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WILLING TO DIE 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/willingtodie01lefa 
 

 WILLIIG TO DIE 
 
 J. SHERIDAN LE FANU, 
 
 AUTHOR OP 
 
 " UNCLE SILAS," 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1873. 
 
 Ttti right of Translation is reserved. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, 
 
 BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
^^3 
 
 WILLING TO DIE 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 FIRST, I must tell you how I intend to 
 relate my story. Having never be- 
 fore undertaken to write a long narrative, I 
 - have considered and laid down a few rules 
 which I shall observe. Some of these are 
 : unquestionably good ; others, I daresay, 
 ^ offend against the canons of composition ; but 
 ^' I adopt them, because they will enable me 
 to tell my story better than, witli my imper- 
 ^ feet experience, better rules possibly would. 
 In the first place, I shall represent the 
 J^'^people with whom I had to deal quite fairly. 
 ^ I have met some bad people, some indifferent, 
 J and some who at this distance of time seem 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 to me like angels in the unchanging light of 
 heaven. 
 
 My narrative shall be arranged [in the 
 order of the events ; I shall not recapitulate 
 or anticipate. 
 
 What I have learned from others, and 
 did not witness, that which I narrate, in part, 
 from the hints of living witnesses, and, in 
 part, conjecturally, I shall record in the 
 historic third person ; and I shall write it 
 down with as much confidence and particu- 
 larity as if I had actually seen it ; in that 
 respect imitating, I believe, all great histo- 
 rians, modern and ancient. But the scenes 
 in which I have been an actor, that which 
 my eyes have seen, and my ears heard, I 
 will relate accordingly. If I can be clear 
 and true, my clumsiness and irregularity, I 
 hope, will be forgiven me. 
 
 My name is Ethel Ware. 
 . I am not an interesting person by any 
 means. You shall judge. I shall be forty- 
 
TO THE KEADEE. 6 
 
 two my next birthday. That anniversary 
 will occur on the first of May, 1873 ; and I 
 am unmarried. 
 
 I don't look quite the old maid I am, 
 they tell me. They say I don't look five- 
 and-thirty, and I am conscious, sitting before 
 the glass, that there is nothing sour or peev- 
 ish in my features. "What does it matter, 
 even to me ? I shall, of course, never 
 marry ; and, honestly, I don't care to please 
 any one. If I cared twopence how I 
 looked, I should probably look worse than 
 I do. 
 
 I wish to be honest. I have looked in 
 the glass since I wrote that sentence. I have 
 just seen the faded picture of what may have 
 been a pretty, at least what is called a 
 piquant face ; a forehead broad and well- 
 formed, over which the still dark-brown 
 hair grows low ; large and rather good grey 
 eyes and features, with nothing tragic, no- 
 thing classic — -just fairly good. 
 
 I think there was always energy in my 
 
 b2 
 
4 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 face ! I think I remember, long ago, some- 
 thing at times comic ; at times, also, some- 
 thing sad and tender, and even dreamy, as 
 I fixed flowers in my hair or talked to my 
 image in the glass. All that has been 
 knocked out of me pretty well. What I 
 do see there now is resolution. 
 
 There are processes of artificial hatching 
 in use, if I remember rightly, in Egypt, by 
 which you may, at your discretion, make 
 the bird all beak, or all claw, all head, or 
 all drumstick, as you please to develop it, 
 before the shell breaks, by a special applica- 
 tion of heat. It is a chick, no doubt, but a 
 monstrous chick ; and something like such a 
 chick was I. Circumstances, in my very 
 early days, hatched my character altogether 
 out of equilibrium. 
 
 The caloric had been applied quite differ- 
 ently in my mother's case, and produced a 
 prodigy of quite another sort. 
 
 I loved my mother with a very warm, 
 but, I am now conscious, with a somewhat 
 
TO THE EEADER. 5 
 
 contemptuous afFection. It never was an 
 angry nor an arrogant contempt ; a very 
 tender one, on the contrary. She loved me, 
 I am sure, as well as she was capable of 
 loving a child— better than she ever loved 
 my sister — and I would have laid down my 
 life for her ; but, with all my love, I looked 
 down upon her, although I did not know it, 
 till I thought my life over in the melancholy 
 honesty of solitude. 
 
 I am not romantic. If I ever was it is 
 time I should be cured of all that. I can 
 laugh heartily, but I think I sigh more than 
 most people. 
 
 I am not a bit shy, but I like solitude ; 
 partly because I regard my kind with not 
 unjust suspicion. 
 
 I am speaking very frankly. I enjoy, 
 perhaps you think cynically, this hard-fea- 
 tured self-delineation. I don't spare myself; 
 I need not spare any one else. But I am 
 not a cynic. There is vacillation and timi- 
 dity in that ironical egotism. It is some- 
 
b WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 thing deeper with me. I don't delight 
 in that sordid philosophy. I have encoun- 
 tered magnanimity and self-devotion on 
 earth. It is not true that there is neither 
 nobility nor beauty in human nature, that is 
 not also more or less shabby and grotesque. 
 
 I have an odd story to tell. On my 
 father's side I am the grand-daughter of a 
 viscount; on my mother's, the grand-daughter 
 of a baronet. I have had my early glimpses 
 of the great world, and a wondrous long 
 stare round the dark world beneath it. 
 
 When I lower my hand, and in one of the 
 momentary reveries that tempt a desultory 
 writer tickle my cheek slowly with the fea- 
 thered end of my pen — for I don't incise my 
 sentences with a point of steel, but, in the 
 old fashion, wing my words with a possibly 
 too appropriate grey-goose plume — I look 
 through a tall window in an old house on 
 the scenery I have loved best and earliest in 
 the world. The noble Welch mountains are 
 on my right, the purple headlands stooping 
 
TO THE READEE. 7 
 
 grandly into the waves ; I look upon the sea, 
 the enchanted element, my first love and my 
 last ! How often I lean upon my hand and 
 smile back upon the waters that silently 
 smile on me, rejoicing under the Summer 
 heavens ; and in wintry moonlights, when 
 the north wind drives the awful waves upon 
 the rocks, and I see the foam shooting 
 cloud after cloud into the air, I have found 
 myself, after long hours, still gazing, as if 
 my breath were frozen, on the one peaked 
 black rock, thinking what the storm and 
 foam once gave me up there, until, with a 
 sudden terror, and a gasp, I wake from the 
 spell, and recoil from the white image, as if 
 a spirit had been talking with me all the 
 time. 
 
 From this same window, in the fore- 
 ground, I see, in morning light or melancholy 
 sunset, with very perfect and friendly trust, 
 the shadowy old churchyard, where I have - 
 arranged my narrow bed shall be. There 
 my mother-earth, at last, shall hold me in 
 
8 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 her bosom, and I shall find my anodyne 
 and rest. There over me shall hover 
 through the old church windows faintly the 
 sweet hymns and the voices in prayer I heard 
 long ago ; there the shadow of tower and 
 tree shall slowly move over the grass above 
 me, from dawn till night, and there, within 
 the fresh and solemn sound of its waves,. I 
 shall lie near the ceaseless fall and flow of 
 the sea I loved so well. 
 
 I am not sorry, as I sit here, with my vain 
 recollections and my direful knowledge, 
 that my life has been what it was. 
 
 A member of the upper ten thousand, I 
 should have known nothino^. I have bous^ht 
 my knowledge dear. But truth is a price- 
 less jewel. Would you part with it, fellow- 
 mourner, and return to the simplicities and 
 illusions of early days ? Consider the 
 question truly ; be honest ; and you will 
 answer "no." In the volume of memory, 
 every page of which, like " Cornelius Agrip- 
 pa's bloody book," has power to evoke a 
 
TO THE READER. y 
 
 spectre, would you yet erase a line ? We 
 can willingly part with nothing that ever was 
 part of mine, or memory, or self. The 
 lamentable past is our own for ever. 
 
 Thank Heaven, my childhood was passed 
 in a tranquil nook, where the roar of the 
 world's traffic is not so much as heard ; 
 among scenery, where there lurks little 
 capital, and no enterprise ; where the good 
 people are asleep; and where, therefore, 
 the irreparable improvements that in other 
 places carry on their pitiless work of obli- 
 teration are undreamed of. I am looking 
 out on scenes that remain unchanged as 
 heaven itself. The Summer comes and 
 goes ; the Autumn drifts of leaves, and 
 Winter snows ; and all things here remain 
 as my round childish eyes beheld them in 
 stupid wonder and delight when first the 
 world was opening upon them. The trees, 
 the tower, the stile, the very gravestones, 
 are my earliest friends ; I stretch my arms 
 to the mountains, as if I could fold them to / 
 
10 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 my heart. And in the opening through the 
 ancient trees, the great estuary stretches 
 northward, wider and wider, into the grey 
 horizon of the open sea. 
 
 The sinking sun askance, 
 
 Spreads a dull glare, 
 
 Through evening air ; 
 And, in a happy trance, 
 
 Forest and wave, and white cliff stand, 
 
 Like an enchanted sea and land. 
 
 The sea-breeze wakens clear and cold, 
 
 Over the azure wide ; 
 Before whose breath, in threads of gold. 
 
 The ruddy ripples glide. 
 And chasing, break and mingle ; 
 
 While clear as bells, 
 
 Each wavelet tells. 
 O'er the stones on the hollow shingle. 
 
 The rising of winds and the fall of the waves ! 
 I love the music of shingle and caves. 
 And the billows that travel so far to die, 
 In foam, on the loved shore where they lie. 
 I lean my cold cheek on my hand ; 
 
 And as a child, with open eyes, 
 
 Listens, in a dim surprise, 
 
 To some high story 
 
 Of grief and glory, 
 It cannot understand ; 
 So, like that child, 
 To meanings of a music wild, 
 I listen, in a rapture lonely, 
 Not understanding, listening only, 
 
TO THE READER. 11 
 
 To a story not for me ; 
 
 And let my fancies come and go, 
 
 And fall and flow, 
 With the eternal sea. 
 
 And so, to leave rhyme, and return to 
 prose, I end my preface, and begin my story 
 here. 
 
12 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 
 
 /^NE of the earliest scenes I can remember 
 ^-^ with perfect distinctness is this. My 
 sister and I, still denizens of the nursery, 
 had come down to take our tea with good 
 old Rebecca Torkill, the Malory house- 
 keeper, in the room we called the cedar 
 parlour. It is a long and rather sombre 
 room, with two tall windows looking out 
 upon the shadowy court-yard. There are 
 on the wall some dingy portraits, whose pale 
 faces peep out, as it were, through a back- 
 ground of black fog, from the canvas ; and 
 there is one, in better order than the others, 
 of a grave man in the stately costume of 
 
AN AKKIVAL. 13 
 
 James the First, which hangs over the man- 
 tel-piece. As a child I loved this room ; I 
 loved the half-decipherable pictures ; it was 
 solemn and even gloomy, but it was with 
 the delightful gloom and solemnity of one 
 of Rebecca Torkill's stories of castles, giants, 
 and goblins. 
 
 It was evening now, with a stormy, red 
 sky in the west. Rebecca and we two 
 children were seated round the table, sip- 
 ping our tea, eating hot cake, and listening 
 to her oft-told tale, entitled the Knight of 
 the Black Castle. 
 
 This knight, habited in black, lived in 
 his black castle, in the centre of a dark 
 wood, and being a giant, and an ogre, and 
 something of a magician besides, he used to 
 ride out at nightfall with a couple of great 
 black bags, to stow his prey in, at his saddle- 
 bow, for the purpose of visiting such houses 
 as had their nurseries well-stocked with 
 children. His tall black horse, when he 
 dismounted, waited at the hall-door, which. 
 
14 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 however mighty its bars and bolts, could not 
 resist certain magical words which he uttered 
 in a sepulchral voice, 
 
 *' Yoke, yoke, 
 Iron and oak ; 
 One, two, and three, 
 Open to me." 
 
 At this charmed summons the door turned 
 instantly on its hinges, without warning of 
 creek or rattle, and the black knight mount- 
 ed the stairs to the nursery, and was drawl- 
 ing the children softly out of their beds, by 
 their feet, before any one knew he was near. 
 
 As this story, which with childish love of 
 iteration we were listening to now for the 
 fiftieth time, went on, I, whose chair faced 
 the window, saw a tall man on a tall horse 
 — both looked black enough against the red 
 sky — ride by at a walk. 
 
 I thought it was the gaunt old vicar, who 
 used to ride up now and then to visit our 
 gardener's mother, who was sick and weak, 
 and troubling my head no more about him, 
 
AN ARRIVAL. 15 
 
 was instantly as much absorbed as ever in 
 the predatory prowlings of the Knight of 
 the Black Castle. 
 
 It was not until I saw Rebecca's face, in 
 which I was staring with the steadiness of an 
 eager interest, undergo a sudden and un- 
 comfortable change, that I discovered my 
 error. She stopped in the middle of a sen- 
 tence, and her eyes were fixed on the door. 
 Mine followed hers thither. I was more 
 than startled. In the very crisis of a tale 
 of terror, ready to believe any horror, I 
 thought, for a moment, that I actually beheld 
 the Black Knight, and felt that his horse, no 
 doubt, and his saddle-bags, were waiting at 
 the hall-door to receive me and my sister. 
 
 What I did see was a man who looked to 
 me gigantic. He seemed to fill the tall 
 door-case. His dress was dark, and he had a 
 pair of leather overalls, I believe they called 
 them, which had very much the effect of 
 jack-boots, and he had a low-crowned hat 
 on. His hair was long and black, his pro- 
 
16 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 minent black eyes were fixed on us, his face 
 was long, but handsome, and deadly pale, 
 as it seemed to me, from intense anger. A 
 child's instinctive reading of countenance is 
 seldom at fault. The ideas of power and 
 mystery surround grown persons in the eyes 
 of children. A gloomy or forbidding face 
 upon a person of great stature inspires some- 
 thing like panic ; and if that person is a 
 stranger, and evidently transported with 
 anger, his mere appearance in the same 
 room will, I can answer for it, frighten a 
 child half into hysterics. This alarming 
 face, with its black knit brows, and very 
 blue shorn chin, was to me all the more 
 fearful that it was that of a man no longer 
 young. He advanced to the table with 
 two strides, and said, in resonant, deep 
 tones, to which my very heart seemed to 
 vibrate : 
 
 "Mr. Ware's not here, but he will be, 
 soon enough ; you give him that ;" and he 
 hammered down a letter on the table, with 
 
AN AERIVAL. 17 
 
 a thump of his huge fist. " That's my an- 
 swer; and tell him, moreover, that I took 
 his letter," — and he plucked an open letter 
 deliberately from his great-coat pocket — 
 " and tore it, this way and that way, across 
 and across," and he suited the action fiercely 
 to the words, '^ and left it for him, there !" 
 
 So saying, he slapped down the pieces 
 with his big hand, and made our tea-spoons 
 jump and jingle in our cups, and turned and 
 strode again to the door. 
 
 " And tell him this," he added, in a tone 
 of calmer hatred, turning his awful face on 
 us again, "that there's a God above us, who 
 judges righteously." 
 
 The door shut, and we saw him no 
 more. I and my sister burst into clamorous 
 tears, and roared and cried for a full half- 
 hour, from sheer fright — a demonstration 
 which, for a time, gave Rebecca Torkill 
 ample occupation for all her energies and 
 adroitness. 
 
 This recollection remains, with all the 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
18 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 colouring and exaggeration of a horrible 
 impression received in childhood, fixed in 
 my imagination. I and dear Nelly long 
 remembered the apparition, and in our 
 plays used to call him, after the goblin hero 
 of the romance to which we had been lis- 
 tening when he entered, the Knight of the 
 Black Castle. 
 
 The adventure made, indeed, a profound 
 impression upon our nerves, and I have re- 
 lated it, with more detail than it seems to 
 deserve, because it was, in truth, connected 
 with my story; and I afterwards, unex- 
 pectedly, saw a good deal more of the 
 awful man in whose presence my heart had 
 quaked, and after whose visit I and my sis- 
 ter seemed for days to have drunk of " the 
 cup of trembling." 
 
 I must take up my story now at a point 
 a great many years later. 
 
 Let the reader fancy me and my sister 
 Helen ; I, dark-haired, and a few months 
 past sixteen; she, with flaxen, or rather 
 
AN AERIVAL. 19 
 
 golden hair and large blue eyes, and only 
 fifteen, standing in the hall at Malory, 
 lighted with two candles ; one in the old- 
 fashioned glass bell that swings by three 
 chains from the ceiling, the other carried 
 out hastily from the housekeeper's room, 
 and flaming on the table, in the foggy puffs 
 of the February night air that entered at 
 the wide-open hall-door. 
 
 Old Rebecca Torkill stood on the steps, 
 with her broad hand shading her eyes, as if 
 the moon dazzled them. 
 
 " There's nothing, dear ; no, Miss Helen, 
 it mustn't a' bin the gate. There's no sign 
 o' nothin' comin' up, and no sound nor no- 
 thing at all ; come in, dear ; you shouldn't a 
 come out to the open door, with your cough, 
 in this fog." 
 
 So in she stumped, and shut the door ; 
 and we saw no more of the dark trunks and 
 boughs of the elms at the other side of the 
 courtyard, with the smoky mist between ; 
 and we three trooped together to the house- 
 
 c2 
 
20 WILLING TO DIB. 
 
 keeper's room, where we had taken up our 
 temporary quarters. 
 
 This was the second false alarm that 
 night, sounded, in Helen's fancy, by the 
 quavering scream of the old iron gate. We 
 had to wait and watch in the fever of ex- 
 pectation for some time longer. 
 
 Our old house of Malory was, at the best, 
 in the forlorn condition of a ship of war out 
 of commission. Old Rebecca and two rustic 
 maids, and Thomas Jones, who was boots, 
 gardener, hen -wife, and farmer, were all 
 the hands we could boast; and at least 
 three-fourths of the rooms were locked up, 
 with shutters closed ; and many of them, 
 from year to year, never saw the light, and 
 lay in perennial dust. 
 
 The truth is, my father and mother sel- 
 dom visited Malory. They had a house in 
 London, and led a very gay life ; were very 
 " good people," immensely in request, and 
 everywhere. Their rural life was not at 
 Malory, but spent in making visits at one 
 
AN ARRIVAL. 21 
 
 country-house after another. Helen and I, 
 their only children, saw very little of them. 
 We sometimes were summoned up to town 
 for a month or two for lessons in dancing, 
 music, and other things, but there we saw 
 little more of them than at home. The 
 being in society, judging by its effects upon 
 them, appeared to me a very harassing and 
 laborious profession. I always felt that we 
 were half in the way and half out of sight 
 in town, and was immensely relieved when 
 we were dismissed again to our holland 
 frocks, and to the beloved solitudes of 
 Malory. 
 
 This was a momentous night. We were 
 expecting the arrival of a new governess, or 
 rather companion. 
 
 Laura Grey — we knew no more than her 
 name, for in his hurried note we could not 
 read whether she was Miss or Mrs. — my 
 father had told us, was to arrive this night 
 at about nine o'clock. I had asked him, 
 when he paid his last visit of a day here. 
 
22 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 and announced the coming event, whether 
 she was a married lady ; to which he an- 
 swered, laughing, 
 
 " You wise little woman ! That's a very 
 pertinent question, though I never thought 
 of it, and I have been addressing her as 
 Miss Grey all this time. She certainly is 
 old enough to be married." 
 
 " Is she cross, papa, I wonder ?" I further 
 inquired. 
 
 ^' Not cross — perhaps a little severe. ' She 
 whipped two female 'prentices to death, and 
 hid them in the coal-hole,' or something of 
 that kind, but she has a very cool temper ;" 
 and so he amused himself with my curiosity. 
 
 Now, although we knew that all this, in- 
 cluding the quotation, was spoken in jest, it 
 left an uncomfortable suspicion. Was this 
 woman old and ill-tempered ? A great deal 
 was in the power of a governess here. An 
 artful woman, who liked power, and did 
 not like us, might make us very miserable. 
 
 At length the little party in the house- 
 
AN AKEIVAL. 23 
 
 keeper's room did hear sounds at which we 
 all started up with one consent. They 
 were the trot of a horse's hoofs and the roll 
 of wheels, and before we reached the hall- 
 door the bell was ringing. 
 
 Rebecca swung open the door, and we 
 saw in the shadow of the house, with the 
 wheels touching the steps, a one-horse con- 
 veyance, with some luggage on top, dimly 
 lighted by the candles in the hall. 
 
 A little bonnet was turned towards us 
 from the windows ; we could not see what 
 the face was like ; a slender hand turned 
 the handle, and a lady, whose figure, though 
 enveloped in a tweed cloak, looked very 
 slight and pretty, came down, and ran up 
 the steps, and hesitated, and being greeted 
 encouragingly by Rebecca Torkill, entered 
 the hall smiling, and showed a very pretty 
 and modest face, rather pale, and very 
 young. 
 
 " My name is Grey ; I am the new go- 
 verness," she said, in a pleasant voice, which, 
 
24 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 with her pretty looks, was very engaging ; 
 " and these are the young ladies ?" she con- 
 tinued, glancing at Rebecca and back again 
 at us ; you are Ethel, and you Helen Ware ?*' 
 and a little timidly she offered her hand to 
 each. 
 
 I liked her already. 
 
 "Shall I go with you to your room," 
 I asked, ''while Rebecca is making tea for 
 us in the housekeeper's room ? We thought 
 we should be more comfortable there to- 
 night." 
 
 *' I'm so glad — I shall feel quite at home. 
 It is the very thing I should have liked," 
 she said ; and talked on as I led her to her 
 room, which, though very old-fashioned, 
 looked extremely cosy, with a good fire 
 flickering abroad and^ above on walls and 
 ceiling. 
 
 I remember everything about that evening 
 so well. I have reason to remember Miss 
 Laura Grey. Some people would have 
 said that there was not a regular feature in 
 
AN ARRIVAL. 25 
 
 her face, except her eyes, which were very- 
 fine ; but she had beautiful little teeth, and 
 a skin wonderfully smooth and clear, and 
 there was refinement and energy in her 
 face, which was pale and spiritual, and inde- 
 scribably engaging. To ray mind, whether 
 according to rule or not, she was nothing 
 short of beautiful. 
 
 I have reason to remember that pale, 
 pretty young face. The picture is clear 
 and living before me this moment, as it was 
 then in the firelight. Standing there, she 
 smiled on me very kindly — she looked as if 
 she would have kissed me — and then, sud- 
 denly thoughtful, she stretched her slender 
 hands to the fire, and, in a momentary 
 reverie, sighed very deeply. 
 
 I left her, softly, with her trunks and 
 boxes, which Thomas Jones had already 
 carried up, and ran downstairs. 
 
 I remember the pictures of that night 
 with supernatural distinctness; for at that 
 point of time fate changed my life, and with 
 
26 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 pretty Miss Grey another pale figure entered, 
 draped in black, and calamity was my mate 
 for many a day after. 
 
 Our tea-party, however, this night in Mrs. 
 Torkill's room, was very happy. I don't 
 remember what we talked about, but we 
 were in high good-humour with our young 
 lady-superioress, and she seemed to like us. 
 
 I am going to tell you very shortly my 
 impressions of this lady. I never met any- 
 one in my life who had the same influence 
 over me ; and, for a time, it puzzled me. 
 When we were not at French, German, music 
 — our studies, in fact — she was exactly like 
 one of ourselves, always ready to do what- 
 ever we liked best, always pleasant, gentle, 
 and, in her way, even merry. When she 
 was alone, or thinking, she was sad. That 
 seemed the habit of her mind ; but she was 
 naturally gay and sympathetic, as ready as 
 we for a walk on the strand to pick up 
 shells, for a ride on the donkeys to Pen- 
 ruthyn Priory, to take a sail or a row on 
 
AN ARRIVAL. 27 
 
 the estuary, or a drive in our little pony- 
 carriage anywhere. Sometimes on our ram- 
 bles we would cross the stile and go into the 
 pretty little churchyard that lies to the left 
 of Malory, near the sea, and if it was a 
 sunny day we would read the old inscrip- 
 tions and loiter away half an hour among 
 the tombstones. 
 
 And when we came home to tea we 
 would sit round the fire and tell stories, of 
 which she had ever so many, German, 
 French, Scotch, Irish, Icelandic, and I know 
 not what; and sometimes we went to the 
 housekeeper's room, and, with Rebecca 
 Torkill's leave, made a hot cake, and baked 
 it ourselves on the griddle there, with great 
 delight. 
 
 The secret of Laura Grey's power was in 
 her gentle temper, her inflexible conscience, 
 and her angelic firmness in all matters of 
 duty. I never saw her excited, or for a 
 moment impatient ; and at idle times, as I 
 said, she was one of ourselves. The only 
 
28 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 threat she ever used was to tell us that she 
 could not stay at Malory as our governess 
 if we would not do what she thought right. 
 There is in young people an instinctive per- 
 ception of motive, and no truer spirit than 
 Laura Grey ever lived on earth. I loved 
 her. I had no fear of her. She was our 
 gentle companion and playmate ; and yet, 
 in a certain sense, I never stood so much in 
 awe of any human being. 
 
 Only a few days after Laura Grey had 
 come home, we were sitting in our accus- 
 tomed room, which was stately, but not 
 uncomfortably spacious, and, like many at 
 the same side of the house, panelled up to 
 the ceiling. I remember, it was just at the 
 hour of the still early sunset, and the ruddy 
 beams w.ere streaming their last through 
 the trunks of the great elms. We were in 
 high chat over Helen's little sparrow, 
 Dickie, a wonderful bird, whose appetite 
 and spirits we were always discussing, when 
 the door opened, and Rebecca said, "Young 
 
AN ARRIVAL. W 
 
 ladies, please, here's Mr. Carmel ;" and 
 Miss Grey, for the first time, saw a certain 
 person who turns up at intervals and in 
 odd scenes in the course of this autobio- 
 graphy. 
 
 The door is at some distance from the 
 window, and through its panes across that 
 space upon the opposite wall the glow of 
 sunset fell mistily, making the clear shadow, 
 in which our visitor stood, deeper. The 
 figure stood out against this background like 
 a pale old portrait, his black dress almost 
 blended with the background ; but, indistinct 
 as it was, it was easy to see that the dress he 
 wore was of some ecclesiastical fashion not 
 in use among Church of England men. The 
 coat came down a sood deal lower than his 
 knees. His thin slight figure gave him an 
 effect of height far greater than his real 
 stature ; his fine forehead showed very 
 white in contrast with his close dark hair, 
 and his thin, delicate features, as he stepped 
 slowly in, with an ascetic smile, and his 
 
30 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 hand extended, accorded well with ideas of 
 abstinence and penance. Gentle as was his 
 manner, there was something of authority 
 also in it, and in the tones of his voice. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Ethel ? How do 
 you do, Miss Helen ? I am going to write 
 my weekly note to your mamma, and — oh ! 
 Miss Grey, I believe ?"- — he interrupted 
 himself, and bowed rather low to the young 
 governess, disclosing the small tonsure on 
 the top of his head. 
 
 Miss Grey acknowledged his bow, but I 
 could see that she was puzzled and sur- 
 prised. 
 
 " I am to tell your mamma, I hope, that 
 you are both quite well ?" he said, address- 
 ing himself to me, and taking my hand ; 
 " and in good spirits, I suppose, Miss 
 Grey?" he said, apparently recollecting 
 that she was to be recognised ; " I may say 
 that?" 
 • He turned to her, still holding my hand. 
 
 " Yes, they are quite well, and, I believe, 
 
AN ARRIVAL. 31 
 
 happy," she said, still looking at him, 1 could 
 see, with curiosity. 
 
 It was a remarkable countenance, with 
 large earnest eyes, and a mouth small and 
 melancholy, with those brilliant red lips 
 that people associate with early decay. It 
 was a pale face of suffering and decision, 
 which so vaguely indicated his years that he 
 might be any age you please, from six-and- 
 twenty up to six-and-thirty, as you allowed 
 more or less in the account for the afflictions 
 of a mental and bodily discipline. 
 
 He stood there for a little while chatting 
 with us. There was something engaging in 
 this man, cold, severe, and melancholy as 
 his manner was. I was conscious that he 
 was agreeable, and, young as I was, I felt 
 that he was a man of unusual learning and 
 ability. 
 
 In a little time he left us. It was now 
 twilight, and we saw him, with his slight 
 stoop, pass our window with slow step and 
 downcast eyes. 
 
32 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 
 
 A ND so that odd vision was gone ; and 
 ■^^ Laura Grey turned to us eagerly for 
 information. 
 
 We could not give her much. We were 
 ourselves so familiar with the fact of Mr. 
 Carmel's existence, that it never occurred to 
 us that his appearance could be a surprise to 
 any one. 
 
 Mr. Carmel had come about eight months 
 before to reside in the small old house in 
 which the land-steward had once been har- 
 boured, and which, built in continuation of 
 the side of the house, forms a sort of retreat- 
 ing wing to it, with a hall-door to itself, but 
 under the same roof 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 33 
 
 This Mr. Carmel was, undoubtedly, a 
 Roman Catholic, and an ecclesiastic; of 
 what order I know not. Possibly he was a 
 Jesuit. I never was very learned or very 
 curious upon such points ; but some one, I 
 forget who, told me that he positively was a 
 member of the Society of Jesus. 
 
 My poor mother was very High Church, 
 and on very friendly terms with Catholic 
 personages of note. Mr. Carmel had been 
 very ill, and was still in delicate health, and 
 a quiet nook in the country, in the neigh- 
 bourhood of the sea, had been ordered for 
 him. The vacant house I have described 
 she begged for his use from my father, who 
 did not at all like the idea of lending it, 
 as I could gather from the partly jocular 
 and partly serious discussions which he 
 maintained upon the point, every now and 
 then, at tbe breakfast-table, when I was last 
 in town. 
 
 I remember hearing my father say at last, 
 
 " You know, my dear Mabel, I'm always 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
34 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ready to do anything you like. I'll be a 
 Catholic myself, if it gives you the least 
 pleasure, only be sure, first, about this thing, 
 that you really do like it. I shouldn't care 
 if the man were hanged — he very likely de- 
 serves it — but I'll give him my house if it 
 makes you happy. You must remember, 
 though, the Card3dlion people won't like it, 
 and you'll be talked about, and I daresay 
 he'll make nuns of Ethel and Helen. He 
 won't get a great deal by that, I'm afraid. 
 And I don't see why those pious people — 
 Jesuits, and that sort of persons, who don't 
 know what to do with their money — should 
 not take a house for him if he wants it, or 
 what business they have quartering their 
 friars and rubbish upon poor Protestants 
 like you and me." 
 
 The end of it was that about two months 
 later this Mr. Car m el arrived, duly accredit- 
 ed by my father, who told me when he paid 
 us one of his visits of a day, soon after, that 
 he was under promise not to talk to us 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 35 
 
 about religion, and that if he did I was to 
 write to tell him immediately. 
 
 When I had told my- story to Laura Grey, 
 she was thoughtful for a little time. 
 
 " Are his visits only once a week ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Yes," said I. 
 
 " And does he stay as short a time al- 
 ways ?" she continued. 
 
 We both agreed that he usually stayed a 
 little longer. 
 
 " And has he never talked on the subject 
 of religion ?" 
 
 " No, never. He has talked about shells, 
 or flowers, or anything he found us em- 
 ployed about, and always told us something 
 curious or interesting. I had heard papa 
 say that he was engaged upon a work from 
 which great things were expected, and 
 boxes of books were perpetually coming and 
 going between him and his correspondents." 
 
 She was not quite satisfied, and in a few 
 days there arrived from London two little 
 
 d2 
 
36 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 books on the great controversy between 
 Luther and the Pope ; and out of these, to 
 the best of her poor ability, she drilled us, 
 by way of a prophylactic against Mr. Carmel's 
 possible machinations. 
 
 It did not appear, however, to be Mr. 
 Carmel's mission to flutter the little nest 
 of heresy so near him. When he paid his 
 next visit, it so happened that one of these 
 duodecimo disputants lay upon the table. 
 Without thinking, as he talked, he raised it, 
 and read the title on the cover, and smiled 
 gently. Miss Grey blushed. She had not 
 intended disclosing her suspicions. 
 
 " In two different regiments. Miss Grey," 
 he said, '^ but both under the same king ;" 
 and he laid the book quietly upon the table 
 again, and talked on of something quite 
 different. 
 
 Laura Grey, in a short time, became less 
 suspicious of Mr. C arm el, and rather enjoy- 
 ed his little visits, and looked forward with 
 pleasure to them. 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 37 
 
 Could you imagine a quieter or more 
 primitive life than ours, or, on earth, a 
 much happier one ? 
 
 Malory owns an old-fashioned square pew 
 in the aisle of the pretty church of Cardyl- 
 lion. In this spacious pew we three sat 
 every Sunday , and on one of these occa- 
 sions, a few weeks after Miss Grey's arrival, 
 from my corner I thought I saw a stranger 
 in the Verney seat, which is at the opposite 
 side of the aisle, and had not had an occu- 
 pant for several months. There was cer- 
 tainly a man in it ; but the stove that stood 
 nearly between us would not allow me to 
 see more than his elbow, and the corner of 
 an open book, from which I suppose he was 
 reading. 
 
 I was not particularly curious about this 
 person. I knew that the Verneys, who were 
 distant cousins of ours, were abroad, and 
 the visitor was not likely to be very inter- 
 esting. 
 
 A long, indistinct sermon interposed, and 
 
8 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 I did not recollect to look at the Verney 
 pew until the congregation were trooping 
 decorously out,, and we had got some way 
 down the aisle. The pew was empty by that 
 time. 
 
 " Some one in the Verneys' pew," I re- 
 marked to our governess, so soon as we 
 were quite out of the shadow of the porch. 
 
 " Which is the Verneys' pew ?" she asked. 
 
 I described it. 
 
 " Yes, there was. I have got a headache, 
 my dear. Suppose we go home by the Mill 
 Road?" 
 
 We agreed. 
 
 It is a very pretty, and in places rather a 
 steep road, very narrow, and ascending 
 with a high and wooded bank at its right, 
 and a precipitous and thickly-planted glen 
 to its left. The opposite side is thickly 
 wooded also, and a stream far below splashes 
 and tinkles among the rocks under the 
 darkening foliage. 
 
 As we walked up this shadowy road, I 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 39 
 
 saw an old gentleman walking down it, to- 
 wards us. He was descending at a brisk 
 pace, and wore a chocolate-coloured great- 
 coat, made with a cape, and fitting his slight 
 figure closely. He wore a hat with a rather 
 wide brim, turned up at the sides. His face 
 was very brown. He had a thin, high nose, 
 with very thin nostrils, rather prominent 
 eyes, and carried his head high. Altogether 
 he struck me as a particularly gentleman- 
 like and ill-tempered looking old man, and 
 his features wore a character of hauteur that 
 was perfectly insolent. 
 
 He was pretty near us by the time I 
 turned to warn our governess, who was be- 
 side me, to make way for him to pass. T 
 did not speak ; for I was a little startled to 
 see that she was very much flushed, and 
 almost instantly turned deadly pale. 
 
 We came nearly to a standstill, and the 
 old gentleman was up to us in a few seconds. 
 As he approached, his prominent eyes were 
 fixed on Laura Grey. He stopped, with 
 
40 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the same haughty stare, and, raising his hat, 
 said in a cold, rather high key, " Miss Grey, 
 I think ? Miss Laura Grey ? You will not 
 object, I dare say, to allow me a very few 
 words ?" 
 
 The young lady bowed very slightly, and 
 said, in a low tone, " Certainly not." 
 
 I saw that she looked pained, and even 
 faint. This old gentleman's manner, and 
 the stern stare of his prominent eyes, em- 
 barrassed even me, who did not directly en- 
 counter them. 
 
 ''Perhaps we had better go on, Helen 
 and I, to the seat; we can wait for you 
 there ?" I said softly to her. 
 
 "Yes, dear, I think it will be as well," 
 she answered gently. 
 
 We walked on slowly. The bench was 
 not a hundred steps up the steep. It stands 
 at the side of the road, with its back against 
 the bank. From this seat I could see very 
 well what passed, though, of course, quite 
 out of hearing. 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 41 
 
 The old gentleman had a black cane in 
 his fingers, which he poked about on the 
 gravel. You would have said from his 
 countenance that at every little stab he 
 punched an enemy's eye out. 
 
 First, the gentleman made a little speech, 
 with his head very high, and an air of de- 
 termination and severity. The young lady 
 seemed to answer, briefly and quietly. Then 
 ensued a colloquy of a minute or more, 
 during which the old gentleman's head nod- 
 ded often with emphasis, and his gestures 
 became much more decided. The young 
 lady seemed to say little, and very quietly : 
 her eyes were lowered to the ground as she 
 spoke. 
 
 She said something, I suppose, which he 
 chose to resent, for he smiled sarcastically, 
 and raised his hat ; then, suddenly resuming 
 his gravity, he seemed to speak with a sharp 
 and hectoring air, as if he were laying down 
 the law upon some point once for all. 
 
 Laura Grey looked up sharply, with a 
 
42 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 brilliant colour, and with her head high, 
 replied rapidly for a minute or more, and 
 turning away, without waiting for his answer, 
 walked slowly, with her head still high, to- 
 wards us. 
 
 The gentleman stood looking after her 
 with his sarcastic smile, but that was gone 
 in a moment, and he continued looking, 
 with an angry face, and muttering to him- 
 self, until suddenly he turned away, and 
 walked off at a quick pace down the path 
 towards Cardyllion. 
 
 A little uneasily, Helen and I stood up 
 to meet our governess. She was still 
 flushed and breathing quickly, as people do 
 from recent adtation. 
 
 o 
 
 " No bad news ? Nothing unpleasant ?" 
 I asked, looking very eagerly into her face. 
 
 " No ; no bad news, dear." 
 
 I took her hand. I felt that she was 
 trembling a little, and she had become again 
 more than usually pale. We walked home- 
 ward in silence. 
 
OUR CURIOSITY IS PIQUED. 43 
 
 Laura Grey seemed in deep and agitated 
 thought. We did not, of course, disturb 
 her. An unpleasant exciteroent like that 
 always disposes one to silence. Not a word, 
 I think, was uttered all the way to the 
 steps of Malory. Laura Grey entered the 
 hall, still silent, and when she came down to 
 us, after an hour or two passed in her room, 
 it was plain she had been crying. 
 
44 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 f\P what happened next I have a strange- 
 ^-^ ly imperfect recollection. I cannot 
 tell you the intervals, or even the order, in 
 which some of the events occurred. It is 
 not that the mist of time obscures it ; what 
 I do recollect is dreadfully vivid ; but there 
 are spaces of the picture gone. I see faces 
 of angels, and faces that make my heart 
 sink; fragments of scenes. It is like some- 
 thing reflected in the pieces of a smashed 
 looking-glass. 
 
 I have told you very little of Helen, my 
 sister, my one darling on earth. There are 
 things which people, after an interval of 
 
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 45 
 
 half a life, have continually present to their 
 minds, but cannot speak of. The idea of 
 opening them to strangers is insupportable. 
 A sense of profanation shuts the door, and 
 we " wake " our dead alone. I could not 
 have told you what I am going to write. I 
 did not intend inscribing here more than the 
 short, bleak result. But I write it as if to 
 myself, and I will get through it. 
 
 To you it may seem that I make too 
 much of this, which is, as Hamlet says, 
 " common." But you have not known what 
 it is to be for all your early life shut out from 
 all but one beloved companion, and never 
 after to have found another. 
 
 Helen had a cough, and Laura Grey had 
 written to mamma, who was then in War- 
 wickshire, about it. She was referred to 
 the Cardyllion doctor. He came ; he was a 
 skilful man. There were the hushed, dread- 
 ful moments, while he listened, through his 
 stethoscope, thoughtfully, to the " still, small 
 voice " of fate, to us inaudible, pronounc- 
 
46 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ing on the dread issues of life or death. 
 
 '^ No sounder lungs in England," said 
 Doctor Mervyn, looking up with a congratu- 
 latory smile. 
 
 He told her, only, that she must not go 
 in the way of cold, and by-and-by sent her 
 two bottles from his surgery ; and so we 
 were all happy once more. 
 
 But doctors' advices, like the warnings of 
 fate, are seldom obeyed ; least of all by the 
 young. Nelly's little pet-sparrow was ail- 
 ing, or we fancied it was. She and I were 
 up every hour during the night to see after 
 it. Next evening Nelly had a slight pain 
 in her chest. It became worse, and by 
 twelve o'clock was so intense that Laura 
 Grey, in alarm, sent to Cardyllion for the 
 doctor. Thomas Jones came back without 
 him, after a delay of an hour. He had been 
 called away to make a visit somewhere, but 
 the moment he came back he would come 
 to Malory. 
 
 It came to be three o'clock ; he had not 
 
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 47 
 
 appeared ; darling Nelly was in actual tor- 
 ture. Again Doctor Mervyn was sent for ; 
 and again, after a delay, the messenger 
 returned with the same dismaying answer. 
 The governess and Rebecca Torkill exhaust- 
 ed in vain their little list of remedies. I 
 was growing terrified. Intuitively I per- 
 ceived the danger. The doctor was my last 
 earthly hope. Death, I saw, was drawing 
 nearer and nearer every moment, and the 
 doctor might be ten miles away. Think 
 what it was to stand, helpless, by her. Can 
 I ever forget her poor little face, flushed 
 scarlet, the gasping and catching at breath, 
 hands, throat, every sinew quivering in the 
 mortal struggle ! 
 
 At last a knock and a ring at the hall- 
 door. I rushed to the window ; the first 
 chill grey of Winter's dawn hung sicklily 
 over the landscape. No one was on the 
 steps, or on the grey gravel of the court. 
 But, yes — I do hear voices and steps 
 upon the stair approaching. Oh ! Heaven 
 
48 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 be thanked, the doctor is come at last! 
 
 I ran out upon the lobby, just as I was, 
 in my dressing-gown, with my hair about 
 my shoulders, and slippers on my bare feet. 
 A candlestick, with the candle burnt low, 
 was standing on the broad head of the 
 clumsy old bannister, and Mr. Carmel, in a 
 black riding-coat, with his hat in his hand, 
 and that kind of riding-boots that used to 
 be called clerical, on, was talking in a low, 
 earnest tone to our governess. 
 
 The faint grey from the low lobby win- 
 dow was lost at this point, and the delicate 
 features of the pale ecclesiastic, and Miss 
 Grey's pretty and anxious face, were lighted, 
 like a fine portrait of Schalken's, by the 
 candle only. 
 
 Throughout this time of agony and tu- 
 mult, the memory of my retina remains un- 
 impaired, and every picture retains its hold 
 upon my brain. And, oh ! had the doctor 
 come ? Yes, Mr. Carmel had ridden all the 
 way, fourteen miles, to Llwynan, and 
 
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 49 
 
 brought the doctor back with hira. He 
 might not have been here for hours other- 
 wise. He was now downstairs making pre- 
 parations, and would be in the room in a 
 few minutes. 
 
 I looked at that fine, melancholy, ener- 
 getic face as if he had saved me. I could 
 not thank him. I turned and entered our 
 room again, and told Nelly to be of good 
 courage, that the doctor was come. '' And, 
 oh ! please God, he'll do you good, my own 
 darling, darling — precious darling !" 
 
 In a minute more the doctor was in the 
 room. My eyes were fixed upon his face as 
 he talked to his poor little patient ; he did 
 not look at all as he had done on his former 
 visit. I see him before me as I write ; his 
 bald head shining in the candle-light, his 
 dissatisfied and gloomy face, and his shrewd 
 light blue eyes, reading her looks askance, 
 as his fingers rested on her pulse. 
 
 I remember, as if the sick-room had chang- 
 ed into it, finding myself in the small room 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 opposite, with no one there but the doctor 
 and Miss Grey, we three, in the cold morning 
 light, and his saying, " Well, all this comes 
 of violating directions. There is very in- 
 tense inflammation, and her chest is in a 
 most critical state." 
 
 Then Miss Grey said, after a moment's 
 hush, the awful words, " Is there any dan- 
 ger ?" and he answered shortly, " I wish I 
 could say there wasn't." I felt my ears sing 
 as if a pistol had been fired. No one spoke 
 for another minute or more. 
 
 The doctor stayed, I think, for a long 
 time, and he must have returned after, for 
 he is mixed up in almost every scene I can 
 remember during that jumbled day of terror. 
 
 There was, I know, but one day, and part 
 of a night. But it seems to me as if whole 
 nights intervened, and suns set and rose, and 
 days uncounted and undistinguished passed, 
 in that miserable period. 
 
 The pain subsided, but worse followed ; a 
 dreadful cough, that never ceased — a long. 
 
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 51 
 
 agonised struggle against a slow drowning 
 of the lungs. The doctor gave her up. 
 They wanted me to leave the room, but I 
 could not. 
 
 The hour came at last, and she was gone. 
 The wild cry — the terrible farewell — no- 
 thing can move inexorable death. All was 
 still. 
 
 As the ship lies serene in the caverns of 
 the cold sea, and feels no more the furv of 
 the wind, the strain of cable, and the crash 
 of wave, this forlorn wreck lay quiet now. 
 Oh ! little Nelly ! I could not believe it. 
 
 She lay in her nightdress under the white 
 coverlet. Was this whole scene an awful 
 vision, and was my heart breaking in vain ? 
 Oh, poor simple little Nelly, to think that 
 you should have changed into anything so 
 sublime and terrible ! 
 
 I stood dumb by the bedside, staring at 
 the white face that was never to move again. 
 Such a look I had never seen before. The 
 white glory of an angel was upon it. 
 
52 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Rebecca Torkill spoke to me, I think. I 
 remember her kind, sorrowful old face near 
 me, but I did not hear what she said. I 
 was in a stupor, or a trance. I had not 
 shed a tear ; I had not said a word. For a 
 time I was all but mad. In the light of 
 that beautiful transfiguration my heart was 
 bursting with the wildest rebellion against 
 the law of death that had murdered my 
 innocent sister before my eyes ; against 
 the fate of which humanity is the sport ; 
 against the awful Power who made us ! 
 What spirit knows, till the hour of tempta- 
 tion, the height or depth of its own im- 
 piety ? 
 
 Oh, gentle, patient little Nelly ! The 
 only good thing I can see in myself in those 
 days is my tender love of you, and my deep 
 inward certainty of ray immeasurable 
 inferiority. Gentle, humble little Nelly, 
 who thought me so excelling in clever- 
 ness, in wisdom, and countless other per- 
 fections, how humble in my secret soul I 
 
THE THIEF IN THE NIGHT. 53 
 
 felt myself beside you, although I was too 
 proud to say so ! In your presence my 
 fierce earthy nature stood revealed, and 
 wherever I looked my shadow was cast 
 along the ground by the pure light that 
 shone from you. 
 
 I don't know what time passed without a 
 word falling from my lips. I suppose 
 people had other things to mind, and I was 
 left to myself But Laura Grey stole her 
 hand into mine, she kissed me, and 1 felt 
 her tears on my cheek. 
 
 " Ethel, darling, come with me," she 
 said, crying, very gently. " You can come 
 back again. You'll come with me, won't 
 you ? Our darling is happier, Ethel, than 
 ever she could have been on earth, and 
 she will never know change or sorrow 
 again." 
 
 I began to sob distractedly. I do really 
 believe I was half out of my mind. I began 
 to talk to her volubly, vehementl}^, crying 
 passionately all the time. I do not reraem- 
 
54 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ber now a word I uttered ; I know its 
 purport only from the pain, and even 
 horror, I remember in Laura Grey's pale 
 face. It has taken a long and terrible 
 discipline to expel that evil spirit. I know 
 what I was in those days. My pilgrimage 
 since then has been by steep and solitary 
 paths, in great dangers, in darkness, in fear ; 
 I have eaten the bread of affliction, and ray 
 drink has been of the waters of bitterness ; 
 I am tired and footsore yet, though through 
 a glass darkly, 1 think I can now see why 
 it all was, and I thank God with a contrite 
 heart for the terrors and the mercies he 
 has shown me. I begin to discover through 
 the mist who was the one friend who 
 never forsook me through all those stupen- 
 dous w^anderings, and I long for the time 
 when I shall close my tired eyes, all being 
 over, and lie at the feet of my Saviour. 
 
55 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MY FATHER. 
 
 Ij^ORTH sped Laura Grey's letter to 
 -^ mamma. She was then at Roydon ; 
 papa was with her. The Easter recess had 
 just sent down some distinguished visitors, 
 who were glad to clear their heads for a few 
 days of the hum of the Houses and the 
 smell of the river ; and my father, although 
 not in the House, ran down with them. 
 Little Nelly had been his pet, as I was 
 mamma's. 
 
 There was an awkwardness in post-office 
 arrangements between the two places then, 
 and letters had to make a considerable 
 circuit. There was a delay of three clear 
 
5Q WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 days between the despatch of the letter and 
 the reply. 
 
 I must say a word about papa. He was 
 about the most agreeable and careless man 
 on earth. There are men whom no fortune 
 could keep out of debt. A man of that sort 
 seems to me not to have any defined want 
 or enjoyment, but the horizon of his neces- 
 sities expands in proportion as he rises in 
 fortune, and always exceeds the ring-fence 
 of his estate. What its periphery may be, 
 or his own real wants, signifies very little. 
 His permanent necessity is always to exceed 
 his revenue. 
 
 I don't think my father's feelings were 
 very deep. He was a good-natured hus- 
 band, but, I am afraid, not a good one. I 
 loved him better than I loved mamma. 
 , Children are always captivated by gaiety 
 and indulgence. I was not of an age to 
 judge of higher things, and I never missed 
 the article of religion, of which, I believe, 
 he had none. Although he lived so much in 
 
MY FATHER. 57 
 
 society that he might alaiost be said to have 
 no domestic hfe whatever, no man could 
 be simpler, less suspicious, or more easily 
 imposed upon. 
 
 The answer to Miss Grey's letter was the 
 arrival of my father. He was in passionate 
 grief, and in a state of high excitement. 
 He ran up stairs, without waiting to take 
 off his hat ; but at the door of our darling's 
 room he hesitated. I did not know he had 
 arrived till I heard him, some minutes later, 
 walking up and down the room, sobbing. 
 Though he was selfish, he was affectionate. 
 No one liked to go in to disturb him. She lay 
 by this time in her coffin. The tint of clay 
 darkened her pretty features. The angelic 
 beauty that belongs to death is transitory 
 beyond all others. I would not look at her 
 again, to obscure its glory. She lay now in 
 her shroud, a forlorn sunken image of decay. 
 
 When he came out he talked wildly and 
 bitterly. His darling had been murdered, 
 he said, by neglect. He upbraided us all 
 
58' WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 round, including Rebecca Torkill, for our 
 cruel carelessness. He blamed the doctor. 
 He had no right, in a country where there 
 was but one physician, to go so far away as 
 fourteen miles, and to stay away so long. 
 He denounced even his treatment. He 
 ought to have bled her. It was, every one 
 knew, the proper way of treating such a 
 case. 
 
 Than Laura Grey, no one could have 
 been more scrupulously careful. She could 
 not have prevented, even if she had suspected 
 the possibility of such a thing, her stealing 
 out of bed now and then to look at her sick 
 sparrow. All this injustice was, however, 
 but the raving of his grief. 
 
 In poor little Nelly's room my father's 
 affectionate nature was convulsed with 
 sorrow. When he came down I cried with 
 him for a long time. I think this affliction 
 had drawn us nearer. He was more tender 
 to me than I ever remembered him before. 
 
 At last the ghastly wait and suspense 
 
MY FATHER. 59 
 
 were ended. I saw no more strange faces 
 in the lobbies ; and the strange voices on 
 the stairs and footsteps in the room, and 
 the muffled sounds that made me feel faint, 
 were heard no more. The funeral was 
 over, and pretty Nelly was gone for ever and 
 ever, and I would come in and go out and 
 read ray books, and take my walks alone ; and 
 the flowers, and the long Summer evenings, 
 and the songs of birds would come again, and 
 the leaves make their soft shadow in the 
 nooks where we used to sit together in the 
 wood, but gentle little Nelly would never 
 come again. 
 
 During these terrible days, Laura Grey 
 was a sister to me, both in affection and in 
 sorrow. Oh, Laura, can I ever forget your 
 tender, patient sympathy? How often my 
 thoughts recall your loved face as I lay my 
 head upon my lonely pillow, and my bless- 
 ings follow you over the wide sea to your 
 far-off home ! 
 
 Papa took a long solitary ride that day 
 
60 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 through the warren, and away by Penruthyn 
 Priory, and did not return till dark. 
 
 When he did, he sent for me. I found 
 him in the room which, in the old-fashioned 
 style, was called the oak parlour. A log- 
 fire — we were well supplied from the woods 
 in the rear of the house — lighted the room 
 with a broad pale flicker. My father was 
 looking ill and tired. He was leaning with 
 his elbow on the mantel-piece, and said : 
 
 '^ Ethel, darling, I want to know what 
 you would like best. We are going abroad 
 for a little time ; it is the only thing for your 
 mamma. This place would kill her. I 
 shall be leaving this to-morrow afternoon, 
 and you can make up your mind which you 
 would like best — to come with us and travel 
 for some months, or to wait here, with Miss 
 Grey, until our return. You shall do pre- 
 cisely whatever you like best — I don't wish 
 you to hurry yourself, darling. I'd rather 
 you thought it over at your leisure." 
 
 Then he sat down and talked about other 
 
MY FATHER. 61 
 
 things ; and turned about to the fire with 
 his decanter of sherry by him, and drank a 
 good many glasses, and leaned back in his 
 chair before he had finished it. 
 
 My father, I thought, was dozing, but 
 was not sure ; and being a good deal in awe 
 of him — a natural consequence of seeing so 
 little of him — I did not venture either to 
 waken him, or to leave the room without 
 his permission. 
 
 There are two doors in that room. I was 
 standing irresolutely near that which is next 
 the window, when the other opened, and 
 the long whiskers and good-humoured, sen- 
 sible face of portly Wynne Williams, the 
 town-clerk and attorney of Card3dlion, en- 
 tered. My father awoke, with a start, at 
 the sound, and seeing him, smiled and ex- 
 tended his hand. 
 
 " How d'ye do, Williams ? It's so good 
 of you to come. Sit down. I'm off to- 
 morrow, so I sent you a note. Try that 
 sherry ; it is better than I thought. And 
 
62 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 now I must tell you, that old scoundrel, 
 Rokestone, is going to foreclose the mort- 
 gage, and they have served one of the 
 tenants at Darlip with an ejectment ; that's 
 more serious ; I fancy he means mischief 
 there also. What do you think ?" 
 
 " I always thought he might give us an- 
 noyance there ; but Mandrick's opinion was 
 with us. Do you wish me to look after 
 that ?" 
 
 " Certainly. And he's bothering me about 
 that trust." 
 
 " I know," said Mr. Wynne Williams, 
 with rather gloomy rumination. 
 
 " That fellow has lost me — I was reckon- 
 ing it up only a day or two ago — between 
 five and six thousands pounds in mere law 
 costs, beside all the direct mischief he has 
 done me ; and he has twice lost me a seat 
 in the House — first by maintaining that 
 petition at King's Firkins, a thing that 
 must have dropped but for his money ; he 
 had nothing on earth to do with it, and 
 
MY FATHER. 63 
 
 no motive but his personal, fiendish feel- 
 ings ; and next by getting up the contest 
 against me at Shillingsworth, where, you 
 know, it was ten to one ; by Heavens ! I 
 should have had a walk over. There is not 
 an injury that man could do me he has not 
 done. I can prove that he swore he would 
 strip me of ever3'thing I possessed. It is 
 ever so many years since I saw him — you 
 know all about it — and the miscreant pur- 
 sues me still relentlessly. He swore to old 
 Dymock, I'm told, and I believe it, that he 
 would never rest till he had brought me to 
 a prison. I could have him before a jury 
 for that. There's some remedy, I suppose, 
 there's some protection ? If I had done 
 what I wished ten years ago, I'd have had 
 him out ; it's not too late yet to try whether 
 pistols can't settle it. I wish I had not 
 taken advice ; in a matter like that, the 
 man who does always does wrong. I dare- 
 say, Williams, you think with me, now it's a 
 case for cutting the Gordian knot?" 
 
64 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " I should not advise it, sir ; he's an old 
 man, and he's not afraid of what people say, 
 and people know he has fought. He'd have 
 you in the Queen's Bench, and as his feel- 
 ings are of that nature, I'd not leave him 
 the chance — I wouldn't trust him." 
 
 " It's not easy to know what one should 
 do — a miscreant like that. I hope and pray 
 that the curse of " 
 
 My father spoke with a fierce tremble in 
 his voice, and at that moment he saw me. 
 He had forgotten that I was in the room, 
 and said instantly : 
 
 "You may as well run away, dear; Mr. 
 Williams and I have some business to talk 
 over — and tiresome business it is. Good 
 niorht, darliuCT." 
 
 So away I went, glad of my escape, and 
 left them talking. My father rang the bell 
 soon, and called for more wine ; so I sup- 
 pose the council sat till late. I joined 
 Laura Grey, to whom I related all that had 
 passed, and my decision on the question, 
 
MY FATHER. Q5 
 
 which was, to remain with her at Malory. 
 She kissed me, and said, after a moment's 
 thought, 
 
 " But will they think it unkind of you, 
 preferring to remain here ?" 
 
 "No," I said; "I think I should be 
 rather in the way if I went ; and, besides, I 
 know papa is never high with anyone, and 
 really means what he says ; and I should 
 feel a little strange with them. They are 
 very kind, and love me very much, I know, 
 and so do I love them ; but I see them so 
 little, and you are such a friend, and I 
 don't wish to leave this place ; I like it 
 better than any other in all the world ; and 
 I feel at home with you, more than I could 
 with anyone else in the world." 
 
 So that point was settled, and next day 
 papa took leave of me very affectionately ; 
 and, notwithstanding his excited language, 
 I heard nothing more of pistols and Mr. 
 Rokestone. But many things were to hap- 
 pen before I saw papa again. 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 I remained, therefore, at Malory, and 
 Laura Grey with me ; and the shadow of 
 Mr. Carmel passed the window every even- 
 ing, but he did not come in to see us, as he 
 used. He made inquiries at the door in- 
 stead, and talked, sometimes for five minutes 
 together, with Rebecca Torkill. I was a 
 little hurt at this; I did not pretend to 
 Laura to perceive it ; but in our walks, or 
 returning in the evening, if by chance I saw 
 his tall, thin, but graceful figure approach- 
 ing by the same path, I used to make her 
 turn aside and avoid him by a detour. In 
 so lonely a place as Malory the change was 
 marked ; and there was pain in that neglect. 
 I would not let him fancy, however, that 
 I wished, any more than he, to renew our 
 old and near acquaintance. 
 
 So weeks passed away, and leafy May 
 had come, and Laura Grey and I were sit- 
 ting in our accustomed room, in the even- 
 ing, talking in our desultory way. 
 
MY FATHER. 67 
 
 " Don't you think papa very handsome ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 '' Yes, he is handsome," she answered ; 
 "there is something refined as well as 
 clever in his face ; and his eyes are fine ; 
 and all that goes a great way. But many 
 people might think him not actually hand- 
 some, though very good-looking and pre- 
 possessing." 
 
 " They must be hard to please," I said. 
 
 She smiled good-naturedly. 
 
 " Mamma fell in love with him at first 
 sight, Rebecca Torkill says," I persisted, 
 "and mamma w^as not easily pleased. 
 There was a gentleman who was wildly in 
 love with her ; a man of very old family, 
 Rebecca says, and good-looking, but she 
 w^ould not look at him when once she had 
 seen papa.*' 
 
 " I think I heard of that. He is a baronet 
 now ; but he was a great deal older than 
 Mr. Ware, I believe." 
 
 f2 
 
68 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " Yes, he was ; but Rebecca says he did 
 not look ten years older than papa, and he 
 was very young indeed then," I answered. 
 " It was well for mamma she did not like 
 him, for T once heard Rebecca say that he 
 was a very bad man." 
 
 " Did you ever hear of mamma's aunt 
 Lorrimer?" I resumed, after a little pause. 
 
 " Not that I recollect." 
 
 **She is very rich, Rebecca says. She has 
 a house in London, but she is hardly ever 
 there. She's not very old — not sixty. Re- 
 becca is always wondering whom she will 
 leave her money to ; but that don't much 
 matter, for I believe we have more than 
 we want. Papa says, about ten years ago, 
 she lived for nothing but society, and was 
 everywhere ; and now she has quite given 
 up all that, and wanders about the Conti- 
 nent." 
 
 Our conversation subsided ; and there 
 was a short interval in which neither spoke. 
 
 " Why is it, Laura," said I, after this little 
 
MY FATHER. 69 
 
 silence, '* that you never tell me anything 
 about yourself, and I am always telling you 
 everything I think or remember? Why 
 are you so secret ? Why don't you tell me 
 your story ?" 
 
 " My story ; what does it signify ? I 
 suppose it is about an average story. Some 
 people are educated to be governesses ; and 
 some of us take to it later, or by accident ; 
 and we are amateurs, and do our best. The 
 Jewish custom was wise ; everyone should 
 learn a mechanic's business. Saint Paul 
 was a tent-maker. If fortune upsets the 
 boat, it is well to have anything to lay hold 
 of — anything rather than drowning ; an 
 hospital matron, a companion, a gover- 
 ness, there are not many chances, when 
 things go wrong, between a poor woman 
 and the workhouse." 
 
 " All this means, you will tell me nothing," 
 I said. 
 
 " I am a governess, darling. What does 
 it matter what I was? I am happier with 
 
70 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 you than ever I thought I could be again. 
 If I had a story that was pleasant to hear, 
 there is no one on earth I would tell it to 
 
 so readily ; but my story There is no 
 
 use in thinking over misfortune," she con- 
 tinued ; '' there is no greater waste of time 
 than regretting, except wishing. I know, 
 Ethel, you would not pain me. I can't 
 talk about those things yet ; I may another 
 time." 
 
 " You shan't speak of them, Laura, un- 
 less you wish it. I am ashamed of having 
 bothered you so." I kissed her. "But, 
 will you tell me one thing, for I am really 
 curious about it? I have been thinking 
 about that very peculiar-looking old gentle- 
 man, who wore a chocolate-coloured great- 
 coat, and met us in the Mill Walk, and 
 talked to you, you remember, on the Sun- 
 day we returned from church that way. 
 Now, I want you to tell me, is that old 
 man s name Rokestone ?" 
 
 " No, dear, it is not ; I don't think he 
 
MY FATHER. 71 
 
 even knows him. But isn't it time for us 
 to have our tea? Will you make it, while 
 I put our books up in the other room ?" 
 
 So I undertook this office, and was alone. 
 
 The window was raised, the evening 
 warm, and the sun by this time setting. It 
 was the pensive hour when solitude is plea- 
 sant ; when grief is mellowed, and even a 
 thoughtless mind, like mine, is tinged with 
 melancholy. I was thinking now of our 
 recluse neighbour. I had seen him pass, 
 as Miss Grey and I were talking. He still 
 despatched those little notes about the in- 
 mates of Malory ; for mamma always men- 
 tioned, when she wrote to me, in her wan- 
 derings on the Continent, that she had heard 
 from Mr. Carmel that I was well, and was 
 out every day with my governess, and so 
 on. I wondered why he had quite given 
 up those little weekly visits, and whether I 
 could have unwittingly offended him. 
 
 These speculations would recur oftener 
 than perhaps was quite consistent with the 
 
72 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 disdain I affected on the subject. But 
 people who live in cities have no idea how 
 large a space in one's thoughts, in a solitude 
 like Malory, a neighbour at all agreeable 
 must occupy. 
 
 I was ruminating in a great arm-chair, 
 with my hand supporting my head, and my 
 eyes fixed on my foot, which was tapping 
 the carpet, when I heard the cold, clear 
 voice of Mr. Carmel at the window. I 
 looked up, and my eyes met his. 
 
73 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 
 
 /AUR eyes met, I said; they remained 
 ^-^ fixed for a moment, and then mine 
 dropped. I had been, as it were, detected, 
 while meditating upon this capricious per- 
 son. I daresay I even blushed ; I certainly 
 was embarrassed. He was repeating his 
 salutation, " How d'ye do. Miss Ware ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm very well, thanks, Mr. Carmel," 
 I answered, looking up ; " and — and I heard 
 from mamma on Thursday. They are very- 
 well ; they are at Geneva now. They are 
 thinking of going to Florence in about three 
 wrecks." 
 
 " I know ; yes. And you have no 
 thoughts of joining them ?" 
 
74 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " Oh ! none. I should not like to leave 
 this. They have not said a word about it 
 lately." 
 
 " It is such a time, Miss Ethel, since I 
 had the pleasure of seeing you — I don't 
 mean, of course, at a distance, but near 
 enough to ask you how you are. I dared 
 not ask to see you too soon, and I thought 
 — I fancied — you wished your walks unin- 
 terrupted." 
 
 I saw that he had observed my strategy ; 
 I was not sorry. 
 
 " I have often wished to thank you, Mr. 
 Carmel ; you were so very kind." 
 
 '' I had no opportunity, Miss Ethel," he 
 answered, with more feeling than before. 
 " My profession obliges me to be kind — but 
 I had no opportunity — Miss Grey is quite 
 well?" 
 
 " She is very well, thanks." 
 
 With a softened glory, in level lines, the 
 beams of the setting sun broke, scattered, 
 through the trunks of the old elms, and one 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 75 
 
 touched the head of the pale young man, as 
 he stood at the window, looking in ; his 
 delicate and melancholy features were in 
 the shade, and the golden light, through his 
 thick, brown hair, shone softly, like the 
 glory of a saint. As, standing thus, he 
 looked down in a momentary reverie, Laura 
 Grey came in, and paused, in manifest sur- 
 prise, on seeing Mr. Carmel at the window. 
 
 I smiled, in spite of my efforts to look 
 grave, and the governess, advancing, asked 
 the young ecclesiastic how he w^as ? Thus 
 recalled, by a new voice, he smiled and 
 talked with us for a few minutes. I think 
 he saw our tea-equipage, and fancied that 
 he might be, possibly, in the way ; for he 
 was taking his leave when I said, *'Mr. 
 Carmel, you must take tea before you go." 
 
 "Tea ! — I find it very hard to resist. 
 Will you allow me to take it, like a beggar- 
 man, at the window ? I shall feel less as if 
 I were disturbing you ; for you have only to 
 shut the window down, wdien I grow prosy." 
 
76 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 So, laughing, Laura Grey gave him a 
 cup of tea, which he placed on the window- 
 stone, and seating himself a little sideways 
 on the bench that stands outside the win- 
 dow, he leaned in, with his hat off, and 
 sipped his tea and chatted ; and sitting as 
 Miss Grey and I did, near the window, we 
 made a very sociable little party of three. 
 
 I had quite given up the idea of our re- 
 newing our speaking acquaintance with 
 Mr. Carmel, and here we were, talking 
 away, on more affable terms than ever ! It 
 seemed to me Uke a dream. 
 
 I don't say that Mr. Carmel was chatting 
 with the insouciance and gaiety of a French 
 abbe. There was, on the contrary, some- 
 thing very peculiar, both in his countenance 
 and manner, something that suggested the 
 life and sufferings of an ascetic. Some- 
 thing also, not easily defined, of command ; 
 I think it was partly in the severe though 
 gentle gravity with which he spoke anything 
 like advice or opinion. 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 77 
 
 I felt a little awed in his presence, I 
 could not exactly tell why ; and yet I was 
 more glad than I would have confessed 
 that we were good friends again. He 
 sipped his cup of tea slowly, as he talked, 
 and was easily persuaded to take another. 
 
 '' I see. Miss Ethel, you are looking at 
 my book with curious eyes." 
 
 It was true ; the book was a very thick 
 and short volume, bound in black shagreen, 
 with silver clasps, and lay on the window- 
 stone, beside his cup. He took it up in his 
 slender fingers, smiling as he looked at me. 
 
 "" You wish to know w^hat it is ; but you 
 are too ceremonious to ask me. I should 
 be curious myself, if I saw it for the first 
 time. I have often picked out a book from 
 a library, simply for its characteristic bind- 
 ing. Some books look interesting. Now 
 what do you take this to be ?" 
 
 *' Haven't you books called breviaries ? 
 I think this is one," said I. 
 
 " That is your guess ; it is not a bad one 
 
78 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 — but no, it is not a breviary. What do you 
 say, Miss Grey ?" 
 
 "Well, I say it is a book of the offices 
 of the Church." 
 
 "Not a bad guess, either. But it is no 
 such thing. I think I must tell you — it is 
 what you would call a story-book." 
 
 " Really !" I exclaimed, and Miss Grey 
 and I simultaneously conceived a longing to 
 borrow it. 
 
 " The book is two hundred and seventy 
 years old, and written in very old French. 
 You would call them stories," he said, 
 smiling on the back of the book ; " but you 
 must not laugh at them ; for I believe them 
 all implicitly. They are legends." 
 
 "Legends?" said I, eagerly — "I should 
 so like to hear one. Do, pray, tell one of 
 them." 
 
 " I'll read one, if you command me, into 
 English. They are told here as shortly as 
 it is possible to relate them. Here, for in- 
 stance, is a legend of John of Parma. I 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 79 
 
 think I can read it in about two minutes." 
 " I'm sorry it is so short ; do, pray, be- 
 gin," I said. 
 
 Accordingly, there being still light 
 enough to read by, he translated the legend 
 as follows : — 
 
 *' John of Parma, general of the order 
 of Friars Minors, travelling one Winter's 
 night, with some brothers of the order, the 
 party went astray in a dense forest, where 
 they wandered about for several hours, un- 
 able to find the right path. Wearied with 
 their fruitless efforts, they at length knelt 
 down, and having commended themselves 
 to the protection of the mother of God, and 
 of their patron. Saint Francis, began to re- 
 cite the first nocturn of the Office of the 
 Blessed Virgin. They had not been long so 
 engaged, when they heard a bell in the dis- 
 tance, and rising at once, and following 
 the direction whence the sound proceeded, 
 soon came to an extensive abbey, at the 
 gate of which they knocked for admittance. 
 
80 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 The doors were instantly thrown open, and 
 withm they beheld a number of monks 
 evidently awaiting iheir arrival, who, the 
 moment they appeared, led them to a fire, 
 washed their feet, and then seated them 
 at a table, where supper stood ready ; and 
 having attended them during their meal, 
 they conducted them to their beds. Wearied 
 with their toilsome journey, the other tra- 
 vellers slept soundly ; but John, rising in 
 the night to pray, as was his custom, heard 
 the bell ring for matins, and quitting his 
 cell, followed the monks of the abbey to 
 the chapel, to join with them in reciting the 
 divine office. 
 
 " Arrived there, one of the monks began 
 with this verse of the Thirty-fifth Psalm, 
 ' Ibi ceciderunt qui operantur iniquitatem ;' 
 to which the choir responded, ' Expulsi 
 sunt nee potuerunt stare.' Startled by the 
 strange despairing tone in which the words 
 were intoned, as well as by the fact that 
 this is not the manner in which matins are 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 81 
 
 usually commenced, John's suspicions were 
 aroused, and addressing the monks, he com- 
 manded them, in the name of the Saviour, 
 to tell him who and what they were. Thus 
 adjured, he who appeared an abbot replied, 
 that they were all angels of darkness, who, 
 at the prayer of the Blessed Virgin, and of 
 Saint Francis, had been sent to serve him 
 and his brethren in their need. As he spoke, 
 all disappeared ; and the next moment 
 John found himself and his companions in a 
 grotto, where they remained, absorbed in 
 prayer and singing the praises of God, until 
 the return of day enabled them to resume 
 their journey." 
 
 " How picturesque that is !" I said, as he 
 closed the little book. 
 
 He smiled, and answered : 
 
 *^So it is. Dryden would have trans- 
 muted such a legend into noble verse ; 
 painters might find great pictures in it — but, 
 to the faithful, it is more. To me, these 
 legends are sweet and holy readings, telling 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 how the goodness, vigilance, and wisdom of 
 God work by miracles for his children, and 
 how these celestial manifestations have never 
 ceased throughout the history of his Church 
 on earth. To you they are, as I said, but 
 stories ; as such you may wish to look into 
 them. I believe. Miss Grey, you may read 
 them without danger." He smiled gently, 
 as he looked at the governess. 
 
 " Oh ! certainly, Laura," cried I. "I am 
 so much obliged." 
 
 "It is very kind of you," said Miss Grey. 
 " They are, I am sure, very interesting ; 
 but does this little book contain anything 
 more ^ 
 
 " Nothing, I am afraid, that could pos- 
 sibly interest you ; nothing, in fact, but a 
 few litanies, and what we call elevations — 
 you will see in a moment. There is nothing 
 controversial. I am no proselytiser. Miss 
 Grey," — he laughed a little — '^ my duty is 
 quite of a different kind. I am collecting 
 authorities, making extracts and precis, and 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 83 
 
 preparing a work, not all my own, for the 
 press, under a greater than I." 
 
 '^ Recollect, Laura, it is lent to me — isn't 
 it, Mr. Carmel ?" I pleaded, as I took the 
 little volume and turned over its pages. 
 
 " Very well — certainly," he acquiesced, 
 smiling. 
 
 He stood up now. The twilight was 
 deepening ; he laid his hand on the window 
 sash, and leaned his forehead upon it, as he 
 looked in, and continued to chat for a few 
 minutes longer ; and then, with a slight 
 adieu, he left us. 
 
 When he was gone, we talked him over a 
 little. 
 
 " I wonder what he is? — a priest only or 
 a Jesuit," said I ; " or, perhaps, a member 
 of some other order. I should like so much 
 to know." 
 
 " You'd not be a bit wiser if you did," 
 said Laura. 
 
 " Oh, you mean because I know nothing 
 of those orders; but I could easily make 
 
 g2 
 
84 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 out. I think he would have told us to-night 
 in the twihght, if we had asked him." 
 
 " I don't think he would have told us 
 anything he had not determined beforehand 
 to tell. He has told us nothing about him- 
 self we did not know already. We know he 
 is a Roman Catholic, and an ecclesiastic — 
 his tonsure proclaims that ; and your mamma 
 told you that he is writing a book, so that is 
 no revelation either. I think he is pro- 
 foundly reserved, cautious, and resolute ; 
 and with a kind of exterior gentleness, he 
 seems to me to be really inflexible and im- 
 perious." 
 
 " I like that unconscious air of command, 
 but I don't perceive those signs of cunning 
 and reserve. He seemed to grow more 
 communicative the longer he stayed," I 
 answered. 
 
 "The darker it grew," she replied. " He 
 is one of those persons who become more 
 confident the more effectually their counten- 
 ances are concealed. There ceases to be 
 
THE LITTLE BLACK BOOK. 85 
 
 any danger of a conflict between looks and 
 language — a danger that embarrasses some 
 people." 
 
 " You are suspicious this evening," I said. 
 "I don't think you like him.'^ 
 
 " I don't know him ; but I fancy that, 
 talk as he may to us, neither you nor I 
 have for one moment a peep into his real 
 mind. His world may be perfectly celestial 
 and serene, or it may be an ambitious, 
 dark, and bad one ; but it is an invisible 
 world for us." 
 
 The candles were by this time lighted, 
 and Miss Grey was closing the window, 
 when the glitter of the silver clasp of the 
 little book caught her eye. 
 
 " Have you found anything ?" said I. 
 
 " Only the book — I forgot all about it. 
 I am almost sorry we allowed him to lend 
 it." 
 
 " We borrowed it ; I don't think he 
 wanted to lend it," said I ; " but, however 
 it was, I'm very glad we have got it. One 
 
86 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 would fancy you had lighted on a scorpion. 
 I'm not afraid of it ; I know it can't do 
 anyone the least harm, for they are only 
 stories." 
 
 " Oh, I think so. I don't see myself that 
 they can do any harm ; but I am almost 
 sorry we have got into that sort of relation 
 with him." 
 
 " What relation, Laura ?" 
 
 "" Borrowing books and discussing them." 
 
 " Bat we need not discuss them ; I won't 
 — and you are so well up in the controversy 
 with your two books of theology, that I 
 think he's in more danger of being convert- 
 ed than you. Give me the book, and I'll 
 find out something to read to you." 
 
87 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A STRANGER APPEARS. 
 
 ^^EXT day Miss Grey and I were walk- 
 --^ ing on the lonely road towards Pen- 
 ruthyn Priory. The sea lies beneath it on 
 the right, and on the left is an old grass- 
 grown bank, shaggy with brambles. Round 
 a clump of ancient trees that stand at a 
 bend of this green rampart, about a hun- 
 dred steps before us, came, on a sudden, 
 Mr. Carmel, and a man dressed also in 
 black, slight, but not so tall as he. They 
 were walking at a brisk pace, and the 
 stranger was talking incessantly to' his com- 
 panion. 
 
 That did not prevent his observing us. 
 
88 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 for I saw him slightly touch Mr. C arm el's 
 arm with his elbow as he looked at us. Mr. 
 Carmel evidently answered a question, and, 
 as he did so, glanced at us ; and immediate- 
 ly the stranger resumed his conversation. 
 They were quickly up to us, and stopped. 
 Mr. Carmel raised his hat, and asked leave 
 to introduce his friend. We bowed, so did 
 the stranger ; but Mr. Carmel did not repeat 
 his name very distinctly. 
 
 This friend was far from prepossessing. 
 He was of middle height, and narrow- 
 shouldered, what they call " putty-faced," 
 and closely shorn, the region of the beard 
 and whisker being defined in smooth dark 
 blue. He looked about fifty. His move- 
 ments were short and quick, and restless ; 
 he rather stooped, and his face and fore- 
 head inclined as if he were looking on the 
 ground. But his eyes were not upon the 
 ground ; they were very fierce, but sel- 
 dom rested for more than a moment on 
 any one object. As he made his bow, rais- 
 
A STRANGER APPEARS. 89 
 
 ing his hat from his massive forehead, first to 
 me, and afterwards to Miss Grey, his eyes, 
 compressed with those wrinkles with which 
 near-sighted people assist their vision, scru- 
 tinised us each with a piercing glance under 
 his black eyebrows. It was a face at once 
 intellectual, mean, and intimidating, 
 
 " Walking ; nothing like walking, in 
 moderation. You have boating here also, 
 and you drive, of course ; which do you like 
 best. Miss Ware ?" The stranger spoke with 
 a slightly foreign accent, and, though he 
 smiled, with a harsh and rapid utterance. 
 
 I forget how I answered this, his first 
 question — rather an odd one. He turned 
 and walked a little way with us. 
 
 " Charming country. Heavenly weather. 
 But you must find it rather lonely, living 
 down here. How you must both long for a 
 week in London !" 
 
 " For my part, I like this better," I an- 
 swered. " I don't like London in Summer, 
 even in Winter I prefer this." 
 
90 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " You have lived here with people you 
 like, I dare say, and for their sakes you love 
 the place?" he mused. 
 
 We walked on a little in silence. His 
 words recalled darling Nelly. This was 
 our favourite walk long ago ; it led to 
 what we called the blackberry wilder- 
 ness, rich in its proper fruits in the late 
 Autumn, and in May with banks all 
 covered with cowslips and primroses. A 
 sudden thought, that finds simple associa- 
 tions near, is affecting, and my eyes filled 
 with tears. But with an effort I restrained 
 them. The presence of a stranger, the 
 sense of publicity, seals those fountains. How 
 seldom people cry at the funerals of their 
 beloved ! They go through the public rite 
 like an execution, pale and collected, and 
 return home to break their hearts alone. 
 
 " You have been here some months, Miss 
 Grey. You find Miss Ware a very amenable 
 pupil, I venture to believe. I think I know 
 something of physiognomy, and I may con- 
 
A STRANGER APPEARS. 91 
 
 gratulate you on a very sweet and docile 
 pupil, ell ?" 
 
 Laura Grey, governess as she was, looked 
 a little haughtily at this officious gentleman, 
 who, as he put the question, glanced sharply 
 for a moment at her, and then as rapidly at 
 me, as if to see how it told. 
 
 " I think — I hope we are very happy to- 
 gether," said Miss Grey. " I can answer for 
 myself." 
 
 " Precisely what I expected," said the 
 stranger, taking a pinch of snuff. " I ought 
 to mention that I am a very particular 
 acquaintance, friend I may say, of Mrs. 
 Ware, and am, therefore, privileged." 
 
 Mr. Carmel was walking beside his friend 
 in silence, with his eyes apparently lowered 
 to the ground all this time. 
 
 My blood was boiling with indignation at 
 being treated as a mere child by this brusque 
 and impertinent old man. He turned to me. 
 
 " I see, by your countenance, young lady, 
 that you respect authority. I think your 
 
92 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 governess is very fortunate ; a dull pupil is 
 a bad bargain, and you are not dull. But 
 a contumacious pupil is utterly intolerable ; 
 you are not that, either ; you are sweetness 
 and submission itself, eh ?" 
 
 I felt my cheeks flushing, and I directed 
 on him a glance which, if the fire of ladies' 
 eyes be not altogether a fable, ought at 
 least to have scorched him. 
 
 '' I have no need of submission, sir. Miss 
 Grey does not think of exercising authority 
 over nle. I shall be eighteen my next 
 birthday. I shall be coming out, papa says, 
 in less than a year. I am not treated like a 
 child any longer, sir. I think, Laura, we 
 have walked far enough. Hadn't we better 
 go home? We can take a walk another 
 time — any time would be pleasanter than 
 now." 
 
 Without waiting for her answer, I turned, 
 holding my head very high, breathing 
 quickly, and feeling my cheeks in a flame. 
 
 The odious stranger, nothing daunted by 
 
A STRANGER APPEARS. 93 
 
 my dignified resentment, smiled shrewdly, 
 turned about quite unconcernedly, and con- 
 tinued to walk by my side. On my other 
 side was Laura Grey, who told me after- 
 wards that she greatly enjoyed my spirited 
 treatment of his ill-breeding. 
 
 She walked by my side, looking straight 
 before her, as I did. Out of the corners of 
 my eyes I saw the impudent old man march- 
 ing on as if quite unconscious, or, at least, 
 careless of having given offence. Beyond 
 him I saw, also, in the same oblique way, 
 Mr. Carmel, walking with downcast eyes as 
 before. 
 
 He ought to be ashamed, I thought, of 
 having introduced such a person. 
 
 I had not time to think a great deal, be- 
 fore the man of the harsh voice and restless 
 eyes suddenly addressed me again. 
 
 " You are coming out, you say, Miss 
 Ware, when you are eighteen?" 
 
 I made him no answer. 
 
 " You are now seventeen, and a year 
 
94 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 intervenes," he continued, and turning to 
 Mr. Car m el, " Edwyn, run you down to the 
 house, and tell the man to put my horse to." 
 
 So Mr. Carrael crossed the stile at the 
 road-side, and disappeared by the path 
 leading to the stables of Malory. And then 
 turning again to me, the stranger said : 
 
 '' Suppose your father and mother have 
 placed you in my sole charge, with a direc- 
 tion to remove you from Malory, and take 
 you under my immediate care and supervis- 
 ion, to-day ; you will hold yourself in readi- 
 ness to depart immediately, attended by a 
 lady appointed to look after you, with the 
 approbation of your parents — eh?" 
 
 " No, sir, I'll not go. I'll remain with 
 Miss Grey. I'll not leave Malory," I re- 
 plied, stopping short, and turning towards 
 him. I felt myself growing very pale, but 
 I spoke with resolution. 
 
 " You'll not ? what, my good young lady, 
 not if I show you your father's letter ?" 
 
 " Certainly not. Nothing but violence 
 
A STRANGER APPEARS. 95 
 
 shall remove me from Malory, until I see 
 papa himself. He certainly would not do 
 anything so cruel !" I exclaimed, while my 
 heart sank within me. 
 
 He studied my face for a moment with 
 his dark and fiery eyes. 
 
 " You are a spirited young lady ; a will 
 of your own !" he said. " Then you won't 
 obey your parents?" 
 
 " I'll do as I have said," I answered, in- 
 wardly quaking. 
 
 He addressed Miss Grey now. 
 
 " You'll make her do as she's ordered ?" 
 said this man, whose looks seemed to me 
 more sinister every moment. 
 
 " I really can't. Besides, in a matter of 
 so much importance, I think she is right not 
 to act without seeing her father, or, at least, 
 hearing directly from him." 
 
 " Well, I must take my leave," said he. 
 "And I may as well tell you it is a mere 
 mystification ; I have no authority, and no 
 wish to . disturb your stay at Malory ; and 
 
96 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 we are not particularly likely ever to meet 
 again ; and you'll forgive an old fellow his 
 joke, young ladies?" 
 
 With these brusque and eccentric sen- 
 tences, he raised his hat, and with the 
 activity of a younger man, ran up the bank 
 at the side of the road ; and, on the summit, 
 looked about him for a moment, as if he had 
 forgotten us altogether ; and then, at his 
 leisure, he descended at the other side and 
 was quite lost to view. 
 
 Laura Grey and I were both staring in 
 the direction in which he had just disap- 
 peared. Each, after a time, looked in her 
 companion's face. 
 
 " I almost think he's mad !" said Miss 
 Grey. 
 
 "• What could have possessed Mr. Carmel 
 to introduce such a person to us ?" I ex- 
 claimed. " Did you hear his name ?" I 
 asked, after we had again looked in the 
 direction in which he had gone, without dis- 
 covering any sign of his return. 
 
A STRANGER APPEARS. 97 
 
 *' Droqville, I think," she answered. 
 
 " Oh ! Laura, I am so frightened ! Do 
 you think papa can really intend any such 
 thing ? He's too kind. I am sure it is a 
 falsehood." 
 
 " It is a joke, he says himself," she an- 
 swered. " I can't help thinking a very odd 
 joke, and very pointless ; and one that did 
 not seem to amuse even himself" 
 
 '' Then you do think it is true ?" I urged, 
 my panic returning. 
 
 " Well, I can't think it is true, because, 
 if it were, why should he say it was a joke ? 
 We shall soon know. Perhaps Mr. Carmel 
 will enlighten us." 
 
 *' I thought he seemed in awe of that 
 man," I said. 
 
 " So did I," answered Miss Grey. " Per- 
 haps he is his superior." 
 
 " I'll write to-day to papa, and tell him 
 all about it ; you shall help me ; and I'll 
 implore of him not to think of anything so 
 horrible and cruel.'' 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
98 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Laura Grey stopped short, and laid her 
 hand on my wrist for a moment, thinking. 
 
 " Perhaps it would be as well if we were 
 to turn about and walk a little further, so 
 as to give him time to get quite away." 
 
 ^' But if he wants to take me away in 
 that carriage, or whatever it is, he'll wait 
 any time for my return." 
 
 "So he would ; but the more I think 
 over it, the more persuaded I am that there 
 is nothing in it." 
 
 " In any case, I'll go back," I said. " Let 
 us go into the house and lock the doors ; 
 and if that odious Mr. Droqville attempts to 
 force his way in, Thomas Jones will knock 
 him down ; and we'll send Anne Owen to 
 Cardyllion, for Williams, the policeman. I 
 hate suspense. If there is to be anything 
 unpleasant, it is better to have it decided, 
 one way or other, as soon as possible." 
 
 Laura Grey smiled, and spoke merrily of 
 our apprehensions ; but I don't think she 
 
A STK ANGER APPEARS. 99 
 
 was quite so much at ease as she assumed to 
 be. 
 
 Thus we turned about, I, at least, with a 
 heart thumping very fast; and we walked 
 back towards the old house of Malory, 
 where, as you have this moment heard, we 
 had made up our minds to stand a siege. 
 
 ^2 
 
100 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 TASSO. 
 
 T DARESAY I was a great fool ; but if 
 -*- you had seen the peculiar and unplea- 
 sant face of Monsieur Droqville, and heard 
 his harsh nasal voice, in which there was 
 something of habitual scorn, you would 
 make excuses. I confess I was in a great 
 fright by the time we had got well into the 
 dark avenue that leads up to the house. 
 
 I hesitated a little as we reached that 
 point in the carriage-road, not a long one, 
 which commands a clear view of the hall- 
 door steps. I had heard awful stories of 
 foolish girls spirited away to convents, and 
 never heard of more. I have doubts as to 
 whether, had I seen Monsieur Droqville or 
 
TASSO. 101 
 
 his carriage there, I should not have turned 
 about, and ran through the trees. But the 
 courtyard in front of the house was, as 
 usual, empty and still. On its gravel surface 
 reposed the sharp shadows of the pointed 
 gables above, and the tufts of grass on its 
 surface had not been bruised by recent 
 carriage wheels. Instead, therefore, of tak- 
 ing to flight, I hurried forward, accompanied 
 by Laura Grey, to seize the fortress before 
 it was actually threatened. 
 
 In we ran, lightly, and locked the hall- 
 door, and drew chain and bolt against Mon- 
 sieur Droqville ; and up the great stairs to 
 our room, each infected by the other's 
 panic. Safely in the room, we locked and 
 bolted our door, and stood listening, until 
 we had recovered breath. Then I rang our 
 bell furiously, and up came Anne Owen, or, 
 as her countrymen pronounce it, Anne Wan. 
 There had been, after all, no attack ; no 
 human being had attempted to intrude upon 
 our cloistered solitude. 
 
102 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ''Where is Mrs. Torkill?" I asked, 
 through the door. 
 
 " 111 the still-room, please, miss." 
 
 " Well, you must lock and bolt the back- 
 door, and don't let any one in, either way." 
 
 W^e passed an hour in this state of prepar- 
 ation, and finally ventured downstairs, and 
 saw Rebecca Torkill. From her we learned 
 that the strange gentleman who had been 
 with Mr. Carmel had driven away more 
 than half an hour before ; and Laura Grey 
 and I, looking in one another's faces, could 
 not help laughing a little. 
 
 Rebecca had overheard a portion of a 
 conversation, which she related to me ; but 
 not for years after. At the time she had 
 not an idea that it could refer to any one 
 in whom she was interested ; and even at 
 this hour I am not myself absolutely certain, 
 but only conjecture, that I was the subject of 
 their talk. I will tell it to you as nearly as 
 I can recollect. 
 
 Rebecca Torkill, nearly an hour before, 
 
TASSO. 103 
 
 being in the still-room, heard voices near 
 the window, and quietly peeped out. 
 
 You must know that immediately in the 
 angle formed by the junction of the old 
 house, known as the steward's house, which 
 Mr. Carmel had been assigned for a resi- 
 dence, and the rear of the great house of 
 Malory, stand two or three great trees, and 
 a screen of yews, behind which, so em- 
 bosomed in ivy as to have the effect of a 
 background of wood, stands the gable of 
 the still-room. This strip of ground, lying 
 immediately in the rear of the steward's 
 house, was a flower-garden ; but a part of 
 it is now carpeted with grass, and lies under 
 the shadow of the great trees, and is walled 
 round with the dark evergreens I have men- 
 tioned. The rear of the stable-yard of 
 Malory, also mantled with ivy, runs parallel 
 to the back of the steward's house, and 
 forms the other boundary of this little en- 
 closure, which simulates the seclusion of a 
 cloister; and but for the one well-screened 
 
104 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 window I have mentioned, would really 
 possess it. Standing near this window she 
 saw Mr. Car m el, whom she always regarded 
 with suspicion, and his visitor, that gentle- 
 man in black, whose looks nobody seemed 
 to like. 
 
 ''I told you, sir," said Mr. Carmel, 
 " through my friend Ambrose, I had ar- 
 ranged to have prayers twice a week, at the 
 church in Paris, for that one soul." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes ; that is all very well, very 
 good, of course," answered the hard voice ; 
 " but there are things we must do for our- 
 selves — the saints won't shave us, you know." 
 
 ^'I am afraid, sir, I did not quite under- 
 stand your letter," said Mr. Carmel. 
 
 " Yes, you did, pretty well. You see she 
 may be, one day, a very important acquisi- 
 tion. It is time you put your shoulder to 
 the wheel — d'ye see? Put your shoulder 
 to the wheel. The man who said all that is 
 able to do it. So mind you put your shoul- 
 der to the wheel forthwith." 
 
TASSO. 105 
 
 The younger man bowed. 
 
 " You have been sleeping," said the harsh, 
 peremptory voice. " You said there was 
 enthusiasm and imagination. I take that 
 for granted. I find there is spirit, courage, 
 a strong will ; obstinacy — impracticability — 
 no milksop — a bit of a virago ! Why did 
 not you make out all that for yourself? To 
 discover character you must apply tests. 
 You ought in a single conversation to know 
 everything." 
 
 The young man bowed again. 
 
 "You shall write to me weekly; but 
 don't post your letters at Cardyllion. I'll 
 write to you through Hickman, in the old 
 way." 
 
 She could hear no more, for they moved 
 away. The elder man continued talking, 
 and looked up at the back- windows of 
 Malory, which became visible as they moved 
 away. It was one of his fierce, rapid 
 glances ; but he was satisfied, and continued 
 his conversation for tw^o or three minutes 
 
106 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 more. Then he abruptly turned, and en- 
 tered the steward's house quickly ; and, in 
 two or three minutes more, was driving 
 away from Malory at a rapid pace. 
 
 A few days after this adventure — for in 
 our life any occurrence that could be talked 
 over for ten minutes was an adventure — I 
 had a letter in mamma's pretty hand, and 
 in it occurred this passage : 
 
 " The other day I wrote to Mr. Carmel, 
 and I asked him to do me a kindness. If 
 he would read a little Italian with you, and 
 Miss Grey I am sure would join, I should 
 be so very much pleased. He has passed so 
 much of his life in Rome, and is so accom- 
 plished in Italian ; simple as people think 
 it, that language is more difficult to pro- 
 nounce correctly even than French. I for- 
 get whether Miss Grey mentioned Italian 
 among the languages she could teach. But 
 however that may be, I think, if Mr. Carmel 
 will take that trouble, it would be very de- 
 sirable." 
 
TASSO. 107 
 
 Mr. Carmel, however, made no sign. 
 If the injunction to " put his shoulder to 
 the wheel" had been given for my behoof, 
 the promise was but indifferently kept, for 
 I did not see Mr. Carmel again for a fort- 
 night. During the greater part of that 
 interval he was away from Malory, we could 
 not learn where. At the end of that time, 
 one evening, just as unexpectedly as before, 
 he presented himself at the window. Very 
 much the same thing happened. He drank 
 tea with us, and sat on the bench — his bench, 
 he called it — outside the window, and re- 
 mained, I am sure, two hours, chatting very 
 agreeably. You may be sure we did not 
 lose the opportunity of trying to learn some- 
 thing of the gentleman whom he had intro- 
 duced to us. 
 
 Yes, his name was Droqville. 
 
 " We fancied," said Laura, " that he might 
 be an ecclesiastic." 
 
 " His being a priest, or not, I am sure you 
 think does not matter much, provided he is 
 
108 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 a good man, and he is that ; and a very- 
 clever man, also, " answered Mr. Carrael. 
 *'He is a great linguist : he has been in almost 
 every country in the world. I don't think 
 Miss Ethel has been a traveller yet, but you 
 have, I dare say." And in that way he led 
 us quietly away from Monsieur Droqville to 
 Antwerp, and I know not where else. 
 
 One result, however, did come of this 
 visit. He actually offered his services to 
 read Italian with us. Not, of course, with- 
 out opening the way for this by directing 
 our talk upon kindred subjects, and thus 
 deviously up to the point. Miss Grey and I, 
 who knew what each expected, were afraid 
 to look at each other ; we should certainly 
 have laughed, while he was leading us up 
 so circuitously and adroitly to his "palpable 
 ambuscade." 
 
 We settled Monday, Wednesday, and 
 Friday in each week for our little evening 
 readings. Mr. Carmel did not always now 
 sit outside, upon his bench, as at first. He 
 
TASSO. 109 
 
 was often at our tea-table, like one of our- 
 selves ; and sometimes stayed later than he 
 used to do. I thought him quite delightful. 
 He certainly was clever, and, to me, appear- 
 ed a miracle of learning ; he was agreeable, 
 fluent, and very peculiar. 
 
 I could not tell whether he was the cold- 
 est man on earth, or the most impassioned. 
 His eyes seemed to me more enthusiastic 
 and extraordinary the oftener and longer I 
 beheld them. Their strange effect, instead 
 of losing, seemed to gain by habit and ob- 
 servation. It seemed to me that the cold 
 and melancholy serenity that held us aloof 
 was artificial, and that underneath it could 
 be detected the play and fire of a nature 
 totally different. 
 
 I was always fluctuating in ray judgment 
 upon this issue ; and the problem occupied 
 me during many an hour of meditation. 
 
 How dull the alternate days had become ; 
 and how pleasant even the look-forward to 
 our little meetings ! Thus, very agreeably, 
 
110 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 for about a fortniglit our readings proceed- 
 ed, and, one evening on our return, expect- 
 ing the immediate arrival of our " master," 
 as I called Mr. Carmel, we found, instead, a 
 note addressed to ]\Iiss Grey. It began : 
 " Dear Miss Etli," and across these three 
 letters a line was drawn, and " Grey" was 
 supplied. I liked even that evidence that his 
 first thoudit had been of me. It went on : 
 
 " Duty, I regret, calls me for a time away 
 from Malor}^, and our Italian readings. I 
 have but a minute to write to tell you not to 
 expect me this evening, and to say I regret 
 I am unable, at this moment, to name the 
 day of my return. 
 
 " In great haste, and with many regrets, 
 *' Yours very truly, 
 
 ''E. Carmel." 
 
 " So he's gone again !" I said, very much 
 vexed. " ^A'hat shall we do to-night?" 
 
 " Whatever you like best ; I don't care — 
 I'm sorry he's gone." 
 
TASSO. Ill 
 
 "How restless he is I 1 wonder why he 
 could not stay quietly here ; he can't have 
 any real business away. It may be duty ; 
 but it looks very like idleness. I dare say 
 he began to think it a bore coming to us so 
 often to read Tasso, and listen to my non- 
 sense ; and I tliink it a very cool note, don't 
 your' 
 
 "Not cool; a little cold ; but not colder 
 than he is," said Laura Grey. "He'll come 
 back, when he has done his business ; I'm 
 sure he has business ; why should he tell an 
 untruth about the matter?" 
 
 I was huffed at his going, and more at his 
 note. That pale face, and those large eyes, 
 I thought the handsomest in the world. I 
 took up one of Laura's manuals of The Con- 
 troversy, which had fallen rather into disuse 
 after the first panic had subsided, and Mr. 
 Carrael had failed to make any, even the 
 slightest, attack upon our faith. I was 
 fiddling with its leaves, and I said : 
 
 " If I were an inexperienced young priest, 
 Laura, 1 should be horribly afraid of those 
 
112 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 little tea-parties. I dare say he is afraid — 
 afraid of your eyes, and of falling in love 
 with you." 
 
 " Certainly not with me," she answered. 
 "Perhaps you mean he is afraid of people 
 talking ? T think you and I should be the 
 persons to object to that, if there was a 
 possibility of any such thing. But we are 
 talking folly. These men meet us, and talk 
 to us, and we see them ; but there is a 
 wall between, that is simply impassable. 
 Suppose a sheet of plate glass, through which 
 you see as clearly as through air, but as thick 
 as the floor of ice on which a Dutch fair is 
 held. That is what their vow is." 
 
 " I wonder whether a girl ever fell in love 
 with a priest. That would be a tragedy !" 
 I said. 
 
 " A ridiculous one," answered Laura ; 
 " you remember the old spinster who fell in 
 love with the Apollo Belvedere ? It could 
 happen only to a madwoman." 
 
 I think this was a dull evening to Laura 
 Grey ; I know it was for me. 
 
113 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THUNDER. 
 
 TTTE saw or heard nothing for a week or 
 ' * more of Mr. CarmeL It was possible 
 that he would never return. I was in low 
 spirits. Laura Grey had been shut up by a 
 cold, and on the day of which I am now 
 speaking she had not yet been out. I there- 
 fore took my walk alone towards Penruthyn 
 Priory, and, as dejected people not un- 
 frequently do, I was well enough disposed to 
 indulge and even to nurse my melancholy. 
 
 A thunder-storm had been for hours 
 moving upwards from the south-east, among 
 the grand ranges of distant mountains that 
 lie, tier beyond tier, at the other side of the 
 
 VOL. ;, I 
 
114 WILLING TO DIE, 
 
 estuary, and now it rested on a wide and 
 lurid canopy of cloud upon the summits of 
 the hills and headlands that overlook the 
 water. 
 
 It was evening, later than my usual return 
 to tea. I knew that Laura Grey minded 
 half an hour here or there as little as I did, 
 and a thunder-storm seen and heard from 
 the neighbourhood of Malory is one of the 
 grandest spectacles in its way on earth. 
 Attracted by the mighty hills on the other 
 side, these awful elemental battles seldom 
 visit our comparatively level shore, and we 
 see the lightning no nearer than about half- 
 way across the water. Vivid against black- 
 ening sky and purple mountain, the lightning 
 flies and shivers. From broad hill-side, 
 through rocky gorges, reflected and return- 
 ed from precipice to precipice, through the 
 hollow windings of the mountains, the 
 thunder rolls and rattles, dies away, ex- 
 plodes again, and at length subsides, in the 
 strangest and grandest of all sounds, spread- 
 
THUNDER. 115 
 
 ing through all that mountainous region for 
 minutes after, like the roar and tremble of 
 an enormous seething caldron. 
 
 Suppose these aerial sounds reverberating 
 from cliff to cliff, from peak to peak, and 
 crag to crag, from one hill-side to another, 
 like the cannon in the battles of Milton's 
 angels ; suppose the light of the setting sun, 
 through a chink in the black curtain of cloud 
 behind me, touching with misty fire the 
 graves and headstones in the pretty church- 
 yard, where, on the stone bench under the 
 eastern window, I have taken my seat, near 
 the grave of m)^ darling sister ; and suppose 
 an uneasy tumult, not a breeze, in the air, 
 sometimes still, and sometimes in moaning 
 gusts, tossing sullenly the boughs of the old 
 trees that darken the churchyard. 
 
 For the first time since her death I had 
 now visited this spot w^ithout tears. My 
 thoughts of death had ceased to be pathetic, 
 and were, at this moment, simply terrible. 
 "My heart was disquieted within me, and 
 
 i2 
 
116 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the fear of deatli had fallen upon me." I 
 sat with my hands clasped together, and my 
 eyes fixed on the thunderous horizon before 
 me, and the grave of my darling under my 
 eyes, and she, in her coffin, but a few feet 
 beneath. The grave, God's prison, as old 
 Rebecca Torkill used to say, and then the 
 Judgment ! This new sense of horror and 
 despair was, 1 dare say, but an unconscious 
 sympathy with the vengeful and melancholy 
 aspect of nature. 
 
 I heard a step near me, and turned. It 
 was Mr. Carniel who approached. He was 
 looking more than usually pale, I thought, 
 and ill. I was surprised, and a little con- 
 fused. I cannot recall our greeting. I 
 said, after that was over, something, I be- 
 lieve, about the thunder-storm. 
 
 " And yet," he answered, " you under- 
 stand these awful phenomena — their causes. 
 You remember our little talk about elec- 
 tricity — here it is ! We know all that is but 
 the restoration of an equilibrium. Think 
 
THUNDER. 117 
 
 what it will be when God restores the moral 
 balance, and settles the equities of eternity ! 
 There are moods, times, and situations in 
 which we contemplate justly our tremendous 
 Creator. Fear him who, after he has killed 
 the body, has power to cast into hell. Yea, 
 I say unto you, fear him. Here all suffering 
 is transitory. Weeping may endure for a 
 night, but joy cometh in the morning. This 
 life is the season of time and of mercy ; but 
 once in hell, mercy is no more, and eternity 
 opens, and endures, and has no end." 
 
 Here he ceased for a time to speak, and 
 looked across the estuary, listening, as it 
 seemed, to the roll and tremble of the thun- 
 der. After a little while, he said : 
 
 " That you are to die is most certain ; no- 
 thing more uncertain than the time and 
 manner ; by a slow or a sudden death ; in a 
 state of grace or of sin. Therefore, we are 
 warned to be ready at all hours. Better 
 twenty years too soon than one moment 
 late j for to perish once is to be lost for 
 
118 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ever. Your death depends upon your life ; 
 such as your life is, such will be your death. 
 How can we dare to live in a state that we 
 dare not die in?" 
 
 I sat gazing at this young priest, who, 
 sentence after sentence, was striking the 
 very key-note of the awful thought that 
 seemed to peal and glare in the storm. He 
 stood with his head uncovered, his great 
 earnest eyes sometimes raised, sometimes 
 fixed on me, and the uncertain gusts at fitful 
 intervals tossed his hair this way and that. 
 The light of the setting sun touched his thin 
 hand, and his head, and glimmered on the 
 long grass ; the graves lay around us ; and 
 the voice of God himself seemed to speak in 
 the air. 
 
 Mr. Carmel drew nearer, and in the same 
 earnest vein talked on. There w^as no par- 
 ticle of what is termed the controversial in 
 what he had said. He had not spoken a 
 word that I could not subscribe. He had 
 quoted, also, from our version of the Bible ; 
 
THUNDER. 119 
 
 but he presented the terrors of revelation 
 with a prominence more tremendous than I 
 was accustomed to, and the tone of his dis- 
 course was dismaying. 
 
 I will not attempt to recollect and to 
 give you in detail the conversation that 
 followed. He presented, with a savage 
 homeliness of illustration, with the same 
 simplicity and increasing force, the same 
 awful view of Christianity. Beyond the 
 naked strength of the facts, and the terrible 
 brevity with which he stated them in their 
 different aspects, I don't know that there 
 was any special eloquence in his discourse, 
 but, in the language of Scripture, his words 
 made " both my ears tingle.^' 
 
 He did not attempt to combat my Pro- 
 testant tenets directly ; that might have 
 alarmed me ; he had too much tact for that. 
 Anything he said with that tendency was in 
 the way simply of a disclosure of the teach- 
 ing and practice of his own Church. 
 
 " In the little volume of legends you 
 
120 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 were so good as to say you would like to 
 look iuto," he said, "you will find the 
 prayer of Saint Louis de Gonzaga ; you will 
 also find an anonymous prayer, very pathetic 
 and beautiful. I have drawn a line in red 
 ink down the margin at its side, so it is 
 easily found. These will show you the spirit 
 in which the faithful approach the Blessed 
 Virgin. They may interest you. They 
 will, I am sure, interest your sympathies 
 for those who have suffered, like you, and 
 have found peace and hope in these very 
 prayers." 
 
 He then spoke very touchingly of my 
 darling sister, and my tears at last began to 
 flow. It was the strangest half-hour I had 
 ever passed. Religion during that time had 
 appeared in a gigantic and terrible aspect. 
 My grief for my sister was now tinged with 
 terror. Do not we from our Lutheran pul- 
 pits too lightly appeal to that potent emotion 
 — fear ? 
 
 For awhile this tall thin priest in black, 
 
THUNDER. 121 
 
 whose pale face and earnest eyes seemed to 
 gleam on me with an intense and almost 
 painful enthusiasm, looked like a spirit in 
 the deepening twilight ; the thunder rattled 
 and rolled on among the echoing mountains, 
 the gleam of the lightning grew colder and 
 wilder as the darkness increased, and the 
 winds rushed mournfully, and tossed the 
 churchyard grass, and bowed the heads of 
 the great trees about us ; and as I walked 
 home, with my head full of awful thoughts, 
 and my heart agitated, I felt as if I had 
 been talking with a messenger from that 
 other world. 
 
122 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AWAKENED. 
 
 "¥"1TE do these proselytising priests great 
 ' * Avrong when we fancy them cold- 
 blooded practisers upon our credulity^ who 
 seek, for merely selfish ends, to entangle us 
 by sophistries, and inveigle us into those 
 mental and moral catacombs from which 
 there is no escape. We underrate their 
 danger when we deny their sincerity. Mr. 
 Carmel sought to save my soul ; nobler or 
 purer motive, I am sure, never animated 
 man. If he acted with caution, and even 
 by stratagem, he believed it was in the 
 direct service of Heaven, and for my eternal 
 weal. I know him better, his strength and 
 
AWAKENED. 123 
 
 his weakness, now — his asceticism, his reso- 
 lution, his tenderness. That young priest 
 — long dead — stands before me, in the 
 white robe of his purity, king-like. I see 
 him, as I saw him last, his thin, handsome 
 features, the light of patience on his face, 
 the pale smile of suffering and of victory. 
 His tumults and his sorrows are over. 
 Cold and quiet he lies now. My thanks 
 can never reach him ; ray unavailing bless- 
 ings and gratitude follow my true and long- 
 lost friend, and tears wrung from a yearn- 
 ing heart. 
 
 Laura Grey seemed to have lost her sus- 
 picions of this ecclesiastic. We had more 
 of his society than before. Our readings 
 went on, and sometimes he joined us in our 
 walks. I used to see him from an upper 
 window every morning early, busy with 
 spade and trowel, in the tiny flower-garden 
 which belonged to the steward's house. He 
 used to work there for an hour punctually, 
 from before seven till nearly eight. Then 
 
124 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 he vanished for many hours, and was not 
 seen till nearly evening, and we had, 
 perhaps, our Gerusalemme Liberata, or he 
 would walk with us for a mile or more, and 
 talk in his gentle but cold way, pleasantly, 
 on any topic we happened to start. We 
 three grew to be great friends. I liked to 
 see him when he, and, I may add, Laura 
 Grey also, little thought I was looking at 
 his simple garden-work under the shadow 
 of the grey wall from which the old cherry 
 and rose-trees drooped, in picturesque con- 
 fusion, under overhanging masses of ivy. 
 
 He and I talked as opportunity occurred 
 more and more freely upon religion. But 
 these were like lovers' confidences, and, by a 
 sort of tacit consent, never before Laura 
 Grey. Not that I wished to deceive her ; 
 but I knew very well what she would think 
 and say of my imprudence. It would have 
 embarrassed me to tell her ; but here re- 
 monstrances would not have prevailed ; I 
 would not have desisted ; we should have 
 
AWAKENED. ' 125 
 
 quarrelled ; and yet I was often on the point 
 of telling her, for any reserve with her pain- 
 ed me. 
 
 In this quiet life we had glided from 
 Summer into Autumn, and suddenly, as be- 
 fore, Mr. Carrnel vanished, leaving just such 
 a vague little note as before. 
 
 I was more wounded, and a great deal 
 more sorry this time. The solitude I had 
 once loved so well was irksome without him. 
 I could not confess to Laura, scarcely to 
 myself, how much I missed him. 
 
 About a week after his disappearance, we 
 had planned to drink tea in the house- 
 keeper's room. I had been sitting at the 
 window in the gable that commanded the 
 view of the steward's garden, which had so 
 often shown me my hermit at his morning's 
 work. The roses were already shedding 
 their honours on the mould, and the sear of 
 Autumn was mellowing the leaves of the 
 old fruit-trees. The shadow of the ancient 
 stone house fell across the garden, for by 
 
126 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 this time the sun was low in the west, and I 
 knew that the next morning would come 
 and go, and the next, and bring no sign of 
 his return, and so on, and on, perhaps for 
 ever. 
 
 Never was little garden so sad and silent ! 
 The fallen leaves lay undisturbed, and the 
 weeds were already peeping here and there 
 among the flowers. 
 
 '' Is it part of your religion ?'^ I murmur- 
 ed bitterly to myself, as, with folded hands, 
 I stood a little way back, looking down 
 through the open window, '' to leave willing 
 listeners thus half-instructed ? Business ? 
 What is the business of a good priest ? I 
 should have thought the care and culture of 
 human souls was, at least, part of a priest's 
 business. I have no one to answer a ques- 
 tion now — no one to talk to. I am, I sup- 
 pose, forgotten." 
 
 I dare say there was some affectation in 
 this. But my dejection was far from affect- 
 ed, and hiding my sorrowful and bitter 
 
AWAKENED. 127 
 
 mood, I left the window and came down 
 the back-stairs to our place of meeting. 
 Rebecca Torkill and Laura Grey were in 
 high chat. Tea being just made, and every- 
 thing looking so delightfully comfortable, I 
 should have been, at another time, in high 
 spirits. 
 
 "Ethel, what do you think? Rebecca 
 has been just telling me that the mystery 
 about Mr. Carmel is quite cleared up. Mr. 
 Prichard, the grocer, in Cardyllion, was 
 visiting his cousin, who has a farm near 
 Plasnwyd, and whom should he see there but 
 our missing friar, in a carriage driving with 
 Mrs. Tredwynyd, of Plasnwyd. She is a 
 beautiful woman still, and one of the richest 
 widows in Wales, Rebecca says; and he 
 has been living there ever since he left 
 this ; and his last visit, when we thought 
 he was making a religious sojourn in a mon- 
 astery, was to the same house and lady ! 
 What do you think of that ? But it is not 
 near ended yet. Tell the rest of the 
 
128 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Story, Mrs. Torkill, to Miss Ethel— please 
 do." 
 
 "Well, miss, there's nothin' very particular, 
 only they say all round Plasnwyd that she 
 was in love with him, and that he's goin' to 
 turn Protestant, and it's all settled they're 
 to be married. Every one is singin' to the 
 same tune all round Plasnwyd, and what 
 every one says must be true, as I've often 
 heard say." 
 
 I laughed, and asked whether our tea- 
 cake was ready, and looked out of the win- 
 dow. The boughs of the old fruit-trees in the 
 steward's garden hung so near it that 
 the ends of the sprays would tap the glass, 
 if the wind blew. As I leaned against the 
 shutter, drumming a little tune on the win- 
 dow, and looking as careless as any girl 
 could, I felt cold and faint, and my heart 
 was bursting. I don't know what prevented 
 my dropping on the floor in a swoon. 
 
 Laura, little dreaming of the effect of 
 this story upon me, was chatting still with 
 
AWAKENED. 129 
 
 Rebecca, and neither perceived that I was 
 moved by the news. 
 
 That night I cried for hours in my bed, 
 after Laura Grey was fast asleep. It never 
 occurred to me to canvass the probability of 
 the story. We are so prone to believe 
 what we* either greatly desire or greatly 
 fear. The violence of my own emotions 
 startled me. My eyes were opened at last 
 to a part of my danger. 
 
 As I whispered, through convulsive sobs, 
 *'He's gone, he's gone — T have lost him — he'll 
 never be here any more ! Oh ! why did 
 you pretend to take an interest in me? 
 Why did I listen to you ? Why did I like 
 you ?" All this, and as much more girlish 
 lamentation and upbraiding as you please to 
 fancy, dispelled my dream and startled my 
 reason. I had an interval to recover in ; 
 happily for me, this wild fancy had not had 
 time to grow into a more impracticable and 
 dangerous feeling. I felt like an awakened 
 somnambulist at the brink of a precipice. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Had I become attached to Mr. Carmel, my 
 heart must have broken in silence, and my 
 secret have perished with me. 
 
 Some weeks passed, and an event occur- 
 red, which more than my girlish pride and 
 resolutions turned my thoughts into a new 
 channel, and introduced a memorable actor 
 upon the scene of my life. 
 
131 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS. 
 
 TTTE were now in stormy October ; a 
 * ' fierce and melancholy month ! Au- 
 gust and September touch the greenwood 
 leaves with gold and russet, and gently 
 loosen the hold of every little stalk on forest 
 bough ; and then, when all is ready, October 
 comes on in storm, with sounds of trump 
 and rushing charge and fury not to be 
 argued or dallied with, and thoroughly exe- 
 cutes the sentence of mortality that was 
 recorded in the first faint yellow of the 
 leaf, in the still sun of declining July. 
 
 October is all the more melancholy for 
 the still, golden days that intervene, and 
 
 k2 
 
132 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 show the thinned branches in the sunlight, 
 soft, and clear as Summer's, and the boughs 
 cast their skeleton shadows across brown 
 drifts of leaves. 
 
 On the evening I am going to speak of, 
 there was a wild, threatening sunset, and 
 the boatmen of Cardyllion foretold a coming 
 storm. Their predictions were verified. 
 
 The breeze began to sigh and moan 
 through the trees and chimney-stacks of 
 Malory shortly after sunset, and in another 
 hour it came on to blow a gale from the 
 north-west. From that point the wind 
 sweeps right up the estuary from the open 
 sea ; and after it has blown for a time, and 
 the waves have gathered their strength, the 
 sea bursts grandly upon the rocks a little 
 in front of Malory. 
 
 We were sitting cosily in our accustomed 
 tea-room. The rush and strain of the wind 
 on the windows became momentarily more 
 vehement, till the storm reached its highest 
 and most tremendous pitch. 
 
A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS. 133 
 
 '^ Don't you think," said Laura, after an 
 awful gust, " that the windows may burst in ? 
 The wind is frightful ! Hadn't we better 
 get to the back of the house ?" 
 
 " Not the least danger," I answered ; 
 *' these windows have small panes, and im- 
 mensely strong sashes ; and they have stood 
 so many gales that we may trust them for 
 this." 
 
 " There again !" she exclaimed. " How 
 awful !" 
 
 " No danger to us, though. These walls 
 are thick, and as firm as rock ; not like your 
 flimsy brick houses ; and the chimneys are 
 as strong as towers. You must come up 
 with me to the window in the tawny-room ; 
 there is an open space in the trees opposite, 
 and we can see pretty well. It is worth 
 looking at ; you never saw the sea here in a 
 storm." 
 
 With very little persuasion, I induced her 
 to run upstairs with me. Along the cor- 
 ridor, we reached the chamber in question, 
 
134 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 and placing our candle near the door, and 
 running together to the window, we saw the 
 grand spectacle we had come to witness. 
 
 Over sea and land, rock and wood, a 
 dazzling moon was shining. Tattered bits 
 of cloud, the " scud " I believe they call it, 
 were whirling over us, more swiftly than 
 the flight of a bird, as far as your eye could 
 discern : till the sea was lost in the grey 
 mist of the horizon it was streaked and 
 ridged with white. Nearer to the stooping 
 trees that bowed and quivered in the sus- 
 tained blast, and the little churchyard dor- 
 mitory that nothing could disturb, the black 
 peaked rock rose above the turmoil, and a 
 dark causeway of the same jagged stone, 
 sometimes defined enough, sometimes sub- 
 merged, connected it almost with the main- 
 land. A few hundred yards beyond it, I 
 knew, stretched the awful reef on which 
 the Intinnsic^ years before I could remem- 
 ber, had been wrecked. Beyond that again, 
 we could see the waves leaping into sheets 
 
A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS. 135 
 
 of foam, that seemed to fall as slowly and 
 softly as clouds of snow. Nearer, on the 
 dark rock, the waves flew up high into the 
 air, like cannon-smoke. 
 
 Within these rocks, which make an awful 
 breakwater, full of mortal peril to ships 
 driving before the storm, the estuary, near 
 the shores of Malory, was comparatively 
 quiet. 
 
 At the window, looking on this wild 
 scene, we stood, side by side, in the fascina- 
 tion which the sea in its tumultuous mood 
 never fails to exercise. Thus, not once 
 turning our eyes from the never-flagging 
 variety of the spectacle, we gazed for a full 
 half-hour, when, suddenly, there appeared 
 — was it the hull of a vessel shorn of its 
 masts ? No, it was a steamer — a large one, 
 with low chimneys. It seemed to be about 
 a mile and a half away, but was driving on 
 very rapidly. Sometimes the hull was quite 
 lost to sight, and then again rose black and 
 sharp on the crest of the sea. We held 
 
136 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 our breaths. Perhaps the vessel was try- 
 ing to make the shelter of the pier of 
 Cardyllion ; perhaps she was simply driving 
 before the wind. 
 
 To me there seemed something uncertain 
 and staggering in the progress of the ship. 
 * Before her lay the ominous reef, on which 
 many a good ship and brave life had 
 perished. There was quite room enough, I 
 knew, with good steering, between the 
 head of the reef and the sandbank at the 
 other side, to make the pier of Cardyllion. 
 But was there anyone on board who knew 
 the intricate navis^ation of our danc^erous 
 estuary? Could any steering in such a 
 tempest avail? And, above all, had the 
 ship been crippled ? In any case, I knew 
 enough to be well aware that she was in 
 danger. 
 
 Reader, if you have never witnessed such 
 a spectacle, you cannot conceive the hys- 
 terical excitement of that suspense. All 
 those on board are, for the time, your near 
 
A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS. 137 
 
 friends; your heart is among tliem — their 
 terrors are yours. A ship driving with just 
 the hand and eye of one man for its only 
 chance, under Heaven, against the fury of 
 sea and wind, and a front of deadly rock, 
 is an unequal battle ; the strongest heart 
 sickens as the crisis nears, and the moments 
 pass in an unconscious agony of prayer. 
 
 Rebecca Torkill joined us at this moment. 
 
 " Oh ! Rebecca," I said, " there is a ship 
 coming up the estuary — do you think they 
 can escape?" 
 
 "The telescope should be on the shelf at 
 the back stair-head," she answered, as soon 
 as she had taken a long look at the steamer. 
 " Lord ha' mercy on them, poor souls ! — 
 that's the very way the Intrinsic drove up 
 before the wind the night she was lost ; and 
 I think this will be the worse night of the 
 two." 
 
 Mrs. Torkill returned with the long sea 
 telescope, in its worn casing of canvas. 
 
 I took the first " look out," After wan- 
 
138 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 dering hither and thither over a raging 
 sea, and sometimes catching the tossing 
 head of some tree in the foreground, the 
 glass lighted, at length, upon the vessel. It 
 was a large steamer, pitching and yawing 
 frightfully. Even to my inexperienced eye, 
 it appeared nearly unmanageable. I handed 
 the glass to Laura. I felt faint. 
 
 Some of the Cardyllion boatmen came 
 running along the road that passes in front 
 of Malory. I saw that two or three of them 
 had already arrived on the rising ground 
 beside the churchyard, and were watching 
 events from that wind-swept point. I knew 
 all the Cardyllion boatmen, for we often 
 employed them, and I said : 
 
 "I can't stay here — I must hear what 
 the boatmen say. Come, Laura, come with 
 me." 
 
 Laura was willino^ enouorh. 
 
 *' Nonsense! Miss Ethel," exclaimed the 
 housekeeper. " Why, dear Miss Grey, you 
 could not keep hat or bonnet on in a wind 
 
A SIGHT FROM THE WINDOWS. 139 
 
 like that ! You could not keep your feet in 
 it !" 
 
 Remonstrance, however, was in vain. I 
 tied a handkerchief tight over my head and 
 under my chin — Laura did the same ; and 
 out we both sallied, notwithstanding Rebecca 
 Torkill's protest and entreaty. We had to 
 go by the back-door ; it would have been 
 impossible to close the hall-door against such 
 a gale. 
 
 Now we were out in the bright moon- 
 light under the partial shelter of the trees, 
 which bent and swayed with the roar of a 
 cataract over our heads. Near us was the 
 hillock we tried to gain ; it was next to 
 impossible to reach it against the storm. 
 Often we were brought to a standstill, and 
 often forced backward, notwithstanding all 
 our efforts. 
 
 At length, in spite of all, we stood on the 
 little platform, from which the view of the 
 rocks and sea beyond was clear. Williams, 
 the boatman, was close to me, at my right 
 
140 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 hand, holding his low-crowned hat down on 
 his head with his broad, hard hand. Laura 
 was at my other side. Our dresses were 
 slapping and rattling in the storm like the 
 cracking of a thousand whips ; and such a 
 roaring was in ray ears, although my hand- 
 kerchief was tied close over them, that I 
 could scarcely hear anything else. 
 
141 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 CATASTROPHE. 
 
 rriHE steamer looked very near now and 
 -^ large. It was plain it had no longer 
 any chance of clearing the rocks. The boat- 
 men were bawling to one another, but I 
 could not understand what they said, nor 
 hear more than a word or two at a time. 
 
 The steamer mounted very high, and then 
 seemed to dive headlong into the sea, and 
 was lost to sight. Again, in less than a 
 minute, the black mass was toppling at the 
 summit of the sea, and again it seemed 
 swallowed up. 
 
 "" Her starboard paddle !" shouted a broad- 
 shouldered sailor in a pilot-coat, with his 
 palm to the side of his mouth. 
 
142 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Thomas Jones was among these men, 
 without a hat, and on seeing me he fell back 
 a little. I was only a step or two behind 
 them. 
 
 " Thomas Jones," I screamed, and he in- 
 clined his ear to my shrill question, " is there 
 no life-boat in Cardyllion ?" 
 
 " Not one, miss," he roared ; " and it 
 could not make head against that if there 
 was." 
 
 *^ Not an inch," bawled Williams. 
 
 " Is there any chance ?" I cried. 
 
 ^' An anchor from the starn ! A bad hold 
 there — -she's draggin' of it !" yelled Williams, 
 whose voice, though little more than two 
 feet away, sounded faint and half smothered 
 in the storm. 
 
 Just then the steamer reared, or rather 
 swooped, like the enchanted horse, into the 
 air, and high above its black shape shot a 
 huge canopy of foam ; and then it staggered 
 over and down, and nothing but raging sea 
 was there. 
 
CATASTKOPHE. 143 
 
 " God ! are they all lost ?" I shrieked. 
 
 " Anchor's fast. All right now," roared 
 the man in the pilot-coat. 
 
 In some seconds more the vessel emerged, 
 pitching high into the brilliant moonlight, 
 and nearly the same thing was repeated 
 again and again. The seafaring men who 
 were looking on were shouting their opinions 
 one to another, and from the little I was 
 able to hear and understand, I gathered that 
 she might ride it out if she did not drag her 
 anchor, or '^ part " or '' founder." But the 
 sea was very heavy, and the rocks just under 
 her bows now. 
 
 In this state of suspense a quarter of an 
 hour or more must have passed. Suddenly 
 the vessel seemed to rise nearer than before. 
 The men crowded forward to the edge of 
 the bank. It was plain something decisive 
 had happened. Nearer it rose again, and 
 then once more plunged forward and dis- 
 appeared. I waited breathless. I waited 
 longer than before, and longer. Nothing 
 
144 WILLING TO DIB. 
 
 was there but rolling waves and springing 
 foam beyond the rocks. The ship rose no 
 more! 
 
 The first agony of suspense was over. 
 Where she had been the waves were sport- 
 ing in the ghastly moonlight. In my wild 
 horror I screamed — I wrung my hands. I 
 could not turn for a moment from the scene. 
 I was praying all the time the same short 
 prayer over and over again. Minute after 
 minute passed, and still my eyes were fixed 
 on the point where the ship had vanished ; 
 my hands were clasped over my forehead, 
 and tears welled down my cheeks. 
 
 What's that ? Upon the summit of the 
 bare rock, all on a sudden, the figure of a 
 man appeared ; behind this mass of black 
 stone, as each wave burst in succession, the 
 foam leaped in clouds. For a moment the 
 figure was seen sharp against the silvery 
 distance ; then he stooped, as if to climb 
 down the near side of the rock, and we lost 
 sight of him. The boatmen shouted, and 
 
CATASTEOPHE. 145 
 
 held up each a hand (their others were hold- 
 ing their hats on) in token of succour near, 
 and three or four of them, with Thomas 
 Jones at their head, ran down the slope, at 
 their utmost speed, to the jetty, under which, 
 in shelter, lay the Malory boat. Soon it 
 was moving under the bank, four men pull- 
 ing might and main against the gale ; though 
 they rowed in shelter of the reef, on the 
 pinnacle of which we had seen the figure 
 for a moment, still it was a rough sea, and 
 far from safe for an open boat, the spray 
 driving like hail against them, and the boat 
 pitching heavily in the short cross sea. 
 
 No other figure crossed the edge of the 
 rock, or for a moment showed upon the 
 bleak reef, all along which clouds of foam 
 were springing high and wild into the air. 
 
 The men who had been watching the 
 event from the bank, seemed to have aban- 
 doned all farther hope, and began to descend 
 the hill to the jetty to await the return of 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the boat. It did return, bearing the one 
 rescued man. 
 
 Laura Grey and I went homeward. We 
 made our way into the back-yard, often 
 forced to run, by the storm, in spite of our- 
 selves. We had hardly reached the house 
 when we saw the boatmen coming up. 
 
 We were now in the yard, about to enter 
 the house at the back-door, which stood in 
 shelter of the building. I saw Mrs. Torkill 
 in the steward's house, with one of the 
 maids, evidently in a fuss. I ran in. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Ethel, dear, did you see that ? 
 Lord a' mercy on us ! A whole shipful gone 
 like that ! I thought the sight was leaving 
 my eyes." 
 
 I answered very little. I felt ill, I was 
 trembling still, and ready to burst again into 
 tears. 
 
 " Here's bin Thomas Jones, miss, to ask 
 leave for the drownded man to rest himself 
 for the night, and, as Mr. Carmel's away, I 
 knew your papa and mamma would not 
 
CATASTROPHE. 147 
 
 refuse ; don't you think so, miss ? So I said, 
 ay, bring him here. Was I right, miss ? 
 And me and Anne Wan is tidyin a bed for 
 him." 
 
 " Quite right, I'm sure," I said, my interest 
 again awakened, and almost at the same 
 moment into the flagged passage came 
 Thomas Jones, followed by several of the 
 Cardyllion boatmen, their great shoes clatter- 
 ing over the flags. 
 
 In the front rank of these walked the one 
 mortal who had escaped alive from the ship 
 that was now a wreck on the fatal reef. You 
 may imagine the interest with which I look- 
 ed at him. I saw a graceful but manly 
 figure, a young man in a short sailor-like 
 coat, his dress drenched and clinging, his hat 
 gone, his forehead and features finely form- 
 ed, very energetic, and, I thought, stern — 
 browned by the sun ; but, allowing for that 
 tint, no drowned face in the sea that night 
 was paler than his, his long black hair, lank 
 with sea-water, tlirown back from his face 
 
 l2 
 
148 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 like a mane. There was blood oozing from 
 under its folds near his temple ; there was 
 blood also on his hand, which rested on the 
 breast of his coat ; on his finger there was a 
 thick gold ring. I had little more than a 
 moment in which to observe all this. He 
 walked in, holding his head high, very faint 
 and fierce, with a slight stagger in his 
 gait, a sullen and defiant countenance, and 
 eyes fixed and gazing straight before him, 
 as I had heard somnambulists described. I 
 saw him in the candle-light for only a 
 moment, as he walked by, with boatmen in 
 thick shoes, as I said, clattering beside him. 
 I felt a strange longing to run and clasp him 
 by the hand ! 
 
 I got into our own back-door, and found 
 Laura Grey in the room in which we usually 
 had our tea. She was as much excited as I. 
 
 " Could you have imagined," she almost 
 cried, " anything so frightful ? I wish I had 
 not seen it. It will always be before my 
 eyes." 
 
CATASTEOPHE. 149 
 
 "That is what I feel also ; but we could 
 not help it, we could not have borne the 
 suspense. That is the reason why people 
 who are least able to bear it sometimes see 
 the most dreadful sights." 
 
 As we were talking, and wondering 
 where the steamer came from, and what 
 was her name, and how many people were 
 probably on board, in came Rebecca 
 Torkill. 
 
 " I sent them boatmen home, miss, that 
 rowed the boat out to the rock for that poor 
 young man, with a pint o' strong ale, every- 
 one round, and no doubt he'll give them and 
 Thomas Jones something in hand for taking 
 him off the rock when he comes to himself 
 a bit. He ought to be thanking the Almighty 
 with a contrite heart." 
 
 " He did not look as if he was going to 
 pray when I saw him," I said. 
 
 " Nor to thank God, nor no one, for any- 
 thing," she chimed in. " And he sat down 
 sulky and black as you please, at the side 
 
150 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 o' the bed, and said never a word, but stuck 
 out his foot to Thomas Jones to unbutton 
 his boot. I had a pint o' mulled port 
 ready, and I asked him if I should send for 
 the doctor, and he only shook his head and 
 shrugged his shoulders, as he might turn up 
 his nose at an ugly physic. And he fell 
 a-thinking while Jones was takin' off the 
 other boot, and in place of prayin' or thanks- 
 giving, I heard him muttering to himself and 
 grumbling; and, Lord forgive me if I wrong 
 him, I think I heard him cursing some one. 
 There was a thing for a man just took alive 
 out o' the jaws o' death by the mercy o' God 
 to do ! There's them on earth, miss, that no 
 lesson will teach, nor goodness melt, nor 
 judgment frighten, but the last one, and then 
 all's too late." 
 
 It was late by this time, and so we all 
 got to our beds. But I lay long awake in 
 the dark, haunted by the ceaseless rocking 
 of that dreadful sea, and the apparition of 
 that one pale, bleeding messenger from the 
 
CATASTROPHE. 151 
 
 ship of death. How unlike my idea of the 
 rapture of a mortal just rescued from ship- 
 wreck ! His face was that of one to whom 
 an atrocious secret has been revealed, who 
 was full of resentment and horror ; whose 
 lips were sealed. 
 
 In my eyes he was the most striking 
 figure that had ever appeared before me. 
 And the situation and my own dreadful ex- 
 citement had elevated him into a hero. 
 
152 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 OUR GUEST. 
 
 fTIHE first thing I heard of the stranger in 
 -^ the morning was that he had sent off 
 early to the proprietor of the " Verney Arms" 
 a messenger with a note for two large boxes 
 which he had left there, when the yacht 
 Foam Bell was at Cardyllion about a fort- 
 night before. The note was signed with the 
 letters R. M. 
 
 The Foam Bell had lain at anchor off the 
 pier of Cardyllion for only two hours, so no 
 one in the town knew much about her. Two 
 or three of her men, with Foam Bell across 
 the breasts of their blue shirts and on the 
 ribbons of their flat glazed hats, had walked 
 
OUR GUEST. 153 
 
 about the quaint town, and drunk their beer 
 at the " George and Garter." But there 
 had not been time to make acquaintance 
 with the townspeople. It was only known 
 that the yacht belonged to Sir Dives Whar- 
 ton, and that the gentleman who left the 
 boxes in charge of the proprietor of the 
 " Yerney Arms," was not that baronet. 
 
 The handwriting was the same as that in 
 the memorandum he had left with the hotel- 
 keeper, and which simply told him that the 
 big black boxes were left to be called or 
 written for by Edward Hathaway, and men- 
 tioned no person whose initials were R. M. 
 So Mr. Hughes, of the "Verney Arms," drove 
 to Malory to see the gentleman at the 
 steward's house, and having there recog- 
 nised him as the very gentleman who left 
 the boxes in his charge, he sent them to 
 him as directed. 
 
 Shortly after, Doctor Mervyn, our old 
 friend, walked up the avenue, and saw me 
 and Laura at the window. 
 
154 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 It was a calm, bright morning ; the storm 
 had done its awful work, and was at rest, 
 and sea and sky looked glad and gentle in 
 the brilliant sun. Already about fifty 
 drowned persons had been carried up and 
 laid upon the turf in the churchyard in 
 rows, with their faces upward. I was glad 
 it was upon the slope that was hid from us. 
 
 How murderous the dancing waves 
 looked in the sunlight ! And the black 
 saw-edged reef I beheld with a start and 
 a shudder. The churchyard, too, had a 
 changed expression. What a spectacle lay 
 behind that familiar grassy curve ! I did 
 not see the incongruous muster of death. 
 Here a Liverpool dandy ; there a white- 
 whiskered City man ; sharp bag-men ; 
 little children — strange companions in the 
 churchyard — hard-handed sailors ; women, 
 too, in silk or serge — no distinction now. 
 
 I and Laura could not walk in that direc- 
 tion till all this direful seeking and finding 
 were over. 
 
OUR GUEST. 155 
 
 The doctor, seeing us at the open win- 
 dow, raised his hat. The Autumn sun 
 through the thin leaves touched his bald 
 head as he walked over to the window- 
 stool, and placing his knee on the bench 
 on which Mr. Carniel used sometimes to 
 sit, he told us all he knew of the ship and 
 the disaster. It w^as a Liverpool steamer 
 called the Conway Castle^ bound for Bristol. 
 One of her paddles was disabled early in 
 the gale, and thus she drove to leeward, 
 and was wrecked. 
 
 *' And now," said the doctor, " I'm going 
 to look in upon the luckiest man in the 
 kingdom, the one human being who escaped 
 alive out of that ship. He must have been 
 either the best or the worst man on board 
 — either too good to be drowned or too 
 bad, by Jove ! He is the gentleman you 
 were so kind as to afford shelter to last 
 night in the steward's house there, round 
 the corner, and he sent for me an hour ago. 
 I daresay he feels queer this morning ; and 
 
156 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 from what Thomas Jones says, I should not 
 be surprised if he had broken a bone some- 
 where. Nothing of any great consequence, 
 of course ; but he must have got a thun- 
 d'ring fling on those rocks. When I've seen 
 him — if I find you here — I'll tell you what 
 I think of him." 
 
 After this promise, you may be sure we 
 did wait where we were, and he kept his 
 word. We were in a fever of curiosity ; my 
 first question was, " Who is he ?" 
 
 " I guessed you'd ask that the first mo- 
 ment you could," said the doctor, a little 
 pettishly. 
 
 "Why?" said I. 
 
 " Because it is the very question I can't 
 answer," he replied. " But I'll tell you all 
 I do know," he continued, taking up his old 
 position at the window, and leaning forward 
 with his head in the room. 
 
 Every word the oracle spoke we devour- 
 ed. I won't tell his story in his language, 
 nor with our interruptions. I will give its 
 
OUR GUEST. 157 
 
 substance, and in part its details, as I re- 
 ceived them. The doctor was at least as 
 curious as we were. 
 
 His patient was up, sitting by the fire, in 
 dressing-gown and slippers, which he had 
 taken with other articles of dress from the 
 box which stood open on the floor. The 
 window-curtain was partly drawn, the room 
 rather dark. He saw the young man with 
 his feet on the fender, seated by the wood 
 fire. His features, as they struck the doc- 
 tor, were handsome and spirited ; he looked 
 ill, with pale cheek and lips, speaking low 
 and smiling. 
 
 ^Tm Doctor Mervyn," said the doctor, 
 making his bow, and eyeing the stranger 
 curiously. 
 
 " Oh ! Thanks, Doctor Mervyn ! I hope 
 it is not a very long way from your house. 
 I am here very ridiculously circumstanced. 
 I should not have had any clothes, if it had 
 not been for a very lucky accident, and 
 for a day or two I shall be totally with- 
 
158 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 out money — a mere Kobinson Crusoe." 
 
 *' Oh, that don't matter ; I shall be very- 
 happy to see after you in the meantime, if 
 there should be anything in my way," an- 
 swered the doctor, bluntly. 
 
 " You are very kind, thanks. This place, 
 they tell me, is called Malory. What Mr. 
 Ware is that to whom it belongs ?" 
 
 " The Honourable Mr. Ware, brother of 
 Lord H . He is travelling on the Con- 
 tinent at present with his wife, a great 
 beauty some fifteen ye^rs since ; and his 
 daughter, his only child, is at present here 
 with her governess." 
 
 '' Oh, I thought some one said he had 
 two ?" 
 
 The doctor re-asserted the fact, and for 
 some seconds the stranger looked on the 
 floor abstractedly. 
 
 " You wished a word or two of advice, 
 i understand ?" interrupted the doctor at 
 length. " You have had a narrow escape, 
 sir — a tremendous escape ! You must have 
 
OUR GUEST. 159 
 
 been awfully shaken. I don't know how 
 you escaped being smashed on those nasty 
 rocks." 
 
 "I am pretty well smashed, I fancy," 
 said the young man. 
 
 " That's just what I wanted to ascertain." 
 
 " From head to foot, I'm covered with 
 bruises," continued' the stranger ; '^ I got off 
 with very few cuts. I have one over my 
 temple, and half-a-dozen here and there, 
 and one here on my wrist ; but you need 
 not take any trouble about them — a cut, 
 when I get one, heals almost of itself A 
 bit of court-plaster is all I require for them, 
 and Mrs. Something, the housekeeper here, 
 has given me some ; but I'm rather seedy. 
 I must have swallowed a lot of salt water, I 
 fancy. I've got off very well, though, if it's 
 true all the other people were drowned. 
 It was a devil of a fluke ; you'd say I was 
 the luckiest fellow alive, ha, ha, ha ! I wish 
 I could think so." 
 
 He laughed, a little bitterly. 
 
160 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 "There are very few men glad to meet 
 death when it comes," said Doctor Mervvn. 
 " Some think they are fit to die, and some 
 know they are not. You know best, sir, 
 what reason you have to be thankful.^' 
 
 "I'm nothing but bruises and aches all 
 over my body. I'm by no means well, and 
 I've lost all my luggage, and papers, and 
 money, since one o'clock yesterday, when I 
 was flourishing. Two or three such reasons 
 for thankfulness would inevitably finish me." 
 
 " All except you were drowned, sir," said 
 the doctor, who was known in Cardyllion as 
 a serious-minded man, a little severely. 
 
 " Like so many rats in a trap, poor 
 devils," acquiesced the stranger. " They 
 were hatched down. I was the only pas- 
 senger on deck. I must have been drowned 
 if I had been among them." 
 
 " All those poor fellow-passengers of 
 yours," said Doctor Mervyn, in disgust, 
 " had souls, sir, to be saved." 
 
 " I suppose so ; but I never saw such an 
 
OUR GUEST. 161 
 
 assemblage of snobs in my life. I really 
 think that, except poor Haworth — he in- 
 sisted it would be ever so much pleasanter 
 than the railway ; I did not find it so ; he's 
 drowned of course — I assure you, except 
 ourselves, there was not a gentleman among 
 them. And Sparks, he's drowned too, and 
 I've lost the best servant I ever had in my 
 life. But I beg your pardon, I'm wasting 
 your time. Do you think I'm ill ?" 
 
 He extended his wrist, languidly, to 
 enable the doctor to feel his pulse. The 
 physician suppressed his rising answer with 
 an effort, and made his examination. 
 
 '' Well, sir, you have had a shock." 
 
 " By Jove ! I should not wonder," ac- 
 quiesced the young man, with a sneer. 
 
 " And you are a good deal upset, and 
 your contusions are more serious than you 
 seem to fancy. I'll make up a liniment 
 here, and I'll send you down something 
 else that will prevent any tendency to fever ; 
 and I suppose you would like to be supplied 
 
 VOL. T. M 
 
162 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 from the ^Verney Arms.' You must not take 
 any wine stronger than claret for the present, 
 and a light dinner, and if you give me 
 a line, or tell me what name " 
 
 " Oh, they know me there, thanks. I 
 got these boxes from there this morning, 
 and they are to send me everything I 
 require." 
 
 The doctor wanted his name. The town 
 of Cardyllion, which was in a ferment, 
 wanted it. Of course he must have the 
 name ; a medical practitioner who kept a 
 ledger and sent out accounts, it w^as part of 
 his business to know his patients' names. 
 How could he stand before the wags of the 
 news-room, if he did not know the name of 
 his own patients^ — of this one, of all others. 
 
 "Oh! put me down as R. M. simply," 
 said the young man. 
 
 " But wouldn't it be more — more usual, 
 if you had no objections — a little more at 
 length ?" insinuated the doctor. 
 
 " Well, yes ; put it down a little more at 
 
OUR GUEST. 163 
 
 length — say R. R. M. Three letters instead 
 of two." 
 
 The doctor, with his head inclined, 
 laughed patiently, and the stranger, seeing 
 him about to return to the attack, said a 
 little petulantly : '' You see, doctor, I'm 
 not going to give my very insignificant name 
 here to any one. If your book-keeper had 
 it, everyone in the town would know it; 
 and Cardyllion is a place at which idle 
 people turn up, and I have no wish to have 
 my stray friends come up to this place to 
 bother me for the two or three days I must 
 stay here. You may suppose me an escaped 
 convict, or anything else you please that will 
 amuse the good people ; but I'm hanged if I 
 give my name, thank you ! " 
 
 After this little interruption, the strictly 
 professional conversation was resumed, and 
 the doctor ended by directing him to stay 
 quiet that day, and not to attempt to walk 
 out until he had seen him again next morn- 
 ing. 
 
 M 2 
 
164 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 The doctor then began to mix the ingre- 
 dients of his liniment. The young man in 
 the silk dressing-gown limped to the window, 
 and leaned his arm upon the sash, looking 
 out, and the doctor observed him, in his 
 ruminations, smiling darkly on the ivy 
 that nodded from the opposite wall, as if he 
 saw a confederate eyeing him from its 
 shadow. 
 
 " He didn't think I was looking at him," 
 said the doctor ; " but I have great faith in 
 a man's smile when he thinks he is all to 
 himself ; and that smile I did not like ; it 
 was, in my mind, enough to damn him." 
 
 All this, when his interview was over, 
 the doctor came round and told us. He 
 was by no means pleased with his patient, 
 and being a religious man, of a quick tem- 
 per, would very likely have declined the 
 office of physician in this particular case, if 
 he had not thought, judging by his "proper- 
 ties," which were in a certain style that 
 impressed Doctor Mervyn, and his air, and 
 
OUR GUEST. 165 
 
 • 
 
 his refined features, and a sort of indescrib- 
 able superiority which both irritated and 
 awed the doctor, that he might be a "swell." 
 He went the length, notwithstanding, 
 of calling him, in his conversation with us, an 
 " inhuman puppy," but he remarked that 
 there were certain duties which no Christian 
 could shirk, among which that of visiting 
 the sick held, of course, in the doctor's 
 mind, due rank. 
 
166 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MEETING IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 T WAS a little shy, as country misses are ; 
 -■- and, curious as I was, rather relieved 
 when I heard that the shipwrecked stranger 
 had been ordered to keep his quarters 
 strictly, for that day at least. So, by-and- 
 by, as Laura Grey had a letter to write, I 
 put on my hat, and not caring to walk 
 towards the town, and not daring to take 
 the Penruthyn Road, I ran out to the 
 garden. The garden of Malory is one of 
 those monastic enclosures whose fruit-trees 
 have long grown into venerable timber ; 
 whose walls are stained by time, and man- 
 tled in some places with ivy ; where every- 
 
MEETING IN THE GARDEN. 167 
 
 thing has been allowed, time out of mind, to 
 have its own way ; where walks are grass- 
 grown, and weeds choke the intervals be- 
 tween old standard pear, and cherry, and 
 apple-tree, sand only a little plot of ground 
 is kept in cultivation by a dawdling, de- 
 sultory man, who carries in his daily basket 
 of vegetables to the cook. There w^as a 
 really good Ribston-pippin or two in this 
 untidy, but not unpicturesque garden ; and 
 these trees were, I need scarcely tell you, a 
 favourite resort of ours. 
 
 The gale had nearly stripped the trees of 
 their ruddy honours, and thrifty Thomas 
 Jones had, no doubt, carried the spoil away 
 to store them in the apple-closet. One 
 pippin only dangled still within reach, and I 
 was whacking at this particularly good-looking 
 apple with a long stick, but as yet in vain, 
 when I suddenly perceived that a young 
 man, whom I recognised as the very hero of 
 the shipwreck, was approaching. He walked 
 slowly and a little lame, and was leaning on 
 
168 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 a stick. He was smiling, and, detected in 
 my undignified and rather greedy exercise 
 — I had been jumping from the ground — I 
 was ready to sink into the earth with shame. 
 Perhaps, if I had been endowed with pre- 
 sence of mind, I should have walked away. 
 But I was not, on that occasion at least; 
 and I stood my ground, stick in hand, affect- 
 ing not to see his slow advance. 
 
 It was a soft sunny day. He had come 
 out without a hat ; he had sent to Cardyl- 
 lion to procure one, and had not yet got it, 
 as he afterwards told me, with an apology 
 for seeming to make himself so very much 
 at home. How he introduced himself I 
 forget ; I was embarrassed and disconcerted ; 
 I know that he thanked me very much for 
 my " hospitality," called me his " hostess," 
 smiling, and told me that, although he did 
 not know my father, he yet saw him every- 
 where during the season. Then he talked 
 of the wreck ; he described his own adven- 
 tures very interestingly, and spoke of the 
 
MEETING IN THE GARDEN. 169 
 
 whole thing in terms very different from 
 those reported by Doctor Mervyn, and with 
 a great deal of feeling. He asked me if I 
 had seen anything of it from our house ; 
 and then it became my turn to speak. I 
 very soon got over my shyness ; he was so 
 perfectly well-bred that it was impossible, 
 even for a rustic such as I was, not to feel 
 very soon quite at her ease in his company. 
 So I talked away, becoming more ani- 
 mated ; and he smiled, looking at me, I 
 thought, with a great deal of sympathy, 
 and very much pleased. I thought him 
 very handsome. He had one point of re- 
 semblance to Mr. Carmel. His face was 
 pale, but, unlike his, as dark as a gipsy's. 
 Its tint showed the white of his eyes and his 
 teeth with fierce effect. What was the 
 character of the face I saw now? Very 
 different from the death-like phantom that 
 had crossed my sight the night before. It 
 was a face of passion and daring. A broad, 
 low forehead, and resolute mouth, with that 
 
170 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 pronounced under-jaw which indicates 
 sternness and decision. I contrasted him 
 secretly with Mr. Carmel. But in his finely- 
 cut features, and dark, fierce eyes, the 
 ascetic and. noble interest of the sadder face 
 was wanting ; but there was, for so young a 
 person as I, a different and a more powerful 
 fascination in the beauty of this young man 
 of the world. 
 
 Before we parted I allowed him to knock 
 down the apple I had been trying at, and 
 this rustic service improved our acquaintance. 
 
 I began to think, however, that our inter- 
 view had lasted quite long enough ; so I took 
 my leave, and I am certain he would have 
 accompanied me to the house, had I not 
 taken advantage of his lameness, and walked 
 away very quickly. 
 
 As I let myself out at the garden-door, in 
 turning I was able, unsuspected, to steal a 
 parting look, and I saw him watching me 
 intently as he leaned against the stem of a 
 gigantic old pear-tree. It was rather plea- 
 
MEETING IN THE GARDEN. 171 
 
 sant to my vanity to think that I had made 
 a favourable impression upon the interesting 
 stranger. 
 
 Next day our guest met me again, near 
 the gate of the avenue, as I was returning 
 to the house. 
 
 ** I had a call this morning from your 
 clergyman," he said. " He seems a very 
 kind old gentleman, the rector of Cardyl- 
 lion ; and the day is so beautiful, he pro- 
 posed a sail upon the estuary, and if you 
 were satisfied with him, by way of escort, 
 and my steering — I'm an old sailor — I'm 
 sure you'd find it just the day to enjoy a 
 little boating." 
 
 He looked at me, smiling eagerly. 
 
 Laura Grey and I had agreed that no- 
 thing would tempt us to go upon the water, 
 until all risk of lighting upon one of those 
 horrible discoveries from the wreck, that 
 were now beginning to come to the surface 
 from hour to hour, was quite over. So I 
 made our excuses as best I could, and told 
 
172 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 him that since the storm we had a horror of 
 saiUng. He looked vexed and gloomy. He 
 walked beside me. 
 
 '^ Oh ! I understand — Miss Grey ? I was 
 not aware— I ought, of course, to have in- 
 cluded her. Perhaps your friend would 
 change her mind and induce you to recon- 
 sider your decision. It is such a charming 
 day." 
 
 I thanked him again, but our going was 
 quite out of the question. He smiled and 
 bowed a little, but looked very much cha- 
 grined. I fancied that he thought I meant 
 to snub him, for proposing any such thing 
 on so very slight an acquaintance. I daresay 
 if I had I should have been quite right ; but 
 you must remember how young I was, and 
 how unlearned in the world's ways. No- 
 thing, in fact, was further from my inten- 
 tion. To soften matters a little, I said : 
 
 "I am very sorry we can't go. We 
 should have liked it, I am sure, so much ; 
 but it is quite impossible." 
 
MEETING IN THE GARDEN. 173 
 
 He walked all the way to the hall-door 
 with me ; and then he asked if I did not in- 
 tend continuing my walk a little. I bid him 
 good-bye, however, and went in, very full 
 of the agreeable idea that I had made a 
 conquest. 
 
 Laura Grey and I, walking to Cardyllion 
 later, met Doctor Mervyn, who stopped to 
 tell us that he had just seen his Malory 
 patient, " R. R. M.," steering Williams's 
 boat, with the old vicar on board. 
 
 " By Jove ! one would have fancied he 
 had got enough of the water for some time 
 to come," remarked the doctor, in conclu- 
 sion. " That is the most restless creature I 
 ever encountered in all my professional ex- 
 perience ! If he had kept himself quiet 
 yesterday and to-day, he'd have been pretty 
 nearly right by to-morrow ; but if he goes on 
 like this I should not wonder if he worked 
 himself into a fever." 
 
174 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE INTRUDER. 
 
 NEXT morning, at about nine o'clock, 
 whom do I see but the restless 
 stranger, to my surprise, again upon the 
 avenue as I return towards the house. I had 
 run down to the gate before breakfast to 
 meet our messenger, and learn whether any 
 letters had come by the post. He, like my- 
 self, has come out before his breakfast. He 
 turns on meeting me, and walks towards the 
 house at my side. Never was man more 
 persistent. He had got Williams's boat 
 again, and not only the vicar, but the vicar's 
 wife, was coming for a sail ; surely I would 
 venture with her? I was to remember, 
 
THE INTKUDER. 175 
 
 besides, that they were to sail to the side of 
 the estuary furthest from the wreck ; there 
 could be no possible danger there of what I 
 feared — and thus he continued to argue and 
 entreat. 
 
 I really wished to go. I said, however, 
 that I must ask Miss Grey, whom, upon 
 some excuse which I now forget, he regret- 
 ted very much he could not invite to come 
 also. I had given him a conditional pro- 
 mise by the time we parted at the hall-door, 
 and Laura saw no objection to my keeping 
 it, provided old Mrs. Jermyn, the vicar's 
 wife, were there to chaperon me. We were 
 to embark from the Malory jetty, and she 
 was to call for me at about three o'clock. 
 
 The shipwrecked stranger left me, evi- 
 dently very well pleased. When he got 
 into his quarters in the steward's house and 
 found himself alone, I dare say his dark face 
 gleamed with the smile of which Doctor 
 Mervyn had formed so ill an opinion. I 
 had .not yet seen that smile. Heaven help 
 
176 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 me ! I have had reason to remember it. 
 
 Laura and I were sitting together, when 
 who should enter the room but Mr. Carmel. 
 I stood up and shook hands. I felt very 
 strangely. I was glad the room was a dark 
 one. I was less observed, and therefore 
 less embarrassed. 
 
 It was not till he had been in the room 
 some time that I observed how agitated he 
 looked. He seemed also very much deject- 
 ed, and from time to time sighed heavily. 
 I saw that something had gone strangely 
 wrong. It was a vague suspense. I waa 
 secretly very much frightened. 
 
 He would not sit down. He said he had 
 not a moment to stay ; and yet he lingered 
 on, I fancied, debating something within 
 himself He was distrait, and, I thought, 
 irresolute. 
 
 After a little talk he said, 
 
 " I came just to look in on my old quar- 
 ters and see my old friends for a few 
 minutes, and then I must disappear again for 
 
THE INTRUDER. 177 
 
 more than a month, and I find a gentleman 
 in possession." 
 
 We hastened to assure him that we had 
 not expected him home for some time, and 
 that the stranger was admitted but for a few 
 days. We told him, each contributing 
 something to the narrative, all at)out the ship- 
 wreck, and the reception of the forlorn sur- 
 vivor in the steward's house. 
 
 He listened without a word of comment, 
 almost without breathing, and with his eyes 
 fixed in deep attention on the floor. 
 
 " Has he made your acquaintance ?" he 
 asked, raising them to me. 
 
 " He introduced himself to me," I answer- 
 ed, ''but Miss Grey has not seen him." 
 
 Something seemed to weigh heavily upon 
 his mind. 
 
 '' What is your father's present address ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 I told him, and he made a note of it in 
 his pocket-book. He stood up now, and did 
 at length take his leave. 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 "I am going to ask you to do a very 
 kind thing. You have heard of sealed 
 orders, not to be opened till a certain point 
 has been reached in a voyage or a march ? 
 Will you promise, until I shall have left you 
 fully five minutes, not to open this letter ?" 
 
 I almost thought he was jesting, but I 
 perceived very quickly that he was perfectly 
 serious. Laura Grey looked at him curious- 
 ly, and gave him the desired promise as she 
 received the note. His carriage was at the 
 door, and in another minute he was driving 
 rapidly down the avenue. What had led 
 to these odd precautions? — and what had 
 they to do with the shipwrecked stranger ? 
 
 At about eleven o'clock — that is to say, 
 about ten minutes before Mr. C arm el's visit 
 to us — the stranger had been lying on a sofa 
 in his quarters, with two ancient and bat- 
 tered novels from Austin's Library in Car- 
 dyllion, when the door opened unceremo- 
 niously, and Mr. Carmel, in travelling cos- 
 tume, stepped into the room. The hall-door 
 
THE INTRUDEE. 179 
 
 was standing open, and Mr. Carmel, on 
 alighting from his conveyance, had walked 
 straight in without encountering anyone in 
 the hall. On seeing an intruder in posses- 
 sion he stopped short ; the gentleman on the 
 sofa, interrupted, turned towards the door. 
 Thus confronted, each stared at the other. 
 
 " Ha ! Marston," exclaimed the ecclesi- 
 astic, with a startled frown, and an almost 
 incredulous stare. 
 
 "Edwyn! by Jove!" responded the 
 stranger, with a rather anxious smile, which 
 faded, however, in a moment. 
 
 " What on earth brings you here ?" said 
 Mr. Carmel, sternly, after a silence of some 
 seconds. 
 
 " What the devil brings you here ?" in- 
 quired the stranger, almost at the same 
 moment. " Who sent you ? What is the 
 meaning of it ?" 
 
 Mr. Carmel did not approach him. He 
 stood where he had first seen him, and his 
 looks darkened, 
 
 N 2 
 
180 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 '^You are the last man living I should 
 have looked for here," said he. 
 
 '^ I suppose we shall find out what we 
 mean by-and-by," said Marston, cynically ; 
 " at present I can only tell you that when I 
 saw you I honestly thought a certain old 
 gentleman, I don't mean the devil, had sent 
 you in search of me." 
 
 Carmel looked hard at him. " I've grown 
 a very dull man since I last saw you, and I 
 don't understand a joke as well as I once 
 did," said he ; " but if you are serious you 
 cannot have learnt that this house has been 
 lent to rae by Mr. Ware, its owner, for some 
 months at least ; and these, I suppose, are 
 your things ? There is not room to put you 
 up here." 
 
 " I didn't want to come. I am the famous 
 man you may have read of in the papers — 
 quite unique — the man who escaped alive 
 from the Conway Castle, No Christian 
 refuses shelter to the shipwrecked ; and you 
 are a Christian, though an odd one." 
 
THE INTRUDER. 181 
 
 Edwyn Carrael looked at him for some 
 seconds in silence. 
 
 " I am still puzzled," he said. " I don't 
 know whether you are serious ; but, in any 
 case, there's a good hotel in the town — you 
 can go there." 
 
 ^' Thank you — without a shilling," laughed 
 the young man, a little wickedly. 
 
 " A word from me will secure you credit 
 there." 
 
 *' But I'm in the doctor's hands, don't you 
 see ?" 
 
 '• It is nothing very bad," answered Mr. 
 Carmel ; " and you will be nearer the doc- 
 tor there." 
 
 The stranger, sitting up straight, re- 
 plied, 
 
 " I suppose I shall ; but the doctor likes 
 a walk, and I don't wish him a bit nearer." 
 
 " But this is, for the time being, my house, 
 and you must go," replied Edwj^n Carmel, 
 coldly and firmly. 
 
 " It is also my house, for the time being ; 
 
182 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 for Miss Ware has given me leave to stay 
 here." 
 
 The ecclesiastics lips trembled, and his 
 pale face grew paler, as he stared on the 
 young man for a second or two in silence. 
 
 " Marston," he said, " I don't know, of 
 all men, why you should specially desire to 
 pain me." 
 
 " Why, hang it I Why should I wish to 
 pain you, Edwyn ? I don't. But I have 
 no notion of this sort of hectoring. The 
 idea of your turning me out of the — my 
 house — the house they have lent me I I 
 told you I didn't want to come here ; and 
 now I don't want to go away, and I won't." 
 
 The churchman looked at him, as if he 
 strove to read his inmost thoughts. 
 
 " You know that your going to the hotel 
 could involve no imaginable trouble," urged 
 Edwyn Carmel. 
 
 " Go to the hotel yourself, if you think it 
 so desirable a place. I am satisfied with 
 this, and I shall stay here." 
 
THE INTRUDER. * 183 
 
 " What can be the motive of your ob- 
 stinacy ?" 
 
 "Ask that question of yourself, Mr. Car- 
 mel, and you may possibly obtain an answer," 
 replied the stranger. 
 
 The priest looked again at him, in stern 
 doubt. 
 
 " I don't understand your meaning," he 
 said, at last. 
 
 " I thought my meaning pretty plain. I 
 mean that I rather think our motives are 
 identical." 
 
 " Honestly, Marston, I don't understand 
 you," said Mr. Carmel, after another pause. 
 
 " Well, it is simply this : that I think Miss 
 Ware a very interesting young lady, and I 
 like being near her — don't you ?" 
 
 The ecclesiastic flushed crimson ; Marston 
 laughed contemptuously. 
 
 ** I have been away for more than a 
 month," said the priest, a little paler, look- 
 ing up angrily; "and I leave this to-day for 
 as long a time again." 
 
184 • WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 . " Conscious weakness ! Weakness of 
 that sentimental kind sometimes runs in 
 families," said the stranger, with a sneer. 
 It was plain that the stranger was very 
 angry ; the taunt was wicked, and, w^hatever 
 it meant, stung Mr. Carmel visibly. He 
 trembled, with a momentary quiver, as if a 
 nerve had been pierced. 
 
 There was a silence, during which Mr. 
 Carmel's little French clock over the chim- 
 ney-piece, punctually wound every week by 
 old Rebecca, might be heard sharply tick, 
 tick, ticking. 
 
 *' I shall not be deterred by your cruel 
 tongue," said he, very quietly, at length, with 
 something like a sob, " from doing my duty." 
 
 "Your duty! Of course, it is always 
 duty ; jealousy is quite unknown to a man 
 in holy orders. But there is a difference. 
 You can't tell me the least what I'm thinking 
 of; you always suppose the worst of every 
 one. Your duty ! And what, pray, is your 
 duty?" 
 
THE INTRUDER. 185 
 
 " To warn Miss Ware and her governess," 
 he answered promptly. 
 
 "Warn her of what?" said the stranger, 
 sternly. 
 
 " Warn her that a villain has got into this 
 house." 
 
 The interesting guest sprang to his feet, 
 with his fists clenched. But he did not 
 strike. He hesitated, and then he said, 
 
 " Look here ; I'll not treat you as I 
 would a man. You wish me to strike 
 you, you Jesuit, and to get myself into 
 hot water. But I shan't make a fool of 
 myself I tell you what I'll do with you — 
 if you dare to injure me in the opinion of 
 any living creature, by one word, of spoken 
 or hinted slander, I'll make it a police- 
 office affair ; and I'll bring out the whole 
 story you found it on ; and we'll see which 
 suffers most, you or I, when the world hears 
 it. And now, Mr. Carmel, you're warned. 
 And you know I'm a fellow that means what 
 he says." 
 
186 WILLING TO DIE. , 
 
 Mr. Carmel turned with a pale face, and 
 left the room. 
 
 I wonder what the stranc^er thought. I 
 have often pondered over that scene ; and, 
 I believe, he really thought that Mr. Carmel 
 would not, on reflection, venture to carry 
 out his threat. 
 
187 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A WARNING. 
 
 TTTE had heard nothing of Mr. Carmers 
 T * arrival. He had not passed our 
 windows, but drove up instead by the back 
 avenue ; and now he was gone, and there 
 remained no record of his visit but the letter 
 which Laura held in her fingers, while we 
 both examined it on all sides, and turned it 
 over. It was directed, " To Miss Ware and 
 Miss Grey. Malory." And when we open- 
 ed it we read these words ; 
 
 *'Dear Young Ladies, — I know a great 
 deal of the gentleman who has been per- 
 mitted to take up his residence in the house 
 adjoining Malory, It is enough for me to 
 
188 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 assure you that no acquaintance could be 
 much more objectionable and unsafe, especi- 
 ally for young ladies living alone as you do. 
 You cannot, therefore, exercise too much 
 caution in repelling any advances he may 
 make. 
 
 '^ Your true friend, 
 
 " E. Carmel." 
 
 The shock of reading these few words 
 prevented my speaking for some seconds. 
 I had perfect confidence in Mr. Carrael's 
 warning. I was very much frightened. And 
 the vagueness of his language made it the 
 more alarming. The same thoughts struck 
 us both. What fools we were ! How 
 is he to be got out of the house ? Whom 
 have we to advise with? What is to be 
 done? 
 
 In our first panic we fancied that we had 
 got a burglar or an assassin under our roof. 
 Mr. Carmel's letter, however, on considera- 
 tion, did not bear out quite so violent a 
 
A WARNING. 189 
 
 conclusion. We resolved, of course, to act 
 upon that letter ; and I blamed myself too 
 late for having permitted the stranger to 
 make, even in so slight a v^ay, my acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 In great trepidation, I despatched a note 
 to Mrs. Jermyn, to say I could not join her 
 boating party. To the stranger I could send 
 neither note nor message. It did not matter. 
 He would, of course, meet that lady at the 
 jetty, and there learn my resolve. Two 
 o'clock arrived. Old Rebecca came in, 
 and told us that the gentleman in the 
 steward's house had asked her whether Mr. 
 Carmel was gone ; and on learning that he 
 had actually driven away, hardly waited till 
 she was out of the room " to burst out 
 a-laughing," and talking to himself, and 
 laughing like mad. 
 
 " And I don't think, with his laughing and 
 cursing, he's like a man should be that fears 
 God, and is only a day or two out of the 
 jaws of death !" 
 
190 VflLLING TO DIE. 
 
 This description increased our nervousness. 
 Possibly this person was a lunatic, whose 
 keeper had been drowned in the Conway 
 Castle, There was no solution of the riddle 
 which Mr. Carmel' had left us to read, how- 
 ever preposterous, that we did not try ; none 
 possible, that was not alarming. 
 
 About an hour after, passing through the 
 hall, I saw some one, I thought, standing 
 outside, near the window that commands 
 the steps beside the door. This window 
 has a wire-blind, through which, from out- 
 side, it is impossible to see. From within, 
 however, looking towards the light, you 
 can see perfectly. I scarcely thought our 
 now distrusted guest would presume to 
 approach our door so nearly ; but there he 
 was. He had mounted the steps, I suppose, 
 with the intention of knocking, but he was, 
 instead, looking stealthily from behind the 
 great elm that grows close beside ; his 
 hand was leaning upon its trunk, and his 
 whole attention absorbed in watching some 
 
A WARNING. 191 
 
 object, which, judging from the direction of 
 his gaze, must have been moving upon the 
 avenue. I could not take my eyes oiF him. 
 He was frowning, with compressed lips 
 and eyes dilated ; his attitude betokened 
 caution, and as I looked he smiled darkly. 
 
 I recovered my self-possession. I took, 
 directly. Doctor Mervyn's view of that very 
 peculiar smile. I was suddenly frightened. 
 There was nothing to prevent the formida- 
 ble stranger from turning the handle of the 
 door and letting himself into the hall. Two 
 or three light steps brought me to the door, 
 and I instantly bolted it. Then drawing 
 back a little into the hall, I looked again 
 through the window, but the intending 
 visitor was gone. 
 
 Who had occupied his gaze the moment 
 before? And what had determined his 
 retreat ? It flashed upon me suddenly 
 again that he might be one of those per- 
 sons who are described as ^'beins: known 
 to the police, " and that Mr. Carmel 
 
192 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 had possibly sent constables to arrest him. 
 
 I waited breathlessly at the window, to 
 see what would come of it. In a minute 
 more, from the direction in which I had 
 been looking for a party of burly policemen, 
 there arrived only my fragile friend, Laura 
 Grey, who had walked down the road to 
 see whether Mr. and Mrs. Jermyn were 
 coming. 
 
 Encouraged by this reinforcement, I in- 
 stantly opened the hall-door, and looked 
 boldly out. The enemy had completely 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Did you see him?" I exclaimed. 
 
 " See whom ?" she asked. 
 
 '' Come in quickly," I answered. And 
 when I had shut the hall-door, and again 
 bolted it, I continued, " The man in the 
 steward's house. He was on the steps this 
 moment." 
 
 " No, I did not see him ; but I was not 
 looking towards the hall-door. I was look- 
 ing up at the trees, counting the broken 
 
A WARNING. 193 
 
 boughs — there are thirteen trees injured on 
 the right side, as you come up." 
 
 *^ Well, I vote we keep the door bolted ; 
 he shan't come in here," said I. " This is 
 the second siege you and I have stood to- 
 gether in this house. I do wish Mr. Car- 
 mel had been a little more communicative, 
 but I scarcely think he would have been so 
 unfriendly as to leave us quite to ourselves 
 if he had thought him a highwayman, and 
 certainly, if he is one, he is a very gentle- 
 man-like robber." 
 
 " I think he can merely have meant, as 
 he says, to warn us against making his 
 acquaintance," said Miss Grey ; " his letter 
 says only that." 
 
 " I wish Mr. Carmel would stay about 
 home," I said, " or else that the steward's 
 house were locked up." 
 
 I suppose all went right about the boating 
 party, and that Mrs. Jermyn got my note in 
 good time. 
 
 No one called at Malory; the dubious 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 stranger did not invade our steps again. 
 We had constant intelligence of his move- 
 ments from Rebecca Torkill ; and there was 
 nothing eccentric or suspicious about them, 
 so far as we could learn. 
 
 Another evening passed, and another 
 morning came ; no letter by the post, Re- 
 becca hastened to tell us, for our involuntary 
 guest; a certain sign, she conjectured, that 
 we were to have him for another day. Till 
 money arrived he could not, it was plain, 
 resume his journey. 
 
 Doctor Mervyn told us, with his custom- 
 ary accuracy and plenitude of information 
 respecting other people's affairs, when he 
 looked in upon us, after his visit to his 
 patient, that he had posted a letter the 
 morning after his arrival, addressed to 
 Lemuel Blount, Esquire, 5, Brunton Street, 
 Regent's Park ; and that on reference to the 
 London Directory, in the news-room, it 
 was duly ascertained by the subscribers 
 that " Blount, Lemuel," was simply entered 
 
A WAENING. 195 
 
 as " Esquire," without any further clue 
 whatsoever to guide an active-minded and 
 inquiring community to a conclusion. So 
 there, for the present, Doctor Mervyn's 
 story ended. 
 
 Our panic by this time was very much 
 allayed. The unobtrusive conduct of the 
 unknown, ever since his momentary approach 
 to our side of the house, had greatly contri- 
 buted to this. I could not submit to a 
 blockade of any duration ; so we took heart 
 of grace, and ventured to drive in the little 
 carriage to Cardyllion, where we had some 
 shopping to do. 
 
 o2 
 
196 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 DOUBTS. 
 
 T HAVE been searching all this morn- 
 -*- ing in vain for a sheet of written 
 note paper, almost grown yellow by time 
 when I last saw it. It contains three stan- 
 zas of very pretty poetry. At least I once 
 thought so. I was carious to try, after so 
 many years, what I should think of them 
 now. Possibly they were not even original, 
 though there certainly was no lack in the 
 writer of that sort of cleverness which pro- 
 duces pretty verses. 
 
 I must tell you how I came by them. I 
 found that afternoon a note, on the window- 
 stoolin our tea-room, addressed "Miss Ethel." 
 
DOUBTS. 197 
 
 Laura Grey did not happen to be in the 
 room at the moment. There might have 
 been some debate on the propriety of open- 
 ing the note if she had been present. I could 
 have no doubt that it came from our guest, 
 and I opened and read it instantly. 
 
 In our few interviews I had discovered, once 
 or twice, a scarcely disguised tenderness in 
 the stranger's tones and looks. A very young 
 girl is always pleased, though ever so secret- 
 ly, with this sort of incense. I know I was. 
 It is a thing hard to give up ; and, after all, 
 what was Mr. Carmel likely to know about 
 this young man ? — and if he did not know 
 him, what were the canons of criticism he 
 was likely to apply ? And whatever the 
 stranger might be, he talked and looked 
 like a gentleman ; he was unfortunate, and 
 for the present dependent, I romantically 
 thought, on our kindness. To have receiv- 
 ed a copy of verses was very pleasant to my 
 girlish self-importance ; and the flattery of 
 the lines themselves was charming. 
 
198 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 The first shock of Mr. Carmers warning 
 had evaporated by this time ; and I was 
 already beginning to explain away his note. 
 I hid the paper carefully. I loved Laura 
 Grey ; but I had, in my inmost soul, a secret 
 awe of her ; I knew how peremptory would 
 be her advice, and I said not a word about 
 the verses to her. At the first distant ap- 
 proach of an affair of the heart, how cautious 
 and reserved we grow, and in most girls how 
 suddenly the change from kittens to cats sets 
 in ! It was plain he had no notion of shifting 
 his quarters to the hotel. But a little before 
 our early tea-hour, Rebecca Torkill came in 
 and told us what might well account for his 
 not having yet gone to Cardyllion. 
 
 " That poor young man," she said, " he's 
 very bad. He's lying on his back, with a 
 handkercher full of eau-de-Cologne on his 
 forehead, and he's sent down to the town 
 for chloroform, and a blister for the back of 
 his neck. He called me in, and indeed, 
 though his talk and his behaviour might well 
 
DOUBTS. 19D 
 
 be improved, considering how near he has 
 just bin to death, yet I could not but pity 
 him. Says he, 'Mrs. Torkill, for heaven's 
 sake don't shake the floor, step as light as 
 you can, and close the shutter next the sun,' 
 which I did ; and says he, ' I'm in a bad 
 way ; I may die before morning. My doc- 
 tor in town tells me these headaches are 
 very dangerous. They come from the 
 spine.' ' Won't you see Doctor Mervyn, 
 please, sir?' say I. 'Not I,' says he. 'I 
 know all about it better than he ' — them 
 w^ere his words — ' and if the things that's 
 coming don't set me to rights, I'm a gone 
 man.' And indeed he groaned as he might 
 at parting of soul and body — and here's a 
 nice kettle o' fish, if he should die here, 
 poor, foolish young man, and we not know- 
 ing so much as where his people lives, nor 
 even his name. 'Tis a mysterious thing o' 
 Providence to do. I can't see how 'twas 
 worth while saving him from drowning, 
 only to bring him here to die of that head- 
 
200 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 ache. But all works together, we know. 
 Thomas Jones is away down at the ferry ; a 
 nice thing, among a parcel o' women, a 
 strange gentleman dying on a sofa, and not 
 a man in the house ! What do you think is 
 best to be done. Miss Grey ?" 
 
 " If he grows worse, I think you should 
 send for the doctor without asking his leave," 
 she answered. " If it is dangerous, it would 
 not do to have no advice. It is very un- 
 lucky." 
 
 " Well, it is what I was thinking myself," 
 said the housekeeper ; " folks would be talk- 
 ing, as if we let him die without help. I'll 
 keep the boiler full in case he should want 
 a bath. He said his skull was fractured 
 once, where that mark is, near his temple, 
 and that the wound has something to do 
 with it, and by evil chance, it was just there 
 he got the knock in the wreck of the Con- 
 way Castle ; the Lord be good to us all ! " 
 
 So Mrs. Torkill fussed out of the room, 
 leaving us rather uncomfortable ; but Laura 
 
DOUBTS. 201 
 
 Grey, at least, was not sorry, although she 
 did not like the cause, that there was no 
 reason to apprehend his venturing out that 
 evening. 
 
 Our early tea-things came in. A glowing 
 Autumn sunset was declining ; the birds 
 were singing their farewell chorus from thick 
 ivy over branch and wall, and Laura and I, 
 each with her own secret, were discussing 
 the chances of the stranger's illness, with 
 exaggerated despondency and alarm. Our 
 talk was interrupted. Through the win- 
 dow, which, the evening being warm, we, 
 secure from intrusion, had left open, we 
 heard a clear manly voice address us as 
 " Miss Ethel and Miss Grey." 
 
 Could it be Mr. Carmel come back 
 again ? Good Heavens ! no ; it was the 
 stranger in Mr. Carmel's place, as we had 
 grown to call it. The same window, his 
 hands, it seemed, resting on the very same 
 spot on the window-stone, and his knee, 
 just as Mr. Carmel used to place his, on the 
 
202 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Stone bench. I had no idea before how stern 
 the stranger's face was; the contrast between 
 the features I had for a moment expected, 
 and those of our guest, revealed the charac- 
 ter of his with a force assisted by the misty 
 red beam that glanced on it, with a fierce 
 melancholy, through the trees. 
 
 His appearance was as unexpected as if 
 he had been a ghost. It came in the midst 
 of a discussion as to what should be done if, 
 by ill chance, he should die in the steward's 
 house. I can't say how Laura Grey felt ; I 
 only know that I stared at his smiling face 
 for some seconds, scarcely knowing whether 
 the apparition was a reality or not. 
 
 " I hope you will forgive me ; I hope I 
 am not very impertinent ; but I have just got 
 up from an astounding headache all right 
 again ; and, in consequence, in such spirits, 
 that I never thought how audacious I was 
 in venturing this little visit until it was too 
 late.'' 
 
DOUBTS. 203 
 
 Miss Grey and I were both too much 
 confounded to say a word. But he rattled 
 on : "I have had a visitor since you were so 
 good as to give me shelter in my ship- 
 wrecked state — one quite unexpected. I 
 don't mean my doctor, of course. I had a 
 call to-day much more curious, and wholly 
 unlooked for ; an old acquaintance, a fellow ' 
 named Carmel. I knew him at Oxford, 
 and I certainly never expected to see him 
 again." 
 
 "Oh ! You know Mr. Carmel?" I said, 
 my curiosity overcoming a kind of reluctance 
 to talk. 
 
 " Know him ? I rather think I do," he 
 laughed. " Do you know him ? " 
 
 *' Yes," I answered; "that is, not very 
 well ; there is, of course, a little formality in 
 our acquaintance — more, I mean, than if he 
 were not a clergyman." 
 
 " But do you really know him ? I fancied 
 he was boasting when he said so." The 
 
204 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 gentleman appeared extremely amused. 
 
 " Yes ; we know him pretty well. But 
 why should it be so unlikely a thing our 
 knowing him ?" 
 
 "Oh, I did not say that." He still 
 seemed as much amused as a man can 
 quietly be. "But I certainly had not the 
 least idea I should ever see him again, for 
 he owes me a little money. He owes me 
 money, and a grudge besides. There are 
 some men you cannot know anything about 
 without their hating you — that is, without 
 their being afraid of you, which is the same 
 thing. I unluckily heard something about 
 him — quite accidentally, I give you my 
 honour, for I certainly never had the plea- 
 sure of knowing him intimately. I don't 
 think he would exactly come to me for a 
 character. I had not an idea that he could 
 be the Mr. Carmel who, they told me, had 
 been permitted by Mr. Ware to reside in 
 his house. I was a good deal surprised 
 when I made the discovery. There can't 
 
DOUBTS. 205 
 
 have been, of course, any inquiry. I should 
 not, I assure you, have spoken to Mr. Car- 
 mel had I met him anywhere else ; but I 
 could not help telling him how astonished I 
 was at finding him established here. He 
 begged very hard that I would not make 
 a fuss about it, and said that he w^as going 
 away, and that he would not wait even to 
 take off his hat. So, if that is true, I shan't 
 trouble anyone about him. Mr. Ware would 
 naturally think me very impertinent if I were 
 to interfere." 
 
 He now went on to less uncomfortable 
 subjects, and talked very pleasantly. I 
 could see Laura Grey looking at him as 
 opportunity occurred ; she was a good deal 
 further in the shade than I and he. I fancied 
 I saw him smile to himself, amused at baf- 
 fling her curiosity, and he sat back a little 
 further. 
 
 " I am quite sorry, Miss Ware," he said, 
 " that I am about to be in funds again. My 
 friends by this time must be weaving my 
 
206 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 wings — those wings oftissue-paper that come 
 by the post, and take us anywhere. I'm 
 awfully sorry, for I've fallen in love with 
 this place. I shall never forget it." He 
 said these latter words in a tone so low as 
 to reach me only. I was sitting, as I men- 
 tioned, very much nearer the window than 
 Laura Grev. 
 
 There was in this stranger for me — a 
 country miss, quite inexperienced in the 
 subtle flatteries of voice, manner, looks, 
 which town-bred young ladies accept at 
 their true value — a fascination before which 
 suspicions and alarms melted away. His 
 voice was low and sweet ; he was animated, 
 good-humoured, and playful ; and his fea- 
 tures, though singular, and capable of very 
 grim expression, were handsome. 
 
 He talked to me in the same low tone for 
 a few minutes. Happening to look at Laura 
 Grey, I was struck by the anger expressed 
 in her usually serene and gentle face. I 
 fancied that she was vexed at his directinsr 
 
DOUBTS. 207 
 
 his attentions exclusively to me, and I was 
 rather pleased at my triumph. 
 
 ''Ethel, dear," she said, "don't you 
 think the air a little cold ?" 
 
 " Oh, I so very much hope not," he 
 almost whispered to me. 
 
 " Cold ?" said I. " I think it is so very 
 sultry, on the contrary." 
 
 " If you find it too cold. Miss Grey, per- 
 haps you would do wisely, I think, to sit a 
 little further from the window," said Mr. 
 Marston, considerately. 
 
 " I am not at all afraid for myself," she 
 answered a little pointedly, " but I am un- 
 easy about Miss Ware. I do think, Ethel, 
 you would do wisely to get a little further 
 from that window." 
 
 " But I do assure you I am quite com- 
 fortable," I said, in perfect good faith. 
 
 I saw Mr. Marston glance for a moment 
 with a malicious smile at Laura Grey. To 
 me the significance of that smile was a little 
 puzzling. 
 
208 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " I see you have got a piano there," he 
 said to me, in his low tones, not meant for 
 her ear. " Miss Grey plays, of course ?" 
 
 " Yes ; very well indeed." 
 
 ^' Well, then, would you mind asking her 
 to play something?" 
 
 I had no idea at the time that he wanted 
 simply to find occupation for her, and to fill 
 her ears with her own music, while he talk- 
 ed on with me. 
 
 " Laura, will you play that pretty thing 
 of Beethoven's that you tried last night ?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Don't ask me, Ethel, dear, to-night ; I 
 don't think I could," she answered, T thought 
 a little oddly. 
 
 " Perhaps, if Miss Grey knew," he said, 
 smiling, "that she would oblige a poor 
 shipwrecked stranger extremely, and bind 
 him to do her any service she pleases to 
 impose in return, she might be induced to 
 comply." 
 
 " The more you expect from my playing, 
 
DOUBTS. 209 
 
 the less courage I have to play," she said, 
 in reply to his appeal, which was made, I 
 fancied, in a tone of faint irony that seemed 
 to suggest an oblique meaning ; and her 
 answer, I also fancied, was spoken as if an- 
 swering that hidden meaning. It was very 
 quietly done, but 1 felt the singularity of 
 those tones. 
 
 " And why so ? Do, I entreat — do play." 
 
 " Shouldn't I interrupt your conversation?" 
 she answered. 
 
 " I'll not allow you even that excuse," he 
 said ; " I'll promise (and won't you. Miss 
 Ware ?) to talk whenever we feel inclined. 
 There, now, it's all " settled, isn't it ? Pray 
 begin." 
 
 '■' No, I am not going to play to-night," 
 she said. 
 
 " Who would suppose Miss Grey so reso- 
 lute ; so little a friend to harmony? Well, 
 I suppose we can do nothing ; we can't pre- 
 vail ; we can only regret." 
 
 I looked curiously at Laura, who had 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 risen, and was approaching the window, 
 close to which she took a chair and sat 
 down. 
 
 Mr. Marston was silent. I never saw 
 man look angrier, although he smiled. To 
 his white tee^h and vivid eyes his dark skin 
 gave marked effect ; and to me, who knew 
 nothing of the situation, the whole affair was 
 most disagreeably perplexing. 1 was curi- 
 ous to see whether there would be any sign 
 of recognition ; but I was sitting at the side 
 that commanded a full view of our guest, 
 and the table so near me that Laura could 
 not have introduced her chair without a very 
 pointed disclosure of her purpose. If Mr. 
 Marston was disposed to snarl and snap at 
 Miss Grey, he very quickly subdued that 
 desire. It would have made a scene, and 
 frightened me, and that would never do. 
 
 In his most good-humoured manner, 
 therefore, which speedily succeeded this 
 silent paroxysm, he chatted on, now and 
 then almost whispering a sentence or two to 
 
DOUBTS. 211 
 
 me. What a contrast this gay, reckless, 
 and, m a disguised way, almost tender talk, 
 presented to the cold, peculiar, but agree- 
 able conversation of the ascetic enthusiast, 
 in whom this dark-faced, animated man of 
 the world had uncomfortably disturbed my 
 faith ! 
 
 Laura Grey was restless all this time, 
 angry, frightened. I fancied she was 
 jealous and wounded ; and although I was 
 so fond of her, it did not altogether displease 
 me. 
 
 The sunlight failed. The reflected glow 
 from the western sky paled into grey, and 
 twilight found our guest still in his place at 
 the window, with his knee on the bench, and 
 his elbows resting on the window-stone, our 
 candles being lighted, chatting, as I thought, 
 quite delightfully, talking sense and nonsense 
 very pleasantly mixed, and hinting a great 
 many very agreeable flatteries. 
 
 Laura Grey at length took courage, or 
 panic, which often leads in the same direc- 
 
 p2 
 
212 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 tion, and rising, said quietly, but a little 
 peremptorily : " I am going now, Ethel." 
 
 There was, of course, nothing for it but 
 to submit. I confess I was angry. But it 
 would certainly not have been dignified to 
 show my resentment in Mr. Marston's pre- 
 sence. I therefore acquiesced with careless 
 good-humour. The stranger bid us a re- 
 luctant good-night, and Laura shut down the 
 window, and drew the little bolt across the 
 window-sash, with, as it seemed to me, a 
 rather inconsistent parade of suspicion. 
 With this ungracious dismissal he went away 
 in high good-humour, notwithstanding. 
 
 " Why need we leave the drawing-room 
 so very early ?" said I, in a pet. 
 
 " We need not go now, as that man is 
 gone," she said, and quickly closed the 
 window-shutters, and drew the curtains. 
 
 Laura, when she had made these arrange- 
 ments, laid her hand on my shoulder, and 
 looked with great affection and anxiety in 
 my face. 
 
DOUBTS. 213 
 
 " You are vexed, darling, because 1 got 
 rid of that person." 
 
 "No," said I; "but I'm vexed because 
 you got rid of him rudely." 
 
 " I should have prevented his staying at 
 that window for a sinde minute, if I had 
 been quite sure that he is the person I sup- 
 pose. If he is — oh ! how I wish he were a 
 thousand miles away !" 
 
 "I don't think you would be quite so 
 hard upon him, if he had divided his con- 
 versation a little more equally," I said with 
 the bluntness of vexation. 
 
 Laura hardly smiled. There was a pained, 
 disappointed look in her face, but the kind- 
 est you can imagine. 
 
 "No, Ethel, I did not envy your good 
 fortune. There is no one on earth to whom 
 I should not prefer talking." 
 
 " But who is he ?" I urged. 
 
 " I can't tell you." 
 
 " Surely you can say the name of the 
 person you take him for ?" I insisted. 
 
214 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " I am not certain ; if he be the person 
 he resembles, he took care to place himself 
 so that I could not, or, at least, did not, see 
 him well ; there are two or three people 
 mixed up in a great misfortune, whom I 
 hate to name, or think of. I thought at one 
 time I recognised him ; but afterwards I 
 grew doubtful. I never saw the person I 
 mean more than twice in my life ; but I 
 know very well what he is capable of; his 
 name is Marston ; but I am not at all certain 
 that this is he." 
 
 " You run away with things," I said. 
 " How do you know that Mr. Carmel's ac- 
 count may not be a very unfair one ?" 
 
 " I don't rely on Mr. Carmel's account of 
 Mr. Marston, if t^ is is he. I knew a great 
 deal about him. You must not ask me how 
 that was, or anything more. He is said to 
 be, and I believe it, a bad, selfish, false man. 
 I am terrified when I think of your having 
 made his acquaintance. If he continues 
 
DOUBTS. 215 
 
 here, we must go up to town. I am half 
 distracted. He dare not give us any trouble 
 there." 
 
 " How did he quarrel with Mr. Carmel ?" 
 I asked, full of curiosity. 
 
 " I never heard ; I did not know that he 
 was even acquainted with him ; but I think 
 you may be perfectly certain that every- 
 thing he said about Mr. Carmel is untrue. 
 He knows that Mr. Carmel warned us against 
 making his acquaintance ; and his reason for 
 talking as he does, is simply to discredit 
 him. I dare say he'll take an opportunity 
 of injuring him also. There is not time to 
 hear from Mr. Ware. The only course, if 
 he stays here for more than a day or two, 
 is, as I said, to run up toryour papa's house 
 in town, and stay there till he is gone." 
 
 Again my belief in Mr. Marston was 
 shaken ; and I reviewed my hard thoughts 
 of Mr. Carmel with something like com- 
 punction. The gloom and pallor of Laura's 
 face haunted me. 
 
216 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 LEMUEL BLOUNT. 
 
 "\TEXT morning, at about half-past ten, as 
 -^^ Laura and I sat in our breakfast- 
 room, a hired carriage with two horses, 
 which had evidently been driven at a hard 
 pace, passed our window at a walk. The 
 driver, who was leading his beasts, asked a 
 question of Thomas Jones, who was rolling 
 the gravel on the court-yard before the win- 
 dow; and then he led them round the 
 corner toward the steward's house. The 
 carriage was empty ; but in another minute 
 it was followed up by the person whom we 
 might presume, to have been its occupant. 
 He turned towards our window as he 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 217 
 
 passed, so that we had a full view of this 
 new visitor. 
 
 He was a man who looked past sixty, 
 slow-paced, and very solemn ; he was dress- 
 ed in a clumsy black suit ; his face was 
 large, square, and sallow ; his cheek and 
 chin were smoothly shorn and blue. His 
 hat was low-crowned, and broad in the 
 brim. He had a cotton umbrella in his 
 big gloved hand, and a coloured pocket- 
 handkerchief sticking out of his pocket. A 
 great bunch of seals hung from his watch- 
 chain under his black waistcoat. He was 
 walking so slowly that we had no difficulty 
 in observing these details ; and he stopped 
 before the hall-door, as if doubtful whether 
 he should enter there. A word, however, 
 from Thomas Jones set him right, and he 
 in turn disappeared round the corner. 
 
 We did not know what to make of this 
 figure, whom we now conjectured to have 
 come in quest of the shipwrecked stranger. 
 
 Thomas Jones ran round before him to 
 
218 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the door of the steward's house, which he 
 opened ; and the new-comer thanked him 
 Avith a particularly kind smile. He knock- 
 ed on chance at the door to the right, and 
 the voice of our unknown guest told him to 
 come in. 
 
 ^' Oh, Mr. Blount !" said the young gen- 
 tleman, rising, hesitating, and then tender- 
 ing his hand very respectfully, and looking in 
 the sensible, vulgar face of the old man as 
 if he were by no means sure how that ten- 
 der might be received. *' I hope, sir, I 
 have not quite lost your friendship. I hope 
 I retain some, were it ever so little, of the 
 goodwill you once bore me. I hope, at 
 least, that you will allow me to say that I 
 am glad to see you ; I feel it." 
 
 The old man, bowed his head, holding 
 it a little on one side while the stranger 
 spoke ; it was the attitude of listening rather 
 than of respect. When the young gen- 
 tleman had done speaking, his visitor raised 
 his head again. The young man smiled 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 219 
 
 faintly, and still extended his hand, looking 
 very pale. Mr. Blount did not smile in 
 answer ; his countenance was very sombre, 
 one might say sad. 
 
 *' 1 never yet, sir, refused the hand of any 
 man living when offered to me in sincerity, 
 especially that of one in whom I felt, I may 
 say, at one time a warm interest, although 
 he may have given me reason to alter the 
 opinion I then entertained of him." 
 
 Thus speaking, he gravely took the 
 young man's hand, and shook it in a 
 thoughtful, melancholy way, lowering his 
 head again as he had done before. 
 
 '' I don't ask how my uncle feels towards 
 me," said the young man, half inquiringly. 
 
 " You need not," answered the visitor. 
 
 " I am at all events very much obliged 
 to you," said the young man, humbly, 
 " for your friendship, Mr. Blount. There 
 is, I know, but one way of interesting your 
 sympathy, and that is by telhng you frankly 
 how deep and true my repentance is ; how 
 
220 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 I execrate my ingratitude ; how I deplore 
 my weakness and criminality." He paused, 
 looking earnestly at the old man, who, how- 
 ever, simply bowed his head again, and 
 made no comment. 
 
 " I can't justify anything I have done ; 
 but in my letter I ventured to say a few 
 words in extenuation," he continued. "I 
 don't expect to soften my uncle's just re- 
 sentment, but I am most anxious, Mr. 
 Blount, my best friend on earth, to recover 
 something, were it ever so little, of the 
 ground I have lost in your opinion." 
 
 "Time, sir, tries all things," answered 
 the new-comer, gently; "if you mean to 
 lead a new life, you will have opportunity 
 to prove it." 
 
 " Was my uncle softened, ever so little, 
 when he heard that the Conway Castle had 
 gone down ?" asked the young man, after 
 a short silence. 
 
 " I was with him at breakfast when the 
 morning paper brought the intelligence," said 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 221 
 
 Mr. Blount. ^' I don't recollect that he ex- 
 pressed any regret." 
 
 '^ I dare say ; I can quite suppose it ; I 
 ought to have known that he was pleased 
 rather." 
 
 " No ; I don't think he was pleased. I 
 rather think he exhibited indifference," an- 
 swered Mr. Blount. 
 
 With some grim remarks I believe the 
 young man's uncle had received the sudden 
 news of his death. 
 
 " Did my uncle see the letter I wrote to 
 you, Mr. Blount ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 '^ You will not think, I hope, that I would 
 for any consideration use a phrase that could 
 wound you unnecessarily when I tell you ?" 
 
 '' Certainly not." 
 
 '• Your letter mentioned that you had lost 
 your papers and money in the ship. Now, 
 if it should turn out that you had, in short, 
 misstated anything " 
 
222 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 '^Told a lie, you mean," interrupted the 
 young man, his face growing white, and his 
 eyes gleaming. 
 
 " It would have been discourteous in me 
 to say so, but such was my meaning," he 
 answered, with a very kind look. " It has 
 been one object with me during my life to 
 reconcile courtesy with truth. I am happy 
 in the belief that I have done so, and I 
 believe during a long life I have never once 
 offended against the laws of politeness. 
 Had vou deceived him so soon as^ain it 
 would have sunk you finally and for ever. 
 I thought it advisable, therefore, to give 3^ou 
 an opportunity of reconsidering the state- 
 ments of your letter before committing you 
 by placing them before him as fact." 
 
 The young man flushed suddenly. It was 
 his misfortune that he could not resent sus- 
 picion, however gross, although he might 
 wince under the insult, all the more that it 
 was just. Rather sulkily he said : 
 
 '' I can only repeat, sir, that I have not 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 223 
 
 a shilling, nor a cheque ; I left every paper 
 and every farthing I possessed in my de- 
 spatch-box, in my berth. Of course, I can't 
 prove it; I can only repeat that every 
 guinea I had in the world has gone to the 
 bottom." 
 
 Mr. Blount raised his head. His square 
 face and massive features confronted the 
 younger man, and his honest brown eyes 
 were fixed upon him with a grave and un- 
 disguised inquiry. 
 
 " I don't say that you have any certainty 
 of recovering a place in your uncle's esteem, 
 but the slightest prevarication in matters of 
 this kind would be simply suicidal. Now, 
 I ask you, sir, on your honour, did no part 
 of your money, or of your papers, go by rail 
 either to Bristol or to London ?" 
 
 " Upon my honour, Mr. Blount, not a 
 farthing. I had only about ten pounds in 
 gold, all the rest was in letters of credit 
 and cheques ; and, bad as I am, I should 
 scarcely be fool enough to practise a trick, 
 
224 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 which, from its nature, must be almost in- 
 stantaneously self-exposed. My uncle could 
 have stopped payment of them ; probably 
 he has done so." 
 
 " I see you understand something of 
 business, sir." 
 
 " I should have understood a great deal 
 more, Mr. Blount, and been a much better 
 man, if I had listened to you long ago. I 
 hope, in future, to be less my own adviser, 
 and more your pupil." 
 
 To this flattering speech the old man 
 listened attentively, but made no answer. 
 
 ^* Your letter followed me to Chester," 
 said Mr. Blount, after an interval. "I re- 
 ceived it last night. He was in London 
 when I saw him last ; and my letter, telling 
 him that you are still living, may not reach 
 him, possibly, for some days. Thus, you 
 see, you would have the start of him, if I 
 may so describe it, without rudeness ; and 
 you are aware he has no confidence in you ; 
 and, certainly, if you will permit me to say 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 225 
 
 SO, he ought not to have any. I have a note 
 of the number of the cheque ; you can write 
 a line saying that you have lost it, and re- 
 questing that payment may be stopped ; and 
 I will enclose it to Messrs. Dignum and 
 Budget." 
 
 " There's pen and ink here ; I'll do it this 
 moment. I thought you had renounced me 
 also ; and I was going to write again to try 
 you once more, before taking to the high 
 road," he said, with dismal jocularity. 
 
 It wrung the pride of the young man 
 sorely to write the note. But the bitter pill 
 was swallowed ; and he handed it, but with 
 signs of suppressed anger, to Mr. Blount. 
 
 "That will answer perfectly," said the 
 man in black. 
 
 " It enables you to stop that cheque by 
 this post, without first seeing my uncle ; and 
 it relieves you," said the young man, with 
 bitter and pitiless irony, "of the folly of 
 acting in the most trifling matter upon my 
 word of honour. It is certainly making the 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 most of the situation. I have made one 
 great slip — a crime, if you like " 
 
 " Quite so, sir," acquiesced Mr. Blount, 
 with melancholy politeness. 
 
 " Under great momentary temptation," 
 continued the young man, " and without an 
 idea of ultimately injuring any human being 
 to the amount of a single farthing. I'm 
 disowned ; anyone that pleases may safely 
 spit in my face. I'm quite aware how I 
 stand in this infernal pharisaical world." 
 
 Mr. Blount looked at him gravely, but 
 made him no answer. The young gentle- 
 man did not want to quarrel with Mr. 
 Blount just then. He could not afford it. 
 
 " I don't mean you, of course," he said ; 
 " you have been always only too much my 
 friend. I am speaking of the world ; you 
 know, quite well, if this unlucky thing takes 
 wind, and my uncle's conduct toward me 
 is the very thing to set people talking and 
 inquiring, I may as well take off my hat to 
 you all, drink your healths in a glass of 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 227 
 
 prussic acid, and try how a trip to some 
 other world agrees with me." 
 
 " You are speaking, of course, sir, in 
 jest," said Mr. Blount, with some disgust in 
 his grave countenance; "but I may mention 
 that the unfortunate occurrence is known 
 but to your uncle and to me, and to no 
 other person on earth. You bear the name 
 of Marston — you'll excuse me for reminding 
 you, sir — and upon that point he is sensitive 
 and imperious. He considered, sir, that 
 your bearing that name, if I may so say, 
 without being supposed guilty of a rudeness, 
 would slur it ; and, therefore, you'll change 
 it, as arranged, on embarking at Southamp- 
 ton. It would be highly inexpedient to annoy 
 your uncle by any inadvertence upon this 
 point. Your contemplating suicide would 
 be — you will pardon the phrase — cowardly 
 and impious. Not, indeed, if I may so say 
 consistently with the rules of politeness," he 
 added, thoughtfully, "that your sudden 
 removal would involve any loss to anybody, 
 
 q2 
 
228 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 except, possibly, some few Jews, and people 
 of that kind." 
 
 " Certainly — of course. You need not 
 Insist upon that. I feel my degradation, I 
 hope, sufficiently. It is not his fault, at 
 least, if I don't." 
 
 " And, from myself, I suggest that he 
 will be incensed, if he learns that you are 
 accepting the hospitality of Mr. Ware's 
 house. I think, sir, that men of the world, 
 especially gentlemen, will regard it, if the 
 phrase be not discourteous, in the light of a 
 shabby act." 
 
 " Shabby, sir ! what do you mean by 
 shabby ?" said Mr. Marston, flaming up. 
 
 ^' I mean, sir — you'll excuse me — paltry ; 
 don't you see? — or mean. His feelings 
 would be strongly excited by your partaking 
 of Mr. Ware's hospitality." 
 
 " Hospitality ! Shelter, you mean ; slates, 
 walls — little more than they give a beast in 
 a pound ! Why, I don't owe them a crust, 
 or a cup of tea. I get everything from the 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 229 
 
 hotel there, at Cardyllion ; and Mr. Ware 
 is a thousand miles away I" 
 
 " I speak of it simply as a question of ex- 
 pediency, sir. He will be inflamed against 
 you, if he hears you have, in ever so small a 
 matter, placed yourself under an obligation 
 to Mr. Ware." 
 
 " But he need not hear of it ; why should 
 you mention it ?" 
 
 '•I cannot practise reserve with a man 
 who treats me with unlimited confidence," 
 he answered, gently. " Why should you 
 not go to the hotel ?" 
 
 '' I have no money." 
 
 ** But you get everything you want there 
 on credit ?" 
 
 "Well, yes, that's true; but it would 
 scarcely do to make that move ; I have been 
 as ill as ever I was in my life since that 
 awful night on the rocks down there. You 
 can have no idea what it was ; and the 
 doctor says I must keep quiet. It isn't 
 worth while moving now ; so soon as I have 
 funds, ril leave this." 
 
230 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " I will lend you what you require, with 
 much pleasure, sir," proffered Mr. Blount. 
 
 "Well, thanks, it is not very much, and 
 it's hard to refuse ; one feels such a fool 
 Avithout a shilling to give to a messenger, 
 or to the servants ; I haven't even a fee for 
 the doctor who has been attending^ me." 
 
 Determined by this pathetic appeal, Mr. 
 Blount took a bank-note of ten pounds from 
 his purse and lent it to Mr. Marston. 
 
 " And, I suppose, you'll remove forth- 
 with to the hotel," he said. 
 
 "The moment I feel equal to it," he re- 
 
 phed. "Why, d it, don't you think 
 
 I'm ready to go, when I'm able ? I — I 
 
 Don't mind me, pray. Your looks reprove 
 me. I'm shocked at myself when I use 
 those phrases. I know very well that I 
 have just escaped by a miracle from death. 
 I feel how utterly unfit I was to die ; and, 
 I assure you, I'm not ungrateful. You 
 shall see that my whole future life will be 
 the better for it. I'm not the graceless 
 
LEMUEL BLOUNT. 231 
 
 wretch I have been. One such hour as 
 preceded my scaling that rock out there is a 
 lesson for a life. You have often spoken to 
 me on the subjects that ought to interest us 
 all. I mean when I was a boy. Your 
 words have returned upon me. You de- 
 rive happiness from the good you do to 
 others. T thought you had cast your bread 
 upon the waters to see it no more ; but you 
 have found it at last. I am very grateful 
 to you." 
 
 Did Mr. Marston believe that good peo- 
 ple are open, in the matter of their apostle- 
 ship, to flattery, as baser mortals are in 
 matters of another sort? It was to be 
 hoped that Mr. Marston felt half what he 
 uttered. His words, however, did produce 
 a favourable and a pleasant impression upon 
 Mr. Blount. His large face beamed for a 
 moment with honest gratification. His eyes 
 looked full upon him, as if the benevolence 
 of his inmost heart spoke out through them. 
 
 " If anything can possibly please him, sir, 
 
232 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 in connexion with you," said Mr. Blount, 
 with all his customary suavity and uncon- 
 scious bluntness, " it will be to learn that 
 recent events have produced a salutary im- 
 pression and a total change in you. Not 
 that I suppose he cares very much ; but I'm 
 glad to have to represent to him anything 
 favourable in this particular case. I mean 
 to return to London direct, and if your uncle 
 is still there you shall hear in a day or two 
 — at all events very soon ; but I wish you 
 were in the hotel." 
 
 " Well, I'll go to the hotel, if they can put 
 me up. I'll go at once ; address to me to 
 the post-office — Richard Marston, I suppose?" 
 
 " Just so, sir, Richard Marston." 
 
 Mr. Blount had risen, and stood gravely, 
 prepared to take his leave. 
 
 " I have kept you a long time, Mr. 
 Blount ; will you take anything ?" 
 
 Mr. Blount declined refreshments. 
 
 " I must leave you now, sir ; there is a 
 crisis in every life. What has happened to you 
 
LEMUEL- BLOUNT. 233 
 
 is stupendous ; the danger and tlie deliver- 
 ance. That hour is past. May its remem- 
 brance be with you ever — day and night 1 
 Do not suppose that it can rest in your mind 
 without positive consequences. It must 
 leave you a great deal better or a great deal 
 worse. Farewell, sir." 
 
 So they parted. Mr. Marston seemed to 
 have lost all his spirits and half his energy 
 in that interview. He sat motionless in the 
 chair into which he had thrown himself, and 
 gazed listlessly on the floor in a sulky 
 reverie. At length he said : 
 
 " That is a most unpleasant old fellow ; I 
 wish he was not so unscrupulously addicted 
 to telling truth." 
 
234 
 
 CHAPTER XVIIL 
 
 IDENTIFIED. 
 
 TT was a gloomy day ; I had left Laura 
 -^ Grey in the room we usually occupied, 
 where she was now alone, busy over some 
 of our accounts, I dare say her thoughts 
 now and then wandered into speculations 
 respecting the identity of the visitor who, 
 the night before, evaded her recognition, if 
 indeed he was recognisable by her at all. 
 Her doubts were now resolved. The room 
 door opened, and the tenant of the steward's 
 house entered coolly, and approached the 
 table where she was sitting. Laura Grey 
 did not rise ; she did not speak ; she sat, pen 
 in hand, staring at him as if she were on the 
 
IDENTIFIED. 235 
 
 point of fainting. The star-shaped scar on 
 his forehead, fixed there bv some old frac- 
 ture, and his stern and energetic features, 
 were now distinctly before her. He kept 
 his eye fixed upon her, and smiled, dubious 
 of his reception. 
 
 " I saw you, Miss Grey, yesterday after- 
 noon, though you did not see me. I avoid- 
 ed your eye then ; but it was idle sup- 
 posing that I could continue even a few days 
 longer in this place without you seeing me. 
 I came last night with my mind made up to 
 reveal myself, but I put it off till we should 
 be to ourselves, as we now are. I saw you 
 half guessed me, but you weren't sure, and 
 I left you in doubt." 
 
 He approached till his hands rested upon 
 the table opposite, and said, with a very 
 stern and eager face : 
 
 " Miss Grey, upon my honour, upon my 
 soul, if I can give you an assurance which 
 can bind a gentleman, I entreat you to be- 
 lieve me. I shan't offer one syllable con- 
 
236 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 trary to what I now feel to be your wishes. 
 I shan't press you, I shan't ask you to hear 
 me upon the one subject you say you object 
 to. You allege that I have done you a 
 wrong. I will spare no pains to redress it. 
 I will do my utmost in any way you please 
 to dictate. I will do all this, I swear by 
 everything a gentleman holds most sacred, 
 upon one very easy condition." 
 
 He paused. He was leaning forward, his 
 dark eyes were fixed upon her with a pierc- 
 ing gaze. She did not, or could not, speak. 
 She was answering his gaze with a stare 
 wilder and darker, but her very lips were 
 white. 
 
 " I know I have stood in your way ; I 
 admit I have injured you, not by accident; 
 it was with the design and wish to injure 
 you, if the endeavour to detach a fellow 
 like that be an injury. You shall forgive 
 me ; the most revengeful woman can forgive 
 a man the extravagances of his jealousy. 
 I am here to renounce all, to retrieve 
 
IDENTIFIED. 237 
 
 everything. I admit the injury ; it shall be 
 repaired." 
 
 She spoke now for the first time, and said, 
 hardly above her breath : 
 
 " It's irreparable. It can't be undone — 
 quite irreparable." 
 
 " When I undertake a thing I do it ; I'll 
 do this at any sacrifice — ye?, at any, of pride 
 or opinion. Suppose I go to the persons in 
 question, and tell them that they have been 
 deceived, and that I deceived them, and 
 now confess the whole thing a tissue of lies ?" 
 
 " You'll never do that." 
 
 " By Heavens, as I stand here, I'll do it ! 
 Do you suppose I care for tlieir opinion in 
 comparison with a real object? I'll do it. 
 I'll write and sign it in your presence ; you 
 shall have it to lock up in that desk, and 
 do what you please with it, upon one con- 
 dition." 
 
 A smile of incredulity lighted Laura 
 Grey's face faintly, as she shook her head. 
 
 '^You don't believe me, but you shall. 
 
238 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Tell me what will satisfy you — what prac- 
 ticable proof will convince you. I'll set you 
 right with them. You believe in a Provi- 
 dence. Do you think I was saved from that 
 wreck for nothing ?" 
 
 Laura Grey looked down upon her desk ; 
 his fierce eyes were fixed on her with in- 
 tense eagerness, for he thought he read in 
 her pale face and her attitude signs of com- 
 pliance. It needed, he fancied, perhaps but 
 a slight impulse to determine her. 
 
 " I'll do it all ; but, as I told you, on one 
 condition." 
 
 There was a silence for a time. He was 
 still watching her intently. 
 
 " Let us both be reasonable," he resumed. 
 " I ought, I now know, to have seen long 
 ago. Miss Grey, that there was no use in my 
 talking to you as I did. I have been mad. 
 There's the whole story; and now I renounce 
 it alL I despair ; it's over. I'll give you the 
 very best proof of that. I shall devote my- 
 self to another, and you shall aid me. Pray, 
 
IDENTIFIED. 239 
 
 not a word, till you have heard me out ; 
 that's the condition. If you accept it, well. 
 If not, so sure as there is life in me, you may 
 regret it." 
 
 '^ There's nothing more you can do I care 
 for now," she broke out with a look of 
 agony. " Oh, Heaven help me !" 
 
 " You'll find there is," he continued, with 
 a quiet laugh. "You can talk as long as 
 you please when your turn comes. Just 
 hear me out. I only want you to have the 
 whole case before you. I say you can help 
 me, and you shall. I'm a very good fellow 
 to work with, and a bitter one to work 
 against. Now, one moment. I have made 
 the acquaintance of a young lady whom I 
 wish to marry. Upon my sacred honour, I 
 have no other intention. She is poor ; her 
 father is over head and ears in debt ; she 
 can never have a guinea more than two 
 thousand pounds. It can't be sordid, you'll 
 allow. There is a Jesuit fellow hanging 
 about this place. He hates mej he has 
 
240 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 been in here telling lies of me. I expect 
 you to prevent my being prejudiced by that 
 slanderer. You can influence the young 
 lady in my favour, and enable me to im- 
 prove our acquaintance. I expect you to do 
 so. These are my conditions. She is Miss 
 Ethel Ware." 
 
 The shock of a disclosure so entirely un- 
 expected, and the sting possibly of wounded 
 vanity, made her reply more spirited than it 
 would have been. She stood up, and said, 
 quietly and coldly : 
 
 " I have neither right nor power in the 
 matter ; and if I had, nothing on earth could 
 induce me to exercise them in your favour. 
 You can write, if you please, to Mr. Ware, 
 for leave to pay your addresses to his 
 daughter. But without his leave you shall 
 not visit here, nor join her in her walks ; 
 and if you attempt to do either, I will re- 
 move Miss Ware, and place her under the 
 care of some one better able than I to pro- 
 tect her. 
 
IDENTIFIED. 241 
 
 The 5^oung man looked at her with a very- 
 pale face. 
 
 '^ I thought you knew me better, Miss 
 Grey," he said, with an angry sneer. " You 
 refuse your chance of reconciliation." 
 
 He paused, as if to allow her time to 
 think better of it. 
 
 " Very well ; I'm glad I've found you 
 out. Don't you think your situation is 
 rather an odd one — a governess in Mr. 
 Ware's country quarters ? We all know 
 pretty w^ell what sort of gentleman Mr. 
 Ware is, a gentleman particularly well 
 qualified by good taste and high spirits to 
 make his house agreeable. He w^as here, I 
 understand, for about a week a little time 
 ago, but his wife does not trouble your soli- 
 tude much ; and now that he is on his 
 travels, he is succeeded by a young friar. I 
 happen to know what sort of person Carmel 
 was, and is. Was ever young lady so for- 
 tunate ? One only wonders that Mr. Ware, 
 under these circumstances, is not a little 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 alarmed for the Protestantism of his gover- 
 ness. I should scarcely have believed that 
 von had found so easilv so desirable a home ; 
 but fate has ordained that I should light 
 upon your retreat, and hear with my own 
 ears the good report of the neighbours, and 
 see with my own eyes how very comfortable 
 and how extremely happy you are." 
 
 He smiled and bowed ironically, and drew 
 towards the door. 
 
 ^' There was nothing to prevent our being 
 on the friendliest terms — nothing." 
 
 He paused, but she made him no answer. 
 
 " No reason on earth why we should not. 
 You could have done me a tery trifling 
 kindness. I could have served you vitally." 
 
 Another pause here. 
 
 ''I can ascribe your folly to nothing but 
 the most insensate malice, I shall take care 
 of myself. You ought to know me. What- 
 ever befalls, you have to thank but your own 
 infatuated obstinacy for it." 
 
 " I have friends still," she cried, in a 
 
IDENTIFIED. 243 
 
 sudden burst of agony. " Your cowardice, 
 your threats and insults, your persecution of 
 a creature quite defenceless and heart- 
 broken, and with no one near to help 
 her " 
 
 Her voice faltered. 
 
 " Find out your friends, if you have got 
 them ; tell them what you please ; and, if 
 it is worth while, I will contradict your 
 story. I'll fight your friends. I'll pit my 
 oath against yours." 
 
 There was no sneer on his features now, 
 no irony in his tones; he was speaking 
 with the bitter vehemence of undisguised 
 fury. 
 
 " I shrink from nothing. Things have 
 happened since to make me more reckless, 
 and by so much the more dangerous. If 
 you knew a little more you would scarcely 
 dare to quarrel with me." He dashed his 
 hand as he spoke upon the table. 
 
 "I am afraid — I'm frightened ; but no- 
 
 r2 
 
244 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 thing on earth shall make me do what you 
 ask." 
 
 " That's enough — that closes it," said he. 
 There was a little pause. " And remember, 
 the consequences I promise are a great deal 
 nearer than you probably dream of." 
 
 With these words, spoken slowly, with 
 studied meaning, he left the room as sud- 
 denly as he had appeared. Laura Grey 
 was trembling. Her thoughts were not 
 very clear. She was shocked, and even 
 terrified. 
 
 The sea, which had swallowed all the 
 rest, had sent up that one wicked man alive. 
 How many good, kind, and useful lives were 
 lost to earth, she thought, in those dreadful 
 moments^ and that one life, barren of all 
 good, profligate and cruel, singled out alone 
 for mercy ! 
 
245 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 PISTOLS FOR TWO. 
 
 T KNEW nothing of all this. I was not 
 -■- to learn what had passed at that inter- 
 view till many years later. Laura Grey, on 
 my return, told me nothing. I am sure she 
 was right. There were some things she 
 could not have explained, and the stranger's 
 apparently insane project of marrying pen- 
 niless me was a secret better in her own 
 keeping than in that of a simple and very 
 self-willed girl. 
 
 When I returned there were signs of de- 
 pression and anxiety in her looks, and her 
 silence and abstraction excited my curiosity. 
 She easily put me oiF, however. I knew 
 
246 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 that her spirits sometimes failed her, although 
 she never talked about her troubles ; and 
 therefore her dejection was, after all, not 
 very remarkable. We heard nothing more 
 of our guest till next day, when Rebecca 
 Torkill told us that he was again suffering 
 from one of his headaches. The intelligence 
 did not excite all the sympathy she seemed 
 to expect. Shortly after sunset we saw him 
 pass the window of our room, and walk by 
 under the trees. 
 
 With an ingrained perversity, the more 
 Laura Grey warned me against this man, the 
 more I became interested in him. She and 
 I were both unusually silent that evening. 
 I think that her thoughts were busy with 
 him ; I know that mine were. 
 
 *' We won't mind opening the window to- 
 night," said Laura. 
 
 "I was just thinking how pleasant it 
 would be. Why should we not open it ?" I 
 answered. 
 
 "Because we should have him here 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 247 
 
 again; and he is not the sort of person 
 your mamma would like you to become ac- 
 quainted with." 
 
 I was a little out of humour, but did not 
 persist. I sat in a sullen silence, my eyes 
 looking dreamily through the window. The 
 early twilight had faded into night by the 
 time the stranger re-appeared. I saw him 
 turn the line of his walk near the window ; 
 and seeing it shut, pause for a moment. I 
 dare say he was more vexed than I. He 
 made up his mind, however, against a scene. 
 He looked on the ground and over his 
 shoulder, again at the window. 
 
 Mr. Marston walked round the corner to 
 the steward's house. The vague shadows 
 and lights of night were abroad by this 
 time. Candles were in his room ; he found 
 Rebecca Torkill there, with a small tankard 
 and a tea-cup on a salver, awaiting his 
 return. 
 
 " La ! sir, to think of you doing such 
 another wild thing, and you, only this 
 
248 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 minute, at death's door with your head ! 
 And how is it now, please, sir ?" 
 
 " A thousand thanks. My head is as well 
 as my hat. My headache goes as it comes, 
 in a moment. What is this ?" 
 
 " Some gruel, please, sir, with sugar, 
 white wine, and nutmeg. I thought you 
 might like it." 
 
 " Caudle, by Jove !" smiled the gentle- 
 man, "isn't it?" 
 
 " Well, it is ; and it's none the worse o' 
 that." 
 
 " All the better," exclaimed Mr. Marston, 
 who chose to be on friendly terms with the 
 old lady. "• How can I thank you ?" 
 
 " It's just the best thing in the world to 
 make you sleep after a headache. You'll 
 take some while it's hot." 
 
 " I can't thank you half enough," he said. 
 
 " I'll come back, sir, and see you by-and- 
 by," and the good woman toddled out, 
 leaving him alone with his gruel. 
 
 " I must not offend her." He poured 
 
PISTOLS FOE TWO. 249 
 
 some out into his cup, tasted it, and laughed 
 quietly. *' Sipping caudle ! Well, this is 
 rather a change for Richard Marston, by 
 Jove I A change every way. Let us make 
 a carouse of it," he said, and threw it out 
 of the window. 
 
 Mr. Marston threw on his loose wrapper, 
 and folded his muffler about his throat, 
 replaced his hat, and with his cane in his 
 fingers, was about to walk down to the 
 town of Cardyllion. A word or two spoken, 
 quite unsuspiciously, by Doctor Mervyn that 
 morning, had touched a sensitive nerve, and 
 awakened a very acute anxiety in Mr. Mar- 
 ston's mind. The result was his intended 
 visit, at the fall of night, to the High-street 
 of the quaint little town. 
 
 He was on the point of setting out, when 
 Rebecca Torkill returned with a sliced 
 lemon on a plate. 
 
 " Some likes a squeeze of a lemon in it," 
 she observed, " and I thought I might as 
 well leave it here." 
 
250 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " It is quite delicious, really," he replied, 
 as Mrs. Torkill peeped, into the open flagon. 
 
 ^* Why," said she, in unfeigned admiration, 
 '' I'm blest if he's left a drop ! Ah ! ah 1 
 Well, it was good ; and I'll have some more 
 for you before you go to bed. But you 
 shouldn't drink it off, all at a pull, like that. 
 You might make yourself ill that way." 
 
 " We men like good liquor so well — so 
 well — we — we — what was I saying ? Oh I 
 yes, we like our liquor so well, we never 
 know when we have had enough. It's a 
 bad excuse ; but let it pass. I'm going 
 out for a little walk, it always sets me up 
 after one of those headaches. Good even- 
 ing, Mrs. Torkill." 
 
 He was thinking plainly of other matters 
 than her, or her caudle ; and, before she 
 had time to reply, he was out of the door. 
 
 It was a sweet, soft night ; the moon was 
 up. The walk from Malory to the town is 
 lonely and pretty. He took the narrow 
 road that approaches Cardyllion in an inland 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 251 
 
 line, parallel to the road that runs by the 
 shore of the estuary. His own echoing 
 footsteps among the moonlit trees was the 
 only sign of life, except the distant barking 
 of a watch-dog, now and then, ttiat was 
 audible. A melancholy wind was piping 
 high in the air, from over the sea; you 
 might fancy it the aerial lamentation of the 
 drowned. 
 
 He was passing the churchyard now, and 
 stopped partly to light a cigar, partly to 
 look at the old church, the effect of which, 
 in the moonlight, was singular. Its gable 
 and towers cast a sharp black shadow across 
 the grass and gravestones, like that of a 
 gigantic hand whose finger pointed towards 
 him. He smiled cynically as the fancy 
 struck him. 
 
 " Another grave there, I should not 
 wonder if the news is true. What an ass 
 that fellow is ! Another grave, I dare say ; 
 and in my present luck, I suppose I shall fill 
 it — fill it ! That's ambiguous ; yes, the more 
 
252 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 like an oracle. That shadow does look 
 curiously like a finger pointing at me I" 
 
 He smoked for a time, leaning on the 
 pier of the iron wicket that from this side 
 admits to the churchyard, and looking in 
 with thoughts very far from edifying. 
 
 " This will be the second disagreeable 
 discovery, without reckoning Carmel, I shall 
 have made since my arrival in this queer 
 corner of the world. Who could have an- 
 ticipated meeting Laura here? — or that whin- 
 ing fool, Carmel ? Who would have fancied 
 that Jennings, of all men, would have turned 
 up in this out-of-the-way nook ? By Jove ! 
 I'm like Saint Paul, hardly out of the ship- 
 wreck when a viper fastens on my hand. 
 Old Sprague made us turn all that into ele- 
 giacs. I wonder whether I could make 
 elegiacs now." 
 
 He loitered slowly on, by the same old 
 road, into Castle-street, the high-street of 
 the quaint little town of steep roofs and 
 many gables. The hall-door of the " Ver- 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 253 
 
 ney Arms " was open, and the light of the 
 lamp glowed softly on the pavement. 
 
 Mr. Marston hated suspense. He would 
 rather make a bad bargain, off-hand, than 
 endure the torture of a long negotiation. 
 He would stride out to meet a catastrophe 
 rather than await its slow, sidelong ap- 
 proaches. This intolerance of uncertainty 
 made him often sudden in action. He had 
 come down to the town simply to recon- 
 noitre. He was beginning, by this time, to 
 meditate something more serious. Under 
 the shadow of the houses opposite, he walk- 
 ed slowly up and down the silent flagway, 
 eyeing the door of the " Verney Arms " ask- 
 ance, as he finished his cigar. 
 
 It so happened, that exactly as he had 
 thrown away the stump of it, a smoker, who 
 had just commenced his, came slowly down 
 the steps of the " Verney Arms," and stood 
 upon the deserted flagway, and as he puffed 
 indolently, he looked up the street, and down 
 the street, and up at the sky. 
 
254 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 The splendid moon shone full on his face, 
 and Mr. Marston knew him. He was tall 
 and slight, and rather good-looking, with a 
 face of great intelligence, heightened with 
 something of enthusiasm, and stood there 
 smoking, in happy unconsciousness that an 
 unfriendly eye was watching him across the 
 street. 
 
 Mr. Marston stood exactly opposite. The 
 smoker, who had emerged from the '' Ver- 
 ney Arms," stood before the centre of the 
 steps, and Mr. Marston, on a sudden, as if 
 he was bent on walking straight through him 
 into the hotel, walked at a brisk pace across 
 the street, and halted, within a yard, in front 
 of him. 
 
 *' I understand," said Marston instantly, 
 in a low, stern tone, " that you said at 
 Black's, when I was away yachting, that 
 you had something to say to me." 
 
 The smoker had lowered his cigar, and 
 was evidently surprised, as well he might be ; 
 he looked at him hard for some time, and 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 255 
 
 at length replied as grimly : " Yes, I said so ; 
 yes I do ; I mean to speak to you." 
 
 " All right ; no need to raise our voices 
 here though ; I think you had better find 
 some place where we can talk without ex- 
 citing attention." 
 
 "Come this way," said the tall young 
 man, turning suddenly and walking up the 
 street at a leisurely pace. Mr. Marston 
 walked beside him, a yard or two apart. 
 They might be very good friends, for any- 
 thing that appeared to a passer-by. He 
 turned down a short and narrow by-street, 
 with only room for a house or two, and 
 they found themselves on the little common 
 that is known as the Green of Cardyllion. 
 The sea, at its further side, was breaking in 
 long, tiny waves along the shingle, the wind 
 came over the old castle with a melancholy 
 soughing ; the green was solitary ; and only 
 here and there, from the windows of the 
 early little town, a light gleamed. The 
 moon shone bright on the green, turning 
 
256 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the grass to grey, and silvering the ripples 
 on the dark estuary, and whitening the misty 
 outlines of the noble Welsh mountains across 
 the water. A more tranquillising scene 
 could scarcely be imagined. 
 
 When they had got to the further end, 
 they stopped, as if by common consent. 
 
 " I'm ready to hear you," said Marston. 
 
 " Well, I have only to tell you, and I'm 
 glad of this opportunity, that I have ascer- 
 tained the utter falsehood of your stories, 
 and that you are a coward and a villain." 
 
 " Thanks ; that will do, Mr. Jennings," 
 answered Marston, growing white with fury, 
 but speaking with cold and quiet precision. 
 '' You have clenched this matter by an in- 
 sult which I should have answered by cutting 
 you across the face with this," — and he made 
 his cane whistle in the air, — " but that I re- 
 serve you for something more effectual, and 
 shall run no risk of turning the matter into 
 a police-office affair. I have neither pistols 
 nor friend here. We must dispense with 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 257 
 
 formalities ; we can do all that is necessary 
 for ourselves, I suppose. I'll call to-mor- 
 row, early, at the ' Verney Arms.' A word 
 or two will settle everything." 
 
 He raised his hat ever so little, implying 
 that that conference, for the present, was 
 over ; but before he could turn, Mr. Jennings, 
 who did not choose to learn more than was 
 unavoidable to his honour, said, 
 
 " You will find a note at the bar." 
 
 " Address it Richard Wynyard, then." 
 
 ^' Your friend?" 
 
 " No ; myself." 
 
 " Oh ! a false name ? " sneered Mr. 
 Jennings. 
 
 " You may use the true one, of course. 
 My tailor is looking for me a little more 
 zealously, I fancy, than you were ; and if 
 you publish it in Cardyllion, it may lead to 
 his arresting me, and saving you all further 
 trouble in this, possibly, agitating affair." 
 The young man accompanied these words 
 with a cold laugh. 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " Well, Richard Wynyard be it," said Mr. 
 Jennings, with a slight flush. 
 
 And with these words the two young 
 men turned their backs on each other. Mr. 
 Jennings walked along beside the shingle, 
 with the sound of the light waves in his 
 ears, and thinking rather hurriedly, as men 
 will, whom so serious a situation has sud- 
 denly overtaken. Marston turned, as I said, 
 the other way, and without entering the 
 town again, approached Malory by the nar- 
 row road that passes close under the castle 
 walls, and follows the line of the high banks 
 overlooking the estuary. 
 
 If there be courage and mental activity, 
 and no conscience, we have a very dangerous 
 devil. A spoiled child, in which self is su- 
 preme, who has no softness of heart, and some 
 cleverness and energy, easily degenerates 
 into that sort of Satan. And yet, in a kind 
 of way, Marston was popular. He could 
 spend money freely — it was not his own — 
 and when he was in spirits he was amusing. 
 
PISTOLS FOR TWO. 259 
 
 When he stared in Jennings' face this 
 evening, the bruise and burning of an old 
 jealousy were in his heart. The pain of that 
 hellish hate is often lightly inflicted; but 
 what is more cruel that vanity ? He had 
 abandoned the pursuit in which that jea- 
 lousy was born, but the hatred remained. 
 And now he had his revenge in hand. It 
 is a high stake, one's life on a match of 
 pistol-shooting. But his brute courage made 
 nothing of it. It was an effort to him to 
 think himself in danger, and he did not make 
 that effort. He was thinkinsj how to turn 
 the situation to account. 
 
 s2 
 
2G0 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE WOOD OF PLAS YLWD. 
 
 NEXT morning, Mr. Marston, we learned, 
 had been down to Cardyllion early. 
 He had returned at about ten o'clock, and 
 he had his luggage packed up, and despatch- 
 ed again to the proprieter of the " Verney 
 Arms." So we midit assume that he was 
 
 gone. 
 
 The mountain that had weighed on Laura 
 Grey's spirits was perceptibly lightened. I 
 heard her whisper to herself, " Thank God I" 
 when she heard Rebecca Torkill's report, 
 and the further intelligence that their guest 
 had told her and Thomas Jones that he was 
 going to the town, to return no more to 
 
THE WOODS OF TLAS YLWD. 2G1 
 
 Malory. Laura was now, again, quite like 
 herself. For my part, I was a little glad, 
 and (shall I confess it ?) also a little sorry ! 
 I had not quite made up my mind respect- 
 ing this agreeable Mr. Marston, of whom 
 Mr. Carmel and Miss Grey had given each 
 so alarming a character. 
 
 About an hour later, I was writing to 
 mamma, and sitting at the window, when, 
 raising my eyes, I saw Laura Grey and Mr. 
 Marston, much to my surprise, walking side 
 by side up the avenue towards the hall- 
 door. They appeared to be in close con- 
 versation ; Mr. Marston seemed to talk 
 volubly and carelessly, and cut the heads ol' 
 the weeds with his cane as he sauntered by 
 her side. Laura Grey held her handker- 
 chief to her eyes, except now and then, when 
 she spoke a few words, as it seemed pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 When they came to the court-yard, op- 
 posite to the hall-door, she broke away from 
 him, hurried across, ran up the steps, and 
 
262 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 shut the door. He stood where she had 
 left him, looking after her and smiling. I 
 thought he was going to follow ; he saw me 
 in the window, and raised his hat, still 
 smiling, and with this farewell salute he 
 turned on his heel and walked slowly away 
 towards the gate. I ran to the hall, and 
 there found Laura Grey. She had been 
 crying, and was agitated. 
 
 *' Ethel, darling," she said, "let nothing 
 on earth induce you to speak to that man 
 again. I implore of you to give me j^our 
 solemn promise. If he speaks truth it will not 
 cost you anything, for he says he is going 
 away this moment, not to return. 
 
 It certainly looked very like it, for he 
 had actually despatched* his two boxes, he 
 had "tipped" the servants handsomely at 
 the steward's house, and having taken a 
 courteous leave of them, and left with Mrs. 
 Torkill a valedictory message of thanks 
 for me, he had got into a " fly " and driven 
 off to the " Verney Arms." 
 
THE WOODS OF PLAS YLWD. 263 
 
 Well, whether for good or ill, he had now 
 unquestionably taken his departure ; but not 
 without leaving a sting. The little he had 
 spoken to Miss Grey, at the moment of his 
 flight, had proved, it seemed, a Parthian 
 arrow tipped with poison. She seemed to 
 grow more and more miserable every hour. 
 She had lain down on her bed, and was 
 crying bitterly, and trembling. I began to 
 grow vexed at the cruelty of the man who 
 had deliberately reduced her to that state. 
 I knew not what gave him the power of 
 torturing her. If I was angry, I was also 
 intensely curious. My questions produced 
 no clearer answers than this : " Nothing, 
 dear, that you could possibly understand 
 without first hearijig a very long story. I 
 hope the time is coming when I may tell it 
 all to you. But the secret is not mine ; it 
 concerns other people; and at present I 
 must keep it." 
 
 Mr. Marston had come and gone, then, 
 like a flash of light, leaving my eyes dazzled. 
 
264 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 The serenity of Malory seemed now too 
 quiet for me; the day was dull. I spent 
 my time sitting in the window, or moping 
 about the place. I must confess that I had, 
 by no means, the horror of this stranger 
 that the warnings of Mr. Car m el and Laura 
 Grey ought, I suppose, to have inspired. 
 On the contrary, his image came before me 
 perpetually, and everything I looked at, the 
 dark trees, the window-sill, the garden, the 
 estuary, and the ribs of rock round which 
 the cruel sea was sporting, recalled the hero 
 of a terrible romance. 
 
 I tried in vain to induce Laura to come 
 with me for a walk, late in the afternoon. 
 So I set out alone, turning my back on 
 Cardyllion, in the direction of Penruthyn 
 Priory. The sun was approaching the 
 western horizon as I drew near the pictur- 
 esque old farm-house of Plas Ylwd. 
 
 A little to the south of this stretches a 
 fragment old forest, covering some nine 
 or ten acres of peaty ground. It is a de- 
 
THE WOODS OF PLAS YLWD. 265 
 
 caying wood, and in that melancholy and 
 miserable plight, I think, very beautiful. I 
 would commend it as a haunt to artists in 
 search of "studies," who love huge trees 
 with hollow trunks, some that have " cast " 
 half their boughs as deer do their ant- 
 lers ; some wreathed and laden with ivy, 
 others that stretch withered and barkless 
 branches into the air ; ground that is ribbed 
 and unequal, and cramped with great ringed, 
 snake-like roots, that writhe and knot them- 
 selves into the earth ; here and there over- 
 spread with little jungles of bramble, and 
 broken and burrowed by rabbits. 
 
 Into this grand and singular bit of forest, 
 now glorified by the coloured light of even- 
 ing, I had penetrated some little way. 
 Arrested in my walk by the mellow song of 
 a blackbird, I listened in the sort of ecstasy 
 that every one has, I suppose, experienced 
 under similar circumstances ; and I was in 
 the full enjoyment of this sylvan melody, 
 when I was startled, and the bird put to 
 
266 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 flight, by the near report of fire-arms. Once 
 or twice I had heard boys shooting at birds 
 in this wood, but [they had always accom- 
 panied their practice with shouting and loud 
 talking. A dead silence followed this. I had 
 no reason for any misgivings about so natural 
 an interruption in such a place, but I did 
 feel an ominous apprehension. I began to 
 move, and was threading my way through 
 one of these blackberry thickets, when I 
 heard, close to my side, the branches of 
 some underwood thrust aside, and Mr. 
 Marston, looking pale and wicked, walked 
 quickly by. It was plain he did not see 
 me ; I was screened by the stalks and sprays 
 throuofh which I saw him. He had no wea- 
 pon as he passed me ; he was drawing on 
 his glove. The sudden appearance of Mr. 
 Marston, whom I believed to be by this time 
 miles away — at the other side of Cardyllion 
 — was a shock that rather confirmed my 
 misgivings. 
 
 I waited till he was quite gone, and then 
 
THE WOODS OF PLAS YLWD. 267 
 
 passed down the path he had come by. I 
 saw nothing to justify alarm, so I walked a 
 little in the same direction, looking to the 
 right and left. In a little opening among 
 the moss-grown trunks of the trees, I soon 
 saw something that frightened me. It was 
 a man lying on his back, deadly pale, upon 
 the ground ; his waistcoat was open, and his 
 shirt-front covered with blood, that seemed 
 to ooze from under his hand, which was 
 pressing on it ; his hat was on the ground, 
 some way behind. A pistol lay on the 
 grass beside him, and another not far from 
 his feet. 
 
 I was very much frightened, and the 
 sight of blood made me feel faint. The 
 wounded man saw me, I knew, for his 
 eyes were fixed on me ; his lips moved, and 
 there was a kind of straining in his throat ; 
 he said a word or two, though I could not 
 at first hear what. With a horrible reluc- 
 tance, I came near and leaned a little over 
 him, and then heard distinctly : 
 
268 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " Pray send help." 
 
 I bethought me instantly of the neigh- 
 bouring farm-house of Plas Ylwd, and 
 knowing this little forest tract well, I ran 
 through it nearly direct to the farm-yard, 
 and quickly succeeded in securing the aid of 
 Farmer Prichard and all his family, except 
 his wife, who stayed at home to get a bed 
 ready for the reception of the wounded 
 stranger. We all trooped back again 
 through the woods, at a trot, I at their head, 
 quite forgetting my dignity in my excite- 
 ment. The wounded man appeared fainter. 
 But he beckoned to us with his hand, with- 
 out raising his arm, and with a great effort 
 he said ; '' The blame is mine — all my 
 fault — remember, if I die. I compelled this 
 meeting." 
 
 I got Prichard to send his son, without a 
 moment's delay, to Cardyllion, to bring 
 Doctor Mervyn, and as they got the bleed- 
 ing man on towards Plas Ylwd, I, in a state 
 
THE WOODS OF PLAS YLWD. 269 
 
 of high excitement, walked swiftly home- 
 ward, hoping to reach Malory before the de- 
 clining light failed altogether. 
 
270 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE PATIENT AT PLAS YLWD: 
 
 T GOT home just as the last broad beam of 
 *- the setting sun was spent, and twilight 
 overspread churchyard and manor-house, 
 sea and land, with its grey mantle. Lights 
 were gleaming from the drawing-room win- 
 dow as I approached ; a very welcome light 
 to me, for it told me that Laura Grey had 
 come down, and I was longing to tell her 
 my story. I found her, as I expected, 
 seated quietly at our tea-table, and saw, in 
 her surprised and eager looks, how much she 
 was struck by the excitement which mine 
 exhibited, as, without waiting to take off my 
 hat or coat, I called on her to listen, and 
 
THE PATIENT. 271 
 
 stumbled and hurried through the opening 
 of my strange story. 
 
 I had hardly mentioned the sudden ap- 
 pearance of Mr. Marston, when Laura Grey 
 rose with her hands clasped : 
 
 " Was anyone shot ? For God's sake, tell 
 me quickly I" 
 
 I described all I had seen. She pressed 
 her hands hard to her heart. 
 
 "Oh! he has killed him — the villain! 
 His threats are always true — his promises 
 never. Oh ! Ethel, darling, he has been so 
 near me, and I never dreamed it." 
 
 "Who? What is it, Laura? Don't, 
 darling, be so frightened ; he's not killed — 
 nobody's killed. I daresay it is very tri- 
 fling, and Doctor Mervyn is with him by this 
 time." 
 
 '* I am sure he's badly wounded ; he has 
 killed him. He has hated him so long, he 
 would never have left him till he had killed 
 him." 
 
 She was growing quite distracted ; 1, all 
 
272 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the time, doing my utmost to re-assure her. 
 
 " What is his name ?" at length I asked. 
 
 The question seemed to quiet her. She 
 looked at me, and then down; and then 
 again at me. 
 
 Once or twice she had mentioned a 
 brother whom she loved very much, and 
 who was one of her great anxieties. Was 
 this wounded man he ? If not, was he a 
 lover ? This latter could hardly be ; for she 
 had once, after a long, laughing fencing with 
 my close questions, told me suddenly, quite 
 gravely, '' I have no lover, and no admirer, 
 except one whom I despise and dislike as 
 much as I can anyone on earth." It was 
 very possible that her brother was in debt, 
 or in some other trouble that made her, for 
 the present, object to disclose anything 
 about him. I thought she was going to tell 
 me a great deal now — but I was disappoint- 
 ed. I was again put off; but I knew she 
 spoke truth, for she was the truest person I 
 ever met, when she said that she longed to 
 
THE PATIENT. 273 
 
 tell me all her story, and that the time 
 would soon come when she could. But 
 now, poor thing ! she was, in spite of all I 
 could say, in a state, very nearly, of distrac- 
 tion. She never was coherent, except 
 when, in answer to her constantly repeated 
 questioning, I again and again described the 
 appearance of the wounded man, which each 
 time seemed to satisfy her on the point of 
 identity, but without preventing her from 
 renewing her inquiries with increasing de- 
 tail. 
 
 That evening passed miserably enough for 
 us both. Doctor Mervyn, on his way to his 
 patient, looked in upon us early next morn- 
 ing, intent on learning all he could from me 
 about the circumstances of the discovery of his 
 patient. I had been too well drilled by pru- 
 dent old Rebecca Torkill, to volunteer any in- 
 formation respecting the unexpected appear- 
 ance of Mr. Marston so suspiciously near the 
 scene of the occurrence. I described, there- 
 fore, simply the spectacle presented by the 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
274 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 wounded man, on nay lighting upon him in 
 the wood, and his removal to the farm-house 
 of Plas Ylwd. 
 
 ^' It's all very fine, saying it was an acci- 
 dent," said the doctor, with a knowing nod 
 and a smile. "Accident, indeed! If it 
 was, why should he refuse to say who had a 
 hand in the accident, besides himself? But 
 there's no need to make a secret of the 
 matter, for unless something unexpected 
 should occur, he must, in the ordinary 
 course of things, be well in little more than 
 a week. It's an odd wound. The ball 
 struck the collar-bone and broke it, glancing 
 upward. If it had penetrated obliquely 
 downward instead, it might have killed him 
 on the spot." 
 
 " Do you know his name?" I inquired. 
 
 " No ; he's very reserved ; fellows in his 
 situation often are ; they don't like figuring 
 in the papers, you understand ; or being 
 bound over to be of good behaviour ; or, 
 possibly, prosecuted. But no trouble will 
 
THE PATIENT. 275 
 
 come of this ; and he'll be on his legs again 
 in a very few days." 
 
 With this re-assuring news the doctor left 
 us. Miss Grey was relieved. One thing 
 seemed pretty certain ; and that was that the 
 guilty and victorious duellist would not 
 venture to appear in our part of the world 
 for some time to come. 
 
 " Will you come with me to-day, to ask 
 how he gets on ?" I said to Laura as soon as 
 the doctor was gone. 
 
 " No, I can't do that ; but it ^vould be 
 very kind of you : that is, if you have no 
 objection." 
 
 " None in the world ; we must get Re- 
 becca to make broth, or whatever else the 
 doctor may order, and shall I mention your 
 name to Mrs. Prichard ? I mean, do you 
 wish the patient — shall we call him — to know 
 that you are here ?" 
 
 " Oh ! no, pray. He is the last person on 
 earth " 
 
 " You are sure ?" 
 
 t2 
 
276 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 "Perfectly. I entreat, dear Ethel, that 
 you run no risk of my name being men- 
 tioned." 
 
 " Why, Mr. Marston knows that you are 
 here," I said persistently. 
 
 " Bad as that was, this would be intoler- 
 able. I know, Ethel, I may rely on you." 
 
 " Well, I won't say a . word — I won't 
 mention your name, since you so ordain it." 
 
 Two or three days passed. As I had 
 been the good Samaritan, in female garb, 
 who aided the wounded man in his distress, 
 I was now the visiting Sister of Mercy, the 
 ministering angel — whatever you are good 
 enough to call me — who every day saw 
 after his wants, and sent, sometimes soup, 
 and sometimes jelly, to favour the recovery 
 of which the doctor spoke so sanguinely. 
 
 I did not feel the romantic interest I 
 ought perhaps to have felt in the object of 
 my benevolence. I had no wish to see his 
 face again. I was haunted by a recollection 
 of him that was ghastly. I am not wanting 
 
THE PATIENT. 277 
 
 in courage, physical or moral. But I should 
 have made a bad nurse, and a worse soldier ; 
 at the sight of blood I immediately grow 
 faint, and a sense of indescribable disgust 
 remains. 
 
 I sometimes think we women are perverse 
 creatures. For us there is an occult interest 
 about the guilty and audacious, if it be 
 elevated by masculine courage and beauty, 
 and surrounded by ever so little of mystery 
 and romance. Shall I confess it ? The image 
 of that wicked Mr. Marston, notwithstanding 
 all Laura's hard epithets, and the startling 
 situation in which I had seen him last, haunt- 
 ed me often, and with something more of 
 fascination than I liked to confess. Let there 
 be energy, cleverness, beauty, and I believe 
 a reckless sort of wickedness will not stand 
 the least in the way of a foolish romance. I 
 think I had energy ; I know I was impetu- 
 ous. Insipid or timid virtue would have had 
 no chance with me. 
 
 I was going to the farm-house one day, I 
 
278 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 forget how long after the occurrence which 
 liad established my interesting relations with 
 Plas Ylwd. My mother had a large cheval- 
 gla^s ; it had not often reflected her pretty 
 image ; it was the only one in the house, the 
 furniture of which was very much out of 
 date. It had been removed to my room, 
 and before it I now stood, in my hat and 
 jacket, to make a last inspection before I 
 started. What did I see before me ? I 
 have courage to speak my real impressions, 
 for there is no one near to laug;h at me. A 
 girl of eighteen, above the middle height, 
 slender, with large, dark, grey eyes and 
 long lashes, not much colour, not pink and 
 white, by any means, but a very clear-tinted 
 and marble-smooth skin ; lips of carmine- 
 scarlet, and teeth very white ; tliick, dark 
 brown hair; and a tendency, when talking 
 or smiling, to dimple in cheek and chin. 
 There was something, too, spirited and ener- 
 getic in the face that I contemplated with so 
 much satisfaction. 
 
THE PATIENT. 279 
 
 I remained this day a little longer before 
 my glass than usual. Half an hour later, 
 I stood at the heavy stone doorway of 
 Plas Ylwd. It is one of the prettiest farm- 
 houses in the world. Round the farm-yard 
 stand very old hawthorn and lime trees, 
 and the farm-house is a composite building, 
 in which a wdng of the old Tudor manor- 
 house of Plas Ylwd is incorporated, under 
 a common thatch, which has grown brown 
 and discoloured, and sunk and risen into 
 hillocks and hollows by time. The door is 
 protected by a thatched porch, with worn 
 stone pillars ; and here I stood, and learned 
 that ^' the gentleman upstairs " was very well 
 that afternoon, and sitting up ; the doctor 
 thought he would be out for a walk in two 
 or three days. Having learned this, and all 
 the rest that it concerned Rebecca Torkill 
 to hear, I took my leave of good Mrs. 
 Prichard, and crossing the stile from the 
 farm-yard, I entered the picturesque old 
 
280 WILLING TO DIE, 
 
 wood in which the inmate of Plas Ylwd had 
 received his wound. Through this sylvan 
 solitude I intended returning to Malory. 
 
281 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE OUTLAW. 
 
 A S I followed my path over the unequal 
 ^^ flooring of the forest, among the 
 crowded trunks of the trees and the thickets 
 of brambles, I saw, on a sudden, Mr. Mars- 
 ton almost beside me. I was a good deal 
 startled, and stood still. There was some- 
 thing in his air and looks, as he stood with 
 his hat raised, so unspeakably deprecatory, 
 that I felt at once re-assured. Without my 
 permission it was plain he would not dream 
 of accompanying me, or even of talking to 
 me. All Laura's warnings and entreaties 
 sounded at that moment in my ears like a 
 far-off and unmeaning tinkle. He had no 
 
282 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 apologies to make ; and yet he looked like 
 a penitent. I was embarrassed, bat without 
 the slightest fear of him. I spoke ; but I 
 don't recollect what 1 said. 
 
 ^' I have come here, Miss Ware, as I be- 
 lieve, at some risk ; I should have done the 
 same thing had the danger been a hundred 
 times greater. I tried to persuade myself 
 that I came for no other purpose than to 
 learn how that foolish fellow, who would 
 force a quarrel on me, is getting on. But 
 I came, in truth, on no such errand ; I 
 came here on the almost desperate chance 
 of meeting you, and in the hope, if I were 
 so fortunate, that you would permit me to 
 say a word in my defence. I am unfortu- 
 nate in having two or three implacable ene- 
 mies, and fate has perversely collected them 
 here. Miss Grey stands in very confidential 
 relations with you. Miss Ethel ; her preju- 
 dices against me are cruel, violent, and in 
 every way monstrous." 
 
 He was walking beside me as he said this. 
 
THE OUTLAW. 283 
 
 " Mr. Marston," I interposed, " I can't 
 hear you say a word against Miss Grey. I 
 have the highest opinion of her ; she is my 
 very dearest friend — she is truth itself." 
 
 *' One word you say I don't dispute, Miss 
 Ware. She means all she says for truth ; 
 but she is cruelly prejudiced, and, without 
 suspecting it. does me the most merciless in- 
 justice. Whenever she is at liberty to state 
 her whole case against me — at present I 
 haven't so much as heard it — I undertake to 
 satisfy you of its utter unfairness. There is 
 no human being^ to whom I would sav all 
 this, or before whom I would stoop to 
 defend myself and sue for an acquittal, 
 where I am blameless, but you. Miss Ware." 
 
 I felt myself blushing. I think that sign 
 of emotion fired him. 
 
 " I could not tell," he said, extending his 
 hand towards Plas Ylwd, "whether that 
 foolish man was dead or living ; and this 
 was the last place on earth I should have 
 come to, in common prudence, while that 
 
284 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 was in doubt ; but I was willing to brave 
 that danger for a chance of seeing you once 
 more — I could not live without seeing you." 
 
 He was gazing at me, w^ith eyes glowing 
 with admiration. I thought he looked won- 
 derfully handsome. There was dash and 
 recklessness, I thought, enough for an old- 
 world outlaw, in his talk and looks, and, for 
 all I knew, in his reckless doings ; and the 
 scene, the shadow, this solemn decaying 
 forest, accorded well, in my romantic fancy, 
 with the wild character I assigned him. 
 There was something flattering in the devo- 
 tion of this prompt and passionate man. 
 
 ^^ Make me no answer,'^ he continued — 
 " no answer, I entreat. It would be mere 
 madness to ask it now ; you know nothing 
 of me but, perhaps, the wildest slanders that 
 prejudice ever believed, or hatred forged. 
 From the moment I saw you, in the old gar- 
 den at Malory, I loved you I Love at first 
 sight ! It was no such infatuation. It was 
 the recalling of some happy dream. I had 
 
THE OUTLAW. 285 
 
 forgotten it in my waking hours ; but I re- 
 cognised, with a pang and rapture, in you, 
 the spirit that had enthralled me. I loved 
 you long before I knew it. I can't escape. 
 Ethel, I adore you I" 
 
 I don't know how I felt. I was pretty 
 sure that I ought to have been very angry. 
 And I was half angry with myself for not 
 being angry. I was, however — which an- 
 swered just as well — a little alarmed ; I felt 
 as a child does when about to enter a dark 
 room, and I drew back at the threshold. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Marston, don't speak so to me 
 any longer. It is quite true, I do not know 
 you ; you have no right to talk to me in my 
 walks — pray leave me now." 
 
 "" I shall obey you, Miss Ware ; whatever 
 you command, I shall do. My last entreaty 
 is that you will not condemn me unheard ; 
 and pray do not mention to my enemies the 
 infatuation that has led me here, with the 
 courage of despair — no, n,ot quite despair, I 
 won't say that. I shall never forget you. 
 
286 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 Would to Heaven I could ! I shall never 
 forget or escape you ; who can disenchant 
 me? I shall never forget, or cease to pur- 
 sue you, Ethel, I swear by Heaven !" 
 
 He looked in my face for a moment, 
 raised my hand gently, but quickly, and 
 pressed it to his lips, before I had recovered 
 from my momentary tumult. I did not turn 
 to look after him. I instinctively avoided 
 that, but I heard his footsteps, in rapid re- 
 treat, in the direction of the farm-house 
 which I had just left. 
 
 It was not until T had got more than half- 
 way on my return to Malory that 1 began 
 to think clearly on what had just occurred. 
 What had I been dreaminsj of? I was 
 shocked to think of it. Here was a total 
 stranger admitted to something like the 
 footing of a declared lover! What was I 
 to do ? What would papa or mamma say 
 if my folly were to come to their ears ? I 
 did not even know where Mr. Marston was 
 to be found. Some one has compared the 
 
THE OUTLAW. 287 
 
 Iliad to a frieze, which ceases, but does not 
 end ; and precisely of the same kind was 
 this awkward epic of the wood of Plas Ylwd. 
 "Who could say when the poet might please 
 to continue his work ? Who could say how 
 I could now bring the epic to a peremptory 
 termination ? 
 
 I must confess, however, although I felt 
 the embarrassment of the situation, this law- 
 less man interested me. Like many whim- 
 sical young ladies, I did not quite know my 
 own mind. 
 
 On the step of the stile that crosses the 
 churchyard wall, near Malory, I sat down, 
 in rather uncomfortable rumination. I was 
 interrupted by the sound of a step upon the 
 road, approaching from the direction of 
 Malory. I looked up, and, greatly to my 
 surprise, saw Mr. Carmel, quite close to me. 
 I stood up, and walked a few steps to meet 
 him ; we shook hands, he smiling, very glad, 
 I knew, to meet me. 
 
 " You did not expect to see me so soon 
 
288 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 again, Miss Ware ? And I have ever so 
 much to tell you. I can't say whether it 
 will please or vex you ; but if you and Miss 
 Grey will give me my old chair at your tea- 
 table, I will look in for half an hour this 
 evening. I have first to call at old Parry's, 
 and give him a message that reached me 
 from your mamma yesterday." 
 
 He smiled again, as he continued his 
 walk, leaving me full of curiosity as to the 
 purport of his news. 
 
289 
 
 CHAPTER XXITI. 
 
 A JOURNEY. 
 
 BEHOLD us now, about an hour later, at 
 our tea-table. Mr. Carmel, as he had 
 promised, came in and talked, as usual, 
 agreeably ; but, if he had any particular 
 news to tell us, he had not yet begun to 
 communicate it. 
 
 "You found your old quarters awaiting 
 your return. We have lost our interesting 
 stranger," I said ; " I wish you w^ould tell 
 us all you know about him." 
 
 Mr. Carmel's head sank ; his eyes were 
 fixed, in painful thought, upon the table. 
 "No," he said, looking up sharply, "God 
 
 VOL. I. u 
 
290 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 knows all, and that's enough. The story 
 could edify no one." 
 
 He looked so pained, and even agitated, 
 that I could not think of troubling him 
 more. 
 
 " I have grown so attached to this place," 
 said Mr. Carmel, rising and lookinoj from 
 the window, ^' that I can scarcely make up 
 my mind to say good-bye, and turn my back 
 on it for ever ; yet I believe I must in a few 
 davs. I don't know. We soldiers, eccle- 
 siastics, I mean, must obey orders, and I 
 scarcely hope that mine will ever call me 
 here again. I have news for you, also. Miss 
 Ethel ; I had a letter from your mamma, 
 and a note from Mr. Ware, last night, and 
 there is to be a break-up here, and a move- 
 ment townward ; you are to come out next 
 season, Miss Ethel ; your mamma and papa 
 will be in town, for a week or so, in a few 
 days ; and. Miss Grey, she hopes you will 
 not leave her on account of the chansje." 
 
 He paused ; but she made no answer. 
 
A JOURNEY. 291 
 
 " Oh ! darling Laura, you won't leave 
 rae?" I exclaimed. 
 
 *' Certainly not, dear Ethel; and when- 
 ever the time for parting comes," she said 
 very kindly, " it will cost me a greater pang 
 than perhaps it will cost you. But though 
 I am neither a soldier nor an ecclesiastic, 
 my movements do not always depend upon 
 myself." 
 
 Unrestrained by Mr. Carmel's presence, 
 we kissed each other heartily. 
 
 " Here is a note. Miss Grey, enclosed for 
 you," he murmured, and handed it to Laura. 
 
 In our eagerness we had got up and stood 
 with Mr. Carmel in the recess of the window. 
 It was twilight, and the table on which the 
 candles burned stood at a considerable dis- 
 tance. To the light Laura Grey took her 
 letter, and as she read it, quite absorbed, 
 Mr. Carmel talked to rae in low tones. 
 
 As he stood in the dim recess of the 
 window, with trains of withered leaves 
 rustling outside, and the shadow of the sear 
 
 u2 
 
292 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 and half-stript elms upon the court and 
 window, he said, kindly and gently : 
 
 '■' And now, at last, Miss Ethel forsakes 
 her old home, and takes leave of her 
 humble friends, to go into the great world. 
 I don't think she will forget them, and I am 
 sure they won't forget her. We have had a 
 great many pleasant evenings here, and in 
 our conversations in these happy solitudes, 
 the terrors and glories of eternal truth have 
 broken slowly upon your eyes. Beware ! 
 If you trifle with Heaven's mercy, the 
 world, or hell, or heaven itself, has no 
 narcotic for the horrors of conscience. In 
 the midst of pleasure and splendour, and 
 the tawdry triumphs of vanity, the words of 
 Saint Paul will startle your ears like 
 thunder. It is impossible for those who 
 were once enlightened, and have tasted 
 of the heavenly gift, and the good word of 
 God, and the powers of the world to come, 
 if they shall fall away, to renew them again 
 unto repentance. The greater the privi- 
 
A JOURNEY. 293 
 
 lege, the greater the liability. The higher 
 the knowledge, the profounder the danger. 
 You have seen the truth afar off; rejoice, 
 therefore, and tremble." 
 
 He drew back and joined Miss Grey. 
 
 I had been thinking but little, for many 
 weeks, of our many conversations. Inci- 
 pient convictions had paled in the absence 
 of the sophist or the sage — I knew not 
 which. When he talked, on this theme, his 
 voice became cold and stern ; his gentleness 
 seemed to me to partake of an awful 
 apathy ; he looked like a man who had 
 witnessed a revelation full of horror ; my 
 fancy, I am sure, contributed something to 
 the transformation ; but it did overawe me. 
 I never v/as so impressed as by him. The 
 secret was not in his words. It was his 
 peculiar earnestness. He spoke like an 
 eye-witness, and seemed under unutterable 
 fear himself He had the preacher^s master- 
 gift of alarming. 
 
 When Mr. Carmel had taken his leave for 
 
294 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 the night, I told Laura Grey my adventure 
 in the wood of Plas Ylwd. I don't think I 
 told it quite as frankly as I have just de- 
 scribed it to you. The story made Miss 
 Grey very grave for a time. 
 
 She broke the silence that followed by 
 saying, " I am rather glad, Ethel, that we 
 are leaving this. 1 think you will be better 
 in town ; I know I shall be more comfort- 
 able about you. You have no idea, and I 
 earnestly hope you never may have, how 
 much annoyance may arise from an acquaint- 
 ance with that plausible, wicked man. He 
 won't venture to force his acquaintance 
 upon you in town. Here it is different, of 
 course." 
 
 We sat up very late together, chatting 
 this night in my room. I did not quite 
 know how I felt about the impending 
 change. My approaching journey to Lon- 
 don was, to me, as great an event as her 
 drive to the ball in her pumpkin-coach was 
 to Cinderella. Of course there was some- 
 
A JOURNEY. 295 
 
 thing dazzling and delightful in the prospect. 
 But the excitement and joy were like that 
 of the happy bride who yet weeps because 
 she is looking her last on the old homely 
 life, that will always be dear and dearer as 
 the irrevocable separation goes on. So, 
 though she is sure she is passing into para- 
 dise, it is a final farewell to the beloved 
 past. I felt the conflict ; I loved Malory 
 better than I could ever love a place again. 
 But youth is the season of enterprise. God 
 has ordained it. We go like the younger 
 son in the parable, selfish, sanguine, adven- 
 turous ; but the affections revive and turn 
 homeward, and from a changed heart some- 
 times breaks on the solitude a cry, unheard 
 by living ear, of yearning and grief, that 
 would open the far-off doors, if that were 
 possible, and return. 
 
 Next day arrangements took a definite 
 form. All was fuss and preparation. 1 was 
 to go the day following ; Mr. Carmel was 
 to take charge of me on the journey, and 
 
296 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 place me safely in tlie hands of Mrs. Beau- 
 champ, our town housekeeper. Laura Grey, 
 having wound up and settled all things at 
 Malory, was to follow to town in less than a 
 week ; and, at about the same time, mamma 
 and papa were to arrive. 
 
 A drive of ten miles or so brought us to 
 the station ; then came a long journey by 
 rail. London was not new to me; but Lon- 
 don with my present anticipations was. I 
 was in high spirits, and Mr. Carmel made a 
 very agreeable companion, though I fancied 
 he was a little out of spirits. 
 
 I was tired enough that night when I at 
 length took leave of Mr. Carmel at the door 
 
 of our house in Street. The street 
 
 lamps were already lighted. Mrs. Beau- 
 champ, in a black silk dress, received me 
 with a great deal of quiet respect, and rustled 
 up-stairs before me to show me my room. 
 Her grave and regulated politeness contrast- 
 ed chillily with the hearty, and sometimes 
 even boisterous welcome of old Rebecca 
 
A JOURNEY. 297 
 
 Torkill. Mamma and papa were to be 
 home, she told me, in a few days — she 
 could not say exactly the day. I was, after 
 an hour or so, a great deal lonelier than I 
 had expected to be. I wrote a long letter 
 to Laura, of whom I had taken leave only 
 that morning (what a long time it seemed 
 already!), and told her how much I already 
 wished myself back again in Malory, and 
 urged her to come sooner than she had 
 planned her journey. 
 
298 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 ARRIVALS. 
 
 T" AURA had not waited any longer than 
 -■-^ I for a special justification of a letter. 
 She had nothing to say, and she said it in a 
 letter as long as my own, which reached me 
 at breakfast next morning. 
 
 Sitting in a spacious room, looking out 
 into a quiet fashionable street, in a house all 
 of whose decorations and arrangements had 
 an air of cold elegance and newness, the 
 letter, with the friendly Cardyllion postmark 
 on it, seemed to bring with it something of 
 the clear air, the homely comfort, and free 
 life of Malory, and made me yearn all the 
 more for the kind faces, the old house, and 
 
ARRIVALS. 299 
 
 beloved scenery I had left behind. It was 
 insufferably dull here, and I soon found 
 myself in that state which is described as not 
 knowing what to do with oneself. For two 
 days no further letter from Laura reached 
 me. On the third, I saw her well-known 
 handwriting on the letter that awaited me 
 on the breakfast-table. As I looked, as 
 people will, at the direction before opening 
 the envelope, I was struck by the postmark 
 *' Liverpool," and turning it over and over, 
 I nowhere saw Cardyllion. 
 
 I began to grow too uncomfortable to 
 wait longer ; I opened the letter with mis- 
 givings. At the top of the note there was 
 nothing written but the day of the week. It 
 said: 
 
 "My Dearest Ethel, — A sudden and 
 total change in my unhappy circumstances 
 separates me from you. It is impossible 
 that I should go to London now ; and it is 
 possible that I may not see you again for a 
 
300 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 long time, if ever. I write to say farewell ; 
 and in doing so to solemnly repeat my warn- 
 ing against permitting the person who ob- 
 tained a few days' shelter in the steward's 
 house, after the shipwreck, to maintain even 
 the slightest correspondence or acquaintance 
 with you. Pray, dearest Ethel, trust me in 
 this. I implore of you to follow my advice. 
 You may hear from me soon again. In the 
 meantime, I am sure you will be glad to 
 know that your poor governess is happy — 
 happier than she ever desired, or ever hoped 
 to be. My fond love is always yours, and 
 my thoughts are hourly with you. 
 " Ever your loving 
 
 "Laura Grey. 
 
 " May God for ever bless you, darling ! 
 Good-bye." 
 
 I don't think I could easily exaggerate the 
 effect of this letter. I will not weary you 
 with that most tiresome of all relations, an 
 account of another person's grief. 
 
ARRIVALS. 301 
 
 Mamma and papa arrived that evening. 
 If I had lived less at Malory, and more with 
 mamma, I should not, in some points, have 
 appreciated her so highly. When 1 saw her, 
 for the first time, after a short absence, I was 
 always struck by her beauty and her ele- 
 gance, and it seemed to me that she was 
 taller than I recollected her. She was look- 
 ing very well, and so young ! I saw papa 
 but for a moment. He went to his room 
 immediately to dress, and then went off to 
 his club. Mamma took me to her room, 
 where we had tea. She said I had grown, 
 and was very much pleased with my looks. 
 Then she told me all her plans about me. I 
 was to have masters, and I was not to come 
 out till April. 
 
 She then got me to relate all the circum- 
 stances of Nelly's death, and cried a good 
 deal. Then she had in her maid Lexley, 
 and they held a council together over me on 
 the subject of dress. My Malory wardrobe, 
 from which I had brought up to town with 
 
802 WILLItJG TO DIE. 
 
 me what I considered an unexceptionable 
 selection, was not laughed at, was not even 
 discussed — it was simply treated as non-ex- 
 tant. In gave me a profound sense of the 
 barbarism in which I had lived. 
 
 Laura Grey's letter lay heavy at.ray heart, 
 but I had not yet mentioned it to mamma. 
 There was no need, however, to screw my 
 courage to that point. Among the letters 
 brought up to her was one from Laura. 
 When she read it she was angry in her 
 querulous way. She threw herself into a 
 chair in a pet. She had confidence in Laura 
 Grey, and foresaw a good deal of trouble to 
 herself in this desertion. "I am so par- 
 ticularly unfortunate !" she began — " every- 
 thing that can possibly go wrong ! everything 
 that never happens to anyone else ! I could 
 have got her to take you to Monsieur 
 Pontet's, and your drives, and to shop — 
 and — she must be a most unprincipled 
 person. She had no right to go away as she 
 has done. It is too bad ! Your papa 
 
ARRIVALS. 303 
 
 dllows everyone of that kind to treat me 
 exactly as they please, and really, when I 
 am at home, my life is one continual misery ! 
 What am I to do now ? I don't believe any 
 one else was ever so entirely at the mercy 
 of her servants. I don't know, my dear, 
 how I can possibly do all that is to be done 
 for you without assistance — and there was a 
 person I thought I could depend upon. A 
 total stranger I should not like, and really, 
 for anything I can see at present, 1 think 
 you must go back again to Malory, and do 
 the best you can. I am not a strong person. 
 I was not made for all this, and I really 
 feel I could just go to my bed, and cry till 
 morning." 
 
 My heart had been very full, and I was 
 relieved by this opportunity of crying. 
 
 "I wonder at your crying about so good- 
 for-nothing a person," exclaimed mamma, 
 impatiently. "If she had cared the least 
 about you, she could not have left you as 
 she has done. A satisfactory person, cer- 
 
304 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 tainly, that young lady has turned out ! " 
 Notwithstanding all this, mamma got over 
 her troubles, and engaged a dull and even- 
 tempered lady, named Anna Maria Pounden, 
 whose manners were quiet and unexception- 
 able, and whose years were about fifty. She 
 was not much of a companion for me, you 
 may suppose. She answered, however, very 
 well for all purposes intended by mamma. 
 She was lady-like and kind, and seemed 
 made for keeping keys, arranging drawers, 
 packing boxes, and taking care of people 
 when they were ill. She spoke French, be- 
 sides, fluently, and with a good accent, and 
 mamma insisted that she and I should al- 
 ways talk in that language. All the more 
 persistently for this change, my thoughts 
 were v/ith my beloved friend, Laura Grey. 
 
 From Malory, Rebecca Torkill told me, in 
 a rather incoherent letter, the particulars of 
 Laura Grey's departure from Malory. She 
 had gone out for a walk, leaving her things 
 half packed, for she was to go from Malory 
 
ARRIVALS. 305 
 
 next day. She did not return ; but a note 
 reached Mrs. Torkill, next morning, telling 
 her simply that she could not return ; and 
 that she would write to mamma and to me 
 in London the same day. Mrs. Torkill's 
 note, like mine, had the Liverpool post- 
 mark; and her conjecture was thus express- 
 ed: "I don't think, miss, she had no notions 
 to leave that way when she went out. It 
 must have bin something sudding. She 
 went fest, I do sepose to olyhed, and thens 
 to Liverpule in one of them pakkats. Mr. 
 Williams, the town-clerk, and the vicar and 
 his lady, and Doctor Mervyn, is all certing 
 sure it could be no other wise.'* 
 
 Mamma did not often come down to 
 breakfast, during her short stay at this un- 
 SQasonable time of year in town. On one 
 of those rare occasions, however, something 
 took place that I must describe. 
 
 Mamma was in a pretty morning neglige 
 as we used to call such careless dresses then, 
 looking as delicately pretty as the old china 
 
 VOL. I. X 
 
306 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 tea-cups before her. Papa was looking 
 almost as perplexingly young as she, and I 
 made up the little party to the number of 
 the Graces. Mamma must have been forty, 
 and I really don't think she looked more 
 than two-and-thirty. Papa looked about five- 
 and-thirty ; and I think he must have been 
 at least ten years older than he looked. 
 That kind of life that is supposed to wear 
 people out, seemed for them to have had an 
 influence like the elixir vitse ; and I cer- 
 tainly have seen rustics, in the full enjoy- 
 ment of mountain breezes, simple fare, and 
 early hours, look many a day older than 
 their years. The old rule, so harped upon, 
 that " early to bed and early to rise " is the 
 secret of perpetual youth, I don't dispute ; 
 but then, if it be early to go to bed at sun- 
 set in Winter, say four in the evening, and 
 to rise at four in the morning, is it not still 
 earlier to anticipate that hour, and go to bed 
 at four in the morning, and get up at one in 
 the afternoon ? At all events. I know that 
 
ARRIVALS. 307 
 
 this mode of life seemed to agree with papa 
 and mamma. I don't think, indeed, that 
 either suffered much from the cares that 
 poison enjoyment, and break down strength. 
 Mamma threw all hers unexamined upon 
 papa ; who threw all his with equal non-" 
 chalance upon Mr. Norman, a kind of facto- 
 tum, secretary, comptroller, diplomatist, 
 financier, and every other thing that comes 
 within the words '' making oneself generally 
 useful." 
 
 I never knew exactly what papa had a 
 year to live upon. Mamma had money 
 also. But they were utterly unfit to man- 
 age their own affairs, and I don't think they 
 ever tried. Papa had his worries now and 
 then ; but they seldom seemed to last more 
 than a day, or at most a week or two. There 
 were a number of what he thought small 
 sums, varying from two to five thousand 
 pounds, which under old settlements dropped 
 in opportunely, and extricated him. These 
 sums ought to have been treated, not as 
 
308 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 income, but as capital, as I heard a moneyed 
 man of business say long ago ; but papa had 
 not the talent of growing rich, or even of 
 continuing rich, if a good fairy had gifted 
 him with fortune. 
 
 • Papa was in a reverie, leaning back in 
 his chair ; mamma yawned over a letter she 
 was reading ; I was drumming some dance 
 music with my fingers on my knee under 
 the table-cloth, when suddenly he said to 
 mamma : 
 
 " You don't love your aunt Lorrimer 
 very much ?" 
 
 " No, I don't love her — I never said I 
 did, did I?" 
 
 " No, but I mean, you don't like her, 
 you don't care about her ?" 
 
 "No," said mamma, languidly, and look- 
 ing wonderingly at him with her large pretty 
 eyes. " I don't very much — I don't quite 
 know — I have an affection for her." 
 
 "You don't love her, and you don't even 
 
AREIVALS. 309 
 
 like her, but you have an afFection for her," 
 laughed papa. 
 
 '* You are so teasing. I did not say that ; 
 what I mean is, she has a great many faults 
 and oddities, and I don't like them — but I 
 have an afFection for her. Why should" it 
 seem so odd to you that one should care 
 for one's relations ? I do feel that for her, 
 and there let it rest." 
 
 "Well, but it ought not to rest there — as 
 you do like her." 
 
 " Why, dear — have you heard anything of 
 her?" 
 
 " No ; but there is one thing I should not 
 object to hear about her just now." 
 
 " One thing? What do you mean, dear?" 
 
 " That she had died, and left us her 
 money. I know what a brute I am, and 
 how shocked you are ; but I assure you we 
 rather want it at this moment. You write 
 to her, don't vou?" 
 
 " N-not very often. Once since we saw 
 her at Naples." 
 
310 WILLING TO DIE. 
 
 " Well, that certainly is not very often," 
 he laughed. " But she writes to you. You 
 thought she seemed rather to like us — I 
 mean you?" 
 
 "Yes," 
 
 " She has no one else to care about that I 
 know of. I don't pretend to care about her 
 — I think her an old fool." 
 
 " She isn't that, dear," said mamma, 
 quietly. 
 
 ^' I wish we knew where she is now. 
 Seriously, you ought to write to her a little 
 oftener, dear ; I wish you would." 
 
 "I'll write to her, certainly, as soon as I 
 am a little more myself. I could not do it 
 just to-day; I have not been very well, you 
 know." 
 
 "Oh! my darling, I did not mean to 
 hurry you. Of course not, till you feel per- 
 fectly well ; don't suppose I could be such a 
 monster. But — I don't want, of course, to 
 pursue her — but there is a middle course 
 between that and having to drop her. She 
 
ARKIVALS. 311 
 
 really has no one else, poor old thing ! to 
 care about, or to care about her. Not that / 
 care about her, but you're her kinswoman, 
 
 and I don't see why " 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and 
 there entered, with the air of an assumed 
 intimacy and a certain welcome, a person 
 whom I little expected to see there. I saw 
 him .with a shock. It was the man with 
 the fine eyes and great forehead, the ener- 
 getic gait and narrow shoulders. The grim, 
 mean-looking, intelligent, agreeable man of 
 fifty, Mr. Droqville. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME, 
 
 LONDON ; PRINTED BY MACDONaLD AiSD TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSK. 
 
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