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 LI B R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVLRSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 v.l
 
 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR 
 
 BY 
 
 F. W. ROBINSON 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 GRANDMOTHER'S MONEY," 
 "NO CHURCH, 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON: 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1884. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 IN A DERBYSHIRE VILLAGE. 
 
 I. ' Name Unknown ' 3 
 
 11. Daniel Overdown 14 
 
 III. A Late Arrival 30 
 
 IV. Mr. OVERDOWNDOES not make HIMSELF USEFUL 35 
 
 V. The Better Half 47 
 
 VI. Sent for 64 
 
 VII. Instructions 82 
 
 VIII. Two Cuttings from the Newspapers . 87 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
 GOOD SAMARITANS. 
 
 I. Mrs. Dangerfield at Home ... 91 
 
 II. A Message from the Dead .... 100 
 
 III. Further Particulars lin
 
 VI 
 
 CONTEXTS 
 
 • 
 
 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 The Result 123 
 
 V. 
 
 In Search of Sam Challis 
 
 
 
 
 140 
 
 VI. 
 
 At the ' Harp ' . 
 
 
 
 
 152 
 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 
 Is IT TOO Late ? . 
 The Good -looking Girl 
 
 
 
 
 159 
 171 
 
 IX. 
 
 Aggie .... 
 
 
 
 
 180 
 
 X. 
 
 ' Beware of the Girl ' 
 
 
 
 
 188 
 
 XI. 
 
 Both Grateful . 
 
 
 
 
 196 
 
 XII. 
 
 A Parting . 
 
 
 
 
 205 
 
 XIIT. 
 XIV. 
 
 Disappointment . 
 'No Sam' . 
 
 
 
 
 217 
 232 
 
 XV. 
 
 Cuppleditch's 
 
 
 
 
 241 
 
 BOOK THE THIRD. 
 
 THE SriSTRESS OF ILVERCOMBE. 
 
 I. Coming Back to the World 
 
 II. Still Curious .... 
 
 in. Following On ... . 
 
 IV. An Early Visit .... 
 
 255 
 269 
 283 
 299
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 
 IN A DERBYSHIRE VILLAGE. 
 
 i 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE 5LO SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 * NAME UNKNOWN.' 
 
 The accident had happened in an out-of-the- 
 way part of the fair county of Derby, wath no 
 one to blame but a sleepy signalman. It had 
 not been a ' great ' accident, and a ten-line 
 paragraph in the Birmingham and daily news- 
 papers was considered sufficient for the general 
 public. The London papers, for ever brimming 
 over with accidents to life and limb, general 
 property and man's fair fame, took no heed of a 
 collision where there were only two passengers 
 seriously injured, and fourteen but moderately 
 contused, who were sent home, rather jolly than
 
 4 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 otherwise, by the next iip-train. Of the two 
 seriously injured, the papers chronicled a third- 
 class passenger, one Daniel Overdown, of Prosser 
 Street, Birmingham, mechanic ; and a first-class 
 passenger, name imknown, and left, like a parcel 
 to be called for, at the 'AVhite Swan,' in the 
 village, by anyone whom it might eventually 
 concern. 
 
 Three days had passed since poor humanity 
 had run into minerals and got the worst of it,, 
 and it seemed to concern nobody that a man 
 sick, and shaken unto death, should be lying like 
 a lo£r at the ' White Swan.' The landlord was 
 not nervous about him ; there were a gold watch 
 and chain worth fifty pounds, that would defray 
 all expenses, funeral and otherwise ; and heaven 
 and the jewellers only knew the value of the 
 diamond pin which, shimmering still in its black 
 satin stock, rested in the left hand top drawer of 
 the wainscot chest in the best bed-room. The 
 landlord had turned the key upon it for precau- 
 tion's sake, and everybody had forgotten it save 
 that worthy gentleman. 
 
 The ' White Swan ' was not a convenient hos-
 
 NAME UNKNOWN. 5 
 
 telrie for a man to lie helpless iu, but it had been 
 Hobson's choice after the smash had occm-red, 
 and there were forty good miles across comitry 
 between the village of Gravesly and the nearest 
 hospital. The two men seriously hnrt were 
 earned down the valley by those lucky passen- 
 gers who had escaped scot-free, Daniel Overdo wn 
 being left at the first cottage, and the stranger, 
 w^ell-to-do, taken to the ' White Swan,' a rough 
 little inn, planted in the heart of a quarryman's 
 settlement, where tourists came not, and business 
 was only brisk on Saturday evenings after pay- 
 time. There had been a five-miles ride down the 
 valley in search of a doctor, who arrived some 
 minutes after a second medical man and his 
 assistant had turned-up by special train along 
 with two engineers and the break-down gang. 
 
 Whilst the line was being cleared and the 
 passengers accommodated wdth fresh carriages, 
 the doctor aad his assistant, warned of pressing 
 cases, had descended into the village, where a 
 few scared women w^ere talking of the accident, 
 and of the poor fellows wdio liad been brought 
 for them to nurse. Here ensued the meeting
 
 6 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 of the doctors, the inspection of the wounded, a 
 Jiurried consultation, and the whipping-off of 
 the^ right leg below the knee from the unlucky 
 gentleman whom nobody knew. Here was life 
 at stake, and minutes precious, and a serious 
 responsibility hanging over the heads of a re- 
 spectable railway company. The sufferer, when 
 he was conscious — wliich was not often the case 
 during the first foar-and- twenty hours — had 
 been asked who he Avas and where he lived, and 
 had shaken his head energetically, as if he did not 
 knoAv, or did not care, and was altogether too 
 excited to be harassed by constant questioning. 
 As to Daniel Overdown, whose name and ad- 
 dress had been found in full in his pocket-book, 
 in his hat, on his collar, and on the left-hand tail 
 of his shirt, he was past all excitement, and as 
 still as a stone by this time ; and there was much, 
 attention necessary to set his head right, and 
 bring him back to the life which the collision had 
 nearly crushed out of him. 
 
 Hence the tAvo serious cases in the village of 
 Gravesly, and three days' rest in Derbyshire, leav- 
 ing the rich man and the poor one dependant on
 
 NAME UNKNOWN. 7 
 
 strangers' assistance, and the railway company's 
 supervision. 'Prostrate and helpless,' groaned 
 forth the man at the ' Swan ;' ' flat as a 
 flounder,' said Daniel Overdown, whom a host 
 of friends and acquaintances from Birmingham 
 had already come to see, disregarding time and 
 money in their interest for his safety. 
 
 It was a strange position — a vivid contrast 
 that was subject-matter for much thought — this 
 isolation of the rich man from all kith and kin, 
 and the strong muster of friends round the bed- 
 side of the working man. Dives left to himself, 
 without a soul to care apparently whether he 
 lived or died ; and Lazarus, a head-centre, who 
 brought a small army of humble folk to inquire 
 after his health, and to offer its assistance in any 
 way that might chance to be of value. In their 
 separate ways, both men were riddles to the 
 outer world ; the extra degree of interest and 
 attention which a mechanic attracted to himself 
 on one side, and the complete isolation on the 
 other of one whose wealth might at least have 
 purchased a semblance of respect for his gi-ave 
 affliction.
 
 S THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Still it was the unknown's obstinacy which 
 probably kept friends away, rather than lack of 
 sympathy from those who owed him fealty. That 
 he had not communicated with his friends, and 
 no one seemed to have missed him, might be 
 explained by more reasons than that of general 
 apathy, if the thin, gaunt man in the bed would 
 only open his grey lips to soh^e the mystery he 
 had created. 
 
 Three days after the accident he was conscious, 
 tenibly conscious that he was in a critical condi- 
 tion, that he had lost part of his right limb, that 
 he might not get over the shock to his system, 
 and that he was alone there, with a strange 
 woman for nurse. He was very miserable, as 
 well as obstinate ; he had not taken his accident 
 calmly, or the inevitable result with philosophy ; 
 it was his excitement, now demonstrative, and 
 now suppressed, which kept him back, and from 
 which he suffered. The mind fought against him 
 as well as the body, and it was going hard with 
 his struggle for life and strength — the odds 
 against the silent man's salvation. 
 
 There were ^ve sovereigns in his pockets, and
 
 NAME UNKNOWN. 9 
 
 a card-case that contained only liis railway 
 ticket — first-class return from Birmingham to 
 Culverley ; and the only marks upon his fine 
 linen were a D in German text. There was no 
 clue to his identity, and he w^ould not ofi"er one 
 himself, w^hen the doctors became anxious, and 
 a few outsiders, of whom more anon, grew 
 curious. 
 
 ' Don't w^orry me,' he murmured to the medi- 
 cal man w^hom the railway directors had sent, 
 wdth their compliments, day after day ; 'there is 
 plenty of time.' 
 
 'Your friends'?' 
 
 ' They can wait. Everybody can w^ait,' he 
 added, weaiily. 
 
 ' But it is my duty to w^arn you again that 
 you are in a critical condition.' 
 
 ' Do you mean I shall die V asked the man, 
 almost fiercely. 
 
 ' No, I do not say that,' answ^ered the doctor, 
 cautiously. 
 
 He had not much hope of him, but ho would 
 not pledge his w^ord, or wholly dishearten his 
 patient.
 
 10 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 'That I shall live?' 
 
 * With care, and ease to your mind, you may 
 be spared — possibly.' 
 
 ' The symptoms are not all against me V 
 
 'Not all.' 
 
 ' Thank God for it,' he cried, and then his 
 lips quivered, and he tossed his arms strangely 
 about his head, and beat the palms of his hands 
 nervously upon the patchwork coverlet. 
 
 The doctor gave him drugs, and subdued him 
 into temporary lethargy ; and then the rector of 
 a little village, five miles further inland, came to 
 disturb him next day, having heard the news, 
 and thinking, good, confident- old man, that here 
 was a case in which he might be of more service 
 than the doctor. • 
 
 The priest failed as well as the physician. 
 The wounded man would have no father-con- 
 fessor, or put his trust in anyone beyond him- 
 self. He was a trifle calmer that morning, and 
 answered for a while evasively. 
 
 His friends were not anxious about him, he 
 knew ; they did not know where he was, and 
 they believed in his safety. Where was the
 
 NAME UNKNOWN. 11 
 
 necessity to alarm them — to distress them? 
 
 ' But they have a right to know the truth/ 
 
 ' The truth is better kept away from them,' 
 said the patient, between his set teeth. 
 
 ' How can you tell that V 
 
 ' I am sure of it.' 
 
 ' But, sir, have you not a wife, or sons, or 
 daughters, who are perplexed by your absence, 
 distressed in mind concerning it, and to whom 
 even such sad news as your accident would be 
 a rehef from suspense V 
 
 ' There is no one in suspense about me ; I 
 have told you so already,' he cried, querulously. 
 
 ' It seems impossible that this should be so ; 
 and, if you will rely on me, I, a minister of the 
 Gospel, will break the news carefully to those 
 with whom you may wish me to comnnmicate.' 
 
 The man closed his lips and shut his eyes, 
 and would not reply by another word to his 
 visitor. 
 
 There was no more for the minister to do, 
 save to return home wonderiug at the motive 
 for this rigid silence. Presently delirium set in 
 again, and the sufferer raved of many things
 
 12 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 and mauy people, but there was no clue to his 
 identity throughout, and the doctors thought 
 more of saving his life than of getting at his 
 secret. Only once the man said, very clearly 
 and distinctly, ' My poor Aggie ;' and they Avho 
 nursed him remembered it, and commented 
 upon it later in the day. 
 
 Five or six days after the accident, an in- 
 dividual, sent by the railway directors, peered 
 round the door whilst the patient lay sleeping, 
 looked at him attentively, and went away 
 again, after asking many questions of the host 
 of the ' Swan,' and taking a cursory inspection 
 of the watch and wardrobe of the imknown, 
 the stock and diamond pin excepted, which the 
 landlord forgot to show him. 
 
 ' Don't know him ; can't see anything in it,' 
 said the detective, ' but will make inquuies.' 
 
 Which inquiries never came to anything, so 
 far as the writer of this narrative is aware. 
 
 The man with the unknown name was of a 
 strong constitution, and fought hard for hfe — 
 fought his way through fever and madness to 
 an intense prostration, where there appeared
 
 NAME UNKNOWN. 13 
 
 to be, however, a little chance for his recoveiy. 
 No one harassed him or questioned him now • 
 his ^dsitors were the doctors, his only companion 
 a smart, middle-aged woman, more mechanical 
 than inquisitive, and who was his nnrse, duly 
 certificated from London, and paid by the rail- 
 way company for her services. When a fort- 
 night had passed, the newspapers had forgotten 
 the accident; there had been many glorious 
 calamities in leader type since then, and one 
 man sick at Gravesly was nothing to the public 
 which paid its money for fresh news, and dis- 
 liked vain repetitions. He was very ill, and 
 quite forgotten. Even the quarrymen in the 
 Derbyshire village had got used to his presence, 
 and ceased to talk about him. They thought 
 less of him than of Daniel Overdowm, still sujBfer- 
 ing internally, and not able to be moved, but 
 surfeited with friends and Idnd inquiries from 
 the busy toy-shop of the world some few score 
 miles aw^ay.
 
 14 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 
 
 The man at the ' Swan ' was well enough at 
 last to allow of the bedstead being moved 
 towards the window, to the frame of which 
 he was able to cling, and thereby raise himself. 
 There was nothing familiar in the landscape 
 that met his gaze, nothing inspiriting or solac- 
 ing to him in the green valley lying in the lap 
 of the Derbyshire tors. 
 
 It was a prison-house, at which he groaned ; 
 the rugged, white stone walls shut him in along 
 with the trees and cottages, and the brawling 
 stream at their base, and there was no escape 
 for him. All very picturesque, but very far 
 from liome and from those who might be won-
 
 DANIEL OVERDO WX. 15 
 
 dering now where lie was, and why he had not 
 written. For time had gone on three weeks, 
 and he had sent no news — and would send no 
 news while he lay there. 
 
 He could not explain to anyone at home what 
 mischance had led him in this direction — he 
 could neyer explain it — it was beyond his cour- 
 age as was the ascent to the hill-top by that 
 thin hue of rugged path, down which a shep- 
 herd's boy seemed eternally scrambling. Let 
 them wonder for a short while longer till he 
 returned, with a strange lie to account for his 
 absence, and the graye accident which had 
 made a cripple of him. There was that big 
 fiction to study, and, as he looked up at the 
 blue sky aboye the hills, it was perplexity rather 
 than gratitude for his escape that gaye an 
 earnest expression to his pain-racked face. He 
 was a man of some two-and-forty years of age, 
 who had been handsome in his youth, and who 
 retained some of his good looks till that day — 
 a thin-faced man, with features sharp cut and 
 clear, and stamped with a refinement born of 
 high birth, or hard study, or both. He wore
 
 16 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 neither beard, whiskers, nor moustache, and 
 had it not been for his illness, which had aged 
 and lined him, would have looked younger than 
 his years. Even in his night-shirt, with his long 
 neck craning over the window-sill, there was 
 something of ' the swell ' about him — a stand- 
 offish kind of man, with whom one would not 
 care to joke on an early acquaintance, or slap 
 on the back and call ' old fellow,' or abbreviate 
 his Christian name, or twist it into slang after 
 the fashion of these free and easy times. 
 
 All the excitement that he had shown at an 
 earlier period of his stay at the ' ^Yhite Swan,' 
 and which may have been part of his malady 
 rather than of his character, had disappeared, 
 and was replaced by a cool, if somewhat forced, 
 imperturbability. He was grave and polite, 
 and even grateful to his doctors, but there was 
 no lowering of the veil before his life ; on the 
 contrary, the same studied intention of keeping 
 himself and his antecedents in the shadow. He 
 was anxious to read the newspapers, and still 
 more anxious to know when he would be con- 
 sidered strong enough to leave ; to be canied
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 17 
 
 on a litter down the valley even, and placed 
 in a first-class carnage, if the company would 
 stop the train for him en route — anything, so 
 that he could be free of the position to which 
 his accident had reduced him. By common 
 consent, as it were, he had taken, and been 
 called by, the name of Welby ; but nobody 
 believed in the name, and he did not assume 
 the manner of one who behoved in it himself. 
 
 He was not strong enough to quit his room 
 when it was announced one early evening, by 
 the landlord of the * White Swan,' that a person 
 below stairs was anxious to see him. Mr. Welby 
 — we will call him by the name that he has 
 adopted, for the nonce — elevated his eyebrows, 
 and stared at his host. 
 
 ' To see me V said Mr. Welby, as if taking 
 time to consider the position, whilst he repeated 
 slowly the landlord's message. 
 
 * Yes, sir ; for a few minutes.' 
 
 'Did he ask for me in particular? — did he 
 mention my name V 
 
 * He didn't mention any particular name, sir,* 
 rephed the landlord, with an objectionable grin 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 18 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 -extending over his broad, red face ; ' he said 
 the gentleman upstairs who had met with the 
 accident.' 
 
 ' I decline to see him.' 
 
 ' I thought you would.' 
 
 ' Why?' was the quick inquiry. 
 
 ' Well, sir, I thought it was a bit rude of the 
 young fellow — forcing like — just because you 
 wish to keep yourself to yourself.' 
 
 ' Is this man very anxious to see me V asked 
 Mr. Welby, with more interest. 
 
 * I should say he was,' replied the landlord, 
 deliberately. 
 
 ' Does he pretend to know me ? Where does 
 he come from ? What kind of man is he ? 
 What is his name ? ' 
 
 The host of the * White Swan ' answered the 
 last question first. 
 
 ' His name is Overdo wn, sir. He's the young 
 man who was hurt at the same time as yourself, 
 and was brought down the Grey Tor Vale to 
 Skemmick's cottage.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that man,' said Mr. Welby, thoughtfully. 
 * He is well enough to get about then V
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 1*J 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 ' To go away V 
 
 ' Yes, I believe so.' 
 
 'Lucky fellow!' added Mr. Welby, Avith a 
 sigh. 
 
 He lay at the open window so still and silent 
 after this, that the landlord took it as a hint the 
 subject was dismissed, and that Mr. Overdo wn 
 might be dismissed also ; but, when he was 
 opening the door to depart, Mr. Welby said, 
 quickly and sharply, 
 
 ' Stay !' 
 
 The ' White Swan ' came to a full stop again. 
 
 ' One moment, Mr. Giles.' 
 
 * All right, sir.' 
 
 ' 1 have been thinking,' he said, slowly, ' that 
 I will see this Mr. — Mr. — whatever his name 
 may be. He is a fellow-sufferer, and we have 
 both been martyrs to gross carelessness. He is 
 the man whom I have seen drawn in a Bath- 
 chair down the valley there V 
 
 < That's him,' said the landlord, emphatically. 
 ' Show him upstairs.' 
 
 * Yes, sir.' 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Mr. Giles retired; and Mr. Welby drew the 
 dressing-gown, whicti he had ordered to be 
 purchased for him, more closely round his spare 
 form, and put himself somewhat into attitude, 
 more as if by habit than with any design to 
 impress his coming visitor. One could almost 
 imagine Mr. Welby had been in the habit of 
 receiving deputations, and the first Avave of his 
 thin, white hand in the direction of a chair, as 
 Mr. Daniel Overdown entered the room, would 
 have added to the idea in the mind of an 
 observant man. 
 
 Mr. Overdown was still looking white and ill, 
 and the extreme blackness of his hair and eyes 
 threw the pallor of his countenance into stronger 
 relief than had he been a fairer man. He was a 
 dapper little fellow of five feet five, and of 
 three-and-twenty years of age, with a quick, 
 brisk step of his own that his railway- shaking- 
 ought to have taken out of him. He came into 
 the room like a man ready to receive an order, 
 or measure something ofi"-hand, and his shai-p 
 glance round the apartment and at the invalid 
 told of a character which was hardly satisfied
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 21 
 
 with itself until it had grown familiar with 
 ^ surroundings.' There was an ease about Mr. 
 Over down's manner also that was striking in a 
 man of his class, and dressed as he was, in a 
 smeary suit of fustian, patent to factory life and 
 labour. It was not the fussy obtrusiveness of a 
 man ill-at-ease, and endeavouiing to mask his 
 nervousness by an air of self-assumption, but a 
 demeanour that was natural, and which did not 
 seem likely to be readily overawed or subdued. 
 He was self-possessed, but not insolent, and he 
 waited respectfully enough for Mr. Welby to 
 open the conversation. 
 
 ' You have expressed a wish to see me,' said 
 Mr. Welby at last. 
 
 * Well, for the matter of that, sir, I have seen 
 you already,' was the brisk answer. 
 
 'Indeed! Where?' 
 
 ' Looking from that window down the valley, 
 when my mates came to take a turn with the 
 Bath-chair last Saturday and Sunday ; looking 
 as miserable, too, I was inclined to fancy, as 
 if you were sorry I had got the start of you.' 
 
 He laughed pleasantly at this, but Mr. Welby
 
 22 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 only regarded him gravely in return. He was 
 not well enough just then to appreciate a 
 joke. 
 
 ' I ivas miserable,' he said, however ; ' it is hard 
 I am the last to recover.' 
 
 ' Somebody must be the last,' returned Over- 
 down. ' I don't think that that idea would have 
 entered my head, had I been in your place. But 
 there's no telling human natm-e, that's my theory, 
 sir ; there's no making any man or woman out 
 completely — no making one's self out. There's 
 a cobweb always in some dark corner or other, 
 bustle about as we may.' 
 
 Mr. Welby stared at this remark, launched at 
 him, as it were, and his face must have sho"UTL 
 that he disliked it, for Mr. Overdown said, 
 quickly, 
 
 ' You Vill excuse that little bit of the shop, 
 sir ; but I am a man with a habit of going it 
 generally for the improvement of my species, 
 after my worthy stepfather's pattern, though I 
 don't agree with him, mind you. You know my 
 stepfather, I daresay?' 
 
 ' It is not likely.'
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 23 
 
 * Not Dobson the delegate ? Why, he's been 
 locked up half-a-dozen times, and prond he is of 
 it, too. He has done a mighty deal of good in 
 his day — and a mighty deal of harm,' he added, 
 drily. 
 
 ' The name is familiar to me — from the news- 
 papers, I sujDpose.' 
 
 ' Most likely — when he's not in prison you'll 
 find him in the papers. He's getting queer 
 now, and isn't half so bright as he used to be, 
 poor old boy. But I have not come to bother 
 you about family matters/ he added, as Mr. 
 Welby put one hand to his forehead, as though 
 his head ached. 
 
 ' You talk very rapidly,' said Mr. Welby, half 
 apologetically, 'and I have not been used to 
 conversation lately.' 
 
 ' I am sorry,' said the other. ' I ought^to have 
 been more careful, considering my friends came 
 down in droves to see me, and talked me clean 
 off my head in twenty-four hours, after our spill. 
 But healthy people have no consideration for 
 sick ones. That's another of my theories, that 
 in ninety-nine men out of a hundred there isn't
 
 24 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 — but you don't care whether there isn't or is 
 just now, do you V 
 
 ' I can't say I follow you,' said Mr. AVelby, 
 wearily. ' Will you excuse my lying down ? I 
 am not as strong as I thought I was.' 
 
 ' I am talking you silly ; that's like me,' the 
 man muttered, in self-disparagement. ' Let me 
 help you V 
 
 With a care that reminded Mr. Welby of his cer- 
 tificated nurse downstairs, the young man shift- 
 ed the pillows of the sufferer, moved him with 
 gentle, but strong arms, rendered him altogether 
 more comfortable. 
 
 ' The fact is, I am so glad to get back to 
 Birmingham, to work, and to Daddy Dobson, 
 who's down with the gout — and a devil to man- 
 age when he is gouty — and to my Saturday dis- 
 cussions, and all that kind of thing, that I am as 
 talkative as an old woman, and have as little 
 thought for others as that lump of spar has 
 upon the mantel-piece. Excuse me — I think 
 I mean well, but am plaguey rough at times. 
 Want of cultivation, this/ he added, by way of 
 explanation.
 
 DANIEL OYERDOWN. 25 
 
 ' May I ask if you liave any motive in calling 
 upon me, Mr. Overclown V inquired Mr. Welby, 
 politely. 
 
 ' It has not appeared yet, has it V was the sly 
 rejoinder. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' I have a heap of reasons, but I must begin 
 again at full length, if you wish to know them 
 all.' 
 
 ' I don't think I can bear much more,' said 
 Mr. Welby, feebly. 
 
 The young man overpowered him by his 
 superior health, and beat down all desire to 
 snub him, or quell his insufferable loquacity. 
 Mr. Welby realised how weak he was now, for 
 he was a man grim and deterrent, when his ill 
 moods were uppermost, and people who bored 
 him came in his way. Not that he disliked this 
 young man, take him altogether, although his 
 recovery from the accident annoyed liim and 
 was an indirect affront to him. God knows 
 how much longer he was to be tied to that 
 wretched room, and that outlook at the 
 valley and the great gvey hills, and the
 
 26 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 • 
 
 eternal isolation which accompanied them. 
 He should never see an English hillside or 
 one of its fair valleys again without realis- 
 ing the bitterness of his terrible incapacity. 
 
 * I called to say good-bye to a man who was 
 smashed up Avith me,' said Mr. Overdown ; ' and 
 to ask you if I can be of any service in Birming- 
 ham.' 
 
 * I do not live in Birmingham.' 
 
 * You come to Birmingham now and then, 
 though ?' 
 
 ' How do you know V 
 
 ' I have seen you in the streets. Once you 
 called at my governor's factory — Edgewick's 
 Small Arms. I remember your face perfectly.' 
 
 Mr. Welby winced. What an objectionable 
 memory this man had ; what evil genius had led 
 him to ask him into his room ? 
 
 ' It must have been years ago,' he muttered. 
 
 ' Yes ; five or six years, perhaps. There was 
 a lady with you — very tall, and dark, and hand- 
 some ; and Mr. Edgewick went round the fac- 
 tory Avith you both. Old Edgewick, not the 
 young one.'
 
 DANIEL OVERDOWN. 27 
 
 ' Tliank you,' said Mr. Welby, in reply to his 
 visitor's past oifer of assistance. ' I am obliged 
 by your consideration for me, but the great- 
 est kindness is to allow me to get well by 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's the strange part of it,' remarked 
 Mr. Overdown, ' and that is why I take the 
 liberty of saying you can't get well after any 
 such fashion.' 
 
 ' Can't get well ! Great heaven, man,' he 
 exclaimed, testily, ' I am getting well rapidly.' 
 
 ' You want friends here. A man in distress 
 can't get on without friends.' ^ 
 
 * I haven't any,' was the bitter answer. 
 
 * Oh, I don't believe that.' 
 
 ' I haven't a friend I wish to see. Good 
 evening, Mr. — Mr. Overdown. I thank you for 
 calling.' 
 
 ' Don't mention it. Good evening. I wish 
 you better, sir.' 
 
 He went with his brisk step to the door and 
 paused again. 
 
 ' Of course, I don't care about your reasons 
 for hiding ' he began.
 
 28 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * Hiding !' was the indignant ejaculation of 
 the invalid. 
 
 ' I am not very curious in that way, and other 
 folk's secrets don't trouble me much,' he con- 
 tinued ; ' but still I can't help feehng I might 
 be of use here, and I should like to be of use. 
 Surely there is somebody to whom you would 
 be glad to send a word.' 
 
 Mr. Welby compressed his lips. This was the 
 old torturing business over again, by stupid 
 people who meant well, but could never fathom 
 to the depth of a secret with which he had been 
 determined to die — with which he had thought 
 it best to die, being an inflexible being in his 
 way. 
 
 'Thank you, no,' said Mr. Welby. 'Good 
 evening.' 
 
 ' I leave some time to-morrow for the Culver- 
 ley station, in Skemmick's pig-cart, and shall 
 take the first train to Birmingham, passmg by 
 this valley without another upset, I hope, ugly 
 as the curve is round the base of that confound- 
 ed quarry. You were going to Culverley when 
 the accident happened ; but is there no one 
 worth sending a word to now V
 
 . DANIEL OVERDOWN. 29 
 
 ' No one,' said Mr. Welby, in a deep voice. 
 
 ' If there had been, I ' 
 
 ' For God's sake don't kill me with your per- 
 tinacity,' raved forth the man at last ; ' you see 
 I do not require your assistance. I know I am 
 ungrateful,' he added, in a weaker voice, and 
 with the instinctive feeling of a gentleman that 
 he had given unnecessary offence in return for 
 a proffered kindness ; * but I shall be well 
 enough soon to manage my own affairs.' 
 
 ' I hope so, sir, with all my heart.' 
 
 ' I'm sure of it — almost.' 
 
 'And if not quite as sure to-morrow — and 
 before I go — why, you have only to send down 
 a word to me at Skemmick's. And I'll come 
 on, sir, sharp.' 
 
 * Thank you— very much.' 
 
 ' And so good-night to you/ 
 
 * Good-night.'
 
 30 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A LATE ARRIVAL. 
 
 Thus the two men parted, and Daniel Over- 
 down went slowly out of the inn, pondering 
 over the mystery of Mr. Wei by 's life. He 
 smoked a pipe over the problem as he walked 
 along the valley, where the shadows of night 
 were gathering together and stealing up the 
 sides of the giant tors, whose overlapping brows 
 of granite stood out, clear and sharp, against the 
 deep blue of the sky above them. 
 
 ' I suppose there's a woman at the bottom of 
 it,' Daniel Overdown said, as he turned back 
 towards Mr. Skemmick's cottage, * and that's 
 his look out, not mine. Always a woman at 
 the bottom of every trouble under the sun, some 
 people say.'
 
 A LATE ARRIVAL. 31 
 
 He was not so strong as he had bargained for 
 — for he found that he had ventured too far along 
 the valley, and w^as unable to get back without a 
 rest. He sat down on the bank with his legs 
 dangling over the stream, which swift, nois}'-, 
 and turgid rushed past him in endless wrath 
 with the obstacles in its way — a river discon- 
 tented for ever. He refilled, lighted, and smoked 
 another pipe, and thought of his own affairs now 
 in lieu of those of the gentleman at the ' White 
 Swan ' — of his little house in one of the grimiest 
 streets of Birmingham, of his work next week, 
 of his busy daily life, of his life apart from 
 labour, the leisure hours Avhich he devoted, as 
 he thought, to the improvement of men less 
 clever than himself, of his whole career which, 
 clear as the day, most people knew, of his ambi- 
 tions which, dark as the on-coming night, no 
 one dreamed save himself, and which were only 
 dreams. He thought away every scrap of day- 
 light, and, when he rose to proceed the rest of 
 his journey to Skemmick's, it was under a sky 
 blazing with a host of stars. 
 
 When he was in the shadowy village wliero
 
 32 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 the lights were, the sign of the ' White Swan ' 
 reminded him of his old fellow-passenger, and^ 
 with his gaze directed to the window, closed 
 and curtained for the night, he mnttered again, 
 
 ' Yes ; I should say there's a woman at the 
 bottom of it, if we could only find out, or cared 
 to take the trouble to find out.' 
 
 He had not been a nervous man before the 
 accident — on the contrary, very self-possessed 
 and coo], and a trifle opinionated — but he gave 
 a sideway jump as he became aware of a two- 
 horse equipage standing before the door of the 
 * White Swan.' There was so little light in the 
 village, which boasted not of gas in so rural a 
 district, that at first sight he fancied it was a 
 hearse and two black horses, and that Mr. AVelby 
 had died suddenly, and been as suddenly fetched 
 by an undertaker of remarkable promptitude. 
 When he had recovered himself, he became 
 aware that it was simply a post-chaise which 
 had scared him, with a postilion standing at the 
 horses' heads, and the landlord standing by the 
 side of the postilion. 
 
 ' Here — hi ! Mr. Overdown,' called forth the
 
 A LATE ARRIVAL. 33 
 
 landlord, ' you are wanted down at Skemmick's.' 
 
 * Who wants meV 
 
 * The lady who came in this.' 
 
 * To see him f inquired Mr. Overdown, with a 
 gesture of his hand in the direction of the up- 
 stairs window. 
 
 * Yes, that's it. When she heard he was 
 asleep, and that you had been with him half 
 an hour ago, she said she would see you first, 
 and went off in a hurry to Skemmick's.' 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed.' 
 
 Mr. Overdown proceeded on his journey. At 
 the end of the village, or the beginning of it, 
 according to which way one looked at this small 
 settlement, was the one-storied stone house of 
 Mr. Skemmick, quarryman ; and hither the 
 man from Birmingham proceeded, opening the 
 door by means of a primitive latch from the out- 
 side, and stepping at once, without any cere- 
 mony of a passage, into a red-tiled front 
 parlour. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Skemmick, a rosy-faced young 
 couple, were there as usual, and two little 
 Skemmicks, twin boys, who were only awed by 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 a stranger's presence from making a dash at Mr. 
 Overdown's legs at the first moment of his 
 arrival, and a tall and stately lady, very white 
 and wan, whose heavy, black-silk dress was for 
 ever afterwards to Mrs. Skemmick a thing of 
 wonder and beauty and cost. Stiff as a turn- 
 pike post, it was. 
 
 ' Here's Mr. Overdown, mmn, as I was a-speak- 
 ing to you about/ said Mrs. Skemmick, by way 
 of introduction. 
 
 'This is the woman he didn't want to see,' 
 muttered Mr. Overdown, to himself, as he 
 took off his cap, and made his best bow to the 
 lady.
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MR. OVERDOWN DOES NOT MAKE HIMSELF USEFUL. 
 
 A CAPITAL memory for faces had Daniel Over- 
 clown. Some men are blessed, or afflicted, by 
 this gift to a remarkable extent, and Mr. Over- 
 down was one of them. He remembered the 
 lady at once ; she it was who had accompanied 
 *Mr. AVelby' over Edgewick's Small Arms 
 Factory some five or six years since, the tall, 
 dark lady, of whom he had spoken to the 
 invalid at the ' White Swan.' He shonld have 
 known her anywhere ; first, by her height, 
 which was five feet eight, at least ; secondly, 
 by her pale, liandsome, fretfnl-looking face, 
 upon which more than one quiet comment had 
 been made on the day of the visitors' inspection 
 of the works. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Probably it had been a weary expression 
 then — the look of a woman whose health was 
 indifferent, or whose interest had not been 
 awakened, or who was very quickly bored by 
 small arms in all stages of manufacture, and by 
 the legion of workmen employed upon their 
 construction. Certainly on that day her in- 
 difference had been generally marked ; and Mr. 
 Overdown still remembered how she had walk- 
 ed with grave demeanour from room to room, 
 glancing at very little, and leaving all the 
 questioning to her husband. 
 
 It was the same face — scarcely changed in 
 any degree — a trifle whiter, perhaps, as if an- 
 xiety, or, the fatigue of travelling, had left 
 its mark there. She was sitting with one arm 
 resting on the table, and her gloved hand sup- 
 porting her chin ; and she did not change her 
 attitude as Mr. Overdown advanced. She look- 
 ed at him from two clear, brown eyes, as if she 
 doubted him, or was on her guard against any 
 statement he might make. 
 
 ' Good evening, ma'am,' he said, in his usual 
 brisk way, and the lady faintly inclined her
 
 MR. OVERDOWN IS NOT USEFUL. 37 
 
 head to his salutation, keeping her steady eyes 
 fixed on him. 
 
 ' Your name is Overdo wn, this good woman 
 tells me V the lady said, slowly and deliber- 
 ately. 
 
 ' At your service, madam,' he replied. 
 
 * Those in my service are invariably well 
 paid,' she said, meaningly, but in the same slow 
 tones ; ' and you will be no exception to the 
 rule, if you are able to assist me.' 
 
 ' I am afraid there is no chance of remuner- 
 ation, then,' he added, lightly. 
 
 ' Why, no chance V 
 
 ' Because I don't see my way to be of assist- 
 ance to you.' 
 
 * Ah I you are in my husband's confidence,' 
 she added, with a faint ring of scorn in her 
 reply. 
 
 * 1 think not,' answered Mr. Overdown ; ' that 
 is, if your husband is the sick gentleman at the 
 "White Swan?"' 
 
 * I have reason to believe he is. I have not 
 seen him yet,' she replied ; and the gloved 
 hand left her chin and clasped the other in her
 
 38 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 lap tightly and quickly. It was the first e^a- 
 clence of emotion that she had shown. 
 
 ^Mr. Welbyf 
 
 ' That is the name he goes by in this place V 
 she inquired. 
 
 ' That is the name,' was the reply. 
 
 * There was a railway accident some weeks 
 since near the Grey Tor Vale, and you and Mr. 
 Welby were the two passengers whom it was 
 found expedient to bring here T 
 
 * Yes, madam.' 
 
 ' You and this gentleman were going on to 
 Culverley — a small town, ten miles away, I 
 think r 
 
 ' About ten miles,' answered Mr. Overdown. 
 
 He did not reply to the first portion of the 
 inquiry, he hardly knew why. It was no busi- 
 ness of his; he had not been enjoined to secresy 
 but there was a secret, good or bad, connected 
 with Mr. Welby's mission, and he did not feel 
 disposed to help to betray it. It could bring no 
 happiness to the tall woman, who had travelled 
 post-haste to solve the mystery for herself ; he 
 was assured of that already. It might even.
 
 MR. OYERDOWN IS NOT USEFUL. 39 
 
 mar some cliance of happiness, of future confi- 
 dence, for what he knew of the matter, and he 
 Avonld give every man his fair chance. 
 
 The lady was qnick enongh to detect his 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' I asked if yon and Mr. Welby were travel- 
 ling to Cnlverley,' she said. 
 
 ' I was going several miles past Cnlverley on 
 business ; where Mr. Welby was going, I cannot 
 say.' 
 
 ' You had not seen him before the accident?' 
 
 * Once before — years ago — at Edgewick's 
 factory in Birmingham.' 
 
 ' Only once before T 
 
 ' Only once.' 
 
 ' May I ask how many times you and Mr. 
 Welby have met since V 
 
 ' I have seen him looking out of the window 
 of his room more than once, watching me down 
 the valley so wistfully that my heart has ached 
 for him.' 
 
 * You went to see him this evening — you 
 were anxious to see him, the landlord of the inn 
 informs me.'
 
 40 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' I wished to see a fellow-sufferer before I 
 went away to-morrow ; he seemed to be veiy 
 much alone, and very unhappy, and I thought I 
 might be of some service.' 
 
 ' Well r 
 
 ' Well,' said Daniel Overdown ; ' that's all.' 
 
 * Did he not trust you V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Not with a message to his wife ? — or to any 
 •other lady, or gentleman T she added, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' Not a word. He said he was getting well, 
 and should soon be able to act for himself.' 
 
 ' No wish expressed of any kind, then ?' she 
 added, doubtingly. 
 
 ' No,' replied Mr. Overdown, for the third time. 
 
 ' You are telling me the truth, I hope,' said 
 the lady ; and the face lost suddenly its weari- 
 ness or fretfulness of expression, and was full 
 of eagerness for a few fleeting minutes, whilst 
 she spoke. ' You do not know what a life-long 
 misery a few deceitful words of yours may 
 cause now. If you are a good man, you -will 
 tell me all you know.'
 
 MR. OVERDOWN IS NOT USEFUL. 41 
 
 * Madam, unfortunately I know nothing,' an- 
 swered Overdown. ' I am not in your hus- 
 band's confidence. He will probably tell you 
 all when you meet. You will excuse me, but 
 I hardly understand why you expect informa- 
 tion from me.' 
 
 ' Because ' she began ; then she came to a 
 
 full stop, and the old weary look returned with 
 her enforced silence. Because she distrusted 
 Mr. Welby, thought Daniel Overdown, and con- 
 sidered the truth more easily got at in the 
 quarryman's cottage than from the lips of the 
 sufferer at the ' Swan ;' because, had he, the 
 mechanic, known the truth, money might have 
 bribed it out of him in the estimation of this 
 fine lady, who was evidently as perplexed as 
 everybody else as to Mr. Welby 's motives for 
 coming down to Derbyshire. 
 
 Mr. Overdown did not press for a reply ; he 
 leaned against the wainscot table by the latticed 
 window, and twisted his cap round in his hands. 
 There was no more to say on either side, ho 
 imagined; he knew nothing of Mr. AVelby's 
 second life — that hfc in the shade, and for ever
 
 42 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 apai*t from life with this lady — and hence there 
 was no need for further conversation. Still 
 Mrs. Welby seemed reluctant to depart, al- 
 though Mr. and Mrs. Skemmick and their awe- 
 struck children were dying to get rid of her. 
 
 ' It is strange,' Mrs. Welby murmured at last, 
 as she rose. ' I have no alternative save to 
 believe you.' 
 
 ' I am sorry you doubt my word, but,' shaking 
 his head lightly, and laughing lightly too, 'I 
 shall get over it.' 
 
 * I doubt everything and everybody just now,' 
 she muttered, more to herself than to her lis- 
 teners. ' If I have hurt your feelings, you must 
 forgive me, but I am a woman natm-ally per- 
 plexed. I am not myself.' 
 
 It was a graceful apology, if made with the 
 same air of weariness which had marked her 
 general demeanour, and Mr. Overdown bowed 
 again, and said, ' Don't mention it,' and then 
 followed her out of the house, and slowly along 
 the dark and dusty roadway, in the direction 
 of the inn. The lady glanced at him with a 
 faint surprise after a while.
 
 MR. OVERDOWN IS NOT USEFUL. 43 
 
 ' I hardly require an escort — I am taking you 
 ont of your way,' she said. 
 
 ' I will see yon as far as the " Swan," with 
 yonr permission.' 
 
 The lady inclined her head, and walked on 
 somewhat slowly. The suspicion had come to 
 her again — was she a suspicions woman ? — that 
 the man had something to tell her after all, 
 and had postponed the revelation till they were 
 alone together. She might have seen that 
 before. It was natural that he should be dis- 
 creet before the people at the cottage. She 
 slackened her pace still more, and once glanced 
 askance at her companion, but he was pursuing 
 his way moodily, with his hands clasped behind 
 his back, and his eyes directed to the ground. 
 She gave him time, but he would not avail 
 himself of it, and she remarked, at last, 
 
 ' You have nothing further to say, Mr. Over- 
 down?' 
 
 * Nothing, except this. That if I can bo of 
 any use in this muddle to you, or your hus- 
 band, I am willing. I do not know,' he added, 
 *why I should push myself forward, but I
 
 44 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 have still the notion I might be of service.' 
 
 * I do not see how yon can help me,' she 
 replied, more coldly. 
 
 * If I were to break the news to the gentle- 
 man that you have arrived, for instance,' he 
 suggested. 
 
 * Do you think my presence will frighten him 
 so much*?' she asked, with slow severity. 
 
 ' He does not expect you,' was the reply. 
 ' I shall not scare him a great deal.' 
 
 * He is very weak.' 
 
 ' I will be careful of him.' 
 
 ' Why, that's your duty,' said Mr. Over down, 
 bluntly ; ' though,' he added, ' it's not every 
 woman who knows her duty, or where forgive- 
 ness might step in even before it, and make 
 things straight again.' 
 
 Daniel Overdown addressed this aphorism to 
 .the dusty road, but the lady at his side glanced 
 quickly at him. 
 
 ' Are you a religious man V she asked, with 
 greater interest. 
 
 * Can't say I am, exactly ; though I have been 
 to chapel once or twice. Odd, isn't it V
 
 MR. OVERDOWN IS NOT USEFUL. 45 
 
 ' For a man of yonr class, I admit it is,' she 
 answered. 
 
 ^ Oh, yon don't know what my class is, or how it 
 behaves itself after work,' he replied ; ' yon think 
 we are all at the pnblic-honses guzzling down our 
 grievances and onr wages. We're — but here's 
 the " Swan,^' and that ngly black coach of yours, 
 and I will wish you a good evening.' 
 
 ' Good evening.^ 
 
 ' I'm still at Edgewick's Small Arm Factory, 
 Birmingham, if wanted,' he said, with emphasis ; 
 * if not, why, all the better for us all. Good- 
 night, again, and good luck to you and him.'' 
 
 He jerked his thumb towards the window 
 where the light was burning, and she might 
 have read a warning in his gesture, if she had 
 cared to take it from one so immeasurably below 
 her own position in the world. But she Avas a 
 woman who had faith in herself, as well as in 
 God — the greater faith in her own poor estimate 
 of what was right and just than in His, although 
 she would not have dared to confess it, or be 
 lieved even that she had it. 
 
 And it was with this immense measure of self-
 
 46 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 confidence that the tall lady went l3ack to the 
 SSwan,' and to the husband whom she had 
 tracked there.
 
 47 
 
 CHAPTER y. 
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 
 
 The landlord of the ' Swan ' was standing 
 under the ivy-clad porch of his picturesque inn, 
 waiting for the lady's return. He wore a du- 
 bious and perplexed air on his broad, pasty face, 
 and was smoking a long clay pipe — his ' church- 
 warden ' — with solemnity. 
 
 During the lady's absence, down at Skem- 
 mick's, he had had time to think the matter over, 
 to take his own good lady into his confidence, 
 to examine and cross-examine the postilion, and 
 ascertain how the mysterious visitor had turned 
 up by the express from London, driven to the 
 hotel in a fly, ordered a post-chaise, at any cost, 
 so that time should not be wasted, 'harassed
 
 48 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 and fidgeted and worried everybody all ronnd,' 
 until the post-chaise was ready, upbraided the 
 postilion en route, and reflected on his lazy 
 driving, and the bad condition of his horseflesh, 
 and wore him * to skin and bone ' by continu- 
 ally letting down the window and asking him 
 how many miles it was now. 
 
 There was evidently a storm brewing, and 
 mine host did not look forward with pleasure to 
 a tempest in his establishment. He could not 
 see the end of it, and of what might follow the 
 end of it, he had hinted t(j his wife. To aggra- 
 vate matters, j\Ir. Welby would not wake up to 
 be informed of the fresh arrival, and Miss Eyles, 
 ' the certificated,' who had been conferred ^\dth, 
 was as perplexed as he was. 
 
 ' It's a great bother,' she said. 
 
 * I msh she hadn't found him,' confessed the 
 host. • 
 
 ' She will never want to see him,' remarked 
 the imrse, dubiously ; ' she will be content, I 
 daresay, with hearing how he is getting on.' 
 
 ' Ye-es,' said the landlord, ' but she's his ^Wfe, 
 mind you.'
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 49 
 
 * So much tlie worse,' was the sharp answer. 
 
 ' Under the cn-cumstances, so much the worse, 
 as you say, ma'am.' 
 
 ' I think I will see Mrs. Welby, when she 
 comes,' said the nurse. 
 
 ' Yes, that's right, do,' the landlord responded, 
 with alacrity. 
 
 * It will be better.' 
 
 ' Very much better,' was the positive assent. 
 
 But, when the lady had arrived, the nm'se was 
 not at hand, as the landlord had hoped and 
 prayed she might be, and there was he left to 
 receive the first brunt of it after all. 
 
 ' Good evening again to you, ma'am,' said the 
 landlord. 
 
 * Good evening.' 
 
 ' He's still asleep, lady,' he explained, in a low, 
 deep bass, ' and I can't help fancying it's a pity 
 to wake him now it's so late. Don't you think 
 the morning would ' 
 
 'I am not able to stay till the morning; I 
 return to-night,' she said, almost snappishly. 
 
 ' Ye-es, exactly, ma'am ; so the postiHon has 
 been saying, but still ' 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Tell the nurse I want to see her, please/ 
 said the lady, interiTipting him ; ' she will un- 
 deristand me better than yon/ 
 
 '•1 don't see that exactly.' 
 
 * Yon seem dull and confused.' 
 
 « Oh, indeed. Well,' he said, ' I'll send for her 
 directly.' 
 
 Presently the nurse appeared. She came 
 downstairs in her list slippers as noiseless as a 
 cat, and bowed with great gravity, keeping a 
 keen watch on the traveller, as if endeavouring 
 to read what were the thoughts, doubts, and 
 liopes behind that quiet, pale, aristocratic 
 face. 
 
 She bowed low to the lady, who made the 
 slightest movement of her head in return, and 
 by way of acknowledgment of the nurse's 
 salutation. 
 
 ' He is asleep, madam,' she said, ' and it wiU 
 be very unwise to disturb him at this time of 
 night.' 
 
 ' Why f 
 
 * He is very weak still,' she added, 
 
 * And you think I shall disturb him ?' asked 
 the lady,
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 51 
 
 The nurse hardly knew how to reply. She 
 thought she read something of dissatisfaction 
 and suspicion, as well as anxiety in the face ; 
 the shadow of a scene to come — the characters, 
 a woman deceived and a man found out — was 
 surely cast upon the screen, and yet she was 
 not sure. 
 
 *The least thing disturbs him, madam,' she 
 "went on to remark. 
 
 ' I am not the least thing,' was the cold 
 answer. 
 
 ' And in his critical position I will not answer 
 for the consequences.' 
 
 a will.' 
 
 ' I am responsible to the . doctor for my 
 patient,' said the nurse, with spirit. Nurses, like 
 lionesses, are easily roused: they will, reign 
 supreme in the sick-room, or know the reason 
 why their dominion is interfered with — even a 
 ' monthly ' of the real old Gamp class cuts up 
 roughly at a trifle. 
 
 'I have the doctor's permission to see the 
 patient.' 
 
 ^ At this hoiu'?' said the nurse, wonderingly. 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINCk
 
 52 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * Yes,' answered the lady, producing the let- 
 ter from the pocket of her dress ; ' are you Miss 
 Eyles V 
 
 The nurse nodded an assent, took the letter 
 from the lady's hand, and read the few lines 
 which it contained. 
 
 It ran as follows : 
 
 * Allow this lady to see Mr. Welby immediate- 
 ly upon her arrival.' 
 
 ' Very well,' she said, * but the gentleman is 
 asleep. You will not attempt to wake him V 
 
 ' I will not attempt to wake him,' she echoed 
 back. 
 
 * It is as much as his life is worth to do so — 
 he is feverish to-night ; rest is everything to 
 him,' said the nurse, once more, and by way 
 of extra warning. 
 
 * I will not disturb his rest, if it can possibly 
 be avoided.' 
 
 ' He is in your hands now, madam,' 
 
 Mrs. Welby did not reply, and Miss Eyles led 
 
 the way upstairs reluctantly. 
 
 She was a shrewd woman, who knew better 
 
 what was safe at this juncture than a doctor
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 53 
 
 miles away from the patient, and, as we have 
 hinted, she did not admire the manner of the 
 patient's wife. It was haughty towards her- 
 self, bnt that she could have put up with, 
 and it was not natural to the lady. Hence 
 there was self-repression, and what the result of 
 seeing the sick man might be, or of the sick 
 man seeing his wife, was difficult to guess at^ 
 if the self-repression gave way or burst up. 
 She washed her hands of the responsibihty, and 
 put the doctor's letter in her pocket. She had 
 warned the lady, and the lady had snubbed her 
 for her pains — a wife had every right to visit 
 her husband certainly, but she somehow wished 
 that it had not been a wife of this pattern. 
 
 Into the sick-room glided the nurse; into 
 the sick-room rustled the woman who had track- 
 ed her runaway lord to his lair. A lamp was burn- 
 ing on the table, its light shaded from the invalid 
 by the curtain of the bed being drawn between 
 it and him; a book that the nurse had been 
 reading, and the nurse's watch — a large, silver, 
 turnipy article — were on the table by the side of 
 the lamp. The wife went across the room to
 
 54 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 the table without glancing towards the bed — 
 she was nervous now, perhaps, and needed 
 time to compose herself. She took np the 
 watch and set it down again, as if anxious 
 about the time — it was close upon ten o'clock 
 — and then a second watch, of chased and 
 massive gold, upon the mantelpiece attracted 
 her attention. Mr. Welby had worn it that day 
 for the first time since his accident, and Mrs. 
 AVelby recognised it, and the big foreign coin 
 appended to the chain, which shook and jingled 
 with her own shaking hand. 
 
 Miss Eyles wished Mrs. Welby a hundred 
 miles off — further off than the fate which had 
 brought her there. 
 
 ' Yes, it is his,' the lady whispered to herself; 
 then she put the watch down, and faced the 
 sleeping man at last. He was lying very calm 
 and still just then — a grim-faced rigidity that 
 one might have taken for a corpse Avithout much 
 stretch of the imagination. She looked eager- 
 ly towards him, and then went step-by- step 
 nearer to the bed until she was close against 
 the chintz curtain, which she drew back so
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 55 
 
 that the Hght for a moment fell upon his face. 
 
 * Paul, poor Paul !' she murmured. 
 
 ' Don't tonch the cm'tain, please,' whispered 
 the nurse, jealous of all interference with her ar- 
 rangements for the sick man's comfort ; * you 
 must not do that.' 
 
 'He sleeps very peacefully.' 
 
 ' It is his one chance,' warned Miss Eyles 
 again. 
 
 The visitor did not reply — did not hear her. 
 She sank into a chair by the bedside, clasped her 
 gloved hands together, and, after watching her 
 husband for a few more minutes, spread them 
 suddenly before her face. Miss Eyles could hear 
 many whispered words ; long, hurried sentences 
 of extempore prayer, w^hich sounded strangely 
 and impressively at that horn-, although they jar- 
 red upon the nurse's sensitive ears. Presently 
 the sleeping man moved restlessly in his bed, as 
 though prayers troubled him, and the nurse was 
 on her feet again, and gesticulating to the lady, 
 now leaning across the coverlet, with her hands 
 dropped from her face. The lady saw the 
 nurse's warning gestures, but took no heed of
 
 56 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 them ; she kept her place there, grave and anx- 
 ious, and he whom she watched opened his eyes 
 and glanced at her as at a vision which had come 
 to him in the night — an awful vision, which he 
 had prayed to God might never afflict him in an 
 hour like this. 
 
 ' Frances,' he whispered, hoarsely, ' it is you, 
 then V 
 
 ' Yes, it is I,' she answered, very calmly. 
 
 ' At last.' 
 
 « You never sent for me.' 
 
 * No, I never sent.' 
 
 ' Are you afraid of me now that I am here, 
 Paul V 
 
 ' No, no,' he answered, hurriedly, ' but you 
 should not have come to this place — I am get- 
 ting better.' 
 
 * Without me — yes, ' she added, with a 
 sigh. 
 
 ' I thought it would be best,' he continued, 
 with difficulty, ' that you should be ignorant — of 
 this. I was afraid of alarming you — there was 
 no necessity to — to distress you — and the child 
 — and all. our friends. I thought I should get
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 57 
 
 well more quickly than I have done, and come 
 back sooner — don't yon see ?' 
 
 '.I see, Paul, that you have been very consid- 
 erate towards me,' she said, still quietly, ' but 
 this was a difficult thing to conceal, and a long 
 absence hard to explain — even to me, always 
 taking your word for truth, and never doubting 
 your honom- and good faith.' 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and the palhd 
 features of the man were for an instant chang- 
 ed to a dusky red, as the wife added, very 
 slowly, 
 
 ' Never till this day.' 
 
 He did not answer her, he might have even 
 turned an appealing glance towards his nm'se 
 for an interference at this crisis, for Miss Eyles' 
 voice once more broke in upon the marital 
 dialogue. 
 
 ' If you would postpone fui-ther questions till 
 the morning, madam, it would be for the benefit 
 of my patient. You are depriving him of his 
 chance of a night's rest, and 1 must really beg 
 you to be silent,' said the nurse. 
 
 ' I shall be many miles away before the
 
 58 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 morning,' the wife replied. ' I have no time to 
 spare.' 
 
 * You are going away at once T asked the 
 husband, curiously. 
 
 ' Yes, unless you wish me to stay — unless 
 you think I can be of any use to you,' she an- 
 swered, with an anxious look towards him, as if 
 she hoped she might be. 
 
 ' No — no, I think not.' 
 
 ' Very well.' 
 
 He lay silent for awhile ; then he murmm-ed, 
 
 * I have everything I wish. She ' — indicating 
 Miss Eyles by a slight movement — ' is very atten- 
 tive, and clever, and cool. I had better keep as 
 quiet as I can.' 
 
 « I think so, too,' said the wife, more coldly, ' I 
 
 have made no arrangement to stay, and our Es- 
 
 telle is far from well again.' 
 ' Poor girl, I am sorry for that.' 
 ' She has been fretting for you lately.' 
 The man's lips began to quiver, and the eye- 
 
 Hds to blink tremulously. He was terribly weak 
 
 still. 
 
 ' Give my love to her,' he added, in a broken 
 
 voice.
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 59^ 
 
 * When you return home — when you have 
 related everything to me that you think I have 
 a right to know — it w^ill be time enough to give 
 a father's love to her,' said the wife. ' At 
 present she believes you are in Italy. I have 
 tried — to my shame, perhaps ! — to deceive her 
 all I can, for she is veiy young, and very weak, 
 and thinks a great deal of her father, and, per- 
 haps, I could not explain to her how I found 
 you here, or under what circumstances. The 
 mystery of this must for ever remain apart from 
 her innocent young life.' 
 
 ' It will be best,' he muttered. 
 
 * God knows what is best — I don't think you 
 ever did, Paul,' she said, regretfully ; * and this 
 is the end of a great deception that has lasted 
 many years between us. I see it now,' she 
 added, with a half groan. ' I should have seen 
 it long ago if I had had less trust in you.' 
 
 * What have you seen V he asked, timidly. 
 
 ' That icoman /' she cried, indignantly and 
 passionately, at last ; ' her whom you were going 
 to Culverley to see, when God Almighty struck 
 you down in your Avickedness. It was His 
 judgment.'
 
 60 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 It was the jealous woman now, no longer the 
 saint who prayed, or the stoic who kept cool, 
 but an impassioned, inconsiderate female, with 
 her heart stabbed too deeply to play propriety 
 before a hired nurse and a sick husband. He 
 would deceive her on his death-bed for his 
 paltry name's sake, and she would have none of 
 his deception. Let him know, at least, that she 
 had found him out, and would never in all her 
 after life forgive him, come what would — never, 
 never, never ! 
 
 ' You are mistaken — you are in the wrong,' 
 he shouted back at her, with great excitement, 
 in his turn ; ' I Avas going to Culverley for ' 
 
 He came to a full stop, and turned of a greyish 
 hue. Once more, and for the third time with 
 some effect, the vigilant Miss Eyles interposed. 
 
 'Mrs. Welby,' she said, with extraordinary 
 severity of tone, ' I warn you that you will be 
 your husband's death, if you remain any longer. 
 I must insist,' she added, with a little stamp of 
 her foot, ' on your immediate departure.' 
 
 The tall lady drew herself up to every inch ot 
 her height, and looked down proudly at the
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 61 
 
 ■woman who hissed at her this warning; then 
 her colour changed, and her manner altered 
 considerably. 
 
 * I have no more to say,' she said, almost 
 meekly ; * I forgot myself, and your charge. I 
 hope,' with a timid glance towards her husband, 
 * that I have done no harm by speaking to yon.' 
 
 ' I hope not.' 
 
 * I pray not.' 
 
 She leaned over the bed again, regarding him 
 who lay there very anxiously. 
 
 ' I am going,' she said ; ' have you anything 
 to say before I go ?' 
 
 'Not now.' 
 
 * Not a word of explanation, Paul V 
 
 ' I can't say anything more to-night,' he an- 
 swered, huskily and wearily ; ' let me be, please.' 
 
 ' What there is to forgive, I may forgive, Paul, 
 in good time,' she added, gently now. ' Will 
 that set your mind at rest, if — if we shall not 
 meet, again f 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, softly, ' I think it will.' 
 
 * But there is — oh ! my poor husband — there 
 is One to ask forgiveness of, before myself. Pray,
 
 62 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 think of Him ; ask Him to spare yoii years of 
 life and of repentance. Will you V 
 
 ' Presently.' 
 
 ' You are getting better every clay, the doctor 
 says,' she added, assuringly ; ' and, when you are 
 home again, we Avill try to think the best of 
 everything, and lead a different life, with 
 Heaven's help, and for our dear child's sake. 
 Why not'^ I will not be unmerciful; you have 
 not been a bad husband to me, although I did 
 not know — did not dream that — Good-bye, Paul ; 
 I will send to-morrow to inquire after you,' she 
 added, as she hastily broke away from one last 
 reproach hovering on her lips. 
 
 * Good-bye, Frances,' he murmured. 
 
 She hurried from the room, first dropping 
 money into the nurse's hand, which closed upon 
 two sovereigns by the purest instinct, though 
 the rules of the Institute were against the gift, 
 and went downstairs in her blind swdftness, and 
 through a whirhng mist of tears. She had be- 
 trayed something of the agony of her heart, but 
 not much. If the invaHd, or the nurse Eyles, 
 had only known of the struggle it had been to
 
 THE BETTER HALF. 63 
 
 keep back all that was festering in her mind 
 and memory, all that was driving her mad with 
 jealousy and wounded pride, and the misery of 
 a dull, dead future, where consolation could 
 come never again, and where happiness lay dead, 
 and religion, in that hour, only seemed to mock 
 her, they would have pitied her more, and won- 
 dered at her struggle with herself ending so 
 well. If they could have heard her sobs and wild 
 wailings, in the darkness of the coach as it was 
 whMed away, along the country road, from the 
 husband who was afraid of her, they might have 
 understood more clearly the nature of the trial 
 she had experienced, and the bitter awakening 
 to the truth it had been.
 
 64 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SENT FOR. 
 
 The next day was all bright sunshine in the 
 valley, a hot day of its kind, with no breeze 
 to shake the leaves of the great trees, and the 
 bnsy brook, a torrent of molten silver in the 
 sun. 
 
 It was a fair picture of peace and rest in the 
 green bosom of picturesque old Derbyshu-e. 
 Tragedy, or the shadow of tragedy, can surely 
 not belong to this spot, lying far away from the 
 great cities, where the throbbing, feverish 
 hearts are always beating madly. Who could 
 dream of great trouble a hundred yards or so 
 distant from this quiet landscape, or of grim fore- 
 bodings, terrible reproaches, and vain regrets — 
 of the fearful despair which comes ever to the
 
 SEXT FOR. Q5 
 
 sinner from whom the worki is shpping away, 
 and to whom the world has been everything, 
 and its Maker but a name, perhaps a terror ? 
 The scene around seemed to breathe only of 
 content ; even the buxls had ceased their bick- 
 erings and were full of music, or else silent in 
 their nests ; the sky was of a deep blue, flecked 
 here and there by dazzling white clouds which 
 sailed on grandly through the azure ; and the 
 country lad in the distance, fishing from the 
 red brick arch across the stream, was part of the 
 scene's harmony, for all his soitow that the 
 fish would not nibble at his bait that day. 
 
 ' Now it's actually come to going home, it^s 
 almost a pity,' said Mr. Overdown, standing 
 with his hands in his pockets, and his legs very 
 wide apart, at the door of Mr. Skemmick's cot- 
 tage ; ' it's like the end of a hohday, almost.' 
 
 ' Donteo go then,' suggested Mr. Skemmick, 
 home for his twelve o'clock meal, and very busy 
 at it within doors, and speaking \vith his mouth 
 full, ' we're in no hoory to get rid o' ye, mate ; 
 and,' he added, with a chuckle, ' the railway 
 pays all expenses.' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 Q6 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Y es, but I don't want to embarrass it 
 ■with a big bill for board and lodging, as well as 
 for wear and tear of constitution,' Dan said, 
 laughing ; * and the doctor reports that I am 
 iit for work. I Avas anxious about work yes- 
 terday, but dashed if I am to-day, somehow. 
 I know why, though.' 
 
 ' Why, how's that, Mr. Overdown?' asked Mr. 
 Skemmick. 
 
 * It's that big swell at the " Swan," ' replied 
 Daniel ; ' I don't like leaving him somehow — 
 all by himself like. We have been together 
 here; we came down together, got damaged 
 together, and we ought to have gone home to- 
 gether. That would have been a fair and 
 square arrangement, mind you, Mr. Skemmick ; 
 that would have been winding up the history 
 neat and tidy.' 
 
 Mr. Skemmick gave a loud laugh, and a * Get 
 out with you for that,' as though he imagined 
 Daniel Overdown to be perpetrating a joke; 
 but Mrs. Skemmick said, with great solemnity, 
 
 * It's my belief he's nearer home than you, Mr 
 Overdown, by a big, long way.'
 
 SENT FOR. 67 
 
 ' Eh — what V he said, sharply; ' do you mean 
 going to die V 
 
 ' That I do mean.' 
 
 ' Good lor'.' 
 
 ' There was a great winding-sheet in the 
 candle last night, when Skemmick and I went 
 lip to bed,' she explained, still farther. ' Don't 
 you remember, Skemmick?' 
 
 ' Ay, I do,' replied Skemmick, becoming 
 solemn himself at the reminiscence ; ' o' course 
 there was.' 
 
 ' Ah, we don't believe in any of that rubbish, 
 Birmingham way,' said My. Overdown, bluntly, 
 * though I believe it's the odds against the 
 gentleman all the same. I didn't like the look 
 of him last time ; I didn't like the glare . in his 
 eyes,' he added, very thoughtfully. 
 
 ' It's a bad sign when they glares,' said Skem- 
 mick. 
 
 ' I wonder what he said to the lady, or the 
 lady to him,' observed ^Irs. Skemmick. 
 
 ' Yes, so do I,' replied Mr. Overdown. « I 
 hope it was all right ; I hope they kissed and 
 .made it up, if there was anything to make up, 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 which there might have been, you know. 
 AAHiich there was, 1 suppose, or he would have 
 sent for her ever so long ago.' 
 
 * To be sure,' said Skemmick ; ' he's fro' Lon- 
 don — bean't he ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 * Mayhap, then, he's stolen something, and 
 was trying to get away,' said Skemmickj seized 
 with a new and bright idea ; * there's a rare 
 heap of thieves in London, I've heard tell. 
 Oceans of 'em.' 
 
 Mr. Overdown did not reply to this. He had 
 abetter opinion of London folk than the quarry- 
 man, or else he was not disposed to contradict 
 the assertion, or else he had not been listening 
 to him* Presently he said, 
 
 * I had the idea he might not be long for this 
 world when I called upon him yesterday, and 
 that is why I did call. I thought he might 
 have trusted me for the want of a better man. 
 Skemmick !' 
 
 ' Holloo !' answered Skemmick. 
 
 * I shall walk down to the " Swan " again, 
 and ask how he is this morning,' said Dan. ' I've 
 got him on my mind, old man.'
 
 SENT FOR. 69 
 
 •' You'll tire ^^ourself out.' 
 
 ' Pooh ! not L' 
 
 ' Ye're not yourself yet, by a long chalk/ 
 
 ' I'm a lion, Skem,' was the reply. 
 
 Mr. Dan Overdown set off down the valley ; 
 and the twin Skemmicks, with nothing to do 
 that day but fret sun-eptitiously at the pros- 
 pect of Mr. Overdown's departure, scrambled to 
 then- feet and insisted upon accompanying him. 
 
 ' Ye maun come back,' screamed the mother, 
 after them. 
 
 ' Let them be,' answered Overdown, ' we 
 shan't see much more of each other ; poor little 
 kids,' he added, as though he thought the loss of 
 his society to them was a blow from whicli they 
 might not speedily recover. 
 
 He walked down the valley, holding a twin by 
 each hand, and, brightening up ^vith the bright 
 sunshine without, he launched into small talk 
 and odd remarks, and even grotesque steps, 
 to amuse the children until the Skemmick 
 juniors were shrieking with laughter, and he 
 fancied he should leave them ' pretty jolly, 
 after all.'
 
 70 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Half-way clown the road he met the stable- 
 boy from the ' Swan ' imi, slouching along at a 
 fan pace — a boy who was three-fom^ths an idiot, 
 it was thought in Gravesly, and who was trudg- 
 ing towards him with -his mouth open and his 
 tongue out. He, like all the rest of the village, 
 knew Dan Overdown very well by sight now. 
 Dan Overdown had made a point of knomng 
 everybody long ago. 
 
 The stable-boy, being very much of a dolt, 
 would have passed him with a nod and a vacant 
 grin, had not Dan said, 
 
 ' Where are you going, Jem V 
 
 ' Oo — ay — I be going for you, to be sure,' he 
 said, with another grin, of most extraordinary 
 dimensions this time. 
 
 * AVhy, you addlepate, why didn't you say so,' 
 exclaimed Dan. ' Who wants me V 
 
 ' I doant know.' 
 
 ^ Who sent for me V 
 
 ' Oo — measter told me to cooni and find you.' 
 
 ' Oh, did he ? And how's the gentleman up- 
 stairs f 
 
 'Mortal bad.'
 
 SENT FOR. 71 
 
 ' I'm wanted,' muttered Dan, « he wants me, 
 after all.' 
 
 He sent the young Skemmicks back to their 
 home, weeping and wailing at their summary 
 dismissal, and, with the stable-boy keeping as 
 much step with him as a pair of clumsy 
 feet, describing segments of circles, would 
 allow, the gunsmith stepped out briskly for the 
 ' Swan.' 
 
 The landlord and landlady were waiting for 
 him in the broad passage, both looking grave 
 enough now, as though the probable misfortune 
 of losing Mr. Welby severely aifected them; 
 which it did, as a customer of some stand- 
 ing, who might have been good for half-a-dozen 
 more weeks, ' if it had not pleased the Lord to 
 hurry him bang off,' said the landlord to Mr. 
 Overdown. 
 
 ' He's been asking for you every half minute,' 
 added the landlady, ' so you'd better go up at 
 once.' 
 
 ' Is the doctor there V 
 
 * He has been here, but Mr. Welby wouldn't 
 let him stop. He's coming again presently/
 
 72 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 was the landlord's reply ; * don't see the good 
 of it myself, except to add to his bill. But he's 
 coming.' 
 
 ' What does the doctor say V 
 ' That he's worse — much worse.' 
 ' That's bad ; Vm sorry.' 
 
 ' It's all that woman's bothering last night,' 
 said the landlord. 
 
 ' Very likely. Women "\\dll bother.' 
 Daniel Overdown went softly upstairs and 
 tapped at the door of the room wherein he 
 had been introduced some eighteen hours 
 since. The niu'se opened the door, and put 
 her fingers to her lips, enjoining caution to 
 the new-comer, and then made way for him to 
 enter. 
 
 ' He has arrived, sir,' she said, in a low voice. 
 ' That's well,' murmured the invalid, in a voice 
 much lower still — a far-away voice that was a 
 little startling, 'that's well. He will wait, and 
 give me time.' 
 
 There was no more said for a while, not even 
 when Daniel Overdown was looking upon the 
 white, pinched face of the sufferer, whose eyes
 
 SEXT FOR. 73 
 
 were fixed upon the visitor with a strange, 
 yearning gaze, and yet with a strange donbt of 
 him, as if, even at the last, he feared to trust the 
 man. 
 
 Miss Eyles placed a chair at the side of the 
 bed for the gunsmith, who sat down, cap in hand, 
 and waited for any commands vnih which ]\Ir. 
 Welby might think to favour him. There had 
 €ome a great change to the sick man since he, 
 Dan Overdown, had seen him last— a change 
 for the worse ; and yet, only the change which 
 comes, sooner or later, to all of ns, poor mortals, 
 in turn. To this man lying here, a change much 
 sooner than he had bargained for, ov prepared 
 for. That was the crjang shame of it ; in that 
 hoiu- of his discontent, a grief and a surpiise as 
 well, but none the less a shame, he was con- 
 Annced in his own mind. If he had been only 
 allowed to hve a little longer, if he had been 
 mercifully spared to make things riglit^ how 
 niuch better it would have been for every- 
 body! 
 
 Presently the thin, white lips parted, and he 
 said.
 
 74 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to come, Mr. Over- 
 down.' 
 
 ' Not at all,' was the reply. 
 
 * Yes, it is ; very good of yon.' 
 
 ' I only hope I can be of service in some way, 
 and that you haven't had the trouble of seeing 
 me again for nothing,' said Dan ; ' for if, in any 
 fashion ' 
 
 He stopped, as the man raised his hand from 
 the coverlet in a deprecating manner, as though 
 Mr. Overdown's explanation was of no concern 
 to him, or took up too much time at a ciitical 
 period of his own career. 
 
 * Thank you. Yes,' he said ; ' now, let me think 
 a moment, please.' 
 
 There was another long pause ; and the tick- 
 ing of Mr. Welby's watch upon the mantel- 
 piece was very loud and noisy in the silence of 
 the room. 
 
 The sick man said, at last, 
 
 ' I have changed for the worse. They say I 
 may not live the day out.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry to hear it, sir, very sorry.' 
 
 'Do you see — any great alteration in me — 
 yourself?'
 
 SENT FOR. 75 
 
 ' Well, sir — I must say — you've altered, some- 
 how,' answered Daniel Overdown, hesitatingly, 
 ' but ' 
 
 ' Don't keep interrupting me,' said the invalid, 
 querulously again ; ' I can't get on if you talk as 
 well as 1/ 
 
 ' All right, sir.' 
 
 Mr. Welby considered the position again ; 
 Miss Eyles, the nurse, slipped back, and sat 
 down in the shadow of the curtain, in the 
 secret hope that her patient would forget her 
 presence ; for she was not above her sex's little 
 Weaknesses, of which we have heard curiosity is 
 one that dates from very early times indeed, 
 and Daniel Overdown twisted his cap in his 
 hands, and did not speak again. 
 
 ' When you came here yesterday evening,' re- 
 commenced the gentleman whom we at present 
 know only as Mr. Welby, 'you implied — that 
 you would be glad — to be of help to me.' 
 
 Daniel nodded. 
 
 ' That's quite correct, sir.' 
 
 ' That was kind of you. And this morning I 
 have been thinking you might be of service. Of
 
 76 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 very gi*eat service,' lie repeated, thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Well, sh', I'll try to be.' 
 
 ' There's a something in your face which says, 
 " Trust me " ; and,' he concluded, with a strange, 
 pathetic grimace, ' I haven't anybody else to 
 trusto Not one.' 
 
 ' I'm sure, sir ' began the nurse, taken off 
 
 her guard by this assertion. 
 
 He stared at the nurse's face peering round 
 the curtain at him. 
 
 ' You have been very kind to me, Miss Eyles, 
 but ' — closing his lips very firmly — ' one never 
 trusts a woman.' • 
 
 ' Ah, I don't agree with you there,' cried Dan 
 Overdown. 
 
 * Or trusts a woman too much, and is deceived 
 by her,' continued Mr. Welby; 'as would be 
 very natural. Will you be good enough to leave 
 us, Miss Eyles ? I should be much obliged to 
 you.' 
 
 *But -' 
 
 ' Mr. Overdown can call you at any moment. 
 I — I have private business with — the gentle- 
 man,' he said, very precisely, if very feebly.
 
 SENT FOR. 77 
 
 ' As you please, Mr. Welby ; and if you insist/ 
 said Miss Eyles, rising, and going reluctantly 
 from the room. 
 
 * Lock the door,' said Mr. Welby, hastily and 
 eagerly, ' then she can't come back.' 
 
 Daniel Overdown looked surprised, but he 
 crossed the room and turned the key in the 
 lock as the sick man had requested. 
 
 ' Are you sure it is fastened V asked Mr. 
 Welby. 
 
 ' Quite sure.' 
 
 ' Come and sit down here, then, close to me, 
 so that I need not raise my voice too loudly. 
 Can you hear every word I say?' 
 
 ' Every word.' 
 
 ' I don't know what made you think that I 
 had anything preying on my mind,' whispered 
 the sick man. ' I have kept myself very quiet 
 and free from excitement, whilst I have been in 
 this place. There was nothing to warrant your 
 suspicions.' 
 
 * Excepting your objection to let anyone 
 know where you were,' added Mr. Over- 
 down.
 
 78 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Oil, yes, there was that, certainly. I had 
 forgotten for a moment. What should you 
 think was my reason, now V he added, very 
 curiously ; ' in your humble way, you seem a 
 shrewd man. What should you think V 
 
 ' Well — you were hiding from the wife who 
 was moving heaven and earth to find you^ said 
 Mr. Overdown ; ' you were coming this way 
 secretly and sneakingly — if you'll excuse my 
 saying so — and the whole thing is very easily 
 guessed.' 
 
 ' Easily guessed !' 
 
 ' To be sure.' 
 
 ' Go on,' said the invalid. 
 
 « If there had been a fair and honest reason, 
 you would not have objected to the wife's 
 knowing where you were. If ' 
 
 ' If,' repeated Mr. Welby, watching him very 
 closely, as he paused. 
 
 ' If there had not been another woman some- 
 where,' was the blunt reply, at last. 
 
 Mr. Welby's eyes quivered very much like a 
 man's with the sun very strong upon them, 
 but he shook his head to and fro in protest
 
 SENT FOFt. 79 
 
 against the insmiiations of his companion. 
 
 ' Yon are wrong in yonr suspicions — com- 
 pletely worng.' 
 
 ' That's good hearing, sir.' 
 
 * You'll think that. She, and you, and every- 
 body else. That's how the world judges — al- 
 ways! As if there could be no other reason, 
 save a low, despicable intrigue. xAs if I were— 
 not above it — as if ' 
 
 ' Well, there was not a woman in the case,' 
 cried Overdown ; * and, by Jove ! I am glad 
 of that, though I don't know what it is to 
 do with me.' 
 
 • You are too quick, sir ; there may be a wo- 
 man in the case, without her being a guilty 
 woman. I may have been compelled to come 
 this way secretly, at the risk of the little happi- 
 ness left to me and my home, but none the less 
 compelled to come. God knows this is my trial 
 more than anyone else's,' he cried, with great 
 excitement now; 'and that in striving to do 
 good, not harm, to save and not to sin, I have 
 been misjudged by man, and struck down by 
 God.'
 
 80 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' I wouldn't go on like that,' said Dan Over- 
 down, quietly, and touching his restless hand. 
 ' Not at the last, sir — with you so close to the 
 end. That's not as a man should leave this 
 world or pass into the next.' 
 
 Mr, Welby was soothed by the other's ear- 
 nestness — even impressed by it. 
 
 ' You are — a good fellow — I think,' he mur- 
 mured. ' I stand corrected, sir.' 
 
 ' I'm not a good fellow,' was the reply, ' but I 
 don't like to hear you rave about your wrongs 
 too much.' 
 
 ' Ah I and I have brought my wrongs — my 
 punishment — upon myself, Overdown,' he said, 
 sadly ; ' as people will, very often. Are you 
 sure you locked that door V 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' Are you sure you are prepared to do me one 
 honest service, that — that I cannot do myself?* 
 
 ' Y'es,' said Daniel Overdown, again. 
 
 * Keeping my secret V 
 
 ' Keeping your secret.' 
 
 * Or divulging it, if so it should be necessary, 
 presently V
 
 SENT FOR. 81 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Trusting me blindly, as it were — as I trust 
 your 
 
 ' Well— yes.' 
 
 ' For there are things which pass out of the 
 world with me also — which belong to my Hfe, 
 and must not disturb the Hves of other men. 
 So much the better this.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so. I cannot tell,' said Over- 
 down. 
 
 Daniel Overdown waited very patiently ; but, 
 strange to say, with time so precious to the 
 dying man, there was still the reluctance to pro- 
 ceed, which was part and parcel of a natm-ally 
 secretive nature. Mr. Welby had all his life 
 been difficult to understand, and his end was 
 like unto the rest of it. 
 
 There was a few moments more of hesitation, 
 then he gave a deep sigh, and said, 
 
 * Listen to me, please. This is what I want 
 you to do.' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 82 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 INSTRUCTIONS. 
 
 To avoid vain repetitions we will not detail to 
 the reader in the present chapter all the instruc- 
 tions which the gentleman, under the false name 
 of Welby gave to Daniel Overdown, of Bu- 
 mingham. They form part of the mystery 
 enwrapping the Hfe of an eccentric man, of not 
 too good a man, of a man beset by many 
 weaknesses and vanities, and yet striving hard 
 to do his best — an impossible best as it was, 
 and likely to turn out the worst at any mo- 
 ment, as it had done. A chapter or two hence, 
 this Daniel Overdown will fulfil ]Mr. Welby's 
 mission, and draw the veil aside with his 
 own hands, and, so far as he was able, from
 
 INSTRUCTIONS. 83 
 
 that story in which he had become interested, 
 and which was to affect the whole tenor of his 
 hfe. 
 
 Suffice it to say now, that the interview was 
 a long one, and that the instructions took a 
 considerable time to make clear to the gun- 
 smith. There were interruptions also, and out- 
 bm-sts of passion and remorse, strangely com- 
 mingled with the old weak protestations of in- 
 justice to himself in the shape of the cruel 
 doubts and the ungenerous verdicts on his con- 
 duct, that had been made by those who should 
 have trusted him implicitly, and taken his word 
 for everything. 
 
 AYhen he had finished, Daniel Overdown was 
 perhaps less surprised at the family doubts and 
 suspicions than he had been before ; but then, 
 the sufferer had told him he should keep part 
 of the story to himself, which he did religious- 
 ly, and presently went out of the world vnth 
 after his o^^ai peculiar fashion, and with never 
 an one the ^viser. It was all for the best, he 
 was sure. 
 
 He had always been so sure of everything ! 
 
 g2
 
 84 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Daniel OverdoAvn touched bis hand again 
 when he had told him the story, or that part of 
 the story which seemed necessary, and said, 
 
 ' You may trust me, Mr. ' 
 
 ' Dangerfield,' was the reply. 
 
 ' And it is Mrs. Dangerfield who was here last 
 night, who ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; that is it.' 
 
 'Ah, poor woman. I think I understand 
 now.' 
 
 He rose, and the man in bed said, with a sigh, 
 
 « I wish I could reward you in some way ; but 
 I am quite helpless here. There is a diamond 
 pin of mine somewhere about, or my gold 
 watch which might ' 
 
 ' No, no ; they'd think I had stolen it. I don't 
 want any reward for what I am going to do. I 
 am interested,' he said, ' and shall do it very 
 willingly. Perhaps the reward will conie in 
 that, who knows, sir ?' 
 
 ' Ah, who knows,' was the dpug man's reply ; 
 'but stiU I wish I could help you. You see 
 how impossible it is ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I see.'
 
 INSTRUCTIONS. 85 
 
 Mr. Dangerfield, alias Welby, made a great 
 effort to reach his hand towards the gunsmith, 
 and Mr. Overdown, seeing this, put his own 
 brown hand upon the sick man's. 
 
 * God bless you,' murmured Mr. Welby, * and 
 good-bye.' 
 
 * Good-bye, and God bless you,^ was the slow 
 answer back. 
 
 Thus Daniel Overdown and Mr. Dangerfield 
 parted with each other for good.
 
 86 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TWO CUTTINGS FROM THE NEWSPAPERS. 
 
 '1. On the sixteenth inst., at Gravesly, Der- 
 byshire, Paul Erasmus Wilberforce Dangerfield, 
 Secretary to Her Majesty's Blank Carriage De- 
 partment, Whitehall, in the forty-second year 
 of his age. Friends will please accept this 
 intimation. 
 
 ' 2. We regret to observe that our obituary 
 of this morning records the name of Mr. Paul 
 Erasmus Wilberforce Dangei-field, the able 
 Secretary to Her Majesty's Blank Cartridge 
 Department, Whitehall, who was an unfor- 
 tunate sufferer in the railway collision at 
 Grey Tor Vale, Derbyshire, in the beginning of 
 last month, and who, after giving to his
 
 TWO CUTTINGS FROM THE NEWSPAPERS. 87 
 
 mimerous friends and relatives great hope of 
 his ultimate recovery, finally succumbed to the 
 injuries he had received. The deceased was 
 an able and earnest servant of the Crown, 
 indefatigable in his public duties, and pro- 
 bably marked out for the highest official dis- 
 tinction, had not this unfortunate accident 
 terminated his career. He was well known as 
 an Oriental scholar of no mean attainments, and 
 was closely related to the Dangerfields of War- 
 wickshire. He maiTied in 18 — Frances, young- 
 est daughter of Lord Redclove, who, with her 
 only daughter, is left to mourn his premature 
 decease.*
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
 GOOD SAMARITANS.
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 MRS. DANGERFIELD AT HOME. 
 
 It is close upon two years since tlie nntimelj 
 death of Mr. Dangerfield, whom, under the name 
 of Welby, we attended at the ' White Swan,' 
 Gravesly. The memory of a government sec- 
 retary lasts not two years in the outer world, 
 where secretaries are plentiful and business is 
 brisk ; all the ' little talk ' about that gentleman 
 — ^the little mystery that a few busybodies made 
 out of him_, and an eccentric expedition to 
 Derbyshire — had been set aside for newer, 
 fresher scandals, and there were only one or 
 tw^o intimately concerned, intimately related, 
 who remembered what a charming man Mr. 
 Dangerfield had been, what a loss to society he
 
 92 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Avas, and perhaps wondered a little what would 
 have happened had he lived. 
 
 There were many thoughts of the dead man 
 at a house in Regent's Park still ; the wife had 
 not forgotten him in twenty-four months, and 
 still wore — somewhat unwisely for a widow 
 who had ' chances ' — the deepest mourning for 
 her lord. The crape skirt was pretentious, in- 
 vidious folk asserted, at this remote stage of 
 widowhood ; it was as deep as on the day of 
 Mr. Dangerfield's funeral, which she had person- 
 ally attended, and the widow's face was almost 
 as long. That is to say, in kinder words, that 
 the Honourable Mrs. Dangerfield's countenance 
 was very grave and sorrowful ; full of a thought 
 which the satire of the few who decried her 
 could not drive away ; full of the doubt even, 
 born of past experience, that there was not 
 much good in the world when one came to sift 
 it thoroughly. The Honourable Mrs. Danger- 
 field believed in her own goodness, however, 
 and had turned more serious of late days. She 
 had given up society after her husband's decease, 
 and had become extremely reserved in mundane
 
 MRS. DANGERFIELD AT HOME. 93 
 
 affairs, and extremely ' high ' in matters of 
 religious observance. She had been left very- 
 well off, and could indulge in her sorrows luxu- 
 riously. Mr. Dangerfield had had a large fortune 
 with her, and had dropped, after his marriage and 
 his father's death, into a neat fortune of his own ; 
 and neither had been spent, but had been put 
 out to good interest, and embarked in safe 
 companies, and all that he had touched had 
 turned to gold. Happy fellow, this Danger- 
 field, everybody had said; one of those lucky 
 dogs on the right side of politics, with plenty of 
 money, and heaps of aristocratic friends ; a man 
 Avho had done well, risen in the world well, 
 married well, and would have been positively a 
 great man had he lived a little longer, and not 
 booked from London to Culverley one unlucky 
 day, and been smashed up en route. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield still wore deep mourning, 
 then, for her husband. It could scarcely be said 
 that she fretted for him ; no one remembered 
 the shedding of the widow's tears, even at his 
 funeral ; her own daughter, Estellc, had not 
 seen mamma cry. The widow was always very
 
 94 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 grave, almost stern, of aspect ; a tall, stately, 
 youngish woman for fom* and thirty, who looked 
 steadily at the dead level of things she called 
 the world, and did not flinch from it, and the 
 duties which she had set herself in it. She was 
 not enjoying life — it was more than possible 
 that she never would again ; she had lost faith 
 in her fellow-creatures, though she subscribed to 
 all the charities, and went to church every day. 
 The pot priests of her own particular show- 
 church were the only perfect beings left upon 
 God's earth ; and perhaps it was as well that she 
 had them —and Estelle, always Estelle — to be- 
 lieve in. They did her no harm ; they kept her 
 heart, somewhat disposed to be stony, from 
 wholly ossifying; and though they believed in 
 the pomps and vanities of the Church, and wore 
 smart vestments, and reverenced all the saints 
 in the calendar, they were' simple-headed, 
 simple-hearted people to know ; and they gave 
 the austere lady a great deal of mission work 
 to perform, which she did very badly on the 
 whole. She was essentially unsympathetic, and 
 hard of belief in human affliction, though she
 
 MRS. DANGERFIELD AT HOME. 95 
 
 had experienced much of it herself', and had 
 found it strike home. But then no one had had 
 such troubles as hers, she thought ; and the re- 
 capitulation of little miseries did not affect her. 
 These grumblers should have suffered as she 
 had suffered ! AVhat was the loss of a little 
 money, of a httle work, of a little health, to the 
 loss of confidence in a man to whom she had 
 given all her heart and soul, whom she had 
 loved blindly and faithfully. 
 
 This to herself, for Mrs. Dangei-field never 
 complained outwardly. Estelle, the fair-haired, 
 white-faced, pensive, gawky girl, believed her 
 mother a model of peace and resignation, and 
 seemed to strive in every way to imitate her ; 
 and being apparently a maiden with no will of 
 her own, and no originality of character, and 
 no life beyond her own grand house, she became 
 naturally a copyist. 'How like her mother,' 
 people said ; and, though she was unlike her in 
 many things, still the resemblance so far as 
 deportment went, and little tricks of manner, 
 was remarkable in a girl of fourteen. 
 
 Hence the house in Regent's Park was scarce-
 
 96 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ly a lively edifice, iu the common acceptation 
 of the term ; the servants voted it ' orful slow,' 
 and only the serious ones — plucked from the 
 advertisements of highly respectable and ex- 
 ceedingly sound religious periodicals — remained 
 to add to the stock of perfectibiHty on the 
 premises, and they averaged about three months 
 of it before giving * the old girl ' warning. 
 
 It was at the door of this house that one, 
 Daniel Overdown, the working-man who had 
 escaped death, when a government secretary 
 was done for — such are the ridiculous incon- 
 sistencies of this sublunary sphere — stood one 
 evening waiting for admittance. He had 
 knocked several times, but he had arrived late 
 and the whole household was at prayers. There 
 had been no one to attend upon him till the 
 fifth summons, when, being a trifle initable, he 
 had nearly battered-in the panels, as a final 
 appeal to the understandings of the worthy 
 souls within. Then, and not till then, a pale 
 young man, with smooth hair, and in deep 
 black, opened the door and stood in rigid up- 
 rightness before the appHcant.
 
 MRS. DANGERFIELD AT HOME. 97 
 
 *Is Mrs. Dangerfield inV asked Daniel Over- 
 down. 
 
 ' She is li'in, but she will see no one at this 
 time of the hevening.' 
 
 *No oner 
 
 ' I said " No one." ' 
 
 ' I hope she will see me,' said Mr. Overdo wn ; 
 -* it's not particularly late, and I have come 
 some distance.' 
 
 ' In the morning, after ten, you can see the 
 lady, not now. Oh ! dear, no,' added the ser- 
 vant^ very firm on this point. 
 
 * Why not V asked Daniel Overdown, sharpty. 
 
 ' It's the rule of the establishment, and the 
 Honourable Mrs. Dangerfield never alters her 
 rules for nobody. She'll see anybody at ten 
 to-morrow — a dozen of you, two dozen if you 
 like — but it's too late now.' 
 
 ' I don't see that.' 
 
 .' What V said the domestic, with a half-shriek 
 of amazement, * don't you understand yet V 
 
 'No, I don't.' 
 
 Daniel Overdown was in every-day costume 
 — in Avork-a-day clothes, that did not entitle 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Lim to any respect from servants of extensive 
 establishments who wore superfine black, and 
 so he did not get it. Still he was not daimted, 
 he was an obstinate man, who conld fight his 
 own battles when the occasion seemed neces- 
 sary. 
 
 He marched into the hall in lieu of going 
 down a steep flight of stone steps on to the 
 pavement again. 
 
 * Tell your mistress,' he said, very firmly, 
 * that I Avill take my orders from her ; that my 
 name's Daniel Overdown, and my business is 
 of importance, and will not bear delay.' 
 
 * Oh ! that's it. Daniel what's your name, did 
 you say V 
 
 ' Overdown — the man who met with the 
 accident in Derbyshire at the same time as Mr. 
 Dangerfield.' 
 
 ' Oh ! indeed,' said the man, after a long 
 stare at Mr. Overdown. ' Will you wait here a 
 moment V 
 
 The servant departed, after whispering in- 
 structions on the stairs to servant number two, 
 to keep an eye on ^ the cove in corduroys ;' and
 
 MRS. DANGERFTELD AT HOME. 99 
 
 returned, not too readily, several minutes after- 
 wards. 
 
 * Mrs. Dangerfield will see you, if you please 
 to step this way,' he said, almost politely. 
 
 h2
 
 100 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 
 
 Mr. Daniel Overdown was not shown into the 
 great drawing-room, where prayers had been 
 read by the Honoiu-able Mrs. Dangerfield to her 
 daughter Estelle, to her father — at that time 
 staying on a visit to her — and to the servants 
 en masse; he was conducted into a half mu- 
 seum, half library, on the first floor, where he 
 was left to await the arrival of the lady whose 
 presence he had sought. 
 
 It was a large room that, tAvo years and more 
 ago, had been the favourite sanctum of Paul 
 Erasmus Wilberforce Dangerfield, Esq., the 
 cavern wherein he had hidden himself many a 
 weary hour on the plea of work and study of 
 books, and of official business, and where he had
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 301 
 
 fenced and fonght with grim truths, of which 
 no one in the honse had dreamed. 
 
 Mr. Overdown surveyed the apartment crit- 
 ically, and, as Mrs. Dangerfield did not enter an 
 appearance very quickly, he walked to the 
 books on the shelves, and read the titles of the 
 volumes, till a trophy of ancient swords and 
 pistols in the background awakened a new 
 spirit of inquiry ; and here, testing sword-blades 
 and snapping pistol-locks, was he discovered 
 some five minutes afterwards. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield and her father discovered 
 him. They had entered arm-in-arm, the father 
 leaning on the daughter's arm — a short, spare, 
 thin-faced, sharp-featured, high-stocked man, 
 eaten up by gout just then, and dragging one 
 slippered foot with much difficulty along with 
 him into the room. 
 
 * Good evening,' said Mr. Overdown, making 
 a very respectful bow, before restoring three or 
 four pistols and half-a-dozen swords to their 
 places, which he did carefully and slowly, like a 
 man not at all put out by being found inspect- 
 ing liis neighbour's goods.
 
 102 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 < I am sorry to have kept you waiting/ Mrs. 
 Dangerfield said, politely, as she escorted her 
 father into a large library chair, into which he 
 subsided with difficulty, and then stared hard 
 at the intruder with his two thin, white hands 
 clasped together, as though he had not 
 done praying yet, and was going to finish off 
 his devotions before proceeding to business. 
 
 ' Pray, don't mention it,' answered Mr. Over- 
 down. ' I found something to interest me 
 — by your leave' — he added, putting away 
 the last sword ; ' a something in my way, 
 that suggested the work left behind in Bir- 
 mingham.' 
 
 ' You come from Birmingham V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And were at Gravesly.' 
 
 * Yes.' 
 
 ' Will you be seated?' 
 
 ' Thank you, I will.' 
 
 Daniel Overdown sat down, thrust his cap 
 into the capacious pocket of a heavy pilot coat, 
 and then looked from Mrs. Dangerfield to the 
 starchy and clean old gentleman facing him.
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 103 
 
 It was a sharp, comprehensive glance that 
 seemed to ask the reason for the gentleman's 
 presence, and even to suggest the deshabihty of 
 his absence, for Mrs. Dangerfield, seated now at 
 the table, tiifling with an ivory paper-knife, said, 
 half in explanation, 
 
 ' My father, Lord Redclove. You may speak 
 before him in perfect confidence.' 
 
 ' Oh, Lord Redclove ; indeed I' he said, some- 
 what jerkily. He was surprised at the advent 
 of a real lord, but hardly disturbed by it ; and 
 he made a Httle bow, which his lordship did 
 not condescend to return — possibly had not 
 seen, for he was looking down on the carpet 
 and still pressing the tips of all his finger's 
 together. 
 
 There was a pause, and Mrs. Dangerfield left 
 it to Mr. Overdown to continue the conversation, 
 and state the nature of his business. She did 
 not ask what had brought him to the house, 
 she might already guess that it appertained to 
 a terrible time of past calamity, but there was 
 no cmiosity or anxiety expressed upon her 
 handsome, passive face. He had seen a statue
 
 104 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 with more interest stamped upon its marble 
 countenance. Perhaps she thought he had 
 come to ask assistance from her, and for him- 
 self, and that kept him tongue-tied. That 
 would not do, at any rate. 
 
 He gave a quick cough at last, and began. 
 Even then he did not dash at the subject up- 
 permost in his mind, but led up to it for the 
 lady's sake, though she never knew that, and 
 never thanked him for it. He was a considerate 
 man, after his fashion. 
 
 ' It is two years ago, lady, since you and 
 I met in a little village in Derbyshire,' he 
 said. 
 
 The lady's long lashes quivered faintly, but 
 she made no reply. 
 
 * You were in trouble then, with a bigger 
 trouble not far off, and I was sorry to see it. 
 In my own humble Avay, of course,' he added, 
 deferentially, as he fancied, keen observer that 
 he was, that the face grew colder and prouder 
 as he gazed at it ; ' but still sorry for anyone 
 with a mind bothered by doubts as yom-s 
 was.'
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 105 
 
 'That time is past, sir,' she said, severely; 
 * you have not called here to tell me of yom- 
 sorrow.' 
 
 ' No, that's true.' 
 
 The man was still perplexed, it was evident ; 
 he had a difficult task before him, and, in the 
 face of this strong apathy, he scarcely knew how 
 to set about it. 
 
 ' You asked me several questions, if you re- 
 member, Mrs. Dangerfield ; you were suspicious 
 of me — imagined 1 was in your husband's confi- 
 dence, and so forth.' 
 
 ' I have not forgotten.' 
 
 ' At the time I could not have answered one 
 question to set your mind at rest, or make it 
 more uneasy. Mr. Dangei-field's life was as 
 much a mystery to me as any of those Greek 
 books. What he wanted at Culverley, Heaven 
 and himself knew, not I, at that time. Now,' 
 he added, after a slight pause, ' had you asked 
 me twenty-four hours afterwards, I should have 
 been better informed, if equally uncommuni- 
 cative.' 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield's curiosity was not aroused
 
 106 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 or else she had become of late clays very self- 
 repressive. She did not change colour, did 
 not raise her eyelids from the dark, lustrous 
 eyes, did not glance at him, but fidgeted with 
 the paper-knife, and listened; that was all. 
 Mrs. Dangerfield's father was looking at the 
 speaker again, with great intentness in his 
 keen grey eyes, but Daniel Overdown did 
 not take heed of him. He had given fair 
 warning that his visit there was connected 
 with the past, and this woman, shrouded in 
 black crape, must be prepared now for some- 
 thing which he had come from Birmingham 
 to say. 
 
 Lord Redclove spoke at last, but with con- 
 siderable politeness, to his daughter. 
 
 ' Frances, if you would allow me to withdraw, 
 I think that you will be perfectly safe with this 
 young man ; and there may be details of Paul's 
 past hfe which you might even prefer my not 
 listening to.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to conceal,' she murmured ; 
 ' you know all — you guessed all long ago.' 
 
 ' But still there may be httle facts— little inci- 
 dents — which '
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 107 
 
 He paused, and she answered his unfinished 
 sentence very quickly. 
 
 * No. Stay, please ; I would prefer your not 
 leaving me,' she said. 
 
 'Very well,' said Lord Redclove, with great 
 urbanity. Then he looked towards Mr. Over- 
 down, by way of permission to resume his nar- 
 ra,tive, and Mr. Overdown continued : 
 
 ' I think I could have got over this uncomfort- 
 able job better without you^ sir,' he said, bluntly, 
 and forgetting his lordship's title utterly ; for- 
 getting even that he had been already informed 
 the gentleman was a lord ; ' what relates to the 
 husband had better be told to the wife, and left 
 for her to consider — at least that is my way of 
 looking at it ; but it is a complicated case, and 
 who sees the best way out of it, has more brains 
 than I have.' 
 
 * Pray, never mind your brains, my good man ; 
 you have heard that Mrs. Dangerfield requests 
 my company at this juncture,' said Lord Red- 
 clove, scarcely above his breath. 
 
 ' Yes, I have heard it. But you are her father, 
 you see, not his. 1 ^vish to Heaven you had 
 been his,' he blurted forth.
 
 108 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield shivered at this exclamation^ 
 and Lord Redclove said, coolly, 
 
 ' Mr. Dangerfield's father has been dead some 
 years.' 
 
 ' And his mother?' 
 
 ' His mother is in a lunatic asylum, poor wo- 
 man,' Lord Eedclove condescended to explain. 
 
 ' Ah ! that's bad,' said Daniel Overdown ; ' any- 
 thing's better than that, in the way of ailments, 
 I take it. Well, then, it's time we got to busi- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Quite time,' assented Lord Kedclove. 
 
 Daniel glanced at him again ; he did not lil^e 
 his lordship suddenly assuming the post of 
 spokesman — standing between himself and the 
 dead man's wife ; blocking up the way, as it 
 were, to the heart he had been sanguine enough 
 to think he could touch by the plain recital of 
 a few miserable facts. He had a strong fear 
 now upon him that he should fail in his mission, 
 and that it would be this shai-p-faced man's 
 fault, unless he were extra-clever, extra-earnest, 
 and worked very hard in a cause foreign to his 
 own life and pursuits.
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 109 
 
 He edged his chair nearer to the lady wliom 
 he was determined to address ; and his lordship, 
 for the first time, evinced considerable alacrity in 
 the quick movement which placed his swollen 
 foot out of harm's way of Mr. Overdown's pro- 
 gress across the carpet. 
 
 ' After you had left Gravesly — on the follow- 
 ing morning Mr. Dangerfield sent for me.' 
 
 'Yow. loere in his confidence, then,' she said, 
 with faint surprise. 
 
 ' There you mistake, as I have said already,' 
 he replied ; ' but you had unsettled him ; the 
 nurse told me he could not rest, and there came 
 to him in the morning the grim fact that he had 
 changed for the worse. He wanted a friend 
 and, oddly enough, he could only think of me — 
 snatched at me, as a drowning man snatches at 
 straws, they say. Strange, this V 
 
 ' He was a strange man,' murmured the 
 widow, as if in excuse for his eccentric conduct. 
 
 ' I have often fancied he was not quite right 
 in his head that day, and that he thought some 
 kind of tie, originating in the railway spill we 
 had had together, existed between us : at all
 
 110 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 events, he was hard-up for a confidant, and lie 
 took me for an honest man — which was correct 
 enough, at least,' he added, naively. 
 
 ' And he told you — ' said Lord Redclove, be- 
 coming impatient, and anxious to get at the pith 
 of the story. 
 
 ' He wanted an important message to be 
 dehvered to friends he had at Culverley — he was 
 travelling to Culverley when the smash occuiTcd, 
 you know V 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield made a faint inclination of 
 her widow's cap towards the speaker. She was 
 paler and sterner of aspect now, Daniel Over- 
 down considered. 
 
 ' He was in trouble about iJiem, and they were 
 in trouble when he left for Culverley; the 
 mother was in the habit of receiving money 
 annually from his hands ; at times, a good 
 deal of money. Neither mother nor children 
 knew his real position from first to last ; he 
 was a mystery to them as to you — a miser- 
 able mystery enough ; but there it was to 
 work mischief both ways — a sword with two 
 edges.'
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. Ill 
 
 'And you come at last to strike me mtli it!' 
 said Mrs. Dangerfield, more mom-nfiTlly than 
 warmly, and yet with a little flutter of sup- 
 pressed indignation in her voice. 
 
 ' Well,' he answered, ' I would interest you, if 
 possible, in these poor children.' 
 
 ' Impossible,' she said, very passionately, at 
 last. 
 
 ' Don't say that.' 
 
 ' Impossible.' 
 
 ' His children who have done no harm, and 
 whom only great care and some money may be 
 able to save.' 
 
 ' I would not see them or interfere in their 
 affairs for the world,' said Mrs. Dangerfield, 
 shuddering ; ' I have never heard of them till 
 now — they can never be anything but outcasts 
 and lepers with no right to exist.' 
 
 The volcano had given sign of the fire within 
 at last ; the paper-knife snapped in two beneath 
 the reckless hand, and the Regent's Park saint 
 was more of a woman, and a deeply injured 
 woman, than ordinary. She had not pardoned 
 the poor sinner sleeping in his coffin. Daniel
 
 112 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Overdown saw this at once — how could he ex- 
 pect that she would have mercy on these off- 
 shoots of society rising np like ghosts from her 
 husband's grave ? 
 
 ' There has been given them a right to exist, 
 I suppose, madam,' said Daniel Overdown, 
 
 gravely, ' and we must not But there, I have 
 
 not come to preach.' 
 
 'Certainly not, certainly not, my good man, 
 we don't want any preaching here,' said Lord 
 Redclove, who felt that he had had enough of 
 it in that establishment from legitimate sources. 
 'Where is the mother of these — these — children? 
 Why doesn't she look after them V 
 
 ' She's dead,' was the answer. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield had subsided again into 
 quiescence ; this time the safety valve had been 
 securely fastened down, and only a faint eleva- 
 tion of the eyebrows was a sign of how every 
 fresh item of news affected her. 
 
 ' Dead,' echoed Lord Redclove, complacently, 
 ' ah ! well, that is perfectly satisfactory — we 
 have no objection to that. Her children will be 
 well looked aftpv by the parish — all that rhodo-
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 113 
 
 montade which gets into the papers about 
 parochial neglect is the merest fiction — they mil 
 be looked after carefully, I have no doubt, and 
 be put in the way of earning a respectable living/ 
 
 ' You know nothing about it, sir,' said Daniel 
 Overdown, shortly. 
 
 Lord Kedclove was astonished at this abrupt 
 assertion, but he, too, had the gentlemanly art 
 of self-repression admirably developed. He 
 settled his chin in his voluminous white stock, 
 and said, 
 
 ' I should have thought that you, Mr. Over- 
 down — a man of some intelligence, and above 
 your class a little ; a man of the world, too — 
 might have considered that that lady,' pointing 
 to his daughter, ' was the last person whom 
 delicacy should have prompted you to visit 
 imder these objectionable circumstances.' 
 
 ' It was his wish that I should come here some 
 day, if the children were in trouble, or if the 
 mother died ; and his wish, has been on my mind 
 a good deal lately,' answered Daniel. 
 
 ' Why did he not tell the woman ' began 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield. 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * Pardon me, but he never saw her after his 
 marriage Avith yon/ said Daniel Overdown, in- 
 terrnpting her. ' I have jnst said so.' 
 
 * Pardon me, sii*,' she said, hanghtily, ' bnt I 
 do not believe you.' 
 
 *I had it from Mr. Dangerfield's own lips, 
 when lies Avonld have been very hard to pass 
 them. I had it from a dying woman who had 
 asked forgiveness of her Maker at the eleventh 
 hour, and got it,' he added, -with impressive 
 emphasis. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield shuddered again at Mr. 
 Overdown's impiety, but did not comment upon 
 it. She glanced towards her father, as if leaving 
 the rest of the conversation to him, and crossed 
 her hands, saint-wise, upon her bosom, although 
 her hands pressed heavily upon the heart 
 beneath, whose throbbings she was not quite 
 able to subdue. 
 
 * It is a painful story,' said Lord Redclove, 
 * but we must not pursue it further. My daughter 
 has quite made up her mind not to be dragged 
 into this business, either morally or pecuniarily. 
 I believe, my dear, I make this statement with 
 your full permission V ,
 
 A MESSAGE FROM THE DEAD. 115 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mrs. Dangerfield, in a whisper 
 again. 
 
 ' And this lady is a mother, too,' muttered the 
 mechanic, as he rose baffled in his mission, and 
 not seeing his way ahead, clear-sighted man as 
 he was in many things. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield rose with him, and was the 
 first to qnit the room without another question 
 to her visitor, who opened the door for her with 
 a strange exhibition of courtesy and allowed 
 her to precede him. He bowed to her as she 
 swept past him in her deep mourning for ' the 
 man of whose last wish she had heard that 
 night. 
 
 Daniel Overdown was following her, when 
 Lord Redclove's voice, sharp and clear, stopped 
 him on the threshold. 
 
 ' Stay,' he said, peremptorily. 
 
 ' What is the use V 
 
 ' I wish it. I have something to say now.'
 
 116 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS. 
 
 Daniel Overdown looked back into the room 
 and hesitated. He was not anxious to renew 
 conversation with this man who had done his 
 best, or his worst, to mar the fortunes of those 
 in whom the mechanic had grown interested of 
 late days. 
 
 ' Don't go yet,' said Lord Redclove, ' men can 
 speak more freely together. Favom- me by re- 
 suming your place for a few minutes, if you 
 please, Mr. Overbrown.' 
 
 ' Ovevdoion — and at your service then,^ said 
 he, shutting the door and returning reluctantly 
 to his seat. 
 
 Lord Redclove took his chin out of the white
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS. 117 
 
 folds of his cravat, and leaned fonvard witli 
 more animation on bis aristocratic counte- 
 nance. 
 
 ' I don't think, young man, that you could 
 have made a falser move in domestic policy than 
 to come to a man's wife and ask assistance for 
 the offspring of the man's mistress.' 
 
 ' Why V asked Overdown, laconically. 
 
 ' You shut your eyes to woman's natural 
 weakness — jealousy.' 
 
 ' Ah! I don't understand women— I have had 
 very little to do with them all my life,' said the 
 mechanic, petulantly, ' they talk like children — 
 and act like children.' 
 
 ' With one or two bright exceptions in the 
 History of England rather than in the history of 
 human life,' added Lord Redclove, sententious- 
 ly. * But — to business.' 
 
 He leaned back in his old complacent atti- 
 tude, and put the tips of his fingers together 
 after his usual habit. Daniel Overdown, or his 
 mission, interested the nobleman — perhaps he 
 was a friend at the eleventh hour to help him 
 after all, thought the gunsmith.
 
 118 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Yon have not said anything abont these 
 waifs,' said Lord Redclove, dispassionately, * and 
 yon can hardly expect me to take an interest in 
 the children of a man who deceived my dangh- 
 ter all his life. Still, " Man is liable to err,'^ 
 says the philosopher, and I look at eiTor my- 
 self compassionately, knowing how ridiculously 
 natural it is, and what weak donkeys we all 
 are.' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders at some painful 
 reminiscence which time had not weakened and 
 age had rendered objectionable, and then asked 
 almost with closed eyes, and in a tone more in- 
 dolent and unnatural, 
 
 ' How many are there V 
 
 * Two.' 
 
 ' Boys or girls V 
 
 ' A boy — and a girl.' 
 
 ' Humph — awkAvard,' said Lord Redclove ; 
 ' Avhat are they doing — where are they?' 
 
 ' He — the boy,' said Daniel, after a moment's 
 hesitation, not lost upon his questioner, for all 
 his nonchalant attitude, ' is tramping about 
 Liverpool earning a living as best he may, by
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS. 119 
 
 singing in public-houses and at the corners of 
 streets.' 
 
 'Good God!' 
 
 ' That's the truth of it.' 
 
 * How old is he V 
 
 ' Sixteen — perhaps a little more.' 
 
 ' Too old a gamin to be snatched from the 
 gutters,' muttered the nobleman. 
 
 ' This is only of late days — for a few months, 
 perhaps, and since his mother's death,' said 
 Daniel, quickly ; ' he Avas not brought up in that 
 fashion — he is ' 
 
 And then Daniel came to a full stop. 
 
 ' He is not to be trusted, 1 suppose V 
 
 * Not yet/ confessed the mechanic, ' but then, 
 sir, look at his chances — or, rather, at the 
 chances against him. If we could save him 
 from all this — get him to sea — send him into a 
 new land, where there is more energy and less 
 temptation — open out to him a new world al- 
 together?' 
 
 ' Have you tried to help him V 
 
 * Once or twice.' 
 
 * Lately V
 
 120 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Lately I have been on strike,' said Daniel 
 Overdo wn, ' and unable to help myself.' 
 
 ' That's bad.' 
 
 ' Yes, very bad.' 
 
 ' Yoii fonnd means to get to London, seem- 
 ingly?' 
 
 ' I raised the means — on a watch,' added Dan- 
 iel, coolly. 
 
 ' And for this fool's-errand V 
 
 ' Yes. It was a promise to the father ; and 
 these children have harassed me of late days. 
 It seemed easy to save them and yet so hard to 
 get anyone to help me.' 
 
 'I daresay. Sensible people,' said Lord Red- 
 clove, caustically, 'leave the art of reforming 
 the vagabond to those wise folk Avith nasty 
 tastes, who have studied the vagabond all their 
 lives. Let us come to the girl.' 
 
 ' You don't see your way to do anything for 
 the boy ?' asked Overdo wn. 
 
 ' Upon my honour, no.' 
 
 ' Then I have nothing to tell you of the girl,' 
 said Overdown, firmly, as he jumped to his feet 
 again ; * her life will not affect you, only harden
 
 FURTHER PARTICULARS. 121 
 
 your heart against her. I have not come to 
 hold np two wretched orphans to the sneers of 
 fine people. Good evening.' 
 
 'Yon are hasty, Mr. Overdown — yon are 
 acting injndicionsly ; yon are not doing your 
 best for the children,' said Lord Redclove. 
 
 Mr. Overdown paused again on his way to 
 the door ; perhaps he was not. This was an 
 odd old man who said sharp things, and seemed 
 dead to charitable impressions, bnt he was very 
 €urions, and probably rich enongh to do some- 
 thing for the unfortunates. Moreover, Lord 
 Redclove seemed a little excited now, despite 
 his mocking tongue and hard manner ; his white 
 tie had got twisted under his ears by the restless 
 motion of his chin, and the right hand, Avith the 
 big diamond on it, was surely clutching his Ivuee 
 tightly. Ah ! that was the pain of the gout, 
 perhaps. 
 
 ' I fear I have done my best, sir,' Daniel 
 answered, sorrowfully ; ' but I have failed. 
 I should have trusted my case to Mr. Fayre's 
 hands, as he wished it. I was too conceited 
 about this.'
 
 122 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Never mind Mr. Fayre. I don't know, and I 
 don't care, who the devil he is, and there is no 
 necessity to drag anyone else into the discussion. 
 About the girl now V 
 
 'I would rather not tell you, if you have 
 made up your mind as firmly as your daughter 
 has,' said Overdown, doubtfully. 
 
 ' Well, then,' said his lordship, petulantly, ' I 
 have not made up my mind.' 
 
 ' Come, I am glad, sir, for both their sakes,' 
 cried Daniel, cheerfully now ; 'it did not seem 
 fair that I should jom-ney all this way, and 
 bring the dead man's message, and be baulked 
 altogether.' 
 
 ' You cannot tell what seems fair at present. 
 Where is the girl?' asked Lord Redclove, 
 again. 
 
 ' In prison,' answered the gunsmith.
 
 123 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE RESULT. 
 
 The communication was too much for Lord 
 Redclove, or for that nobleman's good resolu- 
 tions of being of benefit to the afflicted and 
 distressed. Had Mr. Overdown taken down one 
 of those old pistols in the trophy of arms before 
 him, loaded it, and fired it at his lordship, he 
 conld not, to all appearance, have surprised and 
 shocked the father of Mrs. Dangerfield more 
 completely. Lord Redclove took a long, deep 
 breath, his grey eyes protruded, as though a 
 hand had gripped him by the throat, and his 
 face was full of a horror and consternation that 
 the gunsmith would have never given it credit 
 for expressing, judging by its sphinx-like
 
 124 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 stolidity of a few minutes back. Still it was a 
 momentary shock — callous natures may be sur- 
 prised at unforeseen times in this way — and, be- 
 fore Daniel Overdown had done wondering, his 
 lordship was himself again. A figure in a phantas- 
 magoria could not have changed more quickly, 
 or been in greater contrast to its last grimace. 
 
 It was the old, smooth, calm voice, the old, 
 calm deportment, that Daniel Overdown had to 
 confront again. Curiosity had been satisfied ; 
 the girl's miserable fate shown ; the story, minus 
 the details, which Lord Redclove did not care 
 to hear now, made plain from the beginning 
 to the end. 
 
 ' So bad as this,' said his lordship ; * so utterly 
 past hope, both of them.' 
 
 ' So bad as this, but not past hope,' answered 
 the other. 
 
 ' There is nothing to be done, my good man !' 
 
 ' I perceive that now,' said Daniel, drily. 
 
 He was at the door again, when once more 
 the short, sharp crack of Lord Redclove's voice 
 brought him to a standstill. 
 
 ' Stop a minute, can't you V
 
 THE RESULT. 125 
 
 Daniel stopped. 
 
 ' You are a hasty and ill-tempered kind of 
 young fellow,' liis lordship continued, ' and are 
 likely to do more harm than good in this Quix- 
 otic enterprise.^ 
 
 ' I do not think so.' 
 
 ' There is no repose about you.' 
 
 * I am a working-man,' answered Over down ; 
 ' I have no time for repose.' 
 
 ' That is no reason why you should always be 
 in such a devil of a hurry, sir,' remarked liis 
 lordship. 
 
 ' Well, perhaps not.' 
 
 ' Where are you going now "?' 
 
 ' Back to Birmingham.' 
 
 ' What part of Birmingham V 
 
 * 700, Pressor Street' 
 
 Lord Redclove was silent for a moment, and 
 appeared to reflect upon this information. Then 
 he said, 
 
 ' The address is of no use to me, but I will 
 bear it in mind.' 
 
 * Hadn't you better make a note of it?' sug- 
 gested Dan.
 
 126 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 'AVhyf 
 
 ' To-morrow it might enter youv head to be 
 merciful.' 
 
 ' I am not an unmerciful man,' observed Lord 
 Kedclove, as if anxious to dispel any false im- 
 pression which the visitor might have conceived 
 of him. 
 
 ' That is good news.' 
 
 ' Still, as it is — don't fidget with that door- 
 handle, man, but try to listen patiently, for 
 Ood's sake,' he added, petulantly — 'still, as it 
 is, pray understand me once and for all, speak- 
 ing for myself, as well as for the Honourable 
 Mrs. Dangerfield, that we respectfully, but posi- 
 tively, decline further discussion on the subject. 
 The children are not entitled to our sympathy , 
 and are even beyond our help. We do not 
 desire to be troubled by them any more, we do 
 not care to know anything about them, and we 
 must not be annoyed at any future period by 
 applications on their behalf.' 
 
 ' Is that all you have to say, my lord V asked 
 the gunsmith. 
 
 ' Yes, and 1 hope you understand.'
 
 THE RESULT. 127 
 
 ' Perfectly,' answered Mr. Overclown ; ' and, if 
 you had spoken ont as plainly as this when you 
 first came into the room, I might have saved 
 you a heap of time.' 
 
 ' I wished to learn all the facts,' repeat- 
 ed his lordship. 'I did not want you to tell 
 your people that we had been too proud to hear 
 you.' 
 
 ' Only too proud to help — is that it V 
 
 ' Too wise,' corrected his lordship, ' assuredly 
 too wise, my good fellow, to recognise a claim 
 of this description.' 
 
 ' Yes, you were the wi-ong lot to come to,' said 
 Daniel Overdown. 
 
 ' The ^vi'ong lot !' exclaimed the nobleman ; 
 ' great heavens, what an expression.' 
 
 *If his mother hadn't been in a mad-house, 
 now,' continued Dan, reflectively, ' or there were 
 any friends of his about the world to whom I 
 could tell this stor}^' 
 
 'They would all laugh at you,' said Lord 
 Eedclove. 
 
 ' Not to my face, I fancy,' answered Daniel, 
 meaningly.
 
 1.28 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Ah, well, it is not my business, I perceive ; 
 and so good evening, my good man,' conclud- 
 ed his lordship, airily. ' I Avish you a mission 
 more profitable to yourself on a future occa- 
 sion.' 
 
 ' And what shall I wish you in the future, sir, 
 and when your time is up V said Daniel, in a 
 sharp, clear voice that startled the white- 
 haired man again, though he only blinked at 
 his questioner. 
 
 ' I don't require any good Avishes from you,^ 
 he said, haughtily enough now, ' and I shall be 
 glad if you will retire.' 
 
 ' I wish you a trifle more charity for j^ourself 
 and your past than you have condescended to 
 show for other folk — that's all ;' and with this 
 partmg salutation Daniel Overdown shot out of 
 the room. 
 
 Outside the apartment a new comer upon the 
 scene aroused for the nonce a faint amount of 
 interest. This was a young man of one or two- 
 and-twenty, very sallow and very dark, who 
 came up the carpeted stairs two steps at a time, 
 as Daniel Overdown flew down them. The
 
 THE RESULT. ^29 
 
 new-comer was in haste, but he had time to 
 look closely and curiously at the gunsmith as 
 he passed him, and to change his position 
 politely and adroitly from the centre of the 
 stairs to the hand-rail, so that the man descend- 
 ing might not find him in the way, or topple 
 him over in his downward rush. He even 
 looked after Mr. Overdown without pausing 
 in his ascent, but this extra attention was 
 lost upon Daniel, who went, like a lapwing, 
 out of the house, still burdened and per- 
 plexed by the problem now too deep for him to 
 solve. 
 
 ]\Ieanwhile the dark young man walked 
 briskly into the study, where Lord Redclove 
 was sitting, with his hands clasped on his knees, 
 and his shaggy white eyebrows lowering over 
 his keen eyes. 
 
 ' Ah ! Hamilton,' the nobleman said, half re- 
 proachfully, ' you have come at last, then, to share 
 the horrors of this dreadful house with me. How 
 d'ye dor 
 
 The two men shook hands together in languid 
 fashion. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE MAN SHE CARED FOE. 
 
 ' I started from Paris an hour after your letter 
 reached me,' said the younger, as if by way of 
 explanation. 
 
 'What the deuce did you want in Paris?' 
 asked Lord Redclove, fretfully. 
 
 ' I was hipped to death at the Cedars, and 
 there were friends in Paris.' 
 
 ' There are friends in London.' 
 
 Hamilton did not contradict this assertion, but 
 he looked as if he doubted it. 
 
 ' Have you seen your cousin Frances V asked 
 his lordship. 
 
 ' Yes, uncle.' 
 
 ' Is she prajdng again V he asked, "svith a shiver. 
 
 ' I don't know. She has a prayer-book in her 
 lap, I fancy.' 
 
 ' To think that this infernal gout should have 
 seized me here, of all places in the world,' said 
 Lord Redclove, fiercely. 
 
 ' Where a daughter's kindness and attention 
 must have been of inestimable service in yom- 
 affliction, my lord,' added his nephew. 
 
 ' Oh ! yes, in their way ; a little, perhaps/ as- 
 serted Lord Kedclove ; ' but you cannot conceive,
 
 THE RESULT. 131 
 
 Hamilton — yon have not the shghtest conception 
 - — what this house is hke. It runs over with 
 clergymen ; they are here at all hours of the day ; 
 they lunch here, dine here, pray here — they will 
 not let even me alone. By God ! they give me 
 tracts !' 
 
 ' You are a prisoner, and must bear with them 
 for a while, uncle,' said the young man, laughing 
 outright at last ; ' but here is your nephew Ham- 
 ilton to the rescue — a defender against the 
 Faith !' 
 
 ' Ah ! well, well, I am glad you have come,' 
 said the old man, with a sigh of relief; ' not that 
 you will be of the slightest use to me, though ; 
 for,' he added, lowering his voice, ' I want all your 
 tact, and power of observation, and acuteness — 
 if you have any,' he added, drily— ^turned in 
 another direction.' 
 
 * I am at your service,' rephed the dark young 
 man, readily enough. ' What can I do V 
 
 ' You must start to-morrow for Liverpool.' 
 
 ' That's an out-of-the-Avay place for me,' re- 
 marked Hamilton ; ' but you have a particular 
 reason for all this, of course V 
 
 k2
 
 132 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' A most important reason.' 
 
 * Doubtless,' replied his nephew. ' I am all 
 attention.' 
 
 ' It is the old business.' 
 ' Ah !' 
 
 * It tnrns out that Pan! Dangei-field had two 
 children by that woman, and that both have gone 
 to the bad.' 
 
 ' Poor devils I' was Hamilton's reply. 
 
 * A man has been here about them to-night.' 
 
 ' I met him jumping down the stairs, I think ; 
 a savage looking fellow.' 
 
 * A fellow who begged hard, but whom it 
 would not be policy for us to encourage in any 
 Avay,' rejDlied Lord Redclove ; ' we can't be for 
 ever pestered with applications for assistance to 
 these Avretched waifs.' 
 
 ' Certainly not,' asserted Hamilton, ' at least I 
 should say not.' 
 
 ' And Mrs. Dangerfield is very firm on this 
 point, too,' added Lord Redclove. 
 
 ' And very womanly — considering all things.' 
 
 ' Yes — there is as little false sentiment about 
 Frances as there is about me,' was the reply.
 
 THE RESULT. 133 
 
 ^ She looks practically at life, and that is saying 
 a great deal for a woman of four-and-thirty with 
 a church on her mind. She hates the very 
 mention of these outcasts' names.' 
 ' I am not surprised.' 
 
 ' For what have we to do with these miserables 
 who spring up in this way to annoy the family 
 — what are they to us ?' 
 * Nothing.' 
 
 ' And yet that troublesome, 1 might almost 
 say impudent fellow who has just left me, thinks 
 they are something to us, because Paul was 
 anxious about them a few moments before he 
 died — when a man is always absurdly incoherent 
 — and implored him to come here under cer- 
 tain circumstances.' 
 
 ' And those circumstances have arisen V asked 
 Hamilton. 
 
 ' Yes, the children w^ant help. The boy is on 
 
 the streets, and the girl,' he added with a visible 
 
 shudder, ' is in prison. A ch*eadful pair.' 
 
 ' Very dreadful, I should say.' 
 
 ' Still, I think,' he added, hesitatingly, * I 
 
 should Hke them to have one chance of bettering
 
 134 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 themselves — and you have turned up at the 
 exact moment to assist me in this matter.' 
 
 ' In what way can I assist you, uncle V 
 
 ' I will tell you in a minute. Please, do not 
 hurry me.' 
 
 Lord Redclove was in no particular haste to 
 enter into the details of his plans ; he was evi- 
 dently perplexed still, and sat with his eyes 
 closed, and with the tips of the fingers of his 
 left hand still pressed against the tips of the 
 fingers of his right hand, thinking out the posi- 
 tion. He remained silent for so long a period 
 that Hamilton ventured to remind him by a cough 
 that he was not telling him anything at present. 
 
 The old man looked up keenly at this. 
 
 ' I haven't gone to sleep,' he said. *■ I am de- 
 liberating, Hamilton, but you are always in such 
 an infernal state of effervescence,' said Lord 
 Redclove, tetchily. ' There is not that fair 
 amount of calm attention and regard for your 
 superiors in years which I think I am entitled to 
 expect from you.' 
 
 ' I am sorry, my lord ; I ' 
 
 *You can perceive very plainly I daresay,.
 
 THE RESULT. 135 
 
 when Ton come to perceive anytliing, that it is 
 not poKtic to drag me personally into this affair,' 
 he continnecl, ' that, in fact, to be mixed np in 
 it, in any way, is to estabhsh a precedent which 
 might be very difficnlt, at some fntnre time, to 
 set aside or disown.' 
 
 ' Yes — I think I see that,' was the prompt 
 reply. 
 
 * Of course, I don't Avant to be wonied. And 
 I will not be worried, either.' 
 
 ' I believe yonr lordship was never fond of 
 worry.' 
 
 * Precisely so. But — who the devil is T 
 
 ' There are a few people, perhaps, who ' 
 
 ' That'll do, Hamilton,' he interiTipted. ' I am 
 not sitting here to be enlivened by any of your 
 abstruse dissertations on the most ridiculous 
 subjects. They will not amuse me, and they 
 will tire you very much. I had hoped you had 
 dropped that objectionable habit of yours. I 
 want,' he added, leaning over and touching his 
 nephew's arm confidentially, ' you to listen, not 
 talk. I will do the talking, with your kind 
 approval, sir.'
 
 136 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' I am all attention,' said Hamilton, with the 
 suspicion of a frown upon his dark face asserting 
 itself for the fii'st time. 
 
 ' I want you to leave to-morrow for Liverpool,' 
 said Lord Redclove, ' that I have told you, I 
 think.' 
 
 ' I have already had the honour to receive 
 your lordship's commands in that direction,' the 
 nephew replied, with possibly a shade too much 
 politeness. 
 
 ' You will find this boy of the name of 
 Challis. There are plenty of police there to 
 assist you. There will not be much difficulty in 
 the search — you will see him for yourself, report 
 to me by telegraph what he is doing and likely 
 to do, and with whom he is. You will make 
 every inquiry about the girl, who is in prison 
 at present. They must have money, too, 
 presently — 1 will arrange all that.' 
 
 ' Very good.' 
 
 ' You will see the girl in prison even — if it is 
 possible.' 
 
 ' Very well. You think of assisting them after 
 all then, my lord V
 
 THE RESULT. 137 
 
 ' To an extent,' was bis tincle's cautions replj. 
 * To a certain extent, and nnder certain con- 
 ditions that may be required of them.' 
 
 ' Exactly.' 
 
 ' I don't want the boy or girl to think that I 
 have been talked or tricked out of as much as 
 a penny-piece in their favour.' 
 
 ' That may be difficult to conceal.' 
 
 ' I do not want to appear interested — I am 
 not interested, and I do not want that dreadful 
 man from Birmingham to knoAv anything of our 
 intentions,' his lordship continued. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Hamilton again. 
 
 ' And, above all_, I do not want your cousin 
 Frances to know.' 
 
 ' Not Frances, even V 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' She might think presently you had deceived 
 her in feigning a lack of interest in those children 
 of Paul's, to Avhom your generous heart is now 
 turning,' said Hamilton, gravely and earnestly, 
 so gravely and earnestly that Lord Redclove 
 shot a keen glance from beneath his bushy white 
 eyebrows at the speaker.
 
 138 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' I have informed you just now that I am not 
 interested,' said Lord Redclove, shai'plj, ' surely 
 you do not imagine I am T 
 
 ' It is certainly the first time,' replied Hamilton, 
 ' that I remember your lordship anxious to dis- 
 tribute charity to the undeserving. Taking it 
 for granted,' he added, * that these people are 
 undeserving, of course.' 
 
 * You take too much for granted, Hamilton — 
 always.' 
 
 ' And with reference to money matters V 
 
 * I will communicate with you by telegraph — 
 " wire back," as those dreadful commercials say, 
 I believe. You have not found out these child- 
 ren yet. When you have,' he added, ' let me 
 know exactly every detail concerning them, and 
 how far in your opinion they may be trusted.' 
 
 ' I will do so.' 
 
 'Your opinion may not be worth a great 
 deal, but you will be able to see, I hope, if they 
 are worth keeping out of the way, or will prom- 
 ise to keep out of the way, and not harass the 
 family any more by their unjustifiable appeals 
 for sympathy.'
 
 THE RESULT. 13^ 
 
 ' I will do my best to supply yon with every 
 information.' 
 
 ' I daresay you'll make a nice mess of it/ re- 
 marked the impolite old gentleman ; ' yon have 
 too high an opinion of yonr own abilities, Ham- 
 ilton, to succeed to my entire satisfaction, I am 
 afraid. But,' he added, after a moment's fur- 
 ther consideration of the subject, 'you're not 
 quite a fool; far from a fool, I might say, at 
 times,' he muttered. 
 
 'Probably there are many friends of yours 
 who could do this business better,' snapped 
 Hamilton. 
 
 ' Oh, indubitably. But I have no friends to 
 whom I can ti-ust the secret of these children's 
 existence. Friends never keep secrets, Hamil- 
 ton ; on the contrary, they run about and blaze 
 them right and left — idiots with torches in a 
 powder-mill. Hence,' he cried, apologetically, 
 * I entrust this mission to you, and good-luck go 
 Avith you, as the Irish say.'
 
 140 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 
 
 Lord Redclove's instructions to his nephew 
 liaving been tolerably explicit and sufficiently 
 positive, Hamilton, despite many inward object- 
 ions to the task thus suddenly imposed upon 
 him, set out for Liverpool the next morning with 
 an assumed air of cheerfulness, as though his 
 uncle's behests were a pleasure as well as a duty 
 to him. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove had much to expect from 
 his uncle besides the title, which there seemed 
 no keeping from him, and the land, which, by 
 the law of entail, must fall to his share. He 
 was a far-seeing young man in his way, natur- 
 ally suave and agreeable, who took the good
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 141 
 
 things of life with an easy grace, and allowed 
 very little to disturb his equanimity. He loved 
 his uncle only tolerably well, though he took no 
 small degree of pains to humour his peculiari- 
 ties, out of pure respect to his late father's 
 brother, some people thought ; in order to win 
 his way to a share in Lord Redclove's private 
 possessions, invidious folk had been heard to 
 assert. 
 
 Possibly there was a little affection and some 
 self-consideration combined, if it were worth 
 while to sift the motives of our young heir at 
 this juncture ; for Hamilton Kedclove was only 
 moderately selfish. He had been brought up 
 with an idea that the world reverenced the 
 Redcloves, and that the Redcloves Avere great 
 folk on its surface ; and that this notion had not 
 utterly spoiled him, says a great deal for the 
 natural disposition of the gentleman under dis- 
 cussion. That he had an excellent opinion of 
 himself, we need not assert, after this shadowy 
 analysis ; and that there were eccentric traits of 
 character crossing and re-crossing the com- 
 mon-place material of which he was chiefly
 
 142 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 composed, our readers will see for themselves 
 during the progress of this story. His uncle 
 had every confidence in him — had helped to 
 spoil him, the world said — and he had every 
 confidence in his uncle. Hence these two 
 agreed fairly well together, thanks to Hamil- 
 ton's policy of making life pleasant by sinking 
 all difference of opinion in deep water, and 
 allowing his uncle plenty of fair sailing-room 
 for his particular crotchets. 
 
 It is this young man, then — keen-witted, 
 observant, not ill-natured — whom we find in the 
 streets of Liverpool two nights following the 
 date of our preceding chapter. He had an 
 awkward mission to fulfil, and he set about it 
 without a protest, not too anxious about results 
 and . not too curious concerning the motives 
 which planted him in that busy, colossal city. 
 There were disreputable people to be got rid of 
 — to be coaxed, or bribed, into an eternal back- 
 ground, for his first cousin's sake ; and Lord 
 Kedclove had trusted to his tact and energy. 
 He should not like his lordship to trust in vain 
 to those equalities ; he would be glad to return
 
 IX SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 143 
 
 and say, ' I have been successful, the first 
 difficulty is overcome ; see how right you were 
 to leave it in the hands of so clever a fellow as 
 I ami' 
 
 Having begun his task, he had grown to a 
 certain extent interested in the chase of, or the 
 search for, one Samuel Challis — a nondescript 
 being, supposed to be earning his living by 
 concertina-playing in the streets of Liverpool, 
 and to be discovered in those streets after dark 
 by anyone vigilantly disposed. Hamilton had 
 searched for himself the night before, and been 
 baffled; hence his amour propre was piqued 
 somewhat. He had not bargained for the size 
 of Liverpool, the multiplicity of its streets, the 
 labyrinthian character of its slums, and the 
 pertinacity with which every gamin in Liverpool 
 plays the concertina in his leisure moments, 
 probably more for the benefit of his species, than 
 with any hope of great gain for himself. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove, baffled in his search the 
 jBrst evening of his arrival, went to work in 
 more business-like fashion on the second day. 
 He called at the station-house, made many in-
 
 144- THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 qniries, and obtained one piece of infoimation 
 which was important — that Sam Challis was 
 known to the poHce, very well known indeed. 
 He had not been locked up, although he had 
 been threatened Avith the terrors of a ' run in ' 
 more than half-a-dozen times. He was a youth 
 who defied official authority, or who aggravated 
 it by feigning obedience to its mandates for 
 exactly as long a period as the official eye was 
 upon him ; a boy that would eventually come to 
 grief, and who was hard to impress or move on. 
 An insolent boy, moreover, was Sam Challis, 
 with a great deal to say for himself, and for ever 
 disposed to argue any point upon which society 
 and he differed a little — the sleeping in a shady 
 doorway, out of the cold ^vinds which swept 
 from the Mersey into the dark streets by the 
 docks with a hundred thousand carving-knife 
 power ; the loitering on the landing-stage for a 
 job, he said, — for a pocket-handkerchief, or a 
 stray bundle, distrustful folk thought ; the play- 
 ing of lagubrious strains in a wrong key before 
 public-houses, hotels, chapels — anywhere, until 
 it was worth some one's while to bribe or scare 
 him into the next street.
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 145 
 
 Hamilton was furnished with a description of 
 him, but this availed him not — there were so 
 many lank, hungry, bare-footed nomads about 
 the Irish quarters of the town, where it was 
 thought Sam might probably be discovered, 
 between the hours of nine and twelve p.m. Sam 
 had taken to the Irish quarter lately, and the 
 Irish had taken to him ; he had a connection 
 amongst them on Saturday evenings when 
 wages had been paid, and drink and wages 
 were plentiful, but it was not in Hamilton's 
 power to discover him, until a message arrived 
 at his hotel — from a policeman, who secretly 
 hoped that a liberal ' tip ' would follow the in- 
 formation — that Samuel Challis was playing 
 that evening at the 'Harp Tap,' in a certain 
 narrow turning out of Byrom Street, doing 
 deputy for the regular band, i.e., old Cuppleditch, 
 the fiddler, who had been struck ' all of a heap ' 
 with typhoid fever only the afternooii before. 
 
 Hamilton Kedclove was offered the assistance 
 of an able detective officer, but he politely de- 
 clined it ; he was warned that the * Harp ' was a 
 disputatious establishment, and hardly a safe 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 place for a gentleman to visit who liad anything 
 to lose, but he said that he was not afraid of 
 being hnrt, and would prefer prosecuting his 
 studies alone. Then a sovereign Avas exchanged, 
 and the lord's nephew was left to his own 
 resources. 
 
 It was between fen and eleven o'clock at 
 night when Hamilton was close upon the object 
 of his search. The streets were full of people, 
 the innumerable drinking-houses of a hard- 
 drinking quarter of the borough were crowded 
 with their noisy, quarrelsome, poverty-stricken 
 atoms of humanity. The gaslight was streaming 
 from windows and doors, and from the huge, 
 coloured glass barrels swung above the en- 
 trances ; there were three or four fights in the 
 roadway, the Irish brogue was rising high and 
 fast above the Lancashire dialect, the police 
 were busy, one or two were bleeding at the nose 
 and on the cheek bones from an extra grand 
 aifray that had just been concluded as Hamilton 
 arrived upon the scene, all the bustle and ac- 
 tivity of drink, and squalor, and crime were rife 
 in this strange portion of the town on that
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 147 
 
 especial occasion. It was a life new to the lord's 
 nephew, and he watched it with interest, and 
 with a courage, too, for which he had hardly- 
 given himself credit. It was an acting drama, 
 and amused him — it was as completely out of 
 his sphere as fairy-land, or rather as the demon- 
 land in a pantomime where the shadows are 
 dense and the masks are always hideous. These 
 masks approached him closely at times and 
 red eyes glared menacingly at him, but he 
 pursued his way coolly to the end, his blood 
 warmed a httle by the novelty of his adventure. 
 
 He had been discreet enough to dress for the 
 occasion, to disguise himself, as he considered, 
 by taking a hothouse flower from his button 
 hole, putting on a ' billy-cock ' in lieu of his 
 highly glazed silk hat from Bond Street, and 
 turning up the collar of his black surtout ; but 
 he was a stranger in the midst of the crowd, 
 and the crowd knew it. 
 
 He was conscious of being hustled at last, as 
 he crossed a street where fifty men and boys 
 were absorbed in the task of aggravating a 
 bdnnetless old Irishwoman, garrulous and blas- 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 phemoiis with whisky, and when he discovered 
 a strange hand at his waistcoat pocket, feehng 
 for the watch he had prudently left at his hotel, 
 he was still self-possessed and cool. He seized 
 the man nearest to him by the arm, and stopped 
 him in the horse-play in which he was in- 
 dulging. 
 
 ' Where is the " Harp Tap," mate V he asked^ 
 with easy familiarity. 
 
 ' " Arp "—what do you want at the " Arp " V 
 snarled the man addressed. 
 
 ' A pal. Here's a tanner for showing me the 
 place,' said Hamilton, producing the sixpence 
 with alacrity.' 
 
 'Right yer air. Come on — this way, yer 
 honor. " Arp," yer said — didn't yer ? Gord's 
 truth, there it is, staring yer in yer face, all the 
 while, at the top of the blessed street yonder. 
 Thankee.' 
 
 The man had indicated the house in question, 
 and Hamilton went up a narrow turning, thick 
 with road and vegetable refuse, towards a 
 light burning in a red glass lamp — a danger 
 signal that made him pause for the first time.
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 149 
 
 ' I don't particularly admire the look of it,' he 
 said, to himself, but he went on slowly again 
 till the ' Harp ' was reached, and he discovered it 
 to be a grimy public house, with smng glass 
 doors that as they opened and shut disclosed a 
 bar beyond, where men and women were drink- 
 ing, and a partition behind which was a babel 
 of sound, of stamping of feet, and hoarse shout- 
 ing, and women's cockatoo screeching, and the 
 asthmatic grind, grind of a concertina attempt- 
 ing a polka kind of air with indifferent 
 success. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove leaned his back against 
 the opposite house, and thought he liked the 
 look of the ' Harp ' less than ever on a closer 
 acquaintance, and regretted now that the ser- 
 vices of the detective had not been engaged 
 when the chance had presented itself a short 
 time since. He was tolerably brave, but he did 
 not care to face poor humanity — especially Irish 
 humanity — in its cups, and when disposed to 
 pick its own quarrels with a well-to-do Saxon. 
 Pie was alone in an awful world of which he 
 had only read in books and knew nothing per-
 
 150 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 sonally, and for a whim of his uncle's, which 
 might change at a moment's notice, as his lord- 
 ship's whims did occasionally, he was expected 
 to risk his own respectable neck. He did not 
 quite relish entering the ' Harp ' — but then he did 
 not care to abandon the quest now that he was 
 on the brink of discovery. 
 
 * Here goes,' he said at last, courageously — ■ 
 and the step required a considerable amount of 
 moral courage for a young man of his degree. 
 ' They can't murder a man to polka music, I 
 suppose, and I have not brought much to be 
 robbed of.' 
 
 He crossed the road and entered the tavern 
 — pushing back the spring doors, and forcing- 
 his way through the dram-drinkers to the hot 
 stifling room beyond, Avhere women with bare 
 feet and men with Lancashire clogs seemed 
 endeavouring to shake the house doAvn by the 
 vigour of their dancing. The place was heavy 
 with tobacco fumes, and it was not at once tliat 
 Hamilton became accustomed to the atmo- 
 sphere, the stifling heat, and the blinding cloud 
 of smoke and dust that rose up as from a smoul-
 
 IN SEARCH OF SAM CHALLIS. 151 
 
 dering fire to choke the inmates. He groped 
 his way toAvards the end of the room where the 
 music sounded — men pushed against him again, 
 and women snatched at his arm, laughed in his 
 face and asked him for drink ; but he passed 
 on towards the musician and sat down in a va- 
 cant chair at the table on which the concertina- 
 player was grotesquely perched. 
 
 At the same time as Hamilton Kedclove look- 
 ed at the performer, the performer looked down 
 at him, and two pairs of dark eyes met sharply 
 and critically. Each took stock of the other, 
 and each was puzzled in his turn at the long 
 and curious stare at him. 
 
 It was thus Hamilton Redclove and Samuel 
 Challis met for the first time in their strange 
 lives.
 
 152 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AT THE 'HARP. 
 
 Interested as he was in the advent of the 
 stranger, Sam ChalKs continued to play his 
 concertina with emphasis, swinging it to the 
 right and left and above his head, keeping time 
 tolerably well, but unpleasantly inaccurate as re- 
 garded his notes. When he had grown tired of 
 inspecting the young man at the table, he 
 watched the audience furtively, his gaze shift- 
 ing with wonderful rapidity from one group of 
 dancers to another, from the dancers to the 
 drinkers at the side tables, from the drinkers to 
 the bar beyond the partition, over which, by a 
 curious elongation of his neck, he could just 
 peer from the elevated position he had assumed.
 
 AT THE ' HARP.' 153 
 
 In that half-eager, half-watchful, wholly restless 
 look he reminded Hamilton of some caged ani- 
 mal, doubtful which amongst its visitors before 
 the iron bars wonld cast a scrap of food to it in 
 due course. There was anxiety in the gaze, 
 and there was evidently hunger, and no shrill 
 laugh or shriller cry — and he accompanied his 
 instrument -with both in an excited fashion — 
 could rob him of either expression as he played 
 on to the riotous crew below his level. 
 
 He was a tall lad, between sixteen and seven- 
 teen years of age, very white and thin, and 
 ragged and dirty, with bare feet, like the women 
 who danced and shrieked about the room, and 
 with an extraordinary crop of black matted hair 
 which hung over his forehead and about his 
 ears and eyes, a tangled and uncombable mane 
 that the stoutest-hearted barber in Byrom 
 Street would have shuddered in despair at con- 
 quering. He appeared to be in good spirits; 
 hunger and anxiety and ' bad luck ' had not 
 quenched the elasticity of youth, even in this 
 outcast playing for a supper and the price of a 
 night's lodging, to be subscribed by the general
 
 154 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 company when their charitable feeHngs allowed 
 them to be liberal, or else he was a good actor, 
 and hid the sorrows at his young heart by a sharp 
 jest or a well-timed laugh. There was a pictur- 
 esqueness, too, about him that his quaint atti- 
 tude encouraged, and the surroundings did not 
 wholly detract from ; in the murky atmosphere, 
 and with the background of a shabby red cur- 
 tain hanging by a window in the rear, an artist 
 might have made something of his Murillo-like 
 figure. In a gilt frame and drawn to the life, 
 he would have been worth money to the con- 
 noisseur, but, in the flesh and at that present 
 moment, Sam Challis was exactly worth three- 
 half-pence. 
 
 He wound up his performance on the concer- 
 tina by an elaborate flourish of the instrument 
 round his head, and when the dancers had ceas- 
 ed and everybody was shouting and swearing 
 at once, as they walked up and down the room 
 or struggled towards the bar without, his voice, 
 shrill as a bell, rang out with a starthng dis- 
 tinctness and even mournfulness, 
 
 'Remember the music, ladies and gents.
 
 AT THE ' HARP.' 155 
 
 please. Don't forget the lad who finds the 
 music, please.' 
 
 There was only one response on this occasion, 
 and that came from a girl as haggard as him- 
 self and with a check shawl twisted abont her 
 head and shoulders. 
 
 * If yer don't play better next time, Sammy, 
 I'll claw the life out o' yer ugly carkis, mind me 
 now.' 
 
 As she passed him, she jumped up, and made 
 a playful, but spiteful scratch at his counten- 
 ance, which he jerked back adroitly out of 
 harm's way. 
 
 * Aisy A\dth you, Jenny, or I'll niver take you 
 next Sunday to New Brighton,' he said, laugh- 
 ingly, at which remark Jenny laughed too, and 
 went on, arms akimbo, down the room. 
 
 Sam Challis turned his attention to the new- 
 comer, spellbound or dumbfounded by the 
 company upon which he had intruded, and en- 
 deavouring vainly now to shape forth his course 
 of action, which was not so easy a task as he 
 had bargained for. Hamilton was so deep in 
 thought that the musician's voice, close to his
 
 156 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ear, made him jump a little, Sam having 
 leaned forward and downward to address the 
 stranger. 
 
 * Hard Knes this — eh, guv'nor V he said, in a 
 low voice. 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Hamilton, when he had re- 
 covered his composm-e, * hard lines certainly.' 
 
 ' But, then, what's a fellow to do, bnt make 
 the best of his musical education,' he said, 
 drily. 
 
 Hamilton was conscious that the boy was 
 speaking ironically, and he was conscious, too, 
 that the tone and accent of the speaker were at 
 variance with the harsh resonant voice of a mo- 
 ment since. 
 
 ' Can you live by these means V asked Ham- 
 ilton, shivering a little, as a feverish dirty hand 
 was laid familiarly on his shoulder. 
 
 ' I grub on ; I am not extravagant in my 
 diet or my dress,' he said, kicking out his bare 
 legs by way of demonstration. • I have my ups 
 and downs in life, sir — now it's the downs, and I 
 play to the wild Irish.' 
 
 He laughed again, showing a row of strong.
 
 AT THE • HARP.' 157 
 
 white teeth ; he sounded a chord on his concer- 
 tina ; he gave another plaintive cry of, ' Remem- 
 ber the music, please,' and then he leaned to- 
 wards Hamilton again. 
 
 *What little game brings you here, my 
 swell V he asked, more insolently. ' This isn't 
 the place for you, and people who come prying 
 into Larry's crib have been known to get it hot, 
 and wished they'd stayed away, long before the 
 night was over. Twig V 
 
 'I twig,' answered Hamilton, echoing the 
 youth's slangy interrogation ; « but I'm not 
 prying.' 
 
 'Come to be amused, p'raps?' 
 
 ' Partly.' 
 
 ' You'd better dance, then. Here, hi — Madge,' 
 he called forth, ' here's a pard'ner ' 
 
 ' Hold your row, please,' exclaimed Hamilton, 
 in natural alarm. ' I come here to be amused ; 
 partly by seeing this life, but partly to be of 
 help to anyone in distress, and who deserves 
 help.' 
 
 ' Got coal tickets and penny tracts in your 
 pocket r
 
 158 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' No — money !' said Hamilton, quietly. 
 
 The youth's eyes dilated, and he dropped his 
 voice at once. 
 
 ' Hand it over,' he said, harshly, * we're mighty 
 short of the article about here.' 
 
 ' Not in this place, but where I can speak to 
 you presently,' said Hamilton. 
 
 Sam looked very sharply at him, and so 
 strong a suspicion of distrust settled on the pale 
 soiled face, that Hamilton said, quickly, 
 
 ' I am here to be of help to one, Sam Challis, 
 who some time ago lost his mother down in 
 Culverley.'
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IS IT TOO LATE? 
 
 The announcement with which our last chapter 
 conchiclecl, and which Hamilton Redclove made 
 to Samuel Challis, was a great surprise to the 
 last-mentioned gentleman, and his coolness of 
 demeanour, his easy indifference to 'the surround- 
 ings,' to his own position in life, to the patron- 
 age of the man who had ventured in search of 
 him was, for the first time, seriously disturbed. 
 He had not expected this, or anj^hing like this. 
 The past was nothing to him, save as it 
 might affect one being presently who seemed 
 cut adrift from it as remorselessly as he had 
 been ; there was no one who belonged to, it but 
 hei\ or, as he thought, would ever speak of it
 
 160 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 again to him. It was sunk deep in the waters 
 of life, with a big stone round it to keep it from 
 ever rising to the surface, he had thought. And 
 now this swell, Avho fancied, like a fool, he was 
 in disguise and very unlike a swell, this amateur 
 detective, who told by his manner what he was 
 to every pair of lynx eyes turned in his direction, 
 had stepped, as from the gTave, to scare him 
 with his mother's name, and with the proffer of 
 help to the son of that dead mother. 
 
 He was not dreaming, surely ? This was not 
 the result of sitting up all night with old 
 Cuppleditch, and nursing him when his daugh- 
 ter Avas at the pubs, and doing his work at 
 the ' Harp,' and altogether wearing himself 
 to death? This spick-and-span, clean-shirted 
 party could not be a dream-figure, although as 
 much out of place as one, and acting and talk- 
 ing with a dream-like inconsistency, the lad 
 thought — after his own fashion of thinking. 
 The men and women were laughing, talking, 
 screaming, smoking, swearing, quarrelling, the 
 Babel of sound was all real, the drink was 
 genuine, there was a real ' bobby ' looking in at
 
 IS IT TOO LATE ? 161 
 
 the door yonder, with his gimlet-eyes fixed on 
 Hamilton as though he had an interest in 
 him, and had been told to keep an eye upon 
 him. 
 
 Sam Challis took time to consider the position 
 before he answered off- hand. If this was 'a 
 plant,' it was a queer one, and no mistake. It 
 was without an object, so far as he conld make 
 ont, and yet, without an object, why should the 
 man have come in search of him ? There had 
 been many mysteries in that past, he knew ; he 
 had not troubled himself about them, being a 
 reckless ' fly-away ' lad, without much thought 
 of anything save his own wilful self; he had left 
 all mystery to his mother, and to his sister, who 
 was a year his senior, and this man might be 
 a part of it — ivas assuredly a part of it. That 
 being settled in his mind, it behoved him to be 
 on his guard, to make quite sure of the intentions 
 of the party who had tracked him to the ' Hai-p,' 
 to cross-examine him, in his turn, if it were 
 necessary, and to profit by any well-meant ser- 
 vice presently, and if all was square and above- 
 board, and * no kid about it,' as he would pro- 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 bably have expressed it, in the miserable street- 
 slang of which he had become a proficient in his 
 latter days. 
 
 Presently he began to sound several chords 
 on his concertina, noisily and briskly, in order to 
 drown the voices of his companion and him- 
 self. 
 _ ' And this isn't a dodge V he said. 
 
 ' On my honour, no.' 
 
 ' And you're not in the pohce, or one of the 
 reformatory coves, or a missionary bloke V 
 
 * Neither.' 
 
 ' And you've come to be of help to me, Sam 
 ChalHs V 
 
 ^ Yes.' 
 
 ' You don't know a Brummagem man of the 
 name of Overdo wn, I suppose ? Oh, no, not at 
 all,' he said, with a spasmodic laugh, and a 
 knowing wink of his left eye. 
 
 * I do not know anyone of the name of Over- 
 down.' 
 
 ' Ah, well,' said Sam, very thoughtfully, ' he's 
 not a bad sort, after all ; he means well, though 
 he preaches a sight too much. He was good to
 
 IS IT TOO LATE ? 163 
 
 my mother when there was nobody else to come 
 forward with a kind word, and she was dying 
 sharp, when I was away, and Aggie was away, 
 too,' he added, after a pause, and with several 
 new and very harsh chords npon his instru- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I am ready to help you without preaching,' 
 said Hamilton. 
 
 ' Thankee,' said the other, still sceptical of 
 Hamilton's good faith. 
 
 ' Not because 1 am interested in you,' added 
 Hamilton, coolly, and with emphasis ; ' but be- 
 cause a friend of your mother's sends me to this 
 place.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that's it,' Sam said, with another sharp 
 glance at Hamilton. ' She had lots of friends 
 once, but they cut away mighty fast before I 
 knew anything about them. They — are you 
 going to stand any drink before I begin 
 again?' 
 
 ' What drink will you take V said Hamil- 
 ton. 
 
 ' Oh ! the real tipple — Irish whisky, neat. 
 That puts life into a man — " a drop of the crater," 
 
 m2
 
 164 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 as these poor devils call it. Here, Joe,' he called 
 out, * two four's of Irish, for this gent and my- 
 self, and look sharp, for the respectable com- 
 pany can't be kept waiting all night for their 
 music. ^ 
 
 He Avinked at Hamilton again — he could 
 afford to take him into his confidence, and show 
 him that he laughed at his audience, and 
 thought himself above it. There was a levity, 
 even a boldness, about Samuel Chalhs that was 
 not to be wondered at, considering the grim 
 school in which he had been reared of late days, 
 and how genteel society had quickly turned its 
 back upon him. 
 
 The whisky was brought and paid for, and 
 Sam took his glass and tilted the contents down 
 his throat with the air and ease of a dram- 
 drinker thrice his years ; his eyes brightened 
 and his spirits rose several degrees at once. He 
 was in luck's way to-night ; if he had had no- 
 thing but a crust of bread to eat within the last 
 fourteen hours, here was good drink to his res- 
 cue. He had got that much out of the * swell,' 
 and if the rest ivas a dream — ^ all gammon !' —
 
 IS IT TOO LATE ? 165 
 
 why, it did not matter a great deal. He was safe 
 for a few hours, at any rate. 
 
 He struck tip another tune — an Irish jig, 
 which appealed at once to the feelings of his 
 audience, who yelled and jumped to and fro, 
 and came in ugly rushes against the tables and 
 forms, and knocked over Hamilton's Avhisky, a 
 ca;lamity which that gentleman was glad to wit- 
 ness, not seeing how to get rid of it without offence 
 to the feehngs of the establishment. It was a very 
 vigorous dance, and, when it was completed, 
 Sam Challis set up his howl for a pecuniary re- 
 ward again, and on this occasion a stray cop- 
 per or two fell to his share. Hamilton was be- 
 coming uncomfortably conspicuous, too ; the 
 novelty of his appearance had not worn off, and 
 the company was inclined to intrude now — to 
 ask for drink — for a song — for anything that 
 would show them that he had not come to spy 
 upon the poor Irish, or ridicule them in their 
 moments of innocent leisure. 
 
 ' Stand drink,' whispered Sam Challis, as the 
 wild faces closed round Hamilton, who had 
 turned a shade paler within the last few min-
 
 166 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 utes ; * chaff is no good here, — not such chaff 
 as yours, I mean,' he added, very contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 Hamilton ' stood drink ' as advised, and, as 
 everybody was glad to consume alcohol at the 
 stranger's expense, there was less personality, 
 but more uproar, followed by a considerable ex- 
 hibition of friendliness which was suddenly 
 evinced by hearty hand-shakings, and slappings 
 on the back of the ' real gint ' who had come to 
 see them. He was one of the right sort shure, 
 ' not a beggarly informer, nothing to do with the 
 perlice, rot 'em ; one of the real grit from Ould 
 Ireland, ^vith work to pay for under the green 
 flag presently, Ooh-hooray ! God save the 
 gint and pass the whisky.' 
 
 ' How am I to get out of this, Challis?' asked 
 Hamilton, weary of his mission or his company ; 
 ' there is no talking to you here.' 
 
 ' When 1 strike up again, and they're dancing, 
 you can hook it,' was the inelegant advice 
 proffered. 
 
 He was apparently not curious about the 
 stranger any longer. All the information that
 
 IS IT TOO LATE ? 167 
 
 Hamilton had lately startled him with, the 
 whisky might have driven out of his head 
 again, for the interest he appeared to show. 
 
 ' Where shall I find yon in an hour's time V 
 asked Hamilton. 
 
 ' I may be here still, or else looking up old 
 Cuppleditch's typhus,' he replied. ' I can't say 
 exactly. Depends upon bus'ness.' 
 
 ' To-morrow V 
 
 Sam looked hard at him again. This man 
 really meant what he said then. There was no 
 hoax at the bottom of it. 
 
 ' You will find me in the morning on the 
 landing-stage, if you want me,' he added, very 
 carelessly. 
 
 Strangely hard, strangely indifferent to help, 
 altogether strange was this Bohemian, thought 
 Hamilton. What was to become of such a 
 character t Surely Lord Redclove was right 
 in considering that it was too late to help a 
 scamp of that age. Lord Redclove had always 
 thoroughly understood human nature. He was 
 very wise. 
 
 ' I will be there,' said Hamilton.
 
 168 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' All riglit,' was the easy answer ; ' and any 
 change you have handy now, you can leave 
 with me, if you like. For the money market is 
 tightish. That's newspaper lingo for you, and 
 no mistake.' 
 
 ' Can you read V 
 
 ' Read !' cried Sam ; ' why, man, I am a schol- 
 ar ! I was brought up as well as you were, until 
 I cut it of my own accord. This kind of life 
 suits me better ; see how it agrees with me,' he 
 cried, bitterly, as he thrust out his bare, dirty feet, 
 and brandished the concertina over his head. 
 
 The music had hardly sounded in the room 
 before he was laughing loudly. Hamilton did 
 not understand him ; it had not fallen to his lot 
 to meet such a character as this before, to sink 
 to the depths of such teriible disreputability as 
 glowered at him through the dust and smoke of 
 the dancing den. Let him be gone, and think 
 more deeply of human life and mortal misery 
 from that hour ; he had lived a year, and grown 
 a year or two older surely, since he had quitted 
 the Honourable Mrs. Dangerfield's house on. 
 Uncle Redclove's mission.
 
 IS IT TOO LATE ? 169 
 
 When the dance had gi'own fast and furious, 
 he edged away from the tabje towards the door 
 of egress. He looked towards Samuel Challis, 
 but the player would not heed him again. Sam 
 was seemingly absorbed in his task, in the 
 dancers, in everything save the young man, 
 who stole away from the shadows and hastened 
 back to his hotel, where the ' proprieties ' re- 
 stored him to himself, and where everything was 
 not so like a horrible nightmare as had been his 
 adventures of the last two hours. 
 
 The nightmare' came back, however, for Sam 
 Chalhs was on his mind. Hamilton saw him in 
 his sleep later on, perched, like a graphic 
 figure of Dore's, above the poverty and vicious- 
 ness of the haunt wherein he had discovered 
 him. He seemed to wake up with the discord- 
 ant clash of the music in his ears, and then he 
 slept no more, but lay and stared at the Vene- 
 tian blinds of his bed-room window, and at the 
 daylight coming brighter and brighter between 
 the green laths. 
 
 * How that fellow worries me,' he muttered ; 
 ' and yet, what is he to nie ?'
 
 170 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 It was his uncle's logic, but he had not his 
 uncle's coldness of heart yet. He was young 
 still, and youth, thank heaven for it, has gener- 
 ous and rash and hot impulses, which th& 
 wisdom of old age might copy at times with 
 advantage.
 
 171 
 
 CHAPTER VTIL 
 
 THE GOOD-LOOKING GIRL. 
 
 The next morning Hamilton Reclclove was on 
 the famous landing-stage at Liverpool, but Sam 
 Challis was not to be discovered ofF-hand. They 
 were busy at the Mersey-side that day — a huge 
 ship from America was landing its passengers 
 when Hamilton arrived, another vessel outward 
 bound was taking in its freight of humanity, 
 and there was a dense mob of emigrants and 
 emi2:rants' friends — the Irish element once more 
 predominant— exchanging farewells and bless- 
 ings and tears. The steamers were coming 
 across from Birkenhead and other parts of the 
 Cheshire coast, steamers were puffing away from 
 Lancashire to Cheshire in return, bells were
 
 172 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ringing, voices .shonting, all the turmoil and life 
 and excitement of this big river were at tlieir 
 highest, and rendered Hamilton's task far from 
 easy or comfortable. 
 
 He came upon Samuel Challis at last — as the 
 emigrants melted away by degrees, one ragged 
 and forlorn youth remained at the edge of the 
 landing-stage, with his gaze directed to the 
 swirling water, as if in its depths might lie all 
 the peace and rest he had not been able to dis- 
 cover. This was the boy whom Hamilton had 
 seen yesternight at the ' Harp.^ In the broad 
 daylight, with his rags flapping in the breeze, 
 Sam Challis was less picturesque and more dis- 
 reputable, and Hamilton felt a certain amount of 
 reluctance in accosting him before the people 
 for ever hustling by them. Sam did not look 
 round ; he was not anxious to find Hamilton ; 
 he left it to Hamilton to find him ; there might 
 be politeness in his reserve, a pride even in the 
 attitude which this youth had adopted, with his 
 face to the river, and his hands thrust to the 
 depths of his empty pockets. He was tall for 
 his age, a lithe and sinewy young fellow, and
 
 THE GOOD-LOOKING GIRL. 173 
 
 Hamilton fancied he could perceive even a like- 
 ness to the dead father — the man who had 
 been kind to him when he was a youth him- 
 self. 
 
 He shook off his objections to Master Challis, 
 and went quickly to his side. The face, looking 
 down at the water, did not turn in his direction 
 until he had first spoken. 
 
 * You have come, thenar said Hamilton. 
 
 ' I should have been here without you,' he re- 
 plied, shortly. 
 
 ' Have you been waiting long V 
 
 * I am used to waiting.' 
 
 * Do you get work on the landing-stage T 
 
 * Oh, for the matter of that, when I try hard,' 
 was the careless reply ; ' now and then, that is, 
 when the reg'lars are not down upon me too 
 much, I find something to do.'' 
 
 "Have you found work to-day?' 
 ' I haven't looked for it ; I am waiting for a 
 fiiend.' 
 
 ' What friend is that V 
 
 * A woman.' 
 
 * Indeed !' said Hamilton.
 
 174 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * She will come from over the nver to me,' he 
 said, thoughtfully ; ' she will be sony to see 
 such a scarecrow waiting for her, but she would 
 be more sorry, I fancy, if I wasn't here.' 
 
 'A sweetheart, Sam?' inquired Hamilton, 
 hghtly. 
 
 ' Ay — no — my sweethearts are at the " Harp," 
 and come out when the factories are shut, and 
 the gas is lighted — rare girls they are, some of 
 them — but this is ' 
 
 ' A sister?' said Hamilton, quickly. 
 
 ' What is that to do with you V was the sharp 
 rejoinder ; ' your business is with me, 1 was 
 given to understand.' 
 
 ' AVith your sister, too — if she wants help.' 
 
 ' Not your help,' said Sam, shaking his head ; 
 ' not anybody's, I hope. She'll get on in the 
 world — she's clever — she's A 1, is Aggie 
 Chalhs.' 
 
 Hamilton had heard from his uncle that the 
 sister was in prison ; she was in a country prison 
 then — Chester Goal, perhaps — and this was her 
 liberty day on which he had chanced. Here 
 was an opportunity to be of service to both
 
 THE GOOD-LOOKING GIRL. 175 
 
 brother and sister — to give them an opportunity 
 of bettering themselves in hfe — to be free with 
 Uucle Redclove's money, if there were the 
 ghost of a probabiKty that the money would 
 be of benefit to either of them. 
 
 ' Well — about yourself. Shall we get out of 
 this fresh crowd?' asked Hamilton. 
 
 ' I can't leave till she comes. You can say 
 here as well as anywhere else what the devil 
 you want with me T 
 
 Sam spoke peevishly. Hamilton's interest in 
 him had aroused him, at last — of course, there 
 was a deep motive for all the trouble which this 
 swell had taken to discover him and offer him 
 assistance, and he would be as glad to know the 
 reason now as to be assisted. 
 
 ' I knew your father,' said Hamilton ; ' he was 
 a great friend of mine when I was a boy.' 
 
 * My father was !' 
 
 ' Yes, and now it's my turn to be your fiiend.' 
 
 ' I have only one friend, and she's coming 
 yonder, from the other side of the Mersey to me,' 
 he replied ; then he added, slowly, * so you 
 knew my father?'
 
 176 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' That's more than I did,' he said, with his 
 old unpleasant laugh ; ' I was packed off early 
 to school, and he never came near any of us. 
 When I Avas tired of school, I ran away from it 
 and home, and tliem' 
 
 ' Them V repeated Hamilton, interroga- 
 tively. 
 
 ' Mother and Aggie. As for my father — well, 
 I don't Avant to know anything about him now. 
 What's the goodf 
 
 ' We will proceed to business, then.' 
 
 ' Yes, and be quick about it,' he added. ' If 
 you have money to give away, give it, and 
 good-morning. You can see, sir, I am not in 
 first-rate circumstances. You don't want any 
 proof of that T 
 
 ' I see it,' answered Hamilton. 
 
 ' Your coin I pitched away last night, too, so 
 I am as poor as ever — money doesn't stick to 
 my fingers long, worse luck. Cuppleditch 
 hooked it before morning.-' 
 
 ' Cuppleditch ? Oh, the fiddler, for whom you 
 were deputy, at the " Harp." '
 
 THE GOOD-LOOKING GIRL. 177 
 
 * Yes — he's dead. Can^t say/ he added, in a 
 tliicker voice, ' that I'm quite myself this morn- 
 ing, for he fought hard to hve, and croaking 
 fiddlers are out of my line. I told him I wouldn't 
 have funked about it like him, but have been 
 glad to get out of it all.^ 
 
 ' That's a hard thought for one beginning life, 
 Sam.^ 
 
 ' It's a damned bad beginning, you see,' he re- 
 plied, with an ugly frown that changed the 
 whole character of his face, and rendered it 
 sullen and forbidding. 
 
 ' There is more than one beginning — at your 
 age,' said Hamilton, sententiously. 
 
 ' Look here, that's old Overdo wn's talk — the 
 man you pretend not to know anything about. 
 Cut it.' 
 
 ' I have done.' 
 
 ' That's a good job."* 
 
 ' I promised you I wouldn't preach,' said 
 Hamilton ; ' now to perform. If, for your 
 father's sake, I buy you a passage to America, 
 and give you a good outfit, and a few pounds 
 to start with in the new country, will you go V 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Say that all again.' 
 
 Hamilton repeated the inqniiy. 
 
 ' Is it worth yonr while — or worth somebody 
 else's while — to send me out of the country?' 
 was the slow and cunning answer. 
 
 'No — it is not.' 
 
 « What would it be done for, then V 
 
 ' Charity.' 
 
 ' All this out of charity !' cried Sam, ironi- 
 cally. ' " The hkes of that now," as the old 
 women say down our court.' 
 
 ' There is no design in offering you a chance 
 in life,' Hamilton continued ; ' but there is a wish 
 to do it simply for your own sake. Think that,' 
 
 ' Very well — I'll think what you Hke, to ob- 
 lige yoUj though to think of America, all of a 
 sudden, is sharpish work. Do you want me to 
 make any promise to stay there V he asked. 
 
 ' Not any,' said Hamilton ; ' come back when 
 you please — and, if you come back an honest 
 man, I shall be glad.' 
 
 ' Sam Challis's first appearance in a new and 
 original character !' he said, sarcastically. * What 
 a lark !'
 
 THE GOOD-LOOKIXG GIRL. 179 
 
 * Why do you hesitate V 
 
 ' Oh, why !' he echoed ; ' there's a httle bit of 
 a reason for that. I can't say " Yes " till Aggie 
 comes, at all events.' 
 
 ' She may not come, and I am anxious to get 
 back to town.' 
 
 ' She is coming,' said Sam, with a curious 
 quaver in his voice ; ' coming — now — at once — 
 bang off the reel — after being so long away 
 from me ! Here she is — close — on board the 
 vsteamer coming in from Birkenhead — see 
 there !' 
 
 ' I don't see — ' began Hamilton, looking to- 
 wards the steamer approaching that portion of 
 the landing-stage on which they were standiug. 
 * Do you mean that short young woman, in the 
 torn blue shawl, with a basket?' 
 
 ' Get out,' said Sam, still more excited and 
 more uncomplimentary : ' what, that fat Ches- 
 shire chops ! No, the lady in black silk — don't 
 you see a tall, good-looking girl on the upper- 
 deck there ? That's Aggie.' 
 
 N 2
 
 180 
 
 CHAPTER TX. 
 
 AGGIE. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove held his breath for awhile- 
 in astonishment. This Sam Challis's sister I 
 What a contrast to the white-faced brother, 
 shivering in his rags on the landing-stage, a 
 wretched waif, shrnnken from all the strength 
 and grace of youth by the privations of the last 
 twelve months ! 
 
 Sam Challis's sister ! — the girl he had been 
 commissioned to help, worthy or imworthy, 
 should the occasion present itself — the young* 
 woman from gaol, whom his uncle regarded as 
 hopelessly cast adrift from the ' respectabilities,* 
 and for whom there did not seem any chance 
 of better days in the lurid shadow which a 
 prison must infaUibly cast upon them.
 
 AGGIE. 181 
 
 Hamilton looked again from Sam Challis to 
 the sister. Yes, there was no error of identifi- 
 cation, the tall girl was waving a black gloved 
 liand to the vagrant at his side ; her face was 
 smiling, almost joyous, and what a sweet face 
 it was, thought Hamilton, as the distance de- 
 creased between the vessel and the landing- 
 stage, and one could see her clearly in the 
 morning's sun. 
 
 She was very tall, although not of that strik- 
 ing height which was remarkable in his cousin 
 the Avidow ; a fair-haired, bright-faced girl c^f 
 nineteen years, perhaps, with a smile rippling 
 over every feature, and with her red lips part- 
 ed with excitement, disclosing a double row of 
 dainty white teeth. She was more like a girl 
 coming back from boarding-school to friends 
 and home and love, than a forlorn young wo- 
 man branded with the stigma of the prison- 
 house, and with a ticket-of-leave in her purse, 
 along with her gratuity money and her papers. 
 In this guise, and in this fashion, Hamilton 
 Redclove had never expected to encounter her 
 — it was a stranger meeting than with her
 
 1S2 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 brother Sam. He was bewildered by it — it 
 seemed part and parcel of a new mystery ou 
 which he was intruding, and which appeared to 
 thrust back all the sleepiness and drone-age of 
 his past existence which had been marked by 
 nothing singular^ by nothing bad or good, 
 praiseworthy or blameable — the ordinary career 
 of a well-to-do young man, Avith no particular 
 vices or virtues worth mentioning. Strange 
 that he should think lie had entered on a new 
 phase of existence, when clweUing on the 
 mystery which encompassed Agnes Challis, 
 whose life could be nothing to him, save that it 
 perplexed him at the first glimpse of it. 
 
 As she stepped on to the landing-stage, and 
 made her way through the crowd of passengers 
 towards her brother,, Sam Challis for the first 
 time in Hamilton's experience of him, betrayed 
 a sense of shame at meeting her, or else a some- 
 thing that was akin to pride in his eagerness 
 to spare her a recognition in the full light of 
 day. He shrank towards the bridge between 
 the landing-stage and the roadway and the 
 busy docks beyond, and crept slowly away
 
 AGGIE. 183 
 
 from her with downcast looks and head averted, 
 taking no heed of Hamilton who was keeping- 
 step by his side. 
 
 Agnes Challis had overtaken her brother 
 before he was clear of the landing-stage, how- 
 ever, and a musical voice said in his ear, 
 
 ' Don't run away from me, Sam. Where are 
 you going? — what, are you frightened of me, 
 
 too r 
 
 ' I'll not speak to you here,' he muttered, 
 without looking towards her, ' see what I have 
 come down to already !' 
 
 ' i\.h ! Sam — I am not proud !' she said, almost 
 laughingly, and yet there might have been a 
 ring of satire in her tones. 
 
 ' Presently we'll talk — not now,' said Sam, in 
 a hurried voice, and still with head averted, ' let 
 us get away from these people, if Ave can, 
 Aggie.' 
 
 He turned suddenly to Hamilton, with a half 
 defiant, half beseeching manner. 
 
 ' You'll go— you'll hook it away for half-an- 
 hour or so f he said, ' won't you V 
 
 ' Yes — if you wish it,' Hamilton replied.
 
 184 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * Who is this gentleman'?' asked Agnes Chal- 
 Hs, in surprise. 
 
 * I don't know who he is,' answered Sam, 
 shortly, ' a somebody who wants to get me ont 
 of England, who talks of helping a fellow who 
 has been always able — after a fashion, mind — to 
 help himself/ 
 
 'That is strange,' said the girl, regarding 
 Hamilton very steadily and critically, ' you 
 come from Mr. Fayre, I suppose V 
 
 Hamilton raised his hat, as to a lady of his 
 own degree, and answered in the negative. 
 
 ' A friend of Mr. Overdown's ?' was her next 
 inquiry, and with her two large clear hazel 
 eyes bent on him still. 
 
 ' No, Miss Challis,' he said again, ' a philan- 
 thropist on my own account, I may say — and at 
 least one who is anxious to be of ser^^ce to 
 your brother.' 
 
 ' There are more good people in the world 
 than T thought there were two years ago,' she 
 remarked, thoughtfully, ' I hope Sam has thank- 
 ed you, sir.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes,' said Hamilton, very readily.
 
 AGGIE. 185 
 
 * Xo — I haven't,' was Sam's response. * I 
 haven't had time to think of it — to make it all 
 out as clearly as I shall do in an honr or 
 two.' 
 
 ' For an hour or two, then, we will ask this 
 gentleman to be kind enough to leave ns to 
 ourselves,' Avas the quiet hint conveyed 
 here. 
 
 Hamilton was pei'plexed still — on the thres- 
 hold of his new discovery, new mystery, this odd 
 couple might vanish away for good, and render 
 his efforts unavailing, and himself for ever in 
 their minds an object of suspicion. 
 
 ' I may trust you both to meet me again,' he 
 said. 
 
 The tall girl looked hard at him once more. 
 
 'Why both of us?' she asked. 
 
 ' You Avill be glad to hear what I purpose do- 
 ing for your brother — you may require help for 
 youi'self in the new life which you are beginning,' 
 he blurted forth, not too discreetly. 
 
 ' You are not from Mr. Fap-e— or Mr. Over- 
 down V she asked again. 
 
 ' No.'
 
 186 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * How do you know I am beginning a new 
 life then V was her quick inquiry. 
 
 * I think so — I hope so,' he repHed. 
 
 ' If I could go back to the old,' said the girl, 
 clasping her hands together, and looking up- 
 wards suddenly, ' if I could begin the old again, 
 and be as happy !' 
 
 Hamilton did not understand this — he had 
 imagined hers a sad past life to be repented of 
 and wept over, and the exclamation sui-prised 
 him more than his features betrayed. 
 
 ' Pardon me,^ stammered Hamilton, * but 
 really — " 
 
 ' We will meet you, sh — we will meet you,' she 
 interrupted, hurriedly ; ' come, Sam.' 
 
 ' Shall I Avait for you here T asked Hamilton. 
 
 ' I am a stranger to Liverpool,' was the reply, 
 ' where is the North Western Railway Station V 
 
 ' Some distance from the river.' 
 
 ' Wait for us there at two o'clock this after- 
 noon — it will be more convenient, I think,' she 
 said. 
 
 She bowed gracefully by way of dismissal to 
 Hamilton, who once more found himself raising
 
 AGGIE. 187 
 
 his hat from his head as to a fine lady of his 
 acquaintance. The interview was not quite 
 closed, however, for Miss Challis who had turned 
 away with her brother suddenly came towards 
 him again with her old. steady, searching stare. 
 It was a look that thrilled him with its earnest- 
 ness and its fearlessness of expression. 
 
 The voice was clear and forcible as well as 
 musical — there was not a lurking tremor in its 
 tone to betray either shame or fear at the heart 
 of the speaker. 
 
 ' You are aware I am from prison V she said, 
 boldly. 
 
 ' Ye— es — that is, I have heard ' Hamilton 
 
 began, in some embarrassment. 
 
 ' That is the only question which I wished to 
 ask you,' she said, quietly; ' good morning.' 
 
 She had turned away again, and Hamilton 
 watched her join her brother, and walk on by his 
 side, with her gloved hand on his ragged sleeve, 
 until a turn of the busy street shut her from his- 
 sight.
 
 188 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' BEWARE OF THE GIRL.' 
 
 Hamilton Redclove had become excited over 
 his new mission. There was more romance about 
 it than he had bargained for ; the ChaUises — bro- 
 ther and sister — had been discovered, and it was a 
 difficult task to understand either of them. They 
 were not grateful yet for the charity which his 
 uncle had sent him down to Liverpool to dis- 
 pense— moreover, they were suspicious of him, 
 and saw a hidden meaning in his expedition 
 and a motive in the background for that phil- 
 anthropy with Avhich he had surprised them. 
 
 Ordinary people, in this world, do not go very 
 much out of their way to help the benighted, to 
 unfasten their purse-strings and heart-strings in
 
 BEWARE OF THE GIRL. 189 
 
 the service of God's great army of the afflicted 
 — why should this youth and his sister beheve 
 in him and his professions ? Did he beheve in 
 them himself? Hardly. Did he believe in his 
 uncle ? Well, not so much as he could wish. 
 
 This was a spasmodic kind of benevolenccy 
 rather than real charity, and there was even 
 policy at the bottom of the whole business which 
 Lord Kedclove had entrusted to him. In his 
 daughter's interest, and for his daughter's peace 
 of mind, it was his lordship's best move to get 
 rid of this couple, to send them abroad or find 
 them honest employment at home — anything, 
 so that they might earn their own living, and 
 not fancy they had a claim on a poor, Aveak 
 father's possessions, duly devised by letters of 
 administration to the wife legally mariied, and 
 the one daughter lawfully begotten. It was 
 not uncharacteristic of his lordship's manner to 
 be deaf or satiric to Daniel Overdo wn's plans, and 
 then set to work after his own wise fashion. It 
 was even like his lordship to be sony for the 
 results, and to spend money to make things as 
 comfortable as circumstances would permit. His-
 
 190 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 son-in-law, Dangei-field, had been a sad fool, 
 heaven knew that. Lord Redclove had said 
 piously and truthfully more than once of late 
 days ; but he had liked Dangerfield, and, as men 
 run in the bulk, Dangerfield had been kind to 
 his wife, although he had died — if that object- 
 ionable gunsmith were to be believed— with a 
 very eccentric anxiety as to the people whom he 
 had, during his life, kept discreetly in the shade. 
 There had been a great deal of fuss made over a 
 very common-place affair, and, if money now 
 could smooth matters a little, Lord Redclove 
 would not be sorr}^ ; if money could wipe 
 these Challises for ever out of the records of the 
 family. Lord Redclove would even be exceed- 
 ingly glad. 
 
 Hamilton guessed this, knowing his uncle 
 passing well, and hence the telegram despatched 
 to his noble relative a few minutes after Miss 
 ■Challis and her ragged brother had turned the 
 corner of the street. 
 
 ' 1 have discovered both the Challises. They are 
 distrustful of me and independent, hut the youth 
 may he persuaded to go to America, I think. Be
 
 BEWARE OF THE GIRL. 191 
 
 is in distress, the girl is not. May 1 tell all 
 frankly '( May 1 he as generous as 1 loish T 
 
 Lord Redclove's answer reached Hamilton at 
 the North Western Hotel, a short tmie before he 
 sauntered into the big station by its side. 
 
 * Tell nothing. Give ichat money you like, but 
 let it he understood clearly and positively that it is 
 for the first and last time. Beware of the girl.'' 
 
 Hamilton was brooding on this answer at the 
 railway station, rejoicing in it partly, but 
 shrugging his shoulders at the wise warning of 
 age — as youth invariably does wheli the warn- 
 ing is not to its taste — when the girl herself 
 came so quietly and quickly to his side that he 
 started as at an apparition. 
 
 • You are punctual, Miss Challis,' he said, and 
 np went his hand to his hat again, and off went 
 the hat, before he remembered that this was not 
 a lady, only a poor prison bird, coming out of its 
 cage with clipped wings. 
 
 ' I am compelled to be punctual ; my train 
 leaves Liverpool in half-an-hour, and we have 
 something to explain,' she said. 
 
 Hamilton bowed. There was a great deal to
 
 192 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 explain, if each would condescend to do so ; and 
 he could not now be frank on his side, without 
 being false to his uncle's trust. 
 
 * You are going to ' and Hamilton paused. 
 
 ' To Birmingham,' she explained, ' where a 
 
 friend T have never seen has promised to look 
 after me till the opportunity to look after myself 
 occurs in good time.' 
 
 ' May I ask his name V 
 
 'Certainly. Daniel Overdown,' Avas the- 
 ready answer. 
 
 ' I do not know the gentleman.' 
 
 He had said this more than once before, and 
 he said it now very readily — it would stave -off 
 questions that might prove embarrassing, he 
 thought, if he were firm on this point. 
 
 * So Sam tells me,' she said. * You, I hear, 
 also knew my father well V 
 
 * Yes. He was very kind to me when I was 
 young.' 
 
 ' You have the advantage of me, sir,' she said, 
 with a sad shade upon her face. ' I did not 
 know my father. I believe he was kind to 
 mother in his way; that is, with his money.
 
 BEWARE OF THE GIRL. 193 
 
 I have been told so,' she added, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 * Where is your brother V asked Hamiltou, as 
 they walked up and down the broad stone plat- 
 form of the railway station, the world about 
 them too busy with its own affairs to take 
 heed of a strange couple. 
 
 ' He will be here presently,' was the answer. 
 ' We have had a long talk together, and he has 
 made up his mind to accept your kind offer of a 
 passage to America.' 
 
 ' I am glad to hear it,' responded Hamilton 
 Redclove. 
 
 * Having once made up his mind, he is im- 
 patient to start,' she said ; * he was always im- 
 patient, poor fellow, and that may stand in his 
 way in the new world as in the old, unless the 
 first friend he meets sees the good that is in 
 him as clearly as I do.' 
 
 ' You have faith in your brother V inquired her 
 companion. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the confident answer, ' I have.' 
 ' And he has faith in you V 
 ' Yes. That is more remarkable, you think V 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 she added, shrewdly, and with a faint smile 
 flickeiing at the corners of her mouth. 
 
 ' No, pardon me ; I do not think that,' Hamil- 
 ton hastened to reply. 
 
 ' I have been in prison, you must remember,' 
 she said, very frankly, again ; ' and my brother 
 Sam has still a character to lose !' 
 
 ' Why don't you go abroad, and take care of 
 him V suggested Hamilton, ' with a home toge- 
 ther, beginning new lives together, the world 
 would open out before you both more brightly. 
 In America, for instance, the past could be com- 
 pletely sunk.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, I do not wish to sink the past I' she 
 cried, with a strange pride suddenly exhibiting 
 itself ; ' there were troubles in it, but there were 
 happiness and love. I have it still to study.' 
 
 ' To study,' echoed Hamilton. 
 
 ' And there is nothing in it that I regret, or 
 look back upon with shame,' she concluded, 
 without heeding him. 
 
 ' Nothing,' echoed Hamilton again, and again 
 she took no heed of him. Her thoughts for an 
 instant had gone from him, and from the bustle
 
 BEWARE OF THE GIRL. 195 
 
 of the big railway static q, to the past of which 
 he was ignorant, and to a Avorld lying far away 
 from his ken. Yes, it was a fine face — fnll of 
 thought and confidence and even hope, he 
 fancied, as the bright hazel eyes looked beyond 
 him, and a tinge of colour rose to the cheeks 
 which prison air had blanched of late days. 
 
 Nothing in the past to regret or look back 
 upon with shame ! What did she mean ? 
 thought Hamilton. What could this young 
 woman mean by that ? 
 
 o 2
 
 196 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 BOTH GRATEFUL. 
 
 Was there no real sliame in the offence for 
 which this Aggie ChaJhs had suffered imprison- 
 ment, thought Hamilton Redclove, or had she 
 grown callous to society's punishment, and de- 
 fiant of it, or was she, by one of those awful 
 accidents of life which trip up the heels of hon- 
 est folk at times, innocent of the crime for 
 whicli she had suffered ? He could believe she 
 was, it was so fair-spoken a face, and with such 
 a clear outlook from it, that his heart was touch- 
 ed to know its history. 
 
 She came back to herself suddenly. 
 
 'To go abroad with Sam/ she murmured. 
 
 * Yes, why not think of it seriously V
 
 BOTH GRATEFUL. 197 
 
 ' It is a temptation to speak of America, and 
 of my taking care of my brother,' she said ; ' but 
 my mission in hfe Hes in England, and my 
 friends are all here.' 
 
 * You have fnends then V 
 
 ' Mr. Overdown will be a fiiend, I am sure ; 
 I have confidence in him already, and I shall 
 make more friends as I go on,' she replied ; ' I 
 have a habit of it. Why, I made friends in the 
 prison, which they let me out of yesterday ; 
 plenty of them.' 
 
 * The sooner you drop them the better, I 
 should say,' remarked her hstener. 
 
 She laughed merrily for an instant, and to 
 Hamilton's new surprise. It was a laugh that 
 thrilled him, and was full of music. 
 
 ' You would not say so if you knew them,' 
 she said ; ' but you don't want to know about 
 them, or me, and we haven't time even if you 
 had the inclination.' 
 
 ' I'm not quite so sure of that.' 
 
 ' Time is getting on, and Sam will be with us 
 in five minutes. Now, about Sam V 
 
 ' I thought the question of your brother's
 
 198 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 start in life was settled,' he replied more anxious 
 concerning this new-comer on the scene than 
 in the yonth he had discovered last night 
 at the ' Harp.' 
 
 ' He is going to America at your suggestion 
 and at your expense V she said. * Is not that 
 the position V 
 
 Hamilton nodded. 
 
 'And you ^vish me to believe, just as you 
 wish my brother to believe, that this is a charit- 
 able freak on your part, without any motive 
 save the wish to benefit your fellow-creatures,' 
 she asked, ' your poorer brethren V 
 
 'I have not said so,' Hamilton replied. ' I 
 have already told you that your father, Mr. 
 Dangerfield ' 
 
 ' He was not called by that name,' she inter- 
 rupted, quickly ; ' my mother did not know him 
 by that name.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' 
 
 * For, at least,' she corrected,' my mother never 
 spoke of him by that name to me.' 
 
 ' Well, well, he was kind to me in my youth, 
 I was about to add.'
 
 BOTH GRATEFUL. 19^ 
 
 * It is gratitude, then, for past favours that has 
 led you to seek my brother out?' was the next 
 question that embarrassed him. 
 
 ' Your brother and yourself.' 
 
 * You did not expect to see me,' she said. 
 
 * I should have sought you out next,' was the 
 reply. 
 
 ' Yours is a gratitude which I am too young- 
 to understand perhaps,' she said, and Hamilton 
 felt himself blushing and evading her gaze. 
 ' May I ask your name V 
 
 ' I would prefer you left me nameless,' Ham- 
 ilton urged. 
 
 'An unknown benefactor, like the good 
 stranger in the story books,' she said, almost 
 satirically. 
 
 ' It would have been easy to give a false 
 name, and thus affect to satisfy your curiosity,' 
 said Hamilton, in some confusion ; ' but — but I 
 cannot tell you a lie.' 
 
 She looked away from him for an instant, and 
 then said, 
 
 ' Thank you. It is as well there should be 
 truth between us.'
 
 200 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' You suspect me, Miss Challis/ said Hamilton, 
 ' and it is natural you should do so. But what 
 motives can I have in being of assistance to 
 your brother, but those which do me no dis- 
 credit '?' 
 
 ' Neither discredit to you, nor to those who 
 sent you, I hope/ replied Miss Challis, quickly ; 
 ' for this is no impromptu efibrt on your part, 
 and it is bad acting to try to make me think it 
 is. Still for your timely help to Sam, sinking 
 now for want of help, I thank you, sir, with all 
 my heart.' 
 
 She extended her hand to him, and he took 
 it, shook it warmly, and resigned it. It was in 
 his heart to tell her all, but he checked the im- 
 pulse that was honest and fair in him. * Beware 
 of the girl,' seemed hissing in his ears, the warn- 
 ing of his uncle sent by the wires half an hour 
 ago. He would keep his uncle's secret, if he 
 would not follow implicitly his uncle's man- 
 dates. He had no intention of telling the good- 
 looking girl before him that this assistance was 
 for the first and last time in the lives of her and 
 her brother. He would help them himself, if
 
 BOTH GRATEFUL. 201 
 
 help were needed, lie thought, in the excitement 
 of that moment, and under the spell of Aggie 
 Chalhs. He would be very glad to help her, 
 he was sm-e, at any time of her strange 
 life. 
 
 ' I don't know that I should have accepted 
 your offer for Sam,' she said, thoughtfully, ' had 
 I been able to see clearly ahead of me. But I 
 return to the world a poor girl, and with only 
 one dress to my back worth an}H:hin,2;. This is 
 it ; I was arrested in it.' 
 
 Hamilton did not admire the persistent way 
 in which Agnes Challis alluded to her prison 
 life, though there seemed a motive in her man- 
 ner of doing so, rather than a natural reckless- 
 ness or defiance. Was she anxious to impress 
 him with her antecedents ? — to fix the fact on 
 his memory whilst their inter^dew lasted ? 
 
 ' I had my plans for Sam,' she continued, * but 
 your charity has altered them. Your idea is 
 best ; he goes to America, to the very place I 
 have Avished him to go, and where he may be 
 of service to me, or himself, or another — who 
 knows? He is not as good a scholar as he
 
 202 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 might have been ; he had not my apphcationy 
 my poor mother used to say,' she added, with 
 quite a French shrug of her shoulders ; ' and he 
 was never fond of school^ as I was. Oh ! my 
 grand old school. I wonder if the mistress ha&c 
 heard of the fate of her favourite pupil, and if it 
 has shocked her very much.' 
 
 ^ But ' 
 
 ' But let me understand all very clearly^ 
 please, before Sam comes,' she said, hurriedly 
 now. ' You don't want a sketch of my life ; I 
 want a sketch of his. He goes to America — 
 well, what then ? Have you thought?' 
 
 ' He is to take Avith him a sum which ^Wll 
 keep him from poverty until a chance presents 
 itself of occupation.' 
 
 ' How much will it be ?' she asked, in a busi- 
 ness-like manner. 
 
 Hamilton had only settled this in his mind 
 within the last few minutes. He would be liber- 
 al with his uncle's money ; there was a pleasure 
 in the act of distribution, and he had not much 
 to spare from his own means just then. His 
 uncle would elevate his shaggy, white eye-
 
 BOTH GRATEFUL. 203 
 
 brows presently, and tell him he had been infer- 
 nally lavish of the cash ; but the telegraphic 
 message had left the matter in his hands. 
 
 ' Two hundred pounds,' he said, in answer to 
 the last question put to him. 
 
 Aggie Challis was surprised. She changed 
 colour, and was a little short of breath for a 
 while. 
 
 ' That is a large sum for a youth to travel 
 with,' she said, very thoughtfully, at last. 
 
 ' Living is expensive in America ; he may 
 possibly go West, and seek his fortune there. 
 He may be months before he settles down,' said 
 Hamilton. 
 
 « To a hard fate, perhaps,' said Aggie. ' I 
 don't know. 1 can't see the end of his life — 
 it's beyond me. Two hundred pounds !' 
 
 ' Will you take charge of some of it, and re- 
 mit it to him at a future period, when you may 
 think he requires it?' said Hamilton; 'if you 
 consider it is unwise to trust him with this 
 money all at once, it would be better pohcy for 
 you to ' 
 
 ' 1 will have nothini^ to do with it,' said the
 
 204 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 girl, firmly. ' Sam is to be trusted ; 1 could 
 always trust him. It is the one chance he has 
 ever had ; it comes at a good time, and we are 
 both grateful, God knows.' 
 
 The big eyes were raised towards the station- 
 roof, the gloved hands were clasped together in 
 gratitude to a greater Giver than Hamilton 
 Eedclove, and the fleeting attitude of reverence 
 impressed and awed him. He was glad that he 
 had come to Liverpool, and been of use in the 
 world, probably for the first time in his life. 
 This helping the outcast and forlorn was really 
 very pleasant work, especially with other folk's 
 money. 
 
 There was all the sensation of being a good 
 Samaritan, without any of the expense attached 
 to the assumption of the character, though, to do 
 our young gentleman justice, this view of the 
 case did not strike Hamilton at the moment.
 
 205 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 A PARTING. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Samuel ChaUis re- 
 appeared upon the scene. He had exchanged 
 his rags for a decent suit of clothes, purchased 
 at an outfitter's in the town ; he had washed his 
 face, and had his hair sheared, and was al- 
 together a presentable being. The process had 
 made him look taller, as he held his head more 
 erect, with the consciousness of being more re- 
 spectable. It was a difficult task to connect 
 him with the wild scene at the ' Harp ' tap that 
 Hamilton had witnessed the preceding night. 
 
 He -looked steadily at Hamilton, too— there 
 was no hang-dog glance under the brows now.
 
 206 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 no lurking defiance iii the glitter of the dark 
 eyes, no regarding a man well-dressed and re- 
 spectable as an enemy to be wary of, or a 'tofi*' 
 to scoff at. There was a likeness to the sister, 
 too, that was evident in his new estate, but 
 where it began or ended it was not easy to de- 
 termine at a glance. 
 
 ' Good day again, sir,' he said, respectfully, to 
 Hamilton. ' Well, Aggie, is this the cheese ? I 
 mean,' he corrected, ' is this the cut and style 
 suitable for a gentleman about to patronise the 
 vStates Avith a look up V 
 
 'There are plenty of pockets in the coat,' 
 answered his sister, with a forced lightness of 
 demeanour ; for Hamilton, watching her rather 
 than her brother, quickly detected a quivering 
 of the lips. 
 
 ' Yes, but there's nothing in them at present. 
 Not,' he added to Hamilton, ' that that was in- 
 tended for a hint, sir.' 
 
 ' You must pay your sister back for the out- 
 fit, when you have funds at command, Sam,' 
 Hamilton suggested. 
 
 *No,' said Aggie; *that is my little contribution
 
 A PARTING. 207 
 
 to his new life. You do not object to my gi\dug 
 liim a pilot coat V she added to Hamilton. 
 
 ' But ' 
 
 ' But we have no time to discuss the question,' 
 cried the sister ; * I must be in the train in ten 
 more minutes.' 
 
 There was a pause, and she looked hard at 
 her brother. 
 
 ' I don't think we have anything further to 
 say, !Sam,' she said, hurriedly, almost nervously. 
 ^ You understand everything — and you ivill do 
 your best.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Sam, stoutly ; ' I will.' 
 
 ' Upon your honour — always V 
 
 ' Always — upon my honour_, Ag.' 
 
 ' And with God's help,' added Aggie ChalHs ; 
 * and so that's well said, Sam. Now Hsten to 
 me, not to the gentleman, for he's not quick in 
 explaining matters, and every minute is precious 
 to us. Our good friend here — for he must be 
 our friend— sends you to the New World with 
 more money than you have ever dreamed of; 
 he comes to you and me like a fairy prince, with 
 his hands crammed full of gold, and lends you
 
 208 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 — LENDS YOU, Sam, understand, for you are to 
 pay him back with interest, some day, every 
 shining that he has advanced — the smn of two 
 hundred pounds.' 
 
 ' Two — two hundred what T 
 
 * Two hundred pounds.' 
 
 * Lord, save us ! Do you mean it V 
 
 * Yes,' said Hamilton. 
 
 Sam ChalHs was surprised indeed ; — his lower 
 jaw dropped, and his eyes blazed with amaze- 
 ment. Finally he turned pale, and looked as if 
 he were going to faint. 
 
 * I don't make it out,' he muttered ; ' you 
 bind me to nothing V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' There are no conditions to all this, sir V 
 
 ' Only that you do your best with the money 
 I give you,' answered the benefactor. 
 
 ' That he lends you,' said the sister again ; 
 * for, Sam, it should be your greatest effort — 
 your gi'eatest pride in Hfe — to earn the money 
 back again to pay this gentleman.' 
 
 * It shall be,' murmured Sam ; ' I promise I 
 will earn it.'
 
 A PARTING. 209 
 
 ' We shall be able to find you easily, I think,' 
 said Aggie to Hamilton, and to Hamilton's sur- 
 prise ; ' and till then, and under any circum- 
 stances which may have prompted you to seek 
 us out, we are your grateful debtors.' 
 
 ' But you stand aloof — you will take no favour 
 at my hands,' said Hamilton. 
 
 ' Oh, sir, let me repeat I have plenty of friends,' 
 said Aggie Challis in reply ; ' and here is one 
 whom I have been expecting during the last 
 half hour. He said he would come.' 
 
 Hamilton turned, and beheld a tall, lank man, 
 closely cropped and clean-shaven, in the dress of 
 a minister of the Church of England, advancing 
 to our heroine — for this prison-bird is the heroine 
 of our story, gentle readers. He seemed a man 
 of sixty till he was close to them, and then he 
 melted down to a stern-faced indi^^dual of four 
 or five and forty years of age, who looked as if 
 all the cares of the world were resting on his 
 narrow shoulders. 
 
 ' Good afternoon,' he said, huskily. 
 
 * Good afternoon. I was afraid you would be 
 too late, Mr. Fayre,'she said, in a low voice to him. 
 V^OL. I. P
 
 210 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * I said I should be here in time,' he answered, 
 as if that assertion should have immediately dis- 
 pelled any doubt of his coming ; then his compre- 
 hensive glance took-in Hamilton coldly and cri- 
 tically, and passed onwards to Sam Challis, whom 
 he condescended to address. 
 
 * Your sister has found you, then V he said, in 
 the same rasping tone. 
 
 ' I found her,' was the reply. 
 
 * Are you going with her to Birmingham V 
 
 ' No,' answered Sam, and he edged away some- 
 what from his questioner. 'I start for America 
 this afternoon.' 
 
 * To America ? You !' 
 
 * This gentleman has been kind enough to pro- 
 mise my brother a passage to New York, and the 
 means of living out there until he can obtain 
 employment for himself,' Aggie hastened to 
 explain. 
 
 ' I hope the gentleman's generosity will not be 
 misplaced,' said Mr. Fayre, very coldly; then he 
 turned his back on Sam Challis, and, after another 
 glance at Hamilton, devoted his whole attention 
 to the young woman whom he had come to see.
 
 A PARTING. 211 
 
 He walked slowly towards the train with her, 
 both speaking in a low voice, and Hamilton said 
 to the brother, 
 
 ' Who is your sister's friend V 
 
 ' Blest if I think he's anybody's friend,' said 
 KSam, in reply, and in his slangy tones of last 
 night ; ' he chivied me so much last month that 
 I was obliged to cut and run from him.' 
 
 * Chivied jouV 
 
 ' Something that Aggie said brought him to 
 Liverpool after me,' Sam explained ; ' but then 
 Aggie was not Avise, and told him too much, or 
 else he read my letter to her, w^hich was like his 
 confounded impudence.' 
 
 ^Heis ' 
 
 ' A minister.' 
 
 ' The chaplain of the prison in which your sister 
 has been?' inquired Hamilton. 
 
 The youth started. 
 
 * Has she told you that V exclaimed Sam 
 Challis. 
 
 ' I knew it before,' answered Hamilton ; * but 
 she has made no secret of it.' 
 
 ' No— she is rather proud of it than otherwise,' 
 
 p2
 
 212 THE MAN SHE CAKED FOR. 
 
 said the brother, scornfully ; ' but you knew it, 
 you say V 
 
 ' Yes/ was the reply. 
 
 ' You seem to know everything — do you know 
 why she went to prison V 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' Ask that man presently,' said Sam Chalhs^ 
 moodily, ' and ask him if he believes she was in 
 the Avrong. I don't like him — but he'll tell you 
 the truth — he'll tell you more than I can. You 
 see, I haven't cared until to-day very much 
 about anything.' 
 
 They stopped — Aggie Challis was in a third- 
 class compartment of the Birmingham train now, 
 with the sallow-faced minister standing at the 
 door. There were big tears in her eyes, and 
 Sam Challis muttered, 
 
 * That's like him. He has been making her 
 miserable again — he'd make the de^dl himself 
 miserable,' he added, spitefully, ' if he had the 
 chance.' 
 
 * Why is that r 
 
 ' He won't let people be — he talks too much.' 
 As they advanced, Hamilton heard Aggie
 
 A PARTING. 21a 
 
 Challis say, ' I will not forget,' and the minister 
 stepped back to allow him to speak to her. 
 
 ' I will say good-bye at once to yon, sir,' the 
 girl said, extending her hand to Hamilton, ' and 
 thank you, and God bless yon for Sam's 
 sake as well as mine. If he is not too thankful 
 himself just yet, don't mind it — he is very strange 
 in his ways, but he will be none the less grate- 
 ful in his heart, I'm sure, for the great chance 
 you have offered him. Good-bye, sir. We shall 
 not meet again in life, but I shall not forget all 
 that you have done for us.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Hamilton, shaking hands 
 with her very heartily, as with an old friend. 
 It was strange the interest he felt in her already 
 — it was stranger that she should say they were 
 never to meet again. She had talked of her 
 brother's paying back the debt only a little 
 while ago, and of finding him, Hamilton Red- 
 clove, when it was necessary, and even if it 
 were years hence. He would have been glad 
 to remind her again that it was in his power to 
 help her too, that the chances of a better life 
 were not all for Sam Chalhs, but he was already
 
 214 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 assured that her pride or mdependence would" 
 repel the offer at that moment. He stepped 
 back to the side of the clergyman, who took no 
 notice of him, and who was stolidly surveying 
 the carriage, from the open door of which the 
 handsome girl was talking now very eagerly to 
 her brother. 
 
 Hamilton was content to watch the varying 
 play of emotion on that young, fair face — to 
 Avonder at it — to be more deeply impressed by 
 the position, than in his every-day life he had 
 been moved yet, for life had been self with him, 
 and self is a disease that eats into a man's heart 
 core. 
 
 He affected not to watch them, but he could 
 not keep his dark eyes from wandering in the 
 direction of this strange brother and sister who 
 were taking a painful leave of each other, who 
 might n^v^er meet again in this life, and whom 
 he had helped to part by the power of his 
 uncle's money. Surely for good this, whatever 
 might be Uncle Redclove's motives — surely the 
 one fair chance to Samuel Chalhs this time. 
 The sister spoke ver}- rapidly and with great
 
 A PARTING. 215 
 
 excitement ; he could see her hps moving quick- 
 ly, and she was proferring him advice, encour- 
 agement, and asking of him a promise in her 
 turn — the old promise perhaps to pay back his 
 debt of obhgation some day. The gaunt minis- 
 ter by Hamilton's side watched with him, but 
 with a grave, unmoved face. 
 
 Finally there was a burst of tears, two arms 
 were twined liastily round Sam's neck, and 
 withdrawn again, then the brother stepped back, 
 red-eyed, and with a face strangely convulsed, 
 and the guard slammed-to the carriage door and 
 whistled. The engine shrieked in answer, and the 
 train moved on, with Aggie Challis peering forth 
 again, and fighting hard to let her last look be 
 a semblance of a smile at them all. 
 
 ' Poor girl,' murmured Hamilton, and there 
 were tears in his own eyes for which he could 
 not account. 
 
 * Why, poor girl V said the clergyman. 
 
 ' She is in trouble. There must be so hard a 
 life before her, I think.' 
 
 ' Do you pity herT asked the minister, in his 
 deep, clashing voice.
 
 216 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Hamilton, ' with all my heart 
 I do.' 
 
 * Surely, she is above it, sir,' said Mr. Fayre, 
 eternly. 
 
 * How is that V 
 
 ' Pity is for God's unfortunates.' 
 
 ' And she is not — one — who — V began Hamil- 
 ton. 
 
 ' She is the best woman whom you have ever 
 met in your life — whom you are ever likely to 
 meet,' was the clergyman's solemn reply.
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT 
 
 The tall clergyman pronounced his verdict on 
 the character of Aggie Challis without the least 
 excitement or change in the tone of his voice. 
 He was looking after the receding train as he 
 spoke, and he Avas suddenly surprised and faint- 
 ly disturbed by Sam clutching his white hand 
 — he wore no gloves — and pumping vigorously 
 at his arm. 
 
 * Thank you, governor — thank you, old man !' 
 cried the brother, ' you're not such a hard one 
 as I thought you were, to say that of her. And 
 she deserves it all, too. Every bit of it.' 
 
 Mr. Fayre withdrew his hand as soon as he
 
 218 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 was able from the spasmodic grasp of youug- 
 Challis, and said, very calmly, 
 
 ' We shall never be able to see much good in 
 yon, young man, I am afraid.' 
 
 * No, that isn't likely, ' was the slow reply. 
 ' You are utterl}^ wanting in stability.' 
 
 * I have been walking over bog-land till to- 
 day, sir,' was the ready explanation. 
 
 * And he never wholly sank through, his sister 
 tells me,' added Hamilton, in Sam's favour. 
 
 Mr. Fayre gave a slight grunt, but whether 
 of assent or dissent to flamilton Redclove's re- 
 mark did not clearly appear ; then he looked 
 down from his superior altitude at the youth 
 who had thanked him for his good opinion of 
 his sister. 
 
 ' You are going to America, Samuel V he 
 said. 
 
 ' Yes, sir.' 
 
 ' This afternoon V 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' At what hour V 
 
 ' I ought to be on board in an hour and a half 
 — but I haven't paid for my berth yet. Aggie
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 219 
 
 and I have been making a few inquiries. And 
 there's room for a fellow, they say, when the 
 money's ready.' 
 
 ' Oh ! they are anxions abont the money V 
 asked Hamilton. 
 
 ' Yes, that's it.' 
 
 He spoke reluctantly. There was the same 
 objection to hint at his dependency that there 
 had always been. Hamilton fancied that Sam 
 Challis even blushed. 
 
 ' In this,' said Hamilton, producing a pocket- 
 book, ' you will find the money which I promis- 
 ed you. Go and secure your berth, Sam, and 
 get what things together that may be neces- 
 sary. You haven't any time to spare.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Sam, taking the pocket- 
 book somev/hat unwillingly from the hands of 
 the donor. 
 
 ' And now, what ship do you go by, and near 
 what landing-stage V asked Hamilton. 
 
 * The Star of the West, opposite the landing- 
 stage 96.' 
 
 ' I will be there in time,' said Hamilton. 
 
 * And I,' added the minister.
 
 ■220 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' All right ; the couple of you, then.' 
 
 Samuel Challis moved very slowly away, 
 the pocket-book still in his hands. When he 
 was in Lime Street, he stopped, thought for a 
 moment, and turned back. 
 
 ' Hadn't you better give me most of this coin 
 when I see you at the river-side again V he 
 said. 
 
 'Why?' was Hamilton's rejoinder. 
 
 ' I might run away with it,' was Sam's ex- 
 planation. ' You might think ' 
 
 He paused, and Hamilton said, 
 
 ' I can trust you, Sam, with your own money, 
 surely V 
 
 The lad's face brightened quickly at this 
 assertion of confidence. 
 
 * Oh ! this is mine now to do what 1 like 
 with r 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * Thank you,' he said, and walked briskly 
 away. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove and the minister went 
 slowly towards the Mersey-side. They had an 
 hour or so to spare, and Hamilton was curious
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 221 
 
 to learn the antecedents of Aggie Challis. But 
 the minister was curious, too, and was the first 
 Avith his questioning. 
 
 * What amount of money have you given that 
 ladf he asked. 
 
 ' Two huncbed pounds.' 
 
 Mr. Fayi-e elevated his eye-brows ; it was his 
 turn to be sm-prised at the liberality of the 
 stranger. 
 
 ' It is an immense sum of money to bestow on 
 one person, and such a person as he is,' the min- 
 ister said, in a low voice. 
 
 ' I have no faith in dribs and drabs of cash 
 doing any good,' said Hamilton. 
 
 ' I hope, sir, he mil prove himself deserving 
 of your liberality.' 
 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 ' And of your confidence in him,' added Mr. 
 Fay re. 
 
 ' You distrust him V asked Hamilton. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the candid answer, ' very 
 much.' 
 
 ' That do not I,' said Hamilton, stoutly ;, 
 * there is something in the young fellow I like.'
 
 222 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * I don't see anything in him myself to hke/ 
 repHed the minister ; ' I have found him always 
 sullen, and obstinate, and deceitful.' 
 
 ' That is a bad character,' replied Hamilton ; 
 ' possibly you were too severe with him.' 
 
 Mr. Fayre frowned at the assertion ; he was 
 not accustomed to be addressed in this fashion 
 by his juniors. 
 
 ' I told him the truth, and it was hard for him 
 to bear,' he said, shortly. 
 
 ' When the truth is told in a hard way, it will 
 jar,' said Hamilton, reflectively. 
 
 He was thinking of one or two impleasant 
 truths which his uncle, Lord Redclove, had 
 fired off at him in his day, rather than of Mr. 
 Fayre's style of treatment of Samuel Challis' ; 
 but the minister took the observation to him- 
 self, as might have been expected. 
 
 * There is only one way of telling the truth — 
 simply and fearlessly, sir,' he said, sternly. 
 
 'Ah, well,' replied Hamilton, working up 
 again, ' I think there are two ways ; but we 
 •will not argue the point.' 
 
 ' There is no necessity.'
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 223 
 
 ' I would be glad, though,' said Hamilton, 'if 
 you would tell me something of the history of 
 that young woman whom Ave saw into the Bir- 
 mingham train a little while ago. Should I be 
 trespassing too much on your kindness by ask- 
 ing for a few particulars concerning her V 
 
 * You will find them in the newspapers of two 
 years since,' said Mr. Fayre, curtly. 
 
 The minister had not forgiven Hamilton his 
 previous comments on his style of discourse, and 
 Hamilton woke up to the fact that he had been 
 needlessly brusque, and had offended Mr. Fayre. 
 The prison chaplain was tetchy ; prison service 
 had hardened him a little, perhaps given him 
 some ' airs and graces ' of superiority over the 
 refractory and impenitent, over even the humility 
 and reverence that met him in his dark, object- 
 ionable world. Hamilton hastened to make the 
 amende honorable. 
 
 * Pardon me, sir, but I don't think I shall find 
 that history in the newspapers,' said Hamilton. 
 * I shall read of an offence against the law, a trial, 
 the verdict of twelve honest, or stupid, men, 
 as the case may be ; the unjust sentence of a
 
 224 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 judge, perhaps, on one of the best of women/ 
 Mr. Fayre looked before him intently, without 
 replying to his companion's protest. They walk- 
 ed on in silence for a hundred yards or more, be- 
 fore the clergyman said, without a glance at 
 Hamilton. 
 
 * You are very curious concerning Agnes 
 Chalhsr 
 
 * I am interested in her and her brother.' 
 
 ' You are sent by Lord Redclove, I suppose,* 
 said Mr. Fayi-e, curtly; ' all this is Lord Redclove's 
 mission rather than your own V 
 
 Hamilton fairly jumped in his surprise. 
 
 * How did you know — who has told you?*^ 
 asked the young man, in his bewilderment. 
 
 ' I do not know, and no one has told me,' was 
 the laconic answer. 
 
 ' But what made you think ' 
 
 ' Mr Overdo wn was at the Honourable Mrs. 
 Dangerfield's house this week, and saw Mrs. 
 Dangerfield's father. All assistance to the ille- 
 gitimate children ot the late Mr. Dangerfield 
 was refused Mr. Overdown. Had Lord Redclove 
 more merciful thoughts afterwards, and did he
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 225 
 
 despatch you as an emissary to Liverpool?' ask- 
 ed the minister. 
 
 ' Well, sir,' answered Hamilton, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, ' yes.' 
 
 ' I thought so.' 
 
 ' My uncle — for I am Lord Redclove's nephew 
 — was really impressed by Mr. Overdown's 
 story,' said Hamilton, ' and anxious to assist this 
 boy and girl, if it were possible to do so, without 
 any mention of his name. They had no claim upon 
 him ; he Avas even annoyed that Mr. Overdown 
 had called upon his daughter to state the case 
 of these unhappy children ; but, out of respect 
 to the last wishes of his son-in-law, he resolved 
 at last on helping them.' 
 
 * Hence your appearance here V 
 
 ^Yes.' 
 
 ' You have made a terrible failure of it,' said 
 the prison chaplain, coolly ; ' you do not under- 
 stand human life and character, the poor and 
 criminal classes, and how they are tempted and 
 led away and sink ; you are too young and inex- 
 perienced for the task Lord Redclovo has set 
 you.' 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 22Q THE MA.N SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 'I don't see Iioav I have failed,' answered 
 Hamilton, reddening at this uncomphmentary 
 estimate of his abilities. 
 
 ' It is a miserable failure from beginning to end,' 
 said Mr. Fayre. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove was never too ready to 
 submit to adverse criticism. He had had a 
 good opinion of himself, until the clergyman had 
 spoken. His idea was that he had shown ex- 
 traordinary tact in the delicate mission with 
 which he had been entrusted. It was an uncall- 
 ed-for remark to say that all that he had done 
 for the Challises was a miserable failure ; it was 
 an absolute impertinence. 
 
 ' Doubtless you — a minister of the Gospel — 
 would have managed much better than I,' said 
 Hamilton, satirically ; 'but then I had not the 
 pleasure of your acquaintance, and was unaware 
 of your great tact.' 
 
 ' I wrote to Mrs. Dangerfield some months 
 since.' 
 
 ' It is news to me.' 
 
 * And she did not answer my letter.' 
 
 ' Indeed.'
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 227 
 
 ' I could have certainly managed this matter 
 better than you, and I should have been glad to 
 do so,' said Mr. Fayre. ' I have no patience with 
 anyone coming to Liverpool in hot haste and 
 flinging away large sums of money in a reckless, 
 foolish fashion.' 
 
 ' I have not been reckless, my dear sir,' said 
 Hamilton, with forced politeness, * or foolish.' 
 
 ' You are too confident,' answered the clergy- 
 man, ' and so too rash.' 
 
 * And you are too distrustful,' said Hamilton, 
 far from politely on this occasion. 
 
 Mr. Fayre glowered down at his companion. 
 
 *Mine is not a distrustful nature, sir,' he re- 
 phed, .severely, ' but years of sad experience 
 have taught me to understand human nature, its 
 errors and temptations, and to act for it as God 
 and my own heart prompt. I am not often in 
 the wrong.' 
 
 This clerical gentleman was over-wise, 
 thought Hamilton, but he would not go out of 
 his way to disturb his equanimity again. 
 
 ' But I did not distrust Agnes Challis,' con- 
 tinued Mr. Fayre, in self-defence again. 
 
 q2
 
 228 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 * No — that's true,' said Hamilton ; ' but why 
 you did not, puzzles me exceedingly.' 
 
 He was ingenious, and saw an opportunity to 
 draw the story from the clergyman after all. 
 
 * Why should I have distrusted her V asked 
 Mr. Fayre, snapping at the bait. 
 
 ' She was found guilty. There were no 
 proofs of her innocence.' 
 
 ' She never said she was innocent,' replied the 
 clergyman. 
 
 ' How, then, have you arrived at so high an 
 estimate of her character V 
 
 * By her manner — her cheerfulness — her faith,' 
 said Mr. Faj^re ; ' by her history, which I found 
 out for myself, which she did not deny, and 
 which ' 
 
 « Yes, yes.' 
 
 ' And Avhich,' he repeated, ' I am not called 
 upon to relate to you.' 
 
 Hamilton was foiled — this tall parson was the 
 most disagreeable and aggravating personage 
 whom he had ever met. 
 
 * Sir, I am greatly interested in this young 
 woman — in any way that I can be of sers^ce to
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 229 
 
 her, you may command me,' Hamilton said. 
 
 ' So that neither your name, nor Lord Red- 
 clove's, appears in the matter V 
 
 Hamilton remembered his nncle's instructions, 
 his uncle's fears. 
 
 ' Yes,' he replied. 
 
 'I am not partial to the anonymous,' Mr. 
 Fayre remarked, scornfully, * and Miss Challis 
 can do without your help from this day.' 
 
 ' Very Avell,' said Hamilton, nettled at the 
 reply. 
 
 ' The result of your benevolence — if it can be 
 called benevolence that brings you here — we 
 shall see in Samuel Challis.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, in good time, I hope we shall,' 
 answered Hamilton. 
 
 He did not care to keep up the conversation 
 any longer with Mr. Fayre; the clergyman's 
 manner, his tone of superiority and reproof an- 
 noyed him excessively, and all the trouble that 
 a lord's nephew had taken to be of service to 
 two unhappy beings, the minister thought but 
 little of. The money that he had given away 
 lavishly, he had been lectured for bestowing ; he
 
 230 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 had had plenty of hard work, and no thanks,, 
 save from the girl who had gone away to 
 Bn-mingham. 7es, Aggie Challis had not mis- 
 trusted him nor misjudged him ; she thought 
 that he had acted for the best, and had not mis- 
 placed his confidence in her brother ; she could 
 understand him better than this stiif-backed 
 parson. 
 
 He thought of her all the way to the great 
 landing-stage on the Mersey, and Mr. Fayre 
 stalked on, busy with thoughts of his own. The 
 mystery of Agnes Challis, coupled with Agnes 
 Challis's fair face and frank demeanour, had dis- 
 turbed Hamilton not a little, thrust him out of 
 his ordinary commonplace, easy-going sphere in- 
 to the region of romance — a rainbow-tinted 
 world at which he had always scoffed, taking 
 his lesson from an uncle who had gone through 
 life scoffing at everything that was not as clear 
 and practical and unfanciful as Euclid's pro- 
 blems. He would piece out Agnes Challis's 
 story for himself, in due course — if it could in- 
 terest this hard, unmalleable, angular beast 
 at his side, what a history it might be to him !
 
 DISAPPOIXTMENT. 231 
 
 He was open to good impressions, and strangely 
 anxious to do good, after the fashion of all high- 
 minded, Christian gentlemen whose souls are 
 above their bank-stock. 
 
 The old and the new philanthropist, each full of 
 his own thoughts, contrived to lose each other 
 before reaching that portion of the landing-stage 
 where Sam Challis had arranged to say good- 
 bye to them. Mr. Fayre stopped at a book-stall 
 in his line of route, and Hamilton strolled on- 
 wards, forgetful of him altogether, and it was 
 not till the time appointed that they met by the 
 side of the Mersey, along which the wind was 
 swooping with a keener force than ever. It 
 was bitterly cold now, and a shivering crowd of 
 men and women and children had congregated 
 to- say farewell to each other, and to see the last 
 of the Stcu' of the West ere it steamed down 
 the river to the sea. Crowds of forlorn creatures^ 
 forlorn of habit and of heart were passing away 
 in boats to the big ship, but neither from the 
 ship's side, nor amidst the wan faces on the 
 landing-stage, was there to be caught a 
 glimpse of Sam Challis.
 
 232 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 NO S A M. 
 
 Hamilton Redclove did not betray any anx- 
 iety; his pride wonld not allow him to own 
 that he had been deceived, even when the ship 
 was on the point of steaming away to the sea. 
 
 * He has been detained — how closely he shaves 
 Ms time/ said Hamilton, cheerfully ; but ]\Ir. 
 Fayre only sternly regarded him, and walked up 
 and down for warmth's sake, with his ungloved 
 hands clasped tightly behind him. The clergy- 
 man took no credit to himself for being a truer 
 prophet than the younger man ; something in 
 Hamilton's face was expressive of a keen soitow, 
 rather than of a bitter disappointment, and this 
 rendered him respectful to the one discomfited.
 
 NO SAM. 233 
 
 The lord's nephew had acted tinwisely, and was 
 suffering for it — he was sorry for him, but the 
 lesson of the evil of indiscriminate charity might 
 not be without its benefit. And yet, he thought, 
 later on, when the ship was moving, and there 
 were cheers from shore to ship, and ship to shore, 
 s. deceit such as this, practised upon a young, 
 impressionable man, might turn rash youth into 
 
 sceptic for ever. Another glance at the dark- 
 ling countenance, and he went softly to his side. 
 
 ' You have trusted one who was unworthy of 
 your trust — one who should have been treated in a 
 different fashion,' he added, as Hamilton stamped 
 his foot impatiently upon the floor of the landing- 
 stage : ' but you must not condemn a whole class 
 of unfortunates for the guilty actions of one boy.' 
 
 ' It was the boy's own money,' said Hamilton, 
 disinclined to give way; 'what is Sam Challis 
 guilty of, after all V 
 
 ' Ingratitude,' answered the clergyman. 
 
 ' Well — perhaps he was not too grateful,' 
 muttered Hamilton. 
 
 He did not quit the landing-stage at once ; he 
 clung to the hope of Sam's appearing, breathless
 
 234 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 and in hot haste, to find that the steamer had 
 sailed without him; but the loungers melted 
 away one by one, the air grew keener with the 
 oncoming twiHght, and the ship was long sinct^ 
 lost to sight. 
 
 He turned away at last, and the clergyman, 
 who had been pacing up and down the pier, 
 turned with him. 
 
 ' What do you propose doing V asked Mr. 
 Fayre. 
 
 ' Going to London by the next train,' said 
 Hamilton, coolly. 
 
 ' You will not try to find him again?' 
 
 ' Not L' 
 
 ' It is a pity you have had so long and pur- 
 poseless a journey !' the minister observed. 
 
 ' Yes, it is a pity.' 
 
 ' But you might have expected it with Samuel 
 Chalhs.' 
 
 Hamilton nodded, as though he agreed with 
 him; but his face had shadowed a great deal, 
 and his lips were closed tightly. 
 
 ' Certainly, I might have expected it,' was the 
 final echo back.
 
 NO SAM. 235 
 
 They went off the landing-stage together — at 
 the first street away from the river, a shipowner's 
 estabHshment attracted Hamilton's gaze, with 
 flaring red bills at the doors, announcing the 
 time of departure and the terms for a passage 
 by that fast and favourfte steamer, the Star of 
 the West. There was a flight of steps, leading 
 to an underground office, with ' For steerage 
 passengers ' printed on the side-panels, and 
 Hamilton dived into the depths of the edifice 
 after a moment's hesitation. . 
 
 ' Wait one instant !' he cried. 
 
 Mr. Fayre waited for him. When Hamilton 
 reappeared, he answered the minister's inquiring 
 stare at once. 
 
 ' He called this morning and asked a few 
 questions.' 
 
 ' Yes — he told us that.' 
 
 ' And he has not been near the place since,' 
 said Hamilton. 
 
 ' Just as I thought,' answered Mr. Fayre. 
 
 ' Well/ said Hamilton, shrugging his shoulders, 
 ' the youth may get on better in England than 
 America ; in the New World they can afford to
 
 ^36 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 clo without him. Good day, sir. Thank you 
 for the honour of your company.' 
 
 He smiled ironically, as he raised his hat to 
 the prison chaplain. 
 
 ' Good day,' responded Mr. Fayre, raising his 
 hat solemnly also, by way of a return salutation. 
 ^ If I can make any inquiries for you concerning 
 this youth, in whom you are interested ' 
 
 ' I have lost all interest, thank you,' interrupt- 
 ed Hamilton. ' I do not wish to hear of him, or 
 from him, any more. My mission is ended,' 
 
 * Ended — completely, do you mean?' 
 
 'I do.' 
 
 ' Very well.' 
 
 ' And you are right, Mr. Fayre ; it is a miser- 
 able failure from beginning to end.' 
 
 ' So far as regards that ungrateful lad ; yes, it 
 is,' assented Mr. Fayre. 
 
 Hamilton said ' Good-day ' again, and hurried 
 from the clergyman. He did not wish to be con- 
 doled with, or to be told once again to his face 
 that he had been next door to a fool in his method 
 of flinging away his money. His money, not 
 his uncle's : — he would never own to Lord Red-
 
 NO SAM. 237 
 
 clove how completely the gamin had got the 
 better of the gentleman. He was not over- 
 bnrclenecl with capital just then, bnt he would 
 prefer paying the amount to aclmowledging the 
 failure. He would tell liis uncle that Sam Challis 
 had distrusted him, and had vanished away be- 
 fore reaching ship-board ; and his uncle would 
 never suspect him of being so complete an ass 
 as to trust Sam with two hundred pounds before 
 seeing him safe on deck of the outward-bound 
 vessel. 
 
 It was a complete failure — as bitter as it was 
 complete. 
 
 He had confessed it to the clergyman — he 
 owned it to himself again, as the express train 
 whirled him towards London. He should have 
 known better than to have become the victim of 
 this * confidence trick,' which Sam Challis had 
 played upon him. 
 
 * 1 have gone out of my way, and out of my 
 sphere, for the first and the last time,' he mut- 
 tered ; ' that dark world lying beyond mine is 
 past all comprehension. I will never try to 
 understand it again.'
 
 238 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 He had given up very early in the race, but 
 what was the use of any further effort ? He 
 would be always the dupe of these low, cunning 
 natures, never the adviser, helper, guide. The 
 masses, more especially the masses drifting on to 
 moral ruin, were beyond his power to impress, 
 and as far beyond — let him own it now — his in- 
 clination to help them as was his comprehension 
 of them. He had accepted his failure, he had con- 
 fessed to it frankly at last, but his non-success had 
 not done him any good. It had rendered him 
 sceptical even of any good in others. What a 
 lucky thing for him even, he thought now, that 
 he had taken his uncle's advice, as regards the 
 sister. ' Beware of the girl !' — rang in his ears 
 still as he rattled Londonwards. And he had 
 been very careful in that quarter, at least. He 
 had been very much on guard, he thought now ; 
 intensely wise, he considered, and not to be de- 
 ceived by any specious and deceptive manners, 
 by airs of frankness which were incompatible 
 with her position, or by airs of innocence not re- 
 concilable in any way with prison service. He 
 was very glad he had not shown any ' out of the
 
 NO SAM. 239 
 
 common ' interest in Aggie Challis, for after all 
 she was Sam's brother, one of a family full of 
 mystery, of deception — a family without a right 
 to be in the world. 
 
 ' Beware of the girl !' The train which rattled 
 him homewards seemed to clatter out the warning 
 in the noise it made, seemed to be singing it to 
 him like one of the mad choruses he had heard 
 the night before at the ' Harp ' where the wild 
 Irish had danced. ' Beware of the girl !' Cer- 
 tainly that was the advice of a man of the world, 
 worldly, a man who did not believe in much, and 
 what he did believe in laughed at or satirised, 
 but it was a wise warning. Hamilton believed 
 in it now, as he shook the dust of his forlorn 
 expedition from his feet. 
 
 ' Beware of the girl !' — and yet there were 
 words of hers which ivould trouble him even then, 
 and which he should remember as long as he 
 bore in mind that expression in her face which 
 was not like the look of a deceitful woman, of 
 one to be on guard, and in triple mail against. 
 Yes, ho would be wary of this Agnes Challis, 
 though it was not likely he should ever see
 
 240 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 her again — tliough it was almost impossible. 
 Here was the end of the play, he considered, 
 with the green curtain down for good, and, so 
 far as he was concerned, all the play-acting — 
 and such play-acting ! — at an end for ever.
 
 241 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 CUPPLEDITCH S. 
 
 It would not be quite fair to the character of 
 Sam ChalHs, to leave our readers in as great a 
 doubt as to the motives of his disappearance, as 
 Hamilton Redclove or Mr. Fayre had been left. 
 There are shadows enough about his life and him, 
 without this extra degree of blackness, which 
 seemed to have arisen from the utter depths of 
 a base ingratitude. Let us see for ourselves 
 why Samuel Chalhs did not keep his appointment 
 on the Liverpool landing-stage. It T\all, at 
 least, wash from this social blackamoor a shade 
 or two of sootiness. 
 
 AVhen Sam had left those who were anxious 
 about his moral regeneration, he had gone 
 straight home to Cuppleditch's— to the place 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 which, of late, he had called home, and where a 
 disreputable and dirty old fiddler, with some 
 spasms of humanity under his crust and his rags, 
 had saved Sam from starvation, or the work- 
 house, or worse. Sam had not been wholly de- 
 pendent on Mr. Cuppleditch ; at times, had even 
 earned money enough to pay that gentleman 
 for a week's board and lodging, and had proved 
 himself at last of inestimable ser^dce as a deputy 
 at the ' Harp,' when Cuppleditch was down with 
 fever. And now — Mr. Cuppleditch being very 
 much down indeed, with all the breath of life 
 knocked out of him, and waiting patiently for 
 the Avorkhouse shell and the workhouse hearse 
 to make an end of him — it behoved Sam Challis 
 to take his respectful leave of an old patron, 
 and of Miss Cuppleditch, still in the flesh, and show- 
 ing a deal of it through rent portions of her 
 wardrobe, and, if not wholly prostrate with grief 
 at the loss of her father, still excited and hyster- 
 ical with rum which a friendly lodger had 
 brought down to her in a teacup, for comfort's 
 sake, ' and jest a sip or two ' to keep her nerves 
 together.
 
 CUPPLEDITCH^S. 243 
 
 Miss Cuppleditch was a cripple, and grievously 
 afflicted. She had taken her affliction with phil- 
 osophy, however, and made some capital from it 
 by parading it in the streets, and soliciting alms 
 from those who pitied her, or turned a bit 'qualm- 
 ish ' at the sight of her. She was a distorted 
 being, with her head wrenched round in a lialf- 
 hanged fashion, and with one shoulder nine inches 
 liigher than the other, thus giving her a lean-to 
 and lop-sided appearance, which was rendered 
 less attractive by the right eye being absent, and 
 her tongue lolling unpleasantly from the left side 
 of her mouth. Report said that this crumpled con- 
 dition of anatomy was attributable to the late 
 Mrs. Cuppleditch, who, in her daughter's early 
 days, and her own irascible moments, was in the 
 habit of throwing the child about the room, or 
 down a flight or two of stairs, or at Cuppleditch's 
 head, but of this no authentic record is in exist- 
 ence; certain it is that this identical Miss Cupple- 
 ditch was ' an object,' and ^^et one which seemed 
 to attract the attention and sympathy of Sam 
 Challis, pressed though he was that day for 
 time. Her greeting was cold and sarcastic, and 
 
 K, 2
 
 244 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR 
 
 calculated to wound the feelings of one extra- 
 sensitive, which Sam was not. 
 
 ' What do you want back, you ugly imp V 
 growled forth Miss Cuppleditch — who, it must 
 be confessed, was a most unamiable lady, despite, 
 or rather on account of, her various infirmities. 
 ' AVhat's the good of you a-crawlin' about here 
 agin V 
 
 ' I thought I'd come back, just for a minute or 
 two,' Sam explained. 
 
 'I don't want yer. You must clear out of 
 this sharp enuf now.' 
 
 ' When are they coming for him?' asked Sam, 
 with an easy nod towards the still figure in the 
 corner, lying on a heap of shavings^ with its face 
 covered Avith a newspaper. 
 
 ' I don't know,' was the peevish response ; 
 ' they're a devil of a time about it, anyhow, and 
 I want the blessed room straight.' 
 
 ' Poor old boy,' said Sam, walking to the cor- 
 ner and looking down upon the dead fiddler ; ' his 
 were hard lines all through, Nance ; right to the 
 very end, and not one of them straight enough 
 to swear by.'
 
 cuppLEDiTcn's. 245 
 
 Nance did not reply, and Sam continued, still 
 reflectively, 
 
 ' I wonder what was the good of it all to him, 
 and why he was ever born at all ? Why, if he 
 had only lived a conple more weeks, they should 
 have been jolly weeks for him, I can tell you. 
 Hanged, if they shouldn't !' 
 
 * What are yer jawing about V asked Nance, 
 a little curious, and even suspicious now. 
 
 ' I'll tell you while I wash, and make myself 
 clean and spry for company,' said Sam, taking 
 off his new pilot-coat and tucking up his shirt- 
 sleeves, ' for I've got good news for you.' 
 
 ' Oh, have yer V 
 
 ' I've come into property.' 
 
 ' Get along.' 
 
 ' See how I'm togged out.' 
 
 ' Yes, yer've nicked a coat somewhere, that's 
 lor certain.' 
 
 ' I'm going away.' 
 
 * That's a good job,' said Nance. 
 
 * Going to Ameiica.' 
 
 ' That's a he,' she mumbled. ' Who's to ' 
 
 * I'm going to begin again, all by myself,
 
 246 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 afresh. Do you understand that, girl ? and with 
 money to back me, friends to help me. S'elp 
 my God, Nance, it's every bit true,' he cried, 
 with great excitement evident, and with an ex- 
 tempore step or two of a wild jig, cut short sum- 
 marily by a shooting pain in his side, in both 
 sides, in his chest. 
 
 Sam sat down suddenly on the late Mr. Cupple- 
 ditch's legs, which, the instant afterwards, he 
 pushed closer to the wall with a reverent, gentle 
 hand. 
 
 'Wot's the matter with jerV asked the 
 woman. 
 
 ' Feverish — swimmings — spasms,' he explain- 
 ed. ' Get us some water, old girl ; will you V 
 
 ' Shan't.' 
 
 ' The jug's empty.' 
 
 * Yer ain't a-going to wash here. This is my 
 room, ain't it ? And, if the old man was fool 
 enough to keep yer, I ain't. I hates yer. I 
 allers did. I hates everybody.' 
 
 Sam passed his hand dreamily over his fore- 
 head, and then he laughed loudly. 
 
 ' You're a-going to fall head and ears in love
 
 cuppleditch's. 247 
 
 with me, Nance,' lie exclaimed ; 'you're a-going 
 to have me always in yom' prayers and evening 
 hymns.' 
 
 ' AVell, you are precious drunk,' said Miss 
 Cuppleditch, contemptuously; ' of all the ijeots — ' 
 
 ' Look here, Nance,' shouted Sam, ' I won't 
 have any parish shovelling away of the old man. 
 I'm going to give you money enough to bury 
 him decently; I'm going to give you something 
 for a black dress and bonnet ; I'm going to show 
 you that I'm not as bad as people think, or as 
 ungrateful a hound as that old Fayre. fancies I 
 
 am ; I'm going to ' there was a long pause, 
 
 after which he shouted forth, indignantly, ' will 
 you fetch me any water in that jug, or not f 
 
 ' Do you expect me to wait on yer V screamed 
 Nance, ' you mad, silly, drunken young beast, you ! 
 What next f 
 
 ' All right,' said Sam, with dignity. ' You'll 
 be precious sorry for this, mind you.' 
 
 He rose and walked to a broken-lipped jug in 
 the corner, and marched unsteadily out of the 
 room ^vith it. He had not far to go; but, had 
 any one been watching him, it would have been
 
 248 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 apparent that he walked with considerable diffi- 
 culty from the cellar floor up the creaking stairs 
 to the back-yard, that was inconveniently 
 crowded by a big dust-bin and a slimy water-butt. 
 He was a long time filling his jug, which he 
 allowed to run over for a few minutes, and 
 which, when full, seemed unnaturally heavy for 
 him ; and, going down stairs again, he found 
 himself face to face with Nancy Cuppleditch, 
 coming up them on her hands and knees at an 
 uncommonly quick rate of progression. 
 
 * Hollo, Nance. I might have trodden on you 
 and crushed you hke a beetle,' he cried. ' Where 
 are you off to ? What's the row V 
 
 ' Back in a minute ; shan't be long,' she gasped 
 out ; ' don't run away afore I come back ; I want 
 to get something.' 
 
 *To get what r 
 
 ' Something for the old man. He's not dead, 
 Sam. Hes waking up F 
 
 ' Alive !' exclaimed Sam, joyfully : ' you don't 
 say so !' 
 
 ' Yes, alive. Wish I may die too, if he isn't. 
 It's wonderful !'
 
 cuppleditch's. 249 
 
 Sam pitched the jug and water into the yard, 
 sprang over Nance, and dashed back into the 
 cellar and to the heap of shavings, under which, 
 by a stretch of fancy, it might have been im- 
 -agined that Mr. Cuppleditch, ' up to his larks,' 
 might be now playfully hiding. 
 
 ' What, old man ; not dead, then ? Well, 1 am 
 glad— I ' 
 
 Here the lad, kneeling by the side of the shav- 
 ings and scattering them right and left, and 
 tearing off the newspaper which still covered 
 the features of Mr. Cuppleditch, came to a full 
 stop, and glared down at the white, still face, 
 where no sign of life was flickering, or likely to 
 flicker again till the judgment. 
 
 ' It's not true,' Sam exclaimed, in little jerks ; 
 * it's a lie of Nance's. Ha ! I see,' he yelled forth, 
 as he caught sight of his jacket l}^ng on the 
 floor, with the pockets turned inside out, and 
 the pocket-book, which Hamilton Redclove had 
 given him, nowhere to be seen. 
 
 * Stop thief r he shouted, in his dismay ; he 
 plunged upstairs again, and ran into the coiu-t, 
 and doAvn the court into the narrow, gi'imy street
 
 250 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 beyond, and then, like a wild thing, along the 
 middle of the muddy road, sending np a cat- 
 aract of splashes, and screaming like the lunatic 
 he was. But there was no overtaking Nancy 
 Cuppleditch ; there was never a sign of her in 
 the dense streets ; she had vanished completely 
 away, and her old haunts knew her no more, or 
 hid her in them too closely and securely to be 
 found by Samuel Challis. He darted from one to 
 another, wild and furious and incoherent ; he 
 looked in at the ' Harp,' he ran from house to 
 house ; from lodging to lodging, of people as 
 bad off as he was, or as heartless and full of evil 
 as was Nancy Cuppleditch; and presently he 
 dropped like a stone in the middle of his o^vn 
 street, and two men, who knew him by sight, 
 carried him back to Cuppleditch's, and bundled 
 him in upon the shavings by the side of his dead 
 friend, and left him to come-to at his leisure. 
 And he came to presently, came back to delirium 
 and the fever which had settled Cuppleditch, to 
 a complete ignorance of passing things, and to 
 frantic accusations of robbery, and wild curses on 
 the robber — came to death's door, which remain-
 
 251 
 
 ed ajar for him for many days, and which all who 
 looked in upon him thought would open wider 
 and wider to admit him, and pass him through 
 after the old fiddler. 
 
 But Sam Challis pulled through, and death's 
 door closed slowly, and shut him out of it. Shut 
 him into real life again, with the world, dark and 
 full of evil, spreading out before him hke a 
 puzzle map, and finding him just as he had ever 
 been, perhaps Avorse than he had ever been, more 
 distrustful of those about him, and yet feeling 
 they were the surroundings of his life for ever 
 after this. Life's companions and childi-en of 
 the mist with him, and plodding hopelessly to- 
 gether over moorland and marshland, with no 
 light on their way, only the corpse candles to 
 lure and distract, and with no helping hand to 
 set them on a road which might, by God's help, 
 lead to brighter things. 
 
 Was this to be the end of all 1 —had he had his 
 one chance and lost it, poor Sam, after the fashion 
 of so many waifs and strays, who are as cruelly 
 balked at every turning-point which leads to 
 better days, as was his unlucky self?
 
 BOOK THE THIRD. i 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 THE MISTRESS OF ILVERCOMBE. 1 
 
 i
 
 255 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 
 
 Five years after the disappearance of Samuel 
 Challis from respectable society, there came back 
 to the world — from which she had been as 
 secm-ely shut as in a coffin — a certain elderly 
 gentlewoman of whom slight mention has been 
 made in the course of onr narrative. No one 
 had wished her back particularly ; a few friends 
 who were alhed to her by birth had considered 
 lier past pra}H[ng for, and had almost forgotten 
 her existence ; only one or two physicians, deeply 
 interested in her strange form of disease, had 
 been energetic in her cause of late days, had 
 written articles about her in medical papers, 
 carefully disguising name and locality, and fin-
 
 256 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ally had pronoimced her cured of the malady 
 which had severed her from kith and kin from 
 the day that her son had died in Derbyshire. 
 
 Old Mrs. Dangerfield, for years considered in- 
 curably mad, had recovered the use of her senses, 
 been congratulated on the acquisition, and been 
 bowed and smiled out of a lunatic asylum, the 
 proprietor of which relinquished with a sigh a 
 very comfortable source of income from that un- 
 lucky day when his best patient came back to 
 her wits. 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield senior returned to the world 
 a deeply lined lady of some sixty-seven years of 
 age, a thin-faced, spare old woman with soft 
 white ringlets and sad blue eyes, an unmistake- 
 able lady whom no one could associate with 
 raving madness and padded cells, save the 
 strong-minded young women in brown dresses 
 Avho had watched her night and day for years, 
 and had had a ' rare time ' of it ^\'ith her till that 
 change came which was better late than never. 
 Better for Mrs. Dangerfield of Warwickshire, as- 
 suredly, but not for her relatives who had trus- 
 ted, and chopped about, and amicably and un-
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 257 
 
 amicably arranged her estate between them 
 pending her decease, for which everybody was 
 waiting, and which everybody had expected long 
 since. There had been a great deal to re- arrange 
 after Mrs. Dangerfield's nnlooked-for retui'n to 
 the onter world, but there had been no opposition 
 to the re-transfer of landed estates, railway shares, 
 India bonds, and three per cent, consols ; her 
 relatives were well-to-do without her property, 
 and there w^as no mistake of identity, or a question 
 as to the brains with which she had come back 
 to society. Mr. Dangerfield's solicitors took her 
 and her rights into their hands, and the lady 
 kept in the background, out of the Avorry, and 
 shrewdly inquired after everything that she re- 
 membered — and she remembered everything, 
 even to an investment of five hundred pounds 
 in a silver mining company that had burst itself 
 to atoms for want of precious metal, and was 
 hopelessly beyond recovery before she had 
 recovered herself. 
 
 Yes, it was like coming out of a tomb to this 
 sad-faced lady with the white curls, and the com- 
 ing out depressed her, rather than raised her 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 8pirits after all. She did not liiint up her rela- 
 tives, and they did not visit her in any number ; 
 her house in Warwickshire was in an out-of-the- 
 way part of the county, and only one or two 
 over-curious cousins looked in to make sure of 
 her, found her hale and shrewd and sensible, and 
 said good-day again. With several of her con- 
 nections she corresponded — with the wddow of 
 her only boy, among the rest, but after a while 
 correspondence ceased, and old Mrs. Dangerfield 
 was left to herself and her old-fashioned mansion, 
 until suddenly and without any warning she 
 turned up in London to call upon those who had 
 not put themselves out of their way to call upon 
 her. 
 
 She went direct to her daughter-in-law's es- 
 tablishment — the same house in Regent's Park 
 which one Daniel Over down had visited five 
 years ago — and was received with as much cor- 
 diality as it was in the younger woman's nature 
 to bestow. It was a painful meeting at the out- 
 set, bringing back grave reminiscences and ter- 
 rible antecedents, both women having been very 
 happy, and very proud of Paul Erasmus Wilber-
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 259 
 
 force Dangerfield Avhen tliej had seen each other 
 last. They had never been great friends, had 
 not met very frequently, had even ' clashed ' at 
 odd meetings impleasantly, both being prond 
 positive women at that period, and this re-union 
 was, in the beginning, a stiff and angular affair 
 in its odd way. There seemed many topics to 
 evade, and delicate subjects to glide gracefully 
 round. Old Mrs. Dangerfield's solicitors had had 
 to meet young Mrs. Dangerfield's solicitors on 
 business matters very often of late days, for al- 
 though no legal transfers of property could have 
 been made during the lifetime of the old lady, 
 still Paul Dangerfield had managed entirely his 
 mother's estate before his decease, and the 
 family lawyers had been a trifle lax in details 
 afterwards, - not reckoning on present results. 
 Therefore ' business ' was tabooed. The mental 
 illness of the old lady was also not a pleasant 
 subject to dwell upon, and the daughter-in-law 
 only expressed a grave kind of satisfaction at 
 seeing a well-known face again, and then hoped 
 that she did not find the house in Warwickshire 
 too dull. 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 'No, Paul was born there,' answered the- 
 ni other, with a sigh. ' I have been always attach- 
 ed to the place.' 
 
 Here again was a grim silence. The widow 
 never spoke of the dead husband. Grief, pride, 
 or shame seemed to have sealed for ever the hps 
 of the Honourable Frances Dangerfield — the 
 husband was a topic on which no one dare wax 
 eloquent in Regent's Park. Her daughter Es- 
 telle never alluded to her father in her mother's 
 company — it is probable that since the A-isit of 
 Daniel Overdown, when the gunsmith's brusque 
 arguments had distressed the younger Mrs. 
 Dangerfield considerably, silence had for ever 
 reigned in that establishment concerning its 
 missing master. 
 
 The tall lady, still a graceful, handsome wo- 
 man for nine-and-thirty, shivered perceptibly at 
 this sudden introduction of the husband into the 
 discourse, and a new hardness of intonation seem- 
 ed to accompany her reply. 
 
 ' It is a dull home for you,' she said, ' you 
 would be more comfortable in town.' 
 
 ' I may have my town-house presently,' replied
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 261 
 
 the old lady, as she regarded her daughter-in-law 
 attentively, ' although you may remember that 
 I always disliked London, Frances.' 
 
 ' Yes, I remember,' replied the widow. 
 
 * Yon wear black still,' added old Mrs. Danger- 
 field, ' it is for him, 1 hope V 
 
 ' It is that black snits with my thoughts and 
 my taste,' was the evasive reply, ' and that I 
 leave bright colours for the young.' 
 
 ' Ah ! for Estelle. Where is she ?' 
 
 ' You will see her presently. She is riding 
 with her cousin Hamilton.' 
 
 ' Hamilton Redclove — Lord Redclove's ne- 
 phew V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' They are engaged to each other, perhaps V 
 
 The younger Mrs. Dangerfield's colour height- 
 ened for an instant ; then she answered quickly, 
 almost sharply — as one sometimes answers a 
 question that is fired off point-blank, and with- 
 out w^arniug — ' Oh no ; nothing of the kind. 
 Hamilton does not call upon us very frequentl}^ 
 — he travels a great deal — we lose sight of him 
 for months together.'
 
 262 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Estelle is quite a young woman V said the- 
 elder lady, dreamily. 
 ' Yes — quite.' 
 
 ' A blessing to her mother as an only daughter 
 should be ?' 
 
 ' I have no complaint to make against Estelle.' 
 It was a cold answer — it lacked all that warmth 
 and enthusiasm with which a mother speaks of 
 her only girl as a rule. The lady from Warwick- 
 shire detected this at once — her soft grey eyes 
 hghted up for an instant with an anxious, in- 
 quiring glance, which met with no response from 
 her companion. There was no confidence to be 
 given or received — possibly nothing to conceal 
 under that apathetic demeanour, which years of 
 self-repression, of hard prayer, of asceticism 
 almost, had given to the widow. 
 
 The elder lady continued her inquiries — she 
 had evidently come back to the world to ask 
 unpleasant questions. 
 
 ' Is she like her father?' was the next query. 
 ' I do not think so.' 
 
 ' I am impatient to sec her. I left her a child 
 — somcAvhat sickly and fretful.'
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 263 
 
 ' Estelle enjoys very good health,* was the 
 calm reply. 
 
 The old lady w-as silent for a w^hile, and the 
 daughter-in-law^ sat Avith her hands clasped 
 round a large ivory cross hanging at her breast. 
 Frances Dangerfield started no fresh subject of 
 discourse, made no effort to turn the conversation 
 into a different channel, but sat unmoved beneath 
 the ordeal of an inquiry which she w^ould bear 
 and suffer from his mother, as it w^as her duty 
 to bear. A woman always intensely strong on 
 the matter of duty, she had considered herself 
 from the time that Lord Redclove had delicately 
 hinted that Paul Erasmus Wilberforce Danger- 
 field w^as a young man whose attentions he 
 should not be sorry to see encouraged by his 
 stately daughter. 
 
 Suddenly, Mrs. Dangerfield, of Warwickshire, 
 broke into inquiry once more. This was a ter- 
 rible and shrewd old woman w^hom the keepers 
 had let escape them. She had been severe and 
 proud in her old days, with a big love for her sou 
 rendering her womanly and sympathetic in all 
 tilings affecting his interest, but she had changed
 
 264 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ■with her malady, or after it. She leaned forward 
 and drew the right hand of her daughter-in-law 
 down from the ivory cross. 
 
 ' Before anyone comes to interrupt us,' she 
 said, in a quick, eager tone — ' those children V 
 
 'What children?' asked Frances Dangerfield. 
 She knew what her companion meant, but she 
 would not willingly affect to comprehend it. 
 
 ' His children, by that woman,' answered 
 the other, very eagerly ; ' they trouble me — there 
 were a boy and a girl — what has become 
 of them r 
 
 ' I do not know,' was the impassive reply. 
 
 * You have not taken the trouble to inquire, 
 you mean V 
 
 ' Why should I V the widow said, slowly. 
 
 The white-haired lady paused at this — wejl, 
 why should Frances Dangerfield inquire about 
 them ? 
 
 ' I thought you might have heard in some 
 way,' said the elder woman, almost apologetic- 
 ally_, ' that they might have been in distress, or 
 in temptation, and have applied even to you for 
 assistance. Heaven knows, my dear Frances,
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 265 
 
 what one in yonr position slionld feel, or ought 
 to feel, under such circumstances ; but they are 
 my greatest trouble now — those two !' 
 
 The widow was apparently unmoved by the 
 anxiety at the heart of her mother-in-law, and 
 she had never been anxious herself about Samuel 
 or Agnes Challis, who stood a long way back 
 from her self -righteousness or from her interest, 
 atoms of an unknown w^orld beyond her godly 
 sphere. 
 
 * I cannot give you any information,' answered 
 Frances, with great calmness of demeanour; *some 
 years since a working man called with an appeal 
 — almost an insolent one — for assistance, but it 
 w^as thought advisable to refuse it' 
 
 ' You thought so V asked the mother-in-law, 
 curiously. 
 
 ' I left the decision to Lord Redclove — it w-as 
 too painful a matter for me to discuss. I was 
 younger then, and less resigned.' 
 
 ' And Lord Redclove considered it advisable to 
 refuse assistance to those children V 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' On what plea, Frances V asked the old
 
 266 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 woman, whose insatiable curiosity no reserved 
 demeanour could check. 
 
 ' I scarcely remember,' was the apathetic 
 answer. 
 
 * EstabHshing a bad precedent? — acknowledg- 
 ing an obligation which might be difficult, at 
 some future time, to disclaim ? — biinging round 
 yourself and your father a brood of beggars 
 always clamouring for money ? — what was the 
 excuse which Lord Redclove thought himself 
 justified in offering to those who asked for char- 
 ity ? Can't you remember anything about it V 
 cried the elder Mrs. Dangerfield, with consider- 
 able excitement now. 
 
 The one appealed to looked from under her 
 long lashes at the speaker — and the thin white 
 hand went slowly upwards to the cross again. 
 Was tliis mother-in-law really cui-ed of her ma- 
 lady to seek her out in this fashion, and ask these 
 aAvful questions of her ? She was not alarmed, 
 but she was not sorry that the door was opening, 
 and Hamilton Redclove advancing into the room. 
 Here was her excuse — her substitute — at the 
 fitting moment.
 
 COMING BACK TO THE WORLD. 2G7 
 
 ' I cannot tell you what my father's reasons 
 were, Mrs. Dangerfielcl,' said Frances; 'very 
 likely Hamilton can. Hamilton,' to her consin^ 
 ' this is Mrs. Dangerfielcl, of Warwickshire.' 
 
 ' Indeed,' said Hamilton, bowing very politely, 
 ' Mrs. Dangerfield scarcely remembers me, I fear.' 
 
 ' Oh ! yes — I remember yon very Avell,' was 
 the qnick answer, ' yon and yonr nncle, too. 
 Will you sit down, please — whilst I ask a question 
 which your cousin is reluctant to answer for 
 herself?' 
 
 ' I am not reluctant — I have no power to 
 answer you,' said her daughter-in-law, rising. ' I 
 Avill go to Estelle now. When I return with my 
 child, I trust that a subject, which is sorely dis- 
 tressing to me, may be ended for good.' 
 
 The old lady watched her out of the room, 
 sighed heavily as the door closed, and then 
 directed her attention to Hamilton. 
 
 * What has become of Agnes Chalhs and her 
 brother, Mr. Redclove V she repeated, and at 
 once. ' Tell me all you know about them, please. 
 I am an old woman, Avith their troubles at my 
 heart.'
 
 2QS THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Tell you all I know V repeated Hamilton. 
 
 ' Yes ; you know more than your cousin. You 
 have news for me, and I am waiting very 
 anxiously. Tell me everything, please, and keep 
 back nothing. I want all the truth.'
 
 269 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 
 
 Hamilton Redglove, faced suddenly by a lady 
 eager for news of those to whom clung more 
 than one ugly reminiscence, was not as ready 
 with his answers as old Mrs. Dangerfield could 
 wish. He had lived down the unpleasant fact 
 of his being swindled out of two hundred pounds, 
 of his being ass enough to part vnth his money 
 to a young vagabond whom he had discovered 
 down a back-street in Liverpool ; but he had not 
 forgotten one item of the facts. He had lost a 
 good deal of faith in human kind since : some 
 people thought that he had grown as sceptical 
 and satirical as his uncle, without the infirmities 
 of gout and advancing years to offer an excuse
 
 270 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 for him; but there was no small amount ot 
 affectation about his sharp ways and bitter 
 speeches, and, in the society that pleased him, no 
 one could be more agreeable. He was not a 
 bad-tempered young fellow at heart, only one of 
 those eccentric cubs of men who put themselves 
 out of their way to disturb the equanimity of 
 their species. Hard to please certainly, but, when 
 he Avas pleased, ' such a dear I' the ladies affirm- 
 ed ; and, in laches' company, Hamilton, a good- 
 looking young fellow of seven-and-twenty noA^^ 
 was always at his best. His own sex he did not 
 like : his uncle's friends he satirised unmercifully ; 
 at his uncle's grand dinner-paities. the guests 
 enjoyed the banquet more heartily when he was 
 not invited to scoff at their politics and then* sen- 
 timents and their grammar,- and to interfere with 
 every opinion that clashed with his own. 
 
 ' They were always a disagreeable lot, these 
 Redcloves,' people said, too ; ' but the next lord 
 — the one that is to be when the sour uncle dies 
 — will be the worst of a bad bunch, that's certain.' 
 
 It was this young man wliom Mrs. Dangerfield 
 charged with questions relative to an objection-
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 271 
 
 able episode in liis life, before lie had had time 
 to shake hands Avith her, and to take a chair at 
 her side. He was startled by the old lady's 
 earnestness ; he had not met with any great de- 
 gree of earnestness of late days in a circle where 
 to grow demonstrative upon any subject was to 
 become vulgar and low, and he took time to 
 consider his reply. 
 
 ' Tell me all you know about them, please. I 
 am an old woman with their troubles at my heart,' 
 she had exclaimed, in real agony of spirit ; but 
 then she had come out of a mad-house, poor old 
 girl, he thought. 
 
 ' ]\Iay I ask, Mrs. Dangerfield, who told you 
 that I knew anything of the Challises V he said 
 at last. 
 
 * Your cousin, who has just left us.' 
 
 ' She could only have guessed that. I have 
 never spoken of them to her — she has never 
 sought to inquire.' 
 
 ' But you do know,' said Mrs. Dangerfield. 
 
 ' Very little,' he replied. 
 
 ' And you ^vill tell me V 
 
 * What can I tell you, save that tli^y are better
 
 272 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 left to themselves ; that they are not what I con- 
 sider grateful beings.' 
 
 ' Grateful for what f 
 
 Hamilton did not answer. He thought of his 
 two hundred pounds — that unpleasant fact which 
 he had kept to himself at his own cost. 
 
 'What have they to be grateful for? — what 
 interest has ever been shown in them V said Mrs. 
 Dangerfield, plaintively. 
 
 Hamilton shrugged his shoulders, but still 
 maintained silence. Explanation in that direc- 
 tion was impossible. 
 
 ' It is not that I expect any sympathy from you 
 or from Frances,' continued the old lady. ' You 
 have your own worldly affairs to study, and 
 Frances is aggrieved at the very mention of 
 their names. But 1 am interested in them ; I 
 know the story of a past unhappy attachment 
 between my son and the mother of those children 
 whom I cannot bear to think of, battling, perhaps, 
 with privation. I would help them, possibly. 
 If you have any information to offer concerning 
 them, give it to me. I ask it as my right, in the 
 name of my dead son.'
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 273 
 
 The old lady looked very impressive in her 
 earnestness, as she made this declaration ; and 
 Hamilton turned and said, 
 
 ' It is five years ago since I saw them last, since 
 I went to Liverpool in search of them. The in- 
 formation I received then, Mrs. Dangerfield, I 
 can im23art to you, if it be worth anything.' 
 
 ' You went in search of them V 
 
 ' At my uncle's bidding, and unknown to his 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' I suppose I must thank Lord Redclove,' she 
 murmured. ' Go on.' 
 
 ' I met both Samuel Challis and his sister. 
 The boy was a vagabond in appearance and at 
 heart ; a Bohemian who had run wild, who was 
 untrustworthy and false even to those who 
 might have been of ser\ace to him.' 
 
 ' Well V 
 
 ' He was afraid of me, or of my inquiries. 
 After receiving a little assistance from me, he 
 broke his word to meet me again, and dis- 
 appeared.' 
 
 ' And the daughter Agnes V 
 
 Hamilton paused again. Ho had nothing to 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 say against Agnes Challis; her sweet, pale face 
 had haunted him, a dream and a mystery for a 
 longer period than he cared to own, until 
 the time when his curiosity, or a something 
 higher and better than that, had led him to 
 study her past life, and her past offence against 
 the law, to sift out the whole story, as best he 
 was able, from the pages of a country news- 
 paper. What he thought of Agnes Challis now, 
 he scarcely knew himself. Believing her guilty, 
 could he believe in aught else save in her com- 
 plicity with her brother's scheme to secure the 
 money from him — in her immense powers of 
 deception, that had even hood^^dnked the chap- 
 lain of the prison wherein she had been incar- 
 cerated ? He thought that he believed all this, 
 but he would not tell the old woman what was 
 in his thoughts, or stand in the way of a better 
 life for the girl — he was not quite certain of the 
 mercy, even the justice, of the step. He had 
 been always confused when thinking of Agnes 
 Challis; he was confused again now; his cousin's 
 mother-in-law had brought her unexpectedly 
 into the foreground, and her history he would
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 275 
 
 leave for more charitable folk than he to relate. 
 
 'The daughter Agnes went to Birmingham, 
 to the house of one Daniel Overdown, a gun- 
 smith, resident in Prosser Street,' he replied. 
 
 ' Is that all you know^' 
 
 ' That is all.' 
 
 ' It is very little, and five years are so long,' 
 said Mrs. Dangerfield, with a sigh. ' \Vas this 
 Daniel Overdown her only friend T 
 
 ' There was a clergyman, a Mr. Edwin Fayre, 
 interested in her, and who held a high opinion 
 of her at that time,' said Hamilton. ' You Avill 
 find his address in the clergy list, I have no 
 doubt' 
 
 ' Can he tell me what has become of her, do 
 you think V 
 
 ' I think it is very likely.' 
 
 ' Who is speaking of Edwin Fajn-e ?' said a 
 soft voice at the further end of the room, and 
 Estelle Dangei-field entered from another door, 
 and came towards the speakers, followed by 
 her stately mother. 
 
 When Estelle and her grandmamma had em- 
 braced, the old lady put two fair, white, wither- 
 
 t2
 
 276 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 eel hands on the girVs shoulders, and looked 
 long and lovingly at her. Here was one Imk to 
 the past which she would not willingly snap for 
 all her daughter-in-law's coolness towards her. 
 Here was her son's child to touch a heart that 
 had known much care, and yearned for more 
 affection than it had ever been lucky enough to 
 receive. Estelle was a tall, fair girl, with big- 
 grey eyes, and a white, plain face ; as tall as 
 Aggie Challis, but not as pretty, Hamilton had 
 often thought. She was a half sad, half weary- 
 looking young woman ; and, although there 
 Avas some of the self-restraint, or aggravating- 
 apathy, of the mother about her, she kissed the 
 old lady warmly, and placed her own hands on 
 those of her relative as they rested on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' Do you know anything of Edwin Fa^Te, 
 then, my dear?' asked the grandmother. 
 
 ' I finished my education with his daughter 
 Bella eighteen months ago. I left her to the 
 undivided attention of Miss Gilchrist, at Tudor 
 House. I am going to see her in a few weeks, 
 with mamma's permission.'
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 277 
 
 She turned round and made a formal curtsey 
 to mamma. 
 
 ' I am not qnite certain I can grant the per- 
 mission,' rephed the mother ; ' I do not admire 
 the yonng lady whom yon have chosen for a 
 friend. She is too light in her manner.' 
 
 ' The yonng lady should be light, Frances,' 
 remarked old Mrs. Dangerfield ; ' youth passes 
 away, and care comes quickly to all of us.' 
 
 The daughter-in-law still maintained her 
 position. She had been always hard to move, 
 for that matter, despite her apparent gentleness. 
 
 ' Miss Fayre is a clergyman's daughter, and 
 should be staider of demeanour,' the mother 
 said ; ' she has an example to set to others — she 
 has her father's dignity and holy office to 
 respect. I do not admire Miss Fayre in any 
 great degree.' 
 
 ' Have you ever seen her, mamma V was the 
 quiet inquiry. 
 
 * I estimate her character from the opinion of 
 one of her dearest friends.' 
 
 There was a little emphasis on the superlative 
 degree — a little shai-pness even in the mother's
 
 278 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 answer, as if Miss Fayi-e had come between the 
 mother and daughter, and taken some love to 
 herself, which the mother was jealons of losing. 
 There was only Estelle to love in the Honom- 
 able Mrs. Dangerfield's neutral -tinted world, and 
 Estelle seemed almost as fond of other folk as of 
 herself. This had been a new trial to bear, we 
 may say at once, for the better understanding 
 of our widow's character. 
 
 ' Where does Mr. Fayi-e reside V asked the 
 old lady. 
 
 ' In Warwickshire,' replied the granddaughter. 
 ' He is rector of GrayKng ; you must know him 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' Grayling is seven miles from my home, and 
 I never go to church.' 
 
 'Never attend Divine service!' exclaimed 
 Frances Dangerfield, exhibiting more animation 
 at this extraordinary assertion than she had 
 hitherto displayed. 
 
 ' Grayling is the nearest church, and I give 
 my horses a rest on Sundays, and let my 
 servants go instead of me. I am not happy in 
 church — not fit for it,' she added, very solemnly.
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 279 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield the younger looked up at 
 the ceihng, and silently offered a prayer for her 
 irreverent mother-in-law on the spot. Conversa- 
 tion- flagged after this — an effectual damper had 
 been put on it by the last remark — and it was 
 in a very mild and flabby manner that old Mrs. 
 Dangerfield was asked to stay to dinner, an in- 
 vitation which was promptly declined. 
 
 ' Thank you, Frances — no,' she said, rising ; 
 * this is a passing call only. I wish to be in 
 Birmingham this evening,' she added, looking at 
 Hamilton — ' and in my own Warwickshire home 
 to-morrow morning.' 
 
 ' Then I shall not press you to stay,' said 
 Frances, calmly. 
 
 ' But I will press you to come and see me — to 
 bring your daughter with you. I am not anxi- 
 ous to keep my big house to myself. Estelle is 
 my son's child and must not keep away.' 
 
 It was a significant hint, and Mrs. Danger- 
 field, of Warwickshire, Avas well-to-do in the 
 world, with power to leave her money where 
 she pleased. Estelle's mother knew this, and 
 though she was far from a mercenary woman,
 
 280 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 still there was EstelJe, and Estelle's chances in 
 life to consider. 
 
 < Thank yoii,' Frances Dangerfield said ; 
 ' Estelle will come to Warwickshire and see you. 
 She will be near her friend, too,' she added, in 
 a sadder tone. 
 
 * And your 
 
 ' I am not fond of change — but some day, I 
 
 hope, I ' And then the Honourable Mrs. 
 
 Dangerfield's voice faded away. Her will was 
 not strong enough to promise anything for her- 
 eelf, and in her mother-in-law's society there 
 was no attraction for her ; only awkward and 
 ugly references to a past which had embittered 
 her life. 
 
 The old lady did not repeat her invitation. 
 She departed after a few more words, and 
 Hamilton went down with her, opened the door 
 of her carnage, and was the last to shake hands. 
 She retained his hand for a moment or two 
 longer than was necessary, and peered closely 
 into his face. 
 
 ' When do you see 3'our uncle again V she 
 inquired.
 
 STILL CURIOUS. 281 
 
 ' I hardly know,' he said, laughingly ; ' I am 
 supposed to be his private secretary, but work 
 is not pressing.' 
 
 ' Tell Lord Redclove, when you see him,' she 
 added, with a set expression on her face, which 
 rendered it hard and sharp as a statue's, * that I 
 have come out of the mad-house.' 
 
 Hamilton was startled, but he was a man who 
 prided himself on disguising his emotion — a 
 sham philosopher. 
 
 ' His lordship will be charmed to hear that 
 you have recovered from your indisposition thus 
 happily,' Hamilton said, bowing over the hand 
 still in his own. 
 
 ' Happily !' she echoed ; then she passed into 
 the carnage, and looked out of the window at 
 him. ' You may come to Warwickshire when 
 Estelle's there, Mr. Redclove,' she said thi'ough 
 the open window. ' I think I should be glad 
 to see you. If I am disappointed, why, it's easy 
 for you to go away again.' 
 
 ' I shall be delighted !' he muttered. 
 
 ' And now, please, tell the coachman to drive 
 to the North- Western Railway Station. I am
 
 282 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 going to find Daniel Overdown at once.' 
 Hamilton, thus requested, gave the necessary 
 
 order, and then old Mrs. Dangerfield was whirled 
 
 away. He stood looking after her carriage for 
 
 a moment. 
 
 ' They have only half-cm-ed that old party,' 
 
 he soliloquised ; ' I shouldn't wonder if she does 
 
 not give her friends and relations a heap of 
 
 trouble presently.'
 
 283 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 
 
 Paul Dangerfield's mother had been a woman 
 of wonderful energy in her youth, or else she 
 had resolved to make up by extra exertion for 
 years of supineness in the asylum from which 
 she had been set free. Somewhat old, some- 
 what feeble, with a general shakiness of gait, 
 she did not appear to be a woman capable of 
 any great exertion, but, rather, one fast leaving 
 health and strength behind her, and requiring 
 careful nursing for the remainder of her life. 
 Appearances were deceptive, however, and Mrs. 
 Dangerfield showed no diminution of vigour in 
 her expedition. She reached Birmingham in 
 three hours, hired a cab, and drove off" imme-
 
 284 THE MAX SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 diately to Prosser Street — a dark, naiTow, ill- 
 lighted thoroughfare, which even at that early 
 hour of the evening might have daunted a 
 stronger nerve than hers to explore. 
 
 The old lady did not think of danger; she 
 had made up her mind to find Mr. Overdo wn, 
 and she was busy with inquiries of any and 
 every one whom she encountered from the mo- 
 ment that she had told the cabman to wait for 
 her at the corner of the street. After discover- 
 ing that the object of her search was living at 
 No. 700, she repaired to the house, and knocked 
 for admission. Before the knocker was out of 
 Mrs. Dangerfield's hands, the door was opened 
 by a quick hand from Avithin, and the old lady 
 was half slung into the room — which proved to 
 b)e immediately behind the street door. 
 
 It was Daniel Overdown himself, who apolo- 
 gised for the jerk he had given to his visit oi-, 
 and backed and made way for her, as she, with- 
 out any ceremony, went to the side of a.n empty 
 fire-grate, sat down on a cane-bottomed chair, 
 and looked eagerly round the room, as for some 
 one whom she had expected to discover.
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 2S5 
 
 Mr. Overdown closed the street door, followed 
 her across the room, leaned against the mantel- 
 piece, and surveyed his visitor with grave 
 intentness. 
 
 Old Mrs. Dangerfield was in no hurry to 
 speak. After a close inspection of the bare 
 boards, the scanty furniture, and the yawning 
 fire-grate, she looked steadily at the gentleman 
 on whose premises she had intruded, undaunted 
 by his half-curious, half-amused look at her, in 
 return. Five years had not altered him much, 
 and Mrs. Dangerfield looked upon a prim, dap- 
 per little man, with very black hair and sharp^ 
 black eyes, whom we have seen for ourselves in 
 Derbyshire, and later on at Regent's Park. 
 
 'You are Daniel Overd^^vn'?' she said at last. 
 
 ' Yes, madam ; and to what is he indebted 
 for the honour of this visit?' he inquired in his 
 turn. 
 
 ' I had expected to find an older man,' she 
 said, thoughtfully. 
 
 Daniel laughed. 
 
 * Oh ! we delegates rise to the surface rapidly, 
 being light and frivolous bodies, with no rever-
 
 286 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ence for the employer's heavy percentages on 
 our labour/ he said ; ' but there, if it is any- 
 thing about the strike, I am sorry to say I would 
 prefer not being converted by a lady/ 
 
 ' You are on strike V 
 
 'Yes — a long strike this time,' said Daniel, 
 'but we are likely to win.' 
 
 'You seem in distress here?' she remarked, 
 looking round the meagrely-furnished apart- 
 ment. 
 
 ' I share privations with my mates,' answered 
 Daniel, ' so that the enemy shall not presently 
 say I lived by their distress. Delegates, you 
 must know, madam — leaders and promoters of 
 strikes — are supposed to wax fat on the troubles 
 of those who put faith in them. It's a lie, as a 
 rule — it's a very big lie in my case,' he added, 
 slapping the mantel-shelf heavily with his hand. 
 
 ' I have not come to talk about the strike — I 
 know nothing of it.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' he said, drawing another 
 chair towards himself, and sitting down opposite 
 her ; ' and now, may I ask what you do want ? 
 I have to address a meeting in half-an-hour,
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 287 
 
 and cannot give yoii a great deal of my 
 company.' 
 
 'I want to know w^here Agnes Ghallis is?' 
 said the old lady at once. 
 
 Daniel Overdown drew his chair some inches 
 closer to her, and said, 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' To be of help to her, if she needs help, and 
 to be her friend, if she is an honest young 
 woman,' said the old lady. 
 
 ' I don't think there is a better young woman 
 in the world,' said Daniel Overdown, reflec- 
 tively ; ' I haven't met mth one, if there 
 is.' 
 
 * Where is she V 
 
 * In good hands,' he answered. 
 
 * This is not a fit place for her — this miserable 
 home is ' 
 
 ' Spare me — the home Avas not always hke 
 this,' interrupted Daniel. ' I w^as the first to 
 discover it was not fit for her; and then she 
 Avent away.' 
 
 ' Tell me where ?' asked Mrs. Dangerfield, 
 eagerly.
 
 288 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Will you tell me first who you are ? I like 
 things square, as a start-ofi".' 
 
 ' My name is Dangerfielcl. I live at Ilver- 
 combe, in this county.' 
 
 Daniel Overdowu considered this for a few 
 moments, looking attentively at his visitor 
 meanwhile. 
 
 ' You must be the mother of the man who 
 died at Grey Tor Vale, in Derbyshire V he said 
 at last. 
 
 ' I am.' 
 
 ' But you were ' 
 
 ' His death turned my brain, for a time — yes,' 
 she said, repljdng to his unfinished question. 
 
 ' Then you are all right again V 
 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 ' You are the very woman I wanted to get 
 hold of years ago,' he cried. ' I wanted help 
 then, and couldn't find it. There were two 
 poor souls drifting away, as it seemed to me, 
 without a Christian to help them — unless a poor 
 clergyman, and a gunmaker out of work, both 
 with their hands tied, were to be taken into 
 account, which they were, after all. At all
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 289 
 
 events^ we saved the girl when she- 
 
 ' When she came ont of prison. Don't hesi- 
 tate — I know the whole story.' 
 
 'I doubt that,' said Daniel Overdown, con- 
 fidently. ' I donbt that very much. However^ 
 I took care of Aggie— I offered her a home, con- 
 fidence, and afi"ection, and she fonnd all these 
 till my father died, and my mother followed 
 him.' 
 
 'And then?' 
 
 ' And then — though she did not care to leave 
 me in my trouble — she found another home.' 
 
 ' Well — what home V asked Mrs. Dangerfield, 
 impatiently. 
 
 ' The clergyman's. He had come into pro- 
 perty, and a fair living, at last. His wife was 
 dead, and he Avanted a companion for his daugh- 
 ter, and,' added Daniel Overdown, with a sud- 
 den gulp of something in his throat, ' I per- 
 suaded Aggie Challis to go.' 
 
 * That clergyman is a Mr. Fayre — vicar of 
 Grayling.' 
 
 ' Yes, that's right.' 
 
 * How long has she been away from you V 
 VOL. I. U
 
 290 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Five or six months.' 
 
 ' You were sorry to part with her V 
 
 'Aj, madam,' he said, frankly; ' awfully sorry. 
 But this was not a home for Aggie after the 
 mother was gone — I could see that sooner than 
 she could. She was earning her own living as 
 a daily governess to a family at Edgbaston — 
 for her mother had given her a good education, 
 and she was no expense to me ; she had no 
 other friends, she said, but I wrote to Mr. 
 Fayre.' 
 
 He beat his hands slowly on his knees, and 
 stared hard at the fireless grate. There was an 
 expression of deep pain, of deep thought on his 
 face, and his forehead had grown strangely 
 furrowed within the last few moments. 
 
 ' I am glad you did not ask the girl to marry 
 you,' said Mrs. Dangerfield. 
 
 He sat back in his chair with a force that 
 nearly split it. 
 
 ' AVho says I thought of such a thing?' he 
 exclaimed. 
 
 'It seemed quite possible to me, that's all,' 
 was the quiet answer.
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 291 
 
 'But not to me,' said Daniel, with consider- 
 able excitement ; ' she's a lady, in her way — I 
 am only a mechanic. Do you think I would 
 have asked her? — set up my claim to her on 
 the little that I had done to help her — led her 
 to mistake gratitude for love, and talked her 
 into it — robbed her of every chance of bettering 
 herself in this world, as, later on in life, she 
 might have told me I had. Oh, no ; that is not 
 Dan Overdown's style — he's a cut above tliat 
 kind of thing !' 
 
 And, after this odd exhibition of conceit, he 
 sprang from his chair, and walked up and down 
 the room, with his hands in his pockets and his 
 dark eyes gleaming. 
 
 ' She must be three and twenty V mused 
 Mrs. Dangerfield. 
 
 * That is her age, madam. Getting very old, 
 she calls it, with that dear, sad look in her eyes, 
 you know — oh, I forgot, you don't know !' 
 
 ' I shall be glad to see her,' said Mrs. Danger- 
 field. ' I am more glad to hear she is a good 
 3^oung woman now.' 
 
 ' She was always good,' answered Daniel 
 
 u2
 
 292 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 Overdown, sharply ; ' what right have you to 
 doubt her now V 
 
 ' She has been in prison.' 
 
 ' Do you know what for V 
 
 ' Felony,' said the old lady, mth a shudder. 
 
 'You know nothing about it,' cried Dan 
 Overdown, with excitement. ' She's an angel 
 — not a woman. There never was a thought 
 of evil in her — never one scrap of it. Don't go 
 ,to Aggie Challis with one suspicion of her in 
 your heart,' Daniel Overdown raved on ; * she 
 would rather you kept away from her than that. 
 And, indeed, what is the use of your worr}^ng 
 the girl ? She is strong, ^^dthout you ; no one 
 knows her story but Mr. Fayre — it might be as 
 well, old lady, to leave her to herself. Your 
 notice of her only rakes up the ashes.' 
 
 ' Tlie ashes of a bitter past — yes,' answered 
 Mrs. Dangerfield ; ' but then, this girl is my son's 
 daughter, after all, and I could be of ser^^ce to 
 her.' 
 
 ' It is too late, thank heaven,' said Daniel 
 Overdown ; ' she is able to be of service to 
 herself and others, and I very much doubt if
 
 FOLLOWING OX. 293 
 
 she is not too proncl to accept a charity so long 
 delayed as yours has been.' 
 
 ' By adversity, not by inchnation,' answered 
 her visitor. 
 
 ' Ah, I beg your pardon ; I had forgotten/ 
 said the gunmaker ; ' but I was only thinking of 
 her. I hardly know that I think of much else, 
 after all.' 
 
 Mrs. Dangerfield rose from her chair and 
 stood by the fireplace, with her curiosity still 
 unsatisfied as regarded this excitable and sin- 
 gular young man. 
 
 ' I am glad you did not ask the girl to marry 
 you,' she said for the second time ; and, to Mr. 
 Overdown's surprise again, ' You were noble 
 and generous and honest towards her in this as 
 in all else. For you are very poor,' she added, 
 looking round the room. 
 
 ' Had I been a prince, it would have been all 
 the same,' he rephed ; ' I would have waited till 
 I was sure it was not gratitude, as I wait now.' 
 
 ' You wait — for her !' exclaimed Mrs. Danger- 
 field, almost resentfully. 
 
 '■ Ah ! that slipped out ; think no more of it,'
 
 294 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 he cried. ' That'.s a big folly which I ought to 
 have hidden from you.' 
 
 ' Does she know it V 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I have taken care of that.' 
 
 '■ It is wise of you.' 
 
 ' If I were to meet her a year or two hence — 
 after she has seen the world, as it were — and 
 she was single still, why, poor or rich, madam, I 
 should not scruple to ask her to become my 
 wife. I fancy I should have a right then.' 
 
 ' She might be moving in a very different 
 sphere from yours.' 
 
 ' She would always remember what her sphere 
 has been, and be not too proud to look towards 
 it again. That is — of course — that is, if — con- 
 found it, don't ask any more questions, please !' 
 
 ' How much time have you to spare V 
 
 ' Five minutes. The procession will be here 
 then.' 
 
 ' The procession V 
 
 ' We march in state through the town — a few 
 thousands all on strike, all unjustly oppressed, 
 all with one gigantic grievance, which we are 
 determined to crush.'
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 295 
 
 ' Is there any assistance I can be to yon — in 
 money, I mean?' said the okl lady, softly. 'I 
 am a Dangerfield, and yon were kind to my 
 dear son.' 
 
 ' Not any assistance, thank yon.' 
 
 * You are very poor, I am certain.' 
 
 ' And awfully proud, I am certain, too,' he 
 added, with his easy, natural laugh returning 
 to him. ' I shall be in full work next week.' 
 
 ' Concerning Samuel Challis — whom I am 
 very anxious to discover also,' said the old 
 lady, ' can you tell me where he is ?' 
 
 ' No,' answered Daniel, moodily. 
 
 ' Has he not been heard of?' 
 
 ' No,' replied Overdown ; ' I have a hope he 
 is dead. To be living, is to be a shadow of 
 anything that is human, or he would have come 
 to us before. I said a little while ago that 
 Aggie Challis was happy ; I should have said as 
 happy as the memory of this bad fellow will 
 allow her to be.' 
 
 ' It might be possible to trace him ; he may 
 be starving,' she said ; ' a little help even at this 
 late hour might be of service to him.'
 
 296 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' Don't think of it,' said Daniel OverdoTVTi, 
 sternly. 
 
 The interview was at an end just in time. 
 Mrs. Dangerfield had exhausted her vocabulary 
 of inquiry at the same moment as a brass band 
 was heard braying down the street, and innu- 
 merable voices yelling and whooping in one 
 tremendous chorus. It was a whirlwind of 
 sound filling that hitherto deserted thorough- 
 fare, and the old lady turned pale, and sat down 
 again in her chau*. 
 
 ' Don't be afraid,' said Daniel, ' it's only a i'ew 
 friends who have called to take me for a walk. 
 Rough-handed, honest Birmingham folk, whom 
 I am glad to speak up and out for; a Kttle 
 noisy, perhaps, but then it's our policy to make 
 a noise just noAv.' 
 
 ' You seem to like this excitement.' 
 
 ' Yes, it sharpens up a fellow. It keeps him,' 
 and here a shade passed over his face again, 
 ' from brooding too much over his own stupid 
 sorrows. Good-night,' he added, ' I am going 
 to step into the street, and draw this door 
 after me. When we are all gone, it will be safer
 
 FOLLOWING ON. 297 
 
 for you to retire ; and, please, make sure the 
 door is fastened, for the cats in this street 
 are legion and full of curiosity. Good-night ; 
 my love to Aggie. Please tell her I had her 
 note this morning." 
 
 They coiTcspond, then ! thought Mrs. Danger- 
 field, as she returned his good-night, and he 
 passed into the street, where the air rang with 
 acclamations at the sight of him, and all Bedlam 
 for a while seemed loose and roaring its hardest 
 in that muddy thoroughfare without. Five 
 minutes elapsed before the cheering was over, 
 and the motley procession had moved on, with 
 its band clashing and braying in advance, and 
 then Mrs. Dangerfield peered from the door, and 
 made preparations for her own exit. 
 
 She had left a ten-pound note on the mantel- 
 piece of the little room ; it was in defiance of 
 Daniel Overdown's pride ; but she was sure that 
 there was great privation in this home in 
 Prosser Street. She had written in pencil on it, 
 ' For anyone in distress through the strike,' as 
 her excuse — as an excuse that even this eccen- 
 tric man might accept after she had gone.
 
 298 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 She closed the door, and flitted away down 
 the street to her cab. Half-an-hour afterwards, 
 this woman, restless and indefatigable, was 
 travelling by train to Warwick.
 
 299 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN EARLY VISIT. 
 
 The Reverend Edwin Fayre, vicar of Gray- 
 ling, ill Warwickshire, was fond of gardening in 
 those leisure moments which the duties of his 
 profession allowed. It was his one hobby, 
 which helped possibly to keep him in health, 
 though it had not done anything to the widen- 
 ing of his narrow chest, or to the brightening of 
 a complexion which neither country air nor 
 exercise could change from its invariable aspect 
 of tanned leather. He was a great gardener in 
 his way, and his garden was worth a visit in the 
 summer-time, when it was bright with every 
 flower which love, care, or money could place 
 there. Amateur gardeners who mean business 
 are early-risers, as a rule ; and My. Fayre was
 
 300 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 generally the first of the household asth at the 
 vicarage, setting an example to the gardener 
 himself, who came across the fields to his work, 
 and let himself in by a door in the back wall. 
 The garden was not at its best in that autumn 
 morning follomng old Mrs. Dangerfield's flying 
 visit to Birmingham; the early morning had 
 been cold, the fancy work of the season was 
 over ; the hard work of pruning, slipping, stor- 
 ing, and transplanting had begun ; but Mr. 
 Fayre was early at his labours, keeping his 
 servant well up to the mark, and getting his 
 money's worth out of him, like a practical man 
 as he was. 
 
 It was striking seven when the vicar was 
 surprised by a carriage and pair stopping at 
 his front gates. The vicarage stood in its 
 own grounds, and the vicar from the distance 
 could see his gates opened by a footman, to 
 allow of the ingress of a thin old lady, who 
 came along the broad path towards the house ; 
 and then catching sight of the clergyman, in 
 a very unclerical straw hat, in the distance, 
 she crossed a grass plot, and struck into an-
 
 AN EARLY VISIT. 301 
 
 other path between a high box-edging which 
 led round to the back of the garden, where Mr. 
 Fayre had been at work till distracted by her 
 early call. 
 
 He was wanted in a hurry, he was sure ; and 
 he turned down the sleeves of his black 
 coat by way of preliminary adjustment to his 
 toilette, and went some steps towards the lady 
 who had come in search of him. When they 
 were face to face, he raised his straw hat 
 and regarded his visitor with a grave and in- 
 quiring stare. 
 
 'Mr. Fayre, I believe V said she. 
 
 Mr. Fayre bowed. He was a man of few 
 words, out of his pulpit; and, in or out, he had 
 never a great deal of breath to spare. 
 
 'My name is Dangerfield, of Ilvercombe 
 Park.' 
 
 Mr. Faja-e bowed again. 
 
 ' The name is familiar to you, I thinks 
 
 Yes, it was familiar to him. In what way 
 could he be of service to Mrs. Dangerfield ? 
 
 * Familiar as a neighbour in these latter days, 
 perhaps ; but I don't mean that,' she added, her
 
 "302 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 teen grey eyes watching the effect of her re- 
 marks upon her Kstener. 
 
 ' I remember the name of Dangerfield very well 
 indeed,' said Mr. Fayre, not disposed to be too 
 explicit at first sight. 
 
 ' Yes, I have no doubt of it,' remarked the 
 old lady, sadly ; then she sat down on a 
 rustic seat that was close at hand, and looked 
 up at his hard features very closely and 
 critically. 
 
 ' I am tired. I have been travelhng a great 
 deal lately,' she said, as if by way of apology. 
 ^ I have been anxious to find Miss Chalhs, who, 
 it appears, is hidden in yom' house, after all.' 
 
 ' " Hidden " is not exactly the term,' said 
 Mr. Fayre, drily ; ' but Miss Chalhs certainly 
 honours my small estabhshment mth her pres- 
 ence.' 
 
 'In what capacity?' asked Mrs. Danger- 
 field. 
 
 Mr. Fayre seemed disinclined to reply to this 
 question, suddenly and somewhat sharply put — 
 at all events he was some time in answering 
 the inquiry.
 
 AN EARLY VISIT. 303 
 
 ' I cannot say we have given it a name,' he 
 ■said at last. 
 
 ' Housekeeper V 
 
 ' Miss Chalhs looks after the household, and 
 keeps the keys, but no — she is not the house- 
 keeper,' replied Mr. Fayre. 
 
 * Coropanion to your daughter, perhaps V 
 
 ' My daughter is very much attached to her 
 — you may say companion, if you please/ he 
 said. 
 
 ' You will pardon me, Mr. Fayre,' said the old 
 lady, very haughtily, ' but I came to hear what 
 you had to say, not to leap at conclusions for 
 myself.' 
 
 Mr. Fayre became rigid after this reproof. 
 His face and figure seemed cut out of wood 
 immediately. 
 
 *You will pardon me, Mrs. Dangei*field, but 
 J cannot recognise your right to question me 
 at all.' 
 
 ' Do you know in what position I stand as re- 
 gards that girir 
 
 ' Neither as a friend nor philanthropist, cer- 
 tainly,' he said.
 
 304 THE MAN SHE CARED FOR. 
 
 ' How can you tell V 
 
 ' The friendship or the philanthropy comes toa 
 late to be of service to Miss Challis,' said the 
 vicar, still more coldly ; ' years ago it was re- 
 fused when asked for.' 
 
 ' Refused by my daughter-in-law.' 
 
 * By yourself.' 
 
 ' Never, sir !' exclaimed the old lady, warmly. 
 
 ' I wrote to you.' 
 
 ' I was in a lunatic asylum,' was the cool 
 reply ; ' the letter went to the trustees of my 
 estate — not to me.' 
 
 ' It is of no consequence now,' remarked 
 the vicar ; ' still,' after a pause, ' I am glad it 
 was not pride or indifference which kept you 
 silent.' 
 
 ' You are glad I was out of my mind — thank 
 you,' said Mrs. Dangerfield. 
 
 '1 did not say that,' replied the minister,, 
 formally ; ' you misunderstand me very much.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Fayre, I make you out pretty well,' 
 she answered, * and 1 hope some day we shall 
 be better friends. I think we shall.' 
 
 Mr. Fayre did not see it ; but, then, he was
 
 AN EARLY VISIT. 305 
 
 looking miles away, over the black feathers in 
 the lady's bonnet. 
 
 ' And now/ she added, ' I have driven 
 seven miles to see Agnes Challis. Where is 
 she?' 
 
 ' She is here to answer for herself,' he said, 
 pointing to the open French window of a room 
 on the lower floor where a tall graceful girl was 
 standing, shading her eyes from the snn, and 
 looking in their direction. Another moment and 
 she was coming towards them. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : FKINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE 
 
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