mm ■^^?.^Mm >'~I!!>£^ ^jwy^)-');^ .-.>f'^'> ■ ^T»t^ >^» ^^^^ ?^^% %>^ ►5^: ►T)> ^> 1 z ^33^X31^ '^ ' ^">'> >^ *^- !>^ . :::>:5>>3>>> >'>^W "^■'''- A--^' >>> . tDX>J>i>^J> »»2> S^ " ) > >i&»>o> ^>J»>X> - - -^^ .-i_ ~> •< >' >>^>>->> >>i»:>2> . .;-X":::i->^ -) > im>o:p >i»>-:e> • ^. , --y;^ ) r> ^5:>» 3»» ■^■"^ •> >> >5:».i> i>3»i>i ^^ >:" -^ 1 • > ^J'^ >'r>>r> » .x»v> ,-, > ^> »ji:> » »»»> ' '\>> '^^MMIi. > > ::» »r> j> »^)»>4 "*^' ' '-^^ -"/^S^ ■ -'^ :» ^ ■ >> i> ^»»."> ;•> '^ y^ ^■> "^13^^ 1 o» 3^» >> 2> _^> :«»*>>> ^ : J31> - > "r> n > >> i>5> x:»->3>^> >>^ ■> ->■•■• '^'^^ -,-,-> ->r^^ i> js»:^> 3?»> >> ' ^^ "3^^'- > ^r> >>> >-> > > > >^j»> i:s^.^ ■T> \ "> , 3^^ • ?-^^>'»->>§ : Z'^^' ;^>>.>'^ >>^^ii^?^^^^ ^ ' "^'.-■i^2' -^ > > J*-- >>7y 3B^ * ■^^^•^, ' "'-^ ^ ■•^-■M^^H^ ^^ ^ ^ *; . , . ,» , ■»>J^ :%' ;_?. 'i'L^Jj ^^"3 £v»^ fe ^^ :^^SS*^'^> s^^ >"53ie3i fc*>^^$5>5 > ^2 ■>:5l3i K>p:sf>>>S» ' ^>sr > »*>_> >5r» > :> > »:>-_^ > |»:»^^ .■■^[i>o>:?3 ^ >■> .as».>^>>^ ^v-^ >- ^ 3> :>-:3 J>A^^ r>^>o.aB^ 3>^^: >2> i.^> ►» :!^ >:rj>> ■X'^ _» > ->> ■ • >^ >^ •^ >>i ->> :^»>1 >^ ^*>. >^ >3ii m LI B RARY OF THt UNIVERSITY or ILLINOIS 82-3 '\ [Pofie 4ii SOONER OR LATER SHIRLEY BROOKS, U"THOR i)F ' THK SILVER CORD." " TTIK GORDIAN KNOT," ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G DU MAURIER. VOL. I. LOXDOX : BRA.DBURY, EVANS, & CO., 11, BOUVERTE ST., E.G. 1808. TO J HENRY O'NEIL, JA]\[ES CHRISTIE, 5^ AND 5 ARTHUR LEWIS, g^ WHICH WAS PLAXNED IN THE "HIGHLAND HOME" 0f our c^ricub JOHN PHILLIP. X PEEFACE. A Preface is a pleasant thing to Avrite, -whatever it may he to read, and the author of this story ventures, as on former occasions, to say a few words which, though they introduce his book, have something of retrospection. To those who have accepted the tale in its monthly instal- ments it is due to say that it was originally intended to occupy fourteen numbers only, but that the author did not hesitate between the alternatives of excluding from his picture some features which he thought desirable, and of ventmiug on a small extension of his canvas. During the progress of" the story the author has been favoured with a great number of private communications, for the most part anonjnnous, in reference to various portions of the work. A few of the letters have been couched in a language which pre- cludes them from any kind of notice, but these amenities of criticism have been repaid tenfold by information to the effect that the author has given much gratification to a number of persons whom he is happy to have pleased. These two acknow- ledgments it would hardly have been necessary to make, as they do but refer to the ordinary incidents of periodical authorcraft. But he would add a word to some private critics of a different kind. Exception has been taken to the introduction of certain inci- VI PREFACE. dents and cliaracters, to which, he will not directly point, and he has also been accused of unfriendliness to what is not improperly called the religious world. In the exercise of that judgment which must be permitted even to an author — that person whom, in common ^vith the painter, every intellect deems itself qualified and authorized to teach, — he selected a series of incidents which could not be brought about by the agency of the virtuous. The greatest of our satirists has said that it would be unadvisable, in England, to give a truthful account of the life of a young Englishman. The writer has not sought to do in any fullness that Avhich Thackeray has asserted should not be done, but both in regard to the young- Englishman whose marriage is the turning point of the story, and to many of the subordinate personages, he has eschewed the mockery of escaping into generalities which mean nothing to those who are unacquainted with evil, and which are laughed at by those who are less fortunate. There are several bad persons in this story, but though the author disclaims any idea of composing a book on the principle of virtue being rewarded and vice punished, it will be seen that departure from morality has conducted each person in his or her degree to the end which — in the absence of repentance and reformation — it is orthodox to prepare for the evil-doer. In no case has the author defended the vicious, or committed the more dangerous and despicable offence of encou- raging vice by pourtraying it as successful. He is not quite sure indeed whether he ought not to take still higher ground, and to claim praise for having relied, in these passionate days, upon in- terest not arising from a breach of the commandments which refer to conjugal relations. In the matter of the second animadversion he has received letters of a kind which entitle the writers to respectful considera- tion, but he will only say that they have been written for the PREFACE. Vll most part Nvithout sufficient attention to the entire bearing of tlie work, and, notably, without regard to the cliaracter in which is embodied the best form of religion which the author can typif3^ To these " notices to correspondents," which will probably not appear in any subsequent edition of the work, the author will only add that if he makes no formal acknowledgment of the continuous kindness which his serial has received from his fellow craftsmen of the critical press, it is not that he is not as sensible as ever of that kindness, but because he is so constantly working among them, and answering and being answered by them from other platforms, that the dropping into conventional phrase here would seem to place him among those social felons who rise at a feast and must be allowed to say a few words for which their hearers wish them in Topliet. His other friends, the public, have given this book so warm a welcome, that it would be ungrateful not to acknowledge the fact, or not to regard it as an invitation, Kent Terrace, Eegejct's Park, Christmas, 1867. CONTENTS. CHArTEPv L PAGE AXDEEW BABTOX ......•.•! CHAPTET^ IT. ONE SUXDAY EVEXIXG H CHAPTEK TIT. THE OCTAGOX CLUB . 1^ CHAPTER IV. ]!j:^vgdalex s home 32 CHAPTER Y. " THEY DO SAY "' 4S CHAPTER YT. MAGDAEEX 4^ CHAPTER YIT. THE CURATE OF SAXBUEY 62 CHAPTER YIII. THE BraXISH DB.UIA . . . . . . • . . 77 CHAPTER IX. IN THE G^VIilJEX . . . . . . . • .90 X CONTENTS. CHAPTER X. TAGE HOXOR A NILO 97 CHAPTER XI. DORCAS AT HOME 109 CHAPTER XII. THE RECTORY 126 CHAPTER XIII. DAMON AND PYTHIAS 136 CHAPTER XIV. OLD FRIENDS AND A PHOTOGRAPH 145 CHAPTER XV. MANGLING IN HIS LAIR 161 CHAPTER XVI. " OF FRIENDS, HOWEVER HUMBLE, SCORN NOT ONE " .. . 170 CHAPTER XVII. A^STTENUPTIAL 193 CHAPTER XVIII. MR. mangles' S REPORT 209 CHAPTER XIX. GOLDEN EGGS 217 CHAPTER XX. HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS 228 CHAPTER XXI. THE HONEYMOON, AND ITS SETTING . . . .. . . 241 CHAPTER XXII. JEALOUSY OF AMERICA 253 CONTENTS. XI CHAPTER XXIII. PACE THE MUSIC OF THE TEOPLE 2GG CHAPTER XXIV. THE STREETS OF XAYDUEY 280 CHAPTER XXV. THE SINGLE COMBAT 289 CHAPTER XXVI. HEKO AND LEAXDEK 298 CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE NET . . 305 CHAPTER XXVIII. HOME AGAIN 319 CHAPTER XXIX. TAKING STOCK 329 CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRST GfN 337 CHAPTER XXXI. A CONFIDENCE 347 CHAPTER XXXII. THE editor's ch.uibers ....... 355 CHAPTER XXXIII. RETURN TO THE CLUB 3GG CHAPTER XXXIV. TROILUS AND CRESSIDA 374 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. KAGDAUS:^' ......... Frontispiece. "is it a fatal case ?" ...... tags 3 :mopss xsd the dormouse . . . . . . , 143 the stage-door ito "the egg-forger " ......... 218 THE no:vEYXoo>- . . . . . . . . .241 the L.VDIES' RATTLE ......... 289 THE FIRST GU^ ......... 338 [All the RigJds of Traiislation reserved hy the Author.'] SOONEE OR LATER CHAPTER I. ANDREW BARTON. On the Holbom side of the great legal quadrilateral which adjoins the gardens dear to us from memories of dear old Sir Roger de Coverley, is a smaller square, three sides of which are composed of houses let in sets of chambers, chiefly to lawyers, the fourth and northern side being occupied by the hall and other buildings belonging to the Inn. This square is a quiet little bay lying close to one of the great, roaring, rushing rivers of London life, and would be almost noiseless but that human vessels in quest of legal pilots are constantly putting in through the narrow channel that leads into the busy river. Sepa- rated from the Inn by a squalid and dirty lane on the east, lies in festering wretchedness and wickedness one of the worst districts of the metropolis, while on the west an intermixture of old-fashioned and decorous streets, and a few of exceeding uncleanliness and poverty, interpose between the Inn and the regions of civilisation. Such landmarks may not now be useless to the reader whose London is in the Court Directory, and some years later may be convenient to an adventurer who shall leave the railways of the day, and explore the districts whence traffic shall have departed, on the invitation of steam, or of its successor. One hot afternoon in early August, when the minds of the legal gentlemen of the Inn were excited, if not softened, by the approach of their holidays, a small crowd had hastily gathered round the door- way of one of the houses in the square. A workman, apparently a tiler, had fallen from the parapet of tlie house, and lay upon the stone pavement. The five or six persons who were in the square at the moment hurried up, and from the house itself, and from chambers where tliosc near the windows had observed either the accident or the rush to 2 SOONER OR LATER. the spot, came solicitors, clerks of various grades, boys, clients, and stragglers. Those who were nearest turned away, shocked and pale, and pushed out of the little crowd, while others took their places. ISTo one, however, cared to touch the man. He did not move a limb. He had fallen in a heap, and some gi-izzled hair under an old blue cap, and the brown skin at the back of his neck, were all that could be seen of his head. One arm was under him, the other, thrust out as if he had sought to break the fearful fall, lay straight on the flag. A white-aproned porter forced his way through the throng, touching his hat, even at that moment, to two or three gentlemen past whom he pressed. " It's Andrew Barton," he said, after a moment's look at the poor fellow. " But I don't know what call he had to be here," added the porter. " He had a job at the corner, I know." " Never mind that now, Parker," said one of the gentlemen. " Get the police and a stretcher, and have him moved to the hospital." " One might do more harm than good by touching him," said a quiet, elderly clerk, not quite easy at doing nothing, and yet very willing to have an excuse for avoiding the ghastly sight which must be presented by turning the man round. " There's not much harm to be done after a fall of four storeys," said a very well-dressed young gentleman, who was serving his articles ; " but we'll see." Mr. Farquliar piqued himself upon his nerve, and liked, or said he liked, to be taken by medical students to see operations. He advanced to, move the man, and there was a sensation in the crowd, some of the foremost hastily drawing backwards. The young lawyer had his hand on the side of the fallen man, when there was a cry. " Stop, stop, better let the doctor do it." Perhaps not altogether displeased, Mr. Farquhar drew back, and made way for the person thus described, who had been fetched from a neighbouring street. He was a middle-aged man, somewhat too stout for his heiglat, but rather handsome, and with features which would have been pleasing but for their discouraged and discontented expression. His full brown whiskers and beard curled well, and his blue-grey eyes were good, but lacked brightness. Carelessly dressed, and wearing an intolerably non-professional cap, he jerked himself at the work to which he was called, instead of approaching it with the calm but rapid movement which mai'ks the practised healer of men. IS IT A FATAL CASE?" [Page 3. SOONER OR LATER. 3 " Here he is, Mr. Dudley," said the porter who had mentioned the name of the unfortunate man. " I can see that," said Mr. Dudley, rudely. " Am I to come any nearer ? " he added, stopping in his walk. Ample room was made round him, and nobody seemed to see the necessity for his thus instantly proceeding to make himself dis- agreeable ; but his doing so did not diminish him in the eyes of many of the crowd. He then condescended to advance to the body, and to kneel on one knee that he might examine it the better. Then the bystanders closed round him, at their peril. " Is there life ? " a voice ventured to inquire. Mr. Dudley looked up with enough rage in his face to imply that he could have saved the victim but for the wicked interference and interruption. " Who asks ? " he said, savagely. It was the elderly clerk who had spoken, but for a moment he was actually deterred from acknowledging it. But Mr. Dudley glared round for his answer, and the elderly clerk plucked up his spirit, and was about to speak. " Is it a fatal case ? " The words were given in no humble tone this time, and Mr. Dudley instantly recognised two facts — first that a new speaker was present, and secondly that he heard a voice whose owner had con- fronted him, by no means to his comfort, at a certain criminal trial some months previously. The great advocate, Serjeant Penguin, had joined the crowd, and had saved the elderly clerk from the storm that would have descended on him when Mr. Dudley, quitting his examination, arose to his feet in wi-ath. The storm was stayed — it was not upon Mr. Serjeant Penguin that Mr. Dudley, however angry, was inclined to discharge it. But he was resolute on insult- ing somebody. " If idiotic people would have the sense to stand back," said Mr. Dudley, " I could tell you, Mr. Serjeant. Perhaps you may have influence enough to get them to do so. Ah ! here are the police." In two minutes more the body of Andrew Barton was being borne from the square, Mr. Dudley having made, or affected to make, a brief examination, after which he had laid a cloth over the head of the poor fellow. He did not, however, deem it wise to affront the last speaker, and edging near him, said : " It is of no use, but they may take him to my surgery." "Makes a paragraph, Mr. Dudley, eh ?" said the serjeant, quietly. He let the crowd disperse, the superior part of it resolving itself once more into professional life, the rest forming an escort ready to 4 SOONER OR LATER. follow the body to Mr. Dudley's, or anywhere else, as permitted by the happy otiosity enjoyed by the million. The lawyer scanned the front of the house from whose top the man had fallen. There .was, liowever, nothing to distinguish it from its neighbours. One of the windows above the parapet was open, as was natural in such weather. There were no signs of a labourer's having been at work there, but the careful eye of the observer detected on the coping, at some distance, the handle of a tool, and some newly-laid mortar round a single tile. Of course, his act of accusation was ready at a moment's notice. "Those fellows never fall when at their lawful work. He had been taking a round of observation, of course, a snapping up of unconsidered trifles" (the Serjeant was capital at Shakspearian quotation, having professed acting in earlier life, though he acted far better before a jury than ever before an audience), " and our unfortunate Autolycus came to grief. He got in at that window, probably annexed something which friend Dudley will find upon him, and will or will not produce as circumstances may dictate, heard the proprietor's latch-key in the door, made too hasty a retreat, and fell over. Who lies i' the second chamber ? " He went to the doorway, and putting up his gold eye-glass read the names there painted. " ' Wimperley and Blamper,' ground floor : most respectable," said the Serjeant, wlio had a way of talking to himself — sometimes, it was imagined, when somebody was sure to hear him. " First floor, ' Mr. Gerald Kildare :' very rising man indeed ; good family. Second floor, ' Orbit and Wheeler :' celebrated engineers ; most celebrated, saw a wonderful plan of theirs at the Society of Arts — couldn't understand an infernal line of it," interpolated the great lawyer, frankly. " Top floor, ' Mr. Percy Vaughan.' Don't know anything about him, but he is the person whom the poor fellow yonder came to plunder, and has died for coming. ' For worms, brave Percy.' If lie has lost a watch or any such trifle, he had better inquire of friend Dudley." " Very shocking thing, sir," said the porter, who had known the Serjeant before his promotion, and as a sojourner in the Inn. He had lingered at a respectful distance, but came up as the gold eye- glass fell again. " A shocking thing indeed, Parker," said the serjeant, with his pleasantly rolling utterance. " A very shocking thing, Parker. You knew the man well, you said, Parker ?" The porter had said nothing of the kind, but the serjeant had a habit of assuming admissions. SOONER OR LATER. .5 *' No, sir, I know very little about him, except that he has done odd jobs about for a year or more." " His name I thought you mentioned — Barling, or something — I have such a way of forgetting names." He never forgot one, and having heard this, knew it as well as the porter did. " Andrew Barton, sir." " Married ?— children ? — I hope not, Parker." "Yes, sir, but a bad lot, I doubt. At least I have seen his wife when she has come to bring his dinner now and then, and I don't know that I ever see her without a black eye." " Hm ! Bad. But she's had the last of her black eyes now, unless she marries again. Something must be done for her, I suppose ? If you hear of anything of the sort going on, my clerk will give you a sovereign." " I'm sm*e you're very good, sir." "We must help our fellow-creatures in misfortune, you know, Parker — that's the golden rule." And the serjeant went off to Serjeants' Inn, to consider how he could best help a fellow-creature who had had the misfortune to be discovered in the act of burglary. Meantime the police conveyed the body of Andrew Barton to the residence of Mr. Dudley. It was in one of the small streets which, as has been said, are mixed up with the old-fashioned and respectable dwelling-places west of the Inn. Mr. Dudley had a shop, whereat could be procured not only the means, more or less adulterate, of curing the frame when sick, but where, with a noble forethought, he also supplied, in the form of sanatory applications, what is better than cure — namely, prevention. Cleanliness, which we all know has, so very distinguished a neighbour next to it on one side, has on the other a neighbour only second in the estimation of the wise, namely healthiness, and Mr. Dudley sold soap. He })erformed certain opera- tions in dentistry, but care renders such things needless, and Mr. Dudley disinterestedly sold the appliances the neglect whereof makes the dentist rich. Aware, too, that health is much promoted by attention to personal appearance, Mr. Dudley did not hesitate to sell the oil that maketh the servant-maid's hair to shine, nor did he dis- dain to increase her attractions by the addition of scent for her stubborn cambric kerchief. Of the more elevated portion of his professional practice it will be the less necessary to speak, for a reason which will shortly appear, but it may be added that Mr. Dudley had a large-minded confidence in the constituted authorities, and would sell any remedy to which Government (after the earnest b SOONER OR LATER. and conscientious investigation by its special oiBcer which precedes the sending out a medicine accredited by the Sovereign), lent its stamp, and that he extended the same large confidence to mankind in general, implicitly relying upon the statement of any customer that the deleterious or poisonous drug he or she required was Avanted for the most innocent, nay, laudable, of purposes. So good a man should have succeeded : but a good man struggling with difficulties is said to be a sight the gods love ; and their good nature had been indulged in the case of Mr. Dudley, who, up to the time of Avhich we are speaking, had been needy while he confined himself to every-day practice, and had, whenever he ven- tured on a coup, come into unpleasant contact with some minion of the law. But the gods were gi'owing tired of their favourite sight. " It is Mr. Dudley's waj^," he used to saj', " never to throw away a chance," and perhaps it is found, in this curious world, that men who are so fond of hoarding cliances often squander certainties. At all events, those who have gained the best stakes at the play-table of life, are thought to have done it by minding, steadilj^, the game itself, and have done little in the way of two-penny betting with by- standers, or even of picking up coins accidentally dropped. But Mr. Dudley took his own course, and adhered to it with a perseverance which merited reward. The outspoken serjeant had hit the mark when he alluded to a paragraph as j\Ir. Dudley's object in having the body removed to his own surgerj-. It was a point in his little game of life to procure such an advertisement. The accident would be recorded in the papers. The public around Mr. Dudley would be reminded of the existence of an accomplished practitioner, who instantly hurried to the spot, and with his habitual humanity and promptness caused the unfortunate m-an to be conveyed to the surgery, No. 17, Lancaster Street, Holborn, where every resource of science was brought to bear upon a case which, however, was hope- less, but it was a consolation to his bereaved friends to know that even a Ferguson or a Thompson (it was something to get the words Ferguson, Thompson, and Dudley into the same paragraph) could have done no more than was done by Mr. Dudley. Such an announcement, to be supplied to a few newspapers, by a friendly scribe, was all that Mr. Dudley hoped to gain from the acci- dent which made him the temporary curator of the unfortunate Barton. But how little do we know v.-hen great things are in store for us. He found, clutched in the hand that had lain under the body when first seen, a locket, of no great value. SOONER OR LATER. 7 This he easily and secretly secured, as the policeman turned to repel the crowd that swarmed into the shop. And he found life. Life, and but little of it, as may well be believed. But enough to enable the poor, shattered, dying man to utter a few words, which Mr. Dudley, all ear and greed, extracted to the last syllable, the last sob. An hour later the dead man was carried away. For reasons inexplicable, but according to the custom of the intel- ligent many, small crowds continued to assemble and gaze severely at the front of J\Ir. Dudley's shop for many hours after the removal of the remains. Ordinarily, Mr. Dudley, scoffing at their folly, and ragmg at their impeding casual customers, would rash out and try to disperse such assemblage by dint of language not to be condemned for weakness. But upon the present occasion, his not unpleasant face was undistm-bed by contempt or indignation. He stood behind his counter, and smiled in a manner which greatly troubled the mind of his boy, a youth whose lines had not fallen in pleasant places, and who was a good deal beaten (generally deserving it) by his arbitrary master. This evening, however, though Mr. Dudley seemed not to care greatly to attend to customers, he was actually affable in his occasional directions to the youth, and responded to any business in- quiries from him in a manner which was bewildering from its good nature. The younger medical gentleman, instead of receiving abuse ti-om the elder, varied, when the shop was empty, by a vicious dig, or a box on the ears, was upon this occasion treated so kindly that he was at first astounded, and then irritated, and conceiving that his employer had some deep-laid plan for humiliating or oppressing him, was obliged to relieve his mind by frequently diving under the counter, and there making the most fearful grimaces by way of pay- ment in advance for the wrongs he anticipated. But Mr. Dudley heeded him not, and when the hour came for closing the shop, and finally shutting out the big bottles of coloured water from the view of the dissatisfied crowd, the incensed and puzzled assistant per- fonned the duty with a wild and wilful clatter, one quarter of which, on another evening, would have sent him hungering and sore to his bed. But Mr. Dudley marked it not, and filled up the cup of the youth's endurance by giving him a small sum of money to buy some beer, liberality ill-rewarded by the savage toast in which the furious boy invoked discomfort on his master. And Mr. Dudley sat up late that night, thinking. He had better have acted promptly. He threw away advantages S SOONEE OK LATEK. while he was meditating his course. Had he, the instant that he was in i30ssession of the knowledge which he extorted fi'ora his dying patient, hastened back to the square, Dudley would have marvellously mended his chances. In the morning it was too late. In the morning, however, and just before the hour when legal business usually begins, Mr. Dudley again entered the square. Various of the hard-faced women who act as servants to the pro- fession were scuttling hither and thither, but with somewhat less of their ordinary slip-shod haste. The catastrophe of the previous day was in their minds, and they felt it necessary to hold small indigna- tion meetings from time to time, discuss the event, and gaze at the house before which it had happened. These inferior ministers of the law are not thought to entertain very friendly sentiments towards each other, nor did their conferences tend gi*eatly to pro- mote such feelings. But it was a duty to talk. With the curious faculty appertaining to the order, the conclaves managed to affix blame, in connection with the event, in quarters to which blame would scarcely seem to attach. Pity for the man was reproachfully expressed, and considerable disapprobation was expressed touching the Benchers, on the not improbable hypothesis that they were just then eating their comfortable breakfasts, and not thinking of the poor fellow who had been killed in putting new tiles on their pro- perty. It was also urged, with surly assent, that many folks cared very little what happened to anybody but themselves, and that if rich people had to mend their own tiles, they would not be in quite siTch a hurry to see that tiles were broken. It was, with one excep- tion, unanimously agreed that the occupants of the house from which Barton had fallen ought to do something handsome for his wife and children, and the single opposition speaker who could not at all see it in that way, and did not know what the gentleman on the first floor (who happened to be her employer) had to do with the matter, was accused of liaving no children, and informed that if she had any she would not go on in that manner. To her not unfair rejoinder that it was in confonnity with social rule to have a husband previously to having children, and that she was not so lucky as to possess the preliminary advantage, she was sarcastically reproved for not knowing when she was well off. In much additional discussion, in the same key, a good deal of time Avas sjaent, until various smart, and mostly undersized boys began to arrive at a pro- digious pace, and to rush up their respective stairs, whistling violently while they dared enjoy that recreation, and before their stern superiors should come and make it leze majesle. SOONER OR LATER. 9 Mr. Dudley's form, larger than any usually seen in the Inn at that hour, attracted some attention, and he was at once recognised by several of the women, with whom he was rather popular. For he was easy with his prices when dealing with any of them, looking to possible recommendations, which, given in the hurry attendant on sudden illness, had more than once procured him a good patient in the person of a terrified bachelor in chambers. " Good morning, Mr. Dudley. Out early, sir." " Yes, Mrs. Partridge, I am always out early. I have seen five or six patients already, and thought I would look in, on my way back to breakfast, just to look at the place that poor fellow fell fi'om. This was the house, I think." " This house, sir." " A fearful fall ; but perhaps it was better so than to linger for months in the hospital. Whose chambers are those at the top ? " " I really don't know, Mr. Dudley. My business stops at the first floor, and where my business stops, I stop." " A veiy sensible rule, Mrs. Partridge. But I suppose the gentle- man who occupies those rooms has his name up. Mr. Percy Yaughan — " he said, reading the inscriptions. " I should think he would be called before the coroner. Somebody hinted tliat poor Barton might have been in the room with the open window." " Somebody would be sure to say that, Mr. Dudley. Always suspect poor folks, of course, that's the way. But I shouldn't think that a gentleman on a top floor was likely to have much worth stealing." " 0, I don't accuse poor Barton a bit," said Mr. Dudley ; " and it is in his favour, as I shall be ready and glad to say at the inquest, that nothing was found upon him by the police. I insisted on their searching before he was removed, and I can testify to the fact. A poor person's character is as valuable to him as a rich man's, Mrs. Partridge ; and more so." " It's very noble of you to say it, Mr. Dudley, and it's what few gentlemen think," said Mrs. Partridge, whose sentimental zeal for the character of her order did her the more credit, inasmuch as, if her friends were not misinformed, it was notoriously disinterested. " I am sorry for it, Mrs. Partridge. You don't happen to know this Mr. Yaughan's laundress, I suppose ? " It is the business of ladies of Mrs. Partridge's profession never to know anything, but ]Mr. Dudley's sympathetic talk had worked her into a slightly abnormal state, and she replied readily enough. " I have seen a patient of yours going up-stairs, sometimes, Mr. Dudley, and I suppose she does for Mr. Yaughan, but I never asked 10 SOONER OR LATER. her. You know little Mrs. Wraggle, the same as had an eye about Christmas." The description might have sounded mystically to some auditors, but it enabled Mr. Dudley to identify the person he wanted. " Ah, poor thing ! the fair little woman whose husband is a brute." " She may give him cause, for what I know, Mr. Dudley," said Mrs. Partridge, with some bitterness. " Very true, Mrs. Partridge. It is a bad world. She may be up there now. I will just go up and see." He hastily mounted the stairs, abusing them for being so numerous, but though most of the other doors were open, the single door on the top landing was closed. The doctor rattled it, but no answering word was given. Then he peeped into the letter slit, but the oaken door within was as closely shut as its companion. He sat upon, or rather against the dusty shelf by the window, and waited some ten minutes in the chance of Mrs. Wraggle's arrival, but that patient came not. Finally, in an evil temper, Mr. Dudley went home, and it was a bad morning for his junior. We may remove poor Andrew Barton from the scene. The coro- ner's inquest was duly holden, and it elicited no fact with which we are unacquainted, while one or two small matters, known to the reader and to Mr. Dudlej^ were not revealed to the intelligent jury. It was shown that Barton was occasionally employed in repairs for the lun, that he had certain work to do on the morning of his death, and that he had nearly completed his task. In answer to a teetotal juryman Avho always introduced his favourite moral, in season or out of season, it was testified that Barton was perfectly sober when he went to his work. Xo evidence was adduced to show why he had gone to that part of the pai-apet whence he had fallen. Mr. Vauglian's laundress attended the inquest and stated that her employer had been out of town on the day of the accident, and for several days previously, that he had since visited his chambers, had left some written orders for her, which she produced, but had said nothing of any theft or loss. He had again left town, and his return was uncertain. She did not know that he had ever heard of the disaster, but she was told that it was mentioned in the papers. We know what Mr. Dudley intended to say, and he said it. The jury returned the usual verdict, which they coupled with a recommenda- tion to the Benchers of the Inn to place a strong iron railing all round their parapets, and the Coroner, a gentleman of sense and humour, bit his lip rather severely while gravely taking note of the advice. So Andrew Barton died, and was buried. CHAPTER 11. ONE SUNDAY EVENING. TVe are still detained in the prosaic locality to which the reader has been introduced, and it has become more prosaic than ever, for the day is Snnday. Mr. Francis Haslop, the eminent conveyancing counsel, was at his chambers in Gray's Inn Square. He was there for what a Protestant would have regarded as a work of necessity and of mercy ; but Mr. Haslop, a Catholic, would have deemed any such Sabbatarian excuse as supererogatory. '. Looked at from a secular point of view, the chamber in which Mr. Haslop sat was a place which no gentleman of quiet habits could be blamed for selecting as a retreat at any time. His apartment on the first floor, was furnished Avith comfort and with taste, and bore less resemblance to the ordinary workshop of a busy lawyer, than to the study of a literary man who has time and inclination for cultivating the mind that is to cultivate the minds of others. The handsome and lofty room was surrounded on three sides with book- cases, filled with a slowly chosen and valuable collection of works ; and the loving care of the owner was testified in the befitting bindings and in the orderly aiTangement of the library. There were two doors to the room, but both were concealed, when closed, by imitations of the adjoining shelves, and the quaint ingenuity of a scholar was displayed in the imaginary titles to the non-existent books. Thickly carpeted, vrith here and there a deep-haired and luxurious rug, with oak and crimson furniture of the best type, with a few valuable paintings, with three old Italian cut mirrors, and with a few choice objects cither of antiquarian interest or fictile beauty, Mr. Haslop's chamber would have been pleasant at any time. It was especially pleasant on this beautiful evening of early August, when the open windows, whose cills were loaded with flowers, admitted the soft air, and allowed the owner's eyes to rest on the rich green of the garden turf. Always tranquil, this part of London assumes on the Sunday a stillness that may be felt, and the sudden and welcome cessation of certain jangling bells (yet among the unabated nuisances of our large towns), caused Mr. Haslop to give a nod of 12 SOONER OR LATER. satisfaction, and to pour himself out a glass of claret from a crystal jug on a small table beside his easy chair. The chair had been in old times the property of a monastery, the table Mr. Haslop believed to have belonged to the Brinvilliers family, and the jug had what even the wary conveyancer deemed a good pedigree, and had been traced to the possession of Sir Kenelm Digby. And with most of the other furniture in the room some scrap of history was associated, for Mr. Haslop, being rich, could afford to wait for aught that he coveted, and could also afford to take it, without much heed to terms, when the opportunity came round. So when the jangle of the bells had ceased, Francis Haslop poured out his wine, and with a satisfied glance at its rich colour, held it for a moment to his lips without tasting it, and then, with eyes resting on the flowers and the green turf, slowly drank the perfumed draught. Do not judge him unkindly that he took this glass of wine complacently, luxu- riously, if you will. Francis Haslop is of somewhat spare figure, tall and graceful in manner and movement, as a man of refinement who has seldom had need of hun-y, and who has avoided as far as possible intercourse with others than persons of refinement. His head, though not of the highest or even the most powerful conformation, denotes ample and ready intelligence, and there is decision in the lower portion of the face. The hazel eyes are pleasantly keen, and have been proof against the intenninable puzzles Avhich it is his trade to solve and to set anew, for the golden eyeglass dangling at his button is never used when he is alone, but is merely kept as a defence to be occa- sionally thrown up against an antagonist. His complexion is fair, and his face entirely whiskerless. He may have been told, or have known without being told, that delicate and aristocratic features are too rare to be hidden as plebeians hide their coarse outlines. Has such a consideration weight with a gentleman of the age of fifty ? But he has, in revenge, defied the fashion that crops the head to stubble, and his dark brown, rich, wavy hair, into which no line of grey has yet intruded, gives almost a picturesque character to the handsome head. His smile is not too i-eady, but Avhen it comes is very pleasant, and to all appearance is devoid of that ironical expression so admired in the circles where conversation is not, how- ever, usually over-laden with second meaning, or greatly weighted with any. Mr. Haslop's smile is frank, as is natural in those who associate with the best and tlie best-natured society. There is a knock at the outside door upon the landing. " Come, there is one virtue where I did not expect even one — punctuality," observes Mr. Haslop. SOONER OR LATER. 13 He will not push away his Brinvilliers table, and he has no inten- tion of offeVing his wine to the expected visitor, yet he would not sit in a churlish attitude even in the presence of one whom he dislikes. The old monastery chair stood stubbornly enough in its ancient chamber, but Mr. Haslop is no bigot, and, thanks to secular uphol- stery, it wheels round with a wish. His back is to the wine table, and he rises to admit his visitor, for Mr. Haslop's clerk is a Pro- testant, and devoutly observant of Sundays at Richmond. Besides, the tolerant employer does not want him now. When the imaginary bookcase closes again, Mr. Haslop coldly but courteously requests his visitor to be seated. The person who obeys is a man of gentlemanly dress and appear- ance, who looks perhaps more than thirty years of age, and is perhaps two or three years younger. He is not in the least awed by the lofty manner of the aristocratic lawyer, but is respectful, as is befitting, considering the difference of years. His look around him is an interested but not vulgarly curious gaze at the graceful features of the apartment ; it is certain that he notes them more closely than is consistent with the absolute indifference held to imply that you also have been born in the purple, and that TjTian dye has no charm of novelty for you. The stranger's eyes would perhaps first attract a stranger's notice, they are very fine, of a violet hue, and almost un- pleasantly restless, or seem so in the calm of that apartment, and in presence of its tranquil master. You would next observe that the face is dark, is handsome, though with an occasional expression of fierceness, not so much called for by the business of the moment as by some internal and recurring habit of self-assertion ; and then it might occur to you that the intellectual faculties of the man would seem to promise domination over all others, save for the decided sensuousness of the mouth. The figure is slightly above middle height, is manly, even vigorous, and as the visitor, who is neatly and professionally dressed, draws off his well-fitted gloves, you perceive that the hands are large and powerful. Taken as a whole, the im- pression given you is favourable, but it may not be a good siga that as soon as this is proved, you are inclined to analyse and to disturb 3'our liking. '' I should apologise to you, Mr. Yaughan, for requesting you to call on a Sunday evening, but my reasons for doing so will be my excuse." Nothing could be more courteous than the words, but Mr. Haslop's tone scarcely accorded with them. It was not lost upon Mr. Yaughan, who replied, as from a perfect level with his host, " Pray make no apology, Mr. Haslop." 14 SOONER OR LATER. The great lawyer looked at his visitor for a moment or two, perhaps with no unkindness in his thoughts. At all events, he said, after a short pause, and with less coldness : " To us, you need not be told, the day is not one of observance like that of many excellent persons in this neighbourhood, — though, by the way, I suppose that the evangelical world, like the rest of us, emigrates after business hours ? " " I suppose that most rational persons endeavour to sleep in fresh air," said Mr. Yaughan, somewhat curtly. " I do, for one." " I trust that you succeed," said Mr. Haslop. There may have been an under-meaning in the words, but they were said so con- ventionally, as to leave no excuse for reply. " You have no partner, I think, Mr. Vaughan ? " said the con- veyancer, after a pause. " I have no partner. A firm with whom you are in constant inter- course will tell you — I need, therefore, make no secret of it — that my business is not too large for my own management." " Solicitors like to hunt in couples," said Mr. Haslop. " Have you a partner to propose to me, Mr. Haslop ? " replied Mr. Vaughan, almost haughtily, as indeed the previous speech warranted. " I will tell you presently. Meantime will you favour me with an answer to a straightforward question, which you will believe that I put for a reason ? What gentleman prepares deeds for jou?" *' I prepare my own deeds," replied Mr, Vaughan, quietly. " I am answered, of course, whether I am to understand you literally, or not." He waited as if to leani something, at least, by the reply ; but the reply was the slightest bow. " I will explain in a few words," said Mr. Haslop, after another pause, and an earnest look at his companion. " I will explain why I have asked you to call on me, and why I have asked you the question which you have — met. You desire to borrow fi'om a client of a firm whose papers come to me " " Hippisley, Cleavedon, and Lawes, liincoln's Inn Fields," said Mr. Vaughan, as in continuation of the other's words. " The sum of t\yo thousand pounds," said Mr. Haslop, without noticing the interpolation, " I made no secret to Mr. Cleavedon that the money was for myself, and there is no reason why he should not have mentioned the fact to you, Mr. Haslop. It is satisfactory to me to infer, from matters having gone so far, that you approve of the security." SOONER OR LATER. 15 " "Well, I have not yet advised on the title, but I may say to you that a perfectly good one is represented by the papers before me." " I had no reason to believe otherwise, or I should hardly have placed them in the hands of gentlemen who consult Mr. Haslop." " You knew that they employed me ? " said Mr. Haslop, suddenly. " Certainly, and " He stopped, and then repeated " Certainly." "You were about to say something else," said Mr. Haslop, almost eagerly. " "Will you say it ? " " Yes, but without intending any further explanation. It was because I knew that you were consulted by Mr. Cleavedon's house that I decided on applying to them for the money. I have no more to say on this point," said Mr. "Vaughan, composedly. " At present," murmured Mr. Haslop. again looking wistfully at his visitor. " The title was examined in the usual and regular manner, and all documents were found to have been accurately described by you ? " said Mr. Haslop. " They were," said Mr. "Vaughan, with a slight intonation of sur- prise. " I presume that Mr. Cleavedon would hardly have troubled you with the papers until that formality had been gone through." "You said that you had no partner, Mr. "V^aughau," said Mr. Haslop, gravely. " May I ask whether you are a married man ? " " I am not." " Your business, you have told me, is not large. Is it so large — and I am asking so strange a question that I think it will dispose you to give me a frank answer— is it so large as to prevent your abandoning it for other occupation, presuming you saw your way ? " " I will answer with perfect frankness — it is not. But I shall work it up, and I want this two thousand pounds as capital. I think I have spoken plainly, Mr. Haslop, but I am in the hands of a gentleman." " It is well for you, Percy Yaughan," said Mr. Haslop, coldly, " that you are in the hands of one whose notions of duty are not restricted to what is implied in the name of gentleman. How soon can you be ready to leave England ? " " I could leave England to-morrow. I have no intention of leaving it at all," replied Mr. Vaughan, without the least manifesta- tion of any kind. " Let us have no idle words, Percy Vaughan. You perfectly understand me — you have understood me all along. I return those papers to Hippisley's firm on Wednesday. Shall you have left England by Tuesday night ? " 16 SOONER OR LATER. " You have much more to say." replied the young solicitor. " Nothing, now. Something if you are here to-morrow night at ten o'clock," Percy Vaughan's nature broke out in his answer. " I can hardly be so early, as I have a lecture to deliver at Islington." " Might I ask its character ? " "It is upon the histoiy of some Popes of Rome, and would scarcely command your approbation, Mr. Haslop." Our corrupt nature must take the blame of the thing, but it is certain that a man, ^however good, has an utterly unjustifiable admiration for manhood, however displayed. Knowing what Mr. Haslop knew, he had no right to relax the severity of his tone, on this second repulse, and yet he only said : " Give the lecture, and come to me when it is over. I will detain the papers one day more. One day only." " I am not pressed for the money, Mr. Haslop, if that be your meaning." Mr. Haslop has''a self-asserting nature, too, and the fair com- plexion flushes and the hazel eyes shine out upon occasion, and the occasion is here. He conquers himself, however, as becomes a truly brave man, as he rises from his chair, and instead of making an angry and indignant speech, he rests a hand upon the back of the chair, and says : " Percy Vaughan, two'years ago you were living on the borders of South Wales. During your sojourn there you rendered an important service to a young lady— Magdalen Conway." The name has been so suddenly brought out that Percy Vaughan has had no time for self-mastery, and his face breaks into a glow. He makes no answer. " You saved that young lady from an outrage, and her friends are mindful that you did so. They will save you, in return, from a peril that now hangs over you, and I am ready to be their agent. Will you come to me to-morrow night at eleven, and say that you are ready to leave England? " "If I say that I will not?" " Do not act the madman, Percy Vaughan," said Mr, Haslop, with actual agitation. " You must go, and we throw open a gate for you — wait a few hours more and it must close against you. We would repay you the service you rendered to Magdalen Conway. We put no price upon such a service, but you wanted two thousand pounds — you shall have double the sum at ten to-morrow night. Am I to say any more ? " SOONER OR LATER. 17' " Yes." *' You desire more money ? " " I do not wish to speak of that — let me ask you a question. "Why am I to go ? " " Good Heaven ! need I tell you to your face ? " " I wish you to do so." " Because you are a forger." " Yes," said Percy Vaughan, as calmly as if he had heard indif- ferent words ; " I supposed that to be your meaning. May I ask what has led up to the suspicion which you have done me the honour to state as a fact ? " " I will tell you, but what does it matter ? In forging the last deed but one of the series set out in the title you have laid before me, you were hasty or ignorant enough to use words that had not 3'et been adopted — you forgot the date of an Act of Parliament." ^ This was evidently the truth, or why did Percy Vaughan turn pale ? Not with fear, but with anger — anger with himself that he should have made this false step. But ^though anger will turn like the scorpion, it will not do so when there is aught else to sting. " Who detected this ? " " I," was the calm answer. " And you have kept the discovery to yourself ? " " We are quite alone, and there is no chance of any one entering these rooms for more than twelve hours. You are younger, and should be stronger than I am, and I take my seat in this chair," said Mr. Haslop, with calmness. " There is money in that cabinet, not so much, certainly, as I have offered you, but still a considerable sum. I have kept the secret to myself — no one else can know it but you. Are you thinking of violence ? I have stated the temp- tations fairly, and you may think that it is better to take yonder money now than wait for the chance of my changing my mind." The younger man made no reply for some moments, and then appeared to revert to Mr. Haslop's last words. " Is it courageous," asked Percy Vaughan, " to use such language to me, after giving the right to say what you had said before ? " " I think it is," said Mr. Haslop, quietly. " But I have no wish to say anything to you that is not strictly necessary. We all talk too much in this world. I was wrong," he added, " and I ask your pardon. I should have remembered that you showed yourself a brave man, when, single-handed, and with no weapon but a stake snatched from a hedge, you beat off the three miners, and rescued Miss Conwav." 18 SOONER OR LATER. " It is not a great matter," said Percy Vaughau, " for an active man who understands single-stick to drive off a batch of half- drunken clowns. I did a braver thing than that, Mr. Haslop." " I suppose that I guess your meaning." " No one has ever had, from me, a right to guess it," replied Vaughan, earnestly, " but I tell you now, because we shall never meet again, that it was a braver thing in me to leave that neighbourhood, and see Miss Conway no more." " If you felt it to be so, it was so," said Mr. Haslop, coldly. " You mean that my suit would have been hopeless, that I might have stayed for any chance I had of anything but gi-atitude from your ward. I understand the pride which speaks to me. Perhaps you are right." " The discussion cannot be useful. You will be here to-morrow night at eleven ? After that, as you say, we shall probably not meet again." " I will come." He came on the following night, and very few words passed between them. Mr. Haslop placed the promised money in the hands of Percy Vaughan, refusing to take any sort of acknowledgment, and ending the interview as speedily as he could. Nothing could be less business-like than the entire transaction, as performed by one of the most regular and business-like of men. But Mr. Haslop, when alone, felt satisfied with what he had done. To hint at unsolved mysteries is a vulgar device, to make premature disclosures is an error in art, but it may be said that he knew more than we have told, but far less than we shall have to tell. CHAPTER III. THE OCTAGON CLUB. " 0, COME ]iere a minute, Wigs — glad I caught you," said Mr. Charles Launceston to Mr. Henry Wigram, as they met, about lunch time, in the hall of the Octagon Club. " If you're glad, I'm glad," said Mr. Wigram, in a voice which, for some reason, he usually made very melancholy, perhaps because no handsome young fellow in London had less to be unhappy about. " Come into the smoking-room for two minutes," said Launceston, leading the way. " You said one minute," murmured Wigram, pensively following his friend. " But never mind," he added, seating himself in the easiest of all the easy chairs in the luxurious chamber which they had entered, and taking the usual comfortable attitude which long study in such matters had taught him to discover. " Look here. Wigs. We are going to give Ernest Dormer a dinner. You'll be in it, won't you ? " " Who's we ? and why to Dormer ? and why ask me ? " responded jMr. Wigram, hopelessly. " Why, you like him, don't you ? " " I don't dislike him, that I know of." " Well, then, you'll be glad to hear that his marriage affair is settled at last, and is to come off next week." " Wliy should I be glad to hear that a good fellow is going to be got rid of ? Always the way. As soon as one has had time to find out that a ]nan is worth laiowing, he bolts. I thought that marriage Avasn't to be ? " " It wasn't. But it has been squared. The bride's parents cannot make up their minds to part with their only child, — I know mine were uncommonly ready to part with me, but that's nothing to the purpose, — and so they have made the condition tliat Ernest shall settle doAvn at Nay bury. He agrees, and the event is fixed. And as I tell you, we're going to give him a sort of farewell dinner, by way of a finish to his bachelor existence." " Here ? " c 2 20 SOONER OR LATER. " Yes." *' Might have done better for him than that," said Mr. Wigram, discontentedly. " Why didn't you go somewhere else ? " " What for ? Phelps can do very well, if you give him time, and instil a few notions into him. Latrobe is going to see to all that." " Latrobe knows nothing about a dinner." " He thinks he does, and Jemmy Rydon is to be viceroy over him." " Who is simply a cannibal — an infatuated cannibal. I told him so last night, when he was actually eating those infernal canvas- back ducks, done to a cinder, instead of being just shown the fire. I suppose you want to prepare poor Dormer, by degrees, for the horrors of domestic cookery. Who are the other fellows ? " " Six or eight. Let's see — there's you, and there's myself, and Sam Mangles " " What for ? " " Dormer and he are very intimate, went to Norway together, and all that. And Mangles is a very good fellow, except to the authors he cuts up. Then there's Mil warden " " To run off to a consultation in chambers, or say he does, just as things are beginning to be a little pleasant." " Well, I can't help his having no end of business, can I, you old grumble ? He'll be a judge, one of these days, and then he need not run away. Then there's Doddy Dalston, and Alford, and your friend Marsden." " My friend ? I never speak to him." " But he speaks to you, at awful length, which is all the same. Don't say it isn't, for I heard him a night or two ago explaining the French and Austrian treaties to you in his usual luminous and exhaustive manner, and I couldn't think what you wanted to be crammed for. Horace Clyde pretended to want to bet that you were going to stand for Finsbury." " Horace Clyde is an ass. Is he coming to the dinner ? " " Come where there's anything to pay ? Xo, Wiggins. I asked him, for fun, and he spoke of Dormer's merits for twenty minutes, and stated that he admired Ernest to idolatry, and would have given anything to be off an engagement for that evening with some old ' college friends. If you like to invite him as your guest, I'll lay six to two he finds that he mistook the day of the college dinner." " I wish he was coming, though," said Wigi'am, whom no arrange- ment exactly pleased. " He tells good stories, and never sulks if he is interrupted. " I've told you how to get him. I don't think there's anybody SOONER OR LATER. 21 else. Yes, there's a young fellow, a parson, I fancy, or thereabouts, called Grafton. Sam Mangles knows him." " One of his contributors, I suppose. But I don't see why he should dine here because he sells ill-nature to Sam Mangles." " That's not it. He lives in Naybury, where Dormer is going to live, and I think that Grafton, pere, is a rector in the neighbourhood." " Nice account the young confessor will be able to give to the ladies at Naybury about the bridegroom's fi-iends and associates. A clever thing, your asking him, certainly." " That's not my business, Wiggy. Besides, this club is celebrated for its virtue and morality. Now I'm going to ring for some sherry and bitters. Have some ? " " The bitters here are simply detestable, but I will have a glass of dry sherry, as they are pleased to call it. Is this match a good thing for Ernest Dormer ? " " There will be a good deal of money coming when the old folks go, I believe, but I don't imagine that they hand over much now." " The selfishness of age — what a sad thing selfishness is. I have sometimes thought that you were inclined to be selfish, Charles. Pray eschew the habit. What is the young lady's name — I forget — begins with a C Conroy, or thereabouts ? " " Conway. Christian name Magdalen, which I happen to know from having assisted at the purchase of divers jewels for her yoimg ladyship." " Conway, yes. Did I not hear something about a conversion from Popery, or to Popery, or something ? " " I think there was something of the sort, and one don't like to hear of such things. People who get converted are usually open to other influences. I really don't know which way it was. Dormer will be comfortable enough, I suppose — he has about fourteen hun- dred a year, and his uncle cleared his debts, you know. And then he is not a helpless beggar without mental resources, like you. He can read a book, and understand it, and he can write reasonably well, so that he has occupation. It's a good hunting country. And I hear, too, that the girl is very nice indeed." " Well, we'll hope for the best. Ring again, and ring like the devil, I believe that there is no house in the whole world where the servants are so long in answering the bells." Mr. Phelps, the cook at the Octagon, was on his mettle. His predecessor, a splendid Frenchman, had been adored by the female domestics, but obnoxious to the quieter members of the club, by reason of his utter and avowed contempt for any gentleman who ordered a mutton chop. Many men like mutton chops, and those 2Z SOONER OK LATER. who do are usually long-suffering, but very determined when they take action. The Octagon men rebelled, and insulted the Com- mittee. The Committee were individually haughty, but as a body, submissive, and the French artist was discharged, nominally on the ground that the club-maidens found him too fascinating for the moralities. He took this as a compliment, and retired gracefully. The Englishman's testimonials were admirable, and men do not give a testimonial to a cook with the lavish and unconscientious profusion of laudation which one puts into a letter intended to help a clerical or medical fi'iend into a responsible office. It was not denied that Mr. Phelps lacked some of the higher attributes of a cook, but if unim- aginative, he was earnest, and a true, if not an inspired artist. He took office, but was made to understand that the Committee would be severe and perhaps unfriendly watchers of his policy. Happily for himself, he had both nerve and ambition, and he was sustained by the confidence of the middle classes in the club, to Avhose opinions he made no secret of his belief that much deference ought to be shown. He gave special attention to the mutton chops. Launceston, who was on the Committee, and who belonged to the high epicurean party, had all a gentleman's sense of justice ; and though, as we have heard, he was not inclined to be enthusiastic, he had even taken the trouble to hold a conference with Mr. Phelps touching the banquet in question, and had imparted to the cook some valuable hints, besides an intimation that this dinner would probably settle his status in the judgment of his patrons. The soul of the artist was touched, he thanked Launceston, but not with unworthy humility, and resolved, in the language of a sterner art than his own, to do all that he knew. He showed that he knew a great deal. The party assembled, and it happened that though collected with reference to Ernest Dormer's position rather than to the liking of the various men for one another, the gathering was a good and a repre- sentative gathering. Most of the fellows had a specialty, and few bored the others with it. Mr. Mangles, the editor of a critical journal, and one of its best writers, was appointed to be the chief of the feast, because on that occasion it would be necessary to make a little speech in honour of the guest, and Mr. Mangles was great at little speeches. He was an exceedingly good-hearted man, always doing kindnesses in a private way, and executing his public victims as matter of business and without either malice or mercy. If you were a poet, or a novelist, or a historian, he would utterly ruin — or instruct one of his brilliant myrmidons to ruin — your play, tale, or romance, if he deemed it meet, the week after he had dined with you, and floated French anecdotes to you through smoke until three in the SOONER OR LATER. 23 morning. But if you were in a scrape of any kind, or if there were illness in your house, he would drive over London until that or any otlier hour in the morning to hunt up fiiends, or doctors, or anybody whom you thought could be useful, and his cheque-book was as ready as his kind words. Outsiders, who knew nothing of his good natm-e, believed him to be an incarnation of cruelty, sent on earth for the destruction of rising talent, and his friends, who understood him, could not be expected to be always expounding his merits— friends do not exert themselves much to such ends — so Mr. Mangles bore an unfavourable reputation, far and wide. This he bore very easily, he made a great deal of money, and, being a bachelor, he lived pleasantly and wrote unpleasantly in the most comfortable of chambers in Lincoln's Inn Fields. His tall thin figure, keen features, and unsympathetic manner might have made it probable, as times go, that he was the husband of some veiy pretty and affectionate little woman who worshipped him, and doubtless he might have been, had he so chosen, but he did not choose to be worshipped, and certainly worshipped nobody. There is not much more to say of Mr. Charles Laimceston than we have already said, in recording that gentleman's conversation with his friend. He had been in the army, and had seen some service, but had retired with the intention of marrying a young lady who had accepted him, and having then seen somebody whom she thought she liked better, had evaded the disagreeable duty of telling Launceston this except by eloping with the gentleman whom she prefen-ed. Charley Launceston was chiefly enraged, because Mary Woolnott's in-egular behaviour had caused him to disaiTange his life to no purpose. His friends consoled him with the epigTams always made upon a giii who elopes, and with the prophecies which as regularly attend such an event, and Charley was readily comforted, and gave himself to billiards. Everybody liked him. It has been said that nearly all the guests on this occasion had specialty. Charley Laun- ceston was an exception, unless we may reckon as an accomplishment his unrivalled power of giving nicknames at the shortest notice. Some of them stuck. ]\Ir. Milwarden was a handsome, very bright-eyed, and very pleasant-tongued barrister, who was rising rapidly. Foreseeing that he would, as Launceston had said, become a judge, and having observed that some of our excellent judges have fallen into error for want of practical knowledge of life, Mr. Milwarden, with a prudence hardly to have been expected in one so young, was taking pains to familiarise himself with all kinds of life, daily, and likewise nightly. The unthinking might suppose that he was only amusing himself 24 SOONER OR LATER. and gratifying an energetic and buoyant nature, when they met him at all sorts of places and at all sorts of hours, but he was always ready with the gravest explanation that a lawyer can never tell what sort of knowledge may not be useful to him. Like Bacon, he said he held all knowledge to be his province. Milwarden's readiness and presence of mind were rare gifts. To see him, after a clamorous supper-party at chambers, throw down his cards and cigar, and suddenly address himself to stupid and earnest law talk on a remote sofa, was to be convinced that his future would be just what he pleased to make it. He made his present as crowded and exciting a day as is good for a gentleman of thirty. The other London guests may just be " observed," as the reporters say. Doddy Dalston — let us save the honour of his sponsors by mentioning that he was christened Theodore— was not thought to have much imagination ; but if he had a dim idea of a future state, it was held that Doddy's visions were of some place where nobody has to pay debts. His earthly power of incurring obligations of the kind, notoriously never meeting them, and yet of always looking like a gentleman, and having money for everybody but creditors, amounted to a financial and social miracle. His utter ruin had long ceased to be matter of prediction and had taken its place in history ; but there Doddy sat, exceedingly well dressed, and listening with an air of complacency to solvent men, and as if his only doubt was whether he should buy the house which one of them wished to sell, or to beg the other to invest the money for him in Madagascar Passives. Moreover, whether Doddy Dalston got hold of his money by burglaries, as some of his friends insisted, or by picking the pockets of bankers' clerks in the City, as others con- tended, he got it, and never sponged. It need not be said, therefore, that Dalston was much liked. So was Jemmy Rydon, for other causes, the most salient perhaps being the capital parties which he was fond of giving at a certain secluded villa in a north-western suburb, where Mr. Rydon, who always intended to marry, but never did, was rehearsing domesticity. So was little Walter Latrobe, because he had been a gallant soldier, and in an emergency had held a fort with a handful of men against a raging mob of Indian niggers, and with his own small white hand had sent a dozen of them to Padalon, before the relieving force of cavalry came down to the slaughter. He had a gentle feminine voice, and was loved of women for his beauty and valour, and of children, because his business in life was the invention of child-games. It may be that he was wicked at odd hours. Then there was the instructive Dick Marsden, Avho knew everything, and the indolent Tom Alford, who knew nothing, and the SOONER OR LATER. 25 remaining type was Willy Daimes, who went in for politics, and was always standing for some place or other, and always losing because he made his agents leave off bribing just at the point when another three hundred pounds would have sent their principal into the British Legislature, The Reverend Edward Grafton, who had been invited by Mr. Mangles, for the reasons which we have heard imparted in the Laun- ceston fashion, will be heard of hereafter, and it is not desirable to keep the dinner waiting while we enter into his history, or his character. He appeared to the rest of the party in the guise of a tall, slight, fresh-coloured young clergyman, who had a good deal to say, but not the art which enables a man to bring out what is in him. He coloured a little in speaking, spoke too long when he got an innings, and waited too long to get one. Two or three of the party noticed that he took wine somewhat too fast, and that late in the dinner he was inclined to echo the words of others, and express himself captiously thereabout. These small signs might merely indicate that the young clergyman had not had time to become a man of the world. Nor will we, as yet, say much more of the chief guest of the evening, Ernest Dormer, than could have been said next day by any of those who dined with him. Let him disclose his character for himself as he goes through life. It is only in novels that you are given so tremendous an advantage over a new acquaintance as is comprised in your reading his biography before you meet. Let us, being among gentlemen, play more fairly. Nobody at that table, except Mr. Mangles, knew much about Ernest Dormer, popular as he was at the club that was thus affectingly bidding him farewell. Everybody was always glad to see the handsome, easy-mannered, frank- spoken man, of two or three and thirty, who could talk horses and salmon and ballet with the light-minded, but had an eye for the Independance Beige, and the British division lists, and could not only quote Horace, but had, on occasion, proved that he knew Greek. He was ready with good stories and sayings, discreet or less discreet, by other people, and he was able, without manifest eifort, to say a reasonably smart thing of his own. He always spoke kindly of women, in fact, so charitably that pious women did not believe he had any religion. He was not, however, reluctant to say unkind things of men, but it was in a way which seemed to imply that this was only the conventional mode of showing one's clear-sightedness — the world did not believe that Ernest Dormer was malicious. He dressed well, if somewhat under the mark at which man becomes angel in the eyes of the teens, but he could afford this, for his fine well-set head, with rich aubm-n hair, bright Saxon eyes, clean-cut lip, 26 SOONER OR LATER. some little temper hinted there, — and gallant bearing, made him a notable in most companies of the somebodies. Tall, well made, not obtrusively active in movement, but with a frame which gave evidence of power, Ernest Dormer was a capital specimen of the English gentleman, who is neither an epicurean nor an athlete. "When in London he rode, but shot no pigeons and pulled in no boats. When in the country, with friends, he took the field sports easily, never coming to grief, but rivalling no groom or gamekeeper, and, so far as his friends knew, his gambling was limited to a few mild bets in the great races, and a readiness to back his habitual good luck at whist. Of his private life his intimate friends knew only what has been hinted, namely, that he had certainly got into debt, and had lately been helped out of it. Charley Launceston, who liked him very much, nevertheless declared, photographically, that he was a very successful Negative, but Charley did not know everything. We are grateful to some old novelists, especially that disagreeable Scotchman, Mr. Tobias Smollett, for recording the conversations of our ancestors. jSTot that the conversations themselves fire worth much, but that they show those venerated persons in their natural manner, and not instructive, patriotic, or sentimental. It may be supposed — though we try to repel the idea — that a hundred years hence our club talk will seem as pert and in as bad taste as the tavern dialogues which Tobias has given us. I apprehend that there is no remedy for this. We write or speak vainly, if in the belief that our tone is better than that of our grandfathers, or in the hope that it will be more acceptable to our grandchildren. One does not know by what sarcastic word they will ridicule our old-fashioncdness and dulness ; one does not know whether, a hundred years hence, it will be the thing to be very refined or very coarse. But we may be assured that in either case we shall be contemptuously dealt with, even as we have dealt with all those who have gone before us. Let us defy posterity, cVavance, and speak as fr'ee Britons. " Study your dinner, gentlemen," said Mr. Mangles. " Having had nothing to do with ordering it, I may be allowed to say that the document before each of you shows an eflbrt of high art, for which labour we are much indebted to two persons, or shall I say parties, now present." " What's the objection to the word party? " said Milwarden. " I admit that it is used in the diplomacy of plebeians, but it is a good word, indicating an interest. Person is a feeble abstraction." " You speak as a mere lawyer, Milwarden," said Wigram, in his melancholy voice. SOONER OR LATER. 27 " Don't talk of mere lawyers as if they were blackbeetles, Mr. Wigram, but pass the cayenne." " Cayenne to that ! Latrobe ancU Eyclon, overlook the insult to yourselves, and let us ask the waiters not to tell Phelps." " Or rather," said Eydon, solemnly, " let him be told that it vras only Mil ward en who could so trample on an artist's feelings, I have always held that the law is a brutalising profession." " One has heard the sentiment," said Milwarden, composedly, " chiefly, however, from vexatious defendants and prisoners whose alibis have broken down," " It's too early in the dinner for talk," said the gentle Walter Latrobe. " Especially chaff," said the instructive Dick Marsden, " In fact, with any stranger present, I submit that this sort of thing, which the interlocutors appear to think'repartee, be remitted to the smoking room. Mr. Grafton, I assure you that there is not that absolute lack of sense here which you would jnfer from the tone of these gentlemen." The young clergyman was not ready Avitli a reply to the half- banter of the serious looking Marsden, but Mangles was always ready. " Kather thank Mr. Grafton, as the representative of a virtuous country village, that Dormer is to be removed there, before he gets mentally demoralised." " You'll keep in the club. Dormer, I hope ? " said Tom Alford. One or two listened for the answer. " My subscription is paid, you know, several months in advance," said Ernest Dormer, " so I have time for consideration." He liad not answered the question, and the clergyman, who had expected an instant reply in the negative, looked up at him involun- tarily. Ernest knew why, and at once added, laughing, " I don't think that they'll see much more of me here, Edward." " I should think not," said the priest, simply. " The engaged men always say that," said Mr. Eydon, jollily, yet with a certain faint malice. " I have heard the vow till I know it by heart, and it is kept like a good many other vows." " Eydon, as a moralist of the first class, a Sir Galahad of the Wood of St. John, is entitled to be severe on us who only try to be good," said Ernest Dormer, as pleasantly, and quite as meaningly. " I hear you," said Eydon, who was really good-natured. " Well, Willy Daimes, how are your politics ? Quite well ? I saw a brougham at your door yesterday, and fancied it was Mr. Brand's. Are they going to put you in anywhere ? " 28 SOONER OR LATER. " I have not heard of it," said Mr. Daimes, " but it would be a delicate attention on the part of the Cabinet." " You lost Mutford, I think ? " said Marsden, in his curt un- feeling way, not that he meant to hurt feelings, but having none of his own, he never recognised anybody else's. " You were nearly in, I believe, but came to grief in a hurry ? " " I resigned when I saw that I could not go on without the use of means which — which I did not intend to use," said Mr. Daimes. But ilarsden meant to say his say, and though he was not at all intimate with Daimes, and though he was annoying that unlucky candidate very much, he went on. " Bosh, my dear fellow, we all know about that. A man who is in the Home Office told me exactly what was spent on both sides. The joke of it is that it is a matter of certainty that if you had not been frightened and thrown up the sponge at two, the other man would have given in at a quarter past. He makes no secret of it." " In that case you have a right to tell it," said Mr. Daimes, en- raged. " And I have a right to say that I don't believe a word of it." " But consider, my dear Daimes," said Milwarden, smiling, " how much more enviable is your position than that of your guilty oppo- nent. He boasts a victory bought with gold, whilst you are proud of a defeat " " Bought with bank-notes," said Launceston. " Hush," said Milwarden. '•' At the same time I regret the result, because had Daimes been returned, and petitioned against, as he would certainly have been, I think his regard for me would have been shown in a brief." " You were certainly wrong to retire as you did," persisted Marsden the pachydermatous. " At least they all say so, and that they expected you would show more pluck." " Expected that he would stand more plucking," said Launceston. " I fear you are fiivolous, Launceston," said Mr. Mangles. " Some wine ? I say I fear you are frivolous. I wish you would read some books, and purify your mind fi'om old jokes." " I like that," returned Launceston, " when it is the business of your life and that of your accomplices to prove that no books are worth reading." " The reply was prompt," said Mangles, serenely, " but I could probably make a few selections, of a rudimentary character, that might enable you to commence an education." SOONER OR LATER. 29 " I'll come to you for it to-morrow, Samuel, my son," laughed Launceston ; " and as I shall come at lunch time, have out that famous Amontillado of yours. Have you tasted that fellow's Amon- tillado, Doddy ? " *' No," said Theodore Dalston, " but I don't believe it's better than mine," he added, as doggedly as if he were a millionnaire. " TTe'll have two competitive lunches, then," said the radiant Launceston. " Doddy against Sammy, at the competitors' rooms and expense, and everybody here shall come and judge between them. That is the English, manly way of settling a dispute, eh ? " he said, looking defiantly round as if the proposition had been assailed. " Tom Alford, and Henry Milwarden, charge yourselves with the execution of this decree." " Have you seen Gracie Clare in the Demon and tlie. Dumpling, Alford ? " asked Mr. Eydon. •' Never heard of the play. What is it ? " was the reply. *' The play's a burlesque, if you know what that is." *' Yes, I know what that is." " I don't believe he does," said Milwarden. " On your oath, did you ever see a burlesque, Thomas Alford ? and be cautious, because your words will be taken down. Don't hurry, but mind and speak the tnith." "You all chaff me because I don't go to the theatres much," returned Mr. Alford, '' but I never heard any of you come in from one of them without declaring that he never heard such bosh in the course of his life. Why should I bore myself ? " " Rydon," said Milwarden, " I see you are unequal to the reply — excuse me for taking it out of your hands. Alford, have you no duties to society ? Is everything to be determined by your selfishness ? Could a community hold together if all men followed your rule ? Do you ever dine out ? Can you sit by a young lady at dinner for five minutes, and not be asked the question which Rydon asked you, or something cognate thereto ? Do you know what cognate means ? Do not confound it with cognac, which is coming round." " The theatre bores me, I tell you," said the unmoved Tom Alford. First, it gives me a headache. Secondly, there are no pieces worth hearing. Thirdly, there are no actors worth seeing. Fourthly, I hate to dine early. Fifthly, I hate to dress. And sixthly, they won't let you smoke, even between the acts." " Orson is endowed with reason, after all," said Latrobe. " I never go, if I can help it, except to take children. That's fun, if you like." " Yes, that's your weakness, I know," said Dalston. " I tried it, I am sure, in good faith. I took my sister's children, when she was 30 SOONER OR LATER. out of town, to see FranTcenstein and the Castle S^oedre, and she would not speak to me for three months. I give you my word the creatures screeched till we were nearly turned out of the theatre. How I hated them just then, and they are pretty little things too." " By Jove," said Walter Latrobe (only he made a stronger appeal and meant it), " you ought to have been hanged." " Very likely," said Doddy, " all in good time. I say, Latrobe, you know the Sylehams, I think ? " " I am happy to say yes. Lady Syleham's two youngest girls are the loveliest children in the whole world." " Not prettier than my nieces, I'll bet. But the girl I am going to speak of is not exactly a child, that is, she may be nineteen or so. I saw her at the Zoological on Sunday." " That must be. Isabella, the second daughter. The eldest is married. Who was she with ? " " Fat party in velvet, garrulous, over-dressed, and asthmatic." " I don't know. Lady Syleham is a lady, and looks one." "Never mind, I bear no malice against Miss Isabella for having been so accompanied. She would atone for an uglier guy of a chaperone. I say, by Jove, what an awfully lovely complexion ! " " Isn't it rather ? And such sweet eyes." " There is a clergyman present, gentlemen," said Mr. Mangles. " I wish he could be present at a brief but significant interview between the lady we speak of and myself," said Doddy Dalston. " I suppose you couldn't introduce me, Latrobe the brave." " Not brave enough for that," said the soldier in his gentlest voice. "I fear you share the common want of faith in my financial attitude," said Dalston, archly. " It is strangely difficult to be appre- ciated in this world." "The error will probably be corrected in the next," said Milwarden, judicially, " for which reason, prisoner, it is charitable to wish you many happy returns of the day." Edward Grafton would probably have felt it his duty to make some remark on this levity, but he was engaged in talk with Mangles, who amused himself by sounding the young clergyman in reference to M. Ren an, whose sentimental star had just appeared in the theo- logical horizon. " I have not read the book. I don't want to read it," said Mr. Grafton. " In fact," he said simply, " I don't read French with any comfort. But I have seen it described, and I have had extracts before me, and I know enough of it to be clear, that M. Renan is a detestable infidel." SOONER OR LATER. 31 *' Convictus atqiie comlustiis" said Milwarden, gravely. " Yes, I would bum the book," said the young clergyman, colour- ing, but not abashed. " I am aware that anything like earnestness in such matters is out of fashion, but," he added, vehemently, " if I would crush a viper that was going to poison the body of my child, why should I not crush out a book that might poison his soul ? " It may be taken for fact that never in the history of the Octagon Club had member or stranger pronounced words of this kind within the walls. It spoke well for the good manners of the audience that nobody smiled, or even looked surprised. I doubt whether a prayer meeting would have behaved as politely had a spectator suddenly appealed to the Koran. " I am not defending M. Kenan," said Mr. Mangles, as soon as he could bring his mind back into its habitual mood of gentlemanly cynicism. " I think the work as weak as water. Speaking only as to matter of taste, we do not wish to see the Veil decked with tinsel. But," he went on, not exactly knowing what to say, " ought we not to respect faith, even when only a grain of mustard seed ? " " Not French mustard," said Ernest Dormer. And the speech, not over-reverent, relieved the party, for it gave them an excuse for a laugh, and theology passed away. But the memory of that young clergyman's speech came back in after days to some who forgot it when their surprise had gone by. The good wine of the Octagon did its work, and man after man unthawed, lost his mannerism, and talked hard and fast. Latrobe, Avhom nothing ever excited, except some case of cruelty to a child, was one of the two who maintained his composure, yet even he occasionally raised that small white hand Avhich had been dyed so red in his Indian fray, and sought to make his gentle voice heard amid the strife of tongues. The rest flew at all game, and discussed public and private characters, men, women, books, pictures, politics, and scandal, with that perfect fi-eedom of language which is found only among London men of a certain type. There was some wit, some humour, but a certain reckless decision in pronouncing sen- tence was the special feature of that debate, and Edward Grafton, in spite of his college experiences, was astounded at the promptness with which that party of self-reliant and unhesitating judges gave the doom in all and everything that came before them. The other quiet man was Ernest Dormer, who heard them all, but answered few. Perhaps he was thinking that he should hear little more of that fiery talk when he should have accepted the conditions imposed by the parents of his bride. CHAPTER IV. MAGDALEN S HOME. It may be doubted whether the novelist who works elaborately upon the description of scenery and other external objects is not rather complying with tradition, or with his own sense of his art, than earning the attention or the gratitude of his reader. Eare indeed is the faculty of effectively dealing with nature and with the additions which man has made to her handiwork, and even more rare is the habit of patient heed to each successive touch by which the picture is made to approach completion. There have been mighty masters in their department of art, who by a few bold strokes suddenly impress upon you the character of the scene into which they hurry you ; and there are still among us those who by close and exquisite painting compel you to follow detail after detail, and who have the power to delay the reader from the stronger excitement of narrative. But miless we have to conduct him into regions of grandeur, or into those whose extreme beauty must not be unrecog- nised, it may be more than questionable whether the writer who would please should not leave the reader to please himself in the realisation of localities. It may be safely asserted that the majority of readers will do so, without over-nice attention to the stage- directions of the author, and will, upon general hints from the latter, freely draw upon their own memories or constructive power. Hence it may be that our forefathers were not so unwise, in the matter, as this enlightened age knows them to be upon all others. Our ances- tors of the writing sort told us that Mr. Bountiful resided in a beautiful but retired village in the western part of the kingdom, and that Lady Wishfort, disgusted with life, took refuge in a rocky district of the north, the ruggedness of which she found akin to her misfortunes, and our ancestors of the reading sort devised their own arrangement of beauties and ruggednesses, and were not ungrateful. The critics of other days kindly awarded high praise for a nice Obser- vation of Nature, in cases where a reference to the praised observer's work will show how very slightly he intruded his objectivities. It will be subject of regret to the present writer should any less kindly f^OONER OK ]..VTi:i;. 33 critic of the present day intimate an opinion that this prelude is but an excuse for non-conscientious work. I tnist that such a censor will be able to forgive himself, Avhen he shall hare visited the place to which I am about to invite him. Naybury is a small, quiet toAvn in the very middle of England. The steep hill on which it is built is the hard idea which arises when the place is named. Otherwise, it is remarkable for little, except the crookedness of the road up that hill, at the top of which are the ruins of a castle. This hold, after housing a forgotten series of strong- handed and not always ill-conditioned aristocrats, went to wreck under the blow of King Oliver. Thenceforth, Naybury castle gave shelter to no person worse or better than an occasional tramp who might scale the old wall, and sleep away his tipsy hours in what once was a great kitchen. The owl succeeded to the chaplain, and the sparrowhawk to the lord. The castle, and a church, in which the patriotic wardens have for years done their best to avenge the Xorman conquest by persistent injury to the beautiful Norman architecture, are the features of Naybury. The weary pedestrian, and the wearier horse may take closer note of the long and crooked hill. It is called Nay- bury Street, and winds upwards, for about three-quarters of a mile as you approach from the east, and at last brings you to the foot of the off-lying eminence crowned by the ruins. It is a heartbreaking road to ascend, from the east, and there is a knee-breaking road to descend on the other side of the toAvn. Visitors are usually con- ducted to the extreme top of the hill, because, as they are informed, they can thence see a long Avay, and this is a truth, but with the discovery that it is so, the advantages of the ascent appear, to common-place minds, to end. You sec a long way, and on a veiy clear day, just about the point where vision begins to fail, you may notice to the west something which, if not a cloud, is the beginning of some hills. But, generally speaking, your view is over a flat country, here and there divided by a narrow stream, here and there i-elieved by a church spire ; and if you gaze for a long time on this scenery, as few persons are known to do, there grows upon you a conviction that you have seen this long, dull flat before. But you cannot tell where, and you tease your memory with questions until bed-time, when, if you have partaken of supper, and have not walked the after-mile, which those stupid ancestors ofours prescribed, you will have the nightmare. Then, in struggling in vain across wide plains, with the avenger of blood behind you on an elephant, you will feel that you have miles and miles to run in your patent leather boots, and that you will miss the express train that is to take you to he man'ied directly, and vou know vou have the key of the Avine-cellar. 34 SOONER OR LATER. and all your guests are waiting to go down to dinner on your birthday, and the Speaker of the House of Commons is calling wildly to you, in the very worst of language, to put in your false teeth and answer Mr. Bright, and your boots have suddenly become old slippers, which fall oflp every moment, and your wife is making signs that you must instantly go up in the balloon with her, or abandon her to Peter the Great for ever, and still you cannot make any progress, you wake up gurgling a very wrong kind of word, and instantly know that in previous nightmares you have seen the view from Naybury Castle. In the long, crooked street are some of the houses of other days, where th3 beams were exhibited to show the honesty of the builders, and between these houses are hideous cottages, run up by local and modern builders, in connection with whose work one thinks less of honesty than of bad drainage and extortionate rent. There arc three or four inns, possibly looking worse than they are, and a low- browed shop belonging to the only tradesman in flesh, Avho, by reason of his monopoly is, like Richard the Third, tyrant and butcher. Some other reasonably decent shops may be found, but they are not ostentatious. Just at the lower end of the town, beside a clear stream that runs below the hill, is the red shaft of a small factory, which supplies London with some of its felt, and turns out on Nay- bury a mass of stunted, sallow, slatternly girls, whose loud and vicious talk defies all remonstrance and tract-distribution. Again ascending the hill, and passing through the greater part of the town, you observe a large and handsome red brick house, of the time of Queen Anne. It stands back a considerable distance from the road, and some fine trees nearly screen it from the view. But if you Avalk up to the close, green, wood palings, and look over them and between the trees, you will see a large and carefully-kept garden, with much sward and many evergreens, and if it be summer time you will notice a wealth of liright flowers, and the vision will be all the more welcome as being the first pleasant thing which you have seen in Naybury, except the faces of many dirty but very healthy children. But, if you please, you shall by-and-by be enabled to see that hand- some house without the questionably civil process of examining it over the palings. There is a charming breakfast-room at the back of the house, and looking, with a single large window, upon another garden, even more daintily kept than that in the front. The window is open, and fi'om the top of his cage, which has been placed on a smoothly- shaven little lawn, very fresh and green, a lazy parrot occasionally peeps into the room, and encourages its inmates by a slight croak of satisfaction at the general aspect of affairs. A beautiful Persian «OONEK OK LATEK. 35 cat, wicli the mildest of eyes and the largest of tails, watches the bird, and evidently wonders why he cannot sit still and enjoy that sweet warm morning, instead of fidgeting from wire to wire without object or purpose. In some other cages, of pretty device, and sus- pended from trees, are a few love-birds and waxbills, and a couple of ringdoves are in a larger cage on a stand. A garden-chair, placed in the shade, but very near the zoological group, has lately been tenanted, for there is a book upon the seat, and a sunshade lies on the grass, but there is no one in the garden at the moment. In the room are two persons. These are Mr. and Mrs. Conway, husband and wife, parents of Magdalen Conway, of >whom we have heard. The house is theirs. There is little that is remarkable iu the externals of either. Mrs. Conway is a gentle-looking lady, with calm eyes, and a few silver streaks in her hair. The pleasant face, though it has been in the world for some fifty-five years, is but slightly lined, and the lips, which are pretty, are very ready to smile. Mrs. Conway's voice is light, and it is manifest that she is blessed with that best of all good gifts, habitual cheerfulness. She is very simply dressed, but unless her lady's maid have skill, it is certain that the very becoming morning dress, worn by the matron, was not made in JS^aybury, and the fastenings at breast and wrist are in too good taste not to have been costly. Mr. Conway is enveloped in a very lafge and full morning gown, so that his costume gives no key to his vocation, and a white cravat is worn by men of various callings. He is nearly seven years older than his wife, and looks many years older, and the restless eye and unquiet gesture would show that he has not been in the habit of taking the world easily, even if an occasionally impatient tone did not break into the conjugal confer- ence. If he were to rise, you would see that he is tall, and but for the ample gown, you would notice that he is slight, and has been active — perhaps is so yet. He holds a handsome paper-knife, of mother-of-pearl, and if Mrs. Conway has a trouble, it is a fear that he will break this weapon if he slaps it so hard upon the table, and she would like to take it away from him, but knows better than to do that. *' Well, it is a risk." " Everything is a risk, dear, to a cei'tain extent." The respective speakers need hardly be indicated. Mr. Conway replied, " Yes, of course, Mary. But there are risks that one may run, and take one's chance, and others that ought to give us pause." " Give you what, dear ? " said Mrs. Conway, quietly. She was not very well read, perhaps, in Shakspearian literature. 36 SOONER OK LATEK. " Make us hesitate ! " said Mr. CoiiATay, looking round at lier sharply, and then looking away again. " Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Conway. " What do you say ? " asked her husband. " I mean what do yo'j say after what we have heard. You have formed an opinion, 1 suppose, just as I have done." *' I do not know that I have," replied Mrs. Conway. " It does not seem to me that there is anything to fidget about." " Fidget is hardly the -word, my dear Mary, when we are talkin,:;- of the happiness of Magdalen. I know yon did not mean it rudely to me." " Yes, I think you might know that, William," said Mrs. Conway, " or I have been talking to you to very little purpose for thirty years. But you are inclined — well, I will not say to fidget, but to vex your mind with matters which arc not important. At least I think so." " I dare say I do. And, generally speaking, I wish I did not. But this is a subject which requires the utmost consideration." " You always say that of everything, William." " 1 do not. But as the child's mother, you ought to feel with me in this, and consider it with me in all its bearings." " My dear William, I am sure that I love Magdalen as well as you can, but when we have so completely made up our minds that she is to marry Mr. Dormer, and the lawyers have made out the settlement, I do not think that we have a right to begin to hesitate unless we have something before us much more serious than the talk of a foolish young curate." " Grafton is not a fool." " I did not say that he was, and when I said foolish I only meant in regard to London gentlemen and their ways. He is a clever person in some things, and would be much cleverer if he would have more confidence in himself and not suppose that everybody is laughing at him, and that he deserves it. But I should not take his opinion upon the characters of persons whom he knoAvs very little about, and has met only at dinner." " The fact is, Mary, that you like the man*iage, and don't want to hear anything against it." " If I did not like Ernest Dormer, would I give my consent to his having Magdalen ? " " But I think that you are rather too ready in giving your liking, Mary." " I was once," said Mrs. Conway, '* but that was thirty years ago and more." SOONER OK LATEll. 37 " My old darling," said her husband, as quick with his glance of iiffection as he had been with that of impatience. And the wife returned the glance with her calm loving look, and again felt that she should like to take away the mother-of-pearl paper-knife, and that this would be a safe time — ].nit she did not. " Grafton was certainly mucli shocked at the tone of the society in which he found Dormer," said Mr. Conway, after a pause. " It speaks well for Ernest," said the Avife (a mother is not long after a daughter in seizing one's Christian name), " that he made no secret of his friendships, but at once brought Mr. Grafton into the very heart of the society, though he must have known that Mr. Grafton would repeat all that he heard. You cannot say that this was not bold and frank." " Frank to carelessness, perhaps. He may have thought himself so sure of Magdalen that he did not mind what was said." " Is not that unkind, William ? " " "Well, perhaps it is. But I suppose that I may say that he did not think that Grafton would make any report at all." " Not after what Ernest knew of Mr. Grafton's affection for :\[aggie ? " " Did he know of the offer ? " " Certainly. I thought it right to desire Maggie to tell him, tliough I am sure she would have done so without being advised." " Then my case is strengthened, because Dormer would feel that a high-minded gentleman would be especially silent about a successful rival." " Yes, dear, and that is to believe, as I know yuu do, that Ernest is himself a high-minded gentleman, or he would not feel in that way. Come, papa, do not try to prejudice yourself against him. He appears to me, as he did from the first, to be all that Magdalen '.an requne to make her happy, and that is all which we have to live for, dear." " Yes." " You say yes," said his wife after a pause, " but I know that you continue to torment yourself, and that is not fair to me. I wish I (|uite understood what you see in ]\Ir. Grafton's story to make you distrustful of Ernest Dormer." " I will not go so far as to say that I am distrustful. But what Grafton said certainly opened my eyes to a new view of Dormer's character." " But has it done that ? All I can learn, for Mr. G;rafton did not choose to talk to me, but kept his confidence for you, which I do not know that I thank him for " 38 SOOXEE OR LATEE. " JSTow it is you who are prejudiced. It was surely the most delicate and becoming thing, considering what he had to say, to come to me, or rather to meet me, and relate his impressions." " Well, may be so. I don't like tale-bearers." " Do you call a person a tale-bearer who, without any interest in the matter, tells you something that may affect the happiness of your child ? Can a woman be just, even by miracle ? " " Yes, William. But I hate tale-bearers, for all that. And answer me this. Had he anything to say against Ernest himself ? A man, and especially a young man, cannot help having a few gay acquaint- ances, and when they get together, he cannot shut their mouths, can he, or ought he to be answerable for Avhat they say ? No doubt that these young men did talk in a very wild way, and perhaps some of them may have been no better than they ought to be, though, as I said, I don't think Mr. Grafton is very capable of judging. But even he, with all his desire to injure Ernest " " You have no right to say that, Maiy. He loved Magdalen well enough to offer to manj her, and you may fairly credit him with a genuine desire for her welfai-e." " I dare say it may be so," replied the wife, " though it does not look like desire for a girl's Avelfare to sow dissension between her parents and her intended. But did Mr. Grafton accuse Ernest of anything more than dining in the room where much veiy profane and improper talk went on ? " " He makes no charge, I tell you " " How could Ernest help being there, when the dinner was got up in his honour by others ? He had not the inviting of a single guest, except Mr. Grafton, who makes such a grateful return." " Grafton was not Dormer's g-uest, but was asked by a Mr. Mangles, with whom he has business connections." " Well, then, Ernest asks noljody at all, but because a cluster of persons, not of his choice or selection, sit down with him and behave themselves ill, Mr. Gi'afton is to come down licre expressly to make mischief." " My dear Mary, come down here, as if his father's place were three miles from this house ! " " He did not meet you in his father's place, 1 tell you that he is a spiteful young man, and that he preserves the memory of his rejection by ]\Iagdalen, and is glad to revenge himself ; and a nice person he is to be a clergyman, but that is always the way with them, they do mean things l)ecause they know that they cannot be called to account." " A speech, Mary, of wliicli you will be heartily ashamed when SOONER OR LATER. 39 YOU come to think over the characters of the clergy whom we know. But you have quite, as becomes a woman, walked away from the real question. It is not whetlier Grafton behaved fi-om one motive or another, in describing what he heard, but whether Ernest Dormer is to be known by his associates, and whether we are to believe that he is an immoral infidel." " What words to use of ]\Iagdalen's intended husband ! " " I did not use them of him — how you women pervert everything — but I do say that immorality and infidelity made the talk at that dinner, and the talkers were the select friends of Dormer — the special friends who liked him so well that they got the dinner up. Xow, you can't cavil at that, and in such a matter as Maggie's happiness, we ought to let in no cavil at all." " My dear William, do you think that if I did not believe Ernest to be what he should be, I would argue with you a moment, ex- cept as to the best means of breaking the match ofi". But I really cannot see that a young man is to be condemned and discarded because his club friends, on a particular occasion, talk foolishly, and wickedly if you will. Perhaps they did it on purpose, for the sake of astonishing Mr. Grafton, and though this would have been ver}' reprehensible, it would have been very like young men." " I sec," said Mr. Conway, with a sort of groan. This was, as may be supposed, but the sequel of a senes of dis- cussions which an affectionate father and mother had held upon a subject so important to them, and to one whom they held dearer than anything in the world. It will suffice, however, to show the Avay in which each regarded the approaching marriage. Mr. Con- way had more misgivings than his wife, but then it had been his v.-ay all through life to vex himself with the contemplation of the possible failure of every scheme to which he had reason to wish success, and he was not the man to abandon that habit when the scheme before him was for the happiness of his only child. His wife had, constitutionally, the opposite habit, and it had been well for Mr, Conway that it was so, or he would have been unhappy instead of restless through life. Fortunate in meeting a helpmate who was so eminently calculated to sweeten his destiny, he had gradually yielded to her influence, and learned to look with her liopeful eyes, to an extent which he would not in earlier days have l)elieved possible, and which in moments of solitary murmuring he foimd himself inclined to call irrational. For there could be no doubt that, intellectually, Mr. Conway was very much the superior of his calm and cheerful wife, nor did she doubt it, though her instincts had served her so much better than his wisdom. 40 ,S SOONER OR LATER. Mr. Dudley, like his companion, had been standing — Farquhar because he wished to go away, Dudley in order to prevent him. But now Mr. Dudley sat down across a chair with its back towards Farquhar, and looked up intently into the face of the latter. Dudley, let it be said, was entirely master of himself. But he was now closely approaching a moment for which he had long been pre- paring, and which would either be one of the golden moments of his life, or would baflSe a deeply laid scheme on which he had built strange hopes. Therefore, although he assumed an air of calm superiority, his own heart was beating faster than that of the dilapidated creature whom he was subjecting to his inquisition. " Farquhar," he said, " it does not much matter how a conversation between a tipsy person and a person who was not so was brought round to the point which you reached. But it may help your memory to say that there might have been some general talk about music-halls and similar places, and how they helped the nights along, and this got on into a maudlin groove about men who had no homes to go to, though they sighed for domestic life." "Yes," said Farquhar, "I have more than once talked bosh of that kind, I am afraid," " Then," said Dudley, slowly, as if he were using language which he had thought over and learned, " you may have said that you were weary of that sort of night rambling, and that one of these days, if you did not do better, you would take a humble set of chambers in one of the Inns of Court, and live after the fashion which Beranger — you broke into tender eulogy of Beranger, and begged and prayed your companion to study him " " I feel that this is true. What a fool I ata ! " " You talked aflFectingly of the happy life of student and grisette^ and your companion reminded you that England was not France." " I dare say," said Farquhar, wincing frightfully under the detail of his folly. " To which you responded, * Don't tell me. Such things are done in England, done in London, done in Gray's Inn.' " Something began to dawn upon Farquhar's memory, and he became visibly agitated. But the other, increasing, if possilile, the sternness of his gaze, went on. " You said, in answer to doubts which your friend threw in, that you could prove yom- words. And after a little more liquor, and a little renewed provocation, you blurted out — eagerly swearing a total stranger to secrecy — that on a certain occasion you had looked through an opera-glass at a window in a certain square, and you had recognised the face of a lady whom you knew in society." SOONER OK LATER. 275 Farquhar grasped at tlie chair-back for support. " You are not going to tell me that I gave a name," he stam- mered, piteously. " You did" Farquhar gazed at him for a moment, and then, staggering back to the little sofa, sat down and cried like a child. But Benjamin Dudley, though he was not habitually unkind, ex- cept at need, and although his professional habits would almost have told him, by instinct, to do something to relieve the agitation wliich he witnessed, had, for the moment, no word of kindness, no thought of help. He contmued to gaze hard at Fai-quhar, and had there been any one to read Dudley's face as he was reading that of the younger man, a fierce, unsatisfied expression would have been manifest to the spectator. He left Farquhar but few minutes to recover himself, and then asked, in a hard voice, — " What do you thmk of your conduct ? " Farquhar's reply of savage self-reproach need not be set down, but it was not too strong a denunciation of the behaviour described by Dudley. " Yes, I think you are," said Dudley, mercilessly. " I don't know that one could expect better things from the son of a Yorkshire money-lender, but he might have been shi-ewder." To this insult the unfortunate Farquliai' made no reply. " Well, have you nothing more to say ? " asked Dudley, who was becoming curiously excited. '' What the devil can I say ? " the other flung at him, rather than answered him. " That you Avill have to settle, if not in the first instance with the person you have last named, and with your father at York, who may possibly be almost as pleasant a party to meet as the other, under the circumstances." " My father ! " " Yes ; for you are not of age. And if you were, I take it that yon are not in a position to pay the tremendous damages which the lady's friends are going to demand for your slander." " An action ! " " Does that seem so unnatural a course to a young attorney ? Ah ! I see you have a gleam of hope touching insufficient evidence. I tell you at once, out of kindness, that you may abandon that hope. You have not heard half of what I can tell you, nor half about the witnesses who will be brought forward." "Don't tell me anything more at present. I am horribly ill. But something must be done. My father must never hear of this." t2 276 SOONER OR LATER. " You are thinking more of your father and his anger than of the character of the poor lady whom yon have slandered." " But it is not slander," gasped Farquhar. He was crushed, ill, weak, bewildered, and the words escaped him without his noticing all their meaning. Dudley's eyes glared like a wolf's when food is held before him, but just beyond his reach. " Do you propose to justify what you said ? " he asked, slowly. '' Because, if you fail, another cipher will be added to the damages your father must pay. An attorney's clerk imputes the worst of morals to a lady of good position in society — what does a jury usually say to him ? " " I must and will have time to think over this," said Farquhar, helplessly. " I must have sleep. I have had very little lately. In the morning I shall have my head clear." " Under other circumstances, that is exactly the ad^dce I ought to give you," said his tormentor. " But I am bound to tell you that time is very precious, and it may*1be fatal to delay action. I think, after various things which I have told you to-day, that you believe I know what I am talking about. A letter from a firm which you know very well, and which has a reputation for never sparing any- body, will be forwarded to your father by this night's mail. He may not be in the York Directory, but he will have the letter at breakfast, to-morrow." " It must not be — it shall not be ! " cried the poor young Far- quhar. " I will see them myself ; I will prevent it." " You know best what sort of entreaties are likely to succeed with the respectable firm of ." He named a house notorious for severe, not to say sharp practice. " They ! And I have a personal quaiTel with their managing man." " You see you can't prevent that application to Mr. Farquhar. The best thing to think is how to soften the matter. Will he take it so dreadfully to heart ? " " You don't know him — you don't know anything — the letter must not go. My God ! what a fool I have been." And again he broke out into a passion of crying. Dudley rose slowly, considered for a minute at least, and then went to the young man and laid a hand on his shoulder, and Far- quhar showed his miserably nervous condition by a start. " I can't see this," said Dudley. " I am a rough fellow, but I hate to see suflPering. I can find no excuse for your conduct ; it would be base hypocrisy in me if I said that I could. You must feel that you have behaved like a blackguard. Don't you ? " " I have said so already." SOONER OR LATER. 277 " Well, you can hardly humiliate yourself lower ; and I think if you don't mind signing an apology and retractation — I don't deceive you, it must be very comjilete and abject — something may be done, at all events in the way of gaining time. It is your father whom you chiefly fear." " If I could only keep it from him." " There is just this chance of doing it. First, you must sign — in fact," said Dudley, emphatically, " you must ivrite the most ample and humble document we can find words for, and then I will do what I can for you. It happens that the second partner in that shai-p firm owes me a good turn. Of course I can't ask him to accept your apology and stay the action ; but I think I can get him to give us a few days, while his clients are consulted. Only, again, if you are inclined to deny point blank that you ever said anything of the sort, you must not make an apology, but you must write to York to tell your father to bid the sharp house his defiance." " Let me write the retractation," said Farquhar, to whom the last words brought new agitation, "and do you do your best for me. Somehow and sometime I will make it up to you." " I am sure you will," said Dudley. " And you are not the first man, nor will you be the last, to make a fool of himself with drink. Let us knock out the letter." " Write it for me, and I will copy it," said Farquhar. " My hand shakes so that I can hardly do anything." "No," said Dudley, quietly. "I am a bad composer of such things, and I have another reason for wishing to be able to say that the apology was all your own. There arc writing materials, and I will leave you for a bit. Only don't lose time ; better say too much than too little." " One word," said Farquhar, as the other was going out. " Think for me, for I am in a whirl. Whom should I address — not the lady herself, surely ? " Again came that wolfish glare in Dudley's eyes. Again he mas- tered himself, and he said, gravely, — "No. That would be in bad taste. Address it to her friends, generally, and offer any more formal document that may be de- manded." And he closed the door, and came out to minister to his customers. Several for Avhom Mr. Spitty's attentions sufficed had come and gone ; others who wished to see Mr. Dudley had been dismissed, for Mr. Spitty, daring as he was, knew better than to intrude upon his dread master when that surgery- door was shut. To a few who lingered, and welcomed Mr. Dudley's entrance, he was singularly courteous 278 SOONER OR LATER. and forbearing. The assistant could by no means comprehend the sudden change that had come over his master, but privately hoped that some misfortune was about to occur to him. Once, however, when Mr. Spitty Avas near realising his owa. hope by careless treat- ment of a valuable bottle, Mr. Dudley turned upon him with a look and a word that convinced the youth that his employer was simply keeping down his bad temper for some purpose. Mr. Spitty, there- fore, was warned, and could comfort himself only by secretly mutter- ing little] prayers, wildly and variously addressed, that whatever Mr. Dudley desired might not come to pass. These petitions, like those of many great men of old, were lost in empty air. When, a quarter of an hour from leaving Farquhar, Mr. Dudley returned to him, a well-filled page of writing lay before the young man. Dudley's gaze fastened upon it, and he could scarcely wait for Farquhar's question, as he handed the paper to his adviser, — "Will this do?" Dudley read it, or rather glanced over it with lightning speed. Had Farquhar been well, and on the alert, he might have wondered at the rapidity with which he was answered, — " Everything is in it that I could wish to see there. Copy it instantly." While Farquhar did so, Dudley took up a book — a volume of poetry of the mildest sort, and read page after page with a pleased expression on his face. There were not many ideas in the poems, and of the few not one went to the brain of Dudley, whose eyes ran over the words, but whose mind was far away. The document was soon transcribed. " Now, Farquhar," said Mr. Dudley, kindly, " you go home. I will send a note to the office, mentioning that you have been taken ill. And before night I will let you know the result of my mission. I think you may liope. I will also send you a sleeping-draught. But do have a little sense, my good fellow. If young men only knew what a treasure they have in a good constitution, and how bitterly they Avill regret playing with it, they would enjoy their youth with more moderation, and then they would have a healthy, or, at least, a venerable old age. Don't drink, don't smoke, don't sit up to excess. We will soon have you all right, never fear. Don't think of anything rude which I may have said to you, but think only that I want to do my best for you. And now, go away, and go straight home, and wait there until you hear from me." With which kind and sensible address he turned Farquhar out of the shop. With a much less kind address to Mr. Spitty, the eccen- SOONER OR LATER. 279 trie medical man ordered him to put up the shutters, and take himself off. Mr. Spitty naturally stared, but desisted from that demonstration on the command being repeated in a low voice which he feared more than any thunder. He fixed up the shutters, and hoped that his master was going to be bankrupt. And he had the great pleasure of insulting a customer, to his employer's detriment, by slamming the door in her indignant face. Then he went away. Mr. Dudley indulged in no personal demonstrations at all. A success that we have long desired, and that at last comes to us, often finds us disposed to receive it very quietly, contrary to our own expectations of the effect. He scarcely looked at the document, or the copy, but left them lying on the table, while he complacently smoked a pipe. " It was a near thing, and nearly missed," he said. " Bless the music-halls and the drinlv;. If he had been a nerve stronger, he would have beaten me. Now I have only to piece two pleasant stories, and then " We leave the good doctor to his pipe of self-gratulation. Only, if it should be asked why he was so eager for the written apology, it shall be answered — Because he lied in saying that Farquhar, in his cups, had men- tioned a lady's name. The rest of the story of the young man's conduct was true. The story about sharp solicitors was, of course, a m}iih. And Dudley has the name, now. The gods, as we have already said, were tired of the benevolent amusement of seeing a good man struggling with difficulties. CHAPTER XXIV. THE STREETS OF NAYBURY. Though Naybury awaited, with much interest, the return of the Conways, who were to bring the Dormers with them for instalment in their home, that meritorious town was not entirely unconcerned with its own scandals. It had soon ceased to be a secret that a 'deputation from the Dorcas Society was to attend at Saxbury, and deliver the opinion of the Serious in Naybury upon the sad heterodoxy of the rector's son. The worldly in the town, though they had no particular hesitation in saying, among themselves, that the idea of despatching such a mission to Saxbury was outrageously impertinent, nevertheless hypocritically affected to approve it, when any of the Dorcas ladies were within hearing. The motive for this was twofold. It arose in part fi'om the natural desire to see the dulness of Naybury enlivened by a proceeding which would cause considerable and prolonged excitement, and partly from the belief that the rector of Saxbmy, if once brought to bay, would inflict a tremendous casti- gation upon his censors, whose extraordinary goodness was not pleasant to a number of Naybury people. It was very unfairly said by some who might have been expected to know better, and did, that the delay in the movement upon Saxbury was caused by Mrs. Bulliman's having " thought better of it," that is to say, by that excellent lady's courage having failed her» But this unworthy suggestion was perhaps hazarded only for the purpose of stimulating her to the onset. The notion had been traced to the chemist, Mr. Chervil, whose scepticism had been so clearly proved by Mrs. Bulliman, on the ground that he had spoken of the " Mosaic " account of the creation, and who therefore was an atheist, or about to become one. This unhappy man had said to Mrs. De Gully, a lady of the neighbourhood, (and herself rather given over to the demon of geology, when there were no majors or the like to flirt with at Martletowers, her absentee hus- band's seat,) that it would probably be known in due time that Mr. Bulliman had saved his wife's credit by objecting to the proposed visit. Mrs. De Gully, with a painful levity, had authorised SOONER OK LATER. 281 Mr. Chervil to say that if Mr. Grafton were persecuted in the manner intended, an address of condolence should be presented to him, and she should be happy to be the first to sign it. Those who are fortunate enough to be acquainted with such places as Naybury will have little difficulty in believing that from Mr. Chervil's, which was a sort of tacitly recognised mart of small talk, this defiance was speedily carried into the Dorcas camp. Mrs. BuUiman heard of it, and though conscious of no shortcomings on her own part, she deemed it due to her supporters to explain that the reason why the enterprise against the Graftons had been delayed Avas that Mr. Abbott, the lawyer, was sojourning with the rector, and Mrs. Bulliman added a few mysterious words, which were inter- preted to mean, as she intended that they should be, that while Mr. Grafton was in the midst of legal and pecuniary difficulties, it. was not the time to attack him in reference to his son's contempt for missionaries. But Mrs. Bulliman, though zealous, was prudent enough to take care that no one should be able to quote such a statement as her own. Her husband, who was the mildest of solicitors, had once been compelled, in her younger days, to give her such a tremendous warning against testifying to the truth in a way unfavourably regarded by the law of libel, that she had learned to restrain her Christian denunciations within safe limits. Never- theless, one morning, about the time when the higher classes of Naybury came out, and the neighbouring folks drove in, Mrs. Bulliman repaired to the Chervil exchange, ready to accept any battle that might be offered. Previously, however, Mrs. Bulliman had been irritated, for disaf- fection had broken out in her own house. Miss Phoebe Bulliman, Avho had never been so docile as her sister, Sophia, and of whose early sins we and those persons present heard something at the Dorcas meeting, had perfectly well understood on what errand her mother was going, and had desired to be left at home. She knew better than to urge the unconverted young lady's insincere excuse of a headache, for the thin, grim, wiry maiden had never had an hour's illness since the time when she nearly killed herself by engaging, Avith characteristic obstinacy, in a fight with the paroxysms of the hooping-cough. Moreover, she knew that such an excuse would not serve her, for Sophia, who really was bilious and headachy, was often ordered to remember that such thorns in the flcsli (an unkind phrase, for she had very little of the latter), must be borne, and not allowed to interfere with duty. Therefore, Phoebe, nerving herself for the act, had signified in a straightforward manner that she would not go out. 282 SOONER OR LATER. " Before saying another word, Phoebe," her mother had replied, calmly, " you will tell me your reason for objecting." " My reason, mamma, is, that I have considered everything that was said at the last Dorcas meeting, and I have decided, I hope not without good grounds, that what was then agreed upon was a mistake." " That the entire body, many of them much older than yourself, and one of them your mother, made a mistake, and that Phosbe Bal- liman is right ? " " I have yet to learn," said Phoebe, who read the debates, " that one person is bound to sacrifice a conviction because it is held by many. And I am too old, mamma, to be spoken to in the style of the dialogues in children's books." " Nobody knows better how old you are than I do, Phoebe, though few know so well how imperfectly you have improved seven-and- twenty precious years." Seven-and-twenty ! It sounded needlessly emphatic and unkind, Phoebe thought, and her mother might just as well have said twenty- seven. • " It is not for me to speak of myself," she said; " but at all events I am old enough to be allowed to take my own course in a matter of this kind. You are going out, mamma, in the hope of meeting somebody who does not approve the way in which you intend to treat the Graftons, and I request you to spare me the pain of stand- ing by to hear things said to you which I could not contradict." " I am surprised — bitterly surprised, Phoebe, at this subterfuge. A rebellious spirit I might pardon, but the pretence that affection for me teaches you to disobey my wishes is a piece of hypocrisy so fearful that it makes me tremble for my child." Now this speech, coming from an ordinary mother, who was not in the habit of being solemn and menacing on light occasions, might have brought an ordinaiy daughter to her parent's arms in tears. But among a certain class, stern denunciation is so usual an instru- ment of domestic rule that it often fails to tell, and Phoebe must not be supposed to have been an undutiful young person because she remained in her chair, and did not even drop " Smooth Stones from Ancient Brooks," which she had been reading, with gratitude to Mr. Spurgeon for aning Mr. Brooks's jewels. " Yes, mamma," said Phoebe, quietly. " But I wish to stay at home." " I shall not ask you twice to accompany me. I shall not now give expression to my feelings as to your conduct. It must be con- sidered by me in silence in my chamber. But I will ask you one SOONER OR LATER. 283 thing : — Do you suppose that I am deceived as to your motives, Phoebe ? " "No, mamma, I hope not; because I have told you what they are." " You have told me what they are !" repeated Mrs. Bulliman, with a tone of scomfiil reproach. " You have not. But I will tell you what they are, and deeply am I wounded at your want of self-respect. You need not assume that look of pretended surprise. I know you, and your heart. You wish me to abstain from giving offence to the Graftons, and you wish it because you have still a hope, a con- temptible hope, that Edward Grafton may yet be brought to think of you. Answer that to your own conscience, if not to me, Phoebe." " You have no right to say this, mamma." " I have a right to say what I please to my own child," began Mrs. Bulliman ; but the seven-and-twenty years were palpably before her, and she could not help feeling that scolding was rather out of date. She controlled her anger, and said, " You are afraid to answer, and you need not. Stay at home. But keep your own counsel, Phcebe," she added, for she was a good mother after all. " You have as much chance of becoming Edward Grafton's wife as you have of preaching in his pulpit. Though you are so much wiser than your mother, you may believe this — Edward Grafton never had a thought for you, and he loved another person, of whom I trust he has learned to think no longer, but do not you therefore encourage any vain hopes. You had better retire to your room, and ponder over what I have said, and then you will perhaps be prepared to meet me in a more becoming manner in the afternoon." ]\Irs. Bulliman went out. Her language to Phoebe had been as hard and as severe as that of a judge with a culprit. But it would be a mistake to suppose that there was any want of true and motherly aflFection. There were no sacrifices, there was no hard work which, had fortune made it necessary, Mrs. Bulliman would not have at once undertaken for her children, and steadily persevered in to the end. But she had been taught that authority was the true government for the household, and having herself an innate love of command, she had preferred absolute sway to gentler influences, and had found no difficulty in satisfying herself, theologically, that she was right. Phcebe had not much more attention for Ancient Brooks that day; but the plant of hope, when it has taken any root in a bosom that has beaten for seven-and-twenty years, is not plucked out at the first tug, and Phoebe was not altogether crushed. If it were not in- truding into her secrets too far, it might be hinted that possibly a 284 SOONER OR LATER. thought of a very worldly kind Indeed interfused itself among higher aspirations. Miss Phoebe Bulliman knew that her own father was rich, and believed that Edward Grafton's father was not so. If ruin should come upon Saxbury, how sweet to think that the young clergyman might be saved from all trouble of the world, if he did but cast his fine eyes in a right direction. Meantime, Mrs. Bulliman, discomposed but dignified, summoned her more docile aide-de-camp, Sophia, and went forth. And the first person they met was pretty little Fanny Buxton. " I am so pleased," said Fanny. " I have had a letter from Mrs. Ernest Dormer — only a few lines, but quite delightful. They are staying at the most lovely place in the Highlands ; and she desires to be kindly remembered to all friends." "When did you hear, Fanny ?" was Mrs. Bulliman's cold demand. " Yesterday morning. I should have called and told Phoebe, but the day was so very wet, mamma told me not to go out." " You did well to obey her," said Mrs. Bulliman. " Phoebe has not heard from Mrs. Dormer, Sophia, or she would have mentioned it ? " " I know that she has not, mamma." " Ah ! " said Fanny Buxton ; " but the happy pair are moving about, and you know how difiicult it is to write when you are travelling, though it seems so absurd to say so. I have really only a scrap of a note, with a picture of an inn at the top : Phoebe will have a more dignified letter." " Was that meant for impertinence, Sophia ?" said her mother, after they had parted from Fanny. " No, mamma ; I do not think so, at least." "I do." " Perhaps it was, too," said the easily convinced Sophia. " And certainly it was impertinence to boast that Mrs. Dormer had paid her the attention of writing to her before any other of the brides- maids." " Ah, Mrs. Bulliman ! " said a cheerful voice. It was that of pretty Mrs. Fansliaw's husband, a capital fellow, and a prosperous land agent and surveyor. " I am very glad to see you, and you. Miss Bulliman. Naybury is quite full to-day, and I am saving myself ever so many rides by lounging about and looking into the shops like a Bond Street gentleman. I find my people everywhere. Well, Mrs. Bulliman, have we made our visit to that naughty Mr. Edward Grafton ?" he added, with a meny twinkle in his eye. " Mrs. Fanshaw was not at the Dorcas meeting on Wednesday, or she would have informed you that the subject was being re-con- sidered," said Mrs. Bulliman. SOONER OR LATER. 285 " No, slie was not ; but it was mj fault," said Fanshaw. " Fact is, that there was a capital concert at Whamton that night, with some of the stars fi-om London ; so I made Bessy run over with me by the rail, and we caught the Brandington express, and were home to supper. TTe enjoyed it amazingly, and she appreciates good music, and therefore deserves to hear it." " Your wife fares better than your sisters did," said Sophia, who had a wonderful memory for old quarrels, and who recollected a trifling family discussion at Fanshaw's, before he brought his wife home. " Oh, have you not forgotten that ? " laughed Fanshaw. " You must get married. Miss Bulliman, and then you won't carry about memories of things the people concerned have forgotten. And so you recon- sider the Saxbury business ? — and quite right too. I told Bessy that I knew you had too much sense to think seriously of such a thing, and that I was quite sure Bulliman would put a spoke in the wheel. I'm very glad to hear it indeed. But there's Lord Mazagon — I must catch him, or he'll be off. Good-bye ! I wish you would come and see us : Bessy has some new pictures to show you. Do." Fanshaw was off, but this rattle-talk had hit hard. And, moreover, although he was a perfectly good-humoured fellow, and though few man-ied couples ever laughed more chen'ily together than he and his Bessy, he was quite capable of delivering a little castigation when he thought it was wanted. He adored Bessy, and he knew that in Dorcas she was not adored ; so he was natm'ally prejudiced against that institution, and though he spoke to the Bullimans, as to most people, in a tone that forbade offence, the words were not quite so harmless when you took them by themselves. And Fanshaw winked to himself as he stopped Lord Mazagon's barouche. "Winking at me, Fanshaw ?" said his lordship, pulling up, and laughing. " No, my lord, I was winking at my wife," said Mr. Fanshaw. " But I don't see Mrs. Fanshaw," said the courtly old nobleman, looking round, " and she knows that I am the most devoted of her admirers. I would not pass her without taking off my hat, for a thousand pounds." " She is not hereabouts. I will tell you a stoiy." " Jump up, then, that's capital," chuckled Lord Mazagon, whom the gout kept out of the only place he cai'ed for in the world — the snuggest comer of a favourite club in London, where he heard stories that he might just as well have left off laughing at. The barouche went off at a great pace, his lordship driving excellently in spite of 286 SOONER OR LATER. weakened wrists ; but we will not follow it, but still attend Mrs. Bulliman, whom Fansliaw had grieyously enraged. " What right had Mr. Fanshaw to use papa's name ? " said Sophia, who desired to pull out the vent-peg and let her mother's indignation run. " If I do not notice that, you need not, I think," said her mother, turning angrily upon her well-meaning ofispring. They went on in the direction of Mr. Chervil's, but another inter- ruption awaited them in the not very pleasing form of Mrs. Cutcheon. This lady lost very little time in greetings in the market-place or anywhere else, and without even taking the trouble to assume the conventional smile that testifies how gladly you behold your friend, she came close to Mrs. Bulliman, and said, in an undertone of remonstrance, — " So you have been frightened out of the Saxbury business, I hear. I don't say that you are not right, but it makes us all look awkward." *'I, am not aware that I was ever frightened out of any business, Mrs. Cutcheon." " My dear," she said to her awful friend, " you are quite right to take that tone with most people, but not with me. We know one another too well for that. I mean nothing but kindness, and, indeed, I was coming to see you, and ask whether you do not think that for a little time it will be best for the Dorcas meetings to stand over. The work for the poor, you know, can just as well be done at the homes of the ladies, privately, and we can effect quite as much good, without being blamed." " Who is to blame us, Mrs. Cutcheon, and for what ? I don't understand you." " Well, my dear, you are an older person than myself, much older, and I would not venture to set my experiences against yours, or deny that you are worthy to lead among us, as you desire to do, and I must say do very excellently. I consider myself privileged to know you. But I cannot quite shut my own eyes. When those who lead, and who very properly expect a certain amount of Christian submis- sion from younger persons, so completely change their views — I am sure for the best reasons — it does not tend to keep up the confidence of humbler folks in the earnestness and sincerity of the others. So that I think, my dear, that instead of bringing our bold declarations into contrast with our second thoughts, and having a rather humili- ating meeting, we had better let the matter blow over, and have our delightful union again in the winter." All this was said^with so much show of grave condolence with a SOONER OR LATER. 287 person in a supposed state of mortification, that the carnal nature of Mrs. Bulliman rebelled, and she was sufficiently left to herself to say, — " The next Dorcas meeting will be held at my house on Thursday next, and those who stay away from that meeting had better stay away from all future ones. I have no time for further explanation now, Mrs. Cutcheon, but I shall expect you." " And you shall see me, too," said Mrs. Cutcheon to herself. At length j\Irs. Bulliman came in sight of Mr. Chervil's new archi- tectural shop-front, the costliness of which may have been his reason for putting only sixpence into the plate after Mr. Yotes's missionary lecture, which shamefully insignificant donation had di*awn upon him the censure of Dorcas. Mr. Chervil, though only a tradesman, was somebody in Naybury. His large and handsome shop, which was all neatness and ^brilliancy, was, as has been said, a favourite rendezvous for the better sort of the inhabitants. He was a wise man in his generation. He was highly educated, very skilful in his own calling, and one who knew quite as much about medicine as any of the Naybuiy practitioners, for whom he entertained a secret but supreme contempt, a sentiment, indeed, which he also held in regard to the majority of his customers, high and low. But he had to live, and he was exquisitely civil. His tall, slim figure, always in close- fitting black, his beautifully white hair, carefully combed from the back to the front of his head, and his high nose and delicate features, would, anywhere but behind a counter, have been very favourably regarded. No greater contrast could be imagined than between him and om- friend Mr. Benjamin Dudley, except between their respective establishments. Dudley's slovenly shop, and its miscel- laneous and ignoble contents, have been noticed. Mr. Chervil sold everything which Mr. Dudley sold, and perhaps a few more articles apart from the pharmacopoeian roll. But, with the exception of choice perfumes, all such matters were vended in a small side-shop under the care, not of an obnoxious boy like Mr. Cubb Spitty, but of a most gentlemanly assistant, who was only less refined than the master whom he imitated. The large and handsome shop was devoted to the chemist's own proper wares, and there were set chairs of much whiteness of cane and polish of back, and there was a pretty little fountain, which played scented water. Into this fountain, a few minutes before Mrs. Bulliman's amval, showy Mrs. De Gully was dipping the corner of a handkerchief much too fine for that period of the day. This incident is mentioned expressly for the purpose of prejudicing the reader against Mrs. De Gully, and showing that she was not a lady. The reader must 288 SOONER OR LATER. please not to like Mrs. De Gully. A great many persons liked her ; but we ought to like only the good and virtuous, and there is no means of positively proving the fact that she was either. There was no question, at least among men, about her good looks. Rather tall, but Hssome and graceful, and somewhat slight, Mrs. De Gully looked admirably upon a horse, which she rode splendidly, especially to hounds, or on the high seat of a barouche, which she drove as well as Lord Mazagon could do. Perhaps she looked to less advantage, lounging back in her pony-carriage, with too much effort to look perfectly at her ease. You could then examine her face, which she was quite ready to show you, and you could admire the large soft eyes, the rich complexion, and the saucy mouth, and would not perhaps complain that she had no regular beauty. Possibly you might think that the eyebrows had been artificially improved, but you would be wrong — there were no pigments of any kind on Mrs. De Gully. As for the next questions, Avho and what she was, the answers were not very ready, or at least they were not very con- sistent. She was held by those who believed what they were told, in the absence of reasons for doubting it (which is a sensible habit), to be the wife of Captain De Gully, R.N., whom nobody at Naybury had ever seen. It was not, however, supposed that he was sailing in his ship, doing Her Majesty service, but more probably that he was disloyally avoiding the service of certain documents, bearing Her Majesty's message. He never came to Martletowers, the somewhat neglected mansion in which his wife resided, some four miles from the town. But this did not prevent her having many visitors, some of them of a good sort, and Mrs. De Gully, though not much visited by the ladies of the district, was in society, and the men called on her with the utmost punctuality, and were seldom in a hurry to come away. She gave few dinners, but had instituted a series of Saturday lunches, which were held in a sort of conservatory, and which were a gracious relief to the set and heavy banquets of the country houses around, and men actually smoked in her presence, after these repasts. By way of companion, Mrs. De Gully generally had with her a singular little woman, very pale, and always dressed in pearl grey, and her patroness called this person Francine, and stated that she could neither speak nor understand any language but French. That Francine could speak French was certain, upon the other points there were suspicions. Servants had reported that she had been heard to speak very good English to certain visitors — but then servants will say anything. THE LADIES' BATTLE. [Page-2S9. CHAPTER XXV. THE SINGLE COMBAT. OvEE the handsome face of Mr. Chervi], the alleged sceptic, there came a cm-ious look, as he saw Mrs. BuUimaii, attended by Sophia, approaching his establishment. By an equally cm-ious coincidence, he was just then putting together, for temporary^ peace, some packets of two jjowders which are quiet enough while separate, but which, when they mingle in the glass, efFeiwesce in a furious manner. The learned chemist had few amusements in Xaybury. His fellow- tradesmen were worthy, or at least they called one another so in .speeches, but were mostly dullards, as those speeches testified, and as Thersites remarks to Patroclus, he profited not by their talk. Being a tradesman, of course he could not visit the houses of those who were not in trade, except at election times, Avhen the most haughty were content to forget the station to which it had pleased Providence to call him, and to avail themselves of his shrewdness, local knowledge, and caustic pen. The Naybuiy theatre was seldom open, and when it Avas, although the criticisms sent to London by the stage-manager would make one believe that a more brilliant collection of stars never assembled, Mr. Chervil, who had seen real acting, did not support the Naybm'ian drama. He was too clever to play any instrument, and too saving to play at cards — let not this last fact be set down to his disadvantage, as his secret object was to make as much money as he could in order to get away from the place. So, haAdng few relaxations, Mr. Chervil greatly enjoyed a fight between any of his customers. And he thought that he saw SATnptoms of a fight, " Mrs. Bulliman comes this way," he said, to give Mrs. De Gully warning to have her hands up. " Ah ! " said Mrs. De Gully, who needed little warning. *' You dear creatures, I am so glad to see you," she said, as the Bullimans came in. " I haven't seen you for an age. Smell this perfume of Chervil's," she went on, holding out her overfine handkerchief. " Isn't it heavenly ? " " It is nice," said Mrs. Bulliman coldly. u 290 SOONER OR LATER. " Nice, it's more than nice. Smell it, Miss Phoebe, and tell me that it is angelic." " This is Sophia," said Mrs. Bulliman, " and I shall be surprised if I hear her apply such words to such a purpose." " Oh, Sophia, so it is. I beg your pardon, my dear, but you and your sister are so alike, that I never know which is the other." And Mrs. De Gully laughed, not, to do her justice, at her own small wit, but at the blow she had already planted. For Sophia was not ill-looking — Phoebe was very grim. " Good morning, Mr. Chervil," said Mrs. Bulliman. " Will you be good enough to put me up a couple of ounces of camphor ? " "What," laughed Mrs. De Gully, "do the moth and rust cor- rupt in your house ? That's very sad. I hoped you knew better things." *' I am glad to find that you know good words, my dear," said Mrs. Bulliman, " and I should not be less glad if I heard you use them more reverently." Slind, she was quite justified in administering this one. She was much older than Mrs. De Gully, and the latter was impertinent. " Lord ! my dear," said Mrs. De Gully, " I dare say I Imow as much of the good words, as you call them, as half the parsons that ever got into the humbox. Do you know what a humbox is, Miss Sophia ? " " I never heard the word before, Mrs. De Gully." " Nor do I wisli you to hear it again, Sophia," said her mother. " Oh, there's no harm in it," laughed Mrs. De Gully, " but you unco' good folks are always ready to suppose the worst. It is only the thieves' slang for the pulpit." " Since when has it been the fashion for ladies to use thieves' slang ? " asked Mrs. Bulliman. " I am out of fashionable society, SO' you must excuse my ignorance." " That's very severe, my dear. What's the harm in a bit of fun ? Do 3'ou see any harm in a humbox, Mr. Chervil ? " "Not so much as I have often seen in a pill-box," said Mr. Chervil, witli so respectful a smile that it quite did away with the social impropriety of a tradesman's venturing to exchange a joke with a lady. " Very good, indeed, Mr. Chervil," said Mrs. De Gully, the more graciously that she saw Mrs. Bulliman's sense of the fitness of things hurt by the appeal to the chemist and druggist. " Have you put up the camphor ? " asked Mrs. Bulliman, very freezinglv. SOONER OR LATER. 291 " I beg pardon. I did not understand that you were in haste," said the chemist, turning to his camphor-drawer. " Chervil forgot that he was not serving me, who am never in haste," said Mrs. De Gully. " How anybody can be I cannot imagine, for the time drags heavily enough, do all we can to waste it. I wish camphor would kill time as well as moths." " I find the day quite short enough when I have tried to fulfil all its duties," said Mrs. BuUiman. " Ah, but as I never try to fulfil any of its duties, and indeed I don't know what they are, the case is different. I wish I did know, though, because then there would be the excitement of knowing that you were neglecting them." " You will know the value of precious time some da}^ my dear, and I only hope that the knowledge may not come when it will be too late." " That sounds very awful," said Mrs. De Grully, " but I haven't the least idea what it means. I never had any notion of the value of time. Look at my watch," she said, " I brought it out that we might know when to get home, and see, it has stopped." " Shall I get it wound, m'm ? " suggested Mr. Chervil. " My assistant will take it over to the watchmaker in a minute." "Thanks, no, it would be sure to stop again. I've got no appointment," she daringly said to Mrs. BuUiman, " and a woman's watch never goes right except when the woman is going wrong." " Sophia," said Mrs. Bullunan, " walk on to Aldi'ich's, and get the flannels looked out." ]\Iiss BuUiman instantly departed, without the ceremony of even a look at the audacious epigrammatist. " What," said Mrs. De Gully, radiant with delight, " have you sent her off because you don't like her to hear my rattle ? " " You will pardon my observing that it is the rattle which warns us of the snake," said Mrs. BuUiman ; but she added, " I need not say that I had no intention to be rude — the answer escaped me — but I do not allow my children to listen to talk of an objectionable kind." Mrs. De Gully had flushed up, through her rich complexion, at the veiT sudden and very hard hit, but Mrs. Bulliman's apology, though it could not be called a soft speech, turned away wrath. Indeed, Mrs. De Gully was so indolent, except when hunting or flirting, that she could never be angry long. " I dare say that you are right," she said. " Thank heaven I have no children to interfere with my amusing myself, and nice articles they would be, if I had any. But I don't think that at Sophia's age TJ 2 292 SOONER OR LATER. they would need to be sent away for fear of hearing anything that anybody would be likely to say before them." " I shall not offend you again," said Mrs. Bulliman, " if I say that I did not think it likely that I should hear you speak lightly on the subject of female profligacy." " Did I say anything about female profligacy ? I am sure I didn't know it. Oh, you mean about a woman's going wrong. Dear me, what an ugly way to speak of things." " There is an uglier, and it is in the book which I am glad to hear you are acquainted with, and which in all friendliness I would beg you to study in a fitting spirit." " So I did, until I began to think for myself, especially about geology and astronomy, and then I left off, because if we are told that the whole of a book is true, and we discover that a good deal of it isn't, we lose faith in the rest, you see." " I have heard that painful statement often." " Does that make it the less true ? " " No, but it shows how easily poor human creatures can make their own stumbling-blocks. It is of no use, I know, to tell you that all these objections of philosophy falsely so called have been answered, because you do not wish to believe it. However, I do my duty in telling you that it is so, and that the rock of faith remains unshaken, and I have not upon my conscience the responsibility of leaving you in any but a wilful error." This formula — a very sound one — Mrs. Bulliman had used on several occasions, and she therefore gave it with all the advantage an actor derives from rehearsals. It did not, however, produce much effect on Mrs. De Gully. " Yes, I know. I have been told all that too. Edward Grafton, for one, told it me one day when I refused to believe that the sun and the moon stood still, or that the earth did, to the confusion of almanacs — only they don't mention it — and to the abolition of the law of gravitation — and all that one set of savages might slaughter another. Mr. Edward Grafton had the good manners to tell me that I talked shallow scepticism, and if I took half the pains to under- stand the story that I took to lose my soul, it would be better for me. That was a pretty speech to a lady, wasn't it ? " " I am glad that Mr. Edward Grafton, for once, remembered his duty as a Christian minister." " But I was as good a Christian as he was, and better, for instead of requesting him to leave the house, I commanded him to stand still, like the sun, and say which day he would dine with me. Was not that heaping coals of fire on his head ? No, it was not. SOONER OR LATER. 293 because we cook with gas. But was it not Christianlikc ? — tell me that." " I have said what it was my duty to say, Mrs. De Glully, and it is so shocking to me to hear your talk that I must bring our conver- sation to an end. Believe me, you will live to repent all this, and I hope that your repentance will be accepted." " You find fault with my harmless slang," said Mrs. De Gully, now really angry, " but you open upon me with slang of your own, which is quite as offensive. Why do you preach to me, when you do not act up to your own sermons ? " " I make no pretence to be all that I wish to be, dear friend," sSid Mrs. Bulliman, sweetening with her victory over the other's temper, " and I am sadly conscious of many shortcomings. But I cannot reproach myself with being false to my own professions." " False is not a ladylike word," said Mrs. De Gully, struggling to be proper behaved, " and therefore I shall not use it even under pro- vocation. But I do say, and I have a right to say, that though you do not mind accusing me of being a sceptic, a snake, and a female profligate, and an idiot, and a person who ought to repent " '• I ventured on no such words against you but the last " " You meant it though, and that is the same. Yet I hear that though you have felt yourself bound in duty to rebuke Mr. Edward Grafton, for denouncing your missionaries as humbugs, which I believe they are " " Knowing nothing whatever about them " " He is honest enough — 1 have told you what ho said to mc — and he declared that he wished they were all eaten. Well, he may have been right or he may have been wi'ong. I believe him right, but you don't, and yet you are afraid to tell him so, because his father is a rich old rector, and haughty. Do 3'ou call that consistency ? " By this time, Mrs. De Gully had talked herself out of her momen- taiy anger, and smiled as she gave out the last question, just as if she had been asking a riddle. The flush went down from under the rich complexion, and the eyes became soft, and all that was left of the storm was a little increase of sauciness about the mouth. Not so with Mrs. Bulliman, who had held her own fairly, but like a lady, during the earlier fencing, had pronounced her warnings with a certain kindliness, and who had only been moved to elaborate gentleness by a sense of victory. Now, charged home, she hardened at once, and prepared to inflict chastisement. Very stem grew her face of power. "Your camphor is here, ]\Irs. Bulliman." This, of course, was Mr. Cliervil, who interposed at the moment £94 SOONER OE LATER. to protect Mrs. De Gully. He liked her better than he liked Mrs. Bulliman, though the former was something of a fool, and the latter nothing — for chemists are hut men, and Mrs. De Gully never, except carelessly, made him feel the distance between them. Mrs. Bulli- man, as we know, had her owii ideas about her inferiors keeping their station. She turned u]3on him with no kindl}- regard. " Wlien I want it I will take it, Mr. Chervil." But he was not daunted. He was like the famous frigate that ran in and intercepted the broadside of the temble liner which was going to sink the fi-igate's fi"iend, only the difference was that the frigate was instantly sent to the bottom, and Mr. Chervil floated. " I have not broken it up," Mr. Chervil continued, by way 6f further delaying the attack, " because the odour abides longer in the large pieces ; but if you would like it triturated, it can be done in a minute. If you do not intend to use it directly, I would recom- mend yom- allowing it to remain in its present state, and one of your servants could break it in the ordinary mortar, or, if you would send it in to me, just before using it, I would do it." Mr. Chervil's manner was so perfect, while he spun out this apparently respectful and tradesmanlike verbiage, that Mrs. Bulli- man could neither interrupt him nor resent his speech. And he certainly managed to spike some of her guns. She understood, not exactly that he was protecting Mrs. De Gull}', but that he was being impertinent in revenge for her snub. Mrs. De Gully's apprehension was much too indolent for her to recognise the chivaliy of her chemical ally. It came to Mrs. Bulliman's turn at last, and she said, " Our intimacy, Mrs. De Gully, is not so great as to justify the liberty which you take in making personal remarks." " My dear soul," said Mrs. De Gully, " isn't that good, when you have been scolding me for half an hour ? " " My remonstrances, which you are pleased to call scolding, have been made on grounds of a higher kind than you probably under- stand, and I must beg you to recollect that they began only after a speech of such le\ity as no Christian person could hear in silence. Your excessive rudeness admits of no extenuation." " My dear, nobody cares what I say, and very likely I don't mean half of it. There, that's as much of an apology as I can bring my carnal nature — isn't that what you call it ? — to make. But you might be pretty sure that I like your husband too well to intend to annoy you." This remark was not precisely calculated to please Mrs. Bulliman, for sundry reasons. First, she was too independent in mind to wish SOONER OR LATER. 295 to be either liked or disliked for the sake of Mr, BuUiman ; secondly, she had a sort of grievance in regard to that gentleman and the lady before her. Mr. Bulliman had upon two occasions shown more zeal than his wife thought either necessary or professional in assisting Mrs. De Gully out of some difficulties. The gallant naval captain, on perpetual leave of absence, had behaved to his spouse with what has been called unremitting kindness — that is, he had omitted remit- tances, and Martletowers had been obliged (in consequence, as Mrs. De Gully said — but that might or might not be) to extend its tem- porary hospitalities to the representatives of law. Mr. Bulliman, who, though a perfectly decorous, if worldly-minded solicitor, had more than once happened to be riding his sedate cob in the neigh- bourhood of Martletowers at lunch time, and had somehow estab- lished a sort of friendship with the handsome occupant. It did not amount to a flii-tation — respectable solicitors of five-and-fifty never flirt ; but he was amused and tolerant, and gave the lady some wise advice, on the strength of which intimacy Mrs, De Gully consulted Mr. Bulliman in her troubles, and was very confidential with him. But he denied that she was his client ; he had retired ; he had no clients ; but he was very ready to go and see her whenever summoned by one of her over-scented notes, the odour of which was quite hateful to Mrs, Bulliman. The latter believed in her heart that her husband had lent money to the lady, but though humble and submissive to excess in household matters, Mr. Bulliman was as silent as one of the Discreet Statues on professional affairs. Therefore, it will be seen, the declaration of forbearance out of regard for Mrs. Bulliman's hus- band was not acceptable to Mr. Bulliman's wife. Such was one of the little episodes in life which give us all a great deal more concern than serious questions, and show us how utterly unphilosophical we all are. " I am not aware of any good reason for bringing Mr, Bulliman's name into question, Mrs. De Gully. I am sure, however, that he must be very grateful for your good opinion, and — for your business," She ought not to have said that, but we are sometimes left to our- selves. " Dear old thing he is," said Mrs, Do Gully, gushingly, " I assm-e you I am quite in love with him, and you see how far gone I am when I confess it to you, I haven't seen him for at least a week though, a faithless swain ; will you please to tell him that my heart is l)reakiug about it ? " Mrs, Dc Gully had not seen him for a week. No, thought IMrs, Bulliman, but that means that she has seen him long since the last 286 SOONER OR LATER. time he mentioned a visit. But what was to be said to an an- tagonist who met her with such careless effrontery ? Mr, Bul- hman should exjjiate the impertinence of the woman he chose to befriend. " Before I go," said Mrs. BulHman, taking up her camphor, " I will just say, in reference to your remarks about Mr. Grafton " " My dear creature, are we going back to that ? It had all gone out of my head. I forget what I did say. Pray don't call it remarks, that sounds like Mrs. Opie's novels. Her people make remarks to one another, and highly improving they are, if one could only read them." " I disapprove of all fiction," said the other lady, " but I had occasion to examine that lady's works, and except for the form, I found them unobjectionable. But I wish you would allow me to explain myself. I have reason to believe that you are not the only person who has thought proper to express opinions as to an intention, which was privately expressed, of paying a visit to the rectoiy at Saxbury. I wish that all who take the liberty to talk on the subject may distinctly understand that whatever I do," I shall do in my own way and at my o wn time, and that I venture to advise all such per- sons to mind their own business." This was a sad anti-climax, and lamentably colloquial. Mrs. Bul- liman had intended to close with a much more imposing peroration, to the effect that such persons should be perfectly clear that they had fulfilled all their own duties before they presumed to dictate to others. But that irreverent Mrs. De Gully had found a little glass syringe, and was just then amusing herself by squirting the per- fumed water at a venerable cat. " Eh," she said, as Mrs. Bulliman ended, " Oh, yes, thanks. Right in your ear, my pussy. We are to mind our own business. I will remember and tell everybody your orders. Be sure you give my love to Adolphus," she added, seeing Mrs. Bulliman about to leave. Adolphus. Mr. Bulliman's names were certainly Charles Adolphus Bulliman (the more brilliant wits in Naybury found out that his initials spelt cab, and for two years he was incessantly hailed, as if by a fare, with that sparkling epigram), but the Adolphus was a dropped name, and that Mrs. De Gully should use it argued that there must have been wild levity of talk at Martletowers. The lady took no notice of the outrage, however, and departed, taking also no notice of Mr. Chervil, whose shop had been so long occupied, un- ceremoniously, as a battle-field. But he was not surprised. It is only in demoralized foreign capitals that a customer is civil to a tradesman. SOONER OR LATER. 297 On the whole, Ml-s. Bulliman may be said to have been routed with slaughter. The light craft had baffled the ship of the line. She had certainly said some rude things, but they had made no im- pression, and she was finally dismissed with an impertinent message to her husband. And the enemy was left in possession of the field of battle. Dorcas was defeated in the person of its president. " Mrs. Bulliman is a very conscientious lady," said Mr. Chervil, gravely, almost meekly. " Is she ? " said Mrs. De Gully, quietly. " I will look the word out in the dictionary. I suppose I shall find it not far from cheeky. Allans, Franciner "With which graceful remark ]\Irs. De Gully also swept from the shop, followed by the pale and silent Francine, who had been per- fectly still during the entire debate, and who, as she did not under- stand a word of English, might not be supposed to have been much edified by the affair. They got into the pony carriage, which was in waiting, and Mr. Chennl, though affecting to follow them to the door, took care to be so leisurely in his movements as not to reach the step until they were seated. The lady dashed off, and the servant had to run for it to gain his place, and thus gave Mrs. De Gully time to say, exultingly, " I hope she lilced it." " Yes, you served her out rather," said Mademoiselle Francine. " I thought you were going to squirt at her." " Did think of it, but " But the man was in his place, and no more English was spoken for that reason. And no more French was spoken by Mrs. De Gully, for another reason, and a very good one. " Good afternoon, Mr. Chervil," said pretty Mrs. Fanshaw, entering the shop. " You have not seen Mr. Fanshaw about latelj-, have you ? He was to meet me here." " Somebody told me, I think, that he was seen di'iving out of town with Lord Mazagon," said Mr. Chervil. " Well," laughed the pretty wife, " if that is not good. After making a special appointment with me. However, if he is amusing himself I am content. If he should look in, you will bear witness that I was punctual. I have news which I think you will like to hear, Mr. Chervil." " I am sm-e I shall." " I have a letter from Mrs. Conway. They have joined the newly married couple, and all are well and happy." " And that is good news. The next will be that they are coming home." CHAPTER XXVI. HERO AND LEANDER. " By Jove ! " exclaimed the Reverend Theodore Grafton, Eector of Saxbmy, turning from, the window to the party at kmch. Wrong, of course, if the reverend gentleman regarded Jove as a nonentity, and a hundred times worse if he regarded him as did the author of the Universal Prayer. " Dear Theodore," said Mrs. Grafton, astonished. "An old college habit — not to be defended," said the rector, reddening. " But it may almost be excused, in the chcumstances. There's Miss BuUiman coming." " 0, Edward ! " said his mother, laughing. " This is too bad of you." " Phoebe Bulliman coming," said the curate. *•' I must escape." " Why," said Mr. Abbott, who was still on his visit — he had, however, been home three or four times, during his sojourn at the Eectory — "that is the name of tlie lady who, you told me, was charged with the visitation to call you, Edward, to account." " Her mother, her mother," said the young clergyman, im- patiently. " Stsij, if you please, Edward," said his father. " You wish me to stay ? " " Certainly." " She cannot be come on that en-and," said Mrs. Grafton. " I had some talk to her at the wedding. They would not send her. Perhaps she is not coming here at all." " She was at the gate, I tell you," said the rector. And she was now at the door, for they heard the bell. It was rung somewhat timidly. " I dare say she has only come about some society, or charity, or something of that sort," said gentle Mrs. Grafton. " Don't be harsh with her, until we see." " I am unaware that it is my habit to be harsh with any lady," said the rector, but his hard look at his wife did not exactly con- firm his speech. i SOONER OR LATER. 299 " If you like to fiice her by deputj', say so quickly," said Mr. Abbott. " Let her come in here, Iw all means," said the rector. And Miss Bulliman was announced. That young- lady had been left, as we recollect, by her mother, with advice to think over the rebellious manifestation on which Phajbc had ventured. She did think over it, and on the scolding she had received, and the unkind emphasis laid upon the number of her days, and the considerations which had provoked her to resist the will of her parent. We regi-et to say that the result of her medita- tion Avas not such as Mrs. Bulliman would have approved. Phosbe had discovered that rebellion was not such a difficult thing, and she had argued with herself, first to the effect that its consequences were not very awful, and secondly, that having done a little in that line, she might as well do a little more. Perhaps the Smooth Stones from Ancient Brooks, with which Mr. Spurgeon had supplied her, furnished her -with the idea that she might sling a few on her own account, and perhaps with the success which attended the victory of Goliah. Her mother's parting words, though really meant in kindness, that she ought to disabuse herself of any idea that Edward Grafton cared about her, had sunk as deeply into her heart as David's smooth stone sank into the forehead of the giant. And having gi'imly made up her mind that at seven-and-twenty a young lady, whose fiiends have done nothing for her in the way of her settlement in life, was some- what justified in looking out for herself, Phoebe had formed a reso- lution, which she had come over to Saxbury to carry out. Little thought Mrs. Bulliman, when retreating from the field of Chervil, that she should find no daughter at home, and still less dreamed the champion of Dorcas of the errand on Avhich her impenitent child had gone. After Mrs. Grafton's hint, Miss Bulliman was received with more cordiality than she expected. For she well knew that the Eectory was aware of the displeasure of Dorcas, of which institution she was held to be a bulwark. Phoebe Avas courteously entreated, and invited, of course, to lunch, which, however, she declined. " Have you heard from the bride ? " asked Mrs. Grafton, whose kind nature always sought to revive the plcasantest recollections of former meetings with others. " No, Mrs. Grafton. But Fanny Buxton called, for a moment, this mornuig, to say that she had had a note." " All well and happy, I hope ?" " Yery well, and very happy." " "Wliat a pleasant wedding it was." 300 SOONER OR LATER. "I have not been at many, but everybody seemed to enjoy this one." " And you deserved to do so, Miss Bulliman, for it was so very kind of you to accept office at the last minute." Phoebe smiled, as well as she knew how, and meant, poor girl, to make her face wear an agreeable expression, but the art of smiling cannot be acquired in a moment, any more than that of fiddling. The effort was laudable, but not very successful. And moreover she was conscious that she did not deserve the credit of entire disinterestedness. She had felt a secret joy in assisting at a ceremonial which for ever ended all relations between Magdalen and Edward. The rector thought that his wife's civilities had gone far enough, and he gave her a glance, well understood, which intimated his will that she should hold her tongue, and let Phoebe open her mission. But Phoebe had not expected quite so large an audience. In fact, in spite of her grimness, and her habit of taking the stern view of matters, worldly and spiritual, she had a good deal more of the soft heart than most persons supposed. She was daunted. Here was not only the majestic rector, but Edward Grafton, and also the meny-eyed lawyer, and her only ally was Mrs. Grafton, who might not care to do much in her aid. She would have liked of all things, at the moment, that Mrs. Grafton should manage a private chat with her. But the council sat, and Phoebe was compelled to speak. " I came over ," she began, with something like a blush, which did not escape Mr. Abbott. " Ten thousand pardons for interrupting you," said Mr. Abbott, " but you have business to speak of, Miss Bulliman, and I think I had better do what my fi-iend Mrs. Grafton is kind enough to tolerate in me — I will just go into her gi'cenhouse, and fumigate her beautiftil plants." He rose, and in going out, he passed close to Edward, and managed to bestow upon the curate a great Avink, unperceived by others, Avhich promised that in due season the younger Grafton should hear a good deal about the visit of the admiring young lady. " Is it a visit on business ? " asked Mrs. Grafton, smiling. " I can hardly say that. Indeed, now that I have to explain it, I seem to be at a loss how to apologise for coming at all." "We will waive all apologies," said the rector, graciously, "in consideration of the pleasure of a visit from Miss Bulliman." "I could better, perhaps, explain in a few words with !Mvs. Grafton " stammered Phoebe. " If you are good enough to allow us choice. Miss Bulliman," said SOONER OR LATER. 301 the rector, " we should both much prefer hearinii' you. But Edward will, I am sure, withdraw, if you please." But that was exactly Avhat did not please Phoebe, and with a laugh, rather too nervous to be pretty, she requested that Mr. Edward would stay. "The business concerns me, perhaps," said Edward, with good nature. " Please do not call it business." "Then we will call it pleasure, as I have said," said the elder Mr. Grafton ; " and now will you kindly inform us of its character ? " "I am acting entirely on my own responsibility," said Phoebe, " and I am far ft'om sure that I am acting rightly. But I am certain that you will not misunderstand me, and that if " Phoebe did not like it. She would have given anj'thing to be back with Ancient Brooks. She nearly broke down. " We will understand nothing," said the rector, " but that Miss Bulliman means everj-thing that is lady-like and kindly." This he said like a gentleman, and without the old and somewhat pompous manner, and it reassured Phoebe. " I am sure you are very good," she said, " and I am very much obliged to you. Mr. Edward," she added, making a sudden plunge, " do you remember saying something to us — to manuna rather — in the street one day, about missionaries ? " " Stay, my dear Edward," said his father. "A clerg}inan caimot be too circumspect. We are told to avoid all appearance of evil. I trust that you have not allowed the unraly member, as it is well termed by the apostle, to triumph over your discretion. But, be this as it may, I should caution you, and Miss Bullunan will forgive a father's caiition, that it is a duty to yourself to abstain fi'om any admission which might be prejudicial to you, if used hereafter." This speech, which could not be called objectionable, if the texts had been omitted, stung Phoebe to the quick, and she actually burst into tears. " And do you think," she asked, as she wiped them away without pretence of hidmg them, " does Mrs. Grafton think that I am capable of so mean an action as to come into your house and try- to get evi- dence against her son ? " " I do not believe it. Miss Bulliman," said Mrs. Grafton. " Not for a moment." " If I thought that you could," said Phoebe, recovering herself, " I should only have to apologise for my intnision, and to go away. But say you don't think of such a thing, Mr, Edward." " It never crossed mv mind. Miss Bulliman, But I think vou will 303 SOONER OR LATER. easily forgive my father's care, lest any nonsense of mine shonld do me injury." " It will never do you any through me," said Phoebe ; " and if I had said before what I intended to say, the thought would not have arisen. For I was going to make the request that nothing I might say should be repeated to any living soul. I suppose that I may still ask that ? " The rector was silent. " I hope that you may trast to our good feeling," said Mrs. Grafton, " and I tliink that you do, or we should not have had the pleasure of seeing you to-day." " Very well put, my dear," said the rector. And his wife actually coloured with satisfaction that he was pleased to approve her words. " And I do," said Phoebe, earnestly ; " and I will say out at once what I mean, and I am sure that you will construe it kindly. I will not ask you that question again, Mr. Edward," she went on, with a smile which was graver than her first, and therefore agreed with her better, "but I vsill just put a possible case : Supjwse that a clergj-man had used words which gave offence to persons of different views ; and suppose that some of these persons had thought that he and his friends ought to be remonstrated with ?" " Nothing could be more respectfully or more properly expressed. Miss Bulliman," said the rector ; " pray conclude a sentence which promises so well." "Then suppose that one person, — I shall never say it in that way," said Phoebe, " and I must give it in my own. Mrs. Crrafton, many of the Dorcas ladies think that mamma ought to come here and lecture you all. I do not think so ; and because I do not choose to be mixed up in what I consider wrong, I have come over to say so, and there's the truth. If you think that I am taking too bold a step, I am very son-y ; but I thought over it a good deal." And here Phoebe, cross- ing to Mrs. Grafton, sat down beside her, took her hand, and began to cry again. If this had been the action of a pretty girl, a wi'iter would have been charmed to naiTate the incident ; but Phoebe was neither veiy young, nor at all pretty, and her tears did not make her look better ; so the affair is told curtly and A\ithout triumph. All that can be said is, that it was done in a natural and feminine manner. On the whole, the rector was a little disappointed. He had hoped til at Phoebe was the deputation, and that she was going to administer the rebuke, in answer to which he had intended to speak, of course, in a gentlemanly way, but to castigate the presumption — first, of an ugly girl wlio dared to come and reprove a clerg}'man ; and secondly. SOONER OR LATER. 303 of the semi-dissenting persons who had sent her ; and lie had con- ceived a few sentences which should make the ears of Dorcas to tingle. Instead of the attack, it was not even a flag of trace ; it was a deserter who had come in. Then he looked at Phoibe, and admitted that she had behaved very well to the Rectory, and he wished that she had not been so ugly, thou^gh as a clergyman he had no right to entertain such a wish. Next, he behaved with perfect propriety, thanked Miss Bnlliman for the interest which she had taken in the affair, and assured her that whether her friends carried out their design or not— and he hoped that on reflection they would abandon it — no one in that house would ever comiect her with^an act of which she had signified most becoming disapproval. As Phoebe listened, she thought that the High Church rounded its sentences better than the Evangelicals. Of course she was gratified, but she was far more grateful for the kindly pressure of her hands by IMrs. Grafton. As for the Re^'erend Edward Grafton, in honour of whom all this scene was really got up, he showed himself equal to the situation by looking steadily out at the window. For, without being in the slightest degree coxcombical, he Avas told by his instinct, and the tale was confirmed by sundry memories, that Miss Phoebe's tender feelings towards himself had everything to do with her revolt against her mother and Dorcas. And Edward was of much too earnest a nature to care about the ludicrous, in fact, like most earnest people, he was without much sense of humour. He was perplexed at the thought that J\Iiss Bullimau had taken this bold step for love of him. It was Hero swimming over to Leandcr, and Leander, instead of welcoming her with ardour, wiping the spray from her ftiir shoulders, and Ijringing forth the restoring wine, was more inclined to imitate St. Ke^in, and push her back again into the sea. He heartily wished that she had kept with her kith and kin, and had come over, if she pleased, to excommunicate him, instead of making this sacrifice for his sake. Very much annoyed was the curate as he stood at the window, and his annoyance Avas not materially soothed by the expressive pantomime of ]\Ir. Abbott, who, smoking his cigar, s])ied out Edward, and instantly went through a series of attitudes descrip- tive of a lover's sudden reception of liis idol, and the appropriate raptures. When Phoebe rose to take leave, the rector said, " Edward, do yourself the honour of seeing Miss Bulliman across the fields ; it is a holiday, and there is a good deal of scum about." The younger Grafton was conscious of feeling most imfilially towards the author of his existence, but what was to be said but the proper thing ? 304 SOONEE OR LATER. Phcebe was secretly delighted, but made the usual protestations. The oddest conduct was that of Mrs. Grafton, who rather opposed this exercise of politeness by Edward, and went the length of saying that the people behaved very decently, and she did not think Miss Bulliman had anything to apprehend. The rector looked rather puzzled than angry at this resistance to his will, and Phoebe thought that it was unkind. Edward, perhaps, gnessed what was in the mind of his gentle-hearted mother. Mrs. Grafton had been so pleased with the conduct of Miss Bulliman that the motherly soul awoke, and she was reluctant to allow the ugly girl to be encouraged in any degree to indulge hopes that must be blasted. For Mrs. Grafton saw at a glance how the land lay, and knew, even better than Edward, that the demonstration had been made for him. But the rector and politeness prevailed, and Edward and Phoebe departed together, Mr. Abbott not forgetting to be at the gate, and to salute them in his most respectful manner. " "Why was he not to go with her ? " asked the rector. " Poor thing. Don't you see what it all means ? We laugh, but it is earnest with her." " Now, do you know, that never occurred to me ? " said the rector, who seemed hurt that there should be anything in heaven or earth that he had not been aware of. " But she could hardly dare to 4ihink of Edward." " My dear Theodore, women are dreadfully daring in such matters, however cowardly in others. Am not I a proof of it ? " That was just the sort of thing the rector liked, and he was more than affable, and nearly affectionate to his wife for the rest of the day. " Well," said Mr. Abbott, coming in as the very gracious smile with which the wife's speech had been rewarded faded from the rector's face, " am I to prepare the settlements ? " " We have been playing with edge tools, my dear Abbott ; at least so says Mrs. Grafton, by whose opinion I am always ready to be guided on delicate questions. We have been shooting our aiTOws into the dark, and behold the stricken deer has been to us for succour." " Do you mean that the young lady has been here to demand the hand of Edward ? Ha, ha ! he did not look very happy." "The agitation attendant on an unexpected victory," said the rector. And so they jested with poor Phoebe's heart-pangs. CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE NET. The walk across the fields had to be perfonned, and Edward Grafton made up his mind to acquit him of his duties as escort with the best grace he could. Utterly unacceptable as was his companion, he could not help feeling that Phoebe had intended to show very good feeling, and that it would be ungracious in him, for whose sake it had been manifested, to be less courteous than his father and mother. So he lost no time in expressing his own acknowledgments, and though they were by no means so elegantly worded as his father's had been, we need not say that they were much more welcome to Phoebe. " I am very glad to be so spoken to," she said, " for I need some support when I remember that I am setting myself in opposition to mamma, and asserting a will of my own." Edward Grafton, who was anything but a man of compliment, was veiy neai-ly going to say that Miss Bulliman w^as quite old enough to think for herself. But his clerical instincts saved him when his politeness was at fault, and he replied with the usual commonplace about our duty of obedience as a general rule, and the necessity of sometimes remembering that we owed a higher duty than to our parents. But this was by no means what Phoebe wanted, and she had to endeavour to work hun round to another point of view. " I do not like accusing other persons of presmnption," she said ; "but my owni ideas are entirely apart from those which — which have made me come here to-day." Edward Grafton was now seized with a brilliant notion. " I am glad to believe. Miss Bulliman, that you have seen the futility of the kind of church-principles with which I hear that some of yoiu* friends are inoculated. "Without meaning offence, I may say that they can hardly be called church-principles at all, and are indeed little better than dissent. It is gratifying that yom- eyes should be opened to their errors, and I may take your kindly coming over tci- day in proof that you recognise the real position of the clergjinan, which the low church bv no means sees." 306 SOONER OR LATER. Poor Phoebe. However, she did her best. " You mean, of course, Mr. Edward, that I disapprove of his being- taken to task by strangers." " By the laity at all, yon mean. You see, do you not, that he is set over them, as their spiritual superior, and that it is for him to teach and for them to learn." Yes, thought Phoebe ; but when he teaches that missionaries ought to be eaten, what is to be done then ? " I can imagine nothing more sad," pursued the curate, " than the condition of a clergiinan whose parishioners think themselves entitled to call him to account for his words and works. It is too painful to think of, such a submission to an unauthorised- censorship. Yet in Scotland, I believe, the ministers actually encourage their hearers, even of the lower orders, to give opinions on the sermons which thej- have heard ; and I observe that when a question of law arises, as to the fitness of a clergyman for his work, not only the butchers and bakers and candlestick-makers of the ])lace are called to certify as to what the}' were pleased to think of his doctrine and manners, but old women are asked whether he comforted ■ them, and what sort of texts he shouted into their ear-trampets. It is too melancholj' a picture." Phoebe was quite capable of saying something in answer to this, but she did not want to discuss church matters. She had an oppor- tunity now of showing something of the state of her heart, and she did not know when she might have another chance. It was pro- voking, therefore, that this stupid ])riest would keep on about religious topics. But the fact was that he was ten-ibly afi'aid of getting upon any less safe gromid. They walked on, Edward taking a pace quite as fast as was compatible -^nth good manners, and much faster than Miss Bulliman thought necessar}', and inspiration did not come to her aid — some people think calmly and vigorously when walking brisklj^, others do not. Presently they neared Trafalgar, and the sight of Mrs. Faunt's cottage revived a series of thoughts in Edward's mind, and did not make him more impressionable. But the case " I asked Mr. and Mrs. Grafton," said Phoebe, in a lower voice than she had previously used, " that nothing might be said as to my having disclaimed any share in the intended remonstrance. It now seems to me that I had no right to ask such a thing, and I hope, Mr. Edward, that you do not think I am ashamed of what I have said." " Certainly I do not," replied Edward, " but I am sm-e that nothing will be repeated. The Rector and my mother are peo})le of the world, and quite understand the art of holding their tongues without allow- SOONER OR LATER. 307 ing themselves to be accused of insincerity, and }-ou may rely upon me." " I am certain that I may," said Pliccbe, giving him a tender kind of look, but it was unfortunately lost, from liis habit of looking any- where but in the face of the person he might be speaking with. And she saw it was lost, and as they were drawing very near to jSTaybur}-, and the interview must soon be over, she said : " And I hope that you, especially, will not suspect me of boldness and self-will. I am only too happy to submit like a cMld to the guidance of others " (she had a good mind to say another), " and I think that this is the first time in my life that I was ever rebellious." Ending with a depre- catory smile. " "We will not say rebellious," replied Edward, gravely, " but con- scientious ; that is, I don't mean it was the first time you were ever conscientious, — you know what I mean. And, perhaps, as you are now beyond all conscientiousness, — I beg your pardon, I am talking nonsense ! — but we are near jSTayburj-, and I perhaps I had better say good afternoon. Good afternoon. Miss Bulliman, I am sure." Phoebe stared, as well she might ; but she did not laiow the dis- turbing cause which was making the curate talk incoherent trash. He had suddenly discovered Mrs. Faunt at the door of her cottage, and she had made a signal to him that he was to come to hej*. Miss Bulliman could only respond to the hm-ried gi*eeting by extending her hand, and putting into her pressure as much warmth as was consistent with maidenly modesty- And then she went on her way, not feeling that she had done a gTeat deal towards touching the heart of Edward Grafton, and yet on the whole as much pleased with herself as a truly pious person ought to be. She had in great measure released herself, as she thought, from an over-stringent rule at home ; she had selected a line of action for herself, and had been rewarded for it by the applause of two clerg-jinen of the Church of England ; one a veiy superior person indeed and an aristocrat, and by the approval of one of the most ladylike women of the neighbour- hood ; and then she hoped that Edward Grafton, when he came to consider the sul^ject, and to listen to her praises — which she fondly hoped he would hear fi-om his parents — would begin to think well of her. A basis was at all events laid on which a structure of happiness was reared by Phoebe's softened imagination, and ha\ang duly admired it, she had the resolution to take it quietly down, and to become as grim and detennined as before, as she approached the house in which she expected stern questioning. But few things come exactly as we expect them to do, for wliich reason it is not a bad bit of superstition which induces some people X 2 308 SOONER OR LATER. always to make up their minds for the worst. Mrs. Bulliman was in no mood for conflict ; and though of course slie demanded where her daughter had been, the reply that Phoebe had taken a long walk, was accepted as sufficient. We, therefore, leave the adventurous maiden to her own contemplations, and go back to the companion of part of that long walk. Edward Grafton had seen and heard nothing of Mrs, Faunt since the night when he gave her the money to start her on her way to London. Very soon after that time a revulsion of feeling, and a re- currence to his sense of the character of a gentleman, and perhaps an influence of a still higher kind, had made him thoroughly ashamed of having yielded to her vsdshes, and he heartily hoped never to see her again. We do not say that his love for Magdalen had departed, as, of course, it ought to have done, when she became the bride of another, nor is it at present necessaiy to examine the state of his heart. He felt, almost as soon as he had emerged from the cottage in which Mrs. Faunt had tempted him to the most despicable act of his life, that he had disgraced himself in his own eyes, and had risked his position in society. He felt too — for he was capable of generous sentiment — that haughtily as he had been treated by Magdalen when he sought to warn her against her maniage, and utterly as she had trampled out his own hopes, he had provoked it all, and that she was unoffending except in defence of the man whom she had chosen. The more he reflected on the mean and coarse method which he had been induced to adopt in order to obtain infoiination that might hinder Ernest Dormer's fortunes in love, the more detestable did the temptress appear ; and there were moments when even this highly educated gentleman — this priest of the church, was almost inclined to believe that some judicial spell had been upon him when he listened to the persuasions of that evil old woman. But shaking off folly, and owning that the influence to which he had submitted was simply the agency of angry passion, he resolved to extricate himself from the dirty meshes of the net that had been cast over him, and to put him- self well with those whom he had thought to injure. We have seen that he put this resolve somewhat boldly into practice, and solicited permission to assist at the man-iage of Magdalen and Dormer. And on that day he kept strict watch over himself ; and though Ernest Dormer had not thought favourably of his bearing in society, those who knew Edward Grafton well were not slow to notice his aban- donment of the alternate extremes of absence of mind and of emphatic earnestness which were usually observed in the young curate. He showed the most respectful attention to Magdalen, was courteous to Dormer, and he forced himself to converse, with some show of interest, SOONER OR LATER. 309 with any of the guests who came near him on that day. Since that time lie had endeavoured to impress upon every one that the Donners and Conwa}'S were his valued fi-iends, and that he intended to culti- vate their fi-iendship as much as possible. It was thought in Naybury that a man of Edward's peculiar temperament had done more than could have been expected of him ; but this was thought by those who did not know more than that hC was a rejected suitor of Miss Conway. So long a time had passed since Mrs. Faunt's departure that Edward had begun to believe that he should not meet her again. He hit on the belief that she Avas only an artful impostor, who had played upon him for the sake of obtaining money, and having got this, would not face him any more ; and this view of the case was so pleasant to him that, with the usual wisdom of man, he speedily made it a belief. Gradually, therefore, he was relieved from the sense of his wrong-doing, and as he knew that the secret was known only to himself and to the woman who had gone, he had nearly blotted the business out of his memory. A casual word from Mr. Abbott had revived it for a night, but since that time Edward Grafton had been tranquil. But Mrs. Faunt had come back. And worse, she had demanded another visit from him. He was, we may be sure, foolish enough, at the first outbreak of his angry dismay, to think bitterly of his father for having sent him on the walk with Phoebe, and even more bitterly of the poor girl herself, for having been the cause of his coming in Mrs. Faunt's way. But this miserable irritation passed off with the recollection that if the woman meant to see him, it was of little consequence whether they encountered to-day or to-morrow. The question was, would he see her at all ? Long pondering over the situation, before her return to Saxbury, had enabled Edward Grafton to shape out a course for himseb^ in the event of that return taking place. But we do not need to say that a person who throws up a fortification against an antagonist whom he does not expect to attack it will generally do his work feebly, and his devices will not be well matured. So it was in Edward Grafton's case. His idea was that he would refuse to see Mrs. Faunt, and then, if she persevered in approaching him, he would treat her with becoming contempt. He would know nothing of her except that she was a pauper who never went to church, and whom he had sometimes visited in the hope of urging her to better conduct. If she dared to breathe a word of the unholy compact between the witch and himself, he would utterly deny it, and as he 310 SOONER OR LATER. was a gentleman and a clergyman, and she was a poor, bad sort of woman, he might reasonably expect, by meeting her charge with indignation, or scom, to crush his disreputable enemy. Such was his idea, and it Avas not altogether a bad one, if we make due eon- cession to human nature. We know, no doubt, that a true Cluistian, to say nothing of a Christian clergyman, would not add to his offence the grievous sin of lying, and berfling false witness against his neigh- bour, and that it was Edward Grafton's duty, not perhaps to antici- pate his punishment, for it might mercifully be spared him, but to be prepared for it, and when it came, he was to say, " I have sinned," and take the consequences. But though Edward Grafton was no hypocrite in his religion, he did not see his way to a crown of mar- tyrdom. He easily convinced himself that for the error of half-an- hour he was not called upon to make his whole life shameful, or to inflict deadly wounds on the hearts of his proud father and his affec- tionate mother. In fact, he never entertained, seriously, the thought of pleading guilty; and let those who read his story be very thankful if they can conscientiously say that they would have so pleaded. Some may think of a compromise, and say that he might have gone away ft-om Saxbury — have travelled — have let the affair die out. But, even if this course would have saved him, instead of leaving his enemy to spread a scandal for which his flight would have given strength, it was impossible for him to go. For very good reasons, he must remain at the Rectory. Now he had to carry out his designed defence. There was the woman, awaiting him. He could have avoided her on that day, but he was morally certain that the next would bring her to his father's house. Edward Grafton then knew that he had not the persistent courage necessary to carry out his plan. He pictured the scene Avhich must begin the strife, the haughty horror of his father, the agitation of his mother. Then, the talk of the parishioners ; and then — worst of all — the news being conveyed to Magdalen Dormer. He lingered long in the pathway after Miss Phoebe had departed, and anyone of a romantic turn of mind, who had seen him part, on fi-iendly terms, with a smiling lady, would have fancied that he was a happy and accepted lover, reluctant to leave the spot where his vows had been heard. We often make these mistakes when we make romances. Suddenly, a good thought came to him. He would avoid the woman now, but only that he might go home, and make a confidence. He would trust llv. Abbott, Avho had known him from childhood, and who was deep in all the family secrets. That long-headed and SOONEPw OR LATEIf. 311 experienced man would do something — he had told them but lately that he was very successful in crippling and chastising slanderers. He should have thought of this before, for though he lost no time along the circuitous path which he was obliged to take to avoid Mrs. Faunt's cottage, he was too late. Mr. Aljbott had received a tele- gi-am calling him home, and he had instantly gone off to catch a train which must have started a quarter of an hour when Edward readied the Kectory. Then he determined ou a third course, and we shall see how it prospered. The Eeverend Edward Crrafton, walking with the brisk and dig- nified step which some clergymen learn, while others are always either bustling or dawdling, came late in the afternoon to the cottage of the widow Faunt. He had mentioned at home that he should make a few calls on poor people. The old spider was in her parlour, but she did not come out, and the fly had to walk in without invitatiou. Mrs. Faunt was better dressed than on the day we first saw her. She was not at all in splendour, as she had appeared in London upon some occasions of which we have heard, and others of which we may hear, but her dress was perfectly tidy, and not at all awry. Some- thing had been done to her liaii- also — it had been parted by some hand of more mathematical accm-acy than her own, and she might have been taken for a very respectable professed cook. She was not seated on her table, but very decorously on the one good chair of the hut. And when the clergyman came iu, she not only abstained from offering to give him that seat, but she did not even rise to receive him. " "Well, Mrs. Faunt," said Edward Grafton, who had arranged some speeches in his own mind. " You wished to see me, as I gathered from your gestures." " And you did not wish to see me, sir ? " asked Mrs. Faunt, . calmly. " Had you anything particular to say ? If not I had better look in another day, as my time is rather fully occupied at present." " 0, that's the tone, is it ? " said Mrs. Faunt, as if talking to her- self and having discov^ered the answer to a riddle. " I might have expected it. Well, sir, I do not know that I have anything par- ticular to say, but if you asked me any questions I might recollect something that might be interesting." " I have no questions to ask you," said Edward. He thought that this was rather cleverly put, and would be a hint to Mrs. Faunt to let by-gones be by-gones, and start afresh. 312 SOONER OR LATER. But this hint she was not inclined to take. " I thought you might want to inquire how I had laid out your money for you, sir. Gentlemen are usually desirous to see the bill, however lib^al they may act in paying it." " If I repeat to you," said Edward Grafton, " that I have no inquiries whatever to make, I think you will understand me, and there is an end of the matter." " What matter, sir ? " said the spider. " As to any relief I may have given you," said Mr. Grafton, mean- ing to be still more clever. " You never gave me any relief, Mr. Edward Grafton. I never needed any, and if I had needed any, I should have gone to the people of my own parish, which is not yours." " Just so," said Edward, nervously eager to end the talk and get away. "Any way you like, so you understand. I have nothing more to say." " Stop a bit, sir," said Mrs. Faunt, rather coolly than insolently. " I don't like to be talked to in that manner. I mentioned the last time but one that I had the honour of speaking to you — the last time of all was in church, where I have better manners than to speak — I said that I did not like parson-talk. Don't, if you please, come here saying that you gave me relief, when you never did any- thing of the kind. I deny it altogether, and I don't think that you, as a gentleman, will say it again." " You understand me, Mrs. Faunt, and this talk is needless." " But it is not needless, sir," said the woman, raising her voice a little, and I will not be told to understand what I don't understand. You have no right to make me out a pauper, to serve a purpose of your own." " I have no puriwse," said Edward, " and I see no reason for your excitement, Mrs. Faunt. It was not relief then, it was a gift, so say no more about it. I hope it has prospered with you." " It was no gift, sir, neither. What call have you to make me gifts of ten sovereigns, or me to take them ? It ivas ten sovereigns ; I suppose, sir, you don't deny that ? " " I really forget the amount," said Edward Grafton. "You asked me for some money, and I gave it you. You are quite welcome to it, and now let it be forgotten." " It's not going to be forgotten, Mr. Grafton, at least by me, until I have justice done me. I asked you for the ten pound ? I deny it. You gave it me for a purpose, I tell you, and I took it for a purpose, and I used it for a purpose, and you know that right well." " I have not asked you how you used it, nor do I wish to know." SOONER OK LATER. 313 " ! we don't wish to know. But we shall know, whether we like it or not." " Mrs. Faunt," said Edward, struggling to do his best for himself, " do not let us waste words. Drop this subject, and come up to the Rectory to-moiTOw. I know Mrs. Grafton will be glad to hear that you have returned, as we are now expecting visitors, and shall require your services. It was principally to say this that I came. And now, good afternoon." " Not .quite so fast," said Mrs. Faunt, darting at the door with an agility which her figure did not promise. " Mr. Grafton, I will not have my feelings trampled upon. I know you and people like you think that their inferiors have no feelings, or that they can be made all right with a bit of gold, but you ought to know quite different, especially being a clergyman. If I am down, I have some pride left, and I will not be called a pauper, nor will I be told I had money given me for myself, when it was nothing but wages. You'll have to unsay those words, sir." Edward Grafton had the wealcness to become irritated at the wrong moment, and the finding himself forcibly prevented from leaving the wretched cottage so enraged him, that he said, " If they were wages, they were not earned, and you had better be glad to take them in a way that makes you out honest." " That is another matter altogether, sir," said Mrs. Faunt, almost respectfully. " And as you have unsaid your former words, which were unjust and uncalled for, and as you own that you paid me the money for a pui-jiose of your own — that's so, sir, is it not ? " '.' Well, go on." " But that's so, sir." " Say so. Yes. I paid you for a purpose, well ? " " Then it behoves me to clear myself, and show you that if I did not do what you sent me for, it was none of my fault. But poor folks can be honest, sir, and it is my intention to return you that money, taking out of it only my travelling expenses, which I kept as low as possible." " Out of the question," said Edward Grafton. " I believe all that you say, without hearing any more, and I wish to hear no more. I am glad that you failed, and therefore there is no need of expla- nation. Be good enough to let me pass, as I have engagements." " You are glad I failed, Mr. Grafton. Might I ask why ? " "The reasons are my own. I am not going to discuss the subject." " But you will stay here, Mr. Grafton, until I have said my say. You are very anxious to get off, and to hush the matter up, but 314 SOONER OE LATER. unless YOU hush me up by knocking me clown and stunning me, which would scarcely be the correct thing in a clergjTnan, I don't see how you are to go till I please." She had suggested the exact com'se which Edward Grafton felt inclined to take, but he had also weighed the objection raised by Mrs. Faunt. "I am disgusted at your coarse and vulgar behaviom-, Mrs. Faunt. As a clergj-man, my hands are tied, otherwise you have put yourself out of the right to the forbearance a man shows a woman." " If you were not a parson, you'd smash me, that's what you mean, in plain English. And you would like to do it for a better reason than because I keep you ten minutes from going to some engage- ment, very likely humbug. I have heard enough to know all about that. You made it up with the parties you sent ]ne to try and injure, and 3'ou helped at the wedding, and now you want to forget all aljout the past. Well, that's all veiy right, only don't be in such a hurr}' to behave right to them while you behave wrong to me. I tried to do my best for you, and I did what would have answered your purpose ten times over, only I was too late. So I kept counsel till I could see you again." " Whatever you learned keep to yourself, and be sure that I shall ask you for none of it." " Well, if you return the article on my hands, I don't see that I am bound to keep it to myself. It's of no use to me. I have a right to sell it to my best advantage, and I shall too." " Sell what ? " said Edward, a new form of terror coming across his vision. " There it is at last," cried Mrs. Faunt with a little triumphant laugh. " I said I thought I might be able to offer something interesting, but it took a long time to get the gentleman to look at my wares. Why, sir, didn't I say to you, in this very cottage, only I was sitting on that table you are leaning against, and I beg you'll take the chair if more comfortable — no, sir, don't say that, because it doesn't sound pretty from a parson — but didn't I say to you that I believed I knew that about a certain gentleman as would rain his chances with a certain lady. Wasn't that my word, ]\Ir. Grafton ? " " I believe so." " You remember it well, I see. And did you not say in answer that you felt it would be the right thing to ascertain the truth ? You won't eat your own words, I am sure, sir." " What's the good of this sort of thing, Mrs. Faunt ? " said Edward, chafing, yet not liking to give utterance to his anger for fear of SOONER OR LATER. 315 further compromising work which he saw to be probable, and Avon- dered he had not thought more about. " Xav, Mr. Grafton, please let us go on step by step, and then we shall understand everything. Did not you say that the truth ought to be ascertained ? " " Yes. I am very sorry I did." " I don't know why you should be sorry, sir. I did ascertain the truth. And if you had known it in time, you could have stopped the marriage instead of helping at it, and I take it that the stopping would have been much more agreeable to your feelings than the helping, though I am told you behaved awfully well, and like a brother giving away a beloved sister to the man of her heart. You would have had the pleasure of giving the young lady to some other man, or perhaps of taking her yourself." He was obliged to listen to the woman now. The new train of ideas which he had called up, and which he cursed himself for not having awakened before, compelled him to endure this coarse woman's coarse talk. He was even anxious that she should go on, for he wished to know what he had to dread for Magdalen. " I am not keeping you here, sir, against your will, I hope," she said, standing away from the door. She opened it, and a flood of afternoon sunshine bm-st into the squalid house, and made it suddenly cheerful. " There ! Having let the light into the house, I will now let it into your mind, Mr. Grafton, if you'll excuse my wit ; or since you won't take the chair, and I couldn't in manners sit while a gentle- man who behaves like one is standing, perhaps you will come out into the garden, as there are two seats." He followed her out. What else could he do ? " Yes, Mr. Grafton," she said, " that was so. What would you have given to know, a week before the wedding, that " We need not repeat her story, because we know all about it. We need only give its key word. This was Lucy. Having listened, Edward Grafton was silent, and Mrs. Faunt sat watching the eflFect of her communication upon him. He continued silent until she grew impatient. But she did not know what thoughts were working, and when she spoke again he started. " You would like to know why I could not get this precious secret to you, sir. It's rather a long story, and turns upon the conduct of some who had no right to act as they did, and on whom I'd say I would take my revenge, if I were not speaking to a clergy- man. And just now you are not thinking of me, I fancy ? " " No. Yes. Now, Mrs. Faunt, a word more. I told you truly 316 SOONER OR LATER. when I said I was glad you had failed ; and now I know what you have told me, and which I suppose to be true, though we have only your word for it, by the way " " And you would be glad if it was false. Yes, you have changed, Mr. Grafton, if you are telling the truth. If that is rude, it was not unprovoked. But the story is true enough, sir. I saw her with my own eyes, and the children, as pretty as you ever saw, and the gen- tleman's picture hanging up, and a hat with his name in it, and a book with his writing in it, which I took the liberty of borrowing, in case you might like to compare it with the writing in the book we saw a certain lady reading just where I sit." " Assuming it to be true, I wish absolute silence preserved on the subject. The wedding has taken place, and the revelation would only cause useless pain." " Then you will buy my ware, sir ? " " What do you mean ? " " You can't think you have bought it already, Mr. Grafton, with that paltry ten pounds. That was only the payment of the carriage. But it's hotter out here than I had thought, and I must ask you to step in again, if you have anything more to say to me. I have nothing more at present to say to you, but I hope you will honour me with a visit now and then." Mrs. Faunt went into the cottage, and was hastily followed by the young clergyman. " What are your terms ? " he said. " My terms for what, sir ? For leaving you the full and exclusive power over the secret you sent me to find out ? " " Yes ; that, exactly." " A hundred pounds. But pay it just when convenient to your- self I am not in want of the money." " I might manage the money. But as soon as it' is paid, you will demand more, or threaten to divulge." " That's a very uncharitable suspicion, sir, and if I were to imitate you, I should refuse to have any more dealings with you, and take my goods to another market. It is not open yet, but it soon will be, I hear. You understand, I dare say ? " " Name no names, and forget the habit. You shall have the money, but I cannot well pay it for a fortnight or so." "Don't inconvenience yourself, Mr. Grafton. A little now and then will answer my purpose. You could not let me have five pounds now, I suppose ? " "Yes, I can," said Edward Grafton, taking a note from his porte-monnaie. SOONER OR LATER. 317 '* I asked you to put that up, if you remember, the first time you took it out, sir, or have you forgotten ? " He had not forgotten, and he bitterly remembered saying to him- self that when people of the humbler class refuse your money, it is usually because they intend to have a good deal more out of you than your intended gift. It was signally true in poor Edward Grafton's case, and as he handed over the note, he wished that he had been warned. Had he defied Mrs. Faunt when all that she knew was the scene between himself and Magdalen, there would have been trouble for him, but little for her. "A London note— thanks, sir, — but you have not one of our country notes ? " " No, but this is all right. I took it at Chervil's, the chemist's, in exchange for a cheque. His name is on it. I can't give you gold." " It's no matter, sir. It will do as well as gold, and better. Do you wish me to call at the Rectory, to-morrow ? " " If you like," said Edward Grafton, who had invented the wish of his mother. " Very good, sir. And I will only say that you may sleep quite easy, and dream as happily as you like. The secret is safe with me as long as I am properly treated, and I am sure that you will always do that." " I trust you, Mrs. Faunt," said the Reverend Edward Grafton, leaving the cottage. "But I don't trust you, Mr. Grafton," said Mrs. Faunt. She rushed to the bed, which was in the same room, but standing in a recess of some obscurity. "Here," she said, hastily tugging at the shoulder of somebody who had been latent in the darkness, " you haven't dared to go to sleep, have you ? Say yes, and I'll turn you out into the road, cripple or no cripple, just as your drunken wife did." " I'm awake, m'm, I'm awake, and has been." " And you listened, you old fool ? " " Listened to every word as you'd let me hear. It stands to reason I couldn't hear when you took him into the open, don't it, m'm ? " " In course. I took him there because I didn't want you to hear that part of the story. It would have been too bad for you, shocked you, don't you see ? " " I see, m'm. You're a deep one, you are. And when you brought him back again, then I were to listen again. Which I done." 318 SOONER OR LATER. " Then, Jull, 3^011 heard Mr. Grafton say that he hired me Avith ten sovereigns to go to London and find out a secret for him Avhich he hoped would prevent a certain marriage. "And you also heard him bargain that the secret was to be in his own power, and he was to give me a hundred pounds for keeping it, and he gave me a five -pound note on account, with Chervil's name on it. Is that right ? " " Right as ninepence, m'm," said Jull. " Then you say that over to yourself, till you are sure you will never forget it. For if you forget a word of it. when I want it remembered, I will poison you, Jull, as quietly as I ever poisoned your wife's cats." "No, you wouldn't, m'm. I know that. But 111 not forget it, m'm, nor your kindness in taking me in when my wife as is a worse cat than any you say you poisoned as may be true and I bear no malice but I do against her as could turn a cripple into the road." " She was too drunk to know it was you, Jull, and she has been raging about like a mad thing, and nobody will tell her where you are. I shall take care of you, don't fear, old man. I'm not afi-aid of losing my reputation. I'll give you something to drink that will open your eyes, Jull." It was in no ISTaybury brandy that the respectable couple drank prosperity to the Church of England, coupling with that toast the name of the Reverend Edward Grafton. CHAPTER XXVIII. HOME AGAIN. The Scottish tour was a complete success, and at its end Eruest and Margaret returned with the Conwaj's to theii- house. They had all felt inclined to make the retmii journey quickly, and little time was lost between the landing at Greenock and tlie arrival at ISTaybun'. Mr. and Mrs. Conway were happy in the thought of finall}' settling with their child and the man of their choice in the home which it was to be the future business of the parents' lives to make a happy place for the younger couple. Magdalen had formed her own plan, had resolved on her own coui'se, and felt glad that ahb was approaching the home where she meant silently and affectionately to work for the love whicli she was sm-e that she deserved, but was not so sure that she should obtain. Ernest Donner was the only one of the party who did not seem to enjoy the rapid return, and he often lapsed into a thoughtfulness which was not lost upon his young ^ife. But at a word from her he aroused, and for the time became again the most delightful of travelling companions. His attention and devotion never flagged, save at these intervals of silence, and we who knoAv the pledge he had given to Walter Latrobe that he would behave to his wife with all the respect and kindness in his power, may credit him with having thus far fulfilled his engagement as became a gen- tleman. The carriage met them at the station, and in a few minutes more, on a lovely autumn afternoon, Ernest was handing out his Avife. She pressed his hand as she smilingly acknowledged the welcome of the servants, and then she lingered in the hall while Dormer assisted her mother to alight. Mr. Conwaj-, according to his custom of doing things in a different way from other people, let himself out at the opix)site door, and came round behind the carriage. He looked at Mi's. Conway, and it Avas clear that some little speech had been arranged between them. It was soon said. Conway took one of Ernest's hands, and Mrs. Conway took the other, and the mother said, " This is your house and 320 SOONER OR LATER. le's, dear, remember that ; and the more }'ou show that you remember it, the gladder you will make the old people." " And I told liim that," murmured Magdalen over her mother's shoulder. And Ernest Dormer, for the first time in his life perhaps, had no ready answer to make ; but it was not because he did not feel the honest kindness of his wife's parents. Moreover, they saw that he felt it, and that was enough. Mrs. Conway speedily disappeared, eager on household cares, but Magdalen lingered with the men in the little parlour. " Well, child, are you not going to take your things off ? " said Mr. Conway. " 0, I see. We want Ernest to go with us into his library on the first occasion of our visit. It is a long time since I thought of such superstitions, but you see I remember them." " And who would not go into the garden, after it had been newly laid out, mitil mamma could go with him ? " asked Magdalen, Avith a saucy laugh. " Ah, but that was because I wanted to be ready to defend myself for some departures from orders, Sauciness," said her father. " Be off with you. Ernest, I told them to put any letters for you on your library table. There is one, I knoAv. I think I mentioned it the day we met." Ernest was quite sure of it, and had been thinking about it for many a mile, having been told whose name was in the corner of the letter. He had a double reason for being disturbed about it, partly because it would probably make him miserable, and partly because it might be wiitten in an unguarded way ; and if he should not be able to keep it from his wife's eye However, they went up to the room on which the Conways had spent so much affectionate care, and Ernest, who had resolved to do his best, had the resolution to lead Magdalen to the window^, and say something kindly about the place before turning to the desk. There were four or five letters, however, and this helped him. " Come," he said, " I am glad that some of my friends have had the grace to send me congratulations. I must look over them, and any which are warm enough and respectful enough I will read to you, madam." He swept up the batch, thrust them carelessly into his pocket, and began to admire some of the details of the room. " It is the pleasantest room in England, dear," he said. " I won't say that it is pleasanter than one room in Scotland, because we did enjoy om'selves there so much and so long that we mustn't be un- gi-ateful. But is it not delightful ? " SOONER OR LATER. 321 " If we do not find it so it will not be mamma's and papa's fault," said Magdalen. That was not exactly what she would have said at another time, but the little episode of the letters had jarred upon her for the moment. It was not the sensation which she had felt in the High- land cottage, on the morning when Ernest had momentarily hesitated to give her the note from her father. That little act she had the sense to see was a mere relic of habit, but since that time she believed that they had become much better acquainted with one another, and yet the first thing he did on returning home was to establish the privacy of his correspondence. Do not forget, husbands and wives who no more trouble your heads about one another's letters than about one another's looks, that Magdalen was a very young wife. But she was also a very good young wife, and instead of feeding annoyance (the animal is one that flom'ishes amazingly on nutriment), she pushed the large chair towards him, and said with a smile, " There, sir, sit down and read your letters, and extract all the pretty messages sent to me, while I dress and see that mamma is taking care about dinner." He sat down — received a light kiss on the forehead — and was alone. But he would not open his letter — the one he wanted to read. Magdalen might nm back playfully and look over his shoulder, he thouglit. It was the very last thing which Magdalen would have done at that moment, and if he had seen the gravity which had come upon the beautiful face in the next room, he would have felt that he could have read undisturbed. But he left the library, forcing himself to hum a gay air, and went out into the garden. He sat down where Magdalen herself had sat on the day she received a certain letter from him ; and as she had been lovingly watched on that day, and each expression of her face had been noted, so was Ernest watched, but by a pair of the sweetest eyes in the world. *' Stop," said Magdalen to herself. " Ought I to watch ? It is only that I may know whether he is troubled. But he sliould tell me of his troubles, I have no right to surprise a confidence." And she turned from the window. She would have learned but little had she continued to look at him. He opened Colonel Latrobe's letter, now of old date, slowly, and found that it contained a very few lines. For Walter Latrobe, as his friend might have remembered, was a man of the world, and had had a good deal of correspondence of his own, much of it in language which might or might not be a guarantee of good faith — 322 SOONER OR LATER. that, as it might happen — but which was not necessarily intended for publication. He knew the mischief which a perfectly innocent letter, mis-read, or read by green eyes, does every day, and he also knew a good deal of the effects of accidents which, in the justice of fate, some time or another attend letters which are not perfectly innocent. Therefore, like a wise but um-ighteous young officer, he had complied with a request of Ernest's, but had done so in the safest manner. His letter ran thus : — Octagon. " My dear Benedick, " Just a line to say that all is as it should be. Your traps ai-e duly taken care of. Let us know when you come back. " Yours ever, "Walter Latrobe. " P.S. As you never were a racing man, it is no good giving you tips, but if you care to know that Lady of the Hut is all right. Mopes in good form, and Dormouse ' howling ' well, you are hereby told how to lay out yom- money. You may rely on this." The other letters were of no particular importance, except one from Mr. Mangles, who intimated to his friend that the Vivisedor was still open to him, and who added an apology to Mrs. Ernest for supposing that her husband had a moment of thought for anybody or anything in the world but herself and his new home. The last words were an appropriate sequel, Ernest thought, to the sporting postscript in which "Walter Latrobe had conveyed his message. Presently Magdalen came out into the garden, with her pretty head uncovered, and with an umnistakable tint of acquired brown upon her fair face. For Mrs. Conway had put an end to the indoors and under-trees business, and had made the party " do " mountain and flood, lake-side and valley, in a veiy energetic way. " Come," said Ernest, smiling, " I hope mamma is satisfied now. I would not let you spoil your complexion, but she has not been so careful." " And is it spoiled, sir ? " " That is not the face I saw in Naybury Church, anyhow. But you look the pictm'e of health, whatever that means." " If you have not a better compliment for me than that m your letters, you may keep it to yourself. And is that the way to treat letters, strewing envelopes in the path in one direction, and the contents in another ? I thought you said you were tidy, sir. May I pick them up?" " May you ? No, on second thoughts you may not," said Ernest, SOONER OR LATER. 323 rising and gallantly placing her in his cliair. He then threw all the letters into her lap. Slie had come out resolving to ask to see the letters, not, of course, that she had any childish curiosity as to their contents, but because she was anxious to afford hiin every opportunity of cultivating the confidence she thirsted for. There was more courage in the good girl's little words than may appear. She knew tliat she was risking a possible avoidance of her request, and this would have hurt her much, Wlien he said that she might not pick up the notes, her heai't beat rapidly for a moment, but when they came down in a shower, some silly tears were very nearly following their example. " 0, Ernest ! My nice clean dress, and your dusty letters." Are not they all consummate little hj-^jocrites, thank Providence ? " I don't think that they are veiy dusty," said Ernest, pretending gravity. " There is a civil message, that on the top, to you from Sam Mangles, who tliinks, I suppose, that he won your heart by his wedding-speech." "It was a good one," said Magdalen. " I thought somebody told me that she heard none of them." " But I won't have what I say remembered in that maimer, sir," replied liis wife, with her little fro^\^^, which as usual became smile, as she went on. "No. I cannot even now recollect attending to anything, but papa has said two or three times that it v\-as excellent, which means, I know, that it praised yom* wife very much. What a good hand Mr. Mangles Avrites." "Yes, he does. The faculty is not considered, as I have often told him, the sign of a good man." " Nonsense, dear. ^Yhy, you write a beautiful hand." " And I am not a good man." " Don't say these things, even in fmi, dearest," said Magdalen, in a low voice. " Please don't." "Well, then, I will be a very good man," replied Ernest. "I ought to be. Ah, I thought that would puzzle you," said the good man, as his young ^vife looked enquiringh- at the note from Walter Latrobe. " Yes, ' your traps.' What does he mean, Ernest ? You don't mean that you are going to set traps for my j)oor little birds about here, because I know that you hate anj'thing unkind. You won't do that ? " "My dear child, fast slang has not fonned part of your education — all the girls talk it now, but I don't care about giving you lessons. However, to remove your teiTors, know that traps means property, and the property in question consists of a chair or two, a desk, and a Y 2 324 SOONER OR LATER. few things of that kind, which I asked Latrobe to look after. See that blackbird — he was evidently listening for the explanation, and now he has flown away to tell the others." " Very well, sir. I mnst remember. I will astonish papa at dinner, and tell him that we have found all our traps in order. But just look here. Talk of a lady's postscript. Here are three lines of note, and seven to follow." " Latrobe is a lady's man, and has caught lady-ways." " Don't you be rude, sir. And is this slang, too ? You were never a racing man. I should hope not, dear. No use sending you tips. Tips of what, Ernest dear ? " " Private hints as to the horses likely to win," said Ernest Dormer, didactically. " What a capital word. How could I use that to papa ? It would not do at chess, would it ? " " ^Vhy, not particularly well ; but if you are bent on using it, I'll tell you what a young lady said to me at dinner one day. When the entrees came round, she avoided all but one, and strongly advised me to take that — it was sweetbread, I think. My brother Frank feeds here very often, she said, and he knows what they can cook. He gave me the straight tip." " Feeds here ! Is that a young lady's word ? " " Well, it is rather l)etter than grubs, and I've heard that from a young lady." " 1 am sometimes afraid, Ernest, that you have kept verj' lively company, and that I must seem very tame to you." " My dear child, if I had ever heard you say feed or gTub, I don't suppose I should be here now. The girls don't know what men think of that sort of thing, or what fan they make of it at the club, carr}ung out the slang to topics the girls don't dream of, and adding, ' as Miss Chose would say.' But I ought not to tell you of these matters, they are, thank God, so utterly out of your atmo- sphere." " And when you say thank God," asked Magdalen, slowly, gently, and sweetly, and fixing lier soft eyes on him, " may I think tliat you really mean that you are pleased \nth my ignorance, and you do not say so only to please me ? " His answer was given in a low tone, and it made her smile. " Yer}' well, then, I shall not try my new words on papa. I shall only keep them for you when you find yourself dull. And now what's this about the ' Lady of the Hut ' — 0, I understand. That is what you are to lay out your money upon — you won't though. And ' Mopes is in good form,' I can understand that, too — at least it means SOONER OR LATER. 325 praise. But wliy 'Dormouse' should be said to be howling, I can't think." Ernest Dormer could, quite well, and home memories came upon him. But he explained that howling was but another contribution to the well of English undefiled. "Ernest, I wonder what Mrs. Bulliman would say to me, if I answered her inquiry some morning and said I was howling well. Did you ever hear a 3'oung lady say that, now ? " " I have heard one say that a certain partner was a howling good waltzer, I told him so, and he was pleased to reply that she was scragg}', but not half a bad fellow." And Magdalen's look of genuine astonishment made Ernest laugh, though he ought not to have been in any mood to laugh. What business had he to let his innocent .young wife read that note, and puzzle out her harmless interpretation of it, while he hypocritically assented ? None. And yet do him the justice to be sm-e that but for a con- sideration that may have appeared to him stronger than it may seem to us, he would not have done this. Ernest Dormer was the last man wilfully to practise on the trustfulness of a good girl, or to derive the slightest pleasure ft'om the success of a deceit. He would gladly have destroyed the letter. But he had twice noted that he had given ]\Iagdalen pain — or at least vexation, by his seeming to hold back his correspondence. He knew she had been aware that "Walter Latrobe's letter awaited him, and that she had noticed it on the table. Finding that it was nothing but a riddle, Ernest Dormer deliberately preferred to let her spell out the puzzle, to leaving on her mind the impression that he had received a secret epistle which he was imwilling to impart to her. The humiliation of the false position he took upon himself ; he avoided the witliliolding from her a proof of confidence, because he felt that it would have grieved her, had he done so. We are not concerned to accuse or to defend him. " Well, it is a new language," said Magdalen, joining in the laugh. " But you shall not give me any more lessons in it, unless you wish. And you are not to lay out your money on the Lady of the Hut, unless you wish. You don't think that I am presuming to dictate to you, Ernest dear — what do I know about such matters ? " " But I insist on your dictation in all matters. There. And now I'll gather up my letters, which you are pleased to call dusty. That one, by the way, in the stiff hand, is to infonn me that it is pro- posed to place me on the Committee of the Octagon Club, but I shall write up and decline the honour." " Why should you decline any honour, dear." 326 SOONER OR LATER. " I did not use the word seriously, but it is a sort of distinction among one's fellows.^ But I don't want it. If I am to be of any use I should have to run up to London now and then, and that I do not wish to do, you know." " But I wish you should, whenever it gives you any pleasure. I do not want you to cut yourself off from old friends and old habits for my sake. I hope you will go up at any time, and only think, while you are away, that somebody will be very glad when you come back." At this moment the bells of the old church broke out into a merry peal. " Not quite the Highlands," said Mr. Conway, coming out to the young couple, " but I think better in some respects. You never heard such musical bells as those, all the time we were away." " What can they be ringing for ? " said Magdalen. " My modest child, you do not seem aware of your own import- ance, or of your'husband's. That is your welcome home. Some of the people here have set them going — all I have had to say in the matter is that I heartily wished they would do nothing of the sort." " It is very kind," said Magdalen, smiling. " Do you mind it, Ernest — if you do, papa would get them to stop." " Mind it, dear, not in the least. It is a proof, I suppose, that you have been very good to your neighbours, and that they are glad to see you back among them." " And you." " No, I don't think that I am included in this demonstration. I may deserve to be rung at, some day. At present they take me on trust." " As I did," whispered his wife. " Yes. And they have better vouchers for me than you had." Mrs. Conway next came forth. The good woman pretended to be vexed that the bells were ringing, but in her heart she was delighted at this testimony of the allegiance of Naybury. " Stupid things," she said, laughing. " I like that," said Mr. Conway. " "When you thought that I was going to tell the ringers that I wouldn't have it, you made the most menacing gestures, mamma. That clang rejoices your ears, so don't deny it. You are like the mother in the ' Cotter's Saturday Night,' " ' Weel pleased to see her bairn's respectit like the lave.'" " The baim's a very good baim," said Mrs. Conway, shamefully evading the question. " Pretty well for that," said the father, " but you have no longer SOONER OR LATER. 327 any right to praise or to blame her. She is answerable solely — to borrow some more from Mr. Burns — to that strappan youth that took the mother's eye. I wonder how long those blocklieads will go on tugging, before they thinlc that they have earned their beer." " My dear William, let the poor things please themselves." " Well, it saves trouble. All Naybury and the parts round about are being made aware that we are again in residence. I had rather schemed for a quiet day or two, that we might look about us, and get rid of the Scotch accent. But no matter. Any news from town, Ernest ? " "None worth telling, I think," said Domier. " Unless you want to put your money on any race-horses, papa, in which case we know, Ernest and I, of a howling horse." The pretty emphasis with which she gave out the abominable word, and the prettier pride which she affected, in looking round as if she had done a great thing, were irresistible in their gravity. " A howling horse, child. The howl would soon come from me, I suspect, if I began betting at my time of life. Do you care much about that sort of thing, Dormer ? " said Mr. Conway, preparing to make himself uncomfortable. " Not a bit," said Ernest, beyond understanding the talk of the men about me. Magdalen is not alarmed." " Of com-se not," said Mrs. Conway, " but I dare say her father thinks that because you know one horse from another, you must be going to ride for the Derby next week." " Come, I know better than that, mamma. Here is autumn, and I do know that the Derby comes about May," said Mrs. Ernest, to draw off the attack, though she had wished that her father had not put his question, which she perfectly well comprehended to mean that he hoped his son-in-laAv was not a racing man. " I suppose you have heard no Naybury news, mamma," she continued. " I have not had much time, but I have heard one or two things." " Have you heard anything about Saxbury ? " said Mr. Conway, provokingly. " Perhaps I have, but I shall keep it to myself." " Then it is something to the disadvantage of the rector, and we are not to have it until the good news is confirmed. And have you taken any steps towards ascertaining whether it was really liquorice or an ipecacuanha lozenge that the child left in Saxbury church the night the servant heard the gold that the woman had got from the curate ? " 328 SOONER OR LATER. " That is nearer the mark, but I tell you I won't say anything about it until I know more. There is a very strange story about." " And therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome," said Mr. Conway. *• And anyhow, let us come in out of the noise of those joy-bells." So, and upon such terms, Magdalen and Ernest became established in their home at Naybury. CHAPTER XXIX. TAKING STOCK. " No run was ever got over so fast as on paper," wrote one of the few writers who could make a sporting novel readable by persons of the non-horsey sort. "We may also say that no incidents of life ever trod so closely on one another's heels as we are allowed to make them do in naiTative. There comes the crowded hour, and then many a long day of inaction. Petimusqiie damusque vicissim, and the reader who would obtain a true impression of the workings of the circumstances which a -m-iter seeks to describe will exercise Heaven's best gift of patience when the author, for his OAvn purposes, appears to linger on his way. In retm-n, that forbearance should be at fitting time rewai'ded by the wi-iter's " calling upon " his steed (in the gentle pln-ase which means steel and whipcord in merciless play) and hurr}'ing at the best pace to the goal. It may be that at no distant date we shall find Ernest Dormer and his wife, and some others of whom we have heard, in presence of more exciting agencies than those which at the time we speak of were at work. But the period succeeding the marriage, and the settlement at Xaybuiy, was one of quietude. The young couple had to receive the felicitations of their acquaintance, and to accept their hospitahties, which in due course were returned at the house of the Conways. Ernest Dormer did not, it must be owned, enter much into the kind of avocations which had been humorously suggested to him by his father-in-law, but he took sufficient interest in Naybury doings to be able to discuss them with those for whom Naybuiy was all the world, and if this sort of thing bored him, he took his revenge very secretly — except as regarded his wife — makmg the local trivi- ahties and the local view of life veiy sufficing texts for contributions to the journal of his friend Mr. Mangles. Magdalen, who alone was aware of the authorship of a series of acute and not over-cynical papers upon " Demoralization," in which Ernest depicted that process in action upon the nature of an able man settled among rustics, an Ovid among the Goths, was happy to be certain that no such detri- mental operation was being performed upon her accomjjlished 330 SOONER OR LATER. husband, and that his vi-\dd lamentations touching the decay of his powers only showed that they w(!re in very good order. With this exception Dormer did little Hteraiy work, but he read a good deal, and moreover devoted much time to reading with Magdalen, into whose fresh mind her father had instilled more ideas than are usually latent in one so young, and who showed herself capable of benefiting largely by the companionship and conversation of Ernest Dormer. As time went on, and the young couple passed from the more demonstrative season of loverhood into that of apparently earnest affection, both were conscious that their lot had fallen in pleasant places, but they accepted their fortune differently. For Magdalen, her sweet nature and her religious principle alike prompted her to own herself fortunate, and to be thankful, and at all events in the presence of others, and notably of her husband, that cheerfulness which is " the best of all the gifts " was never wanting. Society pronounced her to be perfectly happy, her parents delighted to believe her so, and Ernest knew no better than to ask himself why she should not be, and to obtain no reply. Whether she were happy or not, there were times of no rai'e recurrence when she was very thoughtful. If hers were a heaven, it was not the heathen heaven of unextinguishable laughter, or rather she was the Psyche into whose cup some single di'op had fallen which brought the cloud to her face where all other faces were smiling. , But such moments were her own, and even her husband knew not of them. Still, they came, and in her quiet room her glass often reflected a face gi-ave almost to sadness. We have known that she was habituated to self-com- munion, self-examination. This habit had been natural to her, but it had been confirmed by her adopting a portion of the religious practices which she had learned, much approving them, from her young Catholic friends in Wales. The custom is inculcated by a certain part of Protestant society, but is not much in favour with the majority. It is not necessary to say whether it be advantageous or not, our sole business is with its influence upon our Magdalen, and her history in the after-time. Perhaps it is wisest, certainly it is worldly-wisest, to let by-gones be by-gones, and to accept the present without much scrutiny, and to take no thought for the mon-ow. Yet the greatest of philosophers has enjoined upon us the faith that in a perfect recollection of our yesterday, and a certainty of the wisdom of our to-day, is the only safeguard against our to-morrow, and is one with the aid of which we are justified in defying the future. There was no choice for Magdalen Dormer ; the habit was hers, and she could not lay it down if she would. She thought much and often of the past and of the future. SOONER OR LATER. 331 As regarded the oTie great "svomanly need, the sense of being loved, it may be said that Magdalen, with imich sadness, had convinced her- self that what she had dreamed of, what she had meant by love, was not destined to be hers. She had not resigned, and she never would resign the belief, that as Ernest came to know her inner heart, and its loyalty and affection, he would repay her patience and devotion Avith all of which he was capable, and this belief became her great treasure and support. But this, of course, was far from a girl's ideal. She had di-eamed of an unrestrained and lavish love, as passionate as tender, of an entire surrender of separate thought and will, of a con- fidence that meant absolute union of soul. It matters not in what school these fancies had been learned, or whether they were the spon- taneous product of a wann and generous nature. There, in Mag- dalen's heart, they had been rooted, and it now became her duty to pluck them up one by one, as noxious flowers that must be extirpated, lest they infect the atmosphere with eneiwating odour. This was hard, veiy hard, upon one so young ; but Magdalen saw her way to duty, and prepared to do it. Yes, it was hard, and the more so that Magdalen could find no reply to the questions which she could not help putting to herself, in spite of all her humility, " Why can he not love me ? And if he did not love me, why did he many me ? " Not for a moment did she do Ernest the injustice, as she supposed it, of believing that his marriage had been dictated by considerations of worldly interest. Magdalen knew, of course, that in this point of \iew the union had been a good one for Dormer. She had been aware of the hberality of the Stepneys, but she had no reason to imagine that it would not equally have been shown had Ernest selected any other bride who might have been worthy of him, and she doubted not that many another girl would have been proud to accept his hand. In other respects, she generously admitted that his marriage involved some self-sacrifice, especially in regard to the condition that he should reside with her parents in an obscure country town ; he, who had been admitted to the best society in London, and whose friends were of an intellectual class not to be found in Naybury. That he had thought much of the wealth which the young couple would inherit at the death of her parents, she could not believe, and here she was right. We will not say that all these considerations did not come before her in her hours of thought, but we may say as unhesitatingly that none of them worked with her to Ernest's disadvantage, but that, on the contrary, she found in them reason to think more highly than ever of his motives in wedding her. 33^ SOONER OR LATER. More highly ; yes, but not more agi-eeably. When the poor young wife had cleared away all obstacles to the belief that at least his choice had been disinterested, she had only brought out in bolder relief the thoughts which made her unhappy. If he had only liked her, as her instinct told her that it was most natural he should do, why had not that original liking grown into something more approaching her ideal ? Magdalen was no romance-believing idiot, with a faith in love at first sight, and the meeting one's fate. Such things were, no doubt, but she held them to be exceptional. She would have been quite content, nay, she would have been profoundly happy, to liave heard from Ernest, or to have felt without hearing the avowal, that he had at first seen nothing in her but a charming girl, capable of making a man's happiness. But that she should make no advance in his affections after his discovery of her true nature, was a bitter thought indeed. Had he discovered it ? With all her honesty of purpose Magdalen would willingly have blinded herself to the truth that he had. Gladly would she have believed that Ernest had, either from some slowness of nature, some want of appreciation of women, as yet failed to see that she deserved all his love. It would have been everything to convince herself that his love only slumbered, and that it would one day be awakened by the gentle music of her own. To think this would have been for Magdalen to abstain fi-om all murmur, to hush every feeling of pride, and to wait in modest but sure hope until her reward should come. But she could not deceive herself into this Paradise. Ernest Dormer was no common man, and he had shown that the subtler apprehension of the beauty of womanly nature was possessed by him in a high degree. He was no passionate boy, to be dazzled by personal charms, while blind to spiritual graces. He was no cold and cautious man, willing to accept any lavish homage from a woman, but hesitating to compromise his dignity by meeting her with an equal devotion. Magdalen had lived with Ernest but a few months, but they had been long enough to show her that he could understand, could appreciate, could love all that was loveable. In their earnest talk amid the Scotch woods, and over the books at home, she had heard him speak of woman's love, of its ebb and flood, of its tenderness and its power, of its nobleness and of its weakness, as he only could speak who had the gift of loving. Then, why had she failed to be all she longed to be ? For — it is needless to say it to those who have loved — she now loved him. We have seen that it was not so always. We followed her to her chamber in her maiden days, when she took thither a letter from her SOONER OE LATER. 333 affianced lover, and we saw her give sorrowful way to her conviction that he had not the passion she wished to find in him ; and we heard her say that she Avould have loved him so well. Tilings have changed with her, though not with him. The work Avhich she had hoped to accomplish with him had been wrought upon herself. The manli- ness, the gentleness, the knowledge, and the lighter graces in Ernest Dormer had told upon his wife's nature, and from an admiring girl she had become an attached woman. And she knew it, and was proud of it. "But I have been better to him," she murmured, " than he has been to me. I liked him, and I love him. He likes me still." She had one hope left, but we will not as yet bring into the sun- shine that delicate flower. Meantime Ernest should never know that he had been weighed and found wanting. Perhaps God might be very good to her, and give her all she desired, and pardon all her impatience, and if that day should come, it should not be clouded for Ernest by the knowledge that he had made her unhappy while she waited the dawning. Poor girl, she thought that she had a secret, but it was none to Ernest Dormer. He, of another nature than hers, knew well how much and how little he was giving, and he could have told her simple story in her own words. It did not need the high intellect with which she credited him to discover to him their exact relations. That he did not love her of course he had known throughout the whole time of their acquaintance, that she had found out this was a reve- lation that broke slowly upon him, so well had Magdalen played her wifely part of innocent h^'pocrisy and of sedulous endeavour to please him. But it came upon him, and thenceforth he saw the truth in every act and word of hers, and often, indeed, it was more present to him than to her, when in some happier moment she yielded to the belief that they were one. It may be that he had hoped for another thing. He may have under-estimated the instinct of Magdalen, and believed that the show of love, which few could present more fairly than himself, would have deceived her into hap- piness, as it deceives thousands of wives, and of husbands, for their good and comfort. She had seen but little of the world, and had been brought up in purity and trustfulness, and the man of the world may have imagined that the lessons of the heart are not taught except in the school where its vices are also learned. And if this were not his belief, he may have under-estimated her sensibility, and may have thought that though conscious that she was not the idol a wife should be, Magdalen would be content to accept the ordinary homage of a husband against whose kindness the worst that can be 334 SOONER OR LATER. said is that it is only kindness. This again, as he was well aware, many a wife is glad to do, and harsh he knew would be the chidings of her friends did they hear her complain that she Avas defrauded of her hope. That none would ever hear Magdalen complain, Ernest was assured, and the thought that the female Philistines of her acquaintance should ever have to pronounce the doom of convention against the foolish woman who could not be happy with so kind a man. Dormer would have rejected with angry contempt. But he had seen a good deal of women, and in that little phrase is contained many a hateful doctrine — in Ernest's case the doctrine might have been that after a time a right-minded woman will settle down with anything that is not actually wrong, rather than make a fuss. It is a bit of the coarse ethics of life, and perhaps it has worked better on the whole than is satisfactory to persons of deep feeling. We may have lighted on the trath in regard to Ernest Dormer's mental attitude towards his wife. As regarded himself, a change had come upon him, since his impassioned declaration to Walter Latrobe that since his engagement to Magdalen he had been utterly miserable. He had been miserable, and we, in some sort know why, nor is it needful to enter upon his misery. Habits, a strong senti- ment, household memories, and perhaps that strangely powerful bond, the having struggled and sorrowed in fellowship with another, had all exerted then- natural but unrighteous influence, and it had wrought painfully upon Ernest Dormer. Far be it ft-om us to say that he deserved pity, or that his suffering had been anything but part of the just retribution which we know always attends wrong actions in this admirable world. We are only telling his story, — and this is a story for grown up people, and not for the unformed or uninformed. There was the fact. Dormer had been exceedingly unhappy, so unhappy that his most intimate — we will not say his best — friend had augured unfavourably for the marriage. But no acute suffering lasts long, and the w orld is full of anodynes for those who have the courage to take them. Ernest married, and was very for- tunate in marriage. He received into his arms a beautiful girl, as good as she was beautiful, and as affectionate as a modest English wife may be. The scene and the habits of his life were suddenly and totally changed, and in a fi-esh station and among new friends he was engaged in agreeable occupation. Ernest Dormer found him- self forgetting his previous state of mind, and moreover having a strong will upon which he could call sternly when he chose, he habitually and successfully repelled the old thoughts, and resolutely occupied himself with the • new. We have seen how he devoted himself to his bride, and his devotion, though it mellowed into SOONER OK LATER. 335 something less demonstrative, lost none of its irreproachable cha- racter in these early months of her wifehood. We have said, too, that he interested himself in what was around him, and that he had recovered his mental vigour to the extent of being able to satirize, for the London scomers, the twaddlers of Naybur}'. He was not happy, but he was able to resist unhappiness, and Magdalen be- came more and more pleasant to him every day. He almost began to wish that he could love his wife, and he certainly Avished that in the meantime she would think that he did. Yet Ernest Dormer, although, like a man, he had imitated Mag- dalen Conway, who, like a woman, had married without loving, and although, again like a man, he had fallen infinitely short of the womanly nobleness which at once set itself to love and to deserve love, had his own ideal of marriage, and it was not realised for him. • In some sense, and allowing for the measureless inferiority of the standard which a man of the world sets for hunself to that of a liigh- minded and pm*e woman, the thoughts of Ernest and of Magdalen on this matter were not so unlike as may be supposed. His ideal was of an absolute union, with a oneness of heart and of purpose, with, of course, an unasserted but irresistible sway vested in the husband, but a generously-given love on both sides, rendering submission even more agreeable than direction. Into his conception of love it is not necessaiy to go, and if it involved anything more, or less, than the idea of Magdalen, we may leave the outline to be dealt with by his own hand, at the fitting time. It is but just to him to say that he regarded their present relations as no fulfilment of the marriage vow, and there were seasons when he murmured, not in the gentle spirit of Magdalen, that his ideal was not realised — as if he had deserved that it should be. And for Dormer was reserved that which man resents most, the keen sense that his dissatisfaction was entirely of his own causing. His wife was all that man could wish for, but he did not love her. He could not. And he well laiew why. But in the bitterest of his moments he never laid the blame upon his innocent and affectionate wife. A worse, or a stupider man, would have sought to find reasons in the character, or in some part of the con- duct of Magdalen. Ernest Donner never deceived himself, never did injustice to her — at least in these times. Before making the " call " to which we adverted a few pages back, it has been thought well that the relations of this man and Avife should be comprehended. If Ave have been successful in setting them out, we know not that they will appear very unfavourable to the majority of readers. They are such as many a gifted novelist, also a subtle-souled psychologist, would not object to at the close of 336 SOONER OR LATER. his fiction. He hesitates not to consign a lovely and loving woman to the arms of a man who has had his weaknesses, and who does not truly love her, but who has undertaken to be a kind and decorous hus- band, and we close the book with a certain sense of satisfaction that the young lady is married (the great thing in civilised society — annulum, quocunque moclo, anmdwn), and a hope that she will be reasonably happy — the wild oats have been mwn, and, as we trust, in stony ground, so that they will never flourish to bear witness against the sower. We, at the end of only half our book have done the same thing, and have therefore a second act before us. If the situation with which the new act commences be not all that one could desire, we have one character who is resolved to be all that she should be, and one who believes himself equally resolute to the same good end. Wliat circumstances not immediately in the reader's mind, or what future incidents, outside the life of our principal characters, may do towards disturbing or improving the relations in question, time shall tell and patience shall learn. But we should ]Dreach a false moral, when we desire to preach no moral at all, did we allow it to be infen-ed fi'om what has been said that there are rests in life, from which the great account starts afresh, and old items are laid away as not to be again examined. That magnificent theory which the great philosopher, Faraday, expounded on that world-famous night when he revealed his views of the Conservation of Forces, may be questioned or accepted, for the physical world. In the moral world it is safe to believe that few forces are generated which do not come into active play Sooner or Later. CHAPTER XXX. THE FIRST GUN. Without actually discoiiraging his wife's visits to the poor cot- tagers, Ernest Dormer had managed to make it clear to Magdalen til at he did not much desire the continuance of such missions, and the feeling that it was so, and another circumstance or two, had made her walks to Trafalgar much less frequent than before her marriage. One morning, however, when Ernest had signified that he must get through some work for Mr. Mangles, Magdalen had paid her round of charitable calls, and was leaving the last place which she had intended to visit — the cottage of the cripple Jull, who had been restored to the abode of his wife — when Mrs. Dormer was respectfully accosted by a stranger. He was a tolerably well-dressed young man, pale, and evidently nerv- ous, and he flushed to the forehead as he raised his hat for a moment. " I have the honour of speaking to Mrs. Ernest Dormer ? " " I am Mrs. Dormer," said Magdalen. She did not recognize the speaker, but had a momentary impression that she had at one time or other heard the voice, which was pitched somewhat higher than the ordinary masculine key. " Every apology for this intrusion, but I will not detain you a moment," said the stranger. " I only wish to ask a question." Magdalen looked at him inquiringly. " May I ask whether you remember paying a visit to a gentleman in Gray's Inn, about two years ago ?" " In Gray's Inn ?" repeated Magdalen, mechanically. " Yes, Mrs. Dormer, a gentleman living in chambers on the to}) floor of a house in South Square ? " Whatever emotion may have caused the flush which came over the face of the fair young wife, that face became crimson. The stranger seemed little at ease, and anxious to end the inter- view, but apparently had to acquit himself of a task. " I see," he said, hmTiedly, " that you do remember it perfectly well, and therefore I need say nothing more, except this. You will wonder why you are asked the question." 838 {SOONER OR LATER. " Yes," said Magdalen, hardly knowing -what else to say. " When you have considered over the matter, you will probably think that you are interested — deeply interested — in knowing what any one else has to do with your conduct on that occasion." " My conduct ! " repeated Mrs. Dormer. " The word will do as well as another, if it is understood. You can obtain any information, and it may be well that you should obtain some, by writing to the address upon this card." ]\Iagdalen instinctively took the card he offered. "At present, no one but myself knows that I have sought this interview," said the stranger, in the tone of one wdio repeats a mes- sage. "At present," he added, with emphasis. "And I have now only to renew my apology, and to say good morning." He raised his hat again, made a neiTOUs bow, and walked away, at a rapid pace, in the direction of Xaybury. Mrs. Dormer did not look again at him, but had she done so, she would have seen that he struck off* at the road leading towards the railway station, which he reached as speedily as he could. He departed for London by the next train. Lea\ang Magdalen, for the moment, to recover from her surprise, to arrange her thoughts, and to decide what course of action she should take — for some action she had instantly become convinced ■was necessar}^ — we will follow the fugitive, who arrived in to^vn in the evening, and immediately repaired to a place well known to us. " Well, Farquhar," said Mr. Dudley, as the younger man entered his friend's shop, " better late than never." " ]\Iay be so," said Farquhar, sulkily, and walking, uninvited, into the little parlour. "Cheeky, is he?" muttered Mr. Dudley, glancing after him. " Then he has done it, or he wouldn't take that hberty." Dismissing a customer, with the information that the latter talked more than was good for her, that she knew nothing about her case, and had better take the medicine and keep her mouth shut, the observer of human nature, physical and intellectual, followed Mr. Farquhar into the small parlour, and closed the door. "Wlien did you speak to her?" asked Dudley, without pre- lude. " Who told you I had spoken at all ? " replied Mr. Farquhar, who seemed to be in a singularly bad humour. " You," said his friend. •' You appear to be out of sorts, as they pay. The journey has been too much for you. That shows you how you have played with your constitution, Farquhar. A fellow at your THE FIRST GUN. [Pape 338. SOONER OR LATER. 339 time of life to be knoclcecl np l)y a morning's journey in a first-class caiTiage ! I must take you in hand more seriously." " The jom-ney has had nothing to do with it," said Farquhar, petulantly. " I went to York and came back the same daj'-, and thought nothing of it." " That was some time ago, young sir, before we went in so hard for the music of tlie people. Besides, the filial pleasure of seeing our revered parent sustained us." " I'll thank you not to chaff me just now, Dudley, because I'm not in the humom- for it. It is bad enough to be the tool in this business, without being annoyed and insulted." " Making all allowance for a person out of health, my friend, I think I may as well recommend you to get off the high ropes, and not give me the trouble of reminding you that this business, as you call it, is your own. But you mention York. Would you like to make another visit to that interesting city ? You can easily have an excuse, you know, and a devilish good one ; only I doubt whether the jaunt would do your nerves any good." Jlr. Farquhar made no reply, but took out a gaudy cigar case, and proceeded to light a thin, black, villanous-looking weed, which well d(!served that opprobrious name. Mr. Dudley quietly permitted him to kindle it, but as soon as the first poisonous whiff had insulted even the air of that den, he rose and coolly took the cigar from the young man's hand. He then pitched the weed, neatly, into the fire-place, and merely said, " No, sir." Mr. Farquhar crimsoned with rage, used a profane expression, and defiantly took out another cigar. " I will not have it, Farquhar," said Mr. Dudley. " Put it up, or go." His voice and look mastered his weak young companion, who, without exactly obeying, refrained from lighting his tobacco, and availed himself of the last word to avoid further contest. " Yes, you would like me to go, wouldn't you, Avithout hearing what I have done ? " " I know you have been away four days," said Mr. Dudley, accept- ing the submission with a grim smile, " and I know that you have seen Mrs. Dormer." " Yes, I have been away four days, and precious pleasant ones they were, of course. If I had not succeeded on the fourth, I should have come away, I can tell you." " You can tell me that, or any other falsehood you i)leasc," said Mr. Dudley, coolly. " But you would have been too wise to fail. I suppose you found it diflicult to get to speak to the lady, and yet, 34-0 SOONEE OR LATER. you being- a sort of lady's man, ougut to have been able to manage an interview. I have heard you speak rather triumphantly of your cleverness in such matters." " I don't say that I have been unfortunate in them," said Mr. Farquhar, with one of those execrable smiles which are meant to imply worlds of mystery and success, and which disturb the right foot of the observer, if he be a gentleman, until he recollects that tho smile is an acted lie, and that a liar is not worth kicking. " No, you don't. I never said you did. But you mean that it is one thing to get speech with a lady, and another to manage meeting.-j with milliners and barmaids. That is true enough, Farquhar. But then you have been in good society, you know. You told me that you met this very lady at Mr. Justice Trailbaston's, and actually spoke to her there." " So I did, but only a few words. We were not introduced, and there was a great crowd, as there always is at Trailbaston's." " Is," repeated Dudley, pointedly. " Might one ask how lately you have been there, to know ? " " Not lately." " Were you ever there more than once, about two years ago ? " demanded Dudley, angrily. " You know you never were. What'>s the good of humbug with me ? You might have gone often, I daro say, to Mr. Justice Trailbaston's, and many other good houses, but you chose to drop into Bohemian life and habits ; you did not leave cards, and you did not answer notes, and so good people dropi)ed you. For society can do perfectly well without any one person, my friend, let him think himself ever so necessary to the world's peace of mind and happiness." "You are a good one to preach on such things," retorted Far- quhar. " Perhaps I have seen better society than you will ever know, my boy, even if you don't go altogether to the bad, as seems likely at present. But that's my business. Well, you once had an invitation to the Judge's — somebody got it for you — and you saw Miss Conway, now Mrs. Dormer, and you were not introduced to her, but said a few words — asked her whether she was being attended to, at supper, perhaps, or advised her to sit out of a draught, and she replied courteously, like a lady, that she was being attended to, or that she liked the air — and thus you acquired the right to say that you knew her, and that she was a most charming j^erson, as I dare say you did in many places and to many j^eople — in one place and to one person I know you did. But you had not courage, on the strength of this intimacy, to call on the lady at Naybury, but you lurked about anc\ SOONER OK LATER. 341 Tvatched until you could speak to her in the street. That's about the story you had to tell me, is it not ? " To all this, which was said in the most deliberately impertinent way, Mr. Farquhar listened, holding the cigar which he would neither light nor put away, and by this little bit of weakliuess exposing his nature, veiy needlessly, to the friend who had gauged it with frac- tional accuracy. When Dudley had done, the other said, " You are devilish fond of hearing your o^vn tongue, doctor." Mr. Dudley laughed. He was terribly addicted to what Mr. Far- quhar called chaff of the most offensive kind, but to do him justice he did not resemble most proficients in the art, who grow angry the mo- ment they are repaid in notes from their own bank. " One of us must talk," he said, " and as you sit there mum and sulky because I won't have bad tobacco smoked in a room in which I receive ladies, I am doing the talking. Come, put up that beast, or send it after its brother, and I'll give you a gem that shall do 3^ou good instead of harm. If a statue could smoke those things of yours they would make him nervous." " I could get nothing better at Naybury," said Farquhar. " And why couldn't you take advantage of the fresh air, and abstain altogether while jou had that to breathe ? " •' Easy talking, when one has got a habit." Mr. Dudley unlocked a box, and while doing so emitted, in an audible mutter, a criticism on fools, which was even more fall flavoured than Mr. Farquhar's roll of nastiness. But he also pro- duced a small cigar, presented it to his friend, and desired him to light up. " A lady who doesn't like the smell of that is no lady at all," said Mr. Dudley, "and I don't care whether she's pleased or offended. A bride might smoke it as she went to church, and the parson M'ouldn't find it out." " It's none so mild, though," said Mr. Farquhar. " Who said it was ? But you don't know much about it, you've spoiled your taste with rubbish. Well, noAV that I've put the angry boy into good humour, what has he to say ? You met ]Mrs. Dormer somehow." Mr. Farquhar then detailed the scene which has been described, and repeated his own words pretty faithfull}^ which was the less a merit that they had been arranged for him by Mr. Dudley, and studied in that very room. Perhaps he depicted himself as having assumed an impassive gravity, in the interview with jMagdalen, which was something apart from the fidgety and uncomfortable way in which he had really borne himself, and which would have been a 342 SOONER OK LATER. trifle to his credit, had it arisen from a feeling that he was doing an unworthy act. " So far so good," said Mr. Dudley. " You are not certain," he added, after a pause, " that she recognised you. Put your vanity in your pocket, and suppose that it is just possible your fine features made no impression on her at the Trailbastons', or suppose that you have altered. Do you believe she did ? " " I believe she did not." " Then I am sure of it. That is as well. And she did not tear up the card, and fling it in your face, or look round for a police- man ? " " I have told you exactly what happened." " If you have, and I fully believe it, you have begun your work very w^ell." " I wish you would not call it my work," said Farquhar. " But I do, and I wish you distinctly to understand that it is so. I don't understand your shifting and dodging away from that truth, Farquhar. I hate a man who is always wanting to hark back, and start fresh. When I've agreed to a thing, I've agreed, and then I take the consequence, and proceed. It's like a woman, never to accept a situation and go on logically. I gave you credit for more head." " I dare say I have head enough for the purpose," replied Far- quhar, " but one does not always want to be reminded of — of the dirty side of things." " Yery right, my friend, very right, only no mistakes. Don't sup- pose that because you have been out of town for a few hom-s, and changed your sensations a bit, anything else has been changed. It's not an uncommon blunder. I had a patient, an Irishman, who was a good deal hunted by the chosen people, and when he came back to town after a fortnight in Connemara, though he had not done the least thing in the world towards arranging his affairs, he used to consider that he was personally wronged and outraged when he found that his creditors' minds had not been materially softened by his having been home among his relations. Imagination is a valu- able faculty, if you can sell it, but not if it sells you." " I never said that anything had changed." " No. But people of a certain Idnd, especially when they are out of health, are verj- apt to imagine that because they would like to be let alone, they must be. Now we are taking very admirable mea- sures to ensure your being let alone in regard to that slander of yours. But until our machinery comes into working, Farquhar, I am bound to tell you that you are in as much danger as ever." " But you told me on Saturday that you had seen Hobbins." SOONER OR LATER. 34.-3 " I did see Hobbins." *' And that things were to stand over." "No. In the first place the action is not in his department of the office, but in that of the junior partner, and ^vill be managed by the man whom you have, you say, quarrelled with. All I could get Hobbins to promise was that the apology should be sul^mitted to the lady's friends, and that no steps should be taken without letting me know. This last promise I got from him simply as a personal favour to myself, and because he owed me a day in harvest. But I may get a note at any minute to say that they go on, and I never get a letter without expecting to find that pleasant message in it. I don't say this to alarm you, but because it is idiotic to shut your eyes and fancy no one is aiming at you. There is a note just come in, I can sec — suppose that should be Hobbins's, what have you to say ? " Mr. Dudley went out to get the note, which for the best of reasons, as the reader knows, he was quite sure was not from the partner in the sharp firm. Mr. Farquhar looked nervously after him, and, in an irritated manner, cursed him for staying in the shop to speak to a customer. " No, it is not from Hobbins," said the tormenter, returning, "but the next may be, and as I asked you, suppose he writes to me, as he probably will, ' No tei-ms can be made — your friend must take the consequences ' — what should you do next ? " " You say right, Dudley, I am out of health." "A lawyer don't feel a pulse before exhibiting the stimulant called a writ." " I know that — hang it, don't joke, Dudley. I meant to say that I am unfit to decide for myself about anything. You are rude enough to me, but I believe you have a regard for me, and you have a clear head — you might advise me." " My good fellow, you are asking a medical man to advise a legal man in a matter of law." " It isn't the law, I could manage that for myself perfectly well." Here Mr. Dudley, totally unable, otherwise, to control his lips from a smile, whistled the beginning of a hymn, and thus recovered his gravity. The immediate cause of his disposition to miz-th was Farquhar's evincing a disposition to l)oast his legal knowledge. But for a reason that will have jjresented itself long ago to legal readers, Mr. Farquhar's ignorance of his calling is much clearer to them than it was to Mr. Dudley, who believed that he was menacing the^ other with what, if real, would have been all he represented it to be In plainer English, Dudley did not know that the supposed client of Mr. Hobbins's firm had no case. •34<4 SOONER OR LATER. "You mean," said Diidlej^, "that you want advice as to your conduct. But you keep me so completely in the dark about yourself that I can say nothing useful. You profess abject fear lest your father, at York, should know anything about your danger. Well, fathers are not, on the whole, such desperately bad fellows as they are made out in stories, and I have even known some who though they have been cruel enough to kick up a great row because their sons have taken to evil lives, have had the grace to repent and forgive their injured offspring. Is your father likely to take that line ? " " No, never. I don't want to talk of him, but take this as my solemn assurance. He would never forgive me, and he would do something worse than disinherit me. I cannot tell you more, but I am in his power, and always shall be until he uses it." " And then ? There is nothing like knowing the worst." "I should be a beggar, and something else would have hap- pened which must not, and shall not happen, Dudley. I would rather ask you to do a friend's last office, and give me something out of that iron safe you lock so carefully." He added, tearfully, an earnest oath. "Yes," said Dudley, in a gentler tone than he often used, and with a certain careless but not unsympathetic manner, " I have a true friend or two behind that iron door, but there let them stay till the houi' of need. They are friends whose service we ask but once, and it lasts us for ever. Perhaps some of us are fools to be so shy of asking what they give so readily. But that is not the way to talk to you. I will not seek to know more of what you hint at. It shows me that our efforts must all be directed to one point, namely, the spiking the enemy's guns before he can begin firing." " You mean " " I mean that we must lose no time in making the good folks at Naybury understand that we have a terrible power, and that we mean to use it." " Unless they consent to refrain from action." " We make no terms." " Yes, if they accept the apology', there is an end." "Is there ?" asked Mr. Dudley, significantly. " What else ? " "A good deal, I imagine," replied Dudley, slowly and looking steadily at his friend, as if considering whether it were worth while to be more explicit. Apparently he came to a decision, for he suddenly said — " I am, of course, deeply interested in your business, Farquhar, SOONER OR LATER. 345 but I must also have an eye to my own. Luckily it happens that I can combine both. While playing the game that is to save you, I can also play one which will serve myself. I think you may as well be content to know that our interests are one, as that will assure you that I shall do all in my power to promote them. All you have to do is to act exactly as I shall suggest. After what you have said about Mr. Farquhar the elder, I imagine that you will be happy to do anything which shall keep matters from his knowledge." " That is my one desire. But of course, I do not want to injure anybody, or do anything that may be hurtful to my professional character hereafter," said poor George Farquhar. Mr. Dudley could not stand this, and he blazed up. " Don't sit there talking trash, will you ? If you think I am going to work with rose-water, you are a greater ass than I supposed you. Take it in the plainest English that I am very likely going to injure somebody very much, though it will be somebody's own fault if I do. And I do not care one cent whether I do or don't, and if there's u smaller coin, I don't care that for your future professional character. That's plain speaking, isn't it ? " " Yes, and something else." " K"o doubt. But some people require it to make them gripe at a fact, and the fact I want you to gripe at, and hold it hard and fast, is, that this is not a business to be managed with bows and smiles and mock diplomacy, but is a rough and rugged and disreputable affair. Comprehend that, and when you think of kicking against it, think also that it is the only thing between you and this nameless terror at York. If you do that, I shall find you a very useful and docile assistant. But don't let us have any more cant. It makes me savage. No need of assistance for that, you'll say," added lh\ Dudley, who had by this time stormed himself back into good temi)er, " No," replied his victim, " but I will forget your language." "But you'll do nothing of the kind, my friend. You'll remember it, especiall}- Avhen I ask you to pay another visit to Mrs. Dormer." " You don't mean that ? " " I do, though. I can't say when, exactly. If her legal friends press, you will have to go instantly. If they don't — we shall see. In that case, we will give her a little time, and see whether she applies to have the prescription j'ou handed to her prepared as recommended. I shall give lier Ycvy few days, even in that case. You don't understand a tenth part of what that card said to her. If she means action, she will mean it in twenty-four hours. If she does not — why, we must not be harsh with a ladv, but we must offer 346 SOONER OR LATER. her a little advice, and you, as a lady's man, are just the person to oifer it elegantly. So keep yourself in readiness. I take care that your employers are duly informed that you are getting better, at the farmhouse near Dorking, but are still weak after fever. Here's another cigar for you — go away, and keep close." CHAPTER XXXL A co^■FI^)E^-CE. Magdalex Dormer's action was prompter than even Mr. Dudley supposed it would be. For before the emissary of the latter was far on his way back to London, Mrs. Dormer, who had hastened home directly he left her, had called her husband into the library, and had informed him of what had occurred. "And the fellow went off to the railway-station, you say, dear?" had been Ernest's single question. " He turned up the road that leads to it." Dormer snatched at the Naybury time-table, but tiu-ew it down with an angry exclamation. " He will have got off by the 12.40. But I can telegi'aph to have liim stopped somewhere," said Ernest. " How was he dressed — any particular mark about liim?" " Xo," said Magdalen, " I think not. The di-ess was a common morning one — stay — you know how one's eyes fix upon something when one is annoyed — he had a black stick, ebon}-, I suppose, with an ivory handle. I wonder how I came to notice it. I am sure I did not know that I had done so." "A young man?" " Quite." " That will do, dear, at least it gives us a very good trail." And Ernest Dormer went off" and telegTaphcd a peremptor}' mes- sage, addressed to a station-master Avhom he knew, at a point which Farquhar could not reach for an hour after the words had been flashed along, desiring that the man with the ebony cane might be stopped, and guaranteeing the official from all consequences. He then re- turned to the house. " There, dear," he said, " I hope I have caught him. The answer is to be sent here the moment it comes. And now," he added, thi'ow- ing himself into the large cliair, and drawing Llagdalen near him, " I have tune to ask what it all means." "And I will tell you," said his wile, "so far as I can, but why this 348 SOONER OR LATER. person lias come, or what his errand means, you will have to tell me, for I cannot understand it in the least." " He asked you, I think you said, whether you recollected visiting- somebody's chambers in Gray's Inn about two years ago. This, I suppose, was a call on Mr. Haslop, after you had been staying with his girls in Wales." "I never thought of that. But no, dear, I never went to Mr. Haslop's. He invited me two or three times, and said that he had some curiosities to show me, but somehow — I forget — the visit was put off, and I never made it." " Well, but have you other legal acquaintances in that quarter, dear ? " *' I had one, and it must be to a visit to him that this strange mes- sage refers." " May I know ? " he said, smiling. " May you know ! I have often been going to tell you the stoiy, but to think about it always gives me a nervous night, and I have put it aside for pleasanter things." "If it will do that now," said Ernest, tenderly, "put it aside again, and onl}' let me know enough to be able to deal with this gentlemau, when I hear that he is trapped. You did make a call in Gray's Inn about the time he mentioned." "Yes, and under very curious circumstances." " Never mind them now. You called on " " Mr. Percy Vaughan." " I seem to know the name — not the man." " He was a solicitor, a young man, and I made his acquaintance when I was staying with the Haslops. He rescued me from a great peril — it is this, Ernest, which I have been going to tell jow. about." " Not now, love. Much as I should like to hear it, I would rather wait. It is enough that you were delivered. But I hope to have a chance of thanking him, myself." " I think that you never will. Mr. Haslop told me that ilr. Vaughan had left the countiy, I believe for Australia, and would never retm-n." "An odd phrase that last. It makes one think that he had done something worse tlian what he did for you." " If I say that I fear it was so, I should be speaking too strongly, but something in Mr. Haslop's manner, or look, made me believe that Mr. Vaughan had not gone away entirely by his own will." " Ah ! " said Dormer, very gravely. " I am sorry to know that. And I am sony that you should have been beholden to that kind of man. I begin to see this business, now. He has come back, and SOONER OR LATER. 349 being, I suppose, in a bad way, sends to remind you of the scr%'icG, that you may show your gratitude. He may be driven to that sort of thing, but the way he adopts is veiy bad. As he knows that you are here, and arc my wife, he should have addressed you — or rather myself — in a direct manner. Still, if he has served you, and is in distress, we must see what is to be done. I wish I had not tele- graphed." " Dearest Ernest, if I set my opinion up against yours, it is only because I know more of Mr. Vaughan than you can. I am as sure as I can be of anything that this message has nothing to do with him." "No ? What do you make of it yourself, then. But before we decide that it is not from Vaughan, don't be vexed if I ask you to remember that a man may be a hero at one minute, and something very unheroic at another. You were very young, and what he did for you may have invested him with a character he did not deserve — you ai'e ver\' quick-witted, too, and I dare say you got the right notion from Mr. Ilaslop." " Indeed I am not quick-witted, dear, and you are always finding- merits in me that I do not possess. But I feel that I am right in this, though I cannot tell you why." " Papa knows all about the service, whatever it was ? " said Ernest. " Mamma does. But she never would mention it to him, for j'ou know his intense love for me, and she feared the effect that the story woidd have on him."' " She will tell me ? " " Certainly. Xo, nobody shall tell yon but myself. It is childish to be nervous about a thing that is long past and gone — besides, I am much braver and stronger now than I ever was. I insist on speaking, sir." We may hope that the interview between IMr. Haslop and Percy Vaughan in the chambers of the former has been remembered. A speech then made by Mr. Haslop Avill save the necessity of following Magdalen's naiTation. " You sJtoived ijourself a hrave man when, single-handed, and wiih no iceapon hut a stalce snatched from the hedge, you beat off the three miners, and rescued Miss Conway T Magdalen told the tale in a way which showed that the terror of that ten minutes would long abide with her, and before she had finished Ernest Dormer's arm was around her, and he was asking her to desist. But she went on to the end. " A noble fellow — a glorious feUow ! " said Dormer, with a man's honest admiration for manliness. " I hate him, because he was there to do it, and I was not. But I don't care what he has done since — 350 SOONER OR LATER. nothing worse, I dare say, than what heaps of men of business, as they are called, do eveiy day, and don't get found out. But if it were murder, I would help him in his need. "\^liere is the card, dearest?" " I gave it you, I thought," said Magdalen. " Then you insist on believing, dear, that this message is from Mr. Vaughan ? " " It seems so very much more likely than anything else. You have received a great service from a man in Gray's Inn. You have called upon him there. You have heard that he has got into diffi- culties. And now you are reminded of the place. Wliat other con- clusion can all this point at ? What, indeed, makes you doubt ? " " Only a strong moral conviction that Mr. Vaughan would never ask a reward for anything he had done for me." " I see," said Ernest, griml3^ " Ha ! ha ! " The exclamation and the subsequent laugh were so demonstrative that they deceived Magdalen, who said, timidly, " Ernest ! " *' My darling. Surely I did not startle you. I had my cue for a tremendous explosion of jealousy. You informed me that this Mr. Vaughan proposed to himself a very high reward indeed for protect- ing you against those ruffians. But, great as the service was, you thought the price demanded was too high." " Yes, and I am here," said Magdalen, blusliing like a girl. " Here," said Ernest, pressing her to his side. After a pause, however, he said, " You must not think me pertinacious in still adhering to my belief, or at least in not quite surrendering it. I am full of admira- tion for Vaughan's bravery ; and it is not I, at all events, who should think ill of him for admiring Miss Conway. But time, misfortune, and being hustled about an unpleasant world "will often turn a good fellow into a bad one. I would rather not think that they had done this in Vaughan's case. I only say that you must not be confident that what you tell me has been strong enough to keep him from making this application. Be it as it may, we must know all about it. Did I put the card into my pocket ? Stop, here it is." The card was a written one, and merely bore the words — " Mr. George Farquhar, 17, Lancaster Street, Holborn." " I know Holborn pretty well," said Ernest Dormer. " Lancaster Street — let's think. Yes, I think I know — one of those squalid kmd of streets which people who live in light and air and with plenty of elbow room, think dismal and dreary, but in which money is made, and life is enjoyed by those who are acclimatized. It is just the sort of place in which a hard-up man would lurk — a man, I mean, SOONER OR LATER. 351 Tvho is needy, and does not wisli to be seen until better times come." " I suppose there are great numbers of such poor creatures hiding and pining in London," said Magdalen, " and better times never come to many of them." " If there is anything in a man," said Dormer, " and he has health, he will fight out of any trouble. If there is not, he is a mistake." " That is a hard doctrine, dearest. It may be wise in a worldly point of view. But I tliink it is the mistakes that ought to he helped." " "We must read political economy together, dear ; meantime we will violate all rules and help this mistake, if he turns out to be the person I suppose." "And if not?" " Tlien the aflPair is somewhat mysterious ; but we will exhaust one case, before we take up another. And now, dear, you will rest quietly here, while I see whether any answer to my telegram lias come." He led her to the ^ sofa, and, with a kiss, left her. "That is no message fi-om Percy Vaughan," said Magdalen to herself. "Ernest is full of the world's wisdom, and knows the world's ways, but this time he is wrong, and it is natural that he should be. I can bring no proof that will satisfy his mind. I have only my own conviction. But that is unshaken. I am sorry, too, that Percy Vaughan should be suspected of meanness — that, at least, was no part of his nature. I should like him to be cleared of that suspicion, and Ernest will clear him if he follows up the inquiry. But Ernest is right in saying that if Percy Vaughan has no share in the business, it is a mysten,-. I am glad I have told him everything. J am very glad that I have told him eveiything. Very glad." The last words were murmured — rather than spoken — at intervals, and the young wife lapsed into a quiet slumber. " I am so glad you have slept, darling," said her husband, as she ■opened her eyes, and smilingly declared that she had dozed for five minutes only. " Nay, I have been reading by your side for half-an-hour," he said, •' and I was at least an hour at the railway station." " Why did you not wake me ? " " I knew better. Besides, I had nothing to tell. The bird has escaped. N"o person of the kind has been through. But I traced him into the caiTiage here. Our station-master noticed him par- ticularly — noticed the stick, and, moreover, answered his inquiry about the Brandington junction. That may explain it. I was hasty 352 SOONER OR LATER. in assuming that because he was a Londoner he would run straight home, and if he has gone on, he has run round by Brandiugton." This guess was right. Mr. Farquhar was in a ver}' nervous state, and had summoned up an idea that he might be followed by some avenging friend of Magdalen. So he had taken a very circuitous route, leaving the Naybury train, and waiting for another. For once, a terror had saved him some unpleasantness. " I am glad he has got away," exclaimed Ernest, " and I have sent another message repealing my first edict, in case he should turn up. We must now consider what is to be done — that is, I will consider it, and you shall be told all about it, for I will not have my Magdalen disturbed. What does she say to my running up to town, and looking into the business ? " "That you are to do exactly as you please. Only " "Only?" " No, only nothing. I will not be nervous at being left alone." " But I will make only a day's work of it. I will be back the same night." " No, dear. I shall have to leam to be without you, often, and it would be childish to expect you always to be here. I have told you so before. But you must write to me, sir. I won't be neglected and forgotten." Ernest's reply would have been, no doubt, a proper one, but there was a gentle knock at the door. " May mamma come in ? " " How dare you ask ? " said Ernest, opening the door. " Well, you know I never disturb j'ou when you are writing, but I heard you say that you had finished all you meant to do to-day, and I wanted to know how Magdalen was — she complained of headache." " That was the day before yesterday, mamma. I am quite well now, and I have had a long sleep, and that is not at all what you have come about. I can see it in your eyes." Yes, it was quite clear that dear Mrs. Conwa}- had got something to say, and something that it did not displease her to have to say. She seated herself with a certain complacency. "Mrs. Conway," said Ernest, amused, "you have heard some- thing." " One is always hearing something or other," said Mrs. Conway. " It is impossible to go about the world with one's ears shut." And then the dear old lady was silent again. But they would not speak, and so she began to ask Magdalen questions about what she had taken for lunch, and whether she thought it too hot for the garden, and other matters evidently interposed for no purpose but to SOONER OK LATER. 353 increase, by delay, a satisfaction which ah'ead)' Ijeamed out at her eyes. "Magdalen, I forbid you to talk much," said Ernest, looking laughingly at his mother-in-law. " Mrs. Conway, I should like to fetch Mr. Conway." "I am sure I have no objection," said Mary Conway. It was exactly what she wanted. She had earned a little triumph, and she was particularly desirous that it should pass before the eyes of her husband. Dormer went away for his father-in-law. The moment his back was turned, Mrs. Conway's lips were on Magdalen's forehead. " I am not malicious, you know that, darling, but I like to be seen in the right now and then. Mr. Grafton " But here the gentlemen entered. "Very quick indeed, Ernest. I understand that. Papa was waiting in the next room to be called in. Of course he was. Men have no curiosity. He does not care in the least to know what I am going to say. Not in the least." " My dear j\Iary, these staccato passages do you credit. Children, your mother has a revelation. I told you, Ernest, that there was great doubt what form of sweetmeat the child had left in the pew at Saxbury, and that the public were divided on the question whether it was liquorice or almond rock. We are not without hopes that we approximate a solution of the problem, and you must not be startled at the word horehound." " Hold your tongue, papa, or I will tell you nothing. Xow you all know my opinion about the Graftons, don't you ? " " We have had reasonable opportunities of knowing it, at all events, my dear," said her husband. "And I have always been scolded for Iteiug uncharitable, haven't I." " Quis vituperavit ? " said Mr. Conway to Mr. Dormer. " Well, there has been such a scene at the Rectory. Magdalen, dear, you have been your rounds this morning. Did yon see that Mrs. Faunt ? " " No, mamma. I never called there when I could liolp it — only that she might not feel neglected. To-day, I renieiuber, her door was shut." " Yes, it was. She was on an errand of mischief." " How do you know, my dear ? " asked ^Ir. Conway in an under voice. "Never mind about that. I do kuow it. Ernest, tliat poor girl who was thouccht to have told falsehoods aljout hearing the gold 354 SOONER OR LATER. given to that woman in the church is proved to have told the truth, and nothing else. Proved out of the woman's own mouth." " Well," said ^Ir. Conway, " suppose the younger Mr. Grafton did reheve the woman, just as Magdalen did, only that he did it on a larger scale, what does this shew against a clergyman, whose business it is to succour the distressed." "Succour the fiddlestick. Clergymen are not in the habit of being so dreadfully liberal. They will preach sermons for the poor, and beg to any extent, but they are m no huny with their own money. Besides, we don't relieve the poor in a dark church, when everybody else has gone awa3^" " My dear, your excellent' memory does not serve you. We arc expressly told to let such things be done secretly." " Ah, well, you are ready enough to say that the translation is not con'ect. I am quite certain that secretly is not the right translation of a dark church after service. But that is neither here nor there. That woman has been to the rectory, has insisted on seeing Mr. Grafton and Edward, and after such a stormy talk as I suppose was never heard in that house before, has declared that the Reverend Edward Grafton is in her debt, and that unless he pays at once, she will proclaim what she has done for him, and then he will no longer be able to remain in this neighbourhood, or in the church itself for that matter." " By Jove ! " remarked Ernest Dormer. "I think, my dear," said Mr. Conway, rather more gravely than he usually addressed his wife, that whether this story be true or — disputable — we had better confine our knowledge of it within these fom- walls." "Why, of course," said Mrs. Conway, "you don't think that I would repeat it, do you ? But it shows you that I was not so very far wrong, after all, in my estimate of the Graftons." "We won't discuss that until we loiow a little more," said Mr. Conway. " It is just possible that the whole story may be false, and quite possible that this wretched woman may be bringing a false accusation. Let us wait and hear more before we come eyen to a mental decision." " Events run in couples, love," whispered Ernest to Magdalen. CHAPTER XXXII. THE editor's chambers. The next day Ernest Dormer went up to London. He had some curiosity to discover the meaning of the message that had been given to Ms wife, though it did not occur to him to attach much importance to the matter. He was at a time of life when men of sense cease to see mysteries in everything which they do not immediately comprehend, and his present belief was that the person who had rendered Magdalen a service, and had fallen into difficulties, was now desirous to avail himself of her grateful recol- lection of his courage. Ernest was even disposed to give Mr. Vaughan some credit for making his appeal in a way which iP eccentric was considerate, as it spared the necessity for reference to the past, and left the recompense to Magdalen's generosity. Dormer therefore designed to ascertain that the case was as he supposed, and then to act as liberally as was possible. No shade of displeasure crossed his mind that he had not previously been made acquainted with the incident in his wife's life, and he instinctively accepted the explanation which she offered. But this was not his only reason for wishing to come to town. He had become a little restless, not to say weary, under the small and monotonous boredom of the country town, and though he had resolved to make the best of the situation, he found it difficult to resist a wish to refi-esh himself with a' brief recurrence to the habits and topics of a larger world. The state of Magdalen's health just now compelled her to give him less of her companionship than heretofore, and though the other members of the household were very pleasant persons, and untiring in their efforts to make him happy, Ernest Dormer's old life had made a certain variety of social intercourse necessary to him, and he is not to be judged too harshly for not at once becoming acclimatised. Thirdly — well, he wanted to see Walter Latrobe. Upon the fitness of this wish we have nothing to say. So he went up, with Magdalen's peremptory commands to stay as long as he pleased, but to write to her frcfpieutly. And for the 356 SOONER OR LATER. first time since her maniage she was alone with her thoughts and hopes. He arrived late, took a favourite old lodging not far from the Octagon Club, and intended to make that establishment his head quarters. The following morning he went to Lancaster Street, Holbom, to inquire after Mr, Farquhar. The address, it is needless to say, was that of Mr. Dudley. Ernest Dormer knocked at the private door, and heard a man's voice giving instructions to the servant. He was informed that Mr. Farquhar occupied the first floor, but that he was out of town, and his return was uncertain. Would he please to leave his name ? This was about the answer which Dormer expected to receive. He had had some experience in the ways of gentlemen in difficulties. He therefore left a message calculated to assure Mr. Farquhar or whomsoever it might concern that the visit was not one of the character so obnoxious to the impecunious. He left his card, and compliments, and a request that Mr. Farquhar would make his own appointment, the sooner the better. And he added, with a smile to 'the servant, that he was sure Mr. Farquhar would like to know who had called. The maiden had not the least hesitation in assuring the vigilant Mr. Dudley that Mr. Dormer was quite a gentleman. " So much the better," said Mr. Dudley, with a grunt, as he shut the door of communication. " Only I must shave, and furbish up my manners. I think Pll have 2ny haii- cut." While Mr. Dudley carried out these laudable intentions, or at least two of them, for he postponed the second until he had soundly abused an unoffending barber for not being in his shop at the moment it pleased liis unwonted customer to come in, Ernest Dormer went on to Lincoln's Inn Fields to call on Mr. Mangles, his friend and editor. Mr. Mangles was di'essing, but his prime minister, Mr. Pruth, was there, in his customary black, overhauling contributions and selecting topics from newspapers, a process he performed with a large pair of scissors. The two men liked each other, and shook hands with much lieartiness. " The paper has been capital, lately, Pruth, if the opinion of a Ijaganus be of any value." " Veiy glad to hear you say so, for the governor has left it a good deal more to mc than I wished. Have j'ou brought us anything for this week ? " One of the editorial sort would ask you this if you had come in to tell him that yom- house was on fire, or that you had just taken poison. SOONER OR LATER. 357 " I have l^roup-ht yon myself, as Moses says, but no cTeen spectacles this time. Is that the first thing to say to a man when he arrives after his maniage ? "WHiere are your manners, Pruth, and your congratulations ? " said Dormer, laughing. " Yes, that is trae," said Mr. Pruth, " but I believe that I have forgotten how to be polite, if I ever kncAv." Yet he contented himself with this piece of autobiography, and did not repair the omission. It was Pruth, and therefore Dormer took no notice of this, at the moment. " Will Mangles be long, think you ? " he said. "I suppose not, I don't loiow. He is going to a flower-show with some ladies, I belieA'c." " How he has become demoralised. Mangles at a flower-show I Anything up, Pnith," said Ernest, laughing again. " Is mv example —eh?" *' 0, I don't know. I never take those things for granted until they come into my column of marriages, and not always then. We were nearly hoaxed last week, only a slip betrayed the forgery — the fellow made the date of a wedding the 13th, and I happened to remember that this was a Friday, and I suppose you couldn't get a girl of a certain station to the altar on a Friday, if the penalty for her not going were to be her never getting there at all." " Vigilat in (ede Lar, as ever, Pruth." "You are not to suppose I don't know that 3'ou are quoting Latin," said Mr. Pruth, " when I tell you that reminds me to ask you, with all humility, not to quote Greek quite so often, in your articles. There's nobody on the staff who can be trusted with the corrections." " Don't you be a humbug, Pnith," said Ernest Dormer, good humouredly. " I happen to know that you are a capital Greek scholar yourself, and that in early days you cut up Lord Brougham's translation ft'om Demosthenes." "Ages ago. I couldn't do it now, and unless I can turn to a quotation, I am unhappy about it all the week." " Well, I will mind what you say, though you have given me any- thing but your real reason for the advice. Who wrote that article last Aveek about the English love for racing ? " " It was a ver}' good article, wasn't it ? " " My dear fellow, don't I know better than to find fault with any article in a paper you conduct ? Everything is perfect, or at least you swear it is, and quite right too, I only wanted to know whether that was by Mark Derwent." " But what was the matter with the article ? " persisted Mr. Pruth. 358 SOONER OR LATER. " Again I tell yon, nothing. Only if it was Derwent's I wonder he did not bring in a story I told him about crabs." " Tell me. I am very fond of crabs." " Not as instruments of gambling, I hope." " Gambling ! 0, throwing crabs, you mean." " A good shot, and yet a miss, Pruth. What business have you to know anything about dice ? No, su-, the story was this. A friend of mine, a great contractor, who was making a harbour somewhere, fancied that he did not get work enough out of the men who went down in the diving-bell. He felt that they wasted time, but he could not imagine how. So, one day, when they were at dinner, he went into the bell. And there he found seven large crabs, and on the back of each was chalked the name of a favourite for the Derby. The men had crab-races at the bottom of the sea. Derwent knew this story, and might have put it in." " He might, and did, and Mangles cut it out, because he said that it was too good not to have been in print before. I don't believe it has." " Nor I, but if it had, what matter ? Everybody hasn't read everything. AVhat a time Mangles is over his beautification. I begin to fear there must be something in what I suggested." *' Why do you say fear," asked Pruth, seriously ; " yourself a newly married man ? " " Because Mangles ought not to marry. Editors and soldiers ought to be forbidden marriage." Pruth looked at him earnestly for a moment, but made no answer, and Mr. Mangles entered, dressed as a gentleman should be dressed when he makes ladies responsible for the appearance of their com- panion, an aphorism which it is humbly supposed will be acceptable to sundry. And Mangles was very glad to see his friend. " Mrs. Dormer is in town with you, of course," said the Editor. *' Does she want hatfuls of stalls, concert tickets, exliibition cards, pri- vate boxes ? — Speak, I am her slave." " Thanks. But my wife has not come up with me this time. I make a hurried visit, on some business, and nva. home." Mr. Pnith made no sign, but he was glad to hear Ernest use the words wife and home. " Very well, I won't say so much the better ; but you know what King Somebody said to the two men. ' Married ? ' ' Yes, your majesty ! ' ' Happy man. And you ? • ' No, your majesty.' ' Lucky dog ! ' I don't mean that, of course, but you must come about with me, and see the world, after yom* rustic exile. Do you know Lady Syleham ? " " Just." SOONER OR LATER. 359 " You shall know her better. I'm going to the Botanic Gardens with her and her daughter, and I'll take you, and we'll all dine at Greenwich. They'll come, if I ask them." " If yoxi ask them. I see." " No, you don't. It's not that. But will you come ? Say yes on the spot, like a good fellow," *' I can't go to the flowers, but I'll come on to Greenwich, if you'll have me. I have got some business that will keep me in this part of the town." " Throw it over — business will keep and flowers won't." "No." "Your no means no," said Mangles, "as I am aware, of old. But I hope the business is notliing disagreeable — nothing that will make you dull at dinner. If it will, go and dine at the Octagon, and bore some of those feUows. If it won't, come and help me to amuse Lady Syleham and the gracious Isabella." " I will dine with you, I teU you, and be glad." " You are not half a bad fellow. Only tliis — and you'll know in a moment whether it can be, or not. I should be particularly rejoiced if you could come to the Botanic — " " To take off Lady S}'leham while you amuse the young lady. I know," inteiiwlated Ernest Donner. " Not at all, as you shaU see. Now, if yom- business could stand over — Pi-uth could write a letter and say that you had got the measles, or something — " " I never make mysteries," said Dormer, "and I will just tell you what the business is. Somebody who did my wife a service in other days has been reminding her of it, because, as I suppose, he is up a tree, and I have just left him word to let me see him." " But you have no appointment." " No, because he is out of the way. But I dare say I shall have one in an hour or two. I fancy he is not far off. He used to be in Gray's Inn, and may be there now." "In Gray's Inn," said Mr. Mangles, with a cm-ious emphasis, which both men remarked, but only one understood. " Yes," said Ernest, with some smiorise. " Is there tmything won- derful in a man's living there ? " " I did not mean that there was anything wonderful," said Mangles slowly, for he was doing what the ruig calls spairing for wind. " Many people live there — la^\7ers, that is to say. Yes. Many people live there, laAv^^rs." "By Jove," said Ernest, laughing, "these Dclphics of yours puzzle me." 360 . SOONER OE LATER. " Yes," said Mangles again. He was — Pruth knew it — suddenly called to make up his mind on a delicate matter, and he was doing it. "I will write any reasonable excuse for you with pleasure, you know," said Mr. Prath, to give his chief time. " We can have it sent round to the addi-ess, wherever it is, and then you will be at liberty for the day." "The address is 17 Lancaster Street, Holbom," said Ernest Dormer, "but " He stopped, for Mr. Pruth, less a man of the world than Mangles, changed colom- at the mention of Dudley's residence. "What the devil does this all mean?" said Ernest Dormer. " Mangles talks nonsense and Pruth turns white, and all because — " "Because," said Mangles, rising, and lajdng his hand on his friend's shoulder, "because Mangles and Pruth are your sincere friends, and }'ou have startled them." He had entirely dropped the gay manner with which he had been holding his part in the conversation, and he spoke with unusual earnestness. " I have startled you ? " " Yes," said Mangles. " But that is over, and I see my way. Dormer, I shall pain you, I may offend }'ou, but I risk both the certainty and the chance rather than let you go, unwarned, into a false position." " I have known you a good many years. Mangles." " Yes, and that means, I hope, that you may be pained but will not be offended." " Of course it does. But tell me what you mean," said Doimer, impatiently. " I would take you into another room, but, to be frank with you, Pruth and I have few secrets." " I would rather go away," said Mr. Pruth, speaking with the utmost sincerity. " But I request you to stay," said his chief. " I mean," he said, as if to do away Avith the idea of authority (though Pruth rather liked discipline), " I mean that yom- cool head may be of service." " As you please," "Then, Dormer, let me ask you a question." " Anything, so that it is quick," said Ernest, sharply. " You said you supposed that this person who is reminding Mrs. Dormer of other days, is in difficulties. Do you know who he is ?" " I believe I do. He calls himself Farquhar, But what do you know about it, and how does it interest you ?" SOONER OR LATER. 361 " A moment. May I ask — jon are sure I should not venture to ask but for a reason — has Mrs. Dormer told you tliat the applicant is the person you suppose ? " " No. . She does not think so. Now, you have not answered me." " Bear with me another instant, and you shall hear all. Do you know the nature of the service he is supposed to have rendered ?" " Yes. He saved her honour, perhaps her life." *' From whom ? " " From some ruffians in "Wales." " Dormer, believe me when I say that this is simply the most painful moment of my whole life. I would have given all I have to evade it. But, as a fi-iend and a gentleman, I am bound, having certain convictions, to prevent your being practised upon." " Practised upon ! By whom ?" said Ernest, angrily. *' At present I have no right to say more than Ijy this applicant to Mrs. Dormer. I am certain he is a scoundrel. The house to which you have been is the house of a doctor, as he calls himself, of the lowest kind, and whose history has not quite kept out of the police sheets, though he has escaped. Any thing in which he is mixed is rascality. There is a plot to extort money. Is not that your belief, Pruth ?" " Yes." " You are not telling me all you know, or believe you know," said Ernest Dormer, with composure. " The detection of a mere trick to extort money does not account for j'our hesitation, and Pruth's agita- tion. And you have talked of pain and offence. There is cause for either ? I have something else to hear." " Yes," said Mangles, " and you should never have heard it from me, but that you will infallibly learn it in five minutes from that man or some of his accomplices. But first let me say that I hear this moment, and for the first time, of the story of the rescue in Wales. I am bound to say, that I believe no such rescue ever took place." Ernest Dormer sprang to his feet, but he suppressed his anger. " Do you tell me that you believe my wife has lied to me ?" " No," said Mangles, with apparent indignation at the question. " But I believe that she was deceived. I can only guess at the means by which the trick was played, for I have had no time to think over it, but I would swear that it is false that any real service was done by a tool of — of — his infernal name, Pruth ? " "Dudley?" " That was the name I read," said Ernest. " So far you are safe. But what gives you the right to connect my wife's name with that of any person in the world— any scoundrel, I mean ? Tell me, in God's S62 SOONER OR LATER, name, what it is that you are keeping back. You dare not say that my wife — Bah," he added, scornfully, as the image of Magdalen arose before him, " I am mad to ask the question. Say what you have to say, Mangles. I am not afraid of it." And in his earnest trust in the beautiful woman whom he had left in her home, Ernest smiled proudly. And Mangles winced under the smile, not because it was one of triumph, but because he had to say that which might banish such smiles for the future. " You will see this Dudley, or Farquhar, or whatever he may call himself. Dormer," said Mangles, speaking in a subdued voice, but as one who now meant to go on to the end ; " and he will tell you that for which you will do well to be ready with an answer. He will tell }-ou that Mrs. Dormer, when Miss Conway, and before you knew her, had acquaintance with a young gentleman who lived in South Square, Gray's Inn, and used to visit him in his chambers." " Is this all ?" said Ernest Dormer, calmly. " It is all that I need put words to," said Mangles ; " but I doubt not that Dudley will have something more to aaj, in order to explain his application." " How, Mangles, did you hear that Miss Conway visited Gray's Inn?" " From a member of the Octagon Club." " His name ?" asked Ernest Dormer, quickly. " I will give it you, for you kave a right to it. But I will ask you not to press that right until you have brought the Dudley business to an end. If the knowledge should be useful, sooner, I will give it you." " A few hours is all you are asking," said Ernest. " Do you think I wiU let this matter rest for a moment ?" " I trust that you maybe able to prove it the slander which I doubt not it is," said Mangles. " But I warn you that there will be an attempt to prove the visits." " It will not be needed." " What do you say ?" " My wife did pay one visit to a }'oung gentleman who lived in the place mentioned. He was laiown to Mr. Haslop, the conveyancer, who lent him money that enabled him to leave for Australia." Thenceforth Mangles spoke with great caution, and as one who weighed each word. " Mrs. Dormer having informed you of the circumstances — may I ask when ? " " No matter," said Dormer, haughtily. SOOXEPw OR LATER. 3G3 " No," said Mangles, instantly di-awing a conclusion of his own. *' It is enough that you are informed, because you will be ready with youi- answer. Does she know — and I am ashamed to mention a lady's name so often — does Mrs. Donner know why the gentleman had to leave England ? " " She was told that he had gone -wi-oug, in some way, but not how." "And 3'ou do not know ?" " Nor care, I think. Mangles." " Yes, you may as well be aware that it was on account of an attempt to obtain money upon forged title-deeds." " And how was the forgery detected ? " " By Haslop, under whose hands they came for examination into the title." " And then," said Ernest Dormer, " Haslop having discovered the villany, gives the culprit a large sum of money to go away from England. Why should he do that ? " " I do not know." " But I do," said Ernest, triumphantly. " And now, my dear ]\Iangies, one word, to yourself. You heard this story about my wife — you heard it at the Octagon. Was it before or after my marriage ? " Pruth looked at his chief to see in his face what he was going to say. Mangles hesitated, and of com-se Dormer had his answer. If the other for a moment meditated an untruthful reply, he felt that it would be useless, for Ernest Dormer would have learned at the Club that his marriage had been discussed long before it occurred. " Before," said Mangles. " Just so," said Ernest Donner. " If I were twenty, I should leave you with an insulting word, and never meet you again. Being a good deal more, I give you the credit of having felt most kindly towards me, and if you abstained from telling me wiiat I ought to have known, it w^as because you knew that I was making a good match, which perhaps you thought I could not afford to break off. I shall hear an echo of such a speech in the smoke room at the Club." " Xot an echo of any speech of mine, Ernest. I call upon Pruth to bear witness to what I thought and said." " Had the story got into Mr. Pruth's world, too ? " asked Dormer, with a certain haughtiness. " No," said Mr. Pruth, who felt the taunt, but who was a truly good man, and instantly forgave what he saw was but a proof that Dormer had been Avounded. " My poor little world does not care for any stories." 364 SOONER OR LATER. " And I beg your pardon, Prnth," said Ernest Dormer, promptly. " There is no need," said the good Prath. " I am to say, being asked, that Mr. Mangles expressed much annoyance that the tale in question should be spread, and hesitated as to acquainting you with it. He paid me the compliment of consulting me upon a subject on ■which my opinion could be of no value." " And you counselled him to be silent ? " " No," exclaimed Mangles, promptly ; " let me do him the justice which I know he won't do himself. He refused to advise me at all, but he said something which did him honour. If I were truly what he understood by the word friend, I should never rest until I knew the truth, and could either counsel you to break oif the marriage, or, with a good conscience, be your best man." " That is what I felt Pruth Avould say. I mean no reproach to you, Mangles, for not taking his counsel. No man has a right to demand such work from another, as times go." " That is not generous, Dormer, recollecting as you ought to recollect that I am not one of those who do a friend's work neg- ligently." " You are right. I have known you spare neither time, labour? nor money, when you had undertaken a business." And there Ernest Dormer stopped, but Mangles at once felt what the other omitted to say. So did Pruth. " It appears to me," said Pmth, " that two men who sincerely like one another are going to drift into coldness for want of a little plain speech between them. I am a plain speaker, and I will take the liberty of saying that Mr. Dormer is entirely wrong in imputing any luke-warmness, any want of earnest fi-iendship, to Mr. Mangles, The question of interference occupied him very deeply, and if he decided not to interfere it was for a reason which ought to satisfy Mr. Dormer." " I am satisfied," said Ernest, quietly, " And it is due to you both that when I have cleared up this question I should let you know what I have done. Mangles, you will then give me the name you owe me ? " "Assuredly," " Then good morning to both." He went away without another word. " It seems to me," said Mangles, after a pause, " that with the very best intentions we have managed this matter about as badly as possible." " It is one of those matters which will manage themselves," said i SOONER OR LATER. 365 Prutb, " and I do not know that wc could have done better. I saw^ of course, what 3'our reticence meant." " Of course. But there will be little reticence where he is going. However, if the affair is hushed up, he will never be able to feel that his wife's character was impugned here. But our friendship is over, that is certain." " I cannot say. I never think that I quite understand the cha- racter of Ernest Dormer." " That has been said before. It will be shown now, I imagine. I wish I had not got to go to this flower-show." CHAPTER XXXIII. EETURN TO THE CLUB. Eenest Doemer called at the Club to ascertain whether any letter had been sent by Farquhar, but found none. He was in no mood to go into the house, and receive congratulations. Perhaps he might be greeted by the very man whom he intended to call to account, and might have to accept as courtesy what was said in irony. He had every reason, save one, for keeping away from his friends, but that one reason, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed up all the others, and that was his sense of what he owed to his wife. The more because there had been whispers and doubts, was he bound to show himself the proud and confiding husband. And having taken his resolve, he went into the morning room, where a dozen men were reading the papers, or writing notes, and not one who looked up, at his entrance, would have supposed that the new comer had just gone through a disturbing interview. Men rose and came up to Ernest, and shook his hand warmly. He had been much liked in the club. It is not the habit of club-men, as a rule, to be very demonstrative, but a good many hearty words of condensed congratulation were said to him, and he received them with perhaps a little more warmth of manner than was usual with him. " Come to town for long, old fellow ? " said good-natured Jemmy Rydon. " No," said Ernest, smiling and giA'ing the word emphatically, as if repudiating the idea. " For I have come up alone.' " Ah, that sounds well," said Rydon. " We enjoy the domesticities, eh ? That's right. A virtuous home is the only thing to make a man happy." " And I am perfectly happy, Jemm}'," said Ernest, " and I know that you will be glad to hear it." " I am," said Doddy Dalston, who stood near, and heard. " How Rydon should know what he has just stated is neither here nor there." " Rydon knows two^^or tlu-ee things," said that gentleman. " Among SOONER OR LATER. 367 them is the fact that he will never sit down to whist with Mr. Dalston any more. I lost seven pounds yesterday, Dormer, all through that fellow's deliberately atrocious play." "I have nearly forgotten how we handicapped the whist-mcn here," said Ernest, "but I fancied that Dalston knew something about it." " Play with him as your partner to-night then, and you'll be dis- abused of that error." " No, you play too high for a family man," said Donner. " Hear him ?" said Tom Alford, coming up. " However, we are quite prepared to beheve that you are in Paradise. We have had Sam Mangles's report about Naybmy and all that is therein." " Yes, he was kind enough to leave town at a busy time, and come to the wedding," said Ernest. " And I am glad that he gave a good account of us all, for we deserv^e it, I can tell you. Here's Charley Launccston, with his eternal Charivari — why, Chai'ley, you had that in yom* hand when I saw you last. Have you been studying it ever since ? Well, Daimes, how are politics ? I have had leisure for reading them lately, and I shall be happy to discuss reform with you, and we'll have ]\Iarsden — how are you, Marsden ? — to keep us dull and decorous. Anybody seen Walter Latrobe, lately ? " He talked with an effort, but he was detennined to talk. Latrobe was in town, somebody said, but he had not been to the club much, and had not given very satisfactory explanations as to wliat he meant by staying away. " Some of us fancy that he has set up a boarding-school for chil- dren," said Jemmy Rydon. " I wouldn't trust him with one of mine, if I had any," said Dalston. " It would die of chocolate-creams, or something, in a month. Awfiil kind fellow to kids is Walter." " It is not kindness to over-feed them with sweets," said Donner, with extreme gravity. " Hear, hear," broke out from several men. " There spoke the family man, if you like," said Tom Alford. " Now you may perceive how thoroughly he has thrown himself into domestic life, and is learning the hearth-rug religion." "I am a country gentleman," said Ernest Dormer, " and I trust long to live honoured and happy in that proud, if prosaic, state of life. And now," he thought, " I have done enough in the way of demonstration." Henry Wigram came in. He saw Ernest immediately on opening the door, and for a mo- ment thought of affecting not to have noticed him, and of retreating, 368 SOONEE OR LATER. but Dormer's eye caught his, and the next instant Wigram's hand was in his friend's. Henry's tone was always melancholy, but he exerted himself to greet Dormer without any very undue amount of jDathos. " We hardly hoped to see you among us so soon," said Wigram. " I shall not stay long, so if any gentleman wishes to get up another banquet in my honour, he must be prompt." " Hang it, we might have a house-dinner," said Rydon, who was always ready to dine, or to give a dinner, or to join in a dinner, or to talk about a dinner. Cookery was the only one of the fine arts which held a high place in Mr, Ey don's esteem, and he had a favourite plan for instituting a Eoyal Academy for the Encouragement of Cooks, which scheme, but for his utter inability to arrange three written sentences in connection, he would have given to the world. " Will you be in a house-dinner, Horace Clyde," said Wigram, with a faint wink at Dormer. " When ? my dear fellow," said Horace, shaking violent hands with Ernest, and looking as radiant as if the sight of him had com- pleted Cl}'de's earthly happiness, and he was now prepared for a higher sphere. " You know if there is one thing in the world I like, it is that." " Self-denying beast," muttered Wigram. " Saturday next, half- past seven, sharp," he said, touching Ernest as a hint not to inter- pose. " Dormer can't be in town longer than the week," " Saturday, yes, delighted," said Horace the sponge. " Half-past seven. That will be capital, and it's a treat to see old Ernest again among us." " You're done, Wigram," muttered Jemmy Eydon. " Six to two he backs out," rephed Wigram, He knew his man. For Eydon had not time to consider whether he would bet when Clyde said — " 0, botheration. My infernal memor}'. ISI'o, I can't be with you. My aunt, Mrs. Williamson, and the girls are coming to us to dine and go to the opera," " Eh, Jemmy ? " said Wigram, " But," he said, " that's all bosh, my dear fellow, a man's not wanted in an opera box. Mrs, Clyde will take them, and you can dine here and join them afterwards. We'll make it eight, if you like." " Like is not the word, my dear Wigram, but it is impossible. Mrs. Clyde is so nervous that she will go nowhere without me. I am A^ery sorry, but it can't be," " What are you talking about Saturday for, Wigram ? " said Doddy Dalston, who thought he would have a part in the little farce. SOONER OR LATER. 369'. " Dormer has told you six times that he is engaged on Saturday, and we settled Friday. So you can come on Friday, Clyde, you know, for I heard you say you should dine here that day." " If I did," said the undaunted Horace, " it was another of my stupid blunders. What would I give for a memory ? I am going to take the chair at a distribution of prizes at a school at Clapham. Everything is against me, you see." And having evaded two traps set for the purpose of getting him to promise to pay for his own dinner, Horace Clyde went oflF, secretly exultant, to a table, and used up eighteen sheets of club paper in writing some circulars — he was very industrious. " Ask him to dine with you. Dormer, on either of those days, and I'll stand the dinner if he don't accept," said Rydon. " If I were sure of being here, I would," said Ernest, " for he would give me some good stories to take home with me — not smoking room stories, Jemmy. He picks up that sort of thing very cleverly." " Yes," said Wigram, " and that's part of his trade. He dines on tlii-ee or four stories of that sort — makes the rich relation laugh, and pleases the lady of the house." " And that last is a very proper thing to do," said Ernest Dormer. " It happens to be my business just now, and I hope I succeed reasonably well." " And how is our fi-iend the excitable parson, Donuer ? " said Alford. " We were talking of him the other night, and saying that as the club is prosperous, we might afford the luxury of a chaplain. Would he like the appointment, and can you vouch for the soundness of his doctrine ? " " I cannot answer for him," said Ernest, " but you may judge for yourselves when I tell you that he has scandalised my neigh- bours by wishing that all missionaries could be eaten by the heathen." " Why, he must be a good fellow, after all," said the heathenish Jemmy Rydou. " Has anybody denied it ? " '* Well, the Avay he opened fire at Mangles's dinner did not exactly make us wish to see a great deal of him, perhaps. But I am glad we misjudged him." " You misjudge most people, Jemmy ; so if that makes you glad, you should be a happy man," said Charley Launceston. "That Mr. Grafton is a neighbour of yours, I think. Dormer?" said Wigi'am. " Yes, his father is rector of the next parish." 570 SOONER OR LATER. "A large, imposing looking man, who walks about loftily, as if wondering when the Queen is going to send to make him a bishop." " You know him ? " " I know something about him, which shall be yours in private, as the Roman party says in the play. I never talk scandal for these fellows to repeat and exaggerate." A mocking murmur went round the group, and Ernest Dormer wondered whether Henry Wigram was the name he was to have from Mangles. " I am sony that there should be any scandal about so tremen- dously respectable a man as the Rector of Saxbury," said Ernest. " I had better not hear it, I fancy, unless you intend me to repeat it in the country, and mention the source whence I got it." " By Jove, Dormer, you have been schooled to some purpose," said Rydon, laughing. "I have some good things to tell you, but I shall be afraid." " Yoic need not be," said Dormer. It was a challenge to an answer, but none came from Henry Wigram, and Walter Latrobe entered the room. " You in town ?" was the soldier's salutation to his friend. " As you see." ''All well at home?" "All." Nothing more passed between them at the moment. A stranger would have supposed them almost strangers, but they were the two men who cai-ed more for one another than for all the rest of the club. Walter Latrobe sat down to read a newspaper, and the group dis- persing, Ernest Dormer sauntered round to read the club notices, candidates' list, and other affiches. But •after a quarter of an hour the friends exchanged a look, and Ernest, going to the quiet library, was followed by Latrobe. That big room was very still and gloomy at that hour. Not a single man had as yet retired thither to take a sleep under pretence of reading a blue-book, nor had the one man who usually occupied a table for the entire afternoon, and spread out his papers or threw them on the ground as if the place were his own office, begun to read and write, and rustle and fidget, and growl and grunt, and get about twenty times his rightful share of the ser- vices of the domestics. The ticking of a loud clock was all the sound there, until Dormer and Latrobe met again. *' You never wrote that you were coming up." " I did not know it until yesterday. I came up alone." " Nothing wrong, you say ? " *^ Nothing at Naybury. I shall have to ask your opinion on a SOONER OR LATER. 371 matter, but at present I won't, because I can say nothing to the purpose." " All right. And how do you like yoiu' new life ? " " Wliy, my dear Walter, that's a compound question. I am married to the best woman in the world, and I don't think that she is the least happy woman in the world. That, I know, is what j'ou want to know about." " I rejoice to hear that." " I don't forget our past talk in the Gardens, and I don't forget what I said to you about my intentions. And up to this moment I may say, as a man to his fi-iend, that in letter and in spirit I have carried out my pledge, and that if I had failed to do so — she being what she is — I should have been ungrateful as well as mitruthfal." " That is well," said Walter Latrobe, quietly. He did not deal in exaggeration, and if he said that a thing was well, he thought it was very well indeed. " As for the life itsehP, you know the beatitude touchmg him who expecteth nothing. I am not disappointed. I am not even bored, yet. And you may be interested in knowing that my wife's happi- ness will be increased." " And that I am rejoiced at," said Latrobe, with more emphasis than usual. " I imderstand," said Ernest Dormer, smiling. " You did not come up to see me, and I have nothing particular to say to you," said Walter. " Suppose we leave those matters where they are." Those matters. But the young soldier gave wise advice, and for the moment it was accepted. They had, however, much to say to one another, and went down" to Greenwich to say it. Later, as may be supposed, there was little reticence on the part of either of the two men. But Ernest said nothing of his business in London. In the course of the evening, Mr. Mangles, who had released him- self from Lady Syleham as soon as he could with courtesy do so, called at the Octagon, and made an opportunity to speak, privately, to Henry Wigram. " What is the matter, my serious Samuel ? " said that gentleman, when they had drawn apart to a Avindow. " Not much," said Mangles. " But there is something which you should know." " Many things, I dare say." " Listen a moment," said Mangles, impatiently. " You remember a conversation in the smoking-room, some months back, in reference to Ernest Dormer's marriage." 372 SOONER OR LATER. " Perfectly well." " You, Wigram, made a certain statement, which you will recol- lect, because it was made in a whisper, when some men were coming in." " I remember that also. He has been here to-day. By Jove ! Has his coming to town anything to do with what we spoke of then ? " " That is a question to be answered presently. I want to know whether you are inclined to take the responsibility of admitting that you were the first person to mention the scandal here." " I don't know that I was." " You were the first to mention it to myself, and some other friends of Dormer's." " If you say so, of course it was so." " Very well. Now the man does not live who can say that I ever betrayed his confidence. But circumstances have brought it to Dormer's knowledge that his wife's character has been canvassed in this club. He is also aware that I knew it had been canvassed. I have no idea what course he may intend to take, but it will be neces- sary for me to do one of two things, either to inform him — my old and valued friend — of the way in which the rumour first reached me, or to refuse to do so, and accept the consequences. I do not affect to say that your friendship is as much to me as his, but I hold myself bound to keep your secret, unless you release me from it. I do not press you for an answer on the instant, but will you let me have a note at my chambers to-morrow morning ? " " I said just now," answered Wigram, " that Dormer had been here. From something which occurred — mind, I do not doubt for a second that you have been perfectly discreet — I have reason to think he already supposes that I have talked on the subject." " Wliat makes you say that ? " " Because, in the middle of the frankest and most friendly talk with several other men, he was pleased to answer a remark of mine with something so nearly approaching an insult that I abstained from noticing it only because — for private reasons, with which I will not trouble you." " I repeat," said Mangles, " that I have never hinted at your name. Whether others have been as discreet I cannot say, but it does not seem likely that any one would seize the first hour of a man's release, after his marriage, to enter upon that sort of thing. With that, how- ever, I have nothing to do. I have said my say, and I shall expect a line from you in the morning." " There is nothing like openness, Mangles, and I will say another SOONER OR LATER. 373 ■word. There have been other allusions here to Mr. Dormer's mar- riage, and especially when you came back from it. It would be in- sincere in me if I pretended that I did not notice a tone, on your part, towards me, which I suppose to have meant that you disapproved of certain remarks of mine." " I answer you as openly that I thought — and shall be glad to know that I thought wrongl}- — that you were inclined to harp upon a painful subject, and did not feel sorry that there were, or might be, reasons for its bemg painfiil." " I merely wished to get at that admission. I have no more to say, now." " You will write to me ? " " If I do not, you will have no reason to complain." " I never complain. I understand you to mean that I shall be satisfied ? " " Yes, I trust so. Mangles." On their return from Greenwich, Dormer and Latrobe again called at the Octagon, and the former found the following note : — " Mr. George Farquhar presents his compliments to Mr. Dormer, and regrets his absence when that gentleman did him the honour to call in Lancaster Street. In accordance with Mr. Dormer's wish, Mr. Farquhar begs leave to say that he will be happy to see Mr. Dormer there, at 12 o'clock to-morrow, but should this hour be in- convenient to him, he will be good enough to fix his own. Should Mr. Dormer desire to be accompanied by any friend, Mr. Farquhar will have equal pleasure in receiving him." The note was written in a free, bold hand, and was sealed with arms. " Extremely decorous, anyhow," said Dormer, as he walked away to liis lodging. " I don't think I shall intrude a friend upon him this time ; but the next, which will be very soon after the first, I shall trouble him with the attentions of a friend who will not easily part with him." CHAPTER XXXIY. TROILUS AND CEESSIDA. " Well, America, here we are again, and how are yon, and are you full of inspirations ? " said Mr. John Fletcher, as he entered Mr. Vetch's composing room, as he called it. " Fine day, plenty of sunshine — who was it that liked to compose with the sun in his eyes, Mozart, or some such person ? " "Don't call Mozart a person, John Fletcher; and why have you left the street door open ? " *' Because Frank Beaumont is coming, only he remained in the street to finish his cigar, knowing that the fume is unacceptable to Mrs. Vetch. I hope she is quite well." " I hope so too," said Mr. Vetch ; " but she is gone out of town on a professional engagement." " Where ? " " I really forget," said Mr. Vetch, with the very worst possible imitation of unconcern. " She has so many engagements — I rather fancy that she is at Brighton." The fact was that he did not know where she was. It had occurred to the estimable woman, as a refinement in persecution, that she would keep secret the place of a concert engagement she had made. Lauristina had managed it well, and, with all the small cunning of a spiteful wife, had left the house when he was out, and had locked up the letter from the entrejjreneur. Vetch had no clue whatever. But Brighton was a bad shot. " I don't think it's Brighton," said Fletcher. " I receive one of the papers, and I know that there is no advertisement about her. I should be sure to notice it." " It may be Hastings, or Worthing, or Bognor, my dear sir," said the composer, " I have really too much to think of to charge my memory with Mrs. Vetch's engagements." " You are a ombogs," thought John Fletcher. " I wonder whether Lauristina has bolted. I hope so, only it would vex him. Here's Francisco. Mr. Vetch, Mr. Beaumont, Sparkling composer. Bril- liant dramatist. Xow you know one another." SOONER OR LATER. 375 "I knew Beaumont before I knew you," said VeWh. " Ha, this was never told to me. Did he write psalms for you — he hath a light and pleasant hand for psalmody," said the reckless Fletcher, who was to-day in the highest spirits. " We have worked together," said Vetch. " I believe that everybody has worked with everybody at some time or another," said Fletcher. " You have no idea what aged intima- cies I am constantly unearthing. What did you do together ? Ah, you have the grace to be ashamed of it, let me not revive humiliat- ing memories. Street ballads, eh ? Well, never mind, and remember what Fletcher of Saltoun, my maternal ancestor on the paternal side, remarked, * Let me have the making of ballads for a ' " " Don't, John, don't," shouted Beaumont. " That infernal sajdng, which everybody begins a review with. And don't you know that it is not Fletcher's — he quotes it as by some unknown person." " That was his modesty, the damaging blemish in our family. And now, Beaumont, proceed to business. I say. Vetch, might we smoke, as the missis isn't here ? " " Yes," bellowed Vetch, with a furious tone which the authors could not imderstand. It meant that Lauristina was a cruel wretch to torment him as she did, and he would have his revenge — her cm*tains should smell of tobacco. But he had hardly given the licence, when he was sorry for it, and thought of her, singing away for the good of the household, while he was heartlessly allowing her property to be damaged. If ever there was a soft-natured husband it was the long-suffering America Vetch. " We'll smoke down-stairs," he said. " For if a pupil should call and want to see me, the odour isn't professional." So they descended into the den, whereof mention hath been made, and Mr. Vetch carefully closed the door and opened the windows. Then the conclave proceeded to discussion. " Well, have you found a subject, gentlemen authors ?" "Yes, a stunner," said Fletcher. "Are you ready to go to work ? " " Now, gently over the stones. Who employs me ?" *' That's just it," said Fletcher. " I knew that his avaricious and unromantic mind would instantly turn to Mammon." " There arc worse gods than Mammon, Mr. John Fletcher. It strikes me that he has done everything that has been worth doing in this world for many a year. But it wasn't about money that I was asking. I want to know whose pockets I am going to fill." " Ours, I hope, said Beaumont. " Manager, mana-ger," said Vetch, in the tone of the gallery, when 376 SOONER OR LATER. the unwashed honour the director with a "call" to receive their approbation. " Look here," said Fletcher. " I told you, didn't I now, that Mallow was a humbug, and that we meant to serve him out ? He has done us, in that of matter Dido and JEneas. We were to have an extra fifty, if it ran a hundred nights, and he took it out of the bill on the ninety-ninth." " Smart fellow that," said Vetch, laughing. " Yes, very smart fellow. But when a man chooses to be so very smart as all that, you know, he puts himself out of the pale, and any reprisals are fair. And if you'll just do the music for us, we'll have (Hir rights. I don't want more," said the virtuous Fletcher. " I bear no malice, but I should like to serve Mallow out, also," said Vetch, " for he was extremely rude to my wife, when she pro- posed to come out in opera, in which I believe she would make a splendid success." " Eude to Mrs. Vetch, was he," said Fletcher. " The only good thing I ^ever heard of him," was the dramatist's private thought. " What a ruffian ! Wliat did he say ? " " He made a low allusion to Mrs. Vetch's early life, and asked whether she would like an operetta wi-itten for her, with a scene of a practicable cook-shop. You can hardly believe in such brutality, but it is true." " And she had said nothing to offend him, of course," said Beau- mont, who knew the story. " Well, I fancy she did make some joking allusion to a family incident, but it was all in good humour, and we don't retort savagely on a lady for being playful with her tongue." The playfulness in that case had been, as Beaumont told Fletcher afterwards, a gentle reminder that the manager's father had been transported. " Certainly not," said Beaumont. " The fact adds to one's plea- sure in trapping him. I need not tell you, now, exactly how we shall manage, but the main point is that we want to have a burlesque complete, and if you have faith enough in us to write the music, we'll take care you don't lose. I have some money, and Fletcher rolls in gold." " I've faith, my dear boys. And I'll work. But I tell you what. You'll find it hard to trick an old fox like that, and you have this against you — you are gentlemen and he's t'other thing. He can lie, and you can't. It's a sad fact that that is an awful drawback in this best of all possible worlds." " We think we see our way, Americanus," said John Fletcher. SOONER OR LATER. 377 " Very well, take it. And now for the subject. "Wliat is it ? " "We are going to give the Greeks and Trojans a turn this time." " Classical again. I wish you wouldn't," said Mr. Vetch. " Where can you get such good dresses for your girls ? I ask you that as a serious and earnest man." " That is the question, of course," said Vetch, " and I can't answer it, A centipede burlesque, very well." " Now what does the benighted old savage mean by that ? " said Fletcher. " Supported by a hundred Legs," said Mr. Vetch. " Do you thinlc nobody can make epigrams but yourselves ? " " Calls that an epigram. Well, luckily the greatest composers arc the greatest somethingelses, or I should not feel justified in going on, after that display of debility." " The subject, Americanus, is Troilus and Cressida" said Beau- mont. " Didn't the Avon party do something in that line ? " " He did, nor is the play without merit, though Ave have improved upon him very materially." " Also," said Mr. Vetch, " if my memory serves me, there are some scenes in that play which may be very proper in the legitimate drama, but which are entirely unsuited for the public." " Mr. Beaumont's character and mine, Mr. Vetch, may be your guarantee that you shall not be asked to marry immortal music to inmioral meaning." " I'll get the book," said Mr. Vetch. "I believe I have a copy somewhere." " Very improbable," said Fletcher; "besides, you need not take the trouble to look. Here is the play," he said, producing a pocket- edition. " And here," he continued, taking out a roll of paper, " is the principal part of our improvements on the originaL These we shall leave with you, but mind 3-ou lock them up." The words brought back to Mr. Vetch a recollection of the care with which his wife had locked up desk and drawer, and he replied impatiently, but speedily recovered his good temper. In fact, it was impossible to be long with John Fletcher, and to resist the contagion of his spirits. He saw something to laugh at in everything earthly, and it was not outside enjoyment — he revelled in his irreverence, and would break out into a roar when alone, and seized by a ludicrous image. Some men of this kind are fatiguing, but Fletcher was not, the natural and sincere character of his mirth made it a gift, not a habit. Beaumont, as we have said, was more business-like in his humour, as became a husband and a father expectant. 378 SOONER OR LATER. " Where's the scene ? " said Vetch ; " and is there any local colour ? " " Vocal colour's your business," said John Fletcher. " Scene, you great ignoramus, why, Troy, and the Grecian Camp. Don't you know that the Greeks besieged Troy, and took it ? Did you never hear of the Wooden horse, that was crammed full of warriors, and how Laocoon drove his spear in, and the warriors howled, yet even this didn't induce the Trojans to look inside, but they let the city be taken after dark, and Laocoon was eaten by snakes, who did not recognise him as a priest of Apollo because he and his boys went about without any clothes on ; vide statue." " Shut uj), John, and read the list," said Beaumont. " I am preparing his mind — tuning him. Now, Vetch, the first party is Priam, the king of Troy. Something like Lablache in Oroveso, you know. We mean to keep all his misfortunes out of sight, of course. Then he has five sons. Hector, Troilus, and three others. Hector must be a man. The others must be girls, and they are always quarrelling awfully, and being blown up by Priam. You'll find suggestions about a scolding quartette, which we think will be fanny." *' But an opening chorus ? " " Yes, in the court of Priam. Defying the Greeks, who are taunted as sneaks, and told to go home in their rotten old Beaks. Then we'll have a procession of the Trojan army, going to battle, and each of the cliiefs will be chaflFed, as he passes. You must write a march, with breaks m it for the chaff"." " But what's the plot — what does the interest turn upon ?" " Jealousy." " A disagreeable subject," said Mr. Vetch. " Not if it is treated ludicrously, and laughed at," said Fletcher. " There is the girl, Cressida, and the Trojan Troilus is in love with her, and she swears to be true to him. She goes to the Greek camp, and in a twinkling is in love, or pretends to be, with the Grecian Diomed. Troilus is brought in to see them flirting, and he boils over with rage, and wants to fight Diomed. Don't you see fan in all that. Vetch?" " Can't say I do. Jealousy is a disease, no doubt ; but you have no more right to laugh at it than at any other disease. It is bad taste to do so." "Audiences enjoy it, I can tell you." " Well, I tell you I don't like the subject." " That is only because you really have not considered it. The scene with Troilus peeping at the flirtation, and stamping about, SOONER OR LATER. 379 singing fragments of songs, like Masaniello when he's poisoned, will be first rate. Then the rivals meet, and Troilus gets wopped. I assure you that the situations are excellent. See here, you are a believer in Shakspeare, you don't mean to assert that he would construct a bad play ? " " But does he treat the jealousy comically ? " " It's what he means for comicality, but he hadn't much fun in him," said Mr. Beaumont. " He was too indulgent to get the full effect out of a discomfited character. He was always picking him up before he had been half kicked enough. We'll mend that vice of mercy." " I wish we could hit upon something better than this, authors," said Mr. Yetch. " Come, old man," said Fletcher, " I promised you that we would be docile and submissive, but when you come to the rejection of the entire thing, you put us in a hole," " The burlesque will be a verj- good one," said Beaumont, gravely, " and you can form no idea of it from this chatter. But if you per- sist in not seeing your way, why there is an end of the business." " Xow don't fly away like that, Frank Beaumont," said Mr. Vetch. " One may have an opinion, and yet not want to throw a thing up. I said, and I say it again, that jealousy, when it is well founded, is not a thing to laugh at, and I should as soon make fun of any other fever." "Any other yellow fever," said Fletcher. *' But if you think differently, and have put words that you think comic, I'll do my best with them." "You're a brick. Vetch. I tell you they are capital. Troilus can't go to the camp at first, and so he stands imagining to himself all the things his idol is doing, or permitting. Now she smiles, now she lets the other fellow kiss her hand, now she pretends to be offended, now she makes it up and gives him her bouquet, now he gets his arm round her — now — hang it, Vetch, what the devil is the matter with you ? " He might reasonably ask, for that eminent composer was in- dulging in a scries of facial contortions which would have rejoiced Lavater, or rather Fuseli. And his lips were white, and he glared. Presently he got up and left the room. " Is he mad ? " said Fletcher. " You've been doing your best to make him so," said his friend, laughing. " I thought you knew." " Knew what ?" " "Why, that he is about ten times as jealous of Lauristina as 380 SOONER OR LATER. Troilus was of Cressida. I did not know it until lately, for he is a good fellow, and keeps his evil thoughts to himself, but Grace Clare told me." " Jealous of her— that cold, fat, hard, heartless singing-machine," said Fletcher, astonished. *' Well, I am flabberghasted. I always hated her ; but that she should have the consummate impudence to make any decent man jealous is an unpardonable audacity which makes me inclined to forgive Mallow. Jealous of her ! Wh}-, who in the world ever thinks twice of the animal, except as a thing that plays several tunes with her throat, and does it well ?" "Nobody, I believe, but Vetch thinks all the world is always plotting to take her away fi'om him." " No such luck for him. Do you think she encourages his delu- sion?" " Yes. For that, you know," said the tolerant Beaumont, " one can't blame anything that calls itself a woman. When a man puts that sort of thing into her head, and shows her that he thinks her a wonderful being, she must be either fool or angel if she does not accept the situation. But this creature is malicious, and takes a pleasure in tormenting the man, simply because he is at her mercy." " Couldn't we make him rebel ?" " We do these things in comedies, but in real life something is sure to make a hitch — the fact that folks are in earnest, I suppose. No, I shan't interfere. It's not my business, nor is it yours. And another thing — he would not thank you for disenchanting him." " I wish 1 were a musical critic still. I'd give her something ! " " My dear John, you would be doing an injustice. The woman can sing." "Yes, confound her, she can. A mistake somewhere. Nobody with a bad heart ought to have a voice like that. Here he is again." " Excuse me, my boys," said Mr. Vetch, returning, " but a spas- modic aifection troubles me at times, and my only chance is to walk about, and gasp. The process is not dignified, but it is better than torture." " We called it the hiccups when I was a little boy," said Fletcher, " and cured it in a friend by suddenly giving him a violent pinch. Fancy its being elevated to the rank of a spasmodic affection !" "A long word is more comforting to a sufferer," said Beaumont. " There is something soothing in long words. I never saw anything to laugh at in the poor old woman who could not understand much of the sermon, but had been greatly consoled by that blessed word Mesopotamia." SOONER OR LATER. 381 A word which was not exactly blessed escaped Mr. Vetch at the moment, and it followed upon a loud knocking at the street- door. " What a row your pupils make, Vetch," said Fletcher. " Nobody with a soul for music would make that atrocious din. Let me go out and blow them up." " It isn't pupils," said Mr. Vetch. He was in what used to be called a quandary, but as the fastidious Doctor Webster says that is a low word, we must substitute a perplexity. He belieyed, and rightly, that Mrs. Vetch had come home. And he felt that she had wronged and insulted him by going away as she had done, and he had proposed to himself to receive her with a certain wounded dignity, and even with rebuke, if he should find himself equal to that process. But, on the other hand, here were witnesses, and he could not scold his wife before them, and therefore he should be obliged to condone her oflFence. " No," said Fletcher, " I hear the silver voice of Mrs. Vetch. Let us go out and welcome her." He did not speak ironically, for Lauristina's voice could be very pleasant when she chose, and at tliis moment she was taking leave of somebody in a most kind and almost affectionate manner. A man's tones were heard in reply, and then the door closed, and wheels crunched. As they ground in the gravel, Mr. Vetch ground his teeth. Mrs. Lauristina Vetch entered the room. She was channingly dressed, and looked exceedingly well. And she was quite gracious to the two authors, and smilingly told them that they might have come out and spoken to her — she was guided to the room only by the smell of the cigars, which must be very good ones, and quite unlike the dreadful rubbish which she was in the habit of smelling in that house. All of which was fittingly responded to, and the two gentlemen regarded her with admiring looks, and behaved as if they were enchanted to talk to the accomplished artist. " I should have come out, Mrs. Vetch," said Fletcher, " but I supposed that it was the proud privilege of a husband to receive his wife on her return home. I am not a married man, myself, unhappily, but I have observed my fi-iend Mr. Beaumont, who has the happiness of being one." " My husband," said Mrs. Vetch, looking round, as if discovering for the first time that he was in the room. " I might stand at the door all night in the rain before it would occur to him to open the door. I believe he considers that it is one of the prerogatives of 882 SOONER OE LATER. talent to neglect courtesy, but I think that it should be talent of a very high kind indeed that justifies that." " Really," said the unfortunate Vetch, " this is a little unfair. I could not know that you had come home, and you have remon- strated against my appearing in a shooting jacket before your pupils. Had it been one of them you would have scolded me." " There, Mr. Fletcher," said Lauristina, sadly, "you hardly seemed to believe me the other day when I just alluded to the kind of treat- ment which I receive here. I have been away for two days, toiling and slaving, and the first greeting I receive from my husband is sarcasm and reproach." " It is only a symptom of his happiness at regaining you, ]\Irs. Yetch," said Beaumont. " You know that delight often manifests itself in an eccentric way. Is is not so, America ? " " Pray don't encourage him in the use of that idiotic name, Mr. Beaumont. I am ashamed whenever I hear it. It is strange that he could not see that his Yankee fiiends were laughing at him when they gave it him. I will burn that ridiculous certificate one of these days." The amiable Lauristina would have done it long ago, but it was more satisfactory to her to have the opportunity of constantly threatening to do it. " May we hope that you have had a successful journey, or tour, or whatever it was, Mrs. Yetch," said Mr. Beaumont. " I don't think your husband mentioned which way you had been." "Did he not," said the lady, with a smile. "I dare say not. Perhaps he would tell you that he did not know — you do not sup- pose that he stoops to interest himself in my movements." " I did not say so," said Yetch, stung into anger by this unpa- ralleled injury, " but I say so now. I do not know where you have been." " There, gentlemen," said Mrs. Yetch, humbly. " Mr. Yetch owns that he never took the trouble to inquire where I was going. The house might have been on fire, or some family misfortune might have happened, and he would have been unable to let me know." " Or he might have been taken ill. It was careless, Yetch," said Fletcher. ■ " No danger of that," said Mrs. Yetch. " He takes good care of himself I may be out at all hours, and have to wait for a caiTiage, or come home in a common cab, and have to quaiTel with the driver at the door, but Mr. Yetch will be comfortable in his slippers, and what he calls his shooting-jacket, as if he ever went shooting in his life, or knows one end of a jrun from the other." SOONER OR LATER. 383 Now if she had said that he could not compose, he would hare laughed, but having in the course of his life shot half a dozen rabbits, Mr. Vetch was indignant at being charged with not being a proficient in field sports, and he was roused to say something which was as bitter as he ever said in a rejoinder. " My dear, you have come home in a sweet temper to-day." " Of course," said Mrs. Vetch, " if I venture to remonstrate against neglect I am the party in the wrong. Perhaps I am a little annoyed. I could not help saying to Captain Rodney, as we came up to town, that it is sometimes vexing to a wife to have to depend upon the kindness and attention of anybody but her husband." " I don't know the gentleman," said Mr. Vetch, with suppressed dismay, " but I make no doubt he agreed with you." " Of course you do not know him. You take no pains to know any of my friends. I can hardly be too much obliged to him for the trouble he took with me, in finding me a lodging, and seeing that I was made comfortable. Indeed I owe it entirely to his attention that I have enjoyed the trip at all, for Ramsgate is not a pleasant place at this time of the year." " 0, you have been to Ramsgate," said Mr. Vetch. " Wliat nonsense, to pretend you did not know it, when the pro- gramme of the concert is there, under your very eyes," said Mrs. Vetch, with a very good show of indignation. This was a very good stroke of hers. As has been said, she had much cunning, and usually managed to be in the right, or at least to have an available defence, in small things. Here she was able in the presence of two credible witnesses utterly to demolish her husband's allegation that she had gone away without giving him notice, and it suited her to do so. " Under my eyes ! " said Vetch. " I have never seen it." And he rose and looked around everywhere. " Thai is very good acting," said Lauristina, bitterl}-, " and if it were not done for the sake of hmniliating your wife I should admire it. But I cannot let myself be made the victim of a tVilse charge. I put this," she said, crossing to the table, and holding up a paper, " I put this on the desk in the morning, hours before I went, in order to remind you, and that I might see you before I left." And it was true that she had placed it there at the time she men- tioned. But inasmuch as she had carefully laid it inside another and an older paper, some charity appeal, on which tlie eyes of tlie three men had been resting for the last hour, it was not so wonderful that Mr. Vetch had failed to see it. " What do you say to that, Mr. Beaumont ? " she asked, triumph- 384 SOONER OR LATER. antly exhibiting the programme, on which the name of Madame Lauristina Vetch was duly and prominently displayed. " Clearly, Mr. Vetch cannot read," said Fletcher. " We must sub- scribe and have him educated up to that point, if you think that his intellect will not suffer by the exertion." " And if he had condescended to read my programme, he would have seen, also, that his wife had ventured to sing, for the first time in public, one of his own songs. I did not like to say any- thing about it until all was over, because I might have broken down from thinking of the way he uses me. But there, you see, is the song which I had the pleasm'e of interpreting. And she read : — First Time in Public. Wipe Mine Eye . (America Vetch) . Madame Lauristina Vetch. " Yes," she continued, " and I held up, and got an encore. And this is the way I am repaid." " My darling ! " said Vetch, in a gash of remorse and affection and gratitude, and all the rest of it. And, regardless of the two credible witnesses, he enfolded his wife in his arms. " She wiped his eye," said Beaumont to Fletcher, after they had made their escape. " Detestable cat ! " said Mr. Fletcher. END OF VOL. BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS, > SOONER OR LATER. SHIRLEY BROOKS, AHTUOR OK " THE SILVER CORD," " THE GOBDIAS KNOT," ETC. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY G. DU MAURIER. VOL. IL LONDON : BRADBURY, EVANS, & CO., 11, BOUYERIE ST., E.G. 18G8. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE THE DEAD IIAN's HAND 1 CHAPTER II. geay's inx gardens . . . . . . . . . 12 CHAPTER III. TVO LAWYERS 24 CHAPTER IV. A REPORT FROM THE CLUB ....... 34 CHAPTER V. THE DATE .......... 49 CHAPTER VI. MORE TALK IN NAYBURY . . . • . . .61 CHAPTER VII. THE COXYALESCENT . . . . • . . . . 80 CHAPTER VIII. EGGS ARE STILL EGGS . . . . . . . .89 CHAPTER IX. SUSPECTED Q" V) CONTENTS. CHAPTER X. PAGE THE PAEENTS ' 104 CHAPTER XI. THE PRICE Ill CHAPTER XII. THE ACT OF ACCUSATION . . . . . * .119 CHAPTER XIII. A DRIVE 126 CHAPTER XIV. LOOSE ENDS 137 CHAPTER XV. ltjcy's medal 145 CHAPTEEf XVI. AN ARM IN A SLING . . . . . . . .152 CHAPTER XVII. ERNEST DORMER 159 CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOME BLOW 169 CHAPTER XIX. THE CLUB ONCE MORE . . . . . . . . 1Y5 CHAPTER XX. DORCAS AT HOME AGAIN . . . . . . . .182 CHAPTER XXI. ONE LINE . . 193 CHAPTER XXII. AN OLD LOVER, AND HIS LOVE 204 1 CONTENTS. VII CHAPTER XXIII. PAGE FAIR PLAY. 211 CHAPTER XXIV. THE SKELETON IN THE RECTORY 219 CHAPTER XXV. THE NEWS SPREADS 231 CHAPTER XXVI. THE PACKET DELIVERED 241 CHAPTER XXVII. A CERTAIN PHOTOGRAPH RE- APPEARS . . . . . . 253 CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PRINCIPAL WITNESS 267 CHAPTER XXIX. AWAKENED .......... 276 CHAPTER XXX. THE SCOTCH LAKE 278 CHAPTER XXXI. A QUOTATION WANTED 289 CHAPTER XXXII. SOME FEMININE ETHICS ........ 305 CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. WIGRAM . . . . . . . . . . 317 CHAPTER XXXIV. THE RXHNS 337 CHAPTER XXXV. " THOSE DEAR FLOWERS " 351 Vlll CONTENTS. CHAPTER XXXVI. PAGE THE BROKEN EGG 359 CHAPTER XXXVII. THE OCTAGON CHOETJS 366 CHAPTER THE LAST. CONJUGIUM , . . . 373 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. "awakened". ....... Frontispiece. THE DEAD MAN's HAXD . . . . . . . PAGE 11 THE DATE 50 LUCY'S PATIEXCE 144 THE HOME BLOW 174 HER FATHER ' . . 240 ANOTHER ENGAGEMENT 359 [All the Rights of Translation reserved by the Author.] SOONEK OE LATEE, CHAPTEE I. THE DEAD MAN S HAND. About an hour before the time which had been appointed by Mr. Farquhar for Ernest Dormer's visit to Lancaster Street, Mr. Dudley, who was on his own premises, received a note from Farquhar, which caused the medical gentleman to rage furiously, and then to hail a cab violently, and hurry up to his friend's lodgings in Judd Street. Mr. Dudley's knock was not of the kind which a professional man usually gives on the door of a patient, nor was his step upstairs one of a gentle nature. Instinctively, however, he forbore from speech until the slatternly girl-of-all-work had left the room in which Farquhar was. It was the front room, into which the young man had come, partially dressed, and where on the hard black sofa, and with a railway rug wrapped round him, he was lying. The fume of vile tobacco was very present, and Mr. Dudley, without a Avord, set both windows wide open. " Don't," feebly protested Farquhar, "I am chilled enough as it is." " You can't humbug me," was the grim retort of his medical friend, who added, coming close to him. "Get up, and go in and dress yourself. It is past eleven now." " I can't," responded Mr. Farquhar. " I am really so ill that I am good for nothing — you can see that for yourself," " You are not good for much, but much or little, you are going- back in the cab with me." " I swear to you that I am utterly unfit to move, Dudley, and as for the business, you must really manage it yourself. I have no nerve whatever. I should break down and spoil your whole plan." "That is it," said Mr. Dudley. "You are a coward — a sheer, miserable coward, and you'll never do any good for yourself in this VOL. II. B 2 SOONER OR LATER. world. But I did not think you would have skulked away from me like this." " I am not skulking. If I were well, or anything like well, I would do what you wish with pleasure, but just look at me. I am as nervous as a eat." " Of course. You have been knocking yourself to pieces again with that blackguard tobacco. It is most treacherous and un- friendly of you, if you are half as bad as you pretend. But I don't believe you are. It is simply a dodge to evade meeting Mr. Dormer." " If you can look at me, and say that I am not ill, I need talk no more," answered Farquhar. " I am about as fit to meet Mr. Dormer or anybody else, as I am to fight a mad bull. It is you who are unfriendly to bluster at a fellow who is too weak to take his own part." "Now I tell you what it is, my fine fellow who is too weak to take his own part," said Mr. Dudley. " You throw me over. Very good. That is my business. But when I have got rid of Dormer, I shall write a letter, and that will be your business." " To whom ? " asked Farquhar. He was wretchedly pallid, but the menace made him even whiter than before. " You'll know, in good time. But I have no secrets, and I'll tell you. I mean to inform your father, that as your professional adviser, it is my duty to apprise him of your condition, and of the causes that have brought it about. He ought to know how you are, at least I won't have the responsibility of keeping him in ignorance." " And you call yourself my friend ? " " I do 'nothing of the sort. I have been your friend, and a pretty good one, and I would have been again, but when you turn traitor on my hands, there's an end." " I do not." " I say you do. Did I not specially order you to take care of yourself, and live by my rules, at least until this business should be done ? And here you have been drinking and smoking yourself into a condition that makes you useless to yourself and everybody else." " Anyhow, you own I am ill." " 111," repeated Dudley, with a savage sneer. " Men have been ill before this, but when there was man's work to do they have roused themselves for it, and done it, and died afterwards, and so have women, and I have seen them do it. But you have not an ounce of pluck in your body. Yes, I see now that you are ill enough, and I SOONER OR LATER. 3 am afraid to screw you up, as I could do with a better fellow, for you would burst out crying, and throw yourself at Mr. Dormer's feet, and beg mercy. You may have to do it yet." With which consoling words, Mr. Dudley abruptly left the room, regardless of the appeal which Farquhar sent after him, and the wheels of the cab speedily apprised the patient that his friend had departed, Mr. Dudley was too practical a man to waste time, just then, in lavishing much commination against the feeble creature whom he had intended to use, and who had foiled him. He eased his mind with one enormous execration, and then addressed himself to the consideration of the course which was now forced upon him. He would have to meet Ernest Dormer, in the first instance, and the plan which he had decided on was useless. He had almost to manoeuvre in the face of the enemy. But, to use a favourite phrase of his own, he was equal to the situation. Clean shaven, dressed in an eminently respectable manner, and perusing — or at least holding in his hand a solemn-looking work on Pathology, Mr. Benjamin Dudley, in the tolerably well furnished apartment over his shop, awaited the arrival of Mr. Dormer. Ernest was punctual. When he was a man about town, he was accustomed, like other men of his class, to carry a very thin umbrella. But in the country he had discarded this delicate companion, and had taken to a stoutish stick. That stick, or another, he had brought with him to the meeting. The fact did not escape the notice of Mr. Dudley. He received his visitor with more than professional gravity, and pointed to a chair, which happened to face the light, to which his own back was turned. But Ernest Dormer, who had made up his own mind as to the manner in which he would conduct the early part of the interview — the remainder would be a case of alors comme alors — smiled, and seated himself carelessly on a sofa at some distance. " I find that the gentleman who wrote to me is not here," said Dormer. " I regret to say that Mr. Farquhar is suffering from sudden and violent illness," said Mr. Dudley. *' He has been labouring too hard at his professional studies, with a view to an examination, and he has prostrated himself by over-exertion." " Energetic young men will do these things," said Ernest. " You particularly wished to see him, I infer ? " said ]\Ir. Dudley. " No, the particular wish was the other way," replied Dormer. " He is, as I have said, very ill," said Mr. Dudley, " and he may 4. SOONER OE LATER. not have explained himself to me in the most accurate manner, but the impression which he left upon my mind — if an incon-ect one you will rectify it — was that you had some species of proposal to submit to him." " Xothing of the kind, I assure you," said Ernest, with a slight smile. "Then may I ask," said Mr. Dudley, "what is the object of your visit ? That I may justify that question, I should premise that I am his relative, and I should call myself his guardian but that men at his time of life do not think much of that functionary." " I came because he wrote to ask me to come." " But you are strangers, I believe ?" " Entirely." " I assume, however, that you would hardly have taken the trouble to pay him two visits unless you had some stronger reason than an invitation from an unknown person." " I had that invitation, and I have accepted it, and I await expla- nation," said Ernest Dormer, with perfect composure. "You are, of course," said Mr. Dudley, "entirely right in not taking the initiative, and I am, like Mr. Farquhar, a stranger to you. I may as well mention that my name is Dudley, and that I am a medical man, and what is termed a general practitioner. Mr. Farquhar is my friend and ward. Having said this, it will be for you to decide whether, in his enforced absence, you pursue the object for which you may have come." " My only object is to know what Mr. Farquhar wants. Can you tell me ? " " It is curious that my young friend's i^hraseology was precisely similar to your own, and the ease of your language Avill be the excuse for his. He said, as well as he could, poor /ellow, * See Mr. Dormer and find out what he wants.' " " I see," said Ernest Dormer, rising. " Well, 1 am as sorry for his illness as I ought to be for that of a gentleman whom I have not the honour of knowing, and when you have cured him, he can write to me again. He knows my club. Good day, Mr. Dudley." Looking round the room with that peculiar glance which is not thought to imply abstract admiration so much as wonder whether one is likely to see the place again, Ernest Dormer put on his hat and went towards the door. " I may, without offence, compliment you on your aptitude for comedy, Mr. Dormer," said Dudley. "No well-intended compliment should give offence," said Ernest, turning and shghtly raising his hat. " Tragedy used to be SOONER OR LATER. 5 thought more in my way," he added carelessly, and again approaching the door. " And that, perhaps, may be well," said Dudley, somewhat em- phatically ; for he felt that unless he stopped Ernest on the instant, much work would have to be done afresh. " I don't understand," said Dormer. " "We should all be prepared for serious incidents," returned Mr. Dudley. " My remark had no special reference, at least I have no right to say that it had." " A mysterious state of things, Mr. Dudley, when a man has no right to explain his own meaning." " Do you wish for an explanation ? " said Dudley, adroitly. " You wish to give it, I perceive," replied Dormer. " Pray do." And with something of a smile, Ernest stood, leaning with both hands on his stick, and as prepared to listen to what scarcely inte- rested him, "It seems a pity," said Mr. Dudley, gradually changing his manner, and abandoning some of his solemnity and his long words, "that men of business should waste time in fencing. As represent- ing my young friend, I felt it my duty to fulfil his instructions, and ask you to speak out, but as you have clearly made up your mind not to do so, I may help matters by sayuig that I am not entirely un- aware of the circumstances that have brought you here." " Well, Mr. Dudley," said Ernest, cheerfully, " if that means that in the absence of your friend you are ready to speak for him, I tliink you might as well have said so at first. But better late than never. Now then ? " And he again took off his hat and sat down. "A cool hand," thought Dudlej', "but we may quicken the pulse." He had a far colder hand to play. And now his time had come, and he was to see whether the gods had really wearied of the favom'ite sport to which reference was made when we first became acquainted with this good man. " I may ask you, at all events, Mr. Dormer ? " " If I have failed to impress upon you, Mr. Dudley, that I am not here to answer any questions," interrapted Ernest, " your compli- ment to my histrionic powers has been misplaced. I am here to know, if I may be so favom-ed, what your friend wants." " Money." " Of course he does," said Ernest Dormer, with a good-natured impatience. " There was no ditficulty in guessing that. Why does P SOONER OR LATER. he ask it, and for whom, and how much is wanted ? Surely, that is talking, as you say, like a man of business." " The first two questions you are able to answer for yourself. And the answer to the third does not depend on us." " You mean that he wants as much as I am prepared to give. But that is a wild way of putting it. I think you will serve him better by being frank with me, Mr. Dudley." " I will be frank enough presently, sir, do not be afraid. You are more likely to accuse me of excess in frankness. But it is impossible for two ambassadors to treat until they know the extent of each other's powers. Mine are ample. What are yours ? " " Ambassadors, Mr. Dudley ? It is a portentous word, and I mean no personal disrespect in saying that it is a ridiculous one." " I fail to see that. At all events it conveys my meaning. I am here on the part of Mr. George Farquhar." "And on whose part, in the devil's name, do you suppose me to be here ? " "It is you, sir, not I, who commit the indiscretion of bringing the name you have mentioned so near to another. I presume I have the honour of addressing the — well, the representative of Mrs. Dormer ? " " You addi-ess Mr. Dormer, sir, who acts for himself, and you will be good enough to leave the other name out of our conversation." " I shall be glad to do so, provided you assent to my suggestion that you perfectly well understand the nature of Mr. Farquhar's claims." " Claims, sir. I know of none." " Then, sir, you compel me to state them, and have only yourself to thank should the statement take a disagreeable form. Why need this be ? Think better of it, assume the past, and make your offer. I have influence enough with my ward to prevent his being un- reasonable." Ernest Dormer looked steadily at Dudley for a minute or more, and while he did so, he recurred to the conversation in Mangles's chambers. Dudley, who had now braced himself for the crowning effort, met his glance with complete resolution, almost with sternness. " I was not altogether unprepared to hear something like this," said Dormer, contemptuously. " That I think extremely probable," replied Dudley, answering the words and not the tone. *' It shows that a good understandmg exists — where such a thing should always exist," he added. " If I comprehend you, Mr. Dudley," said Ernest, haughtily, " you SOONER OR LATER. 7 are again trespassing on ground from which I have warned you. I advise you not to do this again." " Might I ask why I should be deterred from saying what seems to me necessary ? " •' Because," said Ernest Dormer, " you might tempt me to forget your chai-acter of ambassador." He might not have intended a hostile demonstration, but his stick, on which he had been leaning, transferred itself to his right hand, and Dudley's eye followed the movement. " Mr. Dormer," he said, calmly, " one word. You are younger than I am, and possibly you are more active. You ought to be, living in leisure in the country, while I am kept in town at hard, but not wholesome work. These considerations, and another, namely, the idea that I might say that which should excite you to violence, made it a duty to myself to be able to tell you that we are not a match, for I have the means of something more than self-defence. I suppose I have said enough to a man who is brave, but not fool- hardy." Mr. Dudley said this very well, and not at all offensively. It was uttered rather in the tone of a medical man dilating upon a case, and giving sound advice to the patient. " You have shown yourself discreet, Mr. Dudley," said Ernest, " and you have done well to remind me that the character of your present office ought to secure you fr-om a gentleman's anger. Now, sir, if you like to go on, I promise to give you no further cause for apprehension." " I feel none, sir. It is possible that you may regret the tone in which you have received what was certainly not said uncourteously. Had we not better keep to business ? I will not ask you again what you are empowered to do, but I shall be glad to hear what you pro- pose to do." " Nothing, of course," said Ernest, " while the word claims is used. If for that you substitute the word charity, and let me know the circumstances of the applicant, I shall probably not disappoint him." " It is now clear to me, Mr. Dormer, that you are not admitted to the confidence which I supposed you to possess. As you have under- taken not to be offended, I speak without timidity," added Dudley, with a scornful emphasis on the last word. " That Mr. Farquhar has legal claims on you, I am not prepared to assert ; but there is a class of claim which cannot be enforced by law, but which few wise men are inclined to neglect. I take Mr. Farquhar's to be one of these." § SOONER OR LATER. "I am not disposed to guess at it, Mr. Dudley. You may state it plainly, or refuse to do so. I care not which." " Again I say that you need not fear my not speaking plainly. My object, however, is to avoid giving needless pain." " You dare to imply that you can say something which it would pain me to hear ? You mistake your game, Mr. Dudley." " It may be so," said Dudley, quietly. " Will you allow me to adopt a word of yours, and say that I imagine you may like to do a charitable action ? " " That is more like it," said Ernest, somewhat wondering at the suddenness with which Dudley had, as Dormer supposed, shifted his ground. " I am told of a service rendered a good while ago to a lady. I suppose the person who rendered it is in distress, and therefore he wishes his good act remembered. Why cannot he, or you, or some- body, say what he wants done for him ? " It was now Dudley's turn to gaze steadily at Ernest, and to endea- vour to get some clue to the meaning of the latter. But, of course, after a rapid review of all that Dudley knew, or believed he knew, or could guess at, he was entirely at fault, and, like a wise hunter, he tried back. This was too important a moment for him to try a subtler course, and seek to extract from Dormer what the service had been. Dudley rose to the situation, and would not ber beguiled into any abandonment of his plan. " We are speaking on difierent subjects, Mr. Dormer. We can refer, by-and-by, if you please, to the topic which occupies your mind, or which, pardon me, you insist on putting forward, instead of the real question. I said that I would suggest a charitable act to you, and there is no objection to your adopting that form, if it pleases you. A fi'iend of mine has for some time been the possessor of a piece of jewellery " " Jewellery ? " " Yes. The article is not very valuable, I own. But it has a fac- titious value for him, and it may have for others, from the circum- stances under which it came into his hands, and from a certain inscription which it bears. If, upon consideration — full considera- tion, Mr. Dormer, if you please — this little article should seem worth your purchase, and with it, you understand, you would purchase its histoiy, thenceforth to be exclusively your own — exclusively your own — you can place your own price upon it, and I shall be happy to give you all information which may help you to fix a just price." He leaned forward, while saying this, and gave due emphasis to every syllable. " Where is this thing ? " said Ernest Dormer, coldly. SOONER OR LATER. 9 " Here." Mr. Dudley unlocked a small box, which Ernest had noticed near the other's hand, and had supposed to contain surgical instruments. Dudley did so very deliberately, and took out something wi-apped in white paper, which was sealed. " Few eyes have seen this, Mr. Dormer," said Dudley, breaking the seals. "It has been in my possession from the time it passed from the care of the donor to that of one person who now sees nothing." He placed a locket of gold in the hand of Ernest Dormer. Ernest took it with slight show of interest. He believed that he was about to be tricked in some way, unless he could defeat the attempt, and he examined the trinket with some manifestation of contempt. " Well," he said, " a locket, worth, if it is gold, some four or five pounds." " Scarcely so much, I should have thought," said Dudley. " But I beHeve that its real value may be ascertained by looking inside." Ernest pressed the spring, and the side opened. There was a small lock of hair below the crystal, and on the inside of the portion that had fallen, was an inscription. " I have not read what is engraved since the day the thing came into my hands," said Dudley ; " but, unless my memory betrays me, the inscription is : ' iH. C. to 33. 2F. To remind Mm of what sJie tvill never forgeV " " Yes," said Ernest Dormer, quietly, " that is the inscription, and you have no complaint to make against your memory, Mr. Dudley, for it has served you well." "And am I as well served by my imagination," said Dudley, " which tells me to supply the names indicated by those initials ? " " I don't know," said Dormer, " but my interpretation is at your service. I take the locket to have been a present from Magdalen Conway to Percy Vaughan." " You were aware of its existence ? " " That is my business, Mr. Dudley." " And you are not cuiious to know how it came into my possession? " " Not I. There are fifty ways. Mr. Vaughan lived in Gray's Inn, and his laundress probably stole it, and sold it to you, when he had left the country." " Ah ! you knew that he had left the country." "You hear that I knew it." " And why he left it ? " " I know as much about that as I wish to know. Tell him so, and once more I ask you what kind of assistance he requires from me." 10 SOONER OR LATER. Dudley, who had hitherto borne himself manfully, now turned very white indeed. Were the gods going to play him another trick. Had this Dormer got possession of the whole secret, or as much of it as was worth anythiiig, and did he not care about it? Was the golden fruit which Dudley had tended so long and anxiously nothing but a Dead Sea apple ? Well, he must find that out. " If you really know the truth, Mr. Dormer," said Dudley, scarcely able to suppress his agitation, "you must be aware that Percy Vaughan dare not show his face in England. We are indulgent enough, but we do not permit in our streets the presence of a known Murderer." " Oh, is that the scandal ?" said Ernest Dormer, calmly, and utterly disbelieving the speaker. " That is a sad name to give a man. But since it does not prevent you, or Mr. Farquhar, who is, I suppose, a go-between, from befriending Mr. Vaughan, I say again that one of you may convey my message, and provided I can be sure that the money will reach him, I abide by what I have said. Murder ? Could you not have accounted in some milder way for your friend's being in hiding ? " " You do not know," exclaimed Dudley, whose pulse now beat fast and furious, for he saw that the game was his. ''Do not know what?" replied Ernest, with irritation. " That which I have to tell you. The locket in your hand was brought to Vaughan's chambers by the young lady whose initials are there. Why she was there it is for her to explain, if her husband wishes to know. But that he may not be afraid of too many wit- nesses to her presence, I inform him that a workman, whose name was Andrew Barton, and who died in my sui-gery downstairs, a few minutes after informing me how he had been treated, was pushed from the parapet of the house in Gray's Inn, by the hand of the gentleman whose initials are also on that locket." Ernest Dormer sprang to his feet and approached Dudley. " Are you lying ?<" said Ernest in a low voice. " No, sir," said Dudley, in the same tone. " You are. I feel you are." " I take no heed of your words, sir. I should be a coward to do so at such a moment. When you want proof, come to me again, and bring, if you please, some adviser who will be calmer than yourself." " It must be false. Men are not killed and buried, and no one to ask how." " There was an inquest. You can see the report. I will give you the date. But you cannot know^ except fi-om an entry made by me •THE DEAD MAX'S HAND.' SOONER OR LATER. 11 at the time, and which I will show you, what Barton said to me, just before breathing his last. I suppressed it at the inquest, for it could do no good, and would have wrought fearful harm." " Mr. Dudley," said Ernest Dormer, after some minutes of silence, during which his agitation was visible, though he put forth all his sti-ength to control it, " if this story be true, I do not now know what I shall do. But if it turns out false, I know well what I will do— and you know. I see that." " I see what your eyes mean. I almost Avish that I had your vengeance to fear. I could sooner brave that than recollect how I have made you suffer." " Keep your pity, sir," said Dormer, furiously. " Answer me one thing more, and weigh well your words, for they may be your life or your death one day. Did that dead man say that it was in her presence that — that he fell ? " Dudley's reply was hissed into Dormer's ear rather than spoken. Then Ernest Dormer, drawing himself together, as it were, and mechanically replacing his hat, left the house. " I felt that I should quicken that pulse," said Dudley. " The dead man's hand is played out at last." CHAPTER II. geay's inn gardens. " Friends ! I have no friends," said Ernest Dormer, bitterly. He spoke aloud, for the first time since leaving Dudley's house an hour before, and the words were his answer to what had recurred to him again and again during his wandering walk. He had taken no note of the quarter through which he was stray- ing, except that he had instinctively turned his face away from the district in which his own class resided, — his own class, for which for the hour he felt a savage hate, unlike anything he remembered to have entertained for his fellows. "Mangles, perhaps, who contrived to make me believe in his regard, yet allowed me to walk blindfold into the net which he saw. He will advise me to go to the continent, and offer me a situation as correspondent for his paper. Walter Latrobe. He knows too much to deal fairly with me, and he always takes the woman's side in all things. He will tell me to hold my tongue, and suffer in silence — he would do it himself. Milwarden, Alford, Eydon — don't I see them all? Devilish disagreeable business, my .dear fellow, but you knew what women were, and you must make the best of it — we'll say nothing of course — what do you think of a trip to America — am told the boats are capital and the cuisitie first rate ? Friends. I have been my o'wn friend, hitherto, and I thought I was to be trusted. I suppose I am awake. I don't know. — May I ask you where I am?" he said, addressing a passer-by, "I have missed my way." " Ha ! ha ! Was it a joke, or did you really not recognize me," said a loud voice — a pleasant, rolling utterance. " Serjeant Penguin." " No, you did not know me. That look was too natural to be an actor's. I am a judge of that sort of thing, whether I shall ever be another kind of judge or not. I haven't strutted and fretted my time, and then put witnesses through their paces, for nothing. You did not know me." " I did not. I am very glad to see you." SOONER OR LATER. 13 " I am glad," said Ernest Doniier to himself. " I will talk to this man. He is very shrewd and keen, and he would do his best to hang me to-morrow, if he happened to be retained against me. It seems to me that this is just the friend I want." " The gladness is mutual," said the Serjeant, shaking Dormer's hand in a most affectionate manner — it was the Serjeant's way. " But you were not in earnest in saying that you had lost your way. I always cite you as the man who knows everything. This is Doughty Street, Bedford Row — most respectable street, once highly regarded. Edifice to your left a chapel for schismatics, of what persuasion I am unaware. Square before you, Mecklenburg Square, weedy, but genteel." " I have been in the country," said Dormer, " and one soon forgets old localities. I know the place now, perfectly well." " Yes, we heard of yom- happiness. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?" quoted Serjeant Peng-uin. "Remember the line ?" " Claudio, isn't it ? " " No, sir, Don Pedro. I have played him. I refused Claudio, for I could not make up my mind to personate a beast who believed the evidence of scoundrels against an innocent girl, and then publicly exposed her, besides, I was too fat," added the Serjeant, with his usual frankness of confession. " Yes, he did that," said Ernest. " The meanest character our William ever drew, and the nature of the fellow is capitally sustained to the end, for instead of being silently thankful that his cowardly conduct is forgiven, he imme- diately begins being flippant. I suspect Benedick kicked him in the after days." " He believed what he saw," said Ernest. " Which way are you going ?" " I really don't care. I usually stroll for half-an-hour after lunch, and look into the bookstalls, or commit some other idleness." " I don't care about bookstalls to-day," said Dormer. " Could we Avalk anywhere where I could say a dozen words to you ? " " Certainly. I will beckon you to a more removed ground. Let us go into Gray's Inn gardens. I am curious to hear what you want to say, as my existence was certainly not in your mind five minutes since." " Quite true, and my meeting you was a lucky accident." They crossed King's Eoad, and went down by Raymond's Buildings into Gray's Inn. " Is this a fatality ? " said Ernest to himself, " Nonsense, I was 14 SOONEK OR LATER. in Holboni, and have kept near it. I meet a lawyer, and naturally- come with him into lawyers' quarters. Surely I am not going to be a fool." He looked round him somewhat earnestly, and the Serjeant burst into another jolly laugh. " Come, my good Dormer, that won't do. You won't pretend not to know Gray's Inn. Finer gentlemen than you or I have lived here, my son." "I know the place well. I had half a chamber here once, and never was happier." " Until now, of course, we mean, so I will not report your unplea- sant speech to Mrs. Dormer, the less that I have not the honour of her acquaintance." No, the mention of his wife's name did not grate upon his ear. Indeed it seemed the most natural thing to him, at that minute, that everybody should begin to talk about her. " But you seem," continued the Serjeant, " as if you wanted to take your half chamber again, only you don't know where to look for it." " It isn't that," said Ernest. " I will have it out at once," he said to himself. Yet he was silent for some time, as they stood near the old iron gates. " Well," said Serjeant Penguin, " ' taste your feet, I mean put them in motion ! ' " " Did I read or did I dream," said Ernest Dormer, forcing him- self to speak, " that there was an accident in one of these squares some time ago ? " " There was a melancholy accident on that first floor about a year ago, and I am still suffering from its effects," said Penguin, gravely. " A cousin of mine, who owed me his fortune, fell in love with his laundress's daughter. That did not matter, you'll say. But he maiTied her, and I shall have none of the money." " The story I meant was of a man falling from a housetop, and being killed. Perhaps I mistake the place." "No, you don't," said the Serjeant, "but the affair had been driven out of my head by the much more serious accident I have related. Here, come this way. Do you see those two windows, behind the parapet. The man — a tiler, or something in that line — came down from the front of one of these windows — that one, I fancy, to the left. I remember it perfectly, for I happened to be taking my walks abroad, just as I am doing now, and I saw the body." SOONER OR LATER. 15 " You saw the body ? " " Certainly. I saw it taken away under the charge of a medical gentleman of this neighbourhood, who may now be a reformed and virtuous character, for aught I know, because I have never seen or heard of him since, but who was then regarded as something of a very different sort — perhaps unjustly — who knows ? " " Do you happen to remember his name ? " " Yes, as you ask it. Otherwise I should ask whether it is likely I should recollect the name at this distance of time and among the thousands, I might say millions — there is no extra charge for saying millions — that come under my eye. His name was, or is — he may have been hanged, but I have not heard of it — Benjamin Dudley, and his residence was in Lancaster Street, a place which I will bet you don't know." " I do." " * What, will the aspiring bloods of Lancaster Street ' aspire to such acquaintance as you ! " " Let us go into those gardens." " I am with you," said Penguin — " Come Avalk in our garden, so large and so fine, You may, for our Benchers give leave — Moreover, if ever you stop here to dine, , Uncommon fine port you shall have." The never-failing spirits and the equally faithful memory of Serjeant Penguin might have been supposed to have been terribly distasteful to his companion. Perhaps, had his trouble been of an ordinary kind, the usual irritating effect of such antagonism might have been produced in Ernest Dormer. But to day he was not annoyed— outraged — he scarcely heeded the learned Serjeant's rattle, but he derived a strange satisfaction from finding himself in converse with a man whose nature was in the most healthy and unfeeling good order. " Penguin," said Ernest, when they, and a few nursemaids with their children, were the only occupants of the old garden, " you are a cool lawyer." " I should be a cooler one, if you'd come over to this bench, out of the sun." " As you will. You are also a man of the world." " Well do I recognize that favourite exordium of a man who has not been satisfied with the world, but has also obeyed the flesh and the devil. Go on, my dear penitent." " It is no such case. I want your advice, however." " It must be a curious case in which Mr. Ernest Dormer is not 16 SOONER OR LATER. ready to act upon his own instinct, with a very good chance of acting rightly. That is not a compliment, it is a remark on a fact in natural history." "There are cases in which the most self-reliant man — and I am not he — is the better for an adviser. Will you let me ask you a question or two before I go further ? " " Of course ; and if my answers make you decide not to consult me, I shall not be offended." That also was a speech Avhich satisfied Ernest Dormer. He wanted a man who was so perfectly uninterested in him. From Latrobe— or from Mangles until yesterday — the reply would have been a rudeness. "That unfortunate man who fell from the parapet ." " Good heaven ! " said Penguin, fairly astounded, " what can the fate of such a creature be to you, or anybody else, but his easily consoled widow ? " " You promised to answer " " True, and I question. ' I am dumb. Pronounce.' " " You said that he was killed. Are you sure of that ? " " If not, they treated him very unkindly, for they buried him. I know that, for Fwas ass enough to promise a sovereign to his family, and it was speedily claimed for the funeral. To be sure, 'he may have recovered, and I may have been cheated— the lower orders have pleasant ways of their own." " The point is this. Was he dead when the man Dudley took him away ? " " Now you remind me of it, I believe he was not. I recollect that Dudley told me that the case was hopeless, but that the poor fellow might be taken to the surgeiy, the reason for which apparently il- logical proceedirg was that Dudley got a sort of advertisement by being mixed up with the matter — the reporters would mention his name. You look ill, Dormer, is it too hot for you ? We can go into the Hall, or to some man's chambers, if you are unwell," said the good- natm-ed Serjeant. "'You are too much i' the sun,' where you sit." " Thanks. I am well. There was an inquest, of course ? " " I suppose so. The coroners look after their fees." " The verdict, would be Accidental Death." " There is just a chance that it was not, because that would be the rational verdict, and the jury was a coroner's. But I think I re- member that they went right. In fact, had there been any other finding, one would have noticed it." " You have no doubt that the man died by an accident ? " SOONER OR LATER. 17 " You put a doubt into my head — or rather you suggest one, and it is the first time I ever gave it a thought. Accident, of course. The fellow saw a window open, and endeavoured to improve his worldly condition by annexing something or other, but the Nemesis came upon him in the shape of a slip, and he became a warning to unrighteous tilers." " Yes," said Ernest, " that is a very natural solution." " The only one, unless you are inclined to believe that it suddenly occurred to him that he had done tiling enough in this world, and so he * jumped the life to come,' as Hamlet says." "I do not suppose that. But, Penguin, was there never any suggestion that he fell neither by accident, nor by his own will ? " " Thrown down by somebody else ? " " Yes," said Dormer in a low voice, anxiously. " Quarrelled with another fellow of his craft, and got pitched over. Well, such things happen — certainly — but — no, no," said the Ser- jeant, recalling the scene, "he had no companion. He was not at his lawful work — that was in the further corner of the Square. He had strayed on a tour of inspection." " Yes," said Dormer. " But who was " The words choked him, but he was resolute. " Who was in the chambers from which he fell ? " said Ernest, distinctly. Serjeant Penguin looked round at him, with interest. The lawyer had read too many cases in what he called the Mare's Nest Precedents to listen very indulgently to suggestions of the kind to which Dor- mer's question seemed likely to belong, but still he liked anything in the nature of suspicion, which he always considered a step in the right direction. "Ah," he said. "Somebody has been amusing himself with a romance. Some club man, at the expense of our fi-iend from the country. Tliere was nobody in the chambers, Dormer. They were locked up, and the tenant was in the country. I may add, in another sense, that he is not so now." " His name was Percy Vaughan, was it not ? " " Are you avized of that ? Yes, that was his name, and your informant the romancer has taken the trouble to get up the local colouring." " You know that he left the country ? " " Yes, and I know why, though a very good fellow, an acquaintance of mine, and I regret to add, a Papist, took much pains to conceal the reason." " What was it ? " asked Ernest. VOL. II. C IS SOONEE OR LATEE. " It may be understood by the light of a poem I learned in boy- hood." " Peter Quill, the scrivener, Whose dad in Chancery pleads, Was sent one day to Botany Bay, For forging title deeds." " Forgery ? " " So a bird of the air informed me, and birds are A¥ise as well as merry. But I say, my good Dormer. To be sure. Ha ! Omitting other exclamations, which may come in later, I see. The stor}- which your imaginative friend has tried to put upon you is that Mr. Percy Vaughan slew this poor tiler, by throwing him from the battle- ments, and then escaped beyond seas. Eomance in Gray's Inn. That is not altogether a bad story." " Suppose it were, if not altogether a true one, partly true. That it tvas a murder ? " said Ernest Dormer. " Well," laughed the Serjeant, •»' it would be very interesting. I don't exactly see how it could be made a murder, unless you proved that Mr. Vaughan lured the tiler into his chamber for the pm-pose of killing him. For that piece of deliberate and artfal craft, you would want a motive, and what motive there could be for a gentleman's malice against an artisan of the tiler persuasion, I own I don't per- ceive. What device does your friend employ to get in the .malice ?" Ernest Dormer was silent. "Ah," said the Serjeant, after a pause, "I thought so. That trifling ingredient called a motive is forgotten, as is common enough. Is your informant some particular friend of Mr. Vaughan — and is it wished to elevate that missing gentleman fi'om the sordid ranks of the forgers to the melancholy dignity of the murderers ? He must make out a better pedigree — this savoureth of the gallus and the iaurus, amia,ble and excellent animals, but not good supporters for the coat of arms prayed for." But it was not in listening to Serjeant Penguin's talk that Ernest Dormer was passing his moments of silence. He was finally debating with himself whether his mind were clear enough, after the stunning blow of that day, to justify him in deciding on telling all to Penguin. Mingled motives seemed to cross and jostle within him. He re- membered the warning which he had received from Mangles. He felt instinctively that Dudley was a scoundi*el, even without taking into account his object, which was extortion of money as the price of a secret. But there came over him the thought that some tilings had l3een concealed from him at Naybury. He had never been told of the rescue by Vaughan until it became impossible to conceal the SOONER OR LATER. 19 story, and though at the moment he had accepted the explanation, it now seemed to him a poor one. Had there really been love-passages between Magdalen and Vaughan ? The locket — he had seen that — held it in his hand, and there was the affectionate inscription. Those words might only mean gratitude, but they were capable of a much warmer interpretation. And she had visited Vaughan — that she had owned. Alone ? He had never asked her that. He had never thought of asking it. It had not occurred to him as possible. But what was he to do ? To ask her the question ? Yes, if such a question could ' be asked without bringing in others, and so drawing out the whole black and miserable story. Yes, he could go down to Naybury, dissemble for a few liours, and when Magdalen should be off her guard, he could introduce tlie question carelessly, and seize the reply. No. He could not do that. He could not look in that girl's face, and watch it until he should entrap her, even if she had deserved the worst he could do. He thought of her head upon his bosom, and he recoiled at the thought of the tones which his voice would take, when he put the treacherous question. He could write it, and that would be more fair. It would be giving her warning that he had heard that which, if true, must separate them for ever. If she had an answer, it would give her time to prepare it — this was giving her fair play — even a wife, Avho deceives you, has a right to this. But then two days must pass before the answer came. And this delay was simply intolerable. Then the devil put into Ernest Dormer's mind a thought which was worthy of the author. Perhaps Desdemona would never have becu murdered, but for the working of one thought kindred to that which possessed Dormer. In the moment of a father's bitter exasperation he Avarns the husband that the daughter had deceived her parent, and might so deal with her spouse. That was the weapon, skilfully used by the enemy, which slew Desdemona. But what came to Ernest Dormer was tliis : — They were strangel>/ ready ivitli their consent to my marriage. They knew little of me, made few inquiries, and the courtship was very brief. Others may have known what has been told to me. And Mangles owns that there was scandal. The hot blood rushed to the face of Ernest Dormer. He told the lawj-er all. c 2 20 SOONER OR LATER. The Serjeant's rollicking manner and facile quotations were all banished in a few moments from tlie time when he found that Ernest Dormer had serious matters to tell. It was not that the lawyer was much interested in his companion, or that he was in the least shocked at anything that had been laid before him. Had the case been proved, with all of guilt or shame that could be imported into it, Serjeant Penguin was far too true an artist in his own line to let the truth make any diflFerence in the mode in which he regarded the parties concerned. But he was good-natured, and he had a keen sense of the fitness of things. After Dormer had intimated that he was going to give Penguin his confidence, the latter adopted a gravity which, nevertheless, he sedulously preserved from any expression of concern. He treated the business solely as business, and this was the way in which Dormer at that time believed that he wished it treated. " I have heard you through, and I have scarcely interrupted you," the Serjeant said, "for your narrative has been clearly told. You will not expect me to give you any counsel of importance until I have had time to think over what I have heard. Forgive my saying that I recognise, in your having confided all this to me, a proof that your pride and not your aflFections will be wounded, should the case be to any extent made out. That, however, is my business only so far as it shows me that you will be very reasonable and prudent in all that you may do under my advice." " I never felt less inclined to be either." " That also I understand. Remember that this interview was the result of accident, and that though I am honoured in being thought worthy of your confidence, I advise you only as a surgeon might do who should be called in because he passed at the moment of a casualty. You shall be served to the best of my ability, but you will not expect much allowance for mere personal feelings." " You could not have put yourself in a position more acceptable to me," said Ernest Dormer. " And you authorise me to sift the stoiy in my own way, should it occur to me (I don't say that it will) that I have any private means of doing so ?" " Gladly." " I will speak xevy plainly to you, Donner," said the Serjeant. " We have not seen much of one another, and club-hours are not my hours. But few folks live entirely in the dark, and I am not with- out knowledge of the doings of a good many persons who think that I know or care nothing about them. I am not ignorant that up to a ver}' late date before your maiTiage, your domestic arrangements i SOONER OR LATER. 21 were vrell, like those of many other bachelors, and that you were not thought to be a marrying man. I was glad to hear that you had settled, as I like to know that a good fellow, whether my intimate friend or not, meets with good fortune. I am not clear that you bid for domestic happiness, and if you do not secure it, therefore, I am not to suppose that you will be much disappointed." " I took things as they came," said Ernest Dormer, who hardly knew what sort of answer to make to a speech which was not of a very encom-aging character. " You did wisely, I make no doubt. Now, do not undo any good you may have done for yom-self by incautious and impatient action at the present time." " I must do something, and instantly." " Pardon me if I say that you must not. That is, if you elect to remain in my hands. I repeat what I said about your confidence. I should not have been oflFended if you had withheld it. I shall not be offended if you desire me not to think any more of the matter, and I dare say that I shall be able to obey you, or nearly so. But if I am to help you in investigating this stoiy, I stipulate that you do nothing without my consent, and that above all, you give no person at Naybury the slightest reason to suppose that you have heard any tiling." " Good God, do yon mean that I am to carry this horrible story home, and nurse it untQ you give the signal ? " " If it be necessary for you to go home, certainly I make that compact." " I could not keep it for an hour, there." " I expected that reply. But is it necessary for you to go to Nay- bury ?" "Xot necessary, at the moment, of course ; but "' " Then, stay away." " I must account for my absence. No, not that, but I must write letters — a letter — how can I do that ?" " I see," said Penguin. " You are in the habit of writing such letters as young wives expect to receive from young husbands. You feel that you cannot add another, in that tone, to the series you have dispatched. I advise you to do so." " I caimot and will not." " Already you are rejecting my advice. And I told you that I should pay small regard to personal feelings." " There are some things wliich it is impossible for a man to do. Yesterday might as easily come back again as the spirit in which I sent off its letter to Naybury." 22. SOONER OR LATER. " It would bo too much in your present state of mind, Dormer to ask you what your own belief is in regard to the story you have been telling me. In fact, I would rather you had no belief at all, or at all events that you did not put it into words, because words bind us to obstinacy — fools that we are. But if we blow the story into atoms, will it be pleasant to you to recollect that it had your ci'edence to such an extent that before you tested it, you changed your manner to your wife ?" "I cannot make you feel as I do, but give me credit for feeling like a gentleman." " But I would rather see you act like one. No gentleman that I ever heard of, convicts an unlicard lady of doing wrong. I don't call Claudio a gentleman." " He was not." "I will not say mutato nomine, de ta — but I recommend you not to do that which you may deeply repent. You called me a man of the world. Show yourself one. A ver\' short time will enable us to decide what ought to be done. At present I say, emphatically, you must do nothing." " If I do not communicate with Naybury, the next post will force me to do so." " And that is why I recommend your writing. But I see you will not do it. Then do this. The telegraph demands nothing but words of business — nothing to go against the grain. Have you no friend who is ill in Belgium ? " " Do you think I will go away until I have cleared this up ? Then, perhaps, I may go away for ever." " Who asked you to go away ? On the contrary, I wish for your presence. There is a bed-room in my chambers in the Temple ; you shall have that, and then you will be in hiding, and at hand." " In hiding, yes." " Well, is it the first time in your life ? If so, you have been luckier than most men who have fought their way up— much luckier than myself, for instance." " No, I won't go to the Temple, thank you, Penguin. But I will send you an address that will bring me at once to you. Can I not see you again to-night ?" " Assuredly not. Perhaps not to-mon-ow. But send the address. And, Ernest Dormer, one word. I have told you that I know some tilings. Mind that the address you send me is one which you will not be sorry to have sent, when you re-consider." "I do not understand vou." SOONER OE LATER. 23 And this was true enough, What was passing through the cool head of Penguin had not entered the excited brain of Dormer. " If not, so much the better. But remember what I say. And that Tou may be the more disposed to obey my wishes, I will depart from my intention to the extent of telling you, that so far as I can yet make up my mind, I can see nothing but a lie in all that Mr. Dudley has told you." "A lie." " A foul plot, sustained by lying." " It is not for me to tiy to disturb that opinion." '' N'o. But is it not yours ? " " I swear that I would give my right hand to be able to say that it is." "And yet he does not love his wife," said the Serjeant, after he had parted from Dormer. " But that is no business of mine. Only, my dear Mr. Dudley, I think I see my way to make your life pleasant, whether there is anything in your story or not." CHAPTER III. TWO LAWYERS. It was Mr. Serjeant Penguin's way to try to be a little — if ever so little — ahead of other people. To his prudence for being, as he said, one step in advance, he owed much of his success in the world. If one person with whom he came into contact knew three facts, Serjeant Penguin managed to know four. If it was important for other per- sons to be punctual to twelve o'clock, Serjeant Penguin was at the rendezvous at a quarter to twelve. If the right and expected sub- scription were five pounds, Serjeant Penguin gave five guineas. In small matters and great he found this little rule exceedingly valuable. But he never professed to have a rule. On the contrar^^, all his advantages were gained he said by some accident, and he affected saunter, mental as well as physical, when he was most keenly alive to the work in hand. To-day he thought that he should like to know something more about Mr. Percy Vaughan. So, when Ernest Dormer had departed, Mr. Serjeant Penguin quietly lounged across the Square, and again inspected the inscrip- tions in the doorway of the house whence Andrew Barton had fallen. Again. For it may be remembered that when the disaster had occurred, and after the body of Barton had been removed, the Serjeant had cai-efully read these names, with the aid of his gold eye-glass, and had annotated them as he read up. " Vaughan's name, top-floor, obliterated, of course ? Yes, and a new man there, Mr. Blagrove, who's he ? Wimperley and Blamper at the bottom. Orbit and Wheeler engineering as before — ought to have found out perpetual motion by this time. Gerald Kildare, he was a rising man, doesn't seem to have risen, though — never hear of him. Third floor — let's see, I don't know the name. Swear it wasn't there when I looked last. Ladbrook. Couldn't have forgotten it, because it is the name of somebody who ought to have changed it for Penguin, but did not see her way. Don't believe there was anybody on the third floor. Wasn't it here that some man lived with his SOONER OR LATER. 25 family, until he found it wouldn't do ? I fancy so. Well, now for five words with my friend the Papist." Mr. Haslop's pleasant room was as pleasant as ever, and a little richer by the addition of more cups, chma, and cabinets, selected with the owner's cultivated taste, and adorning the apartment, nob choking it up into the likeness of a dealer's ware-room. Mr. Haslop was in, and of course at home to the eminent advocate. " Haslop, how do you do ? Am I disturbing you much ? " " Not at all," said Mr. Haslop, making a red ink mark on a vast document, a history of the title to a Welsh estate just valuable enough to pay the costs of the litigation occasioned by its late owner's having saved the price of a good will by making a bad one out of his own wooden head. " I am glad to see you. I am always glad to see you, as you know." It was true, though two men could hardly be more unlike, on all points, from general character down to personal habits. The last fact was illustrated by Mr. Haslop's carefully wiping the red ink from his pen before laying it down, and by Serjeant Penguin's remark, on noticing the tidiness : " What a cleanly fellow you are. I sit, like Saturn, in a ring that goes round my chair, only my ring is made of ink-splashes." " A pen ya^vns so, if you do not wipe it," said Mr. Haslop, simply. " You look hot. I suppose it is hot out of doors. Will you have a bottle of iced seltzer water and something in it, and what ? " " Do you know that I thought you would say that, so I resolved to come in and let you say it. For it is awfully hot." The Protestant clerk was very ready, and the hissing draught, served in no vulgar tumbler, but in a very long and beautifully cut glass goblet, promptly cooled the throat of the advocate. " Bless you," said Serjeant Penguin, " if you care for a heretic's blessing." " I am not taught that it will do me much harm," said Mr. Haslop, smiling, and pushing a little tray towards Penguin that he might not set down the moist glass upon a beautifully inlaid table at which his eye was directed. " I don't mean to say that I came only for that," said Penguin, " for if I did you would not believe me." " A very good reason for not saying it." " I don't know a better. The fact is — by the way, is that door shut?" " A double door." " And the excellent youth, Ganymede, is not listening ? " " Why should he listen ? " 26 SOONER OR LATER. " I don't know. My clerk has orders to listen when I give him the hint, so that he may come in and interrupt a consultation at the right minute." " And when is that ? " " When I have not had time to read the brief, and the solicitor begins to ask me questions which may lead him to discover the fact. Then, Mr. Horsham, who knows exactly, from my voice and language, when I am getting into a hole, comes bustling in, and has a most important and pressing thing to say to me." " And then ? " " Then I am delivered, and I am obliged to go away, and we have another consultation, for which I am prepared — perhaps." " You see that I am not so guarded," said Mr. Haslop, opening the door, and showing that the second Avas closed. "And as you seem to wish for it — there — " and he drew a bolt. " That's best. See here, Haslop. It is on the cards that I may be able to serve — or at all events to prevent injury to a person in whom you take a great interest, and I need not say that nothing would gratify me more than being able to do so. I am not a man of much profession, but I don't forget your kindness at the time of that row with the Benchers." " I forget the affair, but I will remember it if you wish to be quit of an obligation. I know of none. I did what I thought my duty." " More than nine men out of ten would have done in the circum- stances, for you made yourself three enemies." " They have not hurt me, that I know of." " I dare say not. One's enemies never do. It is one's friends that make life so troublesome. However, you served me much, let me serve you a little, if I can. That young lady, who was a sort of ward, or something, of yours, wasn't she ? " Penguin knew quite well that she was not, and he had no reason for putting a question — it was simply his habit. " You mean, of course. Miss Conway — now Mrs. Dormer." " As you say, now Mrs. Dormer." " She was not my ward, but I had reasons for being very much interested in her. You have no bad news about her, I trust ? " " Not exactly bad news, but I have heard something which I have thought you ought to know. You were at the vredding, of course ? " " No, to the great grief of my younger daughtdt, who was to have been a bridesmaid. We had a family affliction, and at the last minute had to give up the pleasure of being present, and they had to find another bridesmaid." SOONER OK LATER. 27- *' All ! I wanted you to tell me something about Dormer, and "what you thought of hira." "But you know him better than I do." "I see him once in two months, and then we talk politics. Your young ladies correspond with his wife, no doubt, and there's no way of getting at a man's character like that." " They have not corresponded much since the marriage. You are not going to tell me that Dormer is not behaving well to her ? " "No, certainly not. The better way to put it would be to say that I am not quite sure that she is behaving wisely to him." " I believe her to be one of the best creatures living." " And I have no right to believe anything else. But the best of us are not always the wisest. Now, Mrs. Dormer is your favourite, while I have never even seen her. Don't be vexed if I suggest any- thing that you dislike to hear, but be siu-e I speak out of the desire I have explained to you." " 'We are not very new friends, Penguin." " Xo, by Jove. Lahimtur anni, and all that. Then I will speak plainly, and you will consider that I have approached a delicate matter with the proper circumlocution. You know that Mr. Dormer was not Miss Conway's first lover." " I knoAV that he was not the first person who loved ]\Iiss Conway." " Just so. I see, of course, the difference you would imply. You mean that he was the first person whom she liked." " I have reason to think so." " If I were to say I have reason to thiak otherwise, should you be vexed ?" "Much more than vexed, if you could prove it; but I don't believe you can. Prove it, I mean, of course, to my moral sense." " But take it for granted, for 'my pui-pose." " Only so, then." " That will do. Suppose that Miss Conway had really cared a great deal about somebody else, or at all events, had made him think that she did. There Avould be no harm in this, of course ; it happens in almost every handsome girl's life. But if the fact that she had been liked by somebody else than the man she married had been kept from him, and if it had been revealed to him, with some strange circumstances, by an accident, and that out of some of those circum- stances persons were trying to make mischief ? " " If you knew JIagdalen Conway, you would say — or, I think of more consequence, if her husband knows her, he would tell you — that it is impossible for the old serpent himself to make mischief out of any passage in her life." 2S SOONER OR LATER. " I am very sorry to be obliged to think that it is not impossible. But I don't Avant to be mysterious with you, Haslop, and if I do not say everything that is in my mind, it is because I am bound — for a short time — to a certain reticence. You did a very kind turn to a young man who came to grief for playing with this kind of edge tool," said Serjeant Penguin, somewhat abruptly, and touching an old parchment deed on Haslop's desk. " Yes," said Haslop, quietly. He was not easily surprised. " You sent him out of England." " I lent him some money, and he left England." " I must not ask why ? " " Why he left? You have just shown that you know." " I meant why you helped him. No, I ought not to ask that. But, as gossiping women say, put two and two together." " The sum they make is that you connect, in some way, the history of this young man with that of Miss Conway. You are right in doing so. If those histories had not connected themselves, T should have saved rather a large sum of money, which I gave him out of that cabinet." "Setting aside the one thing, into which he may have been tempted by circumstances which are often too strong for many highly rehgious elderly men of business, and which may more easily overcome a young man, especially if in love, was he a bad fellow?" " My impression of him was favourable." *' Was he capable — pardon this cross-questioning ; I am really giving you what information I may — was he capable of availing himself of a lady's condescension, or favour, or gratitude, or what you like, to her injury ?" " Why did you use the word gratitude ? " said Haslop, who watched and weighed every word. " To show you that I know something of the matter." This was not so. It was a slip. " If you know what fully justifies the word, you have some key to a part of the man's character." " A brave fellow. Yes, if his own account may be taken." " I have other evidence than his own. I have that of Miss Con- way herself." " Just now, it is not my business to lessen its value. Suppose all happened as Miss Conway supposed, and the gentleman's gallantry is beyond dispute. You have nothing to say against him ? " " You know, or if you do not, there is no harm in my telling you, that Percy Vaughan — we have not named him, but we may as well SOONER OR LATER. 29 — that Percy Vauglian thought himself entitled to make Miss Con- way an offer." " I did not know that he had gone so far. He was refused ?" " He was refused." " And considered himself wronged ?" " He had no right to do so." " Precisely, from your point of view of the lady's character, and I make no doubt that you know it well. But if — in the plainest words — she should have given him more encouragement than you or I know of ? " *' She is incapable of anything uncandid, or coquettish." " Which should you call a young lady who visited, in his chambers, a man who had made her an offer ? " " You have heard that ? " said Mr. Haslop, with visible agitation. " I don't ask you whether it is true. I only tell you that the story either has been told, or will be told, to her husband ? " " You think that she herself has not told him." " Yes," said Serjeant Penguin, not speaking the truth, but justi- fying the deceit to himself on the ground that he was doing his best in the interest of Ernest Dormer. " Then, Penguin, excuse my being as plain with you as you are with me. The source whence you have obtained your knowledge must be a very bad one indeed." " It is so. Many things come to me from such sources, but this is one of the very worst. That is my chief reason for coming to you." " Have you more to tell, or to hint ? " " I think not, to-day. Mind, I hold my tongue with the utmost reluctance, for which you must give me credit, and the moment I am released from an undertaking to be silent on some other matters, they shall be yours. I am, in fact, to a gi-eat extent, breaking that compact now, but in some things a man is a law to himself, and I have chosen to do it." " One word more. Is there any unhappiness between Mr. and Mrs. Dormer ? " asked Haslop, anxiously. " I have a right to say that there is none — yet." " And you have the means of averting it ? " " That is a home-question, but I will answer it. I mean to try, but I know not whether I shall succeed." Haslop took out a cheque-book, signed a blank cheque, and handed it, without a word, to his companion. " That is business," said Penguin, " but I do not think this is the weapon." 30 SOONER OR LATER. " Then the motive is revenge ? " said Haslop, sharply. " It may be, I cannot say." " You will not. I have a right to point out this to you, Penguin. You have a sincere wish to serve me. There is no service in your power which I should value so highly as the salvation of Magdalen Dormer's happiness. You know best how far you can dispense with scruples, and give me a full confidence, and how far you can owe any loyalty to such persons as those must be who seek tc wreck that happiness." " My dear Haslop, I have very few scruples, and if my informa- tion came to me direct from the sources you describe as they deserve, I would have no more consideration for them than for the feelings of the next witness I may have to worry over a thief's alibi. But it does not. . I will tell you one thing, however, which may allay some of your anxiety. No harm Avill come fi'om the delay in my telling you all." " You cannot ensui^e that. "Where is Mr. Dormer ? " asked Haslop. " I do not know." " It must be my business to know," said Mr. Haslop, " and that instantly." " I told you that there was no unhappiness between him and his wife," said Penguin, speaking that he might have time to think. "Not yet, you said. And such a thing is. not to be left to the chance of a rascally person's keeping faith with you. Why should he, or she, do that ? " " Because it would spoil his or her game to break it. Do me the justice to believe that I know what I am about, Haslop." " My dear fellow, I have every confidence in your sincerity and in your skill — what need to say that ? But the moment you have affected mc with knowledge, as we say, that a bad thing is in con- templation, I cease to be a free agent. I mean that I am as much bound to interfere as you are. And therefore I want you to enable me to interfere with effect." "See," said the Serjeant, "you are not, forgive me, treating me as candidly as I am treating you. I have told you all I was at liberty to tell, and more ; but you, who are not, so far as I know, bound to any secresy, will not even say whether it is true tjiat Miss Conway visited this man in his rooms." " I did not deny it. I know that it is true." " But not alone ? " " Alone." " Well," said Serjeant Penguin, with a slight shrug, " if Mr. SOONER OR LATER. 81 Dormer were my client, I am afraid I know what I should say to him. I need not say it to you as a man of the world." " I understand you, of course," said Mr. Haslop, " and whether you are good enough to believe me or not, I tell you this, that it is precisely because I am something better than a man of the world that I believe I could convince you that you would give wrong advice to that gentleman." " We are not advocates now, Haslop, we are speaking as friends." "You mean that I am arguing in Mr. Dormer's interest. As I stand before you. Penguin," said Mr. Haslop, rising, and laying his hand — it may have been accidentally — on a large old volume near him, " if I were not as certain that Mrs. Dormer is the best of women as I am that we are speaking together, I would simply thank you for coming to me to-day, and tell you that I seldom meddle in the family affairs of other people. But take this from me, and do not set it down to any infatuation about the lady, who has not any claim of wardship, long acquaintance, or fellow-belief with me, that no spot or stain rests upon her character, and that she is as incapable of wrong as a human being can be." • Haslop's noble face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, as he bore this emphatic testimony. The advocate listened with evident respect. It was not in the least like the adjurations which he was in the habit of making, or deriding, for a consideration. " I believe you implicitly," he said. *' But others may not know the faith which should be placed in your judgment." " Others," exclaimed Haslop. " There can be but one person entitled to hear such a testimony, and I see how. Mr. Dormer is your client. Yes, and your other words are reconcilable with the fact. You say there is no unhappiness yet. For God's sake, my friend, let there be none. He is consulting you. Bring him to me." The instincts of the nobler nature had been quickened by affection, and had broken through the guard of the man who was but half in earnest. These things will happen sometimes, distasteful as they are to intellectual pride. To do Penguin justice, he accepted the situa- tion frankly. " I am convinced," he said, " that in trusting you, I am doing my best for all concerned. I will tell you what has been told to me." They talked long and earnestly. It need not be said that Serjeant Penguin was ready with a merciless analysis of the entire story, and with a full exposition of the character of the person who was bring- ing it forward. That he tore it to tatters, on the evidence before 32 SOONER OR LATER. him, if evidence it could be called, it is equally needless to say. But that was the least j^art of the business, at least for Ha slop. He scarcely listened with patience to the comments of the other lawj'-er, and incessantly waved away the tale and the argument, as if unworthy of the consideration that was being given to an improbable and shameful fiction. The dominant thought in his mind was in regard to the relations between Magdalen and her husband. The grief Avhich he expressed was not that a beautiful and innocent girl should be made the mark for a blackhearted intriguer, but that Ernest Dormer should have been forced into the lending an ear to such villany. The evil, Haslop feared, was wrought. The husband had left his home, and had refused to return. It was much, no doubt, that he had yielded to the urgent demand of the Serjeant, and had in no overt manner broken the bond ; but even if the story were demolished to its last rag, and those who had contrived it were abjectly seeking mercy at Dormer's hands, there would still be the seeds of an inevitable sorrow. There would be something that Ernest ought to forget, but would not, there would be something that Magdalen would forgive, but ought not. The former point Penguin admitted, for he knew several sides of human nature. The latter he did not understand, holding the Philistine doctrine that while a man behaves reasonably well to his wife, she has no right to memory of the past or fear for the future. But^he was at one with Haslop upon the necessity of instantly bringing Dormer to conviction that he had been played upon. As they came out, having arranged for an immediate meeting with Ernest, a couple of pretty girls emerged from a little room near that of the clerk. " At last, papa," said one, smiling. " An hour and a quarter," said the other. " Is not that a nice time to keep ladies waiting, sir ? " " My dear children, I had utterly forgotten my appointment with you. I was closeted with that gentleman. Serjeant Penguin — my daughters." " It is some years since I had the pleasure of seeing these young ladies," said the Serjeant, bowing most politely ; " but I remember that one of them — I bad rather not know which — called me a dread- ful old fright then, and I dare not think I have grown more worthy of her admiration." Both laughed, and the younger said — " We are vriser now, Serjeant Penguin, than to judge persons by externals." " I don't seem to get much of a compliment out of that, either," SOONER OR LATER. 33 said the Serjeant, "but 'sufferance is the badge of all our tribe ! ' " " And whom do you think we have seen, papa ? " said the elder. " You won't guess. Maggie's husband. He was walking along by himself, and looking so melancholy, at least we thought so." " Melancholy — nonsense, child. It is a very hot day, and I sup- pose he was very hot also." " If she is in town, and has not let us know, I will give it her," said the other Miss Haslop. Neither of the men looked at the other, nor was it necessary. But when the Serjeant had handed the ladies into the carriage, and he had left them, he said to himself : " I have done for the best, I believe. And if he quarrels with me, I do not know that I care. Besides, these girls saw him, and told their father that he was in to-^vn — Haslop can't deny that. I am going to take a great deal of trouble about a thing that does not in the least concern me. What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba ? Moreover, I suspect that we are going to do no good, and that things will tend unto a dismal fatal end. Haslop was in a desperate hurry to get rid of the stoiy, but I suspect we have not heard all about it. They have some evidence in reserve, or they are fools as well as scoundrels. But we'll have it out, if it be dragged from them with cart-ropes, as Fabian says." CHAPTER IV. A REPORT FROM THE CLUB. Mr. Mangles was not given to habitual discomposure, but he had been very much annoyed at the interview between himself and Ernest Dormer. The latter did him some wrong in declaring in bitterness that the only thing Mangles would have done for him would have been giving him advice to go abroad, with an appointment as special correspondent for the Vivisedor. Samuel Mangles would have done a great deal more. He was not inclined, as we have found, to go where he did not see his way clear before him ; but when a straight- forward service could be rendered to a friend. Mangles was as ener- getic and as open-handed an ally as could be desired. He would have been exceedingly glad to have been employed by Dormer in the affair with Farquhar (as it was expected to be), and it is probable that he would have conducted it with much skill. But he had been thrown over, as he said, and he hardly knew how Dormer might receive any farther offer of service. He had lost no time in seeking Henry Wigram, and in demanding that gentleman's consent or refusal to let his name be known by Dormer as that of the person who had first talked lightly of Mrs. Dormer. Wigram, in accordance with his promise, sent him the folio win j note : — " Dear Mangles, — You are at liberty to make any use of my name in reference to the topic on which we spoke last night. " But if you take my advice, and for the present refrain from any conversation with your friend upon that subject, you Avill be acting with more consideration than you are aware of. " Yours truly, " Henry Wigram. *^Tlie Octagon." " I should like to know what he means by that," said Mr. Mangles, throwing the note upon his table. SOONER OR LATER. 35 " By what ?" said Mr. Prath, who was busy with his contributors. " I forgot that I was speaking aloud," said Mangles. " I don't know that you care to be bothered with this affair. of Dormer's, but you have heard so much that you are bound to hear all." " But I am interested in it, now," said Mr. Pruth. " I was not, until he came here." " I think I know what touched you, you soft-hearted old goose," said his chief. "You were quite pleased with the way he mad? amends for what you took to be a sort of rudeness." " Yes," said Pruth, " it showed that he had a good heart." " It didn't. It only showed that he was a gentleman." " That means the same thing with me, you know. Mangles," said Mr. Pruth, smiling. " I've no objection, only don't let your confusion of ideas get into the paper," laughed Mangles, " or we shall be attacked for goody- goodyism, and we can't afford that, you know. Just read this note. You heard what it refers to. It is from the man whose name Dormer demanded and I promised." " I echo what you said just now. Wliat does he mean ? " said Mr. Pruth, after glancing over Wigram's note. " That Dormer is in a state of irritation, in which any allusion to the business would be unfriendly, I suppose." " No, I don't read it so." " What's your gloss, then, Prath ? " " It looks as if the writer knew that something more serious had taken place, or would take place." " Hang it, I did not see that. Nor do I." " Well, it does not much matter, because you have his consent to do as you like. If Dormer comes here, I suppose you will simply hand him that note ? " " I am not so sure. Taking your hypothesis, Pruth, it seems to me that my friend Mr. Wigram must have some queer acquaintances. It was certainly he who first hinted that it might not be unfriendly to warn Dormer that things had been said. Then again it has always been he who under pretence of much concern about Dormer has contrived to make it clear that he did not expect matters to turn out well. Thirdly, he was very mysterious when I told him to wi-ite to me, and say whether I might use his name, and he hinted at another alternative which might satisfy me as well — eh, what ? " " That might mean that he would save you any unpleasantness, by writing direct to Dormer, and avowing himself the author of the reports." "That is a chivalrous idea, and worthy of you, Pruth, and of some D 2 36 SOONER OR LATER. other men whom I have known, Wigram's betters ; but if you knew him, you would be reasonably clear that such was not his meaning. No — I add a fourthly to my list of proofs, and here I find evidence — yes, Pruth, I believe that your honest instinct has hit upon the right scent, not for the first time, Mr. Sub-editor, — evidence that Wigram is aware that something is going on between Dormer and other parties. If I can prove that, Wigram shall have a large piece of my mind." " You have heard no more from' Dormer ? " " I doubt whether I shall hear again, except perhaps that he will write and ask for this gentleman's name." " I think you will." " So much the better, for he is a good fellow, and a good contri- butor," said the editor. " How does the paper stand ? " " We are rather behind, but I suppose that several things wUl come in to-day. It is awkward that Norman and Derwent both take holiday together, and that Donner is also out of harness." " Never mind. Between ourselves it looks weU to be dull at this time of the year, it shows that we are written by gentlemen, who go out of town like gentlemen." " That would sound better at the club than it would to a man who had bought the paper, Mr. Mangles." Mr. James Rydon's card was brought in. "Jemmy Rydon," said Mangles, in astonishment. "What does he want ? Not an engagement, I should imagine. Show him in, immediately." Good-natured Jemmy Rydon entered. " You'll be surprised to see me, Sam," he said, " and I hope I'm not disturbing important business." " Not a bit. Very glad to see you. Mr. Pruth, my friend and assistant." " I want to say ten words to you about a man whom we both like, and who, if all is true that one hears, may be going — " Rydon sank his voice — " to come to grief." " Is it Ernest Dormer ? " said Mangles, aloud. Rydon nodded. " Several of us are thinking about him, James, and perhaps more people care about him than he believes. You may speak before Mr. Pruth, who is aware of everything that may be going on, and who is a Avarm friend of Dormer's." " Very well," said Rydon, " then I tell you what. I'm not a clever fellow, you know, and you might as well ask me to jump out of window as to write this," he said, taking up a strip of printed SOONER OR LATER. 37 matter, " but I like clever fellows, and I honour their brains, and besides, I like Ernest Dormer, and so do you." " Well, James, after all these apologies for wanting to do a kind thing, go on." " I don't know that it's kind, — in fact, I don't know that I am going to do anything at all. But I had last night what the women call a word of a sort with another fellow, Mr. Henry Wigram by name. He is a friend of yours, too, I know." " Not much." " You are always talking to him. I have seen you sit by him for an hour, and speak confidentially." "Never mind that — perhaps he amuses me — but don't let that interfere mth your telling me what you said to him. I really don't care about him." "Then I may as well say that last night Master Henry got a little screwed — not much, you understand, but enough to make him bumptious and a bit spitefuL He abused the waiters, which is not usual with him, for he pretends to be incapable of getting excited, but last night he was very hard on them, especially Walter, who is a very good servant, considering that he came from an hotel where he had chiefly waited on provincials. I was the means of getting Walter engaged, and I must say that I have always found him respectful and obliging. Bat tliis has nothing to do with the business, says you " " Well, I was near saying it," replied Mangles, laughing, " but I never interrupt you, Jimmy, do I ? " " Better if you did, I dare say," said Rydon, " edit me, as you might say, ha ! ha ! Well, where had I got ? Yes, well, I told Wigs that I thought he was severe on the fellow, who did his best, and could not be expected to know evenbody in a club in which he hadn't been more than a month ; for you see Wigram had sent him with a message to Sandwith, and the man said he wasn't in the house, though Sandwith was all the time ^vriting in the library, and Walter thought he was Major Croft, not that they are a bit like, and it was stupid, certainly, I don't deny that. What are you laughing at ? " "Nothing." " Yes, T see, at my parentheses, don't you call them ? Yes, but you ought to understand everything. Well, I said this to Wigram, and he said that he supposed that any member of a club who had reason to complain of a servant had a right to say so, and that he was not aware that there was anything against it in the rules, and so on. I thought he was chaflEing, and I kept it up, telling him that 38 SOONER OR LATER. he ought to draw up a memorial to the Committee, setting out that Walter by force and arms, and moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, had traitorously taken Jack Sandwith for Major Croft, and some fellows laughed." " I dare say. We are easily amused you know, at the Octagon," said Mangles. "Anyhow Ave don't cut up rough, Mr. Cjmical. But Wigram did, and he turned upon me and said that the habit of personality and impertinence was getting far too common, and that there ought to be less of it." " Some other people think that, Jimmy." *' You, for instance, perhaps, who are always poking at people." " Only for their good. But get on. Mr. Pruth, who is an accom- plished shorthand-writer, and accustomed to condense, looks at you with admiration, you are just the sort of speaker a reporter likes, because he gets nothing to do." ♦' I am telling you the Avhole story. When he said impertinence, I thought I ought to notice it, not that I care what he says, but it isn't an agreeable word, you'll allow that, I suppose ? " " Not at all agi'eeable. If you are a peaceable man you can take it in the sense of irrelevance, however — that's its legal meaning." " Yes, but that's not what Mr. Wigram meant. So I asked him civilly whether I was right in supposing that he intended the word to apply to anything I had said. For really I had not meant to be impertinent to him, only I hate to hear waiters spoken to as if they were brutes, I can blow them up sky-high when necessary, but I hope in a gentlemanly manner. I think it is so dam cowardly to insult a fellow who dare not answer you again, because that would be losing his means of living." " An amiable sentiment — what said Wigram ? " " He said that I might take it to myself, or not, just as I pleased." " And you pleased — " " Well, I think I answered pretty well, not being, as I have said, a clever cove, who pretends to be always ready with a smart thing. I said that as he was good enough to leave me the option — I like the word option, Sam, it sounds scientific, like optics — the option of choosing whether I would believe a gentleman guilty of rudeness, or not, I would prefer the negative. Don't you call that a neat answer, now ? " " It showed good feeling, which is better." *' Eh ? You getting sentimental too I That's not in your line. Mangles." SOONER OR LATER. 39 " So there the matter ended ? " " Did it, though. Mr. Wigram seemed to think that the better part of valour was discretion, and he made no answer to what I said, though two or three fellows applauded it, in the hope of stirring him up. But after a little time he began about the house-dinners, and abused the committee for allowing them. It seemed that he had wanted to give somebody a dinner in the strangers' room, and had been shut out by a house-dinner. After he had growled at this for a bit, and mind you, I never saw him so much out of sorts, for he is usually good-natured enough with all his aflFectation, somebody said — I think Dalston, that Wigram had enjoyed many house-dinners, and that he ought not to be a dog in the manger. He declared that he never had, and he was at once reminded of the dinner we gave to Ernest Dormer." " We've come to him at last." " What, have I rambled ? I am sure ever}^thing I have said bears upon the topic in hand. Topic in hand — that's another favourite word of mine. Yes — well — how was it ? I know." " You had dined ? " " Of course I had dined. Most people have dined at ten o'clock, unless they are cannibals, as Mr. Wigram was good enough to call me one day because I did not agree with him about the way of cook- ing canvas-backed ducks, not that I bear him any grudge for that. Yes, I had dined. 0, I see what you mean. Thank you, sir, I owe you half a one, as Harley used to say. I was as right as I am now. I was only desirous that you should quite understand how the words came about. That dinner having been mentioned, and Wigi-am having therefore been convicted of his blunder, he said nothing about that, but repeated Ernest Dormer's name in a most contemptuous tone," " Did he ? " said Mangles, with shut teeth, " Yes ; right down contempt — in the exaggerated way they do on the stage." " Well ; who noticed it ? " " Everybody — there were half a dozen present — and he said it so that all must hear. We stared at each other — there did not seem much else to do." " Nobody asked him what he meant ? " " Not at first. Dalton held up his soda-tumbler, in sign that he supposed Wigram was tipsy, and then nobody spoke for a minute or two — one don't want to quarrel with a man who isn't all right. But I suppose that silence aggravated and annoyed him — silence will have that effect, you know, when you are cross with too much wine." 40 SOONER OR LATER. " Yes, yes, well ? " " So he said again much in the same tone, ' Mr. Ernest Dormer. Yes. That was a pleasant marriage for people to call gentlemen together to celebrate.' And he repeated, * A very pleasant marriage,' two or three times." " You hear that, Pruth ? " " I think I should have said something, if I had been there," said Mr. Pruth, quietly. " I am not a club-man, Mr. Rydon, and so I do not know how far men allow themselves to go in the way of scoff- ing at their friends, but the words seem to me to justify notice." " By Jove, they got notice enough, my dear sir, and you are quite right to say that they deserved it. Fact is, we were taken aback at first, and then we made allowance for the wine. But as soon as he had said that, Charley Launceston called out to him, ' I say,' said Charley, who was in a rage, ' I'll thank you to be good enough to recollect, Wigram, that I was chiefly instrumental in getting up that dinner, and that I believed it was a right thing to do, and what's more, I believe so still.' " " A good fellow," said Pruth. " He is that," said Rydon, " as good a fellow as lives, and I always say so. Well, Wigram only answered, ' Do you ? ' in a sneering kind of way, which was not exactly calculated to throw oil on the fire — on the waters I mean — and it did not. Launceston got up and leant over the back of his chair for all the world as if he was going to preach — not that he is one of the preaching sort, Mr. Pruth, but as franlc and honest a chap as I know — and he made a little speech at Master Wigi'am, setting out that it was not the fii'st time that friends of Mr. Dormer had noticed that Wigram was induced to dis- parage Dormer's marriage ; and that now he had given vent to his feeling in a way that there was no mistaking he ought not to be sur- prised if he was called upon to explain what he meant, or something of that sort, for I don't pretend to give you the exact words, only we all thought that they were to the purpose." " " And did he venture on explanation ? " asked Mangles, eagerly. " There really is something up then, old fellow ? " asked Rydon. " I hear so many lies in the club and out of it that I never know what to believe ; but I fancy that there is something, and I suppose you know all about it." " That is the lady Ernest Dormer has married," said Mangles, taking down a framed photograph, and handing it to Rydon, " I told you that you should see it here. Do you think that is a marriage to be disparaged." " Gad, what a sweet face," , said Rydon, enthusiastically. " Gad, a J SOONEK OR LATER. 41 fellow might be hanged for a woman like that. That is something like a beauty." " Now give it me back — I'll show it you again afterwards — and tell me what Mr. "VYigram had to say against that lady, that is, if he dared to say anything." " He told Launceston not to be a humbug." " Which Launceston of all men in the world is not." " So three or four said ; on which Wigram answered, quite savagely, that any man was a humbug who pretended to shut his eyes to things which were very well known." " That was a safe, and a sneaking kind of speech." *' Why, it was sneaking, but not quite safe, as you shall hear. For Launceston, who, you know, is not given to bluster, said, in a distinct sort of voice — what do you call it when a fellow challenges you to answer ? — defiant sort of voice, that a man was worse than a humbug, and was a coward, who wrapped up insinuations so that they might do mischief but could not be noticed." " Very right," said Mr. Pruth. " We thought it rather strong," said Rydon, " but I don't know that it was not very right, as you say, only men get into a habit of saying httle things, and coward is a large word to come down upon 'em with, suddenly." " I am not for hard words," said Mangles, " but this one was not misplaced. I'll tell you why hereafter ; let us get to the end of your stoiy." " We looked at Wigram to see what he was going to do ; and if he had walked right up to Launceston and told him to take the word back, or have his head punched, it would scarcely have been too strong a measure, don't you think ? " " But what did he do, confound it ? " said Mangles. " He did nothing. But he said that it might be less prudent in friends of Mr. Dormer to get up a quarrel over a business that would not bear talking about than^ to let it alone until it should be forgotten." *' Launceston, you see, was right." " Perhaps, in a sense, you know ; but coward's a hard word." '• You are none, Jimmy, and you need not be so sensitive for a man who is one." " I don't like it, I tell you. Wigram was right enough in saying that we carry personality too far. But in answer to this Launceston returned to the charge, and said that he was a friend of Dormer's, that he denied that there was anything wrong about the marriage, and that unless Wigram made out his case there and then, he, Laun- 43 SOONER OR LATER. ceston, should consider him a person with whom it was not desirable to associate." " A pleasant sort of evening among gentlemen, if I may make the remark," said Pruth. " I don't remember anything of the kind occurring before," said Rydon ; " but it's not the thing, I admit. So Henry "Wigram was, as you may say, pinned : and for myself, I am bound to say that I should have been as hard upon him as Launceston was, if it had come to my turn to play, for a fellow that speaks against a woman deserves all he gets." " When there is nothing against her." " Then he is simply a rascal who ought to be hung up ; but I mean when there is," said the chivalrous Eydon. " Nobody ought to speak against a woman under any circumstances at all. They are not altogether responsible, at least I know that is the opinion of scientific men, though I think the line should be drawn somewhere, say murder, or something in that way. Besides they can't defend themselves. I never speak against a woman, though I have had some cause, but that's neither here nor there." " Dreadful sentiments, Mr. Pruth." " There's a good deal in what Mr. Eydon says, but I don't agree in his arguments. The fact that men make women what they are, is the real reason why men should treat them gently." <« "Wigram was pinned, excuse my pinning you," said Mangles. " 0, there's not much more to tell," said Jimmy Rydon. " He, that is Wigram, seemed to get more and more flustered, and I think he would have flared out in a rage, only his prudence struggled hard and kept him down. At last he said that he was not going to sit there to be catechised, and that twice that evening there had been an attempt made to deprive him of freedom of speech. This was at me, as I told you, for taking him to task for blowing up poor Walter undeservedly. I laughed out, which I thought was the most rational way of answering a fool according to his folly, which we are told to do, and not to do, according to circumstances, I suppose, or perhaps Solomon did not have his proof-sheets carefully edited. He looked savagely at me, Wigram did — not Solomon, you know — but I suppose he thought that I was not the right kind of party to bully, though Heaven knows I'm good natured enough. But he said, after a short time, that, though no one had any right to ask him for explanations, Mr. Launceston might repeat his question that day fortnight, unless it was answered for him and the rest of the club in the meantime," " That was all that passed ? " " Nearly all, I think. We felt that on the whole this was fair, and SOONER OR LATER. 43 that Wigram had kept his temper well under provocation. I had rowed him, and Lamiceston had called him a hard name, and the waiter had annoyed him, and he had had wine, and altogether, you see, allowances were due to him." "Actually, your good nature, which is excessive, my dear Rydon, is making you argue Wigram into the hero of the story, instead of making him out a spiteful slander-monger." " Now that's a hard word too, but you gentlemen of the press like those condensed epitaphs — epithets — epigrams — come, I've got it among you." " Did Launceston say no more ? " " Yes, I forgot. He said that he might have expressed himself warmly, but that he stood by all he had said, only that he retracted it for the time mentioned by Mr. Wigram, at the end of which he should take the liberty of repeating it. I stayed to see the storm out, and then I went to billiards." " Eead this," said Samuel Mangles, handing him Henry Wigram's note. " I should tell you that I took an opportunity of saying something to him on the subject." " When ? " " Last night." "Ah, that may partly explain his pleasant temper. You had ruflSed his feathers, and he took too much wine to smooth them down^ and he smoothed them too much. Come, I think we have all been rather down upon him, Mangles. But you won't say that, being an editor. Your virtues don't lean to mercy's side, as the poet says, though I don't know which respected author . What does he say ? Why," said Rydon, when he had read the n ote, " that's all in the same key as what he said last night." " Yes, but look, tliis was written this morning. It is not from the club — at least it is not on club paper." " So he repeats in cold blood what he said over night, you see,'' said Mr. Pruth. " Then," said Mangles, " the question repeats itself — how does he know that anything is going on ?" " I should like to begin with another question," said Jimmy Rydon, " if I may, and that is this, old fellow — is anything going on ? " " There I am in a cleft stick, Pruth," said Mangles. "0, my boy," said Rydon, laying his big hand on Mangles's shoulder, " don't put yourself into any bother for my sake. I should like to know all about it, if it was only for the sake of that sweet woman there, about whom I will be damned if I believe any harm. ■ 44. SOONER OR LATER. But I dare say I shall hear in good time, or rather bad time, if it's anything to hurt her. Let's have another look at her." There was nothing but honest, manly admiration in the regard which Jimmy Rydon (who was anything but a moralist) expressed for the beautiful girl, who in her bridal dress, was thus brought before him. The form into which he compressed the sentiments aroused by the charming portrait was not graceful, but it came from a good fellow's heart. " Now I wish that I had punched Master "Wigram's head." "No, you don't," said Mangles, " nor would it have been right, at all events, as he says, at present. And in answer to your wish to know something more, my dear fellow, I will be very frank with you. I know next to nothing now, but I expect to know a good deal. Another visitor ? " It was Ernest Dormer himself. He was very pale, but had regained the composure of which we have seen him deprived. He accosted his friends much as he would have done at any other time, except that his nod to Jimmy Eydon would, the day before, have been accompanied by some good-natured word. He shook hands with Mr. Pruth. " You dined at Greenwich, after all," said Mangles, who was very glad to see Ernest Dormer again his visitor. " I did," said Dormer, " but don't be angry. I was quite unfit for the pleasant society you proposed. I hope the ladies enjoyed themselves." " I hope so too," said Mangles, " wherever they were. I got them to give up the idea, when I found I could not have you." " Ah ! that was hard," said Dormer. " Surely you could have found another man. There was Rydon." " Rydon don't like dining out with ladies," said Jimmy. " They don't know what they are eating, and they expect you to neglect your food and talk." "But then they are not responsible, you know," said Mangles, looking hard at Rydon. He meant this speech as a hint to the latter to recollect the subject on which they had been speaking, and to go away, but it did not take effect upon James Rydon for a considerable time. It was necessary for his friends to allow a certain period to elapse after administering any indirect suggestions, but when it worked, the excellent Rydon was prompt to comply with the wish he had just discovered. " Ladies and Greenwich dinners," thought Mr. Pruth. " That is the way they talk when the misery of two lives may be approach- ing." SOONER OR LATER. 45 "Would you have had us melodramatic," would probably have been the answer, " We must say something, and what matters the words." " I did not call to apologise, however, Mangles. I know you don't want that sort of thing from me." " Certainly not, not even the explanation that you know I don't want it." " I came to say that in all probability I shall have to go out of town at short notice." " Then we are to write to you at Naybury," said Mr. Pruth, who was not a man of the world, and therefore showed in a natural and creditable manner, what his feelings were. He hoped to hear an affirmative answer. " Please not to ■write to me at all," said Ernest Dormer, " until I ask you to do so. My movements may be uncertain, for a time. But before I go there are two or thi-ee things to be said. Eydon, I am glad you are here. I have heard of something which occurred at the Octagon last night." " Rydon, feeling that as your intimate friend I ought to know of it, kindly came down to tell me," said Mr. Mangles. " Several of my intimate friends were present," s^id Ernest, quickly ; and Mangles accepted the answer as meaning that for the future he was to claim no special fellowship. " May I ask who had the good-nature to hurry to you with the chatter of the smoking-room," said Rydon. " Nay, it was the right and kind thing to do," said Dormer. " A man's friends ought not to leave him in ignorance of what concerns his good name. It was Charley Launceston, to whom I am deeply obliged. And though he did not say a great deal about his own share in the matter, I am quite sure that he behaved in a loyal and friendly way as regarded me." " And that he did, by Gad," said Jimmy Rydon, " and Mangles will tell you that I said so. Not to say one thing before your face and another behind your back, I repeat what I told Mangles, that I thought Charley was almost too hard upon a certain person." " You are very good to me to say so, Rydon, when the certain person was pleased to make an offensive remark about me." " No, not about you," said Jimmy Rydon, wisely. "Yes, yes, it was about Dormer," said Mangles, breaking in rapidly to prevent further mischief ; " and," he added, talking on to keep out Rydon, "I am far from thinking that even the word coward was too strong for a man who assails another in his absence with vague scandals." 46 SOONER OR LATER. "But I tell you" — persisted Rydon, the good-natured but stupid. " Are you going all over the stoiy again ? " asked Mangles. " You know his style, Dormer, and the extraordinaiy elaborateness of his narrative, but you never heard him in such force as he has shown to-day. Still, it is not given to two men to hear that tale twice and live, is it, Mr. Pruth ? " " ! Ah ! " said Jimmy Rydon, suddenly. " Yes. Good-bye, old fellow," and he went out without further ceremony. " Offended ? " asked Mr. Pruth. "Not a bit," said Mangles. "He has just found out what I meant five minutes back, when I conveyed to him a delicate hint to go away. He went the moment he perceived my intention. A right down good fellow." "Yes," said Ernest Dormer. "But as I am unhappily a little quicker at seeing a hint, will you let me ask you why you were so peremptoij in cutting short his speech just now ? " " Simply, my dear Ernest, because I wished to tell you the story myself, if it were necessary to tell it at all, which I suppose not to be the case." " Only, as Rydon was present, and you were not — but you mean so well, Mangles, that I am ashamed to take this tone with you. You leave on my mind the impression that more was said than you care I should hear. Am I wrong ? " " To be frank with you, I think that Henry Wigram was so offensive in his tone that if his language had been repeated, you would have quarrelled with that good-hearted pachyderm for saying that allowances might be made." " Did he say anything about Mrs. Dormer ? " asked Ernest, sternly. "No." " Then where do you conceive the sting of his speech, if it has any, to lie ? " " This is not a pleasant theme, my dear fellow. Nothing that a thousand Henry Wigrams might say could injure you in the estima- tion of your friends ; and as we don't fight duels in England, it is of no use picking up grievances unless they have been thrown into our faces." "No," said Ernest Dormer, "we do not fight duels. You ai-e quite right. And as you are sure that I shall not send Mr. Wigram a challenge, there can be no objection to your telling me what you think was so particularly offensive in his language. Don't mind speaking before Pruth, whom I look upon as a friend, and quite as true a friend as anybody else." SOONER OR LATER. 47 This remark nettled ]\Iangles, in spite of his desire to make ample peace with Ernest, and he said — " I think this persistency a little — well, a little idle — but you liave a right to an answer from me. I think Heniy "Wigram meant that you had married a lady for whom you did not care, and had done so for the sake of her money." " You know, Mangles, that you think he meant nothing of the kind, but I thank you for your endeavour to save my feelings. Now let me ask you whether you will name the person who was the first to set about slanders respecting my wife ? " " Yes," said Mangles. " I have his permission to do so. But it is hardly worth while giving it you now." " Because I have already horsewhipped him ? " " Horsewhipped — whom — what do you mean ? " said Mangles. " Who is the gentleman ? " said Ernest, composedly. Mr. Pruth, evidently delighted, snatched at Wigram's note without his chiefs leave, and handed it to Ernest Dormer. " Yes," said Dormer. " This was written before my call upon him. Perhaps he would not write quite so neat a note now." " I am sorry to hear this. Dormer," said Mangles. " Really. My friends seem to have a special tenderness for Mr. Wigram," said Ernest. " He must have many good qualities, of which, unhappily, I know nothing, or so much regard is unaccounted for." " Don't talk in that way, Dormer," said Mangles, with an earnest- ness of anger that was really affectionate. " You do justice neither to yourself nor to two or three men who would do much for you. Heniy Wigram ! Do you pretend to think that I should care, except on your own account, if you had broken his neck ? You know better. What I mean by being ' sorry,' deeply sorry, is that the act you have committed answers me a question which I was afraid to ask." Ernest looked at him thoughtfully, for a moment. *' I understand," he said. " I do not," said Mr. Pruth ; " but though Mr. Donner has been good enough to speak of me as he has done, I do not feel that I have a right to ask an explanation." " Do you need one ? " said Mangles. " Ask Mr. Dormer whether he would have done this thing a week ago ? " " No," said Ernest Dormer. " But the remarks would have been equally offensive," said Mr. Pruth ; " and I may say, though you laiow I am the quietest of men, that I can't feel any sorrow that this Mr. Wigram has been beaten." 48 SOONER OR LATER. " And his remarks, my dear Mangles, only applied to my supposed fortune-hunting! " said Ernest Dormer, with a slight smile of re- proach. *' You have affixed another meaning to them now, at all events," said Mangles, sadly, as he looked up at the photograph of the beau- tiful girl. " And but for something which has passed since we met, you would not have caused your wife to be talked about, no, not for the sake of all the impertinences ever uttered in that cursed club." " No," said Ernest Dormer. " But I had an interval of inaction prescribed for me, and I found it insupportable. Chance came to my help in the shape of Charley Launceston and his narrative, so I heard him out, and then went and beat Wigram." " Am I to ask you anything more ? I have no desire to do so. You have told me enough to make me very miserable. And you had inaction prescribed to you, of course by some one who had a right to expect compliance, and you obey by instantly bringing her name before society." "It was necessary that Wigram should be beaten," was Ernest Dormer's only answer. " And I thought it well to tell you. If not too much trouble, would you mention in the Octagon Club that I did it, and why ? " CHAPTER V. THE DATE. " I "WILL know that," said Ernest Dormer, between his teeth. It was on the following morning. He had slept, or rather had passed the troubled, weary night, at an hotel in Covent Garden, and having found no letter from the Serjeant, he had gone to the Museum, and searched the jom*nals, in order to discover any account of the inquest on Andrew Barton. He had been successful, that is to say, he found a very brief narrative of the affair, but, short as it was, Mr. Dudley had contrived to get himself mentioned in it with credit, and had procured the record of a compliment to himself from the coroner, who might or might not have uttered the imputed civility. Dormer took a note of the exact date, and of one or two points in the case, and left the Museum, refusing, with an abrupt- ness which sui-prised a friend whom he had encountered in the hall, an invitation to come and examine a rare collection of eggs which had just been purchased for the ornithological department. "Why, you used to be quite learned in eggs," said his friend, *' and I thought I was offering you a treat." " I ! " " Yes, to be sure. There was some pleasure in showing you such things." " Yes," said Ernest, dreamily. " You are quite right. I had for- gotten. But I have business to attend to — excuse me, and many thanks." He was in Russell Street before he was quite sure of the name of the man who had spoken to him, or, indeed, whether he had been spoken to at all. " To be sure," he said. " I took her there, and she got at some tints for her work. It seems twenty years ago. I wisli it were." Still no note at the hotel from Penguin. Of course he had said that Dormer might not hear from him all that day, but he ought to have written something. " Wliy should I wait for him ? " muttered Ernest. " It is my own VOL. ir.- E 50 SOONER OR LATER. business, not his. Probably he will do nothing. At all events, there is one thing which I can do, and I will." An hour later, Magdalen received a telegram from her husband. And this was what he said : " A strange story. It is desira'ble for me to Jcnow a date, this afler- noon. If you can tell me alout the day on ivhicli you luere at VaughavUs, meet the, train ivhicli reaches Nayhiry at 3-30. / can see you, and return iy that ivhich ^^asses through at 3'55. A^o time to ansiver this" " Well," said Magdalen to herself, " I think he might as well have said ' Come,' whether I had the date or not, but he knew that I should come. Mamma, can I have the pony carriage at three ? " " Can you, dear ? Of course you can. What for ? " " Ernest is coming down for a few minutes, just to speak to me, and going up again by the next train." " That is very affectionate. Have you been telling him that you could not bear to spend another day without setting eyes on him ? " " No, Mrs. Conway, dear, that is not the sort of message I send. But I am so glad." " You need not tell me that. The piece of paper brightened you np like a bit of sunshine." " And it is a bit. Will you order the carriage, mamma ? I have some business to attend to," she added, with pretended importance. " I'll take care. That train is always late, though, so you need not huiTy." *' Late, is it ? " said Magdalen. " I am sony for that. No, I am not, for if he misses the return one, he must stay to dinner. But Ernest's trains are never late." " Go along, child, and attend to your business," said her mother, laughing. That train, however, justified Mrs. Conway's assertion. It was nearly twenty minutes after time. It is needless to say that Mag- dalen was waiting on the platform long before a single porter had appeared, or that she was the first to detect the distant cloud of white that announced Ernest's approach. Her hand was in his as he led her aside. " I shall scarcely save the other, but I must," were his first words. *' How well you are looking, Magdalen. Have you got the date I asked for ? " There was no one within earshot of the place, and poor Magdalen might have expected a more affectionate salutation. But she was too good a girl to evince the slightest petulance, and it was with a proud little smile that she drew out a tiny book, and showed it him. Page 50. SOONER OR LATER. 51 '* Don't you know that I am a woman of business ? " she said, '* and know all my dates. I can give you that exactly. There is the ^ntry, sir." And she pointed to some jDencilling. The date was plain enough, for it was printed. " Yes," she said, and there, in tlie money column, the day before, is another item which bears upon this one — do you see, sir, a pay- ment to a jeweller, rather a large sum for poor me, but I will tell you all about that when we have time. Am I not an accurate personage ? — Dearest Ernest ! " He had become very white, and she was frightened. " What is it, Ernest ? " she said, catching at his arm. " It is nothing," he said, " the carriage was hot, and " Again he read the entry, and the note of the payment to the jeweller — fixing his eyes on the lines as if they were trying to escape him, and he had resolved that they should not. " Don't go back — stay with me," cried Magdalen. " I cannot let you go back ill. I will go vnth you, then. Let me ! " " No, no," said Ernest. " I will take this book — no " " Take it — take it, of course — is it not yours, dearest ? — but," she continued, hm-riedly, for the bell had rung, " I am sure you are not fit to travel. Stay for the next train, at least." " No, I will not take the book," said Ernest Donner — a gentle- man's nature speaking in him even m that moment of trial — " put it — up. There's the train ! I can just save it by crossing. I will write. Take all care of yourself." He sprang away, and in defiance of the warning cries of half a dozen porters, ruslied across the rails, and leaped up on to the opposite platform. " I did not think you would have done such a thing as that, Mr. Dormer," said the station-master, reproachfully. "I did not think it myself," said Ernest, hardly hearing what answer he was making, " I have a return ticket, Mr. Saunders." In another minute he was on his way to London. Magdalen, who had been at first fi-ightened by his looks, and then astonished at his abruptness, continued to gaze on the diminishing train. " He did not kiss me. He did not hold my hand. He does not wave to me fi-om tlie window. How can I have offended him ? No, it is not that — that is impossible. He [must be very ill indeed. I wish I had insisted on going up to town with him. I wish mamma had been here. I will go up by the next. He remembered to tell me to take care of myself — he remembered everything, but he was X 2 53 SOONER OR LATER. bewildered with illness. How wicked of me to think of myself first, and to fancy that he was unkind. Why would he not take the book ? Perhaps he thought I had some foolish girl-secrets in it, and he would not see them. That is just what he would have thought, and here am I, half crying, because he did not lose the train for the sake of 1 am ashamed of myself. I wonder whether mamma will let me go to town ? He said he would write. That seems as if I ought to wait for the letter, but then, if he is really ill ? How wrong it is to let the trains be so late," said Magdalen, com- forted at having some one whom she could lawfully reproach. " If they had been punctual he would have had nearly half an hour with me. I will make him write against them as soon as ever he settles down with; me again." " You look vexed, child," said Mrs. Conway, who stood at the door, waiting the return of Magdalen. " Did he not come ? " " I am vexed, mamma. As you prophesied, the train was very late. I don't think it gave him three minutes, and the other was so punctual." "However, we have seen him, and we are happy," said her mother, smiling. " We are not at all happy. He is very unwell — ill, indeed." " Nonsense, Magdalen," said Mrs. Conway, with extreme concern, however. "You easily frighten yourself for other people, though you never do for yourself What makes you say this ? " " He turned deadly white, dear, and I think he hardly knew what he was saying. He did not even look out at me from the carriage window — 0, if he fell down on getting in, and there should be no one " "Magdalen," said her mother, seating herself by her child, and placing an arm around her. " I shall be veiy angry with you if this goes on." The tears blinded Magdalen's blue eyes, and she did not see her father enter the room, " What is it ? " he asked, alarmed. " It is nothing, William. I wash you had been at home, as you could have gone with her to the station; but you wander away, with- out telling anybody where you can be found." To this prompt and unexpected attack, Mr. Conway made no reply, but Magdalen said, " I have seen Ernest, and he is ill, papa." " But well enough to go back to London, as he intended," said Mrs. Conway, " and here is Magdalen distressing herself in the most absurd manner. When is he coming back again ? " SOONER OR LATER. 58 " He said he would write," sobbed Magdalen. " And he was well enough to think of that ? Come, come. And as to his not noticing you from the carriage, it may have been full, and he was in the other corner — you must not be childish." " Xo, mamma, you are right, but I ought to go up to town and gee after him, ought I not ? I could go at six o'clock." " If you are out of your senses, I am not," said Mrs. Conway. " I wonder what he would say to me for allowing you to move. I would not let you go for the world, and so you may dismiss that from your mind, dear. Now I shall just take you to your room, and you will remain there quietly, on the sofa, until I fetch you to dinner." Ml". Conway waited his wife's return, but not very patiently, and the time was long. She came at last. " I don't like this," he said. " You don't like what, William ? " " What does Dormer mean by sending for her to the train, saying half a dozen words to her, and rushing away, making her think he is ill, and knocking her up ? " " I have not asked her what he wished to see her about. Would it have been right ? " " It is strange that she should not have told you," " I would not let her talk. I made her be quiet." " He did not say good-bye from the carriage window," said Mr. Conway. " Now, papa, don't you go and confu-m her nonsensical fears with any nonsense of your own. You know how ready you are to see all sorts of evils that don't exist, and how you brought out doubts, and fears, and suspicions about the marriage which has turned out so happily for her. I won't have you getting back to that sort of thing, please." " Maiy, never mind my nature ; but tell me whether you think that there has been anj-thing unpleasant between them." " What reason can I have for thinking so ? " "That's not an answer. Mary, you are too right-hearted a woman to stand by j-our own opinion a moment longer than you are satisfied with it. And I am the oldest friend you have in the world." "Please, William, do not press me at this moment," said Mrs. Conway, Avith a troubled expression. " But that is an answer," said Mr. Conway, gravely. "Yes. But do not make more of it than it is worth. I have heard next to nothing fr-om Magdalen. I would not allow her to 54 BOONEK OE LATER. say much. But I own to you, William, that I think she has been more disturbed by this moment's talk with Ernest than she will care to say. I know she thinks that he is ill. But unless I mistake her very much, she is pondering oyer something else, and not getting comfort out of her thoughts." " Is it some money matter of his ? That's what these hurried journeys often mean. Did he come for something he had left, and has he told her that he will not be able to return ? " " Good heavens, William, dear, what is the use of guess-work like that ? In the first place, what right have you to accuse him of being in any difl&culty ? " " What did he go away at all for ? " " When a man says business, he shuts your mouth. And Mag- dalen declared that she knew all about the business, and made fun of the awful secret which he had forbidden her to reveal. You know how you laughed about it with her." "Yes. But she is in no mood to laugh now. Something has happened, and we ought to know what." " I think so, too. But we must be very gentle." *' Are we often anything else with her, dear child ? " said Mr. Conway. " I shall say nothing to her to-night. If her cheerfulness comes back in the morning, all will be well. If not, we must wait until she hears from Ernest, and when we see the effect of that letter, we shall know what to think. In the mean time let us try to believe that we are disquieting ourselves about nothing." " That's the homely, practical advice which I was sm-e of from you, Mary, and if it were only as easy to follow advice as to give it, all would be well. But I am going to be exceedingly miserable until the afiair is cleared up, if it ever is, and I can no more help that state of mind than I can twist that tree." " I know it, WiUiam, All I can say is, do not let her see it. Talk and joke with her as usual. And don't, in a pointed way, avoid speaking of Ernest." Such were the counsels of affection — such was the thought taken for Magdalen by those who loved her best of all. Two of the most honest and most kindly natures in the world were troubled but by her trouble, and how they might best tend her. Upon that loyal and unselfish love she may rely while those who bear it have breath to speak it. Yet it was not of that true gold that Magdalen lay thinking, but of other ore which she had sought, not in vain, to believe as precious, but which might prove false in the hour of her great need. Not as yet, however, had that fearful thought crossed SOONER OK LATER. 55 her mind. She had but an unpleasant sensation, as of one of those dreams, rather harsh and rough than dismal, which sometimes come and disturb us for hours with the impression that some whom we love are estranged and cold. Then comes the sunshine, and all the truth and love come back, proved and warm. And Magdalen, with an agitating sigh, which she chided, waited for her sunshine to return. Meantime, he who could have made it was hastening back to London, with a piece of evidence which he would have given any price to beheve false. But there was no doubt about it. The coincidence was made out. The lines upon which he had glared, as they were so innocently pointed out by his wife, were written under the very date he had extracted at the Museum : " 186—. August 6. To P.V.'s. Gave Mm the locM." And a couple of days earlier was the girl's entry of the payment to the jeweller who had sold her the trinlcet. The visit — the present — the murder, all indissolubly linked. For a time this fact was too strong, too menacing, to permit Ernest Dormer to think at all. It was there — shut up with him in the carriage— going with him to London, and to abide with him in his waking and sleeping hours, thenceforth and always. He was alone, luckily. He hardly knew why he took out the memorandum he had made, and for the hundredth time read the date he had copied. No chance of his being mistaken. It seemed the only date in the world. Small objects on which his eye rested seemed to form themselves into those figures, blank spaces seemed inscribed with them. Now it was his own writing, now Magdalen's, that danced before his sight, and then the writings intertwined, like serpents, as lines will do in a nightmare. He wished that he had not known the truth. And then, for a time, he sank into a kind of stupor, and he was not sure whether he had slept or not, when he suddenly started up, with a sense of a relief which came on him so overpoweringly that he was unable to speak. He sat back and yielded helplessly to a new and merciful thought which had dawned on him. " It is out of all possibility," was this thought. " Proof ! The proof's in that very entry, handed to me by herself, with that smile. Am I mad enough to believe that she made but half a record, and that after the words, ' Gave him the locket,' she might have added ' Saiv him do i/ie murder ' ? I should be a madman to hold such a behef. There is a mystery, and I cannot solve it, but it is there." And to this faith he resolved to cling, and he brought his will to bear upon it, and there followed the thought that though the evi- 56 SOONER OR LATER. dence he had obtained seemed to corroborate the foul story that had been told him, it really disproved it. With this view of the case he returned to London. He had left word at his hotel that he should return there at a given hour. He found Serjeant Penguin waiting for him. It was late in the evening, and the Serjeant had demanded a private room, and the best bottle of claret that was to be had, and with this he had made considerable progress. "You have been waiting for me some time, I fear," said Dormer. " That you infer from low wine-mark," said the lawyer ; " but I was thirsty. I knew that you could not be back from Naybury much sooner." " What makes you suppose I have been there ? " *' I felt that you would go." "Well?" " Naturally, my only business with you now should be to say that as you decline to follow my advice, I decline to give any more." " You would be justified. But I do not believe that you are here to say that." " That depends," said the Serjeant, ringing for another glass. " I will not drink anything," said Ernest Dormer. He was silent until the waiter had retired, for the second time, and Penguin, taking no notice of the refusal, had filled both glasses. Then Dormer asked, " Have }'ou anything to tell me ? " " I should like first to hear what you have to tell me." " My wife was at Vaughan's rooms on the day of the murder." The Serjeant threw up his gold eyeglass, and looked hard at Dormer. Not rudely, but in sheer and strong curiosity. " You speak — or does my ear deceive me — you speak with a certain satisfaction in your tone. Dormer, or at least as if you were not displeased at being able to say this. Mrs. Dormer, you assert " " I said my wife," rephed Ernest, quietly. " Ah ! " said the Serjeant. " I accept all which the correction means. You have seen your wife ? " " I have seen her." "All is explained to your satisfaction, then? I do not see why you refuse to take your wine. I congratulate you upon so happy an issue to a singular series of incidents." But he did not say this as if he meant it, but in his own favourite tentative fashion. " Nothing is explained," said Ernest. " I can add nothing to what I told you yesterday except what I have just said." SOONER OR LATER. 57 " I speak without the faintest irritation, my dear Dormer," said Serjeant Penguin, fi-ankly ; " and I only ask whether you shall wish me to interest myself in the business." " "Wish ! I beg you to do so. It is precisely where it was when we parted, with the single addition of the fact that I have my wife's avowal that on the day in question she visited those chambers." " And, pardon the question, you are on good terms with her ? " " I saw her for less than five minutes, having to catch a train. I need not make any secret of the circumstances that I purposely arranged that our interview should be a short one, and you showed yesterday that you can appreciate the feeling which made me do this." " Matters are not precisely where they were. Dormer, for you have forgotten to mention that jon have committed an assault on the brother of Mrs. De Gully." " On whom ? " exclaimed Ernest, with the sincerest astonishment. " Is there not a lady, or a person who calls herself a lady, and who also calls herself Mrs. De Gully, and resides near Naybury ? " " Yes." " Does your wife visit her — does yom- family ? " " Certainly not. She is not a person whom I should desire them to visit." " Do you know anything against her ? " " Who knows anything against anj^body ? But one can object to make an acquaintance, though one is not supplied with divorce-court affidavits. We decline that person's acquaintance, that is all. What do you mean about her brother ? " " Do you deny the assault ? " persisted Serjeant Penguin. " I chastised a man named Wigram." " And Mr. Wigram is her brother. I dare say he never told you so ; for he is not, I suppose, particularly proud of his sister, though they assure me she is very delightful and all that. But we some- times fly to the arms of our relatives when we are in trouble— not that I should — and Mr. Wigram may seek for solace for his disgrace in the tenderness of his sister. However, that does not matter." " Yes," said Ernest, with agitation, " it matters much." "I see what you mean." " Curse him, I wish I had not beaten him," said DoiTQer, earnestly ; and it was easy to see that the regret was not for Mr. Wigram's sake. " I am afraid it was a mistake, but you were not bound to know of the relationship, and so you have only to reproach yourself with a mere act of violence." " Myself ; I am not thinking about myself. This makes it only 58 SOONER OR LATER. the more a matter of life and death that we should deal with the Btory before worse comes of it. What have you to say to me, Penguin ? Pray speak plainly and fully, for this last piece of news makes me utterly unfit for anything but action, and to that I must see my way at once." " I shall ask you for no other promise. Dormer, seeing that you have broken the first one twice in twelve hours. I only say that you ought not to be rash ; I say it for the sake of a lady who is too good to be put to the slightest needless pain." " You are right. But you speak as if you knew more of her than I supposed." " I know more than I did yesterday morning. I will tell you how this is presently. Now, listen to me. A first story, well told, fixes itself on the mind of many of us — perhaps on aU who are not pro- fessionally bound to believe most people liars — and it is terribly hard work to make a tabula rasa, and start fresh. That fellow Dudley had your ear, and he has acted his part well. I see that you can't get out of your head that there was a murder. There was none." " Barton was killed, I suppose ? " " He was killed by a fall." " You don't believe that he was thrown down by another hand ? " " No, and for the best reason ; there was no other hand to throw him." " Where was Vaughan ?" " I know not, nor does it signify, as he certainly was not in the only place in which he could have killed the poor man. He was away, and he was in hiding, and for very good reasons." " But," said Dormer, " there is too much proof that he was not away, and on that day. My wife saw him, and gave him this." He produced the locket. He had unconsciously retained it during his last stormy words with Dudley, and the latter was far too wise to demand it back from him. Dudley rejoiced that Ernest had taken with him that which would always remind him of their interview. " That is a locket," said Penguin. " The rest is a lie of Dudley's." " I would gladly believe that," said Ernest Dormer ; " but do I not tell you that I have evidence which does not lie ? I have my wife's." "Dormer, you are an able man, and you are believing what a child would not hear. Do you sincerely maintain — I am afraid to use the words in 3'our presence — do you seriously assert that Mrs. Dormer, an incarnation of all that is good and loving in woman, knew — I won't say saw — but knew that a man had been flung from SOONER OR LATEK. 69 the parapet before a room in which she was ; and that this sweet, sensitive, gentle lady never thought the thing worth mention ? " " Do I believe that ? If I had ever really believed it, I should have chased out such a thought after what I have seen to-day. But after the first confusion of a horrible story, I never harboured that belief. I tell you the mystery has to be cleared, and that is the business of my life ; but Yaughan was there, and if there the murder was not impossible." " I repeat to you that he was not there, and I have the best reasons for believing this." " Then the mystery would be darker than ever. How came Barton by his death?" \ "As I always said : trjing to steal, and making a hasty escape." " And the rest a lie of Dudley's ?" " Yes ; but the invention did not leap from his brain ready-made. He must have had something to build upon. He has kept the story by him for a long time ; and though this is all against him, it does not assist us, as slander is the worm that dieth not. And again I ask pardon ; but we have traced Mrs. Dormer to Gray's Inn." " We have," said Ernest, darkly ; " and we have fixed the day." The Serjeant was silent. *' You have a theory of this," said Dormer, " and you probably withhold it because you believe that my affection for my wife would make me resent suggestions which you may be inclined to make. Thank you for that consideration. Whether I shall ever see her again is a question which I have now no means of answering. But I will never see her again in life, unless I can stand before her with this cruel mystery all unravelled. And whether I may then have to ask her pardon for my course, or bid her ask my pardon for hers, on the day we meet again there shall be no more doubt. Therefore, Penguin, you will serve her and me best by the plainest dealing. What do you believe ? " " That the lady met Mr. Vaughan ; but not in those chambers." "Where?" " I have no guess. He was in concealment ; and I think I have some kind of clue, — I do not know." " She beUeved that she was in those chambers." " I have no doubt of it," said Serjeant Penguin. (He had much). " I have no doubt of it. A forger who almost deceived a first-class conveyancer, would have an easy task to persuade an innocent young lady as to the locality of a house in an obscure part of London. Of course, if we were all pulling together " He stopped. " I do not quite understand you." 60 SOONER OR LATER. " I am consulted in your interest, not that of Mrs. Dormer ? " " Suppose them the same, until I say that they are not." *' I told you I would admit no sentimental feeling into this affair, yesterday," said the Serjeant, " but the case is altered, and I prove it to you by declaring that those words give me much pleasure." " If our interests were one ? " said Ernest, imiting him to go on. " It would be for us to obtain the required information from the only person who, in Vaughan's absence, can give it us, and who is most interested of anybody in the world in having the story cleared up. This will, of course, have occurred to you, for you acted to-day upon the thought, so far as procuring the evidence of the visit to the chambers." " You mean, " said Ernest, breathing hard, " that I ought to tell my wife the tale which Dudley hissed into my ear ? Do you mean that ?» * " Do not get excited when you have such an interest to watch." " I am wrong ; but go on." " No," said the Serjeant, " I should not deem it necessary to pro- fane a lady's ear with that ruffian's fiction. There would, I think, be no great difficulty in so planning the questions, which would be put by some intimate friend, as to convey to her the necessity of answer- ing them frankly, while we avoided hurting her womanly nature. I do not think that they should be put by yourself." " I have told you that I don't see her again while questions are wanted ? " " Such a decision is open to be reviewed, if your reason were con- vinced that a different course were better. But I say again, I do not think that they should come from yom'self. I see what is in your mind. Though you have listened to this scoundrel's story, and some of it clings to you, I see that you revolt at the idea of disturbing Mrs. Dormer by letting her know that anything in her conduct has been called in question." *' That faintly expresses what I do mean." " And it does you honour'; and, what is better, it promises hap- piness in the future. But I am sorry to have to show you that you have already taken great pains to make it certain that slander, in one form or another, shall come to Mrs. Dormer and to all her friends. You felt that just now. How long, do you think, Mr. Wigram will wait before he revenges himself for his beating ? He will write to Mrs. De Gully, whom you have cut. She will talk, and you cannot beat her. What think you of the rule, ' Forewarned, forearmed ? ' And is it not a duty to Mrs. Dormer to protect her against the recoil of a chastisement inflicted by your omi hand ? " CHAPTER VI. MORE TALK IN NAYBURY. More rapidly even than Serjeant Penguin had surmised would be the case, did the tainted an of scandal make its way into Naybury. Who first detected it, and hastened to disclose the discovery, was never made quite certain. But the atmosphere was well prepared for its reception, and soon became more than sufficiently impregnated. The truth was as Penguin had said. The handsome and not over-guarded lady of Martletowers was the sister of Mr. Henry Wigram, and, for reasons which may occur to the reader, had been a thorn in his side for many a day. More than one matrimonial arrangement which Mr. "Wigram had thought would conduce to his comfort and advantage had been rendered impracticable by the existence and conduct of this lady, who avenged herself for a very unequal distribution of the paternal property by forcing herself and her needs upon her brother whenever she could make an opportunity for doing so. And she usually selected the most awkward periods for putting herself in evidence. He had done what he could to free himself from her and her importunities by being as cold, as rude, and as neglectful as possible ; but IMrs. De Gully, when she wanted money, was singularly forgiving and full of sisterly regard, and Wigram had usually to choose between sending a cheque or receiving a visit. Some people were ill-natured enough to say that he knew enough about horses to be aware that a very pretty grey, of which he once made Mrs. De Gully a present, with a story of his having bought it for a lady who had been forbidden to ride, was about as dangerous a brute as was ever mounted ; but this was charging him with more than could be proved, and Mrs. De Gully rode the horse safely and sold him well. But that such things were said showed the idea which certain folks entertained of the affection between the hand- some lady and her brother. Just at the time of the fracas with Ernest Dormer, Mrs. De Gully happened to be especially persistent in her demands upon her bro- 62 SOONER OR LATER. ther's purse. It may be supposed that Captain De Gully, E.N., was more absent than ever, and that tradespeople were tired of receiving promises, no matter how charmingly scented the notes that bore them. At all events, Henry Wigram had been pestered with urgent demands for money, and was daily expecting to be informed that his sister had come to town to enforce them. He would have been informed, moreover, not only by herself, but by a paragraph in the papers which record the movements of the great. " Mrs. De Gully has an'ived, from Marbletowers, at the Hotel," would have been a pleasant piece of light reading for Henry Wigram and his friends. Eor all his friends knew who she was, and quite as much about her as he did, and did not fail to congratulate him, in a careless kind of way, whenever such an announcement appeared ; that is, they said just enough to make him aware that they knew he was being annoyed. At this time it was particularly disagreeable to Henry Wigram to have his sister parading herself before society, as he had reason to think that he had made an impression of a desirable kind, and of which we may hear again. So he resolved to make a sacrifice for the sake of security, and he actually wrote rather a kind answer to Mrs. De Gully, almost condescending to apologise for having neglected her, and he sent her a handsome cheque, and half promised to run down and see her. Mrs. De Gully was not in the least deceived, and knew that few things would please her afPectionate Henry better than her demise or emigration, but she wrote a grateful and loving response, and described the delightful room wliich should be fitted up for him the moment he would say that he was really coming. And she gave him a little country news which was not much in itself, but which, sauced in her pleasant style — she wrote a good letter, but for her love of quotations — was readable while waiting for dinner. Something she said gave him a hint, and this flashed upon him before the scene with Ernest Dormer, and while Wigram was cherishing ill-will against him and those who took his part so warmly in his absence. " I'll make some use of her, anyhow," said Henry Wigram. So he accidentally asked, in the middle of a note about other matters, whether she saw much of the Dormers and Conways, who, he fancied, lived somewhere near her. He was speedily apprised that they did not choose to honour Mrs. De Gully with their acquaintance. " Perhaps it is as well," he answered, " for I hear some odd things about Mrs. Ernest Dormer, and' I hardly know what to believe. Perhaps people who have lived longer in Naybury than SOONER OR LATER. 63 you have might show a light, if you asked for it with your accustomed tact, my dear Julia." His dear Julia's accustomed tact, however, was not going to be put into play upon such a vague hint as that. She had a guess that her brother disliked Dormer, and she had no objection to do some- thing disagreeable to a family which had slighted her. But she was not to be left to work at a cold scent like that, and take all the re- sponsibility of making a mistake. With all her carelessness of tongue, Mrs. De Gully was reasonably awake to her own interest. She took very little notice of his suggestion, and waited to see whether it would be repeated. It was repeated angrily enough in his next note, though she could not divine the cause of the anger. He was downright rude. He told her that she was always ready to pelt him with letters when she wanted anything for herself, but she would not pay the least atten- tion to a wish of his. Another time she might not find him so prompt to oblige her. " How badly this note is written," said Mrs. De Gully to her com- panion, the silent Francine. *' He usually writes so neatly. Looks as if it had been done after dinner." " Or as if he had hurt his hand." *' At all events he is in a rage," said Mrs. De Gully. " What can have made him so anxious to know about these people ? They are commonplace folks enough, except Mr. Dormer, who has been good enough to look at me in a way which said that if he were not married and respectable, he would not mind knowing me, but that as it was I had better keep my distance." " Converts are always bigots," said the sententious Francine. " Eh ? 0, I see what you mean. Yes, we heard about that — but Henry knows it all as well as Dormer himself — so do all the men of the club, and all the waiters. It is astonishing how well men keep faith to one another about all those tilings, even after they have quarrelled." " Mean wretches ! " said Francine. " However, my brother may be as angiy as he likes. He shall explain himself, and then we will see what is to be done. I am not going to be his cat's-paw, but I don't mind scratching if I get a chance." " You like it," said Francine. " I am sure I never scratch you," said Mrs. De Gully, laughing, *' though I often feel inclined when you won't say more than six words in a morning. I must answer the irate Henry, however. Give me the writing-case and things, there's a dear. What shall I say to him ? " 64 SOONER OR LATER. " The less the better." " Yes, I won't write at all." So Mr. Wigram was obliged to tell his sister, in black and white, that he hated Mr. Ernest Dormer, and that in regard to Mrs. Ernest Dormer there was a story about, the shadows of which were so dark that he did not care to tell her the whole, but he hinted at the leading points, and he expressed a decided opinion that his sister should ascertain the truth before continuing to visit at any house where the Dormers were received. " Ah ! that's something like," said Julia De Gully. •' That note will be worth money to me some day when my affectionate brother is inclined to neglect his poor Julia. But fancy his pretending not to like to tell me anything, after giving me that batch of his French novels. I think men are all fools." Whether introduced by questions by Mrs. De Gully, or in any other way, it is certain that several persons in Naybury very soon afterwards knew that before Mrs. Dormer's parents came there, or afterwards, Magdalen had forgotten herself to such an extent that Mr. and Mrs. Conway were glad to marry her to the first man who offered, that they accepted Mr. Dormer though he was notoriously a roue, and deep in debt, and that he made the match on condition that his wife should reside under the roof of her parents that they might be responsible for her conduct. That her affections had been bestowed upon a person of very low rank, who had been convicted of crime and transported, and that but for an enormous sum of money paid by some friends of the Conways, Magdalen herself would have been publicly connected with the prosecution of her lover. That was the composition of the air which was infused into the quiet atmosphere of Nayburj^ Of course, nobody mentioned anything of the kind to the persons principally interested, or gave them the slightest hint that their characters were at stake. That is not the way in respectable society. Among the inferior class the case is different, and a costermonger's wife does not suffer under a scandal because her friend the groceress has too much delicacy to inform her that her good name is im- peached by the butcher. Revelation and retribution are prompt in that sphere. But people walked about Naybury, and met Mr. Conway and hoped that he did not suffer fi-om the hot weather, and met Mrs. Conway, and trusted that her fruit had not been injured by the rains, and met Magdalen Conway, and thought how very much good her Scottish trip had done her, and then they went on, and wondered when the shell would explode which they were certainly not going to be the persons to fire, though, if half of what SOONER OR LATER. 65 was said were true, it was really not the thing for the Con ways to walk about and visit as they did. They should have the good sense, if they had not the good feeling, to know that the truth must have got wind, and that they were causing great pain to their friends by remaining in society, and incurring the danger of an exposure which would bring shame to all. And if a quarter of what was said were true, and there must be some foundation for such reports, surely it would be better, especially as they had plenty of money, to withdraw to some place on the continent, instead of risking a terrible exposure. One of the first persons to whom Mrs. De Gully proceeded to im- part such hints as she thought would be efficacious for her purpose was Mr. Chervil, with whom, as has been said, she held a somewhat friendly relationship, considering their positions. The lady conde- scended to be rather explicit in stating her desire that Mr. Chervil should ventilate the subject as much as he could. Mr. Chervil con- trived, without exactly promising anything, to convey to Mrs. De Gully the impression that he would circulate the scandal far and wide, and she smiled at her diplomacy, as she left him. Had she looked round, she would have seen a smile on his face also. For Mr. Chervil liked the Dormers as much as he was capable of liking anybody connected with hatefal Naybury, and he resolved that not a word to their prejudice should proceed from his lips. As he was in an attitude of normal cynicism as regarded society, he inclined to believe it probable that there was something in the story, but besides his liking for its subjects, he would at any time have done his best to stifle any rumour that could amuse or delight his neigh- bours. Chervil, in fact, was veiy ill affected towards the place, and secretly rejoiced in any humiliation that came upon it, and once when some sneering reference had been made to Naybury in the House of Commons, where the town obtained the distinction of being called miserably backward, ignorant, and unhealthy, Mr. Chervil showed the newspaper report to everybody, and even, under pretence of indignation, caused it to be reproduced in every journal in the county. So that his lips, had they not been sealed for a better reason, would have been hermetically closed upon any stoiy that could give pleasure in the locality he detested. He made one exception only. By some means w^hich, if Mrs. De Gully could not explain them in detail, her friend Francine probably could, the Reverend Edward Grafton received a note, in which his attention was called to certain reports prevalent in London and in Naybury in reference to two persons at whose marriage he had assisted. He was enjoined caution, but was told that Mr. Chervil could give him some insight into the matter. 66 SOONER OR LATER. Edward Grafton immediately fastened upon an idea, which of course was a wrong one, but which it was not unnatural for him to adopt. He remembered his own impressions of Ernest Dormer's character before marriage, impressions which had justified him, as he thought, in addressing to Magdalen that solemn warning which had offended her so much and weighed with her so little. Then, with a certain sense of shame, and yet not without some satisfaction, of which he felt that he ought to be still more ashamed, Edward Grafton recalled the conversation with Mrs. Faunt, and the assu- rance she had given him that circumstances existed which, if known, would have prevented his union with Miss Conway. Mr. Grafton, although he had conquered himself, for the time, and had made his way as he best might out of the mud into which he had been lured by the evil Mrs. Faunt, had never conquered his passion for the woman he had lost. Her husband could never be anything to him but an enemy, and the most hateful of enemies, one who had in- tended him no wrong, and given him no right to be revengeful. *'Now," thought Edward, "the truth has come out. And what next ? Magdalen is, or is about to be, very miserable." Man is a bundle of contradictions, if it be not profane to say so, and the wise who try to reconcile them are fools. It is certain that Edward loved Magdalen, and that he was not sorry that she was likely to fall into affliction. He would know about it, at all events, and he paid an early visit to Mr. Chervil, and showed him the note. "Of course," said Edward Grafton, "a writer of an anonymous letter is a miserable creature, and such communications deserve to be treated with contempt," " That," said Mr. Chervil, with the slightest curl of his intelligent lip, " is no doubt the right thing to say. Honest men owe it to themselves and to society to say so. The next thing is to see what can be got out of an anonymous letter." "The hint points in a direction which I cannot mistake," said Grafton ; " and that is the only reason why I should take the trouble of attending to it." " We need mention no names," said the chemist, " but it is well not to avoid an error persona. " The Eeverend Mr. Grafton looked up as if he thought that a tradesman had no right to quote Latin, but forgave the impertinence on reflecting that the man's trade made him largely acquainted with that language. It was not for Chervil, however, to tell a clergyman and a gentleman how to allude to a lady. SOONER OR LATER. -67 " I have attended at no marriage, except among the lower orders," said Mr. Grafton, "since the wedding of Miss Conway." " Is that, then, the direction you refer to ? " said Chervil. " Certainly. And I am deeply grieved that anything should have occurred to annoy her." " Had you heard anything of the kind before receiving this note, may I ask ? " Edward Grafton coloured. But he was not going to be questioned by the tradesman he had come to question. "Nothing worth repetition." " Well, I have heard nothing worth repetition." " The writer of this note evidently thinks the contrary." " He, or she — for I see it is a female's writing — and I must re- tain our separate opinions," replied Mr. Chervil, calmly. " If any- thing disadvantageous to a worthy person is to be told, there will be plenty of persons to tell it, and I dare say plenty who will be glad to liear of it ; for we all have our enemies." " I am not so certain about the worthiness," said Edward, incau- tiously. "You grieve me much, sir. I had the highest opinion of the lady." "Lady!" " I am sure that she deserves the name ; at least, I should be very sorry to think otherwise." " But we are at cross purposes, Mr. Chervil. I made no allusion to a lady." " Except that you named her, sir, and said that the hint in this note pointed in a certain direction. I am truly glad to have misun- derstood you." " I do not think," said the Reverend Mr. Grafton, " that you or anybody else will hear me say — or tolerate — any objectionable reference to Mrs. Dormer. To correct a mistake, which I cannot understand, I had better say that I alluded to Mr. Dormer." "To Mr. Dormer!" said the chemist. " Ah, you do not think so well of him as you could desire to do ? " " I have my own impression of his character, certainly," said Edward Grafton, who was disconcerted at finding that he was making no way at all with the impassive Mr. Chervil, and was placing himself in the undignified position of a gentleman who had stooped to ask for scandal and who was denied it. " My opinion of him, valeat quantum" said Mr. Chervil (who had not failed to notice Mr. Grafton's silent protest against Latin fi'om the counter) " is a high one ; but many high opinions have to be F 2 68 SOONER OR LATER. modified, and of course I should change mine on good cause shown." Grafton's impulse was to observe that Mr. Chervil's opinion was of no consequence ; but the young clergyman recollected that if he wished to hear anything from the chemist, that sort of remark was not calculated to advance his business. " I speak to you in confidence, Mr. Chervil," said Edward, making, as he thought, a tremendous condescension, which deserved more of a bow than the chemist made in return. " I quite agree with you that as a rule this sort of thing " (taking up the note) " should be left unnoticed." " Pardon me for interrupting you," said Mr. Chervil, " but I expressed no such opinion. I merely observed that it was the right thing to say. As a philosopher I should take any hint that seemed to be of use, whether signed or not, just as if I were walking in the dark and a voice told me my way, I should not refuse to listen because the owner did not begin by bawling out his name and address. But I speak as a humble person. Ladies and gentlemen know nothing of anonymous letters or unworthy means of getting at secrets." He said this respectfully, but he looked so steadily at Edward Grafton while saying it that again the latter coloured, and to the honest sense of shame was added the angry suspicion that Mr. Chervil had heard something about the Faunt mission. This was not the case, and Edward's conscience was punishing him in that matter. But Mr. Chervil had heard of Edward's interview with Magdalen, and his protest against the marriage, and had heard it in a way which shall be explained. However, Mr. Grafton had only to get out of the situation as he best might, and he took the bull by the horns! " You are quite right, Mr. Chervil. At all events there are cir- cumstances in which a man must be a law to himself, and if he thinks that he can do good by availing himself of meai^s which he dislikes " " He may consider the end justified by the means," said the mer- ciless chemist. " Or," he added, not wishing to drive Edward out of the field, " he may say, with an old divine doubtless well known to you,— * Who disdains To pick out treasui-es from an earthen pot ? ' What is it that you desire to know, Mr. Grafton ? " " I own that I should like to know what this note alludes to," said Edward, fairly forced into asking a tradesman for scandal. SOONER OR LATER. '69 " But if I tell you that it really does not afifect a gentleman at all, you will no longer take any interest in it. Well, so far as it has been revealed to me, it has nothing to do with Mr. Dormer's character or conduct." "Are you certain of this?" said Edward, ready for our usual quaiTel with information we dislike. " Quite." *' I suspect that you have not got the whole story, then," said Grafton, almost rudely. *' That is most probable. Whoever does get a whole story ? But in no part of the story which I have got is there anything about the gentleman whom you think unworthy." The repetition of his own word increased Edward's irritation. " You need not repeat to any one that I said so," he replied ; but, recollecting himself, he added, " not of course that you would do so ; but to tell you the truth, I have had so much annoyance from an unguarded expression which I used in a hurry, that it makes me needlessly cautious." This was the way to touch Mr. Chervil, who liked to torment any person who defied him, but who became gentleness itself when the antagonist threw himself on mercy. "I would pretend not to know what you mean, sir," he said, kindly ; "but you would be sure that it was pretence. And I was so heartily glad — if I may be allowed to say it — that you did say what 3'ou mention, that I am afraid I have made ill-will for myself, and given offence by echoing your words. I allude, of course, to the missionaries being eaten." " Confound the missionaries ! " said Edward, but actually looking round as he said it. He had certainly suffered almost enough for one of his offences against decorum. " Many of them are good men, too, sir," said Mr, Chervil ; " that is, until they have been manipulated by those who make religious capital, and worldly capital also, out of their labours. I happen to know a good deal more about them than it would have been good for my business to tell on the platform the night that man Yotes was lecturing here. I knew something about him, too, but it wouldn't have done for me quite to pass by the begging-plate, though it has come to my ears that I might have saved my sixpence, for it got me no Icudos at all with the religious ladies." " Greek, too," thought Edward, " we shall have Hebrew next." He might have had it if Mr. Chervil so pleased ; for whether the Reverend Mr. Grafton could read a verse of the original book of inspiration or not. Chervil, the chemist, could there and then have 70 SOONER OR LATER. given him instances of all the seven conjugations from kal to hithpael. But Edward's business just then was to get at the news, whatever it might be, for he was an obstinate man ; and, in spite of Chervil's assurance to the contrary, persisted in retaining his belief that Ernest Dormer's conduct was in some way connected with the mystery ; and he bore with the chemist's condolence, approbation, and learning, in a way befitting a Christian minister under unmerited affliction. " I am glad that a sensible man understands what I said, and looks at the matter from a right point of view. I don't allege that those who believe that emissaries should be sent out at a great cost to black savages, while not an effort is made to rescue white savages at home, have not certain reasons which they think of force ; and I don't at all charge them with being hypocritical. But my views are of no consequence just now, and I only mention them because you can appreciate the difficulty in which I carelessly placed myself, when, being known to have such ideas, I hastily said something which only meant that I was in a great hurry. But in reference to this communication from this unknown person ; are you disposed to tell me what it means ? " " You have been frank with me, Mr. Grafton ; and I thank you. I will be as frank in return as I ought to be. There are scandals spreading over Naybury, and they affect the character of the lady whom we will not mention. I believe them to be lies, scattered for a purpose. I am certain that the person who brought them to me was doing somebody else's errand, though but doing it unwillingly ." " Will you tell me who it was ?" " I would rather not do so now." " But will you say whether it was man or woman ? " " Woman," said Mr. Chervil, after a pause. " But not a lady ?" " No," said Mr. Chervil ; " anything but a lady. And that is all I think it right to say at present. I am in the hands of a gentle- man." " Yes," said Edward Grafton, " do not be afraid of my injuring you by repeating anything you have said to me ; but I am, of course, unfettered as to my course of action. I believe that I know your informant, and I will muzzle her." " Mind she does not bite while you are doing it ; that is a way with animals of her class." " Yes, it is," said Mr. Grafton ; " but I think I know how to manage. Meantime, I am sure that you will repeat nothing." SOONER OR LATER. 71 "I don't know that you have found me very indiscreet, sir. Perhaps you will let me say something more. I advise you not to be the means of making the scandal more talked of than it would other- wise be. At present it is in the hands of persons of no — of no social condition; but if it is taken up by a clergyman — especially a man of family, like yourself — the better class must notice it one way or the other, and the mischief which was intended will be done." " That is good sense, Mr. Chervil," said Edward, to a man of twice his age and ten times his wisdom. " I am glad to find that you see matters in the right light. Don't be afraid of my doing harm." " I am not, because it is done," said Mr. Chervil, looking after Mr. Grafton as he went down the street. " That is an able man ; just the person one would select as a guide in what we are told to consider so important. I think I have done some good. If I had not said what I did, he would have shown the letter to somebody else. ^No, he Avould not, for he has left it here ; more clerical wisdom. I seem to recognise the style of the paper ; I have cer- tainly had notes of this shape. It is squarer than the usual sort ; I will compare it when I have time. Ah, he has missed it !" Edward hastened back to ask for the note, which he supposed that he had left upon the counter ; but it appeared that he had not done so, nor could the united researches of himself and Mr. Chervil discover it. " I hope that I have not dropped it in the street," said Mr. Grafton. " I hope not, sir," said Mr. Chervil. " But if you have, and as my name is mentioned in it, perhaps the finder may bring it to me ; if so, I will take care of it." There are two kinds of men who like to get and preserve letters. One is the class who keep such things for a special purpose, and these may or may not be honest, but they are not fools. The other is the class of fools proper, who think that every incident in their foolish lives is worth illustration by documentary evidence. Mr. Chervil was not of the latter order, at all events. A reader wUl scarcely need to be told where Edward's suspicions alighted. The scene which Mrs. Conway had described as having occurred at the Rectory had prepared him for any act of wild wrath on the part of J\Irs. Faunt. That scene had been truly stormy, and we may be glad to have to do with it only at second hand. Mrs Faunt had been to Saxbury Rectory," and had conducted herself in the way that Mrs. Conway had heard. The event would not have occurred but for an unfortunate failing of which Mrs. Faunt had never been able to divest heftelf, though it had been her bane upon 72 SOONER OR LATER. SO many occasions that a clever woman might have been warned against it. During her earlier residence in Naybury parish she had indeed striven with some success against her weakness, but it had been too strong for her during her visit to London, where she had met with sundry discouragements and reverses which seemed to justify her in seeking consolation of a stimulating kind, and she had brought back with her the re-adopted habit, and the means of in- dulging it more pleasantly than the resources of the locality enabled her to do. And on one evening, when a wet and tempestuous day had confined her to the cottage, and to moody meditation over her wrongs and troubles, as she called and probably thought them, Mrs. Faunt had comforted herself up into such a state of excitement that she had gone off impulsively to the Eectory, and given the startling information that the younger Grafton owed her money for secret ser- vices, and that unless she were paid the universe should be made acquainted with their nature. She had not quite known Avith whom she had to do, but informa- tion on that point was conveyed to her with considerable promptitude and emphasis. Edward was away, and the allegation was made, therefore, to his father, the terrible Eector, his mother, and Mr. Abbott, whom Mrs. Faunt had graciously recognised as a fat old thief of a lawyer, and had permitted to listen or not, as the staring old prig preferred. She stated her case, in which Mrs. Conway, with motherly indignation, declared there could not be a word of truth. Mr. Abbott had his own ideas, recollecting certain points in Edward's manner upon two or three occasions. What the Rector thought may not be of importance, but what he said was greatly to the purpose. He had, like Mrs. Faunt — if we may compare a dignified clergyman of the Church of England with a dreadful low woman of a dirty cottage — been considering his wrongs and troubles, as he called and probably thought them, and the result was a state of temper which boded no good to the first person who should cross him that night. For her sins, it was Mrs. Faunt. Upon whom the Pteverend Theo- dore Grafton immediately opened so tremendous a fire of commina- tion, delivered in the most thunderous tones of his magnificent organ, and conveying to the astounded woman such denunciations of earthly and heavenly wrath, but more particularly the former as exemplified in the treadmill, that he literally roared her into something like a fit, unrecovered from which, and still under the thunder of the sacerdotal guns, she was shoved out of the house and into the road, the Rector menacing a similar vengeance on any one who should dare to succour her. Mrs. Faunt had no distinct recollection of getting home, but that she had done so at some time, in diflficulties, she learned from SOONER OR LATER. 73 finding herself on lier bed in the cold morning, wet, muddy, and shivering. Never had such a moral and physical tempest descended upon her simultaneously. Her opinion of the clergy, we have been obliged to hear upon more than one occasion, but her contempt for the body was thenceforth exchanged for a different feeling in regard to a single member of the Establishment, of whom she retained an indelible impression, created in the moment of her own obscuration and his rage, and one which connected him with her superstitious idea of the Personage to whom he was professionally bound to be most unlike. But little had been said to Edward Grafton upon the subject. His mother had affectionately assured him that not for a moment had she lent credence to the vile woman's story, and his father affected to take its falsehood for granted, but avoided fiu'ther reference to the subject ; Mr. Abbott had, in a friendly way, hinted to Edward that persons of Mrs, Taunt's type were dangerous and troublesome, and that if he had any reason to apprehend farther molestation, it might be well to take some active measm-e for getting rid of her, to which Edward Grafton had replied by a few words which meant that he could say a great many, but as he chose to be silent, Mr. Abbott had no alternative but to imitate him. The information which Edward had received from Mr. Chervil led the former to the belief that Mrs. Faunt, raging with vengeance, had determined to do mischief to somebody, and would speedily involve him in the consequences of any injury to the Dormers. Mr. Chervil, having replied in the negative to the question whether the informant were a lady, had removed any doubt that existed in Grafton's mind, and there he was once more in antagonism with the evil Mrs. Faunt. He determined to see her. He wondered that she had never sent for him. For though the Rectory had repudiated the bargain between her and himself, and had blown her away from its guns, the bargain existed, and Edward had been quite disposed to fulfil it. He thought that he had arranged with Charity Faunt that the payment he made at their last meeting was to suffice for the time, and that the remainder of the money was to be paid as she might require it. And so matters had been left, peacefully enough, and so they might have remained but for Mrs. Faunt's unfortunate habit of comforting herself. Yes, he would go and see her. This time, at least, he had nothing to be afraid of. Treason had done its worst, or nearly so. In fact it had done the worst it was likely to do unless treason became mad- ness, for to reveal any more than Mrs, Faunt had done was to deprive the secret of its market-value. 74 SOONER OR LATER. Besides this, he had a right to go and remonstrate with her on her behaviour at the Rectory. She had been guilty of a clear breach of faith, and had thus given him a vantage ground, whence he hoped to act with more success than in his previous engagements. But what was he going to say ? Well, he had time to consider that as he went along. He did not very well know what he wanted to say, but the point he had to gain was that Mrs. Faunt should instantly cease from putting about slanders touching Mrs. Dormer. He found Mrs. Paunt at home. More than that, he found her exceedingly respectful, not to say humble. She was perfectly sober, and reasonably tidy ; and when she offered him a chair, and did not take her own place on a stool until he had sat down, the reception was much more like that due to a clergyman when visiting a poor parishioner than any which Charity Faunt had yet vouchsafed to her clerical friend. " Well, Mrs. Faunt, and what could have taken you to the Rectory that night ? " said Edward Grafton, encouraged by her mildness. " Please don't speak about it, sir. It was a mistake," said Charity Faunt, castiug down her eyes. "Yes, it was a mistake, Mrs. Faunt, and something worse. I have no wish to get up a new quarrel, and I believe that you were somewhat severely spoken to by the Rector — was it not so ? " " He gave me his mind, sir. I am not saying that he had not a right to do it, after my forcing my way into his room at that time of night, though what I said to him I declare I don't know." " Don't you," thought Edward, who believed that he saw his way to an advantage. " I can tell you what you said, if you like. But we will speak of that presently. I should like to know your reason for breaking up the arrangement which we came to, and which seemed to satisfy you so completely." " You consider it broken up, Mr. Grafton, don't you ? " " Why, if you agree to be paid for keeping a secret, and you tell the secret, I don't see that you can expect your pay. What do you say ? " " It must be as you please, sir, for I don't know what I said to your father and mother. If it's over, it's over." " Yes, that's all very well, but what do you think of your con- duct towards me ? I behaved well enough to you, as you cannot deny." *' We won't go into that, if you please, sir," said Mrs. Faunt, humbly. " I am quite agreeable that bygones should be bygones, and that you shouldn't darken my door any more. I have been the SOONER OR LATER. 75 loser. I have not hurt you that I am aware of, but if I have I am very sorry. And so, sir, you will be so good as to let the stupid matter drop." " Mrs. Faunt," said Edward Grafton, " I know enough of you, by this time, to be pretty sure that you are playing a part, and that all this quietness and humility are assumed." " Perhaps, being the Rector's son, you never had the ill-luck to stand, or at least to try to stand, before him when he was raging at you like a wild bull. If you had, sir, you would know that he is enough to scare the senses out of you for one while. I am not tiraider than another, but 1 have not got over that sermon yet. Besides, I caught cold, and I am very ill. Maybe you would not mind going away now, and coming to see me again when I am more fit to talk to you ? " " If you are ill, Mrs. Faunt, it is my duty to pity you, and I do so, in a sense. But your illness you brought upon yourself, and you must consider it as a punishment. You are not very ill — I am in the habit of seeing sick people, you know." " I did not know it, sir," said Charity, quite quietly ; but Edward recollected that she had before reminded him that his pastoral visits were not exactly the business of his life. " Ah," he said, sharply, " you are well enough, and keen enough to hear what I say and to understand it. Don't let us waste time. You have spoiled your own game as regards myself by revealing my folly to the only persons from whom I wished to hide it." " I did that, did I, sir ? " she asked, penitentially. " Do I not tell you that you did ? You say you were not in a state to know what you said to my father and mother. I learn from them what you did say, namely, that I sent you to town for the purpose of obtaining evidence against Mr. Dormer in order to pre- vent his man-iage." " I went and said that, did I, sir ? " Her rather pertinacious questioning did not please Edward, but it was his nature to hold on to what he thought was a success. " How many more times am I to say so ? " " It's very sad, very sad, indeed, Mr. Grafton, but it's a comfort to me to know that your parents think none the worse of you for in, and that your father, terrible gentleman as he is, allowed you to mount his pulpit all the same." " A son's errors are easily forgiven," said Edward, reddening, but hoping that in the gloom of the cottage the manifestation would not be observed. " Very true, sir ; and now might I ask what you wanted to say to 76 SOONER OR LATER. me ? After what I did, you may be sure that I should not have sought after you, if you had not sought after me." " That I believe. You had done with me. But you are at other work, Mrs. Faunt, and I am come here to ask you to leave it off." " If you would be so good as to tell me what it is, I might, sir. Lord knows that I am not much given to work, and never was — better for me I suppose if I'd ever seen the blessedness you gentle- men tell us there is in what you call, for all that, the curse of labour. But I never did. I believed it was meant for a curse, as it was called, and I always found it an uncommon hard one." " You are trying to talk me away from the matter, but it won't do. I know the game which you are playing now, though I don't see what you are to get by it." *' Then, sir, you may be quite sure I'm not playing, any more than I'm working. I never work or play either unless something is to be got by it." " I only say I don't see how. I make no doubt you do. Don't pretend not to understand me, but tell me whether you vsdll leave off, and whether you want anything for doing so." " As I'm a living woman I don't understand you, sir, unless you mean the drink, and that it is my intention to leave off entirely as soon as I am well enough to." " Drink ! Do you think I care whether you drink or not ? — that is to say, except as a clergyman who is bound to tell you that it is wrong. Drink yourself into delirium tremens, if you like," added the clergyman, non-oflficially. " You're very good, Mr. Grafton, and I am sure you speak the truth when you say you wouldn't care. But if you don't mean that, I might as well be the blind nigger in the cellar tiying to find out what o'clock it is by the sun-dial." " Do you mean to deny that you are spreading slander about the character of a lady of Naybury ? " "Yes, it's true, but then it's my own character," said Mrs. Faunt, with provoking mildness, and a sort of despair. " I am publishing myself for a bad one, I know that." " And you are a bad one," said Edward, angrily ; " but do not play with me. I may make you an offer in place of the agreement which you chose to break ; but then I must know all that you have been doing, and how far the mischief has spread. Confound it, Mrs. Faunt, we have had to speak plainly to one another before this — what's the use of humbug ? " " You know better than me, sir, as most gentlefolks use the article spontaneous, and poor folks only when they go in for plunder." SOONER OK LATER. 77 "As you think you are doing now. Well, name your terms." " For what, Mr. Grafton ? " " For telling me all that you have done in the way of slandering Mrs. Dormer, and for leaving it off for the future." Mrs. Faunt looked at him keenly. " There is a plant here," she said, with a good deal of her old insolent manner. " I see. Have you got anybody listening outside ? No, it's too early times for that. I am to be lured within earshot afterwards. I understand. And then I, being a tipsy, disreputable woman, who have made one false charge, am to be laid hold of for another, and then the magistrates will lay their heads together, and I shall be got out of the way, right or wrong. I have known a little of what country justices can do when it has been for the good of respectable folks that some one should be run down to death — perhaps I have had a hand in that sort of thing myself. But it will not do with me, Mr. Grafton. I am too old a bird to be caught in that way, as you might have known. So I have been slandering Mrs. Dormer, have I ? It's a lie. If there's one person in all Naybury I would stand by, it is that lady ; for she is about the only lady who has never insulted me. You made a bad pick when you chose her name to fix your lie on, sir." " Becoming language, Mrs. Faunt ! " "It's suitable to the occasion, Mr. Grafton ; and if it isn't I don't care." " There is not the least ground for your suspicions, and if there were a reason to wish you got rid of, which there is not so long as you conduct yom-self decently, I dare say that the magistrates could find a better way of clearing the place of you than by the disrepu- table course you speak of. Be good enough to dismiss such a notion from your mind, and speak like a woman of sense. I don't believe in your denial, and you had much better tell me what I ask for. Go out, and search, if you like, and see whether I have any witnesses lurking about." " And I will, too," said Mrs. Faunt, who had the faculty of get- ting into a rage at short notice, as we have seen. She went out angrily, and looked round the cottage, not perhaps that she really expected to find anybody, but because it was in her nature to carry out any piece of angry folly to the end. Not finding any one, she returned, and glanced at her bed, with a curious expression in her face. Edward, of course, could not trans- late this look, but it might have had reference to a witness of her ovm, who, on Grafton's last visit, had been made available. " That doesn't seem part of your trick, Mr. Grafton, and I sup- 78 SOONER OR LATER. pose you mean to rely on your being belieyed yourself wlien you go away and swear that I owned to you what you say. We shall see, we shall see." " Very well," said Edward. " Be as obstinate as you like. But if you are left here in peace and quiet, and no steps whatever are taken against you, I suppose that in time you will come to the belief that none were ever intended. And when you tell me so, I shall be ready to talk to you again." " You will talk to me just when I choose, sir ; and when I choose to send to you to demand more payment on account of what you owe me, I expect the proper answer." " After your conduct at the Rectory ? That closed the old account, as I have told you over and over again, and as you allow." " Is that so, indeed, sir ? " said Charity Faunt. " I had rather built upon that money to live respectable on. But as you say it is lost, I suppose it is. There is only one thing which I must do, for, bad as I am, I can feel sliame and sorrow for my sins." " What is that, Mrs. Faunt ? " " I must write a letter to your respected father and your dear mother, saying how sorry I am for having caused that disturbance the other night, and telling them that though you entrapped me into trying to get evidence against Mr. Ernest Dormer, and I did so, I never let you have it, so that no harm was really done. I will write the letter, sir, and I would ask you to take it, only I know that gentle- men are apt to forget to deliver such things ; but I will take care that it is read by the Reverend Mr. and Mrs. Grafton. It is the least I can do for you." " I beg that you will do nothing of the kind," said Edward, feel- ing particularly disconcerted, "It cannot do any harm, sir, and at least it will show a good meaning." " The less you have to do with the Rectory, the better," replied the clergyman, peremptorily. "But you must please to allow me to take my own way, sir, especially as the consequences, if there are any, can fall on me only." "You don't know that. You may increase the mischief which you have already done." " How can I, sir, if they know all about the business. It is only making an apology." By this time, Edward Grafton, though not particularly clear-sighted, perceived that he had not duped the woman before him, and he racked his non-inventive brain for a new reason that should dissuade her SOONER OR LATER. 79 from what she proposed. But nothing occurred to him, and Mrs. Faunt, after a pause, said, quietly, — " It is not for the like of me to interfere with the arrangements of my betters. If Mr. and Mrs. Grafton have made it all right with their son, in spite of the shocking things which I am told I let out, the least he can do is to make it all right with me, and let matters be as they were before. " So that I am still in your debt, Mrs. Faunt ? " asked Edward, who saw that he had no chance." " Just so, sir, and we will let the wigging go for nothing." If the Rector could have heard the word she applied to his terrific anathema ! " Perhaps it may as well stand so," said poor Edward. " Let me know when you want money. But mind what I say about the other affair, and stop what I have asked you to stop. It shall be to your advantage, I promise you. And now good-day, but think of what I have said. I have never done you any harm, and you may gain by obliging me." " I may, and I will," said Mrs. Faunt, as she scornfully watched the inglorious retreat of the defeated clergyman. " Trust him ! Not a bit of it. That was a good dodge, too, to make me try to believe that I was so far gone that night as to spoil my game by letting out too much. I was a great fool, but I know exactly what I did say ; and I don't know that I am very sorry I said it, though that bellow- ing parson was too much for my nerves. Perhaps I shall be able to say something to him, one of these days, and if I don't, hard words break no bones, or I should have been killed many a year ago." The exemplar}' woman paused, and perhaps revolved certain stormy passages in her life when indignation had been poured upon her by some who had a right to be wrath at her amiable offices. " No, they break no bones," she repeated. " It is when a person looks white, and stares with his hot eyes, and then comes across the room like a flash of lightning, and there you lie in a heap, waiting to feel his heel — yah," she exclaimed, as if resisting a suffocating sensation. " That's worth being afraid of. But my time for that sort of thing is nearly over and gone. And Avhen I have quite done with my dear Benjamin Dudley, as he calls himself, I think it will be time for me to retire into private life. There's something to be done yet, too. And I'll have this foolish parson's money, and more at the back of it, if only for the sake of bringing him up here, with one of his twopenny plots, and sending him away looking like a beaten cur, I have had my beatings, but I have had my little vengeances — my nice little vengeances." CHAPTER VII. THE CONVALESCENT. " Better to day, I see," said Mr. Dudley, coming into Mr. Far- quhar's room, as if he had left his patient in the most amicable manner the evening before ; the fact being that the younger man had seen or heard nothing of Mr, Dudley since the stormy morning when George had professed himself unable to meet Dormer, " You will be all right in a few days, and then we must really move you into the country air." " I don't know whether I am better or not," said George Farquhar, sulkily. " That means that you want to know whether I have anything for you to do. Make yourself easy, and be as well as you like, I have called in a friendly way to look after you. Let's feel your pulse. So ! Tongue ? Ah ! not bad. Appetite ? " Not much." " Not for lodging-house cookery, I dare say. Stale eggs and watered milk for breakfast, and chops half raw, half cinder, for dinner. It is not, perhaps, the diet most calculated to bring on an invalid. We'll get you ^into a farm-house, where you shall be treated like a human being with gustatory and digestive organs. Meantime, you'll find something eatable in this parcel I have brought you. Have you a lock-up place, as what's there is really too good for the young cat that opens the door, or the old cat that makes out the bills ? " " Thank you, Dudley, that is kind ! " said Farquhar, who was just in that state of convalescence which excuses a person for hating most things and disliking the rest. " Yes, there's a good lock on that cheffonier." "Ah! Then it probably opens with a flap behind. Does your landlady object to sending for beer, and has she got a large Bible in the front room ? If so, there is certainly a flap. However, eat that up soon, and then there'll be none for the cats. Well, you don't ask me how I got on as your substitute the other day ? " " You've hardly given me time. What did you do ? " SOONER OR LATER. 81 " All things considered, my boy, I think it is just as well that you were ill that day. I don't suppose that you would have been able to get through the interview. I had not expected the plea- santest of conversations, of course ; but things came to a point which was nearly personal." " He was enraged ; or what ? " " There was rage, no doubt, but that was not all. He got to a white heat, which may cool, but which, if it doesn't, may be dangerous. However, we wait to hear." " Did you tell him I was in town ? " " Don't be so frightened. Do you imagine that I would expose a friend to an unnecessary danger ? He is not thinking of you ? He is thinking of the news he received, and whether it is true or not. The deadly shaft clingeth in his side, as we used to say in our classical days." " But about my own affair. Have you seen Hobbins again, or heard of him ?" said Farquhar, anxiously. " Yes," said Dudley. " And is — is anything to be done ? " " I will calm your mind by telling you this : for some reason, the matter is allowed, for the moment, mind, to go to sleep. But it may be waked at any instant, so do not run into your usual extreme of over-security when you are not in a state of over-terror. I have got Mr. Hobbins to promise that no step shall be taken without his giving me the earliest notice. This may be very shortly, but we shall have it." " But I had hoped," said Farquhar, querulously, " that what you were doing in the other quarter would prevent her friends from taking steps at all. I remember you talked about spiking their guns." " I dare say I did ; but things will not always go at the pace we desire. And it is just on the cards, you know — not to frighten you — that the course we are taking with Mr. Dormer may just be the way to quicken the action of Mrs. Dormer's friends. The less they like what he has to say to them, the more reason for coming down in thunder on you." " You are a Job's comforter, you are." "Don't be profane, George. Besides, the phrase is foolish, like most old phrases. Job wanted very Httle comfort ; he looked at things philosophically. All his children were killed, and he is represented as having been quite compensated by a second marriage and more children. So that his feelings did not demand much considera- tion." VOL. ir. o 82 SOONER OR LATER. " Nor do mine, as you seem to think," "I hate a man to look dismal. Fight, or jump over the bridge, but don't wear a whining expression like that of an Italian organ- man, whom I always wish to kick for looking miserable. But I did not come to row you to-day ; I want to have a little serious talk about your future prospects. You can't mean to go on in your present way, doing no credit to yourself, giving no satisfaction to your employers, and drifting on to an examination at which you are sure to be plucked." " You put things pleasantly." " I put 'em truthfully, and you cannot deny it." " Let me get well, and then we'll see what is to be done." " Deuce a bit. This is the time to consider, when your head is reasonably clear. I tell you that I am quite resolved to rehabilitate you — that's a long word, isn't it ? and I expect to be listened to, because I have not been a bad friend." " If you say that, I won't remember that you declared the last time you were in this room, that I was flung over for ever." " I said something when I was in a passion, and I may say some- thing the next time I get into one ; but the proof of my friendship is that I am here, leaving my place to take care of itself." " Under the direction of Mr. Spitty, I suppose ?" " No, locked up. I had to wop Mr. Spitty for his good, and he saw it in a wrong light, and has bolted. I hope he will come back, for though he has a beast of a temper, which I am sure he never learned from his master, he knew his work, and I should wop him again and forgive him. Your father is not so indulgent," said Mr. Dudley, suddenly. " What of him now ? " said Farquhar, flushing. " You have not heard from him ? " asked the young man, changing colour. " No, no, of course not ; but I did not name him exactly by acci- dent, though I might as well have introduced him more gradually. As we have got to him, listen to me, G-eorge Farquhar." " I have so often asked you not to enter on that subject." " But it is for your good, and I will tread as gingerly as I can. Do be a man of sense. You have evidently some extraordinary terror of this father of yours, and I am not going to ask you what it means ; but I have a right to use it as an argument to induce you not to be weak and purposeless. Does your father support you ? " " In a sense." " Bah ! don't speak in that way." *' The people I am with pay me an allowance, not as a salary, — I am articled, — but the money comes, as it were, from him." SOONER OR LATER. 83 "Much?" " No ; — well, if you must know, one hundred a year." " You don't live on two pounds a week, Mr. George Farquhar. Your music-hall expenses would swallow up that." " No such thing !" said Farquliar, pettishly ; "nor half of it." " I know better. Eemember, I have had my eye upon you. You don't content yourself with three or four glasses of their spirits, which, beastly as they are, are the least noxious things they sell. You are a gentleman, and go in for abominable messes called wines, and you treat persons, chiefly — but not always, Mr. Farquhar — of the other sex. Not always, I know that ; and I have told you as much, I think." " Is this sort of thing part of the friendly visit ?" said George Far- quhar, going to the window. " Come back and sit down, and don't be school-boyish, I tell you," said Dudley, in rather a kinder tone. " Yes," he added, as George obeyed, with a weak sort of reluctance, " I am doing my best for you, and I won't be hindered by your petulance. I don't want to remind you, again, that I have a right to talk thus, but please just bear it in mind when you are inclined to be absurd. Now, my good fellow, it is quite plain to me that you are hopelessly in debt." " I don't see why you should say hopelessly. I may be in debt, as many men have been before, and will be again. But one can get out of debt, as well as get into it." " Yes, in two ways. One is to white-wash. The other is by making terms with your creditors, and keeping those terms by hard work and self-denial. You're afraid of the first, and unequal to the second." " How can I work when I'm under articles ? " " Men have worked with their pens, far into the night, and made much money that way, when they could get very little in any other ; but I don't say that you can do it. Have you any expectations ? " " None on which I can raise money. There will be something coming to me one day, at a death which — which I hope is a long way off." " Your father's ? " " No, I do not allude to him. We need not talk about this, for the reason I tell you." " That money, however, will certainly be yours ? " " I do not even say that. But I do not count upon it." " Yes, you do, in youi- weaker moments, of which you have a good many." " I have never done so," said George, with an earnestness very unlike his usual manner. " And if I chose to tell you the name of G 2 84 SOONEK OR LATER. the person to whom it now belongs, you would understand that I speak the truth." ",I take the liberty of making a guess," said Dudley, " and you can answer it or not. The person is your mother. And I will tell you something more, as you will not tell it to me. You are a good son to your mother." '•' It may be so," said Farquhar, with agitation. " Let that subject drop." " How foolish you are," said his friend. " Why cannot you com- plete the confidence, and let me help you ? " " Because," said Farquhar, with a heightened colour, and a certain dignity of manner, " because you are not the sort of friend to whom I can make any confidences again. Listen to me, Dudley, in turn." The young man, upon whom the thoughts roused by the reference Dudley had made produced a singular effect, giving him for the mo- ment a better and manlier bearing than was his wont, looked Dudley straight in the face and went on : " I thought very well of you, Dudley, during the first part of our acquaintance. I believed you a rough, good fellow, working hard for your bread, and not particular about dress and manners, but with a sound heart under all ; and you were so unlike myself that I took to you. Since, I have seen you in other lights. I'm not complain- ing. You have made me a tool, and you've got, as you say, such a hold on me that I must do your work. But though I am a weak ass, I am not a low scoundrel, and what I do for you in this infernal con- spiracy — that's the right word for it — I do because I must. Don't suppose I do it willingly. And do not bring in anything that has no bearing on the conspiracy. You like plain language — have you got it now ? " He had spoken courageously and weU, but at the end his face grew pale, and showed how the effort had told upon him. Dudley had listened in silence. But when Farquhar had done, and was giving evidence of exhaustion, Dudley rose, and with actual tenderness of manner supported the young man to the couch, and then producing a small bottle, mixed some stimulant with water, and held it to Farquhar's lips, supporting him with a strong hand. " If you always showed so much spirit, my dear George," he said, kindly, " you would not be in difficulties, either of purse or of per- son. You have not told me anything I did not know ; but you are a good frank fellow to say what you have done, and you have not in- jured yourself with me." And he shook hands with Farquhar, who tried to speak. " No, hold your tongue. You have spoken to the purpose. I SOONER OR LATER. 85 shall not keep you in the dark any longer. I tell you plainly that I have discovered the secret of your home story, and the reason of your fear of offending your father. I incline to think that you'll believe me without proof. But I'll give you proof. And that I may do it without wounding your feelings needlessly, I will ask you whether you know enough of heraldry to understand the meaning of the bar sinister ? There, don't turn red again ! More good fellows have borne it than the world knows." " I see. Another hold upon me," said Farquhar. " But for one thing, how soon I would cut myself free ! " "That one thing being your indisposition to break a loving heart," said Dudley, quickly. " The reason is a good one, I think, and, what is more, it will be your excuse to yourself for anything which you may do for me. I know no excuse which honourable men would think so valid." The words were not lost upon George Farquhar, but he made no reply. " We shall work together well enough," continued his Mentor, " now that we understand each other so perfectly. But more of tliat another time. I want, if possible, to utilise this illness of yours, and for your own benefit. I do not want to lose time, because I am playing for a stake ; and if I win, you will see very little more of me, and if I lose, nothing at all. I should like you to put down on paper a list of your debts, and be sure that you do not deceive yourself." " Is^ot likely." " Nothing more likely. For by a comfortable strangeness in human nature, we have a facility in banishing the idea of a person whom we dislike, such as a creditor whom we can't pay. We thrust him away and away, and at last we manage to forget his existence, and when he comes up again we feel angry surprise. I have known lots of cases in which fellows, with the best will in the world to make a clean breast of their liabilities, have left out some thundering sum, and declared that they had told all. And I know that those who believed them insincere did them wrong. You stick down every- thing. Try down the alphabet ; look over your letters ; consider your brewer, and baker, and candlestick-maker, and mind nobody slips through." " And what then, Dudley ? " " Well, then, if you manage well for me in the business to which you put a hard name — and the right one — we will see whether some- body of my acquaintance will not take the debts off* your hands, and enable you to start fresh for the examination and for practice." 86 SOONER OR LATER. " Did you ever hear these words, ' I don't care a red cent, or a smaller coin, if there is one, for your prospects in the pro- fession ?'" " You have a good memory, Farquhar," said his friend, laughing, " and that will be invaluable to you in the Law. Yes, I said that, and two or three other brutal things ; but my object was to make it very clear to you that you must follow my lead. I did not know so much about you as I do now, and I did not respect you so much." " How did you learn anything about me ? " " Frankly, in a way which you would not call gentlemanly. If you did you would misuse language. You will find out how when you open that parcel ; but don't be alarmed — the documents are care- fully divided from the dishes. Nay, sit still. You can look at that after I am gone." " The prospect you hold out " " Say nothing about that either, until we have cleared the way. Make out the list of debts, and be ready to attend any appointment I may make for you." " Give me as much preparation as you can." " Certainly I will. I will come and talk the matter over, and coach you, as it were, as I suspect you'll have to pay some fellow to do when the examination time comes on. You must be made a lawyer first, and learn the law afterwards." " But I say, Dudley, what sort of an appointment do you mean ? " " Wliy, I can hardly tell exactly, but its bearings must be in this wise. I told Mr, Dormer, after a good deal of fencing, in which I am bound to say that he showed a very lofty and haughty tact, — but he had got something] in his] head which I had not a chance of getting to understand — I told him, I say, what we had agreed that you should tell him. The only thing was, that as it came to him second-hand — that is, as regards the identification of Mrs. Dormer with the lady at the chambers — he is not so clearly con- vinced, perhaps, as might be desired. The Andrew Barton business, on the contrary, came direct from me, who saw the poor murdered fellow out of the world, Mr. Dormer probably took in at once. And he has got the locket. I don't think he knew that he was taking it away. You'd have asked him for it ; I knew better." " Yes ; I should not have parted with it." " Being a lawyer. But there are laws of nature which are higher than yours, and I have studied some of them. No matter for that. I am now waiting to hear from him again." SOONER OR LATER. 87 " You think you will." " It is certain." " And he will want my evidence." " He will want the evidence of a young professional gentleman, of unblemished character, who is received in society, and used to be a favourite visitor at Mr. Justice Trailbaston's, and this undeniable witness will inform him that he knew Miss Conway well, and that he saw her at Mr. Vaughan's window at the time of the murder. And if my young friend, when summoned to give this testimony, shall have well considered all that I have said to him to-day, he will give his evidence with some reluctance, but with a straightforwardness which will carry conviction to the hearer. But if the Hobbins party proceed in the meantime, we shall want the same evidence, only it will have to be tendered in a different direction. For now that I know why you fear your father, it will be for me to take care that your fears are not realised. Now, I have talked to you enough ; so I will go, and do you ring for your lunch tray, and see whether my provender suits you. Good-bye, old fellow, and keep up your spirits, for your own sake, and for that of your mother." And so Mr. Dudley went away, saying a civil word to the land- lady, who was at the foot of the stairs, and whom he had described as a thieving old cat. " It is easy to see," said Mr. Dudley, " that my young friend was kindly looked after," and he assured the woman that her attentions would not be forgotten by Mr. Farquhar's relatives. " Glad to hear it," grunted the old woman, as he closed the door. " I never heard of any of his relatives, except his uncle round the comer, where his watch must be at this present moment, or why should he bother me to let him know the right time ? " Mr. Dudley, also, had his Judd Street reJBlections. "What a weak fool he is," thought Dudley. "That speech he made to me I confess surprised me a bit, but I fancy he must have rehearsed it. I was very glad to hear him speak up so well, because it shows that he'll be able to do it when he has to meet Dormer. If I can only keep him up to the mark. But the finding that out about his mother was a great card. A good thought of mine to call on his employers, and describe myself not only as his doctor but as his inti- mate friend. And a better thought in theirs to hand me the sealed parcel containing all his diaries and letters, which one of the patrons had taken out of the desk they were obliged to break open, and had fastened up so tight and honourable. And the best thought was mine again, which was to open the packet and examine my friend's papers. What an ass a man is who writes down his worries and §8 SOONER OR LATER. Ms secrets ! He is sure to lose the book one day or other — or, at least, to;;have it read. I soon put this and that together, and I find that he is the son of a fierce old ruffian, whose exact nature, history, and calling I cannot make out ; but I think he is a silversmith. And this ruffian's wife, — only she is not his wife, — appears' to be a most admirable person, who was probably deceived with the idea that she was married. And now that the elder miscreant has found some new tie, he menaces his son with the threat that if he ever gives him the slightest trouble, the mother shall be turned out of doors, and the circumstances shaU be known. The one strong nerve in George's bundles of weak nerves is his love for his mother. And there will be no need to drive him any more — I can lead him delicately by a grey hair from the carum ca;put of Mrs. Farquhar." CHAPTER VTIL EGGS AEE STILL EGGS. " Well, Lucy, why have you sent for me ? " " You are not angry with me, "Walter, are you ? " " Angry ? No, of course not ; but cm-ious," " Sit down, then," said Lucy. " I am hard at work, as you see, and I have made no end of money since I saw you last." " Very glad to hear it," said Colonel Latrobe. " How are Mopes and the Mouse ? " "All right. They will come in, I hope, in time to see you. They often talk about you, and Mopes takes a paper-knife, and rushes down upon the Dormouse, crying out that she is Colonel Walter killing the Sepoys." " Bless her ! Well, and how is her mother ? " " Very well, but not very strong," said Lucy, smiling. " But I have been in much better spirits these last few days. I don't know why. And the next thing I want to say is that I have finished the httle present of eggs which a certain friend of mine promised to accept from me." " That is veiy good of you, Lucy, but I don't like the idea of your working for me when you can Avork for yourself." " You are very selfish, when you know how much pleasure I got out of the work. See here ! " She made him cross the studio, and inspect a set of eggs, charmingly tinted, and arranged, not scientifically, but in a much prettier fashion, with mosses. " Do you know anything about eggs, Walter ? " asked Lucy, laughing. " Only the domestic article — yes, and the plover's." " That is usually a crow's. Well, then, I must explain my gift, or its remarkable merits will not be understood. Of course, all these are forgeries — I need not tell you that ? " " But they are just as good as the originals, I suppose ? " " Quite, I should think ; but that is the purchaser's business. 90 SOONER OR LATER. Here I have painted for you the eggs of some rare birds, and I flatter myself that I have done them well. These are the eggs of the red-necked Phalarope ; will you remember that ? " " No. You must write it down for me." *' I write such a scrawl. These are of the fire-crested wren. The next are of the Bohemian wax-wing. These of the Bemicle goose — you'll be sure to recollect that. And these are eggs of the dotterel. And these last are eggs of the small Tengmalmo owl. I only praise them because I would not have you think that I am not giving you the best in my power. It is a very choice little collection of forgeries ; And I beg you to accept them." " I should hurt your feelings, I suppose, Lucy, if — if " "If you asked me to tell you what I could sell them for, and insisted on buying them from me at that price. You would hurt my feelings, but not in the vulgar way of talking, because I should know that you understood me, and meant only kindness ; but I should be grieved, because Colonel Latrobe did not choose to be put under an obligation, even so small, to Lucy Verner." " I will send my servant for the box this afternoon. Is that an answer?" " Yes, and a kind one. Now light a cigar, if you like ; you know that I don't mind it : hundreds have been smoked in this room. Do you see that little tiny bit of white marble ? He screwed that up to lay the ashes on." " Thanks for leave, Lucy," said Walter ; making no reply to the allusion, but lighting his cigar. " I want you to tell me whether a story is true." " Many stories are true." " Yes, they are," said Lucy. " I know one of them. But this is a laughable affair, and concerns an acquaintance of yours." "Well?" " Is it true that Ernest has been beating Mr. Henry Wigram?" "Who told you that?" " Why, Jimmy Rydon. He roared so that I was really ashamed to be talking to him in the Gardens." " There was nothing to roar at. It was a mistake, and Rydon might have had the good sense, — no, he has not got that, — but the good feeling to hold his tongue about it, especially to you." " Then it is true ? " said Lucy, her great eyes shining. " True enough," said the soldier, impatiently. " Yes ; but I could not get him to make me understand exactly what the quarrel was about. He gave a lumbering account of that, and somehow I fancied that he did not want to tell me." SOONER OR LATER. 91 " He might, perhaps, have had brains enough to see that the less said the better, though he was too great a fool to be able to hold his tongue altogether." " It was about Mrs. Dormer, I know that." " Well then, if Jimmy Eydou told you so much, it was only another piece of his idiotic conduct not to tell you all." *' You will, won't you ? " " When you say about Mrs. Dormer, what do you mean ? " "Why, I suppose Mr. Wigram has been making love to Mrs. Dormer, and Ernest did not approve of it." "Yes ; natm-ally that is what you would think. There has been no love-making in the case, and Wigram never saw Mrs. Dormer." "Oh ! are you sure?" said Lucy. " Certain. I understand that tone, too ; and it means that you have been indulging in some imaginations of a peculiar character, Lucy, All wrong. Dismiss the subject from your mind." " Easily said, Walter." " I read your heart, Lucy ; though I have no business to be doing so." " Eead out," she laughed, " and I will tell you whether you know the letters." " You lioped that a wife had been flirting, and that estrangement had set in." " And would he not be right to estrange himself from any woman who could think of another man, after Ernest had chosen her ? " " Well, nothing of the sort has occurred. I am bound to tell you so, and if I said I was sorry to crush your hopes, I should say what was untrue." " You are so true a friend to him," she answered, " that I am always ready to forgive you for being hard with me. No, you are not exactly hard, but you insist so sternly that things must be as they are, and that feelings must go for nothing. I know that this is quite right, but it is not pleasant. Now, don't fidget ; you are not going away yet, and I am not going to say anything to you that might not be repeated at Naybury." " You have the name pat enough." " Did I not tell you that I would cai-ry the announcement of the marriage about with me until — never mind. There it is." And she showed him the cutting from the newspaper. She wore it in a golden locket. " Yes, these are the things women do," said Walter. " Yes, Walter, or rather, no. They are only the outward signs of the tilings women are ready to do. But never mind that either. 92 SOONER OR LATER, You might surely tell me some news of the happy couple ; there would be no impropriety in that. They must be a happy couple, if he beats people for her sake. What did you say Wigram had done ? " " I did not say anything. But you may as well know the truth. He spoke lightly in the club about Mrs. Dormer, and in a very few hours afterwards Mr. Dormer had chastised him. That shows, Lucy, you perceive, that Ernest is very much attached to his wife." " Perhaps it does. If a man loved me, I would rather that he did not show his love by getting my name talked about all over London ; and indeed I should require him to tell me, a great many times, that he truly loved and respected me, after he had done such a thing as that." Latrobe onlyjgrowled, for he felt that the woman's instinct had hit the mark. " You see that I am right, I know. And if I indulged any of those poor little imaginations which you are so hard upon, I should be delighted at what you tell me, because it shows me that there is no true affection existing. And, then, there is another thing. Mr. "Wigram speaks lightly of Mrs. Dormer. How can he do anything of the kind unless he has some reason ? Where there is smoke there is fire. She has never seen him, you say, at least to your know- ledge ; but she has seen somebody else, and has given cause for talk. How I hate her ! " " This is what I may report at Naybury ?" " No," said Lucy, continuing her vehement little argument, " does it not stand to reason that he does not care abouc her, and she has cared for somebody else beside hira ? Walter Latrobe, you will not believe me, but I give you my word of honour that I am shocked and sorry. Not for her. I should be a hypocrite to say that I had any good feeling for the woman who bought him from me, but for his sake, for with his pride to feel that he has made a bad bargain " " Lucy, I am not going to hear this sort of thing — you know that I let you chatter to me pretty much as you like : I am a sort of guardian to you, and I hear you as a sort of duty, that I may know which way your thoughts are running ; but you really must not slander my friend's wife. There is no ground for any thing like what you infer." " All right. Men are hypocrites. You know as well as possible that I am talking very good sense, only as I am not a very elegant per- son, I don't put it into the most superfine words. But I know Ernest Dormer, and what he is feeling at this moment. Walter, don't go SOONER OR LATER. 93 over to the enemy, but stand by me. Some good is coming to me ; and I shall not forget that it was you who made me know it." " Not I ! Keep your gratitude for Jimmy Rydon. I have told you what, when you come to consider it properly, will make you turn to your eggs again, and resolve not to trouble yourself with the out- side world." " It will make me turn to my eggs, indeed, and work with a will. I made you understand why. AV^alter, I shall have him here again." " You can go on talking nonsense until you believe it ; but take it from me that you will never have anything of the sort. She is quite happy, and looking forward to an interesting event." " You need not have told me that, Walter," said Lucy, with a rush of colour to her pale face. " Yes, it is right that you should know all, because you will be the less inclined to foolish hopes. The birth of the child will bind them together more closely than ever, and you will do very well to remem- ber that." " I will remember it," said Lucy, smiling a^ain. " And no more about that. Tell me some news of the people one used to know. I have shut myself up so completely that I have seen nobody, and no- body comes to see me. Are you married, "Walter ? I think you would have told me." " No, I am not married, nor have I the remotest intention of marrying." "That is odd, too. I wonder the sight of the exquisite happiness of some of your friends does not make you envious." " Perhaps it does, but I subdue my bad passions," said Latrobe, lighting another cigar. *' I saw Gracie Clare the other day." " A monkey, she never comes near me." " She is full of good feeling for you. I can tell you. I don't judge merely from what she said to me, but from things I have heard from Beaumont— you know Beaumont ? " " Yes. I don't care much about him. I think he is a cold and selfish man." " He is neither. He made a love-match, and is a capital husband. But I know what you mean." " Love-match ! You need not say that to me." " "Well, I don't know that it much matters. But speaking of Gracie Clare, he told me that she had the pluck to fire two or three shots at somebody, and to signify her disapprobation of what he was going to do." " At Ernest ! I should be glad if Miss Grace Clare or Nogg would 94 SOONER OR LATER. have been so good as to mind her own business. The idea of her pre- suming to interfere on my part. She meant well, I know, but fancy Ernest's look when taken to task by that little scrap of a ballet girl. If it had been possible, she would have done me mischief by her meddling." " Lucy, you are what we used to call contr«ery this morning," said the soldier, looking at her with an amused expression. " Nothing that man does or that woman does is construed by you in a natural way. But I am not scolding you, I have that feeling myself at times, being of a feminine nature." " No, Walter. I thought you were a woman's friend, but you are not." " It is the first time I was ever told so. Next you will say I am an enemy to children." " No, you are not. But I suspect that you like the good ones best ; the children that get out of the way, without tears and noise, when it is convenient for their betters to be rid of them." " Very neat, Lucy. And as we have finished our talk, good bye, and kiss your children, who are very good indeed, for Colonel Walter." " What a true friend he might be to them, if he liked," said Lucy. " He means to be," said Colonel Latrobe, touching her hand, and walking out. It win be seen by those who recollect the young person whom he had left, that her tone had not improved since we Isat met her. As she has said, she had been living alone, and too much alone. Seclu- sion is too much for most women, except those of a very high order of mind, as it is called, that is, of unwomanly mind. We are told that it is not — or some thousands of years ago it was not — good for man to be alone, but the masculine animal has developed since that time, and may now in a large number of cases be trusted with him- self. But woman, always designed for companionship, is invariably deteriorated by a solitary life. She had better talk with fools than become half a fool by not talking at all. And if she have a griev- ance, it would be as -^lise to shut herself up with a pan of charcoal as with that. It will not asphyxiate her nature, but will poison it less pleasantly. Lucy Vemer bore her original bereavement nobly, and though it was highly immoral in her to entertain the hopes which she owned, there was something so plucky, or as the French school would say, so heroic, in her buckling hard to work in order to provide means to support the unrighteous happiness she coveted, that here and there, in this almost immaculate world, a person might be found sufiiciently depraved to look indulgently on the wicked little egg-forger. But the months of solitude, the ceaseless murmur, and the ever-recurring SOONER OR LATER. 95 speculation as to how — at that moment — he was engaged, and with whom — had embittered Lucy, and made her resentful and somewhat defiant. She had never quite comprehended that what had fallen on her was a just punishment for her erroneous life, but she had resigned herself to her loss because it was his gain, and her love for him was as unselfish as love ever is — which may not be saying much. Now, brooding over her tribulation, she had learned to accuse her fate of cruelty, and she herself was growing a little cruel in the contemplation of her supposed wrong. She had better have gone out to suppers with persons like herself, talked nonsense, and drunk champagne. " Good guardian," said a voice behind Walter Latrobe, when he had got a few yards from the house. "Ah! Charley?" "How is the little lady? Consoled, of course, and as well as could be expected." " Well, we know what women are, Launceston." This, by the way, is about the most impudent vaunt that can be made, and yet eveiy man makes it as matter of course. " And who is Ernestus Secundus ? " " No, the throne is vacant. By the way, a nice piece of business you and the rest of you have made with Ernestus Primus. What the devil made you go and tell him, and bring on all that row ? " " Somebody would have told him." " Yes, but perhaps at a better time. You set him on to do one of the most foolish things a fellow ever did." " I don't say it was not ; but who expected it ? " said Launceston. " That's true enough. I wish he had come to me j but I suppose he thought he had had enough out of me." " How would you have managed ? " " You don't think I would have let the men quarrel over the name of Mrs. Dormer, do you ? I would have tried to prevent their quar- relling at all; but if their mutual animosity was too fierce to be put down, they should have played ecarte before witnesses, and had a row over that, or gone behind the scenes and insulted one another about the same ballet-minx, or, damn it, their dogs should have fought, and Dormer have struck Wigram for hitting his dog, and afterwards we should have considered what to do. I am utterly ashamed of the business. I shall leave that Octagon." " No, no, you won't. We want fellows like you to keep up the tone of it. A good many men have been let in who ought to have been shut out ; but don't let men go out who ought to stay." "What' is said about this Wigram affair ?" 96 SOONER OR LATER. " Why, it has made the place a nuisance. Every fellow gets you into a comer and begins about it, and everybody talks the same nonsense," said Charley Launceston. " About the thing itself, of course. A heap of idiotic opinions does not make wisdom, except in politics," said Colonel Latrobe (who was a dreadful Tory) ; " but nobody can have a second opinion about this. But I mean, do fellows talk about the lady, and the origin of stories, and all that ; you know what I mean. In fact, is the mischief igon?" Knowing the Octagon, my dear Walter, you might answer the question for yourself." " I suppose you know that there is not a shadow of foundation for any sort of scandal ? " "Of course not, there never is, you know," said Charley Launceston, looking steadily at his friend. " Did I not say so very plainly and pointedly to Wigram, whereby he grew incensed, and finally came to grief ? " " I see, you're like the rest." " My dear Walter, I'll be the last man to believe anything wrong in that quarter ; that is as much as I can promise. But when the last man but one has been convinced, I suppose I may begin to waver. I'll hold out as long as I can. What does the chap say in Tasso ?'* " How the devil should I know?" demanded the soldier. "Who was Tasso ?" " What's the good of that affectation, when I heard you talking Italian to Bell Syleham ? " " Not quoting Tasso to her, I know." " No, but you recollect well enough what the king says after the heathen has challenged the five knights, — " Much I misdoubt, when he his sword has used On the fourth knight, the fifth will wish to stand excused." "You'll be the last of her knights ?" "Yes, but I won't fight, my dear Don Walter Quixote." " And I will." CHAPTER IX. SUSPECTED. I Whether I am going to do right or wrong, Magdalen," said little Fanny Buxton, " I cannot tell. But I am sure you will believe that I mean kindly. I can never forget your mamma's behaviour to me, when things were said about me, and how nobly she brought me through, and how she scolded me. I should be an ungi-ateful thing if I ever forgot that." "What a solemn little prelude, Fanny," said Magdalen, laughing. " I thought you would be certain about the way I should think of anything you could do." " Yes, but repeating disagreeable things seems so unfi-iendly. And it is only because I feel that you ought to be told." " Please speak out, dear. Ai-e persons saying disagreeable things about us ? " " Indeed they are, and it is wicked," said Fanny. " And I hardly know how to tell you. In fact, I do not understand what is meant. But," she went on, colouring, " it is for you to know that stories are being spread, and you need not be told that there are several persons in Naybury who are not displeased at being able to spread them." " Never mind that, Fanny dear. Tell me what is being said." " And that is just what I cannot do," said Fanny. "I get nothing but shreds and scraps of things, and they are told to me because people know that I am so much attached to you all, but I cannot piece them together into anything rational, and they worry me so that I cannot bear it. I have been as inide as possible to Mrs. Bulliman and Mrs. Mainwaring, and I am not at all sorry for it." " But what have Mrs. Bulliman and Mrs. Mainwarmg to say ? " asked Magdalen, smiling. "No, it was neither of those that hinted most — it was Mrs. Cutcheon, whom I always hated, and she knows it, a spiteful old thing with a cheating husband. I have heard stories enough about herself, I can tell her." VOL. II. H 98 SOONER OR LATER. "Yes, but I don't so much care about hearing them, Fanny, if you don't particularly mind." " No, I know that. It is the only thing about you that I com- plain of. You have not quite spirit enough to take your own part. And I am an impertinent little creature to say such a thing to you who are so much better than I am." " Well, dear, perhaps I will pluck up a spirit when you show me that I am being ill-treated." " Don't you see," said Fanny, colouring again, " how I am keeping away from what I want to say. Bijt it is of no use, and I hope you will riot hate me. Is there any story that you would particularly wish were not^known in Naybmy ? I don't mean to ask you that, Magdalen, dear. But if there is, and it should have got about, you ought to be aware of it, because you will know how to act, and not be taken by surprise." And tears came into good little Fanny's eyes, as she spoke, which she did tremulously, and with her pretty face in a glow. " I know of no such story," said Magdalen, simply. " I am sm-e of it. I was sure of it, and I told Mrs. Cutcheon that — never mind, I was rude, and that is the truth, but I am very glad. I told her," said Fanny, her eyes glistening between tears and mischief, " that Naybury was a paradise, serpents and all." "Certainly that was rude," saidMagdalcn, laughing in spite of herself. " Never mind, I tell you. But now that you have told me that you are fearless, they shall all hear something to their advantage, when I have an opportunity." "But, Fanny, I have my sliare of curiosity. I should like to know something about the reports which have made you so angry — and you are a good child for being so angry for us." " Well, I don't think I will say anything now — yes, I will tell you this — it shows what sort of a place this Paradise is. Mr. Dormer came down in a huny the last time he was here, and you met him at the station ? " " Yes," said Magdalen. " He stayed only a few minutes, they say." " He could not stay any longer, because the train that brought him was late, and he had to catch the next to London." " Of course, and I know as well as you do that it was all right. What do you say to being told that you and Mr. Dormer had had a dreadful quarrel, that he rushed from you, looking like a fiend, dashed across the road at the peril of his life, and threw himself into the carriage, telling Saunders, that he never thought such things would have happened as had occurred that day." SOONER OR LATER. 99 "Made Mr. Saunders, the statiou-master, the confidant of his grievances against me," laughed Magdalen. "Well, dear, I don't think that Ernest would do that, except under very extreme provo- cation, which I do not remember giving him." " But you showed him some writing that made him angry, they say," added Fanny, hesitatingly. " If so, he kept his anger to himself," said Magdalen. But she did not laugh again. " Yes, I know that it is the wildest nonsense, but you know what people are when they are determined to believe things against you." " There is some more, then, Fanny ? Why should any one desire to believe an unpleasant story ? " " Yes, there is some more, and you will bring it all to the gi'ound just as easily as you have done the first ridiculous nonsense. I don't like to repeat it — not for any nonsensical reason — but — but — " said Fanny Buxton, not exactly knowing how to phrase her reluctance, which we may say for her was that of a modest English girl, who instinctively kept away from a displeasing idea — " however, I may tell you, in proof of the malice of some of the very good people here, that they hint that — that something has come to Mr. Dormer's ears that happened to you in early days, and that you are going to be separated. My darling Magdalen, don't look so white. What a fool I am ! Shall I ring the bell ? " said Fanny, darting across to her. " No," said Magdalen, quietly. " I am better. It was nothing. And there is some water on Ernest's table there. Thanks, dear." " No, don't thank me. Scold me, for having made you angry by repeating such trash." " But I was not angry, and you are a kind good little thing. Of course it is trash, as I suppose Naybmy will admit when they sec Ernest here with me." " When is he coming ? " asked Fanny, eagerly. " That is a little uncertain, as he has some troublesome business to manage. Until he does, dear, we will leave Mrs. Cutcheon and her friends to talk, and do not you mix yourself up in the nonsense." " Easy to say, Magdalen, but it is not so easy to hold one's tongue, when one's dearest friend is slandered. But I will try to do as you bid me. Are you sure that you are well again. Let me send Anne to you. Or let me stay with you, and send Anne up to mamma with a note." "You know how glad I am to have you, but papa and I had settled to go for a drive, and he complains that he sees so little of me, and I think I must not disappoint him." " Sure you are not angry with me ? " H 2 lOU SOONER OR LATER. " I am angry with you for supposing it." So Fanny Buxton took an affectionate leave of her friend, and departed. It was long before Magdalen stirred from that sofa. She Avas living the hardest day of her young life. A cruel revelation had come upon her. Ernest Dormer did not love her. Of that she had, in these later days, been all but convinced. We have seen how she had fought against the conviction, and how she had waited and hoped, and at times believed that her own goodness and affection would be repaid. But it had become hoping against crushing belief. The time had come when she felt that she should have been doubly dear to her husband, and when all the early fondness and attention which he had shown her as a bride should have been hers by a tenderer right. This was the time at which he had chosen to absent himself. Even that, Magdalen might have argued down. It would not have been very hard for a loving heart to make excuses for apparent unlovingness. But what could be said against deeds and words that proved his alienation. He had left her. His letters had^been few, he had sent messages instead of writing. He had sought an interview with her, and not a word or a gesture of affection had come fi'om him, and he had left her abruptly. The excuses she had made for him would not satisfy herself. In this state of mind she had remained for some days. She had been very quiescent — that was her nature. She had begged to be left alone as much as possible, and in that house her wish was law- She had brooded over her trouble, and sometimes it seemed very dark indeed, and at others there came a bright gleam of hope which made her almost happy. She would not believe that her future was to be miserable, that there was to be a baptism of tears for the little being whose varying image was before her blue eyes all day, and floated through her dreams all night. Now, however, came something which threw all previous trouble out of her memory. Ernest was suspecting her. Of what ? That would have been the thought of most women. A definite charge, to be met and crushed. But that was not Magdalen's thought. He, her lover, her husband, to whom she had given herself and all the love which he could welcome, he, whose happiness was the object of her life, he, whose child He had seized upon some suspicion, and instead of bringing it to her, and looking into her eyes for an answer, had gone away from her, and was working out an explanation without her aid. SOONER OR LATER. 101 It might be favourable to her. It might not. That, for the moment was the least of her concern. She scarcely 'struggled to form an idea of what his grievance might be. It shaped itself for her, by the assistance of his message when she was to meet him, and his behaviour at the station, into something connected with Percy Vaughan, but she had no definite conception of the matter, nor did she endeavour to frame one. The fact that Ernest Dormer was doubting her, and was trying to clear up his doubts elsewhere How did she know that ? He might not desire to clear them up. A separation. The word, importing something which had never occurred to the mind of a young wife, — something that seemed to mean hopelessness and shame — had been used by Fanny Buxton, and had been used by others. Perhaps it was being used by Ernest Dormer, and he might be working to that end. The idea sent her blood rushing vehe- mently to her brain, and for a time, and until her heart had ceased its fierce throb, Magdalen was unconscious. But with returning thought came a calmer view of her situation. It could not be that Ernest was separating himself from her. That wild scandal she was able to reject. Those only who know how true it is that words are things, who have felt that when a fact or a falsehood has been clothed in language, it acquires a reality which it lacked before, and that it needs a strong mental effort to thrust it aside, will know what Magdalen had to do with the idea which had been forced upon her. But she had enough, and more than enough, to deal with in the truth which she had learned for herself. There was no arguing away the fact that her husband was inquiring into her history, and perhaps in a hostile spirit. Yes, assuredly hostile, or he would have inquired of her. Had she ever a secret from him ? Had not her own girlish diary been in his hand the instant he had asked for an answer it could afford ? Would she not have rejoiced to tell him all — any- thing — and did he not know it ? And he was searching out know- ledge aff'ecting herself, and doing so in secresy, and perhaps in sullenness. Naybury and its scandals, too. What would she have cared for the united voices of Naybury against her, if she were leaning on his arm ? But he had brought this upon her, and he was not by her side to defend her, and to show that he believed in her goodness. She was talked against by the Bullimans, and the Cutcheons, and the Mainwarings, and Ernest was away. This was hard, but it was only the exceeding gentleness of Magdalen's nature that made her feel it 102 SOONER OR LATER. at all at such a time, and in the presence of a stronger Avrong — a woman as noble, but something harder, would not have felt it while combating with the greater trouble. He had brought it upon her. There, of course, she ^Tonged him, but she could not know that the slanders which had reached Nay- bury had preceded his last visit. Had she known what set TVigram's vengeance in action, she would have had a singular compensation for aught that ISTaybury could do to her. And now, what was she to do ? Many days had passed, and Ernest Dormer had not written to her. That he was not keeping up communication with the household, and even with herself, it would have been untrue to say. He sent an occasional telegraph message to Mr. Conway, with a word or two for Magdalen, and he said that he was closely occupied. A book was now and then forwarded to her — a journal more frequently. The whole was plain enough to Magdalen — he did not wish to write tocher, and yet he felt that he had no right to withdraw the ordinary atten- tions of a husband. She had said nothing of this to her parents, but they began to understand that something was going wrong, and to be wretched. But Magdalen had, in her quiet manner, made them understand her wish that Ernest Dormer should be met in his own way, that his messages should be answered, that he should be kept informed as to her own well-doing, and that nothing should be done or said to alter the relations which it had pleased him to substitute for the kindness once previously existing. She had written twice, but her notes had only been brief assurances that she was receiving every care, and she had added hopes that his business would soon be completed, so that he might return. For, after the scene at the station, and her reflections upon it, although she had chidden herself for her rebellious thoughts, and had in some degree subdued them, Magdalen's truthful nature had made it impossible for her to resume the tone of aSectionate playfulness which had marked her earlier letters. She waited the return of a better time. But this was before Fanny Buxton's revelation. What was Magdalen to do now ? We need not speak of impulses, for with Magdalen Dormer an impulse, except when it tended to the happiness of others, was an influence which had little power with her. She seldom thought twice when a kindness was to be done, unless the second thought were likely to help her to the better fulfilment of her wish. But when the gTatification of her own will was the matter in hand, Magdalen might listen to impulse, but it was only that in turn impulse might listen to her. Therefore there was no indignant letter dispatched, with an energetic appeal to her husband's justice, and a SOONER OR LATER. 103 warning that unless he altered his course it would be impossible for Mrs. Dormer to see him again. Yet she wanted to write. She much desired to write. She believed that she could say things which, without offending Ernest greatly, would induce him to reconsider his treatment of a devoted wife, and bring him home to Naybury, when all would be well. Then pride interposed. What had she done that she should ha insulted by suspicion ? What was he doing ? Xext, Magdalen — (you will love or despise her according to your lights) — tvirned upon Pride, gave him instant battle, trampled him down, and bid him know that if she forbore to write to her husband, it should not be at the bidding of a deadly sin. " I love him yet," she said, speaking aloud for the first time during that long meditation, " and he shall tell me that he does not love me, before he shall know that I believe it." CHAPTER X. THE PARENTS. It may easily be imagined that Magdalen had no intention of informing her father or mother of what Fanny Buxton had told her. That they felt that there was something wrong between Dormer and his wife has been said, and Magdalen could not be unaware that they did, but she had silently deprecated discussion on the subject, and there was a tacit understanding that, from day to day, tilings were to go on in their present course, utterly unhappy as it was. Fanny Buxton's visit had been made when Mr. and Mrs. Conway were out, but its effect was too manifest to be hidden from loving- eyes, and after lunch, when Magdalen had withdrawn, Mrs. Conway suddenly said to her husband, " She has heard something fresh from him ! Papa, you were right." " I was right, dear Mary ? " " Yes, when you doubted over the marriage. He is a bad man." " We will hope not. But why do you say that she has heard from him ? " " She has been agitated, and once she was near fainting. I was ready to spring to her, but it passed away. Has any one called, Anne ?" she said to the servant who just then came in. " Only Miss Buxton, m'm." " Any telegraph message ? any parcels ? " " Nothing, m'm." " Fanny Buxton cannot have disturbed her — a good little thing," said the mother, when they were alone again. " But something has. I must go and have a talk to her." " Stay, my dear," said William Conway, fidgeting exceedingly, as Avas his way in time of trouble. He wandered about the room, changed his seat three or four times, beat a tattoo on the window, and then on the table, hummed a dismal air, and concluded by a resort to his favourite paper-knife, with which he slapped his knee a great number of times. Any one of these signals of distress would SOONER OR LATER. 105 have been enough for Mrs. Conway, but the aggregation showed that her husband was very much disturbed indeed. " What is it, William ? " said Mrs. Conway, quietly, for she always held it her duty to become calm when he was irritated — she was a good wife. " When you say Fanny Buxton cannot have disturbed her " But he did not want to talk about Fanny Buxton, and he broke off, and again smote himself with the paper-knife. " Say it out, William, for I do so want to go to Magdalen." " I met Edward Grafton." " Well, you might have met better people." " He said something to me, and I have been spelling over it ever since, and can make nothing of it." " Nothing he can say is worth so much trouble," said Mrs. Conway, who was a rather good hater, and remembered old times. Her feelings towards Edward Grafton were not softened by her recollection that he had predicted evil from Magdalen's marriage. It is too much for human nature when the prophecy of a man, whom we contemn, comes right." " He spoke kindly and respectfully." " A hypocrite ! " " May be so. I think not. But his words were curious. After we had spoken of ordinary matters — the crops, the new cottages, and Lord Mazagon's gout, — 3'ou know the Naybury budget — we were parting, when he said, holding my hand, 'Whatever reports may be put about Naybury, Mr. Conway, friends of our rectory may always be sure that such things have no credence there.' And before I could ask him what he meant, his long legs had taken him out ot hearing." " Edward Grafton said that, William ? " said his wife, more discon- certed than was usual with her under most annoyances. " Yes ; what do you make of it." " At any other time," said Mrs. Conway, in a low voice, " I should have said that it was a bit of Mr. Edward Grafton's blundering, and I should have told him that friends of his rectory, as he calls them, have most reason to be scandalised at what goes on inside it. But it is very strange that he should have said that to you. Yesterday I met Mrs. Mainwaring, who is usually only too ready to talk, and she passed on with a very cool bow. Presently I met Mrs. Fanshaw." " She would do nothing rude." " No, certainly not ; but she asked after Magdalen, I am sure four if not five times, in different ways, and seemed so very desirous to know how she was that I could not help noticing it ; and then she 10*3 SOONER OR LATER. sent ]\Iagdalen her love, and a message that above all tilings she was to keep np her sphits, and mind nothing that anybody said. At the time I thought of this only as IMrs. Fanshaw's merry, saucy way of talking ; but I believe that there was more in it. Ernest's absence is getting spoken about." " Not only his absence, Mary. That rush of a visit, when the poor child went to the station to see him for three mmutes, and came back — ^you know how — that has been spoken about." " How do you kn'ow ? " " Beccles stopped me as he was going his rounds, and said that he had heard of Ernest's coming down, looking very ill, and running across the rails at the greatest risk. By the way, that may have made Magdalen ill that day." " No, not that. Did Beccles say more ? " " Well, no, he is cautious even for a doctor. There was not much in what he said, and you know I am the last person to care about gossip ; but when Magdalen is concerned, the thing becomes serious. I am greatly minded to have some talk to Dormer." " Not just yet, I think, dear. I would not do it without Maggie's consent, and I am sure that she will not give it now. But let me go and see her." As Mrs. Conway was on her way, she was intercepted by the servant, Anne, who begged a minute's talk with her mistress. " "What is it, Anne ? " " I beg your pardon, m'm, and you never knew me take a liberty before." " I have never had to complain of you, Anne, and I don't expect to have to do so now." " I hope not, m'm, but I don't know how you may take it, and I hope you will believe that I mean the best." " Yes, Anne, I will." " Then, m'm, if I was Mrs. Dormer's mother, I would know what Miss Buxton said to her this day. It was something as ought not to have been said, and Mrs. Dormer suffers according and I hope you'll excuse the liberty, m'm, but the girl that could live in this house and know Mrs. Dormer and love her and think of her own favour and standing when she could do good by speaking is not me and I won't deny it." And Anne, whose unpunctuated nonsense meant that the good-hearted creature was as nervous as possible at thus addressing a mistress who, though kind, was something despotic, made her escape as fast as she could, respectfully. Mrs. Conway looked after her, not altogether displeased, for the girl's meaning was obviously kind. But her mistress believed that SOONER OK LATEK. 107 Anne could herself have furnished the information which she advised Mrs. Conway to obtain. " Of course, she won't confess it, but she has been listening," said Mrs. Conway. "And that makes it the more necessary that I should know what she has heard." What passed between parent and child at that interview it is not needful to relate. Enough to say that Magdalen, taken to her mother's heart, was induced little by little to tell all that she had learned. But the sobbing girl insisted on a reiterated promise that nothing should be said to her husband. "But I can have no secret fi-om j'our father, my darling," said Mrs. Conway, who was not weeping, but flushed with indignation. " You must please say nothing angry about Ernest, mamma." " That I cannot promise," said her mother. " But you must, dear. Perhaps I was wrong in telling you all." " Wrong in trusting your mother ? " " But it was on her word that she would be kind enough to let me decide what should be done." " And you shall, Magdalen. But I must say what I feel." " If I do not, mamma, ought not you to be able to restrain your- self ? " said Mrs. Dormer, gently. " There must be something which we do not understand, and until we do, let us be patient. I will be your daughter when the time comes, if it ever comes, but in the meantime I am Ernest's wife." " You are only too good, my darling," said Mrs. Conway. Whether, in telling her story to Mr. Conway, Magdalen's mother fulfilled the implied promise not to be angry, the reader will doubt. " Is he not a bad man ? " asked she, in conclusion. "0, if I had listened to you, William, and not urged the marriage. Why don't you speak ? " ,^ " You would have me express indignation, Mary ? " " Don't you feel it ? " " I did at first. But it is certain that we are hopelessly at sea, and that there is a mystery somewhere. We must submit to what seems very hard and cruel, Mary. Not because people would call it our duty — I know nothing about any kind of duty except that of defending oneself and those dear to one against the wild beasts called the world — but because we might make a fatal blunder if we attacked Ernest Dormer." " I have given our pledge to Magdalen that we will do nothing without her leave. But that does not prevent my saying that we have cast her away on a man totally unworthy of her. This question that he had to ask her at the station — " 108 SOONER OH LATER. " Yes, -what was that ? " said Mr. Conway eagerly. " That she does not tell me. She says it is his secret, and without his permission she must not reveal it even to us. These secrets? indeed ! " said Mrs. Conway, angrily, and walking up and down the room, rapidly. " We owe something to ourselves, William," she added, looking at him for encouragement. But he was silent. " I can't make you out," said Mrs. Conway. " An hour ago you were all nerves and irritation because you had heard a few words from Edward Grafton which might mean nothing, so far as we knew- Now that something has come upon us wliich fairly stuns me, you show no anger at all. You don't suppose that I will allow things to go on in this manner, and that I will not have Ernest Dormer sum- moned, if not by us, by his wife ? " " What is our one object, Maiy ? " " Of course, her happiness. But she is a young girl, manied to a man who is much older than herself, and who has obtained a great influence over her. Is it to her, who has not a thought that is not his, that we are to leave the decision as to what is good for her. Are we not better judges of what should be done ? " " Perhaps not. If we were free to act, what would you desire ? " " Instantly to call Ernest Dormer here, and have a full explana- tion." " He may refuse to come ? " " ISTo, William, he is not a coward." *' Certainly not. But he may reply, generally, that he is engaged in an inquiry and does not return to Naybury until it is finished." " I will go to London and see him." " And say what ? " "That he is making my child miserable, and endangering his own." " That appeal to his feelings might give him a gi-eat deal of pain, and would assuredly give you much more ; but if Ernest Dormer be the man we have believed him, that is, a man who acts on his own judgment and conviction, you would not bring him to Naybury until he chose to come." *' How can you take his part, William ? " " I am not doing it. But, Mary, let us be just. We thought that we were giving Magdalen to a gentleman. I hope that we have not been deceived. Some appearances are very much against him — against his kindness, to say no more. But there are not sufficient to justify our interfering between husband and wife." " We have completely changed attitudes, William. You saw wrong in everything he did before marriage, and the nearest approach to a SOONER OR LATER. 109 qnari'el we ever had, dear, was one day when you obstinately insisted that things which seemed to me proofs of affection were proofs of nnworthiness. Do you remember ? " " Well. I said, when you had left me, which you did in anger, that I hoped I was a fool." " I was the fool." " TVe may find that it was not so." " If I dared hope it. But, "William, there is one thought crosses my mind. Magdalen is entirely in his hands, and believes all he says to her— believes in him when he says nothing to her. What if all this story about an inquiry should be mere falsehood, and that he wants an excuse for stajdng in London, and — " " Finish, because the idea that he would proceed in that way merely that he might stay in London is out of the question. Mag- dalen has begged him to stay in London, and all she asks is a kind and frequent letter." " We knew little of his habits before he married, but something which fell from his aunt, Mrs. Stepney — it was but half a sentence — struck on my mind, and I cannot help recalling it. I imagined it to mean that she thought it a good thing that he should be out of the way of temptation." " Remember, she is of the Bulliman sect, and that is part of their phraseology. It was a mere religious commonplace." " You think so ? " " You, I see," said Mr. Conway, " are inclined to put a very bad meaning on it, and to suspect Ernest of that which would be accursed wickedness. I beg you, Mary, to banish such suspicion. We have no cause for it — none," he added, with unusual emphasis. His wife was silent for some moments. Then she crossed the room to him, put her arms round his neck, and burst into tears. " That we should be talking in this way about our darling — our one darling — within a yeai' of her marriage. 0, William ! " "My own Maiy — my own true, brave wife," he answered, "it cannot be that the unaltered love which we have lavished on her for twenty years will be repaid by the breaking of both our hearts. But I did not think tliat I should ever feel so bitterly against Ernest Dormer as I feel now that he has forced such tears from your eyes. May we live to forgive him that and all the rest ! There is verj' good hope yet, dearest. Are you much afraid of the tongues of Naybury ? " "I ? " asked Mary Conway, looking up with a smile through her tears. " If that were all ! But I wish I could share your hopeful- ness. We have changed characters, I tell you, William. I have never before had to wish that." 110 SOONER OR LATER. " It is well that in the heaviest trial of oui- life, Mary, 1 can see reasons for hope, and I can say something to strengthen yon, who have been cheering and strengthening me for years and years. Ton must not believe that I am speaking words of comfort which do not come from my heart. I have been very miserable for many days, and I was very miserable this morning. But what you have told me has forced me to think closely, and I speak honestly, and 1 will say solemnly, when I tell you my belief that Magdalen will yet be happy, and that we shall be happy vsdth her. Come, I predicted trouble, and it came — let me predict good, and do you hope that I shall be as right." " I will hope it, but sorrow is so much more certain than happi- ness," said Mrs. Conway, wiping her eyes. " That, also, you never said to me before, and thanks to you, our lives have been a contradiction to it. But there will be a great spell of happiness due to us to compensate for this bad time, Mary. A word, though I dare say that it will occur to you. I would take care that Magdalen has no visitors except safe ones. This little girl meant well, and of course spoke kindly, but there are some people in Naybury who may call with very different intentions. Let one of us sit with her up-staii's, and the other be sentinel here. TTe will have no Dorcas coming to give a stab and pretend that it is sympathy." "Yes, that is right. But what a state of things, William." " Pooh, we have taken it by turns to watch over our baby in other days. It is but watching her a little longer, bless her," said Mr. Conway. "And if Mrs. Bulliman calls, I will fire upon her Avith Voltaire until she runs out of the house stopping her ears." " She is not the worst of her set," said Mrs. Conway ; " but we will keep them all out. How long this is to last. Heaven knows." " A night may be long, dear, but dawn comes sooner or later." CHAPTER XL THE PRICE. Probably, but for the existence of Mr. Haslop, Serjeant Penguin would not have given himself any great amount of trouble in regard to Ernest Dormer's business. Having made up his mind, as we have seen that the learned man had done, that there was no murder in the matter, and that a knot of low persons were engaged in a not very hopeful attempt at extortion, the Serjeant saw nothing in the affair Avorthy of his intervention. He had been acquainted with such noble extortions in the course of his business, that this attempt had nothing in it to interest him. He had known a case in which a brother, on the strength of the contents of a letter which he had actually destroyed, lived in comfort and virtue for years on the in come secretly supplied by a married sister. He knew a case in which a father lived pleasantly on the teiTors of a son. He knew a case in which a wife, separated by reason of her own misconduct, doubled the allowance which had been settled upon her, by the judicious use of extracts from the letter-books of her husband, a solicitor, — books to which her successfal admirer had access in the days preceding her elopement. What was such an affair as this to Serjeant Penguin ? He had no particular liking for Ernest Dormer ; and as the latter had said, would have hanged him as readily as anybody else, had that duty come in the way of business. But inasmuch as Mr. Haslop was so keenly interested in the matter. Penguin resolved to do his best for Dormer. It was not that the Serjeant owed Haslop a good turn. Penguin, like most other men, was quite capable of masterly ingra- titude when the situation called for it ; but he had a strong desire to stand well with Haslop, a man whom the Serjeant felt to be every way his superior, and under whose contempt for certain vulgar forensic arts Penguin — not altogether a vulgar man — had occasionally winced. He wished Haslop to think him something better than the advocate whose ten-ific religious warnings appalled juries ; or whose profusely lachrymose appeals drowned out their common sense. He wanted 112 SOONER OR LATER. to think of him as a fine-hearted fellow, condemned to un- welcome work, and doing it, like an earnest worker, as well as he could. He was not a fine-hearted fellow, though a good-natured one, and the work was not entirely unwelcome, considering that he hated all work, and he did not do it as well as he could, — a fact known to attorneys and clients, who nevertheless were glad to bear with the slovenly way in which he got up his cases for the sake of the effective oratory with which he won his verdicts, " Horsham," said Serjeant Penguin to his clerk, " do you happen to know a man called Dudley, an apothecary, in Lancaster Street ?" " Yes, I know him," said Mr. Horsham. It was the right thing to say, first, because it was true ; and secondly, because Horsham was aware that his master knew that. " Just see him quietly, and ask him to look round here this after- noon." " Say you are not well ?" asked Mr. Horsham. " What the devil do I care what you say ? " demanded his master. "He will come if he knows I want him." The Serjeant was right, and in a couple of hours Mr. Benjamin Dudley was shown into the inner room. The contrast between the Serjeant's chambers and those of Mr. Jlaslop was as marked as that between Mr. Dudley's dingy shop and the establishment of Mr. Chervil. Penguin always said that he was looking out for another place, and this formula, much in use with many men, saves a world of cleanliness and trouble. Some folks use it in a theological sense, and then it accounts for several things which otherwise we might not altogether like. " How do you do, Mr. Dudley ? Pray sit down," said the Serjeant, losing no time in inspecting his visitor, and observing that he was dressed respectably and professionally, " which was not so before," quoted the lawyer to himself. "Excuse my having asked you to call ; you will infer that I should not have done so without a reason." "The honour of an interview with Mr. Serjeant Penguin," — said Mr. Dudley, carelessly, and not even completing his sentence. " Just so," said the Serjeant, smiling. " How much do you want out of Mr. Ernest Dormer ? " he added, with a stern look and a harsh voice. But Mr. Dudley was not startled, though the Serjeant had opened upon him sooner than he expected. The former had his own reasons for suspecting that this was going to be the subject of their inter- view, for he had managed to learn that Mr. Dormer and the Serjeant had met, and the business itself being the one thing on Dudley's SOOXEK OR LATER. 113 mind, the suggestion naturally arose that Dormer had taken counsel of Penguin. So that Dudley Avas prepared for the shock. '• Who asks the question ? " said Mr. Dudley, coolly. " I ask it," replied the Serjeant. " I hear that," said Mr. Dudley, " and I hear it asked in a way which is calculated to bring a civil answer." " Civil or savage, man, I don't care a straw ! " said Penguin, with a rude laugh. " Give me an answer, and give it in any way tliat suits you." " How much are you ordered to give, then ? That's my an- swer." " Ha ! " said the Serjeant, not in the least enraged, but putting up the gold eye-glass. " The effrontery of that reply convinces me that you have no case, as I have all along believed. If you had had any ground to stand on, you would have been polite. I need not detain you longer, Mr. Dudley. Horsham ! " " Sir," said the clerk, entering. " I don't know what Mr. Dudley charges for a visit, but settle with him, and give me the brief in that swindling case." Without looking again at Dudley, the Serjeant dipped his pen, and applied himself to his papers. But Mr. Dudley did not rise from his chair, and as Mr. Horsham lingered, said, " Consultation for consultation. I should like to ask you a question, Mr. Serjeant." Penguin rather liked this insolence, and replied, la}ing down his pen, " Ask away." The clerk withdrew, at a look, but, according to custom, did not go very far beyond the torn baize of the door. " Some days have passed since I had the pleasure of seemg Mr. Dormer," said Dudley. " A good many days will pass before you have the pleasure of see- ing him again, if he takes my advice, and if you do." " Nobody can give better than Serjeant Penguin, when he knows the facts. I wished to ask whether you do know^ them." " I know that there are none, except the fact that there is a plot to get money out of a respectable family by means of a preposterous lie. I am willing to suppose that you are only the tool in the matter, and therefore, for old acquaintance sake— I know no better reason — I tell you that you had better not let it be made a police case." " We have no desire to make it one," said Dudley, undauntedly, *' but you know as well as anybody how to prevent that." 114 SOONER OR LATER. / Serjeant Penguin was actually pleased at the assurance which had thus perverted his menace into a deprecation of hostility. " You brazen it out well, Mr. Dudley," he said, " but you are a man of business, and I am another, and I have known something of you for a good while." " You know nothing, sir, which might not be published in the papers." " No, perhaps not," said Serjeant Peng-uin, laughing. " The papers publish odd things, very odd things, Mr. Dudley. But you may as well take it from me that this last venture of yours is not going to be lucky, and you had better give it up, before worse than bad luck comes of it." " If I had asked your advice, Serjeant Penguin, I should have followed it implicitly. But I should not have left you in the dark. As it is, I see that you know nothing but what Mr. Dormer has told you, and therefore you must excuse my saying that your advice is not worth the straw you mentioned a little while ago." " Well, if you believe you've got hold of anything worth having, why the devil don't jon answer the first question I put to you. How much do you want ? " " Tell your clerk to go away fi-om that door. A man who snores like that should never hsten at doors. He is gone now," said Dudley, " at least for the moment, and I want five thousand pounds." " Most people do," said the Serjeant. " But why not ask double ? " " Because I do not think that it could be paid." " yes," said Penguin, in a jeering way. " We roU in wealth. Nothing could be too high for us. Our good name is such a very precious jewel. Make it twenty thousand while you are about it. You are as likely to get that as the smaller sum." " I have heard that you have got verdicts when you have known next to nothing of your cases, Serjeant, but it will not be so now. If you are to be the go-between in the matter, you will pay me the amount I have mentioned." " And suppose that Mr. Dormer should prefer to submit the matter to arbitration ? " said Penguin, confidentially. " I am glad he is so reasonable," said Dudley, " but this is not a case for two opinions. 1 have mentioned the terms and must abide by them." " Still I think that if you referred them to an arbitrator against whom you could say nothing, and who would certainly endeavour to do justice, we might make a modified arrangement." " May I ask whom you mean ? " said Dudley, deceived. SOONER OR LATER. 115 " The nearest sitting magistrate," replied Penguin. '•' My advice to Mr, Dormer is that he sends you before a jury for attempt at extortion of money." " It would be very good advice, I tell you, sir, but that you do not know what I should say. Nor is it my intention to tell you. But I fancy that you know enough of me to suppose that when I take up a business like this, I see my way to the end of it, and also that I have brains enough not to show my whole hand at once." " My good fellow, I have heard these words so often, and I have convicted so many estimable persons who have used them," said the Serjeant, plaintively. " Very likely, because they are common-sense words, and it doesn't follow that because some folks hed when they used them, others may not speak the truth. Our case is the last. We mean to have the money." " We ? " " Well, I used yom* professional language, sir." " Not badly backed out. I said that there was a conspiracy. But fair play. I did not ask you here that I might trap yon, and any- thing said here is confidential." " I want no favours, Serjeant Penguin. I asked you to send away your clerk fi-om the door merely because the figures in an aiTangement are things most persons like to keep to themselves. All I have said you may tell to your client, and it would be well you did." " How long will you give him to find the money ? " " We are in no huny," said Mr. Dudley. " We have no desire to leave the country, and our witnesses are not likely to be out of the way." " You might have been something better than an apothecary, Mr. Dudley, if you had chosen," said Serjeant Penguin, pleased again at the way in which his insidious question had been met. " I intend to be something better, Serjeant Penguin, and you will have the pleasure of assisting me to that elevation." " There is one elevation I should like to assist you to," thought the Serjeant, " but I fear there is no chance of that. — Well, !Mr. Dudley, if the consultation you requested has satisfied you, I suppose you will allow me to say good morning." " It has not been without fruit, sir. You know my terms, and you now believe that I have a good chance of enforcing them. I don't ask what you are going to say to your client, but if I might advise, it would be that you tell him that you know nothing of the circumstances." I 2 116 SOONER OR LATER. " Come here, Dudley," said the Serjeant, leadmg him to the window, which was out of all earshot. The lawyer knelt with one knee on the dusty old window-seat, and looked up into Dudley's face. " Fair play," said Penguin, in a low voice. " The world's the world, and if a man really gets hold of a piece of luck, I don't see why he should be robbed of it. I don't care whether you get this money or do not. But you are going the wrong way to work, even if you have any case. What's the good of a preposterous lie about a murder ?" he said, pressing up to Dudley in the most friendly manner. " What's the good of trying it on with penny romance ? Murder be damned. You make me laugh. But if you have a probable story, tell it properly, and you may do some good for yourself. I fancy I know where there may be a spark or two ; but don't come on us with red fire and a conflagration." " There was a murder, and I want it," said Dudley, in the same tone. " Do you want me to believe it ? " " Not in the least. It will be quite enough for Mr. Dormer to believe it, and to ask Mrs. Dormer about it. I not only believe it, but know it. You can do just as you please. You will have to pay me that money." " When those rooks turn white," said the Serjeant, pointing to a noisy colony in the tree-tops. " Good morning." " Let us see," said the Serjeant, sitting down in the window-seat as his visitor retired. " Let us see and let us mark. The fellow sticks to his text, as I expected. He asks a good sum, which I also expected — if a secret's worth anything, it's worth a great deal. He ought not to have held on to the murder with me ; that was a blunder, but I think he took my hint. I shall hear of him again, with modified representations. I have no doubt in the world that he has a pretty little story about my lady, and if he would work that, he might take his money and be off. No doubt there is a tale there which she would not like to have told. But to mix up the death of Andrew Barton with my lady's levities is worthy only of a drug-compeller, accustomed to brew hell-broths. If they were not all on the high ropes the thing might be settled quietly enough, but Haslop believes her an angel, and Dormer won't let her know what is said, and between these two high-flyers there's danger of the scandal being proved. If she's a woman like most, how enraged she would be at their sham delicacy, when there is really a bit of business to be done. I wish I could see her. I should have instruc- tions in five minutes to settle the_ affair. But between two good SOONER OR LATER. 117 men who are afraid to move, and one scoundrel wlio wants us to believe an impossible lie, Mrs. Dormer will come to grief. I had better see Haslop, however, and report progress." " I have something to tell 3'ou, Haslop, about that matter," he said, as the conveyancer pointed to a chair in the delightful room looking on the garden. " This chamber," he added, " reminds me of the line — " A place where it was always afternoon." " Dormer ?" said Haslop, eagerly, " Yes." " It can't be good news ; but I hope it is not very bad," said Haslop. " I hardly know what to call it, but it will be more practical to tell you what it is. First, however, have you done anything ? " " Nothing worth telling." " I do not know that I have done much more. But I have ascer- tained that the other side stick to their story, and want five thousand pounds. The story, as they tell it, is a lie, and the question is, whether we shall pay or defy them." " I made you understand, I think, that the question as between us and them is the smallest in my eyes. I hope I did not fail to make you understand that the happiness of Magdalen Dormer is the only thing that I care about." " That fact I grasped. But the one question is too much involved in the other for distinct treatment. I have seen the man who, if he is not the sole agent in the matter, is the master mind, and I have had it out with him. I have told him that his murder romance will not hold water. I have not told him, but I have left him to infer, that if he can present any more probable tale, somebody may con- sider how far it is worth attention." " I saw, from the first, what you thought. Penguin, and I perceive that you continue to run in the same groove." " We may as well speak plainly, having one object in view. There was no murder, but a lady may have — gone wrong." " A lady did not go wrong, and I am not clear that there was no murder." " Then, Haslop, I have no objection to set aside my own belief, and act on yours. I do not think I could better prove my willing- ness to serve the person so dear to you. I will see what can be made of that view of the case. But distinctly understand me. I don't believe either in the murder, or — pardon me— in the lady. But 118 SOONER OR LATER. I will act as if I did both. I fear that it will come to a case of hush- money." " I see a different end. But I accept your assistance on her behalf, if, as his friend, you are free to give it." " He authorises me to consider their interests one." " And you said you had no good news," said Mr. Haslop, radiantly. CHAPTER XIL THE ACT OF ACCUSATION. Serjeant Pexguix lost no time. On the following evening he and JMr. Haslop met Ernest Dormer at the hotel in Covent Garden. Penguin had intended to see Haslop alone, at his own place, but a peremptory note from Dormer, apprising the advocate that there must be no more delay, brought them all together, Haslop being as eager as Penguin that Ernest Dormer should do nothing more that could precipitate exposure, until the council should have decided on the one great question before it. So there they met, Mr. Haslop's sole interest being in the happiness of Magdalen, Serjeant Penguin, perhaps a little for the sake of professional fair pla}', rather inclined to watch over the interests of Dormer, and Ernest himself proud and silent, but mentally availing himself of every point that seemed to aid in saving the fame of Magdalen. He had vowed to behave to her as a gentleman, whether he could love her or not, and he strove hard to keep his vow in spirit as w^ell as in letter. '•' Serjeant Penguin had thought that he and I had better have spoken alone. Dormer, because Ave should then have been able to examine the case finally, sparing you some preliminary detail, and presenting you with results, but he tells me that you desire to be present, and of course you have the best right to decide how that shall be." " I thank you — thank you both. You will not find me impatient. I have too much at stake to be impatient." " Then to business," said Penguin. " I told you, Haslop, and I wrote you, Dormer, that I saw Dudley yesterday, and that I ex- pressed for his story a contempt which I felt." " And feel ? " asked Dormer, nervously. " Not to the same extent," said Penguin, looking at Haslop, to remind him that the Serjeant was fulfilling his last promise. " We will hear without interrupting you," said Mr. Haslop. "After seeing you, Mr. Haslop, and feeling convinced by youi- argument that there was more in the darker side of the story than I 120 SOONER OR LATER. had believed, I sent to this Dudley to say that he must come to me with whatever evidence he might have, or that we should take an initiative that he would not like. He has known me long enough to be aware that this was no professional threat, still less a Irutum fulmen, and he made an appointment for this afternoon. He kept it, and brought his evidence, I was perfectly frank with him, and explained without reticence that he was a rascal, and that our decision would be guided by motives entirely apart from any belief in what he asserted, and simply upon the probabilities of his being able to concoct a tale that might be worth suppressing, but that I did not much believe that we should take that course. He seemed prepared to be thus treated, and handed me two papers, which, he said, embodied all that he should at present allege." " You have them ? " asked Dormer. *' Yes. He had no reason to hesitate to leave them with me, you know. They are not exactly affidavits, but are drawn up in a sort of form, and are in a legal liandwriting, which is easily explained. Now, shall I read them, or shall Haslop glance over them, and tell you his impression ? I ought to say that they are necessarily in language too explicit not to be painful." " Please to read," said Ernest Dormer. But he changed his seat, and got outside the rays of the lamp. " The first," said Serjeant Penguin, " is the statement of George Farquhar, who describes himself as an articled clerk to a solicitor's firm in our Inn. I know something of them, and whatever their clerk may be, they are very respectable. He says that he knows the lady who was Miss Magdalen Conway, and is now Mrs. Ernest Dormer. That he knew her from having been introduced to her at the house of Mr. Justice Trailbaston, and that her personal appearance made so strong an impression upon him that he could not forget her, nor could he mistake her for another. That he had frequently seen her visit the chambers of one Percy Vaughan, in the Inn, which chambers were nearly opposite to those of his employers. That having occasion to search for a paper in an upper front room in the house (a room also in the occupancy of his employers), on the 6th August, 186 — , about two in the afternoon, he saw the lady, whether she were then Miss Conway or Mrs. Dormer he does not know, at one of the windows of Mr. Vaughan's rooms, and that she wore a white lace scarf. That she saw him looking across at her and retired, but that a few minutesaffcerwards he saw a gentleman, whom he knew to be Mr. Vaughan, approach her, place his arm round her, which the white lace scarf well enabled him to see, and kiss her several times. That he saw a Avorkman, whose name he I SOONER OR LATER. 121 afterwards heard was Barton, approach the window, along the parapet, and stoop, and the next moment he saw Barton fall back- wards, the hand of Yaughan being at the moment extended in the act of pushing him over. That he joined the crowd that assembled round the fallen man, and saw^ him removed, under the care of Mr. Dudley the surgeon. That he had not felt it his duty to state what he had seen, as he believed that it would come out by other means, and had a great reluctance to appear in a matter where that lady was concerned, as he had been much charmed by her grace and beauty, but that he had on the same day confided these details to Mr. Dudley, who had made a note of them. That he made this state- ment at the desire of Mr. Dudley, \vhom he had know'n as an ' intimate friend for many years, and who required corroboration of his own account of the last moments of Andrew Barton. That he has nothing to gain or lose by this statement, and that his father is a wealthy tradesman at York, who is about to purchase a business for him as soon as he shall have passed his examination." " TMiat is this person's address ? " said Ernest Dormer, in a cold voice. " I will write them down for you directly," said Penguin. " I want Haslop to hear the second paper while the first is in his recol- lection. This second is, of course, the statement of Benjamin Dudley, of Lancaster Street, surgeon. He says that on the 6th of August, the date mentioned in Farquhar's paper, he was called into the inn to see a man who had just fallen. That, by the way, is true, for I saw and spoke to Dudley, quite well understanding his then reason for carrj-ing away the dead body of a common tiler. I had no doubt how Barton came by his death. But I will read on. That the man was taken to his, Dudley's surgery, and that though mor- tally injured, he was conscious. That the dying man declared that he had seen a locket lying in the leaden gutter before the window, and had stooped to pick it up, intending to get a trifle by taking it to the steward. That as he stooped he saw a man kissing a lady in white, and that the man instantly rushed at him, and pushed him over to his death. That Barton expired in a few minutes, and that he, Dudley, took from his hand a locket, which he had kept carefully sealed up, and had lately given to Mr. Ernest Dormer, who had taken it away. That he had kept the secret, intending to make use of it for his own advantage, he being in low circumstances, but no opportunity had arisen, Mr. Yaughan having left England, and Miss Conway having gone into the country, he had not known where. The rest of his case he had verbally submitted to Mr. Serjeant Penguua, and desired to be spared the painful necessity of enforcing 1?- SOONEK OK LATER. his demand, which however he should do, unless Mr. Dormer's legal advisers shaped out an arrangement. In this case he would go to Australia, and never return to England." " Now, Haslop," said Serjeant Penguin, " v/hat are the stories of those two scoundrels worth ? Five thousand pounds ? " " Not five thousand farthings, as they stand," said Haslop. " No," said Penguin, " but unhappily Farquhar is corroborated by another witness, whom I need not name, but who is worth all the evidence in the world." " There is no place for delicacy now," said Ernest Dormer. " You mean my wife's admission ? " " That is the difficulty," said Mr. Serjeant Penguin. " The diffi- culty, I mean, so far as you are concerned." " I do not understand some distinction you are drawing," said Dormer. " Mr. Haslop does, I doubt not." "I see your meaning. It is, of course, a professional suggestion, for which you should be thanked, professionally." " I no not see," said Dormer, emphatically. " You will not fly at the plain English, Dormer ? " said Penguin. " Speak plainer, for God's sake." " If Mrs. Dormer is prepared to swear, and you to believe her, that the chamber story is a lie, and that she was never at Percy Vaughan's — and if a man may do anything for life, a woman may for fame — well — it is too late to-night, but I will have Farquhar and Dudley in the police-dock by eleven in the morning," said Penguin, " and I stake my reputation on getting them sent for trial." " It is right you should say this," said Dormer, quietly, " though I told you in this very room that my wife had admitted the visit on the date mentioned." " Mr. Haslop has told you that I am right in saying it." " Yes," said Haslop. " But you might as well ask Mrs. Dormer to confess that she committed the murder as to deny that she was in the chambers." " I thank you for my wife, Haslop," said Ernest Dormer, with dignity. " And I have done my duty," said the Serjeant. " At the risk of doing more, and receiving the usual thanks of the over-zealous, I will simply say that I believe I can crush these men without going into court, and that if I am able to tell them that Mrs. Dormer denies the charge, and that we prosecute for conspiracy for the purpose of extortion, I shall have them on their knees. I know something against Mr. Dudley. Give me authority to say this, SOONER OR LATER. 123 without troubling Mrs. Dormer in the matter. I a,m glad we have that locket, Haslop." " If jour offer is accepted, the locket is worth having," said Haslop. " Six months hence, of course, Mr. Dormer may travel — but I need not point out the future." " Xot that future," said Ernest Dormer. " Serjeant Penguin, you have shown yourself a more resolute friend than I had a right to expect you to be, remembering that my confidence in you was an accident. I thank j^ou once more. But my wife will not lie, nor will I lie in her name. Haslop understands her — and, perhaps, me." " I like you better than I ever thought to do, Mr. Dormer," said Haslop, simply. " Having said ray say, and being assm"ed that I have not wounded your feelings by a well-meant suggestion," said Penguin, " I may as well withdraw from a business in which I can be of no use." " On the contrary," said Mr. Haslop, " stand by us. You appre- ciate the motives which prevent our taking one course, and you may probably be able to point out another." " I am nothing, if not practical," said Serjeant Penguin. " I ven- ture no remark upon the attitude which Mr. Dormer chooses to adopt in regard to — to an individual who— who may be thought to owe him some little elucidation." "Why I don't demand the truth from my wife ?" said Ernest. "That is my meaning, no doubt. But I say that I make no remark on that avoidance of what most persons might think the obvious course. I recognise the existence of certain feelings which — which I might not have, under similar circumstances, and it is not necessary to enter upon that discussion." He was talking for time ; but suddenly he changed his hesitating manner. " Pll tell you what. I'll have a shy at Mr. Farquhar." " He is clearly a tool," said Haslop. " Yes, and a dirty one ; but something may be done with him, if I can get at him. Dudley has no other evidence. He says he has, but that's nothing ; and the probabilities are that the affair has been con- cocted by these two only. If I can detach one, down goes the other." " Do you expect to get Farquhar to retract what he has written here ?" " Listen. He says that he is an articled clerk, about to pass an examination. The attorneys are not exactly a regiment of angels ; but if that document, coupled with Dudley's demand, were laid be- fore the Law Society, our young friend would have about as much chance of admission as Dudley has of being made court physician." 124 SOONER OR LATER. " I do not sec that Mr, Dormer should object to Farquhar's being sifted," said Haslop. " I do not object," said Ernest Dormer. " But the result cannot affect me. I am willing to hear all that friends can say, and to let them exhaust their skill in endearouring to do that Avhich cannot be done. I am thankful to them. I must not be thought unthankful because I stand aloof, or because I am about to act for myself." " Let me point out to you," said Serjeant Penguin, " that while there is a question of the credibility of witnesses, you will certainly act unwisely, and will probably act unjustly in doing anything at all. Imagine Farquhar retracting every word in that statement." " Would that bring me nearer home ? " said Ernest Dormer. He spoke the words with a sadness which had not previously been in his voice, and which touched even Penguin, Haslop's lip quivered. " I have unhappily been compelled to see a good deal of the misery which arises from conjugal — fr-om the errors of married per- sons," said Serjeant Penguin, " and few things are more distressing to an adviser. In ordinary crime, the persons are usually of the lower class, and it is merely a question of revenge on one side, and of escape on the other. But where delicate feelings are wounded, an advocate's task is painful. I do not want to preach, and the heart knoweth its own bitterness. I may just say — the hint will be un- welcome now, but may be recalled hereafter — that this case which is now troubling us is one in which very much scope is afforded for forgiveness and forgetfulness. If we were to suppose that all we have heard is true — whereas it is manifest that ' some truth there is, but dashed and brewed with lies,' we should have to consider extreme youth and inexperience, and a subsequent course of perfect — I believe, absolutely perfect conduct. We should have to recall our own life and habits, and ask ourselves whether, up to within a short time of marriage, and long after we were engaged, our arrange- ments had been those of a kind which we could defend. We should not only look at all this, but we should remember a couple of aged parents, who would be sent heartbroken to the grave if we acted Avith stern justice, as it is called, though it is not the justice which we hope for elsewhere. And in a worldly point of view, we might con- sider that it is not for a man's interests to be labelled with a disgrace, while mercy to an innocent child — I won|[d not trespass on holy ground, but something has reached me— mfercy might not plead in vain for an innocent baby. I earnestly beg pardon for what I have said." He was out of the room before either of his companions could reply. The Serjeant had made his speech in an earnest and fearless manner, but in a voice which he kept so low that it was only just I SOONER OR LATER. 125 andiblc. He spoke with a certain sincerity, that is to say, he was sincere in wishing to prevent a separation, and in letting Haslop see that he did his best to prevent it. That he should understand the natui'e of the man he addressed was out of the question, but he made his points with kindness and feeling, and they were pretty much what might properly have been said in the average number of cases of conjugal trouble. As the door closed upon him, Haslop and Donner exchanged glances, and that was enough. Neither felt that the other needed a word of comment on the Serjeant's appeal. But Haslop put his hand into Dormer's for a moment, and then said, " There is a way out of this labyrinth. Be patient." " Haslop, I did not know how brave I could be. Do you under- stand ? " " Yes. But you are something which is better than brave. You are merciful, as you think. Your reward will be in finding that you are only just." " He said ' travel.' " " You must stay." " I never thought of doing otherwise. I was going to say some- thing else. I thought that I did not love her. I know not whether that is so. But to have this thing blotted out for ever, and to save her name and her child's, I icould travel, Haslop, and only you in all the world should know that the fatal slip on the glacier was not accident. I have been planning my route, down to the foolishest detail. I should arrange with Mangles to print my letters from abroad, and with a publisher for the reprint on my return. I should post, with my own hand, over-night, a letter desiring money to be sent me in a week. I should leave orders at the hotel for some special dish, and call attention to my words by making a storm with the waiter, and I should take the best guides to be got for money. They should return without me, though. "While I have been sitting here, I have been mapping all that out — while knowing that I had no such intention — for it could not save her — and hers." " I will forget, if I can," said Haslop, " that you have meditated a crime compared to which anything that has been spoken of to-night in this room is venial. I am one of the people called Clu-istians, Ernest Dormer." " Is it unchristian to give your life for those you love ? " " It is unchristian to do evil that good may come. But you are not about to do evil ; forget that you have talked of it. You have a brave man's work to do, and you will stay and do it. Let me help you where I may." CHAPTER XIII. A DRIVE. *' I SEE their game," said Mr. Dudley, as he reached home. He strode through the shop, which, since Mr. Spitty's flight, had been entrusted to an unpaid assistant — a young gentleman -^ho, having been engaged as doctor to an emigTant ship, thought it might be as well to learn the names of a few medicines— and going into the back parlour, angrily threw off his respectable frock coat, and struggled fiercely through the holes of a torn old dressing- gown. He then lit a hideous short pipe, and sat down for a little reflection. "Yes, Mr. Serjeant Penguin. First you'd have me cut all the backbone out, and then you'd have me come and ask you whether the story' does not look better so. Thank you, Mr. Serjeant Pen- guin, but I give too much advice gratis myself, not to know about what it is worth. Come in ! " This was to the unpaid assistant, a red-haired young man, with spectacles. He had a large shop-bottle, with a gold label, in his hand. " Sorry to bore you, but there's a woman who says that she has got tic. Wliat's good for tic ? " " Nothing." " So I fancied I had heard, but I was going to give her some of this, only I thought I'd ask you." " 0, this would cure her directly, bless you, but you see the coroner might make coarse observations at the inquest. Take a note not to give that to emigrants unless you or the captain want to see them go over the side. Give her an ounce of that," — said j\Ir. Dudley, crossing to the door, and indicating a drawer. " It will do her no particular harm." Closing the door on the emigrants' doctor, Mr. Dudley resumed his cogitations. " It has all gone well so far, except for the hitch caused by that weak idiot. But that turned out for the best. He could not have i SOONER OK LATEIJ. 127 stood Dormer. And his writing out the story. That he was afraid of, but then he was more afraid of ha^'ing to tell it. I think I made the tales cohere noblj'. If I had only dared to trust that cursed old hag, there shouldn't have been a flaw in the indictment, but it was not to be thought of. She would have sold me as safe as houses, or she would have wanted so much that the game would not have been worth playing. Farquhar is a fool, but he's cheaper, and he's safe. But there's more work to do. The iron's hot, now. Strike, Mr. Dudley, strike." Which thing Mr. Dudley did. And he struck hard. But before we note the effect of his blow, another thing must be told. Serjeant Penguin was early at his chambers next day, to the rage of his laundress, who, after the manner of her class, considered herself personally wronged if her employer took the lil^erty of altering the hour of an'iving at his own chambers. " Real gentlemen ncA-er did those things," was her remark to an assenting friend, whose ideal of realism, in this respect, was an elderly young gentleman, who lived in his rooms, never rose till twelve, and then went to his club to breakfast, returning more or less sober in the hom-s which it used to be considered clever to call small, and who never checked her red account-book, less, however, from absolute faith in her, than from a want of acquaintance with rudimentary arithmetic. But the Ser- jeant was unconscious of the offence he had given, and this was lucky for the injured person, for Penguin was not of a disjDOsition to encourage liberties in his inferiors, except politically. He was as unreasonably angry because 'Mr. Horsham had not arrived half an hom* before his time, and wasted sundry imprecations on clerks who could not sleep near theii- business, but must live at Stoke Xewington. " Devil stoke Stoke ISTewington," said Serjeant PengTiin. " I never lived at Stoke Xewington when I was a yomig man. Islington was good enougli for me. He'll be living at Stoke Poges next, I suppose." But the word reminded him of Gray's Elegy, and he soon began to quote it, and quoting at any length will restore anybody to good temper. [ The youth's head had not begun to rest upon the lap of earth when Mr. Horsham arrived — and was received affably. " Good morning, Horsham. The early bird catches the worm. There's a worm I want you to catch for me." And he dismissed him, with instructions. " "Well ?" when Mr. Horsham returned in a reasonably short space of time. " I judged that you wanted to sec hhn." 128 SOONER OH LATER. " And you judged rightly, Horsham," said his master, pleasantly. " There's his address, in Judd Street. I had no end of a bother to get it, as I expected, but luckily the managing Chancery knew me. It is not convenient to Mr. Farquhar to be seen by everybody." " But why is not he at his masters' offices ? " " He has been ill for ever so long, and his doctor sent him to a farm-house, for change of air." " Farmer lives near Chancery Lane — locks up his cattle carefully, eh ? Is that what you mean ? " " I think he has been out of the way, but not so," said Mr. Horsham. " I had a little talk, on the quiet, with the man I speak of, and as he knew it was all right with me, he let out that Mr. F. was a loose fish, and was away under a sort of cloud. Quite out of the firm's good books long ago." " Yes, that's about the character I expected to hear. And he's ill, you say, at this house in Judd Street, and that means that he will not be seen." " He'd see me," said Mr. Horsham. " I got the pass." " He'll see me, I fancy," said the serjeant, with a slight loftiness. •' By Jove," he added, looking out at the window, " that's just it. There's Mr. Sangar getting out there. Run across the square, Horsham, will you, and ask him with my compliments to lend me his carriage for an hour or so, if he can." Mr. Horsham knew the dignity of his place too well to run, but he stopped the coachman, and delivered his message, and in five minutes more, Serjeant Penguin was on his way to Judd Street. He was pleased at having the caniage, and the coachman was pleased also, because he knew that his mistress particularly wanted it early, and he had a giievance against his mistress, for refusing to allow him to keep two pigs which had been given to him. " Take up my card. I know he's up, for I saw him at the window." The learned Serjeant's manner bore down all opposition, and the dirty servant whom Dudley, unjust to a cleanly tribe of quadrupeds, had called cat, scarcely managed to present the card, (with an embellishment representing her thumb) to Mr. Farquhar, when Ser- jeant Penguin rolled in after it. Mr. Farquhar was up, though the serjeant had not seen him, and was dressed, and was reading and making notes from his books. " Serjeant Penguin," said Farquhar, colouring highly. '* Yes, Mr. Farquhar," said the serjeant, in his cheery manner. " You've forgotten me, I see, but we have met in society, and on that fact I ventured to presume to intrude. I am glad to see you hard at SOONER OR LATER. 129 law-reading — work's the only way to get on in those pushing days, but I know you are one of the hard workers. I will not disturb you very long." Disturb. Mr. Farquhar was delighted, sincerely delighted. Ser- jeant Penguin, a great man, had come to call on him, and had come in his own open carriage with two big horses. The visit acted like a tonic, and Mr. Farquhar was politeness itself. " You were not going out, perhaps," said the serjeant, " or I could have set you down, and we could talk as we went along ?" " I had -not been going out, certainly," said Mr. Farquhar, "for I have leave of absence to work for the examination. But your time is precious, and — " And, he did not add, I fancy I see myself losing the chance of driving about with Serjeant Penguin. " Well, the fact is that I am busy, but I work a good deal while going about. Motion helps thought — solvitur amiulando, and all that, and if you don't mind " " I will just put on my coat, and be down in a moment." " All right, don't hurry," said the Serjeant, who thereupon de- scended the stairs, and went out. " No particular haste to get back, my friend, is there ? " said the Serjeant. " You could drive me round Hampstead way for an hour or so, couldn't you ? " " Do the horses all the good in the world, sir," said the vengeful coachman. " They don't get no work to speak of." He had spoken of it though with some emphasis when he got to the stable at three o'clock that moniing, after a party. " Then just make a round, and get me back to the Inn by twelve o'clock." " Calling here, sir ? " "No," said the Serjeant, with a slight grimace, "I don't think that will be exactly necessary. Now, Mr. Farquhar. Nay, nay, get in. Is the air too much for you, as you've been an invalid, — shall we have the head up ? " " Not at all, thank you," said Mr. Farquhar ; " I enjoy it." And he did begin to enjoy it, and he was glad that the carnage went past two or three shops where he was known — and trusted ; and he was glad to be seen with Serjeant Penguin ; — and he almost felt a little respectable ; and he offered a few remarks, feeble enough, no doubt, but they showed that he was pleased. But the Serjeant had said that they had met in society. A^^lere was that ? He did not like to ask ; it would not do to forget where he had seen Mr. Serjeant Penguin. VOL. ir. K 130 SOONEK OR LATER. The coachman, for his own reasons, eschewed the direct road, and took them along the east side of the Regent's Park. "Come to the Gardens, on Sunday, much, Mr. Farquhar?" said the Serjeant, indicating the direction of the famous Sabbatarian flirting grounds. " Not very often," said Mr. Farquhar. Which was true. He had been once, however, but did not care much about it. He was not wise enough to enjoy the scene from a sarcastic point of view, nor idiot enough to enjoy it for its own sake. " Great place for you young swells, though. By the- way, the Trailbastons go there a good deal." " The Trailbastons ! " said Farquhar, colouring very much. " Yes, the judge's famil}'. It must have been at their house that we met, I fancy. You are very intimate there, I think. And they are charming girls." " I have not seen them for a long time," said Farquhar, uneasily. " No ? You were a great favourite there, I know. They intro- duced you to all their best people. Wasn't it there that you met that beautiful Miss Conway, now Mrs. Dormer ? " asked the Serjeant, turn- ing round, and looking Farquhar full in the face. " Ah, you need not blush, she was quite handsome enough to turn any young fellow's head." A great poet has drawn, with a few words, a most pathetic picture of the poor trapped creature that sees the hunter coming up the path. But here was a poor creature trapped, and the hunter close beside him, preparing to torture him. " Yes, very handsome," said Farquhar, alternately hot and cold, and considering on what pretence he could beg the Serjeant to let him go. "I know you think that," said the Serjeant, "because I saw the statement yesterday in your own handwriting." " Yes ? " asked Farquhar, very feebl}'. " Yes," replied Penguin. " Don't hurry j'our horses, coachman, we have plenty of time before us." How Farquhar hated him ! How he hated the carriage ! How he hated the coachman — fawning slave — for touching his infernal hat ! Then he thought that he would get out. He was an Englishman, and Penguin had no right to imprison him. He would get out. He was just going to call to the man to stop, when it occurred to him that the Serjeant was a big strong man, and would hold him down. They were in a solitary district. He could do nothing. He did nothing. " You don't seem easy, Mr. Farquhar," said Penguin, as if it was SOONER OR LATER. 131 the main business of his life to promote his companion's hap- piness. " I — I am not very well. I have been reading hard, and I have been an invalid. I think, if you'll allow me, I will take a cab and go home." " You can get no cab here," said the Serjeant. " The fresh air is just the thing for you. I saw it did you good the moment you came out, and began to converse in so lively a manner. A little reaction, but you will be all right presently. — Queen's Road, and then make for the Heath, coachman." Again the fa^^ming slave touched his infernal hat, and Farquhar wished the wretch would fall off his box in a fit of apoplcxj-, and be run over into the bargain. The Heath ! He did not think that Penguin intended him personal harm, but there was a lunatic asjdum somewhere at Hampstead I Was he going to be locked up ? On the whole, he did not know that it vrould not be the best thing for him. "This is a pleasanter look out than you had at Naybur}-, Mr. Farquliar, when you went there to tell Mrs. Dormer of the plot laid against her." Many cruel blows are daily — to the credit of Hampstead — laid upon helpless donkeys there. But perhaps this was the hardest that had been heard there for some time. And the miserable donkey Avrithed, as we daily see his bretlu-en do, but he had not a kick in him. " Was this what you wanted to talk about ? " he asked, humbly. " Should I talk about it if I didn't want ? " responded Serjeant Penguin, suddenly discharging from liis tone all its rather studied courtesy. " Well, I suppose not," said the victim, for want of anything else to say. "I suppose not, too," repeated Penguin; "I suppose not, too." The reiteration boded no good to Farquhar — it only meant that the learned Serjeant was taking time to consider whether the next instru- ment of tortm'e should be the pincers or the screw. The pincers had it. " I wonder you don't give yourself a real holiday, i\Ir. Farquliar, as the office is kind enough to spare your valuable services." "I must read," pleaded George Farquhar. "^Tiatfor?" " ^yhJ, for the Hall." " You're never going to be so mad as to go up ?" " Not go up ! How am I to practise ? " " My good fellow, you have odd notions of a gentlemanly profes- K 2 132 SOONER OR LATER. sion — very odd notions. Your father's a tradesman, you say, and that accounts for it perhaps, though many tradesmen are true gentlemen. But his case must be an exception. "What's his trade ? " " He has retired," said Farquhar, looking very white, and speaking in a dogged manner, thus for the first time making an approach to resistance. " Eetired, has he ? May one ask what he retired from ? " " Business," replied Farquhar, almost courageously. " You may think your father's character a subject for joke," said Penguin ; " that is matter of taste. If his calling was one you are ashamed to mention, perhaps you are right to conceal it. But I don't think he'll see much of a joke in your letter, telling him that at the instance of the Incoi-porated Law Society you are refused admission to the profession he designed you to adorn." " I know that I am not up to the mark yet," said Farquhar, " but I have several months before me, and with the help of a coach I dare say I shall get through." " Not with the help of a coach and six horses could you be dragged out of the mud in which you are wallowing, young fellow. I did not allude to your ignorance, which I dare say is gross enough, or you would not have lent yourself to crime ; but I referred to your dis- graceful conduct, which will, when represented to the Society, for ever exclude you from your profession." " You think so ? " said Farquhar, with a timid sneer. " No, no, I don't think so, I know so. And if will be my business and pleasure to make assurance in that matter double sure, for I will personally see every man who has a voice in the matter, and inform him of the facts. I hold every branch of the profession in too high honour knowingly to permit any one branch to be contaminated — contaminated." He launched the word like a missile at Farquhar. " You can do as you like," said the latter. " Y'ou need not tell me that. I would rather hear from you — not that I care much about it — some sort of extenuation of your conduct." " I have heard nothing about any conduct of mine." '•' 'Why do you sit there " (why, indeed, thought Farquhar) " and utter such a falsehood ? Have I not said that you went to Naybury to menace Mrs. Dormer, and that you have written out a statement of the most dastardly kind, for the purpose of helping a scoundrel to trade upon her terrors, or upon the kindness of her husband." " I have toldjiothing but the truth. And," said Farquhar, " you SOONER OR LATER. 133 have no right to talk to me in this way, and I won't have it. I'll get out. Coachman, stop. Coachman, damn you, stop, I say ! " " Go on," said the deep voice of Mr. Serjeant Penguin, and he was the man's master for the time. Moreover, the coaclnnan had the most aristocratic contempt for anybody who lived in Judd Street. " Do you ride in a gentleman's caniage so often, Mr. Farquhar, that you need be in such a hm-ry to get out of one ? " was the next question. " I don't choose to be insulted, and by a stranger," said Mr. Far- quhar. " I don't believe we ever met before. I have no recollection of it." " Xor I," said Penguin, laughing scornfully, " and yet I've been to all the Trailbastons' parties for a good many seasons. What made you select that house for the scene of your fiction ? "Were you ever in it ? Did you ever take a letter there from your employers, and so get a peep at the parlour ? Which side of the hall is the parlour — come, answer that ? " " On the right." " Yes, that's true. How many drawing-rooms are there ? " " I will answer no such insulting questions," said Farquliar. " If you don't stop, coachman, I'll knock you off your box ! " he shouted, jumping up. But Mr. Serjeant Penguin's strong arm soon pressed him, gently enough, back into his place, and as the coachman looked round, Penguin touched his forehead, significantly. The man grinned. He did not care, of course, whether Farquhar were mad or sane, but he knew where half-a-crown would presently come from. " No, I am not," said Farquhar ; " but it is enough to make me so. I don't speak another word, Serjeant Penguin. The journey must come to an end some time or other." He would have lighted a cigar, but in his fluster of glory at driving out with the great barrister, Farquhar had forgotten lights. " Very well, my friend," said Serjeant Penguin. " I shall com- plete my drive, and I will drop you at the nearest point for Judd Street. It is quite on the cards that the next time you ride in a carriage it will be at the costs and charges of your Sovereign, and you will not be able to bully the coachman, because there will be an iron-bound roof between him and you." " What do you mean by that ? " asked Farciuhar, again turning pale. To do him justice, it was not the mere menace of prosecution that alarmed him, but the thought of the cruel old man at York, and his revenge. "Speech is golden sometimes, when silence is pewter. The 134 SOONEK OPw LATER. question certainly is a reasonable one, and it will be speedily answered by a couple of policemen, Mr. Farquhar." " Do you mean that you have trapped me to give me in charge ? " And he looked round hastily, as if meditating a jump from the carriage. " No, sir," said Serjeant Pengiiin, haughtily, " Some more of your ideas as to the dignity of the .profession. But under my advice, after a perusal of the statements which you and your accomplice have prepared, and which the latter handed to me yesterday, Mr. Dormer brings you both before a police magistrate. It is possible that you may have a good answer to his charge; if so, do not tell it to me, as I may have to appear for him at a later period in the story." A sudden and a brilliant thought flashed across poor Farquhar's brain. " You are not retained against me, Serjeant Penguin ? " he said. " I am not, or I should not be riding with you." " Then I retain you for myself," he said, suddenly laying his hand on the Serjeant's arm, and feeling in his o^vn pocket for money for the fee he proposed to tender. " You must take the first retainer, you know." The Serjeant was startled for a moment at the liberty with his sacred person, but the next instant he broke into a roar of laughter which made the Hampstead woods and hollows ring as in the olden time. *' What an awful ass you are ! " he said. The words were not exactly complimentary, but they were really the kindest which he had spoken to Farquhar, and they implied a gentler feeling than had hitherto actuated him. As with ^neas, when he had to avenge a cruel act, jam, jainc[ue iimgis cimdantem fifidere senno ccrperat. " I believe I am," said Farquhar, prostrated by the shout the Serjeant had set up at him. " You believe rightly then. But to discover one's folly is some- times the first step towards becoming wise. Come, Mr. Farquhar, I have been rude enough to you, but remember that you have joined in a plot against my most intimate and valued friends, and it was natm-al that I should exj)ress my indignation. I have done so, and if you now like to get out of the carriage you can do so, as we are getting near a cab-standing, or I will take you nearer home. You can hardly accuse me of acting harshly towards you, when all I have done has been to tell you that your ridiculous plot is not worth a farthing, that Mr. Dormer defies you, that if Dudley be not now in SOONER Oil LATEK. 135 custody he will be in a few hours, and that you will also be taken, unless, by the wny, you like to make your escape, and 'Higli on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor be starting for the Xorth.' But' that, if it were right for me to give you any advice, I should not advise. Go home, be arrested, and send for a gentleman who prac- tises in the police courts to advise you further. It is not for me to do so. I shall make no use, however, of any admissions you have made in this conversation." Serjeant Penguin spoke this very kindly and impressively. Xo- body could do so in a better way. And then, with a slight apolo- getic bow to Mr. Farquhar, he drew out from a side pocket a huge brief, and apparently plunged over the head and ears of his mind into the case therein set forth. But he never paid less attention to a brief, though that is saying a good deal. His physical ears were open to catch the least word from George Farquhar. That gentleman was ciying. Pride at starting — the sense of respectability — the sudden fall of the pride, and debasement of the res])ectability — the scorn — the menace — and the York teiTor, had nearly been too much for him. But when the great advocate, soon perhaps to be a judge, had un- bent his angry brow, had gravely remonstrated, and had finished with kindly and almost forgiving words, poor George Farquhar, weak vessel as he was, broke down and sobbed. " They do that in the dock a good deal, especially the worst lot," said the learned Serjeant to himself, " but seldom in private life. I have frightened that young beast. Wonder what he'll do next. Not embrace me, I hope." But as it was impossible for him to pretend not to have heard the noise which Farquhar had made, he said, kindly, — "You are evidently ill. I don't like setting you down. Come on to my chambers, and have a glass of wine, and my clerk shall get you a cab. JNot too fast, coachman." George Farquhar gradually recovered himself, but the Serjeant spoke no further word to him, until addi'essed, in a hesitating manner, — " Serjeant Penguin, we may not have another opportunity of speaking." " At chambers, if you like." " Thank you, but I would rather not go there." He had good reasons for not wishing to be seen in Gray's Inn, but, to do him justice once more, he did not like the idea of accepting any hospitality from one who had so openly avowed contempt for 136 SOONER OR LATER. him. There were in his weak little heart nooks and corners into which scraps of good feeling had strayed, and they had not been washed out by his demoralisation. "Very well, as you please, of course," said the Serjeant, gravely. " What you have said to me, though its manner was severe, was meant in more kindness than I had a right to expect at your hands, I having, unfortunately, been compelled to bear witness against your friends." " False witness, Mr. Farquhar, and the compulsion a share in some hush-money. The falsehood has been detected, and the hush-money will not be paid. I have told you what will be done. And here is King's Cross. I can hardly take you nearer. Stop here, coachman," The carriage stopped, and Mr. Farquhar opened his door. He leant over to Penguin, and said in a low voice, but earnestly, — " With the exception of one letter, it is as true as Heaven." " What's that ? " *' I dare not tell you." " Mr. Farquhar," said the Serjeant, earnestly, " take time, and think. Nothing shall be done to-day. Do you understand ? You have until to-morrow to think. Use the time — it holds your life to come." CHAPTER XIV. LOOSE ENDS. A QUARTER of an hour after Serjeant Penguin had driven away from Judd Street with Mr. Farquhar, another visitor to that gentle- man an-ived, and was marching up-stairs with much alacrity, disre- garding something mumbled to him by the servant, until the words *' in a carriage " caught his ear. •' In a what ? " roared Mr. Dudley. " In a carriage, with two horses," repeated the domestic, not dis- pleased to be able to disappoint the imperious visitor. " Bother ! " said Mr. Dudley, proceeding into the front room. He was followed by the servant, who wished to enjoy her little triumph. But she had better have remained below, for she was a good kind of girl, who sometimes went to chm-ch when she said that she was going there, and was as honest as lodging-house morals would allow her to be. When she had presented to Mr. Dudley the smeared card which informed him of the companionship in which Mr. Farquhar had gone out, and he had glared frightfully at it, and at her, for a second or so, the terrific language which broke from him sent her out of the room, stopping her ears ; and she halted not in her downward career until she ran into the arms of her mistress, cooking in the kitchen. " It's a wonder the roof doesn't fall in upon him, that's all," was her explanation. " Don't you talk about my roof falling in, will you," replied her enraged patroness. " Who is it ? — what do you mean ? " " The doctor, ni'm. He's raging like a lion because Mr. Farkar have gone out. You never heard such words." " I dare say I've heard words worse than you know of," replied her mistress. " But I'll be rid of Mr. Farkar once for all. I've often 138 SOONER OR LATER. said it, and now I'll do it. He's a mean lodger, and I've always thought so." While his landlady was thus summing up Mr. Farquhar's cha- racter below, Mr. Dudley was relieving his mind in much more impulsive fashion above. But his mere anger soon departed, to give place to a different sentiment. " I might have thought of that. I am the fool, the ass, the idiot. I might have known that though Dormer would not have gone after my witness, the lawyer was just the man to do it. He has taken him out of the way. A carnage and two horses — he has gone a long way — perhaps he has locked him up somewhere. The fellow is as weak as water, and Penguin is just the blusterer to give him fits. Or perhaps he'll go the smooth way to work, get out of him that he's in a low kind of way, and promise that he shall be set straight if he . If he what '? " exclaimed Mr. Dudley, with a savage joy. " He can't. It's true — true, and they know it. I shall not lose the game yet. I was a fool for flying into such a rage. What do I care about Penguin pumping him ? They can no more stir the facts before them, than I can poke out a brick from that Avail with my finger. But I will do what I meant to do, only without my friend Farquhar's assistance." He Avent to the table, threw Mr. Farquhar's law books on the floor, and, taking a large sheet of paper, began to write. But apparently he could not please himself, and after some further attempts, he crumpled up the sheet, and put it into his pocket. He then wrote a short note to Farquhar. " Veiy glad you have seen him. Kothing could be luckier. But should like to hear how you managed him. Come to me as soon as you get home. " B. D." " Mustn't frighten him, or he'll get out of the way," said Mr. Dudley. He put Penguin's card into the note, to explain it the better, directed it, and left it on the table. His usual bang with the street door announced to the women, and indeed to the entire house and its neighbours, that Mr. Dudley had left the residence of his friend. Having Serjeant Penguin's assurance that the day was Mr. Far- quhar's own, the latter returned to his lodging, and found Dudley's note and his landlady's notice to quit. The former was satisfactory to him, as it gave him time to arrange his ideas ; but the latter de- manded explanation. , He owed no rent, he had had no quarrel with his landlady. Why was he to be turned out ? I SOONER OR LATER. 139 In the revelation by the shuddering servant that Mr. Dudley had roared out the most hoiriblest things as ever proceeded out of a human mouth — (the words were her own, and may have been designed to save the rights of the Enemy) — and that her mistress had determined not to keep a lodger who had such visitors, Mr. Farquhar did not see much comfort. " He was in a rage because I was out, Jane, I suppose ? But when he knew where I was, he was pacified ? " " jSTo, sir ; it was the sight of that card as made him fly out." " Pooh, it was only his way. He has left me a joking kind of letter. Of course, if your mistress wants to get rid of me I must go ; but it's veiy inconvenient, and very unfriendly, considering I've been here so long, tell her. However, I shall be in again by-and-by, and she can think over it." " I'll name it to her, sir." " But I will not go to him," said Farquhar to himself. " If they come after him while I am there, I don't know that tlie Serjeant's promise would do me any good, and if they don't, it Avill only be an- other row with Dudley, and I've had enough of that sort of thing ibr one day. If I stay here, he'll be coming up again. And that notice to quit, that has disturbed me. In my present state of nerves everything upsets me, I think. I'll get out of everybody's way." Meantime Dudley, who had returned home, waited for two or three hours in the expectation that Farquhar would arrive. But as the day wore on, and George came not, Dudley waxed impatient. " I did not want to employ another person," he said, at last. " But this fellow's going away ; he'll forget all about it, and if he doesn't, no matter." " I don't care to tell you exactly how I heard it, Lucy," said Grace Clare, who was sitting with the little egg-forger in her studio ; " but it's true." " Rydon, — you know Jimmy Rydon, — poor Ernest was very fond of him, and used to laugh at him so ; — well, he told me about the beating, but I couldn't get at what Wigram had said, and what the story is." " There's another friend of yours could tell us, I dare say, if he liked," said Miss Clare ; " but I should be afraid to ask him. I mean AV alter." " No," said Lucy, colouring up a little angrily at the recollection of her last interview with that officer ; " he'll do nothing on my side. Mind, he's very good, and kind, and all that, and very fond of the cliildren, but he has got his notions. What's the good 140 SOONER OR LATER. of talking, — all the men have them. We're only comiters in the game, my dear, and when we are done with we are to be shovelled into the drawer." " You've got quite — what do they call it ? — of late, Lucy," said Grace. " Bother, what's the word ? — there's mice in it. Misan- thropical, that's what you've grown." " Perhaps I have no reason ? " " Things might be much worse, you know, Lucy, as you would confess if you looked round, and noticed how badly some women have come off when changes took place." " Very likely," said Lucy ; " but that's cold comfort. But, Gracie, tell me something more about this story. You say it's all over Naybury. I am very sorry." " Come, Lucy, you need not say that to me," said Grace Clare, " when I know it is making you as happy as a bird." "No, it is not, at least only in a way. Of course, you can't expect me to be sorry for anything that happens to her. She has come between me and my life, and I hate her. But do you think I am glad that Ernest should be aimoyed, as he must be ? " " Annoyed — that's a way to talk of it ! You're in earnest, Lucy, you are, to talk of annoyed when a man's wife is scandalised by a whole parish. I suppose he is suffering more than he ever suffered in his life." " Yes, in his pride, which is the only part of a man that can really feel. Well, and I am sorry his pride should be wounded." " You are not, and it's no good saying so. You are pleased that you have got a little revenge on him for — for not being here." " Isn't it natural ? " " I don't say no ; only what's the use of pretending with me ? You can't think that I'm not on your side, though I am told I ought not to be. Mother says so." " Quite right in her ; but she's not the only one that is good enough to try to set you against me." " Nobody does that ; but I am told not to make or meddle. And when I got a letter telling me all about this Naybury business, and how the thing was common talk, and about Ernest's going down in a hurry " " Going down in a hurr}' ? " said Lucy, turning white. " You did not tell me of that. Is he there now ? " " I'm sure I did mention it. But you don't half hear what people say to you now, — you, who used to be so tremendously quick that you had answered before one had done talking." " My head sometimes seems to wander," said Lucy ; " but I SOONER OR LATER. 141 should have remembered your saying that. What was it ? Is he there now, I ask you ? " " 'No, I suppose not. But one day he sent a telegraph to her to come and meet him at the station, which she did." " Of course she did. That shows rather a mean spirit." " You wouldn't meet him at any station in England this evening, if he were to tell you to ? Don't be unjust, Lucy. Well, she came, and he scolded her veiy severely." " That I don't believe. He never scolded a woman in his life." " I repeat to you what I am told. And then he exclaimed that he would see her no more, and tried to throw himself under the railway train." " My God ! " gasped Lucy. " Yes ; but the train stopped in time, and he rushed into a carriage and came to London." " And you mean to say that you told me this, and I forgot it ? No, I won't believe that. Say you didn't, or I shall think that I am growing idiotic." " I only said he had been to Xaybnry. To tell you the truth, I had not read the letter carefuUy, for it was written in such a beast of a hand that it was a morning's work to make it out." " Then I think I guess who wrote it. Do you Ijelieve a word she says ? " ",I don't see what interest she has in telling lies about the matter. Besides, I know that the scandal is about. I know it from a person I spoke to about the letter, and who advised me not to say anything to you about it." " Who was that ? But don't tell me if you don't like." " I said I should. Frank Beaumont." " But he was never veiy fond of Ernest, nor Ernest of him. I do not understand," said Lucy Vemcr. " I do," said Grace ; " and it's all a part of what you were saying just now about counters. Frank's married — a very nice little wife he has got, too, and a perfect lady." " How do you know ? " " How do I know, Mrs.Veruer ! Because I have done myself the honour of making Mrs. Beaumont a morning call," said Grace Clare, with affected dignity. " I was invited to breakfast, but I had already partaken of that meal. I was requested to inspect the state apartments, and they do much credit to her taste." " Well, I'm sure," said Lucy. She pretended to laugh it off, but there was a real bitterness at her heart. Grace Clare was a girl of 142 SOONER OPw LATER. character, and could be spoken to by Francis Beaumont's young wife ; whereas — but her meditations would be unedifying. " I wish I knew where he was now," said Lucy. " I could let you know that much," said Grace Clare, " but I don't think it would be for your good." " Yes, do tell me, there's a dear thing. It is such a comfort to me to know that he is not at Naybury, and that every day he stops away makes — never mind, tell me where he is." " He is at one of the hotels in Covent Garden. I can't say wliich, because I don't know, but there are very few. Now don't you go and do anything foolish. I dare say you are going to tell me to mind my own business, and it would be right ; but I should be very sorry to see you make a mistake that would injure the children. Mother and me were talking about it ; — you know mother's heart is verj- warm to you, though she has her notions, which are all right enough, as you'll confess, but that's nothing here nor there. What I mean is — don't be angiy " " You may say anything you like to me, Grace." " Well, it's not a pleasant hint to give, but mother thought it • might as well be given, and a friend is not a fi-iend that's afraid to speak their mind at the right time. Mother was saying — don't put the words in my mouth, because I don't think the thing is quite Avhat she does — she was saying that you might fancy that because matters were going wrong in one place, they might be likely to go right in another ;— you know what she means." " Yes." " But, said mother, that may or may not be, and I think it's by no means certain that it would happen, even if everything which is said could be lawfully proved ; but she said — and that's the main thing, Lucy — I've known, she said, cases in which women, in trying to get back everything, have lost what they had got left to them, and I'm sure that Lucy is not the woman to run any risk that might peril the welfare of these dear children. That's what mother said, and now I've run it off to you my mind is easier." " Stay and have some tea." " Thank you, m'm, but there is a little ceremony which I like to perform before having my tea, and that is eating my dinner. You've dined earlj-, you needn't tell me that, and you needn't offer to give me a meat-tea, because in the first place you've got nobody at home to cook, and in the second place and this highly confidential, I hate a meat-tea. In stricter confidence still, mother is doing her- self the honour of making a fish-pudding for her child. So you see that I can't stop." SOONER OR LATER. 14-3: " I am yeiy glad to have seen you." " Well, why don't you go, says you ? Why, the truth is, — I don't loiow whether to say it or not ; but I see that I have made you more downhearted than you were, and it's not pleasant to think that one has done that to a person in trouble. — The truth is that if you mind what you are about, Lucy, the thing you most wish for may be nearer than you think." " Ah, you should not play with me ! " said Lucy, flusliing violently, and holding to a chair. " I am really very weak. What do you mean ? " " Why — well, I will say it. There is no doubt that he will separate." " ISFo doubt ? " said Lucy, eagerly. " No. He is veiy proud, you know that ? " " Yes — not the sort of pride you see every day, though I nerer quite understood it, even in our best days. But why do you say that it is certain ? " " Well, it seems that the scandal which has been discovered is of a sort that makes it impossible they should come together any more. In fact " And a suggestive gesture conveyed the little actress's full meaning to her friend. " How wickedly he has been treated," said Lucy, indignantly. " They took advantage of knowing that it was necessary for him to many a rich wife. What a wicked thing." " Good-bye." " Yes, I like her pitying him," said Grace to herself, when she got outside the garden. " He deserves so much pity, doesn't he ? " And so, with a saucy laugh, she went on her way homewards. Ernest Dormer had been absent from his hotel all day, but had returned at dusk, and eaten his solitary dinner, for men nnist eat, however they may be wounded by the conduct of their wives. He had then strolled out into the Piazza, lonely and uninviting enough at that hour, and especially a place to escape from. But Ernest was in no hurry to make his escape. He was keeping himself in seclusion, except from those who were engaged with him in the only business of his life, and unless a man wanders away from civilisation alto- gether, he has no better chance of avoiding his fr-iends than in keeping in some such district as Covent Garden. He is reasonably sm-e not to be spoken to, except by some thinty-clad little Pariali, piteously afraid of the police, yet moved to wild daring for a halfpenny. Here Ernest beheld a little episode in the life of a hungry and ragged child. An elderly provincial gentleman had come out of his 144 SOONER OR LATER. hotel, and was walking uj) and down, eating some grapes. A small bunch of them fell from his hand. A small boy, who had been lurking somewhere in the gloom, darted to seize the little spoil, but his ill-shod foot slipped, and he fell before the gentleman, nearly tripping him up. Then set in a rapid but effective series of misfortunes to the child. He struck his head verj' hard against the column at the door of the hotel. The gentleman, angry at being nearly overturned, gave him a couple of severe blows with a cane. He ran away, howling, which enraged a dog that was watching a truck, and the dog flew out and bit the half-naked leg. Roaring with pain and terror, the boy cannoned into the very hand of a policeman, who seized him, but perceiving, as was perfectly plain, that he had no plunder upon him, simply boxed his ears. His mother suddenly appeared round the comer, in time to see the officer let him go. She immediately punched his head, and dragged him away with a promise of a severe beating at home. And he missed his grapes. There — it is but the dirty history of a squalid child, and it is repeated, wjth variations, day by day in Covent Garden. While Ernest Dormer was considering, what might be that child's views of the government of the universe, a gentle voice said, " Ernest ! " Lucy and her elder daughter stood before him. .rcY'S I'ATIF.Xi CHAPTER XV. LUCY S MEDAL. " What, Lucy, and you too, Mopes ? " said Ernest Dormer. " How do you both do ? You are going to the theatre, of course. To Drury Lane ? " He Avas not pleased at the meeting, yet he had no reason to believe that it was other than an accident, and what else could he say? " 0, are we going to the theatre, mamma," cried Mopes. " What a surprise for me. And here is papa who is going to take us. 0, how nice." " You had better ask him, child," said Lucy, in an unkind voice. She finished with an unpleasant little laugh. " Are we going with you, papa ? " " I am not going to the theatre, dear," said Ernest Dormer, kindly. " But it is close by, and if you like to take your mamma here are the tickets," he said, putting a sovereign into the child's hand. " Give it back," said Lucy, sharply. " We are not going." " Nay," said Ernest, as the child looked up wistfully. " I never take my presents back. It will do for another night. Mopes." "I think you might have something else to say, Ernest," said Mrs. Verner, " when you meet us for the first time after so many months." " And I have," said Dormer, calmly. " I am glad to see that you are looking well, and I hope that the Dormouse is well and merry." " 0, you can remember her pet name ! That is wonderful. I am surprised that you do not call her Miss Ernesta Yerner. Yes, I am well, and she is well, and Miss Verner, as you can see, is well. We are all so, and everything is so in this world, and I hope you can give as good a report ? " All of which was said in the edgy, womanly tone which leaves one in doubt whether the next thing will be a burst of rage or of tears. " I need not ask," said Ernest Dormer, " whether all business 146 BOONEE OR LATER. matters are properly and regularly attended to, because they are in the charge of Walter Latrobe, who is faithfulness itself." " That is a thing you value much, I know," said Lucy. " I do," replied Ernest. " Well then, I hope that you get as much of it as you deserve." " I am sure I do, and it is something to get one's deserts, you know, Lucy," said Dormer, who now began to suspect that this meeting had not been unplanned, and who resolved that it should in no way complicate his position. The encounter was very unwelcome to him, not so much from the mere consideration that while engaged in an investigation of the most delicate kind he was having a nocturnal rendezvous with a person whose relations with him had been notorious, but because at this hour the incident jarred with his feelings. There was no wrong in his exchanging a few kind words with one who had been much to liim, and was now nothing — and it would have been harsh to have avoided them, but Dormer was anxious to terminate the interview. Not the less that the brief minutes and Lucy's brief utterances had shown him that she was no longer the Lucy of the other day, but was harder, fiercer, bitterer. Why she had become so was another matter — we cannot stand unravelling histories in the street. Enough that he would gladly have got away. And Lucy saw this, instinctively, and felt that her chance was all but gone. " Walk with me a little way, Ernest," she said, " for the sake of old times. That is, unless you are afraid." Perhaps he would have complied, had she not used those last words, for her request was made in a plaintive voice, and old times had meant a great deal for both of them. But the taunt was vulgar, and Ernest became firm. " I cannot," he said, gravely. *' I have a most important engage- ment, for which I am already late." " You were walking like a man going to an engagement, cer- tainly," retorted Lucy. " We saw you, with your head down, and going at the rate of two steps a minute, did we not, Maud ? " And the appeal to the child was followed by another disagreeable laugh. If Lucy had come to Covent Garden for the express puipose of con- vincing Dormer that he need never think about her again, her manner could not have been better adapted to that end. But this she did not know, nor could she see that in parading her wrongs she was justifying them — as a man would think. " It is true, however," said Ernest, " and I must say good night ; and I think, Mopes, that you had better let me give you another I SOONER OR LATER. 147 ticket, and then on another night you can take not only mamma, but the Dormouse, to see the play." He was putting his hand into a waistcoat pocket, when Lucy snatched it away, sharply. " "We did not come to meet you to ask for money, or to be sent away like relieved mendicants, and there was a time when you would have felt how such a thing grated on a woman's heart. Bat I sup- pose that you have been iced and frozen among your great friends who require to be beaten with horsewhips before they can understand what is due to a woman." " You might do me the justice to believe that I could not mean to offend you, Lucy." " I believe nothing of the kind. I should be a fool indeed to suppose that you cared whether you wounded my feelings or not. But I hear that you are in trouble yourself, and I make all allow- ances for you." Poor Lucy. To this style of attack she had come, she, who had been all patience, and submission, and hope, and who had, in her earUer impulses, spoken so nobly of the propriety of Ernest's sacri- ficing her for the sake of his position, and who had vowed so devoutly that she would wait, and watch, and bring him back by offering him an ark of refuge when the floods should be out. And here she was, in the Piazza of Covent Garden, taunting him in the spirit of a milliner's romantic apprentice chiding a draper's faithless assistant. Clearly, her nature had not, in commercial phrase, answered sample. " Well then, I accept the allowances," said Ernest Dormer, " Good- bye." And he tried to take a hand of each at the same time, Mopes's was placed at once in his, and rested there lovingly, but Lucy kept her hand away. " Keep your hand and your heart together," she said, " and a pretty place you have found to keep them in, if all is true that people say. Yes, you can look as indignant as you please, but if your whip won't prevent persons from talking about your wife, I suppose your looks won't." " The conversation has lasted as long as is good for either of us, Mrs. Vemer," said Ernest Dormer, almost sternly. " Good night." He would have passed on, but she held him. Not sensationally, by the wrist, as became a wi'onged female of story, but by the more prosaic means of his coat. In practice this was wiser than the melo- dramatic method, for one may extricate a wrist from a clutch, with a certain dignity, whereas to snatch a button-hole from a woman's fingers is a mean and ludicrous proceeding. L 2 148 SOONER OR LATER. " Don't be angry with me, Ernest," she said, having fully attained to the conviction that she had offended him— his old voice had not changed though hers had altered — " don't be angry with me. I am so wretched. If it had not been for lier and the other, you would have had veiy little money to send to me, only a little more for the churchyard fees, but I could not leave the children, I could not. And then I clung to the hope that some day we might be again what we were before — so happy — will the day ever come, Ernest ? Say yes, and I will never say another bitter word, but go home and sit down and wait till the day comes." The answer of virtue was obvious, and her tone should have been stern and final. But virtue is not always to be heard of, after dark, under the piazza of Covent Garden, and upon this occasion her relative, good-nature, spoke for her, and most unsatisfactorily. " Lucy, we none of us know what may happen, I don't say a long time hence, but in four-and-twenty hours. You must let me go my way." " Go/' she said, releasing her hold. " But recollect, whatever happens, that there is one person who would have died sooner than be false to you, and who now Avould lay down her poor life if you only thought it would do you any good." Lucy glanced hastily round— there was no one near — she snatched his hand, kissed it hastily, and walked on. It was a good exit, but she had taken such unconscious pains, in the earlier part of the interview, to make her language more than distasteful to a man of refinement, that Ernest must be forgiven, even by the least moral and most sentimental, for the hard thought that she had discovered her mistake, and had sought to redeem it by a piece of acting. Yet it was a hard thought, although not alto- gether an untrue one. She did not know the change that had taken place in herself, or that the merry-eyed pleasant girl of the Hut had become discontent, flippant, and even spiteful. She did not know that even her little pertnesses, which amused the man in the days when he and she were in perfect good humour with each other, became oflFensive to him when feelings were changed. But she saw that she had given ofience, and her last eSbrt to set herself right, though it was, in truth, a studied effort, perhaps deserved a little more mercy than good persons are likely to bestow on it. " She would not have lived," thought Ernest Dormer. " But they always say these things." And the memory of a man who has lived about town supplies him with too many recollections of evil stories into which the terrible threat of all has come — happily, with few in which it has been more SOONER OR LATER. 14.- 9 than a threat — happily or unhappily, with some in which it has answered its purpose. Then he remembered what he had said to Mr. Haslop about a certain scheme of his own. xind he almost smiled at the coinci- dence, deciding, of course, without the shadow of a doubt, that he had been in earnest in declaring a readiness to leave the world, while Lucy had merely been practising a farourite trick of women. " Good evening, Mr. Dormer," said Mr. Dudley, raising his hat. Ernest's hand mechanically arose to return the salute, but he recognised the face, and he made no reply. *' I would not intrude while you were in such very pleasant talk with a lady of my acquaintance. I only waited to say, in reference to our own interview, that business is business. Good evening again, sir." If Lucy could have known the thought which flashed across the mind of Ernest Dormer, she would have hurried back at greater speed than that at which she was, unawares, hastening homeward. Dormer was habitually just, or sought to be so, but on the present occasion he Avas in no mood for doing Lucy any justice, and Dudley's words had almost enraged him. Lucy was acquainted with that scoundrel. Had he brought her there to meet Ernest, that the meeting might be reported elsewhere ? Had Dudley been listening, behind one of the huge pillars ? Ernest was in a state of mind that permitted him to suspect all this, and to think very bitterly indeed of the woman whose lips had just touched his hand. She was changed enough, he thought, in temper and manner, to let him suppose her changed at heart also. She had become a tool for his injury. He knew women too well to believe that gi-atitude would long hold its own against a sense of wrong, reinforced by tempta- tion, but this was a very bad case indeed. He had behaved so very well to her — so very well— so much better than many of his friends,, some of them rich men, had behaved in similar circumstances. But it did not much matter. He had graver things in hand, and what was the ingratitude of this miserable little creature, in presence of the great trouble ? With not much effort, and with some bitter contempt, he banished the subject from his mind, to which there returned from time to time only the impression that something new and disagreeable had occurred to him. He did Lucy entire injustice, so far as Dudley was concerned. The latter knew her, and her history, for Mrs. Faunt had been his informant, and had pointed her out, on one occasion, to Dudley. But he had never even spoken to her. Xor would Lucy, at that time, in spite of all her deterioration, and all her sense of wrong, have 150 SOONER OK LATER. lent herself to anything calculated to injure Ernest Dormer. That she would not have gone into any little plot which she might believe would have assisted in detaching him from certain ties, it is too much to say, for such self-denial would be more than reasonable men would expect from many women of a better type than Lucy Vemer. But she spoke the truth in saying that she had never been false to him, in any sense. There need be no compassion for her, however, because injustice was done her. People who behave ill must expect a little injustice, unless they are very successful, and Lucy had failed. Besides, it was good for Ernest Dormer, at this time, that he should think as badly of her as possible. Anything were better than that in his trouble he should seek for consolation in reverting to old rela- tionships, as Lucy had declared her hope that he would do. A moralist must feel sincere satisfaction in recording the discomfiture of this objectionable young woman, and if he abstains fi'om pointing out the moral to be derived therefrom, it is only out of respect for the intelligence of readers, who know why the evil almost always come to grief in this world. But Lucy did not believe that the game was lost. She had begun carelessly, but she had received a sharp lesson, and had profited by it. She was very angry, and also veiy much shocked, at the proof that Ernest Dormer regarded her with distaste, but she had made an effort, and had, as she thought, done much to recover her position. It may be said, in confidence, that it takes a great deal to crush a woman's belief in her future, and it may be said, not in irreverence, that Heaven knows, consideiing what is some women's present, that it is a merciful arrangement which keeps hope so fresh in the hearts of those who are denied the more potent comfort of action. During the first part of the walk home poor Mopes had been remorselessly silenced when she sought to talk to her mother. But^ gradually, and as Mrs. Verner began to be re-assured as to her posi- tion with Dormer, and to dwell upon his last words rather than on her own — a point sometimes forgotten by afflicted egotism — Lucy became softer, and she slackened her pace, and spoke kindly to the child, who needed little encouragement to pour out her soul. " I wish you had let me take the other money, mamma, that papa was going to give me." " Do you ? Why, dear ? " " Because it was for the Mouse. But it does not signify, because I Avill give her half of mine." " But you forget what it was given you for ? " " To take you to the play. 0, but that was only fun. You know how fond he is of saying things gravely and setting you thinking. SOONER OR LATER. 151 and then you find out that they are all fun. But you shall have the money, if you like, mamma — here it is ; take it, please." " Yes, dear, I will take it. But I will give you another, exactly like it, as soon as we get home." " Why do you want to change it, mamma ? " " Because I want to have this one, that is all. Yours shall be just as good." " I suppose you mean to keep it for a medal, like the one with the beehive on it that I got for grammar. Have you done something good, that you give yourself a medal, mamma ? " " Perhaps." " Papa was displeased at first, but you made it up with him, mamma, so nicely. I could not help crying, but nobody saw me." " You think I made it up, do you, Mopes ? " said Lucy, stopping, and looking earnestly into the child's face. " "Why, who wouldn't be friends when one kisses their hand ? " asked Mopes, innocently. The speech did not exactly vindicate her right to the grammar medal, but it pleased her mother, at that moment, more than she could say, except by a little laugh, in which was something of the old tone. CHAPTER XVL AN ARM IN A SLING. It was not, perhaps, very conscientious to undertake the medical care of a ship of emigrants when he knew so very little about medi- cine, but Mr. James Poult had to live, and it was something to his credit that instead of enjoying himself about London during the weeks previous to his embarcation, he engaged himself to stand behind Dudley's counter, in order to acquire knowledge of some drugs by vending them. The red-headed young fellow really used his red head in the best way he could, and was gradually acquiring some j)ractical knowledge of one department at least of the business which he was to do on the ocean. Let not Mr. Poult, or those who appointed him, be blamed in respect of his appointment. He had all proper testimonials. How he obtained them, or what was their value, is no affair of ours. But both he and his employers had a complete legal answer to any complaint that could arise in regard to the failure of his professional treatment of any emigrant whom he might forward on a still longer journey than the unfortunate person had intended to make. When duly signed documents declare that a man is qualified for his work, there is no more responsibility for anybody in this world. At the same time, one is a little sorry for the emigrants. Mr. Dudley had not, it would seem, quite taken the measure of his temporary assistant. Having waited so long for Mr. Farquhar that Dudley's patience evaporated, he called in Mr. Poult. " You write a much better hand than I do, Mr. Poult, and I have something here which should be legibly copied. Do you mind doing it for me ? I'll see to the shop. Here are paper and things." And he gave Mr. Poult the two statements which we have heard read. Mr. Poult signified his assent, and was left to his work. But in a few minutes he came out of the little room, with his face as red as his hair. " Done it already ? " said Dudley. " Why, you are the patent pen that writes faster than the holder thinks — though that's nothing new, by the way." SOONER OR LATER. 15.3 " I began it, I'm sorry to say," said Mr. Poult, angrily, " but I didn't get far. Don't you offer me anything of that sort again, that's all." And he went to his legitimate avocation, snorting furiously, and showing a gentleman's feelings. Mr. Dudley looked at him savagely, and then felt inclined to favour him with some insolent compliment to the delicate mind of a beggarly emigrants' doctor. But whether something in the eye m that red head made Mr. Dudley surmise that his own head might not escape scathless if he indulged in licence of tongue, or whether he thought that the less said upon the subject of the documents the better, he made no remark, and returned to his parlour, leaving Mr. Poult to calm his mind by mathematical division of a flat mass of rhubarb powder. Emerging from his den in about an hour, Mr. Dudley, decently attked, and even humiliated into gloves, passed through the shop without deigning notice to his assistant, and went out. " I had expected you, as you would be aware, IMr. Dudley," said Mr. Heniy Wigram, as the medical gentleman took a chair in Mr. Wigram's pleasant drawing-room in Cork Street. The room, we observe, was pleasant enough — a bachelor's cham- bers, with evidence that the bachelor had tastes, and had spinster friends, or others, who wrought prettinesses for him. But there was no pleasantness in the face of the owner, whose right arm was in a sling, and whose affected melancholy of tone had given place to a real irritability which he took small pains to conceal. " I supposed that you would do so, or I should not have intruded. I regret to see that you are disabled." " 1 am not disabled, but it is more comfortable to have a rest for my arm." " A gun accident, perhaps ? " said Mr. Dudley, who knew better. " Gun — no," replied Mr. Wigram, testily. " I judged so from seeing that you are a sportsman," said Mr. Dudley, looking at a stufi'ed Norway owl of great beauty. " Your own killing, no doubt ? " he added, gravely. " Is the man a fool ? " thought Mr. Wigram. We need not say that Mr. Dudley was not exactly a fool, and that he only wanted a little time to see what Mr. Wigram was, not in the least caring what estimate Wigram might form of him. " Kill that ! No," said Mr. Wigram, shortly. " I hurt my wrist, that is all." " You remind me of a remark made by my late eminent friend, the lamented Abenicthy ; when I say friend, I mal^ allowance for the 154 SOONEK OR LATEE. disparity of our ages, he being a man advanced in life when I was but a youth ; but he was good enough to fancy he saw something in me. He was visited by a lady who said that she had only got a cold. ' Only ! ' he roared — you are aware that his manner was rough, though his heart was good — ' Only ! Would the woman have the plague ?'" " Don't see how this brutality of his bears on my wrist." " You speak lightly of one of the most troublesome of casualties. I have known the effects of a sprained wrist to be felt for years. But, of course, you are in the best hands." " I suppose so. All doctors are fools ; but some annoy you with their folly less than others, and so you get well sooner." " Nay, I must deprecate so sweeping a charge against a profession of which I have the honour to be a humble member." " Oh, are you ? " said Mr. WigTam, not seeming to care in the slightest degree what answer he received. " I didn't know. I spoke generally, of course. Whsit did you want to say to me ? " " The person who wrote did not explain that ? " " I should not ask you if she had," said Wigram, rudely. " I mean," he added, recollecting that he was being very rude, " I should not give you the trouble of an explanation." " You know the person who wrote to you ? " " Well, just. Enough, I suppose she thought, to justify her writing. I don't, but it doesn't matter. You know her, of course ? " " Yes, well." " Then it just occurs to me that you might have done what you want straight through her." " I understood you — forgive me, if I mistake — to imply that you were not aware of my object." *' Well, no, not exactly," said Wigram. He had carelessly allowed himself to be bowled out, but he was much too case-hardened to care about it. Only he did not now think that Dudley was precisely a fool. " You want some service of some kind from me, and if it is in my way, I will manage it," he added. " That is very kind to a stranger, and I may thank somebody who has interested you in my wishes," said Dudley, with well sustained gravity. " I will not trespass on your time, especially as you are an invalid. It is of importance to me to have a letter delivered in N"aybmy, a place which you may know." " I know there's a post to Naybury, because I -m-ite there some- times." " No doubt. Bjit I have reason to think that certain persons may be interested in preventing my letter from reaching the hand for SOONER OR LATER. 155 which it is intended, and that unless it were entrusted to some special ambassador, it would never be delivered. May I infer that you could ensure its safe arrival ? " " I dare say that I can." " Pardon me if I remark that the importance of the letter pre- vents my leaving the matter in any doubt." " I may say that I am sm'e I can." " And — forgive me — immediately ? " " I will send it immediately. I cannot answer for its delivery for a day or two." " That implies that you do not send it to a person absolutely at your command, but to a fiiend ? " " I'll do the best I can for you, Mr. — a — Dudley," said Wigram, im- patiently, " I can say no more.\I dare say your letter, if you give it me to-day, will be delivered to-morrow, but I don't keep a queen's messenger in my service. If you like to lea^'e it on that understanding, you can." " Most gladly," said Mr. Dudley, producing a letter bearing only a Une of du'ection. " You will see, Mr. Wigram, that I have simply addressed it to ." " I shall see nothing of the kind," said Mr. "Wigram, disengaging his arm fi-om the sling, and putting the letter into a larger envelope, inside which he scrawled a few words. " There," he said, fastening it, " I know notliing of your letter ; but I will forward it to a safe person by to-night's post." " I have only to thank you most heartily, Mr. Wigram." " Not at all. Good morning." They had both played their comedy very well, considering that each knew perfectly well the sentiments of the other in regard to the business in hand. Mr. WigTam, as the door closed on Mr. Dudley, was quite awai'e that the latter had no doubt as to the person who would deliver the letter, or as to the reason which made Mr. Wigram ready to undertake the charge of transmitting it ; and Mr. Dudley, as he closed that door, fully believed that before he was out of the street Mr. Wigram would have re-opened, not only his own envelope, but the letter within. But then Mrs. Faunt, who had upon this occasion brought two gentlemen together, was so very dis- reputable a correspondent and acquaintance, that they owed it to themselves and to one another, sitting in an elegant drawing-room at the West End, to ask hypocrisy to make a slight sacrifice to The Proprieties — superior goddesses in the Christian mythology. It is due to Mr. Wigram to] say, that though he tore oflF his own envelope without scruple, he considered for a moment over the enclosed letter. 156 SOONER OR LATER. " There's nothing in opening the letter of a fellow like that, and a friend of Faunt's," he said ; " in fact I owe it to myself to know what I am sending oflF under my own handwriting, but how far is it wise in me to be aware of his story ? I hate Dormer like the devil, now, and I hope he will come to the bad ; but on the whole I had better not know more of the details than I do. Master George has told me all I absolutely want, and will tell me more — no, I won't open the cad's letter — at least I think not. Anyhow, I'll ^vrite my own first." Which he did, and this was the letter to Mrs. De Gully : — Cork Street. Thursday. "Dear Julia, " I can't quite understand your tone, but you poetical women are usually plain enough on one prosaic subject — you never leave a fellow in any sort of doubt when you want money. It is low water with me just now, and I don't see my way to doing anything when no con- sideration is shown to my wishes. The reciprocity is all on one side, Mrs. Julia. But I enclose a letter, of the contents of Avhich I know nothing whatever ; but the writer, of whom I know about as much, wishes it delivered secretly and safely. When I hear from you that this has been done (by yourself, mind) I shall be in a better humour to re- consider your Obliging Favour of yesterday. And as I am going out of town on Saturday, it might be convenient to you to let me hear that morning. But don't do it unless you like ; and if you would rather not, return me the letter by Saturday, With a thousand affectionate messages from your attached brother, " H. W." "What makes that fellow think that the letter would not be delivered in the regular way ? " pondered Mr. Henry Wigram, leaving the note to his sister open, that he might re-peruse it and see whether it were explicit enough. " He must have some reason for thinking it. Who should stop it ? There's only her father and mother, and they are not folks to interfere, from what I've heard. But Faunt has given him the hint, that's clear. She said that they had quar- relled, and that she would never work with him again, but that's nothing — she's soon squared, and now they're running together once more, I take it. Very bad lot, and I shall not wonder to read that they'll land themselves cleverly before the judge at the Old Bailey. I don't think that she has any letters of mine in the old time. None written to her, that I'll swear ; but one is so cursedly foolish at twenty. Can't quite hate her, that old Faunt, either, when one remembers some things." SOONER OR LATER. 157 And the estimable young man's mind went back into the past, and his heart softened at reminiscences which, however, might not have exactly the same effect on good people, and so we will not peep over the tablets of his memory. He sent off the letters in due time for that night's post. They were just leaving Euston Square when Lucy Yerner was telling Ernest that some one had never been false to him, and he had told lier that no man knew what would happen in twenty-four hours. Mr. Dudley walked home slowly, contrary to his usual bustling habit. He even turned down the Arcade, though it had been long shorn of the kind of artistic attraction which used to collect men of his stamp round certain windows. He strolled along Piccadilly, and did not scowl at the carriages of the wealthy. He should never buy a carriage, he thought, but persons of property had a right to lay out their money as they pleased. He was tolerant, and stood back readily enough while a bishop's vehicle humed on that its owner might not be too late to vote against an Education Bill — nor did Mr. Dudley, though he saw the mitre on the carriage, mutter anything about bloated priests — an odd omission, as that kind of comment on the hierarchy was rather usual with him. He passed through three or four gi'oups of fashionably aiTayed men and women, talking what he would at other times have called class- cackle, but he passed through courteously, and had an admiring eye for the grace and beauty of the girls. He even made a small concession to the Establishment — he set his watch by the clock of St. James's Church. Then the cuiTcnt of his mind changed, and he hastily turned off to the left, and sought his own district. Wlien he reached home, he found Mr. Farquhar waiting for him. Now he had, for the moment, put Mr. Farquhar out of his me- mory, and though George, as Dudley supposed, had come in obedience to the summons left in Judd Street, Mr. Dudley was rather displeased to see him than not. Dudley had now done all that he could do, for the hour, and he was not in the mood to recal the process by which he had reached the present point. Had any reasonably strong sort of man, who did not mind a little robust talk, come in Dudley's way, and taken him away to dinner, the chances are that the new acquaint- ance would have conceived a regard, or at least a liking, for Mr. Dudley, and set him down as a well read, clear-headed man, a little inclined to be dictatorial, but earnest in his efforts after truth. Sunshine, which makes the dreariest hovel cheerful, had broken in upon Mr. Dudley, or he thought so, and the result was a temporary improvement in his bearing. But he did not want Farquhar just then. 158 SOONER OR LATER. " Ah, George," he said, carelessly. " How are you ? I could not get here sooner, I'll tell you why presently." " Don't take the trouble. I hare done without you." " Without me — ^how do you mean, Dudley ? " *' You are a very clever young man, Mr. Farquhar, and you have very distinguished visitors, who take you out in very fine coaches, and all that, but it is just possible that you may not be absolutely indis- pensable to everybody." " When you have done chaffing, we can go on." "I was never less inclined to chaff, George. And unless you have something very particular to say, I would ask you to look in on me another time, as I have business with Mr. Poult." " very well," said George Farquhar. " Good day, I'm sure." And he went out, looking more delighted at having received this decided snubbing than he could have been at the most friendly reception which Dudley could have given him. CHAPTER XVII. ERNEST DORMER. Hitherto we have little opportunity of knowing Ernest Dormer, except as the world knows a man — by his actions and his words. But as the crisis of his life approaches, and we have to see how he meets it, let us recal a few passages in his earlier history. They have not been necessary to us, previously, and as was said long ago, we elected to abandon the conventional course of introducing a hero with a biography in his hand, and to allow the reader to become acquainted with him by the simpler process of observation. But there is now a reason for saying something of his life prior to his making the friendship of Mr. Conway at the window of the Geo- graphical Society. Ernest Dormer was the son of a gentleman who held a situation in one of the higher of the public departments, and who received a large salary for his services to a liberal public. The elder Dormer was an educated and otherwise accomplished man, who did his duty reasonably well, but who found his enjoyment in private study, of a scientific nature. He was energetic enough in this occupation, but in worldly matters indolent and procrastinating, and his two childi'en, whose mother had died in giving birth to the younger, a daughter, were speedily destined to suffer by this characteristic of their father. For some years the small household at Hampstead went pleasantly enough. Mr. Dormer's income enabled him to surround himself with all the comforts and many of the luxuries of upper-middle class life, and he paid sufficient attention to his children to see that they were duly cared for, though he sought but little of their companion- ship. Ernest was placed at one of the best schools in the neighbour- hood, and Rosa had an excellent nurse, who was in due course suc- ceeded by an excellent governess. The boy grew up, handsome and manly, and with more than average intelligence, and the girl was developing into maidenly beauty when Mr. Dormer suddenly died of subtle and unsuspected disease of the heart. At this time Ernest 160 SOONER OR LATER. Dormer was twenty, and was qualifying himself for the profession of a surgeon. Rosa was seventeen. When the elder Dormer's affairs were looked into, it was found that with the exception of about three hundred pounds in his bankers' hands, and a debt of somewhat larger amount due to him from a friend who had gone to Brazil, the children had no resources- He had not even performed " the other Whole Duty of Man." His life was unassured. To his friends, except two or three, who knew the truth, the affec- tionate love of his children offered the excuse, apparently borne out by the manner of his death, that the assurance offices would not accept the proposals of a man affected as he had proved to be. It was known only to Ernest Dormer, to his sister, and to two or three others, that the disease had been so hidden that not only Mr. Dormer, but the medical advisers to a distinguished ofiice, had been unaware of its existence. He had proposed, had been examined, and accepted, and his procrastinating nature alone had prevented his paying the premium, and providing for his children. Several entries in his diary testified to his having the matter constantly in his mind, and to his resolve to perform the act of duty and humanity, but it was — somehow — left undone, and Mr. Dormer's children were without provision. The death of Mrs. Dormer had estranged her husband from some wealthy members of her family. There was no quarrel, but he took no pains to keep up the friendship, and in such circumstances eveiy one knows how ties are dissolved, and how soon and how compla- cently those who were intimate come to say that it is an age since they met, and that at no much more advanced date they say that they never hear anything of one another. And wealth expects atten- tion, which there was no one in Mr, Dormer's house to pay. He gave his day to his oSice, his evening to his study, refused invitations from his wife's relations, and never called on them. Ernest the schoolboy was not careful in the matter, nor was Ernest the medical student, and Eosa was little more than a child, and, moreover, having a little more than a child's waywardness, disliked her mother's kin, and eschewed them. We have heard of two of them, in connection with Ernest's mar- riage — the Stepneys. Of Mr. Stepney, the younger Dormer in his passionate talk with his friend Latrobe, had been pleased to say that Mr. Dormer had made him. Allowing for filial colouring, this state- ment was not far from the truth. Mr. Dormer had been the means of procuring for his brother-in-law some introductions to influential persons, through whose favour (it was before the present golden age SOONER OR LATER. 161 when everything goes by merit) he obtained certain hicrative con- tracts which were the solid foundation of his handsome fortune. Nor was Mr. Stepney as ungrateful as it is the normal condition of obliged relatives to be. He would have done a good deal for his nephew and niece, had he been properly and respectfully solicited to take their interests in hand, and eight or nine years after Mr. Dormer's death he showed, without much solicitation, that he had not for- gotten his brother-in-law's kindness. This was not very cordially admitted by Ernest Dormer in the conversation to which we have referred. But at the time of the death, Ernest was not wise enough to make a friend of his uncle, and at that period his aunt, Mrs. Stepney, had influence enough with her husband to prevent his voluntarily doing much for the young Dormers. Ernest Dormer found himself, thus, without means, and in charge of a young and beautiful sister. We have no episodical history of Rosa Dormer to introduce. Oar business is with her brother. Her tale is soon told. Ernest accepted the charge with pride, and resolved to acquit him- self of it gallantly. And he did. Devotedly attached to Rosa, he resolved to set himself to the struggle of life, and not to flinch until he should have secured for her the position to which slie would have looked, as of right, had her father lived and prospered. Their actual money was next to nothing, but with it, and with the proceeds of the sale of Mr. Dormer's library and scientific apparatus (he left few debts, for his creditors did not procrastinate, and he would pay when stringent demand was made), Ernest had enough to enable him to face the first year or two, had he or Rosa been accustomed to practise economy. They removed into small, but comfortable lodgings, and declared to one another that they were going to be very attached, very wise, and very happy. And Ernest did his best. He worked hard at his profession, and he gained a little money by contributions to certain journals. It was very little, and the contributions were boyish enough, and he even knew it, but was proud that he could make some additions to his sister's comforts. He loved her, and delighted in her. What he could teach her, or rather what she would leani, he taught her, and he contrived by various means, and through his acquaintances, to obtain masters for what he could not teach — some gave occasional lessons as matter of friendship, some took a small remuneration because they were themselves in a small way. And he was never prouder than when he unexpectedly received rather a handsome sum for a short Christmas story, and with that money he obtained ten singing lessons for Rosa from one of the great vocalists of the day, VOL. II. M 162 SOONER OR LATER. to have been taught by whom was a glory and distinction among the virgins who played upon the timbrels. He would deny her nothing, even when he felt that she ought to have been denied much. And Rosa loved dress, and amusement, and there was no one to check her passion for either. What did Ernest know about dress ? and as for amusement, he was never happier than when he could take her to an opera stall, and look at her as the prettiest girl in the house, and by no means the worst dressed one. Add, that neither knew much about economy, and the ^ fate of their little stock will soon be guessed. Their means dwindled, but Ernest did not fear the future, and he worked all the harder, and loved his sister the more that they were coming on hard days. The days did get very hard, but the young couple escaped humilia- tion, and began to practise the economy which was now forced upon them, and which, earlier, would have made privation needless. There was privation, but it was for one of them only. Ernest denied him- self many a comfort, often with a pardonable fiction, but Eosa was well cared for. Dress, however, and amusement both became things of the .past, and it was plain that for some years the brother and sister must be rigidly careful, and find their happiness in the society of each other. For this Ernest Dormer was ready, and he did his best to cheer his beautiful sister, and point to her the end of their transition state. He should soon be earning professional gains, and then all would go well. In the meantime his little Rosa must live quietly with him, and smile, and be sure that she should have the best of all that came to their lot. They would live to laugh at their little penuries and careful- nesses, and after all, the trial was not very heavy, at their time of life. Rosa smiled at first, then more rarely, and lastly not at all, on Ernest. But she smiled too much in another direction, and one evening, when he returned from the hospital, bringing her some beautiful flowers, given him by a fellow-student in a rage of disaj)pointment at not being able to meet her for whom that costly bouquet was designed, the brother found that the sister had deserted him. A short note, cold enough — but how could she make such a note warmer — apprised him that she was unequal to the (miserable life to • which they were destined, and of which, though he was sanguine enough to see the end, she could not. He would struggle upwards more easily without the clog of a sister, and she had resolved on taking her own course, and using the talents which she had taken so much pains to cultivate. She wished him all happiness, and hoped that in another land she should hear of his success. SOONER OR LATER. 163 Rosa Dormer did not say, but Ernest had small pains to discover, that she had eloped with the distinguished and married vocalist who had taken Ernest's ten guineas for the lessons. The great singer was an impulsive person, and quite unable to restrain his admiration for beauty of any kind, in art or nature, and indeed talked French- artist cant about its being a blasphemy to do so. He departed for America with Eosa Dormer. Then Ernest Dormer, with a direr curse than should come from the heart of a young man — and it came deadly hot from his — flung up the cards. It would be unprofitable to account, in detail, for his life for the next seven years. It was nearly as undesirable a life as a man could lead. Not quite, for he did not play the hypocrite, and thereby bring good things into ridicule in the eyes of those who knew him. Xot quite, for he never stooped to blackguardism or savagery, even at his wildest. Xot quite, let us add, for he never utterly lost sight of a hope, which ultimately became a resolution, that one day he would help himself (he was not weak fool enough to expect to be helped) out of the careless, aimless, lawless life into which he had voluntarily drifted. Of course we know, and he knew as well as we do, that his sister's misconduct gave no excuse for his. He could not help suffering — it was natural that he should suffer ; but his duty was to go on as be- fore, working hard, practising economy, and preparing himself for an honourable profession. He was the more bound to do this, because he had distinct views of the future, and used to hold them up to Rosa for her consolation in the intermediate period of trial and trouble. His abandonment of his duty was very deliberate, and there is no excuse for him which a moralist can offer. For those who know what sort of a life a young man without any scruples, except those which spring from what is called gentlemanly instinct, can live in London, it is needless to sketch Ernest Dormer's career. His o^vn chief marvels, in after days, were twain ; first, how he managed to get through the years ; and secondly, how he managed to get so much evil enjoyment with so little money. For you will not suppose that he was miserable, or sat "gnashing his teeth and complaining of destiny. When he thought of Rosa, the hot blood rushed to his face, and too often the hot word to his lip. But he excluded the thought — we can do much in this way, though weak persons deny it — as much as possible ; and when it was not with him, he was not miserable at all. He had abandoned upward exer- tion, and allowed himself to slide downwards to a level at which, though he was doing no good and much harm to himself, he was not 164 SOONER OR LATER. unhappy, as he ought to have been. He did not curse destiny, but he accepted it, or what he chose to call so. He made a large number of acquaintances, many of them persons below his own rank (if an almost penniless man, who chooses to be almost idle, can be said to have any rank), and some of his own grade in former days, and amid this motley connection Dormer managed to spend a life of which he ought to have been ashamed, but which was seldom un- happy. Among his more harmless exploits was the falling in love, (and usually, but not always, at various times), with good but not educated girls whom he met in the houses of his less distinguished friends ; and how he abstained from becoming a husband during this period astonished himself even more than it astonished many a handsome and loving girl who would gladly have become his wife, and would have fought the fight faitlifully and affectionately, as Rosa should have done. But Ernest always had his eye on that little bit of horizon light, and it preserved him from a man-iage that would have given him much present comfort, but less in the after-time, when he should have resumed his place in the world. But let not the impression be given that upon any part of this period of Ernest DoiTuer's life one who loved him could look without sorrow. Those years were worse than wasted. That he got deeply in debt — deeply that is for a man who had no right to owe a shilling, seeing that he had no certainty of earning a sixpence — will be inferred by those who, as we have said, know something of such a life. For a good deal of this debt he really obtained value in some way, and the people who lend you wine, and watches, and stones that are not precious, except to the lender, were not very hard upon him — it can hardly be said that he was cheated much — not at all if the amount of pleasure which an impecunious man derives from receiving any sum of money be taken into account. It puzzles many worthy folks, who never were asked twice for a debt in all their lives, how other folks who are asked for debts a great many times, and even then do not pay them, can get so deeply involved, and much blame is attached to the careless persons who give such credit when they know their danger. We are not called on to solve the puzzle, but the fact is of everyday occurrence, and in Ernest Dormer's case, after he had muddled and scrambled on for about seven years, picking up small gains, and living in tolerable comfort, the amount came — he was obliged to find it out — to nearly eighteen hundred pounds. He always had the sense to see that this kind of thing must be stopped one of these days — he had the reso- lution to say, when he had done the above sum, that the day had come. SOONER OR LATER. 105 "We have hinted that the arithmetical process^was not performed voluntarily. Something made a creditor lose patience — perhaps Ernest Dormer had laughed at him instead of talking to him respectfully — perhaps had written him what an outraged tailor is known to have described as a string of wittykisms — or had otherwise vexed the tradesmanly mind. It became simply a matter of forbear- ance, whether Mr. Ernest Dormer went to prison or did not. He did not — for he made up the matter, temporarily, with his good-natured creditor, — the creature is exceedingly good-natured, nay, kind, if properly treated (a fact of which happy and wealthy fictionists who draw savage and brutal tradesmen are, one is glad to know, utterly unaware), — and he resolved that^his uncle Stepney should pay his debts. Even uncles sometimes do such thmgs in a generous manner, though it may be amiss for the rising generation to speculate too much upon finding such aid in the hour of need . Mr. Stepney was not exactly generous, but perhaps he was some- thing better, he was practical. He desired his solicitor to settle Ernest's debts, and of course to pay as little as he could to the holders of bills. The solicitor was much too fine a gentleman to do the business well, and did not condescend to make bargains, so that Mr. Stepney had to pay the debts very nearly in full. The only creditors who were beaten down were honest ones who were too glad to get any money at all, and they made compromises which the bill- men refused. The benevolent uncle then took the liberty of asking the redeemed nei^hew what he intended to do for the future. " You have retired from business, uncle, or I should ask you to give me a high desk and stool in your counting-house. But can you not get me one in the house of some friend of yours ? " " You a clerk, Ernest ! " said Mr. Stepney. " A clerk with moustaches," said his aunt. " Pray don't talk such nonsense, Ernest." But at dinner time he had no moustaches, and his luxuriant whiskers were cropped to modest dimensions, and when the cloth was removed he said, " Now, aunt and uncle, may I resume the question of a clerkship ? " " What have you gone and made yourself that fright for ? " said Mrs. Stepney, who, in spite of her religious tendencies, had an admiration for manly beauty. " I have cut my hair off, aunt ; but I hope that I shall be luckier than Samson in similar circumstances. I trust I am stronger — strong enough for the place I want." 166 SOONER OR LATER. " Ah, Ernest," said his aunt, " I am afraid that you could find other parallels between yourself and Samson, but we will not speak lightly of sacred names. The change in you is hideous, my dear boy, but] I am glad that you are so much in earnest — perfectly hideous." *' Yes, that looks like business," said his uncle. " Help your aunt to some port, and dine with us again on Wednesday." It was not exactly a high desk and stool which his uncle got for him, but a comfortable chair and imposing table, and a quantity of correspondence to do, and he buckled to it and did it well ; and when he received his first week's salary, he wondered why he had not been earning money regularly for seyen years. Nobody, but those who have tried both alternatives of receipt, know the moral value of a salary paid on a given day. That is the true secret of the virtue of young men of business, if they have virtue. Ernest had foreign correspondence as well as native to conduct. But here an incident of significance occurred. He spoke French and German veiy fluently, but was singularly incensed, for a man of good temper and self-command, at finding that he spelt both very badly, and that he used certain vulgarisms, or at least familiarities. " Our correspondent in Berlin is a lady, Mr. Dormer. I suppose that is why you are so very affectionate. But our firm is maiTied, so the attention is thrown away, unless you like to sign the letter 3^ourself. Who was your German Professor ? " So spoke one of Dormer's employers, with a laughing look at the enraged scribe. However, he took counsel, and a teacher who could spell. For nearly three years Dormer worked steadily and well at the task he had undertaken. Let it be mentioned, that as soon as he had funds enough, he went to the creditors who had compromised their claims, and paid them in full. Then he left their quarter of the town, and thenceforth drew himself away as completely as he could, from all his haunts during his period of obscuration, and from most of the acquaintances of those days. More than once he did this last in a way which gave much offence, and made him enemies, in talk at least, for the rest of his life. But it was in Dormer's nature to do nothing by halves. At the end of the time we have mentioned he resigned his position with all due form, and explained to his uncle and aunt that he had now the means of living, and that he should adopt a new calling, that of literature, which he preferred to writing letters. But Ernest Dormer did not tell his uncle and aunt all his inten- tions and arrangements. He did tell them, as became an honorable I SOONER OR LATER. 167 and grateful man, that the friend of his father— the debtor who had gone away to Brazil, with slight chance of return — had made money there, and had died, bequeathing to the son of his dearest and best ffiend a yearly income of three hundred pounds. And Ernest wrote befitting thanks for what Mr. Stepney had done. It might have been well if that letter could have been put before Dormer's eyes Avhen he raged to Latrobe about ill-treatment which he conceived himself to have received. His determination offended and grieved them both. Mr. Stepney could never be brought to understand that literature was a trade, or he would have respected it more ; but this shows that he had never been fairly introduced to its mysteries. That it was a profession he utterly denied. How could there be a profession without regular education, a diploma, and a brass plate ? Mrs. Stepney, was better informed, but her aversion to the literary calling arose from her con- viction that all secular authors were atheists, and went behind the scenes of theatres. So once more Ernest Dormer was estranged from his relatives, yet not in a way which forbad their re-union, and^ as we have seen, they came forward once more to his succoui" and establishment in the world. There was very good stuff in these people, in spite of certain pomposity, and lack of the general know- ledge which makes those who have too much of it so horribly tolerant of everything. It was then that he took the Hut. It is not necessaiy for us to say more on that subject, except that he was perfectly right in believing that the story of that little household was well known to the Stepneys. There were many persons who had been offended by Ernest's withdrawal fi-om the society in which he had lived so long, and more than one of these took the most careful pains that Mr. Dormer's relatives should know the character of theii- nephew. Such is the brief story of Ernest Dormer's life, and it is told hot for its own sake, but because it aids to explain the course of his feelings and of his actions at the time with which we are imme- diately concerned. The first important incident in his history was the death of his father, which brought down Ernest from his natural position in the world to that which has been described. The second was the faithlessness of his one idol, his sister Rosa. These things were followed by a long and unprofitable apprenticeship to a world in which Dormer had neither business nor wish to live, and then again by a connection which reclaimed him from various kinds of iiTegularities, only to fix him in a position on which society looked askance, and which Ernest himself, in certain moments, felt must end in some painful manner. But for the time he accepted it, as 168 SOONER OR LATER. he had done the life that preceded it, and even believed, as we have seen, that he was happy. His niisfortune, therefore, may be stated in the simplest words. Until his marriage he had never had occasion to understand the character of a high-minded and pure-hearted woman. We shall see whether any instincts of his nature supplied his want of the best knowledge that can be given to man, or acquired by him — " the knowledge that ' heals ' the soul to know." CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOME BLOW. " AxoTHER song to the same tune as the hist, Francine," said the lady of Martletowers, as she read her affectionate and attached brother's note. " Read that, and tell me how I am to manage." " I think you had best do as he bids you," said the pale Francine, after making out the note, which she did with some trouble — she read English badly — " or he will not send you the money." " Which I must have," said Mrs. De Gully. " But how can I do it. I don't visit the Conways or the Dormers, and leaving the letter at the door will not answer his imperial majesty's purpose." " If you want the money, all this is nothing," said Francine. *• Yes, it is something," said her patroness, " but you don't under- stand the usages of society here. But I should not particularly care, only I know what would happen. I should call, and ask to see Mrs. Dormer, and I should be told that she was not at home, and if I asked when I should be likely to see her, the father or mother would come out, and — no, I see the way. You shall deliver it, Francine. I will drive you into Naybury, and you shall leave me at Chervil's, and go up with the letter." " And why should I get in if you can't ? " ]\Irs. De Gully looked up haughtily for a second, and something like fire came into the large soft eyes, but only to disappear after the faintest gleam, and the expression was succeeded by a laugh. " You are so much more clever than I am, Francine," said Mrs. De Gully, lazily. "That is not it. But I imderstand how. I am a servant, and there are no rules of etiquette about servants. "Well, I say again, if you want the money, I will go." " You are very good, Francine," said Julia De Gully, ironically. For she could never restrain her humour, no matter how she might be inconvenienced by showing it. "I shall be very much obliged by your delivering the letter." " And if the money comes," replied Francine, " I too shall be very much obliged by your remembering where some of it has been due for a very long time. A poor servant requires her wages, you know.' 170 SOONER OR LATER. " Francine, how often have I told you that "bad temper is a sin. I am afraid you have no religion, Francine. I shall send for a clerical man to attend to you." " How am I to get in ? " was the only answer of the dogged Francine. " Now cannot your cleverness think of some way ? " "Yes, I can say that I come with your compliments, and some grapes, as you heard that the lady was not well." " As if the Conways have not better grapes than mine. Don't be so obstinate, Francine. You shall certainly have your twenty pounds out of what he sends." "All right," said the pale companion, with a grimace intended for a smile. " No, I can manage better than that." " No doubt. And I will not ask how you manage, because I had rather be out of the business, you understand. The letter came to you, and the delivering it was your affair." '' As if the man at the post-office would not notice that large packet directed to you," scoffed the confidante. " There is no such blunder as trying to be too clever, Madame. But I will not bring you into it. What an ugly handwriting, but good, too. And the letter smells of the chemist's shop, — smell it, pray." "Take it away. How very nasty. What extraordinary friends my fastidious Henry is taking to." " Are you curious ? I am not, but letters come open by accident ; and this one looks as if an accident had been intended, it is scarcely fastened." " No," said Mrs. De Gully, with some energy. " I choose to know nothing but what I am told. If Henry likes to give me his confidence, well and good, but he shall do it frankly, and not hint to me that I can peep into a letter." " That is a whim of temper, if you like," said Francine, " and one you get nothing by. If I sulked, I got your promise to pay me. But you great ladies are strange things." " Perhaps ; but we are ladies," said Mrs. De Gully. And her look this time did not encourage Francine to retort. They drove into Naybury, as proposed, and Francine, in her quiet dress of pearl grey, which made it difficult to decide what was her social station, asked, in Mr. Chervil's presence, permission by her patroness to go and make a purchase elsewhere. " Certainly, go. Mr. Chervil will let me sit here, I know. Did you bring money with you, or do you want some ? " "Ah, I forgot it," said Francine. "If you would lend me a sovereign." SOONER OR LATER. 171 TVliicb Mrs. De Gnlly had to do, and noticed the peculiar smile with which she was thanked. " People will be so clever," said Francine, as she went up the street. " She thought to improve th^ speech by offering money, and so I have got a sovereign. I like people who are too clever." Magdalen's faithful guards were on the alert, and orders had been given that no one was to see Mrs. Dormer, until Mr. or Mrs. Conway had been consulted, and the servants, supposing themselves quite to understand the reason for so much precaution, carried it out with all the important fussiness of the trusted domestic. There was not the least chance of Francine's carrying the outwork by a coup, as she had hoped. Anne, by right of her superior knowledge, or at least, sus- picion, that something was wrong, Avas preternaturally ready to pounce upon a caller, " No one could see Mrs. Dormer. But Mr. and Mrs. Conway could be seen." " That will be better still," said Francine, adroitly accepting the situation. " And either, as may be most convenient. Please do not let them be disturbed, if engaged, as I will wait, with pleasure." The message was so naturally given that Anne was thrown off her guard, and went back to her work for a few minutes before apprising her mistress of the visit. Francine, left in the hall, used her keen wits, and discovering that there was no one in the little parlour, entered it. There was Mrs. Dormer in her favourite seat in the garden. The large window was open, and Francine went up to it, attracted Magdalen's attention, and held out the letter. Magdalen looked up wonderingly for a moment, and prepared to rise, and just then Francine heard Mr. Conway say — " I thought you said in the hall, Anne ? " -» " Yes, M'm." "No, M'm," muttered Francine to herself. " Pray do not rise ; it is of no importance," she cried to Magdalen, and dexterously jerked the letter to the very feet of the lady whose name it bore. Then Francine turned to confront Mrs. Conway, who, missing her in the hall, sought her in the pai'lour. " I beg pardon, M'm, but I understood that I was to come in here. I ventured to ask for Mrs. Dormer, but hearing that she cannot be seen (Mrs. Conway's eye on her darling all the time), I took the liberty of asking for you or Mr. Conway." " What did you want ? " said the mother, somewhat flustered, but glad that the visitor was shut up with her there, and Magdalen safe in the garden. 172 SOONER OR LATER. " Mr. Dormer is in London, I believe ? " " I do not know. He is not here." " I am aware of that,3I'm. But could you favour me with an ad- dress which is likely to find him ? I ought to explain my reason." " Never mind your reason," exclaimed Mrs. Conway, " I don't want it. His club — the Octagon, that's the most likely. I know no other. You had better go now." " I know what is going on," said Francine to herself, " though my back is turned to the window. The young lady has opened the letter, ' and it is agitating her, and the old lady wants to get to her and take it away. I won't hinder her. Mr. Henry Wigram never behaved Avell to me, and once he called me a coarse name. I will hurry away, else I might keep her boiling over." She thanked Mrs. Conway with earnestness, and was gone. Magdalen had opened the letter, which she thought might be some kind of petition from one of her poor, or a piece of clerical mendicancy, of which there was much in evangelical Naybury ; but some explanatory lines which Mr. Dudley had, thoughtfully, prefixed to the statement he enclosed, sank at once into her brain and her heart. The words told her that she was now furnished with information as to her own conduct. The lines swam before her ejes, but she retained self-possession by an effort, and the thought crossed her that not there, not in that chair where she had read Ernest's letters, and where she had listened to his love-talk, would she read what he had now sent her. Mrs. Conway's agitation had been caused by seeing Magdalen hurry away, with no invalid's cautious step, from her chair in the garden. Before the mother could reach her, IMagdalen had locked herself into the library up-stairs. " Let me in, dear," cried Mrs. Conway, knocking eagerly. " Please leave me a few minutes, mamma. I have a letter from Ernest. I will call you when I have read it." " A letter from Ernest," repeated her mother, " and in what a voice she says it. But she has a right to read it alone. Anne ! Anne ! " she called, hastily descending the stairs. " Yes, M'm." " Did the postman come back with a letter that he had forgotten ? " " He have not been here to-day, at all, M'm." " He must have come, for Mrs. Dormer has just had a letter from London." " No postman brought it, M'm, that I will swear anywheres. Why, M'm, it must have been brought by that lady that was here this minute." SOONER OR LA.TER. 173 " Lady ? — she is no lady — I know her face quite well — but she never saw Mrs. Dormer." " I left her here, M'm, in this hall where we stand, she speaking so gentle and lady-like, and saying there was no hurry, but she would like to see you or master, and I only went to fetch my duster and brush out of the drawing-room, when she must have stepped into the parlour and seen Miss Magdalen in the garden. But she would never have had the impudence to call to her to come and take a letter ; that can't be the way, M'm." Another time Anne would have heard something to her advantage about a duster and brush being in a drawing-room at twelve o'clock in the day, but Mrs. Conway was too much excited to think of small offences. She hastened to find her husband, whom she at length discovered in a distant part of the garden. " William," she said, " why do you keep out of the way ? If you had been in the house, this would not have happened." " What has happened ? " he asked, too anxious to note the petulant charge. " She has received a letter from Ernest." " But who could prevent that ? or who would wish ? " " I tell you it has been brought clandestinely, smuggled into the house by a woman — I know who it is now — it is that French maid belonging to that bad woman at Martletowers. What has she got to do with Ernest ? " " My dear Mary — quietly — one thing at a time. Do I understand you that Mrs. De Gully's maid has been here with a letter from Ernest to Magdalen ? " " Yes, and she has locked herself into the library with it. What is to be done ? " " Done ? " " Yes, of course. What underhanded proceeding is this ? There must be something wrong and treacherous. The woman held me in talk, pretending to want Ernest's address, whereas her errand was to give his letter to Maggie." "Nonsense, Mary. Does Dormer think that we should intercept his letters to his wife ? — you are di-eaming." " Is it a letter only ? " said Mrs. Conway, in a low tone. " Are there not some law papers that must be put into a person's hand by a witness ? " " We shall drive ourselves mad with such wild guesses," said Mr. Conway, throwing down the gardening implement with which he had been amusing himself. " Where is the child ? " " Do I not tell you, locked into the library ? " 174 SOONER OR LATER. " I will speak to her." On their way into the house another servant, Maria, came up to complete the chain of testimony. She had been at an upper window, looking at Mrs. Dormer, and thinking that she seemed better than she had lately been, when suddenly a letter came flying from the house, and lighted on the grass. The girl thought that it was some little joke of her master's, and waited to see Mrs. Dormer laugh at it, but she did not, and so Maria named it to Anne, who sent her with the report, but deemed meet to keep herself in the background. " The insolence ! " said Mrs. Conway. " To dare to come into my house, and fling a letter at my child. You are a magistrate, can you do nothing to her ? Wliat is the use of the law if it can't punish outrages like that ? " " My love, it is neither of anger nor punishment that we should be thinking now. Magdalen, darling," he said, knocking at the library door. " You have some news. May we hear it ? " There was no answer. " Break it open — not you, papa — send for Robert — tell him to bring something — Anne — Maria — where are you all," cried Mrs. Conway. " A moment, love." And he knocked and spoke again, but with no better success. " A ladder at the window, M'm would be quicker, and would not frighten Miss Magdalen, I mean Mrs. Dormer," whispered Anne. " I would run up, and open the door to you." It was done, and Magdalen was found on the sofa, with her head resting on a hand. When her parents entered, she gazed at them, without wonder, without speech. The letter they could not see. THE IIOMK BT.oW. CHAPTER XIX. THE CLUB ONCE MORE, All the Octagon club knew, of course, that one of its members had been personally assaulted by another, and as the details of the transaction were necessarily known only to the two parties, neither of whom was inclined to talk on the subject, discussion was confined to the moral character and social consequences of the castigation. Mangles had felt himself bound to comply with Dormer's request that he would mention at the Octagon that he had beaten Mr. Henry Wigi'am, and with good cause. But he contented himself with say- ing this, once or twice, and offered no vindication of the act. On the whole, it was considered rather a mistake. " Will things stop where they are ? " asked Marsden. " One would not ask such a question on the continent, but we English are the oddest mixture of fire and ice." " I suppose it will come before the committee," said Jemmy Rydon. " What's the good of a committee, if it does not take such matters in hand ? " " Without going into that large question. Jemmy," said Mr. Mil- warden, " I, as a member of the illustrious body express my sanguine hope that we shall have nothing to say to it. It is out of our way. Your dinner bills, gentlemen, if annotated with complaints, shall receive our best attention ; your excuses for not paying up your subscriptions at the proper date shall be considered with justice tempered with mercy ; and any suggestions for the amelioration of the lavatories shall be heard with gravity if not gratitude. But when you come to flagellations and scandal, we must decline to ex- ercise our fanctions." " Long-winded beggar it is," said Tom Alford. " All his dis courses are divided into three heads, like Cerberus. What are you laughing at ? He had three heads, for I've seen the pictm'e of him in an old Virgil — come. But as for Wigram and Dormer, the best thing they can do is to leave the club." " Well, you know," said Rydon, " I said before, and I say again that Launceston was hard, that night, on Wigram." 176 SOONER OR LATER. " "Who's talking of Launceston," said Dalston, impatiently. " Well, you were present yourself," said Rydon, " and you heard what was said, and you can contradict me if I am wrong." " Quis vitiiperavit f my good fellow," said Milwarden, " or rather, to adapt the sentiment to your comprehension, who the devil has anything to say against Launceston ? " " Well, your honour," said Rydon, sticking to his test, " he was at the bottom of it all." " Stuff," said Dalston. " It is not stuff. He worked up Henry Wigram into a rage, and made him say things that had better not have been said, and then Mr. Dormer pitches into Wigram. ]S[ow I say that the responsibility of the whole thing is with Launceston, and that it is his business to see the affair put straight." " If we are going back like that, j'-ou great owl," said Milwarden, — " but, stop ! perhaps you are offended at being called an owl ? He was the bird of wisdom, like you ; that's my reason for calling you so ; but I'll withdraw owl, if you like. You don't feel offended ? good. Then I proceed to say, that if we are going back like that, we shall have to inquire whaf right Wigram had to say anything about a certain lady, and so we may get into a whole history of things, as to which we know nothing. I intend to decline discussing the matter any more." " Mind you," said Rydon, " I don't believe there's a single word of truth in anything that has been said or hinted about that h.dy." " Wliy don't you ? " asked Dalston. " You don't," retorted Rydon. " I know that ; but your reasons are not likely to be mine, and I should be glad to have my opinion fortified by your wisdom. What's your ground of unbelief ? " " You'll all laugh at me." " Of course we shall," said Milwarden. " I hope you have no doubt of that." " Laugh if you like. I have seen her picture. Sam Mangles showed it to me. And, I may be an ass for saying so, but if there's anything wrong about that woman, I'll eat my hat." " That doesn't make me laugh, for one," said Milwarden, frankly. " I believe a great deal in faces. Only — and Jemmy mustn't be angry with me — I take it that you must know how to read a face, and that process requires sharper brains than those with which our dear old Rydon would credit himself." " I never said I was clever," said the perfectly good-tempered Rydon. SOONER OR LATER. 177 " And I nevei' thought so — I never even said so," replied Mil- warden, without laughing, because he had made a little epigram with which he was pleased. " Not so bad," said Mr. Mangles ; " but you should not say these things before dinner. I am quite at one with you about faces ; and as for the one of "which you are speaking, and which, remember, I have had the pleasure of seeing in life, I confirm Eydon's views. I never saw one that so manifestly meant goodness, if you gentlemen know what that article is." " I was not chaffing. Mangles," said Milwardcn. " I look upon this whole business as a very sad one, and I am not ashamed of saying so. I am very sorry indeed for both parties." " I hope no fellow is ashamed to say that he is sorry a good woman should get into a scrape," said Theodore Dalston, " but I haven't the least idea what the scrape is, or how the compassion should be allotted. Wigram's hints and howls convey no meaning to me, but I suppose Launceston saw one, or he would not have made the row. Will anybody tell mc what has happened, and who's to blame ?" " My brief is that nothing has happened, and that nobody is to blame," said Mr. Mangles. " Your brief, yes ; but your opinion ? " " About the same, except that somebody has been foolish ; but you must not ask me to say who." " Still," said Milwarden, " you rather represent Ernest Dormer here ; that is to say, you bring his message, and as you just remarked, you hold a brief for hun. We may look to you to keep us right." " How do you mean ? " " Well, how shall I put it ? We all — at least, all here — like old Ernest immensely, and are willing to take any good about him on trust. But if you know much more than we do, and there is any- thing particularly fishy, I am certain 3'our friendship for him will not induce you to — in fact, if he has gone wrong, you'd say so." " I have no hesitation in answering that challenge." " It isn't a challenge," said Milwarden ; " it is a compliment." " Put it which way you like," said Mangles, " and put beside it my assurance, on my honour, that Ernest Dormer has done nothing unbecoming a gentleman." " And I am devilish glad to hear you say so," said Dalston. " And now, about the other party ? " " My solemn belief is, that I shall be able to give as satisfactory an answer." VOL. II. N 178 SOONER OR LATER. " Then Wigratn was right to a certain extent," said Dalston. "That is, he was right in making us believe that some sort of enquiry was going on. I thought that he would not speak entirely without book." " There is an enquiry going on, and Wigram knows nothing at all about it. I dare say that some of you may be inclined to doubt this, but it is true," " If you say so, it is," said Theodore, " and I shall follow Mil- warden's advice, and drop the subject until we know more." " And then drop it altogether, I hope," said Henry Milwarden. " But I should like to know what Wigi'am means to do." " Bring an action for an assault, perhaps," said Marsden, " and ask you to lead for him." " Well, he might do worse," said Milwarden. " But I should not advise it — a man doesn't look well who comes to complain of having been flogged for slander, especially where a woman's name is mixed up. The class from which jurors are taken is not moral — that fallacy has been exploded — but it has a gTeat objection to people who accuse others of immorality." " Is he to take his beating quietly, then ? " asked Marsden. " What's he to do ? He can bide his time, carry a good stick, and some day assault Dormer in return. Or he can go to Boulogne- upon-the-Sea, and invite Dormer to come over into a country where the sixth commandment is not in force, and they can try to kill one another, and if Dormer won't come (and if his life is assured, he can't, in justice to his family), Wigram can denounce him as a coward in the Boulogne Gazette. Can you point out any fourth scheme for redress ? " " I can," said Jemmy Rydon. " Well, let's hear." "What I said before. It's a business for the Committee. I should think that Wigram will lay the case before them, and say that for words spoken in the smoking-room, and reported by a member, another member committed an assault, and that Ernest Dormer ought to be expelled." " The Committee has no jurisdiction in the matter, and you. Jemmy Rydon, are a larger owl than I gave you credit for being," said Milwarden. " If I know Henry Wigram," said Dalston, " he will not let the matter rest, or at all events, he will try for some kind of revenge." " Revenge, my dear fellow," said the young barrister ; " the word's out of use." "The idea's not." SOONER OK LATEK. 170 ••• But it must be. What revenge can a man have in these days ? Can Wigram go and hire a couple of assassins to shoot Dormer ? " *•' I dare say that he can," said Dalston. " Most things are to be had in England for money. But I don't suppose he will do that." " Can he bribe the servants of Dormer's house to poison him, as in the good old days ? " " That's all nonsense. But revenge is to be had, and Wigram is the man to have it." " Seeing is believing. What say you, Mangles ? " "I believe in the possibility of a good deal of revenge, in the present state of society, but it requires money and perseverance, and a man who has those things is seldom fool enough to waste his time on the other. I have the means of injuring my enemies a good deal, but I never do, because it is not business." " But you slash a great many poor fellows, editor, in a merciless manner." " Yes, but they are the enemies of the public, not mine." " I have noticed with regret that the Vivisedor has lately been severe upon the gentler sex," said Milwarden. " I assume that you mean women. Not severe, but full of kindly advice," said Mangles. " Hang it," said Milwarden, " kindly advisers ai'e all very well, but I should be inclined to say with King David, let not their pre- cious balms break my head, a (course your fellows have been taking." " I utterly deny it. Give an instance." " What did you say about ' The Meriy Wives of Windsor ? ' " " T said nothing, but I remember that the play has been lately alluded to." " Yes, pleasingly. I forget the exact words, and I dare say that I shall substitute better ones, but it was something to the effect that if Shakspeare had to write the play now, there would be no merry wives, but a couple of disreputable matrons, that Sir John Falstaff would be smiled on by each, and that the intrigue would arise out of their quaiTel for his good graces, and finally, to heal scandal, it would be proposed that Anne Page should be Lady Falstaff, but the knight, ^\ith a touch of Lord Ogleby, would transfer her to Fenton, who should secretly be known to be Sir John's illegitimate son. Then, you said, the play would be acceptable to the British matron, who now calls it coarse." "All pure invention — I use the wrong adjective," said Mr. Mangles. " But there is a good deal of trath in it, for all that. Expand the subject into an article, and I will see whether I can use it," x 2 180 SOONER OR LATER. " And so earn five guineas in the time it takes me to master a brief marked five-and-twenty," said Milwarden. "Thanks, but I have chosen my trade." " And this is the man who talks of virtue. I have heard him." " I'll talk of it as much as you please, and I will practise it by doing my duty in my own sphere, Mr. Mangles, Seek not to beguile me into the paths of literature. Is there anything new in that world — tell me something that I can repeat to an intelligent female, for I am going out to dinner." " I know of nothing that would bear the double filtration," said Mr. Mangles, " unless you like to tell her that a poem will shortly appear which will have a great success, and which it will be quite impossible for any Avoman, even in these days, to say that she has read." " And I may add, in strict confidence, of course, that the book is by my friend the editor of the virtuous Vivisector." " You can say so, if you please. If the lady believes you, her opinions must be of small value to anybody, and if she does not, I dare say it will not be the first time that you have been disbelieved. Here comes the valiant Walter Latrobe. You should have been here half an hour ago, Walter, and joined in the special commission on the conduct of a certain intimate friend of yours and mine ; in whose affairs this club seems to take a most especial interest." " I see no objection to that," said Walter Latrobe, " if people would talk only of what they know." " Likely," said Dalston, laughing. " Well, Wigram has had a little lesson upon the subject," said Latrobe, coldly. " You don't mean that you approve Dormer's conduct in that matter ? You are the last man whom one would expect to approve of violence." " There are times," said the soldier, " when a man may be par- doned for forgetting himself, and if I have heard the story correctly, the provocation given by Mr. Wigram was very offensive." " But," said Dalston, " one does not help a lady's character much by beating a man who speaks of her." " This is no case of a character that wants helping, Doddy, and that is a point which I hope all Dormer's friends will bear in mind. The character is perfect, and, therefore, Ernest Dormer can chastise impertinence without the least risk." " That is the view you mean to maintain ? " *' That is the only view which a gentleman, acquainted with the facts, can maintain, Dalston. You know pretty well that I am not SOONER OR LATER. 181 in the habit of giving certificates of character, and to do so in this case would be in itself an insult. But I hope not to hear anybody who is less infomied than I am endorsing anything which Mr. "Wigram may have said." Walter Latrobe said this without the least approach to offensive- ness. It was rather in the tone of a man who asks a favour for himself. And his gentle championship had much value. " Dormer remains in town, of course ? " said Jemmy Rydon. *' He must keep in the way." " Might I ask you why he must ? " asked Latrobe, mildly. " Well, it's an odd question, isn't it ? He must wait until he sees what Henry Wigram has to say to him." " If he were in my hands, he would not wait five minutes longer - than suited him. What can Mr. Wigram have to say to him ? What will be said to Mr. Wigram is, that he wantonly exposed himself to castigation, and got it." " Ah, these are not the old days," said Jemmy Rydon. " No. I go with you as far as that," replied Walter Latrobe, smiling ; " and men should not carry the coarse talk of the old days into the new ones, as there is no way of fighting themselves out of scrapes." " Except as a certain soldier fought himself out of a scrape, to the detriment of sundry heathen," said Mangles. " Yes ; wasn't I frightened ? " said Latrobe, simply. " I suppose you won't believe that I thought of this club, and the arm-chairs in the smoking-room, and what a fool I was to be in danger of being cut into pieces, instead of being at my ease among you. By Jove, I thought a good many things very fast indeed, on that occasion. AVho's going to dine here ? I must, as I am going to the theatre." " With some children, Latrobe, come ?" said Rydon. " Tq meet some children," said Latrobe. " Do you think that I would go to a theatre with gTown-up people ? I would as soon ride with them in a meny-go-round at Greenwich Fair. Fancy an adult going to a play to please himself." " The late Duke of Wellington, in early life," said Mangles, " was much celebrated for his skill with the then fashionable toy called a bandelorum, and is said to have played ,with it in places where such frivolities were scarcely expected." " I am not the Duke of Wellington, and I am very hmigry. Let us see about dinner. I sent Ernest Dormer word that I would dine here, and perhaps he will look in. I hope so." " So do I," said Mangles. He had made some friends, who stood by him in the hour of trouble. CHAPTER XX. DORCAS AT HOME AGAIN. By a sort of tacit unclersfcanding among the members of the Naybury Dorcas, that meritorious association had met but little of late. To the one assemblage to which the president had so defiantly bidden two or three recalcitrant members, the warned individuals and a few others had come, but conversation had flagged, and the ladies were even grateful to a curate who had ventured in among them, and had earned his tea by reading aloud some missionary reports, wliich were affirmed by the salaried officers of the society that issued them to be in the highest degree satisfactory. Mrs. Bulliman had saved her dignity, however, and nothing was said about the i^roposed visitation of the Rectory of Saxbury. Phoebe had been quite prepared to assert herself, should her visit to the Rector be mentioned. In fact, she had made up her mind for the sensation of martyrdom, and had prepared several pointed remarks which she intended to offer in self-defence, and which, though they might be conceived in a carnal spirit, were clothed in language spiritual enough to prevent her being snubbed and silenced, as a worldling like Fanny Buxton would be. On the whole, there- fore, Phoebe was disappointed when the proceedings were brought to an end, and she had been afforded no opportunity of admitting that she had visited the Rectoiy, and had disavowed the Dorcas puiiDose of rebuking Mr. Grafton for not having brought up his son better. Pha3be's walk across the fields witJi Edward G-rafton had not been marked by much that would have conveyed hope to the majority of young ladies ; but she had lived in a cold atmosphere, and a little cordiality and attention went a long way with her. The behaviour of the Rector and his family had excited in Phoebe's mind a grateful interest, and she would have rejoiced in the double pleasure of suffering at the hands of Dorcas, and of suffering in behalf of her new ecclesiastical friends. Upon the occasion in question, however, there was no one to raise the cry of persecution, and doom the young martyr to the lions. SOONER OR LATER. 183 The attendance was small, and the members worked in silence, broken only by the curate's nan-atives of the success of Brother Jones and Sister Brown in inducing the natives of Ceylon to accept tracts. Then a longish interval took place, during which Dorcas did not sit. The President was a wise woman in her way, and having vindicated her position, was not inclined to risk a second demonstration which might have been less successful. As regarded her own avowed intention of visiting Mr. Grafton, and in regard to which she had sustained so severe a conflict with that evil Mrs. De Gully, who had rather routed her than not, Mrs. Bulliman was in doubt how to proceed. It was due to herself, due to her place as leader of the religious world in Naj^bury, that she should redeem the promise so solemnly given to her pious parliament. As to fear, she did not know the meaning of the word, and if the Rector of Saxbury thought that his imposing elocution and awful organ would have any effect upon this excellent woman, the Rector made an addition to the rather numerous mistakes of his life. Mrs. Bulliman Avas quite prepared to beard the lion in his den. But this lady had some very good feelings about her, and but for the necessities of her position, she would have given her kindlier nature fairer play. Hhe had managed to extort certain facts from her husband touching the Rectory. He was very secret, and moreover he was offended with her, and eschewed private conversation as much as a man can avoid such passages A\dth his wedded wife, but he had jerked out some hints that it was not a time to be pestering Mr. Grafton with cant (such was the awful word used by the wretched worldling) when he was in a sea of troubles out of which that man Abbott might or might not be able to extricate him. That man Abbott — the phrase showed that Mr. Bulliman, too, had his little spitefulnesses. He had not so completely retired from business but that he could have done the work required by Mr. Grafton, without the necessity of sending for the cathedral-town lawyer. But he was in no humour to confide any annoyances to Mrs. Bulliman. That lady had been, of course, perfectly justified, as a wife and as a mother, in saying to J\Ir. Bulliman that his conduct in regard to Mrs. De Gully was utterly unworthy of a gentleman and a Christian. The language was, however, rather incisive, and the respectable solicitor, when the allegation was suddenly made, was, unhappily, abandoned to himself sufficiently to demand of his pious wife what the Devil she meant. And finding that this furious and unseemly question a little staggered her, for she had been accustomed to his good-natured and humble evasions of difficulties between them, the man pursued his triumph, and commanded his wife to adduce, there 184 SOONER OE LATER. and then, the proofs on which she dared to bring such charges against her husband. Then Mrs. Bulliman, plucking up her usual spirits, refused to be catechised, but declared that his behaviour was the talk of all Naybury. Mr. Bulliman retorted that he believed she told untruths, but that if she did not all Naybury might go where Dorcas believed that most of it would go ; and they separated in wrath. Had they lived in London, or some place of freedom, Mr. Bulliman would probably have gone away to Brighton or Paris, until recalled by his wife's penitence, but these things cannot well be done by residents in country towns. Nevertheless they sulked, savagely, in spite of the great difficulty which two people, unless they give their best minds to the work, find in keeping up a show of animosity, when they live in the same dwelling, and are constantly throvvQi together. Unless married people have a very large house, and a double set of servants, they had much better fulfil the conjugal vow, and make up all quarrels before their ludicrous aspect sets in. But Mrs. Bulliman, on the present occasion, was really angry and very bitter. Mrs. De Gully's attentions to the solicitor had always been unwelcome to his wife, but from the time when the latter discovered that he called at Martletowers without saying anything about it, and permitted Mrs. De Gully to use his Christian name, Mrs. Bulliman's sense of wrong became intensified to a degree that enabled her to ask her husband at dinner for mustard, and more gravy, and the liver wing (she had what she liked), and then to revert to scowl and snub. And he had been a good deal enraged at her presuming to affix an objectionable character to his professional care of a pretty and helpless woman, and, conscious of his own propriety, he was more sour to his wife than he had been since a certain time in their earlier life when she wanted him to push into the crowd around a street fight, and distribute tracts. But in spite of this uncomfortable state of things in the house- hold, or perhaps in order to show Mr. Bulliman that his wife was not absolutely dependent upon his smiles for all her happiness, Mrs. Bulliman resolved to hold another Dorcas. It may not be right to say that she was moved to this resolution by the fact that Naybury was at this time full of rumours of a singular kind, and that the adverse prophecies wliich had been made in Dorcas about the marriage of Miss Conway with Mr. Dormer seemed likely to be brought to pass. Good people do not wish to talk scandal, and take no pleasure in the misfortunes of others, and there was much good in the President of Dorcas, and in many of her council. But mixed motives caused the assembling of the new meeting, and perhaps we may say, but un- fairly, that Mrs. Bulliman availed herself the more readily of the SOONER OR LATER. 185 occasion because her knowledge of human and Naybury nature told her that this time, at least, there was no doubt of her having a full house. Had there been a call of the house, the attendance could not have been better. The school-room was found to be too small, and both the drawing-rooms were devoted to the cause of the poor and needy. Sarah Bulliman Avas not deceived, and well knew why her rooms were fiill, but she was pleased, and not displeased that Mr. Bulliman, who had not been aware of the change of scene, came into the rooms in search of something, found his ill-treated wife queening it over all the religious notables of IsTaybury, and retreated in some dis- composiu-e. The tea was worthy of the occasion, Mrs. Bulliman never giving her friends a chance of scoffing at petty economies. Then the work was duly distributed from the various bags, and nobody spoke aloud. The fact was, that there was but one subject on which all meant to have their sa}', but the question was how to bring it decorously under the notice of the house. So the evening was beginning to flag, simply because no one had the key that would unlock the treasury. Girls whispered to one another, matrons sewed in silence, or compared work without much remark, and there was danger of there being no great debate after all. But the President felt that this would not do, and that she had better not have brought them all together than have allowed them to waste time. And she cast her eye upon her child Phcebe. Now Phoebe, since her rebellion, had been rather coldly treated by her mother, though the plain language in which the plain young lady had signified her views had made Mrs. Bulliman consider that any ftuther skii'mishing might be undesirable. Moreover, she was a good mother in her wa}-, and was inclined to rehabilitate Phoebe before Dorcas, if the maiden Avould be docile. " Phoebe, dear," said her mother, " you were last night reading out an interesting little paper on the Sandwich Islands. I was writing, and could not pay the attention it deserved. What did the author say about the promotion of civilisation, and of something far better, by means of white settlers ? " " He said that tliere was still a certain prejudice against tlie mar- riage of white persons with natives, but that it was being removed, and that the best results were hoped for from such unions. I\Iy opinion may not be good for much, but I believe in nothing of the kind," added Phoebe, who was very much inclined for a round or two with somebody. 186 SOONER OR LATER. Her mother was annoyed at her tone, but said, gently enough, — " I think we at a distance should hardly pit our opinions against those of persons who have resided in the islands." " It does not seem to me to be a question of fact, but one of feel- ing," said the resolute and didactic Phoebe, who was willing to fight her own lawful mother rather than not fight at all. " I do not need to go to the Sandwich Islands to learn that unequal marriages can never be happy ones." " There is no inequality, only a difference in skin," said her sister Sophia, who saw what her mother was driving at. " In some mar- riages, not so far ofi" as the favoured Sandwich Islands, there are real inequalities, which produce real misery." " Of what kind do you mean, my dear ? " said another player, returning the lead — it was Mrs. Gilbert, who never emphasized, and yet could be so emphatic. " I mean, of course, marriages in which one party is awakened, and the other remains dead in trespasses and sins." Here the street-door slammed rather loudly, and reminded Mrs. Bulliman that this was lier case. " Yes," said Mrs. Cutcheon, who was weary of waiting and fencing, and now thought the opportunity good enough for her to come in, " there is no doubt that Sophia is right. That is a case in which we learn, on the best authority, that we can expect no happiness ; and an awakened person who forms such an alliance has a burden of responsibility grievous to be borne." And here she glanced at her hostess, which Avas inhospitable, the rather that Mrs. Cutcheon had taken four cups of most excellent tea at the expense of the lady she was hinting at. " Too true," said Mrs. Mainwaring. " And even where a person is in a state which cannot be called awakened, but which gives outward indications that there is a heart that may be roused to better things, it is even more dangerous to be linked to one who has neither religion nor morals." They were getting warm, as the children say at hide-and-seek. " In that case," said Sophia Bulliman, '• it is, I suppose, nearly certain that the one who has a little good will succumb to the one who has so much of bad, and both will become castaways." This was rather straying away fi-om the place, and it was for the President to lead them back. Wliich she did, straight. " We will hope," she said, " that in the case of a union about which wc thought a good deal at the time (all know to whom I refer), the result may not be that sad one to which dear Sophia has adverted. But I fear that much which was said here, or rather in the school* SOONER OR LATER. 187 room, has been — or is being — fully yindicated. I regret it, I deeply regret it." The question was thus thrown down upon the table, and became public property. Mrs. Cutcheon, who had of course forgiven Mrs. Conway's little victory over her and her husband in the matter of the hay, was ex. ceedingly grieved to hear that the marriage of Miss Conway had turned out unhappily. But it was to be expected. " I think it is very cruel and premature to say that it has turned out unhappily," said a pleasant voice, evidently pushed rather higher than usual. " My dear Fanny Buxton," said Sophia, reprovingly. " And my dear Sophia Bulliman," said the contumacious Fanny. " However, I am glad that it is you who speak, and not your sister, Avho was a bridesmaid at the wedding. I am very glad that she has got nothing to say against the marriage." " Xot only have I got nothing to say against it, dear Fanny," said Phoebe, " but I feel it my duty as a Christian to remonstrate against a meeting for a holy purpose being disturbed by such dis- cussions." " Are you in the chair, or am I, Phoebe ? " asked her mother, in tremendous displeasure, and yet privately admiring her daughter's pluck. " You arc, mamma, and I am glad of it ; because I am sure you feel with me as to the impropriety of such talk." " As I was the person interrupted, I suppose I may say some- thing," said Mrs. Cutcheon, getting much redder than became a himable and good woman. " One yoimg lady informs me that my language is cruel and premature, and another — not quite sure a yoimg lady by a good many years, and therefore with less excuse — charges me with impropriety. I know what would have happened to me when I was a girl like Miss Buxton, or a middle-aged young lady like Miss ; Phoebe, had I ventured one of such words in the presence of my elders." " I make no doubt that you were most carefully educated, Mrs. Cutcheon," said Phccbe, " and the results are yisible to all of us iu your liberality and amiability, and I did not apply the word to you in particular. But I believe that we meet to mend clothes for the poor, not to pick to pieces the characters of the rich." This was a little epigTam which Phoebe had potted for a previous occasion, and which she now fired off with some enjoyment. " I must say," said Mrs. Mainwaring, " that -ivliatever may be thought about the propriety of taking an interest in the welfare of 188 SOONER OR LATER. our neighbours, and I have yet to learn that this is improper, it is decidedly a new thing for the younger members of our association to take the direction out of the hands of the President. No one would complain — nay, every one would be thankful, if dear Mrs. Bulliman, with her age and Christian experience, should suggest that our conversation might desirably be led into more serious channels ; but I do not think that the mothers of families should be reproved by young ladies of any age. As we are in Mrs. Bulliman's house, the subject is a little delicate." " There is no delicacy on that account, Mrs. Mainwaring ; and I need hardly remind my kind friends, that on these evenings we know nothing of hostesses, and that it matters nothing where our little society meets, so that we meet in the spirit which is desirable. I do not agi-ee with my Phoebe, that there should be any restriction on our conversation here, and I think it may be left to the conscience of each to restrain herself from that which does not tend to edifica- tion. I am sure that nothing could be further from my Phcebe's intention than to give offence, or to seem to dictate to her elders and betters ; and Miss Buxton is perfectly capable of offering her own excuses to Mrs. Cutcheon." " I want no excuses from Miss Buxton." " I have none to make," said Fanny, colouring very much, but holding her own, " that is, unless Mrs. Bulliman thinks that I used any unbecoming word. If any excuse is to be made, I think it should be to me, who, as you all know quite well, am very intimate with Mrs. Dormer." " And are the first person to name your friend's name here to- night," snapped Mrs. Cutcheon. " Is that quite just ?" asked pretty Mrs. Fanshaw ; " and will Mrs. Cutcheon say that any one in the room was in doubt as to the per- sons we were going to talk about ? " Fanny Buxton looked at her gratefully, for the little venomous taunt had for a moment discomposed the girl. " Were going to talk about, and are, if anybody wishes," said Mrs. Cutcheon. " I do not know that I am bound to be a party to any hypocritical silence on a subject which has given great offence in the place. It is all very Avell for young girls, and others," she added, pointedly, " to gloss over such matters in the world's way, though I should have thought that Phoebe Bulliman would have known better. But there is another view of the case. I would say that the unfor- tunate young lady, who must now deplore her marriage as much as we do, should feel tl^at she has brought a scandal on religion, to which I believe she made considerable pretensions." SOONER OR LATER. 189 Fanny was going to open fire again, l)ut a look from lier grim ally, Phoebe, bade her reserve her shot. " I agree with Mrs. Cutcheon," said Mrs. Mainwaring. " That is the point of view in which the business should be regarded, and per- haps the only one with Avhich we, as a society, have anything to do ; though I utterly repudiate Miss Phoebe's dictation. Mrs. Dormer was — I don't use the word unkindly — rather ostentatious in her doings among the poor, for instance, and declined being put into co- operation with others, or to accept the guidance of a clergyman ; and that kind of self-will appears to have been sorely rebuked." " Without oflFence to Miss Buxton, I should like to ask whether anybody knows where Mr. Donner is ? " said Mrs. (rilbert. " Mr. Dormer is in London," said Fanny. " London is a large place, ray dear," replied Mrs. Orilbert, with one of her unanswerable propositions. "I have never been there," said Fanny, finding an answer, however. " No, dear," said Mrs. Mainwaring, " we make all allowance for your inexperience, as I am sure you must feel." " It is possible," said Phoebe, " for a person not to have visited the metropolis, and yet to be aware of the duties of friendship. Were I as intimate with Mrs. Dormer as dear Fanny is, I should not think that I required any excuse for defending her against injustice, espe- cially when we have nothing but provincial scandal to go upon." " Provincial ! " said Mrs. Mainwaring. " Truly, Miss Phoebe, you did not spend a fortnight in London, one September, for nothing !" " I hope that I profited by that visit, ]\Irs. Mainwaring. I had the privilege of hearing sermons froui several eminent labourers in the vineyard, and one of them addressed himself to an exposition of the ninth Commandment." This downright blow, administered by Phoebe with so much plea- sure that her face quite lighted up, so enraged Mrs. Mainwaring that she hastily bundled a heap of infant garments into her bag, and gave other signs that she was going away. Again it became the Presi- dent's turn to speak. " I would ask you, as a favour to myself, not to withdraw, Mrs Mainwaring." " I will stay, if you wish it, as insults are good for a proud spirit ; and mine was, perhaps, a little inclined to rebel," said Mrs. Main- waring, white with anger. " We are not to consider plain speaking an insult, if it be con- scientious," said the President, unable to refrain from taking the part of her courageous daughter. " Although Phoebe is my child, it 190 SOONER OR LATER. would not become me to require her to be silent, ii" she has convic- tions. But when she says that we have nothing but provincial scandal to guide us in forming an opinion on a certain subject, I must remind her that no person in Xaybury can have any doubt that the marriage, at which she assisted, has proved an unhappy one. If I have held my tongue on details that have reached me, it has only been because it did not appear necessary to touch on them. But a very sad story is in circulation, and what we see lends confirmation to it." " I should think so," said Mrs. Cutcheon. " Everybody looks at me," said Fanny, again blushing, " but I did not mean to say anything more at present. All I have to say is, that the story about Mr. Dormer's staying away, and not being on good terms with Magdalen, is entire nonsense ; they are in constant com- munication ; he is in town on important business, being on the com- mittee of the Octagon Club. But this very day he sent her a veiy long letter ; and I learn this from Mrs. Conway herself." " You called there, perhaps ? " said Mrs. Gilbert, gently. " I did, Mrs. Gilbert." " And Mrs. Dormer was at home, and you did not see your inti- mate friend ? " " No, she was lying down." " Quite natural, Mrs. Gilbert," said pretty Mrs. Fanshaw, with one of those looks which constitute the female telegraph. " Xo doubt," said Mrs. Gilbert. " I have called several tunes, and at various hours, and I have never been allowed to see the young lady." " I do not visit the Conways," said Mrs. Cutcheon, " but I have reason to know that no person sees Mrs. Dormer except members of her own family." " I beg your pardon," said Fannj^ "I see her whenever I call ; to- day was the exception ; and I had a very long talk with her a few days ago. I cannot understand why some people are anxious to make a mystery Avhere there is none." "After this repeated defiance," said Sophia Bulliman, growing red, and becoming much uglier than her sister Phoebe, who usually was uglier than Sophia, " after this determination on Fanny's part and my sister's that nothing shall be said against their favourite, I really will not be restrained fi-om saying that if mamma puts up with this dictation, I will not." " Sophia ! " said Mrs. Bulliman. " Yes, mamma, I know ; but I have a right to the same freedom of speech as my sister, whom you have defended two or three times SOONER OR LATER. 191 this evening in a way which has surprised me. I am sure that, though I never did anything to offend }'ou in my life, you never stood up for me as you have done for Phoebe." " Why," said Mrs. Fanshaw, smiling, " here is the prodigal daughter's elder sister remonstrating with the parent against extra- ordinary kindness to the naughty one." " I am not going to be put down by a joke, Mrs. Fanshaw, and perhaps it is not altogether right to parody a parable. I mean to tell Fanny, and Phoebe also, though they both know it quite well, that there are other rumours in Naybury besides those which affect Mr. Dormer. What is the use of pretending ignorance of that, Phoebe ? " " Dear Sophia, I pretend nothing. I believe that there are some stories of a ridiculous kind, and that when they come to be sifted they will turn out as absurd as that which Fanny has just crushed." " I hope so, I am sure," said Sophia, but not in the tone in which hopefulness is usually indicated. " As to the story which Miss Buxton is said to have crushed," said Mrs. Cutcheon, " I can perhaps say something which I should have kept to myself if there had not been such an attempt to prevent free speaking on a matter on which we have all a right to speak. It is perfectly true that Mrs. Dormer had a long letter to-day fi'om her precious husband." "A lady's word," said Fanny, in a low voice. " But does Miss Buxton know how that letter arrived ? " " How do London letters aiTive generally ? " laughed Fanny. " By the post, I suppose." " Of course you do. But when a young lady takes a whole party of her elders to task, and charges them with ignorance, don't you think it would be quite as well if she took care to be well infoiined herself ? " Matron and maidens listened, for Mrs. Cutcheon, though anything but popular, had one gift which commands popular attention. She had a way of finding out the smallest details of a stor}^ and a knack of serving them up with effect. It was she, it will be remembered, who first proclauned as certain the arrangement that the Dormers were to reside with the Conway s. It was she who learned that the bedroom was to be called the Donnertory. So when she implied that she had news, all Dorcas lent her an ear ; Phoebe, however, scowling frightfully, and Fanny's pretty lips working with anger. " The letter, as Miss Buxton calls it," continued Mrs. Cutcheon, " was not brought by the postman at all, for I took in our letters, being in the garden, and the man expressly told me that he was not 192 SOONER OR LATER. going up the hill, which he must have done if he had anything for that house. But more than this ; and when Miss Buxton has heard me she will perhaps not be in such a hurry to use disrespectful language. That letter was delivered to Mrs. Dormer by a special agent of her husband's, who had to get at her by a roundabout device." *' Ah ! we now see why nobody was ever admitted," said Mrs. Mainwaring. " Yes, for though Mr. Dormer was not likely to send letters by anybody here, a stranger might have slipped in. And now. Miss Buxton, did your friend Mrs. Conway tell you this, as well as what you have repeated to us, and which is worse than a falsehood because it is a studied equivocation ? Did she tell you that the letter, as you call it, was a document from the Divorce Court, to which Mr. Dormer has appealed against his wife ? And did she tell you that as Mrs. Dormer kept out of the way, of course expecting something of the kind, the agent or messenger got hold of the gardener, who was nailing the vine up near the library window, and bribed him to give the packet to the lady, who was inside, and that accordingly he climbed up his ladder and handed it to your friend, who had the grace to faint away, and the door had to be i)roken open ? Now, Miss Buxton, inquire into the truth of what I have been telling you before you accuse your betters of saying what they ought not to say." The sensation was complete. The honours of the evening were Mrs. Cutcheon's. But Mrs. Bulliman, such is our imperfect nature, was not superior to the weakness of allowing it to be supposed that she had been aware of the nature of the revelation, and had, as they must have seen, led up to it once or twice. " If anybody else but Mrs. Cutcheon had told this," said Mrs. Fanshaw to Fanny Buxton, as they went away together, *' I would have disbelieved it. But the old — I don't care, I will say it — the old hag does manage to rout out the strangest things." " Don't believe it, dear Mrs. Fanshaw, don't believe it," said Fanny, crying. " My own Magdalen in the Divorce Court ! The idea is too wicked." CHAPTER XXI. ONE LINE. She knew it all now. ' The blow had fallen, and for tlie moment it had crashed and stunned. As has been said, when Magdalen's parents made their way to her they found her scared and silent. But it was not in her nature to surrender to despair, to lie down and moan away her life. Her high courage stood her friend, and a true and noble pride sustained her in that hour of bitter trial. Their affectionate ministration was soon rewarded by Magdalen's regaining composure, and they wondered at the rapidity with which she passed fi-om the state of torpor in which they found her to the apparent recoveiy of her usual sweet self-possession and quick intelli-^ gence. The wonder was not unmixed with disquiet, especially on the part of the mother. " I must have perplexed you sadly, dears," she said. " You thought I had fainted ; but I had not. I saw Anne come in at the window, and open the door to you." " Never mind, darling," said her mother, caressing her. " It is enough for us that you are safe and well. Now you must be an obedient child, and come to your room, and rest." " There is no need, dear." " Please, be obedient, Maggie." " I am not very disobedient, mamma, am I ? " she said, placing her hand in her mother's. " I know what you mean. You think that I have had painful news, and that I am going to be ill. It is not so, mamma." " But you do not say, darling, that you have not had painful news," said her father, in spite of a deprecating look from his wife. " I have had news which, please, you must let me think abont before I say anything to either of you," said Magdalen, earnestly. "Do not be afraid to trust me with myself. See, I am quite recovered," she added, rising, and kissing her father, but without relinquishing her mother's hand. 194 SOONER OR LATER. " You know best, Mary,"' said Mr. Conway, doubtfully. " At least, let me say a word to you in the next room." " Go with him, mamma." " I will not bear this — I cannot," said Mr. Conway, in a low tone, but almost fiercely, as he went out with liis wife, and they passed into the nearest room. " We ought to know at once what that man has said to the child. It must be some strange and wicked thing that could work in this way upon her. I will know." Never in their lives had Mary Conway heard her husband speak thus ; and but for the greater trouble, the loving woman would have felt that harsh tone in her very heart. But she answered very gently,— " Leave her to me, love. I think she wishes to tell me all." " She must— or he shall ! " " She has asked for a little time for thought. That is not unrea- sonable, dear "William. It is but a few minutes since we hardly knew whether she was alive or dead. For God's sake, be thankful that she is restored, and do not be violent or hasty." " Get the letter frojn her, Mary, and then do not leave her for a moment." " I will do what I can," said Mrs. Conway, " Stay in the house." " Why should I leave it ? " " You know whj'- I say that," she said, taking from his hand a card which he had snatched from the table. It was the list of trains. " I will not leave the house until I have seen you again," said Mr. Conwa}', " Go back to her, and get that cursed letter," And he left her. " You have not sent papa for Mv. Beccles, I hope ? " said Mag- dalen, when her mother re-entered. " Indeed I do not need it." " No, dearest." " And you are going to let me be alone for a little, are you not, dear ? " " Magdalen, best one, you shall have your own way ; you always have, when those who love you beyond all else in the world can give it you. But should you estrange them from you in the hour of your trouble ? — and you are in deep trouble, veiy deep — you cannot hide that from a mother. Are we not to be trusted with your affliction as well as with your joy, my own Maggie ? " " Mamma, how I love you ! But leave me to myself for a little while. Not to myself^ dearest. You Icnow with whom I mean ! " Mrs. Conway did know. She folded her child in a long and pas- sionate embrace, and withdrew. SOONER OR LATER. 195 When Magxlalen arose from her ^knccs it would have been Avorth many hours of a painter's life to hav-e^learned the look which she had gained in prayer. Then she sent for her mother, and that anxious watcher was soon by the side of her child. " Mamma," she said, " I am in a great doubt, and while that lasts, I must not tell, even to you, what has come to me to-day. Will not you and papa be content to trust me for a little while, after trusting me all my life ? And will you not believe, that to have a secret from you is a sorrowful thing indeed for me ? " " Love, you have taken better counsel than that of the fondest parent, and when I hear you speak so, I ought to say no more. But remember this — you are very young, you have not had that fight in the world which we have had, and you know little of its hard ways, and how to meet it. You may be doing yourself and all of us a wrong in not asking for our loving advice, and letting us know whether we can help you," " I have thought of that, mamma." " Then I must be silent." " No, you must not be silent, darling," said Magdalen, flinging her anns round her mother ; " you must not be silent. You must stay with me, and tell me that you forgive me for perplexing you, and for much more that I have seen, but have never spoken of, because I hoped that happiness would come, and all be forgotten." " Would come, my darling ? " said her mother, unable to restrain the fast-flowing tears. " Has it gone ? " And the mother's heart paused, and she held her breath for the reply. " For a little time, dearest," said Magdalen, in a low voice ; ^' only for a little time." " Then he has been the " " Not a word of him, mamma," said Magdalen, earnestl}'. " Not a word which his wife should not hear." Mrs. Conway was a good woman, yes, in the full meaning of two simple words which mean the highest praise than can be given on €arth ; and with one strong effort she crushed all that was rising in her heart, and, mastering her voice, she said, — " If he deserves your love, darling, he must show it soon." " Yes," said Magdalen, promptly. Her mother gazed at her for a few moments, and then said, — " I need not tell you, love, that papa desired to see the letter that you have had to-day. Your answer to me must be mine to him." " Will you tdl him, that indeed I have not had a letter ? I thought o 2 196 SOONER OR LATER. it was one, and I thought it was from Ernest. It is neither. But it is something which I ask leave to keep to myself until I know more." " Then you have not heard at all from Ernest, my child ? " " No — not since I told you." " It will comfort papa if I go and tell him that,"' said Mrs. Conway. Again alone, Magdalen sat face to face with her sorrow, and it needed all her bravery to confront that grim presence. Strangely (as some might say) the fearfal charges implied in the documents she had received were not the ideas that presented them- selves most terribly to her. They were so wild, so dark, that she turned from them with a sensation that was as much wonder as abhorrence. They seemed like accusations prompted by some lunacy, and she seemed to close her ears against their impurity as she would have done had some insane person broken upon her with a torrent of blasphemy. But he who had devised the message well knew how to ensure its being read. He had begun with a few words which burned into her eyes and heart. He had set out that here was the business into Avhich Eniest Dormer was inquiring, and which, for the sake of him- self and his wife, ought at once to be set at rest. That was the device which had caused her eager perusal of every line ; and but for that, as the writer had foreseen, his accusations would have been wasted paper. But Ernest Dormer was investigating this foul story, in London, instead of hastening to his wife. It was false. He was not. He had many enemies, earned for him by his talents and success. One of them was lying to her. But the flush which this angry and welcome thought brought to her brow died out as she recalled that last interview. Yes, it was in reference to the Percy Vaughan named in the docu- ment, to the chamber, to the locket of which she had told Ernest, and of which she had made mention in her girlish diary — instantly produced to him, and offered to him that he might read all — it was in reference to all this that Ernest had come down to see her for a moment, had met her hurriedly, coldly, and after brief questioning, had hastened from her presence. He, her husband, — he whom she loved, — he to whom she was soon It was then that she had felt the full force of the blow, and it was then that she had passed from consciousness into the state in which she had been found. Now, somewhat strengthened, and with returning courage, she sought to look more calmly at the hideous charges. SOONER OR LATER. 197 From memory only, for she could not, as yet at least, bear to peruse again the words which had scared her. But it was in vain that she tried to think of them. The thought of Ernest Dormer, and his daring to give an ear to an accusation against her, came ever between her and the wild story she had read. Did he really know what cruel wickedness was in hand ? and could he, knowing that, have the heart to be anywhere but beside her, to protect her, and to defy her slanderers ? And did he know that she had been furnished with the fright- ful detail ? Had he connived at its being sent to her ? Plad he sent it ? But this last thought was too dreadful to be borne. It passed. She even reproached herself with having allowed it, even for a moment, to cross her mind. He who had never, save once, been aught in her presence but tenderness and gentleness since they had stood at the altar — he, in the hour when she was hungering for his presence, and when his best devotion should have been hers — to strike the cruellest blow ever given to a loving woman ! The thought came. Such thoughts will come, but Magdalen remembered the divine allegory. When the foul birds came down upon the sacrifice, Abraham drove them away. The sacrifice was unpolluted. And she felt that she had done her husband no wrong, for the thought had never been hers. Enough, and far more than enough, was left. Ernest Dormer was away, his letters were brief and cold, and he had seen her only to demand a mysterious explanation. Brooding over all this produced the natural and inevitable bewil- derment which the helpless feel when they must bear, in silence, the ever-recurring and persecuting grief. She would have given much to dare to sleep. She felt that she could have slept. But she did not dare the waking that would bring her back, perhaps from the bosom of Ernest, to the frightful presence of her sorrow. She must do something, or she could not bear this existence. She would write to Ernest. A woman's pride should give way to a wife's love ; and she felt a singular and gentle pleasure in appealing to him for protection. To whom else should she appeal ? And she thought that if his heart would ever awaken for her, it would l)e when she piteously asked for succour. And Magdalen, with a sigh that did not mean utter misery, sat down to write to her husband. It may be that had she been stronger and firmer, she would have written a humbler and more touching letter than she did. But the shock had told, and, as we have said, a certain bewilderment had succeeded to her first sorrow. Words would not come to her at her 198 SOONER OE LATER. will. She began two or three times, and then was half alarmed at the incoherency of her sentences. At length a thought struck her, and she resolved on what she would do. She withdrew the hateful packet from the hiding-place into which the poor child had thrust it, half unconsciously, and without reading it again, — nay, as far as she could, averting her eyes from the bold handwriting, — she inclosed it in a cover, and inside she wTote these words, — " This was given to your ivife hj Mrs. Be, Gulli/s maid. Love."" That last word, perhaps, was not written without an effort. Ought she to say it ? Did he deserve it ? How would it be taken ? But when do reasons against generosity weigh with a loving woman ? Yet she found herself an excuse. " No letter has ever passed between us without that word. I will not be the first to leave it out." And then she owned that her excuse was hypocrisy, and that she would equally have put in the word, had he omitted it a score of times. " I have a letter to post, mamma, which I should like to post with my own hand. Will you walk down with me ? " *' I will go with you, dear child," said her father. " But are you sure that you have strength enough ? " " For that little walk ? Oh, yes, and much more." As Mr. Conway saw the carefully secured packet given to the post- master, he felt that a document which he ought to have read was being sent away ; but he had made up his mind what to do, and was silent. " The letter was, of course, to her husband," said Mrs. Conway to him when they returned, and Magdalen had gone to her room. " Yes. She made no secret of it ; in fact, held it so that I could not help seeing the direction. To his club ; that is the address which he gives his wife," said Mr. Conway, angrily. " I do not wish to make excuses for him, William; but it may be the safest addi'ess if he sleeps in the countr}^, as he said he liked to do ; and he has probably told Magdalen exactly where he is." " I believe nothing of the kind ; but I shall know all about it to-morrow." " You have not written ? " "If I had, how could I get an answer to-morrow?" said Mr. Conway, with more temper than he was in the habit of showing. " I am going to town by an early train." " To see whom, dear ?" SOONER OR LATER. 199 " To see Mr. Ernest Dormer, and to know either tlie day on Avhicli lie means to return home, or — no matter, that is the first question. "When I have his answer to that, I shall know what to say next." " I am glad that you sleep on this resolution, William." " That will make no difference. You are strangely lukewann in this matter, Mary." "I lukewarm, "William !" said Mrs. Conway, her eyes filling with tears ; "you should not say such a thing to me; though I know that you don't mean it." " No, no, Mary," said her husband, angry with himself, and her, and all the world ; " I don't mean it — at least in the sense of wishing to vex you. You can't need to be told that. But you enjoin our compliance with all the child's notions, though she is as unworldly as she was ten years ago ; and you seem to forget that her separation from her husband is a solemn and a sad thing." " Forthat reason, dear William, I would do nothing to bring it on." " Bring it on ! why it has come. He has left her, and she is bi-eaking her heart. The paper which came to-day is not a letter — certainly not ; he does not condescend to write to her. It is some sort of lawyer's proposal for terms." " AMlliam, when I threw out that idea in the midst of my anger and grief at her getting the letter, you called it a wild guess." " I was wrong, and your instinct hit on the truth." " But now I do not believe that it was so." '' Why not ? " "I believe that she would have given me that. There would have been no place for doubt, no wish for time, after my child had received such a proposal. Her pride would have shown itself, and we should have been consulted." " I am not so sure. Between her infatuation for him, and her religious views — I^wish to Heaven she had never seen those Papists ,! — I feel that between those two influences there is no knowing how her pride might have gone. But, Maiy — I suppose I may say it — she may have more confidences for you than she has for me. I do not urge that this is not right and natural, but you should not allow me to act in the dark." '• I am asking you not to act at all," said Mrs. Conway. " Then you mean that you know something which I am not to know." " Do not speak in that unkind tone, William. Have we any object but one in the world, and are we not both equally set upon it ? " " But — I don't mean anything unkind — you are evading my ques- tion, Mary," said Mr. Conway, looking hard at his wife. " You know ^00 SOONER OR LATER. best whether you and Magdalen should have secrets from me," he added, in a hurt tone. " I have never known you so unjust and unkind since we married, William," said his wife. *' What question have you ever asked either of us which has not been answered ? I tell you everything ; some- times, perhaps, things not worth your knowing. If ever I have kept anything back, it has been that you might not be disturbed." " Maiy, we have lived in love together so long that this sort of talk grates upon my heart more painfully than I can tell you. It would seem, as if this unhappy marriage is to bring trouble upon all of us ; but if so, it must be faced. It is the hardest day of my life when I have to ask 'my Avife to speak, when she desires not to speak, and yet I feel that I must do it. You know the reasons which are prompting Ernest Dormer to illtreat Magdalen ? " " Not in the least, William, as I am your own faithfjil wife." " Then why evade my question ?" " Because there is a circumstance in Magdalen's Life of which you were not told at the time, and which there has been no reason to speak of since ; and I should be telling an untruth if I said that she had not given me a confidence which you had not shared. But it had nothing to do with the present unhappiness." " Come, Mary, admit that I have the utmost confidence in your judgment when I say, that if you believe what you have last said, I do not desire to hear what has been withheld from me. I may sup- pose the same offer was made to her which was rejected. I do not luiow why I was not to be trusted — but let that pass." " You mean by your silence, dear, that you do not wish to know ? " " I wish you to speak or not, just as pleases you," said Mr. Conway. The words were those of perfect courtesy, but there was temper in the tone. " Have I quite deserved, William, that you should ever speak to me like that ?" " Like what ? No, I beg your pardon — there — I am an ungrateful brute ; you deserve nothing but — but what I thmk you usually receive from me,'' said Mr. Conway, conquering his inclination to feel wronged ; "but I have been so thrown off" my balance by what we have been suffering, that I even forget what is due to you. I am an ungrateful brute, nevertheless." " l^'ou are nothing of the kind, dear ; and if this state of things did not upset you, I should think you loved our darling less than she deserves. Now, you will hear patiently what I have to say ? " " Say nothing that you would not have said but for my petulance." " Well, I might not have told you at this time, but some other, SOONER OR LATER. 201 when we were in a different mood. But the only secret which Maggie and I have ever kept from you was about a great danger which she incurred when in Wales, and how she was delivered from it, and how the person who behaved so well on that occasion, after- wards behaved worse. It is a long time ago now, but you shall not say that we have mysteries." Then Mrs. Conway in a few words told her husband the story of the Welsh rescue by Percy Vaughan. He listened with close attention and with visible agitation while his wife was detailing the peril of Magdalen, and with strong excite- ment as she described the gallantry of her deliverer. " I was never told of this — why?" he asked. "Mind, I am not offended ; you had a good reason." " We thought so. You were in delicate health, and you do not need to be told how you were wrapped up in Magdalen. I am not sure that it was right to keep it from you, but I am sure that you will believe I had but one motive." " And," continued Mr. Conway, without answer to this, " the young man Vaughan thought that the service enabled him to propose to marry her?" " Yes." "I wish to God that she had accepted him." " Wliat ! and you say this, knowing nothing about him ? " " I know only what you tell me, namely, that he did something for which I would have cut off my own hand and given it to him if he had asked me. What a contrast between a noble fellow like that, and a man who repays the gift of the best girl in the world by " " William, hasty words were on my own tongue in regard to our child's husband, when she begged me to say nothing that a wife should not hear. It may be that we shall rejoice not to have spoken against him." " It may be," said Mr. Conway, slowly. " But to return for a moment — why was this brave young fellow unacceptable ? " " I cannot say ; but the moment Magdalen saw in what way he was disposed to reward himself, she acted admirably, and there was an end." " Of course she did. But do you not see in what a false position I have been placed ? It was for me to have thanked that man, to have done anything for him which I could in return for such a price- less service. I have been wronged in this matter," said Mr. Conwaj', gradually lashing himself into anger. " I would rather bear your unkindness now, William, than have risked the telling you at the time." 202 SOONER OR LATER. " He musfc think me a cold-hearted, selfish wretch." " He did not know of your existence. He had no opportunity of making any inquiries. The rescue occurred one week — before the next was out he had made his intentions clear, and had been dismissed. And he was most splendidly rewarded by Mr. Haslop." " I thank him for doing my work, and not anybody who took it out of my hands." " Please hear me out, AVilliam. The young man turned out to be a very unworthy character — he committed some crime — and Mr. Haslop gave him the means of leaving the country for ever." Mr. Conway felt somewhat ashamed of the tone he had been using, but endeavoured to help himself. " Another story, then, which was also kept fi-om me ; and Mr. Haslop was told, of course, not to mention it in his letters." " We were talldng about Magdalen, dear," said Mrs. Conway, gently. But he was not ready to be brought back. In fact, he was more offended than he had chosen to say. For the reason which had been given for his not having been informed of the incident in Magdalen's history struck at his self-love, and implied that his intellect, of which he was not perhaps unduly proud, had been regarded by his wife as not powerful enough to sustain him during physical prostration. This Avas a very bitter thought for Mr. Conway, and even at this time, when a much graver matter Avas in hand, and although his wife had i:)leaded her own affection for him as an excuse for the secresy, he permitted the shaft to rankle. " I thought that we were talking about her still," said Mr. Con- way. " Poor thing ! she has been unfortunate in her lovers." " Let us pray that the future may be happy." *' There is no chance of that, unless we employ some means to set things right," retorted Mr. Conway. " Only let us be sure that they are the right means." " I must consider that question for myself," he replied. " It appears to be my turn now to think separately." " If you please, William ; for I am sure you will act wisely." He crossed the room and kissed her. " Maiy," he said, in his old kind voice, " you are as much too good for me as she is for him — well, I Avill not say it, as you ask me to hold my judgment. We have been nearer a quarrel to-day than we have ever been in our lives." " We have not, dear, been near a quarrel. I thought that you knew me well enough by this time to be sure of that." " I have been in a vile temper." SOONER Oil LATER. 20S " You have shown — if anything could surprise me that is good in you — I could say that you have surprised me by your kindness in so readily forgiving what many men would not have pardoned so quickly." " Ought not, perhaps," he said, but not in irritation. " I will not say that ; but a wife has no right, even with the best intentions, and you know mine were those, to keep anything of im- portance back from her husband. Now that I have told you, it seems wonderful to me how I could have kept it back so long ; but if you will believe me, dear, I had determined to forget it, and had managed not to think of it often. Only your asking a point-blanlc question brought it suddenly back." _ " And you have not told me because you thought that there was a chance of my hearing it in another way ? " He pressed his hand on her shoulder as he spoke, to show her that he did not mean this for an unworthy taunt. Yet he meant, perhaps, something of what the words implied. It Avas his nature. " No, I do not think so," said his wife, quietly. " Nor do I," said Mr. Conway. " I am sorr}-," he added, after a pause, " that a man who could do a manly thing, as this Vaughau could, had no more ballast about him. Do you know what was the crime he committed ? " " Not exactly, for Mr. Haslop never mentioned it again — I believe, however, that it was some kind of law-forgery." " What can you mean, dear ? Heaven forgive me for having a moment's mood to laugh ! " " That is wrong, "William. We should all go mad if Heaven gave us no moments for breathing amid our troubles. If you have never felt that there was a kind Providence visibly helping you, dear, you have never known what it is to laugh outright between sorrows. I hope you will never have the lesson that way. 0, what would I give to hear lier laugh ! Do you not miss that music, William ? " " Do I not ? But I will know what has stopped it." CHAPTER XXII. AN OLD LOVER, AND HLS LOVE. For some days after her receiving the packet from Dudley, Magdalen Dormer remained in the state of bewilderment which it had produced. Her mental sensations, during this period, were so monotonous as to suggest to her a kind of mechanical recurrence, upon which she could almost calculate. Strange changes, an unkind husband, a lonely and miserable future, were the prominent ideas which succeeded to one another with tormenting regularity, and their incessant presentment began, at length, to dull the brain of the sufferer. The only times at which she was conscious of excitement were at the hours when letters arrived, and when she looked for an answer from Ernest — and none came. Her parents watched her tenderly as was their wont, but deemed it best to exercise no kind of control over her movements. There was, indeed, nothing in her manner or conversation to justify their interference, or, indeed, to cause them more unhappiness than proceeded from the fact that she was neglected by her husband, and was unhappy. And they silently obeyed her desire that as yet she should be spared all question as to the contents of the document which they knew her to have sent away. But each day they came to a resolution that this reticence must not last, and when almost bent upon requiring explanations from their child, they were stayed by the gentle firmness with which she entreated their forbearance. She was to endure more, before her lips were unsealed. " I will visit my poor people again," she said to herself one morning. " My griefs do not excuse my forgetting theirs ; and it may be for the last time." " I will go with you," said her father, when she mentioned her intention. " Come and meet me, and walk home with me, papa," had been her answer, and she had gone away alone. But she did little visiting that day. SOONER OR LATER. 205 As she approached the cottages of her pensioners, she saw Edward Grafton coming out of the house of Mrs. Faunt. He was flushed and angry. "WTiiat had passed between the evil old woman and himself matters little. Her venomous tongue had been in full play, and she had succeeded in wounding him so severely that, utterly beaten in the conflict with her, he was exactly in a temper to revenge himself on a weaker antagouist. Edward Graf- ton's ill-balanced nature was more than ever out of order that day. He saw Magdalen, and at first determined to avoid her, for he was conscious that he was not likely to prove an agreeable com- panion. Then, the scene brought back to him an interview which will be remembered, and in which the proud and happy Magdalen. with her marriage in view, had rebuked him for a well-meant warning, and had treated him with scorn. He had sought to forgive this, and had humbled himself to ask leave to assist at the wedding, where Ernest Dormer, in the flush of his happiness, could afibrd to speak courteously to the rejected lover, though aware of the ill-report which Edward had brought from London, and of the violent re- monstrance which he had made with Magdalen. Ernest's serene and lofty composure came back in that hour of anger to the mind of Edward, and aided to sting him. Lastly, he recollected that he had heard strange things of Magdalen, and that he had taken pains to prevent their being circiilated. All these things, to a man with his passion in hand, would have been reasons why Edward should have carried out his first intention, and have retreated towards Saxbury, but, as it was, they acted the other way. But, to do him justice, he had not any intention of saying ought that could offend Mrs. Dormer. He merely chose to speak to her. At the door of Mrs. Faunt's cottage, therefore, the Eeverend Edward Grafton waited Magdalen's approach. He determined that at least she should pay no visit to the malicious and mocking hag, as he called her between his teeth. ]Mrs. Dormer shook hands with him, and after a few ordinarj- words would have passed on. " I am on my little round," she said. " I would omit the inhabitant of this den, Mrs. Dormer," he answered. " She happens to be in no state for conversation with a decent person." Magdalen, of course interpreting the words to mean that the woman was intoxicated, thanked him for telling her. " Then I will go on to Mrs. Jull's." " Thank you, parson," said a voice from the little window. " Who pays you to come into another parish and slander the poor ? " 106 SOONER OR LATER. " You hear the old wretch," said Edward Grafton. " I would advise you to walk on, for she is capable of using the worst of language, and there is no protection against a vile woman's tongue." " I have never given Mrs. Faunt cause to be rude to me," said Magdalen, " but she seems to be excited. At all events, I vrill go first to Jull's." But when Mrs. Faunt, who had been watching, saw them move away together, she dashed forth with the alacrity of the spider, to which she has previously been likened. She was near them in a moment, and she did not forget to curtsy to the lady. " You never gave me cause, m'm, and I'm sure that I never was or could be rude to you ; and you can judge", for yourself, if you will condescend to take notice, Avhether I am in the least what that gentleman says. Why he should wish to interfere, and prevent any kindness you intended me, I am not able to say." Charity Faunt spoke these Avords with perfect propriety and re- spect. Her sudden decorum, which seemed likely to produce its effect on lilrs. Dormer, added to Edward Grafton's anger. And was Magdalen going to take the hag's word against his, a clergy- man's ? " The less Mrs, Dormer has to say to persons of your class, the better," said Edward, haughtily. " I am sure, sir, that you know best, and are quite fit to instruct a Christian lady in her duties to her inferiors." " I will go on to Mrs. Jull's," said Magdalen, with dignity, " and I will see you afterwards, Mrs. Faunt." " Come when you will, m'm," said the woman, respectfully ; " you will be honoured by me, and will find nothing to make you sorry you have done a kindness to a poor creature." " To a brazen hj-pocrite," said Edward, utterly losing all temper, " It is kindness thrown away, and you are contaminated, Mrs. Dormer, by exchanging words with that person." " That is not in my creed," said Magdalen, with the slightest attempt at a conciliatoiy smile, which ought to have softened Edward's heart, especially as he could not fail to see the effort with which Mrs. Dormer spoke. " Perhaps not," he replied ; " but pardon my saying that there is such a thing as unwisely setting at defiance the opinions of our neighbours." Acquit Edward Grafton of the cruelty of having intended any second meaning in these words. They were only the awkward utter- ances of an angiy man, who was being opposed in the presence of SOONER OR LATER. 207 a person whom he hated and despised. But Magdalen crimsoned to tlic very brow. If there was any latent good in the deep and dark abyss of that bad old woman's heart, it came out then ; not, of course, in any decent and womanly speech, but in fierce onslaught. " Never blush like that, m'm, beautiful as your colour is. To stand there and be lectured by a creature like that, who can't even stand his ground before an old woman, and whom I had just ordered out of my house. He dare to tell you what you should or should not do ! He talk of contamination — as if an angel could be con- taminated ! It is he who ought to be on his knees before you, praj'ing pardop for w'ords spoken by him on this very spot. You will listen to his lectures again, m'm, I dare say, when I tell ^'ou that it was here, m'm — here, and in that cottage — that Mr. Edward (Jrafton hired a person to go to London, before you was married, and see what scandals could be raked up against the character of Mr. Dormer." Magdalen simply raised her eyes to the face of Edward Grafton. Simple girl as she was, there was no mistaking the expression in his face, where rage was struggling with discomfiture. " You cannot for a moment believe this hag ? " he stammered out. ilagdalen was silent. The scorn that would have looked out at her eyes, had she been W'hat she was when they had angry speech there in the olden days, did not awake now. In truth, she had little power, as she thought, of ever being shocked again. But she was to be undeceived. " Hag is an ugly word, but I have been told it meant a woman who raised a devil. I think I have done that. Look at him, m'm, as a sight." " I must not hear this," said jMagdalen, in a low voice, turning away. " If you stayed till midnight, m'm, and your presence would be a glorj and a blessing, you would never see him muster pluck to deny Avhat I have told you. He gave a person ten golden sovereigns, in Saxbury cliurch, one night after service, to go to luondon. I know- the story of the golden sovereigns has come to you, m'm, for your respected mother has been curious to know what they meant. You can tell her that they were given in darkness by a parson, to buy false witness against her child's husband." " False witness ! " murmured Magdalen. " No ! " cried Edward, losing ail command over himself, and speaking with vulgar loudness, ** not false witness ! But it is true 208 SOONER OR LATER. that at the time I would have stopped the marriage by any means in my power ; and when this woman — for she was the agent, Mrs, Dormer — solemnly undertook to bring evidence that your intended husband was an unworthy profligate, I felt that as your friend I was right in ascertaining the facts. I did famish her with the means of going to London. You may think what you please of this, but you will remember that I made no use of any knowledge I had, and that I begged to be allowed to officiate at your marriage." Before Magdalen could speak — if she meant to speak — Mrs. Faunt broke in : — " He means a lie, m'm, though he do es not say it in words. The information I brought him he would have used if he had got it in time ; but a scheme was worked by somebody else, who shall settle for it with me some day, and you had been man-ied before I got back to Naybury. Don't allow him to skulk away from your just contempt. He is bound to me for what I did, and if you ask him whether he pays me money still — whether he paid me any this day, let me hear him deny it." And she held out a hand containing gold. "Why do I listen to this?" thought Magdalen. "At another time I should have been away before half of these shaineful words had been spoken ; but I seem in a dream, where there is no escape." " I will go home," she said ; " I am not very strong to-day." But Edward Grafton, galled into savageness by her apparent acceptance of the woman's stoiy, and by her not even deigning to reproach him for his conduct, exclaimed rudely :— " As the tale has gone so far, I will finish it ! It is true, Mrs. Dormer, that I learned, too late, enough to make me clearly under- stand the painful position in which I know you are now placed. The words of warning which I addressed to you here, you despised. They were amply justified. Mr. Dormer has left you, and I well know why. Would I could have saved you, but you would not be saved." "Saved by you!" answered Magdalen, with a sudden up-leap of her old pride, and in a tone that, though low, carried its intensity of contempt into the heart of Edward Grafton. And again she turned away, and walked towards ISTaybury. He was by her side in a moment, " Saved by me. Does your creed, as you call it, teach you to reject a warning because you hate him who warns you ? Even from ?ne," he said, with a bitter emphasis, " it had been well if you had learned that the man whom you were so glad to marry, reluctantly and at the last moment left a mistress, for the sake of taking a rich wife ! " Magdalen's indignant gesture answered him. SOONER OR LATER. 209 " But it is true," he said, " and you know it. Or, if you affect to doubt it, write to him, if he gives you an address, and ask him after the Lady of the Hut, and Mopes, and Dormouse, who are her children — and his." The mahgnant pleasure with which he brought out these names suddenly shocked himself; and he saw that she was deadly white. " I ought not to have said that," was his abrupt speech. " For Heaven's sake pardon me ! That hag drove me frantic I I was almost unconscious of what I was saying; but it has lain in my mind so long that I scarce know whether I am speaking of it, or only think- ing of it. You understand all that I feel — all that I have felt : there is not a word to be said for the conduct you have heard of, except that a love which will never be crushed out of my heart has made me forget all that was due to you and to myself. If you can see any excuses in that, make them for me. I shall never speak to you again." Of all of which she heard not one word, as she hastened on her homeward path. Mr. Conway was seen coming into the field in which they were. " Ah ! " said Edward, " your father. That is well. But I cannot meet him. Magdalen, in God's name, do not think altogether evil of me, but remember ! " He left her, and hurried back in the direction of his own vil- lage. " Too long a walk — sadly too long, my darling," said her father. " You look fearfully ill ; and there's no getting a carriage nearer than the road yonder, Init it shall meet you there. Let me find you a resting-place until some one passes whom I can send." " I can walk — I can walk quite well, papa ; only let us get home soon." Magdalen, despite remonstrance, walked faster than Mr. Conway himself would willingly have done, and they speedily reached the house. Mrs. Conway was at the door, and the sight of ;^Lagdalen's white face brought out all the mother's love. " My o\ni one ! what have you been doing ? Let me take you " " I will come down and speak to you in five minutes," said Magdalen, breaking from her mother's arms, and speaking in a strange voice. I am quite well. I will come do^vn again directly." xVnd she went up-stairs Avith a rapid step. Into the library, and to a drawer which had been playfully set apart as her own, and of which Ernest had affected the utmost awe, VOL. II. P 210 SOONER OR LATER. always begging leave before opening it in search of any missing paper. It Avas locked. "Who locked it?" said Magdalen, endeavouring to recall her recollection. " Yes, I locked it myself on the day he went away. I remember why ; but I might have spared that trouble." She found the kej, and hastily opened the drawer, throwing aside papers and its other contents until she came upon a note, which she snatched out, and this she read slowly and aloud: — " As you never were a racing man, it is 7io good giving you iijys, hit if you cam to hnoiv tliat the Lailg of tlie Hut is all right, 3Io2Jesin good form, and Dormouse ' howling'' well, you are hereby told hoiv to lay out your money" This was "Walter Latrobe's letter, which awaited Ernest on his re- turn after the honeymoon in the Highlands. " Mamma was right," said Magdalen, after a pause, and speaking in a tone of innocent argument with herself ; " I am very young, and these things are all too wonderful for me. If I am in a dream, let me wake, — let me wake ! But perhaps I am going mad ! I cannot tell. I must go downstairs, and talk to them. Besides, I said I would, — yes, I said I would. He let me read that letter, and laugh over it, that is certain, and put meanings to the names, and all the time they were the names, — no, that is quite impossible. Only my poor head is getting WTong. I must go downstairs and talk to mamma. Yes, that is certainly the only thing to do." She went down, and entered the room with a little smile in her face ; but there was a w'eariness there which told what a strain was laid upon the heart. " There is something here which I don't understand, mamma," she said, gently ; " perhaps you will, — but if it is anything against Ernest, you are not to tell me. I think I will sit down." And they were but in time to save her from a heavy fall. There was no doubt as to her fainting now. CHAPTER XXIII. FAIR PLAY. While the double blow was falling upon the helpless Mag-dalcn, without the knowledge of her husband, he was striving with all his might to obtain a solution of the mystery which beset them both. It will be remembered that at the last interview, at the Covent Garden hotel, betv»eeu Ernest Dormer, Mr. Haslop, and the Serjeant, it was agreed that the latter should, as he desn-ed, take an oppor- tunity of testing the character of Dudley's witness, George Far- quhar. We have seen that Serjeant Penguin effected this object in his best manner, caiTying that unfortunate witness about London, while administering to him the severest castigation, and that the terrified Farquhar was finally dismissed with counsel to take imme- diate measures for his own safety. Then, invited by Dudley to come to him, Farquhar went, and was ungraciously received, and in fact ordered to return at a more convenient season. The weak and unlucky young lawj^er was placed between two fires, and their efiFect was very distressing to him. He knew, in the first place, that the statement which he had prepared, and which ])udley had laid before the advisers of Mr. Dormer, contained, with a very slight addition, the truth. But Mr. Farquhar had reached that state of mini in which the morality of what he might be doing did not seem to him by any means a leading consideration. On the one side was Mr. Dudley, restraining the legal proceedings with Avhich lie had so effectually frightened Farquhar, but menacing him with their resumption, and the disastrous consequence to the onlj- person in the world for whom George Farquhar cared. On the other side was Serjeant Penguin, as formidable an enemy in regard to the hostilities which he could bring to bear upon Farquhar, and ])otent not only for immediate, but for future evil. At divers times it actually occurred to the miserable young man that the best thing he could do would be to take himself out of the world. His father, who hated him, could hardly be angry with him for that, and might not proceed to vindictive measures against his mother, whereas, 212 SOONER OR LATER. whatever course he might take in the worldly affairs which tormented him, the fatal issue seemed certain — his father would be informed of his worthlessness, and would punish him by proclaiming that which would bring his mother to shame. But Mr. Farquhar easily per- suaded himself that there ought to be no haste about an extreme measure. Ernest Dormer and Penguin met by appointment at Mr. Haslop's, on the next day but one after Mr. Farquhar had been dragged round London by the chariot-wheels of the Serjeant. " I have done as I promised," said the latter. " I have seen this young fellow, Farquhar, and I may say without self-praise, that I never put a witness to the torture in better style. I regret to have to add that though he is terrified out of his senses, he adlieres to his story in a way which — which surprised me a little, and when I say that I mean a good deal." " Which makes you believe that story true ? " said Ernest Dormer. " I will not go so far as that," said the Serjeant. " But he clings to it, and all I could wring out of him was that he would alter one letter in his statement. I have gone through and through it to see what letter, added or taken away, could vary the charge, but without success." " Have you any advice to offer ? " said Haslop. "None that Avould be acceptable, I fear. I did myself the honour, at our last meeting, of laying my view of the case before you, and I will not trouble you by repeating it. There are but two things to do." "And those," said Haslop, "as I understood you to mean, are " " Fight, or pay." " As for the first, you consider that our hands are tied." " Voluntarily. I have said that if Mrs. Dormer will come into the witness-box, and deny that she was ever in Mr. Vaughan's chambers, I will crush this disreputable apothecary and this profligate apprentice under my heel. But to do less is to play the enemy's game — you save your money, of course, but you give all the world leave to think what it likes." " And what you are thinking now ? " said Mr. Haslop. " If you force it from me — yes," said Serjeant Penguin. " Utterly useless as are my words," said Ernest Dormer, " I cannot hear what Serjeant Penguin has said without declaring my utter disbelief in the charge, and I call on you both to remember that I have said so." " Then, Mr. Dormer," said the Serjeant, " I have no right to ask SOONER OR LATER. 213 you one question, but it doubtless occurs to us all. Why do you not return to Xaybury ? " " Yes," said Ernest Dormer, " the question is natural. You must let me answer it at ray own time, and in my own way. I may now assume that j^ou have both exhausted all the aid which you can give me." " I have given you none," said Haslop. " And I worse than none, I fear," said Penguin. " On the contrary, you have both said and done much, for which I thank you. Now I will make my own effort to settle the question. You promised to give me the private address of this Farquhar, Serjeant Penguin." " That is it," said Penguin, handing him a card. " But I think I may as well say that if you expect to frighten him any more than I have done, you will be disappointed." " I do not Avisli to frighten him at all. ^Vlien a man states what he believes to be the truth (and you have been good enough to elicit that he does this) I see no use in frightening him — you may silence him for the moment, but the trath will come out again one day. I must see him, however." He rose to go. " Let me know where to find you," said Haslop. " The club ? " " No, I cannot well go there at present. Write to the hotel, if you want me." " What can he intend to do ? " said the Serjeant. " Anything violent ? " "You heard hira say he would not frighten the man." " No. But we can hurt people without frightening them. He is not going to invite Mr. Farquhar into a mining district, and give him a permanent situation at the bottom of a mine — perhaps." The Serjeant asked the question — if question it were — in the tone in which he W'ould have inquired whether Haslop was going to dine at Richmond. " Why do you say such things, Penguin ? " said Haslop. " What a tone, my dear Haslop. No, I do not think that he is going to do anything of the kind. But such things have been done, and not so very long ago, though it is the fashion to say that they only occur in sensation novels, the oidy novels, by the way, that are worth a man's reading. I hate the books in which people are morally eviscerated and lectured upon — I Avould rather hear of their being poisoned or knocked on the head. I see I shock your fine taste." " I am very anxious," said Haslop, entirely passing by the Serjeant'.^ literary confessions, " to know what he is planning." 214 SOONER OR LATER. " What a pity it is, Haslop — do excuse my urging it once more — that with your influence over the lad}-, you don't induce her to defend herself. Can it be wrong for a woman to defend herself against a scoundrel ? " " I fail to make you see that the course you propose is ijnmoral, so you must be content with my assurance that it is impossible." " Well, if you regret hereafter that you did not take my advice, recollect that it was given." " I would rather forget it." " As you will. But look here. I am, to a certain extent, bound to give this fellow Dudley our uUimatum. Not that I care twopence about that, and if you thought that neglecting, and postponing, and wearing him out would be of any use, I can play him for a long time, and something may turn up to help us to deal with him. I am certain that he is, and has been, engaged in disreputable practices before this, and if one could get hold of any of his accomplices, why there we are. But that would take time, and would depend on chance." "The final decision must come from Dormer, and he does not give it." " Yes, that is so, of course. And I comprehend his ideas, to a certain extent. You know, the best thing that could possibly happen would be that against which he is fighting." "What?" "Why, Mrs. Dormer's being made acquainted with the whole story." " What good could arise from so fearful a thing ? " asked ]\Ir. Haslop. " I suspect that she would take the matter into her own hands. A woman would not live with this sort of cloud hanging over her. If this lady knew all, she would be in town in a few hours ; and since you say that what I hinted at is impossible, of course it is, and we should settle the matter another way, but settled it would be." " To tell her would be to kill her, and to drive Dormer from ^ the country." " Why, then, my dear Haslop, she must not be told. Come in ! I beg your pardon for responding to a knock here ; I fancied myself at my own place. That's odd, too," he said, as the clerk put a note into his hand. "I had a sort of right to answer. He wants to see me." "Who?" " Dudley. He is at my place, and my fellow wisely brings round word. What do you say to having him here ? " " Only that I might find it difficult to be civil to him." " I should not try." SOONER OK LATER. 215 In five minutes more, 'Mv. Dudley Avas announced. " A gentleman from Avhom I have no secrets, Mr. Dudlc}', and who is quite informed on the subject on which we have spoken." Mr. Dudley bowed, Mr. Haslop slightly inclined his head. " Two lawyers to one poor doctor," said Mr. Dudley. " Rather heavy odds, gentlemen." " I don't suppose that we shall do you any harm, Mr. Dudley," said Penguin, much more familiarly than Haslop liked, " especially as the remark shows you are on guard already." " We must take care of ourselves in this world," said Mr. Dudley, with a certain peusiveness. " Yes," said Haslop, scarcely concealing the disdain he felt for the man before him. " We shall be taken care of in the next, without our trouble." " Glad to hear it from so good an authority," said Dudley, defi- antly. " But I did not come away from my business to discuss theology, but to see you, Serjeant I'enguin, and to ask you what your client intends to do ? " " I have no client who has business Avith you, so far as I know, m-. Dudley." " I dare say we mean the same person, sir; but if there's any doubt about him, I will say that I mean a married gentleman from Xaybury, whom I saw last night in company Avith the lady from whom he broke oflP to marry Miss ConAva3^" Penguin bit his lip. " That is a pleasant hearing, Haslop." " I suppose there is no mistake," said Haslop, pointing his words by addressing them to the Serjeant, and not the speaker. " A polite way of. saying that you suppose I am not telling a falsehood," said Dudley. " I am unconscious of having meant any politeness," said Haslop. " Equally obliged," said Dudley, who was full of courage and good temper that morning. " Well, there Avas no mistake. I know the lady extremely well, and she has tAvo charming children, and Mr. Dormer's attachment to the three was spoken of in the inde- corous circles as something remarkable. I was not surprised to see the acquaintance rencAved. When the present little affair is arranged, I dare say the other arrangement Avill be put on the old footing, and I really don't know that he could do better, speaking of course without reference to the high morals," lie added, Avith an impertinent bow to Mi'. Haslop. " All this is apart from the question, Mr. Dudley," said Penguin, 216 SOONER OR LATER. who did not desire any unnecessary disturbance, and who saw the thunder clouds darkening on the brow of Mr. Haslop. " No doubt, but there seemed some difficulty in identifying the party," said Dudley. " As there is none now, and I have given you a likely sign and token, perhaps I may have an answer." " I am not in a position to give you an answer to-day, Mr. Dudley." " Probably you can say when you will be ? " " I rather understood you to intimate that in a matter of so much importance you recognised the propriety of consideration, and that you were in no sort of hurry for a settlement." " Yes, sir. But at that time an eminent personage had not been tampering with one of my principal witnesses, and endeavouring to get him out of the way." " Neither of those two things has been done by me, Mr. Dudley. If I had wished to get your only witness out of the way, nothing would have been more easy, as I should think you might know. As to tampering with him, I simply did my duty as an old member of the legal profession to a young one, by warning him of the consequences of perjury for the sake of extortion. It is not new to you, Mr. Dudley, that such is the view I am unfortunately compelled to take of your case; but that fact need not prevent our discussing it with the courtesy of professional men." " Then, sir, I merely ask when I may expect a decision ? " " I reply that I am unable to fix the time." " Exactly so, Serjeant Penguin. When a man is unlucky enough to fall into your hands, he must help himself, if he means to come out with a whole skin." " I humbly endeavour to do my duty, Mr. Dudley." " Yes, sir. And every man's first duty is to himself. I have humbly endeavoured to do mine in that direction, and I hope to be rewarded. But as you were good enough to talk to me, in your own chambers, about fair play, not, of course, that I was deluded for a moment into supposing that I was to get any, I will show you a little, though you won't show it me." " It is disgusting to hear words so misused," said Haslop, looking the disgust he felt. " This person must be quite aware that but for a desire to spare the feelings of those who are not to be named on the same day with himself, he would have been kicked out of this room in half a minute from his daring to enter it." " I came by invitation, Mr. Haslop," said Dudley, with great civility, but with an evil eye. "That is so," said Penguin; "and besides, nothing is gained by SOONER OR LATER. 217 incrimination out of court. What is this fair play, Mr. Dudley, that you Avere going to be so good as to show us ? " "Only to tell 3^ou, gentlemen, that I think it likely that the settlement of this affair will be speedier than you suppose. It may be a convenience to the person who is going to advance the money to know that." " No one is going to advance any money, Mr. Dudley." "I am glad to hear, then, that Mr. Dormer has become a capitalist. It is rather lately, I know, as he used to have difficulties in money matters. However, it may be convenient even to him to know that he will soon be called upon for a certain sum." '• Why do you say this ? " " I would merely say, sir," said Dudley, speaking slowly, and smiling, " that I have always found lawyers, however eminent, very unpractical in real business. They always go a roundabout way to ■work. And having some idea that such was the case in the present instance, and that they were not taking counsel with all parties interested, I have ventured on the liberty of bringing the business under the notice of somebody who ought mainly to be consulted." " Will you favour " But what Penguin was about to say was cut short by Haslop, who sprang up with gleaming eyes, and said, in a fierce low voice, — " Dare to say that you have sent your infernal story to Mrs. Dormer ? " Dudley was not a coward, but the fire in the eyes of Haslop, and the grim and suppressed fury of his voice fairly cowed the underbred man. " You will hear in time, I dare say," he said, sullenly. " I shall not remain to be bullied." And he effected rather a rapid retreat, banging the outside door, however, in demonstration of defiance. " He has done that," said Haslop, now pale with anger. " I fear he has." " It is well for him that he was not within my reach," said Haslop. " It is well for all of us, if you meant violence," said Penguin, " against which — pardon me — you were preaching just now. And what is the use of it ? The mischief is done, though I hope and trust that you anticipate far worse effects than are likely to occur. I have known many cases of suffering by sudden revelations, but I never knew any person finally go down under them." " You do not know her." " No, I regret to say. But there is one point of view in which I 218 SOONER OR LATER. see a comfort which you refuse to j'ourself. Believing that there is a great deal in the story, I infer that Mrs. Dormer must liave thought over it long and earnestly, and must have been prepared for something like that which has happened. Eemember, Farquhar went down and recalled to her mem.ory the Gray's Inn visits. Rely upon it, that you will have better news than you expect. On the wliole, I do not see much to regret, except that you are annoyed." " You have had a previous interview with this fellow. Did he then give the least hint of his diabolical intention ? " " Not the faintest, on my honour." " You will be glad that you have no share in the responsibility for w'hat is going to happen — my God ! — may have happened. Where is the telegraph office for Naybury ? " " In Fleet Street — but what are you going to do ? " " I must know whether this miscreant has killed her." CHAPTER XXIV. THE SKELETON IN THE KECTOEY. On leaving Magdalen, Edward Grafton, as has been said, hastened back in the direction of Saxbury. He turned for a moment to sec that I^Irs. Dormer was on the arm of her father, and then, pulling his hat firmly over his forehead, walked onwards, Ayithout a look at the cottage before wliicli the stormy interview had taken place. But his enemy had not done with him. She was leaning near her doorway, and as Edward was passing, she said, in a distinct voice, — " You have seen her for the last time in this world." The speech arrested him, and he stopped and looked vacantly at the speaker. " For the last time in this world, sir. Perhaps you will write to her parents, and ask to be allowed to assist at her funeral. It would show good feeling." " "What are j'ou saying, woman ? " he asked, angrily. " She had enough to bear before, poor lady. Her heart was nearly broken, and with good cause. You need not have run after her to stab her again ; but perhaps it's the most merciful way. And parsons should be merciful, you know." Edward muttered something, which did not reach her, " I can't hear what you say, sir, but I am sure it's a prayer for the poor creature, and comes well from you. I am bad enough, sir," she added, coming up to him, " but I couldn't have served my worst enemy so, knowing what had come upon her." " AVhat has come upon her ? " he asked, fiercely, " except separation from a man who was unworthy of her." " You arc a bad actor, Mr. Edward Grafton. Once I thought j'ou were a better one, but I made a mistake. I can see in your face that you know what has been done to her. I don't forget what you came and said to me about spreading reports against a lady's character. But it wasn't worth while to try and play that game with me. I did 220 SOONER OR LATER. not think, though, that 3'our revenge would cany you so far, or I would not have spoken out just now, for all your insults." " You are mad as well as malignant," said Edward. " I know not why I speak to you." " Because you cannot help it. Because when we have done a bad, Avicked thing, we get ease in talking about it, and trying to get somebody else to seem to share the crime. I know the feeling, sir ; but we don't get much help out of it, and when you get home and consider what you have done, you'll wish that you had been struck down on that path as you were coming over here to-day." '• I may," said Edward to himself, rather than to her. " It was well done that getting the dreadful letter to her. I could not have done a trick of the kind better myself in the days when it was my business to do that sort of thing, though I never did any- thing quite so wicked as that." " What letter ? I know of no letter." " Don't, sir ; it can be of no good, and you do it so badly. What's the value of my opinion of you that you should try to deceive me ; which you don't in the least. Perhaf)s you think I don't know what passed between you and Chervil, the stuck-up druggist ?" " You cannot. We were alone, and he would not have told you." " That is my affair. But I do know, sir ; and I know also that you gave him a letter ; also that afterwards, and as you had arranged, he had another visitor, who sent away a person on the wicked errand, and it was done. You need not glare at me, sir ! I have not done with you yet, and when I have, there will be somebody else to call you to account for your share in the business. And mind this, Mr. Edward Grafton, the story that you and others have conspired to raise against that lady, is a lie ; and you will find it out when it is too late, and when those who love her come for their revenge. If I might make so bold, sir, I think you had better go home." " Not, by ! " cried the young clergyman, now infuriated be- yond self-restraint at her hints and menace, " not until I have dragged your cursed meaning out of you ! " And he tore open the cottage gate, and confronted the woman. Had she sought to move, he would have seized her, perhaps by the throat ; but she stood firm. " That looks more real, sir, and I have angered you into being more natural. But what's the good of raging ? You have your ven- geance for the time being. The lady would not have you, and preferred another. Women will do these things, and some men take their chance and bear no malice. You are not one of that sort, and you bear a deal. You have bided your time well, I must say that ,• SOONER OR LATER. 231 and now yoii have struck hard, so hard that the lady who would not love you will not have long to loA^e anybody else. She know that she was accused of a wickedness she cannot even understand ; and while she was staggering, as one may say, under that blow, you lay in wait for her, and strike her again to the very heart by telling hei- that her husband was false to her. Now her poor old father has taken her home to die, and 3'ou can go home and make a sermon about the afflictions of the righteous. But you had better put in a bit about the afflictions of people who are not righteous, as it may be usefid to you yourself one of these days." But he was not heeding the last words, in which she disported herself, after her fashion, with an insolence that furbished itself out in scraps and rags of good things which must at one time have been familiar to her. " Taken her home to die ? " " Yes, that is so, sir, if I know anything about the face of a woman who is struck home ; and I have seen some. So you may make the most of your triumph while it lasts, for I don't think it will be very long. She always behaved to me like a ladj^, and I shall say, as I do now, that she has been cruelly treated for listening to her own heart." " Woman ! " said Edward Grafton, grinding his teeth, " is it for you to talk so ? Who first put into my head the thought of making the inquiries ? Who brought the tale to me ? I curse myself for having listened to you, but it is not for you to whine out com- passion." " And this is the parson of Saxbury, who has the care of all the immortal souls in the place, and has to guide them in this world and for the next one ; and here he is complaining to a poor ignorant old woman that she led him into murder ! That's laughable, isn't it, sir, if you was in a laughing mind ? " He said two or three words of bad import, and left her. " He is a stronger man and a weaker man than I thought to find him," said Mrs. Faunt, turning into her cottage. " I believed that he would have struck me, and I don't know that I should have hated him any more for that, I hate milksops. But people are not what they were. Men are all so civil and timid in these days. Nobody has spirits for a real row. And to think on what I have seen done, when a man had tlie pluck to go half mad and show it." Some recollections of passages in her own evil old' days silenced her for a time. Then she said, — " Ah ! that breed's out. And more's the pity, though I'm too old to hold my own now. But if this business goes off Avithout 222 SOONER OE LATER. grief to somebody, I'm out. My friend, Benjamin Dudley, has played his game at last, but he will find it's no child's play. If that Lucy makes a mistake, and she's just the fool to do it, and loses her hold on Dormer, and Dormer, true to his wife, comes down on Dudle^^ — I'd give a year of life to see it," said the old heathen, fervently, " and I have not so many years to gamble with." When Edward Grafton reached the rectory at Saxbury, he saw a carriage at the door. It was a hired carriage, he noticed. " Who is here ? " he mechanically asked as he went in. " Mr. Abbott, sir." Edward was passing on to his own study, a quiet and secluded room at the end of a long passage, when he heard Abbott's voice, " Is that you, Edward ? " " Yes, Mr. Abbott." " I W'ill come to your room, I want a few words with you," He could not have been more unwelcome; but Edward Grafton had no choice but to ask him into the study. " A snug place enough, my dear Edward," said the lawyer, " and like every man's own private den, it has gradually been furnished and fitted to your own tastes, I see, I wish that I had a pleasanter stoiy to tell the first time I come in." " Anything disagreeable ?" said Edward, languidly, " Yes, You are a man of sense and of courage, and it is of no use my beating round the bush, is it ? " " No, no, tell me at once." " Moreover, I take it, you must have been prepared for something of the sort, as you must have observed your father and mother, of late, and noticed many things that point at a certain result." " Pecuniary trouble, I suppose ? " " Yes, that is part of it. The fault has not been mine. I ha^-e given advice which would have prevented it ; but that advice was not taken, and a crisis has come." " Have we been extravagant ? " " There it is — I cannot say so, I come here a good deal, and I see nothing which can be called extravagant, when income is considered, and your father's position. He keeps a good table, and has a carriage, as the rector of Saxbury ought to be able to afford to do. He is decorous in regard to charities, but I only quote his words when I remind you that he has always been opposed to the custom which some clergymen have of beggaring themselves for the sake of the poor of their flock. Some men give away great quantities of money this Avay, but Mr, Grafton, on principle, has always refused to do it, and has incurred some obloquy in consequence," SOOXEPw OR LATER. 223 " My motlicr is most economical," " The . best and most thoughtful wife in the world. I lore her as a sister, but that is no news to you. Your father has had plenty of money. I have also obtained a good deal for him. I see nothing to show for it. But he cannot go on." " What do we do ? " asked Edward, in a tone that almost irritated the good-natured lawyer, it seemed to evince so little interest in the question. " Well, to do you justice, Edward, you take things with a coolness which would have done honour to an impassive dandy of the old days. Wlien I look at you again, my dear boy, I beg your pardon. I see you are ill." « Yes, I am ill," said Edward ; " but no matter. Tell me all, I\Ir. Abbott, please, and excuse my short answers." " I like short answers if they are incisive. Well, the state of the case is just this, I can manage to save the Eectory, but your father cannot live here." " And where is my mother to go ? " " Is not her place with him ? " " I do not know. You have something more to say ? " " The difficulty I have in saying any more arises from my igno- rance as to whether you know something which — how shall I put it ? — which your father has probably not confided to you." " I have certain suspicions ; but you had better speak, please, as if I knew nothing at all." " You have had those suspicions for a long time, or have they come to you recently ? " " They arose a long time back, before I went to college; and when, being young, I was perhaps not supposed to take notice of certain matters, of which, perhaps, I took the ^^Tong kind of notice." " And they connect themselves with any member of this house- hold ? " " Of the household — not of the ftimily." " I understand you. And without asking for more than you care to give, may I inquire what your idea was ? The remark you just made about your mother leads me to this question." " Answer me as a man of honour, Mr. Abbott. Are you in pos- session of all my father's secrets, or do you believe that you are ? " "Not quite all. He keeps something back. But I know enough, from his own lips, and from another source " " Xot my mother ? " " Edward, she would sooner die than give a stranger a confidence about her husband." 224 SOONER OR LATER. " That is true — I beg your pardon." " Not for sho\ving your reverence for ber, Edward. I was going to say that, one way and another, I know a good deal about Mr. Grafton. Is that an answer ? " " Then you know, or believe, that there is a certain family story which had better be left untold." " I know that of about every family with which I am ac- quainted. Sometimes the characters of the story are the heads of the family, or one of them, sometimes they are near relations, some- times relations not so near ; but I know few houses in which some- body would not feel relieved at the extinction of some member of the family, and the obliteration of his or her history. So do not imagine that you are singular in having a scandal in the midst of you." Edward Grafton's thoughts were reverting to another household, of which he had heard much that day; but he hastily caught at the last words, and said, — " No doubt, though there is small comfort in that. Well, Mr. Abbott, what do we come to ? Is there a plan ? " " Yes," said Mr. Abbott, " if we may call it so. We have been thinking over the matter very much, and if you have not been called in to assist in the deliberations it has only been because j'ou could do no good, and because you have seemed of late somewhat inclined to estrange yourself — that is your father's word — from family counsels." " It may be so. I meant nothing unfilial. I have been much occupied." " Yes, no doubt. This is not the moment for venturing on a word of advice on a delicate subject, but I may speak of that here- after. We have, as I say, been considering the question of the future. No decision can be complete without your assent. But what we propose is, that you shall, for a time, remain in charge here, — your mother's health is an ample reason why the Rector should remove her to other air, — and while I try my best to adjust difficulties, which are really of a most serious kind, you will have leism-e to see whether you will settle here. Why should I not say at once that a good marriage would much facilitate matters ? And if you have anything of the kind in your eye, so much the better." " I should be a good match, should I not?" said Edward, bitterly. " You are young, handsome, eloquent, and a clergyman. With these cards you ought to win any game; besides that, there is one already won for you. But we will not speak of this now, as I see the subject is distasteful." SOONER OK LATER. 2^5 " I v.-ould sooner take a curacy in some remote county, and trouble no one," said Edward, "if arrangements could be made for my mother's comfort." " That is a foolish notion, — pardon me, — Edward. This is a dull place enough, and the Saxbury clowns are not an audience you can care about : but here you have a certain position, and a reputation, and the Bishop has heard of you — I can tell you that— indeed, I meant to have told you sooner. His lordship has a belief in good preachers, and preaching is your forte." Even in the trouble of that day this hint brought a flush of pride over the face of Edward Grafton. " If my mind were at ease," he said, " I might perhaps do some good in that way. But are matters pressing ? " " Yes, indeed," said Mr. Abbott. " I came over, at great incon- venience, to say SO; and if my advice is taken, as I suppose it will be now, the day will not be over before the establishment is put upon curate footing, the needless servants having notice, and pre- parations being made for jour father and mother's departure." " And Mrs. SuUage ? " " Oh ! you have condescended to think of her at last, have you ? " said a tall lady, in black, who entered and took a seat between the two gentlemen. " Mrs. Sullage may have something to say in these pleasant arrangements." Long ago, and before the marriage of Ernest and ]\Iagdalen, there was a conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Conway, in which the character of this personage was discussed, with the disadvantage that neither of the speakers had any very definite ideas about her. Mrs. Conway, desirous of impressing upon her husband an unfavourable view of the household at Saxbury, reminded him of a dark-looking lady who sometimes dined at the table, and was said to be staying in the house. Mr. Conway saw little in the circumstance, but his wife alleged that Mrs. Sullage was objectionably connected with some part of the earlier history of the Reverend Theodore Graflon, and that she was only tolerated by the Mrs. Grafton of our acquaintance by reason of a strong pressure put upon her inclinations bj' her im- perious husband. It may also be remembered that upon a still more distant occasion, when Edward Grafton was a Cambridge student, he came to Mai'ley House under an influence which induced its kind- hearted mistress to resort to an extreme measure for preventing him from disgracing himself before the domestics, and that at that time he gave vent to something, in reference to his father and Mrs. Sullage, which IMrs. Conway took care should go no further. She had been handsome, but her beauty had been of a severe and 226 SOONER OR LATER. high-nosed type, and years had not given her the softness of voice and manner which alone can make that style of face endurable, when the roundness of cheek is gone, and the countenance becomes hard, and the expression antagonistic. The only portion of Mrs. Sullage's head on which the eye rested with any sort of satisfaction was a mass of black, somewhat coarse, but undeniably rich hair, amid which there was no streak of grey. But even here there were locks of crisp and defiant growth, which held themselves together as with a will, and by no means invited the caressing hand. It was a fine head of hair, but not of the kind in whose tangles the lover of Nesera, or any other gentle lady, would care to be caught. Her figure, however, was fuller than you would have expected to find it, after a first glance at the face, and the close-fitting black dress showed an arm of symmetry, and perhaps of power. Mrs. Sullage's manner was not rude, though she had just been committing the rudeness of listening at the door of the study. That fact she actually announced by her first words, and she had no more to say about it one way or the other. There was even a touch of the confidential in her tone, as if they had all three been plotting, only her j^lace had hitherto been outside the room. " And Mrs. Sullage," she repeated, quietly. " What about her ? " " My dear lady," said Mr. Abbott (who always overflowed with conversational affection when talking to women, and found it generally answered), " it is not for me to interfere with Mr. Grafton's guests." " I do not say that it is ; but as you are settling arrangements, I should like to know what Mr. Grafton suggests about myself ? " " Upon my honour we have not spoken upon the subject." " It is high time that you should speak on it, then, Mr. Abbott," said Mrs. Sullage, quietly. " The Eector is conspicuous for his attention to ladies, my dear Mrs. Sullage, and you cannot suppose that he will overlook anything which he ought to remember." " Mr. Abbott, I listened to your talk to Edward." " Nothing was said, I am sure, that we could wish to keep from the ear of Mrs. Sullage," replied Mr. Abbott, smiling. " No, probably not. But I may as well tell you that I always listen at doors when I think that anything which concerns me is taking place on the other side." " Your charming frankness, Mrs. Sullage, more than atones for your justifiable contempt for the usages." " You understand me, Mr. Abbott, and you need not manufacture any more of those sugar-plum phrases, which appear to give you so SOONER OK LATER. 237 mnch satisfaction. You know I mean that other things have been said which have not escaped my hearing, and that I have only waited my time to say that something has not yet been thought of — to my satisfaction." " Very well, Mrs. Sullage ; and suppose, without further expenditure of sugar-plums, you tell me what that something is." " That is quite needless ; and you might remember that Edward is present." " I shall be glad to go away," said Edward Grafton. " Perhaps you will join me out-of-doors, Mr. Abbott ; I want fresh air." " I would rather that you remained, Edward. I am sure that Mrs. Sullage will say nothing that should hurt your feelings." '■' What is the use of saying that ?" replied Mrs. Sullage, impatiently. " Of course, if you prefer my talking over the matter with Mrs. Grafton, I am ready to do so," she added, and closed her hard lips. " I do not wish it," said Edward. " My mother is in no state to talk oyer business. I would rather that if anything is to be said, it were said to us here. I shall not be — hm-t, as Mr. Abbott says." " But I shall, Edward," said Mrs. Sullage, " if you adopt that abrupt manner with me. I have no quarrel with you, as you know." *' With no one, I hope, in this house," suggested Mr. Abbott. " With you, Mr. Abbott, most assm-edly, and for good cause. Do you think that I am not aware of the sort of advice you give to Mr. Grafton about me ? Pray waste no more time and talk in fencing with the subject. I do not lose my temper, partly because it is not my habit, and partly because you are so ignorant of circumstances that I only smile when I hear you advising Mr. Grafton to do that which he knows is impossible." " Then, my dear lady, I do not quite see why you honour me with a quarrel." *' Because your ridiculous advice, given in the dark, is only em- barrassing your client." " I can advise only upon what my client is pleased to tell me." "And he dares not tell you the truth, or at all^vents he does not. You want him to leave Saxbury, and then when he has lived in retirement for a little time, and he is lost sight of, you purpose to take him to Switzerland, where, under an assumed name, he may live in an obscure village, while you gradually wear out some of his creditors, and buy off others." " Is that the plan ? " said Edward Grafton, looking at the lawyer. " Let him answer you, Edward, though you need not show such Q 2 228 SOONER OR LATER. marked distrust of my word. A hint, Edward Grafton. I have no reason to be your enemy — at least, none that shall make me so. But don't ijou do it ? " Her manner was more than kindly, for the moment. It was almost motherly. And when she finished she threw some eau-de- Cologne, from a small bottle in her hand, upon Edward's hand- kerchief which was lying near him. "A headache, I see," said Mrs. Sullage. "There are worse things than that, Edward, and we must learn to bear them." " Admirably said," answered Mr. Abbott. " But there is no sense in bearing more than we can help." Mrs. Sullage looked at him keenly, and her dark eyes rested on his face for some moments. " I understand," she said ; " but there is no help, Mr. Abbott." " It may be so." " And do 3^ou beware of trying to help it," she added, suddenly turning on him, but not raising her voice. " It would be the worst day's work you ev^er did for a client, Mr. Abbott." "And that's saying a good deal, Mrs. Sullage," laughed the lawyer. But though he laughed with his lips, his eyes were levelled at her in a way which might imply that if he knew the ground he would wrestle for a fall. " Do you understand this, Edward ? " he said, with some sarcasm, rare in him. " I only understand Mrs. Sullage to be good enough to intimate that she has some hold over the Rector which prevents his being a free agent. I have supposed this all along ; but as it never was my business to speak about it, of course I held my tongue. But if the household is now to break up, and I am to be the representative of our name, the time seems to have come for me to know something about this hold, and whether " " Finish, Edward," said Mrs. Sullage, as his voice dropped into the mumble which we use when we either desire that our friends should finish a sentence, or we do not care enough about them to take the trouble of completing it for them. " And whether,"- said Edward, distinctly enough, " it cannot be broken off, as a good many of such things can, when they come to be handled." " You have found it so, Edward," said Mrs. Sullage, gently. " You have found it so where you have been visiting to-day. Nay, don't look angry, and suppose you are watched ; but we can see across the fields to Trafalgar, from my side-window, — at least, with a glass, and I happened to be trying one." " I scorn to cavil, Mrs. Sullage," said Mr. Abbott ; " but the best SOONER OR LATER. 229 glass that has ever come in my way has failed to reveal conver- sation." " He shall know abont that, too, when he pleases to ask," said Mrs. Sullage. " It is not a matter that he need trouble you with, I believe. "Why did you suppose the existence of this hold over Mr. Grafton, Edward ? " " I can hardly answer without giving offence." " Tr)-.» " Because I loiew your presence in this house to be olfensive to my mother." " Did she ever say so ? " " Xever." " I am glad to hear it — very glad. Xo, Edward, the hold cannot be broken. I give }-ou my word for that, and if you choose to refuse me belief, I can give you an assurance that will at once remove all doubt ; but it will do so at a price which you will think too high." " Not now, at all events," said Edward, hurriedly. He had been so shaken by the previous incidents of the day, that he nervously dreaded to hear anything more ; and he imagined that* her words might point in the direction of his mother. " Do not be afraid. I am not of the melo-dramatic class of women who love to break upon folk with sudden words and sur- prises. I have seen too much of sad astonishment to care for that sort of thing. When you want to know what I have to tell you, sit down beside me on the sofa ; and, if you like, draw my face near to youi's by a lock of my hair. I will whisper to you for a quarter of a minute, and those around shall not know from me that I have not asked you about some young lady — Miss Phoibc, perhaps. Fear no outbreak of mine — you, at least, need fear none. But understand, all the time, that the hold is not to be broken, Edward." She said this slowly, almost playfully. And then she rose, threw some more perfumed water on his handkerchief, and left the room without taking any further notice of Mr. Abbott. "A pleasant suggestion, Edward, that you should draw her to you by the hair, as if she were some young and pretty girl, on whom you were on the best flirting terms." " That was not quite the spirit," said Edward, whose instinctive sense led him to reject the interpretation the now incensed Mr. Abbott chose to put upon her words. " But I am as likely to do it in one sense as the other — a woman whose presence is a soitow to my mother. Are we to say more now about this matter ? " " I believe that I must have some words with the Rector, and 230 SOONER OR LATER. though they will be most disagreeable words, I see no escape. If this black-haired woman speaks the truth — but we shall see. Ed- ward, amid all her insolence she said one good thing. It hinted at riches and good fortune for you." » " What was that ? " "Phoebe." CHAPTER XXV. THE NEWS SPREADS. " Phcebe ! " For some time after the lawj-er had left him, the word seemed to convey no meaning to Edward Grafton. But when the purport of Mr. Abbott's hint reached Edward's mind, the incongruity of the idea with the thoughts that were then agitating him was so strange that it forced fi-om him a short and savage laugh. It was heard by his mother, who was coming to his room. " I do not like to hear such a laugh as that, Edward. It sounds as if you were not ready to meet our troubles as they should be met, dear. But perhaps Mr. Abbott has been painting them in blacker colours than was necessary. It is certain that we shall have sacrifices to make ; but the heaviest of them is that we must part from you — for a time." "That you must, mother. There is no one else to care about it." " Edward, you are inclined to wrong your father — to undervalue his affection for you — his pride in you. He never was one to make much show of regard, but he has far deeper feeling than you suppose. And I am sure, dear, that it is not in' the hour of his trouble that you will let him see that you are cold towards him." " I will be all you wish, mother — let us say no more about this. Had you anything to tell me — as if not, I ought to go out ? " " Then I will not detain you. It was natural, was it not, Edward, that your mother should come to you as soon as you had been told what must happen ? You have not let us see much of you lately, and out of the few hours that are left, do be with me as many as you can. God only knows what our future life will be, and whether we shall ever be together again ! But go now, if you must, and come back soon." She threw her arms round him, kissed him affectionately, and wont away. He did not notice that as she went, she took up a trifling article 232 SOONER OR LATER. from his desk — it was only a little pen-wiper that she had given him — and carried it away with her, to keep as a tiny memento of his home — mothers do these silly things, and when mothers are gone to h cay en, and their hoards are ransacked, there is wonder why such bits of rubbish have been put away, and there is no one in this world who can say. " I cannot sit here," he said. " I must go into the town. I must hear something, I wonder who attends them — I think it is Beccles. If I could see him I " He left the rectory, and went into ISTayburj^ avoiding the short way across the fields and getting into the high road as soon as possible. It much lengthened the walk, which annoyed him, but he could not again pass the cottages. The people of Naybury were not much given to walking outside the town — the scenery was unin- viting, and at stated intervals a flood of noisy, slatternly, depraved work -girls was let loose upon the roads, and their talk, at its mildest, was not for the ears of decent women. It was only a few of the stronger-minded ladies, who visited the poor, and otherwise did good according to their abilities, who were often to be met in the neigh- bourhood. As it chanced, this was a visiting day with two or three of the ladies of Dorcas, and Edward Grafton, who on an ordinary occasion would have leaped a gate to get out of the way of any of the more distinguished of that association, was actually glad to see Mrs. Mainwaring and Mrs. Cutcheon, two of its most shining and disagreeable lights, making their way along the dusty road. " They are gossips," he said — it may be that he used up, in their honour, some word he should have left behind him at Cambridge, — " and they may know something." So he saluted them gravely, as became a clergyman, and the ladies were in nowise reluctant to chat. It is uncharitable to sup- pose that they sought to entangle him in his talk, but, as spiritual police, the leading Dorcasians held themselves bound to hear as much as they could. After a few harmless exchanges, Edward said, — " Do you happen to know, Mrs. Mainwaring, whether Mr. Beccles is about the town to-day ? " " I rather think so. I hope that nobody at the rectory requires his services." " Thanks, no ; I only wanted to ask him a question." " I think I saw him riding up the hill," said Mrs. Cutcheon, *' about an hour ago." " Ah ! then he would be going into the country." ," Well, not necessarily. He might be going to call on your SOONER OK LATER. 233 friends at Marley House," said Mrs. Cutcheon, with au emphasis on the last pronoun. " Is any one ill there ? " asked Edward, " I hope not." " I have not heard so," said Mrs. Cutcheon, " but it would not surprise me to hear that Mr. Beccles had been wanted. But we need not talk of such things to unmarried gentlemen." " I was not aware — " said Edward Grafton. A thought which need not be written came upon him, and he flushed, and almost trembled. His companions, of course, with their shai-p, matronly eyes, noted the first sign, but his agitation escaped them. He might, perhaps, have been commended for blushing — that kind of jest came within the licence as Avell as the taste of the Dorcas ladies — but Mrs. Cutcheon was too eager for other sport to indulge in playfulness. She chose to misunderstand him. "No, I suppose not," she said. "That kind of business is seldom talked about, and I must say that at Marley House they understand how to keep their own secrets. Still, it is known, as such things must be." " Mr. Grafton knows, I make no doubt," said Mrs. Mainwaring, '•' and it is natural that as a friend of the family he should assume ignorance. I am glad to see that he has so much discretion." " I fear we are at cross purposes, Mrs. Mainwaring," said Edward, irritated at their talk, but aware that to show irritation would defeat his object. " Well, remember that you heard nothing from me," said Mrs. Cutcheon. " But is there anything to hear ? " replied Edward, trying to conceal his exceeding anxiety. " I will call at Marley House ; that will be the best way of my hearing it." He knew that he dared not, but they could not know that. " Yes, you can call there," said Mrs. Cutcheon ; " Imt you will not be told much ; and you will not see the lady herself." " Mrs. Conway ? " " Mrs. Dormer. She is not allowed to sec anybody." " But I shall see Mrs. Conway." " Yes," replied Mrs. Cutcheon, with a short laugh, while her friend merely smiled. Edward felt that he could gladly fling both of the excellent women under the wheels of the waggon which Avas just then passing, and whose noise stopped the conversation. It was soon resumed. " Be very careful in what you say to Mrs. Conway," said Mrs. Mainwaring. " She is a very attached mother, and I make no doubt is plunged into the utmost grief by what we have heard of. Above 234 SOONER OR LJLTER. all, make no allusion to legal proceedings. It will be time enough to talk about those when they are announced in the papers." *' You are disinclined to believe that I do not understand you," said Edward Grafton ; " but it is true." *' I almost think it is," said Mrs. Cutcheon, her yellowish eyes gleaming with a cat-like pleasure at her being able to pounce on him with a piece of news. " Divorce," she whispered, darting at him as she spoke, and then drawing back to survey the effect, " Divorce ! Who — which — I mean, of course — Mrs. Dormer asks to be divorced ? You must be in a grievous error." " You like him so much, you think so well of him ? " said Mrs. Cutcheon, playing with her victim. " I may not think highly of him ; but what you assert is impos- sible, Mrs. Cutcheon." " I have asserted nothing — please remember that ; I only tell you what is said. And I agree with you, that what you suggest about your friend Mr. Dormer would be impossible ; because to get rid of a husband he must not only be an immoral man, but a cruel one, according to our beautiful and humane laws. Now, Mr. Dormer may be the one — I know nothing about him ; but I do not believe that he is the other." " He divorces her, they say," said Mrs. Mainwaring, in the most unfair and unchristianlike manner cutting in, and defrauding her friend of the pleasure of telling the story to which she^ had been leading up. But her friend was equal to the occasion. " At least Mrs. Mainwaring says so." "I, my dear ! I know it from you only," said the other lady, frightened ; for Edward Grafton's look became actually savage. " It must be a cruel falsehood ! " he said. " You are very good to say so," replied Mrs. Cutcheon, who was not at all frightened at black looks, of which she received plenty at home, not always causelessly ; " everybody must admire your constancy of belief in the lady, especially as your friends make it no secret that you had reason not to be pleased with her con- duct." "Any of my friends who speak in that way will do well to speak out of my hearing," said Edward Grafton ; " but," he added, " you have startled me so by this storj-, that you must excuse my vehe- mence. The thing is outrageous — it is out of the question ! " " In that case," said Mrs. Cutcheon, coolly, " it will fall to the ground, and we shall know that there was nothing in it ; and I am sure we shall all rejoice. But in the mean time it is quite certain that Mr. Dormer has caused a notice to be served upon Mrs. Dormer, SOONER OR LATER. 235 and that it had to be done through a window, because such precau- tions were taken to avoid it." " The hag has told the truth ! " said Edward, walking away without another word. " Well ! " said Mrs. Cutcheon. "That 3'oung man's insolence can only be accounted for by madness," said Mrs. Mainwaring. " What he said to dear Mrs- Bulliman was bad enough ; but that he should in the public road call you a hag, is beyond bearing. Of course you will make Mr. Cutcheon take notice of it." " But I do not think that he meant the word for me," said Mrs. Cutcheon. " TiHio then ? " said her friend. " For you, my dear. It was you who used the word divorce as against Mrs. Dormer, you know. You were in such a hurry to tell the tale yourself that you forgot all precaution, and if there should be nothing in the matter, Mr. Mainwaring may have to account to Mr. Dormer. You should be more careful of your tongue, dear. I know that you mean well, but j^ou know what James says of your unruly member." James happened to be Mr. Cutcheon's Christian name, and it did not occur to the rebuked Mrs. Mainwaring that her friend was alluding to a much higher authority — an illustration of the occa- sional inconvenience caused by the evangelical habit of omitting the reverent prefix. " Mr. James Cutcheon will do well to mind his own business," said the incensed Mrs. Mainwaring. " I have read something about those who cannot guide their own households, yet assume other duties." " I alluded to the apostle, Mrs. Mainwaring." " Very well," said Mrs. Mainwaring, " then I shall be obliged by your abstaining from alluding to the apostles in reference to me. Such things are quite uncalled for." " My dear," said Mrs. Cutcheon, who enjoyed her double victory, and could aflbrd to keep her temper, " injustice is unworthy of you as a lady, not to say one who knows better things. Mr. Grafton called you a hag — do not vent your ill-temper on me." " I believe that he meant nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Main- waring. " The whole detail of the story was guess; and besides, it stands to reason that such a term, coarse and oflFensive as it was, of course should be applied to a person advanced in years rather than to the middle-aged." " Yes, my dear. But when you talk about middle age, do you know what Mr. Fanshaw said ? " 236 SOONER OR LATER. " I neither know nor care." " He said that somebody's still pretending to middle age reminded him of a good specimen of medigeval brass. I would not repeat such a thing to anybody else, and I don't like Mr. Fanshaw; but it was rather clever." The debate might have been protracted, but providentially a poor girl came up who had absented herself from the Sunday School, and the energies of the serious matrons were turned into another direc- tion, and with effect; for the girl went away soon afterwards howling dismally at the thought of the spiritual, and still more at that of the temporal, penalties with which she had been threatened. She would come under a judgment for neglecting her opportunities of saving her soul, and her mother's allowance of potatoes should certainly be stopped. Whether they believed that the first event would happen, it is hard to say : the}', perhaps, thought that they did. But, in spite of their tongues and their scandals, they had no more real intention of stopping the potatoes than they had of stopping the railway train which at that moment left Naybury, taking Mr. Conway to London. The last scene with Magdalen had settled Mr. Conway's determi- nation. The letter which had dropped from her lifeless hands had been read and re-read, but it defied interpretation by her parents. Only they caught at her words, " anything against Ernest." There was something against him, then, or their child thought so, and he was neglecting her. Even Mrs. Conway could no longer oppose her husband's journey. " But you will be gentle with him, William ? Do not let us think of our own just anger, but of her happiness." " You have my promise." Mr. Beccles had been sent for, and had arrived. He looked very grave when he caught sight of Magdalen, to whom he was much attached. His orders, of course, were such as would have prevented the parents from allowing her to say a word to them on the one subject next their hearts. But Magdalen had no speech for them. She Avas remoA^ed to her bed, and, save for a short low moaning which she uttered at intervals, after her recovery from her first insensibility, she gave few signs of life. But Mr. Beccles gave the judgment, without which Mr. Conway would not have left the house. The doctor saw no reason against the journey ; he was a man of few words, but they were trustworthy. With a heavy heart, therefore, Mr. Conway went up to town. He drove to the club, to ascertain Ernest's address. It was given SOONER OR LATER. 237 him on his mentioning his relationship, and that there was ilhiess at home. " But perhaps he is here ? " He was not there ; he had not been there for several days, and there were letters for him, which, perhaps, Mr. Conway would men- tion. The porter took them from the pigeon-hole, and mentioned their number. One of them Mr. Conway instantly recognised as the packet which poor Magdalen had sent off in his presence. " He has not even fetched her letters," thought the father. " I will take them to liim, if you please," he said. " I am going direct to his hotel." The trusty official hesitated. " I have no orders, sir," he said, " and though I have no doubt that it would be all right " " True. Is Mr. Mangles here ? " "I think not, sir; but I will inquire." "Mr. Mangles is not in the house, I know," said a gentleman who just then came do^vn; " I am going to meet him ; shall I take your card ? '* he added, seeing that the inquirer was the sort of person to whom instinct tells one that it will be safe and pleasant to be civil. ' Mr. Conway, Xaybury.' 0,. I know that Mangles will be very much vexed to have missed you ! " " I might give this gentleman Mr. Dormer's letters, sir ? " " Of course you may. Certainly. My name is Launceston," said the member, raising his hat; "I need not say that yours is well known to several of us. So well that I may almost venture to ask after Mrs. Dormer, though I have not the honour of her acquaintance." " She is very ill, I am grieved to say," said Mr. Conway. "May I hope not ill enough to have caused your journey to town ? " " Indeed — yes," said Mr. Conway, with emotion. Remember that he was not now a man of society, and he had suddenly come off a solitary ride and into a fine house, where the mention of his name in- stantly brought him kindness, and where the very first comer had a land word for him about his child. All men's nerves are not in the same order. "Several men — though not known to you, Mr. Conway — will be much pained at hearing this. You are going to Ernest, of course ; have you a cab ? Can we send round and see wliethcr he is there ?" " Thanks ; I will take my chance." Tiie younger man held the door open for the elder one, and fol- lowed him to the carriage. 238 SOONER OR LATER. " Ernest must let us hear, Mr. Conway," said Charles Launceston, earnestly, as he again raised his hat. " That looks bad," said Launceston to himself, re-entering the house. " Why needed the father to come up to town, when there are telegraph wires that would have brought the message instantly ? There is something wrong. By Jove, too, I don't know what busi- ness I had to let the porter give him the letters ! I may have done ever so much mischief. But he looked so good that it never crossed my mind that it might not be well to let him have them. One was a big one, in a woman's', hand too. By Jove ! I have been an ass for the fiftieth time this week. Some weeks a man does nothing else but asinine things ; perhaps, there's something of transmigration in it. I'll ask Mangles. I am awfully sorry that poor little woman is so ill, and no doubt the circumstances have a great deal to do with it. If she should die, I know one or two men who ought to be hit hard. Waiter, a glass of sheny and bitters." Launceston was engaged to dine with Mangles in chambers. These little gatherings were not to be despised. There was no attempt at high art cookery, but there were, perhaps, four things, each the best that could be got for money, and each from the house noted for giving best value for money. All was as simple as the nature of the dish permitted — some call a rich and elaborate pudding with meat and three kinds of birds in it, and kidneys, simple — but all was admirable, and Mangles' wines were unexceptionable. Proof that the repast was digestible, and that the liquids were wholesome, was found in the fact that when his guests got to cards, as they did very soon after dinner, they never wrangled over their game, and even occasionally allowed that their partner's play was not alto- gether intolerable. Then there were new books about, and men picked up material for talk elsewhere, especially with the aid of the host, Avho was a sort of cyclopEedia, with the added advantage of instantly affording you an answer, instead of maddening you by desiring you to inquire elsewhere. Altogether, one of Mangles' evenings at home was about as rational a contrivance for getting over a few hours more of this miserable life, as a rational man could desire. And he sorted his guests a little, not in the absurd way in which some well-meaning folks do it, namely, that of asking men of similar tastes, as they call it (as if two men's tastes were ever really similar), whereby having bored yourself in your own vocation, actual or supposed, all day, you are bored again by talking about it all night. He threw together perhaps a reading man, and a talking man, and a medicine man, and a horsey man, and all went away with something new in their heads, and each convinced that he had SOONER OR LATER. 239 been the soul of the part}'. And then Mangles rewarded himself — he held that it \yas quite worth wliile to give a party, for the sake of the one cigar after everybody was gone. It was to one of these parties that he had courteously bidden Charles Launceston, who had instantly thrown over a dinner in Harley Street to which he had been engaged for three weeks. How men can do these things, which cannot be done without one frightful falsehood, and without exciting wrath in persons who meant civilly, is a question for the moralist; and let him who has always kept an engagement that bored him, when tempted by an engagement that would not bore him, say something very strong about selfish and ungentlemanly conduct. The sentiments will do him honour, and be all right; but men will be missed from genteel parties yet, and not be found in the beds to which they unblushingly state that they have been driven by influenza. The superior morality of married men prevents their often doing this sort of thing, unless their wives are Yery good-natured indeed. Yet there be Avives who are gentle enough to remember that man works hard and life is short, and one evening of boredom can never be reprieved, and they will sail into the greatest circle with the most unblushing effrontery, and with the saddest face tell the saddest story about poor Charles, or poor Eegi- nald, who is totally unfit to come out — a story ? no, it is true; for a man cannot come out in the slippers and shooting-coat in which he is entertaining his college friend who has run up from his Devonshire curacy. But such wives are gems, and should be treasured like unto gems — nay, their price is far above carbuncles. As he walked off to Lincoln's Inn Fields, Charley Launceston remembered that he had two things to say — one was to tell the other fellows not to mention that he had dined there, the otlier to tell Mangles about Mr. Conway. He did both. " Nothing surprises me, you know, Charley," said Mangles, draw- ing his friend to the mantel-piece, " after the Wigram business. It was so wrong to her," he added, indicating the photograph of Mag- dalen in her bridal dress, which portrait he faithfully retained over his fire-place. " Yes, it was wrong; but it is hard to be sorry for anything that was disagreeable to Wigram." " "Who thinks of him ? I believe, by the way, that he is a worse fellow than any of us thought. I don't want to talk before these chaps; but you stay them out, and I'll tell you something that will make your hair curl." "I don't care much about that," said Launceston, aloud, "because curly hair wouldn't suit my countetiance ; but I'll do as you say. 240 SOONER OR LATER. Rydon, you look pensive. Repent and reform. Doddy, pass me that sheny, that when you say your prayers to-night, you may be able to reflect on one good action of the day." So laughed Ernest Dormer's friends. But there was no smile on his own face just then, any more than in that of the sorrowful old man who had made his way to Ernest's room, and had found him leaning on a table, with his head in his hands, and so deep in thought of her, that he did not hear the entrance of Her Father. CHAPTER XXVL THE PACKET DELIVEEED. Er]!TEST Dormer had been engaged for some hours in inquiries which had taken him to various parts of toTru, and which had not been entirely fruitless, though the result was veiy imperfect. He was weaiy, less in body than in mind — weaiy as he alone can be who, with a heart full to overflowing, has to struggle with petty and shifty details, and is not borne up by the conviction that, little by little, he is aj^proacliing his object. Yet he had learned something. " Ernest," said Mr. Conway, gently, thinking that he was asleep. " Mr. Conway ! " Dormer rose, and took the hand of his father-in-law. It was scarcely extended, yet could hardly be said to seem withheld. " Does my visit suq^rise you ? " " It is welcome," said Ernest, as he placed a chair for Mr. Conway. ''I am glad to hear you say that — as far as I can bo glad of anj-thing." Startled at the words and the tone, Ernest looked hastily into the old man's face. " You are not the bearer of bad news ? " he asked, in a tremulous voice. " I scarcely know what news I could bring that you would think bad, Dormer," replied Mr. Conway, coldly. " No, you are not," gasped Ernest, relieved by the instinctive knowledge that it was not so ]\Ir. Conway would have spoken, had he had a dark message to tell. " Why have you crushed our child, Ernest Dormer ? " asked the father, simply. " You know how we loved her, you know how she deserved our love, and we thought that she had yours." " And had she not ? " replied Dormer, with energy. " Why has it been taken away ? " " Who tells you that it has been taken away ? " " Yourself. How can you ask me that ? " VOL. TT. R 242 SOONER OE LATER. " Because it is untrue. No human being has a right to say it. It is untrue, I repeat to you. I swear it." " Then," said Mr. Conway, " in the name of God, what does all this mean ? You suddenly abandon her — her, and the home where the only strife was how you should be made happiest — you neglect her letters — you break her heart — and you look me in the face, and dare to say you love her. What base bad secret is behind all this, Ernest Dormer ? I am her father, and I will know." "Her health — tell me of that," said Dormer, with compressed lips. " I am here to tell you nothing, but to ask jon why my child, your wife, is outraged and destroyed." " You will not tell me how you left her ? " said Ernest, almost limnbly. *' Do you affect to care to know ? Perhaps you do care," said Mr. Conway, bitterly. " Perhaps you may even find comfort in knowing that she was too ill to be made aware of my journey. That is so, Mr, Dormer. You need not take my words as a father's exaggeration. Mr. Beccles forbad my going to her bedside even to kiss her before I left her, perhaps for ever. Is that confirmation enough for you — you who know the love that reigned in the household you have ruined ?" " Speak what bitter words you will," said Ernest. " Hereafter you may not think that it was right or just, but you think so now, and that is enough. Why have you left her, Mr. Conway ? What is the value of anything you could learn fi'om me, what is the feeling that you have stimned me with your news, compared to a place by her bed, to watching every breath she draws ? " " And you can say this to me ? " " Yes — not in anger, believe that." " ^Vliose place should be by her bed ? " asked Mr. Conway, striving to speak indignantly, but hindered by a gentler impulse ; " whose eye should watch her, but yours ? But for you such watching would have been needless, and yet you abandon her. Again I ask you. Dormer, what has she done ? — what have you done ? " "She! Magdalen? Nothing." " Then the crime, or the shame, or the sorrow is your own. Ernest," said Mr. Conway, " do not play with tme hearts. We gave you our child in all faith and trust, and she has loved you dearly, and is dying for her love. What cursed spell is upon you ? Are you in danger — in need — and do you want to be told that those who gave you Magdalen would give you their last earthly possession to save her husband ? — have you done us the deep wrong to doubt that ? " SOONER OR LATER. 243 " Take my hand," said Ernest Dormer, with agitation. " You would not ask it if you were dishonoured," said ]\Ir. Conway, now clasping Dormer's hand, and holding it ; " but arc you in trouble ? I am weaker than I thought I was, Ernest," he went on, the tears coming to his eyes, " but your voice brings back to me that I had learned to regard you as my son, and I am speaking as to an unkind son, rather than as to one whom I ought perhaps to learn to hate." " It is not so, by the God that hears us," said Dormer, bending down to the ear of the father and speaking low, but with an earnest- ness that made Mr. Conway, look up with a strange wonder. " I cannot lose my child, Eniest," he said, imploringl}-. " Speak to me, my dear Ernest — tell me all ; or tell me nothing, if you will, except that I shall not lose my child," " You shall not lose her," replied Ernest, scarcely knowing what he said. "This sorrow ! — this separation !" " They are killing her." *' They shall not. They were not my doing, but I will end them." " You can, and you have never sought to do it ! And you have had no thought for the pale face that grew sadder and sadder day by day, as you never came, never wrote. Ernest, you would have had no right to cause that misery even if you had been wronged ; to heap it on that innocent girl, who lived only to make us all happy — but you have said that you will end it, and I promised her mother that I would not reproach you. When once you have seen that face I shall be glad to think I did not speak harshly." " A word," said Ernest. " Wliy was I not told that my wife was ill?" " She forbad my writing." " That was not Magdalen," said Ernest. " Was it not Magdalen, and have you not learned to know her yet ? Do you mean that pride — an offended wife's pride, made her forbid it ? You do know her too well." " But she herself. I swear to you, there was no word in her letters that should have shown me " " Her letters ! Ernest, you took much heed of her letters," said Mr. Conway, with a quivering lip. He had resolved to control him- self, but the mention of Magdalen's letters brought an angry flush to his cheek. " Do you think so unworthily of me, Mr. Conway, as to believe that one line from Magdalen was unnoticed ? I know that you do not." " I did not," said Mr. Conway ; " but that matters little now. I n 2 244 SOONER OK LATER. have but one care, and that is for her. I ask no explanations nntil they have been made to her, if it please God to let her hear earthly- talk any more." *' You have said that thing twice," said Ernest, in a low voice, " and you are not one of those who speak wildly. Answer me as you would have done months back. Is Magdalen in danger ? Say no !" " You have judged me very strangely, Ernest Donner," said Mr. Conway, " and but for my great sorrow I might tell you so in other words. Can I read your thought right ? Do you believe that I am here with a sad story of my child, to lure a cold husband back to his home ? Year question, after what I have said, sounds strangely like that." " You know not the cruel wrong you do me ; nor do I care for it now. It is so weighty a thing for me to have another day in London, that I dare to ask you whether I dare take that day. If your answer is not yes, and without one second's hesitation, I fling aside all thoughts but one — how I can quickest reach her." He said this rapidly, but as a man who means his every word. " I refuse to make an answer that changes responsibility. I don't presume to judge of the weighty thing that should detain a husband from what may be his wife's dying bed." " You have said it again." " I will tell you what has happened. After sendmg away her last letter to you — it were waste of time to say what terror and sorrow came before that— your wife lighted upon a note which you received on om- return from Scotland." Ernest turned pale. '' I remember the note," said Mr. Conway. " It was read — she read it, Dormer, as sonie harmless matter. What it meant may have been better known to you, though you gave it into your wife's hands. By what means she was induced to read it again yesterday, and by what fatal light she read it, I know not ; but she tottered into the parlour with that note in her hand ; prayed us to take it, but not to tell her if there was anything in it against you. And since that time she has spoken no articulate word." " The telegraph — the telegraph ! " " Yes, I had thought of that ; but you had not thought fit to give your address even to your wife, and I thought that the message might be neglected at the club, like the letters ; therefore I left home, with that misery in it, that I might not treat her husband as cruelly as he has treated her, and leave him without knowledge of what he ought to know." SOONER OR LATER. 215 " All this is nothing now," said Ernest, hurriedly ; " but you sijoke of another sorrow and terror ; what do you mean ? " " I will not spealv of that. Things have been said which will not bear repetition; at least I will not repeat them. Magdalen had begged jou to explain, but as you had not deigned even to send for her letter " " Mr. Conway, even you must not say that again. Ko day passes that I do not satisfy myself whether she has written or not." " There is a proof to the contrary," said Mr. Conway, throwing down on the table the packet he had received from the- club-porter. " This ! I should have had it by this time — and it must have anived by a late post to-day," said Ernest, tearing open the envelope. He read the single line from Magdalen. As his eye fell on the last word, one kind, warm throb went right through his heart — a true husband's response to a wife's caress. Then he opened the enclosure. Mr. Conway's eyes were upon Dormer's face, and they saw it grow livid with a fury which once, perhaps, in a man's whole life, may be pardoned, but which should scarcely be seen twice on a good man's features. We will not write do^\Ti the words that came hot fi'om those white lips. Yet they were the words of a man justly maddened by a crime against one whom he loved. Yes. He did not know it then, but even Mr. Conwa}^, wronged, wounded, sorrowful, suddenly hearing that curse, and the tone in ■which it came forth, felt that it could have come from no man but one who was fearfully in earnest. In that croAMiing hour, and in that grim and vehement utterance, Ernest's heart spoke out. He loved her. Then he rose, paced the room for a few minutes, and lastly came up to Mr. Conway. " I told you I had a weighty thing that kept mc in tcwn, but that I Avould give it up for a word. Now, but one word in the world should take me from town, and from vengeance, and that is Magdalen. We will return to Naybury tliis night." As they took their seats in the railway-carriage, Mr. Conway said, " If you please, we will exchange no words on one subject until we are at home," " I thank you," said Ernest. " You have spoken my wish." What Mr. Conwnv had seen in the face of his son-in-law had 246 SOONER OR LATER. made him wonder, but mingled with his wonder was a certain hope- fahiess, or at least a doubt whether he had not been judging Dormer too harshly. The packet conveyed to Ernest a sudden revelation, and therefore he could hardly have had any part in the transaction with which it was connected. So far he might be, probably was, exculpated as regarded Magdalen. Then Ernest's eagerness to rejoin her, and his abandonment of an object which he had declared to be so important, told favourably with Mr. Conway, who was willing to condone almost any offence save unkindness to his child. And as they travelled through the night, Mr. Conway often watched the face of his son-in-law with a different feeling than, a few hom-s before, he would have deemed it possible for him to entertain for one who had caused him so much grief. Ernest Dormer scared}- spoke, except to name some of the stations, and to count those that remained to be passed. The can-iage was full, and he had to exert all his self-command to restrain a restless- ness most unusual with him. He never seemed to think of rest, even to the extent of throwing himself back in his seat, but sat forward and straight up, as a man who is waiting to spring to his feet. Once, however, overpowered by the fatigue of the day and the monotony of railway noise, he closed his eyes for a few moments, and suddenly woke himself by an action that must have been prompted by his dream — he thrust forward a clenched hand. After that he slumbered no more. It was gi-ey dawn when the}- reached the Naybury station, where no passengers but themselves alighted. Mr. Saunders, the station-master, was there to receive them. " I left you rather hastily the last time, Mr. Saunders," said Ernest, " but it was veiy important to me to catch the train. Mrs. Dormer has been regularly scolding me by every day's post since for beiag so foolhardy. I beg your pardon, and now I am going home to beg hers." Mr. Saunders wanted them to wait while he roused an ostler hard by and got them a fly, but Mr. Conway said, " I would rather walk up to the house, if you don't mind, Ernest.*' " I should prefer it," said Dormer. " Take my arm," he added, in a lower voice. Mr. Conway understood, and complied with the hint, and at the turn of the road Ernest released him. " All Naybury will hear of our return," said Ernest ; " and that gossip Saunders may as well be a])le to say something more." " It was thoughtM." "We must all be thoughtful now, Mr. Conway. I hope I have SOONER OR LATER. 247 schooled myself, but I shall need all your best aid. But first of all, where are we going ? Surely it will not do to run the risk of waking up the house." " There will not be much risk," said Mr. Conway. " Anne sleeps on the gTound floor, now." " That is a new an-angement." " It was her own wish," said Mr. Conway, evading explanation ; the truth being that this was part of the faithful Anne's plans for garrisoning the house against all comers. Call who might, she would be at hand. " I would rather knock up Mr. Beccles ; and he would give us later, or rather, more certain news than she could." " Well, as you will." As they walked along the road, the light growing stronger, and the objects becoming defined against the sky, Mr. Conway said, — " I do not know when I have been out at such an hour, Ernest." "The fault is mine. I ought to have remembered your journey in the day time, and nave asked you to remain at the hotel for the night. Frankly, I never thought of it. And if I had, I suppose that you would have refused." " There is no fault, Ernest. I am a bit of a dreamer, and I see coincidences which are perhaps none at all. The dawn put some- thing into my recollection — something that [passed between your mother and me. If — if things go well, I may tell you." "Give me Magdalen, and things shall go well," said Ernest Dormer, stopping for a moment, and pressing his hand on the arm of his companion. They went on until they reached the beginning of ISTaybury Street. All was silent and still, and the noise of their own footsteps appeared strangely loud. Weary, too, as were both men, the intense quiet of the horn* was not welcome — it seemed to invite them to a kindi-ed repose Avhich neither desired. It was a small matter, scarce worth note, but that they noted it in silence, and remembered it in other days. Tiu-ning to the right they ascended a lane, near the end of which was the snug little house of the doctor, Mr. Beccles. He was a widower, and meant to remain one ; but by causing it to be believed that he intended to many again, he gained many advantages and much popularity in Naybury and around it. He was a skilful man and a kindly, except when he came into contact with the guardians of the Naybury poor, and then he became very bellicose. They were his employers, too, and what had he to do with their shortcomings, and neglect, and meanness, — a question which the hard-fisted autho- 248 SOONER OR LATER. rities frequently asked of one another, but scarcely dared hint to their fiery official. He would have been dismissed, or snubbed into dis- missing himself, but the guardians were literally afraid of him and his tongue. It is well for the poor, however, when their medical friend can afford to fight their battles so recklessly. But the poor showed him no consideration in return, and had no hesitation in dragging the union doctor fi'om his bed at all hours, when his rounds might just as well 4iave been waited for. It happened that a case of the kind had occurred that night, and Mr. Beccles, who had been forced to take a six-mile ride by an absnrd panic of a stalwart labourer, had retm*ned by no means in a good temper, and was undressing again when Dormer's ring at the night-bell came. The doctor remarked that the ringer might ring, and also gave him another permission, to the granting which Mr. Beccles's authority might not have been thought adequate. He would not go out again before breakfast for anybody. The ring was repeated, with vigour, and it occurred to Mr. Beccles that the disturber would be the better for as vigorous a remonstrance. Which, opening his window, he prepared to tender ; but instantly recognising Mr. Conway, he exclaimed — "Not worse, surely ?" In half a minute the robust, bright-eyed, quick-tongued doctor was with them, wrapped in a huge coat, and ready to set out on the in- stant, at need. But on explanation, he was greatly relieved, for he had a strong personal afi'ection for Magdalen. " Mr. Dormer, I am more glad to see you than I can say." " But that means — I hope it does not mean " " No, no, I mean that it is you who are wanted. Your presence is worth a hundred doctors." "What is her latest state ?" asked Ernest, struggling against all thoughts of the past, and against the self-reproaches called up by the speech, and resolutely setting him to deal with the present. " There is no change. I should rejoice to tell you that there was improvement ; but I never say these things without trath, except when to tell a person that he is improving, improves him." " I may see her ? I must." " May you ? — I echo you — you must." " But she must be prepared in some way," said j\Ir. Conway. " You would not have Ernest go suddenly into the room." " Come into the house, can't you ? " was Mr. Beccles's reply. And he led the way into his surgery. It was still hot with the gas which he had just extinguished, and the sensation was not unwelcome to Mr, Conway, who was chill from his journey. Ernest, on the contrary, SOONER OR LATER. 249 felt a sudden depression at having thrust upon him the suggestions of danger and of medical vigilance, in connection with the home which he had left so cheerful. He knew all that must have occurred, he had thought half the night of the darkened room, the careful footfalls, the whispered words, but the surgery brought it all upon him in the hardest and most repulsive way — the nerves, again, of course, but such things are. " I have been out on a fool's en-and," said Mr. Beccles, again lighting the gas, though the morning streamed through the shutter holes. " But I have taught a man to send for me when nothing is the matter. He'll remember it, I'll bet," added the doctor, looking with a revengeful complacency at an empty phial, whence it might be assumed that he had administered some potent remedy. " Sit down, can't you ? " " We will not keep you up — I have asked the only question I wanted to aslc," said Ernest. " Keep me up — what do I care ? What are you going to do ? " " To go up to the house, of course," said Mr. Conway. *' Of com-se, at this time in the morning. You must do nothing of the sort." " I will do nothing against your advice, Mr. Beccles," said Ernest Dormer, " That would be madness. But I should be glad if you would let me say what I wish to do." « Go on." " I take it for granted that you know that my absence has had much to do with Mrs. Dormer's illness." " More than I choose to say ; but you invite the answer." " Let no one spare me," said Dormer, with earnestness. " At least I will not spare myself. Does Mr. Beccles know ? " he saidj turning to ]\Ir. Conway, " that I have caused grief to Magdalen, and that at this moment she may receive me with displeasure. If not, I tell him so." " I have gathered that there were differences," said Mr. Beccles. " I could hardly help doing that. Mr. Conway has told me next to nothing. I wanted no telling in the presence of what I saw." " Life and death may be in question," said Ernest Dormer, " and you must fully understand, to be able to advise me. There have been no diiferences, in the ordinary sense of the word, but my wife has reason to believe that I have behaved cruelly to her — I am ashamed of stopping even to say that my actions have not been voluntarj" — and she would have a right to refuse to see me." " I listen," said Mr. Beccles, " and I hear a true man speak." " Yes, I may hope that. Now, Mr. Beccles, I have been thinking 250 SOONER OR LATER. over this all night, and in what way it would be safest for that dear woman that I should first approach her. I have my own wish." " You know her heart, Mr. Dormer." " You mean that such knowledge is likely to guide me aright." " Without going so far as that," said the doctor, " I may say that any idea of yours will deserve attention." Ernest Dormer then told him how he proposed that Magdalen and he should meet again. Before the doctor could speak, Mr. Conway said, " If Beccles permits it, no Avay could seem so gentle and so fitting." Mr. Beccles had much to &a.j, and they conversed long and earnestly, and before they had ceased, Naybury was astir, and there was no longer a question of disturbing the household. At length the doctor said : — " Were Mrs. Dormer but a little more advanced towards recovery, I believe that I should prohibit this. As matters stand, I do not say that you will be wrong." When he spoke thus, Mr. Conway knew that they need talk no longer. " I will not leave Naybury, Conwa}'," said Mr. Beccles, " if the entire union were roaring for me. I will come to you at a moment's, notice, and if you do not send for me I will come at nine." So he dismissed them from the heated surgery, and into the bright and shining morning. Up the hill, and into the garden, and in at the hall door, then open, and near which a servant was engaged in her duties. A sign from Mr. Conway bade her keep silence, but the girl's honest round face crimsoned with pleasure when she saw Dormer; for all in the house loved Magdalen, and the women had instinctively known his coming, to be the one thing their young mistress had desired. " It will be for my mother to say whether she will see me at once," said Ernest to Mr. Conway. " It may be better for you to obtain her consent to my plan, and then to come down to me. Shall I wait in the garden ? " " At all events I will see her," said Mr. Conway. " She will be wearied with her watching, and may have fallen asleep." It was a man that spoke — a kind and loving father, too. But^he spoke as a man. Asleep ! Mrs. Conway was on guard beside Magdalen's bed, and had heard her husband's footstep on the stair, and though hfe trod lightly, she knew who was coming. She glided from the room, and was in his arms. SOONER OR LATER. 251 " Returned already, dear ? " '•' Yes, I travelled all night." " 0, how wrong — but you had a reason," said Mrs. Conway, turn- ing pale. " You have not bad news ? " "No, the best I could bring. I have brought him." "Ernest?" "Yes — he is below — in the garden — and carmg only for one thing in the world — to see her." " Let me cry," said Mrs. Conway, " let me cry, dear. It is not sorrow, you know that ; let me cry." It was a rain-flood that poured from those affectionate eyes, but it was soon past, and Mrs. Conway hurried into the garden, followed by her husband. Ernest advanced to meet her, uncertain as to his reception. He needed not to be, nor was he uncertain long, for the arms of Magdalen's mother were romid his neck, and her kisses on his cheek. " Half the battle is won, dear," was all she said to him. Then they walked with her, and told her what Ernest desired, and of the long consultation with Mr. Beccles and of his sanction to the plan, and they asked her for her assent. And then she asked for a few minutes of thought, alone. She returned to the house. The men spoke little to one another, as they traversed the garden. They felt that a trial-hour was at hand, but they had thought over all things, and the trial must come. They had taken counsel for the best, as they believed. And they became impatient for the return of Mrs. Conway. They should not have been impatient. Her time was being well bestowed. Her husband knew how, but the thought did not come to Ernest Dormer. He believed that she was watching by the bed of Magdalen. It was so, but she was praying a loving mother's prayer for her child. Some think that prayer is at least heard, whatever vain, selfish, foolish petitions are mercifully lost in air. When she rejoined them, it was only to say, holding a hand of each, — " Come, Ernest." And so, led by her mother, came softly into Magdalen's darkened room, the husband of her love. She saw him not, heard him not. She lay with the sweet face upturned, the eyes were closed — he knew not whether in sleep or in unconsciousness. The rich chestnut hair had rolled in volumes on the pillow. One hand lay across her bosom, the other near the edge of the couch. She was very pale — 252 SOONER OR LATER. paler than he had ever seen her, and the features had lost somewhat of their roundness — yet he saw not, or sought to persuade himself that lie did not see, the signs of trouble or of suffering. The lips were slightly parted, and Ernest fancied that they sometimes sought to frame a word. He stood for a few moments to gaze, and satisfy himself that he should not startle her. Then, her mother, pressing his hand kindly, pointed to the vacant chair by the pillow, and withdrew. Then came a faith to Ernest Dormer which he told to few, but which he never abandoned. Magdalen was unconscious of his approach, unconscious of all. But he drew near to her bed, and kneeling down, he gently took the hand that rested on her heart. ■ " My own Magdalen," he said, but it was to himself. Had she been waking she had not heard that whisper. But across her beautiful face came that strange and pleasant little frown of surprise and bewilderment, and then it was followed by a smile, far, far less radiant than that which in her happy days chased the little cloud and lighted up the whole face, but a smile that spoke of a sudden happiness. Yet she uttered no sound, and made not the faintest return to the pressure of her husband's hand. He believed she knew that they had met again. CHAPTER XXVII. A CERTAIN PHOTOGPvAPH EE-APPEAES. Very little time ela^Dsecl before the return of Ernest Dormer to his home was known throughout JSTaybury. Mr. Saunders, the station-master, had a large circle of friends and acquaintances, and he was a kind of Power among them. He was so prompt, so loud- voiced, so administrative. He was a man of resource, and the rapidity of his conceptions startled the slow provincial minds of his subordinates. He had come fi'om some important station on one of the great lines, and had condescended to om' obscm*e Naybmy, and he said that the change had been made necessary by his health, but some whom he had snubbed hinted at dai-k rumours of mdeness to a mufiled director, who revealed himself in wrath upon a platform, and whose vengeance had driven Mr. Saunders from the more important station. But his friends disbelieved this. Mr. Samiders could tell of interviews with the greatest among us, of civilities fi-om princes of the blood, mighty statesmen, temble soldiers, and he had a collection of photographs of notables which he implied rather than said had been presented to him by the illustrious originals in sign of their recognition of his able and thoughtful conduct at the great station. Here again, his enemies were sceptical, remarked upon the fact that the likenesses were nearly all by the same provincial artist, and suggested that it was curious that this person should be so largely employed by the great. But such small, carping, Colenso criticism was treated with lofty scorn by the believers in J\Ir. Saunders. He speedily apprised his own circle of the return of Mr. Dormer with his father-in-law. He stated that he had immediately called Mr. Doimer to account for his breach of the railway regulations when he last went to town, regulations which might have been violated in the time of Mr. Saunders' predecessor, he said, and which might be violated in the time of his successor, but which should be rigidly observed while he himself had the station. That ]Mr. Dormer had offered a handsome and proper apology, and there the 254 SOONER OR LATER. matter should end, especially as there was illness in his family. Mr. Saunders' conduct and magnanimity having been duly ap- plauded, he became gentle, but a little mysterious, and observed that Mr. Conway and Mr. Dormer were apparently the best friends in the world. Asked whether he laid any stress on the word apparently, he replied that it was no part of his business to account for his language, so long as it was consistent with his duty, but he restored the abashed questioner to favour by the affable remai'k that as a man of the world he must be aware that eveiything did not lie on the outside. The news spread, and by noon few persons who interested them- selves in their neighbours' affairs were unaware that Mr. Ernest Dormer was at home. Perhaps the person to whom the tidings gave the most unalloyed satisfaction was Miss Fanny Buxton. That naughty girl actually danced with joy, and could scarcely preserve a decorous step as she hastened to pretty Mrs. Fanshaw with the information. Doubtless they both were exceedingly glad for the sake of their friend ]\Irs. Dormer, but the cup of their gladness foamed and sparkled and ran over at the thought of the discomfiture of their friend Mrs. Cutcheon. The circumstantial stoiy of the law papers delivered through the window, and of the citation fi-om the Divorce Court, the tale which had enabled her to rebuke Phoebe and crush Fanny, all blown to the winds, and Mr. Dormer at home with his wife. The only question was how to make the most of their victoiy. It must be proclaimed in full divan. Dorcas must have a special sitting. They must enlist Phoebe, and get her to work upon the President's sense of justice. It was delightful. Mr. Chervil was, of course, an early recipient of the news, and it pleased him much. It pleased him more to have the opportunity of imparting it to Mrs. De Gully, with improvements and additions, to . the effect that Mr. Dormer was about to take legal proceedings against several persons who had been propagating libels and slanders, and that he had got, Mr. Chervil had heard, a clue to the persons who had concocted a letter of much malice. Mr. Chervil, of course, hoped that Mr. Dormer would be wise, and let things be quietly forgotten, but these London gentlemen were hasty, and he feared that there would be unpleasantness in the place. To be just, it should be said that Mrs. De Gully was not in the least frightened, but that in reviewing her own share in a certain transaction, the lady felt that she had been driven by force of circumstances into acts which a lady should not have done. Her vague original idea of letting the delivery of the packet be supposed to be Francine's un- authorised doing, became ridiculous to her the moment it was brought gOONEK OR LATER. 255 to a practical test, and Mrs. De Gully was exceedingly angry with herself, and a gi-eat deal more angry with her brother for imposing such conditions, instead of supplying her with money, and letting her alone. She determined to consult Mr. Bulliman as to what could be done to her. Had it been a case of ordinary obligation, which had been neglected, Mrs. De Gully's experiences had en- lightened her as to the hard ways of the law and of the world, but Mr. Chervil thoughtfully dropped the word conspiracy, and the poor lady had visions of being dragged from Martletowers in the night and committed to prison by Lord jMazagon and Sir Kichard Salvington, magistrates. Edward Grafton heard of it, and received the news with a certain relief. As regarded himself it was not impossible that he might speedily be brought into collision with Mr. Dormer, who might con- sider that Grafton's profession not only ought not to screen him from chastisement for his conduct to Magdalen, but ought to be thought an aggi-avation of it. But Edward, though morally a coward, was not physically one, and his apprehension of Dormer's vengeance occupied him but little. He had been full of remorse for the reve- lations he had made to Magdalen and for the language he had used, and he derived a certain consolation fi-om the thought that Ernest's return must liave brought consolation to his wife. This was one of the occasional gleams of a nobler nature than Edward Grafton habi- tually manifested, and he weakly comforted himself at times with the thought that had he been differently circumstanced, a man who could feel in that way would have been a better man. It is to be hoped that he put more wholesome teaching into tlie sermons he addi-essed to the clowns of Saxbury. Mrs. Faunt heard of it, and was enabled to take the news with her to London. It occurred to that respected female that just at the present time her interests were not likely to be much promoted by residence at Trafalgar, and she had some business in town which might as well be attended to. Mr. Edward Grafton had recently paid her money, and might not be inclined, after their last interview, to be in a huny to renew his payment. She was out of favour at the Rectory, since the conduct that had brought down on her the thunders of the Church; and moreover, the Kcctory had long ceased to give the dinners that had made her counsels useful ; so that there was no probability of forgiveness. So she went to London. One of her earliest visits was to the poor little egg-forger, Lucy, whom Mrs. Faunt found engaged at her work, but with a languid air, and looking altogether disheartened, and careless of what she was about. 256 SOONER OR LATER. Mrs. Faunt had been very ill received, and deservedly, in that house, upon former visits, and she had prepared an artful and depre- cating manner with which to smooth her way. But Lucy now ap- peared perfectly indifferent as to the character of her visitor, or of her errand, and desired Mrs. Faunt to sit down, if she liked ; adding, that it cost no more to sit down than to stand up — one of the little vulgarisms which the girl used to cultivate in old days for the amuse- ment of one who, detesting vulgarity, laughed at it in Lucy — a sign which, poor child, she had not known how to read. But she got some light upon it when Ernest Dormer showed dislike of her talk under tliat colonnade. " No more it does, my dear," said Mrs. Faunt, taking a seat ; " and I like to hear a bit of a joke, if it's ever so small, for there's little enough where I come from." " There'll be less where you are going to," said Lucy, rudely and uncharitably. "Ah, you don't mean those things, my dear, and I don't mind 'em from you," "Who do you mind 'em fi-om ?" demanded Lucy. " Because, who- ever it is, you had better go and ask for some more. You are a very bad old woman, Mrs. Faunt, that's one thing ; and another is, that you are altering very fast, and breaking up, and if you don't think so yourself, just look into that glass." " Now don't speak so, my dear, because though I know you don't mean it, I can't say that I altogether like it." " Well, there's a short way of getting rid of it. There's no charge for going out, Mrs. Faunt." " It isn't like you to be hard on an old woman, my dear ; and something must have vexed you." " Nothing vexes me." " Well, that's well, and we ought to be very thankful when we've come to that state in which we can't be vexed." " Thanldul to who ? " " Wliy — thankful — inasmuch — I only spoke in a general way, and using a general word, my dear ; don't be so sharp." Lucy actually laughed. She had talked to Mm two or three times in her objectionable life in a way which was not altogether so objec- tionable, only that two people who knew enough to speak as they had done, ought to have known better than to live as they did. The old heathen's floundering awoke Lucy's sense of humour (a sense which in all of us, it may be observed, lies very near our appreciation of unworldly things), and she answered — " Out of your line, Mrs. Faunt, out of your line. You've got a SOONER OR LATER. 2o/ good many tons of repentance to get through before yon begin to talk about thankfniness." " Xow it's odd you should say that about repenting, my dear," said Mrs. Faunt, with a smile. " Quite odd ! " " Is it ?— why ? " "Because it's just what I've been reading as I came along in the bus. A lady — she was quite a lady, real velvet and gloves of the best — she gave me a tract, all about that." "Very right in her— she saw you were an old sinner, and not likely to last long. I hope you mean to profit by it." " My dear, I shall be glad to profit by anything. You could not give an old woman a glass of sherry, could you ? " " I dare say I could ; but what's the sense of asking me for sherry ? Of course you mean brandy, and I haven't got any in the house." " And couldn't that nice-looking girl," said Mrs. Faunt, with a wheedling smile, " couldn't she just " " No, she just couldn't," said Lucy, sharply. " I don't send her to the public house for spirits." " I'll take the sheny," said Mrs. Faunt, with a resigned and patient look. " But it is unwise in you, very unwise, my dear." " I Ivnow that, but when a woman asks for a glass of wine, one doesn't like to say no," said Lucy, going to a closet. " That's not my meaning, my dear. But in case of illness in the night, or so, it's wrong not to have something by you. Take my advice, and get some in, and let it be of the best, and you may live to thank me for telling j-ou to do it." " The idea of any woman thanking you, Mrs. Faunt, for anythiu^']- - you ever told her to do!" said Lucy, contemptuously, and at the same time giving her guest a glass of wine, which, tendered with such words, many persons might have thrown on the floor. Kot so Mrs.. Faunt, who smiled a health to Lucy, and drank the wine with as much apparent pleasure as if it had been presented by an affectionate child. " A^ery right sort of stuff that, my dear. A thought tijnid, as I may say, and not likely to do any harm, but quite pleasant. I must give you something in return, and I will give you my tract, as your thoughts seem to have taken that line, and much credit it does you." " I don't want your tract." " But you shouldn't be proud," said Mrs. Faunt, pulling out a bundle of miscellaneous papers from a capacious pocket. " Frido killed the angels, I've heard," she went on, searching through the batch with some awkwardness, and making bad shots. " I don'tj VOL. 11. 8 258 SOONER OR LATER. flatter you into an angel, my dear " — and here she took a paper be- tween her teeth that it might be out of the "vvay, " but the moral is the same " — she mumbled, " and you might " " What are you mumbling about ? " said Lucy. " Put down your rubbish, can't you ? I don't want your tract, I tell you." " Pride killed the — devil take it!" cried Mrs. Faunt, opening her mouth in a rage, as her papers fell down from her knees. " There's a precious muddle." " Yes, and I know where there's another," said Lucy, frankly. " No wonder you didn't care for my sherry. I thought you had been comforting yourself before you came." " Nothing to speak of, my dear," said Mrs. Faunt, stooping with some difficulty, and painfully collecting her odd looking documents. " When I was your age I would have been more good-natured, and helped an old creature that can hardly move for the lumbago." " I am not covetous to touch any of your papers, Mrs. Faunt. There, you've left something on the ground, now," said Lucy, point- ing with her foot. " 0, it's a picture — have you been having your- self taken, as a warning to society ? No," she continued, picking up the card, " it's a photograph of a tombstone. Come, that's very right. Carry that about with you, and look at it ten times a day, or let us say whenever you take something to drink, which will be oftener." " Let's see," said Mrs. Faunt, entirely neglecting the rest of the speech. " Yes, that's a very curious picture, and there's a very curious story belonging to it, and a story that shall make somebody shiver in his shoes before I'm done with him." " And what's the fun of a man's shivering in his shoes ? " " We shall see about that," said Mrs. Faunt. '' We shall see. A trick's a trick, but we shall see who gets the last trick." Lucy laughed out. " I shouldn't care about a game at cards with tombstones on them," she said ; and then she thought how some one would have laughed at her pertness, and then she did not even smile. " You're talking nonsense," said Mrs. Faunt, whom certain recol- lections just then irritated out of her assiduous civility. " Game at cards, indeed. No. But let him who gave me that look to himself." " Well, I don't want to be bothered about him," said Lucy. " I see," she added, giving another look at the picture, " it is a tomb- stone that is going to be stuck up." " Wliat do you mean by that ? " demanded Mrs. Faunt. " Going to be stuck up ? How do you know that ? " SOONEPw OK LATER. 259 " Because I've got eyes, and because I've been in the habit of di'awing, and because I know one thing from another," " But I say," said Mrs. Faunt. It was true, as Lucy surmised, that the excellent woman had refreshed herself, but only to the point at which a second thought is required for the comprehension of a speech. " What was you talking about ? " " Why, this thing," said Lucy. " Come, you had better go away — ^you'll get no more sherry, and I advise you to go home." " And will you tell me what you mean ? " said Mrs. Faunt, across whose brain there began to crawl a thought that in some way or other she had been deceived, but she could not tell how. " What do you mean ? " she repeated, laying hold of Lucy's arm. The latter angrily forced her arm from the old woman's hold, and bade her keep her hands off. " Xever mind about that," said Mrs. Faunt, too much in earnest to notice the meaning of the indignant gesture. " Look at that, and tell me if it is not a picture of a tombstone in Highgate Cemetery. That's where he told me she was buried." " Very likely she is, Avhoever she is," said Lucy. " But it does not want half an eye to see that the tombstone here is not taken from a real tomb, but from a sketch, and not a very good one." " Stop — say that again." Lucy repeated it, with a raised voice, and some temper in it, "Then," said Mrs. Faunt, also raising her voice, "you dare to tell me that she isn't dead and buried, and that's not her grave ? " " What are you storming at me for, you old fool ? " retorted Lucy, using great plainness of speech. " What do I know or care about her, or him, or you, or that either ? " And she cast the photograph at Mrs. Faunt's feet. " But he said she was dead," said that person, slowly. " Perhaps she is. More likely that she isn't, and that you have tumbled into some dirty pit that you have been digging for somebody else. I hope you have. There's nothing in that picture to show that anybody is dead — do you understand r — but it looks as if somebody wanted to make you think so, and had a tombstone draA;!!, and then photogi-aphed. It could be done for a few shillings — and I rather think you are done, also, Mrs. Faunt, for you stare like a stuck pig." " And I've been carrying that about with me, and he has been sitting at home grinning," murmured Mrs. Faunt, in a tone that betokened no good to the subject of her speculations, " But you say truly, my dear, she might be dead ! " " Yes, and so might somebody else, and the world none the worse." " I'm obliged to you, my dear. I'm obliged for several things. 260 SOONER OR LATER. We won't speak of the sherry, because that was not much ; and if you had been ruled by me, you would have a cellar of your own, that a baronet might have paid for and drunk of. But I'm obliged to you for your finding out this trick, though j'ou didn't mean it, and didn'li tell me of it in any friendly intent, as I may say. Likewise for all your good . wishes for my latter end. In return for Avhich, as yon refuse the good lady's tract, and mean to repent your own way, which everybody has a right to, I .am pleased to inform you that a certain friend of yours has gone back to his Avife at Naybury, and has been received to her arms, and they mean to live happy ever afterwards. You don't seem to like that news, my dear, but I can't stop to com- ibrt you, because I am going up to Highgate to see with my own eyes ; and good day to you. Such ringing of bells to welcome him home — it was like a second wedding. Bless you, my dear, and once more good day." " Sara would not let us come in while that lady was here, mamma," said Mopes, who was followed into the studio by the excited Dormouse. "I hate Sara," added the latter, who now spoke more articulately than when Ave first made her acquaintance, but who did not turn he? oratorical powers to a better account. " No, you don't, child," said her sister, sharply. " I am not a child," said the Dormouse, preparing a roar, but she postponed it, being caught into her mother's arms, and kissed passionately. Both children were surprised, for Lucy, though ever kind and even tender to them, had of late made little demonstration of her affection^ and had let them come and go with slight notice of their presence. " Have I been naughty, mamma ? " said Mopes. " I did not mean. I am very sorry." " Naughty, my darling ? no," said Lucy, throwing an arm round her, and pressing the child's fair, soft cheek against her own. " But you cuddled the Mouse, and took no notice of me, mamma,, and I am the eldest, you know, and I have loved you longer than, her." " No you has not," promptly returned the Dormouse. " You must both love me very much, darliugs," said Lucy, " for I have nobody in the world but you." " And Sara," said the Dormouse. " Oh, and Colonel Walter." "Be quiet, child," said Mopes. "Mamma," she whispered, "I want to ask you something." " You shan't whisper," said the Mouse, trying to push her sister from the mother's ear. SOONEK OR LATER. 20 1 " Let her, darliug, and you sliall whisper next. "What is it, love ?" ^■'Wouldn't papa make it up, after all, and you kissiug his hand ?" "You will not see him again, love." ^' What, never ? " " 'Not for many years. Perhaps, when poor mamma is dead, and laid away down in the ground, and the flowers are growing over ter." " Then I will never speak to him," said the child, bursting into a wild cry, " and never give me that gold money instead of that I gave you for a prize, mamma, for I won't have it. He is wicked and cruel not to forgive when you beg his pardon, and God won't love him for it." " No, he won't," added the Dormouse, solemnly. But Ernest Dormer was not then thinking of how two poor little hearts that he had taught to love him — and a third, that had needed no teaching — were beating together for his sake — and that tears were falling there, and for him. Meantime Mrs. Faunt was on her way to Highgate. From the west of London the road is long, and before she reached the place the jolting exercise of the journey had completely neutralised the ■effect of her morning potations, and had left her a resolute and .spleenful old person. And by the time that Mrs. Faunt, having toiled up the hill, had entered the gate, and begun to survey the work that she had undertaken, she came to a sort of conviction that ■she was a fool for her pains. " Why, there's thousands," she said, " and I might walk for a year, and miss it after all. But he told me that day, when he gave me the picture, that I might go to the cemetery aud look until I found the tombstone. Where's the beastly card ? That was a triumph over me, Mrs. Yerner, but I think you got something back, and perhaps it's delighting you now, m'm. Now then." People have gone, with all sorts of feelings, to burials and burial- grounds. Grief and greed have perhaps stood together spelling out a tombstone inscription. Love has taken its last look at the last home of the loved, and hate has smiled that its enemy was harm- less, or scowled that it could strike him no more. The heir has looked not ungratefully at the name of one who has yielded him the Avorld's good things, the orphans have gazed piteously at the stone that hid him who had been their only protection. Faith has thrown her calm gaze upon the grave, and then raised her eyes from what was for her but the portal ; doubt has come with a sad silence, iind unbelief with a sullen smile, at the tomb that means the cud of all. 262 SOONER OR LATER. For some of these passions, some of these sentunents, there is reverence, and toleration for the rest, for it is not in the presence of the dead that man should judge the living. But the most reverent and the most tolerant could have nothing but ridicule or wrath for the dreadful old creature who was rushing hither and thither among the tombs, with the picture in her hand, trying to discover an original. She was heavy-footed, now, and many a time Charity Faunt stumbled, and the evil old woman breathed aught but a kindly wish at the stone that had tripped her. Yet she clove to her work, for some time, with the pertinacity of her stronger days. Many a long row of memorials passed under her review ; several times she believed that she had come to what she sought, and then she read a name that she knew not, and read it with an angry word or worse. All was in vain. Weary and beaten, but deadly vicious in thought and will, she sank down upon the grave of a little child. " It is not allowed to sit upon the graves," said a decent-looking man, who came up. " "Who don't allow it ? " answered Mrs. Faunt, looking up inso- lently at him. " It is against the rule," said the man, irritated at her look and manner. " Persons who have a proper respect for the dead don't need warning." " Who's to move me, if I don't choose to stir ? " " Well, you're an awkward lot to look at, but I think the job might be done. Any how, we'll ask at the office." And he was walking away, when his last word caught her attention. " There, my good man, I did not mean to speak rude, but I am so frightful tired with hunting for a friend's grave, and I had that mo- ment rested, that I was angry at being driven off as if I was doing any harm. The dear babe below won't be disturbed in his sleep be- cause a poor old woman has had a rest on his grave." She said this with such apparent honesty that the man was at once touched. " It was me that spoke rough, m'm," he said, " but it's my duty to see that the rules are obeyed, and sometimes we have very queer folks to deal with." " You are quite right. What was you saying about the office ? " Of course, in a short time, Mrs. Faunt had ascertained that in the year mentioned on the pretended tombstone, no person of the name which it bore had been buried in that cemeten-. That day she had done nearly enough. She felt that if she now SOONER OR LATER. 263 went to visit Mr. Dudley, as was her intention, she should do herself no justice at all. She was too feeble for a fight, and she must have some refi'eshment, which in her signification of the word was rather more than enough to unfit her for any wit-combat. It would be going against too heavy odds. So Mrs. Faunt more prudently resolved to recruit nature, and could perfectly well rely on herself for not being at all more forgiving in the morning than she was over-night. Absence of confidence in this respect frequently drives far better people than this old woman into frays in which they do not get the best. Husbands, it is said, greatly fear the softening influence of slumber, and therefore, hasting to have matters out while wrath is hot, are defeated with slaughter. Wives ai-e alleged to make the mistake more seldom, and, advancing to the attack with coolness, especially after family prayers, win Solferinos and Sadowas. Next morning, however, when Mr. Dudley was taking his after- breakfast pipe, Mrs. Faunt was announced — that is to say, the medical gentleman was informed that a lady wanted him. Yes — for one half second Benjamin Dudley believed — it is difficult to write down, gravely, so mad a dream, but remember that we know Magdalen Dormer, and he never saw her — he believed that she had come up to see him, in consequence of his despatch. And his heart swelled with pride. The next moment he was confronted by Mrs. Faunt. Now the real marvel was, that in the rage produced by the sudden revulsion of feeling, Mr. Dudley did not forget his manliness, yield to his demonstrative nature, and beat Mrs. Faunt out of the place, as IMaster Brook served the Woman of Brentford. The marvel is explained by the fact that he was too much astonished to do anything, or to say anything more than this — " She told me a lady." " That speech is very rude, my dear Mr. Dudley, but you did not mean it, I know." " What do you want ? " " That is hardly civiller. But if you will let me come into the parlour, I will tiy to tell you what I want." " I didn't think I should ever see you again," said Dudley. " We parted with a row, and you went away raging and threatening, and there I supposed was an end of everything." " My rage did you no harm, and my threats have not been acted on, Benjamin, I think." " I can't say. They have done me no harm, that I Imow of." " You put me into a fury, I recollect, and gave me too much to 204 SOONER OR LATER. drink, so it stands to reason that a woman should be riotous. But if you bear no malice, I bear none. What do you say ? " " I say that you want something out of me, and that you won't get it. But I bear no malice, particularly. At least if you don't annoy me." " All right, Benjamin. Well, I do want something of you, certainly, but it will cost you nothing." " Those are the things that always cost most. What is it ? " "Well, I never thought to come to it, but the truth is I am getting old. Don't make any coarse remarks, because you will be old your- self, if you live long enough. I am tired of the sort of life I have been leading, for if it's fun to-day it's none to-morrow. I have not saved any money, but there are two or three people who will give me some now and then." " For the love they have for you ? " asked Dudley, as she paused, for she had not quite shaped out the lie she meditated. " Love or hate, what does it signify 1 It makes me feel as if I had got money in a good investment ; and so I have. Investing in a person's love or hate is a nevr sort of stocks, Benjamin, isn't it ? While they last, says you. Well, mine wall last me out, I dai'e say. But whether or not, I want to have a quiet sort of home. I suppose you would not like me to come and live here as your housekeeper ? " " No," said Mr. Dudley, " I don't think I should." " No, and I don't think London air would suit me ; but I thought it acting right by an old friend to give him the refusal. The notion I have is to be got into some sort of asylum." " Hanwell, or Colney Hatch ? " " Don't mock at me, Benjamin. I'm getting old, I tell you, and I want a home. There are several places where I could get in, if I only had what I want you to put me in the way of getting," " A character, I suppose ? " " Yes, something in that way. What do you call it when a parson and a doctor and a lot sign their names to a paper saying that you are everything in the world that's right and square, and if you have a fault it's the being too good, I ought to know — many a time I've helped to forge 'em." " Testimonials, Vv"hy not forge 'em now^ if you're not ashamed of such work ? " " You are, I suppose, Benjamin ? " said Mrs, Faunt, with a dash of insolence in her voice ; but she had determined to make friends with him, and she struggled against her temper. " xind quite right too, now that you can get on by your talents. I only wish I saw you getting on better." " Never mind me. I'm content." SOOXER OR LATER. 2G5- *'■ You don't look it. Yoiu- eyes arc as restless as fire, and you seem as if you have had a deal of trouble." "Never mind me, I tell you. By Jove, your plan's not a bad one, and if you could be helped, as you sa^', into some quiet place, where nobody knew you, it would be as good a way of finishing your days as I know. But the devil and all is, that a sort of testimonials are Avanted that you, my old Charity, could not get. Nor could I get them for you." " Why not ? " " Because they must be proofs of good character. Hang it," said Dudley, " you know that as well as I do ; and what's the use of telling me this bosh ? You've as much thought of going into an almshouse, or an asylum, as I have. Come, play out." " Of course I can't make you believe if you won't." *' Well, I won't." " It's very hard. I get more sympathy from strangers than from an old friend whom I have served, or tried to serve, in my time." "Naturally, Charit}-," laughed Dudley, "the strangers don't know you." " They do. There are the clergymen down at Naybury — they sec me often." " Yes, they are magistrates, I suppose." " Not a bit. They visit me as one of their flock." " Yes, the prize black sheep. Come, Avhat's the good ? I ask you. Now I know many people in Naybury, and you can't tell me one decent person there that speaks to you." " Can't I. There's the Eeverend Mr. Grafton, he speaks to me — and precious loud," thought Mrs. Faunt — " and his son the Reverend Mr. Edward, he calls upon me and giv#s me money." " Why ? " " That's my business." " Just so. And the parish doctor calls on you, because he's the parish doctor. Anybody else ? " "Yes, sir, ladies call. There's Mrs. Bulliman, wife of a lawyer; do you know her ? and Mrs. Cutcheon, a most respectable party ; do jou know her ? And Mrs. Dormer, a beautiful lady ; do you know her ? — she called the other day, but I suppose she will not call any more at present, as she is near her confinement, and her husband, Mr. Dormer, has come home to be Avith her — but she is one of my friends. And there is Mrs. Mainwaring " " When did you leave Naybury ? " asked he, suddenly. "The day before yesterday, Benjamin. Oh, is Mrs. Mainwaring a friend of yours ? " 2C6 SOONER OR LATER. " Yes — yes, I know her, and the other lady you mentioned," said Mr. Dudley, striving hard to disguise some kind of feeling, and affecting a curiosity, which artifice did not impose upon Mrs. Faunt. " Mrs. Cutcheon — Mrs. Dormer — which ? " " Stop, Cutcheon, Dormer ; I forget which I meant. Whose husband did you say had come down ? " " That is the beautiful lady, Mrs. Dormer." "Then I can't mean her, I suppose. Has her husband been travelling in Sweden ? " " How should I know ? He has come home, I know that, and perhaps he has been in Sweden. Is it a dangerous place ? I heard they were all immensely rejoiced to see him back again." " No, tliat can't be the lady I mean," said Dudley ; " but I'm glad any of your friends come home safely. Well, we must think about this plan of yom's. I will turn it over in my mind. What's your London address — m'm? " " Up-stairs." " Here ? " " Yes ; my old apartment that I took when I paid my last visit to you, and you were so rude. But I shall not intrude upon you. I have some acquaintances in town, and I shall be with them a good deal. You will think of me, and see what can be done." " Yes, I'll see." " And so will I," said Mrs. Faunt to herself, as she went up-stairs to take the room, — her watch went a little fast when she said that she had taken it. " It was Mrs. Dormer that he was so eager about. What has he got to say to her ? " " Mr. Ernest Dormer has ^one back to his wife, has he ? " said Mr. Dudley to himself, as he sat down and pulled pen and paper before him. CHAPTER XXVIIL THE TKINCIPAL WITNESS. " The fellow demands a final answer." " I should like to give him one," said Mr. Haslop to his visitor ; "but all in good time. Then, Serjeant, Ernest Dormer's urgent message to us was not necessary. Dudley appears to have no idea of getting out of the way." " I don't know what made Dormer think he had such a notion. However, I have done as we agreed, and Dudley's goings-out and comings-in have been watched. I have asked no questions ; it was enough that Dormer could have him when he might want him. Dudley now writes that unless we bring the matter to a close, he shall take his own course." " What does he mean ? " asked Mr. Haslop. " I have been trying to guess, but it is hard. He is an eccentric villain, and there is no calculating on his movements. Who would have thought of his sending those statements to Mrs. Dormer ? By the waj-, have you heard ?" " Only a few words. She is not worse." " But Ernest must remain with her, I conclude," said Penguin. " We must manage without him. Unless you have any suggestion, will you hear mine ? " " I want to gain a little time," said Haslop. "You have some hopes of something, then ?" " There is a chance, but it is so remote that I do not care to say much about it — at all events, at present." " Then I would submit that we apprise ilr. Dudley of our agreeing with him that the sooner the matter is brought to a close the better ; that we have formed a very strong opinion on the subject, but that of course we are willing to give him a fair and final hearing, and that if he chooses to bring his witness with him, we shall better be able to judge how far his story holds water — to that effect I mean. Then we shall see, and of com-se we can easily gain some days. You 268 SOONER OR LATER. / can't attend until — 'When shall we sa}-, this is Tuesday — Saturday ? But I am not inclined to play with him too much." " Tell him Saturday, then. Here ? " " Let him come to my place, I fancy 'you would like it better, and I can't afford to be particular about the sort of folks I receive." Mr. Dudley, therefore, was apprised that Mr. Haslop and Serjeant Penguin would see him at the chambers of the latter on the following Saturday, at twelve o'clock, and it was pointed out to him that George Farquhar's attendance was indispensable. Penguin, who dictated the letter to his clerk, put this point a little strongly, but contrived to make the message somewhat more civil, and moreover ventured to imply more of the possibility of terms being made, than Mr. Haslop would have approved. Serjeant Penguin had taken some rough notes of Dudley's rough nature, and had not altogether judged him wrongly. The letter Haslop would have sent might have prevented a meeting. Dudley received the missive with even more satisfaction than Serjeant Penguin had intended to give him. " Who says the bold stroke is not the best stroke, Mr. Dudley ?" he asked himself, as he re-read the letter. " The despatch to Naybury has done it. My lady has sent for my lord, and has said enough to make him see that the game is mine. The women, when they have any sense at all, have ten times as much as men. Mrs. Dormer, your health ! " This meeting is, of course, the decorous way of doing the thing ; or perhaps they want a little time to get the money. Wonder whether they will offer me less. I don't think that I will take less. Not much less at any rate. Five thousand pounds is not much for a man to have saved at my time of life. But it is better than nothing. And then to drag oneself out of all the dirt of old times and old struggles, and away to a land where one's antecedents don't count, for the best reason that nobody knows what they were. I shall have a chance in the profession yet, and I have never had it, or I shouldn't be in this hole, while pudding-headed men rest their fat bald heads against the sides of carriages. Yes, I have played the right game at last. " What have I done that's wrong, if I cared whether it was wrong or not. I have acquired a piece of knowledge, and I have sold it. What else is half the business of life ? " I wish I had not said that. Have I taken too much to drink ? I wish I thought so, but I have not. I don't like my growing moral, and troubling myself with defending my doings. And such a defence, too — something I feel to be trash while I am saying it. SOONER OK LATER. 269 Mr. Dudlc}', have you expended all your intellect in the contrivance of your great scheme, and have you none left to see it worked to the end ? Bosh ! I must have been playing tricks with my nerves. A good sleep, at any price. It. is no extravagance wlien there is work to be done." Next day he sent for ]\rr. Farquhar. Since the interview with the Serjeant, after which it will bo remembered that George Farquhar, calling on Dudley, was coolly treated, the young man had not come near his friend. Xothing had happened to Mr. Farquhar. Though his ignorance of his own pro- fession was very considerable, and though his worldly subtlety was of the slightest, he had obtained certain gleams of light as to the character of the proceedings with which Dudley had originally menaced him, and by a little reading and a few inquiries of men who knew the law, he discovered that he had been threatened idly, and that no action could have been maintained against him on the grounds assigned by Dudley — illumination which has long been in the possession of all who have interested themselves in his history. But Farquhar's peculiar relations with his father prevented this information from being of much avail for his comfort, for though the enemy might not be able to act, he might apprise the elder Farquhar of his son's habits and proceedings, and the savage old man would at once execute the dreaded revenge. Therefore, though l)OOT George Farquhar received an accession of hatred against Dudley, for having practised upon him, he was in no degree assisted to freedom by the knov-dedge. And as to the testimony which he was to bear for Dudley, Farquhar lived in hourly fear of its being demanded. The Serjeant could menace him only with more distant disaster, which might or might not descend, but Dudley had him in a present clntch. He had been grateful for the long reprieve, had made friends with his landlad}', had abstained from his miserable little debauclierics, and had even bought the " Questions to Candi- dates," and frightened himself hideously at the inevitable result of a single column of such queries being placed before him for reply. But he was trying to read, and had even a scheme for restoring himself to the favour of the house to which he was articled, and which bore his absence with scarcely complimentary patience. When, one morning, he was suddenly brought back to his position by the receipt of a peremptory summons from Dudlej', the unfortu- nate young man arose, and witli tears in his eyes cursed his destiny. The tears were natural enough, the curse and tlie idea of destiny were of course conventions which nevertheless comfort a mind like that of George Farquhar. 270 SOONER OR LATER. Xow, he owned to himself, the time had come when he ought, if ever, to decide upon dismissing himself from the world. That he never had the least actual intention of the sort need not be said. But he found a kind of consolation in pretending to him- self that he had thought about it. He looked at his razors, and put them away ; he looked at a small bottle of laudanum which he had bought for the toothache (the mixture was so bad that had he taken it all it would have done him no harm), and he looked out at the back window into a gloomy abyss of an area far below, where cer- tainly his business would have been done with much promptness, but he shut the window hastily, and cursed the London blacks that had soiled his fingers. It will be seen that the valuable life of Mr. George Farquhar was in no danger, at least from himself. Having cast a reproachful glance at the sun, for shining so brightly on a morning when Mr. Farquhar was in such doleful dumps, he remem- bered that the Thames at Kew would be sparkling and cheery, and asked himself whether he should go and jump in there. Having obtained a ready answer in the negative, he went to Mr. Dudley. Mr. Dudley received him with some affability, but made no reference to the last meeting, and treated his coming as matter of course. This did not please Mr. Farquhar, who had a feminine liking for having all small grievances talked out, " Of course I should not have come until you sent for me," said Farquhar, with coldness. " Certainly not. Why should you ? Quite enough that you come when you are wanted." " I had a good mind to send you word that I would be here to-morrow, for it is a lovely day, and I meant to go to Kew Gardens." " You did a much wiser thing in attending to your business." " I don't know that," said Mr. Farquhar, sulkily. " Yes you do, because I have told you so," replied Dudley, sharply. " Now listen to me, jDlease. On Saturday next, be here at half-past eleven, and in the mean time refresh your memory on all the points of your statement about Mrs. Dormer, and prepare yourself to answer any questions that may be put to you on that day." " By whom ? " *' By a friend of your own, a distinguished fi-iend, and by another eminent personage who is desirous of making your acquaintance, and who joins your friend in a request for an appointment." " You had better tell me who, if you expect me to come." " Expect you to come ? None of that folly, Mr. Farquhar, if you please. It is much too late in the day. You will be punctual. SOONER OR LATER. 271 One of the gentlemen is, of course, Mr. Serjeant Penguin, who takes you out for drives, and the other " " Not a magistrate ? " gasped Farquhar, turning ghastly white. " I don't know whether he is a magistrate or not," said Dudley, " but he is a wealthy man, and has a house at Surbiton, and it is very likely. But it is not in a magisterial capacity that he invites your attendance. His name is Haslop." " A conveyancer, in Gray's Inn ? " " Yes. But he does not want to examine you in conveyancing, or I could understand your looking so frightened. "What a white- livered chap you are." " I am nothing of the sort, but I suppose I may be allowed what you don't seem to comprehend, and that is the feeling of a gentleman." "The illegitimate son of a York money-lender calls himself a gentleman," said Dudley, brutally. " But I have no objection to your having any feelings you like, provided they don't interfere with your duty to me. That's fair, I hope." As the coarse word fell upon his ear, something told George Far- quhar to seize a heavy brass weight that lay on the druggist's table, and having thus lessened the odds between a weak man and a strong one, to dash an avenging blow on the head of Dudley. But the latter looked hard and defiantly at him, and the enfeebled Farquhar could do no more for his mother's name than call Dudley by a vulgar one. At which Dudley laughed. " Very likely. It is no business of yours. Your business is to attend the appointment and behave like a man — or a gentleman, if you like the word better. You mean to do so,''_of course ? " " If I am well enough, I may." " If you are not well enough, your father shall come up to nurse you, or send somebody who will do it better." This menace was given in a loud voice, and an angry one. " I am sold to the devil, and must do his work," said George Far- quhar, bitterly. " We have had enough of that sort of talk, too," said Dudley, who was unusually bent on bullying his victim. " Let us have no more of it. You have made certain statements to me, which you have caused me to believe and to repeat, and I don't understand the hum- bug of pretending to be a martyr. I should never have known any- thing of Mrs. Dormer's conduct but for you. This I shall take care to make veiy clear on Saturday." " Are you going ? " " Certainly I am," said Dudley, with a scoff. " It may be as well for me to be present, and see that my character for veracity does not 272 SOONER OR LATER. suffer at the hands of a person who describes me as the devil. And," he added, with a still more disagreeable manner, " it may be well, also, that your medical attendant should be present to assist you, should the cross-examination be too much for your delicate sys- tem. Don't think that I would abandon you in the hour of trial." " If anything should happen to me between this and then," said George Farquhar, stung by the other's taunts, " how would your game stand ? " " Don't talk that sort of stuff. What do you mean by anything happening to you ? " " You keep some friends in that iron closet, I know. Suppose that I have some of tl\e same kind." Dudley's eyes glared with fury. " You dare to hint to me that you would poison yourself ? Bah ! " " If I did," said Farquhar, " what would be said of your case ? That when it came to be investigated, the only witness died sooner than confirm the charges. You would like that, would you not ? " " You know," roared Dudle}^, with an oath, " that you dare not do it. You poison yourself ! Don't talk to me." Dudley's lips were convulsed with passion. For George Farquhar had made a good point, and it went home. Dudley did not believe that the other would have the courage for what he mentioned, but such a thing was possible, and with Dudley's game so nearly won, it was maddening to think of a check. And Farquhar saw that he had hit. " It is my business," he said. " I have nothing to live for. My health is bad, very bad, and my prospects in life are worse. And the brutal threat which you hold over my head would be idle if I were dead. Don't rely on my keeping that appointment." It was a strange thing to say, and he said it in a strange, listless tone. " Are you mad ? " asked Dudlej', in a fierce whisper. " I don't know," said Farquhar. " If I am, the course I speak of would be natural enough. Don't forget that you asked me the question. However, if nothing interferes, I will be here on Saturday." He rose to go. Dudley sprang at him, and with a curse flung him back on the sofa. More violently, probably, than he had intended, for Far- quhar's slight strength was instantly overpowered, and he received a violent blow on the head, which struck the wall, and he sat half- stunned. SOONER Oil LATER. 273 " Is that the way to treat a sick young man, Mr. Dudley ? " said Mrs. Faunt, entering. " That's very rough doctoring, surely. I was just coming in from my Avalk, when I heard the blow, and I said that there was Benjamin Dudley in one of his evil passions, and I was right. But give the young man something to restore him, doctor ; I am sure he looks dreadful." " You go away, will you ? " cried Dudley, turning furiously on her. " Xay," said Mrs. Faunt, who had assumed a manner of a kindly old nurse, " let me make myself useful, as my time is in no way precious, except when I can make it so by doing of good." And she went to Farquhar, and gave him some Avater, and begun to fuss about him, after the manner of a good old creature Avho has had her pity excited by seeing a person ill-used. " You are a great ruffian, Dudley," said Farquhar, as soon as he could recover himself sufficiently to speak. "It may be so," said Dudley, who now began to regret his violence, as it might furnish a valid excuse to Farquhar for pleading illness, and escaping the important meeting. " Knowing my im- patience, you should not provoke me by the use of offensive language. But you are not hurt. I should be very sorry to think you were hurt, George." " I know it, and I know why," said Farquhar. " Will you let a ■cab be called for me ? " " Yes, I'll call one in a moment," said Mrs. Faunt. And she was not long in getting one to the shop door — scarcely long enough for Dudley to say to Farquhar, — " I really beg your pardon, George. I see that you don't believe it, l»ut I am damned sorry that I gave way. But you know that we are playing for high stakes. I say we, my boy, because I have solemnly promised, as you recollect, to look after your affairs as soon as 1 have managed my own. Not a word to that woman," he added, pressing his friend's shoulder. " Here's the cab, sir, a nice four-wheeler; and let me give you my ■arm to get to it. I am not a young woman, but I am pretty strong, Y^ou want careful looking after, you do, sir; and if I were your mother, you should have it, too." " This gentleman wants nothing of the kind, Mrs. Faunt," said Dudley. " Please to get out of the way, and let him walk to his cab." "I'm sure I don't want to get in his way, Mr. Dudley," said Mrs. Faunt. " I only spoke for his good, that's all." Mr. Farquhar looked at Mrs. Faunt, and thought that she was a 274 SOONER OR LATER. nice motherly sort of person, and one whom it would not be amiss to know, in case of illness, " I am much obliged by your attention, m'm," he said. " If ever I'm very bad, I should like nothing better than such nursing as I am sure you would give me." "I would try, sir, anyhow, if you let me know. Mr. Dudley knows me very well, and would forward your wishes to me, I am sure ; would you not, Mr. Dudley ? " " Certainly, certainly," said Mr. Dudley, only too eager to hustle his fi-iend out of the way of Mrs. Faunt. But Farquhar, merely as matter of whim, chose to go on speaking to the woman against whom he had been warned, and Mrs. Faunt smiled and sniggered in the most kindly manner, and with a capital imitation of the class of which she seemed to be one. " See here, m'm," said George Farquhar, giving her his card (he was very fond of offering his cards when there was no need), " this will remind you of me, in case I ever write to you to come and nurse me." "I shall need no reminding, sii', for your face is one of those handsome ones as lives in a woman's memory; but I'll keep your card, and shall be proud to be employed, either hj yourself, or when you have a good lady as wants the sort of nurse good ladies do want at times, sir." And then she allowed Dudley to conduct Farquhar to his cab. " He's an ass, Benjamin, dear, isn't he ? " said Mrs. Faunt, when the doctor came back. " Yes, if ever there was one ; but an impertinent fellow, too. You should not have come in, though. I won't have that sort of thing." " I know it was wrong, but I thought, as I was going upstairs,. and knowing your amiable ways, that you were murdering somebody. Here, take his card ; I don't want to have the cards of your friends found on me. What's his name ? the print's too small for my poor eyes." " Peter Williams," said Dudley, who lied like Napoleon the First. " He looked like a man that would have such a name," said Mrs. Faunt. " But he looked more like Peter the Wild Boy that I've seen a picture of, when I came mto the sm-gery. You shouldn't knock people about, Benjamin ; one of these days you'll get the worst of it. Well, I am tired, and must go upstairs and have a lie down." Mrs. Faunt had not been out, and Mrs. Faunt had been listening, and had heard nearly all that had passed. It told her nothing, except that there was a plot in hand. But she had abused her eyes unfairly. SOONER OR LATER. 275 Nursed as he had never been nursed since he left home, his apart- ment made tidy and comfortable by a skilful hand, his meak cared for, and rendered cleanly and wholesome, and his mind amused by a series of anecdotes derived from the nan-ator's personal experiences — they were not all exactly stories for a sick man, but all the more acceptable for their flavour, — George Farquhar rejoiced that it had occurred to a kindly woman to enter Dudley's room at the moment she did, and to call upon him that very night, and set his house in order. How she managed the landlady, and contrived to obtain a latch-key, and let herself in when she pleased, and how, although Mr. Dudley had the grace, or the wisdom, to come thrice, and look after his friend and witness, he had no suspicion that his other friend was doing the part of a fat but beneficent faiiy, need scarcely be said. Mrs. Faunt's genius shone in what may be called domestic mystifications, and it would have been well if the old sinner had never devised comedies with a worse purpose than in the present case. Perhaps, too, it is not very necessary to say, that having gained the weak heart of the young man, Mrs. Faunt proceeded to di\Tilge the fact that she knew all the relations between himself and Mr. Dudley. That she should apprise Farquhar that Mr. Dudley had told her everything, and that she should adroitly use scraps from the conversation which she had heard, and convince Farquhar that a third person was in the secret, was, of course, natural, and it was as natural that George Farquhar should be deceived by so accom- plished a professor of chicanery. It was rather unkind, however, of Mrs. Faunt, when poor, foolish, sentimental George Farquhar had finally confided to her the last of his troubles, to console him with specious hopes, and suggestions that almost made her laugh out when she offered them, and then to say, as she went down-stairs, — " Benjamin told the truth there, however. He is an ass. But there is such a lot of 'em in the world ! " t2 CHAPTER XXIX. AWAKENED. " They could but wait," Mr. Beccles had said. It was one of those cases in which Xature would have her own way. You had out- raged her, and she was offended, but might in time relent. He could have recourse to a variety of tentatives, but they would serve no good purpose. They must wait, and watch. If they liked to have physicians from London, he hoped that they would do so — nothing gave him more pleasure than conversation with the lights of the profession; but they would dismiss the parents from the room, and after a time would re-admit them, to receive the assurance that Mr. Beccles appeared to have taken exactly a right view of the busi- ness. Mr. Dormer would do as he pleased, but Mr. Beccles desired to escape no responsibility. The case was one of catalepsy. They waited and watched. Ernest Dormer's place, by day and •by jaight, was beside his vdfe's bed. "When his guard was relieved, for some brief time, the place was taken by the mother. And Mag- dalen made no sign, but she lived. The fourth day had not dawned, when Ernest, who had fallen into a light sleep, was roused by a faint sound, as of a murmur. Instantly awakened, he could hear his o\^ii heart throb, and he heard it with impatience. But bending his head to the pillow of Magdalen, his vigilance was rewarded — another gentle murmur stole upon his ear. And then there was a movement. " The time has come," said Ernest. " God help her — and me! " The lamp he had long since extinguished, and a tiny light burned at a distant part of the room; but it threw no ray upon Magdalen, or upon him. StiP, watching with an eye accustomed to the gloom, he could see that the features were becoming restless. Then came a third murmur, and it was almost a moan. He took her hand with the utmost gentleness, and he fancied that he felt a faint pressure, but was uncertain, and his own pulse leaped iiercely. i SOONER OR LATER. 277 Then, for a long time, there was no sound or movement. And the dawn came, and grew stronger and stronger, until, in that dark- ened room, a face might well be seen. " 0, if it might be now !" said Ernest. And the waking came. With her hand in his, Magdalen aroused from her long trance, and meaningless words, fast and broken, came from her lips, and she sought to rise, but her head fell back upon the pillow. "Magdalen ! — my own — my love !" Holding by his hand, which aided her effort, Magdalen sat up and gazed at the face of her kneeling husband. " This is not a dream," she said, softly ; " I have been with the angels. That was a dream. I am awake, I know that." " Awake," he whispered, " and in your husband's arms ! " " Yes ; Ernest's." " Ernest's." " Kiss me, Ernest ; it seems a veiy long time since you kissed me. But it was my fault, going away. I did not mean it, love. I did not know they meant to keep me from you, I will never go any more. You are not angry ? " Slowly, as the dawn grew bright into day and the sunshine be- sieged every chink in the curtains, and forced its way into the room, came a full awakening. Her husband's arm embraced her, — his face was turned up to hers, and a sun-ray struck on the diamond in a ring she had given to him. Magdalen started, and all trance was over ; all bewilderment. " My own ! — my own ! — my own I " she cried, and with a convul- sive grasp pressed him to her bosom. He felt that it was shaken by sobs ; but they were happy sounds, and he could have counted them as a miser counts his treasure. They were bringing her back to full consciousness, and joy, and love. We may leave them to their deep gladness. It was so selfish that Ernest stirred not even to tell the good news to her parents. When Mrs. Conway entered the room, silently, expecting to find two slumberers, she saw Ernest holding his wife's hand, and Mag- dalen gazing on him with a tranquil love. CHAPTER XXX. THE SCOTCH LAKE. The party at the Rectory gathered to the library, not by any express appointment, but from an instinctive feeling that the time had come when something must be said by each to the others, before the household should be broken up. The Eector had been there all the morning, busied, or seeming to be busied, with papers and accounts, but they made little progress under his hands, and from time to time he took up a book, and frequently glanced at the clock. He might have been counting the hours that remained to be passed in his home. Mr. Abbott, at a small table, was adding attestations, or some other technical memo- randa, to several parchments, and Mrs. Grafton, in the deep window- seat, with her head on her hand, gazed out into the garden which it had once been her pride to stock with flowers. But it was not of her garden that the mother was thinking. Her eyes followed the figure of her son, who was moodily pacing backwards and forwards on the grass-plot, and waiting to be called in to sign some of the documents which had been prepared by Mr. Abbott. " I have endeavoured to make you understand the precise meaning and value of these instruments, Mrs. Grafton," said the lawj-er; " but as matter of business they must be read to you." " I understand them," said Mrs. Grafton, " and there is no necessity for your taking such trouble. Shall I call Edward ? " " He must come, and he must hear them read. It is a form, but it cannot be omitted, intimate and confidential friends though we are." " Yes, you are perfectly right," said the Rector, with a touch of his old lofty manner. But he looked haggard, and there were more streaks of grey in the well-preserved hair than when we first saw him. " And perhaps — I speak with deference to you, Abbott— the sooner the work is done the better." Summoned by his mother's signal, Edward Grafton came into the library. He, too, bore the mark of suffering ; but whereas the father SOONER OR LATER. 279 bore himself boldly, bated no jot of his authority, and forgot none of his courtesy, the son looked nervous, and was restless, and as one who would gladly escape from companionship, " Before you take your seat, Edward, may I request you to close the door ? " said his father, in a voice implying that he ought not to have had to ask that service. Edward obej'ed in silence, and sat down near his mother. Mr. Abbott drew one of the deeds before him. " Mr. and Mrs. Grafton, and you, Edward, are so well aware of the object we have in view, and that these deeds are fi-amed for the sake of can-ying it out, that I need enter into no farther explanation. The means we adopt are the only ones by which we can raise the money which is now required, and I only hope that the arrangement which we contemplate will bring comfort and peace to your parents, while you fight the battle of life for yourself. ' This Indenture made the twenty-third day of July in the year of our Lord one thousand' " " You should not have begun, Mr. Abbott, before I came in," said Mrs. Sullage, quietly taking a seat opposite to the lawyer. She had ■entered during Abbott's preamble, and had stood behind a book-case, which projected at right angles and concealed the door. No one seemed surprised, but Mr. Abbott said, " The business which engages us, Mrs. Sullage, concerns this family only. I shall not proceed without their sanction." *' It will not be withheld, I dare say," was the calm reply. " It is immaterial whether Mrs. Sullage does or does not remain to listen to legal phraseology which can interest those only who are affected by its operation," said the Rector. " I beg pardon," said Edward, with irritation. " Either Mrs. Sullage has a right to be here, or she has not. If she has, I have no more to say. If not, I protest against what seems to me an intrusion for the sake of annoyance. I am not in the habit of inter- fering, mother," he added, in answer to a look from Mrs. Grafton, " but if I am a party to business, I am entitled to know who else are concerned." " If I waive objection, Edward," said the Rector, " I think that jou may be content to follow me."' " And it is my wish, Edward," said his mother, observing that he was about to persist. " I have done," said Edward, turning to the window. " If Mrs. Sullage does not feel herself in a false position," said Mr. Abbott, contemptuously, " in forcing herself into company where she is certainly not wanted, and if the company tolerate her presence, it is not for me to object. ' This Indenture made the twcnty-thu'd' " 28Q- SOONER OR LATER. " Stop, Mr. Abbott," said Mrs. Sullage, as quietly as before. " Your intention in saying those words was to be as impertinent to me as yoi> could be." " The words are those of conveyancing, Mrs. Sullage," replied the lawyer, and he began to read again. " You had better stop, sir. Mr. Grafton is about to ask you to say that you intended no rudeness to me, and that you retract your expressions." " If Mr. Grafton should do so, madam, I should with much regret decline compliance ; and if the matter were pressed, I should beg- leave to retire." " I am Sony that my friends leave their affairs in the hands of a person who has so little discretion. It is not so long since I in- formed you, Mr. Abbott, that you were quite unqualified to advise Mr. Grafton, and you have now proved it in the presence of the family by insulting a person whose position you do not compre- hend. I repeat my desire that the insult be withdrawn." " Mr. Abbott will permit me to take it upon myself to say that none was intended," said the Kector, " and that he spoke only as a man of business, protecting, as he supposed, the interests of his clients." " That is your apology, Mr. Grafton, not mine, but if it satisfies the lady, ' This Indenture made the twenty ' " " It does not satisfy the lady," she again interrupted. " The apology must be your own." Mr. Abbott, usually so good-natured, looked round in a rage, but he caught the eye of Mrs. Grafton, who said, in a gentle voice, " Do what is asked of you." He gazed at her for a moment, and then said, gravely, " Mrs. Sullage, I retract my words, apologise for using them, and venture to hope that you accept this retractation and the apology. May I now proceed ? " " If you please. But it seems to me that you are wasting time." " May I ask how ? " " In reading those deeds, v/hich one person here will certainly not sign." " Who is that ? " " The Reverend Edward Grafton, and I believe that his signature is about the most valuable of all." " What right have you to speak for me, Mrs. Sullage, or to say in presence of my parents that I will not do what they have wished SOONER OR LATER. ^'Si and I have promised? Be good enough not to interfere on my ac- count. Mr. Abbott, if he takes my advice, will now read on without paying heed to any interruption whatever." " Have yon forgotten our conversation, alread}^ Edward ? " " I might ask 3'ou the same question. But we have really no time to throw away. Pray let matters go on. I have undertaken to sign whatever Mr. Abbott offers me." " You speak to me, I say once more, without at all understanding me." " I could make a guess," said Edward, rudely, for he was becoming ver}^ angry with this woman. " Make it," said Mrs. SuUage, gently. " You will not annoy me." " Let the conversation cease," said the Rector, but rather in a tone of entreaty than in that with which he was wont to " stint the strife." " I should like to hear Edward's guess." " Then you shall," he said, almost brutally. " I suppose that you are a lunatic, of whom for some reason, my parents have taken charge, and that your disorder assumes the form of a belief that you are a sort of superior being," " Be silent, Edward," said his father, peremptorily. " Your idea is utterly unfounded, and ought never to have been uttered." " I asked for it," said Mrs. Sullage. " Your father has now told you that you are mistaken." " I have heard him," said Edward. " In that case I see no excuse for your conduct. If you will send those deeds to my room, I will read them for myself, Mr. Abbott, and then sign them where there can be no interruption." " Sit down, dear Edward," said his mother, " and be silent." " Mother," he said, " I cannot be silent, even for your sake. I have consented to all that is asked of me ; I am ready to sign away all expectations I have in the world, and at the last moment this woman comes among us, and tells me that I shall not do so, and you all are cowed and submit to her insolence. Have I not the right to know what it means ? " " My wishes appear to go for nothing with my son," said the Rector. " I am not a child, sir, to be silenced without a reason. I do not think that you have ever found me unfilial." " You have a right to know what my influence means, Edward Grafton," said Mrs. Sullage, " but I advise you not to ask. Believe that I interfere, now, in no spirit of hostility to you. I do not wish 282 SOONER OR LATER. you to throw away your birthright. I tell you not to sign those deeds. But I will not tell you why I have a voice in this family, unless your father himself desires me to do so." " And I repeat," cried Edward, furiously, " that I will do as I please, and as I have promised, and I care nothing for this pretended mystery. Do you think that you can prevent my signing this parchment ? " " Yes, unless you are a fool." " Fool or not, my parents have my word. Mr. Abbott, give me a pen. Where should I put my name ? " " You will not sign until I have read the deeds to you, Edward. I forbear from any remark upon this extraordinary interference with business, and I ask my client what he wishes me to do." " Mrs. SuUage," said the Eector, with an effort, " will you favour me with a few minutes apart ? " " You could say nothing which I do not anticipate, and nothing which would make me change my course." The Rector looked at her almost humbly, and it might have touched a stranger to see the proud features shaping themselves into an expression of entreaty. But the sight wrought no change in Mrs. Sullage. Her strong face remained in its strength, but if there were triumph, she restrained any sign of it. She merely added — " You knew that I should do this." " I hoped that you would have seen how we were driven into a corner and distressed," he said, in a low voice. " Was that a reason for my sparing you ? " He turned from her, and said — " The business must stand over for the present, Mr. Abbott. I will talk to you presently, when we are alone, upon a modification of our present plan." "None is practicable," said Mr. Abbott, shutting up the deed which he had so often attempted to read. " And none shall be tried, by Heaven ! " exclaimed Edward Grrafton, coming forward. " I will not be j)layed with. I demand to have that deed put before me for my signature." " And if it is refused ?" asked Mrs. Sullage. " I forbid you to speak in my affairs." " And if it is refused, Edward ? " asked his mother. " Then a son who is denied the confidence of his parents, bids them farewell. I have friends in India, mother, as you know. I shall ask your leave to join them." " And mine, Edward," said his father. SOONER OR LATER. 283 " No, sir. I do not feel that you have any claim on my obedience. You do not treat me even as one friend would treat another, but you avail yourself of our relationship to exact a blind submission to your will." " Is this the language of a Christian and a clergyman ? " " Let us have no hypocrisy, sir," said Edward, now getting excited beyond measure. " Those words mean nothing between us. You know that they mean nothing. You are entirely without religion ; and whether I am so or not, you neither know nor care. Perhaps I have some convictions which you would despise, and I have not learned them in Saxbury, but they are nothing to which you can a^Dpeal. Let us be silent on that subject. I have been willing to make a sacrifice for your sake. I am forbidden to make it, and you assent to the prohibition. Henceforth I go my own way." " To say that you shock me, Edward " " Would be to say that which is false," said Mrs. Sullage. " He has told you nothing but truth. If that boy, whom we call a priest, and ai-e told to reverence and to obe}', has any religion in him, he has learned it at the knee of his mother there ; not fi-om you, who smile over the veiy periods which you work up for the display of your vanity. Have I not seen you composing sermons, Mr. Grafton ? He has told you the truth, and I thank him for it ! " " And I spm-n yom- thanks," said Edward. " My father has forced me to speak out, and I have done it. He would not understand if I were to tell him what I have endured as a member of a profession for which I had not been made fit, though I had gained a sense of its awful responsibilities. His conduct to-day has dragged this from me ; but I shall not shock him again. Mother, will you come to my room ? " The Eector arose. His proud face was flushed with anger, and his noble voice seemed to share in the revolt against his mastery. " It was reserved for my hour of worldly trial that I should be told by my son that I am [an atheist and a hypocrite, and that I have willingly perilled his soul. All that I have done for him from his birth, all the affection I have shown him, the costly education, the sacred profession, the certain preferment I have obtained for him, are all forgotten in the intoxication of a vulgar anger and a disap- pointed curiosity. Let it be so. I humbly pray to the Deity, in whose existence he asserts my disbelief, that when my son's own hour of trial shall come, and when standing on his own hearth for the last time, he shall bid farewell to the home he has loved, he may be spared the serpent-pang of insult from a child of his 284 SOONER OR LATER. The father bowed down his head, and sinking into his seat buried his face between his hands. He seemed to weep. Edward's passion had been dominated by the solemn and touching voice of that appeal, and in another moment he would have been at his father's side, when his arm was seized by Mrs. Sullage. Her strong grasp was so effectively used, that Edward could not escape her, and he turned savagely upon her. Before he could speak, she said — " Is that theatrical address powerful on you ? He gives the curse in ' Lear ' much better ; and I am sorry that he is in no humour to oblige us, though he is cursing me at this moment for what I say. Why do you struggle from me ? " " Let me go ! " said Edward, " before I forget — what I would remember." " Stay one moment. I told you that you would not sign that deed, and you have not signed it." " I would do it this moment if allowed, and then leave this house for ever ! " " Why be a fool ? In due time the Eectory will be yours, and you will marry Phoebe Bullimore, and her wealth will make you happy, though her love may not. Then you will do yourself justice, and the oratorio powers which have already come to the ear of your bishop will become famous, and the Eector of Saxbury will be honoured and envied. Why throw away your future ? " " I know not why I listen to you ! " " Because you feel that I have a right to speak." During the fierce talk between the father and the son, Mrs. Grafton had listened with a pain which found expression in her face, but which the speakers were too much enraged to notice. But Mr. Abbott's eye was upon her, and he watched the alternate flush and pallor, and once he thought that she was about to interpose between her husband and her child. Mrs. Grafton restrained herself until the former had delivered the solemn speech which Mrs. Sullage's mocking words had followed, and then Mr. Abbott silently led her from the room. Edward saw the action, and would have gone to his mother's aid, but the hand that held him laid no womanly clasp on his arm, but a grip that could be broken only by force. Mr. Abbott returned alone, as Mrs. Sullage's last words were said. " We have heard that before," said Mr. Abbott, with a sneer, as he passed to his table. He thirsted to insult this woman, but scarcely knew how to do so after what had passed. " This lawyer ! " said Mrs. Sullage, with an indescribable con- tempt. SOONER OR LATER. 2fc5 " Yes, this lawyer," echoed Mr. Abbott. " If a lady were not so terribly testy, this lawyer would like to ask her a question or two." "I am silenced by one person only, now. I Avould not have spoken before his mother." « By Mr. Grafton ? " " Yes." "Speak your worst," suddenly roared, rather than said the Eeverend Theodore Grafton. And he strode from the room, but in going out he said words which were empty air, if he had been truly charged with want of religion. " Xow, madam has no further excuse for her mystifications," said Mr. Abbott, as spitefully as he could, and it was not easy for him to be spiteful. " That was not a good exit, for a clergyman," said Mrs. Sullagc. " Listen to me, Edward, and I will tell jou what he ought to have said." " AVhatever I may think of my father's conduct," said Edward Grafton, " I do not permit others to discuss it in my presence. Perhaps, if Mr. Abbott thinks proper to inquire, on my behalf, into the position which you hold in this family, you may not object to satisfy him, Mrs. Sullage ? " " Your father's own son. Pride, arrogance, unconcern for the feelings of others. I don't know that it was worth my while to stand between you and the sacrifice you were bent upon making. Well, play out the theatricals, inaugurated by the Reverend Theo- dore Grafton. Let the lawyer ask me what he pleases." "I shall get nothing but evasions, I talce it, and some more solemn hints." " Try." " What is your hold over Mr. Grafton ? " " My knowledge of a crime." " Whose ? " *' It was shared." « What was it ? " *' A suicide." " How can a suicide be shared ? " " The Reverend Theodore Grafton loved a girl who was beneath him in social rank. He took the course usually taken by gentlemen when they form such likings, but it happened that the plebeian girl had some principles, and he failed. Being very much in earnest, he managed a mock marriage, and when he ceased to care about the girl, he managed to • let her learn those two facts. Then, her prin- 286 SOONER OR LATER. ciples not being strong enough to support her against grief and shame, she drowned herself. I have been obliged to give this long answer, because you wished to know how the crime of suicide can be shared." Mrs. Sullage told this tale without moving eye or limb. Studi- ously bare and cold as was the narrative, it was given without stern- ness. It was related — and that was all. " This may be true," said Mr. Abbott to Edward, gravely. " If it were not, should I be here ? " said Mrs, Sullage. "You are 1 do not know that you may be inclined to say more ? " hesitated Mr. Abbott. " I was her sister, and I was also the witness to the false marriage." " And were deceived, like her ? " "Not in the least. I planned it, because I hated them both. Him, because he had pretended love to me ; her for taking him from me. She died, and I had his secret. I had no revenge, or any such nonsense in my heart, but I turned my hate to account. Had I loved him, I might at some time or other have softened, and I know not what would have been the end ; but my hate was my safeguai'd, and it was as strong just now, when he finished his false harangue, and laid his head down, affecting to weep, as it was when my sister tln-ew herself into my arms, and implored pardon for loving where I had loved, and when I soothed and pardoned her, and devised the scheme that ended in a Scotch lake. I resolved that thenceforth my fortunes should be his care, and I have clung to him while his own fortune lasted. I have nearly done with him, but not quite. Am I acquitted of mystification, Mr, Abbott ? " "The worst is that I am afraid to doubt you," said Abbott. " The man you charge thus is within call, and I can witness to your having been his guest, from time to time, for years." " The tale is so base," said Edward, " that I dare not trust myself to speak of it." " Yet you have known something of base tales," said Mrs, Sul- lage, fixing her eyes upon him; " and it is said that you know how to plot them, and how to tell them. Crimson to the hair — that is well, for you may mend — I will say no more, but spare me any words of a violent kind. I have considered the story, and my own doings, in every possible light, and you can say nothing to the purpose." " Mr. Grafton maiTied, though you had this secret ? " said Mr. Abbott. " Yes. I wished it. I desired that he should have a home in which he could receive me without scandal, and I took some pains SOONEli OK LATEK. 287 to induce him to many. "When he decided to do so, I took still greater pains to ascertain the character and the fortune of the lady whom he selected. A woman who had brought him no income, or a woman of a temper like my own, who would have given me battle, and either driven me from his house or left it, Avould not have suited. Fortunately the charming lady whom he manied was rich and gentle. I have not behaved ill to your mother, Edward. I have not abused my power. I have stayed away for months, because my presence has grieved her, but it was necessary that I should preserve my position. She may even tell you that I have stood between her and a loud and tyrannical man." " She knew your story ? " " Not at first, and I take credit to myself for having told it. Her belief was, that her husband had been my lover — possibly that he had continued so after her marriage. That belief clung to her, and was destroying her, when I discovered it, and revealed all. She learned that there was no love between me and Theodore Grafton, and that Mrs. Grafton might receive me without contamination." " Receive a woman who had plotted her sister's ruin ? " said Edward, indignantly. " And my father permitted this ? " " Could he choose ? I hated — hate him, but judge him fairly. There would have been a fatal stoiy to tell against the Rector of Saxbury, and I need not say to you that when I laid out my plot, I laid it surely and clearly, and had my proofs well thought over. I say this because I see that Mr. Abbott is already considering whether he cannot blow away all, and set his client free. Let him try." " Mrs. Sullage," said Mr. Abbott, " you have a right to be bitter, but I was not on that train of thought. Perhaps I was on one that might not displease you." " I understand." " Then be silent," said Abbott, with a glance at Edward. There needs no mystery here. Mrs. Sullage had seen that Abbott had a brother's love — it might be another, but he had never breathed it — for the suffering mother of Edward, and amid all this revelation he felt a gratitude to the woman who, as she said, had not entirely abused her power of evil. " I have heard all that I need hear," said Edward Grafton. " Why have you hindered our work to-day ? " " For your mother's sake, Edward." '' Hers ? " " Yes. I am a better friend to her than her husband's lawyer, ■with all his professions of regard. This money would have been raised and squandered, and where would your mother have been, 28S SOONER OR LATER. wlierc would have been her home ? Si.gn no deed giving up your rights, and when that bad, noisy, cruel man sliall be gone to his ac- count, you will have a home for your mother in the Rectory where you were bom, and where she brought you up with a lovingness that I never could comprehend. How could a woman love the child of Tlieodore Grafton ? " " I assume that the name you bear -," began Mr. Abbott. " Yes, I supposed that question Avould follow my last words. I have had no child, and therefore I do not comprehend ? Have I been married ? you would ash. Yes, I married, and I am a widow. I have a right to the name of Sullage." " What is more to the purpose," said Edward, who was hurt by the civihty, almost tenderness, which Mr. Abbott was now displaying towards the woman before them — " what is more to the purpose is the question what you intend doing now, Mrs. Sullage. Taking your dreadful story to be true (and the most dreadful part of it, though I don't expect you to see that, is your haunting my mother's home like a vampire,) I want to know what more injury you wish to do ns ? My father is ruined, and I conclude that your exactions have much tended to ruin him — he can keep no home in which you would care to dwell, and I do not see what you can gain by continuing to persecute him. If we can raise a sum of money to buy you off for ever, what sum will satisfy you ? " " You are practical, Edward, and talk as if you were already seated on the money-bags of Miss Phoebe. You seem bent on making me your enemy, but you shall not succeed." " What else can I be but the enemy of my mother's enemy? " said Edward. " But my father is the great wrong-doer in that matter; for all the rest I forgive him, but not for that," " Not for what ? " " For permitting you to haunt my mother with your cursed presence." " Again I say, how could he have sent me away ? " " By God," said Edward, with unbridled fury, " sooner than you should have tortured my mother, you should have followed 3'our sister." And he rushed from the room. "He has spirit," said Mrs. Sullage, looking after him with no unkindlv glance. CHAPTER XXXI. A QUOTATION WANTED. The Saturday came, and by the first post, whose message so often makes or mars the day's comfort, came to Mr. Farquhar a few words from Mr. Dudley, peremptorily reminding the former of the appoint- ment at half-past eleven. He needed no such hint, for the thought of the interview that was proposed had been too potent even for the narcotic which kind Mrs. Faunt had suggested and administered, and Farquhar, after a wretched night, arose weary, nervous, cowardly. Kind Mrs. Faunt, now thoroughly apprised of every detail in the business, had done her best to arm him for the day's work. She had bid him be bold and firm, and remember that he was a gentleman, and a lawyer, and neither of the two men he was going to meet was anjiihing more ; and as for Dudley, he would be on his best beha- viom- in their presence, and Farquhar was to treat him as what he was, a small apothecary who lived in a mean street, aiid who was hungi-y for money. All this it was easy to say, but it did not do much towards creating a valiant spirit in the bosom of Mr. Farquhar, who was perhaps more invigorated by Mrs. Faunt's bidding him consider that he was really at work for his own good, and that she had some influence with Dudley, and would do her best to make him. perform his promise to deliver Mr. Farquhar from his necessities. She was very urgent indeed that nothing should prevent him from keeping the appointment that had been made for him. At first she had not laid mucli stress upon his doing it ; but two evenings before,, after his return from a long walk to which she had almost driven him as a means of regaining health, Mrs. Faunt came in, and was exceedingly earnest that he should go. She had not seen Mr. Dudley, she said, which was true, but she had been considering the subject very much, and she was certain, knowing the world and its evil ways pretty well, that he would do himself much good by attending. And she had not ceased to impress this upon him until she had obtained his solemn promise to go. Whence it may be inferred that kind Mrs. Faunt had obtained some new lights. VOL. n. V 290 gOONER OK LATER. He was punctual, and was well received by Dudley, who had made himself look extremely professional. Why he had taken this unusual trouble it was hard to say, for the opinion which Mr. Haslop and Mr. Serjeant Penguin entertained of him was not likely to be altered by his wearing a frock-coat and a white cravat instead of a shooting- jacket and a slangy tie ; but we are all liable to do things which we cannot explain. It may be, however, that Mr. Dudley, who intended to be more or less respectable in the future, thought that now he saw his way to that end he might as well begin to rehearse his novel character. " Admiring the toilet I have made, George ? " "No, it does not suit you," said Farquhar, who felt that to-day he might say what he pleased, and that his friend could not afford to annoy him. " What do you mean by that ? " demanded Dudley. " A most ' gentlemanly costume, Mr. Farquhar, I'm sure." " The clothes are right enough, but they don't suit you, I tell you. If I believed in omens, I should say that you were going to have bad luck. You look like it, somehow ! " Mr. Dudley's reply was not complimentary, but he restrained the anger he felt, and, curiously for a strong-minded and unscrupulous man, he felt a good deal. A weak, silly remark, by a weak, silly fellow. No doubt that Mr. Dudley did not like it, and wished that it had not been made. After a minute or two he said — *' Omens be hanged ! But you are just wrong, and it shows how ignorant you are of your classics. The Greeks believed that any unusual splendour in a house was a sign of good luck ; and I am unusually splendid. Now then." " Dwells in j^our mind — what I said does," said Farquhar. " By Jove ! I say, I would put this business off, if I wore you. I'm sure you are not up to the work you've got to do." " We shall see, George, we shall see." But he did not altogether disdain the suggestion, and ministered to his friend and to himself a cunningly compounded stimulant much in vogue with persons who hold the ancient Thracian persuasion that long life is not a thing to pray for. They walked round to Serjeant Penguin's chambers, and as they went in Dudley said, pressing close to Farquhar — " Be bold, and I am your friend for life ! I swear it, George." And there was something almost pathetic in the earnestness with which the man who had never before had a good chance in the world looked at his companion, and begged him, as it were, to help him to secure this one game. Dudley's lips actually quivered as he bOOXER OR LATER. 291 entered, and he laid his hand with a kindly gesture on the ar;n of Farqnhar. Serjeant Penguin was ready for them^-he was never late — and he received them with something quite like a welcome. Dudley was rather pleased at this, but Farquhar remembered the exceeding gushingness with which he had been treated by the learned Serjeant until the latter had got him into his power, and also what had followed, and Penguin's pleasant words made him shudder. Farquhar was a mean person, and therefore thought of mean similes, and he remembered that when the honey-pot was taken down, in his youth, it was that his mother might mix in a spoonful of its contents a powder that grated on his teeth, and nauseated his soul. What could be hoped for from a man who could bring that childish thought into grave business ? If Dudley could have known it, he would certainly have dragged him from the presence. "Well, Mr. Farquhar," said the Serjeant, "Mr. Dudley knows what passed between us, and the counsel I took the liberty of giving you. He is naturally A^ery angry with me, but that I must endeavour to survive," he said, laughing good-naturedly. " You have not found yourself at liberty to follow my advice, and that is a matter for your- self There is nothing in what then occurred to disturb our proceed- ings to-day, and we shall go on as if yoQ" and I were total strangers — as we shall probably be for the future," he added, in a tone that Farquhar could not mistake. " Probably," spoke up Mr. Dudley, " until my friend Mr. Farquhar is a thriving solicitor, and lias briefs to bestow ; and then, I dare say, Mr. Serjeant Penguin will be very happy to know him." "0, you are thinking of criminal practice, are you?" said the Serjeant. " I fancied your employers considered that low ; but pos- sibly you may act wisely. ' He that is down need fear no fall ;' you remember the quotation, I make no doubt. Horsham," he called. " Sir." *' Let Mr. Haslop know that I am ready for him." *' He will not be many minutes, Mr. Dudle)\ By the wa}^ this is a business meeting, and you are a man of the world. You will not expect time to be wasted on amenities." " You mean that Mr. Haslop was very insolent to me when we parted, and that he does not intend to apologise ? " " Well, if you ask me," said the Serjeant, putting up the gold eye- glass, and looking at Dudley with an expression of considerable humour ; "if, I say, you drive me into a corner and press that ques- tion, I don't know that I see my way to a negative answer, ha ! ha ! But he might have been going to apologise at the time," lie added, r 2 292 SOONER OR LATER. slily, " only you were in such a precious hurry to get away — to your patients, of course — that you gave him no chance. You should have seen your friend bolt," he said, turning to Farquhar, as if it were a joke that must delight his heart ; " and only because Mr, Haslop, who is usually as meek as Moses, raised his voice a little." At another time this anecdote might have amused Farquhar, but he was then in so bad a way that he could not be amused, even at the expense of his best friend. " Mr. Haslop seemed excited," said Dudley, exercising self-mastery the more that he saw the Serjeant's intention to irritate him ; " and as excitement is not business, I went away. I have no wish to exchange a word with him that is not business." This was as well, for Mr. Haslop, coming in, shook hands with Penguin, and took a chair at his right hand, and as far away from the others, whom the Serjeant had contrived to seat with the light on their faces. Haslop took no notice of Dudley, but looked with a little curiosity and a little compassion at the younger man. " Very well," said Penguin ; " and now, Horsham," he added to his clerk, "I must not be disturbed. Bring me neither letter nor message while these gentlemen are here." The clerk having withdrawn, the Serjeant said — " We all understand each other so well that we may get at busi- ness without preliminaries. And there need be no picking and choosing of language, because there is but one way in which the transaction can be regarded. Mr. Dudley thinks that he can prove the truth of a story which he also thinks that somebody whom we represent may be willing to hush up at a certain price. He has made his demand to us, and he has delivered in his story elsewhere, a piece of conduct on which it is not needful to say anything now, though a good deal may be said, or done perhaps, hereafter, in con- sequence. He having pressed for a reply, we have met him to-day, and he has at our request brought his witness with him. I understand him to tender this witness for examination by ourselves." " Mr. Farquhar will be good enough to answer fair questions, I am sure," said Mr. Dudley. " I am not likely to ask him unfair, questions, Mr. Dudley, but I must decline to accept your judgment on their fairness. Let us have no mistake. You are attempting an extortion. Well, if your attempt is based on truth, we shall know what to say to you. At present, I tell you frankly, as I have told you privately, that you have got hold of something that may be true, and that you have tagged to it a lot that isn't. I said I should speak out." SOONER OR LATER. 293 " And I suppose that I may speak out with the same frankness, Serjeant Penguin ? " " By all means." " Then I believe, sir, that one or other of you gentlemen has now in his pocket a letter which tells you the story is true, and that the letter is written by the person who best knows the truth. And I believe, next, that you have authority to make a bargain with me, and that you want to cross-question my fi-iend here in the hope of finding flaws in the statement, and so working on me to take less than I have asked. Xow it will save time and trouble if I tell you that I will not, under any circumstances that can happen. And so cross-question away." " AVithout replying at present to what you have said, Mr. Dudley, I have to ask your friend to take that book in his right hand." Penguin pointed to a Testament which he had boiTowed of his laundress. " I shall not, sir. What right have you to ask me to swear ? " said Farquhar, gi-owing whiter than usual. " None whatever, and the proceeding is perfectly irregular. But as you have come here to serve your fi-iend, and as neither Mr. Haslop nor myself place the least reliance on your word, I point out to you the only means by which you can do him any service." " I shall not take an oath." " Your discretion is commendable." " It is not that," said Farquhar. " I have stated nothing that is not true, and I refuse to be treated as unworthy of belief." " But you are, my dear fellow," said the Serjeant, almost affec- tionately. •' You must see that. I don't believe a word, as yet, of what you have stated ; and if Mr. Dudley expects to gain what he wants by the production of a witness like yourself, I fear he will be disappointed. Have you conscientious objections to an oath ? " " No." " 0, that is well. I should of course respect a conscience that was said to be tender, though it might seem to me rather tough. Well, Mr. Dudley, what say you ? It is your friend who is hinder- ing your business. AVould you like to take him into the next room, and persuade him that having gone into this transaction he had better go through with it ? " " Tell the miserable young fellow," said Haslop to Penguin, half aloud, " that he need fear no indictment for perjury — perhaps that dread is muddling his ignorant head." He spoke as not caring whether Farquliar heard him or not. 294 SOONER OR LATER. Penguin explained to the latter that he was in no danger of the penalty mentioned. " I know that as well as you do," said Mr. Farquhar. " Then I really cannot see why you hinder business, and I leave yon to your friend. A word with you, Haslop." They withdrew to the other end of the room, and Penguin said in Haslop's ear : " Afraid of the oath. I told you he was a weak beast. But I'll bet you a guinea the doctor makes him swallow the pill." " I would be no party to this work," said Haslop, " but that I believe the young fellow has a sort of conscience, and is afraid to peril his soul." *' He has got no soul, I assure you," said Penguin, as earnestly as if he knew. Meantime Dudley, as soon as the others' backs were turned, had said to Farquhar something, coupled with a ferocious oath. Some- thing that enabled Mr. Dudley to say, when Penguin looked round, " I have removed Mr. Farquhar's scruple. It did him honour, however." " That's lucky," said Serjeant Penguin, " for he has not been doing himself much lately. Then be good enough to take the book, George Farquhar." And then Serjeant Penguin, who never could forget that he had been an actor, made a good point. Instead of swearing the witness in the off-hand way of the English courts. Penguin adopted the custom of Scotland, which is calculated to impress the only class who need an oath to keep them to the truth. Suddenly rising, he held up his right arm towards Heaven, as is the manner with the Scottish judge, and thundered upon Farquhar an adjuration of tre- mendous solemnity, and new to his ear. Farquhar kissed the book, in much agitation. " And now, Farquliar," said Penguin, sitting down and taking up the statement of what the witness had seen done in Yaughan's chambers. " A word," said Mr. Hasloj), earnestly, almost kindly. " Remem- ber, young man, that your soul is now in your own hand." " These Catholics are dreadfully superstitious," muttered Penguin to himself. " Did not I tell him the fellow had no soul ? " " That warning is most insulting," said Mr. Dudley. " Do not fear my addressing such a one to you" was the reply. " It would be untrue." "Well, never mind about that," said Serjeant Penguin, who thought his friend's theology quite irrelevant, and who was pre- SOONER on LATER. 5i95 paring, -with some gusto, to make Farquhar perjure himself with the utmost expedition; " never mind about that, Mr. Farquhar, you will understand me when I say that I have reason to know that there is one — inaccuracy in this statement." He looked hard at George, who reddened this time. " Take it in your hand, and, if you please, correct that inaccuracy for us, as I have no desire to come upon you by surprise, or to hurry you into swearing to an untruth." " Do you know what he means ? " asked Dudley, savagely. " I may guess at it," replied Farquhar. " Yes, I think I do." " I know you do," said Penguin. " Ha ! " said Dudley. " I see. A bit more of the fair play I was promised. You began your questioning the other day when you meanly took this young fellow out with you, did you, Mr. Serjeant Penguin ? And you got something out of him that seems to contra- dict his written words ? " " Ask your friend, sir, whether any question of mine led to any knowledge of what I am now adverting to." " iSTo," said Dudley, " T shan't ask him that, but I shall ask him to recollect that upon his own words, spoken to me, I have acted, and I shall tell him that he had better not have been born than have led me astray." The ferocity with which this was said can hardly be described. It was partly real, partly assumed. " To frighten j^our own witness is usually considered a mistake, Mr. Dudley; but please yourself," said Penguin. " You know how much fi-ightening he wants. We are in no hurry." " There is a slight mistake in a word, here," said Farquhar. " Where ? " said the Serjeant, quickly, rising to see whether the witness's lingers were on the word in question. Dudley was as quick, and snatched away the paper, which he then handed, coolly, to the Serjeant. " Nowhere," said Mr. Dudley. " That is Mr. Farquhar's state- ment." " Well done," said the Serjeant, admiringly. " You are a smart man, Mr. Dudley. But this difference of opinion between your friend and yourself calls for an explanation. Does he wish me to call for it more distinctly ? " " Will you let it stand for tlie present ? " said George, so helplessly that even the Serjeant felt a little pity for him, and as he privately «aid, postponed the scrunching him for a little longer. " Very well, Mr. Farquliar, very well. All we want is the truth, you know, and after the terrible oath you have taken, I am glad to see that all you want is to tell us the truth. Now let us begin at 21; 6 SOONER OR LATER. the beginning, because that's the wo}- the world was made, and we can't hope to better such an example as that. You are an articled clerk to the highly respectable firm of Sladdery, Brawn, and Gribble ? " " I am." " It is a very good house, -where the best kind of practice is seen, and they would of course have a premium with you. May I ask who paid it and the stamp duty on your articles ? " " My father." " He is a man of property ? " *' Yes." y Are you on good terms with him ? " " He lives in the country, and therefore I seldom see him." " That is hardly an answer; but tell me this. Is he aware that you are assisting Mr. Dudley with your evidence in this matter ? " " No, he is not." " You think that he is not, at all events," said Penguin. " You would be surprised, now, if you found that it had come to his ears — and — " he paused, and affected to be looking and feeling about for some paper bearing on the question. •' Good Heaven ! " said Haslop. " Yes, what makes you say that ? " said Penguin. " Give him some water." Penguin looked up from the pretended search, and saw in Far- quhar's face such an expression of terror and distress as even the Serjeant had not often observed on the face of a witness, large as had been his experience in torture. As Haslop spoke, Dudley rose, took the young man's hand, and whispered to him. The words were no menace, now, and they seemed to re-assure Farquhar a little. He actually clung to the hand of Dudley, and " Do you think so ? " he said in a low voice. " Safe, safe. Go through with it — it is all trick," whispered Dudley. " Mr. Farquhar has been very unwell, of late," he added, " and I think that as much consideration as possible ought to be given to that fact, Serjeant Penguin." " Ah ! " said the Serjeant. " Talking of consideration, I suppose, Mr, Farquhar, that you hope to have something handsome for your share in this ugly business ? " " I have said in that statement that I have nothing to gain or lose by it," returned Farquhar. "You make a mistake in one of those particulars, I imagine, but that is your affair. And now, Mr. Farquhar, I am going to ask you SOONER OK LATEK. 297 a question on wliich I think, and my friend Sir. Haslop thinks, that our decision is very likely to turn. You state yourself to be ac- quainted with Mrs. Dormer, that is, to have knowii her when she Avas iliss Conway, and that you made her acquaintance at Mr. Justice Trailbaston's. How often in your life have you seen that lady ? " " Mr. Serjeant Penguin — " Farquhar began. " Pardon me if I say that you will serve your friend best by answering questions instead of making speeches." " I beg leave to say, however, that I protest against your intro- ducing here the sort of cross-examination which is very useful and proper in a criminal court. You are about to ask me how often — if I answer that I cannot tell the exact number, you will ask me whether I can swear that it has not been twenty times — ten times — five times, and so on ; and I tell you at once that I object to being treated in that manner." " I am answered by your protest." " That I do not see," said Mr. Dudley. " Mr. Farquhar, as a gentleman, naturally claims to be treated as a gentleman." '• Rubbish," snarled Mr. Haslop. " Yes, it is rubbish," said Serjeant Penguin, " considering all tilings. But it is for these gentlemen " — and he laid stress on the word — " to settle between themselves whether I am to get the answer I want, or whether I have to wish them a good morning, and beg them to take any future course they please, except coming to me." Mr. Dudley felt that there was a screw loose somewhere, and he would have given much to have had Farquhar with him alone, for a moment, in order to fix the place. He was certain that the young man had talked to Pengniin, during that drive, in a way that had given the latter a certain advantage, and Dudley suspected what it Avas. But there could be no withdrawing now, and there was no time to be lost. Mr. Dudley met the situation well. "■ You are quite right," he said, turning to his friend, and looking him full in the face, " to refuse to be cross-questioned oftensively, and I honour you for your spirit. But to oblige me, you will, I am sure, not hesitate to give Mr. Serjeant Penguin the answer which you remember that you gave me when I asked you something of the same kind. You then considered well, and told me that you could speak positively to having seen that lady five times, and you believed that it was six, but were not sure. That statement which you made to me, you will, I am certain, do me the favour to repeat to Mr. Serjeant Penguin." " I can have no objection to your dignity beiug saved in that way, Mr. Farquhar, if you like." 298 SOONER OR LATER. Farquhar bowed slightly. Did he think that the Serjeant, whose hot pincers had closed upon his flesh, was about to let him go ? " Five times, possibly six," said the Serjeant. " Well, that is, of course, sufficient to justify one in believing that you could be making no mistake as to the person. You tliink that, Mr. Haslop, do you not ? '' " He should have known her, certainly." " Certainly, and that is the principal matter, for that being granted, and what follows, the real case is complete. I do not disguise from Mr. Dudley that I think very little of his murdered tiler. Do you adhere to that story, Mr. Dudley ? " " Had you not better finish with one witness before you begin with another ? " It was a rash repl}^ but it mattered little, it was only accelerating matters. " Veiy true, Mr. Dudley, and very sensible. Then we will finish with this first witness. I have only one thing to ask. You have made a statement for him, which he appeared to approve ; at all events he bowed in a manner which shows that he is quite fit to mingle in distinguished society at Mr. Justice Trailbaston's or else- where. But business is business, and I will just, for form's sake, ask him whether, on his oath, of course, he confirms the statement you have made. Mr. Farquhar, you swear that you have seen Miss Conway, or Mrs. Dormer, five or six times ? " Penguin gazed at him mercilessly. Haslop gazed at him pityingly. But Dudley's gaze was that of a man who sees a coveted object in danger of being lost to him by the cowardice of another. " Speak out, man," he said, hoarsely. Before Mr. Farquhar, who was trembling with agitation, could reply, Mr. Horsham, the clerk, entered. " I thought I said I was not to be disturbed," said Penguin, angrily. "• You ? no, sir," said the clerk, who knew exactly how impertinent he might be, " but it was this gentleman I was to disturb for a moment." He placed a small piece of paper in the hand of Farquhar. The latter read it once, without taking in the meaning of the words on it. Then he recognised the handwi'iting, and read it again. And then he sat back in his chair, drew a long breath, and smiled. It was a long time since a smile had been seen on the face of George Farquhar. And when it shall be known what were the words which he read, it may be thought that such should not have been the exact eifect of the message. SOONER OR LATER. 299 The words were in his mother's handwriting, and they told him that his father was dead. " Any answer, sir ? " asked Horsham. " Answer," said Farquhar, " why — who brought it ? " " A female that you saw last night, that was her word." " And whom I will sec now," said Mr. Dudley, suddenly fired with a suspicion, and rushing into the clerk's room. Where, however, he found nobody. " Wliere's the woman who brought that ? " he asked furiously of the clerk, who followed him. " Indeed, Mr. Dudley," said Mr. Horsham, ^ith the most irritating politeness, "you have asked a question which I cannot answer, the pereon being gone." " Then why the devil did you ask fur an answer ? " " Because, Mr. Dudley, I was requested so to do." And Mr. Horsham put his hands into his pockets, looked well over j\Ir. Dudley from head to foot, and remarked that the day was rather cool. "Now, Farquhar," said Mr. Dudley, sternly, as he resumed his chair, " let us finish this business." " It is finished, as far as Mi: Farquhar is concerned, I am happy to say," said Serjeant Penguin. " Ho ! He has answered your question. That is well." "It is well for him, at all events," said Penguin ; "for though, as we assured him, there would be no legal ill consequences of his stating what was untrue, there is such a thing as conscience. Mr. Farquhar informs us that he declines to say one single word more. Which means, of course, that his regard for yourself will not cany him so far as perjuiy." " You have been humbugging him," cried Dudley, " and offering him money to throw me over. Is that it, gentlemen ? Is that it ? you shivering, shaking coward," he added, turning savagely on Farquhar. " I am not shivering or shaking, and you will not see me play the coward again, Mr. Dudley." " What do 3'ou mean by denying your own words, your owti writing ? Ai-e you going mad ? Do you recollect your position with me ? " " I recollect what it was. It has ceased. We have no further connexion. Make out your own case with these gentlemen. You will have no further help from me." " We shall see that." " Menace is misplaced, Mr. Dudley," said Serjeant Penguin. SOO SOONER OE LATEK. *' Allow me to assure you that I am as unaware as you are of the circumstances that have led your only witness to withdraw himself, but if it is to his credit that he declines to lend himself to a plot which has already done fearful mischief, and which will be fearftilly punished, it is for you to consider whether, your sole witness having broken down, it is worth your while to detain us longer over the matter. Will you like to retire and reflect ? " " Yes. Farquhar, come with me." " Pardon me, but I have something to say to Mr. Farquhar. He will be good enough to remain with me. And you have his final answer, therefore he can be of no use in assisting you to a decision." " What, daren't you come out and speak to me ?" said Dudley, with fierce scorn, Atj this moment Serjeant Penguin rose, and without any afiec- tation of disguising his intention to protect Farquhar, placed him- self between the latter and Dudley. Then he said, almost kindly, " I told you that you were playing this game all wrong, with your murder and bosh. You see, my good fellow, that it has gone to pieces. Speaking as man to man, I am rather sorry, but it serves you right for such infernal bungling." The Serjeant was a big and a strong man, and on his guard, but Dudley's intense inclination for violence Avas such that he could not avoid endeavouring to get round the other with a view to visit his rage on Farquhar. But Penguin pressed up to him in that kindly manner Avhich he sometimes put on lor the purpose of being more impressive with a disagreeable thing, and fairly shouldered him, but gently, from the room, assuring him all the time that he, Penguin, was really sorry to see a clever and a bold man fail in a scheme on which he had set his heart. " Don't push me into the street," said Dudley, humbly enough, for he was mastered and beaten, and the physical process of being thus ejected brought the fact coarsely and plainly to his mind. " I never thought of such a thing, my good fellow. Only you seemed angry, and I felt it was rather doing you a service to remove you fi-om the temptation of showing your anger in a way you would be sorry for." " That cub has sold me." " Not to us, I give you my honour. Not to speak offensively, you, — by which I mean your story, — are not worth buying." " But it is true." Dudley's tone in saying this was — though he confirmed liis words by an emphatic oath — almost piteous. SOONER OR LATER. ^01 " There's something in it," said the Serjeant. " I all along told you that, but what that is you do not know and cannot discover. There's a statue in every block of marble, but it wants the sculptor to get it out. And, if you'll excuse a joke, you've tried to chisel, and failed. Ha ! ha ! Xever mind. We all have our failures, and as Chaucer says, ' the wrastling of this world asketh a fall.' " " You are a hard fellow to gibe at a man who has had a fall like mine," said Dudley. " But I have not done with you yet, or with Mr. Dormer, or with that lily-livered scoundrel in there. You may have to give me my money, yet." " But for boring you by saying the same thing twice, Dudley," said the Serjeant, calmly, " I would again fix the date for the day those rooks turn white." " You will see." Mr. Dudley left the chambers into which he had entered full of hope that his game was won. But he would not now believe it lost. " Who brought that note, Horsham ? " said the Serjeant, smiling. " An oldish female, sir." " Had she been here any time when she sent you in with the paper ? " " Yes, sir," said the clerk, meaningly. " But I take it for granted, Horsham, that she heard nothing of what was being said in that room ? " " She heard nothing, sir." " The note was particularly well-timed, Horsham. Particularly^ Horsham. We'll speak of this by-and-by," said the Serjeant, entering the room where Haslop and Farquhar had remained. " Now, Mr. Farquhar, you are absolved from your oath," said Penguin. And by way of completely releasing the other from his theological duty to speak the truth. Penguin took up the Testament, and gravely put it outside the room. Then he said, " The decision you arrived at was a right one, and we both rejoice at it ; but I may suppose that the message that was brought to you had more to do with the matter than you care to tell us ? " " I should equally have refused to state an untruth," said Farquhar, " whether the message had come or not." " Of that I am sure," said the Serjeant, restraining an inclination to wink at the speaker, by way of lending weight to assurance of belief. " But the message tells me that what gave Dudley a hold over me is at an end. I came here from a sick bed to serve him. I would not walk across the room at his bidding, now." *' I imagine that you had better be out of his way, however, for a 302 SOONER OR LATER. time," said Mr. Haslop, looking at the young man with a compas- sionate interest — hoAv much or little it was deserved Mr. Haslop did not know, " I'm not afraid of him," said Farquhar. " Of course not," said Penguin. " I know your moral and physical courage," he added, with a smile. He was quite incapable of appreciating Haslop's gentleness. " You do not know why I was in Dudley's hands ? " said Farquhar, with some dignity. " No. But I advise you to keep out of them. I don't mean out of the way of his wrath, though that seems rather hot against you, but apart from him, because he might try some sophistical arguments to bring you back to his own purposes." " Nothing in this world should induce me to assist hun again." " Then," said Haslop, kindly, " my dear j'oung fellow, do forgive a man much older than yourself for asking you how in the name of all that is devilish you could ever have been betrayed into lending yourself to this fearful and false charge against an excellent lady ? " He held up the written statement as he spoke. "Mr. Haslop," said Farquhar, solemnly, "the business is over, and never one word will be heard from me again about it. But I tell you, as I told Mr. Serjeant Penguin, that with one exception every word in that document is as true as the book he has just put out of the room. If it were my last word in the world, I would repeat that." " And may I ask the exception ? " " I am made — I may well say made — to declare that I had seen that lady frequently. I have seen her but three times in my life." " Three times. You have seen her three times, then ?" said Haslop. " Yes, on my oath." " I should be glad to have some quiet talk with you, Mr. F^ar- quhar," said Mr. Haslop. " If you will go dovm with me to Surbiton this afternoou, and stay the Sunday with me, I shall be very glad." " It is very kind to ask me. But I have heard some news which makes it impossible for me to leave town ; at least I think so." " If it prove otherwise, meet me at the station in time for the five o'clock train." " I am much obliged. In any case I thank you, Mr. Haslop, for having seen that I was the victim of circumstances, and for having made allowance for me. Mr. Serjeant Penguin, good morning." "A discriminating exit" said Penguin, laughing, as Farquhar withdrew. " Victory all along the line. General Haslop." SOONER OK LATER. SOJi " "We repulse that rascal Dudley. But what do you say to this man's renewed and solemn affirmation, when nothing is to be gained by it ? " " It is enough for me to say that I believe the fellow to be weak and base and cunning, and he may hope that we shall do something for him, though he cannot extort it." *' That's not all you mean." " The rest is of no consequence, my dear Haslop. When we have quite demolished Mr. Dudley, we may leave off work. What needs the bridge much broader than the flood ? " "When we have demolished Mr. Dudley, we have his story to demolish." " Let well alone." " Yes," said Haslop, " but it is not well while two shreds of that lie hang together. I am thinking of JIagdalen Dormer, my dear Penguin. We have done nothing yet." " What made you ask that young cad to Surbiton ? I have a great mind to quarrel with you about it. You never ask me. Yet I flatter myself, though the young ladies do not adore me, that I should be a better Sunday companion than that fellow." " I am a bachelor, just now. You shall come when I can give you a chance of rehabilitating yourself," said Haslop, smiling. " I asked him because I want to see whether he is entirely the wretched castaway you think him. If not, something may be done for him." "A^liat ! After joining in a plot against your friends, a plot too that only a lucky accident made him abandon." " If I convince myself that he is penitent, I have a duty even to him," said Haslop, smiling again. " The superstition of you blinded Papists," said Penguin, laugh- ing joUily, "is beyond everything in the world. I had made up my mind to say that which should have effectually prevented his name from adorning the rolls." '•' And so have driven him from bad to worse, and perhaps have had, yourself, to ask a jury to complete his history. Will you please to spare him, for my sake, at all events for the present ? " " Of course. But," said Penguin, almost rudely, " suppose that this plot, in which he was part, should kill poor dear Mrs. Dormer. Then will you persist in mercy to the scoundrel ? " " I dare not say that I will," said Haslop, with emotion ; " but even then it will be my duty to try." " Nonsense, Haslop ; no society can go on where such fanaticism — I beg your pardon — is tolerated." 304. SOONER OR LATER. " A society, called the Church, teaches me differently. Good-bye. I shall soon want yon again, I hope." " Bother his church," said Serjeant Penguin. " The man is as mad as Hamlet, or a hare in March. But I think I will go and telegraph to Ernest Dormer that the case has broken down. He will be the best judge, by this time, I suspect, whether it is worth while to follow it up any further. I would give something to know what Mrs. Dormer has made of it for him. Luckily she had plenty of time to consider how she should put it. I must take care to say nothing in my message that can possibly clash with my lady's own tale. We must consider how to phrase it, so as to caiTy comfort to him, save her credit, and baffle the clown at the Naybury station. A good quotation would do it, but the confounded fellows who in- vented the stufp for quotations never had a husband, and a wife, and a telegraph clerk to deal with at once. Billy the Swan, come to mine aid. You quarrelled with your wife, at all events, and I dare say lago on wives praised the exact merits not found in Mistress Anne Shakspeare, Let's have a hunt." Serjeant Penguin had no occasion to ask his laundress for a Sliakspeare. CHAPTER XXXII. SOME FEMININE ETHICS. As Mr. Bcccles had foretold, the return of Ernest Dormer at once worked well for Magdalen. Her recovery from the species of trance into which she had been thrown was followed by a condition of great physical weakness, but her mind became calm after the first agitation of joy had subsided, and the doctor gladly claimed her once more as a patient with whom he must be permitted to deal in his own way, and with absolute power. Ernest felt that he had much to say, and was restless under the doctor's prohibition against any excitement being caused to Magdalen. ]\Iagdalen had no desire to speak. Her happiness was to lie quietly gazing on him, and holding his hand. Sometimes she fell into a light sleep, and Ernest, watching her, saw the little puzzled frown come faintly on the pale brow, fol- lowed by a faint moonlight smile, and then she awoke without a start, and smiled again, but consciously, on her husband. Very few words passed her lips, but one thing she repeated daily — nightly — in a whisper. " You are home." Several days passed, and Magdalen grew visibly stronger, and was allowed to speak a little on the incidents of the day, and gradually to converse more freely. It was on the seventh evening from that on which Ernest had left London, that he was seated by his wife, and they were watching a sun-set of rare beauty, when Magdalen suddenly said, " I know you wish to talk to me, love, but there is nothing that you need tell me." " Indeed I do, but Beccles forbids, and he must be obeyed," said Ernest, pressing her hand to his lips. " So not a word, yet, dearest." " Yes, one. May I ask you a question ? " '• ]\tay you ? " VOL. II. X 306 SOONER Oil LATER. "I know I may. Answer it truthfully, dear — I mean do not conceal anything because I am weak. I shall be the stronger for your telling me." " T will tell you," said Ernest. He thought that she was going to question him on the letter from Walter Latrobe. " Dear — the story about me. Has it been cleared up ? " " My own Magdalen " " I am your own Magdalen, darling. But answer that in one word." "No. But " " Not another word. Ob, I am so happy ! So happy. Kiss me. Do you want to be told why, my love ? The story is not cleared up, and yet you are here. Oh, you do love me, Ernest, you do, you do. And I am so happy. We will speak no more about anything that has gone by. Perhaps, yes, when I am very well and strong, and we are in the Highlands again. But no more now. Only help me to get well, by staying near me, and being very kind. But that you always are." " No, I have not been kind," said Ernest, " and yet I have not meant to be unkind. I must tell you many things, but I dare not yet." " I will hear nothing. You are here, and that is all. And you have been ill too, I have seen it in your face, and you have been sorrowful. Not so sorrowful since you came home, though, for you felt that I must get well. I could not have died, Ernest, without seeing you again, and telling you that I blessed you for making me so happy in our other days. At least I do not think I could, but if it had pleased God to take me, that would have been the message mamma would have had to give you, when you came to kiss me for the last time. I know you would have kissed me in my coffin, even if we had not spoken again. Ah, I will not look at you," she said, embracing him, " for I know I have made you cry, and I did not mean it. There is nothing to cry for now, love. We are together again, and I am getting well." " The greatest care, of course the greatest care," answered Mr. Beccles, rather impatiently, in the library. " But Dormer is the best assistant I ever had, and I can go away with confidence. While the air is warm, let her have as much of it as can come in, and perhaps it may not be very long before we take her into it. But above all things, no hurrj-." " He is right," said Mr. Conway. " You feel that, Ernest ? " SOONER OR LATER. 307 " Assuredly. I think I see why you ask me." " And papa need not have asked you, Ernest dear," said Mrs. Conway. " We understand one another," replied Ernest. " Magdalen has laid her finger on my lips, and has utterly forbidden a word until she is restored to strength. But she declares, dear child, that she is happy. What shall I say to you ? There has been a strange agency at work, and it is not yet crushed." " Ernest, you have given us back our child, and we give you back our love," said Mr. Conway. " It was never taken away," sobbed Mrs. Conway. " I will not say that," said her husband, gravely. " Had Mag- dalen — had the heaviest blow come, we should have met Ernest once more in this world, and only once. I do not affect to make light of what has happened. We have been very near a great misery. As to what produced it, I am quite content to wait Ernest's time for explanation, and if it never comes, I shall not care for it while Magdalen is satisfied." " Do not speak in that tone, William." " Does Ernest find anything to complain of ? " " Xo. It would be strange indeed if you accepted my return as a full reparation for what has passed. And if I ask you to bear with me for a few days, it is only that I may be able, when I tell you the story, to tell it to the very end. It was only, Mr. Conway, my desire to be able to do that, which made me ask you whether I dared stay another day in London. Now, and because I cannot leave Magdalen, the work must remain unfinished, but not a day longer than I can help." '• Do not speak, do not think of leaving her, I implore you," said Mrs. Conway. " Better that the dark stoiy should be a mystery for ever." " At least," said Mr. Conway, " you will not go except at our wish, — give us that pledge, Ernest. I am not one to stand between you and honour — you may trust me." " And you may trust me, when I tell you here, as I told you in London, that only Magdalen could have brought me away, after I had opened the packet which you gave me. I have an account to settle with the man who sent that packet here, but it is none the less safe for standing over." " Then, until you please, no more of the past. You are an excel- lent nurse, Ernest, as Boccles allows, but you are not to knock yourself up. I wish you would get a ride. Shall I ask Fanshaw to lend vou a horse ? " 308 SOONER OR LATER. " Xot at present, thanks. This house, and sometimes the garden, are my tether until I can be spared for a longer journey than Fan- shaw's horse can go. I am looking for a book, mamma. I am to read to her for a little while when she awakes." " Nothing has been altered here, Ernest. All is as you left it." " Magdalen came in here — my dear friends, the recollection is painful, but tell me for once and for all — Magdalen came in here from a walk, and found a letter. I will speak of that presently. But where had she been — whom had she met or seen ? " " She had been to her poor folks at Trafalgar," said Mr. Conway. " I know not whom she had relieved, but she must have met Edward Grafton, who accompanied her part of the way back, but left her when she saw me. She said nothing when we returned, but came up here, and found a letter which she brought down. You know the rest." " Edward Grafton. And that interview had agitated her. What could he have to say to her ? " " I cannot tell. You know that he once hoped to make her his wife." " Yes. But he would not dare. — Stay. Does Grafton visit at Martletowers ? " " No. I think not," said Mrs. Conway. " He is by no means one of Mrs. De Gully's sort. And I remember hearing that he was personally rude to her — that is, he told her the truth, as a clergyman — and she would not be likely to encourage him." " I must know, however. Meantime, a word more. The letter which Magdalen found and read, and which she had read before, had another meaning than that which was apparent, but on the honour of a gentleman — dear Mrs. Conway, as the husband of your child — I assure you that it was no communication which you would think I ought not to have received. It referred to something which was no secret from you. My aunt, Mrs. Stepney, had taken care of that. The letter, which I would not have received here, could I have helped it, was meant to tell me that due provision had been made for some from whom I was for ever separated, and that it had been gladly accepted." " I was right, William," said Mrs. Conway, in a low voice, but not so low as to escape the ear of Ernest, nor was it intended to be unheard by him. " Magdalen is happy," said Mr. Conway, almost sternly. " There- fore, let the past be past. It is due to Mrs. Stepney to add that she never said a word in the sense at which Dormer hints." " That is not quite so, William." " To me, then," said Mr. Conwav, with the same manner. " The SOONER OR LATER. 309 subject had better be di'opped ; or, if ever resumed, it should be as part of the explanation promised by Dormer hereafter." " The matters are utterly unconnected, Mr. Conway," said Ernest, " except in so far as both affect me. I have given you an assurance which I am sure you receive as truthful." " I do, Ernest," said Mrs. Conway. " It is not for me to doubt my daughter's husband," said Mr. Conway, calmly. " We were considering, I think, whether Mr. Edward Grafton could have done anything to produce Magdalen's agitation. I am unable to see how he could have done so. But the shortest way is to ask him." " That is my business," said Ernest ; " and as I do not leave the house, may I send for him ? " " Is not the house your own, Ernest ? " said Mrs. Conway. He wrote a brief but courteous note to Edward Grafton, and dispatched it, and resumed his place by the side of Magdalen. " That is a revelation full of comfort for a parent," said Mr. Conway, when alone with his wife. " As you said just now, Magdalen is happy, dear. We must forget what has gone by, and trust in the future." " Yes. But again you have been right in one of your instinctive guesses, and I who reproached you for it have again shoAvn myself a fool. I begin to fear that in keeping that other secret from me, you exercised a wise discretion. I suppose that my faculties must be deserting me." " William," said his wife, in a distressed tone, " you are behaving more cruelly than you can understand, in talking in that manner. This, to w^hich he has alluded, was not suggested to you, but to me, and you could not judge whether Mrs. Stepney had a meaning or not. And it is not like you to harp on a matter which 1 hoped you had forgiven and forgotten." " There was nothing to forgive, Mary, and no reason for forgetting. But as to this bad story, what is to be said of Mrs. Stepney, a religious woman, as she calls herself, who knew the character of her nephew, yet deliberately helped him to a marriage with an innocent girl who deserved all a man's first love ? " " You will be angrv again if I say what, perhaps, I ought not to say." " Say it, and venture." " I would much rather, of course, that we had never known any- thing about this matter. But if all I hear is time, we are not the first couple of parents who have heard of such a thing, and it is not a necessary consequence that Emest should not be a good 310 SOONER OE LATER. husband. "We are too old for romance, William. It would be very- pleasant to believe that one's husband had never thought of anybody but oneself, but it would be very foolish, and I am not certain that I quite believe it even of you. There was an odd story about you and some architect's widow, who was wonderfully anxious that her dear late husband's memoirs should be written. I heard of it. But you have behaved pretty well to me, all things considered." " My dear Mary, your exultation at getting Ernest back to Mag- dalen has made you unmindful of all the moralities and the pro- prieties, and 1 hope you will tone down." " That is the truth, "William. I could rush about the "house and clap my hands like an old fool. Don't scowl and frown at him any more, that is a dear. I am sure he is very sorry for anything he may have done, and he has sat at Magdalen's feet, like Gamaliel, ever since he came into the house." " Like Gamaliel ! But no wonder at such a blunder as that ; for wherever you go for your religion, it is not where Gamaliel is talked about. Do you seriously mean that I am to take no further notice of what I have heard, and am to receive Ernest on the old terms ? " " Yes ; and not to call him Dormer. He noticed it, I assure you." " I meant that he should notice it." " What is the good ? Come in and see Magdalen, and then try whether you have the heart to annoy a man whom she loves, and who is curing her." " And you are not eager to hear the whole history of his absence, even though I told you of the strange effect produced upon him by that packet ? " " I am eager for nothing but to see Magdalen walking about that garden, and one thing more. Life is not made up of strong griefs and great joys, William, dear, but of peace and content, and the less we care about disturbances of either sort, the better. Let us go in to her bed-room." " This is good preaching from a woman who can hardly sit still for delight at the return of the prodigal son." " Do not call him so. What he has been, I dare say he has been made by circumstances, and now he is going to be all that is good and kind to Magdalen. Speak affectionately to him, William. I know that you feel so towards him." " These are woman's morals, Mrs. Conway. But as a feminine question is concerned, I suppose you have a right to settle the law," " Dear AYilliam, my mind tells me tliat you feel more rightly in SOONER OR LATER. 311 this matter than I do, but my heart is very obstinate, and refuses to listen to anything against Ernest." So that affair was condoned, and Mr. Conway's hand rested on Ernest's shoulder as the parents stood gazing on Magdalen, and seeking to descry the return of colour to her face. *' Beccles trusts to him not to over-fatigue you, dearest," said the mother. " It is himself that he over-fatigues. Can you not make him go out, mamma ? " " No," said Ernest ; " nobody can." But he was mistaken, as he speedily discovered. Mr. Serjeant Pengniin's irreverent appeal to the great poet had met with the reception which irreverence merits, and the distinguished lawyer and ex-actor tried in vain for a quotation which should answer the triple purpose designed. He was therefore compelled to employ the post, a thing he rather hated to do, for like many a capital talker, he was, owing to early neglect, a bad letter-writer. He tied up, very curtlv, the fact that Farquhar had broken down in cross-examination, but had adhered with solemn pertinacity (the learned counsel spelt it with an s) to his strange stoiy, with the qualification of which we have heard. Ernest's reply was a reite- rated entreaty that Penguin and Haslop would keep a watch on Dudley, and take any ste}), lawful or unlawful, for preventing him from getting out of the way. He sent Haslop a kind little message from Magdalen. But Ernest Dormer did not need to trouble himself as to Dudley's escape. That person had not the least intention of getting out of the way at present. "When Dudley left the chambers, he was so beaten down by the defeat he had sustained, that he had not even energy enough to break forth into the torrent of savage language which usually in- dicated his wi-ath. He had previously become fixed in the belief that the other side was intimidated, and that Donner's advisers were only going through some formalities before submitting. Yet Dudley was no fool. He had taken, as we have seen, long and patient thought over his charges, and he had supported them by evidence which might be valueless in a legal point of view, but which was strong enough, he imagined, for its purpose, that of pro- ducing moral conviction. And so it had seemed to be, and Penguin's off-hand ridicule Dudley had treated, and justly, as a mere trick of 312 SOONER OR LATER. fence. All that was wanted was the deliberate evidence of the gentleman who was prepared to testify to the presence of Miss Conway, and to the incidents which made up the scandalous history; and George Farquhar, under the double influence of some hope and much fear, had accompanied him to clench the accusation before the tribunal. Suddenlj^, and at the crisis of the hearing, Farquhar had abandoned and defied him, and he had been sent empty away. The blow had staggered him. He had lived a wild and reckless life, and it had utterly blinded him to the hideous immorality of the scheme by which he had designed to win his prize. He had seen too much treachery and vice, too much sorrow and agony among deceivers and victims, in earlier days, to be scared at the thought of the necessary conse- quences of his plan, and considered those consequences only as they might bear upon his design. "Whether Magdalen had died of a broken heart (though he had small belief in such deaths), and whether Dormer were disgi-aced among his fellows, and were diiven into exile, Dudley cared nothing; not that he was wilfully or wan- tonly cruel, but that his selfishness and greed had taught him that his own success was the one thing to be attained, and that having a great chance of gaining it, he would be false to himself if he spared those whose ruin was necessary. If he condescended to take them into consideration at all, it was from a scoffer's point of view. They might, and no doubt would be very miserable for a time, and they might quarrel and separate, or they might hush the matter up, but any further exposure would be their own fault. Let them pay him, and he would be as silent as Andrew Barton himself. On the whole — they will believe it who know the distortion of mind pro- duced by wickedness — Mr. Dudley had Avorked himself round to the idea that he was somehow in his right, and that resistance to him savoured of injustice. If he had found that locket, he said — when brandy had enfeebled the brain and emboldened the tongue — he would have been entitled to a reward. He had found it, and a story linked to it, and he would have his reward for both. But this sophistry he vented only at certain moments of excitement : when sober, he took a calmer and deadlier look at the circumstances, and set himself to his task with a stronger Avill than might have been indicated by his maundering logic. He believed that he saw his way, clearly, to the gold he coveted. And the witness whom he deemed so safe had failed him, and all was over. No, he would not believe that. Nor was it, in fact, obvious. As he went home, with his eyes on the ground, and heedlessly jostling the wayfarers, who thought he was drunk, new light poured into the SOONER OR LATER. 313 brain of Benjamin Dudley, and again he ^valked erectly and de- fiantly. But before he went into the battle again, he determined, like heroes of old, to offer up a human sacrifice. Farquhar was hardly worth his vengeance, but should feel it. Dudley had extorted from him the address of the terrible father, and to this the revengeful man dispatched a letter, in which the extravagance and profligacy of the son, his desertion of the office, and his being engaged in a nefarious plot, were set out in language that would not juislead for lack of directness. This letter Dudley, with a grim satisfiiction, sent off to York. To the message, which had suddenly changed the course of Far- quhar, and had bid him set at defiance his friend and Mentor, Dudley, curiously, did not attach very great importance. He did not, in fact, adopt the idea that the note had had that effect, and he attributed George Farquhar's refusal to spiritual terror. The young man was weak and ill, and the solemnity of the oath, the tremendous appeal of Penguin, and the quieter but more effective warning of Haslop, had worked upon his weak nature, and he had shrunk from perjur5\ Dudley had no time to despise him for such feebleness, but had rushed into hate of Farquhar, and avenged himself as has been told. But, what was the message ? he asked himself, when he turned from pondering on his own scheme, to recal the interview at Pen- guin's chambers. " The female he had seen overnight." That conveyed no intelligence. It was rather calculated to put Mr. Farquhar's fi-iend, who well knew Mr. Farquhar's ways, on a false scent. lie thought that he should like to find out, but he had no time to waste on Farquhar. Besides, Mr. Serjeant Penguin had probably placed him under protection, perhaps sent him away. However, he would tr\'. No harm could be done now by taking a new confederate into the business. Yes, Mrs. Faunt was at home. kShe had a headache, and could not go out that day. However, she would come down to Mr. Dudley, and perhaps he might give her something to relieve her head. " AVell, Charity. Headache, eh ? Fortified yourself last night against the London air, and overdid the fortification ? " "Nothing of the kind, Benjamin. Don't be so rude. You always think the worst of people," said Mrs. Faunt. " You shall see that I think the best of you, Charity. You came here with a cock and bull story about getting into an asylum, and wanting testimonials, and I did not believe a word of it. But you 314 SOONER OPw LATER. came for something. What do you want me to do for you, as I'll try and do it ? " " Very good, Benjamin. I overlook your doubtfulness of my veracity, by reason of your readiness to oblige. The testimonials I w^ant, and shall thank you kindly for the same. But they don't hurry. Something is up which I presume does, and you are going to ask me to do you a service in return for that which you are pro- mising to try and do for me. All right. Short reckonings make long friends." " You have hit it. You know the young fellow that was here, and that you got the cab for, after the row with me ? " " I remember the row. I don't remember much about him, except that he seemed a great fool. What about him ? " " Why, this. He was with me at a lawyer's to-day, and he had a message brought in to him. It made him very bumptious. If you go and see him, and get into his confidence, or in any way can find out what that message Avas, I'll give you five guineas." " If it's worth five it's worth six, Benjamin, and I wish you'd make it six, because that's my lucky number. I was born on a sixth of the month." " Do you call that luck ? You'll see, some day. But I'll make it six. There." " And what is his name, and where does he live ? You told me, but it went right out of my head — no, stop — Peter Wildboy." " Peter AVilliaftis was on his card, but that is not his real name. Here it is, and here is his address. Find that out for me ; and, Charity, I say — I think on the day after to-morrow he will have a letter from York that will make him open his eyes. If you could manage to know about that, I should be all the gladder." " Is that extra, or in the six ? " " Don't be extortionate. Nothing is baser than trying to extort money by means of a person's secrets. Charity," said Dudley, with a grim sort of humour. " Yes, it is high base, Benjamin. That's true," replied the woman, eyeing him anxiously. " Is he tiding a trick on me ? " she thought, " and has he found me out ? " " Benjamin," she said, " it comes to me, as the Quakers say, not to do this for you unless I am paid in advance. Do you see it in the same way ? " " Certainly not. But I'll play fair. There is half for you. Come. If you fail, I Avont give you any more. If you find out, I'll pay you instantly. That is square dealing." " I'm content." " No," she thought, " he would not give me three guineas for nothino;." " And where is it ? " she asked. " Oh, Judd SOONER OK LATER. 315 Street. That's somewhere b}^ the New Road, I think. But I'll take a cab, and go like a ladj, which I can afford to do, as you have been so liberal." " Wrote to the poor young fellow's father at York, has he ? "Well, he has lost no time. I hope to manage the business to your satisfac- tion, my dear Mr. Dudley. I am sure I have managed well enough up to the present time, Mr. Dudley. To have the luck to catch his mother at the very door, and to get the news from her, and to make her consent not to tell him at once, poor thing, as it was for his good that he shouldn't know directly, and to manage to keep her away from him, though she was dying to see him, that was not bad, Mr. Dudley. And to cocker him up for the lawyers, and make him solemnly bind himself to go with you, and be your witness, as I knew I could get you to perform what you promised if he got the money for you, that was not bad, Mr. Dudley. And then to make it right with that clerk, who is a good-looking man for a bald-head, and to get him to listen and give me the office at the right minute, and then to send in the bit of paper that brought you out raging like a fiery Qying serpent among the Jews, that was anything but bad, Mr. Dudley. And now to collar the dragons — your own dragons — for going to get news about Avhat I did myself, that's best of all, Mr. Dudley; and before I have done with you, I'll have change for the sham photograph, and that Highgate cemetery, not counting bad language, which is nothing between friends, Mr. Dudley." Mr. Haslop looked in vain for George Farquhar at the station. The young man was, for the first time for many a long day, in secret, earnest talk, yet neither doing Avrong nor receiving the wages of wrong. He was at his lodging, where his mother had impatiently awaited him. Poor Mrs. Farquhar scarcely steps upon our stage, though her unseen agency has long moved one of our characters. If we let her be seen for a moment, it is not that she is essential to the action, but because it may be pleasant, at nearly the last time we shall behold George Farquhar, to see him with a gentle hand in his own, and with kind and loving eyes gazing on him. Those motherly eyes dimmed as they saw that the son, on whom his mother had doted, the more that she had no one else to love, and that his exist- ence was a taunt to her, had been living a bad and weakening life, and was a melancholy contrast to the fresh, bright-eyed elastic youth Avho had come up from the Yorkshire hills to be demoralised in town. But there were no reproaches for him, no reproofs. With a faint instinct of kindliness, the strange woman who had interfered with Farquhar's actions had made a revelation to his mother that weak and wicked as her son had become, he midit be reclaimed, for 316 SOONER OR LATER. he had some heart left. Tluit, no mother ever doubted of her boy, in defiance of proof that satisfied all the world, nor did Mrs. Far- quhar need that assurance. But it was well that she should know his errors. She had to tell him that the tyrannical and violent father, who had made her own life a misery, and had held out to George the fatal menace which, known to Dudley, had left the young man in the power of the latter, had suddenly died in the midst of an access of raving passion, and that a will, made by him in a period of compunction, and which he had sworn was destroyed, existed — and she was rich. What more could she have to say to her only child ? Let us leave him with her affectionate arms round his neck. If he weeps, they are tears of which he need not be ashamed, and which we may be sure that she will not mock or chide. CHAPTER XXXIII. MR. WIGRAM. Mr. Dudley's next visit was to Mr. Henry Wigram, whom lie missed twice, but secm'ed at last by force of an earnest request that Mr. Wigram would be at home at an appointed hour. And as the hour appointed by Dudley was one which Wigram had fixed for a pleasanter meeting, he was proportionately out of temper. A change had come OA-er Wigram since the early days of our acquaintance with him : the affectation of melancholy, which did not sit so ill upon him, had disappeared, and its place had been taken by a petu- lance and waspishness which made him unacceptable to his friends. Since the afiair with Dormer, he had kept himself out of society a good deal, and this had not tended to preserve the bonhomie which men like in an associate. " I am sorry to have kept you at home," said Mr. Dudley, " and- it was necessary that I should see you, or I would have written." " I supposed so, and therefore I stayed," said Henry, slightly indi- cating a chair rather than performing the usual courtesy, and stand- ing on the hearth-rug, where he occupied himself, while listening, in drawing on a new pair of gloves. " The fact is, that I have a favour to ask of you." " That I also supposed. Is it the same ' sort of thing that you asked before ? " " No," said Dudley, " but it is a consequence of that. I believe that you have a sister resident in Naybury ? " "Well?" " I was, I suppose, indebted to that lady for the delivery of that packet of which you took charge ? " " It was delivered, Avas it not ? " " Yes, I have reason to think so." " Then I don't see that it concerns you how it got to its destination." " I do not say that it does," replied Dudley, calmly. He had come for a purpose which he had no intention of defeating by resenting 318 SOONER OK LATER. Mr. Wigram's rudeness. " I merely wished to acknowledge one obligation before incurring another." " What is the other to be ? " " Assuming that I am right, and that the lady whom I mention lives at Naybury, I have to ask you to give me an introduction to her." " Well," said Wigram, " that request is either a very proper one, or about as cool a piece of cheek as I have heard of lately. May I ask what reason you have for thinking that my sister would desire the honour of your acquaintance ? " The elder man thus insolently addressed by the younger one gave no sign of anger, but replied, " I incline to believe that you will think the request proper enough to be granted, when I say that there is a person at Naybury whom we both hate, and that the object of my journey is certainly no good to him." " You need not, Mr. Dudley, mix up my feelings with your own in regard to anybody, and you may understand distinctly that I have no idea of connecting my sister with any act of yours. I suppose that I need not speak more plainly ? We know something of each other, and need not talk much. If this is all you had to say, I wish you a good morning," " That you can do, Mr. Wigram, but you will scarcely wish to do it, on reflection, I am really sorry to detain you, as I see is the case, but I would venture to advise your hearing me with temper. I avoid any language that should irritate you. Hear me out." " I don't see the good, but go on." *' Then, without offending you by any reference to my own feel- ings, which I would entirely separate from yours, I may say that there is a person at Naybury whom you would like to punish for an offence against yourself. Now, I see it on your lip to reply that when a gentleman has wrongs to right he does not do it with the aid of an apothecary of whom he knows no good. Doubtless, but sup- posing the gentleman has no way to do it, and suppose that the apothecary intends to take his own course whether the 'gentleman helps him or not, I might ask a duller man than you are whether it is quite rational to refuse without knowing what you refuse ? " " You have so exactly expressed my sentiments about your propo- sition, whatever it is, that I wonder you don't feel yourself answered." " All that I want," continued Mr. Dudley, as if the other had not spoken, " is such an introduction to your sister — of whom I would speak less familiarly if I knew her name— such an introduction as would SOONER OR LATER. 319 justify her in giving me some information as to society in Naybmy, and just the hints which would enable me to give the widest circu- lation to some statements affecting Mr. Ernest Dormer. The lady would be responsible for nothing I might do, she would merely assist me to consider how I could most directly achieve my purpose." " Supposing that I did what I shall not do, you would not find my sister willing to assist you, Mr. Dudley." " You under-rate your influence with her, I think, sir." " There, you see. A request for an introduction has grown into a demand for influence." " I submit to you that of course I can go down to Naybury with- out the letter I want, and I can get the directory, and ascertain for myself who are the nobility and gentry, and I dare say that I should make some very good shots. But time presses, and if I do not act at once, it will be too late." ' " Why ? " " Because," said Dudley-, having once more recourse to his favom'ite Napoleonic weapon, " Mr. Dormer and his wife leave England in two days. After their departure my statement would be harmless, but to drive them with it, as it were, from their home would be something like a revenge." " You are wrong about Mrs. Dormer. She is very ill, and in no state to be moved." " Is that so ? " thought Dudley. " My doing, perhaps." And the thought came on him that if he had dealt too roughly, he might have destroyed his own chances along with that life of her whom he had assailed. But he had no leisure to pause, and he instantly answered — " You are right as to the illness. That is the reason for the hasty removal. They have had consultations with the best London men, and Mrs. Dormer is ordered away directly. I know that a cabin has been secured for a voyage to Lisbon." " Then, Mr. Dudley, you must be a damned brute to propose to me what you do, and I should be worse if I listened a moment longer. Whatever wrong I may have suflFered from Mr. Dormer, I have no quarrel with his wife, and if I had one, do you think I would wreak it on a sick lady just as she was about to be carried on board a ship. You had better go away." Dudley ground his teeth. He had invented a hasty lie, and he, being what he was, had not considered what must be the constant effect of such a story upon any man who retained a spark of gentle- manly feeling. Then he went from bad to worse. " I am glad to see so much true religion," he said, coarsely. " If 320 SOONER OR LATER. Mr. Dormer had known that he was beating such a sincere Christian, who was going to forgive him so easily, perhaps he wouldn't have hit so hard, or boasted quite so much of the flogging he had bestowed on him." Mr. Wigram pointed to the door. " When I please," was the insolent reply. " I don't think you would care to tiy to turn me out of the room by force — Mr. Dor- mer's whip, perhaps, has left you unequal to that sort of thing, and so you may as well hear me through. I know more of Naybuiy than you think, and though I can't remember your sister's name, I have heard a good deal about her, and her many virtues. I shall have no difficulty in finding her out, and I believe there is no hus- band on the premises to be jealous of my visit." " Or to thrash you out of the place, which is what you mean, I suppose, you cowardly cad. Xo, but there is some one who can pro- tect her, and I warn you that if you enter that house you will come to grief" " I shall risk that, I dare say. And if I get speech of the lady, I may find that she has more spirit than her brother." Mr. Wigram rang the bell. " A policeman," he said to the man-servant. " You need not take the trouble. I have said my say, Mr. Wigram." " Shall I fetch him, sir ? " " If I ring again, yes, without coming up. Now," he added, as the man retired, " one word. Dare to go to my sister's, and ib will be the worst visit you ever made." " It's you who are slandering the lady, not I, Mr. Wigram. I know things are said, but I did not think matters were so bad as that." Dudley rose with a coarse laugh, but he retreated to the door with his face to the other. For Wigram snatched at the poker, and though he might not have had the courage to msh upon the man who thus spoke of Julia De Gully, Dudley thought that a blow on the back of his head might come within the limits of the other's resolution. " You should have done that when Mr. Dormer came to see you," jeered Dudley, as he left the room. " A ruffian," said Mr. Wigram, with an imprecation. " A cruel, dastardly ruffian. I hate Dormer, but I will forgive him out and out if he happens to break that villain's bones. When she is ill, and helpless. I hope that if he does go down Dormer will kill him." SOONER OR LATER. 321 It is pleasant to chronicle a good impulse, and it may be thought cynical to balance it by a recollection of other things. But what injury could Wigram do to Magdalen compared to that he had already done, by sneering and whispering her fame away ? " I ought never to have spoken to the fellow," said Wigram, very truly, to himself, " but that hag knows such a lot of things, and one did not care to refuse her a small matter. I begin to think that it may tm-u out not to have been a small matter, and I may have got Julia into a mess. I hope not, partly for the foolish idiot's own sake, and partly because it will give her such an eternal pull on me. I would go down and see about it, but I know she'll get money out of me. The governor did a very good thing for his pocket when he cast her off, a selfish old screw, and I'm deuced glad they petitioned against his return — wish they had turned him out. It's hard on me that I am the only member of the family that will do anything for her. As to my advising her to marry, I did it for the best. I thought he was a right down good fellow, and rich. Any how, I pay for the mistake. I ought to go down, though. He'll make some mischief, and drag in Julia. And yet it's a bore, because " He talked to himself — men who live alone often do — but he had an instinct of stopping when his conversation with himself became dangerous. On the nature of what might have finished the sentence we desire no lights, nor do we want to know why he presently wished, aloud, that the old hag was within hail. " I'll think about it," he said, after a pause—" If I don't go, I'll telegraph and put the goose on guard. Stop, I'll write the message now, I hate writuig in those pawnbroker- stalls at the ofiice. Wonder whether we shall ever imitate the Americans, and telegraph politely, like gentlemen, instead of counting the words. How shall I put it. Let's see," said Henry, taking out a form. " Do not see a man called Dudley, or if he gets to you, beware of doing anything he asks. Send him away. Most important." " There," said Mr. Wigram, " neat but not gaudy, as the devil said when he painted his tail pea-green. Daren't have quoted that at the club, because fellows would have said they had heard it before. That's the advantage of talking to yourself, you're never snubbed. By Jove, I feel in unusual good spirits to-day — something bad is going to happen, I suppose." Mr. Wigram gave the telegram to his servant with instructions to take it at once to the office. And yet it went. Mr. Dudley retreated, very furious. He could not understand why he had been refused the favour he solicited. The reason assigned by the indignant Wigram Mr. Dudley believed to be mere fudge. The 82!^ SOONER OR LATER. young man had a personal hatred for Dormer, and would not have rejected a chance of gratifying it on a merely sentimental ground like that which Wigram had assigned. There was something else in it. And, recollecting who had introduced them, Dudley began to suspect some new device on her part. But he was wi'ong, as a man is sure to be nine times out of ten when he gets into a confirmed habit of distrusting all mankind, especially if his reason be that all mankind ought to distrust him. Mr. Wigram had merely yielded to the instincts which it would have been better for him to have culti- vated more freely. Mr. Dudley, moreover, was angry with himself for not having thought of a better reason for haste than the one he had given. But there was one curious thing in his meditations. He did not see that his request to be admitted to a confidential sort of interview with a lady of position and connections, of whom he knew little, she knowing nothing of him, was an extraordinary one. This blindness did not arise from the man's own arrogance, consi- derable as that was, but from the reaction of the idea that he was himself about to be a respectable man, and to take his place as an honourable member of an honourable profession. It was strange that he should wish to be that for which he was so ill qualified, but it was stranger that he should cling with a dogged resolution to the belief that he was going to be all this, at the time that he was employing arts that were least compatible with even decent feeling, to say nothing of honour. But those who have not beheld this kind of inconsistency in sundry persons, met in the course of life, have either been fortunate in their acquaintances, or have kept their eyes serenely fixed on higher things than human en- deavours. *' I will have my money," said Mr. Dudley. His money ! But he had taught himself to think it his. Mr. Poult, the red-headed assistant, had received sailing orders, and whether he had completed his medical education or not, he must go on board and take charge of his three hundi-ed men, women, and children. He had not used much ceremony with his instructor, for whom he had conceived a great disesteem, but had simply in- formed him, on leaving one evening, that he should not come back. To which concise notice, Mr. Dudley had replied, as concisely, to the effect that the arrangement was lucky, as Mr. James Poult was not wanted any more. Dudley, however, added, " If you had had a little more sense, and made yourself agreeable to me, it might have been good for you. I am going out of business, and I might have thrown a chance in the way of a fellow who had behaved well to me. If you like to take any of those books, or all SOONER OR LATER. 323 of them, you may, and you will find some notes in them that may be usefal. I don't want them — it's no favour." " I did not expect any kindness from you, Mr. Dudley," said Mr. Poult, " and I thank you for your well-meant ofiFer. But I would rather not accept it. I wish you good-bye." " As you like, my good fellow. Go along. If there isn't a remarkable mortality on board the Gentle Gales, it will be wonderful luck for the medical oflScer. Better take the books." " Thanks, no. They would bring me no luck. They don't seem to have brought much to their owner. Good-bye, sir." And they met no more. " I wish he had taken the books," said Dudley. " I had a liking for the fellow. He has pluck. He may kill those poor devils, but it won't be by letting 'em die for fear of tiying anything that comes into his red head. The books have not brought me luck. He's about right there. But I am past luck now, and all depends on myself. So we'll have the shop shut up, and never open it any more." Dudley passed one other night in Lancaster Street. His prepara- tions for travel were expeditious. His intention was to follow up the plan which he had decided upon, and then to return, dispose of his business and property in any way that offered, provided it were rapid, and then to leave England. He would not, therefore, trouble himself to do more at present than to empty his cash-box, throw a few papers together into a di-awer, and write a notice, scrawled in a large and legible hand, that nothing whatever was to be touched until his return. That night he drank deeply. Next morning he departed, without a word to any one. A lad, whom he had been accustomed to whistle in, and bid take down or put up the shutters, waited in vain that day for the signal, and, lacking the accustomed coppers, breakfasted not, and, being hungry, stole, and dined in prison. So works the conservation of forces. One thing more Dudley did before leaving. He went to the iron safe in the little parlour, and tried it, to see that it was locked. He did not open it. " I may have to open it," he said. " No, I shall not. I am going to win ! " And so he went away. In the decorously-dressed quiet gentleman, without a moustache, and with a beard trimmed to an unpretending size, who took up his quarters at a second-rate commercial hotel in Naybury, and who gave very little trouble, but asked a good many questions in a pleasant, civil, gossiping way, few but keen-eyed folk would speedily have recognised Mr. Dudley. Inspection of his single portmanteau would Y 2 324 SOONER OR LATER. not have aided the recognition, as the card upon it bore the name of Davenport. In the course of his life some little unpleasantly had impressed on him the advantage of letting a false name agree with one's initials. Mr. Davenport did not proceed in any foolish or violent fashion. He had explained a portion of his plan to Mr. "Wigram, but it was the smaller part, and he did not lay much stress upon it. He had no intention, however, of being bailied by Mr. Wigram, even in the matter of the introduction ; and on the third afternoon from his arrival at Naybury, Mr. Davenport drove over to Martletowers, and sent in an engraved card, bearing his name. The card had not been engraved for him, certainly, but he had obtained it by honest pur- chase, and with prudent forethought. He was admitted, though his name was unknown to Mrs. De Gully. That lady received a stranger with a certain trepidation, but she had long learned that it is much safer to see a creditor or his representa- tive than to shun either. He was inducted into a drawing-room, and, as usual, he made good use of his eyes, which, in the first five minutes of his prowl, while waiting for the lady, showed him the telegram from Mr. Wigram. Mrs. De Gully had used it as a book- mark. Somebody came in, but though she was gracefully dressed, Mr. Davenport's eye was not deceived into a mistake. He had not been much among ladies of late years, but had retained certain instincts. He took no notice of Francine, who pretended to search for some- thing, and then retired. " Very good, my dear," said Mr. Davenport. " Now go and tell your employer that he looks a decent kind of person enough, and probably knows her, as he did not speak to you." Mrs. De Gully then appeared, in gay and brilliant array, for she was going to a garden party at Lord Mazagon's. Mr. Davenport felt the power that is revealed when awful beauty puts on all her arms, and as he confronted the very handsome, very bold, and very well-dressed lady, he owned to himself that he was courageous. There is a certain cowardice in that sensation. But he instantly rallied, and comported himself much in the fashion of his other and better days. His apology for his visit, without an introduction, of course involved divers new Napoleonisms. He was a friend of Mr. Henry Wigram's, who had given him a letter to his sister, which, by some accident, he had left out of his writing-case, but he had telegraphed for it to London, and it should, of course, be forwarded to Mrs. De Gully ; but it being possible that he might have to leave next SOONER OR LATER. 325 day, he had ventured to call, rather than leave the neighbourhood without fulfilling his promise to Wigrani that he would visit Martletowers. All was as fluent and plausible as could be de- sired. Mrs. De Gully was very happy to see him ; much regretted that she had to go out that afternoon ; hoped that he would not go away before coming over. She was going to say that he must come and dine with her, but she thought she would find out first whether Henry had sent him for any purpose of his own. Had he been in that part of the country before ? There was not much scenery, but society was tolerably pleasant. "When had he last seen Henry ? and so forth. Mr. Davenport made himself agreeable, and a little brusqueness, which would sometimes intrude into his manner, was not dis- agreeable to the lady. He was conscious of it himself, and casually mentioned that he had travelled a great deal, and had lived a solitaiy life for some years by a South American river, where he had acquired anything but polish. Mrs. De Gully declared that she envied him, and then — it was her way to say such things to strangers — asked him whether he had lived with a number of savage wives. After that they laughed and got quite intimate, and Mrs. De Gully began rather to admire his bold eyes, and talk, which, if not bold, showed her that it might easily become so, if she liked. She had a great mind to take him over to Lord Mazagon's. Her favour with that easy-mo railed, good-natured old nobleman would justify that. " But I did not answer your question about Henry," he said. " It was three or four days ago." " When you see him again, I wish you would scold him for send- ing me mysterious messages and warnings." " What a di-eadful thing to do, Mrs. De Gully ! You don't mean it?" " Yes," pouted the lady — at least, it was not a pout, but it was an imitation of one, and rather pretty — " he sends telegrams, and I hate them." " Ah ! " said Mr. Davenport ; " now you remind me of it, he told me that he had been sending you a telegram, and Avas going to write to you — some man who pretends to be a Polish nobleman, exiled for his love of liberty, is going about selling his family jewels, which would be all right, only that he isn't a nobleman and they are not jewels ; and Henry heard that he was in these parts— he did tell me his name." 326 SOONER OR LATER. " Should you know it if you heard it ?" said Mrs. De Gully, look- ing for the telegram. "Yes — stay — I remember it without being told — the fellow's impudence struck me. He says that Lord Dudley Stuart, the great friend of Poland, was his godfather, and the jewel-man calls himself Dudley. Is that right ? " " Yes, that's the name ; see," Mr. Davenport did not mention that he had seen the telegram before, or allude to the circumstances which had prompted it ; but he calmly asked whether the person had been there. " No, and you may be sure I have given the most positive orders not to admit him ; but Henry might have told me all this." There was a strange wilfulness in this man. On the eve of his new and final eftbrt to wring out the price of his wicked secret, it pleased him to cast aside his cynicism and coarseness, and to attempt to play the man of society. And his strong will served him well. They settled into the usual run of chatter — there was the photo- graph that of course Mr. Davenport recognised but it did Mrs. De Gully no justice, and the critic's eyes were not shy while he com- pared the real and the pictorial face and figure — there was the pet dog, the new novel, the playbill of some private theatricals (scandal about a lady's over-indulgent draperies), the French song, religious, in the French sense, and not particularly blasphemous — the white house across the fields, and the odiousness of its inhabitants — and the other usual subjects of intellectual conversation between man and woman, and all of them capable of illustration of a certain kind when man and woman choose to talk in a certain way, in which Mrs. De Gully excelled from practice and Mr. Davenport from native taste. And at length she was so pleased with her visitor that she said, — " I would throw over the Mazagon party, and make you stay to dinner, only I should get into such disgrace with Lord Mazagon, who is a great ally of mine, and defends me against the goody- goody women here. But if you will send back your carriage, I will drive you into Naybury, which is in my way." Mr. Davenport resolved to avail himself of his success, and he might, not long afterwards, have been seen by the pretty Mrs. De Gully's side, as she drove her pretty ponies Nayburywards. Fran- cine had been remitted to the seat behind. Mrs. De Gully men- tioned a few of the names of the people about, and Mr. Davenport contrived, in a very natural manner, to bring up the name of Dormer as one that he had heard Henry mention, he thought. " Yes, he married a sweetly pretty girl down here — a Miss Conway. SOONER OR LATER. S27 She is very ill just now. I will show you the house as we go by, though that may be taking you out of your road. Where would you like to be set down ? " "That commercial inn will not do," thought Mr. Davenport. And he expressed a wish to look at the church, which he had heard was good. *' It has been spoiled, but it is good enough for Naybury," said Mrs. De Gully. " They are a queer lot, as the devil said of the ten commandments. Are you shocked ? " " Fearfully ; but then in the East I have been accustomed to see the worship of the person you mention, and I don't like to hear him lightly spoken of." " You need not go to the East for that, I am told." Presently they reached Naybury, and Mrs. De Gully rattled rapidly through, receiving few salutations ; and then the Conways' house was pointed out, and Mr. Davenport looked up in a brazen manner at the windows, certain that he had altered himself so much that were Dormer looking out at him, there would be no recog- nition. " I am sorry she is so ill," said Mrs. De Gully; "for though she is no acquaintance of mine, the Naybury people are such Guys that one hates to lose an exception to the rule." " Dangerously ill ? " "They say so. If Henry has told you nothing about her, you must not know it from me. But there is a dreadful scandal, and the illness is thought to be disinclination to face society." " I have never heard of it, and I will be very discreet, of course. Has the lady remembered herself — forgotten herself, I believe you call it, though, — or is it the lord whose heart is elastic ? " " "We don't exactly know." " Let us be safe, then, and suppose both." " And that is just what we do. Now, here is the church, if you care about going in. Where are you staying, if I want to send you a note ? " " At Mr. Conway's," said Mr. Davenport, composedly. " Marley House." Mrs. De Gully nearly pulled her ponies into a ditch ; but she whipped them viciously, and her face was fire. " You are not serious ? " " Quite. Drive me back to the house and see." " But this is treachery — and quite shameful," said Mrs. De Gully. "You ought to have stopped me at once." " Fear nothing. Do you think that I shall be lesfe comfortable at 828 SOONER OR LATER. the house because I know what sort of peoj)le my friends are? Don't be afraid, my dear Mrs. De Gully, that I shall compromise you in the least. I am too much obliged to you for the ride to-day, for your delightful talk, and for your previous service." " What have I done ? " " Delivered an important packet fr-om me to Mrs. Dormer," said he, alighting, "Accept thanks for all. I shall do myself the honour of another visit. Good afternoon, and a pleasant party." And he entered the churchyard, turned, and disappeared. "There is no making you hold your tongue when you start," said Francine. "I poked you nme times to be still. I smelt him." " What do you mean, you vulgar thing ? " " I smelt him, I tell you. It is the same odour that was in the packet I took to the house. Ah ! it is vulgar, but I use the sense which is given me. A great lady is too great for that, so she gets in a great mess." " Very well said, Francine," said Mrs. De Gully, " and as a reward for your quickness and politeness, please to get down." " I am to get down ? " " Certainly ; don't you hear me ? " The companion obeyed in silence. "Now, go back to Chervil's, and he will give you note-paper. Write to my brother, and say you do so at mj desfre. Tell him that I have carefully guarded against the person mentioned in his telegram, and that a gentleman named Davenport — remember the name — who is his friend, has called upon me, and is the person for whom you delivered that packet. Say what he is like, and that he is staying with the Conways. Post the letter with your own hand, mind, and then come on to Lord Mazagon's." " How ? " " Walk — ifc is only a mile and a half, and you like walking." And Mrs. De Gully whipped her ponies, and in a minute was out of hearing. " Will I do all that ? " said Francine. " I think no. You are very good to set me a walk. And I am to say what he is like. I must look again, madame." To which end Francine went directly to the church, and, entering, found Mr. Davenport with his hat on, reading the monuments, and the recitals of virtues and rewards much in the spirit which he attributed to another Personage, when similarly occupied, and " knowing better." The hat which he had not thought it necessary to remove in sign SOONER OR LATER. 329 of reverence was immediately taken off as matter of politeness. He had noticed that Francine was on more familiar terms with her patroness than he had expected to find her. " All the virtuous people of Xaybury have died, I fear," he said, smiling. " It is very melancholy. Did you come to see me, or the tombs ? " " You." " With a message ? " "No. Ofmy own will. I want to ask something." " By all means." *' It was I who gave that packet for you to Mrs. Dormer, and I had much trouble with it. Keep your hand from your pocket, please. I wish you in return to tell me what was in it." *' At present I would rather pay any postage you like to ask." " You will not tell me ? " " I must not do so to-day. Wlien I next come to Martletowers I will." " You promise that ? " asked Francine. " Certainly, I do ; and a promise in church is sacred, you know — always kept, as every married person will tell you." " That will do," said Francine. And she left the place of worship. "That will not do," she remarked, outside, and then she con- sidered what would do. It was not Francine's way to talk to her- self, but on the present occasion, she closed her thin lips more tightly than usual, and went to Mr. Chervil's. " Can I speak- to you a little ? " " To be sure," said Mr. Chervil, calling to his elegant assistant to mind the shop, and conducting Francine into a parlour. "Are you not well ? " " That is not the thing. I think you like Mrs. Dormer ? " " I have much respect for that lady." " Bah, with your respect. Is your respect strong enough to make yon take a little trouble for her good ? " " Let me hear how you think I can serve her." " You know — all Xaybury knows — that a letter was given to her ? '' " Yes ; and who gave it." " So much the better ; you will believe the more in what I say. The person who sent the letter is now in this town, and his name is Davenport. "VMiat he has come for I know not, but for no good. He is a bad man ; I have seen his face. Mrs. De Gully told me to write this to her brother. I shall not wi-ite. If you like, you may. You have his address. The name is Davenport, and he is a Bmooth-faced man, but his voice is hard. Good day, sir." 330 SOONER OR LATER. " Let us see," thought Mr. Chervil. " First, what do I care what happens to anybody in Naybury, except one person, and will med- dling in this matter do him any good or harm ? Good — out of the question ; no good ever came to anybody by interfering with other folks' business — memorandum, however, that proposition may be modified. I can gain nothing by interference. Harm — that depends on what I may do. Writing a mere note to Mr. Henry Wigram, at the request of a valued customer, Mrs. De Gully, is not an out-of- the-way thing to do, but is it her request, or does that pale little wretch lie, after the manner of her order ? I will make that safe by stating how the message was delivered. But that was only part of her reason for telling me the news. I am to do something more with it. Well, I have made a good deal of money out of Marley House, and I hope to make a good deal more. I will meddle." " Has Mr. Beccles ordered anything for Mrs. Dormer ? " he asked of his assistant. " I was just going to send it up." " I will leave it ; I should like to ask how she is going on." He was a great deal better than he pretended to himself to be, and he was honestly and earnestly casting about for the best means of serving Magdalen. Mr. Chervil called at the house, and, under pretext of wishing to speak to Mrs. Conway about the medicines, got speech with that lady, and told her what he had heard. Mrs. Conway's first impulse was to summon Ernest Dormer. Ernest was at his post, reading to Magdalen. " I know why you are wanted, dearest. But why did you send for him ? " " For whom, love ? " *' For Edward Grafton. I heard Maria telling Anne that she was going to Saxbury with the note for him. And I heard a ring just now." " I want to ask him a few questions, dear. I am sm'e you can trust me with him," said Ernest, pressing her hand. " If you would say nothing to him until I am well, it would be good of you ; but do as you please." " Then I will ask him " How good you are." He was rather glad, however, to find that not Edward, but Chervil, was waiting for him. Then Mrs. Conway, in much agitation, told him what the chemist had said. And then they looked eagerly in his face. " Good news ! " said Ernest, with sparkling eyes. But his lips SOONER OR LATER. 331 closed, and his words might not mean that there was good in store for the person of whom he was hearing. • " It is really good, dear Ernest ?" asked Mrs. Conway, timidly. " Indeed it is," he answered, " and I heartily thank Mr. Chervil for bringing it to me." And he shook Chervil's hand. " I think that if it were my business," said Mr. Chervil, quietly, " I could add a gloss to that text, and that it would not be exactly in the spirit of a Christmas sermon ; but as I never meddle with what is not my business, I will only say that I am much honoured in being of the least use to any one in this house." With which polite speech Mr. Chervil departed. " Ernest," said Mrs. Conway, piteously, " I don't think that you need me to say anything. What was in that letter is known to yourself, and we never dared seek to know ; we never, after our first terror was over, would try to ascertain why that woman had been the bearer. But will you not tell me what it said, and why you are glad to know that the writer is here ? I see you are." " Mother," said Ernest, — " for you are all a mother could be to me — I dare not tell you all, until I can tell you that a slander has been trampled under foot ; and as yet I do not see how that is to be done. But it shall be done. Only take this from me. The letter was a slanderer's, and the man has come within my reach, or is coming. When I have dealt with him you shall know all." " But for Magdalen's sake " " Dearest mother, trust me. But for her sake I should be at this moment hunting him down. But he may elude me, and come here, and Magdalen, who is now tremblingly alive to every sound — it is a part of the illness — she might hear that which I would strike off my hand to keep from her mind. Fear nothing for me. I have a good mind to comfort you a little more," he added, kindly. " I have had a letter from London, which tells me of a great blow the villain has received in connection with this business. I must not say more, but all is working well." " Thank God for it. But oh, Ernest, plot, and mystery, and secret, and slander, and all round that child's bed !" " It is frightful. But it must be swept away by such means as we dare use. I dare not ask anything of her." " Of her, Ernest ? " exclaimed Mrs. Conway. " Magdalen is slandered ? Who — what — what vrickedness is this ? You have, indeed, kept back a bitter secret. Magdalen ! " " Mother, had it been myself, do you think that I would have left her in doubt for an hour ? True or false, any charge against me should have been told out before you all, I would have repaid all oSa SOONER OR LATER. your generous trust with a frankness that might have ruined me, but which you should have approved. But when her name was brou ght into a wild, strange story, of which I swear to you that I have believed no jot, but which I cannot unriddle, I showed myself true to her by keeping it from her, even at the cost of her happiness. The tale has been revealed to her by the infernal art of the plotter, and I am by her side. You must love me and trust me still, mother ! " His words, and the tenderness with which they were spoken, had some consolation in them, but the mother's heart was deeply wounded, the mother's pride was rudely shocked. She could make him no answer, but embraced him and hastened from his presence. " Here, is he, and under a false name ? " said Ernest. " We have tried all ways but one — now for that. But he must not come here. I would fell him at the gate, rather than that Magdalen should hear his voice." Besides the gate of which Ernest had spoken, there was a second, for the tradespeople and the servants. But both could be seen fi-om the hall. Ernest Dormer gave orders, which Mr. Conway's domestics were delighted to receive. The regulation gave them not only new importance, but increased intimacy with their superiors — that no person, under any pretence or excuse whatever, was to be admitted at either gate for the next two days, until Mr. Dormer had been called down to the hall to see him as he entered the garden. The rest was his own business, and Ernest Dormer knew how he meant to do it. The apparent absurdity of being called down twenty times to take note of the most harmless visitors, and sanction their entrance, had no weight with Dormer. He was too wise a hunter to miss his game by a haughty superiority to trifles. But he had not to watch long. Having given his orders, he returned to Magdalen. " It was not he, dearest," he said. " No, it was Mr. Chervil. I heard him speak at the gate. What made him come here, Ernest ? " " He had to pass us, he says, so he brought your medicine." " And he has brought some for you, Ernest, and it has done you good. I can tell by your voice that you have heard somethiiig that has pleased you. Now, I ask to know it, sir." It was the first time that she had called him by the playful title of honour. " You said that I was good, just now, my darling, for agreeing to put no questions to Edward Grafton. Pay me back by not asking me this until I can give you more pleasure, by telling you more than I know. Yet I will tell you, if you insist." SOONER OR LATER. 338 "Whisper, Ernest." He bent her ear close to his lips. " I will pay with that. Be grateful, sir. And now go on with your reading, unless it tires you, love." He hoped and believed that he was safe in offering to answer, yet half feared that the excited sensibility of convalescence might impel her to press her wish. Had Magdalen done this, the truth must have been told, for Ernest Dormer, during his long vigil by the side of his wife, had made a vow — no, vow-making was no habit with Dormer — but had convinced himself that with a woman like her who lay near him, it would never be well to use deceit, even for her apparent good. It takes many men a long time to arrive at that conviction in regard to their wives — some men never attain to it at all — but it may be said, not uncharitably, that this is the wife's fault. Ernest resumed his reading, and Magdalen listened to M. Alexandre Dumas. For they had never contrived to finish that wonderful tale of the Queen Margot, which they began at the foot of the cataract. " Do you remember," said Magdalen, " how indolent we used to get when we tried to read within hearing of the voice of the water- fall ? Or perhaps, as you said, we were not indolent, but we felt, ■without knowing it, that the water voice must be a better thing to listen to than the Frenchman's. We did not get beyond the place where the four dukes went out to kill their enemy. I don't think that I remember whether they killed him or not." " No, they did not manage it, but he gets killed. But that is one of the pleasant things in Dumas' books, murders do not seem like murders, and though you are enormously interested in what is done, you do not care enough about the actors to feel that any par- ticular harm has been done." " Ernest, a thought came to me last night. It has nothing to do with the book, but let me tell it to you. I wondered whether it seemed to you as strange as perhaps it is that now I am strong enough to talk, I do not ask you to let me hear all that has been happening to you, and what all the mystery means. I began to tease myself with a fear — it was a very little fear, dear, and it is gone — I won't call it one, but I hoped that you would not believe that anything that had grieved and troubled you could be a thing I could bear to let you have to yourself." "That thought never came to me, Magdalen. But how did you drive it away ? " "May I say one word, and you will not be vexed — it is to make you know how happy I am ? " " Love." 334 SOONER OR LATER. " There has been a time then when I was not so sure of your love as I am now, Ernest." " You are sure now ? " " For ever and for ever. And that sureness brought the thought I am going to tell you. I lay and thought over the strange things that have separated us, and it seemed as strange as any of them that now that we are together again we should not talk them all over, and tell each other everything that we have felt, and perhaps have owned to one another that we might have done something better." " You could not, darling." " Indeed yes, Ernest. Do you think I would have said that if I had meant you only ? I ought to have borne up better, and have written to you oftener and more warmly, and have shown you that I felt — I did feel it, Ernest — that your trouble, whatever it was, came from your having married me. But I never was very cold, ■was I, dearest ? — even into that last dreadful letter " You have kissed away the words, sir, but I will speak. I am not thinking of it, darling. I was only going to say that even into that I slipped a little word which you read — I am sure you read it." " Ah, and I think you would forgive me much if you could know how I read it." " Did it please you — did it comfort you even for a moment ? I am so thankful that I wrote it. For, Ernest dearest, I will tell you all the truth — I had almost thought that you would not care whether it was there or not. Are you angry ? " " Only with myself — never with you. Had you not a right to believe that, and far more ? " " No, and I never believed it, but I was very sad, and very ill, and I let the thought come to me. It is scared away for ever and ever. Let me tell my comforting thought that came to me last night after I had said my prayers. Why, I asked myself, are we thinking about the past and waiting a time to speak of it ? Ernest knows all, and that is enough — are we not one ? Was that a foolish, weak thought, coming from illness, or was it one of those things which the angels are sent to tell us when we have tried to come near them in prayer ? " " Believe that," he tenderly said, " and never part from that faith." " And we are one?" " It is my happiness that you know it, love." *' Then I will be good, and silent. Only, if you please, I do not think I wish to hear any more reading now. Yes, keep my hand, and let me close my eyes. Perhaps I will let myself sleep." SOONER OR LATER. 335 He had answered her from his heart, and he rejoiced in her frank and loyal love. But not with the fullness of rejoicing which he longed for. He felt that he had work to do before he could cast the world behind him, and repay her with fondness unshackled by a thought beside. His nature had been elevated by troubles, but he had lost the art which enables so many of us to bear up against them, the art of forgetting for the hour the cares of the next. He was deeply touched by his wife's affectionate confessions, but, having received them, and laid them up in his heart, Ernest longed for a summons to action. He had speculated on various ways in which he might be invited to meet his enemy, but had not been prepared for that one in which the summons came. Beccles's ingenuity — he was a great man for contrivances which were laughed at, and yet used with much comfort to the after-life of those "who had laughed — had devised a little signal by which Ernest could be summoned from the room without the disturbance to Mag- dalen that would have been caused by a servant's entrance and message. It was but a card, tied to the end of a string, which passed under the door. The card lay where his eye, but not Magda- len's, easily caught its movement by an unseen hand. He read on, and suddenly the signal acted with so violent a jerk that Ernest knew no servant wanted him. It was Mr. Conway, in much excitement. He beckoned Ernest down-stairs, and into the garden. " Ernest Dormer," said Mr. Conway, " if I seem to speak angrily, you must forgive me. I am only too rejoiced to believe that you are an honest man. But you have been mixed up in some way with men who are not honest, but accursed scoundrels, and one of them is down here." " I know it." " And his business with me ? " " With you. Have you seen him ? " " Yes, seen him, and spoken to him, and have to see him again. He threw himself in my way in the street, introduced himself, and wished me to walk with him for a few minutes in the Castle ruins, as being out of the way. He looked very respectable " "No, no. If there is a mistake," said Ernest, between his teeth. "Yes, professional, clean-shaven, smooth-faced " " Ha ! " said Ernest, with a sudden relief, " of course he would do that. And I might have been deceived into letting him come into the house. Thank God, you have met him." "You are so much in earnest that I don't make you the reply 336 SOONER OE LATER. I might, namely, that yom* thankfnhiess seems a little out of place," " You will not say that when I tell you that it is because Magdalen has escaped a possible danger. I mean that he might have sought me out here, and that our meeting might have caused her disturb- ance and alarm — but tell me what he said." " The fellow — he gave his name as Davenport — apprised me that he had become possessed of a secret which, if revealed, would entail shame and sorrow upon me and mine. That you, Ernest Dormer, of whose return he was aware, had the key to the mystery, and there- fore could tell me how dangerous it was, and he would spare me the detail unless I should fail in getting it from you. And he set a high price on his secret." " Five thousand pounds ? " " Yes. Then you know of it, and what it means ? " "I do, indeed." " And — and are we to pay the money ? " " Not a shilling, if it would save him, body and soul, from " The bell rang loudly, and Ernest rushed round to the gate, to open it, and to admit Mr. Haslop, Serjeant Penguin, and a third man whom Dormer did not recognise. CHAPTER XXXIV. THE KUINS. Mr. Haslop spoke first, and it was to ask, anxiously, for news of Magdalen. But when Ernest had said that his wife was, they hoped, and indeed believed, out of peril, and that she was allowed to talk with him. Penguin took his hand : " Then, you have nothing to learn ? " " Everything ; and you have come to tell me something, I have something, also, for you. Dudley is here." " We know that, and it is the reason why we are here," said Penguin. " The rest is for Mr. Haslop to say. I can hardly mistake in supposing that I meet Mr. Conway," he added, raising his hat. " We got word," said Haslop, " that Dudley had been down for some days, but of course we know nothing of his purpose. Have you met him ? " " My father-in-law has just met him," said Ernest, " and is invited to meet him again, a pleasure which," he added, darkly, " I intend to ask him to resign in my favour." He then told them what had passed between Mr. Conway and Dudley. " Once — seldom twice— in a man's life," said Haslop, " it happens to him to arrive so opportunely as I have done. When are you to see this man again, Mr. Conway ? " " You mention a name I do not know. This person I saw was good enough to say that he would wait for me one hour, in the ruins of our old castle here, and that if he did not then see me, he should conclude that I preferred receiving him at home. I understand no- thing, gentlemen, of the mysterious story he told me, and you have interrupted Mr. Dormer, who was, I suppose, about to explain it to me." Mr. Conway drew himself up, and spoke with irritation in his tone. He had been gi'eatly and materially disturbed at the interview with the stranger, and the sudden aiTival of the new yisitors, who were apparently in the secret that had been withheld from him, did not tend to pacify him. 338 SOONER OR LATER. " Let us have all explanations in one," said Haslop ; " where are these ruins ? " " You can see them from the road," said Dormer. " Then we will go there together," " I am not wanted, possibly," said Mr. Conway, trying to speak coldly. " Indeed you are, Mr. Conway," said Haslop ; " but do not let us lose time now." " A moment," said Ernest Dormer, whom even the excitement of the hour could not make unmindful that Magdalen would wonder at his prolonged absence. He went back into the house, and sent Mrs, Conway to take his place by his wife's side. " Now for the ruins," he said, coming out. A walk of a few minutes, during which earnest words were ex- changed between Dormer and Haslop, the others keeping silence, and Serjeant Penguin, as usual, inspecting everything and every- body in his large manner, with tlie gold eye-glasses high in air, brought them to the old castle. Its few remaining portions had been utilised by a farmer, Avho rented the land, and they had been converted into sheds for the animals that grazed in the large gTeen space, once the tilt-yard. A single tower, one side of which had crumbled away, leaving the chambers to be easily made out by the supports for the long-vanished floors, fi-owned on the desecrated halls, and remains of a wall which had escaped entire destruction marked out the area on two sides — the others were open, save that a badly-kept hedge j)revented the wanderings of the cattle. Pushing open a gate, Ernest led the way into the inclosure. At the opposite side he saw a man walking fast, and smoking. " There is your friend," said Mr. Conway. " That is not he,", said Serjeant Penguin. "Much too respect- able," he added, lowering his eyeglass. " That is he," said Ernest, white with anger. Any doubt was at once dispelled, for Mr. Davenport, on turning, and seeing the party advancing, gathered himself together, as it were, shook out the ashes from his pipe, and came up boldly to meet them. " One spokesman," said Haslop, hastily. " Penguin, it is in your way." " As you please," said the Serjeant, with secret gratification, for he loved to be in evidence. " Only, perhaps, Mr. Dormer " " I have not come to talk," said Ernest Dormer., " When jou have done, it will be my turn." " You have soon returned, Mr. Conway," said Mr. Dudley, as we SOONER OR LATER. 339 may now call him to the end. " And you bring a worshipful com- pany with you. I see that I am recognised by acquaintances. Serjeant Penguin and Mr. Haslop I also recognise. To see Mr. Dormer once is to remember him ; but I have had the pleasure of seeing him twice — the second time, as he will recollect, in society which makes even Covent Garden pleasant." " Dudley," said the Serjeant, " listen to me. The time for swagger and menace has gone by. Your game is up. The only question now to be decided is, Avhether we shall prosecute you, or let you leave the country." " You speak to the purpose, su', at all events. But as it is idle to deal with agents, when principals can be got at, I would suggest that you leave Mr. Dormer and Mr. Conwa;^ to finish the conversa- tion with me. I have put Mr. Conway in possession of my views, and I am here to receive his answer. I agree in what you say about swagger and menace, in which no sensible man will try to rival Serjeant Penguin." " Ha ! " said the Serjeant, smiling. " I have seen bold men, and I have also seen them singularly and rapidly transformed into cowards, by the simple alchemy of a little truth. Mr. Dudley, you did not, ifc seems, explain yourself to Mr. Conway." " No, Mr. Serjeant. I showed a consideration for his feelings, and I left explanation to his son-in-law." " There has been no time to make it." " Pray take any reasonable time," said Dudley, witli a calm inso- lence. " I have not sought to hurry the gentleman." " You desire no secrets, Mr. Dormer. I may say what seems use- ful, I suppose ? " Ernest Dormer made a sign of assent. " Mr. Conway, it is not necessary to trouble you with all the de- tails of a foul and scandalous story which this person, whose name is not Davenport, but Dudley, and who, where known at all is known most unfavourably, sought to establish, with the aid of a confederate who has had the grace to be ashamed of his work, and to abandon his share in the conspiracy." Dudley listened to this exordium, which Penguin gave in his best maimer, and not a shadow on the face of the former would have revealed that he was listening to a narrative affecting himself. He even nodded approvingly at the close of the advocate's sen- tence. " But the basis of the slander," continued Serjeant Penguin, " was, that when the present Mrs. Dormer was unmarried, she paid repeated visits to the chambers of a young man in Gray's Inn, and I need z 2 340 SOONER OR LATER. not pain and shock you with the inference sought to be drawn from such alleged facts. I am obliged, however, to add, that the other witness, who has repented of his attempt, distinctly swore to certain familiarities, his account of which it might have been difi&cult to believe without admitting that conviction which this person desired to create." " Distinctly swore to them," repeated Dudley, in a low voice, as wishing, however, that the point should make due impression. " I say so," returned Penguin, looking at Dudley. " I say swore. That witness withdrew from the plot, which, you have perceived, Mr. Conway, simply means the extortion of money. But I assure Mr. Dudley, as well as yourself, that the man in question adheres to the statement which he made, and re-asserts its truth." " Farquhar does that ? " said Dudley, surprised. " Then I am sorry — no matter, go on, Mr. Serjeant." " Farquhar, so the witness is named, Mr. Conway, does that. I forbear to remark upon Mr. Dudley's exhibition of remorse, or to inquire to what it refers, as that does not concern us. I merely say that Mr. Farquhar affirms that he has spoken the truth, and I believe that he has done so, in a sense." " In a sense," broke in Dudley, who could not restrain his satis- faction at finding himself once more supported by evidence which he thought he had lost. " In a sense. You are a clever man, Serjeant Penguin, but you will have to talk a long time before you explain away the lady in the white lace scarf at Percy Vaughan's window, and the affectionate embraces ; and then we come to the murder, Serjeant Penguin." " The murder ! " gasped Mr. Conway, trembling like an aspen-leaf. " What terror next is to be coupled with the name of my child ? Ernest," cried the old man, piteously, " I ought not to have been brought here." " No," said Dudley, " you ought not, sir. It is not my fault that you are caused this suflPering, which I deeply pity. Had your son-in- law and his advisers acted as kindly as I did, this scene would have been saved." "■ We will play it out, however," said Serjeant Penguin. Ernest Dormer had drawn close to Mr. Conway, and, with a kindly arm supporting the old man, spoke to him in a low voice. Conway looked up at him with a long gaze, as if seeking to discover whether Dormer's words were the truth or not. But Ernest's face was set as a flint. " Now, Mr. Dudley, I offer you a last chance," said Penguin, im- pressively. " Down on your knees, confess your villany, withdraw SOONER OR LATER. 341 all charges, and beg our pardon, or take the consequences of your atrocious wickedness." " Are you mad," said Dudley, with glistening eyes, " to ask me to withdraw my charges when by your own mouth the chief of them is declared to be true ? " " I have not said that, Mr. Dudley. Now, sir, thank yourself for all that may follow. "We admit Miss Conway's visit to the chambers, we own to the white lace scarf, we declare that the embraces took place, and may have been witnessed. We do more — we produce the man." Percy Vaughan stepped forward. He was something changed in look from what he was when he entered the chambers of Mr. Haslop, on that long past Sunday after- noon, to learn that his attempted forgery had failed, and that he must leave England for ever. He had been a wanderer, but neither an aimless nor an unlucky wanderer, and his handsome face had lost none of the habit of self-assertion which Haslop then remarked. He was bronzed, and bearded, and his powerful hands had been browned by exposure. As he stood forward, Ernest Dormer thought that he had not often seen a man more likely to be a dangerous rival, and even at that moment he had time for a thought of pride that he had him self been preferred. " I know nothing of this person," said Dudley, confronting tin stranger, and smiling audaciously. " But if he is Mr. Vaughan, sc much the better." " I know him," said Mr. Haslop, " and have known him long. My voucher for his identity will, I doubt not, satisfy Mr. Conway." " Well, and what has he to say ? " demanded Dudley. " This," said Vaughan, in a voice which, in its first tones, told Dudley that he was to hear no good thing. " Had I known gf this devil's work that has been going on, I would have been in England in time to save this Dudley a journey to Naybury. But I am here, and that is enough. His game is over. I have read the precious story which he has concooted out of the fall of that wretched Barton and the spying of that more wretched Farquhar. In every sense in which it can affect the honour of a lady, it is from beginning to end a most infernal lie." " You may bring this old tower down if you talk so loud," scoffed Dudley. " It is easier to call names than to convince those gentle- men," he pointed to Ernest and Mr. Conway, " that they can do better than accept my terms" " I will see to that," said Percy Vaughan. " You and I have an account to settle. But first we will clear away your lies. Mr. Dormer, it is perfectly true that Mrs. Dormer, then Miss Conway, did 342 SOONER OR LATER. me the great honour of a visit to my chambers — one visit only, and it was a marriage visit." " Doubtless," said Dudley. " A marriage visit. Mr. Dormer is, I have no doubt, aware that I was fortunate enough to render Miss Conway a service which she never forgot. It is not impossible that he may have been told — her nature was the most frank and beautiful that I ever knew — that for the very shortest possible time I was mad enough to think that I might succeed in obtaining more than gratitude. My folly was made clear to me in a few moments, which I would not forget if I could, for they taught me how a noble woman can reject without wound- ing. A wild dream was over, I addressed myself to my profession, and I found a wife who is very dear to me. I have now to accuse myself of a real crime." " I thought we should come to it at last," muttered Mr. Dudley. " It need not be spoken of," said Mr. Haslop. " I detected it be- fore it could do harm, and Mr. Vaughan left England." " But not until I had married," said Percy Vaughan. " Mr. Has- lop's liberality enabled me to offer myself at once to a penniless girl, who would have waited my time, but who joyfully agreed to go abroad with me, and has made me the best of wives. Miss Conway saw her once, and it was on her wedding-day. That day Miss Con- way honoured us by coming to our rooms, and she wore the white lace scarf of which you have heard. She brought us two presents, that scarf for my wife, and for me a locket which I hope may be given to me again when its strange history shall be cleared." " Of my four rooms," continued Percy Vaughan, " those upstairs were the lightest and pleasantest, and " " J|our rooms ? " said Dudley, coarsely. " I have looked over the chambers you had, for I once thought of taking them. There are two rooms, one back, one front, and a sort of clerk's closet. If you are going in for an alibi, don't tell me what I can contradict at the outset." . " Ah ! " said Penguin, " I was never more ashamed of myself than when I learned how I had overlooked that chamber arrangement. I had it before my eyes, too. After the body of the poor fellow had been taken away, I went and read the names on the doorway of your house. I read who dwelt on the first, second, and top floor. I never thought of the third. That might be passed ; but the other day, and after this business had begun, I go and read the list again, see that the third floor is filled up, and it never occurs to me to remember Avhat as a Bencher I might have recollected, namely, that we gave orders last year to take away the inside staircase that joined the two SOONER OK LATER. 343 floors, and to let the chambers separately. When you said last night that you had two sets, I thought what idiots we clever fellows are." " The knowledge would have been of no use," said Yaughan, '• without my explanation. In the fi-ont room, below, I used to work, but no one else entered it — i\Ir. Haslop guesses why. The back room, below, was a sitting-room, and there, ou the day I speak of, we received Miss Conway. She was never on the upper floor at all." '^ Ah ! » said Dudley. " No, you scoundi-el," said Percy Yaughan, turning savagely upon him, " your witness was deceived. The scarf, Mr. Dormer, was pre- sented to my wife, and she, girl-like, instantly flew up-stairs to array herself in it at the glass, and, bride-like, called me up to see her in the beautiful gift. The embraces spoken of were hers and mine on our bridal day." " Haslop told me this as we came along," said Ernest Dormer to Mr. Conway; " but do you think I wanted exculpation for my wife ? " " And poor Barton was not flung down," jeered Dudley, " and did not die in my surgeiy, telling me what he had seen, and giving me the locket Avhich Mr. Dormer has so wisely kept." " I would have flung him down without pity, and remembered it without remorse," said Yaughan, fiercely, " if I could thereby have saved Miss Conway from this cruelty. But he was simply a thief. I had laid that locket near the window, and as we were descending the stairs I suddenly recollected and went back for it. You lie, Dudley, or rather you put a lie into the dead man's mouth. He never saw my wife. But he saw me, a moment too late. I dashed at him to regain the locket, and he went over the parapet, to be used by you for this scoundrel end." " You speak loud, as I said before. But the facts speak louder, and all your noise will not make our friends here believe your ver- sion. And when we talk of credible witnesses, we do not mean men who are obliged to fly the countiy for crime, and who reappear for money, as no doubt is your case." " I have prospered, gentlemen," *said Percy Yaughan, quietly. •' Mr. Haslop's aid enabled me to become a partner in a lucrative business in Germany. I changed my name, and hence the delay in tracing me, but in one hour from receiving his message, I was on my way to England." " That I know," said Mr. Haslop. " Let me add, Mr. Dormer, that my wife's eagerness that I should hurry over to bear my testimony was as great as my own. She will follow me, if you think it needful to have her present. Even in the S44 SOONER OR LATER. haste of departure she did not forget to give me the copy of the marriage certificate, and its date will have an interest for you — will you read it ? " " It is needless," said Ernest Dormer. " I know that every syllable of what you say is the truth. Is the date the sixth of August ? " " The sixth of August," said Serjeant Penguin, who had instinc- tively snatched at the document. " We have heard much of that date, Mr. Dudley." " And you will hear more, depend upon it, Mr. Serjeant. If our positions were reversed I should like nothing better than to hear you deal with this witness, this returned felon, whom Mr. Haslop, the friend of the lady who is accused, introduces so luckily at the nick of time with a pretty bridal story and a forged certificate." " Mr. Vaughan's occupancy of the four rooms can be proved at the ofiice of the Treasurer of the Inn," said Mr. Haslop. " And the two ladies remained there," said Dudley, ironically. " or did they come to the front, and look down upon the body of Andrew Barton, and see me taking him away ? That must have been a pleasant incident in their lives, and they must have told their two husbands of it." " Neither knew anything of the incident," said Percy Vaughan. " I am not in the habit of losing my head, and making things worse than they were. Nor would I have let my wedding-day be marked, for my wife, with the memory of a death, though unintentionally caused. Miss Conway never, I have said, came upon the upper floor, and my wife had gone down a minute before Barton appeared. ] had presence of mind enough to keep them in the sitting-room until long after the crowd had dispersed. But I saw 30U, Dudley, stoop- ing by the man, and I saw you, Serjeant Penguin, come up to the doorway, where you remained some time talking to a porter." " I did ; and I went over the names, and never thought of the set of chambers on the third floor, between Orbit and Wheeler, the engineers, and yourself." " Then, gentlemen," said Mr. Dudley, " am I to accept this pleasant interchange of recollections — it only needs the presence of the ladies to make it perfect — am I, I ask, to accept this as the answer to my demand. I have laid before you a statement, supported by evidence on oath, and sealed with the blood of a murdered man. You meet it with a tale of back rooms and bridal veils, and the word of an exiled criminal. This is the answer, is it ? " " Not quite all," said Serjeant Penguin; " but suppose we stopped there, have you any rejoinder ? " SOONER OR LATER. 345 " None for this place." " Any further menace ? " " That is my affair. I have dealt frankly and openly heretofore. I have been met by trick of every kind, and I shall now proceed ■without the formality of warning. I shall regret any unhappy results, but they will not be of my causing." He spoke defiantly; but his eye had little defiance in it, and it wandered from one face to another, instead of gazing with his accus- tomed insolent stare on the person he addressed. He felt that his scheme had broken down, that he was utterly defeated, that his enemies had resolved on accepting Percy Vaughan's narrative, and that he had no chance of working on Mr. Conway, now surrounded and supported by stronger men than himself. A stranger in a strange place, unhelped, and in the presence of the four nien who were there to crush him, Dudley still held his own. But he would gladly have slunk away. Three of the four men around him were prosperous men — men of honour. The fourth was prosperous also, and spoke in the tone of one for whom the world was seiwant, not master. And they looked at him scornfully, yet vigilantly, as at a stunned serpent that might rouse itself, and must be stricken again. His cherished dream was broken, and the gods had reverted to their old sport. " Then, Mr. Dudley," said Penguin, " we are not to understand that you abandon that wicked and preposterous charge, and renounce the idea of extortion ? " " Understand what you please. It is not probable that I shall again apply to any person present," said Dudley', sullenly. " Not for bail, I fancy," said Serjeant Penguin, with a laugh. Dudley gave no reply, except a contemptuous look. " It is no business of mine, Dudley," continued Penguin, whom silence irritated more than any retort. " But we have had some passages of arms together, and I have a sort of pity for you, for which I must apologise to my friends here. Let me give you the assurance that bail will not be taken, and therefore you had better make the necessaiy arrangements for going to prison." " "What is this ? " said Ernest Dormer, suddenly. " No arrest must take place without my sanction. Surely you all see that I am the person to decide on the next step, I, whose wife has been maligned." There was a deadly purpose in Ernest Dormer's manner, though lie spoke with self-control. " You were not wrong, Haslop," said Penguin, significantly. 346 SOONER OR LATER. " I was right," said Haslop, " and I am sorry that it is so. Dormer," he said, "will you walk aside with me for a few moments ?" "By-and-by, as much as you will. Now, I have only to request that you will all three withdraw, and leave me to speak to Mr. Dudley." " I will not be left with him," said Dudley, with a sudden and ghastly fear upon him. For he remembered the last words that Ernest Dormer had said when Dudley had revealed to him the foul story. And he had come to that meeting unarmed. And he felt that Ernest Dormer could not know this, but would remember that old boast of means of defence, and would have armed himself. Had Dudley come to die beside those ruins ? He ground his teeth in rage at the thought of his folly, and then again he said, " That man swore my death in case my story should be untrue. He believes it untrue, and he has come here to kill me. You are conspirators, accomplices, if you do not deliver me out of his hand." " A dastard, too," said Penguin. " I said so." " No," said Dormer, " he is not a dastard. He is a scoundrel ; but the man who, after our first and last interview, until to-day, would persevere in his plot against my wife, is no mere coward. Nor is he showing cowardice now — better men have shown more when con- fronted with men they have wronged. Mr. Conway, will you conduct our friends home ? " " Dormer," said Haslop, " are you mad ? For what purpose should you be left with this man ? " " Suppose," said Ernest, calmly, " that although I have no doubt of the truth of the explanations that have been given, there is a point or two on which I could wish to be satisfied, and I might, in private, be able to induce Mr. Dudley to clear up a doubt or so." "You doubt nothing," cried Dudley, " and I will not be left with you." And he drew near to the side of his most merciless enemy, Penguin, who, in turn, drew away. " Ernest," said Mr. Conway, who had long been a silent but an agitated witness, " even I, who have been wounded to the very soul by what I have heard this daj^ I would ask you not to sully the happiness with which we have received Mr. Vaughan's statement. Do not give way to any violence." " Before I left home," said Ernest Dormer, thoroughly master of his voice, if the mastery went no further, " my wife was listening to a French story of the way in which four men went out to destroy one enemy. The odds made the act seem cowardly. We are four to one here, and we have destroyed our enemy. Before we begin to feel that SOONER OR LATER. 847 we are too many, let us leave him. I ask only a few moments' talk with him." " You shall not have one," said Haslop. " He is the Queen's prisoner," " What do you mean ? " " Ah ! " said Penguin, " I cannot see very well' at that distance ; but," he added, gazing towards the gate of the field, " here comes one who I suppose will explain." A man was seen running towards them. " It was for your sake," said Haslop to Dormer, in hurried accents. "What — what was ? " " Do you think I had forgotten what you said to me at the hotel, and how j^ou had planned a death upon the glacier for yourself ? I know the devilish intention which now sways you, but you will live to thank God that I stayed your hand. Come on, man," said Haslop, impatiently, as if the new-comer could hear him, or as if he could have mended his pace, which was rapid. " This is the officer," said Haslop. " We got the warrant, and it has been duly confinned here — that kept us late — Dudley is this man's prisoner." " This man's ? " said Ernest, with a smile, which faded from his face the next instant, as he saw the expression on that of the new arrival. It was Mr. Beccles. Beccles was among them the next moment. He had run well, but was not exhausted, and it cost him little effort to speak. " Mr. Dormer, my errand is to you." " You come from the house — my wife ■" " It is her message— am I in time ? " " For what — for what ? " said Ernest, vehemently. " She is not worse ? " As he spoke, his hand fell to his pocket — it was no involuntary movement. Had Mr. Beccles answered yes, that which it had been bad to^do had been done before Dormer had rushed away to Magdalen's side. " No," said Beccles. " But come this way," He drew Ernest aside, and said, — " I called as usual — you were away — you ought not to have been away. I care not for the cause, your place was there. But she sends you this message, and if you disobey it in the least jot or tittle I warn you that you will be her murderer — I don't pick terms, and she is an angel." " The message ? " " It is this, and again I warn you to obey it, if you would not lose the woman who sends it. ' Tell him that I Imow all, and that if he 348 SOONER OR LATER. believes that I am good, he will forgive. And bring him home to say that he has forgiven.' Do you understand that message ? " " Yes." " Are you sure ? " " I understand it only too well." " Then, mind, I shall remember that you owned it, and the rest be upon your own head," said Beccles, bluntly. " You love her, and your words cannot anger me," said Ernest, laying his hand on the shoulder of the doctor. *' But she lays a heavy burden on me." "I am sure you have no bad news," said Mr. Conway, who had been watching them intently, but who had been somewhat calmed by a re-assuring gesture from Beccles, as he led Ernest away. " No, nothing of the kind," said the Doctor, eyeing the group with curiosity, "Are you exploring our ruins, gentlemen. You could not be in better hands than Mr. Conway's, or it Avould be pleasant to me to oflFer any information in my power." " In point of fact, sir," said Serjeant Penguin, upon whom, as the largest of the party, the Doctor's eye had chiefly rested, " we have been engaged in a discussion on a ruin, but not that of Naybury. But — " " A word," said Ernest Dormer, coming back into the midst of the group. " Haslop, you said that a warrant was out for the apprehen- sion of this person, and I take it for granted that you are in earnest." " Thoroughly, and as you know why it was issued, you may be sure that our friend Serjeant Penguin has taken care that it shall be duly framed. I thought it had arrived, but it cannot be long; and until Mr. Dudley is in the hands of justice, I shall protect him from any others." " He is safe from me, Haslop, and the warrant must not be executed." " Better that it should be," said Penguin, with a side-long look at Dormer. " You do not know me so well as Haslop does, though you have known me longer," said Ernest. " When I have said that this man is safe, you might leave him with me in a desert. But he is more than safe." " I am Avithout a weapon of any kind," said Dudley. " It was not always so, but it is so to-day; and when your officers search me they will see that I came to this meeting without protection against violence." " I am glad of that," said Ernest Dormer. Haslop, perhaps, un- derstood him. " There was no danger of violence, Mr. Dudley," said Haslop. SOONER OR LATER. 349 " It was my business to see that none was offered, for tlie sake of one whom you have nearly killed, and who, if I read matters aright, has sent from what is perhaps her dying bed to save you." " It is so," said Ernest Dormer. " Listen, scoundrel! Mr. Haslop is wi'ong in saying that there was no danger of violence, for it was certain until five minutes back. It had been my intention to be alone with you, and to have said that — or, if necessary, done that — which would have made you turn upon me, murderously, and I knew that you carried arms. Then, I should have done my best. I believe that I should have avenged myself. And, again, had Mr. Beccles's errand been to tell me that your devilish machinations had robbed me of my wife, I would have dealt you one blow that should have left you little power to exult over me. I say this, not in boast, but that you, base and lying wretch that you are, may com- prehend how you have been saved. It is as Mr. Haslop has said. My wife, your victim, has charged me, as I beUeve in her innocence, to pardon your guilt. Go! and when you are reduced to the beggary you deserve, ask Mr. Haslop to help you — he will do so for me, and be glad, though not so glad," he added, turning to Haslop, " as he is now." " No," said Haslop, with glistening eyes. " By Jove ! you are in luck, Dudley," jeered Penguin. " Thank the gods, if you know any, and then run like the devil, who knows you. For that is the only way to escape a magistrate's warrant, which has Ijcen sent down into Naybury for your arrest." " I am in luck," said Benjamin Dudley, suddenly regaining all his boldness, and confronting them, unabashed. " I believed that a truthful story like mine would not be swept away like a stage plot, and that when I pressed it home, the truth would be admitted by one who knows it best. I had but to lay the story before Mrs. Dormer, and let her see that I was in earnest about it, and my work was done. She sends her husband orders to pardon me, and he orders his friend to pay me. We will not haggle over words. She is a wise woman, and he is a wise man, and Mr. Haslop shall have an early call from me. My price will ensure my silence." Beccles, close to Ernest, laid so firm a hold on him, that before he could rush forward, another voice spoke. " I will ensure your silence," said Percy Vaughan. " While away, I have been branded by you as a murderer. That should pass ; but the woman you have slandered sends me no message to forgive her wrongs, and I do not. As you say, your work is done." The report of a small pistol echoed through the ruins of the old castle. 350 SOONER OR LATER. Percy Yaughan had taken rapid but fatal aim, and Dudley, with a ball in his brain, reeled, and fell on his face. " This is a murder," exclaimed Beccles, who, with the instinct of his noble calling, was instantly by the fallen man's side. " This may be," said Vaughan, " but Barton's death was not. As there is a God in heaven, Ernest Dormer, that man lied." " He will lie no more," said Beccles, bending over him, as Dudley, when first he came upon our scene, had bent over Barton. The retribution brought back that original group to the eye of one of that party — to the eye of him whose hand had brought that retri- bution about. They hastily gathered around the dead, but a brief gaze was enough. "When they stood up and looked in each other's faces, one man was gone. Percy Vaughan has never been seen again by any of the men who on that day stood under the old ruins. But he escaped from England, and found means to apprise Haslop that he had done so, and would not be tracked a"-ain. CHAPTER XXXV. THOSE DEAR FLOWERS. " I A3r here again, love," said Ernest Dormer, as he resumed his wonted place. Magdalen laid her hand in his. " Were you very angry with me, for sending you such a message by jMr. Beceles ? Say you were not very angry." " Supposing that it were not true to say so ? " asked Ernest. She did not answer, but the sweet blue eyes sought his face — not anxiously, but with a serene expression which they had not lately worn. " No," he answered. " I was not angry, love. But I should speak untruly if I said that I had not wished your message had been later. JBut that is all over now. Tell me, how came you to send — I mean, to know anything that should make you send ? " " Ah, sir ! you have married a Lady Fine-ear, who can tell what is going on at a great distance," said Magdalen, smiling. " I heard the voice of Mr. Haslop in the garden, and a loud voice, — you are going to tell me whose, — and you were all speaking mysteriously, and you all went out together. But you sent up mamma to me, and I heard from her that there were two strangers, and she was agitated, but in- deed I did not ask her why. Then I knew that it was something about our story, and Mr. Beceles had seen you all going to the Castle. He thought that it Avas only a visit to the ruins, and that you were showing them to friends ; but I knew, Ernest, that you would not have left me for that. Did Beceles give you my charge ? " " He did, faithfully. But what, my darling, made you think it necessary, or that there was any one to forgive ? " " You did. You went out with an angry eye and a stern mouth, like a man who is going to avenge himself on an enemy. AYas it not so ? " " It was so — at least, I went out intending to chastise an enemy." " Him who has said the cruel things of me ? " " Yes. Shall I tell you of him ? " 852 SOONER OR LATER. " Tell me that you granted my petition to you." *' Nay, love, it was a command, and it was obeyed." " Fully and willingly, Ernest ? " " Unwillingly — which gives value to the obedience. Fully, more fully than in obedience to your words, for I went further, and offered the man money. But the merit of the deed is all your own, love." " And you wish that it had been undone ? " " No," said Ernest, " a thousand times no ! I rejoice that it was done. And now shall we be silent about it, for I must not let you forget that you are weak ? " " I am not weak, dear. At least, I am getting stronger every hour. And I should be so glad to know why you rejoice. He has been penitent, perhaps, and has made amends ? " " Yes, he has made amends — all the amends which he can make in this world. I have forgiven him, ^nd we need name him no more." " You are keeping something back from me, Ernest, and you mean to be very kind. Did I not tell you that we were one, and I did not seek to know anything more than you pleased to tell me ? You believe me good — I know that, and that is all. If I say to you that your speech means more than it says, it is only to show you how I watch your voice. And who have come down to see you from London, and who is the gentleman that talks so loud ? " " That is Serjeant Penguin, the great advocate. If you were well, I should like you to see him ; he Avould amuse you much by his perfect disbelief in anything good, while he is always doing good things — his coming down here, for instance, in the middle of his business, was a great proof of good-nature. So, indeed, was Mr. Haslop's ; but then he is an old friend of yours, and bound to look after you, whereas Penguin is only a sort of club friend of mine, and not at all bound to me." He made a long speech of this, in the hope of getting Magdalen away from another question. But it came. " And who is the other stranger ? " " I fear to startle you, Magdalen, my darling, and yet I hate to prolong mysteries. He came for a good purpose, and he is gone away again. It was Percy Yaughan." Ernest threw his arm around her, and was ready to support her in case the mention of a name connected with two terrible episodes in her life should cause her sudden agitation. But she smiled, quietly, as one who was comforted, not surprised, by news. " Yes," she said, " I thought that you would have him home at last. The not being able to find him was the difficulty that kept SOONER OR LATER. 353 you away so long, or perhaps lie was afi-aid of coming to England. It was quite right that you should try to question him, and yet, Ernest, I never told you an untruth, or refused to answer a question, did I ? Or if I did, it must have been in playfulness." " And can my wife find no loving reason for my silence to her ? " " I know not what you mean, dear. Yet, forgive me, Ernest, before I say it — have you forgiven me ? " " Yes — yes — anything." '• Day by day, as my head gets clearer, a hard light seems to come to me. But mind, love, it is thrown only on what is past and gone. You love me now — I know you do — yes, tell it so, but you need not. I know it — I am happy. But you did not love me well, then, Ernest, or you would never have kept this thing from me, and sought knowledge of strangers. It was a kind and delicate thought that made you conceal a shameful charge from me, but it was not love, Ernest. You would not conceal it now, my own one, were you to hear it now for the first time ? " " I would not. No, not for worlds. Do not say that I did not love you, Magdalen. I always loved you ; but it Avas truer to say that when I did not trust you with this secret, I did not know you, and what you call a kind and delicate thought was but a shallow excuse to myself — I never offered it to you. We have opened our hearts to each other now — and they will never close again." "And the poor miserable people who have sought to injure us — we owe them gratitude for what they have done. They have married us, Ernest." " Yes. But I have no gratitude for them. Now, I have more to tell you, and you are brave and strong, and I will not keep it back, or run the risk of letting you hear it from another. For the last time, I hope, a scoundrel's name must be recalled to you. In the accursed letter that was sent to you from London, the name of Dudley occurs as that of chief slanderer. He sent you the letter. His object was to make us all believe that he could substantiate a scandalous story, which we should give him money to suppress." " And the story was about poor me. I never could understand what they charged ; but Ernest, I read over and over that I was kissed and embraced." Crimsoning, as she spoke, she half whispered the rest. '' Do I not know it ? — would I not swear it before all the world ? But we know now on what show of truth the story of his was built. A young lady ivas embraced, and she wore a white lace scarf." " Percy Vaughan's dear little wife," laughed Magdalen. " I know of the scarf, of course, for I gave it her as her wedding present ; but 354 SOONER OE LATER. she did not tell me of the caress — do young wives speak of such things ? " she added, archly, but again the colour rose slightly. " Not wives like my Magdalen." His Magdalen remained silent for some moments, and then, looking affectionately at him, said, — " And is this the dreadful story which was told of me ? " " There is some more, dear, but that matters little ; and there is the end of all things to be told. Mr. Haslop contrived to recall this Mr. Percy Vaughan to England, and he was brought down here to confront Dudley. They met in our presence to-day. Vaughan's explanations utterly routed Dudley, and a quarrel followed. Yaughan fired a pistol, and wounded the other man — mortally. " He is dead ? " asked Magdalen, trembling. " He is dead." " Ernest, how horrible ! It seems impossible that you should have been at such a fearful thing, and be talking of it calmly to me — letting me laugh, and speak nonsense. Surely I am not dreaming ? " " It is all true, darling. Your slanderer has met his fate at the hand of the man whose name he sought to mix up wickedly with yours." " You told me that you had forgiven him, Ernest," said Magdalen, anxiously, solemnly, and clasping her hands. " I had forgiven him. I will tell you more. He spurned my forgiveness, and treated it as a proof that we were afraid to defy him. The deed that removed him was a grim one, Magdalen, but he deserves no pity." " Oh ! do not say that ; do not say that. What abject misery and humiliation must a poor -wTctch have undergone before he could be driven to try to wring money from the friends of a girl whom he never saw, who never harmed him. You would have given him money, Ernest, if he had lived ? Say that." " I told him that Mr. Haslop would be my almoner. He scoffed, and implied that he should have much larger sums than charity would give." " And it might have saved his life — his soul — if his terms had been gi-anted," said Magdalen, in a low voice. " He has been driven to a mad quarrel, and where is he now ? " " And you speak, Magdalen, of the man whose plot might have estranged us for ever," said Ernest Dormer. " No," said Magdalen, gently. " God would not have permitted that, love. It was not to be. But it is fearful to think that this wretched creature has been hunted to his grave. And Percy Yaughan, with such guilt upon his soul — is he — is he in prison, Ernest ? " SOONER OR LATER. 355 " He escaped, while we were attending to the wounded man. I trust that he will elude any search for him, and get home to the wife of whom he speaks so warmly." " The poor, dear little Avife ! And her husband a murderer ! Oh ! Ernest, Ernest, what dreadful things have joined themselves to our lives ! " And she laid her head on his bosom, trembling and weeping, " All this could not have Heen kept from you, Magdalen," he said, soothingly, " or it might have been better. But ere this it is the talk of Xaybuiy, and will be the talk of the country. Happily, the witnesses to the act are men who will know how much evidence is due from them, and how much may be passed over. Yet, I fear, love, that it will be many a day before our connection Avith the fate of this man will be forgotten. But'that must not trouble you, my own Magdalen. We may leave this place, after a time, and forget its miseries. Meantime, we must have you brightening and strengthening. You are not all your own now, nor even all mine, darling." Her fair arms clasped his neck, and drew his lips to her own. It was as Ernest Dormer had supposed. The inquest on Dudley was duly held, and the evidence of the chief witnesses was discreetly given. It is not impossible that, but for the high character of those witnesses, and the adroit management of the coroner, who was per- sonally acquainted with Mr. Conway, and, of course, with Mr. Beccles, even a country juiy might have insisted on being allowed to come a little more behind the scenes than was necessary for the purposes of justice. One or two spiteful persons in Naybury did hint, that if four men surrounded a fifth, and permitted him to be shot down by a sixth, who was allowed to escape, they ought to be able to give a very good reason for not being treated as accomplices. But character and tact won the day, and a verdict which charged Percy Vaughan with the offence was promptly obtained, and — as it happened — no injustice was done. Dudley was buried in Naybury churchyard, and the newly-arrived cm-ate, who retmmcd thanks that his brother had been delivered out of the miseries of this sinful world, was happily ignorant of the additions to those miseries Avhich had been caused by the sinful brother for whose release he expressed gratitude. Mr, Haslop, for some unassigned reason, which probably Magdalen might have comprehended more readily than others, chose to remain and attend the funeral of Dudley. Mr. Serjeant Penguin, it need hardly be said, was moved by no kindred impulse to be present at that A A 2 356 SOONER OR LATER. ceremony, but soon returned to London, having addressed to the Conway and Dormer family his heartiest congratulations upon the way in which an unpleasant business had been brought to a close. The Serjeant felt what he said, and would certainly not have understood the look with which Magdalen received from her mother an account of his parting words. But, in the mystic language of an old west country ballad, " If all the world were of one religion, Every living thing would die." Dudley's patients and customers missed him but little. But a sen- sation was created by an incident which occun-ed in his house, and which afforded matter of discussion in Lancaster Street and its neighbourhood for many a day after the name of " Mr. B. Dudley '' had been obliterated. His shop and the parlour in the rear have been described. Beyond the latter, a flight of steep steps led from a door in the parlour down into a sort of cellar, where the larger and coarser articles of Dudley's trade were kept. A kind of drawbridge, or falling flap, hid the stairs, and afforded a path to the leads over the cellar, which was of great depth, and received its small share of daylight from the narrow opening between itself and the house. There was nothing in the cellar of sufficient value to induce its careless owner to close its door, which, indeed, had fallen from one hinge, and disclosed the blackness of the cavern. On the leads stood a few flower-pots, grimed, dingy, and for the most part holding the deadest of departed shrubs, the barest sticks of what had once been flower-trees ; but in one or two cases, by some strangely-clinging vitality, there were weeds as green as weeds may be in such an atmosphere. The whole array had belonged to a poor little schoolboy, who had met with a fi-ightful street accident, and whose ft-iends had lodged him in a back room in that dreary house, that he might have the attendance of Dudley — the best they could afford for the child — and there he had wasted away, not unkindly tended by the rough apothecary. When the boy died, — which he did smiling, and thanking all who had helped him to the end of his little life — and the landlady of the house was about to consign the flower-pots to the dustbin, Dudley swore at her horribly, and with his own hands earned them to his own leads, and once or twice watered the flowers ; but they were soon forgotten. He had now been absent many days, and no news had been received of him at his house. This excited no particular attention, his wayward habits having accustomed his landlady to his absences. Had she been a regular reader of the papers, she would have seen an SOONER OR LATER. 357 account of the inquest, but she was not a woman of the reading sort, and at the time she had no lodgers who might have informed her of the affair. Mrs. Faunt was the only other inmate. Mrs. Faunt was undecided as to her course. She had revenged herself on her friend Dudley by the cou}! which destroyed his case before the lawyer, but he was unaware of her treachery, and she had still an intention of making him useful or profitable to her. And, strange as it may seem to those who ignore our strangely mixed influences, Mrs. Faunt, in spite of her fierce wrath with Dudley, and her malice against him for the especial crime of the false photograph and the imaginary tombstone, had retained a grim sort of regard for her old friend, accomplice, and enemy. He had shared in so much wickedness, almost as much as she had, and so many of those whom they had known in old days had come to soiTy ends, that she clung a little to this stalwart survivor. If he would not be extraordinarily brutal, she thought, she might as well live out her time in the house in Lancaster Street as go elsewhere. Naybury had become useless to her, and there were few other places that attracted her, and two or three where, for good reasons, her residence would be unpleasant. She would at least await Dudley's return to town. Where he had gone she did not know, but on the suspicion that it was to Naybury, had conveyed that idea to Mr. Penguin's clerk. But Mr. Penguin had received a more definite intimation from a more respectable source. It was a Sunday afternoon, and the landlady, after ministering to Mrs. Faunt's necessities and luxuries, had, with that lady's assent, departed to Greenwich to see a grandchild which had just been vacci- nated: a mission which may not seem important to the lofty- minded, but which is regarded as a duty and a pleasure by the humble. They had arranged that Mrs. Faunt was not to sit up for her friend; and as there were two keys to the street-door, each woman could be out, independently, and the one flat candle in the passage was to denote that the other inmate had retired to bed. The house being left to Mrs. Faunt, and that person having taken her usual and n(jt inconsiderable quantity of fluid refreshment, she began to feel, as she stated to herself, lonesome and pathetic. A dull Sunday afternoon in an empty house in a dingy street near Holbom does present a combination of dreariness which might damp the soul of a person of amplest resources, and in an old woman in the state approaching to the maudlin it was not surprising that the circumstances had an eff"ect. Vainly did she seek consola- tion in the glass : the liquor refused to intoxicate her, but only made her more and more conscious that she was a lonely, evil, old, neglected, despised, miserable woman. 358 SOONER OR LATER. While in this mood, Mrs. Faimt happened to look out at a back window, and she beheld the weeds that flourished in the pots of the poor little dead schoolboy. Perhaps, in the circumstances, they seemed to her more, and greener, than they really were. But they sent a rush of rural feeling to her heart, and rendered her so senti- mental that she declared to herself that she must go out and put her lips to those dear flowers. " His shutters '11 be shut, though," said Mrs. Faunt, " so I'll take a candle." Mr. Dudley's door was locked, but that form presents small obstacles to a London landlady, and this one had no secrets from her friend. Mrs. Faunt was soon in Dudley's parlour, reading the largely-scrawled order which he had indited to the efifect that nothing was to be touched. " That shows he expected people to walk in, or it stands to reason that he would not have written it," remarked Mrs. Faunt, who, like many other persons, grew argumentative when she had disqualified herself for argument. There was nothing, however, to invite her to appropriation, at which it was not in her way to hesitate. Not even a drop of liquor left in the chipped decanter. Dudley had needed no teaching to drink deep ere he departed. So Mrs. Faunt unbolted the door leading to the leads, and again beheld the herbage which she coveted to smell. The old creature smiled foolishly at the object of her desire. And it was her last smile in this world. Dudlej^, as a sort of protection against thieves, had removed the falling flap, or drawbridge, and Mrs. Faunt did not notice that he had done so, and she stepped for- ward. The next moment she was lying in a heap, rolled some distance into the dark cellar, with limbs and ribs fi'actured by the successive blows from the stairs, and with her head terribly gashed by the final fall. How long a time that miserable old woman passed while her evil soul was departing none can say. Nor were it a healthy thing to specu- late on the thoughts, each a terror, that may have come to her in that awful hour. We have done Avith her, and it is enough to say that thus ended a life at whose nature the artist has but dared to hint, and whose darker features are not even to be hinted at in days like these. But her race has flourished, before and since the days of Clarissa, and is not extinct. Enough of Charity Faunt. Leave her dead at the foot of the snare unconsciously set for her by the dead man. ANOTHER ENGAGEMENT. ( CHAPTER XXXVI. THE BROKEN EGG " Mu- ther/" exclaimed Grade Clare. We remember her fa- vourite imitation of the yelp of a street brat — she had once given it in the hearing of a dramatic author, and he had inserted it in a play, and the play had run two hundred and seventy-nine nights in consequence — " l^ln-ihcr I " " What next, .Jenny ? " was the demand from the shop. " Come up instantly if the Archbishop of Canterbury is cheapen- ing yom- potatoes." No such distinguished customer was below, but Mrs. Nobb, accus- tomed to obey her loving but imperious child, consigned her trade to the care of another of the series of unfaithful assistants, and went up-stairs. " Mother," exclaimed Gracie, who was in extreme dishabille, and whose pretty feet were in slippers, but not in stockings, " what do you thinlc ? " " I think you'll catch cold, child. What do you read the paper for until you're di-essed ? " " Never mind that, you old thing, but who do you think's dead ? You'll never guess." " Then I won't try, Jenny," replied her mother, throwing a shawl over "her child's plump shoulders. " Old Faunt." " Mrs. Nobb's sui-prise took the form of an exclamation. " Well, yes," said Gracie, " I suppose that's the party interested. But, upon second thoughts, mother, never let me hear such an ex- pression proceed fr-om your young lips again. Tumbled down some steps, and broken her neck," " And served her precious right," said Mrs. Nobb, who, not having been classically educated, knew no rule enjoining her to begin sparing a person's character the moment it ceased to be of any conseq-uence what one said of it. " Precious right. I always said she would come to grief one of these days. Read about it, Jenny, I've left my glasses in the basin of peas I was shelling." 360 SOONEE OE LATEK. Miss Clare read out, exceedingly well, a paragraph in which was announced the discovery of the body, on the day following that of the death. " She was a bad one," was Mrs. ISTobb's comment. " A very bad one. A worse one than you can understand, my girl. But that's a fearful way of going out of the world, and though I don't say it was too bad for her, as Providence knows best about that, I wish she could have had time to repent a bit, if it was ever so little." The poor woman was evidently shocked, and Gracie, who was not shocked in the least, forebore from the sort of remark with which she was accustomed to tease her parent. *•' Yes, it is shocking," said Grace. " And you had words with her." " Which, if it was to-morrow, Lwould have over again," said Mrs. Nobb, " and may be hotter. But that don't make it different. I should like to go round and look at the place. I dare say they'd show it me, as having know'd her in life." " There's sure to be a bobby as is ready for a bob," said Miss Clare, quoting a music-hall lyric. " I'll treat you, mother, there's my money. Only don't ask me to go. I sujipose I ought to feel some- thing, but I give you my word of honour I don't." " Why ought you to feel, child ? You cut her, as I told you to do, and there was an end." " Yes, with me. But I got her served out for all that. I don't know how, and I never asked, but I told a gentleman, a friend of mine, that you would'nt stand my doing anything, so he took it on himself, and he isn't a man to do things by halves. I mustn't tell his name, so don't ask me, but he's a married man and his wife has the honour of my acquaintance and admiration." " I can trust you, Jenny. Put on your stockings, and don't let's speak any more about a bad woman as is gone to her account." " I'll put on my stockings, mother," said Gracie, shaking out those articles from the collapse that hinted at their having been very hastily cast ofi" over-night, " but I can't promise the other thing, as there are two people at least that I must go and talk to about her this very afternoon. After rehearsal, says you, and you say the thmg which is right, and you are in fact a very superior kind of old woman. Got any anchovies, mu-iher ? " " Go in and get dressed, will you ? and I'll see about your break- fast. You was too late last night." " Which I were, but if an idiotic British public likes a curtain to rise after half-past eleven o'clock, what's to be done, mum, but oblige our idiotic but generous malefactors ? Talk to the manager, mum, don't scold me." SOONER OR LATER. 361 " I don't think I ever did, Jenny. Might have been better, if I had." " Impossible, you old thing. Your child is an angel, and wants anchovies." Wherewith Miss Gracie took herself and her light array out of the little drawing-room. Later in the day, and after the rehearsal she had spoken of, she might have been seen coming out at the stage door accompanied by her friend Francis Beaumont. " Nuisance, that girl," he said, as soon as they had turned into the street. " Well, poor thing, she couldn't help it," said Grace Clare. " Couldn't help getting married ? — yes, she could — at least she might have waited until the burlesque was out, and set running. There's no consideration about the profession, as you call it. I always said so. Confound her." " Nice bit of selfishness, that, Mr. Beaumont. You'd have had Fanny Holmes run the chance of losing a good match, for the sake of two scenes in your burlesque. I let you know that if I get a good offer, I shall accept it, at any sacrifice of your lordship's interests." " You, indeed ! Who'd many you ? " said the author, laughing. " But I say, Grace, what a bore it is. That stick of a girl they put in this morning won't do at any price. She's downright ugly, and your best speech is a lot of compliments to her beauty." " I think if I had a white waggon I could do something." *' A what ? " asked Frank Beaumont. " What ? " laughed Grace Clare. " That's one of my words — or two of 'em — don't you know ? Well, ignorance, we'll say cart blanch." " Goose ! But have you got any notion ? I declare I can't think of anybody that will do. Hang Fanny Holmes ! she makes me quite savage." " I have a notion, but I don't want to say anything about it until I see. I mean that I think I know somebody ; and if I can get her to do it, you could not do better than ask your manager's leave." " But I should engage her myself without waiting for that. Who is she ? " " Let me see her before I tell." " Will you go and see her now ? Let me charter a cab for you ? And then come and tell me. There's no time to lose, not a day." " AVhere will you be in a couple of hours ? I'm not coming to your club, mind that. I don't like being stared at." " I know. I wasn't going to propose anything so repulsive to your delicacy, Miss Clare. Come to my house." ^62 SOONER OR LATER. " Mrs. Beaumont has no objection, I presume ? " " Nobody has objections in my house to anything I like. Mrs. Beaumont admires you much. But you will not see Mrs. Beaumont, and you will see a white kid glove on the knocker." " Oh, dear, I hadn't heard. Prince or princess ? " " The latter." " I'm glad of that, as it will have its bringing up from your wife, not you, which promises better for it. Go home and nurse your baby by all means, and wait till I come. I say, Frank, do you recollect the last time I called on you ? " " Quite well." " That old woman's dead, that I got you to play the trick on. Have you seen it in the paper ? " " No, I've had no time for papers. Dead, is she ? "Well, that's a good thing." " For her, do you mean ? " demanded Grace. "No," said Beaumont, slowly. "That is decidedly not what I mean. Well, never mind her, go about your business. Here's a nice Hansom, with an elegant white horse ; shall I call him ? Now then," he added, when he had handed Miss Clare into the cab, protecting her drapery from the wheel in a way that showed it was not the first time he had rendered that cavalier's service, " where shall I tell him to go?" " Straight across the moon, and then to the left, till he comes to the equinoxious line," replied Miss Clare. " I'll tell him. Charing Cross first." " Knows how to take care of herself, and very right too," said the author. " Had to dodge fellows who wanted her address, often enough, I dare say. Hard work for a pretty girl to keep herself steady," he added, and then burst into a hearty laugh. " I am actually talking like the father of a daughter. >So that old hag's dead. I sent her into rough company, but not half so bad as her own. They tormented her, but they did her no harm. Liberavi animam." Meantime Miss Clare made the best of her way to the Hut. Lucy was at home, and called out to Grace to come in, but there was petulance in the tone. And when Grace entered the studio, no work was going on, and a painted egg lay broken at the foot of the easel. Lucy herself had no smile for her visitor. " It's a long time since I was here, Lucy, dear, but I have been so busy with rehearsals and dressmaking, and one thing and another, that it has not been my fault. How are the children ?" " Well enough," said Mrs. Verner, with a short laugh. " I don't know why you should take the trouble to come all this way to see me. SOONER OR LATER. 363 I'm a dull companion, I know, and j'ou get better dinners at home than I can give you." " You're out of sorts this morning, Lucy," said Grace, who was not there to be offended at trifles. "I want to talk you into good humour. But what makes you so melancholy ? " " I didn't know I was melancholy. Of course, I've got nothing to be melancholy about, my life is so gay, and I have so much com- panionship at home, and such pleasant memories to think over. It's a wonder I am not dancing from morning to night." " Can you dance ? " asked Grace. " What a question ! Never was a girl more fond of it, when I was a girl. When was that ? Ten thousand years ago ? Why, I have danced a hornpipe in this very room, among eggs of my own painting ; before some other eggs came to addle. But my dancing days are over, and my singing days too, for that matter." " You used to sing very nicely indeed." " Yes, Gracie ; but I've lost all my music." " That could easily be got again," said Grace, who, being in earnest, was not acute to catch second meanings. " I did not mean that," said Lucy Verner. " I didn't mean any- thing except misery. I wish I was dead." "Nonsense, Lucy, how can you talk such stuff? Young, and pretty, and clever— a great deal cleverer than I am, and I don't think small potatoes of myself I — and you talk about dying ! I'll tell you who is dead, though, and you won't be sorry to hear it." We do not wish to hate Lucy, and if we set down the wild thought that rushed across her brain, we will add that it did not come from her heart. " Not in her confinement ? " she said, in a hollow voice. " No— no — Lucy," said Grace, herself shocked. '• And you don't mean it, and you don't wish it." " No, I don't," replied Lucy. " Once I did, though," she added, with a half defiant look. " But that is all over and gone. I should not change colour if he were to walk into this room. All over and gone, Gracie ; and my wonder now is, how I came to be so happy with him. I don't seem able to understand it now. Who's dead ? " " Faunt." " Poor old beast ! And drank herself to death, I suppose. She was all mops and brooms the- last time she was here, dropping her papers about the room, and maundering," " Nobody reads the papers but me, I think," said Gracie Clare, laughing. " You are the third person I've had to tell about it to-day." 364 SOONER OR LATER. " I read them once, nobody more regularly, when there was some- body to talk about what one read ; but — " and she broke out into song, in a fresh and powerful voice, " but those days come not again, come not again, those days come not again," " That's just capital," said Gracie, with honest admiration. " I'd give my ears to be able to send out the high notes as you do, and you out of practice too. You must have had a first-rate education, Lucy." " No, I had not. But I learned a good many things afterwards, and he let me have some masters. All thrown away — money, time, affection, everything. " But tlie sooner it's over tlie sooner to sleep. ' " The sooner what's over ? " asked Grace. " Life, child. And I can tell you that the sleep is nearer at hand than you think, or I either, perhaps. If I could only make up my mind about the children, and feel sure that they would be kindly treated, I would mix myself such a glass of wine as I never mixed before, and lay mj'self down to such a long sleep, Grace. Eemember, when that happens, he is never to be told that it is his doing, his fault. It will not be. He has nothing to do with it, and he is not in my thoughts at all. It will be only from utter, sheer misery and weariness of the world." " How well you said that," said Grace. " I don't mean that the sentiment is not nonsense, of which you ought to be ashamed, but you delivered it beautifully, and nearly made me cry." " Not quite nonsense, dear. Can you read ? " said Mrs. Vemer, crossing to the fireplace. " Yes, I believe so," said Grace, thrown off her head by the sudden question. " Read that," said Mrs. Yerner, holding towards her a very small phial, labelled. " Nobody else shall," said Grace, taking the phial from her hand. " Are you not a downright wicked creature, Lucy, with those two angels of children, to think of leaving them to the chances and changes of a beastly cruel world ? Yes, that's what it is, and I don't Avant to be polite. You deserve that they should be taken from you by a malignant fever, on the same day, and laid in the same grave." " Grace, what words to a mother ! " *■ You're not a mother. You're a selfish and weak creature, letting yourself drop down like — like flat soda water." The gods had not made the little girl poetical, and, meaning well, she took the first image that came to her. Lucy, who had a sense of humour, instantly broke into a laugh. SOONER OR LATEK. 36^ " So you arc," said Grace," laughini^ also ; •' and the best of it is that you are not in earnest, and, I believe, hare no more idea of taking that stuff, when you come to the scratch, as a cow has of jumping over the moon, nor so much. Now, just listen to me. You say that you can dance, and I know that you can sing, and that you can speak well, and 3'ou don't want to be told that you are very pretty. I have an offer for you. Come to our theatre, and play a charming little part in Beaumont and Fletcher's new burlesque." " Me on the stage ! " said Lucy, opening her famous great eyes to their full size. " Yes, you. There's a fortune iu store for you. You don't despise the stage, I hope ? " " I am a person to despise anything, am I not ? " " That's not the way to look at it either. But never mind that now. What do you say ? The part has been rehearsed, so I know all about it, and I tell you it is quite easy, but very telling. They'll put your own music into it." " A woman's part ? " faltered Lucy, hesitating, "Yes, You had better begin with a woman's part, and have stronger things afterwards. I don't know what sort of legs you have, but if they are like your arms, they should be good ones." " Good enough," said Lucy, smiling. " That means very good — so much the better for you. But this character is a she-priest — what do they call it ? — and she wears long clothes, and I have seen the costume in the wardrobe — very nice indeed, white, gold fringes, and a belt of jewels, and the loveliest coronet, straight gold spikes, discovered by Fletcher in some absurd old book, but perfectly adorable. You would look divine in it. And then I must tell you that I am your lover, so that you would have to play nearly all the part with me, and that would give you confidence at the outset. Now, what do you say ? " Lucy VeiTier came out as Miss Cornwall, in honour of her native county. Her success was very decided, thanks to her piquant face and capital singing. She soon got on to better business, and in due course amply vindicated the character which she had given to her legs. The critics say that she will be able to hold her own in a higher class of drama than burlesque, should the public taste ever recover from demoralisation. In the meantime nothing can be prettier to look at than Miss Cornwall, and, some night, Magdalen, in a private box, will exchange looks, possibly smiles, with the mother of Mopes and the Dormouse. It is difficult for a man to prevent such compli- cations, unless he man-ies an evangelical wife who does not attend theatres. CHAPTER XXXVII. THE OCTAGON CHOEUS. Like unto the Grrecian Chorus, the men of tlie Octagon Club met and made their moral remarks upon the incidents of the closing drama. Three months had passed, however, since the vengeance descended on him who had contrived the plot against Magdalen Dormer. " Ernest will be much disappointed," said Milwarden. " I imagine it may be for the best," said Mangles. " Mrs. Dormer had gone through much mental and physical suffering. Had it lived, it might not have been healthy." " Plenty of time before them," said Dalston. And that was all the comment Avhich the chorus thought it worth while to give to one part of an announcement in the First Column of that day. " You will all be glad to hear, however," said Mangles, " that everything else is going on as well as possible. I have a letter from Ernest this morning." " lie might have written to me, I think," said "Walter Latrobe. " Knowing the estimate you set upon a child, Walter," said Charley Launceston, " he perhaps could not trust himself with the subject. Why don't you marry, Walter, and not be dependent upon other people for the loan of children, like the woman that begs round the comer, and has a different batch e\erj month ? " " I cannot afford it," said Walter, simply. " Pooh ! I was only in joke," said Launceston, " don't speak gravely to me, because I can't bear that. I wasn't seriously proposing mar- riage to a man who declares he has only seven hundred a year, and has your absurd ^notions about not marrying money." " Are they so absurd," said Tom Alford, " or at least, is the preaching them so absurd ? Our evidence that Latrobe talked in that way would be quite enough to secure him safety on the ground of lunacy, if he ever committed a crime. He is perhaps meditating one. What is it, Walter ? " SOONER OR LATER. 367 " Tom, your chaff is painfully lumbering. Some of the men here can do it sufferably, but the art is not yours, my son," responded Walter Latrobe. " Does Dormer send no messages to any of us, Mangles ? " " Had he done so, I should have delivered them with punctuality and dispatch. Colonel Latrobe," said Mr. Mangles. " What sort of a message did you expect ? May I be allowed to guess that you wish an apology for not being secured as a godfather ? Don't you think that the circumstances supply that apology ? Be patient." " I suspect that you have supplanted me. Mangles ? What made you go down to Naybury, in that cold weather ? " " Friendship, Colonel, which was warm enough, with the aid of some wraps, rugs, a foot-warmer, and a pipe, to enable me to accomplish the journey in tolerable comfort." " And you found everything pleasant again ? " " Well, yes. There's nobody here, I think," he said, taking stock of the half-dozen or so of men who were smoking around him, " there's nobody here who is not friendly to Ernest Dormer, and who would not care to know that all that queer business is getting for- gotten. Ah ! here comes Penguin, who did yeoman's service, and deserves the oakleaf coronet, and that we should all get up when he comes in." " Understand that. Tommy Alford ? " asked Milwarden. " Five to one you don't. Take it — no, it would be robbing you. Our classical friend alludes to the crown given by the Romans to him who had saved the life of a citizen — it was called the crown o& civem servatum. Write that down, and win a bet from some less instructed person." " I can win a bet of that sort without your help, Milly. I think you might remember that," said Alford, laughing. " He has you there," said Penguin, taking a large chair. " I heard of it^ ' He woke to hear his sentiy shriek, To licar the crj', the Greek, the Greek.' " " My dear Penguin," said his bright-eyed brother advocate, " I have often had the misfortune to hear you quote, but never with so much infelicity as now." Didn't he floor you with a bit of Greek, come ?" *' If the respectable company thinks that an answer to my criticism, I have done. We were speaking of Naybury, Penguin." " The less said about it the better ; I mean about certain events, I think," said the Serjeant. " I would not go through that scene again for a thousand pounds. I see it in the night. It would not 368 SOONER OR LATER. have been much, if I had been a mere bystander, but to see a man who was just now boasting and defiant, and at whom one had oneself been thundering — and the next minute — down there, never to get up again. However, don't let us talk about it. Sorry to see there is no baby in the house, for the present, at all events." " Yes," said Mangles, " it will be a great disappointment to that dear woman." " You may call her that. By Jove, if I thought there was such another in the world, I am not sure that I would not search her out and marry her." " I told all these parties, in the old days, my poor thoughts on the subject, and I was rather laughed at," said Mangles ; " but now that I am supported by the evidence of a cynical old hard man, like Penguin, I suppose that I may be credited when I say that Dormer is the luckiest fellow in the world." " You ought to except me," said Jemmy Rydon. " What, you luckier than Dormer ? " " No, no. I mean that at the minute you showed me her picture, didn't I swear that eveiything that had been said was a lie ? " " Yes, I believe I recollect some such logical inference on your part, James," replied Mangles, calmly. " ' Here are in all two worthy voices gained.' " " I was curious to know how the affair was taken in Naybury," said Penguin ; " but in the first place I could not stay, and in the second, I don't suppose they would have said much to me. But that pretty woman, Henry Wigram's- sister — I always forget her name, but it's one of the prize-ring names " " What's the good of that here. Penguin ? As if you ever forget anything — except yourself," said Milwarden, " You flatter me," said Penguin. " But now I do remember, it was Mrs. De Gully. I was going to say that she behaved exceed- ingly well — better, in fact, than any woman was called on to behave in the circumstances, because she was running the risk of a quarrel with a rich brother. However, it is all for the best, and virtue has been rewarded, for I hear he is going to Nice, and takes her with him." " She did behave well," said Mangles ; " but men who do not understand the facts, and do not know Naybury society, will scarcely appreciate what she did. It is only fair to say that this lady, who had, of course, been in Henry Wigram's interest, and had been made a tool of to bring about much unpleasantness, came out boldly, apolo- gised for her share in the business, and went about into society, proclaiming Mrs. Dormer's virtues, and menacing everybody with the SOONER OR LATER. 369 loss of her own patronage, if every atonement were not made to Marley House." " And what was her patronage worth ? " asked Dalston. " Xothing, in itself, and a trifle less ; but she had tremendous influence with that ancient and fish-like nobleman, old Mazagon, who is the great Mumbo-Jumbo there, and gives all sorts of parties. Mrs. De Gully looks over his lists, and she made a terrible example of one whole family, whom she caused the old boy to strike out, for crime and misdemeanour against the Dormers." " Xot that large female, with the two dreadful daughters ? " asked Penguin. " Xo," said Mangles ; " that large female also behaved well. I am not exactly an evangelical person myself, but I am bound to bear witness to the fact, that when the class so called see their way to a duty, they ' do it with their might,' as the motto of one of their head men says. That large female's name is Bulliman, and I would not mention it if I had not something to say to her credit. She made herself master of the whole affair " " She looks as if she was in the habit of making herself master in most cases, and notoriously, I believe, she does so in the case of the respectable Bulliman," said Penguin. " I got that bit of Xaybury gossip." " You are ofcnsis sagax, Mr. Serjeant," said Mangles. " The large female is the head of a society for talking scandal and making clothes for the poor. She summoned her parliament, informed them that they had all been quite wrong, herself included, in thinking that there was anything against Mrs. Dormer, and having thus performed her own penance, she intimated, it seems, in the peculiar dialect of the sect, I don't pretend to reproduce it, that she should consider anybody in a very bad way who did not call at ]\Iarley House. So, Mrs. De Gully for the worldlings, and Mrs. Bulliman for the pious, having come to the Dormer flag, you may say that it waves gallantly over Xaj-bury." " And that mad young parson, that took too much wine, and talked about his soul," said Dalston, really and unaffectedly speaking respectfully of the two crimes. " Ah ! that's another business," said Mangles, " and I don't pro- fess to understand it. Ernest Dormer explained it to me in a way, but he did not care to talk about it much. That young parson was no more mad than you are, Doddy, though I make allowance for your astonishment at his venturing to say be had a soul — he did not, by the way, for he spoke of his child's soul, and bad books. Mr. Ed- ward Grafton has succeeded his father in the rectory at Saxbury, and 370 SOONER OPw LATEE. will probably marry an evangelical lady of riches, and go in for St, Calvin. It is less probable that I shall ask him here to dinner any more." " The father retires, I suppose," said Pengnin. " I think I heard something of the sort." " You heard nothing of the sort, my dear Serjeant, and you know quite Avell what you did hear. It has nothing to do with any of us,. I believe." " What's the good of being mysterious ? " said Henry Milwarden. " Well," said Mangles, " I tell you what. We all talk a little freely here, and that's right enough. But without certain knowledge, I mean to mention no names for the future. We have had a little too much of that sort of thing." " There's an Arcadian ! " said Doddy Dalston, " Points a moral and adorns a tale, and actually preaches in a smoking room." " He has some good reason for holding his tongue in the present instance," said Launceston ; " so we'll let him shelter himself behind his pleasing moralities." " I have no such reason," said Serjeant Penguin. " I believe that the Rector of Saxbury has been compelled to break up his home and leave the country, in consequence of embarrassments occasioned by early indiscretions," " He was a tutor at Cambridge," said Launceston, " but had left a long time before I went there, but I remembered his name, and there was an ugly story still sticking to it, which, following the lead of Samuel, henceforth Solomon Mangles, I shall not repeat, but I con- yey my meaning to sundiy ears when I say that few things on the English stage are more effective than the water cave in the Colleen Bawn." " Your memory is not bad," said Mangles, "but the family were friends of mine, in a sense, and he has paid bitterly for anything done years ago." " Well, I must say," said Charley Launceston, "that I am awfully pleased at what we have heard. All the scandal and rubbish has been cleared away, and Eniest Dormer and ]\Irs. Ernest are exactly where they ought to be, and I wish he would come into this room and be congi-atulated." " He would not wish that," said Walter Latrobe. " But we'll get up a jolly house dinner for him the first time he comes to town." " And nobody shall say anything about souls, out of regard for Dalston," said Mangles. " And no Greek shall be quoted, for the sake of Tommy Alford,"^ said Milwarden. SOONER OR LATER. 371 " And no names sliall be mentioned, as a homage to ilangles," said Doddy Dalston. " And Horace Clyde shall be asked because he won't come," said Tom Ahford. " Beg your pardon," said Penguin, " he will come. A change has come over the spirit of his dream, Trhatever that means, — but the fact is he lias lost all his money, and isn't half the humbug he was. "While he was saving and thi-iving, he was as mean as a foreigner — all foreigners are mean, you know, how can they help it, not being Englishmen ? — but now his tin has all dropped down a tin mine, he has got free handed and jolly. I dined vrith him and five others here last week, and there was not a man at the table who could do him any good, or help his ugly wife on in society." " She is ugly," said Eydon, humbly, " and she's my cousin." " I beg your pardon a thousand times, my dear fellow," said tho Serjeant. " I could not know that. She is not at all like you. But if you feel hm"t, pray take your revenge, and abuse all my cousins one after one according to seniority of age and priority of birth. It's no compliment to offer you the permission, I do it myself with great freedom, especially at Christmas time." " She is ugly," repeated Rydon, " but she has made him a very- good wife, by tyrannising over him with the utmost rigour. He would have gone down a dozen times bat for his fear of her. It must have been without taking her orders that he has lost this money. I shan't inquire." " Another convert to the silent system," said ]Milwarden. " Yes, it will be a lively place in time," said Dalston. " Who will come and see Miss Cornwall as Endymion. Her lunatic song to the moon is the best thing I ever heard," " Endymion was a person whom the moon, that is, Diana, fell in love with, Tom Alford," said 3Iil warden. '• Did you over hear of Keats ? " " Course I have. "Who was talking of him, here, in this room, other night, and saying i Eton, when he was master ? " Tommy Alford, Tommy Alford, I " parodied Penguin, amid the shout that went up. " He knows better," said Launceston. "^He wants to draw another bet. I think I'll go -with you, Dalston. "Will you come, Walter ? " " No," said "Walter. " Why, you used to be such a friend of the lady." " I am her ft-iend still, but I have seen her do lunatic lousiness B 2 872 SOONER OR LATER. much better than she can do it in a burlesque, and I've had a part in it. I don't seem to care about the imitation," " Our Walter speaks a trifle more bitterly than he is wont, and he never used to speak so of unprotected Avoman," said Milwarden. " Unprotected. It is we who ought to be protected," said Walter Latrobe, walking out of the room. " Another little mystery," said Penguin. "Not quite," said Charley Launceston. "He's very mad about that girl having gone upon the stage, and though he isn't rich, as you heard and know, he offered her a lot of money to give up the engagement." " And she wouldn't ? " " Why, don't you see she is acting every night. No, that first round of applause settled her business, and Walter was requested to mind his own." " But I don't see why he should object," said Penguin. " That is to say, unless " He stopped. " Nothing of that kind," said Launceston, " and I don't expect to be believed when I tell you the real reason. Mind, I would not believe it myself, if anybody told it me, and I am quite ready to hear you jeer it down. Only I know Walter Latrobe. He was ready to make that sacrifice because he thought that Lucy ought to keep herself in privacy, and not run the risk of giving annoyance to Ernest's wife by becoming talked about." " He must be mad, of course." " Don Quixote was mad, but by Heaven, Penguin, Don Quixote was a gentleman, and Walter Latrobe's another." " Must have had a touch of sunstroke in India," said Alford. " Put ifc all together — his love of children, his objection to marry for money, and his wanting to take more care of a lady than her own husband would take — poor old Walter ! we shall hear something about him, some day." They did hear something about him one day. They heard that he was in a steamer in the Mediterranean, and that a child on boiu'd sprang from its mother's arms, and went over the bulwark. They heard that before the mother's shriek had ceased, Walter Latrobe was in the water, and that the baby was saved — but that the valiant, loving, high-natured soldier received a blow from the paddle-wheel. He was gone where the children all smile, yet may have been the gladder for his coming. CHAPTER THE LAST. COXJUGIUM. To the eyes of the world, aud to their own heart?, Ernest and Magdalen seemed to have vanquished all enemies, including the deadliest of all, the menaced estrangement of affection. It is pleasant to leave them happy — or with their happiness but slightly dimmed by the withholding of that which one of them had looked for with those sweetest yet strangest of hopes and fears that are known to early wifehood. It is pleasant to leave them thus, all doubts, all secrets done away, and each fully conscious of the otheV's love. Assuredly their re-union was not one of those merely sensible and decorous arrangements which are adopted in pm'suance of the excel- lent advice of friends, when there has been a misunderstanding, but neither party has any particular charge to make — arrangements of which friends say, and with perfect propriety, that a better course could not have been taken, that the husband and wife have really a sincere liking for one another, that the nine days' talk will soon be over, and that they should soon begin to give little dinners. Let no slighting word be said of that worshipful British goddess, common- sense. She is a bit of a Pagan deity, but her adorers manage to behave themselves so well, and to seem so content, that he who would pluck down her altar had best be sure that he can offer us a loftier cult. After all, men and women do not want many scenes in the course of their lives. Some are never called upon the stage for active drama at all, but do their duty behind the canvas, and in the flies and in the wardrobe, and they are very comfortable. But most of us have a part to play once or twice. Still, wc do not live for the sake of a few spasmodic conversations, a start or so, and a painful situa- tion. The earlier in our history that we can get over these things, the better, as they will make less mark on our future. Taking.>the case of husband and wife fi"om the Philistine point of 374 SOONER OR LATER. view, it is not a great deal that either demands fi'om the other. Given the accessories, the accustomed living, the income inherited or earned with ordinary exertion (poverty is somebody's crime, and we speak of respectable persons), what does the wife require from the husband ? « The courtesies of a gentleman — a man has no right to behave worse to a lady because she is his wife than he would to another—^ liberality in money matters, as much interference in household affairs as she desires, and no more — freedom to choose her own friends and make her own engagements, provided she commits no mis- takes, against which she has a title to expect him to warn her — enough morality to make it utterly impossible for her to state that he is immoral — and, if she be a little exacting, a general desire to please her, and to be pleased by her ; but though temper must be taught to comply with these conditions, some allowance must be made for temperament. There is a model husband. He is so good that he is entitled to ask something more of his wife than her acceptance of his name, house, and income. The courtesies of a lady— a woman has no right to behave worse to a gentleman because he is her Imsband than she would to another — reasonable economy, or at all events, open demand of money vote, no secret extravagance ; — such control of the household as secures him good dinners — admirable ones for his friends— and respectful ser- vants ; — sufficient self-command not to grow sentimental when any other gentleman than himself, any officer, tenor, Oriental traveller, or other Peril becomes tender — an instinctive knowledge of tlie persons to be avoided and not-at-homed — a willingness to listen when he has anyrhing to say, and as much of the caressing manner, in private, as is acceptal)le, and in good taste. There is a model wife. Much of those requirements, in both cases, is negative. Certainly it is so. Seven out of the ten commandments are negative. It would be a very good world indeed, if people would only leave off doing the things they ought not to do, and leave the other graces to follow in their proper places. But a great deal of the above is positive, and it represents, not the scenes and fcituations of life, but long years. Let us rather say long days, of which the years are made up. Long evenings, when it is not well that man and woman should sit moodily gazing at one another, and tliinking how much pleasanter some other companion — perhaps a certain companion — would be, and wondering why they married. Long journeys, when we are hunting for pleasure, and when it is not well to destroy it by showing want of interest in each SOONKB OR LATER. 375 ■other and in what interests the other. And it represents, too, what should be abiding!}- present, a desii'e that during the long partner- ship there shall be no grievances smouldering, no secrets festering, no injui'ies waiting to be repaid in kind. If we get all that is set out above, we find much merit, much self-command, much of Jiomage to our goddess, common-sense. You have no right to look for all that, or much of it, in the hero or heroine of the novel, but do you get anything that is much better ? The anti-Philistine will answer with an indignant yes, but let us see. Given that we marry to be comfortable, and not to be all our life Tecollecting, posing, attitudinising, antagonising, sympathising, for- giving and forgetting, a sort of life that must greatly expedite our executors' receipt of our assurances upon it. What kind of comfortableness will there be in the society of a gen- tleman who has had splendid passions for other ladies, single and mar- ried, and whom you. Madam, won at last, simply because your inno- cent manner and gentle voice soothed him at the instant that he was writhing under . the faithlessness of that dark flashing-eyed beauty who, having promised to elope with him, eloped instead with the ItaHan marquis ? You came as a healer, and you were very sweet, and you pretended not to understand his naughtiness, and you are his wife. But he was not thinking of you the other night in Paris, at the opera, when Norma was going on, and the marchioness was in a box opposite. They will meet in society one of these days, and then they will not talk about you, and your babies. All read very delight- fully at the end of the novel, and we felt quite holy as he led you out into the star-light, and looking down on your lovely upturned face, said that exquisite thing out of Owen Meredith; but at home. Madam, when you and he have dined alone, and you have the head-ache and he is tired and cross, and does not like the agent's letter about the coming election — that splendid creature of passion will not be the right man in the right place. And, Sir, that is a glorious woman whom you have won, and her ample brow (a mistake, however) is superb, and her head is noble, and the fire which leapt into those magnificent eyes, and the gushing roll of that musical voice tell of a thousand secrets to be revealed only to him at whose feet she has humbly laid her heart. Nor will that wild cry with which she took you to her feverish bosom in the moonlight pass from your recollection. But wait till you get the gout, or some less aristocratic complaint, let us say the influenza, and it makes you deaf and peevish. Moreover, though you are a good 376 SOONER OR LATER. deal of a hero now, and you sternly smote that half tipsy, gigantic l^eer, who insulted her, and made him reel down his ancestral stairs, you hare a tendency to pursiness, and will be addicted to easy chairs, and to think that the glorious woman might begin to take your homage for granted, and read Buckle instead of gazing on vacancy. You will find that voice has got some harsh notes in it. And while you are checking your wine bill, that glorious woman may be think- ing you a very commonplace person, and making allowances for the gigantic peer, who was capable of a fierceness of adoration of which you never had an idea. The Philistines may have the best of it, after all. Intense enjoy- ment is to be had out of " the crowded hour," but the long life of hours in which the sixty minutes are not crowded, but go on in orderly and dull fashion till the next hour relieves guard, is what the philosophic novelist has to provide for. He should either kill his people — and this the publishers object to — or he should give them a reasonable chance of living happily. Our Ernest and Magdalen have to take their chances, and all those chances are not good. He had thought that he loved before he knew her, but it had been made very clear to him that he had not, and he will not be disturbed by anything about his heart. We have tried to assure ourselves also that he will not be deprived of that sedulous attention to man's wishes and comforts which — for reasons — is not unfrequently bestowed in the Hut, and which is sometimes missed in the House. But there have been disturbing elements in the atmo- spheres in which both have lived. Luckily the two have never met and exchanged unkindnesses, there are no bitter words to pretend to forget, words that may be frozen up like those seized by Pantagruel, but just the sort that is likely to explode, as did his, upon the do- mestic hearth. This is good for those two, and it is good too that Magdalen has a sweet temper. We may fairly hope that they will be happy. Magdalen deserves to be so, for if she has faults, beyond that un- fortunate superstitious idea, learned from those Papists, that we are bound to forgive our enemies, persecutors and slanderers, and try to turn their hearts, those faults have yet to be detected. We do not say for a moment that Ernest deserves to be happy. To say so would be to make this an immoral book. He had lived an evil life, and he married without much love for his wife. But most men are much better off than they ought to be, and then, if he makes our darling Magdalen happy, we incline to forgive his early errors. Should she ever succeed in teaching him a little religion, it SOONER OR LATER. 377 is not impossible that he may understand her better than he does now, in spite of all his belief and protestations. As it is, he goes to church with her — frequentlj-. We can hardly leave them with a more satisfactory announcement. The Club Chorus has saved us the necessity of adopting the old- fashioned but not disagreeable course of mentioning Avhat has become of several of the persons who have grouped themselves, at greater or less distance, around our young friends, but there may be two or three of whom a few words may be said. Mrs. De Gully, whom we said that nobody was to like, because she was not a good person, showed, as has been already reported, that she had some good instincts in her. The discovery that she had been showing civility to the person who had induced her brother to engage her in an miworthy service, had so incensed her, that for once in her life she postponed a pleasure to what she thought a duty, and instead of driving direct to Lord Mazagon's that day, she went off to a railway-station, not that at Naybury, and sent up a telegram to Henry Wigram, informing him, with a wonderful expenditure of words, that his friend had been with her and was at Marley House. The result of this act of devotion on her part was twofold. Wigram, not altogether sorry to be able to do one decent thing, sent notice to Serjeant Penguin. And Mrs. De Gully missed Lord Mazagon's lunch. We know what' Penguin did, but it may be interesting to know that Lord Mazagon, who is the kindest of good-for-nothing old noblemen, made ample amends to her, by ordering a special refection, and by superintending it himself, and that Mrs. De Gully, flushed with the sense of self-sacrifice, made herself so exceptionally delightful, that his lordship left it in no degree doubtful to her that when she brought him news that the unworthy Captain De Gully lay with his last alias inscribed above him, the peerage should receive a new and beautiful ornament. Possibly Henry Wigram decided on a journey to Nice with some idea that his sister's interests might be thereby promoted. The Captain had been heard of as very much down indeed, and doing rascal service at certain gambling-houses in Marseilles. It would be unbrother-in-lawish not to furnish him with the means of obtaming as much cognac as might be good for the interests of society. But Wigram said nothing of this to Julia, and it is mentioned only to show that a good action is probably about to receive an early reward. It is hard to justify by any of the more ordinary rules of human S78 SOONER OR LATER. nature the com-se which at the last moment was adopted by Mrs- Sullage at the Rectory of Saxbury. She had pushed her revenge to the point of bringing the Rector to ruin, and making it necessary for him to endeavour to fly the country, and then she had stepped in and prevented the sacrifice by which Edward Grafton had sought to assist his parents. The natural, or shall we say the dramatic event to follow would be the Rector's despair and perhaps suicide, and a very excellent sensation effect might have been got out of a tenible situation — the mother shrieking before a locked door, and calling to her son to stand out of the way of a thin red stream that trickled from under it. But the fact was not so. Sirs. Sullage was not entirely unwomaned. For the Rector himself, she would have had neither forgiveness nor mercy, but the ardent love of Edward for his mother had touched the hard heart, and his ftirious words to Mrs. Sullage herself had confirmed a regard only to be understood by those who have studied what are absurdly called the contradictions in woman's nature. Patient, enduring, faithful Mrs. G-rafton refused to leave her husband, and Mrs. Sullage called her adversary, the lawyer, into counsel. "WTiat instructions she gave him matters not, but Mr. Abbott was soon able to announce to Mr. and Mrs. Grafton that he had discovered another way of raising some money, and that after a couple of years in retirement, he doubted not to be a1)le to invite them home again to the Rectory. It was harder work to bring about the unidh between Edward Grafton and Miss Phoebe BuUiman. Pho3be was not handsome, but a clergyman should know better than to make the sacred and typical alliance called marriage dependent on the accident of appearance ; nor is it a common failing with the Anglican priest to do so, in circumstances like those in question. But Edward Grafton had memories which interfered with his worldly interests. Mrs. Sullage in vain declared to him that the an-ange- ment already spoken of should be conditional on his securing the hand of Phoebe. Then Mrs. Sullage showed her own hand. Taking Edward into his own study, and using due precaution that his mother should not approach to overhear his story, she revealed to him that she was fully acquainted with all that had passed between him and the wretched old woman at the cottage — his first angry scene with Magdalen, his employing the spy upon Ernest Dormer, and all his subsequent humiliations, including his last cruel inter- view with the poor young wife. " I have nothing to deny," said Edward Grafton. " I have been SOONER OR LATER. 379 mad. But I shall not remain here, uncertain who knovrs or does 3iot know these accursed things. I shall oflFer myself to the Church Missionaiy Society, and be sent away for ever." " The missionaries are avenged I " said Mrs. Sullage. " The man who wished that they were all eaten asks to be enrolled among them." Even Edward laughed a hot, fierce, angry laugh at the poetical justice that had come upon him. But recovering his bitterness, he said, " What was that hag to you ? " " Mother," said Mrs. Sullage, quietly. Edward sat silently, wondering what he was to hear next, yet scarcely caring, " Yes, at sixteen she was my mother. But that doesn't concern you. She was my spy upon your house and those in it. I might be away, but my interests were well looked after by that old creature, who never asked anything from me but money, and who knew that I had nodiing else for her except hate. Has she not been truthful and faithful ? You have passed from her presence to mine, and little thought that your story had come to me first." "And I have even sent her to the house— sent her to my mother." " Yes, often, and to me, though you did not know that. But allow that I kept her under good control, when even in her diink, and with your father roaring and raging at lier like a bull of Bashan, she never dared to tell him what I had forbidden her to know." " You had no such regard for me." " I had not then. I did not much care. Don't expect much for- bearance from a woman who could stand by and hear her mother bellowed down — see her thrust, helpless, into the road in a storm." " You tell me this for some reason." " Yes, that you may know exactly what you have to expect if you refuse to obey me now. Marry Phcebe Bulliman, or every person in Xaj-bmy shall know yom* father's story and your own, and so shall your bishop, to say notliing of the Church Missionary Society," Mrs. Sullage having shown her hand — he threw up his cards. Had she proposed any one else to him, any one of more attraction — pretty Fanny Buxton, or any pleasant creature — he would perhaps have ottered more resistance. But in the utter impossibility of his regarding i*hcebe as a person to love, or in any way to be ordiuarily tender over, the impossibility of the otter was merged. He ottered. Mrs. Bulliman ordered the false and profane priest from the house, having previously pointed out to him, that he was but a money- 380 SOONEK OR LATEK. hunter, addressing himself to an ugly girl because a beautiful one had rejected him, and he wanted carnal riches. Mrs. Bulliman did nothing of the sort. That excellent woman considered several things, the first of which was that she had no Toice in the matter, for Phoebe was of age, and her father could do what he liked with his money. Next, she was a good mother, and was delighted that Phoebe should marry at all, an event which had not been among the Bulliman probabilities. Also she was pleased that the luck came to Phoebe and not to Sophia, who was a more exemplaiy daughter, in a religious point of view, but whose temper was shown to her mother in a persistently detestable way. Phoebe was her America, — she had rebelled and thrown off allegi- ance, but was always doing kind things to her under protest. Sophia was her Ireland, — nominally loyal and submissive, but ever- more troubling her -with discontent and hard words. Lastly, Mrs. Bulliman, though so exceedingly good, was proud of an alliance with a good old family like that of the Eector of Saxbury. Mrs. Bulli- man, when consulted, gave a smiling consent, and even had the motherly feeling to increase her plain child's triumph, by saying, "Dear girl, yoiu' heart told you more truly than your mother what was in the ways of Providence. I remember telling you, somewhat harshly, but I meant it for the best, that Mr. Grafton did not care for you. You had read him better, my love." That was hypocrisy, if you like, but it was intended to put Phoebe at her ease, and to prevent her dwelling too much on the thought that her mother knew Avell why Edward came Avooing. They were married, and Phoebe was happy. Her husband was certainly very undemonstrative in his affection, but Phoebe Grafton had not been much in the way of love-makers, and was perfectly satisfied. Mrs. Bulliman has been heard to say something about the dignity of a grandmother. More to the purpose is it— more at least in the interest of the parish of Saxbury, that Edward Grafton, now at peace, is being a good deal weaned from worldliness. We have learned that he had higher and nobler ideas of his oflice than those he could have gained from his father, but the young clergyman's weakness of character and want of self-command led him into snares, and his conscience had no fair play amid the entanglements with which he had surroimded himself. Now that his lot was fixed, that he had little to fear, nothing to hope, he had leisure to think. And inasmuch as it was impossible for him to talk about love to his wife, and as she was but moderately informed in literature and the things appertaining, it SOONER OR LATER. 381 occurred to him to talk to her on religion. Timid at first, for she gTcatlv feared offending him with Dorcas dogmas, Phoebe, when she found him tolerant and interested, genth' disclosed unto him the evangelical view of the' highest subjects, and gave him much matter for reflection out of the treasury of her well-trained theological mind. Ere long he became heartily ashamed of the nonsense that he had talked to her in other days, but she was too good a wife to take the victory, and simply continued to offer him, when permitted, her beliefs touching the unknown. So much effect did she work that there was at one time danger of Edward Grafton's becoming most unduly Low Church, and fraternising with the minister of an Ebe- nezer, but providentially his bishop, who really kept the eye of a vigilant over-looker on his diocess, came to Saxbury, and heard Edward preach. The fine voice which he inherited, and the bishop's compliments which it earned, kept the Reverend Mr. Grafton cleri- cally minded, and Phoebe, who instantly adored the bishop, resolved that her husband should do nothing to interfere with his lordship's yet more favourable notice. So Ebenezer was snubljed, but Edward Grafton does good work. Mrs. Sullage was seen no more in Saxbury. Whether she was teiTibly shocked at the fate of the evil old woman whose child she was, is not on record, but she became a gainer by that event. The woman whose death had been falsely reported by Dudley, and whose name the fictitious tombstone bore, was seized with a fit of remorse at having cheated her old accomplice in u uark deed wherewith Dudley was mixed up, and on a real death-bed bequeathed to Mrs. Sullage a large hoard of ill-gotten money. Mrs. Sullage was not fastidious, and she accepted the legacy. It was in part composed of what had been withheld from IMrs. Faunt by treachery, and it was the price of complicity and secresy in a fearful matter — yet the receiver clung to some rag of conscience, and perhaps did we know all about much conscience-money of which we daily read, we might have less sur- prise that this legacy was so prompted. Mrs. Sullage continues to in- struct Mr. Abbott, and Edward, who, though growing decidedly pious, and not thinking money the main chance, has learned to consider that we have no right to disregard any earthly good thing, and has oc- casional hope that her ideas of restitution may be carried still further. He has arrived, but by different means, at a similar belief, in refer- ence to compensation, and the duty of accepting it, as that of our darling at Marley House. One other person must be remembered, and that is our friend America Yetch, the composer. He grows more and more jealous 38B SOONER OR LATER. every day. The reason for this is one which would have a contrary effect with the majority of husbands, but the mind of Vetch inherits, from his oriental ancestors, a subtlety which materially assists him in his vocation of the self-tormentor. Mrs. Vetch is not growing more handsome, or more likely to attract admirers. On the contrary, her ample charms are becoming very much too ample, and the irreverent caricaturist, of whom Vetch was so unduly afraid, has actually shown a picture of her which is not untruthful, but which would justify Vetch in avenging himself on a fiend who could depict Lauristina as a Mrs. Daniel Lambert. Mr. Vetch himself is not blind to his wife's loss of attractiveness, but the lesson he deduces from it is not that now she may safely be left to take care of herself (which indeed she could always do) and that he need no longer see a deadly enemy in each of Her Majesty's guardsmen, and all other constituents of the Gilded Youth of London. Vetch refines, and urges that as Lauristina sees her charms decay, and knows that she must expect less homage in future, she may in despair be ready to listen promptly to even careless vows, and to secure what passionate admiration she can while a chance is left. And so he watches the gTeat fat thing- more closely than ever, and makes himself miserable every day, and Lauristina knows it — knows that her hour of triumph outside her house is gone — but that inside it she can disturb one heart, if not with love, with something whose results amuse her amiable nature. As a certain small lad, home from school, when his iDig brothers and cousins were recounting thc^r fights and valorous deeds, suddenly and exultingly chii-ped out, — " I can make one boy cry." Lauristina's life makes the worthy fellow miserable, but her demise would make him so miserable also that his friends scarcely like to rejoice that Mrs. Vetch, having nothing the matter with her, has recently taken to homoeopathy. Meantime, and when he can address himself to his art, he composes very good music, and is at work on an oratorio to be called " Vashti," in which he hopes to touch his lady's imaginary heart by depicting the feelings of a good husband with an unkind wife, and he insults his friends when they ask after Esther. Sir John Daw in the "Silent Woman" resolutely declares the King of Spain's ])ible to be an author. ISTot regarding the Vivisedor as a person, we may append a word touching that remarkable journal, and yet not be accused of lingering over our characters with that paternal fondness which is so intolerable to everybody save one. The paper prospers well, and deserves to do so. It is one of the best SOONEE OR LATER. 383 of a class of journals which indicate that the cultivated mind in this country needs something more than had been supplied by journalism. Until within the last few years the English newspapers have thought for the reader. They have done it honestly, brilliantly, and far better than the vast mass of readers could do it for themselves, and it is most desirable that these should continue to be guided by their betters. Amateur thinkers usually come to grief, and at best ai'e but amateurs. But the exceptional minds have demanded, in addition, a literature of inception and suggestion, and a training school for those who will either openly or secretly influence the destinies of those who believe themselves guided by the talking sort. There is a thinking sort whose constituents are not amateurs, and through them and for them a new journalistic dynasty has been founded. It is no rival of the other, on the contrary, they work harmoniously, the new being the complement of the old. Both will remain necessary to the higher mind, while the ordinary mind will be amply and wholesomely pro- vided for by one, the fearless, truthful, scholarly journalism Avhich is as salt to the sea, and keeps society from becoming as " the gilded puddle the beasts would cough at." But the Vivisector and its cognati have other work to do, and that it is done, and done well, i& shown in sundry catholic recognitions and sundry non-insular postu- lates which are already a religion lacking neither its priests nor — in a sense — its sacrifices. Glorious as have been the triumphs of phy- sical engineering, they have had to deal with no difficulties like the abysses, the chasms, the fierce currents which the intellectual engi- neers are bridging, and if as yet, to the vulgar eye, many a bridge of theirs may seem but as Al Sirat, they know better things and glide fearlessly on. They ask no plaudit, no puff, they present one another with no testimonials, except at times a solved problem that con- denses the faith or scepticism of a century, and they would know that they were losing strength if they found themselves becoming- popular. But the poets have worked and gone, and these are their successors, these true Makers. In the eventide there shall be light. Much too wise in their generation, however, are the owners of the Vivisector to make their daily bread dependent on the support of wise men only. They have not learnt arithmetic to make that blunder. They do not affect a plenary inspiration. Those who would consult the higlier oracles may do so in the Vivisector s columns, but there is also plenty of very good every-day preaching for a worshipper with an easy-sitting creed. In fact it is esteemed one of the very cleverest of journals by thousands who invariably pass over the articles which place it among the Makers. Whereby, the o■\^^lers are / '/--f ^?Vl#5t- ZM SOONER OR LATER. clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day, and yet they are doing more for Lazarus than he or his reviler wots of. Some of us, who have perhaps looked doubtfully and listened moodily on evil which forces itself on eye and ear, and have felt that " but to think is to be full of sorrow," have been helped by the writers of this school to maintain the belief that a day will dawn in which this Lazarus of a world will hear the words of power that came to the brother of her who sat still in the house. # ERADBUKY, EVAKS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIAKS ^ 'm^ 3> > x>>:>*> fK ^2>.> ,J>' 38?'- >" -3> y>>^ '^.;8> ^5 • 3> ?^ .>:> "3> >:> » . ^^ j> yy oyy ■ ^33S^ > > ) ' 3^3131^ ^Sr^jt -•^iJja^Ji!ui:»"'-'-^-''"'s >> > -is>s>» yy