1.1
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES 
 
 EXTON MANOR 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 THE GREATEST OF THESE 
 
 THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH 
 
 WATBRMEAD8 
 
 UPSIDONIA 
 
 ABINGTON ABBET 
 
 THE QRAFTON8 
 
 RICHARD BALDOCK 
 
 THE CLINTONS AND OTHERS
 
 THE 
 HOUSE OF MERRILEES 
 
 Bv 
 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 Author of "Exton Manor," "The Honour of the Clintons," 
 "The Greatest of These," etc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1919
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1905 
 By ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
 
 Co 
 MY WIFE. 
 
 2066161
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAF. H0 
 
 I. THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATB I 
 
 II. CAMBRIDGE DAYS ...... 13 
 
 III. SOME LETTERS AND AN INTERVIEW . 25 
 
 IV. THE HOUSE OP MERRILEES . 38 
 
 T. AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY 52 
 
 VI. MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY . ... 62 
 
 VII. MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS 77 
 
 VIII. CONJECTURES. Q2 
 
 IX. LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH . . 104 
 
 X. GUY BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATION . Il8 
 
 XI. MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED . .126 
 
 XII. MERRILEES AGAIN . 143 
 
 XIII. THE GREAT WORK . 157 
 
 XIV. GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE . l6g 
 XV. "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE*' 184 
 
 XVI. LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT ig6 
 
 XVII. " ALWAYS MY SON " . 9OQ
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 CHA. 
 
 XVIII. AT CLOSE QUARTERS 224 
 
 XIX. A VOICE FROM THE PAST 237 
 
 XX. LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE . 25! 
 
 XXI. CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL . 263 
 
 XXII. MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES 276 
 
 XXIII. PEGGY AND HER FATHER . 288 
 
 XXIV. MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW 293 
 XXV. IMPORTANT NEWS . 306 
 
 XXVI. MARTIN AT LAST . . . . . .321 
 
 xxvn. MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 335 
 
 XXVIII. THE MYSTERY CLEARING . . . 346 
 
 XXIX. THE MYSTERY CLEARED . . . . 355 
 
 XXX. THE BND OF THE STORY 378
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THl COTTAGE AT HIGHGATB. 
 
 SOME years ago there came to the pleasant suburb of 
 Highgate, to a little cottage at the end of the lime grove, 
 by the church, a young woman and her infant son. Her 
 name was Mrs. Greenfield, and although she was young in 
 years, the lines in her face, and the grey threads showing 
 through her brown hair, seemed to tell of troubles endured 
 before she had lighted on this peaceful haven for herself 
 and her child. Whatever those troubles may have been, 
 her life now ran a tranquil course, and was lightened by 
 her love for her little son and pride in his achievements. 
 In his years of early childhood no hand but hers tended 
 him, and she gave him his first lessons, finding him quick 
 to learn and a very glutton for books. He soon reached 
 the limits of her modest attainments, and was sent at 
 a very early age to the old school at the top of the hill. 
 
 This was a great day for little George. He proudly 
 refused all escort, set out by himself to take his first 
 plunge into life, and came running all the way home at 
 half past twelve o'clock, an excited little knickerbockered 
 figure, to find his mother waiting at the gate for him, to 
 whom he poured out all the thronging events of the 
 morning, from the nine o'clock service in the chapel, " full of 
 
 H.M. B
 
 2 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 boys, mother, some with moustaches, and all the masters 
 in their gowns, and the clergyman who read the prayers 
 with a red thing on his back, not a black and white one 
 like the vicar," through his short examination by the awful 
 headmaster, who had smiled at his littleness and put his 
 hand on his head, to the culminating event of his ending 
 up three places from the top of the form instead of at the 
 very bottom. 
 
 Thereafter followed years of work and quiet contentment. 
 The cottage had a shady little garden in front and another 
 behind. Its rooms were very cosy. In the winter evenings, 
 when the two sat together in the parlour, with the lamp 
 on the table, George at his lessons and his mother at her 
 needlework, they might have been far away from the noise 
 and stir of the great city. Everything was quiet, within 
 and without, and Mrs. Greenfield would put down her 
 work and gaze at the boy, with his curly head bent over 
 his books, absorbed in his preparations for the morrow. 
 Whatever trouble she had undergone in her early days it 
 soon became plain, to her intense thankfulness, that this 
 beautiful child of her heart, with his graceful, chivalrous 
 ways, his clever brain and his balanced orderly outlook on 
 life, would cause her none. There was unbroken love and 
 confidence in the little cottage and a home life of constant 
 companionship, upon which George ever after looked back 
 with the tenderest feelings of gratitude. 
 
 Her early troubles Mrs. Greenfield hid from the child, 
 but he divined something of them when he was old enough 
 to ask her why she never spoke to him of his father. She 
 became troubled, caught at her breast, and told him if he 
 wanted to please her he must never speak to her on that 
 subject again. " I was very unhappy before you were 
 born," she said, " but I shall never be unhappy again if you 
 grow up into a good man and never forget to love me."
 
 THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATE, 3 
 
 And little George, with kisses and sobbed out words ol 
 love, climbed on to her lap and threw his arms round her 
 neck and comforted her as only little children can comfort 
 a woman, and not for years after troubled her with further 
 questions. 
 
 There was one periodical visitor to the cottage whom 
 George never liked. This was a Mr. Richards, a gloomy, 
 taciturn man, who showed him none of the little kindnesses 
 which take a child's heart. He grew to learn that 
 Mr. Richards was in some sort the dispenser of his mother's 
 income, although she told him as soon as he was old 
 enough to understand that her income was her own, and 
 not dependent on the goodwill of anybody. He supposed 
 Mr. Richards to have been a friend of his father's, although 
 his father was never alluded to between them ; and he 
 liked him none the better on that account. When George 
 had embarked on his school career, Mr. Richards on his 
 occasional visits would feign a vast interest in the progress 
 of his studies, but the boy, with the penetration and 
 impatient scorn of youth, detected soon enough that he 
 had no real knowledge of the subjects on which he cross- 
 examined him. His mother had none either, but then she 
 made no pretences, and he would talk fully to her of all 
 things he was interested in, sure, at any rate, of her sym- 
 pathy, while under the heavy hand of Mr. Richards he 
 would retire into himself and refuse to be drawn either 
 into discussion or self-revelation. He noticed also by-and- 
 by that his mother looked forward to this man's visits with 
 shrinking, and did not recover her usual tranquillity of 
 spirit for some days afterwards. So he would look upon 
 Mr. Richards with a dark and unfriendly eye when he 
 appeared, and afterwards promise himself a time when he 
 should be old enough to suggest to him that he should 
 appear no more.
 
 4 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 And so when Mrs. Greenfield told him one day, soon 
 after he had begun to go to school, that poor Mr. Richards 
 had lost his wife, George, so far from expressing pity for 
 that gentleman, was inclined to the opinion, which, how- 
 ever, he did not impart to his mother, that it served him 
 right. But when she went on to tell him that Mr. Richards 
 had a little baby girl, that he had asked her if she would 
 take care of her at Highgate, and that she had consented, 
 George's feelings of grief and dismay were too keen to keep 
 to himself. He threw himself into his mother's arms and 
 implored her with tears and howls to preserve the inviolable 
 sanctity of their home. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield was touched by the child's fears and 
 distress, but she told him that she should always love him 
 best, and that if he loved his home and his mother he 
 ought to be all the readier to share them with a poor little 
 child who had neither. 
 
 George, perceiving the weak points in this argument, 
 replied in effect that he could not spare any of his own 
 mother, and that if the house in which Mr. Richards lived 
 could not fitly be termed a home, which he could well 
 believe, the baby girl was not old enough to know any 
 better, and could not possibly object to it as much as he 
 himself undoubtedly should if he were so unfortunate as to 
 find himself in her place. It was a very unhappy little boy. 
 instead of a very eager one, who went back to school that 
 afternoon, and a very unhappy face that he carried about 
 at home until the arrival of Mr. Richards with the baby 
 girl in question two days afterwards put an end to his 
 misery. 
 
 The baby girl was a sweet little gipsy of eighteen months. 
 Her name was Peggy. George could see no beauty in her 
 as long as her father remained in the house, and behaved 
 Tery much like a big puppy whose nose has been put out
 
 THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATE. 5 
 
 of joint by a very little one. But no sooner had Mr. Richards 
 departed than he threw himself literally at her feet, and 
 remained there metaphorically thenceforward. The joys 
 of the quiet little household were doubled by the advent 
 of this black-eyed, rosy, dimpled, audacious, tyrannical, 
 naughty, kissable, merry, and altogether fascinating Peggy. 
 George adored her from the bottom of his big heart, and 
 she ruled him with a rod of iron. He would run home 
 after school to be with her for five minutes, instead of 
 tearing down to the playing-field as fast as his legs could 
 carry him, and for the first time in his career he had some 
 difficulty in settling down to his lessons in the evening, 
 and never did so with an undivided mind until the 
 mysteries of Peggy's evening toilet were accomplished, and 
 she was put to bed in her little cot in Mrs. Greenfield's 
 room. She introduced the element of childish naughtiness 
 into the cottage, which had hitherto been singularly free 
 from such an experience, and George found it impossible 
 to judge whether she was most entrancing when she put 
 her small foot down and insisted upon having her own 
 way, or when, having been baulked in that decision, and 
 the inevitable storm having burst and then passed away in 
 showers of tears, she kissed and made friends again in 
 adorable penitence. Mrs. Greenfield might have felt some 
 twinges of jealousy over the whole-hearted devotion shown 
 by the boy to the tiny child, but that it made no difference 
 in his affection for herself. His heart was big enough to 
 embrace them both. 
 
 Peggy, as she grew older, showed scant feelings of filial 
 respect towards her father during his somewhat rare visits. 
 She was so much the daughter of Mrs. Greenfield, and the 
 ister of George, that a father whom she saw twice or at 
 most three or four times a year could hardly expect much 
 warmth of feeling from her. Nor did Mr. Richards show
 
 6 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 any great affection for the child. He never asked that she 
 should visit him at his home, but seemed content to leave 
 her entirely to Mrs. Greenfield's care. He took some 
 interest in her education, however, and before she was 
 eleven insisted upon her being packed off to a boarding 
 school at Brighton. 
 
 George was at this time seventeen, and had somewhat 
 asserted his authority over her. It made a great gap in 
 his life when Peggy was carried off by her father in floods 
 of tears at the beginning of the summer term. For a few 
 days he was the most disconsolate of mortals, but the 
 interests of his school work and of the approaching cricket 
 season presently consoled him, and there were the holidays 
 to look forward to, and the annual month at the sea-side. 
 At the time George left Highgate to go to Cambridge 
 Peggy was nearly thirteen. The discipline of school had 
 somewhat lessened her tyrannical habits, and the relations 
 of the pair were now reversed, George taking the lead and 
 Peggy following him with sisterly admiration. For they 
 were in all respects as brother and sister. 
 
 After George had decided in consultation with the 
 authorities of the school to try for a Trinity scholarship, 
 there was a curious contention between him and Mr. 
 Richards, Mrs. Greenfield taking an unwilling part. 
 
 Mr. Richards had arrived at the cottage on an unexpected 
 visit just before George was due at Cambridge for the 
 scholarship examination. To the boy's utter amazement 
 he made a strong objection to the course proposed. "I 
 have been told," he said, "that Trinity is the college 
 where rich men's sons go. Why do you fix on that one ? 
 You will get mixed up with a lot of idlers who do nothing 
 but spend money and waste their time, and you will learn 
 to play instead of work, and very likely get into debt." 
 
 George had some difficulty in keeping a naturally hasty
 
 THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATE. 7 
 
 temper from asserting itself. ** There are some six hundred 
 undergraduates at Trinity," he said. " I daresay some of 
 them are as you say, but they won't be my friends. I shall 
 be a scholar, and, of course, work will be my chief object." 
 
 *' So you say now," interrupted Mr. Richards. 
 
 " And so I shall say in a year's time if I get this scholar- 
 ship," returned George, hotly, " and in two and three years' 
 time. Trinity is the most learned college, as well as the 
 largest, and if I can belong to it, I will." 
 
 " You had better leave it alone," said Mr. Richards, 
 shortly, " and try somewhere else. You are the son of a 
 poor woman, and I know what it is when a young man 
 gets among a set of idlers." 
 
 George could not trust himself to answer, and left the 
 room. He went up to his bedroom, and spent a bitter 
 half-hour by himself. At the end of that time his mother 
 joined him. 
 
 " George, dear, can't you do as Mr. Richards advises you, 
 and try at some other college ? " she asked. 
 
 George turned to her. " What, you against me too, 
 mother ? " he exclaimed, in a voice that showed how sore 
 he felt. 
 
 " No, darling, never that,** she replied gently, " but he 
 has had experience, and he is very much set against it.** 
 
 " Experience ! " echoed George, throwing out his hands. 
 " What is his experience worth in such a matter as this ? 
 I can see what he is well enough. A successful business 
 man, no doubt, who has made himself what he is. What 
 standing does that give him that his advice should be 
 taken against that of the Head, and all my friends among 
 the masters who are taking such a kind interest in my 
 future? And what do his objections amount to?** he 
 went on rapidly. " Just this, that because at the best of all 
 the colleges there are some men who are there to amuse
 
 8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 themselves amongst all those who go there to learn, I can't 
 be trusted to keep my head and stick to my work. Do you 
 know me as little as that, mother ? " 
 
 " No, dear, no,'* replied Mrs. Greenfield. " But cannot you 
 take just as high honours at another college, where the men 
 are more of your own position in life ? .He says you can." 
 
 " He seems to know a lot about it," said George, bitterly. 
 " Mother, why should I give up the honour of talcing a part 
 in such great traditions, if I can earn it, for the sake of another 
 man's whims a man who has no authority over me? 
 Why, one of the greatest scholars Trinity has produced was 
 the son of a blacksmith, and one of her greatest masters 
 was the son of a carpenter. Have I shown myself so weak 
 in character that I can't live in a place where there are 
 some rich men without giving up all my hopes and 
 ambitions for the sake of aping their ways? I care 
 nothing about Mr. Richards's mistrust of me, but it is hard 
 to find that you share it, mother." 
 
 ** Dear George, you know that I have no mistrust of you," 
 said Mrs. Greenfield. " But I have learnt to-day something 
 that I did not know before. There is a sum of money set 
 aside for your education if you should go to the University 
 after you leave school. You are to have 150 a year as 
 long as you remain at Oxford or Cambridge, and after that, 
 whatever is left out of a thousand pounds is to be given to 
 you to help you towards any occupation you may wish to 
 take up. It would help you very much, but it is within 
 Mr. Richards's power to grant it or withhold it, and if you 
 do not follow out his wishes he may not see fit to let you 
 have it" 
 
 " I will go and talk to him about that," said George, 
 impulsively, and he ran out of the room. Mrs. Greenfield 
 sat down by the window and left the boy to fight his own 
 battle.
 
 THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATE. g 
 
 George, with his head raised, entered the parlour, where 
 Mr. Richards sat by the round table. 
 
 " My mother has just told me, sir," he said, " that you are 
 able to grant me some money to help me through the 
 University. Will you answer me one question ? Was that 
 money left by my father for that purpose ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards looked at him from behind half-closed 
 eyelids. 
 
 * Yes," he said. 
 
 * It won't come from you personally ? * 
 
 No." 
 
 But you have the power of granting it or withholding 
 it as you see fit ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is so.** 
 
 14 And if I do not give up my intention of trying 
 to get into the college I have chosen you will withhold 
 it?" 
 
 ** I don't say that definitely. But 1 should consider the 
 matter very carefully." 
 
 " You may do as you please about it, sir," said George, 
 hotly. " I can do without the money. Our decision my 
 mother's and mine was taken under advice from men who 
 understand these things, and understand me and my cir- 
 cumstances, without reference to it. If I get a scholarship 
 and the school exhibition with those and the money my 
 mother can allow me I shall have enough to live upon ; 
 not in the same way as the men you seem to have heard 
 about ; but I am going to Cambridge to work, and not to 
 play, and I shall have as much as I want." 
 
 Mr. Richards looked at the boy standing before him, 
 flushed and excited, but full of resolve and self-confidence. 
 A careful observer might have noticed a certain admiration 
 in his gaze, but to George it exhibited nothing but baffled 
 obstinacy.
 
 to 
 
 "Then you have decided to take your own way and 
 ignore my advice," he said. 
 
 " I don't think you are the man to advise me upon such 
 a question," said George, boldly, the dislike that had grown 
 during his boyhood showing itself in his words and tone. 
 
 Mr. Richards shifted his position. "That's as may be, 
 young man," he said. " You shall have my decision after 
 I have learnt the result of this examination. Now, with 
 your leave, I will go and eat my lunch, and I should like 
 to talk to your mother alone till it is time to go and catch 
 my train." 
 
 George's resentment flamed up. " Why do you try and 
 set my mother against me ? " he cried. " We have talked 
 over all this, and she will be as proud of my success, if I 
 do succeed, as I shall be myself. We don't ask your help. 
 Who are you ? What power have you got that you should 
 come between my mother and me ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards brushed past him. " I shan't come between 
 you," he said, abruptly. " You can do as you please ; ** and 
 with that he left the room. 
 
 George remained in the little parlour until Mr. Richards 
 had left the house, without coming in again or calling for 
 him to say good-bye. He stood at the window, looking 
 out into the garden, seeing nothing, drumming on the glass 
 with the tassel of the blind. Thoughts that he had never 
 had before passed through his mind, impalpable suspicions, 
 bitter resentments. His hopes for the future and his happy 
 confidence in the integrity of his purpose were darkened. 
 The world was still a fair place to live and work in, but a 
 cloud of mistrust had obscured its brightness. His mind 
 was full of impatience and scorn, and blighting fears of he 
 knew not what. It was the blackest half-hour he had ever 
 known. 
 
 When the door had been heard to close behind the man
 
 THE COTTAGE AT HIGHGATE. u 
 
 who had been talking in secret to his mother, while he 
 stood there alone and unhappy, Mrs. Greenfield came into 
 the room. " Mother," he cried, turning to face her, " tell 
 me who this man is and what hold he has upon you 
 that you are so anxious to please him and to take his 
 advice." 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield stopped in amazement. She had come 
 into the room with an air of contentment and a face free 
 from care. Her expression changed, and she sank into a 
 chair, her hand to her heart. 
 
 " There is some secret," said George. " I know there is. 
 Your whole appearance changes when I ask you about him. 
 What is he to you, that you and he should conspire together 
 against me ? " 
 
 A faint colour came into Mrs. Greenfield's pale cheeks. 
 " You have no right to say that, George," she said. She 
 spoke in a tone that George had never heard her use 
 before. "There is no conspiracy against you. Do you 
 think I would conspire against my son ? You are making 
 a great deal out of a very little. In this very matter that 
 has been discussed this morning, Mr. Richards has offered 
 his advice and you have rejected it. I am glad you did 
 so, because I think there is no foundation for his fears. 
 How could he have a hold over you, or over me, as you 
 say, when you, a boy of eighteen, are allowed to have the 
 last word on a matter like that ? " 
 
 George looked at her, hah* convinced. " Then what has 
 he been talking about that I must not hear ? " he asked. 
 
 " We spoke of the money that he has in trust for you," 
 replied Mrs. Greenfield, " and about my income, of which 
 he is also the trustee, and about other things." 
 
 " Other things ! " echoed George, his suspicions renewed. 
 "What other things, mother?** 
 
 "That I cannot tell you," answered Mrs. Greenfield
 
 la THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " They have to do with my life before you were born, and 
 of that I will never tell you of my own free will." 
 
 She spoke with no little vehemence for so mild-mannered 
 a woman. 
 
 "How does this man come by his authority over us, 
 mother?" asked George, returning to the suspicions that 
 filled his mind. " He can let me have this money or not 
 as he wishes. He says it was left me by my father. Is 
 that true ? Has he got control of your money beyond 
 administering it for you ? " 
 
 " George, my dear," said his mother, quietly, " You 
 must not throw doubt on what Mr. Richards tells you. 
 My money is my own, and he has no power over it, or over 
 me. The thousand pounds will come to you at some time, 
 whatever may be decided with regard to Trinity College. 
 He has the power of withholding it now, but not altogether. 
 It is intended to give you a start in life. He is acting as 
 he thinks best, and he is not your enemy as you seem to 
 regard him." 
 
 " Answer me one question, mother," said George. " Do 
 you like and trust this man ? " 
 
 " I trust him implicitly." 
 
 " Do you like him ? " 
 
 '' No/' tthr said, quietly.
 
 CHAPTER It 
 
 CAMBRIDGE DATS. 
 
 GEORGE won his scholarship, and within a week heard 
 from Mr. Richards that a sum of "150 a year would be 
 paid him until he had taken his degree, when the balance 
 that remained out of a thousand pounds would be handed 
 over to him. Mr. Richards also wished him success in his 
 career, and made no further mention of the rich idlers who 
 had bulked so large in his conceptions of the society of 
 Trinity College. 
 
 The climax of George's years of school life came on his 
 last Speech Day, when, as a young man of nearly nineteen, 
 for two years past captain of the School, he sat blushing 
 in the big school-room, while the headmaster announced 
 to the assembled company his success in winning a Major 
 Scholarship at Trinity College, Cambridge, and the first 
 exhibition from the school itself. It had been a good year 
 in the matter of prizes and scholarships for Highgate 
 School. Other names were read out along with George's, 
 but none so often as his. He went up to the dais again 
 and again, and carried away a small library of calf-bound 
 books, and each time he went up he was more vociferously 
 applauded than before, for his schoolfellows appreciated 
 the honours he had gained and would gain for them, and 
 he had carried out his bat for 120 in the match against 
 the M.C.C. the day before. The ladies in the big school- 
 room looked upon him graciously, for he was a handsome 
 fellow, dark and tall, and well set up, and he accepted his
 
 14 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES, 
 
 honours, and the plaudits that accompanied them, with a 
 modest composure which sat very well on him. 
 
 And in the very place in the back of the room where 
 George as a very small boy had first imbibed learning 
 eleven years before, sat his mother, looking on at his 
 triumph with brimming eyes. She knew no one imme- 
 diately around her, and when the old bishop who was 
 giving away the prizes made a speech, in which he spoke 
 of the pleasure it had given him to come back to his old 
 school and to see its traditions so worthily maintained on 
 all hands, and he might say brilliantly maintained in the 
 case of his young friend the captain of the school (a ringing 
 outburst of cheers and clapping, with difficulty quelled by 
 the headmaster), Mrs. Greenfield broke down and cried 
 softly into her handkerchief tears of pride and pleasure. 
 
 And after the speeches were over George broke away as 
 soon as might be from the guests amongst whom duty 
 took him at the headmaster's house, and ran home, just as 
 if he were a little boy still, to the cottage, where he 
 talked over the events of the day, of his whole school life, 
 and of the new life that was opening out before him, 
 to the most sympathetic listener in the world, until the 
 clock striking one reminded them that it was long past 
 their bed time. Amongst other surroundings in after- 
 years his boyhood, now closing, remained to George as a 
 happy memory, for he had known the full sweetness of 
 home life. 
 
 George's career at Cambridge was marked by the success 
 which had been prophesied for him during his school days. 
 His success, in fact, was complete and triumphant. He 
 won almost every prize and distinction that came within 
 the course of reading he had adopted, and finished up alone 
 in the first division of the first class of the Classical Tripos. 
 In his third year he got into the University Cricket Eleven,
 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS. 15 
 
 and made his appearance at Lord's in the match against 
 Oxford. Mr. Richards, when this news came to his ears, 
 might perhaps have recalled his early warning against 
 regarding Cambridge as a place to play and not to work 
 in. And, indeed, a place in the University Eleven does 
 make demands both on the purse and on the time of an 
 undergraduate who attains to it. But as regards the 
 former, George's prizes and the sum of money which was 
 paid into his account once a quarter by Mr. Richards 
 himself, made him far better off than the average under- 
 graduate, even at Trinity, and, as far as his work went, 
 his First Class had never been in doubt, it being the general 
 opinion that he could have taken it in his second year, had he 
 been so disposed. He had gone through a thoroughly good 
 grounding at High gate School, under the teaching of the 
 headmaster, himself a fine scholar, and he had read dili- 
 gently and continuously at Cambridge. There had scarcely 
 been a working day in his life, either at school or at college, 
 on which he could look back as wasted, as against so many 
 days and weeks and months that most men of his age can 
 count as lost. 
 
 On a deliberate determination he widened his interests 
 during his third year, and lessened his hours of reading for 
 his Tripos work. He spoke often at the Union, and 
 attained in due course the president's chair. He was an 
 extreme Radical in those early days. He was accustomed 
 to speak of himself as a man of the people, and the con- 
 trast between his finely cut face, his graceful and noble 
 bearing, and the refinement of his speech on the one hand, 
 and his asserted claim to lowly birth on the other, was not 
 a little curious. In the generous republic of youth, birth, 
 high or low, is of little account, and no more popular man 
 than George Greenfield walked the streets and courts ol 
 Cambridge during those happy undergraduate days.
 
 16 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 In his fourth year he left the paths of classical learning 
 and read for the History Tripos. He was told that his 
 Fellowship was in danger, but he had wider aims than 
 the cloistered scholastic career, and was even in those early 
 days casting a diffident eye towards Parliament. And 
 when the time came he sat for his Fellowship, as the 
 phrase goes, and duly won it. 
 
 During the four years of his University career it may be 
 supposed that George was not without occasional self- 
 searchings on the subject of Mr. Richards and his connec- 
 tion with his own and his mother's history. His life was 
 so brimful of eagerness and interest, and his home, when 
 he visited it, so quiet, so happy, so normal in every way, 
 that the questions he sometimes put to himself troubled his 
 mind at rare intervals, and even then assumed no great 
 importance. 
 
 But there were times when he asked himself from whence 
 he had sprung ; what kind of a man was the father of 
 whom he was forbidden to speak ; what bad thing had he 
 done that his gentle mother could not bear to hear him 
 mentioned without fear and shrinking ; who was the dark- 
 browed arrogant man who wielded such strange yet 
 limited power over the fortunes of their little household 
 and his own career ; what connection had he with the tale 
 of shame which had clouded his mother's early life ; and 
 would the mystery of that tale and all that hung on it 
 ever pass the lips of the two who alone possessed the key 
 to it, and be revealed to him ? 
 
 From his mother he felt he should never hear it. 
 Perceiving, as he had first done in his boyhood, what 
 trouble the bare mention of the past brought to her, what 
 distress she exhibited at any inquiries concerning it, and 
 what alarm at the possibility of his mind running upon 
 the subject, he had long since resolved that no word or
 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS. 17 
 
 sign from him should rouse uneasiness in her; that he 
 would return the love and devotion she showed towards 
 him with unquestioning confidence, and never distress her 
 by any reference to what she wished to conceal. And he 
 was at ease in this decision. He knew her as few sons 
 know their mothers, and was entirely satisfied that nothing 
 he might learn concerning her could lessen his love and 
 respect. Whoever had sinned in the past, it could not have 
 been she. But he judged that her fear of a discovery on 
 his part was on account of this very possibility that a 
 cloud might rise between them and being convinced that 
 that fear was groundless, he told himself that it was from 
 Richards he would drag the secret, and that he would be 
 justified in doing so, both for his own sake, and because, if 
 he knew her story, he could better watch over her and shield 
 her from any ill effect that might still result from it. If he 
 had had a shadow of doubt of her perfect integrity, he might 
 have chosen to put the whole subject out of his mind as far 
 as possible and probe no further, for fear of destroying the 
 perfection of their relationship; but in that case the 
 relationship would not have been perfect, and, as a matter 
 of fact, he felt no such doubt. And so the end of his 
 cogitations was always the same. At some time which he 
 would choose himself he would come to close quarters with 
 Mr. Richards, put certain questions to him, and demand an 
 answer to them. He thought it possible that his attitude 
 might somewhat surprise that gentleman, and he smiled 
 grimly within himself as he pictured the interview. The 
 man had treated him hitherto as a person of small 
 account, had exercised what authority circumstances had 
 placed in his hands without tact, and had ridden rough- 
 shod over his prejudices and aspirations. He would find 
 himself on that day that was coming met by an antagonist 
 with a determination and self-confidence equal to his own 
 
 H.M. C
 
 i8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 and if he should essay to take up his old ground of some- 
 what contemptuous superiority he would be warned off it 
 with no ambiguity of language. 
 
 The interview which George definitely promised himself, 
 but for which he was in no hurry, delayed itself during the 
 whole of his time at Cambridge. For two years he never 
 set eyes on Mr. Richards, whose visits to Highgate took 
 place during term time. Then he met him unexpectedly 
 during a short " exeat," but was unprepared ; and he was 
 treated with greater respect than formerly, so that his 
 dislike of the man slumbered. Again, a year later they 
 met, and George surveyed the ground with an eye for 
 possible openings, but none came. Mr. Richards behaved 
 almost as if he had divined what was in his mind, and 
 seemed to shirk the possibility of finding himself alone 
 with him. He asked many questions about George's life 
 and work at the University, not in the hectoring tone he. 
 had employed towards him in his school days, but with a 
 show of genuine interest, almost with diffidence. GeorgeY 
 antagonism was disarmed for the time being. His mothei 
 seemed to be more at ease than formerly in her visitor's 
 presence, and was plainly relieved at the almost friendly 
 tone that each used towards the other. After all, the 
 fellow was scarcely worth thinking about. His own life 
 was so full that there was little room in it for dreams or 
 conjectures. Probably until this meeting the fact of Mr. 
 Richards's existence had not been present to his mind for 
 weeks past. The destined interview could wait, but it 
 should take place some day. And gradually the decision 
 formed itself in George's mind that that day should be 
 when he had left his University career behind him and was 
 ready to make his first plunge into the work of the world. 
 So he went back to Cambridge for his last year, and 
 having made his decision, was less troubled with doubts
 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS. 19 
 
 and questionings than he had ever been since the convic- 
 tion had forced itself upon him that his early history was 
 not that of other young men. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield, proud though she was of her son's career, 
 could only be induced to pay him one visit at Cambridge. 
 That was at the end of his fourth year, and Peggy, now 
 a slim schoolgirl of seventeen, about to embark on a 
 " finishing " course at Dresden and Paris, came too. For 
 one glorious June day, during the height of what are 
 known as the May week festivities, she revelled in the 
 delights of one of the most beautiful places in England, 
 and, it must be confessed, showed no displeasure at the not 
 very closely concealed admiration of the undergraduate 
 world. It was unfortunate that George had to be in 
 attendance at Fenner's, where the University was engaged 
 in a struggle with the crack cricket county, but he had 
 finished his innings the day before and was not likely to 
 be called upon to field until the middle of the afternoon. 
 He met them at the station early in the morning, showed 
 them the cream of the colleges, rowed them up and down 
 the " Backs," took them round the Trinity Fellows' garden, 
 and then to his rooms in a corner of the Great Court for a 
 rest and lunch. 
 
 Peggy was enchanted with everything, and thought 
 Cambridge the most delightful place she had ever seen. 
 She poked into every corner of George's large low-ceilinged 
 southward-facing room, pleasant enough, with its windows 
 open and the scent of wallflowers stealing in from the bed 
 beneath them, rummaged amongst his most sacred papers, 
 and arrayed herself in his bachelor's gown and cap. 
 
 " I have asked a friend to lunch," said George. M He 
 went down two years ago, but he has come up for the day. 
 His name is Guy Bertram." 
 
 " George, dear, why did you ask any one ? ** exclaimed 
 
 c a
 
 20 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield with apparently unnecessary alarm. " Can- 
 not we just be together ? " 
 
 *' Too late now, mother, I'm afraid. I see him coming 
 across the Court But you are sure to like him. Everybody 
 does." 
 
 " You live so much out of the world, mother darling," 
 said Peggy, bending over to kiss her, " that every stranger 
 frightens you. Now I love meeting new faces." 
 
 Guy Bertram, who came into the room at that moment, 
 presented an appearance that was eminently attractive. 
 He was fair-faced and fair-haired, and possessed of an easy 
 smiling manner that had gained him many friends among 
 members of his own sex and numerous admirers in the 
 ranks of the other. He immediately made himself entirely 
 at home and behaved as if he had known George's " people " 
 all his life. 
 
 The luncheon, with its immemorial May week menu of 
 mayonnaise, cold lamb, a creme brulee, strawberries and 
 cream, and champagne cup, struck Mrs. Greenfield as 
 extravagant, and, to tell the truth, the presence of a young 
 man so immaculately got up and so very much at his ease 
 as Mr. Guy Bertram seemed to make her strangely ill at 
 ease. To Peggy it all appeared the most natural thing in the 
 world and the most delightful. It was life as it should be, 
 and as it would be, when once the exigencies of lessons 
 and drillings were over, and she had been duly " finished " 
 at Dresden and Paris. Guy Bertram, with the experience 
 of two years of life in the great world at his back, showed 
 himself none the less good-natured in calling forth and 
 responding to the sallies of this happy schoolgirl, and 
 addressed himself no more to his host or his host's mother 
 than the usages of politeness demanded. He exhibited 
 himself in an unselfish light when the afternoon's pro- 
 gramme was discussed, and expressed himself willing to
 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS. ai 
 
 take the burden of their entertainment on his own unaided 
 shoulders. Mrs. Greenfield was left in George's room to 
 rest while the three went down to Fenner's. George, being 
 summoned into the field sooner than he had expected, 
 owing to the unfortunate collapse of the tail of the 
 Cambridge batsmen, left Peggy to the protection of his 
 friend, who presently discovered that their seats were 
 rather hard and uncomfortable, and suggested a perambu- 
 lation, during which he acknowledged the greetings of 
 several young men of unimpeachable fashion, none of 
 whom displayed any unwillingness to catch his eye. 
 
 Chartering a fly for the rest of the afternoon, they picked 
 up Mrs. Greenfield at Trinity, and drove down to Ditton 
 Paddock, where there were more perambulations in a 
 still denser crowd, and Peggy's black eyes and graceful 
 girlish figure attracted still further attention, of which, it 
 may be said, she affected to be entirely unconscious. Here 
 she was taught by her guide to distinguish the different 
 colours of the boats' crews paddling up to the starting 
 point, and induced under considerable pressure to shout 
 success to Third Trinity, as Guy's old schoolfellows chased 
 the boat in front of them round Ditton Corner and up the 
 Long Reach. It was First Trinity they were trying to 
 bump, and George told her afterwards that she ought to 
 have shouted " First " if she must shout at all, but she 
 explained that Mr. Bertram had told her that she ought to 
 encourage a crew from Trinity, as it was George's college, 
 and had selected that one as deserving of her good wishes. 
 
 A little dinner in George's room ended the day. Guy 
 Bertram had accepted an invitation to dine elsewhere, and 
 seemed disposed to resent the action of his prospective host 
 in having invited him ; but he was not encouraged to carry 
 out his half-expressed intention of letting his engagement 
 slide, and took himself off, leaving a pleasant impression of
 
 M THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 i 
 
 unaffected good nature behind him. George saw them off 
 in the evening, as tired and as happy as possible, and Peggy 
 never ceased talking of her day in Cambridge or of the 
 oracular utterances of Mr. Bertram, until the delights of the 
 opera at Dresden and the uniforms of the German soldiery 
 somewhat effaced the older impressions. 
 
 A week later George had packed up his possessions and 
 transferred himself once more to the cottage at Highgate. 
 He was still, in many respects, the boy of four years 
 before who had bearded Mr. Richards on the subject of 
 entering at Trinity College, where he had since so amply 
 justified his own determination to succeed. He was as 
 loving and as careful as ever of his mother, and as 
 proud as ever of his old school, which had by this time 
 exalted him into a hero. He would go down to the field and 
 coach the budding cricketers at the nets, and a group of boys 
 would stand round to see him bat, while others would 
 vie for the honour of bowling to him. He would go and 
 smoke of an evening with the younger masters at their 
 lodgings. The stern headmaster himself had no terrors 
 for him, and small boys stood aghast as they saw him walk 
 down from the school to the schoolhouse engaged in 
 friendly conversation with that unapproachable dignitary. 
 At home he was just as simple and contented in his habits 
 as before, but his mother could hardly help realising that he 
 was on his way to larger spheres of action than would be 
 embraced in that simple cottage, and that attainments such 
 as his could not be confined to the quiet back-water that 
 eddied among the trees and lanes of Highgate, while the 
 thronging interests and hazards of active life called to him 
 from the great city to plunge into the stream. For the 
 whole summer he stayed with her, going away for a few 
 days now and then to play cricket, and rejoiced her heart by 
 asking her to go to Norway with him in September, for
 
 CAMBRIDGE DAYS. 23 
 
 which month he had taken a rod on a salmon river. She 
 refused. She saw that his life would take him into places 
 and scenes where she could not follow him, and preferred to 
 make the break then, of her own choice, rather than be 
 forced to it later on. She was content to live her retired 
 life, sunning herself in the reflection of his successes, and 
 her instinct told her that he would be grateful to her after- 
 wards for keeping her quiet home for him, apart from 
 the turmoil of the great world. For she knew that she had 
 succeeded in making his childhood and youth in that same 
 home happy, and that he would always look back upon 
 them with gratitude and affection. And what could she 
 want more than that from a son who still loved her fondly, 
 but had got far beyond the need of her guidance and 
 protection ? 
 
 One evening, a week or so after he had settled himself at 
 the cottage at Highgate for the rest of the summer, George 
 said to his mother, " And when are we to have the pleasure 
 of seeing our friend Mr. Richards again ? " 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield's face underwent the instant change 
 which her son had learnt to connect with every mention 
 of the man who stood mysteriously in the dark rooms of her 
 life and forbade her to shut the door on their secrets. It 
 was in the evening. She had been sitting working at the 
 table, chatting intermittently with George, who was looking 
 through a paper by the window. Her expression had been 
 peaceful an'd contented. Now suddenly she was alert, dis- 
 tressed. George affected not to notice the change, though 
 it filled him with resentment against the cause of it. 
 
 M I want to settle up this money business," he made haste 
 to say. " I shall be going about later, and may miss him. 
 I might go up to Glasgow and see him on my way to 
 Norway if he is not likely to be coming here soon." 
 
 ** It would be a good deal out of your way," she said,
 
 24 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 trying to speak in level tones, "and Mr. Richards would 
 come here if I asked him. Or he could send you the 
 money. The matter is quite settled, and there is nothing to 
 discuss." 
 
 George hardly knew what to reply. He had made up 
 his mind to a decisive interview with Mr. Richards, but he 
 did not wish his mother to divine his intention ; and yet 
 he could not approach him unless it was through her. He 
 did not even know where to find him. 
 
 " There is no particular hurry," he said. " But I might 
 write to him. Will you give me his address, mother ? " 
 
 Somewhat to his surprise, Mrs. Greenfield complied with 
 his request at once. She took a sheet of paper and wrote : 
 
 "R. RICHARDS, ESQ., 
 
 c/o. Messrs. McDougall & Co., 
 
 10, Wyngate Street, 
 
 Glasgow.* 
 
 George read it with some curiosity. '* What particular 
 business were Messrs. McDougall & Co. engaged in ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " I believe they are insurance brokers," she replied. "But 
 I do not know." 
 
 " Very well, then," said George, folding up the paper 
 and putting it into his pocket-book. **I will write to 
 Mr. Richards.*
 
 CHAPTER ID. 
 
 SOME LETTERS AND AN INTERVIEW. 
 
 THE correspondence between George and Mr. Richards 
 was so tersely expressed that it may as well be given in 
 fulL George wrote as follows : 
 
 "DEAR MR. RICHARDS, 
 
 " My time at Cambridge has come to an end, and I 
 intend to take rooms in the Temple about October next, 
 and read for the Bar. The time has now come, according to 
 the instructions I understand you to have received from my 
 father, for you to put into my hands what is left of the 
 sum of money set aside for my education and start in life. 
 If you are intending to come to London within the next 
 month I should like to meet you at any place which you 
 may appoint, not in Highgate, so that we may settle up our 
 affairs. I also wish to have a conversation with you upon 
 other matters, and I do not want my mother to be worried 
 any further with what I am now quite old enough to take 
 upon my own shoulders. I therefore ask you to settle a 
 time and place at "which we can meet, and to say nothing 
 to her of our interview. 
 
 *I am, 
 
 "Yours truly, 
 
 "GEORGE GREENFIELD." 
 
 To this Mr. Richards replied after a week's interval : 
 
 "DEAR GEORGE, 
 
 " I enclose cheque for "400, with which you are at 
 liberty to do what you please. There is nothing more to
 
 26 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 settle between us, and I can see no use in the interview you 
 propose. Please send receipt for cheque. 
 
 14 Yours truly, 
 
 R. RICHARDS." 
 George wrote the same day : 
 
 **DEAR MR. RICHARDS, 
 
 " I enclose a formal receipt for the cheque you were 
 good enough to send me. 
 
 " The interview I propose is for my own satisfaction, and 
 I must press for it. I shall be in my rooms in the Temple 
 at the beginning of October, and if you are likely to be in 
 London before the end of that month, we can meet there. 
 If not, I will call on you in Glasgow about the 5th or 6th 
 of September, when I shall be on my way to Norway, or 
 at the end of the month, on my return. Kindly let me 
 know which of these arrangements will suit you best. 
 
 ** Yours truly, 
 
 "GEORGE GREENFIELD." 
 
 Mr. Richards again took some days to reply, and when 
 he did his letter was a curt proposal for an appointment 
 in London on a date early in October. 
 
 " That is the end of the preliminary round," said George 
 to himself, as he sealed up his acceptance. Then he 
 succeeded in emptying his mind of the subject for nearly 
 three months, during which he enjoyed himself to his 
 heart's content, standing as he did at that enviable pause 
 in a young man's life when, with a clean well-ordered 
 youth behind him, he looks forward with hope and 
 determination to the work in which his life is to be 
 spent. 
 
 At the end of September he was settled in his chambers, 
 embarked on the struggle which was to lead him, he hoped, 
 to fame and fortune. His time was fully occupied between
 
 SOME LETTERS AND AN INTERVIEW. 27 
 
 his legal studies and the political journalism which had 
 come to him almost unsought, so clear were his views and 
 so clever his pen, and he climbed the hill upon the top of 
 which stood Highgate and his mother's cottage only when 
 the end of the week put an end to the constant occupations 
 of his working hours. 
 
 The appointed day came for his interview with Mr. 
 Richards. That gentleman came to him early in the 
 morning, and in no very amiable mood. 
 
 " Now then," he said, roughly, as he entered the room, 
 M what is it you have brought me all the way from Scotland 
 to say ? " and vouchsafed no further greeting. 
 
 " I had no wish to bring you all the way from Scotland, 
 Mr. Richards," replied George. " I offered to come to you 
 in Glasgow." 
 
 Mr. Richards grunted. 
 
 " As you chose to come to me," pursued George, coolly, 
 44 1 won't offer any apology. Will you have some breakfast ? 
 It can be ready in ten minutes." 
 
 " No, thank you," said the other, shortly, depositing his 
 rug and a small travelling bag on the sofa and taking a 
 seat at the table. " I have got just a quarter of an hour to 
 spare, so say what you have got to say and get it over." 
 
 " What I have got to say will take more than a quarter 
 of an hour," replied George. " It looks as if I should have 
 to come to you in Glasgow after all." 
 
 Richards threw a look at him. "Well, don't waste 
 time," he said. " What do you want ? ** 
 
 "You know very well what I want, sir,** said George. 
 * I want to know who my father was. I want to know the 
 secret which has troubled my mother ever since I was born, 
 and with which you are connected in some way. I want 
 to know who you are and by what right you interfere in 
 what concerns her and me alone. I wan 1**
 
 28 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Come now," interrupted the other, " have I interfered 
 in your affairs ? Have I ? " 
 
 " Yes," said George, boldly ; " you tried to stop me going 
 to Trinity." 
 
 " But you went, and I paid you your allowance as 
 regular as clockwork, although I could have stopped you if 
 I had been minded to." 
 
 "Exactly so. You could have stopped me if you had 
 been minded to. I want to know by what right." 
 
 " Then you won't know. And when I say I could have 
 stopped you, of course I couldn't. I could only have held 
 back your money. I didn't do so, as I say, and I certainly 
 haven't interfered with you in any way since, and don't 
 intend to. Don't interfere with me." 
 
 " Look here, Mr. Richards," said George, ** when we last 
 came to close quarters I was a boy, and you took advantage 
 of that fact to talk to me in a way I resented. Now I am 
 a man, we meet on equal terms, and I simply won't put up 
 with it." 
 
 "You've got me down here," retorted Richards, with 
 some excitement, "and you put a lot of questions to me 
 which I won't answer." 
 
 "Then why did you come?" George flashed at him. 
 " You knew perfectly well what I was going to ask you. 
 Why did you come ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards was reduced to a sulky silence, which 
 seemed hardly warranted by so simple a question. George 
 took his advantage without quite understanding how he 
 had gained it. 
 
 " You had better recognise that you have a man to deal, 
 with now," he said, " and also that I have a right to expect 
 an answer to the questions I am asking you." 
 
 "I don't admit that," said Mr. Richards, but in a 
 vastly more conciliatory tone than he had hitherto employed.
 
 SOME LETTERS AND AN INTERVIEW. 29 
 
 " And why do you come to me ? Why don't you ask your 
 mother what you want to know ? *' 
 
 "You are playing with me, Mr. Richards,** said George. 
 ** I know, or, if you like, I guess, that my mother fears an 
 estrangement if I learn what I mean to learn. I ask you 
 because I know that nothing I can learn can make any 
 difference in my love for her." 
 
 " You ask me," put in Mr. Richards with a grim smile, 
 " because you know she would not tell you." 
 
 " You can put it in that way if you like. At any rate, I 
 do ask you. Who was my father, and what did he do that 
 his name must never be mentioned between my mother 
 and me ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards sat for a moment silent. Then he said with 
 as near an approach to frankness as his gruff manner would 
 admit, " I can't answer that question, George. At least I 
 can't answer it now. There may come a time when I can 
 tell you something, but " 
 
 " I want to know now," interrupted George, impatiently. 
 " I have had enough of this mystery, which is shadowing and 
 in some ways spoiling my mother's life. I am old enough 
 now, more than old enough, to take her burden on my 
 shoulders. What is it that is troubling her ? " 
 
 "I can tell you that," said Richards decisively. "There 
 is nothing troubling her at all except the fear that you may 
 do what you are trying to do now, and find out her secret." 
 
 " That isn't true," said George. 
 
 Richards's brow darkened at once. " I don't take such 
 words from any man," he said. 
 
 " You'll take what you're very ready to give, and that is 
 plain-speaking," said George. " Why is it that at the very 
 mention of your name her whole attitude changes ? Why 
 is it that for days before and after your visits she loses her 
 tranquillity and becomes anxious and worried ? You may
 
 $o THE HOUSE OF MERR1LEES. 
 
 not know these things. I have known them ever since I was 
 a child." 
 
 " You are making too much of it. Your mother went 
 through a deal of trouble in her early life, and whenever she 
 sees me it brings it to her mind. I'm sorry for it ; but I 
 can't help it. And she doesn't like me. I can't help that 
 either. I don't lay myself out to be liked." 
 
 *' Oh, it's something more than that. It is dread. She 
 fears something." 
 
 " I've told you what she fears, and, as true as I'm here, it 
 is that and nothing else. What is past is over and done 
 with. It won't trouble her again." 
 
 " Well, take it at that, then. She fears my discovering 
 the past, because she thinks it may part us. If I can go and 
 say to her, ' I know your secret, and now nothing can ever 
 come between us,' she will get rid of the shadow once and 
 for all." 
 
 " And so you come to me and ask me to give away your 
 mother's secrets behind her back. Is that what you call 
 honourable conduct, Mr. George Greenfield ? " 
 
 "I don't come to you for a lesson in honour, Mr. Richards. 
 I want the truth out of you." 
 
 "You'll get nothing out of me but what I choose to tell 
 you. And you may take this from me. If I were to tell 
 you everything it would not relieve your mother at all. 
 Leave things as they are. She's happier now than she 
 could ever have expected to be. You are not doing her any 
 good by trying to drag the past to light." 
 
 " Very well then, we'll leave that point. But my con- 
 victions on it are unchanged. Now I ask on my own 
 account. Who was my father? It is intolerable that a 
 man of my age should be kept in ignorance like a child. I 
 have a right to know." 
 
 44 You have a right to ask, perhaps. But the person you
 
 SOME LETTERS AND AN INTERVIEW. 31 
 
 must ask is your mother. If she chooses to keep you in 
 ignorance, you must put up with it. You've got no right 
 whatever to expect to hear anything from me." 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon. You are not quite so irre- 
 sponsible as all that. You have got the management of my 
 mother's income entirely in your hands. Who gave you 
 that trust ? How have you exercised it ? Have we been de- 
 pendent on your charity for the last twenty years, or does 
 the money belong to my mother ? " 
 
 " It belongs to her, of course. I make the best use of it 
 I can for her. Do you accuse me of behaving dishonestly 
 about it ? " 
 
 " I don't accuse you of anything. I simply don't know 
 anything about you. You may be doing the best you can 
 for her, or you may not. You have got to satisfy me on 
 that point." 
 
 Mr. Richards rose. " I've put up with enough," he said, 
 angrily. " And now I'm going. I'll tell you nothing, and 
 you can do what you like." 
 
 " Then I'll tell you what I will do," replied George. " I 
 shall put the matter into the hands of a solicitor, and I 
 shall instruct him to find out all he can about you." 
 
 Mr. Richards faced round with a 'dark look on his 
 face. " That's a pretty thing to hear from you to me," 
 he said. 
 
 "I daresay it surprises you," returned George. "You 
 have been used to treating me as a person of no account 
 whatever for a good many years. It must be a shock to 
 you to discover that the time for that treatment has 
 gone by." 
 
 " Is it to be war between us ? ** asked Richards, with 
 a penetrating look. 
 
 * That is for you to decide.** 
 
 * Because you don't imagine that I'm the sort of man to
 
 3 a THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 sit down quietly under the sort of thing you suggested 
 just now." 
 
 " Probably not ; and that is just the reason why I should 
 do it. You have done a good deal of sitting down quietly, 
 Mr. Richards. If you won't speak to me in a straight- 
 forward manner, and tell me what I want to know, I'll 
 take what steps I can to make you." 
 
 The two men faced each other squarely the younger, 
 upright, self-confident, fearless ; the older, smouldering 
 with anger, controlling himself with difficulty, but, it 
 would seem, pushed into a corner. And mixed with his 
 hardly restrained impatience and baffled arrogance there 
 showed another feeling against which he appeared to 
 struggle a hint of respect which had been far from his 
 previous treatment of the young man who now stood 
 facing him, demanding an account of his stewardship. He 
 turned away, and sat down again in his place. 
 
 " I'll tell you what you want to know," he said, 
 shortly ; and George's mental muscles relaxed at the sign 
 of victory. 
 
 It was a moment or two before Mr. Richards spoke 
 again. " Mrs. Greenfield was married young," he began, 
 " to a man who ill-treated her almost from the first." 
 
 " Who was he ? " asked George, sharply. 
 
 " Nobody knew what he was. He was an adventurer, I 
 suppose a gambler, certainly." 
 
 " Was he what is called a gentleman ?** 
 
 " I don't know. I never saw him." 
 
 " You never saw him ? " 
 
 " No. I met her first after he had deserted her, not 
 much more than a year after they were married, and I 
 helped her." 
 
 How ? " 
 
 " I put her affairs into order."
 
 SOME LETTERS, AND AN INTERVIEW. 33 
 
 ** Her money affairs I suppose you mean. Where did 
 her money come from if if my father had deserted her ? " 
 
 " It was her own. He had left her penniless." 
 
 " Penniless I How could he have left her penniless if she 
 had enough money to enable her to live comfortably, as she 
 has done ever since ? ** 
 
 ** I mean he left her nothing.** 
 
 "And he was a gambler and an adventurer I That 
 hardly seems likely from what one hears of such people, 
 Mr. Richards." 
 
 Richards looked at him squarely. " I'm telling you the 
 truth," he said. " If you want to hear more, don't throw 
 doubt on my word." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said George. 
 
 " Her money came to her, fortunately, within a short 
 time of his desertion of her. It was left to her by an old 
 friend. It is of no use asking who, because I can't tell you. 
 She didn't tell me. I took it in hand for her after she 
 had come into possession of it, and invested it for her. 
 You are right in thinking her husband was not the man to 
 have left her if he had known of it. You can judge what 
 sort of a man he was by the fact that he deserted her just a 
 week before you were born. And now I'll tell you what 
 I never thought to have told a living soul, least of all 
 you. When I first met Mrs. Greenfield she was deserted 
 and in bitter trouble, and I asked her to to go away 
 with me." 
 
 George sprang to his feet with eyes ablaze and hands 
 clenched. 
 
 " You've asked for it, and you've got to hear it,** 
 Richards shouted suddenly at him. " Sit down." And 
 George took his seat again without a word. Richards 
 resumed his story in level tones. The flash of strong 
 emotion had shone and passed in an instant. 
 
 H.M.
 
 V 
 
 34 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I told her,** he went on, " that when the time came 
 she could get a divorce from him. I knew that such a 
 man would be sure to give her an opportunity. And 
 well, I made some enquiries, and found out enough about 
 him to have been able to send him about his business 
 pretty sharp if he had ever molested her again. However, 
 she refused, of course ; but when her good fortune came I 
 was glad to be able to help her. She would not have 
 been so well off if it had not been for me." 
 
 " I don't understand a woman like my mother allowing 
 you to act in that way for her after after what had 
 happened," said George. " I do understand now one of 
 the reasons of her dislike of you." 
 
 " At any rate, I served her then, and I've served her ever 
 since," said Richards. 
 
 "But wait a minute. You told me that the thousand 
 pounds were left me by my father, for my education." 
 
 " Well, I told you a lie ; and now you've got it. At 
 least, I don't call it a lie. You asked me if it was so, and 
 if I had said, no, you would have gone on to ask what I 
 didn't choose to tell you. So I said, yes. I allowed you 
 to think what you liked." 
 
 '* Where did the money come from then, and why didn't 
 my mother know of it ? " 
 
 " I'll tell you. Some of her money is invested in my 
 business at so much per cent. five per cent. but I have 
 used it in such a way as to bring in more, and that sum 
 of a thousand pounds, and a little extra which she has 
 since received, are her legitimate profits." 
 
 "Then why didn't she receive them without any con- 
 ditions ? " 
 
 " Because by law there was nothing to make me pay her 
 more than the bare five per cent. I should have been 
 perfectly justified in appropriating those extra profits
 
 SOME LETTERS, AND AN INTERVIEW. 35 
 
 myself. Of course, I had no intention of doing so, but I 
 did want to exercise some control over your actions at that 
 time. I thought that if you went to a place where there 
 were rich and idle young men, there might be a chance of 
 your going wrong." 
 
 " Following in my precious father's footsteps, I suppose," 
 said George bitterly. " Well, I can't say that I think you 
 acted straightforwardly. I'll say too, that I think, if this 
 money was really due to my mother, your attempt at inter- 
 fering was absolutely unwarrantable. You declare to me 
 now, without without any mental reservation, that this 
 thousand pounds was actually due to my mother, and that 
 it was not " 
 
 " I swear to you," interrupted Richard, almost with 
 passion, "that I have never paid your mother a single 
 penny out of my own pocket, except the small sum she 
 takes for housing my daughter. And I'll go further," he 
 went on, with growing excitement. " I'm willing to put 
 into your hands every penny of her capital, and leave you 
 to make the best of it." 
 
 Whether it was calculated to that end or no, he could 
 not have made an offer more, likely to disarm George's 
 hostility. 
 
 "I needn't interfere with those arrangements, Mr. 
 Richards," he said. " I would ratl^r express gratitude to 
 you for having managed my mother's affairs so well. You 
 have satisfied me on that score. And as for the rest, I can 
 only say that if you had told me what I wanted to hear to 
 begin with, we might have saved some unpleasantness. It 
 is about what I expected unfortunately no better, but 
 certainly no worse. I should like to ask one more question. 
 My mother has told me that my father is dead. How do 
 you know that ? " 
 
 " He was killed in a tavern brawl in San Francisco. I 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 saw it by chance in an American paper, which gave his 
 name, and published a photograph of him near enough to 
 recognise. I told Mrs. Greenfield, but did not show her 
 the paper." 
 
 "When was that?" 
 
 "Not long after he had deserted her. About twenty 
 years ago." 
 
 There was silence for a minute. Mr. Richards seemed to 
 have forgotten all about his appointment. 
 
 " Well," said George, slowly, " I know my parentage ; 
 and what I have to do is to atone for it. I shan't tell my 
 mother that I know, and you will not tell her either." 
 
 Mr. Richards made no reply. 
 
 "You will promise not to tell her?" George pressed 
 him. 
 
 " If you like," he replied with the hint of a sneer. " But 
 I thought you were going straight to her directly you had 
 got the story out of me." 
 
 " It would only pain her," said George. " And if she 
 finds that you and I are on better terms, as I see no reason 
 why we should not be now that we understand one another 
 better, her fears will quiet down." 
 
 " I think so," said Mr. Richards ; " and you are satisfied 
 now ? There is nothmg more you want to ask ? " 
 
 There was decided anxiety in his voice. But George 
 did not notice it. His eyes were on the ground, and his 
 thoughts were not concerned with his visitor. 
 
 "Then I will go," said Mr. Richards, and somewhat 
 hurriedly he picked up his properties, and, without offering 
 a shake of the hand, took himself off. 
 
 George sat down by the fire and went over in his mind 
 the story he had heard. It was unpleasant enough, but, as 
 he had said, it was no worse than he had expected. And 
 yet, now that he had been told that he was the son of a
 
 SOME LETTERS, AND AN INTERVIEW. 37 
 
 mean rascal, with nothing to redeem his sordid baseness, he 
 found it hard to adjust his thoughts to the fact. He 
 seemed to carry a taint, and it was not until many days 
 afterwards that he was able to put the knowledge of his 
 birth on one side, and take up his life with his old 
 determination and confidence.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 IT was a quarter past ten on a fine morning in mid- 
 June, two years after the events narrated in the last 
 chapter. Mr. Guy Bertram, of whom we have already 
 caught a passing glimpse, was sitting at breakfast and 
 skimming the morning paper a mere matter of form, for 
 politics interested him not at all, and of what was going 
 on in the world that did interest him, the paper told him 
 little that was new. He was a popular young man, and 
 went, as the phrase has it, everywhere. 
 
 The room was a pleasant one. It was high up in a 
 block of bachelors' chambers looking south over St. 
 James's Palace and Park, and west on St. James's Street. 
 There was a recess in one corner with a low window-seat 
 running round it. The walls were covered with a paper 
 of grass-green and hung with old prints of some value. 
 The deep easy chairs and comfortable sofa wore loose 
 garments of gay chintz, over which red roses and little 
 birds of a species unknown to ornithologists ran riot. 
 There were a great many books, both on shelves and 
 tables, and a grand piano stood in one corner. 
 
 The table at which Guy Bertram was breakfasting was near 
 the open window. The sun, shining through striped awnings 
 lowered outside, filled the room with a subdued yellow light, 
 and the scent of musk from the window-boxes, filled other- 
 wise with the orthodox marguerite daisy and hanging pink 
 geraniums, stole insidiously on the senses and lingered there.
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 39 
 
 To complete the pleasures of a June morning in London 
 in the middle of Ascot week, the incomparable band of the 
 Grenadier Guards was playing the overture to " Carmen " 
 in the quadrangle of St. James's Palace, while the usual 
 crowd of desultory sightseers hung about, dividing their 
 attention between the gallant soldiery and the tiny royalties 
 who were to be seen with their nurses above the wall of the 
 Marlborough House Gardens. 
 
 Guy Bertram had strolled through the twenty-six years 
 of his life with but little to trouble him. He was an only 
 son, and his mother had died soon after he was born. 
 Poor soul, she had taken life seriously and nagged at her 
 husband. He was a country clergyman and a spendthrift, 
 but a charming companion, and his son had the pleasantest 
 recollections of him. He had managed to send Guy to 
 Eton, and given him plenty of pocket money. When the 
 boy was sixteen his father died, leaving his financial affairs 
 in inextricable confusion. Guy never knew how near he 
 was to being taken away from school and thrown on the 
 world penniless. 
 
 The knot had been cut by Sir Roderick Bertram, the 
 spendthrift cleric's cousin. Most people could have told 
 you something about Roderick Bertram ; how he got into 
 Parliament at the age of twenty-two and made a repu- 
 tation for himself, and was talked of everywhere as the 
 coming man of his party ; how he made a romantic 
 marriage with an Italian beauty and brought her home to 
 his house of Merrilees, which stood in gardens of enchant- 
 ing beauty on an island in the middle of a lake, all his 
 own ; and, finally, how he shut himself up in his island 
 home after his wife's death, and was speedily forgotten, 
 living thenceforward in unbroken solitude. 
 
 Sir Roderick, then, came forward, or rather Mr. Calthorp, 
 senior partner in the firm of Calthorp, Griffin and Wells,
 
 40 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 solicitors, of Lincoln's Inn Fields, came forward on his behalf, 
 cleared his cousin's estate of debt, and intimated his intention 
 of providing for Guy's education and allowing him a 
 thousand a year when he should reach the age of twenty-one. 
 Young sixteen does not trouble itself much about money 
 matters. Guy Bertram accepted the goods the gods had sent 
 him without question, and it may be said, without gratitude, 
 for he was his cousin's rightful heir. It is probable that 
 he had never asked himself to this day what would have 
 happened to him if Sir Roderick had held aloof. He had 
 never seen his cousin or heard from him, except through 
 Mr. Calthorp or his partners, and he might very well have 
 considered that a man who exhibited no further interest in 
 his nearest relation than to provide for his maintenance 
 somewhat belied his actions by doing as much as that, or 
 at any rate, by doing it on such a scale. 
 
 Guy had felt .somewhat forlorn after his father's death ; 
 but the summer holidays were at hand, and he was to travel 
 abroad with a friendly tutor, so he soon cheered up, and, 
 being a popular boy, with many friends, put his trouble 
 behind him, and only took it out to look at with a tighten- 
 ing at his throat towards the end of each " half," when he 
 had been wont to make plans for his holidays in the 
 Hampshire rectory. 
 
 When the time came for him to leave school he went up 
 to Cambridge, and spent two very pleasant years in 
 that seminary of sound learning, doing enough work to 
 avoid embarrassing attentions from the authorities of his 
 college and taking his part in such sports and pastimes as 
 seemed good to him. The only definite interest that he 
 possessed, other than that of amusement, was art, and if he 
 had been obliged to earn a living, his abilities were such as 
 might very well have provided him with a career and 
 an object in life During his long vacations he really did
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 41 
 
 apply himself with some purpose to the study of landscape 
 painting, and gained an immense reputation amongst his 
 fellows for his skill ; and when he came of age, and was 
 put into possession of his very considerable allowance, he 
 half made up his mind to spend the next few years in 
 diligent study, and to become in time a great painter. But 
 he never got further than to take himself away from 
 Cambridge. 
 
 There was no one to make any objection to this course 
 of action except his undergraduate friends and a fatherly 
 gyp, but his intentions with regard to painting seriously 
 soon faded away, and within six months he became quite 
 content simply to enjoy life as it opened out before him. 
 
 It must be confessed that he was eminently fitted for 
 this pursuit. His tastes were clean, and he took pleasure 
 in many simple things. He liked meeting his fellow- 
 creatures, and found himself welcome enough wherever 
 men and women were gathered together. He liked music 
 and books and pictures, and he liked the sports of the field. 
 He still painted, and painted remarkably well for an 
 amateur, but his painting was one of his many recreations, 
 and not the serious pursuit which he had thought of making 
 it. He had perceptions, the means to gratify his tastes, 
 and an untroubled conscience, and what can man want 
 more at twenty-six ? Life smiled on him this fine June 
 morning nay, beamed for he had been to Ascot the day 
 before with a pleasant party and done very well with his 
 small investments ; and he was going again to-day with a 
 still pleasanter party, and hoped to do even better. 
 
 The soft rumbling of the passenger lift heralded a knock 
 at the door, which was opened by a discreet serving-man, 
 who announced, " Mr. Calthorp to see you, sir," 
 
 There advanced into the room a tall young man of 
 about Guy's own age. He was dressed with the most
 
 42 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 V 
 
 consummate neatness from top to toe. His coat looked just 
 three days old ; the crease down the middle of each trouser 
 leg was undisturbed by the slightest digression at the 
 knee ; the polish on his boots was only excelled by that 
 of his hat, which he carried in a well-gloved hand. His 
 black hair was so smooth that it looked as if it had been 
 ironed. His face was long and preternaturally solemn, 
 and his eyeglass looked so much as if he had been born 
 with it, that no muscular effort disturbed its repose. But 
 a little row of almost indistinguishable crow's feet at the 
 corner of each eye and the slightest little twitch at the 
 corner of the mouth, which appeared on a closer observa- 
 tion, served to qualify the first impression of excessive 
 gravity. The name of Dick, by which Guy Bertram made 
 haste to greet him, hardly seemed suitable, or even re- 
 spectful, when conjoined with such an appearance as he 
 presented; and, indeed, he was called Richard in his home 
 circle, which he much preferred. To make an end of 
 introducing him, he was the junior partner in the firm of 
 Calthorp, Griffin and Wells, and son to Sir Roderick 
 Bertram's solicitor, recently deceased. And he had been 
 Guy Bertram's friend since his school days. 
 
 " My dear Dick 1 " exclaimed Guy. " What on earth brings 
 you here at this time of the morning ? Coming to Ascot ? " 
 
 ** I am not," replied Mr. Calthorp. " Nor are you. Sir 
 Roderick Bertram died yesterday. My manner would be 
 more tinged with gloom than it is if I did not know that 
 you had never seen him." 
 
 The tiny crows' feet showed up for a moment and sub- 
 sided. Mr. Calthorp placed his hat carefully on one chair 
 and sat down on another, taking out of his pocket a letter- 
 case, from which he extracted a yellow envelope. 
 
 " Good Lord I " exclaimed Guy, staring at him with 
 open mouth.
 
 THE HOUSE OP MERRILEES. 43 
 
 "Quite so,*' said Calthorp. "This telegram came last 
 night after business hours, and we opened it this morning. 
 It is from Martin, Sir Roderick's servant. It runs thus : 
 ' Morthwaite, 7.45 p.m. Sir Roderick Bertram died this 
 evening. Please inform Mr. Bertram. Robert Martin.'" 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " That is all," replied Calthorp. " More could not have 
 been said for sixpence." 
 
 " I must say you take it pretty coolly, Dick," said Guy, 
 in a slightly injured tone. 
 
 " Well, I do," assented Calthorp. " If it were a near 
 relation I hope I should know my duty as a family solicitor 
 well enough to condole with you in appropriate terms. 
 As Sir Roderick Bertram was your second cousin, twice or 
 thrice removed I forget which and his lamented death 
 makes you a baronet with about seventy thousand a year 
 unless he has left it away from you the occasion does 
 not seem to call for any elaborate display of grief." 
 
 " Was he as rich as all that ? " enquired Guy, with a 
 gleam of satisfaction in his eye. 
 
 " We have every reason to believe so.** 
 
 " Show me the telegram," said Guy. 
 
 Calthorp handed it to him, and he stood in silence for a few 
 minutes, turning over in his fingers the flimsy sheet which 
 bore such momentous intelligence. The " Song of the 
 Toreador" challenged a hearing through tht rumble of 
 the London traffic. Calthorp brushed an invisible speck 
 of dust from his waistcoat. 
 
 " What are we going to do ? " asked Guy. 
 
 "I think we had better go up there to Cumberland," 
 said Calthorp. " You certainly ought to go and take a 
 hand in what I believe are called the obsequies, and I 
 think I ought to go and see if I can find a will or something 
 of that sort."
 
 44 V THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES, 
 
 " Haven't you got one in your office ? ** 
 
 * No. Sir Roderick Bertram, as you are no doubt aware, 
 was not quite like other people. My father used to go up 
 to Merrilees to see him occasionally, a good many years ago, 
 but for a long time he has done all his business with us by 
 correspondence, and it has got to be very little of late. In 
 fact, for some years it has chiefly confined itself to our 
 receiving a quarterly cheque for your allowance, sending an 
 acknowledgment, and paying the money into your bank, 
 from which, no doubt, it disappears with remarkable 
 rapidity." 
 
 "And he never said anything to you about making a 
 will?'* 
 
 "No. My father, I believe, did venture to suggest it 
 to him at the time the arrangement was entered into 
 for your benefit. The estate is entailed and comes to you 
 any way. But it brings in practically nothing. Sir 
 Roderick inherited his enormous fortune from his mother. 
 It was chiefly in American securities. He could leave that 
 as he liked, and my father, I believe, suggested the advisa- 
 bility of his leaving it to you, or, at any rate, leaving it 
 to somebody." 
 
 " What did he say ? H 
 
 " He didn't say anything. It was a way he had. He 
 never answered the letter. And I should think the proba- 
 bility is he never made a will. In that case, as I believe 
 you are his sole relation, you take everything, minus the 
 amount which will be appropriated by the Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer." 
 
 " It's a pleasant little sum," said Guy, cheerfully. 
 
 "There is some spending in it," admitted Calthorp. 
 " Can you get ready to go by the two o'clock train from 
 Euston ? That will get us up there to-night ? * 
 
 "Oh yes, easily.**
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 45 
 
 "Very well, then. I will send a wire to this fellow 
 Martin and tell him to meet us at Keswick. I must go 
 home and get some clothes. We can talk in the train. 
 Two o'clock, then, and don't be late." And Mr. Calthorp 
 put on his very shiny hat, buttoned two buttons of his coat, 
 and went out. 
 
 Guy went into his bedroom to change his clothes, and 
 summoned the discreet servant to pack his portmanteau. 
 His face was thoughtful and even a little bewildered, but it 
 gradually cleared, and as he slipped on a tweed jacket and 
 filled his pockets, he began to whistle a tune. 
 
 An hour or two later Guy and Calthorp were sitting in a 
 compartment of a corridor train, flying north. 
 
 "There is one thing I forgot to mention this morning," 
 said Calthorp. " All Sir Roderick's securities are held by 
 his stockbrokers, who revel in the name of Temple and 
 Quality. I went back to the office after I had left you and 
 had a note written to instruct them to send a statement to 
 me at Merrilees. I hope they will see their way to com- 
 plying with my request ; then we shall see where we 
 stand." 
 
 " How much do you think it is, old man," enquired 
 Guy, cheerfully. 
 
 "Well, I looked up what particulars we had. It was 
 something a little over a million when old Lady Bertram 
 died, and as Sir Roderick has been living in the closest 
 retirement for about five and twenty years, it ought pretty 
 well to have doubled itself by this time." 
 
 " That means eighty or ninety thousand a year. I shall 
 be able to buy one or two things that I want," said the son 
 of the spendthrift parson. 
 
 " If you get it." 
 
 " I shall get the house, anyhow. I believe it is one of 
 the most beautiful places in England. I met an old woman
 
 46 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 once who had stayed there as a girl, in my great grand- 
 father's time. She told me about the cascade, and the 
 Italian gardens. And I have met people who went there 
 in my cousin's time before his wife died and he shut himself 
 up. Nobody has seen the place since ; nobody at all." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, I have," said Calthorp, readjusting 
 his eyeglass. 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 "No other. Only the island and the outside of the 
 house, and the " 
 
 " Oh, anybody can see that." 
 
 " No they can't ; unless they climb a ten-foot wall.** 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "The whole of the park is enclosed by a stone wall. 
 There are five or six gates, and they are always kept 
 locked. The lake is in the middle of the park and the 
 island is in the middle of the lake, and the house is in the 
 middle of the island. I don't know what is in the middle 
 of the house, because I haven't been there. But I have 
 stood on the shore of Morthwaite Lake and seen the house 
 and the terraces and the cascade, and I tell you candidly 
 that, although I was at the unimpressionable age of ten, I 
 have never forgotten it." 
 
 " How did you get there ? " 
 
 " We were staying with an uncle of mine near Penrith, 
 and I believe Sir Roderick sent for my father. I remember 
 his saying to me, ' I'm going to show you the most beautiful 
 house in England.' We went to Keswick by train. There 
 was a carriage waiting for us at the station. I remember 
 the coachman looking at me as if he didn't quite know 
 what sort of a reptile I was, but he didn't say anything, so 
 I got to the gates of the park safely after a long drive. 
 There they tried to stop me, but my father shook his beard 
 at them, and they let me through. When we got down to
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES- 47 
 
 the lake, where the stables and the landing stage ate, 
 there was this fellow Martin, who is a sort of secretary as 
 well as valet to Sir Roderick, waiting with a boat and two 
 men to row it. He wasn't going to let me any further, 
 and nothing would induce him to. He struck me as a 
 most disagreeable fellow. All he could do for me was to 
 give me permission to walk about the woods. But I 
 wasn't to show myself from the house. I made the best of 
 my time. It was in May. I got five different sorts of eggs 
 and tore my trousers in four places. At last, when I got 
 up near the top of a high tree, I saw the whole thing. I 
 was so struck with it I nearly fell down again." 
 
 " What was it like ? " 
 
 " Well, I've never been to the Garden of Eden, but we 
 had a coloured photograph of it in our Family Bible. It 
 was a good deal better than that. However, you'll see it 
 yourself in an hour or two's time, and I'll save my descrip- 
 tive powers, which are meagre, for somebody else, when I 
 have refreshed my memory." 
 
 The pair of them dined together as the train rattled 
 away from Preston, and in due course arrived at Penrith. 
 Here they changed, and had another half-hour's journey in 
 a local train to Keswick. Both of them were silent. Now 
 that they were getting near their journey's end, it was 
 inevitable that the place they were bound for should 
 present itself to their imagination, not as an enchanted 
 palace of sunny pleasure, but as the house of mourning 
 and death. 
 
 They alighted at Keswick. A footman with powdered 
 hair came up to meet them on the platform and led the 
 way to an old-fashioned carriage, upon the box of which 
 reigned a coachman of great age and girth, wearing a wig. 
 Guy cast a glance at the horses and then looked up in 
 amaze at the mighty coachman. A shade of mottled red
 
 4& THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 suffused that functionary's face. He bent down from his 
 high seat, his hat in his hand. " They was the best I could 
 do, Sir Guy," he said in the husky voice of asthmatic old 
 age. "Sir Roderick hasn't used a carriage for five and 
 twenty years." 
 
 Guy and Calthorp got into the carriage, the footman 
 clambered up beside the old coachman, and the plebeian 
 horses, which, a spite of silver fitted harness, looked like 
 nothing but what they were, members of the equine 
 proletariat, set out at a fair pace on their ten mile drive. 
 
 They went through the town and round the head of 
 Derwentwater. The road lay for some distance alongside 
 the lake, and then turned to pierce into the heart of the 
 glooming hills. It was nearly ten o'clock when they lost 
 their final view of the water, lying now far below them. 
 The dark woods crept down to the lake, a dead-level floor 
 of steely slate broken by tree-covered islets. The hills 
 behind them stood up against the sky like gigantic pieces 
 of stage scenery, their features lost in a haze of deep 
 purple, with only the sharp line of their summits to dis- 
 tinguish them from masses of heavy cloud. As the carriage 
 penetrated further into the recesses of the hills the road 
 grew heavier. The white-washed cottages and farm- 
 houses with their roofs of stone slabs and the roses 
 clambering up the eaves became more rare, until they 
 ceased altogether, and only the indistinct form of white 
 scurrying sheep amongst the young bracken by the road- 
 side served to redeem the complete loneliness of the gloomy 
 fells. 
 
 By-and-bye, after a long silence, during which each of the 
 young men had been immersed in his private thoughts, the 
 road took a sharp turn down-hill. Night had now set in, 
 but there was a rising moon. The tinkle of running water 
 was heard and a little wood loomed up by the roadside and
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 49 
 
 gave place to a line of low cottages. Calthorp roused 
 himself. " I remember this," he said. " We are coming to 
 Morthwaite, and shall soon reach the wall of the park." 
 
 The coachman jammed on the brake, and the heavy 
 carriage slid screaming down a steep loose road. The 
 brake was taken off again, and they rolled smartly through 
 a fair-sized village. Lights shone in windows and open 
 doorways, and people stood in little knots to see them 
 drive by. Soon after they had got clear of the houses the 
 road took a sudden turn to the left and ran alongside the 
 high wall of which Calthorp had spoken, and finally turned 
 with a fine sweep between two massive gates standing wide 
 open by a low stone lodge. The brake was put on pre- 
 paratory to another steep dip, and the carriage plunged 
 into the darkness of a thick wood, but soon emerged, and 
 they saw stretched beneath them the moon-silvered lake, its 
 shores muffled in foliage, and rising in its centre an island, 
 larger than any of those on Derwentwater, of which they 
 could see nothing more than the steep thickly wooded side 
 nearest them. 
 
 " The house is on the top behind the trees," said Calthorp, 
 as the brake was put on for the last time and the carriage 
 grumbled its way down to the shore. 
 
 The road ended in a great cobbled square, on either side 
 of which was a wall with stables and out-buildings behind 
 it. A boat was lying moored to a stone jetty, and two men 
 stood beside it ready to row them across to the island. 
 
 " I wonder why Martin isn't here," said Calthorp, as he 
 and Guy alighted from the carriage. 
 
 " The place doesn't belong to Martin," said Guy, a little 
 testily. 
 
 They took their seats in the stern of the boat. Lights 
 gleamed from the buildings on the bank of the lake. Two 
 grooms came out with a cheerful bustle to attend to the 
 
 M.M. E
 
 50 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 plebeian horses, while the fat coachman rolled heavily ofl 
 the box and the footman waited for the luggage cart which 
 was rattling down the hill above the landing stage. The 
 boat floated out across the water away from the lights and 
 the voices towards the hidden house on the dark hill. 
 
 "When we get round the corner you will see," said 
 Calthorp, in a low voice. 
 
 The men were rowing obliquely towards a wooded spur 
 on the south of the island. The water was evidently deep 
 here, for they rowed within an oar's length of the bank, 
 under the very branches of the overhanging trees. As 
 they came out once more into the open Guy uttered an 
 exclamation of surprise and delight. 
 
 The boat was in a deep recessed bay, shut in on the 
 west by just such another tree-crowned cape as the one 
 they had rounded. High up on the very summit of the 
 island, but guarded on east and west by deep lines of huge 
 trees, stood a noble house of white stone, its long lines of 
 windows gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Terrace after 
 terrace, their lines broken by tall cypresses and their mas- 
 sive balustrades wreathed in foliage, led the eye down to 
 the waters of the lake, sweeping out to the whole width of 
 the bay, and ending in a flight of shallow steps which lost 
 themselves in the line of the water. In the middle of this 
 gigantic staircase, rising from some indistinguishable foun- 
 tain below the topmost terrace, fell a cataract of water, 
 bounded by a curved and involuted balustrade, broadening 
 here and there into a manv-fountained pool and narrowing 
 again into a gleaming channel, until it took its final 
 plunge into the waters of the lake from a ledge fifty feet 
 above them. The same thing may be seen in the gardens 
 of some old Italian palace, but hardly on a scale of such 
 magnificence. In the white moonlight, from this hill and 
 wood-encircled lake, the effect was indescribable. The
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 51 
 
 place looked like some unexpected fairy palace, and the 
 owner of ail this enchanting beauty now saw it for the 
 first time. 
 
 The boat glided up to the marble steps and pushed off 
 again into the shade of the trees after the two young men 
 had got out. They saw it round the little cape on its way 
 back to the shore as they reached the first terrace. The 
 night was scented with flowers. Roses and clematis and 
 honeysuckle smothered the stone balustrades with luxuriant 
 growth. Long lines of stately lilies, more roses, and a 
 profusion of June blossoming flowers bordered the terraces. 
 The water plashed incessantly down its stone stairway, and 
 the fountains played in their flower- bordered pools. 
 
 *' It is more beautiful than anything I have ever seen," 
 said Guy, as the two young men stood at last on the top- 
 most terrace and looked down on the waters of the lake. 
 
 They turned towards the house. The hall- door was 
 wide open, and the dark figures of half a dozen men stood 
 against the bright light within. They were received by a 
 white-haired butler, who bowed low to his new master. 
 Two footmen relieved them of their coats and hats. They 
 might have been entering the hall of a big London house 
 instead of the home of a lonely recluse. 
 
 " Will you please step this way, Sir Guy ? " said the 
 butler. The two young men followed him into a room on 
 the left of the halL
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 
 
 THE old butler shut the door behind him, and turned to 
 the young men. His face was white, and his hands shaking. 
 He had a difficulty in speaking, and his voice made a 
 gulping sound in his throat as he tried to bring out his 
 words. 
 
 "I've kept it from them all," he managed to stammer 
 out at last. " No one knows but me and one other. I kept 
 it from them till you came." 
 
 They stared at him in consternation, but Calthorp almost 
 instantly collected himself. The lines of his face set them- 
 selves. He looked both keen and capable. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he asked. " What has hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 " Sir Roderick has gone," said the butler. 
 
 "Yes, I know," replied Calthorp quietly, in the tone 
 which one uses towards a child. " Martin sent a wire to 
 my firm last night. Where is Martin ? " 
 
 " Martin has gone too," said the old butler, " and one of 
 the gardeners. I don't mean they are dead," he explained. 
 ** Sir Roderick died yesterday afternoon. His body is gone ; 
 and Martin and the gardener are gone too." 
 
 Calthorp took his seat at a writing table and dipped 
 a pen in the ink. " Sit down," he said to Guy. " And you 
 had better sit down, Mr. Mr. Feltham. Thank you. I don't 
 wonder you are upset. Now, tell us all about it, and take 
 your time. First of all, when did Sir Roderick die ? "
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 53 
 
 " About a quarter past three o'clock yesterday afternoon, 
 sir," said the old butler. Calthorp's authoritative air 
 seemed to quiet his agitation, and he replied to the cross- 
 examination which followed concisely and clearly. 
 
 "A quarter past three. Who sent the telegram to my 
 firm announcing his death ? " 
 
 " Martin got himself rowed over to Morthwaite about 
 seven o'clock. He told me he was going to wire to you, sir." 
 
 " Did he usually go on that sort of errand himself ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; and I thought it a little queer when he 
 told me.** 
 
 "How long had Sir Roderick been ill?" 
 
 44 A matter of four days, sir." 
 
 44 What was the nature of his illness ? ** 
 
 44 He caught a chill, sir, sitting out on the terrace on 
 Sunday night. Martin had gone to London the day before. 
 We didn't know what to do. I wanted to send for the 
 doctor the next morning, but Sir Roderick wouldn't have 
 it, and he wouldn't stay in bed. In the evening he was 
 very bad and sent a groom over to Keswick to fetch back 
 the doctor, then and there. He came the next morning." 
 
 u Who was the doctor ? " 
 
 44 Dr. Mellish, sir. A highly respected gentleman. He had 
 attended the servants in the house for many years. Sir 
 Roderick had never been ill before within my recollection." 
 
 44 Did Dr. Mellish attend him until his death ? " 
 
 44 He never left the house, sir, till the end came, and was 
 in the room when Sir Roderick died." 
 
 " Who else was in the room ? " 
 
 44 1 was, sir, and Mrs. Cheetham, the housekeeper, and 
 Gibbs, the coachman, and Martin. Martin had come back 
 the night before, but Sir Roderick had never recognised him. 
 We were all very old servants, sir, and was here before her 
 ladyship died."
 
 54 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 The old man showed signs of emotion. 
 
 " Wait a minute," said Cal thorp, and made notes on a 
 sheet of paper till he had recovered himself. " Did Dr. 
 Mellish sign a certificate of death ? " he asked. 
 
 " He told Martin, sir, that he would post it on when he 
 got back to Keswick. He hadn't a form with him. I've 
 got the letter here, sir. I know Dr. Mellish's writing, and 
 his note paper." 
 
 Calthorp took the proffered envelope and turned it over. 
 
 "You have no doubt whatever that this is from Dr. 
 Mellish ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, sir, none." 
 
 " I will open it," Calthorp said to Guy. He did so, and 
 glanced over the paper it contained. " Pneumonia, 3.15," 
 he said, and laid the paper aside. 
 
 " Now when did you first find out that Sir Roderick's 
 body had disappeared ? " he asked, turning again to the 
 butler. 
 
 "It was about nine o'clock this morning, sir. I had 
 occasion to consult Martin about some arrangements and 
 went to his room. It was empty, and the bed had not been 
 slept in. I thought he might be in Sir Roderick's dressing- 
 room, and I went there. Then I opened the door gently 
 into the big bedroom, for I thought I would like to look at 
 my old master again, sir, and my 'eart gave a leap, and I 
 turned giddy for a moment. The bed was all tumbled, and 
 the flowers that we'd laid about it the night before, sir, 
 was scattered on the floor, and and Sir Roderick wasn't 
 there." 
 
 " What did you do then ? " 
 
 *' I sat down for a minute till I could take it in, sir ; then 
 I locked the door, and put the key in my pocket, and set 
 out to find Martin. I went all over the house, but I couldn't 
 find him. Then I went to his room again, and 1 found
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 55 
 
 most of his clothes was gone ; so then I knew that he'd 
 gone for good." 
 
 " How did you manage to keep the news from the other 
 servants ? " 
 
 44 1 had to tell Mrs. Cheetham, sir. She and Martin and 
 I was accustomed to breakfast in the Room, sir, and I had 
 to tell her why he didn't come. She went upstairs with me 
 and saw what I said, and we laid our heads together, sir, 
 and gave it out that Martin was gone to meet you at 
 Keswick, and so we kept the truth to ourselves till you 
 came. Later on in the morning we heard that this young 
 gardener James Braithwaite his name was, sir hadn't 
 been home all night. He lives with his old grandmother 
 up at Morthwaite. And Mrs. Cheetham and I put two and 
 two together ; but no one else knows anything but that." 
 
 44 Can you tell me anything about this gardener ? " 
 
 " He's worked on the place since he was a boy, sir. 
 He'd likely be thirty now. He always kept to himself, and 
 was never liked. They do say he drinks, but I've never 
 seen him the worse for liquor, and, to my mind, it's only 
 idle gossip, made up because he's never gone with the other 
 lads and lasses." 
 
 44 Did you see Martin talking to him after Sir Roderick 
 was taken ill ? " 
 
 44 He rowed him over in the boat, sir, to take the 
 telegram. But there, was nothing in that. He was one of 
 those whose place it was to look after the boats." 
 
 Calthorp sat for a short time with his eyes bent on the 
 paper before him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Feltham," he said, M I don't think you could 
 have behaved more sensibly than you have done. But we 
 can't keep this startling piece of news to ourselves any 
 longer. Martin hasn't come back with us, and the servants 
 will soon be asking questions. I should be much surprised
 
 56 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 if they have not begun to ask them already. Don't say 
 anything just yet. Sir Guy and I must talk it over. I 
 think you may go now." 
 
 The old butler rose from his seat. He looked towards 
 Guy, who had sat silent throughout the interview. 
 
 " Ah, Sir Guy," he said, tremulously, " it would have been 
 a very different welcome to Merrilees, in spite of our old 
 master's death, if this awful thing hadn't happened." 
 
 Guy rose, and shook the old man's hand, but said 
 nothing. 
 
 "There's supper laid in the dining-room, gentlemen," 
 said the butler, with a slight return to his professional 
 manner. 
 
 " We will come in a minute," said Calthorp, who was 
 still writing at the table. 
 
 " Good God ! " exclaimed Guy when they were left 
 alone. " What does it all mean ? " 
 
 " Blackmail," replied Calthorp, shortly. " Martin and 
 the gardener are in it. They have carried off the body, 
 and are holding it for ransom." 
 
 ** The blackguards ! " said Guy. " What can we do ? " 
 
 *' Set Scotland Yard to work, and in the meantime make 
 A search on our own account. My impression is that they 
 must have hidden the body either on the island or in the 
 woods round the lake. If they had got through one of the 
 gates they would have been seen. We had better set the 
 men in the house to work to-night. There seem to be 
 plenty of them. W will offer a reward. A hundred 
 pounds, I think." 
 
 " Very well," said Guy. ** And I suppose you will tell 
 them all what has happened ? " 
 
 "We couldn't keep it dark if we wanted to. But you 
 had better do the talking. Let us have some supper, and 
 then tell Feltham to call the household together. You
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 57 
 
 must make them a short speech feelings of horror at dis- 
 covery, detestation of crime, keenness to track criminals, 
 anxiety to afford respect to remains of late head of house. 
 Do it as well as you can. You reign here now, and must 
 make a good impression. I'll stand down for the time 
 being. But I'll lay my hands on that fellow Martin before 
 I'm much older." 
 
 Underneath the flippancy of his speech there was an air 
 of resolution in Calthorp's bearing which impressed Guy. 
 
 " It is a horrible business to come into," he said. " I'm 
 jolly glad I've got you with me, Dick." 
 
 Calthorp gathered up his notes and put them in his 
 pocket. "Let us go and take a little light refreshment," 
 he said. 
 
 They found the old butler and two footmen awaiting them 
 at the door of the dining room. It was a room of noble 
 proportions, panelled in oak, with a ceiling of moulded 
 plaster. A few pictures hung on the walls. On either side 
 of the great open fireplace were the portraits of Sir Roderick 
 and his wife, the former painted thirty years before by 
 Millais. It represented a young man of commanding 
 presence, with a fine head, dark searching eyes, and a firm 
 clean mouth. It was a face not easily forgotten. In spite 
 of its youth there was great force and will in its lines ; 
 and the powerful mind of a leader of men shone through 
 the eyes with an unmistakable meaning. It was almost 
 inconceivable that such a man should have condemned 
 himself to a life of hermit loneliness. The picture of 
 Sir Roderick's wife was that of a most beautiful young 
 girL It was by an unknown Italian artist, but worthy 
 for all that to hang side by side with the other. Over 
 the massive oak buffet at the end of the room was 
 Romney's painting of Sir Michael, a thin-faced melancholy 
 man with great dark eyes. He was the baronet who had
 
 58 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 built the house and the terraces and spent the whole of his 
 fortune over his costly whim. Guy had possessed himself 
 of engravings of the pictures of Sir Michael and Sir 
 Roderick, but he now saw the originals for the first time. 
 He recognised also the portrait of his great-uncle, Sir 
 Michael the second, who had never been able to live in the 
 lordly pleasure-house that Sir Michael the first had reared 
 for himself. The other portraits in the room were of no 
 great artistic merit. They went back to Sir Roderick, the 
 first baronet of the reign of James II. 
 
 The two men talked very little while the servants were 
 in the room. The supper was beautifully served, the wines 
 were of the best, and the old silver and the glass and the 
 china on the table gave pleasure to Guy's artistic eye, even 
 in the midst of the confusion of mind caused by the startling 
 story they had just heard. Evidently Sir Roderick in his 
 retirement had not denied himself the luxuries or even the 
 magnificences of life. The footmen retired at last, and the 
 old butler put the wine on the table. 
 
 Calthorp threw a glance at Guy, who said to the butler, 
 " Call all the servants together in the hall, Feltham. I 
 must tell them what has happened, and what we are going 
 to do." 
 
 Going out five minutes later, they found a small army of 
 men and women grouped together at the end of the hall. 
 There seemed to be more of them than was warranted by 
 the size of the house, big as it was, certainly more than 
 could have been necessary to provide for the necessities of 
 one lonely man. On the edge of the group sat a little 
 old lady in a dress of black satin and a lace cap. Some- 
 thing impelled Guy to go up and shake hands with her, 
 which afforded the old lady tearful gratification, and seemed 
 to impress the assembled company. The old lady looked 
 much shaken, and there was an air of expectancy on the
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 59 
 
 faces of the group which betokened that a hint of some- 
 thing unusual had got about among them. 
 
 Guy took his place behind a table which stood in the 
 middle of the hall between himself and the group of 
 servants. Calthorp sat down near him. 
 
 ** I am among you for the first time," Guy said, " as the 
 successor to your old master, whose loss I am sure you all 
 deplore. But I should not have called you together just 
 now unless I had had something very serious to communi- 
 cate to you, something which I only learnt half an hour 
 ago on first coming to this house. I am told that the body 
 of Sir Roderick Bertram has been taken away from the 
 room in which it lay, and from the house." 
 
 A gasp and a rustle of astonishment ran through the 
 assembled group. Eye .was turned to eye, and in some of 
 them surmise and calculation began to work. 
 
 " As most of you by this time probably know," con- 
 tinued Guy, " Martin, Sir Roderick's valet, and one of the 
 gardeners, Braithwaite, have not been seen about the place 
 since last night. It is impossible to avoid connecting their 
 disappearance with that of Sir Roderick's body. It is 
 impossible also to come to any other conclusion but that 
 the motive of this base crime is to extort money for the 
 recovery of the body. As to that we shall know later, and 
 I shall spare no pains to bring the culprits to punishment. 
 But, although these men have apparently got clear away, 
 it is practically certain that they cannot have carried the 
 body away with them. I am told that a high wall runs 
 all round the park, and that it would be impossible to get 
 through any of the gates without the lodge-keeper's know- 
 ledge. It follows, therefore, that the body must have been 
 hidden either on this island, or somewhere on the mainland 
 within the circle of the walls, and what we have to do is 
 to make a diligent search for it, so that we can afford
 
 60 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 honourable burial to the remains of one whose memory we 
 all respect, I no less than you, although you knew him and 
 I did not. My friend and legal adviser, Mr. Calthorp, will 
 organise the search, and I offer a reward of a hundred 
 pounds to whatever person is successful in it. I should 
 like it to begin at once" 
 
 These last words were said in a voice slightly raised, 
 and there was an instant stir of excitement and resolution 
 among the men. Culthorp rose and stood beside Guy. 
 
 "Very good indeed," he said as the group of servants 
 broke up and filed out of the hall. The two young men, 
 the housekeeper, and the butler were left alone. 
 
 "Everything in the house must give way until we find 
 what we are looking for," said Guy. " Mr. Calthorp and I 
 can do without elaborate meals, Feltham, and the men 
 must be left as free as possible to do what they can. Some 
 of them must search the island to-night, and to-morrow 
 morning we will get what help we can from the other side 
 and extend our ground. This must be a distressing blow 
 to you, Mrs. Cheetham," he said to the old housekeeper, 
 who still sat in her high-backed chair, quietly sobbing. 
 
 The old lady looked up at him. 
 
 " It's a trouble, and it's a mystery, Sir Guy," she said. 
 " I don't think what you all think." 
 
 The old butler pursed his lips. 
 
 " She won't have it that Martin stole the body, sir,** he 
 said, "though I tell her you can't shut your eyes to such 
 facts as we've got." 
 
 " Perhaps you will tell us what you think to-morrow 
 morning, Mrs. Cheetham," said Calthorp. " You look too 
 tired to go through more to-night. You had better go to 
 bed," he said to Guy when the housekeeper had left them. 
 "I am just going out to set the men to work. We can 
 leave the rest till to-morrow.**
 
 AT THE END OF THE JOURNEY. 61 
 
 14 1 haven't got the brains to do any more to-night," said 
 Guy ; and indeed the thronging surprises and events of the 
 day had made him ready to drop with fatigue, though 
 Calthorp looked as keen and resourceful as when he had 
 entered his office in London fifteen hours before. 
 
 So the search began, and all through the summer night 
 lights twinkled among the trees of the island, and voices 
 called to one another.
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 tuts. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 
 
 GUT slept dreamlessly and awoke the next morning to 
 find the sun streaming into his room and old Feltham 
 stropping his razors at the dressing table. 
 
 " Half past seven, Sir Guy," he said. '* There's nought 
 been found yet, sir, but Mr. Calthorp has been up this last 
 hour and gone over to the other side." 
 
 Guy sprang out of bed, all his fatigue slept off, and stood 
 at the open window as Feltham closed the door behind 
 him. It was a glorious sight that met his eyes. The wide 
 gardens, the flower- laden terraces, the glittering cascade, 
 and the blown spray from the sprouting fountains lay 
 beneath him, and, spread out like a carpet of silver, the 
 lake gleamed in the sun, hemmed in by the dark sloping 
 woodlands and the purple hills beyond. What the scene 
 lacked of moonlit mystery it gained tenfold by the riotous 
 profusion of blossom and colour and the exhilarating fresh- 
 ness of the June morning. The horror of the previous 
 night was gone, and its place taken by an impatient longing 
 to have this disagreeable mystery cleared up, so that the 
 dead should no longer have power to keep from the living 
 the full enjoyment of ceded rights. The search must, of 
 course, be diligently carried out, but there were other 
 things to think about and settle, and Guy thought much of 
 the future and what should come after this gloomy dis- 
 turbance should be cleared away as he dressed quickly, with
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 63 
 
 half an eye ever on the entrancing scene framed by the 
 open window. 
 
 He found Calthorp waiting for him in the breakfast 
 parlour, a room on the north side of the house, looking 
 through latticed windows on to a yew-enclosed Dutch 
 garden. After the sunshine on gleaming water and tossing 
 roses the outlook was depressing, and Calthorp's face, as he 
 bade him a grave "Good-morning," did little to warm the 
 solemn chill. 
 
 "No luck," said Calthorp, shortly, as a footman with 
 tired eyes brought in the silver dishes ; " but I've set them 
 to work on the other side. Something ought to happen in 
 the course of the day. We shall have to interview some 
 more people after breakfast. You've sent for the other 
 lodge-keepers, have you ? " he asked the footman. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; they will be here at nine o'clock." 
 
 " I may as well tell you at once," said Calthorp, when 
 the servant had left the room, " that I have received a dis- 
 turbing piece of news this morning. It may throw an 
 altogether different light on this affair." 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " I've had a wire from Sir Roderick's stockbrokers in 
 answer to my letter of yesterday. Here it is." 
 
 Guy took the proffered telegram. " Sir Roderick Bertram," 
 it ran, " sold out last securities in our hands six months 
 ago. Has purchased none through us since. Letter follows. 
 Temple, Quality." 
 
 " What does it mean ? " asked Guy, in utter amazement. 
 
 "We shall know more when the letter comes," said 
 Calthorp, " which will be at two o'clock. In the meantime 
 I don't know." 
 
 " But what can it mean ? Haven't you formed any 
 theories ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear Watson, I have," replied Calthorp, cracking
 
 64 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 an egg. "But, like Sherlock Holmes, whom I am said 
 to resemble, I prefer to keep them to myself until I am 
 sure they are right. You will then have them in the fullest 
 detail, whether you wish it or no." 
 
 " I wish you'd be serious, Dick. Do you think he can 
 possibly have got rid of all that enormous amount of 
 property ? " 
 
 " Come now, Watson," said Calthorp, " you shall pro- 
 pound your own theories, and I will scoff at them. What 
 could he have done ? " 
 
 " He might have reinvested through another firm." 
 
 "Quite so. But why should he? Messrs. Temple and 
 Quality are a firm of the highest repute, and I happen to 
 know that old Mr. Temple and Sir Roderick were friends 
 in their youth. Why should he have gone to another 
 stockbroker ? Besides, if he had they would probably have 
 mentioned the name of the other firm. Try again, Watson." 
 
 " He might have had some outside scheme in which he 
 was interested." 
 
 " Not bad. But remember that his income can never 
 have been less than forty or fifty thousand a year, and must 
 lately have been a great deal more. What scheme could 
 any man get rid of over a million on that all the world 
 isn't sure to hear of ? That won't do." 
 
 " Perhaps he turned all his property into golden sovereigns 
 and threw them into the lake." 
 
 "Perhaps he did. In that case we will drag the lake. 
 We shall probably have to drag it in any case. But I don't 
 think he did that. I will be generous to you, Watson, and 
 give you two words, which you may write upon the tables 
 of your heart until the time comes to produce them. Port- 
 able property. Now I've gone a good deal further than I 
 should by all the rules of the game, and I shall say no 
 more."
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 65 
 
 ** Portable property ! " echoed Guy. " And you think 
 Martin has gone off with it ? " 
 
 " Look here, Watson, don't you say anything sensible ! " 
 said Calthorp. " That isn't your role. Now I am going to 
 ring and ask them to tell Mrs. Cheetham to come here. 
 4 Step this way ' is, I believe, the proper expression." And 
 he did solemnly tell the servant who answered the bell to 
 44 ask Mrs. Cheetham kindly to step this way." 
 
 Mrs. Cheetham made her appearance with no delay, and, 
 accommodated with a seat, was asked to explain her ideas 
 as to the disappearance of Martin. Her agitation of the 
 previous night had left her, and she seemed a very 
 self-possessed and capable old lady. 
 
 She scorned the idea that Martin would have stolen the 
 body of his master for the purpose of levying blackmail. 
 
 " I've lived in this house with Robert Martin for thirty 
 years, sir," she said. " He was devoted to Sir Roderick's 
 service. There was nothing he wouldn't have done for him. 
 To think of him dishonouring his master's corpse ! I 
 wouldn't believe it not if I were to see it with my own 
 eyes." 
 
 "But there's Feltham," said Guy. "He has been here 
 as long as you have, hasn't he ? He has no difficulty in 
 believing it." 
 
 The old lady drew her lips together. " I shouldn't be 
 the one to say a word against Mr. Feltham," she said. 
 44 To my remembrance I've never had a cross word from 
 him all the time we've been in service here together, and I 
 couldn't say the same of Martin. But it isn't difficult to 
 believe, Sir Guy, that two men in the positions in the house 
 that they filled should be a bit jealous of one another. 
 Feltham was born and bred on the estate, and was in 
 service here when Sir Roderick was born. Martin was Sir 
 Roderick's man in London, before ever he came in for 
 
 H.M. P
 
 66 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Menilees, and ever since my lady died has been getting 
 more and more in with Sir Roderick. Feltham felt that he 
 was in the second place, when, perhaps, he ought to have 
 been in the first, and he hasn't felt over-friendly to Martin, 
 I know, though I'm far from saying that there was bad 
 blood between them, or that he'd say a thing of Martin if 
 he didn't believe it. But he'd believe more than I should 
 by a good deal." 
 
 " What sort of a man was Martin ? " asked Calthorp. 
 
 " A masterful man, sir," said Mrs. Cheetham, decisively, 
 " and a man that kept his own counsel. I've known him for 
 all these years, but I couldn't tell you in every case what 
 he would do and what he wouldn't do, like I could of 
 Feltham. But there is one thing I know he wouldn't do, 
 and if you will take my word for it, sir, you may save 
 yourself a lot of trouble. He wouldn't be the man I've 
 known for thirty years, in spite of many faults, if he could 
 steal his master's body so as to make money out of it." 
 
 " Well, now," said Calthorp, after a short pause, " we 
 have listened to what you have said, and we will give it 
 due weight. What do you think has really happened ? 
 Have you formed any opinion in your own mind ? " 
 
 " I have, sir," said Mrs. Cheetham, quietly. 
 
 " We should like you to tell us what it is." 
 
 " If you had asked me the question yesterday," said Mrs. 
 Cheetham, " I couldn't have said anything. I was too 
 much upset by the dreadful thing that had happened. But, 
 lying awake all last night as I did, and turning things ovei 
 in my mind, I got light, and everything became clear." 
 She paused, and seemed to be collecting her thoughts. The 
 two men waited for her in silence. . 
 
 "You know what made Sir Roderick shut himself up 
 here, sir, going on for twenty-five years ago, and never set 
 his foot outside the park gates from that day to this ? It
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 67 
 
 was the death of his young wife and her baby boy. They 
 were at some place in Italy at the time, and Martin and 
 her ladyship's maid were with them. The mother and 
 child were buried there. Sir Roderick wasn't like a man 
 who would go almost out of his mind with grief at first for 
 a loss like that and then come round and forget all about it. 
 He came home here after he had buried his wife and child, 
 and everything went on as before. Do you know, sir, that 
 for five-and-twenty years two places were laid at every 
 meal, and for five-and-twenty years only one of them was 
 filled r 
 
 Guy and Calthorp looked at each other in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " Do you know," continued Mrs. Cheetham, " that when 
 Sir Roderick came home from Italy not a thing was altered 
 in the household arrangements and not a servant was 
 turned off ? Do you know that her ladyship's rooms up- 
 stairs are left just as they were when she used them, as I'll 
 show you, Sir Guy, when you are pleased to go round the 
 house, and that the drawing-rooms and other rooms which 
 have not been used for five-and-twenty years were always kept 
 open and filled with fresh flowers ? Sir Roderick loved his 
 wife, gentlemen, as few men in this world love anybody 
 but themselves. He lived here alone with her memory, as 
 you might say, and it was as fresh with him, poor gentle- 
 man, when he lay on his deathbed as it was the day he 
 buried her and his little son." 
 
 " And you think " said Calthorp, as the old lady came 
 to another pause. 
 
 " I think," said Mrs. Cheetham, " that Sir Roderick gave 
 Martin strict orders that his body was to be taken over to 
 Italy and buried with her ladyship." 
 
 Calthorp sat silent with a frown of consideration on his 
 face. 
 
 F a
 
 68 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 "But why all this mystery and secrecy?" asked Guy, 
 " Your theory doesn't explain that, Mrs. Cheetham." 
 
 " I am aware of that, Sir Guy," she answered. " But 
 through living so many years shut up here .with Sir 
 Roderick, all I can say is that, however it may seem to a 
 stranger, begging your pardon for calling you so, it doesn't 
 appear to me strange that Sir Roderick should have given 
 orders that it should be carried out like that. And what- 
 ever Martin's faults may have been, he would have carried 
 out Sir Roderick's orders to the last letter. You may hear 
 of him again as likely as not when he's carried out his 
 instructions ; I shouldn't be surprised. But, whether or no, 
 I feel sure in my own mind that, whatever he has done, it 
 was under instructions from Sir Roderick." 
 
 Calthorp still retained his thoughtful frown. "What 
 about the gardener, Braithwaite ? " he asked. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Mrs. Cheetham, "you see, Martin couldn't 
 have done everything by himself. He must have had help. 
 And it is my belief that James Braithwaite was trained up to 
 act with him when occasion should arise. He was just the one 
 that would have been chosen, a young man that made friends 
 with nobody ; and there were many opportunities of Martin's 
 talking with him, and Sir Roderick, too, for that matter, 
 without causing remark, when he was rowing the boat." 
 
 " Just answer me one question, Mrs. Cheetham," broke in 
 Calthorp. " Should you say, knowing Sir Roderick as you 
 did both before her ladyship's death and afterwards should 
 you say that his mind was affected by his loss ? " 
 
 " I should say, sir," replied the old lady, " that any ideas 
 he had before my lady's death got more firmly fixed in his 
 mind and grew stronger as the years went by, and that he 
 had no more room for new ones. In everything else his 
 mind was as clear as yours, sir." 
 
 * Was he gloomy or depressed ? *
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 69 
 
 Mrs. Cheetham smiled, almost laughed. " Never, sir," she 
 said, "not from the first day he came back from abroad. Why, 
 he lived in this house, sir, except that he never saw company, 
 just the same as any gentleman might. We all got so used to 
 it, it made us angry when people outside used to talk as if 
 he was like a curiosity. He'd read his books and his papers- 
 boxes of books would come down from London, and I should 
 think all the papers that's printed ; he'd write for hours in 
 his library, and he took a wonderful interest in his garden. 
 He'd be out of doors in all weathers directing the gardeners. 
 He never hid himself away. He often used to laugh at new 
 servants, who would sometimes be afraid of meeting him^ 
 and they would laugh themselves when they had once seen 
 him just like any other gentleman. He would see people on 
 business, though not often gentlemen of late years : I will 
 say that ; but with working men and such-like he was just 
 as anybody else. Oh, yes, sir, Sir Roderick may have been 
 made into a mystery outside, but he wasn't one to them as 
 knew him." 
 
 " And yet you said that it would not seem strange to you 
 that he should give orders for the disposal of his body after 
 his death in the way you have suggested," said Calthorp. 
 
 " Well, sir, I daresay I have talked too much," said Mrs. 
 Cheetham, " and I'm sure I've talked a long time. In his 
 daily life Sir Roderick was as I have said. In all that had 
 to do with the death of her ladyship he was as I have said, 
 too. You must put the two things together if you can. 
 And now, with your leave, I will go to my duties." 
 
 " That's a clever old lady," said Guy, when the door had 
 closed upon her. " What do you think of her theory ? " 
 
 " It fits the facts as far as we know them," said Calthorp 
 "but it is just as likely to be wrong as right. We shall be 
 able to test it to some extent when we see the lodge- keepers, 
 which will be in a few minutes. After that, I am going to
 
 70 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 look through the papers. Feltham says that Sir Roderick did 
 all his business with this fellow Martin, who was more secre- 
 tary than servant, in the room they call his dressing-room, and 
 all his business papers and books are there. I must go over 
 them, and I have wired to the bank at Keswick asking 
 them to send someone over, so that we shall see how 
 matters stand there. Feltham says that Sir Roderick did 
 all his banking at Keswick, so that we shall have no 
 difficulty in getting at the secret of what has become of the 
 investments." 
 
 " What a clever fellow you are, Dick 1 ** said Guy. 
 " You've thought about everything." 
 
 " Thank you, '/Vatson," replied Calthorp. ** And now for 
 the lodge-keepers I* 
 
 The examination of the lodge-keepers elicited one im- 
 portant fact. Each of the five gates leading out of the 
 park was kept locked, and it would have been impossible 
 for anyone to get through them without the assistance of 
 the gatekeepers. In one gateway, however, that on the 
 north side of the park, and furthest away from the house 
 and lake, there was a little porter's gate which was kept 
 locked, but to which the servant Martin was known to have 
 the key. The man and his wife who lived in the lodge 
 had not heard anyone go by during the night, but this 
 proved nothing, as they slept at the back of the cottage, 
 and the little gate opened on to the grass of the park and 
 not on to the road, so that anyone using it could easily 
 have done so without making any noise. This north gate, 
 which led to an unfrequented road, little more than a cart 
 track winding among lonely hills, was hardly ever used, 
 and lay a full mile away from the house. The old butler 
 had forgotten the very existence of the postern gate, and 
 was full of apologies for his oversight. 
 
 " It makes very little difference," said Calthorp. " We
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 71 
 
 know that they must hr ve got out of the park somehow, as 
 they are not here ; and now we know how they got out. 
 That's all." 
 
 " It makes this difference,** said Guy when they were 
 alone again. " We thought they could not have taken the 
 body with them, but now we know they could have done. 
 Mrs. Cheetham's theory seems to fit in." 
 
 " How do you suppose," said Calthorp, " that two men 
 are going to carry a dead body a mile to the gate, to begin 
 with ? They say there are no marks of wheels, and you 
 heard me ask the width of the gate. Nothing with wheels 
 could have got through." 
 
 " It is just possible," said Guy, ** that they might have 
 carried the body with great difficulty as far as the gate, and 
 had some sort of conveyance waiting for them out of earshot." 
 
 "That means accomplices," said Calthorp, "and how 
 could they have got hold of them in the time? At any 
 rate, we shall be able to find out whether a cart did pass 
 down that road last night when we get the police here to 
 make inquiries. The road runs for seven miles without as 
 much as a footpath branching from it, and there arc 
 cottages and farmhouses scattered along it at intervals. 
 Somebody must have heard a cart if there was one. That 
 is the way these two rascals must have gone, anyhow ; and 
 it is quite possible something may have been seen of them. 
 That is the sort of clue your local constable can follow up. 
 It doesn't take much brain power. But there's one thing 
 I'm pretty sure of. We have got to look for Sir Roderick's 
 body inside the park, and for the two men who stole it 
 outside." 
 
 " And the blackmail ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " The demand won't come from Martin. He's playing a 
 bigger game than that. Mr. Braithwaite I am not so sur* 
 of. We shall see. Ah, here is the post.**
 
 72 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Feltham had brought in a few letters and a pile of daily 
 and weekly papers. 
 
 " Temple and Quality," said Calthorp as he broke open 
 an envelope. " Hum ! Ha ! ' Very shocked to hear of Sir 
 Roderick Bertram's death. One of our oldest clients. Sir 
 Roderick had put all his securities into our hands on suc- 
 ceeding to his mother's property. Personal friend of our 
 Mr. Temple. Told us he should never employ another firm. 
 Frequently gave us instructions in writing to make new 
 purchases and change investments. Showed great j udgment. 
 Value of securities eventually little short of a million and 
 a half. Began to sell out about fifteen years ago and 
 never repurchased. Large holding Mount Ophir Gold 
 Mine disposed of last December and account finally closed. 
 No knowledge of any other investments.' Well, that does 
 not take us much further. But you can't make away with a 
 million and a half in fifteen years without leaving some- 
 thing to show for it. Here is a letter for Sir Roderick. 
 We had better open it, I think." 
 
 He did so, and they read it together. It ran as 
 follows : 
 
 "4, HOSPITAL COURT, 
 
 " HATTON GARDEN, W.C. 
 "To SIR RODERICK BERTRAM, BART. 
 
 " SIR, We have at length concluded negotiations with 
 our friends at Calcutta, and have secured a firm offer of 
 ' The King's Jewel ' for 34,000, which we shall accept, 
 subject to your approval, that being a thousand pounds 
 less than the sum you authorised us to offer. The nego- 
 tiations must be kept secret, as the Maharajah has only 
 been induced to sell under great pressure, and is anxious 
 that it shall not become known that he has done so. Our 
 friends have been permitted to examine the Jewel, and are 
 of opinion that if it were broken up the separate stones
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 73 
 
 would fetch 50 per cent, more in the open market than the 
 Maharajah is prepared to accept for the whole. We hope 
 to gain your approval for what we regard as the most 
 satisfactory negotiation we have had the honour of 
 carrying through for you. 
 
 * We are, Sir, 
 
 " Your obedient Servants, 
 
 "ROSENTHAL & C*." 
 
 The letter bore the date of the previous day. 
 
 " Now we have it," said Calthorp tersely. " You will 
 remember the two words I impressed upon your memory, 
 Watson. Portable property." 
 
 Guy looked merely puzzled. 
 
 " I see it all now," continued Calthorp, " Sir Roderick 
 is the American Purchaser." 
 
 " Do you mind talking plainly ? " suggested Guy. 
 
 " Not at all. I prefer it. And when I have finished it 
 you will kindly say, ' But, Holmes, this is marvellous ! ' I 
 shall ask for no other reward. Let me tell you then that 
 for many years past, whenever there has been a great sale 
 of jewels, the best have invariably been bought by a 
 mysterious personage known to the trade as The American 
 Purchaser. No one has ever seen him, and nobody has 
 ever seen the jewels again that he is reported to have 
 bought, either in America or elsewhere. The mystery, I 
 believe, has caused some discussion amongst the diamond 
 merchants and others connected with the purchase of 
 precious stones. Messrs. Rosenthal & Co. seem to have 
 kept their counsel well. I have no manner of doubt that 
 Sir Roderick is the mysterious collector, and has been 
 engaged for the last fifteen years in turning his enormous 
 fortune into the most portable form of portable property." 
 
 " But why on earth should he have done that ? "
 
 74 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I don't know. And it doesn't much matter. But I am 
 afraid, very much afraid, that the fact accounts for the 
 disappearance of our friend Martin.** 
 
 " You think that " 
 
 " He has gone off with them, or as many as he could carry. 
 I fear there is very little doubt of it. However, we shall soon 
 know. What we have got to do now is to find the place 
 where these jewels were kept. I will ring for Feltham." 
 
 " Is there a strong room or a big safe anywhere in the 
 house where valuable property could be kept ? " Calthorp 
 asked the butler when he appeared. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he replied at once. " There is a big safe in 
 the room Martin slept in. It was put in a good many 
 years ago." 
 
 *' About fifteen years ago ? ** 
 
 ** I should think that would be about it, sir.* 
 
 " Do you know what was kept in it ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; not the silver, for we have a strong room 
 downstairs for that. I don't know what the one upstairs 
 was used for. Martin had the keys of it. But I didn't tell 
 you, sir. All his keys are laid on the table in Sir Roderick's 
 dressing-room." 
 
 "You had better take us there, then, and afterwards 
 show us where the safe is." 
 
 Feltham led the way up the broad marble staircase, and 
 along a corridor hung with pictures, and full from end to end 
 of old furniture ranged along the walls, French and Indian 
 and Chinese cabinets, Elizabethan chairs, tables and glass 
 cupboards set out with rare china, and all arranged with 
 such skill and taste that nothing looked out of place, and 
 nothing crowded. At the end of the corridor was a heavy 
 mahogany door leading to the west wing, which contained 
 a complete suite of rooms apart from the rest of the house, 
 and approached by a separate staircase.
 
 MRS. CHEETHAM'S THEORY. 75 
 
 " These are my lady's rooms," said Feltham, indicating 
 two closed doors on the right. " Sir Roderick's are above. 
 This is the old part of the house. The front only is new, 
 to fit in with the rest." 
 
 They mounted another staircase to the second floor, and 
 Feltham opened a door and led them into a large room 
 facing south, its windows closely shuttered. He let in the 
 light and opened one of the windows. The wing was set 
 back from the main front of the house by the width of a 
 stone balcony, which ran along it. The room was half 
 library, half morning-room, and had the air of having been 
 recently occupied. All the furniture was old and rich. In 
 one of the windows stood a large Louis Seize writing-table 
 covered with orderly piles of documents, and near it against 
 the wall was a massive ebony cabinet with numerous 
 drawers and partitions. In the very middle of the writing- 
 table, on the blotting pad, lay a bunch of keys. 
 
 " That is Sir Roderick's bedroom," said Feltham in a low 
 voice, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. ** Will 
 you go in, sir ? " 
 
 " Not now," said Guy hastily. 
 
 " These are the keys," said the old butler. ** No one has 
 been in since Mrs. Cheetham and I locked the doors." 
 
 Calthorp took the bunch of keys. They were bright, and 
 looked as if they had been in constant use. " Now show us 
 Martin's room and the safe," he said. 
 
 Feltham led them through a door at the far end of the 
 corridor, and they found themselves on a little stone landing 
 from which a turret stair led both up and down. The walls 
 were of great thickness, and were pierced with lancet 
 windows. *' This is the oldest part of the house," he said. 
 Then he took them through another door into an oak- 
 panelled passage and down a step into a dark room on the 
 left. It was furnished as a bedroom, and on one side of it
 
 76 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 part of the panelling had been removed, and in its place 
 stared the ugly fronts of two great green-painted doors with 
 brass handles. 
 
 " You may go now, Feltham," said Calthorp. " Sir Guy 
 and I are going to look into the safe, if the key is here, and 
 afterwards I am going to examine the papers in the dressing 
 room. You will find me there if anybody comes." 
 
 The butler took his departure and closed the door behind 
 him. " Now for the key of the mystery! " said Calthorp. 
 
 He hit upon the right key almost at once, turned it in the 
 lock, and twisted the brass handle. The great door swung 
 slowly open. 
 
 The safe was filled with tiers of baize-lined shelves. 
 They were absolutely empty.
 
 CHAPTER Vtt 
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 
 
 THE two young men looked at each other. 
 
 " It is only what we expected," said Calthorp, shortly. 
 
 " Yes, but it's devilish awkward," said Guy. " According 
 to what we have learnt, this safe contained the whole of 
 my cousin's fortune, and it has all disappeared. What am 
 I to do ? " 
 
 ** We shall get it back," said Calthorp, confidently. " I 
 don't suppose Martin has walked off with a million and a 
 half's worth of precious stones for the pleasure of looking 
 at them. Directly he tries to dispose of any of them we shall 
 nab him, if we don't nab him before. And after all it isn't 
 so bad as it might be, Guy. We know there are thirty-four 
 thousand pounds at least thirty-five, because Sir Roderick 
 was prepared to pay that for the jewel Rosenthals wrote 
 about ; and there must be some more. You must remem- 
 ber that this place had to be kept up anyhow, and whatever 
 he has done with the bulk of his fortune he must have left 
 himself enough for that. He was not an old man some 
 years short of sixty and he cannot have expected to die 
 just yet. He seems to have had perfect health. And you've 
 got this house. The things in it alone, from what I can 
 see, must be worth a fortune." 
 
 Guy turned away. 
 
 " It is an extraordinary state of things," he said. *' I 
 wonder if anything like it has ever happened before ? ** 
 
 44 1 should say not. Now I'm going through the books
 
 78 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 and papers in the dressing room. You might run out and 
 play for a bit. I'll let you know if anything turns up." 
 
 Guy went downstairs and out into the bright sunlight 
 with a feeling of relief at being able to throw off for a time 
 the incubus of gloom and mystery which pervaded the 
 house. Calthorp, using his busy brain upstairs, would 
 surely be able to extract some comfort from the papers he 
 was examining. Calthorp inspired confidence, and it was 
 impossible to move about such a house as this, every corner 
 apparently crammed with objects of worth and beauty, or 
 to wander through these gardens of Paradise, without a 
 conviction that it was impossible for Martin or anyone 
 else, whatever their intentions, to carry away with them 
 the means of supplying the arteries of such a place with 
 life. 
 
 The terraces and fountains he left to make fuller 
 acquaintance with on another occasion, and explored the 
 rest of the island. The woods which clothed the steep 
 bank on the east and sheltered the house from view of the 
 shore had been cleared away to a great extent over the 
 rest of the island, which must have covered forty or fifty 
 acres. On the south-eastern spur, which sloped more 
 gently to the water, they had been left with broad grass 
 paths winding through them, and rhododendrons and other 
 flowering shrubs planted among the trees, while the ground 
 was carpeted with foxgloves and groups of woodland 
 flowers, of which Guy dimly perceived that, although 
 the effect was that of careless nature, the beauty of colour 
 and grouping was that of finished art. 
 
 Behind the house was the Dutch garden, with a broad 
 opening in the yew hedge leading on to a great level lawn 
 with a noble group of cedars at the further end. On the 
 west was a stone wall standing deep in a brilliant border 
 of hardy flowers, with a creeper-covered gateway leading
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 79 
 
 to enclosed kitchen gardens, and lower down, near the 
 water, what amounted almost to a little hamlet of 
 gardeners' cottages, outbuildings, and glass-houses. The 
 lawn melted almost imperceptibly through pierced belts of 
 shrubs and a line of noble trees into a wilderness of wild 
 beauty. Broad mown paths wound like rivers down the 
 undulating ground to the lake, amongst rough grass filled 
 with great groups of free-growing flowers and planted with 
 every imaginable rare and beautiful tree and shrub that 
 would flourish in this mild northern climate. Some of 
 them had attained to a great height, and all of them 
 looked as if they had chosen that one particular place to 
 grow in and no other. New surprises of contrast and 
 colour came at every turn. The whole wild garden was a 
 masterpiece of art inspired by nature. In one place there 
 was a little lake, studded with water-lilies and bordered 
 with iris, a tiny island, and a little willow-shaded bridge. 
 Below the lake there was a sudden entrance to a sunk 
 rock garden, filled and curtained with flowers and ferns ; 
 below that a stone summer house, backed by a crescent of 
 trees, looking over a little lawn-bordered bay to the woods 
 on the opposite shore. It would be impossible to describe 
 the beauties of that island garden, and after wandering 
 over it for an hour Guy felt that he had only gained a 
 mere impression of its glories. But coming at last to the 
 south terrace, he was hailed by Calthorp from the hall 
 doorway, and turned with a sigh to take up once more the 
 problems of the immediate future. 
 
 " Mr. Phipp, the bank manager, has just come," said 
 Calthorp, and led the way into the room which they had 
 first entered the evening before. It was a sort of ante- 
 room to the great library, which extended all along the 
 front of the house to the east of the hall. 
 
 Mr. Phipp proved to be a round-faced, pink-cheeked
 
 8o THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 little man, who made valiant efforts to accommodate his 
 indomitable cheerfulness to the exigencies of the situation. 
 He was dressed in black from top to toe, and looked like a 
 cherub in mourning. 
 
 "Very dreadful occurrence this, gentlemen," he said 
 when Guy and Calthorp had introduced themselves. 
 " Very shocking. It has cast a gloom over the neighb'r'ood, 
 I assure you, a positive gloom." 
 
 Mr. Phipp said this with his head on one side and an 
 enquiring expression in his eye, like one who hazards a 
 subtle pleasantry. 
 
 " You have the news at Keswick ? " inquired Calthorp. 
 
 " We woke up to it this morning," said Mr. Phipp. 
 " The neighb'r'ood is in a bustle about it, I assure you, a 
 positive bustle. A gloomy bustle, of course," he added in 
 explanation. "It has shocked us excessively, positively 
 horrified us. Are the jewels safe, gentlemen ? " 
 
 This inquiry was made in a confidential whisper, and 
 followed the expression of Mr. Phipp's horror without any 
 intermediate pause. 
 
 "The jewels have gone," replied Calthorp. 
 
 "I said so," said Mr. Phipp, nodding his head with a 
 knowing air. " I said so coming along. Not out loud, 
 because of the groom, but I said so." 
 
 "Is the story of the jewels common property about 
 here ? " asked Calthorp. 
 
 " Not a soul knows of it but myself," replied Mr. Phipp, 
 "not a single living soul, sir except Mrs. Phipp my 
 wife, gentlemen." 
 
 Mr. Phipp waved a hand as if making an actual intro- 
 duction. Calthorp bowed gravely. 
 
 " Will you kindly tell us," he said, " how you came to 
 know about the jewels, and how matters stand with regard 
 to Sir Roderick's banking account ? "
 
 MR PHIPP EXPLAINS 81 
 
 " Certainly," said Mr. Phipp, producing a doubled sheet 
 of foolscap paper from his breast coat pocket and unfolding 
 it. " I have all the figures here. You shall have the whole 
 story from the beginning, gentlemen." 
 
 "Sir Roderick has always banked with you, I think,** 
 said Calthorp. 
 
 " He has banked exclusively with us for a little over 
 twenty-four years," replied Mr. Phipp. " And I have had 
 the honour of managing the Keswick branch of our bank 
 for the whole of that period. Perhaps I shall be betraying 
 no confidence, gentlemen, if I say that it was owing to the 
 request of Sir Roderick, whose transactions with us have 
 been large, that I have been continued in this position 
 at some increase of personal emolument instead of being 
 advanced to a more important branch. 
 
 " He made that request to your directors, I suppose ? ** 
 said Calthorp. 
 
 " That was it, sir, that was it," replied Mr. Phipp, with 
 amazing cheerfulness, apparently rejoiced at being so 
 promptly understood. " It was about fifteen years ago 
 
 when when But perhaps 1 had better begin at the 
 
 beginning." 
 
 The bird- like lift of the little round head invited tolera- 
 tion. " I can do it so much better in my own way," it 
 seemed to say. Calthorp nodded. 
 
 " Sir Roderick transferred his account to us from his 
 London bank," said Mr. Phipp, " when he first, if I may 
 use the expression, bottled himself up here. I should, 
 perhaps, say, immured himself within these walls. That 
 was on the twenty-eighth of March, twenty-four years 
 ago. I had just been appointed manager of the branch, 
 and the transaction was naturally a somewhat important 
 one. The balance in our hands has never been less than 
 five thousand pounds, and very large sums indeed have 
 
 B.M.
 
 8a THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 passed through our books. For ten years, gentlemen, I 
 never saw Sir Roderick. Any personal business that re- 
 quired to be done was effected by Martin, his confidential 
 servant, who always seemed to me, if I may be allowed to 
 say so, a man who held himself aloof from the the more 
 expansive moods of human intercourse." 
 
 " Secretive ? " suggested Calthorp. 
 
 Mr. Phipp balanced the adjective. 
 
 " Not perhaps precisely that," he said ; " but well, I will 
 give you an instance. Mrs. Phipp my wife, gentlemen 
 having the natural curiosity of her sex a perfectly amiable 
 and innocent curiosity and being interested in Sir Roderick 
 what woman, knowing his story, would not ? Mrs. Phipp 
 asked me to invite Martin to share our mid-day meal with 
 us, some day when he should be over, and the circumstances 
 of housekeeping should permit of it. Our dwelling-place 
 is over the offices of the bank, and the invitation would not 
 seem an unnatural one, and Martin was hardly a servant in 
 the sense that our own two domestics, for instance, are 
 servants. We could entertain him without derogating 
 from the respect due to us. Well, to cut a long story short, 
 I advanced the invitation on a certain occasion. The 
 reply I received was, ' Thank you, Mr. Phipp, I came here 
 on business. We'll confine ourselves to business, if it's all 
 the same to you.' Now, was that friendly, gentlemen? 
 Was it courteous ? ** 
 
 Guy and Calthorp made haste to agree that it was 
 neither. Mr. Phipp put behind him the painful memory 
 of his rejected hospitality. 
 
 "Well, that was Martin," he said, with a brisker air, 
 " and we need not concern ourselves any further with him 
 for the present. I may say then that matters went on in 
 the usual way for about ten years. The income from 
 Sir Roderick's investments was paid in regularly to his
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 83 
 
 account with us. It was something like forty thousand a 
 year to begin with, but even that large sum soon began to 
 increase, because Sir Roderick only spent about half of it, 
 and the rest he invested." 
 
 " How on earth could he manage to spend twenty 
 thousand a year in the way he lived here ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " The greater part of it, I think, went in purchases," said 
 Mr. Phipp. " Rare books, furniture, pictures, what the 
 French call objy dar, and so forth." 
 
 " That is so," said Calthorp. " All the figures are in the 
 books which I have been examining upstairs." 
 
 " Ah, then you know," said Mr. Phipp. " Yes, Sir 
 Roderick was a great buyer of objy dar. He did it all 
 through Martin, who was constantly going to London to 
 attend sales, and so forth. Martin was authorised to draw 
 on Sir Roderick's account a most unusual proceeding for 
 a servant, I should say, for, after all, in spite of the airs he 
 gave himself, Martin was nothing more than a servant 
 and all the payments were made with cheques signed by 
 him. Then we paid a very considerable amount of ready 
 money to Martin over the counter gold, never notes. 
 Part of it, no doubt, went to wages and household ex- 
 penses, but that could not account for all. I should say 
 that over and above such sums as would be necessary for 
 current expenses there must have been something getting 
 on for a thousand pounds a year drawn in this way. 
 Whether Sir Roderick knew of this or not I don't know, 
 but " 
 
 " It is all in the books upstairs," said Calthorp. 
 " Oh," said Mr. Phipp with an air of slight disappoint- 
 ment. "Then to that extent I have done Martin an 
 injustice. I thought he had taken it. But it was not my 
 business to say anything, as he had Sir Roderick's authority 
 to draw. Well, now, I come to a date fourteen years ago 
 
 G 2
 
 84 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 last February. There came a letter to me at the bank 
 one morning from Martin, requesting my attendance on 
 Sir Roderick forthwith. I was somewhat excited over this 
 unusual summons, and so, if I may say so, was Mrs. Phipp. 
 I came over at once, was met by Martin at the landing 
 stage, and brought into this very room. Coming over :n 
 the boat Martin said, ' Sir Roderick has sent for you to 
 give you a piece of information about an investment he 
 has decided to make. There is no need to make a fuss 
 about it. Take his instructions and then go away.' I am 
 pleased to say, gentlemen, (here Mr. Phipp's happy face 
 expanded with a twinkling smile), that it came into my 
 mind to reply, ' Thank you, Martin ; my business is with 
 your master. We shall carry it out in our own way, and I 
 have no idea of taking instructions on the subject from a 
 servant! ' ' 
 
 " What did he say to that ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " Oh, I didn't actually bring out the repartee at the time," 
 replied Mr. Phipp. " It would not have been politic. And 
 part of it occurred to me afterwards in consultation with 
 Mrs. Phipp. Still, the bulk of the retort came into my head 
 while I was actually in the boat, and I think you will agree, 
 gentlemen, that it would have been a very pretty setting 
 down, and one which he thoroughly deserved." 
 
 " Pity you didn't say it at the time," said Calthorp, with 
 his hand to his mouth. " Well, you had an interview with 
 Sir Roderick in this room." 
 
 " In this very room," acquiesced Mr. Phipp. " I remember 
 it as if it had been yesterday. I found Sir Roderick 
 entirely different io what I had pictured him. I had 
 imagined him a gloomy recluse, a misanthrope, an anchorite. 
 What was my surprise to find myself greeted with the 
 utmost affability I might almost say heartiness by a tall, 
 handsome gentleman with iron-grey hair, who looked just
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 85 
 
 as if he might be going to step straight out of his front 
 door and shoot a partridge." This illustration not quite 
 pleasing Mr. Phipp, he added after a moment's consideration, 
 "or a grouse." 
 
 " He looked, in fact, just like anybody else," suggested 
 Calthorp. 
 
 " Quite so," said Mr. Phipp, " quite so. And I was 
 immediately put entirely at my ease. He then proceeded 
 to inform me of a rather extraordinary decision to which he 
 had come, but in such a matter-of-fact way that it did not 
 seem so unusual after all. He told me that he intended 
 during the next fifteen mark these words, gentlemen 
 during the next fifteen years, to turn the whole of his vast 
 fortune it must at that time have amounted to something 
 like a million and a half of money into precious stones. 
 ' I will tell you the reason, Mr. Phipp, why I have intended 
 to do this,' he said I remember almost his exact words 
 ' Living,' he said, ' in the way I have chosen to live, I 
 cannot spend anything like the income which comes to me, 
 and it has already grown too big for me to manage without 
 giving more attention to it than I care about. During the 
 last ten years I have spent a considerable portion of it in 
 buying the various things, obfy dar and so forth, which I 
 should like you presently to see ; but still my income has 
 grown, and, to tell you the truth, the house will not hold 
 much more. Now I think it would interest me to make 
 such a collection of precious stones as has never been made 
 before, at least in this country, and during the next fifteen 
 years I shall gradually turn the whole of my personal 
 property into jewels. Speaking to a business man I may 
 say that I shall exercise such judgment in making my pur- 
 chases that after my death, if my collection comes to be 
 broken up, as it probably will, it will be worth a good deal 
 more thaa I have paid for it. Therefore, Mr. Phipp, you
 
 86 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 are not to regard me as a man who is about to throw away 
 recklessly a million and a half of money ! ' 
 
 " Of course I assured Sir Roderick that I should not do so, 
 and further that he had a perfect right to dispose of his 
 property as seemed best to him. He then went on to tell 
 me why he had done me the honour of imparting his 
 decision to me. He said that if it became known, through 
 the bank clerks or anybody, that he was making away with 
 such a large sum of money, no one knew how, it would set 
 people talking about him again, which he did not want. 
 He therefore wished to set my mind at rest on the subject, 
 and he also asked me to keep what he had told me to 
 myself, so that it should not get about that there was such 
 an extremely valuable hoard of precious stones in the 
 house." 
 
 " It all seems quite straightforward and above-board so 
 far," said Calthorp. "What about the period of fifteen 
 years which you mentioned, Mr. Phipp ? " 
 
 "You put the same question, sir," replied Mr. Phipp, 
 " which was put to me by Mrs. Phipp when I retailed the 
 circumstances to her. I keep nothing from my wife, gentle- 
 men. I dislike secrets, but when I have once made her the 
 repository of those that are confided to me, I find it easier 
 to preserve them. The period of fifteen years mentioned by 
 Sir Roderick had curiously enough remained in my brain, 
 though I had not attached much importance to it when it 
 was first mentioned to me, but when I mentioned it to 
 Mrs. Phipp she immediately said, ' Why fifteen years ? ' and 
 I was really unable to inform her. But I will tell you this, 
 gentlemen," Mr. Phipp leant forward in his chair, with his 
 hands spread on his knees, and spoke impressively 
 " The fifteen years are nearly up, and Sir Roderick's fortune 
 has nearly disappeared," 
 
 " How much is left ' " asked Guy.
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 87 
 
 " The exact balance in our hands," replied Mr. Phipp, 
 referring to his paper, " is forty-one thousand, six hundred 
 and fifty-six, nine, two." 
 
 " I may tell you," said Calthorp, " that Sir Roderick 
 when he died had nearly concluded negotiations to spend 
 thirty-five thousand pounds on a jewel from India." 
 
 " Exactly so," said Mr. Phipp. " The sums remitted to us 
 from time to time from the sale of investments were always 
 paid in just before a big purchase was contemplated. The 
 last was paid in on the eighteenth of December last and 
 has been in our hands longer than usual. I presume that 
 the negotiations hung fire, and perhaps it was fortunate 
 that they did so, gentlemen." 
 
 " Very fortunate, I think," said Calthorp. 
 
 "And the extraordinary thing is," pursued Mr. Phipp, 
 "as Mrs. Phipp remarked to me only last Sunday week, 
 while we were discussing the matter over a cold supper, 
 that at Sir Roderick's ordinary rate of expenditure, and 
 supposing the payment in December to have been disposed 
 of, at the end of the fifteen years that is to say next 
 February he would have come down to the position of 
 having no income at all." 
 
 " Have you or Mrs. Phipp formed any conjectures on 
 the subject," asked Calthorp. 
 
 " A hundred, sir," replied Mr. Phipp. " But none of 
 them fit. Perhaps a suggestion of Mrs. Phipp's comes 
 nearest to the mark. It will be twenty-five years next 
 March since Lady Bertram died. Mrs. Phipp has suggested 
 that Sir Roderick may have had a presentiment that he 
 should die at that time. But as I said to her, ' A presenti- 
 ment, my dear, is all very well as far as it goes. I might 
 have a presentiment that a certain horse would win the 
 Derby and I might put a sovereign on it, but I should not 
 risk the whole of my available income on that horse."*
 
 88 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " What did Mrs. Phipp say to that ? " asked Calthorp. 
 
 " She said, that I certainly should not, if she had a say 
 in the matter," replied Mr. Phipp. " Her remark was in 
 the nature of a pleasantry. She still keeps to her idea of a 
 presentiment of death, and we occasionally have a playful 
 and quite amiable argument on Good Heavens 1 " 
 
 Mr. Phipp's chubby hand went up to his brow, and he 
 sat staring in front of him with a look of utmost bewilder- 
 ment on his face. 
 
 " What is it ? " asked Calthorp and Guy together. 
 
 " Why, gentlemen, Mrs. Phipp is right," exclaimed that 
 lady's husband. " The fifteen years are nearly up, and Sir 
 Roderick is dead." 
 
 "No doubt of that, I'm afraid," said Calthorp, "but 
 apparently his death came quite unexpectedly." 
 
 " That is so," said Mr. Phipp, gradually recovering from 
 his surprise at the apparently remarkable fulfilment of Mrs. 
 Phipp's prophecy. "Yes, that is so. He had not com- 
 pleted his last purchase, and he had left himself enough 
 money to go on to the limit of time. No. His lamented 
 death can hardly have come in the way the presentiment 
 pointed out, if presentiment there was, which I have always 
 doubted, and which we shall now never know. And the 
 supposition I have formed during my drive here is not 
 destroyed." 
 
 " What supposition ? " enquired Calthorp. 
 
 u Foul play," returned Mr. Phipp, cheerfully, his bird-like 
 eye resting first on one and then on the other. 
 
 " Go on," said Calthorp. 
 
 " I've never trusted Martin since the day he refused Mrs. 
 Phipp's invitation," said Mr. Phipp. " I've no proof, no 
 proof at all, and what I say must not go beyond the four 
 walk of this room for fear of legal consequences, but what 
 I say is that Martin has poisoned Sir Roderick, made away
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS 89 
 
 with his body for fear of an inquest, and walked off 
 with the jewels." 
 
 "But Martin was away when Sir Roderick was taken 
 ill," said Cal thorp, " and didn't return until after Dr. Mellish 
 came, and Dr. Mellish was with Sir Roderick when he 
 died." 
 
 " Oh I " said Mr. Phipp, with a blank look of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " So I don't think that Martin is quite so black as that." 
 
 " But he has taken the jewels," said Mr. Phipp, cheering 
 up. 
 
 " It looks like it, certainly." 
 
 " Ah, he's a deep one," said Mr. Phipp, shaking a 
 knowing head. " You can't say what he has done or what 
 he hasn't done. I shouldn't be surprised if, after all, you 
 were to find but there, nobody shall say that Jasper 
 Phipp is a backbiter. I leave it at that, gentlemen." 
 
 Mr. Phipp soon afterwards left altogether, having cleared 
 up one or two puzzles, and suggested one or two more. 
 
 " What an extraordinary story it is," said Guy, when the 
 little banker had disappeared. a What do you make of it, 
 Dick ? " 
 
 " Nothing much at present," returned Calthorp, " though 
 I shall set to work on it by-and-bye. I am so constituted 
 that I cannot do two things at once without inconveniencing 
 myself, and just now I am anxious to see exactly how we 
 stand. Mr. Phipp has assisted me there, and those books 
 upstairs have been kept in such a wonderful way that in 
 rather less than an hour I have got at pretty nearly every- 
 thing it is necessary to know." 
 
 " You haven't found a will, have you ? " 
 
 " No. And I don't think I shall. But that will perhaps 
 make things easier for you. Now, I'll just tell you this. 
 In those books there is a perfectly plain history of every
 
 90 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 transaction that has taken place with regard to Sir 
 Roderick's property since he first shut himself up here. 
 Every entry has been made by Martin. The rascal must have 
 had a perfect genius for accounts. Every purchase has been 
 entered books, furniture, pictures, objets d'art, as our 
 friend calls them, and precious stones. The last may come 
 in useful. The estate seems to bring in very little. There 
 are only two farms outside the park walls. One of these 
 has apparently supplied the house, and the other has 
 brought in enough to keep up the roads and walls. 
 Expenses have amounted to six or seven thousand a year. 
 A lot of money has been spent in the garden, but the stables 
 have cost nothing much, and in other ways in which 
 expenses mount up in a house kept up like this it has been 
 saved. Sir Roderick lived entirely alone, and his personal 
 expenditure has been practically nil." 
 
 " What about the money Martin took ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " Phipp was quite right. He seems to have walked off 
 with little short of a thousand a year in hard cash. But it 
 is all down in the books, which you must remember were 
 kept in Sir Roderick's dressing room and were always under 
 his eye. Whatever he took before Sir Roderick's death 
 must have been known." 
 
 " A thousand a year seems to be a fair lump for a valet." 
 
 " Yes. And his actual wages at two pounds a week are 
 all down in black and white like everything else. Probably 
 the other money was disbursed on Sir Roderick's behalf. 
 That we don't know and apparently we are not intended 
 to know, for everything else is as plain as the nose in front 
 of your face. Now I'll tell you how you stand, Sir Guy 
 Bertram. You've got the forty thousand odd that remains 
 in the bank at Keswick. You've got this house and all the 
 treasures it contains, and they're worth almost anything you 
 like to name. Sir Roderick has spent what to anyone else
 
 MR. PHIPP EXPLAINS. 91 
 
 would be a large fortune on his purchases, and I know 
 enough about these things to be able to say that he was 
 scarcely capable of making a mistake. And when the 
 jewels are found, you will have them, or their value." 
 
 " Yes, when they are found," said Guy. 
 
 " Mr. Martin is not destined to enjoy his liberty for very 
 long," said Calthorp.
 
 CHAPTER VHL 
 
 CONJECTURES. 
 
 THE news of the disappearance of Sir Roderick's body 
 flew like wild-fire over the country and created a mighty 
 stir. The circumstances of his meteoric career in Parliament 
 were recalled to mind and his speeches dragged to light 
 out of " Hansard " and the Times. Very fine speeches some 
 of these were, and the greatest of parliamentary causeurs 
 was able to supply many an entertaining column of infor- 
 mation as to how the young under-secretary looked and 
 spoke when he first delivered them, his "copy "being illus- 
 trated with portraits of Sir Roderick by the greatest of par- 
 liamentary caricaturists, ^vho had never seen him. The story 
 of his romantic marriage with a penniless Italian beauty 
 was dilated upon, and his retirement from the world after 
 her death was treated from every point of view, but chiefly 
 from the sentimental, which is the point of view the British 
 public loves best. 
 
 The theory of theft for ransom, which had first occurred 
 to and then been rejected by Calthorp, was the one seized 
 on by all the papers, and many gruesome stories were dug 
 out of commonplace books and disinterred from the files of 
 old journals. No sooner had interest been aroused by the 
 remarkable story of the " Alleged Theft of a Baronet's Body," 
 than some fortunate weekly journal discovered and re- 
 produced an old print of " The Terraces and Cascade at 
 Merrilees, Cumberland, the seat of Sir Michael Bertram, 
 Baronet," which, although it left as much to be supplied by
 
 CONJECTURES. $3 
 
 the imagination as a black and white photograph of the 
 glories of a sunset, aroused interest in the beauties of Sir 
 Roderick's island paradise and doubled the number of 
 reporters who clamoured at the high gates of the five lodges. 
 Although the high wall round the park did not suffice to 
 keep these intrusive gentlemen from trespassing, only one of 
 them succeeded in setting foot on the island, in the guise of a 
 policeman ; and he was soon recognised for the jackdaw he 
 was by the peacocks whose feathers he had borrowed, and 
 ignominiously ejected from the lodge gates, without having 
 once pressed the button of his hand camera. 
 
 When the gossip about the beauties of Merrilees was at 
 its height the story of the jewels leaked out, and then of 
 their robbery ; and altogether there was a constant succession 
 of thrills and excitements, which kept the interest of the 
 public alive in Merrilees and its late owner for a longer 
 time than is usual with such nine days' wonders. 
 
 A considerable amount of this interest, it maybe supposed, 
 fell upon Guy, and he was surprised to find how well known 
 his previous life had become to the world at large, and also 
 what a lot of it there was to know. 
 
 An American paper, of which he received a copy later 
 for the Americans showed quite an intelligent interest in the 
 affair even went so far as to publish a long letter printed 
 over a facsimile of the way the Editor would have signed 
 Guy's name if it had happened to be his own, in which, 
 after relating in a thrilling and picturesque manner his 
 sensations on seeing the body of the uncle who had brought 
 him up from childhood and died in his arms carried away 
 before his eyes by four masked ruffians, who had previously 
 taken the precaution of gagging him and tying him to the 
 bedpost, he finished up with a high compliment to the well- 
 known love of liberty of the free and glorious American 
 people, in what connection it was not apparent. The letter
 
 94 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 was heralded by numerous headlines of a sensational and 
 arresting nature,and accompanied by portraits of Mr. Glad- 
 stone and H.R.H. the Duke of Connaught, both taken in 
 early youth, and labelled respectively " Sir Roderick C. 
 Bertram and Sir Guy K. Bertram." 
 
 I may be said shortly that in spite of the most confident 
 assurances of the gentlemen from Scotland Yard, in spite 
 of miraculously elucidated clues discovered at the rate of 
 two a day by the local police, no traces were found of Sir 
 Roderick's body and nothing was heard or seen of the two 
 fugitives, or of the enormous booty it was now admitted on 
 all hands that they must have carried away with them. 
 Calthorp, piecing together and rejecting evidence in a way 
 which left the searching wits of the detectives struggling 
 far behind him, had got no nearer the heart of the mystery 
 than before, and Guy had unwillingly come to the conclusion, 
 after living for a week in a turmoil of baseless surmise and 
 unfruitful exertion, that he would have to make up his 
 mind for the present to arrange his life on the basis of his 
 actual income, and not on that which he ought to have 
 possessed had not Sir Roderick behaved like a fool in buying 
 a million and a half pounds worth of jewels, and Martin 
 like a knave in stealing them. 
 
 The calls of his business had summoned Calthorp back 
 to London three days after their hurried journey north- 
 ward, and, left to himself, Guy fell a victim to the utmost 
 despondency. The beauties of his inherited home had no 
 power to soothe or please him, living amongst them 
 without a soul to talk to. The shadow of unexplained 
 mystery hung over *U1 like a blight, and two days after 
 Calthorp's departure he found himself unable to support 
 his state any longer, nnd formed the sudden resolution of 
 shutting up the house until such time as the recovery of 
 his fortune should enable him to revisit it in congenial
 
 CONJECTURES. 95 
 
 company. The interval between a decision formed and a 
 decision carried out was likely to be a short one with a 
 man of Guy's impulsive temperament, and within a week 
 of his arrival at Merrilees he had dismissed the greater part 
 of its staS of servants and left it to the care of Mrs. 
 Cheetham, with a maid or two to look after her and the 
 treasures under her care, and taken himself back to his 
 rooms in London. 
 
 So it came to pass that the month of June was not yet 
 over when Guy and Calthorp found themselves walking up 
 St. James's Street in the evening sunlight to dine together 
 at White's Club, and discuss the weighty matters which had 
 developed within so short a time. Guy had arrived in 
 town only half an hour before, and had wired to Calthorp 
 to meet him. Amidst the familiar surroundings of London, 
 at that hour of the day when it is blossoming out from a 
 city of work into a city of pleasure, the great house 
 amongst the lonely northern hills seemed as remote as a 
 half-forgotten dream. 
 
 The upstairs room of the club was full of diners, all 
 talking at once, but at Guy's entrance there was a pause, 
 and he realised for the first time that he was for the 
 moment one of the most discussed men in London. Those 
 in the room who knew him made haste to claim acquaint- 
 ance, and those who did not regarded him with an air of 
 interest and curiosity. Dining at one of the tables was 
 George Greenfield, as the guest of Mr. Robert Conder, M.P., 
 a young gentleman whose legislative duties seemed to sit 
 lightly on him, for there were few traces of care on his 
 round and cheerful countenance. 
 
 " There's no table," said Guy ; " let's go and sit with 
 Bobby Conder and George. I don't mind talking before 
 them." 
 
 " Well, Guy," said George, as they took their seats.
 
 96 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Your name is in all the papers, and your portrait stares at 
 us from all the shop windows. If the populace at large 
 knew you were sitting in this room there would be a crowd 
 outside that would stop the traffic." 
 
 " There is a little too much notoriety about my position 
 at the present juncture of affairs to suit my fastidious 
 taste," said Guy. 
 
 " You're like a fellow in a novel," said Bobby Conder. 
 " Sherry ? No, thank you." 
 
 " I wish I were more like a fellow in real life," said Guy. 
 " It is annoying to come into a pot of money and to find 
 that somebody has walked off with it." 
 
 " My friend, Mr. Richard Calthorp, the eminent solicitor, 
 who will some day bombard me with briefs, will get that 
 back for you, or I overrate his abilities," said George. 
 " Had any luck yet, Dick ? " asked Bobby Conder. 
 " Not yet," said Calthorp. 
 
 * Although the police are reticent," said George, " it is 
 breaking no confidence to say that they are hot on the 
 track of the culprits, and confidently expect to bring them 
 to justice within a short period." 
 
 "Tell us about it," said Bobby Conder. "That is if 
 you've got no objection." 
 
 ' Not the least," said Guy. " The story is common pro- 
 perty now. And I never saw Roderick Bertram in my life.'* 
 " There is a certain ' mystery of motive, isn't there ? ** 
 asked George. " From what I've read it seems unlikely 
 that they should be holding the body for ransom when they 
 have got off with all that property. But the papers don't 
 seem to spot the contradiction." 
 
 " With your customary perspicacity, you have put your 
 finger on a point," said Calthorp, " a point upon which, I 
 may mention, my own particular digit was firmly planted 
 some time ago."
 
 CONJECTURES. 97 
 
 ** In my own mind," said George, " I separate the dis 
 appearance of the body and the theft of the jewels. Of 
 course, I have no data to go on beyond what are known to 
 everybody." 
 
 " But how can you separate them ? ** asked Bobby 
 Conder. "The body and the jewels disappeared at the 
 same time, and Martin took 'em both." 
 
 " So it appears, most sapient one," said George ; ** but 
 you will admit that it is at least curious that a gentleman 
 who has set himself the task of getting away with a great 
 treasure should choose to encumber himself with a dead 
 body which, as far as one can see, cannot be of much use 
 to him." 
 
 Bobby Conder admitted that this was certainly so, and 
 that he had not hitherto regarded the matter in that light. 
 
 " If Guy has no objection, I might as well tell you what 
 we know," said Calthorp. " Four heads are better than 
 two, and as long as nothing we say here goes any further 
 we sha'n't be doing any harm." 
 
 Guy having disclaimed any preference for an unduly 
 close secrecy, and George and Bobby Conder having under- 
 taken to keep to themselves whatever should be disclosed 
 to them, Calthorp told them what Mrs. Cheetham had 
 conjectured and the reasons she had given for her con- 
 jectures. 
 
 " The idea has more probability than any I have been 
 able to evolve," said George when he had finished, " and 
 I have thought about this business a good deal. What do 
 you think of it yourself ? " 
 
 " I think enough of it to have acted on it,** replied 
 Calthorp. " If it is as Mrs. Cheetham thinks, we should 
 run Mr. Martin to earth at the place where Lady Bertram 
 was buried, and before I left Merrilees Guy and I tried to 
 find out where that place was. We had an unexpected 
 
 H.M.
 
 98 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 difficulty. Neither the butler nor the housekeeper, who 
 were both at Merrilees at the time, could call it to mind. 
 All they remembered was that she had died in Italy. And 
 there was no paper or anything in the house that gave us 
 light. I got at it when I returned to town by looking up 
 old files of newspapers. The place was said to be Assisi, 
 and I wired this to Guy and got him to try it on the old 
 people." 
 
 " Which I did with success," put in Guy. " They both 
 declared, now we came to mention it, that Martin had 
 spoken of Assisi as the place of Lady Bertram's death and 
 burial." 
 
 " So you sent out to Assisi ? " said George. 
 
 " I did," replied Calthorp, " and this morning I received 
 this curious piece of information. There is no trace of 
 Lady Bertram's having been buried there at all." 
 
 " There must be a death certificate, if not a burial certifi- 
 cate," said George. 
 
 "There is neither. And here is another curious thing. 
 The actual announcement in the Times stated only that 
 Lady Bertram had died in Italy. Here it is : ' On March 
 I4th, 1 8 , while travelling in Italy, Francesca, wife of Sir 
 Roderick Bertram, Bart., and infant son.' It was only in 
 the slightly padded statements in other parts of the paper 
 that Assisi was mentioned." 
 
 " What do you make of it ? " asked George. 
 
 " Nothing much ; it was probably known that they had 
 been at Assisi, and she may have been taken ill there, was 
 moved on somewhere, perhaps on their way home, and she 
 and the child died and were buried in some unknown place." 
 
 " It may be that this mystification was introduced 
 deliberately five-and- twenty years ago," said George. 
 M Martin's plans seem to be deep ones." 
 
 * That may be so," replied Calthorp. " At any rate it
 
 CONJECTURES. 99 
 
 would be useful to him now, supposing him to be conveying 
 Sir Roderick's body to his wife's grave. By the time we 
 have traced it he may have effected his purpose and got 
 clear away again." 
 
 " It ought not to be very difficult to find out where Lady 
 Bertram died," said Bobby Conder. 
 
 " I don't think it will," said Calthorp. " If they were at 
 Assisi at all we ought to be able to trace them. They were 
 of some importance, a man of Sir Roderick's reputation 
 at the time travelling with his wife and a certain following. 
 The man I have sent over there is doing all he can, and I 
 expect to hear from him again in a day or two." 
 
 " It is just as well to follow up every clue," said George. 
 " But after all, I think that this is an unlikely one. With 
 the whole country roused against him, I should say Martin 
 would find it absolutely impossible to get the body away 
 from England." 
 
 "That's what I think," said Guy. " There are absolutely 
 no traces of them up in Cumberland, and all the coast is 
 being watched." 
 
 " I expect the body will be found buried somewhere near 
 the house," said Bobby Conder. 
 
 " I should say," said Guy, " that by this time every foot 
 of ground on the island and within the park walls has been 
 examined, and the lake has been dragged from end to end. 
 But it may be outside the park. There is a little gate in 
 the wall to which Martin had a key." 
 
 " Well, we shall see," said Calthorp. " The reward has 
 been doubled, and there must be hundreds of people on the 
 search. If it has been buried anywhere near the place it 
 will be found very soon." 
 
 " And what about the jewels ? " asked George. 
 
 M I don't think you can avoid the conviction that Mr. 
 Martin has walked off \v : th them with a view of disposing 
 
 H 2
 
 too 
 
 of them for his own benefit,'* replied Calthorp. " He may 
 have been as devoted to Sir Roderick as the housekeeper 
 said he was, but there is no particular reason why he should 
 have put himself out for Sir Roderick's successor, and 1 
 daresay he thought he could make as good a use of a large 
 fortune as Guy. Let us be charitable and suppose that, 
 having had such a large share in the business of getting 
 them together, he had come to believe that they belonged 
 to him as much as to anybody." 
 
 " He'll find they don't when we nab him," said Guy. " And 
 I hope that will be pretty soon." 
 
 "Are you going to take up your abode at Merrilees, 
 Guy ? " asked Bobby Conder. " It must be a fine place 
 from what one hears." 
 
 "My dear Bobby," said Guy, "you don't realise that 
 that scoundrel has walked off with pretty nearly everything. 
 Until he is run to earth and made to disgorge, I've got no 
 money to keep up Merrilees or any other place. As a 
 matter of fact, I'm very little better off than I was before." 
 
 "That's hard luck," said Bobby Conder. "Doesn't the 
 place bring in anything ? " 
 
 " Practically nothing." 
 
 "It contains a large fortune in treasures of art, and 
 that sort of thing," said Calthorp. " If its contents were 
 sold " 
 
 " But I'm not going to sell them," interrupted Guy " at 
 least, not until I'm obliged. I'm going to let the place. 
 What do you think it ought to let for, Dick ? " 
 
 " I should think you might get about a thousand a year 
 if the right man came along," said Calthorp. " It is out 
 of the way, and there is nothing to shoot there. But the 
 place is unique, and it is being well advertised for us." 
 
 " Well, I sha'n't be so badly off in the meantime if I get 
 that for it," said Guy, who was by nature inclined to take
 
 CONJECTURES. 101 
 
 cheerful views. " I shall build a cottage in the country. 
 I've always wanted to do that, and I don't know that I 
 sha'n't enjoy it more than living in that enormous great 
 place. So if any of you have got a tame millionaire up 
 his sleeve who wants a fine country house, and doesn't 
 mind what he pays for it, just put him on to me." 
 
 " I believe my uncle Caradoc might take it if it's every- 
 thing the papers say it is," said Bobby Conder. " I know 
 he's on the look-out for a place away from his beastly 
 coal-mines." 
 
 " What, Lord Caradoc, the historian ? " exclaimed 
 George. " Book him, Guy. Your name will go down to 
 posterity if he writes his book in your house." 
 
 "It might be worth while to send Lord Caradoc 
 particulars of the place," said Calthorp. 
 
 " He wouldn't open your letter," said Bobby Conder, 
 "and if he did he wouldn't answer it. He lives in the 
 Middle Ages, and don't understand the workings of the 
 penny post. If you were to engage a beefeater, and send 
 him round with particulars on a roll of parchment, you 
 might run some chance of arousing his attention." 
 
 "That seems probable," said Calthorp. "But such a 
 course does not come within my conceptions of the fitting 
 way to approach a possible client. I might call on him." 
 
 " People don't generally call upon him when he's in 
 London," said Bobby Conder ; " at least, they don't call 
 twice. I can do a bit in the conversational line myself 
 with most people, but when you are shown into a room 
 and find an old gentleman snowed up under books and 
 papers, and he says, ' How do you do ? ' with a ' Say-what- 
 you've-got-to-say-and-clear-out ' sort of air, it don't make 
 you feel in your very chattiest mood." 
 
 " How is he to be got at, then ? " inquired Calthorp. 
 " Would you suggest a bomb outside his front door ? **
 
 102 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said Bobby Conder. " Mind you, I 
 really believe he might take the place if you could bring 
 home to him that it is what he wants, or else it wouldn't 
 be worth while trying to break through to what brain he's 
 got for nineteenth century affairs. He comes out of his 
 shell once a year, and sits through the Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge cricket match from beginning to end. Why he does 
 it I don't know. I don't suppose he could tell the dif- 
 ference between a cricket bat and a a tilting spear. But 
 he has done it ever since they played cricket in top hats, 
 and he'll be at Lord's next week. I shall be there on 
 Thursday, at any rate, and he'll be lunching at our 
 table. If you and Dick will come too, I'll introduce 
 you to him, and you can land him with the house and 
 clear out." 
 
 " It might be worth trying," said Guy. " Can you come, 
 Dick?" 
 
 " I'm very busy," said Calthorp, " but I'll make an 
 effort," and he booked the engagement in his note-book. 
 
 When dinner was over, and the party had sat for half an 
 hour in the room downstairs, Guy suggested an adjournment 
 to some place of entertainment. 
 
 " Let us revel," he said. " I want to get the taste of this 
 beastly mystery out of my mouth." 
 
 Bobby Conder showed no disinclination to indulge for 
 an hour or two in lighter pursuits than those of walking 
 in and out of division lobbies and listening to debates, 
 or smoking cigarettes in an underground cellar. But 
 George dissuaded him. 
 
 " No, no," he said. " Bobby isn't paired. He mustn't be 
 allowed to incur the displeasure of the Whips. Why, his 
 absence might upset the Government. Bobby is going 
 down to the House like a good little member of Parlia- 
 ment, and I am going with him to listen to the bulwark of
 
 CONJECTURES. 103 
 
 our nation's liberties if you can properly be said to listen 
 to a bulwark." 
 
 "Let's just drop into the Alhambra for half an hour," 
 urged Bobby Conder. " There's that new Spanish dancer. 
 She's rippin*. There's nothing going on in the House, and 
 there are plenty of them without me." 
 
 "No, my budding Premier," said George. "You will 
 come along with me and help make your country's laws, 
 which we have all got to obey when you have made them." 
 
 " What an insistent fellow you are ! " said Bobby Conder, 
 ruefully. " I did want to see that dancer. But have it 
 your own way." 
 
 Guy went out with them while they put on their coats. 
 
 " How is Mrs. Greenfield ? " he asked George. 
 
 "Very well, thanks," replied George. " She'll be 
 interested to hear I've met you now you've become such 
 a public character." 
 
 " And Miss Richards ? " 
 
 "Peggy is at present finishing her education in Paris. 
 She, also, will be interested in news of you." 
 
 44 You might remember me to her when you write," said 
 Guy diffidently. 
 
 " I will," said George. " Now then, young Palmerston, 
 are we going to walk or take a cab ? H
 
 CHAPTER DL 
 
 LORD CARADOC AMD A CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 CARADOC, i6th Baron (cr. 1417), Rev. Owe 
 Joseph Caradoc, D.C.L. (Oxon.), LL.D. (Cam- 
 bridge and Dublin), F.R.S., b. 18 , 2nd $. of 
 I4th Baron and Letitia, d. of Sir Raymond 
 Mandrake, 8th Bt. ; 5. b. 18 ; m. Louisa, d t 
 of ist Lord Conder (she died 18 ). Educ.t 
 Privately, and at Univ. Coll., Oxford. B.A, 
 18 ; ist class Lit Hum.; M.A. 18 ; Fellow 
 of All Souls' ; Hon. Fellow of Univ. Coll. and 
 St. John's Coll., Cambridge; Foreign Knight 
 of the Order Pour le Merite, 18 ; correspond- 
 ing member of Institute of France ; rector of 
 Treglith, Glamorgan, 18 . Publications : The 
 Rise of the English Universities ; Roger Ascham; 
 The Authorship of Eikon Basilike ; The Uni- 
 versity of Bologna ; History of Socinianism ; 
 England's Relations with the Continent in tha 
 Middle Ages, vols. i. to vii. Owns about 48,700 
 acres. Heir: d. Hon. Cicely Mary Caradoc, 
 ft. 18 . Recreations : Acquisition of foreign 
 languages; botany. Address: Caradoc Castle, 
 Carnarvon; 153, Berkeley Square, S.W. ChA: 
 Athenaeum. 
 
 THERE, in a nutshell, extracted from the pages of a useful 
 work of reference, are set forth the titles, honours, history, 
 wealth, and position of an old gentleman who, accompanied 
 by a young girl the Hon. Cicely Mary Caradoc, in 
 fact, of the above extract took his seat in a shady stand 
 at Lord's Cricket Ground on a fine morning early in July,
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. 105 
 
 prepared to watch the rival Universities do battle for some- 
 thing like the fortieth time. Other old gentlemen in the 
 Pavilion and in other seats in the various stands were pre- 
 paring themselves for a similar experience, but it is doubtful 
 whether any of them had done the thing so systematically 
 as this particular one for so many years past. Bobby 
 Conder's disrespectful statement that his uncle knew 
 nothing whatever about the game of cricket must be con- 
 sidered an exaggeration, although it was perfectly true that 
 the Oxford and Cambridge match was the only one at 
 which Lord Caradoc ever put in an appearance as a 
 spectator. Judging from the way in which he watched every 
 ball and every stroke from behind a pair of gold-rimmed 
 eyeglasses, perched on a high-bridged aristocratic nose, and 
 from the precise manner in which he recorded the progress 
 of the game on his " correct card of the match " with an 
 aristocratic gold pencil-case, and the reminiscences of other 
 matches with which he favoured his companion, whose 
 attention often wandered from the game itself to the 
 spectators around her, he took a very considerable interest 
 in it indeed, and understood its points perhaps as well as 
 Mr. Bobby Conder himself. In fact, in the early days 
 of his residence at the University of Oxford, a good many 
 years previously, although not perhaps at the time when 
 cricket was commonly played in tall hats, Mr. Owen 
 Caradoc, as he was then, had been noted for his delivery 
 of very fast underhand balls of a disconcerting gyratory 
 tendency, and if other pursuits had not claimed his attention 
 in place of that of the national game, it is quite possible 
 that he might himself have taken part in the great match 
 which he had watched with such close attention every year 
 since that time. 
 
 As, for reasons of our own, we have suppressed the exact 
 dates which are set forth with such accuracy in the wori
 
 to6 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 of reference from which we have quoted, it may be said 
 that Lord Caradoc had spent the greater part of his life 
 engaged in the pursuit of knowledge in the retirement of a 
 country rectory, where he had the spiritual oversight, 
 according to Crockford, of 247 souls, and a net income 
 from his benefice of the inconsiderable sum of 17 pei 
 annum, with what Mr. Crockford, in his pleasant way, 
 is accustomed to call a " ho.," which means a house, and 
 twenty-six acres of glebe. Here his daughter had been 
 born and his wife had died, though he would have found 
 some difficulty in fixing the date of those events, and, if you 
 had asked him the question suddenly, might even have 
 hesitated as to which had occurred first. His elder brother 
 having died unmarried, the rector of Treglith had found 
 himself at the age of fifty-seven saddled with a large landed 
 estate and an enormous house, somewhat marred from the 
 point of view of peaceful retirement by the proximity of 
 several coal-mines, from which a surprising number of 
 thousands of pounds found their way annually into his 
 pocket. A seat in the House of Lords which he had no 
 desire to occupy and a voice in the conclaves of the nation 
 which he was very far from wishing to exercise were also 
 contingent on his newly acquired responsibilities. 
 
 These several demands upon his lordship's time and 
 attention caused him acute annoyance. He had felt little 
 regret at relinquishing his cure of souls, for he had never 
 been without an uneasy feeling that it was incumbent upon 
 him in the exercise of his clerical functions to express some 
 interest in the lives of his parishioners ; but as he had never 
 been able to remember the names of any of them, or who 
 they were, or anything about them, this had not been 
 possible, and it was a relief to be rid of the suspicion that 
 something might be reasonably expected of him that he 
 was not able to carry out. The house, however, to which,
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. 107 
 
 although small, he had grown accustomed, and the twenty- 
 six acres of glebe, most of which he had converted by 
 degrees into a botanical garden of some degree of fame 
 amongst horticulturists, he was very loath to give up. 
 Caradoc Castle, a very old house very much modernised, 
 with its formal gardens, greenhouses, orchid houses, forcing 
 houses, vineries, pinetums, and what not, all kept up 
 at vast expense in order that the head gardener might win 
 prizes at horticultural shows all over the kingdom, thrilled 
 him with disgust, and he had never been able to bring him- 
 self to inhabit it. The money that accrued to him in 
 invasions of figures on the credit side of his bank-book he 
 had not the slightest use for, and having been driven out 
 of his peaceful rectory, he had cut the knot of his difficulties 
 by removing himself, his books and papers and his young 
 daughter, to the house in Berkeley Square, where he greatly 
 missed his garden, but had not, during the five years in 
 which he had enjoyed his new honours, been able to make 
 up his mind to acquire another house in the country which 
 would suit him better than Caradoc Castle. 
 
 This was the old gentleman who sat amongst the crowd 
 at Lord's on a fine July morning watching the progress of 
 the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. 
 
 He was a tall and spare old gentleman, somewhat 
 withered by the course of years, like an autumn stalk of 
 uncut grass that has lost its natural juices, but otherwise 
 vigorous and active. At a time when men of all ages wear 
 the same sort of clothes, so that you may see a boy fresh 
 from the sixth form and his grandfather dressed by the 
 same tailor, haberdasher, hatter, and bootmaker, and in 
 much the same style, Lord Caradoc had managed to pre- 
 serve an old-fashioned primness about his attire. His hat 
 had a broad brim. His shirt was of fine unstarched linen, 
 with wristbands very little stiffened and a front pleated in
 
 io8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 such a way as almost to suggest a frill. His coat was 
 hardly a frock coat and hardly what is called a morning 
 coat, but partook of the nature of both. It was very neat 
 and very unobtrusive, and fitted his tall spare figure very 
 well. His trousers were of a dark pepper-and-salt pattern, 
 narrow, and coming well down over his square-toed boots. 
 His tie of white cambric was the only thing about his 
 dress that suggested his profession. He wore round his 
 neck a thin gold chain, and on his nose the gold-rimmed 
 glasses before referred to, and he looked a very aristocratic, 
 learned, precise gentleman of the old school. 
 
 The young girl who sat beside him bore in some unde- 
 finable way a resemblance to her father. She was tall, and, 
 young as she was, and not yet taken out and introduced to 
 the world, she had the same air of breeding. But there the 
 resemblance ended. The shy dove's eyes, the soft cheek on 
 which the colour came and went so readily, the rounded 
 slimness of her young form in its summer attire of dainty 
 simplicity, made as great a contrast as it would be possible 
 to find to the prim dried-up old gentleman by her side. 
 
 The pair had sat there since the first ball had been 
 bowled, Lord Caradoc intently watching the progress of 
 the game, and Cicely, after the first few overs and a fallen 
 wicket had somewhat taken the edge off her interest, 
 watching no less intently the benches, now gradually filling 
 around her. Life was a book of which as yet she had 
 scarcely read more than the preface, and that had not 
 interested her greatly. But she had just begun to realise 
 that the book itself might be worth reading, although she 
 had hardly begun to speculate on the contents, and these 
 people around her were, perhaps, some of them, in the most 
 exciting chapters. Hence her interest in them and in all 
 humankind such as had not, like her father, readied the 
 duller pages towards the end.
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. 109 
 
 When the luncheon interval arrived they walked together 
 on the grass, which was soon covered with a crowd that 
 looked as if it could not possibly have contained itself in 
 the restricted limits to which it had been confined while 
 the great expanse of green was given up to the perambu- 
 lations of thirteen young men and two middle-aged ones. 
 All the people who had overflowed the great green lawn 
 seemed to be either talking or laughing to each other or 
 meeting friends with whom they talked or laughed, breaking 
 up into fresh groups and continually stopping again and 
 re-sorting themselves ; and Cicely was inclined to think 
 that the Oxford and Cambridge match might be rather 
 more amusing than it was if there were a little less 
 cricket and a little more walking and talking, and more 
 especially so if she had a great many friends whom she 
 should constantly be meeting, instead of the one single and 
 rather dusty old clergyman who was just now engaging her 
 father in conversation and was the first person so far who 
 had done more than greet them with a sign of recognition. 
 
 The dusty old clergyman proved to be a college contem- 
 porary of her father's who actually had played in the match 
 against Cambridge at a time when Mr. Owen Caradoc had 
 left off bowling those puzzling underhand balls, and was 
 taking his first plunge into the researches from which he 
 had emerged only on very rare occasions ever since. Their 
 talk was of cricket of the past, and Cicely looked about 
 her again to see if there was nobody at all whom she knew 
 amongst all that gay crowd. Ah ! This was better. Here 
 were her cousins, the Conders, a large party of them, 
 with whom she and her father were to lunch, and with 
 them a very good-looking young man, whose face seemed 
 unaccountably familiar to her, and another tall, grave 
 and amazingly well-groomed young man whose face was 
 not familiar. There was a large number of Conders, all
 
 no THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 round-faced and freckled, looking very clean and healthy, 
 as if they had spent a considerable portion of their time 
 being washed and then hung out to dry in the sun. 
 
 There was her uncle, Lord Conder, very cheerful and 
 bucolic, with his freckles drowned in a wash of vermilion, 
 who said, " Howdy do ? Howdy do ? " very heartily to all 
 his acquaintances. There was Bobby Conder, the member 
 of Parliament, whose freckles had been to some extent 
 eradicated for the time being by late hours and the insipid 
 aif of division lobbies. There was Algy Conder, the Life- 
 guardsman, whose freckles had got crowded up into a 
 sort of triangle of white skin in a corner of his forehead, 
 while the rest of his face had been burnt into a more fiery 
 red than that of his father's by the hot suns of Salisbury 
 Plain. There was Freddy Conder, the sailor, whose freckles 
 had been spread all over his face by the sun and wind of 
 the Pacific Ocean, and Dicky Conder, home on leave from 
 Eton, whose freckles had overflowed his face and got into 
 his hair, leaving it very bright and conspicuous. And there 
 were Mary and Maggie and Florrie and Katie and Elsie and 
 Daisy Conder, a smiling collection of girls, ranging from 
 two-and-twenty down to thirteen, whose freckles confined 
 themselves chiefly to the bridges of their little noses, and in 
 the case of the two elder ones, by dint of the careful use of 
 veils and parasols, had almost been got rid of for the period 
 of the London season, but not quite. All this brisk and 
 smiling bevy of round-faced Conders, whose natures seemed 
 to have been touched by the sun as well as their faces, 
 swarmed round Cicely and plied her with cousinly greetings. 
 Elsie and Daisy, who were twins, took hold of an arm each 
 and constituted themselves a bodyguard. Cicely looked 
 like a blush rose between two nasturtiums. The dusty old 
 clergyman, somewhat alarmed by this invasion, took him- 
 self off, and Lord Caradoc, shaking hands with a great
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH, in 
 
 many young people whom he dimly remembered having 
 seen somewhere before, seemed to wake up to the fact that 
 his brother-in-law had a family of a considerable size. 
 
 " Time for lunch, children ! " said cheerful little Lord 
 Conder. *' We ought to be able to pick up a bit now. Eh, 
 what ? " 
 
 They made their way to the shady garden behind the 
 Pavilion, where a table was spread under a tent, and where 
 Lady Conder, a placid little lady, round-faced, too, but not 
 after the freckled Conder fashion, was awaiting them with 
 two or three other members of their party. On their way to 
 the tent Elsie and Daisy were detached, after some little 
 remonstrance on their part, from their cousin's side, and Guy 
 Bertram was introduced to her by Mary, in whose demeanour 
 might have been detected a considerable pride in Cicely's 
 beauty, and a feeling of relief that, amongst such a plethora 
 of freckled Conders, here was a companion that a young 
 man accustomed to sun himself in the beams of feminine 
 beauty could not but feel himself more naturally allied to. 
 But Guy took the introduction quite coolly. Cicely was 
 very pretty, but she was very young and very shy, and he 
 soon dropped back to laugh and joke with Maggie and 
 Florrie, while his place was taken by Freddy Conder, who 
 had not seen his cousin for three years, and was anxious to 
 rally her in a breezy sea- going way on the immense improve- 
 ment that had taken place during that time in her general 
 appearance. 
 
 Cicely responded as well as she could to her cousin's chaff 
 without paying much attention to it. Sir Guy Bertram ! 
 Of course, she had recognised him the young man whose 
 portrait had been in all the illustrated papers, who was the 
 hero of such a romantic story, and the owner of a lovely 
 place, which by a strange turn in the wheel of fortune he was 
 unable to inhabit His loss did not seem to occasion him
 
 iia THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 much regret, judging from the light-hearted way in which 
 he was laughing and talking behind her. It would be 
 different when the wickets were drawn in the evening, and 
 the ground shut up, and all the gay throng had dispersed to 
 their respective places of abode. Then he would throw off 
 the gallant face with which he met the buffets of fortune 
 before the world, and brood over the maddening obstacle 
 which he was powerless to remove. Guy's story, as told in 
 the papers she had read, had taken hold of Cicely's imagina- 
 tion. She felt very sorry for him, and admired not a little 
 the brave way in which he was evidently facing his disap- 
 pointment 
 
 Lord Caradoc, seated on Lady Conder's right at the head 
 of the long table crowded with cold viands, flowers and 
 fruit, and cooling drinks, seemed to wake up to the con- 
 viction that a meal eaten in company was a not unpleasant 
 experience, if not repeated too often say about six times a 
 year and chatted quietly, but cheerfully, with his hostess 
 And surely the table at which he was sitting was the gayest 
 and brightest amongst the many that were spread under 
 the tents which surrounded Lord's Cricket Ground. There 
 was a continuous babble of talk and merry laughter from 
 the whole tribe of freckled Conders and their friends, and 
 everyone appeared in the highest good humour. A con- 
 stant succession of guests appeared at intervals and dropped 
 into the empty places at the table, always with a delighted 
 word of welcome from Lord Conder, and everyone seemed 
 to fall instantly into the humour of their hosts, and began 
 to talk and laugh and make jokes the moment they had 
 taken their seats, as if the world was the most cheerful and 
 interesting place imaginable, and there was never a moment 
 in which to feel dull or languid of mind. 
 
 After luncheon, when the men were left to themselves for 
 a few minutes, Bobby Conder took Guy and Calthorp up to
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. 113 
 
 the end of the table where Lord Caradoc was sitting, and 
 introduced them. 
 
 Lord Caradoc, under the unwonted stimulus he was 
 undergoing, was perhaps in a more fitting frame of mind to 
 discuss a matter having definite bearings on life in the 
 nineteenth century than would be the case until the Oxford 
 and Cambridge match should come round again in the 
 course of the following summer. To Bobby Conder's 
 inquiry as to whether he wasn't thinking of taking a 
 country house somewhere with a beautiful garden he 
 replied genially : 
 
 " My dear Robert, take me away from Berkeley Square, 
 and put me down anywhere in the country a hundred miles 
 away from Caradoc Castle and two hundred from a coal- 
 mine, and you will confer a favour on me which 1 shall 
 endeavour not to forget." 
 
 " You have heard of Merrilees, Bertram's place in Cumber- 
 land ? " hazarded Bobby. 
 
 Lord Caradoc couldn't say that he had. " Was there any 
 coal anywhere near it ? " 
 
 " A few tons in the cellars. That's all," said Guy, speak- 
 ing rather loudly, as if Lord Caradoc was slightly deaf, 
 which he undoubtedly was where ordinary conversation was 
 concerned. 
 
 " It is that lovely place on an island in the middle of a lake 
 with Italian terraces," said Bobby. " You know, Uncle Owen, 
 where Sir Roderick Bertram shut himself up for so many 
 years." 
 
 " Roderick Bertram! " said Lord Caradoc. "Oh, I know 
 all about Roderick Bertram. He wants to let the place, 
 does he ? " 
 
 " He's dead, you know, Uncle Owen," said Bobby Conder. 
 " Bertram here is his cousin. Merrilees belongs to him now, 
 and he wants to let it, and to you, if you'll take it.** 
 
 H.M. I
 
 114 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 "It sounds very nice," said Lord Caradoc. ** Is there a 
 bit of garden where I could put in a few plants and see them 
 come up ? That's what I want, you know. Don't care a 
 bit about great beds of geraniums, and that sort of thing." 
 
 " It is one of the most beautiful gardens in England," 
 said Guy, " and there is hardly a formal bed in it. I can 
 send you along some photographs, if you like." 
 
 "Sounds very nice," said Lord Caradoc again. "Not 
 overlooked at all, I suppose ? " 
 
 " It stands alone on an island in the middle of a lake, 
 Uncle Owen," said Bobby Conder. 
 
 "And there's a park round the lake, and a high wall 
 round the park," added Guy. 
 
 " Come, that's better," said Lord Caradoc. " Sounds as 
 if you might keep pretty quiet if you wished to, and do a 
 little writing and so forth. Is there a room in the house 
 where I could put a few books and papers ? " 
 
 " There's a very fine library," said Guy. 
 
 "Any good books ? " inquired Lord Caradoc. 
 
 " Yes," said Guy. " The whole collection must be a 
 good one. I believe my cousin, Sir Roderick Bertram, 
 added to it very largely." 
 
 Lord Caradoc turned round sharply in his chair. 
 
 " Sir Roderick Bertram 1 " he exclaimed, " the man who 
 bought the Ffoulkes Library ! God bless my soul ! His 
 house, is it ? Why didn't you say so before ? Oh, I'll 
 take the house by all means. If you will kindly instruct 
 your men of business to communicate with my men of 
 business, Messrs. Messrs. the name escapes me for the 
 moment, but if Robert will come round with me to 
 Berkeley Square this evening, I can tell him. Oh, the 
 Ffoulkes Library ! I'm very much indebted to you for 
 giving me the opportunity of taking the place." 
 
 ** I shall be very pleased to have such a tenant, Lord
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. .15 
 
 Caradoc," said Guy. * I will give you any other information 
 about the place that you may like to hear. Mr. Calthorp will 
 act for me as far as business arrangements are concerned." 
 
 Guy indicated Calthorp, with whom Lord Caradoc cour- 
 teously shook hands, oblivious of his previous introduction. 
 
 " How do you do, sir ? " said Lord Caradoc. " My 
 solicitors, Messrs. Walters and Venable, of Lombard Street, 
 are good enough to take the burden of financial manage- 
 ment off my shoulders. If you will kindly communicate 
 with them, they will no doubt signify me when the necessary 
 preliminaries are completed. That is all, I suppose, that we 
 can do in the matter at present. And, Robert, you will come 
 round to Berkeley Square, will you, before dinner, to'* 
 
 " To get the names of Messrs. Walters and Venable, of 
 Lombard Street, Uncle Owen ? " inquired Bobby Conder, 
 with a broad grin on his face. 
 
 " Ah, that's it ; that's the name," acquiesced Lord Caradoc. 
 " But, bless my soul, boy," he added in great amazement, 
 " how did you know that ? " 
 
 " The name is a household word," put in Calthorp. " I 
 will communicate with them at once." 
 
 " There is one thing, perhaps, that I ought to mention," 
 said Guy. " My cousin, Roderick Bertram, died at Merrilees 
 a short time ago, under somewhat mysterious circumstances, 
 and " 
 
 " Dear me, 1 am very sorry to hear that," said Lord 
 Caradoc. " He had been ill some months, had he not ? I 
 do not recollect meeting with him lately." 
 
 "Nobody has seen him for five-and-twenty years," said 
 Guy, somewhat at a loss to know how to bring home what 
 everybody was talking about to one who showed himself so 
 sublimely unconscious of popular interests. " He died sud- 
 denly, but the circumstances of his death were not so mys- 
 terious as the sudden disappearance of his body the day after.** 
 
 i a
 
 Ii6 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Dear me ! " commented Lord Caradoc. 
 
 "ft might be necessary," said Calthorp, "to insert a 
 clause in our agreement to the effect that we reserve to our- 
 selves the right of entrance to the house at any time, in 
 order to clear up the mystery." 
 
 " I should have no objection to that," said Lord Caradoc, 
 " provided I could keep my few books and papers undis- 
 turbed, and that as little noise might be made as possible. 
 But details of that sort had better be discussed with my 
 men of business." 
 
 "We shall give you as little trouble as possible," said 
 Calthorp. 
 
 Cicely did not return to her seat by her father after 
 luncheon. She was happier on the box seat of her uncle's 
 drag, which was drawn up in a position favourable for 
 watching both the progress of the game and the stream of 
 people which flowed outside the line of carriages and the 
 huge encircling stands, people who made sudden efforts to 
 catch a fleeting glimpse of the players when an outburst of 
 cheering indicated that something worth seeing had been 
 done at the wickets or in the field, and then contentedly 
 resumed their perambulations. Here, somewhat to her 
 surprise she was not quite sure whether she was pleased 
 or not Guy Bertram climbed from the back of the coach 
 and sat down beside her, dispossessing a Conder twin for 
 the second time, much to that twin's disappointment. 
 
 " Your father is going to be my tenant in my house in 
 Cumberland, Miss Caradoc," said Guy. " We haven't 
 taken long to settle it up, have we ? " 
 
 Cicely looked at him in surprise, a blush rising to her 
 forehead and spreading over her cheeks. 
 
 " My father ? " she said. " Merrilees ? " 
 
 " Ah, you have read about the place, I suppose ; every- 
 body has been talking about it lately. Yes, Bobby thought
 
 LORD CARADOC AND A CRICKET MATCH. 117 
 
 he might like it, you know. It is a lovely place with a 
 lovely garden, and it seems there is a library of books 
 which Lord Caradoc wants to have the use of. So our 
 respective lawyers are going to settle it all up for us." 
 
 " I shall be glad to live in the country again," said 
 Cicely ; " London is rather dull for me, except to-day : I 
 like this." 
 
 " You will like Merrilees, I expect," said Guy. '* It 
 really is a lovely place. I wish I could afford to live there 
 myself, but I can't, so it's no good grumbling about it." 
 
 " Do you want to live there very much ? " asked Cicely, 
 shyly. 
 
 " Rather ! " replied Guy, quite cheerfully. " If you come 
 across a million and a half pounds' worth of jewels lying 
 about the house anywhere you'll let me know, won't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, I wish I could find them for you," said Cicely, 
 seriously. 
 
 " Ah, I'm afraid that isn't so easy. Mr. Martin, of whom 
 you have probably read, has made a clean sweep of them, 
 and here am I in consequence an unfortunate beggar with 
 very little to bless himself with. Everybody knows all 
 about me through the kind offices of the daily press, so, you 
 see, I've nothing to conceal. Oh, excuse me, I must go and 
 talk to those people." 
 
 Guy clambered somewhat hurriedly off the coach, and 
 Cicely watched him go up to a tall handsome man who 
 was passing in company with a girl, dark and very pretty, 
 and. well dressed in a simple costume that bore the stamp 
 of Paris. She saw him stop the man, who greeted him 
 with warmth, and shake hands with the girl, who turned a 
 laughing, roguish face on him, and then the three were lost 
 in the crowd of people walking round and round the ground.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OUT BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATIOW. 
 
 "WHY, I thought you were pursuing your studies in 
 Paris, Miss Peggy," said Guy as they moved on. 
 
 " Do you know what this young monkey has done ? '* 
 asked George. " She has run away from school." 
 
 " Not run away, exactly, George," said Peggy. * I came 
 home." 
 
 " She came home," said George. " She threw obedience 
 to the autncrities provided for her to the winds, and came 
 home." 
 
 " I had enough of it," explained Peggy. " Dresden was 
 all very well, and Paris wasn't so bad at first, but I got 
 homesick, and I didn't like Madame Gue'rin, so I told her 
 I was coming home, and 1 came." 
 
 " That's all," said George. " Quite simple. She told 
 Madame Gue'rin she was coming home, and she came. 
 She has omitted to state that she is going back on 
 Monday." 
 
 " Never," said Peggy, very firmly. *' /*y suts. J*y reste." 
 
 "Keep it slow, and give the vowels their full value, 
 and I shall be able to follow you," said Guy. " Well, I 
 applaud your resolution. London isn't half a bad place 
 just now." 
 
 "It's perfectly heavenly," said Peggy, enthusiastically. 
 ** I wouldn't go back to Paris after this for anything." 
 
 " We shall see when Monday morning comes," said 
 George. " Papa has been communicated with, but he lives
 
 GUY BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATION. 119 
 
 in Glasgow, and until we hear from him we are making 
 the most of our opportunities." 
 
 At the end of a pleasant hour, spent in the company of 
 George and Peggy, Guy ventured to assert, somewhat 
 diffidently, that he had been intending for some time to 
 call on Mrs. Greenfield in Highgate. 
 
 " She'll be very pleased to see you," said George. " We 
 have never forgotten the day in Cambridge when you were 
 so kind in looking after us, have we, Peg ? Come up 
 with me on Sunday morning to lunch, or, rather, early 
 dinner. We'll all go for a walk afterwards if it's fine." 
 
 Peggy did not second the invitation verbally, but a 
 questioning glance into her black eyes served to encourage 
 Guy to accept it. 
 
 " Very well, then," he said. " Good-bye till Sunday." 
 
 At the end of the day's play George took Peggy home to 
 Highgate. She was delighted with her experiences and 
 chattered gaily, but as their cab slowly climbed the steep 
 hill on the summit of which the cottage stood she became 
 silent. 
 
 " You know, George," she said presently, " I don't think 
 mother looks a bit well. She seems to be worried about 
 something." 
 
 " That is easily understood," said George, drily. 
 
 Peggy looked a little graver. " George, dear," she said, 
 44 1 don't think it is because of me coming home, really. 
 If father is angry about it, he couldn't possibly blame 
 her." 
 
 George made no reply to this, but the look on his face 
 might have been taken to mean that Mr. Richards had 
 better not blame his mother for anything while he was by. 
 
 " She didn't make a fuss about my coming home," con- 
 tinued Peggy. " In fact, she seemed glad to have me. Of 
 course, it is lonely for her, poor dear, living so much by
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 herself. She said she must write to father and ask what 
 was to be done about me, but when she had done that 
 she said nothing more about it. I am sure there is 
 something else that is worrying her." 
 
 *' What is it ? " asked George, shortly. 
 
 " I don't know. But couldn't you stay at home for a 
 few days ? She is always happy when you are there. I 
 am sure it would cheer her up. Besides, I want you to so 
 much." 
 
 " I will stay to-night," said George, after a pause. " I 
 must be in town to-morrow and Saturday night, but I 
 shall be up again on Sunday." 
 
 " It was nice meeting Mr. Bertram again Sir Guy 
 Bertram, I mean wasn't it?" said Peggy, in a tone of 
 elaborate unconcernedness. "I expect mother will be 
 glad to see him on Sunday." 
 
 " Yes, he is a good chap," said George, absently. He 
 was thinking of Mr. Richards, and his face was not very 
 amiable at that moment. 
 
 George looked carefully at his mother when he had paid 
 the cabman, and followed Peggy into the cottage, where 
 she was waiting for him. She was very pleased to see him 
 and to hear that he was going to stay until the next 
 morning. But she looked undoubtedly worried and 
 anxious. 
 
 " What is it, mother, darling ? " asked George, drawing 
 her into the parlour, when Peggy had gone upstairs. 
 " Have you heard from Richards yet about that naughty 
 girl?" 
 
 " Not yet. There has hardly been time, unless he had 
 telegraphed. I am so glad to have you here for a little 
 time, my dearest boy." 
 
 George kissed her. ** I am coming up again on Sunday," 
 he said. * I daresay I might stay for a day or two, or at
 
 GUY BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATION. 121 
 
 any rate come up in the evenings. And I am going to 
 bring a friend of yours to see you on Sunday, mother." 
 
 " A friend ? " echoed Mrs. Greenfield. " What friend, 
 George ? " 
 
 " Do you remember a young man who was very kind to 
 you and Peggy at Cambridge two years ago ? " 
 
 He was astonished at the change in his mother's face. 
 She grew pale and almost gasped. 
 
 "Not Sir Guy Bertram!" she exclaimed. "No, no, 
 George, you mustn't bring him here.** 
 
 " Mother dear, why on earth not ? " said George in utter 
 amazement. 
 
 " I had no idea when we were at Cambridge that he was 
 that he was the Sir Guy Bertram that all the papers 
 have been talking about." 
 
 " Well, he wasn't then. But, dear mother, what possible 
 objection can you have to his coming here ? He is an old 
 friend of mine, and all this that has happened lately makes 
 no difference in him. Why mustn't I bring him here ? " 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield sat down in a chair by the table. She 
 seemed to be collecting her thoughts. 
 
 " You know, George," she said quietly, " I stand in the 
 place of a mother to Peggy. She is very young yet, and 
 and " 
 
 " And what, mother ? " asked George, his face becoming 
 rather hard. 
 
 " Have you seen Sir Guy Bertram to-day ? " she asked, 
 ignoring his question. " Has Peggy seen him ? " 
 
 " Yes, he was at Lord's. He said he had been meaning 
 to call on you. So I asked him to come up with me on 
 Sunday." 
 
 " You see, dear George, it is over a year since we met 
 Sir Guy Bertram, but it is only to-day that he suggests 
 coming to call on me."
 
 laa THE HOUSE OF MERRILEEb. 
 
 " What of that, mother? " 
 
 " Peggy is very pretty and very taking. But we are not 
 her father is not in the same position as Sir Guy 
 Bertram. I know I know he would object to it very 
 much if if anyone like that were to pay her attentions." 
 
 George laughed. 
 
 " Oh, really, mother," he said, " I think this is a little 
 premature. Such a thing never entered my head. Bertram 
 is a year older than I am, and has seen a great deal of the 
 world ; Peggy is a mere schoolgirl." 
 
 A ghost of a smile passed over Mrs. Greenfield's pale 
 face. 
 
 " She is over nineteen," she said, " and very pretty. Sir 
 Guy Bertram was attracted by her two years ago, and his 
 wanting to come here now, amongst people so unlike those 
 he mixes with, shows that there is still some attraction. 
 A woman sees those things, George dear, and I am not 
 mistaken." 
 
 George was silent for a moment. 
 
 " You may be right," he said. " I don't deny that he is 
 attracted by her. It is obvious enough. Anybody would 
 be. But it is quite open and above board, and for a man 
 like that to talk and laugh with a lively child like Peggy 
 is not the same thing as falling in love with her." 
 
 " It might lead to that." 
 
 " I don't think so. My dear mother, if you heard the 
 way in which he talks to her 1 I really believe it is the 
 last thing that would enter into his head." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But, George dear, what about Peggy ? Do 
 you think it is fair on her to let a gentleman like Sir Guy 
 Bertram come here and be on intimate terms with her, if 
 falling in love with her, as you say, is the last thing that 
 would enter his head ? " 
 
 " I don't believe she has any more idea of such a thing
 
 GUY BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATION. 123 
 
 than he has," replied George, somewhat impatiently. ** She 
 is much too young." 
 
 " Oh, George, George 1 " said his mother. " What do you 
 know about the ways of a girl's heart ? No. She has no 
 idea of such a thing at present, not consciously at any rate. 
 And I want to prevent the idea coming to her before it is 
 too late." 
 
 " I see what you mean," said George, rather unwillingly. 
 "One is apt to forget, perhaps, that one's place in the 
 world has to be made and has not come by birth, and that 
 such differences are thought a great deal of by many 
 people. I am bound to say that such possibilities as have 
 occurred to you would not have occurred to me, but I 
 would not encourage Bertram to come here if there are 
 such possibilities. And yet I don't know. One must be 
 honest about these things. After all, mother, supposing 
 Bertram did fall in love with Peggy, and she with him, it 
 would be a very happy marriage for her. It seems rather 
 absurd to look so far ahead, for Peggy is little more than a 
 child. But, I say, if it were to come about in the future I 
 don't know anybody to whom I would rather give my 
 little sister.** 
 
 " If she were really your sister. But her father would 
 never allow it, never." 
 
 " Why not ? " asked George, now veering round, and 
 inclined to support an idea to which Mr. Richards might 
 be likely to take exception. "There is nothing against 
 Bertram. He is an idle man, perhaps, but he has never 
 been brought up to work, and his idleness at any rate is not 
 mischievous. He is well off, even if this extraordinary 
 stolen property never comes to him ; and as for his position, 
 after all it isn't usually considered a drawback to a man 
 when he marries. Why should Richards object ? ** 
 
 "George dear, to please me, can't you put Sir Guy
 
 124 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Bertram off ? " pleaded Mrs. Greenfield. " I am so fearful 
 of trouble coming of it, and I do really believe that if he 
 were to come here, and Mr. Richards were to hear of it, as 
 he would, he would take Peggy away. I don't want to lose 
 her." 
 
 George's face was dark. 
 
 " The man seems to have the power of dictating to us 
 whatever we do," he said. " I suppose I must write to Guy 
 and say that I don't know what I can say. I hate doing 
 that sort of thing." 
 
 " You may say that I am not well enough to see him. It 
 is quite true." 
 
 " What is it, little mother ? " asked George, putting his 
 arm round her. " What are you worrying yourself about ? " 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " You are very good to your old mother," she said. " I 
 think I can be happy with my two children. I didn't say 
 so to Peggy, but my heart just leapt for pleasure when I 
 saw her sweet, naughty face coming in at the door. I have 
 begged her father to let her stay with me now." 
 
 George's heart smote him. "I will come and live up 
 here, mother, if he sends her back," he said. 
 
 " No, George," said Mrs. Greenfield, firmly. " I have 
 made up my mind to that degree of separation, and I see 
 you oftener than when you were at Cambridge, though not 
 for such a long time together. You have got your work to 
 do, and you must do it in the best way you can. If only I 
 am allowed to keep Peggy, and can see you as often as I 
 have done, I shall be content." 
 
 "At any rate I will come up on Saturday afternoon,** 
 said George. " I can easily put) off my dinner engagement. 
 We will be together for that little time, at any rate, whether 
 Miss Peggy is packed off to school again or not. I will write 
 to Bertram to-morrow."
 
 GUY BERTRAM RECEIVES AN INVITATION. 125 
 
 Friday and Saturday passed without any word coming 
 from Mr. Richards. Peggy, in spite of the bold face she 
 put upon her elopement from the rigours of Madame 
 Gu6rin's establishment, was obviously a little nervous. 
 
 *' I am not going back again, whatever he says," she said 
 to George, who was sitting in the little garden with her on 
 Saturday afternoon. " Mother wants me here ; I know she 
 does. But I shall feel so much more comfortable when it is 
 all settled." 
 
 By the late post on Saturday evening George received a 
 note from Guy Bertram, written that morning from a 
 country house near St. Albans. 
 
 " I came down here suddenly yesterday," he wrote, " but 
 am leaving on Sunday morning, and shall come straight to 
 Highgate, as I see I can get there without going into 
 town." 
 
 "Then the matter is out of our hands," said George. 
 " It is too late to write, and too late to wire. And you are 
 better now, mother, aren't you ? " he asked, remembering 
 that Peggy was in the room. 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Mrs. Greenfield, resigning herself to the 
 inevitable. " I shall be glad to see Sir Guy Bertram.*' 
 
 Peggy said nothing, but if she had lifted her eyes from her 
 needlework the others might have had reason to suppose 
 that she too would be pleased to see Sir Guy Bertram.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 
 
 A VERT agreeable and pleasant-mannered young man 
 Sir Guy Bertram proved himself to be when he made his 
 appearance at the cottage as the people were pouring out 
 of the church close at hand on Sunday morning, whether 
 sitting and talking in the shade of the little garden or at 
 the early dinner in the low-ceiled dining-room. He talked 
 a great deal to Mrs. Greenfield during the progress of the 
 meal, and did not address himself very conspicuously to 
 Peggy ; and George, remembering the lunch at Cambridge 
 two years before, during which that young lady had been 
 skilfully drawn out to take the leading part in the conver- 
 sation, and observing her present somewhat demure atti- 
 tude, pooh-poohed within himself his mother's fears. Mrs. 
 Greenfield may probably have drawn a different conclusion 
 from the altered state of things, but she also seemed to 
 have thrown off the fears she had expressed, and at the end 
 of the meal, when she and Peggy left the young men to 
 their cigarettes, she seemed quite cheered by what was to 
 her an unusual event, for she lived very quietly at Highgate, 
 and seldom ate a meal in any other company but that of 
 George and Peggy. 
 
 " He *s nice, mother, isn't he? " said Peggy, putting her arm 
 into that of the elder woman as they went into the parlour. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Mrs. Greenfield. "But we mustn't 
 expect to see him very often, you know. Young men like 
 Sir Guy Bertram do not often visit at the houses of quiet
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. xa; 
 
 people like ourselves, and we must be content to make our 
 friends in our own class of life." 
 
 " \\Tierever he visits, I'm sure he doesn't often see ladies 
 as nice as you," said Peggy, kissing her. " And I'm sure he 
 isn't one of those people who make a great fuss about their 
 titles," she added, out of her vast experience. 
 
 Jane, the neat little servant, recounting the course of 
 events to a dapper young grocer's assistant, who accom- 
 panied her in her afternoon walk, was of opinion that Guy 
 was better- looking even than his photograph in the shop- 
 windows. 
 
 "There he sat," she said, "just as it might be you, 
 Augustus, and not a bit of pride neither. He passed the 
 remark that it was a fine morning when I opened the door 
 to him, as pleasant as possible. I thought he'd have given 
 me a card to take in, and I had the salver ready and was 
 all of a flutter. But he just said, ' Sir Guy Bertram,' quite 
 simple like that, and Mr. George came in from the garden 
 and took him out. And at dinner," continued Jane, who 
 was of a loyal and affectionate character, " there was 
 mistress sitting and talking quite calm, for all the world as 
 if she'd been a lady of title herself. And it's my belief, 
 Augustus, and say it I would though you was to take me 
 to the block the next minute, that he's come here after our 
 Miss Peggy. He pretended not to take much notice of her, 
 and talked most to mistress and to Mr. George. But there, 
 you can't take me in that way I've got eyes in my head 
 though I says it as shouldn't, and I do say that, if it so 
 happens, never do I wish to set eyes on a handsomer couple 
 than them two." 
 
 " Ah, it's all good looks with you," said Augustus, who 
 was not eminently favoured in that respect himself. " It 
 was always Mr. George and his good looks. Now it's this 
 Sir Guy Bertram who's cut him out**
 
 l8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " No, nor never will," said Jane decisively. " I always did 
 say, and always will say, that Mr. George has got a noble 'ead, 
 and now I've seen a Sir I don't think no different. But 
 lor' ! Augustus," she added, pressing the arm of the despon- 
 dent grocer, " what's all that to the likes of you and me ? 
 We knows our place, I suppose, and don't want to be no 
 different. The first thing I think of when I get up of a 
 Monday morning is, ' Only six more days to Sunday after- 
 noon,' and the week goes so fast that when Sunday comes 
 round I can 'ardly believe it." 
 
 " I know I'm not a toff," said Augus us, who liked this 
 method of treatment, and was not unwilling to lay himself 
 out for more of it. " I can't give you a 'ome with flunkeys 
 and kerridges, Jenny," which led to a discussion of the kind 
 of home he could give her, if things turned out well, and of 
 the time when it might be expected to be forthcoming, and 
 of what they would do when they got it, so that Augustus's 
 soul was appeased, and Jane went back to the cottage at 
 the end of the afternoon determined to work harder than 
 ever during the week, so that the time would slip the more 
 quickly by and bring Sunday afternoon again. 
 
 Peggy, George, and Guy also set out for a walk on that 
 Sunday afternoon to Hampstead Heath, that great high- 
 lying common which Constable and Turner painted, and 
 many artists and poets have loved, to say nothing of the 
 great mass of work-a-day people, neither painters nor 
 poets, possibly with little appreciation of either, but just 
 city-bred folk of the commonest clay, who betake them- 
 selves thither in their thousands and gain a little rest for 
 brain and body in the wind and the sun and the spreading 
 distance. 
 
 As they passed one of the old red brick houses near the 
 cottage a white-haired old gentleman came out of the gate, 
 attended by half a dozen young people.
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 129 
 
 " Why, what is this ? " cried the old gentleman. " Peggy 
 home again ? " 
 
 They had to stop and merge themselves in the larger 
 group, who were bound for the same place as themselves. 
 Matters had to be explained in full to the old gentleman, 
 and as it was not possible to walk all together down the 
 somewhat crowded lane which led to the Heath, and the 
 larger party had pairings of their own to make, Guy found 
 himself walking with Peggy, while George was held in con- 
 versation by the old gentleman. 
 
 Peggy was quite friendly and confidential, and chattered 
 like a lively magpie, but in a much more musical voice. 
 She told Guy all about her life in Dresden, which she had 
 loved, and her life in Paris, which she had loathed. She 
 gave him the whole thrilling story of her flight, and expressed 
 her determination not to budge a foot from Highgate, what- 
 ever view her father might take of her escapade. Guy was 
 considerably amused. 
 
 " You don't seem to stand very much in awe of your 
 parent," he observed. 
 
 " I don't know so much about that," replied Peggy. " To 
 tell you the truth, I am rather afraid of him. Only he 
 can't possibly know that if I don't show it, can he ? " 
 
 "Of course not. Still somebody might tell him, and 
 where would you be then ? " 
 
 " Nobody knows except you, and you won't tell, will 
 you?" 
 
 " Wild horses shouldn't drag it from me." 
 
 " And you'll see," said Peggy with a little nod, " I shall 
 get my own way. Now," she added, "I have talked 
 enough about myself. In fact, I think I have told you 
 everything there is. It is your turn now to tell me 
 something." 
 
 "What shall I tell you?" askfd Guy. 
 
 H.lf. B
 
 130 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Oh, you have got heaps to tell. In fact, you are so 
 much more important than I am that you ought really to 
 have begun first. Do you know, they wouldn't believe me 
 in Paris when I told them that I knew you. Tell me all 
 about that lovely house and the gardens." 
 
 Guy described Merrilees to her at some length, and she 
 listened intently. 
 
 "It all sounds very lovely," she said, when he had 
 finished. ** And to think of that poor Sir Roderick shutting 
 himself up there all those years and letting no one share it 
 with him ! It was for love of his wife, wasn't it ? The 
 girls at Madame Gu&in's said it was the most beautiful 
 thing they had ever heard of. But I don't know. I think 
 it would have been nobler of him to go on with his work 
 in the world." 
 
 "He did that," said Guy. "He spent all those long 
 years in writing a great book. There are piles and piles 
 of manuscript all in his own writing. I saw them in the 
 room where he spent most of his days. I don't know 
 whether he ever meant it to be published. Some day I will 
 show it to somebody to George perhaps ; he is a scholar 
 and take his advice about it." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Peggy, very wisely. ** I thought that a man 
 like Sir Roderick could never bear to spend his days in 
 idleness. I have read all I could about him, and every- 
 body says that if he had remained in Parliament he 
 would have become a very great man. I wonder you 
 don't take more interest in his book. It must be some 
 thing quite out of the common if he devoted himslf to 
 it all those years." 
 
 " I expect it is. But I have had other things to think 
 about," said Guy. 
 
 Neither of them spoke of the unexplained mystery of the 
 disappearance of Sir Roderick's body, though it was in the
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 131 
 
 background of their minds. Perhaps it was to escape 
 mention of it, although no such caution was necessary, that 
 Peggy asked rather hurriedly, 
 
 " Aren't you simply enraged with that terrible man for 
 stealing all those jewels ? " 
 
 " Well, do you know," said Guy, " I am getting over it. 
 Certainly it was a jar to think that one was going to be 
 very rich and live in a place like that, and then to find that 
 one couldn't after all. But I claim to be something of a 
 philosopher. I may get it all some day, but in the mean- 
 time I persuade myself that I don't very much want to live 
 at Merrilees. In fact, I am rather excited at present about 
 living somewhere else. I am going to build myself a 
 cottage in Surrey. Shall I tell you about that ? " 
 
 44 Oh, do, please," said Peggy. "Is it anywhere near 
 Leith Hill ? I went there once with George." 
 
 M Yes, it is quite near. I have found a piece of land on 
 the edge of a pine wood, with a lovely view." And Guy 
 told her all about a roomy bachelor cottage he had 
 designed for himself, with a large hall, and a room for 
 books, and a room for meals, and half a dozen bedrooms 
 for himself and his friends, and a garden which would be 
 beautiful from the first, but never finished in the making. 
 
 " It all sounds too lovely for words," said Peggy, when 
 he had finished. " I couldn't help thinking about the 
 other place that everything had been done for you. It was 
 so perfect that there was nothing more to do. But this- 
 oh, you will enjoy it ! And tell me, what are you going 
 to do in your beautiful little house ? " 
 
 44 Do in it ? Why, live in it." 
 
 "Yes, but you can't do nothing all day long.** 
 
 *' I shall find lots to amuse myself with. There will be 
 the garden for one thing, and indoors I shall have books 
 and music, and I paint a bit, you know. Then there will 
 
 K a
 
 13* THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 always be somebody staying with me, or nearly always. 
 And if I get bored, which may very well happen when it 
 rains, and I can't get anybody to keep me company well, 
 I can go away for a bit." 
 
 " But, you know, I don't think a life like that can be 
 quite good for you," said Peggy sagely. " It means doing 
 nothing but amuse yourself all day and every day. I think 
 everybody ought to do something, even if they are well off." 
 
 "I was asked to stand for Parliament once," said Guy 
 with a laugh, " but that wouldn't have suited me at all. I 
 haven't got ambitions like George. I daresay I should be 
 all the better if I had." 
 
 "We can't all do the same things," replied Peggy. 
 "And we can't all get to the top of the tree. The 
 branches wouldn't hold us. But I can't help feeling there 
 is something out of the many things you know about that 
 you ought to be able to do seriously." 
 
 " Well, perhaps there is," said Guy. " If I had had to 
 work for my living I think I should have chosen to be a 
 painter." 
 
 " Well, there ! " said Peggy triumphantly. " Then why 
 don't you go in for that, and become a great painter ? 
 You have more chances than other people." 
 
 " I didn't say I could be a great painter. I don't think I 
 could." 
 
 " But you could try to be, and I'm sure you would be 
 much happier if you had an object in life." 
 
 " I'm not particularly unhappy now. No, Miss Peggy, 
 I'm one of the few people I believe there are only a few 
 of them who thoroughly enjoy doing nothing in par- 
 ticular. I daresay I should enjoy doing something in 
 particular equally, but it is rather late in the day to try 
 now." 
 
 Thereupon Peggy began to plead that it was not at all
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 133 
 
 too late, and showed such earnestness in the arguments she 
 produced, arguments which Guy lightly combated, and 
 such wisdom in urging them, that she appeared in quite 
 a new aspect and, if possible, a more captivating one 
 than ever, and they got on so well together that they never 
 once looked back towards George and the old gentleman, 
 and never realised, until they came out upon the Heath 
 and stood under the great firs to look at the distant view, 
 that they had left their companions half a mile behind. 
 
 After resting for a while they parted from the old 
 gentleman and his following and walked back another 
 way through the fields to Highgate. 
 
 " Excuse me for leaving you to yourselves," said George, 
 with no attempt at irony, when they were alone again, 
 "but that old boy was rather interesting. He was in 
 Parliament for twenty years, and has a lot to talk about." 
 
 When they reached the cottage Guy held open the gate 
 for Peggy to go through. She went up the garden path 
 and then turned suddenly. 
 
 " Oh, George, there's father ! " she exclaimed, laying a 
 hand on his arm and speaking in a tone of sudden 
 fright. Through the open window of the room looking 
 towards the front Mrs. Greenfield could be seen sitting in 
 conversation with a man who turned a dark face on them. 
 
 " Do go in first, George," Peggy whispered. She had 
 forgotten all about Guy for the moment, but George 
 turned towards him in some embarrassment. 
 
 " I think I had better be going," Guy said. " I am dining 
 out to-night, and I must go and get hold of my bag." 
 
 M Well, we've got to get this business over," said George, 
 smiling down at Peggy, who still held his arm. "So 
 good-bye, Guy. I'm very glad you came up after all." 
 
 " And I'm very glad Mrs. Greenfield is better," said Guy. 
 "Good-bye, Miss Peggy." He held her band a little
 
 134 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 longer than was absolutely accessary, and Peggy felt that 
 she was being somehow assisted in the crisis that lay 
 before her. The little gate clicked behind Guy, and 
 George and Peggy went into the house. 
 
 There was a very black look on Mr. Richards's face 
 when they went into the room where he was sitting with 
 Mrs. Greenfield, but it was turned more towards George 
 than Peggy. He kissed Peggy, however, and shook hands 
 with George without giving vent to his obvious displeasure. 
 
 " You can go away now, Peggy," he said. " I will speak 
 to you later." 
 
 When Peggy had left the room he turned to George. 
 
 " What is that young man doing here ? " he asked. 
 
 Hostility, fully aroused, looked out of George's eyes. 
 
 "What right have you to ask that question, Mr. 
 Richards ? " he said, facing him squarely. 
 
 Mr. Richards looked nonplussed for the moment. Then 
 he made a gesture as if brushing away an obstacle. 
 
 44 1 told you what it would be six years ago," he said. 
 "You would make friends with the idlers. This young 
 man has never done a stroke of honest work in his life. 
 Everybody knows that. Why do you want to make 
 friends with a man like that?" 
 
 44 Again I ask," said George, "by what right do you 
 criticise me and my friends? What in the world has it 
 got to do with you whom I make friends with ? " 
 
 4 * I am an old friend of your mother's, and, I hope, a true 
 friend. And I have entrusted my daughter to her care." 
 
 44 That doesn't give you the right to dictate to us whom 
 we shall ask to this house." 
 
 " It gives me the right to take my daughter away if I 
 object to the people who come here." 
 
 44 Are we to take that as a threat ? ** inquired George, 
 with a curl of the lip.
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 135 
 
 "You can take it as you please," said Mr. Richards, 
 roughly. " I'm not going to have this man coming here 
 as long as my girl remains in the house. You can choose 
 between them." 
 
 " George dear," broke in Mrs. Greenfield, who had been 
 standing by in great distress, " I have told Mr. Richards 
 exactly how it was that Sir Guy Bertram came, that you 
 had already consented not to ask him again, and had tried 
 to put him off to-day." 
 
 "Then if you have been told that, sir," said George, 
 hotly, " why do you take this bullying tone with me about 
 it ? Do you want to drive me into saying that I refuse to 
 make any such compact with you, when you have heard 
 that I have already consented to what you wish because 
 my mother asked me ? " 
 
 " I want to make certain that that man doesn't come 
 here again," said Mr. Richards, doggedly. 
 
 "Then you are going the wrong way to get what 
 you want," said George. **I am not a boy to be 
 ordered to do this or that by a man whose authority I 
 entirely disclaim. There is nobody in the world, Mr. 
 Richards, who takes the tone with me that you do, and 
 there are very few people from whom I should take such a 
 tone less kindly." 
 
 " He says he will let Peggy stay with me, George," said 
 Mrs. Greenfield, " if you will promise that Sir Guy Bertram 
 does not come here." 
 
 " Very well, then," said George, " if Mr. Richards wants 
 such a promise out of me let him recognise that he is 
 asking a good deal, and let him ask it as one man of 
 another, and not lay his commands upon me in the 
 peremptory manner he sees fit to employ." 
 
 "Look here, George," said Mr. Richards, roughly, but 
 not unkindly, " you seem to want to make an enemy of me.**
 
 136 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Not at all," said George. " For Peggy's sake and my 
 mother's sake, and for my own sake too as far as their 
 happiness is concerned, I should wish to keep on friendly 
 terms with you as far as possible. But it isn't possible as 
 long as you take up that hectoring tone with me." 
 
 " Well, let me finish. You've got so far above us with 
 all your high friends that you take amiss what is only 
 meant for plainness. I know what I mean, and I'm accus- 
 tomed to say it without picking and choosing my words. 
 As between man and man, I've nothing but respect for you. 
 You have got on in the world as far as a young man could 
 at your age, and I hope by-and-bye you will reap the 
 reward of all your hard work and sticking to it. If I 
 speak to you in a way you don't like you must put it down 
 to an elderly man's way with a young man he's known 
 from a baby. It's nothing more than that." 
 
 George was somewhat mollified by this speech, but not 
 entirely. 
 
 " I accept what you say, of course," he answered, " but, 
 at the same time, what I object to in your attitude towards 
 me is something more than the manner of your speech, and 
 I can't pretend that I shall ever receive it with anything 
 but resistance. However, the point now is that you want 
 a promise from me which I have already given to my 
 mother. I have no objection to repeating it to you if it is 
 to keep Peggy with us. I won't ask Bertram here again. 
 The fact that he came to-day was an accident. I had 
 already written to put him off." 
 
 Mr. Richards had not taken this speech without a 
 darkening of face. It is probable that he had never in his 
 life gone nearer to any apology, and he may have expected 
 his overtures to be accepted without any reservation. He 
 broke in now. 
 
 " That sort of accident mustn't happen again, then. I want
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 137 
 
 a definite promise that under no circumstances shall that 
 young man come to this house while my daughter is in it." 
 
 George looked at him somewhat curiously. 
 
 " Why is it always ' that young man ' ? " he asked. 
 " What do you know of Guy Bertram that you have taken 
 such a violent prejudice against him? " 
 
 " I haven't taken a prejudice against him. I don't care 
 anything about him one way or the other." 
 
 " Well, I do. He's my friend, and I don't choose my 
 friends from amongst the wasters, as you seem to imagine. 
 He's a man anybody might be pleased to know. Why do 
 you make such a point of his never meeting Peggy ? " 
 
 " That's my business. You're sharp enough in sticking 
 to what you call your rights. I'll stick to mine. If he 
 comes here again Peggy leaves this house with no more 
 said about it. And she leaves it for good." 
 
 " How would you have prevented his coming to-day if 
 you had been in my place ? " 
 
 " I should have met him at the door and told him he 
 wasn't wanted." 
 
 " Oh, would you ? Well, I'm afraid such a course isn't 
 open to me, nor, I should think, to anybody with the 
 feelings of a gentleman. If that is the kind of thing you 
 want I'm afraid you will have to take Peggy away, for you 
 won't get a promise of such behaviour from me." 
 
 " Well, we've talked long enough," said Mr. Richards, 
 impatiently. '* I don't care how you do it. You can find 
 some way that'll suit you, or you can leave it alone. I'll 
 give you three days to decide. I don't want to send Peggy 
 away from your mother, but I shall do so unless I get your 
 definite written promise by Wednesday morning. You have 
 got the matter in your own hands. And now, Mr. George 
 Greenfield, as I'm not in my own house, may I ask you to 
 be good enough to send my daughter to me ? **
 
 138 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Always a pleasure to do anything for you, Mr. Richards," 
 said George. 
 
 The two men looked at each other as George went out 
 of the room. Mutual antagonism showed itself plainly, 
 and it might have been prophesied that on any future 
 occasion on which they should chance to find themselves 
 opposed there would be no quarter given by either. It 
 might also have been safely said that the older man would 
 not be likely again to address however slight an appeal for 
 consideration to the younger. 
 
 " Now, my girl," said Mr. Richards, when Peggy stood 
 in his presence, "we can't have goings on like this, you 
 know. You are not old enough by a good many years yet 
 to decide what you are to do and what you are not to do. 
 If you weren't happy at school, why didn't you write and 
 ask if you could come back, instead of taking matters into 
 your own hands, eh ? " 
 
 " Because I was determined to come home, and I thought 
 you might not let me if I asked," answered Peggy. 
 
 " Oh, that was it, was it ? " said Mr. Richards. " Well, 
 you wouldn't be much better off if I determined to send 
 you back, would you ? " 
 
 Peggy opposed a rebellious face to this query, but made 
 no answer. 
 
 " I'm not going to send you back," continued her father. 
 " At least, I hope I sha'n*t have to. Schooling in a place like 
 Paris is expensive, and if you are determined not to learn 
 I've got better use for my money than to spend it in trying 
 to make you. The schooling is your loss, not mine, and you 
 have had enough for all practical purposes. So you see 
 you have not got such an unreasonable father, have you ? ** 
 
 " No," said Peggy somewhat doubtfully. 
 
 " How would you like to come and live with me up 
 north ? " asked Mr. Richards.
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 139 
 
 Peggy cast a frightened look at him. 
 
 " Oh, father, you don't want me to, do you ? ** she 
 said. 
 
 " I don't know that I do yet," said Mr. Richards frankly. 
 "What I may want later on is another matter. Your 
 proper home would be with your father, I suppose, if he 
 has got one to offer you ? " 
 
 "Then why haven't I always had it, father? I have 
 never once been inside your house. They do want me here 
 always, and at any time. This has always been my home, 
 and I love it and want to stay here." 
 
 "I intend that you shall stay here for a time, that is, 
 if a certain stipulation that I have asked for from Mr. 
 George is made not unless." 
 
 " What stipulation ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards was silent for a space. 
 
 " I hadn't intended to tell you," he said. " But I don't 
 know why I shouldn't. George has got to promise me that 
 that young gentleman who has been here to-day shall not 
 come here again." 
 
 Peggy blushed a fiery red, none the paler because her 
 father's eye was on her. 
 
 " Why shouldn't Sir Guy Bertram come here, father ? " 
 she asked. " He is George's friend." 
 
 " And yours too, young woman, eh ? I don't intend 
 that that shall be, and if you have let that young man 
 creep inside your heart you had better get him out again 
 as quickly as may be." 
 
 Poor Peggy, wounded alike in her pride and her modesty 
 by this rude tearing down of a veil behind which she had 
 hardly dared to peep herself, burst into tears. 
 
 " How can you say such things, father ? " she cried. " As 
 
 if I had ever 1 Oh, I hope I shall never see Sir Guy 
 
 Bertram again.**
 
 140 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I'll take good care that you don't," said Mr. Richards 
 as he left the room. 
 
 Although he had succeeded in making each member of 
 the little household at Highgate ill at ease, and two of 
 them at least thoroughly angry, Mr. Richards, in pursuit 
 of his purpose, proceeded to make a further effort yet. 
 
 He was anxious not to be obliged to take Peggy away 
 from Highgate, but doubted whether George would give 
 him the promise he had stipulated for. Being therefore a 
 man of action, possessing very little delicacy of feeling, and 
 no innate objection to making himself disagreeable to any- 
 body whatever, it occurred to him that the best way to 
 settle up the matter once for all and to get it off his mind 
 was to go and see the person whom he wished to exclude 
 from Peggy's society himself. Having thus decided, Mr. 
 Richards let no grass grow under his feet, and Guy had not 
 been in his rooms an hour after returning from Highgate 
 when he was intensely astonished to receive a visit from 
 the man whose face he had seen through the window of the 
 cottage, who apparently claimed to control the goings and 
 comings of his wayward little friend Peggy. 
 
 " You don't know anything about me," said Mr. Richards, 
 when he had been accommodated with a chair, " and you 
 may take somewhat amiss what I am going to say to you. 
 So I will make it as short and plain as possible. My young 
 daughter has had the honour of making your acquaintance. 
 I don't wish that acquaintance to go any further." 
 
 " Well, really ! " exclaimed Guy, in utter astonishment, 
 "that's a funny thing to come and say to an entire 
 stranger." 
 
 " Perhaps it is," replied Mr. Richards, in no wise abashed. 
 " But I believe in saying a thing straight out if I've got to 
 say it at all. I've no objection to your making friends with 
 George Greenfield or his mother if you wamt to, or, if I
 
 MR. RICHARDS IS DISPLEASED. 141 
 
 have, I can't very well say so. But I have got authority 
 over my own daughter, and if you can't see your way to 
 keeping clear of Mrs. Greenfield's house while she is in it I 
 shall have to take her away, which I don't want, and she 
 doesn't want ; in fact, nobody wants." 
 
 " Have you made this suggestion that I shall keep clear 
 of Mrs. Greenfield's house, as you put it to her and her son ? " 
 
 " Yes, I have." 
 
 M I see. And as they probably feel some natural delicacy 
 in communicating your wishes to me, you have decided to 
 do it yourself." 
 
 " If you want a thing done, do it yourself. That's my 
 principle." 
 
 " No matter how damned impudent it is ! I see.** 
 
 "You don't pick your language, neither you nor your 
 friend George Greenfield," said Mr. Richards, with a 
 lowering look at him. 
 
 " This is hardly an occasion for picking language. You 
 have said what you had to say in the way that suited 
 you best, and a very unpleasant way it is. You must 
 kindly allow me to do the same." 
 
 " I'm not of i spoken to in that way.** 
 
 " No, nor I," rejoined Guy, who was getting more and 
 more angry. "And I'll take very good care I never am 
 again when once this interview is over. What is it you 
 object to in me, I should like to know, that you should 
 come here and tell me I'm not fit to be in the same house 
 as your daughter a girl I've spoken to three times in my 
 life, and with as much respect as I should use to my own 
 mother if she were alive ? " 
 
 " I don't object to anything in you particularly," said 
 Mr. Richards, " except that you are in a different class of 
 life from me and my daghter, and I don't choose that she 
 shall have her head turned."
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 ** Very well, then, you can have the promise you want 
 I won't go near Mrs. Greenfield's house while your daughter 
 is there. And now you'd better clear out of my room, 
 please, or I shall lose my temper." 
 
 "You seem to have done that already," said Mr. 
 Richards, rising. "I suppose I can rely on you keeping 
 your promise ? " 
 
 "You can suppose what you like," answered the 
 infuriated Guy, " as long as you get out of my room." 
 
 Mr. Richards took his departure, leaving Guy to walk up 
 and down in no amiable mood until it was time to dress 
 for dinner, when his anger began to cool down, and he 
 gradually realised that it was rather a serious thing for him 
 to have cut himself off so entirely from all possibility of 
 enjoying Peggy's society for the future. This feeling grew 
 upon him during the evening until, by the time he went to 
 bed, he had come to the point of wishing that he had 
 received Mr. Richards, who, insupportable man as he 
 was, was still Peggy's father, in a rather more conciliatory 
 spirit.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 
 
 CALTHORP and Messrs. Walters and Venable, of Lom- 
 bard Street, lost no time in settling up the details of Lord 
 Caradoc's tenancy of Merrilees. There was no discussion 
 about the rent to be paid. Calthorp had, in fact, on his own 
 responsibility, added on another two hundred a year to the 
 terms he had been prepared to offer, and Lord Caradoc's 
 lawyers had closed at once, having received instructions to 
 agree to whatever sum was asked, provided there should be 
 no delay in taking possession. The Ffoulkes Library itself 
 was an irresistible attraction. Calthorp might have doubled 
 the rent without endangering the negotiations. 
 
 A few days after Mr. Richards's invasion of his privacy 
 Guy received a letter from Cicely Caradoc to the effect that 
 her father had asked her to say that all preliminaries had 
 been settled, and that he wished to transfer his establish- 
 ment to Merrilees at the end of the following week ; also 
 that Lord Caradoc would be pleased if Guy would lunch 
 with them on the following day, and, if he could do so, 
 would he kindly come at half- past one, so that Mrs. Herbert 
 could have half an hour's talk with him before luncheon 
 about certain details. 
 
 " I don't know who Mrs. Herbert may be," said Guy, 
 " or why she can't talk after lunch as well as before, but 
 Sir Guy Bertram accepts with pleasure Miss Caradoc's kind 
 invitation." 
 
 The person to whom he addressed these words was
 
 144 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mr. Calthorp, who, arrayed in clothes which King Solomon 
 might have envied if he had lived in the nineteenth 
 century and curbed his Oriental tastes, was sitting solemnly 
 in Guy's room, his eyeglass screwed firmly into his 
 impassive face. 
 
 " I suggest," said Calthorp, " the propriety of your falling 
 in love with Miss Caradoc. Her father's financial position 
 is entirely sound, and the young lady herself struck me as 
 possessing eminent attractions." 
 
 " She's an extraordinarily pretty child," said Guy. " But 
 I'm not falling in love at the present moment." 
 
 " Or possibly you are with somebody else," returned the 
 astute Calthorp, " and are proof in this particular quarter. 
 Well, I have done my duty as your legal adviser in recom- 
 mending your attention to an undoubted heiress, in whom 
 it struck me that you had aroused some interest the other 
 day." 
 
 " There is nobody in whom I don't arouse interest just at 
 present," said Guy. " It is in process of calming down a bit, 
 I'm happy to say. But I suppose I shall have to submit to 
 being stared at for some time longer, unless the mystery is 
 cleared up, when I shall be once more left to myself. Is 
 there anything fresh ? " 
 
 " Yes, there is. On my way from the toils of the law to 
 the haunts of pleasure I dropped in to give you two small 
 pieces of information." 
 
 " You haven't found the jewels ? " asked Guy eagerly. 
 
 " I'm sorry to say we have found nothing. But we have 
 seen Martin in London." 
 
 " Have you got hold of him ? " 
 
 " Unfortunately not. When I say we have seen him, I 
 mean nothing more than that he has been seen. A gentle- 
 man called John Friend, who lately filled the position of 
 second footman at Merrilees, paid us a visit this morning
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 145 
 
 and informed us that he had seen Mr. Martin driving 
 through the city in a hansom, as cool as you please.*' 
 
 *' Why on earth didn't he stop him ? " 
 
 " Well, he was on the top of an omnibus, and he hadn't 
 got his lasso with him." 
 
 " Didn't he get down ? " 
 
 " He did, as quickly as possible. In fact, he was quite 
 keen. There is a small matter of five hundred pounds to 
 be earned by putting salt on Martin's tail, and Mr. Friend 
 explained that, to use his own words, he could do with it. 
 But by the time he had alighted and found another cab he 
 had lost sight of his quarry, and in his excitement he had 
 omitted to take the number of Martin's hansom." 
 
 " What a fool the fellow must be ! " 
 
 " He admitted as much himself with a considerable amount 
 of remorse." 
 
 " He might have shouted directly he saw him, Every- 
 body would have been on the go in an instant, and we 
 should have caught the fellow." 
 
 " He might have done that, or several other things, but 
 unfortunately he didn't. And the most foolish thing he did 
 was to delay coming to us with his information until this 
 morning. It was on Monday that he saw Martin, four days 
 ago. If he had come to us at once we might have been able 
 to get on to his tra k. The cab was going west, and there 
 was a Gladstone bag on the top. I should have routed up 
 Scotland Yard at once and got them to make inquiries 
 at all the terminus stations." 
 
 " What an idiot the fellow must be 1 Is he quite sure it 
 was Martin ? " 
 
 " He doesn't admit a doubt on the subject. He says that 
 Martin had shaved off his beard, but he should have known 
 him anywhere. He says, too, that Martin looked up and 
 recognised him.** 
 
 H.M. L
 
 146 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " He's got a pretty good nerve to ride about London in 
 broad daylight just now." 
 
 '* I don't deny the gentleman's nerve, or even impudence ; 
 but if he has become so careless over his own safety as 
 soon as this, it ought not to be very long before we lay 
 our hands on him." 
 
 " Then if he has smuggled the body out of England he has 
 done what he wanted to do and come back again." 
 
 " I don't think he has smuggled the body out of England. 
 That was only an idea that was just worth following up. 
 We must have hit upon a trail of some sort by this time if 
 he had tried to do it" 
 
 ** What was the other piece of news you spoke about ? '* 
 
 '* I'm afraid it doesn't help us to anything. But it is 
 curious. We have found out where Lady Bertram died. 
 It was at Foligno, a town about ten miles from Assisi, on 
 the way to Rome. And the date was that given in the 
 notice in the Times. The circumstances are remembered 
 in the place. Sir Roderick's party was travelling by road, 
 and they -left Assisi on March i3th. Lady Bertram was 
 unexpectedly confined on the following day. She was taken 
 to an inn at Foligno, and died there in childbirth." 
 
 " Have they found her grave there ? " 
 
 " No, she was not buried at Foligno. Her body was 
 coffined and taken away two days afterwards. They have 
 not yet succeeded in tracing the route they took, but no 
 doubt they will." 
 
 " It looks as if he had meant to take her bodv back to 
 England." 
 
 " Yes, but we know he didn't, at least, not to Merrilees. 
 You remember Mrs. Cheetham describing how he came 
 home alone with Martin and walked into the house as if 
 nothing had happened. And Martin spoke afterwards of 
 Lady Bertram's being buried in Italy.**
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 147 
 
 "Yes, at Assisi." 
 
 "Quite so. I take your point. But it doesn't much 
 matter whether his lie only covered one town or the whole 
 of the country. However, we shall follow up the trail. 
 There is one other discrepancy to be noticed. The Times 
 notice implies, if it does not actually state, that the child 
 died on the same day as the mother. But it didn't. It 
 was alive, and apparently very lustily so, when they left 
 Foligno, two days after Lady Bertram's death." 
 
 " What do you make of that ? w 
 
 ** Nothing much. The Times notice was not inserted 
 until about a fortnight later, and the child probably died 
 somewhere on the route." 
 
 " Or didn't die at all. We shall be having a claimant 
 turning up next who will turn me out of what Martin has 
 in his kindness left for me to enjoy." 
 
 " Well, I rather think not. That sort of thing doesn't 
 happen except in books." 
 
 " No. And a man shutting himself up in his house for 
 twenty-five years, and turning a large fortune into precious 
 stones, and his body mysteriously disappearing after his 
 death that sort of thing don't happen except in books ; 
 or so you would be inclined to say." 
 
 " I take your point," said Calthorp again. " However, I 
 don't think you need be alarmed in this instance. The 
 child died all right, and we shall find out where very soon, 
 I hope. And now, my young friend and most respected 
 client, I must be going." 
 
 " Oh, don't go yet. Come and dine with me somewhere." 
 
 ** Thank you. I'm taking a little light refreshment to- 
 night with George Greenfield. We shall discuss this 
 matter in all its bearings, and the keen brain of that rising 
 barrister will perhaps be able to throw some light on 
 places at present in darkness. George Greenfield takes 
 
 L a
 
 148 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 an intelligent interest in all that concerns Sir Roderick 
 Bertram and Mr. Martin." 
 
 And without further words Mr. Calthorp took his de- 
 parture. 
 
 The next morning Guy betook himself to Lord Caradoc's 
 house in Berkeley Square and asked for Miss Caradoc. He 
 was shown into a pleasant morning room where Cicely was 
 sitting with an elderly lady who was busy with account 
 books at a table in the window. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert had occupied an important position in Lord 
 Caradoc's household ever since the death of his wife. She 
 had come, in the first instance, to look after Cicely, being 
 an offset of the Conder stock, from whom Lord Caradoc's 
 wife had also sprung, but had speedily put herself at the 
 head of affairs at Treglith Rectory, and had so ably over- 
 looked Treglith parish that the rector had had nothing to do 
 but conduct two services a week in the church. When the 
 rectory was exchanged for the large house in Berkeley 
 Square, Mrs. Herbert had shown herself in no way at a loss, 
 but had taken up the reins with as ready a capability as 
 before, and it is to be doubted whether there was a better 
 conducted household within the five-mile radius than that 
 occupied by Lord Caradoc, his daughter, and herself. She 
 was a pleasant- looking woman of middle age. Benignity 
 beamed through her round spectacles, decision ruled the 
 firm lines of her mouth, and order and neatness were 
 apparent in her dress and all about her. 
 
 Cicely looked rather pale and languid, as if the heat of a, 
 London July were too much for her, but there was nothing 
 that a week of country breezes would not put right, and 
 Guy could not help admiring her sweet girlish face and 
 slender form in its simple white frock as she came forward 
 to greet him. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert, introduced by Cicely, plunged at once into
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 149 
 
 her subject, which had to do with servants, both outdoor 
 and indoor, for Mrs. Herbert apparently had the oversight 
 of everything and was as ready to take the ordering of 
 stables and gardens into her capable hands as to exercise 
 supervision over larder and pantry. 
 
 ** The house seems to be so well stocked with everything 
 we can possibly want," she said, when she had subjected 
 Guy to a searching cross-examination, " that it will be very 
 easy to move into. I have the inventory here. You are 
 taking away a few things, I think, Sir Guy ? " 
 
 *' I made up a list of everything I should want for the 
 house I am going to build," said Guy, " furniture, pictures, 
 and everything. That has been agreed to by Lord 
 Caradoc's lawyers. But the house is so full that what I 
 shall take away will hardly be missed." 
 
 "That is very satisfactory. If you will give me the 
 housekeeper's name I will write to her about various small 
 details, and I shall send most of the servants down on 
 Friday. Lord Caradoc proposes that we shall go on 
 Saturday. Then I think that is all I need trouble you 
 with, Sir Guy. Thank you. Cicely dear, will you take 
 care of Sir Guy till lunch- time ? " 
 
 Mrs. Herbert gathered up her papers and her basket of 
 keys and left the room. 
 
 " Do you mind very much letting your house to us ? " 
 asked Cicely when they were alone together. 
 
 Guy took up his position on the hearth-rug and smiled 
 down upon her protectingly. " My dear Miss Caradoc," he 
 said, " I would rather let it to you than anybody. You 
 won't break the furniture, you know, or kick the paint, 
 which I believe are the chief occupations of the typical 
 tenant." 
 
 " We shall like living there, I am sure. But don't you 
 hate letting it to anybody ? "
 
 150 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Well, you see, I can't live there myself. And, besides, I 
 am getting so very keen on my own building arrangements." 
 And he told her, as he had already told Peggy, of his plans 
 for his Surrey cottage. 
 
 Cicely received them with less enthusiasm than Peggy had 
 done. " It sounds very nice," she said. " But it will not be 
 the same as Merrilees." 
 
 Guy remembered that Peggy had thought that on the 
 whole it would be nicer, and a shade of melancholy crept 
 over his face at the recollection. Cicely, observing it, was 
 confirmed in her opinion that the letting of Merrilees was a 
 great sorrow to him, a sorrow which he was bravely hiding 
 from the eyes of the world. 
 
 Lord Caradoc, dug out of the drift of books and papers 
 in the midst of which he had spent his morning, and 
 animated by thoughts of the Ffoulkes Library, had less 
 difficulty than usual in bringing his thoughts into line with 
 present-day surroundings, and asked many questions about 
 Merrilees, its house and its gardens. He was evidently 
 pleased and a little excited at the thought of living there, 
 and he had entirely forgotten, even if he had ever actually 
 realised, the occurrences which had made Merrilees of late 
 the most talked-of house in the three kingdoms. 
 
 " How would it suit you, Sir Guy," he asked towards the 
 end of luncheon, " to travel down with us on Saturday and 
 put us in the way of things ? " 
 
 Guy was somewhat taken back by the suddenness of 
 this invitation. 
 
 M It would be very nice if you could," said Cicely, shyly. 
 
 Guy rapidly reviewed the situation. He was getting 
 father tired of the London season, which would soon be 
 past its prime, and the beauties of his own house of 
 Merrilees had impressed him more than he was inclined 
 to acknowledge, now that he had made over his rights ip
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 151 
 
 it for the present. Perhaps if he had not had that dis- 
 agreeable interview with Mr. Richards a few days before he 
 might not have wished to leave London so soon. But it 
 was no use thinking of that now. 
 
 "You are very kind indeed," he said. "I am afraid I 
 could hardly get away quite so soon as Saturday, but 
 towards the end of next week, if your invitation is still 
 open, I should very much like to come down for a few 
 days." 
 
 So it came to pass that a week later Guy Bertram found 
 himself once more speeding north in a corridor train, this 
 time with only his thoughts to keep him company. 
 
 Those thoughts were not very cheerful. He left London 
 in a thorough downpour of rain, which bore him company 
 all through the Midlands. The low- lying clouds showed 
 never a break of blue sky, and the dismal swish and patter 
 of the raindrops on the window of his compartment turned 
 his thoughts to melancholy. He thought about Peggy. 
 He had thought a great deal about Peggy during the last 
 week. Before Mr. Richards had paid him that unwelcome 
 visit it would never have occurred to him to ask himself 
 whether he was in love with her. He had seen her only 
 three times in his life, and she had not filled any great part 
 of his thoughts between whiles. He had enjoyed her com- 
 pany, as he had often enjoyed the company of a pretty, 
 lively girl, and, looking back on that Sunday afternoon, he 
 was inclined to think that he had enjoyed it considerably 
 more than he had been aware of at the time. If matters 
 had taken their ordinary course he might have tried to 
 make opportunities of meeting her again, but he would 
 probably not have desired them very greatly, and if she had 
 been sent away again for a considerable time his apprecia- 
 tion of the pleasures of life would have been in no way 
 lessened, and she might have dropped out of his mind
 
 15* THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 completely. His resentment at Mr. Richards's implications 
 of a more than usual interest in the girl on his part had 
 been genuine, and had arisen not because he had felt such 
 an interest and disliked to have it dragged into the light 
 of day, but because, so far as he knew his own mind, the 
 unusual interest had not existed. 
 
 But to deny a young man of Guy's nature anything that 
 he finds in any degree attractive is the very way to make 
 him desire it all the more, as Mr. Richards might have 
 known, if he had been as wise as he thought himself ; and 
 during the past week Guy had certainly desired very much 
 to see Peggy, and had regretted his easily given promise 
 that he would not endeavour to do so, regretted rather that 
 the promise had been exacted, for it was difficult to see how 
 he could have acted otherwise than he had done under the 
 spur of Mr. Richards's unwarrantable behaviour. 
 
 He had not seen George, nor heard from him, and he 
 supposed, as was indeed the case, that Mr. Richards had not 
 disclosed the fact of his visit to St. James's Street. He 
 wondered what George would say when he heard of it, and 
 he wondered still more what Peggy would think if she knew 
 how easily he had allowed himself to promise that he would 
 never go near her again, so easily as to imply that he didn't 
 care whether he went near her or not. 
 
 With a nature like Guy's, easily elated and easily de- 
 pressed, one uncomfortable thought is apt to bring another 
 with it. He had been a spoilt child of fortune, and by 
 reason of his clean and wholesome, if somewhat dilettante, 
 tastes, he had not suffered those mental reversals which 
 pleasure-lovers as well and better off than he are apt to be 
 assailed by. Satisfaction with his earthly lot, or rather 
 unthinking acceptance of it as a matter of course, had been 
 his normal attitude, and seasons of depression rare and 
 fleeting. But the capacity for gloomy outlooks was there,
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 153 
 
 and gloom now descended upon him as he thought of 
 Merrilees and the pleasurable anticipation with which he 
 had journeyed this same road a few weeks before. As a 
 matter of fact, he had been quite honest in saying that the 
 loss of a large fortune had not troubled him much, since he 
 had been enabled to take in hand something that he had 
 et his heart upon. He had allowed the thought of Merri- 
 lees and his inheritance to be obscured by an agreeable 
 plan which would give him considerable pleasure in the 
 undertaking. But in his present mood he was inclined to 
 despise himself for fixing his thoughts on a toy and not 
 taking more to heart the loss of what would make life so 
 much more amusing than anything he could have hoped 
 for. A cottage in Surrey and rooms in London were all 
 very well for a bachelor ; but supposing he wished to marry ! 
 His present income, even with Merrilees constantly let, 
 would not give him the position in the world that he de- 
 sired. So at least he thought in his present downcast mood, 
 a mood black enough to obscure all hope of eventually 
 recovering his fortune. 
 
 The train flashed through a country station. Some subtle 
 connection of thought turned his mind towards Sir Roderick, 
 whose sudden death had coloured his thoughts during his last 
 journey. What an unaccountable thing the disappearance 
 of his body had been ! Interest in the startling occurrence, 
 burning for some time at white heat, had cooled down in 
 the public mind, and after the first week or so, during which 
 its connection with the robbery of the jewels had kept it 
 alive in his mind, it had taken no large part in his thoughts. 
 He had never known his cousin, and the mysterious dis- 
 appearance of his dead body had caused him no personal 
 distress beyond the first shock of the news. And yet he 
 could not help feeling that a cloud lay over the place to 
 which he was going, a cloud of mystery and melancholy,
 
 154 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 and he wondered that it had so apparently slight an effect 
 on the people who had now made the island house their 
 home. Would the mystery ever be cleared up ? Would 
 there be some gruesome discovery in the house itself or in 
 the gardens, or on the shores of the lake, which would turn 
 that lovely place into a scene of horror, and darken the 
 remembrance of it to the young girl whose home it had 
 now become ? Everything had been done that could have 
 been done, but they were no nearer to a solution of the 
 mystery than before. 
 
 Ah ! That reminded him ! He had received a letter 
 from Calthorp just before leaving his rooms, which he had 
 put with others into his pocket, intending to read them in the 
 train. He opened it now. 
 
 " My dear Guy," it ran, " we have made further dis- 
 coveries in Italy, which I may as well communicate to you, 
 although they do not, unfortunately, lead to anything. 
 
 " Lady Bertram was not buried in Italy at all. Her body 
 was taken down to the coast and put on board a yacht- 
 which Sir Roderick had apparently hired for the purpose, 
 Where she sailed for we have not yet discovered, but it was 
 probably for England, as Sir Roderick was at Merrilees less 
 than a fortnight later. We shall hope to trace her within a 
 short time. 
 
 " The child died the day after the departure of the party 
 from Foligno. It was buried at Spoleto, which is the next 
 place they would reach on their journey to the coast. There 
 is a stone, and it bears the inscription ' To the memory of 
 the Infant Son of Sir Roderick Bertram, 8th Baronet, of 
 Merrilees, Cumberland. Born March ?4th, 18 . Died 
 March lyth, 18 .' That is all." 
 
 And that was all of Calthorp's letter, which ended abruptly 
 with a " Yours sincerely." 
 
 "Well, that relieves us of anxiety about the 'rightful
 
 MERRILEES AGAIN. 155 
 
 heir,' ** said Guy to himself. " Poor little beggar ! He would 
 have been in my shoes if he had lived, and I hope they 
 would have fitted him." 
 
 A gleam of sunshine, the first he had seen that day, made 
 the raindrops on the windows sparkle, and with the hurrying 
 clouds away went Guy's melancholy. His spirits sprang 
 to the opposite extreme, and before he had reached Preston 
 he had already decided upon the party he would ask to a 
 house-warming at Merrilees when Lord Caradoc's tenancy 
 should have expired, and he himself should finally take up 
 his residence there. 
 
 By the time he reached Keswick it was nearly dark. 
 The old coachman, who had been transferred to the 
 service of Lord Caradoc, smiled down on him from the 
 same stately seat, but the plebeian horses he had driven 
 before had been replaced by a pair of powerful, well-bred 
 greys. Guy wondered whether Mrs. Herbert had already 
 reorganised the stables, for he felt sure that Lord Caradoc 
 could never have done so. 
 
 The long drive in the clear, rain-washed air, with the 
 stars shining out of a cloudless sky, was pleasant enough 
 after the long train journey. Once more he passed the little 
 wood and the whitewashed cottages, rumbled down the 
 loose stony hill and through the park gates to the borders 
 of the lake. The boat was waiting for him at the jetty, 
 and in the stern were two cloaked figures, who turned out 
 to be Cicely and Mrs. Herbert. 
 
 " We have come across to welcome you," said the older 
 lady as he stepped into the boat. " We have been kept in- 
 doors all day by the rain, and the lake looked so lovely in 
 the starlight that we could not resist the excitement of a 
 little expedition." 
 
 Guy felt unaccountably cheered by their companionship. 
 The dreary influences of the place had begun to close round
 
 156 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 him again during the latter part of the drive, and he had 
 been looking forward with discomfort to putting out across 
 the dark water away from the lights and bustle of the 
 shore. But everything was changed while this nice elderly 
 lady chatted commonplaces and the girl holding the rudder 
 lines by his side steered a somewhat erratic course towards 
 the island. 
 
 They went up the terraces from the lake laughing and 
 talking and into the lighted hall. Lord Caradoc had torn 
 himself away from the fascination of the Ffoulkes Library, 
 which had held him in its grip all day long, to welcome 
 his guest, but soon excused himself and left the ladies to 
 entertain him over a late supper, and Guy went to sleep 
 in his old room with very different feelings from those with 
 which he had occupied it last.
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 
 
 LORD CARADOC had breakfasted when Guy made his 
 appearance the next morning, but Cicely and Mrs. Herbert 
 were awaiting him in the breakfast parlour. 
 
 " Father has hardly stirred out of the library since we 
 have been here," said Cicely. " We went over to Morth- 
 waite to church on Sunday morning, and after luncheon 
 I got him to walk round the gardens with me. He was 
 delighted, and said that Sir Roderick must have been a 
 great gardener. Later on I expect he will spend a good 
 deal of his time out of doors, but at present the library 
 has greater attractions for him." 
 
 The morning was wet. Guy finished his after-breakfast 
 pipe in the smoking room, and stood at the window 
 watching the raindrops jump on the paved walks of the 
 Dutch garden, and wondering what on earth he could find 
 to do with himself. The morning papers would not arrive 
 until twelve o'clock on the following day, which left a 
 considerable time to be filled up. The alternatives were a 
 novel, a game of patience, or an invasion of the privacy 
 of the ladies. *' I wonder whether Miss Cicely can read 
 music well enough to make it worth while asking her to 
 play some duets, and whether there are any here," he was 
 saying to himself, when the door opened, and Cicely came 
 in. Apparently she was as much in need of distraction as 
 he was, and in her youth and innocence she seemed so
 
 158 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 ready to make friends that Guy felt pleased at the thought 
 of her companionship. 
 
 " Shall we go over the house ? " she said. ** There is a 
 great deal to see, and I waited for you to show it me.** 
 " Haven't you been in all the rooms yet ? " 
 " No, only a few of them." 
 
 '* That will be just the thing for a wet morning, then. 
 Come along. The house is a sort of South Kensington 
 Museum of art treasures, and I can't pretend to be a very 
 good guide to them. But I will do my best. There really 
 ought to be a catalogue. All the materials for it are up- 
 stairs. Now, where shall we begin ? '* 
 
 They began with the great drawing-room, the room which 
 Guy told Cicely had been in constant preparation as if for 
 the use of the dearly loved lady who had been dead five- 
 and-twenty years. 
 
 " The morning-room was just the same, Mrs. Cheetham 
 told me," said Cicely in a low voice, " the room next door, 
 that Mrs. Herbert and I use. And there are rooms upstairs 
 which were hers too. I haven't been into them yet." 
 
 "Those have been kept exactly as they were when she 
 last used them," said Guy. "These have been altered a 
 good deal since. Many of these pictures and the other 
 beautiful things have been bought since she died. But, as 
 you see, they have not been put in anyhow. It is just as 
 if he had enriched the room for her sake ; and it was 
 always kept open, as if it might be used at any time." 
 
 They spent some time examining the pictures, the 
 cabinets of china, the enamels, and the beautiful pieces of 
 stately furniture, for which it seemed as if all parts of the 
 globe had been ransacked. Guy knew something about 
 such things, and he was surprised to find that Cicely knew a 
 good deal too. It appeared that Mrs. Herbert, that woman 
 so admirably equipped for all contingencies, had taken
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 159 
 
 her regularly to the treasure-chambers at South Kensington, 
 and insisted on a systematic study of their contents. 
 
 *' It was instead of German," explained Cicely, " which 
 I always hated." 
 
 From the big drawing-room they passed into the music- 
 room leading out of it, where there was an organ, which 
 had not been used for the quarter of a century during 
 which this great beautiful house had enshrined the dreams 
 and regrets of one lonely man. But it had been kept in 
 order, and the room had resounded once a year to the 
 discordant shrieks and hoots of the tuner. Here they found 
 a whole library of music, and it appeared that Cicely had 
 been accustomed to playing those admirable arrangements 
 for the piano of the works of the great masters, symphonies, 
 operas, and chamber music. 
 
 " With Mrs. Herbert ? " inquired Guy. " She seems to 
 know and do everything." 
 
 " She can't do that," said Cicely, with a smile. **I wish 
 she could, because I shall miss it now. Mary Conder used 
 to come and play duets with me. She doesn't play very 
 well, but she was always nice about it, and didn't mind 
 playing wrong notes a bit." 
 
 " Oh, well, that's something," said Guy, encouragingly. 
 
 "She was rather too strong for me," admitted Cicely. 
 " I always made her play the treble, because, if she played 
 the bass, I could never hear what I was doing. But she 
 couldn't keep to her own part of the piano, and was always 
 digging chips out of me with her little finger-nails." 
 
 "Yes, she's a thoroughly nice, kind-hearted girl, Mary 
 Conder," said Guy, " always willing to oblige, and that's 
 more than you can say of everybody. But all the Conders 
 are that. Bobby would give the nose off his face to any- 
 body he thought might want it. I shouldn't myself, 
 because there's not enough of it, certainly not enough for
 
 i6o THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 two. Look here, Miss Cicely, do you see that cabinet? 
 That is full of the finest collection of mezzotints I have 
 seen outside the British Museum. What they are worth 
 now I couldn't say, probably about twenty times what my 
 cousin gave for them. I'm afraid I have taken a good 
 many of them away for my cottage, but there are plenty 
 left, and we will go over them some day or other." 
 
 Leading out of the music-room was another smaller 
 drawing-room and a conservatory filled with flowers. 
 There were more cabinets in this room, full of beautiful, 
 priceless things, which they examined together, comparing 
 their slender stock of knowledge. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said Guy, glancing at the glass 
 dome of the conservatory, on which the rain was dropping 
 ceaselessly. " Shall we begin to make a catalogue of these 
 things while I am here ? There isn't one that I know of, 
 but there is all the information in books upstairs. It 
 would be interesting work, and would give us something 
 to do when we are tired of playing duets on a wet morning 
 like this." 
 
 Cicely assented eagerly, as she would have done to any- 
 thing that Guy had suggested, and that was how the " Cata- 
 logue of the Contents of Merrilees, Cumberland," came to 
 be compiled, of which a hundred copies, printed on hand- 
 made paper and bound in vellum, were afterwards issued, 
 and are prized by collectors. Cicely had eventually to 
 finish the compilation with the assistance of Mrs. Herbert, 
 for they did not get very far during Guy's brief visit. 
 
 They went upstairs still discussing their plan, and into 
 Lady Bertram's rooms. The first was a boudoir over the 
 morning room. It was not so full of furniture as the 
 rooms downstairs, but it gave a more intimate impression 
 of human occupancy. It seemed impossible that it should 
 never have been used during those many years. There was
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 161 
 
 a little low chair drawn up close to the fireplace, and a 
 work table by its side. On one of the tables was an 
 embroidery frame with a half-finished design, and the 
 needles and the skeins of silk still attached to it. Books 
 were scattered about on other tables, old-fashioned books 
 in rich bindings. There was a guitar hanging on the wall, 
 and a tall harp in one corner with many broken strings. 
 A square piano stood near a window, open, with an Italian 
 song on the music stand. The keys were discoloured, and 
 as Guy touched them they gave a melancholy, discordant 
 note. No tunei had been allowed to enter this sacred 
 room. An empty bird-cage stood on a stand near the 
 fireplace, and an empty basket with a little rug was on 
 the floor beside it. 
 
 " Mrs. Cheetham always dusted these rooms herself," 
 said Guy ; " and no one ever entered them but she and 
 Sir Roderick. His wife died abroad, you know, but when 
 he came back he had everything arranged just as when 
 she had last used them, and so they have remained ever 
 since." 
 
 They went through the poor lady's dressing-room and 
 the big bedroom beyond, and came out again subdued and 
 saddened by the impression of ever-abiding loss which the 
 rooms conveyed, so natural with their tale of life and yet 
 telling so strangely of that life long since cut off. 
 
 " We will leave them just as they are," said Cicely. " I 
 don't suppose we shall ever have the house so full that we 
 shall want them, and there are plenty of others." 
 
 Sir Roderick's rooms on the floor above were also shut 
 up. They went past the big bedroom where he had died, 
 but Guy took Cicely into the dressing-room and showed 
 her the books in which the purchases were recorded of the 
 things they would eater in their catalogue. 
 
 "This is the old part of the house," he said, as they 
 
 H.M. M
 
 162 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 opened the door at the end of the corridor. "It is very 
 old indeed, and was built in times when they used to 
 fortify their houses. I don't know who it belonged to then. 
 Sir Michael, who practically rebuilt the house, was the 
 first Bertram who lived here." 
 
 They found themselves at the head of a turret stair 
 enclosed in immense thickness of solid stone. This part 
 of the house was of some extent, but was hidden from the 
 south by the long front of Italian architecture. There were 
 stone passages and stairways, little rooms with groined 
 ceilings, mostly unfurnished or containing discarded pieces 
 of heavy and old-fashioned lumber. They went up the turret 
 stair and out on to the roof, which was entirely shaded and 
 hidden by the great trees that grew up to the very walls. 
 
 They went down again, and on the ground floor came 
 across a little old chapel, dark and gloomy, with a stone 
 altar marked with five crosses. Otherwise it was quite 
 empty, and the dust of ages lay in the corners and on the 
 remains of rude carvings. 
 
 '* I wonder when this was last used," said Guy. " Cen- 
 turies ago, I expect. I know nothing of the early history 
 of the house." 
 
 "Someone has been here lately," said Cicely, pointing 
 co the stone floor, upon which the dust and dirt had been 
 recently disturbed. 
 
 " Someone has been everywhere, all over the house," said 
 Guy. " I doubt whether there is a corner that has not been 
 ransacked. Let us go and see the west wing." 
 
 A heavy oak door, studded with nails, led out of the 
 remains of this mediaeval fortress into an addition of more 
 recent, but still ancient times. The outer walls were partly 
 the same, but the interior was full of oak-panelled rooms, 
 with plastered ceilings and great open fireplaces rich with 
 carvings.
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 163 
 
 "This is pure Elizabethan," said Guy. *I wish there 
 was more of it. With the exception of the breakfast 
 parlour and the smoking room, it has been given up entirely 
 to the servants. I think if I ever came to live here I should 
 rescue some of the rooms. This panelling is very fine, and 
 it is nearly all in perfect preservation. Sir Michael, with 
 his Italian tastes, could hardly be expected to appreciate it ; 
 but he evidently had the good sense to leave it as it 
 was. Come upstairs, and I will show you something 
 interesting." 
 
 They mounted by a massive oak staircase to the second 
 floor, and Guy led the way into the dark little room which 
 had been Martin's. The doors of the great iron safe stared 
 at them from the wall, startlingly incongruous. 
 
 **This is where the great hoard of jewels was kept," said 
 Guy. " You may imagine my feelings when we opened it 
 and found it empty." 
 
 He pushed back the heavy door and disclosed the rows of 
 baize-covered shelves that had held treasures of almost 
 fabulous value, beside which the varied contents of the 
 rest of the house sank into insignificance. 
 
 They looked in at the telling emptiness. " Come along," 
 said Guy, turning away. * 4 It gives me the blues. Let us 
 go and make music." 
 
 But the duets had to be postponed for that morning. 
 The butler waylaid them at the door of the music-room 
 with a request that Sir Guy would kindly step into the 
 library and speak to his lordship. 
 
 Lord Caradoc was discovered in a state of suppressed 
 excitement, which, if he had been a man of anything but a 
 very spare " habit of body," might have led to an attack 
 of apoplexy. He was pacing up and down the great 
 library. 
 
 44 Come in here ; come in here," he cried, as his guest 
 
 M a
 
 164 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 entered, and darted into the inner room with head bent, like 
 a rabbit bolting into his hole. Guy followed him with his 
 heart in his mouth. 
 
 There were two smaller rooms opening out of the great 
 library. The first was a working room with all the appliances 
 for learned toil. The second was devoted to that famous 
 collection of books, the Ffoulkes Library. It was lined with 
 books from floor to ceiling, and a little railed gallery 
 ran round it half-way up. It was furnished with a severe- 
 looking writing table, a few chairs, and a cabinet of many 
 drawers. It was into this room and up to this cabinet that 
 Lord Caradoc led his wondering guest. 
 
 " I have made a discovery, a great discovery," he said, 
 rubbing his hands and peering through his glasses at Guy. 
 " I thought you told me you had been through Sir Roderick's 
 papers in this room and found nothing of importance ? " 
 
 " I looked through them rather cursorily," replied Guy ; 
 " but I don't think I overlooked anything." 
 
 " Nothing of importance ? " whispered Lord Caradoc in a 
 voice of shocked surprise. " My dear young friend, do you 
 know that in those drawers lies a work which the world has 
 been waiting for many years the work which I myself have 
 been engaged on to the best of my small powers now for 
 some time past, but with what limited powers compared with 
 the genius shown here ? " 
 
 He took a great bundle of closely written manuscript out 
 of one of the drawers of the cabinet, and laid it on the table 
 with trembling and reverent hands. Guy was too disap- 
 pointed to speak, and stood immersed in regretful thought 
 while Lord Caradoc went rambling on. 
 
 "It is my own subject," he said, ***Thc History of 
 England's Foreign Policy.' I found it early this morning, 
 and have looked casually through it. It has been written 
 under serious disadvantages, which would have prevented a
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 165 
 
 lesser man from undertaking such a stupendous task. Access 
 to original documents has been to a great extent impossible, 
 almost entirely so with the exception of the period for which 
 these books and papers " he waved his hand towards the 
 shelves " are indispensable. There are letters and papers in 
 this library bearing on the policy of Carteret, for instance, 
 which have never yet seen the light, and for that period the 
 work which I have in my hands will create the biggest 
 sensation of the day. And for the whole period covered 
 and the work, as far as I can judge, is completed although 
 certain sources of information have been closed for the 
 writer, and there are mistakes and inaccuracies, the grasp, 
 the insight, the master-mind displayed here, fill me with 
 astonishment I might almost say with praise and thanks- 
 giving," added Lord Caradoc, with a dim remembrance of 
 clerical aspirations. 
 
 " My own researches have been amply acknowledged," he 
 continued with lively satisfaction. " But to glance at this 
 precious work makes me feel a mere day labourer in the 
 field. On one point I have come across I am contradicted 
 and set right. I bow before the judgment. Oh, the wit 
 and intelligence brought to bear on my poor error ! Nothing 
 bitter too much deference, if anything, to one so con- 
 spicuously lacking in all that is truly great. Oh for a 
 few hours' conversation with such a man ! I followed him, 
 I remember, in my young days, followed his career with 
 interest, and may perhaps have conversed with him ; I do 
 not recollect. But the ripeness of judgment, the fruit 
 borne I should never have expected to see such a thing. I 
 can only bow my head before such a mind, and such a task 
 accomplished." 
 
 Lord Caradoc might have gone on in this laudatory strain 
 for another hour. He had evidently been aroused out of his 
 usual calm by the discovery he had made, and was talking
 
 166 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 more to himself than to Guy. Guy, who had somewhat 
 recovered from his disappointment at the disclosure of the 
 nature of Lord Caradoc's discovery, and whose thoughts had 
 been busy during the foregoing speech, interrupted it now 
 to ask : 
 
 "Is this this work finished?" 
 
 " As far as I can see, a period has been put to it," replied 
 Lord Caradoc. " A chapter might have to be written, of 
 which the substance is already set down, and a certain 
 amount of expert work would be required to prepare it for 
 the press, but there is nothing that a far less original mind 
 might not undertake with success." 
 
 "This is how my cousin spent his days and his years 
 shut up here," said Guy, " and, as with everything else in 
 his arrangements, the end of this year was to see it all 
 completed." 
 
 Lord Caradoc ignored this remark. " No time ought to 
 be lost in publishing this for the benefit of the world," he 
 said. " It will undoubtedly make a sensation. If you are 
 willing, I propose to put my other work aside for the 
 present and devote myself to preparing these valuable 
 documents for publication." 
 
 " That would be a great honour, Lord Caradoc." 
 
 This polite acknowledgment of his undoubted eminence 
 in the field of historical research seemed to cause Lord 
 Caradoc pain. 
 
 "Tut, tut I" he replied. "There could be no talk of 
 such a thing. The honour would be mine. I should write 
 an introduction, and a few notes where opinions expressed 
 would doubtless have been modified in the light of recent 
 knowledge. I should have no wish to arrogate to myself 
 any of the glory that must accrue to the memory of the 
 author of such a work. What I should like would be to 
 ask a competent scholar to assist me in the details of
 
 THE GREAT WORK. 167 
 
 revision. There is an immense pile of manuscript, of which 
 this is a very small part, to go through. I cannot at present 
 bring to mind any young rising scholar to whom I could 
 apply. Have you anyone in your miiid to whom you 
 would care to entrust such a work ? " 
 
 Guy, whose historical knowledge was confined chiefly to 
 a few details in the lives of King Alfred, King Henry, and 
 the Duke of Clarence, in connection with cakes, lampreys, 
 and Malmsey wine, was about to reply in the negative 
 when he bethought himself. 
 
 " I think I do know of a man,** he said, and mentioned 
 George Greenfield. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Lord Caradoc. " His name is familiar 
 to me. I read an essay of his, which I think won a 
 University prize, with very great interest. It was imma- 
 ture, perhaps, but showed undoubted grasp of his subject 
 and, I think, the true historical spirit. You could not have 
 mentioned anyone more satisfactory. Would he undertake 
 it, do you think ? " 
 
 " He is always full of work ; but I could write and ask 
 him. He is not very well off, I believe." 
 
 "I should expect, of course, to reimburse him liberally 
 for his loss of time," said Lord Caradoc, and he mentioned 
 a sum so handsome that Guy could only feel overcome by 
 deputy at his generosity. " I should like to work with a 
 young man of such ability, and you may tell him, I think, 
 from me that it will be of some advantage to him for his 
 name to be connected with such a work as this. I should 
 wish, if I might suggest it, that you should write to 
 Mr. Greenfield to-day, and the sooner we set to work the 
 better." . 
 
 Guy wrote to George that afternoon and informed him 
 of the great discovery, the importance of which, he said, he 
 took from Lord Caradoc, not being a judge of such matters
 
 168 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 himself, and proposed that George should come to Merrilees 
 forthwith. 
 
 George, delighted enough at the proposal, replied that he 
 would be able to devote the following month to Lord 
 Caradoc's service, and would come to Merrilees in a week 
 from that time. Lord Caradoc, having been even more 
 struck than he had acknowledged by the brilliance of 
 the essay which had come under his notice, was made 
 exceedingly content, and Guy returned to London just 
 before George's arrival, delighted at having pleased Lord 
 Caradoc and done a service to his friend.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 GUT BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISB. 
 
 POOR little Peggy, so rudely disturbed in the recesses of 
 her maidenly soul by her father's words, took little pleasure 
 in her newly acquired emancipation. George had taken no 
 step, and proposed to take none, to comply with Mr. Richards's 
 demands, but a letter had reached Mrs. Greenfield early in 
 the week from Glasgow, stating shortly that Mr. Richards 
 did not think there was much chance of Sir Guy Bertram's 
 coming again to the cottage unless he were asked, and, as 
 he understood that he would not be asked, Peggy might 
 stay on at Highgate. 
 
 Relieved by this decision, the girl tried to take the 
 pleasure in her home life which she had anticipated for 
 herself. But, truth to tell, that life was very dull for her. 
 George was at home but little, and towards the end of 
 July left London altogether to work with Lord Caradoc 
 at Merrilees. 
 
 Very nearly he had written to beg off his engagement. 
 When he had told his mother of it, she had grown pale and 
 frightened, as, alas ! he had so often seen her do of late, 
 and besought him not to go. She was not well, she said, 
 and could not bear the thought of such a separation ; but 
 on being pressed she had calmed down, denied that there 
 was anything the matter with her, and finally reproached 
 herself with selfishness in trying to keep him back from 
 something that would be of advantage to him. 
 
 In truth, it was plain to see that she was anxious and
 
 170 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 depressed, and George would willingly have stayed by her 
 if he could have helped her to a more tranquil frame of 
 mind. But she made an effort to disguise her state, 
 became cheerful and tranquil as before in his presence, and 
 laughed at her previous fears. 
 
 " You cannot do me any good by staying here," she said. 
 " And if trouble if illness comes, it will come. And you 
 will always come to me, I know, if I want you." 
 
 So George went, only half at ease in his mind, and 
 directly he had gone Mrs. Greenfield fell back into her 
 troubled mood, and although she would tell Peggy nothing 
 of what was on her mind and did her best to hide the 
 anxieties that were wearing her down, she was not in a 
 state to tranquillise a girl oppressed for the first time in her 
 life by questionings and fears which she was able neither to 
 define nor to avoid. 
 
 With Peggy, as with Guy, the rude dragging into the 
 light of what at most lay germinating in the heart of 
 each had forced her to examine herself, and from her self- 
 examination she had gained nothing but disquietude and 
 distress. She had friends in Highgate, friends of her own 
 age, both girls and boys, but she took little pleasure in 
 their society, and still less in the quiet but no longer 
 tranquil life of the cottage. She found herself often 
 walking along the lane, as little crowded on a weekday 
 as a country road, which led to the Heath, where she had 
 been so happy and light-hearted on that Sunday afternoon, 
 pouring her own little plans and hopes into Guy's friendly 
 ear and listening with so much pleasure to those he 
 imparted to her in return. If her home life had been 
 cheerful and gay at this time, and if she had been 
 surrounded by the distractions which take a young girl's 
 thoughts away from inward broodings, she might soon have 
 got over the unpleasant shock of her father's interference,
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 171 
 
 As it was, she brooded on it, and Guy, the cause of it, was 
 never out of her mind for long together. 
 
 As for Guy himself, he was almost in a worse case. A 
 man, especially a young man, who has not kept a very 
 careful guard over his impulses and has never been seriously 
 bitten by passion, does not treat the thought of love as an 
 impertinent intrusion. He is rather inclined to meet it 
 with open arms as a new and delightful experience. And 
 Guy, .if before his interview with Mr. Richards he would 
 have scouted the idea of being in love with Peggy, was 
 now very sure that he was so, and suffered accordingly. 
 
 When he returned from his visit to Merrilees he found 
 London nearly deserted. He went down to Surrey, as he 
 had intended, and overlooked the first staking out of his 
 garden and the laying of the foundations of his house. 
 But after three days or so he found this very dull work. 
 Matters progressed with irritating slowness, he could not 
 be hanging about his new property all day with his hands 
 in his pockets, the cottage rooms he had taken were lonely 
 in the extreme, and, as it happened, he knew none of the 
 people who lived in the immediate neighbourhood. He 
 found himself thrown back on his own thoughts, and his 
 thoughts led him to Peggy. He cursed his folly in 
 promising unconditionally not to see her again. 
 
 A week after his return from Merrilees he found himself 
 again in his rooms at St. James's and on the next morning 
 he took himself and his thoughts to the Heath, to the 
 place where he had stood under the firs with Peggy and 
 looked at the distant view. He had promised that he 
 would not go to Highgate. The Heath was not Highgate. 
 He had promised that he would not try to see Peggy, and 
 this was not trying to see her ; but by this time he knew 
 very well that he was in love with her, and he felt that it 
 would afford him some consolation to visit a place of
 
 17* THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 which the attraction consisted in having visited it first in 
 her company. He sat on a seat under the firs for an hour, 
 looking round every now and then towards the lane which 
 led up to those breezy heights from Highgate, and wondering 
 what he should do if a youthful figure, which was now 
 always present in his mind, should appear, coming towards 
 him from amongst the trees. 
 
 By-and-by he began to feel a little ashamed of himself. 
 Other people had come from the direction of Highgate and 
 looked at him questioningly, and, as it seemed to him, 
 suspiciously, as if they must have known what he was 
 there for ; and the invasion of a party of chattering school- 
 girls, one of whom evidently recognised him and whispered 
 to her companions, causing them to regard him with hushed 
 delight, gave himcause to remember the penalties of notoriety. 
 
 He walked across the Heath and drove back to St. 
 James's Street, declaring to himself that he would go 
 abroad and recover his independence of mind. 
 
 The next morning, because it was fine and still, he told 
 himselt that the view from the firs would be better worth 
 looking at than ever, and again he made his way thither. 
 He took a detour and approached the plateau on which 
 the firs stood from behind some thick bushes. As he came 
 out into the open he saw Peggy standing before him on 
 the spot on which they had stood together a month before, 
 gazing out over the blue distance with a look on her face 
 that made his heart beat. She turned and saw him, and the 
 light that sprang into her eyes and flooded her face drove 
 away any lingering doubts he may have possessed that she 
 was the one girl in all the world whom he wanted for his own. 
 
 Their greeting was awkward enough. It was so obvious, 
 however he might have tried to deceive himself, that Guy 
 had come there simply and solely on the chance of seeing 
 her, that he could find nothing to say. And Peggy's face
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 173 
 
 had told so plainly that she was overjoyed to see him, that 
 no words were possible to her but those which told of her 
 confusion. They stood side by side, each trying to reduce 
 to order the tumult of their thoughts. 
 
 ** I promised your father that I would not try to see you," 
 said Guy at last in a husky voice. 
 
 " My father ? " exclaimed Peggy with a deep blush, 
 caused by the remembrance of her father's words to her. 
 
 " Yes," said Guy. " He came to see me on that Sunday 
 evening. I was very angry with him for what he had said, 
 and I am afraid I was rather rude. I was taken by surprise." 
 
 " Oh, I wish he hadn't said anything to you," said Peggy 
 in deep distress. 
 
 " Come and let us sit down," said Guy, indicating a seat 
 near at hand. 
 
 " I mustn't," said Peggy, irresolutely. ** If you oh, I 
 don't know what to do." 
 
 Her confusion and distress had the effect of making Guy 
 master of himself. " I am not sorry your father came 
 to me," he said. " It has only made me say sooner what I 
 should have said later in any case. I have been thinking 
 of you ever since, little Peggy, and I can't do without you. 
 I love you with my whole heart." 
 
 The happiness his words brought her, piercing through 
 the trouble of her mind, was too much for Peggy. She hid 
 her face in her hands and cried. Guy took hold of her 
 hands and comforted her with murmured words of love. 
 
 "I ought not to listen to you," said Peggy, smiling 
 at him through her tears. " But I can't help it." 
 
 " Of course you can't help it, darling," said Guy, tenderly. 
 " It was meant that we should love each other the first time 
 we met, wasn't it ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Peggy. * I thought you were veiy 
 nice the first time we met.**
 
 174 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " And I thought you were adorable," said Guy, looking 
 back on the past through the glasses of the present. 
 
 They sat under the firs for some time longer, perfectly 
 happy in their new-found love. The girl looked no further 
 forward than the present delightful moment. The man 
 remembered that there was something more to be done. 
 
 " What shall I say to your father for having stolen your 
 heart, my darling ? " inquired Guy when he had sufficiently 
 assured himself that he had it. 
 
 Peggy, recalled from the heights of Paradise, instantly 
 grew troubled again. "Must you when shall you see 
 him ? " she asked anxiously. 
 
 " He is in Glasgow, isn't he ? I shall go up to-night and 
 tell him I want you for my very own." 
 
 " Must you go so soon ? " 
 
 " Yes. I've got no rights in you yet, my sweet Peggy. I 
 want to come and see you at High gate every day of my 
 life, and I am under a promise not to come to Highgate at 
 all at present. I ought not to be seen here, I suppose ; but 
 I shall have to point out to your father that the place is 
 under the jurisdiction of the London County Council and 
 is free to all. I happened to meet you here, and having 
 met you, well, what could I do but tell you I loved you ? " 
 
 " I am afraid father will be angry." 
 
 " Not a bit. He said he didn't want your head turned, 
 though who am I that I should have the power to turn that 
 dear little head ? Have I turned it, Peggy ? " 
 
 "Towards yourself, I think," said Peggy shyly. 
 
 An interlude witnessed only by a blind man at the 
 corner of Hampstead Lane and his Toby dog, but by them 
 with interest. 
 
 " Well, you see, your head being already turned in my 
 direction," explained Guy, " my keeping away from you 
 would oiily turn it again, and that he doesn't want."
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 175 
 
 " Shall I tell mother ? " asked Peggy, already willing to 
 put herself completely into his hands. 
 
 " Yes, tell her, and tell George ; or shall I tell 
 George ? " 
 
 M He has gone up to Merrilees," Peggy reminded him. 
 
 " So he has. I don't know that I won't look in on 
 Merrilees on my way from Glasgow. No, I won't. That 
 would keep me a day longer from you, Peggy. I will write 
 to George when I have seen your father." 
 
 So Peggy went back to Highgate after a lingering 
 farewell at the corner of the lane, during which the blind 
 man affected a supreme unconsciousness and his dog barked 
 encouragingly ; and Guy drove back to London with a 
 heart full of love and joy. 
 
 Once more he went hurrying north, this time by night, 
 and the next morning found him breakfasting at St. Enoch's 
 Hotel in the city of Glasgow. Peggy had given him her 
 father's address, and with no delay he set out to find that 
 redoubtable man of business. 
 
 To say that he had no qualms concerning his forthcoming 
 interview would not be strictly true. He remembered how 
 he had angrily ordered Mr. Richards out of his rooms on 
 the only occasion on which they had hitherto met, and he 
 acknowledged to himself that his previous attitude would 
 need some tactful ignoring. Of the main results of his 
 mission doubts troubled him little. In spite of the un- 
 certainty attaching to his possible fortune, it had been made 
 plain to him of late that he was considered matrimonially 
 eligible in the mart of fashionable London, and although 
 Peggy was a princess among girls, the mental criticism 
 which it was impossible to apply to her he had already 
 allowed to play upon the social position of her father. 
 The very ground the man had taken up in issuing his veto 
 against their meeting one another showed that the idea of
 
 176 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Guy's wanting to marry his daughter had not occurred to 
 him. When he should tell him that that was what he did 
 want it was probable that a business man, evidently not of 
 the first rank, would be gratified at the thought of such a 
 match for his daughter. Peggy had told him that she had 
 hardly seen her father fifty times in the course of her life, 
 so that he could not very well object to her being taken 
 away from him, and Guy remembered that Mr. Richards 
 had said that he had no objections to him personally, as, 
 indeed, why should he have, knowing nothing about him 
 but what everybody was at liberty to know ? It was on the 
 awkwardness of the meeting that his doubts exercised 
 themselves, not on its final result. 
 
 Mr. Richards had left the house where he lived, a dull little 
 house in a dull little street, some time before for his office, 
 to which Guy was directed. " McDougall, Richards & Co." 
 was the style of the firm, and insurance broking its business, 
 though what special occupation came under that description 
 Guy had not the faintest idea. Whatever it might be, the firm 
 of McDougall, Richards & Co. were apparently doing well at 
 it, for they occupied the first floor of a house of considerable 
 size in one of the busiest streets of the commercial part of 
 the city, and the counting-house was full of clerks. Guy 
 sent in his card and was presently conducted into a room 
 where Mr. Richards sat writing on one side of a large table 
 and Mr. McDougall on the other. The latter gentleman, 
 with a look of some interest at his partner's visitor, left 
 the room, and Guy was left alone with Mr. Richards, who 
 motioned him to a chair and waited in silence to hear what 
 he had to say. The business man on his own ground, 
 breaking off in the middle of important and mysterious 
 dealings with the great world of commerce, and evidently 
 anxious to return to them again, had his visitor at some 
 disadvantage, and Guy experienced a sensation of being
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 177 
 
 once more in statu pupillari interviewed by his tutor on 
 some breach of college discipline. 
 
 " I have seen your daughter," began Guy, rather awk- 
 wardly, for he had not sufficiently rehearsed the gambits of 
 his conversation. A look of annoyance passed over Mr. 
 Richards's face, and Guy hastened to add that he had met 
 her on Hampstead Heath while he was walking there. 
 
 " Do you often walk on Hampstead Heath ? " inquired 
 Mr. Richards. 
 
 " No," replied Guy. " At any rate I have come straight 
 up here to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage." 
 
 Mr. Richards was evidently taken by surprise, and was 
 not able entirely to hide it. He cast a quick look at Guy 
 from under raised brows and turned sharply in his seat. 
 He seemed at a loss to know what to say, so said something 
 disagreeable. 
 
 " You have come up here to ask my permission to propose 
 to my daughter ? " 
 
 Guy turned off the sneer with the straightforward truth. 
 " I have already proposed to her," he said. " I have come 
 to ask your permission to marry her." 
 
 " You have already proposed to her, although you 
 promised me not to see or speak to her again ? " 
 
 " I didn't quite promise that, but I hope you will put 
 that question aside and consider that I love your daughter, 
 and she loves me. You can make any inquiries about me 
 you like. If you give your consent to our engagement I 
 will do my very best to make her happy, and and I shall 
 consider myself a very fortunate man." 
 
 It might have been thought that this straightforward and 
 on the whole modest speech would have given Mr. Richards 
 some cause for self-congratulation, and that he might have 
 considered himself a fortunate man in securing a good- 
 looking young baronet of irreproachable manners as A 
 
 H.M.
 
 178 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 suitor for his daughter's hand. He did not, however, show 
 himself overcome by the honour that was being done him. 
 
 " What is your financial position ? " he asked shortly. 
 
 "I suppose everybody knows the rather extraordinary 
 position in which I stand at present," said Guy. " As you 
 are probably aware, I am the heir of a very rich man, the 
 bulk of whose property had been converted into precious 
 stones, which have unfortunately been stolen." 
 
 " Well, I do know that. But if you are depending for an 
 income on property which you state has been stolen, which 
 you will never have the fingering of at any rate, you can't 
 call your position a very stable one." 
 
 " I am not depending on that for an income. I have 
 about fifteen hundred a year besides, or shall have when 
 my money is all invested, and I have a house which is at 
 present let for twelve hundred a year." 
 
 " For how much ? " 
 
 "Twelve hundred a year. It is let furnished to Lord 
 Caradoc on a yearly tenancy, and he is not likely to want 
 to give it up. In fact, I think he would like to buy it." 
 
 " And would you like to sell it ? " Mr. Richards asked 
 the question with a thinly veiled sneer, but Guy's eyes were 
 downward, and he did not notice it. 
 
 " Not at present," he said. " I am building a little house 
 of my own. I should make it rather larger if I were 
 married, and with the income I possess, apart from any 
 question of the bulk of my fortune, I should be able to 
 live there in a quiet way, perfectly free from anxiety." 
 
 Mr. Richards sat turning over in his mind what he had 
 heard. Guy studied his face meanwhile. It was not an 
 amiable face by any means, and its owner was not a 
 gentleman in any sense of the word which Guy would 
 have been likely to use. It struck him as somewhat incon- 
 gruous that he should be awaiting the decision of such a
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 179 
 
 man on such a question with anxiety. But Peggy was 
 worth it, and he swallowed his pride. He even allowed his 
 thoughts to leap forward and thought of the telegram he 
 would send to Peggy, and of how he would fly down to 
 Highgate as fast as steam and horseflesh could take him 
 when once this disagreeable interview was over. 
 
 Mr. Richards looked up at him as if he had been con- 
 sidering a proposition having to do with insurance broking, 
 and had decided on his course of action. 
 
 " Well, I must refuse your offer," he said. 
 
 Guy looked at him in amazement, his dreams rudely 
 disturbed. 
 
 " Surely you will give me some reason ? " he stammered. 
 
 ** I don't know why I should," replied Mr. Richards. 
 
 *I think it is owing to me," said Guy, collecting his 
 thoughts and preparing himself to fight for what was of 
 such importance to him. 
 
 "Well, perhaps it is. You have made me a straight- 
 forward proposal. I pass over the fact of your going 
 behind your word and speaking to my daughter first. That 
 is done now, and she will have to suffer for it. I daresay I 
 ought to consider myself honoured by a proposal for her 
 from a gentleman in your position. It's a higher one than 
 mine, whatever happens. But there are things I put before 
 position. What work have you ever done in your life? 
 How have you used your time and your opportunities ? 
 You are about twenty-six, I suppose ? What have you ever 
 done but amuse yourself ? " 
 
 Guy saw in a flash of insight the point of view of a man 
 who had made his own way in the world, his ideals and 
 objects, and his dislike of men to whom the good things 
 of life come with no labour on their part. He set himself 
 to do justice to this point of view and to meet it. 
 
 "I daresay I must seem to you an idle and useless 
 
 N a
 
 i8o THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 fellow," he said quietly. "Perhaps I am. But I have 
 never been obliged to work to make a living, and you may 
 easily assure yourself that I have not made a bad use of my 
 money and my time, if I have not made a very good one." 
 " That's all very well, but it wouldn't help you much if 
 you found yourself without any money at all. What did 
 you live on before before you came into this property ? " 
 " I had an allowance from my cousin." 
 " And what would you have done if he had stopped your 
 allowance, or left his money to somebody else, as he might 
 very well have done for all you knew ? " 
 
 " I don't know. The question never arose. I was his 
 only living relative, and directly my father died he made 
 me this allowance, which was to last, I suppose, and did 
 last, until I succeeded him." 
 "You never saw your cousin?*' 
 
 " Not since I can remember. But there was nothing odd 
 in that. He shut himself up in his house the year after I 
 was born, and saw nobody." 
 
 " Well, as I say, supposing he had left his property away 
 from you ? " 
 
 " He had no power to leave the house away from me.** 
 M The house ! The house brings in nothing." 
 " I beg your pardon. It brings in twelve hundred a year. 
 And it is only to be supposed, as he recognised me as his 
 
 heir indeed, he couldn't help it that " 
 
 " Supposing he had married again and had a son of 
 his own, what should you have done then ? " interrupted 
 the other. 
 
 " Well, you see, Mr. Richards, none of these unfortunate 
 things happened, or were likely to happen, my cousin being 
 what he was. The question is, surely, not what I should 
 have done in the event of having to work for my living, but 
 whether, being sufficiently provided for, as it turned out,
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 181 
 
 1 have done anything to make me unworthy to many your 
 daughter." 
 
 Mr. Richards rose and paced the room, it seemed to Guy, 
 in some agitation. 
 
 " I can't allow it, and you must take that as final," he 
 said at last, reseating himself. " If you were to lose your 
 money to-morrow you wouldn't be able to earn enough to 
 keep yourself, much less a wife. From the point of view of 
 a business man, you are good for nothing." 
 
 "Oh, but really," said Guy, now beginning to get 
 alarmed, "all that is surely absolutely beside the mark. 
 I am not in the least likely to lose my money, or any part 
 of it. I am much more likely to find a very great deal 
 more. My income will be perfectly safely invested you 
 can have all the information you want as to that and 
 my house in Cumberland is so full of treasures that if 
 I were to sell only a part of its contents I should get 
 enough to make me a rich man." 
 
 " You can't sell them." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by saying that. I could 
 sell everything if I wanted to. But I don't want to. I 
 have got enough without. And why should you expect 
 that your daughter should make a better marriage from a 
 financial point of view ? Heaven knows I don't want to 
 claim any superiority. In all that matters that's on her 
 side. But you can't deny that an income getting on for 
 three thousand a year would give her a good deal more 
 than she has now, and I should say, speaking perfectly 
 plainly, more than you could give her yourself if she lived 
 with you." 
 
 " I don't deny it. All I say is that your ideas and mine 
 are so different that I can do nothing but refuse your offer, 
 and I sha'n't change my mind if you sit and talk to me 
 about it all day."
 
 i8a THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Guy had come to the end of his tether. He felt that 
 nothing he could say would break down the obstinacy of 
 the man opposed to him. " Is the happiness of your 
 daughter nothing to you ? " he asked. 
 
 " I am a better judge of what will cause my daughter's 
 nappiness than you are, or than she is at her age,'* 
 answered Mr. Richards. 
 
 " I can't believe that you will refuse me on such grounds, 
 such absurd grounds, as you take up," urged Guy. 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to believe it sooner or later," 
 said Mr. Richards, " and the sooner the better for your 
 sake. I have made up my mind, and nothing you can say 
 will make me alter it." 
 
 Guy saw plainly that at present, at any rate, it was of 
 no use trying. He rose from his chair. " I can't take such 
 a refusal, Mr. Richards," he said. " It is in the highest 
 degree unreasonable. I shall leave you to think it over, 
 and shall come to you again." 
 
 " What I say, I say finally," replied the other doggedly. 
 
 " Even if I recover the very large property that has been 
 stolen from me ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards was silent for a moment. " If those jewels, 
 or the greater part of them, ever come into your posses- 
 sion," he said, " I will I will reconsider the matter. Let 
 that content you. And until then I must ask for your 
 definite promise that you do not hold any communication 
 with my daughter whatever. That is plain enough, and 
 there must be no getting behind the promise this time." 
 
 " I can't make the promise. I made such a promise to 
 you once, not knowing what I was doing, and I if you 
 like to say so I broke it. If I met her again, as I did 
 yesterday, I should speak to her. I couldn't help myself. 
 This isn't a small matter to me. Besides," he continued 
 more hotly, " why should I promise you anything ? I know
 
 GUY BERTRAM MAKES A PROMISE. 183 
 
 that she is ever so much too good for me in herself, but 
 there are plenty of people, who could reasonably look for 
 great matches for their daughters, who wouldn't refuse me 
 if I went and told them what I have told you. With you 
 it is a mere money bargain ! If I become a very rich man 
 you will ' reconsider the matter ' ! Until that happens you 
 won't look at me. The fact that I love your daughter goes 
 for nothing." 
 
 "Well, I take that back, then," said Mr. Richards, 
 roughly. " I only said it because I don't think there's the 
 slightest chance of your ever becoming a very rich man. 
 And I didn't say I should give my consent then. No. I 
 take that back definitely. It wouldn't be fair to the girl. 
 And I tell you this, that if you don't undertake to hold no 
 sort of communication with her whatever I'll send her 
 away altogether. I've had enough of this, and I'll end it 
 now once for all." 
 
 " I won't promise you anything," said Guy. 
 
 " Then you may get out of my room as you tried to turn 
 me out of yours. And I'll take very good care that you 
 don't see my daughter again, whether you promise or not. 
 She'll have to suffer for it, of course. But a lot you care 
 for that ! " 
 
 Guy came back into the room again. " If I promise what 
 you want," he said in a low voice, " will you let me write to 
 her once ? " 
 
 " No, I won't. I will write to her myself. I'll have this 
 business broken off now for good one way or the other. 
 And, whichever way it is, you won't be the gainer. If you 
 leave her alone she can stop where she is. If you won't she 
 shall come here, and I shall keep a pretty sharp eye on her. 
 You can make up your mind which it is to be, for I've no 
 more time to waste." 
 
 And for poor little Peggy's sake Guy promised.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 *TOU MUST BRING ME MORE. 1 * 
 
 GEORGE GREENFIELD arrived at Merrilees on the evening 
 of a day of wind and rain. As he alighted from the carriage 
 that had brought him from the station and took his seat 
 in the boat which was to bear him across the dark waters 
 to the island, he thought he had never seen so gloomy 
 a place. The rain drove in his face. Fallen leaves and 
 broken boughs strewed the terraces up which he mounted to 
 the house, standing dark and gloomy above him. The 
 decaying touch of autumn was already laid on all the 
 summer beauty. 
 
 George had lived his life in cities. His were the interests 
 and pleasure of human intercourse, and he had rowed with 
 the best of his fellows down the busy stream of life. It is 
 true that he had the tastes of a sportsman, and was not 
 ignorant of the more active pursuits of country life ; but 
 the placidities of existence, far removed from the centres of 
 living interest, had no attraction for him. His chief thought 
 on his first approach to the beautiful house of Merrilees was of 
 wonder that any man with active brain and intellect could 
 possibly support life in such a place. 
 
 Dull the house of Merrilees might very well appear to a 
 young man of perfect health and ardent ambitions, coming 
 to it from a life of such mental activity as George had been 
 leading. But to no one of ordinary intelligence and sensi- 
 bility could its interior fail t appeal as something rare and 
 exquisite, with whatever feelings he might enter it George
 
 "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE." 185 
 
 saw but few of its treasures on the first evening of his 
 arrival, but what he did see made an impression on his 
 mind all the greater for its being half unconscious. Lord 
 Caradoc met him in the hall, and could hardly wait until 
 he had changed his wet clothes and eaten a somewhat hasty 
 supper before immersing himself and his guest in a discussion 
 of the subject of which his mind was full. Seated in the 
 inner library, he poured out a flood of the admiration with 
 which Sir Roderick Bertram's great work had inspired him. 
 George caught something of his host's enthusiasm and showed 
 it sufficiently to make Lord Caradoc congratulate himself, 
 as he escorted him to his room at two o'clock in the morning, 
 that he had chanced upon a fellow- worker of such ability. 
 
 George must have fallen asleep the moment his head 
 touched the pillow, for he never stirred until he was 
 awakened at eight o'clock the next morning by the servant 
 moving about his room. The wind had died down com- 
 pletely during the night, and there was no cloud in the sky. 
 The view which had so entranced Guy Bertram on his first 
 awaking at Merrilees met George's eyes as he rose and stood 
 at the open window. The late summer flowers made a 
 brilliant setting to the stone carvings and balustrades, and 
 the cascade splashed and sparkled its way down to the blue 
 waters of the lake. It was not in the nature of youth to be 
 unmoved by so much beauty. It suggested the thought 
 that there was, after all, something to be said for life in 
 such a place as Merrilees. The man who was waiting on 
 him told him where to find the bathing place, and George ran 
 down to the lake and swam far out into its cool waters. 
 
 As he climbed the stair again to the house after his 
 swim, full of youth, health, and energy, he was a young 
 man whom it was good to look upon. Probably no young 
 man so handsome as George can be altogether unaware of 
 his good looks, but it is safe to say that no one so
 
 i86 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 generously treated by nature in this respect could have 
 prided himself less on his advantages. The thought of 
 marriage in the still remote future may sometimes have 
 crossed his mind, and the prefatory process of falling in 
 love may have occurred to him as an accident to which all 
 men are more or less liable. But as for seeking opportuni- 
 ties of falling in love, George's life had hitherto been far 
 too full to make such a pursuit either possible or attractive. 
 And at this particular time in his life, when new interests 
 and ambitions were thronging in on him, nothing can 
 have been farther from his thoughts than the possibility of 
 the image of a girl entering and holding them. But his 
 time had come, and his freedom of mind was over. 
 
 As he ran, whistling, up the last flight of steps that led 
 to the broad terrace in front of the house, he lifted his eyes 
 and saw Cicely standing above him, a basket of flowers in 
 one hand, the other resting on the stone coping of the 
 balustrade. He stopped suddenly and stood looking at her 
 until a movement on her part recalled him to himself. 
 Then he went forward and greeted her in a manner as 
 commonplace as if, during those few moments, the whole 
 conscious scheme of his life had not been changed. It 
 was not her beauty that moved him, though she was 
 beautiful. Who can say what there is in the eyes of a girl 
 that bears no message for the many, but thrills the whole 
 being of the one ? Love at first sight is probably not so 
 common an experience as might be supposed from a close 
 acquaintance with the works of the novelists, but in the 
 case of a man such as George Greenfield, whose mind has 
 never run on thoughts of love, it may very well come thus, 
 a bolt from the blue. 
 
 The time during which George had stood and looked at 
 Cicely had been so short as to be scarcely noticeable. They 
 shook hands and went into the house together, talking of
 
 "YOU MUST BRING M MORE." 187 
 
 the beaut} of the morning and of the work which George 
 had come to Merrilees to do. 
 
 He was glad enough to get away and be alone for a few 
 minutes. He recognised what had befallen him and 
 wanted to adapt his thoughts to it. But, as he finished his 
 dressing in the room with the windows wide open towards 
 the lake and the distant woods, he found that his thoughts 
 refused to be reduced to order. It was too early yet. The 
 event had been too sudden. All that he knew was that 
 the lake sparkled more gloriously in the sun, the late 
 summer woods took on the freshness of spring, and that all 
 the work which he had set himself to do and which had 
 hitherto engrossed his thoughts was as nothing to him 
 beside a slip of a girl with blue eyes and corn-coloured 
 hair ; also that, try as he would, he could recall no single 
 feature of her face. 
 
 All the morning he worked with Lord Caradoc. That 
 eminent historian would have liked to work all the after- 
 noon too, and all the evening, but restrained himself so far 
 as to suggest to George that they might meet in the 
 library again when it began to get dark, spend an hour 
 over their papers until dinner-time, and another hour or so 
 before they went to bed. George went up to his room 
 again before luncheon and tried once more to reduce the 
 new commotion in his blood into terms of aspiration and 
 resolve. But he could only think that in a few minutes he 
 would be sitting at table with her, and only hope that the 
 afternoon might be spent in her company. 
 
 At luncheon Mrs. Herbert suggested tea in a little 
 thatched cottage, built for that purpose in the wood at the 
 far end of the lake. George rowed them across. Mrs. 
 Herbert sat in the verandah of the cottage, knitted, fell 
 asleep, knitted and fell asleep again throughout the afternoon, 
 George and Cicely walked by the lake and picked up shiny
 
 188 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 pebbles. When the time came they built a fire of sticks, 
 boiled a kettle, and made tea with much ado. George had 
 never felt so happy in all his life. The only drawback to 
 his happiness was a feeling of nervousness as to whether he 
 was talking as well as he could have wished. He had not 
 experienced this nervousness when addressing public meet- 
 ings, as he had occasionally done in pursuance of his 
 political aims. On those occasions the desire to talk well 
 had inspired him to success. The same desire now seemed 
 only to reduce him to mere diffident banality. He had 
 always found it very easy to amuse men with his conversa- 
 tion. What could he say that would put him on terms of 
 friendship with this young girl ? 
 
 He found himself envying some of his friends their ready 
 social tact. Guy Bertram, for instance how very quickly he 
 had slipped into terms of intimacy with Peggy on that 
 June day at Cambridge. He mentioned Guy Bertram, and 
 found that here was a subject upon which he might talk with 
 the certainty of full appreciation. He told Cicely the 
 history of their friendship and incidents in it. She asked 
 questions which showed her interest, and they were not 
 confined entirely to the doings of Guy. Sops were thrown 
 to the egotism of the lover, and eagerly seized. Feminine 
 guile, innocent, unconscious even, pointed her share in the 
 conversation, and George stretched his mental muscles at the 
 end of it with a deep sigh of ecstasy. 
 
 As he worked far into the night with the indefatigable 
 Lord Caradoc, his brain exercising its functions with 
 practised dexterity, the memory of the afternoon hovered 
 round him like a sweet odour, forcing itself now and then 
 on his consciousness in wafts of delight. 
 
 The days repeated themselves, hard absorbing work in 
 the mornings and the same at night, gliding hours of 
 pleasure through the golden afternoons. Only a young
 
 "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE." 185 
 
 man strong mentally and physically or an old man trained 
 to a life of active thought could have done the work that 
 Lord Caradoc and George did during those weeks of August 
 and September in the way they did it. George's brain had 
 never been clearer nor his powers of concentration greater 
 than during his hours of work. The effect of a true 
 religion is to glorify man's actions by unifying their aim, 
 and high love, the natural religion, carries with it this 
 impulse towards perfection. 
 
 From the moment when he looked up and saw Cicely 
 standing above him in the freshness of her young beauty 
 George gave himself a willing victim to the strong 
 influences of a first passion. The sweet surprises and 
 discoveries, the long contents and sudden doubts, the deep 
 humility and exultant pride, the hopes, the fears, the 
 memories, of a lover, swept through his soul and made the 
 month of his stay at Merrilees, while he lived through an 
 eternity of emotional experience, pass like an hour in the 
 fields of Paradise. 
 
 George was a man of action, and not likely to remain 
 long under the spell of an indefinite emotion. It was 
 characteristic of him that even in the early days, when the 
 glamour of his wooing was strongest upon him, his cool 
 judgment should have forced him to weigh his intentions 
 and state to himself their aim. Certainly, for a young man 
 wi th no prospects but those which were founded on what a more 
 than average share of brains and ambitions might achieve 
 in the future, the idea of a marriage with Lord Caradoc's 
 heiress might be supposed to present obstacles of some 
 magnitude. But distrust in his future achievements was a 
 failing to which George was a stranger, and he judged Lord 
 Caradoc rightly in thinking of him as one with whom lack 
 of means on the part of a suitor for his daughter's hand 
 would not weigh heavily, supposing there were no other
 
 190 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 disability. Lack of birth might prove a more serious 
 obstacle, and George, who had been wont to plume himself 
 on being " one of the people," found himself half wishing 
 for a distinction surely in itself the least valuable a man can 
 possess, but outweighing on certain occasions character, 
 ability, beauty, and all the choicest gifts with which mankind 
 can be dowered. But as he had hitherto suffered no 
 inconveniences, in whatever society he might find himself, 
 from his lack of an old and honourable name, he could not 
 bring himself to believe that his hopes would be wrecked, 
 because all that he meant to do in the world would be done 
 without the assistance of high birth and connections. So 
 he put it to himself, and hoped that Lord Caradoc's views 
 would coincide with his own. 
 
 Perhaps, in describing George's relations with Cicely at this 
 time, the word "wooing" is not the most fitting to apply to 
 the attitude of a man who knows his own mind, but has not 
 yet disclosed it, except to himself. And yet the attempt, 
 by all means short of an open avowal of love, to gain a 
 footing in the heart of another, so that the avowal may in 
 time be made, is a not unimportant stage in the process of 
 wooing. George, at any rate, could not have acted more 
 wisely in his own interests than to lay himself out to gain 
 Cicely's friendship and confidence without frightening that 
 shy little maid by giving her a hint of what he was hoping 
 for. And yet, alas for all the smoothness of their inter- 
 course ! her attitude towards him becoming daily more 
 friendly and confiding, and his absorption in her growing 
 deeper and deeper, they were none the less at cross -purposes. 
 When one of two mistakes growing friendship for dawning 
 love, and the other full-grown love for growing friendship, 
 and both are well content, it is a pity, perhaps, that things 
 cannot remain for ever in such a state. But as love needs 
 an avowal, and friendship is stronger without, development
 
 "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE." 191 
 
 is inevitable, and it is perhaps curious that George and 
 Cicely should have tasted such sweet content in one 
 another's company for a month without a break. 
 
 But George's passion impelled him to an issue. Cicely's 
 tranquil kindness and frank but equable pleasure in his 
 society perhaps saved her from having her eyes opened by 
 a sudden disclosure of passion. There was nothing to take 
 him by storm and provoke the declaration which he would 
 not willingly have made except in his own time and with 
 full intention. And, with a girl so young and in some 
 ways so far removed from him, the conviction grew upon 
 him that he had no right to make his avowal to her with- 
 out first asking the permission of her father. 
 
 George made his plea to Lord Caradoc one night in the 
 little library. They had finished their work together that 
 evening, and might well have congratulated themselves on 
 the results of a month's arduous and concentrated toil as 
 the great pile of orderly manuscript lay before them, ready 
 for the printers. And they had been so congratulating 
 themselves, talking for hours on what they had accomplished 
 and what the results of their work would be, until the 
 lights in the great Florentine standards burned low and 
 the September dawn glimmered through the curtains. To 
 George, in the ardour of his happy youth, the month's 
 work had been the fruit of a strong brain, testing its powers 
 to the full. To the older man it had been a constant 
 absorbing delight, to which every day of a long life of 
 trained endeavour had contributed something. But it had 
 brought him for the time being to the end of his powers of 
 endurance, and even as he talked and tasted anticipations 
 in the glow of a deed accomplished his weary brain was 
 beginning to lose its grasp. 
 
 There had been silence for some minutes. Lord Caradoc had 
 been sitting in his heavy oak chair, the very chair in which
 
 192 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Sir Roderick had sat day after day for nearly half his life- 
 time preparing what these two men were perhaps as capable of 
 appreciating as any two men in England. They had loyally 
 and enthusiastically put the finishing touch to his labours. 
 And now the mind of one of them was slipping away from 
 what had occupied it exclusively for some time past into 
 vague irresponsible musings. The other had thrown off all 
 remembrance of it and was nerving himself to shape a 
 crisis in his own life. 
 
 George rose, and going to the window, drew back the 
 curtains. The sad dawn lay grey over heavy trees and 
 dew-drenched bushes in which birds were twittering in 
 preparation for the coming day. The sound of the rings 
 clattering on the metal pole roused Lord Caradoc, who sat 
 up in his chair and passed his hand over his tired eyes. At 
 the same moment George spoke. 
 
 " I should like to say a few words to you on a persomal 
 matter," he said, moistening his lips. 
 
 Lord Caradoc turned towards him, courteous as ever, but 
 with his thoughts plainly astray. George had been trying 
 during those few minutes to frame an opening to his plea, 
 but in the gallop of his thoughts no words had come to him. 
 He fell back on a stilted form. 
 
 " I wish to ask you for the hand of your daughter." 
 
 " My daughter ? " echoed Lord Caradoc, still quite at sea. 
 
 " I have loved her since the moment T first saw her," said 
 George, gathering courage as he went on. " I know that I 
 am not worthy of her in any way. But I would devote 
 my life to making her happy." 
 
 Lord Caradoc made an effort and gathered his wandering 
 thoughts. 
 
 " You take me somewhat by surprise, Mr. Greenfield," he 
 said. " I am hardly prepared er at this time to " His 
 words dwindled into embarrassed silence.
 
 "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE." 193 
 
 " I have chosen this time," said George, " because we 
 have finished the work that we have been doing together, 
 and there is nothing now to keep me here. I should like to 
 go away with something to work for and hope for. I am 
 young, and she is very young. I do not want to speak to 
 her yet. I omy want to know that I may do so when I 
 have gained a position in life which I can offer her along 
 with myself." 
 
 Lord Caradoc was silent for many minutes, and George 
 waited patiently until he should choose to break his silence. 
 At last he began to speak, slowly, with long pauses between 
 his sentences, as if his thoughts gathered clearness as he 
 uttered them one by one. 
 
 " I confess that I had not thought of my daughter as of 
 an age to to marry," he said "she is, if I remember 
 rightly, barely eighteen my wife was no older when J 
 married her I have no objection to early marriages 
 she will be very rich I do not demand that the 
 man she marries shall be rich nor that he shall be of 
 a rank equal to her own provided that he be honourable 
 clean-living and of unblemished birth and that she 
 loves him you do not tell me that my daughter loves 
 you." He threw an anxious glance at George. 
 
 " I do not know," said George. " I speak to you first." 
 
 There was another long pause. 
 
 " Honourable, clean-living, and of unblemished birth,** 
 repeated Lord Caradoc. " I believe I know you to be the 
 first. Are you the second ? " 
 
 " Yes," said George. 
 
 " Of your birth I know nothing," said Lord Caradoc, and 
 waited. 
 
 George in his turn was silent. There came surging over 
 him the remembrance of what Mr. Richards had told him of 
 his father two years before, the shame of it, the conviction 
 
 H.M. O
 
 194 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 that, despite his own upright youth, there clung to him a 
 taint which no efforts of his could throw off. He had ex- 
 perienced something of the same feeling after he had first 
 heard the story of his birth, but the effect of those disclosures 
 had died down in his mind, and only at rare intervals arisen 
 to trouble him. His home life had been so normal, his 
 mother so much like the mothers of other men in their 
 different stations, and he had relied so much on his own 
 efforts and his own ability to make for himself a name and 
 place in the world, that it had been impossible for him to 
 brood over the facts of his mother's early history as they had 
 come to him, or to feel them as affecting his own career, 
 Even during the past month, in which he had thought so much 
 of his position and prospects, the certainty that Lord Caradoc 
 would put to him some such question as that to which he was 
 now awaiting an answer had not occurred to him. In his 
 happiness and in his eager outlook towards the future this 
 one damning fact of the past had kept itself hidden from 
 his thoughts. Afterwards he asked himself, in amazement, 
 whether this could really have been so, but could not, on 
 searching his memory, find that he had ever pictured himself 
 as anything but a man by himself, whose value in the world 
 was created by his own character and achievements. In- 
 credible as it might appear, he could not remember having 
 cast one thought back to his parentage, or considered it as 
 affecting his chances. 
 
 But Lord Caradoc was waiting for his answer, and wait- 
 ing now with some surprise at his silence. 
 
 " My mother is alive," he said. " She is my only 
 relation. She brought me up, and has done everything 
 for me. I never saw my father. He left her before I 
 was born." 
 
 Lord Caradoc, now in complete possession of his faculties, 
 looked at him in surprise.
 
 "YOU MUST BRING ME MORE." 195 
 
 44 You must know who he was," he said. " Your mother 
 must have told you something." 
 
 " She has told me nothing," said George, " except that 
 lie was dead, and she did not wish to speak of him.*' 
 
 The growing light of the September dawn seemed to 
 compel absolute clearness and truthfulness of speech, without 
 reserves and without glamour. Lord Caradoc remained 
 immersed in thought for a long time, so that it seemed as if 
 his mind had again lost its hold of present realities. George's 
 thoughts as he stood by the tall window, busy with the 
 story of his birth, were coloured by an intense anxiety as to 
 how the fact which had troubled him scarcely at all during 
 his boyhood and early manhood, now realised with over- 
 whelming force, would affect his life. At last Lord Caradoc 
 rose from his chair and turned away from the yellow gleam 
 of the candles on the table towards the cold light of the 
 window. His face was drawn and thin. It was plain that 
 he had come to the end of his powers. 
 
 44 You must bring me more," he said. 
 
 When Cicely and Mrs. Herbert came down to breakfast 
 that morning, they were informed by the old butler that 
 Lord Caradoc was ill and could not leave his room, and 
 that Mr. Greenfield had been driven to Keswick soon after 
 six o'clock to catch the first train to London. 
 
 o t
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 " LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 
 
 ALTHOUGH George had intended to leave Merrilees that 
 day, he would not have gone so hurriedly, nor without 
 bidding good-bye to Mrs. Herbert and Cicely, had he not 
 received a telegram dated the evening before from Peggy. 
 
 ** Come home to-morrow without fail. Do not let 
 mother know I sent for you." 
 
 Conjectures as to the meaning of this mysterious 
 message kept his mind busy, and forebodings of illness or 
 trouble mingled sadly enough with thoughts of the check 
 his hopes had received the night before. The cottage at 
 Highgate had been little in his mind during the past 
 blissful month. He had written perfunctorily once or 
 twice to his mother, and now blamed himself for not 
 having taken more to heart the hints that Peggy's letters 
 had contained of something wrong at home. He took 
 them and those of his mother from his pocket. Mrs. 
 Greenfield's were much the same as usual. She said very 
 little about herself and nothing at all about Peggy, which 
 now struck him as not a little odd. Peggy had written 
 shortly. There was a total absence of the spring and 
 light-heartedness which had always made her communica- 
 tions so entertaining. She mentioned once or twice that 
 Mrs. Greenfield was not well. She also said little about 
 herself, but the general tone of her letters was so depressed 
 that George could hardly believe, on reading them one 
 after the other, that their significance had affected him so
 
 "LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 197 
 
 little. But when he had exhausted his brain with con- 
 jectures as to what the new trouble could be towards 
 which he was now hastening, he shrugged his shoulders 
 and put it away from him until the end of his journey, 
 leaning back in his corner and losing himself in his own 
 thoughts, thoughts that had nothing to do with the cottage 
 at Highgate, so selfish does the purest love make the best 
 of us poor mortals. 
 
 When Peggy had said good-bye to Guy at the corner of 
 the Hampstead lane, she walked back to the cottage as 
 happy a girl as any to be found in England. All the 
 clouds had rolled away, and she gave herself up to rose- 
 coloured memories and anticipations. She went straight 
 to the room where Mrs. Greenfield was sewing by the 
 window, knelt down beside her, and nestled her dark little 
 head against the other woman's shoulder. 
 
 " Something has happened to me, mother," she said in a 
 voice tremulous with emotion. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield put her arm round the girl. She divined 
 her story, but her face was anxious and troubled, and, 
 although she tried once or twice, she could utter no words. 
 
 * Tell me, dear," she whispered at last ; and Peggy 
 poured into her ear the wonderful tale of the morning's 
 happenings. " And he is going straight up to Glasgow 
 to-night to see father," she ended. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield drew her and held her to her heart 
 ' You must not hope too much, my darling," she said. 
 ' " Why, mother ? " exclaimed Peggy in a voice full of 
 pain and surprise. " Surely father cannot say ' No ' ? You 
 don't think so ; tell me you don't think so." 
 
 " I don't know, dear," said Mrs. Greenfield, hesitatingly. 
 " But for your own sake, darling Peggy, do not hope for 
 too much until you know."
 
 198 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Peggy rose and drew herself up. "I shall hear to- 
 morrow morning," she said. " He promised to send me a 
 telegram and to come straight to me. I know he will not 
 give me up, whatever happens." Pride in her newly 
 accepted lover prevented her asking what reasons her 
 father could have for refusing him. 
 
 But, alas 1 no telegram came on the morrow, and as the 
 day wore on the picture of a young man all love and 
 eagerness knocking at the door faded into the shadow of a 
 happiness that might have been. And the next day opened 
 with hope, which sank again into bitter disappointment as 
 no word came. 
 
 In the afternoon Peggy had to go out on some domestic 
 errand. When she returned Mrs. Greenfield called her 
 to her. 
 
 " I have had a letter, darling," she said. Her voice was 
 pained, and there were tears in her eyes. Peggy knew 
 then how much of hope there had been mixed with her 
 disappointment, for it flickered and went out and left her 
 in darkness. Her face was white, and she felt faint and 
 sick. Mrs. Greenfield made her sit beside her and drew 
 her head on to her breast. 
 
 " Is it all over, mother ? " she asked, trembling. 
 
 " Yes, my darling, it is all over. You must put away all 
 thoughts of him from your heart." 
 
 Peggy was silent for a time, fighting her pain with all 
 her might. 
 
 "Tell me,*' she said, "You have heard from from 
 father?" 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Greenfield, and there was no further 
 need to ask whose hand had written the letter which had 
 killed the last tlossom of hope. 
 
 "Your father has refused to let him see you or even 
 write to you any more," said Mrs. Greenfield. " He was
 
 LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 199 
 
 made to promise that he would not do so, or you would 
 have been taken away from us at once to live in 
 Glasgow." 
 
 " How cruel of father, how cruel ! " cried Peggy, clenching 
 her hand. The little outburst of passion did her good. 
 She felt better able to bear what should follow. " But he 
 can't have promised ! " she cried again. " He told me he 
 loved me. He can't have promised to give me up so 
 easily." 
 
 "Think, darling," said Mrs. Greenfield quietly. "He 
 did it to save you pain. Your father would have taken 
 you away from us and kept you closely in his own house." 
 
 "He ought not to have promised," interrupted Peggy, 
 her eyes flashing. " He ought to have trusted me. He 
 might have known that I would undergo anything for his 
 sake. Does father think," she went on, with growing 
 excitement, " that I will render him obedience longer than 
 I am obliged to ? I hate him. Yes, I hate him. He has 
 never been a father to me in anything but name. And 
 now for no reason he tramples the happiness of my whole 
 life under foot and cares nothing. I would have waited 
 for years for him, and he has given me up at a word, without 
 a struggle. Oh, my heart will break." She threw herself 
 on Mrs. Greenfield's lap and burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 The older woman, her eyes heavy with sorrow, comforted 
 her as well as she was able. But she could say very little, 
 nothing that would give the poor child whose heart was 
 so sore any hope, and Peggy wept herself out with her 
 burden unlightened. 
 
 At last she ceased and stood up. " I will put him out of 
 my mind," she said. " I will not mention his name again. 
 I do not even ask to see his letter. You may burn it or 
 keep it. I have you left, mother darling, and now I will 
 never be anything but your daughter."
 
 200 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 She knelt down again at Mrs. Greenfield's side, and the 
 tears flowed again, but there was no passion in them. 
 Their shedding meant only the renewal of the covenant of 
 love between mother and daughter. 
 
 No word came from Mr. Richards. Content with the 
 promise he had extracted, he let matters take their course, 
 and recked nothing of salt tears and heavy hearts. 
 
 Poor little Peggy suffered most bitterly. She felt herself 
 forsaken and despised. All her pride in Guy's avowal of 
 love for her was turned into resentment against him for 
 forsaking her so easily, and her wound was so raw that 
 she could not bear even the gentle touch of her adopted 
 mother's sympathy. There was complete silence between 
 them after the truth had been made plain. Both suffered 
 together, the older woman as deeply as the girl. And yet, 
 in spite of her dry-eyed misery and passionate bursts of 
 resentment, Peggy knew in her heart of hearts that, if Guy 
 were to appear before her, her joy would be so great that 
 she would ask for no explanations, but only sob out her 
 love and forgiveness in his arms. Her father had much to 
 answer for the almost insupportable pain he had brought 
 upon his child by the dark workings of his narrow schemes. 
 
 About a week after the downfall of her short-lived 
 happiness Peggy was sitting late at night at her open 
 window, going over in her mind once more the sickening 
 round of conjecture and baulked longing. If she went to 
 bed, poor child, she knew that she would only lie awake 
 through the long hours of darkness, a prey to thoughts 
 that would bring stifled cries of agony to her lips, until 
 the dawn should bring her a few hours of fitful sleep, which 
 would only make the awaking to another day more hateful. 
 It was something to feel the cool night breeze stir her hair, 
 and to face her pain with the fullest waking appreciation 
 of its weight
 
 "LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." aoi 
 
 Suddenly her heart leaped to her mouth, and she sat 
 frozen into stillness as she heard footsteps in the deep 
 silence of the night stealthily approaching, and a cautious 
 hand fumbling at the latch of the garden gate. The night 
 was dark, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp not far away 
 showed her the figure of a man in the shade of the shrubs 
 that overhung the entrance to the short garden path. A 
 wild thrill of hope ran through her blood, only to change 
 into a feeling of terror as the man crept stealthily up to 
 the door of the cottage just below her, and tapped gently 
 on the panel with his knuckles. She could not see his face 
 under his slouched felt hat, but her lover would never 
 come like that by day or night, and Peggy's fright was so 
 real as to drive all thoughts of Guy for the time being 
 from her mind. She controlled her terror so far as to rise 
 from her seat and creep to her door with the idea of 
 waking Mrs. Greenfield. And then another thought stopped 
 her, and brought a still keener thrill of fright. That 
 stealthy knock on the panel of the door was meant to be 
 answered by someone in the house. 
 
 Peggy stood immovable. She heard the door of Mrs. 
 Greenfield's room opened quietly, and saw through her own, 
 which stood ajar, the gleam of a candle as someone went 
 softly downstairs. She heard the front door unchained 
 and opened slowly, heard low whispering, the door of the 
 parlour opened and closed, and voices in endless colloquy, 
 murmuring, murmuring beneath her. 
 
 What should she do ? Her mother was in trouble. That 
 she had known for long. She was ill and anxious, and 
 Peggy's own unhappiness had only been added to another 
 unrevealed unhappiness which she had been bearing alone. 
 Peggy's whole soul went out to her, and she felt a quick 
 motion of penitence which brought the tears to her eyes 
 at having added another burden to that sorely tried heart
 
 202 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 What could she do to help her? Should she go down 
 and break in upon the strange man and the dearly loved 
 woman, murmuring, murmuring in the room below her ? 
 Should she insist upon sharing the troubles of one who had 
 shared hers as if they had been her own ? She could not 
 tell what to do. She might only work havoc and cause 
 still further distress to one whom she desired to help, 
 if she acted on her impulse to go down, throw open the 
 parlour door, and tax this furtive evil man with bringing 
 distress to a good and gentle woman. She resolutely 
 forced her mind to a decision and finally locked her door 
 and sat down again at the open window, but in the 
 shadow of the curtains, to wait for the end of the colloquy. 
 
 After a long time, when the church clock had thrice 
 chimed the quarters, she thought she heard from below 
 the chink of glass or china, and some time after that the 
 doors were opened softly again. She saw the ominous 
 figure creep once more down the garden path, and heard 
 Mrs. Greenfield's step upon the stair. She held her breath 
 while the handle of her own door was turned slowly and 
 ineffectually, and when silence reigned once more in the little 
 house, threw herself on her bed, and, tired out with watching 
 and wondering, slept till the sun was high in the sky. 
 
 Somehow, as she dressed next morning, Peggy's grief 
 (seemed to have lost a little of its poignancy. Her heart 
 was heavy enough, but its heaviness was no longer entirely 
 on her own account. She had to devise means by which she 
 could help Mrs. Greenfield to bear her unnamed trouble, and 
 in trying to do so she found the keen edge of her own sorrow 
 blunted. In pursuance of her decision the night before, she 
 said to herself that she would not let her mother know what 
 she had seen and heard, but she would try and get her to 
 confide in her. And in the strength of her tender affection 
 she hoped that the older woman would find some help.
 
 "LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 203 
 
 Peggy was shocked at Mrs. Greenfield's appearance when 
 she went downstairs. The poor woman had spent a sleep- 
 less night. Her face was drawn and haggard, and there 
 were dark rings under her eyes. She looked as if she were 
 in mortal illness, and she sat at the breakfast-table, eating 
 and drinking nothing, too worn and spent to hide her 
 misery. Peggy forced her with loving solicitude to take 
 food, and when she had eaten the morsel that sufficed for 
 her and drunk a little tea, knelt down beside her, embracing 
 her and looking up into her face. 
 
 " Mother, darling," she said, " you know what my 
 trouble is, and you have shared it with me. Won't you tell 
 me what yours is and let me share that ? " 
 
 The poor woman broke down, and leaning her head over 
 the girl, wept long and piteously. Peggy said nothing, but 
 caressed her with murmurs of love. At last she sat up 
 and dried her eyes. 
 
 " There is a trouble, dear," she said quietly, " and perhaps 
 it will help me to bear it more bravely and to see my way 
 to the end of it now that you have discovered that there 
 is one. But I cannot tell you what it is." 
 
 " Has it anything to do with George ? " asked Peggy, 
 suddenly divining that it was not in Mrs. Greenfield's 
 nature to feel such distress about anything that would 
 touch herself alone. 
 
 "It might affect George," she replied. "But the chief 
 thing to think of is to keep all knowledge of it from him. 
 You must not ask me anything more, dear child. We botfc 
 have our griefs to bear, but we need not talk about them 
 to one another. It will help us to bear them better no\* 
 we know that we are not alone in them." And that was 
 all she would say. 
 
 In spite of the shadows hanging over the little cottage, 
 Jife went more tranquilly after that. Peggy watched
 
 204 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield unceasingly, surrounding her with loving 
 care. And she had the consolation of feeling that her love 
 was not in vain. There was no happiness for either of 
 them, but many leaden-footed hours of hopeless misery. 
 And yet in the tenderness of each towards the other there 
 was solace, which helped them somehow through the long 
 sad days. Every night Peggy sat by her window and 
 watched until long after midnight, learning to face her own 
 bitter disappointment while she waited to ward off, if she 
 could, another blow from one whom she told herself she 
 now loved better than any other on earth. 
 
 And yet when the events of that dreadful night repeated 
 themselves, as they did in about a week's time, she was 
 powerless, and could do nothing but sit and suffer in silence, 
 while again the stealthy steps crept up to the door and the 
 long low talking went on in the room below. 
 
 To Peggy's surprise and thankfulness, Mrs. Greenfield 
 seemed to suffer less after this visit. There were even 
 traces of relief on her worn and troubled face when Peggy, 
 her heart wrung with anxiety, greeted her the next morning, 
 and throughout that day and those following she made 
 some poor attempts at her old cheerfulness, distressing 
 enough to witness, but not altogether unsuccessful. The 
 girl would, perhaps, have relaxed her vigilance but that 
 with the ease which came in believing that her mother's 
 anxieties were lessening the sense of her own trouble 
 weighed more heavily upon her; and still she sat, night 
 after night, wrestling with her own longings, until she 
 began to gain a measure of peace, and came to find 
 ?omfort in her long vigils in the warm lime-scented air of 
 the silent nights. She had almost ceased to dread the 
 coming of the furtive footsteps, hoping that that trouble 
 at any rate was past, as the nights went by one by one 
 until it was nearly a fortnight since she had last heard
 
 "LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 205 
 
 them. And then again on a night when bitterness had 
 been absent from her thoughts, and she had experienced 
 only deep and tender regrets that were almost contentment, 
 she was rudely awakened from her dreams, and this time 
 there was no disguising from herself that she must act, if 
 she wished to save her friend and more than mother from a 
 trouble no longer supportable. 
 
 The man came creeping up to the door as before, with 
 his hateful slouched hat over his face and the stealthy tread 
 that betrayed him for what he was, a creature who played 
 upon the fears of women to gain his base and selfish ends. 
 But this time his signal was repeated thrice, each time 
 more insistently, before it was answered. It was plain 
 that this visit was unexpected, and that the poor harassed 
 woman who was somehow at the mercy of her persecutor 
 had yielded to a false sense of security and allowed herself 
 to sleep. Not so securely, however, but that at the third 
 knock, delivered so loudly that Peggy was in terror lest 
 the little maid sleeping at the back of the house should be 
 aroused by it, her door opened quickly, and once again she 
 went downstairs to let him in. 
 
 The murmurs from below were now louder than they 
 had been, and once or twice Peggy could almost distinguish 
 words, but not quite. The interview also was much 
 shorter, lasting barely ten minutes before the opening of 
 doors and voices now distinctly heard told her that for 
 to-night it was over. 
 
 " Then you know what I shall do," the man was saying 
 in a low but rough and perfectly audible voice as the front 
 door was opened and he stood for a few moments immedi- 
 ately beneath her. Peggy hardly recognised her mother's 
 voice as she replied, 
 
 "You will never be so cruel, after all I have done for 
 you."
 
 2o6 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " All you have done for me ! " sneered the man. " What 
 have you done for me compared to what's been done for 
 you all these years ? ** 
 
 "I have done what I could the very utmost," said 
 Mrs. Greenfield. " And I will do more if you will but be 
 patient and give me time. If you drive me further now 
 you will kill me. I am ill, and cannot bear up any longer 
 under this persecution. If it had not been for my children 
 I could not have borne up so long." 
 
 " Your children ! " echoed the man with an ugly oath, 
 and would have said more but that Mrs. Greenfield cried 
 out in a passion, 
 
 " Yes, my children ! Vile and wicked as you are, if you 
 separate me from them, I will pray that you may never 
 repent of your sins, and that you may go down to your 
 grave unforgiven." 
 
 Her words or her tone, startling in one of such habitual 
 self -repression, cowed the man. 
 
 " I shan't say any more," he grumbled sullenly. " But 
 you will do what I tell you, and I will come in two nights' 
 time for your answer," and with that he left her, making 
 no attempt to soften his steps as he walked down the 
 garden path and let the gate swing to behind him. 
 
 There was little sleep for Peggy that night. From the 
 room divided by hers only by a thin wall came moans and 
 muffled sobs as of one in the last extremity of fear and 
 distress. Many times her hand was on the door, and once 
 she crept out into the passage and would have made her 
 way to the side of the stricken woman but that a cessation 
 of the sounds of grief held her, and she went back to her 
 own room and knelt by her bedside, sobbing out her own 
 grief over a sorrow she was powerless to assuage. 
 
 The next day Mrs. Greenfield was unable to leave her 
 bed. She lay miserable and helpless, and poor little Peggy,
 
 "LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT." 207 
 
 on whom sorrow seemed to have settled like a dove on its 
 nest, beat her brains to discover what was best to be done. 
 Something must be done, and done soon, for what hope 
 was there of a recovery when the morning hours were 
 hurrying towards the threatened visit on the following 
 night ? Her first impulse was, of course, to send for George, 
 but she shrank from doing this because she had realised 
 that her mother's sharpest agony had been at the thought 
 of George knowing anything of what had happened. 
 Through the long day, while she tended the sick woman, 
 she argued out the question in her mind. 
 
 This man had the power of separating Mrs. Greenfield 
 from herself and George. But how ? Mrs. Greenfield had 
 called them both her children. But Peggy herself was her 
 child only in love and gratitude, and was with her because 
 her own father had desired it. How could the words of a 
 strange man separate her from her adopted mother ? And 
 yet it was no mere threat on his part. It was her mother 
 who had acknowledged his power to do so. Peggy weighed 
 the few words she had heard, and weighed them again. 
 Nothing became clear to her except that this must be a 
 secret in Mrs. Greenfield's life, not a secret of wrongdoing 
 that she would never believe but a secret to which this 
 man held the key, and which, if it were known, would rob 
 her life of all that it held dear. That the man had 
 taken money to hold his tongue was also clear, and 
 that his demands had now risen to such a pitch that it 
 was no longer possible to meet them. But as the day wore 
 on one other thing became clear to Peggy's brave little 
 soul, and that was that nothing, absolutely nothing, that 
 could be known or said or done would be strong enough to 
 tear her away from her mother ; and when that conviction 
 had once grown and settled in her mind another grew to 
 keep it company that, without the shadow of a doubt
 
 ao8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 she might hold the same of George. Then she hesitated no 
 longer, and in the evening, when Mrs. Greenfield had asked 
 to be left alone for a time, she went out of the cottage and 
 down the hill to an office where she was not known and 
 sent the telegram to George which reached him early 
 the next morning in the great house amongst the Cumber- 
 land hills.
 
 CHAPTER XVIL 
 "ALWAYS MT SON." 
 
 THE next morning Mrs. Greenfield rose at her usual time. 
 She looked frightfully ill, and it was plain that only by a 
 strong exercise of will was she able to summon her failing 
 strength to bear her through the day. Peggy, now that she 
 had acted in the way to which her deliberate judgment had 
 guided her, felt that her responsibility for the issue of 
 affairs was less, and with some sudden sinkings of heart 
 lest for some reason George should not respond to her 
 summons in time, looked forward to the afternoon, when 
 she hoped he would come to them and take matters into 
 his strong hands. For it was evident that Mrs. Greenfield 
 had reached the limit of her powers of endurance, and, 
 whatever course her cowardly persecutor decided to take, 
 was no longer capable, either of averting, or, if it was to be 
 what she dreaded, of supporting it. Peggy did what she 
 could to distract and console her, but in the poor woman's 
 inability any longer to respond to the girl's caressing 
 tenderness there was distressing evidence again that her 
 trouble was weighing her down. 
 
 In the afternoon Mrs. Greenfield went up to her room. 
 Peggy sent the little maid out on some household errand, 
 and sat at her window waiting for George. She had looked 
 out the earliest train by which he might be expected to 
 travel. It was a very early one, but she thought that her 
 message would have made him catch it if he possibly could, 
 and if it was punctual he ought to reach the cottage at about
 
 aio THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 five o'clock. Had she known that her telegram had arrived 
 too late for delivery the night before she would not have 
 been sitting there waiting. But even official life in the 
 hamlet of Morthwaite so centred round the house of 
 Merrilees that George had been awakened to receive her 
 message before six o'clock that morning instead of the 
 orthodox eight, and had just had time to drive over and 
 catch the first possible train to London. And the train was 
 punctual to the minute, so that shortly before five o'clock 
 Peggy's heart gave a leap of intense joy and thankfulness 
 as she saw his hansom drive up to the gate. She ran 
 quickly but quietly down to intercept him, so that she 
 might tell him all that had happened before his mother 
 should know of his arrival. 
 
 George looked anxious enough as he came up the garden 
 path carrying his kit bag. Peggy put her finger to her lips, 
 drew him silently into the dining-room, and shut the door 
 before he spoke. 
 
 "What is it, Peggy?" he asked. "Is anything the 
 matter with mother ? Where is she ? " 
 
 " She is upstairs asleep, I hope. But I will tell her you 
 are here in a few minutes, and she will come down." 
 
 Then Peggy told him the whole story, all she had seen 
 and all she had heard, without telling him, poor child, why 
 she had been sitting at her window so late when she made 
 her first discovery. That grief had lain only in the back- 
 ground of her mind for the last two days, and had hardly 
 made itself felt in the greater cause of anxiety. 
 
 George heard her in silence. His face grew hard, and a 
 dangerous glitter showed itself in his eyes as she went on 
 with her story. 
 
 When she had finished he startled her mote than she had 
 been startled in the whole course of the affair. 
 
 " You know who it is, I suppose ? " he asked shortly.
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON." 211 
 
 u No," gasped Peggy. " Do you ? " 
 
 " Yes," said George, " It is my father.** 
 
 " George ! " exclaimed Peggy in open-mouthed astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 " You thought he was dead," said George. " So did I. 
 Mother told me he was dead, and nothing more about him. 
 She may have thought it was true. She did think so, if she 
 said it. And now he has come to life again to disgrace us." 
 
 His face blazed with anger as he spoke. Peggy had 
 never seen him so moved, and was frightened at his 
 vehemence. If this creeping midnight bully was his father, 
 and was now to be known as such to the world, all the 
 sweetness that had lately come into his life would have to be 
 put behind him for ever. And as he thought of his mother 
 and what she was even now suffering and preparing to 
 suffer his passion almost overpowered him, and it would 
 have gone hard with Mrs. Greenfield's persecutor if he had 
 been within reach of George's hands at that moment. 
 
 After a short struggle he mastered himself. He must 
 decide on a plan quickly. His mother might be down at 
 any moment, and when she had once seen him he might 
 not be able to talk to Peggy again alone before it was time 
 to act. They hurriedly discussed their course and decided, 
 dangerous as the shock might be in Mrs. Greenfield's state 
 of health, that the only thing to be done was to let her 
 admit the man, and for George to go into the room where 
 they were talking and insist on a full explanation. 
 
 " Whatever happens," he said, " it is I who must deal 
 with him now and not she. She is keeping this secret back 
 to spare me pain, but I ought to know it for my own sake 
 as well as hers, and I will know it. Now go and tell 
 mother I am here, Peggy, and be careful through the 
 evening not to let her see that there is anything between us." 
 
 George was prepared to see his mother looking ill, but 
 
 P a
 
 2ia THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 her death-like pallor and her strained, eager look, when si* 
 came hurrying down to greet him, were worse than any- 
 thing he had imagined. He had to disguise his distress, 
 however, and to give some reason for his unexpected 
 appearance. Poor Mrs. Greenfield was evidently torn 
 between her joy at seeing him and her terror lest his 
 presence in the cottage might dispel the secrecy which she 
 wished to keep about her coming ordeal. She even 
 suggested that he should go back after dinner and sleep in 
 his chambers, making some excuse about his room not being 
 prepared for him. But George laughed her suggestion away. 
 
 " Why, mother dear," he said, " you have never wanted 
 to turn me out of the house before. And I really couldn't 
 travel another mile I am so dead tired. I shall go to bed 
 at ten o'clock and sleep like a log." 
 
 And, indeed, after a quiet evening, during which Mrs. 
 Greenfield had been almost cheerful, as George told them 
 all or nearly all about his stay at Merrilees, it seemed 
 not unlikely that he would sleep through everything that 
 might happen, for he had scarcely closed his eyes the night 
 before, and had been travelling by road and rail since six 
 o'clock that morning. But he recognised the danger and 
 sat bolt upright in a chair in his bedroom, nodding un- 
 comfortably, until the sounds of opening doors and quiet 
 footsteps, which had become so familiar to poor little 
 Peggy, aroused him effectually, and drove all thoughts of 
 sleep from his brain. He waited a minute or two until 
 everything was still and then went out of his room and 
 downstairs. Peggy was standing at her door as he passed, 
 a dark figure in the shadows. George saw her, but they 
 said no word to one another as he went down to confront 
 the intruder. 
 
 He could hear the man's voice as he neared the bottom of 
 the stairs. It was rough and peremptory, and a low cry
 
 " ALWAYS MY SON. 
 
 from his mother hastened his footsteps. He threw open the 
 door of the room and strode in. 
 
 The man had his hand on Mrs. Greenfield's shoulder. He 
 seemed to be in the act of threatening violence. Her hands 
 were clasped in entreaty and her thin grey hair framed a 
 piteous face. Almost before his presence could have been 
 realised George had him by the collar and was shaking 
 him to and fro with all the strength which his powerful 
 muscles and burning rage could supply. He might even 
 have killed him in his fury, but that he was aware of his 
 mother falling on to the floor without a cry beside him. 
 He flung the man from him with all his force into a corner 
 of the room. Utterly taken by surprise and half strangled, 
 but not seriously hurt, the wretched creature lay huddled 
 against the wall. 
 
 " You move hand or foot till I've done with you," George 
 blazed at him, " and I'll knock your brains out." 
 
 He turned to his mother and raised her tenderly, calling 
 out to Peggy, who was in the room as soon as he had 
 called. Together they laid the poor woman on a sofa and 
 took steps to revive her, while the frightened rascal on the 
 floor in the corner blinked and stared at them. 
 
 Peggy, alert and capable, busying herself over the stricken 
 form on the sofa, cast a glance at him. And the glance 
 brought a faint thrill of relief. He was so absolutely 
 unlike what it was possible to imagine George's father 
 being, in all except age. In the degradation of his drink- 
 sodden face, and the cowering attitude of his mean body, 
 there was no hint that even in youth and health he had ever 
 possessed any distinction, either of birth or appearance. 
 The idea of such a creature having ever been connected by 
 any tie with a refined woman such as Mrs. Greenfield was 
 difficult to believe ; that a man like George could have 
 owed his being to him was inconceivable.
 
 314 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 It was not long before Mrs. Greenfield revived, and as she 
 came to herself she seemed to summon all her powers to 
 beat down the physical weakness which might prevent her 
 from influencing the disclosures that were now bound to 
 come. She sat up on the sofa and put Peggy away from her. 
 
 " Oh, George," she whispered wearily. " You don't know 
 what you have done." 
 
 " Go and rest now, mother," said George. " I will keep" 
 this man here, and to-morrow you shall tell me what you 
 fear from him." 
 
 " No, no," said his mother. " He must go to-night. 
 Peggy, you must go to bed. You must not stay here." 
 
 But Peggy refused. " I am a woman now, mother," she 
 said, " and perhaps I can help you as even George can't. 
 I won't leave you." 
 
 "Let her stay, mother," said George. "She is your 
 daughter, and my sister in everything but name. What 
 there is to know, let her know too. There shall be no more 
 concealments between us three." 
 
 " Concealments ! " said the poor woman. " Don't up- 
 braid me with that, George. I have practised no conceal- 
 ments that I was not obliged to." 
 
 " No, mother dearest," said George. " But now you are 
 obliged to conceal nothing. I must know what this man 
 wants from you and what threats he is holding over you, 
 that I may know how to deal with him. And first of all I 
 must know who he is." 
 
 The man cowering on the floor had been slowly gathering 
 himself together during this speech and now stood on his 
 feet, swaying unsteadily, with his hand on the table and 
 his evil eyes fixed on them. Mrs. Greenfield sat facing him 
 on the sofa, with Peggy on one side of her and George on 
 the other, his hand on her shoulder. She shuddered and hid 
 her face in her hand as her tormentor at last stood before
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON." 215 
 
 them. He looked, indeed, a vile creature, with unshaven 
 face, dirty clothes, and a malignant cunning in his eyes 
 which he turned, now upon George, now upon Mrs. Green- 
 field, as if he were revolving in his mind how he could 
 make the one pay for the punishment received from the 
 other. At last he spoke. 
 
 " You had better tell him to let me go," he said. " You 
 won't like it if I tell him." 
 
 "Yes, go ! " groaned Mrs. Greenfield, and then turned to 
 George with a beseeching gesture. " George, my son," she 
 cried. " It is cruel of you to drag the secrets of my past 
 from me. I implore you to let this man go without 
 questioning him further. Believe me, oh, do believe me, 
 that it is better that you should not hear now what he, 
 alas, will tell you. In time perhaps in a short time you 
 will know everything, and you will thank me for keeping 
 it from you now, if you do as I beseech you to do." She 
 rocked to and fro in her distress, and held up imploring 
 hands to her son. 
 
 George was shaken. "I wouldn't willingly cause you 
 pain, mother," he said. " And I wouldn't get from that 
 creature what you could tell me yourself. But reasons have 
 arisen quite lately why I must have an answer to certain 
 questions. If you will give me your word to tell me every- 
 thing I may ask you, without reserve, I will let him go, 
 Will you give me that promise ? " 
 
 The man reached for a chair and dropped heavily into it, 
 leaning back with an absurd affectation of indifference. 
 Mrs. Greenfield sat with her head bowed but without 
 speaking. 
 
 " Will you give me that promise, mother ? " asked George 
 again. 
 
 " I cannot. I cannot," she wailed. *' It is beyond my 
 power. I am bound."
 
 2i6 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I don't want to put pressure on you through this 
 brute," said George. " But I must know certain things. 
 It is my right. I must know what my birth is. Perhaps 
 the secrets between you and this man have nothing to do 
 with that, and if you can tell me that that is so, and you 
 will answer my questions on that point, I will let him go 
 after I have dealt with him." 
 
 "Your birth," sneered the man. **A fine kid-gloved 
 gentleman you are to talk about your birth ! Shall I tell 
 him, Jane ? " 
 
 George started as if he had been shot, and his face grew 
 pale. Perhaps he had begun to hope that the fears that 
 gripped his heart were groundless. Perhaps the very sight 
 of the degraded being whose throat still bore the marks of 
 his knuckles had driven them out of his mind. 
 
 There was a short pause. Mrs. Greenfield made no reply, 
 but still rocked herself to and fro, moaning. Then George 
 drew himself up and said sharply : " I will ask nothing of 
 him. I can't bear that he should be in the same room any 
 longer with you and Peggy. Get out, you ! " He made a 
 threatening step towards the man. " And if you ever 
 come near this house or my mother again, I will break 
 every bone in your body, and then have you locked up. 
 Get out of the room and out of the house, or I'll do 
 it now." 
 
 There was a table between him and the man, who was 
 careful to keep on the other side of it as he spoke. 
 
 " I'm to get out, am I ? " he said. " And you'll use 
 violence and then have me locked up, will you ? " His 
 hoarse voice grew louder as he went on. " And who's got 
 a better right to be here than I have, if I like ? Who's 
 got a better right to the money that's spent here, and the 
 money that's been spent on putting you above your place 
 than I have ? Who's got a better right to stand by that
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON." ai? 
 
 woman there, as you're standing now? Me or you? 
 Who am I ? you ask, wto am I ? I'll tell you who I am, 
 my fine fellow " 
 
 But Mrs. Greenfield had risen from her seat, and, waving 
 aside the support that Peggy would have given, stood up- 
 right, facing the coarse brute whose voice had risen almost 
 to a shout. " Stop ! " she said in a firm voice, and something 
 in her appearance awed the man into silence. 
 
 Then she turned to George and said quietly, " He is my 
 husband." 
 
 George breathed a deep sigh. "And my father,** he 
 added in a low voice. 
 
 "NO!" 
 
 The words were uttered by a man who had come into 
 the room unseen, and now stood just inside the doorway. 
 Mrs. Greenfield sank back on the sofa and buried her face 
 in her hands. u Thank God ! " she murmured in a tone of 
 infinite relief. The others turned to him with one accord, 
 startled to the point of terror by this unexpected intrusion 
 in the dead of the night, and then Peggy and George cried 
 out in amazement, while the man who had just been 
 speaking sank trembling into his chair, the beads of 
 perspiration standing out on his white face. 
 
 It was Mr. Richards who had entered so opportunely, and 
 now took the direction of the whole affair into his hands 
 as was his wont. 
 
 Taking no notice at first of the others he went up to the 
 man cowering in a chair and whispered into his ear. The 
 man rose without a word, and catching up his hat would 
 have slunk out of the room, but that George sprang 
 forward to intercept him. 
 
 " Oh, no," he said, as he stood before the door. " Mr. 
 Richards is very deep in our family secrets, and comes at 
 a very opportune moment, but he cannot be allowed to
 
 218 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 settle things for ever for us, without any reference to me. 
 It isn't every day that one finds a father whom one 
 thought and hoped was dead. We must see more of 
 each other. Sit down again." 
 
 He gave a loud laugh. Small wonder that the over- 
 whelming events of the night, coming after a long and 
 tiring day, were beginning to work in his overtaxed brain. 
 
 The man stood where he was, his head bent. Mrs. 
 Greenfield sank back on the sofa and closed her eyes 
 while Peggy chafed her limp hands. Mr. Richards bent 
 his bushy brows on George. Then he turned to Peggy. 
 
 " What are you doing here ? " he asked, not unkindly. 
 " This is no place for you. Go up to bed." 
 
 " No, she shall stay," said George instantly. " She is 
 more my mother's daughter than she is yours. What I 
 know now, she knows. And whatever more there is to 
 come, she shall know that too." 
 
 " Go upstairs, Peggy," said Mr. Richards again. 
 
 But Peggy defied him openly for the first time in 
 her life. 
 
 " I won't go," she cried. " She wants me, and you 
 shan't take me away from her. You have been cruel 
 enough to me, and she has always been kind. I will obey 
 her now, and not you," and she clung to the half-con- 
 scious woman by her side, who feebly put out her hand 
 and drew her towards her. 
 
 Then it was that this mysterious man, deep in so many 
 secrets, at the very moment of his successful defiance at 
 the hands of a young girl, and that girl his own daughter, 
 showed what stuff he was made of. 
 
 " George Greenfield," he said slowly, " you have dis- 
 trusted me ever since you were a child. Some day you 
 will know that in everything I have done I have acted 
 only for your good. But you won't know it yet for some
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON.- tig 
 
 time, and nothing you can say or do will hasten that 
 time. All that you can do by thwarting me now is to 
 bring trouble on that good woman. If you ask questions 
 of that man, and he answers them but he won't do that 
 now I have spoken to him he will deceive you, because 
 he has deceived himself. He can tell you nothing, because 
 he knows nothing. I am the only man that can tell you 
 what you will know some day, because I am the only man 
 in the world that knows it. One woman knows it, and 
 that is your mother. But she is under an oath to reveal 
 nothing, and you know her well enough to know that she 
 will not break her oath even for you. One more point 
 and I've done, and you will stand aside and let that man 
 pass. He won't come near this place again. You said 
 just now that I had come at a timely moment. That was 
 truer than you thought. Your mother spoke the truth 
 when she said that man was her husband. And I come 
 in to tell you what no one else, not even the man himself, 
 could have told you. He is not your father." 
 
 This long speech, every sentence spoken with the utmost 
 earnestness, bore with it the conviction of truth. George 
 said nothing in reply to it, but hesitatingly, unwillingly 
 as it seemed, moved away from the door. It was the most 
 effective reply he could have made to the other's words. 
 
 The man, who had stood all this time, cowed and 
 silent, his eyes bent on the ground, crept out of the room 
 and out of the house, and returned no more to trouble the 
 peace of its occupants. 
 
 The rest of that night wore away in trouble and sorrow. 
 Mrs. Greenfield, utterly broken by the load of anxiety she 
 had borne night and day for months past, and the succes- 
 sive shocks that had befallen her during the last few hours, 
 lay unconscious, and, as it seemed to the watchers rounu 
 her bed, very near death. Nothing they could do roused
 
 230 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 her from her lethargy, and at last George, leaving Peggy 
 and her father to watch, went out to bring a doctor. 
 
 The two sat in silence by the bed for half an hour, while 
 the slow dawn crept into the room and quenched the light 
 of the candles. What thoughts passed through the mind of 
 the dark, gloomy man, as he sat with his head on his breast ; 
 who could tell ? The girl, who had so much to reproach 
 him with, and to ask him, scarcely gave him a thought. 
 None of her great anxiety was for herself. Her own troubles 
 had passed from her mind, and all she prayed for was that 
 the frail life ebbing by her side might be spared to them 
 who cherished it as a thing to be loved and revered. 
 
 The doctor, when he came, looked very grave. He sent 
 for the maid, who had been sleeping calmly through the 
 disturbances of the night, and turned George and Mr. 
 Richards out of the room. The latter, not wishing perhaps 
 to sit alone with George and be subjected to his questions, 
 announced his intention of resting until he should be 
 called for, and retired to a bedroom, where he may have 
 slept until the morning, for he was not disturbed. 
 
 George, finding the confinement of the house insup- 
 portable, went out and paced the garden path, a prey to a 
 thousand fears and forebodings, while the man and the 
 two women in the room upstairs fought through the hours 
 of the growing day to save a human life. 
 
 Shortly after seven the doctor came down to him. 
 
 a l am going home now for an hour or two," he said. 
 " I will come back after breakfast. She is asleep, and is 
 not likely to wake just yet. If she does, they know what 
 to do, and I shall be at my house if I am wanted." 
 
 " Is she very ill ? " asked George. 
 
 '* She is very ill," answered the doctor. He was an old 
 friend of the little family. " Peggy has told me that she 
 has had months of terrible anxiety, culminating in a great
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON. M *ai 
 
 shock. I don't ask more. But if the anxiety continues or 
 
 the shock recurs it will kill her." 
 
 " It is at an end," said George. He felt bitterly that he 
 could answer for very little, but that, at any rate, relying 
 on Mr. Richards's words, he might safely promise. 
 
 " Then I hope we shall save her," said the doctor, '* but 
 you must be prepared for the worst. She has gone through 
 too much to allow us to count on her recovery." 
 
 The words, kindly spoken, but relentless in their import, 
 brought a suffocating sense of impotency. 
 
 " You will do all that you can ? " was all that George 
 could find to say. 
 
 " You may be sure of that," said the doctor. " And I 
 shall be back in two hours at the latest." 
 
 The day wore on in ever deepening anxiety. The 
 sufferer dozed, or lay still with her eyes closed, taking 
 nourishment when it was brought to her, but otherwise 
 lost to what was going on around her. The lines of care 
 which had marked her face now for many weeks past were 
 gone, and she lay quietly, drifting slowly out to the great 
 sea of illimitable peace. It became plain as the hours 
 went by that nothing could be done by those who loved her 
 to keep her back, and with stricken hearts they watched by 
 her side, drawn closer together, the young man and the 
 girl, by common memories and a common sorrow. 
 
 Towards the evening there came a flicker of dying life. 
 She opened her eyes and recognised her dear ones. How- 
 ever they might try to hide it, she saw the hopeless sorrow 
 in their faces. 
 
 " I know, dears, I know," she said tenderly as they kissed 
 her. " I am going to leave you." And she held them to 
 her with weak arms, as they wept silently, keeping back the 
 utmost of their grief lest they should disturb the serenity of 
 her passing hour.
 
 222 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " We have had a happy life together, darlings," she said 
 in her low, fading voice. " No mother has ever had two 
 such children as mine. You are both my children, are you 
 not Peggy as well as George ? " She joined their hands 
 together, and they bent over her, holding her in their 
 embrace. " You will be brother and sister always," the 
 dying voice went on, " whatever troubles may come to 
 you ; and the troubles will lighten by-and-by, and dis- 
 appear, as mine has disappeared. Tell me, darlings, that I 
 have made your lives happy ? " 
 
 They assured her of that, with whatever tender words 
 they could summon, and she lay quietly and peacefully for 
 some time. Then she roused herself again with an effort, 
 and the shadow of the old trouble passed across her face. 
 
 " Is your father here ? " she asked of Peggy, and when she 
 had received her reply, said, " I must see him for a few 
 minutes alone." 
 
 " Oh, not now, mother," implored George. 
 
 " Yes, dear, " she insisted. " It is for the sake of both of 
 you. And it will not be for many minutes. Come to me, 
 both of you, when he has gone." 
 
 Mr. Richards came at once upon the summons. His hard 
 face softened as he stood over the bed and looked down on 
 the dying woman. 
 
 ** You have kept your trust well," he said. ** I wish you 
 had told me of the other trouble before. I could have 
 saved you from that." 
 
 " You came directly I sent for you," she said. " It is too 
 late to talk of that. But tell me now it will not be for 
 long." 
 
 " You know the time," he said. " I cannot shorten it." 
 
 " I shall not live to see it," she said. " But perhaps it is 
 better as it is. I do not repine. But I must leave that. 
 There is so little time. And I want to speak to you about
 
 "ALWAYS MY SON." 223 
 
 the dear girl, mine almost as much as yours. You have 
 brought great trouble upon her. I have always done your 
 bidding. Now I ask you before I die to do mine. Give 
 back her lover to her." 
 
 The man was silent. The expression of his face 
 changed, as if a struggle were going on in his mind. 
 There was the old changeless obstinacy in it, but there 
 was an anxiety, a softening, even a tenderness in it too. 
 
 " Say you will do so, and let me die in peace," she 
 pleaded. "There is so little time, and I want my dear 
 children back again." 
 
 Still he was silent. 
 
 " For the sake of the past and those true lovers," she said. 
 
 There was an instant change in his face ; the hard eyes 
 grew moist, the stern lips trembled. 
 
 " Not at once ; but later I will do it if he is worthy," he 
 answered her. 
 
 " Then bid me good-bye, and send my children to me," 
 she said. 
 
 He leaned over her and took her nerveless hand in his. 
 44 Good-bye," he said slowly. " You will reap your reward," 
 and he left the room. 
 
 She lingered till the night had closed in, sinking into 
 unconsciousness soon after Mr. Richards had left her, with 
 short intervals during which she was fully aware of the 
 presence of George and Peggy. 
 
 Towards nine o'clock, when she had lain for over half an 
 hour quite still, she opened her eyes, and a smile came over 
 her worn face. George bent over her, longing passionately 
 for some last word of recognition, for he knew that the end 
 was very near. She put out her arms in a last weak effort. 
 " George, my son ! Always my son ! " she cried, and then 
 her arms fell by her side, and her smile changed into the 
 endless content of death.
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 
 
 IN that sad confusion of mind which follows immediately 
 after the death of one dearly loved, before those who 
 mourn the dead have had time to adjust their thoughts to 
 the future, George and Peggy went down from the room 
 where Mrs. Greenfield was lying to the parlour. Mr. 
 Richards sat by the window, waiting. He rose as they 
 entered the room. Peggy was crying, but George's face 
 showed only bewilderment at his loss. There was no need 
 for words to explain that the end had come. Mr. Richards's 
 hard face showed genuine sorrow. He made a movement 
 as if to clasp George's hand, but drew back again, awk- 
 wardly. Then he looked at Peggy as if he would fain 
 have done or said something to comfort her, but she seemed 
 to divine his intention and clung to George, her tears 
 flowing freely. 
 
 And so Mr. Richards left his consolatory words unsaid. 
 
 " I can't do anymore for you," he said. " I shall go back 
 north by the five o'clock train." 
 
 " Oh, very well," said George, and turned away from him. 
 
 Mr. Richards hesitated. 
 
 "I don't want to trouble you with business now," he 
 said. " I will write to you when I reach home." 
 
 " Very well," said George again, and Mr. Richards went 
 out without any further speech. Perhaps, in his own way, 
 he had shown more tact than might have been expected 
 from him.
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 225 
 
 His tact, however, such as it was, seemed to fail him 
 when he reached the stronghold of his own home, for the 
 letter which came to George three days after Mrs. Green- 
 field's death contained no word of sympathy or sorrow, 
 stated shortly that the claims of business would prevent 
 his coming south again to attend the funeral, and closed 
 with two announcements, the baldness of which amounted 
 almost to insolence. 
 
 " With regard to business affairs," wrote Mr. Richards, 
 " I may as well tell you at once, to save disappointment, 
 that Mrs. Greenfield's income dies with her, and beyond a 
 few hundred pounds which she has saved and left to you, 
 you will be no better off by her death. She made a will 
 some years ago and appointed me as her executor. I 
 will hand over your legacy as soon as the legal formalities 
 have been completed. I have written to Peggy, telling 
 her to come up here on Friday next. That will give her 
 time to make all necessary arrangements." 
 
 It may be supposed that, even in the sad absorption of 
 mind which held him during the days immediately fol- 
 lowing his mother's death, George was not likely to receive 
 such a communication without deep resentment But he 
 put it out of his mind, and made no reply to it until 
 after the funeral. 
 
 Peggy and he drew very close together during those 
 days. They talked much of the dead woman and all she 
 had been to them, but the events that had immediately 
 preceded her death were never mentioned. The disclosures 
 that had been made on that troubled night seemed to have 
 been wiped out of their minds for the time being by their 
 common sorrow, and even their own private anxieties failed 
 to disturb the sincerity of their grief. 
 
 They were sitting in the little parlour of the cottage 
 on the evening of the day on which they had laid their 
 
 H.M.
 
 226 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 mother's body to rest. For the first time since her death 
 they felt the completeness of the separation which it had 
 made between the past and the future. The happy days 
 and years which both of them had spent in that quiet 
 little home were over, and there remained for one of them 
 work, perhaps success, but no longer the warmth of domestic 
 affection ; for the other an unknown future, emptied of 
 everything that had brightened her childhood and youth. 
 
 They had been talking, sadly enough, of the change that 
 was imminent in their lives. George was sitting in an 
 easy chair by the fire and Peggy on a stool at his side. 
 Suddenly she put her hand on his knee and burst into tears. 
 George caressed the dark little head, but said nothing. He 
 was not far from tears himself. 
 
 " I do so dread going up there to live," she said. 
 
 George felt bitterly that there was no reply to make, no 
 alternative to suggest, nothing he could do for her who was 
 in all respects his sister, except in the one which would have 
 given him the right to make a home for her. 
 
 " Never mind, little girl," said George. " It may not be 
 for long. Some fairy prince will come along and take you 
 away for good. I don't think that such a treasure of a girl 
 as my little Peggy can hope to preserve her independence 
 for very long." 
 
 He spoke lightly, but Peggy's tears flowed the more 
 freely. 
 
 " I shall never marry now, George," she said, after a 
 time. " I haven't told you yet what happened before 
 darling mother's death ; but I should like to tell you now, 
 before I go away from you altogether. You are the only 
 person in the world that I can speak to about it, and I 
 must have somebody who knows. Then I shan't mind it 
 so much." 
 
 Then she told him all about the few hours of happiness
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 827 
 
 she had known after Guy had told her love his for he for, 
 of the downfall of her happiness, owing to her father's 
 harsh decision, and of the extinction of her hope. The 
 telling of her tale seemed to open afresh her heart's wound. 
 44 Why, oh, why does father treat me like this ? " she cried 
 at the end of her story. We should have been so happy 
 together. And he gives me nothing in exchange ; no love, 
 no tenderness even. His letter telling me to go to him 
 next week was just a few lines. If I thought that he 
 wanted me I should not mind so much. I would even try 
 and forget his unkindness and be a good daughter to him 
 and make his home happy. But he doesn't want me. He 
 just tells me the train to travel by and says nothing at all 
 about being pleased to have me with him. Oh, he is 
 treating me cruelly.** 
 
 George could hardly contain his anger; but he showed 
 as little of it as possible for Peggy's sake. 
 
 " I think it is cruel," he said. " I can't think what 
 objection he can have to Guy. But I am afraid none of us 
 know much of the motives that move your father. At any 
 rate, I don't think his opposition can possibly last long, 
 dear Peggy. You may comfort yourself with that. Guy 
 is a very eligible young man, and I'm sure there is nothing 
 that can reasonably be urged against him. He will go to 
 your father again, and you will see that everything will 
 come right in the end" 
 
 " I don't think about that now," said Peggy, quietly. 
 " He gave me up so easily when father refused him." 
 
 " He said that he had been forced into it ; that he had 
 only given the promise for your sake, didn't he ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then you must believe that. And you mustn't give up 
 hope. He loves you, and love has a way of overcoming 
 difficulties when they are not insuperable ones." Poor 
 
 2
 
 228 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 George thought of his own love affair, well-nigh hopeless 
 as it now appeared, but he did not return Peggy's confidence 
 by imparting it to her. 
 
 When she had left him for the night he sat down to 
 consider the future. The grave had closed finally on the 
 free and happy days of his youth, and its memories had 
 now to be put aside for a time, the thread of the tangled 
 skein of life taken up again, and, if it might be, unravelled. 
 
 By-and-by he took out of his pocket Mr. Richards's letter 
 and read it over. He made a strong effort to curb the 
 angry thoughts that rose to the surface of his mind. Then 
 he went to the writing table and wrote his reply. 
 
 " I can't keep up the pretence of friendship with the 
 fellow any longer," he said to himself, and began formally : 
 
 " DEAR SIR, 
 
 " I find it impossible to believe that you can expect 
 me to be contented with the statements in your letter, 
 especially in view of the fact that they contradict other 
 statements already made to me by you. I intend to bring 
 Peggy up to Glasgow next Friday. I shall stay the night 
 at a hotel and call upon you the next morning, when I 
 shall expect a full explanation from you of everything 
 concerning my mother's property, as well as of other 
 matters upon which I now insist upon being enlightened. 
 ** Yours truly, 
 
 "GEORGE GREENFIELD.** 
 
 When he had written and sealed this letter George set 
 himself to the sad task of going over his mother's papers, 
 not without some hope of gaining a clue to the mysteries 
 that lay round his own birth and had shadowed her passing 
 hours. 
 
 Mrs. Greenfield had kept all her private papers in the 
 drawers of a little Davenport writing table, of which
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 
 
 ' George had the key. But if she had ever kept any that 
 had to do with her early life she had destroyed them all 
 before her death. The drawers were filled chiefly with 
 little mementoes of George's own childhood, locks of hair, 
 photographs, early attempts at writing and picture making. 
 Every letter he had ever written to her had been kept, not 
 one destroyed, and they formed the chief part of the 
 contents of the few drawers. There were similar memen- 
 toes of Peggy, and for the rest only account books, old 
 cheques and counterfoils. There was not one scrap of 
 paper that had to do with a date previous to the taking of 
 the cottage at Highgate, and George closed the desk at 
 last with a sigh of disappointment. Her absorbing love for 
 him was made manifest by the contents of these private 
 receptacles ; but the dead voice kept its secret as the living 
 voice had done, and left him unsatisfied. 
 
 A week later the pretty cottage was dismantled, and 
 Peggy and George had turned their backs on it to begin a 
 new life which, whatever happiness might be in store for 
 either of them, would always hold one secret place of 
 regretful memory. 
 
 Mr. Richards had deigned no reply to George's letter, 
 and when George said good-bye to Peggy at the Glasgow 
 terminus, he entrusted her with a note to her father 
 announcing the hour at which he would call on him the 
 following morning. Mr. Richards chose to receive him at 
 his private house, and George was shown into a poor little 
 room, half parlour, half dining room, where his prospective 
 adversary was sitting at the table with business papers and 
 account books in front of him. It was never very difficult 
 to avoid shaking hands with Mr. Richards, who displayed 
 little inclination for the lesser amenities of life, and with a 
 brief " good morning " George plunged into the middle of 
 things.
 
 930 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Perhaps you have prepared me a statement of what I 
 wrote to you about," he said. 
 
 "1 have prepared no statement," replied Mr. Richards, 
 * But I can show you Mrs. Greenfield's will, and can tell 
 you the exact sum which I shall have to hand over to 
 you when it is proved, and the duty and so on is paid. 
 It will be a few shillings over seven hundred and forty 
 pounds." 
 
 " Let me see the will first," said George. 
 
 Mr. Richards handed it to him, and he read it over. It 
 was very short, merely mentioning his own name as sole 
 legatee, and that of Mr. Richards as executor. 
 
 "That is perfectly clear," said George, and the two of 
 them discussed a few details as to the proving of the will 
 in a quiet, matter-of-fact tone. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Richards," said George, " you will be 
 good enough to explain to me what you have done with 
 the bulk of my mother's property." 
 
 The words in themselves were an insult as addressed to 
 an honest man, and George's tone did not take off from 
 their effect. " If that won't rouse you," it seemed to say, 
 " nothing will." 
 
 But the challenge did not rouse Mr. Richards. The red 
 of his dark face grew a little redder, but he looked his 
 questioner full Jh the face, and if he felt insulted his manner 
 repelled the insult no less effectively than if he had met it 
 with indignant denial. 
 
 " I told you two years ago ** he began. 
 
 " Oh, you told me a pack of lies two years ago, about 
 that and other matters," interrupted George impatiently. 
 " I want the truth now, and I'm going to get it." 
 
 " You are not going the right way to get it," returned 
 Mr. Richards, still speaking quiet and evenly. " You had 
 better listen to what I've got to say.**
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 231 
 
 "You don't deny having lied to me two years ago, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 ** I don't deny anything, or admit anything. I just tell 
 you this, that there are certain things that I will not tell 
 you yet, and nothing you can say or do will make me." 
 
 " And one of those things, I suppose, is what has become 
 of a sum of money of which you have acted as trustee. My 
 knowledge of the law tells me that there will not be the 
 slightest difficulty in extracting that piece of information 
 from you, Mr. Richards, whatever else you may choose to 
 keep to yourself." 
 
 " There was no sum of money. Mrs. Greenfield's income 
 died with her." 
 
 u The income must have come from a sum of money in 
 the first instance. You don't tell me that there was an 
 annuity. Was there an annuity bought for her ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Then where did her income come from ? Good heavens, 
 man, do you really think you can keep silence about a 
 thing like that ? " 
 
 " I know that I'm going to." 
 
 George looked at him in sheer amazement. The very 
 audacity of the statement robbed it of its power to anger 
 him further. He found himself groping in his mind as for 
 the explanation of a puzzle. Richards kept silence, and 
 suddenly a light seemed to break in on his mind, a dis- 
 agreeable suspicion which sent the blood rushing to his 
 temples. 
 
 " You swore to me," he said, " that the money did not 
 come from you yourself." 
 
 " You accused me of telling you a pack of lies," was 
 Richards's reply, spoken slowly, with eyes fixed full on him, 
 
 George rose from his seat. " Good God ! " he cried. *' Is 
 that the truth? Have we been dependent on you' all these
 
 23* THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 years for everything ? " He leaned across the table. " Tell 
 me," he said, " You shall tell me. Was my mother have 
 I been dependent on your bounty ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you nothing," came the steady answer. 
 
 George seized hold of the will which lay between them 
 on the table, tore it in half, and threw the pieces into the 
 grate. " I won't take a penny of that money," he cried 
 passionately, " and I'll work till I drop to repay what we 
 have had from you." 
 
 A grim smile showed itself at the corners of Mr. 
 Richards's mouth. " Supposing I had supplied the income," 
 he said, "That would be a pretty way of showing 
 gratitude, wouldn't it ? " 
 
 " Gratitude ! " echoed George fiercely. " But wait a 
 minute," he went on, collecting his thoughts. " You 
 swore to me that it was not so, and in that at least I 
 believe you spoke the truth. I remember your manner. 
 And you fool ! " he ended abruptly, with a scornful stare. 
 
 Mr. Richards looked disconcerted for the first time. 
 
 " My mother told me herself I remember it now that 
 her money was her own and did not come from you. And 
 you tried to make me believe you can take the word 
 coward as well as liar from me, Mr. Richards." 
 
 Mr. Richards brushed his words aside with a movement 
 of his hand. "Let's have an end to this," he said. 
 " No, the income did not come from me. And it's waste of 
 time for you to make any further guesses. I shall neither 
 deny them if they are false, nor admit them if they are 
 true. I say again as I've said already, I'll tell you 
 nothing." 
 
 " And you are prepared to go into a court of law with 
 that story ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am prepared even for that." 
 
 " Well, we shall see. But after all, the money is not
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 233 
 
 what I want to know about. If that were all, and you 
 would assure me but we'll come back to that later. Now, 
 once for all, what are the facts about my birth ? You said 
 the other night that you were the only man alive that 
 knew them. You've got to tell me what you know now. 
 I'll have no more mystery about it." 
 
 Mr. Richards answered him at once. " I'll tell you every- 
 thing I mean to tell you straight off," he said, " and that 
 will save time, for I'll tell you nothing else. When we had 
 that conversation two years ago, I told you Mrs. Green- 
 field's husband, the man you saw the other night, was 
 dead. I thought he was. I didn't know he was alive till 
 I got a letter from her telling me that he had found her 
 out and was persecuting her. She didn't want you to 
 know, naturally, and she thought I might be able to help 
 her. She told me he was coming the next night to try and 
 get a large sum of money out of her, and she asked me to 
 send it to her. I went myself instead, and that's how it 
 was I got there just in time to frighten him off. I had 
 found out something that I could have got him sent to 
 prison for, at the time I told you of, and I'd brought the 
 proofs with me. If I'd had any difficulty in getting rid of 
 him, I however, he went, quick enough." 
 
 "Yes, that's all very interesting," interrupted George, 
 " but it isn't what I want to hear about. You know that 
 well enough. You told me that that wretched creature 
 was my father the last time you" 
 
 " No, I never told you that." 
 
 * 4 Well, you gave me to understand it, then, perfectly 
 plainly. You're very particular about exact words, now, 
 and I dare say you saved yourself by some quibble from 
 telling an actual lie then. But you deceived me all the 
 same. You don't deny that, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I've told you already I deny nothing and admit nothing
 
 234 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 What I meant to keep from you then I mean to keep from 
 you now, and if you'll get that into your head you'll save 
 yourself a lot of trouble." 
 
 " Will you swear to me solemnly that that man wasn't 
 my father ? " 
 
 "Yes, I'll swear that by any oath you like to name. I 
 shouldn't have told you so the last time you asked me. 
 But I let it out the other night for Mrs. Greenfield's sake, 
 and you're welcome now to any consolation it brings you." 
 " Thank you. Then my mother was married before she 
 met this man ? " 
 
 "That I shan't tell you." 
 " You blackguard ! You're hinting** 
 " No, I'm not. Your mother was one of the best women 
 I've ever met, and I respect her memory as much as you do. 
 I simply will not answer one single question that I don't 
 choose to, and if you like to draw wrong conclusions from 
 my not answering, you've got yourself to thank for it. I'll 
 tell you this I've told you before and it's all I'll tell you- 
 that some day you'll know." 
 
 " How shall I know, and when ? ** 
 "You'll know from me. When, I shan't tell you.** 
 George made a gesture, almost of despair. 
 ** If you knew what it meant to me ! " was on his lips, 
 but he would not address even that plea for consideration 
 to his adversary. 
 
 "You'd better leave it," continued the other. "You 
 won't blame me for keeping it back when I do tell you. I 
 don't care if you do or not. But you may take it from me 
 that you won't." 
 
 " I'll take nothing from you," said George, now at the 
 limit of his patience, " except the truth. And I'll tell you 
 this that if you don't tell me now what I ask you, I'll go 
 straight out of this house and put the whole matter into
 
 AT CLOSE QUARTERS. 335 
 
 the hands of a lawyer. You'll be made to tell the story of 
 the money you have had in trust, at any rate, and I dare say 
 we shall be able to get at the rest through that. I am going 
 to know, so you'd better make up your mind whether you'll 
 tell me of your own accord, or have it dragged out of you 
 in a court of law." 
 
 " You can't frighten me in that way," answered Richards, 
 still speaking in firm, even tones. " I'll tell nothing I don't 
 want to, either to you or to anybody else." 
 
 " You say so now, but I don't think you quite know what 
 you are in for, Mr. Richards. There's one thing quite cer- 
 tain, and that is that you'll give an account of your trust, 
 or else go to prison." 
 
 " Then I'll go to prison, but you'll be very sorry you 
 were the means of sending me there afterwards." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not going to be put off any longer with that 
 sort of thing. Are you going to make a clean breast of it 
 now ? " 
 
 " You've had my answer." 
 
 " Very well then. I'll take the only course that's open 
 to me." 
 
 George rose and took up his hat from the table. There 
 was no hesitation in his actions. Mr. Richards watched 
 him narrowly, perhaps for a sign of weakness, but he 
 turned to leave the room with not so much as another 
 look, and his face was set. 
 
 Mr. Richards opened his mouth as if to speak, but 
 seemed to change his mind, and with a shrug of his 
 shoulders turned to the papers on the table before him. 
 
 And George would have gone away with nothing further 
 said had he not on the very threshold of the room met 
 Peggy, who had just entered the house. She was in 
 walking dress and carried some small parcels. Perhaps 
 her father had sent her out so that his interview with
 
 236 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 George should be undisturbed. At any rate, the look of 
 pleased surprise which sprang to her face showed that she 
 had not expected to see him at that time. 
 
 " Oh, George," she said, holding out her hands, * I am 
 glad." 
 
 Then she turned her eyes from him to her father, and 
 back again, marked the tension on the face of each, and 
 obeyed the impulse which came to her both to ignore and 
 to endeavour to relax it. 
 
 "Father has given me a room upstairs for my own 
 sitting-room, and I am to furnish it as I please," she said. 
 ** I am going to be ever so happy here, George." 
 
 The tears rose to her eyes as she made this little speech, 
 so courageous, and yet so pathetic. She turned her head 
 away, but went on talking bravely. " I am going to make 
 father take me about," she said. " He isn't going to be 
 allowed to spend so much time over his business now. He 
 has half promised to take me to the Highlands next 
 summer. You will do it, father, won't you ? " 
 
 " If I'm here," replied Mr. Richards. 
 
 George said nothing, but his face was perplexed. 
 
 " Have you finished your business together ? Will you 
 come up and see my room, George ? " said Peggy. 
 
 "I'll come now," George replied. "We have said all 
 there is to say," and he went out before her. 
 
 George returned to London that afternoon. He owned 
 himself beaten. He had not thought of Peggy when he 
 had threatened her father with exposure. His hands were 
 tied. He could do nothing further.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 
 
 ! THE Honourable Robert Conder, M.P., in pursuit of that 
 experience which should fit him by-and-by to uplift his 
 voice to fuller purpose in the conclaves of the nation, 
 shortly after the close of the session set out on a 
 tour round the colonies and dependencies of the British 
 Empire. 
 
 The whole freckled family of Conders, with the exception 
 of his mother, journeyed down to the Docks to see him off, 
 and swarmed over the great ship which was to bear him 
 away from a happy and united home to the uttermost ends 
 of the earth ; for Bobby Conder had already " done " India, 
 and did not propose to leave the vessel until he should set 
 foot in one of the colonies of Australasia. 
 
 Lord Conder, as became a man of his standing, got 
 himself introduced by a Director of the Line to one who in 
 a few hours would be a far greater man than he in a rather 
 more limited sphere, the captain of the ship. Freddy 
 Conder found a friend in the person of the first officer, and 
 he and Algy Conder retired into the privacy of that 
 functionary's cabin and discussed the situation. Dicky 
 Conder forced his friendship on an assistant sub-engineer, 
 and disappeared from view until all but the passengers and 
 crew had left the ship, and he had already been given up 
 for lost ; while the feminine contingent of the Conder 
 family followed Bobby in a long string through the narrow 
 and perplexing passages which led to the various saloons
 
 238 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 and countless cabins of the great sea-going hotel, and 
 exclaimed delightedly at all they saw. 
 
 All of them cried unaffectedly, and the twins audibly, as 
 they kissed him good-bye, and even the faces of the male 
 members of the family showed less of their usual smiling 
 roundness as they stood in a group on the quay, while 
 Bobby, leaning over the side, waved an intermittent pocket- 
 handkerchief as he was carried farther and farther out of 
 their sight. 
 
 Bobby Conder did not propose to be away for more than 
 six months at the outside, but it is a long way to the other 
 side of the world, and the Conder family lived in such 
 habitual amity and contentment with each other that they 
 abhorred separation of any sort. During those six months 
 he was never spoken of in the house as " Bobby," but 
 always as " Dear Bobby," and every Sunday evening after 
 dinner, until news came of his safe arrival, the Conder 
 family with their numerous dependents and any guests that 
 might be staying in the house, assembled together in the 
 hall, and sang the " Hymn for Those at Sea," which Mary 
 Conder accompanied on the organ to the best of her ability. 
 
 In due course Bobby Conder landed in Australia, pre- 
 sented his letters of introduction, and proceeded to look 
 about him with an eye for information. He found the 
 cities and their inhabitants so disconcertingly like those he 
 had left behind him that he almost despaired of picking up 
 matter for an address to his constituents, but took courage 
 when he left the beaten tracks, and, as he really did know 
 something about stock-breeding, found plenty to interest 
 him in the up-country stations at which he was generously 
 entertained during a month of the Australian spring. 
 
 One of these at which he stayed for some days to 
 examine the processes of sheep-shearing and the packing 
 of wool for the steamers and fast sailing clippers which
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 239 
 
 were lying in Sydney Harbour ready to carry it to the 
 markets of Europe, was in the fertile region of the Murrum- 
 bidgee. The owner was one of the richest squatters in 
 New South Wales, and Bobby had been introduced to him 
 after a dinner at Government House, when he had, of 
 course, received a pressing invitation from Mr. Rawlings to 
 come up to Nunderadgee as soon as he was able, and to 
 consider himself at home there as long as he liked to stay. 
 
 The squatter was a fine specimen of the best type of 
 native-born Australian. He was a man of rather more 
 than fifty, very tall and broad, with a sun-tanned face, 
 honest blue eyes, and a great yellow beard. He had been 
 at an English public school and an English university, and 
 was as well-travelled and well-educated a gentleman as 
 any English landowner. He had married rather late in 
 life, and Bobby found his fine house, built on the banks of 
 the river in the immense solitude of the Bush, full of young 
 children, the easiest in the world to make friends with, the 
 boys showing him everything there was to show about the 
 busy life of the station with an immense pride, and the 
 girls following him about like little dogs, loving him for 
 his happy good nature, and exhibiting the utmost apprecia- 
 tion of his jokes and stories. Bobby wrote to his mother 
 a full account of Nunderadgee and its inhabitants, in 
 which he said that it was almost as good as being at 
 home, the highest compliment within the power of a 
 member of the Conder family to bestow. 
 
 And " Certainly the nicest Englishman we have ever had 
 with us," was Mrs. Rawlings' criticism to her husband, as, 
 seated in the deep-shaded verandah, she watched a cluster 
 of sunny little heads grouped round that of the budding 
 statesman, who was fascinating his small friends with a 
 series of drawings representing the various incidents of a 
 day with a pack of hounds.
 
 240 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Sitting out on that same verandah with his host, a few 
 nights after his arrival, when all the children had long 
 since gone to bed, and the glorious light of the Southern 
 moon silvered the wide stretches of park-like country lying 
 before them, Bobby Conder listened to a tale of the early 
 romances of the settlers in this fertile country. 
 
 "My grandfather was a working stonemason in an 
 English village," said this lord of many acres in his quiet, 
 well-bred voice. "Then he became a prison warder, and 
 was sent out to Van Diemen's Land with a ship- load of 
 convicts. My enemies," he added with a short laugh, 
 "will tell you that he was a convict himself, but that 
 doesn't happen to be true. He was a thrifty man with a 
 managing wife. I have pictures of both of them, bad 
 enough, painted after they had begun to succeed. They 
 saved money, and he took up land at a time when it could 
 be got for the asking. They bought sheep, took up more 
 land and bought more sheep, and he died a rich man. My 
 father succeeded him. He was never out of the colony in 
 his life. He built this house, or most of it. It was the 
 first big country station, and was considered a marvel in 
 those days, though there are plenty to beat it now, even 
 with my additions. I am the sole descendant of the old 
 Cumberland stonemason, and I reap the benefit of his 
 thrift and foresight." 
 
 "Cumberland?" said Bobby Conder. "What part of 
 Cumberland ? " 
 
 " He came from a village called Morthwaite, in the Lake 
 country. I made a pilgrimage the last time I went home, and 
 saw the little white- washed cottage where he was born." 
 
 " Morthwaite 1 " exclaimed Bobby. " Why, that is where 
 Merrilees is." 
 
 " What do you know of Merrilees ? " asked Mr. Rawlings, 
 turning his head towards him.
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 341 
 
 " All the world knows something about Merrilees now, I 
 suppose," said Bobby with a smile. " I happen to know a 
 little more than most people, because, although I've never 
 been there, it belongs to a fellow I've known all my life, 
 and an uncle of mine is living in it at the present 
 moment." 
 
 " Why isn't your friend living in it ? ** 
 
 "Because he can't afford it. Didn't you get the story 
 out here about the last man shutting himself up there for 
 five-and-twenty years and turning a great fortune into 
 jewels, which a rascal of a servant walked off with directly 
 the breath was out of his body ? " 
 
 " The story of Sir Roderick Bertram. Yes, we heard all 
 that. He was living there when I went over to Mor- 
 thwaite. I must confess that I did a little trespassing and 
 got a glimpse of the place from the shore of the lake. I 
 was specially interested in it. But who is your friend to 
 whom you say it belongs now ? " 
 
 " He is Guy Bertram, the last man's heir a cousin, I think. 
 He came in for the place, and everything else he could find. 
 But the fact is, he didn't find much, because, as you know, 
 a thief had already been at work." 
 
 " Mr. Conder, I think you are the man," said the squatter 
 solemnly, rising to his full height of six-foot-three. 
 
 " Good God ! " exclaimed the astonished Bobby. 
 
 Mr. Rawlings gave a great deep- lunged laugh. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, " I meant something rather 
 different. I think I shall now be able to fulfil a very old 
 trust. If you will excuse me for a minute I will go and 
 get some papers out of my room." 
 
 He went into the house, leaving the astonished Bobby 
 meditatively sipping from a long glass. 
 
 Mr. Rawlings returned in a few minutes, bringing with 
 him a lamp which he placed on the table between them, 
 
 H.M. *
 
 242 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 although the light of the full moon was almost bright 
 enough to have made artificial light unnecessary. He sat 
 down and produced a folded paper, sealed with an old- 
 fashioned common seal, and another paper out of a large 
 docketed envelope. 
 
 " My grandfather," he said, " was one of the workmen 
 employed to rebuild the house of Merrilees for Sir Michael 
 Bertram, and to construct those wonderful cascades of which 
 you have heard, and which I have seen. I remember the 
 old man well. He lived to a great age, and often talked 
 to me of his early years, and especially of the building of 
 that great house, which seemed to have excited his imagi- 
 nation, and was indeed very different from anything he 
 could have seen during the last fifty years of his life. It 
 excited my youthful imagination, too, and when I did see 
 it from a distance, after many years, it was like looking at 
 a fairy palace of which one had been told in childhood, 
 but never thought of as having any real existence. 
 
 " Well, the old man always spoke of the house as having 
 some mysterious secret, which, as far as I remember, had 
 to be divulged to a few of the workmen employed there, 
 of whom he was one. All of these were under oath not to 
 reveal it. But the possession of the secret troubled my 
 grandfather, who was a simple-minded old man and loved 
 straightforward ways. 
 
 " At last, as I was leaving to go to school for the first 
 time, he called me to him it was in a room of the old 
 log-built house which stood where this is now. He was 
 very old then, and I remember he cried over me poor, 
 white-haired old fellow and said that we should never see 
 each other again. He was very fond of me as a boy, and 
 very good to me, and the first news I got when I landed in 
 England was that of his death. He gave me these papers, 
 and said he trusted me not to lose them, or to show them
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PA$T. 843 
 
 to anybody. This," holding out the loose sheet, " contains 
 practically what he told me by word of mouth, and I think 
 the time has come for me to fulfil his wishes. It is, I 
 suppose, nearly a hundred )'ears since Merrilees was built ; 
 and I do not consider myself bound by the old man's oath 
 of secrecy. Nor, I suppose, did he, after he should be dead. 
 This is what he has written : 
 
 " ' To my grandson, John Rawlings, of Nunderadgee, in 
 
 the colony of New South Wales. 
 
 ** * I trust to your keeping the sealed paper marked 
 " Merrilees " enclosed in this, which you are not to open. If 
 you hear of any trouble coming to the family of Bertram, 
 or to any family, through something strange about the 
 house of Merrilees, at Morthwaite in Cumberland, you shall 
 hand the sealed paper unopened to the master of that house, 
 or give it to a friend of his to be delivered to him. The 
 paper must not be sent through the mail, but given by your 
 hands. If you hear of nothing, you shall entrust the sealed 
 paper to your son with these directions, and he shall entrust 
 it to his son, and so on, from father to son. No one but the 
 master of the house of Merrilees is to break the seaL 
 
 *"JOHN RAWLINGS. 
 
 "'June 29th, 18 ."* 
 
 He handed the paper to Bobby, who looked with interest 
 at the crabbed but neat writing of the old settler, long 
 since laid in his grave. 
 
 " I have had the paper by me ever since," continued Mr. 
 Rawlings, "and must confess that I had forgotten all about 
 it until 1 read of what happened at Merrilees last June. 
 Then I made up my mind that, if matters were not cleared 
 up by the time I go home next year, I would take the 
 paper home with me and hand it over to Sir Roderick's 
 successor. I did not suppose, however, that what had 
 
 ft a
 
 944 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 happened could really have anything to do with my old 
 grandfather's secret, so I did not bother myself to look 
 out for any friend of the family to whom I could entrust it, 
 as I perhaps should have done. But now you have come 
 along I can wash my hands of the whole affair, and you 
 can give the paper to your friend for what it is worth. 
 Only you mustn't send it by mail. That, as you see, is a 
 stipulation." 
 
 " Well, if this helps my friend Bertram to get back his 
 fortune," said Bobby, *'he will have something to thank 
 you for." 
 
 " I don't see how that can be," said the squatter. " That 
 seems to me a clear case of successful theft. It might 
 perhaps help him to but we will make no conjectures. I 
 should like to hear the result of your commission, though, 
 if anything comes of it. And now I think we had better go 
 to bed." 
 
 If Bobby Conder had been returning home when he 
 received that paper a good deal of further anxiety might 
 have been saved to more than one of his friends. But he 
 was only at the beginning of his travels overseas, and the 
 little sealed packet was carried in his despatch box, along 
 with his own invaluable notes and comments on things in 
 general, through New Zealand, Japan, the South Pacific 
 Islands, and the Dominion of Canada, before in the follow- 
 ing spring it fell into the hands of Guy Bertram. 
 
 When Guy Bertram returned to London after his inter- 
 view with Peggy's father, he was at first as miserable and 
 unhappy a young man as it would have been possible to 
 find anywhere. His longing for Peggy was increased by 
 the apparently insuperable obstacle that had been put in the 
 way of his winning her. He was again inclined to curse his 
 folly in binding himself by his own promise in a way that
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 245 
 
 no commands or even threats directed against himself could 
 have bound him. But on thinking the matter over, he 
 came to the conclusion that Mr. Richards had held the 
 winning cards in any case, and that the only grain of con- 
 solation in the whole unhappy affair was that he had saved 
 Peggy by so binding himself from coercion, which, if it had 
 been practised, he himself would have been responsible in 
 bringing upon her, and which he could have done nothing 
 to alleviate. After all, she was still under age, and her 
 father had the right for some time yet, however arbitrarily 
 he might exercise it, to refuse his consent to her marriage 
 with anyone of whom he disapproved. 
 
 But at first Guy was inconsolable. None of the pursuits 
 by the help of which he had hitherto lived a pleasant and 
 contented life now afforded him the slightest solace. He 
 allowed the building of his cottage to go on because he 
 was too much occupied with the bitterness of his lot to stop 
 it ; but all interest in his project had deserted him for the 
 present, and the bare idea of going down to see a place 
 where he had begun to hope that he and Peggy would live 
 happily together was painful to him. 
 
 At first he thought of going right away from England 
 for a long time. He would go somewhere and shoot big 
 game, or he would go and explore. But he took no steps 
 to put either of these ideas into practice. He had not the 
 slightest genuine desire to shoot game either big or small, 
 or indeed, anything else, except occasionally himself, and as 
 for exploring, his geography was too weak to lend the least 
 trace of reality to the project. 
 
 With regard to the recovery of his stolen fortune, he was 
 sometimes surprised to find how little he hoped for it, 
 or indeed how small a place it filled in his thoughts. The 
 weeks had gone by and no trace of the missing jewels had 
 come to light. Even the clue to Lady Bertram's burial
 
 246 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 place, which might or might not have led to something, 
 had been lost. Having nothing better to do, he had gone 
 down to Calthorp's office a few days after his return from 
 Glasgow, to make inquiries. Calthorp was away on a 
 holiday, but his partner had told Guy that all attempts 
 to follow the journey of Sir Roderick with the body of his 
 wife had so far failed. The statement that he was on his 
 way to his yacht had apparently no further foundation 
 than rumour current at the time, and it could not be dis- 
 covered that he had possessed a yacht at the time, or even 
 that he had hired one. 
 
 " I never thought much of that quest, Sir Guy," said 
 Mr. Griffin, Calthorp's senior partner, " and now it has 
 ended in smoke. We must wait, I think, till the thieves 
 attempt to put the jewels on the market, and even then I'm 
 afraid well, it's no good disguising the fact that big jewels 
 can be cut up into small ones, and that whatever loss might 
 be sustained by doing so in this instance would be made up 
 for by the great value of the booty and the additional 
 safety that would come from following that course." 
 
 This argument was incontrovertible, and Guy went 
 away with whatever dreams he may have cherished of 
 wealth beyond the dreams of avarice fading to the 
 vanishing point. 
 
 " And if I did get them back," he said to himself dis- 
 consolately, as he made his way westward, " I don't believe 
 it would make any difference. The man is such a beast." 
 
 When he had mooned aimlessly about the streets of 
 London for a week, and the need of a definite object in life 
 began to assert itself, the idea of working very seriously 
 and steadily at his painting presented itself and grew upon 
 him. He would forsake the idle, pleasant paths which had 
 beguiled him of late years from frs once formed purpose, 
 and take the hard high road which would lead him to fame,
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 247 
 
 fame which would after all be valueless to him since he had 
 no one with whom to share it. But it was not the fame, 
 he told himself, that he cared about now. It was the dis- 
 cipline of hard work, and perhaps a little of the comfort 
 that would come from the fact that Peggy would hear 
 of his career, and would remember that on that Sunday 
 afternoon, which would bring bitter-sweet memories to both 
 of them in after years, she had believed in a possible 
 career for him, when he had ceased to believe in it him- 
 self. And when his thoughts had brought him to this 
 point they brightened still further, for what objections 
 could any father make against one who was by act of 
 Providence a rich man and a baronet, and by his own 
 a great artist ? 
 
 The hard road might after all lead him to where Peggy 
 was waiting for him, and at length, somewhat encouraged 
 by his musings, Guy packed up all the paraphernalia of an 
 embryo academician and betook himself to Norway. And 
 as it was Norway he had hit upon for the exercise of his 
 talents, he added to his impedimenta one or two trout 
 rods and a sufficiency of tackle. 
 
 After a month's excellent fishing in the neighbourhood 
 of Gudvangen for he had chanced on some friends on his 
 way across and been persuaded to join them in renting 
 a piece of water Guy returned to England, having some- 
 what worn down the edge of his disappointment. The 
 time had arrived for the usual series of country-house visits, 
 and, although he had intended to refuse all such invitations 
 for the future and to devote himself to the earnest study of 
 his art, he found it difficult to break away altogether from 
 the old and sufficiently agreeable routine, and so made 
 arrangements, for each one of which there was a special 
 reason, which would keep him occupied pretty well until 
 Christmas. There would be time to settle down to hard
 
 248 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 work after the festive season had gone by, when the New 
 Year should revive the old desires. 
 
 He was in London for a few days about the beginning of 
 October when he ran against George Greenfield, who, 
 dressed in deep mourning, was striding along Pall Mall. 
 George stopped and shook hands with him, with a very 
 faint shadow of his usual friendly smile. Guy's disturbed^ 
 inquiring face, more than the half-formed question that 
 hung on his lips, told him that he had not heard the news 
 of Mrs. Greenfield's death. 
 
 " My mother," said George gravely. " She died a fort- 
 night ago, after a very short illness." 
 
 Guy turned and walked with him, stammering out his 
 astonishment and sympathy. 
 
 " And Miss Richards ? " he asked presently, when George 
 had told him in a few words what there was to tell. 
 
 " She has gone up to Glasgow to live with her father," 
 said George shortly. " The poor little place up at High- 
 gate is to be let. I was brought up in it. I shall never 
 go there again." 
 
 " I wish you would come up to my rooms for a moment, 
 George," said Guy, when they had reached the corner of 
 St. James's Street. " I've got something to say to you." 
 
 George cast a quick glance at him. 
 
 " All right," he said, and they went up together. 
 
 George threw himself into an armchair by the window, 
 while Guy paced the room with his eyes on the floor. 
 
 "I don't know whether Peggy has told you anything 
 about me," he said, coming to a stop in front of his friend. 
 
 " She has," said George. " I don't know whether she 
 would have done so if my mother had lived ; but, as it is, 
 poor child, I'm about the only friend she's got left. Unless 
 you can count her father 1 " he added, with extraordinary 
 bitterness.
 
 A VOICE FROM THE PAST. 249 
 
 " What does she think, what must she think of me for 
 leaving her, without a word, as I did ? " cried Guy, all the 
 pain of those days, the memory of which he had been doing 
 his best to drown, coming back to him with a rush. 
 
 " Well, she thinks that that most attractive gentleman, 
 her father damn him found some way of influencing you 
 to make you give her up. She also thinks, if I judge her 
 rightly, that you ought not to have let him influence you 
 in that way after what you had said to her. And I don't 
 know that I don't agree with her." 
 
 He spoke rather brutally. His whole appearance had 
 undergone a change since Guy had last seen him. His 
 straightforward, decisive, but always frank and prepossess- 
 ing manner had given pb?ce to something more aggressive, 
 even overbearing. He looked much older. His strength 
 of mind and body was still apparent, but its spring and 
 grace had disappeared. He was not yet twenty-five, 
 but his youth seemed to have dropped away from him 
 already. 
 
 "Look here, George," said Guy, now on the defensive. 
 " What was I to do ? If I had refused to give him a 
 definite promise not to go near her again, or even to write 
 and bid her good-bye, he swore he would take her away 
 from your mother at once." 
 
 " Yes, and he would have done it too," said George. 
 
 "Very well, then. I should have been a nice sort of 
 fellow if I had helped to make her miserable in that way, 
 shouldn't I ? And your mother too. And what good 
 would it have done either of us ? " 
 
 " W T hat you did sounds generous, I know ; and I've no 
 doubt it was meant generously. But I won't mince 
 matters it seems to me weak. And I think Peggy ought 
 to have been consulted. She is absolutely loyal and brave. 
 He wouldn't have had it all his own way by any means."
 
 250 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Guy had thrown himself into a chair. He found no 
 reply to this indictment, but he looked extremely depressed. 
 
 " I'm hanged if I would have given up as easily as that 
 a girl who had told me she loved me," George went on 
 after a pause, " especially such a girl as Peggy, who would 
 go through fire and water for any one to whom she had 
 given her heart. However, I'm not going to quarrel with 
 you about it. I've no doubt you love my little sister truly, 
 and I wish you could marry her. What objection had that 
 fellow to you ? " 
 
 " He seemed to think that I was a worthless member of 
 society, because I had never had to earn my living." 
 
 " That's nonsense," said George. " He has got some 
 other reason. He couldn't give you a straight answer if he 
 tried. He lies for the sake of it. I suppose there are no 
 secrets in your life that he can have got hold of, and be 
 working for his own ends ? " 
 
 " There are no secrets in my life." 
 
 ** Well, then, my advice to you is to hang on till Peggy 
 is of age, and then to marry her with his leave or without 
 it. She wants you, poor child, and when the time comes, 
 I'll do all I can to help you." 
 
 Guy's face brightened wonderfully. 
 
 "You are a good chap, George," he said. "You have 
 put life into me. And you will tell her, won't you, that it 
 was for her sake I made that promise ? " 
 
 " Well, I suppose she knows that. She is not likely to 
 think it was for your own. However, I'll tell her. And 
 now I must be going."
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 
 
 LORD CARADOC did not take long to throw off the indis- 
 position resulting from the unusual strain to which he had 
 subjected himself during the past weeks. Intellectual work 
 had been a constant stimulus and gratification to him ever 
 since he had been able to read a page and hold a pen, and 
 an occasional surfeit of it did him no harm. Indeed, when 
 he had once recovered from his brain fatigue, he returned 
 with renewed zest to the work he had had on hand before 
 his great discovery. 
 
 He found, however, that he could not detach his mind 
 from the inspiring, and to him most momentous events of 
 the past month. He would rise from the table at which he 
 sat to write in the great library and go into the smaller 
 inner room, entering it with a feeling almost of religious 
 awe. He would look at the table where the dead man 
 had done such laborious and such brilliant work for so 
 many long years. It was almost as sacred to him as an 
 altar, and he would have shuddered at the idea of using it 
 for the common purposes of everyday life. The books 
 ranged round the room he regarded in the light of rough 
 ore which the workings of a master mind had transformed 
 into pure gold. The cabinet in which he had found the 
 precious papers he would have bought at Christie's for 
 thrice its value, and that would have been no mean one. 
 He would turn over in his mind the daily delights and 
 discoveries which he had experienced during those golden
 
 2 5 a THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 weeks as a gourmet recalls the taste of fine wines. He 
 associated George with this rare succession of intellectual 
 pleasures, and found himself missing his companionship 
 every hour of the day. A genuine respect for each other's 
 talents had arisen and increased in the minds of the old 
 and the young man, and community of interests, and 
 balancing the fruits of long experience and mellowed 
 judgment on the one hand against a more practical outlook 
 on life on the other equality of intellect, had aroused a 
 feeling of something like affection between them. 
 
 It was not very long before the old scholar made up his 
 mind that there was a great deal of profitable work that 
 he and George might still do together, and on the second 
 morning after his recovery he sat down at the table where 
 he conducted that small proportion of his correspondence 
 which he did not entirely neglect, to write him a pressing 
 invitation to return to Merrilees forthwith. 
 
 He dated his paper and began, " My dear Mr. Green- 
 field." Then he paused and leaned back in his chair, 
 and after a few minutes' consideration rose and walked 
 to the nearest window, where he stood looking out with 
 unseeing eyes over the stretch of water and woodland 
 lying below him. 
 
 There were reasons why he could not ask his dear Mr. 
 Greenfield to come to Merrilees just at present. They had 
 escaped his memory until this moment, but none the less 
 they existed, and existed on the plane of actual life, upon 
 which Lord Caradoc trod as seldom as possible. 
 
 This young man to whom he had been about to write 
 wished to marry his, Lord Caradoc's, daughter. Young 
 men did sometimes wish to marry the daughters of older 
 men, he remembered. The fact added another complication 
 to the many that beset the simplest possible scheme of 
 existence, but still, there it was, and it must be accepted.
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 253 
 
 In this instance such an arrangement would appear to have 
 been the suggestion of a beneficent Providence, but if he 
 could recall the conversation they had held together on the 
 subject he felt sure he should remember that there had been 
 some reason, or reasons, against it. He called up before 
 the eyes of his mind the image of the suitor. Sound views, 
 sound and for his age ripe judgment, a capacity for work 
 as great as his own, enthusiasm for constructive criticism 
 most creditable in one so young, with other attainments, 
 likely to lead him far what could there be against such a 
 man? The image of George stood down, honourably 
 acquitted of all blame. 
 
 Lord Caradoc turned his thoughts toward his daughter. 
 He must have expected her to marry some time or other. 
 What sort of suitor could he hope would come forward for 
 her ? A turn of memory brought back to him his own 
 words, spoken on that night when his brain had been 
 singularly luminous, and he had exercised it just before its 
 temporary breakdown on this very question. 
 
 " Of unblemished birth." That had been the stipulation 
 he had made, which this young man, in other respects so 
 much after his own heart, could only meet with an avowal 
 of ignorance. Lord Caradoc shook his grizzled head. 
 Certainly there could be no giving way on a point of such 
 importance. 
 
 He mused a little longer. Perhaps the young man would 
 bring him news that would set his mind at rest. He hoped 
 yes, now he definitely hoped that it might be so. Then 
 he went back to his writing table and tore up the letter he 
 had begun to write. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert and Cicely were sitting on one of the lower 
 terraces on this fine September morning, the older lady at 
 work on something very plain and very useful for the 
 benefit of one of the Morthwaite villagers, whom she had
 
 54 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 taken individually and collectively under her wing. 
 Although small, the village of Morthwaite provided a fertile 
 field for charitable enterprise. The vicar was a widower, 
 devoted to the rearing and exhibition of poultry, and no 
 lady in his own position of life had entered his house for 
 twenty years. And the house of Merrilees for a longer 
 period than that had held itself silently aloof. Cicely was 
 sitting with a book in her lap, sometimes talking to her 
 friend, sometimes dreaming. 
 
 ' I wonder we have not heard from Mr. Greenfield," Mrs. 
 Herbert was saying. " It is getting on for a week since he 
 left us. I hope the telegram that called him home meant 
 nothing serious." 
 
 She had said much the same thing two or three times a day 
 since George had left. It was simply a formula for opening 
 a conversation which might of itself lead to some topic of 
 interest without the trouble of starting one. 
 
 " I expect he would have let us know if there had been 
 anything serious," answered Cicely. She had said the same 
 thing before, and said it again now with no particular 
 mental effort. 
 
 " Lord Caradoc says that he never met so young a man 
 with such a grasp of his subject," observed Mrs. Herbert. 
 
 The conversation, then, was to be about George, and not 
 on the subject of alarming telegrams preparing the way for 
 sad news. 
 
 " He is very nice," was the girl's reply. 
 
 So far, they had ploughed an old furrow. Mrs. Herbert 
 now broke new ground. 
 
 " His history interests me," she said. " His father died, I 
 think, before he was born, and he was brought up entirely 
 by his mother. A fine woman, I feel sure, from what he has 
 told me of her, and he seems to be devoted to her. They 
 are, I should think, not at all well off, but Mr. Greenfield
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 255 
 
 has made his own way entirely, and with his exceptional 
 abilities, no doubt there is a fine career before him." 
 
 " He told me about his sister," said Cicely. " He is very 
 fond of her, too," 
 
 "She is not his own sister," said Mrs. Herbert, "although 
 they were brought up together. And she is some years 
 younger." 
 
 " I saw her at the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match,'* 
 said Cicely, " with Mr. Greenfield. Sir Guy Bertram spoke 
 to them. I thought," she added slowly, " that she was very 
 pretty." 
 
 " Sir Guy Bertram thinks so, I know," said Mrs. Herbert, 
 with intention. " I gathered as much as that " 
 
 Cicely was silent. She had gathered as much, too, for 
 Guy had told her of George, and of George's home and of 
 his mother and sister, when it was first arranged that he 
 should come to Merrilees. And he had said rather more of 
 George's sister than her connection with George's scholarly 
 acquirements warranted. 
 
 " Ah, here comes James with the letters," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Herbert, rolling up her work. " Now perhaps we shall hear 
 something of how the outside world is going on." 
 
 A boat was rounding the western cape. The man who 
 rowed it made fast to the lowest stair, and came up the 
 terraces towards them, carrying a postbag over his shoulder. 
 He dealt out a few letters to Mrs. Herbert and a packet of 
 illustrated papers to Cicely, and went on his way with the 
 rest of his burden, mounting to the great white house 
 above them. 
 
 " One from Mr. Greenfield at last," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Herbert. " The rest are business letters, I can see." 
 
 She broke open the square envelope addressed to her in a 
 firm scholarly hand, and glanced over its contents. 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear 1 " she cried, in genuine distress.
 
 356 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " What ! What is it ? " asked Cicely. 
 
 " His mother died the day after he left us," said Mrs 
 Herbert. " Dear me ! Poor fellow ! " She cooed the ex- 
 pressive sympathy of a tender-hearted woman as she read 
 the rest of George's letter. It told her in a manner almost 
 formal that he had found his mother ill when he arrived, 
 and that she had died on the evening of the following day. 
 It apologised for his delay in thanking her for her kindness 
 to him during a visit to which he would always look back 
 with great pleasure, and asked her to explain his silence to 
 Lord Caradoc, and to tell him that he would write to him 
 very shortly. " With kind remembrances to Miss Caradoc," 
 was his only allusion to Cicely, and Mrs. Herbert, whose eyes 
 were habitually used to some purpose, could not help feeling 
 a little surprised that, at a time when a craving for sympathy 
 would be a venial weakness, he had sent no more intimate 
 message to the girl whose companionship had certainly not 
 been the least factor in the pleasure which he acknowledged 
 himself to have gained from his stay at Merrilees. Cicely 
 may have felt it but natural that a sudden overwhelming 
 bereavement should have put her out of his mind, but she 
 had enjoyed his society too much not to feel a deep sympathy 
 with him in his loss and a desire to express it. 
 
 " Do you think I might write to him and say how sorry I 
 am ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, dear, do. I think you should," said Mrs. Herbert as 
 she rose and collected her belongings. " And I will write, 
 too. Dear, dear ! That is a sad ending to his visit to us." 
 
 The two letters reached George in due course. He was 
 grateful for both, and carried one of them with him where- 
 ever he went. 
 
 Lord Caradoc received the news with concern. He 
 talked about it and about George during the progress of 
 luncheon, and although he touched in the course of his
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 257 
 
 conversation, on historical periods as usual, the idea pre- 
 sented itself to Mrs. Herbert's mind that she had never 
 known him to take so human an interest in anyone before. 
 Once or twice she noticed that he was looking at his 
 daughter, as if the possibility of her forming a part in an 
 actual scheme of life had suggested itself to him, and her 
 woman's wit cleared obstacles and arrived at a definite 
 impression that something, of which she knew nothing as 
 yet, had taken place. She observed Lord Caradoc more 
 closely, and set up posts, as it were, in her conversation 
 towards which he could direct his own. Before the end of 
 the meal she had discovered more than he had any intention 
 of revealing to anybody whatsoever. Then she, also, 
 regarded Cicely from a new point of view, and wondered 
 many things. 
 
 A few days later Lord Caradoc received George's letter. 
 He had been on the way to his club to write it when he 
 had been intercepted by Guy. It ran as follows : 
 
 "DEAR LORD CARADOC, 
 
 " Mrs. Herbert will have told you of the loss I have 
 sustained, and you will not have expected to hear from me 
 before. I should naturally have written to you immediately 
 on my return to express my thanks to you for allowing me 
 to participate in such an important work as that on which 
 we have been engaged during the past month, and also 
 for the very generous acknowledgment of my services 
 which you have been good enough to make me. I do so 
 now with the sincerest gratitude. 
 
 "With reference to the petition I made to you on the 
 last night of my stay in your house, I can only now with- 
 draw it, and beg you, if you can, to forget that it was ever 
 made. But I think that I owe it to you, as my very kind 
 patron, to tell you, as far as I know myself, who I am. 
 
 H.M. 9
 
 258 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " I have been told that my father died before I was born. 
 I was brought up entirely by the mother whom I have just 
 lost, the best that a man ever had. But there was a secret 
 in her life which shadowed its end. I should speak of it 
 to no one else, and I ask you to believe me when I say, 
 speaking not as her son, but as a man who has known a 
 good woman all his life, that it was nothing of which she 
 for her own sake need have been ashamed. I have been 
 told that she was under a promise not to disclose it, and 
 she died without doing so. I know that she must have 
 made an unhappy marriage after the death of my father, 
 and that is all I do know. My mother's affairs were 
 managed for her by a man of the name of Robert Richards, 
 who is in business in Glasgow. His daughter was brought 
 up by my mother. He is in possession of the secret which 
 she carried to her grave with her, and I have got this much 
 from him, that the secret has to do with my birth. More 
 than that I cannot extort by any means in my power 
 and I have tried all except that in time I shall know 
 everything. 
 
 " Under these circumstances I feel that I have no right 
 to urge you to allow me to try and win your daughter's 
 hand. I would not even make the attempt if I had your 
 permission. I must do my work in the world without 
 hoping for that happiness, and be thankful that the 
 disadvantage which I have confessed to you will not hinder 
 that work. 
 
 " I know you will allow me to sign myself, with the 
 utmost respect and gratitude, 
 
 ** Your sincere friend, 
 
 "GEORGE GREENFIELD.** 
 
 Lord Caradoc took off the gold-rimmed glasses which he 
 had put on to read this letter, and wiped them reflectively.
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 259 
 
 Then he put them on again, and read the letter through a 
 second time. " Life presents problems that are not easy of 
 solution," he said to himself, after he had sat thinking for 
 some considerable time. Then he locked the letter away 
 in a drawer of his writing table. 
 
 But he could not lock away the remembrance of it, nor 
 the particular problem which it presented to his mind. 
 After an ineffectual attempt to concentrate himself on 
 the work he had in hand he rose and paced the long library 
 from end to end with the short steps of a student, his 
 hands behind his bent figure, his eye-glasses perched on 
 his high-bridged nose. George was a man after his own 
 heart. That much had become quite clear to him. Even 
 the acknowledgment of some mystery about his birth, or 
 perhaps the way in which he had made it, increased his 
 liking for him. Had he any right to withhold the dearest 
 wish of his heart from a man so upright and honourable 
 because of something which he could not help, and which 
 affected his character in no way ? Then he thought of his 
 only daughter and of his ancient name, which there was no 
 one but Cicely to bear after him ; and although that name 
 was seldom enough in his thoughts, he felt that his clear 
 duty lay in preserving it spotless. And yet, in spite of 
 that clear duty, his mind was not easy, and he continued 
 to pace the floor. At last the idea came to him, not 
 because he felt any doubt of his duty, but perhaps because 
 he wanted it illumined for him, that he would disclose the 
 matter to a third person, and he rang the bell and asked 
 that Mrs. Herbert might be informed that he would be glad 
 if she would come and speak to him. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert came, knowing very well the question on 
 which she was to be consulted, having indeed expected such 
 a summons ever since she had set her sharp wits to work a 
 few days before. As she came in in her tidy, sensible 
 
 s a
 
 25o THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 morning dress, and sat down opposite to the man who had 
 been her kind friend for so many years, her bright eyes 
 bent critically upon him from behind her spectacles, she 
 looked like a woman whom it might be well to consult on 
 many a problem of life, great or small. 
 
 Lord Caradoc told her in short, hesitating sentences what 
 had passed between him and George, and gave her the 
 letter which he had received that morning. 
 
 "You think I am right, I hope, in the stipulation I 
 made ? " he asked, when she had handed it back to him. 
 
 " Quite right, absolutely right," she answered at once. 
 
 " I cannot think otherwise," said Lord Caradoc gravely. 
 
 " He says that the mystery is to be cleared." 
 
 " He does not say when. I gather that he does not 
 know." 
 
 " It is difficult to think of him," said Mrs. Herbert 
 thoughtfully, "as a man of anything but good birth. In 
 fact, one might go farther than that, and say that if you 
 were asked to pick out a man of undoubted gentle birth 
 your choice would be very likely to fall on Mr. Greenfield." 
 
 "I do not think much about these things," said Lord 
 Caradoc, " but I think I should agree with you." 
 
 "Sir Guy Bertram, for instance, who was here a short 
 time ago," pursued Mrs. Herbert, " is, I suppose, of 
 undoubtedly good birth, but I should say that Mr. 
 Greenfield carried it more obviously than he did." 
 
 "The family of Bertram is nearly as old as as any," 
 observed Lord Caradoc. 
 
 " Have you ever noticed " began Mrs. Herbert, and 
 
 then paused. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Lord Caradoc. But she did 
 not continue her remark. 
 
 " There will be Cicely to consider in any case," she said 
 instead.
 
 LORD CARADOC TAKES ADVICE. 261 
 
 "There has been nothing, I think, between them,** 
 hazarded Lord Caradoc. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mrs. Herbert, decisively. " But Cicely is 
 very young, and rather impressionable. If I have judged 
 Mr. Greenfield aright he would be very hard to resist 
 where he had set his affections." She finished with 
 a smile. It was obvious, at any rate, where her 
 sympathies lay. 
 
 There was a long pause. " There is to be a limit to 
 this mystery, whatever it may be," said Lord Caradoc at 
 last. " Until I was satisfied on the point of birth I could 
 not countenance the idea of any such er arrangement as 
 has been er suggested. But Mr. Greenfield is a man 
 whom I feel myself able to trust implicitly, and er if he 
 were to come here again to help me in my work there is 
 no reason that I can see, considering the terms of his letter, 
 why the relations which have existed hitherto between him 
 and us should be altered in any way." 
 
 He spoke slowly, appearing to give expression to his 
 thoughts, as was his wont, as they gradually formed 
 themselves in his mind. His speech showed a plentiful 
 ignorance of the principles upon which he was bringing 
 his mind to bear; but Mrs. Herbert, who might have 
 been expected to display wider knowledge, did not 
 contradict him. 
 
 " If he will come," she said, "I see no reason why he 
 should not do so." 
 
 " I will write and ask him," said Lord Caradoc, with a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert rose, but did not retire at once. 
 
 " What is the name of the man who, Mr. Greenfield 
 says, is in possession of his secret ? " she asked. 
 
 Lord Caradoc took up George's ittter and told her, and 
 then she left him to reply to it.
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 But George did not come again to Merrilees at least, 
 not just then. His work in London, somewhat neglected 
 of late, detained him, and even if he had been free it is 
 doubtful whether he could have brought himself to accept 
 Lord Caradoc's invitation on the tacit understanding which 
 had been conveyed to him.
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNK HALL. 
 
 CHRISTMAS festivities were no mere pretence at Holling- 
 bourne Hall, Lord Conder's seat in Hertfordshire. From 
 their earliest childhood the four Conder boys and the six 
 Conder girls had been accustomed to look forward to that 
 season of the year as affording the highest form of enjoy- 
 ment that could be extracted from life. Every established 
 tradition connected in any degree with the observance of 
 Christmas and the New Year was zealously kept up. The 
 house was always crowded with relations, and as these 
 were numerous, especially on Lord Conder's side of the 
 family, and as, moreover, the sunny Conder views of life 
 were as common amongst them as the possession of freckles, 
 and hair varying from red to sandy, but seldom, if ever, 
 inclining to black, they were usually a very merry party 
 indeed. The making or buying of numerous presents was 
 carried out with ostentatious secrecy by the younger 
 members of the family, and the delightful evening on 
 which they were offered with diffidence and accepted with 
 cries of pleasure and surprise was anticipated by about 
 two months. 
 
 The first appearance of the " waits " was regarded as an 
 indication that the slow march of time was at last begin- 
 ning to hasten to the wished-for end, and the little short- 
 nosed Conders would lie and shiver with ecstasy in their 
 little warm beds while the dismal moan of " The Mistletoe 
 Bough** affronted the midnight air, wailed forth by a
 
 264 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 clarinet, a hautbois, a bassoon, and the usual incompetent 
 trombone. By the time the church choir came round to 
 sing carols in the hall, shepherded by the rector, who had 
 but little voice, and the curate, who had none, there could 
 no longer be any doubt that the period of revelry and licence 
 had actually set in. For those of the little Conders whose age 
 afforded the least excuse for the permission were allowed 
 to sit up for the occasion and the choir did not come 
 until nearly ten o'clock while those who had not yet 
 attained to that dignity were whipped out of bed, wrapped 
 up in little flannel dressing-gowns and woollen shoes, and 
 carried downstairs by a bevy of chattering maids to blink 
 contentedly at the fascinating performance and the 
 rector singing tenor was not a sight to be missed and 
 at its conclusion were carried off again to fall blissfully 
 asleep if they were not asleep already convinced that 
 life for a little Conder who was good and not naughty 
 brought times of almost insupportable pleasure. There 
 was a supper in the servants' hall after the carol-singing, 
 at which Lord Conder himself presided, and was more 
 than usually beaming and friendly, so that the acknow- 
 ledged yokels in the choir forgot their shyness, and the 
 small tradespeople their superiority, and felt both alike 
 that it was a great occasion. 
 
 After the carol-singing events crowded one upon the 
 other almost too fast, and the march of time quickened 
 into a gallop until it brought the great day. There was 
 the pudding to be stirred under the friendly eye of the fat 
 cook. There were the turkeys to be inspected in the larder, 
 and the prize ox, or the most important part of what had 
 been a prize ox, from the home farm, whose rosette was 
 always pinned on to the unconscious breast of the youngest 
 Conder of all. On another morning the gardeners would 
 bring in great armfuls of holly and mistletoe from the
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL. 265 
 
 woods, and evergreens from the shrubberies, and there 
 would be festoons of greenery to be made, and the hall and 
 the downstairs rooms and the nurseries to be decorated out 
 of all semblance to their everyday appearance. A little 
 later on the Christmas tree would appear and be stood up 
 in all its sombre bareness at one end of the hall. But if 
 anyone thought that the smallest of all the little Conders 
 looked upon this tree as an ordinary fir out of the planta- 
 tions he would be vastly mistaken. Well they knew that, 
 however bare it might appear when it was brought in, it 
 had the wonderful faculty of putting forth in a single night 
 such a crop of pink and blue and yellow and white tapers, 
 such apples of gold and silver and pearl, and such entrancing 
 toys, while from about its roots would spring such a variety 
 of brown paper parcels, fertile in surprises, that it never once 
 occurred to them that it was a fir at all. It was the 
 Christmas tree, even in its first state of deceptive barrenness. 
 The arrival of the Christmas guests enlarged the bounds 
 of liberty still further. The nurseries were filled to over- 
 flowing, and the nurses of the little Conders dispensed 
 affability and hot buttered toast to the nurses of the little 
 Conders' cousins. There were nightly romps in the hall and 
 all over the house, for it was thoroughly understood at 
 Hollingbourne Hall that Christmas was the children's 
 festival, and even the smoking room was no safe retreat for 
 an adult sportsman inclined for complete rest after a day in 
 the coverts or with the hounds. Everybody had assembled 
 by the time Christmas Eve came. In the evening there was 
 snap-dragon, and the yule log was brought in, while later 
 on the whole party sat round the great fireplace in the hall 
 and told ghost stories, which it was tacitly understood 
 should be brought to an extremely matter-of-fact ending 
 out of deference to the nerves of those of the little Conders 
 who were old enough to be present.
 
 266 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 At last the great day dawned, and the house rang from 
 an early hour with children's laughter and children's voices. 
 Santa Claus had got in somehow during the night and 
 shown his usual tactful discernment. In the morning the 
 whole party trooped off to church through the park, and if 
 there was not always snow underfoot, frost on the trees, a 
 blue sky above, and ice that would bear on the lake, there 
 always should have been, for the Conder family deserved all 
 the benefits that Father Christmas had it in his power to 
 bestow in return for the honour they showed him. There 
 was not nearly room for all of them in the family pew, 
 and bright Conder faces were scattered all over the church, 
 and hearty Conder voices joined in the psalms and hymns 
 from all quarters, so that the rector, who, if he did not 
 know how to sing a Christmas carol, did know how to 
 preach a Christmas sermon, was annually stirred up by his 
 unusual congregation to surpass all his previous efforts. 
 After church there were the farm and the stables to be 
 visited, with beasts to be poked in the ribs and horses to be 
 presented with sugar and carrots, and after that followed a 
 go-as-you-please luncheon, at which everyone helped them- 
 selves, because the servants were having their Christmas 
 dinner in their own quarters, and none must be absent. 
 This was the time when an enterprising burglar could have 
 ranged at will over the upper part of the house, but Father 
 Christmas always protected Hollingbourne Hall during this 
 unguarded hour, or else all the enterprising burglars were 
 enjoying similar festivities in the bosoms of their own 
 families and had lost their eye for business. In the after- 
 noon Lady Conder collected her brood, and with such of 
 their guests as chose toaccompany them went the round of the 
 little village and carried gifts and kind words to her poorer 
 neighbours, which she did with an air wholly human an<* 
 far removed from all patronage.
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL. 267 
 
 Dinner was at six o'clock, for every little Conder, of 
 whatever age or size, had to be present. It was such a 
 dinner as might have been set before Lord Conder's 
 remotest ancestors, if he had had any worth speaking of, 
 but his grandfather had been a clerk in a bank. The 
 turkey was carved by himself, and that part of the prize ox 
 reserved for the purpose by his twin brother. The pudding 
 was brought in blazing and set down in front of Lady 
 Conder, and was followed immediately by dessert, which 
 was accompanied by a running fire from the crackers and 
 shrieks of laughter over the mottoes and the paper caps. 
 Then the glass of each little Conder was filled with some- 
 thing sweet and sparkling, and Lord Conder, perhaps with 
 a night-cap of tissue paper tied under his chin, perhaps 
 with a military helmet of the same material, rose to make 
 a speech and propose the toasts. Lord Conder, although not 
 gifted with wit, was so extremely jovial and hearty, and so 
 full of pleasure at being surrounded by all those whom he 
 loved best in the world, and so little ashamed in the midst 
 of that company of parting with every vestige of dignity, 
 that the little Conders judged this performance to be the 
 funniest they were ever privileged to witness. They rolled 
 in their seats and clutched each other in a frenzy of delight 
 when Lord Conder's voice rose to an impassioned shriek, 
 and sat quivering with open mouths ready for the next out- 
 burst when it sank into a mysterious whisper. Lord 
 Conder's twin brother, who was a genuine humourist, and 
 very popular with his nephews and nieces, always replied 
 to the last toast of " All friends round St. Paul's," but his 
 speech, although warmly received, never enjoyed the 
 success that attended the efforts of the head of the family. 
 
 After dinner the whole party men, women, and children 
 trooped out into the hall, and there was the Christmas 
 tree, blazing with light and glory, from branches and roots
 
 268 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 of which every little Conder knew from past experience 
 would come exactly what he or she desired most in all the 
 world at that moment. And when the revels at last ended 
 all the little Conders fell asleep in their several little beds, 
 firmly convinced that they had enjoyed the very happiest 
 day out of the three hundred and sixty-five. 
 
 The passage of years had robbed Christmas at Holling- 
 bourne Hall of a few of the details which had characterised 
 it when the Conder family were for the most part of a very 
 tender age. But at the time of which we are writing four 
 of the Conder girls and one of the boys were children still 
 in age, and all the others children in heart, and among the 
 numerous cousins who shared their pleasures with them at 
 this season there was no lack of girls and boys, so that 
 Christmas at Hollingbourne Hall was still a children's 
 festival. 
 
 Here met, in the year in which the events we are describing 
 took place, the usual collection of Conder relatives. Lord 
 Caradoc, who, it will be remembered, in a moment of 
 clear-sighted wisdom had married Lord Conder's sister, 
 accompanied by Cicely and Mrs. Herbert, had been per- 
 suaded to take part in the ceremonies of the season. And 
 Guy Bertram and George Greenfield, as friends of the family 
 and bachelors without home ties, were also members of the 
 party. Guy, although suffering under the stings of a 
 rejected suit, managed to make himself tolerably cheerful, 
 and was much appreciated as a companion by the boys 
 and girls who thronged the house. 
 
 As for George, it was now three months since his 
 mother's death. His work at the Bar, even in that 
 short time, had increased, and his spare time was pretty 
 fully occupied with political journalism and the part he 
 was taking in the autumn political campaign. Con- 
 sequently he could not have accepted Lord Caradoc's
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL. 269 
 
 offers, more than once renewed, to help him in the work he 
 was doing at Merrilees, even if he had been so minded. 
 But the pressure and kindness of Lord Caradoc's letters 
 had affected him, and the trustfulness shown in his integrity 
 and good faith had given him confidence in himself, so 
 that when Freddy Conder, of whom he had seen something 
 while that breezy sailor was engaged with his books at 
 the Royal Naval College, Greenwich, invited him to spend 
 Christmas at Hollingbourne Hall, and told him whom he 
 might expect to meet there, George's resolution to see 
 nothing more of Cicely until his doubts about his parentage 
 were set at rest, whenever that should be, had begun to 
 weaken, and he eventually accepted the invitation. Having 
 done so, he allowed pleasurable anticipations to colour 
 his thoughts, and probably none of the many guests who 
 drove up to the hospitable door of Hollingbourne Hall at 
 intervals through that Christmas Eve, not even the holiday- 
 making boys and girls, expected to derive such enjoyment 
 from the visit as he did. Hard and successful work and 
 the elastic spirits of youth for he was not quite twenty- 
 five had had their due effect, and the tragedy of his 
 mother's death and all the disappointments and sorrow 
 that had accompanied it were lifting their shadows ; and 
 for these few days, at any rate, he had no intention of 
 brooding upon what the past had brought to him, or what 
 the future might bring. As he drove up to the house in 
 the station omnibus, in company with a large party of 
 chattering Conder relatives, whom he did not know, his 
 thoughts did revert rather sadly to his little sister, who 
 would spend a very dreary Christmas in her father's house 
 in that grim northern city. He would willingly have put 
 aside all his own pleasure, and even braved the now 
 detested company of Mr. Richards, in order to be with her 
 at a season which they had always spent together. But
 
 $70 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mr. Richards had not invited him, and even for the sake of 
 being with Peggy he could not bring himself to propose a 
 visit to Mr. Richards's house unasked. 
 
 But here they were under the wide porch of Holling- 
 bourne Hall, and a flood of light poured on to the snow 
 from that hospitable door round which gathered a group of 
 beaming faces to welcome the last of the arrivals. 
 
 " Now we are all here at last," said Lord Conder, as he 
 wrung George's hand. " Howdy do, my dear Helen ? " 
 this to his sister-in-law. "Howdy do? Ton my word, 
 you look younger every time I see you. And the chicks ! 
 God bless 'em ! Well, my dears " Lord Conder was by 
 this time muffled in embraces " come to see your old 
 uncle again, have you ? That's right ! That's right ! Ah, 
 John, my boy, they keep us going, don't they ? How are 
 you, old fellow? " And Lord Conder concluded his welcome 
 with a confidential clasp of his brother's hand. 
 
 It was tea-time at Hollingbourne Hall, and under the 
 thick festoons of evergreens the large party who had already 
 settled down to make themselves at home during their 
 visit were scattered all over the hall. But, amongst so 
 many that were as yet strange to him, George's eyes 
 searched for and found the flower- like face of the girl 
 whose image had been constantly with him ever since he 
 had last seen her, although, at one time, he had made 
 steadfast efforts to put it away from him. She was stand- 
 ing by one of the pillars of the great fireplace, and shg 
 came forward to greet him with manifest pleasure, with a 
 soft flush on her cheeks. George's heart leaped within him, 
 but Cicely's blushes were of no more account than the 
 coming and going of the cloud shadows on an April day, 
 and she had blushed just as vividly on greeting Guy 
 Bertram earlier in the afternoon. Guy himself came for- 
 ward, as good-looking and apparently as light-hearted as
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL. 271 
 
 ever. The Conder twins had annexed him, and now hung 
 one on either arm. 
 
 "Well, George," he said as he disengaged a friendly 
 hand, " how are you, old chap ? Come and have a 
 cigarette when you've drunk your fill. You won't have 
 much time. We're allowed a quarter of an hour, and then 
 we come back and play games with these infants." 
 
 " Infants, indeed ! " exclaimed the twins in one voice, and 
 Elsie added, " If you go into the smoking-room, we shall 
 come too," which they did, and were turned out again with 
 ignominy by Dicky. " Only men allowed here ! " said 
 Dicky, " and I'm keeping the door. Outside, please! We 
 shall be with you in ten minutes, children." 
 
 George was content to forego the smoking of tobacco 
 for the pleasure of receiving his tea at the hands of Cicely, 
 and listening to the tones of her low, musical voice. There 
 could be nothing between them but friendship, he had told 
 himself, but the friendship was very sweet, and he might 
 surely enjoy it during this brief respite from the cares of 
 the world. Mrs. Herbert, seated on a sofa by the side of 
 Lady Conder, who was calmly weighing the merits of 
 knitted shawls as against flannel petticoats as Christmas 
 presents for the village matrons, unshaken by the hubbub 
 surrounding her, regarded the pair with kindly eyes from 
 behind her spectacles, and, although she stood in the place 
 of a mother to Cicely and had agreed with Lord Caradoc 
 that no consent could under present circumstances be 
 given to any proposal of closer ties, she made no attempt 
 to separate them nor exhibited any uneasiness at their 
 prolonged tete-a-tete. 
 
 The tea-tables were presently removed, and the hall cleared 
 for games. Dicky, whose zeal in the performance of his 
 self-imposed duties outran his discretion, had actually 
 succeeded in disinterring Lord Caradoc from a comfortable
 
 272 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 seat in the deserted library, under compulsion of taking part 
 in a game of blind man's buff, unsoftened by the assurances 
 of the eminent historian that his aptitude for that pursuit 
 was small. He would not have been allowed to disturb his 
 uncle, who, it was generally understood, was not amenable 
 to the seasonable discipline of the house, had not Lord 
 Conder unwillingly obeyed a summons to his business room 
 just before, where he was engaged in dealing as mercifully 
 as possible with a poacher. Lord Caradoc, however, ousted 
 from his quiet retreat, came up to the fireplace, and when 
 he saw George greeted him with such evident pleasure that 
 Lady Conder, who had to reintroduce him to all the members 
 of his wife's family every time they met, regarded him with an 
 air in which surprise struggled with gratification for the 
 mastery. He had probably forgotten all about George's plea 
 for still closer relations with him, but his delight at finding 
 such a companion amongst what we fear must be confessed 
 was a somewhat uncongenial houseful of guests was so great, 
 that he refused the offer of the undisturbed use of the 
 library until dinner-time which Lord Conder made to him 
 on his return, and stood in front of the fire, a complacent 
 witness of the frolics of the greater part of the company, 
 while he talked to George, who would, perhaps, have pre- 
 ferred to have foregone the claims of the muse of history 
 at that particular time. 
 
 The laws of precedence were not observed at Holling- 
 bourne Hall during the Christmas season. The names of 
 all the ladies were written on pieces of paper and put into 
 a hat, from which the men drew their partners for the pro- 
 cession into the dining-room. On the first evening of 
 George's visit Lord Conder led the way with a demure 
 maiden of the age of nine, and Lady Conder brought up 
 the reai on the arm of Freddy, who took occasion to kiss 
 her as they passed beneath a great bunch of mistletoe
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINBOURNGE HALL. 273 
 
 suspended in the hall, under the sympathetic eyes of several 
 iootmen. Mary Conder fell to the lot of George, who 
 envied the good fortune of Dicky in drawing Cicely. Mary 
 Conder, however, seemed to have divined in some way 
 how matters stood with him, for when Lord Conder had 
 said "Thank God," which was his usual form of grace, 
 and begun to devote himself to the entertainment of the 
 small lady on his right, she said, " Doesn't Cicely look 
 sweet to-night ? " and before dinner was over she knew 
 considerably more of George's feelings towards her cousin 
 than he had any intention of divulging. 
 
 Nor was that all. If there was anything to be done to 
 further the views or add to the enjoyment of their friends, 
 you might safely trust a member of the Conder family to 
 do it. When the men and the ladies parted for the night, 
 Mary Conder went into Cicely's room with her, and as the 
 two girls, the one so beautiful and the other so kind and 
 true-hearted, sat over the fire together, Mary Conder began 
 to sing the praises of George. 
 
 " Dear Bobby says he is one of the finest fellows he 
 knows," she said, " and yet, you know, they do not agree 
 in politics." 
 
 " I shouldn't think Bobby would mind that very much,** 
 observed Cicely with unconscious irony. 
 
 " I don't suppose he does," said Mary, " although there 
 can't be many Radicals as nice and handsome as Mr. 
 Greenfield. And, Cicely dear, I am sure he is awfully in 
 love with you," 
 
 " Oh, Mary ! " exclaimed Cicely, her face a deep red. 
 44 How can you say such a thing ? I am sure it has never 
 entered his mind. He would much rather talk to father 
 than to me." 
 
 " You blind little bat," said Mary tenderly. " Can't you 
 see ? " 
 
 H.lf. T
 
 74 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Cicely held her hands to her flaming cheeks. Perhaps 
 she did sec. Perhaps the memory of many little signs that 
 she had scarcely understood rose before her, their signifi- 
 cance suddenly clear. But she threw her hands from her. 
 
 "I don't want it," she said impatiently. "I don't 
 believe it is true. I don't want any man to be in love 
 with me. Why should anyone want any more than what 
 we have here, with everybody so kind and so merry ? If 
 if 1 bought anyone was in love with me it would spoil 
 everything. I couldn't have any fun with Uncle Robert, 
 or with Dicky or Freddy, but I should feel his eyes were 
 upon me and that he wanted me all to himself. I I * 
 
 " Why, Cicely darling ! " exclaimed Mary in amaze, 
 ** What can have put all that into your head ? You are 
 only coming out next Tuesday, and you have hardly seen 
 anybody yet." 
 
 " No, but when you are alone a lot you think of things 
 all the more," said Cicely, speaking more quietly. " I know 
 I should feel like that. Look at Mr. Douglas with Celia, 
 how he follows her about with his eyes. I suppose they 
 will be engaged soon ; but she is not in the least like 
 what she was last year. I noticed her to-night when Algy 
 kissed her as we were coming upstairs. She didn't like it 
 a bit, although they are cousins, and he has always done 
 it ever since she was tiny. She looked at Mr. Douglas. 
 Fancy ! Algy ! I should hate to be like that and to 
 feel that I belonged to someone and couldn't be myself.'* 
 
 "You would only feel like that if it wasn't the right 
 man," said Mary reflectively. "Cicely dear, there is 
 nobody else, is there ? " 
 
 " No, no ! " said Cicely vehemently. 
 
 " Hasn't there ever been ? " Mary persisted. " I 
 thought " 
 
 "I know what you mean," said Cicely, her cheeks red
 
 CHRISTMAS AT HOLLINGBOURNE HALL. 275 
 
 again. " But indeed it isn't so. I was rather silly a few 
 months ago. But directly I began to think and and 
 Mrs. Herbert said something to me it all left off. And I 
 don't want it to begin again, Mary, now I am quite happy 
 and and rather ashamed of myself. There is such a lot 
 of time. I am four years younger than you, you dear 
 thing, and you are quite happy without all that. Why 
 can't I be happy too in the same way ? " 
 
 " It is different with us," said Mary, with a shade of 
 melancholy in her voice. " We are none of us pretty, and 
 father is very rich." 
 
 " You darling ! " said Cicely impulsively. * Men must be 
 very silly if they can't see how good and sweet you are. 
 And as for being rich, I should think it's easy enough to 
 tell that sort of man, although I have never met any of 
 them." 
 
 " I have," said Mary, " and it isn't so very easy." 
 
 " Well, don't let us talk about it any more," said Cicely. 
 " Let us talk about the ball on Tuesday."
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 
 
 WHEN George Greenfield rose on the morning of Christ- 
 mas Day he looked out on a world of white. Father 
 Christmas, who, at a certain period in the world's 
 history, was told that he must corne about a fortnight 
 earlier than had been his wont, and has hardly recovered 
 from his fit of the sulks ever since, for this year, at all 
 events, had roused his energies and refused to put up with 
 the rain and mild weather with which he had latterly been 
 accompanied. He had seen to it that a hard frost should 
 precede him by about a week, so that the ice on the 
 lake at Hollingbourne Hall had already rung to the blades 
 of the skaters. Not content with that he had ordered the 
 snow, which had been falling in heavy flakes all through 
 the night of Christmas Eve, and as George stood at his 
 window he saw the wide stretch of park-land and the 
 branches of the oaks with which it was studded and the 
 lawns and shrubberies near the house one mass of 
 gleaming white under the faint blue of a cloudless sky. 
 He could see the roofs of the village and the square tower 
 of the church beyond the trees, and the Christmas bells 
 were already ringing to usher in the great day of the 
 Christian year. George dressed quickly and hurried down 
 to the church through the snow. Many of the large 
 household were assembled there, with a good sprinkling of 
 the villagers, and as he knelt down in a seat near Cicely 
 and afterwards by her side at the altar he felt his love for
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 277 
 
 her heightened and purified, and himself better able to 
 wait in hope and patience for a time when everything 
 should be well with him. 
 
 It did not take very long to get on terms of intimacy 
 with any member of the house of Conder, and as the 
 breakfast table gradually filled up with those kind and 
 merry-hearted people, all talking and laughing and con- 
 gratulating one another, George's heart grew light, and he 
 experienced a glow of happiness such as he had seldom 
 felt in all his life. Lord Caradoc, it is true, appeared 
 rather bewildered by all the noise and bustle, and the two 
 young lovers, whose woeful plight had aroused Cicely's 
 scorn the night before, looked as if a breakfast party of 
 two would have been more to their liking. And Cicely 
 herself was quieter than usual. But with these exceptions 
 the whole party and there were over thirty of them 
 were like one large family, all bound together by mutual 
 affection and the genial influences of the season. 
 
 But we must linger no longer over the history of that 
 Christmas Day, which ran its happy course in much the 
 same way as the previous Christmas Days which we have 
 already described at Hollingbourne Hall. Bobby, the only 
 absent member of the family, was remembered and talked 
 of as much as any absentee could have expected to be in 
 the midst of so much merriment. He had reached Japan, 
 from which far country a cablegram had been received, full 
 of good wishes to his united and affectionate family. 
 
 The party remained together for nearly a week. The 
 ice held over Christmas Day, and then disappeared in a 
 burst of mild, but fine weather. Father Christmas had 
 done his duty nobly, and relinquished his responsibilities 
 lo winter, who had not long succeeded in vanquishing 
 autumn and now seemed to be prematurely attacked by 
 his arch enemy spring. There was a meet of the hounds
 
 278 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 on the lawn in front of Hollingbourne Hall, and the 
 boundless hospitality of the Conders was extended to a 
 crowd of their neighbours, who thronged the hall and 
 the dining room, and sallied forth accompanied by the 
 greater part of the house -party, to find a fox in a distant 
 spinney, and to kill him in the next county after a run 
 which kept tongues busy for at least a week. On the 
 following day there was a shoot. This was a time-honoured 
 occasion at Hollingbourne Hall, for those of the boys who 
 were old enough were allowed to take their places along 
 the hedgerows and at the edges of the woods for the first 
 time, and many of the men, who now killed their birds 
 with practised hand and eye, remembered with pleasure 
 their first glorious day, perhaps a quarter of a century ago, 
 on which the number of cartridges expended had been out 
 of all proportion to the head of game presently extended 
 on the lawn in front of the house. Certainly to Dicky 
 and a cousin of his own age, who had each been put in 
 possession of a new gun by one of the best makers, this 
 day was more eagerly anticipated and enjoyed than any 
 other. A wonderful number of birds constantly streamed 
 over their heads wherever they might happen to be placed 
 in the line of guns, and many an old cock pheasant who 
 could little have expected it was permitted to go unharmed. 
 But none of the older men seemed to mind, and when either 
 of the boys did bring down his bird or even that of his next 
 neighbour his feat was always applauded as it deserved. 
 
 On the night before the party broke up there was a ball. 
 It was given in honour of Florence Conder and Cicely, 
 both of whom were to be presented in the following spring. 
 But before we come to that we have to record a few con- 
 versations between some of the characters with which our 
 story chiefly concerns itself during that Christmas party at 
 Hollingbourne Hall.
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 179 
 
 The first was between George and Guy, and was held 
 about the same time as that already recorded between 
 Cicely and Mary Conder. Most of the men were in the 
 billiard-room, and there was space and opportunity in the 
 smoking-room for a quiet conversation. Guy drew George 
 towards a big sofa, apart from the little group round the 
 fire. 
 
 " Have you anything to tell me ? " he asked him. " I 
 haven't seen you for three months." 
 
 " About Peggy, you mean ? " said George. " Yes ; she 
 told me to tell you that she had never thought you had 
 given her up of your own free will. And I think I may 
 say on my own account that she has forgiven you for 
 making that promise. Poor child ! She apparently has 
 made no promises, and hasn't even been asked to make 
 any. So I said I would give you her message when I saw 
 you. And she sent you her love, and told me to say that 
 she knew everything would come right in the end." 
 
 Guy leant forward, unable to speak for a moment or two. 
 " I'm going to Paris in about a week to work in the 
 schools," he said rather huskily. " I'm afraid I've wasted 
 my time. I'm not worth much. But one can try and 
 make one's self worth something." 
 
 " I'm very glad to hear that, Guy," said George heartily. 
 " I don't know much about painting, but I believe you've 
 got it in you to do something, and I think that every 
 fellow ought to make the most of what he can do. Besides, 
 the delectable Richards will have his objections met if 
 you take to work instead of play. I don't believe that 
 objection is sincere. The fellow is so wrapped up in 
 mysteries that he is bound to have a crooked reason behind 
 the straight one he may have hit upon to confound you 
 with. But if you paint a few pictures, and above all, if 
 you manage to sell some of them, you'll take him on his
 
 280 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 own ground and beat him. And I can tell you that little 
 Peggy is worth working for. She's got a heart of gold." 
 
 " I know that," said Guy. " I I suppose she is up in 
 Scotland still ? " 
 
 " She is in Glasgow," said George, " living in a little six- 
 roomed house with her father as her only companion. His 
 circle of acquaintance is not a wide one, as you may 
 imagine if you have seen him, and I should think my little 
 sister is about as lonely and miserable as it is possible for 
 anybody to be. I wish she was really my sister. One of 
 the bitterest thoughts I have of that man is that he has 
 the power to dispose of her life for the present, and I 
 haven't, although I have been much closer to her for many 
 years than he has." 
 
 Guy sat for some time in silence. Then he said with 
 determination, " Before I go to Paris, I shall go up and see 
 him again." 
 
 " It won't be any use," said George. " You don't know 
 your Richards as I do." 
 
 " Hang it," said Guy. " He can't be entirely destitute 
 of natural affection. If he can't make her happy himself, 
 he must see, unless he's a fool or a brute, that it's his duty 
 to let somebody else try, somebody who only asks to be 
 allowed to spend his life in trying." 
 
 " He isn't a fool," said George. " But he is a brute, and 
 he won't see it." 
 
 " I'll give him the chance," said Guy. " Things are in- 
 tolerable as they are. I can't bear to think of her up there 
 alone with him while we are enjoying ourselves here." 
 
 " I shouldn't be here if I could be with her," said George. 
 "No more would you. I shall write and tell her every- 
 thing. It will give her some pleasure. And it is all we 
 can do for her at present. And I'll tell her that you are 
 going up to see him. I don't see why I shouldn't. I don't
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 281 
 
 suppose he will, and you won't go to his house. Yes, go. You 
 won't get anything out of him, but it will mean a good deal 
 to her to know that you have gone. Well, young Richard ? " 
 " We are going to play pool," said Dicky, who had burst 
 into the room. " And I have been sent to fetch everyone 
 except Uncle Owen." 
 
 No young man under the spell of a passion of which he has 
 no reason to be ashamed, unless he is of an unusually reserved 
 disposition, objects to making a confidante of a sympathetic 
 woman much older than himself. There were three young 
 men who were in love in the Christmas party at Holling- 
 bourne Hall, and Mrs. Herbert, whose large heart warmed 
 especially towards youth, managed to extract their stories 
 from the lips of each of them. The story of young Douglas 
 did not want much extracting. It lay patent to everyone 
 under the roof of Hollingbourne Hall. But even he was 
 pleased enough to confide the very exiguous obstacle that 
 lay between him and happiness to a lady who evidently 
 shared as far as was desirable under the circumstances his 
 warm admiration for Miss Celia Conder. Young Douglas 
 was very much in love with Celia, and she with him. 
 There was, in fact, what was called an understanding 
 between them, which as far as they were concerned left 
 nothing to be desired in point of completeness. And young 
 Douglas was the only son of a rich father. But herein lay 
 the rub, that that rich father had brought young Douglas 
 up to look forward to marriage with a lady other than 
 Celia Conder, and had not yet been induced to adapt him- 
 self to the circumstances which had arisen to prevent that 
 alliance, although he was reported to be coming round. 
 Until he had completed the circle, however, a recognised 
 engagement was out of the question, and young Douglas 
 felt this to be very hard. He told the whole story to
 
 282 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert of his own accord one morning when Celia 
 was engaged elsewhere, and she said what was kind and 
 encouraging, and sent him away half convinced that 
 matters might have been still worse with him. 
 
 Guy, of course, having been continually in this good 
 lady's company during his visit to Merrilees, was on terms 
 of intimacy with her. He had already told her as much as 
 he knew himself of the circumstances surrounding the death 
 of Sir Roderick Bertram and the disappearance of his 
 fortune. Mrs. Herbert had shown a keen interest in the 
 story, and it was natural that on meeting her again he 
 should put her in possession of the new facts which had 
 been the outcome of Calthorp's researches. Mrs. Herbert 
 questioned and cross-questioned him and showed such a 
 grasp of the details of what was known of the mystery 
 that Guy told her that if Calthorp did not succeed in 
 running the culprit Martin to earth within the next few 
 weeks, he should take the matter out of his hands and put 
 it into hers. The talk then turned on Guy's intentions, and 
 it was not long before he found himself telling her in the 
 fullest possible detail all about his meetings with Peggy and 
 his interviews with Peggy's father. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert showed the keenest interest in this story too, 
 but, somewhat to Guy's surprise, she did not show herself 
 so struck with amazement at the absurdity of Mr. Richards's 
 reasons for refusing him as might have been expected, not 
 so intolerant of them, for instance, as George had been. 
 
 " What should you do," she asked, much as Mr. Richards 
 himself might have asked, " if you were obliged to work 
 for a living ? " 
 
 " My dear lady ! " exclaimed Guy. *' Surely you are not 
 going to take that line ? If the worst comes to the worst, 
 and I never get my own back, I shall be quite well enough 
 off. I shall never have to work for my living."
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 283 
 
 " But supposing you were to lose your money ? " she 
 persisted. " More unlikely things than that have happened. 
 What should you do?" 
 
 Guy laughed. "You seem as determined to press the 
 point as Richards was," he said. " Well, I should try and 
 paint pictures for a living. Whether I should succeed in 
 earning my bread and butter or not, I don't know. At any 
 rate, I am going to try not to earn my living, exactly, but 
 to paint." And he told her of his plans. 
 
 " I think that is very wise of you," she said, when he had 
 finished. " And I hope that in one way, if not in another, 
 it will bring you what you want. She must be a dear girl. 
 I am sure of that from what Mr. Greenfield has told me 
 about her. I can't help feeling that everything will come 
 right for you in the end, Sir Guy, and, you know, I think 
 that if this disappointment and separation had not come 
 one might perhaps have thought that you had won her too 
 easily. Poor girl, it is sad that her life should be clouded 
 in this way now. But the future, if, as I hope and trust, 
 you marry her in the end, will be all the brighter. And 
 you will value her more." 
 
 " That's impossible," said Guy. " And, oh, how I do long 
 for her ! " 
 
 "Well, you must work and hope," said Mrs. Herbert. 
 "Those are two things which make life worth living, and 
 none of us can do without them." 
 
 " Yes, I will. It does one good to talk to you,** said 
 Guy. "And it's rather a nuisance to me to have to be 
 secretive about anything. I should prefer that all the 
 world knew what I was doing." 
 
 The next person to be drawn into the net of Mrs. 
 Herbert's sympathies was George. That very busy young 
 man found it impossible at this time of the year to allow 
 himself six clear days away from his papers, and, by the time
 
 284 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 that the day on which the shoot had been fixed came round, 
 work that had to be done had accumulated to such an 
 extent that he had to beg for a whole morning entirely to 
 himself. He even excused himself from lunching with the 
 guns, and as Mrs. Herbert pleaded a cold and all the rest 
 of the party, including, wonderful to relate, Lord Caradoc, 
 set out soon after mid-day to walk or drive to the farm- 
 house where the luncheon was to be, Mrs. Herbert and 
 George were left to eat that meal at home in company. 
 When it was over Mrs. Herbert announced that she should 
 enjoy the novel experience of making herself at home in a 
 smoking room for half an hour, and they sat over the fire 
 and talked, until the return of some of the ladies drove her 
 in alarm from the room, and sent George back to his 
 papers. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert, insatiable in her desire for detail, led 
 George on to talk of himself and his mother and his 
 sister, and when the name of Mr. Richards occurred in his 
 recital of his early life in the little cottage she fixed on that 
 and plied him with so many questions of dates and times 
 and seasons, of appearance and manner, that at last George 
 said, laughing at her : 
 
 " Why, you seem more interested in that portent than in 
 all the rest of us put together." 
 
 " I will tell you why," said Mrs. Herbert, seriously. " I 
 hope you will allow me to call myself your friend, although 
 we have known each other only a short time. You know 
 the very intimate position in which I stand to Lord Caradoc 
 and to Cicely, who is almost as much a daughter to me as 
 your little Peggy was to your mother. I know Lord 
 Caradoc has told me, as you can see is natural under the 
 circumstances of your your hopes with regard to her, and 
 I shall not be breaking any confidences by telling you that if 
 the secret of which this man holds the key proves to be no
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 285 
 
 obstacle I speak very plainly Lord Caradoc would how 
 shall I say it ? Well, I think I may say that it would make 
 him contented and happy." 
 
 " You make me very happy when you say that,* said 
 George in a low voice. 
 
 "You see," continued Mrs. Herbert, in her placid, even 
 way, " that I am not actuated by mere curiosity in asking 
 you all these questions. You will not, of course, think that 
 I am giving you more encouragement than I intend, by my 
 words. As far as Cicely herself is concerned you would 
 still have to win her if everything else were set right. It is 
 only with the 'everything else' that we can concern 
 ourselves. And that is why I am anxious to know all you 
 can tell me about this man, or all that you feel inclined to 
 tell me." 
 
 " I will tell you everything that I can," said George, and 
 Mrs. Herbert was put in possession of a pretty vivid picture of 
 Mr. Richards and all his comings and goings as seen through 
 George's eyes. 
 
 " There is another reason," said Mrs. Herbert, " why I 
 wish to know about this man. I am interested in his 
 daughter, and Sir Guy Bertram has told me, what I had 
 already guessed, how much his happiness is bound up in her. 
 You do not mind, I hope, his making a confidante of a very 
 discreet old woman like myself ? " 
 
 " No, indeed," said George. " Besides, you see how very 
 slender the tie is that binds me to her," he added rather 
 bitterly. " She is in all respects my sister, except that I am 
 quite unable to help her at all in her unhappiness. I could 
 have nothing to say if Bertram chose to tell his story to 
 everybody in this house. But, as I do look upon her as my 
 sister in spite of that, I am very glad he has told you." 
 
 " And if it were for you to decide you would be pleased 
 that she should marry him ? " asked Mrs. Herbert.
 
 286 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 u Yes," said George. " I should. I have always been 
 fond of Bertram. He is idle, of course, but that's about 
 the worst you can say of him, and I don't think his idleness 
 has done him as much harm as as it would have done me, 
 for instance. Besides," he added, " he tells me he is going 
 to be idle no longer. And if he really takes to working I 
 think he will be about as good a chap as you could find 
 in England. Yes, I think Peggy stands a very good chance 
 of happiness with Guy Bertram." 
 
 Mrs. Herbert was silent for a few minutes. Then she 
 said, " I shall be going to Scotland for about a week or 
 two at about the end of January to visit some of my 
 relations. Would you like me to go and see your sister ? " 
 
 " Oh, I wish you would," said George. " It would be 
 one of the kindest things you could do. She scarcely sees 
 anyone but her father from one week's end to another. It 
 would give her real pleasure." 
 
 '* I will," said Mrs. Herbert. " I wonder whether her 
 father would let her come to us at Merrilees for a week or 
 so. Lord Caradoc is so taken with the place that we are 
 going up there again I think early in March. We should 
 be very quiet, but she would not mind that." 
 
 " I don't know whether Richards would let her come," 
 said George. " I don't know why he shouldn't, but you 
 can never tell what he will do. It would be something for 
 her to look forward to." 
 
 M I shall try and see that mysterious Mr. Richards when I 
 go to Glasgow," said Mrs. Herbert with a smile. " Perhaps 
 I may be able to persuade him." 
 
 *' If you succeed," said George, " your invitation will give 
 as much pleasure as it is possible to imagine." 
 
 The ball at Hollingbourne Hall, which took place on 
 one of the last nights of the old year, brought the merry
 
 MRS. HERBERT INTERVENES. 287 
 
 Christmas party to an end. It was a triumph for Cicely, 
 who went through the night in a sort of maze of popularity 
 and admiration. All the smart young men in their pink 
 coats and high collars crowded round her suing for her 
 favours, and if she had been so minded she could have 
 divided each of her dances amongst a dozen different 
 partners. There was no one who was prouder of the admira- 
 tion she elicited than her fellow debutante, Florence Conder, 
 whose modest charms were quite eclipsed by those of her 
 cousin. On the next day the party broke up and went 
 their several ways to face whatever of happiness or sorrow 
 the new year might bring them.
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 PEGGY AND HER FATHER. 
 
 THE only thing to record before making a jump of two 
 months and coming to the closing events of our story is 
 Guy Bertram's second journey to Glasgow. He did not 
 announce his visit to Mr. Richards, fearing that the only 
 result of such an announcement would be a curt refusal to 
 see him. He found himself again standing in the outer 
 office, with the name of McDougall, Richards & Co. writ 
 large on the ground glass of the door, while he waited 
 with some trepidation the answer that might be brought 
 to him from the inner room into which his card had just 
 been taken. The answer, delivered by an elderly clerk 
 with a broad roll of the tongue, was, " Will you be pleased 
 to walk in, sir ? " and Guy presented himself once more 
 before Mr. Richards, who, somewhat to his surprise, rose to 
 shake hands with him before signing him to a chair that 
 stood facing his writing table. 
 
 Guy found himself at a loss for words, and Mr. Richards 
 gave him no help as he sat before him, his heavy eyebrows 
 bent on his unexpected visitor. 
 
 " I am leaving England immediately for some months," 
 Guy began. "When I left Cambridge about five years 
 ago I had some intention of becoming an artist. But the 
 allowance which I received from my cousin gave me enough 
 to live on and well, I found life went rather pleasantly, and 
 took no steps to prepare myself to study painting seriously. 
 Now I am going to Paris to work in the schools and do
 
 PEGGY AND HER FATHER. 289 
 
 what I can to make a success in the only career that seems 
 to be open to me. I I made up my mind to see you 
 before leaving England, to ask whether this intention will 
 make any difference in the answer you gave me three 
 months ago." 
 
 Mr. Richards did not speak at once. He appeared to be 
 thinking hard, as he sat with his eyes on the papers in front 
 of him. 
 
 " What chance have you got of earning your living as an 
 artist ? " he asked at last. 
 
 A momentary spurt of impatience came over Guy. A 
 living ! He already had a good living, to say nothing of 
 still existent possibilities. What did the man want ? 
 
 " I haven't thought of it in that light," he said. " As I 
 told you, I am quite well enough off not to be obliged to 
 work for my living. I shall try to fit myself for this pro- 
 fessionor whatever you like to call it, because it gives me 
 an object in life, and I think your idea is that every man 
 ought to have some work to do in the world." 
 
 "Yes. That's very good as far as it goes," said Mr. 
 Richards. " Still, I repeat my question, and if you want 
 to continue the discussion you had better give me as 
 definite an answer as you can." 
 
 " What do you call a living ? " asked Guy with a slight 
 tone of contempt in his voice. 
 
 " Let's say five hundred a year," said Mr. Richards. 
 
 Guy thought for a moment. " It is so difficult to say," 
 he said. " There are ways, I should think, in which one 
 might be able to earn such an income as that if it were 
 necessary. But one would have to change one's aims, and 
 to a certain extent lower them. I should like to go for the 
 big things, and if I failed I should probably fail altogether. 
 If my aim were to make a certain amount of money every 
 year I should have to devote myself to lesser things. I 
 
 H.M. U
 
 290 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 should work as hard in either case, but in the one there 
 would be something inspiring and not in the other." 
 
 " Well, I can understand that," said Mr. Richards. " I'm 
 not a fool and I'm not as unreasonable as you think I am. 
 I suppose for the next few months, whether you want to 
 make money or not, you would be going through the same 
 course of study.** 
 
 " Yes," said Guy. 
 
 " Very well, then,'* said Mr. Richards. " We'll leave it 
 there for the present. Your intention does make some 
 difference. I wouldn't have my daughter marry an idler. 
 I'll let the question stand over, and you can come and talk 
 to me again when you are ready to start work on your 
 own account. In the meantime things remain as they are, 
 and I keep you to your promise." 
 
 "Will you tell your daughter what you have said to 
 me ? " asked Guy. 
 
 Mr. Richards frowned and looked down. There was an 
 unwonted hesitation in his manner. 
 
 " Yes," he said presently, " I will tell her " ; and then he 
 stood up and held out his hand. " Good-bye," he said. 
 " Stick to it and work hard. You'll be the better man for 
 it, and I've nothing against you, whatever you may think, 
 except that you've never done anything." 
 
 After Guy had left him Mr. Richards sat before his table 
 for a long time doing nothing himself, although it was a 
 busy time with his firm. He went home about seven o'clock 
 and let himself into the narrow hall of his house. Peggy 
 came to the door of the downstairs sitting-room to welcome 
 him. She looked thin and pale and older than her years, 
 but there was a steadfast look in her eyes which told of 
 sorrows bravely faced, and a burden bravely borne. There 
 was no antagonism in her manner as she put her hands on 
 her father's shoulder and kissed him, and his bearing
 
 PEGGY AND HER FATHER. agi 
 
 towards her had something of tenderness and protection, 
 \vlich might have given George Greenfield food for thought 
 if he had witnessed the greeting between father and daughter. 
 
 After their evening meal they sat together in the little 
 parlour, Peggy with her work-basket on the table by her 
 side, and her father in an armchair glowering into the fire. 
 Peggy was very silent in these days. Her vivacity seemed 
 to have forsaken her, and indeed there was no one on 
 whom she could very well have exercised it without 
 arousing surprise and perhaps resentment. 
 
 Presently Mr. Richards raised his head and looked at 
 her long and earnestly. He had often done so since the 
 time they had first lived together, and although Peggy felt 
 his eyes upon her she made no sign and kept hers bent 
 upon her needlework. If she had met her father's gaze she 
 might have seen something unusual in it to-night, a soft- 
 ness that sat strangely on that hard face, even the hint of 
 a yearning, the desire of a lonely man for an affection and 
 a response which he had done nothing to call forth. 
 
 After a time he spoke to her. His tone was harsh, but 
 his face was not. 
 
 " Do you want to leave me ? " he asked her. 
 
 Peggy raised her head and met his look. Something in 
 his eyes made her bend hers again on her work. 
 
 " I do not want to leave you as long as I feel that you 
 like to have me here," she said quietly. 
 
 " I do like to have you here," said her father. " You are 
 a good girl and a good daughter. I haven't said much. 
 It isn't my way. But well, you've shown me what it is 
 to have a home. And that is what I have never known." 
 
 Peggy was silent. She had done what she could and 
 done it courageously and dutifully. But the word " home " 
 meant something very real to her if it had been nothing to 
 her father, and it had meant*"something very different to 
 
 9
 
 aga THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 the gloomy little house in which she now spent most of her 
 days alone. 
 
 " I know the way I have treated you must seem hard and 
 unreasonable," continued Mr. Richards. " I can't help it, 
 and I can't tell you my reasons for it. Some day perhaps 
 you will understand why I couldn't give my consent at the 
 time to your marrying that young man who came and 
 asked me for you." 
 
 It was the first time Mr. Richards had ever alluded to 
 Guy in Peggy's hearing since his peremptory dismissal of 
 his suit. It was too much for her. She kept her head 
 bent over her work, but her hands trembled and she could 
 see nothing of what she was doing. 
 
 " I have seen him again," said Mr. Richards. " He is 
 going to become a great painter, it seems. I don't know 
 whether he has it in him to be something great. I should 
 think not. At any rate he is going to try, and that shows 
 he's got some of the right stuff in him. I have told him he 
 may come and see me again in a few months' time. Don't 
 hope too much. I don't know that I shall be able to give 
 my consent to your marrying him after all. But if I can I 
 will. I want to make you happy. I have done as much as I 
 could for you up till now, though you may not think it. And 
 I'm doing now what I've never done in my life before. I'm 
 changing my plans. You can hope a little, but don't hope 
 too much." 
 
 The pretence of work could be carried on no longer. Peggy 
 put her hands on the table and bent her dark head over them, 
 crying over the gleam of happiness that was breaking on her 
 as she had so often cried of late over the dark clouds which 
 seemed to be enveloping her whole life. 
 
 " Come here, my girl," said Mr. Richards. She rose and 
 knelt by his side. He drew her to him, and she rested hei 
 head on her father's breast for the first time in her life.
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 
 
 THE month of March, following a mild February, came in 
 like the proverbial lamb. The daffodils were already 
 preparing to unfold their yellow trumpets in the sheltered 
 woodland hollows round the house of Merrilees, and the 
 primroses had as yet no reason to regret an unusually 
 early appearance. In the early days of the month Lord 
 Caradoc moved his household from Berkeley Square and 
 settled down once more to the enjoyment of his books and 
 his flowers in the beautiful place to which his thoughts 
 had persistently turned during the two months he had spent 
 in London. 
 
 Lord Caradoc had not been well in London. His short 
 illness of the previous autumn had left a weakness from 
 which he had never entirely recovered. But he had had the 
 enjoyment of seeing the great book which he and George 
 Greenfield had prepared for the press through the final stages 
 of proof-correction, and now lived in the glamour of the 
 chorus of wonder and admiration which the publication of 
 so monumental a work had evoked from the learned, the 
 political, and the general reading world. The publication of 
 Sir Roderick Bertram's great history naturally aroused anew 
 the interest in his life and the mysterious occurrences which 
 had followed his death, and when it seemed likely that a 
 recrudescence of excitement on those very trivial affairs 
 would for the moment obscure the fame of the book he had 
 spent the best part of his life in compiling, Lord Caradoc
 
 294 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 left the newspapers to write and the clubs and drawing- 
 rooms to talk, and retired to the rain-washed spaciousness 
 of the Cumberland hills. 
 
 The day on which Lord Caradoc with Cicely and Mrs. 
 Herbert journeyed north was cold and wet. On the 
 following day the sunshine and mildness of the premature 
 spring had returned, but Lord Caradoc was laid up with a 
 bad chill and was unable to enjoy the delights of the open 
 air, to which he had been looking forward during his late 
 sojourn amongst the bricks and mortar of London. He was 
 not a very old man, but neither was he a very strong one. 
 He had led a confined and studious life, and the strain to 
 which he had often put his intellect and his powers of work 
 was beginning to tell on him. He lay in his pleasant south- 
 ward-facing room while the sun and the mild moist air 
 streamed in through the open window, inviting him to a share 
 in those opening wonders of nature which he loved only a 
 little less than his books and his studies, and he was disturbed 
 and restless because he could not respond to the invitation. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert, calm, adroit and resourceful, made a sick 
 nurse to whom any invalid might be proud to attribute a 
 recovery. But even she was unable to allay his irritation. 
 Lord Caradoc fussed and Lord Caradoc grumbled, but he did 
 not throw off his indisposition, and at the end of the third 
 day he was still confined to his room. By that time, 
 however, he had formulated a definite desire. He wanted the 
 companionship of George Greenfield, and Mrs. Herbert wrote 
 off an urgent summons to that very busy young man to 
 come up to Men ilees at once, even if he could only spare a 
 few days. Lord Caradoc was really ill, she said, although 
 in his present surroundings there was nothing to prevent 
 him from making a quick and complete recovery if his mind 
 could be kept at ease. George's companionship has become 
 necessary to him, and at present it seemed to be the only
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 295 
 
 thing that he ardently desired. George replied that he 
 would come two days later, and stay for some time. The 
 morning after his letter reached Merrilees Lord Caradoc 
 came down to the library, and on the following day he was 
 busying himself in his Alpine garden. 
 
 During the last two months George had been constantly 
 at the house in Berkeley Square. His co-operation had been 
 necessary in seeing the History through the press, but Lord 
 Caradoc had come to rely on him more and more and never 
 eemed completely content, or as near content as he could 
 be in London, unless George was with him or near him. 
 Enough has been said of his character to show that he was 
 entirely incapable of maintaining a continuous hold on the 
 ordinary affairs of daily life, and it never seemed to occur 
 to him that it was in any way unusual that he should 
 eagerly welcome to his house and to the companionship of 
 his little circle a man who had asked his permission to pay 
 his addresses to his daughter, a permission which he had 
 refused. That little matter had probably passed out of his 
 mind. But it had not passed out of George's, nor out of 
 Mrs. Herbert's. That usually astute woman showed a surpris- 
 ing lack of judgment if she thought, as she appeared to think, 
 that it was possible for a young man to occupy a position 
 almost as intimate as that of a near relation in the house and to 
 move neither backwards nor forwards in his attitude towards 
 a girl with whom he had acknowledged himself ardently in 
 love. George was young enough and had sufficient confi- 
 dence in himself to believe that he could come and go u 
 Lord Caradoc's trusted friend and maintain the attitude 
 which he had marked out for himself with regard to Cicely 
 without budging an inch. Of course he did nothing of the 
 sort. Of course he fell more and more deeply in love with 
 her every day, and of course he made love to her in a way 
 that was all the more dangerous because he had no sort of idea
 
 296 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 that he was making love at all, and exercised a degree of 
 self-control in her presence that caused him the most 
 exquisite discomfort. Mrs. Herbert saw this going on under 
 her eyes for two whole months without making the slightest 
 attempt to stop it. It really seemed as if she were more 
 culpable in the matter than Lord Caradoc himself. 
 
 Now that Lord Caradoc was apparently in a fair way to 
 complete recovery from his indisposition, and, in the 
 pleasure of George Greenfield's companionship, might 
 safely be expected to do without her fostering care for a 
 week or two, Mrs. Herbert put into execution her project 
 of paying a visit to her relations in Scotland. She 
 journeyed to Glasgow, and before going further north 
 slept a night in that city in order that she might call on 
 Peggy, and, if possible, interview the redoubtable Mr. 
 Richards on the following day. George Greenfield had 
 arrived at Merrilees on the day before her departure, and 
 she had the satisfaction of feeling as she travelled north 
 that she had left everything well there, although when he 
 was not in Lord Caradoc's company the only inmate of 
 the house who could bear George company was Cicely. 
 
 Soon after breakfast Mrs. Herbert went out to the offices 
 of Messrs. McDougall, Richards & Co. George had 
 given her Mr. Richards's private address, as well as that 
 of his firm, but she may have wished to satisfy herself of 
 his accuracy, for she simply asked of the clerk at the 
 counter to be directed to the house in which his chief 
 resided. 
 
 " Mr. Richards is in the office if you wish to see him,** 
 said the clerk. 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Herbert. " I do not know Mi 
 Richards. It is his daughter I wish to see." 
 
 When she had made a note of the address that was given 
 her, she asked a question.
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 297 
 
 " How long has Mr. Richards been living in Glasgow ? " 
 she said. 
 
 " I do not know," replied the clerk, " but he became A 
 member of this firm last summer." 
 
 " Thank you," said Mrs. Herbert, and went away. 
 
 Peggy was at home, and when her visitor introduced 
 herself the look of pleasure which came into her face would 
 have repaid that good lady if she had travelled all the way 
 up to Glasgow on purpose to see her. Mrs. Herbert told 
 her about George and of how his presence and co-operation 
 were valued by Lord Caradoc. Then she talked of Guy in 
 such a way that Peggy must have divined that she knew 
 her story, although she did not say so in so many words. 
 The increase of animation in the girl's face and manner 
 went to show that Mrs. Herbert was an extremely tactful 
 woman. Then she went on to talk of Cicely and of the 
 glories of Merrilees and ended by inviting Peggy to return 
 with her after her round of visits should be completed to 
 stay there for a fortnight. Peggy was plainly delighted at 
 the idea, but was not certain of being able to obtain her 
 father's permission. At this point Mr. Richards himself 
 came into the room. He had returned to the house to fetch 
 some papers which he had forgotten, but the hand of 
 Providence must have led him, for he had never done such 
 a thing before. He looked surprised and a little dis- 
 concerted at finding a strange lady with his daughter. 
 This also was a thing not common in the Richards house- 
 hold. Mrs. Herbert introduced herself. 
 
 " I have come from a house," she said, " where Mr. 
 Greenfield is now staying. I have known him for some 
 time, and as I was on my way north I thought I should 
 like to make the acquaintance of your daughter, of whom 
 I have heard a great deal. And, if possible, your acquaint* 
 ance, too, Mr. Richards."
 
 2 9 8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mr. Richards still looked at a loss. "May I ask the 
 name of the house ? " he said. 
 
 " The House of Merrilees," replied Mrs. Herbert. " May 
 I have a few words with you alone ? Peggy, my dear, I 
 shall see you again before I go." 
 
 Peggy left the room and Mr. Richards seated himself 
 opposite his visitor. He had not spoken since her 
 announcement. 
 
 "I think we have met before, many years ago," said Mrs. 
 Herbert, " although you will probably not remember me." 
 
 A curious change came over Mr. Richards's face. It was 
 perplexed and anxious, and he sat steadily regarding his 
 visitor as if he were striving to recall her identity, but 
 striving in vain. 
 
 ** I do not know your name," he said. 
 
 "I am the widow of Colonel Arthur Herbert,** she 
 replied, " who died seventeen years ago. We were on our 
 honeymoon in Italy twenty-five years ago, and we met " 
 
 * I have never been in Italy," interrupted Mr. Richards 
 brusquely. 
 
 " Then I must have made a mistake," said Mrs. Herbert 
 in her calm, even way. " And certainly the the gentle- 
 man I met there, who was so singularly like you, had a 
 different name. And another curious thing is that I 
 remember meeting Mrs. Greenfield at the same time, and 
 this gentleman was much in her company. So you must 
 forgive me if I have made a mistake with such a curious 
 set of coincidences." 
 
 " Have you seen Mrs. Greenfield of late years ? ** inquired 
 Mr. Richards. 
 
 "I have not seen her since that time," replied Mrs. 
 Herbert, "but I have seen a photograph of her, and I 
 recognised it instantly. I have also heard a great deal 
 about her life since those days, and I am very glad to hear
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 299 
 
 that until the last few months it was a peaceful and 
 happy one and that she had escaped some of her early 
 troubles." 
 
 Mr. Richards took no notice of this speech. 
 
 " And what may I have the pleasure of doing for you, 
 Mrs. Herbert ? " he asked with a near approach to his 
 business manner. 
 
 " In the first place," said Mrs. Herbert, " I shall be very 
 glad if you will allow your daughter to pay a visit to us at 
 Merrilees when I return there in about a fortnight's time. 
 Mr. Greenfield, as you may know, is working with Lord 
 Caradoc, who has taken a great liking to him, and he 
 will be at Merrilees probably for the next month. Lord 
 Caradoc and Miss Caradoc would be very pleased to see 
 your daughter then, and I would take the greatest care 
 of her." 
 
 " May I ask why you want my daughter to go to 
 Merrilees ? " asked Mr. Richards. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert showed no signs of surprise at this ex- 
 traordinary question. " For the reason I have told you," 
 she said. " We have heard a great deal of her from Mr. 
 Greenfield, and we should like to have her with us for 
 a week or two while he is there." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Mr. Richards, " but I am afraid 
 I must decline your invitation for her." 
 
 "May I, in my turn, ask why you should object to 
 her coming to us ? " asked Mrs. Herbert. 
 
 "She is living with me here you see how," said 
 Mr. Richards with a movement of his hands to indicate 
 the appointments of the common-place little room. "It 
 would be taking her out of her position for her to visit at a 
 house like Merrilees." 
 
 ** Do you know Merrilees ? " asked Mrs. Herbert. 
 
 "Everybody knows it by repute," he replied, "I am
 
 300 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 a business man with a good position as such, but it would 
 not be fitting that my daughter should visit at the house of 
 a nobleman." 
 
 " We live in a very quiet way," said Mrs. Herbert, " and 
 I think we could make your daughter happy. I hope you 
 will reconsider your decision." 
 
 " I can't do that," he said decisively, " but I am obliged 
 to you for your invitation." 
 
 Mrs. Herbert looked at him closely, and although he met 
 her gaze, it was plain that he was not altogether at ease 
 under her scrutiny. 
 
 " There is another matter I should like to discuss with 
 you,** she said. " I do not know whether you know the 
 position I hold in Lord Caradoc's family. Probably not. I 
 have lived with them ever since the death of my husband, 
 and Lord Caradoc's daughter has known no other mother 
 but me. This must explain my interest in the proposal of 
 marriage which George Greenfield made to Lord Caradoc 
 for his daughter." 
 
 Mr. Richards was visibly startled. "George Greenfield 
 wants to marry Lord Caradoc's daughter ! " he exclaimed. 
 
 Yes," said Mrs. Herbert. " Hasn't he told you ? " 
 
 " No," replied Mr. Richards, and then added, ** Why 
 should he tell me ? " 
 
 " I should have thought that the reason why he might 
 have told you was obvious," replied Mrs. Herbert. 
 " Lord Caradoc, as I have said, is much attached to 
 George Greenfield, and I may go as far as to say that he 
 would welcome him as a son-in-law if the mystery of 
 his birth were satisfactorily cleared up. That secret, 
 Mr. Greenfield has told us, is in your hands, and yours 
 alone. And until you choose to divulge it this young man, 
 who has made such a fine start in life with none of the 
 advantages of birth or high connections to help him, must
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 301 
 
 be content to rest under what I am assured is a perfectly 
 undeserved stigma." 
 
 " What stigma ? What do you mean ? " inquired 
 Mr. Richards. 
 
 " I mean," she replied, " that however high an opinion 
 Lord Caradoc may have of George Greenfield's personal 
 character and he has a very high one indeed and how- 
 ever willing he may be to put aside all questions of 
 worldly position, he would not consider it right to allow 
 his daughter to marry a man who for all he or anyone 
 knows may be of illegitimate birth." 
 
 " George Greenfield is not of illegitimate birth," replied 
 Mr. Richards. 
 
 " What proof can he show Lord Caradoc of that ? " asked 
 Mrs. Herbert. " He knows nothing of his birth. He is 
 allowed to know nothing." 
 
 " He will know everything in time," Mr. Richards 
 answered as if he were seeking for time to adjust his 
 thoughts to the information which had come to him. He 
 spoke hurriedly, and as if he were on the defensive. 
 
 "In time," repeated Mrs. Herbert. "When will he 
 know ? Next week, or in ten years, or after your death, 
 or when? Is it fair is it right to keep a man of his 
 age and of his abilities in this uncertainty? When will 
 he know ? " 
 
 "I have told him that he will know. I have never 
 told him when. And I shall not do so until the time 
 comes." 
 
 There was a long pause. Mrs. Herbert sat with her eyes 
 on the ground, Mr. Richards eyeing her every now and then 
 as if he were waiting for some sort of ultimatum, and 
 waiting for it with some misgiving. At last she raised her 
 eyes to his and said slowly, " I think I know the secret of 
 George Greenfield's birth."
 
 302 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " It is impossible that anyone should know it except 
 myself," answered Mr. Richards instantly. But although 
 he spoke boldly there was anxiety in his face. 
 
 " Perhaps we use the word knowledge in different senses,** 
 she replied. " Say that I only guess the story, if you like. 
 And say that I only guess other things. Would you, do 
 you think, be able to keep all your secrets if I carried my 
 guesses to other people ? " 
 
 Mr. Richards rose from his seat. ** If you carry your 
 guesses to anyone outside this room," he said, " the secret 
 of George Greenfield's birth will never be known." 
 
 "You mean that you will destroy the proofs," said 
 Mrs. Herbert, in no way disconcerted. "Would you be 
 content to spend the rest of your life in prison, Mr. 
 Richards ? " 
 
 The man stood over her glaring at her with fierce eyes 
 from under his heavy brows. One would have said that 
 Mrs. Herbert's serenity was in danger of being somewhat 
 rudely disturbed. 
 
 " How much do you know ? *' he asked roughly. 
 
 Then Mrs. Herbert delivered her ultimatum. 
 
 " I know," she said, " or you can call it guessing, if you 
 like, what I shall keep entirely to myself for another 
 month from to-day. That will give you time to end all 
 this mystery and to set things straight. I will keep silent 
 for a month because, unless I am obliged, I do not wish to 
 mix myself up in the notoriety that is bound to come from 
 the disclosures that will be made. And for your daughter's 
 sake and that of the young man who has won her love- 
 you see, I know a good many of your secrets, Mr. Richards 
 I do not wish to bring trouble upon you. I promise 
 then, for the present, not to take any steps on my own 
 account to clear up these mysteries, but I must make one 
 small condition.'*
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 303 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Mr. Richards. 
 
 M That you will let your daughter come with me to 
 Merrilees when I return in a fortnight's time." 
 
 " She can go," said Mr. Richards ungraciously. 
 
 " Then perhaps you will be kind enough to send her to 
 me and we can make our arrangements," said Mrs. Herbert, 
 gathering her small belongings to her. 
 
 Mr. Richards left the room without another word. 
 
 Although the fame of his learning was spread abroad in 
 all lands, there were certain departments of human life in 
 which Lord Caradoc was as little qualified to conduct him- 
 self with ordinary common-sense as the least capable man 
 in England. On George's arrival in Merrilees he found, 
 somewhat to his surprise, that his host had for the time 
 being lost all interest in written and printed matter, and 
 was intent only on the works of Nature as displayed in 
 certain nooks and corners of the island upon which the 
 house stood. He was a much more human old gentleman 
 when pottering around his gardens and his glass-houses 
 than when engaged with his books, and proved himself 
 quite a delightful companion as he initiated George into 
 the mysteries of horticulture, while Cicely stood by with a 
 basket and a roll of bass and mildly chaffed her learned 
 father as she would never have ventured to do had he been 
 discoursing on a point of constitutional law instead of on 
 some such subject as the hybridisation of daffodils. George, 
 of course, was supremely happy in this hourly triple com- 
 panionship, and had Mrs. Herbert been at hand to see that 
 Lord Caradoc suffered no ill effects from his unwonted 
 excursions into the full air, the pleasant garden work 
 might have gone on indefinitely or until he grew tired of 
 it. Lord Caradoc, however, having ceased to be ill, 
 bestowed no further thought on his late illness, with the
 
 304 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 result that within a week of her departure he caught 
 another chill and became ill again. There was nothing 
 alarming in his illness, but Cicely, who had not learned to 
 do without her older friend in these domestic crises, judged 
 it wise to write to Mrs. Herbert to ask her to return as soon 
 as possible. Mrs. Herbert, who was feeling the cold very 
 much on an exposed part of the coast of Sutherlandshire, 
 was not sorry to respond to the summons, and came back 
 a week earlier than she had intended, bringing Peggy with 
 her. 
 
 Peggy, although unusually quiet and shy at first, soon 
 expanded under the influence of her surroundings. George 
 and she had not met since Mrs. Greenfield's death, and she 
 was overjoyed to be with him again. Mrs. Herbert's kind- 
 ness was of the nature of a broad and well-fed stream, and 
 never failed its recipient. And Cicely, whose girl friend- 
 ships had been few, took to her from the first moment when 
 she saw her pretty but pale and sad-eyed little face. The 
 two girls were seldom apart after the first day, and Peggy 
 soon lost her pallor and sadness and even showed at times 
 signs of her old light-hearted gaiety. George's gratitude to 
 Mrs. Herbert for rescuing her for a time from her dismal 
 life and for bringing her and Cicely together with such 
 happy results, burned strong, and Mrs. Herbert herself was 
 not too busy over Lord Caradoc's ailments to congratulate 
 herself on the condition she had imposed on Mr. Richards. 
 
 For a few days the three young people at Merrilees led a 
 life which, quiet and unexciting as it was, apparently 
 satisfied each of them completely. George was with them 
 the greater part of the day as they read or worked or 
 played together in the morning room, or the music room, 
 or wandered about the gardens or the woods, and expected 
 only to be deprived of their society for some hours of the 
 day when Lord Caradoc should be well enough to require
 
 MRS. HERBERT VISITS GLASGOW. 305 
 
 his assistance in the library. Their happy and companion- 
 able mode of life, however, was broken by events of 
 greater import than Lord Caradoc's removal from his 
 bedroom to his library, and it is time that we took up the 
 tale of them.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 
 
 MR. RICHARD CALTHORP, clad in garments indicating the 
 /ery latest word in unobtrusive smartness, and with smooth 
 black hair brushed back and brushed again from off his 
 high forehead, sat at work in his private room at the 
 chambers of Messrs. Calthorp, Griffin and Wells, solicitors 
 of Lincoln's Inn Fields. It was twelve o'clock in the 
 morning, and Mr. Calthorp looked as if he had just dropped 
 in for half an hour before taking a pre-luncheon stroll in 
 the park because he had nothing better to do with his 
 time. But appearances are proverbially deceptive, and he 
 had, as a matter of fact, sat there since eight o'clock that 
 morning, and proposed to sit there, with a short interval for 
 lunch, until eight o'clock in the evening. For both his 
 partners were laid up, the one with influenza, and the other 
 with gout, and Calthorp, when it came to an emergency, 
 was as much to be depended on as any worker of them all 
 within the sound of the Law Courts clock. The table in 
 front of him was piled with orderly masses of documents, 
 tlirough which he was ploughing his way with methodical 
 energy and self-possessed assurance. 
 
 There entered a clerk who put down a piece of paper in 
 front of him, upon which was written, **T. Bridden, 
 Floutsham." 
 
 "And who is Mr. T. Bridden of Floutsham, and what 
 does he want ? " inquired Calthorp. 
 
 " He looks like some sort of a fisherman," replied the
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 307 
 
 clerk. " Floutsham is a fishing village in Cumberland, and 
 he has come here because he has seen the advertisements 
 relating to Merrilees." 
 
 " I am rather busy, but I think you might show him in," 
 said Calthorp. 
 
 T. Bridden, duly shown in and appointed to a seat, proved 
 to be a heavy looking middle-aged man with a shaggy mop 
 of light hair and a pair of light eyes to match. The 
 natural expression of these would appear to have been one 
 of piscine vacancy, but that expression was tempered for 
 the occasion by one of slight alarm mixed with suspicion. 
 
 All this Calthorp took in at a glance. 
 
 " I will attend to you in half a minute," he said, and 
 returned to his writing. What he wrote under cover of a 
 paper-holder and a rampart of documents may be supposed 
 to have been written to gratify his private sense of humour, 
 for it had no particular bearing on the business with which 
 he had been engaged. The words, written in the hand of 
 copy-books, were, " The trick is an old one, but in this case 
 it will be effective." When he had written this mysterious 
 sentence he tore up the paper into small fragments and 
 threw them into the basket by his side, and then leant 
 back in his chair, adjusted his eyeglass, and said with a 
 searching look at his visitor, " Now, Mr. T. Bridden, what 
 can I do for you ? " 
 
 T. Bridden, obviously impressed by his surroundings 
 and the manner of his reception, turned his cap in his 
 hands, and looking on the floor, replied, " I come for 
 my money." 
 
 " Quite so," replied Calthorp, unmoved by this announce- 
 ment, " How much money ? " 
 
 " Well, last year it was twenty-five pound, and five year 
 ago it was twenty-five pound. All the other years it's been 
 twenty pound." 
 
 x a
 
 308 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 "Twenty pounds, then," said Calthorp, scribbling on a 
 piece of paper, " And it was given to you by < ** 
 
 "Yes," said the man. 
 
 " By Mr. Martin," hazarded Calthorp. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, then, why don't you go to Mr. Martin for it now ? " 
 
 ** Because he's gone, and I don't know where to find him/' 
 
 " Don't you think you could find him if you tried ? " 
 
 " No. He's gone. Nobody knows where he is." 
 
 "Because I'm not sure that I can let you have the 
 money. He would be sure to, if you went to him. You 
 wouldn't have to tell anyone where he was. You could 
 keep that dark when once you had got your money." 
 
 " But I tell you I don't know where he is." 
 
 "Well, Braithwaite, then. Couldn't you get it from 
 Braithwaite ? " 
 
 " What, Braithwaite up at the ' Three Feathers ' ? He's 
 been there twenty year, and he don't know nothing 
 about it." 
 
 " No, not that Braithwaite. The one at Merrilees." 
 
 " I don't know no Braithwaite at Merrilees. If he'll give 
 it me I'll go to him." 
 
 " Where should you go to ? '* 
 
 " Why, to Merrilees, of course." 
 
 " Well, I don't think you would find him there. Perhaps 
 I might be able to give you the money after all. How 
 many years have you had it ? " 
 
 " Twenty-four years. This is the twenty- fifth." 
 
 " I see. And what have you received it for ? " 
 
 " For holding my tongue." 
 
 "What about? I must make certain that you are the 
 right man." 
 
 " Well, if I tell you what about, I shan't be holding my 
 tongue, shall I ? And then you'd say that I hadn't held my
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 309 
 
 tongue and I shouldn't get my twenty pound." There was 
 a look of triumphant cunning on T. Bridden's face. 
 
 "I see you're a sharp fellow," said Calthorp. "Perhaps 
 you are sharp enough to understand this that if you don't 
 tell me what you were to hold your tongue about, you won't 
 get a penny. 
 
 T. Bridden was obviously taken aback. 
 
 " Why do you come to us for the money at all ? " asked 
 Calthorp. 
 
 T. Bridden produced a dirty-folded handbill and displayed 
 it triumphantly. 
 
 "Thank you," said Calthorp. "That is an offer of a 
 large reward for the tracing of Martin and Braithwaite. I 
 thought you might have come to claim that reward, but 
 you say you have never heard of Braithwaite." 
 
 " I can't read," admitted T. Bridden, sulkily. " But they 
 told me your name was at the bottom of it." 
 
 "So it is. And you were quite right to come to us. 
 Now for your story. What was the money given to 
 you for ? " 
 
 The look of cunning perched again on T. Bridden's 
 unintelligent face. " You don't get me that way, mister," 
 he said, " I can't read, but I'm sharp." 
 
 " Well now, Mr. Bridden, the situation is this. You 
 have been paid twenty pounds a year for the last twenty- 
 four years, sometimes twenty-five pounds, to keep a certain 
 secret, which had to do with well, I needn't say what it 
 had to do with. You are not going to be paid another 
 penny for keeping it, either by Sir Roderick Bertram, who 
 is dead, or by Martin, who has disappeared. You quite 
 understand that, do you ? " 
 
 " Then what do you want to put your name at the 
 bottom of this for? " inquired T. Bridden truculently. 
 
 " That, my friend, has nothing whatever to do with
 
 3 io THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES* 
 
 your secret. You understand, then, that there is nobody- 
 nobody at all, who is going to pay you anything more for 
 holding your tongue. But I'll tell you what I will do. 
 I'll pay you twenty pounds no, I'll pay you five-and- 
 twenty if you tell me what you were to hold your tongue 
 about." 
 
 T. Bridden seemed to be revolving this proposition in 
 his slow mind. 
 
 "Come now," pursued Calthorp, " it has been a good 
 secret to you. You have made two hundred and fifty 
 pounds by keeping it already. But you won't make any 
 mute in that way. Let me have it, and you will go out 
 of this room with five-and-twenty pounds in your pocket." 
 
 " Sovereigns ? " inquired T. Bridden. " He always paid 
 me in golden sovereigns." 
 
 "Golden sovereigns, certainly. Wait a minute." Cal- 
 thorp rang the bell beside him. "Give that to the 
 cashier," he said, handing a scrap of paper to the clerk 
 who answered his summons. Then he returned for a 
 minute or two to his papers until another clerk came in 
 and put twenty-five pounds on the table beside him. 
 " Now then," he said, " that is for you when you have 
 told me your story." 
 
 "Well, I'll do it," said T. Bridden, on whose face a 
 gleam of satisfaction had shone at the sight of the money. 
 " You won't go back on me, mister? " 
 
 " Not if you tell me everything." 
 
 "Oh, I'll tell you everything. It ain't much. Well, you 
 must know that five-and-twenty years ago on this very day 
 as it might be " 
 
 " Was it on this very day ? " 
 
 " No. It was on the last day in March. I know because 
 I always went to Merrilees to get the money on the last 
 day in March. That's so."
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 311 
 
 " Very well. On the last day in Match twenty-five years 
 ago Go on." 
 
 " I was on the shore under the lea of a boat. Must I tell 
 you what I was there for, mister?" There was some 
 anxiety in T. Bridden's voice. 
 
 " Not unless I ask you. This was at Floutsham, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " Within a mile. It was after twelve o'clock at night, 
 and it was dark and stormy. I wasn't doing any harm 
 there." 
 
 *' Never mind what you were doing." 
 
 T. Bridden seemed relieved, and proceeded with more 
 assurance. Calthorp let him tell his tale without interrup- 
 tion, and his tale, shorn of some digressions, and translated 
 into intelligible language, was as follows : 
 
 " There was half a gale blowing, and it was very dark. 
 One minute I was looking out to sea or as far as I could carry, 
 and there was nothing there. Then I looked landwards, 
 and the next minute I looked out to sea again, and there 
 was a boat grounded on the beach, not much further off 
 than I am from you. I hadn't heard a sound. I was just 
 about to hail her, because well, because of what I might 
 have been expecting, you understand, or what I might not 
 have been expecting. But I saw directly that she wasn't 
 any boat I might have had anything to do with. There 
 was a lot of men in her, and a dark something that I 
 couldn't rightly make out at first, amidships. I squatted 
 down under the lea of the ketch where I had been standing 
 and looked to see what would follow. Then a tall man in 
 a long cloak came and stood just against me, so near that 
 I could have touched him if I'd put out my hand. I daren't 
 move, so I squatted there as still as a mouse, and him and 
 me watched everything that went on, together, as you 
 might say.
 
 3ia THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Well, I saw what they took out of the boat when they 
 rested it for a minute on the beach. It was a coffin. I 
 didn't rightly know what to make of it, and I don't mind 
 telling you, mister, that I'd as soon have been at home in 
 bed as where I was. Then they took a sort of little cart 
 out of the boat and hoisted the coffin on to that, and, just as 
 I'd seen that, the man who'd stood quite still by me while 
 all this was going on took a step backwards right on to 
 me. 
 
 " I hadn't time to call out or do nothing. He was on me 
 like a dog on a rat, and caught me by the throat, and held 
 me till I began to choke. His fingers were like iron, and 
 his arms, too, and I couldn't stir. I could just see his face, 
 and it fair frightened me, it was so fierce. But I didn't 
 want that to frighten me, neither. His hands were choking 
 the life out of me, and I thought I was done for. But just 
 as I thought I was gone, another man came up and said 
 something to him. I couldn't hear what it was, for my 
 ears was singing, and he didn't so much as lay a finger on 
 him to stop him choking me. But he stopped all the same, 
 and took his hand off my throat, and as I lay there by the 
 boat coming to myself again the two men talked to one 
 another quietly within a stride of me. 
 
 " I'm not likely to forget it. The wind was bitter cold 
 and wet with the spray, and it took hold of the cloak of the 
 tall man and blew it so that it touched my face. But he 
 stood there as firm as a rock. And I could make out the 
 coffin and the men standing by it waiting through the 
 blackness. I couldn't hear what the two was saying 
 because of the wind howling, and besides, the breath had 
 been almost choked out of me, and I was coughing and 
 coming to. But I thought I was done for. I thought 
 there'd been one murder, and there'd be another, or at least 
 they'd rope me up and take me out to sea.
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 313 
 
 "But it wasn't long before the man what had nearly 
 choked me moved away, and the other began to talk to me. 
 First he told me that I wasn't hurt, and then he said he'd 
 been told to give me ten pounds for what had been done to 
 me, and I wasn't to say or think any more about it. And 
 he gave me the money there and then. Then he said, ' Are 
 you satisfied with that ? ' and I said 'yes.' 'Well,' he said, 
 ' and on this day twelvemonth you'll get another ten pound 
 if you do as I tell you, but you'll have to listen carefully,' 
 he said, ' and take in what I say.' So I said I was ready, 
 for I'd got over the handling a bit then, and I'd got the 
 money and wanted more. 
 
 " He said, ' You have heard of Sir Roderick Bertram ? ' 
 I said * yes.' He said, ' That's him standing there. And in 
 that coffin is the body of his lady who's died in foreign parts. 
 And Sir Roderick is taking her body home,' he said, ' but 
 he don't want anyone to know it. That's why he's landed 
 here in the dead of the night. Now there's nothing wrong in 
 that, is there ? ' he said. ' No,' I said. ' But choking the 
 life out of a man who's done him no harm's another thing.' 
 ' You've been paid for that,' he said, ' and you said you 
 were satisfied. The gentleman was angry at finding there 
 was somebody looking on when he thought he was alone. 
 He didn't mean to do you any harm.' ' Well,' I said, ' we'll 
 say no more about that.' ' That's right,' he said, ' and I 
 see you're a sensible man. Now you won't get anything by 
 telling what you've seen, and if you was to tell everybody 
 nothing would come of it, for there's nothing been done 
 that's against the law,' he said, ' and you'd only make Sir 
 Roderick angry, and he might want to know what you're 
 doing here at this time of night, when everybody's asleep. 
 He's a magistrate.' I told him I wasn't doing any harm 
 and he said, ' I shan't want to know what you were doing 
 as long as you keep what you've seen to yourself. And on
 
 314 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 this day next year if nothing has got out about this work 
 to-night you can come to Merrilees,' he said, ' and ask for 
 Mr. Martin, and I'll give you another ten pound, and ten 
 pound every year when you come for it, if you say nothing 
 to nobody.' ' But mind,' he said, ' if you say a word of 
 what you've seen to anybody, even to your wife,' but I 
 hadn't got a wife, mister, and never have had, ' it'll be bound 
 to get out,' he said, ' and you'll lose ten pounds a year for 
 life.' 
 
 " So I promised I never would say nothing to nobody, 
 and he went away, and I stopped where I was and saw 
 them wheel the coffin up the beach, all marching together, 
 quick-like, and when I couldn't see them no more because 
 of the blackness I heard them tramp, tramp along the road 
 which leads inland, and listened till I couldn't hear 
 nothing but the wind." 
 
 " And the boat ? " asked Calthorp. 
 
 " The boat had already rowed off, and I was left alone 
 on the beach." 
 
 " Then you went to Merrilees a year after ? ** 
 
 "Yes, and Mr. Martin, he said Sir Roderick had told 
 him to give me twenty pounds instead of ten. He said he 
 hadn't thought the secret could have been kept so well, 
 but as nobody knew it and a year had gone by he'd make 
 it worth my while to keep it always." 
 
 *' And you never did tell a soul ? " 
 
 " No, not me. And every year I went and drawed my 
 twenty pound same as if it was the bank." 
 
 " Why did you get twenty- five pounds on two occasions ? ** 
 
 " Well, I asked for it. I asked for fifty. I said it was 
 worth it. But Mr. Martin, he said no. He said if I 
 had all that money it would set people wondering where 
 I got it from. And he wouldn't give me no more than 
 twenty-fiv. But he give me that twice. And I wasn't
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 315 
 
 going to lose my twenty pound regular for sticking out 
 for more." 
 
 "Well, you seem to have kept the secret well. You 
 don't know where Sir Roderick's lady was buried, 1 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " No. I don't know nothing more but what I've told 
 you." 
 
 " And you never saw Sir Roderick when you went over 
 to Merrilees?" 
 
 * No. I only saw Mr. Martin. He met me at the Lodge 
 and paid me the money, and I went away again." 
 
 " Very well, then. There's nothing more I want to ask 
 you. Here's your twenty- five pounds." 
 
 " And that's all I shall get, then, mister ? " 
 
 " No, it isn't quite all. You'll hold your tongue about 
 this a bit longer, and when I don't care whether you hold 
 your tongue any more or not I'll send you another five 
 pounds." 
 
 " Five pounds isn't much, mister." 
 
 " You seem to be of an avaricious nature, Mr. Bridden. 
 No, it isn't much, but it's better than nothing, and that's 
 what you'll get if you let it out." 
 
 "Well, I've held my tongue for five and twenty years. 
 I dare say I can hold it a bit longer. When shall I get tUe 
 five pounds ? " 
 
 " When I send it to you. Give me your address and put 
 your mark to this paper. It is a receipt for the money I've 
 given you." 
 
 T. Bridden having complied with these requests took 
 his departure, leaving Calthorp to digest the information 
 he had received. His cogitations resulted in a telegram 
 being despatched to Guy in Paris, " Important news. 
 Please come over at once ; " and when this had been sent 
 off Calthorp returned refreshed to his labours.
 
 316 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Guy had settled down to a steady spell of work, and 
 although his previous unsettled mode of life often influ- 
 enced him with a desire for change and idleness, and at 
 times the regularity and drudgery of his work irked him 
 exceedingly, he had so far resisted all desires to relinquish 
 it even for a day, and had toiled on steadily during the 
 two months he had spent in Paris. Calthorp's message 
 came as a relief to his drudgery. He crossed the Channel 
 on the same evening, and put in an early appearance at 
 Calthorp's office the next morning. 
 
 " Well, what is the important news ? " he asked. " You 
 might have given me a hint." 
 
 *'I shouldn't have satisfied you if I had," replied 
 Calthorp, on whose usually impassive face satisfaction 
 reigned triumphant. " I could only have told you yesterday 
 that we were on the track of Lady Bertram's burying place." 
 "Oh, hang Lady Bertram's burying- place ! I want to 
 get hold of Martin." 
 
 " Well, I hope you will now. I'm on the track of him ; 
 but that has happened since I sent you my wire." 
 
 " Out with it ! " exclaimed Guy, excitedly. " Good 
 heavens ! I'd given up all hope of this." 
 
 "Well, I've received information that Braithwaite 
 landed in Liverpool from America on Tuesday. This is 
 Thursday, and he is in an hotel there doing nothing. I've 
 got two men watching him." 
 " Why on earth don't you get him arrested ? " 
 "Because it is pretty obvious that he is waiting in 
 Liverpool till he gets some sort of summons from Martin. 
 What does a man like that want to kick his heels in an 
 hotel for? We keep an eye on him till he sets out to 
 meet Martin. Then we follow him and nab them both." 
 " You think that they are going to take steps to dispose 
 of their booty at last?"
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 317 
 
 " Probably. Otherwise why should Braithwaite, who 
 succeeded in getting safely away to America, come back 
 and put his head in a noose ? " 
 
 " I hope to goodness he won't give us the slip again." 
 " Not much chance of that. There are two smart men 
 keeping an eye on him day and night, and he hasn't an idea 
 of it. And there's another man watching the arriving 
 boats, in case Martin should be coming from America too. 
 But I think he's hiding in England. He's been seen in 
 London, you know." 
 
 " What about the other business ? Does it lead to any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 " You shall hear." And Calthorp told him of the infor- 
 mation he had received the day before. 
 
 " It's a curious story," said Guy, when he had finished. 
 ' What do you make of it ? " 
 
 M Lady Bertram is buried somewhere on the island, and 
 Sir Roderick is buried with her." 
 
 " But we have searched everywhere and found no possible 
 burying place." 
 
 "Then we must search again." 
 
 "Why on the island? That doesn't follow from this 
 man's story." 
 
 " I think it does. Sir Roderick wanted to have his wife's 
 body always near him, and as you know, he never left the 
 island. Now, I'll tell you what I think. There is some 
 hiding place about the house. It is big enough and part 
 of it quite old enough to make that possible. And I also 
 think, though this is only conjecture, that when we have 
 found Lady Bertram's body and Sir Roderick's body, which 
 will be with it, we shall find the jewels in the same hiding- 
 place. Even if Martin took some of the jewels away with 
 him, I don't believe he could have taken them all, and if 
 there is a secret place, as there must be, it would be
 
 3i8 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 natural that he should put them there for safety. He and 
 Braithwaite are evidently on the point of taking advantage 
 of this robbery, and I believe that when they come together 
 they will make for Merrilees. We must keep a close 
 watch there. In fact, I have given instructions that they 
 are not to be arrested at once, but followed wherever 
 they go." 
 
 " Isn't that rather dangerous ? ** 
 
 "Not very, with the close watch that will be kept on 
 them. We want the jewels. Supposing that Martin were 
 to be arrested and then refuse to say where they were. It 
 is not likely, but it is possible. He is going to guide us to 
 the place where they are hidden.** 
 
 " I don't much like the plan. A bird in the hand, you 
 know. But perhaps you are right. And who is going to 
 receive these gentlemen when they go to Merrilees, if they 
 do go?" 
 
 " I think you must. Someone must be there. I can't 
 go myself, at least not just to sit down and wait. I'm 
 single-handed here. But I'll come when I hear they've 
 started. But I want you to go up there to-day and stay 
 there." 
 
 "You seem to forget that I've let the house to Lord 
 Caradoc." 
 
 "No I don't. There was a clause in the lease. And 
 you can go up and pay them a visit." 
 
 Guy hesitated. " I have got a standing invitation," he 
 said, "but I don't quite like to take advantage of it to play 
 the detective in what is now practically his house and not 
 mine." 
 
 " My dear fellow, I'm as punctilious as you about that 
 sort of thing, but this isn't a time to stand on ceremony. 
 I didn't put that clause in the lease for fun, and it was 
 explained t Lord Caradoc. Besides, if you go up you
 
 IMPORTANT NEWS. 319 
 
 may be able to save them from some annoyance. You 
 won't have anything to do simply to stay there and keep 
 your eyes open, and wire to me if anything happens. I 
 shall have men round the place, but I want somebody in 
 the house itself." 
 
 " I could write and propose myself for a visit.** 
 " You must send a wire to say you're coming, and go up 
 to-day. If you don't I must send a man. I'm conducting 
 the case and I'm not going to throw away chances." 
 
 In the end Guy allowed himself to be persuaded. He 
 sent a long telegram announcing his arrival, and left 
 London by the two o'clock train. Just before he left his 
 rooms he received a note from Bobby Conder : 
 
 GUT, 
 
 " I'm back from my travels. I want to see you par- 
 ticularly as I have brought a mysterious communication for 
 you all the way from the back blocks of Australia. Dine 
 with me to-night at the Bachelors' at eight o'clock, and 
 
 I'll hand it over. 
 
 "Yours ever, 
 
 " R. CONDER. ' 
 To which Guy replied : 
 
 " Welcome home. Just off to Merrilees. Write to me 
 there.** 
 
 Bobby Conder had not given much thought to the com- 
 munication which had been packed away amongst the 
 papers in his despatch box for the last few months. Now 
 that he had reached home, however, his curiosity began to 
 burn a little. He took out the packet and read the 
 instructions written by the old squatter. He was not 
 allowed to send the paper by post. He must put it into 
 the hands of the owner of Merrilees. It occurred to him 
 that he might assist at an exciting discovery if he did so
 
 320 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 at Merrilees itself. The result of his further musings was 
 that another message was received at Merrilees during the 
 course of that afternoon to the effect that Mr. Robert 
 Conder proposed to journey thither on the following day 
 to pay his respects to his uncle and cousin after his recent 
 return from his travel*.
 
 CHAPTER XX VL 
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 
 
 ON the surprise and delight of Guy when he arrived at 
 Merrilees and found Peggy there we cannot linger. Events 
 now began to move fast, and we must follow their develop- 
 ment closely. Suffice it to say that when the announcement 
 of his visit had reached Merrilees, Peggy had written to 
 her father, but had received no reply to her letter, and 
 remained where she was while the house of Merrilees 
 witnessed the final scenes of the strange drama which had 
 been played within its walls. 
 
 Lord Caradoc, who by this time was downstairs again, 
 had apparently forgotten all about the mystery connected 
 with the. house he inhabited. He seemed annoyed at the 
 idea of its becoming the centre of notoriety once more, and 
 could not see, if Martin wanted to put a large collection of 
 jewels into a place of safety, why he should not have taken 
 the obvious course of sending them to the bank. He 
 expressed himself, however, with gratitude towards Guy 
 for coming up to the house to receive the expected visitors. 
 He seemed to be under the impression that he might, other- 
 wise, have had to interview them himself, which he would 
 not have liked at all. He said that he hoped Guy would 
 do exactly what he liked in the house, but he should beg 
 to be allowed to keep the inner library for his own exclusive 
 use. He knew the contents of every square inch of that 
 room, and he could assure him that there were no jewels 
 there whatever. 
 
 H.M. *
 
 3 aa THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 On the night of Guy's arrival he and Mrs. Herbert and 
 George sat up late discussing the bearing of Calthorp's 
 news. Mrs. Herbert seemed exceedingly disturbed at the 
 idea of anything happening in the house. She impressed 
 upon both young men the necessity of keeping everything 
 from the two girls, and she seemed more anxious that 
 Peggy should know nothing of what possibly might 
 happen even than Cicely. She could not deny that 
 Calthorp's inferences seemed to be justified and that they 
 were likely to undergo experiences in that quiet house 
 within the next few days which would certainly prove dis- 
 turbing, and might even be terrifying. George and Guy 
 decided that they would not take any of the men about the 
 house into their confidence. If Martin and Braithwaite 
 came to the house they would come alone, and they would 
 come with Calthorp's detectives hard on their heels. 
 There would be enough of them to capture the two men 
 without running the risk of giving them warning by taking 
 outsiders into confidence. Before they went to bed, very 
 late, they went over the lower part of the house, but saw 
 nothing and heard nothing in any way unusual. 
 
 Nothing happened on the following morning. George 
 and Guy slipped out after breakfast to find the men who 
 were keeping watch round the walls of the park. They 
 found them at different points in the guise of artists 
 wandering round with sketching apparatus ostentatiously 
 displayed to find a good position for a picture. All three, 
 although their appearance was not strikingly artistic, 
 seemed well up to the work they had in hand, and gave 
 assurances, each of them, that it would be very difficult 
 for any one to get past them. The two young men returned 
 to the house. 
 
 In the afternoon Calthorp began to work the telegraph 
 wires. He had taken the precaution before Guy left town
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 323 
 
 of supplying him with a cipher, and the post-mistress of 
 Morthwaite was exercised during the latter part of the day 
 in taking down a series of perfectly unintelligible messages. 
 When these were deciphered they ran as follows : 
 
 12.45. Braithwaite has received a telegram. Is preparing 
 to leave Liverpool. Am coming up by 2.0 train. Please 
 send conveyance to meet me at Keswick. Calthorp. 
 
 2.45. Braithwaite left Liverpool by 1.55 train and 
 booked to Keswick. Both men are travelling with him. 
 Our Mr. Calthorp on his way to Merrilees. Calthorp, 
 Griffin, Wells. 
 
 4.7. Wire received from Preston. Braithwaite left for 
 Keswick 3.15. Both men following in same train. No 
 signs of Martin. Calthorp, Griffin, Wells. 
 
 5.58. Braithwaite reached Penrith and changed for 
 Keswick. Still no signs of Martin. Tell men at Merrilees 
 to keep a sharp look out. Calthorp, Griffin, Wells. 
 
 George and Guy went out again, and finding one of the 
 pretended artists still restlessly wandering about in search 
 of a view point, told him the news, which he promised to 
 hand on to the others. 
 
 At about seven o'clock a telegram came, still in the 
 same cipher, from Keswick, from one of the men who had 
 shadowed Braithwaite from Liverpool : 
 
 Regret to inform you that when train arrived Keswick 
 Braithwaite had disappeared. Was in next carriage at 
 Threlkeld. Must have jumped out while train in motion. 
 Are driving to Morthwaite. Tell men to keep sharp look 
 out. Brown. 
 
 George and Guy looked at one another. " What fools 
 those fellows are," said Guy angrily. " Why weren't they 
 in the same carriage ? " 
 
 " I expect they were afraid of being sized up," said 
 George. " Of course the fellow would be suspicious of 
 
 T a
 
 304 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 everybody. There are several changes between Liverpool 
 and Keswick at which they must have shown themselves, 
 and one of them continually going to the telegraph office 
 might make him think they were on his track, however 
 careful they were. However, unless he had a conveyance 
 of some sort waiting for him at the place where he jumped 
 off they will be here before him. And it isn't likely that he 
 would have. He is much more likely to have broken his leg." 
 
 They went out once more to inform the detectives of 
 what had happened. The other two men arrived at 
 about eight o'clock, much chagrined at the escape of 
 their quarry. 
 
 " It was very difficult to keep out of the way, sir," said 
 one of them. " He must have suspected us. We were in 
 different carriages, one on each side of his, and we kept a 
 look-out between the stations. But there is a tunnel. He 
 must have got off d'reckly we got out of it. That was the 
 only place we could have missed seeing him." 
 
 " You saw no one on your journey who could possibly 
 answer to the description of Martin ? " asked Guy. 
 
 " No, sir ; no one." 
 
 " They will meet somewhere between Keswick and here, 
 probably," said George. " What are you two men going 
 to do?" 
 
 "We thought we'd better join the others outside, sir." 
 
 " They are outside the park," said Guy, " and the wall is 
 at least five miles round. You had better stop on the 
 island, I think. Don't you, George ? " 
 
 " Yes, certainly," said George. " They might very well 
 get past twenty men outside the walls. But they will find 
 it difficult to land on the island unnoticed." 
 
 " You two had better get something to eat and then go 
 out and watch," said Guy. " They are not likely to come 
 till late at night, and then I don't see how they are to get
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 325 
 
 across. I have told a man to watch the boats all night, 
 though he doesn't know why. But we'd better not run 
 any risks. Go out as soon as you have finished your meal. 
 Mr. Calthorp will be here about ten o'clock with another 
 gentleman. There will be plenty of us to give you a hand 
 when they come, and we shall be on the watch and shall 
 hear you when you call." 
 
 Dinner and the hour that followed it wore away some- 
 how. It was as much as the two young men could do, in 
 the excited state of their nerves, to talk and act as if noth- 
 ing unusual were going on. Lord Caradoc had forgotten 
 that there was anything unusual, and neither Cicely nor 
 Peggy had ever known. But Mrs. Herbert was as nervous 
 as George and Guy, and the conversation round the dinner 
 table that evening was not remarkable for sustained inter- 
 est. It was over before nine o'clock. Lord Caradoc re- 
 tired to the library, and the two younger men were left to 
 themselves. They went out and visited the watchers on 
 the island and outside the walls. Nothing had been seen. 
 When they returned they found that Mrs. Herbert had 
 sent the two girls to bed, although it was only just past 
 ten o'clock. Then followed a tedious hour in which the 
 three of them discussed all over again what they had 
 already discussed a dozen times before, more for the sake 
 of passing the time than because they expected to get any 
 new light on the mystery. At eleven o'clock George and 
 Guy rowed over to meet Calthorp and Bobby Conder at 
 the landing stage. Their train had been delayed, and it 
 was nearly half an hour later before the carriage that 
 brought them could be heard rumbling down the hill, and 
 its lights shone out of the darkness as it turned a corner 
 of the wooded road and bore down upon them. 
 
 Calthorp stepped out of the carriage alert and eager. 
 
 " Has anything happened ? " he asked anxiously.
 
 326 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Braithwaite gave your men the slip," replied Guy. 
 
 " I know. I got a wire at Keswick. Nothing been seen 
 of them since ? " 
 
 " No, nothing. Brown and the other men are watching 
 on the island. The other three are outside the wall." 
 
 " That's right," said Calthorp. " Let us go across." 
 
 Bobby Conder now came forward and shook hands 
 with Guy and George. " Come up just in time to lend a 
 hand," he said with a twinkle in his eye as they stepped 
 into the boat. There would have been a broad grin on 
 his face but that he was -ather subdued by the impor- 
 tance of the crisis on which they were entering. 
 
 " What is this message you have brought for me ? " 
 asked Guy. 
 
 " I'll tell you when we get into the house," he said. 
 
 They landed at the foot of the stairs. A dark figure 
 glided out from behind the trees on the right, spoke a 
 few words to Calthorp, and disappeared again into the 
 darkness. The two men on the island were keeping a 
 close watch. 
 
 " By Jove ! " exclaimed Bobby as they mounted the ter- 
 races and a gleam of the moon from behind the scudding 
 clouds showed the white facade of the house above them. 
 " They are quite right to call this place a fairy palace." 
 
 " Yes. And we are going to scotch the ogre to-night," 
 said Calthorp. 
 
 Supper was laid in the dining room, and old Feltham 
 waited upon them as he had done on that night nine 
 months before when the disappearance of Sir Roderick's 
 dead body had first been made known. The old man was 
 now well on in years and his powers were beginning to 
 fail. Nothing had been said to him of what was ex- 
 pected to happen, and they dismissed him and his 
 attendant footman as soon as possible.
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 327 
 
 " What is your message, Bobby ? " asked Guy as soon 
 as the four men were left together. " Has it anything to 
 do with this business? If not it had better keep a bit." 
 
 Bobby Conder drew the little packet of papers from his 
 pocket. " It is quite possible that it may have some bear- 
 ing on it," he said, and he told them shortly of the way in 
 which the papers had come into his hands, and read out 
 the instructions the old squatter had given to his grand- 
 son. They listened to him with breathless attention. 
 
 " It is the story of the secret chamber," said Calthorp, 
 " and it has come from the other side of the world in the 
 nick of time." 
 
 Guy took the worn and yellow packet into his hands 
 and turned it over. 
 
 " Open it afod read it out," said Calthorp. " It may 
 tell us exactly what we want to know." 
 
 Guy broke the seal and disclosed a folded sheet of 
 paper with close writing on its four sides. It began 
 without any preamble : 
 
 " In the summer of 17 I was employed with many 
 others, mostly Italians, in rebuilding the house of Merri- 
 lees, Morthwaite, Cumberland, for Sir Michael Bertram, 
 Bart, and in constructing the terraces and the channel 
 for the water. The mason's work had been going on for 
 over a year and was almost finished. I was called one 
 morning into the office of the overseer of the works with 
 four others, all Englishmen and good reliable workmen, 
 and we were told that when the Italians had been sent 
 away we five would be kept on at a large increase in wages 
 to do some more mason's work, on the condition that we 
 should keep that work secret. After some difficulty all of 
 us agreed to do so, and were made to sign papers to 
 that effect. Then we were told what the work was to 
 be, and for the next three months we were kept busy at it.
 
 328 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " The work was this. First of all we dug out a tunnel 
 and constructed a staircase which led from the floor of the 
 old disused chapel in the west wing of the house right 
 under the terraces outside till it ended at a point immedi- 
 ately beneath the cascade and below the level of the lake. 
 Then we dug out of the solid rock a chamber as far as 
 I remember about fourteen feet square. After that we 
 tunnelled again right under the lake and made a passage 
 which came out at the little Pagan temple which had been 
 built as a summer house in a thick grove of trees on the 
 west bank of the lake. Most of our tunnelling was done 
 through the solid rock, and when we came to earth we built 
 up the passage with stone, but there was very little earth 
 till we began to push up to the temple. The approaches to 
 the staircase and tunnel were quite open at this time, but 
 all other work about the house had been left off while we 
 were so employed, and no one was allowed inside the walls 
 of the park. So no one knew what was going on, and we 
 were bound to secrecy by our oath. 
 
 " When the work was finished the other four men were 
 dismissed, but I was kept on along with a blacksmith 
 who had also been sworn to secrecy. We were given 
 instructions as to how the approaches to this chamber 
 were to be concealed, and carried out the work in a short 
 time. The approach from the chapel is under the old stone 
 altar. The north side of the altar is one solid block of 
 stone. It moves on iron pivots in the middle if it is pushed 
 with some force from the side nearest the wall, and there is 
 no fastening except a slight self-acting spring when it gets 
 back into its natural position. When it is opened to its lull 
 extent there is room for a man to creep through to the stairs 
 which lead down into the chamber. The approach from 
 the temple to the tunnel under the lake is something similar. 
 The moving stone is one that supports the platform at the
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 329 
 
 top of the little flight of steps underneath the pillars. It is 
 on the north side. 
 
 " When our work was finished I was paid off, but the 
 blacksmith was kept on. What further work he was given 
 to do I do not know, as I left that part of the country very 
 soon afterwards and never saw him again. 
 
 " I do not know the intentions of Sir Michael Bertram in 
 building this chamber and these passages. But if in after 
 years they are used wrongly and trouble comes from it this 
 statement may put things right. I shall be dead when it is 
 used, if it ever is, and Sir Michael Bertram is dead already. 
 I do not consider that I have broken my oath of secrecy by 
 writing this down and sealing it up. 
 
 **JOHN RAWLINGS." 
 
 Very little notice was paid to the last part of the 
 stonemason's confession. In fact Guy omitted the final 
 paragraph entirely. The four men rose to their feet in 
 uncontrollable excitement. The doings of Martin and 
 Braithwaite had gone out of their heads completely for the 
 moment. 
 
 " Come along," said Guy, and he snatched up a heavy 
 silver candlestick that stood on the table and made for the 
 door. 
 
 " No, no. Wait," said Calthorp. " Wait till the coast 
 is clear. The servants are still about." 
 
 " Ring for Feltham and tell him to send them to bed," 
 said George. 
 
 " The chapel is quite away from the rest of the house," 
 said Guy. " You can only get to it from the outside 
 and from the second floor. The other entrances have 
 been blocked up. We must get at the chapel through 
 Sir Roderick's rooms. They are not used and nobody 
 is there,"
 
 330 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " We had better all take candles," said George, *' and, by 
 Jove ! Supposing Martin and Braithwaite are there ! " 
 
 " Get some thick sticks," said Calthorp. " I've got this,** 
 and he put his hand into a side pocket and showed a glimpse 
 of a wicked- looking little revolver. 
 
 They made a move to the hall where a row of candle- 
 sticks was standing on a side table. 
 
 " What about those men on the island ? ** asked Bobby 
 Conder. " It's no use their watching for a boat. The 
 fellows will come through the tunnel from the temple." 
 
 " Yes," said Caltborp. " I'll go and send them both over 
 there to watch. If they haven't come yet they will catch 
 them nicely, and if they have, we shall. Wait here till I 
 come back." He was out of the house in a moment. 
 
 The others went into the cloak room leading out of the 
 hall and selected three heavy sticks. The grin on Bobby's 
 face could no longer be kept back. George was very serious 
 and Guy quivering with excitement. Calthorp returned in 
 a few minutes. 
 
 " I have sent them over in a boat," he said. ** Now 
 then." 
 
 " Guy led the way up to the second floor. They passed 
 through the door which led into that part of the house 
 which had been occupied by Sir Roderick Bertram, through 
 the other door at the end of the broad corridor and down 
 the winding turret stair, treading softly one after the other. 
 They reached the gloomy little chapel, and as they entered 
 it their candles flickered and a waft of cold night air met 
 them. The heavy oak door which gave access to the chapel 
 from the outside stood ajar. They looked at one another 
 and Bobby Conder's grin disappeared. 
 
 They turned to the side of the altar, but first of all 
 Calthorp closed and secured the open door. The great 
 stone stood open, turned on its pivot, disclosing a narrow
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 331 
 
 stair leading down in the darkness. Each of the four men 
 pressed forward. George squeezed himself through first, 
 followed by Calthorp, Guy and Bobby. " Don't make a 
 sound," whispered Calthorp, as they crept down the stair. 
 
 The steps took a slight turn to the right and ran down 
 obliquely. The sounds of their advance were drowned by 
 the murmur of the falling water. Down, down, they went. 
 The stair seemed as if it would never end. The murmur 
 presently became a roar as the cascade rushed down to the 
 lake immediately above their heads. But the old masons 
 had done their work well. The passage was as dry as 
 when they had made it a hundred years before. Presently 
 the rushing of the water ceased. They were below the 
 waters of the lake, but still the steps led downwards. 
 
 Calthorp whispered a halt. " Leave the candles here," 
 he said. " We do not want to give them a warning." 
 
 They put the four candlesticks against the wall and 
 continued their downward way more cautiously than before- 
 The sound of falling water had died away completely. 
 George suddenly stopped with his finger to his lips. The 
 stair took a turn to the left immediately in front of him, 
 and the passage broadened. He peeped round the comer 
 and stepped back instantly. The other three crowded 
 behind him. Some ten or fifteen yards below them there 
 was a door, not quite shut. Between it and the wall was 
 a dim line of light. 
 
 They stood where they were for a few moments in complete 
 silence. There was no sound of voices, but they heard 
 movements, heavy steps on a stone floor. 
 
 " Creep down altogether," whispered Calthorp. " I will 
 throw open the door. George and Guy tackle the one 
 nearest to us. Bobby and I will seize the other. Now 
 then, ready ! " 
 
 The sounds within the chamber had ceased. They crept
 
 33a THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 stealthily down, and stood for a moment nerving themselves 
 for the rush. 
 
 George put his shoulder to the door and dashed it open 
 with a crash. Then he fell back with a cry, which was 
 echoed by his side. Calthorp and Bobby Conder had 
 taken two steps into the chamber. They found themselves 
 looking into the muzzle of a revolver held straight towards 
 them. 
 
 In the middle of the chamber stood a man facing them. 
 He said nothing, but eyed them fiercely, still covering them 
 with his weapon. But it was not the circle of the revolver's 
 muzzle that held them back on the threshold. 
 
 The walls of the chamber were faced with dressed stone. 
 Two lighted candles were held by sconces fixed to them. 
 On the floor, in some disorder, were many wooden cases, 
 and directly behind the man, who stood like a statue in 
 the middle of the chamber, was a raised bed. On it lay a 
 man and a woman side by side. They were fully dressed, 
 but the woman's dress, although beautiful in texture, was 
 old-fashioned and yellow with age. They lay there as if 
 asleep, a dark and handsome pair. Not one of the four 
 young men but knew that they were looking on the bodies 
 of Sir Roderick Bertram and his long- dead wife. 
 
 The narrow chamber and all it contained flashed on to 
 their sight and was fixed on their brains indelibly. They 
 stood there at the entrance while a clock might have 
 ticked out three seconds. The man stood facing them with 
 his levelled weapon. 
 
 Then suddenly before they could realise it the scene 
 suddenly changed into one of dire confusion and horror. 
 A harsh grinding sound from overhead broke the silence. 
 They caught sight of the man's face changed to an 
 expression of terror, and his revolver lowered, and then 
 they were plunged into a hissing darkness and suddenly
 
 MARTIN AT LAST. 333 
 
 involved in a swirl of choking water. They turned with 
 one accord and fought their way madly up the narrow 
 stair, the water pouring upwards after them with angry 
 eddy and turmoil. Bobby Conder was knocked down once 
 and would have been lost had not his flung-out hand 
 caught that of George, who jerked him to his feet and 
 continued the breathless race upwards. They came to the 
 place where they had left their candles, but the water was 
 still surging above their knees, and the light which had guided 
 them was suddenly changed again to black darkness. But 
 now they were saved, and under the roar of the cascade 
 paused, gasping and terror-struck, while the water just 
 below them subsided into a level floor, even with the 
 surface of the lake outside. 
 
 " He is down there," sobbed Guy. * It came from the 
 roof. I saw it strike him down." 
 
 " We can't save him," gasped Calthorp. " Let us get up." 
 
 They made their way up in silence, dripping and ex- 
 hausted by the shock and the struggle, until they stood 
 once more on the stone floor of the little chapel. They 
 opened the outer door, trembling and fumbling at the 
 heavy iron bolts, and stood once more in the light, for the 
 moon had broken through the clouds and shone on the 
 peaceful bosom of the lake, under which lay the dead in 
 their watery grave, three now where there had been two 
 resting quietly. 
 
 Two men came running up the terraces towards them as 
 they moved away from the shadow of the house and the 
 trees. 
 
 "They are on the island," shouted the foremost, as he 
 descried the little group, and when he had come up to 
 them, "We found the entrance to the tunnel and went 
 down. The water met us and we got away just in time. 
 They must have got through and flooded the passage."
 
 334 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Where is Braithwaite ? " asked George sharply. 
 
 In answer Calthorp began running down the terraces by 
 the way the two men had come up. *' The boat ! " he 
 cried. 
 
 The others followed him, but he was some way ahead of 
 them. The boat by which the two men had put themselves 
 over lay at the bottom of the steps. They saw a man dart 
 out from among the trees, throw himself into it, and cut at 
 the painter with a knife. But Calthorp was upon him. 
 There was a short and sharp struggle, and then the others 
 came up, and in a very short time Braithwaite was standing 
 on the lower steps of the chair handcuffed between the two 
 detectives. 
 
 He looked round on the six men sullenly. 
 
 Where is Martin ? " he asked. 
 
 * Martin is drowned," replied Calthorpt
 
 CHAPTER XXVIL 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 
 
 IT may be imagined that there was little sleep for the 
 actors in this final catastrophe that night. The house was 
 silent and asleep now, but Braithwaite was taken by his 
 captors into the dining-room, where the unfinished supper 
 still remained on the table. There the four young men, 
 after they had changed their clothes, joined them. 
 
 " Now you needn't say anything," said Calthorp to him. 
 " Whatever you do say will be used in evidence at your 
 trial." 
 
 " Trial ? What for ? " asked the man. 
 
 " Why, for stealing Sir Roderick's body and the jewels,** 
 replied Calthorp. 
 
 " I haven't stolen anything," said Braithwaite. " And 
 no more did Martin. What we had was given to us. Sir 
 Roderick's body has been resting peaceful where he wished 
 it to be, and the jewels are there too. Neither of us took 
 a single one, nor meant to." 
 
 " The jewels belong to Sir Guy Bertram, here," said 
 Calthorp. " Whatever you meant to do with them you 
 have kept them hidden from him for nearly a year. There 
 won't be much difficulty about bringing you to trial, I 
 think." 
 
 " I may as well tell you all I know," said Braithwaite. 
 " I've done nothing wrong. I've only done what Martin 
 told me and what Sir Roderick wished. And now they're 
 both dead there's no reason to keep silence."
 
 336 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 The ex-gardener did not look like a criminal, but a self- 
 possessed and intelligent if somewhat morose- looking young 
 man. He had received the news of his fellow-conspirator's 
 terrible death without much sign of emotion, and even his 
 present situation, as he stood handcuffed between the two 
 detectives, did not seem greatly to disturb his composure. 
 
 Calthorp eyed him narrowly as he seated himself at the 
 table. 
 
 " You can take those things off,** he said to the men, 
 " and wait outside till I call for you." 
 
 Braithwaite was delivered of the irons on his wrists and 
 the two men left the room. 
 
 " Now then," said Calthorp, " I've warned you. But you 
 probably won't lose anything by telling a true and straight- 
 forward tale." 
 
 And this was the tale that Braithwaite told, while the 
 four men sat still and listened with all their ears : 
 
 " Sir Roderick and Martin had secrets together. About 
 five years ago they began to take me into some of them, 
 but I never knew much. Martin told me he'd seen I could 
 keep things to myself, and if I would do what I was told 
 I shouldn't be asked to do anything wrong, and I should 
 be well paid for it. 
 
 " He told me about the vault down there and what was 
 in it. But I was never allowed to go there, and I couldn't 
 have found out the way. All I'd got to do was to wait 
 for Sir Roderick's death, and when that took place I was 
 to help Martin to embalm his body in a way which he 
 told me, and to help him to take it down there and lay it 
 by the side of my lady. Then I was to clear out to 
 America with a thousand pounds and hold my tongue. 
 
 " When Sir Roderick died last June Martin was away 
 in London. They sent him word, but when he came Sir 
 Roderick was past knowing him. He was terrible upset.
 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 337 
 
 It seemed as if he didn't know what to do. But that 
 night we carried the body of our master out of his room 
 and did what we had been told and laid it beside the 
 other. 
 
 " Then Martin told me that he'd swore to Sir Roderick 
 to keep something secret till the I4th of March this year 
 that's to-morrow and it had to do with the jewels 
 amongst other things. So we took and packed them in 
 boxes and carried them down to the vault. 
 
 " Then Martin gave me a hundred pounds in gold and 
 said I was to go over to America and he would send the 
 rest of the money that had been promised to me when I 
 got there. But he said that I must come over again to be 
 ready to do something this March. I promised him and I 
 went away. We trusted each other. We got through the 
 tunnel under the lake and through the little gate at the 
 other end of the park. 
 
 " I settled in New York and he sent me the money. He 
 wrote to me from Glasgow. Sir Roderick had given him 
 a greal deal of money, and he had changed his name and 
 gone into business there. Last month he wrote and told 
 me to come over and stay in Liverpool till I heard from 
 him. He sent me money for my passage. When I got there 
 he wrote and told me to meet him at eleven o'clock 
 to-night by the temple. t I was to be careful and not be 
 seen in case of the place being watched. I started off by 
 train and found that these two men were following me. I 
 jumped off the train just as we got through a tunnel and 
 didn't hurt myself. Then I walked across the hills to the 
 other end of the park. I saw the entrance was being 
 watched. I went to another, and saw that was watched 
 too. Then a man came out from the trees and I thought 
 I was caught. But it was Martin. We helped each 
 other over the wall and got into the vault through the 
 
 H.M. t
 
 338 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 passage under the lake. Then we went up through the 
 chapel and outside. We saw the two men watching the 
 shores of the island. 
 
 " Then Martin took me down through the trees by the 
 side of the steps to the lake. He scraped away the earth 
 under a bush and there was a stone, which he lifted. 
 Under it was a sort of handle. He said if that was turned 
 round as far as it would go the vault and tunnels would 
 be flooded. I was to turn it and let the water in when I 
 got a signal from him. 
 
 " I went up with him again and stayed behind a tree 
 near the chapel door. He said he was going to carry the 
 boxes of jewels into the chapel, and it might take him 
 half an hour or an hour. The chapel door was to be kept 
 a little open, and when he shut it I was to go down and 
 turn the handle. 
 
 " Martin said we were safe, because, although I had been 
 tracked, no one would think we could get on to the island 
 without a boat. I asked him how we were to get away 
 again with the tunnel flooded and the boats watched. He 
 said we shouldn't want to get away. He said Sir Guy 
 Bertram was in the house, and when he had done what he 
 wanted to he should tell him what he wanted to know. 
 But he shouldn't tell him about Sir Roderick's body nor 
 about the vault, and I was to keep that secret too. 
 
 "Then he went into the chapel and I waited there. I 
 didn't hear him inside, but I was some way off and only 
 looking for the door to be shut. 
 
 " At last I heard him as I thought shut the door. I 
 suppose it was one of you gentlemen. But how was I to 
 know ? Poor fellow ! I wish I had known. I went down 
 and turned the handle. It was very stiff, and I tried with 
 all my might before I could move it. At last I did it, and 
 then I saw the water turning round and round in the lake
 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 339 
 
 a few yards from the shore, and heard it rushing below me. 
 It shook the ground where I was standing. 
 
 " Then I went up to the chapel door and waited. You 
 nearly caught me when you came out. I suppose I lost my 
 head. I ran down to the lake through the trees and saw 
 the two men coming up the stairs. Then I saw their boat 
 and tried to get away in it. And that's all I know, sir, 
 and all I've done." 
 
 Calthorp, busy with pencil and note-book, asked a few 
 questions, but the man had evidently told all that he knew, 
 and the real mystery was still unfathomed. The other 
 three sat silent. 
 
 "Well," said Calthorp, "You've told us a plain story, 
 but of course you'll have to tell it again. The warrant for 
 your arrest has been out for a good many months." He 
 summoned the men who were waiting outside the room. 
 " You can take him across to Morthwaite," he said, " and 
 one of you had better tell the three others that their work 
 is over." 
 
 Braithwaite made no further remark and no resistance. 
 He left the room quietly with his captors. 
 
 "That explains the disappearance of Sir Roderick's 
 body," said Calthorp, when the four were alone again. 
 "What the hiding of the jewels means, I don't know. 
 Perhaps we never shall know now that Martin is dead, but 
 the chief thing is that we have got them back." 
 
 " The jewels are buried beneath fathoms of water," said 
 Bobby Conder. 
 
 " It will not be a difficult matter to get them out. The 
 jewels, and and whatever else is there besides. Oh, my 
 God that was an awful moment ! " 
 
 Calthorp had listened to Braithwaite's story with the 
 same cool, alert air as he had listened to Bridden's the 
 morning before, and he had spoken afterwards as if wholly 
 
 * a
 
 340 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 uninfluenced by the scene of horror he had been through, 
 Now suddenly he was a weak, broken man. He put his 
 head on his arm and sobbed. 
 
 The others took no more notice of his outbreak than if 
 it were the most natural thing in the world. Bobby 
 Conder's round cheerful face was very grave, and George 
 and Guy sat in their chairs pale and troubled. 
 
 Calthorp pulled himself together almost instantly. 
 
 " Poor devil," he said, " Poor, poor devil ! " 
 
 " You don't know everything yet," said Guy huskily. 
 
 " Don't know everything ? Why, what more is there to 
 know ? " 
 
 " You don't know who it is that lies drowned down 
 there ? " 
 
 " It's Martin. Surely it's Martin." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it is Martin. But Martin was you tell 
 him, George." 
 
 " You heard Braithwaite say that Martin had gone into 
 business in Glasgow and changed his name," said George. 
 " I have known him under that other name all my life. 
 It was Richards, poor little Peggy's father, who stood there 
 when we went in. And we shall have to tell her to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 Calthorp looked from one to the other. But it was 
 plain that his keen orderly brain had given way for the 
 moment and was unable to take in new impressions. 
 
 " You must tell me to-morrow," he said. " I can't get 
 hold of it to-night. I'm going to bed." 
 
 "We had better all go to bed, I think," said Bobby 
 Conder. " We have had a narrow escape, and we'd better 
 think it over." 
 
 He and Calthorp went out of the room. Guy and 
 George were left facing one another. Both of them had 
 much to say to one another, but neither of them knew
 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 341 
 
 where to begin, and they stood in awkward silence, their 
 eyes on the ground. 
 
 The door of the room opened again and Mrs. Herbert 
 came in. She looked anxiously from one to the other and 
 noticed their troubled faces. 
 
 " Something dreadful has happened," she exclaimed, " Tell 
 me what it is." 
 
 She sat down at the table, and George told her what had 
 taken place. He did not tell her that it was Richards whom 
 they had seen when they burst into the chamber, but when 
 he described how the water had poured in and how he had 
 been left behind in the flooded chamber, she buried her face 
 in her hands. 
 
 44 Oh, poor little Peggy ! " she cried. 
 
 Both of them exclaimed at her. 
 
 M Yes, oh yes, I know who it is," she said, * I know that 
 Martin and Richards were the same. If I had told what I 
 suspected before, this dreadful thing might not have come 
 to pass. I wanted to save the scandal. But why didn't I ? 
 Oh, why didn't I ? " 
 
 " How long have you known ? ** asked George. 
 
 ** I suspected it for a long time," she said, " and I was 
 sure of it when I went to Glasgow. But I had better tell 
 you my story, and you must both of you be prepared to 
 receive further surprises." 
 
 She wiped away the tears she had shed when the news of 
 the terrible death had been revealed to her, and composed 
 herself to her usual tranquillity of manner. 
 
 "And Sir Guy," she said, **I am afraid you must 
 prepare yourself for a bitter disappointment, for although 
 it is possible that all my conclusions may not be right, yet 
 I do not think that I am mistaken in them." 
 
 Guy made no reply, and Mrs. Herbert began her story. 
 
 * I was travelling in Italy with my dear husband just
 
 342 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 twenty-five years ago,'* she said, " we were on our honey- 
 moon. We were staying in an hotel at Assisi, and Sir 
 Roderick and Lady Bertram were in the same hotel. I 
 think I told you this when I first knew you. Martin, 
 Sir Roderick's valet, was with them, and I saw them often 
 Lady Bertram was expecting her confinement very shortly. 
 There was another lady in the hotel, and she was in great 
 trouble. She had been forsaken by her husband, who was 
 a thoroughly bad man. She had just given birth to a 
 delicate child, and when she should be well enough to 
 leave her room she would have nowhere to go to and would 
 be absolutely penniless. I need not tell you how I got to 
 know her, but I did, and she told me her story. She was 
 wrapped up in her baby. It was the only thing in life she 
 had to cling to, but I saw that the poor little thing was 
 not likely to live long, and I feared that if it was taken 
 from her she would die too. 
 
 " On the twelfth of March I was taken ill myself, and was 
 in bed for a few days. When I got up again I heard that 
 Sir Roderick and Lady Bertram had left the hotel on the 
 following day, and the lady I speak of had gone with them. 
 I know that Lady Bertram had taken an interest in her, 
 and I was glad to think that she would be cared for. I 
 never saw her again. But her name was Mrs. Greenfield, 
 and when you showed me a photograph of your mother I 
 recognised it as that of my friend." 
 
 George made no movement of surprise. "It is very 
 extraordinary," he said after a pause, " that our stories 
 should be mixed up in this way. Have you anything more 
 to tell me ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Herbert, " I have. I saw Mrs. Green- 
 field's baby before she left the hotel. One of it's poor 
 little arms was all twisted and deformed. Her wretched 
 husband had ill-used her not very long before the child
 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 343 
 
 was born. And it had blue eyes like its mother, and very 
 fair hair." 
 
 " You mean," said George, " that I am not the child that 
 was born at Assisi ? " 
 
 " You are as unlike it as you could possibly be, but the 
 little twisted arm proves conclusively that you cannot be." 
 
 " Then who am I ? Do you know ? " 
 
 " I do not know. But I can guess, and I am pretty cer- 
 tain that I can guess right. I believe you are the son that 
 was born to Sir Roderick Bertram at Foligno twenty-five 
 years ago to-morrow or rather to-day." 
 
 " Good God ! " exclaimed George, " why do you say 
 that ? " 
 
 Mrs. Herbert rose from her seat, and taking a candle from 
 the table held it in front of the picture of Sir Roderick 
 Bertram. 
 
 " First of all, look at that," she said. 
 
 The two men stood gazing at the picture, and Guy 
 looked from it to George. " The likeness is extraordinary," 
 he said, " I wonder no one has noticed it before." 
 
 " It doesn't go far as proof," said George, maintaining a 
 strong hold on his excitement. 
 
 Mrs. Herbert put the candle on the table and sat down 
 again. 
 
 " Mrs. Greenfield left the hotel with Sir Roderick and 
 Lady Bertram, as I told you," she said, " and all the 
 charges she had incurred were paid. Our own next 
 stopping-place, my husband's and mine, happened to 
 be at Foligno, where Lady Bertram had been unexpectedly 
 confined, and where she had died. I heard there that 
 Mrs. Greenfield had gone on with Sir Roderick after 
 Lady Bertram's death, and I also learnt that the child was 
 alive and under her care. Now you told me that she lived 
 at Highgate on her own money, and that her affairs were
 
 344 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 administered for her by Mr. Richards, whom we know now 
 to have been Martin. Where did the money come from ? 
 She had never seen her husband again until the last weeks 
 of her life, and had thought him dead. And when she did 
 see him he was destitute and she was giving him money. 
 It could not have come from him. And there was money 
 for your education and start in life, and Mr. Richards 
 offended you by trying to influence your choice of a col- 
 lege. Where did that money come from, and why should he 
 have interfered ? What should he know about the college at 
 Cambridge ? " 
 
 " She told me that the money came from my father," said 
 George. 
 
 " It came," said Mrs. Herbert," from Sir Roderick Bertram, 
 through Martin." 
 
 Guy got up from his chair and laughed unsteadily. " No 
 wonder Mr. Richards wanted to know what I should do with 
 myself if I lost everything," he said. " You are Sir George 
 Bertram, and I am nobody." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Guy," said George. " You are what you 
 have always been. The whole story is wildly improbable. 
 I beg your pardon, Mrs. Herbert. What you have told us 
 is very extraordinary, and as far as your facts go they are 
 not to be contradicted. But we shall find some other 
 explanation of them. It is I who shall turn out to be 
 nobody." 
 
 " I do not think so,*' she replied, " and I hope for your 
 sake that it may not be so, although I am very sorry 
 that all this mystery and secrecy will fall so heavily on 
 Sir Guy." 
 
 "I don't doubt your conclusions," said Guy. "They are 
 absolutely convincing. George, let me be the first to greet 
 you as the head of my family and as my very respected 
 cousin. It's all a matter of luck, and there's nobody I
 
 MRS. HERBERT'S STORY. 545 
 
 would rather see take his share of it than you. Now I'm 
 off to bed." 
 
 He went out of the room without another word. There 
 was nothing in his manner except an unwonted excitement 
 to show how hard he had been hit by Mrs. Herbert's 
 communication. 
 
 " Poor chap ! " said George. " If you are right after all, 
 Mrs. Herbert, I shall feel like a pretender. 1 *
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIL 
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARING. 
 
 THE last piece of machinery to be affected by the most 
 cataclysmic crises in human life is the domestic routine of 
 a large household. The party at Merrilees met at breakfast 
 on that fourteenth of March as usual, and when George 
 entered the dining-room, where he had heard the news so 
 momentous as far as his future prospects were concerned 
 only a few hours before, he found Mrs. Herbert presiding 
 over the tea and coffee service, and helped himself to the 
 dishes on the side table as if after a quiet night there was 
 nothing before them but a day of ordinary work and 
 ordinary pleasure. Bobby Conder ad Calthorp followed 
 him after a short interval. Lord Caradoc greeted the 
 former and accepted the presence of the latter without 
 comment, as if the appearance of a stranger at the break- 
 fast table in a house ten miles away from the nearest 
 railway station were one of the most ordinary occurrences 
 in the world. He had been told that Calthorp was coming, 
 who he was, and what he was coming for ; but the in- 
 formation had not interested him, and he now talked 
 placidly to George, totally oblivious of anything out of 
 the common that was taking place in the house of 
 Merrilees. 
 
 George found it very difficult to attend to him, and to 
 make suitable replies, and was relieved when Bobby Conder's 
 arrival turned the conversation to that statesman's expe- 
 riences of travel. He sat opposite to Peggy, whose bright
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARING. 347 
 
 face, as she and Cicely laughed and talked together, showed 
 how happy and contented she was at the present moment, 
 and he reproached himself somewhat because during the 
 few nearly sleepless hours he had spent alone he had given 
 but little thought to Peggy and the trouble that was 
 coming to her. He had gone over Mrs. Herbert's story in 
 his mind again and again, and the circumstance of its 
 details had forced him into a belief that the mystery of 
 his birth was cleared up. He had emerged from struggling 
 obscurity into the light of an honourable name and a great 
 position in the world, and as he looked at Cicely he could 
 not prevent his heart leaping with a sudden impulse 
 of happiness. The rosy gleam died away. There was 
 much to go through before the difficulties and the dis- 
 coveries that were thronging about them should adjust 
 themselves to new conditions. 
 
 Guy came down last of all, when Lord Caradoc had 
 already left the table. His face was pale, and there were 
 dark rings under his eyes. George reproached himself 
 again for his thoughts when he saw him. Whatever of 
 satisfaction the new conditions might bring to him, it 
 seemed that the man whose life had hitherto passed so 
 pleasantly and so easily could only lose everything that he 
 possessed and most of what he hoped for. 
 
 The two girls lingered while the late-comers ate their 
 breakfast. They knew nothing of what had happened, but 
 it was impossible but that an air of constraint should make 
 itself felt. Presently Mrs. Herbert went out of the room 
 and they followed her. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Peggy," said George gravely, as 
 he opened the door for them. " I will come to you in the 
 morning room presently." 
 
 Peggy looked at him with a trace of alarm in her eyes. 
 
 " Very well, George," she said.
 
 348 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 "Do these two know what Mrs. Herbert told us last 
 night ? " asked Guy when he came back to the table. 
 
 " No," said George. 
 
 " Better tell them," said Guy, " I have been thinking it 
 over all the night. I haven't had a wink of sleep. It must 
 be true, and the sooner it's out the better." 
 
 " Well, let us go into the smoking room," said George. 
 
 All traces of Calthorp's breakdown of the night before 
 had disappeared. His face was keen and set as the four of 
 them went into the smoking room, and the door was closed 
 behind them. In the conversation that followed there was 
 little sign of emotion in the part he took or the views he 
 put forward, and there was that in his manner which 
 indicated that he would have resented any allusion to the 
 wholly human episode which had for a moment brought 
 the man of feeling to the surface through the crust of light 
 cynicism which represented his character to nine-tenths of 
 his acquaintances. He exhibited no surprise when Mrs. 
 Herbert's story of the night before had been unfolded to him, 
 but quickly adjusted it in his mind to the train of events 
 which had preceded it, refraining even from comment upon 
 the effects it would have upon the lives of two of his friends. 
 
 " The story hangs together too well not to carry weight 
 with it," he said when he had heard all that could be told 
 him. " The only thing that is actually proved by it is that 
 George is not the child that was born to Mrs. Greenfield in 
 Italy. The whole course of events is so remarkable that 
 there may very well be some other explanation of them 
 than that which Mrs. Herbert has hit upon. There may be 
 something among Martin's papers that will throw light on 
 the whole affair. Now that he is dead it is the only thing 
 to hope for. And there is a great deal that is unexplained. 
 Why, for instance, should Sir Roderick have disowned his 
 own son ? "
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARING. 349 
 
 " He was devoted to his wife," suggested Bobby Couder 
 diffidently, " and the birth of the child cost her her life. 
 That might be the explanation." 
 
 " It is the only possible one. Now, Martin was preparing 
 to disclose a certain mystery and to deliver up the jewels 
 to-day. That is on what would have been the twenty-fifth 
 anniversary of Lady Bertram's death, and also of the 
 child's birth. By-the-bye, George, what day has been kept 
 as your birthday ? " 
 
 " The fourteenth of March to-day," said George. 
 
 The four men looked at one another. " That proves it," 
 said Guy. " Mrs. Greenfield's baby was born some time 
 before." 
 
 " It is another piece of evidence," said Calthorp. 
 " Although I did not know of this new complication, and 
 have not had time to adjust my ideas to it, I have been 
 thinking things over and putting two and two together, and 
 I think I can see a little further into the mystery than I did 
 last night." 
 
 " In the first place everything points to this, that at the 
 time we have now reached there was to have been some 
 great change in Sir Roderick's life. The conversion of his 
 great fortune into jewels would have been completed. His 
 book would have been finished. What was the change 
 to be?" 
 
 " He was going to recognise his son," said Guy. 
 
 M That may have been," said Calthorp, " But if it were so 
 it would not contradict what I think was going to happen. 
 You remember the answer that Sir Roderick gave to the 
 bank manager who asked him what he proposed to do for 
 an income when he had turned all his capital into jewels," 
 
 " He said that at the end of fifteen years he should not 
 want an income," said Guy. 
 
 ** Exactly. We thought, if you remember, that that
 
 350 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 answer might have been accounted for by a presentiment of 
 death on his part. As a matter of fact his death came 
 naturally some six months before the end of the fifteen 
 years, and he was plainly unprepared for it. He was a 
 perfectly healthy man with no tendency to disease, accord- 
 ing to the doctor. Why should he have expected his death 
 at a certain definite date ? " 
 
 " I don't quite see what you are driving at," said Guy. 
 
 " I will tell you. I have come to the conclusion that if 
 he had not been carried off last June, Sir Roderick Bertram 
 would have taken his own life to-day." 
 
 There was a pause of astonishment. " What evidence 
 have you got of that ? " asked George. 
 
 No direct evidence, of course. But it is the only solu- 
 tion that answers all the unexplained difficulties of his 
 actions. A man may have a presentiment of death to come 
 to him in a certain year, but no man would so order his life 
 for at least fifteen years on the conviction that it was going 
 to end on a certain day or in a certain month. We know 
 that Sir Roderick did not expect to die before to-day because 
 his death found his preparations incomplete. And there is 
 no trace of any provision made for his living here or any- 
 where else after to-day, although of course he would never 
 have wanted for money if he had lived. 
 
 "Then again these instructions to Martin. Martin was 
 to do certain things. He was not told to hide the jewels. 
 That was his own idea, and I haven't been able to fit it 
 in. But if this new story about the son is true, it was 
 probably because Sir Roderick had made up his mind to 
 recognise him as his heir, but not until his twenty- fifth 
 birthday, or after Sir Roderick's own death. And Martin 
 kept as far as he could to what he knew were his master's 
 wishes. He was possibly under oath. 
 
 " Well, there was nothing about hiding the jewels. But
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARING. 351 
 
 the preparations for Sir Roderick's death and the disposal 
 of his body were definitely made, and the date of it, not 
 exactly but approximately, communicated to Braithwaite. 
 I think that Sir Roderick meant to take his own life at 
 this time. His body would have been laid by the side of 
 his wife, and his place of burial destroyed by the letting in 
 of the water. How the necessary secrecy would have been 
 preserved of course we can't guess. Then Martin would 
 have produced an account of his stewardship, all plain 
 and above board from those wonderfully kept books 
 upstairs, and the heir would have stepped into his place." 
 
 " It is an ingenious theory," said George, " but what 
 bearing has it on what has happened ? " 
 
 " Perhaps little," admitted Calthorp. " But one or two 
 points seem clear. It is unlikely that Sir Roderick made a 
 will. There was no reason why he should have done so 
 before his arrangements were completed if he expected his 
 death at a certain date, and if he had done so Martin 
 would hardly have dared to keep it back, because you 
 see, from what Braithwaite told us, he was prepared to 
 make himself known to-day, and must have relied on 
 the fact that in what he has done he was acting on 
 Sir Roderick's instructions to exonerate him from all 
 blame. He would have told us all that there was to tell 
 by word of mouth, and therefore I am afraid it is unlikely 
 that we shall find any written explanation of the mystery 
 among his papers." 
 
 " His word would not be enough to prove that George 
 was Sir Roderick's son," said Guy. 
 
 " It probably would," said Calthorp, " if he gave 
 evidence under oath. But of that I knew nothing last 
 night. It is possible that he brought with him papers to 
 prove that if it is the case. If so, they will be found on 
 his body."
 
 35 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 ' And that brings us," said George, " to what we have 
 to do now. Everyone in the house must be told. I am 
 going to ask Mrs. Herbert to tell poor little Peggy. She 
 will do it better than I. Who is to tell Lord Caradoc ? ** 
 
 " You had better, I think," said Guy. 
 
 " Yes," said Bobby, " it had better come from you.** 
 
 "Very well," said George. "And what steps arc you 
 going to take, Dick ? " 
 
 " We must take immediate steps to get the water out of 
 the chamber and tunnels," said Calthorp. " I had better 
 arrange for that now. I think that Lord Caradoc ought to 
 be persuaded to leave the house for a time. It will become 
 the centre of popular excitement again now, and for other 
 reasons he will not be happy here for the present." 
 
 " I am afraid he will be a good deal upset by the news,** 
 said George. " I will go and tell him at once." 
 
 Lord Caradoc was, undoubtedly, greatly upset. He 
 found it impossible to take in the story in its entirety, but 
 he realised sufficiently that the coming disturbances at 
 Merrilees would make it impossible for him to continue his 
 residence there for the present, and he delivered an ulti- 
 matum to Mrs. Herbert that his household would have 
 to be moved back to Berkeley Square not later than the 
 following day. 
 
 Peggy received the news of her father's life-story and of 
 his death with shocked surprise, but with no very violent 
 expressions of grief. 
 
 " I had never learnt to love him," she said, when she had 
 wept a little on Mrs. Herbert's shoulder. " But he was never 
 unkind to me while I was with him in Glasgow, and I know 
 he liked to have me there with him." She went to London 
 with her new friends the next day, and remained there 
 while the sad duties that had to be performed at Merrilees 
 during the following week were carried out. Bobby Conder
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARING. 353 
 
 also went with them, and the house was left undisturbed 
 to George, Guy, and Calthorp. 
 
 It proved no very difficult task to get the water out of 
 the secret chamber and the approaches to it. The flood 
 door was closed by means of the mechanism that had 
 opened it and the water pumped out by way of the tunnel 
 under the lake. 
 
 When the work was finished the three men descended 
 again into the chamber by the way which had so nearly 
 proved a path of death to them. It was with very pale 
 faces that they entered it again. Martin lay where the 
 rush of the inflowing water had struck him down. There 
 were no signs of suffering on his face, but a look of peace 
 which it had seldom borne during the last months of his 
 strange life. George passed the place where he lay and 
 looked with indescribable feelings on the bodies of the 
 two whom he now acknowledged to himself as his father 
 and mother. 
 
 The movements of the water had disturbed their positions. 
 They now lay close together near the dead man, who, what- 
 ever his faults, had given them long and faithful service. 
 The youth and beauty of the woman had been wonderfully 
 preserved by the Italian embalmers. But for her faded 
 dress it would have been impossible to think of her as 
 having been dead for five and twenty years. The heavily- 
 fringed lids were closed as if in sleep. The red mouth was 
 slightly open, showing the line of ivory teeth, and the 
 dusky hair which had been unloosened lay on her soft 
 cheeks and all about her slender form. George gazed at 
 her beauty long. He had given the love of a son to another, 
 and told himself that he would never regret it. The 
 memory of this sweet and delicate creature lived for him 
 afterwards in other emotions. 
 
 He looked for the first time on the face of his fathet 
 
 H.M. A A
 
 354 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 His heart was sore that he had never been allowed to 
 tender him the obedience and reverence of a son. He 
 studied the noble head and the strong, straight form, that 
 of a king among men in intellect and in manly beauty. 
 How willingly would he have looked up to and learnt from 
 such a man ! Then he recalled the mastering love, the 
 overwhelming loss, and the marred and disappointed life 
 a life not wasted, but given over to the carrying out of a 
 great purpose, and yet a life robbed of all that it prized 
 most. And he recalled with yet deeper emotion that, in spite 
 of their estrangement, he himself had had some small part 
 in his father's life. He had not disgraced the name he was 
 now to bear, and there was evidence to show that his youth 
 and early manhood had been watched, not without approval. 
 Among Sir Roderick's papers he and Lord Caradoc had 
 found that printed pamphlet of George's that had won a 
 University prize. Its discovery had caused some surprise to 
 George, but a sufficient explanation seemed to have been 
 that it was on a subject in which Sir Roderick had been 
 interested. But it had been kept apart from other similar 
 papers, and he now hoped that it had given his father 
 pleasure because it was his work. Other indications rose 
 to his memory which seemed to show that Sir Roderick had 
 recognised his son in his heart if not before the world, and 
 he was to have clear proof that this was so later. He turned 
 away with a sigh, and went out of the chamber and up 
 under the sky, leaving to others the task of moving the 
 three bodies from the chamber of death. They laid them 
 side by side in the little chapel and buried them later in the 
 quiet churchyard at Morthwaite, where they rest after their 
 strange life amongst other Bertrams of older times and 
 some of the dependants of that house who had served them 
 faithfully.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 THE MTSTERT CLEARED. 
 
 CALTHORP'S conjecture that Sir Roderick Bertram had 
 intended to take his own life on a certain date was never 
 verified. It need only be said that no other explanation of 
 details otherwise inexplicable in his course of action was 
 ever discovered. In other respects the surmises of Mrs. 
 Herbert and Calthorp were amply corroborated. Papers 
 were found on Martin's body. They had evidently been 
 brought to afford proof of what he had intended to tell by 
 word of mouth. There were the certificates of birth of a son 
 born by Mrs. Greenfield on February 26th, 18 , and a son 
 born to Sir Roderick Bertram on March I4th. There was 
 also the certificate of the death of Sir Roderick Bertram's 
 son at Spoleto on March iyth. These papers by themselves 
 seemed to show that there was no truth in the story that 
 Lady Bertram's living child had been exchanged for Mrs. 
 Greenfield's dead one. But other evidence of its truth was 
 forthcoming, and poor Mrs. Herbert had to undergo the 
 notoriety which came from telling openly what she knew of 
 the story. The grave at Spoleto was opened, and George 
 was finally proved to be Sir Roderick Bertram's son and 
 heir to all his property. 
 
 The news of Martin's death brought down to Merrilees his 
 former partner, Mr. McDougall, who brought information 
 which cleared up the mystery surrounding the actions of the 
 man who, under two names, has played so large a part in this 
 itory. 
 
 A A t
 
 356 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 Mr. McDougall was a middle-aged Scotchman with a 
 dried-up appearance and manner, and a strong Glasgow 
 accent, which it would be impossible to produce in print, 
 even if it were desirable. He told his story in an 
 orderly unemotional way, which explained in some degree 
 the curious part he himself had taken in it. For Mr. 
 McDougall had been the only man in the British Isles who 
 had known that Mr. Richards, quietly pursuing his business 
 avocations in Glasgow, and Robert Martin, who was wanted 
 by the whole body of police of the United Kingdom, were 
 one and the same man, and he had made no movement to 
 betray his knowledge. 
 
 " I've brought a paper," he said, " which I was to put 
 into the hands of Mr. George Greenfield, in the event of 
 Robert Richards's death before his designs should be 
 accomplished. But first of all I will tell you what I know 
 of him, so that you may be able to straighten things in your 
 minds. 
 
 "I first met him when we were both lads in the service of the 
 Earl of Cumnock, who had an estate in Ayrshire. His lord- 
 ship is long since dead and his family dispersed. I worked in 
 the policies and Richards was footman, and went with the 
 family to London and elsewhere. When they came to Scot- 
 land in the autumn of every year we foregathered. We were 
 both above our places, if I may say so. I had a strong hanker- 
 ing after commerce, and you may say I was made for it, for 
 I've now been many years in business, and I'm a warm man. 
 Richards had the same wish and the same manner of 
 capability, which was odd in two lads placed as we were and 
 enough to bring us together. We would meet and talk 
 over our plans and ambitions and we swore a compact, as 
 lads will, to help each other in whatever we might under- 
 take in the future and to keep one another's secrets, and so 
 forth. And we were saving our money and meant to get
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 357 
 
 out of service as soon as we could and start in business, 
 together it might be, or, if not, one would always give the 
 other a helping hand. It seems foolishness now in an 
 under-footman and an under-gardener, but we were very 
 much in earnest then, and you'll see how it turned out. 
 
 " Richards's plans were like to be rudely upset, for there 
 was trouble in his lordship's house, and he was wrongfully 
 blamed for it. There was a theft of jewels, and it looked 
 so that Richards was the thief. I needn't go into details, 
 but things were very black against him, by coincidence, and 
 I make no doubt that if it hadn't been for Sir Roderick 
 Bertram who was staying in the house as a guest, he would 
 have been tried and sent to prison as a thief and his 
 character blasted for life. Richards had waited on Sir 
 Roderick Bertram, who was a young bachelor then, and 
 loaded for him and all that. He had told me about him 
 and of how he was not like other young gentlemen, but 
 friendly though autocratic, and a man to serve with pride 
 and pleasure. So when this trouble came, Richards plucked 
 up courage and appealed to Sir Roderick to see him righted 
 and he did so, and found out the truth of the story, and 
 when Richards was righted he took him into his own 
 service. And it was then that Richards chose to be called 
 by his second name, Martin, because of what had happened, 
 and to make a fresh start. 
 
 " Soon after that I saw my way to starting in business in a 
 small way, and I asked Richards to join me according to 
 compact. But he said he was bound to his master's 
 service, and wouldn't leave him this side of the grave. He 
 was a man of strong character, and where he'd placed his 
 duty and affections, there they'd stay. 'That's good-bye to 
 your business career, then,' I said, and he said, *Yes, I'm 
 likely to end as I began, a gentleman's servant* 
 
 " Then I lost sight of him for some years, and mean/ime
 
 358 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 I prospered. Well, some fifteen years ago I was surprised 
 at him calling for me in my place of business in Glasgow, 
 and for two men without the capacity for making many 
 friends and not overburdened with sentiment, we came 
 together in a surprising way. He told me that he had 
 married and had a daughter, but his wife was dead. I have 
 never married, which may account for my being able to 
 keep the secrets which were afterwards disclosed to me 
 without anybody guessing that I had any. Richards told 
 me then that Sir Roderick Bertram had put a great deal of 
 responsibility into his hands, and that he was more of a 
 steward than a valet. And he told me that his master was 
 treating him with a great generosity and was giving him 
 commissions on purchases he was making for him just as if 
 he was not in his regular employ. We talked over many 
 things in detail and at last we came to Sfa arrangement by 
 which Martin should invest his money in my business, and 
 if ever in the future he should leave Sir Roderick's service 
 we should go into partnership and work together. And so 
 it went on for many years, and occasionally Richards 
 would come to see me in Glasgow, but as you may imagine 
 under the circumstances, this is the first time I've been to 
 Merrilees. 
 
 " Last June Richards came to me. He was much cast 
 down by Sir Roderick Bertram's sudden death. Sir Roderick 
 had died only two days before and the world at that 
 time had heard nothing of it. He said he was ready to 
 take up the partnership that we had arranged for, but he 
 warned me that there might be trouble coming for him. ' I 
 will tell you what I can,' he said, ' and you can take 
 your choice of having me with you and keeping your 
 mouth closed about what I am going to tell you or letting 
 me go away 1 * ' Let me hear first,' I said, ' what you have 
 got to tell me. It won't go any further, whatever happens.'
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 359 
 
 And you may imagine I was somewhat exercised by his 
 story. 
 
 "He told me about his laying Sir Roderick's body, 
 according to his master's instructions, in a secret place. 
 He told me about the jewels, and that he had put them for 
 the present in the same hiding place. He said that he 
 knew what Sir Roderick's wishes with regard to his 
 property were, and had been entrusted with the duty oi 
 carrying them out after his death, but that there was a secret 
 which he had sworn not to divulge until after a certain 
 date namely, the fourteenth of March in the following 
 year, and that sooner than break his oath he would let 
 matters take their course until that date, when he would 
 disclose everything. 
 
 M ' But, my good man,' I said, ' You don't see that you'll 
 be accused of stealing the jewels, to say nothing of your 
 master's body. There'll be a terrible outcry,' I said, ' when 
 once the news is known, and you'll be taken, and made to 
 tell what you know.' 
 
 " ' I'll never do that,' he said, ' till the time comes, and I've 
 thought of everything. I'm little known,' he said ; ' I've 
 never been photographed in my life, and I've shaved off my 
 beard as you see. If you let me come quietly to this office 
 to-morrow morning and begin work here, by the time the 
 news is out nobody here will think of connecting me with 
 Martin. It's a risk, but I'm ready to take it if you are, and 
 I think it's less of a risk than you might imagine.' 
 
 " ' And what will you do ? ' I said, ' if the police do find 
 you? ' 
 
 " ' I'll put up with whatever I'm obliged to,' he said, ' till 
 next March, and then I'll tell my story.' 
 
 " ' Why not tell it now ? ' I said, ' and get it off your mind.' 
 
 " ' I can't do that,' he said, ' I swore to do a certain thing 
 and I'll keep my oath whatever it costs me.'
 
 360 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Well, to cut a long story short, gentlemen, Richards 
 settled down in Glasgow, and went about his business, and 
 was never once suspected, even when the excitement was at 
 its highest. He told me that he had once been recognised 
 in London, but he went there as seldom as possible, and, 
 as you know, he was never caught. 
 
 " Well, the day before the poor fellow's death, he reminded 
 me that the time had come to end all the mystery. He was 
 downcast, and not relieved, as I should have been, at the 
 prospect of getting it off his mind. I think now that he 
 had some presentiment of his end. At any rate, he acted 
 as if we should never meet again. That is, he put his will 
 and other private papers connected with his property into 
 my hands and told me how to act in the event of his death. 
 He said he should be back again in two days' time, but had 
 made everything straight in case of accidents. What 
 accidents he did not say, and of course he could not have 
 known the terrible end that was to overtake him. He also 
 gave me this envelope addressed to George Greenfield, Esq. 
 He said I should find you in this house, sir, and was to give 
 it to you in the event of anything happening to him. He 
 said good-bye to me without emotion, but I think he never 
 expected to see me again. Things work out strangely in 
 this life, and there's more in it than meets the eye." 
 
 With this somewhat trite observation, Mr. McDougall 
 closed his long speech and put the envelope which he had 
 been holding into George's hands. He betrayed no curiosity 
 as to its contents ; indeed, curiosity did not appear to be 
 strongly developed in Mr. McDougall's character, and Mr. 
 Richards could hardly have chosen a better confidant to 
 whom to confide such of his secrets as he could not keep to 
 himself. He left Memlees shortly afterwards, saying that it 
 was a busy time with him in Glasgow, but before he went he 
 made another statement which may as well be recorded here.
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 361 
 
 Richards had executed a will, of which Mr. McDougall was 
 sole executor, in which he had left everything he possessed to 
 Peggy. Part of his money was invested and part had 
 purchased his share in the business, a certain percentage of 
 the profits of which were to be paid to his daughter. When 
 her affairs were settled up by Mr. McDougall she was found 
 to possess an income of between six and seven hundred a 
 year. 
 
 The document which Mr. McDougall put into George's 
 hands cleared up the whole mystery of Sir Roderick's life 
 and what had taken place after his death. In part it 
 recounted what was already known or guessed at, but it is 
 here given in full. It bore a date of a few days previously, 
 and began without any further preamble : 
 
 " This is directed to you under the name which you have 
 always borne, of George Greenfield, but you are really 
 Sir George Bertram, the only son of Sir Roderick Bertram, 
 my late master. It will be put into your hands only in the 
 event of my death before your birthday on March I4th, and 
 not until then. I fully expect to be alive then to tell you 
 by word of mouth what I now write, but in case of my 
 death I put down on paper for you what you must then 
 know, and I tell you a large part of the story of my own 
 life, to clear my own memory of blame which you have at 
 various times imputed to me. 
 
 " I entered the service of Sir Roderick Bertram over 
 thirty years ago. I was bound to him by exceptional ties 
 of gratitude and respect, and these feelings have only grown 
 stronger with years. You have known me as a man with 
 very little natural affection, and I do not claim that you 
 have misjudged my character in that respect ; but my 
 devotion to Sir Roderick Bertram, ever since the time when he 
 saved me from a serious but undeserved trouble and first took 
 me into his service and gave me his confidence, has nerer
 
 362 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 wavered. It has been the strongest influence in my life. 
 Perhaps it has absorbed all the feeling which other men 
 devote to many objects, and it has guided me in everything 
 I have done for the last thirty years. If you will bear this in 
 mind you will understand some things in my behaviour 
 towards yourself which have caused you anger in the 
 past, and I do not deny that you have had reason to be 
 dissatisfied. 
 
 " I pass over the first five years of my service with Sir 
 Roderick, during which I devoted all my energies to his 
 welfare and his interests and gradually gained his 
 complete confidence, so that while I always lived at 
 Merrilees with the upper domestics and was to appearance 
 his private servant, I became actually his secretary 
 and afterwards his man of business. During his short 
 married life I learnt to extend that regard which I felt for 
 him towards his lady. There was never such happiness in 
 wedded life as Sir Roderick and Lady Bertram enjoyed 
 during the year between their marriage and her death. 
 All their lives were wrapped up in one another. When 
 Lady Bertram died, only one who knew him through 
 and through as I did could have told what a crushing 
 blow it was to Sir Roderick. He made no expres- 
 sions of grief, and outwardly he was almost unmoved; 
 but, although his great powers of mind were untouched 
 by what had happened, the change that came over 
 him was all the more striking for that reason. The 
 c nly harsh word I have ever received from him was at that 
 time, when I ventured to say something to him of my 
 sorrow on his behalf. He looked at me fiercely and said 
 ' Remember your place, and don't presume on it.' But 
 then and always he was too great a man to be unjust, 
 though you, perhaps, may not think so, and he added, 
 ' You can show your loyalty by following my instruction!
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 363 
 
 implicitly.' 'That I will do as I have always done, sir,' I 
 answered, and he said, ' I shall put you to the test.' 
 
 " I tell you these things so as to help you to understand 
 Sir Roderick's actions, and also my actions in carrying out 
 his instructions. A smaller man than he was, if he were 
 capable of the depth of love that Sir Roderick bore 
 towards his wife, would have shown more grief, but he would 
 have got over it. Or it would have crushed him altogether. 
 Sir Roderick never got over his loss till the day of his death. 
 And it did not crush him altogether, as the naturalness of his 
 after life within the limits he chose for it showed. Perhaps 
 one part of his brain gave way and caused him to undertake 
 the work which he spent the last twenty-four years of his 
 life over in solitude, instead of living in the world as he had 
 done before. Of course he never talked to me of these things, 
 but I have thought over them very often and that is my view 
 of the matter. And there is another point which seems to 
 go with this view, and that is his conviction that his life 
 would end on the day twenty-five years after his lady's 
 death. He was accustomed to talk of that to me as if it 
 was a fixed and natural thing, and, as you will see, all his 
 arrangements were made to fit in with it. I know what 
 will be said as to this, and I have no further explanation 
 to offer one way or the other. I will close this part of my 
 subject by saying that the motive which swayed Sir 
 Roderick's life was the never-dying devotion to the 
 memory of his wife, and the motive that has directed 
 all my actions has been unquestioning obedience to his 
 will. 
 
 " In the year 18 Sir Roderick and Lad) Bertram were 
 travelling in Italy. We had two travelling carriages, 
 and went from one place to another in the old-fashioned 
 way. There was a courier in attendance as well as myself 
 and her ladyship's maid, who was an Italian woman.
 
 364 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 On March I2th, 18 we were at Assisi. Lady Bertram 
 was expecting her confinement in a few weeks. Mrs. 
 Greenfield was staying in the same hotel and had given 
 birth to a child some little time before. She had been 
 forsaken by her husband and was destitute. My lady 
 heard of her story and took pity on her, and asked Sir 
 Roderick to take her to England with us. We left Assisi 
 together and our next stopping place was Foligno. There 
 Lady Bertram was unexpectedly confined on March ?4th, 
 and in the evening she died. 
 
 " I will say nothing further of Sir Roderick's grief, but 
 will record what happened briefly. Lady Bertram's body 
 was embalmed, and we continued our journey the following 
 day. The courier was sent to Civita Vecchia to engage a 
 yacht to be ready for us when we reached the coast. Sir 
 Roderick told me shortly that he was going to take the 
 body home to Merrilees and that it was not to be known. 
 The Italian maid had been sent away, and Mrs. Greenfield 
 readily promised secrecy. Her own child was then very 
 ill, and at Spoleto, our next stopping place, it died. 
 
 "At Spoleto Sir Roderick summoned me and said, ' Are 
 you prepared to follow implicitly any instructions I may 
 give you ? ' I said ' Yes ' at once, and he asked for no 
 further assurances. He told me in a quiet matter-of-fact 
 way that he would never see the child nor recognise it as 
 his son. He told me to make a proposal to Mrs. 
 Greenfield. I was first of all to say that she would be 
 amply provided for. This was, no doubt, because Lady 
 Bertram had befriended her. I was then to ask her to take 
 the child and bring it up as her own. She was never to 
 disclose the facts of its birth to anyone. It was like Sir 
 Roderick not to make his offer of a provision for her 
 dependent upon her consent, but it probably went a long 
 way towards persuading her. Her own child was dead,
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 365 
 
 and she clung very closely to you. She had nursed you 
 from the hour of your birth. When I had won her consent 
 she saw Sir Roderick and made a solemn oath of secrecy 
 as he desired. She was sent home to England, and settled 
 in Highgate, as you know. Her own child was buried at 
 Spoleto on March lyth and a stone put up as if it was 
 Sir Roderick's son. 
 
 "As we were on our way home in the yacht we had 
 chartered for the purpose, Sir Roderick told me of his inten- 
 tions with regard to Lady Bertram's body. He said that 
 when Sir Michael Bertram had rebuilt the old house of 
 Merrilees, he had gone to great expense in constructing a 
 secret chamber within the walls of the park. I may tell 
 you this much, but am not at liberty to say more, and the 
 secret is so well guarded that it is unlikely that it will ever 
 be discovered. It had been handed down by word of mouth 
 from father to son, and no one but Sir Roderick knew of the 
 existence of the chamber. He told me that the story of this 
 chamber and the use to which Sir Michael, his ancestor, had 
 put it was a very curious and interesting one, and that he 
 had written a book about it which he should now destroy. 
 I do not know whether he ever did so, or whether his book 
 is still in existence. I never saw it, and he told me nothing 
 of the story itself but only that the chamber was there, and 
 how it was to be reached. 
 
 " Here Lady Bertram's body was to be laid, and when Sir 
 Roderick himself should come to die his body was to be 
 laid beside hers, and all traces of the chamber itself 
 destroyed. Afterwards I was given fuller instructions on 
 these points. But we landed safely and secretly on a little 
 inhabited part of the coast, and Lady Bertram's body was 
 laid to rest in the appointed place. 
 
 " That was the only time I visited the chamber until Sir 
 Roderick's own death, but every night of his life during
 
 366 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 those twenty-four years he went there himself and kept his 
 grief and his memory alive. 
 
 "We very soon dropped into ordinary ways of life at 
 Merrilees. Sir Roderick spent his days like any other 
 gentleman, except that he saw no one but the servants in 
 his house. Day after day and year after year he worked at 
 the great book which you know of. His recreations were 
 the garden and the collection of pictures, furniture and 
 other things of which you know also, but this did not begin 
 until a year or two later. I need not go further into these 
 things. I acted for him throughout and was in many ways 
 deep in his confidence. But in others he would simply give 
 me his instructions without any explanation, and I was not 
 on such terms with him as allowed me to ask him any 
 questions. 
 
 *' I must mention one occurrence which seemed unimpor- 
 tant at the time, but has had an important effect upon what 
 has since occurred. Sir Roderick had given me definite 
 instructions to buy a certain picture which was to be sold 
 by auction. This was some years after Lady Bertram's 
 death, and I had done my best to fit myself to be of use to 
 him in these matters, and had got to consider myself some- 
 thing of an expert. When I saw this picture, I judged it to 
 be a forgery, and I made no offer for it. It was bought by 
 a dealer for a large sum. When I told Sir Roderick of this 
 on my return from London he said, ' Is that how you keep 
 your promise of obedience to my directions ? Go back and 
 buy the picture from the dealer.' I was nearer to feeling 
 anger against Sir Roderick then than I have ever been, 
 but I did what I was told. I had to give the dealer a 
 thousand pounds more than he had paid for it. When we 
 had completed the bargain I said, ' My own opinion is 
 that the picture is a forgery, but I have been told to buy 
 it,' The dealer replied, ' I'm quite sure it is, but I have
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 367 
 
 been offered a profit for it from America.' So I went back 
 hoping that Sir Roderick would do justice to my know- 
 ledge. Directly he saw it, he said, ' You may put it away. 
 I don't want to see it again.' I looked to him to make 
 some acknowledgment that I had been right, but he went 
 on, 'You have got to know about these things, Martin, 
 and when you told me your opinion I believed it to be a 
 right one. I trust your knowledge of these things after 
 my own. But in this case I gave you no directions to 
 exercise your judgment. I told you to buy the picture. It 
 is worth, perhaps, five pounds, and I have paid five thousand 
 for it. But I would have paid a hundred thousand, or 
 more, to have the assurance that I could trust you to carry 
 out my instructions to the letter without questioning them.' 
 Then I saw it all, and I said at once, ' I give you my solemn 
 promise, sir, to carry out all your instructions to the letter 
 for the future.' ' Then this five thousand pounds which the 
 world would call thrown away,' he said, * will be the best 
 investment I ever made.' 
 
 " I ask you to bear this story in mind when I come to 
 my actions after Sir Roderick's death. 
 
 " I now come to matters which will be in your own 
 remembrance. When the arrangement with Mrs. Greenfield 
 was come to it was settled that she should have 500 a 
 year for her life. This I paid her regularly, at first in gold, 
 and afterwards, when I made business connections in 
 Glasgow, by cheque upon my bank there under my own 
 name of Richards. This was done so that the chances of 
 your discovering when you grew up my identity with 
 Martin, Sir Roderick's servant, should be done away with 
 as far as possible. The arrangements were my own. Sir 
 Roderick only told me to conceal all clues. There were 
 difficulties in the way of purchasing an annuity, and I paid 
 the money every quarter.
 
 3 68 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " For seven years your name was never mentioned by 
 Sir Roderick. In the meantime I married the daughter of 
 a farmer at Morthwaite. She was the last member of a 
 good old yeoman stock, and my girl has no reason to be 
 ashamed of her parentage on her mother's side. We lived 
 in one of the cottages on the island, and when my wife 
 died I went back to the house. Sir Roderick had previously 
 bought the two hundred acres which were my father-in- 
 law's. Upon the death of my wife he asked me what I 
 intended to do with my child. I told him that a lady had 
 promised to give her a home, and when he asked me that 
 lady's name, and where she lived, I told him. He looked 
 at me in his searching way, and I saw instantly what was 
 in his mind. I had had no idea in making the arrange- 
 ment but that Mrs. Greenfield was the best woman I knew, 
 and the one whom I could best trust to bring up my child. 
 But my motives might have borne a very different interpreta- 
 tion, and it was a proof of the confidence that Sir Roderick 
 now placed in me that beyond that one penetrating look 
 he made no comment on my decision. What he did say 
 caused me more surprise than anything else could have 
 done. He said, 'Bring me news of the child,' and then 
 turned away. 
 
 " You had just gone to school and were doing well, and 
 I told him what I could. After this, whenever I visited 
 Highgate it was an understood thing that I was to report 
 your progress to Sir Roderick. He never made any remarks 
 on what I told him, but occasionally asked me questions. 
 But nothing he ever said caused me to believe that he had 
 changed his mind about you, and I am sure that at this 
 time he had not done so. Even when you were ready to 
 leave school and Sir Roderick told me that he should put 
 aside a thousand pounds for your further education and start 
 in life he told me expressly that his object was to help you
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 369 
 
 to make a living in the class of life you would belong to as 
 Mrs. Greenfield's son. He said that if you showed a desire 
 for a University career it would be better that you should go 
 to one of the smaller colleges at Oxford or Cambridge. 
 When I learnt that you intended to go to Trinity College 
 at Cambridge, which was where I knew Sir Roderick had 
 been himself, you will remember that I tried to stop you. 
 But when I told Sir Roderick he said that if you won a 
 scholarship it would not interfere with his aim in providing 
 the money. When you did so I am sure he was pleased, and 
 from that time I know he paid attention to what he heard 
 of you from time to time. 
 
 " I do not know when he first altered his intention of 
 never recognising you as his son. I know he got more and 
 more interested in what he read of your doings at Cambridge, 
 and I know he once saw your photograph in one of the 
 illustrated papers with other members of a cricket eleven. 
 It was after you had been made a Fellow of Trinity 
 College that he made known his intention to me. He 
 kept to his first decision of never seeing you, but he then 
 told me that you were to succeed him and inherit his 
 property. He told me that I was to make your birth known 
 to you on the i4th of March this year, assuming as he 
 always did that he himself should then be dead. I gave 
 the required promise. I am quite sure that if he had had 
 the slightest idea that he would die before that date he 
 would have authorised me to reveal everything immediately 
 after his death. I will go even further than that and say 
 that when he said ' the i4th of March ' he meant ' the 
 day of my death.' But since the occasion I have men- 
 tioned it has been my pride to do as I then promised and 
 carry out his instructions to the letter without taking any 
 responsibility for interpreting them on myself. And I am 
 proud now of having done so in this instance at very great 
 
 H.M.
 
 370 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 risk to myself. When I meet my master again, as I hope 
 to. I shall be able to give him this instance of my obedience, 
 And 1 believe that even you, who have suffered by it, will 
 not blame me now for having kept my solemnly made 
 promise. 
 
 " I think I owe you some explanation of my attitude to- 
 wards yourself through the years of your youth and after- 
 wards, and perhaps some sort of apology for it. It may 
 seem strange that, holding the feelings of devotion and 
 reverence to Sir Roderick that I did, and being proud to 
 obey him as a servant, I did not show more respect to you, 
 his son. It is not easy for me to enter into these matters, 
 but as this paper will only come into your hands, if it ever 
 does so, after my death, I feel that I should like as far as 
 possible to justify my actions to you. 
 
 " You were to be brought up as Mrs. Greenfield's son, 
 and for some years it was as Mrs. Greenfield's son that I 
 regarded you. And when the fact of your true birth struck 
 me, as it could not help doing sometimes for you grew to 
 be very like Sir Roderick I remembered it with resentment. 
 Sir Roderick had disowned you because your birth had cost 
 the life of his wife, and I disliked you for the same reason, 
 because it had destroyed my master's happiness. When he 
 began to take an interest in you I disliked you still more. 
 If you were to put this down to a feeling of jealousy I 
 could not contradict you ; but you must remember my 
 devotion to Sir Roderick, and excuse it. And there was 
 another reason. When you began to worry me with 
 questions about the past I received them with impatience 
 and a strong feeling of anger. I had acted so successfully 
 in hiding all traces of your true parentage, and the secret 
 had been so well kept, partly by my management, partly by 
 good fortune, and it had come to be so easy to keep, as I 
 thought, that I deeply resented your attempts to get at the
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 371 
 
 truth. And your attitude towards me was so like what 
 your father's would have been in a like case, fearless and 
 independent, and that added to my resentment. At various 
 times when you pressed me for an explanation I could only 
 take refuge in obstinate denials, and get out of the difficulty 
 as well as I could. You may remember one occasion upon 
 which you threatened to come up to Glasgow and trace my 
 antecedents. This was while Sir Roderick was still alive, 
 and, although I had taken the precaution to provide myself 
 with an address in Glasgow, if you had done as you 
 threatened you might have discovered everything. Once 
 or twice you drove me into a comer, but that was the 
 closest escape. 
 
 " I ought to say something about Mrs. Greenfield. On 
 thinking over the past you may come to the conclusion that 
 she displayed an unreasonable fear of your discovering the 
 secret. She was of course bound by her oath to Sir 
 Roderick, and was too conscientious to break it. But a far 
 more powerful motive in her case was her intense dread of 
 your discovering that you were not actually her son. Until 
 Sir Roderick made up his mind to restore you to your rights 
 after his death this feeling of hers greatly helped towards 
 the preservation of secrecy, but when I announced his 
 intention to her things became very difficult. She could 
 not bear the idea of the disclosures that were to come, and 
 I believe that the dread of them had as much to do with the 
 illness which led to her death, as the persecution she was 
 unfortunately submitted to at the hands of her rascally hus- 
 band. I was very sorry for this, as I have always felt a 
 deep regard for Mrs. Greenfield since the time I told you of 
 a few years ago, but I could not help it. She never liked 
 me from the first. I knew that, and she had almost a 
 horror of Sir Roderick and of everything connected with 
 Merrilees. She never hid her opinion that Sir Roderick 
 
 a
 
 was out of his mind, and that I was wrong in carrying out 
 his wishes. But she was bound by her oath and by her 
 strong attachment to you. 
 
 "I now come to the date of Sir Roderick's death, 
 need not go into great detail concerning my actions, as you 
 will understand them if you have read what I have written 
 carefully. When he was taken ill I was in London. I 
 returned before his death, but he was unconscious, and 
 afterwards I could only carry out as faithfully as possible 
 his instructions and what I knew to be his wishes. With 
 regard to the disposal of his body I knew what to do. It 
 was to be laid beside that of his lady in the secret chamber, 
 and their burial-place then concealed for ever. He allowed 
 me one assistant, a gardener, Braithwaite, whom I knew I 
 could trust. We laid his body in the place appointed, and 
 I paid Braithwaite the money that had been promised to 
 him and sent him out of the country. I have now sent for 
 him again, and on March i4th we shall by destroying the 
 chamber complete that part of the charge. The burial- 
 place of your father and mother is the only thing which I 
 cannot disclose to you, and my disposal of my master's 
 body in secrecy is the only thing that may bring me trouble 
 when I make known the other facts. But, whatever happens 
 I shall never disclose it. 
 
 " So far my duty was clear, and if I could then have 
 made known the secret of your birth to you and handed 
 over the property which was to come to you all would have 
 been well. But I would not do that before the appointed 
 time, and it was made possible for me to prevent the 
 greater part of your inheritance falling inf o other hands in 
 the meantime by its being in the form of precious stones. 
 I have read the explanation that Sir Roderick is said to 
 have given the manager of the bank at Keswick for his 
 decision to turn his great fortune into jewels. It is the true
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 373 
 
 one. He never made any secret of it. When the house of 
 Merrilees became full of the things he had bought, and the 
 money which he had not been able to spend had increased 
 very considerably, he hit upon this method of spending it 
 and yet keeping its value for his heir. 
 
 " That heir, until he decided to recognise his son, was to 
 be Mr. Guy Bertram. But Sir Roderick took very little 
 interest in that gentleman. He had given him a good 
 allowance, but Mr. Bertram had never done anything with 
 his time or opportunities, and for the last ten years I never 
 remember Sir Roderick mentioning his name. But he was 
 his only living relative besides yourself, and he would have 
 succeeded to all Sir Roderick's property if Sir Roderick had 
 not decided eventually to recognise you as his son. I do 
 not know whether he meant to leave him anything in his 
 will, as he never told me, but, as he never made a will, you 
 will naturally succeed to everything. 
 
 " Sir Roderick had told me that I was to be sole executor 
 of his estate, and I knew that I ought to hand over to you, 
 his heir, all his property. But I could not do this before 
 March i4th of this year without disclosing the secret, and 
 I could not prevent Mr. Bertram from taking possession. 
 What I could do was to prevent the bulk of Sir Roderick's 
 fortune, which was represented by the jewels, from falling 
 into his hands, and I did this by hiding them in the same 
 secret place in which I had laid Sir Roderick's body. 
 When the time comes I shall produce them, or if I die 
 before that, Braithwaite, who knows where they are, has 
 my instructions to produce them. 
 
 " Having done what I felt it my duty to do, I went 
 straight to Glasgow and took up the partnership which 
 was at my disposal in my present firm, and by the time 
 the facts of the case became known, and the hue and cry 
 was raised against me, I had been for some days quietly
 
 374 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 working at my business. I consider it a fortunate chance 
 that I have not been found out here. If that had happened, 
 as I feared it would, I should have given up the jewels, if I 
 could have done so without disclosing the secret of where 
 I had hidden them, and put up with whatever might have 
 come to me for the rest until the appointed time. I fully 
 hope, now that I have been able to keep myself undiscovered 
 for so long, that I shall be able to keep everything to 
 mysalf until the i4th of March, when you will come by 
 your own, and I shall be rid of a great responsibility. 
 
 " I do not think there is anything more to say. I have 
 explained everything as well as I am able, and I ask you not 
 to think harshly of me. In all these things I have tried to 
 do my duty by my master, Sir Roderick Bertram, whom it 
 has been the object of my life to serve to the best of my 
 powers, and whom I fully hope to meet again in another 
 world. 
 
 "ROBERT MARTIN RICHARDS." 
 
 George had taken this paper into the inner library to 
 read first of all by himself before he should make its 
 contents known to Guy and Calthorp. He sat for a long 
 time thinking when he had read the last page and laid it 
 down in front of him. Many things became clear to him 
 which had hitherto been hidden, but there was no bitter- 
 ness in his mind against the man whose actions, so crooked 
 and yet, when the circumstances were known, so logical, 
 had caused him such disquiet. It was rather pity that 
 swayed him as he thought of Richards's life, devoted to 
 one overmastering purpose, laudable enough in itself, but 
 leading him in its exaggeration of its compulsion on him- 
 self to such strange travesties of loyalty, and bringing him 
 in the end to so terrible a death. 
 
 But it was towards his father that his thoughts naturally
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 375 
 
 turned themselves. Here again he felt no bitterness towards 
 the man who had disowned him and condemned him to a 
 life of probable obscurity and poverty. He admitted no 
 doubt in his mind of the conviction that, in spite of Sir 
 Roderick's being in complete possession of his wonderful 
 brain power in most of the affairs of life until the end, in 
 one he had been thrown off his balance, and must not be 
 judged as other men. The thought that took most hold of 
 him was that his father had been proud of him. He 
 thanked God that he was permitted to know that. He sat 
 for a long time at the table which Sir Roderick had used 
 daily through the long years of his lonely life, and tried to 
 picture him to himself with a yearning that he could not 
 repress. If only a year could roll back, and he <ould 1 e 
 in this room with the man who had then sat where he 
 was sitting now ! If only he could have spoken the few 
 words to him that would have given him the memory of 
 his voice and his look ! 
 
 He thought of his own past life. There was nothing to 
 regret in the way of it. He was better off now, he told 
 himself, than if he had always been surrounded by the 
 circumstances of wealth and position. And he had the 
 supreme satisfaction of knowing that it had recommended 
 itself to his father, nay more, that by his own steady^ 
 upward course he now stood where he did, acknowledged 
 before the world as his father's son. His only regret and 
 it was very deep was that he had never known his father, 
 never heard him speak, and never taken his hand. Well, 
 it was of no use sighing for what could never be. 
 
 He turned again to the paper before him, and read it 
 through a second time. His thoughts turned to Guy, whose 
 house of cards had now fallen, demolished finally and 
 completely by the bald facts of this document. What was 
 he to do, deprived of his income and with no profession by
 
 376 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 which he could hope to cam a living, at any rate for some 
 time to come? His own great wealth had coloured 
 George's thoughts scarcely at all. He considered it now 
 as a means of being able to provide for his newly found 
 cousin, as his own father had provided for him. But he 
 knew enough of Guy to make him diffident of offering 
 him money. There must be some way out of the difficulty. 
 He shrank from going out to read the paper to Guy. He 
 rose and went to the window looking west into the wood, 
 carpeted with wild daffodils. He turned over the question 
 in his mind, but it gradually ceased to hold him, and he 
 mused again on his father and on the story he had just 
 read. 
 
 He turned again to the writing table, and opened the 
 drawer in which he and Lord Caradoc had found the 
 pamphlet containing his own prize essay. The drawer was 
 filled almost entirely with the catalogues of second-hand 
 booksellers and other similar papers. George turned them 
 over. He had opened the drawer with the hope of finding 
 the illustrated paper containing his portrait which Martin 
 had mentioned, or some other sign of his having been in 
 his father's thoughts. There was nothing except the prize 
 essay. He was just about to close the drawer when his 
 eye was caught by the corner of a sheet of paper sticking 
 out of the page of a catalogue of plants. It was covered 
 with the writing which he knew to be his father's, pencil 
 jottings of a large order despatched to the nurseryman. 
 He turned the paper over. There was a list of names and 
 initials on the other side, and against them were pencilled 
 sums of money. On the top was written the word 
 * Legacies," and below it at the head of the list " G. C. 
 Bertram, 30,000." George's heart leaped with pleasure. 
 He had come upon just what he wanted at that moment, 
 although not what he was looking for. It was a rough
 
 THE MYSTERY CLEARED. 377 
 
 memorandum of the legacies his father had intended to 
 leave out of the great fortune which was to go to his son. 
 
 George hesitated no longer, but went out of the room 
 with the two papers in his hand to disclose their contents 
 to Guy.
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 THE END OP THE STORY. 
 
 t 
 
 Ix the autumn of the year there was a double wedding 
 at Hollingbourne Hall, Lord Conder's seat in Hertfordshire. 
 So wide was the hospitality of the Conder family, and so 
 rejoiced was Lord Conder to put his seat in Hertfordshire 
 at the disposal of any one of his numerous relatives who 
 had no seat of his own, but wished for the temporary use 
 of one for any function of this sort, that it seemed the most 
 obvious thing in the world that Cicely, who had accepted 
 the offer that George had made her a few months before, 
 should be married from her uncle's house. Lord Caradoc 
 had not again returned to Merrilees after the startling 
 events of the spring had once more made that house a 
 centre of universal interest ; and his tenancy was now at 
 an end. He had not, however, found another country house 
 to his liking, and nothing, not even his daughter's wedding, 
 would have induced him to spend as much as a week in 
 his castle in Wales. He had been quite happy during the 
 three months of the summer, for the fates had been kind 
 enough to enable him to rent his old rectory for that period. 
 He had been driven out of it, however, at the end of 
 August, and when Lady Conder had suggested that Cicely 
 should be married from Hollingbourne Hall, at the instiga- 
 tion of Mrs. Herbert, he had fallen in with the suggestion 
 with sufficient show of gratitude to make it plain that the 
 castle in Wales had begun to throw a somewhat persistent 
 shadow across his path,
 
 THE END OF THE STORY. 379 
 
 Peggy had lived in Lord Caradoc's household ever since 
 her father's death, and her short, interrupted courtship had 
 renewed itself, to her quiet and increasing happiness. The 
 reversal of Guy's prospects and fortunes had borne on him 
 hardly at first, and a chorus of sympathy had risen to the 
 heavens on account of a young man who was deprived 
 at one blow of a baronetcy, a vast fortune, and one of the 
 most beautiful houses in England. But before it had died 
 down Guy himself discovered that there were compensations 
 in his lot, and, as a matter of fact, was happier than he 
 had ever been in his life before. The fortunate discovery 
 of the sheet of Sir Roderick's notes made it possible for 
 him to accept from George a sum of money which provided 
 him with a sufficient income, and, as Peggy was now an 
 heiress in a small way, their married life would begin under 
 favourable circumstances, financial and otherwise. 
 
 Guy had lost a great deal, but he had won Peggy, and, 
 with his easy adjustable nature, he accepted what the gods 
 had sent him and was a happy man. It came to be settled 
 that he and Peggy should be married at the same time as 
 George and Cicely, and the hospitalities of Hollingbourne 
 Hall were as freely extended to this second marriage as 
 they had been to that of Lord Conder's niece. 
 
 On the evening before the wedding George, Guy, Bobby 
 Conder, and Calthorp were dining together at the old 
 White Hart Inn in the village of Hollingbourne. The two 
 bridegrooms and their solicitor were staying there, 
 and Bobby Conder, who was to act as best man to 
 both of them, had come over to dine on the last night of 
 their bachelorhood. After dinner the four of them, who 
 had been through such stirring experiences together, talked 
 over all that had happened within the last year. Guy was 
 by far the most excited and light-hearted of them all. 
 
 " I wouldn't exchange my prospects now for any I had a
 
 380 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 year ago for anything in the world," he said. " George, my 
 boy, as I've often told you, there's no one envies you your 
 possessions less than your respectful cousin Guy Bertram." 
 
 " My only regret as far as you are concerned," said 
 George, " is that you were allowed to take my place for 
 those months only to be disappointed of it in the end." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind that," said Guy airily. " It is some- 
 thing to have called a house like Merrilees one's own if it 
 was only for eight months. And there's my cottage in Surrey 
 ready forme and Peggy, the prettiest little place in the world. 
 I should never have built that or put some of the most 
 beautiful things from Merrilees into it if I hadn't been 
 bluffed into calling myself Sir Guy Bertram for that short 
 time. My dear George, your wedding present of all those 
 treasures will always stand to me as the symbol of 
 munificence." 
 
 " You make me ashamed," said George. " I wish you 
 would take a lot more. You know you can have what- 
 ever you like." 
 
 " I have enough, and more than enough," said Guy. ** In 
 fact, I don't think I've got anything left to wish for." 
 
 " How about the painting ? " asked Bobby Conder. 
 
 M The painting," said Guy, " will be carried on diligently 
 in the commodious studio attached to Mr. Bertram's cottage 
 in Surrey. In about twenty years' time, or less, there will 
 be two baronets of the name of Bertram, and one of them 
 will have the letters R.A. after his name." 
 
 " May it be so," said Bobby, " and I will buy your first 
 picture if the price is not too stiff, and if they don't start 
 too many new football clubs in my constituency." 
 
 " I have booked the first picture," said George. ** It is to 
 be hung with the rest at Merrilees." 
 
 " With two such patrons clamouring for my works," said 
 Guy, " my future is assured,"
 
 THE END OF THE STORY. 381 
 
 The talk drifted back, as it often did when these four 
 were together, to the events of the past year, culminating 
 in that terrible moment when they had battled their way 
 up the secret stair from the deadly rush of water. They 
 talked of Sir Roderick and his strange life, and they talked 
 of Richards. 
 
 " What I shall never forgive that gentleman for," said 
 Calthorp, " is his calm assurance in sitting down quietly 
 in a place like Glasgow and letting me and my detectives 
 run all over England, to say nothing of Italy, looking for 
 him. It is a point that I shall not dwell on when I am 
 recounting the story of Merrilees to the children gathered 
 round my knee." 
 
 " It is just as well that you did not find him," said 
 George. " He would have told us nothing, and the conse- 
 quences to him might not have been pleasant." 
 
 "Do you think he would really have held out," asked 
 Bobby, " if he had been run to earth ? " 
 
 " I do," said George. " His devotion to what he thought 
 his duty to to my father was almost a monomania with 
 him. I don't think he would have minded in the least 
 what happened to himself if he could have kept his trust." 
 
 " I agree with you," said Calthorp. " He would never 
 have told anything until the time came. And ' mono- 
 mania ' is the right word. We have all of us got at least 
 one such idiosyncrasy. His was what we know it was. Mine 
 is an inclination to go to bed when I feel sleepy, so I think 
 I will say good-night." 
 
 George accompanied Bobby Conder on his homeward 
 way, and when he had parted from him at the door of the 
 Hall, walked slowly back under the September moon, 
 thinking of many things. His mood was not as light as 
 Guy's. The change which had brought him great posses- 
 sions had brought him sorrows as well, which had left their
 
 382 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 mark on his character. He asked himself why his thoughti 
 were melancholy on the eve of a day on which he was to gain 
 the supreme desire of his heart. He loved Cicely with all 
 the strength of his nature. He had loved her from the first, 
 and his love had only deepened through the months which 
 had followed. And yet there had been none of that thrilling 
 joy in his courtship which had made the same months pass 
 like a delightful dream to Guy and Peggy. He was beset 
 with doubt as to whether he had done well in forcing his 
 love, as he expressed it to himself, upon the shy, exquisite 
 creature who had been a friend to him since he had first 
 known her, but had never of her own accord given him the 
 response to his deep passion that a lover craves for. Cicely 
 had accepted him. Why should she have accepted him if 
 she did not love him ? Did she love him ? He could not 
 tell. She had never told him so, and he had never asked 
 her. He had put the strongest constraint on himself 
 during the past months never to frighten her by an undue 
 display of his feelings towards her. Those months had 
 brought him more pain than pleasure. He had done his 
 utmost to make her love him, but there was nothing to 
 show that he, who had succeeded in everything that he had 
 set his mind to, had succeeded in this. To-morrow Cicely 
 was to become his wife. He stood under the light of the 
 harvest moon and vowed his life to her service. He would 
 wait for her love until she yielded it to him of her own 
 accord. His wooing should not cease with his marriage, 
 and by-and-bye he prayed that he might be blessed with that 
 beside which his wealth and his name were as nothing to 
 him. 
 
 The things which we have recorded took place some 
 years ago. Before we leave the characters with whom we 
 have watched the strange course of events we will take a
 
 THE END OF THE STORY. 383 
 
 glimpse at their after-life when the public interest in their 
 affairs had died down again. And first we will visit the 
 spacious cottage amongst the pines of the Surrey hills the 
 country home of that popular artist Guy Bertram, A.R.A. 
 the country home only, for Guy Bertram spends part of the 
 year in a fine house in London, where many rich and 
 beautiful ladies come to him to be portrayed in a manner 
 which is eminently pleasing, but will scarcely hand down 
 his name to posterity among the great portrait painters of 
 the century. Guy's vogue as a fashionable painter dates 
 from the time when his name came finally before the 
 public as that of one who, in the expiessive words of 
 Mark Twain's " Dauphin," had been "snaked down out'n 
 a high place," and he had had no lack ot patronage ever 
 since. His portraits were not so good as Sir Joshua's, but 
 they were a good deal better than those of other artists 
 whose reputations have at times stood high, and that they 
 were appreciated by a nation which does not insistently 
 demand great work, and often fails to recognise it when it 
 sees it, was proved by the fact that his commissions showed 
 no signs of falling off, and he had more than once increased 
 his charges. Guy, in fact, was a rich man, far richer than 
 he had been during his short possession of Merrilees, and 
 he was a very happy one. 
 
 Perhaps his happiest days were spent in the house to 
 which he had taken his bride after their wedding at 
 Hollingbourne Hall and their honeymoon, spent in Italy. 
 The cottage had been enlarged, but, with its thatched 
 roof, its red walls, and its oak timbers, it was still a 
 cottage, and as pretty a one as any artist could wish to 
 inhabit. 
 
 Mrs. Guy Bertram was in the rose-garden filling the 
 basket she carried on her arm from the loaded, fragrant 
 bushes. She was the same happy, roguish Peggy of her
 
 384 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 girlhood at least, when she was alone with her husband 
 and children, for as the wife of a distinguished painter 
 she had a reserve of matronly airs to exploit in her fine 
 house in Kensington. Guy was lounging by her side in 
 his painting jacket, smoking a cigarette. His easel was 
 under the cedar on the lawn, and he was engaged for his own 
 satisfaction on a portrait of his eldest son, who was not a 
 good sitter, and had escaped from his thraldom when he 
 saw his mother come out of the house with her flower- 
 basket. Guy had altered very little. He was a handsome 
 man, as some 'of the more indiscreet amongst his lady 
 patrons had sometimes hinted to him ; but he had eyes 
 only for one woman among them all, and was never so 
 content as when he was strolling by her side, as now, 
 through his beautiful garden. 
 
 The little boy had run off to greet a friendly gardener. 
 Guy took his wife's face between his hands and turned it 
 towards his own. 
 
 "Do you remember Hampstead Heath and the blind 
 man and his dog ? " he asked. 
 
 Peggy's eyes grew moist. "We have never been there 
 since," she said. " Let us make a pilgrimage when we go 
 up to London." 
 
 " We will wait till the proper day comes round," he said. 
 "Then we will go there and renew our vojvs. Not that 
 they want much renewing. They will never wear out, will 
 they, sweetheart ? " 
 
 '* No, never," said Peggy. " Guy, you mustn't do that. 
 I am an elderly married woman, and the gardener is 
 looking at us." 
 
 "So did the blind man," said Guy, "and he made 
 no complaint. Where is that young rascal George? 
 Amongst the strawberries again, I'll be bound. I must go 
 and find him."
 
 THE END OF THE STORY. 385 
 
 It was the time of the roses at Merrilees, too. The 
 terraces lay in all their June beauty under the evening sun, 
 which shone on the sleeping waters of the lake and the 
 heavy folds of the encircling woods. The rooks were 
 homing one by one across the sky, and making a 
 tremendous commotion at the end of their journey. The 
 cascade chimed its silvery way down its flower-laden 
 channel, and all the sights and sounds of that most 
 beautiful place fell gratefully on the senses of the two 
 who were pacing the topmost terrace and pausing every 
 now and then to look at the fair scene that lay spread out 
 before them. 
 
 Cicely was hanging on her husband's arm. The look in 
 her eyes as she turned towards him no less than the deep 
 content that rested on his face showed that George had 
 found his way to the innermost sanctum of her heart, and 
 that his fears and doubtings were over for ever. 
 
 " Think of what we should have been doing now if we 
 had not broken away from the round and come down 
 here ! " Cicely was saying. 
 
 " Eating a dinner much too big for anybody in a hot 
 room," said George, " with the prospect of a night of dull 
 debate for me and for you a round of duller parties. This 
 is better, isn't it ? " 
 
 "Yes, this is better," she said. "I wish it could last 
 longer.'* 
 
 " We must go back and do our work till the end of the 
 session," said George. "Then we will come down here 
 again and steep ourselves in the delights of this lovely 
 place until we get tired of being alone together." 
 
 M I wonder when that will be ? " said Cicely softly. 
 
 ** Ah, when ? " said George, drawing her to him. " And 
 I wonder how much I should care for Merrilees if I had not 
 you here to share it with me ? " 
 
 H.H. 99
 
 386 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES. 
 
 " Would you do what poor Sir Roderick did if if " 
 
 *' Oh, don't," said George, an expression of pain crossing 
 his face. "It is the one thing in life that I could not 
 bear. My darling ! But I know now how he felt and how 
 impossible it was for him to face the world after that came 
 to him. I only wonder that he kept the force of mind 
 necessary to make him write that great book. I could not 
 have done it." 
 
 "When we come up here do you think of him very 
 much ? " Cicely asked. " I do. And I pity him more and 
 more." 
 
 George turned towards the west, where behind the trees 
 were the graves clustered round Morthwaite Church. 
 
 " I think of him joined to her whom he loved best in 
 the world," he said, " never again to be parted. I no 
 longer regret anything. My life is so full of happiness that 
 there is no room for regret. And I owe it all to you, my 
 heart. Without you this beautiful house of Merrilees would 
 be nothing to me. With you it is Paradise." 
 
 They turned from the paling sky and went indoors. 
 They were met at the door of the library by Lord Caradoc, 
 older and rather more bent, but otherwise the same 
 courteous scholarly gentleman of former years. Lord 
 Caradoc had not yet succeeded in finding a country house 
 more to his taste than his castle in Wales, which he had 
 never visited since his daughter's marriage. He spent the 
 greater part of his time at Merrilees, and was devoted to 
 his little granddaughters. Of grandsons he had none, and 
 this was the only hint of a shadow across the path of 
 George and Cicely. 
 
 " If you will come and discuss that point we spoke of 
 when you are disengaged," he said to George, " you will 
 find me in the library." 
 
 " I will come in a few minutes," said George. " Cicely
 
 THE END OF THE STORY. 387 
 
 and I are going up with Mrs. Herbert to look at the 
 babies." 
 
 And so we must leave the house of Merrilees, with the 
 cloud of sorrow and mystery that had rested on it so long 
 lifted at last, and nothing but peace and contentment to 
 be found under its roof. 
 
 THE END.