and yours," she had said. He remembered vividly how mournfully the girlish fervor of her manner had impressed him. Even now he had no one else to help him; this woman's little hand alone could reach him in the gulf where he lay; only the simple, pitiful wisdom of her faithful heart could find a way for him out of this misery of his into some place of safety and peace. He was willing to follow wherever she might guide him. "I can see only one duty before us," she said, when the service was over, and they stood together before one of the monuments in the Abbey; "I think Mr. Clifford ought to know." "What will he do, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. "God knows if I had only myself to think of I would go into a convict-prison as thankfully as if it was the gate of heaven. It would be as the gate of heaven to me if I could pay the penalty of my crime. But there are Felicita and my children; and the greater shock and shame to them of my conviction now." "Yet if Mr. Clifford demanded the penalty it must even now be paid," answered Phebe; "but he will not. One reason why he ought to know is that he mourns over you still, day and night, as if he had been the chief cause of your death. He reproaches himself with his implacability both towards you and his son. But even if the old resentment should awaken, it is right you should run the risk. Why need it be known to any one but us two that Felicita knew you were still alive?" "If we could save her and the children I should be satisfied," said Jean Merle. "It would kill her to know you were here," answered Phebe, looking round her with a terrified glance, as if she expected to see Felicita; "she is not strong, and a sudden agitation and distress might cause her death instantly. No, she must never know. And I am not afraid of Mr. Clifford; he will forgive you with all his heart; and he will be made glad in his old age. I will go down with you this evening. There is a train at four o'clock, and we shall reach Riversborough at eight. Be at the station to meet me." "You know," said Jean Merle, "that the lapse of years does not free one from trial and conviction? Mr. Clifford can give me into the hands of the police at once; and to-night may see me lodged in Riversborough jail, as if I had been arrested fourteen years ago. You know this, Phebe?" "Yes, I know it, but I am not afraid of it," she answered. She had not the slightest fear of old Mr. Clifford's vindictiveness. As she travelled down to Riversborough, with Jean Merle in a third-class carriage of the same train, her mind was very busy with troubled thoughts. There was an unquiet joy stirring in the secret depths of her heart, but she was too full of anxiety and bewilderment to be altogether aware of it. Though it was not more than twenty-four hours since she had known otherwise, it seemed to her as if she had never believed that Roland Sefton was dead, and it appeared incredible that the report of his death should have received such full acceptance as it had everywhere done. Yet though he had come back, there could be no welcome for him. To her and to old Mr. Clifford only could this return from the grave contain any gladness. And was she glad? she asked herself, after a long deliberation over the difficulties surrounding this strange reappearance. She had sorrowed for him and comforted his mother in her mourning, and talked of him as one talks fondly of the dead to his children; and all the sacred healing of time had softened the grief she once felt into a tranquil and grateful memory of him, as of the friend she had loved most, and whose care for her had most widely influenced her life. But she could not own yet that she was glad. Old Mr. Clifford was sitting in the wainscoted dining-room, his favorite room, when Phebe opened the door silently, and looked in with a pale and anxious face. His sight was dim, and a blaze of light fell upon the dark, old panels, and the old-fashioned silver tankards and bright brass salvers on the carved sideboard. Two or three of Phebe's sunniest pictures hung against the oaken panels. There was a blazing fire on the hearth, and the old man, with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, and his hands clasped lightly, was watching the play and dance of the flames as they shot up the chimney. Some new books lay on a table beside him, but he was not reading. He was sitting there in utter loneliness, with no companionship except that of his own fading memories. Phebe's tenderness for the old man was very great; and she paused on the threshold gazing at him pitifully; whilst Jean Merle, standing in the hall behind her, caught a glimpse of the hearth so crowded with memories for him, but occupied now by one desolate old man, before the door was closed, and he was left without. "Why, it's little Phebe Marlowe!" cried Mr. Clifford gladly, looking round at the light sound of a footstep, very different from Mrs. Nixey's heavy tread; "my dear child, you can't tell what a pleasure this is to me." He had risen up, and stood holding both her hands and looking fondly into her face. "This moment I was thinking of you, my dear," he said; "I was inditing a long letter to you in my head, which these lazy old fingers of mine would have refused to write. Sandon, the bookseller, has been in here, bringing these books; and he told me a queer story enough. He says that in August last a relation of Madame Sefton's was here, in Riversborough; and told him who he was, in his shop, where he bought one of Felicita's books. Why didn't Sandon come here at once and tell us then, so that you could have found him out, Phebe? You and Felix and Hilda were here. He was a poor man, and seemed badly off; and I guess he came to inquire after Madame. Sandon says he reminded him of Roland--poor Roland! Why, I'd have given the poor fellow a welcome for the sake of that resemblance; and I was just thinking how Phebe's tender heart would have been touched by even so faint a likeness." "Yes," she murmured. "And we could have lifted him up a little; quite a poor man, Sandon says," continued Mr. Clifford; "but sit down, my dear. There is no one in the wide world would be so welcome to me as little Phebe Marlowe, who refused to be my adopted daughter." He had drawn a chair close beside his own, for he would not loose her hand, but kept it closely grasped by his thin and crooked fingers. "You have altogether forgiven Roland?" she said tremulously. "Altogether, my dear," he answered. "As Christ forgives us, bearing away our sins Himself?" she said. "As Christ forgave us," he replied, bowing his head solemnly. "And if it was possible--think it possible," she went on, "that he could come back again, that the grave in Engelberg could give up its dead, he would be welcome to you?" "If my old friend Sefton's son, could come back again," he said, "he would be more welcome to me than you are, Phebe. How often do I fancy him sitting yonder in Sefton's chair, watching me with his dear eyes!" "But suppose he had deceived us all," she continued, "if he had escaped from your anger by another fraud; a worse fraud! If he had managed so as to bury some one else in his name, and go on living under a false one! Could you forgive that?" "If Roland could come back a repentant man, I would forgive him every sin," answered Mr. Clifford, "and rejoice that I had not driven him to seek death. But what do you mean, Phebe? why do you ask?" "Because," she answered, speaking almost in a whisper, with her face close to his, "Roland did not die. That man, who was here in August, and called himself Jean Merle, is Roland himself. He saw you, and all of us, and did not dare to make himself known. I can tell you all about it. But, oh! he has bitterly repented; and there is no place of repentance for him in this world. He cannot come back amongst us, and be Roland Sefton again." "Where is he?" asked the old man, trembling. "He is here; he came with me. I will go and fetch him," she answered. Mr. Clifford leaned back in his arm-chair, and gazed towards the half-open door. His memory had gone back twenty years, to the last time he had seen Roland Sefton, in the prime of his youth, handsome, erect, and happy, who had made his heart ache as he thought of his own abandoned son, lying buried in a common grave in Paris. The man whom he saw entering slowly and reluctantly into the room behind Phebe, was gray-headed, bent, and abject. This man paused just within the doorway, looking not at him but round the room, with a glance full of grief and remembrance. The eager, questioning eyes of old Mr. Clifford did not arrest his attention, or divert it from the aspect of the old familiar place. "No, no, Phebe!" exclaimed Mr. Clifford, "he's an impostor, my dear. That's not my old friend's son Roland." "Would to God I were not!" cried Jean Merle bitterly, "would to God I stood in this room as a stranger! Phebe Marlowe, this is very hard; my punishment is greater than I can bear. All my life comes back to me here. This place, of all other places in the world, brings my sin and folly to remembrance." He sank down on a chair, and buried his face in his hands, to shut out the hateful sight of the old home. He was inside his Paradise again; and behold, it was a place of torment. There was no room in his thoughts for Mr. Clifford, it was nothing to him that he should be called an impostor. He came to claim nothing, not even his own name. But the avenging memories of the past claimed him and held him fast bound. Even last night, when in the chill darkness of the November night he had watched the house which held Felicita and their children, his pain had been less poignant than now, within these walls, where all his happy life had been passed. He was unconscious of everything but his pain. He could not hear Phebe's voice speaking for him to Mr. Clifford. He saw and felt nothing, until a gentle and trembling hand pressing on his shoulder feebly and as tenderly as his mother's made him look up into the gray and agitated face of Mr. Clifford bending over him. "Roland! Roland!" he said, in a voice broken by sobs, "my old friend's son, forgive me as I forgive you. God be thanked, you have come back again in time for me to see you and bid you welcome. I bless God with all my heart. It is your own home, Roland, your own home." With his feeble but eager old hands he drew him to the hearth, and placed him in the chair close beside his own, where Phebe had been sitting, and kept his hand upon his arm, lest he should vanish out of his sight. "You shall tell me nothing more to-night," he said; "I am old, and this is enough for me. It is enough that to-night you and I have pardoned one another from 'the low depths of our hearts.' Tell me nothing else to-night." Phebe had slipped away from them to help Mrs. Nixey to prepare a room for Jean Merle. It was the one that had been Roland Sefton's nursery, and the nursery of his children, and it was still occupied by Felix, when he visited his old home. The homely hospitable occupation was a relief to her; but in the room that she had left the two men sat side by side in unbroken silence. CHAPTER XX. AS A HIRED SERVANT. From a profound and dreamless sleep Jean Merle awoke early the next morning, with the blessed feeling of being at home again in his father's house. The heavy cross-beams of black oak dividing the ceiling into panels; the low broad lattice window with a few upper panes of old stained glass; the faded familiar pictures on the wall; these all awoke in him memories of his earliest years. In the corner of the room, hardly to be distinguished from the wainscot, was the high narrow door communicating with his mother's chamber, through which he had often, how often! seen her come in softly, on tiptoe, to take a look at him. His own children, too, had slept there; and it was here that he had last seen his little son and daughter before fleeing from his home a self-accused criminal. All the happy, prosperous life of Roland Sefton had been encompassed round by these walls. But the dead past must bury the dead. If there had ever been a deep, buried, hidden hope, that a possible return to something of the old life lay in the unknown future, it was now utterly uprooted. Such a return was only possible over the ruined lives and broken hearts of Felicita and his children. If he made himself known, though he was secure against prosecution, the story of his former crime would revive, and spread wider, joined with the fair name of Felicita, than it would have done when he was merely a fraudulent banker in a country town. However true it might be what Phebe maintained, that he might have suffered the penalty of his sin, and afterwards retrieved the past, whilst his children were too young to feel the full bitterness of the shame, it was too late to do it now. The name he had dishonored was forever forfeited. His return to his former life was hedged up on every hand. But a new courage was awaking in him, which helped him to grapple with his despair. He would bury the dead past, and go on into the future making the best of his life, maimed and marred as it was by his own folly. He was still in the prime of his age, thirty years younger than Mr. Clifford, whose intellect was as keen and clear as ever; there was a long span of time stretching before him, to be used or misused. "Come unto Me all ye that be weary, and heavy laden, and I will give you rest." He seemed to see the words in the quaint upright characters in which old Marlowe had carved them under the crucifix. He had fancied he knew what coming to Christ meant in those old days of his, when he was reputed a religious man, and was first and foremost in all religious and philanthropic schemes, making his trespass more terrible and pernicious than if it had been the transgression of a worldly man. But it was not so when he came to Christ this morning. He was a broken-hearted man, who had cut himself off from all human ties and affections, and who was longing to feel that he was not forsaken of the universal Brother and Saviour. His cry was, "My soul thirsteth for thee; my flesh longeth for thee, in a dry and weary land, where no water is." It was his own fault that he was in the dry and weary wilderness; but oh! if Christ would not forsake him then, would dwell with him, even in this desert made desolate by himself, then at last he might find peace to his soul. There was a deep inner consciousness, the forgotten but not obliterated faith of his boyhood and youth, before the world with its pomps and ambitions had laid its iron hand upon him, that Christ was with him, leading him day by day, if he would but follow nearer to God. Was it impossible to follow His guidance now? Could he not, even yet, take up his cross, and be willing to fill any place which he could yet fill worthily and humbly; expiating his sins against his fellow-men by truer devotion to their service, as Jean Merle, the working-man; not as Roland Sefton, the prosperous and fraudulent banker? This return to his father's house, and all its associations, solemn and sacred with a peculiar sacredness and solemnity, seemed to him a pledge that he could once more be admitted into the great brotherhood and home of Christ's disciples. Every object on which his eye rested smote him, but it was with the stroke of a friend. A clear and sweet light from the past shed its penetrating rays into the darkest corners of his soul. Forgiven! God had forgiven him; and man had forgiven him. Before him lay an obscure and humble path; but the heaviest part of his burden was gone. He must go heavy-laden to the end of his days, treading in rough paths; but despair had fled, and with it the sense of being separated from God and man. He heard the feeble yet deep old voice of Mr. Clifford outside his door inquiring from Mrs. Nixey if Mr. Merle was gone down-stairs yet. He made haste to go down, treading the old staircase with something of the alacrity of former days. Phebe was in the dining-room, and the servants came in to prayer as they had been used to do forty years ago when he was a child. An old-world tranquillity and peacefulness was in the familiar scene which breathed a deep calm over his tempest-tossed spirit. "Phebe has been telling me all," said Mr. Clifford, when breakfast was over; "tell me what can be done to save Felicita and the children." "I am Jean Merle," he answered with a melancholy smile, "Jean Merle, and no one else. I come back with no claims, and they must never know me. Why should I cross their path and blight it? I cannot atone for the past in any way, except by keeping away forever from them. I shall injure no one by continuing to be Jean Merle." "No," said Phebe, "it is too late now, and it would kill Felicita." "This morning a thought struck me," he continued, "a project for my future life, which you can help me to put into execution, Phebe. I have an intolerable dread of losing sight of you all again; let me be at least somewhere in England, when you can now and then give me tidings of my children and Felicita." "I will do anything in the world to help you," cried Phebe eagerly. "Then let me go to your little farm," he answered, "and take up your father's life, at least for a time, until I can see how to make myself of greater use to my fellow-men. I will till the fields as he did, and finish the carvings he has left undone, and live his simple, silent life. It will be good for me, and I shall not be banished from my own country. I shall be a happier man then than I have any right to be." "Have you no fear of being recognized?" she asked. "None," he replied. "Look at me, Phebe. Should you have known me again if I had not betrayed myself to you?" "I should have known you again anywhere," she exclaimed. But it was her heart that cried out that no change could have concealed him from her; there was a dread lying deep down in her conscience that she might have passed him by with no suspicion. He shook his head in answer to her assertion. "I will go out into the town," he continued, "and speak to half-a-dozen men who knew me best, and there will be no gleam of recognition in their eyes. Recollect Roland Sefton is dead, and has been dead so long that there will be no clear memory left of him as he was then to compare with me. And any dim resemblance to him will be fully accounted for by my relationship to Madame Sefton. No, I am not afraid of the keenest eyes." He went out as he had said, and met his old townsmen, many of whom were themselves so changed that he could barely recognize them. The memory of Roland Sefton was blotted out, he was utterly forgotten as a dead man out of mind. As Jean Merle strayed through the streets crowded with market-people come in from the country, his new scheme grew stronger and brighter to him. It would keep him in England, within reach of all he had loved and had lost. The little place was dear to him, and the laborious, secluded peasant life had a charm for him who had so long lived as a Swiss peasant. By-and-by, he thought, the chance resemblance in the names would merge that of Merle into the more familiar name of Marlowe; and the identity of his pursuits with those of the deaf and dumb old man would hasten such a change. So the years to come would pass by in labor and obscurity; and an obscure grave in the little churchyard, where all the Marlowes lay, would shelter him at last. A quiet haven after many storms; but oh! what a shipwreck had he made of his life! All the morning Mr. Clifford sat in his arm-chair lost in thought, only looking up sometimes to ply Phebe with questions. When Jean Merle returned, his gray, meditative face grew bright, with a faint smile shining through his dim eyes. "You are no phantom then!" he said. "I've been so used to your company as a ghost that when you are out of sight I fancy myself dreaming. I could not let Phebe go away lest I should feel that all this is not real. Did any one know you again?" "Not a soul," he answered; "how could they? Mrs. Nixey herself has no remembrance of me. There is no fear of my being known." "Then I want you to stay with me," said old Mr. Clifford eagerly; "I'm a lonely man, seventy-seven years old, with neither kith nor kin, and it seems a long and dreary road to the grave. I want one to sit beside me in these long evenings, and to take care of me as a son takes care of his old father. Could you do it, Jean Merle? I beseech you, if it is possible, give me your services in my old age." "It will be hard for you," pleaded Phebe in a low voice, "harder than going out alone to my little home. But you would do more good here; you could save us from anxiety, for we are often very anxious and sorrowful about Mr. Clifford. I can take care that you should always know before Felix and Hilda come down. Felicita never comes." How much harder it would be for him even Phebe could not guess. To dwell within reach of his old home was altogether different from living in it, with its countless memories, and the unremitting stings of conscience. To have about him all that he had lost and made desolate; the empty home, from which all the familiar faces and beloved voices had vanished; this lot surely was harder than the humble, laborious life of old Marlowe on the hills. Yet if any one living had a claim upon him for such self-sacrifice, it was this feeble, tottering old man, who was gazing up into his face with urgent and imploring eyes. "I will stay here and be your servant," he answered, "if there appears no reason against it when we have given it more thought." CHAPTER XXI. PHEBE'S SECRET. For the first time in her life those who were about Phebe Marlowe felt that she was under a cloud. The sweet sunny atmosphere, as of a clear and peaceful day, which seemed to surround her, had fled. She was absent and depressed, and avoided society, even that of Hilda, who had been like her own child to her. Towards Felicita there was a subtle change in Phebe's manner, which could not fail to impress deeply her sensitive temperament. She felt that Phebe shrank from her, and that she was no longer welcome to the studio, which of all places in the world had been to her a place of repose, and of brief cessation of troubled thought. Phebe's direct and simple nature, free from all guile and worldliness, had made her a perfect sympathizer with any true feeling. And Felicita's feeling with regard to her past most sorrowful life had been absolutely real; if only Phebe had known all the circumstances of it as she had always supposed she did. Phebe was, moreover, fearful of some accident betraying to Felicita the circumstance of Jean Merle living at Riversborough. There had never been any direct correspondence between Felicita and Mr. Clifford, except on purely business matters; and Felix was too much engrossed with his own affairs to find time to run down to Riversborough, or to keep up an animated interchange of letters with his old friend there. The intercourse between them had been chiefly carried on through Phebe herself, who was the old man's prime favorite. Neither was he a man likely to let out anything he might wish to conceal. But still she was nervous and afraid. How far from improbable it was that through some unthought-of channel Felicita might hear that a stranger, related to Madame Sefton, had entered the household of Mr. Clifford as his confidential attendant, and that this stranger's name was Jean Merle. What would happen then? She was burdened with a secret, and her nature abhorred a secret. There was gladness, almost utterly pure, to her in the belief that there was One being who could read the inmost recesses of her heart, and see, with the loving-kindness of an Allwise Father, its secret faults, the errors which she did not herself understand. That she had nothing to tell to God, which He did not know of her already, was one of the deepest foundations of her spiritual life. And in some measure, in all possible measure, she would have had it so with those whom she loved. She did not shrink from showing to them her thoughts, and motives, and emotions. It was the limit of expression, so quickly reached, so impassable, that chafed her; and she was always searching for fresh modes of conveying her own feeling to other souls. Possibly the enforced speechlessness in which she had passed her early years had aided in creating this passionate desire to impart herself to those about her in unfettered communion, and she ardently delighted in the same unreserved confidence in those who conversed with her. But now she was doomed to bear the burden of a secret fraught with strange and painful consequences to those whom she loved, if time should ever divulge it. The winter months passed away cheerlessly, though she worked with more persistent energy than ever before, partly to drive away the thoughts that troubled her. She heard from Mr. Clifford, but not more frequently than usual, and Jean Merle did not venture upon sending her a line of his hand-writing. Mr. Clifford spoke in guarded terms of the comfort he found in the companionship of his attendant, in spite of his being a sad and moody man. Now and then he told Phebe that this attendant of his had gone for a day or two to her solitary little house on the uplands, of which Mr. Clifford kept the key, and that he stayed there a day or two, finishing the half-carved blocks of oak her father had left incomplete. It would have been a happier existence, she knew, for himself, if Jean Merle had gone to dwell there altogether; but it was along this path of self-sacrifice and devotion alone lay the road back to a Christian life. One point troubled Phebe's conscience more than any other. Ought she not at least to tell Canon Pascal what she knew? She could not help feeling that this second fraud would seem worse in his estimation than the first one. And Felicita, the very soul of truth and honor, had connived at it! It seemed immeasurably more terrible in Phebe's own eyes. To her money had so small a value, it lay on so low a level in the scale of life, that a crime in connection with it had far less guilt than one against the affections. And how unutterable a sin against all who loved him had Roland and Felicita fallen into! She recalled his mother's mourning for him through many long years, and her belief in death that she was going soon to rejoin the beloved son whom she had lost. Her own grief she put aside, but there was the deep, boyish sorrow of Felix, and even little Hilda's fatherlessness, as the children had grown up through the various stages of childhood. It might have been bad for them to bear the stigma of their father's shame, but still Phebe believed it would have been better for every one of them to have gone bravely forward to bear the just consequences of sin. She went down into Essex to spend a day or two at Christmas, carrying with her the fitful spirit so foreign to her. The perfect health that had been hers hitherto was broken; and Mrs. Pascal, a confirmed invalid, to whom Phebe's physical vigor and evenness of temper had been a constant source of delight and invigoration, felt the change in her keenly. "She has something on her mind," she said to her husband; "you must try and find it out, or she will be ill." "I know she has a secret," he answered, "but it is not her own. Phebe Marlowe is as open as the day; she will never have a secret of her own." But he made no effort to find out her secret. His searching, kindly eyes met hers with the trustfulness of a frank and open nature that recognized a nature akin to its own, and Phebe never shrank from his gaze, though her lips remained closed. If it was right for her to tell him anything of the stranger who had been about to make him his confessor, she would do it. Canon Pascal would not ask any questions. "Felix and Alice are growing more and more deeply in love with each other," he said to her; "there is something beautiful and pleasant in being a spectator of these palmy days of theirs. Felicita even felt something of their happiness when she was here last, and she will not withhold her full approbation much longer." "And you," answered Phebe, with an eager flush on her face, "you do not repent of giving Alice to the son of a man who might have been a convict?" "I believe Alice would marry Felix if his father had been a murderer," replied Canon Pascal; "it is too late to alter it now. Besides, I know Felix through and through, he is himself; he is no longer the son of any person, but a true man, one of the sons of God." The strong and emphatic tone of Canon Pascal's words brought great consolation to Phebe's troubled mind. She might keep silence with a good conscience, for the duty of disclosing all to Canon Pascal arose simply from the possibility that his conduct would be altered by this further knowledge of Roland and Felicita. "But this easy country life is not good for Felix," she said in a more cheerful tone; "he needs a difficult parish to develop his energies. It is not among your people he will become a second Felix Merle." "Patience! Phebe," he answered, "there is a probability in the future, a bare probability, and dimly distant, which may change all that. He may have as much to do as Felix Merle by and by." Phebe returned to her work in London with a somewhat lighter heart. Yet the work was painful to her; work which a few months before would have been a delight. For Felicita, yielding to the urgent entreaties of Felix and Hilda, had consented to sit for her portrait. She was engaged in no writing, and had ample leisure. Until now she had resisted all importunity, and no likeness of her existed. She disliked photographs, and had only had one taken for Roland alone when they were married, and she could never bring herself to sit for an artist comparatively a stranger to her. It was opposed to her reserved and somewhat haughty temperament that any eye should scan too freely and too curiously the lineaments of her beautiful face, with its singularly expressive individuality. But now that Phebe's skill had been so highly cultivated, and commanded an increasing reputation, she could no longer oppose her children's reiterated entreaties. Felicita was groping blindly for the reason of the change in Phebe's feeling towards her, for she was conscious of some vague, mysterious barrier that had arisen between her and the tender, simple soul which had been always full of lowly sympathy for her. But Phebe silently shrank from her in a terror mingled with profound, unutterable pity. For here was a secret misery of a solitary human spirit, ice-bound in a self-chosen isolation, which was an utter mystery to her. All the old love and reverence, amounting almost to adoration, which she had, offered up as incense to some being far above her had died away; gone also was the child-like simplicity with which she could always talk to Felicita. She could read the pride and sadness of the lovely face before her with a clear understanding now, but the lines which reproduced it on her canvas were harder and sterner than they would have been if she had known less of Felicita's heart. The painting grew into a likeness, but it was a painful one, full of hidden sadness, bitterness, and infelicity. Felix and Hilda gazed at it in silence, almost as solemn and mournful as if they were looking on the face of their dead mother. She herself turned from it with a feeling of dread. "How much do you know of me?" she cried; "how deep can you look into my heart, Phebe?" Phebe glanced from her to the finished portrait, and only answered by tears. CHAPTER XXII. NEAR THE END. Felicita had followed the urgent advice of her physicians in giving up writing for a season. There was no longer any necessity for her work, as some time since the money which Roland Sefton had fraudulently appropriated, had been paid back with full interest, and she began to feel justified in accepting the income from her marriage settlement. During the winter and spring she spent her days much as other women of her class and station, in a monotonous round of shopping, driving in the parks, visiting, and being visited, partly for Hilda's sake, and partly driven to it for want of occupation; but short as the time was which she gave to this life, she grew inexpressibly weary of it. Early, in May she turned into Phebe's studio, which she had seldom entered since her portrait was finished. This portrait was in the Academy Exhibition, and she was constantly receiving empty compliments about it. "Dear Phebe!" she exclaimed, "I have tried fashionable life to see how much it is worth, and oh! it is altogether hollow and inane. I did not expect much from it, but it is utter weariness to me." "And you will go back to your writing?" said Phebe. Felicita hesitated for a moment. There was a worn and harassed expression on her pale face, as if she had not slept or rested well for a long time, which touched Phebe's heart. "Not yet," she answered; "I am going on a journey. I shall start for Switzerland to-night." "To Switzerland! To-night!" echoed Phebe. "Oh, no! you must not, you cannot. And alone? How can you think of going alone?" "I went alone once," she answered, smiling with her lips, though her dark eyes grew no brighter, "and I can go again. I shall manage very well. I fancied you would not care to go with me," she added, sighing. "But I must go with you!" cried Phebe; "did I not promise long ago? Only don't go to-night, stay a day or two." "No, no," she said with feverish impatience, "I have made all my arrangements. Nobody must know, and Hilda is gone down into Essex for a week, and my cousins fancy I am going to the sea-side for a few days' rest. I must start to-night, in less than four hours, Phebe. You cannot be ready in time?" But she spoke wistfully, as if it would be pleasant to hear Phebe say she would go with her. For a few minutes Phebe was lost in bewildered thought. Felicita had told her some months ago that she must go to Engelberg before she could give her consent to Felix marrying Alice, but it had escaped her memory, pushed out by more immediate and more present cares. And now she could not tell what Jean Merle would have her do. To discover suddenly that he was alive, and in England, nay, at Riversborough itself, under their old roof, would be too great a shock for Felicita. Phebe dared not tell her. Yet, to let her start off alone on this fruitless errand, to find only an empty hut at Engelberg, with no trace of its occupant left behind, was heartless, and might prove equally injurious to Felicita. There was no time to communicate with Riversborough, she must come to a decision for herself, and at once. The white, worn face, with its air of sad determination, filled her with deep and eager pity. "Oh! I will go with you," she cried. "I could never bear you to go alone. But is there nothing you can tell me? Only trust me. What trouble carries you there? Why must you go to Engelberg before Felix marries?" She had caught Felicita's small cold hand between her own and looked up beseechingly into her face. Oh! if she would but now, at last, throw off the burden which had so long bowed her down, and tell her secret, she could let her know that this painful pilgrimage was utterly needless. But the sweet, sad, proud lips were closed, and the dark eyes looking down steadily into Phebe's, betrayed no wavering of her determined reticence. "You shall come with me as far as Lucerne, dear Phebe," she answered, stooping down to kiss her uplifted face, "but I must go alone to Engelberg." There was barely time enough for Phebe to make any arrangements, there was not a moment for deliberation. She wrote a few hurried words to Jean Merle, imploring him to follow them at once, and promising to detain Felicita on their way, if possible. Felicita's own preparations were complete, and her route marked out, with the time of steamers and trains set down. Through Paris, Mulhausen, and Basle she hastened on to Lucerne. Now she had set out on this dreary and dolorous path there could be no rest for her until she reached the end. Phebe recognized this as soon as they had started. It would be impossible to detain Felicita on the way. But Jean Merle could not be far behind them, a few hours would bring him to them after they had reached Lucerne. Felicita was very silent as they travelled on by the swiftest trains, and Phebe was glad of it. For what could she say to her? She was herself lost in a whirl of bewilderment, and of mingled hope and fear. Could it possibly be that Felicita would learn that Jean Merle was still living, and the mode and manner of his life through this long separation, and yet stand aloof from him, afar off, as one on whom he had no claim, claim for pity and love? But if she could relent towards him, how must it be in the future? It could never be that she would own the wrong she had committed openly in the face of the world. What was to happen now? Phebe was hardly less feverishly agitated than Felicita herself. It was evening when they arrived at Lucerne, and Felicita was forced to rest until the morning. They sat together in a small balcony opening out of her chamber, which overlooked the Lake, where the moonbeams were playing in glistening curves over the quiet ripples of the water. All the mountains round it looked black in the dim light, and the rugged summit of Pilatus, still slightly sprinkled with snow, frowned down upon them; but southward, behind the dark range of lower hills, there stood out against the almost black-blue of the sky a broken line of pale, mysterious peaks, which might have been merely pallid clouds lying along the horizon but for their stedfast, unaltering immobility. They were the Engelberg Alps, with the snowy Titlis gleaming highest among them; and Felicita's face, wan and pallid as themselves, was set towards them. "You will let me come with you to-morrow?" said Phebe, in a tone of painful entreaty. "No, no," she answered. "I could not bear to have even you at Engelberg with me. I must visit that grave alone. And yet I know you love me, dear Phebe." "Dearly!" she sobbed. "Yes, you love me dearly," she repeated sorrowfully, "but not as you once did; even your heart is changed towards me. If you went with me to-morrow I might lose all the love that is left. I cannot afford to lose that, my dear." "You could never lose it!" answered Phebe. "I love you differently? Yes, but not less. I love you now as Christ loves us all, more for God's sake than our own; and that is the deepest, most faithful love. That can never be worn out or repulsed. As Christ has loved me, so I love you, my Felicita." Her voice had fallen into an almost inaudible whisper, as she knelt down beside her, pressing her lips upon the thin, cold hands lying listlessly on Felicita's lap. It had been as an impulsive girl, worshipping her from a lowly inferiority, that Phebe had been used long ago to kiss Felicita's hand. But this was the humility of a great love, willing to help, and seeking to save her. Felicita felt it through every fibre of her sensitive nature. For an instant she thought it might be possible that Phebe had caught some glimmer of the truth. With her weary and dim eyes lifted up to the pale crests of the mountains, beneath which lay the miserable secret of her life, she hesitated as to whether she could tell Phebe all. But the effort to admit any human soul into the inner recesses of her own was too great for her. "Christ loves me, you say," she murmured, "I don't know; I never felt it. But I have felt sure of your love; and next to Felix and Hilda you have stood nearest to me. Love me always, and in spite of all, my dear." She lifted up her bowed head and kissed her lips with a long and lingering kiss. Then Phebe knew that she was bent upon going alone and immediately to Engelberg. * * * * * The icy air of the morning, blowing down from the mountains where the winter's snow was but partially melted, made Felicita shiver, though her mind was too busy to notice why. Phebe had seen that she was warmly clad, and had come down to the boat with her to start her on this last day's journey; but Felicita had scarcely opened her pale lips to say good-by. She stood on the quay, watching the boat as long as the white steam from the funnel was in sight, and then she turned away, blind to all the scenery about her, in the heaviness of heart she felt for the sorrowful soul going out on so sad and vain a quest. There had been no time for Jean Merle to overtake them, and now Felicita was gone when a few words from her would have stopped her. But Phebe had not dared to utter them. Felicita too had not seen either the sunlit hills lying about her, or Phebe watching her departure. She had no thought for anything but what there might be lying before her, in that lonely mountain village, to which, after fourteen years, her reluctant feet were turned. Possibly she might find no trace of the man who had been so long dead to her and to all the world, and thus be baffled and defeated, yet relieved, at the first stage of her search. For she did not desire to find him. Her heart would be lightened of its miserable load, if she should discover that Jean Merle was dead, and buried in the same quiet cemetery where the granite cross marked the grave of Roland Sefton. That was a thing to be hoped for. If Jean Merle was living still, and living there, what should she say to him? Wild hopes and desires would be awakened within him if he found her seeking after him? Nay, it might possibly be that he would insist upon making their mutual sin known to the world, by claiming to return to her and her children. It seemed a desperate thing to have done; and for the first time since she left London she repented of having done it. Was she not sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind? There was still time for her to retrace her steps and go back home, the home she owed altogether to herself; yet one which this man, whom she had not seen for so long a time, had a right to enter as the master of it. What fatal impulse had driven her to leave it on so wild and fruitless an errand? Yet she felt she could no longer live without knowing the fate of Jean Merle. Her heart had been gnawing itself ever since they parted with vague remorses and self-accusations, slumbering often, but now aroused into an activity that could not be laid to rest. This morning, for the first time, beneath all her perplexity and fear and hope to find him dead, there came to her a strange, undefined, scarcely conscious tenderness towards the miserable man, whom she had last seen standing in her presence, an uncouth, ragged, weather-beaten peasant. The man had been her husband, the father of her children, and a deep, keen pain was stirring in her soul, partly of the old love, for she had once loved him, and partly of the pity she felt for him, as she began to realize the difference there had existed between her lot and his. She scarcely felt how worn out she was, how dangerously fatigued with this rapid travelling and the resistless current of agitation which had possessed her. As she journeyed onwards she was altogether unconscious of the roads she traversed, only arousing herself when any change of conveyance made it necessary. Her brain was busy over the opinion, more than once expressed by Phebe, that every man could live down the evil consequences of his sin, if he had courage and faith enough. "If God forgives us, man will forgive us," said Phebe. But Felicita pondered over the possibility of Roland having paid the penalty of his crime, and going back again to take up his life, walking more humbly in it evermore, with no claim to preeminence save that of most diligently serving his fellow-men. She endeavored to picture herself receiving him back again from the convict prison, with all its shameful memories branded on him, and looking upon him again as her husband and the father of her children; and she found herself crying out to her own heart that it would have been impossible to her. Phebe might have done it, but she--never! The journey, though not more than fourteen miles from Stans to Engelberg, occupied several hours, so broken up the narrow road was by the winter's rains and the melting snow. The steep ascent between Grafenort and Engelberg was dangerous, the more so as a heavy thunderstorm broke over it; but Felicita remained insensible to any peril. At length the long, narrow valley lay before her, stretching upwards to the feet of the rocky hills. The thunderstorm that had met them on the road had been raging fiercely in this mountain caldron, and was but just passing away in long, low mutterings, echoed and prolonged amid the precipitous walls of rock. Tall, trailing, spectre-like clouds slowly followed each other in solemn and stately procession up the valley, as though amid their light yet impenetrable folds of vapor they bore the invisible form of some mysterious being; whether in triumph or in sorrow it was impossible to tell. The sun caught their gray crests and tinged them with rainbow colors; and as they floated unhastingly along, the valley behind them seemed to spring into a new life of sunshine and mirth. CHAPTER XXIII. THE MOST MISERABLE. It was past noon when Felicita was driven up to the hotel in the village, where, when she had last been at Engelberg, she had gone to look upon the dead face of the stranger, who was to carry away the sin of Roland Sefton, with the shame it would bring upon her, and bury it forever in his grave. It seemed but a few days ago, and she felt reluctant to enter the house again. In two or three hours when the horses were rested, she said to the driver, she would be ready to return to Stans. Then she wandered out into the village street, thinking she might come across some peasant at work alone, or some woman standing idly at her door, with whom she could fall into a casual conversation, and learn what she had come to ascertain. But she met with no solitary villager; and she strayed onward, almost unwittingly in the direction of the cemetery. In passing by the church, she pushed open one of the heavy, swinging doors, and cast a glance around; there was no one in sight, but the gabble of boys' voices in some vestry close by reached her ear, and a laugh rang after it, which echoed noisily in the quiet aisles. The high altar was lit up by a light from a side-window and her eye was arrested by it. Still, whether she saw and heard, or was deaf and blind, she scarcely knew. Her feet were drawn by some irresistible attraction towards the grave where her husband was not buried. She did not know in what corner of the graveyard it was to be found; and when she entered the small enclosure, with its wooden cross at the head of every narrow mound, she stood still for a minute or two, hesitatingly, and looking before her with a bewildered and reluctant air, as if engaged in an enterprise she recoiled from. A young priest, the curé of the nearest mountain parish, who visiting the grave of one of his parishioners lately buried at Engelberg, was passing to and fro among the grassy mounds with his breviary in his hands, and his lips moving as if in prayer; but at the unexpected sight of a traveller thus early in the season, his curiosity was aroused, and he bent his steps towards her. When he was sufficiently near to catch her wandering eye, he spoke in a quiet and courteous manner-- "Is madame seeking for any special spot?" he inquired. "Yes," answered Felicita, fastening upon him her large; sad eyes, which had dark rings below them, intensifying the mournfulness of their expression, "I am looking for a grave. The grave of a stranger; Roland Sefton. I have come from England to find it." Her voice was constrained and low; and the words came in brief, panting syllables, which sounded almost like sobs. The black-robed priest looked closely and scrutinizingly into the pallid face turned towards him, which was as rigid as marble, except for the gleam of the dark eyes. "Madame is suffering; she is ill!" he said. "No, not ill," answered Felicita, in an absent manner, as if she was speaking in a dream, "but of all women the most miserable." It seemed to the young curé that the English lady was not aware of what words she uttered. He felt embarrassed and perplexed: all the English were heretics, and how heretics could be comforted or counselled he did not know. But the dreamy sadness of her face appealed to his compassion. The only thing he could do for her was to guide her to the grave she was seeking. For the last nine months no hand had cleared away the weeds from around it, or the moss from gathering upon it. The little pathway trodden by Jean Merle's feet was overgrown, though still perceptible, and the priest walked along it, with Felicita following him. Little threads of grass were filling up the deep clear-cut lettering on the cross; and the gray and yellow lichens were creeping over the granite. Since the snow had melted and the sun had shone hotly into the high-lying valley there had been a rapid growth of vegetation here, as everywhere else, and the weeds and grass had flourished luxuriantly; but amongst them Alice's slip of ivy had thrown out new buds and tendrils. The priest paused before the grave, with Felicita standing beside him silent and spell-bound. She did not weep or cry, or fling herself upon the ground beside it, as he had expected. When he looked askance at her marble face there was no trace of emotion upon it, excepting that her lips moved very slightly, as if they formed the words inscribed upon the cross. "It is not in good order just at present," he said, breaking the oppressive silence; "the peasant who took charge of it, Jean Merle, disappeared from Engelberg last summer, and has never since been seen or heard of. They say he was paid to take care of this grave; and truly when he was here there was no weed, no soil, no little speck of moss upon it. There was no other grave kept like this. Was Roland Sefton a relation of Madame?" "Yes," she whispered, or he thought she whispered it from the motion of her lips. "Madame is not a Catholic?" he asked. Felicita shook her head. "What a pity! what a pity!" he continued, in a tone of mild regret, "or I could console her. Yet I will pray for her this night to the good God, and the Mother of Sorrows, to give her comfort. If she only knew the solace of opening her heart; even to a fellow-mortal!" "Does no one know where Jean Merle is?" she asked, in a low but clear penetrating voice, which startled him, he said afterwards, almost as much as if the image of the blessed Virgin had spoken to him. With the effort to speak, a slight color flushed across the pale wan face, and her eyes fastened eagerly upon him. "No one, Madame," he replied; "the poor man was a misanthrope, and lived quite alone, in misery. He came neither to confession nor to mass; but whether he was a heretic or an atheist no man knew. Where he came from or where he went to was known only to himself. But they think that he must have perished on the mountains, for he disappeared suddenly last August. His little hut is falling into ruins; it was too poor a place for anybody but him." "I must go there; where is it?" she inquired, turning abruptly away from the grave, without a tear or a prayer, he observed. The spell that had bound her seemed broken; and she looked agitated and hurried. There was more vigor and decision in her face and manner than he could have believed possible a few moments before. She was no longer a marble image of despair. "If Madame will go quite through the village," he answered, "it is the last house on the way to Stans. But it cannot be called a house; it is a ruin. It stands apart from all the rest, like an accursed spot; for no person will go near it. If Madame goes, she will find no one there." With a quick yet stately gesture of farewell, Felicita turned away, and walked swiftly down the little path, not running, but moving so rapidly that she was soon out of sight. By and by, when he had had time to think over the interview and to recover from his surprise, he followed her, but he saw nothing of her; only the miserable hovel where poor Jean Merle had lived, into which she had probably found an entrance. Felicita had learned something of what she had come to discover. Jean Merle had been living in Engelberg until the last summer, though now he had disappeared. Perished on the mountains! oh! could that be true? It was likely to be true. He had always been a daring mountaineer when there was every motive to make him careful of his life; and now what could make it precious to him? There was no other reason for suddenly breaking off the thread of his life here in Engelberg; for Felicita had never imagined it possible that he would return to England. If he had disappeared he must have perished on the mountains. Yet there was no relief to her in the thought. If she had heard in England that he was dead there would have been a sense of deliverance, and a secret consciousness of real freedom, which would have made her future course lie before her in brighter and more tranquil light. She would at least be what she seemed to be. But here, amid the scenes of his past life, there was a deep compunction in her heart, and a profound pity for the miserable man, whose neighbors knew nothing about him but that he had disappeared out of their sight. That she should come to seek him, and find not even his grave, oppressed her with anguish as she passed along the village street, till she saw the deserted hut standing apart like an accursed place, the fit dwelling of an outcast. The short ladder that led to it was half broken, but she could climb it easily; and the upper part of the door was partly open, and swinging lazily to and fro in the light breeze that was astir after the storm. There was no difficulty in unfastening the bolt which held the lower half; and Felicita stepped into the low room. She stood for awhile, how long she did not know, gazing forward with wide open motionless eyes, the brain scarcely conscious of seeing through them, though the sight before her was reflected on their dark and glistening surface. A corner of the roof had fallen in during the winter, and a stream of bright light shone through it, irradiating the dim and desolate interior. The abject poverty of her husband's dwelling-place was set in broad daylight. The windowless walls, the bare black rafters overhead, the rude bed of juniper branches and ferns, the log-seat, rough as it had come out of the forest--she saw them all as if she saw them not, so busy was her brain that it could take no notice of them just now. So busy was it that all her life seemed to be hurrying and crowding and whirling through it, with swift pictures starting into momentary distinctness and dying suddenly to give place to others. It was a terrifying and enthralling phantasmagoria which held her spell-bound on the threshold of this ruined hovel, her husband's last shelter. At last she roused herself, and stepped forward hesitatingly. Her eyes had fallen upon a book or two at the end of a shelf as black as the walls; and books had always called to her with a voice that could not be resisted. She crept slowly and feebly across the mouldering planks of the floor, through which she could see the grass springing on the turf below the hut. But when she lifted up the mildewed and dust-covered volume lying uppermost and opened it, her eyes fell first upon her own portrait, stained, faded, nearly blotted out; yet herself as she was when she became Roland Sefton's wife. She sank down, faint and trembling, on the rough block of wood, and leaned back against the mouldy walls, with the photograph in her hand, and her eyes fastened upon it. His mother's portrait, and his children's, he had given up as evidence of his death; but he had never parted with hers. Oh! how he had loved her! Would to God she had loved him as dearly! But she had forsaken him, had separated him from her as one who was accursed, and whose very name was a malediction. She had exacted the uttermost farthing from him; his mother, his children, his home, his very life, to save her name from dishonor. It seemed as if this tarnished, discolored picture of herself, cherished through all his misery and desolation, spoke more deeply and poignantly to her than anything else could do. She fancied she could see him, the way-worn, haggard, weather-beaten peasant, as she had seen him last, sitting here, with the black walls shutting him out from all the world, but holding this portrait in his hands, and looking at it as she did now. And he had perished on the mountains! Suddenly all the whirl of her brain grew quiet; the swift thoughts ceased to rush across it. She felt dull and benumbed as if she could no longer exert herself to remember or to know anything. Her eyes were weary of seeing, and the lids drooped over them. The light had become dim as if the sun had already set. Her ears were growing heavy as though no sound could ever disturb her again; when a bitter and piercing cry, such as is seldom drawn from the heart of man, penetrated through all the lethargy creeping over her. Looking up, with eyes that opened slowly and painfully, she saw her husband's face bending over her. A smile of exceeding sweetness and tenderness flitted across her face, and she tried to stretch out both her hands towards him. But the effort was the last faint token of life. They had found one another too late. CHAPTER XXIV. FOR ONE MOMENT She had not uttered a word to him; but her smile and the tender gesture of her dying hands had spoken more than words. He stood motionless, gazing down upon her, and upon Phebe, who had thrown herself beside her, encircling her with her arms, as if she would snatch her away from the relentless grasp of death. A single cry of anguish had escaped him; but he was dumb now, and no sound was heard in the silent hut, except those that entered it from without. Phebe did not know what had happened, but he knew. Quite clearly, without any hope or self-deception, he knew that Felicita was dead. The dread of it had haunted him from the moment that he had heard of her hurried departure in quest of him. When he read Phebe's words, imploring him to follow them, the recollection had flashed across him of how the thread of Lord Riversdale's life had snapped under the strain of unusual anxiety and fatigue. Felicita's own delicate health had been failing for some months past. As swiftly as he could follow he had pursued them; but her impatient and feverish haste had prevented him from overtaking them in time. What might have been the result if he had reached her sooner he could not tell. That there could ever have been any knitting together again of the tie that had ever united them seemed impossible. Death alone, either hers or his, could have touched her heart to the tenderness of her farewell smile and gesture. In after life Jean Merle never spoke of that hour of agony. But there was nothing in the past which dwelt so deeply or lived again so often in his memory. He had suffered before; but it seemed as nothing to the intensity of the anguish that had befallen him now. The image of Felicita's white and dying face lying against the darkened walls of the hovel where she had gone to seek him, was indelibly printed on his brain. He would see it till the hour of his own death. He lifted her up, holding her once more in his arms, and clasping her to his heart, as he carried her through the village street to the hotel. Phebe walked beside him, as yet only thinking that Felicita had fainted. His old neighbors crowded out of their houses, scarcely recognizing Jean Merle in this Monsieur in his good English dress, but with redoubled curiosity when they saw who it was thus bearing the strange English lady in his arms. When he had carried her to the hotel, and up-stairs to the room where he had watched beside the stranger who had borne his name, he broke through the gathering crowd of onlookers, and fled to his familiar solitudes among the mountains. He had always told himself that Felicita was dead to him. There had not been in his heart the faintest hope that she could ever again be anything more to him than a memory and a dream. When he was in England, though he had not been content until he had seen his children and his old home, he had never sought to get a glimpse of her, so far beyond him and above him. But now that she was indeed dead, those beloved eyes closed forever more from the light of the sun, and the familiar earth never again to be trodden by her feet, the awful chasm set between them made him feel as if he was for the first time separated from her. Only an hour ago and his voice could have reached her in words of entreaty and of passionate repentance and humble self-renunciation. They could have spoken face to face, and he might have had a brief interval for pouring out his heart to her. But there had been no word uttered between them. There had been only that one moment in which her soul looked back upon him with a glance of tenderness, before she was gone from him beyond recall. He came to himself, out of the confused agony of his grief, as the sun was setting. He found himself in a wild and barren wilderness of savage rocks, with a small black tarn lying at his feet, which just caught the glimmer of the setting sun on its lurid surface. The silence about him was intense. Gray clouds stretched across the mountains, out of which a few sad peaks of rock rose against the gray sky. The snowy dome of the Titlis towering above the rest looked down on him out of the shadow of the clouded heavens with a ghostly paleness. All the world about him was cold and wan, and solemn as the face of the dead. There was death up here and in the valley yonder; but down in the valley it bore too dear and too sorrowful a form. As the twilight deepened, the recollection of Phebe's loneliness and her distress at his absence at last roused him. He could no longer leave her, bewildered by this new trouble, and with slow and reluctant steps he retraced his path through the deep gloom of the forests to the village. There was much to be turned over in his mind and to be decided upon before he reached the bustling hotel and the gaping throng of spectators, marvelling at Jean Merle's reappearance under circumstances so unaccountable. He had met with Phebe as she returned from starting Felicita in the first boat, and they had waited for the next. At Grafenort they had dismissed their carriage, thinking they could enter the valleys with less observation on foot; and perhaps meet with Felicita in such a manner as to avoid making his return known in Engelberg. He had turned aside to take shelter in his old hut, whilst Phebe went on to find Felicita, when his bitter cry of pain had called her back to him. The villagers would probably take him for a courier in attendance upon these ladies, if he acted as one when he reached the hotel. But how was he to act? Two courses were open to him. There was no longer any reason to dread a public trial and conviction for the crime he had committed so many years ago. It was quite practicable to return to England, account plausibly for his disappearance and the mistake as to identity which had caused a stranger to be buried in his name, and take up his life again as Roland Sefton. It was improbable that any searching investigation should be made into his statements. Who would be interested in doing it? But the old memories and suspicions would be awakened and strengthened a hundred-fold by the mystery surrounding his return. No one could compel him to reveal his secret, he had simply to keep his lips closed in impenetrable silence. True he would be a suspected man, with a disgraceful secrecy hanging like a cloud about him. He could not live so at Riversborough, among his old towns-people, of whom he had once been a leader. He must find some new sphere and dwell in it, always dreading the tongue of rumor. And his son and daughter? How would they regard him if he maintained an obstinate and ambiguous silence towards them? They were no longer little children, scarcely separate from their father, seeing through his eyes, and touching life only through him. They were separate individuals, living souls, with a personality of their own, the more free from his influence because of his long absence and supposed death. It was a young man he must meet in Felix, a critic and a judge like other men; but with a known interest in the criticism and the judgment he had to pass upon his father, and less apt to pass it lightly. His son would ponder deeply over any account he might give of himself. Hilda, too, was at a sensitive and delicate point of girlhood, when she would inevitably shrink from any contact with the suspicion and doubt that would surround this strange return after so many years of disappearance. Yet how could he let them know the terrible fraud he had committed for their mother's sake and with her connivance? Felix knew of his other defalcations; but Hilda was still ignorant of them. If he returned to them with the truth in his lips, they would lose the happy memory of their mother and their pride in her fame. He understood only too well how dominant must have been her influence over them, not merely by the tender common ties of motherhood, but by the fascinating charm of her whole nature, reserved and stately as it had been. He must betray her and lessen her memory in their sorrowful esteem. To them, if not to the world, he must disclose all, or resolve to remain a stranger to them forever. During the last six months it had seemed to him that a humble path lay before him, following which he might again live a life of lowly discipleship. He had repented with a bitter repentance, and out of the depths into which he had fallen he had cried unto God and been delivered. He believed that he had received God's forgiveness, as he knew that he had received men's forgiveness. Out of the wreck of his former life he had constructed a little raft and trusted to it bearing him safely through what remained of the storm of life. If Felicita had lived he would have remained in the service of his father's old friend, proving himself of use in numberless ways; not merely as an attendant, but in assisting him with the affairs of the bank, with which he was more conversant, from his early acquaintanceship with the families transacting business with it, than the stranger who was acting manager could be. He had not been long enough in Riversborough to gain any influence in the town as a poor foreigner, but there had been a hope dawning within that he might again do some good in his native place, the dearer to him because of his long and dreary banishment. In time he might perform some work worthy of his forefathers, though under another name. If he could so live as to leave behind him the memory of a sincere and simple Christian, who had denied himself daily to live a righteous, sober, and godly life, and had cheerfully taken up his cross to follow Christ, he would in some measure atone for the disgrace Roland Sefton's defalcations had brought upon the name of Christ. This humble, ambitious career was still before him if he could forego the joy of making himself known to his children--a doubtful joy. For had he not cut himself from them by his reckless and despairing abandonment of them in their childhood? He could bring them nothing now but sorrow and shame. The sacrifice would be on their side, not his. It needs all the links of all the years to bind parents and children in an indestructible chain; and if he attempted to unite the broken links it could only be by a knowledge of their mother's error as well as his. Let him sacrifice himself for the last and final time to Felicita and the fair name she had made for herself. He was stumbling along in the dense darkness of the forest with no gleam of light to guide him on his way, and his feet were constantly snared in the knotted roots of the trees intersecting the path. So must he stumble along a dark and rugged track through the rest of his years. There was no cheering gleam beckoning him to a happy future. But though it was thorny and obscure it was not an ignoble path, and it might end at last even for him in the welcome words, "Well done, good and faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." His mind was made up before he reached the valley. He could not unravel the warp and woof of his life. The gossamer threads of the webs he had begun to weave about himself so lightly in the heyday of his youth and prosperity and happiness had thickened into cables and petrified; it was impossible to break through the coil of them or find a way out of it. Roland Sefton had died many years ago. Let him remain dead. CHAPTER XXV. THE FINAL RESOLVE. It was dark, with the pitchy darkness of a village street, where the greater part of the population were gone to bed, when he passed through Engelberg towards the hotel, where Phebe must be awaiting his return anxiously. In carrying out his project it would be well for him to have as little as possible to do with the inmates of the hotel, and he approached it cautiously. All the ground-floor was dark, except for a glimmer of light in a little room at the end of a long passage; but the windows of the _salon_ on the floor above were lit up, and Jean Merle stepped quietly up the staircase unheard and unseen. Phebe was sitting by a table, her head buried in her arms, which rested upon it--a forlorn and despondent attitude. She lifted up her face as he entered and gazed pitifully into his; but for a minute or two neither of them spoke. He stood just within the door, looking towards her as he had done on the fateful night when Felicita had told him that she chose his death rather than her share of the disgrace attaching to his crime. This day just drawn to a close had been the bitterest fruit of the seed then sown. Jean Merle's face, on which there was stamped an expression of intense but patient suffering, steadfastly met Phebe's aching eyes. "She is dead!" she murmured. "I knew it," he answered. "I did not know what to do," she went on after a slight pause, and speaking in a pitiful and deprecating tone. "Poor Phebe!" he said; "but I am come to tell you what I have resolved to do--what seems best for us all to do. We must act as if I was only what I seem to be, a stranger to you, a passing guide, who has no more to do with these things than any other stranger. We will do what I believe she would have desired; her name shall be as dear to us as it was to her; no disgrace shall stain it now." "But can you never throw off your disguise?" she asked, weeping. "Must you always be what you seem to be now?" "I must always be Jean Merle," he replied. "Roland Sefton cannot return to life; it is impossible. Let us leave her children at least the tender memory of their mother; I can bear being unknown to them for what remains to me of life. And we do no one any harm, you and I, by keeping this secret." "No, we wrong no one," she answered. "I have been thinking of it ever since I was sure she was dead, and I counted upon you doing this. It will save Felix and Hilda from bitter sorrow, and it would keep her memory fair and true for them. But you--there will be so much to give up. They will never know that you are their father; for if we do not tell them now, we must never, never betray it. Can you do it?" "I gave them up long ago," he said; "and if there be any sacrifice I can make for them, what should withhold me, Phebe? God only knows what an unutterable relief it would be to me if I could lay bare my whole life to the eyes of my fellow-men and henceforth walk in their sight in simple honesty and truthfulness. But that is impossible. Not even you can see my whole life as it has been. I must go softly all my days, bearing my burden of secrecy." "I too shall have to bear it," she murmured almost inaudibly. "I shall start at once for Stans," he went on, "and go to Lucerne by the first boat in the morning. You shall give me a telegram to send from there to Canon Pascal, and Felix will be here in less than three days. I must return direct to Riversborough. I must not perform the last duties to the dead; even that is denied to me." "But Felicita must not be buried here," exclaimed Phebe, her voice faltering, with an accent of horror at the thought of it. A shudder of repugnance ran through him also. Roland Sefton's grave was here, and what would be more natural than to bury Felicita beside it? "No, no," he cried, "you must save me from that, Phebe. She must be brought home and buried among her own people. Promise to save her and me from that." "Oh, I promise it," she said; "it shall never be. You shall not have that grief." "If I stayed here myself," he continued, "it would make it more difficult to take up my life in Riversborough unquestioned and unsuspected. It can only be by a complete separation now that I can effect my purpose. But I can hardly bear to go away, Phebe." The profound pitifulness of Phebe's heart was stirred to its inmost depths by the sound of his voice and the expression of his hopeless face. She left her seat and drew near to him. "Come and see her once more," she whispered. Silently he made a gesture of assent, and she led the way to the adjoining room. He knew it better than she did; for it was here that he had watched all the night long the death of the stranger who was buried in Roland Sefton's grave. There was little change in it to his eyes. The bare walls and the scanty homely furniture were the same now as then. There was the glimmer of a little lamp falling on the tranquil figure on the bed. The occupant of this chamber only was different, but oh! the difference to him! "Do not leave me, Phebe!" he cried, stretching out his hand towards her, as if blind and groping to be led. She stepped noiselessly across the uncarpeted floor and looked down on the face lying on the pillow. The smile that had been upon it in the last moment yet lingered about the mouth, and added an inexpressible gentleness and tenderness to its beauty. The long dark eyelashes shadowed the cheeks, which were suffused with a faint flush. Felicita looked young again, with something of the sweet shy grace of the girl whom he had first seen in this distant mountain village so many years ago. He sank down on his knees, and shut out the sight of her from his despairing eyes. The silent minutes crept slowly away unheeded; he did not stir, or sob, or lift up his bowed face. This kneeling figure at her feet was as rigid and as death-like as the lifeless form lying on the bed; and Phebe grew frightened, yet dared not break in upon his grief. At last a footstep came somewhat noisily up the staircase, and she laid her hand softly on the gray head beneath her. "Jean Merle," she said, "it is time for us to go." The sound of this name in Phebe's familiar voice aroused him. She had never called him by it before; and its utterance was marked as a thing irrevocably settled that his life henceforth was to be altogether divorced from that of Roland Sefton. He had come to the last point which connected him with it. When he turned away from this rigid form, in all the awful loveliness of death, he would have cut himself off forever from the past. He laid his hand upon the chilly forehead; but he dared not stoop down to touch the sweet sad face with his lips. With no word of farewell to Phebe, he rushed out into the dense darkness of the night and made his way down the valley, and through the steep forest roads he had traversed only a few hours ago with something like hope dawning in his heart. For in the morning he had known that he should see Felicita again, and there was expectation and a gleam of gladness in that; but to-night his eyes had looked upon her for the last time. CHAPTER XXVI. IN LUCERNE. Phebe found herself alone, with the burden of Jean Merle's secret resting on her unshared. It depended upon her sagacity and tact whether he should escape being connected in a mysterious manner with the sad event that had just transpired in Engelberg. The footstep she had heard on the stairs was that of the landlady, who had gone into the salon and had thus missed seeing Jean Merle as he left the house. Phebe met her in the doorway. "I have sent a message by the guide who brought me here," she said in slowly pronounced French; "he is gone to Lucerne, and he will telegraph to England for me." "Is he gone--Jean Merle?" asked the landlady. "Certainly, yes," answered Phebe; "he is gone to Lucerne." "Will he return, then?" inquired the landlady. "No, I suppose not," she replied; "he has done all he had to do for me. He will telegraph to England, and our friends will come to us immediately. Good-night, Madame." "Good-night, Mademoiselle," was the response. "May you sleep well!" But sleep was far away from Phebe's agitated brain that night. She felt herself alone in a strange land, with a great grief and a terrible secret oppressing her. As the night wore on a feverish dread took possession of her that she should be unable to prevent Felicita's burial beside Roland Sefton's grave. Even Felix would decide that it ought to be so. As soon as the dawn came she rose and went out into the icy freshness of the morning air, blowing down from the snow-fields and the glaciers around her. The village was beginning to arouse itself. The Abbey bells were ringing, and at the sound of them, calling the laborers to a new day's toil, here and there a shutter was thrown back or a door was opened, and light volumes of gray wood-smoke stole upwards into the still air. There was a breath of serenity and peace in this early hour which soothed Phebe's fevered brain, as she slowly sauntered on with the purpose of finding the cemetery, where the granite cross stood over the grave that had occupied so much of her thoughts since she had heard of Roland Sefton's death. She reached it at last and stood motionless before it, looking back through all the years in which she had mourned with Roland's mother his untimely death. He whom she had mourned for was not lying here; but did not his life hold deeper cause for grief than his death ever had? Standing there, so far from home, in the quiet morning, with this grave at her feet, she answered to herself a question which had been troubling her for many months. Yes, it was a right thing to do, on the whole, to keep this secret--Felicita's secret as well as Roland's--forever locked in her own heart. There was concealment in it closely verging, as it must always do, on deception. Phebe's whole nature revolted against concealment. She loved to live her life out in the eye of day. But the story of Roland Sefton's crime, and the penance done for it, in its completeness could never be given to the world; it must always result in some measure in misleading the judgment of those most interested in it. There was little to be gained and much to be sacrificed by its disclosure. Felicita's death seemed to give a new weight to every reason for keeping the secret; and it was safe in her keeping and Mr. Clifford's: when a few years were gone it would be hers alone. The cross most heavy for her to bear she must carry, hidden from every eye; but she could bear it faithfully, even unto death. As her lips whispered the last three words, giving to her resolution a definite form and utterance, a shadow beside her own fell upon the cross. She turned quickly and met the kindly inquisitive gaze of the mountain curé who had led Felicita to this spot yesterday. He had been among the first who followed Jean Merle as he carried her lifeless form through the village street; and he had run to the monastery to seek what medical aid could be had there. The incident was one of great interest to him. Phebe's frank yet sorrowful face, turned to him with its expression of ready sympathy with any fellow-creature, won from the young priest the cordial friendliness that everywhere greeted her. He stood bareheaded before her, as he had done before Felicita, but he spoke to her in a tone of more familiar intercourse. "Madame, pardon," he said, "but you are in grief, and I would offer you my condolence. Behold! to me the lady who died yesterday spoke her last words--here, on this spot. She said not a word afterwards to any human creature. I come to communicate them to you. There is but little to tell." It was so little that Phebe felt greatly disappointed; though her eyes grew blind with tears as she thought of Felicita standing here before this deceptive cross and calling herself of all women the most miserable. The cross itself had had no message of peace to her troubled heart. "Most miserable," repeated Phebe to herself, looking back upon yesterday with a vain yearning that she had been there to tell Felicita that she shared her misery, and could help her to bear it. "And now," continued the curé, "can I be of any service to Madame? You are alone; and there are a few formalities to observe. It will be some days before your friends can arrive. Command me, then, if I can be of any service." "Can you help me to get away," she asked, in a tone of eager anxiety, "down to Lucerne as quickly as possible? I have telegraphed to Madame's son, and he will come immediately. Of course, I know in England when a sudden death occurs there are inquiries made; and it is right and necessary. But you see Madame died of a heart disease." "Without doubt," he interrupted; "she was ill here, and I followed her down the village, and saw her enter Jean Merle's hut. I was about to enter, for she had been there a long time, when you appeared with your guide and went in. In a minute there was a cry, and I saw Jean Merle bearing the poor lady out into the daylight and you following them. Without doubt she died from natural causes." "There are formalities to observe," said Phebe earnestly, "and they take much time. But I must leave Engelberg to-morrow, or the next day at the latest, taking her with me. Can you help me to do this?" "But you will bury Madame here?" answered the curé, who felt deeply what interest would attach to another English grave in the village burial-ground; "she told me yesterday Roland Sefton was her relative, and there will be many difficulties and great expenditure in taking her away from this place." "Yes," answered Phebe, "but Madame belongs to a great family in England; she was the daughter of Baron Riversborough, and she must be buried among her own people. You shall telegraph to the consul at Geneva, and he will say she must be buried among her own people, not here. It does not signify about the expenditure." "Ah! that makes it more easy," replied the curé, "and if Madame is of an illustrious family--I was about to return to my parish this morning; but I will stay and arrange matters for you. This is my native place, and I know all the people. If I cannot do everything, the abbot and the brethren will. Be tranquil; you shall leave Engelberg as early as possible." It was impossible for Phebe to telegraph to England her intention of returning immediately to Lucerne; for Felix must have set off already, and would be on his way to the far-off valley among the Swiss mountains, where he believed his father's grave lay, and where his mother had met her death. Phebe's heart was wrung for him, as she thought of the overwhelming and instantaneous shock it would be to him and Hilda, who did not even know that their mother had left home; but her dread lest he should judge it right to lay his mother beside this grave, which had possessed so large a share in his thoughts hitherto, compelled her to hasten her departure before he could arrive, even at the risk of missing him on the way. The few formalities to be observed seemed complicated and tedious; but at last they were ended. The friendly priest accompanied her on her sorrowful return down the rough mountain-roads, preceded by the litter bearing Felicita's coffin; and at every hamlet they passed through he left minute instructions that a young English gentleman travelling up to Engelberg was to be informed of the little funeral cavalcade that was gone down to Lucerne. Down the green valley, and through the solemn forests, Phebe followed the rustic litter on foot with the priest beside her, now and then reciting a prayer in a low tone. When they reached Grafenort carriages were in waiting to convey them as far as the Lake. It was only a week since she and Felicita had started on their secret and disastrous journey, and now her face was set homewards, with no companion save this coffin, which she followed with so heavy a spirit. She had come up the valley as Jean Merle had done, with vague, dim hopes, stretching vainly forward to some impossible good that might come to him when he and Felicita stood face to face once again. But now all was over. A boat was ready at Stans, and here the friendly curé bade her farewell, leaving her to go on her way alone. And now it seemed to Phebe, more than ever before, that she had been living and acting for a long while in a painful dream. Her usually clear and tranquil soul was troubled and bewildered as she sat in the boat at the head of Felicita's coffin, with her dear face so near to her, yet hidden from her eyes. All around her lay the Lake, with a fine rapid ripple on the silvery blue of its waters, as the rowers, with measured and rhythmical strokes of their oars, carried the boat's sad freight on towards Lucerne. The evening sun was shining aslant down the wooded slopes of the lower hills, and dark blue shadows gathered where its rays no longer penetrated. That half-consciousness, common to all of us, that she had gone through this passage in her life before, and that this sorrow had already had its counterpart in some other state of existence, took possession of her; and with it came a feeling of resigning herself to fate. She was worn out with anxiety and grief. What would come might come. She could exert herself no longer. As they drew near to Lucerne, the clangor of military music and the merry pealing of bells rang across the water, jarring upon her faint and sorrowful heart. Some fête was going on, and all the populace was active. Banners floated from all the windows, and a gay procession was parading along the quay, marching under the echoing roof of the long wooden bridge which crossed the green torrent of the river. Numberless little boats were darting to and fro on the smooth surface of the Lake, and through them all her own, bearing Felicita's coffin, sped swiftly on its way to the landing-stage, on which, as if standing there amid the hubbub to receive it, her sad eyes saw Canon Pascal and Felix. They had but just reached Lucerne, and were waiting for the next steamer starting to Stans, when Felix had caught sight of the boat afar off, with its long, narrow burden, covered by a black pall; and as it drew nearer he had distinguished Phebe sitting beside it alone. Until this moment it had seemed absolutely incredible that his mother could be dead, though the telegram to Canon Pascal had said so distinctly. There must be some mistake, he had constantly reiterated as they hurried through France to Lucerne; Phebe had been frightened, and in her terror had misled herself and them. No wonder his mother should be ill--dangerously so, after the fatigue and agitation of a journey to Engelberg; but she could not be dead. Phebe had had no opportunity of telegraphing again; for they had set off at once, and from Basle they had brought on with them an eminent physician. So confident was Felix in his asseverations that Canon Pascal himself had begun to hope that he was right, and but that the steamer was about to start in a few minutes, they would have hired a boat to carry them on to Stans, in order to lose no time in taking medical aid to Felicita. But as Felix stood there, only dimly conscious of the scene about them, the sight of the boat bringing Phebe to the shore with the covered coffin beside her, extinguished in his heart the last glimmering of the hope which had been little more than a natural recoil from despair. He was not taken by surprise, or hurried into any vehemence of grief. A cold stupor, which made him almost insensible to his loss, crept over him. Sorrow would assert itself by and by; but now he felt dull and torpid. When the coffin was lifted out of the boat, by bearers who were waiting at the landing-stage for the purpose, he took up his post immediately behind it, as if it were already the funeral procession carrying his mother to the grave; and with all the din and tumult of the streets sounding in his ears, he followed unquestioningly wherever it might go. Why it was there, or why his mother's coffin was there, he did not ask; he only knew that she was there. "My poor Phebe," said Canon Pascal, as they followed closely behind him, "why did you start homewards? Would it not have been best to bury her at Engelberg, beside her husband? Did not Felicita forgive him, even in her death?" "No, no, it was not that," answered Phebe; "she forgave him, but I could not bear to leave her there. I was with her just as she died; but she had gone up to Engelberg alone, and I followed her, only too late. She never spoke to me or looked at me. I could not leave Felicita in Engelberg," she added excitedly; "it has been a fatal place to her." "Is there anything we must not know?" he inquired. "Yes," she said, turning to him her pale and quivering face, "I have a secret to keep all my life long. But the evil of it is spent now. It seems to me as if it is a sin no longer; all the selfishness is gone out of it, and Felix and Hilda were as clear of it as Alice herself; if I could tell you all, you would say so too." "You need tell me no more, dear Phebe," he replied; "God bless you in the keeping of their secret!" CHAPTER XXVII. HIS OWN CHILDREN. The tidings of Felicita's death spread rapidly in England, and the circumstances attending it, its suddenness, and the fact that it had occurred at the same place that her husband had perished by accident many years before, gave it more than ordinary interest and excited more than ordinary publicity. It was a good deal talked of in literary circles, and in the fashionable clique to which she belonged through her relationship with the Riversford family. There were the usual kindly notices of her life and works in the daily papers; and her publisher seized the occasion to advertise her books more largely. But it was in Riversborough that the deepest impression was made, and the keenest curiosity aroused by the story of her death, obscure in some of its details, but full of romantic interest to her old towns-people, who were thus recalled to the circumstances attending Roland Sefton's disappearance and subsequent death. The funeral also was to be in the immediate neighborhood, in the church where all the Riversfords had been buried time out of mind, long before a title had been conferred on the head of the house. It appeared quite right that Felicita should be buried beside her own people; and every one who could get away from business went down to the little country churchyard to be present at the funeral. But Phebe was not there: when she reached London she was so worn out with fatigue and agitation that she was compelled to remain at home, brooding over what she had come through. And Jean Merle had not trusted himself to look into the open grave, about to close over all that remained of the woman he had so passionately loved. The tolling of the minute-bell, which began early in the day and struck its deep knell through the tardy hours till late in the evening, smote upon his ear and heart every time the solemn tone sounded through the quiet hours. He was left alone in his old home, for Mr. Clifford was gone as one of the mourners to follow Felicita to the grave; and all the servants had asked to be present at the funeral. There was nothing to demand his attention or to distract his thoughts. The house was as silent as if it had been the house of death and he himself but a phantom in it. Though he had been six months in the house, he had never yet been in Felicita's study--that quiet room shut out from the noise both of the street and the household, which he had set apart and prepared for her when she was coming, stepping down a little from her own level to be his wife. It was dismantled, he knew; her books were gone, and all the costly decorative fittings he had chosen with so much joyous anxiety. But the panelled doors which he had worked at with his own hands were there, and the window, with its delicately tinted lattice-frames, through which the sun had shone in daintily upon her at her desk. He went slowly up the long staircase, pausing now and then lost in thought; and standing, at last before the door, which he had never opened without asking permission to enter in, he hesitated for many minutes before he went in. An empty room, swept clean of everything which made it a living habitation. The sunshine fell in pencils of colored light upon the bare walls and uncarpeted floor. It bore no trace of any occupant; yet to him it seemed but yesterday that he had been in here, listening to the low tones of Felicita's sweet voice, and gazing with silent pride on her beautiful face. There had been unmeasured passion and ambition in his love for her, which had fatally changed his whole life. But he knew now that he had failed in winning her love and in making her happy; and the secret dissatisfaction she had felt in her ill-considered marriage had been fatal both to her and to him. The restless eagerness it had developed in him to gain a position that could content her, had been a seed of worldliness, which had borne deadly fruit. He opened the casement, and looked out on the familiar landscape, on which her eyes had so often rested--eyes that were closed forever. The past, so keenly present to him this moment, was in reality altogether dead and buried. She had ceased to be his wife years ago, when she had accepted the sacrifice he proposed to her of his very existence. That old life was blotted out; and he had no right to mourn openly for the dead, who was being laid in the grave of her fathers at this hour. His children were counting themselves orphans, and it was not in his power to comfort them. He knelt down at the open window, and rested his bowed head on the window-sill. The empty room behind him was but a symbol of his own empty lot, swept clean of all its affections and aspirations. Two thirds of his term of years were already spent; and he found himself bereft and dispossessed of all that makes life worth having--all except the power of service. Even at this late hour a voice within him called to him, "Go work to-day in my vineyard." It was not too late to serve God who had forgiven him and mankind whom he had wronged. There was time to make some atonement; to work out some redemption for his fellow-men. To Roland Sefton had arisen a vision of a public and honorable career, cheered on by applause of men and crowned with popularity and renown for all he might achieve. But Jean Merle must toil in silence and difficulty, amid rebuffs and discouragements, and do humble service which would remain unrecognized and unthanked. Yet there was work to do, if it were no more than cheering the last days of an old man, or teaching a class of the most ignorant of his townsfolk in a night school. He rose from his knees after a while, and left the room, closing the door as softly as he had been used to do when afraid of any noise grating on his wife's sensitive brain. It seemed to him like the closing up of the vault where she was buried. She was gone from him forever, and there was nothing left but to forget the past if that were possible. As he went lingeringly down the staircase, which would henceforth be trodden seldom if ever by him, he heard the ringing of the house-bell, which announced the return of Mr. Clifford and of Felix and Hilda, who were coming to stay the night in their old home, before returning to London on the morrow. He hastened down to open the door and help them to alight from their carriage. It was the first time he had been thus brought into close contact with them; but this must happen often in the future, and he must learn to meet them as strangers, and to be looked upon by them as little more than a hired servant. But the sight of Hilda's sad young face, so pale and tear-stained, and the expression of deep grief that Felix wore, tried him sorely. What would he not have given to be able to take this girl into his arms and soothe her, and to comfort his son with comfort none but a father can give? He stood outside the sphere of their sorrows, looking on them with the eyes of a stranger; and the pain of seeing them so near yet so far away from him was unutterable. The time might come when Jean Merle could see them, and talk with them calmly as a friend, ready to serve them to the utmost of his power; when there might be something of pleasure in gaining their friendship and confidence. But so long as they were mourning bitterly for their mother and could not conceal the sharpness of their grief, the sight of them was a torture to him. It was a relief to him and to Mr. Clifford when they left Riversborough the next morning. CHAPTER XXVIII. AN EMIGRATION SCHEME. Several months passed away, bringing no visitor to Riversborough, except Phebe, who came down two or three times to see Mr. Clifford, whose favorite she was. But Phebe never spoke of the past to Jean Merle. Since they had determined what to do, it seemed wiser to her not to look back so as to embitter the present. Jean Merle was gradually gaining a footing in the town as Mr. Clifford's representative, and was in many ways filling a post very few could fill. Now and then, some of the elder townsmen, who had been contemporary with Roland Sefton, remarked upon the resemblance between Jean Merle and their old comrade; but this was satisfactorily accounted for by his relationship to Madame Sefton: for Roland, they said, had always had a good deal of the foreigner about him, much more than this quiet, melancholy, self-effacing man, who never pushed himself forward, or courted attention, yet was always ready with a good sound shrewd opinion if he was asked for it. It had been a lucky thing for old Clifford that such a man had been found to take care of him and his affairs in his extreme old age. Felix had gone back to his curacy, under Canon Pascal, in the parish where he had spent his boyhood and where he was safe against any attack upon his father's memory. But in spite of being able to see Alice every day, and of enjoying Canon Pascal's constant companionship, he was ill at ease, and Phebe was dissatisfied. This was exactly the life Felicita had dreaded for him, an easy, half-occupied life in a small parish, where there was little active employment for either mind or body. The thought of it troubled and haunted Phebe. The magnificent physical strength and active energy of Felix, and the strong bent to heroic effort and Christian devotion given to him in his earliest years, were thrown away in this tranquil English village, where there was clearly no scope for heroism. How was it that Canon Pascal could not see it? His curacy was a post to be occupied by some feebler man than Felix; a man whose powers were only equal to the quiet work of carrying on the labors begun by his rector. Besides, Felix would have recovered from the shock of his mother's sudden death if his time and faculties had been more fully occupied. She must give words to her discontent, and urge Canon Pascal to banish him from a spot where he was leading too dull a life. Canon Pascal had been in residence at Westminster for some weeks, and was about to return to his rectory, when Phebe went down to the Abbey one day, bent upon putting her decision into action. The bitterness of the early spring had come again; and strong easterly gales were blowing steadily day after day, bringing disease and death to those who were feeble and ailing, yet not more surely than the fogs of the city had done. It had been a long and gloomy winter, and in this second month of the year the death rates were high. As Phebe passed through the Abbey on her way to his home in the cloisters, she saw Canon Pascal standing still, with his head thrown back and his eyes uplifted to the noble arches supporting the roof. He did not notice her till her clear, pleasant voice addressed him. "Ah, Phebe!" he exclaimed, a swift smile transforming his grave, marked face, "my dear, I was just asking myself how I could bear to say farewell to all this." He glanced round him with an expression of unutterable love and pride and of keen regret. The Abbey had grown dearer to him than any spot on earth; and as he paced down the long aisle he lingered as if every step he took was full of pain. "Bid farewell to it!" repeated Phebe; "but why?" "For a series of whys," he answered; "first and foremost, because the doctors tell me, and I believe it, that my dear wife's days are numbered if she stays another year in this climate. All our days are numbered by God, I know; but man can number them also, if he pleases, and make them longer or shorter by his obedience or disobedience. Secondly, Phebe, our sons have gone on before us as pioneers, and they send us piteous accounts of the spiritual needs of the colonists and the native populations out yonder. I preach often on the evils of over-population and its danger to our country, and I prescribe emigration to most of the young people I come across. Why should not I, even I, take up the standard and cry 'Follow me'? We should leave England with sad hearts, it is true, but for her good and for the good of unborn generations, who shall create a second England under other skies. And last, but not altogether least, the colonial bishopric is vacant, and has been offered to me. If I accept it I shall save the life most precious to me, and find another home in the midst of my children and grand-children." "And Felix?" cried Phebe. "What could be better for Felix than to come with us?" he asked; "there he will meet with the work he was born for, the work he is fretting his soul for. He will be at last a gallant soldier of the Cross, unhampered by any dread of his father's sin rising up against him. And we could never part with Alice--her mother and I. You would be the last to say No to that, Phebe?" "Oh, yes!" she answered, with tears standing in her eyes, "Felix must go with you." "And Hilda, too," he went on; "for what would become of Hilda alone here, with her only brother settled at the antipodes? And here we shall want Phebe Marlowe's influence with old Mr. Clifford, who might prevent his ward from quitting England. I am counting also on Phebe herself, as my pearl of deaconesses, with no vow to bind her, if the happiness and fuller life of marriage opened before her. Still, to secure all these benefits I must give up all this." He paused for a minute or two, looking back up the narrow side aisle, and then, as if he could not tear himself away, he retraced his steps slowly and lingeringly; and Phebe caught the glistening of tears in his eyes. "Never to see it again," he murmured, "or if I see it, not to belong to it! To have no more right here than any other stranger! It feels like a home to me, dear Phebe. I have had solemn glimpses of God here, as if it were indeed the gate of heaven. To the last hour of my life, wherever I go, my soul will cleave to these walls. But I shall give it up." "Yes," she said, sighing, "but there is no bitterness of repentance to you in giving it up." "How sadly you spoke that," he went on, "as if a woman like you could know the bitterness of repentance! You have only looked at it through other men's eyes. Yes, we shall go. Felix and Hilda and you are free to leave Mr. Clifford, now he is so admirably cared for by this Jean Merle. I like all that I hear of him, though I never saw him; surely it was a blessing from God that Madame Sefton's poor kinsman was brought to the old man. Could we not leave him safely in Merle's charge?" "Quite safely," she answered. "I have a scheme for a new settlement in my head," he continued, "a settlement of our own, and we will invite emigrants to it. I can reckon on a few who will joyfully follow our lead, and it will not seem a strange land if we carry those whom we love with us. This hour even I have made up my mind to accept this bishopric. Go on, dear Phebe, and tell my wife. I must stay here alone a little longer." But Phebe did not hasten with these tidings through the cloisters. She walked to and fro, pondering them and finding in them a solution of many difficulties. For Felix it would be well, and it was not to be expected that Alice would leave her invalid mother to remain behind in England as a curate's wife. Hilda, too, what could be better or happier for her than to go with those who looked upon her as a daughter, who would take Alice's place as soon as she was gone into a home of her own? There was little to keep them in England. She could not refuse to let them go. But herself? The strong strain of faithfulness in Phebe's nature knitted her as closely with the past as with the present; and with some touch of pathetic clinging to the past which the present cannot possess. She could not separate herself from it. The little home where she was born, and the sterile fields surrounding it, with the wide moors encircling them, were as dear to her as the Abbey was to Canon Pascal. In no other place did she feel herself so truly at home. If she cut herself adrift from it and all the subtly woven web of memories belonging to it, she fancied she might pine away of home-sickness in a foreign land. There was Mr. Clifford too, who depended so utterly upon her promise to be near him when he was dying, and to hold his hand in hers as he went down into the deep chill waters of death. And Jean Merle, whose terrible secret she shared, and would be the only one to share it when Mr. Clifford was gone. How was it possible for her to separate herself from these two? She loved Felix and Hilda with all the might of her unselfish heart; but Felix had Alice, and by and by Hilda would give herself to some one who would claim most of her affection. She was not necessary to either of them. But if she went away she must leave a blank, too dreary to be thought of, in the clouded lives of Mr. Clifford and poor Merle. For their sakes she must refuse to leave England. CHAPTER XXIX. FAREWELL. But it was more difficult than Phebe anticipated to resist the urgent entreaties of Felix and Hilda not to sever the bond that had existed between them so long. Her devotion to them in the past had made them feel secure of its continuance, and to quit England, leaving her behind, seemed impossible. But Mr. Clifford's reiterated supplications that she would not forsake him in his old age drew her as powerfully the other way. Scarcely a day passed without a few lines, written by his own feeble and shaking hand, reaching her, beseeching and demanding of her a solemn promise to stay in England as long as he lived. Jean Merle said nothing, even when she went down to visit them, urged by Canon Pascal to set before Mr. Clifford the strong reasons there were for her to accompany the party of emigrants; but Phebe knew that Jean Merle's life, with its unshared memories and secrets, would be still more dreary if she went away. After she had seen these two she wavered no more. It was a larger party of emigrants than any one had foreseen; for it was no sooner known that Canon Pascal was leaving England as a colonial Bishop, than many men and women came forward anxious to go out and found new homes under his auspices. He was a well-known advocate of emigration, and it was rightly deemed a singular advantage to have him as a leader as well as their spiritual chief. Canon Pascal threw himself into the movement with ardor, and the five months elapsing before he set sail were filled with incessant claims upon his time and thought, while all about him were drawn into the strong current of his work. Phebe was occupied from early morning till late at night, and a few hours of deep sleep, which gave her no time for thinking of her own future, was all the rest she could command. Even Felix, who had scarcely shaken off the depression caused by his mother's sudden death, found a fresh fountain-head of energy and gladness in sharing Canon Pascal's new career, and in the immediate prospect of marrying Alice. For in addition to all the other constant calls upon her, Phebe was plunged into the preparations needed for this marriage, which was to take place before they left England. There was no longer any reason to defer it for lack of means, as Felix had inherited his share of his mother's settlement. But Phebe drew largely on her own resources to send out for them the complete furnishing of a home as full of comfort, and as far as possible, as full of real beauty, as their Essex rectory had been. She almost stripped her studio of the sketches and the finished pictures which Felix and Hilda had admired, sighing sometimes, and smiling sometimes, as they vanished from her sight into the packing cases, for the times that were gone by, and for the pleasant surprise that would greet them, in that far-off land, when their eyes fell upon the old favorites from home. Felix and Hilda spent a few days at Riversborough with Mr. Clifford, but Phebe would not go with them, in spite of their earnest desire; and Jean Merle, their kinsman, was absent, only coming home the night before they bade their last farewell to their birth-place. He appeared to them a very silent and melancholy man, keeping himself quite in the background, and unwilling to talk much about his own country and his relationship with their grandmother's family. But they had not time to pay much attention to him; the engrossing interest of spending the few last hours amid these familiar places, so often and so fondly to be remembered in the coming years, made them less regardful of this stranger, who was watching them with undivided and despairing interest. No word or look escaped him, as he accompanied them from room to room, and about the garden walks, unable to keep himself away from this unspeakable torture. Mr. Clifford wept, as old men weep, when they bade him good-by; but Felix was astonished by the fixed and mournful expression of inward anguish in Jean Merle's eyes, as he held his hand in a grasp that would not let him go. "I may never see you again," he said, "but I shall hear of you." "Yes," answered Felix, "we shall write frequently to Mr. Clifford, and you will answer our letters for him." "God bless you!" said Jean Merle. "God grant that you may be a truer and a happier man than your father was." Felix started. This man, then, knew of his father's crime; probably knew more of it than he did. But there was no time to question him now; and what good would it do to hear more than he knew already? Hilda was standing near to him waiting to say good-by, and Jean Merle, turning to her, took her into his arms, and pressed her closely to his heart. A sudden impulse prompted her to put her arm round his neck as she had done round old Mr. Clifford's, and to lift up her face for his kiss. He held her in his embrace for a few moments, and then, without another word spoken to them, he left them and they saw him no more. The marriage was celebrated a few days after this visit, and not long before the time fixed for the Bishop and his large band of emigrants to sail. Under these circumstances the ceremony was a quiet one. The old rectory was in disorder, littered with packing cases, and upset from cellar to garret. Even when the wedding was over both Phebe and Hilda were too busy for sentimental indulgence. The few remaining days were flying swiftly past them all, and keeping them in constant fear that there would not be time enough for all that had to be done. But the last morning came, when Phebe found herself standing amid those who were so dear to her on the landing-stage, with but a few minutes more before they parted from her for years, if not forever. Bishop Pascal was already gone on board the steamer standing out in the river, where the greater number of emigrants had assembled. But Felix and Alice and Hilda lingered about Phebe till the last moment. Yet they said but little to one another; what could they say which would tell half the love or half the sorrow they felt? Phebe's heart was full. How gladly would she have gone out with these dear children, even if she left behind her her little birth-place on the hills, if it had not been for Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle! "But they need me most," she said again and again to herself. "I stay, and must stay, for their sakes." As at length they said farewell to one another, Hilda clinging to her as a child clings to the mother it is about to leave, Phebe saw at a little distance Jean Merle himself, looking on. She could not be mistaken, though his sudden appearance there startled her; and he did not approach them, nor even address her when they were gone. For when her eyes, blinded with tears, lost sight of the outward-bound vessel amid the number of other craft passing up and down the river, and she turned to the spot where she had seen his gray head and sorrowful face he was no longer there. Alone and sad at heart, she made her way through the tumult of the landing-stage and drove back to the desolate home she had shared so long with those who were now altogether parted from her. CHAPTER XXX. QUITE ALONE. It was early in June, and the days were at the longest. Never before had Phebe found the daylight too long, but now it shone upon dismantled and disordered rooms, which reminded her too sharply of the separation and departure they indicated. The place was no longer a home: everything was gone which was made beautiful by association; and all that was left was simply the bare framework of a living habitation, articles that could be sold and scattered without regret. Her own studio was a scene of litter and confusion, amid which it would be impossible to work; and it was useless to set it in order, for at midsummer she would leave the house, now far too large and costly for her occupation. What was she to do with herself? Quite close at hand was the day when she would be absolutely homeless; but in the absorbing interest with which she had thrown herself into the affairs of those who were gone she had formed no plans for her own future. There was her profession, of course: that would give her employment, and bring in a larger income then she needed with her simple wants. But how was she to do without a home--she who most needed to fill a home with all the sweet charities of life? She had never felt before what it was to be altogether without ties of kinship to any fellow-being. This incompleteness in her lot had been perfectly filled up by her relationship with the whole family of the Seftons. She had found in them all that was required for the full development and exercise of her natural affections. But she had lost them. Death and the chance changes of life had taken them from her, and there was not one human creature in the world on whom she possessed the claim of being of the same blood. Phebe could not dwell amid the crowds of London with such a thought oppressing her. This heart-sickness and loneliness made the busy streets utterly distasteful to her. To be here, with millions around her, all strangers to her, was intolerable. There was her own little homestead, surrounded by familiar scenes, where she would seek rest and quiet before laying any plans for herself. She put her affairs into the hands of a house-agent, and set out alone upon her yearly visit to her farm, which until now Felix and Hilda had always shared. She stayed on her way to spend a night at Riversborough--her usual custom, that she might reach the unprepared home on the moors early in the day. But she would not prolong her stay; there was a fatigue and depression about her which she said could only be dispelled by the sweet fresh air of her native moorlands. "Felix and Hilda have been more to me than any words could tell," she said to Mr. Clifford and Jean Merle, "and now I have lost them I feel as if more than half my life was gone. I must get away by myself into my old home, where I began my life, and readjust it as well as I can. I shall do it best there with no one to distract me. You need not fear my wishing to be too long alone." "We ought to have let you go," answered Mr. Clifford. "Jean Merle said we ought to have let you go with them. But how could we part with you, Phebe?" "I should not have been happy," she said, sighing, "as long as you need me most--you two. And I owe all I am to Jean Merle himself." The little homely cottage with its thatched roof and small lattice windows was more welcome to her than any other dwelling could have been. Now her world had suffered such a change, it was pleasant to come here, where nothing had been altered since her childhood. Both within and without the old home was as unchanged as the beautiful outline of the hills surrounding it and the vast hollow of the sky above. Here she might live over again the past--the whole past. She was a woman, with a woman's sad experience of life; but there was much of the girl, even of the child, left in Phebe Marlowe still; and no spot on earth could have brought back her youth to her as this inheritance of hers. There was an unspoiled simplicity about her which neither time nor change could destroy--the childlikeness of one who had entered into the kingdom of heaven. It was a year since she had been here last, with Hilda in her first grief for her mother's death; and everywhere she found traces of Jean Merle's handiwork. The half-shaped blocks of wood, left unfinished for years in her father's workshop, were completed. The hawk hovering over its prey, which the dumb old wood-carver had begun as a symbol of the feeling of vengeance he could not give utterance to when brooding over Roland Sefton's crime, had been brought to a marvellous perfection by Jean Merle's practised hand, and it had been placed by him under the crucifix which old Marlowe had fastened in the window-frame, where the last rays of daylight fell upon the bowed head hidden by the crown of thorns. The first night that Phebe sat alone, on the old hearth, her eyes rested upon these until the daylight faded away, and the darkness shut them out from her sight. Had Jean Merle known what he did when he laid this emblem of vengeance beneath this symbol of perfect love and sacrifice? But after a few days, when she had visited every place of yearly pilgrimage, knitting up the slackened threads of memory, Phebe began to realize the terrible solitude of this isolated home of hers. To live again where no step passed by and no voice spoke to her, where not even the smoke of a household hearth floated up into the sky, was intolerable to her genial nature, which was only satisfied in helpful and pleasant human intercourse. The utter silence became irksome to her, as it had been in her girlhood; but even then she had possessed the companionship of her dumb father: now there was not only silence, but utter loneliness. The necessity of forming some definite plan for her future life became every day a more pressing obligation, whilst every day the needful exertion grew more painful to her. Until now she had met with no difficulty in deciding what she ought to do: her path of duty had been clearly traced for her. But there was neither call of duty now nor any strong inclination to lead her to choose one thing more than another. All whom she loved had gone from London, and this small solitary home had grown all too narrow in its occupations to satisfy her nature. Mr. Clifford himself did not need her constant companionship as he would have done if Jean Merle had not been living with him. She was perfectly free to do what she pleased and go where she pleased, but to no human being could such freedom be more oppressive than to Phebe Marlowe. She had sauntered out one evening, ankle-deep among the heather, aimless in her wanderings, and a little dejected in spirits. For the long summer day had been hot even up here on the hills, and a dull film had hidden the landscape from her eyes, shutting her in upon herself and her disquieting thoughts. "We are always happy when we can see far enough," says Emerson; but Phebe's horizon was all dim and overcast. She could see no distant and clear sky-line. The sight of Jean Merle's figure coming towards her through the dull haziness brought a quick throb to her pulse, and she ran down the rough wagon track to meet him. "A letter from Felix," he called out before she reached him. "I came out with it because you could not have it before post-time to-morrow, and I am longing to have news of him and of Hilda." They walked slowly back to the cottage, side by side, reading the letter together; for Felix could have nothing to say to Phebe which his father might not see. There was nothing of importance in it; only a brief journal dispatched by a homeward-bound vessel which had crossed the path of their steamer, but every word was read with deep and silent interest, neither of them speaking till they had read the last line. "And now you will have tea with me," said Phebe joyfully. He entered the little kitchen, so dark and cool to him after his sultry walk up the steep, long lanes, and sat watching her absently, yet with a pleasant consciousness of her presence, as she kindled her fire of dry furze and wood, and hung a little kettle to it by a chain hooked to a staple in the chimney, and arranged her curious old china, picked up long years ago by her father at village sales, upon the quaintly carved table set in the coolest spot of the dusky room. There was an air of simple busy gladness in her face and in every quick yet graceful movement that was inexpressibly charming to him. Maybe both of them glanced back at the dark past when Roland Sefton had been watching her with despairing eyes, yet neither of them spoke of it. That life was dead and buried. The present was altogether different. Yet the meal was a silent one, and as soon as it was finished they went out again on to the hazy moorland. "Are you quite rested yet, Phebe?" asked Jean Merle. "Quite," she answered, with unconscious emphasis. "And you have settled upon some plan for the future?" he said. "No," she replied; "I am altogether at a loss. There is no one in all the world who has a claim upon me, or whom I have a claim upon; no one to say to me 'Go' or 'Come.' When the world is all before you and it is an empty world, it is difficult to choose which way you will take in it." She had paused as she spoke; but now they walked on again in silence, Jean Merle looking down on her sweet yet somewhat sad face with attentive eyes. How little changed she was from the simple, faithful-hearted girl he had known long ago! There was the same candid and thoughtful expression on her face, and the same serene light in her blue eyes, as when she stood beside him, a little girl, patiently yet earnestly mastering the first difficulties of reading. There was no one in the wide world whom he knew as perfectly as he knew her; no one in the wide world who knew him as perfectly as she did. "Tell me, Phebe," he said gravely, "is it possible that you have lived so long and that no man has found out what a priceless treasure you might be to him?" "No one," she answered, with a little tremor in her voice; "only Simon Nixey," she added, laughing, as she thought of his perseverance from year to year. Jean Merle stopped and laid his hand on Phebe's arm. "Will you be my wife?" he asked. The brief question escaped him before he was aware of it. It was as utterly new to him as it was to her; yet the moment it was uttered he felt how much the happiness of his life depended upon it. Without her all the future would be dreary and lonely for him. With her--Jean Merle did not dare to think of the gladness that might yet be his. "No, no," cried Phebe, looking up into his face furrowed with deep lines; "it is impossible! You ought not to ask me." "Why?" he said. She did not move or take away her eyes from his face. A rush of sad memories and associations was sweeping across her troubled heart. She saw him as he had been long ago, so far above her that it had seemed an honor to her to do him the meanest service. She thought of Felicita in her unapproachable loveliness and stateliness; and of their home, so full to her of exquisite refinement and luxury. In the true humility of her nature she had looked up to them as far above her, dwelling on a height to which she made no claim. And this dethroned king of her early days was a king yet, though he stood before her as Jean Merle, still fast bound in the chains his sins had riveted about him. "I am utterly unworthy of you," he said; "but let me justify myself if I can. I had no thought of asking you such a question when I came up here. But you spoke mournfully of your loneliness; and I, too, am lonely, with no human being on whom I have any claim. It is so by my own sin. But you, at least, have friends; and in a year or two, when my last friend, Mr. Clifford, dies, you will go out to them, to my children, whom I have forfeited and lost forever. There is no tie to bind me closely to my kind. I am older than you--poorer; a dishonor to my father's house! Yet for an instant I fancied you might learn to love me, and no one but you can ever know me for what I am; only your faithful heart possesses my secret. Forgive me, Phebe, and forget it if you can." "I never can forget it," she answered, with a low sob. "Then I have done you a wrong," he went on; "for we were friends, were we not? And you will never again be at home with me as you have hitherto been. I was no more worthy of your friendship than of your love, and I have lost both." "No, no," she cried, in a broken voice. "I never thought--it seems impossible. But, oh! I love you. I have never loved any one like you. Only it seems impossible that you should wish me to be your wife." "Cannot you see what you will be to me," he said passionately. "It will be like reaching home after a weary exile; like finding a fountain of living waters after crossing a burning wilderness. I ought not to ask it of you, Phebe. But what man could doom himself to endless thirst and exile! If you love me so much that you do not see how unworthy I am of you, I cannot give you up again. You are all the world to me." "But I am only Phebe Marlowe," she said, still doubtfully. "And I am only Jean Merle," he replied. Phebe walked down the old familiar lanes with Jean Merle, and returned to the moorlands alone whilst the sun was still above the horizon. But a soft west wind had risen, and the hazy heat was gone. She could see the sun sinking low behind Riversborough, and its tall spires glistened in the level rays, while the fine cloud of smoke hanging over it this summer evening was tinged with gold. Her future home lay there, under the shadow of those spires, and beneath the soft, floating veil ascending from a thousand hearths. The home Roland Sefton had forfeited and Felicita had forsaken had become hers. There was deep sadness mingled with the strange, unanticipated happiness of the present hour; and Phebe did not seek to put it away from her heart. CHAPTER XXXI. LAST WORDS. Nothing could have delighted Mr. Clifford so much as a marriage between Jean Merle and Phebe Marlowe. The thought of it had more than once crossed his mind, but he had not dared to cherish it as a hope. When Jean Merle told him that night how Phebe had consented to become his wife, the old man's gladness knew no bounds. "She is as dear to me as my own daughter," he said, in tremulous accents; "and now at last I shall have her under the same roof with me. I shall never be awake in the night again, fearing lest I should miss her on my death-bed. I should like Phebe to hold my hand in hers as long as I am conscious of anything in this world. All the remaining years of my life I shall have you and her with me as my children. God is very good to me." But to Felix and Hilda it was a vexation and a surprise to hear that their Phebe Marlowe, so exclusively their own, was no longer to belong only to them. They could not tell, as none of us can tell with regard to our friends' marriages, what she could see in that man to make her willing to give herself to him. They never cordially forgave Jean Merle, though in the course of the following years he lavished upon them magnificent gifts. For once more he became a wealthy man, and stood high in the estimation of his fellow-townsmen. Upon his marriage with Phebe, at Mr. Clifford's request, he exchanged his foreign surname for the old English name of Marlowe, and was made the manager of the Old Bank. Some years later, when Mr. Clifford died, all his property, including his interest in the banking business, was left to John Marlowe. No parents could have been more watchful over the interests of absent children than he and Phebe were in the welfare of Felix and Hilda. But they could never quite reconcile themselves to this marriage. They had quitted England with no intention of dwelling here again, but they felt that Phebe's shortcoming in her attachment to them made their old country less attractive to them. She had severed the last link that bound them to it. Possibly, in the course of years, they might visit their old home; but it would never seem the same to them. Canon Pascal alone rejoiced cordially in the marriage, though feeling that there was some secret and mystery in it, which was to be kept from him as from all the world. Jean Merle, after his long and bitter exile, was at home again; after crossing a thirsty and burning wilderness, he had found a spring of living water. Yet whilst he thanked God and felt his love for Phebe growing and strengthening daily, there were times when in brief intervals of utter loneliness of spirit the long-buried past arose again and cried to him with sorrowful voice amid the tranquil happiness of the present. The children who called Phebe mother looked up into his face with eyes like those of the little son and daughter whom he had once forsaken, and their voices at play in the garden sounded like the echo of those beloved voices that had first stirred his heart to its depths. The quiet room where Felicita had been wont to shut herself in with her books and her writings remained empty and desolate amid the joyous occupancy of the old house, where little feet pattered everywhere except across that sacred threshold. It was never crossed but by Phebe and himself. Sometimes they entered it together, but oftener he went there alone, when his heart was heavy and his trust in God darkened. For there were times when Jean Merle had to pass through deep waters; when the sense of forgiveness forsook him and the light of God's countenance was withdrawn. He had sinned greatly and suffered greatly. He loved as he might never otherwise have loved the Lord, whose disciple he professed to be; yet still there were seasons of bitter remembrance for him, and of vain regrets over the irrevocable past. It was no part of Phebe's nature to inquire jealously if her husband loved her as much as she loved him. She knew that in this as in all other things "it is more blessed to give than to receive." She felt for him a perfectly unselfish and faithful tenderness, satisfied that she made him happier than he could have been in any other way. No one else in the world knew him as she knew him; Felicita herself could never have been to him what she was. When she saw his grave face sadder than usual she had but to sit beside him with her hand in his, bringing to him the solace of her silent and tranquil sympathy; and by and by the sadness fled. This true heart of hers, that knew all and loved him in spite of all, was to him a sure token of the love of God. THE END. 
42125	----	[Illustration: _Frontispiece._ _Her face turned towards the window._] ARMOREL OF LYONESSE A Romance of To-day BY WALTER BESANT AUTHOR OF 'ALL SORTS AND CONDITIONS OF MEN' [Illustration] A NEW EDITION _WITH TWELVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY FRED. BARNARD_ London CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1891 _The Illustrations to this Story are reproduced by kind permission of the Proprietors of 'The Illustrated London News'_ CONTENTS _PART I._ CHAPTER PAGE I. THE CHILD OF SAMSON 1 II. PRESENTED BY THE SEA 11 III. IN THE BAR PARLOUR 17 IV. THE GOLDEN TORQUE 23 V. THE ENCHANTED ISLAND 35 VI. THE FLOWER-FARM 45 VII. A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY 56 VIII. THE VOYAGERS 62 IX. THE LAST DAY BUT ONE 69 X. MR. FLETCHER RETURNS FOR HIS BAG 80 XI. ROLAND'S LETTER 86 XII. THE CHANGE 91 XIII. ARMOREL'S INHERITANCE 95 _PART II._ I. SWEET COZ 115 II. THE SONATA 122 III. THE CLEVEREST MAN IN LONDON 127 IV. MASTER OF ALL THE ARTS 134 V. ONLY A SIMPLE SERVICE 139 VI. THE OTHER STUDIO 148 VII. A CANDID OPINION 153 VIII. ALL ABOUT MYSELF 160 IX. TO MAKE HIM HAPPY 166 X. THE SECRET OF THE TWO PICTURES 173 XI. A CRITIC ON TRUTH 178 XII. TO MAKE THAT PROMISE SURE 186 XIII. THE DRAMATIST 192 XIV. AN HONOURABLE PROPOSAL 198 XV. NOT TWO MEN, BUT ONE 201 XVI. THE PLAY AND THE COMEDY 205 XVII. THE NATIONAL GALLERY 217 XVIII. CONGRATULATIONS 223 XIX. WHAT NEXT? 229 XX. A RECOVERY AND A FLIGHT 235 XXI. ALL LOST BUT---- 242 XXII. THE END OF WORLDLY TROUBLES 254 XXIII. THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH 264 XXIV. THE CUP AND THE LIP 267 XXV. TO FORGET IT ALL 280 XXVI. NOT THE HEIR, AFTER ALL 288 XXVII. THE DESERT ISLAND 292 XXVIII. AT HOME 299 XXIX. THE TRESPASS OFFERING 306 ARMOREL OF LYONESSE _PART I_ CHAPTER I THE CHILD OF SAMSON It was the evening of a fine September day. Through the square window, built out so as to form another room almost as large as that which had been thus enlarged, the autumn sun, now fast declining to the west, poured in warm and strong; but not too warm or too strong for the girl on whose head it fell as she sat leaning back in the low chair, her face turned towards the window. The sun of Scilly is never too fierce or too burning in summer, nor in winter does it ever lose its force; in July, when the people of the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland venture not forth into the glare of the sun, here the soft sea mists and the strong sea air temper the heat; and in December the sun still shines with a lingering warmth, as if he loved the place. This girl lived in the sunshine all the year round; rowed in it; lay in it; basked in it bare-headed, summer and winter; in the winter she would sit sheltered from the wind in some warm corner of the rocks; in summer she would lie on the hillside or stand upon the high headlands and the sea-beat crags, while the breezes, which in the Land of Lyonesse do never cease, played with her long tresses and kept her soft cheek cool. The window was wide open on all three sides; the girl had been doing some kind of work, but it had dropped from her hands, and now lay unregarded on the floor; she was gazing upon the scene before her, but with the accustomed eyes which looked out upon it every day. A girl who has such a picture continually before her all day long never tires of it, though she may not be always consciously considering it and praising it. The stranger, for his part, cannot choose but cry aloud for admiration; but the native, who knows it as no stranger can, is silent. The house, half-way up the low hill, looked out upon the south--to be exact, its aspect was S. W. by S.--so that from this window the girl saw always, stretched out at her feet, the ocean, now glowing in the golden sunshine of September. Had she been tall enough, she might even have seen the coast of South America, the nearest land in the far distance. Looking S. W., that is, she would have seen the broad mouth of Oroonooque and the shores of El Dorado. This broad sea-scape was broken exactly in the middle by the Bishop's Rock and its stately lighthouse rising tall and straight out of the water; on the left hand the low hill of Annet shut out the sea; and on the right Great Minalto, rugged and black, the white foam always playing round its foot or flying over its great black northern headland, bounded and framed the picture. Almost in the middle of the water, not more than two miles distant, a sailing ship, all sails set, made swift way, bound outward one knows not whither. Lovely at all times is a ship in full sail, but doubly lovely when she is seen from afar, sailing on a smooth sea, under a cloudless sky, the sun of afternoon lighting up her white sails. No other ships were in sight; there was not even the long line of smoke which proclaims the steamer below the horizon; there was not even a Penzance fishing-boat tacking slowly homewards with brown sails and its two masts: in this direction there was no other sign of man. The girl, I say, saw this sight every day: she never tired of it, partly because no one ever tires of the place in which he was born and has lived--not even an Arab of the Great Sandy Desert; partly because the sea, which has been called, by unobservant poets, unchanging, does in fact change--face, colour, mood, even shape--every day, and is never the same, except, perhaps, when the east wind of March covers the sky with a monotony of grey, and takes the colour out of the face of ocean as it takes the colour from the granite rocks, last year's brown and yellow fern, and the purple heath. To this girl, who lived with the sea around her, it always formed a setting, a background, a frame for her thoughts and dreams. Wherever she went, whatever she said or sang, or thought or did, there was always in her ears the lapping or the lashing of the waves; always before her eyes was the white surge flying over the rocks; always the tumbling waves. But, as for what she actually thought or what she dreamed, seeing how ignorant of the world she was, and how innocent and how young, and as for what was passing in her mind this afternoon as she sat at the window, I know not. On the first consideration of the thing, one would be inclined to ask how, without knowledge, can a girl think, or imagine, or dream anything? On further thought, one understands that knowledge has very little to do with dreams or fancies. Yet, with or without knowledge, no poet, sacred bard, or prophet has ever been able to divine the thoughts of a girl, or to interpret them, or even to set them down in consecutive language. I suppose they are not, in truth, thoughts. Thought implies reasoning and the connection of facts, and the experience of life as far as it has gone. A young maiden's mind is full of dimly seen shadows and pallid ghosts which flit across the brain and disappear. These shadows have the semblance of shape, but it is dim and uncertain: they have the pretence of colour, but it changes every moment: if they seem to show a face, it vanishes immediately and is forgotten. Yet these shadows smile upon the young with kindly eyes; they beckon with their fingers, and point to where, low down on the horizon, with cloudy outline, lies the Purple Island--to such a girl as this the future is always a small island girt by the sea, far off and lonely. The shadows whisper to her; they sing to her; but no girl has ever yet told us--even if she understands--what it is they tell her. She had been lying there, quiet and motionless, for an hour or more, ever since the tea-things had been taken away--at Holy Hill they have tea at half-past four. The ancient lady who was in the room with her had fallen back again into the slumber which held her nearly all day long as well as all the night. The house seemed thoroughly wrapped and lapped in the softest peace and stillness; in one corner a high clock, wooden-cased, swung its brass pendulum behind a pane of glass with solemn and sonorous chronicle of the moments, so that they seemed to march rather than to fly. A clock ought not to tick as if Father Time were hurried and driven along without dignity and by a scourge. This clock, for one, was not in a hurry. Its tick showed that Time rests not--but hastes not. There is admonition in such a clock. When it has no one to admonish but a girl whose work depends on her own sweet will, its voice might seem thrown away; yet one never knows the worth of an admonition. Besides, the clock suited the place and the room. Where should Time march with solemn step and slow, if not on the quiet island of Samson, in the archipelago of Scilly? On its face was written the name of its maker, plain for all the world to see--'Peter Trevellick, Penzance, A.D. 1741.' The room was not ceiled, but showed the dark joists and beams above, once painted, but a long time ago. The walls were wainscotted and painted drab, after an old fashion now gone out: within the panels hung coloured prints, which must have been there since the beginning of this century. They represented rural subjects--the farmer sitting before a sirloin of beef, while his wife, a cheerful nymph, brought him 'Brown George,' foaming with her best home-brewed; the children hung about his knees expectant of morsels; or the rustic bade farewell to his sweetheart, the recruiting-sergeant waiting for him, and the villagers, to a woman, bathed in tears. There were half a dozen of those compositions simply coloured. I believe they are now worth much money. But there were many other things in this room worth money. Opposite the fireplace stood a cabinet of carved oak, black with age, precious beyond price. Behind its glass windows one could see a collection of things once strange and rare--things which used to be brought home by sailors long before steamers ploughed every ocean and globe-trotters trotted over every land. There were wonderful things in coral, white and red and pink; Venus's-fingers from the Philippines; fans from the Seychelles; stuffed birds of wondrous hue, daggers and knives, carven tomahawks, ivory toys, and many other wonders from the far East and fabulous Cathay. Beside the cabinet was a wooden desk, carved in mahogany, with a date of 1645, said to have been brought to the islands by one of the Royalist prisoners whom Cromwell hanged upon the highest carn of Hangman's Island. There was no escaping Cromwell--not even in Scilly any more than in Jamaica. In one corner was a cupboard, the door standing open. No collector ever came here to gaze upon the treasures unspeakable of cups and saucers, plates and punch-bowls. On the mantelshelf were brass candlesticks and silver candlesticks, side by side with 'ornaments' of china, pink and gold, belonging to the artistic reign of good King George the Fourth. On the hearthrug before the fire, which was always burning in this room all the year round, lay an old dog sleeping. Everybody knows the feeling of a room or a house belonging to the old. Even if the windows are kept open, the air is always close. Rest, a gentle, elderly angel, sits in the least frequented room with folded wings. Sleep is always coming to the doors at all hours: for the sake of Rest and Sleep the house must be kept very quiet: nobody must ever laugh in the house: there is none of the litter that children make: nothing is out of its place: nothing is disturbed: the furniture is old-fashioned and formal: the curtains are old and faded: the carpets are old, faded, and worn: it is always evening: everything belonging to the house has done its work: all together, like the tenant, are sitting still--solemn, hushed, at rest, waiting for the approaching end. The only young thing at Holy Hill was the girl at the window. Everything else was old--the servants, the farm labourers, the house and the furniture. In the great hooded arm-chair beside the fire reposed the proprietor, tenant, or owner of all. She was the oldest and most venerable dame ever seen. At this time she was asleep: her head had dropped forward a little, but not much; her eyes were closed; her hands were folded in her lap. She was now so very ancient that she never left her chair except for her bed; also, by reason of her great antiquity, she now passed most of the day in sleep, partly awake in the morning, when she gazed about and asked questions of the day. But sometimes, as you will presently see, she revived again in the evening, became lively and talkative, and suffered her memory to return to the ancient days. By the assistance of her handmaidens, this venerable lady was enabled to present an appearance both picturesque and pleasing, chiefly because it carried the imagination back to a period so very remote. To begin with, she wore her bonnet all day long. Fifty years ago it was not uncommon in country places to find very old ladies who wore their bonnets all day long. Ursula Rosevean, however, was the last who still preserved that ancient custom. It was a large bonnet that she wore, a kind of bonnet calculated to impress very deeply the imagination of one--whether male or female--who saw it for the first time: it was of bold design, as capacious as a store-ship, as flowing in its lines as an old man-of-war--inspired to a certain extent by the fashions of the Waterloo period--yet, in great part, of independent design. Those few who were permitted to gaze upon the bonnet beheld it reverently. Within the bonnet an adroit arrangement of cap and ribbons concealed whatever of baldness or exiguity as to locks--but what does one know? Venus Calva has never been worshipped by men; and women only pay their tribute at her shrine from fear--never from love. The face of the sleeping lady reminded one--at first, vaguely--of history. Presently one perceived that it was the identical face which that dread occidental star, Queen Elizabeth herself, would have assumed had she lived to the age of ninety-five, which was Ursula's time of life in the year 1884. For it was an aquiline face, thin and sharp; and if her eyes had been open you would have remarked that they were bright and piercing, also like those of the Tudor Queen. Her cheek still preserved something of the colour which had once made it beautiful; but cheek and forehead alike were covered with lines innumerable, and her withered hands seemed to have grown too small for their natural glove. She was dressed in black silk, and wore a gold chain about her neck. The clock struck half-past five, melodiously. Then the girl started and sat upright--as awakened out of her dream. 'Armorel,' it seemed to say--nay, since it seemed to say, it actually did say--'Child Armorel, I am old and wise. For a hundred and forty-three years, ever since I left the hands of the ingenious Peter Trevellick, of Penzance, in the year 1741, I have been counting the moments, never ceasing save at those periods when surgical operations have been necessary. In each year there are 31,536,000 moments. Judge, therefore, for yourself how many moments in all I have counted. I must, you will own, be very wise indeed. I am older even than your great-great-grandmother. I remember her a baby first, and then a pretty child, and then a beautiful woman, for all she is now so worn and wizened. I remember her father and her grandfather. Also her brothers and her son, and her grandson--and your own father, dear Armorel. The moments pass: they never cease: I tell them as they go. You have but short space to do all you wish to do. You, child, have done nothing at all yet. But the moments pass. Patience. For you, too, work will be found. Youth passes. You can hear it pass. I tell the moments in which it melts away and vanishes. Age itself shall pass. You may listen if you please. I tell the moments in which it slowly passes.' Armorel looked at the clock with serious eyes during the delivery of this fine sermon, the whole bearing of which she did not perhaps comprehend. Then she started up suddenly and sprang to her feet, stung by a sudden pang of restlessness, with a quick breath and a sigh. We who have passed the noon of life are apt to forget the disease of restlessness to which youth is prone: it is an affection which greatly troubles that period of life, though it should be the happiest and the most contented; it is a disorder due to anticipation, impatience, and inexperience. The voyage is all before: youth is eager to be sailing on that unknown ocean full of strange islands. Who would not be restless with such a journey before one and such discoveries to make? Armorel opened the door noiselessly, and slipped out. At the same moment the old dog awoke and crept out with her, going delicately and on tiptoe, lest he should awaken the ancient lady. In the hall outside the girl stood listening. The house was quite silent, save that from the kitchen there was wafted on the air a soft droning--gentle, melodious, and murmurous, like the contented booming of a bumble-bee among the figwort. Armorel laughed gently. 'Oh!' she murmured, 'they are all asleep. Grandmother is asleep in the parlour; Dorcas and Chessun are asleep in the kitchen; Justinian is asleep in the cottage; and I suppose the boy is asleep somewhere in the farmyard.' The girl led the way, and the dog followed. She passed through the door into the garden of the front. It was not exactly a well-ordered garden, because everything seemed to grow as it pleased; but then in Samson you have not to coax flowers and plants into growing: they grow because it pleases them to grow: this is the reason why they grow so tall and so fast. The garden faced the south-west, and was protected from the north and east by the house itself and by a high stone wall. There is not anywhere on the island a warmer and sunnier corner than this little front garden of Holy Hill. The geranium clambered up the walls beside and among the branches of the tree-fuchsia, both together covering the front of the house with the rich colouring of their flowers. On either side of the door grew a great tree, with gnarled trunk and twisted branches, of lemon verbena, fragrant and sweet, perfuming the air; the myrtles were like unto trees for size; the very marguerites ran to timber of the smaller kind; the pampas-grass in the warmest corner rose eight feet high, waving its long silver plumes; the tall stalk still stood which had borne the flowers of an aloe that very summer; the leaves of the plant itself were slowly dying away, their life-work, which is nothing at all but the production of that one flowering stem, finished. That done, the world has no more attractions for the aloe: it is content--it slowly dies away. And in the front of the garden was a row of tall dracæna palms. An old ship's figure-head, thrown ashore after a wreck, representing the head and bust of a beautiful maiden, gilded, but with a good deal of the gilt rubbed off, stood on the left hand of the garden, half hidden by another fuchsia-tree in flower: and a huge old-fashioned ship's lantern hung from an iron bar projecting over the door of the house. The house itself was of stone, with a roof of small slates. Impossible to say how old it was, because in this land stone-work ages rapidly, and soon becomes covered with yellow and orange lichen, while in the interstices there grows the grey sandwort; and in the soft sea air and the damp sea mists the sharp edges even of granite are quickly rounded off and crumbled. But it was a very old house, save for the square projecting window, which had been added recently--say thirty or forty years ago--a long, low house of two storeys, simply built; it stands half-way up the hill which slopes down to the water's edge; it is protected from the north and north-east winds, which are the deadliest enemies to Scilly, partly by the hill behind and partly by a spur of grey rock running like an ancient Cyclopean wall down the whole face of the hill into the sea, where for many a fathom it sticks out black teeth, round which the white surge rises and tumbles, even in the calmest time. Beyond the garden-wall--why they wanted a garden-wall I know not, except for the pride and dignity of the thing--was a narrow green, with a little, a very little, pond; in the pond there were ducks; and beside the green was a small farmyard, containing everything that a farmyard should contain, except a stable. It had no stable, because there are no horses or carts upon the island. Pigs there are, and cows; fowls there are, and ducks and geese, and a single donkey for the purpose of carrying the flower-baskets from the farm to the landing-place; but neither horse nor cart. Beyond the farmyard was a cottage, exactly like the house, but smaller. It was thatched, and on the thatch grew clumps of samphire. This was the abode of Justinian Tryeth, bailiff, head man, or foreman, who managed the farm. When you have named Ursula Rosevean, and Armorel, her great-great-granddaughter, and Justinian Tryeth, and Dorcas his wife--she was a native of St. Agnes, and therefore a Hicks by birth--Peter his son, and Chessun his daughter, you have a complete directory of the island, because nobody else now lives on Samson. Formerly, however, and almost within the memory of the oldest inhabitant, according to the computation of antiquaries and the voice of tradition, this island maintained a population of over two score. The hill which rises behind the house is the southern hill of the two, which, with the broad valley between them, make up the island of Samson. This hill slopes steeply seaward to south and west. It is not a lofty hill, by any means. In Scilly there are no lofty hills. When Nature addressed herself to the construction of this archipelago she brought to the task a light touch: at the moment she happened to be full of feeling for the great and artistic effects which may be produced by small elevations, especially in those places where the material is granite. Therefore, though she raised no Alpine peak in Scilly, she provided great abundance and any variety of bold coast-line with rugged cliffs, lofty carns, and headlands piled with rocks. And her success as an artist in this _genre_ has been undoubtedly wonderful. The actual measurement of Holy Hill, Samson--but why should we measure?--has been taken, for the admiration of the world, by the Ordnance Survey. It is really no more than a hundred and thirty-two feet--not a foot more or less. But then one knows hills ten times that height--the Herefordshire Beacon, for example--which are not half so mountainous in the effect produced. Only a hundred and thirty-two feet--yet on its summit one feels the exhilaration of spirits caused by the air, elsewhere of five thousand feet at least. On its southern and western slopes lie the fields which form the flower-farm of Holy Hill. Below the farmyard the ground sloped more steeply to the water: the slope was covered with short heather fern, now brown and yellow, and long trailing branches of bramble, now laden with ripe blackberries, the leaves enriched with blazon of gold and purple and crimson. Armorel ran across the green and plunged among the fern, tossing her arms and singing aloud, the old dog trotting and jumping, but with less elasticity, beside her. She was bare-headed; the sunshine made her dark cheeks ruddy and caused her black eyes to glow. Hebe, young and strong, loves Phoebus, and fears not any freckles. When she came to the water's edge, where the boulders lie piled in a broken mass among and above the water, she stood still and looked across the sea, silent for a moment. Then she began to sing in a strong contralto; but no one could hear her, not even the coastguard on Telegraph Hill, or he of the Star Fort: the song she sang was one taught her by the old lady, who had sung it herself in the old, old days, when the road was always filled with merchantmen waiting for convoy up the Channel, and when the islands were rich with the trade of the ships, and their piloting, and their wrecks--to say nothing of the free trade which went on gallantly and without break or stop. As she sang she lifted her arms and swung them in slow cadence, as a Nautch-girl sometimes swings her arms. What she sang was none other than the old song-- Early one morning, just as the sun was rising, I heard a maid sing in the valley below: Oh! don't deceive me. Oh! never leave me. How could you use a poor maiden so? In the year of grace 1884 Armorel was fifteen years of age. But she looked nineteen or twenty, because she was so tall and so well-grown. She was dressed simply in a blue flannel; the straw hat which she carried in her hand was trimmed with red ribbons; at her throat she had stuck a red verbena--she naturally took to red, because her complexion was so dark. Black hair; black eyes; a strongly marked brow; a dark cheek of warm and ruddy hue; the lips full, but the mouth finely curved; features large but regular--she was already, though so young, a tall and handsome woman. Those able to understand things would recognise in her dark complexion, in her carriage, in her eyes, and in her upright figure, the true Castilian touch. The gipsy is swarthy; the negro is black; the mulatto is dusky: it is not the colour alone, but the figure and the carriage also, which mark the Spanish blood. A noble Spanish lady; yet how could she get to Samson? She wore no gloves--you cannot buy gloves in Samson--and her hands were brown with exposure to sea and sun, to wind and rain: they were by no means tiny hands, but strong and capable hands; her arms--no one ever saw them, but for shape and whiteness they could not be matched--would have disgraced no young fellow of her own age for strength and muscle. That was fairly to be expected in one who continually sailed and rowed across the inland seas of this archipelago; who went to church by boat and to market by boat; who paid her visits by boat and transacted her business by boat, and went by boat to do her shopping. She who rows every day upon the salt water, and knows how to manage a sail when the breeze is strong and the Atlantic surge rolls over the rocks and roughens the still water of the road, must needs be strong and sound. For my own part, I admire not the fragile maiden so much as her who rejoices in her strength. Youth, in woman as well as in man, should be brave and lusty; clean of limb as well as of heart; strong of arm as well as of will; enduring hardness of voluntary labour as well as hardness of involuntary pain; with feet that can walk, run, and climb, and with hands that can hold on. Such a girl as Armorel--so tall, so strong, so healthy--offers, methinks, a home ready-made for all the virtues, and especially the virtues feminine, to house themselves therein. Here they will remain, growing stronger every day, until at last they have become part and parcel of the very girl herself, and cannot be parted from her. Whereas, when they visit the puny creature, weak, timid, delicate--but no--'tis better to remain silent. How many times had the girl wandered, morning or afternoon, down the rough face of the hill, and stood looking vaguely out to sea, and presently returned home again? How many such walks had she taken and forgotten? For a hundred times--yea, a thousand times--we do over and over again the old familiar action, the little piece of the day's routine, and forget it when we lie down to sleep. But there comes the thousandth time, when the same thing is done again in the same way, yet is never to be forgotten. For on that day happens the thing which changes and charges a whole life. It is the first of many days. It is the beginning of new days. From it, whatever may have happened before, everything shall now be dated until the end. Mohammed lived many years, but all the things that happened unto him or his successors are dated from the Flight. Is it for nothing that it has been told what things Armorel did and how she looked on this day? Not so, but for the sake of what happened afterwards, and because the history of Armorel begins with this restless fit, which drove her out of the quiet room down the hillside to the sea. Her history begins, like every history of a woman worth relating, with the man cast by the sea upon the shores of her island. The maiden always lives upon an island, and whether the man is cast upon the shore by the sea of Society, or the sea of travel, or the sea of accident, or the sea of adventure, or the sea of briny waves and roaring winds and jagged rocks, matters little. To Armorel it was the last. To you, dear Dorothy or Violet, it will doubtless be by the sea of Society. And the day that casts him before your feet will ever after begin a new period in your reckoning. Armorel stopped her song as suddenly as she had begun it. She stopped because on the water below her, not far from the shore, she saw a strange thing. She had good sea eyes--an ordinary telescope does not afford a field of vision much larger or clearer across water than Armorel's eyes--but the thing was so strange that she shaded her forehead with her hand, and looked more curiously. It would be strange on any evening, even after the calmest day of summer, when the sun is setting low, to see a small boat going out beyond Samson towards the Western Islets. There the swell of ocean is always rolling among the rocks and round the crags and headlands of the isles. Only in calm weather and in broad daylight can the boatman who knows the place venture in those waters. Not even the most skilled boatman would steer for the Outer Islands at sunset. For there are hidden rocks, long ridges of teeth that run out from the islands to tear and grind to powder any boat that should be caught in their devouring jaws. There are currents also which run swiftly and unexpectedly between the islands to sweep the boat along with them till it shall strike the rocks and so go down with any who are abroad; and there are strong gusts which sweep round the headlands and blow through the narrow sounds. So that it is only when the day is calm and in the full light of the sun that a boat can sail among these islands. Yet Armorel saw a boat on the water, not half a mile from Samson, with two men on board. More than this, the boat was apparently without oars or sails, and it was drifting out to sea. What did this mean? She looked and wondered. She looked again, and she remembered. The tide was ebbing, the boat was floating out with the tide; the breeze had dropped, but there was still something left--what there was came from the south-east and helped the boat along; there was not much sea, but the feet of Great Minalto were white, and the white foam kept leaping up the sides, and on her right, over the ledges round White Island, the water was tearing and boiling, a white and angry heap. Why, the wind was getting up, and the sun was setting, and if they did not begin to row back as hard as they could, and that soon, they would be out to sea and in the dark. She looked again, and she thought more. The sinking sun fell upon the boat, and lit it up so plainly that she could now see very well two things. First, that the boat was really without any oars or sails at all; and next, that the two men in her were not natives of Scilly. She could not discern their faces, but she could tell by their appearance and the way they sat in the boat that they were not men of the place. Besides, what would an islander want out in a boat at such a time and in such a place? They were, therefore, visitors; and by the quiet way in which they sat, as if it mattered not at all, it was perfectly plain that they understood little or nothing of their danger. Again she considered, and now it became certain to her, looking down upon the boat, that the current was not taking her out to sea at all, which would be dangerous enough, but actually straight on the ridge or ledge of rocks lying off the south-west of White Island. Then, seized with sudden terror, she turned and fled back to the farm. CHAPTER II PRESENTED BY THE SEA 'Peter!' cried Armorel in the farmyard. 'Peter! Peter! Wake up! Where is the boy? Wake up and come quick!' The boy was not sleeping, however, and came forth slowly, but obediently, in rustic fashion. He was a little older than most of those who still permit themselves to be called boys: unless his looks deceived one, he was a great deal older, for he was entirely bald, save for a few long, scattered hairs, which were white. His beard and whiskers also consisted of nothing but a few sparse white hairs. He moved heavily, without the spring of boyhood in his feet. Had Peter jumped or run, one might in haste have inferred a condition of drink or mental disorder. As for his shoulders, too, they were rounded, as if by the weight of years--a thing which is rarely seen in boys. Yet Armorel called this antique person 'the boy,' and he answered to the name without remonstrance. 'Quick, Peter!' she cried. 'There's a boat drifting on White Island Ledge, and the tide's running out strong; and there are two men in her, and they've got no oars in the boat. Ignorant trippers, I suppose! They will both be killed to a certainty, unless---- Quick!' Peter followed her flying footsteps with a show of haste and a movement of the legs approaching alacrity. But then he was always a slow boy, and one who loved to have his work done for him. Therefore, when he reached the landing-place, he found that Armorel was well before him, and that she had already shipped mast and sail and oars, and was waiting for him to shove off. Samson has two landing beaches, one on the north-east below Bryher Hill, and the other farther south, on the eastern side of the valley. There might be a third, better than either, on Porth Bay, if anyone desired to put off there, on the west side facing the other islands, where nobody has any business at all except to see the rocks or shoot wild birds. The beach used by the Holy Hill folk was the second of these two; here they kept their boats, and had their old stone boat-house to store the gear; and it was here that Armorel stood waiting for her companion. Peter was slow on land; at sea, however, he alone is slow who does not know what can be got out of a boat, and how it can be got. Peter did possess this knowledge; all the islanders, in fact, have it. They are born with it. They also know that nothing at sea is gained by hurry. It is a maxim which is said to rule or govern their conduct on land as well as afloat. Peter, therefore, when he had pushed off, sat down and took an oar with no more appearance of hurry than if he were taking a boat-load of boxes filled with flowers across to the port. Armorel took the other oar. 'They are drifting on White Island Ledge,' repeated Armorel; 'and the tide is running out fast.' Peter made no reply--Armorel expected none--but dipped his oar. They rowed in silence for ten minutes. Then Peter found utterance, and spoke slowly. 'Twenty years ago--I remember it well--a boat went ashore on that very Ledge. The tide was running out--strong, like to-night. There was three men in her--visitors they were, who wanted to save the boatman's pay. Their bodies was never found.' Then both pulled on in silence, and doggedly. In ten minutes or more they had rounded the Point at a respectful distance, for reasons well known to the navigator and the nautical surveyor of Scilly. Peter, without a word, shipped his oar. Armorel did likewise. Then Peter stepped the mast and hoisted the sail, keeping the line in his own hand, and looked ahead, while Armorel took the helm. 'It's Jinkins's boat,' said Peter, because they were now in sight of her. 'What'll Jinkins say when he hears that his boat's gone to pieces?' 'And the two men? Who are they? Will Jinkins say nothing about the men?' 'Strangers they are; gentlemen, I suppose. Well, if the breeze doesn't soon---- Ah, here it is!' The wind suddenly filled the sail. The boat heeled over under the breeze, and a moment after was flying through the water straight up the broad channel between the two Minaltos and Samson. The sun was very low now. Between them and the west lay the boat they were pursuing--a small black object, with two black silhouettes of figures clear against the crimson sky. And now Armorel perceived that they had by this time gotten an inkling, at least, of their danger, for they no longer sat passive, but had torn up a plank from the bottom, with which one, kneeling in the bows, was working as with a paddle, but without science. The boat yawed this way and that, but still kept on her course drifting to the rocks. 'If she touches the Ledge, Peter,' said Armorel, 'she will be in little bits in five minutes. The water is rushing over it like a mill-stream.' This she said ignorant of mill-streams, because there are none on Scilly; but the comparison served. 'If she touches,' Peter replied, 'we may just go home again. For we shall be no good to nobody.' Beyond the boat they could plainly see the waters breaking over the Ledge; the sun lit up the white foam that leaped and flew over the black rocks just showing their teeth above the water as the tide went down. Here is a problem--you may find plenty like it in every book of algebra. Given a boat drifting upon a ledge of rocks with the current and the tide; given a boat sailing in pursuit with a fair wind aft; given also the velocity of the current and the speed of the boat and the distance of the first boat from the rocks: at what distance must the second boat commence the race in order to catch up the first before it drives upon the rocks? This second boat, paying close attention to the problem, came up hand over hand, rapidly overtaking the first boat, where the two men not only understood at last the danger they were in, but also that an attempt was being made to save them. In fact, one of them, who had some tincture or flavour of the mathematics left in him from his school days, remembered the problems of this class, and would have given a great deal to have been back again in school working out one of them. Presently the boats were so near that Peter hailed, 'Boat ahoy! Back her! Back her! or you'll be upon the rocks. Back her all you know!' 'We've broken our oars,' they shouted. 'Keep her off!' Peter bawled again. Even with a plank taken from the bottom of the boat a practised boatman would have been able to keep her off long enough to clear the rocks; but these two young men were not used to the ways of the sea. 'Put up your hellum,' said Peter, quietly. 'What are you going to do?' The girl obeyed first, as one must do at sea, and asked the question afterwards. 'There's only one chance. We must cut across her bows. Two lubbers! They ought not to be trusted with a boat. There's plenty of room.' He looked at the Ledge ahead and at his own sail. 'Now--steady.' He tightened the rope, the boat changed her course. Then Peter stood up and called again, his hand to his mouth, 'Back her! Back her! Back her all you know!' He sat down and said quietly, 'Now, then--luff it is--luff--all you can.' The boat turned suddenly. It was high time. Right in front of them--only a few yards in front--the water rushed as if over a cascade, boiling and surging among the rocks. At high tide there would have been the calm, unruffled surface of the ocean swell; now there were roaring floods and swelling whirlpools. The girl looked round, but only for an instant. Then the boat crossed the bows of the other, and Armorel, as they passed, caught the rope that was held out to her. One moment more and they were off the rocks, in deep water, towing the other boat after them. Then Peter arose, lowered the sail, and took down his mast. 'Nothing,' he said, 'between us and Mincarlo. Now, gentlemen, if you will step into this boat we can tow yours along with us. So--take care, sir! Sit in the stern beside the young lady. Can you row, either of you?' They could both row, they said. In these days a man is as much ashamed of not being able to row as, fifty years ago, he was ashamed of not being able to ride. Peter took one oar and gave the other to the stranger nearest. Then, without more words, he dipped his oar and began to row back again. The sun went down, and it suddenly became cold. Armorel perceived that the man beside her was quite a young man--not more than one- or two-and-twenty. He wore brave attire--even a brown velvet jacket, a white waistcoat, and a crimson necktie; he also had a soft felt hat. Nature had not yet given him much beard, but what there was of it he wore pointed, with a light moustache so arranged as to show how it would be worn when it became of a respectable length. As he sat in the boat he seemed tall; and he did not look at all like one of the bawling and boastful trippers who sometimes come over to the islands for a night and pretend to know how to manage a boat. Yet---- 'What do you mean,' asked the girl, severely, 'by going out in a boat, when you ought to have known very well that you could not manage her?' 'We thought we could,' replied this disconcerted pretender, with meekness suitable to the occasion. Indeed, under such humiliating circumstances, Captain Parolles himself would become meek. 'If we had not seen you,' she continued, 'you would most certainly have been killed.' 'I begin to think we might. We should certainly have gone on those rocks. But there is an island close by. We could swim.' 'If your boat had touched those rocks you would have been dead in three minutes,' this maid of wisdom continued. 'Nothing could have saved you. No boat could have come near you. And to think of standing or swimming in that current and among those rocks! Oh! but you don't know Scilly.' 'No,' he replied, still with a meekness that disarmed wrath, 'I'm afraid not.' 'Tell me how it happened.' The other man struck in--he who was wielding the oar. He also was a young man, of shorter and more sturdy build than the other. Had he not, unfortunately, confined his whole attention in youth to football, he might have made a good boatman. Really, a young man whose appearance conveyed no information or suggestion at all about him except that he seemed healthy, active, and vigorous, and that he was presumably short-sighted, or he would not have worn spectacles. 'I will tell you how it came about,' he said. 'This man would go sketching the coast. I told him that the islands are so beautifully and benevolently built that every good bit has got another bit on the next island, or across a cove, or on the other side of a bay, put there on purpose for the finest view of the first bit. You only get that arrangement, you know, in the Isles of Scilly and the Isles of Greece. But he wouldn't be persuaded, and so we took a boat and went to sea, like the three merchants of Bristol city. We saw Jerusalem and Madagascar very well, and if you hadn't turned up in the nick of time I believe we should have seen the river Styx as well, with Cocytus very likely: good old Charon certainly: and Tantalus, too much punished--overdone--up to his neck.' Armorel heard, wondering what, in the name of goodness, this talker of strange language might mean. 'When his oar broke, you know,' the talker went on, 'I began to laugh, and so I caught a crab; and while I lay in the bottom laughing like Tom of Bedlam, my oar dropped overboard, and there we were. Five mortal hours we drifted; but we had tobacco and a flask, and we didn't mind so very much. Some boat, we thought, might pick us up.' 'Some boat!' echoed Armorel. 'And outside Samson!' 'As for the rocks, we never thought about them. Had we known of the rocks, we should not have laughed----' 'You have saved our lives,' said the young man in the velvet jacket. He had a soft sweet voice, which trembled a little as he spoke. And, indeed, it is a solemn thing to be rescued from certain death. 'Peter did it,' Armorel replied. 'You may thank Peter.' 'Let me thank you,' he said, softly and persuasively. 'The other man may thank Peter.' 'Just as you like. So long, that is, as you remember that it will have to be a lesson to you as long as you live never to go out in a boat without a man.' 'It shall be a lesson. I promise. And the man I go out with, next time, shall not be you, Dick.' 'Never,' she went on, enforcing the lesson, 'never go in a boat alone, unless you know the waters. Are you Plymouth trippers? But then Plymouth people generally know how to handle a boat.' 'We are from London.' In the twilight the blush caused by being taken for a Plymouth tripper was not perceived. 'I am an artist, and I came to sketch.' He said this with some slight emphasis and distinction. There must be no mistaking an artist from London for a Plymouth tripper. 'You must be hungry.' 'We are ravenous, but at this moment one can only feel that it is better to be hungry and alive than to be drowned and dead.' 'Oh!' she said, earnestly, 'you don't know how strong the water is. It would have thrown you down and rolled you over and over among the rocks, your head would have been knocked to pieces, your face would have been crushed out of shape, every bone would have been broken: Peter has seen them so.' 'Ay! ay!' said Peter. 'I've picked 'em up just so. You are well off those rocks, gentlemen.' Silence fell upon them. The twilight was deepening, the breeze was chill. Armorel felt that the young man beside her was shivering--perhaps with the cold. He looked across the dark water and gasped: 'We are coming up,' he said, 'out of the gates of death and the jaws of hell. Strange! to have been so near unto dying. Five minutes more, and there would have been an end, and two more men would have been created for no other purpose but to be drowned.' Armorel made no reply. The oars kept dipping, dipping, evenly and steadily. Across the waters on either hand flashed lights: St. Agnes and the Bishop from the south--they are white lights; and from the north the crimson splendour of Round Island: the wind was dropping, and there was a little phosphorescence on the water, which gleamed along the blade of the oar. In half an hour the boat rounded the new pier, and they were in the harbour of Hugh Town at the foot of the landing steps. 'Now,' said Armorel, 'you had better get home as fast as you can and have some supper.' 'Why,' cried the artist, realising the fact for the first time, 'you are bare-headed! You will kill yourself.' 'I am used to going about bare-headed. I shall come to no harm. Now go and get some food.' 'And you?' The young man stood on the stepping-stones ready to mount. 'We shall put up the sail and get back to Samson in twenty minutes. There is breeze enough for that.' 'Will you tell us,' said the artist, 'before you go--to whom we are indebted for our very lives?' 'My name is Armorel.' 'May we call upon you? To-night we are too bewildered. We cannot say what we ought and must say.' 'I live on Samson. What is your name?' 'My name is Roland Lee. My friend here is called Dick Stephenson.' 'You can come if you wish. I shall be glad to see you,' she corrected herself, thinking she had been inhospitable and ungracious. 'Am I to ask for Miss Armorel?' She laughed merrily. 'You will find no one to ask, I am afraid. Nobody else, you see, lives on Samson. When you land, just turn to the left, walk over the hill, and you will find the house on the other side. Samson is not so big that you can miss the house. Good-night, Roland Lee! Good-night, Dick Stephenson!' 'She's only a child,' said the young man called Dick, as he climbed painfully and fearfully up the dark and narrow steps, slippery with sea-weed and not even protected by an inner bar. 'I suppose it doesn't much matter since she's only a child. But I merely desire to point out that it's always the way. If there does happen to be an adventure accompanied by a girl--most adventures bring along the girl: nobody cares, in fact, for an adventure without a girl in it--I'm put in the background and made to do the work while you sit down and talk to the girl. Don't tell me it was accidental. It was the accident of design. Hang it all! I'll turn painter myself.' CHAPTER III IN THE BAR PARLOUR At nine o'clock the little bar parlour of Tregarthen's was nearly full. It is a very little room, low as well as little, therefore it is easily filled. And though it is the principal club-room of Hugh Town, where the better sort and the notables meet, it can easily accommodate them all. They do not, however, meet every evening, and they do not all come at once. There is a wooden settle along the wall, beautifully polished by constant use, which holds four: a smaller one beside the fire, where at a pinch two might sit; there is a seat in the window which also might hold two, but is only comfortable for one. A small round table only leaves room for one chair. This makes sitting accommodation for nine, and when all are present, and all nine are smoking tobacco like one, the atmosphere is convivially pungent. This evening there were only seven. They consisted of the two young men whose perils on the deep you have just witnessed; a Justice of the Peace--but his office is a sinecure, because on the Scilly Isles virtue reigns in every heart; a flower-farmer of the highest standing; two other gentlemen weighed down with the mercantile anxieties and interests of the place--they ought to have been in wigs and square brown coats, with silver buckles to their shoes; and one who held office and exercised authority. The art of conversation cannot be successfully cultivated on a small island, on board ship, or in a small country town. Conversation requires a continual change of company, and a great variety of topics. Your great talker, when he inconsiderately remains too long among the same set, becomes a bore. After a little, unless he goes away, or dies, or becomes silent, they kill him, or lock him up in an asylum. At Tregarthen's he would be made to understand that either he or the rest of the population must leave the archipelago and go elsewhere. In some colonial circles they play whist, which is an excellent method, perhaps the best ever invented, for disguising the poverty or the absence of conversation. At Tregarthen's they do not feel this necessity--they are contented with their conversation; they are so happily contented that they do not repine even though they get no more than an observation dropped every ten minutes or so. They are not anxious to reply hurriedly; they are even contented to sit silently enjoying the proximity of each other--the thing, in fact, which lies at the root of all society. The evening is not felt to be dull, though there are no fireworks of wit and repartee. Indeed, if Douglas Jerrold himself were to appear with a bag full of the most sparkling epigrams and repartees, nobody would laugh, even when he was kicked out into the cold and unappreciative night--the stars have no sense of humour--as a punishment for impudence. This evening the notables spoke occasionally; they spoke slowly--the Scillonians all talk slowly--they neither attempted nor looked for smartness. They did not tell stories, because all the stories are known, and they can now only be told to strangers. The two young men from London listened without taking any part in the talk: people who have just escaped--and that narrowly--a sharp and painful death by drowning and banging on jagged rocks are expected to be hushed for awhile. But they listened. And they became aware that the talk, in whatever direction it wandered, always came back to the sea. Everything in Scilly belongs to the sea: they may go up country, which is a journey of a mile and a half, or even two miles--and speak for a moment of the crops and the farms; but that leads to the question of import and export, and, therefore, to the vessels lying within the pier, and to the steam service to Penzance and to vessels in other ports, and, generally, to steam service about the world. And again, wherever two or three are gathered together in Scilly, one at least will be found to have ploughed the seas in distant parts. This confers a superiority on the society of the islands which cannot, even in these days, be denied or concealed. In the last century, when a man who was known to have crossed the Pacific entered a coffee-house, the company with one accord gazed upon him with envy and wonder. Even now, familiarity hath not quite bred contempt. We still look with unconcealed respect upon one who can tell of Tahiti and the New Hebrides, and has stood upon the mysterious shores of Papua. And, at Tregarthen's this evening, these two strangers were young; they had not yet made the circuit of the round earth; they had had, as yet, not many opportunities of talking with travellers and sailors. Therefore, they listened, and were silent. Presently, one after the other, the company got up and went out. There is no sitting late at night in Scilly. There were left of all only the Permanent Official. 'I hear, gentlemen,' he said, 'that you have had rather a nasty time this evening.' 'We should have been lost,' said the artist, 'but for a--young lady, who saw our danger and came out to us.' 'Armorel. I saw her towing in your boat and landing you. Yes, it was a mighty lucky job that she saw you in time. There's a girl! Not yet sixteen years old! Yet I'd rather trust myself with her in a boat, especially if she had the boy Peter with her, than any boatman of the islands. And there's not a rock or an islet, not a bay or a headland in this country of bays and capes and rocks, that she does not know. She could find her way blindfold by the feel of the wind and the force of the current. But it's in her blood. Father to son--father to son and daughter too--the Roseveans are born boatmen.' 'She saved our lives,' repeated the artist. 'That is all we know of her. It is a good deal to know, perhaps, from our own point of view.' 'She belongs to Samson. They've always lived on Samson. Once there were Roseveans, Tryeths, Jenkinses, and Woodcocks on Samson. Now, they are nearly all gone--only one family of Rosevean left, and one of Tryeth.' 'She said that nobody else lived there.' 'Well, it is only her own family. They've started a flower-farm lately on Holy Hill, and I hear it's doing pretty well. It's a likely situation, too, facing south-west and well sheltered. You should go and see the flower-farm. Armorel will be glad to show you the farm, and the island too. Samson has got a good many curious things--more curious, perhaps, than she knows, poor child!' He paused for a moment, and then continued: 'There's nobody on the island now but themselves. There's the old woman, first--you should see her too. She's a curiosity by herself--Ursula Rosevean--she was a Traverse, and came from Bryher to be married. She married Methusalem Rosevean, Armorel's great-great-grandfather--that was nigh upon eighty years ago; she's close upon a hundred now; and she's been a widow since--when was it?--I believe she'd only been a wife for twelve months or so. He was drowned on a smuggling run--his brother Emanuel, too. Widow used to look for him from the hill-top every night for a year and more afterwards. A wonderful old woman! Go and look at her. Perhaps she will talk to you. Sometimes, when Armorel plays the fiddle, she will brighten up and talk for an hour. She knows how to cure all diseases, and she can foretell the future. But she's too old now, and mostly she's asleep. Then there's Justinian Tryeth and Dorcas, his wife--they're over seventy, both of them, if they're a day. Dorcas was a St. Agnes girl--that's the reason why her name was Hicks: if she'd come from Bryher she'd have been a Traverse; if from Tresco she'd have been a Jenkins. But she was a Hicks. She's as old as her husband, I should say. As for the boy, Peter----' 'She called him the boy, I remember. But he seemed to me----' 'He's fifty, but he's always been the boy. He never married, because there was nobody left on Samson for him to marry, and he's always been too busy on the farm to come over here after a wife. And he looks more than fifty, because once he fell off the pier, head first, into the stern of a boat, and after he'd been unconscious for three days, all his hair fell off except a few stragglers, and they'd turned white. Looks most as old as his father. Chessun's near fifty-two.' 'Who is Chessun?' 'She's the girl. She's always been the girl. She's never married, just like Peter her brother, because there was no one left on Samson for her. And she never leaves the island except once or twice a year, when she goes to the afternoon service at Bryher. Well, gentlemen, that's all the people left on Samson. There used to be more--a great many more--quite a population, and if all stories are true, they were a lively lot. You'll see their cottages standing in ruins. As for getting drowned, you'd hardly believe! Why, take Armorel alone. Her father, Emanuel--he'd be about fifty-seven now--he was drowned--twelve years ago it must be now--with his wife and his three boys, Emanuel, John, and Andrew, crossing over from a wedding at St. Agnes. He married Rovena Wetherel, from St. Mary's. Then there was her grandfather, he was a pilot--but they were all pilots--and he was cast away taking an East Indiaman up the Channel, cast away on Chesil Bank in a fog--that was in the year 1845--and all hands lost. His father--no, no, that was his uncle--all in the line were drowned; that one's uncle died in his bed unexpectedly--you can see the bed still--but they do say, just before some officers came over about a little bit of business connected with French brandy. One of the Roseveans went away, and became a purser in the Royal Navy. Those were the days for pursers! Their accounts were never audited, and when they'd squared the captain and paid him the wages and allowances for the dummies and the dead men, they had left as much--ay, as a couple of thousand a year. After this he left the Navy and purveyed for the Fleet, and became so rich that they had to make him a knight.' 'Was there much smuggling here in the old days?' 'Look here, sir; a Scillonian in the old days called himself a pilot, a fisherman, a shopkeeper, or a farmer, just as he pleased. That was his pleasant way. But he was always--mind you--a smuggler. Armorel's great-great-great-grandfather, father of the old lady's husband--him who was never heard of afterwards, but was supposed to have been cast away off the French coast--he was known to have made great sums of money. Never was anyone on the islands in such a big way. Lots of money came to the islands from smuggling. They say that the St. Martin's people have kept theirs, and have got it invested; but, for all the rest, it's gone. And they were wreckers too. Many and many a good ship before the islands were lit up have struck on the rocks and gone to pieces. What do you think became of the cargoes? Where were the Scilly boats when the craft was breaking up? And did you never hear of the ship's lantern tied to the horns of a cow? They've got one on Samson could tell a tale or two; and they've still got a figure-head there which ought to have haunted old Emanuel Rosevean when his boat capsized off the coast of France.' 'An interesting family history.' 'Yes. Until the Preventive Service put an end to the trade, the Roseveans were the most successful and the most daring smugglers in the islands. But an unlucky family. All these drownings make people talk. Old wives' talk, I dare say. But for something one of them did--wrecking a ship, robbing the dead, who knows--they say the bad luck will go on till something is done--I know not what.' He got up and put on his cap, the blue-cloth cap with a cloth peak, much affected in Scilly, because the wind blows off any other form of hat ever invented. 'It is ten o'clock--I must go. Did you ever hear the story, gentlemen, of the Scillonian sailor?' He sat down again. 'I believe it must have been one of the Roseveans. He was on board a West Indiaman, homeward bound, and the skipper got into a fog and lost his reckoning. Then he asked this man if he knew the Scilly Isles. "Better nor any book," says the sailor. "Then," says the skipper, "take the wheel." In an hour crash went the ship upon the rocks. "Damn your eyes!" says the skipper, "you said you knew the Scilly Isles." "So I do," says the man; "this is one of 'em." The ship went to pieces, and near all the hands were lost. But the people of the islands had a fine time with the flotsam and the jetsam for a good many days afterwards.' 'I believe,' said the young man--he who answered to the name of Dick--'that this patriot is buried in the old churchyard. I saw an inscription to-day which probably marks his tomb. Under the name is written the words "Dulce et decor"--but the rest is obliterated.' 'Very likely--they would bury him in the old churchyard. Good-night, gentlemen!' 'Roland!' The young man called Dick jumped from the settle. 'Roland! Pinch me--shake me--stick a knife into me--but not too far--I feel as if I was going off my head. The fair Armorel's father was a corsair, who was drowned on his way from the coast of France, with his grandfather and his great-grandfather and great-grand-uncles, after having been cast away upon the Chesil Bank, and never heard of again, though he was wanted on account of a keg of French brandy picked up in the Channel. He made an immense pile of money, which has been lost; and there's an old lady at the farm so old--so old--so very, very old--it takes your breath away only to think of it--that she married Methusalem. Her husband was drowned--a new light, this, on history--and of course she escaped on the Ark--as a stowaway or a cabin passenger. Armorel plays the fiddle and makes the old lady jump.' 'We'll go over there to-morrow.' 'We will. It is a Land of Enchantment, this outlying bit of Lyonesse. Meanwhile, just to clear my brain, I think I must have a whisky. The weakness of humanity demands it. Oh! 'twas in Tregarthen's bar, Where the pipes and whiskies are---- They are an unlucky family,' he went on, 'because they "did something." Remark, Roland, that here is the very element of romance. My ancestors have "done something" too. I am sure they have, because my grandfather kept a shop, and you can't keep a shop without "doing something." But Fate never persecuted my father, the dean, and I am not in much anxiety that I too shall be shadowed on account of the old man. Yet look at Armorel Rosevean! There's distinction, mind you, in being selected by Fate for vicarious punishment. The old corsair wrecked a ship and robbed the bodies: therefore, all his descendants have got to be drowned. Dear me! If we were all to be drowned because our people had once "done something," the hungry, insatiate sea would be choked, and the world would come to an end. A Scotch whisky, Rebecca, if you please, and a seltzer! To-morrow, Roland, we will once more cross the raging main, but under protection. If you break an oar again, you shall be put overboard. We will visit this fair child of Samson. Child of Samson! The Child of Samson! Was Delilah her mother, or is she the grand daughter of the Timnite? Has she inherited the virtues of her father as well as his strength? Were the latter days of Delilah sanctified and purified? Happily, she is only as yet a child--only a child, Roland'--he emphasised the words--'although a child of Samson.' * * * * * In the night a vision came to Roland Lee. He saw Armorel once more sailing to his rescue. And in his vision he was seized with a mighty terror and a shaking of the limbs, and his heart sank and his cheek blanched; and he cried aloud, as he sank beneath the cold waters: 'Oh, Armorel, you have come too late! Armorel, you cannot save me now.' CHAPTER IV THE GOLDEN TORQUE The morning was bright, the sky blue, the breeze fresh--so fresh that even in the Road the sea broke over the bows and the boat ran almost gunwale under. This time the two lands-men were not unprotected: they were in charge of two boatmen. Humiliating, perhaps; but your true courage consisteth not in vain boasting and arrogant pretence, and he is safest who doth not ignorantly presume to manage a boat. Therefore, boatmen twain now guided the light bark and held the ropes. 'Dick,' said Roland, presently, looking ahead, 'I see her. There she is--upon the hillside among the brown fern. I can see her, with her blue dress.' Dick looked, and shook his short-sighted head. 'I only see Samson,' he said. 'He groweth bigger as we approach. That is not uncommon with islands. I perceive that he hath two hills, one on the north and the other on the south; he showeth--perhaps with pride--a narrow plain in the middle. The hills appear to be strewn with boulders, and there are carns, and perhaps Logan stones. There is always a Logan stone, but you can never find it. There are also, I perceive, ruins. Samson looks quite a large island when you come near to it. Life on Samson must be curiously peaceful. No post-office, no telegrams, no telephones, no tennis, no shops, no papers, no people--good heavens! For a whole month one would enjoy Samson.' 'Don't you see her?' repeated Roland. 'She is coming down the hillside.' 'I dare say I do see her if I knew it; but I cannot at this distance, even with assisted eyes----' 'Oh! a blue dress--blue--against the brown and yellow of the fern. Can you not----?' Dick gazed with the slow, uncertain eyes of short sight, and adjusted his glasses. 'My pal,' he said, 'to please you I would pretend to see anything. In fact, I always do: it saves trouble. I see her plainly--blue dress, you say--certainly--sitting on a rock----' 'Nonsense! She is walking down the hill. You don't see her at all.' 'Quite so. Coming down the hill,' Dick replied, unmoved. 'She has been in my mind all night. I have been thinking all kinds of things--impossible things--about this nymph. She is not in the least common, to begin with. She is----' 'She is only a child, Roland. Don't----' 'A child? Why shouldn't she be a child? I suppose I may admire a beautiful child? Do you insinuate that I am going to make love to her?' 'Well, old man, you mostly do.' 'It was not so dark last night but one could see that she is a very beautiful girl. She looks eighteen, but our friend last night assured us that she is not yet sixteen. A very beautiful girl she is: features regular, and a head that ought to be modelled. She is dark, like a Spaniard.' 'Gipsy, probably. Name of Stanley or Smith--Pharaoh Stanley was, most likely, her papa.' 'Gipsy yourself! Who ever heard of a gipsy on Scilly? You might as well look for an organ-grinder! Spanish blood, I swear! Castilian of the deepest blue. Then her eyes! You didn't observe her eyes?' 'I was too hungry. Besides, as usual, I was doing all the work.' 'They are black eyes----' 'The Romany have black eyes--roving eyes--hard, bold, bad, black eyes.' 'Soft black--not hard black. The dark velvet eyes which hold the light. Dick, I should like to paint those eyes. She is now looking at our boat. I can see her lifting her hand to shade her eyes. I should like to paint those eyes just at the moment when she gives away her heart.' 'You cannot, Childe Roland, because there could only be one other person present on that interesting occasion. And that person must not be you.' 'Dick, too often you are little better than an ass.' 'If you painted those eyes when she was giving away her heart it might lead to another and a later picture when she was giving away her temper. Eyes which hold the light also hold the fire. You might be killed with lightning, or, at least, blinded with excess of light. Take care!' 'Better be blinded with excess of light than pass by insensible. Some men are worse than the fellow with the muck-rake. He was only insensible to a golden crown; they are insensible to Venus. Without loveliness, where is love? Without love, what is life?' 'Yet,' said Dick, drily, 'most of us have got to shape our lives for ourselves before we can afford to think of Venus.' It will be understood that these two young men represented two large classes of humanity. One would not go so far as to say that mankind may be divided into those two classes only: but, undoubtedly, they are always with us. First, the young man who walketh humbly, doing his appointed task with honesty, and taking with gratitude any good thing that is bestowed upon him by Fate. Next, the young man who believes that the whole round world and all that therein is are created for his own special pleasure and enjoyment; that for him the lovely girls attire themselves, and for his pleasure go forth to dance and ball; for him the actress plays her best; for him the feasts are spread, the corks are popped, the fruits are ripened, the suns shine. To the former class belonged Dick Stephenson: to the latter, Roland Lee. Indeed, the artistic temperament not uncommonly enlists a young man in the latter class. 'Look!' cried the artist. 'She sees us. She is coming down the hill. Even you can see her now. Oh! the light, elastic step! Nothing in the world more beautiful than the light, elastic step of a girl. Somehow, I don't remember it in pictures. Perhaps--some day--I may----' He began to talk in unconnected jerks. 'As for the Greek maiden by the sea-shore playing at ball and showing bony shoulders, and all that--I don't like it. Only very young girls should play at ball and jump about--not women grown and formed. They may walk or spring as much as they like, but they must not jump, and they must not run. They must not laugh loud. Violent emotions are masculine. Figure and dress alike make violence ungraceful: that is why I don't like to see women jump about. If they knew how it uglifies most of them! Armorel is only a child--yes--but how graceful, how complete she is in her movements!' She was now visible, even to a short-sighted man, tripping lightly through the fern on the slope of the hill. As she ran, she tossed her arms to balance herself from boulder to boulder. She was singing, too, but those in the boat could not hear her; and before the keel touched the sand she was silent. She stood waiting for them on the beach, her old dog Jack beside her, a smile of welcome in her eyes, and the sunlight on her cheeks. Hebe herself--who remained always fifteen from prehistoric times until the melancholy catastrophe of the fourth century, when, with the other Olympians, she was snuffed out--was not sweeter, more dainty, or stronger, or more vigorous of aspect. 'I thought you would come across this morning,' she said. 'I went to the top of the hill and looked out, and presently I saw your boat. You have not ventured out alone again, I see. Good-morning, Roland Lee! Good-morning, Dick Stephenson!' She called them thus by their Christian names, not with familiarity, but quite naturally, and because when she went into the world--that is to say, to Bryher Church--on Sunday afternoon, each called unto each by his Christian name. And to each she gave her hand with a smile of welcome. But it seemed to Dick, who was observant rather than jealous, that his companion appropriated to himself and absorbed both smiles. 'Shall I show you Samson? Have you seen the islands yet?' No; they had only arrived two days before, and were going back the next day. 'Many do that,' said the girl. 'They stay here a day or two: they go across to Tresco and see the gardens: then perhaps they walk over Sallakey Down, and they see Peninnis and Porthellick and the old church, and they think they have seen the islands. You will know nothing whatever about Scilly if you go to-morrow.' 'Why should we go to-morrow?' asked the artist. 'Tell me, that, Dick.' 'I, because my time is up, and Somerset House once more expects me. You, my friend,' Dick replied, with meaning, 'because you have got your work to do and you must not fool around any longer.' Roland Lee laughed. 'We came first of all,' he said, turning to Armorel, 'in order to thank you for----' 'Oh! you thanked me last night. Besides it was Peter----' 'No, no. I refuse to believe in Peter.' 'Well, do not let us say any more about it. Come with me.' The landing-place of Samson is a flat beach, covered with a fine white sand and strewn with little shells--yellow and grey, green and blue. Behind the beach is a low bank on which grow the sea-holly, the sea-lavender, the horned poppy, and the spurge, and behind the bank stretches a small plain, low and sandy, raised above the high tide by no more than a foot or two. Armorel led the way across this plain to the foot of the northern hill. It is a rough and rugged hill, wild and uncultivated. The slope facing the south is covered with gorse and fern, the latter brown and yellow in September. Among the fern at this season stood the tall dead stalks of foxglove. Here and there were patches of short turf set about with the withered flowers of the sea-pink, and the long branches of the bramble lay trailing over the ground. The hand of some prehistoric giant has sprinkled the slopes of this hill with boulders of granite: they are piled above each other so as to make carns, headlands, and capes with strange resemblances and odd surprises. Upon the top they found a small plateau sloping gently to the north. 'See!' said Armorel. 'This is the finest thing we have to show on Samson, or on any of the islands. This is the burial-place of the kings. Here are their tombs.' 'What kings?' asked Dick, looking about him. 'Where are the tombs?' 'The kings,' Roland repeated; 'there can be no other kings. These are their tombs. Do not interrupt.' 'The ancient kings,' Armorel replied, with historic precision. 'These mounds are their tombs. See--one--two--half a dozen of them are here. Only kings had barrows raised over them. Did you expect graves and headstones, Dick Stephenson?' 'Oh, these are barrows, are they?' he replied, in some confusion. A man of the world does not expect to be caught in ignorance by the solitary inhabitant of a desert island. 'A long time ago,' Armorel went on, 'these islands formed part of the mainland. Bryher and Tresco, St. Helen's, Tean, St. Martin's and St. Mary's, were all joined together, and the road was only a creek of the sea. Then the sea washed away all the land between Scilly and the Land's End. They used to call the place Lyonesse. The kings of Lyonesse were buried on Samson. Their kingdom is gone, but their graves remain. It is said that their ghosts have been seen. Dorcas saw them once.' 'I should like to see them very much,' said Roland. 'If you were here at night, we could go out and look for them. I have been here often after dark looking for them.' 'What did you see?' She answered like unto the bold Sir Bedivere--who, perhaps, was standing on that occasion not far from this hill-top. 'I saw the moonlight on the rocks, and I heard the beating of the waves.' Quoth Dick: 'The spook of a king of Lyonesse would be indeed worth coming out to see.' Armorel led the way to a barrow, the top of which showed signs of the spade. 'See!' she said. 'Here is one that has been opened. It was a long time ago.' There were the four slabs of stone still in position which formed the sides of the grave, and the slab which had been its cover lying close beside. Armorel looked into the grave. 'They found,' she whispered, 'the bones of the king lying on the stone. But when someone touched them they turned to dust. There is the dust at your feet in the grave. The wind cannot bear it away. It may blow the sand and earth into it, but the dust remains. The rain can turn it into mud, but it cannot melt it. This is the dust of a king.' The young men stood beside her silent, awed a little, partly by the serious look in the girl's face, and partly because, though it now lay open to the wind and rain, it was really a grave. One must not laugh beside the grave of a man. The wind lifted Armorel's long locks and blew them off her white forehead: her eyes were sad and even solemn. Even the short-sighted Dick saw that his friend was right: they were soft black eyes, not of the gipsy kind; and he repented him of a hasty inference. To the artist it seemed as if here was a princess of Lyonesse mourning over the grave of her buried king and--what?--father--brother--cousin--lover? Everything, in his imagination, vanished--except that one figure: even her clothes were changed for the raiment--say the court mourning--of that vanished realm. And also, like Sir Bedivere, he heard nothing but the wild water lapping on the crag. And here followed a thing so strange that the historian hesitates about putting it down. Let us remember that it is thirty years, or thereabouts, since this barrow was laid open; that we may suppose those who opened it to have had eyes in their heads; that it has been lying open ever since; and that every visitor--to be sure there are not many--who lands on Samson is bound to climb this hill and visit this open barrow with its perfect kistvaen. These things borne in mind, it will seem indeed wonderful that anything in the grave should have escaped discovery. Roland Lee, leaning over, began idly to poke about the mould and dust of the grave with his stick. He was thinking of the girl and of the romance with which his imagination had already clothed this lonely spot; he was also thinking of a picture which might be made of her; he was wondering what excuse he could make for staying another week at Tregarthen's--when he was startled by striking his stick against metal. He knelt down and felt about with his hands. Then he found something and drew it out, and arose with the triumph that belongs to an archæologist who picks up an ancient thing--say, a rose noble in a newly ploughed field. The thing which he found was a hoop or ring. It was covered and encrusted with mould; he rubbed this off with his fingers. Lo! it was of gold: a hoop of gold as thick as a lady's little finger, twisted spirally, bent into the form of a circle, the two ends not joined, but turned back. Pure gold: yellow, soft gold. 'I believe,' he said, gasping, 'that this must be--it _is_--a torque. I think I have seen something like it in museums. And I've read of them. It was your king's necklace: it was buried with him: it lay around the skeleton neck all these thousand years. Take it, Miss Armorel. It is yours.' 'No! no! Let me look at it. Let me have it in my hands. It is yours'--in ignorance of ancient law and the rights of the lord proprietor--'it is yours because you found it.' 'Then I will give it to you, because you are the Princess of the Island.' She took it with a blush and placed it round her own neck, bending open the ends and closing them again. It lay there--the red, red gold--as if it belonged to her and had been made for her. 'The buried king is your ancestor,' said Roland. 'It is his legacy to his descendant. Wear the king's necklace.' 'My luck, as usual,' grumbled Dick, aside. 'Why couldn't I find a torque and say pretty things?' 'Come,' said Armorel, 'we have seen the barrows. There are others scattered about--but this is the best place for them. Now I will show you the island.' The hill slopes gently northward till it reaches a headland or carn of granite boldly projecting. Here it breaks away sharply to the sea. Armorel climbed lightly up the carn and stood upon the highest boulder, a pretty figure against the sky. The young men followed and stood below her. [Illustration: _Armorel climbed lightly up the carn._] At their feet the waves broke in white foam (in the calmest weather the Atlantic surge rolling over the rocks is broken into foam), a broad sound or channel lay between Samson and the adjacent island: in the channel half a dozen rocks and islets showed black and threatening. 'The island across the channel,' said Armorel, 'is Bryher. This is Bryher Hill, because it faces Bryher Island. Yonder, on Bryher is Samson Hill, because it faces Samson Island. Bryher is a large place. There are houses and farms on Bryher, and a church where they have service every Sunday afternoon. If you were here on Sunday, you could go in our boat with Peter, Chessun, and me. Justinian and Dorcas mostly stay at home now, because they are old.' 'Can anybody stay on the island, then?' asked Roland, quickly. 'Once the doctor came for Justinian's rheumatism, and bad weather began and he had to stay a week.' 'His other patients meanly took advantage and got well, I suppose,' said Dick. 'I hope so,' Armorel replied simply. She turned and looked to the north-east, where lie the eastern islands, the group between St. Martin's and St. Mary's, a miniature in little of the greater group. From this point they looked to the eye of ignorance like one island. Armorel distinguished them. There were Great and Little Arthur; Ganilly, with his two hills, like Samson; the Ganninicks and Meneweather, Ragged Island, and Inisvouls. 'They are not inhabited,' said the girl, pointing to them one by one; 'but it is pleasant to row about among them in fine weather. In the old time, when they made kelp, people would go and live there for weeks together. But they are not cultivated.' Then she turned northwards, and showed them the long island of St. Martin's, with its white houses, its church, its gentle hills, and its white and red daymark on the highest point. Half of St. Martin's was hidden by Tresco, and more than half of Tresco by Bryher. Over the downs of Tresco rose the dome of Round Island, crowned with its white lighthouse. And over Bryher, out at sea, showed the rent and jagged crest of the great rock Menovawr. 'You should land on Tresco,' said Armorel. 'There is the church to see. Oh! it is a most beautiful church. They say that in Cornwall itself there is hardly any church so fine as Tresco Church. And then there are the gardens and the lake. Everybody goes to see the gardens, but they do not walk over the down to Cromwell's Castle. Yet there is nothing in the islands like Cromwell's Castle, standing on the Sound, with Shipman's Head beyond. And you must go out beyond Tresco, to the islands which we cannot see here--Tean and St. Helen's, and the rest.' Then she turned westward. Lying scattered among the bright waters, whitened by the breeze, there lay before their eyes--dots and specks upon the biggest maps, but here great massive rocks and rugged islets piled with granite, surrounded by ledges and reefs, cut and carved by winds and flying foam into ragged edges, bold peaks, and defiant cliffs--places where all the year round the seals play and the sea-gulls scream, and, in spring, the puffins lay their eggs, with the oyster-catchers and the sherewaters, the shags and the hern. Over all shone the golden sun of September, and round them all the water leaped and sparkled in the light. 'Those are the Outer Islands.' The girl pointed them out, her eyes brightening. 'It is among the Outer Islands that I like best to sail. Look! that great rock with the ledge at foot is Castle Bryher; that noble rock beyond is Maiden Bower; the rock farthest out is Scilly. If you were going to stay, we would sail round Scilly and watch the waves always tearing at his sides. You cannot see from here, but he is divided by a narrow channel; the water always rushes through this channel roaring and tearing. But once we found it calm--and we got through; only Peter would never try again. If you were going to stay--sometimes in September it is very still----' 'I did not know,' said Roland, 'that there was anything near England so wonderful and so lovely.' 'You cannot see the islands in one morning. You cannot see half of them from this hill. You like them more and more as you stay longer, and see them every day with a different light and a different sea.' 'You know them all, I suppose?' Roland asked. 'Oh! every one. If you had sailed among them so often, you would know them too. There are hundreds, and every one has got its name. I think I have stood on all, though there are some on which no one can land, even at low tide and in the calmest weather. And no one knows what beautiful bays and beaches and headlands there are hidden away and never seen by anyone. If you could stay, I would show them to you. But since you cannot----' She sighed. 'Well, you have not even seen the whole of Samson yet--and that is only one of all the rest.' She leaped lightly from the rocks, and led them southward. 'See!' she said. 'On this hill there are ten great barrows at least, every one the tomb of a king--a king of Lyonesse. And on the sides of the hill--they kept the top for the kings--there are smaller barrows, I suppose of the princes and princesses. I told you that the island was a royal burying-ground. At the foot of the hill--you can see them--are some walls which they say are the ruins of a church; but I suppose that in those days they had no church.' They left these venerable tombs behind them and descended the hill. At its foot, between the two hills, there lies a pretty little bay, circular and fringed with a beach of white sand. If one wanted a port for Samson, here is the spot, looking straight across the Atlantic, with Mincarlo lying like a lion couchant on the water a mile out. 'This is Porth Bay,' said their guide. 'Out there at the end is Shark Point. There are sharks sometimes, I believe: but I have never seen them. Now we are going up the southern hill.' It began with a gentle ascent. There were signs of former cultivation; stone walls remained, enclosing spaces which once were fields--nothing in them now but fern and gorse and bramble and wild flowers. Half-way up there stood a ruined cottage. The walls were standing, but the roof was gone and all the woodwork. The garden-wall remained, but the little garden was overrun with fern. 'This was my great-great-grandmother's cottage,' said Armorel. 'It was built by her husband. They lived in it for twelve months after they were married. Then he was drowned, and she came to live at the farm. See!'--she showed them in a corner of the garden a little wizened apple-tree, crouching under the stone wall out of the reach of the north wind--'she planted this tree on her wedding-day. It is too old now to bear fruit; but she is still living, and her husband has been dead for seventy-five years. I often come to look at the place, and to wonder how it looked when it was first inhabited. There were flowers, I suppose, in the garden, when she was young and happy.' 'There are more ruins,' said Roland. 'Yes, there are other ruins. When all the people except ourselves went away, these cottages were deserted, and so they fell into decay. They used to live by smuggling and wrecking, you see, and when they could no longer do either, they had to go away or starve.' They stood upon the highest point of Holy Hill, some twenty feet above the summit of the northern hill, and looked out upon the Southern Islands. 'There!' said Armorel, with a flush of pride, because the view here is so different and yet so lovely. 'Here you can see the South Islands. Look! there is Minalto, which you drifted past yesterday: those are the ledges of White Island, where you were nearly cast away and lost: there is Annet, where the sea-birds lay their eggs--oh! thousands and thousands of puffins, though now there are not any: you should see them in the spring. That is St. Agnes--a beautiful island. I should like to show you Camberdizl and St. Warna's Cove. And there are the Dogs of Scilly beyond--they look to be black spots from here. You should see them close: then you would understand how big they are and how terrible. There are Gorregan and Daisy, Rosevean and Rosevear, Crebawethan and Pednathias; and there--where you see a little circle of white--that is Retarrier Ledge. Not long ago there was a great ship coming slowly up the Channel in bad weather: she was filled with Germans from New York going home to spend the money they had saved in America: most of them had their money with them tied up in bags. Suddenly, the ship struck on Retarrier. It was ten o'clock in the evening and a great sea running. For two hours the ship kept bumping on the rocks: then she began to break up, and they were all drowned--all the women and all the children, and most of the men. Some of them had life-belts on, but they did not know how to tie them, and so the things only slipped down over their legs and helped to drown them. The money was found on them. In the old days the people of the islands would have had it all; but the coastguard took care of it. There, on the right of Retarrier, is the Bishop's Rock and lighthouse. In storms, the lighthouse rocks like a tree in the wind. You ought to sail over to those rocks, if it was only to see the surf dashing up their sides. But, since you cannot stay----' Again she sighed. 'These are very interesting islands,' said Dick. 'Especially is it interesting to consider the consequences of being a native.' 'I should like to stay and sail among them,' said Roland. 'For instance'--Dick pursued his line of thought--'in the study of geography. We who are from the inland parts of Great Britain must begin by learning the elements, the definitions, the terminology. Now to a Scilly boy----' 'A Scillonian,' the girl corrected him. 'We never speak of Scilly folk.' 'Naturally. To a Scillonian no explanation is needed. He knows, without being told, the meaning of peninsula, island, bay, shore, archipelago, current, tide, cape, headland, ocean, lake, road, harbour, reef, lighthouse, beacon, buoy, sounding--everything. He must know also what is meant by a gale of wind, a stiff breeze, a dead calm. He recognises, by the look of it, a lively sea, a chopping sea, a heavy sea, a roaring sea, a sulky sea. He knows everything except a river. That, I suppose, requires very careful explanation. It was a Scilly youth--I mean a Scillonian--who sat down on the river bank to wait for the water to go by. The history seems to prove the commercial intercourse which in remote antiquity took place between Phoenicia and the Cassiterides or Scilly Islands.' Armorel looked puzzled. 'I did not know that story of a Scillonian and a river,' she said, coldly. 'Never mind his stories,' said Roland. 'This place is a story in itself: you are a story: we are all in fairyland.' 'No'--she shook her head. 'Bryher is the only island in all Scilly which has any fairies. They call them pixies there. I do not think that fairies would ever like to come and live on Samson: because of the graves, you know.' She led them down the hill along a path worn by her own feet alone, and brought them out to the level space occupied by the farm-buildings. 'This is where we live,' she said. 'If you could stay here, Roland Lee, we could give you a room. We have many empty rooms'--she sighed--'since my father and mother and my brothers were all drowned. Will you come in?' She took them into the 'best parlour,' a room which struck a sudden chill to anyone who entered therein. It was the room reserved for days of ceremony--for a wedding, a christening, or a funeral. Between these events the room was never used. The furniture presented the aspect common to 'best parlours,' being formal and awkward. In one corner stood a bookcase with glass doors, filled with books. Armorel showed them into this apartment, drew up the blind, opened the window--there was certainly a stuffiness in the air--and looked about the room with evident pride. Few best parlours, she thought, in the adjacent islands of St. Mary's, Bryher, Tresco, or even Great Britain itself, could beat this. She left them for a few minutes, and came back bearing a tray on which were a plate of apples, another of biscuits, and a decanter full of a very black liquid. Hospitality has its rules even on Samson, whither come so few visitors. 'Will you taste our Scilly apples?' she said. 'These are from our own orchard, behind the house. You will find them very sweet.' Roland took one--as a general rule, this young man would rather take a dose of medicine than an apple--and munched it with avidity. 'A delicious fruit!' he cried. But his friend refused the proffered gift. 'Then you will take a biscuit, Dick Stephenson? Nothing? At least, a glass of wine?' 'Never in the morning, thank you.' 'You will, Roland Lee?' She turned, with a look of disappointment, to the other man, who was so easily pleased and who said such beautiful things. 'It is my own wine--I made it myself last year, of ripe blackberries.' 'Indeed I will! Your own wine? Your own making, Miss Armorel? Wine of Samson--the glorious vintage of the blackberry! In pies and in jam-pots I know the blackberry, but not, as yet, in decanters. Thank you, thank you!' He smiled heroically while he held the glass to the light, smelt it, rolled it gently round. Then he tasted it. 'Sweet,' he said, critically. 'And strong. Clings to the palate. A liqueur wine--a curious wine.' He drank it up, and smiled again. 'Your own making! It is wonderful! No--not another drop, thank you!' 'Shall I show you?'--the girl asked, timidly--'would you like to see my great-great-grandmother? She is so very old that the people come all the way from St. Agnes only just to look at her. Sometimes she answers questions for them, and they think it is telling their fortunes. She is asleep. But you may talk aloud. You will not awaken her. She is so very, very old, you know. Consider: she has been a widow nearly eighty years.' She led them into the other room, where, in effect, the ancient dame sat in her hooded chair fast asleep, in cap and bonnet, her hands, in black mittens, crossed. 'Heavens!' Roland murmured. 'What a face! I must draw that face! And'--he looked at the girl bending over the chair placing a pillow in position--'and that other. It is wonderful!' he said aloud. 'This is, indeed, the face of one who has lived a hundred years. Does she sometimes wake up and talk?' 'In the evening she recovers her memory for awhile and talks--sometimes quite nicely, sometimes she rambles.' 'And you have a spinning-wheel in the corner.' 'She likes someone to work at the spinning-wheel while she talks. Then she thinks it is the old time back again.' 'And there is a violin.' 'I play it in the evening. It keeps her awake, and helps her to remember. Justinian taught me. He used to play very well indeed until his fingers grew stiff. I can play a great many tunes, but it is difficult to learn any new ones. Last summer there were some ladies at Tregarthen's--one of them had a most beautiful voice, and she used to sing in the evening with the window open. I used to sail across on purpose to land and listen outside. And I learned a very pretty tune. I would play it to you in the evening if you were not going away.' 'I am not obliged to go away,' the young man said, with strangely flushing cheeks. 'Roland!' That was Dick's voice--but it was unheeded. 'Will you stay here, then?' the girl asked. 'Here in this house? In your house?' 'You can have my brother Emanuel's room. I shall be very glad if you will stay. And I will show you everything.' She did not invite the young man called Dick, but this other, the young man who drank her wine and ate her apple. 'If your--your--your guardian--or your great-great-grandmother approves.' 'Oh! she will approve. Stay, Roland Lee. We will make you very happy here. And you don't know what a lot there is to see.' 'Roland!' Again Dick's warning voice. 'A thousand thanks!' he said. 'I will stay.' CHAPTER V THE ENCHANTED ISLAND The striking of seven by the most sonorous and musical of clocks ever heard reminded Roland of the dinner-hour. At seven most of us are preparing for this function, which civilisation has converted almost into an act of praise and worship. Some men, he remembered, were now walking in the direction of the club: some were dressing: some were making for restaurants: some had already begun. One naturally associates seven o'clock with the anticipation of dinner. There are men, it is true, who habitually take in food at midday and call it dinner: there are also those who have no dinner at all. He began to realise that he was not, this evening, going to have any dinner at all. For he was now at the farmhouse, sitting in the square window with Armorel: he had gone back to Tregarthen's and returned with his portmanteau and his painting gear: fortunately he had also taken an abundant lunch at that establishment. He had become an inhabitant of Samson. The increased population, therefore, now consisted of seven souls. In fact, there was no dinner for him. Everybody in Samson dines at half-past twelve: he had tea with Armorel at half-past four: after tea they wandered along the shore and stood upon Shark Point to see the sun set behind Mincarlo, an operation performed with zeal and despatch, and with great breadth and largeness of colouring. When the shades of evening began to prevail they were fain to get home quickly, because there is no path among the boulders, nor have former inhabitants provided hand-rails for visitors on the carns. Therefore they retraced their steps to the farm, and Armorel left him sitting alone in the square window while she went about some household duties. In the quiet room the solemn clock told the moments, and there was light enough left to discern the ghostly figure of the ancient dame sleeping in her chair. The place was so quiet and so strange that the visitor presently felt as if he was sitting among ghosts. It is at twilight, in fact, that the spirits of the past make themselves most readily felt, if not seen. Now, it was exactly as if he had been in the place before. He knew, now, why he had been so suddenly and strangely attracted to Samson. He _had been there before_--when, or under what conditions, he knew not, and did not ask himself. It is a condition of the mind known to everybody. A touch--a word--a look--and we are transported back--how many years ago? The hills, the rocks, the house, Armorel herself--all were familiar to him. The thing was absurd, yet in his mind it was quite clear. It was so absurd that he thought his mind was wandering, and he arose and went out into the garden. There, the figure-head of the woman under the tall fuchsia-tree--the glow from the fire in the sitting-room fell upon the face through the window--seemed to smile upon him as upon an old friend. He went back again and sat down. Where was Armorel? This strange familiarity with an unknown place quickly passes, though it may return. He now began to feel as if, perhaps, he was making a mistake. He was living on an island, with, practically, no other companion than a girl of fifteen. Dick, who had become suddenly grumpy on learning his resolution to stay, might be right. Well, he would sketch and paint; he would be very careful; not a word should be said that might disturb the child's tranquillity. No--Dick was a fool. He was going to have a day or two--just a day or two--of quiet happiness. The girl was young and beautiful and innocent. She was also made happy--she showed that happiness without an attempt at concealment--because he was going to stay. What would follow? Well--it was an adventure. One does not ask what is going to follow on first encountering an adventure. What young man, besides, sallying forth upon a simple holiday, looks to find himself upon a desert island with no other companion than a trustful and admiring maiden of fifteen? Then Armorel returned and took a chair beside him. He was a little surprised--but then, on a desert island nothing happens as on terra firma--that she did not ring for lights, and was still not without some hope of dinner. They took up the thread of talk about the islands, concerning which Roland Lee perceived that he would before long know a good deal. Local knowledge is always interesting; but it does not, except to novelists, possess a marketable value. One cannot, for instance, at a dinner-party, turn the conversation on the respective families of St. Agnes and St. Martin's. He made a mental note that he would presently change the subject to one of deeper personal interest. Perhaps he could get Armorel to talk about herself. That would be very much more interesting than to hear about the three Pipers' Holes of Tresco, White, and St. Mary's Islands. How did she live--this girl--and what did she do--and what did she think? Meantime, while the girl herself was talking of the rocks and bays, the crags and coves, the white sand and the grey granite, the seals and the shags, the puffins and the dottrells, she was wondering, for her part, what manner of man this was--how he lived, and what he did, and what he thought. For when man and woman meet they are clothed and covered up; they are a mystery each to the other; never, since the Fall, have we been able to read each other's hearts. But when the clock struck seven Armorel sprang to her feet, as one who hath a serious duty to perform, and preparations to make for it. First she pulled down the blind, and so shut out what was left of the twilight. The fire had sunk low, but by its light she was dimly visible. She pushed back the table; she placed two chairs opposite the old lady, and another chair before the spinning-wheel. 'Something,' said the young man to himself, 'is certainly going to happen. One can no longer hope for dinner. Family prayers, perhaps; or the worship of the old lady as an ancestor. The descendants of the ancient people of Lyonesse no doubt bow down to the sun and dance to the moon, and pass the children through the holèd stone, and make Baal fires, and worship their grandmothers. It will be an interesting function. But, perhaps, only family prayers.' Armorel took down the fiddle that hung on the wall and began to tune it, twanging the strings and drawing the bow across in the manner which so pleasantly excites the theatre before the music begins. 'Not family prayers, then,' said the young man, perhaps disappointed. What did happen, however, was a series of things quite new and wholly unexpected. Never was known such a desert island. First of all, the lady of many generations moved uneasily in her sleep at the twanging of the strings, and her fingers clutched at her dress as if she was startled by an uneasy dream. And then the door opened, and a small procession of three came in. At this point, had the young man been a Roman Catholic, he would have crossed himself. As he was not, he only started and murmured, 'As I thought. The worship of the ancestor! These are the ghosts of the grandfather and the grandmother. The old lady is a mummy. They are all ghosts--I shall presently awake and find myself on my back among the barrows.' First came an ancient dame, but not so ancient as she of the great chair. Grey-headed she was, and equipped in a large cap; wrinkled was her face, and her chin, for lack of teeth, approached her nose, quite in the ancestral manner. She was followed by an old man, also grey-headed and grey-bearded, wrinkled of face, his shoulders bent and twisted with rheumatism, his fingers gnarled and twisted. These two took the chairs set for them by Armorel. The third in the procession was a woman already elderly and with streaks of grey in her hair. She was thin and sharp-faced. She sat down before the spinning-wheel and began to work, not as you may now see the amateur, but in the quiet, quick, professional manner which means business. The stranger was not quite right in his conjecture. They were not ancestors. The old man, who had worked on the farm, man and boy, for nearly seventy years, and now managed it altogether, was Justinian Tryeth. The old woman was Dorcas, his wife. The middle-aged woman was their daughter Chessun, who had been maid on the farm, as her brother Peter had been boy, all her life. Whatever was intended was clearly a daily function, because each dropped into his own place without hesitation. The old woman had brought some knitting with her, her daughter picked up the thread of the spindle, and the old man, taking the tongs, stimulated the coals into a flame, which he continually nursed and maintained with new fuel. There was neither lamp nor candle in the room; the ruddy firelight, rising and falling, played about the room, warming the drab panels into crimson, sinking into the dark beams of the joists, flashing among the china in the cupboard, painting red the Venus's-fingers in the cabinet, and throwing strange lights and shadows upon the aged lady in the chair. Was she really alive? Was she, after all, only a mummy? Roland looked on breathless. What was to be done next? Time had gone back eighty years--a hundred and eighty years--any number of years. As they sat here in the firelight with the spinning-wheel, the old serving-people with their mistress, without lamp or candle, so they sat in the generations long gone by. And again that curious feeling fell upon him that he had seen it all before. Yet he could not remember what was to be done next. Armorel, the tuning complete, turned with a look of inquiry to the old man. '"Singleton's Slip,"' he commanded with the authority of a professor. The girl began to play this old tune. Perhaps you remember the style of the fiddler--he is getting scarce now--who used to sit in the corner and play the hornpipe for the sailors in the days when every sailor could dance the hornpipe. Perhaps you do not remember that fiddler and his style. That is your misfortune. For there was a noble freedom in the handling of his bow, and the interpretation of his melodies was bold and original. He poured into the music all the spirit it was capable of containing, and drew out of his hearers every emotion that each particular tune was able to draw. Because you see tunes have their limitations. You cannot strike every chord in the human heart with a simple hornpipe. This sailor's best friend, however, did all that could be done. And always conscientious, if you please, never allowing his playing to become slovenly or to lack spirit. Armorel played after the manner of this old fiddler, standing up to her work in the middle of the room. 'Singleton's Slip' is a ditty which was formerly much admired by those who danced the hey, the jig, or the simple country dance: it was also much played by the pipe and tabor upon the village green; it accompanied the bear when he carried the pole; it assisted those who danced on stilts; and it lent spirit to those who frolicked in the morrice. Charles II. knew it; Tom D'Urfey wrote words to it, I believe, but I have not yet found them in his collection; Rochester must certainly have danced to it. Armorel played it; first cheerfully and loudly, as if to arouse the spirits of those who listened, to remind them that legs may be shaken to this tune, and that ladies may be, and should be, when this tune begins, taken to their places and presently handed round and down the middle. Then she played it trippingly, as if they were actually all dancing. Then she played it tenderly--there is, if you come to think of it, a good deal of possible tenderness in the air--and, lastly, she played it joyfully, yet softly. How had she learned all these modes and moods? While she played the old man listened critically, nodding his head and beating the time. Then, fired with memory, he bent his arms and worked his fingers as if they held the fiddle and the bow. And he threw back his head and thrust out his leg and leaned sideways, just like that jolly fiddler of whom we have just been reminded. Such, my friends, is the power of music. After a little while Justinian stopped this imaginary performance, and sitting forward yielded himself wholly to the influence of the tune, cracking his fingers over his head and beating time with one foot, just as you may see the old villager in the old coloured prints--no villager in these days of bad beer ever cracks his fingers or shows any external signs of joyful emotion. As for the two serving-women, they reminded the spectator of the supers on the stage who march when they are told to march, sit down to feast when they are ordered, and swell a procession for a funeral or a festival, all with unmoved countenance, showing a philosophy so great that the triumph of victory or the disaster of defeat finds them equally calm and self-contained--that is to say, the two women showed no sense at all of being pleased or moved by 'Singleton's Slip.' They went on--one with her knitting and the other with her spinning. As for the ancient lady, however, when the music began she straightened herself, sat upright, and opened her eyes. Then Chessun hastened to adjust her bonnet: if ladies sleep in their bonnets, these adornments have a tendency to fall out of the perpendicular. Heaven forbid that we should gaze upon Ursula Rosevean with her bonnet tilted, like a lady in a van coming home to Wapping from Fairlop Fair! This done, the venerable dame looked about her with eyes curiously bright and keen. Then she began to beat time with her fingers; and then she began to talk; but--and this added to the strangeness of the whole business--nobody seemed to regard what she said. It was much as if the Oracle of Delphi were pouring out the most valuable prophecies and none of her attendants paid any heed. 'If,' thought the young man, 'I were to take down her words, they would be a Message.' And what with the voice of the Oracle, the spirited fiddling, the firelight dancing about the room, the old man snapping his fingers, and perhaps some physical exhaustion following on the absence of dinner, the young man felt as if the music had got into his head; he wanted to get up and dance with Armorel round and round the room; he would not have marvelled had Dorcas and Justinian bidden him lead out Chessun and so take hands, round twice, down the middle and back again, set and turn single--where had he learnt these phrases and terms of the old country dance? Nowhere; they belonged to the place and to the music and to the time--and that was at least a hundred and eighty years back. The fiddle stopped. Armorel held it down, and looked again at her master. ''Tis well played,' he said. 'A moving piece. Now, "Prince Rupert's March."' She nodded, and began another tune. This is a piece which may be played many ways. First, to those who understand it rightly, it indicates the tramp of an army, the riding of the cavalry, the jingling of sabres. Next, it may serve for a battle-piece, and you shall hear between the bars the charge of the horse and the clashing of the steel. Or, it may be played as a triumphal march after victory; or, again, as a country dance, in which a stately dignity takes the place of youthful mirth and merriment. At such a dance, to the tune of 'Prince Rupert's March,' the elders themselves--yea, the Justice of Peace, the Vicar, the Mayor and Aldermen, and the Head-borough himself--may stand up in line. And now Roland became conscious of the old lady's words; he heard them clear and distinct, and as she talked the firelight fell upon her eyes, and she seemed to be gazing fixedly upon the stranger. 'When the "Princess Augusta," East Indiaman, struck upon the Castinicks in the middle of the night, she went to pieces in an hour--any vessel would. They said she was wrecked by the people of Samson, who tied a ship's lantern between the horns of a cow. But it was never proved. There are other islands in Scilly, and other islanders, if you talk of wrecking. Some of the dead bodies were washed ashore, and a good part of the cargo, so that there was something for everybody; a finer wreck never came to the islands. What! If a ship is bound to be wrecked, better that she should strike on British rocks and cast her cargo ashore for the king's subjects. Better the rocks of Scilly than the rocks of France. What the sea casts up belongs to the people who find it. That is just. But you must not rob the living. No. That is a great crime. 'Twas in the year '13. When Emanuel Rosevean, my father-in-law, rescued the passenger who was lying senseless lashed to a spar, he should not have taken the bag that was hanging round his neck. That was not well done. He should have given the man his bag again. He stood here before he went away. "You have saved my life," he said. "I had all my treasure in a bag tied about my neck. If I had brought that safe ashore I could have offered you something worth your acceptance. But I have nothing. I begin the world again." Emanuel heard him say this, and he let him go. But the bag was in his box. He kept the bag. Very soon the wrath of the Lord fell upon the house, and His Hand has been heavy upon us ever since. No luck for us--nor shall be any till we find the man and give him back his bag of treasure.' She went on repeating this story with small variations and additions. But Roland was now listening again to the fiddle. Armorel stopped again. '"Dissembling Love,"' said her master. She began that tune obediently. The stranger within the gates seemed compelled to listen. His brain reeled; the old woman fascinated him. The words which he had heard had been few, but now he seemed to see, standing before the fire, his hair powdered, and in black silk stockings and shoes with steel buckles, the man who had been saved and robbed shaking hands with the man who had saved and robbed him. Oh! it was quite clear; he had seen it all before; he remembered it. This time he heard nothing of the tune. 'My husband, Methusalem, my dear husband, with his only brother, began to pay for that wickedness. They were capsized crossing to St. Mary's, and drowned. If I had thought what was going to happen I would have taken the bag and walked through all England looking for him until I had found him. Yes--if it took me fifty years. But I knew nothing. I thought our happiness would last for ever. Five-and-twenty years after, my son, Emanuel, was cast away in the Bristol Channel piloting a vessel. They struck on Steep Holm in a fog. And your own father, Armorel, was drowned with his wife and three boys on their way home from a wedding-feast at St. Agnes.' Here her voice dropped, and Roland heard the concluding bars of 'Dissembling Love,' which Armorel was playing with quite uncommon tenderness. When she stopped, Justinian gave her no rest. '"Blue Petticoats,"' he commanded. Armorel again obeyed. Then the old lady went back in memory to the days of her girlhood--now so long ago. Nowhere now can one find an old lady who will tell of her girlish days when the century was not yet arrived at the age of ten. 'We shall dance to-night,' she said, 'on Bryher Green. My boy will be there. We shall dance together. John Tryeth from Samson will play his fiddle. We shall dance "Prince Rupert's March" and "Blue Petticoats" and "Dissembling Love." The Ensign from the garrison is coming and the Deputy Commissary. They will drink my health. But they shall not have me for partner. My boy will be there--my own boy--the handsomest man on all the islands, though he is so black. That's the Spaniard in him. His mother was a Mureno--Honor Mureno, the last of the Murenos. He has got the old Spaniard's sword still. It's the Spanish blood. It gives my boy his black eyes and his black hair; it makes his cheeks swarthy; and it makes him proud and hot-tempered. I like a man to be quick and proud if he's strong and brave as well. When I have sons, the Lord make them all like their father!' So she went on talking of her lover. Armorel stopped and looked again at her master. '"The Chirping of the Lark,"' he said. Armorel began this tune. It is of an artificial character, lending itself less readily than the rest to emotion; the composer called it 'The Chirping of the Lark' because he wanted a title: it resembles the song of that warbler in no single particular. But it changed the old lady's current of thought. 'This long war,' she said, looking round cheerfully, 'will be the making of the islands if it lasts. Never was there so much money about: we roll in money: the women have all got silks and satins: the men drink port wine and the finest French brandy, which they run over for themselves: the merchantmen put into the road, and the sailors spend their money at the port. Why shouldn't we go on fighting the French until they haven't a ship left afloat? My man made the run last week, and hid the cargo--I know where. I shall help him to carry the kegs across to the garrison, where they want brandy badly. A fine run and a good day's work!' She looked around with a jubilant countenance. Then another memory seized her, and the light left her eyes. 'Better be drowned yourself than marry a man who is going to be drowned! Better not marry at all than lose your husband six months afterwards. It is long ago, now, Armorel. Time goes on--one can remember. He would be very old now--yes--very old. Sometimes I see him still. But he has not grown old where he is staying. That is bad for me, because he liked young women, not old women. Men mostly do. They are so made, even the oldest of them. Perhaps the old women, when they rise again, are made young again, so that their lovers may love them still.' The clock struck half-past eight. Armorel stopped playing and the old lady stopped talking at the same moment. Her eyes closed, her head fell forward, she became comatose. Then the two serving-women got up and helped her, or carried her, out of the room to her bedroom behind. And the old man arose, and without so much as a good-night hobbled away to his own cottage. 'She will go to bed now,' said Armorel. 'Chessun will take in her broth and her wine, and she will sleep all night.' 'Do you have this performance every night?' 'Yes; the playing seems to put life and heart into her. All the morning she dozes, or if she wakes she is not often able to talk; but in the evening, when we sit around the fire just as they used to sit in the old days, without candles--because my people were poor and candles were dear--and when Chessun spins and I play--she revives and sits up and talks, as you have seen her.' 'Yes. It is rather ghostly.' 'Justinian used to play--oh! he could play very well indeed.' 'Not so well as you.' 'Yes--much better--and he knows hundreds of tunes. But his fingers became stiff with rheumatism, and, as he had put off teaching Peter until it was too late, he taught me. That is all.' 'I think you play wonderfully well. Do you play nothing but old tunes?' 'I only know what I have learned. There is that song which I heard the lady sing last year--I don't know what it is called. Tell me if you like it.' She struck the strings again and played a song full of life and spirit, of tenderness and fond memory--a bright, sparkling song--which wanted no words. 'Oh!' cried Roland, 'you are really wonderful. You are playing the "Kerry Dance."' She laughed and layed down the violin. 'We must not have any more playing to-night. Do you really like to hear me play? You look as if you did.' 'It is wonderful,' he replied. 'I could listen all night. But if there is to be no more music, shall we look outside?' If there were no light in the house the ship's lantern was hanging up, with one of those big ship's candles in it which are of such noble dimensions, and of generosity so unbounded in the matter of tallow. There was no moon; but the sky was clear and the sea could be seen by the light of the stars, and the revolving lights of Bishop's Rock and St. Agnes flashed across the water. The young man shivered. 'We are in fairyland,' he said. 'It is a charmed island. Nothing is real. Armorel, your name should be Titania. How have you made me hear and believe all these things? How do you contrive your sorceries? Are you an enchantress? Confess--you cannot, in sober truth, play those tunes; the old lady is in reality only a phantom, called into visible shape by your incantations? But you are a benevolent witch--you will not turn me into a pig?' 'I do not understand. There have been no sorceries. There are no witches left on the Scilly Islands. Formerly there were many. Dorcas knows about them. I do not know what was the good of them.' 'I suppose you are quite real, after all. It is only strange and incomprehensible.' 'It is a fine night. To-morrow it will be a fine day with a gentle breeze. We will go sailing among the Outer Islands.' 'The air is heavy with perfume. What is it? Surely an enchanted land!' 'It is the scent of the lemon-verbena tree--see, here is a sprig. It is very sweet.' 'How silent it is here! Night after night never to hear a sound.' 'Nothing but the sound of the waves. They never cease. Listen--it is a calm night. But you can hear them lapping on the beach.' Ten minutes later, when they returned to the house, they found candles lighted and supper spread. A substantial supper, such as was owed to a man who had had no dinner. There was cold roast fowl and ham; there was a lettuce-salad and a goodly cheese. And there was the unexpected and grateful sight of a 'Brown George,' with a most delectable ball of white froth at the top. Also, Roland remarked the presence of the decanter containing the blackberry wine. 'Now you shall have some supper.' Armorel assumed the head of the table and took up the carving-knife. 'No, thank you--I can carve very well. Besides, you are our visitor, and it is a pleasure to carve for you. Will you have a wing or a leg? Do you like your ham thin? Not too thin? Oh, how hungry you must be! That is ale--home-brewed ale: will you take some? or would you prefer a glass of the blackberry wine? No?--help yourself.' 'The beer for me,' said Roland. He filled and drank a tumbler of the beverage dear to every right-minded Briton. It was strong and generous, with flakes of hop floating in it like the bee's-wing in port. 'This is splendid beer,' he said. 'I do not remember that I ever tasted such beer as this. It is humming ale--October ale--stingo. No wonder our forefathers fought so well when they had such beer as this to fight upon!' 'Peter is proud of his home-brewed.' 'Do you make everything for yourselves? Is Samson sufficient for all the needs of the islanders? This beer is the beer of Samson--strong and mighty. My hair is growing long already--and curly.' 'We make all we can. There are no shops, you see, on Samson. We bake our own bread: we brew our own beer: we make our own butter: we even spin our own linen.' 'And you make your own wine, Armorel.' He called her naturally by her Christian name. You could not call such a girl 'Miss Armorel' or 'Miss Rosevean.' 'It is a wonderful island!' After supper they sat by the fireside, and, by permission, he smoked his pipe. Then, everybody else on the island being in bed and asleep, they talked. The young man had his way. That is to say, he encouraged the girl to talk about herself. He led her on: he had a soft voice, soft eyes, and a general manner of sympathy which surprised confidence. She began, timidly at first, to talk about herself, yet with feminine reservation. No woman will ever talk about herself in the way which delights young men. But she told him all he asked: her simple lonely life--how she arose early in the morning, how she roamed about the island and sang aloud with none to hear her but the sea-gulls and the shags. 'Do you never draw?' he asked. She had tried to draw, but there was no one to help her. 'Do you read?' No, she seldom read. In the best parlour there was a bookcase full of books, but she never looked at them. As for the old lady and Dorcas, they had never learned to read. She had been at school over at St. Mary's, till she was thirteen, but she hardly cared to read. 'And the newspapers--do you ever read them?' She never read them. She knew nothing that went on. As for her ambitions and her hopes--if he could get at them. Fond youth!--as if a girl would ever tell her ambitions! But Armorel, apparently, had none to tell. She lived in the present; it was joy enough for her to wander in the soft warm air of her island home, upon the hills and round the coast, to cruise among the rocks while the breeze filled out the sail and the sparkling water leaped above the bow. So far she told: nay, she hid nothing, because there was nothing to hide. She told no more because, as yet, her ambitions and her dreams of the future had no shape: they were vague and misty--she was only aware of their existence when restlessness seized her and impelled her to get up and run over the hills to Porth Bay and back again. But at night, when she went to bed, she experienced quite a new and disquieting sensation. It showed at least that she was no longer a child, but already on the threshold of womanhood. With blushing cheek and beating heart she remembered that for an hour and more she had been talking about nothing but herself! What would Mr. Roland Lee think of a girl who could waste his time in talking about nothing but herself? CHAPTER VI THE FLOWER-FARM Roland, startled out of sleep by the sudden feeling of danger which always seizes us in a strange bed--except a bed at an inn--sat up and looked around him. His room was small and low and simply furnished. He was lying on a feather bed of the old-fashioned kind; the bedstead was of wood, but without curtains. He presently remembered where he was: on Samson Island--the guest of a child, a girl of fifteen. He sprang out of bed and threw open the window. His room was over the porch. The fragrance of the lemon-verbena tree arose like steam from a haystack, and filled his chamber. Below him, and beyond the garden, the geese waddled on the green, the ducks splashed in the pond, and in the farmyard Peter walked about slowly, carrying a pitchfork in his hands, but, apparently, for amusement rather than use, as if it had been a court sword. He looked at his watch. It was half-past seven. At this time in London he would have been still in the first long slumber of the night. Now he was eager to be up and dressed, if only for a better understanding of the situation. To be the guest of a child has the freshness of novelty; but it is a situation which might lead to complications. Suppose a guardian, or a lawyer, or a cousin of some kind were to cross over in a boat and ask what he was doing there. And suppose he had no better reply than the plain truth--that this young lady had been so good as to invite him. Would a man go down to stay at a country house on the simple invitation of a school-girl? At the same time, this girl appeared to be the mistress of the establishment. There was an ancient lady--too old for superintendence--and there were servants. Well, if no guardian challenged his presence, why, then, for a single day--he must not stay more--it surely mattered little. The girl was but a child. Yet he must not stay longer. Perhaps they were not too well off: he must not be a burden. And, again, though the girl invited him to stay she named no limit of time. She did not invite him to stay, for a week or for a fortnight. Perhaps she expected him to go away that very morning. He proceeded--with somewhat thoughtful countenance, considering these things--to dress, paying as much attention to his personal appearance as a young man should, and an old man must. It is the privilege of middle-aged men to go slovenly if they please: no one regardeth him of middle age. While their locks are turning grey and their children are growing up they are in the thick of the day's work, and they may disregard, if they choose, the mysteries of the toilette. Apollo, however, must be as jealous about his apparel and adornment as the Graces themselves, who are always represented at the moment before the choice is made. A velvet jacket and a white waistcoat are trifles in themselves, but they become a youthful figure and a face which has finely-cut features and is decorated with a promising silky beard, pointed withal, and the brown shading of a young moustache. Besides, he who is an artist thinks more than other young men about such things. Dress, to him, as to a woman, becomes costume. Colour has to be considered; such picturesqueness as is possible in modern fashion is aimed at; the artistic craving for fitness and beauty must be satisfied. Roland did what he could: and with his velvet coat, a clean white waistcoat, a crimson scarf, a good figure, and a handsome face, he was as handsome a youth of twenty-one as one is likely to find anywhere. Again, as he opened his door and began to descend the narrow stairs, there came over him that curious feeling of having been in the place before. He had felt it in the evening when Armorel played 'Dissembling Love.' Now he felt it again. And when he stood in the porch he seemed to remember standing there once--long ago, long ago--but how long he could not tell; nor, as happened to him before, could he remember what had happened on that occasion. Armorel herself was in the garden looking for some flowers for the breakfast-table. She greeted him with a smile of welcome and a friendly grasp of the hand. There was also a look of kindly solicitude on her face which would have suited a châtelaine of forty years. Had he slept well? Had he really been provided with everything he wanted? Was there anything at all lacking? If so, would he speak to Chessun? Breakfast, she said, leaving him in the garden, would be served in a few minutes. Would he speak to Chessun? Then, it seemed as if she meant him to stay another night. What should he do? Then Armorel came back. 'Breakfast is quite ready,' she said. 'Come in, Roland Lee. It is a beautiful morning. There is a fresh breeze and a smooth sea. We can go anywhere this morning. I have spoken to Peter, and he will be ready to go with us in an hour or so. I think we may even get out to Scilly and Maiden Bower.' Yes; the morning was bright and the sky was clear. In the golden sunshine of September the islets across the water showed like creations of a poet's dream. Roland drew a deep breath of admiration. 'Everybody,' he said, 'ought to come to Scilly and to stay a long time.' He turned from the view to the girl beside him. She had changed her blue flannel dress for a daintier and a prettier costume--think not that there are no shops at Hugh Town--of grey nun's cloth, daintily embroidered in front. Still at her throat she wore a red flower, and round her neck clung the golden torque found in the old king's grave. Her dark eyes glowed: her lips were parted in a smile: her cheek showed the dewy bloom that some girls, fortunate above their sisters, can exhibit when they first appear in the morning: her long tresses were now tied up and confined; she looked as if she had just stepped forth from her chamber, fresh from her sleep. No one certainly could have guessed that she had been up since six; nor that the fish which had been hissing in the frying-pan, and were now lying meekly side by side in a dish on the breakfast-table, were of her own catching. An hour's sitting in the boat off Samson Ledge with hook and line had procured this splendid contribution to the morning banquet. Fish fragrant with the salt sea: fish that had not been packed tight in boxes, nor travelled in railway trains, nor been slapped about on counters, nor been packed in ice; fish that can never lie on a London table--these were set out before Roland's hungry gaze. The ancient dame did not appear. The two breakfasted, as they had supped, together. I do not know how or where Armorel learned the art and practice of hospitality, but certainly she showed a true feeling in the matter of feeding--especially at breakfast. First, the table was decorated with the autumn leaves of the bramble--crimson, yellow, purple--few, indeed, know how beautiful a table may be made when decorated with these leaves. There were also a few late flowers from the garden; but not many. The coffee was strong, the milk hot and thick, the bread and butter home-made, like the beer of yester eve: the ham was cured by Chessun: the eggs were collected by Armorel: she had also with her own hands made the jam and the cake. Armorel sat behind the cups with as much ease as if she had been accustomed from infancy to entertain young gentlemen at breakfast. She was serious over her task, and poured out the coffee as if it was something precious, not to be wasted or carelessly administered, which is the spirit in which all good food should be approached. She did not ask any questions, nor did she talk much during the banquet. Perhaps she had an instinctive perception of the great truth that breakfast, which is taken at the beginning of the day--the sacred day, with all its possibilities and its chances of what may happen; the fateful day, which alone and unaided may change the whole course and current of a life--should be approached with a becoming gravity. At breakfast the man fortifies himself before he goes forth to work. But he has the work before him. In the evening it is done: he has passed through the dangers of the day: he still lives: he has received no hurt: he has, we hope, prospered in his honest handiwork: he may laugh and rejoice. But at breakfast we should be serious. 'What will you do,' asked Armorel, breakfast completed, 'until Peter is ready? He has got some work, you know, before he can come out.' 'I should like first,' he said, 'to see your flower-farm, if I may.' 'If you please. But there is nothing to see at this time of the year. You must not think we grow flowers all the year round. If you were here in February, you would see the fields covered with beautiful flowers--iris, anemone, jonquil, narcissus, and daffodil. They are very pretty then, and the air is sweet with their scent. But now the fields are quite bare.' 'I should like to see them, however.' 'I will show them to you. It is a great happiness to the islands,' said Armorel, gravely, 'that we have found out the flower-farming. Everybody was very poor before. All the old ways of living were gone, you see. A long time ago the people had wrecks every winter--the sea cast up quantities of things which they could sell, or they went out in boats and took the things out of the hold when the ship was on the rocks. And then they were all smugglers: the Scillonians used to run over to France openly, day and night, with no one to stop them. And they used to carry fruit and vegetables out to the homeward-bound ships in the Channel. And then they were pilots as well. Some of the men used to make as much as two hundred pounds a year as pilots. My grandfathers were all pilots. They were smugglers too; and they had this farm and grew vegetables for the ships. Then the Government built the lighthouses, and there were no more wrecks; and the Preventive Service came and stopped the smuggling; and since the steamers took the place of the sailing-ships no vessels put in here, and there are no more pilots wanted. So, you see, it was as if nothing was left at all.' 'It does seem rough on the people.' 'First they tried kelp-making. They collected the sea-weed and put it in a kiln or furnace, and made a fire under it. I can show you some of the old furnaces still. But that came to an end. Then they tried a fishing company; but I believe it did not pay. And then they began to build ships; but I suppose other people could build them better. So that came to an end too. And for some time I do not know how all the people lived. As for the farms, they could never grow enough for the islands. Then a great many of the people went away. They had to go, or they would have starved. Some went to England, and some to America, and some to Australia. All the families went away from Samson, one by one, until at last there were none left but ourselves and Justinian. On Bryher and St. Martin's they became fishermen, but not here. As for Justinian, he sent away all his boys except Peter. Oh! they have done very well--splendidly. One is a coastguard, and one is bo's'n in the Queen's Navy. One is captain of a steamer trading between Philadelphia and Cuba, and one is actually chief steward on a great Pacific liner! Justinian is very proud of him.' 'Indeed, yes,' said Roland, 'with reason.' 'The Scillonians,' the girl continued, proudly, 'all get on very well wherever they go. They are honest, you see, as well as clever.' 'And the flower-farming?' 'Somebody discovered that the early spring flowers, which begin here in January, could be carried to London and sold quite fresh. And then everybody began to plant bulbs. That is all. We have had a farm of some kind here for I do not know how many generations.' 'Since the time,' Roland suggested, 'when, in consequence of the separation of Scilly from the mainland and the disappearance of Lyonesse, the royal family found themselves left in Samson.' She laughed. 'Well, all these stone inclosures on the hill belonged to our farm. We grew things and ate them, I suppose. Perhaps we sold them. But we were then poor, I know, and now we have no more trouble.' Beside and behind the farmhouse on the slope of the hill they came upon a series of little fields following one after the other. They were quite small--some mere patches, none larger than a garden of ordinary size, and they were all enclosed and shut in by high hedges, so that they looked like largish boxes with the lids off. Some of the hedges were of elm, growing thick and close; some of escallonia, with its red flowers; some of veronica, its purple blossom like heads of bulrush; some of the service-tree; and some, but not many, of tamarisk, its pink bunches of blossom all displayed at this time of the year. But the fields were now brown and bare, and had nothing at all growing in them, except a few patches of gladiolus, now dying. Beyond these fields, however, there were others of larger area, with ruder hedges formed by laths, reeds, wooden palings, and stone walls. These were inclosed, and partly sheltered for the growth of vegetables. 'These are our fields,' said Armorel. 'At this time of the year there is nothing to show you. Our harvest begins in January, and lasts till May; but February and March are our best months. See--there is Peter, with a young man from Bryher, planting bulbs for next year: they are taken up every three years and replanted.' Peter, in fact, was at work. He was superintending--a form of work which he found to suit him best--while the young man from Bryher, who looked more than half sailor, with a broad, long-handled spade, was leisurely turning over the light sandy soil and laying in the bulbs side by side out of a great basket. 'It seems an easy form of agriculture,' said Roland. 'It is not hard. There is nothing to do after this until the flowers are picked. But sometimes a cold wind will come down from the north and will kill a whole field full of blossoms--in spite of all our hedges. That is a terrible loss. When everything goes well, we cut the flowers, pack them in boxes, carry them over to the port, and next morning they are sold in London--oh! and all over the country, in every big town.' 'I shall never again behold a daffodil in February,' said Roland, 'without thinking of Samson. You have lent a new association to the spring flowers. Henceforth they will bring back this glorious view of sea and islands, grey and black rocks, the splendid sunshine and the fresh breeze--and,' he added, with a winning smile and deferential eyes, 'the Lady of Lyonesse.' Armorel laughed. It was very nice to be called the Lady of Lyonesse--nobody before had ever called her anything except plain Armorel. And it was quite a new experience to have a young gentleman treating her with deference as well as compliment. At the back of the house was an orchard, through which they presently passed. Like the flower-fields, it was protected by a high hedge. But the apple-trees looked like the olives of Provence: every one seemed in the last decay of age. They were twisted and dwarfish; the branches grew in queer angles and elbows, as if they were crouching down out of reach of the north wind; the trunks were bent, and, which completed their resemblance to the olive, all alike were covered and clothed with a thick grey lichen, clinging to every bough like a glove, and hanging like a fringe. If you tear it off, the tree begins to shiver and shake, though on Samson it is never cold. 'Let us sit down,' said Roland, 'in this secluded spot and talk. Have I your leave, Armorel, to---- Thank you.' He filled and lit his briar-root, and lay back on the warm bank, gazing upwards at the blue sky through the leaves and the twisted branches of an aged apple-tree. 'It is good to be here. Do you know how very, very good it was of you to ask me, Armorel? And do you know how very, very rash it was?' The girl, who showed her youth and inexperience in many little ways, regarded him with admiration unconcealed. Certainly, he was a personable young man, even picturesque; when his beard should be a little longer, when his moustache should be a little stronger, he might be able to pass for Charles I. idealised, and in early manhood, when as yet he had not begun to dissimulate. 'I was so glad when you promised to stay,' she replied, truthfully. 'Again, it is most good of you to say so. But, Armorel, a dreadful misgiving has possessed me. Does your--does the Ancestress approve of the invitation?' Armorel laughed. 'Why,' she said, 'we never consult her about anything. She is too old, you know.' 'Was nobody consulted at all? Did you ask me here all out of your own head, as the children say?' 'Why not? There is nobody to consult. Why should I not ask you?' 'It was very good of you--only--well--you are younger than most ladies who invite people to their house.' 'Well--but I asked you,' she replied, with a little irritation, 'and you said you would come. You asked if anybody could stay on the island.' 'Yes, of course.' He did not explain that at first he thought the place was a lodging-house. The mistake was not unnatural; but he could not explain. 'I ought to have known,' he said. 'You are the Queen of Samson, as well as a Princess in Lyonesse. I beg your Majesty to forgive the ignorance of a traveller from foreign parts.' 'Justinian and Peter manage the farm. Dorcas and Chessun manage the house. There is no one to ask,' she added, simply, 'what I am doing.' She said this with a touch of sadness. 'Have you no relations--cousins--nobody?' 'I have some far-off cousins. They live in London, I believe. One of them went away--a long, long time ago, in the Great War--and became a purser in the Navy. After that he was purveyor for the Fleet, and was made a knight. He was my grandfather's cousin, so I suppose he is dead by this time, but I dare say he has left children.' 'You are very lonely, Armorel.' 'I had three brothers; but they were all drowned--father, mother, three brothers, all drowned together coming from St. Agnes. That was ten years ago, when I was only a little girl and did not know what it meant. All our misfortunes, my great-great-grandmother says, are due to the wickedness of her husband's father, who took a bag of treasure from the neck of a passenger rescued from a wreck. You heard her last night. Do you think that God would drown my innocent brothers and my innocent father and mother all on the same day, because, eighty years ago, that wicked thing was done?' 'No, Armorel. I can believe a great deal, but that I cannot believe.' 'And so, you see, I am quite alone. Why should I not invite you to stay here?' 'There is not, in reality, Armorel, any reason, except that you did not know anything about me.' 'Oh! but I saw you and talked with you.' 'Yes; but that was not enough. We do not ask people into our houses unless we know something about them.' 'I could see that you were a gentleman.' 'You are very good to think so. Let me try to justify that belief. But, Armorel, seriously, there are thieves and rogues and wicked men in the world. Some of these may come to Scilly. Do not ask another stranger. Believe me, it is dangerous. As for me, you have shown me your flower-farm and have entertained me hospitably: let me thank you and take my departure.' 'Go away? Take your departure? Why?' Armorel looked ready to cry. 'You have only just come. You have seen nothing.' 'Do you wish me to stay another night?' 'Of course I do. What is it, Roland Lee? You have got something on your mind. Why should you not stay?' 'I should like somebody,' he replied, weakly, 'to approve. If the Ancestress, or even Dorcas, or Chessun herself, would approve----' 'Why, of course Dorcas approves. She says it is the best thing in the world for me to have someone here to talk to. She said so yesterday evening, and again this morning.' 'In that case, Armorel, and since it is so delightful here--and so new--and since you are so kind, I will stay one more day.' He remembered his friend's warning, and the grumpiness which he showed on the way back. His conscience smote him, but not severely. He would be very careful. And, after all, she was but a child. He would just stay the one day and make a sketch or two. Then he would go away. 'That is settled, then. One more day--or, perhaps, one more week, or a month, or a year,' she said, laughing. 'And now, before Peter is ready, I must leave you for ten minutes, because I have to make a cake for your tea this evening. As for dinner, we shall have that in the boat, or on one of the islands. It is my business, you know, to make the puddings and the cakes.' 'Armorel--you shall not. I would rather go without.' 'You shall certainly not go without a cake. Why, I like to make things. It would be dull here indeed if I had not got things to do all day long.' 'Do you not find it dull sometimes, even with things to do?' 'Perhaps. Sometimes. I suppose we are all of us tempted to be discontented at times, even when we have so many blessings as I enjoy.' Armorel was young enough, you see, to talk the language of her nurses and serving-women. 'How do you get through the day?' 'I get up at six o'clock, except in winter, when it is too dark. I have a run with Jack after breakfast; we run up the hill and down the other side--round Porth Bay, just to see the waves beating on White Island Ledge, where you very nearly----' 'Very nearly,' Roland echoed, 'but for you.' 'Then we run up Bryher Hill and stand on the carn just for Jack to bark at the north wind.' 'Sometimes it rains.' 'Oh, yes--and sometimes it blows such a gale of wind that I could not stand on the carn for a moment. Then I stay at home and make or mend something. There are always things to be made or mended. Then we are always wanting stores of some kind or other, and I have to go over to Hugh Town and buy them. At Hugh Town there are shops where they keep beautiful things--you can buy anything you want at Hugh Town. We cannot make pins and needles at home, can we? Then we have dinner, and Granny is brought in. Sometimes she wakes up then, and gets lively, and knows everything that is going on. She will talk quite sensibly for an hour at a time. And I have my fiddle to practise. After tea, when the days are long enough, I go up on the hills again and wander about till dark.' 'And do you never have any companions at all?' he asked with a curious, unreasoning, perfectly inexcusable touch of jealousy, because it could not matter to him even if all the young men of St. Mary's and Bryher and Tresco and St. Martin's came over every Sunday to court this dainty damsel. Yet he did feel the least bit anxious. 'Never any companions. Nobody ever comes here. They used to come, when Granny was still able to talk, in order to ask her advice. She was so wise, you see.' 'And every evening you make music for the Ancestress and the worthy Tryeth family?' 'Yes, and then I have supper and go to bed. Generally by nine o'clock we are all asleep in the house.' 'It would be a monotonous life if you were older. But it is only a preliminary or a preparation to something else. It is the overture, played in soft music, to the happy comedy of your future life, Armorel.' 'You mean to say something kind,' she replied. 'Of course, my life must seem dull to you.' 'One cannot always live on lovely skies and sunlit seas and enchanted islands.' 'Sometimes it seems to me that a little more talk would be pleasant. Justinian talks very well, to be sure; but he is the only one. He knows quantities of wrecks. It would astonish you to hear him tell of the wrecks he has seen. Dorcas talks very little now, because she has lost all her teeth. Chessun is a silent woman, because she's always been kept under by her mother. And Peter's not a talkative boy, because he's always been kept under both by his father and his mother. Besides, he got that nasty fall which made all his hair fall off. You can't wonder if he thinks about that a good deal. And they are all getting old.' 'Yes. They seem to be getting very old indeed. Some day they will follow the example of other old people and vanish. Then, Armorel, you will be like Robinson Crusoe or Alexander Selkirk.' 'I know all about Alexander Selkirk. He lived alone on Juan Fernandez, having been put ashore by Captain Stradling, of the "Cinque Ports." He had been four years and four months on the island when Captain Woodes Rogers found him. He was clothed in goat-skin. He built two huts with pimento-trees, and covered them with long grass and lined them with the skin of goats. He made fire by rubbing two sticks together on his knee. And he lived by catching goats. You mean, Roland Lee,' she said, with great seriousness, 'that some day or other all these old people will die--my great-great-grandmother, Justinian, Dorcas, and even Peter and Chessun, and that then I shall be alone on the island. That would be terrible. But it will not happen in that way. I am sure it will not, because it would be so very terrible. We are in the Lord's hand, and it will not be allowed.' The young man coloured and dropped his eyes. There certainly was not a single girl of all those whom he knew in London who could have said such a thing so simply and so sincerely. Not the youngest girl fresh from the most religious teaching could say such a thing. Yet they go to church a good deal oftener than Armorel, whose chances were only once a week, and then only when the weather was fine. This it is to be a Scillonian, and to believe what you hear in church. Roland had no reply to make. Even to hint that faith so simple and so complete was rare would have been cruel and wicked. 'You have quoted Woodes Rogers,' he said presently. 'Have you read that good old navigator? It is not often that one finds a girl quoting from Woodes Rogers.' 'Oh! I do not read much. There is a bookcase full of books; but I only read the voyages. There is a whole row of them. Woodes Rogers, Shelvocke, Commodore Anson, Wallis, Carteret, and Cook--and more besides. I like Carteret best, because his ship was so small and so crazy, and his men so few and so weak, and yet he would keep on traversing the ocean as long as he could, and discovered a great deal more than his commander, who cowardly deserted him.' 'There are other things in the world besides voyages--and other books.' 'I learned the other things at school. There was geography--the world is only the Scilly Islands spread out big--and history, too. You would be surprised to find what a lot of English history there is that belongs to Scilly. Queen Elizabeth built the Star Fort--you've seen the Star Fort on the Garrison. There is Charles the First's Castle, on Tresco, all in ruins; and, down below it, Cromwell's Castle, which I will show you. And Charles the Second stayed here. Oh! and there was the Spanish Armada; I must not forget that, because of another great-great-far-off-great-grandfather, three hundred years ago, who was wrecked here.' 'How was that?' 'He was a captain, or officer of some kind, on board one of the Spanish ships; his name was Don Hernando Mureno. After the Armada was defeated and driven away, some of the ships came down the Irish Sea, and among them his ship--and she ran ashore on one of the Outer Islands--I think on Maiden Bower. How many were saved I cannot tell you; but some were, and among them Don Hernando Mureno himself. He stayed here, and never wanted to go away any more; but married a Scillonian, and lived out his life on Bryher, and is buried at the old church at St. Mary's, where I could show you his grave and the headstone--though the letters are all gone by this time. I have his sword still, and I will show it to you. One of my grandfathers married his granddaughter. They say I take after the Spanish side.' 'You are a true Castilian, Armorel; unless, indeed, you happen to be an Andalusian or a Biscayan.' 'Do you think I ought to read the other books?' she asked him, anxiously. 'If you really think so, I will try--I will, really.' I suppose that no young man--not even the most hardened lecturers at Newnham--ever becomes quite indifferent to the spectacle of Venus entrusting the care of her intellect to a young philosopher. It is a moving spectacle, and still novel. It makes a much more beautiful picture than that of Venus handing over the care of her soul to the Shaven and Shorn. Roland coloured. He felt at once the responsibility and the delicacy of the task thus offered him. 'We will look into the shelves,' he said. 'I suppose that the Ancestress no longer reads?' 'She never learned to read at all. She can neither read nor write: yet there was never anyone who knew so much. She could cure all diseases, and the people came over here from all the islands for her advice. Dorcas knew a great deal, but she does not know the half or the quarter of her mistress's knowledge.' 'Armorel'--Roland knocked out the ashes of his pipe--'I think you want--very badly--someone to advise you.' 'Will you advise me, Roland Lee?' 'Child'--he slowly got up--'all my life, so far, I have been looking for someone to advise and help myself. You must not lean upon a reed. Come--let us seek Peter the boy, and launch the ship and go forth upon our voyage about this sea of many islands. Perchance we may discover Circe upon one of them--unless you are yourself Circe--and I shall presently find myself transformed; but you are too good to turn me into anything except a prince or a poet. And we may light upon St. Brandan's Land; or we may find Judas Iscariot floating on that island of red-hot brass; or we may chance on Andromeda, and witness the battle of Perseus and the dragon; or we may find the weeping Ariadne--everything is possible on an island.' 'Roland Lee,' said the girl, 'you are talking like your friend Dick Stephenson. Why do you say such extravagant things? This is the island of Samson, and I am nothing in the world but Armorel Rosevean.' CHAPTER VII A VOYAGE OF DISCOVERY All day long the boat sailed about among the channels and over the shallow ledges of the Outer or Western Islands, whither no boat may reach save on such a day, so quiet and so calm. The visitor who comes by one boat and goes away by the next thinks he has seen this archipelago. As well stand inside a great cathedral for half an hour and then go away thinking you have seen it all. It takes many days to see these fragments of Lyonesse, and to get a time sense of the place. They sailed round the southern point of Samson, and they steered westward, leaving Great Minalto on the lee, towards Mincarlo, lying, like an old-fashioned sofa, high at the two ends and flat in the middle. They found a landing at the southern point, and clambered up the steep and rocky sides of the low hill. On this island there are four peaks with a down in the middle, all complete. It is like a doll's island. Everywhere in Scilly there are the same features: here a hill strewn with boulders; here a little down, with fern and gorse and heath; here a bay in which the water, on such days as it can be approached, peacefully laps a smooth white beach; here dark caves and holes in which the water always, even in the calmest day of summer, grumbles and groans, and, when the least sea rises, begins to roar and bellow--in time of storm it shrieks and howls. Those who sail round these rumbling water-dungeons begin to think of sea monsters. Hidden in those recesses the awful calamary lies watching, waiting, his tentacles forty feet long stretching out in the green water, floating innocently till they touch their prey, then seizing and haling it within sight of the baleful, gleaming eyes and within reach of the devouring mouth. In these holes, too, lie the great conger-eels--they fear nothing that swims except that calamary; and in these recesses walk about the huge crabs which devour the dead bodies of shipwrecked sailors. On the sunlit rocks one looks to see a mermaiden, with glittering scales, combing out her long fair tresses: perhaps one may unfortunately miss this beautiful sight, which is rare even in Scilly; but one cannot miss seeing the seals flopping in the water and swimming out to sea, with seeming intent to cross the broad ocean. And in windy weather porpoises blow in the shallow waters of the sounds. All round the rocks at low tide hangs the long sea-weed, undisturbed since the days when they manufactured kelp, like the rank growth of a tropical creeper: at high tide it stands up erect, rocking to and fro in the wash and sway of the water like the tree-tops of the forest in the breeze. Everywhere, except in the rare places where men come and go, the wild sea-birds make their nests; the shags stand on the ledges of the highest rocks in silent rows gazing upon the water below; the sea-gulls fly, shrieking in sea-gullic rapture--there is surely no life quite so joyous as a sea-gull's; the curlews call; the herons sail across the sky; and, in spring, millions of puffins swim and dive and fly about the rocks, and lay their eggs in the hollow places of these wild and lonely islands. These things, which one presently expects and observes without wonder in all the islands, were new to Roland when he set foot on the rugged rock of Mincarlo. He climbed up the steep sides of the rock and stood upon the top of its highest peak. He made two or three rapid sketches of rock and sea, the girl looking over his shoulder, watching curiously, for the first time in her life, the growth of a picture. [Illustration: _Watching curiously, for the first time in her life, the growth of a picture._] Then he stood and looked around. The great stones were piled about; the brown turf crept up their sides; where there was space to grow, the yellow branches of the fern were spread; and on all four sides lay the shining water. 'All my life,' he said, 'I have dreamed of islands. This is true joy, Armorel. For a permanency, Samson is better than Mincarlo, because there is more of it. But to come here sometimes--to sit on this carn while the wind whistles in your ear, and the waves are lapping against the rocks all day long and always----Armorel, is there any other world? Are there men and women living somewhere? Is there anybody but you and me--and Peter?' he added, hastily. 'I don't believe in London. It is a dream. Everything is a dream but the islands and the boat and Armorel.' She was only a child, but she turned a rosy red at the compliment. Nothing but the boat and herself. She was very fond of the boat, you see, and she felt that the words conveyed a high compliment. Then they began to explore the rest of this mountainous island, which has such a variety of scenery all packed away in the small space of twelve acres. When they had walked over the whole of Mincarlo that is accessible, they returned to their landing-place, where Peter sat in the boat keeping her off, with head bent as if he was asleep. 'It must be half-past twelve,' said Armorel. 'I am sure you are hungry. We will have dinner here.' 'No better place for a picnic. Come along, Peter. Bear a hand with the basket. Here, Armorel, is a rock that will do for a table, and here is one on which we two can sit. There is a rock for you, Peter. Now! The opening of a luncheon-basket is always a moment of grave anxiety. What have we got?' 'This is a rabbit-pie,' said Armorel. 'And this is a cake-pudding. I made it yesterday. Do you like cake-pudding? Here are bread and salt and things. Can you make your dinner off a rabbit-pie, Roland Lee?' 'A very good dinner too.' The young man now understood that on Samson one uses the word dinner instead of lunch, and that supper is an excellent cold spread served at eight. 'A very good dinner, Armorel. I mean to carve this. Sit down and let me see you make a good dinner.' An admirable rabbit-pie, and an excellent cake-pudding. Also, there had not been forgotten a stone jar filled with that home-brewed of which the like can no longer be found in any other spot in the British Islands. I hope one need do no more than indicate the truly appreciative havoc wrought by the young gentleman among all these good gifts and blessings. After dinner, to lie in the sunshine and have a pipe, looking across the wide stretch of sunny water to the broken line of rocks and the blue horizon beyond, was happiness undeserved. Beside him sat the girl, anxious that he should be happy--thinking of nothing but what might best please her guest. Then they got into the boat again, and sailed half a mile or so due north by the compass, until they came within another separate archipelago, of which Mincarlo is an outlying companion. It is the group of rocks, called the Outer or the Western Islands, lying tumbled about in the water west of Bryher and Samson. Some of them are close together, some are separated by broad channels. Here the sea is never calm: at the foot of the rocks stretch out ledges, some of them bare at low water, revealing their ugly black stone teeth: the swell of the Atlantic on the calmest days rises and falls and makes white eddies, broken water, and flying spray. Among these rocks they rowed: Peter and Roland taking the oars, while Armorel steered. They rowed round Maiden Bower, with its cluster of granite forts defying the whole strength of the Atlantic, which will want another hundred thousand years to grind them down--about and among the Black Rocks and the Seal Rocks, dark and threatening: they landed on Ilyswillig, with his peak of fifty feet, a strange wild island: they stood on the ledge of Castle Bryher and looked up at the tower of granite which rises out of the water like the round keep of a Norman castle: they hoisted sail and stood out to Scilly himself, where his twin rocks command the entrance to the islands. Scilly is of the dual number: he consists of two great mountains rising from the water sheer, precipitous, and threatening: each about eighty feet high, but with the air of eight hundred; each black and square and terrible of aspect: they are separated by a narrow channel hardly broad enough for a boat to pass through. 'One day last year,' said Armorel--'it was in July, after a fortnight of fine weather--we went through this channel, Peter and I--didn't we, Peter? It was a dead calm, and at high tide.' The boy nodded his head. The channel was now, the tide being nearly high, like a foaming torrent, through which the water raced and rushed, boiling into whirlpools, foaming and tearing at the sides. The rapids below Niagara are not fiercer than was this channel, though the day was so fair and the sea without so quiet. 'Once,' said Peter, breaking the silence, 'there was a ship cast up by a wave right into the fork of the channel. She went to pieces in ten minutes, for she was held in a vice like, while the waves beat her into sticks. Some of the men got on to the north rock--what they call "Cuckoo"--and there they stuck till the gale abated. Then people saw them from Bryher, and a pilot-boat put off for them.' 'So they were saved?' said Roland. 'No, they were not saved,' Peter replied, slowly. ''Twas this way: the pilot-boat that took them off the rock capsized on the way home. So they was all drowned.' 'Poor beggars! Now, if they had been brought safe ashore we might have been told what these rocks look like in rough weather: and what Scilly is like when you have climbed it: and how a man feels in the middle of a storm on Scilly.' 'You can see very well what it is like from Samson,' said Armorel. 'The waves beat upon the rocks, and the white spray flies over them and hides them.' 'I should like to hear as well as to see,' said Roland. 'Fancy the thunder of the Atlantic waves against this mass of rock, the hissing and boiling in the channel, the roaring of the wind and the dashing of the waves! I wonder if any of these shipwrecked men had a sketch-book in his pocket. 'To be drowned,' he continued, 'just by the upsetting of a boat, and after escaping death in a much more exciting manner! Their companions were torn from the deck and hurled and dashed against the rock, so that in a moment their bones were broken to fragments, and the fragments themselves were thrown against the rocks till there was nothing left of them. And these poor fellows clung to the rock, hiding under a boulder from the driving wind--cold, starving, wet, and miserable. And just as they thought of food and shelter and warmth again, to be taken and plunged into the cold water, there to roll about till they were drowned! A dreadful tragedy!' Having thus broken the ice, Peter proceeded to relate more stories of shipwreck, taking after his father, Justinian Tryeth, whose conversational powers in this direction were, according to Armorel, unrivalled. There is a shipwreck story belonging to every rock of Scilly, and to many there are several shipwrecks. As there are about as many rocks of Scilly as there are days in the year, the stories would take long in the telling. Fortunately, Peter did not know all. It is natural, however, that a native of Samson, and the descendant of many generations of wreckers, should love to talk about wrecks. Therefore he proceeded to tell of the French frigate which came over to conquer Scilly in 1798, and was very properly driven ashore by the sea which owns allegiance to Britannia, and all hands lost, so that the Frenchmen captured no more than their graves, which now lie in a triumphant row on St. Agnes. On Maiden Bower he placed, I know not with what truth, the wreck of the Spaniard which gave Armorel an ancestor. On Mincarlo he remembered the loss of an orange-ship on her way from the Azores. On Menovaur he had seen a collier driven in broad daylight and broken all to pieces in half a day, and of her crew not a man saved. Other things, similarly cheerful, he narrated slowly while the sunshine made these grey rocks put on a hospitable look and the boat danced over the rippling waves. With his droning voice, his smooth face with the long white hair upon it, like the last scanty leaves upon a tree, he was like the figure of Death at the Feast, while Armorel--young, beautiful, smiling--reminded her guest of Life, and Love, and Hope. They sailed round so many of these rocks and islets: they landed on so many: they lingered so long among the reefs, loth to leave the wild, strange place, that the sun was fast going down when they hoisted sail and steered for New Grinsey Sound on their homeward way. You may enter New Grinsey Sound either from the north or from the south. The disadvantage of attempting it from the former on ordinary days is that those who do so are generally capsized and frequently drowned. On such a day as this, however, the northern passage may be attempted. It is the channel, dangerous and beset with rocks and ledges, between the islands of Bryher and Tresco. As the boat sailed slowly in, losing the breeze as it rounded the point, the channel spread itself out broad and clear. On the right hand rose, precipitous, the cliffs and crags of Shipman's Head, which looks like a continuation of Bryher, but is really separated from the island by a narrow passage--you may work through it in calm weather--running from Hell Bay to the Sound. On the left is Tresco, its downs rising steeply from the water, and making a great pretence of being a very lofty ascent indeed. In the middle of the coast juts out a high promontory, surrounded on all sides but one by the water. On this rock stands Cromwell's Castle, a round tower, older than the Martello Towers. It still possesses a roof, but its interior has been long since gutted. In front of it has been built a square stone platform or bastion, where once, no doubt, they mounted guns for the purpose of defending this channel against an invader, as if Nature had not already defended it by her ledges and shallows and hardly concealed teeth of granite. To protect by a fort a channel when the way is so tortuous and difficult, and where there are so many other ways, is almost as if Warkworth Castle, five miles inland, on the winding Coquet, had been built to protect the shores of Northumberland from the invading Dane: or as if Chepstow above the muddy Wye had been built for the defence of Bristol. There, however, the castle is, and a very noble picture it made as the boat slowly voyaged through the Sound. The declining sun, not yet sunk too low behind Bryher, clothed it with light and splendour, and brought out the rich colour of grey rock and yellow fern upon the steep hillside behind. Beyond the castle, in the midst of the Sound, rose a pyramidal island, a pile of rocks, seventy or eighty feet high, on whose highest carn some of Oliver Cromwell's prisoners were hanged, according to the voice of tradition, which, somehow, always goes dead against that strong person. Roland, who had exhausted the language of delight among the Outer Islands, contemplated this picture in silence. 'Do you not like it?' asked the girl. 'Like it?' he repeated. 'Armorel! It is splendid.' 'Will you make a sketch of it?' 'I cannot. I must make a picture. I ought to come here day after day. There must be a good place to take it from--over there, I think, on that beach. Armorel! It is splendid. To think that the picture is to be seen so near to London, and that no one comes to see it!' 'If you want to come day after day, Roland,' she said, softly, 'you will not be able to go away to-morrow. You must stay longer with us on Samson.' 'I ought not, child. You should not ask me.' 'Why should you not stay if you are happy with us? We will make you as comfortable as ever we can. You have only to tell us what you want.' She looked so eagerly and sincerely anxious that he yielded. 'If you are really and truly sure,' he said. 'Of course I am really and truly sure. The weather will be fine, I think, and we will go sailing every day.' 'Then I will stay a day or two longer. I will make a picture of Cromwell's Castle--and the hill at the back of it and the water below it. I will make it for you, Armorel; but I will keep a copy of it for myself. Then we shall each have a memento of this day--something to remember it by.' 'I should like to have the picture. But, oh! Roland!--as if I could ever forget this day!' She spoke with perfect simplicity, this child of Nature, without the least touch of coquetry. Why should she not speak what was in her heart? Never before had she seen a young man so brave, so gallant, so comely: nor one who spoke so gently: nor one who treated her with so much consideration. He turned his face: he could not meet those trustful eyes, with the innocence that lay there: he was abashed by reason of this innocence. A child--only a child. Armorel would change. In a year or two this trustfulness would vanish. She would become like all other girls--shy and reserved, self-conscious in intuitive self-defence. But there was no harm as yet. She was a child--only a child. As the sun went down the bows ran into the fine white sand of the landing-place, and their voyage was ended. 'A perfect day,' he murmured. 'A day to dream of. How shall I thank you enough, Armorel?' 'You can stay and have some more days like it.' CHAPTER VIII THE VOYAGERS This was the first of many such voyages and travels, though not often in the outside waters, for the vexed Bermoothes themselves are not more lashed by breezes from all the quarters of the compass than these isles of Scilly. They sailed from point to point, and from island to island, landing where they listed or where Armorel led, wandering for long hours round the shores or on the hills. All the islands, except the bare rocks, are covered with down and moorland, bounded in every direction by rocky headlands and slopes covered with granite boulders. They were quite alone in their explorations: no native is ever met upon those downs: no visitor, except on St. Mary's, wanders on the beaches and around the bays. They were quite alone all the day long: the sea-breeze whistled in their ears; the gulls flew over their heads--the cormorants hardly stirred from the rocks when they climbed up; the hawk that hung motionless in the air above them changed not his place when they drew near. And always, day after day, they came continually upon unexpected places: strange places, beautiful places: beaches of dazzling white: wildly heaped carns: here a cromlech, a logan stone, a barrow--Samson is not the only island which guards the tombs of the Great Departed--a new view of sea and sky and white-footed rock. I believe that there does not live any single man who has actually explored all the isles of Scilly: stood upon every rock, climbed every hill, and searched on every island for its treasures of ancient barrows, plants, birds, carns, and headlands. Once there was a worthy person who came here as chaplain to St. Martin's. He started with the excellent intention of seeing everything. Alas! he never saw a single island properly: he never walked round one exhaustively. He wrote a book about them, to be sure; but he saw only half. As for Samson, this person of feeble intelligence even declared that the island was not worth a second visit! After that one would shut the book, but is lured on in the hope of finding something new. One must not ask of the islanders themselves for information about the isles, because few of them ever go outside their own island unless to Hugh Town, where is the Port, and where are the shops. Why should they? On the other islands they have no business. Justinian Tryeth, for instance, was seventy-five years of age; Hugh Town he knew, and had often been there, though now Peter did the business of the farm at the Port: St. Agnes he knew, having wooed and won a wife there: he had been to Bryher Church, which is close to the shore--the rest of Bryher was to him as unknown as Iceland. As for St. Martin's, or Annet, or Great Ganilly, he saw them constantly; they were always within his sight, yet he had never desired to visit them. They were an emblem, a shape, a name to him, and nothing more. It is so always with those who live in strange and beautiful places: the marvels are part of their daily life: they heed them not, unless, like Armorel, they have no work to do and are quick to feel the influences of things around them. Most Swiss people seem to care nothing for their Alps, but here and there is one who would gladly spend all his days high up among the fragrant pines, or climbing the slope of ice with steady step and slow. But these young people did try to visit all the islands. Upon Roland there fell the insatiate curiosity--the rage--of an explorer and a discoverer. He became like Captain Cook himself: he longed for more islands: every day he found a new island. 'Give,' cries he who sails upon unknown seas and scans the round circle of the horizon for the cloudy peak of some far-distant mountain, 'give--give more islands--still more islands! Let us sail for yonder cloud! Let us sail on until the cloud becomes a hill-top, and the hill another island! Largesse for him who first calls "Land ahead!" There shall we find strange monsters and treasures rare, with friendly natives, and girls more blooming than those of fair Tahiti. Let us sail thither, though it prove no more than a barren rock, the resting-place of the sea-lion; though we can do no more than climb its steep sides and stand upon the top while the spray flies over the rocks and beats upon our faces.' In such a spirit as Captain Carteret (Armorel's favourite) steered his frail bark from shore to shore did Roland sail among those Scilly seas. Of course they went to Tresco, where there is the finest garden in all the world. But one should not go to see the garden more than once, because its perfumed alleys, its glasshouses, its cultivated and artificial air, are somehow incongruous with the rest of the islands. As well expect to meet a gentleman in a Court dress walking across Fylingdale Moor. Yet it is indeed a very noble and royal garden: other gardens have finer hothouses: none have a better show of flowers and trees of every kind: for variety it is like unto the botanical gardens of a tropical land: you might be standing in one of the alleys of the garden of Mauritius, or of Java, or the Cape. Here everything grows and flourishes that will grow anywhere, except, of course, those plants which carry patriotism to an extreme and refuse absolutely to leave their native soil. You cannot go picking pepper here, nor can you strip the cinnamon-tree of its bark. But here you will see the bamboos cluster, tall and graceful: the eucalyptus here parades his naked trunk and his blue leaves: here the fern-tree lifts its circle of glory of lace and embroidery twenty feet high: the prickly pear nestles in warm corners: the aloe shoots up its tall stalk of flower and of seed: the palms stand in long rows: and every lovely plant, every sweet flower, created for the solace of man, grows abundantly, and hastens with zeal to display its blossoms: the soft air is full of perfumes, strange and familiar: it is as if Kew had taken off her glass roofs and placed all her plants and trees to face the English winter. But, then, the winter of Scilly is not the winter of Great Britain. The botanist may visit this garden many times, and always find something to please him; but the ordinary traveller will go but once, and admire and come away. It is far better outside on the breezy down, where the dry fern and withered bents crack beneath your feet, and the elastic turf springs as you tread upon it. There are other things on Tresco: there is a big fresh-water lake--it would be a respectable lake even in Westmoreland--where the wild birds disport themselves: beside it South American ostriches roam gravely, after the manner of the bird. It is pleasant to see the creatures. There is a great cave, if you like dark damp caves: better than the cave, there is a splendid bold coast sloping steeply from the down all round the northern part of the island. Then they walked all round St. Mary's. It is nine miles round; but if, as these young people did, you climb every headland and walk round every bay, and descend every possible place where the boulders make a ladder down to the boiling water below, it is nine hundred miles round, and, for its length, the most wonderful walk in all the world. They crossed the broad Sound to St. Agnes, and saw St. Warna's wondrous cove: they stood on the desolate Gugh and the lonely Annet, beloved of puffins: they climbed on every one of the Eastern Islands, and even sailed, when they found a day calm enough to permit the voyage, among the Dogs of Scilly, and clambered up the black boulders of Rosevear and scared the astonished cormorants from wild Goreggan. One day it rained in the morning. Then they had to stay at home, and Armorel showed the house. She took her guest into the dairy, where Chessun made the butter and scalded the cream--that rich cream which the West-country folk eat with everything. She made him stand by and help make a junket, which Devonshire people believe cannot be made outside the shadow of Dartmoor: she took him into the kitchen--the old room with its old furniture, the candlesticks and snuffers of brass, the bacon hanging to the joists, the blue china, the ancient pewter platters, the long bright spit--a kitchen of the eighteenth century. And then she took him into a room which no longer exists anywhere else save in name. It was the still-room, and on the shelves there stood the elixirs and cordials of ancient time: the currant gin to fortify the stomach on a raw morning before crossing the Road; the cherry brandy for a cold and stormy night; the elderberry wine, good mulled and spiced at Christmas-time; the blackberry wine; the home-made distilled waters--lavender water, Hungary water, Cyprus water, and the Divine Cordial itself, which takes three seasons to complete, and requires all the flowers of spring, summer, and autumn. Then they went into the best parlour, and Armorel, opening a cupboard, took out an old sword of strange shape and with faded scabbard. On the blade there was a graven Latin legend. 'This is my ancestor's sword,' she said. 'He was an officer of the Spanish Armada--Hernando Mureno was his name.' 'You are indeed a Spanish lady, Armorel. Your ancestor is well known to have been the bravest and most honourable gentleman in King Philip's service.' 'He remained here--he would not go home: he married and became a Protestant.' She put back the sword in its place, and brought forth other things to show him--old-fashioned watches, old compasses, sextants, telescopes, flint-and-steel pistols--all kinds of things belonging to the old days of smuggling and of piloting. Then she opened the bookcase. It should have been filled with histories of pirates and buccaneers; but it was not: it contained a whole body of theology of the Methodist kind. Roland tossed them over impatiently. 'I don't wonder,' he said, 'at your reading nothing if this is all you have.' But he found one or two books which he set aside. As they wandered about the islands, of course they talked. It wants but little to make a young man open his heart to a girl; only a pair of soft and sympathetic eyes, a face full of interest and questions of admiration. Whether she tells him anything in return is quite another matter. Most young men, when they review the situation afterwards, discover that they have told everything and learned nothing. Perhaps there is nothing to learn. In a few days Armorel knew everything about her guest. He had come from Australia--from that far-distant land--in search of fortune. He had as yet made but few friends. He was unknown and without patrons. He had no family connections which would help him. The patrimony on which he was to live until he should begin to succeed was but small, and although he held money-making in the customary contempt, it was necessary that he should make a good deal, because--which is often the case--his standard of comfort was pitched rather high: it included, for instance, a good club, good cigars, and good claret. Also, as he said, an artist should be free from sordid anxieties: Art demands an atmosphere of calm: therefore, he must have an income. This, like everything that does not exist, must be created. Man is godlike because he alone of creatures can create: he, and he alone, constantly creates things which previously did not exist--an income, honour, rank, tastes, wants, desires, necessities, habits, rules, and laws. 'How can you bear to sell your pictures?' asked the girl. 'We sell our flowers, but then we grow them by the thousand. You make every picture by itself--how can you sell the beautiful things? You must want to keep them every one to look at all your life. Those that you have given to me I could never part with.' 'One must live, fair friend of mine,' he replied, lightly. 'It is my only way of making money, and without money we can do nothing. It is not the selling of his pictures that the artist dreads--that is the necessity of Art as a profession: it is the danger that no one will care about seeing them or buying them. That is much more terrible, because it means failure. Sometimes I dream that I have become old and grey, and have been working all my life, and have had no success at all, and am still unknown and despised. In Art there are thousands of such failures. I think the artist who fails is despised more than any other man. It is truly miserable to aspire so high and to fall so low. Yet who am I that I should reach the port?' 'All good painters succeed,' said the girl, who had never seen a painter before or any painting save her own coloured engravings. 'You are a good painter, Roland. You must succeed. You will become a great painter in everybody's estimation.' 'I will take your words for an oracle,' he said. 'When I am melancholy, and the future looks dark, I will say, "Thus and thus spoke Armorel."' The young man who is about to attempt fortune by the pursuit of Art must not consider too long the wrecks that strew the shores and float about the waters, lest he lose self-confidence. Continually these wrecks occur, and there is no insurance against them: yet continually other barques hoist sail and set forth upon their perilous voyage. It may be reckoned as a good point in this aspirant that he was not over-confident. 'Some are wrecked at the outset,' he said. 'Others gain a kind of success. Heavens! what a kind! To struggle all their lives for admission to the galleries, and to rejoice if once in a while a picture is sold.' 'They are not the good painters,' the girl of large experience again reminded him. 'Am I a good painter?' he replied, humbly. 'Well, one can but try to do good work, and leave to the gods the rest. There is luck in things. It is not every good man who succeeds, Armorel. To every man, however, there is allotted the highest stature possible for him to reach. Let me be contented if I grow to my full height.' 'You must, Roland. You could not be contented with anything less.' 'To reach one's full height, one must live for work alone. It is a hard saying, Armorel. It is a great deal harder than you can understand.' 'If you love your work, and if you are happy in it----' said the girl. 'You do not understand, child, Most men never reach their full height. You can see their pictures in the galleries--poor, stunted things. It is because they live for anything rather than their work. They are pictures without a soul in them.' Now, when a young man holds forth in this strain, one or two things suggest themselves. First, one thinks that he is playing a part, putting on 'side,' affecting depths--in fact, enacting the part of the common Prig, who is now, methinks, less common than he was. If he is not a prig uttering insincere sentimentalities, he may be a young man who has preserved his ideals beyond the usual age by some accident. The ideals and beliefs and aspirations of young men, when they first begin the study of Art in any of its branches, are very beautiful things, and full of truths which can only, somehow, be expressed by very young men. The third explanation is that in certain circumstances, as in the companionship of a girl not belonging to society and the world--a young, innocent, and receptive girl--whose mind is ready for pure ideas, uncontaminated by earthly touch, the old enthusiasms are apt to return and the old beliefs to come back. Then such things may spring in the heart and rise to the lips as one could not think or utter in a London studio. Sincere or not, this young man pursued his theme, making a kind of confession which Armorel could not, as yet, understand. But she remembered. Women at all ages remember tenaciously, and treasure up in their hearts things which they may at some other time learn to understand. 'There was an old allegory, Armorel,' this young man went on, 'of a young man choosing his way, once for all. It is an absurd story, because every day and all day long we are pulled the other way. Sometimes it makes me tremble all over only to think of the flowery way. I know what the end would be. But yet, Armorel, what can you know or understand about the Way of Pleasure, and how men are drawn into it with ropes? My soul is sometimes sick with yearning when I think of those who run along that Way and sing and feast.' 'What kind of Way is it, Roland?' 'You cannot understand, and I cannot tell you. The Way of Pleasure and the Way of Wealth. These are the two roads by which the artistic life is ruined. Yet we are dragged into them by ropes.' 'You shall keep to the true path, Roland,' the girl said, with glistening eyes. 'Oh! how happy you will be when you have reached your full height--you will be a giant then.' He laughed and shook his head. 'Again, Armorel, I will take it from your lips--a prophecy. But you do not understand.' 'No,' she said. 'I am very ignorant. Yet if I cannot understand, I can remember. The Way of Pleasure and the Way of Wealth. I shall remember. We are told that we must not set our hearts upon the things of this world. I used to think that it meant being too fond of pretty frocks and ribbons. Dorcas said so once. Since you have come I see that there are many, many things that I know nothing of. If I am to be dragged to them by ropes, I do not want to know them. The Way of Pleasure and the Way of Wealth. They destroy the artistic life,' she repeated, as if learning a lesson. 'These ways must be ways of Sin, don't you think?' she asked, looking up with curious eyes. Doubtless. Yet this is not quite the modern manner of regarding and speaking of the subject. And considering what an eighteenth-century and bourgeois-like manner it is, and how fond we now are of that remarkable century, one is surprised that the manner has not before now been revived. When we again tie our hair behind and assume silver-buckled shoes and white silk stockings, we shall once more adopt that manner. It was not, however, artificial with Armorel. The words fell naturally from her lips. A thing that was prejudicial to the better nature of a man must, she thought, belong to ways of Sin. Again--doubtless. But Roland did not think of it in that way, and the words startled him. 'Puritan!' he said. 'But you are always right. It is the instinct of your heart always to be right. But we no longer talk that language. It is a hundred years old. In these days there is no more talk about Sin--at least, outside certain circles. There are habits, it is true, which harm an artist's eye and destroy his hand. We say that it is a pity when an artist falls into these habits. We call it a pity, Armorel, not the way of Sin. A pity--that is all. It means the same thing, I dare say, so far as the artist is concerned.' CHAPTER IX THE LAST DAY BUT ONE The last day but one! It always comes at length--it is bound to come--the saddest, the most sentimental of all days. The boy who leaves school--I speak of the old-fashioned boy and the ancient school--where he has been fagged and bullied and flogged, on this last day but one looks round with a choking throat upon the dingy walls and the battered desks. Even the convict who is about to be released after years of prison feels a sentimental melancholy in gazing for the last time upon the whitewashed walls. The world, which misunderstands the power of temptation and is distrustful as to the reality of repentance, will probably prove cold to him. How much more, then, when one looks around on the last day but one of a holiday! To-morrow we part. This is the last day of companionship. Roland's holiday was to consist of a day or two, or three at the most--yet lo! the evening and the morning were the twenty-first day. There was always something new to be seen, something more to be sketched, some fresh excuse for staying in a house where this young man lived from the first as if he had been there all his life and belonged to the family. Scilly has to be seen in cloud as well as in sunshine: in wind and rain as well as in fair weather: one island had been accidentally overlooked; another must be re-visited. So the days went on, each one like the days before it, but with a difference. The weather was for the most part fine, so that they could at least sail about the islands of the Road. Every morning the young man got up at six and, after a bathe from Shark Point, walked all round Samson and refreshed his soul by gazing upon the Outer Islands. Breakfast over, he took a pipe in the farmyard with Justinian and Peter, who continually talked of shipwrecks and of things washed ashore. During this interval Armorel made the puddings and the cakes. When she had accomplished this delicate and responsible duty, she came out, prepared for the day. They took their dinner-basket with them, and sallied forth: in the afternoon they returned: in the evening, at seven o'clock, the table was pushed back: the old serving people came in; the fire was stirred into animation; Armorel played the old-fashioned tunes; and the ancient lady rallied, and sat up, and talked, her mind in the past. All the days alike, yet each one differing from its neighbours. There is no monotony, though place and people remain exactly the same, when there is the semblance of variety. For, besides the discovery of so many curious and interesting islands, this fortunate young man, as we have seen, discovered that his daily companion, though so young--'only a child'--was a girl of wonderful quickness and ready sympathy. A young artist wants sympathy--it is necessary for his growth: sympathy, interest, and flattery are necessary for the artistic temperament. All these Armorel offered him in large measure, running over. She kept alive in him that faith in his own star which every artist, as well as every general, must possess. Great is the encouragement of such sympathy to the young man of ambitions. This consideration is, indeed, the principal excuse for early marriages. Three weeks of talk with such a girl--no one else to consider or to interrupt--no permission to be sought--surely these things made up a holiday which quite beat the record! Three whole weeks! Such a holiday should form the foundation of a life-long friendship! Could either of them ever forget such a holiday? Now it was all over. For very shame Roland could make no longer any excuses for staying. His sketch-book was crammed. There were materials in it for a hundred pictures--most of them might be called Studies of Armorel. She was in the boat holding the tiller, bare-headed, her hair flying in the breeze, the spray dashing into her face, and the clear blue water rushing past the boat: or she was sitting idly in the same boat lying in Grinsey Sound, with Shipman's Head behind her: or she was standing on the sea-weed at low water under the mighty rock of Castle Bryher: or she was standing upright in the low room, violin in hand, her face and figure crimsoned in the red firelight: or she was standing in the porch between the verbena-trees, the golden figure-head smiling benevolently upon her, and the old ships lanthorn swinging overhead with an innocent air, as if it had never heard of a wreck and knew not how valuable a property may be a cow, judiciously treated--with a lighted lanthorn between its horns--on a stormy night. There were other things: sketches of bays and coves, and headlands and carns, gathered from all the islands--from Porthellick and Peninnis on St. Mary's, which everybody goes to see, to St. Warna's Cove on St. Agnes, whither no traveller ever wendeth. A very noble time. No letters, no newspapers, no trouble of any kind: yet one cannot remain for ever even in a house where such a permanent guest would be welcomed. Now and then, it is true, one hears how such a one went to a friend's house and stayed there. La Fontaine, Gay, and Coleridge are examples. But I have never heard, before this case, of a young man going to a house where a quite young girl, almost a child, was the mistress, and staying there. Now the end had come: he must go back to London, where all the men and most of the women have their own shows to run, and there is not enough sympathy to go round: back to what the young artist, he who has as yet exhibited little and sold nothing, calls his Work--putting a capital letter to it, like the young clergyman. Perhaps he did not understand that under the eyes of a girl who knew nothing about Art he had done really better and finer work, and had learned more, in those three weeks than in all the time that he had spent in a studio. Well; it was all over. The sketching was ended: there would be no more sailing over the blue waves of the rolling Atlantic outside the islands: no more quiet cruising in the Road: no more fishing: no more clambering among the granite rocks: no more sitting in sunny places looking out to sea, with this bright child at his side. Alas! And no more talks with Armorel. From the first day the child sat at his feet and became his disciple, Heloïse herself was not an apter pupil. She ardently desired to learn: like a curious child she asked him questions all day long, and received the answers as if they were gospel: but no child that he had ever known betrayed blacker gaps of ignorance than this girl of fifteen. Consider. What could she know? Other girls learn at school: Armorel's schooling was over at fourteen, when she came home from St. Mary's to her desert island. Other girls continue their education by reading books: but Armorel never read anything except voyages of the last century, which treat but little of the modern life. Other girls also learn from hearing their elders talk: but Armorel's elders never talked. Other girls, again, learn from conversation with companions: but Armorel had no companions. And they learn from the shops in the street, the people who walk about, from the church, the theatre, the shows: but Armorel had no better street than the main street of Hugh Town. And they learn from society: but this girl had none. And they learn from newspapers, magazines, and novels: but Armorel had none of these. No voice, no sound of the outer world reached Alexandra Selkirk of Samson. Juan Fernandez itself was not more cut off from men and women. Therefore, in her seclusion and her ignorance, this young man came to her like another Apollo or a Vishnu at least--a revelation of the world of which she knew nothing, and to which she never gave a thought. He opened a door and bade her look within. All she saw was a great company painting pictures and talking Art; but that was something. As for what he said, this young man ardent, she remembered and treasured all, even the lightest things, the most trivial opinions. He did not abuse her confidence. Had he been older he might have been cynical: had he not been an artist he might have been flippant: had he been a City man and a money-grub he might have shown her the sordid side of the world. Being such as he was he showed her the best and most beautiful part--the world of Art. But as for these black gaps of ignorance, most of them remained even after Roland's visit. 'Your best friend, Armorel,' said her guest, 'would not deny that you are ignorant of many things. You have never gone to a dinner-party or sat in a drawing-room: you cannot play lawn-tennis; you know none of the arts feminine: you cannot talk the language of Society: oh! you are a very ignorant person indeed! But then there are compensations.' 'What are compensations? Things that make up? Do you mean the boat and the islands?' 'The boat is certainly something, and the islands give a flavour of their own to life on Samson, don't they? If I were talking the usual cant I should say that the chief compensation is the absence of the hollow world and its insincere society. That is cant and humbug, because society is very pleasant, only, I suppose, one must not expect too much from it. Your real compensations, Armorel, are of another kind. You can fiddle like a jolly sailor, all of the olden time. If you were to carry that fiddle of yours on to the Common Hard at Portsea not a man among them all, even the decayed veteran--if he still lives--who caught Nelson, the Dying Hero, in his arms, but would jump to his feet and shuffle--heel and toe, double-step, back-step, flourish and fling. I believe those terms are correct.' 'I am so glad you think I can fiddle.' 'You want only instruction in style to make you a very fine violinist. Besides, there is nothing more pleasing to look at, just now, than a girl playing a violin. It is partly fashion. Formerly it was thought graceful for a girl to play the guitar, then the harp; now it is the fiddle, when it is not the zither or the banjo. That is one compensation. There is another. I declare that I do not believe there is in all London a girl with such a genius as yours for puddings and pies, cakes and biscuits. I now understand that there is more wanted, in this confection, than industry and application. It is an art. Every art affords scope for genius born not made. The true--the really artistic--administration of spice and sugar, milk, eggs, butter, and flour requires real genius--such as yours, my child. And as to the still-room, there isn't such a thing left, I believe, in the whole world except on Samson, any more than there is a spinning-wheel. Who but yourself, Armorel, possesses the secret, long since supposed to be hopelessly lost, of composing Cyprus water, and the Divine Cordial? In this respect, you belong to a hundred years ago, when the modern ignorance was unknown. And where can I find--I should like to know--a London girl who understands cherry brandy, and can make her own blackberry wine?' 'You want to please me, Roland, because you are going away and I am unhappy.' She hung her head in sadness too deep for tears. 'That is why you say all these fine things. But I know that they mean very little. I am only an ignorant girl.' 'I must always, out of common gratitude, want to please you. But I am only speaking the bare truth. Then there is the delicate question of dress. An ordinary man is not supposed to know anything about dress, but an artist has always to consider it. There are certainly other girls--thousands of other girls--more expensively dressed than you, Armorel; but you have the taste for costume, which is far better than any amount of costly stuff.' 'Chessun taught me how to sew and how to cut out.' But the assurance of this excellence brought her no comfort. 'When I am gone, Armorel, you will go on with your drawing, will you not?' It will be seen that he endeavoured, as an Apostle of Art, to introduce its cult even on remote Samson. That was so, and not without success. The girl, he discovered, had been always making untaught attempts at drawing, and wanted nothing but a little instruction. This was a fresh discovery. 'That you should have the gift of the pencil is delightful to think of. The pencil, you see, is like the Jinn--I fear you have no Jinn on Samson--who could do almost anything for those who knew how to command his obedience, but only made those people ridiculous who ignorantly tried to order him around. If you go on drawing every day I am sure you will learn how to make that Jinn obedient. I will send you, when I get home, some simple books for your guidance. Promise, child, that you will not throw away this gift.' 'I will draw every day,' she replied, obediently, but with profound dejection. 'Then there is your reading. You must read something. I have looked through your shelves, and have picked out some books for you. There is a volume of Cowper and of Pope, and an old copy of the _Spectator_, and there is Goldsmith's "Deserted Village."' 'I will read anything you wish me to read,' she replied. 'I will send you some more books. You ought to know something about the world of to-day. Addison and Goldsmith will not teach you that. But I don't know what to send you. Novels are supposed to represent life; but then they pre-suppose a knowledge of the world, to begin with. You want an account of modern society as it is, and the thing does not exist. I will consider about it.' 'I will read whatever you send me. Roland, when I have read all the books and learned to draw, shall I have grown to my full height? Remember what you said about yourself.' 'I don't know, Armorel. It is not reading. But----' He left the sentence unfinished. 'Who is to tell me--on Samson?' she asked. In the afternoon of this day Roland planted his easel on the plateau of the northern hill, where the barrows are, and put the last touches to the sketch, which he afterwards made into the first picture which he ever exhibited. It appeared in the Grosvenor of '85: of course everybody remembers the picture, which attracted a very respectable amount of attention. It was called the 'Daughter of Lyonesse.' It represented a maiden in the first blossom of womanhood--tall and shapely. She was dressed in a robe of white wool thrown over her left shoulder and gathered at the waist by a simple belt of brown leather: a white linen vest was seen below the wool: round her neck was a golden torque: behind her was the setting sun: she stood upon the highest of a low pile of granite boulders, round the feet of which were spread the yellow branches of the fern and the faded flowers of the heather: she shaded her eyes from the sun with her left hand, and looked out to sea. She was bare-headed: the strong breeze lifted her long black hair and blew it from her shoulders: her eyes were black and her complexion was dark. Behind her and below her was the splendour of sun and sky and sea, with the Western Islands rising black above the golden waters. The sketch showed the figure, but the drapery was not complete: as yet it was a study of light and colour and a portrait. 'I don't quite know,' said the painter, thoughtfully, 'whether you ought not to wear a purple chiton: Phoenician trade must have brought Phoenician luxuries to Lyonesse. Your ancestors were tin-men--rich miners--no doubt the ladies of the family went dressed in the very, very best. I wonder whether in those days the King's daughter was barefooted. The _caliga_, I think--the leather sandal--would have been early introduced into the royal family on account of the spikiness of the fern in autumn and the thorns of the gorse all the year round. The slaves and common people, of course, would have to endure the thorns.' He continued his work while he talked, Armorel making no reply, enacting the model with zeal. 'It is a strange sunset,' he went on, as if talking to himself, 'a day of clouds, but in the west a broad belt of blue low down in the horizon: in the midst of the belt the sun flaming crimson: on either hand the sky aglow, but only in the belt of clear: above is the solid cloud, grey and sulky, receiving none of the colour: below is also the solid, sulky cloud, but under the sun there spreads out a fan of light which strikes the waters and sets them aflame in a long broad road from the heavens to your feet, O child of Lyonesse. Outside this road of light the waters are dull and gloomy: in the sky the coloured belt of light fades gradually into soft yellows, clear greens, and azure blues. A strange sunset! A strange effect of light! Armorel, you see your life: it is prefigured by the light. Overhead the sky is grey and colourless: where the glow of the future does not lie on the waters they are grey and colourless. Nothing around you but the waste of grey sea: before you black rocks--life is always full of black rocks: and beyond, the splendid sun--soft, warm, and glowing. You shall interpret that in your own way.' Armorel listened, standing motionless, her left hand shading her eyes. 'If the picture,' he went on, 'comes out as I hope it may, it will be one of those that suggest many things. Every good picture, Armorel, as well as every good poem, suggests. It is like that statue of Christ which is always taller than the tallest man. Nobody can ever get above the thought and soul of a good picture or a good poem. There is always more in it than the wisest man knows. That is the proof of genius. That is why I long all day for the mysterious power of putting into my work the soul of everyone who looks upon it--as well as my own soul. When you come to stand before a great picture, Armorel, perhaps you will understand what I mean. You will find your heart agitated with strange emotions--you will leave it with new thoughts. When you go away from your desert island, remember every day to read a piece of great verse, to look upon a great picture, and to hear a piece of great music. As for these suggested thoughts, you will not perhaps be able to put them into words. But they will be there.' Still Armorel made no reply. It was as if he were talking to a statue. 'I have painted you,' he said, 'with the golden torque round your neck: the red gold is caught by the sunshine: as for your dress, I think it must be a white woollen robe--perhaps a border of purple--but I don't know---- There are already heaps of colour--colour of sky and of water, of the granite with the yellow lichen, and of brown and yellow fern and of heather faded---- No--you shall be all in white, Armorel. No dress so sweet for a girl as white. A vest of white linen made by yourself from your own spinning-wheel, up to the throat and covering the right shoulder. Are you tired, child?' 'No--I like to hear you talk.' 'I have nearly done--in fact,' he leaned back and contemplated his work with the enthusiasm which is to a painter what the glow of composition is to the writer, 'I have done all I can until I go home. The sun of Scilly hath a more golden glow in September than the sun of St. John's Wood. If I have caught aright--or something like it--the light that is around you and about you, Armorel---- The sun in your left hand is like the red light of the candle through the closed fingers. So--I can do no more--Armorel! you are all glorious within and without. You are indeed the King's Daughter: you are clothed with the sun as with a garment: if the sun were to disappear this moment, you would stand upon the Peak, for all the island to admire--a flaming beacon!' His voice was jubilant--he had done well. Yet he shaded his eyes and looked at canvas and at model once more with jealousy and suspicion. If he had passed over something! It was an ambitious picture--the most ambitious thing he had yet attempted. 'Armorel!' he cried. 'If I could only paint as well as I can see! Come down, child; you are good indeed to stand so long and so patiently.' She obeyed and jumped off her eminence, and stood beside him looking at the picture. 'Tell me what you think,' said the painter. 'You see--it is the King's Daughter. She stands on a peak in Lyonesse and looks forth upon the waters. Why? I know not. She seeks the secrets of the future, perhaps. She looks for the coming of the Perfect Knight, perhaps. She expects the Heaven that waits for every maiden--in this world as well as in the next. Everyone may interpret the picture for himself. She is young--everything is possible to the young. Tell me, Armorel, what do you think?' She drew a long breath. 'A--h!' she murmured. 'I have never seen anything like this before. It is not me you have painted, Roland. You say it is a picture of me--just to please and flatter me. There is my face--yet not my face. All is changed. Roland, when I am grown to my full height, shall I look like this? 'If you do, when that day comes, I shall be proved to be a painter indeed,' he replied. 'If you had seen nothing but yourself--your own self--and no more, I would have burnt the thing. Now you give me hopes. Afterwards, Armorel loved best to remember him as he stood there beside this unfinished picture, glowing with the thought that he had done what he had attempted. The soul was there. Out of the chatter of the studio, the endless discussions of style and method, he had come down to this simple spot, to live for three weeks, cut off from the world, with a child who knew nothing of these things. He came at a time when his enthusiasm for his work was at its fiercest: that is, when the early studies are beginning to bear fruit, when the hand has acquired command of the pencil and can control the brush, and when the eye is already trained to colour. It was at a time when the young artist refuses to look at any but the greatest work, and refuses to dream of any future except that of the greatest and noblest work. It is a splendid thing to have had, even for a short time, these dreams and these enthusiasms. 'The picture is finished,' said Armorel, 'and to-morrow you will go away and leave me.' The tears welled up in her eyes. Why should not the child cry for the departure of this sweet friend? 'My dear child,' he said, 'I cannot believe that you will stay for ever on this desert island.' 'I do not want to leave the island. I want to keep you here. Why don't you stay altogether, Roland? You can paint here. Have we made you happy? Are you satisfied with our way of living? We will change it for you, if you wish.' 'No--no--it is not that. I must go home. I must go back to my work. But I cannot bear to think of you left alone with these old people, with no companions and no friends. The time will come when you will leave the place and go away somewhere--where people live and talk----' He reflected that if she went away it might be among people ignorant of Art and void of culture. This beautiful child, who might have been a Princess--she was only a flower-farmer of the Scilly Islands. What could she hope or expect? 'I do not want to go into the world,' she went on. 'I am afraid, because I am so ignorant. People would laugh at me. I would rather stay here always, if you were with me. Then we would do nothing but sail and row and go fishing: and you could paint and sketch all the time.' 'It is impossible, Armorel. You talk like a child. In a year or two you will understand that it is impossible. Besides, we should both grow old. Think of that. Think of two old people going about sailing among the islands for ever: I, like Justinian Tryeth, bald and bowed and wrinkled: you, like Dorcas--no, no; you could never grow like Dorcas: you shall grow serenely, beautifully old.' 'What would that matter?' she replied. 'Some day, even, one of us would die. What would that matter, either, because we should only be parted by a year or two? Oh! whether we are old or young the sea never grows old, nor the hills and rocks--and the sunshine is always the same. And when we die there will be a new heaven and a new earth--you can read it in the Book of Revelation--but no more sea, no more sea. That I cannot understand. How could angels and saints be happy without the sea? If one lives among people in towns, I dare say it may be disagreeable to grow old, and perhaps to look ugly like poor Dorcas; but not, no, not when one lives in such a place as this.' 'Where did you get your wisdom, Armorel?' 'Is that wisdom?' 'When I go away my chief regret will be that I kept talking to you about myself. Men are selfish pigs. We should have talked about nothing but you. Then I should have learned a great deal. See how we miss our opportunities.' 'No, no; I had nothing to tell you. And you had such a great deal to tell me. It was you who taught me that everybody ought to try to grow to his full height.' 'Did I? It was only a passing thought. Such things occur to one sometimes.' She sat down on a boulder and crossed her hands in her lap, looking at him seriously and gravely with her great black eyes. 'Now,' she said, 'I want to be very serious. It is my last chance. Roland, I am resolved that I will try to grow to my full height. You are going away to-morrow, and I shall have no one to advise me. Give me all the help you can before you go.' 'What help can I give you, Armorel?' 'I have been thinking. You have told me all about yourself. You are going to be a great artist: you will give up all your life to your work: when you have grown as tall as you can, everybody will congratulate you, and you will be proud and happy. But who is to tell me? How shall I know when I am grown to my full height?' 'You have got something more in your mind, Armorel.' 'Give me a model, Roland. You always paint from a model yourself--you told me so. Now, think of the very best actual girl of all the girls you know--the most perfect girl, mind: she must be a girl that I can remember and try to copy. I must have something to think of and go by, you know.' 'The very best actual girl I know?' he laughed, with a touch of the abominable modern cynicism which no longer believes in girls. 'That wouldn't help you much, I am afraid. You see, Armorel, I should not look to the actual girls I know for the best girl at all. There is, however'--he pulled his shadowy moustache, looking very wise--'a most wonderful girl--I confess that I have never met her, but I have heard of her: the poets keep talking about her--and some of the novelists are fond of drawing her; I have heard of her, read of her, and dreamed of her. Shall I tell you about her?' 'If you please--that is, if she can become my model.' 'Perhaps. She is quite a possible girl, Armorel, like yourself. That is to say, a girl who may really develop out of certain qualities. As for actual girls, there are any number whom one knows in a way--one can distinguish them--I mean by their voices, their faces, and their figures and so forth. But as for knowing anything more about them----' 'Tell me, then, about the girl whom you do know, though you have never seen her.' 'I will if I can. As for her face--now----' 'Never mind her face,' she interrupted, impatiently. 'Never mind her face, as you say. Besides, you can look in the glass if you want to know her face.' 'Yes; that will do,' said Armorel, simply. 'Now go on.' 'First of all, then, she is always well dressed--beautifully dressed--and with as much taste as the silly fashion of the day allows. A woman, you know, though she is the most beautiful creature in the whole of animated nature, can never afford to do without the adornments of dress. It does not much matter how a man goes dressed. He only dresses for warmth. In any dress and in any rags a handsome man looks well. But not a woman. Her dress either ruins her beauty or it heightens it. A woman must always, and at all ages, look as beautiful as she can. Therefore, she arranges her clothes so as to set off her beauty when she is young: to make her seem still beautiful when she is past her youth: and to hide the ravages of time when she is old. That is the first thing which I remark about this girl. Of course, she doesn't dress as if her father was a Silver King. Such a simple stuff as your grey nun's cloth, Armorel, is good enough to make the most lovely dress.' 'She is always well dressed,' his pupil repeated. 'That is the first thing.' 'She is accomplished, of course,' Roland added, airily, as if accomplishments were as easy to pick up as the blue and grey shells on Porth Bay. 'She understands music, and plays on some instrument. She knows about art of all kinds--art in painting, sculptures, decorations, poetry, literature, music. She can talk intelligently about art; and she has trained her eye so that she knows good work. She is never carried away by shams and humbug.' 'She has trained her eye, and knows good work,' Armorel repeated. 'Above all, she is sympathetic. She does not talk so as to show how clever she is, but to bring out the best points of the man she is talking with. Yet when men leave her they forget what they have said themselves, and only remember how much this girl seems to know.' 'Seems to know?' Armorel looked up. 'One woman cannot know everything. But a clever woman will know about everything that belongs to her own set. We all belong to our own set, and every set talks its own language--scientific, artistic, whatever it is. This girl does not pretend to enter into the arena; but she knows the rules of the game, and talks accordingly. She is always intelligent, gracious, and sympathetic.' 'She is intelligent, gracious, and sympathetic,' Armorel repeated. 'Is she gracious to everybody--even to people she does not like?' 'In society,' said Roland, 'we like everybody. We are all perfectly well-bred and well-behaved: we always say the kindest things about each other.' 'Now you are saying one thing and meaning another. That is like your friend Dick Stephenson. Don't, Roland.' 'Well, then, I have very little more to say. This girl, however, is always a woman's woman.' 'What is that?' 'Difficult to explain. A wise lady once advised me when I went courting, first to make quite sure that the girl was a woman's woman. I think she meant that other girls should speak and think well of her. I haven't always remembered the advice, it is true, but----' Here he stopped short and in some confusion, remembering that this was not an occasion for plenary confession. But Armorel only nodded gravely. 'I shall remember,' she said. 'The rest you know. She loves everything that is beautiful and good. She hates everything that is coarse and ugly. That is all.' 'Thank you--I shall remember,' she repeated. 'Roland, you must have thought a good deal about girls to know so much.' He blushed: he really did. He blushed a rich and rosy red. 'An artist, you know,' he said, 'has to draw beautiful girls. Naturally he thinks of the lovely soul behind the lovely face. These things are only commonplaces. You yourself, Armorel--you--will shame me, presently--when you have grown to that full height--for drawing a picture so insufficient of the Perfect Woman.' He stooped slightly, as if he would have kissed her forehead. Why not? She was but a child. But he refrained. [Illustration: _He stooped slightly, as if he would have kissed her forehead._] 'Let us go home,' he said, with a certain harshness in his voice. 'The sun is down. The clouds have covered up the belt of blue. You have seen your splendid future, Armorel, and you are back in the grey and sunless present. It grows cold. To-morrow, I think, we may have rain. Let us go home, child: let us go home.' CHAPTER X MR. FLETCHER RETURNS FOR HIS BAG Half an hour later the blinds were down, the fire was brightly burning, the red firelight was merrily dancing about the room, and the table was pushed back. Then Dorcas and Justinian came in--the two old serving-folk, bent with age, grey-headed, toothless--followed by Chessun--thin and tall, silent and subdued. And Armorel, taking her violin, tuned it, and turned to her old master for instructions, just as she had done on the first and every following night of Roland's stay. '"Barley Break,"' said Justinian. Armorel struck up that well-known air. Then, as before, the ancient dame started, moved uneasily, sat upright, and opened her eyes and began to talk. But to-night she was not rambling: she did not begin one fragment of reminiscence and break off in the middle. She started with a clear story in her mind, which she began at the beginning and carried on. When Armorel saw her thus disposed, she stopped playing 'Barley Break,' which may amuse the aged mind and recall old merriment, but lacks earnestness. '"Put on thy smock o' Monday,"' said Justinian. This ditty lends itself to more sustained thought. Armorel put more seriousness into it than the theme of the music would seem to warrant. The old lady, however, seemed to like it, and continued her narrative without interrupting it at any point. Armorel also observed that, though she addressed the assembled multitude generally, she kept glancing furtively at Roland. 'The night was terrible,' said the ancient dame, speaking distinctly and connectedly; 'never was such a storm known--we could hear the waves beating and dashing about the islands louder than the roaring of the wind, and we heard the minute-gun, so that there was little sleep for anyone. At daybreak we were all on the shore, out on Shark Point. Sure enough, on the Castinicks the ship lay, breaking up fast--a splendid East Indiaman she was. Her masts were gone and her bows were stove in--as soon as the light got strong enough we could see so much--and the shore covered already with wreck. But not a sign of passengers or crew. Then my husband's father, who was always first, saw something, and ran into the water up to his middle and dragged ashore a spar. And, sure enough, a man was lashed to the spar. When father hauled the man up, he was quite senseless, and he seemed dead, so that another quarter of an hour would have finished him, even if his head had not been knocked against a rock, or the spar turned over and drowned him. Just as father was going to call for help to drag him up, he saw a little leather bag hanging from his neck by a leather thong. There were others about, all the people of Samson--fifty of them--men, women, and children--all busy collecting the things that had been washed ashore, and some up to their waists in the water after the things still floating about. But nobody was looking. Therefore, father, thinking it was a dead man, whipped out his knife, cut the leather thong, and slipped the bag into his own pocket, not stopping to look at it. No one saw him, mind--no one--not even your father, Justinian, who was close beside him at the time.' 'Ay, ay,' said Justinian: 'if father had seen it, naturally----' But his voice died away, and Roland was left to wonder what, under such circumstances, a native of Samson would have done. 'No one saw it. Father thought the man was dead. But he wasn't. Presently he moved. Then they carried him up the hill to the farm--this very house--and laid him down before the fire--just at your feet, Armorel--and I was standing by. "Get him a cordial," says father. So we gave him a dram, and he drank it and opened his eyes. He was a gentleman--we could see that--not a common sailor: not a common man.' Here her head dropped, and she seemed to be losing herself again. 'Try her with a Saraband,' said Justinian, as if a determined effort had to be made. Armorel changed her tune. A Saraband lends itself to a serious and even solemn turn of thought. As a dance it requires the best manners, the bravest dress, and the most dignified air. It will be seen, therefore, that to a mind bent upon a grave narrative of deeds lamentable and fateful, the Saraband, played in a proper frame of mind, may prove sympathetic. The ancient lady lifted her head, strengthened by the opening bars, which, indeed, are very strong, and resumed her story. Armorel, to be sure, and all her hearers, knew the history well, having heard it every night in disjointed bits. The Tale of the Stolen Treasure was familiar to her: it was more than familiar--it was a bore: the Family Doom seemed unjust to her: it disturbed her sense of Providential benevolence: yet she threw all her soul into the Saraband in order to prolong by a few minutes the waking and conscious moments of this remote ancestress. A striking illustration, had the others understood it, of filial piety. 'But I was standing close by father,' she went on--'I was beside him on the beach, and I saw it. I saw him cut the thong and slip the bag into his pocket. When he came to himself, I whispered to father, "There's his bag: you've got his bag in your pocket." "I know," he said, rough. "Hold your tongue, girl." So I said no more, but waited. Then the man opened his eyes and tried to sit up; but he couldn't, being still dizzy with the beating of the waves. But he looked at us, wondering where he was. "You are ashore, Master," said father. "The only one of all the ship's company that is, so far." "Ashore?" he asked. "Ay, ashore: where else would you be? Your ship's in splinters: your captain and your crew are dead men all. But you're ashore." With that the man shut his eyes and lay quiet for a time. Then he opened them again. "Where am I?" he asked. "You are on Samson, in Scilly," I told him. Then he tried to get up again, but he couldn't. And so we carried him upstairs and laid him on the bed. 'He was in bed for nigh upon six weeks. Never was any man so near his latter end. I nursed him all the time. He had a fever, and his head wandered. In his rambling he told me who he was. His name was Robert Fletcher--Robert Fletcher,' she repeated, nodding to Roland with strange significance. 'A brave gentleman, and handsome and well-mannered. He had been in the service of an Indian King; and, though he was only thirty, he had made his fortune and was bringing it home, thinking that he would do nothing more all his life but just sit down and enjoy himself. All his fortune was in the bag. When he recovered he told me that the last thing he remembered, before he was washed off the ship, was feeling for the safety of his bag. And it was gone. And he was a beggar. Poor man! And I knew all the time where the bag was and who had it. But I could not tell him. If father sinned when he kept the bag, I sinned as well, because I knew he kept it. If father was punished when his son was drowned, that son was my husband, and I was punished too.' She stopped, and it seemed as if for the evening she had run down; but Armorel stimulated her again, and she went on, looking more and more at the face of the stranger that was in their gates. 'While he lay ill and was like to die, father was uneasy--I know why. He wanted him to die, because then he could keep the treasure with a quiet mind. "All's ours that comes ashore," that's what we used to say. He never confessed his thoughts--but I, who knew what was in the bag, guessed them very well. 'The stranger began to recover, and father fell into a gloomy fit, and would go and sit by himself for hours. Nobody dared ask him--for he was a man of short temper and rough in his speech--what was the matter with him, but I knew very well. He was gloomy because he didn't want to lose that bag. But the man got better, and at last quite well, and one morning he came down dressed in clothes that father lent him, because his own were ruined in the washing of him ashore, and he bade us all farewell. "Captain Rosevean," he said, very earnestly, "when I left India I was rich: I was carrying all my fortune home with me in a small compass, for safety, as I thought. I was going to be a rich man, and work no more. Well--I have escaped with my life, and that is all. If I were not a beggar I would offer you half my fortune for saving my life. As it is, I can offer you nothing but my gratitude." 'So he shook hands with father, who stood as white as a sheet, for all he was a ruddy-faced man and inclined to brandy. "And farewell, Mistress Ursula," he said. "Farewell, my kind nurse." So he kissed me, being a courteous gentleman. "I shall come back again to see you," he said; "I shall surely come back. Look to see me some day, when you least expect me." So he went away, and they rowed him over to the Port, and he sailed to Penzance. Father went to his own room, where the treasure was. And my heart sank heavy as lead. The more I thought of the wickedness, the heavier fell my heart. There was father and his son, my husband, and myself and my own son not yet born. The Hand of the Lord would be upon us for that wickedness. I ought to have cried out to the stranger before he went away that his treasure was safe and that we were keeping it for him. But I didn't. Then I tried to comfort myself. I said that when he came again I would give him back the bag, even if I had to steal it from father's chest. 'It was a long time ago--they are all gone, swallowed up by the sea--which was right, because we stole the treasure from the sea. He never came back. I looked for him to come after my husband was drowned, and after my son went too, and my grandson--but he never came again as he promised. And at last, at last'--her voice rose almost to a shriek, and everybody jumped in his chair; but Armorel continued to play the Saraband slowly and with much expression--'at last he has come back, and we are saved. All that are left of us are saved. Armorel, my child, you are saved. Your bones shall not lie rotting among the sea-weed: your flesh shall not be devoured by crabs and conger-eels: you may sail without fear among the islands. For he has kept his promise and has come back. Then she rose--she, who had not stood upon her feet for three years--actually rose and stood up, or seemed to stand: the red light, playing on her face, made her eyes shine like two balls of fire. 'You,' she cried, pointing her long, skinny, finger at Roland. 'You! oh! you have come at last. You have suffered all that innocent blood to be shed: but you have come at last.' She sank back among her pillows, but her finger still pointed at the stranger. 'Sir,' she said now, with tremulous voice, 'you are welcome. Late though it is, Mr. Fletcher, you are welcome. When you came a day or two ago I wondered, being now very old and foolish, if it was really you. Now I know. I remember, though it is nearly eighty years ago. You are welcome again to Samson, Mr. Fletcher. You find me changed, no doubt. I knew you would keep your promise and come again, some time or other. As for you, I see little change. You are dressed differently, and when you were here last your hair was worn in another fashion. But you are no older to look at. You are not changed at all by time. You would not know me again. How should you? I suppose you knew--somebody told you, perhaps--that the bag was safe after all. That knowledge has kept you young. Nothing short of that knowledge could have kept you young. I assure you, Sir, had I known where to find you I would have taken the bag and its contents to you long, long ago. And now you are come back in search of it.' 'It was eighty years ago!' Dorcas whispered to Chessun, shuddering. 'He must be more than a hundred!' 'A hundred years!' returned her daughter, with pallid cheeks. 'It isn't in nature. He looks no more than twenty. Mother, is he a man and alive?' 'Pretend that you are Mr. Fletcher,' whispered Armorel. 'Do not contradict her. Say something.' 'It is a long time ago,' said Roland. 'I should have kept my promise much sooner. And as for that bag--you saved my life, you know. Pray keep the bag. It has long been forgotten.' 'Keep the bag? Do you know what is in it? Do you know what it is worth? That, Mr. Fletcher, is your politeness. We, who have suffered so much from the possession of the bag, cannot believe that you have forgotten it, because if we have suffered for our guilt you must have suffered through that guilt. Else there would be no justice. No justice at all unless you have suffered too. Else all those lives have been wasted and thrown away.' The old lady spoke with the voice and firmness of a woman of fifty. She looked strong: she sat up erect. Armorel played on, now softly, now loudly. The serving-folk looked on open-mouthed: the women with terror undisguised. Was this gentleman, so young and so pleasant, none other than the man whose injury had brought all these drownings upon the family? Nearly eighty years ago that happened. Then, he must be a ghost! What else could he be? No human creature could come back after eighty years still so young. 'When I said, Madam,' Roland explained, 'that I had forgotten the bag, what I meant was that after losing it so long I had quite abandoned all hope of finding it again. I assure you that I have not come here in search of it. In fact, I thought it was lying at the bottom of the sea, where so many other treasures lie.' 'It is not at the bottom of the sea, Mr. Fletcher. You shall have it again, to-morrow. You are still so young that you can enjoy your fortune. Make good use of it, Sir, and do not forget the poor. I have counted the contents again and again. They are not things that wear out and rust, are they? No, no. You must often have laughed to think that the moth and the worm cannot destroy that treasure. You will be very pleased to have it back.' 'I shall be very pleased indeed,' he echoed, 'to have my treasure again.' 'Face and voice unchanged.' The old lady shook her head. 'And after eighty years. It is a miracle, yet not a greater miracle than the Vengeance which has pursued this house so long. This single crime has been visited upon the third and fourth generation. 'Tis time that punishment should cease at last--cease at last! I must tell you, Mr. Fletcher,' she went on, 'that when my husband was drowned and my father-in-law died, I took possession of the bag and everything else. I said nothing to my son. Why? Because, until the owner of the stolen bag came back, the curse was on him and his children. No--no; I would not let him know. But I knew very well what would happen to all of them. Oh! yes; I knew, and I waited. But he was happy, and his son and his grandson and his great-grandson, until they were drowned, one after the other. And still you stayed away.' 'Madam, had I known, I would have returned fifty years ago and more, in time to have saved them all.' 'You might have come sooner, Sir, permit me to say, and so have saved some.' It was wonderful how erect the old lady held herself, and with what firmness and precision she spoke. 'There is now only one left--the child Armorel. To-morrow, Sir, you shall have your bag again. Once more you are our guest: this time, I hope you will leave a blessing instead of a curse upon the house.' At this moment Armorel ceased playing. Then this ancient lady stopped talking. She looked round: her eyes lost their fire: her face its expression: her mouth its firmness: she fell back in her pillows, and her head dropped. Dorcas and Chessun rose and carried her to her own room. The old man got up, too, and shambled out. Armorel pushed the table into its place, and lit the candles. The incident was closed. In the morning the old lady had forgotten everything. 'Almost,' said Roland, 'she has made me believe that my name is Fletcher. Shall I to-morrow morning ask her for the bag? Where is that bag? Armorel, it is a true story. I am quite certain of it.' 'Oh, yes, it is true. Justinian knows about the wreck, though it happened before he was born. Mr. Fletcher was the only man saved of all the ship and company--captain, officers, crew, and passengers--the only one. He was rescued by Captain Rosevean himself and brought here. He had the bedroom where you sleep--the bedroom which was my brother Emanuel's room. Here he lay ill a long time, but recovered and went away.' 'And the bag?' 'I know nothing about the bag. That has gone long ago, I suppose, with all the money that my people made by smuggling and by piloting. I have seen her watching you for some days past: I thought she would speak to you last night. To-morrow she will have forgotten everything.' 'I suppose I have some kind of resemblance to Mr. Robert Fletcher, presumably deceased. Well--but, Armorel, this is a fortunate evening. The family luck has come back--I have brought it back. The Ancient one said so, and you are saved. She may call me Fletcher--call me Tryeth--call me any name that flyeth--if she only calls me him who arrived in time to save you, Armorel.' CHAPTER XI ROLAND'S LETTER Roland went away. Like Mr. Robert Fletcher, he promised to return, and, like her great-great-grandmother, but for other reasons, Armorel treasured this promise. Also like Mr. Robert Fletcher, now presumably deceased, Roland went away with the sense of having left something behind him. Not his heart, dear reader. A young man of twenty-one does not give away his heart in the old-fashioned way any longer: he carries it about with him, carefully kept in its proper place: what Roland had left behind him, for awhile, was a part of himself. It would perhaps come back to him in good time, but for the present it remained on Samson, and discoursed to the rest of him in London whenever he would listen, on the beauties of that archipelago and the graces of the child Armorel. And this part of himself, which haunted Samson, made him sit down and write a letter. It would have been a tender, a sorrowful, an affectionate letter had it not been for that other part of him--the greater part--which went to London. That other part of him remonstrated. 'She is but a simple country girl,' it said. 'Her future will be to marry a simple Scillonian. Why disturb her mind? Why seek to plant the seeds of discontent under the guise of culture? Leave her--leave her to herself. Forget those dark eyes, in whose depths there seemed to lie so sweet, so great a soul. Believe me, there was nothing at all behind those eyes but ignorance and curiosity. How could there be anything? Leave her in peace. Or, since you must write, let it be a cold letter--friendly, but fatherly--and let her understand clearly that the visit can produce no further consequences whatever.' Thus the London half of him--the bigger half. Perhaps his friend Dick Stephenson remonstrated in the same strain. But the lesser half insisted on writing a letter of some kind--and had his way. He wrote a letter, and sent it off. It was the very first letter that had ever been sent to Samson. Of that I am quite sure. No letters ever reached that island. If people had business with Samson, they transacted it at the Port with Justinian or Peter. Of course it was the first letter that had ever been received by Armorel. Peter brought it across for her. He had wrapped the unaccustomed thing in brown paper for fear the spray should fall upon it. Armorel drew it forth from its covering and gazed upon it with the wonder of a child who gets an unexpected toy. She read over the address a dozen times: '"Miss Rosevean"--look at it, Dorcas. What a pity you cannot read! "Miss Rosevean"--he might have written "Armorel"--"Island of Samson, Scilly." Of course, it is from Roland. No one else would write to me.' Then she opened it carefully, so as not to injure any part of the writing--indeed, Roland possessed that desirable, but very rare, gift of a very beautiful hand. No Penman of the monastery: no scrivener of a later age: no Arab or Persian scribe, could write a more beautiful hand. It was a hand in which every letter was clearly formed, as if it made a picture of itself, and every word was a Group, like the Eastern Isles of Scilly, to be admired by the whole world. The letter began--the London portion conceding so much--with a pen-and-ink sketch of the writer's head: if it was just a little idealised, who shall blame the limner? This was delightful. Armorel had no portrait of her friend. What would follow after such a beautiful beginning? Then the writing began, and Armorel addressed herself seriously to the mastering of and the meaning of the letter. I blush to record the fact, but Armorel read handwriting slowly. Consider. Since she left school she had seen none: while at school she had seen little. People easily forget such a simple thing, though we who write all day long cannot understand how a man can forget how to write. Yet there are many working-men who cannot read handwriting, nor can they themselves write. They have had no occasion, all their lives, to use either accomplishment, and so have readily forgotten it--a fact which shows the profound wisdom of the School Boards in teaching spelling. Armorel could read the letter, but she read it slowly. It seemed, when she read it first, sentence by sentence, a really beautiful letter--regarded as a letter in the abstract. After she had read it two or three times over, and had mastered the whole document, she began to understand that the writer of it was not the man she remembered, not the man whose memory she loved and cherished, not at all her friend Roland Lee. All the old _camaraderie_ was gone. It was the letter of another man altogether. It was cold and stiff. The coldness went to the girl's heart. She had never known Roland to be cold. Where was the sympathy which formerly flowed in magnetic currents from one to the other? Where was the brotherly interest?--she called it brotherly. The writer spoke, it is true, with gratitude overwhelming, of his stay on the island, and her hospitality. But, good gracious! Armorel wanted no thanks. His visit had made her happy: he knew that. Why should he take up a page and a half in returning thanks to her, when her own heart was full of gratitude to him? He said that the three weeks he had spent among the islands had been a holiday which he could never forget--this was very good, so far; but then he spoiled all by adding that he should not readily forget--'readily forget' he wrote--his fair companion and guide among those labyrinthine waters. 'Fair companion!' What had fairness to do with it? Armorel had been his pupil: he taught her all day long. She did not want to be called his 'fair companion': that was mockery. She wanted to be called 'his dear friend' or 'his dear sister': that would have gone straight to her heart. She expected at least so much when she opened the letter. But worse--far worse--was to follow. He actually spoke of the possibilities of their never meeting again, the world (outside Scilly) being so very wide. Never to meet again! And he had promised to return: he had faithfully promised. Why, he had only to take the steamer from Penzance: Samson Island would not sail away. Why did he not rather say when he was to be expected? Worst of all, he spoke of her forgetting him. Oh! how could she forget him? As for the rest of the letter, the paternal advice to continue in the path of industry, and so forth, no clergyman in the pulpit could speak more wisely: but these things touched not the girl. Woman wants affection rather than wisdom, even though she understands, or has, at least, been told, that Wisdom delivereth from the way of the Evil Man. Armorel at length laid the letter down with a sigh and a tear. She kept it in her pocket for some days, and read it every day: but with increasing sadness. Finally, she laid it in a drawer where were all the sketches, fragments of illustration, and outline drawings which Roland had given her. She would read it no longer. She would wait till Roland came back, and she would ask him what it meant. Perhaps it was the way of the world to be so cold and so constrained in letter-writing. There came a box with the letter. It contained books--quite a large number of books--selected by Roland with the view of suiting the case of one who dwells upon a desert island. It was just as if Captain Woodes Rogers had left Alexander alone upon Juan Fernandez, and gone home to make up for him a parcel of books intended to show him what went on in the wider world. There were also drawing materials, colours, brushes, pencils, books of instruction, and books of music. Roland the fatherly--the London part of Roland--neglected nothing that might be solidly serviceable to the young Person. Observe, here, one of those black gaps of ignorance already spoken of in this girl of the Lonely Isles. She did not know that an answer to the letter was absolutely necessary. In the London studio the writer sat wondering why no answer came. He had been so careful, too: not a word which could be misunderstood: he had been so truly fatherly. And yet no reply. Nobody was at hand to tell Armorel that she must sit down and write some kind of an answer. She tried, in fact: she made several attempts. But she could not write anything that satisfied her. The coldness of the letter chilled her. She wanted to write as she had talked with him--all out of the fulness of her heart. How could she write to this frigid creature? The writer of such a letter could not be her dear companion who laughed and made her laugh, sang and made her sing, made pictures for her, told her all about his own private ambitions, and had no secrets from her: it was a strange man who wrote to her and signed the name of Roland Lee. The real Roland would never have hinted at the possibility of her forgetting him, or at the chance of their never meeting again. The real Roland would have written to say when he was coming again. She could not reply to this impostor. Therefore, she never answered that letter at all; and so she got no more letters. It was a pity, because, had she written what was in her mind, for very pity the real Roland would have returned to her. Once, and once only, the voice of Roland came to her across the sea--and then it was a changed voice. He spoke no more. But he would come again: he said he would come again. Every day she sat on the hill beside the barrow, and gazed across the Road. She could see the pier of Hugh Town and the vessels in the port: perhaps Roland had come over from Penzance by the morning steamer, and would shortly sail across the Road, and leap out upon the beach, and run to meet and greet her, with both hands outstretched, the light of affection in his eyes, and the laugh of welcome in his voice. She was graver and more silent than before: she did not sing so often as she walked among the ferns: she did not prattle to Chessun and Dorcas while she made her cakes and puddings. But nobody noticed any change in her: the serving-women, if they observed any, would have said only that Armorel was growing into a woman already. The autumn changed to winter. Roland would not come in winter, when the sea is stormy and there is little sunshine. She must wait now until spring. Meantime, on Samson, where are no trees except those wizened and crooked little trees of the orchard, there is not much to mark the winter except the cold wind and the short days. Here there is never frost or snow, hail or ice. The brown turf is much the same in December as in August; the dead fern is not so yellow; the dead and dying leaves of the bramble are not so splendid. The wind is colder, the sky is more grey; otherwise winter makes little difference in the external aspect of this archipelago. When the short days begin, the brown fields of the flower-farms clothe themselves with the verdure of spring: before the New Year has fairly set in, some of the fresh delicate flowers have been already cut and laid in the hothouse to be sent across to Covent Garden. The harvest of the year begins with its first day, and they reap it from January to May. There are plenty of things on such a farm for a girl to do. Armorel did not, if you please, sit down to weep. But she daily recalled with tender regret every one of the pleasant days of that companionship. She kept her promise, too: she read something every morning in the books which Roland had sent her: every afternoon she attempted to carry on the drawing lesson by herself: she practised her violin diligently: and every evening she played the old tunes to the old lady, and awakened her once more to life and memory. There was no change, except that everything now was coloured by what he had said. She was to grow to her full height--he had told her how--but at present she hardly saw her way to carrying out those instructions. Her full height! Ignorant of the truth--since such a girl grown to her full height would be so tall as to be out of all proportion, not only to Samson, but even to St. Mary's itself. Sometimes one falls into the habit of associating a single person with an idea, a thought, an anticipation, a place. Whenever the mind turns to this thought, the person is present. For example, there is a street in London which I have learned, from long habit, to associate with a second-hand bookseller. He was a gentle creature, full of reading, who had known many men. I sometimes sat at the back of his shop conversing with him. Sometimes a twelve-month would pass without my seeing him at all. But always when I think of this street I think of this old gentleman. The other day I passed through it. Alas! the shutters were up: the house was to let: my gentle friend was gone. Armorel associated her future--the unknown future--with Roland. Suppose that when that future should be the present she should find the shutters up, the house deserted, the tenant dead! The harvest of flowers was well begun: the boxes piled in the hold of the steamer merrily danced in the roll of the Atlantic waves as the _Lady of the Isles_ made her way to Penzance: in London the delicate narcissus and the jonquil returned to the dinner-tables, and stood about in glasses. Roland Lee bought them and took them home to his studio, where he sat looking at them, reminded of Armorel--who had never even answered his letter. Perhaps the flowers came from Samson. Why did the girl send him no answer to his letter? Then his memory went back to that little island with its two hills, and its barrows, and the quiet house--and to the girl who lived there. On what rock of Samson was she sitting? Where was she at that moment? Gazing somewhere over the wild waste of waters, the wind blowing about her curls, and the beating of the waves in her ears. She had forgotten him. Why not? He was only a visitor of a week or two. She was nothing but a child--and an ignorant farmer-girl living in a desert island. Ignorant? No; that was not the word. He saw her once more standing in the middle of the room, the ruddy firelight in her eyes and on her cheeks, playing 'Singleton's Slip' and 'Prince Rupert's March,' while the Ancient Lady mopped and mowed and discoursed of other days. And again: he saw her standing on the beach when he said farewell, the tears in her eyes, her voice choked. Then he longed again, as he had longed then, to take her in his arms, even in the presence of Peter the boy, to soothe and kiss her and bid her weep no more, because he would never, never leave her. So strong was the impression made upon this young man by this child of fifteen, that after six months spent in the society of many other girls, of charms more matured, he still remembered her, and thought of her with that kind of yearning regret which is perilously akin to love. An untaught, ignorant girl--whose charm lay in her innocent confidence, her soft black eyes, and the beauty of the maiden emerging from the child--could hardly make a permanent impression on a man of the world, even a young man of only twenty-one. The time would go on, and the girl would be forgotten, except as a pleasant memory associated with a delightful holiday. An artist is, perhaps, above his fellows, liable to swift and sudden changes; his mind dwells continually on beauty. All lovely girls have not black hair and black eyes. Apollo, himself, the god of artists, loved not only all the nine Muses and all the three Graces, but a good many nymphs and princesses as well--such is the artistic temperament, so catholic is its admiration of beauty. CHAPTER XII THE CHANGE 'A change,' said Roland, 'will surely come, and that before long. I cannot believe'--Armorel remembered the words afterwards--'that you will stay on this island for ever.' It needed no unusual gift of prophecy to foretell impending change when the most important member of the household was nearing her hundredth year. The change foretold actually came in April, when the flower-fields had lost their beauty and the harvest of Scilly was nearly over. Late blossoms of daffodil still reared their heads among the thick leaves, though their blooming companions had all been cut off to grace London tables; there were broad patches of wallflower little regarded; the leaves of the bulbs were drooping and already turning brown: these were the signs of approaching summer to the Scillonian, who has already had his spring. On the adjacent island of Great Britain the primrose clustered on the banks; the hedges of the West Country were splendid, putting forth tender leaves over a wealth of wild flowers; the chestnut-buds were swollen and sticky, ready to burst. Do we not know the signs and tokens of coming spring? On Scilly, the lengthening day--there are no hedges and no trees to speak of--the completion of the flower harvest, and the drooping of the daffodil-leaves in the fields are the chief signs of spring. Yet there are other signs: if there are no woods to show the tender leaf of spring, there are the green shoots of the fern on the down: and there are the birds. The puffin has already come back; he comes in his thousands: he arrives in April, and he departs in September: whence he cometh and whither he goeth no man hath ever learned nor can naturalist discover. At the same time comes the guillemot, and sometimes the solan-goose: the tern and the sheerwater come too, if they come at all, in spring: but the wild ducks and the wild geese depart before the flower-harvest is finished. Armorel got up one morning in April a little earlier than usual. It was five o'clock: the sun was rising over Telegraph Hill on St. Mary's. She ran down the stairs, opened the door, and stood on the porch drawing a deep breath. No one was as yet stirring on Samson, though I think Peter was beginning to turn in his bed. Out at sea Armorel saw a great steamer, homeward bound, perhaps an Australian liner: the level rays of the early sun shone on her spars and made them stand out clear and fine against the sky: behind her streamed her long white cloud of smoke and steam, hanging over the water, light and feathery. There were no other ships visible. The air was cold, but the sun of April was already strong. Armorel shivered, caught her hat, and ran over the hill, singing as she went, not knowing that in the night, while she slept, the Angel of Death had visited the house. About seven o'clock she came back, having completely circumnavigated the island of Samson, and made, as usual, many curious observations and discoveries in the manners and customs of puffins, terns, and shags. She returned in the cheerful mood which belongs to youth, health, and readiness for breakfast. She instantly perceived, however, on arriving, that something had happened--something unusual. For Peter stood in the porch: what was Peter doing in the porch at seven o'clock in the morning, when he ought to have been ministering to the pigs? Further, Peter was standing in the attitude of a boy who waits to be sent on an errand. It is an attitude of expectant readiness--of zeal according to duty--of activity bought and freely rendered. You will observe this attitude in all office boys--except telegraph-boys: they never assume it: they affect no zeal: they betray no eagerness to put in a fair day's work. Such an attitude would lack the dignity due to a Government officer. And at sight of Armorel Peter hung his head as one who sorrows, or is ashamed or repentant. What did he do that for? What had happened? Why should he hang his head? She asked these questions of Peter, who only shook his head and pointed within. She heard Justinian's voice giving some directions. She also heard Dorcas and Chessun. They were all three speaking in low voices. She hurried in. The door of the old lady's bedroom--that sacred apartment into which no one, except the two handmaidens, had ever ventured--stood wide open; not only that, but Justinian himself was in the room--actually in the room--and beside the bed. Then Armorel understood what had happened. On no other condition would Justinian be admitted to his old mistress's room. On the other side of the bed stood Dorcas and Chessun. Seeing Armorel at the door, these two ladies instantly lifted up their voices and wailed aloud--nay, they shrieked and screamed their lamentations, as if it was the first time in the world's history that death had carried off an aged woman. This they did by a kind of instinct: the thing, though they knew it not, was a survival. In ancient times it was the custom in Lyonesse that the women should all wail and weep and shriek, and beat their breasts and tear their hair, and cut their cheeks with their nails, while the body of the dead king or warrior was carried up the slope of the hill to be laid in its kistvaen and covered with its barrow on Samson island. They wailed aloud, then, because it had always been the right thing for the women of Samson to do. Otherwise, when one so ancient dies at last, mind and memory gone before, what place is there for wailing and weeping? One natural tear we drop, for all must die; but grief belongs to the death-bed of the young. There needed no shriek of the women nor anyone's speech to tell Armorel that the white face upturned on the bed was not the face of a living woman. They had folded the dead hands across her breast: the eyes were closed: the countless wrinkles of the aged face were smoothed out: the lips were parted with a wan smile. After many, many years, Ursula, the widow, was gone to rejoin her husband. Pray Heaven her desire be granted, and that she rise again young and beautiful--such a woman as that ill-starred sailor, dragged to the bottom of the sea by the weight of Robert Fletcher's bag, had loved in life! Peter presently sailed across the Road, and returned with the doctor. It is the part of the doctor not only to usher the new-born into life, but to bar or open the gates of the tomb: without him very few of us die, and without him no one can be buried. This man of science graciously expressed his willingness to acknowledge, though he had not been called in, that the deceased died of old age. Then he went back. In the evening there was no music. The violin remained in its place; the great chair was empty; no one brought out the spinning-wheel; the table was not pushed back. How was the long evening to be got through without the violin? How could those ancient tunes be played any more in the presence of that empty chair? When the serving-folk came in as usual and sat round the fire, and the women sighed and moaned, and Justinian stimulated the coals to a flame, and the ruddy light played upon their faces, Armorel began to think that a continuance of these evenings would be tedious. Then they began to talk, the conversation naturally turning on Death and Judgment, and the prospects of Heaven and the departed. 'She was not one of them,' said Dorcas, 'as would never talk of such things. I've often heard her say she wanted to rise again, young and beautiful, same as she was when her husband was took, so that he should love her again.' 'Nay,' said Justinian; 'that's foolish talk. There's neither marrying nor giving in marriage there. You ought to know so much, Dorcas. Husbands and wives will know each other, I doubt not, if it's only for the man's forgiveness after the many crosses and rubs. 'Twould be a pity, wife, if we didn't know each other, golden crown and all. I'd be sorry to think you were not about somewhere.' Armorel listened without much interest. She wondered vaguely how Dorcas would look in a golden crown, and hoped that she might not laugh when she should be permitted to gaze upon her thus wonderfully adorned. Then she listened in silence while these thinkers followed up their speculations on the next world and the decrees of Heaven, with the freedom of their kind. A strangely brutal freedom! It consigns, without a thought of pity, the majority of mankind to a doom which they are too ignorant to realise and too stupid to understand. The deceased lady, it was agreed, might, perhaps--though this was by no means certain--have fallen under Conviction of Sin at some remote period, before any of them knew her. Not since, that was certain. And as for her husband, he was cut off in his sins--like all the Roseveans, struck down in his sins, without a warning. So that if the old lady expected to meet him, after their separation of nearly eighty years, on the Shores of Everlasting Praise, she would certainly be disappointed, because he was otherwise situated and disposed of. Therefore she might just as well go up old and wrinkled. This kind of talk was quite familiar to Armorel, and generally meant nothing to her. The right of private judgment is claimed and freely exercised in Scilly, where that branch of the Church Catholic called Bryanite greatly flourishes. Formerly, she would have passed over this talk without heeding. Now, she had begun to think of these as well as of many other things. Roland's words on religious things startled her into thinking. She listened, therefore, wondering what view people like Roland Lee would take of her great-grandfather's present condition, and of the poor old lady's prospects of meeting him again. Then her thoughts wandered from these nebulous speculations, and she heard no more, though the conversation became lurid with the flames of Tartarus, and these old religioners gloated over the hopeless sufferings of the condemned. A sweet and holy thing, indeed, has mankind made of the Gospel of Great Joy! Before they separated, Chessun rose and left the room noiselessly. Armorel had no experience of the situation, but she knew that something was going to be done, something connected with the impending funeral--something solemn. In fact, Chessun returned after ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, the others making a pretence of expecting nothing. Doctrinal meditation was written on Justinian's brow: resignation on that of Dorcas. Chessun bore in her hands a tray with glasses and a silver tankard filled with something that steamed. It was a posset, made with biscuits, new milk and sherry, nutmeg and sugar--an emotional drink, strong, sweet, comforting, very good for mournful occasions, but, of late years, unfortunately, gone out of fashion. They all had a glass, the two women moaning over their glasses, and the old man shaking his head. Then they went to bed. They had a posset every night until the funeral. They buried the ancient dame on Bryher. A boat carried the coffin across the water to the landing-place in New Grinsey Sound, behind which stands the little old church with its churchyard. Armorel and her household followed in one of the family boats, as in a mourning-carriage. All the people of Tresco and Bryher were present at the funeral; and most of them came across to Samson after the ceremony to drink a glass of wine and eat a slice of cake, the women no longer wailing and the men no longer shaking their heads. All the Roseveans who have escaped the vengeance of Mr. Fletcher's terrible bag lie in Bryher churchyard. They are mostly widows, poor things! They sleep alone, because their husbands' bones lie about among the tall weeds in the tranquil depths of the ocean. And Armorel, looking forward, thought with terror of the long, silent evenings, while the old serving-folk would sit round in the firelight, silent, or saying things that might as well have been left unsaid. CHAPTER XIII ARMOREL'S INHERITANCE 'You are now the mistress, dearie,' said Dorcas. 'It is time that you should learn what that means.' It was the morning after the funeral--the Day of Accession--the beginning of the new reign. 'Why, Dorcas, it makes no difference, does it? There are still the flowers and the house and everything.' 'Yes--there's everything.' The old woman nodded her head meaningly. 'Oh! yes--there is everything. Oh! you don't know--you don't suspect--nobody knows--what a surprise is in store for you!' 'What surprise, Dorcas?' 'You've never been into her room except to see her lying dead. It's your room now. You can go in whenever you like. Always the master or the mistress has slept in that room. When her father-in-law died she took the room. And she's slept in it ever since. And no one, except me and Chessun to clean up and sweep and dust, has ever been in that room since. And now it's yours.' 'Well, Dorcas, it may be mine; but I shall go on sleeping in my own room.' 'Then keep it locked--keep it locked up--day and night. There's nobody in Samson to dread--but keep it locked! As for sleeping in it, time enough, perhaps, when you come to marry. But keep it locked----' 'Why, Dorcas, what is in it?' 'I am seventy-five years old and past,' Dorcas went on. 'I was fifteen when I came to the house, and here I've been ever since. Not one of the grandchildren nor the great-grandchildren ever came in here. No one ever knew what is kept here.' 'What is it, then?' Armorel asked again. 'She used to come here alone, by daylight, regularly once a month. She locked the door when she came in. No one ever knew what she was doing, and no one ever asked. One day she forgot to lock the door, and by accident I opened it, and saw what she was doing.' 'What was she doing?' 'She'd opened all the cupboards and boxes, and she'd spread out all the things, and was counting, and--no, no--you may guess, when you have looked for yourself, what she was doing. I shut the door softly, and she never knew that I'd looked in upon her. She might have been overseen from the orchard, but no one ever went in there except to gather the fruit. To make safe, however, I've put up a muslin blind now, because Peter might take it into his head--boys go everywhere peering and prying. Nobody knows what I saw. I never even told Justinian. Men blab, you see: they get together, and they drink--then they blab. You can never trust a man with a secret. How long would it be before Peter would let it out if he knew? Once over at Hugh Town, drinking at a bar, and all the world would know in half an hour. No, no; the secret was hers: it was mine as well--but that was an accident--she never knew that: now it will be yours and mine. And we will tell nobody--nobody at all.' 'Where shall I find this wonderful secret, Dorcas?' 'Wherever you look, dearie. Oh! the room is full of things. There can't be such another room in all the world. It's crammed with things. Look everywhere. If they knew, all the young lords and princes would be at your feet, Armorel, because you are so rich. Best keep it secret, though, and get richer.' 'I so rich? Dorcas, you are joking!' 'No--you shall look and find out. Not that you will understand at first--because, how should you know the value of things? Here's her bunch of keys. She always carried them in her pocket, and at night she kept them under her pillows--and there I found them, sure enough, when she was cold and dead. Take them, child. I never told her secret--no--not even to my own husband. Take the keys, child. They are yours--your own. You can open everything: you can look at everything: you can do what you like with everything. It's your inheritance. But tell no one,' she repeated, earnestly. 'Oh! my dear, let it remain a secret. Don't let anyone see you when you come in here. Lock the door, as she did--and keep it locked.' The old woman led Armorel by the hand to the door of the room where there was to be found the Great Surprise. She opened it, placed a bunch of keys in her hand, pushed her in and closed it behind her, whispering, 'Lock it, and keep it locked.' The girl turned the key obediently, wondering what would happen next. The room was on the ground floor, looking out upon the orchard, with a northern aspect, so that the sun could only shine in for a small portion of the year, during the summer months. The apple-trees were now in blossom, the white pink and flowers bright in the sunshine contrasting with the grey lichen which wrapped every branch and hung down like ribbons. The room was the oldest part of the house, the only remaining portion of an earlier house: it was low and small: the fireplace had never been modernised: it stood wide open, with its dogs and its broad chimney: the window was of three narrow lights, one of which could be opened: all were still provided with the old diamond panes in their leaden setting. Armorel observed the muslin blind put up by Dorcas to keep out prying eyes. In dull and cloudy days the room would be gloomy. As it was, even with the bright sunshine out of doors, the air seemed cold and oppressive--perhaps from the fresh association of Death. Armorel shivered as she looked about her. The greater part of the room was taken up by a large bed. In the old lady's time it had curtains and a head, and things at the four corners like the plumes of a hearse, but in faded crimson. Then it looked splendid. Now, the bed had been stripped: curtains and plumes and all were gone, and only the skeleton bed left, with its four great solid posts and its upper beams, and its feather bed lying exposed, with the bare pillow-cases upon the mattress. But the bedstead was magnificent without its trappings, because it was made of mahogany black with age: they no longer make such bedsteads. There was also a table--an old black table--with massive legs; but there was nothing on it. Between door and wall there was a row of pegs, with a chair beneath them. Now, by some freak of chance, when Dorcas and Chessun hung up the ancient dame's things for the last time--her great bonnet, and the cap of many ribbons within it, and her silk dress--they arranged them so as to present a most extraordinary presentment of the venerable lady herself--much elongated and without any face: she seemed to be sitting in the chair below the pegs, dressed as usual, and nodding her great bonnet, but pulled out to eight or ten feet in length. Armorel caught the ghostly similitude and started, trembling. It seemed as if in a moment the wrinkled old face, with the hawk-like nose and the keen eyes, would come back to the bonnet and the cap. She was so much startled that she turned the bonnet round. And then the figure seemed watching with the shoulders. This was uncanny, but it was not so terrible as the faceless form. Beside the fireplace was a cupboard--one of those huge cupboards which one only finds in the old houses. Armorel tried the door, but it was locked. Against the wall stood a chest of drawers, brass-bound, massive. She tried the handles, but every lock was fast. Under the window stood an old sea-chest. It was a very big sea-chest. One would judge, from its rich carvings and its ornamental ironwork, that it was probably the sea-chest of an admiral at least--perhaps that of Admiral Hernando Mureno, Armorel's ancestor, if such was his rank in the navy of his Catholic Majesty. The sight of this sea-chest caused the girl to shiver with the fear of expectation. Nobody contemplates the absolutely unknown without a certain fear. It contained, she was certain, the things that Dorcas had seen, of which she would not speak. The chest seemed to drag her: it cried, 'Open me. Look inside me--see what I have got to show you.' Then she remembered, as one in a dream, hearing people talk. Words long forgotten came back to her. 'Twas in Hugh Town, whither she went across to school when she was as yet a little girl. 'What have the Roseveans'--thus and thus said the voice--'done with all their money? They've never spent anything: they've gone on saving and saving. Some day we shall find out what became of it.' Was she going to find out what had become of it? The old lady, in her most lucid moments, had never dropped the least hint of any inheritance, except that disagreeable necessity of getting drowned on account of the unfortunate Robert Fletcher. And that was not an inheritance to gladden the heart. Yet there was an inheritance. It was here, in this room. And she was locked in alone, in order that she, herself unseen by any, might discover what it was. Baron Bluebeard's last wife--she who afterwards, as a beautiful, rich, and lively young widow, set so many hearts aflame--was not more curious than Armorel. Nor was she, in the course of her investigations, more afraid than Armorel. The girl looked nervously about the room, so ghostly and so full of shadow. All old rooms have their ghosts, but some of them have so many that one is not afraid of them. There is a sense of companionship in a crowd of ghosts. This room had only one--that of the woman who had grown old in it--who had spent nearly eighty years in it. All the old ghosts had grown tired of this monotonous room, gone away and left the place to her. Armorel not only 'believed in ghosts'--many of us accord to these shadows a shadowy, theoretical belief--she actually knew that ghosts do sometimes appear. Dorcas had seen many--Chessun herself, while not going actually that length, threw out hints. She herself had often, too, gone to look for them. Now she glanced nervously where the 'things' were hanging, expecting to see the ancestral figure reappear, shoulders move, the bonnet and cap turn round, the old, old face within them, ready to warn, to admonish, and to guide. If this had happened, it would have seemed to Armorel nothing but what was natural and in the regular course of things looked for. But, outside, the sun shone on the white apple-blossom. No one is very much afraid of ghosts in the sunshine. She encouraged herself with this reflection, and began with unlocking the chest of drawers. The lower drawers, when they were opened, contained nothing but the 'things' of her great-great-grandmother. Among them was a box roughly made--a boy's box made with a jack-knife: it contained a gold watch with a French name upon it--a very old watch, with a representation of the Annunciation in low relief on the gold face. There were also in the box two or three gold chains and sundry rings and trinkets. Armorel took them out and laid them on the table. They were, she said to herself, part of her inheritance. Was this the Great Surprise spoken of by Dorcas? She tried the two upper drawers. They were locked, but she easily found the right key, and opened them. She found that they were filled with lace; they were crammed with lace. There were packets of lace tied up tight, rolls of lace, cardboards with lace wound round and round--an immense quantity of lace was lying in these drawers. As for its value, Armorel knew nothing. Nor did she even ask herself what the value might be. She only unrolled one or two packets, and wondered vaguely what in the world she should do with so much lace. And she wished it was not so yellow. Yet the packets she unrolled contained Valenciennes--some of it half a yard wide, precious almost beyond price. Armorel knew, however, very well how it had got there, and what it meant. The descendant of so many brave runners was not ignorant that lace, velvet, silk and satin, brandy and claret, all came from the French coast with which her gallant forefathers were so familiar before the Preventive Service interfered. This, then, was left from the smuggling times. They had not sold all. They had kept enough, in fact, to stock half a dozen West-End shops, to adorn the trousseau of fifty Princesses. And here the stuff had lain undisturbed since--well, perhaps, since the unfortunate visit of Mr. Robert Fletcher. 'My inheritance, so far,' said Armorel, 'is a pile of yellow lace and a gold watch and chain and some trinkets. Is this the Great Surprise?' But she looked at the sea-chest. Something more must be there. Next she turned to the cupboard. It was locked and double-locked. But she found the key. The cupboard was one of those great receptacles common in the oldest houses, almost rooms in themselves, but dark rooms, where mediæval housekeepers kept their stores. In those days, housekeeping on a respectable scale meant the continual maintenance of immense stores. All the things which now we get from shops as we want them were then laid in store long before they were wanted. Outside the country town there were no shops; and, even in London itself, people did not run to the shop every day. The men had great quantities of shirts--three clean shirts a day was the allowance of a solid city man under good Queen Anne--a city man who respected himself: the women had a corresponding quantity of flowered petticoats. Wine was by no means the only thing laid down for future years. All these accumulations helped to give solidity to the appearance of life. When a woman thought of her cupboards filled with fine linen and a man of his cellars filled with wine, the uncertainty and brevity of life alleged by the Preacher seemed not to concern them. It would be absurd to lay down a great bin of good port if one was not going to live long enough to drink it. The fashion, therefore, has its advantages. Armorel threw open the door and looked in. The place was so dark that she was obliged to light a candle in order to examine the shelves running round the sides of the cupboard. There was a strange smell in the place, which, perhaps, had not been opened for a long time. Bales of some kind lay upon the upper shelves. Armorel took down two and opened them. They contained silk--strong, rich silk. She rolled them up and put them back. On a lower shelf was a most singular collection. In the front row were one--two--no fewer than six punch-bowls, all of silver except one, and that was of silver gilt. This must be the Great Surprise. Armorel took them all out and placed them on the table. For the most part they showed signs of having been used with freedom--one has heard of an empty punch-bowl being kicked about the place as a conclusion to the feast. But six punch-bowls! 'They came,' said Armorel, 'from the wrecks.' Behind the punch-bowls were silver candlesticks, silver snuffers, silver cups, silver tankards--some with coats-of-arms, some with names engraven. There was also a great silver ship, one of those galleons in silver which formerly adorned Royal banquets. All these Armorel took out and arranged upon the table. Among them was a tall hour-glass mounted in silver. Armorel set the sand running again, after many years. On the floor there were packets and bundles tied up and rolled together. Armorel opened one of them, and, finding that it contained a packet of gold lace and a pair of gold epaulettes, she left them undisturbed. And standing against the wall, stacked behind the bundles of gold lace, were swords--dozens of swords. What could she do with swords? Well, then, now, at last, she had found the Great Surprise. But still the sea-chest seemed to drag her and to call to her: 'Open me! Open me! See what I have got for you!' 'So far, then,' she said, 'I have inherited a pile of lace; a gold watch, rings, and chains; six punch-bowls, twenty-four silver candlesticks, twelve silver cups, four great tankards, a silver ship, I know not how many old swords, and a bundle of gold lace. I wonder if these things make a person rich?' If so, great wealth does not satisfy the soul. This was certain, because Armorel really felt no richer than before. Yet the array of punch-bowls was truly imposing, and the silver candlesticks, the snuffers, the tankards, the cups, and the ship, though they sadly wanted the brush and the chamois leather, with a pinch of 'whitenin',' were worthy of a College Plate-Room. One might surely feel a little elation at the thought of owning all this silver, even if one did not understand its intrinsic value. But, like the effect of champagne, such elation would quickly wear off. Next, Armorel remembered the secret cupboard at the head of the bed. Her own bed had its secret recess at the head--every respectable bedstead used formerly to have them. Where else could money be hidden away safely? To be sure, everybody knew this hiding-place, but everybody pretended not to know. It was an open secret, like the concealed drawer in a schoolboy's desk. Our forefathers were full of such secrets that everybody knew. The stocking in the teapot: the receptacle under the hearthstone: the hidden compartment in the cabinet: the secret room: the secret staircase: the recess in the head of the bed--these were all secrets that everybody knew and everybody respected. I think that even the burglar respected these conventions. Armorel knew how to open the panel--she found the spring and it flew open, rustily, as if it had not been opened for a great many years. Behind the panel was a recess eighteen inches long and about nine inches deep. And here stood a Black Jack--nothing less than a Black Jack; a quart Jack, not a Leather Jack, but a tankard made of tin and painted with hunting scenes something like an Etruscan vase, or perhaps more like a Brown George. Why should anyone want to hide away a Black Jack? This quart pot, however, held something better than stingo--even stronger: it was half-filled with foreign money. Here were moidores, doubloons, ducats, pieces-of-eight, Louis d'ors, Spanish pillar dollars, sequins, gold coins from India--nothing at all in the pot less than a hundred years old. Armorel took out a handful and looked at them. Well, gold coins do look like money. She began to feel really rich. She had a quart tankard half-full of gold coins. She added the Black Jack to the other treasures on the table. All this foreign money must have come out of the wrecks. And, since it was all so old, out of wrecks that had happened before the memory even of the Ancient Lady. This, then, was perhaps the Great Surprise. But there remained the sea-chest under the window, and again, when Armorel looked upon it, the chest continued to call to her, 'Open me! Open me! See what I have for you!' Armorel found the key which unlocked it, and threw open the lid. Within, there was the deep tray which belongs to every sea-chest. This was filled with a quantity of uninteresting brown canvas bags. She wanted to see what was below, and tried to lift the tray, but it was too heavy. Then, still regarding the bags as of no account, she took one out. It was heavy, and when she lifted it there was a clink as of coin. It was tied tightly at the mouth with a piece of string. She opened it. Within there were gold coins. She took out a handful: they were all sovereigns, some of them worn, some quite new and fresh from the Mint. She poured out the whole contents of the bag on the table. Why, it was actually full of golden sovereigns. Nothing else in the bag. All golden sovereigns! And there were five hundred of them. She counted them. Five hundred pounds! She had never, it is true, thought much about money--but--five hundred pounds! It seemed an amazing sum. Five hundred pounds! And all in a single bag. And such a little bag as this. She put back the money and tied up the bag. Then she took out another bag. This was as big as the first, and heavier. It was full of guineas--Armorel counted them. There were also five hundred of them. Some of them were so old that they bore the impression of the elephant, and therefore belonged to the seventeenth century. But most of them belonged to the eighteenth century, and bore the heads of the three first Georges. Five hundred guineas--and never before had Armorel seen a guinea! Well, she thought, that made a thousand pounds. She took up another bag and opened it. That, too, weighed as much and was full of gold. And another, and yet another. They were all full of gold. And now she knew what Dorcas meant--this--nothing but this--was the Great Surprise! Not the punch-bowls, or the lace, or the bales of silk, but these bags full of gold constituted her wealth. She understood money, you see: lace and silk were beyond her. This was her inheritance! Consider: the Roseveans, from father to son, had been from time immemorial wreckers, smugglers, and pilots. They were also farmers. On their little farm they grew nearly enough to support their simple lives. They had pigs and poultry; they had milch cows; they had a few sheep; they kept geese, pigeons, ducks; they made their own beer and their own cordials and strong waters; they made their own linen; they were unto themselves millers, tinkers, carpenters, cabinet-makers, builders, and thatchers. They grew their own salads and vegetables, and if they wanted any fruit they grew that as well. Oats and barley they grew, clover and hay. I believe that on Samson wheat has never been grown--indeed, there are only eighty acres in all. There was left, therefore, little to buy. Coals, wood for fuel and for carpentering, things in iron, crockery, tools, cloth clothes, flannel, flour, and sometimes a little beef--what else did they want? As for fish, they had only to catch as much as they wanted. Tea, coffee, sugar, and so forth came in with later civilisation, when small ale, possets, and hypsy died out. In order to provide these small deficiencies they were pilots, to begin with. This trade brought in a steady income. They also sent out boats, filled with fresh vegetables, to meet the homeward-bound East Indiamen. And they were also, like the rest of the artless islanders, wreckers and smugglers. In the former capacity they occasionally acquired an extraordinary quantity of odd and valuable things. In the latter profession they made at times, and until the Peace and the Preventive Service put an end to the business, a really fine income. Then, on Samson, they continued to live after the patriarchal fashion and in the old simplicity. Each Captain Rosevean in turn was the chieftain or sheik. To him his family brought all that they earned or found. The sea-chest took it all. For three hundred years, at least, this sea-chest received everything and gave up nothing. Nobody ever took anything out of it: nobody looked into it: nobody knew, until Ursula counted the money and made bags for it, what there was in the chest. Nobody ever asked if they were rich or how rich they were. There was no bank on Samson: there is not even now a bank in the Scilly archipelago at all: nobody understood any other way of saving money than the good old fashion of putting it by in a bag. On Samson there never were thieves, even when as many as fifty people lived on the island. Therefore the Captain Rosevean of the time, though he knew not how much was saved, nor did he ever inquire, laid the last additions to the pile in the tray of the old sea-chest with the rest, and, having locked it up, dropped the key in his pocket, and went about his business in perfect confidence, never thinking either that it might be stolen, or that he might count up his hoard, proceed to enjoy it, and alter his simple way of life. Every Captain Rosevean in succession added to that hoard every year; not one among them all thought of spending it or taking anything from it. He added to it. Nobody ever counted it until the reign of Ursula. It was she who made the little brown bags of canvas: she, usurping the place of Family Chief or Sheik, took from her sons and grandsons all the money that they made. They gave it over to her keeping--she was the Family Bank. And, like her predecessors in that room, she told no one of the hoard. Most of the bags contained guineas of George I., George II., and George III., down to the year 1816, when the Mint left off coining guineas. A few contained sovereigns of later date; but the family savings since that year had been small and uncertain. The really fat time--the prosperous time--when the money poured in, was during the long war which lasted for nearly five-and-twenty years. There were actually forty of these bags. Armorel laid them out upon the table and counted them. Forty! And each bag to all appearance, for she only counted two, contained five hundred guineas or pounds. Forty times five hundred--that makes twenty thousand pounds, if all were sovereigns! There are, I am told, a few young ladies in this country who have as much as twenty thousand pounds for their dot. There are also a great many young ladies in France, and an amazing multitude, whom no man may number, in the United States of America, who have as much. But I am quite sure that not one of these heiresses, except Armorel herself, has ever actually gazed upon her fortune in a concrete form--tangible--to be counted--to be weighed--to be admired. It is a pity that they cannot do this, if only because they would then see for themselves what a very small pile of gold a fortune of twenty thousand pounds actually makes. This would make them humble. Armorel stood looking at the table thus laden with bewildered eyes. 'I have got,' she murmured, 'twenty thousand sovereigns and guineas at least: I have got a painted pot full of old money. I have got six punch-bowls, a great silver ship, a large number of silver candlesticks and cups: I have got a silver-mounted hour-glass'--its sand was now nearly run--'I have got a great quantity of lace and silk. I suppose all this does make riches. Whatever shall I do with it? Shall I give it to the poor? or shall I put it back into the box and leave it there? But perhaps there is something else in the box.' The chest, in fact, continued to call aloud to be examined. Even while Armorel looked at her glittering treasures spread out upon the table she felt herself drawn towards the chest. There was more in it. There was another Surprise waiting for her--even a greater Surprise, perhaps, than that of the bags of gold. 'Search me!' cried the chest. 'Search me! Look into the innermost recesses of me: explore my contents to the very bottom: let nothing escape your eyes.' Armorel knelt down before the chest and took out the tray. It was empty now, and she could lift it easily. Beneath the tray there was a most miscellaneous collection of things. They lay in layers, separated and divided--Ursula's hand was here--by silk handkerchiefs of the good old kind--the bandanna, now gone out of fashion. First Armorel took out and laid on the floor a layer of silver spoons, silver ladles, even silver dishes, all of antique appearance and for the most part stamped with a crest or a coat-of-arms: for in the old days if a man was Armiger he loved to place his shield on everything; to look at it and glory in it: to let others see it and envy it. Then she found a layer of watches. There were gold watches and silver watches; the latter of all kinds, down to the veritable turnip. The glasses were broken of nearly all, and, if one had examined, the works would have been found rusted with the sea-water which had got in. What were they worth now? Perhaps the value of the cases and of the jewels with which the works were set, and more with one or two, where miniatures adorned the back and jewels were set in the face. Armorel turned with impatience from the watches to the gold chains, which lay beside them. There were yards of gold chain: gold chains of all kinds, from the heavy English make to the dainty interlaced Venetian and thread-like Trichinopoly; there were silver chains also--massive silver chains, made for some extinct office-bearer, perhaps bo's'n on the Admiral's ship of the Great Armada. Armorel drew up some of the chains and played with them, tying them round her wrists and letting them slip through her fingers--the pretty delicate things, which spoke of wealth almost as loudly as the bags of guineas. She laid them aside, and took up a silk handkerchief containing a small collection of miniatures. They were almost all portraits of women: young and pretty women: ladies on land whose faces warmed the hearts and fired the memories of men at sea. The miniatures had hung round the necks of some and had lain in the sea-chests of others, whose bones had long since melted to nothing in the salt sea depths, while those of their mistresses had turned to dust beneath the aisle of some village church, their memory long since forgotten, and their very name trampled out by the feet of the rustics. Armorel laid aside these pictures--they were very pretty, but she would look at them again another time. The next parcel was a much larger one. It consisted of snuff-boxes. There were dozens of snuff-boxes: one or two of gold: one or two silver-gilt: some silver. In the lids of some were pictures, some most beautifully and delicately executed; some of subjects which Armorel did not understand--and why, she thought, should painters draw people without proper clothes? Venus and the Graces and the Nymphs, in whom our eighteenth-century ancestors took such huge delight, were to this young person merely people. The snuff-boxes were very well in their way, but Armorel had no inclination to look at them again. Then she found in a handkerchief, the four corners of which were loosely tied together, a great quantity of rings. There were rings of every kind--the official ring or the ring of office, the signet-ring, the ring with the shield, the ring with the name of a ship, the ring with the name of a regiment, mourning-rings, wedding-rings, betrothal-rings, rings with posies, cramp-rings with the names of the Magi on them--but their power was gone--gimmal-rings, rings episcopal, rings barbaric, mediæval, and modern, rings set with every kind of precious stone--there were hundreds of rings. All drowned sailors used to have rings on their fingers. Armorel began to get tired of all these treasures. Beneath them, however, at the bottom of the box, lay piled together a mass of curios. They were stowed away for the most part in small boxes, of foreign make and appearance: ivory boxes: carved wood boxes. They consisted of all kinds of things, such as gold and silver buckles, brooches, painted fans, jewel-hilted daggers, crystal tubes of attar of roses, and knives of curious construction. The girl sighed: she would look over them at another time. They would, perhaps, add something to the inheritance, but for the moment she was satisfied. She had seen enough. She was putting back a dagger whose jewelled handle flashed in the unaccustomed light, when she saw, lying half hidden among this pile of curious things, the corner of a chagreen case. This attracted her curiosity, and she took it out. The chagreen had been green in colour, but was now very much discoloured. It had been fastened by a silver clasp, but this was broken: a small leather strap was attached to two corners. Armorel expected to find another bag of money. But this did not contain gold. It was lighter than the canvas bags. As she took it into her hands she remembered the bag of Robert Fletcher. Yes. The leathern strap of this case had been cut through. She held in her hands--she was certain--the abominable Thing that had brought so much trouble on the family. Again the room felt ghostly: she heard voices whispering: the voices of all those who had been drowned: the voices of the women who had mourned for them: the voice of the old lady who was herself a witness of the crime. They all whispered together in her ears: 'Armorel, you must find him. You must give it back to him.' What was in it? The clasp acted no longer. Armorel lifted the overlapping leather and looked within. There was a thick roll of silk. She took this out. Wrapped up in the silk, laid in folds, side by side, were a quantity of stones--common-looking stones, such as one may pick up, she thought, on the beach of Porth Bay. There were a couple of hundred or more, mostly small stones, only one or two of them bigger than the top of Armorel's little finger. 'Only stones!' she cried. 'All this trouble about a bag full of red stones!' Among the stones lay a small folded paper. Armorel opened it. The paper was discoloured by age or by water, and most of the writing was effaced. But she could read some of it. '... from the King of Burmah himself. This ruby I estimate to be worth ... 000_l._ at the very least. The other ... Mines. The second largest stone weighs ... about 2,000_l._ The smaller ... rt Fletcher.' It was a note on the contents of the parcel, written by the owner. The stones, therefore, were rubies, uncut rubies. Armorel knew little about precious stones and jewels, but she had heard and read of them. The price of a virtuous woman, she knew, was far above rubies. And Solomon's fairest among women was made comely with rows of jewels. Queen Sheba, moreover, brought precious stones among her presents to the Wise King. The girl wondered why such common-looking objects as these should be precious. But she was humbly ignorant, and put that wonder by. This, then, was nothing less than Robert Fletcher's fortune. He had this round his neck, and he was bringing it home to enjoy. And it was taken from him by her ancestor. A wicked thing indeed! A foul and wicked thing! And the poor man had been sent empty away to begin his life all over again. She shivered as she looked at them. All for the sake of these dull, red bits of stone! How can man so easily fall into temptation? In the empty room, so quiet, so ghostly, she heard again the whispers, 'Armorel, find him--find the man--and give him back his jewels.' She replied aloud, not daring to look round her lest she should see the pale and eager faces of those who had suffered death by drowning in consequence of this sin, 'Yes--yes, I will find him! I will find him!' She pushed the chagreen case back into its corner and covered it up. 'I will find him,' she repeated. Then she rose to her feet and looked about the room. Heavens! What a sight! The bags of gold, two of them open, their contents lying piled upon the table--the chains of gold on the floor--the handful of old gold coins lying on the table beside the Black Jack, the snuff-boxes, the miniatures, the punch-bowls, the rings, the silver cups--the low room, dark and quiet, filled with ghosts and voices, the recent occupant wagging her shoulders and shaking the back of her bonnet at her from the opposite wall, and, through the open window, the sight of the sunlight on the apple-blossoms mocking the gold and silver in this gloomy cave. She comprehended, as yet, little of the extent of her good fortune. Lace and silk, rings and miniatures, snuff-boxes: all these things had no value to her--of buying and selling she had no kind of experience. All she understood was that she was the possessor of a vast quantity of things for which she could find no possible use--one jewelled dagger, for instance, might be used for a dinner-knife, or for a paper-knife; but what could she do with a dozen? In addition to this museum of pretty and useless things she had forty bags with five hundred guineas, or pounds, in each--twenty-one thousand pounds, say, in cash. This museum was perfectly unique: no family in Great Britain had such a collection. It had been growing for more than three hundred years: it was begun in the time of the Tudor Kings, at least, perhaps even earlier. Wrecks there were, and Roseveans, on Samson, before the seventh Henry. I doubt if any other family, even the oldest and the noblest, has been collecting so long. Certainly no other family, even in this archipelago of wrecks, can have had such opportunities of collecting with such difficulties in dissipating. For more than three hundred years! And Armorel was sole heiress! She understood that she had inherited something more than twenty thousand pounds--how much more, she knew not. Now, unless one knows something of the capacities of one single pound, one cannot arrive at the possibilities of twenty thousand pounds. Armorel knew as much as this. Tea at Hugh Town costs two shillings a pound--perhaps two-and-four--sugar threepence a pound: nun's cloth so much a yard--serge and flannel so much: coals, so much a ton: wood for fuel, so much. This was nearly the extent of her knowledge: and it must be confessed that it goes very little way towards a right comprehension of twenty thousand pounds. Once, again, she had heard Justinian talking of the flower-farm. 'It has made,' he said, 'four hundred pounds this year, clear.' To which Dorcas replied, 'And the housekeeping doesn't come to half that, nor near it.' Whence, by the new light of this Great Surprise, she concluded, first, that the other two hundred, thus made, must have been added to those money-bags, and, next, that two hundred pounds a year would be a liberal allowance for her whole yearly expenditure. Then she made a little calculation. Two hundred pounds a year--two hundred into twenty thousand--twenty thousand--two and four noughts--she put five bags in a row for the number--subtract two--she did so--there remained three--divide by two--she did so--one hundred years was the result of that sum. Her twenty thousand pounds would therefore last her exactly one hundred years. At the expiration of the century all would be gone. For the first time in her life Armorel comprehended the fleeting nature of riches. And, naturally, the discovery, though she shivered at the thought of losing all, made her feel a little proud. A strange result of wealth, to advance the inheritor one more step in the knowledge of possible misery! She was like unto the curious youth who opens a book of medicine, only to learn of new diseases and terrible sufferings and alarming symptoms, and to imagine these in his own body of corruption. In a hundred years there would be no more. She would then be reduced to sell the lace and the other things for what they would then be worth. There would still, however, remain the flower-farm. She would, after all, be no worse off than before the Great Surprise. And then there sprang up in her heart the blossom of another thought, to be developed, later on, into a lovely flower. She had risen from her knees now, and was standing beside the table, vaguely gazing upon her inheritance. It was all before her. So the Ancient Lady had stood many and many a time counting the money: looking to see if all was safe: content to count it and to know that it was there. The old lady was gone, but from the opposite wall her shoulders and the back of her bonnet were looking on. Well: Armorel might go on doing exactly the same. She might live as her forefathers had lived: there was the flower-farm to provide all their necessities: if it brought in four hundred pounds a year, she could add two hundred to the heap--in every two years and a half another bag of five hundred sovereigns. All her people had done this--why not she? It seemed expected of her; a plain duty laid upon her shoulders. If she were to live on for eighty years longer--which would bring her to her great-great-grandmother's age--she would save eighty times two hundred--sixteen thousand pounds. The inheritance would then be worth thirty-six thousand pounds--a prodigious sum of money indeed. And, besides, the Black Jack, with its foreign gold, and the rings and lace and things! A strange room it was this morning. What voice was it that whispered solemnly in her ear, 'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal'? Never before had this injunction possessed any other significance to her than belongs to one manifestly addressed to other people. The Bible is full of warnings addressed to other people. Armorel was like the Royal Duke who used to murmur during the weekly utterance of the Commandments, 'Never did that. Never did that.' Now, this precept was clearly and from the very first intended to meet her own case. Oh! To live for nothing than to add more bags to that tray in the great sea-chest! Roland had prophesied that there would be a change. It had come already in part, and more was coming. What next? As yet the girl did not understand that she was mistress of her own fate. Hitherto things had been done for her. She was now about to act for herself. But how? If Roland were only here! But he had only written once, and he had never kept his promise to write back again to Samson. If he were here he could advise. She looked around, and saw the heaps of things that were all hers, and she laughed. The girl whom Roland thought to be only an ignorant and poor little country girl, a flower-farmer's girl of Samson Island, living alone with her old grandmother and the serving-folk, was ignorant still, no doubt. But she was not poor: she was rich--she could have all that can be bought with money--she was rich. What would Roland say and think? And she laughed aloud. She was rich--the last girl in the world to hope, or expect, or desire riches. Thus Fate mocks us, giving to one, who wants it not, wealth: and to another, who knows not how to use it, youth: and to a third, insensible of its power, beauty. The young lady of society, she whom the good old hymns used to call the Worldling--fond and pretty title! there are no Worldlings now--would have had no difficulty in knowing how to use this wonderful windfall. She, indeed, is always longing, perhaps praying, for money: she is always thinking how delightful it would be to be rich, and how there is nothing in the whole world more desirable than much fine gold. But to Lady Worldling, poor thing! such a windfall never happens. Again, there are all the distressed gentlewomen, the unappreciated artists, the authors whose books won't sell, the lawyers who have no clients, the wives whose name is Quiverful, the tradesman who 'scapes the Bankruptcy Court year after year by the skin of his teeth, and the poor dear young man who pines away because he cannot join the rabble rout of Comus--why, why does not such a windfall ever come to any of these? It never does: yet they spend all their spare time--all the time when they ought to be planning and devising ways and means of advancement--in dreaming of the golden days they would enjoy, if only such a windfall fell to them. One such man I knew: he dreamed of wealth all his life: he tried to become rich by taking every year a share in a foreign lottery. Of course, he never won a prize. While he was yet young and even far down the shady or outer slope of middle age he continually built castles in the air, fashioning pleasant ways for himself when he should get that prize. When he grew old, he dreamed of the will he would make and of the envy with which other old men, when he was gone, should regard the memory of one who had cut up so well. So he died poor; but I think he had always, through his dreaming, been as happy as if he had been rich. Armorel told herself, standing in the midst of this great treasure, that she was rich. Roland had once told her, she remembered, that an artist ought to have money in order to be free: only in freedom, he said, could a man make the best of himself. What was good for an artist might be good for her. At the same time--it is not for nothing that a girl reads and ponders over the Gospels--there were terrible words of warning--there were instances. She shuddered, overwhelmed with the prospects of new dangers. She knew everything: the room had yielded all its secrets there were no more cupboards, boxes, or drawers. The sight of the treasures already began to pall upon her. She applied herself to putting everything back. First the chagreen case. This she laid carefully in its corner among the daggers and pistols, remembering that she had promised to find the owner. How should she do that if she remained on Samson? Then she put back the snuff-boxes, the miniatures, and the watches in their silk handkerchiefs: then the box of rings and the silver spoons and dishes. Then she put the tray in its place and laid the bags in the tray, and locked the old sea-chest. This done, she bore back to the shelves in the cupboard the punch-bowls, candlesticks, tankards, and the big silver ship: she locked and double-locked the cupboard-door: she crammed the lace into the drawers, and put back the box of trinkets. Then she dropped the keys in her pocket. Oh! what a lump to carry about all day long! But the weight of the keys in her pocket was nothing to the weight that was laid upon her shoulders by her great possessions. This, however, she hardly felt at first. Everything was her own. When the new King comes to the throne he makes a great clearance of all the personal belongings of the old King. He gives away his cloaks and his uniforms, and all the things belonging to the daily life of his predecessor. That is always done. Therefore, Queen Armorel--Vivat Regina!--at this point gathered together all her predecessor's belongings. She turned them out of the drawers and laid them on the floor--with the great bonnet and the wonderful cap of ribbons. And then she opened the door. She would give these things to Dorcas. Her great-great-grandmother should have no more authority there. Even her clothes must go. If her ghost should remain, it should be without the bonnet and the cap. She called Dorcas, who came, curious to know how her young mistress took the Great Surprise. Armorel had taken it, apparently, as a matter of course. So the new King stands upon the highest step of the Throne, calm and collected, as if he had been prepared for this event, and was expecting it day after day. 'You know all now, dearie?' she whispered, shutting the door carefully. 'Did you find everything?' 'Yes--I believe I found everything.' 'The silver in the cupboard: the lace: the bags of gold?' 'I think I have found everything, Dorcas.' 'Then you are rich, my dear. No Rosevean before you was ever half so rich. For none of it has been spent. They've all gone on saving and adding--almost to the last she saved and added. Oh! the last thing she lost was the love of saving, and the jealousy of her keys she never lost. Oh! you are very rich--you are the richest girl in the whole of Scilly--not even in St. Mary's is there anyone who can compare with you. Even the Lord Proprietor himself--I hardly know.' 'Yes. I believe I must be very rich,' said Armorel. 'Dorcas, you kept her secret. Keep mine as well. Let no one know.' 'No one shall know, dearie--no one. But lock the door. Keep the door locked always.' 'I will. Now, Dorcas, here are all her dresses and things. You must take them all away and keep them. They are for you.' 'Very well, dearie. Though how I'm to wear black silk---- Oh! Child,' she cried, out of the religious terrors of her soul--'it is written that it is harder for a rich man to enter into heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. My dear, if these great riches are to drag your soul down into hell, it would be better if they were all thrown into the sea, the silver punch-bowls and the bags of gold and all. But there's one comfort. It doesn't say, impossible. It only says, harder. So that now and then, perhaps, a rich man may wriggle in--just one--and oh! I wish, seeing the number of rich people there are in the world, that there'd been shown one camel--only a single camel--going through the needle's eye. Think what a miracle! 'Twould have brought conviction to all who saw it, and consolation ever afterwards to all who considered it--oh! the many thousands of afflicted souls who are born rich! You are not the only one, child, who is rich through no fault of her own. Often have I told Justinian, thinking of her, and he not knowing or suspecting, but believing I was talking silly, that, considering the warnings and woes pronounced against the rich, we cannot be too thankful. But don't despair, my dear--it is nowhere said to be impossible. And there's the rich young man, to be sure, who was told to sell all that he had and to give to the poor. He went away sorrowful. You can't do that, Armorel, because there are no poor on Samson. And it's said, "Woe unto you that are rich, for you have had your consolation!" Well, but if your money never is your consolation--and I'm sure I don't know what it is going to console you for--that doesn't apply to you, does it? There's the story of the Rich Man, again; and there's texts upon texts, when you come to think of them. You will remember them, child, and they will be your warnings. Besides, you are not going to waste and riot like a Prodigal Son, and where your earthly treasure is there you will not set your heart. You will go on like all the Roseveans before you: and though the treasure is kept locked up, you will add to it every year out of your savings, just as they did.' 'There is another parable, Dorcas. I think I ought to remember that as well. It is that of the Talents. If the man who was rich with Five Talents had locked them up, he would not have been called a good and faithful servant.' 'Yes, dearie, yes. You will find some Scripture to comfort and assure your soul, no doubt. There's a good deal in Scripture. Something for all sorts, as they say. Though, after all, riches is a dangerous thing. Child! if they knew it over at St. Mary's, not a young man in the place but would be sailing over to Samson to try his luck. Our secret, child, all to ourselves.' 'Yes; our secret, Dorcas. And now take away all these things, everything that belonged to her: there are her shoes--take them too. I want the room to be all my own. So.' When all the things were gone, Armorel closed and locked the door. Then she ran out of the house gasping, for she choked. Everything was turned into gold. She gasped and choked and ran out over the hill and down the steps and across the narrow plain, and up the northern hill, hoping to drive some of the ghosts from her brain, and to shake off some of the bewildering caused by the Great Surprise. But a good deal remained, and especially the religious terrors suggested by that pious Bryanite Christian and Divider of the Word, Dorcas Tryeth. When she sat down in the old place upon the carn, the great gulf between herself and Bryher island reminded her of that great gulf in the parable. How if she should be the Rich Man sitting for ever and for ever on the red-hot rock, tormented with pain and thirst--and how if on Samson Hill beyond she should see Abraham himself, the patriarch, with Lazarus lying at his feet--as yet she had developed no Lazarus--but who knows the future? The Rich Man must have been a thoughtless and selfish person. Until now the parable never interested her at all: why should it? She had no money. The other passages, those which Dorcas had kindly quoted in this her first hour of wealth, came crowding into her mind, and told her they were come to stay. All these texts she had previously classed with the denunciations of sins the very meaning of which she knew not. She had no concern with such wickedness. Nor could she possibly understand how it was that people, when they actually knew that they must not do such things, still went on doing them. Now, however, having become rich herself, all the warnings of the New Testament seemed directed against herself. Already, the load of wealth was beginning to weigh upon her young shoulders. She changed the current of her thoughts. Even the richest girl cannot be always thinking about woes and warnings. Else she would do nothing, good or bad. She began to think about the outer world. She had been thinking of it constantly ever since Roland left her. Now, as she looked across the broad Roadstead, and remembered that thirty miles beyond Telegraph Hill rose the cliffs where the outer world begins--they can be seen in a clear day--a longing, passionate and irresistible, seized her. She could go away now, whenever she pleased. She could visit the outer world and make the acquaintance of the people who live in it. She laughed, thinking how Justinian, who had never been beyond St. Mary's, pictured, as he was fond of doing, the outer world. The Sea of Tiberias was to him the Road: the Jordan was like Grinsey Sound: the steep place down which the swine fell into the sea was like Shipman's Head: the Sermon on the Mount took place on just such a spot as the carn of the North Hill on Samson, with the sun shining on the Western Islands: the New Jerusalem in his mind was a city like Hugh Town, consisting of one long street with stone houses, roofed with slate; each house two storeys high, a door in the middle, and one window on each side. On the north side of the New Jerusalem was the harbour, with the ships, the sea-shore, and the open sea beyond: on the south side was a bay with beaches of white sand and black rocks at the entrance, exactly like Porth Cressa. And it was a quiet town, with seldom any noise of wheels, and always the sound of the sea lapping on either hand, north or south. Now, there was nothing to keep her: she could go to visit the outer world whenever she pleased--if only she knew how. A girl of sixteen can hardly go forth into the wide, wide world all alone, announcing to the four corners her desire to make the acquaintance of everybody and to understand anything. And then she began to remember her teacher's last instructions. The perfect girl was one who had trained her eye and her hand: she could play one instrument well: she understood music: she understood art: she was always gracious, sympathetic, and encouraging: she knew how to get their best out of men: she was always beautifully dressed: she had the sweetest and the most beautiful manners. And here she blushed crimson, and then turned pale, and felt a pang as if a knife had pierced her very heart. For a dreadful thought struck her. She thought she understood at last the true reason why Roland never came back, though he promised, and looked so serious when he promised. Why? why? Because she was so ill-mannered. Of course that was the reason. Why did Roland speak so strongly about the perfect girl's gracious and sympathetic manners, unless to make her understand, in this kindly and thoughtful way, how much was wanting in herself? Of course, he only looked upon her as a common country girl, who knew nothing, and would never learn anything. He wanted her to understand that--to feel that she would never rise to higher levels. He drew this picture of the perfect girl to make and keep her humble. Nay, but now she had this money--all this wealth--now--now---- She sprang to her feet and threw out her arms, the gesture that she had learned I know not where. 'Oh!' she cried, 'it is the gift of the Five Talents! I am not the rich young man. I have not received these riches for my consolation. They are my Five Talents. I will go away and learn--I will learn. I will become the perfect girl. I will train eye and hand. I will grow--grow--grow--to my full height. That will be true work in the service of the Giver of those Talents. I shall become a good and faithful servant when I have risen to the stature that is possible for me!' PART II CHAPTER I SWEET COZ 'I suppose,' said Philippa, 'that we were obliged to ask her.' 'Well, my dear,' her mother replied, 'Mr. Jagenal is an old friend, and when----' Her voice dropped, and she did not finish the sentence. It is absurd to finish a sentence which is understood. 'Perhaps she will not do anything very outrageous.' 'Well, my dear, Mr. Jagenal distinctly said that her manner----' Again she left the sentence unfinished. Perhaps it was her habit. 'As she bears our name and comes from our place we can hardly deny the cousinship. In a few minutes, however, we shall know the worst.' Philippa, dressed for dinner, was standing before the fire, tapping the fender impatiently with her foot, and playing with her fan. A handsome girl of three- or four-and-twenty: handsome, not pretty, if you please, nor lovely. By no means. Handsome, with a kind of beauty which no painter or sculptor would assign to Lady Venus, because it lacked softness; nor to Diana, because that huntress, chaste and fair, was country-bred, and Philippa was of the town--urban. The young lady was perfectly well satisfied with her own style of beauty. If she exaggerated a little its power, that is a common feminine mistake. The exaggeration brings to dress a moral responsibility. Philippa was dressed this evening in a creamy white silk, which had the effect of softening a face and manner somewhat cold and even hard. The young men of the period complained that Philippa was stand-offish. Certainly she did not commit the mistake, too common among girls, of plunging straight off into sympathetic interest with every young man. Philippa waited for the young men to interest her, if they could. Generally, they could not. And, while many girls listen with affected deference to the opinions of the young man, Philippa made the young man receive hers with deference. These plain facts show, perhaps, why Philippa, at twenty-four, was still free and unengaged. In appearance she was tall--all young ladies who respect themselves are tall in these days: her features were clearly cut, if a little pronounced: her hazel eyes were intellectually bright, though cold: her hair, the least-marked feature, was of a common brown colour, but she treated it so as to produce a distinctive effect: her mouth was fine, though her lips were rather thin: her figure was correct, though Venus herself would have preferred more of it, and, perhaps, that more flexible. But it is the commonplace girl, we know, who runs to plumpness. She was dressed with greater care than usual that evening, because people were coming, but not to dinner. The only guests at dinner were to be one Mr. Jagenal, the well known family solicitor, of Lincoln's Inn, and a certain far-off cousin, named Armorel Rosevean, from the Scilly Isles, and her companion and chaperon, one Mrs. Jerome Elstree--unknown. 'My dear,' her mother began, 'you are too desponding. Mr. Jagenal assured your father----' She dropped her voice again. 'Oh! He is an old bachelor. What does he know? Our cousin comes from Scilly. So did we. It does very well to talk of coming from Scilly, as if it was something grand, but I have been looking into a book about it. Old families of Scilly, we say. Why, they have never been anything but farmers and smugglers. And our cousin, I hear, is actually a small tenant-farmer--a flower-farmer--a kind of market-gardener! She grows daffodils and jonquils and anemones and snowdrops, and sells them. Very likely the daffodils on our table have come from her farm. Perhaps she will tell us about the price they fetch a dozen. And she will inform us at dinner how she counts the stalks and makes out the bills.' 'Absurd! She is an heiress. Mr. Jagenal says----' 'An heiress? How can she be an heiress?' Philippa repeated, with scorn. 'She inherits the lease of a little flower-farm. The people of Scilly are all quite, quite poor. My book says so. Some years ago the Scilly folk were nearly starving.' 'Your book must be wrong, Philippa. Mr. Jagenal says that the girl has a respectable fortune. When a man of his experience says that, he means----' Here her voice dropped again. 'Well; the island heiress will go back, I dare say, to her inheritance.' At this point Mr. Jagenal himself was announced--elderly, precise, exact in appearance and in language. 'You have not yet seen your cousin?' he asked. 'No. She will be here immediately, I suppose.' 'Your cousin came to our house five years ago. My late partner received her. She brought a letter from a clergyman then at the Scilly Islands. She was sixteen, quite ignorant of the world, and a really interesting girl. She had inherited a very handsome fortune. My late partner found her tutors and guardians, and she has been travelling and learning. Now she has come to London again. She chooses to be her own mistress, and has taken a flat. And I have found a companion for her--widow of an artist--our young friend Alec Feilding knew about her--name of Elstree. I think she will do very well.' 'Alec knew her? He has never told me of any lady of that name.' Philippa looked a little astonished. Then the girl of whom they were talking, with the companion in question, appeared. You know how one forms in the mind a whole image, or group of images, preparatory; and how these shadows are all dispelled by the appearance of the reality. At the very first sight of Armorel, Philippa's prejudices and expectations--the vision of the dowdy rustic, the half-bred island savage, the uncouth country maiden--all vanished into thin air. New prejudices might arise--it is a mistake to suppose that because old prejudices have been cleared away there can be no more--but, in this case, the old ones vanished. For while Armorel walked across the room, and while Mrs. Rosevean stepped forward to welcome her, Philippa made the discovery that her cousin knew how to carry herself, how to walk, and how to dress. Girls who have learned these three essentials have generally learned how to talk as well. And a young lady of London understands at the first glance whether a strange young person, her sister in the bonds of humanity, is also a lady. As for the dress, it showed genius either on the part of Armorel herself or of her advisers. There was genius in the devising and invention of it. But genius of this kind one can buy. There was the genius of audacity in the wearing of it, because it was a dress of the kind more generally worn by ladies of forty than of twenty-one. And it required a fine face and a good figure to carry it off. Ladies will quite understand when I explain that Armorel wore a train and bodice of green brocaded velvet: the sleeves and the petticoat trimmed with lace. You may see a good deal of lace--of a sort--on many dresses; but Philippa recognised with astonishment that this was old lace, the finest lace in the world, of greater breadth than it is now made--lace that was priceless--lace that only a rich girl could wear. There were also pearls on the sleeves: she wore mousquetaire gloves--which proved many things: there were bracelets on her wrists, and round her neck she had a circlet of plain red gold--it was the torque found in the kistvaen on Samson, but this Philippa did not know. And she observed, taking in all these details in one comprehensive and catholic glance of mind and eye, that her cousin was a very beautiful girl indeed, with something Castilian in her face and appearance--dark and splendid. For a simple dinner she would have been overdressed; but considering the reception to come afterwards, she was fittingly arrayed. She was accompanied by her companion--Philippa might have remembered that one must be an heiress in order to afford the luxury of such a household official. Mrs. Jerome Elstree was almost young enough to want a chaperon for herself, being certainly a good deal under thirty. She was a graceful woman of fair complexion and blue eyes: if Armorel had desired a contrast to herself she could not have chosen better. She wore a dress in the style which is called, I believe, second mourning. The dress suggested widowhood, but no longer in the first passionate agony--widowhood subdued and resigned. The hostess rose from her chair and advanced a step to meet her guests. She touched the fingers of Mrs. Elstree. 'Very pleased, indeed,' she murmured, and turned to Armorel. 'My dear cousin'--she seized both her hands, and looked as well as spoke most motherly. 'My dear child, this is, indeed, a pleasure! And to think that we have known nothing about your very existence all the time! This is my daughter--my only daughter, Philippa.' Then she subsided into her chair, leaving Philippa to do the rest. 'We are cousins,' said Philippa, kindly but with cold and curious eyes. 'I hope we shall be friends.' Then she turned to the companion. 'Oh!' she cried, with a start of surprise. 'It is Zoe!' 'Yes,' said Mrs. Elstree, a quick smile on her lips. 'Formerly it was Zoe. How do you do, Philippa?' Her voice was naturally soft and sweet, a caressing voice, a voice of velvet. She glanced at Philippa as she spoke, and her eyes flashed with a light which hardly corresponded with the voice. 'I was wondering, as we came here, whether you would remember me. It is so long since we were at school together. How long, dear? Seven years? Eight years? You remember that summer at the seaside--where was it? One changes a good deal in seven years. Yet I thought, somehow, that you would remember me. You are looking very well, Philippa--still.' A doubtful compliment, but conveyed in the softest manner, which should have removed any possible doubt. Armorel looked on with some astonishment. On Philippa's face there had risen a flaming spot. Something was going on below the surface. But Philippa laughed. 'Of course, I remember you very well,' she said. 'But, dear Philippa,' Mrs. Elstree went on, softly smiling and gently speaking, 'I am no longer Zoe. I am Mrs. Jerome Elstree--I am La Veuve Elstree. I am Armorel's companion.' 'I am sorry,' Philippa replied coldly. Her eyes belied her words. She was not sorry. She did not care whether good or evil had happened to this woman. She was too good a Christian to desire the latter, and not good enough to wish the former. What she had really hoped--whenever she thought of Zoe--was that she might never, never meet her again. And here she was, a guest in her own home, and companion to her own cousin! Then Mr. Rosevean appeared, and welcomed the new cousin cordially. He seemed a cheerful, good-tempered kind of man, was sixty years of age, bald on the forehead, and of aspect like the conventional Colonel of _Punch_--in fact, he had been in the Army, and served through the Crimean war, which was quite enough for honour. He passed his time laboriously considering his investments--for he had great possessions--and making small collections which never came to anything. He also wrote letters to the papers, but these seldom appeared. Then they went in to dinner. The conversation naturally turned at first upon Scilly, their common starting-point, and the illustrious family of the Roseveans. 'As soon as I heard about you, my dear young lady, I set to work to discover our exact relationship. My grandfather, Sir Jacob--you have heard of Sir Jacob Rosevean, Knight of Hanover? Yes; naturally--he was born in the year 1760. He was the younger brother of Captain Emanuel Rosevean, your great-grandfather, I believe.' 'My grandfathers were all named either Emanuel or Methusalem. They took turns.' 'Quite so,' Mr. Rosevean nodded his head in approbation. 'The preservation of the same Christian names gives dignity to the family. Anthony goes with Ashley: Emanuel or Methusalem with Rosevean. The survival of the Scripture name shows how the Puritanic spirit lingers yet in the good old stocks.' Philippa glanced at her mother, mindful of her own remarks on the old families of Scilly. 'We come of a very fine old family, cousin Armorel. I hope you have been brought up in becoming pride of birth. It is a possession which the world cannot give and the world cannot take away. We are a race of Vikings--conquering Vikings. The last of them was, perhaps, my grandfather, Sir Jacob, unless any of the later Roseveans----' 'I am afraid they can hardly be called Vikings,' said Armorel, simply. 'Sir Jacob--my grandfather--was cast, my dear young friend, in the heroic mould--the heroic mould. Nothing short of that. For the services which he rendered to the State at the moment of Britannia's greatest peril, he should have been raised to the House of Lords. But it was a time of giants--and he had to be contented with the simple recognition of a knighthood.' 'Jacob Rosevean'--who was it had told Armorel this--long before? And why did she now remember the words so clearly, 'ran away and went to sea. He could read and write and cipher a little, and so they made him clerk to the purser. Then he rose to be purser himself, and when he had made some money he left the service and became Contractor to the Fleet, and supplied stores of all kinds during the long war, and at last he became so rich that they were obliged to make him a Knight.' 'The simple recognition of a Knighthood,' Mr. Rosevean went on. 'This it is to live in an age of heroes.' Armorel waited for further details. Later on, perhaps, some of the heroic achievements of the great Sir Jacob would be related. Meantime, every hero must make a beginning: why should not Jacob Rosevean begin as purser's clerk? It was pleasing to the girl to observe how large and generous a view her cousins took of the family greatness--never before had she known to what an illustrious stock she belonged. The smuggling, the wrecking, the piloting, the farming--these were all forgotten. A whole race of heroic ancestors had taken the place of the plain Roseveans whom Armorel knew. Well: if by the third generation of wealth and position one cannot evolve so simple a thing as an ancient family, what is the use of history, genealogy, heraldry, and imagination? The Roseveans were Vikings: they were the terror of the French coast: they went a-crusading with short-legged Robert: they were rovers of the Spanish Main: the great King of Spain trembled when he heard their name: they were buccaneers. Portraits of some of these ancestors hung on the wall: Sir Jacob himself, of course, was there; and Sir Jacob's great-grandfather, a Cavalier; and his grandfather, an Elizabethan worthy. Presumably, these portraits came from Samson Island. But Armorel had never heard of any family portraits, and she had grown up in shameful ignorance of these heroes. There was a coat-of-arms, too, with which she was not acquainted. Yet there were circumstances connected with the grant of that shield by the Sovereign--King Edward the First--which were highly creditable to the family. Armorel listened and marvelled. But her host evidently believed it all: and, indeed, it was his father, not himself, who had imagined these historic splendours. 'It is pleasing,' he said, 'to revive these memories between members of different branches. You, however, are fresh from the ancestral scenes. You are the heiress of the ancient island home: yours is the Hall of the Vikings: to you have been entrusted the relics of the past. I look upon you and seem to see again the Rovers putting forth to drag down the Spanish pride. There are noble memories, Armorel--I must call you Armorel--associated with that isle of Samson, our ancient family domain. Let us never forget them.' The dinner came to an end at last, and the ladies went away. Mrs. Elstree sat down in the most comfortable chair by the fire and was silent, leaning her face upon her hands and looking into the firelight. Mrs. Rosevean took a chair on the other side and fell asleep. Philippa and Armorel talked. 'I cannot understand,' said Philippa, bluntly, 'how such a girl as you could have come from Scilly. I have been reading a book about the place, and it says that the people are all poor, and that Samson, your island--our island--is quite a small place.' 'I will tell you if you like,' said Armorel, 'as much about myself as you please to hear.' The chief advantage of an autobiography--as you shall see, dear reader, if you will oblige me by reading mine, when it comes out--is the right of preserving silence upon certain points. Armorel, for example, said nothing at all about Roland Lee. Nor did she tell of the chagreen case with the rubies. But she did tell how she found the treasure of the sea-chest, and the cupboard, and how she took everything, except the punch-bowls and the silver ship and cups, to London, and how she gave them over to the lawyer to whom she had a letter. And she told how she was resolved to repair the deficiencies of her up-bringing, and how, for five long years, she had worked day and night. 'I think you are a very brave girl,' said Philippa. 'Most girls in your place would have been contented to sit down and enjoy their good fortune.' 'I was so very ignorant when I began. And--and one or two things had happened which made me ashamed of my ignorance.' 'Yet it was brave of you to work so hard.' 'At first,' said Armorel, 'when this good fortune came to me I was afraid, thinking of the Parable of the Rich Man.' Philippa started and looked astonished. In the circle of Dives this Parable is never mentioned. No one regardeth that Parable, which is generally believed to be a late interpolation. 'But when I came to think, I understood that it might be the gift of the Five Talents--a sacred trust.' Philippa's eyes showed no comprehension of this language. Armorel, indeed, had learned long since that the Bryanite or Early Christian language is no longer used in society. But Philippa was her cousin. Perhaps, in the family, it would still pass current. 'I worked most at music. Shall I play to you?' 'Nothing, dear Philippa,' said Zoe, half-turning round, 'would please you so much as to hear Armorel play. You used to play a little yourself'--Philippa had been the pride and glory of the school for her playing--'A little!' Had she lost her memory? 'Will you play this evening?' 'I brought her violin in the carriage,' said Zoe, softly. 'I wanted to give you as many delightful surprises as possible, Philippa. To find your cousin so beautiful: to hear her play: and to receive me again! This will be, indeed, an evening to remember.' 'I will play if you like,' said Armorel, simply. 'But perhaps you have made other arrangements.' 'No--no--you can play? But of course, you have had good masters. You shall play instead of me.' Zoe murmured her satisfaction, and turned again her face to the fire. 'Tell me, Armorel,' said Philippa, 'all this about the Vikings--the Hall of the Vikings--the Rovers--and the rest of it. Was it familiar to you?' 'No; I have never heard of any Vikings or Rovers. And there is no Hall.' 'We are, I suppose, really an old family of Scilly?' 'We have lived in the same place for I know not how many years. One of the outlying rocks of Scilly is called Rosevean. Oh! there is no doubt about our antiquity. About the Crusaders, and all the rest of it, I know nothing. Perhaps because there was nobody to tell me.' 'I see,' said Philippa, thoughtfully. 'Well, it does no harm to believe these things. Perhaps some of them are true. Sir Jacob, certainly, cannot be denied; nor the Roseveans of Samson Island. My dear, I am very glad you came.' CHAPTER II THE SONATA The room was full of people. It was the average sort of reception, where one always expects to meet men and women who have done something: men who write, paint, or compose; women who do the same, but not so well; women who play and sing; women who are æsthetic, and show their appreciation of art by wearing hideous dresses; women who recite: men and women who advocate all kinds of things--mostly cranks and cracks. There are, besides, the people who know the people who do things: and these, who are a talkative and appreciative folk, carry on the conversation. Thirdly, there are the people who do nothing, and know nobody, who go away and talk casually of having met this or that great man last night. 'Armorel,' said Philippa, 'let me introduce Dr. Bovey-Tracy. Perhaps you already know his works.' 'Unfortunately--not yet,' Armorel replied. The Doctor was quite a young man, not more than two- or three-and-twenty. His degree was German, and his appearance, with long light hair and spectacles, was studiously German. If he could have Germanised his name as well as his appearance he would certainly have done so. As a pianist, a teacher of music, and a composer, the young Doctor is already beginning to be known. When Armorel confessed her ignorance, he gently spread his hands and smiled pity. 'If you will really play, Armorel, Dr. Bovey-Tracy will kindly accompany you.' Armorel took her violin out of the case and began to tune it. 'What will you play?' asked the musician: 'Something serious? So?' Armorel turned over a pile of music and selected a piece. It was the Sonata by Schumann in D minor for violin and pianoforte. 'Shall we play this?' Philippa looked a little surprised. The choice was daring. The Herr Doctor smiled graciously: 'This is, indeed, serious,' he said. I suppose that to begin your musical training with the performance of heys and hornpipes and country dances is not the modern scientific method. But he who learns to fiddle for sailors to dance may acquire a mastery over the instrument which the modern scientific method teaches much more slowly. Armorel began her musical training with a fiddle as obedient to her as the Slave of the Lamp to his master. And for five years she had been under masters playing every day, until---- The pianist sat down, held his outstretched fingers professionally over the keys, and struck a chord. Armorel raised her bow, and the sonata began. I am told that there is now quite a fair percentage of educated people who really do understand music, can tell good playing from bad, and fine playing from its counterfeit. In the same way, there is a percentage--but not nearly so large--of people who know a good picture when they see it, and can appreciate correct drawing if they cannot understand fine colour. Out of the sixty or seventy people who filled this room, there were certainly twenty--but then it was an exceptionally good collection--who understood that a violinist born and trained was playing to them, in a style not often found outside St. James's Hall. And they marvelled while the music delivered its message--which is different for every soul. They sat or stood in silence, spellbound. Of the remaining fifty, thirty understood that a piece of classical music was going on: it had no voice or message for them: they did not comprehend one single phrase--the sonata might have been a sermon in the Bulgarian tongue: but they knew how to behave in the presence of Music, and they governed themselves accordingly. The Remnant--twenty in number--containing all the young men and most of the girls, understood that here was a really beautiful girl playing the fiddle for them. The young men murmured their admiration, and the girls whispered envious things--not necessarily spiteful, but certainly envious. What girl could resist envy at sight of that dress, with its lace, and that command of the violin, and--which every girl concedes last of all, and grudgingly--that face and figure? Philippa stood beside the piano, rather pale. She knew, now, why her old schoolfellow had been so anxious that Armorel should play. Kind and thoughtful Zoe! The playing of the first movement surprised her. Here was one who had, indeed, mastered her instrument. At the playing of the second, which is a scherzo, bright and lively, she acknowledged her mistress--not her rival. At the playing of the third, which contains a lovely, simple, innocent, and happy tune, her heart melted--never, never, could she so pour into her playing the soul of that melody: never could she so rise to the spirit of the musician and put into the music what even he himself had not imagined. But Zoe was wrong. Her soul was not filled with envy. Philippa had a larger soul. It was finished. The twenty who understood gasped. The thirty who listened murmured thanks, and resumed their talk about something else. The twenty who neither listened nor understood went on talking without any comment at all. 'You have had excellent masters,' said the Doctor. 'You play very well indeed--not like an amateur. It is a pity that you cannot play in public.' 'You have made good use of your opportunities,' said Philippa. 'I have never heard an amateur play better. I play a little myself; but----' 'I said you would be pleased,' Zoe murmured softly at her side. 'I knew you would be pleased when you heard Armorel play.' 'You will play yourself, presently?' said the Herr Doctor. 'No; not this evening,' Philippa replied. 'Impossible--after Armorel.' 'Not this evening!' echoed Zoe, sweetly. Then there came walking tall and erect through the crowd, which respectfully parted right and left to let him pass, a young man of striking and even distinguished appearance. 'Philippa,' he said, 'will you introduce me to your cousin?' 'Armorel, this is another cousin of mine--unfortunately not of yours--Mr. Alec Feilding.' 'I am very unfortunate, Miss Rosevean. I came too late to hear more than the end of the sonata. Normann-Néruda herself could not interpret that music better.' Then he saw Zoe, and greeted her as an old friend. 'Mrs. Elstree and I,' he said, 'have known each other a long time.' 'Fifty years, at least,' Zoe murmured. 'Is it not so long, Philippa?' 'Will you play something else?' he asked. 'The people are dying to hear you again.' Armorel looked at Philippa. 'If you will,' she said kindly. 'If you are not tired. Play us, this time, something lighter. We cannot all appreciate Schumann.' 'Shall I give you a memory of Scilly?' she replied. 'That will be light enough.' She played, in fact, that old ditty--one of those which she had been wont to play for the Ancient Lady--called 'Prince Rupert's March.' She played this with variations which that gallant Cavalier had never heard. It is a fine air, however, and lends itself to the phantasy of a musician. Then those who had understood the sonata laughed with condescension, as a philosopher laughs when he hears a simple story; and those who had pretended to understand pricked up their ears, thinking that this was another piece of classical music, and joyfully perceiving that they would understand it; and those who had made no pretence now listened with open mouths and ears as upright as those of any wild-ass of the desert. Music worth hearing, this. Armorel played for five or six minutes. Then she stopped and laid down her violin. 'I think I have played enough for one evening,' she said. She left the piano and retired into the throng. A girl took her place. The Herr Doctor placed another piece of music before him, lifted his hands, held them suspended for a moment, and then struck a chord. This girl began to sing. Mr. Alec Feilding followed Armorel and led her to a seat at the end of the room. Then he sat down beside her and, as soon as the song was finished, began to talk. He began by talking about music, and the Masters in music. His talk was authoritative: he laid down opinions: he talked as if he was writing a book of instruction: and he talked as if the whole wide world was listening to him. But not quite so loudly as if that had been really the case. He was a man of thirty or so, his features were perfectly regular, but his expression was rather wooden. His eyes were good, but rather too close together. His mouth was hidden by a huge moustache, curled and twisted and pointed forwards. Armorel disliked his manner, and for some reason or other distrusted his face. He left off laying down the law on music, and began to talk about things personal. 'I hope you like your new companion,' he said. 'She is an old friend of mine. I was in hopes of being able to advance her husband in his profession. But he died before I got the chance. Mr. Jagenal told me what was wanted, and I was happy in recommending Zoe--Mrs. Elstree.' 'Thank you,' said Armorel, coldly. 'I dare say we shall get to like each other in time.' 'If so, I shall rejoice in having been of some service to you as well as to her. What is her day at home?' 'I believe we are to be at home on Wednesdays.' 'As for me,' he said lightly, 'I am always at home in my studio. I am a triple slave--Miss Rosevean--as you may have heard. I am a slave of the brush, the pen, and the wastepaper-basket. If you will come with Mrs. Elstree to my studio I can show you one or two things that you might like to see.' 'Thank you,' she replied, without apparent interest in his studio. The young man was not accustomed to girls who showed no interest in him, and retired, chilled. Presently she heard his voice again. This time he was talking with Philippa. They were talking low in the doorway beside her, but she could not choose but hear. 'You recommended her--you?' said Philippa. 'Why not?' 'Do you know how--where--she has been living for the last seven years?' 'Certainly. She married an American. He died a year ago, leaving her rather badly off. Is there any reason, Philippa, why I should not recommend her? If there is I will speak to Mr. Jagenal.' 'No--no--no. There is no reason that I know of. Somebody told me she had gone on the stage. Who was it?' 'Gone on the stage? No--no: she was married to this American.' 'You have never spoken to me about her.' 'Reason enough, fair cousin. You do not like her.' 'And--you--do,' she replied slowly. 'I like all pretty women, Philippa. I respect one only.' Then other people came and were introduced to Armorel. One does not leave in cold neglect a girl who is so beautiful and plays so wonderfully. None of them interested Armorel very much. At the beginning, when a girl first goes into society, she expects to be interested and excited at a general gathering. This expectation disappears, and the current coin of everybody's talk takes the place of interest. Suddenly she caught a face which she knew. When a girl has been travelling about for five years she sees a great many faces. This was a face which she remembered perfectly well, yet could not at first place it in any scene or assign it to any date. Then she recollected. And she walked boldly across the room and stood before the owner of that face. 'You have forgotten me,' she said abruptly. 'I--I--can I ever have known you?' he asked. 'Will you shake hands, Mr. Stephenson? You were Dick Stephenson five years ago. Have you forgotten Armorel, of Samson Island in Scilly?' No. He had not forgotten that young lady. But he would never have known her thus changed--thus dressed. 'Where is your friend Roland Lee?' Dick Stephenson changed colour. 'I have not seen him for a long time. We are no longer--exactly--friends.' 'Why not?' she asked, with severity. 'Have you done anything bad? How have you offended him?' 'No, no; certainly not.' He coloured more deeply. 'I have done nothing bad at all,' he added with much indignation. 'Have you deserted him, then? I thought men never gave up their friends. Come to see me, Mr. Stephenson. You shall tell me where he is and what he is doing.' In the press of the crowd, as they were going away, she heard Mr. Jagenal's voice. 'You are burning the candle at both ends, Alec,' he was saying. 'You cannot possibly go on painting, writing, editing your paper, riding in the Park, and going out every evening as you do now. No man's constitution can stand it, young gentleman. Curb your activity. Be wise in time.' CHAPTER III THE CLEVEREST MAN IN LONDON Alec Feilding--everybody, even those who had never seen him, called him Alec--stood before the fire in his own den. In his hand he held a manuscript, which he was reading with great care, making dabs and dashes on it with a thick red pencil. Sometimes he called the place his studio, sometimes his study. No other man in London, I believe, has so good a right to call his workshop by either name. No other man in London, certainly, is so well known both for pen and pencil. To be at once a poet, a novelist, an essayist, and a painter, and to do all these things well, if not splendidly, is given to few. The room was large and lofty, as becomes a studio. A heavy curtain hung across the door: the carpet was thick: there was a great fireplace, as deep and broad as that of an old hall, the fire burning on bricks in the ancient style. Above the fireplace there was no modern overmantel, but dark panels of oak, carved in flowers and grapes, with a coat of arms--his own: he claimed descent from the noble House of Feilding: and in the centre panel his own portrait let into the wall without a frame--the work was executed by the most illustrious portrait-painter of the day--the face full of thought, the eyes charged with feeling, the features clear, regular, and classical. A beautiful portrait, with every point idealised. Three sides of the room were fitted with bookshelves, as becomes a study, and these were filled with books. The fourth side was partly hung with tapestry and partly adorned with armour and weapons. Here were also two small pictures, representing the illustrious Alec in childhood--the light of future genius already in his eyes--and in early manhood. A large library table, littered with books, manuscripts, and proofs, belonged to the study. An easel before the north light, and another table provided with palettes, brushes, paints, and all the tools of the limning trade, belonged to the studio. The house, which was in St. John's Wood, stood in an old garden at the end of a cul-de-sac off the main road: it was, therefore, quiet: the house itself was new, built in the style now familiar, and put up for the convenience of those who believe that there is nothing in the world to be considered except Art. Therefore there was a spacious hall: stairs broad enough for an ancient mansion led to the first floor and to the great studio. There were also three or four small cupboards, called bedrooms, dining-room, and anything else you might please. But the studio was the real thing. The house was built for the studio. The place was charged with an atmosphere of peace. Intellectual calm reigned here. Art of all kinds abhors noise. One could feel here the silence necessary for intellectual efforts of the highest order. Apart from the books and the easel and this silence, the character of the occupant was betrayed--or perhaps proclaimed--by other things. The furniture was massive: the library table of the largest kind: the easy chairs by the fire as solid and comfortable as if they had been designed for a club smoking-room: a cabinet showed a collection of china behind glass: the appointments, down to the inkstand and the paper-knife, were large and solid: all together spoke not only of the artist but of the successful artist: not only of the man who works, but of one who works with success and honour: the man arrived. The things also spoke of the splendid man, the man who knows that success should be followed by the splendid life. Too often the successful man is a poor-spirited creature, who continues in the humble middle-class style to which he was born; is satisfied with his suburban villa, never wants a better house or one more finely appointed, and has no craving for society. What is success worth if one does not live up to it? Success is not an end: it is the means: it brings the power of getting the things that make life--wine--horses--the best cook at the best club--sport--the society, every day, of beautiful and well-bred women--all these things the man who has succeeded can enjoy. Those who have not yet succeeded may envy the favourite of Fortune. As for his work, this highly successful man owned that he could not desert the Muse of Painting any more than her sister of Belles-Lettres. Happy would he be with either, were t'other dear charmer away! Happier still was he with both! And they were not jealous. They allowed him--these tender creatures--to love them both. He was by nature polygamous, perhaps. Therefore those who were invited to see his latest picture--the lucky few, because you must not think that his studio was open on Show Sunday for all the world to see--stayed, when they had admired that production, to talk of his latest poem or his latest story. Over the mantelshelf was quite a stack of invitations. And really one hardly knows whether Alec Feilding was most to be envied for his success as a painter--though he painted little: or for his stories--though these were all short--much too short: or for his verses--certainly written in the most delightful vein of _vers de société_: or for his essays, full of observation: or for his social success, which was undoubted. And there is no doubt that there was not any man in London more envied, or who occupied a more enviable position, than Alec Feilding. To be sure, he deserved it: because, without any exception, he was the cleverest man in town. He owned and edited a paper of his own--a weekly journal devoted to the higher interests of Art. It was called _The Muses Nine_. It was illustrated especially by blocks from art books noticed in its columns. In this paper his own things first appeared: his verses, his stories, his essays. The columns signed _Editor_ were the leading feature of the paper, for which alone many people bought it every week. The contents of these columns were always fresh, epigrammatic, and delightful: in the stories a certain feminine quality lent piquancy--it seemed sometimes as if a man could not have written these stories: the verses always tripped lightly, merrily, and gracefully along. An Abbé de la Cour in the last century might have served up such a weekly dish for the Parisians, had he been the cleverest man in Paris. Alec Feilding's enemies--every man who is rising or has risen has enemies--consoled themselves for a success which could not be denied by sneering at the ephemeral character of his work. It was for to-day: to-morrow, they said, it would be flat. This was not quite true, but, as it is equally true of nearly every piece of modern work, the successful author could afford to disregard this criticism. Perhaps there may be, here and there, a writer who expects more than a limited immortality: I do not know any, but there may be some. And these will probably be disappointed. The enemies said further that his social success--also undoubted--was due to his unbounded cheek. This, too, was partly true, because, if one would rise at all, one must possess that useful quality: without it one will surely sink. It is not to be denied that this young man walked into drawing-rooms as if his presence was a favour: that he spoke as one who delivers a judgment: and that he professed a profound belief in himself. With such gifts and graces--the gift of painting, the gift of verse, the gift of fiction, a handsome presence, good manners, and unbounded cheek--Alec Feilding had already risen very high indeed for so young a man. His enemies, again, said that he was looking out for an heiress. His enemies, as sometimes but not often happens, spoke from imperfect knowledge. Every man has his weak points, and should be careful to keep them to himself--friends may become enemies--and to let no one know them or suspect them. As for the weak points of Alec Feilding--had his enemies known them---- But you shall see. He sat down at his library-table and began to copy the manuscript that he had been reading. It was a laborious task, first because copying work is always tedious, and next because he was making alterations--changing names and places--and leaving out bits. He worked on steadily for about half an hour. Then there was a gentle tap at the door, and his servant--who looked as solemn and discreet as if he had been Charles the Second's confidential clerk of the Back-stairs--came in noiselessly on tiptoe and whispered a name. Alec placed the manuscript and his copy carefully in a drawer, and nodded his head. You have already seen the man who came in. Five years older, and a good deal altered--changed, perhaps, for the worse--but then the freshness of twenty-one cannot be expected to last. The man who stayed three weeks in Samson, and promised a girl that he would return. The man who broke that promise, and forgot the girl. He never went back to Scilly. Perhaps he had grown handsomer: his Vandyke beard and moustache were by this time thicker and longer: he was more picturesque in appearance than of old: he still wore a brown velvet coat: he looked still more what he was--an artist. But his cheek was thin and pale, dark rings were round his eyes, his face was gloomy: he wore the look of waste--the waste of energy and of purpose. It is not good to see this look in the eyes of a young man. 'You sent for me,' he said, with no other greeting. 'I did. Come in. Is the door shut? I've got some good news for you. Heavens! you look as if you wanted good news badly! What's the matter, man? More debts and duns? And I want to consult you a little about this picture of yours'--he pointed to the easel. [Illustration: _'I want to consult you a little about this picture of yours.'_] 'Mine? No: yours. You have bought me--pictures and all.' 'Just as you like. What does it matter--here--within these walls?' 'Hush! Even here you should not whisper it. The birds of the air, you know---- Take great care'---- Roland laughed, but not mirthfully. 'Mine?' he repeated; 'mine? Suppose I were to call together the fellows at the club, and suppose I were to tell the story of the last three years?--eh? eh? How a man was fooled on until he sold himself and became a slave--eh?' 'You can't tell that story, Roland, you know.' 'Some day I will--I must.' Alec Feilding threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs, and joined his fingers. It is an attitude of judicial remonstrance. 'Come, Roland,' he said, smiling blandly. 'Let us have it out. It galls sometimes, doesn't it? But remember you can't have everything--come, now. If you were to tell the fellows at the club, truthfully, the whole story, they would, I dare say, be glad to get such a beautiful pile of stones to throw at me. One more reputation built on pretence and humbug--eh? Yes: the little edifice which you and I have reared together with so much care would be shattered at a single stroke, wouldn't it? You could do that: you can always do that. But at some little cost to yourself--some little cost, remember.' Roland remarked that the cost or consequences of that little exploit might be condemned. 'Truly. If you will. But not until you realise what they are. Now my version of the story is this. There was once--three years ago--a fellow who had failed. The Academy wouldn't accept his pictures; no one would buy them. And yet he had some power and true feeling. But he could not succeed: he could not get anybody to buy his pictures. And then he was an extravagant kind of man: he was head over ears in debt: he liked to lead the easy life--dinner and billiards at the club--all the rest of it. Then there was another man--an old schoolfellow of his--a man who wanted, for purposes of his own, a reputation for genius in more than one branch of Art. He wanted to seem a master of painting as well as poetry and fiction. This man addressed the Failure. He said, "Unsuccessful Greatness, I will buy your pictures of you, on the simple condition that I may call them mine." The Failure hesitated at first. Naturally. He was loth to write himself down a Failure. Everybody would be. Then he consented. He promised to paint no more in the style in which he had failed except for this other man. Then the other man, who knew his way about, called his friends together, set up a picture painted by the Failure on an easel, bought the tools, laid them out on the table--there they are--and launched himself upon the world as an artist as well as a poet and author. A Fraud, wasn't he? Yet it paid both men--the Fraud and the Failure. For the Fraud knew how to puff the work and to get it puffed and praised and noticed everywhere; he made people talk about it: he had paragraphs about it: he got critics to treat his--or the Failure's--pictures seriously: in fact, he advertised them as successfully and as systematically as if he had been a soap-man. Is this true, so far?' 'Quite true. Go on--Fraud.' 'I will--Failure. Then the price of the pictures went up. The Fraud was able to sell them at a price continually rising. And the Failure received a price in proportion. He shared in the proceeds. The Fraud gave him two thirds. Is that true? Two thirds. He ran your price, Failure, from nothing at all to four hundred and fifty pounds--your last, and biggest price. And he gave you two thirds. All you had to do was to produce the pictures. What he did was to persuade the world that they were great and valuable pictures. Is that true?' Roland grunted. 'Three years ago you were at your wits' end for the next day's dinner. You had borrowed of all your friends: you had pawned your watch and chain: you were face to face with poverty--no; starvation. Deny that, if you can.' He turned fiercely on Roland. 'You can't deny it. What are you now? You have a good income: you dine every day on the best of everything: you do yourself well in every respect. Hang it, Roland, you are an ungrateful dog!' 'You have ruined my life. You have robbed me of my name.' 'Let us stop heroics. If you are useful to me, I am ten times as useful to you. Because, my dear boy, without me you cannot live. Without you I can do very well. Indeed, I have only to find another starving genius--there are plenty about--in order to keep up my reputation as a painter. Go to the club. Call the men together. Tell them if you like, and what you like. You have no proofs. I can deny it, and I can give you the sack, and I can get that other starving genius to carry on the work.' Roland made no reply. 'Why, my dear fellow--why should we quarrel? What does it matter about a little reputation? What is the good of your precious name to you when you are dead? Here you are--painting better and better every day--your price rising--your position more assured--what on earth can any man want more? As for me, you are useful to me. If you were not, I should put an end to the arrangement. That is understood. Very well, then. Enough said. Now, if you please, we will look at the picture.' He got up and walked across the room to the easel. Roland followed submissively, with hanging head. He staggered as he went: not with strong drink, but with the rage that tore his heart. 'It is really a very beautiful thing,' said the cleverest man in all London, looking at it critically. 'I think that even you have never done anything quite so good.' The picture showed a great rock rising precipitous from the sea--at its base was a reef or projecting shelf. The shags stood in a line on the top of the rock: the sea-gulls flew around the rock and sailed merrily before the breeze: there was a little sea on, but not much: a boat with a young man in it lay off the rock, and a girl was on the reef standing among the long yellow sea-weed: the spray flew up the sides of the rock: the sun was sinking. What was it but one of Roland's sketches made in the Outer Islands, with Armorel for his companion? 'It is very good, Roland,' Alec repeated. 'If I am not so good a painter myself, I am not envious. I can appreciate and acknowledge good work.' Under the circumstances, rather an extraordinary speech. But Roland's gloomy face softened a little. Even at such a moment the artist feels the power of praise. The other, standing before the picture, watched the softening of the face. 'Good work?' he repeated by way of question. 'Man! it is splendid work! I can feel the breath of the salt breeze: I can see the white spray flying over the rock: the girl stands out real and living. It is a splendid piece of work, Roland.' 'I think it is better than the last,' the unlucky painter replied huskily. 'I should rather think it is. I expect to get a great name for this picture'--the painter winced--'and you--you--the painter, will get a much more solid thing--you will get a big cheque. I've sold it already. No dealers this time. It has been bought by a rich American. Three hundred is the figure I can offer you. And here's your cheque.' He took it, ready drawn and signed, from his pocket-book. Roland Lee received it, but he let it drop from his fingers: the paper fluttered to the floor. He gazed upon the picture in silence. 'Well? What are you thinking of?' 'I was thinking of the day when I made the sketch for that picture. I remember what the girl said to me.' 'What the devil does it matter what the girl said? All we care about is the picture.' 'I remember her very words. You who have bought the picture can see the girl; but I, who painted it, can hear her voice.' 'You are not going off into heroics again?' 'No, no. Don't be afraid. I am not going to tell you what she said. Only I told her, being pleased with what she told me, that she was a prophetess. Nobody ought ever to prophesy good things about a man, for they never come to pass. Let them prophesy disappointment and ruin and shame, and then they always come true. My God! what a prophecy was hers! And what has come of it? I have sold my genius, which is my soul. I have traded it away. It is the sin unforgiven in this world and in the next.' 'When you give over tragedy and blank verse----' 'Oh! I have done.' 'I should like to ask you a question.' 'Ask it.' 'The foreground--the sea-weeds lying over the boulders. Does the light fall quite naturally? I hardly understand--look here. If the sunlight----' '_You_ to pretend to be a painter!' Roland snorted impatiently. '_You_ to talk about lights and shadows! Man alive! I wonder you haven't been found out ages ago! The light falls this way--this way--see!'--he turned the painting about to show how it fell. 'Oh! I understand. Yes, yes; I see now.' Alec seemed not to resent this language of contempt. 'Is there anything else you want to know before I go? Perhaps you wish the sea painted black?' 'Cornish coast again, I suppose?' 'Somewhere that way. What does it matter where you put it? Call it a view on Primrose Hill.' He stooped and picked up the cheque. He looked at it savagely for a moment as if he would like to tear it into a thousand fragments. Then he crammed it into his pocket and turned to go. 'My American,' said Alec, 'who rolls in money, is ready to buy another. I think I can make an advance of fifty. Shall we say three hundred and fifty? And shall we expect the painting in three months or so? Before the summer holidays--say. You will become rich, old man. As for this fellow, he is going to the New Gallery. Go and gaze upon it, and say to yourself, "This was worth, to me, three hundred--three hundred." How many men at the club, Roland, can command three hundred for a picture? Thirty is nearer their figure; and your own, dear boy, would have continued to stand at double duck's egg if it had not been for me. Trust me for running up your price. Our interests, my dear Roland, are identical and indivisible. I think you are the only painter in history whose name will remain unknown though his works will live as long as the pigments keep their colour. Fortune is yours, and fame is mine. You have got the best of the bargain.' 'Curse you and your bargain!' 'Pleasant words, Roland'--his face darkened. 'Pleasant words, if you please, or perhaps ... I know, now, what is the reason of this outbreak. I heard last night a rumour. You've been taking opium again.' 'It isn't true. If it was, what does that matter to you?' 'This, my friend. The partnership exists only so long as the work continues to improve. If bad habits spoil the quality of the work I shall dissolve the partnership, and find that other starving genius--plenty, plenty, plenty about. Nothing shakes the nerves more quickly than opium. Nothing destroys the finer powers of head and hand more surely. Don't let me hear any more about opium. Don't fall into bad habits if you want to go on making an income. And don't let me have to speak of this again. Now, there is no more to be said, I think. Well, we part friends. Ta-ta, dear boy.' Roland flung himself out of the room with an interjection of great strength not found in the school grammars. Alec Feilding returned to his table. 'Roland's a great fool,' he murmured. 'Because there isn't a gallery in London that wouldn't jump at his pictures, and he could sell as fast as he could paint. A great fool he is. But it would be very difficult for me to find another man so good and such a fool. On fools and their folly the wise man flourishes.' CHAPTER IV MASTER OF ALL THE ARTS This unreasonable person dispatched, and the illustrious artist's doubts about his lights and shadows dispelled, Alec Feilding resumed his interrupted task. That is to say, he took the manuscript out of the drawer and went on laboriously copying it. So great a writer, whose time was so precious, might surely give out his copying work. Lesser men do this. For half an hour he worked on. Then the servant tapped at the door and came in again, noiselessly as before, to whisper a name. Alec nodded, and once more put back the manuscript in the drawer. The visitor was a young lady. She was of slight and slender figure, dressed quite plainly, and even poorly, in a cloth jacket and a stuff frock. Her gloves were shabby. Her features were fine but not beautiful, the eyes bright, and the mouth mobile, but the forehead too large for beauty. She carried a black leather roll such as those who teach music generally carry about with them. She was quite young, certainly not more than two-and-twenty. 'Effie?' He looked round, surprised. 'May I come in for two minutes? I will not stay longer. Indeed, I should be so sorry to waste your time.' 'I am sure you would, Effie.' He gave her his hand, without rising. 'Precious time--my time--there is so little of it. Therefore, child----' 'I have brought you,' she said, 'another little poem. I think it is the kind of thing you like--in the _vers de société_ style. She unrolled her leather case and took out a very neatly written paper. He read it slowly. Then he nodded his head approvingly and read it aloud. 'How long does it take you to knock off this kind of thing, Effie?' 'It took me the whole of yesterday. This morning I corrected it and copied it out. Do you like it?' 'You are a clever little animal, Effie, and you shall make your fortune. Yes; it is very good, very good indeed: Austin Dobson himself is not better. It is very good: light, tripping, graceful--in good taste. It is very good indeed. Leave it with me, Effie. If I like it as well to-morrow as I do to-day, you may depend upon seeing it in the next number.' 'Oh!' she blushed a rosy red with the pleasure of being praised. Indeed, it is a pleasure which never palls. The old man who has been praised all his life is just as eager for more as the young poet who is only just beginning. 'Oh! you really think it is good?' 'I do indeed. The best proof is that I am going to buy it of you. It shall go into the editor's column--my own column--in the place of honour.' 'Yes,' she replied, but doubtfully--and she reddened again for a different reason. 'Oh, Mr. Feilding,' she said with an effort, 'I am so happy when I see my verses in print--in your paper--even without my name. It makes me so proud that I hardly dare to say what I want.' 'Say it, Effie. Get it off your mind. You will feel better afterwards.' 'Well, then, it cannot be anything to you--so great and high, with your beautiful stories and your splendid pictures. What is a poor little set of verses to you?' 'Go on--go on.' His face clouded and his eyes hardened. 'In the paper it doesn't matter a bit. It is--it is--later--when they come out all together in a little volume--with--with----' 'Go on, I say.' He sat upright, his chair half turned, his hands on the arms, his face severe and judicial. 'With your name on the title-page.' 'Oh! that is troubling your mind, is it?' 'When the critics praise the poems and praise the poet--oh! is it right, Mr. Feilding? Is it right?' 'Upon my word!' He pushed back his chair and rose, a tall man of six feet, frowning angrily--so that the girl trembled and tottered. 'Upon my word! This--from you! This from the girl whom I have literally kept from starvation! Miss Effie Wilmot, perhaps you will tell me what you mean! Haven't I bought your verses? Haven't I polished and corrected them, and made them fit to be seen? Am I not free to do what I please with my own?' 'Yes--yes--you buy them. But I--oh!--I write them!' 'Look here, child; I can have no nonsense. Before I took these verses of you, had you any opening or market for them?' 'No. None at all.' 'Nobody would buy them. They were not even returned by editors. They were thrown into the basket. Very well. I buy them on the condition that I do what I please with them. I give you three pounds--three pounds--for a poem, if it is good enough for me to lick into shape. Then it becomes my own. It is a bargain. When you leave off wanting money you will leave off bringing me verses. Then I shall look for another girl. There are thousands of girls about who can write verses as good as these.' The girl remained silent. What her employer said was perfectly true. And yet--and yet--it was not right. 'What more do you want?' he asked brutally. 'I am the author of these poems,' she said. 'And you are not.' 'Within these walls I allow you to say so--this once. Take care never to say so again. Outside these walls, if you say so, I will bring an action against you for libel and slander and defamation of character. Remember that. You had better, however, take these verses and go away.' He flung them at her feet. 'We will put an end to the arrangement.' 'No, no--I consent.' She humbly stooped and picked them up. 'Do what you like with them. I am too poor to refuse. Do what you please.' 'It is your interest, certainly, to consent. Why, I paid you last year a hundred pounds. A hundred pounds! There's an income for a girl of twenty! Well, Effie, I forgive you. But no more nonsense. And give over crying.' For now she was sobbing and crying. 'Look here, Effie'--he laid his hand on hers--'some day, before long, I will put your verses in another column, with your name at the end--"Effie Wilmot." Come, will that do?' 'Oh! if you would! If you really would!' 'I really will, child. Don't think I care much about the thing. What does it matter to me whether I am counted a writer of society verses? It pleased me that the world should think me capable of these trifles while I am elaborating a really ambitious poem. One more little volume and I shall have done. Besides, all this time you are improving. When you burst upon the world it will be with wings full-fledged and flight-sustained that you will soar to the stars. Fair poetess, I will make your fame assured. Be comforted.' She looked up, tearful and happy. 'Oh, forgive me!' she said. 'Yes; I will do everything--exactly--as you want!' 'The world wants another poetess. You shall be that sweet singer. Let me be the first to acknowledge the gift divine.' He bowed and raised her hand and kissed the fingers of her shabby glove. 'Now, child,' he said, 'your visit has gained you another three pounds--here they are.' She took the money, blushing again. The glowing prospect warmed her heart. But the three golden sovereigns chilled her again. She had parted with her child--her own. It was gone--and he would call it his and pretend to be the father. And yet he was going to make such splendid amends to her. 'How is your brother?' 'He is always the same. He works all day at his play. In the afternoon he creeps out for a little on his crutches. In the future, Mr. Feilding, we are both going to be happy, he with his dramas and I with my poems.' 'Is his drama nearly ready?' 'Very nearly.' 'Tell him to let me read it. I can, at least, advise him.' 'If you will! Oh! you are so kind! What we should have done without your help and the money you have given me, I do not know.' 'You are welcome, sweet singer and heavenly poet.' The great man took her hand and pressed it. 'Now be thankful that you came here. You have cleared your mind of doubts, and you know what awaits you in the future. Bring your brother's little play. I should like--yes, I should like to see what sort of a play he has written.' She went away, happier for the prophecy. In the dead of night she dreamed that she saw Mr. Alec Feilding carried along in a triumphal car to the Temple of Fame. The goddess herself, flying aloft in a white satin robe, blew the trumpet, and a nymph flying lower down--in white linen--put on the laurel crown and held it steady when the chariot bumped over the ruts. It was her crown--her own--that adorned those brows. Is it right? she asked again. Is it right? Mr. Feilding, when she was gone, proceeded to copy out the poem carefully in his own handwriting, adding a few erasures and corrections so as to give the copy the hall-mark of the poet's study. Then he threw the original upon the fire. 'There!' he said, 'if Miss Effie Wilmot should have the audacity to claim these things as her own, at least I have the originals in my own handwriting--with my own corrections upon them, too, as they were sent to the printer. Yes, Effie, my dear; some day perhaps your verses shall appear with your name to them. Not while they are so good, though. I only wish they were a little more masculine.' Again he lugged out that manuscript, and resumed his copying, laboriously toiling on. The clock ticked, and the ashes dropped, and the silence was profound while he performed this intellectual feat. At the stroke of noon the servant disturbed him a third time. He put away his work in the drawer, and went out to meet this visitor. This time it was none other than a Lady of Quality--a Grande Dame de par le monde. She came in splendid attire, sailing into the studio like some richly adorned pinnace or royal yacht. A lady of a certain age, but still comely in the eyes of man. 'Lady Frances!' cried Alec. 'This is, indeed, unexpected. And you know that it is the greatest honour for me to wait upon you.' 'Yes, yes; I know that. But I thought I should like to see you as you are--in your own studio. So I came. I hope not at an inconvenient time.' 'No time could be inconvenient for a visit from you.' 'I don't know. Your model might be sitting to you. To be sure, you are not a figure-painter. But one always supposes that models are standing to artists all day long. Good-looking women, too, I believe. Perhaps you have got one hidden away behind the screen, just as they do on the stage. I will look.' She put up her glasses and walked across the room to look behind the screen. 'No: she has gone. Oh! is this your new picture?' He bowed. 'I hope you like it.' 'I do,' she said, looking at it. 'It seems to me the very best thing you have done. Oh! it is really beautiful! Do you know, Mr. Feilding, that you are a very wonderful man?' Alec laughed pleasantly. Of course he knew. 'If you think so,' he said. 'You write the most beautiful verses and the most charming stories: you paint the most wonderful pictures: you belong to society, and you go everywhere. How do you do it? How do you find time to do it? I suppose you never want any sleep? Poet, painter, novelist, journalist! Are you a sculptor as well, by chance?' 'Not yet. Perhaps----' 'Glutton! Are you a dramatist?' 'Again--not yet. Perhaps, some time---- 'Insatiate! You are a Master of all the Arts. Alec Feilding, M.A.' He laughed pleasantly, again. 'You are the cleverest man in all London. Well; I sent you another story yesterday----' 'You did. I was about to write and thank you for it. Is it a true story?' 'Quite true. It happened in my husband's family, thirty years ago. They are not very proud of it. You can dress it up somehow with new names.' 'Quite so. I shall rewrite the whole.' 'I don't mind. It is a great pleasure to me to see the stories in print. And no one suspects poor little Me. Are they so _very_ badly written?' 'The style is a little--just a little, may I say?--jerky. But the stories are admirable. Do let me have some more, Lady Frances.' 'Remember. No one is to know where you get them.' 'A Masonic secrecy forms part of my character. I even put my own name to them for greater security.' He did. Every week he put his own name to stories which he got from people like this Lady of Quality. 'That ought to disarm suspicion. On the other hand, everybody must know that you cannot invent these things.' Alec laughed. 'Most people give me credit for inventing even your stories.' 'By the way,' she said, 'are you coming to my dinner next week?' 'With the greatest pleasure.' 'If you don't come you shall have no more stories drawn from the domestic annals and the early escapades of the British Aristocracy.' 'I assure you, Lady Frances, I look forward with the greatest----' 'Very well, then. I shall expect you. And remember--secrecy.' She laid her finger on her lips and vanished. The smile faded out of the young man's face. He sat down again, and once more set himself to work doggedly copying out the manuscript, which was, indeed, none other than the story furnished him by Lady Frances. It was going to appear in the next week's issue of the journal, with his name at the end. Was not Alec Feilding the cleverest all-round man in the whole of London--_Omnium artium magister_? CHAPTER V ONLY A SIMPLE SERVICE Mrs. Elstree took the card that the maid brought her. She started up, mechanically touched her hair--which was of the feathery and fluffy kind--and her dress, with the woman's instinct to see that everything was in order: the quick colour rose to her cheek--perhaps from the heat of the fire. 'Yes,' she said, 'I am at home.' She was sitting beside the fire in the drawing-room of Armorel's flat. It was a cold afternoon in March: outside, a black east wind raged through the streets; it was no day for driving or for walking: within, soft carpets, easy-chairs, and bright fires invited one to stay at home. This lady, indeed, was one of those who love warmth and physical ease above all other things. Actually to be warm, lazily warm, without any effort to feel warmth, afforded her a positive and distinct physical pleasure, just as a cat is pleased by being stroked. Therefore, though a book lay in her lap, she had not been reading. It is much pleasanter to lie back and feel warm, with half-closed eyes, in a peaceful room, than to be led away by some impetuous novelist into uncomfortable places, cold places, fatiguing places. She started, however, and the book fell to the floor, where it remained. And she rose to her feet when the owner of the card came in. The relict of Jerome Elstree was still young, and grief had as yet destroyed none of her beauty. She looked better, perhaps, in the morning--which says a great deal. 'Alec?' she murmured--her eyes as soft as her voice. 'I thought you would come this afternoon.' 'Are you quite alone, Mrs. Elstree?' he asked with a look of warning. 'Quite, Mr. Feilding. And, since the door is shut, and we are quite alone--why--then----' She laughed, held out both her hands, and put up her face like a child. He took her hands and bent to kiss her lips. 'Zoe,' he said, 'you grow lovelier every day. Last night----' He kissed her again. 'Lovelier than Philippa?' 'What is Philippa beside you? An iceberg beside a--a garden of flowers----' 'There is beauty in icebergs, I have read.' 'Never mind Philippa, dear Zoe. She is nothing to us.' 'I don't mind her a bit, Alec, if you don't. If you begin to mind her---- But we will wait until that happens. Why are you here to-day?' 'I have come to call upon Mrs. Elstree, widow of my poor friend Jerome Elstree.' 'Ce pauvre Jerome! The tears come into my eyes'--in fact, they did at that moment--'look!--when I think of him. So often have I spoken of his virtues and his untimely fate that he has really lived. I never before understood that there are ghosts of men who never lived as well as ghosts of the dead.' 'And I came to call upon your charge, Miss Rosevean.' 'Yes'--she said this dubiously, perhaps jealously--'so I supposed. Why did you send me here, Alec? You have always got some reason for everything. There was no need for my coming--I was doing as well as I expect to do.' The young man looked about the room without replying to this question. 'Someone,' he said presently, 'has furnished this room who knows furniture.' 'It was Armorel herself. I have no taste--as you know.' 'And how do you get on with her? Are you happy here, Zoe?' 'I am as happy as I ever expect to be--until----' 'Yes, yes,' he interrupted, impatiently. 'You like her, then?' 'I like her as much as I can like any woman. You know, Alec, I am not greatly in love with my own sex. If there were no other women in the world than just enough to dress me, get my dinner, and keep my house clean, I should not murmur. Eve was the happiest of women, in spite of the difficulties she must have had in keeping up with the fashion. Because, you see, she was the only woman.' 'No doubt. And now tell me about this girl.' 'She is rich. To be rich is everything. Money makes an angel of every woman. When I was eighteen, and first met you, Alec, I was rich. Then you saw the wings sticking out visibly one on each shoulder, didn't you? They are gone now--at least,' she looked over her shoulder, 'I see them no longer.' 'I heard she was rich. Where did the money come from?' 'It has been saving up for I don't know how long. The girl is only twenty-one, and she has about thirty thousand pounds, besides all kinds of precious things worth I don't know how much.' 'Jagenal told me she was comfortably off--"comfortably," he said--but--thirty thousand pounds!' 'The mere thought of so much makes your eyes glow quite poetically, Alec. Write a poem on thirty thousand pounds. Well, that is what she has, and all her own, without any drawbacks: no nasty poor relations--no profligate brothers--to nibble and gnaw. She has not either brother or sister--an enviable lot when one has money. When one has no money a brother--a successful brother--might be useful.' 'And how do you get on with her?' 'I think we do pretty well together. But my post is precarious.' 'Why?' 'Because the young woman is pretty, rich, and masterful. It is a curious thing about women that the most masterful soonest find their master.' 'You mean that she will marry.' 'If she gets engaged, being rich, she will certainly marry at once. Until she marries I believe we can get on together, because she is totally independent of me. This afternoon, for example, she has gone out to look at pictures somewhere, with a girl she has picked up somehow--a girl who writes.' 'But, my dear Zoe, you must look after her. Don't let her pick up girls and make friendships. You are here to look after her. I hoped that you would gain her complete confidence--become indispensable to her.' 'Oh! that is why you sent me here? Pray, my dear Alec, what can Armorel be to you?' 'Nothing, dear child,' he replied, patting her soft hand, 'that will bring any discord between you and me. But--make yourself indispensable and necessary to her.' 'You will tell me, I dare say, presently, what you mean. But you don't know this young islander. Necessary to me she is, as you know. Necessary to her I shall never become. We have nothing in common. I can do nothing for her at all, except go out to theatres and concerts and things in the evening. Even then our tastes clash. I like to laugh; she likes to sit solemnly with big eyes staring--so--as if she was receiving inspiration. I like comic operas, she likes serious plays; I like dance music, she likes classical music; I like the fool's paradise, she likes--the other kind, where they all behave so well and are under no illusions. In fact, Armorel takes herself quite seriously all round. Of course, a girl with such a fortune can take herself anyhow she pleases.' 'She knows how to dress, apparently. Most advanced girls disdain dress.' 'But she is not an advanced girl. She is only a girl who knows a great deal. She is not in the least emancipated. Why, she still professes the Christian religion. She is just a girl who has set herself resolutely to learn all she can. She has been about it for five years. When she began, I understand that she knew nothing. What she means to do with her knowledge I have not learned. She talks French and German and Italian. You have heard her play? Very well: you can't beat that. You shall see some of her drawings. They are rather in your style, I think. A highly cultivated girl. That is all.' 'A female prig? A consciously superior person?' 'Not a bit. Rather humble-minded. But masterful and independent. Where she fails is, of course, in ordinary talk. She can't talk--she can only converse. She doesn't know the pictures and painters, and poets and novelists of the day--she doesn't know a single person in society. She doesn't know any personal history at all. And she doesn't care about any. That is Armorel.' 'I see,' he replied thoughtfully. 'Things will be difficult, I am afraid.' 'What things? Oh! there is another point in which she differs from people of society.' 'Yes?' 'When you and I, dear Alec, think and talk of people, we conclude that they are exactly like ourselves--do we not? Quite worldly and selfish, you know. Everyone with his little show to run for himself. Now, Armorel, on the other hand, concludes that everyone is like--not us--but herself. Do you catch the difference? There is a difference, you know.' 'Sometimes, Zoe, I seem not to understand you. But never mind. Under your influence----' 'I have no influence at all with her. I never shall have.' 'But, my dear Zoe, why are you here? I want you--I repeat--to exercise an overwhelming influence.' 'Oh! It is impossible. Consider--you who know me so well--how can I influence a girl who is always seeking after great things? She wants everything noble and lofty and pure. She has what they call a great soul--and I--oh! Alec, you know that I belong to the infinitely little souls. There are a great, great number of us, but we are very contemptible.' 'Let us think,' he replied. 'Let us contrive and devise some way----' 'Enough about Armorel. Tell me now about yourself.' 'I am always the same.' 'You have come, perhaps, this afternoon,' she murmured softly, 'to bring me some new hope--Oh! Alec--at last--some hope?' 'I have no new hope to give you, child.' Both sat in silence, looking into the firelight. 'It is seven years--seven years,' said Zoe, 'since I had my great quarrel with Philippa. She was eighteen then--and so was I--I charged her with throwing herself at your head, you know. So she did. So she does still. Why, the woman can't conceal, even now, that she loves you. I saw it in her eyes last night, I saw it in her attitude when she was talking to you. She swore after the row we had that she would never speak to me again. But you see she has broken that vow. I was eighteen then, and I was rich, a good deal richer than Philippa ever will be. When you and I became engaged I was twenty-one. That is four years ago, Alec. Yet, a year or two, and the girl you were--engaged to--will be thin and faded. For your sake, my dear boy, I hope that you will not keep her waiting very much longer before you present her to the world.' 'My dear child, could I help the smash that came--the smash and scandal? When the whole town was ringing with your father's smash and his suicide, and the ruin of I don't know how many people, was that the moment for us to step forward and take hands before the world?' 'No; you certainly could not. As a man of the world, you would have been justified in breaking off the thing--especially as it was only a day or two old.' 'I could not let you go, Zoe,' he said, with a touch of real tenderness. 'I was madly in love.' 'I think you were, Alec. I really think that at the time you were truly and madly in love. Else you would never have done a thing of which you repented the next day.' 'I have never repented, dear Zoe--never once.' 'Perhaps you calculated that something would be saved out of the smash. Perhaps, for once in your life, you never calculated at all upon anything. Well--I consented to keep the thing a secret.' 'You know that it was necessary.' 'You said so. I obeyed. But four years--four years--and no prospect of a termination. Consider!' She pleaded as she had spoken before, in the same soft, caressing, murmuring tone. 'I do consider, Zoe. You can have your freedom again. I have no right----' 'Nonsense! My freedom? It is your own that you want. My freedom?' she repeated, but without raising her voice. 'Mine? What could I do with it--now? Whither could I turn? Do not, I advise you, think that I will ever while I live restore your freedom to you.' 'I spoke in your own interest, believe me.' 'I am now what you have made me. You know what that is. You know what I was four years ago.' 'I have advised you, it is true.' 'No; you have led me. At the moment of my greatest trouble you made me break away from my own people, who were sorry for my misfortunes, and would have kept me among them in my own circle. There was no reason for me to leave them. The wreck of my father's fortune was not imputed to me. You persuaded me to assert my own independence, and to go upon the stage, for which I was as well fitted as for the kingdom of heaven.' 'I hoped--I thought--that you would succeed.' 'No; what you hoped and intended was to keep me in your power. You would not let me go, and you could not--or would not----' 'Could not, my child. I could not.' 'For four years I have endured the humiliations of the actress who is a failure and can only take the lowest parts. You know what I have endured, and yet---- Oh! Alec, your love is, indeed, a noble gift! And now, for your sake, I am here, playing a part for you. I am the young widow of the man who never existed. I make up a hundred lies every day to a girl who believes every word--which makes it more disgraceful and more horrible. When one knows that she is disbelieved it is different.' 'Zoe, you know my position.' 'Very well, indeed. You live in a little palace. You keep your man-servant and your two horses. You go every day into some kind of good society----' 'It is necessary: my position demands it.' 'Your position, my friend, has nothing to do with it. If you stayed at home every evening just as many copies of your paper would be sold. You spend all this money on yourself, Alec, because you are a selfish person and indulgent, and because you like to make a great show of success.' 'You do not understand.' 'Oh, yes, I do! You paint lovely pictures, which you sell: you write admirable stories and excellent verses--at least, I suppose they are admirable and excellent. You put them into a paper which is your own----' 'Yes--yes. But all these things leave me as poor as I was four years ago.' He got up and stood before the fire, looking into it. Then he walked across to the window and gazed into the street. Then he returned and looked into the fire again. This restlessness may be a sign that something is on a man's mind. 'Zoe,' he said at length, without looking at her, 'your impatience makes you unjust. You do not understand. Things have come to a crisis.' 'What kind of a crisis?' 'A financial crisis. I must have money.' 'Then go and make it. Paint more pictures: write more poetry. Make money, as other men do. It is very noble and grand to pretend that you only work when you please; but it isn't business, and it isn't true.' 'Again--you do not understand. I must have money in a short time, or else----' 'Else--what may happen, Alec?' She leaned forward, losing her murmuring manner for the first time. 'I may--I must--become bankrupt. That to me signifies social ruin.' 'You have something more to say. Won't you say it at once?' 'If I can get over this difficulty it will be all right--my anxieties over. I thought, Zoe, when I sent you here, that, with a girl rich, mistress of her own, of age, it would be easy for you to wind yourself into her confidence and borrow--or beg, or somehow get what I want out of her. To borrow would be best.' 'How much do you want? Tell me exactly.' 'I want, before the end of next month, about 3,000_l._ Say, 3,500_l._' 'That is a very large sum of money.' 'Not to this girl. Make her lend it to you. Make up some story. Beg it or borrow it--and----' he laid his hand upon her shoulder, but she made no movement in reply; he stooped and kissed her head, but she did not look up. 'Zoe--I swear--if you will do this for me, our long and weary waiting shall be at an end. I will acknowledge everything. I will give up this extravagant life: we will settle down like a couple of honest bourgeois: we will live over the shop if you like--that is, the publishing office of the paper.' He took her hand and raised it to his lips, but she made no response. 'Would she ever get the money back again?' 'Perhaps. How can I tell?' 'Even for the bribe you offer, Alec, I am afraid I cannot do it.' 'We will try together. We will lay ourselves out to attract the girl, to win her confidence. Consider. She is alone. She is in our hands----' 'Yes, yes. But you do not know her. Alec, if I cannot succeed, what will you do?' 'I must look out for some girl with money and get engaged to her. The mere fact of an engagement would be enough for me.' 'Yes,' she said quickly, 'it would have to be. Will you get engaged to--to Philippa?' 'No; Philippa will only have money at the death of her father and mother--not before. Philippa is out of the question.' 'Is there nobody among all your fine friends who will lend you the money?' 'No one. We do not lend money to each other. We go on as if there were no money difficulties in the world, as well as no diseases, no old age, no dying. We do not speak of money.' 'Friendship in society has its limits. Yes; I see. But can't you borrow it in the usual way of business people?' 'I should have to show books and enter into unpleasant explanations. You see, Zoe, the paper has got a very good name, but rather a small circulation. Everybody sees it, but very few buy it.' 'And so you heard of Armorel, and you thought that here was a chance. You say to me, in plain words: "If you get this money, there shall be an end of the false position." Is that so?' 'That is exactly what I do say and swear, Zoe. It is a very simple thing. You have only to persuade the girl to lend you this money, or to advance it, or to invest it by your agency--or something--a very simple and easy thing. You love me well enough to do me such a simple service.' 'I love you well enough, I suppose,' she replied sadly, 'to do everything you tell me to do. A simple service! Only to deceive and plunder this girl, who believes us all to be honourable and truthful!' 'Oh, we shall find a way--some way--to pay her back. Don't be afraid. And don't go off into platitudes, Zoe--you are much too pretty--and when it is done, and you are openly, before the world----' 'I know you well enough to know how much happiness to expect. I am a fool. All women are fools. Philippa is a fool. And I've set my foolish heart on--you. If I fail--if I fail'--her words sank to the softest and gentlest murmur--'you are going to cast about for an heiress, and you will get engaged to her, and then--then--we shall see, dear Alec, what will happen then.' She sat up, her cheek fiery, and her eyes flashing, though her voice was so soft. 'Hush!' she whispered. 'I hear Armorel's step!' They heard her voice as well outside, loud and clear. 'Come to my own room,' she said. 'What you want is there. This way.' 'It is the girl with her--the girl who writes. They have gone into her own room--her boudoir--her study--where she works half the day. The girl lives with her brother, close by.' They listened, silent, with hushed breath, like conspirators. 'Poor Armorel!' said Zoe. 'If she only knew what we are plotting! She thinks me the most truthful of women! And all I am here for is to cheat her out of her money! Don't you think I had better make a clean breast and ask her to give me the money and let me go?' 'Begin to-day,' said Alec. 'Begin to talk about me. Interest her in me. Let her know how great and good----' 'Hush!' Then they heard her voice again in the hall. 'No--no--you must come this evening. Bring Archie with you. I will play, and he shall listen. You shall both listen. And then great thoughts will come to you.' 'Always great thoughts--great thoughts--great pictures,' Zoe murmured. 'And we are so infinitely little. Brother worm, shall we crawl into some hole and hide ourselves?' Then the door opened, and Armorel herself appeared, fresh and rosy in spite of the cold wind. 'My dear child,' said Zoe softly, looking up from her cushions, 'come in and sit down. You must be perishing with the east wind. Do sit down and be comfortable. You met Mr. Feilding last night, I believe.' The visitor remained for a quarter of an hour. Armorel had been to see a certain picture in the National Gallery. He talked of pictures just as, the night before, he had talked of music: that is to say, as one who knows all the facts about the painters and their works and their schools: their merits and their defects. He knew and could talk fluently the language of the Art Critic, just as he knew and could talk the language of the Musical Critic. Armorel listened. Now and then she made a remark. But her manner lacked the reverence with which most maidens listened to this thrice-gifted darling of the Muses. She actually seemed not to care very much what he said. Zoe, for her part, lay back in her cushions in silence. 'How do you like him?' she asked, when their visitor left them. 'I don't know; I haven't thought about him. He talks too much, I think. And he talks as if he was teaching.' 'No one has a better right to talk with authority.' 'But we are free to listen or not as we please. Why has he the right to teach everybody?' 'My dear child, Alec Feilding is the cleverest man in all London.' 'He must be very clever then. What does he do?' 'He does everything--poetry, painting, fiction--everything!' 'Oh, you will show me his poetry, perhaps, some time? And his pictures I suppose we shall see in May somewhere. He doesn't look as if he was at all great. But one may be wrong.' 'My dear Armorel, you are a fortunate girl, though you do not understand your good fortune. Alec--I am privileged to call him Alec--has conceived a great interest in you. Oh, not of the common love kind, that you despise so much--nothing to do with your _beaux yeux_--but on account of your genius. He was greatly taken with your playing: if you will show him your pictures he will give you instruction that may be useful to you. He wants to know you, my dear.' 'Well,' said Armorel, not in the least overwhelmed, 'he can if he pleases, I suppose, since he is a friend of yours.' 'That is not all: he wants your friendship as a sister in art. Such a man--such an offer, Armorel, must not be taken lightly.' 'I am not drawn towards him,' said the girl. 'In fact, I think I rather dislike his voice, which is domineering; and his manner, which seems to me self-conscious and rather pompous; and his eyes, which are too close together. Zoe, if he were not the cleverest man in London, I should say that he was the most crafty.' Zoe laughed. 'What man discovers by experiment and experience,' she murmured, incoherently, 'woman discovers at a glance. And yet they say----' CHAPTER VI THE OTHER STUDIO The Failure was at work in his own studio. Not the large and lofty chamber fitted and furnished as if for Michael Angelo himself, which served for the Fraud. Not at all. The Failure did his work in a simple second-floor back, a chamber in a commonplace lodging-house of Keppel Street, Bloomsbury. Nowhere in the realms of Art was there a more dismal studio. The walls were bare, save for one picture which was turned round and showed its artistic back. The floor had no carpet: there was no other furniture than a table, strewn and littered with sketches, paints, palettes, brushes: there were canvases leaning against the wall: there was a portfolio also leaning against the wall: there was an easel and the man standing before it: and there was a single chair. For three years Roland Lee had withdrawn from his former haunts and companions. No one knew now where he lived: he had not exhibited: he had resigned his membership at the club: he had gone out of sight. Many London men every year go out of sight. It is quite easy. You have only to leave off going to the well-known places of resort: very soon--so soon that it is humiliating only to think of it--men cease asking where you are: then they cease speaking of you: you are clean gone out of their memory--you and your works--it is as if the sea had closed over you. There is not left a trace or a sign of your existence. Perhaps, now and then, something may revive your name: some little adventure may be remembered: some frolic of youth--for the rest--nothing: Silence: Oblivion. It does, indeed, humiliate those who look on. When such an accident revived the memory of Roland Lee, one would ask another what had become of him. And no one knew. But, of course, he had gone down--down--down. When a man disappears it means that he sinks. He had gone out of sight: therefore he had gone under. Yet, when you climb, you can never get so high as to be invisible. Even the President, R.A., is not invisible. Again, the higher that a balloon soars, the smaller does it grow; but the higher a man climbs up the Hill of Fame the bigger does he show. It is quite certain that when a man has disappeared he has sunk. The only question--and this can never be answered--is, what becomes of the men who sink? One man I heard of--also, like Roland, an artist--who has been traced to a certain tavern, where he fuddles himself every evening, and where you may treat with him for the purchase of his pictures at ten shillings--ay, or even five shillings--apiece. And two scholars--scholars gone under--I heard of the other day. They now reside in the same lodging-house. It is close to the Gray's Inn Road. One lives in the garret, and the other occupies the cellar. In the evening they get drunk together and dispute on points of the finer scholarship. But this only accounts for three. And where are all the rest? Of Roland Lee nobody knew anything. There was no story or scandal attached to him: he was no drinker: he was no gambler: he was no profligate. But he had vanished. Yet he had not gone far--only to Keppel Street, which is really a central place. Here he occupied a second floor, and lived alone. Nobody ever called upon him: he had no friends. Sometimes he sat all day long in his studio doing nothing: sometimes he went forth, and wandered about the streets: in the evening he dined at restaurants where he was certain to meet none of his old friends. He lived quite alone. As to that rumour concerning opium, it was an invention of his employer and proprietor. He did not take opium. Day after day, however, he grew more moody. What developments might have followed in this lonely life I know not. Opium, perhaps: whisky, perhaps: melancholia, perhaps. And from melancholia--Good Lord deliver us! One thing saved him. The work which filled his soul with rage also kept his soul from madness. When the spirit of his Art seized him and held him he forgot everything. He worked as if he was a free man: he forgot everything, until the time came when he had to lay down his palette and to come back to the reality of his life. Some men would have accepted the position: there were, as we have seen, compensations of a solid and comfortable kind: had he chosen to work his hardest, these golden compensations might have run into four figures. Some men might have sat and laughed among their friends, forgetting the ignominy of their slavery. Not so Roland. His chains jangled as he walked; they cut his wrists and galled his ankles: they filled him with so much shame that he was fain to go away and hide himself. And in this manner he enjoyed the great success which his employer had achieved for his pictures. To arrive at the success for which you have always longed and prayed--and to enjoy it in such a fashion. Oh! mockery of fate! This morning he was at work contentedly--with ardour. He was beginning a picture from one of his sketches: it was to be another study of rocks and sea: as yet there was little to show: it was growing in his brain, and he was so fully wrapped in his invention that he did not hear the door open, and was not conscious that for the first time within three years he had a visitor. She opened the door and stood for a moment looking about her. The bare and dingy walls, the scanty furniture, the meanness of the place, made her very soul sink within her. For they cried aloud the story of the painter. For five long years she had thought of him. He was successful: he was rising to the top of the tree: he was conquering the world--so brave, so strong, so clever! There was no height to which he could not rise. She should find him splendid, triumphant, and yet modest--her old friend the same, but glorified. And she found him thus, in this dingy den--so low, so shabby! Consider, if she had risen while he was sinking, how great was now the gulf between them! Then she stepped into the room and stood beside the artist at his easel. 'Roland Lee,' she whispered. He started, looked up, and recognised her. 'Armorel!' he cried. Then, strange to say, instead of hastening to meet and greet her, and to hold out hands of welcome, he stood gazing at her stupidly, his face changing colour from crimson to white. His hair was unkempt, she saw; his cheeks worn; his eyes haggard, with deep lines round them; and his dress was shabby and uncared for. 'You have not forgotten me, then?' she said. 'Forgotten you? No. How could I forget you?' 'Then are you pleased to see me? Shake hands with me, Roland Lee.' He complied, but with restraint. 'Have you dropped from the clouds?' he asked. 'How did you find me here?' 'I met your old friend Dick Stephenson. He told me that you lived here. You are no longer friends: but he has seen you going in and coming out. That is how I found you. Are you well, Roland?' 'Yes, I am well.' 'Does all go well with you, my old friend?' 'Why not? You see--I have got a magnificent studio: there is every outward sign of wealth and prosperity: and if you look into any art-criticisms you will find the papers ringing with my name.' 'You are changed.' Armorel passed over the bitterness of this speech. 'You are a little older, perhaps.' She did not tell him how haggard and worn he looked, how unkempt and unhappy. 'Let me see some of your work,' she said. The picture on the easel was only in its very first stage. She looked about the room. Nothing on the walls but one picture with its face turned round. 'May I look at this?' She turned it round. It was the picture of herself, 'The Princess of Lyonesse,' the sketch of which he had finished on the last day of his holiday. 'Oh!' she cried, 'I remember this. And you have kept it, Roland--you have kept it. I am glad.' 'Yes, I have kept the only picture which I can call my own.' 'Was I like that in those days?' 'You are like that now. Only, the little Princess has become a tall Queen.' 'Yes, yes; I remember. You said, then, that if I should ever look like this, you would be proved to be a painter indeed. Roland, you are a painter indeed.' 'No, no,' he said; 'I am nothing--nothing at all.' 'We were talking--when you made this sketch--of how one can grow to his highest and noblest.' 'I have grown to my lowest,' he replied. 'But you--you----' 'What has happened, my friend? You told me so much once about yourself--you taught me so much--you put so many new things into my head--you must tell me more! What has happened?' 'Nothing.' 'Why are you here in this poor room? I have been to studios in Rome and Florence, and Paris and Vienna: they are lovely rooms, fit for a man whose mind is always full of lovely images and sweet thoughts. But this--this room is not a studio. It is an ugly little prison. How can light and colour visit such a place?' 'It explains itself. It proclaims aloud--Failure--Failure--Failure!' 'This picture is not Failure.' 'My name is unknown. I work on like a mole under ground. I am a Failure. You have seen Dick Stephenson. What did he say of me?' 'He said that you must have left off working. But you have not.' 'What does it matter how much or how long a Failure goes on working?' 'Have you lost heart, Roland?' 'Heart, and hope, and faith. Everything is lost, Armorel!' 'You have lost your courage because you have failed. But many men have failed at first--great men. Robert Browning failed for years. You were brave once, Roland. You were able to say that if you knew you were doing good work you cared nothing for the critics.' 'You see, Dick was right. I no longer do any work. I never send anything to the exhibitions.' 'But why--why--why?' 'Ask me no more questions, Armorel. Go away and leave me. How beautiful and glorious you have grown, child! But I knew you would. And I have gone down so low, and--and--well, you see! Yes. I remember how we talked of growing to our full height. We did not think, you see, of the depths to which we might also drop. There are awful depths, which you could never guess.' He sank into the chair, and his head dropped. Armorel stood over him, the tears gathering into her eyes. 'Roland,' she laid her hand upon his shoulder--there is no action more sisterly--'since I have found you I shall not let you go again. It is five years since you went away. You will tell me about yourself, when you please. I have a great deal to tell you. Don't you remember how sympathetic you used to be in the old days? I want a great deal more sympathy now, because I am five years older, and I am trying so much. I want you to hear me play--you were the first who ever praised my playing, you know. And you must see my drawings. I have worked every day, as I promised you I would. I have remembered all your instructions. Come and see your pupil's work, my master.' He made no reply. 'You live too much alone,' she went on. 'Dick Stephenson told me that you have given up your club, and that you go nowhere, and that no one knows how you live. You have dropped quite away from your old friends. Why did you do that? You live in this dismal room by yourself--alone with your thoughts: no wonder you lose courage and faith.' She opened the portfolio and drew out a number of the sketches. 'Why,' she said, 'here are some of those you made with me. Here is Castle Bryher--you in the boat, and I on the ledge among the sea-weed under the great rock--and the shags in a row on the top: and here is Porth Cressa--and here Peninnis--and here Round Island. Oh! we have so many things to talk about. Will you come to see me?' 'You had better leave me alone, Armorel,' he said. 'Even you can do no good to me now.' 'When will you come? See--I will write down my address. I have a flat, and it is ever so much better furnished than this, Sir. Will you come to-night? I shall be at home. There will be no one but Effie Wilmot. Oh! I am not going to talk about you, but about myself. I want your praise, Roland, and your sympathy. Both were so ready--once. Will you come to-night?' 'You will drive me mad, I think, Armorel!' 'Will you come?' He shook his head. 'I have got to tell you how I became rich, if you will listen. You must come and hear my news. Why, there is no one but you in all London who knew me when I lived on Samson alone with those old people. You will come to-night, Roland?' Again she laid her hand upon his shoulder. 'I will ask no questions about you--none at all. You will tell me what you please about yourself. But you must let me talk to you about myself, as frankly as in the old days. If you have got any kindly memory left of me at all, Roland, you will come.' He rose and lifted his shameful eyes to hers, so full of pity and of tears. 'Yes,' he said; 'I will do whatever you tell me.' CHAPTER VII A CANDID OPINION Youth in the London lodging-house! Youth quite poor--youth ambitious--youth with a possible future--youth meditating great things! Walk along the streets of Lodging-land--there are miles of such streets--and consider with trembling that the dingy houses contain thousands of young people--boys and girls--who have come to the city of golden pavements to make--not a fortune, unless that happens as well--but their name. In the long struggle before the lowest rung of the ladder is reached they endure hardness, but they complain not. Everything is going to be made up to them in the splendid time to come. Something more than a year ago two such young people came up from the country, and found shelter in a London lodging-house, where they could work and study until success should arrive. They were boy and girl, brother and sister--twins. They had very little money, and could afford no more than one sitting-room. Therefore, one worked in the sitting-room and the other in a bedroom, because their occupations demanded solitude. The one in the sitting-room was the girl. She was engaged in the pursuit of poetry: she made verses continually, every day. Unless she was reading verse, she was either making, or polishing, or devising verses. Of all pursuits in the world this is at once the most absorbing and the most delightful. It is also, with the greater part of these who follow it, the most useless. Thomas the Rhymer sits down and takes his pen: it is nine of the clock. He considers: he writes: he scratches out: he writes again: he corrects again: after ten minutes or so, he looks up. It is three in the afternoon: the luncheon hour is past: the morning is gone: all he has to show for the six golden hours, when an account of them is demanded, will be a single stanza of a ballade. And perhaps not a single editor will look at it. To Effie Wilmot, the girl-twin, thus engaged morning after morning, the hours become moments and the days minutes. The result and outcome of her labours you have already learned. But she was young, and she lived in hope. A few more weeks, and the great man, her patron, would have satisfied that whim of wishing to be thought a poet of society. Strange that one who painted pictures of such wonderful beauty, who wrote such charming stories in such endless variety--stories quaint and bizarre, stories pathetic, stories humorous--should so condescend! What could a few simple verses--such as hers--do to increase his fame? However, that was nearly over. She felt quite happy and light-hearted: as happy as if, like other poets, she was writing things that would appear with her own name: she pursued the light and airy fancies of her brain, capturing one or two, chaining them in the prison of her rhymes, which, of course, were set to the old-new tunes affected by the little poets of the day. If they have got no message to deliver, they can at least come on the stage and repeat over again the old things clad in dress revived. We can keep on dressing up in the poet's habit until the poet himself shall come along. Effie worked on, sitting at the window. Poets can work anywhere, though, of course, they ought to sit habitually on the sides of hills, with hanging woods and mountain-streams and waterfalls. But they can work just as well in a mean London lodging, such as this where Effie sat, looking out, if she looked through the curtain, upon a most commonplace street. We can all--common spirits as well as poets--rise above our streets and houses and our dingy setting--otherwise there would be no work done at all. Nay, if we were all cockered up, and daintily surrounded with things æsthetic and artistic and beautiful, I believe we should be so happy that nobody would ever do anything. The poet would murmur his thoughts in indolent rhyme by the fireside: the musician would drop his fingers among the notes, echoing faintly and imperfectly the music in his soul--all for his own enjoyment: the story-teller would tell his stories to his wife: the dramatist would make plots without words for his children to act: the painter would half sketch his visions and leave them unfinished. Art would die. No such temptations were offered to Effie. The æsthetic movement had not touched that ground-floor front. The shaky round table stood under the flaring gas which every night made her head ache; the chiffonier contained in its recesses the tea and sugar and bread and butter, and, when the money ran to such luxuries, her jam or her honey or her oranges. There was one easy-chair and one arm-chair; and before the window a small square table, which had, at least, the merit of being firm; and at this she wrote. Everybody knows this kind of room perfectly. The poetic workshop is always kept locked. No poet ever tells of the terrific struggles he has to encounter before he finally subdues his thought and compels it to walk or run in double harness of rhythm and rhyme. No poet ever confesses how he sometimes has to let that thought go because he cannot subdue it--nay, the same discomfiture has been reported of those who, like M. Jourdain, speak in prose. And no poet ever shows, as a painter will readily show us, the first sketch, the first rough draft of a poem, the unfinished lines, the first feeble attempts at the rhythmic expression of a great thought. Let us respect the mystery of the craft--have we not all dabbled in verse and essayed to play upon the scrannel-pipe? It was towards noon, however, that Effie was disturbed by the arrival of a visitor. The event was so unusual--so unprecedented even--that no instructions had ever been given to the lodging-house servant in the art of introducing callers. She therefore opened the door, and put in her head--'A gentleman, Miss'--and went downstairs, leaving the gentleman to walk in if he pleased. 'You, Mr. Feilding?' Effie cried, springing to her feet. 'Oh! This is, indeed----' The great man took her hand. 'My dear child,' he said, 'I have been thinking over our conversation of the other day. I am, of course, only anxious to be of service to you and to your brother, and so I thought I would call.' He was quite magnificent in his fur-lined coat, and he was very tall and big, so that he seemed to fill up the whole room. But he had an unusual air of hesitation. 'I thought,' he repeated, 'that I would call. Yes----' The girl sat with her hands in her lap, waiting. 'You remember what I told you about--the--the verses which you sometimes bring me----' 'Oh! Yes. I remember. It is so kind of you, Mr. Feilding, so very kind and noble----' For the moment the dazzling prospect of seeing her verses acknowledged as her own in place of seeing them adopted by the Editor, made her believe that none but a truly noble person could do such a thing. 'I mean to begin even sooner than I had intended. It is true that when I took your verses I made them my own by those little touches and corrections which, as you know very well, distinguish true poetry from its imitation'--It was not until he was gone that Effie remembered that not a single alteration had ever been made. So great is the power of the human voice that for the moment she listened and acquiesced, subdued and ashamed of herself--'At last, my young friend, the time for alteration and improvement is past. You can now stand alone--your verses signed--if, of course, we remain, as I hope, on the same friendly relations.' 'Oh!' she murmured. 'Enough. We understand each other. Your brother, you told me, is at work on a play--a romantic drama.' 'Yes. He has finished it. He has been at work upon it for two years, thinking of nothing else all day.' Mr. Feilding nodded approval. 'That is the way,' he said heartily, 'to produce good work. Perfect--absolute--devotion--regardless of any earthly consideration. Art--Art--before all else. And now it is done?' 'Yes; he is copying it out.' 'Effie'--he suddenly changed the subject--'you have never told me of your resources. Tell me! I do not ask out of idle curiosity. That you are not rich I know----' 'No, we are not rich. We have a little--a thousand pounds apiece--and we have resolved to live on that, and on what we can get besides, until we have made our way. We have no rich relations to help us. My father is a country clergyman with a small living. We came to town so that Archie could get treatment for his hip. He is better now, and we shall stay altogether if we can only hold on.' 'A thousand pounds each. That is seventy pounds a year, I suppose?' 'Yes. But during the last twelve months you have given me a hundred pounds for my verses--three pounds for every poem, and there were thirty-three altogether in the volume--"Voices and Echoes," you know.' The poet who had published these verses did not change colour or show any sign of emotion in the presence of the poet who had written them. He nodded his head. 'Yes,' he said, 'on a hundred and seventy pounds a year you can live--on seventy you would starve. Where is your brother?' 'He works in his bedroom. It is the room behind, on the same floor. My room is upstairs.' 'He requires, I suppose, good food, wine, and certain luxuries?' 'When we can afford them. Since you took my verses we have been able to buy things.' 'Your money is well expended. I should like to see your brother, Effie.' 'I will take you to him,' she said. But she hesitated and blushed. 'Oh! Mr. Feilding, Archie knows nothing about the--the volumes, you know! He sees only the verses in the paper. And he only knows that you have been so kind as to take them. Don't tell him anything else.' 'Your secret, Effie,' he replied generously, 'is safe with me. He shall not know it from my lips.' She thanked him. Again, it was not until he was gone that Effie remembered that he could not possibly reveal that fact to her brother. She led him into the room, at the back of which was her brother's study and bedroom as well. Her brother might have been herself, save for a slight manly growth upon the upper lip, and for the pale cheek of ill health. The same large forehead overhanging the face, eyes sunken but as bright as his sister's, the same sensitive lips were his. A finer face than his sister's, and stronger, but not so sweet. Beside his chair a pair of crutches proclaimed that he was a cripple. Before him was a table, at which he was writing. There were on the table, besides his writing materials, a number of little dolls, some of which were arranged in groups, while others were lying about unused. He was copying his finished play: as he copied it he played the scenes with the dolls and spoke the dialogue. The dolls were his characters: there was not a single scene or change of the grouping which this conscientious young dramatist had not rehearsed over and over again, until every line of the dialogue had its own stage picture, clear and distinct in his mind. 'You are Mr. Feilding?' he asked, rising with some difficulty. 'I have heard so much of you from Effie. It is a great honour to have a call from you.' 'I take a deep interest,' the great man replied, 'in anything that concerns Miss Effie Wilmot. I have been able--I believe you know--to give her some assistance and advice in her work. Oh!'--he waved his hand to deprecate any expressions of gratitude--'I have done very little--very little indeed. Now, about yourself. I learn from your sister that you have ambitions--you would become a dramatist?' 'I have no other ambition. It is my only dream.' 'A very good dream indeed. And you have made, I am told, a start--a maiden effort--a preliminary flight to try your wings. You have written your first attempt at a play?' 'Yes. It is here. It is finished.' 'Tell me, briefly, the plot.' Some young dramatists mar their plot in getting it out. This young man had taken the trouble to write out first a rough outline of his piece and next a complete scenario with every situation detailed. These he read to his visitor one after the other. 'Yes,' said Mr. Feilding, when he had finished; 'there is something in the idea of the play. Perhaps not a completely novel motif. A good deal might be said as to the arrangement of the scenes. And one or two of the characters might--but these are details. Remains to find out how the dialogue goes. Will you read me a scene or two?' The dramatist read. As he read he might have observed in the eyes of his listener a growing eagerness, as of one who vehemently yearns to get possession of something--his neighbour's vineyard, for example, or his solitary ewe lamb. But the reader did not observe this. He was wholly wrapped in his piece: he threw his soul into the reading: he was anxious only that his words and his situations should produce the best effect upon his hearer. 'Yes, yes; your dialogue, unhappily, shows the want of skill common to the beginner,' said Mr. Feilding, when he had finished. 'It will have to be completely rewritten. As it stands now, the play would be simply killed by it, in spite of the situations, which, with some alterations, are really pretty good--pretty good for a first effort.' 'You don't think, then--that----' the dramatist's voice broke down. Consider: for two long years he had done nothing but cast, recast, write, rewrite this play. He had dreamed all this time of success with this play. And now--now--the very first critic--and that the most accomplished man of the day--no less than Mr. Alec Feilding--told him that the play would not be received unless the dialogue was entirely rewritten. He _could_ not rewrite the dialogue. It was a part of himself. As well ask him to remake his own face or to reconstruct his legs. His face fell: his cheeks grew pale: his eyes filled with unmanly tears. 'I am truly sorry, believe me,' said the critic, 'to throw cold water on your hopes. I have been myself an aspirant. Yet'--he hesitated in his kindliness--'why encourage illusive expectations? The play as it is--I say, as it is only--must be pronounced totally unfit for the stage. No manager would think of it for a moment.' 'Then I may as well throw it on the fire? And all my work wasted!' 'Nay--not wasted. Good work--true work--is never wasted. You ought to have learned much--very much--from this two years' labour. And, as for putting it into the fire'--he laughed genially--'I believe I can show you a better way than that. Look here, Archie--I call you by your Christian name because I have so often talked about you: we are old friends--I should be really sorry to think that you had actually lost all your time. Give me this play: I will take it--skeleton, scenario, dialogue--all, just as it is--the mere rough, crude, shapeless thing that it is. I will buy it of you--useless as it is. I will give you fifty pounds down for it, and it shall become my property--my own, absolutely. I shall then, perhaps, recast and rewrite the play from beginning to end. When I have made a play out of it worth putting on the stage--when, in short, I have made it my own play--I may possibly bring it out--possibly. Most likely, however, not. There's a chance for you, Archie, such as you will never get again! Fifty pounds down--think of that! Fifty pounds!' The dramatist laid his hand, for reply, upon his papers. 'If it should ever be brought out,' this good Samaritan went on, 'you will come and see it acted. What a splendid lesson it will be for you in the art of writing drama!' The dramatist's fingers tightened on his manuscript. 'Of course you must consider your sister,' the considerate critic continued. 'She has been able to make a few pounds of late, having been so fortunate as to attract the interest of... one who is not wholly without influence. Should that interest fail or be withdrawn you might have--both of you--to suffer much privation. The luxuries which you now enjoy would be impossible--and----' 'Oh, you kill me!' cried the unfortunate youth. 'Shall I leave you for the present? My offer is always open--on the condition of secrecy--one is bound to keep business transactions secret. I will leave you now. There is no hurry. Think it over carefully and send me an answer.' He went out and shut the door. The young dramatist, I am ashamed to say, fell to tears and weeping over the destruction of his hopes. 'Effie,' said Mr. Feilding, 'I have talked with your brother. He has read some of the play to me----' 'And you think?' she asked him eagerly. He shook his head mournfully. 'The boy has much to learn--very much. Meantime, the play itself is worthless--quite worthless.' 'Oh! Poor boy! And he has built so much upon it.' 'Yes--they all do at the outset. Mind, Effie, he is a clever boy: he will do. Meantime, he must study.' 'Oh! Poor Archie! Poor boy!' 'It seems hard, doesn't it, not to succeed all at once? Yet Browning and Tennyson and Thackeray were all well on for forty before they succeeded. Why should he despair? Meantime I have made him a little offer.' 'Oh! Mr. Feilding, you are always so good.' 'I have offered to give him fifty pounds--down--and to take this rough unlicked thing he calls a Play. If I find time I shall, perhaps, rewrite the whole, and put it on the stage. It will then, of course, be my own--my own, Effie. Good-bye, child. I have not forgotten our talk--or my promise--if we remain on friendly relations.' He went away. Effie sank into a chair. What she had done with her own work had never seemed to her half so terrible as what was now proposed to be done with her brother's work. She crept into his room. He sat with his head in his hands, most mournful of bards since the world began. 'Archie, I know--I know; he has told me. Oh! Archie--do you think it is true?' [Illustration: _'Archie, I know--I know.'_] 'He says so, Effie. He says it is worthless.' 'Yet he will give you fifty pounds.' 'That is to please you--for your sake. The thing is worthless--no manager would look at it.' 'Yet--fifty pounds! Why should Mr. Feilding give fifty pounds--a whole fifty pounds--for a worthless play? Archie, don't do it--don't let him have it; wait a little--we will ask somebody else. Oh! I could tell you something. Wait--tell him, if you must say anything, that you will think it over.' When Effie turned over the pages of the next number of _The Muses Nine_, she found, first of all, her own verses in the Editor's column with his name at the bottom. This sight, which had formerly made her so proud, now filled her with shame. The generous promise of the future failed to awaken in her any glow of hope. For the very words with which her only editor had beguiled her of her verses--the plea that they were worthless, and must be rewritten--he had used to her brother. And as her poems had never been rewritten, so would Archie's play, she felt sure, be presented without a single alteration, with the name of Mr. Alec Feilding as author. That week she took no verses to the studio-study. And a certain paragraph in the same columns perused by this suspicious young woman brought rage--nothing short of rage--into her heart. No! not her brother, as well as herself! It ran thus: 'I have always been under the impression that the dearth of good plays is due to nothing else in the world than the fact that the good men who ought to be writing them all run off into the domain of fiction. It is a pleasant country--that of Fable Land. I have been there, and I hope to go there again and make a long stay. But Play Land--that is also a pleasant country. I have been there lately, and I hope to demonstrate that a good play may still be produced in the English tongue--a good and original play. In short, I have written a romantic drama, of which all I can say at present is that it lies finished, in my fireproof safe, and that a certain actor-manager will probably play the title-rôle before many moons have waxed and waned.' 'No,' said Effie, crumpling up the paper. 'You have not got Archie's romantic drama yet.' CHAPTER VIII ALL ABOUT MYSELF 'You have kept this promise, then.' Armorel welcomed her old friend with eyes of kindness and lips of smiles. 'Do you ever think of the promise that you broke? Effie, dear'--this young lady was the only other occupant of the room--'this is Mr. Roland Lee--my first friend and my first master. He knew me long ago, in Samson, in the days of which I have told you. We have memories of our own--memories such as make the old friendships impossible to be dissolved--whatever happens. Roland, you first put a pencil into my hand and taught me how to use it. In return, I used to play old-fashioned tunes in the evening. And you first put thoughts into my head. Before you came my head was filled with phantoms, which had neither voice nor shape. What am I to do now in return for such a gift?' She gave him both her hands, and her face was so glowing, her eyes so soft yet serious withal, her voice so full of tenderness--that the luckless painter stood confused and overwhelmed. How had he deserved such a reception? 'This evening,' she went on, 'we are going to talk about nobody but myself, and about nothing but my own affairs. Effie, you will be horribly bored. It is five years since I had such a chance. Because, my dear, though you have the best will in the world, and would talk to me about old times if you could, you did not know me when I lived on Samson in the Scilly Islands--and Roland did. That is, if he still remembers Samson.' 'I remember every day on Samson: every blade of grass on the island: every boulder and every crag.' 'And every talk we had in those days?--all the things you told me?' 'I remember, as well, a girl who has so changed, so grown----' 'So much the better. Then we can talk just as we used to do. I thought you would somehow remember the girl, Roland.' She looked up again, smiling. Then she hesitated, and went on slowly: 'Yet I was afraid, this morning, that you might have forgotten one of the two who wandered about the island together.' 'I could never forget you, Armorel.' 'I meant--the other--Roland.' He made no reply. In his evening dress--which was full of creases, as if it had not been put on for a very long time--he looked a little less forlorn than in the shabby old brown-velvet jacket; he had brushed his hair--nay, he had even had it cut and trimmed: but there still hung about him the look of waste: his eyes were melancholy: his bearing was dejected: he spoke with hesitation: he was even shy, like a schoolboy. Effie noted these things, and wondered. And she observed, besides, not only that his coat was creased, but that his shirt was frayed at the cuffs, and torn in the front. In fact, the young man, in dropping out of society, had, as a natural consequence, neglected his wardrobe and allowed his linen to run to seed unrebuked. Every man who has been a bachelor--most of us have--remembers how shirts behave when the eye of the master is once taken off them. He was shy because the atmosphere of the drawing-room, so dainty, so luxurious, so womanly, was strange to him. Three years and more had passed since he had been in such a room. He was also shy because this splendid creature, this girl dressed in silk and lovely lace, this miracle of girls, called herself Armorel, his once simple rustic maid of Samson Isle. Further, he was ashamed because this girl remembered him as he was in the good old days, when his face was turned to the summit of the mountain and his feet were on the upward slope. Armorel had placed on the table a portfolio full of drawings. 'Now for myself,' she said, gaily. 'Roland, you are an artist. You must look at my drawings. Here are the best I have done. I have had many masters since you, but none that taught me so much in so short a time. Do you remember when you first found out that I could hold a pencil? You were very patient then, Master. Be lenient now.' 'I had a very apt pupil,' he began, turning over the drawings. 'These need no leniency. These are very good indeed. You have had other and better masters.' 'I have had other masters, it is true. I have done my best, Roland--to grow.' He dropped his eyes. But he continued to turn over the sketches. The drawings showed, at least, that natural aptitude which may be genius and may be that imitation of genius which is difficult to distinguish from the real gift. Many painters with no more natural aptitude than Armorel have risen to be Royal Academicians. 'But these are very good indeed,' Roland repeated, with emphasis. 'You have, indeed, worked well, and you have the true feeling.' 'Do you remember, Roland, that day when we talked about the Perfect Woman? No, I see by your eyes that you have forgotten. But I remember. I will not tell you all. One thing she had done: she had trained her eye and her hand. She knew what was good in Art, and was not carried away by any follies or fashions. I did not understand then what you meant by follies and fashions. But I am wiser now. I have been training eye and hand. I think I know a good picture, or a good statue, or a good work in any Art. Do not think me conceited, Master. I have been obedient to your instructions--that is all.' 'You have the soul of an artist, Armorel,' said her Master. 'But yet--I fear--I think--you have missed the supreme gift. You are not a great artist.' 'No, I can grow no higher in painting. I have learned my own limitations. If it is only to understand and to worship the Great Masters it is worth while to get so far. Are you satisfied with your pupil?' For a moment the old look came back to Roland's eyes. 'You are the best of pupils,' he said. 'But I might have expected so much. Tell me how you succeeded in getting away from Samson?' She told him, briefly, how the Ancient Lady died, how she found the family treasure, and how she had resolved to go away and learn: how she found masters and guardians: how she lived in Florence, Dresden, Paris: how she worked unceasingly. 'I remembered, always, Roland, your picture of the Perfect Woman.' 'Could I--I--have told you things that have made you--what you are?' It seemed as if another man had given the girl this excellent advice. Not himself--quite another man. 'Effie, dear,' Armorel turned to her, 'you do not understand. I must tell you. Five years ago, when I lived on Samson, a girl so ignorant that it makes me tremble to think what might have happened--there came to the island a young gentleman who was so kind as to take this ignorant girl--me--in hand, and to fill her empty head with all kinds of great and noble thoughts. He was an artist by profession. Oh! an artist filled with ardour and with ambition. He would be satisfied with nothing short of the best: he taught me that none of us ought to be satisfied till we have attained our full stature, and grown as tall as we possibly can. It made that ignorant girl's heart glow only to hear him talk, because she had never heard such talk before. Then he left her, and came back no more. But presently the chance came to this girl, as you have heard, and she was able to leave the island and go where she could find masters and teachers. It is five years ago. And always, every day, Roland'--her lip quivered--'I have said to myself, "My first master is growing taller--taller--taller--every day--I must grow as tall as I can, or else when I meet him again I shall be too insignificant for him to notice." Always I have thought how I should meet him again. So tall, so great, so wonderful!' Effie remarked that while Armorel addressed Roland she did not look at him until the last words, when she turned and faced him with eyes running over. The man's head dropped: his fingers played with the drawings: he made no reply. 'In the evening,' Armorel went on, 'we used to have music. I played only the old-fashioned tunes then that Justinian Tryeth taught me--do you remember the tunes, Roland? I will play one for you again.' She took a violin out of the case and began to tune the strings. 'This is my old fiddle. It has been Justinian's--and his father's before him. I have had other instruments since then, but I love the old fiddle best.' She drew her bow across the strings. 'I can play much better now, Roland. And I have much better music; but I will play only the old tunes, because I want you to remember quite clearly those two who walked and talked and sailed together. It is so easy for you to forget that young man. But I remember him very well indeed.' She drew the bow across the strings again. 'Now we are in the old room, while the old people are sitting round the fire. Effie, dear, put the shade over the lamp and turn it low--so--now we are all sitting in the firelight, just as it used to be on Samson--see the red light dancing about the walls. It fills your eyes and makes them glow, Roland. Oh! we are back again. What are you thinking of, artist, while the music falls upon your ears?--while I play--what shall I play? "Dissembling Love," which others call "The Lost Heart"?' She played it with the old spirit, but far more than the old delicacy and feeling. 'You remember that, Roland? Do you hear the lapping of the waves in Porth Bay and the breakers over Shark Point? Or is it too rustic a ditty? I will play you something better, but still the old tunes.' She played first 'Prince Rupert's March,' and then 'The Saraband'--great and lofty airs to one who can play them greatly. While she played Effie watched. In Armorel's eyes she read a purpose. This was no mere play. The man she called her master listened, sitting at the table, the sketches spread out before him, ill at ease, and as one in a troubled dream. 'Do you see him again, that young man?' Armorel asked. 'It makes one happy only to think of such a young man. He knew the dangers before him. "The Way of Wealth," he said once, "and the Way of Pleasure draw men as if with ropes." But he was so strong and steadfast. Nothing would turn him from his way. Not Pleasure, not Wealth, not anything mean or low. There was never any young man so noble. Oh! Do you remember him, Roland? Tell me--tell me--do you remember him?' Over the pictures on the table he bowed his head. But he made no reply. Then Effie, watching the glittering tears in Armorel's eyes and the bowed head of the man, stole softly out of the room and closed the door. Armorel put down her fiddle. She drew nearer to the man. His head sank lower. She stood over him, tall and queenly, as the Muse stood over Alfred de Musset. She laid her hand upon his shoulder. 'That old spirit is not dead, but sleeping, Roland. You have not driven it forth. It is your own still. You have only silenced its voice for a while. You think that you have killed it; but you remember it still. Thank God! it has been only sleeping. If it were dead you would not remember. Let it wake again. Oh! Roland--let it wake again--again. Oh! Roland--Roland--my friend and Master----' She could say no more. The man raised his head. It is a shameful and a terrible thing to see the face of a man who is disgraced and conscious of his shame. Perhaps it is worse to see the face of a man who is disgraced and is unconscious of his shame. He looked round, and saw the tears in the girl's eyes and the quivering of her lips. 'The man you remember,' he said hoarsely, 'is dead and buried. He died three years ago and more. Another man--a poor and mean creature--walks about in his shape. He is unworthy to be in your presence. Suffer him to go, and think of him no longer.' 'Not another man, because you remember the former. Roland, come back, my old friend; come back!' 'It is too late.' But he wavered. 'It is never too late. Oh! I wonder--was it the Way of Pleasure or was it the Way of Wealth?' 'Do I look,' he asked bitterly, 'as if it was the Way of Pleasure?' 'It is not too late, Roland. You have sinned against yourself. If it were too late you would be happy after the kind of those who can live in sin and be happy. Since you are not happy, it is not too late. The doors of heaven stand open night and day for all.' 'You talk the old language, Armorel.' 'It is the language of my soul. I will say the same thing in any tongue you please, so that you understand me.' 'To go back--to begin all over again--to go on as if the last three years had never been----' 'Yes--yes--as if they had never been! That is best. As if they had never been.' 'Armorel, do you know,' he asked her quickly--'do you know the thing--the Awful Thing--that I have done?' 'Do not tell me. Never tell me.' 'Some day, I think I must. What shall I say, now?' 'Say that your footsteps are turned in the old way, Roland.' He pushed back the chair and stood up. Now, if they had been measured, he would have proved four inches and a half taller than the girl, for he was half an inch short of six feet, and she was exactly five feet seven. Yet as they stood face to face, it seemed to him--and to her as well--as if she towered over him by as many inches as separate the tallest woman from the smallest man. Nature thus accommodates herself to the mental condition of the moment. The small man, however, did a very strange thing. He drew forth a pocket-book and took from it what Armorel perceived to be a cheque. This he deliberately tore across twice, and threw the fragments into the fire. 'You do not understand this act, Armorel. It is the turning of the footstep.' She took his hand and pressed it. 'I pray,' she said, 'that the way may prove less thorny than you think!' Nature, again accommodating herself, caused the small, mean man to grow suddenly several inches. There was still a goodly difference between the two, but it was lessened. More than that, the man continued to grow; and his face was brighter, and his eyes less haggard. 'I will go now, Armorel,' he said. 'You will come again--soon?' 'Not yet. I will come again, when the shame of the present belongs to the past.' 'No. You shall come often. But of past or present we will speak no more. Tell me, in your own good time, Roland, how you fare. But do not desert your old pupil. Come to see me often.' He bowed his head and went away. * * * * * 'Effie,' said Armorel, presently, 'I cannot tell you what all this means.' 'It means a man who has fallen,' said the girl, wise with poetic instinct. 'Anyone could see failure and shame written on his face. It ought to be a noble face, but something has gone out of it. You knew him long ago--when he was different--and you tried to bring him to his old self. Oh! Armorel--you are wonderful--you were his better spirit--you were his muse--calling him back.' She laid her hand in Armorel's. They stood together in silence. Then Armorel spoke. 'I feared it was quite another man--a new man--a stranger that I had found. But it was not. It was the same man after all.' Effie stooped and picked up a fragment of paper lying on the hearth. 'Mr. Feilding's signature,' she said, unthinking. At times, when one is moved, trifles sometimes seem to acquire importance. 'That? It is a part of a cheque which he tore up. Effie, dear--it was good of you to go away and leave us when you did. Perhaps he would not have spoken so freely if you had been here. Oh! he is the same man, after all. He has come back to me. Effie, tell me; but you know no more than I. If you once loved a man, and if you suffered the thought of him to lie in your heart for years, and if you filled him with all the virtues that there are, and if he grew in your heart to be a knight perfect at all points----' 'Well, Armorel?' For she stopped, and Effie took her hand. 'Oh! Effie,' she replied, with glowing cheeks; 'could you ever afterwards love another man? Could you ever cease to love that man of your imagination? Could any meaner man content you? For my part--never!--never!--never!' CHAPTER IX TO MAKE HIM HAPPY 'Shall we discuss Mr. Feilding any longer?' Armorel asked, with a little impatience. 'It really seems as if we had nothing to talk about but the perfections of this incomparable person.' It was in the evening. Armorel had discovered, already, that the evenings spent at home in the society of her companion were both long and dull; that they had nothing to talk about; that Zoe regarded every single subject from a point of view which was not her own; and that both in conversation and in personal intercourse she was having a great deal more than she desired of Mr. Alec Feilding. Therefore, she was naturally a little impatient. One cannot every evening go and sit alone in the study: one cannot play the violin all the evening: and one cannot reduce a companion to absolute silence. Zoe, who had been talking into the fire from her cushions, turned her fluffy head, opened her blue eyes wide, and looked, not reproachfully but sorrowfully and with wonder, at a girl who could hear too much about Alec Feilding. 'Let me talk--just a little--sometimes--of my best friend, Armorel, dear. If you only knew what Alec has been to me and to my lost lover--my Jerome!' 'Forgive me, Zoe. Go on talking about him.' 'How quiet and cosy,' she murmured, in reply, 'this room is in the evening! It makes one feel virtuous only to think of the cold wind and the cold people outside. This heaven is surely a reward for the righteous. It is enough only to lie in the warmth without talking. But the time and the place invite confidences. Armorel, I am going to repose a great confidence in you--a secret plan of my own. And you are so very, very sympathetic when you please, dear child--especially when Effie is here--I wonder if she is worth it?--that you might spare me a little of your sympathy.' 'My dear Zoe'--Armorel felt a touch of remorse--she had been unsympathetic--'you shall have all there is to spare. But what kind of sympathy do you want? You were talking of Mr. Feilding--not of yourself.' 'Yes--and that is of myself in a way. I know you will not misunderstand me, dear. You will not imagine that I am--well, in love with Alec, when I confess to you that I think a very great deal about him.' 'I never thought so, at all,' said Armorel. Zoe's eyes opened for a moment and gleamed. It was a doubtful saying. Why should not she be in love with Alec, or Alec with her? But Armorel knew nothing about love. 'When a woman has loved once, dear,' she murmured, 'her heart is gone. My love-passages,' she put her handkerchief to her eyes--to some women the drawing-room is the stage--'my love-story, dear, is finished and done. My heart is in the grave with Jerome. But this you cannot understand. I think so much of Alec--first, because he has been all goodness to me; and, next, because he is so wonderfully clever.' 'Talk about him, Zoe, as long as you please.' 'If he had been an ordinary man,' she went on, 'I should have been equally grateful, I suppose. But there it would have ended. To be under a debt of gratitude to such a man as Alec makes one long to do something in return. And, besides, there are so very, very few good men in the world that it does one good only to talk about them.' 'I suppose that Mr. Feilding is really a man of great genius,' said Armorel. 'I confess he seems to me rather ponderous in his talk--may I say, dull? From genius one expects the unexpected.' 'Dull? Oh, no! A little constrained in his manner. That comes from his excessive sensibility. But dull?--oh, no!' 'He seemed dull at the theatre last night.' 'It was a curious coincidence meeting him there, was it not?' 'I thought you must have told him that you were going.' 'No, no; quite a coincidence. And he so seldom goes to a theatre. The badness of the acting, he says, irritates his nerves to such a degree that it sometimes spoils his work for a week. And yet he is actually going to bring out a play himself. There is a paragraph in the paper about it--his own paper. Give it to me, dear; it is on the sofa. Thank you.' She read the paragraph, which we already know. 'What do you think of that, Armorel?' 'Isn't it rather arrogant--about good men turning out good work?' 'My dear, genius can afford to be arrogant. True genius is always impatient of small people and of stupidities. It suffers its contempt to be seen, and that makes the stupidities cry out about arrogance. Even the most stupid can cry out, you see. But think. He is going to add a new wreath to his brow. He is already known as a poet, a novelist, a painter, an essayist, and now he is to become a dramatist. He really is the cleverest man in the whole world.' Armorel expressed none of the admiration that was expected. She was wondering whether, if Mr. Feilding had not been quite so clever, he might not have been quite so heavy and didactic in conversation. Less clever people, perhaps, are more prodigal of their cleverness, and give away some of it in conversation. Perhaps the very clever want it all for their books. 'I said I would give you his poems,' Zoe continued. 'I bought the book for you--the second series, which is better than the first. It is on the piano, dear; that little parcel, thank you.' She opened the parcel and disclosed a dainty little volume in white and gold. It was illustrated by a small etching of the poet's head for a frontispiece. It was printed in beautiful new type on thick paper--the kind called hand-made--the edges left ragged. There were about a hundred and twenty pages, and on every two pages there was a single poem. These were not arranged in any order or sequence of thought. They were all separate. The poet showed knowledge of contemporary manners in serving up so small a dish of verse. Fifty or sixty short poems is quite as much as the reader of poetry will stand in these days. Armorel turned over the pages and began to read them. Strange! How could a man so ponderous, so pompous in his conceit, so dogmatic, so self-conscious, write such pretty, easy-flowing numbers? The metres fitted the subject; the rhymes were apt, the cadence true, the verses tripped light and graceful like a maiden dancing. 'How could such a man,' she cried, 'get a touch so light? It is truly wonderful.' 'I told you so, dear. He is altogether wonderful.' She went on reading. Presently she cried out, 'Why! he writes like a woman. Only a woman could have written these lines.' She read them out. 'It is a woman's hand, and a woman's way of thinking.' 'That shows his genius. No one except Alec--or a woman--could have said just that thing in just that manner.' Armorel closed the volume. 'I think,' she said, 'that I like a man to write like a man and a woman like a woman.' 'Then,' said Zoe, 'how is a novelist to make a woman talk?' 'He makes his women talk like women if he can. But when he speaks himself it must be with the voice of a man. In these poems it is the poet who speaks, not any character, man or woman.' 'You will like the poems better as you read them. They will grow upon you. And you will find the poet himself--not a woman, but a man--in his verses. It helps one so much to understand the verses when you know the poet. I think I could almost understand Browning if I had ever known him. Think of Alec when you read his verses.' 'Yes,' said Armorel, still without enthusiasm. 'You said we were talking about nothing else, dear,' Zoe went on. 'I talk so much of him because I respect and revere him so much. I have known Alec a long time'--she lay back with her head turned from her companion, talking softly into the fire, as if she was communing with herself. 'He is, though you do not understand it yet, a man of the most highly strung and sensitive nature. The true reason why he talks ponderously--as you call it, Armorel--is that he is conscious of the traps into which this very sensitiveness of his may lead him: for instance, he may say, before persons unworthy of his confidence, things which they would most likely misunderstand. It is simply wicked to cast pearls before swine. A poet, more than any other man, must be quite sure of his audience before he gives himself away. I assure you, when Alec feels himself alone with his intimates--a very little circle--his talk is brilliant.' 'We are unlucky, then,' said Armorel, still without enthusiasm. 'Another thing may make him seem dull. He is always preoccupied, always thinking about his work: his mind is overcharged.' 'I thought he was always in society--a great diner-out?' 'He is. Society brings him relief. The inanities of social intercourse rest his brain. Without this rest he would be crushed.' 'I see,' said Armorel, coldly. 'Then there is that other side of him--of which you know nothing. My dear, he is constantly thinking of others. His private life--but I must not tell too much. Not only the cleverest man in London, but the best.' Armorel felt guilty. She had not, hitherto, looked upon this phoenix with the reverence which was due to so great a creature. Nay, she did not like him. She was repelled rather than attracted by him. She liked him less every time she met him. And this was oftener than she desired. Somehow or other, they were always meeting. On some pretext or other he was always calling. And certainly for the last few days Zoe was unable to talk about anything else. The genius, the greatness of this man seemed to overwhelm her. 'And now, my dear,' she went on, still talking about him, 'for my little confidences. I have a great scheme in my head. Oh! a very great scheme indeed.' She turned round and sat up, looking Armorel full in the face. Her eyes under her fluffy hair were large and luminous, when she lifted them. Oftener, they were large but sleepy eyes. Now they were quite bright. She was wide awake and she was in earnest. 'I have spoken to no one but you about it as yet. Perhaps you and I can manage it all by ourselves.' 'What is it?' 'You and I, dear, you and I, we two--we can be so associated and bound up in the life of the poet-painter as to be for ever joined with his name. Petrarch and Laura are not more closely connected than we may be with Alec Feilding, if you only join with me.' 'First tell me what it is--this plan of yours.' 'It is nothing less than just to relieve him, once for all, from his business cares.' 'Has he business cares?' 'They take up his precious time. They weigh upon his mind. Why should such a man have any business at all to look after?' 'Well, but,' said Armorel, refusing to rise to this tempting bait, 'why does such a man allow himself to have business cares, if they worry him?' 'It is the conduct of his journal, my dear.' 'But other authors and painters do not conduct journals. Why should he? I believe that successful writers and artists make very large incomes. If he is so successful, why does he trouble about managing a paper? That is certainly work that can be done by a man of inferior brain.' 'You are so matter-of-fact, dear. The paper is his own, and he thinks, I suppose, that nobody but himself could edit the thing. Leave poor Alec one or two human weaknesses. He may think this, and yet make no allowance for his own shrinking and sensitive nature.' Certainly Armorel had seen no indications in this poet-painter of the shrinking nature. It was very carefully concealed. 'Of course,' Zoe continued, 'you hardly know him. But his genius you do know. And the business worries that are inseparable from a journal are a serious hindrance to his higher work. Believe me, dear, even if you do not understand why it should be so.' 'I can very well believe it--I only ask why Mr. Feilding alone, among authors and painters, should hamper himself with such worries.' 'Well, dear--there they are. And I have formed a plan--Oh!'--she clasped her hands and opened her eyes wide--'such a plan! The best and the cleverest plan in the world for the best and the cleverest man in the world! But I want your help.' 'What can I do?' 'I will tell you. First of all. You must remember that Alec is the sole proprietor, as well as the editor of this journal--_The Muses Nine_. It is his property. He created it. But the business management of the paper worries him. My plan, Armorel--my plan'--she spoke and looked most impressive--'will relieve him altogether of the work.' 'Yes--and how do I come into your plan?' 'This way. I have found out, through a person of business, that if he would sell a share--say a quarter, or an eighth--of his paper he would be able to put the business part of it into paid hands--the people who do nothing else. Now, Armorel, we will buy that share--you and I between us will buy it. You shall advance the whole of the money, and I will pay you back half. The price will be nothing to you. That is, it will be a great deal, because the investment will be such a splendid thing, and the returns will be so brilliant. You will increase your income enormously, and you will have the satisfaction'--she paused, because, though she was herself more animated, earnest, and eloquent with voice and eyes, and though she threw so much persuasion into her manner, the tell-tale face of the girl showed no kindling light of response at all--'the satisfaction,' she continued, 'of feeling that such a help to Literature and Art will make us both immortal.' Armorel made no reply. She was considering the proposition coldly, and it was one of those things which must be considered without enthusiasm. 'As for money,' Zoe continued, with one more attempt to awaken a responsive fire, 'I have found out what will be wanted. For three thousand five hundred pounds we can get this share in the paper. Only three thousand five hundred pounds! That is no more than one thousand seven hundred and fifty pounds apiece! I shall insist upon having my share in the investment, because I should grudge you the whole of the work. As for the returns, I have been well advised of that. Of course, Alec is beyond all paltry desire for gain, and he might ask a great deal more. But he leaves everything to his advisers--and oh! my dear, he must on no account know--yet--who is doing this for him. Afterwards, we will break it to him gradually, perhaps, when he has quite recovered from the worries and is rested. If we think of returns, ten, twenty, even fifty per cent. may be expected as the paper gets on. Think of fifty per cent.!' 'No,' said Armorel. 'Let us, too, be above paltry desire for gain. Let those who do want more money go in for this business. If your advice is correct, Mr. Feilding can have no difficulty at all in selling a share of the paper. People who want more money will be only too eager to buy it.' 'My dear child, everybody wants more money.' 'I have quite enough. But why do you ask me to join you, Zoe? I do not know Mr. Feilding, except as an acquaintance. He is, I dare say, all that you think. But I do not find him personally interesting. And there is no reason why I should pretend to be one of the train who follow him and admire him.' 'But I want you--I want you, Armorel.' Zoe clasped her hands and lifted her eyes, humid now. But a woman's eyes move a girl less than a man. 'I want you, and none but you, to join me in this. We two alone will do it. It will be such a splendid thing to do! Nothing short of the rescue of the finest and most poetic mind of the day from sordid cares and worries. Think of what future ages will say of you!' Armorel laughed. 'Indeed!' she said. 'This kind of immortality does not tempt me very much. But, Zoe, it is really useless to urge me. I could not do this, if I would. And truly I would not if I could; for I made a promise to Mr. Jagenal, when I came of age the other day, that I would not lend or part with any money without taking his advice; and that I would not change any of his investments without consulting him. I seem to know, beforehand, what he would say if I consulted him about this proposal.' 'Then, my dear,' said Zoe, lying back in her cushions and turning her face to the fire, 'let us talk about the matter no more.' She had failed. From the outset she felt that she was going to fail. The man had had every chance. He had met the girl constantly: she had left him alone with her: but he had not attracted her in the least. Well: she confessed, in spite of his cleverness, Alec had somewhat of a wooden manner: he was too authoritative; and Armorel was too independent. She had failed. Armorel, for her part, remembered how her lawyer had warned her on the day when she became twenty-one and of age to manage her own affairs: all kinds of traps, he told her, are set to catch women who have got money in order to rob them of their money: they are besieged on every side, especially on the sides presumably the weakest: she must put on the armour of suspicion: she must never--never--never--here he held up a terrifying forefinger--enter into any engagement or promise, verbal or in writing, without consulting him. The memory of this warning made her uneasy--because it was her own companion, the lady appointed by her lawyer himself, who had made the first attempt upon her money. True, the attempt was entirely disinterested. There would be no gain to Zoe even if she were to accede: the proposal was prompted by the purest friendship. And yet she felt uneasy. As for the disinterested companion, she wrote a letter that very night. She said: 'I have made an attempt to get this money for you. It has failed. It was hopeless from the first. You have had your chance: you have been with the girl often enough to attract and interest her: yet she is neither attracted nor interested. I have given her your poems: she says they ought to be the work of a woman: she likes the verse, but she cares nothing about the poet. Strange! For my own part, I have been foolish enough to love the man, and to care not one brass farthing about his work. Your poems--your pictures--they all seem to me outside yourself, and not a part of you at all. Why it is so I cannot explain. Well, Alec, you planted me here, and I remain till you tell me I may go. It is not very lively: the girl and I have nothing in common: but it is restful and cosy, and I always did like comfort and warmth. And Armorel pays all the bills. What next, however? Is there any other way? What are my lord's commands?' CHAPTER X THE SECRET OF THE TWO PICTURES A good many things troubled Armorel--the companion with whom she could not talk: her persistent praises of Mr. Feilding: the constant attendance of that illustrious genius--and she wanted advice. Generally, she was a self-reliant person, but these were new experiences. Effie, she knew, could not advise her. She might go to Mr. Jagenal; but, then, elderly lawyers are not always ready to receive confidences from young ladies. Then she thought of her cousin Philippa, whom she had not seen since that first evening. Philippa looked trustworthy and judicious. She went to see her in the morning, when she would be alone. Philippa received her with the greatest friendliness. 'If you really would like a talk about everything,' she said, 'come to my own room.' She led the way. 'Here we shall be quiet and undisturbed. It is the place where I practise every day. But I shall never be able to play like you, dear. Now, take that chair and let us begin. First, why do you come so seldom?' 'Frankly and truly, do you wish me to come often?' 'Frankly and truly, fair cousin, yes. But come alone. Mrs. Elstree and I were at school together, and we were not friends. That is all. I hope you like her for a companion.' 'The first of my difficulties,' said Armorel, 'is that I do not. I imagined when she came that it mattered nothing about her. You see, I have been for five years under masters and teachers, and I never thought anything about them outside the lesson. I thought my companion would be only another master. But she isn't. I have her company at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And all the evening. I think I am wrong not to like her, because she is always good-tempered. Somehow, she jars upon me. She likes everything I do not care about--comic operas, dance music, French novels. She has no feeling for pictures, and her taste in literature is ... not mine. Oh, I am talking scandal. And she is so perfectly inoffensive. Mostly she lies by the fire and either dozes or reads her French novels. All day long, I go about my devices. But there is the evening.' 'This is rather unfortunate, Armorel, is it not?' 'If it were only for a month or two, one would not mind. Tell me, Philippa, how long must I have a companion?' Philippa laughed. 'I dare say the question may solve itself before long. Women generally achieve independence--with the wedding ring--unless that brings worse slavery.' 'No,' said Armorel, gravely, 'I shall not achieve independence that way.' 'Not that way?' 'Not by marrying!' 'Why not, Armorel?' 'You will not laugh at me, Philippa? I learned a long time ago that I could only marry one kind of man. And now I cannot find him.' 'You did know such a man formerly? My dear, you are not going to let a childish passion ruin your own life.' 'I knew a man who was, in my mind, this kind of man. He came across my life for two or three weeks. When he went away I kept his image in my mind, and it gradually grew as I grew--always larger and more beautiful. The more I learned--the more splendid grew this image. It was an Idol that I set up and worshipped for five long years.' 'And now your Idol is shattered?' 'No; the Idol remains. It is the man, who no longer corresponds to the Idol. The man who might have become this wonderful Image is gone--and I can never love any other man. He must be my Idol in the body.' 'But, Armorel, this is unreal. We are not angels. Men and women must take each other with their imperfections.' 'My Idol may have had his imperfections, too. Well, the man has gone. I am punished, perhaps, for setting up an Idol.' She was silent for awhile, and Philippa had nothing to say. 'But about my companion?' Armorel went on. 'When can I do without one?' 'There is nothing but opinion to consider. Opinion says that a young lady must not live alone.' 'If one never hears what opinion says, one need not consider opinion perhaps.' 'Well, but you could not go into society alone.' 'That matters nothing, because I never go into society at all.' 'Never go into society at all? What do you mean?' 'I mean that we go nowhere.' 'Well, what are people about? They call upon you, I suppose?' 'No; nobody ever calls.' 'But where are Mrs. Elstree's friends?' 'She has no friends.' 'Oh! She has--or had--an immense circle of friends.' 'That was before her father lost everything and killed himself. They were fair-weather friends.' 'Yes, but one's own people don't run away because of misfortune.' Philippa looked dissatisfied with the explanation. 'My dear cousin, this must be inquired into. Your lawyer told me that Mrs. Elstree's large circle of friends would be of such service to you. Do you really mean that you go nowhere? And your wonderful playing absolutely wasted? And your face seen nowhere? Oh! it is intolerable that such a girl as you should be so neglected.' 'I have other friends. There is Effie Wilmot and her brother who wants to become a dramatist. And I have found an old friend, an artist. I am not at all lonely. But in the evening, I confess, it is dull. I am not afraid of being alone. I have always been alone. But now I am not alone. I have to talk.' 'And uncongenial talk.' 'Now advise me, Philippa. Her talk is always on one subject--always the wonderful virtues of Mr. Feilding.' 'My cousin Alec? Yes'--Philippa changed colour, and shaded her face with a hand-screen. 'I believe she knows him.' 'Your cousin? Oh! I had forgotten. But it is all the better, because you know him. Philippa, I am troubled about him. For not only does Zoe talk about him perpetually, but he is always calling on one pretext or other. If I go to a picture-gallery, he is there: if I walk in the park, I meet him: if I go to church--Zoe does not go--he meets me in the porch: if we go to the theatre, he is there.' 'I did not think that Alec was that kind of man,' said Philippa, still keeping the hand-screen before her face. 'Are you mistaken, perhaps? Has he said anything?' 'No: he has said nothing. But it annoys me to have this man following me about--and--and--Philippa--he is your cousin--I know--but I detest him.' 'Can you not show that you dislike his attentions? If he will not understand that you dislike him--wait--perhaps he will speak--though I hardly think--you may be mistaken, dear. If he speaks, let your answer be quite unmistakable.' 'Then I hope that he will speak to-morrow. Zoe wanted me to find some money in order to help him in some way--out of some worries.' 'My dear child--I implore you--do not be drawn into any money entanglements. What does Zoe mean? What does it all mean? My dear, there is something here that I cannot understand. What can it mean? Zoe to help my cousin out of worries about money? Zoe? What has Zoe to do with him and his worries?' 'He has been very kind to her and to her husband.' 'There is something we do not understand,' Philippa repeated. 'You are not angry with me for not liking your cousin?' 'Angry? No, indeed. He has been so spoiled with his success that I don't wonder at your not liking him. As for me, you know, it is different. I knew Alec before his greatness became visible. No one, in the old days, ever suspected the wonderful powers he has developed. When he was a boy, no one knew that he could even hold a pencil, nobody suspected him of making rhymes--and now see what he has done. Yet, after all, his achievements seem to me only like incongruous additions stuck on to a central house. Alec and painting don't go together, in my mind. Nor Alec and vers de société. Nor Alec and story-telling. In his youth he passed for a practical lad, full of common-sense and without imagination.' 'Was he of a sensitive, highly nervous temperament?' 'Not to my knowledge. He has been always, and is still, I think, a man of a singularly calm and even cold temper--not in the least nervous nor particularly sensitive.' Armorel compared this estimate with that of her companion. Strange that two persons should disagree so widely in their estimate of a man. 'Then, three or four years ago, he suddenly blossomed out into a painter. He invited his friends to his chambers. He told us that he had a little surprise for us. And then he drew aside a curtain and disclosed the first picture he thought worthy of exhibition. It hangs on the wall above your head, Armorel, with its companion of the following year. My father bought them and gave them to me.' Armorel got up to look at them. 'Oh!' she cried. 'These are copies!' [Illustration: _'Oh!' she cried. 'These are copies!'_] 'Copies? No. They are Alec's own original pictures. What makes you think they are copies?' What made her think that they were copies was the very remarkable fact that both pictures represented scenes among the Scilly Isles: that in each of them was represented--herself--as a girl of fifteen or sixteen: that the sketches for both these pictures had been made in her own presence by the artist: that he was none other than Roland Lee: and that the picture she had seen in his studio was done by the same hand and in the same style as the two pictures before her. Of that she had no doubt. She had so trained her eye and hand that there could be no doubt at all of that fact. She stared, bewildered. Philippa, who was beside her looking at the pictures, went on talking without observing the sheer amazement in Armorel's eyes. 'That was his first picture,' she continued; 'and this was the second. I remember very well the little speech he made while we were all crowding round the picture. "I am going," he said, "to make a new departure. You all thought I was just following the beaten road at the Bar. Well, I am trying a new and a shorter way to success. You see my first effort." It was difficult to believe our eyes. Alec a painter? One might as well have expected to find Alec a poet: and in a few months he was a poet: and then a story-teller. And his poetry is as good as it is made in these days; and his short stories are as good as any of those by the French writers.' 'What is the subject of this picture?' Armorel asked with an effort. 'The place is somewhere on the Cornish coast, I believe. He always paints the same kind of picture--always a rocky coast--a tossing sea--perhaps a boat--spray flying over the rocks--and always a girl, the same girl. There she is in both pictures--a handsome black-haired girl, quite young--it might be almost a portrait of yourself when you were younger, Armorel.' 'Almost,' said Armorel. 'This girl is now as well known to Alec's friends as Wouvermann's white horse. But no one knows the model.' Armorel's memory went back to the day when Roland made that sketch. She stood--so--just as the painter had drawn her, on a round boulder, the water boiling and surging at her feet and the white foam running up. Behind her the granite rock, grey and black. How could she ever forget that sketch? 'Alec is wonderful in his seas,' Philippa went on. 'Look at the bright colour and the clear transparency of the water. You can feel it rolling at your feet. Upon my word, Armorel, the girl is really like you.' 'A little, perhaps. Yes; they are good pictures, Philippa. The man who painted them is a painter indeed.' She sat down again, still bewildered. Presently she heard Philippa's voice. 'What is it?' she asked. 'You have become deaf and dumb. Are you ill?' 'No--I am not ill. The sight of those pictures set me thinking. I will go now, Philippa. If he speaks to me I will reply so that there can be no mistake. But if he persists in following me about, I will ask you to interfere.' 'If necessary,' Philippa promised her. 'I will interfere for you. But there is something in all this which I do not understand. Come again soon, dear, and tell me everything.' When they began this talk, one girl was a little troubled, but not much. The other was free from any trouble. When they parted, both girls were troubled. One felt, vaguely, that danger was in the air. Zoe meant something by constantly talking about her cousin Alec. What understanding was there between him and that woman--that detestable woman? The other walked home in a doubt and perplexity that drove everything else out of her head. What did those pictures mean? Had Roland given away his sketches? Was there another painter who had the very touch of Roland as well as his sketches? No, no; it was impossible. Suddenly she remembered something on the fragment of paper that Effie picked up. The corner of the torn cheque--even the signature of Alec Feilding. What did that mean? Why had Roland torn up a cheque signed by Mr. Feilding? Why had he called that act the turning of the footstep? CHAPTER XI A CRITIC ON TRUTH One painter may make use of another man's sketches for his own pictures. The thing is conceivable, though one cannot recall, and there is no record of, any such case. It is, perhaps, possible. Portrait-painters have employed other men to paint backgrounds and even hands and drapery. Now, the two pictures hanging in Philippa's room were most certainly painted from Roland's sketches. If there were any room for doubt the figure of Armorel herself in the foreground removed that doubt. Therefore, Roland must have lent his sketches to Mr. Feilding. What else did he lend? Can one man lend another his eye, his hand, his sense of colour, his touch, his style? There was once, I seem to have read, a man who sold his soul to the only Functionary who buys such things, and keeps a stock of them second-hand, on the condition that he should be able to paint as well as the immortal Raffaello. He obtained his wish, because the Devil always keeps his bargain to the letter, with the result that, instead of winning the imperishable wreath for himself that he expected, he was never known at all, and his pictures are now sold as those of the master whose works they so miraculously resemble. Armorel had perhaps heard this story somewhere. Could the cleverest man in all London have made a similar transaction, taking Roland Lee for his model? If so, the Devil had not cheated him at all, and he got out of the bargain all he expected, because he not only painted quite as well as his master, and in exactly the same style, so that it was impossible to distinguish between them, but, which the other unfortunate did not get, all the credit was given to him, while the original model or master languished in obscurity. It was obvious to a trained eye, at very first sight, that the style of the pictures was that of Roland Lee. He had a style of his own. The first mark of genius in any art is individuality. His style was no more to be imitated in painting than the style of Robert Browning can be followed in poetry. Painters there are who have been imitated and have created a school of imitators: even these can always be distinguished from their copyists. The subtle touch of the master, the personal presence of his hand, cannot be copied or imitated. In these two pictures the hand of Roland was clearly, unmistakably visible. The light thrown over them, the atmosphere with which they were charged--everything was his. He had caught the September sunshine as it lies over and enfolds the Scilly Islands--who should know that soft and golden light better than Armorel?--he had caught the transparencies of the seas, the shining yellows of the sea-weed, the browns and purples of bramble and fern, the greyness and the blackness of the rock: you could hear the rush of the water eddying among the boulders; you could see the rapid movement of the sea-gulls' wings as they swept along with the wind. Could another, even with the original sketches lying before him, even with skill and feeling of his own, reproduce these things in Roland's own individual style? 'No,' she cried, but not aloud; 'I know these pictures. They are not his at all. They are Roland's.' Every line of thought that she followed--to write these down would be to produce another 'Ring and Book'--in her troubled meditations after the discovery led her to the same conclusion. It was that at which she had arrived in a single moment of time, without argument or reasoning, and at the very first sight of the pictures. The first thought is always right. 'They are Roland's pictures'--that was the first thought. The second thought brings along the doubts, suggests objections, endeavours to be judicial, deprecates haste, and calls for the scales. 'They cannot,' said the second thought, 'be Roland's paintings, because Mr. Feilding says they are his.' The third thought, which is the first strengthened by evidence, declared emphatically that they were Roland's, whatever Mr. Feilding might say, and could be the work of none other. Therefore, the cleverest man in all London, according to everybody, the best and most generous and most honourable, according to Armorel's companion, was an impostor and a Liar. Never before had she ever heard of such a Liar. Armorel, it is true, knew but little of the crooked paths by which many men perform this earthly pilgrimage from the world which is to the world which is to come. Children born on Samson--nay, even those also of St. Mary's--have few opportunities of observing these ways. That is why all Scillonians are perfectly honest: they do not know how to cheat--even those who might wish to become dishonest, if they knew. In her five years' apprenticeship the tree of knowledge had dropped some of its baleful fruit at Armorel's feet: that cannot be avoided even in a convent garden. Yet she had not eaten largely of the fruit, nor with the voracity that distinguishes many young people of both sexes when they get hold of these apples. In other words, she only knew of craft and falsehood in general terms, as they are set forth in the Gospels and by the Apostles, and especially in the Book of Revelation, which expressly states the portion of liars. Yet, even with this slight foundation to build upon, Armorel was well aware that here was a fraud of a most monstrous character. Surely, there never was, before this man, any man in the world who dared to present to the world another man's paintings, and to call them his own? Men and women have claimed books which they never wrote--witness the leading case of the false George Eliot and the story told by Anthony Trollope; men have pretended to be well-known writers--did I not myself once meet a man in an hotel pretending to be one of our most genial of story-tellers? Men have written things and pretended that they were the work of famous hands. Literature--alas!--hath many impostors. But in Art the record is clean. There are a few ghosts, to be sure, here and there--sporadic spectres!--but they are obscure and mostly unknown. Armorel had never heard or seen any of them. Surely there never before was any man like unto this man! And, apart from the colossal impudence of the thing, she began to consider the profound difficulties in carrying it out. Because, you see, no one man, unaided, could carry it through. It requires the consent, the silence, and the active--nay, the zealous--cooperation of another man. And how are you to get that man? In order to get this other man--this active and zealous fellow-conspirator--you must find means to persuade him to sacrifice every single thing that men care for--honour, reputation, success. He must be satisfied to pursue Art, actually and literally, for Art's own sake. This is, I know, a rule of conduct preached by every art critic, every æsthete, every lecturer or writer on Art. Yet observe what it may lead to. Was there, for instance, an unknown genius who gave his work to Giotto, with permission to call it his own? And was that obscure genius content to sit and watch that work in the crowd, unseen and unsuspected, while he murmured praises and thanksgiving for the skill of hand and eye which had been given to him, but claimed by that other young man, Messer Giotto? Did Turner have his ghost? Sublime sacrifice of self! So to pursue Art for Art's sake as to give your pictures to another man by which he may rise to honour--even, it may be, to the Presidency of the Royal Academy, contented only with the consciousness of good and sincere work, and with the possession of mastery! It is beyond us: we cannot achieve this greatness--we cannot rise to this devotion. Art hath no such votaries. By what persuasions, then--by what bribes--was Roland induced to consent to his own suicide--ignoble, secret, and shameful suicide? He must have consented; in no other way could the thing be done. He must have agreed to efface himself--but not out of pure devotion to Art. Not so. The Roland of the past survived still. The burning desire for distinction and recognition still flamed in his soul. The bitterness and shame with which he spoke of himself proved that his consent had been wrung from him. He was ashamed. Why? Because another bore the honours that should be his. Because he was a bondman of the impostor. Of this Armorel was certain. Roland Lee--the man whom for five long years she had imagined to be marching from triumph to triumph--conqueror of the world--had sold himself--for what consideration she knew not--hand and eye, genius and brain, heart and soul--had sold himself into slavery. He had consented to a monstrous and most impudent fraud! And the man who stood before the canvas in public, writing his name in the corner, was--the noun appellative, the proper noun--belonging to such an act. And her own friend--her gallant hero of Art--what else was he in this conspiracy of two? You cannot persuade a woman--such is the poverty of the feminine imagination--to call a thing like this by any other name than its plain, simple, and natural one. A man may explain away, find excuses, make suggestions, point out extenuating circumstances, show how the force of events destroys free will, and propose a surplice and a golden crown for the unfortunate victim of fate, instead of bare shoulders and the nine-clawed cat. But a woman--never. If the thing done is a Lie, the man who did it is a ---- 'Armorel,' said her companion--it was in the afternoon, and she had been dozing after her lunch--'what is the matter? You have been sitting in the window, which has a detestable view of a dismal street, for two long hours without talking. At lunch you sat as if in a dream. Are you ill? Has anything happened? Has the respectable Mr. Jagenal robbed you of your money? Has Philippa been saying amiable things about me?' 'I have found out something which has disquieted me beyond expression,' said Armorel, gravely. Zoe changed colour. 'Heavens!'--she laughed curiously. 'What has come out now? Anything about me? One never knows what may come out next. It is very odd what a lot of things may be said about everybody.' 'My discovery has nothing to do with you, at least--no, nothing at all.' 'That is reassuring.' It certainly was, as everybody knows who does not wish the curtain to draw up once again on the earlier and half-forgotten scenes of the play. 'Perhaps it might relieve you, dear, if you were to tell me. But do not think I am curious. Besides, I dare say I could tell you more than you could tell me. Is it about Philippa's hopeless attachment for the man who will never marry her, and her cruelty to the reverend gentleman who will?' 'No--no: it is nothing about Philippa. I know nothing about any attachments.' 'Well, you will tell me when you please.' Zoe relapsed into warmth and silence. But she watched the girl from under her heavy eyelids. Something had happened--something serious. Armorel pursued her meditations, but in a different line. She now remembered that the leader in this Fraud was the man whom Zoe professed to honour above all other living men: could she tell this disciple what she had discovered? One might as well inform Kadysha that her prophet Mohammed was an epileptic impostor. And, again, he was Philippa's first cousin, and she regarded him with pride, if not--as Zoe suggested--with a warmer feeling still. How could she bring this trouble upon Philippa? And, again, it was Roland's secret. How could she reveal a thing which would cover him with ridicule and discredit for the rest of his life? She must be silent for the sake of everybody. 'Zoe,' she sprang to her feet, 'don't ask me anything more. Forget what I said. It is not my own secret.' 'My dear child,' Zoe murmured, 'if nobody has run away with your money, and if you have found out no mares' nests about me, I don't mind anything. I have already quite forgotten. Why should I remember?' 'Of course,' Armorel repeated impatiently--this companion of hers often made her impatient--'there is nothing about you. It concerns----' 'Mr. Feilding.' It was only an innocent maid who opened the door to announce an afternoon caller; but Armorel started, for really it was the right completion to her sentence, though not the completion she meant to make. He came in--the man of whom her mind was full--tall, handsome, calm, and self-possessed. Authority sat, visible to all, upon his brow. His dress, his manner, his voice, proclaimed the man who had succeeded--who deserved to succeed. Oh! how could it be possible? Armorel mechanically gave him her hand, wondering. Then, quite in the old style, and as a survival of Samson Island, there passed rapidly through her mind the whole procession of those texts which refer to liars. For the moment she felt curious and nervously excited, as one who should talk with a man condemned. Then she came back to London and to the exigencies of the situation. Yet it was really quite wonderful. For he sat down and began to talk for all the world as if he was a perfectly truthful person: and she rang the bell for tea, and poured it out for him, as if she knew nothing to the contrary. That he, being what he was, should so carry himself; that she, who knew everything, should sit down calmly and put milk and sugar in his tea, were two facts so extraordinary that her head reeled. Presently, however, she began to feel amused. It was like knowing beforehand, so that the mind is free to think of other things, the story and the plot of a comedy. She considered the acting and the make-up. And both were admirable. The part of successful genius could not be better played. One has known genius too modest to accept the position, happiest while sitting in a dark corner. Here, however, was genius stepping to the front and standing there boldly in sight of all, as if the place was his by the double right of birth and of conquest. He sat down and began to talk of Art. He seldom, indeed, talked about anything else. But Art has many branches, and he talked about them all. To-day, however, he discoursed on drawing and painting. He was accustomed to patient listeners, and therefore he assumed that his discourse was received with respect, and did not observe the preoccupied look on the face of the girl to whom he discoursed--for Zoe made no pretence of listening, except when the conversation seemed likely to take a personal turn. Nor did he observe how from time to time Armorel turned her eyes upon him--eyes full of astonishment--eyes struck with amazement. Presently he descended for awhile from the heights of principle to the lower level of personal topic. 'Mrs. Elstree tells me,' he said, smiling with some condescension, 'that you paint--of course as an amateur--as well as play. If you can draw as well as you can play you are indeed to be envied. But that is, perhaps, too much to be expected. Will you show me some of your work? And will you--without being offended--suffer me to be a candid critic?' Armorel went gravely to her own room and returned with a small portfolio full of drawings which she placed before him, still with the wonder in her eyes. What would he say--this man who passed off another man's pictures for his own? She stood at the table over him, looking down upon him, waiting to see him betray himself--the first criminal person--the first really wicked man--she had ever encountered in the flesh. 'You are not afraid of the truth?' he asked, turning over the sketches. 'In Art--truth--truth is everything. Without truth there is no Art. Truth and sincerity should be our aim in criticism as well as in Art itself.' Oh! what kind of conscience could this man have who was able so to talk about Art, seeing what manner of man he was? Armorel glanced at Zoe, half afraid that he would convict himself in her presence. But she seemed asleep, lying back in her cushions. His remarks were judgments. Once pronounced, there was no appeal. Yet his judgments produced no effect upon the girl, not the least. She listened, she heard, she acquiesced in silence. Perhaps because he was struck with her coldness he left off examining the sketches, and began a learned little discourse about composition and harmony, selection and grouping. He illustrated these remarks, not obtrusively, but quite naturally, by referring to his own pictures, appealing to Zoe, who lazily raised her head and murmured response, as one who knew it all beforehand. Now, as to the discourse itself, Armorel recognised every word of it already: she had read and had been taught these very things. It showed, she thought, what a pretender the man must be not to understand work that had been done by one who had studied seriously, and already knew all that he was laboriously enforcing. But she said nothing. It was, moreover, the lesson of a professor, not of an artist. Between the professional critic who can neither paint nor draw and the smallest of the men who can paint and draw there is, if you please, a gulf fixed that cannot be passed over. 'This drawing, for instance,' he concluded, taking up one from the table, 'betrays exactly the weakness of which I have been speaking. It has some merit. There is a desire for truth--without truth what are we? The lights are managed with some dexterity, the colour has real feeling. But consider this figure. From sheer ignorance of the elementary considerations which I have been laying down, you have placed it exactly in front. Had it been here, at the right, the effect of the figure in bringing up the whole of the picture would have been heightened tenfold. For my own part, I always like a figure in a painting--a single figure for choice--a girl, because the treatment of the hair and the dress lends itself to effect.' 'His famous girl!' echoed Zoe. 'That model whom nobody is allowed to see!' Now, the figure was placed in the middle for very excellent reasons, and in full consideration of those very principles which this expounder had been setting forth. But what yesterday would have puzzled her, now amused her one moment and irritated her the next. He took up a crayon. 'Shall I show you,' he asked, 'exactly what I mean?' 'If you please. Here is a piece of paper which will do.' He spoke in the style which Matthew Arnold so much admired--the Grand Style--the words clear and articulate, the emphasis just, the manner authoritative. 'I will just indicate your background,' he said, poising the pencil professionally--he looked as if the Grand Style really belonged to him--'in two or three strokes, and then I will sketch in your figure in the place--here--where it properly belongs. You will see immediately, though, of course--your eye--cannot----' He played with the chalk as one considering where to begin--but he did not begin. Armorel remembered a certain day when Roland gave her his first lesson, pencil in hand. Never was that pencil idle: it moved about of its own accord: it was drawing all the time: it seemed to be drawing out of its own head. Mr. Feilding, on the other hand, never touched the paper at all. His pencil was dumb and lifeless. But Armorel waited anxiously for him to begin. Now, at any rate, she should see if he could draw. She was disappointed. The clock on the overmantel suddenly struck six. Mr. Feilding dropped the crayon. 'Good heavens!' he cried. 'You make one forget everything, Miss Rosevean. We must put off the rest of this talk for another day. But you will persevere, dear young lady, will you not? Promise me that you will persevere. Even if the highest peak cannot be attained--we may not all reach that height--it is something to stand upon the lower slope, if it is only to recognise the greatness of those who are above and the depths below--how deep they are!--of the world which knows no art. Persevere--persevere! I will call again and help you, if I may.' He pressed her hand warmly, and departed. 'I really think,' said Zoe, 'that he believes you worth teaching, Armorel. I have never known him give so much time to any one girl before. And if you only knew how they flock about him!' 'Zoe,' said Armorel, without answering this remark, 'you have seen all Mr. Feilding's pictures, have you not?' 'I believe, all.' 'Do they all treat the same subject?' 'Up to the present, he has exhibited nothing but sea and coast pieces, headlands, low tide on the rocks, and so forth. Always with this black-haired girl--something like you, but not much more than a child.' 'Did you ever see him actually at work?' 'You mean working at an unfinished thing? No; never. He cannot endure anyone in his studio while he is at work.' 'Did he ever draw anything for you--any pen-and-ink sketch--pencil sketch? Have you got any of his sketches--rough things?' 'No. Alec has a secretive side to his character. It comes out in odd ways. No one suspected that he could paint, or even draw, until, three or four years ago, he suddenly burst upon us with a finished picture; and then it came out that he had been secretly drawing all his life, and studying seriously for years. Where he will break out next, I don't know.' 'He may break out anywhere,' said Armorel, 'except upon the fiddle. I think that he will never play the fiddle. Yes, Zoe, he really is a very, very clever man. He is certainly the very cleverest man in all London.' CHAPTER XII TO MAKE THAT PROMISE SURE There are few instincts and impulses of imperfect human nature more deeply rooted or more certain to act upon us than the desire to 'have it out' with some other human creature. Women are especially led or driven by this impulse, even among the less highly civilised to the tearing out of nose- and ear-rings. You may hear every day at all hours in every back street of every city the ladies having it out with each other. In fact there is a perpetual court of Common Pleas being held in these streets, without respite of holiday or truce, in which the folk have it out with each other, while friends--sympathetic friends--stand by and act as judges, jury, arbitrators, lawyers, and all. Things are reported, things are said, things are done, a personal explanation is absolutely necessary, before peace of mind can be restored, or the way to future action become clearly visible. The two parties must have it out. In Armorel's case she found that before doing anything she must see that member of the conspiracy--if, indeed, there was a conspiracy--who was her own friend: she must see Roland. She must know exactly what it meant, if only to find out how it could be stopped. In plain words, she must have it out. Those who obey a natural impulse generally believe that they are acting by deliberate choice. Thus the doctrine of free will came to be invented: and thus Armorel, when she took a cab to the other studio, had no idea but that she was acting the most original part ever devised for any comedy. As before, she found the artist in his dingy back room, alone. But the picture was advancing. When she saw it, a fortnight before, it was little more than the ghost of a rock with a spectral sea and a shadowy girl beside the sea. Now, it was advanced so far that one could see the beginnings of a fine painting in it. Roland stepped forward and greeted his old friend. Why--he was already transformed. What had he done to himself? The black bar was gone from his forehead: his eyes were bright: his cheeks had got something of their old colour: his hair was trimmed, and his dress, as well as his manner, showed a return to self-respect. 'What happy thought brings you here again, Armorel?' he asked, with the familiarity of an old friend. 'I came to see you at work. Last time I came only to see you. Is it permitted?' 'Behold me! I am at work. See my picture--all there is of it.' Armorel looked at it long and carefully. Then she murmured unintelligibly, 'Yes, of course. But there never could have been any doubt.' She turned to the artist a face full of encouragement. 'What did I prophesy for you, Roland? That you should be a great painter? Well, my prophecy will come true.' 'I hope, but I fear. I am beginning the world again.' 'Not quite. Because you have never ceased to work. Your hand is firmer and your eye is truer now than it was four years ago, when you--ceased to exhibit. But you have never ceased to work. So that you go back to the world with better things.' 'They refused to buy my things before.' 'They will not refuse now. Nay, I am certain. Don't think of money, my old friend: you must not--you shall not think of money. Think of nothing but your work--and your name. What ought to be done to a man who should forget his name? He deserves to be deprived of his genius, and to be cast out among the stupid. But you, Roland, you were always keen for distinction--were you not?' He made no reply. 'How well I know the place,' she said, standing before the picture. 'It is the narrow channel between Round Island and Camber Rock. Oh! the dear, terrible place. When you and I were there, you remember, Roland, the water was smooth and the sea-birds were flying quietly. I have seen them driven by the wind off the island and beating up against it like a sailing ship. But in September there are no puffins. And I have seen the water racing and roaring through the channel, dashing up the black sides of the rocks--while we lay off, afraid to venture near. It was low tide when you made your sketch. I remember the long, yellow fringing sea-weed hanging from the rock six feet deep. And there is your girl sitting in the boat. Oh! I remember her very well. What a happy time she had while you were with her, Roland! You were the very first person to show her something of the outer world. It seemed, when you were gone, as if you had taken that girl and planted her on a high rock so that she could see right across the water to the world of men and Art. You always keep this girl in your pictures?' 'Always in these pictures of coast and rock.' 'Roland, I want you to make a change. Do not paint the girl of sixteen in this picture. Let me be your model instead. Put me into the picture. It is my fancy. Will you let me sit for you again?' 'Surely, Armorel, if I may. It will be--oh, but you cannot--you must not come to this den of a place.' 'Indeed, I think it is not a nice place at all. But I shall stipulate that you take another and a more decent studio immediately. Will you do this?' 'I will do anything--anything--that you command.' 'You know what I want. The return of my old friend. He is on his way back already.' 'I know--I know. But whether he ever can come back again I know not. A shade or spectre of him, perhaps, or himself, besmirched and smudged, Armorel--dragged through the mud.' 'No. He shall come back--himself--in spotless robes. Now you shall take a studio, and I will come and sit to you. I may bring my little friend, Effie Wilmot, with me? That is agreed, then. You will go, Sir, this very morning and find a studio. Have you gone back to your old friends?' 'Not yet. I had very few friends. I shall go back to them when I have got work to show. Not before.' 'I think you should go back as soon as you have taken your new studio. It will be safer and better. You have been too much alone. And there is another thing--a very important thing--the other night you made me a promise. You tore up something that looked like a cheque. And you assured me that this meant nothing less than a return to the old paths.' 'When I tore up that accursed cheque, Armorel, I became a free man.' 'So I understood. But when one talks of free men one implies the existence of the master or owner of men who are not free. Have you signified to that master or owner your intention to be his bondman no longer?' 'No. I have not.' 'This man, Roland,' she laid her hand on his, 'tell me frankly, has he any hold upon you?' 'None.' 'Can he injure you in any way? Can he revenge himself upon you? Is there any old folly or past wickedness that he can bring up against you?' 'None. I have to begin the world again: that is the outside mischief.' 'All your pictures you have sold to this man, Roland, with me in every one?' 'Yes, all. Spare me, Armorel! With you in every one. Forgive me if you can!' 'I understand now, my poor friend, why you were so cast down and ashamed. What? You sold your genius--your holy, sacred genius--the spirit that is within you! You flung yourself away--your name, which is yourself--you became nothing, while this man pretends that the pictures--yours--were his! He puts his name to them, not your own--he shows them to his friends in the room that he calls his studio--he sends them to the exhibition as his own--and yet you have been able to live! Oh, how could you?--how could you? Oh! it was shameful--shameful--shameful! How could you, Roland? Oh, my master!--I have loaded you with honour--oh, how could you?--how could you?' The vehemence of her indignation soon revived the old shame. Roland hung his head. 'How could I?' he repeated. 'Yes, say it again--ask the question a thousand times--how could I?' 'Forgive me, Roland! I have been thinking about it continually. It is a thing so dreadful, and yesterday something--an unexpected something--brought it back to my mind--and--and--made me understand more what it meant. And oh, Roland, how could you? I thought, before, that you had only idled and trifled away your time; but now I know. And again--again--again--how could you?' 'It is no excuse--but it is an explanation--I do not defend myself. Not the least in the world--but ... Armorel, I was starving.' 'Starving?' 'I could not sell my pictures. No one wanted them. The dealers would give me nothing but a few shillings apiece for them. I was penniless, and I was in debt. A man who drops into London out of Australia has no circle of friends and cousins who will stand by him. I was alone. Perhaps I loved too well the luxurious life. I tried for employment on the magazines and papers, but without success. In truth, I knew not where to look for the next week's rent and the next week's meals. I was a Failure, and I was penniless. Do you ask more?' 'Then the man came----' 'He came--my name was worth nothing--he asked me to suppress it. My work--which no one would buy--he offered to buy for what seemed, in my poverty, substantial prices if I would let him call it his own. What was the bargain? A life of ease against the bare chance of a name with the certainty of hard times. I was so desperate that I accepted.' 'You accepted. Yes.... But you might have given it up at any moment.' 'To be plunged back again into the penniless state. For the life of ease, mark you, brought no ease but a bare subsistence. Only quite lately, terrified by the success of the last picture, my employer has offered to give me two thirds of all he gets. The cheque you saw me tear up and burn was the first considerable sum I have ever received. It is gone, and I am penniless again----' 'And now that you are penniless?' 'Now I shall pawn my watch and chain and everything else that I possess. I shall finish this picture, and I will sell it for what the dealers will give me for it. Too late, this year, for exhibition. And so ... we shall see. If the worst comes I can carry a pair of boards up and down Piccadilly, opposite to the Royal Academy, and dream of the artistic life that once I hoped would be my own.' 'You will do better than that, Roland,' said Armorel, moved to tears. 'Oh! you will make a great name yet. But this man--don't tell me his name. Roland, promise me, please, not to tell me his name. I want you--just now--to think that it is your own secret--to yourself. If I should find it out, by accident, that would be--just now--my secret--to myself. This man--you have not yet broken with him?' 'Not yet.' 'Will you go to him and tell him that it is all over? Or will you write to him?' 'I thought that I would wait, and let him come to me.' 'I would not, if I were you. I would write and tell him at once, and plainly. Sit down, Roland, and write now--at once--without delay. Then you will feel happier.' 'I will do what you command me,' he replied meekly. He had, indeed, resolved with all his might and main that the rupture should be made; but, as yet, he had not made it. 'Get paper, then, and write.' He obeyed, and sat down. 'What shall I say?' he asked. 'Write: "After four years of slavery, I mean to become a man once more. Our compact is over. You shall no longer put your name to my works; and I will no longer share in the infamy of this fraud. Find, if you can, some other starving painter, and buy him. I have torn up your cheque, and I am now at work on a picture which will be my own. If there is any awkwardness about the subject and the style, in connection with the name upon it, that awkwardness will be yours, not mine." So--will you read it aloud? I think,' said Armorel, 'that it will do. He will probably come here and bluster a little. He may even threaten. He may weep. You will--Roland--are you sure--you will be adamant?' 'I swear, Armorel! I will be true to my promise.' Armorel heaved a sigh. Would he stand steadfast? He might have much to endure. Would he be able to endure hardness? It is only the very young man who can be happy in a garret and live contentedly on a crust. At twenty-six or twenty-seven, the age at which Roland had now arrived, one is no longer quite so young. The garret is dismal: the crust is insipid, unless there are solid grounds for hope. Yet he had the solid grounds of improved work--good work. 'Should you be afraid of him?' she asked. 'Afraid of him?' Roland laughed. 'Why, I never meet him but I curse him aloud. Afraid of him? No. I have never been afraid of anything but of becoming penniless. Poverty--destitution--is an awful spectre. And not only poverty but--I confess, with shame----' 'Oh! man of little faith'--she did not want to hear the end of that confession--'you could not endure a single hour. You did this awful thing for want of money.' 'I did,' said Roland, meekly. 'The Way of Pleasure and the Way of Wealth. I remember--you told me long ago--they draw the young man by ropes. But not the girl. Why not the girl? I have never felt this strange yearning for riot and excess. In all the poetry, the novels, the pictures, and the plays the young men are always being dragged by ropes to the Way of Pleasure. Are men so different from women? What does it mean--this yearning? I cannot understand it. What is your Way of Pleasure that it should attract you so? Your poetry and your novels cannot explain it. I see feasting in the Way of Pleasure, drinking, singing, dancing, gambling, sitting up all night, and love-making. As for work, there is none. Why should the young man want to feast? It is like a City Alderman to be always thinking of banquets. Why should you want to drink wine perpetually? I suppose you do not actually get tipsy. If you can sing and like singing, you can sing over your work, I suppose. As for love-making'--she paused. The subject, where a young man and a maiden discuss it, has to be treated delicately. 'I have always supposed'--she added, with hesitation, for experience was lacking--'that two people fall in love when they are fitted for each other. But in this, your wonderful Way of Pleasure, the poets write as if every man was always wanting to make love to every woman if she is pleasant to look at, and without troubling whether she is good or bad, wise or silly. Oh! every woman! any woman! there is neither dignity of manhood nor self-respect nor respect to woman in this folly.' 'You cannot understand any of it, Armorel,' said Roland. 'We ought all of us to be flogged from Newgate to Tyburn.' 'That would not make me understand. Flora, Chloe, Daphne, Amaryllis--they are all the same to the poet. A pretty girl seems all that he cares for. Can that be love?' '--And back again,' said Roland. 'Still I should not understand. In the poetry I think that love-making comes first, and eating and drinking afterwards. As for love-making,' she spoke philosophically, as one in search of truth, 'as for love-making, I believe I could wait contentedly without it until I found exactly the one man I could love. But that I should take a delight in writing or singing songs about making love to every man who was a handsome fellow--any man--every man--oh! can one conceive such a thing? There is but one Way of Pleasure to such as you, Roland. If I could paint so good a picture as this is going to be, it would be a life-long joy. I should never, never, never tire of it. I should want no other pleasure--nothing better--than to work day after day, to work and study, to watch and observe, to feel the mastery of hand and eye. Oh! Roland--with this before you--with this'--she pointed to the picture--'you sold your soul--you--you--you!--for feasting and drinking and--and--perhaps----' 'No, Armorel: no. Everything else if you like, but not love-making.' CHAPTER XIII THE DRAMATIST If Mrs. Elstree was Armorel's official and authorised companion, her private unpaid companion was Effie Wilmot. The official companion was resident in the chambers, and was seen with her charge at the theatres and concerts. The private unpaid companion went about with her all day long, sat with her in her own room, knew what she thought, and talked with her of the things she loved to discuss. So that, though the representative of Order and Propriety had less to do, the unpaid attachée had a much more lively time. Fortunately, the official companion was best pleased when there was nothing to do. In those days, when London was as yet an unknown land to both of them, the girls went together to see things. Nobody knows what a great quantity of things there are to see in London when you once set yourself seriously to explore this great unknown continent. Captain Magalhaens himself, crossing the Pacific Ocean for the first time, did not experience a more interesting and exciting time than these two girls in their walks in and about the great town, new to both. They were as ravenous as American tourists beginning their European round. And, like them, they consulted their Baedeker, their Hare, and their Peter Cunningham. Pictures there are, all in the West-End; museums, with every kind of treasure; historic houses--alas! not many; libraries; art galleries of all kinds; cathedrals, churches, ancient and modern; old streets, whose paving-stones are inscribed in the closest print with the most wonderful recollections; old sites, broken fragments, even. Every morning the two girls wandered forth, sometimes not coming home until late in the afternoon. Then Effie went back to her lodging, and spent the evening working at her verses; while Armorel practised her violin, or read and dreamed away the time opposite her companion, who sat for the most part in silence, gazing into the firelight, lying back in her easy-chair beside the fire. These ramblings belong to another book--the Book of the Things Left Out. I could show you, dear reader, many curious and interesting places visited by these two pilgrims, but one must not in this place write these down, because Armorel's story is not Armorel's history. Let us always be careful to distinguish. Besides, the events which have to be related destroyed, as you will see, the calm and tranquillity necessary for the proper enjoyment of such ramblings. First, this discovery concerning the pictures. Who can visit old churches and museums with a mind full of wrath and bitterness? So wrathful was Armorel in considering the impudence of the fraud she had discovered: so bitter was she in considering the cowardice of her old hero: that she even failed to observe the unmistakable signs of trouble which at this time showed themselves in her friend's face. If not a beautiful face, it was expressive. When the projecting forehead showed a thick black line: when the deep-set eyes were ringed with dark circles: when the pale cheeks grew paler and more hollow: and when the girl, who was generally so bright and animated, became silent and _distraite_, something was wrong. 'What is it, Effie?' Armorel asked, waking up. 'I have asked you three questions, and have received no answer. And you are looking ill. Has anything gone wrong?' 'Oh!' cried Effie, 'it is horrid! You are in troubles of your own, and you want me to add to them by telling you about mine.' 'I am in trouble, dear. And it makes me selfish and blind. You know partly what it is about. It is about the Life that has gone wrong. I have found out why and how. But I can never tell you or anybody. Never mind. Tell me about yourself.' 'It is more about my brother than myself. You know that Archie has been writing a play?' 'Yes. You write verses which you have never shown me; and your brother writes plays. I shall see both some day, perhaps.' 'Whenever you like. But Archie has now finished his play.' 'Yes?' 'That means to him more than I can possibly tell you. He has been living for that play, and for nothing else. It has filled his brain day and night. Never was so much trouble given to a play before, I am sure. It is himself.' 'I understand.' 'Well--then--you will understand also what he feels when he has been told that his play is utterly worthless.' 'Who told him that?' 'A great authority--a writer of great reputation--the only living writer whom we have ever known.' 'Well--but--Effie, if a great authority says this, it is frightful.' 'It would be, but for one thing, which you shall hear afterwards. However, he did confess that some of the situations were fine. But the dialogue, he said, was unfitted for the stage, and no manager would so much as look at the play.' 'Poor Archie! What a dreadful blow! What does he say?' 'He is utterly cast down. He sits at home and broods. Sometimes he swears that he will tear up the thing and throw it into the fire; sometimes he recovers a little of his old confidence in it. He will not eat anything, and he does not sleep; and I can find nothing to say that will comfort him. If I knew anyone who would give him another opinion--the play cannot be so bad. Armorel, will you read the play?' 'But, my dear, I am no critic. What would be the good of my reading it?' 'I would rather have your criticism than'--she hesitated--'than anybody's. Because you can feel--and you have the artist's soul; and everybody has not----though he may paint such beautiful pictures,' she added rather obscurely. 'Well, I will read the play, or hear him read it, if you think it will do him any good, Effie. I will go with you at once.' 'Oh! will you, really? Archie will be shy at first. The last criticism caused him so much agony that he dreads another. But yours will be sympathetic, at least. You will understand what he meant, even if he has not succeeded--poor boy!--in putting on the stage what was in his heart. When he sees that you do feel for him, it will be different. Oh! Armorel!'--the tears rose to her eyes--'you cannot know what that play has been to both of us. We have talked over every situation: we have rehearsed all the dialogue. I know it by heart, I think. I could recite the whole of it, straight through. We have cried over it, and laughed over it. I have dressed dolls for all the parts, and one of us made them act while the other read the play. And, after all, to be told that it is worthless! Oh! It is a shame! It is a shame! And it isn't worthless. It is a great, a beautiful play. It is full of tenderness, and of strength as well.' 'Let us go at once, Effie.' 'What a good thing it was for me that the Head of the Reading Room sent me to you! I little thought I was going to make such a friend'--she took Armorel's hand--'We had no friends--yes, there was one, but he is no true friend. We have had no friends at all, and we thought to make our way without any.' 'You came to London to conquer the world--such a great giant of a world--you and your brother, Jack the Giant Killer.' 'Ah! But we had read, somewhere, that the world is a good-natured giant. He only asks to be amused. If you make him laugh or cry, and forget, somehow, his own troubles--the world is full of troubles--he will give in at once. Archie was going to make him laugh and cry; I was going to tickle him with pretty rhymes. But you may play for him, act for him, dance for him, paint for him, sing for him, make stories for him--anything that you will, and he will be subdued. That is what we read, and we kept on repeating this assurance to each other, but as yet we have not got very far. The great difficulty seems to make him look at you and listen to you.' 'My dear, you shall succeed.' * * * * * The young dramatist was sitting at his table, as melancholy as Keats might have been after the _Quarterly Review's_ belabouring. He looked wretched: there was no pretence at anything else: it was unmitigated wretchedness. Despair sat upon his countenance, visible for all to see: his hair had not apparently been brushed, nor his collar changed, since the misery began: he seemed to have gone to bed in his clothes. Trouble does thus affect many men. It attacks even their clothes as well as their hair and their minds. The manuscript was lying on the table before him, but the pen was dry: he had no longer any heart to correct the worthless thing. It was the hour of his deepest dejection. The day before he had plucked up a little courage: perhaps the critic was wrong: to-day all was blackness. 'Here is Armorel, Archie!' cried Effie, with the assumption of cheerfulness. 'I have come to ask a favour,' said Armorel, taking the hand that was mechanically extended. 'I hear that your play is finished, and I am told that it is a beautiful play.' 'No--it isn't,' said the author. 'And that an unkind critic has said horrid and unkind things about it. And I want to read it, if I may. Oh! I am not a great critic, but, indeed, Archie, I have some feeling for Art and for things beautiful. May I read it?' 'The play is perfectly worthless,' he replied sternly, but with signs of softening. 'It is only waste of time to read it. Better throw it behind the fire!' He seized the manuscript as he spoke, but he did not throw it behind the fire. 'Is your critic a dramatist?' 'No. He has never written a play that I know of. But he is a great authority. Everybody would acknowledge that.' 'A critic who has never written a play may very easily make mistakes,' said Armorel. 'You have only to read the critiques of pictures in the papers written by men who cannot paint. They are full of mistakes.' 'This man would not make a mistake, would he, Effie?' 'Well, dear, I think he might, and besides, remember what he said at the conclusion.' Armorel sat down. 'Now,' she said, 'tell me first what the play is about, and then read it, or let Effie read it. I am sure she will read it a great deal better than you.' He hesitated. He was ashamed to show his miserable work to a second critic. And yet he longed to have another opinion, because, when he came to think about it, he could not understand why the thing could be called worthless. He yielded. He read, with faltering accents, the scenario which he had prepared with so much pride. Now it was like unrolling a canvas daubed for the scenery of Richardson's Show. He took no more pride in it. 'Oh!' cried Armorel, interrupting. 'This seems to me a very fine situation.' 'My critic said that some of the situations were fine.' He went on to the end without further interruption. 'Now, Effie,' said Armorel, 'you will read it aloud while your brother plays it with his dolls. Then I am sure to catch the points.' Archie sat up, and began to place his dolls while Effie read. He was so expert in manipulating his puppets that he made them actually represent the piece, changing the groups every moment, while Effie, dropping the manuscript, folded her arms and recited the play, watching Armorel's face. This was quite another kind of critic. It was such a critic as the playwright loves when he sits in his box and watches the people in the house--a face which is easily moved to laughter or to tears, which catches the points and feels the story. There are thousands of such faces in every theatre every night. It is for them that the play is written, and not for the critic, who comes to show his superiority by picking out faults and watching for slips. For two hours, not pausing for the division of the acts, Effie went on, her soft voice rising and falling, the passion indicated but repressed; and Archie watched, and moved his groups, and the audience of one sat motionless but not unmoved. 'What?' she cried, springing to her feet and clasping her hands. It is easy for this fine gesture to become theatrical and unreal, but Armorel was never unreal. 'He dared to call this splendid play--this glorious play--oh, this beautiful, sweet, and noble play!'--here Archie's eyes began to fill, and his lips to quiver: he was but a young dramatist, and of praise he had as yet had none--'he dared to call this worthless?' 'He said it was utterly worthless,' said Effie. 'He said,' Archie added, 'that the language was wholly unfitted for the stage. And then--then--after he'd said that, he offered to give me fifty pounds for it.' 'Fifty pounds for a play quite worthless?' 'On the condition that he was to bring it out himself if he pleased, under his own name.' 'Oh! but this is monstrous! Can there be,' asked Armorel, thinking of the pictures, 'two such men in London?' 'If I would let him call it his own! He wants to take my play--mine--to do what he likes with it--to bring it out as if it was his own! Never! Never! I would rather starve first.' 'What did you tell him?' 'He said that he would wait for an answer. I have sent him none as yet.' 'When you do,' said Armorel, 'let there be no hesitation or possibility of mistaking. Oh! If I could tell you a thing that I know!' 'I will put it quite plainly. Effie, am I the same man? I feel transformed. What a difference it makes only to think that, perhaps, after all one is not such a dreadful failure!' In fact, he looked transformed. The trouble had gone out of him--out of his face--out of his hair--out of his clothes--out of his attitude. Armorel even fancied that his limp, day-before-yesterday's collar had become white and starched again. That may have been mere fancy, but joy certainly produces very strange effects. 'I would have sent an answer before,' he said, 'but it is so unlucky for Effie. This great man--this critic--is the only editor who would ever take her verses. And now, of course, he will be offended, and will never take any more.' 'He shall not have any more,' said Effie, with red cheeks. 'Oh! But that would be horribly mean. Well, Archie, I will begin by taking advice. I know a dramatic critic--his name is Stephenson. I will ask him what you should do next, and I will ask him about your verses, Effie, too--those verses which you are always going to show me.' 'I tell her,' said her brother, 'that she will easily find another editor. You would say so too, if you were to see her verses. I am always telling her she ought to show them to you.' The poet blushed. 'Some day, perhaps, when I am very courageous.' 'No--to-day.' Archie opened a drawer and took out a manuscript book bound in limp brown leather. 'I will read you one,' he said. 'Of course, you will say kind things,' said the poet. 'But you cannot deceive me, Armorel. I shall tell by your eyes and by your face if you really like my rhymes.' 'Well, I will read one, and I will lend you the volume, and then you will see whether Effie hasn't got her gifts as well as anybody else.' He turned over the pages, selected a poem, and read it. The lines showed, first of all, the command that comes of long and constant practice; and next, they were sweet, simple, and pure in tone. 'Strange!' said Armorel. 'I seem to have heard something like them before--a phrase, perhaps. Where did I read only the other day?... Never mind. But, Effie, this is not ordinary girl's verse.' 'Oh! you really like it?' 'Of course I like it. But it is so strange--I seemed to know the style. May I borrow the whole volume? I will be very careful with it. Thank you. I will carry it home with me. And now--I have thought of a plan. Listen, Archie. You know that many young dramatists bring out their pieces first at a matinée. Now, suppose that you read your piece, Archie, in my rooms in the evening. Should you like to do so?' 'I read badly,' he said. 'Could Effie read or recite it?' 'The very thing. Bring your dolls along and arrange your groups, while Effie recites. You will do that, Effie?' 'I will do anything that will help Archie.' 'Very well, then. We will get an evening fixed as soon as possible. I fear we shall have to wait a week at least. I will get my dramatic critic and a few more people, and we will have a private performance of our own. And then we shall defy this critic who said the piece was worthless--and then wanted to buy it and to bring it out as his own. I could not have believed,' she added, 'that there were two such impudent pretenders and liars to be found in the whole of London.' 'Two?' asked Ellie, changing colour. 'There can be only one.' CHAPTER XIV AN HONOURABLE PROPOSAL At the same time Mr. Alec Feilding, whose ears ought to have been burning, was engaged in a serious conversation in his own studio with Armorel's companion. The conversation took the form of reproach. 'I expected,' he said--'I had a right to expect--greater devotion--more attention to business. It was not for play that you undertook the charge of this girl. How long have you been with her? Three months? And no more influence with her than when you began.' 'Not a bit more,' Mrs. Elstree replied. She had of course taken the most comfortable chair by the fire. 'Not a bit, my dear Alec. What is more, I never shall have any influence over her. A society girl I could manage. I know what she wants, and how she looks at things. With such a girl as Armorel I am powerless.' 'She is a woman, I suppose.' He occupied a commanding position on his own hearthrug, towering above his visitor, but yet he did not command her. 'Therefore, you think, open to flattery and artful wiles. She is a woman, and yet, strange to say, not open to flattery.' 'Rubbish! It is because you are too stupid or too careless to find out the weak point.' 'To return, Alec: I have failed. I have no influence at all upon this girl. I have spent hours and hours in singing your praise. I have enlarged upon the absolute necessity of giving you a rest from business cares. I have proposed that she and I together--that was the way I put it--should buy a share in the paper, and that she should advance my half. Oh! I grew eloquent on the glory that two women thus coming to the relief of a man like yourself would achieve in after years. I tried to speak from my heart, Alec.' The woman caught his hand, but he drew it away. 'Oh! you deserve no help. You are hard-hearted, and you are selfish: you have broken every promise you ever made me: you spend all that you have in selfish pleasures: you leave me almost without assistance----' 'When I have got you into the easiest and most luxurious berth that can be imagined; when I have asked you for nothing but a simple----' 'Yes, dear Alec, but you see that an honest acknowledgment would be worth all this goodness. Well, I say that I spoke from my heart, because in spite of all I was proud of my man--mine, yes, though Philippa still imagines, poor wretch!' 'Do leave my cousin's name out of it, will you, Zoe?' he said, a little less roughly. 'I am proud of the man who is acknowledged to be the cleverest man in London.' She got up and began to walk about the studio. She stopped before the picture. 'Do you know, Alec--I am not a critic, but I can feel a thing--that this is quite the best work you have ever done. Oh! Those waves, they live and dance; and those birds, they fly; and the air is so warm and soft!--you are a great painter. Odd! your girl is curiously like Armorel. One would fancy your model was Armorel at sixteen or so--a lovely girl she must have been then, and a lovely woman she is now.' Zoe left the picture and began to look at the papers on the table. 'What is this--the new story? Is it good?' 'To you, Zoe, I may confess that it is as good as anything I have ever done.' 'You are really splendid, Alec! What is this?' She took up a very neatly written page in his handwriting. 'Poetry?' 'Those are some verses for next week's journal. I think there is no falling off there, Zoe.' 'Have you got another copy?' 'There is the copy that has gone to the printers'.' 'Then I will take this. It will do for a present--the autograph original draft of the poem--or I may keep it.' 'Zoe, come back and sit down. We must talk seriously.' She returned and took up her old position by the fire. 'As seriously as you please. It means something disagreeable--something to do with money. Let us get it over. To go back to what we were saying, therefore. I cannot get you that money from Armorel. And at the very word of money she refers one to her lawyer. No confidence at all, as between friends who love each other. That is the position, Alec.' She sat with her hands clasped over her right knee. 'I must have some money,' he said. 'Then, as I have before remarked, Alec--make it.' 'If one cannot have money, Zoe, one may get credit, which is sometimes just as good.' 'I cannot help you in getting credit.' 'Perhaps you can. You can help me, Zoe, by keeping quite quiet.' 'Oh! I am always quiet. I have remained quiet for three years and more, while you flirt with countesses and cousins. How much more quiet do you wish me to remain? While you marry them?' 'Not quite that, my child. But next door to it. While I get engaged to one of them--to one who has money.' 'Not--Philippa.' 'No--I told you before. What the devil is the good of harping on Philippa? You see, if I can let it be understood that I am going to marry an heiress, the difficulties will be tided over. Therefore I shall get engaged to your charge--Armorel Rosevean.' 'Oh!' Zoe received this proposition with coldness. 'This is a charming thing for me to sanction, isn't it?' 'It will do you no harm.' 'I have certainly endured things as bad.' 'You see, Zoe, one could always break off the thing when the time came.' 'Certainly.' 'And you would know all the time that it was a mere pretence.' 'I should certainly know that.' 'Well; is there any other observation?' 'You would make it an open engagement--go about with her--have it publicly known?' 'Of course. The whole point is publicity. I must be known to be engaged to an heiress.' 'And it would last----' 'As long as might prove necessary. One could find an excuse at any time for breaking it off.' 'Or I could.' 'Just so. It really amounts to nothing at all.' 'To nothing at all!' Zoe neither raised her voice nor her eyes. 'Here is a man who proposes to pretend love and to win a girl's affections, when he can never marry her. He also proposes to throw her over, as soon as she has served his purpose. It is nothing at all, of course! Alec, you are really a wonderful man!' 'Nonsense! The thing is done every day.' 'No--not every day. If you are the cleverest man in London, you are also the most heartless.' 'You know that you can say what you please,' he replied, without any outward sign of annoyance. 'Even heroics.' 'But,' she said, nursing her knee and swinging backwards and forwards, 'we have forgotten one thing--the most important thing of all, in fact. My poor boy, there is no more chance of your being engaged to Armorel than of your entering into the Kingdom of Heaven.' 'Why?' 'Other girls you might catch: you are tall and big and handsome; and you have the reputation of being so very, very clever. Most girls would be carried away. But not Armorel. She is not subdued by bigness in men, and she doesn't especially care for a clever man. She is actually so old-fashioned--think of it!--that she wants--character.' 'Well! What objection would that raise, I should like to know?' Zoe laughed softly and sweetly. 'Don't you see, dear Alec? Oh! But you must let Armorel explain to you.' CHAPTER XV NOT TWO MEN, BUT ONE Great is the power of coincidence. Things have got a habit of happening just when they are most likely to be useful. It is not on the stage alone that the long-lost uncle turns up, or the long-missing will is found in the cupboard. And you cannot invent for fiction anything half so strange as the daily coincidence of common life. A tolerably long experience of the common life has convinced me of this great truth. Therefore, the coincidence which happened to Armorel on the very day when the young dramatist unfolded his griefs will not, by wise men, be thought at all strange. It was in the evening. She was sitting with her companion, thinking over Archie and his play. Was it really good? Was it good enough to hold the stage, and to command the attention of the audience? To her it seemed a singularly beautiful, poetical, and romantic piece. But Armorel was of a lowly and humble mind. She knew that she had no experience in things dramatic. Had it been a picture, now---- 'Oh!' cried her companion, suddenly starting upright in the cushioned chair where she was lying apparently asleep, 'I had almost forgotten. My dear, I have got a present for you.' 'From yourself, Zoe?' 'Yes; from myself. It is a present which cost me nothing, but is worth a good deal. The making of it cost nobody anything. Yet it is a very precious thing. The material of which it is made is worth nothing. Yet the thing is worth anything you please.' 'It must be a picture, then.' 'It is a Work of Art, but not a picture. Guess again.' 'No; I will not guess any more. May I have it without guessing?' Zoe held in her hands a small roll of blue paper. This she now opened, and gazed at the writing upon it with idolatry: but it hardly carried conviction with it--perhaps it was a little overdone. 'Least imaginative of girls,' she said. It pleased her to consider Armorel's refusal to join in that little scheme of hers as proving a lack of imagination. 'I have brought you, though you do not deserve it, what any other girl in London would give--would give--a dance, perhaps, to obtain, and you shall have it for nothing.' 'I want to hear what it is.' 'It is nothing less, Armorel, nothing less--I got it to-day from the table in his studio--than an autograph: it is the copy used by the printers--an autograph poem of Alec's! An autograph poem, as yet unpublished.' 'Is that all?' replied the least imaginative of girls. 'You must not give it to me, really. You will value it far more than I shall. Besides, I suppose it is to be published some day.' 'But the original manuscript--the autograph poem, dear child! Don't you know the value of such a thing? Take it. You shall be enriched in spite of yourself. Take it and put it aside somewhere in your desk, in some safe place. Heavens! if one had the autograph of a poem of Byron, for example!' 'Mr. Feilding is not Byron,' said Armorel, coldly. 'He may write pretty feminine verses, but he is not Byron. Thank you, however. I will take it, and I will keep it and value it because you think it valuable. I do not suppose the autograph verses of small poets are worth keeping; but still--as you value it' ... This was very ungracious and ungrateful. But she was really tired of Mr. Feilding's praises, and after the discovery of the pictures, and after the strange story she had heard only that morning--no; she wanted to hear no more, for the present, of the praises of this man--the cleverest man in London! However, she unrolled the paper, and began to read the contents, at first carelessly. Then, 'Oh! what is this?' she cried. 'What is what?' asked Mrs. Elstree. 'This is a copy.' They were the same words as she had used concerning the pictures. She remembered this, and a strange suspicion seized her. 'A copy,' she repeated, wondering. 'A copy? Not at all. They are the verses which are to appear in the next number of the journal--or the number after next. Alec's own verses, of course. Sweetly pretty, I think: what makes you say that they are copied?' 'I thought that I had seen them--something like them--somewhere before.' She went on reading. As she read she remembered the lines more clearly. 'What is the matter, Armorel?' asked Zoe. 'What makes you look so fierce? Heaven help your husband when you look like that!' 'Did I look fierce? It must have been something that I remembered. Yes--that was it.' 'May I read the verses again?' Zoe read them, suspiciously. There was something in them which had startled Armorel. What was it? She could see nothing to account for this emotion. Certainly she was not fond of poetry, and failed to appreciate the fine turns and subtle tones, the felicitous phrase and the unexpected thought with which the poet delights his readers. In this little poem she could find nothing but a few jingling rhymes. Why should Armorel behave so strangely? 'What is it, my dear?' she asked again. 'Something I remembered--nothing of any importance.' 'Armorel, has Alec said anything to you? Has he--has he wanted to make love to you? Has he offended you by speaking?' 'No. There has been no question of love-making between us, and there never will be.' 'One cannot say.' Zoe looked at the matter from experience. 'One can never say. Men are strange creatures; and Alec certainly thinks a great deal of you.' 'I cannot imagine his making love--any more than I can imagine his painting a picture or writing a poem. Perhaps he would make love as he paints.' 'Well, he paints very well.' 'Very well indeed, I dare say.' She got up. 'I am going to leave you to-night, Zoe. I want to go to my own room. I have things to write. You don't mind?' 'My dear child, mind! Of course, one would rather have your company. But since you must leave me'--she sank back in her chair with a sigh. 'Give me that book, dear--if you please--the French novel. When one has been married one can read French novels without trying to conceal the fact. They are mostly wicked, and sometimes witty. Not always. Good-night, dear. I shall not expect you back this evening.' Armorel, in her own room, opened the manuscript book of poems which Archie had given her, and found--the very last of all--the lines which she had remembered. She laid the precious autograph beside Effie's poem. Word for word--comma for comma--they were exactly the same. There was not the slightest difference. And again Armorel thought of the two pictures. Then she thought of the little dainty volume in white parchment containing the Second Series of 'Voice and Echo, by Alec Feilding.' She had tossed it aside, impatient with the man, when Zoe gave it to her. Now she looked for it, and found it after a little search. She opened it side by side with Effie's manuscript book. Presently she found the page in Effie's book which corresponded with the first page of the printed volume. There were about thirty or forty poems in the little book: in the manuscript book there were double that number; but the same poems followed each other one after the other in the same order, and without the difference of a single word, both in book and manuscript. This discovery justifies my remarks about the common coincidences of daily life. Again Armorel remembered that Zoe possessed another volume--the First Series of 'Voice and Echo, by Alec Feilding.' It was lying--she had seen it in the afternoon--in the drawing-room. She went in search of it, and returned without waking her companion, who had apparently fallen asleep over her novel. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Elstree was not sleeping. She was broad awake, but she was curious. She desired to know what it all meant: why Armorel was suddenly struck with hardness, why her cheek burned, and her eyes flashed; and what she wanted in the drawing-room. She perceived that Armorel had come in search of Alec's first volume of verse. Oh! Alec's first volume of verse. Now--what might Armorel want with that book? * * * * * At the end of March it is light at about half-past five. Everybody is then in their soundest sleep. But at that hour Mrs. Elstree came softly out of her bedroom, wrapped in a dressing-gown, her feet in soft slippers of white wool, and looked at the books and papers on the table in Armorel's room. There was a manuscript volume of verse, professing to be by one Effie Wilmot. There were also two printed little volumes, bound in white-and-gold, containing verses by one Alec Feilding. Strange and wonderful! The verses in both books were exactly the same! Mrs. Elstree returned to bed, thoughtful. * * * * * Armorel, for her part, when she returned to her own room, compared the first series of poems, as she had compared the second, with the manuscript book. And the first series, too, word for word, was the same as the earlier poems in the book. 'Good heavens!' cried Armorel. 'The man steals his verses, as he steals his pictures! Poor Effie! She is as bad as Roland!' This was Thought the First. One has already seen how the three Thoughts treated her before. This time it was just the same. Thought the Second came next, and began to argue. A very capable logician is Thought the Second, once distinguished for what Oxford men call Science. If, said Thought the Second, the manuscript and the volumes agree, it seems to show that Effie has copied the latter into her own book, and now tries to pass the poems off as her own. Such things have been done. If this was the case--and why not?--Effie would be, indeed, a girl full of deceit and desperately wicked. But then, how came Effie to have in her volume a poem hitherto unpublished, which was lying on Mr. Feilding's table? Yet, surely, it was quite as probable that the girl should deceive her as that the man should deceive the world. Next. Thought the Third. This sage remarked calmly, 'The man is full of villany. He has deceived the world in the matter of the pictures. Why not also in the matter of the poems? But let us consider the character of the verses. Take internal evidence.' Then Armorel read the whole series right through in the two little printed volumes. Oh! They were feminine. Only a woman could write these lines. Womanhood breathed in every one. Now that the key was supplied, she understood. She recognised the voice, eager, passionate, of her friend. 'They are all Effie's!' she cried again; 'all--all. The man has stolen his verses as well as his pictures.' This discovery, when she had quite made up her mind that it was as true as the former, entirely fell in with all that Effie had told her concerning herself. She had sold her poems all to one editor--he was the only editor who would ever take them--and now she was afraid that he would take no more. Why?--why?--because--oh, now she understood all--because he wanted to be a dramatist in the same way that he was a painter and a poet, and neither Archie nor his sister would consent! 'Yes,' she said, 'he is, indeed, the cleverest man in London.' Before she went to bed that night she had devised a little plan--quite an ingenious clever little plan. You shall hear what it was, and how it came off. CHAPTER XVI THE PLAY AND THE COMEDY Armorel arranged for the reading of the play one evening four or five days later. It was a short notice, but she secured the people whom she wanted most, and trusted to chance for the others. She occupied herself in the interval in arranging the details and leading situations for a little comedy drama of her own--a play of some melodramatic force, in which, as in 'Hamlet,' a certain guilty person was to discover by a kind of dumb show that his guilt was known to her. It was to be a comedy which no one, except herself, was to understand. You shall see, directly, what an extremely clever little comedy it was, and how effective to the person principally concerned. She said nothing at all about this comedy even to Effie. As for words, there were none. They were left to the principal character. This is, indeed, the ancient and original drama. The situations were, at the outset, devised beforehand. The actors filled in the dialogue. This form of drama is still kept up, and with vigour. When the schoolboy sets the booby-trap, or sews up the shirt-sleeves, or greases the side-walk--if that old situation is still remembered--or practises any other kindly and mirthful sally, the victim supplies the words. The confidence trick in all its branches is another form of the primitive drama, and this evening's performance with reference to a certain person was only another example. You will hear, presently, what admirable dialogue was elicited by Armorel's situations. By half-past eight she had completed the mounting of her piece. First, for the reading of the play she placed a table at the side of the room, with a space at the back sufficient for a chair, or for a person to sit. A reading-lamp, with one of those silver cowls that throw the whole light upon the table, stood at either end, illuminating a small space in the middle. This was for the manipulation of the dolls. For, though the people had been asked to come for a reading, Armorel had determined to try the experiment of a recitation, accompanied by the presentment of those puppets which Effie had dressed with such care, and her brother manipulated so deftly. Needless to say that more than one rehearsal had been held. In front of the table she placed a semicircle of chairs for some of her audience. At one side of the table was the piano: a music-stand, with a violin case, gave promise of an overture. Between the music-stand and the table was room for a person to stand, and on the table a water-decanter and a glass showed that this was the place for the reciter. On the other side of the table, in the corner of the room, stood an easel, and on it a picture, with curtains arranged so that they could fall over and cover it up. The picture was lighted up by two lamps. The room had no other lights in it at all, so that, if these two lamps were lowered or extinguished, the only light would be that thrown by the reading-lamps upon the table. As for the picture, it was as yet unfinished, but nearly finished. Of course it was Roland Lee's new picture. This evening, indeed, which professed to be the simple reading of a new play by a new writer, included a great deal more: it included, in fact, Roland's return to the arena he had deserted, and, as you shall see, the stepping upon the stage of both the twins, brother and sister. When one adds that Mr. Alec Feilding would be one of the company, you understand, dear reader, the nature of Armorel's comedy, and the kind of situation devised and prepared by that artful and vindictive young lady. 'How long will it take, dear?' asked Mrs. Elstree, wearily contemplating these preparations. 'I should say that the play will take an hour and a half or two hours to recite. Then there will be a little music between the acts. I dare say it will last two hours and a half.' 'Oh, that will bring us to half-past eleven at least! And then it will be too late for anything else.' 'We don't want anything else to-night.' 'No, dear. The play will be quite enough for us. I wish it was over. I am so constituted, Armorel, that I cannot see the least use in going out of my way to help anybody. If you succeed in helping people to climb up, they only trample on you as soon as they get the chance. If you fail, they are a burden upon you for life. These two Wilmot people, for instance: what are you going to do with them when you have read their play and stuff? You can't get a manager to play it any the more for having it read. The two are no further advanced.' 'Yes; I shall have made the young man known. He will be introduced. Mr. Stephenson promised to bring some critics with him, and you have asked Mr. Feilding to do the same. An introduction--perhaps the creation of some personal interest--may be to Archie of the greatest advantage.' 'Then he will rise by your help, and he will proceed to trample upon you. That is, if the brother is like the sister. If ever I saw "trampler" written plain on any woman's face, it is written on the great square block of bone that Effie Wilmot calls a forehead.' 'They may trample on me if they please,' Armorel replied, smiling. The tramplers were naturally the first to arrive. They were both pale, and they trembled, especially the one who was not going to speak. He came in, limping on his crutches, and looked around with terror at the preparations. One does not realise before the night comes what a serious thing is a first appearance in public. Besides, the strong light on the table, the expectant chairs, the arrangement of everything, presented an aspect at once critical and threatening. The manuscript play and the box of puppets were in readiness. 'Now, Archie,' said Armorel, 'it is not yet nine o'clock. You shall have a cup of coffee to steady your nerves. So shall you, Effie. After that we will settle ourselves.' She talked about other things to distract their thoughts. 'See, Effie, that is Roland Lee's new picture. It is not yet finished. The central figure is myself. You see, it is as yet only sketched in. I am going to sit for him, but he has caught a good likeness, has he not? It will be a lovely picture when it is completed, and I am going to give him permission to flatter me as much as ever he pleases. The scene is among the outer rocks of Scilly. We will go there some day and sail about the Western Islands, and I will show you Camber Rock and the Channel, and Castle Bryher and Menovawr and Maiden Bower, and all the lovely places where I lived till I was sixteen years of age. Are you in good voice to-night, Effie?' 'I don't know. I hope so.' 'She has eaten nothing all day,' said Archie. 'You are not really frightened, are you, Effie?' The girl was white with nervousness. 'A little excited and anxious. Will you have another cup of coffee? A little jelly? Remember I shall be close beside you, with the play in my hand, to prompt. I like your dress. You look very well in white, dear.' 'Oh! Armorel, I am horribly frightened. If I should break down, Archie's chance will be ruined. And if I recite it badly I shall spoil the play.' 'You will not break down, dear; you will think of nothing but the play. You will forget the people. Besides, it will be so dark that you will hardly see them.' 'I will try my best. Perhaps when I begin--Oh! for Archie's sake, I would stand up on the stage at the theatre and speak before all the people! And yet----' 'She had no sleep last night,' said her brother. 'I think, after all, I had better read it. Only I read so badly.' Armorel's face fell. She had thought so much of the reciting. Then Mrs. Elstree came to the rescue. 'Nonsense,' she said. 'You three people are making yourselves so nervous that you will most certainly break down. Now, Mr. Wilmot, go into your own place. Set out your dolls. Here's your cardboard back scene.' She arranged it while Archie got himself and his crutches into the chair behind, and began to take the dolls out of their box. 'So. Now don't speak to your sister. You will only make her worse. And as for you, Effie, if you break down now you will be a most disgraceful coward. With your brother's future, perhaps, dependent on your courage. For shame! Pull yourself together!' Effie, thus rudely stimulated, and by a person she disliked greatly, lost her limpness and stood upright. Her face also put on a little colour, and her lips stiffened. The tonic worked, in fact. Then Zoe went on. 'Now,' she said, 'take up your position here. How are you going to stand? Fold your hands so. That is a very good attitude to begin with. Of course, you understand nothing of gesture. Don't try it. Change your hands a little--so--front--right--left--like that. And don't--don't--don't hold your head like that, facing the crowd. Hold it up--like this. Look at the corner of that cornice--straight up. Oh! you will lower your head as you go on. But, to begin with, and at the opening of each act, look up to that corner. Remember, if you break down----' She held up a forefinger, threatening, admonitory, and left her standing in position. 'You will do now,' she said. 'Besides,' said Armorel, 'no one will look at you. They will all be looking at Archie's actors.' The dramatist, relegated to the humble position of fantoccini-man, would be also in complete shade behind the table. He would not be seen, whatever emotion of anxiety he should feel. And for dexterity of manipulation with his puppets he could vie even with the firm of Codlin and Short. The noise of cups and saucers in the dining-room proclaimed the arrival of guests. The first to come was Roland Lee, still a little shy, as Alexander Selkirk might have been, or Philip Quarles, or Mr. Penrose, on his return to civilised society. He looked about the room. Mrs. Elstree--looking resigned--and Armorel, standing by the fire, and the two performers. Nobody else. And, in a place of honour, his unfinished picture. 'It looks very well, doesn't it?' said Armorel. 'I wish it was a little more complete. But it will do to show.' 'Are you quite sure it is wise?' 'Quite sure. The sooner you show everybody what you can do the better.' 'I have found a new studio,' he told her in low tones. 'I have moved in to-day. It is among the old lot of men that I used to know a little. I have gone back to them just as if I had only been gone for a day. I don't find that they have got on very much. Perhaps they spend too much time smoking pipes and cigarettes and talking. They chaff me, but with respect, because, I believe, they think I have been staying in a lunatic asylum. Respect, you know, is due to madmen and to old men.' 'I hope it is the kind of studio you want.' 'It will do. I am anxious to begin your sittings. When can you come?' 'Any day you please. To-morrow. The next day. I can begin at once.' Then came a small party of men--journalists and critics--captured by Dick Stephenson at the club, and bribed to come by the promise of an introduction to the beautiful Miss Armorel Rosevean. I do not think they expected much joy from the amateur reading of an unacted piece. It is melancholy, indeed, to consider that though the preliminary and tentative performance of the unacted play--long prayed for--has been at last established, the promised appearance of the great dramatist has not yet come off--nay, the theatrical critic weeps, swears, and growls at the mention of a matinée, and when he is requested to attend one passes it on if he can to his younger brother in the calling. And yet such great treasures were expected of the matinée! However, they agreed to come and listen on this occasion. It shall be put down to their credit as a Samaritan deed. 'Dick Stephenson,' said Armorel, with an assumption of old friendship which filled him with pride, 'I hope you are come here to-night in a really serious frame of mind--you and your friends.' 'We are always serious.' 'I mean that you are going to hear an ambitious piece of work. All I ask of you is to listen seriously, and to remember that it is really the work of a man who aims at the very highest.' 'Will he reach the very highest?' 'I do not know. But I am quite certain that there are very few artists, in any branch, who dare to aim high. Listen, and try to understand what the poet has attempted--what has been in his mind. Promise me this.' 'Certainly, I will promise you so much.' 'Thank you. It was for this that I asked you to-night. And see--here is your old friend Roland Lee.' The two young men shook hands rather sheepishly--the one because he had been an Ass--a long-eared Ass; and the other, because he was not guiltless of letting his friend slip out of his hands without a remonstrance and so away into paths unknown. 'I hear,' said Armorel, with her beautiful seriousness, 'that you two have suffered yourselves to drift apart of late. I hope that will be all over now. Oh! you must never give up the early friendships. Have you seen Roland's new picture? He has lent it to me for this evening. Come and look at it.' 'Why,' cried one of the men, 'it is an unfinished picture of Alec Feilding's!' Roland turned hot and red. 'Not at all,' said Armorel. 'This is a sketch made in the isles of Scilly and in my presence, five years ago. As for the figure, you see it is not yet completed. I am the model. You remember Scilly, Dick Stephenson? To be sure, you were not with us when we used to go sailing about among the rocks.' 'I have reason to remember Scilly, seeing that you saved my life there, and Roland's too. But the picture is curiously in Feilding's style. Only it seems to me better than any of his. Old man'--he laid his hand on Roland's shoulder: it was the renewal of the ancient friendship--'old man, you've done the trick at last.' Philippa came next, with her father and two or three girls. They, in their turn, called out upon the striking similarity in style. A few more people came, and it was a quarter past nine. But the man for whom Armorel had especially arranged her little comedy did not come. He was late. Perhaps he would not come at all. 'We must wait no longer,' said Armorel. 'Will everybody please to sit down?' Philippa placed herself at the piano. Armorel took out her violin and tuned it. First, however, she made a little speech. 'I have asked you,' she said, 'to come this evening in order to hear a play read. It is a play written by a young gentleman in whom some of us take the deepest interest. I hope greatly that it will succeed. But we want your judgment and opinion as well as our own. The play belongs to all time and to no time. The scene is laid in Italy, and in the sixteenth century; but it might as well have been laid in London and in the nineteenth--only that we are more self-governed than a dramatist likes, and we conceal our emotions. It is a play of romance and of human passion. I entreat you to consider it seriously--as seriously as the author himself considers it. We have arranged for you a list of the dramatis personæ, with a little scenario of each act--there are three--and we think that if, instead of hearing it read, we have it recited, while the author himself plays the piece before us by puppets on this little stage, we shall get a clearer idea of the dramatic merits of the piece.' This speech done, everybody took up the little book of the play and began to read the scenario, while Armorel played an overture with Philippa. She played a Hungarian piece, one of the things that are now played everywhere--a quite short piece. When it was finished, Roland lowered the lamps beside his picture, and covered them with crimson shades. Then there was no other light in the room but that from the two reading-lamps on the table. Just before the lamps were lowered Mr. Alec Feilding arrived, with half a dozen men whom he had brought with him. She saw his startled face as he caught sight of the picture as the lights were lowered. In the twilight she could still distinguish his face among the men who stood behind the chairs. And she watched him. Then Effie, who had not seen the latest arrival, took her place, and the play began. The effect was new and very curious. The people saw a girl standing up beside the table--only the shadow of a girl--a ghostly figure in white--the spectre of a white face--two bright eyes flashing in the dim light. And they heard her voice, a rich, low contralto, beginning to recite the play. It is not the nervous creature who breaks down. He may generally be trusted. He lies awake for whole nights before the time arrives: he reaches the spot weak-kneed, trembling, and pale; but when the hour strikes he braces himself, stands up, and goes through with it. Effie had been partly pulled together, it is true, by the rough exhortation of Mrs. Elstree, but some credit must be given to her own resolution. She began with a little hesitation, fearing that she should forget the words. Then they came back to her: she saw them written plainly before her eyes in that friendly corner of the cornice: she hesitated no longer: in full and flowing flood she poured forth the dialogue, helped to right modulation by the strength of her own feeling and her belief in the beauty and the splendour of the drama. Armorel meantime watched her man. He had seen the picture. Now he recognised the play, and he knew the reciter. As he stood at the back, tall above the rest, she saw his face change from astonishment gradually to dismay. It was rather a wooden face, but it passed plainly and successively through the phases of doubt and certainty to that of dismay. Yes; dismay was written on that face, with discomfiture and suspicion. In a more demonstrative age he would have sat gnawing his nails: every wicked man, overtaken by the consequence of his own wickedness, used formerly to gnaw his nails. On the stage of the last century he would have turned upon his persecutors with a 'Death and confusion!' before he banged off the scene. We no longer use those fine old phrases. On the modern stage he would stand with straightened arms and bowed head, while the rest of the company pointed fingers of scorn at him, crushed but defiant. In Armorel's drawing-room he stood quiet and motionless, trying to collect himself. He saw, first of all, Roland Lee's new picture in the corner; he saw Roland Lee himself, no longer the negligent, despairing sloven, but once more a gentleman to outer view, and in his right mind. Next, he observed that Effie, his own poet, was reciting the play; and, thirdly, that the play was that for which he had himself made a bid. Thus all three--painter, poet, and dramatist--were friends of this girl Armorel; and they had all three, he knew quite well, slipped clean out of his hands for ever, and were lost to him; and all three, he suspected, had already related to each other the history of his doings and dealings with themselves. Therefore, while the play proceeded, his heart sank low--lower--lower. There were three acts. When the first was finished Armorel stood up again and, with Philippa, played another little piece, but not long. And so between the second and the third. Watching the people, Armorel became aware that the play had gripped them, and held them fast. No one moved. The little space upon the table between the two lamps, where the puppets stood before the painted screen of cardboard, became a scene richly mounted: it was a garden, or a dancing-hall, or an arbour, or a library, just as those little books told them, and the puppets were men and women. We want so little of mounting to fire the imagination, if only the poet has the strength to seize it and to hold it by his words. Nothing, in this case, but a modulated voice reciting a dramatic poem, and, to help it out, a dozen dressed dolls, six or seven inches high, standing stiffly on a little stage. Yet, even when passion was at its highest, in the great scene of the third act, they were not ridiculous. Nobody laughed at the dolls. That was because the showman knew their capabilities. When they stood in their place, they indicated the nature of the situation and explained the words. Had he tried to make them act, he would have spoiled the whole. They made a series of groups--_tableaux vivants_, _poses plastiques_--constantly changed by the deft hands of the showman, finding relief in this occupation for the anxiety in his soul. For he, less fortunate than Effie, who had grasped the cheering truth, could not read in the circle of still faces before him their rapt and magnetised condition. And now the end of the third act was neared. The reciter rose to the concluding situation. Her voice, firm and clear, rang out in the dim light. The younger girls in the audience caught each other's hands. The 'lines' were good lines, strong and nervous, rapid and yet intense, equal to the strength and intensity of the situation. At last the play was finished. 'Effie!' Armorel caught her in her arms, 'you have done splendidly!' But the girl drew back. The honours of the evening were not for her, but for her brother: she stood aside. Armorel took the cowls from the reading-lamps, and the room returned to light. Then the people began all to press round the dramatist and to shake hands solemnly with him, to murmur, to assure, to congratulate, and to prophesy. And the loud voice of Mr. Alec Feilding arose as he stepped forward among the first and grasped the young man's hand. 'Archie!' he said with astounding friendliness, 'this is better than I expected. Let me congratulate you! I have had the privilege,' he explained to the multitude, 'of hearing this play--at least, a part of it--already. I told you, my dear boy, that your situations were splendid, but your dialogue wanted pulling together in parts. You have attended to my advice. I am glad of it. The result promises to be a splendid success. What say you?' He turned to a very well-known dramatic critic whom he had brought with him. 'If you can get the proper man to play the leading part,' he replied more quietly, 'the play seems to me full of promise. Frankly, Mr. Wilmot, I think you have written a most poetical and most romantic piece. It is valuable, not only for itself, but for the promise it contains.' 'For its promise,' repeated Alec Feilding blandly, 'as I told you, my dear boy, for its promise--its admirable promise. I shall not rest now until this play is produced--either at the Lyceum or at the Haymarket. Once more.' Again he grasped Archie by the hand. Then another and another followed. It was not until the next day the dramatist recovered presence of mind enough to remember that Mr. Feilding had not given him any advice: that he had not said it was a work of promise: that he had offered to buy it for fifty pounds and bring it out as his own, with his own name put to it: and that no alteration of any kind had been made in it. * * * * * When Mr. Alec Feilding stepped back, he perceived that some one had turned up the lamps beside the picture. He was a man of great presence of mind and resource. He instantly stepped over to the picture and began to examine it curiously. Armorel followed him. 'This is by my old friend Mr. Roland Lee,' she said. 'Do you know him? Let me introduce him to you.' The men bowed distantly as those who, having met for the first time in a crowd, see no reason for desiring to meet each other again. That they should so meet, with such an assumption of never having met before, struck Armorel with admiration. 'The picture is a good deal in your own style, Feilding,' said one of the critics. 'Perhaps,' replied the successful painter in that style, briefly. 'It is taken from a sketch,' Armorel explained, 'made by Mr. Lee while he was staying at the same spot as myself. He made a great number at the time--which is now five years ago.' Mr. Alec Feilding heard this statement with outward composure. Inwardly he was raging. 'It is, in fact, exactly in your style,' said the same critic. 'One would say that it was a copy of one of your pictures.' 'Perhaps,' he replied again. 'If,' said Roland, 'Mr. Feilding sends another picture in the same style for exhibition this year, I hope that the similarity of style may be tested by their hanging side by side.' 'Shall you send anything this year--in the same style?' asked Armorel. 'I hardly know. I have not decided.' The critic looked at the picture more closely. 'Strange!' he murmured. 'One would swear ... the same style--so individual--and belonging to two different men!' Then Roland covered his picture over with the curtain. There had been enough said. 'Now,' said Armorel, 'after our emotions and our fatigues of the play, we are exhausted. There is supper in the next room. Before we go in I want to sing you a song. I am not a singer, you know, and you must only expect simple warbling. But I want you to like the song.' She sat down to the piano and played a few bars of introduction. Then she sang the first verse--it was Effie's latest song, that which Mr. Feilding had accepted but not yet published. He heard and recognised. This third blow finished him. He sat down on the nearest chair, speechless. Mrs. Elstree watched him, wondering what was the matter with him. For he was in a speechless rage. Lucky for him that it was speechless, because for the moment he was beside himself, and might have said anything. 'That is the first verse,' said Armorel. 'I have set it to an old French air which I found in a book. The words seem written for the music. There are two more verses.' She sang them through. Her voice was pleasing though not strong: she sang sweetly and with feeling, just as she had sung in the old days on the shores of Samson, to the accompaniment of the waves lapping along the white sands, and she watched the man whom she had been torturing the whole evening through. Would not even this rouse him to some word or deed which might proclaim him a pretender and an impostor discovered? She knew, you see, that the lines were actually in type ready to appear as another poem by the Editor. She finished and rose. 'Do you like the song, Philippa?' she said. 'I have even had it printed and set to music. Anybody that pleases may carry away a copy. I hope everybody will, and keep it in remembrance of this evening. For the words are written by Miss Effie Wilmot, who has recited so beautifully her brother's play. We will share the honours of the evening between them. Archie, will you give me your arm? Roland'--in her excitement she called him by his Christian name, which caused a little surprise--'will you take Effie? Do you like the words, Mr. Feilding?' 'Very much indeed. I had seen them before you, I think.' 'Yes? Then you recognised them. You have seen other poems by the same hand, I believe?' 'Good-night, Miss Rosevean. I have had a delightful evening.' He retired without any supper. On his way out, he passed Effie. 'You should have trusted me,' he whispered hoarsely. 'I expected, at least, common confidence. You will find that I have kept my promise--and you have broken yours.' He passed on, and disappeared. Then they trooped in to the dining-room, where they found spread that kind of midnight refection which is dear to the hearts of those who are yet young enough to love champagne and chicken. And after supper they went back to the drawing-room and danced. Mrs. Elstree played to them--nobody could play a waltz better. Roland danced with Armorel. 'You make me believe,' he said, at the end of the waltz, 'that I am really back again.' 'Of course you are back again.' Then Armorel danced with the critics, and talked about the play; and they all promised to go to great actors and speak about this wonderful drama. And so all went away at last, and all to bed, well content. 'But,' said Zoe, when the last was gone, 'what was the matter with Alec? Why did he look so glum? What made him in such an awful rage? He can get into a blind rage, Armorel--blind and speechless. As for that, I would not give a button for a man who could not. But what was the matter with him?' 'Was he in a rage? Perhaps he wished that he had written the play himself. Such a clever man as that would be sorry, perhaps, that anything good was written, except by himself.' Mr. Alec Feilding rushed down the stairs and into the street. He hailed a cab, and jumped into it. 'Fleet Street! Quick!' His printers, he knew, had work which kept them at work on Thursday nights till long past midnight. It was not too late to make a correction. His paper would be printed in the morning, and ready for issue by five o'clock in the afternoon. In fact, Effie received a note from him on Saturday morning:-- 'My dear Effie,' he wrote, 'I send you a copy of my new number. You will find, on looking into the editorial columns, that I have performed what I promised. Not only have I accepted and published your very charming verses, but I have added a brief note introducing the writer as a débutante of promise. So much I am very pleased to have been able to do for you. Now, as one writer introducing another, I leave you with your public. Give them of your best. Let your first set of published verses prove your worst. Aim at the best and highest; write in a spirit of truth; let your Art be sincere and self-respectful. 'I am sorry that this note, written on Tuesday, could not contain what I should much have wished to add, had I known it: that your verses have been adapted to an old air by Miss Armorel Rosevean. You did not, however, think fit to take me into your confidence. 'I cannot hope to give you more than an occasional appearance in my columns. I should advise you, with this introduction of mine and the credentials of being published in my paper, to send verses to the magazines. I think you will have little difficulty with the help of my name in gaining admission. 'Allow me to add my congratulations on your brother's undoubted success. His play is admirable as a chamber play. It may also succeed on the stage, but of this it is impossible to be certain. Meantime, it is very cheering to find that he listens to the advice of those who have a right to speak, and that he follows that advice. It is both cheering to his friends and promising as regards his own future. I do not regret the time that I spent in advising upon that play. 'I remain, my dear Effie, very sincerely yours, 'ALEC FEILDING.' The paper which contained the verses contained also the following paragraph:-- 'In place of the usual editorial verses--my editorial duties do not always give me leisure for the service of the Muse--I have great pleasure in inserting a set of verses from the pen of a young lady whose name is new to my readers. She makes her bow to my readers in this column. I venture, however, to prophesy that she will not long remain unknown. Wherever the English language is spoken, before many years the name of Effie Wilmot shall be known and loved. This is the prophecy of one who at least can recognise good work when he sees it.' Effie read both letter and paragraph to her brother, who raged and stormed about the alleged advice and assistance. She also read them both to Armorel, who only laughed a little. 'But,' said Effie, 'he never helped Archie at all! He gave him no advice!' 'My dear, if he chooses to say that he did, what does it matter? Time goes on, and every day will make your brother rise higher and Mr. Feilding sink lower. And as to the verses, Effie, and your--your first appearance'--Effie turned away her shamefaced cheek--'why, we will take his advice and try other editors. Mr. Feilding is, indeed, the cleverest man in London!' CHAPTER XVII THE NATIONAL GALLERY Contrary to all reasonable expectation, Alec Feilding called at Armorel's rooms the very next morning--and quite early in the morning, when it was not yet eleven. Armorel, however, had already gone out. He was received by Mrs. Elstree, who was, as usual, sitting, apparently asleep, by the fire. 'You have come in the hope of seeing Armorel alone, I suppose?' she said. 'Yes. You remember, Zoe,' he replied quickly--she observed that he was pale, and that he fidgeted nervously, and that his eyes, restless and scared, looked as if somebody was hunting him--'that we had a talk about it. You said you wouldn't make a row. You know you did. You consented.' 'Oh, yes! I remember. I am to play another part, and quite a new one. You too are about to play a new part--one not generally desired--quite the stage villain.' He made a gesture of impatience. 'Consider, however,' she went on quickly, before he could speak. 'Do you think this morning--the day after yesterday--quite propitious for your purpose?' 'What do you mean?' he asked quickly. 'Why not the day after yesterday?' 'Nothing. Still, if I might advise----' 'Zoe, you know nothing at all. And time presses. If there was reason, a week ago, for me to be the reputed and accepted lover of this girl, there is tenfold more reason now. You don't know, I say. For Heaven's sake don't spoil things now by any interference.' He was at least in earnest. Mrs. Elstree contemplated him with curiosity. It seemed as if she had never seen him really in earnest before. But now she understood. He knew by this time that Armorel had discovered the source, the origins, of his greatness. She might destroy him by a word. This knowledge would pierce the hide of the most pachydermatous: his strength, you see, was like that of Samson--it depended on a secret: it also now resembled that of Samson in that it lay at the mercy of a woman. 'Alec,' said Mrs. Elstree, softly, 'you were greatly moved last night by several things--by the play, by the picture, by the song. I watched you. While the rest were listening to the play, I watched you. The room was dark, and you thought no one could see you. But I could make out your features. Armorel watched you, too, but for other motives. I was wondering. She was triumphant. You know why?' 'What do you know?' 'Your face, which is generally so well under command, expressed surprise, rage, disgust, and terror--all these passions, dear Alec. On the stage we study how to express them. We represent an exaggeration so that the gallery shall understand, and we call it Art. But I know the symptoms.' 'What else do you know, I ask?' 'This morning you are nervous and agitated. You are afraid of something. Alec, you know what I think of the cruelty and hardheartedness of this project of yours--to sustain your credit on an engagement which will certainly not last a month--I could not possibly suffer the girl to be entangled longer than that--now give it over.' 'I cannot give it over: it is my only chance. Zoe, you don't know the mischief she has done me, and will do me again. It is ruin--ruin!' 'Well then, Alec, don't go after her to-day. Indeed, I advise you not. You are not in a condition to approach the subject, and she is not in a condition to be approached. I do not ask your reasons, or the kind of mischief you mean. I sit here and watch. In the course of time I find out all things.' 'How much do you know, Zoe? What have you found out?' 'Knowledge, Alec, is power. Should I part in a moment, and for nothing, with what I have acquired at the expense of a great deal of contriving and putting together? Certainly not. You can go and find Armorel, if you persist in choosing such a day for such a purpose. She has gone, I believe, to the National Gallery.' 'I must find her to-day. I must bring things to a head. Good Heavens! I don't know what new mischief they may be designing.' 'Go home and wait, Alec. No one will do anything to you to-day. You are nervous and excited.' 'You don't understand, I say. Tell me, did the men talk last night--about me--in your hearing?' 'Not in my hearing, certainly. Go home and rest, Alec.' 'I cannot rest. I must find the girl.' 'Well, if you want her--go and find her. Alec, remember, if you stood the faintest chance of success with her, I think I should have to get up and warn her. Even for your sake I do not think I could suffer this wickedness to be done. But you have no chance--none--not on any day, particularly on this day--and after last night. Go, however--go.' When things have gone so far that assignations and appointments are made and places of secret meeting agreed upon, there is hardly any place in the whole of London more central, more convenient, or safer than the National Gallery. Here the young lady of society may be perfectly certain of remaining undiscovered. At the South Kensington no one is quite safe, because in the modern enthusiasm for art all kinds of people--even people in society--sometimes go there to see embroideries and hangings, and handiwork of every sort. The India Museum is perhaps safer even than the National Gallery--safer, for such a purpose, than any other spot in the world. But there is a loneliness in its galleries which strikes a chill to the most ardent heart, and damps the spirit of the most resolute lover. In the National Gallery there are plenty of people: but they are all country visitors, or Americans, or copyists: never any people of the young lady's own set: and there is never any crowd. One can sit and talk undisturbed and quiet: the copyists chatter or go on with their work regardless of anything: the attendants slumber: the visitors pass round room after room, looking for pictures which have a story to tell--and a story which they can read. That, you see, is the only kind of picture--unless it be a picture of a pretty face--which the ordinary visitor commonly understands. Not many young people know of this place, and those who do keep the knowledge to themselves. The upper rooms of the British Museum are also commended by some for the same reason, but the approaches are difficult. This use of the National Gallery once understood, the thing which happened here the day after the reading of the play will not seem incredible, though it certainly was not intended by the architect when he designed the building. Otherwise there might have been convenient arbours. Armorel went often to the Gallery: the English girl reserves, as a rule, her study of pictures, and art generally, till she gets to Florence. Armorel, who had also studied art in Florence, found much to learn in our own neglected Gallery. Sometimes she went alone: sometimes she went with Effie, and then, being quite a learned person in the matter of pictures and their makers, she would discourse from room to room, till the day was all too short. The country visitors streamed past her in languid procession: the lovers met by appointment at her very elbow: the copyists flirted, talked scandal, wasted time, and sighed for commissions: but Armorel had not learned to watch people: she came to see the pictures: she had not begun to detach an individual from the crowd as a representative: in other words, she was not a novelist. This morning she was alone. She carried a notebook and pencil, and was standing before a picture making notes. It was a wet morning: the rooms were nearly empty, and the galleries were very quiet. She heard a manly step striding across the floor. She half turned as it approached her. Mr. Alec Feilding took off his hat. 'Mrs. Elstree told me you were here,' he said. 'I ventured to follow.' 'Yes?' 'You--you--come often, I believe?' He looked pale, and, for the first time in Armorel's recollection of him, he was nervous. 'There is, I believe, a good deal to be learned here.' 'There is, especially by those who want to paint--of course, I mean--who want to do their own paintings by themselves. Mr. Feilding, frankly, what do you want? Why do you come here in search of me?' Her face hardened: her eyes were cold and resolved. But the man was full of himself; he noted not these symptoms. 'I came because I have something to say.' 'Of importance?' 'Of great importance.' 'Not, I hope, connected with Art. Do not talk to me about Art, if you please, Mr. Feilding--not about any kind of Art.' He bowed gravely. 'One cannot always listen to conversation involving canons and first principles,' he said, with much condescension. 'Let me, however, congratulate you on the promise of your protégés, Archie and Effie Wilmot.' 'They are clever.' 'They are distinctly clever,' he repeated, recovering his usual self-possession. 'Effie, as perhaps she has told you, has been my pupil for a long time.' 'She has told me, in fact, something about her relations to you.' 'Yes.' The man was preoccupied and rather dense by nature. Therefore he caught only imperfectly these side meanings in Armorel's replies. 'Yes--quite so--I have been able to be useful to her, and to her brother also--very useful, indeed, happily.' 'And to--to others--as well--very useful, indeed,' Armorel echoed. He understood that there was some kind of menace in these words. But the very air, this morning, was full of menace. He passed them by. 'It is a curious coincidence that you should also have taken up this interesting pair. It ought to bring us closer.' 'Quite the contrary, Mr. Feilding. It puts us far more widely apart.' 'I do not understand that. We have a common interest. For instance, only the other day I accepted a poem of Effie's----' 'Only the other day, Mr. Feilding?' 'Yes, the day before yesterday. I had it set up, and I added a few words introducing the writer. That was the day before yesterday. Judge of my astonishment when, only yesterday, you sang that very song, and handed it round printed with the accompaniment. I have made no alteration. The verses will appear to-night, with my laudatory introduction. Some men might complain that they had not been taken into confidence. But I do not. Effie is a little genius in her way. She is not practical: she does not understand that having disposed of her verses to one editor she is not free to give them to another. But I do not complain, if your action in her cause brings her into notice.' Here was a turning of tables! Now, some men overdo a thing. They smile too much: they rub their hands nervously: they show a nervous anxiety to be believed. Not so this man. He spoke naturally--he had now recovered his usual equanimity: he looked blankly unconscious that any doubt could possibly be thrown upon his word. Since he said it, the thing must be so. Men of honour have always claimed and exacted this concession. Therefore, the following syllogism:-- Mr. Alec Feilding is a man of honour: Everybody must acknowledge so much. A man of honour cannot lie: Else--what becomes of his honour? Therefore: Any statement made by Mr. Alec Feilding is literally true. Armorel showed no doubt in her face. Why should she? There was no doubt in her mind. The man was a Liar. 'The Wilmots will get on,' she said coldly, 'without any help from anybody. Now, Mr. Feilding, you came to say something important to me. Shall we go on to that important communication?' She took a seat on the divan in the middle of the room. He stood over her, 'There is no one here this morning,' she said. 'You can speak as freely as in your own study.' 'Among your many fine qualities, Miss Rosevean,' he began floridly, but with heightened colour, 'a certain artistic reserve is reckoned by your friends, perhaps, the highest. It makes you queenly.' 'Mr. Feilding, I cannot possibly discuss my own qualities with any but my friends.' 'Your friends! Surely, I also----' 'My friends, Mr. Feilding,' Armorel repeated, bristling like the fretful porcupine. But the man, preoccupied and thick of skin, and full of vainglory and conceit, actually did not perceive these quills erect. Armorel's pointed remarks did not prick his hide: her coldness he took for her customary reserve. Therefore he hurried to his doom. 'Give me,' he said, 'the right to speak to you as your dearest friend. You cannot possibly mistake the attentions that I have paid to you for the last few weeks. They must have indicated to you--they were, indeed, deliberately designed to indicate--a preference--deepening into a passion----' 'I think you had better stop at once, Mr. Feilding.' There are many men who honestly believe that they are irresistible. It seems incredible, but it is really true. It is the consciousness of masculine superiority carried to an extreme. They think that they have only to repeat the conventional words in the conventional manner for the woman to be subjugated. They come: they conquer. Now, this man, who plainly saw that he was to a certain extent--he did not know how far--detected, actually imagined that the woman who had detected him in a gigantic fraud one day would accept his proffered hand and heart the very next day! There are no bounds, you see, to personal vanity. Besides, for this man, if it was necessary that he should appear as the accepted suitor of a rich girl, it was doubly necessary that the girl should be the one woman in the world who could do mischief. He was anxious to discover how much she knew. But of his wooing he had no anxiety at all. He should speak: she would yield: she could do nothing else. 'Permit me,' he replied blandly, 'to go on. I am, as you know, a leader in the world of Art. I am known as a painter, a poet, and a writer of fiction. I have other ambitions still.' 'Doubtless you will succeed in these as you have succeeded in those three Arts.' 'Thank you.' He really did not see the meaning of her words. 'I take your words as of happy augury. Armorel----' 'No, Sir! Not my Christian name, if you please.' 'Give me the right to call you by your Christian name.' 'You are asking me to marry you. Is that what you mean?' 'It is nothing less.' 'Really! When I tell you, Mr. Feilding, that I know you--that I know you--it will be plain to you that the thing is absolutely impossible.' 'To know me,' he replied, showing no outward emotion, 'should make it more than possible. What could I wish better than to be known to you?' She looked him full in the face. He neither dropped his eyes nor changed colour. 'What could be better for me?' he repeated. 'What could I hope for better than to be known?' 'Oh! This man is truly wonderful!' she cried. 'Must I tell you what I know?' 'It would be better, perhaps. You look as if you knew something to my--actually--if I may say so--actually to my discredit!' Armorel gasped. His impudence was colossal. 'To your discredit! Oh! Actually to your discredit! Sir, I know the whole of your disgraceful history--the history of the past three or four years. I know by what frauds you have passed yourself off as a painter and as a poet. I know by what pretences you thought to lay the foundation for a reputation as a dramatist. I know that your talk is borrowed--that you do not know art when you see it: that you could never write a single line of verse--and that of all the humbugs and quacks that ever imposed themselves upon the credulity of people you are the worst and biggest.' He stared with a wonder which was, at least, admirably acted. 'Good Heavens!' he said. 'These words--these accusations--from you? From Armorel Rosevean--cousin of my cousin--whom I had believed to be a friend? Can this be possible? Who has put this wonderful array of charges into your head?' 'That matters nothing. They are true, and you know it.' 'They are so true,' he replied sternly, 'that if anyone were to dare to repeat these things before a third person, I should instantly--instantly--instruct my solicitors to bring an action for libel. Remember: youth and sex would not avail to protect that libeller. If anyone--anyone--dares, I say----' 'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again! What will be done with this knowledge, I cannot say. Perhaps it will be used for the exposure which will drive you from the houses of honest people. Go, I say!' [Illustration: _'Oh! say no more. Go, and do not speak to me again!'_] She stamped her foot and raised her voice, insomuch that two drowsy attendants woke up and looked round, thinking they had dreamed something unusual. The injured man of Art and Letters obeyed. He strode away. He, who had come pale and hesitating, now, on learning the truth which he had suspected and on receiving this unmistakable rejection, walked away with head erect and lofty mien. He showed, at least by outward bearing, the courage which is awakened by a declaration of war. CHAPTER XVIII CONGRATULATIONS In the afternoon of the same day Armorel received a visit from a certain Lady Frances, of whom mention has already been made. She was sitting in her own room, alone. The excitements of the last night and of the morning were succeeded by a gentle melancholy. These things had not been expected when she took her rooms and plunged into London life. Besides, after these excitements the afternoon was flat. Lady Frances came in, dressed beautifully, gracious and cordial; she took both Armorel's hands in her own, and looked as if she would have kissed her but for conscientious scruples: she was five-and-forty, or perhaps fifty, fat, comfortable, and rosy-cheeked. And she began to talk volubly. Not in the common and breathless way of volubility which leaves out the stops; but steadily and irresistibly, so that her companion should not be able to get in one single word. Well-bred persons do not leave out their commas and their full stops: but they do sometimes talk continuously, like a cataract or a Westmoreland Force, at least. 'My dear,' she said, 'I told your maid that I wanted to see you alone, and in your own room. She said Mrs. Elstree was out. So I came in. It is a very pretty little room. They tell me you play wonderfully. This is where you practise, I suppose.' She put up her glasses and looked round, as if to see what impression had been produced on the walls by the music. 'And I hear also that you paint and draw. My dear, you are the very person for him.' Again she looked round. 'A very pretty room, really--wonderful to observe how the taste for decoration and domestic art has spread of late years!' A doubtful compliment, when you consider it. 'Well, my dear, as an old friend of his--at all events, a very useful friend of his--I am come to congratulate you.' 'To congratulate me?' 'Yes. I thought I would be one of the first. I asked him two or three days ago if it was settled, and he confessed the truth, but begged me not to spread it abroad, because there were lawyers and people to see. Of course, his secrets are mine. And, except my own very intimate friends and one or two who can be perfectly trusted, I don't think I have mentioned the thing to a soul. I dare say, however, the news is all over the town by this time. Wonderful how things get carried--a bird of the air--the flying thistledown----' 'I do not understand, Lady Frances.' 'My dear, you need not pretend, because he confessed. And I think you are a very lucky girl to catch the cleverest man in all London, and he certainly is a lucky man to catch such a pretty girl as you. They say that he has got through all his money--men of genius are always bad men of business--but your own fortune will set him up again--a hundred thousand, I am told--mind you have it all settled on yourself. No one knows what may happen. I could tell you a heartrending story of a girl who trusted her lover with her money. But your lawyers will, of course, look after that.' 'I assure you----' 'He tells me,' the lady went on, without taking any notice of the interruption, 'that the thing will not come off for some time yet. I wouldn't keep it waiting too long, if I were you. Engagements easily get stale. Like buns. Well, I suppose you have learned all his secrets by this time: of course he is madly in love, and can keep nothing from you.' 'Indeed----' 'Has he told you yet who writes his stories for him? Eh? Has he told you that?' The lady bent forward and lowered her voice, and spoke earnestly. 'Has he told you?' 'I assure you that he has told me nothing--and----' 'That is in reality what I came about. Because, my dear, there must be a little plain speaking.' 'Oh! but let me speak--I----' 'When I have said what I came to say'--Lady Frances motioned with her hand gently but with authority--'then you shall have your turn. Men are so foolish that they tell their sweethearts everything. The chief reason why they fall in love, I believe, is a burning desire to have somebody to whom they can tell everything. I know a man who drove his wife mad by constantly telling her all his difficulties. He was always swimming in difficulties. Well, Alec is bound to tell you before long, even if he has not told you yet, which I can hardly believe. Now, my dear child, it matters very little to him if all the world knew the truth. All the world, to be sure, credits him with those stories, though he has been very careful not to claim them. He knows better. I say to such a clever man as Alec a few stories, more or less, matter nothing. But it matters a great deal to me'--what was this person talking about?--'because, you see, if it were to come out that I had been putting together old family scandals and forgotten stories, and sending them to the papers--there would be--there would be--Heaven knows what there would be! Yes, my dear--you can tell Alec that you know--I am the person who has written those stories. I wrote them, every one. They are all family stories--every good old family has got thousands of stories, and I have been collecting them--some of my own people, some of my husband's, and some of other people--and writing them down, changing names, and scenes, and dates, so that they should not be identified except by the few who knew them.' Armorel made no further attempt to stem the tide of communication. 'I have come to make you understand clearly, young lady, that it is not his secret alone, but mine. You would do him a little harm, perhaps--I don't know--by letting it out, but you would do me an infinity of harm. I write them down, you see, and I take them to Alec, and he alters them--puts the style right--or says he does--though I never see any difference in them when they come out in the paper. And everybody who knows the story asks how in the name of wonder he got it.' 'Oh! But I do assure you that I know nothing at all of this.' 'Don't you? Well, never mind. Now you do know. And you know also that you can't talk about it, because it is his secret as well as mine. Why, you don't suppose that the man really does all he says he does, do you? Nobody could. It isn't in nature. Everybody who knows anything at all agrees that there must be a ghost--perhaps more than one. I'm the story ghost. I dare say there's a picture ghost, and a poetry ghost. He's a wonderful clever man, no doubt--it's the cleverest thing in the world to make other people work for you; but don't imagine, pray, that he can write stories of society. Bourgeois stories--about the middle class--his own class--perhaps; but not stories about Us. My stories belong to quite another level. Well, my dear, that is off my mind. Remember that this secret would do a great deal of harm to him as well as to me if it were to get about.' 'Oh! You are altogether--wholly--wrong----' 'My dear, I really do not care if I am wrong. You will not, however, damage his reputation by letting out his secrets? A wife can help her husband in a thousand ways, and especially in keeping up the little deceptions. Thousands of wives, I am told, pass their whole lives in the pretence that they and their husbands are gentlefolk. Alec has been received into a few good houses; and though it is, of course, more difficult to get a woman in than a man, I will really do what I can for you. With a good face, good eyes, a good figure, and a little addition of style, you ought to get on very well by degrees. Or you might take the town by storm, and become a professional beauty.' 'Thank you--but----' 'And there's another thing. As an old friend of Alec's, I feel that I can give advice to you. Let me advise you earnestly, my dear, to make all the haste you can to get rid of your companion. I know all about it. She was sent to your lawyer's by Alec himself. Why? Well, it is an old story, and I suppose he wanted to place her comfortably--or he had some other reason. He's always been a crafty man. You can see that in his eyes.' 'Oh! But I cannot listen to this!' cried Armorel. 'Nonsense, my dear. You do not expect your husband to be an angel, I suppose. Only silly middle-class girls who read novels do that. It will do you no harm to know that the man is no better than his neighbours. And I am sure he is no worse. I am speaking, in fact, for your own good. My dear child, Alec ran after the woman years ago. She was rich then, and used to go about. Certain houses do not mind who enter within their gates. They lived in Palace Gardens, and Monsieur le Papa was rich--oh! rich _à millions_--and the daughter was sugar-sweet and as innocent as an angel--fluffy hair, all tangled and rebellious--you know the kind--and large blue, wondering eyes, generally lowered until the time came for lifting them in the faces of young men. It was deadly, my dear. I believe she might have married anybody she pleased. There was the young Earl of Silchester--he wanted her. What a fool she was not to take him! No; she was spoony on Alec Feilding----' 'Oh! I must not!' cried Armorel again. 'My dear, I'm telling you. Her papa went smash--poor thing!--a grand, awful, impossible smash; other people's money mixed up in it. A dozen workhouses were filled with the victims, I believe. That kind of smash out of which it is impossible to pull yourself anyhow. Killed himself, therefore. Went out of the world without invitation by means of a coarse, vulgar, common piece of two-penny rope, tied round his great fat neck. I remember him. What did the girl do? Ran away from society: went on the stage as one of a travelling company. Why, I saw her myself three years ago at Leamington. I knew her instantly. "Aha!" I said, "there's Miss Fluffy, with the appealing, wondering eyes. Poor thing! Here is a come down in the world!" Now I find her here--your companion--a widow--widow of one Jerome Elstree deceased--artist, I am told. I never heard of the gentleman, and I confess I have my doubts as to his existence at all.' Armorel ceased to offer any further opposition to the stream. 'The innocent, appealing blue eyes: the childish face: oh! I remember. My dear, I hope you will not have any reason to be jealous of Mrs. Elstree. But take care. There were other girls, too, now I come to think about it. There was his cousin, Philippa Rosevean. Everybody knows that he went as far with her as a man can go, short of an actual engagement. Canon Langley, of St. Paul's, wants to marry her. She's an admirable person for an ecclesiastical dignitary's wife--beautiful, cold, and dignified. But, as yet, she has not accepted him. They say he will be a bishop. And they say she loves her cousin Alec still. Women are generally dreadful fools about men. But I don't know. I don't think, if I were you, I should be jealous of Philippa. There's another little girl, too, I have seen coming out of his studio. But she's only a model, or something. If you begin to be jealous about the models, there will be no end. Then, there are hundreds of girls about town--especially those who can draw and paint a little, or write a silly little song--who think they are greatly endowed with genius, and would give their heads to get your chance. You are a lucky girl, Miss Armorel Rosevean; but I would advise you, in order to make the most of your good fortune, to change your companion quickly. Persuade her to try the climate of Australia. Else, there may be family jars.' Here she stopped. She had said what was in her mind. Whether she came to say this out of the goodness of her heart; or whether she intended to make a little mischief between the girl and her lover; or whether she supposed Armorel to be a young lady who accepts a lover with no illusions as to imaginary perfections, so that a new weakness discovered here and there would not lower him in her opinion, I cannot say. Lady Frances was generally considered a good-natured kind of person, and certainly she had no illusions about perfection in any man. 'May I speak now?' asked Armorel. 'Certainly, my dear. It was very good of you to hear me patiently. And I've said all I wanted to. Keep my secret, and get rid of your companion, and I'll take you in hand.' 'Thank you. But you would not suffer me to explain that you are entirely mistaken. I am not engaged to Mr. Feilding at all.' 'But he told me that you were.' 'Yes; but he also tells the world, or allows the world to believe, that he writes your stories. I am not engaged to Mr. Feilding, Lady Frances, and, what is more, I never shall be engaged to that man--never!' 'Have you quarrelled already?' 'We have not quarrelled, because before people quarrel they must be on terms of some intimacy. We have never been more than acquaintances.' 'Well--but--child--he has been seen with you constantly. At theatres, at concerts, in the park, in galleries--everywhere, he has been walking with you as if he had the right.' 'I could not help that. Besides, I never thought----' 'Never thought? Why, where were you brought up? Never thought? Good gracious! what do young ladies go into society for?' 'I am not a young lady of society, I am afraid.' 'Well--but--what was your companion about, to allow---- Oh!'--Lady Frances nodded her head--'oh! now I understand. Now one can understand why he got her placed here. Now one understands her business. My dear, you have been placed in a very dangerous position--most dangerous. Your guardians or lawyers are very much to blame. And you really never suspected anything?' 'How should I suspect? I was always told that Mr. Feilding was not the man to begin that kind of thing.' 'Were you? Your companion told you that, I suppose?' 'Oh! I suppose so. There seems a horrid network of deception all about me, Lady Frances.' Armorel rose, and her visitor followed her example. 'You have put a secret into my hands. I shall respect it. Henceforth, I desire but one more interview with this man. Oh! he is all lies--through and through. There is no part of him that is true.' 'Nonsense, my dear; you take things too seriously. We all have our little reservations, and some deceptions are necessary. When you get to my age you will understand. Why won't you marry the man? He is young: his manners are pretty good: he is a man of the world: he is really clever: he is quite sure to get on, particularly if his wife help him. He means to get on. He is the kind of man to get on. You see he is clever enough to take the credit of other people's work: to make others work for you is the first rule in the art of getting on. Oh! he will do. I shall live to see him made a baronet, and in the next generation his son will marry money, and go up into the Lords. That is the way. My dear, you had better take him. You will never get a more promising offer. You seem to me rather an unworldly kind of girl. You should really take advice of those who know the world.' 'I could never--never--marry Mr. Feilding. 'Wealth, position, society, rank, consideration--these are the only things in life worth having, and you are going to throw them away! My dear, is there actually nothing between you at all? Was it all a fib?' 'Actually nothing at all, except that he offered himself to me this very morning, and he received an answer which was, I hope, plain enough.' 'Ah! now I see.' Lady Frances laughed. 'Now I understand, my dear, the vanity of the man! The creature, when he told me that fib, thought it was the truth because he had made up his mind to ask you, and, of course, he concluded that no one could say "No" to him. Now I understand. You need not fall into a rage about it, my dear. It was only his vanity. Poor dear Alec! Well, he'll get another pretty girl, I dare say; but, my dear, I doubt whether---- Rising men are scarce, you know. Good-bye, child! Keep that little secret, and don't bear malice. The vanity--the vanity of the men! Wonderful! wonderful!' * * * * * 'And now,' cried Armorel, alone--'now there is nothing left. Everything has been torn from him. He can do nothing--nothing. The cleverest man--the very cleverest man in all London!' CHAPTER XIX WHAT NEXT? Roland had moved into his new studio before Armorel became, as she had promised, his model in the new picture. She began to go there nearly every morning, accompanied by Effie, and faithfully sat for two or three hours while the painting went on. It was the picture which he had begun under the old conditions, her own figure being substituted for that of the girl which the artist originally designed. The studio was one of a nest of such offices crowded together under a great roof and lying on many floors. The others were, I dare say, prettily furnished and decorated with the customary furniture of a studio, with pictures, sketches, screens, and pretty things of all kinds. This studio was nothing but a great gaunt room, with a big window, and no furniture in it except an easel, a table, and two or three chairs. There was simply nothing else. Under the pressure of want and failure the unfortunate artist had long ago parted with all the pretty things with which he had begun his career, and the present was no time to replace them. 'I have got the studio,' he said, 'for the remainder of a lease, pretty cheap. Unfortunately, I cannot furnish it yet. Wait until the tide turns. I am full of hope. Then this arid wall and this great staring Sahara of a floor shall blossom with all manner of lovely things--armour and weapons, bits of carving and tapestry, drawings. You shall see how jolly it will be.' Next to the studio there were two rooms. In one of these, his bedroom, he had placed the barest necessaries; the other was empty and unfurnished, so that he had no place to sit in during the evening but his gaunt and ghostly studio. However, the tide had turned in one respect. He was now full of hope. There is no better time for conversation than when one is sitting for a portrait or standing for a model. The subject has to remain motionless. This would be irksome if silence were imposed as well as inaction. Happily, the painter finds that his sitter only exhibits a natural expression when he or she is talking and thinking about something else. And, which is certainly a Providential arrangement, the painter alone among mortals, if we except the cobbler, can talk and work at the same time. I do not mean that he can talk about the Differential Calculus, or about the relations of Capital and Labour, or about a hot corner in politics: but he can talk of things light, pleasant, and on the surface. 'I feel myself back in Scilly,' said Armorel. 'Whenever I come here and think of what you are painting, I am in the boat, watching the race of the tide through the channel. The puffins are swarming on Camber Rock, and swimming in the smooth water outside: there is the head of a seal, black above the water, shining in the sunlight--how he flounders in the current! The sea-gulls are flying and crying overhead: the shags stand in rows upon the farthest rocks: the sea-breeze blows upon my cheek. I suppose I have changed so much that when I go back I shall have lost the old feeling. But it was joy enough in those days only to sit in the boat and watch it all. Do you remember, Roland?' 'I remember very well. You are not changed a bit, Armorel: you have only grown larger and----' 'More beautiful,' he would have added, but refrained. 'You will find that the old joy will return again--_la joie de vivre_--only to breathe and feel and look around. But it will be then ten times as joyous. If you loved Scilly when you were a child and had seen nothing else, how much more will you love the place now that you have travelled and seen strange lands and other coasts and the islands of the Mediterranean!' 'I fear that I shall find the place small: the house will have shrunk--children's houses always shrink. I hope that Holy Farm will not have become mean.' 'Mean? with the verbena-trees, the fuchsias, the tall pampas-grass, and the palms! Mean? with the old ship's lanthorn and the gilded figure-head? Mean, Armorel? with the old orchard behind and the twisted trees with their fringe of grey moss? You talk rank blasphemy! Something dreadful will happen to you.' 'Perhaps it will be I myself, then, that will have grown mean enough to think the old house mean. But Samson is a very little place, isn't it? One cannot make out Samson to be a big place. I could no longer live there always. We will go there for three or four months every year; just for refreshment of the soul, and then return here among men and women or travel abroad together, Effie. We could be happy for a time there: we could sail and row about the rocks in calm weather: and in stormy weather we should watch the waves breaking over the headlands, and in the evening I would play "The Chirping of the Lark."' 'I am ready to go to-morrow, if you will take me with you,' said Effie. Then they were silent again. Roland walked backwards and forwards, brush and palette in hand, looking at his model and at his canvas. Effie stood beside the picture, watching it grow. To one who cannot paint, the growth of a portrait on the canvas is a kind of magic. The bare outline and shape of head and face, the colour of the eyes, the curve of the neck, the lines of the lips--anyone might draw these. But to transfer to the canvas the very soul that lies beneath the features--that, if you please, is different. Oh! How does the painter catch the soul of the man and show it in his face? One must be oneself an artist of some kind even to appreciate the greatness of the portrait painter. 'When this picture is finished,' said Armorel, 'there will be nothing to keep me in London; and we will go then.' 'At the very beginning of the season?' 'The season is nothing to me. My companion, Mrs. Elstree, who was to have launched me so beautifully into the very best society, turns out not to have any friends; so that there is no society for me, after all. Perhaps it is as well.' 'Will Mrs. Elstree go to Scilly with you?' asked Roland. 'No,' said Armorel, with decision. 'On Samson, at least, one needs no companion.' Again they relapsed into silence for a space. Conversation in the studio is fitful. 'I have a thing to talk over with you two,' she said. 'First, I thought it would be best to talk about it to you singly; but now I think that you should both hear the whole story, and so we can all three take counsel as to what is best.' 'Your head a little more--so.' Roland indicated the movement with his forefinger. 'That will do. Now pray go on, Armorel.' 'Once there was a man,' she began, as if she was telling a story to children--and, indeed, there is no better way ever found out of beginning a story--'a man who was, in no sense at all, and could never become, try as much as he could, an artist. He was, in fact, entirely devoid of the artistic faculty: he had no ear for music or for poetry, no eye for beauty of form or for colour, no hand for drawing, no brain to conceive: he was quite a prosaic person. Whether he was clever in things that do not require the artistic faculty, I do not know. I should hardly think he could be clever in anything. Perhaps he might be good at buying cheap and selling dear.' 'Won't you take five minutes' rest?' asked the painter; hardly listening at all to the beginning, which, as you see, promised very little in the way of amusement. There are, however, many ways by which the story-teller gets a grip of his hearer, and a dull beginning is not always the least effective. He put down his palette. 'You must be tired,' he said. 'Come and tell me what you think.' He looked thoughtfully at his picture. Armorel's poor little beginning of a story was slighted. 'You are satisfied, so far?' she asked. 'I will tell you when it is finished. Is the water quite right?' 'We are in shoal, close behind us are the broad Black Rock Ledges. The water might be even more transparent still. It is the dark water racing through the narrow ravine that I think of most. It will be a great picture, Roland. Now I will take my place again.' She did so. 'And, with your permission, I will go on with my story: you heard the beginning, Roland?' 'Oh! Yes! Unfortunate man with no eyes and no ears,' he replied, unsuspecting. 'Worse than a one-eyed Calender.' 'This preposterous person, then, with neither eye, nor ear, nor hand, nor understanding, had the absurd ambition to succeed. This you will hardly believe. But he did. And, what is more, he had no patience, but wanted to succeed all at once. I am told that lots of young men, nowadays, are consumed with that yearning to succeed all at once. It seems such a pity, when they should be happily dancing and singing and playing at the time when they were not working. I think they would succeed so very much better afterwards. Well, this person very soon found that in the law--did I say he was a barrister?--he had no chance of success except after long years. Then he looked round the fields of art and literature. Mind, he could neither write nor practise any art. What was he to do? Every day the ambition to seem great filled his soul more and more, and every day the thing appeared to him more hopeless: because, you see, he had no imagination, and therefore could not send his soul to sleep with illusions. I wonder he did not go mad. Perhaps he did, for he resolved to pretend. First, he thought he would pretend to be a painter'--here Roland, who had been listening languidly, started, and became attentive. 'He could neither paint nor draw, remember. He began, I think, by learning the language of Art. He frequented studios, heard the talk and read the books. It must have been weary work for him. But, of course, he was no nearer his object than before; and then a great chance came to him. He found a young artist full of promise--a real artist--one filled with the whole spirit of Art: but he was starving. He was actually penniless, and he had no friends who could help him, because he was an Australian by birth. This young man was not only penniless, but in despair. He was ready to do anything. I suppose, when one is actually starving and sees no prospect of success or any hope, ambition dies away and even self-respect may seem a foolish thing.' Roland listened now, his picture forgotten. What was Armorel intending? 'It must be a most dreadful kind of temptation. There can be nothing like it in the world. That is why we pray for our daily bread. Oh! a terrible temptation. I never understood before how great and terrible a temptation it is. Then the man without eye, or hand, or brain saw a chance for himself. He would profit by his brother's weakness. He proposed to buy the work of this painter and to call it his own.' 'Armorel, must you tell this story?' 'Patience, Roland. In his despair the artist gave way. He consented. For three years and more he received the wages of--of sin. But his food was like ashes in his mouth, and his front was stamped--yes, stamped--by the curse of those who sin against their own soul.' 'Armorel----' But she went on, ruthless. 'The pictures were very good: they were exhibited, praised, and sold. And the man grew quickly in reputation. But he wasn't satisfied. He thought that as it was so easy to be a painter, it would be equally easy to become a poet. All the Arts are allied: many painters have been also poets. He had never written a single line of poetry. I do not know that he had ever read any. He found a girl who was struggling, working, and hoping.' Effie started and turned roseate red. 'He took her poems--bought them--and, on the pretence of having improved them and so made them his own, he published them in his own name. They were pretty, bright verses, and presently people began to look for them and to like them. So he got a double reputation. But the poor girl remained unknown. At first she was so pleased at seeing her verses in print--it looked so much like success--that she hardly minded seeing his name at the end. But presently he brought out a little volume of them with his name on the title-page, and then a second volume--also with his name----' 'The scoundrel!' cried Roland. 'He cribbed his poetry too?' Effie bowed her face, ashamed. 'And then the girl grew unhappy. For she perceived that she was in a bondage from which there was no escape except by sacrificing the money which he gave her, and that was necessary for her brother's sake. So she became very unhappy.' 'Very unhappy,' echoed Effie. Both painter and poet stood confused and ashamed. 'Then this clever man--the cleverest man in London--began to go about in society a good deal, because he was so great a genius. There he met a lady who was full of stories.' 'Oh!' said Roland. 'Is there nothing in him at all?' 'Nothing at all. There is really nothing at all. This man persuaded the lady to write down these stories, which were all based on old family scandals and episodes unknown or forgotten by the world. They form a most charming series of stories. I believe they are written in a most sparkling style--full of wit and life. Well, he did not put his name to them, but he allowed the whole world to believe that they were his own.' 'Good Heavens!' cried Roland. 'And still he was not satisfied. He found a young dramatist who had written a most charming play. He tried to persuade the poor lad that his play was worthless, and he offered to take it himself, alter it--but there needed no alteration--and convert it into a play that could be acted. He would give fifty pounds for the play, but it was to be his own.' 'Yes,' said Effie, savagely. 'He made that offer, but he will not get the play.' 'You have heard, now, what manner of man he was. Very well. I tell you two the story because I want to consult you. The other day I arranged a little play of my own. That is, I invited people to hear the reciting of that drama: I invited the pretender himself among the rest, but he did not know or guess what the play was going to be. And at the same time I invited the painter and the poet. The former brought his unfinished picture--the latter brought her latest poem, which the pretender was going that very week to bring out in his own name. I had set it to music, and I sang it. I meant that he should learn in this way, without being told, that everything was discovered. I watched his face during the recital of the play, and I saw the dismay of the discovery creeping gradually over him as he realised that he had lost his painter, his poet, and his dramatist. There remained nothing more but to discover the author of the stories--and that, too, I have found out. And I think he will lose his story-teller as well. He will be deprived of all his borrowed plumes. At one blow he saw himself ruined.' Neither of the two made answer for a space. Then spoke Roland: 'Dux femina facti! A woman hath done this.' 'He is ruined unless he can find others to take your places. The question I want you to consider is--What shall be done next? Roland, it is your name and fame that he has stolen--your pictures that he has called his own. Effie, they are your poems that he has published under his name. What will you do? Will you demand your own again? Think.' 'He must exhibit no more pictures of mine,' said Roland. 'He has one in his studio that he has already sold. That one must not go to any gallery. That is all I have to say.' 'He cannot publish any more poems of mine,' said Effie, 'because he hasn't got any, and I shall give him no more.' 'What about the past?' 'Are we so proud of the past and of the part we have played in it'--asked Roland--'that we should desire its story published to all the world?' Effie shook her head, approvingly. 'As for me,' he continued, 'I wish never to hear of it again. It makes me sick and ashamed even to think of it. Let it be forgotten. I was an unknown artist--I had few friends--I had exhibited one picture only--so that my work was unknown--I had painted for him six or seven pictures which are mostly bought by an American. As for the resemblance of style, that may make a few men talk for a season. Then it will be forgotten. I shall remain--he will have disappeared. I am content to take my chance with future work, even if at first I may appear to be a mere copyist of Mr. Alec Feilding.' 'And you, Effie?' 'I agree with Mr. Lee,' she replied briefly. 'Let the past alone. I shall write more verses, and, perhaps, better verses.' 'Then I will go to him and tell him that he need fear nothing. We shall hold our tongues. But he is not to exhibit the picture that is in his studio. I will tell him that.' 'You will not actually go to him yourself, Armorel--alone--after what has passed?' asked Effie. 'Why not? He can do me no harm. He knows that he has been found out, and he is tormented by the fear of what we shall do next. I bring him relief. His reputation is secured--that is to say, it will be the reputation of a man who stopped at thirty, in the fulness of his first promise and his best powers, and did no more work.' 'Oh!' cried Effie. 'I thought he was so clever! I thought that his desire to be thought a poet was only a little infirmity of temper, which would pass. And, after all, to think that----' Here the poet looked at the painter, and the painter looked at the poet--but neither spoke the thought: 'How could you--you, with your pencil: how could you--you, with your pen--consent to the iniquity of so great a fraud?' CHAPTER XX A RECOVERY AND A FLIGHT Amid all these excitements Armorel became aware that something--something of a painful and disagreeable character, was going on with her companion. They were at this time very little together. Mrs. Elstree took her breakfast in bed; at luncheon she was, just now, nearly always out; at dinner she sat silent, pale, and anxious; in the evening she lay back in her chair as if she was asleep. One night Armorel heard her weeping and sobbing in her room. She knocked at the door with intent to offer her help if she was ill. 'No, no,' cried Mrs. Elstree; 'you need not come in. I have nothing but a headache.' This thing as well disquieted her. She remembered what Lady Frances had suggested--it is always the suggestion rather than the bare fact which sticks and pricks like a thorn, and will not come out or suffer itself to be removed. Armorel thought nothing of the allegation concerning the stage--why should not a girl go upon the stage if she wished? The suggestion which pricked was that Mrs. Elstree had been sent to her by the man whom she now knew to be fraudulent through and through, in order to carry out some underhand and secret design. There is nothing more horrid than the suspicion that the people about one are treacherous. It reduces one to the condition of primitive man, for whom every grassy glade concealed a snake and every bush a wild beast. She tried to shake off the suspicion, yet a hundred things confirmed it. Her constant praise of this child of genius, his persistence in meeting them wherever they went, the attempt to make her find money for his schemes. The girl, thus irritated, began to have uneasy dreams; she was as one caught in the meshes; she was lured into a garden whence there was no escape; she was hunted by a cunning and relentless creature; she was in a prison, and could not get out. Always in her dreams Zoe stood on one side of her, crying, 'Oh, the great and glorious creature!--oh, the cleverness of the man!--oh, the wonder and the marvel of him!' And on the other side stood Lady Frances, saying, 'Why don't you take him? He is a liar, it is true, but he is no worse than his neighbours--all men are liars! You can't get a man made on purpose for you. What is your business in life at all but to find a husband? Why are girls in Society at all except to catch husbands? And they are scarce, I assure you. Why don't you take the man? You will never again have such a chance--a rising man--a man who can make other people work for him--a clever man. Besides, you are as good as engaged to him: you have made people talk: you have been seen with him everywhere. If you are not engaged to him you ought to be.' It was about a week after the reading of the play when this condition of suspicion and unquiet was brought to an end in a very unexpected manner. Mr. Jagenal called at the rooms in the morning about ten o'clock. Mrs. Elstree was taking breakfast in bed, as usual. Armorel was alone, painting. 'My dear young lady,' said her kindly adviser, 'I would not have disturbed you at this early hour but for a very important matter. You are well and happy, I trust? No, you are not well and happy. You look pale.' 'I have been a little worried lately,' Armorel replied. 'But never mind now.' 'Are you quite alone here? Your companion, Mrs. Elstree?' 'She has not yet left her room. We are quite alone.' 'Very well, then.' The lawyer sat down and began nursing his right knee. 'Very well. You remember, I dare say, making a certain communication to me touching a collection of precious stones in your possession? You made that communication to me five years ago, when first you came from Scilly. You returned to it again when you arrived at your twenty-first birthday, and I handed over to your own keeping all your portable property.' 'Of course I remember perfectly well.' 'Then does your purpose still hold?' 'It is still, and always, my duty to hand over those rubies to their rightful owner--the heir of Robert Fletcher, as soon as he can be found.' 'It is also my duty to warn you again, as I have done already, that there is no reason at all why you should do so. You are the sole heiress of your great-great-grandmother's estate. She died worth a great sum of money in gold, besides treasures in plate, works of art, lace, and jewels cut and uncut. The rambling story of an aged woman cannot be received as evidence on the strength of which you should hand over valuable property to persons unknown, who do not even claim it, and know nothing about it.' 'I must hand over those rubies,' Armorel repeated, 'to the person to whom they belong.' 'It is a very valuable property. If the estimate which was made for me was correct--I see no reason to doubt it--those jewels could be sold, separately, or in small parcels, for nearly thirty-five thousand pounds--a fortune larger than all the rest of your property put together--thirty-five thousand pounds!' 'That has nothing to do with the question, has it? I have got to restore those jewels, you see, to their rightful owner, as soon as he can be discovered.' 'Well--but--consider again. What have you got to go upon? The story about Robert Fletcher may or may not be true. No one can tell after this lapse of time. The things were found by you lying in the old sea-chest with other things--all your own. Who was this Robert Fletcher? Where are his heirs? If they claim the property, and can prove their claim, give it up at once. If not, keep your own. The jewels are undoubtedly your own as much as the lace and the silks and the silver cups, which were all, I take it, recovered from wrecks.' 'Do you disbelieve my great-great-grandmother's story, then?' 'I have neither to believe nor to disbelieve. I say it isn't evidence. Your report of what she said, being then in her dotage, amounts to just nothing, considered as evidence.' 'I am perfectly certain that the story is true. The leathern thong by which the case hung round the man's neck has been cut by a knife, just as granny described it in her story. And there is the writing in the case itself. Nothing will persuade me that the story is anything but true in every particular.' 'It may be true. I cannot say. At the same time, the property is your own, and you would be perfectly justified in keeping it.' 'Mr. Jagenal'--Armorel turned upon him sharply--'you have found out Robert Fletcher's heir! I am certain you have. That is the reason why you are here this morning.' Mr. Jagenal laid upon the table a pocket-book full of papers. 'I will tell you what I have discovered. That is why I came here. There has been, unfortunately, a good deal of trouble in discovering this Robert Fletcher and in identifying one of the Robert Fletchers we did discover with your man. We discovered, in fact, ten Robert Fletchers before we came to the man who may reasonably be supposed---- But you shall see.' He opened the pocket-book, and found a paper of memoranda from which he read his narrative:-- 'There was one Robert Fletcher, the eleventh whom we unearthed. This man promised nothing at first. He became a broker in the City in the year 1810. In the same year he married a cousin, daughter of another broker, with whom he entered into partnership. He did so well that when he died, in the year 1846, then aged sixty-nine, his will was proved under 80,000_l._ He left three daughters, among whom the estate was divided, in equal shares. The eldest of the daughters, Eleanor, remained unmarried, and died two years ago, at the age of seventy-seven, leaving the whole of her fortune--greatly increased by accumulations--to hospitals and charities. I believe she was, in early life, alienated from her family, on account of some real or fancied slight. However, she died: and her papers came into the hands of my friends Denham, Mansfield, Westbury, and Co., of New Square, Lincoln's Inn, solicitors. Her second sister, Frances, born in the year 1813, married in 1834, had one son, Francis Alexander, who was born in 1835, and married in 1857. Both Frances and her son are now dead; but one son remained, Frederick Alexander, born in the year 1859. The third daughter, Catharine, born in the year 1815, married in 1835, and emigrated to Australia with her husband, a man named Temple. I have no knowledge of this branch of the family.' 'Then,' said Armorel, 'I suppose the eldest son or grandson of the second sister must have the rubies?' 'You are really in a mighty hurry to get rid of your property. The next question--it should have come earlier--is--How do I connect this Robert Fletcher with your Robert Fletcher? How do we know that Robert Fletcher the broker was Robert Fletcher the shipwrecked passenger? Well; Eleanor, the eldest, left a bundle of family papers and letters behind her. Among them is a packet endorsed "From my son Robert in India." Those letters, signed "Robert Fletcher," are partly dated from Burmah, whither the writer had gone on business. He gives his observations on the manners and customs of the country, then little known or visited. He says that he is doing very well, indeed: so well, he says presently, that, thanks to a gift made to him by the King, he is able to think about returning home with the means of staying at home and doing no more work for the end of his natural days.' 'Of course, he had those jewels.' 'Then he writes from Calcutta. He has returned in safety from Burmah and the King, whose capricious temper had made him tremble for his life. He is putting his affairs in order: he has brought his property from Burmah in a portable form which he can best realise in London: lastly, he is going to sail in a few weeks. This is in the year 1808. According to your story it was somewhere about that date that the wreck took place on the Scilly Isles, and he was washed ashore, saved----' 'And robbed,' said Armorel. 'As we have no evidence of the fact,' answered the man of law, 'I prefer to say that the real story ends with the last of the letters. It remained, however, to compare the handwriting of the letters with that of the fragment of writing in your leather case. I took the liberty to have a photograph made of that fragment while it was in my possession, and I now ask you to compare the handwriting.' He drew out of his pocket-book a letter--one of the good old kind, on large paper, brown with age, and unprovided with any envelope--and the photograph of which he was speaking. 'There,' he said, 'judge for yourself.' 'Why!' cried Armorel. 'The writing corresponds exactly!' 'It certainly does, letter for letter. Well; the conclusion of the whole matter is that I believe the story of the old lady to be correct in the main. On the other hand, there is nothing in the papers to show the existence in the family of any recollection of so great a loss. One would imagine that a man who had dropped--or thought he had dropped--a bag, full of rubies, worth thirty-five thousand pounds, into the sea would have told his children about it, and bemoaned the loss all his life. Perhaps, however, he was so philosophic as to grieve no more after what was hopelessly gone. He was still in the years of hope when the misfortune befell him. Possibly his children knew in general terms that the shipwreck had caused a destruction of property. Again, a man of the City, with the instincts of the City, would not like it to be known that he had returned to his native country a pauper, while it would help him in his business to be considered somewhat of a Nabob. Of this I cannot speak from any knowledge I have, or from any discovery that I have made.' 'Oh!' cried Armorel, 'I cannot tell you what a weight has been lifted from me. I have never ceased to long for the restoration of those jewels ever since I found them in the sea-chest.' 'There is--as I said--only one descendant of the second sister--a man--a man still young. You will give me your instructions in writing. I am to hand over to this young man--this fortunate young man--already trebly fortunate in another sense--this precious packet of jewels. It is still, I suppose, in the bank?' 'It is where you placed it for me when I came of age.' 'Very well. I have brought you an order for its delivery to me. Will you sign it?' Armorel heaved a great sigh. 'With what relief!' she said. 'Have you got it here?' Mr. Jagenal gave her the order on the bank for the delivery of sealed packet, numbered III., to himself. She signed it. 'To think,' she said, 'that by a simple stroke of the pen I can remove the curse of those ill-gotten rubies! It is like getting rid of all your sins at once. It is like Christian dropping his bundle.' 'I hope the rubies will not carry on this supposed curse of yours.' 'Oh!' cried Armorel, with a profound sigh, 'I feel as if the poor old lady was present listening. Since I could understand anything, I have understood that the possession of those rubies brought disaster upon my people. From generation to generation they have been drowned one after the other--my father--my grandfather--my great-grandfather--my mother--my brothers--all--all drowned. Can you wonder if I rejoice that the things will threaten me no longer?' 'This is sheer superstition.' 'Oh! yes: I know, and yet I cannot choose but to believe it, I have heard the story so often, and always with the same ending. Now, they are gone.' 'Not quite gone. Nearly. As good as gone, however. Dismiss this superstitious dread from your mind, my dear young lady.' 'The rubies are gone. There will be no more of us swallowed up in the cruel sea.' 'No more of you,' repeated Mr. Jagenal, with the incredulous smile of one who has never had in his family a ghost, or a legend, or a curse, or a doom, or a banshee, or anything at all distinguished. 'And now you will be happy. You don't ask me the name of the fortunate young man.' 'No; I do not want to know anything more about the horrid things.' 'What am I to say to him?' 'Tell him the truth.' 'I shall tell him that you discovered the rubies in an old sea-chest with other property accumulated during a great many years: that a scrap of paper with writing on it gave a clue to the owner: and that, by means of other investigation, he has been discovered: that it was next to impossible for your great-grandfather, Captain Rosevean, to have purchased these jewels: and that the presumption is that he recovered them from the wreck, and laid them in the chest, saying nothing, and that the chest was never opened until your succession to the property. That, my dear young lady, is all the story that I have to tell. And now I will go away, with congratulations to Donna Quixote in getting rid of thirty-five thousand pounds.' An hour or two afterwards, Mrs. Elstree appeared. She glided into the room and threw herself into her chair, as if she desired to sleep again. She looked harassed and anxious. 'Zoe,' cried Armorel, 'you are surely ill. What is it? Can I do nothing for you?' 'Nothing. I only wish it was all over, or that I could go to sleep for fifty years, and wake up an old woman--in an almshouse or somewhere--all the troubles over. What a beautiful thing it must be to be old and past work, with fifteen shillings a week, say, and nothing to think about all day except to try and forget the black box! If it wasn't for the black box--I know I should see them always coming along the road with it--it must be the loveliest time.' 'Well--but--what makes you look so ill?' 'Nothing. I am not ill. I am never ill. I would rather be ill than--what I am. A tearing, rending neuralgia would be a welcome change. Don't ask me any more questions, Armorel. You look radiant, for your part. Has anything happened to you?--anything good? You are one of those happy girls to whom only good things come.' 'Do you remember the story I told you--about the rubies?' 'Yes.' She turned her face to the fire. 'I remember very well.' 'I have at last--congratulate me, Zoe--I have got rid of them.' 'You have got rid of them?' Mrs. Elstree started up. 'Where are they, then?' 'Mr. Jagenal has been here. He has found a great-grandson of Robert Fletcher, who is entitled to have them. I have never been so relieved! The dreadful things are out of my hands now, and in Mr. Jagenal's. He will give them to this grandson. Zoe, what is the matter?' Mrs. Elstree rose to her feet, and stood facing Armorel, with eyes in which wild terror was the only passion visible, and white cheeks. And, as Armorel was still speaking, she staggered, reeled, and fell forwards in a faint. Armorel caught her, and bore her to the sofa, when she presently came to herself again. But the fainting fit was followed by hysterical weeping and laughing. She knew not what she said. She raved about somebody who had bought something. Armorel paid no heed to what she said. She lamented the hour of her birth: she had been pursued by evil all her life: she lamented the hour when she met a certain man, unnamed, who had dragged her down to his own level: and so on. When she had calmed a little, Armorel persuaded her to lie down. It is a woman's chief medicine. It is better than all the drugs in the museum of the College of Physicians. Mrs. Elstree, pale and trembling, tearful and agitated, lay down. Armorel covered her with a warm wrapper, and left her. A little while afterwards she looked in. The patient was quite calm now, apparently asleep, and breathing gently. Armorel, satisfied with the result of her medicine, left her in charge of her maid, and went out for an hour. She went out, in fact, to tell Effie Wilmot the joyful news concerning those abominable rubies. When she came back, in time for luncheon, she was met by her maid, who gave her a letter, and told her a strange thing. Mrs. Elstree had gone away! The sick woman, who had been raving in hysterics, hardly able to support herself to her bed, had got up the moment after Armorel left the house, packed all her boxes hurriedly, sent her for a cab, and had driven away. But she had left this note for Armorel. It was brief. 'I am obliged to go away unexpectedly. In order to avoid explanations and questions and farewells, I have thought it best to go away quietly. I could not choose but go. For certain reasons I must leave you. For the same reasons I hope that we may never meet again. I ought never to have come here. Forgive me and forget me. I will write to Mr. Jagenal to-day. 'ZOE.' There was no reason given. She had gone. Nor, if one may anticipate, has Armorel yet discovered the reasons for this sudden flight. Nor, as you will presently discover, will Armorel ever be able to discover those reasons. CHAPTER XXI ALL LOST BUT---- Mr. Alec Feilding paced the thick carpet of his studio with a restless step and an unquiet mind. Never before had he faced a more gloomy outlook. Black clouds, storm and rain, everywhere. Bad, indeed, is it for the honest tradesman when there is no money left, and no credit. But a man can always begin the world again if he has a trade. The devil of it is when a man has no trade at all, except that of lying and cheating in the abstract. Many men, it is true, combine cheatery and falsehood with their trade. Few are so unfortunate as to have no trade on which to base their frauds and adulterations. Everything threatened, and all at once. Nay, it seemed as if everything was actually taken from him and all at once. Not something here, which might be repaired, and something there, a little later on, but all at once--everything. Nothing at all left. Even his furniture and his books might be seized. He would be stripped of his house, his journal, his name, his credit, his position--even his genius! Therefore his face--that face which Armorel found so wooden--was now full of expression, but of the terror-stricken, hunted kind: that of the man who has been found out and is going to be exposed. On the table lay three or four letters. They had arrived that morning. He took them up and read them one after the other. It was line upon line, blow upon blow. The first was from Roland Lee. 'I see no object,' he said, 'in granting you the interview which you propose. There is not really anything that requires discussion. As to our interests being identical, as you say--if they have been so hitherto they will remain so no longer. As to the market price of the pictures, which you claim to have raised by your judicious management, I am satisfied to see my work rise to its own level by its own worth. As to your threat that the influence which has been exerted for an artist may be also exerted against him--you will do what you please. Your last demand, for gratitude, needs no reply. I start again, exactly where I was when you found me. I am still as poor and as little known. The half-dozen pictures which you have sold as your own will not help me in any way. Your assertion that I am about to reap the harvest of your labours is absurd. I begin the world over again. The last picture--the one now in your studio--you will be good enough not to exhibit'--'Won't I, though?' asked the owner--'at the penalty of certain inconveniences which you will learn immediately. I have torn up and burned your cheque.'--'So much the better for me,' said the purchaser.--'You say that you will not let me go without a personal interview. If you insist upon one, you must have it. You will find me here any morning. But, as you can only want an interview in the hope of renewing the old arrangement, I am bound to warn you that it is hopeless and impossible, and to beg that you will not trouble yourself to come here at all. Understand that no earthly consideration will induce me to bear any further share in the deception in which I have been too long a confederate. The guilty knowledge of the past should separate us as wide apart as the poles. To see you will be to revive a guilty memory. Since we must meet, perhaps, from time to time, let us meet as a pair of criminals who avoid each other's conversation for fear of stirring up the noisome past. What has been resolved upon, so far as I--and another--are concerned, Miss Armorel Rosevean has undertaken to inform you.--R. L.' 'Deception! Criminals!' I suppose there is no depth of wickedness into which men may not descend, step by step, getting daily deeper in the mire of falsehood and crime, yet walking always with head erect, and meeting the world with the front of rectitude. Had anyone told Mr. Alec Feilding, years before, what he would do in the future, he would have kicked that foul and obscene prophet. Well: he had done these things, and deliberately: he had posed before the world as painter, poet, and writer of fiction. As time went on, and the world accepted his pretensions, they became a part of himself. Nay: he even excused himself. Everybody does the same thing: or, just the same, everybody would do it, given the chance: it is a world of pretension, make-believe, and seeming. Besides, he was no highwayman, he bought the things: he paid for them: they were his property. And yet--'Deception! Criminals!' The words astonished and pained him. And the base ingratitude of the man. He was starving: no one would buy his things: nobody knew his work, when he stepped in. Then, by dexterity in the art of Puff, which the moderns call _réclame_--he actually believed this, being so ignorant of Art--he had forced these pictures into notice: he had run up their price, until for that picture on the easel he had been offered, and had taken, 450_l._! Ungrateful! 'Deception! Criminals!' Why, the man had actually received a cheque for 300_l._ for that very picture. What more could he want or expect? True, he had refused to cash the cheque. More fool he! And now he was going absolutely to withdraw from the partnership, and work for himself. Well--poor devil! He would starve! He stood in front of the picture and looked at it mournfully. The beautiful thing--far more beautiful than any he had exhibited before. It cut him to the heart to think--not that he had been such a fraud, but--that he could have no more from the same source. His career was cut short at the outset, his ambitions blasted, by this unlucky accident. Yet a year or two and the Academy would have made him an Associate: a few more years and he would have become R.A. Perhaps, in the end, President. And now it was all over. No Royal Academy for him, unless--a thing almost desperate--he could find some other Roland Lee--some genius as poor, as reckless of himself. And it might be years--years--before he could find such a one. Meantime, what was he to show? What was he to say? 'Deception! Criminals!' Confound the fellow! The words banged about his head and boxed his ears. The second letter was from Effie--the girl to whom he had paid such vast sums of money, whom he had surrounded with luxuries--on whom he had bestowed the precious gift of his personal friendship. This girl also wrote without the least sense of gratitude. She said, in fact, writing straight to the point, 'I beg to inform you that I shall not, in future, be able to continue those contributions to your paper which you have thought fit to publish in two volumes with your own name attached. I have submitted my original manuscript of those verses to a friend, who has compared them with your published volume, and has ascertained that there is not the alteration of a single word. So that your pretence of having altered and improved them, until they became your own, is absurd. My brother begs me to add that your statement made before all the people at the reading was false. You made no suggestions. You offered no advice. You said that the play was worthless. My brother has made no alterations. You offered to give him fifty pounds for the whole rights in the play, with the right of bringing it out under your own name. This offer he refuses absolutely. 'I sincerely wish I could restore the money you have given me. I now understand that it was the price of my silence--the Wages of Sin. 'E. W.' No more verses from that quarter. Poets, however, there are in plenty, writers of glib and flowing rhymes. To be sure, they are as a race consumed by vanity, and want to have their absurd names stuck to everything they do. Very well, henceforth he would have anonymous verses, and engage a small army of poets. The letter moved him little, except that it came by the same post as the other. It proved, taken with the evening of the play, concerted action. As for comparing the girl's manuscript verses with the volume, how was she to prove that the manuscript verses were not copied out of the volume? Then there was a third letter, a very angry letter, from Lady Frances, his story-teller. 'I learn,' she said, 'that you have chosen me as the fittest person upon whom to practise your deceptions. You assured me that you were engaged to Miss Armorel Rosevean. I learn from the young lady herself that this is entirely false: you did offer yourself, it is true, a week after you had assured me of the engagement. You were promptly and decidedly refused. And you had no reason whatever for believing that you would be accepted. 'I should like you to consider that you owe your introduction into society to me. You also owe to me whatever name you have acquired as a story-teller. Every one of the society stories told in your paper has been communicated to you by me. And this is the way in which you repay my kindness to you. 'Under the circumstances, I think you cannot complain if I request that in future we cease to meet even as acquaintances. Of course, my contributions to your paper will be discontinued. And if you venture to state anywhere that they are your own work, I will publicly contradict the statement. 'F. H.' He stood irresolute. What was to be done? For the moment he could think of nothing. 'It is that cursed girl!' he cried. 'Why did she ever come here? By what unlucky accident did she meet these two--Roland Lee and Effie? Why was I such a fool as to ask Lady Frances to call upon her? Why did I send Zoe to her? It is all folly together. If it had not been for her we should have been all going on as before. I am certain we should--and going on comfortably. I should have made Roland's fortune as well as my own name--and his hand was getting stronger and better every day. And I should have kept that girl in comfort, and made a very pretty little name for myself that way. She was improving, too--a bright and clever girl--a real treasure in proper hands. And I had the boy as well, or should have had. Good Heavens! what losses! What a splendid possession to have destroyed! No man ever before had such a chance--to say nothing of Lady Frances!' It was maddening. We use the word lightly, and for small cause. But it really was maddening. 'What will they say? What are they going to do? What can they say? If it comes to a question of affirmation I can swear as well as anyone, I suppose. If Roland pretends that he painted my pictures--if Effie says she wrote my poems--how will they prove it? What can they do? 'But things stick. If it is whispered about that there will be no more pictures and no more poems--oh! it is the hardest luck.' One more letter reached him by that morning's post:-- 'Dearest Alec,--I have left Armorel, and am no longer a Companion. The gilt could not disguise the pill. I have, however, a communication to make of a more comfortable character than this. It is true that I am like a housemaid out of a situation. But I think you will change the natural irritation caused by this announcement for a more joyful countenance when you see me. I shall arrive with my communication about noon to-morrow. Be at home, and be alone.--Your affectionate 'ZOE.' What had she got to say? At the present crisis what could it matter what she had to say? If she had only got that money out of Armorel, or succeeded in making the girl his servant. But she could not do the only really useful thing he ever asked of her. He laid down the letter on the table, beside one from his printers--three days old. In this communication the printers pointed out that his account was very large; that no satisfactory arrangement had been proposed; that they were going to discontinue printing his paper unless something practical was effected; and that they hoped to hear from him without delay. There was a knock at the door: the discreet man-servant brought a card, with the silence and confidential manner of one who announces a secret emissary--say a hired assassin. The visitor was Mr. Jagenal. He came in friendly and expansive. 'My dear boy!' he said with a warm grasp. 'Always at work--always at work?' Alec dexterously swept the letters into an open drawer. 'Always at work,' he said. 'But I must be hard pressed when I cannot give you five minutes. What is it?' 'I will come to the point at once. You know Mrs. Elstree very well, I believe?' 'Very well indeed--I knew her before her father's failure. Before her marriage.' 'Quite so. Then what do you make of this?' He handed over a note, which the other man read: 'Dear Sir,--Unexpected circumstances have made it necessary for me to give up my charge of Armorel Rosevean at once. I have not even been able to wait a single day. I have been compelled to leave her without even wishing her farewell.--Very truly yours, Zoe Elstree.' 'It is very odd,' he said truthfully. 'I know nothing of these circumstances. I cannot tell you why she has resigned.' 'Oh! I thought I would ask you! Well, she has actually gone: she has vanished: she has left the girl quite alone. This is all very irregular, isn't it? Not quite what one expects of a lady, is it?' 'Very irregular indeed. Well, I am responsible for her introduction to you, and I will find out, if I can, what it means. She is coming here to-day, she writes: no doubt to give me her reasons. What will Miss Rosevean do?' 'Oh! she is an independent girl. She tells me that she has found a young lady about her own age, and they are going to live together. Alec, I don't quite understand why you thought Mrs. Elstree so likely a person for companion. Philippa tells me that she has no friends, and we appointed her because we thought she had so many.' 'Pleasing--attractive--accomplished--what more did you want? And as for friends, she must have had plenty.' 'But it seems she had none. Nobody has ever called upon her. And she never went into any society. Are you sure that you were not misled about her, my dear boy? I have heard, for instance, rumours about her and the provincial stage.' 'Oh! rumours are nothing. I don't think I could have been mistaken in her. However, she has gone. I will find out why. As for Armorel Rosevean----' 'Alec--what a splendid girl! Was there no chance there for you? Are you so critical that even Armorel is not good enough for you?' 'Not my style,' he said shortly. 'Never mind the girl.' 'Well--there is one more thing, Alec--and a more pleasant subject--about yourself. I want to ask you one or two questions--family questions.' 'I thought you knew all about my family.' 'So I do, pretty well. However--this is really important--most important. I wouldn't waste your time if it was not important. Do you remember your great-aunt Eleanor Fletcher?' 'Very well. She left all her money to charities--Cat!' 'And your grandmother, Mrs. Needham?' 'Quite well. What is in the wind now? Has Aunt Eleanor been proved to have made a later will in my favour?' 'You will find out in a day or two. Eh! Alec, you are a lucky dog. Painter--poet--nothing in which you do not command success. And now--now----' 'Now--what?' 'That I will tell you, my dear boy, in two or three days. There's many a slip, we know, but this time the cup will reach your lips.' 'What do you mean?' cried the young man, startled. 'Cup? Do you mean to tell me that you have something--something unexpected--coming to me? Something considerable?' 'If it comes--oh! yes, it is quite certain to come--very considerable. You are your mother's only son, and she was an only child, and her grandfather was one Robert Fletcher, wasn't he?' 'I believe he was. There's a family Bible on the shelves that can tell us.' 'Did you ever hear anything about the early life and adventures of this Robert Fletcher?' 'No: he was in the City, I believe, and he left a good large fortune. That is all.' 'That is all. That is all. Well, my dear boy, the strangest things happen: we must never be surprised at anything. But be prepared to-morrow--or next day--or the day after--to be agreeably--most agreeably--surprised.' 'To the tune of--what? A thousand pounds, say?' 'Perhaps. It may amount very nearly to as much--very nearly--Ha! ha!--to nearly as much as that, I dare say--Ho! ho!' He chuckled, and wagged his white head. 'Very nearly a thousand pounds, I dare say.' He walked over to look at the picture. 'Really, Alec,' he said, 'you deserve all the luck you get. Nobody can possibly grudge it to you. This picture is charming. I don't know when I have seen a sweeter thing. You have the finest feeling for rock and sea-shore and water. Well, my dear boy, I am very sorry that you haven't as fine a feeling for Armorel Rosevean--the sweetest girl and the best, I believe, in the world. Good-bye!--good-bye! till the day after to-morrow--the day after to-morrow! It will certainly reach to a thousand--or very near. Ho! ho! Lucky dog!' Mr. Jagenal went away nodding and smiling. There are moments when it is very good to be a solicitor: they are moments rich in blessing: they compensate, in some measure, for those other moments when the guilty are brought to bay and the thriftless are made to tremble: they are the moments when the solicitor announces a windfall--the return of the long-lost Nabob--the discovery of a will--the favourable decision of the Court. Alec sat down and seized a pen. He wrote hurriedly to his printers: 'Let the present arrangements,' he said, continue unchanged. I shall be in a position in two or three days to make a very considerable payment, and, after that, we will start on a more regular understanding.' Another knock, and again the discreet man-servant came in on tiptoe. 'Lady refused her card,' he whispered. The lady was none other than Armorel herself--in morning dress, wearing a hat. He bowed coldly. There was a light in her eyes, and a heightened colour on her cheek, which hardly looked like a friendly call. But that, of course, one could not expect. 'After our recent interview,' he said, 'and after the very remarkable string of accusations which fell from your lips, I could hardly expect to see you in my studio, Miss Rosevean.' 'I came only to communicate a resolution arrived at by my friends Mr. Roland Lee and Miss Effie Wilmot.' 'From your friends Mr. Roland Lee and Miss Effie Wilmot? May I offer you a chair?' 'Thank you. No. My message is only to tell you this. They have resolved to let the past remain unknown.' 'To let the past remain unknown.' He tried to appear careless, but the girl watched the sudden light of satisfaction in his eyes and the sudden expression of relief in his face. 'The past remain unknown,' he repeated. 'Yes--certainly. Am I--may I ask--interested in this decision?' 'That you know best, Mr. Feilding. It seems hardly necessary to try to carry it off with me--I know everything. But--as you please. They agree that they have been themselves deeply to blame: they cannot acquit themselves. Certainly it is a pitiful thing for an artist to own that he has sold his name and fame in a moment of despair.' 'It would be indeed a pitiful thing if it were ever done.' 'Nothing more, therefore, will be said by either of them as to the pictures or poems.' 'Indeed? From what you have already told me: from the gracious freedom of your utterances at the National Gallery, I seem to connect those two names with the charges you then brought. They refuse to bring forward, or to endorse, those charges, then? Do you withdraw them?' 'They do not refuse to bring forward the charges. They have never made those charges. I made them, and I, Mr. Feilding'--she raised her voice a little--'I do not withdraw them.' 'Oh! you do not withdraw them? May I ask what your word in the matter is worth unsupported by their evidence--even if their evidence were worth anything?' 'You shall hear what my word is worth. This picture'--she placed herself before it--'is painted by Mr. Roland Lee. Perhaps he will not say so. Oh! It is a beautiful picture--it is quite the best he has ever painted--yet. It is a true picture: you cannot understand either its beauty or its truth. You have never been to the place: you do not even know where it is: why, Sir, it is my birthplace. I lived there until I was sixteen years of age: the scene, like all the scenes in those pictures you call your own, was taken in the Scilly archipelago.' He started. 'You do not even know the girl who stands in the foreground--your own model. Why--it is my portrait--mine--look at me, Sir--it is my portrait. Now you know what my word is worth. I have only to stand before this picture and tell the world that this is my portrait.' He started and changed colour. This was unexpected. If the girl was to go on talking in this way outside, it would be difficult to reply. What was he to say if the words were reported to him? Because, you see, once pointed out, there could be no doubt at all about the portrait. 'A portrait of myself,' she repeated. 'Permit me to observe,' he said, with some assumption of dignity, 'that you will find it very difficult to prove these statements--most difficult--and at the same time highly dangerous, because libellous.' 'No, not dangerous, Mr. Feilding. Would you dare to go into a Court of Justice and swear that these pictures are yours? When did you go to Scilly? Where did you stay? Under what circumstances did you have me for a model? On what island did you find this view?' He was silent. 'Will you dare to paint anything--the merest sketch--to show that this picture is in your own style? You cannot.' 'Anyone,' he said, 'may bring charges--the most reckless charges. But I think you would hardly dare----' 'I will do this, then. If you dare to exhibit this picture as your own, I will, most assuredly, take all my friends and stand in front of it, and tell them when and where it was painted, and by whom, and show them my own portrait.' The resolution of this threat quelled him. 'I have no intention,' he said, 'of exhibiting this picture. It is sold to an American, and will go to New York immediately. Next year, perhaps, I may take up your challenge.' She laughed scornfully. 'I promised Roland,' she said, 'that you should not show this picture. That is settled, then. You shall not, you dare not.' She left the picture reluctantly. It was dreadful to her to think that it must go, with his name upon it. On a side-table lay, among a pile of books, the dainty white-and-gold volume of poems bearing the name of this great genius. She took it up, and laughed. 'Oh!' she said. 'Was there ever greater impudence? Every line in this volume was written by Effie Wilmot--every line!' 'Indeed? Who says so?' 'I say so. I have compared the manuscript with the volume. There is not the difference of a word.' 'If Miss Effie Wilmot, for purposes of her own, and for base purposes of deception, has copied out my verses in her own handwriting, probably a wonderful agreement may be found.' 'Shame!' cried Armorel. 'You see the force of that remark. It _is_ a great shame. Some girls take to lying naturally. Others acquire proficiency in the art. Effie, I suppose, took to it naturally. I am sorry for Effie. I used to think better of her.' 'Oh! He tries, even now! How can you pretend--you--to have written this sweet and dainty verse? Oh! You dare to put your signature to these poems!' 'Of course,' said the divine Maker, with brazen front and calmly dignified speech, 'if these things are said in public or outside the studio, I shall be compelled to bring an action for libel. I have warned you already. Before repeating what you have said here you had better make quite sure that you can prove your words. Ask Miss Effie Wilmot what proofs she has of her assertion, if it is hers, and not an invention of your own!' Armorel threw down the volume. 'Poor Effie!' she said. 'She has been robbed of the first-fruits of her genius. How dare you talk of proofs?' She took up the current number of the journal. 'That is not all,' she said. 'Look here! This is one of your stories, is it not? I read in a paper yesterday that no Frenchman ever had so light a touch: that there are no modern stories anywhere so artistic in treatment and in construction as your own--your own--your very own, Mr. Feilding. Yet they are written for you, every one of them: they are written by Lady Frances Hollington. You are a Triple Impostor. I believe that you really are the very greatest Pretender--the most gigantic Pretender in the whole world.' 'Of course,' he went on, a little abashed by her impetuosity. 'I cannot stop your tongue. You may say what you please.' 'We shall say nothing more. That is what I came to say on behalf of my friends. I wished to spare them the pain of further communication with you.' 'Kind and thoughtful!' 'I have one more question to ask you, Mr. Feilding. Pray, why did you tell people that I was engaged to you?' 'Probably,' he replied, unabashed, 'because I wished it to be believed.' 'Why did you wish it to be believed?' 'Probably for private reasons.' 'It was a vile and horrible falsehood!' 'Come, Miss Rosevean, we will not call each other names. Otherwise I might ask you what the world calls a girl who encourages a man to dangle after her for weeks, till everybody talks about her, and then throws him over.' 'Oh! You cannot mean----' Before those flashing eyes his own dropped. 'I mean that this is exactly what you have done,' he said, but without looking up. 'Is it possible that a man can be so base? What encouragement did I ever give you?' 'You surely are not going to deny the thing, after all. Why, it has been patent for all the world to see you. I have been with you everywhere, in all public places. What hint did you ever give me that my addresses were disagreeable to you?' 'How can one reply to such insinuations?' asked Armorel, with flaming face. 'And so you followed me about in order to be able to say that I encouraged you! What a man! What a man! You have taught me to understand, now, why one man may sometimes take a stick and beat another. If I were a man, at this moment, I would beat you with a stick. No other treatment is fit for such a man. I to encourage you!--when for a month and more I have known what an Impostor and Pretender you are! You dare to say that I have encouraged you!--you--the robber of other men's name and fame!' 'Well, if you come to that, I do dare to say as much. Come, Miss Armorel Rosevean. I certainly do dare to say as much.' She turned with a gesture of impatience. 'I have said what I came to say. I will go.' 'Stop a moment!' said Alec Feilding. 'Is it not rather a bold proceeding for a beautiful girl like you, a day or two after you have refused a man, to visit him alone at his studio? Is it altogether the way to let the world distinctly understand that there never has been anything between us, and that it is all over?' 'I am less afraid of the world than you think. My world is my very little circle of friends. I am very much afraid of what they think. But it is on their account, and with their knowledge, that I am here.' 'Alone and unprotected?' 'Alone, it is true. I can always protect myself.' 'Indeed!' He turned an ugly--a villanous--face towards her. 'We shall see! You come here with your charges and your fine phrases. We shall see!' He had been standing all this time before his study table. He now stepped quickly to the door. The key was in the lock. He turned it, drew it out, and dropped it in his pocket. [Illustration: _'You have had your innings, and I am going to have mine.'_] 'Now, my lovely lady,' he said, grinning, 'you have had your innings, and I am going to have mine. You have come to this studio in order to have a row with me. You have had that row. You can use your tongue in a manner that does credit to your early education. As for your nonsense about Roland Lee and Effie and Lady Frances, no one is going to believe that stuff, you know. As for your question, I did tell Lady Frances that you were engaged to me. And I told others. Because, of course, you were--or ought to have been. It was only by some kind of accident that I did not speak before. As I intended to speak the next day, I anticipated the thing by twelve hours or so. What of that? Well, I shall now have to explain that you seem not to know your own mind. It will be awkward for you--not for me. You have thrown me over. And all you have got to say in explanation is a long rigmarole of abuse. This not my own painting? These not my own poems? These, again, not my own stories? Really, Miss Armorel Rosevean, you know so very little of the world--you are so inexperienced--you are so easily imposed upon--that I am inclined to pity rather than to blame you. Of course, you have tried to do me harm, and I ought to be angry with you. But I cannot. You are much too beautiful. To a lovely woman everything, even mischief, is forgiven.' 'Will you open the door and let me go?' 'All in good time. When I please. It will do you no harm to be caught alone in my studio--alone with me. It will look so like returning to the lover whom, in a moment of temper, you threw over. I will take care that it shall bear that interpretation, if necessary. You have changed your mind, sweet Armorel, have you not? You have repented of that cruel decision?' He advanced a little nearer. I really believe that he was still confident in his own power of subjugating the sex feminine--Heaven knows why some men always retain this confidence. Armorel looked round the room: the window was high, too high for her to reach: there was no way of escape except through the door. Then she saw something hanging on the wall within her reach, and she took courage. He drew still nearer: he held out his hands, and laughed. 'You are a really lovely girl,' he said. 'I believe there is not a more beautiful girl in the whole world. Before you go let us make friends and forgive. It is not too late to change your mind. I will forget all you have said and all the mischief you have done me. My man is very discreet. He will say nothing about your visit here, unless I give him permission to speak. This I will never allow unless I am compelled. Come, Armorel, once more let me be your lover--once more. Give me your hands.' He bowed suppliant. He looked in her face with baleful eyes. He tried to take her hands. Armorel sprang from him and darted to the other end of the room. The thing she had observed was hanging up among the weapons and armour and tapestry which decorated this wall of the studio. It was an axe from foreign parts, I think, from Indian parts, with a stout wooden handle and a boss of steel at the upper part. Armorel seized this lethal weapon. It was so heavy that no ordinary girl could have lifted it. But her arm, strengthened by a thousand days upon the water, tugging at the oar, wielded it easily. 'Open the door!' she cried. 'Open the door this moment!' Her wooer made no reply. He shrank back before the girl who handled this heavy axe as lightly as a paper-knife. But he did not open the door. 'Open it, I say!' He only shrank back farther. He was cowed before the wrath in her face. He did not know what she would do next. I think he even forgot that the key was in his pocket. The door, a dainty piece of furniture, was not one of the common machine-made things which the competitive German--or is it the thrifty Swede?--is so good as to send over to us. It was a planned and fitted door, the panels painted with reeds and grasses, the gift of some admirer of genius. Armorel raised the axe--and looked at him. He did not move. Crash! It went through the panel. Crash! again and again. The upper part of the door was a gaping wreck of splinters. Outside, the discreet man-servant waited in silence and expectation. Often ladies had held interviews alone with his master. But this was the first time that an interview had ended with such a crash. 'Will you open the door?' she asked again. The man replied by a curse. The lock--a piece of imitation mediævalism in iron--was fitted on to the inner part of the door, a very pretty ornament. Armorel raised her axe again, and brought the square boss at the top of it down upon the dainty fragile lock, breaking it and tearing it from the wood. There was no more difficulty in opening the door. She did so. She threw the hatchet on the carpet and walked away, the discreet man-servant opening the door for her with unchanged countenance, as if the deplorable incident had not happened at all. CHAPTER XXII THE END OF WORLDLY TROUBLES Not more than five minutes afterwards, Mrs. Elstree arrived upon this scene of wreck. The splintered panels, the broken lock, the axe lying on the floor, proclaimed aloud that there had been an Incident of some gravity--certainly what we have called a Deplorable Incident. Such a thing as a Deplorable Incident in such a place and with such a man was, indeed, remarkable. Mrs. Elstree gazed upon the wreck with astonishment unfeigned: she turned to the tenant of the studio, who stood exactly where Armorel had left him. As the sea when the storm has ceased continues to heave in sullen anger, so that majestic spirit still heaved with wrath as yet unappeased. In answer to the mute question of her eyes, he growled, and threw himself into his study-chair. When she picked up the axe and bore it back to its place, he growled. When she pointed to the door, he growled again. She looked at his angry face, and she laughed gently. The last time we saw her she was pale and hysterical. She was now smiling, apparently in perfect health of body and ease of mind. Perhaps she was a very good actress--off the stage: perhaps she shook off things easily. Otherwise one does not always step from a highly nervous and hysterical condition to one of happiness and cheerfulness. 'There appears to have been a little unpleasantness,' she said softly. 'Something, apparently an axe--something hard and sharp--has been brought into contact with the door. It has been awkward for the door. There has been, I suppose, an earthquake.' He said nothing, but drummed the table with his fingers--a sign of impatient and enforced listening. 'Earthquakes are dangerous things, sometimes. Meanwhile, Alec, if I were you I would have the broken bits taken away.' She touched the bell on the table. 'Ford'--this was the name of the discreet man-servant--'will you kindly take the door, which you see is broken, off its hinges and send it away to be mended. We will manage with the curtain.' 'What do you want, Zoe?'--when this operation had been effected--'what is the important news you have to bring me? And why have you given up your berth? I suppose you think I am able to find you a place just by lifting up my little finger? And I hear you have gone without a moment's notice, just as if you had run away?' 'I did run away, Alec,' she replied. 'After what has--been done'--she caught her breath--'I was obliged to run away. I could no longer stay.' 'What has been done, then? Did Armorel tell you? No--she couldn't.' 'She has told me nothing. I have hardly seen her at all during the last few days. Of course, I know that you proposed to her--because you went off with that purpose; and that she refused you--because that was certain. And, now, don't begin scolding and questioning, because we have got something much more important to discuss. I have given up my charge of Armorel, and I have come here. If you possibly can, Alec, clear up your face a little, forget the earthquake, and behave with some attempt at politeness. I insist,' she added sharply, 'upon being treated with some pretence at politeness.' 'Mind, I am in no mood to listen to a pack of complaints and squabbles and jealousies.' 'Whatever mind you are in, my dear Alec, it wants the sweetening. You shall have no squabbles or jealousies. I will not even ask who brought along the earthquake--though, of course, it was an Angel in the House. They are generally the cause of all the earthquakes. Fortunately for you, I am not jealous. The important thing about which I want to talk to you is money, Alec--money.' Something in her manner seemed to hold out promise. A drowning man catches at a straw. Alec lifted his gloomy face. 'What's the use?' he said. 'You have failed to get money in the way I suggested. I haven't got any left at all. And we are now at the very end. All is over and done, Zoe. The game is ended. We must throw up the sponge.' 'Not just yet, dear Alec,' she said softly. 'Look here, Zoe'--he softened a little. 'I have thought over things. I shall have to disappear for a while, I believe, till things blow over. Now, here's just a gleam of luck. Jagenal the lawyer has been here to-day. He came to tell me that he has discovered, somehow, something belonging to me. He says it will run up to nearly a thousand pounds. It isn't much, but it is something. Now, Zoe, I mean to convert that thousand into cash--notes--portable property--and I shall keep it in my pocket. Don't think I am going to let the creditors have much of that! If the smash has to come off, I will then give you half, and keep the other half myself. Meantime, the possession of the money may stave off the smash. But if it comes, we will go away--different ways, you know--and own each other no more.' 'Not exactly, my dear Alec. You may go away, if you please, but I shall go with you. For the future, I mean to go the same way as you--with you--beside you.' 'Oh!' His face did not betray immoderate joy at this prospect. 'I suppose you have got something else to say. If that was all, I should ask how you propose to pay for your railway ticket and your hotel bill.' 'Of course, I have got something else to say.' 'It must be something substantial, then. Look here, Zoe: this is really no time for fooling. Everything, I tell you, has gone, and all at once. I can't explain. Credit--everything!' 'I have read,' said Zoe, taking the most comfortable chair and lying well back in it, 'that the wise man once discovered that everybody must be either a hammer or an anvil. I think it was Voltaire. He resolved on becoming the hammer. You, Alec, made the same useful discovery. You, also, became a hammer. So far, you have done pretty well, considering. But now there is a sudden check, and you are thrown out altogether.' 'Well?' 'That seems to show that your plans were incomplete. Your ideas were sound, but they were not fully developed.' 'I don't know you this morning, Zoe. I have never heard you talk like this before.' 'You have never known me, Alec,' she replied, perhaps a little sadly. 'You have never tried to know me. Well--I know all. Mr. Roland Lee, the painter, was one anvil--you played upon him very harmoniously. Effie Wilmot was another. Now, Alec, don't'--she knew the premonitory symptoms--'don't begin to deny, either with the "D" or without, because, I assure you, I know everything. You are like the ostrich, who buries his head in the sand and thinks himself invisible. Don't deny things, because it is quite useless. Before we go a step farther I am going to make you understand exactly. I know the whole story. I have suspected things for a long time, and now I have learned the truth. I learned it bit by bit through the fortunate accident of living with Armorel, who has been the real discoverer. First I saw the man's work, and I saw at once where you got your pictures from, and what was the meaning of certain words that had passed from Armorel. Why, Armorel was the model--your model, and you didn't know it. And the coast scenery is her scenery--the Scilly Isles, where you have never been. I won't tell you how I pieced things together till I had made a connected story and had no longer any doubt. But remember the night of the Reading. Why did Armorel hold that Reading? Why did she show the unfinished picture? Why did she sing that song? It was for you, Alec. It was to tell you a great deal more than it told the people. It was to let you know that everything was discovered. Do you deny it now?' 'I suppose that infernal girl--she is capable of everything----' 'Even of earthquakes? No, Alec, she has told me nothing. They've got into the habit of talking--she and Effie and the painter man--as if I was asleep. You see I lie about a good deal by the fireside, and I don't want to talk, and so I lie with my eyes shut and listen. Then Armorel leaves everything about--manuscript poems, sketches, letters--everything, and I read them. A companion, of course, must see that her ward is not getting into mischief. It is her duty to read private letters. When they talk in the evening, Effie, who worships Armorel, tells her everything, including your magnificent attempt to become a dramatic poet, my dear boy--wrong--wrong--you should not get more than one ghost from one family. You should not put all your ghosts into one basket. When the painter comes--Armorel is in love with him, and he is in love with her; but he has been a naughty boy, and has to show true repentance before.... Oh! It's very pretty and sentimental: they play the fiddle and talk about Scilly and the old times, and Effie sighs with sympathy. It is really very pretty, especially as it all helped me to understand their ghostlinesses and to unravel the whole story. Fortunately, my dear Alec, you have had to do with a girl who is not of the ordinary society stamp, otherwise your story would have been given to the society papers long ago, and then even I could have done nothing for you. Armorel is a girl of quite extinct virtues--forbearing, unrevengeful, honourable, unselfish. You, my dear Alec, could never appreciate or understand such a girl.' 'The girl is--a girl. What is there to understand in one girl more than in another?' 'Nothing--nothing. O great Poet and greater Painter!--Nothing. O man of fine insight, and delicate fancy, and subtle intellect!--Nothing. Only a girl.' 'I know already that they are not going to say anything more about it. They are going to let the whole business be forgotten. If anything comes out through you----' 'Nothing will come out. I told you because it is well that we should perfectly understand each other. You will never again be able to parade before me in the disguise of genius. This is a great pity, because you have always enjoyed playing the part. Never again, Alec, because I have found you out. Should you ever find me out, I shall not be able to walk with you in the disguise of ... but you must find out first.' 'What do you mean?' 'Oh! you must find out first. When you do find out, you will be able to hold out your arms and cry, "We are alike at last. You have come down to my level: we are now in the same depths. Come to my arms, sister in pretence! Come, my bride!"' She spread out her arms with an exaggerated gesture and laughed, but not mirthfully. 'What on earth do you mean, Zoe? I never saw you like this before.' 'No, we change sometimes, quite suddenly. It is very unaccountable. And now I shall never be anything else than what I am now--what you have made me.' 'What have you done, then?' 'Done? Nothing. To do something is polite for committing a crime. Could I have done something, do you think? Could I actually commit a crime? O Alec!--my dear Alec!--a crime? Well, the really important thing is that your troubles are over.' 'By Jove! They are only just beginning.' 'It is only money that troubles you. If it was conscience, or the sense of honour, I could not help you. As it is only money----how much, actually, will put a period to the trouble?' 'If I were to use Jagenal's promised thousand, I could really manage with two thousand more.' 'Oh! Then, my dear Alec, what do you think of this?' She drew out of her pocket a new clean white bank-book, and handed it to him. He opened it. 'Heavens, Zoe! What is the meaning of this?' 'You can read, Alec: it means what it says. Four thousand two hundred and twenty-five pounds standing to my credit. Observe the name--Mrs. Alexander Feilding--Mrs. Alexander Feilding--wife, that is, of Alec! Mrs. Elstree has vanished. She has gone to join the limbo of ghosts who never existed. Her adored Jerome is there, too.' 'What does it mean?' 'It means, again, that I have four thousand two hundred and twenty-five pounds of my own, who, the day before yesterday, had nothing. Where I got that money from is my own business. Perhaps Armorel relented and has advanced this money--perhaps some old friends of my father's--he had friends, though he was reputed so rich and died so miserably--have quietly subscribed this amount--perhaps my cousins, whom you forced me to abandon, have found me out and endowed me with this sum--a late but still acceptable act of generosity--perhaps my mother's sister, who swore she would never forgive me for going on the stage, has given way at last! In short, my dear Alec----' 'Four thousand pounds! Where could you raise that money?' 'Make any conjecture you please. I shall not tell you. The main point is that the money is here--safely deposited in my name and to my credit. It is mine, you see, my dear Alec; and it can only be used for your purposes with my consent--under my conditions.' 'How on earth,' he repeated slowly, 'did you get four thousand pounds?' 'It is difficult for you to find an answer to that question,' she replied, 'isn't it? Especially as I shall not answer it. About my conditions now.' 'What conditions?' 'The possession of this capital--I have thought it all out--will enable us, first of all, to pay off your creditors in full if you must--or at least to satisfy them. Next, it will restore your credit. Thirdly, it will enable you to live while I am laying the foundations of a new and more stable business.' 'You?' 'I, my dear boy. I mean in future to be the active working and contriving partner in the firm. I have the plans and method worked out already in my head. You struck out, I must say, a line of audacity. There is something novel about it. But your plan wanted elasticity. You kept a ghost. Well, I suppose other people have done this before. You kept three or four ghosts, each in his own line. Nobody thought of setting up as the Universal Genius before--at least, not to my knowledge. But, then, you placed your whole dependence upon your one single family of ghosts. Once deprived of him--whether your painter, your poet, your story-teller--and where were you? Lost! You are stranded. This has happened to you now. Your paper is to come out as usual, and you have got nothing to put into it. Your patrons will be flocking to your studio, and you have got nothing to show. You have made a grievous blunder. Now, Alec, I am going to remedy all this.' 'You?' 'You shall see what I am capable of doing. You shall no longer waste your time and money in going about to great houses. Your wife shall have her _salon_, which shall be a centre of action far more useful and effective. You shall become, through her help, a far greater leader, with a far greater name, than you have ever dreamed of. And your paper shall be a bigger thing.' 'You, Zoe? You to talk like this?' 'You thought I was a helpless creature because I never succeeded on the stage, and could not even carry out your poor little schemes upon Armorel's purse, I suppose, and because I---- Well, you shall be undeceived.' 'If I could only believe this!' 'You will find, Alec, that my stage experiences will not go for nothing. Why, even if I was a poor actress, I did learn the whole business of stage management. I am going to transfer that business from the stage to the drawing-room, which shall be, at first, this room. We shall play our little comedy together, you and I.' She sprang to her feet, and began to act as if she was on the stage--'It will be a duologue. Your _rôle_ will still be that of the Universal Genius; mine will be that of the supposed extinct Lady--the Lady of the Salon--I shall be at home one evening a week--say on Sunday. And it shall be an evening remembered and expected. We shall both take Art seriously: you as the Master, I as the sympathetic and intelligent worshipper of Art. We shall attract to our rooms artists of every kind and those who hang about artistic circles: our furniture shall show the latest artistic craze: foreigners shall come here as to the art centre of London--we will cultivate the foreign element: young people shall come for advice, for encouragement, for introduction: reputations shall be made and marred in this room: you shall be the Leader and Chief of the World of Art. If there is here and there one who knows that you are a humbug, what matters? Alec'--she struck a most effective attitude--'rise to the prospect! Have a little imagination! I see before me the most splendid future--oh! the most splendid future!' 'All very well. But there's the present staring us in the face. How and where are we to find the--the successors to Lady Frances and Effie and----' 'Where to find ghosts? Leave that to me. I know where there are plenty only too glad to be employed. They can be had very cheap, my dear Alec, I can assure you. Oh! I have not been so low down in the social levels for nothing. You paid a ridiculous price for your ghosts--quite ridiculous. I will find you ghosts enough, never fear.' 'Where are they?' 'When one goes about the country with a travelling company one hears strange things. I have heard of painters--good painters--who once promised to become Royal Academicians, and anything you please, but took to ways--downward ways, you know--and now sit in public-houses and sell their work for fifteen shillings a picture. I will find you such a genius, and will make him take pains and produce a picture worthy of his better days, and you shall have it for a guinea and a pint of champagne.' Alec Feilding gasped. The vista before him was too splendid. 'Or, if you want verses, I know of a poet who used to write little dainty pieces--_levers de rideau, libretti_ for little operettas, and so forth. He carries the boards about the streets when he is very hard up. I can catch that creature and lock him up without drink till he has written a poem far better--more manly--than anything that girl of yours could ever produce, for half-a-crown. And he will never ask what becomes of it. If you want stories, I know a man--quite a young fellow--who gets about fifteen shillings a week in his travelling company. This fellow is wonderful at stories. For ten shillings a column he will reel you out as many as you want--good stuff, mind--and the papers have never found him out: and he will never ask what has become of them, because he is never sober for more than an hour or two at a time in the middle of the day, and he will forget his own handiwork. Alec, I declare that I can find you as many ghosts as you like, and better--more popular--more interesting than your old lot.' 'If I could only believe----' he repeated. 'You say that because you have never even begun to believe that a woman can do anything. Well, I do not ask you to believe. I say that you shall see. I owe to you the idea. All the working out shall be my own. All the assistance you can give me will be your own big and important presence and your manner of authority. Yes; some men get rich by the labours of others: you, Alec, shall become famous--perhaps immortal--by the genius--the collected genius, of others.' His imagination was not strong enough to understand the vision that she spread out before him. In a wooden way, he saw that she intended something big. He only half believed it: he only half understood it: but he did understand that ghosts were to be had. 'There's next week's paper, Zoe,' he said helplessly. 'Nothing for it yet! We mustn't have a breakdown--it would be fatal!' 'Breakdown! Of course not, even if I write it all myself. You don't believe that I can write even, I suppose?' 'Well, you shall do as you like.' He got up and stood over the fire again, sighing his relief. 'At all events, we have got this money. Good Heavens! What a chance! And what a day! I stood here this morning, Zoe, thinking all was lost. Then old Jagenal comes in and tells me of a thousand pounds--said it would run to nearly a thousand. And then you come in with a bank-book of four thousand! Oh! it's Providential! It's enough to make a man humble. Zoe, I confess'--he took her hands in his, stooped, and kissed her tenderly--'I don't deserve such treatment from you. I do not, indeed. Are you sure about those ghosts? As for me, of course you are right. I can't paint a stroke. I can't make a rhyme. I can't write stories. I can do nothing--but live upon those who can do everything. You are quite sure about those ghosts?' 'Oh, yes! Quite sure. Of course I knew all along. But you must keep it up more religiously than ever, because the business is going to be so much--so very much--bigger. Now for my conditions.' 'Any conditions--any!' 'You will insert this advertisement for six days, beginning to-morrow, in the _Times_.' He read it aloud. He read it without the least change of countenance, so wooden was his face, so hard his heart. 'On Wednesday, April 21, 1887, at St. Leonard's, Worthing, Alexander Feilding, of the Grove Studio, Marlborough Road, to Zoe, only daughter of the late Peter Evelyn, formerly of Kensington Palace Gardens.' 'I believe,' he said, folding the paper, 'that was the date. It was three years ago, wasn't it? I say, Zoe, won't it be awkward having to explain things--long interval, you know--engagement as companion--wrong name?' 'I have thought of that. But it would be more awkward pretending that we were married to-day and being found out. No. There are not half-a-dozen people who will ever know that I was Armorel's companion. Then, a circumstance, which there is no need ever to explain, forbade the announcement of our marriage--hint at a near relation's will--I was compelled to assume another name. Cruel necessity!' 'You are a mighty clever woman, Zoe.' 'I am. If you are wise, now, you will assume a joyful air. You will go about rejoicing that the bar to this public announcement has been at length removed. Family reasons--you will say--no fault of yours or of mine. It is your business, of course, how you will look--but I recommend this line. Be the exultant bridegroom, not the downcast husband. Will you walk so?'--she assumed a buoyant dancing step with a smiling face--'or so?' she hung a dejected head and crawled sadly. 'By gad, it's wonderful!' he cried, looking at her with astonishment. And, indeed, who would recognise the quiet, sleepy, indolent woman of yesterday in the quick, restless, and alert woman of to-day? 'Henceforth I must work, Alec. I cannot sit down and go to sleep any longer. That time has gone. I think I have murdered sleep.' 'Work away, my girl. Nobody wants to prevent you. Are there any other conditions?' 'You will sell your riding-horses and buy a Victoria. Your wife must have something to drive about in. And you will lead, in many respects, an altered life. I must have, for the complete working out of my plans, an ideal domestic life. Turtle-doves we must be for affection, and angels incarnate for propriety. The highest Art in the home is the highest standard of manners that can be set up.' 'Very good. Any more conditions?' 'Only one more condition. _J'y suis. J'y reste._ You will call your servant and inform him that I am your wife, and the mistress of this establishment. I think there will be no more earthquakes and broken panels. Alec'--she laid her hand upon his arm--'you should have done this three years ago. I should have saved you. I should have saved myself. Now, whatever happens, we are on the same level--we cannot reproach each other. We shall walk hand in hand. It was done for you, Alec. And I would do it again. Yes--yes--yes. Again!' She repeated the words with flashing eyes. 'Fraud--sham--pretence--these are our servants. We command them. By them we live, and by them we climb. What matter--so we reach the top--by what ladders we have climbed?' She looked around with a gesture of defiance, fine and free. 'The world is all alike,' she said. 'There is no truth or honour anywhere. We are all in the same swim.' The man dropped into his vacant chair. 'We are saved!' he cried. 'Saved!' she echoed. 'Saved! Did you ever see a Court of Justice, Alec? I have. Once, when our company was playing at Winchester, I went to see the Assizes. I remember then wondering how it would feel to be a prisoner. Henceforth I shall understand his sensations. There they stand, two prisoners, side by side--a man and a woman--a pair of them. Found out at last, and arrested and brought up for trial. There sits the Judge, stern and cold: there are the twelve men of the jury, grave and cold: there are the policemen, stony-hearted: there are the lawyers, laughing and talking: there are the people behind, all grave and cold. No pity in any single face--not a gleam of pity--for the poor prisoners. Some people go stealing and cheating because they are driven by poverty. These people did not: they were driven by vanity and greed. Look at them in the box: they are well dressed. See! they are curiously like you and me, Alec'--she was acting now better than she ever acted on the stage--'The man is like you, and the woman--oh! you poor, unlucky wretch!--is like me--curiously, comically like me. They will be found guilty. What punishment will they get? As for her, it was for her husband's sake that she did it. But, I suppose, that will not help her. What will they get, Alec?' He sat up in the chair and heaved a great sigh of relief. 'What are you talking about, my dear? I was not listening. Well; we are saved. It has been a mighty close shave. Another day, and I must have thrown up the sponge. We have a world of work before us; but if you are only half or quarter as clever as you think yourself, we shall do splendidly.' He laid his arm round her waist, and drew her gently and kissed her again. 'So--now you are sensible--what were you talking about prisoners for? No more separations now. Let me kiss away these tears. And now, Zoe--now--time presses. I am anxious to repair my losses. Where are we to find these ghosts? Sit down. To work! To work!' CHAPTER XXIII THE HOUR OF TRIUMPH A man may do a great many things without receiving from the world the least sign of regard or interest. He may write the most lovely verses--and no one will read them. He may design and invent the most beautiful play--which no one will act: he may advocate a measure certain to bring about universal happiness--but no one will so much as read it. There is one thing, however, by which he may awaken a spirit of earnest curiosity and interest concerning himself: he may get married. Everybody will read the announcement of his marriage in the paper: everybody will immediately begin to talk about him. The bridegroom's present position and future prospects, his actual income and the style in which he will live: the question whether he has done well for himself, or whether he has thrown himself away: the bride's family, her age, her beauty, her _dot_, if she has got any: the question whether she had not a right to expect a better marriage--all these points are raised and debated when a man is married. Also, which is even more remarkable, whatever a man does shall be forgotten by the world, but the story of his marriage shall never be forgotten. A man may live down calumny; he may hold up his head though he has been the defendant in a disgraceful cause; he may survive the scandal of follies and profligacies; he may ride triumphant over misfortune: but he can never live down his own marriage. All those who have married 'beneath' them--whether beneath them in social rank, in manners, in morals, character, in spiritual or in mental elevation, will bear unwilling and grievous testimony to this great truth. When, therefore, the _Times_ announced the marriage of Mr. Alexander Feilding, together with the fact that the announcement was no less than three years late, great amazement fell upon all men and all women--yea, and dismay upon all those girls who knew this Universal Genius--and upon all who knew or remembered the lady, daughter of the financial City person who let in everybody to so frightful a tune, and then, like another treacherous person, went away and hanged himself. And as many questions were asked at the breakfast-tables of London as there were riddles asked at the famous dinner-party at the town of Mansoul. To these riddles there were answers, but to those none. For instance, why had Alec Feilding concealed his marriage? Where had he hidden his wife? And (among a very few) how could he permit her to go about the country in a provincial troupe? To these replies there have never been any answers. The lady herself, who certainly ought to know, sometimes among her intimate friends alludes to the cruelty of relations, and the power which one's own people have of making mischief. She also speaks of the hard necessity, owing to these cruelties, of concealing her marriage. This throws the glamour and magic of romance--the romance of money--over the story. But there are some who remain unconvinced. * * * * * The bridegroom wrote one letter, and only one, of explanation. It was to Mr. Jagenal, the family solicitor. 'To so old a friend,' he wrote, 'the fullest explanations are due concerning things which may appear strange. Until the day before yesterday there were still existing certain family reasons which rendered it absolutely necessary for us to conceal our marriage and to act with so much prudence that no one should so much as suspect the fact. This will explain to you why we lent ourselves to the little harmless--perfectly harmless--pretence by which my wife appeared in the character of a widow. It also explains why she was unwilling--while under false colours--to go into general society. The unexpected disappearance of these family reasons caused her to abandon her charge hurriedly. I had not learned the fact when you called yesterday. Now, I hope that we may receive, though late, the congratulations of our friends.--A. F.' * * * * * 'This,' said Mr. Jagenal, 'is an explanation which explains nothing. Well, it is all very irregular; and there is something behind; and it is no concern of mine. Most things in the world are irregular. The little windfall of which I told him yesterday will be doubly welcome now that he has a wife to spend his money for him. And now we understand why he was always dangling after Armorel--because his wife was with her--and why he did not fall in love with that most beautiful creature.' He folded up the note; put it, with a few words of his own, into an envelope, and sent it to Philippa. Then he went on with the cases in his hands. Among these were the materials for many other studies into the workings of the feminine heart and the masculine brain. The solicitor's tin boxes: the doctor's notebook: the priest's memory: should furnish full materials for that exhaustive psychological research which science will some day insist upon conducting. In the afternoon of the same day was the Private View of the Grosvenor Gallery. There was the usual Private View crowd--so private now that everybody goes there. It would have been incomplete without the presence of Mr. Alec Feilding. Now, at the very thickest and most crowded time, when the rooms were at their fullest, and when the talk was at its noisiest, he appeared, bearing on his arm a young, beautiful, and beautifully dressed woman. He calmly entered the room where half the people were talking of himself and of his marriage, concealed for three years, with as much coolness as if he had been about in public with his wife all that time: he spoke to his friends as if nothing had happened: and he introduced them to his wife as if it was by the merest accident that they had not already met. Nothing could exceed the unconsciousness of his manner, unless it was the simple and natural ease of his wife. No one could possibly guess that there was, or could be, the least awkwardness in the situation. The thing itself, and the manner of carrying it through, constituted a _coup_ of the most brilliant kind. This public appearance deprived the situation, in fact, of all its awkwardness. No one could ask them at the Grosvenor Gallery what it meant. There were one or two to whom the bridegroom whispered that it was a long and romantic story: that there had been a bar to the completion of his happiness, by a public avowal: that this bar--a purely private and family matter--had only yesterday been removed: nothing was really explained: but it was generally felt that the mystery added another to the eccentricities of genius. There was a something, they seemed to remember dimly, about the marriages and love-passages of Shelley, Coleridge, and Lord Byron. Mrs. Feilding, clearly, was a woman born to be an artist's wife: herself, artistic in her dress, her manner, and her appearance: sympathetic in her caressing voice: gracious in her manners: and openly proud of a husband so richly endowed. Alec presented a great many men to her. She had, it seemed, already made acquaintance with their works, which she knew by name: she betrayed involuntarily, by her gracious smile, and the interested, curious gaze of her large and limpid eyes, the genuine admiration which she felt for these works, and the very great pleasure with which she made the acquaintance of this very distinguished author. If any of them were on the walls, she bestowed upon them the flattery of measured and appreciative praise: she knew something of the technique. 'Alec is not exhibiting this year,' she said. 'I think he is right. He had but one picture: and that was in his old style. People will think he can do nothing but sea-coast, rock, and spray. So he is going to send his one picture away--if you want to see it you must make haste to the studio--and he is going--this is a profound secret--to break out in a new line--quite a new line. But you must not know anything about it.' A paragraph in a column of personal news published the fact, the very next day, which shows how difficult it is to keep a secret. Before Mrs. Feilding left the gallery she had made twenty friends for life, and had laid a solid foundation for her Sunday evenings. In the evening there was a First Night. No First Nights are possible without the appearance of certain people, of whom Mr. Alec Feilding was one. He attended, bringing with him his wife. Some of the men who had been at the private view were also present at the performance, but not many, because the followers of one art do not--as they should--rally round any other. But all the dramatic critics were there, and all the regular first-nighters, including the wreckers--who go to pit and gallery--and the friends of the author and those of the actors. Between the acts there was a good deal of circulation and talking. Alec presented a good many more gentlemen to his wife. Before they went home Mrs. Feilding had made a dozen more friends for life, and placed her Sunday evenings on a firm and solid basis. Her social success--at least among the men--was assured from this first day. CHAPTER XXIV THE CUP AND THE LIP Two days after the Private View Alec Feilding repaired, by special invitation, to Mr. Jagenal's office. 'I have sent for you, Alec,' said the solicitor, _ami de famille_, 'in continuance of our conversation of the other day--about that little windfall, you know.' 'I am not likely to forget it. Little windfalls of a thousand pounds do not come too often.' 'They do not. Meantime another very important event has happened. I saw the announcement in the paper, and I received your note----' 'You are the only person--believe me--to whom I have thought it right to explain the circumstances----' 'Yes? The explanation, at all events, is one that may be given in the same words--to all the world. I have no knowledge of Mrs. Feilding's friends, or of any obstacles that have been raised to her marriage! But I am rather sorry, Alec, that you sent her to me under a false name, because these things, if they get about, are apt to make mischief.' 'I assure you that this plan was only adopted in order the more effectually to divert suspicion. It was with the greatest reluctance that we consented to enter upon a path of deception. I knew, however, in whose hands I was. At any moment I was in readiness to confess the truth to you. In the case of a stranger the thing would have been impossible. You, however, I knew, would appreciate the motive of our action, and sympathise with the necessity.' Mr. Jagenal laughed gently--behind the specious words he discerned--something--the shapeless spectre which suspicion calls up or creates. But he only laughed. 'Well, Alec,' he said, 'marriage is a perfectly personal matter. You are a married man. You had reasons of your own for concealing the fact. You are now enabled to proclaim the fact. That is all anybody need know. We condone the little pretence of the widowhood. Armorel Rosevean has lost her companion; whether she has also lost her friend I do not know. The rest concerns yourself alone. Very good. You are a married man. All the more reason that this little windfall should be acceptable.' 'It will be extremely acceptable, I assure you.' 'Whether it is money or money's worth?' 'To save trouble I should prefer money.' 'You must take it as it comes, my dear boy.' 'Well, what is it?' 'It is,' replied Mr. Jagenal solemnly, 'nothing short of the sea giving up its treasures, the dead giving up her secrets, and the restoration of what was never known to be lost.' 'You a maker of conundrums?' 'You shall hear. Before we come to the thing itself--the treasure, the windfall, the thing picked up on the beach--let me again recall to you two or three points in your own family history. Your mother's maiden name was Isabel Needham. She was the daughter of Henry Needham and Frances his wife. Frances was the daughter of Robert Fletcher.' 'Very good. I believe that is the case.' 'Your money came to you from this Robert Fletcher, your maternal great-grandfather. You should, therefore, remember him.' 'I recognise,' said Alec, sententiously, 'the respect that should be paid to the memory of every man who makes money for his children.' 'Very good. Now, this Robert Fletcher as a young man, went out to India in search of fortune. He was apparently an adventurous young man, not disposed to sit down at the desk after the usual fashion of young men who go out to India. We find him in Burmah, for instance--then a country little known by Englishmen. While there he managed to attract the notice and the favour of the King, who employed him in some capacity--traded with him, perhaps; and, at all events, advanced his interests--so that, while still a young man, he found himself in the possession of a fortune ample enough for his wants----' 'Which he left to his daughters.' 'Don't be in a hurry. That was quite another fortune.' 'Oh! Another fortune? What became of the first?' 'Having enough, he resolved to return to his native country. But in Burmah there were then no banks, merchants, drafts, or cheques. He therefore converted his fortune into portable property, which he carried about his person, no one, I take it, knowing anything at all about it. Thus, carrying his treasure with him, he sailed for England. Have you heard anything of this?' 'Nothing at all. The beginning of the story, however, is interesting.' 'You will enjoy the end still better. The ship in which he sailed met with disaster. She was wrecked on the Isles of Scilly. It is said--but this I do not know--that the only man saved from the wreck was your great-grandfather: he was saved by one Emanuel Rosevean, great-great-grandfather to Armorel, the girl whose charge your own wife undertook.' 'Always that cursed girl!' murmured Alec. 'Robert Fletcher was clinging to a spar when he was picked up and dragged ashore. He recovered consciousness after a long illness, and then found that the leather case in which all his fortune lay had slipped from his neck and was lost. Therefore, he had to begin the world again. He went away, therefore. He went away----' Mr. Jagenal paused at this point, rattled his keys, and looked about him. He was not a story-teller by profession, but he knew instinctively that every story, in order to be dramatic--and he wished this to be a very dramatic history--should be cut up into paragraphs, illustrated by dialogue, and divided into sections. Dialogue being impossible, he stopped and rattled his keys. This meant the end of one chapter and the beginning of another. 'Do pray get along,' cried his client, now growing interested and impatient. 'He went away,' the narrator repeated, 'his treasure lost, to begin the world again. He came here, became a stockbroker, made money--and the rest you know. He appears never to have told his daughters of his loss. I have been in communication with the solicitors of the late Eleanor Fletcher, your great-aunt, and I cannot learn from them that she ever spoke of this calamity. Yet had she known of it she must have remembered it. To bring all your fortune--a considerable fortune--home in a bag tied round your neck, and to lose it in a shipwreck is a disaster which would, one thinks, be remembered to the third and fourth generations.' 'I should think so. But you said something about the sea giving up its treasure.' 'That we come to next. Five years ago, by the death of a very aged lady, her great-great-grandmother, Armorel Rosevean succeeded to an inheritance which turned out to be nothing less than the accumulated savings of many generations. Among other possessions she found in this old lady's room a sea-chest containing things apparently recovered from wrecks, or drowned men, or washed ashore by the sea--a very curious and interesting collection: there were snuff-boxes, watches, chains, rings, all kinds of things. Among these treasures she turned out, at the bottom of the chest, a case of shagreen with a leather thong. On opening this Armorel found it to contain a quantity of precious stones, and a scrap of paper which seemed to show that they had formerly been the property of one Robert Fletcher. We may suppose, if we please, that the case containing the jewels was cast up on the beach after the storm, and tossed into the chest without much knowledge of its contents or their value. We may suppose that Emanuel Rosevean found the case. We may suppose what we please, because we can prove nothing. For my own part, I think there is no reasonable doubt that the case actually contained the fortune of Robert Fletcher. The dates of the story seem to correspond: the handwriting appears to be his: we have letters of his speaking of his intention to return, and of his property being in convenient portable shape.' 'Well--then--this portable fortune belongs to Robert Fletcher's heirs.' 'Not so quick. How are you going to prove your claim? You have nothing to go by but a fragment of writing with part of his name on it. You cannot prove that he was shipwrecked, and if you could do that you could not prove that these jewels belonged to him.' 'If there is no doubt, she ought to give them up. She is bound in honour.' 'I said that in my mind there is no reasonable doubt. That is because I have heard a great deal more than could be admitted in evidence. But now--listen again without interrupting. When, five years ago, the young lady placed the management of her affairs in my hands through the Vicar of her parish, I had every part of her very miscellaneous fortune valued and a part of it sold. I had these rubies examined by a merchant in jewels.' 'And how much were they worth?' 'One with another--some being large and very valuable indeed, and others small--they were said, by my expert, to be worth thirty-five thousand pounds. They might, under favourable circumstances and if judiciously placed in the market realise much more. Thirty-five thousand pounds!' 'What?' He literally opened his mouth. 'How much do you say?' 'Thirty-five thousand pounds.' 'Oh! But the stones are not hers--they belong--they belong--to us--to the descendants of Robert Fletcher.' No one would have called that face wooden, now. It was full of excitement--the excitement of a newly awakened hope. 'Does she propose to buy me off with a thousand pounds? Does she think I am to be bought off at any price? The jewels are mine--mine--that is, I have a share in them.' 'Gently--gently--gently! What proof have you got of this story? Nothing. You never heard of it: your great-grandfather never spoke of it. Nothing would have been heard of it at all but for this old lady from whom Armorel inherited. The property is hers as much as anything else. If she gives up anything it is by her own free and uncompelled will. She need give nothing. Remember that.' 'Then she offers me a miserable thousand pounds for my share--which ought to be at least a third. Jagenal'--he turned purple and the veins stood out on his forehead--'That infernal girl hates me! She has done me--I cannot tell you how much mischief. She persecutes me. Now she offers to buy me out of my share of thirty-five thousand pounds--a third share--nay--a half, because my great-aunt left no children--for a thousand pounds down!' 'I did not say so.' 'You told me that the windfall would amount to a thousand pounds.' 'That was in joke, my boy. You are perfectly wrong about Armorel hating you. How can she hate you? You are so far wrong in this instance that she has instructed me to give you the whole of this fortune--actually to make you a free gift of the whole property--the whole, mind--thirty-five thousand pounds!' 'To me! Armorel gives me--me--the whole of this fortune?' Blank astonishment fell upon him. He stood staring--open-mouthed. 'To ME?' he repeated. 'To you. She does not, to be sure, know to whom she gives it. She is only desirous of restoring the jewels which she insists in believing to belong to Robert Fletcher's family. Therefore, as it would be obviously impossible to find out and to divide this fortune among all the descendants of Robert Fletcher, who are scattered about the globe, she was resolved to give them to the eldest descendant of the second daughter.' 'Oh!' Alec turned pale, and dropped into a chair, broken up. 'To the eldest descendant of the second--the second daughter. Then----' 'Then to you, as the only grandson of the second daughter--Frances.' 'The second daughter was----' He checked himself. He sighed. He sat up. His eyes, always small and too close together, grew smaller and closer together. 'The other branch of the family,' he said slowly, 'has vanished--as you say--it is scattered over the face of the globe. I do not know anything about my cousins--if I have any cousins. Perhaps when you have carried on the search a little further----' 'But I am not going to carry it on any further at all. Why should I? We have nothing more to learn. I am instructed by Armorel to give the rubies to you. It is a gift--not a right. It is not an inheritance, remember--it is a free gift. She says, "These rubies used to belong to Robert Fletcher. I will restore them to someone of his kin." You are that someone. Why should I inquire further?' 'Oh!' Alec sank back in his chair and closed his eyes as one who recovers from a sharp pang, and sighed deeply. 'If you are satisfied, then---- But if other cousins should turn up----' 'They will have nothing, because nobody is entitled to anything. Come Alec, my boy, you look a little overcome. It is natural. Pull yourself together, and look at the facts. You will have thirty-five thousand pounds--perhaps a little more. At four per cent.--I think I can put you in the way of getting so much with safety--you will have fourteen hundred a year. You will have that, apart from your literary and artistic income. It is not a gigantic fortune, it is true; but let me tell you that it is a very handsome addition indeed to any man's income. You will not be able to live in Kensington Palace Gardens, where your wife lived as a girl; but you can take a good house and see your friends, and have anything in reason. Well, that is all I have to say, except to congratulate you, which I do, my Alec'--he seized the fortunate young man's hand and shook it warmly--'most heartily. I do, indeed. You deserve your good luck--every bit of the good luck that has befallen you. Everybody who knows you will rejoice. And it comes just at the right moment--just when you have acknowledged your marriage and taken your wife home.' 'Really,' said Alec, now completely recovered, 'I am overwhelmed with this stroke of luck. It is the most unexpected thing in the world. I could never have dreamed of such a thing. To find out, on the same day, that one's great-grandfather once made a fortune and lost it, and that it has been recovered, and that it is all given to me--it naturally takes one's breath away at first.' 'You would like to gaze upon this fortune from the Ruby Mines of Burmah, would you not?' Mr. Jagenal threw open the door of a safe, and took out a parcel in brown paper. 'It is here.' He opened the parcel, and disclosed the shagreen case which we have already seen in the sea-chest. He laid it on the table, and unrolled the silk in which the stones were rolled. 'There they are--look common enough, don't they? One seems to have picked up stones twice as pretty on the sea-shore: here are two or three cut and polished--bits of red glass would look as pretty.' 'Thirty-five thousand pounds!' Alec cried, laying a hand, as if in episcopal benediction, upon the treasure. 'Is it possible that this little bundle of stones should be worth so much?' 'Quite possible. Now--they are yours--what will you do with them.' 'First, I will ask you to put them back in the safe.' 'I will send them to your bank if you please.' 'No--keep them here--I will consult you immediately about their disposition. Thirty-five thousand pounds! Thirty-five----perhaps we may get more for them. What am I to say to this girl? Perhaps when she learns who has got the rubies she will refuse to let them go. I am sure she would never consent.' 'Nonsense--about persecution and annoyance! Armorel hate you? Why should she hate you? The sweetest girl in the world. You men of genius are too ready to take offence. The things are yours. I have given them to you by her instructions. I have written you a letter, formally conveying the jewels to you. Here it is. And now go home, my dear fellow, and when you feel like taking a holiday, do it with a tranquil mind, remembering that you've got fourteen hundred pounds a year given you for nothing at all by this young lady, who wasn't obliged to give you a penny. Why, in surrendering these jewels, she has surrendered a good half of her whole fortune. Find me another girl, anywhere, who would give up half her fortune for a scruple. And now go away, and tell your wife. Let her rejoice. Tell her it is Armorel's wedding present.' Alec Feilding walked home. He was worth thirty-five thousand pounds--fourteen hundred pounds a year. When one comes to think of it, though we call ourselves such a very wealthy country, there are comparatively few, indeed, among us who can boast that they enjoy an income of fourteen hundred pounds a year, with no duties, responsibilities, or cares about their income--and with nothing to do for it. Fourteen hundred pounds a year is not great wealth; but it will enable a man to keep up a very respectable style of living: many people in society have got to live on a great deal less. He and his wife were going to live on nothing a year, except what they could get by their wits. Fourteen hundred a year! They could still exercise their wits: that is to say, he should expect his wife, now the thinking partner, to exercise her wits with zeal. But what a happiness for a man to feel that he does not live by his wits alone! Alas! It is a joy that is given to few indeed of us. As for his late literary and artistic successes, how poor and paltry did they appear to this man, who had no touch of the artist nature, beside this solid lump of money, worth all the artistic or poetic fame that ever was achieved! He went home dancing. He was at peace with all mankind. He found it in his heart to forgive everybody: Roland Lee, who had so basely deserted him: Effie, that snake in the grass: Lady Frances, the most treacherous of women: Armorel herself---- Oh! Heavens! what could not be forgiven to the girl who had made him such a gift? Even the revolt against his authority: even the broken panel, the shattered lock, and the earthquake. In this mood he arrived home. His wife, the thinking partner, was hard at work in the interests of the new firm. In her hand was a manuscript volume of verse: on the table beside her lay an open portfolio of sketches and drawings. 'You see, Alec,' she looked up, smiling. 'Already the ghosts have begun to appear at my call. If you ask me where I found them, I reply, as before, that when one travels about with a country company one has opportunities. All kinds of queer people may be heard of. Your ghosts, in future, my dear boy, must be of the tribe which has broken down and given in, not of those who are still young and hopeful. I have found a man who can draw--here is a portfolio full of his things: in black and white: they can be reproduced by some photographic process: he is in an advanced stage of misery, and will never know or ask what becomes of his things. He ought to have made his fortune long ago. He hasn't, because he is always drunk and disreputable. It will do you good to illustrate the paper with your own drawings. There's a painter I have heard of. He drinks every afternoon and all the evening at a certain place, where you must go and find him. He has long since been turned out of every civilised kind of society, and you can get his pictures for anything you like; he can't draw much, I believe, but his colouring is wonderful. There is an elderly lady, too, of whom I have heard. She can draw, too, and she's got no friends, and can be got cheap. And this book is full of the verses of a poor wretch who was once a rising literary man, and now carries a banner at Drury-Lane Theatre whenever they want a super. As for your stories, I have got a broken-down actor--he writes better than he can act--to write stories of the boards. They will appear anonymously, and if people attribute them to you he will not be able to complain. Oh, I know what I am about, Alec! Your paper shall double its circulation in a month, and shall multiply its circulation by ten in six months, and without the least fear of such complications as have happened lately. They must lie avoided for the future--proposals as well as earthquakes--my dear Alec.' Alec sat down on the table and laughed carelessly. 'Zoe,' he said, 'you are the cleverest woman in the world. It was a lucky day for us both when you came here. I made a big mistake for three years. Now I've got some news for you--good news----' 'That can only mean--money.' 'It does mean--money, as you say. Money, my dear. Money that makes the mare to go.' 'How much, Alec?' 'More than your four thousand. Twenty times as much as that little balance in your book.' 'Oh, Alec! is it possible? Twenty times as much? Eighty thousand pounds?' 'About that sum,' he replied, exaggerating with the instincts of the City, inherited, no doubt, from Robert Fletcher. 'Perhaps quite that sum if I manage certain sales cleverly.' 'Is it a legacy?--or an inheritance?--how did you get it?' 'It is not exactly a legacy: it is a kind of restoration to an unknown person: a gift not made to me personally, but to me unknown.' 'You talk to me in riddles, Alec.' 'I would talk in blank verse if I could. It is, indeed, literally true. I have received an--estate--in portable property worth nearly forty thousand pounds.' 'Oh! Then we shall be really rich, and not have to pretend quite so much? A little pretence, Alec, I like. It makes me feel like returning to society: too much pretence reminds one of the policeman.' 'Don't you want to know how I have come into this money?' 'I am not curious, Alec. I like everything to be done for me. When I was a girl there were carriages and horses and everything that I wanted--all ready--all done for me, you know. Then I was stripped of all. I had nothing to do or to say in the matter. It was done for me. Now, you tell me you have got eighty thousand pounds. Oh! Heavens! It is done for me. The ways of fate are so wonderful. Things are given and things are taken away. Why should I inquire how things come? Perhaps this will be taken away in its turn.' 'Not quite, Zoe. I have got my hand over it. You can trust your husband, I think, to keep what he has got.' Indeed, he looked at this moment cunning enough to be trusted with keeping the National Debt itself. 'Eighty thousand pounds!' she said. 'Let me write it down. Eighty thousand pounds! Eight and one, two, three, four oughts.' She wrote them down, and clasped her hands, saying, 'Oh! the beauty--the incomparable beauty--of the last ought!' 'Perhaps not quite so much,' said her husband, thinking that the exaggeration was a little too much. 'Don't take off one of my oughts--not my fourth: not my Napoleon of oughts!' 'No--no. Keep your four oughts. Well, my dear, if it is only sixty thousand or so, there is two thousand a year for us. Two thousand a year!' 'Don't, Alec; don't! Not all at once. Break it gently.' 'We will carry on the paper; and perhaps do something or other--carefully, you know--in Art. There is no need to knock things off. And if you can make the paper succeed, as you think, there will be so much the more. Well, we can use it all. For my part, Zoe, my dear, I don't care how big the income is. I am equal to ten thousand.' 'Of course, and you will still pronounce judgments and be a leader. Now let us talk of what we will do--where we will live--and all. Two thousand is pretty big to begin with, after three years' tight fit; but the paper will bring in another two thousand easily. I've been looking through the accounts--bills and returns--and I am sure it has been villanously managed. We will run it up: we will have ten thousand a year to spend. A vast deal may be done with ten thousand a year: we will have a big weekly dinner as well as an At Home. We will draw all the best people in London to the house: we will----' She enlarged with great freedom on what could be done with this income: she displayed all the powers of a rich imagination: not even the milkmaid of the fable more largely anticipated the joys of the future. 'And, oh! Alec,' she cried. 'To be rich again! rich only to the limited extent of ten thousand a year, is too great happiness. When my father was ruined, I thought the world was ended. Well, it was ended for me, because you made me leave it and disappear. The last four years I should like to be clean forgotten and driven out of my mind--horrid years of failing and enduring and waiting! And now we are rich again! Oh! we are rich again! It is too much happiness!' The tears rose to her eyes; her soft and murmuring voice broke. 'My poor Zoe,' her husband laid his hand on hers, 'I am rejoiced,' he said, 'as much for your sake as for my own.' 'How did you get this wonderful fortune, Alec?' 'Through Mr. Jagenal, the lawyer. It's a long story. A great-grandfather of mine was wrecked, and lost his property. That was eighty years ago. Now, his property was found. Who do you think found it? Armorel Rosevean. And she has restored it--to me.' 'What?' She sprang to her feet, her face suddenly turning white. 'What? Armorel?' 'Yes, certainly. Curious coincidence, isn't it? The very girl who has done me so much mischief. The man was wrecked on the island where her people lived.' 'Yes--yes--yes. The property--what was it? What was it? Quick!' 'It was a leather case filled with rubies--rubies worth at least thirty-five thousand pounds---- What's the matter?' 'Rubies! Her rubies! Oh! Armorel's rubies! No--no--no--not that! Anything--anything but that! Armorel's rubies--Armorel's rubies!' 'What is the matter, Zoe? What is it?' She gasped. Her eyes were wild: her cheek was white. She was like one who is seized with some sudden horrible and unintelligible pain. Or she was like one who has suddenly heard the most dreadful and most terrible news possible. 'What is it, Zoe?' her husband asked again. 'You? Oh! you have brought me this news--you! I thought, perhaps, someone--Armorel--or some other might find me out. But you!--you!' 'Again, Zoe'--he tried to be calm, but a dreadful doubt seized him--'what does this mean?' 'I remember,' she laughed wildly, 'what I said when I gave you the bank-book. If you found me out, I said, we should be both on the same level. You would be able to hold out your arms, I said, and to cry, "You have come down to my level. Come to my heart, sister in wickedness." That is what I said. Oh! I little thought--it was a prophecy--my words have come true.' She caught her head with her hand--it is a stagey gesture: she had learned it on the stage: yet at this moment of trouble it was simple and natural. 'What the DEVIL do you mean?' he cried with exasperation. 'They were _your_ rubies all the time, and I did not know. Your rubies! If I had only known! Oh! what have I done? What have I done? 'Tell me quick, what you have done.' He caught her by the arm roughly. He actually shook her. His own face now was almost as white as hers. 'Quick--tell me--tell me--tell me!' 'You wanted money badly,' she gasped. Her words came with difficulty. 'You told me so every time I saw you. It was to get money that I went to live with Armorel. I could not get it in that way. But I found another way. She told me about the rubies. I knew where they were kept. In the bank. In a sealed packet. I had seen an inventory of the things in the bank. Armorel told me the story of the rubies, and I never believed it--I never thought that there would be any search for the man's heirs. I never thought the story was true. She told me, besides, all about her other things--her miniatures and snuff-boxes, and watches and rings. She showed me all her beautiful lace, worth thousands. And as for the gold things and the jewels, they were all in the bank, in separate sealed parcels, numbered. She showed me the bank receipts. Opposite each number was written the contents of each, and opposite Number Three was written "The case containing the rubies."' 'Well? Well?' 'Hush! What did I do? Let me think. I am going mad, I believe. It was for your sake--all for your sake, Alec! All for your sake that I have ruined you!' 'Ruined me? Quick! What have you done?' 'It was for your sake, Alec--all for your sake! Oh, for your own sake I have lost and ruined you!' 'You will drive me mad, I think!' he gasped. 'I wrote a letter, one day, to the manager of the bank. I wrote it in imitation of Armorel's hand. I signed her name at the end so that no one could have told it was a forgery. My letter told him to give the sealed packet numbered three to the bearer who was waiting. I sent the letter by a commissionaire. He returned bringing the packet with him.' 'And then?' 'Oh! Then--then--Alec, you will kill me--you will surely kill me when you know! You care for nothing in the world but for money--and I--I have stolen away your money! It is gone--it is gone!' 'You stole those rubies? But I have seen them. They are in Jagenal's safe. What do you mean?' he cried hoarsely. 'I have sold them. I stole them, and I sold them all--they were worth--how much did you say? Fifty--sixty--eighty thousand pounds? I sold them all, Alec, for four thousand two hundred and twenty-five pounds! I sold them to a Dutchman in Hatton Garden.' 'You are raving mad! You dream! I have seen them. I have handled them.' 'What you have seen were the worthless imitation jewels that I substituted. I found out where to get sham rubies made of paste, or something--some cut and some uncut. I bought them, and I substituted them in the case. Then I returned the packet to the bank. I had the packet in my possession no more than one morning. The man who bought the stones swore they were worth no more. He said he should lose money by them: he was going away to America immediately, and wanted to settle at once, otherwise he would not give so much. That is what I have done, Alec.' 'Oh!' he stood over her, his eyes glaring; he roared like a wild beast; he raised his hand as if to slay her with a single blow. But he could find no words. His hand remained raised--he was speechless--he was motionless--he was helpless with blind rage and madness. [Illustration: _His hand remained raised--he was speechless--he was motionless--he was helpless with blind rage and madness._] His wife looked up, and waited. Now that she had told her tale she was calm. 'If you are going to kill me,' she said, 'you had better do it at once. I think I do not care about living any longer. Kill me, if you like.' He dropped his arm: he straightened himself, and stood upright. 'You are a Thief!' he said hoarsely. 'You are a wretched, miserable THIEF!' She pointed to the picture on the easel. 'And you--my husband?' He threw himself into a chair. Then he got up and paced the room: he beat the air with his hands: his face was distorted: his eyes were wild: he abandoned himself to one of those magnificent rages of which we read in History. William the Conqueror--King Richard--King John--many mediæval kings used to fall into these rages. They are less common of late. But then such provocation as this is rare in any age. When, at last, speech came to him, it was at first stuttering and broken: speech of the elementary kind: speech of primitive man in a rage: speech ejaculatory: speech interjectional: speech of railing and cursing. He walked--or, rather, tramped--about the room: he stamped with his foot: he banged the table with his fist: he roared: he threatened: he cleared the dictionary of its words of scorn, contempt, and loathing: he hurled all these words at his wife. As a tigress bereft of her young, so is such a man bereft of his money. His wife, meantime, sat watching, silent. She waited for the storm to pass. As for what he said, it was no more than the rolling of thunder. She made no answer to his reproaches; but for her white face you would have thought she neither heard nor felt nor cared. Outside the discreet man-servant heard every word. Once, when his master threatened violence, he thought it might be his duty to interfere. As the storm continued, he began to feel that this was no place for a man-servant who respected himself. He remembered the earthquake. He had then been called upon to remove from its hinges a door fractured in a row. That was a blow. He was now compelled to listen while a master, unworthy of such a servant, brutally swore at his wife. He perceived that his personal character and his dignity no longer allowed him to remain with such a person. He resigned, therefore, that very day. When the bereaved sufferer could say no more--for there comes a time when even to shriek fails to bring relief--he threw himself into a chair and began to cry. Yes: he cried like a child: he wept and sobbed and lamented. The tears ran down his cheeks: his voice was choked with sobs. The discreet man-servant outside blushed with shame that such a thing should happen under his roof. The wife looked on without a sign or a word. We break down and cry when we have lost the thing which most we love--it may be a wife; it may be a child: in the case of this young man the thing which most he loved and desired was money. It had been granted to him--in large and generous measure. And, lo! it was torn from his hands before his fingers had even closed around it. Oh! the pity--the pity of it! This fit, too, passed away. Half an hour later, when he was quite quiet, exhausted with his rage, his wife laid her hand upon his shoulder. 'Alec,' she said, 'I have always longed for one thing most of all. It was the only thing, I once thought, that made it worth the trouble to live. An hour ago it seemed that the thing had been granted to me. And I was happy even with this guilt upon my soul. I know you for what you are. Yet I desired your love. Henceforth, this dreadful thing stands between us. You can no longer love me--that is certain, because I have ruined you--any more than I can hold you in respect. Yet we will continue to walk together--hand in hand--I will work and you shall enjoy. If we do not love each other, we can continue in partnership, and show to the world faces full of affection. At least you cannot reproach me. I am a thief, it is true--most true! And you--Alec! you--oh! my husband!--what are you?' CHAPTER XXV TO FORGET IT ALL When Philippa read the announcement in the _Times_, she held her breath for a space. It was at breakfast. Her father was reading the news; she was looking through that column which interests us all more than any other. Her eye fell upon her cousin's name. She read, she changed colour, she read again. Her self-control returned. She laid down the paper. 'Here,' she said, 'is a very astonishing announcement!' A very astonishing announcement indeed! * * * * * An hour later she called upon Armorel at her rooms. 'You are left quite alone in consequence of this--this amazing revelation?' 'Quite. Not that I mind being alone. And Effie Wilmot is coming.' 'Nothing in the world,' said Philippa, 'could have astonished me more. It is not so much the fact of the marriage--indeed, my cousin's name was mentioned at one time a good deal in connection with hers--but the dreadful duplicity. He sent her to you--she came to us--as a widow. And for three years they have been married! Is it possible?' 'Indeed,' said Armorel, 'I know nothing. She left me without a cause, and now I hear of her marriage. That is all.' 'My dear, the thing reflects upon us. It is my cousin who has brought this trouble upon you.' 'Oh! no, Philippa! As if you could be held responsible for his actions! And, indeed, you must not speak of trouble. I have had none. My companion was never my friend in any sense: we had nothing in common: we must have parted company very soon: she irritated me in many ways, especially in her blind praise of the man who now turns out to be her husband. I really feel much happier now that she has gone.' 'But you have no companion--no chaperon.' 'I don't want any chaperon, I assure you.' 'But you cannot go into society alone.' 'I never do go into society. You know that nobody ever called upon Mrs. Elstree--or Mrs. Feilding, as we must now call her. There are only two houses in the whole of this great London into which I have found an entrance--yours and Mr. Jagenal's.' 'Yes; I know now. And most disgraceful it is that you should have been so sacrificed. That also is my cousin's doing. He represented his wife--it seems difficult to believe that he has got a wife--as a person belonging to a wide and very desirable circle of friends. Not a soul called upon her! The world cannot continue to know a woman who has disappeared bodily for three long years, during which she was reported to have been seen on the stage of a country theatre. What has she been doing? Why has she been in hiding? It was culpable negligence in Mr. Jagenal not to make inquiries. What it must be called in my cousin others may determine. As for you, Armorel, you have been most disgracefully and shamefully treated.' 'I suppose I ought to have had a companion who was recognised by society. But it seems to matter very little. I have made one or two new friends, and I have found an old friend.' 'It is not too late, of course, even for this season. Now, my dear Armorel, I am charged with a mission. It is to bring you back with me--to get you to stay with us for the season and, at least, until the summer holidays. That is, if you would be satisfied with our friends.' 'Thank you, Philippa, a thousand times. I do not think I can accept your kindness, however, because I feel as if I must go away somewhere. I have had a great deal of anxiety and worry. It has been wretched to feel--as I have been made to feel--that I was in the midst of intrigues and designs, the nature of which I hardly understood. I must go away out of the atmosphere. I will return to London when I have forgotten this time. I cannot tell you all that has been going on, except that I have discovered one deception after another----' 'She is an abominable woman,' said Philippa. 'On the island of Samson, at least, there will be no wives who call themselves widows, and no men who call themselves'--painters and poets, she was going to say, but she checked herself--'call themselves,' she substituted, 'single men, when they are already married.' 'But, surely you will not go away now--just at the very beginning of the season?' 'The season is nothing at all to me.' 'Oh! But, Armorel--think. You ought to belong to society. You are wealthy: you are a most beautiful girl: you are quite young: and you have so many gifts and accomplishments. My dear cousin, you might do so well, so very well. There is no position to which you could not aspire.' Armorel laughed. 'Not in that way,' she said. 'I have already told you, dear Philippa, that I am not able to think of things in that way.' 'Always that dream of girlhood, dear? Well, then, come and show yourself, if only to make the men go mad with love and the women with envy. Stay with us. Or, if you prefer it, I will find you a companion who really does belong to the world.' 'No, no; for the present I have had enough of companions. I want nothing more than to go home and rest. I feel just a little battered. My first experience of London has not been, you see, quite what I expected. Let me go away, and come back when I feel more charitable towards my fellow-creatures.' 'You have had a most horrid experience,' said Philippa. 'I trembled for you when I learned who your companion was. I was at school with her, and--well, I do not love her. But what could I do? Mr. Jagenal said she had been most strongly recommended--I could not interfere: it was too late: and besides, after what had happened, years before, it would have looked vindictive. And then she has been rich and is now poor, and perhaps, I thought, she wanted money: and when one has quarrelled it is best to say nothing against your enemy. Besides, I knew nothing definite against her. She said she was a widow--my cousin Alec said that he had been an old friend of her husband: he spoke of having helped him. Oh! he made up quite a long and touching story about his dead friend. So, you see, I refrained, and if I could say nothing good, I would say nothing bad.' 'I am sure that no one can possibly blame you in the matter, Philippa.' 'Yet I blame myself. For if I had caused a few questions to be asked at first, all the lies about the widowhood might have been avoided.' 'Others would have been invented.' 'Perhaps. Well--she is married, and I don't suppose her stay here will have done you any real harm. As for her, to go masquerading as a widow and to tell a thousand lies daily can hardly do any woman much good. Have you made up your mind how you will treat her if you should meet?' 'She has settled that question. She wrote me a letter saying that she has behaved so badly that she wishes never to see me again. And if we should meet she begs that it will be as perfect strangers.' 'Really--after all that has been done--that is the very least----' 'So we are to meet as strangers. I suppose that will be best. It would be impossible to ask for explanations. Poor Zoe! One does not know all her history. She told me once that she had been very unhappy. I have heard her crying in her room at night. Perhaps, she is to be more pitied than blamed. It is her husband whom I find it difficult to forgive and to forget. He is like a nightmare: he cannot be put so easily out of my mind.' 'Unfortunately, no. I, who have thought of him all my life, must continue to think of him.' 'You will forgive him, Philippa. You must. Besides, you have less to forgive. He has never offered his hand and heart to you.' Philippa blushed a rosy red, and confusion gathered to her eyes, because there had, in fact, been many occasions when things were said which---- Armorel was sorry that she had said this. 'You mean, Armorel, that he actually--did this--to you?' 'Yes. It was only the other day--the morning after we read the play. He came to the National Gallery, where I often go in the morning, and, in one of the rooms, he told me how much he loved me--words, however, go for nothing in such things--and kindly said that marriage with me would complete his happiness.' 'Oh! He is a villain--a villain indeed!' Her voice rose and her cheeks flushed. 'Forgive him, Armorel? Never!' 'Considering that it was only a day or two before he was going to announce in the paper the fact that he had been married for three years, it does seem pretty bad, doesn't it?' 'And you, Armorel?' 'Fortunately, I was able to dismiss him unmistakably.' 'Oh!' Philippa cried in exasperation. 'My cousin has been guilty of many treacherous and base actions; but this is quite the worst thing that I have heard of him--worse even than sending you his own wife, under a false name and disguised with a lying story on her lips. No, Armorel; I will never forgive him. Never!' Her eyes gleamed and her lips trembled. She meant what she said. 'Never! It is the worst, the most wicked thing he has ever done--because he might have succeeded.' 'I suppose he meant to get something by the pretence.' 'He wanted, I suppose, to have it reported that he was going to marry a rich girl. I had heard that he was continually seen with you. And I had also heard that he had confessed to an engagement which was not to be announced. My father has found out that his affairs are in great confusion.' 'But what good would an engagement of twenty-four hours do for him?' 'Indeed, I do not understand. Perhaps, after all, he had allowed himself to fall in love--but I do not know. Men sometimes seem to behave like mad creatures, with no reason or rule of self-control--as if there was no such thing as consequence and no such thing as the morrow. I do not understand anything about him. Why are his affairs in confusion? He had, to begin with, a fortune of more than twelve thousand pounds from his mother; his pictures latterly commanded a good price. And his paper is supposed to be doing well. To be sure he keeps horses and goes a great deal into society. And, perhaps, his wife has been a source of expense to him. But it is no use trying to explain or to find out things. Meantime, to you, his conduct has been simply outrageous. A man who sends his own wife as companion to a girl, and then makes love to her, is--my dear, there is no other word--he is a Wretch. I will never forgive him.' Armorel felt that she would keep her word. This pale, calm, self-contained Philippa could be moved to anger. And again she heard her companion's soft voice murmuring, 'My dear, the woman shows that she loves him still.' 'Fortunately for me,' said Armorel, 'my heart has remained untouched. I was never attracted by him; and latterly, when I had learned certain things, it became impossible for me to regard him with common kindliness. And, besides, his pretence and affectation of love were too transparent to deceive anybody. He was like the worst actor you ever saw on any stage--wooden, unreal--incapable of impressing anyone with the idea that he meant what he said.' 'I wonder how far Zoe--his wife--knew of this?' 'I would rather not consider the question, Philippa. But, indeed, one cannot help, just at first, thinking about it, and I am compelled to believe that she was his servant and his agent throughout. I believe she was instigated to get money from me if she could, and I believe she knew his intentions as regards me, and that she consented. She must have known, and she must have consented.' 'She would excuse herself on the ground of being his wife. For their husbands some women will do anything. Perhaps she worships him. His genius, very likely, overshadows and awes her.' Armorel smiled, but made no objection to this conjecture. 'Some women worship the genius in a man as if it was the man himself. Some women worship the man quite apart from his genius. I used to worship Alec long before he was discovered to be a genius at all. When I was a school-girl, Alec was my knight--my Galahad--purest-hearted and bravest of all the knights. There was no one in the world--no living man, and very few dead men--Bayard, Sidney, Charles the First, and two or three more only--who could stand beside him. He was so handsome, so brave, so great, and so good, that other men seemed small beside him. Well, my hero passed through Cambridge without the least distinction: I thought it was because he was too proud to show other men how easily he could beat them. Then he was called to the Bar, but he did not immediately show his eloquence and his abilities: that was because he wanted an opportunity. And then I went out into the world, and made the discovery that my hero was in reality quite an ordinary young man--rather big and good-looking, perhaps--with, as we all thought then, no very great abilities. And he certainly was always--and he is still--heavy in conversation. But he was still my cousin, though he ceased to be my hero. He was more than a cousin--he was almost my brother; and brothers, as you do not know, perhaps, Armorel, sometimes do things which require vast quantities of patience and forgiveness. I am sure no girl's brother ever wanted forgiveness more than my cousin Alec.' Her face, cold and pale, had, in fact, the sisterly expression. Philippa's enemies always declared that in the composition and making of her the goddess Venus, who presumably takes a large personal interest in the feminine department, had no lot or part at all. Yet certain words--the late companion's words--kept ringing in Armorel's ears: 'My dear, the woman loves him still. She has never ceased to love him.' 'There was nothing to forgive at first,' she went on: 'on the contrary, everything to admire. Yet his career has been throughout so unexpected as to puzzle and bewilder us. Consider, Armorel. Here was a young man who had never in boyhood, or later, shown the least love or leaning towards Art or the least tinge of poetical feeling, or the smallest power as a _raconteur_, or any charm of writing--suddenly becoming a fine painter--a really fine painter--a respectable poet, and an admirable story-teller. When he began with the first picture there grew up in my head a very imaginative and certain set of ideas connecting the painter's mind with his Art. I saw a grave mind dwelling gravely and earnestly on the interpretation of nature. It seemed impossible that one who should so paint sea and shore should be otherwise than grave and serious.' 'Impossible,' said Armorel. 'What we had called, in our stupidity, dulness, now became only seriousness. He took his Art seriously. But then he began to write verses, and then I found that there was a new mind--not a part of the old mind, but a new mind altogether. It was a mind with a light vein of fancy and merriment: it was affectionate, sympathetic, and happy: and it seemed distinctly a feminine mind. I cannot tell you how difficult it was to fit that mind to my cousin Alec--it was like dressing him up in an ill-fitting woman's riding-habit. And then he began those stories of his--and, behold, another mind altogether!--this time a worldly mind--cynical, sarcastic, distrustful, epigrammatic, and heartless--not at all a pleasant mind. So that you see I had four different minds all going about in the same set of bones--the original Alec Feilding, handsome and commonplace, but a man of honour: the serious student of Art: the light and gay-hearted poet, sparkling in his verses like a glass of champagne: and the cynical man of the world, who does not believe that there are any men of honour or any good women. Why, how can one man be at the same time four men? It is impossible. And now we have a fifth development of Alec. He has become--at the same time--a creature who marries a wife secretly--no one knows why: and hides her away for three years and then suddenly produces her--no one knows why. What does he hide her away for? Why does she consent to be hidden away? Then, the very day before he has got to produce his wife for all the world to see--I am perfectly certain that she herself forced him to take that step--he makes love to a young lady, and formally asks her to marry him. Reconcile, if you can, all these contradictions.' 'They cannot possibly be reconciled.' 'We have heard of seven devils entering into one man; but never of angels and devils mixed, my dear. Such a man cannot be explained, any more than the Lady Melusina herself.' 'Do not let us try. As for me, I am going to forget the existence of Mr. Alec Feilding if I can. In order to do this the quicker I mean to go home and stay there. Come and see me on the island of Samson, Philippa. But you must not bring your father, or he may be disappointed at the loss of his ancestral hall. To you I shall not mind showing the little house where your ancestors lived.' 'I should like very much--above all things--to see the place.' 'I will bribe you to come. I have got a great silver punch-bowl--old silver, such as you love--for you. You shall have a choice of rings, a choice of snuff-boxes. There is a roll of lace put away in the cupboard that would make you a lovely dress. It will be like the receiving of presents which we read of in the old books.' 'I will try to come, Armorel, after the season.' Armorel laughed. 'There is the difference between us, Philippa. You belong to the world, and I do not. Oh! I will come back again some day and look at it again. But it will always be a strange land to me. You will leave London after the season; I am leaving it before the season. Come, however, when you can. Scilly is never too hot in summer nor too cold in winter. Instead of a carriage you shall have a boat, and instead of a coachman you shall have my boy Peter. We will sail about and visit the Islands: we will carry our midday dinner with us: and in the evening we will play and sing. Nobody will call upon you there: there are no dinner-parties, and you need not bring an evening dress. The only audience to our music will be my old servants, Justinian and Dorcas his wife, and Chessun, and Peter the boy.' There were no preparations to make: there was nothing to prevent Armorel from going away immediately. She asked Effie to go with her. She opened the subject in the evening, when she and her brother and Roland were all sitting together in her drawing-room by the light of the fire alone, which she loved. They were thoughtful and rather silent, conscious of recent events. 'While we were in Regent Street this afternoon, Effie,' said Armorel, 'I was thinking of the many happy faces that we met. The street seemed filled with happiness. I was wondering if it was all real. Are they all as happy as they seem? Is there no falsehood in their lives? The streets are filled with happy people. The theatres are filled with happy faces: society shows none but happy faces. It ought to be the happiest of worlds. Have we, alone, fallen among pretenders and intriguers?' 'They are gone from you, Armorel. Can you not forget them?' Effie murmured. 'I seem to hear the murmuring voice of my companion always. She whispers in her caressing voice, "Oh! my dear, he is so good and great! He is so full of truth and honour. Will you lend him a thousand pounds? He thinks so highly of you. A thousand pounds--two thousand pounds. If I had it to lay at the feet of so much genius!" And all the time she is his wife. And in my thoughts I am always hearing his voice, which I learned to hate, laying down a commonplace. And in my dreams I awake with a start, because he is making love to me while Zoe listens at the door.' 'You must go away somewhere,' said Roland. 'I shall go home--to my own place. Effie, will you come with me?' 'Go with you? Oh! To Scilly?' 'To the land of Lyonesse. I have arranged it all, dear. Archie shall have these rooms of mine to live in: you shall come with me. It is two years since you have been out of London: your cheeks are pale: you want our sea-breezes and our upland downs. Will you come with me, Effie?' She held out her hand. 'I will go with you,' said the girl, 'round the whole world, if you order me.' 'Then that is settled. Archie, you must stay because your future demands it. I met Mr. Stephenson yesterday. He told me that he is in great hopes about the play, and that, meantime, he will be able to put some work into your hands.' 'You are always thinking about me,' said Archie. 'Come to us in the summer. Take your holiday on Samson. Oh! Effie, we will be perfectly happy. We will forget London, and everything that has happened. Thank Heaven, the rubies are gone! I will send a piano there: we will carry with us loads of books and music. We will have a perfectly lovely time, with no one but ourselves. Roland will tell you how we will live. You will do nothing for a time, while you are drinking in the fresh air and getting strong. Then--then--you shall have ideas--great and glorious ideas--and you shall write far, far better poetry than any you have attempted yet.' 'And, meantime--we who have to remain behind?' asked Roland. 'What shall we do when you are gone?' * * * * * It takes longer to get to Penzance than to Edinburgh, because the train ceases to run and begins to crawl as soon as it leaves Plymouth. The best way is to take the nine o'clock train and to travel all night. Then you will probably sleep from Reading to Bristol: from Bristol to Exeter: and from Exeter to Plymouth. After that you will keep awake. In this way and by this train Armorel and Effie travelled to Penzance. Effie fell asleep very soon, and remained asleep all night long, waking up somewhere between Lostwithiel and Marazion. Armorel sat up wakeful the whole night through, yet was not tired in the morning. Partly, she was thinking of her stay in London, the crowning of her apprenticeship five years long. Nothing had happened as she had expected. Nothing, in this life, ever does. She had found the hero of her dreams defeated and fallen, a pitiable object. But he stood erect again, better armed and in better heart, his face turned upwards. Partly, another thing filled her heart and made her wakeful. Roland and Archie came with them to the station. 'Shall I ever be permitted to visit again the Land of Lyonesse?' whispered the former at the window just before the guard's whistle gave the signal for the train to start. She gave him her hand. 'Good-bye, Roland. You will come to Scilly--when you please--as soon as you can.' He held her hand. 'I live only in that hope,' he replied. The train began to move. He bent and kissed her fingers. She leaned forward. 'Roland,' she said, 'I also live only in that hope.' CHAPTER XXVI NOT THE HEIR, AFTER ALL The storm expended itself. The gale cannot go on blowing: the injured man cannot go on raging, cursing, or weeping. Alec Feilding became calm. Yet a settled gloom rested like a dark cloud upon his front: he had lost something--a good part--of his pristine confidence. That enviable quality which so much impresses itself upon others--called swagger--had been knocked out of him. Indeed, he had sustained a blow from which he would never wholly recover: such a man could never get over the loss of such a fortune: his great-grandfather, so far as could be learned, lost his fortune and began again, with cheerful heart. Alec would begin again, because he must, but with rage and bitterness. It was like being struck down by an incurable disease: it might be alleviated, but it would never be driven out: from time to time, in spite of the physicians, the patient writhes and groans in the agony of this disease. So from time to time will this man, until the end of time, groan and lament over the wicked waste and loss of that superb inheritance. Of course he disguised from himself--this is one of the things men always do hide away--the fact that he himself was part and parcel of the deed: he had destroyed himself by his own craft and cunning. Had he not placed his wife with Armorel under instructions to persuade and coax her into advancing money for his own purposes, the thing could never have happened. Henceforth, though the pair should have the desire of their hearts: though they should march on to wealth and success: though the wife should invent and contrive with the cleverness of ten for the good of the firm: though the husband should grow more and more in the estimation of the outer world into the position of a Master and an Authority: between the two will lie the memory of fraud and crime, to divide them and keep them apart. On the day after the revelation, a thought came into the mind of the inheritor of the rubies. The thing that had happened unto him--could he cause it to happen unto another? Perhaps one remembers how, on learning that the rubies were to be given to the eldest grandson of the second daughter, he had dropped, limp and pale, into a chair. One may also remember how, on learning that no further investigation would be made, he recovered again. The fact was, you see, that Mr. Jagenal had made a little mistake. His searchers had altered the order of the three sisters. Frances, Alec Feilding's grandmother, was not the second, but the third daughter. When the rubies were actually waiting and ready for him, it would have been foolish to mention that fact, especially as no further search was to be made, and the elder branch, wherever it was, would never know anything of the matter at all. Therefore, he then held his tongue. Now, on the other hand, the jewels being worthless, he thought, first of all, that it would look extremely scrupulous to inform Mr. Jagenal of the discovery that his grandmother was really the third daughter: next, if the other branch should be discovered, the fortunate heir would, like himself, be raised to the heavens only to be dashed down again to earth. Let someone else, as well as himself, experience the agonies of that fall. He chuckled grimly as he considered the torments in store for this fortunate unknown cousin. As for danger to his wife, he considered rightly that there was none: the stones had been consigned to the bank by Armorel, and in her own name: she signed an order for their delivery to Mr. Jagenal: he had kept them in his safe. They would certainly lie there some time before he found the new heir. Nay. They had been in his custody for five years before he gave them over formally to Armorel. Who could say when the robbery had been effected? Who would think of asking the bank whether during the short time the parcel was held in the name of Armorel it had been taken out? Clearly the whole blame and responsibility lay with Mr. Jagenal himself. He would have a very curious problem to solve--namely, how the rubies had been changed in his own safe. 'Well, Alec, come to take away your rubies?' asked Mr. Jagenal, cheerily. 'There they are in that safe.' 'No,' he replied, sadly. 'I am grieved indeed to say that I have not come for the rubies. I shall never come for the rubies.' 'Why not?' 'Because they are not for me. According to your instructions, I have no claim to them.' 'No claim?' 'I understand that Miss Rosevean intends to give these jewels to the first representative of the family of Robert Fletcher. That is to say, to the eldest grandchild of the first, second, or third daughter, as the case may be?' 'That is so.' 'Very well. The eldest daughter left no children. You therefore sent for me as the eldest--and only--grandchild of the second daughter?' 'I did.' 'Then I have to tell you that you are wrong. My grandmother was the third daughter.' 'Is it possible?' 'Quite possible. She was the third daughter. I was not very accurately acquainted with that part of my genealogy, and the other day I could not have told you whether I came from the second or the third daughter. I have since ascertained the facts. It was the second daughter who went away to Australia or New Zealand, or somewhere. I do not know anything at all about my cousins, but I think it very unlikely that there are none in existence.' 'Very unlikely. What proof have you that your grandmother was the second daughter?' 'I have an old family Bible--I can show it you, if you like. In this has been entered the date of the birth, the place and date of baptism, the names of the sponsors of all three sisters. There is also a note on the second sister's marriage and on her emigration. I assure you there can be no doubt on the subject at all.' 'Oh! This is very disastrous, my dear boy. How could my people have made such a mistake? Alec, I feel for you--I do, indeed!' 'It is most disastrous!' Alec echoed with a groan. 'I have been in the unfortunate position of a man who is suddenly put into possession of a great fortune one day, and as suddenly deprived of it the next. Of course, as soon as I discovered the real facts, it became my duty to acquaint you with them.' 'By George!' cried Mr. Jagenal. 'If you had kept the facts to yourself, no one would ever have been any wiser. No one, because the transfer of the property is a sheer gift made by my client to you without any compulsion at all. It is a private transaction of which I should never have spoken to anyone. Well, Alec, I must not say that you are wrong. But many men--most men perhaps--with a less keen sense of honour than you--well--I say no more. Yet the loss and disappointment must be a bitter pill for you.' 'It is a bitter pill,' he replied truthfully. 'More bitter than you would suspect.' 'You will have the satisfaction of feeling that you have behaved in this matter as a man of the strictest honour.' 'I am very glad, considering all things, that I have not had the rubies in my own possession, even for a single hour.' 'That is nothing: of course they would have been safe in your hands. Well, Alec, I am sorry for you. But you are young: you are clever: you are succeeding hand over hand: pay a little more attention to your daily expenses, put down your horses and live for a few years quietly, and you will make your own fortune--ay, a fortune greater far than was contained in this unlucky case of precious stones.' 'I suppose you will renew your search, now, after the descendants of the second daughter?' 'I suppose we must. Do not forget that if there are no descendants--or, which is much the same thing, if we cannot find them in a reasonable time, I shall advise my client to transfer the jewels to the grandson of the third daughter. And I hope, my dear boy--I hope, I say, that we may never find those descendants.' Alec departed, a little cheered by the consolation that he had passed on the disappointment to another. He went home, and found his wife in the studio, apparently waiting for him. There were dark rings round her eyes. She had been weeping. Since the storm they had not spoken to each other. He sat down at his table--it was perfectly bare of papers--no sign of any work at all upon it--and waited for her to begin. 'Is it not time,' she asked, 'that this should cease? You have reproached me enough, I think. Remember, we are on the same level. But, whatever I have done, it was done for your sake. Whatever you have done, was done for your own sake. Now, is there going to be an end to this situation?' [Illustration: _'Is it not time,' she asked, 'that this should cease?'_] He made a gesture of impatience. 'Understand clearly--if I am to help you for the future: if I am going to pull you through this crisis: if I am to direct and invent and combine for you, I mean to be treated with the semblance of kindness--the show of politeness at least.' He sat up, moved by this appeal, which, indeed, was to his purse--that is, to his heart. 'I say, my husband,' she repeated, 'you must understand me clearly. Again, what I have done was done for you--for you. Unless you agree to my conditions it shall have been done--for myself. I have four thousand pounds in the bank in my own name. You cannot touch it. I shall go away and live upon that money--apart from you. And you shall have nothing--nothing--unless----' 'Unless what?' He shook off his wrath with a mighty effort, as a sulky boy shakes off his sulks when he perceives that he must, and that instantly. He threw off his wrath and sat up with a wan semblance of a smile, a spectral smile, feebly painted on his lips. 'Unless what, Zoe? My dear child, can you not make allowance for a man tried in this terrible fashion? I don't believe that any man was ever so mocked by Fortune. I have been crushed. Yes, any terms, any condition you please. Let us forget the past. Come, dear, let us forget what has happened.' He sprang to his feet and held out his arms. She hesitated a moment. 'There is no other place for me now,' she murmured. 'We are on the same level. I am all yours--now.' Then she drew herself away, and turned again to the table. 'Come, Alec,'she said, 'to business. Time presses. Sit down, and give me all your attention.' CHAPTER XXVII THE DESERT ISLAND The train proceeded slowly along the head of Mount's Bay, the waters of the high tide washing up almost to the sleepers on the line. Armorel let down the window and looked out across the bay-- Where the great vision of the guarded Mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold. 'See, Effie!' she cried. 'There is Mount's Bay. There is the Lizard. There is Penzance. And there--oh! there is the Mount itself!' St. Michael's Mount, always weird and mysterious, rose out of the waters wrapped in a thin white cloud, which the early sun had not yet been able to dissipate. I am told there is a very fine modern house upon the Mount. I prefer not to believe that story. The place should always remain lonely, awful, full of mystery and wonder. There is also said to be a battery with guns upon it. Perhaps. But there are much more wonderful things than these to tell of the rock. Upon its highest point those gallant miners--Captain Caractac and Captain Caerleon, both of Boadicea Wheal--were wont to stand gazing out upon the stretch of waters expecting the white sails and flashing oars of the Phoenician fleet, come to buy their white and precious tin, with strong wines from Syria and spices from the far East, and purple robes and bronze swords and spearheads, far better than those made by Flint Jack of the Ordnance Department. Hither came white-robed priests with flowing beards and solemn faces--faces supernaturally solemn, till they were alone upon the rock. Then, perhaps, an eyelid trembled. What they did I know not, nor did the people, but it was something truly awful, with majestic rites and ineffable mysteries and mumbo-jumbo of the very noblest. Here St. Michael himself once, in the ages of Faith, condescended to appear. It was to a hermit. Such appearances were the prizes of the profession. Many went a-hermiting in hopes of getting a personal call from a Saint who would otherwise have fought and lived and died quite like the rest of the world. And, indeed, there were so many Cornish Saints--such as St. Buryan, St. Levan, St. Ives, St. Just, St. Keverne, St. Anthony, not to speak of St. Erth, St. Gulval, St. Austell, St. Wenn--all kindly disposed saints, anxious to encourage hermits, and pleased to extend their own sphere of usefulness, that few of these holy men were disappointed. In the bay the blue water danced lightly in the morning breeze: the low, level sunlight shone upon Penzance on the western side: the fishing-boats, back from the night's cruise, lay at their moorings, their brown sails lowered: the merchantmen and trading craft were crowded in the port: beyond, the white curves chased each other across the water, and showed that, outside, the breeze was fresh and the water lively. 'We are almost at home,' said Armorel. 'There is our steamer lying off the quay--she looks very little, doesn't she? Only a short voyage of forty miles--oh! Effie, I do hope you are a good sailor--and we shall be at Hugh Town.' 'Are we really arrived? I believe I have slept the whole night through,' said Effie, sitting up and pulling herself straight. 'Oh! how lovely!'--as she too looked out of window. 'Have you slept well, Armorel?' 'I don't think I have been asleep much. But I am quite happy, Effie, dear--quite as happy as if I had been sound asleep all night. There are dreams, you know, which come to people in the night when they are awake as well as when they are asleep. I have been dreaming all night long--one dream which lasted all the night--one voice in my ears--one hand in mine. Oh! Effie, I have been quite happy!' She showed her happiness by kissing her companion. 'I am happier than I ever thought to be. Some day, perhaps, I shall be able to tell you why.' And then the train rolled in to Penzance Station. It was only half-past seven in the morning. The steamer would not start till half-past ten. The girls sent their luggage on board, and then went to one of the hotels which stand all in a row facing the Esplanade. Here they repaired the ravages of the night, which makes even a beautiful girl like Armorel show like Beauty neglected, and then they took breakfast, and, in due time, went on board. Now behold! They had left in London a pitiless nor'-easter and a black sky. They found at Penzance a clear blue overhead, light and sunshine, and a glorious north-westerly breeze. That is not, certainly, the quarter whose winds allay the angry waves and soothe the heaving surge. Not at all. It is when the wind is from the north-west that the waves rise highest and heaviest. Then the boat bound to Scilly tosses and rolls like a round cork, yet persistently forces her way westward, diving, ploughing, climbing, slipping, sliding, and rolling, shipping great seas and shaking them off again, always getting ahead somehow. Then those who come forth at the start with elastic step and lofty looks lie low and wish that some friend would prod Father Time with a bradawl and make him run: and those who enjoy the sea, Sir, and are never sick, are fain to put down the pipe with which they proudly started and sink into nothingness. For taking the conceit out of a young man there is nothing better than the voyage from Penzance to Scilly, especially if it be a tripper's voyage--that is, back again the same day. There is, on the Scilly boat, a cabin, or rather a roofed and walled apartment, within which is the companion to the saloon. Nobody ever goes into the saloon, though it is magnificent with red velvet, but round this roofed space there is a divan or sofa. And here lie the weak and fearful, and all those who give in and oppose no further resistance to the soft influences of ocean. Effie lay here, white of cheek and motionless. She had never been on the sea before, and she had a rough and tumbling day to begin with, and the sea in glory and grandeur--but all was lost and thrown away so far as she was concerned. Armorel stood outside, holding to the ropes with both hands. She was dressed in a waterproof: the spray flew over her: her cheek was wet with it: her eyes were bright with it: the heavy seas dashed over her: she laughed and shook her waterproof: as for wet boots, what Scillonian regardeth them? And the wind--how it blew through and through her! How friendly was its rough welcome! How splendid to be once more on rough water, the boat fighting against a head wind and rolling waves! How glorious to look out once more upon the wild ungoverned waves! It was not until the boat had rounded the Point and was well out in the open that these things became really enjoyable. Away south stood the Wolf with its tall lighthouse: you could see the white waves boiling and fighting around it and climbing half-way up. Beyond the Wolf a great ocean steamer plunged through the water outward bound. Presently there came flying past them the most beautiful thing ever invented by the wit of man or made by his craft, a three-masted schooner under full sail--all sails spread--not forging slowly along under poverty-stricken stays which proclaim an insufficient crew, but flying over the water under all her canvas. She was a French boat, of Havre. 'There is Scilly, Miss,' said the steward, pointing out to sea. Yes; low down the land lay, west by north. It looked like a cloud at first. Every moment it grew clearer; but always low down. What one sees at first are the eastern shores of St. Agnes and Gugh, St. Mary's, and the Eastern Islands. They are all massed together, so that the eye cannot distinguish one from the other, but all seem to form continuous land. By degrees they separated. Then one could discover the South Channel and the North Channel. When the tide is high and the weather fair the boat takes the former: at low tide, the latter. To-day the captain chose the South Channel. And now they were so near the land that Armorel could make out Porthellick Bay, and her heart beat, though she was going home to no kith or kin, and to nothing but her _familia_, her serving folk. Next she made out Giant's Castle, then the Old Town, then Peninnis Head, black and threatening. And now they were so near that every carn and every boulder upon it could be made out clearly: and one could see the water rising and falling at the foot of the rock, and hear it roaring as it was driven into the dark caves and the narrow places where the rocks opened out and made make-believe of a port or haven of refuge. And now Porthcressa Bay, and now the Garrison, and smooth water. Then Armorel brought out Effie, pale and languid. 'Now, dear, the voyage is over: we are in smooth water, and shall be in port in ten minutes. Look round--it is all over: we are in the Road. And over there--see!--with his twin hills--is my dear old Samson.' There was a little crowd on the quay waiting to see the boat arrive. All of them--boatmen, fishermen, and flower-farmers' men, to say nothing of those representing the interests of commerce--pressed forward to welcome Armorel. Everybody remembered her, but now she was a grand young lady who had left them a simple child. They shook hands with her and stepped aside. And then Peter came forward, looking no older but certainly no younger, and Armorel shook hands with him too. He had the boat alongside, and in five minutes more the luggage was on board, the mast was up, the sail set, and Armorel was sitting in her old place, the strings in her hand, while Peter held the rope and looked out ahead, shading his eyes with his right hand in the old familiar style. 'It is as if I never left home at all,' said Armorel. 'I sailed like this with Peter yesterday--and the day before.' 'You've growed,' said Peter, after an inquiring gaze, being for the moment satisfied that there was nothing ahead and that there was no immediate danger of shipwreck on the Nut Rock or Green Island. 'I am five years older,' Armorel replied. 'It's been a rare harvest this year,' he went on. 'I thought we should never come to the end of the daffodils.' 'Now I am at home indeed,' said Armorel, 'when I hear the old, old talk about the flowers. To-morrow, Effie, I will show you our little fields where we grow all the lovely flowers--the anemone and jonquil--the narcissus and the daffodil. This afternoon, when we have had dinner and rested a little, I will take you all round Samson and show you the glories of the place: they are principally views of other islands: but there is a headland and two bays, and there are the Tombs of the Kings--the Ancient Kings of Lyonesse--in one of them Roland Lee'--she blushed and turned away her head--henceforth, she understood, this was a name to be treated with more reverence--'found a golden torque, which you have seen me wear. And oh! my dear--you shall be so happy: the sea-breeze shall fill your soul with music: the sea-birds shall sing to you: the very waves shall lap on the shore in rhyme and rhythm for you: and the sun of Scilly, which is so warm and glowing, but never too warm, shall colour that pale cheek of yours, and fill out that spare form. And oh, Effie! I hope you will not get tired of Samson and of me! We are two maidens living on a desert island: there is nobody to talk to except each other: we shall wander about together as we list. Oh, I am so happy, Effie!--and oh, my dear, I am so hungry!' The boat ran up over the white sand of the beach. They jumped out, and Armorel, leaving Peter to bring along the trunks by the assistance of the donkey, led the way over the southern hill to Holy Farm. 'Effie,' she said, 'I have been tormented this morning with the fear that everything would look small. I was afraid that my old memories--a child's memories--would seem distorted and exaggerated. Now I am not in the least afraid. Samson has got all his acres still: he looks quite as big and quite as homely as ever he did--the boulders are as huge, the rocks are as steep. I remember every boulder, Effie, and every bush, and every patch of brown fern, and almost every trailing branch of bramble. How glorious it is here! How the sea-breeze sweeps across the hill--it comes all the way from America--across the Atlantic! Effie, I declare you are looking rosier already. I must sing--I must, indeed--I always used to sing!----' She threw up her arms in the old gesture, and sang a loud and clear and joyous burst of song--sang like the lark springing from the ground, because it cannot choose but sing. 'I used to jump, too; but I do not want, somehow, to jump any more. Ah, Effie, I was quite certain there would be some falling-off, but I could not tell in what direction. I can no longer jump. That comes of getting old. To be sure, I did not jump when I took Roland Lee about the islands. Sometimes I sang, but I was ashamed to jump. Here we are upon the top. It is not a mighty Alp, is it?--but it serves. Look round--but only for a moment, because Chessun will have dinner waiting for us, and you are exhausted by your bad passage--you poor thing. This is our way, down the narrow lanes. Here our fields begin: they are each about as big as a dinner-table. See the tall hedges to keep off the north wind: there is a field of narcissus, but there are no more flowers, and the leaves are dying away. This way! Ah! Here we are!' The house did not look in the least mean, or any smaller than Armorel expected. She became even prouder of it. Where else could one find a row of palms, with great verbena-trees and prickly pear and aloes, not to speak of the creepers over the porch, the gilt figure-head, and the big ship's lantern hung in the porch? Within, the sunlight poured into the low rooms--all of them looking south--and made them bright: in the room where formerly the ancient lady passed her time in the hooded chair--the lady passed away and the chair gone--the cloth was spread for dinner. And in the porch were gathered the serving-folk--Justinian not a day older, Dorcas unchanged, and Chessun thin and worn, almost as old, to look at, as her mother. And as soon as the greetings were over, and the questions asked and answered, and the news told of the harvest and the prices, and the girls had run all over the house, Chessun brought in the dinner. It is a blessed thing that we must eat, because upon this necessity we have woven so many pretty customs. We eat a welcome home: we eat a godspeed: we eat together because we love each other: we eat to celebrate anything and everything. Above all, upon such an event as the return of one who has long been parted from us we make a little banquet. Thought and pains had been bestowed upon the dinner which Chessun placed upon the table. Dorcas stood by the table, watching the effect of her cares. First there was a chicken roasted, with bread crumbs--a bird blessed with a delicacy of flavour and a tenderness of flesh and a willingness to separate at the joints unknown beyond the shores of Scilly: Dorcas said so, and the girls believed it--Effie, at least, willing to believe that nothing in the world was so good as in this happy realm of Queen Armorel. Dorcas also invited special attention to the home-cured ham, which was, she justly remarked, mild as a peach: the potatoes, served in their skins, were miracles of mealiness--had Armorel met with such potatoes out of Samson? had the young lady, her visitor, ever seen or dreamed of such potatoes? There was spinach grown on the farm, freshly cut, redolent of the earth, fragrant with the sea-breeze. And there was home-made bread, sweet, wholesome, and firm. There was also placed upon the table a Brown George, filled with home-brewed, furnished with a head snow-white, venerable, and benevolent, such a head as not all the breweries of Burton--or even of the whole House of Lords combined--could furnish. Alas! that head smiled in vain upon this degenerate pair. They would not drink the nut-brown, sparkling beer. It was not wasted, however. Peter had it when he brought the pack-ass to the porch laden with the last trunk. Nor did they so much as remove the stopper from the decanter containing a bottle of the famous blackberry wine, the primest _crû_ of Samson, opened expressly for this dinner. Yet this was not wasted either, for Justinian, who knew a glass of good wine, took it with three successive suppers. Is it beneath the dignity of history to mention pudding? Consider: pudding is festive: pudding contributes largely to the happiness of youth. Armorel and Effie tackled the pudding as only the young and hungry can. And this day, perhaps from the promptings of simple piety, being rejoiced that Armorel was back again; perhaps from some undeveloped touch of poetry in her nature, Chessun placed upon the table that delicacy seldom seen at the tables of the unfortunate Great--who really get so few of the good things--known as Grateful Pudding. You know the ingredients of this delightful dish? More. To mark the day, Chessun actually made it with cream instead of milk! 'To-morrow,' said Armorel, fired with emulation, 'I will show you, Effie, what I can do in the way of puddings and cakes. I always used to make them: and, unless my lightness of hand has left me, I think you will admire my teacakes, if not my puddings. Roland Lee praised them both. But, to be sure, he was so easily pleased. He liked everything on the island. He even liked--oh! Effie!--he liked me.' 'That was truly wonderful, Armorel.' 'Now, Effie, dear, lie down in this chair beside the window. You can look straight out to sea--that is Bishop's Rock, with its lighthouse. Lie down and rest, and I will talk to you about Scilly and Samson and my own people. Or I will play to you if you like. I am glad the new piano has arrived safely.' 'I like to look round this beautiful old room. How strange it is! I have never seen such a room--with things so odd.' 'They are all things from foreign lands, and things cast up by the sea. If you like odd things I will show you, presently, my punch-bowls and the snuff-boxes and watches and things. I did not give all of them to the care of Mr. Jagenal five years ago.' 'It is wonderful: it is lovely: as if one could ever tire of such a place!' 'Lie down, dear, and rest. You have had such a tossing about that you must rest after it, or you may be ill. It promises to be a fine and clear evening. If it is we will go out by-and-by and see the sun set behind the Western Rocks.' 'We are on a desert island,' Effie murmured obediently, lying down and closing her eyes. 'Nobody here but ourselves: we can do exactly what we please: think of it, Armorel! Nobody wants any money, here: nobody jostles his neighbour: nobody tramples upon his friend. It is like a dream of the primitive life.' 'With improvements, dear Effie. My ancestors used to lead the primitive life when Samson was a holy island and the cemetery of the Kings of Lyonesse: they went about barefooted and they were dressed in skins: they fought the wolves and bears, and if they did not kill the creatures, why, the creatures killed them: they were always fighting the nearest tribe. And they sucked the marrow-bones, Effie, think of that! Oh! we have made a wonderful advance in the civilisation of Samson Island.' CHAPTER XXVIII AT HOME 'I am so very pleased to see _you_ here, Mr. Stephenson.' Mrs. Feilding welcomed him with her sweetest and most gracious smile. 'To attract our few really sincere critics--there are so many incompetent pretenders--as well as the leaders in all the Arts is my great ambition. And now you have come.' 'You are very kind,' said Dick, blushing. I dare say he is a really great critic at the hours when he is not a most superior clerk in the Admiralty. At the same time, one is not often told the whole, the naked, the gratifying truth. 'To have a _salon_, that is my desire: to fill it with men of light and leading. Now you have broken the ice, you will come often, will you not? Every Sunday evening, at least. My husband will be most pleased to find you here.' 'Again, you are very kind.' 'We saw you yesterday afternoon at that poor boy's _matinée_; did we not? The crush was too great for us to exchange a word with you. What do you think of the piece?' 'I always liked it. I was present, you know, at the reading that night.' 'Oh yes; the reading--Armorel Rosevean's Reading. Yes. Though that hardly gave one an idea of the play.' 'The piece went very well indeed. I should think it will catch on; but of course the public are very capricious. One never knows whether they will take to a thing or not. To my mind there is every prospect of success. In any case, young Wilmot has shown that he possesses poetical and dramatic powers of a very high order indeed. He seems the most promising of the men before us at present. That is, if he keeps up to the standard of this first effort.' 'Ye--es? Of course we must discount some of the promise. You have heard, for instance, that my husband lent his advice and assistance?' 'He said so, after the reading, did he not?' 'Nobody knows, Mr. Stephenson,' she clasped her hands and turned those eyes of limpid blue upon the young man, 'how many successes my husband has helped to make by his timely assistance! What he did to this particular play I do not know, of course. During the reading and during yesterday's performance, I seemed to hear his voice through all the acts. It haunted me. But Alec said nothing. He sat in silence, smiling, as if he had never heard the words before. Oh! It is wonderful! And now--not a word of recognition! You help people to climb up, and then they pretend--they pretend--to have got up by their own exertions! Not that Alec expects gratitude or troubles himself much about these things, but, naturally, I feel hurt. And oh! Mr. Stephenson, what must be the conscience of the man--how can he bear to live--who goes about the world pretending--pretending,' she shook her head sadly, 'pretending to have written other men's works!' 'Men will do anything, I suppose. This kind of assistance ought, however, to be recognised. I will make some allusion to it in my notice of the play. Meantime, if I can read the future at all, Master Archie Wilmot's fortune is made, and he will.' 'Mr. Roland Lee showed his picture that night. He had just come out of a madhouse, had he not?' 'Not quite that. He failed, and dropped out. But what he did with himself or how he lived for three years I do not exactly know. He has returned, and never alludes to that time.' 'And he exactly imitates my husband, I am told.' 'No, no--not exactly. The resemblance is close, only an experienced critic'--Oh! Dick Stephenson!--'could discern the real differences of treatment.' Mrs. Feilding smiled. 'But I knew him before he disappeared, and I assure you his method was then the same as it is now. Very much like your husband's style, yet with a difference.' 'I am glad there is a difference. An artist ought, at least, to have a style of his own. You know, I suppose, that Armorel has gone away?' 'I have heard so.' 'It became possible for us at last to acknowledge things. So I joined my husband. Armorel went home--to her own home in the Scilly Islands. She took Effie Wilmot with her. Indeed, the girl's flatteries have become necessary to her. I fear she was unhappy, poor child! I sometimes think, Mr. Stephenson, that she saw too much of Alec. Of course he was a good deal with us, and I could not tell her the whole truth, and--and--girls' heads are easily turned, you know, when genius seems to be attracted. Poor Armorel!' she sighed, playing with her fan. 'Time, I dare say, will help her to forget.' 'It is a pity,' said Dick Stephenson, changing the subject, because he did not quite believe this version, 'it is a pity that Mr. Feilding, who can give such admirable advice to a young dramatist, does not write a play himself.' 'Hush!' she looked all round, 'nobody is listening. Alec _has_ written a play, Mr. Stephenson. It is a three-act drama--a tragedy--strong--oh! so strong--so strong!' She clasped her hands again, letting the fan dangle from her wrist. 'So effective! I don't know when I have seen a play with more striking situations. It is accepted. But not a word has yet been said about it.' 'May I say something about it? Will you let me be the first to announce it, and to give some little account of it?' 'I will ask Alec. If he consents, I will tell you more about the play. And, my dear Mr. Stephenson, you, one of our old friends, really ought to do some work for the paper.' 'I have not been asked,' he replied, colouring, for he was still at that stage when the dramatic critic is flattered by being invited to write for a paper. 'You shall be. How do you like the paper?' 'It has so completely changed its character, one would think that the whole staff had been changed. Everybody reads it now, and everybody takes it, I believe.' 'The circulation has gone up by leaps and bounds. It is really wonderful. But, Mr. Stephenson, here is one of the reasons. Give me a little credit--poor me! I cannot write, but I can look on, and I have a pair of eyes, and I can see things. Now, I saw that Alec was killing himself with writing. Every week a story; also, every week, a poem; every week an original article; and then those notes. I made him stop. I said to him, "Stamp your own individuality on every line of the paper; but write it yourself no longer. Edit it." You see, it is not as if Alec had to prove his powers: he has proved them already. So he can afford to let others do the hard work, while he adds the magic touch--the touch of genius--that touch that goes to the heart. And the result you see.' 'Yes; the brightest--cleverest--most varied paper that exists.' 'With a large staff. Formerly Alec and one or two others formed the whole staff. Well, Mr. Stephenson, I know that Alec is going to ask you to do some of the dramatic criticism, and if you consent I shall be very pleased to have been the first to mention it.' * * * * * It will be understood from this conversation that the new methods of managing the business of the Firm were essentially different from the old. The paper had taken a new departure: it prospered. It was understood that the editor put less of his own work into it; but the articles, verses, and stories were all unsigned, and no one could tell exactly which were his papers: therefore, as all were clever, his reputation remained on the same level. Also, there was a thick and solid mass of advertisements each week, which represented public confidence widespread and deep. 'Give me,' cries the proprietor of a paper, 'the confidence of advertisers. That is proof enough of popularity.' * * * * * Mrs. Feilding moved to another part of the room, and began to talk with another man. 'My husband,' she said, 'has prepared a little surprise for us this evening. I say for us, because I have not seen what he has to show--since it came back from the frame-maker.' 'It is a picture, then?' 'A picture in a new style. He has abandoned for a time his coast and sea-shore studies. This is in quite a new style. I think--I hope--that it will be liked as well as his old.' 'He is indeed a wonderful man!' 'Is he not?' She laughed--a low and musical--a contented and a happy laugh. 'Is he not? You never know what Alec may be going to do next.' Mrs. Feilding's Sundays have already become a great success: such a success as a woman of the world may desire, and a clever woman can achieve. There is once more, as she says proudly, a _salon_ in London. If it does not quite take the lead that she pretends in Art and Letters, it is always full. Men who go there once, go again: they find the kind of entertainment that they like: plenty of people for talk, to begin with. Then, every man is made, by the hostess, to feel that his own position in the literary and artistic world is above even his own estimate: that is soothing: in fact, the note of the _salon_ is appreciation--not mutual admiration, as the envious do enviously affirm. Moreover, everybody in the _salon_ has done something--perhaps not much, but something. And then the place is one where the talk is delightfully free, almost as free as in a club smoking-room. Every evening, again, there is some kind of entertainment, but not too much, because the _salon_ has to keep up its reputation for conversation, and music destroys conversation. 'Let us,' said Mrs. Feilding, 'revive the dead art of conversation. Let the men in this room make their reputation as they did a hundred years ago, for brilliant talk.' I have not heard that Mrs. Feilding has yet developed a talker like the mighty men of old: perhaps one will come along later: those, however, who have looked into the subject with an ambition in that line, and have ascertained the nature of the epigrams, repartees, retorts, quips, jokes, and personal observations attributed to Messrs. Douglas Jerrold and his brilliant circle are doubtful of reviving that Art except in a modified and a greatly chastened, even an effeminate form. The entertainments provided by Mrs. Feilding consisted of a little music or a little singing--always by a young and little-known professional: there was generally something in the fashion--young lady with a banjo or a tum-tum, or anything which was popular: young gentleman to whistle: young actor or actress to give a character sketch: sometimes a picture sent in for private exhibition: sometimes a little poem printed for the evening and handed about--one never knew what would be done. But always the hostess would be gracious, winning, caressing, smiling, and talking incessantly: always she would be gliding about the room, making her friends talk: the happy wife of the most accomplished and most versatile man in London. And always that illustrious genius himself, calm and grave, taking Art seriously, laying down with authority the opinion that should be held to a circle who surrounded him. The circle consisted chiefly of women and of young men. Older men, with that reluctance to listen to the voice of Authority which distinguishes many after thirty, held aloof and talked with each other. 'Alec Feilding,' said one of them, expressing the general opinion, 'may be a mighty clever fellow, but he talks like a dull book. You've heard it all before. And you've heard it better put. It's wonderful that such a clever dog should be such a dull dog.' They came, however, in spite of the dulness: the wife would have carried off a hundred dull dogs. As in certain earlier and better-known circles, the men greatly outnumbered the women. 'I am not in love with my own sex,' said Mrs. Feilding, quite openly. 'I prefer the society of men.' But some women came of their own accord, and some were brought by their fathers, husbands, lovers, and brothers. No one could say that ladies kept away from Mrs. Feilding's Sunday evenings. This evening, the principal thing was the uncovering of a new picture--Mr. Feilding's new picture. At ten o'clock the painter-poet, in obedience to a whisper from his wife, moved slowly, followed by his ring of disciples--male and female--all young--a callow brood--to the upper end of the room, where was an easel. A picture stood upon it, but a large green cloth was thrown over it. 'I thought,' said Mr. Alec Feilding, in his most dignified manner, 'that you would like to see this picture before anyone else. It is one of the little privileges of our Sunday evenings to show things to each other. Some of you may remember,' he said, with the true humility of genius, 'that I have exhibited, hitherto, chiefly pictures of coast scenery. I have always been of opinion that a man should not confine himself to one class of subjects. His purchasing public may demand it, but the true artist should disregard all and any considerations connected with money.' 'Your true artist hasn't always got a weekly journal to fall back upon,' growled a young A.R.A. who did stick to one class of subjects. He had been brought there. As a rule, artists are not found at Mrs. Feilding's, nor do they rally round the cleverest man in London. 'I say,' repeated the really great man, 'that the wishes of buyers must not be weighed for an instant in comparison with the true interests of Art.' 'Like a copy-book,' murmured the Associate. 'Therefore, I have attempted a new line altogether. I have made new studies. They have cost a great deal of time and trouble and anxious thought. It is quite a new departure. I anticipate, beforehand, what you will say at first. But--Eccolo!' He lifted the green cloth. At the same moment his wife turned up a light that stood beside the painting. He disclosed a really very beautiful painting: a group of trees beside a shallow pool of water: the trees were leafless: a little snow lay at their roots: the pool was frozen over: there was a little mist over the ground, and between the trunks one saw the setting sun. [Illustration: _He disclosed a really very beautiful painting._] 'By Jove! It's a Belgian picture!' cried the Associate. And, indeed, you may see hundreds of pictures exactly in this style in the Brussels galleries, where the artists are never tired of painting the flat country and the trees, at every season and under every light. 'Precisely,' said the painter. 'That is the remark which I anticipated. Let us call it--if you like--a Belgian picture. The subject is English: the treatment, perhaps, Belgian. For my part, I am not too proud to learn something from the Belgians.' The Associate touched the man nearest him--an artist, not yet an Associate--by the arm. 'Ghosts!' he murmured. 'Spooks and ghosts!' 'Spectres!' replied the other. 'Phantoms and bogies!' 'A Haunted Studio!' said the Associate. 'My knees totter! My hair stands on end!' 'I tremble--I have goose-flesh!' replied his friend. 'Let us--let us run to the Society of Psychical Research!' whispered the Associate. 'Let us swiftly run!' said the other. They fled, swiftly and softly. Only Mrs. Feilding observed their flight. She also gathered from their looks the subject of their talk. And she resolved that she would not, henceforth, encourage artists at her Sunday evenings. She turned to Dick Stephenson. 'You, Mr. Stephenson,' she said, 'who are a true critic and understand work, tell me what _you_ think of the picture.' The great critic--he was not really a humbug; he was very fond of looking at pictures; only, you see, he was not an artist--advanced to the front, bent forward, considered a few moments, and then spoke. 'A dexterous piece of work--truly dexterous in the highest sense: full of observation intelligently and poetically rendered: careful: truthful: with intense feeling. I could hardly have believed that any English painter was capable of work in this _genre_.' The people all gazed upon the canvas with rapt admiration: they murmured that it was wonderful and beautiful. Then Alec covered up the picture, and somebody began to play something. * * * * * 'Alec,' said Mr. Jagenal, who seldom came to these gatherings, 'I congratulate you. Your picture is very good. And in a new style. When will you be content to settle down in the jog-trot that the British public love?' 'Let me change my subject sometimes. When I am tired of trees I will go back, perhaps, to the coast and seapieces.' 'Ah! But take care. There's a fellow coming along---- By the way, Alec, I have made a discovery lately.' 'What is it?' 'About those rubies. Why, man'--for Alec turned suddenly pale--'you remember that business still?' 'Indeed I do,' he replied. 'And I am not likely to forget it in a hurry.' 'My dear boy, to paint such pictures is worth many such bags of precious stones, if you will only think so.' 'What's your discovery?' Alec asked hoarsely. 'Well; I have found, quite accidentally, the eldest grandchild of the second daughter--your great-aunt.' 'Oh!' Again he changed colour. 'Then you will, I suppose, hand him over the things.' 'Yes, certainly. I have sent for him. He does not yet know what I want him for. And I shall give him the jewels in obedience to Armorel's instructions. Alec, I have always been desperately sorry for your unfortunate discovery.' 'It caused a pang, certainly. And who is my cousin?' 'Well, Alec, I will not tell you until I have made quite sure. Not that there is any doubt. But I had better not. You will perhaps like to make his acquaintance. Perhaps you know him already. I don't say, mind.' 'Well, Sir,' said Alec, 'when he realises the extent and value of this windfall, I expect he will show a depth of gratitude which will astonish you. I do, indeed.' * * * * * 'Zoe,' he said, when everybody was gone, 'are you quite sure that in the matter of those rubies your action can never be discovered?' 'Anything may be discovered. But I think--I believe--that it will be difficult. Why?' 'Because my cousin, the grandson of Robert Fletcher's second daughter, has been found, and he will receive the jewels to-morrow. And when he finds out what they are worth----' 'Then, Alec, it will be asked who had the jewels. They were taken to the bank by Mr. Jagenal and taken thence to Mr. Jagenal. What have you--what have I--to do with them? Don't think about it, Alec. It has nothing to do with us. No suspicion can possibly attach to us. Forget the whole business. The evening went off very well. The picture struck everybody very much. And I've laid the foundation for curiosity about the play. And as for the paper, I was going into the accounts this morning: it is paying at the rate of three thousand a year. Alec, you have never until now been really and truly the cleverest man in London.' CHAPTER XXIX THE TRESPASS OFFERING It was a day in midwinter. Over the adjacent island of Great Britain there was either a yellow fog, or a white fog, or a black fog. Perhaps there was no fog at all, but a black east wind, or there was melting snow, or there was cold sleet and rain: whatever there was, to be out of doors brought no joy, and the early darkness was tolerable because it closed and hid and put away the day. In the archipelago of Scilly, the sky was bright and clear: the sea was blue, except in the shallow places, where it was a light transparent green: the waves danced and sparkled: round the ledges of the rocks the white foam rolled and leaped: the sunshine was warm: the air was fresh. The girls stood on the northern carn of Samson. They had been on the island now for eight months. For the greater part of that time they were alone. Only in the summer Archie came to pay them a visit. His play was accepted: it would probably be brought out in January, perhaps not till later, according to the success of the piece then running. Meantime, he had got introductions, thanks to Armorel's evening, and now found work enough to keep him going on one or two journals, where his occasional papers--the papers of a young and clever man feeling his way to style--were taken and published. And he was, of course, writing another play: he was in love with another heroine--happy, if he knew his own happiness, in starting on that rare career in which a man is always in love, and blamelessly, even with the knowledge of his wife, with a succession of the loveliest and most delightful damsels--country girls and princesses--lasses of the city and of the milking path--Dolly and Molly and stately Kate, and the Duchess of Dainty Device. As yet, he had only lost his heart to two and was now raving over the second of his sweethearts. One such youth I have known and followed as he passed from the Twenties to the Thirties--to the Forties--even to the Fifties. He has always loved one girl after the other. He knows not how life can exist unless a man is in love: he is a mere slave and votary of Love: yet never with a goddess of the earth. He loves an image--a simulacrum--a phantom: and he looks on with joy and satisfaction--yea! the tears of happiness rise to his eyes when he sees that phantom at the last, after many cruel delays, fondly embraced--not by himself--but by another phantom. Happy lover! so to have lost the substance, yet to be satisfied with the shadow! Except for Archie's visit they had no guests all through the summer. The holiday visitors mostly arrive at Hugh Town, sail across to Tresco Gardens and back, some the same day, some the next day, thinking they have seen Scilly. None of them land on Samson. Few there are who sail about the Outer Islands where Armorel mostly loved to steer her boat. The two girls spent the whole time alone with each other for company. I do not know whether the literature of the country will be enriched by Effie's sojourn in Lyonesse, but one hopes. At least, she lost her pale cheeks and thin form: she put on roses, and she filled out: she became almost as strong as Armorel, almost as dexterous with the sheet, and almost as handy with the oar. But of verses I fear that few came to her. With the best intentions, with piles of books, these two maidens idled away the summer, basking on the headlands, lying among the fern, walking over the downs of Bryher and St. Martin's, sailing in and out among the channels, bathing in Porth Bay, or off the lonely beach of Ganilly in the Eastern group. Always something to see or something to do. Once they ventured to sail by themselves--a parlous voyage, but the day was calm--all the way round Bishop's Rock and back: another time they sailed--but this time they took Peter--among the Dogs of Scilly, climbed up on Black Rosevean, and stood on Gorregan with the cruel teeth. Once, on a very calm day in July, they even threaded the narrow channel between the twin rocks known together as the Scilly. Always there was something new to do or to see. So the morning and the afternoon passed away, and there was nothing left but tea and a little music, and a stroll in the moonlight or beneath the stars, and a talk together, and so to bed: and if there came a rainy day, the cakes to make and the puddings to compose! A happy, lazy, idle, profitable time! 'We have been six months here and more, Effie,' said Armorel. They were sitting in the sunshine in the sheltered orchard, among the wrinkled and twisted old apple-trees. 'What next? When shall we think of going back to London? We must not stay here altogether, lest we rust. We will go back--shall we?--as soon as the short, dark days are over, and we will make a new departure somehow, but in what direction I do not quite know. Shall we travel? Shall we cultivate society? What shall we do?' 'We will go back to London as soon as Archie's play is produced. Dear Armorel, I do not want ever to go away. I should like to stay here with you always and always. It has been a time of peace and quiet. Never before have I known such peace and such quiet. But we must go. We must go while the spell of the place is still upon us. Perhaps if we were to stay too long--Nature does not expect us to outstay her welcome--not that her welcome is exhausted yet--but if we go away, shall we ever come back? And, if so, will it be quite the same?' 'Nothing ever returns,' said Armorel the sage. 'We shall go away and we shall come back again, and there will be changes. Everything changes daily. The very music of the sea changes from day to day; but it is always music. My old grandmother in the great chair used to hold her hand to her ear--so--to catch the lapping of the waves and the washing of the tide among the rocks. It was the music that she had known all her life. But the tune was different--the words of the song in her head were different--the key was changed--but always the music. Oh, my dear! I never tire of this music. We will go away, Effie; we must not stay too long here, lest we fall in love with solitude and renounce the world. But we will come back and hear the same music again, with a new song. We must go back.' She sighed. 'Eight months. We must go and see Archie's play. Archie! It will be a proud and glorious day for him, if it succeeds. It must succeed. And not a word or a sign all this time from Roland! What is he doing? Why----' She stopped. Effie laid a hand on hers. 'You have been restless for some days, Armorel,' she said. 'Yes--yes. I do not doubt him. No--no--he has returned to himself. He can never--never again--I do not doubt him.' She sprang to her feet. 'Oh, Effie! I do not doubt, but sometimes I fear. What do I fear? Why, I know there may be failure, but there can never again be disgrace.' 'You think of him so much, Armorel,' said Effie, with a touch of jealousy. 'I cannot think of him too much.' She looked out upon the sunlit sea at their feet, talking as one who talks to herself. 'How can I think of him too much? I have thought of him every day for five years--every day. I love him, Effie. How can you think too much of the man you love? Suppose I were to hear that he had failed again. That would make no difference. Suppose he were to sink low--low--deep down among the worst of men--that would make no difference. I love the man as he may be--as he shall be--by the help of God, if not in this world, then in the world to come! I love him, Effie!' She stopped because her voice choked with a sob. The strength of her passion--not for nothing was the Castilian invader wrecked upon Scilly!--frightened the other girl. She had never dreamed of such a passion; yet she knew that Armorel thought continually of this man. She did not dare to speak. She looked on with clasped hands, in silence. Armorel softened again. The tumult of her heart subsided. She turned to Effie and kissed her. 'Forgive me, dear: you know now--but you have guessed already. Let us say no more. But I must see him soon. I must go to see him if he cannot come to see me. Let us go over the hill. This little orchard is like a hothouse this morning.' When they reached the top of the hill they saw the steamer from Penzance rounding Bar Point on St. Mary's and coming through the North Channel. 'They have had a fine passage,' said Armorel. 'The boat must have done it in three hours. I wonder if she brings anything for us. It is too early for the magazines. I wrote for those books, but I doubt if there has been time. And I wrote to Philippa, but I do not expect a letter in reply by this post.' 'And I wrote to Archie, but I do not know whether I shall get a letter to-day. Suppose there should come a visitor?' 'Few visitors come to Scilly in the winter--and none to Samson. We are alone on our desert island, Effie. See, the steamer is entering the port: the tide is low: she cannot get alongside the quay. It is such a fine day that it is a pity we did not sail over this morning and meet the steamer. There goes the steam-launch from Tresco.' It is quite a mile from Samson to the quay of Hugh Town; but the air was so clear that Armorel, whose eyes were as good as any ordinary field-glass, could plainly make out the agitation and bustle on the quay caused by the arrival of the steamer. 'The boat always carries my thoughts back to London,' said Armorel. 'And we have been talking about London, have we not? When I was a child the boat came into the Road out of the Unknown, and next day went back to the Unknown. What was the other side like? I filled it up with the vague splendour of a child's imagination. The Unknown to me was like the sunrise or the sunset. Well ... now I know. The poets say that knowledge makes us no happier. I think they are quite wrong. It is always better to know everything, even though it's little joy-- To feel that Heaven is farther off Than when one was a boy. 'There is a boat,' she went on, after a while. 'She is putting out from the port. I wonder what boat it is. Perhaps she is going to Bryher--or to St. Martin's--or to St. Agnes. It is not the lighthouse boat. She is sailing as if for Samson; but she cannot be coming here. What a lovely breeze! She would be here in a quarter of an hour. I suppose she must be going to Tresco. See what comes of living on a desert island. We are actually speculating about the voyage of a sailing-boat across the Road! Effie, we are little better than village gossips. You shall marry Mr. Paul Pry.' 'She looks very pretty,' said Effie, 'heeling over with the wind, wherever she is going.' 'They are steering south of Green Island,' said Armorel. 'That is very odd. If she had been making for Bryher or Tresco she would leave Green Island on the lee and steer up the channel past Puffin. I really believe that she is coming to Samson. I expect there is a parcel for us. Let us run down to the beach, Effie. We shall get there just in time.' They ran down the hill. As the boatman lowered the sail and the boat grounded on the firm white sand of the beach, the girls arrived. The boat brought, however, no packet---- 'Oh!' cried Effie. 'It is Roland Lee!' It was none other than that young man of whom they had been speaking. Armorel changed colour: she blushed a rosy red: then she recovered quickly and stepped forward, as Roland leaped out upon the sand. 'Welcome back to Samson!' she said, giving him her hand with her old frankness. 'We expected you to come, but we did not know when.' 'May I stay?' he murmured, taking her hand and looking into her face. 'You know--yourself,' she replied. He made answer by shouldering his portmanteau. 'No new road has been made, I suppose,' he said. 'Shall I go first? How well I remember the way over the hill! Samson has changed little since I was here last.' He led the way, all laughing and chatting as if his visit was expected, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world and the most common thing to run down to the beach and meet a morning caller from London Town. But Effie, who was as observant as a poet ought to be, saw how Roland kept looking round as he led, as if he would be still catching sight of Armorel. 'Come, Dorcas,' cried Armorel, when they arrived at the house. 'Come, Chessun--here is Mr. Roland Lee. You have not forgotten Mr. Lee. He has come to stay with us again.' The serving-women came out and shook hands with him in friendly fashion. Forgotten Mr. Lee? Why, he was the only young man who had been seen at Holy Farm since Armorel's brothers were drowned--victims to the relentless wrath of those execrable rubies. 'You shall have your old room,' said Dorcas. 'Chessun will air the bed for you and light a fire to warm the room. Well, Mr. Lee, you are not much altered. Your beard is grown, and you're a bit stouter. Not much changed. You're married yet?' 'Not yet, Dorcas.' 'Armorel, she's a woman now. When you left her she was little better than a child. I say she's improved, but perhaps you wish she was a child again?' 'Indeed, no,' said Roland. Everything was quite commonplace. There was not the least romance about the return of the wanderer. It was half-past two. He had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and after three hours and more upon the sea one is naturally hungry. Chessun laid the cloth and put the cold beef--cold boiled beef--upon the table. Pickles were also produced--a pickled walnut is not a romantic object. The young man was madly in love: he had come all the way from town on purpose to explain and dilate upon that wonderful accident: yet he took a pickled walnut. Nay, he was in a famishing condition, and he tackled the beef and beer--that old Brown George full of the home-brewed with a head of foam like the head of a venerable bishop--as if he was not in love at all. And Armorel sat opposite to him at the table talking to him about the voyage and his studio and whether he had furnished it, and all kinds of things, and Chessun hovered over him suggesting more pickles. And he laughed, and Armorel laughed--why not? They were both as happy as they could be. But Effie wondered how Armorel, whose heart was so full, whose soul was so charged and heavy with love, could laugh thus gaily and talk thus idly. After luncheon, which of course was, in Samson fashion, dinner, Roland got up and stood in the square window, looking out to sea. Armorel stood beside him. 'I remember standing here,' he said, 'one morning five years ago. A great deal has happened since then.' 'A great deal. We are older--we know more of the world.' 'We are stronger, Armorel'--their eyes met--'else I should not be here.' It was quite natural that Armorel should put on her jacket and take her hat, and that they should go out together. Effie took her seat in the window and lay in the sunshine, a book neglected in her lap. Armorel had got her lover back. She loved him. Oh! she loved him. So heavenly is the contemplation of human love that Effie found it more soothing than the words of wisdom in her book, more full of comfort than any printed page. Human love, she knew well, would never fall to her lot: all the more should she meditate on love in others. Well, she has her compensations: while others act she looks on: while others feel, she will tell the world, in her verse, what and how they feel: to be loved is the chief and crowning blessing for a woman, but such as Effie have their consolations. She looked up, and saw old Dorcas standing in the door. 'They have gone out in the boat,' she said. 'When I saw him coming over the hill I said to Chessun, "He's come again. He's come for Armorel at last." I always knew he would. And now they've gone out in the boat to be quite alone. Is he worth her, Miss Effie? Is he worth my girl?' 'If he is not she will make him worth her. But nobody could be worth Armorel. Are you sure you are not mistaken, Dorcas?' 'No--no--no, I am not mistaken. The love-light is in his eyes, and the answering love in hers. I know the child. She loved him six years ago. She is as steadfast as the compass. She can never change. Once love always love, and no other love. She has thought about him ever since. Why did she go away and leave us alone without her for five long years? She wanted to learn things so as to make herself fit for him. As if he would care what things she knew if only he loved her! 'Twas the beautiful maid he would love, with her soft heart and her tender voice and her steadfast ways--not what she knew.' 'Oh! but, Dorcas, perhaps--you are not quite sure--we do not know--one may be mistaken.' '_You_ may be mistaken, Miss Effie. As for me, I've been married for five-and-fifty years. A woman of my age is never mistaken. I saw the love-light in his eyes, and I saw the answering love in hers. And I know my own girl that I've nursed and brought up since the cruel sea swallowed up her father and her mother and her brothers. No, Miss Effie, I know what I can see.' One does not, as a rule, go in a small open boat upon the water in December, even in Scilly, whose winter hath nor frost nor snow. But these two young people quite naturally, and without so much as asking whether it was summer or winter, got into the boat. Roland took the oars--Armorel sat in the stern. They put out from Samson what time the midwinter sun was sinking low. The tide was rising fast, and the wind was from the south-east. When they were clear of Green Island, Roland hoisted the sail. 'I have a fancy,' he said, 'to sail out to Round Island and to see Camber Rock again, this first day of my return. Shall we have time? We can let the sun go down: there will be light enough yet for an hour. You can steer the craft in the dark, Armorel. You are captain of this boat, and I am your crew. You can steer me safely home, even on the darkest night--in the blackest time,' he added, with a deeper meaning than lay in his simple words. The sail caught the breeze, and the boat heeled over. Roland sat holding the rope while Armorel steered. Neither spoke. They sailed up New Grinsey Channel between Tresco and Bryher, past Hangman's Island, past Cromwell's Castle. They sailed right through beyond the rocks and ledges outlying Tresco, outside Menovawr, the great triple rock, with his two narrow channels, and so to the north of Round Island. The sky was aflame: the waters were splendid with the colours of the west. They rounded the island. Then Roland lowered the sail and put out the oars. 'We must row now,' he said. 'How glorious it all is! I am back again. Nine short months ago--you remember, Armorel?--how could I have hoped to come here again--to sail with you in your boat?' 'Yet you are here,' she said simply. 'I have so much to say, and I could not say it, except in the boat.' 'Yes, Roland.' 'First of all, I have sold that picture. It is not a great price that I have taken. But I have sold it. You will be pleased to hear that. Next, I have two commissions, at a better price. Don't believe, Armorel, that I am thinking about nothing but money. The first step towards success, remember, is to be self-supporting. Well--I have taken that first step. I have also obtained some work on an illustrated paper. That keeps me going. I have regained my lost position--and more--more, Armorel. The way is open to me at last: everything is open to me now if I can force myself to the front.' 'No man can ask for more, can he?' 'No. He cannot. As for the time, Armorel, the horrible, shameful time----' 'Roland, you said you would not come here until the shame of that time belonged altogether to the past.' 'It does: it does: yet the memory lingers--sometimes, at night, I think of it--and I am abased.' 'We cannot forget--I suppose we can never forget. That is the burden which we lay upon ourselves. Oh! we must all walk humbly, because we have all fallen so far short of the best, and because we cannot forget.' 'But--to be forgiven. That also is so hard.' 'Oh! Roland, you mistake. We can always forgive those we love--yes--everything--everything--until seventy times seven. How can we love if we cannot forgive? The difficulty is to forgive ourselves. We shall do that when we have risen high enough to understand how great a thing is the soul--I don't know how to put what I wish to say. Once I read in a book that there was a soul who wished--who would not?--to enter into heaven. The doors were wide open: the hands of the angels were held out in love and welcome: but the soul shrank back. "I cannot enter," he said, "I cannot forgive myself." You must learn to forgive yourself, Roland. As for those who love you, they ask for nothing more than to see your foot upon the upward slope.' 'It is there, Armorel. Twice you have saved me: once from death by drowning: once from a worse death still--the second death. Twice your arms have been stretched out to save me from destruction.' They were silent again. The boat rocked gently in the water: the setting sun upon Armorel's face lent her cheek a warmer, softer glow, and lit her eyes, which were suffused with tears. Roland, sitting in his place, started up and dipped the oars again. 'It is nearly half-tide now,' he said. 'Let us row through the Camber Pass. I want to see that dark ravine again. It is the place I painted with you--you of the present, not of the past--in it. I have sold the picture, but I have a copy. Now I have two paintings, with you in each. One hangs in the studio, and the other in my own room, so that by night as well as by day I feel that my guardian angel is always with me.' Through the narrow ravine between Camber Rock and Round Island the water races and boils and roars when the tide runs strongly. Now, it was flowing gently--almost still. The sun was so low that the rock on the east side was obscured by the great mass of Round Island: the channel was quite dark. The dipping of the oars echoed along the black walls of rock; but overhead there was the soft and glowing sky, and in the light blue already appeared two or three stars. 'A strange thing has happened to me, Armorel,' Roland said, speaking low, as if in a church--'a very strange and wonderful thing. It is a thing which connects me with you and with your people and with the Island of Samson. You remember the story told us one evening--the evening before I left you--by the Ancient Lady?' 'Of course. She told that story so often, and I used to suffer such agonies of shame that my ancestor should act so basely, and such terrors in thinking of the fate of his soul, that I am not likely to forget the story.' 'You remember that she mistook me for Robert Fletcher?' 'Yes; I remember.' 'She was not so very far wrong, Armorel; because, you see, I am Robert Fletcher's great-grandson.' 'Oh! Roland! Is it possible?' 'I suppose that there may have been some resemblance. She forgot the present, and was carried back in imagination to the past, eighty years ago.' 'Oh! And you did not know?' 'If you think of it, Armorel, very few middle-class people are able to tell the maiden name of their grandmother. We do not keep our genealogies, as we should.' 'Then how did you find it out?' 'Mr. Jagenal, your lawyer, found it out. He sent for me and proved it quite clearly. Robert Fletcher left three daughters. The eldest died unmarried: the second and third married. I am the grandson of the second daughter who went to Australia. Now, which is very odd, the only grandson of the third daughter is a man whose name you may remember. They call him Alec Feilding. He is at once a painter, a poet, a novelist, and is about to become, I hear, a dramatist. He is my own cousin. This is strange, is it not?' 'Oh! It is wonderful.' 'Mr. Jagenal, at the same time, made me a communication. He was instructed, he said, by you. Therefore, you know the nature of the communication.' 'He gave you the rubies.' 'Yes. He gave them to me. I have brought them back. They are in my pocket. I restore them to you, Armorel.' He drew forth the packet--the case of shagreen--and laid it in Armorel's lap. 'Keep them. I will not have them. Let me never see them.' She gave them back to him quickly. 'Keep them out of my sight, Roland. They are horrible things. They bring disaster and destruction.' 'You will not have them? You positively refuse to have them? Then I can keep them to myself. Why--that is brave!' He opened the case and unrolled the silken wrapper. 'See, Armorel, the pretty things! They sparkle in the dying light. Do you know that they are worth many thousands? You have given me a fortune. I am rich at last. What is there in the world to compare with being rich? Now I can buy anything I want. The Way of Wealth is the Way of Pleasure. What did I tell you? My feet were dragged into that way as if with ropes: now they can go dancing of their own accord--no need to drag them. They fly--they trip--they have wings. What is art?--what is work?--what is the soul?--nothing! Here'--he took up a handful of the stones and dropped them back again--'here, Armorel, is what will purchase pleasure--solid comfort! I shall live in ease and sloth: I shall do nothing: I shall feast every day: everybody will call me a great painter because I am rich. Oh, I have a splendid vision of the days to come, when I have turned these glittering things into cash! Farewell drudgery--I am rich! Farewell disappointment--I am rich! Farewell servitude--I am rich! Farewell work and struggle--I am rich! Why should I care any more for Art? I am rich, Armorel! I am rich!' 'That is not all you are going to say about the rubies, Roland. Come to the conclusion.' 'Not quite all. In the old days I flung away everything for the Way of Wealth and the Way of Pleasure--as I thought. Good Heavens! What Wealth came to me? What Pleasure? Well, Armorel, in your presence I now throw away the wealth. Since you will not have it, I will not.' He seized the case as if he would throw it overboard. She leaned forward eagerly and stopped him. 'Will you really do this, Roland? Stop a moment. Think. It is a great sacrifice. You might use that wealth for all kinds of good and useful things. You could command the making of beautiful things: you could help yourself in your Art: you could travel and study--you could do a great deal, you know, with all this money. Think, before you do what can never be undone.' Roland, for reply, laid the rubies again in her lap. It was as if one should bring a Trespass offering and lay it upon the altar. The case was open, and the light was still strong enough overhead for the rubies to be seen in a glittering heap. He took them up again. 'Do you consent, Armorel?' She bowed her head. He took a handful of the stones and dropped them in the water. There was a little splash, and the precious stones, the fortune of Robert Fletcher, the gems of the Burmah mines, dropped like a shower upon the surface. They were, as we know, nothing but bits of paste and glass, but this he did not know. And therefore the Trespass offering was rich and precious. Then he took the silken kerchief which had wrapped them and threw the rest away, as one throws into the sea a handful of pebbles picked up on the beach. 'So,' he said, 'that is done. And now I am poor again. You shall keep the empty case, Armorel, if you like.' 'No--no. I do not want even the case. I want never to be reminded again of the rubies and the story of Robert Fletcher.' Roland dipped the oars again, and with two or three vigorous strokes pulled the boat out of the dark channel--the tomb of his wealth--into the open water beyond. There in the dying light the puffins swam and dived, and the sea-gulls screamed as they flew overhead, and on the edge of the rocks the shags stood in meditative rows. * * * * * Far away in the studio of the poet-painter--the cleverest man in London--sat two who were uneasy with the same gnawing anxiety. Roland Lee--they knew by this time--had the rubies. When would the discovery be made? When would there be an inquiry? What would come out? As the time goes on this anxiety will grow less, but it will never wholly vanish. It will change perhaps into curiosity as to what has been done with those bits of glass and paste. Why has not Roland found out? He must have given them to his wife, and she must have kept them locked up. Some day it will be discovered that they are valueless. But then it will be far too late for any inquiry. As yet they do not speak to each other of the thing. It is too recent. Roland Lee has but just acquired his fortune: he is still gloating over the stones: he is building castles in the air: he is planning his future. When he finds out the truth about them--what will happen then? * * * * * 'I have had a bad dream of temptation with rubies, Armorel. Temptation harder than you would believe. How calm is the sea to-night! How warm the air! The last light of the west lies on your cheek, and--Armorel! Oh! Armorel!' * * * * * It was nearly six o'clock, long after dark, when the two came home. They walked over the hill hand in hand. They entered the room hand in hand, their faces grave and solemn. I know not what things had been said between them, but they were things quite sacred. Only the lighter things--the things of the surface--the things that everybody expects--can be set down concerning love. The tears stood in Armorel's eyes. And, as if Effie had not been in the room at all, she held out both her hands for her lover to take, and when he bent his head she raised her face to meet his lips. 'You have come back to me, Roland,' she said. 'You have grown so tall--so tall--grown to your full height. Welcome home!' * * * * * At seven the door opened and the serving-folk came in. First marched Justinian, bowed and bent, but still active. Then Dorcas, also bowed and bent, but active. Then Chessun. Effie turned down the lamp. Dorcas stood for a moment, while Chessun placed the chairs, gazing upon Roland, who stood erect as a soldier surveyed by his captain. 'You have got a good face,' she said, 'if a loving face is a good face. If you love her you will make her happy. If she loves you your lot is happy. If you deserve her, you are not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.' 'Your words, Dorcas,' he replied, 'are of good omen.' 'Chessun shall make a posset to-night,' she said. 'If ever a posset was made, one shall be made to-night--a sherry posset! I remember the posset for your mother, Armorel, and for your grandmother, the first day she came here with her sweetheart. A sherry posset you shall have--hot and strong!' The old man sat down and threw small lumps of coal upon the fire. Then the flames leaped up, and the red light played about the room and showed the golden torque round Armorel's neck and played upon her glowing face as she took her fiddle and stood up in the old place to play to them in the old fashion. Dorcas sat opposite her husband. At her left hand, Chessun with her spinning-wheel. It was all--except for the Ancient Lady and the hooded chair--all exactly as Roland remembered it nearly six years before. Yet, as Armorel said, though outside there was the music of the waves and within the music of her violin--the music was set to other words and arranged for another key. Between himself of that time and of the present, how great a gulf! Armorel finished tuning, and looked towards her master. '"Dissembling Love"!' he commanded. ''Tis a moving piece, and you play it rarely, "Dissembling Love"!' _Spottiswoode & Co. Printers, New-street Square, London._ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious typographical errors have been repaired. Hyphenation inconsistencies have been standardized to most frequently used. Illustrations were moved to the text which they illustrated, and page references within their original captions have been removed. Original used single quotation marks for normal conversation, and double quotation marks for quoted material within conversations. This has been retained.