♦/=- -a- ■■^. 'Wi-- •^ -f cram^ '-«^ / / -i^ -^:/'. / mir.- m\ m J h^ ^6^03 THE PHILADELPHIAN. VOL. I. NEW AND POPULAR NOVELS AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. A BITTER BIRTHRIGHT. By Dora Russell, author of ' Footprints in the Snow,' &c. 3 vols. JANET. By Mrs. Oliphant, author of 'It was a Lover and his Lass,' ' The Laird of Norlaw,' «&c. 3 vols. RUPERT ALISON. By Gertrude Forde, author of ' In the Old Palazzo,' ' Driven before the Storm,' &c. 3 vols. HER LOVE AND HIS LIFE. By F. W. Robinson, author of ' Grandmother's Money,' &c. 3 vols. ON TRUST. By Thomas Cobb, author of ' Brownie's Plot,' ' For Value Received,' &c. 3 vols. LONDON : HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED. THE PHILADELPHIAN BY LOUIS JOHN JENNINGS. M.P. AUTHOK i)F 'THE MILLIONAIRE,' 'FIELD PATHS,' • RAMBLES AMONG THE HILLS,' ETC., ETC. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON : HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED. 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1891. All rights reserved. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2009 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/philadelphian01jenn 823 V. X P CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. CHAPTER PAGE H I. iHE Lost Cause .... 1 11. The Friends 25 HI. Mrs. Clavering and her Son . . 46 IV. Geoffrey Clavering's Visitors . 70 V. PoRTHCAWL Castle .... . 89 VI. A Welcome Home .... . 113 VII. Father and Heir .... 133 VIII. Mr. Snapper at Porthcaavl 163 IX. After Dark 197 X. DiAMONT) CUT Diamond . . . . 228 XI. A Reconts^aissance 247 XII. Mrs. Martin 272 THE PHILADELPHIAN. CHAPTER I. THE LOST CAUSE. In that part of the SheDandoah Valley to which some early settler gave the name of the ' Traveller's Rest,' and at no oTeat distance from the old town of Winchester, there may still be seen one of the few remaining relics of the days when Virginia was ' the mother of presidents,' and the proudest State in the American Union. It is a house known as the Pendleton home- VOL. I. B THE PHILABELPHIAN. stead — the roof covered with mosses, and the jzarden filled with weeds, but having; a charm of its own even yet, in spite of neorlect and ill-usao;e. It was built in the prosperous times when Virginians were accustomed to dispense hospitalities on a scale UDt unworthy of the descendants of the cavalier families, manv of whom took refuo;e in the Old Dominion after their king perished on the scaffold. The long, ramblino; edifice covers a considerable space of ground, for it is all built upon one storey, with broad verandahs running com- pletely round it. From these verandahs the eye may roam over some of the most lovely scenery on the American continent ; for, although there are much his/her mountains than that chain of the Alleghanics which is called the Blue Ridge, there are none which enclose a fairer expanse of wood THE LOST CAUSE. and field and river. The land is rich, the farms have a look of comfort which is not always met with in the east or west, and over all there dwells that peculiar air of repose and peace which is characteristic of an Encrlish landscape, and which so rarely strikes the eye in any other part of the world. Five-and- twenty years ago, widely diifer- ent was the picture which the valley of the Shenandoah presented. The fertile lands lay desolate and barren, and the traveller mio;ht have o;one for miles before meetino; with a living creature, except in the towns, where the remnants of a broken and dispirited people had collected to- gether, after a long separation, to realise in all its bitterness the magnitude of the disaster which had overwhelmed them in ruin. It was, indeed, but a scattered remnant, for not a familv could be found B 2 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Avhich had not given up one or more of its members, to fight for the cause of Secession — adopted late and with reluc- tance by Virginia, but defended when once adopted with a courage and devotion not soon to be forgotten by either North or South. The country had been swept bare by fire and sword ,• not even a barn was to be seen ; there were no cattle left, and no fences to mark off the division of fields ; the bridges were all destroyed, and even the trees had been cut down to suppl}^ fuel for the soldiers' camps. Of all the miseries and calamities inci- dental to civil war, there were none which had not fallen on the inhabitants of this once happy valley. Heaps of charred wood and stones were alone left to mark the site of mansions which, a few years before, had been the pride of a high-spirited race. Time after time the opposing troops pur- THE LOST CAUSE. sued each other between the mountains, and sometimes even over them, now one side obtainino; the victorv, and now the other, until at last the threat of Sherman was fulfilled, that a crow should not be able to fly through the valley without carrying its rations in its beak. Round the town of Winchester itself at least half- a-dozen desperate battles were fought, and at the last and most fatal of them the wives and dauo'hters of the overmatched Con- federates came out into the streets, amid a shower of bullets, with trays of food for their wounded husbands, brothers, and friends. There was not a house which was not scarred all over with the traces of the fight ; there w^as scarcely one in w^hicli some place by the hearth w^as not empty, or in which some mother w^as not weeping for her first-born, destined to return to her no more. 6 THE PHILADELPHIA^. The Pendleton homestead had escaped the universal devastation by the lucky chance of a Northern general requiring it for his headquarters. When the Confed- erates in their turn held possession of the valley, they used it for the same purpose, and thus, no matter which side conquered, this house was always sure to be spared. The owner. Colonel Pendleton, had gone into the war unwillingly, like a large pro- portion of his people, but like them also he had fought gallantly for his State, in obedience to what he regarded as the paramount claims of duty. In the fierce battle of Antietam, where the Confederates left twenty thousand of their men dead upon the field — the flower of the Southern population — Colonel Pen- dleton commanded a wing under General Lee, which was literally cut to pieces. All day long he was in the thickest of the fight ^ THE LOST CAUSE. ao'ain and a2:airi he led his men, even after their ammunition was all spent, to the defence of the bridge for the possession of which hundreds of o'allant hearts faced death, hour after hour, without a thought of shrinking from their fate. At last, the few and broken survivors of the brilliant force which Colonel Pendleton had taken into action that morning were driven back, and, when they looked for their commander, he was no longer to be seen. He was lying, bleeding and unconscious, near a spot which is still known as ' Bloody Lane/ a lane between two farms, where the car- nage was so terrific that upwards of eight thousand Virginians and Carolinians were buried in the fields hard by. Fortunately for Colonel Pendleton, a ppor negro woman who had lived on his estate saw and recognised him, and at the close of the day she managed to drag him 8 THE PHILADELPIHAN. to her cabin, where assistance was procured in time to save his life. He survived to witness the dark and hopeless days through which the Confederacy was yet doomed to pass. He was with Jackson at Chancellors- villcj when, in the gloom of a memorable evening, that type of the stern Puritans of old, riding out with his staff, was mistaken by his own men for the enemy, and fired upon. Colonel Pendleton had his horse killed under him ; but once more he escaped. He helped to carry Stonewall Jackson to a place of safety, and was with him when, in his last hour, visions of brighter scenes than those which were desolating his beloved State passed across his dying eyes, and he murmured to the faithful band which surrounded him, ' Let us cross over the river, and rest under the shade of the trees.' River and trees were alike a dream. In a few hours he, too, THE LOST CAUSE. was gone, and with him died the hope of his followers ; but they still fought on, and Colonel Pendleton lived to see the disas- trous dav of Gettysburo^, where he lost an arm, and to take a brave but despair- ing part in the awful struggle of the Wilderness. It was well for him that he had been led by a spirit of enterprise, not very common among people of Southern birth, to invest a portion of his capital before the war broke out in a business which was destined to be improved rather than injured by the convulsions of the times. During a sum- mer visit to Saratoga springs, he had be- come acquainted with the head of a large paper-making firm, known as Snapper and Purdy. carrying on its operations near the city of Philadelphia. Mr. Ptufus Snapper was a great politician in his own State, but before all things he was a man of 10 THE PHILADELPHIAN. business. A very short time before he made Colonel Pendleton's acquaintance, his partner had died, and the capital owned by his late associate was withdrawn from the concern. At the same moment, there occurred an opportunity of greatly extending his business, and, in talking the matter over with the Virginian, he found that the increased means which he desired, and a partner entirely after his own heart, were ready at his command. Colonel Pendleton was a Southerner to the core, but he was no believer in the powers of expansion of his * section.' He was glad of the opportunity of placing some part of his property in the North, where enterprise was always advancing, while the South stood still, or moved only towards decay. The reputation of Mr, Snapper for integrity stood deservedly high, and in entrusting his capital to the hands of the THE LOST CAUSE. 11 Philaclelpbian, Pendleton incurred no more than the ordinary and leo^itimate risks of commercial affairs. Rufus Snapper dealt honourably with him, and scrupulously placed to his credit, throughout the war, his full share of the large profits which were shown at the end of each year. Regular correspondence between the two was impossible, and indeed it had happened that, for months together, Snapper knew not whether his partner was dead or alive. He was profoundly hostile to Secession^ and looked upon the Confederates as a band of traitors, but that did not prevent him from assio^nino^ to the Virg-inian colonel all that in justice belonged to him. And, during this time, the colonel himself was fighting in a uniform which had been so torn and rent, and so darned and patched, that it would scarcely hold together. He had been forced to subsist with his troops round 12 THE PHILADELPHIAK Petersburgh — the graveyard of the Con- federacy — on mere remnants of food, varied occasionally by a dish of rats, or by a stewed dog which had been unwary enough to trust itself in the vicinity of Lee's starving forces. Although he knew it not, he was growing rich by paper- making on the banks of the Delaware, while his own people were reduced to printing their news on strips of paper torn from the walls of their houses. Paper, like articles of much greater importance — such as food and clothing, and medicine for the sick — was all sfone. There was no luxury, scarcely even a necessity, of life to be had; nothing was left — nothing but despair in the hearts of the people. And still they fought on, until a fatal circle was drawn around them, and an invincible force, led by all the experienced generals ■of the North and backed up by its entire THE LOST CAUSE. 13 strength, crushed out the last throes of their resistance. At the close of the loner stru^^o^le, Colonel Pendleton found himself a comparatively wealthy man. Throughout the four years of the -war he had held scarcely any com- munication with theXorth; all his thoughts and desires were concentrated in the dire conflict which had swept him into its vor- tex. He had left his home at the first summons of his State, leaving behind liim his wife and child. In the third vear of the war the Avife, worn out by care and anxiety, as so many women were in those sorrowful days, passed beyond the strife, and her daughter Edith — then about six years old — was sent to Winchester to a sister's house. There she was found by her father when he returned with a hand- ful of his old comrades to their homes. The bare Avails alone remained, for every- 14 THE PHILADELPHIAN. thm^ else had been earned off during the last raid of Sheridan's cavalry. Hard is the fortune of war at the best, and it Avas the lot of Virojinia to know what it can be made at its worst. To remain in that region, fraught with so many corroding recollections and still plunged in the depths of poverty and humiliation, was not to be thought of. Most of the young men who once rode through the valley were now lying beneath the fields, and the survivors were without means and without hope. Their homes were embittered to them, and yet they could not seek new careers elsewhere. Their money, and everything which repre- sented money's worth, had been swallowed up in the abyss of the Confederacy. The women wore black garments of homespun ; the men had no employment open to them, no capital, and no friends who were not as THE LOST CA USE. 15 poor and helpless as themselves. Their fields were imtilled ; it was for a lono; time uncertain whether the land would not be handed over to the negro, who was every- where placed in authority over his masters. All local industries had been swept away; all Confederate money was as valueless as the dead leaves of the fairy legends. Throughout the day the people wandered up and down the streets, or across the wild and naked plains which once had enriched them with bounteous harvests, seekino; help and finding none. At night they met in each other's houses and talked of all that had happened during that vast tragedy, or listened by stealth to the half-proscribed songs which, in the first year of the war, had rung proudly and joyously through the vallev — the ' Bonnie Blue Flas^ ' or ' Dixie's Land.' But, after a time, it be- came known that these sis^ns of a rebel 16 THE PHILADELPHIAN. spirit only brought new misfortunes upon the people, and the sound of music was hushed. After a feAV weeks spent amid these surroundino^s, the Confederate colonel, still suffering from his wound, determined to visit the land from which his ancestors had come, two centuries ago. His own coun- try — for as such he looked upon Virginia — seemed to be doomed ; at any rate, there could be little chance of recovery for the generation to which he belonged. He and his dauo^hter would seek a home with their distant kindred beyond the sea. The child had entered upon life by a hard and cruel path ; almost ever since she could remember, the sights and sounds of war had been familiar to her. Yet she was more fortunate than many a child in that valley in finding, when the Avar was over, that she still had one parent left to THE LOST CAUSE. 17 watch over her. She had scarcely seen her father except at long intervals, when his duty brought him near enough to admit of a flying visit to her temporary home. He took her to New York, where there were no houses pierced with bullet marks, no women dressed in homespun, no streets in ruins, no homes lying in ashes. Then they went on to England, and, long before the vovao^e was over, the child be- came deeply attached to the tall, sad-eyed gentleman, who always had a kind look and a gentle word for her. She was sel- dom out of his sight, and in her new and strange companionship another life seemed to be dawning upon him. He was like one who, between darkness and dawn, slowly shakes off the influence of an a^itatino; dream. So passed his days during that voyage ; but when the night came on, and he began VOL. I. c 18 THE PHILADELPHIAN. to resume his dreary march up and down the deck — for the habits acquired in four years' incessant warfare could not be quickly overcome, and sleep was harder than ever to be wooed — all the old scenes were re-enacted. Then there frequently appeared before his eyes, as he ojazed over the dark waste of the Atlantic, the com- rades who had fought by his side, and who, one by one, had followed their beloved general 'across the river,' and found per- petual rest beneath the 'shade of the trees.' Then, too, he saw the face and form of his late chief as he appeared on that memorable day at Appomattox, when heroism could accomplish no more — when the last iight had been fought, and all was over, and for o:eneral and soldiers nothinsf remained but to part for ever. He felt the final pressure of Lee's hand, and saw the lingering crowd of gaunt, weary men, THE LOST CAUSE. 19 stri\dng hard to bravely bear themselves up as they passed through the last and hardest trial of all — the final separation from their beloved and care-worn leader. Once more he seemed to hear the few pathetic words in which the hero of the South, thous^h borne down heavilv bv the weio^ht of his own sorrows, souo-ht to in- spire his followers with resignation and hope. Once more there seemed to fall upon his ears the broken farewells of the last defenders of the Lost Cause. ]Manv and many a year had passed before these thinofs beo^an to fade in the distance in the Confederate colonel's mind. In England, then, he took up his abode for a time, the more readily because lie had there a few devoted friends. Anion o: them was a connection by marriage, who earnestly pressed him to accept the hos- pitalities of his roof. V.2 1 AT 20 THE PIIILADELPTIIAIS Roland Claveriiig was the owner of a considerable estate in Wales, and of an old castle, such as might have been made the theme of a romance. It stood on the very verge of a wild and rocky part of the coast — its massive gates and portcullis, it& terraced gardens, its vaulted corridors and subterranean chambers, all remaining much as they were five hundred years ago. When Colonel Pendleton arrived in Enfdand, Roland Claverino; Avas a widower, livinir in a solitude which would have been almost unbroken but for the companionship of an only son, a boy of about nine years. In the squire's younger days he had been much attached to a second cousin, but it had so happened that she and her family went to Virginia and never returned. This was the lady who had become Colonel Pendleton's wife. Her portrait was in the old house beneath the shadows of the Blue tup: lost cause. 21 Rid2:e, and it also liuno; in Roland Claver- ing's dressing-room at Porthcawl Castle. And now there was a dau2:lit3r of this cousin, motherless and practically home- less, and the squire determined that her home shoukl henceforth be at Porthcawl. At first, Colonel Pendleton had hesitated, but, after a few months of intimacy with Roland Clavering, his objections vanished one by one. His little girl, Edith, soon forgot amid new and happier surroundings the melan- choly which had enveloped her childhood. The Shenandoah Valley, and all the sad scenes which her young eyes had 'looked upon, faded into a sort of mist in some obscure recesses of her mind. She or^ew up with the future heir of Porthcawl, two inseparable companions, while her father was travelling abroad, or making almost aimless journeys in quest of some ^2 THE PHILADELPHIAN. relief for a restless spirit. But he and his friend, the Philadelphian, were frequently at Porthcawl, and during these visits the sombre old edifice underwent a partial transformation, for then Roland Clavering relaxed the obstinacy of his seclusion, and once more drew his neighbours and friends around him. Thus it was that the children, and even the squire himself, were always impatient for the return of the colonel and Mr. Snapper. It chanced, however, one summer, that Roland Clavering was prevailed upon to accompany his two friends to Paris, and that little accident gave rise to the series of events now to be described. The entirely unexpected came to pass. Roland Claver- ing married a second time, after a short acquaintance with the lady upon whom his choice had fallen. His long solitude had perhaps done much to render him an easy THE LOST CAUSE. 23 conquest for a clever woman, but certain it is that her supremacy over him became ahnost absolute. There was no difficulty in prevailing upon him to give up his favourite idea of educating his son at home, and to send him to school instead. At the age of seventeen Geoffrey Clavering had become almost a stranger in his father's house — in less than another year his return, except as an occasional guest, had become almost impossible. Between that period and his twenty- second year, the squire and the heir scarcely ever met, and this estrangement had been mainly brought about by the new wife. And yet there Avere people who were blind enough not to perceive that she was a very clever Avoman. Her cleverness was, in fact, immense, but with it all she had not succeeded in inducing her husband to part with Edith Pendleton. She had employed 2-4 THE PHILADELPHIAN. her utmost skill with that end in view, and still the colonel's daughter remained at Porthcawl. She w^as only about fifteen when her old playmate was first sent away ; she was now in her nineteenth year, and perhaps there was no one, not even except- ing the squire, who had so keen an insight into the character of the second Mrs. Clavering as the colonel's daughter. THE FRIEynS. 25 CHAPTER II. THE FRIENDS. It is well known that, at the close of the war of Secession, water and lire were less likely to mingle than Xortherner and Southerner to become friends. But Colonel Pendleton and Mr. Rufus Snapper were conspicuous exceptions to the rule. If the colonel liad been told in the spring of 1865 that his investment in the paper- making business had gone the way of evervthino; else, he would have looked upon it as a matter of course. But to learn that a considerable sum of money lay 26 THE PHILADELPHIAN. waitinpj at his command took him com- pletely by surprise. His simplicity and his sense of gratitude amused Mr. Snapper, Avho was not often brought into personal contact with either of those qualities. After a time a great liking sprang up between the two men. and the very points of dissimilarity in their characters helped to increase it. Colonel Pendleton was of an active and excitable temperament, con- trolled by force of will; whereas Rufus Snapper was cool and stolid by nature. He surveyed the world and its ways either Avith a languid curiosity, or with cynical indifference, except when his own or his friends' interests were directly concerned, and then no man could be more keen and alert. He had accompanied Colonel Pendleton and his daughter to England, and had seldom been separated from both of them for any length of time ever since. THE FPJEyDS. 27 But, when Roland Clavering brought home his new wife, Rufus Snapper discontinued his visits to Porthcawl Castle. Colonel Pen- dleton often sought to ascertain his reason for this, but he could never sret him to talk upon the subject until it turned out, one evening at the period with which we have now to deal, that Snapper himself suddenly introduced it, in the midst of some a'eneral reflections on the art of making money. ' The fact is,' he said, ' no nation ever G'ot on that had not the mcnev-o-rubbino; spirit in it. Look at England, look at America — I mean the Xorthern part of it, for your people of the South always had souls above money-getting. They were all for chivalrv, not beins; able to see that the article is not kept in stock any more, in any market. In all your travels, you never yet met with a Crusader, with an iron pot on his head, and a long pole in 28 THE PHILADELPHIAN. liis hand, on his way to the Holy Sepul- chre? No, colonel — the Crusader is gone, although the Sepulchre wants rescuing as much as ever. Chivalry will not enable a man to live in a good house and ride in his carriage, and so it died — except with you in the South. You held on to it till those days which you and I have agreed never to talk about.' • Well, at any rate it is dead enough there too,' said the colonel, with a slight sigh which his friend's ears were sharp enough to detect. ' And a good thing, T should say, for everybody — except that it bred up men like you,' added Snapper, in an undertone. ^A little bit of romance in the world is well enough for pastime, but it never pays. You must get the best of every- body, if you can — even of your friends.' 'That is not the principle you acted THE FRIEyDS. 29- upon with me, my clear Itufus ; if you had, I don't know Avhere I and my child might have been to-day.' ' ^Yait awhile,' replied Mr. Snapper, with a frown, ' don't put up my epitaph before I am dead. You and I have been lic- house.' 76 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Well, why not make inquiries?' asked the man, cheerfully. ' I shall get at the truth in time, never fear. Meanwhile, I see no reason to give you anything to-night — therefore the sooner you leave this room the better.' ' If you refuse me, you will act unwisely,' replied the visitor, showing no dispositiou whatever to move. ' What will you gain by driving me to get money in — in another quarter? At present, all I want is five pounds — for cough medicine,' he added, laughing. ' We must have it, for I tell you we are very bad, although you pre- tend not to believe it. It is not agreeable to come here and ask for it, but what can I do?' ' You are a worthless scoundrel,' said Clavering, his anger rising in spite of the manifest effort he had been making to control himself. GEOFFREY CLAVERIXG\S VISITORS. 77 ' Ball I' said the visitor, snapping his fingers. ' I have not come here to receive your compliments. What does it matter what I am? I want five pounds — and for the sake of that you will make a fuss. Is it worth vour while? I doubt it. Now reflect,' he continued — and in spite of his disreputable air he was evidently a man of some cultivation. — ' What complaint have you to make against me, except that now and then I have come a little before mv time ? Is that so great a sin ? Can I help likin2:you? But for the fear of oifendino- you, I would call once a week or so, for the pleasure of passing even a few moments in your society. But I humour your preju- dices, and stav awav. This is mv reward.' There was a slight tone of mockery in his voice which mav have been intended •J to exasperate, but the younger man was- resolved not to lose his temper. 78 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Enough, of this farce,' he said, coolly but firmly ; 'you have told me your errand, and I have said no. Now go !' ' But you would not have me return quite empty-handed,' remonstrated the visitor. ^ You have shown a little consideration for others before now ; I think you will do so again if you think about it for a few moments. Why push matters to ex- tremities ?' ' Matters, as you call it, shall not go on much longer like this.' ' With all my heart,' replied the visitor, his manner becomins; more defiant. ' The sooner they go on in some other way, the better. You cannot be more tired than I am of this game. It is kept up to oblige you, not for my benefit. Will you propose some other plan? Or shall I do it for you ?' Clavering made a movement Avhich GEOFFREY CLAVERIXG'S VISITORS. 79 scared the man for a moment. He rose to his feet, and raised his hand in a depre- cating manner. ' Do not get excited,' he said, quietly. ' That servant of yours outside need not know everything just yet. Would you rather have a scandal than give me the beggarly sum I ask for? I assure you it is not for mvself — it is to relieve the wants of others. I am not deceiving you, I swear it!' He spoke earnestly, and for the iirst time his words seemed to make an impres- sion upon Geoffrey Clavering. He seemed to hesitate, and a smile passed quickly over the lips of the visitor. Clavering took a five-pound note and threw it across the table with less ceremony than he would have used in tossino; a biscuit to a doo-. ' Very good,' said the man, taking up the note with perfect contentment. ' I 80 THE PIIILADELPHIAN. thought yon would be reasonable. You are impetuous, but not bad-hearted. So ! Permit me to light my second cigar. When I talk I smoke fast, and you have made me talk a good deal to-night. You are not going to offer me anything to drink, I suppose? Do not be in a hurry,' he added, as he saw Clavering putting out his hand to ring the bell. 'In one moment I am off. Only a single question before I go : have you no message whatever to send — not even a word ? There will be inquiry for you — what am I to say ?' 'Take your pay, and go back to your pot-house,' said Clavering, contemptuously. ' And a devilish good place it is to go back to,' said the other, gaily. ' I have been in many a worse. You will not say good-night ? Well, that is not very civil, but then you have not been so civil of late as you were formerly. I have frequently GEOFFREY CLAVERING'S VISITORS. 81 remarked it— to others. A great change has come over you I I ascribe it to tem- porary ill-humour, and forgive it. Good- nif^fht — do not trouble to rino;. I know my way out. So there is no message, I think vou said ' he added, with his hand on the door. * Go,' said Clavering, now fairly roused, * go, and if you could be induced to hang yourself, there would be one villain the less in the world.' The man bowed, smiled pleasantly, waved an adieu to Clavering, and in a few moments was in Piccadilly. There he crossed over to a public-house, laughing heartily to himself. * Another fiver,' he muttered, 'but not for me — it is for cough-mixture ! And very good the mixture is in this neighbourhood, a deuced deal better than in my part of London. Hang' myself! Come, come! VOL. I. G 82 THE PHILADELPHIAN. The young one is facetious to-night. Why should I hang myself while you are alive, (jreofFrey ? Have you ever asked yourself that? No, my boy — I will go and drink your health in a tumbler of brandy-and- water, and hope to repeat the dose for many years at your expense.' He kept his word, and more than kept it, for when he again made his appearance in the street an hour afterwards, his steps were straggling and uncertain, and, as he piloted his course eastwards, snatches of jovial songs beguiled the way. Meanwhile, Mr. Rufus Snapper was closeted with young Clavering. He had divined what had taken place the moment he entered the room. * I see who has been here,' he said, with a little groan. ' There is no keeping that vagabond aw^ay !' ■ ' Apparently not.' GEOFFREY CLAVERING'S VISITORS. 88 ' More money ?' inquired Mr. Snapper, briefly. ' Five pounds.' ' Xot for himself, of course ?' ' No — medical attendance Avanted for a sick person.' They both laughed, but there was not much mirth in their laughter. ' Almost anything would be more en- durable than this,' said Clavering, after a pause, during which Mr. Snapper had been sunk in thouo;ht. ' I am sometimes inclined to let him do his worst, and go to my father vnth his tale.' ' Xot yet,' said Snapper, slowly ; ' it may come to that, but we must put it off. Sometimes there is nothing to be gained by delay, in this case there is. There is not alone your father to consider — you have other friends.' g2 84 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' You mean Colonel Pendleton,' said the younger man, changing countenance. * He is very much attached to you ; we must spare him pain if we can.' ' He has not the slightest idea of all this ?' ' Not the sli2:htest. You asked me to keep your secret, and I have done so. No one would be benefited now by its dis- closure. But it is not easy to deceive friends so true as the colonel — and his daughter.' Mr. Snapper pronounced the last three words in a manner which evidently was intended to strike Clavering's attention. 'That is the worst part of it all,' said the young man, deeply moved. 'Sometimes I can scarcely bear to look either of those dear friends in the face. And Edith is gentler than ever — I am only beginning to understand her worth. I have nearly GEOFFREY CLAYEPJyG'S VISITORS. 85 been beo^o-ino; you once or twice to tell her all; ' Thank you,' replied Snapper, gravely, ^ I would rather not. You see a good deal of her ?' ' Whenever she comes to London.' ' And of course she is alwavs ""lad to see you — that I know without you telling me.' ' Xaturally — recollect what friends we have been from the first.' * Exactly,' said Snapper, who had been readino; the younofer man's face Avith a steadfast eye. *But you must recollect that neither of 3'ou can be looked upon as quite the same as wdien you were at Porth- cawl Castle. Edith is not a child — and you ' Mr. Snapper paused, and seeing a look of sharp pain in the eyes of his friend, he went over to him and touched him gently. ' I do not want to say a ^vord 86 THE PHILADELPHIAN. to occasion you distress. But we have to be on our guard, you and I. One thing I should like to see — a reconciliation with your father.' ' He has written to me to go down to Porthcawl ; it is the first letter I have received from him for months.' ' And you will go ?' ' Oh, yes — but what good will come of it? You know my father, a hard man, stern in his sense of duty.' ' We are not any of us without faults/ said Snapper, and no part of the meaning of his words was lost upon Geoffrey Clavering. ' We must make allowances for one another, and I hope you will go to Porthcawl determined to be friends. A father has his rights, remember, as well as a son !' ' I Avill do all I can,' replied Clavering, pressing the hand which Snapper held out GEOFFREY CLAVEPjyG'S VISITORS. 87 to him. ' Unfortunately, I never can seem to get near my father, especially since that marriage. As for his wife, you cannot expect me to love her very much.' ' Xo, I do not ask that,' said Snapper, in a droll tone ; ' she wastes no love on you either, I daresay. But she is your father's wife, and you must endeavour to keep clear of an open quarrel with her. When do you 0^0 down?' ' In a dav or two.' ^ You will find Edith there, and most likely Colonel Pendleton — he is about to rejoin her, I know.' ' How is it vou never visit my father now ^ This time it was Clavering's turn to scrutinise his friend with curiosity. ' Well,' said Snapper, taking up his hat, ' I am going to pay my respects to Mrs. Clavering one of these days, never fear. 88 THE PHIhADELPHIAN. But I am not ready just yet — my nerves are not in good order. She is a great talker, I hear, and very handsome ; one ought to be at one's best to meet her. That is why I am waiting.' There was a faint suspicion of a smile in Mr. Snapper's eyes rather than around his mouth as he said this, but young Clavering was evidently in doubt whether he spoke in jest or earnest. ' Let me know how you fare with your father,' were the Philadelphian's last words. * As for Mrs. Clavering, we shall get on excellently well with her in due time.' And thus, leavino^ the vouncr man still rather puzzled, he took his departure. PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 89 CHAPTER V. PORTHCAWL CASTLE. Roland Clavering, Geoffrey's father, was a hard man, no doubt, and unbending in his sense of duty ; but he was not alto- o^ether to blame for the differences which had grown up between himself and his son. Concealment and want of frankness were odious faults in the scjuire's eyes, and there was too inuch reason to believe that Geoffrey Clavering had been guilty of both. Manv vouno: men are so, and obtain forgiveness ; but, when the second Mrs. Clavering appeared upon the scene, it soon 90 THE PHILADELPHIAN. became clear that the harshness of the father's character was not likely to be softened. He was at iirst disposed to give up everything to his wife ; a year or two passed, and his confidence in her dimin- ished. She, too, could conceal ; perfect frankness was not the most marked peculi- arity of her character. After a further interval, the squire saw her pretty nearly in her true light, and it was at this period that he secluded himself more than ever from the world, and seldom had a hearty welcome for anybody but Edith Pendleton. The purity of her nature, the guilelessness of her disposition, the sincerity of her affection, touched his heart. In her he saw all that he had hoped to find in wife and son ; but the latter had disappointed him. There was something pathetic in PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 91 the utter conficlence which he still reposed in the colonel's daughter ; she restored his faith in human nature at a time when it was all but overthrown. He was waiting for her now, as he paced up and down a lofty room, all the upper part of wdiich was hidden in shadow^s. Occasionally he went to one of the "svin- dows and strained his eyes in the endeavour to catch the first glimpse of the young o^irl, for since she had o-one out for her ride the weather had become wild and threatening. Far away on one side of the house there extended a sombre and leafless wood, in the midst of w^hich stood a dis- mantled tower, the relic of the Porthcawl Castle of the Xorman age. Below the window were the ancient terraces, gay with flowers in summer, but now lying cold and bare ; and beyond there were the n THE PHILADELPHIAN. huge rocks and boulders of the shore, and the wintry sea — dark, stormy, shrouded in mist. As its sullen roar fell upon the ears of Roland Clavering, a slight shudder seemed to run through his frame — caused less, perhaps, by influences without than by those within. For he came of a supersti- tious race, and many a strange history was associated with its past. There was one legend which the Claverings put faith in, and which Avas known to have had an influence over their destinies. There were critical emergencies, so it was said, when some absent or departed member of the family had the power of returning to utter a warning of impending disaster, in such a way as to be seen and heard by all ; after that, the mysterious messenger disappeared. Roland Clavering had almost looked for such a warning of late ; the dread of evil PORTHCAWL CASTLE. %^ Avas upon him, and he tried in vain to shake it off. Often during the last few months his thous^hts had turned to his favourite brother, who was livinof amid a thousand perils on a vast hacienda^ beyond the mountain ramparts of Mexico. Dark presentiments hang over us all at certain hours of the day or night, but they clung to Roland Clavering with a persistency ^vhich, in spite of himself, caused his spirit to falter. He threw himself into a chair near the deep old fire-place, in which a score of men might have been packed away, and soon became so absorbed in the thoughts which crowded upon his mind that he did not hear the door open. When he looked up, his eyes rested upon a face and form which might well have scattered evil forebodings to the winds. A young girl stood before him in the bewitching charm and fresh-^ 94 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ness of her first beauty. She was clad in a ricling-habit, which revealed the out- lines of her graceful figure, the glow of perfect health was on her cheeks, and her deep blue eyes, fringed with long dark lashes, were full of tenderness. ' And you have come at last, Edith,' said the squire, patting her head as if she were still a child. ' You are wrong to stay out so late — what will your father say to me if I let anything happen to you ?' 'Nothing will happen — Dolly is safe enough anywhere, and the rain has only just come on. But you have not been well, my dear uncle,' — she had got into the way of calling him uncle — 'and you look sad. You have not heard any bad news ?' ' No news of any kind, my child. I am looking for your father every day ; per- haps he is tired of us.' PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 95 'He will be here very soon — as soon as lie can sret awav from London. There was some business about his property in Vir- ginia which detained him.' 'AYhy does he not sell it and get done with it ?' asked the squire, rather testily. ' Sell it ? What ! our home in Virs^inia ? Papa will never do that. We intend to go and see it again some day, perhaps before long.' 'And leave me?' ' Not until Geoifrev is with you ao-ain, uncle.' Her hand stole into his as he spoke, and she looked into his face with anxious entreaty. ' It is well for Geoifrev that he has so staunch a champion,' said the squire, after an ominous pause. ' He does not seem to be particularly grateful for it.' ' What do vou mean, uncle ?' 96 IHE PHILADELPIIIAN. ' How long is it since he was here?' This question seemed to silence the young girl. She shook her head and sisfhed. ' You can scarcely tell/ continued the squire, with a look which was rarely on his face when he spoke to Edith Pendle- ton. ' He never writes to me, and he comes home about once a year. This, I suppose, is what people call a dutiful son. I am very glad that my friend the colonel has not a daughter of the same kind.' 'But Geoffrey is not so bad as you think, believe me ! He does not like to come here because he thinks you are offended with him." 'And yet you have been giving me no peace because I would not write and ask him to do us the favour to pay us a visit.' ' But you luill write, to please me.' PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 97 She came close to him again and took him by the hand. There was something in her look which melted the squire instantly. * Confess that you have your own way with me pretty much, Edith ! I Jiave written — will that content you ?' The young girl stooped over his chair and kissed his forehead. ' But now,' said the squire, relapsing into his old satirical tone, ' suppose the young gentleman should not choose to come? Recollect that, after all, I am only his father, and he has given me no reason to suppose that my authority weighs much with him. How he spends his time, who are his companions, what are his aims in life — I know not.' ' One of his companions is Mr. Snapper. You have nothing to sav against him, uncle ?' VOL. I. H t)8 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ^ Nothing, my dear, except that he, too, has deserted me. Why is that ? No one will tell me.' ' I believe it is because he does not like 772^,' said Edith, demurely, and the squire smiled in spite of himself. '- I thought the dislike was in another direction, perhaps — but we must let Mr. Snapper do what he thinks best. If I can- not induce my own son to return to Porth- cawl Castle, how can I hope to prevail upon a comparative stranger?' ' You do not quite understand Geoffrey,' said the young girl, in a low, but firm voice. ' It was a great grief to him to leave his home, only he could not tell you so — he was too proud. You are all proud, you Claverings — I have the same blood in me, you know, but when my pride is going to lead me into mischief I try to keep it down.' (She had seated herself on the arm PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 99 of the squire's chair, and his hand was aofain restino^ on her head.) 'But all vou jDeople are made up of gunpowder — a spark touches you, and off you go.' (She threw up her arms in a comical way, and the squire began to laugh.) ' Sometimes I — even I ! — am half afraid of you, sir, especi- ally when you are sarcastic and have that hard look on your face. That is your dis- inheriting look ; I suppose poor Geoffrey saw it, and he has scarcely dared to show himself here since. If you were to look at me in that way I should go back to Vir- ginia to-morrow.' She spoke in a half-playful, half-earnest tone, which amused and softened the squire. ' Then, depend upon it, you shall never see it, for if you were to go away from this house I would shut it up and spend the rest of my days abroad. There is nothing H 2 100 THE PHILADELPIIIAK much now to bind me to this country but your presence.' The squire was evidently depressed, and the young girl noticed, not for the first time, that he looked weak and ill. ' You are forgetting all about Geoffrey again,' she said, gently. ' No — I have written very humbly to invite him here. Does that satisfy you ?' 'It satisfies me so far as it goes, but what do you mean to say to him when he comes ? Ah, you dare not tell me that !' ' You are worse than the grand inquisi- tor. Well, then, you must know that I intend to tell Geofi'rey he ought to be very much obliged to Edith Pendleton for try- ing so hard to make peace. If Geoffrey does not appreciate 3^ou, his father does.' ' You will not be too severe with him?' ' Justice shall be tempered with mercy,' PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 101 said the squire, with mock gravity. 'There shall be no immediate execution.' * I am very glad,' said Edith, half in- voluntarily, ' that Mrs. Clavering is not to be here when Geoffrey comes.' ' And why ?' demanded the squire, with a sudden change in his tone. ' Because I do not think she likes to see him here. They do not get on well to- gether — as we do, for instance. I think they never were friends.' ' And whose fault has it been,' exclaimed the squire, the gunpowder having caught. ' Entirely my son's. Mrs. Clavering has done him no wrong. She cannot stand in his way, and he knows it. Self-interest, therefore, has not excited his animosity. It pleased him to resent my marriage ; probably because I did not ask his con- sent. You see,' he continued, with a bitter smile, ' I am not much encouraged to go 102 THE PHILADELPHIAN. to him for advice, because he has given me no very lofty opinion of his prudence. Always in some difficulty — that is my ex- perience of him. I have known as little of him or his doings during the last three years as if we had been strangers.' ' There is nothing to know,' Edith ven- tured to reply, although a great dread pos- sessed her of doing more harm than good ; ' he lives so quietly in London, seeing scarcely anybody.' 'How do you know that?' asked the squire, with a penetrating glance. ' Because Geoffrey tells me so. Oh, he tells me everything — we have no secrets from one another.' ' I am delighted to hear it,' said the squire to himself ' And I know that he is often very lonely and miserable,' pursued Edith. PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 103 ' Probably ; that is why be has so little desire to see us, Edith.' ' Oh, but he has,' she cried, eagerly ; ' he hides his true feelings from you, but not from me. You do not understand him, uncle — I am sure of it.' ' And YOU do?' ' I am certain I do,' she replied, in the same earnest manner, carried away by her anxiety to plead her cause successfully. She stopped, and looked in an odd, appealing manner to the squire. ' Well,' he said, moved either by her look or by some thought which passed through his mind, ' we will hope that you you are right. In any case, we shall soon hear what he has to say for him- self.' * And you will not be hard with him?' 'Anybody would think I was a man- 104 THE PHILADELPHIAN. eater. Nobody shall injure him, if I can help it, while he is in this house. Have you ever found me so very terrible ?' The young girl put her arm through his and walked up and down the long room with him. ' Dear uncle I' she said, affectionately ; ' to me and to ray father you have been only too kind. The first year my father came to England you gave up all your time to him, because he was so depressed. I re- member it well, althouirh I was but a child. What should we have done with- out you ? My poor father felt so acutely all that had happened — T see 7ioiv how much he suffered.' ' But he is a brave man,' said the squire, with an enthusiasm Avhich he rarely dis- played, ' and he bore up bravely. At first, indeed, I was a little alarmed about him; his wound was painful, and would not PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 105 heal ; and then there Avas the wound within, which was the more dangerous of the two ! It is these inward wounds that smart the worst.' He seemed to be falling back into the depression from which Edith had roused him only a little while before. This dejection, as well as the signs of ill-health, were not usual with the squire, and they alarmed the youno; ^irl. She made him go and resume his comfortable chair by the fire. In the course of the last few weeks, his figure had become bent, and he looked ten years older. All sorts of fears were in Edith's mind. ' This is a strange house, Edith,' said the squire, after a few moments' silence, ' and, when one is not well, queer fancies come trooping into the head. I think a good deal of that story we have of the kinsman who comes to warn the head of 106 THE PHILADELPHIAN. the house when clanger hangs over him/ * But nothing of the kind has happened to you ?' She went again and sat by his side and watched him intently. ^ I hardly know what has happened,' he said, dreamily. ' Of late, my life has been a sort of blur. The other evening — in this room — I thought I saw one of my two surviving brothers, Claude. It was but for a moment, and of course it was an illusion. At any rate,' he continued, with a faint smile, ' there was no message.' * Has there ever been a message of that kind?' said Edith, her curiosity a little excited. 'They say so,' said the squire, endea- vouring to treat the matter lightly ; ' my grandfather received the sign beyond a doubt, or believed he did — which I suppose comes to the same thing. I have often heard my own father speak of it. The PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 107 messenger may be a living person, but he comes unconsciously — ask the real person whether he recollects anything about it^ and he will tell you he does not. My grandfather's brother came to him, but the brother was in France at the time, and, when he was told of the interview, he treated it with derision. Nevertheless, his warning came true.' ' It was of evil ?' ^Oh, yes — that is one of the priceless privileges of our family. Xothing ever comes to tell us of any approaching good. But enough — we will talk no more of these things.' ' But do you believe in them, uncle ?' ' I neither believe nor disbelieve ; I am open to conviction. Mind you, I am not impatient to receive the mysterious warn- ing. And while you are here, Edith, it will have no power to come ! So that 108 THE PHILADELPHIAN. you see a good deal depends upon you.' ' I wisli it did — I know how I would arrange everything.' ' Well, you are getting your own way by degrees. Geoffrey will be here to- night, but not till late. I am very tired, and shall not sit up for him. Now, as you are a witch, able to make everybody do as you like, perhaps you will bring my Phila- delphian friend, Mr. Rufus Snapper, back to us, and make the old house lively again?' ' He will come soon ; he has promised me. He will not dare to break that promise.' ' I should think not,' said the squire, gravely. ' A pretty fate he would bring down upon himself if he did. Mr. Snap- per is in mortal dread of you — not that there is anything remarkable in that. We are all under the spell.' PORTHCAWL CASTLE. 10^ ' I fancy I hear Mrs. Clavering's voice,' said Edith, who was not quite free from the mischievousness of her sex. The squire started, but immediately fell back again into his comfortable attitude. 'I do not think we shall see her just now. She Avent yesterday to Birmingham. I have not heard of her return.' ' What a curious place for her to visit !' ' Very curious,' said the squire, in a musing tone, ' but I have discovered that my wife has a — a relation there, by a former marriage.' ' Yes, I know,' replied Edith, quickly^ anxious to encourage the squire to go on. He had hitherto been silent about that visit of Mr. Rafferty's, although Edith knew all about it. ' Ah, you Ivnow — then I need not tell you the story. Indeed, there is nothing to tell,' he quickly added, noticing a shade 110 THE PHILADELPHIAN. of disappointment on the young girl's face. ' Mrs. Clavering has a duty to perform in Birmingham, so she has convinced her- self, and I daresay she is right. I have told her that she is free to perform it — and she goes when she pleases. I expect her back to-morrow.' ' So soon r 'Well, it is rather soon,' replied the squire, diverted at his young friend's in- genuousness ; ' but still, we must try to bear it. Perhaps she may have to go again before long — the claims upon her seem to get rather pressing. Relations are sometimes troublesome.' 'Especially a man like that P The squire looked up surprised. He thought the Raiferty episode had not become bruited about ; but when was the penetration of servants ever at fault in PORTHCAWL CASTLE. Ill such a case? Little by little, Edith had heard the tale. This discovery mio^ht have annoyed the squire a few months ago ; now he viewed it with indifference. * Remember, my dear,' he said, in slightly reproachful accents, ' that the man is her son ! She has a right to stand by him. No doubt his faults are invisible to her eves. Far better that it should be so, than that we should see too clearly — we who have sons.' Edith Pendleton saw that there mio-ht be danger in following the squire into this train of thought, and she suddenly recol- lected that her ridino'-habit mio^ht be a little damp. The squire was all solicitude at once. ' I forgot all about that rain,' he said ; ^ how careless you were not to have re- minded me before.' 112 THE PUILADELPHIAN. In an instant he had set every bell within reach ringing, and, under cover of the din, Edith contrived to effect a judici- ous retreat. A WELCOME HOME, 113 CHAPTER YL A WELCOME HOME. It was late at iiiglit when Geoffrey Claver- inor arrived at Porthcawl, but he had been looked for with impatience by some of the inmates. ' Everybody well ?' he asked of the old butler, who was at the door to receive him. * Quite well, sir ; and we all hope that you are so too. You. will need some re- freshments, sir, after your journey ; every- thing is ready for you.' 'I almost wonder you have not for- gotten me, Pritchard.' VOL. I. I 1 1 4 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ^ Indeed, and it is a long time since you were here, sir, more's the pity,' said the old butler, with a sigh, as he led the way into the inner hall. ' We all miss you — your father most of all, as is but natural.' ' And he is well, you said ?' ' Not quite himself of late, sir ; I see a great change, and so I am afraid will you. Sometimes he does not leave the house for two or three days together. He seems so out of spirits, too ; I am sure it would do him good if you were to come and see him oftener. But I suppose you are very busy in London, sir.' ' Do not linger in that cold hall,' broke in a voice of more silvery tones than poor old Pritchard's. When Geoffrey Clavering followed the direction of the sound, he found himself in the presence of Edith Pendleton, who A WELCOME HOME. 115 had been keeping a special vigil to welcome him. ' I am so glad you have come, Geoffrey,' she said, and her heightened colour and sparkling eyes more than confirmed her words. ' And your father has been asking after you all the afternoon.' 'Is he, then, so impatient to see me?' replied the squire's son, with what might easily have been recognised as a touch of his father's half-satirical humour. As he stood before the fire, where the light fell upon him, it was impossible not to observe that in feature and bearing he bore a strong resemblance to Roland Clavering. His figure was lithe and well- proportioned, his manner somewhat more courteous and graceful than that so much in vogue with the new generation. ' It is a long time,' he said, looking i2 IIG TH?: PHILADELPHIAN. round, ' since I was last here, and, so far as I can see, nothing; has changed. We do not look for change at Porthcawl Castle.' 'No — we go away for that, and stay away.' Geoffrey smiled at this little shaft. ' I admit that I stay away, but yoic know, Edith, that I cannot help myself. How was I to live in the house with that woman ? Is she here, by-the-by ? I would have written to ask you, but I knew that in any case you would wdsh me to obey my father's summons.' ' And so you were guided by my wishes?^ They were both standing by the fire,, and young Clavering was convinced that he had never seen the colonel's daughter looking so charming before. There was a suspicion of raillery in her tone which piqued him. A WELCOME HOME. U? ' I am always guided by your wishes,' he said, with a serious air, ' when circum- stances are not too strong for me.' ' I thous^ht man was made to overcome €ircumstances.' ' So I believe he was ; but sometimes they overcom.e him just the same. But about Mrs. Claverins;?' ' Well, what about her ?' ' Don't be provoking ! Is she here ?' * She is not ; she has gone away on a visit, to Birmingham of all places in the world. The air is so refreshing there. I wonder what is the other attraction ?' This question she put merely to try the squire's son. ' It does not matter, so long as it keeps her in Birmingham. Xow tell me some- thing about yourself,' he said, in a gentler voice. ' Do you know how long ago it is since you wrote to me ? Are they 118 THE PHILADELPHIAN. trying to make us strangers, too, Edith?' ' No one is so wicked,' said the young girl, with a slight laugh ; ' but, if you are anxious for news from us, why do you not come and get it ? Your father says you do not care for us, and do not want us to care for you. I am afraid he is right.' ' That is what he says ? A charitable judgment, as usual.' ' I do not see what other he can form,' said Edith, with real or assumed gravity. * *' Les absents ont toujours tort." Still I thought there was one person in this house that was not likely to go against me.' ' You mean Mrs. Clavering ?' said Edith, with apparent simplicity. ' And so that is the only friend you will assign to me?' He came and stood a little nearer to her, and there was a look in her eyes which showed him how little import- ance he need attach to her words. He A WELCOME HOME. 119 seemed to be quite satisfied. ' Come now,' he said, with a more cheerful aspect, * let me hear something more about my only friend. Is Mrs. Clavering often absent in this way ?' ' Often of late ; at first your father seemed a good deal disturbed by it ; now I think he scarcely notices when she goes or when she returns. But then there is scarcely anything that he cares for as he used to do.' ' Surely, you !' ' Yes — he is the same as ever to me ;' and the tears came into her eyes. ' But certainly his energies are failing, and it is very lonely for him. Mrs. Clavering finds it a little too dull for her ; we have had only one visitor in ten days, and that was the old vicar. Old vicars are not much in Mrs. Clavering's line, I think.' ' And so she leaves them in possession of 120 THE PHILADELPHIAN. the field. And my father does not mind it?' * So it seems. I am with him a great deal, and he seldom speaks to me about her. I told you about the visit of that strange man, who called himself her son. That made a great difference in the squire. Mrs. Clavering had always told him her son w^as in America, and the squire has found out that he was in England all the time. He never trusts anybody who has once deceived him.' * Come and sit with me a few minutes while I get something to eat,' said young Clavering, who had been made a little un- easy by the last remark, and Edith noticed it — not without surprise. She went with him into an adjoining room, where Pritch- ard had everything in readiness. * Mrs. Claverino: ous^ht to have been frank with the squire,' said the colonel's A WELCOME HOME. 121 daugliter, when they were again alone. * Had she told him all, he would not have been angry. It is the best way to deal with him.' ' I suppose it is,' returned Geoffrey, a little restlessly. * And it is the honourable course. Is it not a shame to lead him to believe a falsehood r' * Well, go on with your story, Edith,' responded Clavering, whose appetite seemed to be gone. ' They have not been so much to2:ether of late ?' ' Very little. And, except for the pain that this affair caused your father, I wish very much that this Mr. Rafferty would come again.* Geoffrey laughed once more. * Mother and son,' he said, ' are alike too clever for that. There must have been some accident about the last business ; 122 THE PHILADELPHIA^. depend upon it, sJie did not plan it to come off like that. The first appearance of '*' my son " at Porthcawl was designed as a great dramatic coujy. to make his fortune and overwhelm me. If the fellow had been sober, I daresay he would have played his part a little better.' ' At any rate,' said Edith, triumphantly, for she was as angry at the insolence of Eafferty as she could be about anything, ' he has not dared to come here again, at least not inside the house. As for what goes on outside, I am not quite sure. The ser- vants will talk, and they all dislike Mrs. Clavering.' ' What a very sensible set of people !' * And they say that she has been seen with her son in the park. But, remember, you must not repeat a word of this to any- body — it might do harm ! Now let me tell you a great secret.' (Geoffrey drew a A WELCOME HOME. 12S couple of chairs before the fire, and sat very near to her. so that the secret should reach his ears alone.) ' Before that visit — that is, before vour father knew that he had been deceived — she led him to make a new will/ * How do you know that ?' asked the squire's son, rather startled. ' Because Mr. Smiles, the lawyer, came here several times, and once he said to me, " I wish Geofl:rey Clavering were here. It is hio-h time he came, if he onlv knew his own interests." I wrote to you, but of course vou did not come. On his last visit, Mr. Smiles seemed a little better 2:)leased, because, I fancy, the will was not signed. Mrs. Clavering was very anxious about it, and I suppose she had her reasons for being so. Pritchard knew that it was your father's will which ^Mr. Smiles brought^ and he told me all about it the next day. 124 THE PHILADELPHIAN. He was frightened, and thought the squire was about to die. You know he had been ill iust before that.' ' And you have been keeping watch on all these manoeuvres, for my sake?' '"What a dreadful thing it would be if that woman had her own way,' said Edith, taking no notice of his remark, and speak- ing with apparent anxiety. ' Sometimes I am afraid she will get it — she is very clever, and there is only a poor, inexperienced girl to oppose her. Why do you not come back, Geoffrey, and take your own part ?' ' You know that I cannot help myself just now — we have often talked about that. It is that woman's daily inter- course with 3^ou that I am most anxious to prevent. She cannot do me any great harm.' ' Our intercourse is very limited. We A WELCOME HOME. 125 say good-moriiing and good-night, that is all. But I do not like to see her victorious. She wanted to get you away from here,, and you went. Then she tried to get rid of me, but I knew it and would not go, Xow my father wants me to go abroad with him, and I suppose the squire must be left alone — with her !' There was a brief silence, and the young man seemed plunged in thought. ' How cold this room always is,' he said, presently, with a shiver. ' It is always cold. I wonder Pritchard put me in here — it is where they found the skeletons under the floor.' • I know it.' said Edith Pendleton, look- ing round with a ludicrous affectation of alarm ; ' none of the maids will come near this passage after dark except in couples. But I rather like the room ; one is sure of never being disturbed in it. I have never 126 THE PHILADELPIIIAN. seen anything more ghostly than that por- trait in the corner.' She pointed to the picture of a stern, almost sinister-looking man, who was point- ing downwards to the floor. It was a Clavering of the time of the Wars of the Roses, and the legend was that he had entrapped two of his own relations into this very room and caused them to be killed. There was a fierce and sanguinary expression in the face which instantly struck all who looked upon it. A new flooring had been laid, and, in carrying out the Avork, the men came upon two sketetons, but how long they had been there was never found out. ' I wish there were never anybody worse in the house than my wicked ancestor,' said young Clavering, carelessly. ' By the way, they say that when there is anybody here of whom he disapproves, he visits A WELCOME HOME. 127 them at night in appalling shapes until they go mad. But Mrs. Clavering has not gone mad, so there can be nothing in that story. I hope he approves of you and me, Edith.' ' Be serious, Geoffrey !' ' I am — very serious. There is enough to make one so in this house. There are but two left of the old stock, my father and I. See on what terms we are ! If it were not for you I should scarcely have ventured to come here again.' He took her hand for a moment and bent over it, slightly touching it w^ith his lips. Edith could see that he was not a little moved. ' I am a very helpless creature,' said she, ■sorrowfullv ; ' see how lono: and how hard I have been trying to make you and your father friends, and to bring you back to your home. Yet, to-day, we are all just 128 THE PHILADELPIIIAN, where we were — no f^ood has been done. Now, if it had been Mrs. Clavering who had set her heart upon this she would have suc- ceeded. I feel very much ashamed of myself.* * Edith !' said the squire's son, with great feeling. ' You must not talk of your- self like this. But for you, everything would have been ten times worse. I should have given up in despair long ago.' 'But why?' She looked up at him in genuine surprise. ' Because of all the difficulties of my position. Think of this wretched state of affairs with my father!' * But if you would only come back, I am sure he would relent even now !' ' Relent !' repeated the squire's son, fir- ing up. ' What cause has he for anger ? What harm have I done ?' ' Is your conscience, then, so entirely clear, Geoffrey?' A WELCOME HOME. 129 It was almost an accidental question ; certainly there was no hidden meaning in it, but it seemed to strike young Clavering like a bullet. For a moment or two he stood confused, almost dismayed. ' What have they been telling you about me ? AYho has dared to come here poison- ing yow^ mind as well as my father's ?' ' Xo one,' replied the young girl, as- tonished ; ' how strangely you look, Geoff- rey ! Why are you so agitated ?' ' Is it not enough to agitate one to think of the tales that may have reached you?' ' Why should it ? You do not suppose we should believe anyone who sought to do you harm ? When a person's life is blameless, why should he fear ?' ' Ah, that is all very well,' he said, with some appearance of impatience, 'but no one can go through life without making VOL. I. K 180 THE PHILADELPHIAN. mistakes.' He looked at his old companion strangely, and a sudden outburst of feeling seemed to master him. ' I only wish,' he said, ' that I could have been guided by you from the day I quitted my home ! All might have been different now.' ' What do you mean, Geoffrey ?' she asked, with an unwonted tremor at her heart. ' What has happened to make you speak and look like this?' Then seeing that he was silent, and had averted his head, she put her hand upon his arm, and appealed to him. ' If you are in any trouble — if there is anything that can be done — why do you not tell me ? Have we not always been true friends ?' • There is nothing,' said Clavering, shak- ing off his depression with a manifest effort. ' Do not exaggerate. I wish I had never left you — there is nothing surprising in that. You must not get idle fancies A WELCOME HOME. 131 into your head about me. The fact is, I have not been very well lately ; all these bothers at home upset me. Never mind about me,' he continued, Avith more vi- vacity. ' Tell me about my father. Is he really breaking as much as old Pritchard says ?' ' I fear so,' replied Edith, not at all re- assured, yet unwilling to question him any further. ' I wish he would see the doctor, but he always refuses. He frets a good deal, and yet when my father comes to see us, he soon recovers his spirits. See how late it is !' she added, with a quick glance at the clock. ' I suppose I ought not to have sat up, but it seemed hard that you should come back without a word of welcome.' ' You are not angry with me, Edith ?' He fixed his eyes anxiously upon her face as he spoke. k2 132 THE PHILADELPHIAK * Oh, no — why should I be? But there must be no mysteries between us. If you cannot trust me, it is hard indeed. You must tell me everything — do you under- stand ?' He looked tenderly after her as she re- tired, and then he returned to his chair, and said half aloud : ' Tell her all ! I wish to heaven I could I Perhaps I had better begin to-morrow with my father; I might try that first as an experiment.' And, late as it was, this thought, or some other that filled his mind, kept him brood- ing till the last spark of fire was extin- guished, and all the house was silent. FATHER AND HEIR. 133 CHAPTER VII. FATHER AND HEIR. The first greeting between the squire and his son was constrained, and to the eyes of Edith Pendleton, who was in the breakfast- room when they met, the coolness between them seemed to have increased rather than diminished. At vouns^ Claverino^'s last visit, the squire had talked freely with him on all sorts of subjects ; now he was preoccupied and reserved. When he re- tired to the library, he invited the younger man to follow him, and the hard tone in which he spoke almost destroyed in Edith's mind the last remnant of her hopes. 134 THE PHILADELPHIAN. 'Well,' said the squire, when he and Geoffrey were alone, ' you have at last done us the honour to pay us another visit. It is most kind of you, for natur- ally your engagements in London are very pressing ?' ' If I have not been here so often as I should like, I hope you will not blame me,' replied the son, too readily echoing the squire's tone. There was an old saying that two Claver- ings, father and son, ought never to be shut up in a room together. ' Pray, whom should I blame, then ? Apparently you think that I have no right to know anything whatever about your life ; it is months since we have heard from you.' ' Recollect, sir, how many letters of mine still remain unanswered.' ' I recollect them,' remarked the squire^ FATHER AND HEIR. 135 pointing to a little packet which lay upon the table. ' There they are, truly filial epistles ; complaints of inadequate allow- ance, allusions to debts, hints of difficul- ties which I have not been able to compre- hend, even with the aid of my lawyer, Mr. Smiles.' ' I was not aware that he had been in- teresting himself in me.' ' At my request ; and thus far I cannot say that he has added much to my meagre stock of information.' The son's face brightened a little for a moment, and the squire's keen glance instantly detected the change. ' Mr. Smiles,' he continued, ' is a discreet man, and does not meddle in affairs which do not immediately concern him. I daresay he looks upon your private difficulties — whatever they may be — as be- yond his province. I gave him no in- structions to enquire into them.' 136 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' I thank you for your consideration, sir. ' Just so — consideration for others, as well as for you.' The squire uttered these words in a significant tone, and the son understood him at once. ' But now you can fill up the ^aps yourself We may never have a more favourable oppor- tunity.' He sat down in his leisurely way, and seemed to indicate that he expected to hear some important disclosures. 'What do you wish me to tell you, sir?' The younger man was already chafing slightly. ' As for that — anything you deem likely to interest me. I am entirely at your dis- posal this morning. Let us have such fragments of autobiography as it may seem fitting to you that your father should FATHER AND HEIR. 137 be made acquainted with. The omissions even then will perhaps be considerable.' ' I am afraid there must be some. I w^as very young when I was practically driven from my home, and I had little knowledge of the world. It would have been strange if I had made no blunders.' * Then you really have made blunders ?' ' Undoubtedly ; we all have.' ' Let us leave the rest of the universe out of consideration for the moment, and deal only with yourself. The subject seems to be wide enough !' ' I am afraid it is, sir.' ' Well, do not assume so despondent an air. Your debts I know about ; is there anything else ?' * I do not think there is anything I need trouble you with,' said young Clavering, drawing more and more within himself, under the influence of his father's half- 138 THE PHILADELPHIAN. sarcastic manner. ' If I have done any- thing wrong, I suppose I shall have to suffer for it.' ' Come ! That is an answer worthy of a son in a melodrama. It is better, as a rule, to keep stage mysteries for the stage. By- the-by, is your secret — for there seems to be one — connected with the stage? You know what I mean ?' * Perfectly. There is nothing of that kind,' repUed the son, with an angry flush. ^ Well, do not get indignant about it. All sorts of things happen to young men who prefer anybody's home to their father's. Even we who live so much out of the world hear of the delightful things that go on in it. So your difliculties do not spring from the drama ?' 'There is nothing of the kind,' repeated the son, rather doggedly. FATHER AND HEIR. 13» * No love, and no marriage ? One never knows what may happen. There are various kinds of marriages.' 'There are,' said the son, quickly, and with a touch of sarcasm which evidently did not please the squire, although it was much in his own style. ' What am I to infer from that remark ? That you have acquired experience in that field also ?' ' No, sir; 1 merely meant that your own, marriage has been punishment enough for me.' * Meaning my second marriage, I pre- sume ?' The squire's voice was calm, but inward- ly he began to grow warm. . ' It w^as a marriage which involved many misfortunes — among them, it lost m^e my father's confidence and aff'ection.' ' That you appear to have keenly felt. 140 THE PHILADELPHIAN. You have been to see me once or twice in four years ; and even now I cannot detect much of the prodigal son in your tone or manner. You have taxed me heavily to pay your debts, and I will always say this for you — you refrain from overwhelming me with gratitude. But that, I suppose, is a way w^hich you have of showing your good feeling. And for the same reason, doubtless, you are pleased to sneer at a lady who is entitled to your respect, if nothing more.' ' I know of but one lady in this house who is entitled to my respect,' said the young man, firmly. * And pray to whom do you refer?' ' You may easily guess, sir, — to Edith Pendleton.' The squire's countenance changed ; the son saw that for the moment he was quite disarmed. FATHER A^'D HEIR. Ul ' It is true,' he said, ' that Edith — Miss- Pendleton — has brought a blessing to this house. It would be strange if I were less ready to acknowledge it than you ! I could even add much to what you have said — she might have taught you your duty had you been willing to learn it. Well would it have been for all of us if your character had resembled hers ! But I will not blame you because you are not gifted with a nature which belongs to creatures of a finer mould than we are made of, you and I. If it is to praise Edith Pendleton that you have come, your mission is accomplished. We agree en- tirely. Pray, have you but just found out her merits?' ' Xot at all — but you forget that when I was with her most, I was a mere lad. "When I went from home, she was little more than fourteen. If I did not under- 142 THE PHILADELPHIAN. stand her then as I do now it is not sur- prising. After I went away, she seemed for some time to have forgotten me, and "before I saw her again, I had ' ' You had what ?' said the squire, seeing that his son came to a sudden pause. ' I had become a stranger to her — and to you. My place was gone.' But somehow the father felt that this was not what his son had at first intended to say. He looked at him searchingly for a moment, and then he seemed immersed in his own thoughts. * You see Miss Pendleton in London, when she is there with Colonel Pendleton,' said the squire, after an interval which seemed long to both. ' Not so often as I should wish — but still I see her.' ' Very good ; and you are friends ?' FATHER AND HEIR. 113 ' Decidedly. I am well aware liow faith- fully she has stood by me.' ' You camiot be too grateful to her for her kindness. It is at least satisfactory that you recognize that. I wish I could think that all your acquaintance had been like her — or that none were unworthy of her.' ' You have ^^ourself said that few women are like Edith, and I believe it. I have cause to know it too well.' ' These allusions to my wife may seem to you very clever,' said the father, in sharp accents, ' but they are not seemly. Reserve them for your own private amuse- ment.' The son looked up surprised, for no such allusion had been in his thoughts. This unusual sensitiveness to real or imaginary references to his wife seemed to 144 THE PHILADELPHIAN. be a new feature in the squire's character. * I was not thinking of Mrs. Clavering/ said Geoffrey, frankly. ' And depend upon it I did not come here with any purpose of offending you.' ' Pray, may I ask, sir, in what school have you been acquiring this wonderful experience of which you have spoken T ' In a school which I have no desire to see again. But I need not trouble you about that, sir. I have come here in ac- cordance with your desire, but I do not know that it is worth while to take up your time with my affairs.' ' And yet I do not know that there is anyone to whom your affairs are likely to be more interesting than your father. Do you ?' The squire looked at his son stead- ily for a moment or two, but there was no reply. Then he went on, ^The truth is, it is about yourself that I wished to talk to FATHER AND HEIR. U5 you. Let us begin at the beginning. When do you propose to return to your home?' The son hesitated, and seemed more uneasy than he had been at any time during the conversation. Yet, as his father reminded him, the question was not unnatural or in itself alarming. ' I confess,' he said at length, ' that I have not been thinking of taking any such step. I think, sir, that Mrs. Clavering would rather I did not.' * We will leave my wife out of the ques- tion for the moment,' said the squire, with an icy smile. ' Put the matter to yourself in another way. How must your conduct appear, think you, to Edith Pendleton, whose good opinion you profess to value so highly ? Are you sure that you are not forfeiting her esteem as well as mine?' * I am ??<9^ sure that I understand you,' ' VOL. I. L 146 THE PHILADELPHIAN. replied Geoffrey, far less unmoved in real- ity than his manner indicated. ' Yet it is very simple. You profess to prize Edith's esteem — how is it, then, that you are so careful to keep from the house which contains her ? There must be some overpowering attraction elsewhere. Do you suppose that Miss Pendleton has no such thought crossing her mind?' ' She understands my motives, and I think she approves of them.' * I doubt it very much ; you seem to think that events can be controlled ,by your own wishes. You deceive yourself about Edith — unless, indeed,' added the squire, as a sudden thought struck him and gave to his face a kindlier look than it had yet worn, ' unless you have a better understanding with her than I am aware of Is that the case? 1 will tell you FATHER AND HEIR. 147 candidly that I should be gratified to hear that it is so.' 'There is no understanding between us — except that which makes us friends,' replied the son, divining his father's mean- ing, but striving to hide the fact. He rose from his chair, and walked about the room with restless steps. ' I beg you to sit down,' said the squire ; * I have been nervous of late, and your movements disturb me. This understand- ing with Miss Edith — it is, then, purely formal, as one may say?' ' Purely friendly, sir.' ' The same thing. And you mean to say that you have no desire to place it on a different footing ?' ' How can I ? My path lies apart from hers.' ' Does it really ?' said the squire, relaps- T '"^ 148 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ino^ into his cold and ironical mood. ' Then I should be disposed to regard that as a disaster for you. Any man who gained Miss Pendleton's affection would have reason to esteem himself fortunate. But it seems that your path lies apart from hers. And you are quite contented to have it so. How do you explain that ?' ' I have no explanation to offer, sir/ replied the son. He now saw why his father had sent for him, and he was taken completely by surprise. Scarcely knowing how to meet this unexpected emergency, he took refuge in silence, which his father interpreted as dogged obstinacy. 'So much,' said the squire, in mingled anger and disappointment, ' for all my hopes and plans. They go the way of most of the others which I had formed for you. I do not know much about what FATHER AND HEIR. U9 yon call your " path," but it seems to me that you had better pursue it alone.' *I fear I must, indeed,' rejoined the youno^ man, bitterly. ' So be it. We need not, then, go any further into that autobiography of yours. Do not complain again, as you have com- plained, of neglect. Blame yourself only — and now it seems to me that this is all "sve can have to say to one another, unless you will honour us by joining us at dinner. There will be no one here but Mrs. Claver- ing, whose return I am expecting every moment.' ' Thank you ; I will not trespass on your kindness.' ' Consult your own convenience entirely. Good-bye.' He held out his hand much as he might have done to a passing acquaint- ance, and the son turned quickly from the room. His first impulse was to quit the 150 THE PHILADELPHIAN. house at once, but he felt that he must say a few words to Edith Pendleton first. And yet how could he tell her the real cause of this new difference with his father ? That was impossible. Perhaps he had created in the mind of the squire the impression that he was indifferent to Edith's future. The truth was exactly the other way, and yet he had not avowed it. Remorse was mingled with sadness as he took her hand. Never had the subtle influence which her very presence exercised over him moved him so powerfully. They stood looking at each other a moment, and then by an irresistible impulse he drew her towards him, and kissed her — for the first time since they were children. ' All has gone badly,' he said, and the smile faded out of the young girl's face. She was more disheartened than she dared to reveal. FATHER AXD HEIR. 151 ' What has happened ?' she asked, nervously. ' I can scarcely tell — from the first mo- ment we seemed to get to cross purposes, as usual. He taunted me, and I fell into a sullen fit, I suppose. At any rate, I am going — he gave me my conge very unmis- takably. We must be friends, Edith, happen what may. Something will arise yet to sweep away my difficulties, and then you will let me come to you and tell you all !' 'Why, what is there to tell? You cannot make me afraid, Geofi'rey, because I am sure you have done nothing wrong. Do not go in this haste ! Your father will ask for you presently, and forget his anger.' ' He will not ; you do not yet know him so well as I do.' 152 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Why did you quarrel — what was it about ?' * Anything — everything. But, remem- ber, Edith, that, whether I am here or in London, I am always thinking of you. Do not think harshly of me, whatever you may hear. This woman — my father's wife — is vindictive, and can be dangerous. She will tell you ' ' What does it matter, since I have perfect trust in you,' she said, but she could not help noticing how often he came round to this same point again. Some one might seek to injure him in her estimation ! * And you are really going to-day ?' she said, sorrowfully. * At once — it is better so. It seems that very little of my life, Edith, really belongs to me ; the fates have taken it into their own hands, and I do not think much of FATHER AND HEIR. 153 their management. But I shall see you soon again, for your father has promised to bring you to London. London is toler- able to me only when you are there.' ' I hope it is so,' said the young girl, as if to herself. ' Do not doubt it ! For the last two years, I have felt all my hopes and wishes centre in you. Some day I will try to make myself worthy of you ! Try to believe that also — and now, good-bye !' He took her hand, and for a few moments all care and trouble passed from the minds of both. The squire's son looked back when he reached the door. Edith Pendleton was still standing where he left her, but there was a look upon her face which nerved him to go on his way. And yet, it was because he would not acknowledge to his father his love for Edith that his visit had 154 THE PHILADELPHIAN. been a failure ! He did not conceal this from himself, although he concealed it from her. Why he had acted thus he knew well enouo:h : it did not arise from the acciden- tal freak of a moment. He strode on through the park, brooding on all the cir- cumstances of his position, when he was aroused from his dreams by a carriage passing swiftly, and so closely that a slight spatter of mud from the wheels fell upon his face. Ho looked up, and glanced with some irritation at the person within the vehicle — a lady, half-buried in heavy furs. The very sight of her seemed to him at such a moment an omen of evil. It was Mrs. Clavering. She had recog- nised him, but when, on her return to the house, her husband made no allusion to the visit, she on her part held her peace. The squire's silence alone told her all she FATHER AND HEIR. 155 cared to know. But with Edith she felt no compulsion to be upon her guard. During the afternoon she found an opportunity of unburdening her mind. ' Geoffrey Clavering has been here, Edith,' she began, in her pleasantest tones — ' and of course you saw him ?' Edith merely gave a look of surprise at the question ; she was not quite certain what motive the squire's wife had for thus suddenly adverting to the visit, but what had passed between her and Geoffrey somehow made her feel very resolute and brave. *He has left his father all unhini^ed and depressed — as usual, one may say. Do you know what happened during his visit ?' *They did not invite me to be present at their interview,' said Edith. ' Why do you not ask my uncle?' 156 THE PHILADELPHIAN. * Geoffre}^ must have gone away very suddenly,' continued the elder lady, as if wondering much at the cause. ' Why was that ? And he was not in a very amiable mood, I fear. I saw him hurrying along, with his head bent down, as we entered the park. We are some distance from the railway, as you know, and the rain was beo-innino; to fall. He would not be driven to the station, it seems — told the servants he would walk. And walk he did, no doubt, all the long five or six miles. Really, I felt sorry for him ; cer- tainly he was not happy. Now I think of it, I am not surprised that he looked so gloomy and morose. At such moments, of course everj^thing must go wTong. To tell you the truth, the barouche nearly ran over him.' ' Your barouche ! Nearly ran over Oeoifrey !' FATHER AND HEIR. 157 There Avas a touch of half-amused scorn in Edith's voice asrainst which Mrs. Cla- vering was by no means proof. In spite of her skill and experience, there Avere few things which overthrew her composure so soon as this young girl's contempt. 'That is precisely what occurred,' she said, with her pleasant smile. ' We could not help it. . You know how awkward it is when anyone is rushing along the road without looking where he is going. There might have been a terrible accident.' ' The carriage upset, do you mean ?' said Edith, now completely herself. ' Ko, but the young gentleman killed, and he really looked at me as fiercely as if T had tried to do it. But I have no wish to kill him — I hope he knows that.' ' I will tell him ; he will be delighted.' ' What is more,' continued Mrs. Claver- ing, ' I wish he had chosen to remain here 158 THE PHILADELPHIAN. for a day or two. It does not look very well for the only son to be continually absent from his home. It would cause talk, only that there is not anybody within ten miles of us to know or care what goes on. It cannot be well, I should think, for a young gentleman in his position to be living alone in London ; but that, I sup- pose, is his own affair.' 'He seems to think it is. Why have you never tried to convince him he is wrong ?' 'How could I hope to succeed, my dear, where you have failed ? No, no, I am too prudent for that. Well, now, at any rate this visit is over, and we may hope that your uncle wdll have a little peace. Have you seen him since his son was here ?' ' Was I not at luncheon T FATHER AND HEIR. 159 ' To be sure — I had forgotten. Then you must have noticed how much he was dis- turbed ; how silent he was, how unhke what he used to be.' ' Indeed, we have all noticed that — but not to-day for the first time.' ' That he has altered much of late ? Yes, 1 see it too ; I understand that even the servants talk about it. You must re- member that Mr. Claverins; does not o^row younger or stronger. So much the more reason is there for sparing him all the pain and annovance that we possiblv can. Xow this affair to-day — it has thoroughly un- nerved him. I have not seen him so put out since — since — well, really I cannot recall the time.' ' Let me help you,' said Edith, innocent- ly. ' He was more put out, as you call it, after that other visit he had some time 160 THE PHILADELPHIAK ago. You cannot quite have forgotten that?' Mrs. Clavering had great command over her features, but she could not always con- trol her hands. Their restlessness now showed that slie was not so thoroughly at her ease as her pleasant smile might have led a looker-on to suppose. ' I am afraid I cannot assist you in your recollections,' said she, coolly. ' Perhaps you will complete them for my benefit.' ' Oh, there will be no difficulty — the incident will come back to vou in a moment. The other visitor who troubled my uncle so much was that very odd-looking man, who forced himself into the house, and acted so strangely. I am sure he was more difficult to manage than poor Geoffrey, for he at any rate is always — ' sober, Edith was going to say, but she restrained her- self — ' always perfectly quiet and well- FATHER AND HEIR. 161 behaved. But they said in the house that this person was not like that — not by any means/ ' Whom do you mean ?' Although the question was asked in a firm voice, Mrs. Clavering was more dis- turbed than she would willingly have acknowledged, for until now she believed that the ill-starred appearance of her son at Porthcawl was not known to Edith Pendleton. But her confusion was little more than momentary ; it never cost her any effort to summon up a bold front. 'You do not remember?' said Edith, ' well, that is strange. It was that person who was insolent to my uncle, and who came demanding to see you. His name — what was his name ? — it is so difficult to recall the names of such people. Xow I have it — Samuel Rafferty, a gentleman from Birmingham, said the servants. You VOL. I. M 162 THE PHILADELPHIAN. go to Birmingham sometimes, perhaps you know him ?' Mrs. Clavering assumed a look of sorrowful dignity, and swept out of the room, leaving for once the field and the honours of w^ar with her young antagonist. MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 163 CHAPTER VIII. MR. SXAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. After the departure of his son, the squire secluded himself more than ever, and it soon became evident to the person in the house who loved him best — Edith Pendle- ton — that his health was rapidly failing. She sat with him for several hours during the day, reading or talking, and gradually the conviction took a firmer hold upon her that the squire's illness did not arise en- tirely from natural causes. It was a terrible suspicion, but the more she observed and reflected, the harder was it to dismiss it m2 164 THE PHILADELPHIAN. from her mind. She could not refrain from letting a hint of it appear in a letter to her father, and she also dwelt much upon the state to which his old friend had become reduced. Colonel Pendleton read this letter with some concern ; and he not only made in- stant arrangements to go down to Porthcawl Castle, but prevailed upon Mr. Rufus Snap- per to accompany him. There was the less difficulty in managing this since Mr. Snapper had privately made up his mind that the time had come when it was his duty to renew his acquaintance with the lady whom he remembered best as Polly RafFerty. After the disappearance of his former cashier, Peter Rafferty, the lady had called upon Mr. Snapper to see what could be done Y\dth him. She had at that time a very girlish appearance, and a soft, shy MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 165 look, such as would have well become Eve before the fall. She was very timid when Mr. Snapper received her — trembled a little, and blushed, but was not too much confused to watch the effect she was producing. She gave a pathetic account of her own life, which was none the less striking be- cause it happened to be composed entirely on the spur of the moment ; she cried a little, and would have cried a great deal, only that she saw unequivocal signs that she might as well pour water upon a duck's back, as shed tears before Rufus Snapper ; therefore she changed her tack, and assail- ed her husband freely. Before starting out on her errand, she had taken care to choose a dress which displayed her figure to the best advantage, and she got ready the whole battery whichshehadfoundmost destructive in her previous dealings with 166 THE PHILADELPHIAN. mankind. She did justice to herself — na one could deny that ; and the end of it was — utter failure. The iron-clad Phila- delphian showed not the slightest trace of having been in action. He nodded grave- ly now and then when he was directly appealed to, and once when Mrs. Raiferty felt very faint — or began to look as if she had made up her mind to feel faint — Snapper's hand was suddenly extended,, not towards her, as she fully anticipated, but towards the bell. *What sort of a man is he, anyhow ?'^ she said to herself, anger and mortification in her heart. Seeing that the game was hopeless, she dried her eyes, which were not very wet, and took her leave, and rejoiced greatly to think that Peter Raiferty had helped himself so freely to Snapper's money, and that she had enjoyed her full share of it. MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 167 On his way to Porthcawl, all these things, and many more, came back to Snapper's recollection, and it was with some curiosity that he speculated on the nature of the reception he was likely to meet with from the squire's wife. It turned out to be not at all like that which he had anticipated. He had looked for a cold and distant greeting, whereas Mrs. Clavering received him, as it were, with open arms ; no friend of a life-time could have had a warmer welcome. ' Of course I recollect you now,' she said, with every sign of true pleasure; * how glad I am to see you here ! Your name I had forgotten ; but I do not forget yoii. It is so much easier to remember faces than names. After dinner we will have a little talk over old times and old friends.' Her self-possession was almost too much for Snapper. 168 THE PHILADELPHIAN, ' Old friends !' thought he. ' Why, she must mean her former husband, Peter. But he's dead — she can't have heard any- thing from him lately. I never saw a human being of her acquaintance except Peter. What on earth can she want to talk about him to me for? Ah, here is Edith.' It was curious to notice the change which passed over his face as the colonel's daughter entered the room. The hard look about his eyes, the firm lines round the mouth, softened down as if by magic. A gentle tone was suddenly imparted even to his voice as he greeted her, and for a moment or two he was silent, holding her hand in his own. Mrs. Clavering watched them attentively, and then she gathered up a bundle of letters from her writing- table. * I think,' she said, ' that Miss Pendleton MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 169 shall give you your tea, Mr. Snapper, and ■we will have our talk another time. Will you let it be so ? I must answer some of these letters by to-night's post ;' and she held them up that he might see they were really letters. Snapper bowed, and as Mrs. Clavering passed from the room he and Edith ex- changed one expressive look, but for the moment neither of them made an allusion to her. ' Fancy your actually having come all this way to see me,' said Edith, as she made him take a chair by her side. ' I declare I can scarcely believe it, although you are before my eyes.' ' Did I say I had come to see you T * Do not dare to tell me you have come to see anyone else ! To be sure, there is Mrs. Clavering. Perhaps your visit is for her. And, now I think of it,' she added, 170 THE PHILADELPHIAN. with a little start at the sudden recollec- tion of the fact, * the mention of your name produced a strange effect u]3on her when she first heard it. I wish I had seen you when you met ! What did she do?' ' Do ? Nothing — what could she do ? Am I not getting old? Ladies do nothing to me now, except sometimes give me a cup of tea. And that is more than I seem likely to get from you.' Edith had, in fact, forgotten her busi- ness at that moment. She was satisfied that something was going on in her friend's mind which she did not quite understand, and she was trying to read his counte- nance, as she told herself. But there was nothing written there. 'You mean to say that you keep a secret from me, Mr. Snapper?' she said, disappointed with the result of her scrutiny. MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 171 ' I mean to say that I should not ven- ture to do anything of the sort,' replied Snapper, with mock seriousness. * That is not the compact between us. We are to have no secrets from one another. So now, to prove that you are in earnest, out with all yours to begin with.' * And what about this lady to w^hom they say you are going to be married T she asked, in reproachful accents. ' I hope you will like her — at least, as well as you do the lady of this house. Is it because Mrs. Clavering and you are so fond of each other that you live in this old place so long ?' * You may well call it an old place,' said Edith, avoiding for some reason the main question. ' Did you notice the draw- bridge as you came in? But that is nothing. Come here and look down this passage.' 172 TEE PHILADELPHIAN. She rose as she spoke, and opened a door leadinoj from the room in which they were sitting. It led into a dark corridor which had a very bad reputation among the servants. It was supposed to be the liveliest place in the house — after mid- night. Snapper peered down the dark passage, and put his hands upon the rough stone w^alls to see if they were real. At first he treated it as a joke ; then he grew more serious, for the spirit of the place began to enter into him. No one at PorthcaAvl could altogether resist its influence, espe- cially as the evening shadows lengthened. ' Go dow^n the passage and see where it leads to,' said the colonel's daughter, giv- ing him a little push. * I am afraid to go by myself,' replied Snapper ; ^ I don't like these dark places.' Then he took the young girl's hand, and MR. S^'APPER AT PORTHCAWL. 17i^ drew her gently with him. ' Xow it seems- neither so cold nor so dark as I thouorht it was at first. But there's something queer about it. Where did you say the passage leads to ?' * To the priest's chambers.' 'What, are there priests here, too? AVell, that beats all. I never knew that madame was a Catholic before. She wasn't much of a Catholic in Peter's time.' 'And pray who was Peter?' asked Edith, quickly, as they stepped back into the room. ' And what had he to do with Mrs. Clavering ?' ^ Did I say anything about Peter?' said Snapper, looking mystified. ' To be sure you did ! Xow, tell me the whole truth, and do not stand there trying to deceive me. Who was Peter ?' ' I suppose I must have been thinking of Saint Peter ; we were talking about 174 THE PHIL A DELPHIAN. priests and Catholics, that must have put him into my head. Saint Peter with the keys, you know — and a pretty free use he made of those same keys at my expense/ added Snapper, sotto voce, ' What are you muttering about keys ?' asked Edith, looking very hard at Snapper, and shakino; her fino^er at him in a threat- ening manner. ' I said I had lost my keys, and thought I should have to go back home for them, especially as you have grown such a little tyrant. Why, what has come over you ?' ' I want to know about Peter,' said the young girl, coaxingly. ' Well, there was Peter Cooper,' replied Snapper, reflectively, 'shall I tell you all about him ? And Peter Goelett — plenty of Peters I have known, most of them thriving men enough and free with their money — remarkably free. I shouldn't wish MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 175 to see anybody more free than Peter Raf- ferty was with mine.' ' I thought his name was Samuel?' said Edith, still keeping a sharp watch on every little slip of Snapper's. ' Peter or Samuel, what does it matter ? See here,' said Snapper, rather gravely, * don't you go getting into a snarl with Mrs. Clavering. Depend upon it, the game she is playing is not fit for you to take a hand in. I know what you are thinking about ; you may be right or wrong, none of us can say. But do not cross that woman's path if you can help it. I think you would be better away from here alto- fi^ether, but we cannot o:et tou to see that.' ' Because I am afraid to leave my poor uncle. Think how kind he has been to us! And now he is in great danger of some sort — I told my father so, but I think he makes lis^ht of it. But you will all see 176 THE PHTLADELPHIAN. some day that what I tell you is true. Oh, Mr. Snapper,' she went on, earnestly, ^ if I could only get you to believe me ! You could do so much more than anyone else.' ' I don't see how. We could not shut up Mrs. Clavering in one of the Castle dungeons !' ' No, but you could keep a watch on her, and she is afraid of you. I have seen enough to tell me that. She does not care anything for the squire — 1 believe she wishes him dead. Then that wretched son of hers would be rich, though they cannot quite ruin Geoffrey, can they ?' 'I suppose not ; but why should you be so anxious about Geoffrey?' Mr. Snapper looked searchingly at Edith as he put this question. * Because he and I grew up together — we were in this house all through our childhood, did you not know that ?' She MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 177 opened her eyes wide, and looked astonished at Snapper's obtuseness. ^ ^"hy, we were playfellows together !' 'And so were we, if it comes to that, before you ever heard the name of Claver- m^. And vet I don't find you takino; all this wonderful interest in Rufus Snapper. How is that, young lady ?' ' You ungrateful man ! As if you did not know that I like you better than any- one in the world except papa.' ' Are you quite sure of that?' said Snap- per, shaking his head rather doubtfully. 'Of course. Do you think I shall ever forget how good you were to me when I was a little girl ?' She came round to him, and sat upon a stool at his feet, and looked up into his face with the simplicity of a child. Snapper laid his hand upon her head, and his mouth twitched a little before he spoke. VOL. I. N 178 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' I almost wish you were a little girl still, Edith ; it is a ^reat mistake to grow up, especially when you are a girl. Our best years are the first, I think ; but here you are, a young woman. AVe must try to keep 3^ou to ourselves, the colonel and I, for we have a sort of partnership in you, vou understand, and I o-uess it will not be quite convenient to let this young Claver- ing, or anybody else, into it. Do you understand that ?' ' Yes, sir,' said Edith, making him a curtsey. ' No interlopers— that is quite settled ?' ' Oh, quite.' Edith looked at him with laughter in the corners of her eyes. 'And as for my old friend Polly — I mean Mrs. Clavering — suppose you leave her to me. I think I shall manage her as well as you could do, my dear.' MR. SyAPPEK AT PORTHCAWL. 179 ' And a thousand times better, dear Mr. Sna23per,' cried Edith, feeling a great load taken from her mind, for her confidence in Snapper was unbounded. ' I shall not be so much afraid now. Do you know that woman's horrid son ?' ' Just a little,' responded Snapper, pre- ferring to keep his own counsel on that point. 'Does he ever come here?' ' I have seen a strano;er lurkino- about the park sometimes, who is curiously like Mrs. Clavering, and yet unlike her. for he is vulo:ar-lookino; and she is not that — so much even I will say for her. And once it seemed to me that I saw her speaking to him, but she was far from the house, near some rocks on the beach. There was a man with her — of that I am sure. It might have been some stranger, but I believe it was her son. ^^hy should he come in this sly way to see his mother ? k2 180 THE PHILADELPHIAN. And is it not a shame that she has driven Geoffrey out of the house, and set his father so terribly against him ?' ' Geoffrey again ! Well, now, I think we have heard about enough of that young man for the present. Do 370U fancy that because I am getting old I cannot be jealous ?' ' Jealous, are you ? And what about that mysterious lady in Paris ?' ' You should never ask people about ladies in Paris,' replied Snapper; 'it is a ver}^ good subject to leave alone. Now run away,' he continued, ' and have a talk with your father, while I will go and find those keys. You see I never give them up to the nobleman in plush, who demands them on one's arrival in these bio; houses. No — I guess not. They open your traps and make free, and shake up your things all in a mess, and stuff them away under the MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 181 bed or up the chimney, and you can't find them again. I keep my own keys — ever since the days of Peter ;' and Snapper gave a mysterious look at Edith as he opened the door for her. AVhen he reached his own room, he sat doAvn and fell into a browm study. It w^as quite as likely as not that the squire's wife meant mischief — that w^as clear to start with. "When she w^anted monev, there w^as nothing she w^ould not do to get it. To have as much money as she required at any particular moment w^as her due in this world ; if it could not be got in one w^ay, it must be had in another. She saw no harm in getting it in any way ; the harm was to be obliged to go without it. All this Snapper knew, and indirectly the lady had made him conform to the law which she had devised, namely, that her 182 THE PHILADELPHIAN. interests must be studied first, and other things afterwards, if at all. Snapper understood her tolerably well, but one thing somewhat bewildered hira, and that was her devotion to her son. The Philadel2:)hian knew a great deal more about that young man than he had chosen to reveal to Edith, and he had long felt convinced that as the woman had treated her husband, so her son would treat her ; and thus, in a rough fashion, Peter RafFerty would be avenged. ' She will have to face the music some day,' said Snajoper, at the end of his reverie, 'and I should not like to be around at the time, for she will make things hum.' And with this homely way of putting the matter, he made ready for dinner. But distrust of herself, or of her future, was not weighing heavily upon Mrs. MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 183 Clavering that evening, for no one at the table was so full of animation. She addressed much of her conversation to Snapper, and to all appearance she madeher way rapidly into his favour, much to the alarm of the colonel's daughter, and the surprise of the colonel himself The squire's wife had a beautiful form still, as it has been said ; eyes of seductive charm ; a manner which was irresistible when she chose to make it so. These things will produce their effect. Rufus Snapper ceased to wonder that Roland Clavering had married her ; but whether he had himself fallen under the spell was a question on which he alone could have thrown any light. After dinner, she drew him aside to her own corner, and continued the siege. Her eyes were sharpened by her knowledge of mankind, and she was aware that the Philadelphian had not come down to 181 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Porthcawl to see the ghosts. Nor had he come to see Edith Pendleton, although it was quite probable that a message from her may have brought him. What was the message about? These were hard points to unravel, but Mrs. Clavering was a woman who never despaired. ' And do you intend to remain long in England ?' This she said towards the close of the conversation, after a glance at the clock, which told her that the hour was g^rowitio: late. * I really cannot say ; I have many things to look after, and some business to attend to which 1 knew nothing about when I came over here. It has sprung up since. I cannot go away again until it is finally settled.' ' Is it, then, so very important ?' *Not to me — but to others, yes. It MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 185 vitally concerns friends who are in my hands to a great extent, some of them without knowing it.' * Well, at least they are safe with you,' said the lady, with a gracious smile. * I am not so sure of that, but I shall do the best I can for them.' Then there was a pause. ' By-the-bye,' resumed Snapper, with the frigid manner which Mrs. Clavering remembered having seen at the memorable interview with him in Philadelphia, ' I have met your son in Birmingham. In fact, I am on pretty good terms with him. Were you aware of that?' ' He has not mentioned it,' said the lady, starting a little in spite of herself. ^ But why should he, after all? He does not know from me that I was ever acquainted with you. And no one else knows it. I have not even mentioned it to my husband. Do you blame me for that ?' 186 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' It is not for me to praise or blame you, madam ; but your son will learn some day that I knew bis father, and still know his mother. How can that be helped ? I see him very frequently ; he and his associates interest me. They are some- thing peculiar to this country. There is one of them, however, who comes from mine — his name is Daly ; an Irishman by birth. Have you ever heard of him ?' ' A dreadful man — a Fenian ?' ' No doubt it is the same. He and your son are inseparable. Sam is clever, in our American sense, you know ; free and gene- rous. He spends his money as if it did not cost him much trouble to come by it. And he must get through a good deal, I should imagine, for his friends are expen- sive — and they are not all in Birmingham.^ Mrs. Clavering's face was now rather MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 187 pale. She could no longer conceal her uneasiness, for she saw that the Phila- delphian knew more of the secrets of her son's life than she did — and how much there might be to know she partly con- jectured and partly feared. ' I am afraid,' she said, with a sigh, ' his associates are not all that I could desire ; but is there anything worse than I have heard of? I appeal to you, Mr. Snapper, to tell me the truth. You recollect his father's fate — should my son foil under evil influences, I would tremble for him, for I know his nature. It is weak : you must have seen that.' (Snapper made a sign of assent.) ' Has he, then, fallen a victim to any designing woman?' ' Xot that he has told me,' said Snapper, cautiously ; ' men generally keep such secrets to themselves as long as they can. 188 THE PHILADELPHIAN. But he should be on his oruard. He is indiscreet, as some young men will be — he talks too freely.' 'In what way? Pray, explain.' She spoke almost breathlessly, for not only was her curiosity aroused, but she detected something dangerous in Snapper's manner, and yet the nature of the danger she could not guess. ' Well, madam,' replied Snapper, after slowly deliberating with himself, ' he has got into a habit of living too much on the property he is to come into when ' '■ When what ? Pray, do not hesitate to tell me.' ' When the squire here is dead. He believes that you will be rich, and that his fortune will be made. If he merely tlioucjlit that, there might not be so much harm done ; but he talks of it, and loudly too, at all times and in all places — to this Daly MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 189* and others. And he goes on as if he expected the fortune pretty soon. The truth is,' added Snapper, drily, ' I was rather surprised to find Mr. Clavering lookinc^ so well as he does, although he does not appear to be strong.' ' x\nd my son talks as if he expected his death ?' ' Just so, madam. Any of his friends could tell you that. '' The old squire can't last long" — such are his words pretty constantly. I hope he is mistaken ; but although I expected to find Mr. Clavering a pretty sick man, and he is not that, yet he looks rather broken, like a man whose constitution is being undermined.' ' He does not complain,' said the squire's wife, now very grave and firm; ' he is not young, and sometimes sufi^ers much. And bad reports of his son have distressed him. They come very often.' r^O THE PHILADELPHIAN. ^From whom?' cried Snapper, suddenly aroused in his turn. • That we do not know. They are generally anonymous.' 'Then it is folly to pay attention to them.' ' It may be so, but. they tell upon Mr. Clavering's spirits — that I can plainly see. But to count upon his death — that, indeed, is horrible !' * We will hope he will get better, madam — that is very desirable. I don't mean for his ow^n sake, for it is a matter of opinion whether it is better for a man to be here, or somewhere else. It all depends. But a few months ago they say he was so w^ell and hearty ! It may be that the air here does not suit him ; or that the monotony preys upon his spirits. It must be very depressing to live in a place where the sea is always howling and MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 191 moaning in your ears, and where skeletons are all over the place like bugs — beetles, as they call them here. I should not like it —do you ?' ' Like it ? I hate the place with all my heart/ rejoined Mrs. Clavering, almost fiercely. ' I wish I were a thousand miles away from it.' 'Exactly — very natural. Life here- abouts cannot be very lively, and you want change. But it is ahvays a great mistake to be impatient ; I used to tell your first husband that.' Mrs. Clavering looked round her when the allusion was made to Peter RaiFerty. 'Do not be afraid,' said Snapper, ' no one can hear what we are saying. Besides, your present husband knows you were married before?' ' Quite so, but he does not know ' she paused as if uncertain how to go on. ' I understand,' said Snapper, nodding 192 THE PHILADELPHIAN. his head, * he might not appreciate Peter Raiferty as you and I did. I shall say nothing to him on the subject. Not that it would matter much, I suppose, for Peter would not care, and you have no- thing to fear.' ' There are sad passages in one's life, Mr. Snapper, which one cannot bear to have recalled.' ' That's so. Skeletons in the cupboard, as they sa}^, only there appears to be no- thing but skeletons in this cupboard, it is crammed fall of them. I speak of the Castle,' said Snapper, observing that the lady looked up quickly at his words. ^ No wonder you find it a little dull. I should say that a small churchyard would be preferable to having these ghosts per- petually poking their noses into your business. Have you seen any here ?' * Never,' said Mrs. Clavering, abstract- MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 193 edly. She was thinkino^ of the dark allusions which had fallen from the Philadelphian. ' Well, I should like to see one, if it could be managed. It would prove so much, and clear away so many doubts. But I would not have any more skeletons in the cupboard,' ' I do not intend there shall be,' said the lady with a look which was more directly responsive to Snapper than her words. ' I believe I shall make a yevy pleasant visit here, after all,' remarked Snapper, as they both rose. ' I hope you will ;' and she offered him her hand. 'I cannot pretend to under- stand all you ha's^e said, but at any rate we are friends ?' ' Oh, yes, by all means ; you may remember I told you that long ago, when VOL. I. 194 THE PHILADELPHIAN. you came to see me on the other trouble- some business in Philadelphia.' ' I have so few friends,' she said, in a pathetic tone, ' that I cannot afford to lose one of them.' ' That is precisely what I have been trying to convey to you, madam,' said Snapper, with curious emphasis. ' Good-night, Mr. Snapper,' said she, with her sweetest smile. But Snapper did not smile ; on the contrary, his gravity deepened as he followed her to the door. Colonel Pendleton, who had noticed the protracted conference, approached Snapper wdien they were alone, and looked at him enquiringly. ' She has improved, if anything,' said the Philadelphian, as they moved off to- gether; 'filled out in every way; more to her, as we say at home. Did you ever notice her eyes ?' MR. SNAPPER AT PORTHCAWL. 195 'Xot particularly, but you gave your- self ample time to study them to-night, and we all thought you were making the best of your opportunities.' ' Yes, they are very fine, those eyes of hers,' said Snapper, musingly; 'they almost bewitch you. They set Peter Rafferty crazy, and I don't wonder, seeing that his head was as soft as mush. It is curious, though, when you come to think of it, that people should be willing to sacrifice so much for so little, even when their heads are not mushy." ' And is that all that has come of your long palaver?' asked the colonel, with a smile, for he knew his friend's ways, and saw that he was not in a communicative mood. 'That is all, my dear colonel,' said Snap- per, lighting his candle. ' Let us get to bed before the ghosts come out. It's the o2 196 THE PlilLADELPHIAK creepiest place I ever saw. As for the lady, colonel, if there is to be trouble she will prove a tough customer ! Good-night/ and, with an affectation of great weariness^ Mr. Snapper retreated to his oAvn room. AFTER DARK. 197 CHAPTER IX, AFTER DARK. The next day there was no vestige of a cloud on Mrs. Clavering's brow. She came down to breakfast fresh and gay, and no- thino; could be more winnino; than her manner to her visitors, especially to Rufus Snapper. She had decided to secure his friendship if she could, and, if she could not, to establish a strict neutrality, and therefore the idea of takinof umbrao^e at anything he had said never occurred to her. It is usually a very costly and dan- gerous thing to indulge in resentments, 198 THE PHILABELPHIAN. and prudent men or women wisely deny themselves that luxury. Moreover, Mrs. Clavering, though by nature intrepid, had an instinctive dread of coming into conflict with the Philadelphian, if by any means it could be avoided. His knowledo^e of her past life, although she was not quite sure how far it actually extended, and the strange and disquieting fact of his ac- quaintance with her son — his allusions to Sam Rafferty's lavish expenditure, and to his mysterious friends in London — all this gave her great uneasiness. If her son had talked and boasted ia the way Snapper had described, what fearful consequences might not his wild words bring upon her — per- haps upon himself, too — at some future time? When she reflected upon the ominous allusions which had fallen from the Phila- delphian, and considered that dark side of AFTER DARK. 199 her son's character which had been too clearly revealed to her of late years, she almost trembled at the thougbts which were suofo^ested. Constantly resortinsf to desperate expedients to get money, in league with evil associates, and lured on by dreams of wealth, who could sav into what dark abyss the unhappy young man might not be hurried ? That he believed the scjuire's death would make him rich, and open for him a door of escape from all his difficulties — this she had long known. But to iind that others knew it, and that her son made no secret of his plans for the future which lay beyond her husband's death — for all this she was not prepared. While she was smilino; and chattino; cheer- fullv at the breakfast-table, doubts and apprehensions were weighing heavily upon her, but the keenest of observers — and she had, as she well knew, one very keen ob- 200 THE PHILADELPHIAK server — would have failed to detect any si^n of her anxieties. ' She is one of the women/ said Rufus Snapper to Colonel Pendleton, when they were out for a walk in the afternoon, ^ that you will never find at a loss, whatever may happen. Few women are, although we call them the weaker sex. Now, if you once let a man see that his game is seen through, he either gives it up or goes on playing it so badly that he is bound to lose. Women are different — especially this woman. Her head is level, but as for her principles they are just about as straight as one of your worm fences in Virginia. What do you think of her, my dear colonel?' 'Well,' said the colonel, artfully, 'I think she is a very handsome woman, and you seemed to be very much of the same opin- ion last night. You sat a good while talk- ing with her in a low tone; we do not AFTER DARK, 201 often catch you in that position, Rufus. You are not so much surprised as you were at my old friend, the squire, marry- ing again ?' ' I don't know about that. The fact is, some 01 our talk last night concerned you. The lady has taken an immense interest in you — considers you are one of the greatest soldiers the war produced ; knows all about your career. It is you who ought to have been sitting in the corner with her, not I.' * I see,' replied the colonel, after a little deliberation. 'There is something more serious in the wind than I imagined. She knows that we are great friends, and these compliments for me are intended to make a friend of you.' . *You are on the right track,' said Snap- per, with a nod ; ' that part of the pro- gramme is all in big type, as one may say.' ' But why is she so anxious to secure 202 THE PHTLADELPHIAN. you ? The old affair in Philadelphia is forgotten now, and, if it were not, what of it?' ' She is not afraid of that ; it would not be quite fair to rake up that business ao^ainst her, and she knows I am not the man to do it. Her fears, I rather think, are for the future. She had no idea how well-acquainted I happen to be with her precious son in Birmingham, and she is afraid :of all sorts of things about him. That he may bring himself into trouble, for instance, and her with him ; that he is married ' ' And is he ?' interrupted the colonel. ' To tell you the truth, 1 am not quite sure. There is something going on that I don't yet quite see through. I mean to go and find out all about it as soon as you have done with me here. But before that, AFTER DARK. 203 I should very much like to know what you mean to do with Edith.' ' Leave her here for a little while lons^er — it is her own wish. I somehow feel that, if I prevailed upon her to go, I might regret it afterwards. All the same, the proper person to be near the squire is his son ; but unluckily the breach between them seems to grow wider. Roland is obstinate ; you might as well try to turn Niagara as move him when he is set. He is more bitter ao^ainst Geoffrev than ever.' ' Just SO — his wife has not been idle. Young Clavering will not come back while she lives.' 'Or while the squire lives,' said the colonel, in a low voice ; ' is not that rather the way to put it ?' The two men looked at each other, and walked on for some time in silence. ^04 THE PHILADELPHIAK ' And Edith is still intent upon bringinoj father and son together,' said Snapper, presently. ' Now, why is that, colonel ? Why should she be so much interested in young Clavering ? We talked that over once before, and I have been thinking a good deal about it since.' Colonel Pendleton hesitated, and when he spoke it was with a somewhat uncertain manner. ' I think,' he said, ' that the squire's son is very much attached to Edith.' ' Has he ever told her so ?' ' I think not — I am sure not. She would have told me. But I can see it, and I understand his silence. He thinks that, while this cloud is hanging over him, he has no right to say anything to Edith. That may be the reason, or there may be some other.' 'Yes, there may be some other,' re- peated Snapper, very seriously. AFTER DARK. 205- ' Nothing dishonourable — I am certain of that. As for Edith, I scarcely kno^r what to think about her. She will never allow a word to be said against the squire's son ; that may mean anything or nothing. You understand me, Rufus. I do not want to look forward to parting with her» but I suppose the day must come, and I am growing old. We cannot always keep her with us. Shall we turn back ?' They were now at some little distance from the house, and a chill wind blew from the sea. * I think I will go on a little further,^ said Snapper, who was in one of his brood- ing fits, ' for I want to turn all this aiFair over in my mind, and I had better have it out with myself alone. So you go back to Edith, and say nothing to her about our talk. Mind how you go over these rocks — they're plaguey slippery.' 206 THE PHILADELPHIAN. He watched the colonel until he was nearly out of sight, and then kept on to- wards a high point of land which jutted far out into the sea at some distance from Porthcawl. He went very slowly, and sometimes came to a dead halt, evidently deep in thought. The days were short — shorter, as it soon appeared, than Snapper s walk, for when he turned back to retrace his steps the murk and gloom of evening were already upon the sea, and the tide was running in rapidly. But Snapper found his way to a path up the cliff, little wider than a sheep-track, and soon came in sight of a little house which had been built at the end of some garden Avalks about half-a-mile from the Castle. This was a sufficient landmark, for Snapper knew that he had to pass it on his way to the house. Therefore he plodded gently along, without bothering himself much about the time, AFTER DARK. 207 and presently, as he raised his head, after a long spell of study, he fancied he saw the figure of a man advancing rapidly towards the place he was making for. The light was uncertain, and he was not sure that his eyesight had not deceived him. He stood still and looked again. The man — if man there had been — had disappeared. ' Great Scott,' cried Snapper, in good American, ' I could have sworn that I saw my dear friend Sam Rafferty go into that house on the cliff. It couldn't have been his ghost, for a fellow like that would have no ghost ; at any rate, not in so cool a place as Porthcawl beach.' Once more he stood still, and looked hard in the direction of the lonelv little house, near which he fancied he had seen the mysterious figure disappear. Then his wonder increased, for undoubtedly he saw another apparition, this time in female 208 THE PHILADELPHIAN. form. He could make out that the figure was heavily draped, and that a shawl was wrapped around her head, as if she were cold, or had no wish to be recognised. ' Bravo !' said Snapper. ' This is getting lively ; every ghost in the Castle has come out for a walk. I've counted two — one very like my friend Sam Raiferty; the other might almost be his mother. She wouldn't trust herself in a lonely place like this after dark with Sam RaiFerty, if she knew as much about him as I do !' But the fact is, that Mr. Snapper might often have seen the same persons going into the house on the cliif had he happened to have kept watch at about this same hour. He was quite right in his conjecture — one of the ghosts was Mrs. Clavering, and the other was her son. He had in- sisted upon seeing her, and anything was AFTER DARK. 209 better than runnino^ the risk of another meeting between Sam and the squire. She entered the house, which consisted of a couple of large rooms, one above the other, with broad windows overlookino;the sea; and there in the dim light she saw her son, reposing calmly in a rocking-chair^ smoking a j^ipe. ' I thought you were never coming,' he growled, as his mother made her appear- ance. ' It is getting dark ; this place gives one the shivers. It's a long walk from that wretched village where I have to sleep to- night, and not a very pleasant one even in the daytime. It's a deuced nasty thing for me to come here, let me tell you.' And he knocked out the ashes of his pipe upon the table against which his mother was leaning. ' Then why have you come ? I need not ask,' she added, bitterly. ' It is the VOL. I. p 210 THE PHILADELPHIAN, old errand — you want money, the only motive which ever brinojs you to your mother. Will there never,' she said, more to herself than to him, ' come an end to this misery?' 'Well, there will be an end. to it pretty soon, so far as I am concerned,' said Sam, coolly, • unless you fork out a little more freely than usual. What is the use of five or ten pounds to me ? How far do you think that o;oes ? Somethino; must be done. I have got myself into a mess that will rid you of me altogether if we don't take care. Listen ! What was that ?' Sam ran to the door, opened it, and looked out. There was nothing to be seen. ' I thought I heard a step outside on the gravel,' said he, moodily, as he went back to the rockino;-chair.' 'What do you mean, Sam?' said the mother, in an anxious tone. ' What AFTER DARK. 211 dreadful thinoj have you been doing now ?' She went close to him, and looked at him keenly. It was not yet so dark but that they could see each other perfectly, and the mother detected at once that some greater trouble than usual impended over them both. ' Dreadful thing !' repeated Sam, with an attempted laugh which died in his throat. ' That is the way you always go on — begin to make a fuss before vou have any cause. If you want to know what is the matter, I can soon tell you. Through being kept so confoundedly short of money, I have had to get it where and how I could. I cannot live on air, I suppose ?' ' Have you forgotten how much I have given you during the last two or three years ? It has been enough to support a family !' 'Indeed! Well, then, it has not been p 2 212 THE PHILADELPHIA^. eriouo^li to support mine,' replied Sam, with a sneer. In an instant the significant words which the Philadelphian had let drop darted through Mrs. Ciavering's mind, and she stared at her son with something like dis- may written in her face. ' Then it is true !' she said, in low, deep tones. ' This man knows more than he told me, as I suspected — and you are in his hands.' ' What man ? What are you standing there mumbling about,' said RafFerty, roughly. ' Do you know a man named Rufus Snapper?' asked the mother. ' An American ? Know him ! Why, he is one of my most intimate friends. Often comes to Birmingham to see me. I rather think he means to put me into a good thing one of these days, if I will go with AFTER DARK. 213 him to Philadelphia. That is where you lived once, wasn't it ?' * Never mind about that,' replied the mother, hurriedly ; ' tell me what you have disclosed to this man. You keep your secrets well enough from me — have you been equally careful with him T ' I don't know about that,' said Sam, uneasily; 'he knows all my friends, you see, and ' ' What friends ? Those in London, for instance ?' Sam started up from his chair i a genuine alarm. ' Who has been talking to you about my London friends ? What do you know about them ?' 'I know this — that you are in some peril, and I tell you to beware of this man, Rufus Snapper, who has followed 3^ou for some purpose of his own, and is playing 214 THE PHILADELPHIAN. with you like a child. You are no match for him.' ' You know him, then ?' 'I have heard of him, and I tell you again to be on your guard. What unhappy fate is it,' she said, wringing her hands, ' that has brought you into contact with him ! Heaven help me ! If I have done wrong, it is likely to be visited heavily upon my head — and by you ;' and she turned towards her son with tears in her eyes. ' Why, what ails you ?' said Sam, with a hard laugh. ' You give one the jumps going on like this. Do you think I don't know how to take care of myself? As for this little scrape now, whose fault is it but yours ? Why don't you shell out ? Suppose you have given me a few pounds now and then, you could have had as much as you wanted from that old hunk& AFTER DARK. 215 ill there. It was only to ask and to have with you. And now it comes to this — unless you help me to a hundred by this day week, I shall be done for. Tom Finch will raise a bio^srer storm over all our heads than you have beard even in this cursed place.' 'And, pray, who is Finch ?' ' Who is he ? Why, another first-rate friend of mine — at least, 1 always thought he was till lately,' added Sam, crestfallen. * He Itas been putting the screw on me pretty hard, that's a fact. But it can't be helped now. I must not quarrel with him — he knows too much. Some time ago we both wanted money, and we helped each other to get it. Do you under- stand?' ' I understand nothino;. How did vou get this money ?' * You want to know how ? Well, per- 216 THE PHILADELPHIAN. haps you had better not ask. It was an accident, and it seems likely to be an unlucky one for all of us. One is tempted, you see, and then, when the mischief is done, it is too late to think of the conse- quences. That is how it was with me. I was led into this business by the man you just asked me about ' 'What — Mr. Snapper?' said the mother, in astonishment. ' Bah ! No — Mr. Snapper is as rich as a Jew. The other man, I mean — Tom Finch. He led me into it, and now he's down upon me. That's the sort of thing they call fair play in this world.' '• But what is it that you were led into?' broke in Mrs. Clavering, impatiently. * What have you done? Do you suppose you will ever get any more money from me now unless you tell me the truth ?' ' I shouldn't get any if I did,' said Sam AFTER DARK. 217 to himself; but he made no reply to his mother. * Speak !' she cried, sharply. ' How has this man Finch gained a hold over you?' ' We raised a little money too^ether, if you must know,' replied Sam, somewhat cowed by her resolute, almost fierce ex- pression. ' And it must be repaid. There is nothing very wonderful in that, is there?' 'It was only a loan, then?' said the mother, with an immense feeling of relief. ' Only a loan ? Well, isn't that enough, if you haven't got the money to pay it with ? Call it what you like, the tin must be provided : a hundred pounds now, and more by-and-by. I am very sorry, mother,' he continued, seeing that she had now covered her face with her hands, and was 218 THE PHILADELPHIAN. sobbing bitterly, ' but it's the last time I will ever get into a scrape of tbis sort, I promise you. And I will keep my promise, never fear. It all came upon me unawares* When I first knew this man Finch, he was a college tutor, or something of that kind — no one could say a word against him. He lived with his daughter, but she ' — Sam went on hurriedly — ' had nothing to do with this muddle. We need not bring her into it. At present I cannot very well shake Finch off, but the first time I get a chance I wdll make the most of it. He has made me do anything he liked, \and now he wants to leave me to bear the con- sequences. How could I help myself?^ (Here he tried to take his mother's hand, but she shrank from him.) ' You would pay no attention to me w^hen I asked you for help. A few pounds dribbled out now and then -were only a drop in the bucket. AFTER DARK. 219 I have others to look to besides myself — what was I to do with them ?' ' What others can there be — unless vou are married?' said the mother, quickly, and recovering her composure. ' Is this the wretched secret you have come to tell me ?' ' Married," said Sam, taken by surprise at his mother's attack ; ' suppose I am ? I might do worse. AVe all come to it some day or other.' ' You said this man Finch has a daughter?' ' Oh, yes, he has a daughter,' replied Sam, gaily ; for he seemed to be relieved to think that the worst was over. ' I might have told you that long ago if I thought you took any interest in it. You would rather like her, I think, for she's pretty — or at least she was — and quiet in style. She mightn't suit down here, but 220 THE PHILADELPHIAN. she does very well where she is. But why talk about her? It's getting late, and I ought to be getting on towards that dog- hole where I am to sleep. We had better €ut it short. Can you let me have the money? That's the point.' ' I will see about it,' said Mrs. Clavering, drawing her shawl about her, and making a movement towards the door. ' But I must know,' continued Sam, a little confounded bv his mother's altered manner. ' I tell you that, if I do not get it, I cannot say what may happen. It is more serious than you think. I am in a very tight place — you do not seem to understand the state of affairs at all. Surely you cannot have any difficulty in laying your hands upon this money, or as much more as you wanted? You are rich now, and will be ever so much richer when that old man dies. What a pity he AFTER DARK. 221 does not make up his mind to do that at once !' ' Why did you not represent that to him when you saw him ?' Sam RafFerty started, for the recollec- tion of his interview with the squire stung him even now. ' Confound him !' said he, angrily. ' He had it all his own way that day, but my turn will come, and it's partly your fault it hasn't come before this. We mig^ht both have been comfortably off by this time if you had done the proper thing. When a man has lived as long as this old squire, he must have had about enough of it, and ouo^ht to make room for somebody else.' ' For his son, you mean ?' ' Oh, hang his son ! I know nothing about him. He cannot touch the money, I suppose, if you have played your cards well.' 222 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ^ Upon my word, you are not using many disguises this evening.' ' No, why should I ?' exclaimed Sam, satisfied once more with the turn affairs had taken, and confident that his journey had heen successful. ' What is the use of nonsense betAveen you and me ? You married the man for his monev, and now the sooner he lets go of it the better. That's common-sense and business both combined.' Mrs. Clavering looked at him with a feeling which she would have found it hard to describe. She had never seen quite so far or so truly into her son's char- acter before, and she was filled with a nameless dread. ' Mark my words,' continued Rafferty, now speaking in a loud and excited tone, 'none of us can go on like this much longer. You must be tired of it, although AFTER BARK. 223 you are afraid to say so. So am I. The sooner this old man is out of the way the better — the better for everybody, and ' Here he turned partly round towards his mother, in order to make sure that none of his words were lost, and to his astonishment she was gone. In the mid- dle of his harangue, and just as he was getting well into his subject, she had opened the door quietly and disappeared. As she passed out, she saw — or was it a fancy? — the figure of Rufus Snapper near the window on the o:arden side : but she was too ao^itated to 0*0 near enousrh to re- solve her doubts. These last words of her son had sufficiently alarmed her. What if anybody else had heard them ? She hur- ried to the house with but one fixed resolve in her heart — to allow her son to come to Porthcawl no more. While she was thus hasteninor from the 221 THE PHILADELPHIAN, scene, Sam RaiFerty stood looking at the door in blank consternation. It would now have been quite dark but for a faint glimmer of wintry moonlight which came reflected from the sea. For a few minutes Rafl*erty doubted the evidence of his eyes, then a bright thought struck him. ' She has gone to get me the money,' he said, slapping the crown of his hat ; ' what an ass I must have been not to have thought of that !' With this consolatory belief, he decided to wait, and he did Avait ; first for half-an- hour, which seemed very long ; then for another half-hour, which seemed four times as long. Sam RafFerty did not care a great deal for his own society at any time ; he had found that it soon grew monotonous, and, after a time, oppressive. Again, he did not like being alone in the dark, and this place was getting very dark. There AFTER DARK. 225 was not a sound to be heard except the plashing of the sea on the rocks beneath^ as it came gently in with the tide. At last he could hold out no longer. He opened the door and looked out towards the Castle, but the trees hid it from his sight and the path was as dark as a coal- mine. At last the truth dawned upon him — he had been left to spend the night there, or to go back on his solitary way to the village inn. Money there was none to be had. ' I see how it is ' said he, ' she is savao^e because she took it into her head that I am married, and, like a fool, I drove that idea in still further instead of trying to get it out. A pretty mess I've made of it — but, all the same, I am determined not to be the only one to suffer. I will settle it now in spite of her;' and, with much ner- VOL. I. Q 226 TEE PHILADELPHIAK vousness and reluctance, he turned into the black road. His mother had, just at that moment, met Mr. Snapper on the staircase, and had asked him whether he had been for a long walk. ' Not very far,' was his answer ; ' but I am tired and cold. The air is raw, and I have been standing still — thinking, I suppose.' * On the sea beach ?' ' Close to it, madam. It has given me a chill.' They looked hard at each other. ' For a man of your experience, Mr. Snapper, you are singularly imprudent.' There was a strange, hard glitter in Mrs. Clavering's eye as she said this, such as Snapper had never noticed before, and there seemed an ominous ring in her words. AFTER DARK. 227 * She will be dan;^erous,' thouglit the Philadelphian, as he went on to his room,. ^ but that I knew before. Did she see me, or does she only suspect ? It matters little which ! To-morrow I must get out of this and go and see how my friends are getting on in Birmingham. Perhaps SamRafFerty may have something new to tell me.' A queer smile appeared on his lips as he thought of Rafferty. And, for the rest of the evening, he carefully avoided the squire's wife. q2 228 THE PHILADELPHIAN. CHAPTER X. DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. Sam Rafferty and Patrick Daly were seated together in a public-house in New Street, Birmingham, on the night of RaiFerty's return from his unprofitable visit to his mother. They were not in a srood humour with each other or with themselves, for money was scarce, and a scarcity of money will sour the sweetest temper in the world. No one knew exactly how either of these two friends and com- rades lived — Raiferty was connected with some local political organisation, but only DIAMOND CUT DIAMOyD. 229 in a subordinate capacity, and that Avas never likely to make his fortune. Daly, it was well known, was an active leader amono^ the Fenians, and it was even thought that he was acquainted with all the secrets of the ' dynamite section,' but thus far he had shown considerable prudence, and contrived to keep himself clear of all serious scrapes. He had known Sam Rafferty for several years, and had looked upon him as a man of solid ' ex- pectations,' and therefore worth cultivating. Moreover, he had from time to time advanced him certain sums of money, for Sam had s^reat skill as a borrower — almost a genius for it, or hie would never have beguiled money from the pockets of an Irish American. But he was now nearly at the end of his tether, for his mother had left him in the lurch, and Daly began to see that he had been duped. 280 THE rniLADELPHIAN. This evening RafFerty was endeavouring to revive his flagging spirits with brandy- and-water, and Daly was watching him with keen, but half-contemptuous attention. ' And you mean to say you went all that way, and came back without what you went for, and paid your own expenses ? I don't call that a profitable business.' * Well, who could help it?' replied Sam, sulkily. ' If you think you can manage my affairs so much better than I can, do it ; I'll pay you a good commission.' ' What was the name of the Castle,' said Daly, in a scoffing tone which RaiFerty could not very well mistake, for the Irish- man had now become sceptical of the very existence of Porthcawl. ^ You mean to say that you don't believe what I have told you ? Why, everybody knows it to be true, and you can prove it DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 231 for yourself if you like. I'll take you clown and show you the Castle whenever you like — it's bio; enouo^h to be seen.' ' AA'^hen shall we start ?' inquired Daly, pretty well satisfied that Sam was drawing entirely upon his imagination. 'Start? To-morrow, if you like — no, I can't go to-morrow, for I expect a friend of mine here. You've seen him; Mr. Snapper, the American. He has written to say he means to pay me a visit. I wish he would ask you to dinner, for he knows how to order one.' ' Thank vou, I can do without his dinner. Tell me some more about that castle. Your mother lives there, didn't you say?' ' Certainly,' said Sam, impatiently, drain- ing his glass at a gulp. ' Isn't she the squire's wife ? Where else should she live ?' ' Oh, if she's his wife, all right. That 232 THE PHILADELPHIAN. alters the matter. Naturally she lives there, and why don't you ?' ' And so I might, if I liked,' replied Sam, calling for a fresh tumbler, and talking rapidly as the brandy began to work. ' I've been invited to stay there often. My mother has asked me, and so has the squire. He is a most particular friend of mine,' continued Sam, with a wry face, as once more a vision of Roland Clavering's cold, stern look came back to his mind. He drowned the recollection in another potent draught. ' You would like him, Daly,' said he, beginning to get his story mixed up. ' He is one of the old school, you know, stiiF and formal, but very hospitable. He was mighty so to me ;' and Sam stooped down to the fire to get a light. ^ Then you have seen him?' ' Seen him ? Why, didn't he marry my mother? I've told you so a score of times, DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 233 but you seem to forget everything. There's another good point about him,' — Sam here dropped his voice a little — ' he's as rich as a Jew, and keeps a lot of money in the Castle. A bank in which he once had money failed, and since then he keeps all his cash in his own house. Queer start, rather, isn t it .-^ ' Oh, very,' re2:>lied Daly, whose disbelief ao;ain wavered. After all, there mio^ht be some foundation of truth in his friend's story. He made up his mind to sift it thoroughly, and therefore he took a good deal of pains to keep Rafferty's tongue well oiled with the oil which set it moving most easily. ' And so this old gentleman is rich, and you will come in for a good pile when he dies. Well, if he lived in some jDlaces where I have been, he ■would not stand in your way long. If it was my case now, I should ' 234 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Well, what would you do ?' said Sam, looking eagerly at Daly. ' What does it matter ? If I told you, it wouldn't make any difference. You fellows over here have no go ^in you. I suppose, now, 3^0 u would wait ten years more for this money without doing anything to get it?' ' I'll be hanged if I would. You don't quite understand me yet. I want you to know one thing — I'm not afraid of anybody or anything ;' and Sam banged the table in a most courageous manner. ' I daresay not,' sneered Daly, with a laugh which might have offended Sam, if his sensibilities had been a little sharper. ' But don't storm at me, my rooster. When I'm shouted at, I'm apt to turn ugly. Better keep big words for your Fee- fo-fum Castle ; it's dangerous to try them on me.' DIAMOND CUT DIAMOXD. 235 ' You're a good fellow, Daly,' said Sam, beginning to feel a little giddy, *and I'll put you all right with the squire. I tliink he would take to you first off, and, if you were to work him properly, you'd find it pay better than grizzling yourself to fiddle- strings over the wrongs of Ireland, "^"ha cares about Ireland, except at election times? That for Ireland !' (with a snap of the finofers). ' Let it all o^o, and come with me to Porthcawl. You'll be sure of a hearty welcome. The old man is very fond of me. I told vou how kind he was? — too kind a blessed deal !' added Sam to himself. ' I know it by heart,' said Daly, and in truth Sam had often told the story before — a hio;hlv imao;inative one — of the o;rand reception accorded to him by the squire. ' Of course, I understand ; don't want to hear it again. But suppose you saw your 236 THE PHILADELPHIAN. way clear to getting some of the old nob's money — would that make a difference ? How would that suit your complaint ? Only mind you — the squire is one of the stuck-up sort, with a freezing kind of look ;* and Sam actually felt something like a shiver run throus-h him at the moment, for he could not forget, try as hard as he would, the sardonic gaze of the squire. That and his brandy-and-water completed the muddledom which had been cominof over him, and for the first time he began to describle the scene as it really occurred. ' Looked me through and through,' said he, gloomily. ' That's the way with these swells ; they think you are dirt. There, here he stood ' here Sam stood up with his back to the fire, and made a ludicrous attempt to imitate the manner of the squire — 'looking at me as if 1 were a carrion crow ! If I had him here DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 237 now, I would wring his neck for him !* ' No doubt,' remarked Dal}^, cool and observant. ' But what did he say?' 'Say? Oh, he didn't say much, that was the worst of it. Confound him, he made me feel so cussed mean. All he did was to ask me questions, and sneer— as polite as Lord Chesterfield all the time. My mother wasn't there; if she had been, she would very soon have made it all right for me.' 'The same as she did this last time ?' ' AYhat do you mean ?' said Sam, almost forgetting his late journey in the excite- ment of the recollection of his first visit to Porthcawl. ' I was talking of the time when I expected the squire to put me up at the Castle, in the old English style — baronial halls, roast ox, and that sort of thing. If Ids is the old English style, I don't like it so much as I thought I should. 238 TEE PHILADELPHIAN. He stood up as if he were a king, and looked down at me as if I were a stuffed monkey. It was his darned politeness that bothered me — I couldn't get hold of him anywhere.' *And so you came away?' said Daly, perceiving that at last he had got hold of the right end of the story. ' Why, what else could I do ? Old razor-bill wouldn't let me stay there.' ' I thought you said the last time you told me this tale that he asked you to dinner?' ' Who asked me ?' replied Sam, now in a thick haze. ' Why, the nice old gentleman at the Castle.' ' What nice old gentleman ?' ' Your step-father, who took such a fancy to you. Have you got two step- fathers ?' DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 239 ' Two !' muttered Sam, passing his liand across his forehead, 'I feel just now as if I had half-a-dozen. But, mind you, if ever I go into that house again, I'll make that big footman at the door wonder what's the matter with Jam. I can't swear to it, you understand, because I felt so bothered, but I rather think he kicked me out. T tell vou in confidence between orentlemen; sort of thing I shouldn't like to have known ! While I was standing at the door, I felt something very queer and sudden like, just liere, and then I shot for- ward, and fell down the last two steps. What should you say that was ?' ' I can't say,' replied Daly, coldly ; ' I never had those symptoms. And was that all?' 'All? Well, wasn't it enough? I thought it was at the time. Somebody shall pay for it, never fear. You and I, 240 THE PHILADELPHIAN. if we keep our eyes open, can make a snug thing out of this. You can go back to America, and I shall have plenty of money for my wife — I mean for my mother.' 'Your wife?' repeated Daly, still watch- ing: his victim like a hawk. ' So there is a wife in the background ? That is rather worse than a step-father. You're a nice man to borrow money on the strength of your wonderful fortune. It strikes me that I'm only just beginning to know you, Mr. RafFerty. Take care what you're about — not many men could pull the wool over my eyes, and you don't look as if you might be one of them. When am I to have that monev ?' ' How can I pay it till I get it myself?' remonstrated Sam, half-scared at Daly's mien. * What a rum fellow you are ! You look as if you could murder a man. Do it, if you like, only don't let it be me. I DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 241 mean what I say — if you like to go down to Porthcawl Castle, I will see you through all the expenses, and put you up to a good thing. You're just the sort of man for it — not afraid of anybody. I will pay every shilling I owe you, and add some- thino; handsome to it as soon as this old man is out of the way. First of all, come and look at the place, then you'll be satis- fied that it's really there. Is that fair?' ' That seems fair enough,' admitted Daly. ' Now one word of caution — the less you say of all this to Finch the better, and be very careful how you knock my name about when you're talking to him.' 'What Finch?' said RafFerty; for, hav- ing suddenly forgotten that in one of his convivial moments he had breathed that name before, he was now prepared to deny all knowledge of it. But a gesture of VOL. I. R 242 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Daly's again restrained him. * To be sure/ he stammered, ^ now I know the man you mean. 1 have mentioned my mother to him, and talked about the Castle a little — especially to his daughter. You know her, of course? Mrs. Martin, as they call her, thouo:h who Mr. Martin is I never could make out.' ' That is one of the mysteries,' replied Daly, still observing RaiFerty closely, and noticino; that he seemed somewhat confused. * A wife without a husband ; one has heard of such things before.' ' Oh, yes — and seen 'em, and very well they are in their way. But this Mrs. Martin is a scorcher — no one could get on with her very long. She has a deuce of a temper — a regular spitfire — and she drinks. Her father taught her that, and it's about the only thing he ever did teach her.' • You often go to see them ?' DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 243 ' Yes, I do, because Finch and I are — well, we are in a little business together. Strictly private ! We have been in it ever so long.' 'Take another drink — it will do you o;ood.' Sam readily assented, and Daly talked about indifferent affairs till the new dose was half gone. Then he returned to the charge. ' And does this business of yours with Finch 2^(^y •^' he asked. ' It did at first,' replied Sam, with a grin. ' But after a time it fell off; Finch couldn't get hold of the st ujf fsiSt enough.' ' What stuff?' ' Why, the raw material, to be sure,' said Sam, lauo^hino; at his friend's evident bewilderment. ' Oh, vou'd never ouess what it is ! It was about the softest thing you ever heard of while it lasted.' r2 214 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' And SO it broke up ?' ' Not quite ; we keep it going now and then. But don't you say anything about it, for Finch is a spitfire, too, like his daughter. You must go and see her — tell her you're a friend of mine.' * I will,' said Daly, emphatically. 'Where do they live ?' Sam gave the address ; he would have thought twice before doing so if he had been sober. ' Good,' contiued Daly, making a note in a little book. ' I will go one evening and ask for you. Finch I know already.' ' Oh ! vou do ' exclaimed Sam, in a sleepy way. ' Well, then, you know an awful villain — I mean a regular trump. Did you ever see him write names ?' ' What names ?' *Any name — yours, if you like. Just write your name down once and give it to DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND. 215 him, and he'll imitate it so as you wouldn't know it from your own. Cleverest fellow o'oino* is Tom Finch.' ' Is that the line of business you spoke of just now?' This question seemed to sober RafFerty in an instant. He looked at Daly sharply, and the thought forced itself upon him that he had suffered himself to be drawn out in a very rash manner. He made straight for the door. ^ Good-night,' he said, in a knowing tone ; ' we shall meet to-morrow. Then I will introduce you to Mr. Rufus Snapper — he is far better worth your knowing than Tom Finch.' ' Confound him !' thought Daly, as the door closed. 'I put just one question too many, and scared my man away. But I shall get him yet ; plenty of time I You've taken a bis; contract in hand, 246 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Master Sam, when you go in for swindling me. Let us see how you come out of it !' And, with these reflections, the Irishman also took his departure. A RECONiVAISSANCE. 247 CHAPTER XI. A KECONNAISSANCE. 'V\^HENEVER Mr. Rufus Snapper went to Birmingham, he made a point of inviting Sam Rafferty to dinner at the Queen's Hotel, orivino^ him as much as he could desire to eat and drink — and that was not a little. It was this course of treatment which had led Sam to speak to his mother of Mr. Snapper as about the best friend he had in the world. He was seated, then, with his best friend, on the day following the scene with Daly, at one of the round tables in the 248 THE PHILADELPHIAN. dining-room of the hotel, contemplating with joy a fine roast pheasant which had just been set before them, accompanied with a bottle of champagne. Nothing could have been more to Sam's taste ; and yet, so chequered is this life, and so un- certain are its pleasures, that even in the height of his enjoyment a cloud passed over his spirit, and he put down his knife and fork, and sighed. ' What is the matter now ?' asked his host, who had been keeping one eye on all his movements. In reply to this question, Sam RafFerty looked up a little disconcerted. ' I am afraid,' said he, ' that I must go in half-an-hour or so ; there is a meeting of the club you have heard me speak about, and I must be there. I am the secretary, and they cannot get on without me.' .4 RECOXXAISSAyCE. 249 ' Well, go by all means ; but there is time enough to eat your dinner. Then we will adjourn to the club together.' . ' You will go too ?' ' Undoubtedly,' replied Mr. Snapper, treatinor the thing: as a matter-of-course. * I don't want to spend the evening alone. Why should I not accompany you ?' ' Well,' said Sam, hesitating, ' the fact is we do not usually admit strangers. But you are an American, that makes a diifer- ence. Perhaps there avUI be no objection made ; at any rate, we can try it if you say so. If you go in, I can introduce you to my other great friend, Pat Daly.' Mr. Snapper refrained from saying that this had been an essential part of his present scheme in visiting Birmingham. There was no chance of o^ettins: at Dalv, he was aware, except through this first accidental meetins: at the famous club. 250 THE PHILADELPHIAN. After that, he hoped to improve his ac- quaintance. '• No one will object to me,' said Snapper, in a confident tone. ' Your people bor- rowed their political machine from us, and cannot grumble at an American stepping in occasionally to see how it works. You have some long-headed people here, but they don't know all the twistings and wind- ings of the political ropes, although they think they do. If the other side in politics had any sense, they would wake you up considerably — only they are half asleep. As for Daly, I should like to see him. Of course, I've heard all about him.' 'He's worth knowing,' remarked Sam, *but at times he's a little cranky. He doesn't like strangers, for he is aware that the police follow him up pretty sharply. Never mind ; he won't be afraid of you, I A BECOXXAISSANCE. 251 have talked of you to him many times ; you'll be like old friends.' ' Then that's settled — now you have just ten minutes more, so don't talk.' Sam was only too glad to be left at liberty to ply his knife and fork, but the ten minutes were soon over, and the Philadelphian rose punctually from the table. 'Put some cigars in your pocket,' said Snapper, by way of consoling the melan- choly secretary ; ' we will have this dinner over ao^ain another nio;ht.' They went along chatting gaily until they reached the meeting-place, where most of the delegates were already as- sembled. Xo one made any difficulty about the admission of Mr. Snapper. In fact, when it was announced to the as- sembly that an American was present, 252 THE PHILADELPHIAN. there was a round of cheers, for which Snapper did not much care, but he was secretly pleased when Daly came up to him, and voluntarily introduced himself. They sat down side-by-side, and before half-an-hour had passed they were on excellent terms. Daly made no secret of his contempt for the ' concern ' in which he was now taking a part. But some good rousing speeches were delivered, and Snapper was especially struck with the remarks of the chairman, a thin, shrewd-looking man, who spoke without violence, and who evidently com- manded the sympathies of the meeting. ' We are winning fast,' said this man, ^ and it rests with us to decide when the whole fabric which has been raised on superstition and selfishness shall come to the ground. The next time we are out of power, it will be done. Office has silenced A nECOyXAISSAXCE. 253 01* paralysed some of our best leaders ; set them free, and they will soon put you on the right road again. These politicians always keep an arrow oi' two in reserve. Wait till the Tories come in ao^ain ! Then will be signed the death-warrant of privi- lege, where rer it may exist, for there is nothing to save it. The resisting power is gone.' ' Of course all these men have axes of their own to grind,' said Daly, when the speaker sat down, 'but that fellow is rio;ht. Look round the room ; everv- body you see is a power in his own neigh- bourhood. These Radicals know what they- want, and mean to o:et it, if thev can.' ' It was a pretty good government, too^ at one time,' said Snapper, who, like most Americans, was conservative in his prin- ciples. ' It seems a pity they did not know how to take care of it.' 251 THE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Oh, well, it had lasted about long enough, and a nation which has taken to worshipping jaw is bound to come to grief. Here the greatest man is the fellow who can make the longest speeches. By-the- by, didn't I see you come in with Sam Rafferty ?' ' You did,' said Snapper, putting himself on o^uard in an instant. ' He's rather a queer customer. I need not tell you that he has gone into this thing because it pays. At present he's rather hard up, and politics come in handy.' ' Don't they say he is likely to be rich one of these days ?' asked Snapper, artfully. ' He has told you that, has he ! Or somebody else has for him. Between our- selves, I hope it's true, but I never knew what to believe. His mother will be very A RECOXXAISSANCE. 255 rich when her husband dies — thafs true, I fancy; and the husband is old — that's a comfort.' ' You seem interested in it ?' ' Well, Sam owes me a good deal of money; he's been getting in my debt one way or another for several years past. I want the money pretty badly now, and all I can get out of him is a promise to pay it back as soon as this Welsh squire — what- ever his name is — clears out. I hope that will be soon, but, if it is not, I have a plan of my own for hurrying things up a little.' ' What is it ? Perhaps I could help you ?' Daly was about to whisper something to Snapper when a murmur ran round the room, and another round of cheering broke out. ' Listen !' said Daly, diverted from his 256 THE PHILADELPHIAN. purpose, greatly to Snapper's chagrin. ^ They are calling for you — I thought they would insist on your making a speech. All Englishmen are crazy to hear a speech.' The cry for the American had, indeed, become pretty general, and, although Snapper tried at first to ignore it, he soon found that the meeting was not to be baulked. He rose to his feet and leaning slightly forward, with one hand resting upon the table, he began to speak in a half conversational sort of way, though very distinctly. ' My friends,' said he, ^ I have been pay- ins; a o:ood deal of attention to all that has gone on to-night. It appears to me that you are on the right track. You will soon succeed in "elevating politics," as your chairman says, so that what they call the ujDper classes will be driven out of them A RECOXNAISSAXCE. 257 altogether. Well, they have had a pretty good innings, and, if they have not been able to take care of themselves, it's their own fault. They will find it a little too late to bedn now. AYhat vou have to do is to go on imitating us. Between lobby- ists, " bosses," and " favourite sons," we have done away with gentlemen, or pretty nearly so. See the results. Our politics are elevated enough, I believe ; so are our leaders. Look at our House of Represen- tatives and our State Legislatures. AVhere else will you find so much purity and patriotism, or so many high-toned states- men ? All creation can't show their equal, I o^uess — no, and vou mav throw this little country of yours into the bargain, and I'll still say the same.' Here there was some applause, but Daly looked hard at Snapper, for he detected a spice of raillery in his remarks. The VOL. I. s 253 THE PHIL A DELPHIAN. Philadelpliian seemed to be thoroughly in earnest, and he went on without much regard to the effect he was producing. ' Now, my friends, you are all agog to *' Americanise " your institutions, and you nre going so fast that I really believe you'll manage to get ahead of us before Ions:. It would be rather odd if it turned out that what we are determined to throw away you are eager to pick up, and vice versa. More unlikely things have hap- pened. We are getting sober and steady as we grow older, while you are lashing out with all the f riskiness of youth. Some people will tell you that these experiments are dangerous, and that 3^ou will rue them bitterly, or give your children good cause for doing so. Never mind these croakers ! Go on just as you are doing, and you will lead yourselves somewhere about where we found ourselves in 1861, if you know A RECOyXAISSANCE. 259 "s\^here that was.' (Cheers ; do one uncler- standiiig the speaker's allusion.) ' They say you want to get hold of pro- perty. Well, so does everybody. You are not the tirst land-grabbers this country has ever seen, are you? The rich have had a good time, and now if i/uu were made rich, 3'ou could grin and bear it !' (Hear, hear.) ' It would do the rich a great deal of good to take your places for a time ; depend upon it, their eyes would be opened to a good man}^ things they don't see now. They say that the upper classes helped to make this a sfreat countrv, but if thev did, they took all the profit while you got all the hard knocks. Xow it is your turn. You want to get rid of the aristocracy and other lumber, and after that to have a republic' (Cheers.) ' Then everybody will have a fair chance and be happy. (' You've hit it.') ' Yes, I know I have. s2 260 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Forms of government alone make men prosperous ; that is the teaching of his- tory, I believe. We have got a republic, and a good many things besides : such as naval rings, and Indian rings, and land rings, and whisky rings — rings all over us, and bells on our toes. Likewise we have had one of the biggest wars ever seen, and if you think no jobbery went on then, or afterwards, go on thinking so, my friends ; and may the thought cheer you in your lonely moments ! * T heard your chairman say that when England is in your hands she will be a totally different country. That's so ; all her old faults will be purged away, and there can't very well be a crop of new ones, with such men as you to take charge of her. You will not have dukes and lords and millionaires swinging around all over the place then, like a bull's tail at A RECONNAISSANCE. 261 fly- time. Down with all your institutions, relics of barbarism and tbe middle as^es.' (Loud cheers.) ' That is the cry, is it not ?' ('Yes, yes.') 'So I thought. AVell, down with them ; there's nobody to stop you now, in my opinion. But, when you have o;ot England into your hands, let me tell you, my enlightened friends, what you had better do with it. Hand it over to the United States. We shall know how to take care of the poor old land, the mother of freedom, the parent of the stock from which we Americans spring. She need fear no new insults from us in her sorrows and her old age. The little island, re- nowned for so many ages, which kept the sacred fire of liberty alight when it was extinguished everywhere else, and which made itself an immortal name by the gallant deeds of its sons — depend upon it we shall know how to take care of it, ay, 262 THE PHILADELPHIA^ and what is more, we shall not fear to give a good account of its enemies, at home and abroad, who are hungering and thirsting to trample it into the dirt and dishonour it. There was some applause when Mr. Snapper sat down, but it died out quickly, for evidently there were many in the room wdio did not know what to make of the speech. Presently the delegates began to whisper among themselves, and a little knot o;athered round the chairman. While this was going on, the Philadelphian coolly put on his hat, and walked out, and Daly followed him. In a few minutes they were seated together in Snapper's room ; and it was rather odd that neither of them said a word about the meeting. ' Now let us have a quiet talk,' said Snapper, when he had provided his new friend with one of his incomparable ' Henry .4 RECOXyAISSAXCE. 263 Clay's.' ' Of course I have been hearing- of you for a long time, and have listened to your praise from Sam RafFerty. I never had a doubt that he was right about you, although I generally allow fifty per cent, for an active imagination when he is talking, especially when he goes off half- cock about that Welsh castle. A good deal of what he says then is mere moonshine.' ' So I thought,' said Daly, moodily. ' I suppose there's no such place?' ' Yes, there is, but the squire has a son to inherit it, and I don't see how Sam is ever to grow fat on the estate.' ' He says his mother will come in for a lot of money when the squire dies.' ' I cannot say,' remarked Snapper, with a shrug. 'Such expectations sometimes turn out to be a pretty poor dependence, liafterty ought to have money enough now — what does he do with it ?' 264 THE PHILADELPHIAN. 'That I can't tell you/ said Daly, but with a look of much secret merriment. '* I suppose there must be the usual explana- tion. I cannot think of any other.' ^ Just so — who is she ? as that old Sultan was always asking. Married or otherwise ? That is the point.' ' I have never been able to make out. In fact, I do not even know who the woman is, although T have my suspicions. Did you ever hear him speak of a man named Finch ?' ' Well, yes,' said Snapper, as if trying to recall the name — familiar enough, in reality, to him. ' I rather think I have.' ' I believe Finch could tell you the ins and outs of all this better than anybody, except Sam himself. Be careful in your dealings with Finch if you ever come across him — he'd cheat his own mother if he had one.' A RECONNAISSANCE. 265 ' One of that sort, eli ?' remarked Snap- per, not betraying by his manner his great anxiety to find out all he could about Thomas Finch. ' A thorough scoundrel ! He and his daughter lodge in the same house, down in the city ; a queer place. Her name is Mrs. Martin — a married woman. Sam RaiFerty has business with Finch some- times ; so have I, though not exactly of the same kind. x\s for ^Irs. Martin, she is never to be seen when I go, and I never saw her husband — not at her house, or with her, any way,' added Daly, signi- ficantly. ' Perhaps she is a widow,' suggested Snapper. ' I think not ; I rather suspect I could name the happy man. Now just suj)pose,' continued Daly, leaning over towards Snapper, ' that it should prove to be 266 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Raiferty ? I have heard allusions pas& between Finch and Sam that nothing else seems to explain. Wouldn't that be a pretty mess? No more money from his mother then ! She thinks he is good enough for a duchess — it's a wise mother that knows her own son ! She has for- given him a good deal, but I don't think she would ever forgive his marrying Tom Finch's daughter. He very seldom talks to me about either Finch or Mrs. Martin, except when he is drunk. He nearly let the cat out of the bag once or twice — that is, if she is in the bag, for of course I can- not be sure. What seems strange is, that Mrs. Martin is never seen with him, and when I go to Finch's and ask for him,, they both pretend to be surprised. They over-act their parts all round.' ^Then Sam may not be her husband^ after all?' A RECOyXAISSANCE. 267 ' That's just it. He's mixed up in some mess of the kind, I'll s^vear, and that's where his money o^oes. As for Finch, voii would take him for a o'entleman, when his decent suit is out of pawn, and he happens to be sober. Once he was what they call a " coach " to fellows at the university : but he must always have been a bad lot. He tumbled down fast enough to what he is now — loafer, beo-crino;-letter writer, sharper, anything that comes first. His daughter is not so bad; but I have heard strange stories about her.' ' Xothing to her discredit, I hope,' said Snapper, quickly, and in such a way as to excite Daly's surprise. ^ You know her ?' exclaimed the Irish- man, some vague suspicion suddenly aroused. ' How should I ? But your story is so curious that I feel interested in the parties. 268 THE PHILADELPHIAN. You were saying that Mrs. Martin- But this attempt to lead Daly back to the point where he had broken off did not succeed. He seemed disinclined to say anything more about Mrs. Martin, where- as concerning Finch he was still willing to talk. ' When he is hard up,' said the Irishman, * he comes prowling round after RafFerty, and he does not go back empty-handed. He must have some sort of hold over Sam, or he would get no money from him. If Finch has got him into his power, he will squeeze him pretty dry.' ' He is a determined man, then?' 'A good deal more so than RafFerty. Meanwhile, I am kept out of my money. I must wait, it seems, till that infernal old Welsh squire is dead !' ' And then you may never get it,' sug- gested Snapper, quietly. A EECOXXAISSAyCE. 2C9 ' Will I not ? We shall see ! As I told YOU before, I have a plan of my own if everything else fails. One of these days I am going down with Rafferty to have a look at that wonderful castle he is always bragging about. Perhaps I may call upon his mother, while I am about it.' ' Is that your plan ?' asked the vigilant Snapper. * Xo — my trump card is better than that, I hope. Now I must be going, and I am very glad we know each other. One word more — if you are at all curious about Mrs. Martin, why don't you go and see her? Easily ask for Tom Finch, you know — his dauo^hter mav be in, althouoh I never happened to catch her.' ' If I am curious !' repeated Snapper to himself, when the door closed behind his visitor. ' Well, a woman who has led the life she must have lived is worth knowinof. 270 THE PHILADELPHIAN. And her father — but he and I are not exactly strangers. His daughter he keeps out of sight, it seems, as much as possible, or at least he keeps her out of niine'—ixnd of that Irishman's. What is the clue to the m^^stery ? Some of us would sleep better to-night if I could find it out.' Snapper lit another cigar, and sat down, and turned many busy thoughts over and over in his mind for hours too;ether until every sound in the hotel was hushed. And even then he had come to no con- clusions. A few broken words fell from his lips, and he seemed restless and irritable. At last he lit a candle and went to his bed-room. 'Mrs. Martin and Rufus Snapper are bound to become better acquainted,' he murmured, just before sinking off to sleep. ' If she is Sam's wife, I am sure my old friend Polly Rafferty would like to know A RECONNAISSANCE. 271 it. As for Finch ' but Snapper was one of those fortunate individuals who have only to lay their heads upon their pillows to fall asleep, and before he had even time to finish his sentence he was far away in the land of dreams. 272 THE PHILADELPHIAN. CHAPTER XII. MRS. MARTIN. Almost under the shadow of St. Paul's Cathedral there is a cheerless labyrinth of narrow streets, not yet entirely submerged by the rapidly rising tide of modern im- provement, but left stranded upon the shore, like the wrecks of a bygone gener- ation. Wretched as these tenements are, they are all occupied, but, except to the inhabitants, their very existence is almost unknown. They are so hemmed in and hidden away that, for all practical pur- poses, they have disappeared from the view MRS. MARTIN. 273 of the outer world. Huge warehouses overshadow them ; magnificent avenues, which vv'ould have astonished and delio^hted the old Roman denizens of London, have o^one within a hair's-breadth of cuttino; them oft^ from the face of the earth alto- gether, and, as it is, have shorn them of their former o;lories, takino; in a corner here, and another there, or enclosing them in a cul-de-sac. There is Addle Hill, a little street of grimy houses, with a bootmaker's and a newsvendor's shop to remind the passer-by that the neighbourhood really has a resi- dent population. Then there is Knight Rider Street, along which the knights of old are said to have ridden to the tourna- ments in Smithfield, but now a confused heap of lawyers' offices and warehouses, with a public-house wedged in between them here and there. The tavern window VOL. I. T 274 THE PHILADELPHIAN. contains a placard announcing that bil- liards may be played within, and therefore it is possible that at night, when almost all the rest of the great city is a desert, sounds of revelry still ascend towards the black dome of St. Paul's from these melan- choly precincts. But who the revellers are must ever be a mystery ; perhaps the decayed old men who used to dart out upon strangers in Doctors Commons, like ancient spiders upon flies, threw off their white aprons after dark, and played wildly for beer and ' penny screws ' with belated lawyers' clerks. But in the daytime the whole locality has a dreary aspect, for there are few scenes which have a more dispiriting effect upon men who are not lawyers than a row of lawyers' offices. Depressed by these surroundings, and by occasional glimpses of black and sordid alleys, the explorer MRS. MARTIN. 275 will presently find that tie has strayed into Little Trinity Lane, where he will see in- scribed over a narrow archway the words. ' Sharp's Court.' Close by is a general dealer's, or ' chandler's shop,' filled with such goods as the poor are obliged to buy day by day, as their money or their credit will allow ; then there is a fried fish shop, round the door of which a few shoeless and rao^cred children are o^enerallv stand- ing, eagerly snifiing the savoury odour of plaice and flounders. In Sharp's Court there are half-a-dozen old houses — dilapidated, mean, blackened with soot and smoke, with a cistern in the yard from which miserable-looking women are drawing water for household use — a scanty supply being common to the whole of the little community. A few of the windows have flowers in them : in one there is even a little rustic gate and a T 2 276 THE FHILADELPHIAN. stile, enclosing some withered plants — re- motely suggestive of pleasant gardens and country scenes. Not far off is Queenhithe, where of old the London apprentices came down to disport themselves upon the water — a custom which seems to have descended to their successors. Between one and two o'clock, which is their dinner-hour, they still sally forth tumultuously from the warehouses close by, a rushing, noisy crowd, taking their pleasure, not sadly, but with immense energy and animation, delighting in nothing but rough gambols and horse-play — such sports as will hurt. Their lightest frolics would cause the bones of most men to ache for a week. If a boat is lying on the bank, they will get into it and row up and down the Thames, rolling and floundering from side to side, with short pipes in their mouths and paper caps stuck all awry upon their heads MRS. MARTIN. 277 — sino;ino; shoutino^, lau2:hinor an exact reproduction in real life of one of Hogarth's pictures. At the stroke of two they scramble out of the boats, and go off with a devil-may-care gait, and with loud 3'ells and shrill whistles, to their dye or indigo w^arehouses — for their blue faces and stain- ed paper caps reveal the nature of their employment. After seven o'clock, these stormy youths have all departed, and their quarter of the city, like the rest, is given over to silence. One afternoon, after the bustle of the day was over, a man stood leaning against the wall which flanks the river at the end of Queenhithe, w^aiting in no very patient mood for the appearance of some friend who had been anxiously expected. Queen- hithe is an open space, and anyone ap- proaching it could have been seen in a moment, but neither man nor woman came 278 THE PHILA DELPHIAN. in sight, except occasionally one of those strange prowlers of the streets, who go about with a bao; sluns; over their shoul- ders, always expecting to pickup a treasure, and rarely finding anything more valuable than pieces of paper and string. The man looked on at their proceedings with mani- fest contempt for the want of spirit which led them to seek a living in this precarious way. He was evidently poor himself, but there was a careless, easy-going air about him, which showed that to some extent he was the master of circumstances, and this- made itself visible even in the midst of the iit of dejection which suddenly fell upon him. ' I might as well have thrown myself into that river long ago,' he murmured, 'for all the good I am to myself or anybody else. I go on steadily from bad to worse, and, unless luck takes a turn, I shall have MRS. MARTIN. 27» to chuck up the sponge very soon! Confound it/ he exclaimed, with an angry movement, ' 1 am getting hipped to-day ! That won't help me much! Pull yourself together, Tom Finch, my boy — pull yourself to- o^ether, and 0:0 in for the next move in the campaign. So far as I can see, things are approaching a crisis, and we shall soon know what we have got to expect. That old fellow down in Wales is a tough one, but he can't live for ever. When he is once gone, our man must do something for Emily and me. Well, Master Sam,' he con- tinued, as he gave one more glance round the streets, and found them quite deserted, ' you have made a fool of me this time, but you won't do it again in a hurry. If I don't hear from you before the night is out, you shall hear from me to some tune to-morrow mornino* 1' As if roused by this decision, he turned 280 THE PHILADELPHIAN. suddenly from the wharf, and made his way towards a court in Garlick Hill, where three or four houses still stand, near the ugliest of Wren's churches, in a tolerably fair state of preservation. Finch and his daughter — who was known in the neighbourhood as Mrs. Martin — dwelt in the least gloomy of these houses, on the first floor — for the whole place was let out in lodgings. Why Finch had chosen this particular locality it would not haA'e been easy for anyone but himself to have ex- plained. He doubtless had strong reasons, and they sufficed to keep him where he was. When he was disposed to work, which was not often, his education enabled him to earn a fair sum of money as a copyist, and once it had done much more than that for him. There had been a time in his life when wealth and reputation were both MRS. MARTIN. 281 within his reach, for he had not only a great fund of scholarship to draw upon, but the art of imparting it to others — and that is an art which, whatever else may be said of it, can at least be made to pay. But there were two fatal flaws in his composi- tion — he was destitute of princij)le, and he was incapable of self-denial. Money he would have, and drink he would not do without. Some years before this, he had made free with the name of one of his pupils in order that he might raise money in a mo- ment of necessity. He was not prosecuted, but his character was gone, and he be- came a wanderer. At fitful intervals he made an effort to save himself, and such were his abilities that he was seldom with- out employment. Then there came re- lapse after relapse, and at last all vestige of respect for himself and of pity for his 5^82 THE PHILADELPHIAN. family were gone. His wife died ; his daughter was drao^o^ed down with him in his ruin. This dauo:hter was now awaitins; his return, and as Finch entered the small room where she Avas seated, lazily turning over the leaves of a book, she uttered a word or two of greeting, but no smile was exchanged between them. The window looked out upon a yard where a group of ragged little urchins were playing, but the very sky was hidden by a huge warehouse which overhung the court, and threatened at any moment to topple over and engulf it. The woman was not more than thirty years of age, and she had evidently been handsome ; she was good-looking even now. But there was a hard look in her eyes, and a recklessness in her bearing which repelled one ; a careful observer MRS. MARTIX. 283 Avould have noted that she was becoming ominously like her father. Finch flung his hat down upon a chest of drawers which stood in a corner, one of the relics of his old home which served to remind him of better davs. He seemed both tired and disappointed, and his daugh- ter, after watching him a moment or twQ in silence, rose up from her chair, drew a shawl closer around her, and moved to- wards the door. 'Where are you going?' said the man, irritably. ' I was f^oino; to see if I could 2:et some tea for you — you look as if you wanted something. We have nothing stronger in the house just now.' There was a slight touch of sarcasm in her tones which was not lost upon her father. 584 TEE PHILADELPHIAN. ' Well, then, you can keep it for your own enjoyment,' said he. ' I think I know where there's a little brandy ;' here he turned to one of the drawers, and, after rummaging in it for some time, produced a little black bottle — ' the remains of a bottle which he gave me.' ' When ?' asked the woman, sharply. *0h, long ago ; don't be afraid — he's not likely to give me much now. And so this is the last,' he w^ent on, as he poured some out into a tumbler and began drinking it, apparently forgetting all about the water. ^ Everything is low with us ; can't very well be much lower. The coals are nearly all gone, we owe a fortnight's rent, and that fine fellow who has been promising all the week to be here, has not condescended to show himself.' ' Why should he — why should anybody come here ?' MRS. MART IX. 285- ' You would have been sulky for a whole week if some one else had said that.' ' Xot at all ; my day is over. He has got tired of me, and I don't wonder at it. Tm not a very cheerful companion for any- one now-a-days.' She spoke as if to a stranger, and showed no trace of feeling of any kind. Her cal- lousness seemed to bring out still more strongly her resemblance to her father. ' You're out of conceit with yourself^ Emily,' said Finch, in a tone of mock sympathy ; ' women ought not to g^t like that, it doesn't pay. When they acknow- ledge the game is over, it is over with a vengeance ! And mighty sorry for it they are, depend upon it, when it comes to that.^ . ' And so vour man did not come after all,' responded the woman, as if weary of the subject. ' ]\hj man — how nicely you put it! I 286 THE PHILADELPHIA^. was waiting for Sain RafFerty ; I suppose you understood that? Last night he was to have met me, and the night before, and again to-night. Always the same result ! He leaves me to kick my heels in the cold, while he's off enjoying himself at some- body else's expense. I have stood it about long enough,' he growled, between his teeth. ' Then I would not stand it any longer,' said the woman, laughing slightly. ' If you have got out of him all you can get, let him go, like the others.' ' The others ! Well, you're a cool hand.' He sat looking at her with the sort of admiration due to one who surpassed him in his own special line. ' I ought to be by this time ; think how long I have been practising my lessons. I say again, if Sam is drained dry, why not MRS. MARTIN. 287 turn him off? You are not much oriven to wasting your time.' ' You're right, but I have not quite done -svith him yet. We have some claims upon him, I suppose? You maybe willing to forget them, but I am not. I would have brought him to his senses long ago if it had not been for you !' ' Then do not let me restrain you any longer,' said the woman, still in a scoffing tone. ' Bring him to his senses, by all means — you will have a long way to drag him, but it will do him good. Deal with him as you have dealt with most of our friends.' ' For heaven's sake drop that savage style of yours,' exclaimed Finch, whose jaunty bearing seemed to have been left somewhere out of doors. ' Haven't I troubles enough without you trying to increase them? You won't let me ask 288 THE PHILADELPHIAN. Sain for money — so be it ! But you can- not object to our doing a little business together?' 'What sort of business/ asked the woman, with an irritating smile. ' The sort that pays ! Let that be enough for you to know. When he comes here, don't let him see that you know anything at all about it. He is very suspicious, and will soon find out by your manner, unless you are careful, that I have told you too much.' 'Well, he seems in no hurry to come here !' ' No, but I will make him. We are getting to our last shilling, and money I must have — oh, not from your husband,' he added, hastily, seeing an angry flush on his daughter's cheek. ' You are too fast in jumping to conclusions. We may have business to settle, but I am not to take any MRS. MARTIJSI. 289 money — isn't that the agreement we have about your husband?' ' I am glad you remember it,' said the woman, still ruffled by the storm that had suddenly passed over her. * Certainly, I remember it — you have dinned it often enough into my ears. He is safe enough so far as I am concerned, thouo^h I think vou are a o^reat deal too easy with him. What's the use of having you married to a man who has lots of money ' ' Has he ?' interrupted the woman. ' I never heard of that' ' Well, he will have ; it's the same thing.' ' Xever heard that, either,' said the woman. ' The future and the present are not quite the same.' ' You are very aggravating to-night — a little more so than usual, I think. But I VOL. I. u 290 THE PHILADELPHIAN. know it's of no use to o^et out of temper with you. Yet you might as well listen to what I've got to say.' * Finish soon, then — let me get back to my book. We've talked this over a thou- sand times before.' ' So we have, and you are as obstinate as ever now. Why don't you look at the matter in a sensible way ?' 'That is just what I do,' replied the woman, with a more serious manner than she had yet adopted. 'My husband, as you well know, is not rich ; our marriage was a bad speculation on all sides.' ' You are right enough there !' cried Finch, dashing his pipe to the ground in a fit of anger and disgust. ' It didn't pay you, and it doesn't seem to have paid him I He is dependent upon others, and I believe he has to work hard ' MRS. MARTIN. 291 Finch turned, and looked at his daughter in bewilderment. ' Are you speaking,' said he, in a hesitat- ing voice, ' of — of anyone in Australia?' ' I am referring to what is going on here,' she answered, out of patience, appar- ently, with his obtuseness. ' "What are you maundering about Australia for ?' ' I didn't know what you meant, Emily,' said Finch, in a deprecating manner. ' It's easy enough to understand. This husband of mine — here in England, if you must have everything explained — is de- pendent upon others for all he has. Let our marriage once be made known, and he will be turned loose a beo^o^ar. You found out all that long ago, although now you always pretend to be so dreadfully surprised when it is mentioned.' • I know that he is afraid of his dear parent,' said Finch, laughing. u2 292 THE PHILADELPHIAN. *And he is entirely dependent on his dear parent — that is the thing for you to consider. Apart from all that,' con- tinued the woman, slowly and emphatically, ' I believe he has done the best he could for us, and I would not take another penny from him even if I were starving !' ' Then I would,' repUed the father, im- petuously, and bringing his hand down heavily upon the table. ' You have not done so,' said the woman, confronting him suddenly with flashing eyes. 'You have not been to him for money — or threatened him ?' ' No,' muttered Finch, with a cowed look. ' It is well for us both that you have not,' she said, fiercely. ' Do that, and it will be your worst day's work yet ! Levy your blackmail where you please, but spare him you must and shall !' ' Blackmail !' repeated Finch, stung be MRS. MARTIN. 293 yond endurance. ' Do you know what you are saying ?' 'Too well! I understand what I mean, and so do you.' * You will expose me, I suppose?' said Finch, white, but gradually mastering himself. ' Am / the only one, then, in this house who has reason to fear the law?' * I don't know anything about our fellow- lodgers' lives,' replied the woman, resuming her listless attitude before the fire. ' x\s for myself, I have acted under your direc- tions — orders would be the proper word. You have made two allusions to-night to matters that are best left alone.' ' Then why do you provoke me so ?' ' We have bitter wrongs between us, father — they will make themselves seen and heard now and then, I suppose. But don't let us quarrel any more about my husband. That reminds me — how is it 294 THE PHILADELPHIAN. your friend Daly has not been here lately?' ' Never mind about him ; he is all right enough. I expect him here presently. I only wish Sam were half as good a fellow.' ' I thought we had had enough of that,' said the woman, who evidently was easily inflamed to anger again. 'Why not drop it altogether ? As for Daly, if he is coming, I am going. Somehow, I am half afraid of that man.' ' Why, what is there to be afraid of?' asked the father, a little surprised. ' You have never even seen him yet. Wait till he comes now, at any rate. He might have something to say that would interest vou.' Finch dropped these words one by one very cautiously, as if he felt great doubt how they would be received. ' Does he know anything of our affairs ? MRS. MARTIN. 295 Is this another of your plans for my ad- vantage, father?' There was a reproachful look in her eyes as she put this question, which seemed to have the power to touch even the heart of Thomas Finch, or he chose to pretend that it had. ' I have done badly by you, my girl,' said he, in a penitent voice ; ' I can't deny it. But I do not talk about you or your affairs to men like Daly. He knows your husband' — she started, and he continued, hurriedly — ' have no fear ! I Avill not mention him before that Irishman, or before anybody else, except in a way you cannot object to. But at least remember one thing : Sam and Daly are good friends, and there is no harm in talking of one before the other. Daly could help you, I think, if you would only let him.' ' I want none of his help — he shall 296 THE PHILADELPHTAN. not come here under any such pretence.' ' Very well, then — he shall not,' said the father, soothingly. ' You are not in it at all. Daly is coming here to see me, but if he should happen to mention Sam, don't go to work imagining that there's some plot brewing, that's all ! Daly does not know anything, remember,' added Finch, in a half-whisper, ' and, whatever secrets we may have, I fancy Daly is not very likely to learn them from Sam. All the same, Sam has used me badly, mind you, and I intend to let him know it.' He warmed up rapidly when he saw that his daughter had resumed her book, and seemed to be paying little or no attention to him. ' Sam Rafferty and I,' he said, ' have a little account of our own to settle, and I do not mean to let him get out of it if all the world stood in the way. Under- stand that.' MRS. MARTIN. 297 He stamped his foot upon the floor, making the old boards rattle all over the room. ' Don't talk so loud,' said his daughter, coolly, ' or bang the floor about as if we owned it. People will think we are get- ting up a dance. And then there is that old woman in the room below ; she is dying.' 'Then it can't hurt her,' replied Finch, with a brutal laugh. ' She is better off than we are. We live on a crust of dry bread when Ave ouo-ht to be rollins; in riches. Everjdoody knows you as Mrs. Martin. Mrs. Fiddlesticks ! What's it all for ? What right has your husband to hide his wife away in a slum like this ? I consented to it at first, but it has lasted long enough, and now it must stop. Put an end to all this mummery, or let me do it for you. Why is it to go on ?' VOL. I. X 298 THE PHTLADELPHIAN. ' Because I choose that it shall,' said the woman, firmly ; and whenever she spoke in this tone Finch's courage seemed to evaporate. ' Let me remind you that this young man married me when he fancied he was in love, and you deceived both him and me. You misled me grossly ; how much more grossly you betrayed him, I need not tell you ! You thought he had plenty of money, but it was not his fault that you thought so. He never deceived you ! When T think of it all now, I am sorry for him. He never did 7ne harm, and I will see none done to him now — no more than has been done, I mean. I can't undo the past !' ' I don't see why not, since you are so mighty generous !' ' Well, I dare not then — take it that way, if you like. Only I tell you once again, I will not stand by and see him MRS. MARTIN. 299 completely ruined, and, if lie once fell into your hands, nothing could save him from ruin ! ' That is a pretty thing to say to your o^yn father,' said Finch, with an attempt to resume his light touch-and-go manner. ' Pretty and true ! Think it over. If you are so hard pressed for money as you say, get it from this man Daly. Give your new friends a turn sometimes as well as the old. Or does Daly know too much ?' ' My dutiful child,' replied Finch, in a jocose mood ao^ain, ' Dalv o-ets most of his money, I have reason to believe, from our dear Sam Rafferty, so it all works round in a circle, you see. I did hope to have seen them both to-night — whichever comes first must pay the piper, whether you like it or not, Emily.' * Hark !' said the woman, holding up her 300 THE PHILADELPHIAN. finger. ' I think T hear the fortunate raan coming up the stairs.' Both listened, but for a minute or two there was not a sound to be heard. 'It must have been the undertaker's man,' said Finch, with a grin ; ' somebody or other is always finding a job for him in these parts. Why, it's Sam's voice, surely !' he added, as he stood listening intently. In another instant a sharp rap was heard upon the door. ' Come in/ cried Finch, a little ner- vously. Somehow or other the rap had startled both father and daughter, and they stood staring silently at one another. END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. London: Printed hy Duncan Macdonald, Blenheim House, W. % '.•^ .^ fr •■• UNIVERSITY OF ILUN0I9-UBBANA 3 0112 049062315 mm'' *■'%„ i--*- i-.-.i, .*• :■: „•»■■