LIBRARY 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N 1VER.SITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 W. H. 
 
 (TH & SON'S 
 
 SUBS^ef^lON LIBRARY. 
 
 ta^TEAND. LONDON. 
 
 - D&II.WAY BOOKSTALLS. 
 AND AT THE RAILWAY
 
 Digitized by the Internet Arciiive 
 in 2010 with funding from . 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cecilstrystnovel01payn
 
 CECIL'S TRYST.
 
 CECIL'S TEYST. 
 
 i iokl. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 LOST SIE MASSINGBEED,' *A PERFECT TREASURE, 
 'LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 
 
 1872. 
 
 l^All rights reserved.']
 
 LONDON: 
 nOBSON AND SONS, miNTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
 
 iX 
 
 
 !N^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Y 
 
 
 ^^b gook 
 
 IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED TO 
 
 Mes. WALFOED 
 
 BY HER FEIEND THE AUTHOK
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. Gatcombe .... 
 
 
 
 F&GK 
 
 I 
 
 II. Unexpected Guests . 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 III. Across the Way 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 IV. Felloav-labourers 
 
 
 
 72 
 
 V. A Spy-glass 
 
 
 
 . 99 
 
 VI. Lady Repton's Riddle 
 
 
 
 . 117 
 
 VII. Gall me ' Kitty' 
 
 
 
 137 
 
 7111. Dramatic Preparations . 
 
 
 
 162 
 
 IX. A Tragedy after a Farce 
 
 
 
 180 
 
 X. Jane faints . . . . 
 
 
 
 201 
 
 XI. The Magistrates' Meeting 
 
 
 
 224
 
 CECIL'S TRYST. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 GATCOMBE. 
 
 If you know the south, country, you must 
 needs have heard of the Wrays of Gatcombe. 
 They represented Sandylandshire for three 
 successive parliaments, and ruined them- 
 selves in endeavouring to do so in the 
 fourth, in the teeth of Fate and the Reform 
 Bill. It used to be a boast of the race that 
 none of them had ever accepted subordinate 
 ^ political office — and no high one was ever 
 offered to them, for the}^ had not good 
 brains — nor a title from a minister. They 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 would have been peers if they could, per- 
 haps ; but to have been Sir Frederick Wray, 
 Bart., would have been to be the last of a 
 third-rate order ; while to be Fred. Wray of 
 Gatcombe, was to be the first of Sandyland- 
 shirc notables. The head of the house was 
 always a Frederick, and the name was ab- 
 breviated by the country-folk for love — if 
 the affectionate regards of a constituency 
 can be so entitled. When the Wrays lost 
 their seat and their ' position,' they began 
 to be intellectual. The first who inaugu- 
 rated this regime was my father. 
 
 His younger brother, Thomas, was also 
 a clever fellow in a very different line. He 
 Avas a soldier of fortune ; which, in those 
 days, meant a soldier who had the art of 
 acquiring other people's fortunes — mostly 
 those of the natives of India. He quitted 
 home, to open the Hindustan oyster with 
 his sword, before I came into the world, and 
 never saw the white cliffs of England again : 
 so Uncle Tom and I never met. As a
 
 GATCOMBE. 6 
 
 memory, however, he had more substanti- 
 ality in my eyes than many whom I have 
 been acquainted with in the flesh. When I 
 was a boy of ten, his doings had not died 
 out of mind in the county yet, and the re- 
 cital of them interested me amazingly. His 
 feats at election-time — the election that had 
 ruined us all — had, in particular, quite a 
 magical attraction for me. If pluck, and 
 straight hitting from the shoulder, could 
 have won my father his seat, the partisan- 
 ship of Uncle Tom w^ould have secured it 
 for him ; he drove about with the gold in 
 bags, and sowed it broadcast; he spoke, in 
 public, such words against our adversary as 
 (at that time) invited pistol-shots, and they 
 were welcome to him ; he ' neutralised' 
 iive-and-twenty adverse votes by standing 
 throughout the poll-day at the head of the 
 cellar-stairs at the Red Lion, at Lipton, with 
 a shutter-bar in his hand, and daring the 
 imprisoned ' free and independent' to 'come 
 on.' When a ' dead lift' was necessary, our
 
 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 agent said that there was no man that could 
 be so thoroughly depended upon as ^Ir. 
 Tom. My grandmother had Irish blood in 
 her veins, which, it was said, accounted for 
 it. But notwithstanding this charitable view 
 of his character — which was, after all, onl}- 
 taken by our own side, the losing one — and 
 the warm aiFection that existed between the 
 brothers, I think it was rather a relief to my 
 father when Tom went to expend his super- 
 fluous energies in India. It was whispered 
 that there was some difficulty in getting him 
 off; not that he didn't wish to go, but that 
 he was ' wanted' by the police in respect 
 to some frivolous and vexatious charge, to 
 answer which might, nevertheless, have de- 
 layed him for some years. Indeed, it was 
 to avoid this troublesome matter that he 
 never came home again. 
 
 After our political fiasco, my father re- 
 tired into private life, which, indeed, the 
 crippled state of his finances would have 
 compelled him to do at any rate; but the
 
 GATCOMBE. 
 
 fact Avas, he was by nature inclined for 
 study and seclusion. He had few sympa- 
 thies in common with those of the county 
 families about him. He was no sportsman ; 
 would never even have preserved his game, 
 had it not been for my uncle's sake, in 
 whose eyes a pheasant was, what few other 
 objects were, a sacred thing ; and when 
 he did ride, he rode cobs. At the time I 
 speak of, there was but one even of those 
 humble animals in the great stables at 
 Gatcombe, formerly so well filled with 
 champing steeds ; though, afterwards (as 
 you shall hear), we did increase our stud 
 a little. The home establishment, gener- 
 ally, was upon a very limited scale, con- 
 sidering the size of the house itself, which 
 was very great. Under its roof the Wrays 
 had lived and died for centuries, and my 
 father clung to it in his fallen fortunes: 
 otherwise I don't think he cared very much 
 about being called Fred. Wray of Gatcombe, 
 nor, indeed, for fame at all, though it were
 
 6 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 of a much less questionable sort. If he 
 prided himself on anything, it was on his 
 philosophy. He was a scholar of a ver}' 
 rare kind ; not in Greek or Latin — though 
 he was not ignorant of those languages — 
 but in old English literature, chiefly of the 
 Elizabethan era. The drama of that period 
 was his especial delight. He knew all Shake- 
 speare, I verily believe, by heart; but his 
 favourite quotations were from the contem- 
 poraries of our great National Poet, such as 
 Greene and Marlowe, Dekker and Webster, 
 the application of whose lines to modern 
 circumstances sounded in unlearned ears 
 absurdly enough, and somewhat weirdly 
 also. The first recollections I have of my 
 father — with his j)ointed Vandyck beard, 
 and in the long red dressing- go ^vn which 
 was his usual wear till mid-day, sonorously 
 reciting from the old playwrights — are those 
 of a kindly magician. No poet ever ima- 
 gined a kindlier soul, though it was his 
 humour to hide his tenderness behind a
 
 GATCOMBE. / 
 
 thin veil of banter. One practice, in par- 
 ticular, he adopted from one of his favourite 
 authors, namely, the addressing of those he 
 loved best by the most unloving titles ; thus, 
 I have heard him call Aunt Ben ' Sycorax;' 
 ^nd even, on one occasion, when he wished 
 to be specially affectionate, ' Thou Stygian 
 Witch,' which sounded very surprisingly to 
 a stranger. Aunt Ben was my maiden aunt, 
 Miss Benita Wray, who presided over the 
 household, and had done so ever since my 
 mother's death, which happened in my in- 
 fancy. She had the utmost respect for my 
 father, and understood him thoroughly, 
 though without attempting to enter into 
 his pursuits. Her literature, indeed, was 
 confined to the titles of the jam-pots in the 
 preserve cupboard, with one remarkable 
 exception. She was so assiduous a student 
 of the Bible, and gifted with so marvellous 
 a memory, that she could give chaj)ter and 
 verse for every text. In this accomplish- 
 ment of Aunt Ben's my father took especial
 
 8 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 pride, and was for ever endeavouring to 
 confound her. 
 
 Gatcombe Manor — for the liouse still 
 went by its old name, though the manor 
 had passed into other hands than ours — was 
 a huge rectangular building, of no particu- 
 lar style, the design of which (if its archi- 
 tect had ever had any) seemed to have been 
 to enclose a space in its centre, called ^ the 
 Court,' into which half the bedroom win- 
 dows looked, to the great depression of their 
 tenants' spirits. It was paved, and had a 
 draw-well in it, which my infant mind as- 
 sociated with the Avicked doings of little 
 Bobby Greene. ^ Did you hioic Bobby 
 Greene, papa,' I once inquired, 'who 
 droA\^ied the poor cat ?' 
 
 ' I knew him well,' answered my father 
 gravely. 
 
 ' Was it a tortoise-shell,' said I pathetic- 
 ally, ' like ours ?' 
 
 * It was buxom, and blithe, and young, I ween, 
 Beauteous like a summer's queen ;
 
 GATCOMBE. U 
 
 For her sides were rudely lined, 
 
 As if lilies were imbrued 
 
 With drojDS of blood, to make the white 
 
 Please the eye with more dehglit.' 
 
 Then, to stop tlie tears set flowing by this 
 tender picture, he added — still felicitously 
 quoting from even an older Bobby Greene 
 than mine : 
 
 ' Weep not, my wanton ; smile upon my knee ; 
 When thou art old, there's grief enough for thee.' 
 
 And thus, from my earliest years, was 
 I regaled with tags and snatches of old 
 verse, till they grew as familiar as nursery 
 rhymes. 
 
 My father had a rooted antipathy to all 
 schools, derived, I fancy, from some un- 
 pleasant personal experience of them, and 
 educated me himself at home. When any 
 remonstrance was made with him on this 
 account— which was but seldom, for there 
 were fcAV who had the right to interfere in 
 such a matter, and fewer still who cared to 
 ^tackle' him upon any subject on which he
 
 10 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 was known to have a prejudice— he had this 
 cut-and-dry reply : 'If my boy lives, he will 
 know more that is worth knoA^dng than 
 your prize school-prig ; and if he dies, he 
 will at least have had a happy boyhood.' 
 The latter part of this statement I can 
 honestly corroborate. I had a pony of my 
 own, plenty of pocket-money, and a leaping- 
 pole, the charms of which last are, I notice, 
 almost unknown to the boys of to-day. At 
 twelve, though a tall boy, I could clear my 
 own height with ease ; while as for breadth, 
 there was scarce a brook in the county that 
 I could not fly over like a bird. The pole, 
 strong, supple, and light, was at least ten 
 feet long ; and with its help, I could go 
 across country, taking a far straighter line 
 as to fences than the best hunter that my 
 ancestors had ever crossed. Many a time, 
 from the steep bank of some Sandylandshire 
 lane, have I cleared a returning team with 
 their astonished guardian ; flocks of sheep ; 
 and even on one occasion a herd of oxen.
 
 GATCOMBE. 11 
 
 The buoyant spring, the hurtling through 
 the air, the thud of my young feet upon 
 the opposite bank, recur to me as I write, 
 and stir the sluggish blood within me even 
 now. Independently of this accomplish- 
 ment, the country round had its peculiar 
 charms for a wholesome-minded lad, which, 
 thanks to my father, I think I was. Behind 
 and above the house, though it was built on 
 high ground, stretched an immense table- 
 land of wind-swept heath, the soil of which 
 was finest sand. This was a paradise for 
 rabbits. Moreover, there were a thousand 
 caverns, for the whole place was honey- 
 combed for the sake of the scythe -stones 
 which it yielded. For generations it had 
 thus been undermined, and the work was 
 going on still. One result of this Avas to 
 form from the excavations a magnificent 
 terrace, miles and miles in length, the 
 view from which extended over half-a-dozen 
 counties, and even, at some points, to the 
 ocean. The eyes of Columbus could hardly
 
 12 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 have feasted upon the Land of the West 
 with greater dehght than mine did upon 
 that fringe of sea, to which in those days I 
 never approached nearer. The sighing ot 
 the fir-trees, that grew in great profusion 
 on the sand-cliff, did duty more efficiently 
 than I was aware of for the unheard mur- 
 mur of the waves. I can hear them now, 
 and smell their sweet pungent breath, 
 which the wise men of to-day aver to be a 
 specific against consumption. It was not 
 so, however, in my time, for consumption 
 was the scourge of Gat combe. Not that 
 the village was itself unhealthy, but that 
 almost the whole population, men, women, 
 and children, worked in the scythe-stone 
 caverns, and thereby destroyed themselves. 
 It was impossible to persuade them to 
 do other^vise, because the gains of that 
 employment were so much greater than 
 what could be earned in agricultural la- 
 bour. All day long, through summer and 
 winter, the stroke of the spade and the
 
 GATCOMBE. 13 
 
 click of the hammer mingled with the 
 murmur of the firs, that shook their fune- 
 real heads above this scene, as though in 
 sorrowful protest. Scores of men were at 
 work, each in his own burrow — the right 
 to dig in which for his private behoof he 
 purchased — like bees in the cells of some 
 huge comb ; and the women and children 
 helped, by wheeling out the sand in bar- 
 rows, and emptying them on the terrace. 
 Their husbands and fathers, working in an 
 unventilated space, where there was scarcely 
 room to turn, Avere in a manner diofffins: 
 their own tombs. At home, it was the 
 women's task to shape the stone thus ob- 
 tained into the form of that with which 
 Hhe mower whets his scythe;' and they, 
 too, were working for the mower Death, 
 for the thin particles of dust that escaped 
 during the process into the lungs were 
 sooner or later fatal to them. Thus it 
 happened that there Avas scarcely an old 
 man or an old woman in all the villasfe.
 
 14 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 By a boy, however, such social calami- 
 tics are ill understood, if understood at all. 
 There was, in fact, to my mind something 
 attractive in our people, and which con- 
 trasted very favourably with the looks of 
 other villagers ; and it was long before I 
 came to know that the bright eyes and 
 high-coloured cheeks about us meant dis- 
 ease, and the absence of old people the 
 king of terrors. Moreover, there was no 
 want at Gatcombe, for the work, such as 
 it was, was plentiful, and well paid ; while 
 melancholy was a thing unkno^^^l (at least 
 as a public spectacle), for the motto of the 
 toilers was, 'A short life and a merry one,' 
 and their cares they drowned in cider. 
 
 My father and Aimt Ben did what they 
 could to amend this state of things ; in par- 
 ticular, certain masks were purchased for 
 the women to wear during their hurtful 
 toil; and if little good was eiFected (the 
 children used to play at highwaymen, I 
 remember, in the masks), their endeavours
 
 GATCOMBE. 15 
 
 were appreciated, even by those who de- 
 clined to take advantage of them. After 
 all, I have forgotten to mention the chief 
 peril of the sand-clifF, and which invested 
 it in my boyish eyes with a ghastly interest. 
 There was scarcely one of these narrow 
 caves but had its catastrophe. A man could 
 not pay the sum, small as it was, that was 
 necessary to buy fir-poles for the support 
 of his cell walls ; or (which was more com- 
 mon) he would dispose of them for drink; 
 whence it sooner or later happened that 
 some stroke of his pickaxe brought down 
 a fall of sand on his devoted head, or, worse, 
 brought it down behind him, so as to set 
 an impassable barrier between himself and 
 the world without. It was then of small 
 avail, even though another were working- 
 near him, to give the alarm ; for tons upon 
 tons of sand were often brought down, 
 through which the would-be rescuers had 
 to dig, propping and roofing their Avay at 
 every step, lest they also should share the
 
 16 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 fate of the victim. The disaster was so 
 common, that everything was done at once 
 — though almost always in vain — to avert 
 the catastrophe. A messenger was dis- 
 patched on horseback for a surgeon ; and 
 in the mean time my father was summoned, 
 who, with Aunt Ben, would hurry to the 
 spot with blankets, brandy, and a lancet. 
 It was long before I was j^ermitted to be a 
 witness of such a scene ; but I knew a score 
 of places where the tragedy had occurred, 
 and had its details at my finger-ends. Some- 
 times a family would still work on in a 
 cave that had actually been the living tomb 
 of their progenitor, and even neglect those 
 very precautions, the lack of which had 
 proved fatal to him : such contempt can 
 familiarity breed of even death itself, ^ot 
 a ghost haunted the hill. The fate of those 
 who perished there was held as natural as 
 that which carried others to the churchyard 
 by a more tedious route ; just as soldiers 
 on service regard death upon the battle- 7
 
 GATCOMBE. 17 
 
 field as no more strange than in the hos- 
 pital ward. 
 
 The wholesome air of high-placed Gat- 
 combe discouraged all morbid ideas ; on 
 the hottest July day there was always a 
 breeze upon the heath, a gentle swaying of 
 the pine-tops. The woods themselves were 
 dowered with an eternal beauty. In winter, 
 they did not lose their green ; in summer, 
 the layers of shade above kept off the heat, 
 while beneath, at each tree-foot, was spread 
 a carpet of moss, in which one's limbs sank 
 till they were hid. What bliss to lie on 
 such, and watch through the green roof the 
 clouds sail slowly by, or, twixt the straight 
 red stems, that fair expanse of hill and 
 plain, the apple-orchards, the low white 
 farms, the streams and copses, and, in the 
 western verge, the tall gray towers of 
 Monkton, the cathedral town ! They were 
 too far to make their iron tongue be heard ; 
 the wood-pigeons' coo overhead alone broke 
 the summer silence. That happy time 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 
 
 went by unnoted, the hours of which recur 
 with such sombre clang to-day — the knell 
 of the unburied Past. O youth, youth, 
 youth ! if ever thou comest back to us 
 again, then indeed there is a Heaven ! 
 
 In my early days, I had no plapnate 
 save the village boys, and many a rough 
 game and rougher combat did I have mth 
 them. There was one amusement that was 
 an especial favourite. The sand-cliff sloped 
 on all sides, affording the softest falling; 
 and to run and leap out into the air as 
 far as possible, and to fall and fall, was a 
 glorious pastime. To the stranger, such 
 experiments appeared suicidal — a leap from 
 the Tarpeian rock ; but they were free 
 from danger, unless one disinhumed oneself 
 from one's sand-grave too tardily, and the 
 next cleaver of the air fell, Icarus-like, upon 
 one's head and shoulders. Before this 
 sport all others paled; it was sublime — 
 epic. 
 
 If I had no boy-companion, I had a
 
 GATCOMBE. 19 
 
 friend of the gentler sex in Eleanor Bourne, 
 the vicar's daughter. She was called the 
 Gipsy, from her dark complexion, but might 
 have been termed so almost as fitly from 
 the out-of-door life she led. I, too, loved 
 Ho hear the lark sing rather than the 
 mouse squeak,' and grudged every moment 
 of sunshine that found me within walls; 
 but I had my father's teaching to attend 
 to, whereas Nelly pursued even her studies 
 in the open air. How often have I found 
 her — not by accident — sitting at a pine-foot, 
 Avith her black hair, through which she 
 would nevertheless contrive to spy me 
 coming, falling over the pages of TeUmaque^ 
 and with a whole library of educational 
 works beside her, which were moved to 
 make room for me. Like me, she was 
 motherless ; but there all similarity in our 
 circumstances ceased. Her father was a 
 conventional parson; had taken moderate 
 honours at the university; was grave and 
 dull ; and fancied, because he was pompous,
 
 20 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 that he was impressive. It seemed to me 
 that he had somehow missed being a gentle- 
 man ; but perhaps that was prejudice on 
 my part. His father, Avho was still alive, 
 and lived at the \dcarage, had purchased 
 much of the land with which the Wrays 
 had had to part ; and the mind of a boy 
 is prone to resent what a man's judgment 
 acquiesces in. But as for Mr. Bourne the 
 elder, he had missed being a gentleman by 
 a mile — one of those mushroom men, of 
 whom it has been so happily said, that their 
 being ' self-made' relieves the Creator from 
 a very grave responsibility. How thor- 
 oughly would my father, with his deep 
 sense of humour, have appreciated that re- 
 mark ; but in those days American satire 
 had not shot its sharp beams across the 
 sea. 
 
 Nelly and I were fast friends and con- 
 stant companions — lovers, if you will, 
 though the love was of a very innocent 
 sort, and unsuspected even by ourselves.
 
 GATCOMBE. 21 
 
 We read together ; talked and thought 
 over many a rich volume borrowed from 
 my father's shelves ; and I suppose, con- 
 sidering our Platonic passion, and the 
 nature of our studies, we may have been 
 set do^vn as ^blue.' We knew not of the 
 term, however, except as the colour of the 
 sky, that ever roofed those youthful days. 
 Undimmed by cloud, unvexed by storm, 
 it stretched above us, until an event oc- 
 curred which was fated to bring me face 
 to face with the world, and to make the 
 past appear a ]3age from some Life in 
 Dreamland. Perhaps I have already dwelt 
 on it too long; as one who, leaning o'er 
 her harp, dwells on some tune, of which 
 her hearers tire, but which in her ears 
 discourses sweetest melody, because it 
 wakes the thought of bygone days.
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 
 
 The letters used to arrive at Gatcombe 
 about breakfast - time ; and tlie ' Manor 
 bag,' as the jiostman called it, was gener- 
 ally brought in during the discussion of 
 that meal, and ojDcned by my father, not 
 quite so promptly as Aunt Ben desired. 
 Women never tire of receiving letters ; 
 whereas men, after middle life, for the 
 most part abhor them. They do not write 
 for the sake of interchanging gossip, ' keep- 
 ing up' old friendship, or Avith 'effusion' 
 of any kind. Business and bills form the 
 staple of their correspondence ; and though 
 the day of bills — and it had been a bitter 
 one — was past in my father's case, busi- 
 ness always troubled him ; that is, the
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. A6 
 
 mere details of it, though he had plenty 
 of sagacity, and was practical enough 
 Avhenever he gave himself the trouble to 
 be so. He had a contempt and dislike 
 for the management of affairs, which those 
 who did not know him might easily have 
 mistaken for affectation. ' A good man 
 of business,' he would aver, was a man 
 who was good for nothing else ; and ' com- 
 mon sense was exactly what the term im- 
 plied — no more, no less — the average 
 sagacity, not to possess which was to be 
 beneath the ordinary intellectual standard.' 
 Conventional opinions to the contrary, em- 
 bodied in such expressions as, ' He has 
 every sense but common sense,' and ap- 
 plied to men of genius, irritated him ex- 
 ceedingly. ' The meaning these idiots 
 intend to convey, I suppose, is, that men 
 of genius are blind to their own advant- 
 age ; whereas the fact is that they do not 
 find their advantage where the dolts do, 
 otherwise they would attain the same ob-
 
 24 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 jects with far greater ease.' Perhaps my 
 father had been twitted with this supposed 
 deficiency himself He certainly did not 
 like the Manor bag, and opened it upon 
 this particular occasion with the usual 
 tardiness and careless contempt. The ex- 
 pression of his face altered a little, how- 
 ever, as he drew forth an Indian letter, 
 and turned it over unopened in his hand. 
 
 'A letter from Tom!' cried my aunt. 
 ' Well, I'm sure it's about time he wrote : 
 Ave have not heard from him for years.' 
 
 ' It's not from Tom,' said my father 
 gravely. 
 
 ' I trust nothing has gone A\Tong with 
 him?' continued Aunt Ben with agitation. 
 
 'I trust not,' was my father's answer. 
 There was a grim solemnity in his tone, 
 which I knew augured the worst. ' Go to 
 the study, my boy,' said he, laying his 
 hand affectionately on my head ; ' I have 
 a few Avords for your aunt's private ear.' 
 
 When my father entered his sanctum,
 
 TJJfEXPECTED GUESTS. 25 
 
 half an liour afterwards, he wore a black 
 coat in place of his red dressing-gown; 
 from which I gathered at once that in}- 
 Uncle Tom was dead ; which was the case. 
 
 'You have lost an uncle, my boy, 
 whom you have never seen ; but I an 
 only brother, who was at one time all in 
 all to me. True, that was lono- ao-o : cir- 
 cumstances occurred to estrange us, even 
 before he left England, and we have not 
 met these thirty years ; but — ' 
 
 There was a portrait of my uncle in 
 the study, painted when he was a very 
 young man : it showed a face of great 
 beauty and hre, but without the tender- 
 ness which was the charm of his brother's 
 less handsome features. My father's eye 
 here lit on this; he stopped midway in 
 his speech, and rising, approached the pic- 
 ture with reverent looks. 'Dear Tom/ 
 said he, with inexpressible pathos, 'good- 
 bye ; your last wishes shall be obeyed, 
 just as though I had l)een beside your
 
 26 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 deathbed and heard them.' He sighed, 
 returned to his ehair, and then addressed 
 me in tones that were serious, but no 
 longer sad. 
 
 ' The best tribute one can pay to the 
 memory of the dead, my dear boy, is to 
 respect their injunctions : all the trappings 
 and suits of woe are not worth a dump. 
 The next best thing is to discard all 
 thoughts of them that are to their dis- 
 credit.' (I felt that the colour was rising 
 in my cheeks ; for the news I had just 
 heard had, I confess, set me thinking of 
 the wild doings and misdoings of my late 
 relative.) 'I don't know,' resumed my 
 father, after a pause, ' whether foolish 
 people have ever led you to believe that 
 your Uncle Tom's death wovild materially 
 benefit us ; but if so, they were mistaken. 
 He has left two legitimate children, of 
 about your own age.' 
 
 ' Two children !' exclaimed I with as- 
 tonishment too great for chagrin (and in-
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 27 
 
 deed the idea of being my uncle's heir had 
 never taken any hold upon my mind, 
 though it had certainly been suggested to 
 it by others). ' I did not know that he had 
 been ever married.' 
 
 ' Nor T, until to-day/ said my father 
 quietly. ' But the fact is so, nevertheless. 
 You have two cousins — twin boy and girl 
 — whose acquaintance you will shortly 
 make, for they are on their road hither 
 already. They will live here, under this 
 roof, until they come of age.' 
 
 Upon the Avhole, I was pleased to hear 
 this news. I had long been too old for 
 the society of the village boys: not pride, 
 but the sense of incongruity, had put an 
 end to such familiarity. We had nothing 
 in common ; and the idea of having a com- 
 panion of my own age, and perhaps tastes, 
 was very welcome. The subject, however, 
 was not pursued by my father, with whom 
 I at once commenced my studies as usual; 
 but later in the day, I found Aunt Benita
 
 28 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 much more communicative. Uncle Tom, it 
 seemed, had married soon after he reached 
 India ; but, for some reason or other, had 
 concealed the fact from my father during 
 all these years. He had probably, said my 
 aunt, married greatly beneath him. The 
 wife had long been dead, and yet neither 
 of her decease nor existence had he written 
 one line : that is, not by way of letter ; but 
 he had always carried about with him a 
 certain document, addressed to my father, 
 to be forwarded in case of his own death; 
 and at last this had come to hand. There- 
 in his two children were affectionately in- 
 trusted to his brother's care until they 
 should attain the age of twenty-one, when 
 the son (Cecil) was to come into his pro- 
 perty, a very considerable fortune; and 
 the daughter (Jane) would inherit four 
 thousand pounds. If Cecil died childless, 
 his fortune was to revert to myself (in or- 
 der, said the document, that the house of 
 Wray should l)e duh' represented) ; but
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 29 
 
 if Jane should die unmarried before liim, 
 her fortune was to go to her brother. Such, 
 roughly stated, were the conditions of the 
 will; in the mean time five hundred pounds 
 a year was to be paid to my father for the 
 maintenance of the orphans. Copies of the 
 will, of my uncle's marriage certificate, and 
 of the registration of the twin children's 
 birth, were enclosed, and the London law- 
 yer indicated to whose safe keeping the 
 originals had been consigned. The chil- 
 dren — if they could be called such, for they 
 were nearly eighteen — were already on 
 their way, as a letter informed us, written 
 by a brother-officer of my uncle's, and an- 
 nouncing his decease. They might arrive, 
 as Aunt Ben said, ' any day;' and she in- 
 stantly set about her arrangements for their 
 reception. 
 
 She seemed to me more shocked at my 
 uncle's death than sorry for it, and I think 
 she was deeply chagrined on my account 
 to hear of the existence of these undreamed-
 
 30 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 of relatives. We had all known that Uncle 
 Tom was rich : every year a box of mag- 
 nificent presents had arrived from India ; 
 shawls for my aunt, not one of which she 
 had ever ventured to wear (where could she 
 have worn such shawls except at church'? 
 and what chance would the discourses of 
 the Eev. Mr. Bourne have had against their 
 attraction, if she had ?) ; precious manu- 
 scripts for my father, exquisitely illus- 
 trated, but, of course, wholly undecipher- 
 able; and inlaid yataghans, and bows and 
 arrows, for myself. These wonderful gifts, 
 typical, in their uselessness and splendour, 
 of our empire in the East, were now, it 
 seemed, all that we should ever derive in 
 the way of advantage from Uncle Tom's 
 prosperity. To do Aunt Ben justice, she 
 had no regrets upon her own account ; but 
 I fancy she had entertained hopes that her 
 eccentric brother would one day return, 
 and make amends for his wa}nvard youth 
 by rebuilding the fallen fortunes of our
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 31 
 
 house. 'At all events, I do think, my 
 dear, that he might have left your father 
 some special bequest, in consideration of — 
 But there, how should you know ?' 
 
 In after years I came to the knowledge 
 of certain pecuniary sacrifices which had 
 been made upon m.j uncle's account by 
 his brother, to which I have no doubt this 
 remark of my aunt had reference. But my 
 father never once alluded to the matter, 
 nor, as I believe, ever gave it a passing- 
 thought. The memory of his dead brother 
 was sacred with him. I shall never forget 
 the tone of sublime conviction in which, 
 when Aunt Ben hazarded the observation, 
 ' I suppose there can be no doubt of the 
 genuineness of those documents which are 
 said to be in that London lawyer's hands?' 
 he replied, ' My dear. Uncle Tom has 
 said so.' 
 
 There was no lack of accommodation at 
 the Manor-house, so far as room was con- 
 cerned, for half-a-dozen pair of twin cousins;
 
 32 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 but it was evident that the arrival of my 
 new-found relatives was to make a change 
 in our way of living. There w^ere many 
 ' sympathising callers as soon as the record 
 of Uncle Tom's decease appeared in the 
 papers, and my father made a point of re- 
 turning each visit in person. ' You and I, 
 Fred, gentle shepherds as we are, might 
 shut ourselves up as we pleased,' he would 
 say, smiling; 'but it is only right that your 
 cousms should see the world, and it is my 
 place to introduce them to it.' 
 
 Most of the good folks our neighbours 
 were pleased at our being about to have these 
 visitors ; since the fact had already 'brought 
 my father out,' as they termed it, as though 
 he had been a debutant ; for though a re- 
 cluse in his habits, he made himself very 
 agreeable when society was forced upon 
 him : moreover, the event gave them some- 
 thing to talk about, Avhich was a desidera- 
 tum in Sandylandshire, as in one or two 
 other country neighbourhoods with which I
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 33 
 
 afterwards became acquainted. Mr. Bourne 
 the elder, familiarly entitled by my father, 
 after Ben Jonson, 'the Alchemist' (he had 
 found the philosopher's stone in the sand- 
 cliff in the shape of a scythe-stone), was in 
 particular greatly elated by the news. His 
 imagination, which, if not powerful, did not 
 waste itself in mere luxuriant fancies, but 
 was concentrated on the one idea of money- 
 making, pictured my cousins as an Indian 
 prince and princess, and his heart went 
 forth to -welcome them accordingly. ' The 
 idea, sir' (he used to call me ' sir' from the 
 age often) — 'the idea of your Uncle Thomas 
 having made all that money : the last man 
 in the world, one would have said, to have 
 done it ; but it does happen so sometimes — 
 sometimes.' And then he shook his hoary 
 head, and pressed his skinny lips, as though 
 he would have added, ' But not tAvice in 
 the same family, sir; mark that — you will 
 never make a shilling.' Perhaps he deemed 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 it possible that my cousins would Avisli to 
 buy back the family estate, sand- cliff and 
 all, and already scented a good stroke of 
 busmess; or perhaps it was from mere 
 greedful curiosity that the old man once 
 ventured to inquire of my father whether 
 these young people were so immensely rich 
 as Avas rumoured. 
 
 '■They are Peni^ sir,' was the reply; 'great 
 Solomons 0]plih\ 
 
 ' Gad, then,' said he, looking round on 
 the somewhat dim and faded furniture of 
 our room of state, ' you'll be put to it ta 
 entertain them fitly. — I mean,' added he 
 quickly, made sensible by a flash from my 
 father's eyes that his remark had not been 
 the pink of courtesy, ' that you will have to 
 spend a good deal of money in their recep- 
 tion.' 
 
 'You are right, my friend,' answered 
 my father ; ' 'tis fit we change 
 
 " ^Vll that is metal in this lioiise to gold ; 
 And early in the morning -will I send
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 35 
 
 To all the plumbers and the pewterers, 
 To take their tin and lead up." 
 
 Rich ! you say ? 
 
 " T' Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' story, 
 Jove's Shower, the Boon of Midas, Argus' eyes, 
 Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, 
 Are abstract riddles of their wealth." ' 
 
 ' Thousands ?' exclahned the old man, 
 catching at the only word intelligible to 
 him in this outburst. 'Why, they must 
 have tens of thousands, and jewels too, I 
 daresay!' 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' was my father's grave 
 response; 'and, in particular, the flower of 
 the swi, the perfect ruhy^ lohich lue call 
 Elixir.'^ 
 
 Out of this conversation a rumour went 
 abroad that iny cousins were brino-ini^ a 
 sort of Koh-i-Noor Avith them, to be worn 
 in the hat or the hair; so that the public 
 curiosity to behold them was excited to 
 the utmost. One solid pecuniary advant- 
 age old Mr. Bourne did glean out of the
 
 3G Cecil's teyst. 
 
 event; for, hearing that my father had 
 dropped some hint of engaging a private 
 tutor for Cecil, he hastened down to the 
 Manor House to volunteer his son's ser- 
 vices in that capacity. My father, although 
 surprised, was by no means displeased at 
 this officious zeal. The idea of a resident 
 tutor was not welcome; and, on the other 
 hand, it would not have entered into his 
 head to ask such a service of the pomp- 
 ous vicar ; for though the tithes that fell 
 to the share of that divine were small, he 
 was, as the son of the alchemist, held of 
 course as a most prosperous man. But 
 old Bourne dispelled this illusion very 
 quickly. ' My son has nothing, sir, but 
 what I choose to give him, except the 
 living, and even that I bought for him — 
 yes, sir, with my own hard-earned mone}^ 
 What interest have I ever yet got for the 
 sums I spent upon his college education? 
 Not a shilling, sir ; not a shilling. Here 
 is an opportunity for making it bear a
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 37 
 
 little fruit, which I shall certainly not 
 permit him to miss. Let him thole a bit, 
 let him thole a bit, as I have done all m}^ 
 life.' 
 
 The idea of thus disposing of the ser- 
 vices of a beneficed clergyman, of fifty 
 years of age, just as though he had been 
 arranging for a lad's apprenticeship, did 
 not strike the old gentleman as being 
 in any way unbecoming ; and my father 
 had the greatest difficulty — though he care- 
 fully avoided quotations from the Eliza- 
 bethan poets — in making him understand 
 that such an offer must needs emanate 
 from the vicar himself In the end, how- 
 ever, it did so, though in a, very different 
 manner from that in which it had been 
 made by proxy. The reverend gentleman 
 was all carelessness and condescension — 
 ' He had been given to understand that 
 Mr. Wray had sounded his father with 
 respect to his (the vicar's) undertaking the 
 education of young Mr. Cecil; Avell, it was
 
 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 true that he had some classical and mathe- 
 matical knowledge — perhaps as much as 
 most people who call themselves scholars; 
 but really, teaching was such drudgery; 
 and yet on the other hand, he would do 
 anything to oblige so respected a friend 
 and neighbour.' In the end, he concluded 
 the bargain to so great an advantage that 
 it w^ould have done credit to the alchemist 
 himself, and might have sufficed of itself 
 (but for the existence of his daughter 
 Eleanor) to have established the theory of 
 the hereditary transmission of great quali- 
 ties. 
 
 N"elly alone, of all our neighbours, re- 
 garded the coming of my cousins with dis- 
 favour. She foresaw in it an interruption 
 to our common studies and companionship, 
 and augured ill from it in all respects. 
 ^You will be fast friends with Cecil,' said 
 she, ^ and care for nothing but hunting 
 and sporting' (the stud at the Manor had 
 already been increased, and also the ar-
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 39 
 
 niory) ; ' and your cousin Jane will l)e 
 exquisitely beautiful, and you will fall in 
 love with one another, as cousins always 
 do, and care no more for your poor little 
 Nelly.' 
 
 I think this prophecy went far to mar 
 its own fulfilment, at all events as far as 
 its latter half was concerned; for the 
 despair of the fair sibyl so moved me, 
 that then and there I printed a kiss upon 
 her cheek for the first time in my life 
 (though there were a good many impres- 
 sions taken afterwards), and swore an un- 
 alterable fidelity. Except Aunt Ben, which 
 could scarcely be said to count as an 
 experience of the operation, I had never 
 kissed any one before ; and the efi:ect of 
 that experiment was tremendous. I had 
 already thought myself happy, but from 
 henceforth I knew that I had been mis- 
 taken. The golden age of the world may 
 have been the beginning of it, because 
 man and woman were made grown up ;
 
 40 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 but the iTfolden n";c of life does not com- 
 iiience in childhood. The songs of in- 
 fancy are sweet, but there is no melod}' 
 among them to be compared with that 
 wordless music Avhich the finger of first 
 love evokes from the lieart-strings. 
 
 Days and weeks passed by, more swiftly 
 than I had ever known them to do so, 
 and when our long-looked -for guests did 
 come, I had almost forgotten that they 
 were expected. Their arrival took place 
 late in a Jul}' evening, just as our little 
 household were preparing to retire to rest. 
 The sound of wheels was heard far off 
 in the avenue that led from the village. 
 I saw Aunt Ben look up from her employ- 
 ment, which was darning stockings — for 
 embroidery and fancy-work of all sorts, 
 unless knitting can be so termed, she de- 
 spised — and listen attentively. 
 
 ' It is your cousins,' she whispered, 
 for my father was deep in Webster (not 
 the Dictionary), and did not like to be
 
 UNEXPECTED GUESTS. 41 
 
 interrupted in liis reading. But he had 
 also heard the noise, and quietly read out 
 the. passage : 
 
 ' I pray thee, look tliou giv'st the little hoy some 
 syrup for his cold ; and let the girl say her prayers ere 
 she sleep ;' 
 
 then closed the book, and went to the hall- 
 door to receive the new comers. 
 
 There were no less than three carriages, 
 for their luggage was extensive, and in 
 the first, of course, were our guests. The 
 twins were as like as it is possible for 
 two human beings to be, and exceedingly 
 plain, though there was something about 
 them (to be mentioned presently) far more 
 extraordinary in my eyes than their plain- 
 ness. When they had been duly welcomed, 
 Aunt Ben ushered Jane to her apartment, 
 while I did the like office for Cousin 
 Cecil. He thanked me graciously, but in 
 somewhat guttural tones, which were the 
 very echo of his sister's; and I left him 
 and returned to the drawing-room, whither
 
 42 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 I found Aunt Ben had already repaired, 
 and was talking alone with my father. 
 
 ^ Why, good gracious!' cried I, eloquent 
 wih pent-up wonder, ' they are blacka- 
 moors !' 
 
 ' Hush, for shame !' exclaimed my aunt. 
 ^ They are nothing of the sort; and if they 
 are, it is not their fault.' 
 
 ' But they are^'' said I. — 'Are they not?' 
 appealing to my father. 
 
 He nodded gravely. 
 
 ' •' Elack as the bird that in the silent night 
 Doth shake contagion from her sable wings." 
 
 The fact is — as perhaps we ought to have 
 warned you, my boy — there is just a clash 
 of the tar-brush in your cousins.' 
 
 I had indeed greatly exaggerated the 
 swarthiness of their complexions, Avhich 
 was partly owing to their birth, but also to 
 the effects of tlie Indian sun. They were 
 not black, but black and tan, like terriers; 
 still their colour could scarcely have aston- 
 ished me more liad it 1)een maoenta.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 
 
 Nature, as 1 have said, had cast my twin 
 €ousiTis, Avith the exception of sex, in the 
 same mould. They were as like as peas — 
 dried peas, for their swarthiness had that 
 withered and yellow look which so often 
 belongs to the Asiatic. Their voices were 
 so similar, that it was impossible for the ear 
 alone to decide who spoke ; and even their 
 handwritings defied the eye to discern that 
 of the brother from that of the sister. Their 
 mutual affection was, moreover, such, that 
 they loved one another as themselves, and 
 this bond united them more closely than 
 the natural ligament that bound together 
 the Siamese twins. And yet, curiously
 
 44 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 enough, we soon discovered that their dis- 
 positions were as opposite as the poles. 
 Cecil's nature was impulsive, generous, and 
 candid ; that of his sister, secretive, proud, 
 and unconciliatory. Even Aunt Ben, with 
 whom (though she had her prejudices) no 
 human being had ever yet contrived to 
 quarrel, confessed that she could not ' get 
 on' with Cousin Jane. Kindness had no 
 power to impress her, and of course only 
 kindness was tried. At nineteen, she re- 
 sembled one of those cast-iron spinsters of 
 fifty, who regard even children with a stony 
 stare, and reserve their afl^ections for a cat 
 or a dog, and when they die, leave all their 
 money to forward distant missionary en- 
 terprise. It was touching to observe the 
 efi'orts made by her brother to mitigate 
 (for her own sake, for she was never harsh 
 to him) the repulsive harshness of her man- 
 ner, to bring warmth into her cold looks, 
 and when all was to no purpose, to excuse 
 her failings (as he tenderly imagined them)
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 45 
 
 to others ; her health had suffered, he said, 
 from the change of climate ; but we never 
 knew her to ail. 
 
 Though the faces of my cousins were 
 duplicates, the expression which their re- 
 spective characters had evoked in each was 
 very different. In Jane's case, plainness 
 was so intensified by ill-humour, that she 
 was downright ugly; in Cecil's, plainness 
 was so mitigated by cheerfulness, that he 
 was almost comely. The intelligence of 
 both was very considerable; but here the 
 advantage lay on the other side. Jane 
 had taken every opportunity that India had 
 afforded — and there had been no stint 
 to Uncle Tom's provision for them in the 
 way of education — to improve her mind; 
 whereas the ignorance of Cecil was some- 
 thing stupendous. It is quite possible for 
 even a clever boy to emerge from a great 
 public school in England, after half-a-dozen 
 years' devotion to its so-called studies, with 
 the merest smattering of Greek and Latin,
 
 46 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 and ii total absence of information about 
 any other subject whether of use or in- 
 terest ; but Cecil had gone through his 
 Calcutta curriculum as a wild -duck dives 
 through the water and comes up again — 
 if not absolutely dry, yet scarcely damp. 
 Nothing, really nothing, remained about 
 him to evince that he had been to school 
 at all, unless I may except a passion for 
 private theatricals, an amusement to which, 
 it seems, the schoolboys of India are (or 
 were) much devoted. He had a good me- 
 mory, was an excellent mimic, and had a 
 passion for what children call ' dressing-up,' 
 that in one of his years was rather ridicu- 
 lous. His attachment to my father, with 
 whom, as indeed, with all of us, he soon 
 became a great favourite, led him to look 
 into that Elizabethan treasure-house, in 
 w^hich the former so delighted ; and though, 
 doubtless, he missed what was best, he 
 caught much of its humour, and repro- 
 duced it to admiration. I shall never for-
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 47 
 
 get liim (all unconscious of plagiarism from 
 Pistol), attired in full eastern costume, ad- 
 dressing our astonished cook in the sonor- 
 ous words of Tamberlaine, and threatening 
 the good soul with instant decapitation, as 
 ' a pampered jade of Asia.' Singularly 
 enough, considering his oriental extraction, 
 he was far from slothful ; very strong and 
 active, and delighting in all out-door exer- 
 cise. The use of a leaping-pole was, when 
 he came to us, as unknown to him as the 
 rest of the sciences ; but, on the other hand, 
 he took to it with avidity. M}' own high- 
 flying expeditions had caused, as I have 
 said, some little excitement in the neigh- 
 bourhood ; but that sank into insignific- 
 ance compared with the wonder aroused 
 l)y the feats of Cousin Cecil. Being in his 
 novitiate, he was not, of course, so skilful 
 a performer as myself; but his pluck was 
 marvellous, and his conceptions, so to speak 
 — his ideas of what was practicable — sub- 
 lime. More audacious than the philoso-
 
 48 
 
 pher who only required a standing-point 
 in order to move the world, he made light 
 of even that mechanical difficulty. From 
 a hedge-top, from a quaking bog, from a 
 slippery house-roof, he would hurl himself 
 through space with ambitious aim, and 
 the most supreme indifference to the re- 
 sult. 
 
 It was not to be wondered at that the 
 astonished villagers w^ho beheld this flying 
 portent of swarthy hue, associated him in 
 their minds Avith the Prince of the Power 
 of the Air, and called him 'our Gatcombe 
 Devil.' Somehow or other, his sister got 
 to hear of this, and it annoyed her ex- 
 tremely : she expressed her opinion that 
 all such contumelious persons should be 
 taken up and whipped ; and when we 
 laughed at the idea of such wholesale pun- 
 ishment, she was oftended. As a matter 
 of fact, Cecil was popular with everybody ; 
 his frankness and freedom from pride made 
 their way to all hearts; nor, doubtless,
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 49 
 
 were the reckless feats, which won him 
 so disrespectful a misname, without their 
 charms. It was when he had been with us 
 a few months, that a circumstance occurred 
 in connection with this pastime — apparently 
 so innocent and unimportant — that was 
 fated to affect his future fortunes, and those 
 of all of us, in no small degree : on such 
 slight branches of the tree of life do great 
 fruits hang. 
 
 Our excursion on the day in question 
 had been extended beyond its usual limits, 
 to Wayford, an outlying hamlet of our vil- 
 lage, through which the river Way ran ; 
 and, indeed, it was the goodly breadth of 
 that stream which had attracted us thither. 
 Beside the Mississippi, or even the Thames, 
 its proportions would doubtless have seemed 
 small enough ; but then we proposed to 
 fly over it. The autumn was far advanced, 
 and nature wore that pathetic look of 
 beauty which is peculiar to that epoch — 
 the same quiet grace of farewell that is 
 
 VOL. I. i:
 
 50 
 
 sometimes seen in the faces of the dying. 
 The wind, even on the sand-cliiF, did but 
 whisper, and when we descended into the 
 vale, was hushed. There was no sound in 
 the moist air except that of the stream, that 
 seemed to sorrow for the loss of summer, 
 as it swept the banks no longer pranked 
 with flowers. Its broadest part ran through 
 an apple-orchard, the scanty leaves of which, 
 like tempted innocence, were blushing be- 
 fore their fall. Between this orchard and the 
 sand-cliff was a small cottage, the tenants of 
 which were Ruth and Richard Waller — a 
 sister and brother, who, having lost their 
 parents in early youth, had contrived to 
 keep the same home, and support themselves, 
 though perhaps the youngest couple that 
 ever adventured housekeeping. They Avere 
 still young, not even being of age; but Rich- 
 ard dug for the scythe-stone, and that deadly 
 toil had already affected his health. Ruth 
 too performed that share of the work which 
 usually fell to the lot of Gatconibe women.
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 51 
 
 We could hear across the stream, as we 
 drew near, that chipping of the stone, which 
 might have been likened to the graving of 
 her own epitaph, so sure was it, if persisted 
 in, in the end to prove her doom. At pre- 
 sent, however, to judge by her looks, the 
 nature of her toil had in no way injured 
 her. Hearing our voices, she came to the 
 cottage door, shading her eyes with her 
 hand against the sun, and I thought I had 
 never beheld a fairer picture. She was ra- 
 ther over the middle height, and of a most 
 graceful figure ; her complexion was as 
 fair as though it had never been exposed to 
 outdoor influences ; and her fine brown hair 
 shone in the sunlight like bright threads of 
 gold. It is curious enough that though 
 large eyes are preferred to small ones, there 
 is a certain charm in eyes half-shut beyond 
 any attraction they possess when open. True, 
 there is a mechanical necessity in the former 
 case to smile ; but independently of that j^lea- 
 sant accompaniment, the glance shot through 
 
 IinSs'TV of iLimois
 
 52 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 half- closed lids is one of the deadliest wea- 
 pons in Beauty's armory. In the present 
 instance it clove a heart to the centre. 
 
 'How are you, Rue?' cried I, for we 
 had known one another all our lives, 
 though, from Wayford being so far from 
 the Manor-house, we seldom met. 
 
 'Nicely, thank you. Master Fred. I 
 hope the Squire and Miss Benita are in 
 good health.' 
 
 ' How is your brother Richard ?' 
 
 ' Well, sir, he is but so-so. He is work- 
 ing in the cliff, you know,' she added, as if 
 that was explanation enough of his not 
 being in rude health. 
 
 ' And you. Rue, you are doing almost 
 as bad,' said I rebukefully. ' I wish you'd 
 let me bring you one of Aunt Benita's 
 masks ; but there — I daresay you would be 
 too conceited to wear one.' 
 
 ' Too beautiful rather, much too beauti- 
 ful,' murmured Cecil's voice at my elbow; 
 his dark eyes gazing upon her with undis-
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 53 
 
 guised admiration, his dusky features aglow 
 with delight. 
 
 ' My cousin Cecil says you are too beau- 
 tiful/ cried I aloud ; at which, with a rosy 
 blush, Rue vanished within doors. 
 
 ' Now aWs dm%^ quoted Cecil from one 
 of my father's favourites, and with the full 
 meaning of the author in his deep tones 
 too. 
 
 He was not angry at my mischievous 
 repetition of his late remark ; I think, on 
 the contrary, he was pleased that the girl 
 should have heard what he thought of her 
 marvellous charms. 
 
 ' Well, let's have the light again,' said I, 
 laughing. ' Rue ! Rue ! do come out and 
 show us where there is firm footine;: we 
 are going to leap the stream.' 
 
 She came out at once, and warned us 
 that the river was very deep just there. 
 
 ' Pray, don't attempt it. Master Fred, 
 or the folks will say I helped to break 
 your neck. It is shallower and narrower
 
 54 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 above yonder;, and the banks are not so 
 high; 
 
 But it Avas the height of tlie bank at 
 that particuhir spot which in reality made 
 the project feasible. Between us and the 
 cottage lay a miniature alpine ravine, which 
 I had little doubt of being able to clear, if 
 only the pole were long enough to reach 
 the bottom of it. As for Cecil, he would 
 have essayed to leap Niagara, even if Ruth 
 Waller had not been waiting for him on the 
 other side of the Falls. 
 
 I examined with care the ground w^hich 
 sloped down to the brink of the stream ; it 
 was moist and slippery. 
 
 ^ We can't take any run at it,' said I 
 doubtfully ; ' it must be a standing jump.' 
 
 'All right,' said Cecil carelessly, his 
 eyes still rapt on the beautiful girl, who, 
 on her part, was watching us with the ut- 
 most interest. ' I'm game.' 
 
 ' I've no doubt of that,' said I, laughing; 
 ' but you'll be dead game, if you don't take
 
 ACEOSS THE WAY. 55 
 
 care what you are about ; there isn't half a 
 
 foot of pole to spare, and if it breaks 
 
 Upon my life, Cecil, I don't like it,' whis- 
 pered I ; ' one wants a fir-tree for such a 
 span as this.' 
 
 ' Don't ye, don't ye try it, Master Fred,' 
 cried Rue appealingly, and perceiving my 
 hesitation. ' You talk of the rashness of 
 us poor people ; but we work at our ill 
 trade for our bread, whereas it's sinful to 
 run such a risk as that for pleasure and — ' 
 
 ' If you are afraid, Fred, let me go,' said 
 Cecil quietly. ' Why, after all, it's only a 
 ducking at the worst.' 
 
 I knew very well that a ducking might 
 not be the worst of it; but my cousin's taunt 
 determined me at once to make the at- 
 tempt ; moreover, despite her entreaties, 
 there was a flush of colour in Ruth Wal- 
 ler's face which showed how deeply she was 
 interested in the performance of the feat, 
 and I did not like to disappoint the village 
 beauty. The words of the heralds in the
 
 5G Cecil's tryst. 
 
 lists of Ashby occurred to ine Avith ludi- 
 crous application to iny position : ' Love of 
 ladies, death of champions, splintering of 
 lances ! Stand forth, gallant knights ; fair 
 eyes look upon your deeds!' If the lance 
 sliould splinter in the present case, it was 
 not impossible that the death of the cham- 
 pion might ensue; but still I did stand 
 forth, and looked as gallant as I could 
 under the circumstances. First, then, I 
 went through the somewhat unknightly per- 
 formance of moistening the palms of my 
 hands; then I grasped the top of the pole, 
 the iron-shod end of which was already 
 firmly placed in the stream; swayed back- 
 ward and forward once or twice, drew in 
 my breath, and finally launched myself 
 into the air. It seemed to me that I took 
 a long time to get across; the momentum 
 was only just sufiicient to throw tlie pole 
 on the other side ; and in the middle, I dis- 
 tinctly felt it ^ hang;' the effect of which, 
 had the retardation been maintained, Avould
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 57 
 
 have been to make ine circle round the 
 pole, like a toy monkey, and then drop in 
 the river. But the good pole carried me 
 safe over, and almost into Ruth's arms. 
 
 ' Eh, but you are a gey fine Upper, Mas- 
 ter Fred!' said she with enthusiasm, as I 
 stood panting, and perhaps a little proud, 
 by her side. 
 
 It was now Cecil's turn to try his luck. 
 I had great doubts — though, of course, I 
 did not express them — of his safe arrival 
 at our side of the Way. He was not, as 
 I have already mentioned, so skilful in the 
 management of the pole as myself; while 
 I, for my part, had never made a more 
 difficult leap. It was not his habit, how- 
 ever, to lose much time in preparation, and 
 over he came like a rocket — that is, he 
 came about half-way over. When he got 
 so far, there was a splintering crash, which 
 made my blood curdle, for it told me that 
 the pole had given way, which is the great 
 danger of deep leaping. If he should come
 
 58 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 down upon the broken piece, it might spit 
 hiin like a lark, and this was jnst what 
 he had done ; and though, happily, he fell 
 aslant upon it, the shock was so pain fid and 
 violent, that it forced a sharp cry from his 
 lips, which the next instant was stifled in 
 the stream. Quick as a bird, Ruth flew 
 down the steep steps that led from the cot- 
 tage to the river s brink, and caught him by 
 his clothes as the current swirled him by. 
 Except that he was wetted to the skin, the 
 ducking had done him no harm ; but when 
 he had struggled to his feet, we saw that 
 his face was pale, and that he pressed his 
 hand against his side, as though in pain. 
 
 ' You arc hurt?' said I anxiously. 
 
 ' No, no ; it's nothinc;,' said Cecil, who 
 had been thanking Ruth in a faint voice. 
 ' I'm a little bruised, that's all. I can't walk 
 very well. I think I should be better if 
 I could sit down a while;' and he looked 
 towards the cottage. 
 
 ' Do, pray, sir, come in,' said Ruth.
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 5^ 
 
 ^ But you'll catcli your death in those wet 
 clothes. Perhaps you wouldn't mind wear- 
 ing Richard's Sunday suit, while I dry them 
 before the fire?' 
 
 This oiFer was gratefully accepted ; and 
 I took Cecil at once up to Richard Waller's 
 room, and helped him to change his attire. 
 This was accomplished with great difficulty, 
 for my cousin's breathing seemed much 
 oppressed; and when he caught sight of 
 himself in the little glass in corduroys and 
 a red waistcoat, and would fain have burst 
 out laughing, the attempt appeared to give 
 him great pain. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Cecil,' said I de- 
 cisively, ' there's something wrong with 
 your ribs. I'll leave you here under Ruth's 
 care, and fetch Dr. Cherwell ; and if he's 
 not in, I'll at all events bring the pony- 
 carriage from the Manor-house, for it's clear 
 you can't walk home.' 
 
 I expected opposition to this plan, for 
 Cecil hated to be made a fuss with — even
 
 60 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 his sister's demonstrative solicitude about 
 his health, and the dangers of pole-leaping, 
 vexed him ; but, to my great relief, he 
 made none ; so off I started on my errand, 
 leaving Ruth in charge of him. In those 
 days I could run like the deer; but it ^vas 
 a long way to the doctor's, and when I 
 reached his house, he was away on his pro- 
 fessional round ; then, there was a mile or 
 two more to the Manor; and the groom 
 was not at the stables, so I had to put the 
 pony in the shafts myself, for I did not 
 wish to alarm the household, by letting 
 them know why I wanted the carriage. I 
 had accomplished my task with privacy, 
 and was driving at a canter down the 
 avenue, when, to my great confusion, I 
 met Cousin Jane. She stopped me at once, 
 and with a swift suspicious glance, inquired 
 w^hither I was ":oino'. 
 
 ^I thought you were out with Cecil,' 
 said she. ' Where is he T 
 
 T told her the phiin truth. He liad met
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 61 
 
 with an accident ; there was nothing seri- 
 ous, but he was bruised, so that walking- 
 gave him pain; and I was taking the pony- 
 trap to bring him home. 
 
 'You will bring him home dead,' cried 
 she vehemently, the fire glittering in her 
 dark eyes ; ' and then you will get his 
 money, and be satisfied.' 
 
 ' Jane !' cried I, in astonishment that 
 knew no bounds. ' What on earth do you 
 mean? You must be stark mad!' 
 
 ' I was,' said she, controlling herself by 
 a great efibrt. ' Forgive me. Cousin Fred. 
 I am sane now. I am sure that you love 
 my brother, and would rather have him 
 grow up and be happy, than reap an}' 
 benefit at his expense. You have no self- 
 ish thoughts, as some have. Pray, forgive 
 me.' 
 
 She stepped lightly into the carriage, 
 and seating herself by my side, laid her 
 hand upon mine, and patted it, as though 
 it were the head of a child.
 
 62 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' I forgive you, of course, Jane,' said I, 
 withdrawing from this caress ; ^ ])ut how 
 is it possible for me to forget such words ? 
 What selfish thoughts do you refer to, and 
 who are those that entertain them? If 
 you mean my father and Aunt Ben — and 
 I know of no one else to whom you can 
 possibly refer — I can answer for their never 
 having harboured a base thought, even in 
 their dreams. They would not speculate 
 upon your brother's death for all the filthy 
 dross that was ever picked up in India.' 
 
 How angry I was, and how I hated that 
 yellow girl, who squatted beside me like a 
 toad! 
 
 ' You are shocked and ashamed of me, 
 Cousin Fred,' said she penitently; 'and I 
 deserve it.' 
 
 This I did not deny, but flicked the 
 pony with the whip, and drove on rapidl}- 
 throuo'h the villa 2:e. When we had cleared 
 it, and were cantering along the noiseless 
 sand-road that ran round the foot of the
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 63 
 
 cliff, Jane began to speak again, with great 
 slowness and precision, like a secretary of 
 some mercantile community making his 
 statement in committee assembled. 
 
 ' In my terror upon Cecil's account, 
 Frederick, and in my anger too, for you 
 know how I have alwaj^s opposed this leap- 
 ing, that has now turned out so ill, I said 
 the first thing that came to my lips. It 
 w^as never harboured in my thoughts at 
 all ', upon my word, it was not.' 
 
 ' I think we had better drop the sub- 
 ject,' said I drily. 
 
 'As you please, Frederick,' was the 
 humble reply; 'but do not imagine that 
 I have not been punished.' She said this 
 with such obvious mental pain, that I really 
 pitied her. 
 
 We began to talk of Cecil's accident, 
 and where I had left him, and the like ; 
 and she was all calmness and content. 
 
 ' I am quite sure you did the best for 
 him, poor fellow, that could be done. I
 
 64 
 
 daresay it will turn out that he has only a 
 few bruises, which will have no other effect 
 than to make him more cautious. Even 
 a broken rib is not very serious. — My dear 
 cousin, who is that horrible man ?' 
 
 This ejaculation was caused by the ap- 
 pearance of poor Batty — as Bartholomew 
 Cade, the harmless idiot of the village, was 
 called. He had worked in his childhood in 
 the sand-cliff; and a sudden fall of earth 
 had deprived him of his senses, and left 
 him only instincts, one of which was, un- 
 happily, for drink. He had just arrived 
 from the terrace on the road in front of 
 us, by his usual method of descent, which 
 was, to curve himself into a circle, and roll 
 down like a wheel; and there he stood, 
 shaking the sand from his head and limbs 
 by a grotesque rotatory movement that 
 would have addled the brains of any sane 
 man. As we drew near, he held out a 
 handful of copper and small silver coins, 
 and laughed exultingly.
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 65 
 
 ^How did you get all that money, 
 Batty?' inquired I, as I drove slowly by, 
 lest his weird antics and appearance should 
 startle the pony. 
 
 ' Selling props,' cried he — ' props, 
 props !' 
 
 ' I hope you didn't steal them, Batty?' 
 said I gravely. 
 
 ^No, no; I cut 'em with the bill-hook.' 
 
 As we drove on, I explained to Cousin 
 Jane that this poor fellow earned his liv- 
 ing by cutting out of the fir -wood the 
 props for the sand-caves, which were 
 bought of him for small sums by the work- 
 men; and how, on one occasion, it had 
 unfortunately struck him that his labour 
 might be saved by taking the props out 
 of a cave, and selling them — an idea 
 which, but for the timely discovery of 
 his theft, might have caused great cata- 
 strophes. 
 
 ' I hope he Avas whipped,' said Cousin 
 Jane tartly, with whom whipping was a 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 
 
 panacea for all disorders, mental, moral^ 
 and physical. 
 
 ' Nay,' said I. ' Batty is not responsi- 
 ble for his actions; but he has promised 
 not to misbehave himself in the way of 
 prop-stealing again, and he always keeps 
 his word.' 
 
 Perhaps the notion of Batty 's getting- 
 off so easily, outraged Cousin Jane's strict 
 sense of propriety, but, at all events, for 
 the rest of our drive she became more 
 like her usual self When we stopped at 
 the end of the little lane which led to 
 the cottage of the Wallers, and which was 
 not practicable for Avheels, she jumped out, 
 and hurried on, leaving me to tie up the 
 pony. When I followed, she had not en- 
 tered the house, but was standing at the 
 open door. I w^as about to ask her wh}- 
 she did not enter; but she shook her 
 head, and held up her hand for silence. 
 Her face was livid, her breath came in 
 thick gasps, and her thin Ups were parted
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 67 
 
 with a grin of rage. I looked over her 
 shoulder at the sight Avhich had evoked 
 these unpleasant symptoms. In that apart- 
 ment of a Gatcombe cottage which is 
 'kitchen, and parlour, and all,' sat, all 
 unconscious of our presence, a pair of 
 youthful rustics. The walls were but of 
 plaster, and defaced rather than orna- 
 mented by some highly - coloured daubs 
 of the story of the Prodigal, and of Ruth 
 amid the corn ; on the mantelpiece, art 
 was again travestied in the jDcrson of an 
 infant Samuel, highly gilt, and with black 
 dots for eyes; on the shelves were a few 
 specimens of common delf ; the floor was 
 carpetless; and from the i^oof depended 
 onions. And yet the human objects in this 
 frame redeemed its coarseness, and pre- 
 sented a fair picture — 2;)urest pastoral. 
 Pretty Rue, with head aside, and eyes 
 that feigned an interest in the burning 
 logs, was seated by the fire; and close to 
 her — so close that their chairs touched —
 
 68 
 
 sat Cecil in the Sunday suit, with his 
 hand pressed to his red waistcoat, like a 
 love-sick Robin. What he was saying, I 
 know not, but he was looking encyclo- 
 paedias of affection. 
 
 Jane drew me on one side of the 
 porch, and whispered hoarsely : ' Who is 
 that woman?' 
 
 ^ Only Rue Waller. She pulled him out 
 of the river, and lent him her brother's 
 clothes. You see,' added I mischievously, 
 ' Cecil is not so very much hurt by his 
 accident — unless it induces heart-disease.' 
 Here I gave a premonitory cough, which 
 was followed by the hasty scraping of 
 chairs within; and when we again pre- 
 sented ourselves at the doorway, the young 
 people were on opposite sides of the fire- 
 place. Rue was blushing like a peony; 
 but Cecil's swarthy face did not change 
 its hue (though it was prone to do so on 
 slight occasion), nor move a muscle : in 
 this respect it showed a striking contrast
 
 ACROSS THE WAY. 69 
 
 to its duplicate, for Jane had turned as 
 nearly white as the nature of things per- 
 mitted. 
 
 'I came here understanding that you 
 were hurt, Cecil,' said she, with that dis- 
 tinctness of utterance so significant of pent- 
 up rage. ' But it seems that you only 
 wished to get rid of Frederick.' 
 
 'I might have been hurt,' returned 
 Cecil quietly, 'had it not been for kind 
 help and tendance.' 
 
 Jane laughed a little laugh, that was 
 the concentration of contempt and scorn, 
 and surveyed Ruth — to whom he had 
 pointed, and who stood curtseying humbly, 
 yet with great grace — from head to foot. 
 'Well,' resumed she, 'you have been 
 tended long enough, I think. Is it not 
 time to have done with your farce — to 
 take oiF those ridiculous clothes, and come 
 home ?' 
 
 The duplicate faces became now alike 
 in hue.
 
 70 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 '• I see nothing ridiculous in the clothes 
 which have been so hospitably lent to 
 me,' said Cecil sharply; 'but 1 see some- 
 thing very mean and base in jesting at 
 honest people because they happen to be 
 poor.' 
 
 There was a most embarrassing pause, 
 during which the young hostess gazed on 
 the fire, and brother and sister confronted 
 one another with looks such as they had 
 certainly never interchanged before. 
 
 Then 'Ruth,' said Cecil, with a tender- 
 ness in his tone that he seemed to exag- 
 gerate rather than to attempt to conceal, 
 'I am greatly obliged to you for your 
 kindness. Your brother's clothes shall be 
 returned to-night ; and please to express 
 to him my thanks for the use of them.* 
 He held out his hand, which Rue shyly 
 took, and, as he did so, turned round 
 upon his sister defiantly. 
 
 ' If you have not your purse with you, 
 Cecil,' said she drily, ' 1 have mine. You
 
 ACllOSS THE WAY. 71 
 
 should always remunerate for their trouble 
 honest people who happen to be poor.' 
 
 'Indeed, miss,' said Ruth hurriedly — 
 for Jane had already taken out three half- 
 crowns and laid them on the table — 'my 
 brother would be very vexed to think 
 
 that I took money for' The close 
 
 of her sentence was lost in a passionate 
 exclamation in Hindustanee; and Cecil 
 snatched up the silver, and threw it, 
 through the doorway, into the middle of 
 the river, where the broken pole Avas still 
 standing. What he said, I know not; 
 but I am sure, from the expression Avhich 
 it evoked on his sister's face, that the 
 Indian tongue is capable of conveying a 
 strong invective; and after his retort, not 
 II syllable of any language, European or 
 Oriental, did Cousin Jane utter during our 
 drive home.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 
 
 The pains which Cousin Jane took to set 
 herself right, after that unfortunate day's 
 proceedings, with both myself and her 
 brother, were great and unintermittent. 
 Directly she had made that speech sug- 
 gestive of the advantao;e that would accrue 
 to us at Gatcombe if anvthino- were to 
 happen to Cecil, I saw that she would 
 have given much to have recalled it: she 
 had looked, to use a popular and powerful 
 image, as though she could have bitten 
 her tongue out. Her apology and retracta- 
 tion had followed, as I have said, on the 
 instant ; and yet she seemed painfull}- 
 aware that they had been insufficient. 
 If her insult had been directed to myself,
 
 FELLOW-LABOUREES. 73 
 
 I could perhaps have forgiven her ; but 
 the insinuation had been uttered, on her 
 own confession, with reference to my father 
 — the least self-seeking and mercenary of 
 men — and it had wounded me to the quick. 
 Her keen intelligence perceived this, and 
 her eiForts to re-establish herself in my 
 good opinion were made through the very 
 channel in which she had made shipwreck 
 of herself. Her manner towards Uncle Fred 
 underwent a complete change ; she dis- 
 carded her sullen ways, and endeavoured 
 all she could to adapt herself to his genial 
 mood. She anticipated Aunt Ben in light- 
 ing his pipe and cutting his newspaper for 
 him after breakfast ; and even took a part 
 in that long- established recreation of the 
 household, in which he took such unfeigned 
 pleasure, namely, our Dramatic Readings. 
 Hitherto she had icily declined to join 
 them, and had sat apart, engaged, with 
 pressed lips and knitted brow, over a cer- 
 tain intricate Chinese puzzk^, and surrounded
 
 74 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 with a faint atmosphere of sandal -wood 
 (which I smell now), while Bobadil gave 
 lessons in fence, or Mammon in making 
 money. My father BoAvdlerised his favour- 
 ite plays (by no means a task of supereroga- 
 tion), to suit the drawing-room ; and Aunt 
 Ben and Eleanor from the rectory, who 
 formed the female portion of our dramatis- 
 personw^ were hardly worked, and greatly 
 needed Jane's assistance, thus tardily be- 
 stowed. There were no stage jealousies 
 amongst us ; and indeed Aunt Ben, for her 
 part, would have gladly thrown up all her 
 engagements in her niece's favour, had she 
 been permitted to do so. The dear old soul 
 once confided to me, that whenever her 
 turn came to declaim or protest, to coquette 
 or plead, she felt like some unhappy whist- 
 player who has got the lead and doesn't 
 want it. She would always have been 
 ' fourth hand,' that is, as far from iha leader 
 as possible, and never have won a trick if 
 she could have helped it. Her neiirhbours
 
 FELLOW-LABOUEERS. 75 
 
 on either hand were ever conscious of a 
 melancholy undertone in which she was ac- 
 customed to recite her part before it came 
 to her, just as a schoolboy in class occupies 
 himself with his own approaching task, 
 without taking an absorbing interest in the 
 classical renderings of his predecessors. She 
 had the advantage over him, indeed, of be- 
 ing able to calculate to a nicety, and of 
 not being liable to corporal punishment in 
 case of a fiasco ; but she had her nervous 
 anxieties nevertheless; and often and often 
 would my father's grave remonstrant tones, 
 'Now, Benita, Benita!' remind her, like 
 some stroke of doom, that her turn was 
 come, and awaken her to the horrors of 
 her (dramatic) situation. Then would her 
 finger hurriedly retrace some fourteen lines 
 or so of heroic verse, and damp and pal- 
 pitating, she Avould depict the woes of 
 Aspatia, and mildly reproach Evadne for 
 having robbed her of her Amintor. Happy 
 for her when Melancholy thus chanced to
 
 76 
 
 mark her for her own — when she got a 
 plaintive part in the lot-dramng — and had 
 to recite such dirges as : 
 
 ' Lay a garland on m}' hearse 
 Of the dismal yew ;' 
 
 for, indeed, they suited her feelings to a 
 nicety. Cousin Jane herself was not very 
 well adapted for the deliverance of pert 
 and lively sallies, but showed considerable 
 vigour in vituperation; in f)articular, she 
 once took my father's heart by storm in 
 playing Katherine to his Petruchio ; on 
 which occasion, when we wished one an- 
 other 'good-night,' she whispered in my 
 ear : ' I am so glad I pleased your father,. 
 Fred; 
 
 This touched me, and I repeated her 
 remark to Aunt Ben, who observed rather 
 drily, that Jane had seemed of late desir- 
 ous to please others beside my father. 
 
 ' True,' said I ; ' and much to her credit.' 
 
 To which my aunt made no reply. For 
 
 my part, I was certainly softened towards
 
 FELLOW-LABOTJRERS. 77 
 
 €ousin Jane, and had by this time ahnost 
 forgiven her monstrous insinuation with 
 respect to Cecil. As for her brother, he 
 had long been reconciled to her; though, 
 if he had forgotten that scene in the Wal- 
 lers' cottage, I am quite sure she had not. 
 She showed her keen remembrance of it by 
 never so much as alluding to the subject 
 of his hurt (of which, indeed, he soon re- 
 -covered), and by avoiding all inquiry into 
 the mode in which he now passed his time. 
 Instead, as formerly, of putting him through 
 a cross-examination (borne with the utmost 
 good-humour) on his return from each day's 
 ramble, and of inveighing against the perils 
 of pole-leaping, she merely hoped that he 
 had enjoyed himself She would still show 
 her solicitude about him, indeed, by in- 
 quiring of me ; but, as it happened, I could 
 now tell her little of Cecil's proceedings. 
 He was applying himself, it seemed, more 
 assiduously than of yore to his studies with 
 the rector, and would excuse himself from
 
 78 
 
 my company on that ground. Thus it 
 happened that I fell back upon something 
 like the old mode of life that I had been 
 accustomed to before my cousin's arrival. 
 T had renewed opportunities of enjoying 
 Eleanors society, and I took again 'long 
 stretches' across country by myself 
 
 During these last, I now enjoyed a new 
 pleasure, namely, the composition of five- 
 act dramas of thrilling interest. My father's 
 tastes and talk, and our evening readings, 
 had at last brought about that condition 
 of mind which, had such circumstances not 
 been taken into the account, would have 
 been called a natural bent for the drama. 
 I wish carefully to avoid the imputation of 
 believing myself at any time to have been 
 a genius: the description of mental food 
 on which I had been nourished, and the 
 poetical atmosphere of my father s study, 
 were probably quite sufficient to account 
 for the existence of such a phenomenon as 
 a playwright of eighteen. At all events, it
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 79 
 
 did exist in my proper person ; and once 
 begotten, every incident in my experience 
 tended to its development. My love for 
 Nelly suggested passages of tenderest pas- 
 sion, which I would pour forth to her (very 
 literally) con amore, and concerning whicli 
 I would solicit her opinion without much 
 fear of an unfavourable criticism ; the society 
 of Cecil was conducive to the same end, 
 since, as I have said, the one cultivated 
 talent he possessed was of a dramatic kind, 
 while he had the advantage both of having 
 seen plays acted, and of having taken part 
 in them himself. Nothing would please him 
 better, he said, as a profession in life than 
 to be the Burbage to my Shakespeare ; and 
 I am sure he spoke from his heart, and had 
 no conception that he was talking non- 
 sense. Then there was a certain Lady 
 Repton, from whom we had long been ex- 
 pecting a visit, who quite unconsciously 
 played a considerable part in these shadow- 
 plays of mine. She had been a great actress
 
 80 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 — really a great one, in times when actors 
 and actresses were thought of far more 
 highly than nowadays ; and a lord had 
 carried her off the stage, and married her, 
 to the grief of thousands. Lord Repton had 
 been a college friend of my father's, and 
 had promised ' some day' to come to Gat- 
 combe, and introduce his wife to the onl}' 
 man in England who still appreciated the 
 classical drama. I looked forward to this 
 vague engagement with an eager expecta- 
 tion, such as a boy with the Avild Avish to 
 be a sailor might have felt at whose father's 
 house the immortal Nelson was a promised 
 guest. Nor did I, in my inmost heart, de- 
 spair of persuading her ladyship to reassume 
 her profession, so far as to read a few of my 
 own favourite declamations, in character, if 
 not in costume. 
 
 In my walks upon the lonely sand-cliff, 
 I apostrophised universal nature, and sent 
 many a rabbit to his burrow palpitating 
 with terror at my fervid words. On one
 
 FELLOW-LABOUEERS. 81 
 
 of these occasions, as, after a long ramble, 
 I was returning by the terrace, just above 
 Wayford, the rain began to fall so heavily 
 that, the shelter of the pines being insuffi- 
 cient, I made for the nearest sand- cave. 
 As I stood in the entrance of it as in a 
 porch, and watched the landscape darken- 
 ing and dwindling in the downpour, I heard 
 a noise from the interior — the trundling of 
 a barrow : the proprietor, whom I knew to 
 be Eichard Waller, was doubtless at his 
 work within ; and I stepped out of the nar- 
 row passage and stood aside, in order to 
 give him egress. A barrowful of the rough 
 scythe-stone in truth it was; but the person 
 who wheeled it turned out, to mv extreme 
 astonishment, to be my cousin Cecil. My 
 surprise, however, was surpassed by his 
 confusion. He stood speechless, holding 
 the handles of the barrow very tightly, as 
 amateurs at such labour do, replying to my 
 wondering looks by an uneasy laugh, 
 
 ^ Why, what on earth are you about, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 Cecil ?' asked I. ^ I thought you were go- 
 ing to be busy with your books all the 
 afternoon.' 
 
 ^ So I was to have been,' returned he; 
 ' but Mr. Bourne was called away to chris- 
 ten a sick child ; and I thought I'd come 
 on here, and help poor Waller. His breath 
 is getting very short, you know ; and I 
 wanted a little exercise, and — and here I 
 am.' 
 
 He was certainly there, though it was 
 somewhat difficult to recognise him. His 
 hair and clothes were covered with sand ; 
 his face was damp, as I supposed with toil, 
 and wore the pinched and anxious look 
 that was to be observed in those who pur- 
 sued his present occupation for a livelihood. 
 
 ' I don't think your sister would like 
 to hear you amused yourself in this way, 
 Cecil,' said I gravely, for I was really 
 alarmed at his appearance. ' It's far worse 
 than pole-leaping, my good fellow.' 
 
 ^ I shall amuse myself as I please,' re-
 
 PELLOW-LABOURERS. 5d 
 
 turned Cecil haughtily, ' without consulting 
 my sister or anybody else.' 
 
 ' Nay, Cecil,' remonstrated I, ' you 
 should know me better than to suppose 
 me capable of dictation ; but this work, 
 believe me, is very unhealthy; and if you 
 come here often (here he dropped his eyes, 
 and bit his lips), ' it will most certainly 
 injure you in the end. It's no use your 
 being angry with me, as I see you are. I 
 don't want you to come to harm at Gat- 
 combe, although I am your heir-presump- 
 tive, cousin.' 
 
 I spoke this with some bitterness, in- 
 stigated by the remembrance of his sister s 
 base suggestion, and the next instant re- 
 gretted my irritation. I expected him to 
 exhibit extreme displeasure, whereas he 
 only replied humbly, 
 
 ' I am sure, Fred, you wish me nothing 
 but good. I daresay what you have said 
 is very true. I won't help Waller in this 
 way any more. Let us go home.'
 
 84 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' Nay,' said I, ' let us wait till the storm 
 is over.' 
 
 I saw that my cousin was very impa- 
 tient to be gone, but I was greatly averse 
 to leave shelter and be wetted throuo:h to 
 the skin, when five minutes' waiting would 
 prevent it. Perhaps I was a little piqued, 
 too, at Cecil's having preferred Richard 
 Waller's company to mine, when he found 
 himself freed from his studies (for he knew 
 the direction my walk had taken, and 
 might have met me if he chose), and was 
 consequently disinclined to be conciliator}'. 
 The clouds began to disperse, and the sun 
 had already tinged the distant fields, when 
 suddenly the sound of some one singing 
 within the cave, and evidently approaching 
 us, delayed my footste])s on the very point 
 of departure. 
 
 ' I should have thought Richard Waller 
 had no breath to spare for singing,' whis- 
 pered I to Cecil. 
 
 'That's not Richard,' said he ; and though
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 85 
 
 his tone was careless, I saw him colour 
 deeply; 'it's Rue;' and at that moment 
 Ruth (or RuCj as the neighbours called 
 her) appeared at the cave -mouth, having 
 in her apron a number of rough scythe- 
 stones, which she dropped upon the ground 
 on seeing me, without an effort to reclaim 
 them. 
 
 ' Lor, there !' cried she, finding her 
 voice much more readily than Cecil had 
 done in his first moments of embarrassment, 
 ' you gave me quite a start. Master Fred ! 
 Who'd ever have thought of seeing you ? 
 Richard and I were only saying the other 
 day, how long it was since we had seen 
 aught of you at Wayford.' 
 
 She ran on, in a manner quite unusual 
 with her, and never once, I noticed, look- 
 ing towards my cousin, who, under cover 
 of this sustained volley of words, began to 
 collect his scattered powers, and presently 
 to add his voice to hers. As for me, I 
 held my tongue, my mind not suggesting
 
 86 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 any original remark appropriate to the oc- 
 casion, nor even recalling one out of the 
 wide range of m}^ dramatic reading, rich 
 as it was in ' surprises' and ' situations.' If 
 Huth Waller had dropped from the clouds, 
 instead of emerging from the earth, I could 
 scarcely have been more taken aback by 
 her appearance ; not, indeed, that there 
 was anything wonderful in her being in 
 her brother's 'pit' — for so the caves were 
 called, though they were horizontal — but 
 only in her being there in Cecil's com- 
 pany. 
 
 ' Richard is a good worker, you see, 
 though so scant of breath,' stammered my 
 cousin ; ' and he can supply more than a 
 barrowful of scythe - stones at a time ; so 
 Ruth and I both help to carry them out.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said I drily ; for indeed 
 so much of the matter was clear enough. 
 
 ' Perhaps Master Fred would like to 
 see Richard,' suggested Ruth to Cecil. 
 
 Her coolness staggered me, but had a
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 87 
 
 contrary effect to that which it was de- 
 signed to have ; the familiarity of her ad- 
 dress at once suggested to me that this 
 could not have been the first time by many 
 that my cousin and she had met since the 
 day of his accident at Wayford. Moreover, 
 her hint of Richard's presence in the pit 
 had a savour of prudery about it, which, 
 under the circumstances, did not impress 
 me favourably with the fair speaker. That 
 her brother teas actually in the cave, I had 
 no doubt, since, in the silence that fol- 
 lowed her last remark, I could hear the 
 strokes of his pickaxe as they grated against 
 the stone, or fell mufiled on the damp and 
 yielding sand. 
 
 ' The rain is over for the present,' 
 said I quietly ; ' we had better be off at 
 once before there's another storm, Cecil.' 
 And without waiting for his reply, I 
 started at my usual pace for home. 
 
 My cousin remained behind for a few 
 moments, as I knew he would, and pre-
 
 88 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 sently overtook me. We walked on with- 
 out speaking for some time, then he laid 
 his hand upon my shoulder, and we both 
 stood still. 
 
 ^ You are not pleased with me and 
 Ruth, I fear,' said he. 
 
 ^ I am not my cousin's keeper,' replied 
 I coldly ; ' but if you ask me whether your 
 behaviour seems to me judicious, I must 
 honestly tell you, I do not think it is.' 
 
 'Judicious?' reiterated he, with scorn- 
 ful vehemence. 'What, in heaven's name, 
 would you have me do, Fred? I love 
 this girl Avith all my heart and soul ; no- 
 thing shall part me from her — nothing, 
 nothing! I am only happy when I am 
 with her. W^hat other excuse can I frame 
 for being in her company than that of 
 helping her brother in the pit? You, who 
 pride yourself on your ingenuity, tell me 
 that: 
 
 Disturbed as I was by this confession, 
 I could scarcely help smiling at his asking
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 89 
 
 me to frame an excuse for the very inter- 
 views which were the cause of my uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 ' My dear Cecil,' said I, ' the whole 
 affair is bad, believe me, and will be worse 
 in the end than at the beginning.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by that ?' inquired 
 he, almost with ferocity. 'Do you sup- 
 pose I mean Ruth harm? Do you take 
 me for a blackguard?' 
 
 ' Xo, Cecil, I don't ; if I did, I should 
 go straight to my father, and tell him 
 precisely what has happened. If you were 
 otherwise than the noble -hearted, affec- 
 tionate fellow I know you to be, I should 
 have seen Richard just now, and told him 
 to his face that he was helping to bring 
 his own sister to shame. It is useless to 
 be angry with me, Cecil; such would, I 
 assert, without doubt be the result in nine 
 cases out often. In yours, the best that 
 can possibly come of such a courtship is 
 still disappointment and disgrace.'
 
 90 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 'Why disgrace?' asked my cousin 
 sharply. 
 
 ' Because it Avould be disgraceful in one 
 of your position to marry one in hers.' 
 
 It may be objected that for a young 
 gentleman whose studies were dramatic, 
 my judgment was somewhat too practical 
 and commonplace. But there were many 
 reasons that compelled this apparent in- 
 consistency. In the first place, I foresaw 
 the distress that such an attachment must 
 needs cause my father, as my cousin's 
 host and guardian; in the second, although 
 T had had small experience of the world, 
 the nature of my reading had developed 
 a perception of the character of others 
 which was rarely at fault; and my late 
 interview with Ruth had impressed me 
 with the conviction that the girl was crafty, 
 if not desio-nino:. 
 
 As for the whole tone of the discus- 
 sion between my cousin and myself, I 
 am quite aware that it was something
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 91 
 
 quite different from what it would have 
 been had we had the advantage of a pub- 
 lic-school education. My father's teaching 
 had fixed within me a respect for women, 
 which Beaumont and Fletcher had not 
 destroyed. In this respect, he would even 
 have been deemed Quixotic; for his very 
 definition of cowardice was about the 
 same which the man of honour and the 
 world applies to gallantry. As soon as 
 I was old enough to understand him, he 
 had taken pains to convince me that in- 
 feriority of station in a A^oman, considering 
 her natural tendency to idolise mere rank, 
 ought to be as much her safeguard with 
 generous hearts as are, in other matters, 
 the innocence of childhood or the feeble- 
 ness of age ; and I had at least imbibed 
 so much of his lessons as disinclined me 
 for that ribald talk and thought of wo- 
 men so common among those who have 
 acquired, with the rudiments of the ancient 
 classics, the tone of fashionable schools.
 
 D2 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 As for Cecil, he Avas incapable of a 
 deliberate baseness; and by nature so 
 frank, that it was impossible he could be 
 deceiving me as to his real intention. I 
 did not, therefore, fear for Ruth as I did 
 for him. Her marvellous beauty was 
 cause enough for any man's falling in love 
 with her; whereas I opined that Rue 
 Waller was not the i^irl to foro^et the 
 plain features and dusky hue of my cousin 
 Cecil in her appreciation of the qualities 
 of his heart. That he did not forget them 
 himself Avas evident from his reply to m}' 
 observation, that marriage with one in 
 Ruth's position would be disgraceful. 
 
 'Position?' echoed he. 'Do you sup_ 
 pose, then, that I don't know Avhat is 
 my position as compared Avith yours, or, 
 if your kindness mislikes so personal a 
 comparison, compared AAdth that of your 
 father? I am — God help me! — but an 
 ignorant half-caste; only tolerated — I aa^II 
 not say by you or yours, but by the
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 9S 
 
 world at large — on account of my wealth. 
 Without my riches, for what should I be 
 valued — I had almost said, cousin, by 
 whom?' He dropped his voice, and spoke 
 these last words with a tender pathos that 
 went to my heart. 
 
 ' Cecil,' said I, ^ it pains me to hear 
 you speak in this manner; and yet what 
 you have said emboldens me to use an 
 argument which otherwise I should have 
 shrunk from. If, indeed, you be such as 
 you describe (though your face is comely 
 enough in my eyes, and the blood that 
 moves in your veins seems that of a bro- 
 ther), and if it be your wealth alone that 
 is likely to attract strangers towards you, 
 what is it, think you, that has attracted 
 this young girl, whose poverty must, by 
 contrast, have made your riches seem to 
 her to be ten times as great as they really 
 are?' 
 
 ^ You are right,' returned Cecil quietly. 
 ^ Ruth loves me not, except for the wealth
 
 94 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 that I shall bring her. But I love her for 
 herself; and it is enough for me that she 
 does not loathe me.' 
 
 I looked at him vnth. wonder, in which, 
 j)erhaps, some contempt involuntarily min- 
 gled. 
 
 'Ah! you fancy you have loved,' said 
 he, in low grave tones, Avith an affec- 
 tionate smile ; ' but you have never really 
 done so, Fred ; or rather, I should say, 
 it is not possible that your love and mine 
 should be of the same sort. You and 
 Eleanor have each something to give, 
 something to exchange ; but, to the wo- 
 man whom I would fain persuade to love 
 me, I have nothing to give — nothing to 
 barter for her love; so, you see, Fred, / 
 must buy it' 
 
 Never shall I forget the air of inde- 
 scribable wretchedness with w^hich he ut- 
 tered those words. 
 
 ' I have never deceived myself in this 
 matter,' continued he, ' and much less
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 95 
 
 Ruth. To aifect to help her brother at 
 his work in yonder pit is, indeed, a feeble 
 pretext of sympathy, which imposes upon 
 neither of us ; but I can't give him money, 
 Fred. When she asks me for it — which, 
 perhaps, she will do some day — then it 
 will be time enough to give him money, 
 and so to buy her.' 
 
 If Cecil's face was plain, it was at least 
 freighted with an emotion more tender 
 and pitiful than I had ever seen expressed 
 in human features. And he Avas going 
 to waste all that wealth of love upon a 
 woman whose perceptions would probably 
 never detect its existence, and who would 
 — to judge her even by his own estimate 
 — be doubtless prepared to exchange for it 
 a fcAV hundreds of pounds ! The thought 
 of a compromise had, indeed, at first oc- 
 curred to me; but no one who now be- 
 held Cecil's face, and heard his tones, 
 could have entertained it for a moment. 
 Whatever she might have taken, nothing
 
 96 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 but herself, I felt sure, would have con- 
 tented him, 
 
 'And how is all this to end, Cecil?' 
 asked I; 'for every dream must have some 
 end; 
 
 He took no notice of the tone of in- 
 credulity, which, I confess, was affected 
 rather than real; for my cousin's nature 
 I knew to be full as resolute as it was im- 
 pulsive. 
 
 ' The end is, Fred, that I shall marry her.' 
 
 'Nay,' said I; 'that will be but the 
 beginning of the end — the first step in a 
 life of wretchedness.' 
 
 ' We cannot foretell the future, cousin,' 
 answered he quietly; 'but, unless some- 
 thing happens, T shall marry Ruth when 
 I come of age.' 
 
 'Unless what happens?' inquired I^ 
 pleased to hear that he was in no pas- 
 sionate haste, and in good hope that some 
 loophole of escape for him would present 
 itself in the intervening years.
 
 FELLOW-LABOURERS. 97 
 
 ' Unless your father comes to hear of 
 it,' said he, 'in which case I shall marry 
 her at once — at all hazards.' 
 
 There was nothing to prevent hhu. 
 Nor was my father the man, even if he 
 had the power, to adopt any stringent 
 measures in such a case. 'It will be a 
 sad blow for your sister Jane,' said I, ex- 
 pressing a reflection rather than advancing 
 a new argument. 
 
 For the first time, a shadow of irre- 
 solution seemed to flit across his face ; 
 but it passed away immediately, leaving it 
 calm and determined as before. ' If my 
 sister gets to know of it,' said he, ' that 
 would have the same effect of precipitat- 
 ing matters.' Here he hesitated. 'But 
 I tell you frankly, Fred, that I wish her 
 not to know. It would not shake my 
 purpose — nothing can, nor shalL But 
 might I ask you, being more near to me 
 as friend than kinsman, not to tell her, not 
 to tell any one about Ruth ?' 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 
 
 What could I do but promise? What 
 was the use of telling when the news 
 would only hasten on his rash resolve to 
 its fulfilment? So I said: 'Your secret, 
 Cecil, is safe with nie. I would that I 
 could wish you joy of it.' 
 
 'You do not wish me ill, I know," 
 said he, with his winning smile. 
 
 I shook my head. Indeed, I did not 
 wish him ill, but I knew that ill awaited 
 him. I think he knew it too; but neither 
 he nor I could have imagined, nor even 
 have dreamed, save in some weird, horrid 
 nightmare, the shape that ill was doomed 
 to take.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 
 
 The secret that Cecil had confided to me 
 remained of course undivulged, nor did we 
 even speak of it to one another. It was 
 useless to discuss a subject whereon there 
 was not only no possibility of our agree- 
 ment, but in which my cousin had allowed 
 that all the sense and reason were on my 
 side, the infatuation and resolve on his. I 
 felt that the plot was thickening, and for 
 some time awaited the catastrophe with 
 anxiety and trepidation : to borrow a meta- 
 phor from my favourite pursuit, I looked 
 every day for ^ a strong situation,' ' a scene' 
 in which my father, Jane, and Cecil would 
 prove the principal characters, and I my-
 
 100 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 self be stigmatised as an accessory before 
 the fact ; but as weeks and months passed 
 by without sign, I grew more tranquil; just 
 as one who, on board a powder-ship, has 
 seen his friends smoking their pipes for 
 years without an explosion, begins to think 
 there can be no such very great danger in 
 the practice after all. It was true that 
 Cecil, though showing even a warmer affec- 
 tion for me than heretofore, was more sel- 
 dom my companion out of doors than ever, 
 and I could not but conclude that he was 
 passing his time in Ruth's society ; but en- 
 gaged myself in an equally pleasant way 
 with Nelly, I either grew insensibly more 
 tolerant, or became willingly blind to con- 
 sequences in his case, as I did in my own. 
 For, regarded by unimpassioned eyes, my 
 courtship of Eleanor was almost as injudi- 
 cious as Cecil's devotion to Ruth. I had no 
 fortune of my own whatever, and even on 
 my father's death would only succeed to a 
 very moderate estate ; while Nelly was en-
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 101 
 
 tirely dependent on her grandfather, whose 
 favourite boast — and one which he was 
 wont to brandish in his son the rector s 
 face, to the great irritation of that learned 
 man — was, that he could leave every far- 
 thing of his money to whom he chose — ' Ay, 
 sir, though it were to the County Lunatic 
 Asylum.' 
 
 Sometimes I fancied, from Jane's man- 
 ner, that she suspected something amiss in 
 her brother's proceedings; but, much to 
 my satisfaction, she had long since ceased 
 to inquire concerning them of me. My 
 father was the very last man to Avhom an 
 idea of anything of the sort would suggest 
 itself; his confidence in the good conduct of 
 all beneath his roof being supreme. My 
 aunt concerned herself solely with the af- 
 fairs of the house and of the village ; and 
 besides, as maiden aunts are apt to do, she 
 considered Cecil and myself as boys; young 
 gentlemen of too tender years to be sus- 
 pected of a serious passion.
 
 102 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 Thus matters stood, when a letter from 
 the north apprised us one morning that 
 Lord and Lady Repton were at last about 
 to pay their promised visit. My father 
 handed it to me with a smile. ' There's a 
 message for you in it, Fred, from the great 
 tragedienne;' and I took it with trembUng 
 fingers. It was a wordy and pompous 
 epistle (though the writer evidently in- 
 tended to be cordial), and gave me no high 
 opinion of his lordship's talents ; but the 
 contents of the postscript made my heart 
 beat. ' Lady Repton bids me say that, in 
 coming to Gatcombe, she looks forward not 
 only to the pleasure of making the ac- 
 quaintance of my old friend, but of his 
 son, young Shakespeare.' I was mercilessly 
 roasted about that message ; my father 
 called me ' ihe marvellous boy ;' and Cecil 
 sketched out with great humour a news- 
 paper paragraph, headed Elopement in Eigli 
 Life from Gatcombe Manor. But I believe 
 they both sympathised with my excitement.
 
 A SPY- GLASS. 103 
 
 Once again my cousin reperused with me 
 my little stock of original dramas, all of 
 which had been indebted to him for some 
 stroke of fancy, if not for whole speeches, 
 and even scenes, in the old days Avhen we 
 had ' Beaumont and Fletchered ' it toge- 
 ther ; and out of them we chose what we 
 judged to be the best to lay before this 
 coming Siddons. I pictured to mj^self a 
 heroine of imposing port, who would talk 
 blank verse, and, when silent, look unutter- 
 able things. I dreamed of her as the Tragic 
 Muse, investing my brows with a crown of 
 amaranth. In my walks with Eleanor her- 
 self, I grew taciturn and meditative, and 
 when asked reproachfully what I was think- 
 ing of, would reply with audacious frank- 
 ness, ' Of Lady Kepton.' 
 
 At last the morning of the day of her 
 arrival dawned. I had not the courage to 
 go and meet her on the road (I say Aer, be- 
 cause his lordship did not. excite within me 
 a spark of interest; we had a fair sprinkling
 
 104 CECIL'S TRYST. 
 
 of lords in Sandylandshire, with most of 
 whom I had some acquaintance, and the 
 Wrays of Gatcombe held u}) their o^smi 
 heads too high to bow before mere title). 
 I walked out upon the brow of the moor- 
 land, and, with a glass, swept the road from 
 the railway station, until my eyes hit upon 
 her approaching carriage. I knew it by its 
 four post - horses, mthout which, as my 
 father told me, my Lord Repton never tra- 
 velled ; and it was perhaps from the know- 
 ledge of that circumstance, combined with 
 the laboured style of his letter, that I had 
 come to the conclusion that he was a pomp- 
 ous and pedantic old felloAv. The road 
 wound beneath me, here a ribbon, there a 
 thread, for miles ; and there was more than 
 an hour to spare from the moment I hrst 
 caught sight of them to that when it w^ould 
 be necessary to turn homewards, in order 
 to welcome their arrival. In the mean 
 while, I sat down on the moor, and watched 
 their approach, or surveyed the spreading
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 105 
 
 landscape, clad in the pale green of spring. 
 While thus engaged, and my gaze happen- 
 ing to be directed towards Wayford, I no- 
 ticed a female figure emerge from the fir- 
 wood, and come rapidly towards me across 
 the moor. At first, merely because I asso- 
 ciated her with the locality from which she 
 seemed to come, I thought it was Ruth 
 Waller ; but the figure was taller than 
 Ruth, and, as I soon remarked, attired far 
 better than that rustic beauty had ever 
 been. She wore a veil, which prevented 
 me for some time from recognising her; 
 but at last, to my extreme astonishment, I 
 discovered that it was Cousin Jane. I was 
 surprised ; for Jane was a girl who hated 
 walking, not from laziness, for she was by 
 no means wanting in energy, but because it 
 was such a vulgar thing to do. The com- 
 monest persons walked, and she wished it 
 to be well understood that she was not a 
 common person. If she could have been 
 carried in a palanquin by obsequious bear-
 
 106 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ers, with a relay of those human beasts of 
 burden running behind her, she would, I 
 think, have taken a good deal of outdoor 
 exercise; but as it was, she restricted her 
 walks to the grounds about the house ; she 
 never accompanied my aunt in her little 
 expeditions into the village, except to pay 
 a state visit, once a month or so, at the 
 Rectory; and deemed even taking a seat 
 in the pony-carriage a condescension : yet 
 here she was, miles away from home, alone, 
 and on Shanks his mare ! On what errand 
 could she have gone to that fir-wood ? in 
 which lay no other attraction than that 
 which drew her brother thither, I knew 
 not how often — but it might be five days 
 out of seven. Was it possible that the same 
 magnet, though from a very different cause, 
 had likewise attracted her ? I trembled for 
 poor Cecil, and felt, I confess, not a little 
 uncomfortable upon my own account, as 
 the accomplice, or at least the confidant, of 
 his misdemeanours. If I was correct in
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 107 
 
 my sus23icionSj there would without doubt 
 be a domestic tornado of the first magni- 
 tude. 
 
 She came on at rapid speed, like a thun- 
 der - storm (as I imaged her) against the 
 wind; and so busily was she engaged with 
 her own thoughts, that she would have 
 passed me without notice, had I not sprung 
 up and addressed her — not that I was anx- 
 ious to be the first to meet her ^\Tath, but 
 because, if my fears were well grounded, I 
 wished to prevent her going straight to my 
 father, and troubling him with such griev- 
 ous news just at the moment of our guests' 
 arrival. That something had agitated Jane 
 most deeply, I could see, though she still 
 kept her veil down, and even held it with 
 her hand, as though she was aware that 
 her features told a tale that she would 
 have concealed; but her voice was quiet 
 and composed as she expressed her sur- 
 prise at seeing me. 
 
 ' Why, I thought you would have been
 
 108 
 
 miles away, Fred, on the road to meet your 
 play-actress !' 
 
 This remark was injudicious, for I at 
 once concluded that she had counted upon 
 my absence in that direction to keep her 
 own expedition secret. She doubtless spoke 
 on the impulse of the moment, for even her 
 contemptuous mode of referring to Lady 
 Repton showed naturalness and lack of 
 design. 
 
 ^Xay,' said I, 'it is I that should be as- 
 tonished. I had no idea that your dainty 
 limbs could have carried you so far. May 
 I ask what was the inducement?' 
 
 'I had a headache,' she replied, 'and 
 your Aunt Ben recommended me to tr}- 
 the moorland air.' 
 
 'Well, I hope it has done you good, 
 cousin ?' 
 
 'Yes,' said she, mth a curious gravity 
 in her tone ; ' it has : it seems to have 
 cleared my brain.' 
 
 *You should have tried the iir-woods/
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 109 
 
 observed I carelessly; 'Dr. Cherwell says 
 that their pungent scent is worth all the 
 aromatic salts in the world.' 
 
 ' I did try them,' returned she : ' I went 
 into the pine copse above Wayford.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you would not be quite so 
 frank, cousin,' thought I, 'if you had not 
 observed that I carry a telescope.' If she 
 had really discovered anything, it was 
 plain that she was not going to disclose it ; 
 and if, on the other hand, she had nothing 
 to disclose, there was no harm in my con- 
 tinuing my cross-examination. 
 
 ' Did Aunt Ben recommend you to 
 wear a veil?' inquired I. 'I should have 
 thought that all the air you could get on 
 such a day as this would not have been too 
 much.' 
 
 ' I am not so hardy a plant as you, 
 Fred,' she rejoined; 'but, as you say, it is 
 warm now. — There, does that please you ?' 
 and she threw up her veil with a forced 
 laugh.
 
 no 
 
 'Of course it pleases me,' said I gal- 
 lantly; tliough, as a matter of fact, I had 
 never seen Cousin Jane look so imcomel}'. 
 Her face had the same livid look which I 
 had seen on it but once before (when she 
 had stood in the porch of Richard Waller's 
 cottage), and her lower lip was bitten 
 through and bleeding. As thus she smiled 
 upon me, and showed her glistening teeth, 
 the idea of a terrier, that had been fight- 
 ing with rats, occurred to me involuntarily; 
 and rather to escape from such a spectacle 
 than with any other motive, I offered her 
 the use of my telescope. 
 
 ' You have keen eyes, Cousin Jane, and 
 if you can really discover the sea from this 
 spot, as my father contends we can, this is 
 the very day for the experiment.' 
 
 She thanked me, and taking the instru- 
 ment, turned it in the desired direction, 
 which was over Wayford Wood. Her hand 
 did not 'wobble' with the weight of the 
 glass, as is the case with most women when
 
 A SPY-GLASS. Ill 
 
 they take an observation with that instru- 
 ment, but was as steady as a rock. 
 
 ^ You don't see it, Jane, do you?' said 
 I, after a little. 
 
 ' No ; but I should like to do so. I 
 won't give it up yet.' 
 
 There was something so peculiar, so 
 curt and decisive, as though I had threat- 
 ened to take the glass from her by force, 
 in the tone of her last words, that it drew 
 my own gaze from the carriage of our 
 guests, which was now plainly to be seen 
 nearing the village, and transferred it to 
 herself Then I noticed that the telescope 
 was depressed, so as no longer to command 
 the horizon, but was fixed upon the terrace 
 beneath Wayford Wood. 
 
 'I think I see it now,' said she hoarsely; 
 ^ just a thin blue line — ' 
 
 ^ But you are looking too much inland^ 
 Jane — if you'll allow me f and I offered to 
 take the glass. 
 
 In an instant she had dropped it fifty
 
 112 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 or sixty feet upon the terrace below, where 
 it, of course, was smashed to atoms. 
 
 ^ Dear, dear ! how very stupid of me, 
 Fred!' said she ; ' it was all my own clum- 
 siness. 0, I am so sorry.' 
 
 It was certainly through her fault that 
 the thing had happened ; but I was by no 
 means sure that clumsiness had anything 
 to do with it. She seemed to me to have 
 dropped it with malice prepense. 
 
 ' Pi^ay, forgive me, Fred,' continued she. 
 ' The first day I go to Monkton, I will get 
 you another, twice as good ; that is'— for I 
 suppose my countenance showed that I 
 rather resented that form of indemnity — 
 ' if you wouldn't be offended.' 
 
 ' The ground is soft, and perhaps there 
 is no great harm done after all,' said I; and 
 in two or three bounds, after the Gatcombe 
 fashion, I had descended the steej) cliff and 
 reached the terrace. I was not sorry that 
 Jane could not follow me. I was angry 
 with her, not so much for dro]^ping tlie
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 113 
 
 glass, as for supposing that mere money 
 could supply a substitute for what she 
 knew I valued as my father's gift. That 
 was so like her. She did not even wait 
 to see whether it was destroyed ; for when 
 I had picked up the fragments and looked 
 towards the spot where she had stood, she 
 was no longer there. She had doubtless 
 hastened home. At that moment I heard 
 the rumble of the Reptons' carriage in the 
 village street, and turned to follow her ex- 
 ample; but, as I did so, caught sight of 
 Cecil coming along the terrace from Way- 
 ford. I knew that black speck in the dis- 
 tance to be him from the rapidity of its 
 movement; for, when alone, my cousin al- 
 ways ran like Man Friday, or as though 
 he bore the Fiery Cross — it was a vent for 
 the superfluous energy of his nature. I 
 had not to wait long before he came up 
 with me, Avide-eyed and panting; his dark 
 cheeks warmed with colour, and his whole 
 face so bright and joyous, that I had scarce 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Cecil's teyst. 
 
 need to ask, ' Have you seen Ruth to-day, 
 Cecil ?' It was the first time I had spoken 
 of her for months; indeed, the only time 
 since our one serious talk together upon 
 the subject, and I felt some degree of em- 
 barrassment in alluding to her. But Cecil 
 answered, with all possible simplicity: ' Yes, 
 Fred ; I have but just parted from her.' 
 
 ' On the terrace,' said I, ' or in the 
 wood?' 
 
 ' It was just at the edge of the fir- 
 wood.' 
 
 'So I. thought,' replied I gravely. 'To 
 that parting — a very tender one, no doubt 
 — ^your sister was a witness. It is no great 
 consequence, however,' added I, ' for I be- 
 lieve her susj)icions had no need of such 
 confirmation. I am much mistaken if she 
 has not been watching you all the after- 
 noon.' Then I told him how I had seen 
 Jane come veiled out of the fir-grove, where 
 Richard Waller worked ; how angry she had 
 looked behind that veil: and how she had
 
 A SPY-GLASS. 115 
 
 dropped the telescope, to prevent, as I be- 
 lieved, my being a witness as well as her- 
 self to his tender adieus. ' That you are 
 discovered, Cecil,' said I in conclusion, ' I 
 feel quite convinced.' 
 
 ' No doubt, no doubt,' said he, but in 
 an irresolute tone, and looking yearningly 
 towards Wayford, as though, since matters 
 had reached this pass, he had half a mind 
 to return thither^ instead of to Gatcombe* 
 ^ I think, however, Jane will keep the mat- 
 ter secret, Fred ; otherwise, why should she 
 not have disclosed it to yourself?' 
 
 ' Perhaps she means to appeal to you 
 in private,' suggested I. 
 
 Cecil shook his head, still wearing that 
 troubled air. If he had been capable of 
 fear, which I knew he was not, I should 
 have said he was afraid of his sister; but, 
 at all events, it was evident that the idea 
 of her displeasure was a source of the 
 greatest disquietude to him. He walked 
 home by my side, defected and silent ; and
 
 116 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 his despondency seemed to communicate it- 
 self to me. I could not shake off a sense 
 of some impending evil, so strong and so 
 engrossing, that even the long-looked-for 
 delight of meeting Lady Repton was al- 
 ready robbed of half its relish.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 LADY REPTOn's RIDDLE. 
 
 By the time we got home, our guests had 
 arrived, and Lady Repton had retired to 
 her room to dress for dimier. His lord- 
 ship, who was conversing with my father 
 in the drawing-room, received Cecil and 
 myself with affability and a couple of 
 stretched-out fingers, sparkling with rings. 
 His knuckles were so swollen with the 
 gout, that it was as great a wonder how 
 the rings got there as how apples are found 
 in dumplings. He would certainly never 
 get them off again in this life ; and I could 
 not help wondering within myself whether, 
 when he was dead, his executors (or on 
 whomsoever the duty inight devolve) would 
 •cut off his fingers, or commit all those
 
 118 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 precious stones to the grave. (What 2V 
 generally done, by the bye, in such pain- 
 ful circumstances?) His complexion was 
 very beautiful, and gave him an appear- 
 ance of youth, which was renewed (like 
 the eagle's) every morning. His hair and 
 moustaches were black and silky. His teeth 
 were very white and fine; and yet one's 
 first idea upon seeing him (which was also 
 a permanent one) was, ^What a very old 
 gentleman this is !' 
 
 If you referred to the Peerage^ however, 
 you would find that John Lord Repton 
 was by no means so very old for a peer 
 of the realm — a class which emulates for 
 longevity that of life-annuitants and incum- 
 bents of colleo:e living's. He was a ruin — 
 but comparatively a modern one — of the 
 renaissance style. His air and manner were 
 not only artificial ; they did not belong to 
 real life at all. Congreve or Wycherle}- 
 might have created him. When he patted 
 his snuff-box, and took a pinch, raising his
 
 LADY KEPTON's RIDDLE. 119 
 
 jetty eyebrows, one naturally expected him 
 to ejaculate, ' Stap my vitals !' In place 
 of that appropriate remark, he would cry, 
 ' Good gad !' in a sharp, shrill voice, and 
 hand the box to the nearest person, though 
 it were Aunt Ben or Jane. He prided 
 himself on many things : his rank, his wife, 
 his castle in Yorkshire, and his filbert nails ; 
 but, above all, upon his taste in literature. 
 Upon this point my father would as soon 
 have thought of giving in to him, or to 
 any man, as of kissing the pope's toe ; and 
 very stubborn arguments they were wont 
 to have together, which always ended b}' 
 Lord Eepton saying, 'You may be right, 
 sir — you may be ; but, gad ! I used to have 
 some little reputation as a critic too.' In- 
 deed, from the constant use of that ex- 
 pression, he had been well known in Lon- 
 don in old days as Reputation Ilepton. 
 He took a great fancy to Cecil from the 
 first, and nicknamed him (to his great in- 
 dignation) Tippoo, after Tippoo Sahib; the
 
 120 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 plunder of whose treasury had, as I after- 
 wards learned, proved the foundation of 
 the Repton fortunes. His lordship's father 
 had been in high command in India, and 
 one of his uncles had been among those 
 brave English captives who, refusing to 
 serve the tyrant's guns against their fellow- 
 countrymen, had been decapitated by his 
 order. To hear the old gentleman narrate 
 the story was a great treat; the chivalrous 
 incidents of the affair were comparatively 
 disregarded, but his description of the ' loot' 
 which ensued after the assault of the Bri- 
 tish was very vivid and picturesque. ' I 
 had it from my noble father's o^vn lips, 
 sir. . . . There were no less than three 
 thousand horses, one hundred elephants, 
 and two hundred camels, in that great po- 
 tentate's private stud; and, begad! six hun- 
 dred women;' at which point in the nar- 
 ration he would wag his wicked old head 
 so very appreciatinglj^, that it was a marvel 
 he did not wag his wig off.
 
 LADY REPTON'S EIDDLE. 121 
 
 If his lordship was not very good-na- 
 tured, he was very courtly, and fell at once 
 to praising the old Manor-house in a way 
 that was most gTateful to my father. ^ Now, 
 I like this,' he would say; 'there are no 
 gimcracks ; everything is solid and service- 
 able. We have no such oak panelling as 
 this in Yorkshire; these thick walls and 
 deep bay windows are just to my taste. 
 The garish lightness of your modern houses 
 is my detestation: all here is shadow and 
 calm, and breathes of ancestry; just as the 
 layers of the cedar, with their depths of 
 shade, betoken the revolving years. Do 
 you see the image ? — Take a pinch — take a 
 pinch, young sir ;' which, in my uncalcu- 
 lating courtesy, I did, and nearly sneezed 
 my head off. 
 
 'That's a bad sign,' said his lordship 
 gravely. ' A man of birth should take to 
 snuff as naturally as a duck to water. If 
 I had not known your sainted mother, sir, 
 I should entertain suspicions of your not
 
 122 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 being a Wray of Gatcoinbe. Gad ! I remem- 
 ber the days when yonr father here took 
 bushels of it.' 
 
 As I was well aware that my father had 
 never taken a pinch of snufF in his life, this 
 latter sarcasm at least fell pointless. Lord 
 Repton's memory was not so good as it had 
 been ; and since to repair it was impossible, 
 he had hit npon the ingenious device of 
 constructing a past out of his imagination, 
 and quoting its events as though they had 
 in reality occurred. My father never con- 
 tradicted him on such points — even when 
 he himself was introduced upon the stage, 
 as in the present instance — but contented 
 himself with a smile of incredulity equal to 
 a folio. To do his lordship justice, this 
 habit had become so natural with him, 
 that he was far more persuaded that he 
 was speaking the truth than any of his 
 hearers. I am anticipating, of course, since 
 these peculiarities did not evince them- 
 selves sufficiently to be characteristic dur-
 
 LADY REPTON's RIDDLE. 123 
 
 ing this our first interview ; but I had 
 seen enough of his lordship, before he re- 
 tired to his dressing-room, to convince 
 me that he was something quite different 
 from what I had imagined. Pompous per- 
 haps he was, but certainly neither a bore 
 nor stupid. In fact, I felt both pleased 
 and grateful to him; for he had already- 
 given me an outline sketch for one of 
 my dramatis personce^ in a play which, as 
 usual, I happened at the time to have in 
 hand. 
 
 But if my conjectures had proved fal- 
 lacious as to his lordship, they had gone 
 infinitely more astray with respect to his 
 wife. I had looked for a Mrs. Siddons or 
 a Miss O'Neill. I found— Avell— a lady of 
 plump proportions indeed, and (as I knew 
 from my father's mouth) of mature age, 
 but — at least by candle-light — a fairy; a 
 bright and beautiful being, with eyes that 
 absolutely danced with vivacity ; rounded 
 limbs that never stirred except with grace;
 
 124 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 •a voice that filled the air with sweetness; 
 a carriage like that of Juno, when it pleased 
 her to he Juno, but more often like that of 
 Venus. Her dress was cut exceedingly low. 
 (' I never !' was Aunt Ben's muttered ejacu- 
 lation when her ladyship first swam into 
 the room, and certainly / had never.) Her 
 light-brown hair, of which she had an im- 
 mense quantity, fell over her bare shoul- 
 ders, and shone like gold, as it well might, 
 for it was powdered with gold-dust. 
 
 ' How French !' said Aunt Ben. 
 
 ' How beautiful!' said I, when we talked 
 of her that night. 
 
 ' You are both right,' was my father's 
 witty rejoinder, ' for she is Paris and Helen 
 in one person.' 
 
 Though her ladyship bore her years like 
 a feather, she would not, doubtless, have 
 looked so young, had it not been for the 
 contrast she presented to her husband ; but 
 by the side of that ancient fowl she seemed 
 quite a spring chicken. He was evidently
 
 LADY REPTON's EIDDLE. 125 
 
 exceedingly proud of her, and crowed feebly 
 over the admiration she excited ; but of 
 that which gave her interest in my eyes — 
 the fact of her having been an ornament of 
 the British stage — he was by no means 
 proud. This was made evident within the 
 first quarter of an hour. 
 
 As my father was taking her in to din- 
 ner, she stopped in the hall, to admire its 
 vast proportions. 
 
 ' What a capital place it would be, 
 Mr. Wray, for private theatricals! The 
 stage would have three practicable doors — 
 which is most unusual — and the gallery 
 is already there, in your magnificent stair- 
 case.' 
 
 She made nothing of stopping the whole 
 procession behind her, and imperilling the 
 warmth of the soup, while she uttered these 
 observations, which, however, made my 
 heart leap within me. 
 
 ' I am sure,' said I audaciously, ' if you 
 were to ask my father. Lady Rep ton, he
 
 126 Cecil's teyst. 
 
 would not refuse to test the capabilities of 
 the hall as a theatre/ 
 
 ' Is he so very good-natured ?' said her 
 ladyship, looking from him to me with 
 quite an eager air. ' There is nothing in 
 the world I should enjoy so much.' 
 
 ' What, what, what ?' exclaimed the old 
 lord apprehensively, as he toddled up Avith 
 Aunt Ben. ' What does she want now?' 
 
 ^ Lady Repton has expressed a wish, 
 which, I am sure, shall be gratified as far 
 as lies in my power,' said my father gra- 
 ciously, ^to see some private theatricals in 
 our hall.' 
 
 ' Private fiddlesticks !' ejaculated his 
 lordship hastily. ^ Very difficult, very ridi- 
 culous ! ' Who is to act, I should like to 
 know ?' 
 
 '/ will act!' exclaimed Lady Repton, 
 with a sweep of her rounded arm, and in 
 the tones of the Tragic Muse. ' There will 
 be nothing very ridiculous in that, I hope.' 
 
 'My dear Lady Repton,' expostulated
 
 LADY REPTON's RIDDLE. 127 
 
 the old lord, ' the idea is preposterous. I 
 wont have Fred Wray's hall pulled all to 
 pieces — I won't indeed. Carpets up, cur- 
 tains torn, servants drunk, and house set 
 on fire — that's what is meant by private 
 theatricals. Pooh, pooh!' 
 
 '■ He's afraid of my going on the stage 
 again and being fallen in love with,' said 
 her ladyship slyly, and squeezing my father's 
 arm. ' It is so hard on me, to whom the 
 smell of the footlights is like a breath of 
 fresh air.' 
 
 Nothing more was said upon the matter 
 at that time, though I, for my part, was 
 well resolved it should not drop out of 
 mind. But what had passed caused the 
 stream of conversation at dinner to turn 
 into a theatrical channel, in spite of Lord 
 Kep ton's endeavour to dam it, and though 
 he did damn it under his breath. 
 
 'Did you ever chance to see me, Miss 
 Wray,' asked her ladyship, addressing Aunt 
 Ben, ' at the Garden or the Lane ?'
 
 128 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 Aunt Ben opened her round eyes to 
 their fullest extent, and smiled an embar- 
 rassed smile. If Lady Repton had said ' in 
 the garden,' she would have replied unhesi- 
 tatingly, ' No ;' but the use of the word 
 'at' informed her that something was in- 
 tended beyond what met the ear. 
 
 ' I played Desdemona at both houses,' 
 continued her ladyship in explanation. 
 
 ' Of course, of course,' exclaimed ni}- 
 aunt ; ' how stupid of me ! I remember 
 now what a treat you. gave us all. Let me- 
 see ; it was the very year when Fred here' 
 — she was just about to say ' was born,' but 
 fortunately stopped herself, as with a sharp- 
 curb, and substituted — ^ had the measles.' 
 
 'Then you never saw me, Mr. Fred- 
 erick?' said her ladyship, turning toward.^ 
 me with a sweet smile. 
 
 I felt, beneath the table, Cecil's foot 
 press mine with mischievous emphasis. I 
 knew that I had scarcely, as the phrase 
 2:oes, 'been born or thought of,' when
 
 LADY KEPTON's RIDDLE. 129 
 
 Kitty Conway had retired from the stage, 
 and exchanged her tinsel crown for a real 
 coronet ; and it was only by a great effort 
 of self-command that I was able to reply 
 with gravity : ' I have never been inside a 
 theatre, Lady Repton, nor so much as even 
 to London.' 
 
 ' How I envy you !' sighed she. 'What 
 pleasures await you ! — My dear Lord Eep- 
 ton, do you hear what our young friend 
 «ays? He has never seen a play.' 
 
 ' Hum — ha !' muttered her husband, so 
 gruffly, that the tone almost implied that 
 he wished he had never seen one either. — 
 ■^ Do you grow your own mutton, Wray ? 
 This haunch is capital.' 
 
 ' And your cousin there,' continued her 
 ladyship, motioning towards Cecil, ' is he in 
 the same pastoral state of innocence as to 
 the drama?' 
 
 ' no,' said Cecil ; ' I am an old 
 
 stager. 
 
 ' What an impudent young felloAv!' cried 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 she. ' I daresay that's what he calls me. 
 But that shows me he can act. It is ne- 
 cessary for an actor to be impudent ; while, 
 on the other hand, all good actresses must 
 be unaffected, modest, and retiring.' She 
 laughed aloud, yet very musically, and 
 shook her head till the gold-dust flew about 
 it like a halo. ' Seriously, however, my 
 dear,' continued she, addressing Jane, who 
 was looking serious enough, and indeed 
 morose, ' I would never advise any young 
 lady to go upon the stage. If you feel any 
 strong attraction to that profession — ' 
 
 'I clont^' said Jane, opening her mouth 
 just wide enough to emit the words, and 
 then pursing it up again with a snap. 
 
 ' That's fortunate,' said her ladyship, re- 
 garding her with great coolness ; ' because 
 it affords great temptations to vanity ; and 
 I am afraid we women are all vain. Cory- 
 ton, who had " the Garden" in my time, 
 once remarked of the profession of the 
 stage, that it would be a charming one ex-
 
 LADY EEPTON's EIDDLE. 131 
 
 cept for the actors and the actresses. — You 
 remember Cory ton, Lord Eepton?' 
 
 'Yes.' It was plain he did, so well that 
 he did not care to be reminded of him. 
 
 ' Cory ton used to play the "heavy fa- 
 thers'' so admirably,' continued her lady- 
 ship, 'that when I married, I got him to 
 give me away.' 
 
 ' He must have been a very generous 
 fellow, Repton,' said my father, with a good- 
 natured glance at her ladyship. 
 
 ' Stuff and nonsense !' muttered the old 
 gentleman angrily, and without catching 
 the gallantry of the allusion ; ' not a bit of 
 it. Deuced lavish with other people's pro- 
 perty J that's all.' 
 
 I thought my father would have choked. 
 His sense of courtesy contended nobly with 
 his sense of humour ; but during the 
 struggle, his eye caught mine, and then he 
 fairly roared. Lady Repton laughed as 
 heartily as he, pressing her handkerchief to 
 her eyes, because, as I now conclude, her
 
 132 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 complexion was not quite suited to the 
 passage of tears. 
 
 She Avas certainly a very good-humoured 
 woman, but, as sometimes happens, not 
 good-natured, or rather only good-natured 
 as regards men. She Avas bitter against 
 her own sex, probably because, in her own 
 case, she had found them to be censorious. 
 Jane and she had many sharp encounters 
 together : the one, all gauze and glitter, re- 
 minded me of a dragon-fly with a sting in 
 its tail ; the other, so dark and sombre, of 
 a water- beetle, furnished with a pair of 
 sharp pincers that had no respect for the 
 peerage. Their contest began at once. 
 After dinner, her ladyship sat down at the 
 piano, and favoured us with some bright 
 French chansons, which she sang Avith great 
 sprightliness of manner. 
 
 ' That woman,' whispered Cousin Jane 
 in my ear, 'sings like a singing chamber- 
 maid ;' a criticism (I was compelled to own 
 to myself) as accurate as it was severe.
 
 LADY REPTON's RIDDLE. 133 
 
 Presently, Jane took her place at the in- 
 strument to accompany Cecil, who played 
 the flute a little, and her ladyship came 
 and sat by me. 
 
 'When is it to be, Mr. Fred?' inquired 
 she behind her fan. 
 
 ' When is what to be V returned I with 
 genuine innocence. 
 
 ' 0, come ; do you sujDpose I am blind ? 
 Cousins are not within the prohibited de- 
 grees, we know; and I suppose she is as 
 rich as Croesus.' 
 
 I laughed almost aloud, so that the 
 musician looked round from her playing 
 Avith a displeased air ; the idea of ni}' 
 marrying Cousin Jane tickled me so exces- 
 sively. 
 
 ' She is not at all rich,* said I ; ' and 
 you are quite mistaken in your other sup- 
 position.' 
 
 ' Of course that follows, if my premises 
 
 are wrong,' said her ladyship coolly. ' But 
 
 it really true that you are not engaged ?
 
 134 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 I have no right to pry into your secrets,' 
 added she, with amazing quickness (where- 
 by I knew that she had seen my colour 
 rise) ; ^ I was of course only referring to 
 the Begum.' 
 
 I thought this both rude and cruel, and 
 made no reply ; but she went on quite un- 
 concernedly. 'Lord Eepton and I con- 
 cluded the affair had been arranged, and 
 that she was here on purpose. I am glad 
 that we were wrong ; at least if I were 
 you, I should much prefer to marry your 
 aunt. What makes her — I mean your 
 cousin — so dull and discontented, and also 
 so uncivil ? She never says thank you to 
 anybody. I call her La Belle Dame sans 
 MercV 
 
 ^ Do you ?' said I, unable to repress a 
 smile. 'And I heard you tell Cecil that 
 my father was like dear Don Quixote. May 
 I ask what you call me f 
 
 ' Well, I shall call you Fred, if you -vvill 
 let me, and if others will let me ;' and here
 
 LADY REPTON's RIDDLE. 135 
 
 she gave a meaning glance towards Cousin 
 Jane. ' You have not answered my ques- 
 tion yet, you know. Let us suppose it's a 
 riddle. Why is Cousin Jane so dull and 
 discontented? Come, guess.' 
 
 'My dear Lady Repton/ said T, 'you 
 are too severe. My cousin is an orphan, 
 and among persons who, with one excep- 
 tion, are comparative strangers to her — ' 
 
 'That's just my case,' interrupted her 
 ladyship; ' yet I'm not dull.' 
 
 ' That is evident,' said I gallantly. 
 
 ' 0, I don't mean as to wits,' continued 
 she; 'your cousin is sharp enough — keen 
 as a razor, I should sa}^, and perhaps quite 
 as dangerous. But is it possible that you 
 can't guess my riddle ?' 
 
 ' Not I, indeed : I give it up.' 
 
 ' You are very stupid, Mr. Fred, or else 
 a sad hypocrite, which is almost as bad. 
 You know when a door is not a door, I 
 suppose ? — Good. You know also Avhen 
 Love is deformed, I daresay?'
 
 136 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' When it's all on one side,' said I. 
 
 ' Vei^' good. Then, why is Cousin Jane 
 dull and discontented? — There, I see you 
 have it at last. The idea of a young fellow 
 — who writes plays too — not knowing when 
 a girl is in love with him.' Here the music 
 ceased. — ' 0, thank you, Miss Wray ; that 
 is most beautiful indeed. Do, pray, pla}' 
 us something else.' 
 
 But La Belle Dame sans Merci was deaf 
 to her entreaties, and, regardless of the visi- 
 tors, got out as usual her Chinese puzzle.
 
 CHAPTER yiL 
 
 CiVLL ME ' KITTY.' 
 
 Lady Repton was one of those women 
 who never come down to breakfast, or are 
 seen by anybody but their waiting-maids, 
 until the day is far advanced. Many ladies 
 in her position do the like; but had she 
 never married a peer, and remained Kitty 
 Conway all her life, she would still have 
 been a late risc^r. This habit was now an 
 advantage to her; it gave her the oppor- 
 tunity of repairing the ravages of time, and 
 presenting as bold a front as possible — and 
 some of her own sex averred it was very 
 bold — to the public eye: she appeared at 
 once all smiles and pleasantness; not stiff 
 and formal, as even the most charming
 
 138 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 women soDietiines will be under the chill 
 influence of morning — for breakfast -time 
 is a most trying epoch — but resumed the 
 friendly intercourse of the preceding evening 
 exactly at the point where it was broken 
 off. Though it was obvious, even under 
 these favourable circumstances, that she 
 was not without obligations to art, this 
 was only so far as her personal attractions 
 were concerned. She thoroughly under- 
 stood that naturalness of manner, provided 
 one is not by nature a fool nor a brute, 
 is the greatest of social charms ; that cour- 
 tesy and politeness being understood, there 
 is indeed nothing so attractive ; and ac- 
 cordingly, out of the abundance of her 
 heart did her pretty mouth speak. There- 
 by, Kitty Conway had doubtless 'shocked' 
 ^ large section of society during her some- 
 what checkered career ; but she had en- 
 deared herself to that portion of it which 
 it was most worth her while (and every 
 lady's while) to jjlease. Even Aunt Ben,
 
 CALL ME ' KITTY.' 139 
 
 who had at first been certainly among the 
 ' shocked,' was brought to confess of Lady 
 Repton, that she didn't believe there Svas 
 much real harm in her,' though she always 
 stuck to it that there was some. 
 
 Almost the first words Lady Repton 
 spoke to me that day were, 'And now, 
 Mr. Fred, where are these great plays of 
 yours ?' For which I could have kissed 
 her, and I don't think she would have been 
 much offended if I had. 
 
 ' Let us go somewhere where we can 
 be quite alone,' said she, ' and read them.' 
 
 I took her to Aunt Ben's boudoir — 
 which, notwithstanding its name, was rarely 
 used except by her favourite cat, who sat 
 there whenever a fire was lighted — and 
 produced my chosen manuscripts with a 
 beating heart. Of course they were crude 
 productions, and had very little originality ; 
 but I had at least copied from the best 
 models, and the result astonished and de- 
 lighted her.
 
 140 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 'Why, my dear Mr. Fred,' cried she^ 
 when she had read out a passage or two, 
 which I had specially selected' for her, ' you 
 are quite a genius !' 
 
 I blushed, and bowed. 
 
 ' And do you really think there would 
 be any chance of my getting them acted ?' 
 
 ' These ? — as they are ?' said her lady- 
 ship, laying her taper fingers upon the 
 precious pile. ' Certainly not, unless there 
 is a theatre at Hanwell or Bedlam. No 
 sane man would think of putting on his 
 stage a play in which there are no carpen- 
 ter's scenes.' 
 
 ' Carpenter's scenes !' repeated I, my 
 mind at once reverting to the wood-yard; 
 'why carpenter's?' 
 
 How merrily she laughed ! The laugh- 
 ter of no child was ever blither or more 
 musical than hers; and yet, for fear it 
 should have disj)leased me, she became at 
 once supernaturally grave, and entered into 
 explanation.
 
 CALL ME ^ KITTY.' 141 
 
 ' You don't give your hero and heroine 
 time to dress, Mr. Fred, nor scarcely to 
 breathe ; while as for the necessities of the 
 scenery, you have ignored that altogether. 
 You Avould have done very well in the 
 old days, when a man came on, and said, 
 " This is a wood," or, " Please to imagine 
 n room in the king's palace ;" but now-a- 
 •days, when woods and palaces are actually 
 set up, you must give time for their erec- 
 tion by means of carpenter's scenes. In 
 a literary point of view, my dear boy' — 
 and here she patted me on the head — 
 ' these plays, considering your youth, are 
 prodigies of excellence ; but as dramatic 
 works they are — well, ahem! — unadapted 
 for representation. In the first place, you 
 have too many good characters; I don't 
 mean virtuous ones, for that would indeed 
 be fatal, but individual personifications. To 
 play these would require actors and ac- 
 tresses of which no company possesses more 
 than one or two. Don't you see?'
 
 142 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 I didn't see at all. 
 
 ' Surely,' said I, ' in Shakespeare's plays, 
 for instance, there are not one or two cha- 
 racters only, and the rest dummies.' 
 
 ' That was the great mistake of Shake- 
 speare,' replied her ladyship coolly. ' He 
 was too great a man to write plays for 
 representation, and that is why they are 
 so much read and so seldom acted. When 
 I played Desdemona, which I did both at 
 the Garden and the Lane' (this piece of 
 information may for the future be taken 
 as spoken, though / heard it about a hun- 
 dred times), 'there was a pretty good 
 Othello, except that he only came up to 
 my shoulder, and I could have smothered 
 Mm with ease ; but our lago was a fool. 
 Shakespeare's men, upon the whole, are 
 wiser than his Avonien, and that is another 
 practical mistake of his ; for very few wise 
 men ever take to the stage as a profession. 
 The true reason why what are now called 
 Sensation Plays are so popular is, because
 
 143 
 
 they rely upon the scene-pamters, who are 
 excellent, and upon strong " situations," 
 which suit everybody who can strike an 
 attitude, fall without hurting himself, or 
 die in convulsions. It is from the same 
 cause, at least so far as the managers are 
 concerned, that leg-pieces are so popular.' 
 
 ' Dear me !' said I, not wishing farther 
 to expose my ignorance by inquiring into 
 the nature of ^ leg-pieces.' 
 
 ' All this,' continued her ladyship, ' I 
 daresay destroys your illusions respecting 
 the British stage ; and yet I do assure you 
 that if anything were to happen to Lord 
 Repton — which heaven forbid! — I would 
 go back to it to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I wish you would,' said I mechanically, 
 forgetting the domestic calamity that must 
 needs precede her doing so in my desire to 
 have a friend so potent behind the scenes. 
 'How I should like to see you act in — in 
 anything!' 
 
 ' You selfish boy !' cried her ladyship,
 
 144 
 
 shaking her jewelled finger in rebuke; 'you 
 were going to say, " in one of my plays." 
 Well, why shouldn't you do so ? We were 
 talking of private theatricals last night ; 
 let us get some up. Here is your adap- 
 tation oi Ivan! toe ^ which is the very thing 
 — not too long, and not too serious. Fll 
 play Rowena.' 
 
 ' My dear Lady Eepton,' cried I in an 
 ecstasy, ' you are too good !' 
 
 ' I hope not,' answered she comically ; 
 ' I had almost rather be " no better than 
 I should be." — Yes, Rowena will do very 
 well. I will let my back-hair down, which 
 I heard your Cousin Jane say was not my 
 own. She must do Rebecca, I suppose; 
 though where shall we ever find a Brian 
 de Bois-Guilbert venturesome enough to 
 carry her off? Do you know where to 
 lay your hand upon a Brian ?' 
 
 At the moment, I could think of no- 
 body but 'the Alchemist,' as we called him 
 — old Mr. Bourne. If he always kept his
 
 CALL ME 'kitty.' 145 
 
 visor down, he miglit possibly pass for the 
 bold Templar, although he had little of 
 that fiery character in his composition. H(^ 
 would do anything to oblige Cecil, as I 
 had only too good reasons for knowing. 
 (It was not for my sake that his grand- 
 daughter was permitted to come to the 
 Manor-house so often, though she did come, 
 bless her! for my sake.) Lady Repton, 
 who knew nothing of Mr. Bourne, could, 
 of course, make no present objection to the 
 cast; and in the mean time I resolved to 
 look about and try and find a better man. 
 There was one Frank Close, a clergyman's 
 son, in our neighbourhood, who had broken 
 a leaping-pole once or twice in my com- 
 pany, and might break a lance, or at least 
 bear one, as Bois-Guilbert. Cecil, we ar- 
 ranged, should be Ivanhoe — to whom, as 
 to Rowena, a much more important part 
 was assigned in my dramatic version of the 
 story than in the original; and I myself 
 was to be Wamba, the son of Witless. 
 
 A^OL. I. L
 
 146 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' We'll put it Wamba only, in the bill/ 
 said her ladyship gravely, 'for fear your 
 father shouldn't like it.' 
 
 I laughed, and told her how much she 
 was mistaken in supposing my father cap- 
 able of receiving annoyance from such a 
 source ; and she laughed too, but shook her 
 head, in sign that we must agree to differ 
 on that point. 
 
 ' Your father is charming, I allow ; but 
 he is a man, and man is vain.' No argu- 
 ment could push her from that canon. 
 ' Whatever man is vain about, in that he 
 can be more easily wounded than any wo- 
 man: his amour 2^'i^opre is more sensitive, 
 and he is less forgiving.' 
 
 Although somewhat indignant, upon my 
 father's account, at this sweeping condemna- 
 tion of mankind, I did not care just then 
 to combat Lady Repton's views ; indeed, so 
 far as myself was concerned, I am afraid I 
 confirmed them ; for the idea of getting my 
 Rowena played, though only at Gatcombe,
 
 CALL ME 'kitty.' 147 
 
 "by such an actress as Lady Repton, made 
 me feel as vain as a peacock. Her ladyship 
 was also greatly pleased at this notion of 
 reappearing in public even on our humble 
 stao'e. Our united ^\'its were concentrated 
 upon the realisation of it. I felt quite sure 
 that the gallantry of my father would cause 
 him to consent to any scheme of amusement 
 which his guest might propose ; and on this 
 point my companion was ready to believe 
 me, though she protested that if the thing 
 were done it would be for my sake, and not 
 for hers. 
 
 ' You can get your father to do any- 
 thing, you spoiled boy; I see that; and, 
 upon my word, I don't wonder at it, for 
 really, Fred, you are very nice.' 
 
 ' It is very nice of you to say so,' said I 
 with an ingenuous blush. ' You don't know 
 how I have been longing to see you. Lady 
 Repton; and — ' 
 
 ' Call me Kitty,' interrupted her lady- 
 ship. ' When we are at our plays, at all
 
 148 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 events, I will be Kitty, and you shall be 
 Fred. You longed to see me, did you ; and 
 yet, when I came — you were going to say — 
 I turned out to be so different from what 
 you expected, eh?' 
 
 'Well, yes,' I stammered; 'I was going 
 to say that, or something like it.' 
 
 ^I knew you were,' said she, smiling. 'I 
 daresay you pictured to yourself an a-\vful 
 personage, with the airs of a tragedy queen. 
 '"'■ I called for icatei\ hoy; you bring me heer!" 
 and so on. I am afraid I must have dis- 
 appointed you sadly, Fred.' 
 
 The pathos she threw into these last 
 words so melted my heart, that I know not 
 of w^hat passionate compliment I might not 
 have been guilty. ' Indeed, Kitty — ' I had 
 smilingly begun, when the door was opened, 
 and in walked Lord Repton. I protest that 
 I had no more idea of making love to his 
 lordship's wife than of stealing his wig, and 
 yet his sudden appearance gave me quite a 
 qualm, nay, a spasm of conscience, the se-
 
 149 
 
 verity of which was by no means mitigated 
 by his first Avords, delivered with stately dis- 
 approbation. 
 
 ' I am sorry to interrupt your tete-a-tete^ 
 Lady Repton, but I thought that I heard 
 somebody say " Kitty." ' 
 
 'And so you did,' said her ladyship, 
 with her musical laugh, and pointing to the 
 hearth-rug, where the cat, aroused by the 
 opening of the door, was stretching its legs 
 and bending its back. 'Puss and I, as it 
 happens, are both Kitties.' 
 
 'Hum — ha!' said his lordship, regarding 
 the animal Avith a grave air. ' 1 had no idea 
 that Kitty was a name of common gender, 
 or Avas ever applied to a Tom-cat.' 
 
 This idea so tickled him, that he at 
 once discarded the suspicion Avhich had 
 apparently suggested it, and Avas put in 
 high good-humour. 
 
 ' And do you really mean to say, young 
 sir,' said he, in a bantering tone, pointing 
 to the piles of manuscript upon the table,
 
 150 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' that you have spoiled all that paper with 
 line ^TOting?' 
 
 'Iiideecl, my lord/ said her ladyship 
 with some Avarmth, kindled, not so much 
 on my account, I fancy, as because she 
 had had a little fright upon her own, ' Mr. 
 Frederick has not only written fine things ; 
 some of them are very good.' 
 
 ' I daresay, I daresay,' replied her hus- 
 band, with lofty condescension. ' I remem- 
 ber, when I was a lad of the same age, 1 
 was always writing too. The things may 
 have been nothing of themselves, but I had 
 no cause to be ashamed of them : the}' 
 showed culture. In after-years, though you 
 may not have chanced to hear of it, young- 
 gentleman, I had some little reputation as 
 a dramatic critic' 
 
 ' Indeed, I have heard my father say so 
 many times, my lord,' said I submissively. 
 'If I could venture to ask your opinion 
 now upon these humble efforts — ' 
 
 I had fished for ])erch in a shower, but
 
 CALL ME ^ KITTY.' 151 
 
 I had never seen a bait swallowed so greed- 
 ily as was this adroit suggestion of mine by 
 my noble friend. He had sat himself down, 
 and fastened his gold spectacles upon his 
 aristocratic nose, before I could finish the 
 sentence. 
 
 Nothing would please him better, he 
 said, than to place his poor services as a 
 critic at the disposal of a son of his valued 
 friend. 
 
 My heart so smote me for my hypocrisy 
 that I could only murmur some disjointed 
 words of thanks, and push the manuscripts 
 towards him. We should, without doubt, 
 have been in for a lecture on the Unities, 
 had not woman's wit come to the rescue, 
 and shaped the threatened infliction into a 
 weapon wherewith to win the very thing 
 on which our hearts were set. 
 
 'Why don't you ask Lord Repton's 
 opinion upon the matter we were discuss- 
 ing?' said her ladyship as she kneeled on 
 the hearth-rug smoothing the cat. 'Let
 
 152 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 him decide whether your Elfrida or your 
 Ivanhoe is most suitable for our dramatic 
 representation.' 
 
 ^What, what, what?' said the old lord 
 in a fretful tone. 
 
 'Why, you must know that we are 
 going to have some private theatricals at 
 Gatcombe,' continued she : ' Mr. Wray has 
 set his heart upon giving his neighbours a 
 little treat in that way, and I have pro- 
 mised to help him.' 
 
 ' Not to act^ Lady Kepton, I do hope ?' 
 
 ' Well, that is as you please, my lord, of 
 course. I had hoped you would have con- 
 sented to my doing myself the great plea- 
 sure of stabbing Mr. Frederick in the back 
 as he sat upon his pony — we could easily 
 get the pony into the hall — on the point of 
 his departure from Corfe Castle.' 
 
 ' I shall certainly forbid your doing any- 
 thing so supremely absurd, and — and — un- 
 liecoming. Lady Repton.' 
 
 'There! didn't I tell you so?' said her
 
 CALL ME ^ KITTY.' 153 
 
 ladyship, appealing despondingly to mc. 
 ' And it's such a pity ! because I know I. 
 €Ould make something out of a part like 
 Elfrida's; whereas, in the other play, the 
 character of Rowena is merely a sketch, 
 hardly Avorth the trouble of letting one's 
 back-hair down for, in order to look the 
 part.' 
 
 ' 1 object to your acting at all, Lady 
 Repton,' said her husband, taking at the 
 same time, however, into his trembling 
 hand the Ivanhoe which I respectfully ten- 
 dered. 
 
 ' I knew it, my lord, and I said so,' 
 returned her ladyship plaintively. ' I did 
 not even venture to promise myself that 
 innocent pleasure. But I am sure you will 
 not put a stop to our projected amusement 
 altogether, by refusing me permission to aid 
 the young folks here by saying half-a-dozen 
 words in what is, after all, but a child's 
 play. You are too good-natured to do that, 
 I am sure.'
 
 154 Cecil's tiiyst. 
 
 ' But why the deuce can't they play the- 
 thing without you, madam?' inquired the 
 old lord, still testily, but not without signs 
 of yielding in his tone. 
 
 ' Because, my dear Lord Repton,' said 
 her ladyship, taking his unwilling hand and 
 folding it in her abundant tressea, ' there is 
 nobody here who looks like a Saxon princess 
 except me. Miss Wray is rather a brunette, 
 you see ; whereas Rowena was a blonde, as 
 I am. There will not be the least occasion 
 for any theatrical costume. I shall wear 
 the diamond tiara you were so good as to 
 give me, with my white silk ; leave my 
 chair for the mimic stage, which will be no 
 stage at all, to say the few words that have 
 been assigned to me, and then return to 
 your side. Indeed, we should never have 
 troubled you about the matter, only we 
 wished to have your opinion upon some 
 dramatic points ; for whatever is worth do- 
 ing at all, as I was telling Mr. Frederick, is 
 worth doing well.'
 
 CALL ME ^ KITTY.' 155 
 
 Here a pebble struck the window ; and 
 upon my rising to answer a signal com- 
 monly employed by my father when he 
 wished to attract my attention from with- 
 out, I saw him standing in the garden. 
 
 ' I must positively forbid your boring 
 both my guests, Fred, or at least both at 
 one time,' said he, ' with your dramatic 
 compositions. They tell me you have got 
 Lord Repton up there as well as her 
 ladyship, and I insist upon your releas- 
 ing him without ransom. Tell him I want 
 a good Yorkshire opinion upon my new 
 cob.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said the old lord, appearing 
 at the open window; 'I'll come, I'll come. 
 I've some little reputation as a judge of 
 horse-flesh, and I believe it is merited. — I'll 
 look over your play in the evening, Mr. 
 Frederick ;' and off he went. 
 
 'We must take care he does not do 
 that,' said her ladyship comically — 'Kit, 
 Kit, Kittie ;' and then she began to laugh
 
 156 Cecil's teyst. 
 
 immoderately. ^ My dear Mr. Fred, what a 
 scrape we were very nearly in !' 
 
 But, notwithstanding Lady Repton's 
 modest resolve to wear only her own white 
 silk as the Saxon Rowena, she was very 
 solicitous that the rest of the dramatis per- 
 sonce should be suitably attired ; and it was 
 arranged before we left the boiidoir that an 
 embassy should be sent to Monkton to hire 
 the necessary dresses at the theatre. We 
 took my father's consent to our dramatic 
 entertainment for granted, though, in due 
 time. Lady Repton did not fail to thank 
 him for it. He was considerably astonished, 
 but much too polite to offer any objection 
 beyond shaking his fist at me. 
 
 [ You must go and break this news, sir, 
 to Aunt Ben,' said he. 'It is she who is 
 Lord Chamberlain, and from whom your 
 license must issue.' But he went with us, 
 for all that, to back our humble petition. 
 
 ' I am sure I will do all I can,' said my 
 ^unt, looking at him doubtfully; 'but — I
 
 CALL ME ^ kitty/ 157 
 
 don't pretend to know anything of play- 
 acting — but won't they hurt the hall?' 
 
 ' They will probably burn down the 
 house, my dear,' was my father's encourag- 
 ing reply. Then he looked at me, and 
 quoted from his favourite MarloAve : 
 
 ' The northern borderers, seeing their houses biirn'd, 
 Their wives and children slain, run up and down, 
 Cursing the names of thee and Lady Repton.'' 
 
 Her ladyship clapped her hands, de- 
 lighted. ^Perhaps Mr. Wray would act 
 himself?' suggested she in a stage-whisper. 
 
 ' I trust he will not dream of acting 
 anybody else,' exclaimed Aunt Ben hastily. 
 
 'Don't you think we could persuade 
 him to play Bois-Guilbert, in place of this 
 Mr. Bourne ?' observed her ladyship insinu- 
 atingly, and without noticing my aunt's in- 
 dignant protest. 
 
 ' What Mr. Bourne ?' inquired my father. 
 — ^ You don't mean to say, Fred, that you 
 have proposed to put the rector into chain- 
 armour?'
 
 158 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ^No, sir,' said I modestly. 'I meant 
 Mr. Bourne the elder.' 
 
 ^ Worse and worse!' cried he. 'Why, 
 he's nearly eighty; though, I daresay,' 
 added my father under his breath, ' he'd be 
 happy to come for a shilling a night and 
 his supper.' 
 
 ^ Eighty !' exclaimed Lady Repton in her 
 turn: Svhat Rebecca in the world vdW stand 
 being made love to by a man of eighty! 
 How dare you, Mr. Fred !' 
 
 Then I had to explain that I had merely 
 suggested Mr. Bourne in order not to throw 
 any difficulties in the vv^ay of our scheme 
 at starting ; but that I felt sure Frank Close 
 would play the part — as indeed he eventu- 
 ally did. Lady Repton did not fail, how- 
 ever, to reproach me, the next time we were 
 alone together, for this audacious duplicity. 
 
 'You will say anything to gahi your 
 ends, it seems, you wicked boy. I have 
 altered my good opinion of you altogether. 
 How do I know that we have even secured
 
 CALL ME ^ KITTY.' 159 
 
 ^ Rebecca ? Are you quite sure that your 
 Cousin Jane will act ?' 
 
 ' I am quite sure that she will not,' said 
 I, laughing. 
 
 'Well, that's pleasant hearing, I must 
 say ; but I hope you see your way out of 
 the difficulty.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said I. ' There's a young neigh- 
 bour of ours — you'll see her to-night at 
 dinner — Miss Eleanor Bourne ; I am sure 
 she will oblige us in the matter, and she 
 will look the part to perfection.' 
 
 ' Then she must be very beautiful,' ob- 
 served her ladyship sharply. 
 
 ' She is thought to be good-looking,' re- 
 turned I coolly, 'and she is very dark.' And 
 thus we settled it. 
 
 Now all was bustle and preparation; 
 and Aunt Ben busied herself in writing the 
 invitations, for there was no time to lose, 
 since the Reptons' stay with us was to be 
 very short. It was decided that a dress 
 rehearsal should take place, for the amuse-
 
 160 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 meiit of our humbler friends in the village^ 
 on the day before the grand entertainment, 
 and in the mean wliile there Avas much to 
 do. Cecil copied out the parts ; Lady 
 Repton suggested the arrangements for the 
 stage; and my father loosened his purse- 
 strings cheerfully. I don't think I was ever 
 before so happy, though I felt a little dis- 
 concerted, that same evening when welcom- 
 ing Eleanor in Lady Repton's presence. 
 
 ' So that is the young neighbour of 
 yours, is it. Master Fred,' said she slyly, 
 '• who is " thought to be good-looking'' ! I 
 shall find an opportunity of telling her after 
 dinner what you said of her. "Very dark." 
 Yes ; and I think you have kej^t her very 
 dark from ine' 
 
 ' I forgot that you knew nothing about 
 her,' said I, with rather an awkward laugh : 
 ' Eleanor is a very old friend of ours.' 
 
 'So it seems,' said her ladyship dryly. 'I 
 observe that you squeeze hands.' 
 
 Old Mr. Bourne was certainly right in
 
 CALL ME 'kitty.' 161 
 
 the remark he expressed that night (if not 
 in the pronunciation of it), that Lady Rep- 
 ton had ' the heye of a nawk.' 
 
 But though I do verily believe that she 
 was displeased for the moment to discover 
 that Nelly and I Avere lovers, she took to 
 her very kindly, and they soon got to be 
 excellent friends. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTER YIIL 
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 
 
 What a revolution can one person of wit 
 and will effect in a whole household, how- 
 ever prone to peace and lethargy! The 
 silent Manor-house now resounded to the 
 blows of the carpenter, as though it had 
 been one of her Majesty's dockyards, while 
 provisions arrived (for the contemplated 
 supper) in stores as if to furnish forth an 
 Arctic expedition. Aunt Ben, ordinarily so 
 phlegmatic, positively simmered with ex- 
 citement and sense of responsibility; and 
 even Cousin Jane bestirred herself to the 
 extent of volunteering to hear our parts. 
 In the case of Lady Repton herself, no such 
 tutoring was supposed to be necessary; and
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 163 
 
 indeed she had boasted to me that she was 
 a most excellent ' study ;' but disuse, I fancy, 
 had somewhat affected her powers in this 
 way; for she was never without her scraps 
 of paper, and in the middle of a conversa- 
 tion would suddenly reply to one in the 
 mediseval style, and give the cue Avith im- 
 mense significance. At church, too, in the 
 Wray pew (as it was called) — a little cur- 
 tained snuggery in the gallery, which might 
 well have excused the impropriety, as re- 
 minding her of a stage-box — she was wont 
 to mix up with the responses certain tags 
 and phrases which were sometimes longer 
 than the sentences for which they were 
 substituted, and overlapped them, so to 
 speak, in a most extraordinary and indeco- 
 rous maimer. Nothing was said about it, 
 though my father raised his eyebrows a 
 little, and Aunt Ben lifted her hands in 
 horror. It was generally understood that 
 her ladyship did not ' mean anything wrong.' 
 Certainly, that was my view of her conduct,
 
 164 Cecil's teyst. 
 
 and still is, though I had a much greater 
 experience of her eccentricities than the 
 rest of the household. At this distance of 
 time, it will be thought neither a breach of 
 confidence nor an act of vanity to confess 
 that her ladyship made downright love to 
 me. But she was perfectly well aware that 
 it was an absurd thing to do, and occasion- 
 ally burst out laughing in the middle of it. 
 ' One may not marry one's grandmother, 
 Fred, nor even fall in love with her,' she 
 would say, as if to reassure me, when mat- 
 ters seemed to be going a little far; or, 
 ' What sad lines time has ruled in my old 
 face,' when she had been putting it vmne- 
 cessarily close to mine. That there was no 
 reality in her little endearments, I think I 
 could almost have convinced Nelly herself. 
 I don't believe she was even ' keeping her 
 hand in' for that time which she vaguely 
 spoke of as ' when anything should happen 
 to dear Lord Repton ;' but she was a born 
 actress, devoted to love-making on the stage,
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 165 
 
 and was content to play Helena even to so 
 cruel a Demetrius as myself. No flower- 
 juice on earth, could have ever made me 
 blind to Nelly, or to look on ' Kitty' with 
 any other eyes than those of the most 
 modest, though affectionate, regard. Her 
 conversation, however, at all times delighted 
 me, and especially when she spoke of dra- 
 matic matters, Avhich generally formed the 
 topic of our talk. Her wit, therefore, must 
 have been great indeed, since she did not 
 hesitate to damp my hopes of succeeding 
 as a playwright, and even of my getting 
 ' acted' at all. ' If Shakespeare himself had 
 not had a share in the Globe Theatre, my 
 dear, he would not have been the great 
 success he was, for the simple reason, that 
 he would not have had the opportunities. 
 The stage-door is not more closed against 
 the general public than is the manager's 
 ear to the voice of the unknown writer of 
 dramas. He won't be bothered with him, 
 not even so far as to give him a hearing.
 
 166 
 
 He will answer no notes, however courte- 
 ous ; he will return no manuscript, however 
 valuable.' 
 
 'Then a manager must be a brute in 
 human form !' cried I indignantly. 
 
 ' Undoubtedly he is, my dear boy,' was 
 her grave reply ; ' if at least he is so for- 
 tunate as to possess the human form, for I 
 have known some manaofers without even 
 that: being intensely selfish, they hate 
 trouble of all kinds ; and they have an in- 
 surmountable objection to spend money. 
 These two peculiarities cause them to ac- 
 cept French adaptations, ^^Titten by hack 
 writers, in place of good original dramas, 
 that they w^ould be put to the pains of se- 
 lecting from a heap of literary rubbish, and 
 for which, perhaps, they might have to pay 
 a reasonable sum.' 
 
 ' But how, then, is an unknown dra- 
 matic author to get his chance at all ?' 
 
 ' By writing his play expressly to suit 
 the capabilities of a particular actor or ac-
 
 DRAMATIC PEEPAEATIONS. 167 
 
 tress, and getting liini or lier to bring it 
 out for liim — just as I am now bringing 
 out your Ivanhoe for you upon tbe Gat- 
 combe stage. Only, all the profession, my 
 dear Fred, are not so good-natured, I as- 
 sure you. A gentleman of my acquaint- 
 ance once wrote a very charming comedy 
 upon an express understanding with X, a 
 certain eminent actor, that he should bring- 
 out the piece ; the principal part was ex- 
 actly suited to his talents, and he had even 
 allowed that the play was sure to take. 
 But still it remained luiacted. At last the 
 author lost patience, and demanded an ex- 
 planation. " I have been kept shilly-shal- 
 lying long enough," said he (just as you 
 Avill be, my dear Fred), '' and really begin 
 to think that this play is not coming out at 
 all. I would rather give a hundred pounds 
 than be disappointed in this way." "My 
 dear friend," returned X in his friendly 
 way, "why on earth did 3^ou not say so 
 before? That is the very thing — I mean
 
 1G8 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 your hundred pounds — for which (from 
 motives of delicacy) T have so patiently 
 been waiting." ' 
 
 ^ What a villain !' ejaculated I. 
 
 ' Perhaps/ said her ladyship coolly ; ' but 
 a very smiling ^and agreeable villain, I do 
 assure you.' 
 
 While the general conditions of the 
 British stage were thus being expounded to 
 my astonished ears, no pains were spared 
 to insure the success of that particular 
 ornament of it, my mediaeval drama — 
 or, to speak technically, to make Ivanlioe 
 ' go.' We had already had more than one 
 rehearsal; and upon a certain Thursday, 
 the date of which became afterwards of 
 very serious importance, Cecil and I started 
 for Monkton, to hire the dresses. They 
 could not be procured before, for the simple 
 reason, that the Thespian wardrobe in the 
 cathedral city was limited, and that the 
 actors were using them ; but the . company 
 was now disbanded, and the manaaer was-
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 169 
 
 glad enougli to turn an honest pound or 
 two by us amateurs. 
 
 It was very kind of my cousin to go 
 with me, at a time when all studies, save 
 our dramatic ones, were suspended ; and 
 he would, as I well knew, have gladly 
 spent his holiday elsewhere ; but, of course, 
 not a word was said of that. The subject, 
 as I have said, was a tabooed one, and in- 
 deed it did not at that time even suggest 
 itself to me. 
 
 The behaviour of Cousin Jane had of 
 late been so conciliatory, that it had in a 
 great measure removed my suspicions of 
 her having discovered her brother's secret, 
 and besides, my mind was full of the play. 
 My astonishment, therefore, was consider- 
 able when suddenly, as we drove along, 
 Cecil observed, apropos to nothing : ' What 
 a charming Eowena my Rue would make, 
 Fred !' 
 
 His quiet use of the possessive pronoun 
 alarmed me more than the most passionate
 
 170 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 eulogy on her beauty could have done. His 
 Eue, indeed ! Why I couldn't have said 
 more if I had been speaking of my own 
 Eleanor ! ' Well/ returned I, smiling, for 
 I thought it best to treat the matter as 
 lightly as I could, 'I don't suppose Ruth 
 Waller would play the part so well as 
 Lady Repton.' 
 
 ' I am not sure,' answered he gravely ; 
 ^ she would look the Saxon princess every 
 inch, and she has far more dramatic talent 
 than you imagine.' 
 
 ' But I never imagined her to have any^ 
 my dear Cecil,' returned I in astonishment. 
 ' How should she have ? What could have 
 evoked it?' 
 
 Cecil laughed — not scornfully, but with 
 the good-natured confidence of a man whose 
 position is beyond ridicule. ' Well, Fred, 
 I might reply,' said he, 4f I had a mind 
 to be uncivil, How came you with your 
 knack of writing plays ? And, Who evoked 
 that?
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 171 
 
 ' I should answer, Cecil, that my read- 
 ing of plays begat my writing them ; partly 
 that, and partly, I suppose, I must have had 
 some natural bent that way at first, which, 
 it is likely enough, might never have shown 
 itself but for my father's encouragement. 
 Why, at seven years old I used to sit on 
 his knee, and, drawing a paper-knife, speak 
 Macbeth's speech : "Is this a dagger that I 
 see before me ?" ' 
 
 ' Well,' said Cecil, ' and I have taught 
 Rue.' 
 
 'Not sitting on your knee,' laughed I, 
 ' I hope ! — Pardon me, my dear cousin/ 
 I added hastily, for it was plain to see that 
 I had offended him. ' Indeed, I meant no 
 harm. Ruth Waller is a good girl, I know; 
 but it does seem to me so very strange that 
 she should be capable of acting in a stage- 
 play.' 
 
 ' Why not ?' returned he coldly. ' Tal- 
 ents are not given to us in proportion to 
 our riches, else I should be cleverer than
 
 172 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 my sister Jane ; and as to birth, does not 
 your father's favourite Bianca say : 
 
 " Mean folks are as worthy 
 To be well spoken of, if they deserve well, 
 As some whose only fame lies in their blood !" 
 
 Or hear Ben Jonson : 
 
 " We stand too much on our gentility, 
 Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing 
 From dead men's dust and bones, and none of ours,. 
 Except we make or hold it." ' 
 
 My cousin's tone had a certain scornful 
 iire I had never before noticed in it ; and 
 for which, though I regretted the source 
 that kindled it, I admired him none the 
 less. It Avas doubtless very foolish of him 
 to have taken up with this beautiful beggar- 
 maid; but others, thought I, besides Iving 
 Cophetua had been similarly infatuated : 
 for it must be remembered, that though I 
 had played the mentor in this matter with 
 much becoming gravity, I was then but 
 eighteen myself. 
 
 'Of course,' said I, 'my dear Cecil, I
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 173 
 
 agree with every word of that: there is 
 nothing so despicably Brummagem as the 
 rubbish that is talked about Birth: but 
 just as the associations that belong to your 
 noble swell from his earliest years are dis- 
 advantageous, just as he is liable to be 
 spoiled by flattery and the habit of having 
 his own way — and is spoiled — ^for he gene- 
 rally grows up to be a fool — so is your 
 poor lad, and more especially your poor 
 girl, begirt from the first by associations 
 of an opposite kind, but at least equally 
 disadvantageous to them. It is not Ruth 
 Waller's fault, for instance, that she is fami- 
 liar with certain scenes that — to say the 
 least of them — ^must tend to vulgarise a 
 Avoman's nature.' 
 
 ^ Ruth's nature is not vulgar,' observed 
 Cecil curtly. 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders, and flicked 
 the pony with the Avhip. 
 
 ^ It is useless to argue the matter, Cecil,' 
 said I presently; 'you might as well con-
 
 174 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 tend, on the other hand, that the born 
 swells are wise : when they are so, they are 
 miracles, that's all. Perhaps Ruth Waller 
 is a miracle ; for your sake I hope she is — 
 How fine the cathedral tower begins to 
 look!' 
 
 ' Never mind the cathedral, Fred. Listen 
 to me ; you are the only friend I have in 
 the world. What are the " certain scenes" 
 with which you say Ruth has been of ne- 
 cessity familiar, and that must needs have 
 done her harm?' 
 
 'Well,' said I, 'scenes of drunkenness, 
 for instance. It is impossible it can be 
 otherwise. I have myself seen Richard 
 Waller as drunk as a pig within these few 
 days.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied Cecil sorrowfully, 'it is 
 terrible. She does what she can to keep 
 him sober, but it is hopeless. He is dili- 
 gent enough, but the half of what he earns 
 is spent in drink. Well' (here he spoke 
 with cheerful gravity, like one who has
 
 DRAMATIC PREPAEATIONS. 175 
 
 weighed all the disadvantages to be en- 
 countered in a design, and still is fixed), 
 ' of that wretchedness at least — I mean their 
 poverty — there will be no more when Rue 
 is mine.' 
 
 ^ It is a sad look-out,' said I, ' neverthe- 
 less, to have a drunkard for a brother-in- 
 law.' 
 
 ' True,' returned Cecil ; ' but you do not 
 value the compensation as I do. You do 
 not know Ruth. Her beauty is her least 
 recommendation. ' 
 
 ' She is certainly most beautiful,' said I. 
 
 'Ah, yes; there is no one like her — 
 none.' 
 
 In his mind's eye, it was evident the 
 boy beheld her; his face grew radiant, his 
 tone became bright and joyous ; and by the 
 time we reached Monkton, he was in higher 
 spirits than I had ever known him. He 
 seemed resolved to forget all his trouble in 
 the mission on which we were bent ; while 
 as for me, it, of course, gave me an intense
 
 176 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 pleasure. I shall never forget the amuse- 
 ment our visit to that little dusty, musty 
 theatre afforded us ; the first edifice of the 
 sort into which I had ever set foot ; so dif- 
 ferent from everything I had heard or pic- 
 tured to myself of the Temple of Thespis ; 
 the stage with the gilt off with a ven- 
 geance ! The little ' 'Ebrew Jew,' its pro- 
 prietor, did away ^\ith my illusions more 
 completely, however, than even the esta- 
 blishment itself He was humility and 
 insignificance personified ; and seemed as 
 incapable of rejecting a drama from any- 
 body as of accepting one ; and yet, he was 
 a real live manager — when there was any- 
 thing to manage, Avhich did not always 
 happen, dramatic affairs at Monkton being 
 very intermittent. His great object ap- 
 peared to be to persuade us to hire certain 
 wigs which he exhibited, one by one, with 
 excessive pride. They were not so attrac- 
 tive in themselves as to hiduce us to wear 
 them for our private use, while for a me-
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 177 
 
 diseval drama they were clearly inappro- 
 priate. He had evidently, however, never 
 even so much as heard of an anachronism, 
 and combated that objection with great 
 vigour. In private theatricals, he con- 
 tended that the most important thing of all 
 was to conceal your personal identity ; and 
 there was nothing so certain to effect this 
 object as wigs. Eventually, to please him, 
 we did hire a magnificent wig and beard 
 for Isaac, Rebecca's father, who was not 
 represented in the drama at all. We got 
 a very tolerable suit of armour for Bois- 
 Guilbert, not much above two sizes larger 
 than Frank Close, who was to wear it ; and 
 a palmer's cloak — which I suspect was used 
 at funerals in the town — for Ivanhoe. As 
 for myself, I secured a most marvellous 
 jester's suit in which to appear as Wamba. 
 It was of a light salmon colour, and formed 
 of some elastic woollen material in one 
 piece. When I had crept into it, it was 
 fastened behind by two buttons, and there 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 I was, dependent for subsequent deliver- 
 ance upon the charity of my friends. If 
 I could only be half so funny in speech as I 
 was to look at, the success of the comic 
 business of the drama was undoubtedly 
 secured. 
 
 Laden with these garments, and much 
 other tinselled spoil besides, we returned to 
 Gatcombe, to exhibit them to the admiring 
 household. Even Lord Repton expressed 
 his satisfaction upon the whole, although, 
 had he gone with us, the result would have 
 been, doubtless, even still more successful. 
 ' He had some reputation,' it seemed, as a 
 judge of medieval costume, which could not 
 have failed to have been useful to us. 
 
 Cousin Jane alone absented herself from 
 the display of our borrowed plumes. She 
 had complained of headache, it was said, 
 and had shut herself up in her room all 
 day, where she had requested that she 
 might not be disturbed. 
 
 For the rest of us, it was an evening of
 
 DRAMATIC PREPARATIONS. 170 
 
 great excitement, for the dress rehearsal, to 
 which the farmers and principal village 
 folk had been invited, was to come off on 
 the ensuing afternoon. How little we 
 guessed that in place of our modest little 
 drama there was to be performed — a Tra- 
 gedy !
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 
 
 At breakfast the next morning, Lady Rep- 
 ton, for a wonder, made her appearance ; 
 but Jane kept her room, as she had done 
 throughout the preceding day, still trou- 
 bled with her headache. I am afraid this 
 did not interfere with the merriment of our 
 party, reinforced as it was by the presence 
 of Eleanor, whom we had bespoken for the 
 entire day. Nothing, of course, was talked 
 about but the afternoon's rehearsal, and 
 quotations from the play were frequent, 
 which, interspersed with ordinary talk, had 
 a comic effect enough. To my father, how- 
 ever, must be adjudged the pahn of electri- 
 fying the company, and especially Aunt 
 Ben, by his application, to my own un-
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A EARCE. 181 
 
 happy condition as playwright, of these 
 lines from Marlowe's Faustus^ uttered sud- 
 -denly in sad and sonorous tones : 
 
 ' Frederick, 
 ^ow hast thou but six bare hours to live, 
 And then thou wilt be damn'd perpetually. ' 
 
 Though spoken in jest, these words did not 
 tend to remove the nervousness which had 
 taken possession of me, and it was with a 
 ghastly grin that I acknoAvledged the sally. 
 Mere gibes and jokes, so long as they did 
 not take this Cassandra shape, I did not 
 mind; which was fortunate, for no one 
 spared me. Cecil boldly addressed t\iQ 
 most affectionate speeches to Eleanor be- 
 fore my face, under the borrowed shield of 
 Bois-Guilbert; and Lady Repton lavished 
 upon Cecil all the tenderness (and some- 
 thing more) with which I had endowed 
 Rowena. Then she would turn to me, and 
 ejaculate: ^Poor faithful fool!' with such 
 contemptuous pity that Aunt Ben got 
 •quite indignant upon my account. AAHien
 
 182 
 
 Frank Close arrived, and we all put on 
 our costumes, the fun became positively 
 uproarious. His head -gear was so much 
 too large for him that his eyes, which 
 should have ' flashed fire through his visor 
 bars,' were lost somewhere between that 
 spot and his mouthpiece, so that he could 
 see nothing, and had to be led about. As 
 for me in my salmon suit, I was thoroughly 
 ashamed of myself, and looked very much 
 of the same colour as my apparel. Frank 
 Close, too, whose humour was of a practi- 
 cal turn, did not mend matters — and, in- 
 deed, he did precisely the reverse, for he 
 made a hole in my inexpressibles — by per- 
 petually prodding my unprotected limbs 
 with his sword. The three male characters 
 of the drama, indeed, were faint and sore 
 with laughter before they emerged from 
 the 'green-room' and presented themselves 
 to the public eye. Our two actresses ex- 
 cited nothing but admiration, while their 
 costumes were perfection. Lady Repton
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 183 
 
 really looked superb, notwithstanding that 
 the remorseless light of day fell full upon 
 her; and the beauty of Rebecca was (as 
 Rowena herself confessed) such as to have 
 excused any indiscretion on the part of the 
 Templar. 
 
 Ah me ! what a bright joyous time it 
 was ! how full of jest and gaiety ! A da}' 
 wherein Youth, Love, and Friendship made 
 holiday together, and asked Wit to join 
 them! 
 
 And yet we could scarce have been 
 more merry or better pleased among our- 
 selves than were those who came to gaze 
 upon our show — the farmers of the parish, 
 with their wives. Stout Fiveacres, whose 
 family had held the self-same farm for cen- 
 turies, and yet who was, I verily believe, 
 the very first of them who ever saw a 
 play ; young Bargate, from the Glebe 
 House, with his bride of three days old, 
 whom this unprecedented attraction had 
 withdrawn thus early from her modest se-
 
 184 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 elusion ; and old Braintree, from whom all 
 his race had dropped away, except the 
 little blue- eyed grandchild, whom he had 
 asked special leave to bring: ^She would 
 take up no room,' he said, 'as she always 
 sat upon his knee.' 
 
 Not until the company had all assem- 
 bled did Cousin Jane appear and take her 
 seat in the front row beside my father. 
 She looked ill and pale, and also nervous, 
 as I had never seen her before. 
 
 ^ Your cousin appears anxious,' re- 
 marked Lady Repton. 
 
 ^ Yes,' said I ; ^ she is afraid of Cecil's 
 coming to grief in his part, which I am 
 sure she need not be.' 
 
 ^ Nay, I think she is afraid of the piece 
 itself not going off as it should do,' ans- 
 wered her ladyship slyly. 
 
 ' I am sure that is not it,' said I, ' for 
 she was opposed to our having the play 
 from the beginning.' 
 
 'Yes; for two reasons: first, because
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 185 
 
 you take the jester's part, which she con- 
 siders inconsistent with your dignity; and 
 secondly, because Eleanor plays with you. 
 What a terrible young fellow you are, to 
 have thus involved three innocent young 
 creatures — for you know how / dote upon 
 you — in your wicked meshes !' 
 
 Her lively ladyship retained her own 
 opinion on this point, as was usual with 
 her; but although she had been the iirst 
 to open my eyes to Cousin Jane's penchant 
 for myself, I felt convinced she was wrong 
 in this particular instance. Jane's present 
 anxiety was certainly upon Cecil's account, 
 not mine. Her eyes followed his every 
 movement; her ears seemed to await his 
 words alone, throughout the play; and so 
 far from my being chagrined at her want 
 of interest in the drama itself, I felt more 
 favourably towards her in consequence. 
 Whatever might be urged against Cousin 
 Jane, it was certain that she really loved 
 * Old Cecil' (as I affectionately termed him),
 
 186 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 and was demonstrative enough in all that 
 concerned liim. 
 
 At what precise part of the representa- 
 tion it happened, 1 cannot tell, for the 
 shock of subsequent occurrences destroyed 
 all recollection of such details; but it was 
 at a point Avhen all the dramatis persona^ 
 were on the stage together, that a strange 
 sensation seemed to affect the servants 
 on the staircase, which, as I have said, 
 served the purpose of a gallery. At first 
 there was only whispering and crowding 
 together ; but presently one of them — it 
 was Anne, the parlour-maid — stood up, and 
 looked towards my father nervously. All 
 eyes in the body of the hall, including his 
 own, were, however, fixed upon ourselves. 
 
 'Master — sir!' said Anne. 
 
 My father looked up, in common with 
 every one else, at this unexpected interrup- 
 tion, except Cousin Jane, who still kept her 
 eyes fixed upon her brother, at that mo- 
 ment on his knees before Rowena, and
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 187 
 
 even when he looked round, she never 
 turned her head. 
 
 '■ What is the matter ?' asked my father 
 gravely. 
 
 ' The house is on fire ; I knew it would 
 be, Fred,' cried Aunt Ben reproachfully. 
 
 (Considering that our entertainment 
 was an afternoon performance, and of 
 course without footlights, it was rather un- 
 reasonable in her to attribute such a mis- 
 fortune to my poor drama.) 
 
 ' No, sir,' said Anne ; ' it's not fire. But 
 a terrible accident has happened at the 
 sand-clifF; and I thought I ought to tell 
 you.' 
 
 ' To whom ?' cried Cecil. 
 
 Even in that moment of increased ex- 
 citement, it seemed to strike the company 
 as strange that Cecil should have put this 
 question instead of my father; perhaps it 
 was the feverish anxiety of his voice, so 
 difierent from the tones of tender passion 
 in which he had just been addressing
 
 188 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 Rowena, but, at all events, Anne turned to 
 him, as though she had known he was the 
 person chiefly interested. 
 
 'It's the Wallers' pit, Mr. Cecil, over 
 against Way ford — ' 
 
 The next instant there was a sharp 
 clang of the door, and Cecil was gone. 
 The whole audience rose at once — almost 
 all of them to hurry to the scene of the 
 catastrophe. My father and Aunt Ben 
 remained but to collect the few articles 
 which their experience had shown to be 
 useful in such emergencies, and the dra- 
 matis jpersonce to disencumber themselves of 
 their stage clothes. Even in that moment 
 of distress and alarm, it was not without a 
 sense of humorous absurdity that I found 
 myself a prisoner in the salmon-coloured 
 suit. I could obtain nobody's aid to undo 
 the two buttons behind, and, in that hate- 
 ful apparel, it was utterly impossible that I 
 could present myself on the cliff terrace at 
 such a time. It would have been a hun-
 
 A TEAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 189 
 
 dred times worse than going to a funeral 
 in hunting costume. At last I procured a 
 knife, and cut it open down tlie front (just 
 as the Japanese disembowel themselves), 
 and so got out. Then at full speed I fol- 
 lowed, and soon passed the rest of the 
 hurrying throng. In the avenue lay Ivan- 
 hoe's long palmer's cloak, which poor Cecil 
 had cast off as he ran. I could see his 
 white shirt-sleeves, as he sped along the 
 terrace like a deer, at least half a mile 
 ahead of me. In front of the place where 
 Richard and Ruth Waller usually worked, 
 I could also see a dark knot of men and 
 women — a funereal group which seemed 
 already to speak of death. As I drew 
 nearer, I found these standing around the 
 pit-mouth in a semicircle, within which, 
 just as I arrived, a man came out from the 
 pit with a barrowful of earth, which he 
 emptied very hastily, and then returned. 
 The faces of all expressed an intense anx- 
 iety and grief — not the mere curiosity
 
 190 
 
 which is too often the feeling chiefly recog- 
 nisable in the onlookers at tragic scenes: 
 not one of those present but had had cause 
 to bewail a similar catastrophe on their 
 o^vn account, or on that of their kinsfolk. 
 
 ^ On whom has the pit fallen ?' inquired 
 I of one who had already stripped his coat 
 off, in readiness to take his turn ^t the 
 work within, though he was an old man 
 too. 
 
 ' On Richard Waller and his sister, 
 sir.' 
 
 ' Good God !' cried I. ' What ! on Ruth ?' 
 I looked round nervously for Cecil, but he 
 had disappeared. 
 
 'Yes, indeed, sir; though we trust the 
 lass is not so far in but that she can be 
 reached in time. That little lad there' 
 (pointing to a pale-faced child, who Avas 
 crying bitterly) ^ was helping a bit with the 
 barrow, when he heard the fall, and ran 
 out to tell us. It was lucky — if anything 
 can be called lucky in such an affair — that
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 191 
 
 he was there to hear it, or we should not 
 have known what had happened until it 
 was too late.' 
 
 ^ Then you think,' asked I eagerly, ^ that 
 it is not too late now ?' 
 
 'Not for the lass, sir — no; though I 
 fear poor Richard is done for. From what 
 the lad says, I reckon Ruth was only just 
 beyond the props when the sand came 
 down.' 
 
 ' Beyond the props !' cried I, in amaze- 
 ment. ' How could that be ?' 
 
 ' Heaven only knows, sir ; though I do 
 fear that the drink which has led poor 
 Richard to spend his substance, has at last 
 cost him his life.^ 
 
 'You don't mean to say that Richard 
 Waller sold his props for drink, when he 
 knew that his sister was to share his risk ?' 
 cried I indignantly. 
 
 ' I know nothing certain, sir, except 
 that drink v/ill make a man sell anything, 
 including, as Parson Bourne says, his own
 
 192 
 
 soul; and, at all events, the props are gone, 
 or how could yon have happened ?' 
 
 Here the barrow-man came out, looking 
 Avhite and exhausted, and was immediately 
 relieved by another hand ; and a few min- 
 utes afterwards a second man emerged 
 from the pit, for whom another was simi- 
 larly substituted on the instant. Not a 
 single second was lost. There was a total 
 silence now, the slight commotion caused 
 by the coming up of the party from the 
 Manor-house having ceased. My father was 
 standing in the inner ring of spectators, 
 with a little pile of blankets beside him, 
 and a bottle of brandy ; one finger was in 
 his waistcoat-pocket, where, as I well knew, 
 a lancet lay. Aunt Ben stood beside him 
 with a roll of bandages, not crying, as 
 many of the women were, but wearing 
 such an expression of divine pity as made 
 her homely features almost beautiful. Ele- 
 anor, who had silently made her way to 
 my side, wore also a calm face, but trem-
 
 A TRAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 193 
 
 bled excessively. Suddenly the man with 
 whom I had already spoken observed coolly, 
 'Your Cousin Cecil digs well, sir ; don't he? 
 He's been longer in than any of 'em, and the 
 barrow still comes out as quick as ever.' 
 
 ' Is Cecil in the pit?' asked I in wonder 
 not unmixed with alarm. 
 
 ' Yes, surely. He came up just as the 
 third turn was called, and dashed in with 
 the spade like a good un. He's used to 
 the work, it seems ; but he must be nearly 
 spent by this time.' 
 
 ' What a noble fellow !' ejaculated a 
 sweet, loAv voice behind me. I turned, 
 and saw Lady Repton : the tenderness of 
 her woman's heart made her fair face wo- 
 ful, and showed its lines, but I liked it 
 better so than I had ever done before. 
 
 ^ Fred would dio; too, if he knew how.' 
 said Eleanor, taking, I suppose, her lady_ 
 ship's observation as a reflection upon my 
 own inactivity, which I am sure it was not 
 intended to be. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 
 
 * Yes,' said I, ' I would do so willingly, 
 but I should be a hindrance rather than a 
 help ; whereas Cecil — ' 
 
 Here I stopped abruptly. To tell how 
 Cecil had learned to use the spade, would 
 have been at once to disclose, at least to 
 one of those two, the motive that was now 
 ofivino; such unwonted vi^^our to his arm. 
 As I thought of that, I looked round for 
 Jane, but she was nowhere to be seen. I 
 felt glad of this, on all accounts, but in the 
 first place, because she would naturally 
 have been much alarmed at her brother's 
 perilous position; for there loas very con- 
 siderable peril in it. The spadesman in 
 such cases Avas, of course, the most ad- 
 vanced of the workers ; for though, as he 
 dug, it was the duty of the propper to 
 make all safe behind him, he was by no 
 means unlikely to be caught by a new fall 
 of sand ; and especially would this be the 
 case if his anxiety to effect a rescue should 
 make him incautious; and was Cecil likely
 
 A TRAGEDY AETER A FARCE. 195 
 
 to be prudent, digging as he ^vas for some- 
 thing that, in his eyes, was dearer far than 
 buried treasure in those of a miser ? Every 
 breath that was now lent to him might eke 
 out the scanty stock of it in his beloved 
 Ruth ; for the theory of the poor girl's 
 position, based on the firm ground of ex- 
 perience, was this, that if alive at all, if 
 not hopelessly crushed and smothered, she 
 must be in some confined spot, the air of 
 which must needs be speedily exhausted. 
 She had certainly not been killed outright 
 by the first fall — I say first, because there 
 were generally more than one in such cases 
 — since the little boy had heard a muffled 
 cry of ' Help !' from her after the pit had 
 caved in. Perhaps, even now, that cry was 
 ringing in poor Cecil's ears within there ! 
 It could not do so much longer, that was 
 certain. I saw old Mr. Bourne take out 
 his great silver watch, ask some question of 
 his son — doubtless as to the time the acci- 
 dent had happened — and then shake his
 
 196 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 head clespondingly : this was followed by 
 a sorrowful murmur from the crowd, as 
 though that expression of the old man's 
 opinion had found an audible echo. 
 
 Suddenly a voice was heard within the 
 pit, and every eye began to twinkle with 
 anxiety, every head to crane forward. 
 
 ' Back, back !' cried my father in autho- 
 ritative tones ; * leave plenty of space round 
 the pit's mouth.' As the crowd mechani- 
 cally obeyed him, the barrow-man came 
 running out without his customary load. 
 ^ They are coming !' he exclaimed, then 
 took his place in the mass of onlookers. 
 
 No one asked ivho were coming; but a 
 party in the back=ground, who had been 
 engaged in forming a couple of litters, or it 
 might be biers, out of iir-poles, now came 
 forward with them; while the blankets were 
 spread out ready for instant use. It was 
 an awful moment: dear Eleanor stole her 
 trembling arm in mine, as if for support : 
 and Lady Repton placed her little hand
 
 A TEAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 197 
 
 upon a pitman's slioulcler. If a thunder- 
 bolt had fallen on the terrace, it would 
 scarcely, I verily believe, have at that mo- 
 ment drawn away our gaze from the cave- 
 mouth, on which all eyes were riveted. The 
 propman had already made his appearance; 
 and now came Cecil, tottering under the 
 weight of a burden scarce more ghastly 
 than himself — the corpse, as it seemed, of 
 beautiful Ruth Waller. Her face, like his, 
 was white and damp ; her long black hair 
 trailed over her shoulders, and mixed with 
 his, and both were clotted with sand. But 
 Avhile his limbs shook beneath him, hers 
 hung down limp and lifeless ; and while 
 his laboured breathing could be heard by 
 the most distant spectator. Rue did not 
 seem to breathe at all. 
 
 ' Next turn !' cried old Mr. Bourne, and 
 instantly the Avork within the cave com- 
 menced again ; but for my part I had 
 neither eyes nor ears except for Cecil and 
 Ruth. The thouo^ht that Richard Waller
 
 198 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 had brought this misery on his innocent 
 sister, steeled my heart against him, even 
 in that bitter hour — for which I had after- 
 wards cause for shame. 
 
 Euth was set do^vn on the blankets ; 
 and my father knelt down on one side of 
 her, and Aunt Ben on the other, while 
 Cecil, kneeling at her feet, gazed at her 
 shut white face Avith unspeakable tender- 
 ness and agony. 
 
 ' Hush !' You could hear the wood- 
 pigeon's murmur in the distant firs, and 
 the flow of the far-off river, as my father 
 leaned down his ear and listened for her 
 breathing. 
 
 ' She lives !' said he, looking up to us 
 with tender gravity. 
 
 ' Thank God !' ejaculated the rector so- 
 lemnly. 
 
 I am sure that most of us did thank 
 Him. It w^ould have indeed been hard if 
 cruel Death had snatched so fair a form, 
 and laid it in the grave for a bridal bed.
 
 A TEAGEDY AFTER A FARCE. 199 
 
 But tliough not dead, Ruth was quite 
 insensible, or, rather, she knew nothing of 
 what was happening about her, for sud- 
 denly she cried out, ' A spade, a spade !' 
 doubtless filled with some vague sense of 
 the fate she had so narrowly escaped. It 
 was, of course, not to be thought of that 
 she should be taken to her own cottage, 
 that would presently receive for its only 
 other inmate the dead body of her brother 
 (for although the pitmen in no way relaxed 
 their efforts to save him, Ave all felt that 
 his case was hopeless) ; and I saw Aunt 
 Ben whisper to my father, who threw a 
 troubled look towards Cecil. She had 
 doubtless proposed that the poor girl should 
 be taken to the Manor-house. 
 
 ' The Rectory is nearer,' suggested Xelly 
 boldly, yet without venturing to glance in 
 the direction of her grandfather, Avhose 
 countenance at this proposition began to 
 evince stronger feeling than it had yet 
 shown throughout the whole afiair. He
 
 200 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 was understood to murmur something about 
 the spare bed not being aired. 
 
 ' She shall have my bed,' said Xelly ; 
 and with that poor Euth, who had already 
 been laid upon the litter, was about to be 
 borne away. 
 
 ' Stop !' cried Cecil, speaking for the 
 first time, and laying his hand on the 
 shoulder of the nearest bearer. ' That is 
 my place, if you please;' and the man gave 
 way, and he took his place accordingly. 
 
 I can see the whole scene now, as 
 though it were before my very eyes — Ce- 
 cil's grave quickness, and the bearer's stolid 
 Avonder ; my father's pained surprise, and 
 the amaze and interest of all the rest, so 
 great, that, in spite of the tragedy that wa& 
 simultaneously taking place, it expressed 
 itself in murmurs; then the little proces- 
 sion slowly moving off with even pace along 
 the noiseless sand, and Eleanor walking b}' 
 Ruth Waller's side with her cold hand in 
 hers.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JANE FAINTS. 
 
 Not till an hour had elapsed after Ruth's 
 rescue, was her unhappy brother brought 
 forth from the pit that had been his grave. 
 It was evident, from the appearance of the 
 body, that he had long been a dead man, 
 and we all hoped that the fall which had 
 overwhelmed him had slain him on the 
 spot. This, however, as it turned out, had 
 not been the case. In a day or two, Ruth 
 was sufficiently recovered to narrate the 
 circumstances of the catastrophe, and they 
 were such as amazed and shocked our little 
 community, even more than the event itself. 
 When her brother and herself went to 
 work as usual on that morning, they had 
 found that, except from a few yards of
 
 202 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 passage at the entrance, the whole of the 
 props supporting the roof had been re- 
 moved. The idea that Richard himself had 
 made away with them for the purpose of 
 supj)lying himself with the means of pur- 
 chasing drink, was one that had not even 
 occurred to his sister; nor was it after- 
 wards ever suggested to her, since the fact 
 itself seemed abundantly disproved by her 
 •evidence, corroborated as it was by that 
 -of the little boy, her assistant. Richard 
 Waller had expressed himself with too much 
 vehemence and indignation against the au- 
 thor of the heartless theft, to be suspected 
 of being himself the culprit: his nature 
 was anything but hypocritical; it was, on 
 the contrary, rash and impulsive, as was 
 fatally evidenced by his conduct on the 
 occasion in question ; which at the same 
 time convinced us that we had done him 
 wrono; in attributing^ to him a selfish dis- 
 regard of his sister's safety. ' Prop or no 
 prop,' he had passionately exclaimed, ' I do
 
 JA^s^E FAINTS. 203 
 
 my work to-day as usual ; and if anything 
 happens to me, my blood be on the villain's 
 head that has done this thing ! But as for 
 thee, lass,' he had added, ' keep thou within 
 the props, Avith the boy.' 
 
 In vain Ruth had endeavoured to com- 
 bat this rash resolve. Early as it was, the 
 unhappy man had already partaken of strong 
 liquor, and was in no condition to be argued 
 with, while the theft of the props had ex- 
 cited him beyond control. All that his poor 
 sister could do was to keep as near to him 
 as possible, in order to give him warning 
 of impending peril, though her doing so 
 angered him exceedingly, and more than 
 once he had driven her back with words 
 that she now trembled to recall. ' If Mr. 
 Cecil had only been with me, as usua^ 
 the poor half- conscious girl had pitifully 
 complained to Xelly (and by that phrase 
 had told her all), 'he would have com- 
 pelled Richard to take heed.' She had taken 
 great care, however, to keep the child well
 
 204 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 within the covered gallery, and given him 
 instructions as to what to do in case of any 
 mischance ; which he afterwards most fortu- 
 nately carried out with promptitude. When 
 the accident occurred, she had her back to- 
 wards her brother, and was carrying away 
 a basket of sand — poor Rue never used the 
 barrow, because the handling of it spoiled 
 her hands — for the boy to take without, 
 and empty; and the sudden extinction of 
 her brother's candle was the first indication 
 she received of what had happened. Imme- 
 diately afterwards a dull ' thud,' as she ex- 
 pressed it, rang in her ears, and she was 
 herself knocked down by the descent of the 
 sand. In neither case, as it seemed, had 
 the sides given way (as is most usual in 
 such calamities), but a portion of the roof 
 itself had fallen in block; the mass that 
 had buried Ruth was partly supported by 
 the basket of sand, beside which she lay ; 
 and to its scanty protection she doubtless 
 owed her preservation. Though much
 
 JANE FAINTS. 205 
 
 bruised by the blow, and greatly oppressed 
 by the superincumbent weigh t, she did not 
 lose consciousness, and could distinctly hear 
 her brother's pitiful moans. The sand had 
 fallen on him in a wedge-shaped mass, and 
 thereby protracted his sufferings for a brief 
 interval, by allowing him space wherein to 
 breathe. She was so near to him, notwith- 
 standino; the dense barrier between them, 
 that she could even overhear him call to 
 her in muffled tones, and utter the frag- 
 ments of a prayer. Prone on the damp 
 earth, in total darkness, and with the ex- 
 pectation of instant death, the sound of his 
 voice, she said, shot to her a ray of comfort. 
 She had endeavoured to reply to him, but 
 the sand choked her, while the effort to 
 speak gave her intense pain. ' I am a mur- 
 dered man,' she heard him say; and then 
 there was a second and greater fall of earth, 
 ' as though the whole cliff had come down 
 upon him.' Then all was silent as the 
 grave.
 
 206 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 After what seemed an eternity of time, 
 she heard the strokes of the pick and 
 spade ; but these, though in reality ap- 
 ^Droaching her, appeared to grow duller and 
 duller, and presently altogether ceased. She 
 had, in fact, become unconscious, and was 
 probably on the very threshold of death, 
 when Cecil's pickaxe let in the air, and 
 revived her. She did not know even now 
 that it was he who had rescued her, nor 
 did she speak of him at all, with the single 
 exception I have mentioned. Her whole 
 thoughts seemed to be fixed on her dead 
 brother, upon the cause of whose sad fate 
 she was incessantly speculating. He had 
 not had an enemy in the world, so far as 
 she knew, and yet she did not need his 
 dying words to be convinced that the theft 
 of the props had been committed of malice 
 pre2')ense ; that whoever had stolen them 
 counted on his well-known imprudence 
 inducing him to work on as usual, and had 
 thereby compassed his death. What con-
 
 JAKE EAII^TS. 207 
 
 firmed this view of the case Avith us all (in 
 spite of our unwillingness to adopt so harsh 
 a theory) was, that the stolen props them- 
 selves were discovered in an open space of 
 the wood above the cave, so that they had 
 certainly not been taken for the sake of the 
 few shillings they would have fetched in 
 the 'pit' market. 
 
 This important question greatly occu- 
 pied all minds, especially those of the local 
 magistracy, of which old Mr. Bourne and 
 my father were both members. The latter, 
 as I well knew (though he kept silence on 
 the subject), was also full of anxious thought 
 concerning Cecil, whose conduct since the 
 catastrophe was even more significant with 
 respect to Ruth than it had been on the 
 occasion of her rescue. He called at the 
 Rectory twice a day, to inquire how she 
 was progressing ; and scoured the country 
 round, in the character of an amateur de- 
 tective, in hopes to gain some clue that 
 might lead to the discovery of the culprit.
 
 208 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 Curiously enough, not a word of remon- 
 strance passed his sister's lips, though she 
 could not but have been aware of his pro- 
 ceedings. Perhaps she was rather more re- 
 served and morose in manner than before ; 
 but that might have arisen from physical 
 causes, since her indisposition still continued, 
 though not so severely as to confine her to 
 her own room. No one liked to speak of 
 recent events in her presence, because of 
 the share her brother had had in them ; 
 and yet we could think of little else. Our 
 theatricals had been put an end to because 
 of them, for Cecil had declined to act ; and 
 the gaiety of our little party was utterly 
 quenched. Lord and Lady Kept on took 
 their departure on the very day that was 
 to have been mtness to the entertainment 
 of the county at the Theatre Royal, Gat- 
 combe ; and her ladyship, I verily believe, 
 was more disappointed at the withdrawal 
 of the piece than was its author himself 
 For my part, my apprehensions upon Cecil's
 
 JANE FAINTS. 209 
 
 account swallowed up all minor causes of 
 melancholy : the present distress was, I felt 
 only too well convinced, but the prelude to 
 some grave occurrence which was likely to 
 throw no temporary shadow on our home- 
 life. The preparations for the inquest at 
 present gave my father an excuse for si- 
 lence; he was probably averse to speak to 
 Cecil while the latter was so full of excite- 
 ment (for Ruth herself was still in a some- 
 what critical condition); but it was impos- 
 sible that the eclaircissement could be long 
 deferred. What the end of it all would be, 
 it was difficult to guess ; but the affair looked 
 gloomy from every point of view for all of 
 us ; while as for me, I was only too sensible 
 that any knowledge of Cecil's headstrong 
 attachment was taken for granted, and that 
 for the first time in my life I had grievously 
 displeased my father. 
 
 The coroner's inquest took place at 
 Holksham, a small town half way to Monk- 
 ton, where the magistrates' meeting was 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 wont to be held once a fortnight ; and the 
 finding was one which, if not legally justi- 
 fied by the fact, was still only what might 
 have been expected from the heated state 
 of the public mind, greatly aggravated as 
 it was by the excited testimony of Ruth 
 herself. The jury adopted her unfortunate 
 brother's last words, and returned a verdict 
 of ^Wilful murder against some person or 
 persons unknown.' My father was not pre- 
 sent ; but Cecil and I had attended through- 
 out the proceedings, and the former evinced 
 great satisfaction at the result of the in- 
 quiry. 'If ever there was a man who de- 
 served hanging,' observed he in the draw- 
 ing-room that evening, with a vehemence 
 that was quite unusual with him, 'it was 
 the man who brought the cliff down upon 
 poor Richard Waller.' My father quietly 
 combated this opinion. He allowed, of 
 course, that if there had been any intention 
 to do him hurt, the crime was of the deej^- 
 est dye ; but if the props had been merely
 
 JANE FAINTS. 211 
 
 stolen to make money of them, and con- 
 sidering that nine men out of ten would 
 have desisted from work upon discovery of 
 their loss, he thought the offence could not 
 be stretched so far. We all listened to this 
 controversy in embarrassed silence; for we 
 knew what underlay the feelings of both 
 disputants, and had an uneasy apprehension 
 that Ruth's name might presently be men- 
 tioned by one of them. Cecil was greatly 
 excited; and, indeed, if that had not been 
 the case, he would not have contended with 
 my father at all, ^vhom he always treated 
 with a respect approaching to reverence. 
 Aunt Ben's fingers trembled so excessively, 
 that she laid down her knitting, and took 
 up a certain History of the Drama which 
 had been given to her by Lady Repton. 
 She had religiously tried to get through it 
 during her ladyship's stay; but Cecil had 
 mischievously put back her book-marker 
 daily, so that she always began at the fif- 
 teenth page or so, and unconsciously went
 
 212 Cecil's TRYST. 
 
 over the same ground ; but on this occasion 
 she did not progress even so much as usual, 
 for she held the volume upside do^vn. Cou- 
 «^in Jane was apparently devoted to her Chi- 
 nese puzzle ; but I noticed that the same 
 piece was retained in her hand, and never 
 put down, with such rapt attention was she 
 listening to what was being said. 
 
 ' If Richard Waller had not an enemy 
 in the world, my dear Cecil,' continued my 
 father, 'the malice jyrepense which consti- 
 tutes "murder" could not have existed. The 
 verdict, therefore, is evidently incorrect and 
 strained.' 
 
 ' But he might have had an enemy with- 
 out knowing it,' argued Cecil : ' there have 
 been cases of that kind before now.' 
 
 ' That is true,' said my father gravely ; 
 ' some men have their worst enemies in 
 those that seem to be dearest to them.' 
 
 At this, Aunt Ben's book dropped out 
 of her hand. (She afterwards told me it 
 made her so ' all of a pug,' that, if she had
 
 JANE FAINTS. 213 
 
 had her knitting-needles, they would cer- 
 tainly have been rusted.) Most happily, 
 however, as it appeared to us all, Cecil did 
 not reply. The discussion seemed over for 
 that evening. My father took up Ben Jon- 
 son ; and Cecil went to the piano, and 
 ^ picked out' a tune. He was not so good 
 ii performer on that instrument as on the 
 flute, but he played fairly and with feeling. 
 After a little, he struck into his favourite 
 melody, 'And ye shall walk in siJk attire.' 
 It was curious that he should have chosen 
 it on that occasion, since the moral of the 
 piece in question is certainly oj)posed to 
 unequal marriages; but perhaps it recom- 
 mended itself to him on that very account, 
 just as a man who is quite certain of his 
 OAvn logical position is not averse to quote 
 the arguments of his opponents. 
 
 In the middle of it, my father laid down 
 his book, and suddenly exclaimed : ' Cecil, 
 I want to speak to you.' 
 
 My cousin stopped his tune at once, but
 
 214 Cecil's TEYST. 
 
 remained sitting on the music-stool; while 
 my father stood up, with his Ijack to the 
 mantelpiece. We all knew what was com- 
 ing. 
 
 ' I had intended, my dear bo}', to have 
 our talk out to-night in private, in my 
 study ; but, upon second thoughts, I think 
 it better to address you in the presence of 
 those who love you, and whom you love, 
 that they may add their entreaties — if en- 
 treaties should be necessary — to mine. I 
 need hardly waste time in asking you, Cecil, 
 what has unhappily been made of late so 
 abundantly manifest, whether it is true that 
 you have formed a serious attachment to 
 Ruth Waller; and yet I will not take it for 
 granted. Is it true?' 
 
 ^It is quite true, sir,' returned Cecil 
 firmly, and looking fixedly in my father's 
 face. 
 
 ' May I ask how long this has been the 
 case? for it has been kept from me al- 
 together until within these few days' —
 
 JANE FAINTS. 215 
 
 here my father turned a reproachful glance 
 on me — ' a want of confidence which I 
 should not have expected.' 
 
 ' I beseech you, sir, do not be angry 
 with Fred,' pleaded Cecil earnestly : ' he 
 has only been silent for your sake. He 
 would have told you all, months ago, but 
 for my threat that, if he did so, I would 
 marry Ruth at once, as I most surely would 
 have done. It is I alone who am to blame ; 
 not he, nor Ruth.' 
 
 Here he looked towards his sister half 
 defiantly ; and I fully expected to hear her 
 make some contemptuous reply; but she 
 kept silence, her devotion to her puzzle be- 
 coming more assiduous than ever. 
 
 ' Do I understand you to mean, Cecil, 
 continued my father very gravely, ' that it 
 is your final resolve to marry this girl? — 
 One moment before you answer. Let me 
 premise that I have no authority over you 
 whatsoever, by your father's will, the use 
 of which could prevent your putting such
 
 216 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 a scheme into practice; I have no menace 
 to employ of any sort. You are your own 
 master, except as regards money matters ; 
 and even in that respect I shall exercise no 
 power to your disadvantage/ 
 
 I saw Aunt Ben give a glance of re- 
 monstrance at my father ; and Jane's fore- 
 head darken, as she bent lower over her 
 little table ; while, on the other hand, Cecil's 
 resolute expression softened — it was still 
 decisive ; but the decision was mingled with 
 tenderness. 
 
 ' You are far too sensible,' continued 
 my father, ' and I will say also, notwith- 
 standing what you now propose, far too 
 unselfish, not to have set before yourself 
 some of the consequences that must ensue 
 to others in case of your committing this 
 act of — well — imprudence. But I think 
 some have escaped your attention. It has 
 been the endeavour of your aunt and my- 
 self to make you feel this house to be your 
 home.'
 
 JANE FAINTS. 217 
 
 'It has — it has, indeed, sir,' interrupted 
 Cecil gently. ' I have felt it deeply.' 
 
 ' I am sure you have, my dear lad ; but 
 it has not struck you that it can never be 
 the home of Ruth Waller. It has not oc- 
 curred to you, that in marrying her you 
 will not only give up your own position in 
 society — not a great sacrifice, you will say, 
 perhaps: well, you will not think so ten 
 years hence; but it is not worth while to 
 argue that matter — but also that of your 
 sister. I say nothing of the pain and dis- 
 tress that such an alliance must needs cause 
 to my own little household. I am not a 
 man to attach undue importance to birth 
 a,nd station ; but I confess — ' Here he 
 stopped, and pointed significantly to poor 
 Aunt Ben, who was dissolved in tears. ' We 
 shall get over it in time, you think ; and 
 perhaps we shall ; at all events, we are old ; 
 and it is only natural, doubtless, that what 
 concerns your whole future life should have 
 more weight with you than considerations
 
 218 Cecil's teyst. 
 
 for what may seem to you our temporary 
 convenience. But Jane, remember, is no 
 older than yourself; and let me tell you, 
 that you will be putting her in a most dis- 
 advantageous position, as respects her pro- 
 spects, by allying yourself to this girl. Do 
 not imagine, my dear lad, that I am under- 
 rating your temptation. It has well been 
 said, that 
 
 " The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love." 
 
 I use no arguments about thoughtless pas- 
 sion and love's quick satiety, because you 
 will only smile at them. It seems to you, 
 I know, that Beauty will keep her lustrous 
 eyes, and Young Love pine after them for 
 ever ; but I appeal to the very heart from 
 which that love (if it be worth anything) 
 upsprings. Do not sacrifice your sister's 
 prospects for the gratification — I do not 
 say of your own happiness, for you Avill not
 
 JANE FAINTS. 219' 
 
 be liap2)y, my poor lad — but of your pre- 
 sent pleasure.' 
 
 ' How do I sacrifice my sister's pro- 
 spects, uncle ?' inquired Cecil quietly. 
 
 ' In this way, my boy. All young wo- 
 men naturally look forward to the time 
 when they shall have a home of their own 
 — in other words, to marriage. Jane is not 
 an heiress independent of circumstances; 
 and the fact of your having made an igno- 
 ble alliance would without doubt greatly 
 prejudice her future.' 
 
 'I see,' replied Cecil softly. — -'Heaven 
 forbid that any act of mine should harm 
 you, Jane !' and here he glanced towards his 
 sister lovingly. ' As regards fortune, since 
 our dear uncle has alluded to it, 1 may tell 
 you that it both was and is my intention 
 to do away, so far as I have power to do 
 so, with the inequality between us in that 
 respect.' 
 
 He stopped a moment; and for the first 
 time Cousin Jane looked up, and, with a
 
 220 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 faint smile, seemed to acknowledge his ge- 
 nerosity; then shot a glance towards me, 
 to the meaning of which, thanks to Lady 
 Repton, I could not be blind : ' I shall be 
 rich, you hear,' it seemed to say. 
 
 ^ Every one that knows you, Cecil, ' 
 struck in my father with tenderness (and 
 indeed it is impossible that his manner 
 throughout could have been more carefully 
 framed to conciliate, and not to wound), 
 ^ will credit you with generous impulses ; 
 but, in the first place, it will not be so easy 
 to do for your sister as you propose, effec- 
 tually; and secondly, there will still re- 
 main the fact, that you, her brother, have 
 married a labourer's daughter, a labourer's 
 sister, a girl with low connections — ' 
 
 ' Pardon me, uncle,' interrupted Cecil ; 
 ^Ruth has no relative, that can be called 
 such, now, A few days ago, I allow, your 
 argument Avould have had more force. I 
 was not unconscious, as Fred will tell you 
 — indeed, I felt most acutely — that Richard
 
 JANE FAINTS. 221 
 
 Waller — was a — a grievous obstacle, in 
 short, to my own selfish views ; though, 
 Heaven knows, I wished him no harm ; he 
 is dead, poor fellow ! and that obstacle has 
 been removed.' He stopped again, and in 
 the silence we heard the front-door bell 
 violently ring. 'As for Ruth herself, sir, 
 you do not know her ; she is not the dull 
 village girl that you imagine her to be. 
 Perhaps a day will come when you will 
 not only confess as much, but even not be 
 ashamed to receive her, as others will, I am 
 persuaded, as my wife, and as a true lady, 
 though not so by birth. Lady Repton, as 
 I have heard, sir, was not born a lady.' 
 
 ' My dear lad,' said my father, ' these 
 are dreams.' 
 
 ' Still, I live in them, and cannot live 
 without them,' answered Cecil softly, and 
 yet with a certain dignity, that to me at 
 least seemed very touching. 'I am most 
 grieved to oppose myself to you, whom I 
 respect and honour, and whom I would la\^
 
 222 
 
 down my life to serve ; but Ruth is dearer 
 to me than my life.' 
 
 His fingers, which still rested on the 
 keys, seemed mechanically to produce the 
 last verse of the song he had been playing : 
 
 ' And ere I'm found to break my faith, 
 I'll lay me down and dee.' , 
 
 My father looked very grave, and was 
 about again to speak, when the door opened, 
 and the parlour-maid entered hurriedly. 
 
 ' sir, please, sir,' said she nervously, 
 ^ there's somebody wants to see you.' 
 
 ' I can see nobody just now,' was my fa- 
 ther's stern rejoinder; indeed, I had never 
 heard him speak so harshl}^, his manner to 
 all his servants being always gentle in the 
 extreme. 
 
 ' But, please, sir, it's most particular,' 
 urged the girl, frightened by her master's 
 manner, but still more frightened, as it 
 seemed, by the intelHgence she had to com- 
 municate.
 
 JANE FAINTS. 223 
 
 * Let him come to-morrow morning ; or, 
 if you know liis business, state it.' 
 
 ^Well, sir— dear! dear!— it's the 
 parish constable, and he's been and found 
 the murderer !' 
 
 We jumped up from our seats — all, that 
 is, save one of us : Cousin Jane fell back in 
 hers with a sharp shrill cry, and fainted 
 away.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 
 
 It is one of the disaclvantaofes of beinof stu- 
 diously reticent and undemonstrative, that 
 when the feelings do get the better of such 
 persons, they are apt to exhibit themselves 
 in some abnormal condition far more un- 
 pleasant and astonishing than are the usual 
 tokens of sur^Drise or woe. A man who 
 never shares a grief becomes dyspeptic, and 
 goes mad ; a woman who never sheds a tear, 
 has fits ; and thus it happened to Cousin 
 Jane, though it was only a fainting-fit. Not 
 a word had she spoken throughout that 
 discussion between my father and Cecil, 
 notwithstanding that she herself had partly 
 formed the subject of it, and had even been 
 indirectly appealed to. Not a sign had she
 
 THE MAGISTRATES' MEETING. 225 
 
 given of interest in the man whose terrible 
 fate had precipitated the discovery of Cecil's 
 ' love affair.' She had hidden every trace 
 of feeling, save that in place of working as 
 usual at the Chinese puzzle, she had stuck 
 in the middle of it, like an automaton chess- 
 player out of repair ; and thus, when the 
 news that Martha brought, ' He's been and 
 found the murderer,' fell suddenly on her 
 ear, her nerves, unnaturally braced, had 
 fairly given way, and total prostration fol- 
 lowed. I saw her face, as Cecil leaped to 
 her aid, and anything more ghastly it was 
 impossible to imagine. If the parlour-maid 
 had opened the door with, ' Please, sir, the 
 murderer,' and introduced some gentleman 
 dripping with gore, the sensation, so far as 
 Cousin Jane was concerned, could not have 
 been more complete or stupendous. She 
 was carried up, unconscious, to her room; 
 and the shock, acting, doubtless, on a sys- 
 tem enfeebled by recent indisposition, af- 
 fected her very seriously. We did not see 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 220 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 licr af^aiii for days. Aunt I>Gn, on the other 
 hand, hnpressionable and sympathetic by 
 nature with respect to all ' her own belong- 
 ings,' as she called them, and by no means 
 philosophic even as regarded human affairs 
 in general, bore Martha's piece of news with 
 reasonable composure, though she admitted 
 that the communication of it had ' iriven 
 her a turn.' It was, however, the circum- 
 stances under which the news had arrived, 
 perhaps — late at night, and when our minds 
 were curiouslv enouo'h eng^ao-cd on a sub- 
 ject so closely connected with it — rathei* 
 than the news itself that was startling, or 
 even strange. That the man who had re- 
 moved the props from the sand-pit should, 
 sooner or later, be found out, was only what 
 might have been expected ; and now that 
 he was found, he had not even the ordinary 
 attraction of a detected villain, for it was 
 only poor half-witted ' Batty' after all. 
 
 As the village idiot had already been 
 convicted of a similar offence, it mia'ht na-
 
 turally have been supposed that all eyes 
 would at once have turned upon him Avith 
 suspicion in the present instance ; but this 
 had not been the case. That some had 
 charged him with the crime, was true ; but 
 he had denied the fact with a characteristic 
 irritation that seemed to have the force of 
 truth, and his simple, inoffensive nature 
 had been too well understood for him to 
 l)ecome the object of general suspicion. If 
 the props had been taken for gain, it would 
 have been another matter; but poor ])atty 
 was certainly not the man to have removed 
 the props for mere mischief, even though 
 he might not have realised to himself the 
 peril of such a proceeding. There was an- 
 other reason, too, why he should have 
 escaped, at all events, the scrutiny of the 
 coroner's inquest, in the aljsence of any po- 
 sitive proof of his guilt : it was commonly 
 believed that he was a natural son of old 
 Mr. Bourne. The Alchemist's reputation 
 was by no means unsullied as a man of
 
 228 
 
 gallantry, though he did not loolc like a 
 Belmour or a Lothario. Though so emi- 
 nently sagacious (after his fashion), he was, 
 in fact, credited with a weakness for the 
 fair sex up to rather an advanced period 
 of life ; with being very ^ human,' if not 
 ' humane ;' and I fear that village scandal 
 did not in this matter do him wrong. 
 At all events, since this great man had 
 chosen in his wisdom to utterly neglect 
 Batty from the cradle (or whatever had 
 been his cheap substitute for that commo- 
 dity), it was obviously not for his depend- 
 ents, the village folk, to bring the poor 
 fellow into prominence on the present occa- 
 sion. After his denial, therefore, of the of- 
 fence in question, which had besides been 
 never laid seriously to his charge, Batty had 
 been left unmolested, and, perhaps, would 
 not have been farther troubled about it, but 
 for his own act. When the verdict of Wilful 
 Murder, however, was being discussed in 
 the village alehouse in his presence, a sense
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 229 
 
 of the importance which would accrue to 
 the culprit seemed to strike him forcibly, 
 and he had made frank and full confession. 
 
 ^ I took the props away,' said the poor 
 creature ; ' and now I shall be taken to 
 London town and hanged ;' an idea that 
 evidently gave him the greatest satisfaction. 
 He would see the metropolis (as he errone- 
 ously imagined), at all events, and would 
 probably become a great public character, 
 which — locally — he undoubtedly did. The 
 village constable had, on his part, taken 
 him up, with as deep a conviction of the 
 greatness of his charge, as the official who 
 conveyed the seven bishops to the Tower 
 could possibly have experienced ; and had 
 then come down to the Manor-house, as I 
 have said, to report his exploit — to mention 
 himself, as it were, conspicuously, in his own 
 despatches. 
 
 Except upon Mr. Bourne's account, it 
 was clearly a matter of congratulation that 
 the offence was thus brought home to one
 
 230 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 to whom it could certainly not be imputed 
 as a crime; and ni}' father, who was a man 
 who shut his ears to all scandals, had, at 
 first, not even that alloy to his satisfaction. 
 But on that very night, late as it Avas, the 
 Alchemist made his appearance, and was 
 closeted with him in the study for more 
 than an hour, a fact A^'hich raised mam- 
 eyebrows and loosened many tongues. It 
 was remembered that on the last occasion 
 of Batty 's getting into trouble, it A^'as Mr. 
 Bourne, from his place on the magistrates' 
 bench, who had pooh-poohed the inquir}' ; 
 and, though generally a harsh administrator 
 of justice, had caused the prisoner to be 
 dismissed with a light reprimand ; and the 
 purpose of his present untimely visit was 
 unhesitatingly set down to his wish to in- 
 duce my father to '- burke' inquir}' into the 
 ])resent business. It was even reported that 
 lie had oiFered to restore the Manor lands 
 to the House of Wray, if he would cause 
 the matter to be hushed uj^ — a proposition
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 231 
 
 most unlikely to be made by such a man, 
 
 and one which, if made, would undoubtedly 
 
 have resulted in his being instantly turned 
 
 out of the house. He would, indeed, I am 
 
 persuaded, as soon have dared to ask Aunt 
 
 Ben's virgin hand in marriage. Certain it 
 
 is, however, that ^vhat he did say turned 
 
 my father's contempt for the old man into 
 
 disgust. His age had hitherto protected 
 
 him from his satire, which subsequently it 
 
 failed to do; and never shall I forget, when, 
 
 some time afterwards, the old fellow was 
 
 chuckling over his acquisition of some gain 
 
 in stock or share like a male witch, the 
 
 form which my father's congratulation took. 
 
 ' You are fortunate still,' said he, in the 
 
 words of Middleton : 
 
 ' The very screcli-owl lights upon your shouhler, 
 And woos you like a X)igeon.' 
 
 The result of the intervicAv was, in the end, 
 not Avithout its bearing upon my own for- 
 tunes, when it came to Mr. Bourne's turn 
 to influence tliem ; but, for the present, it
 
 232 
 
 ended in the complete discomfiture of that 
 worthy. 
 
 The ensuing day happened to be that 
 appointed for one of the fortnightly magis- 
 trates' meetings at Holksham, and at it 
 Batty was arraigned accordingly before a 
 bench of three. Both Cecil and myself 
 accompanied my father, and were ' accom- 
 modated with seats' on that imaginary ele- 
 vation — for, as a matter of fact, each jus- 
 tice had a wooden chair — while the little 
 court-house was crammed to the utmost by 
 all Gatcombe. On account of the locality 
 wherein the offence had been committed, 
 my father was not, as usual, elected chair- 
 man (a most fortunate circumstance, as it 
 afterwards turned out) ; and the same reason 
 disqualifying Mr. Bourne, the dignity was 
 conferred on Mr. Close, Frank's father ; an 
 excellent divine, but one not altogether 
 adapted by nature for the performance of 
 magisterial functions. He was very deaf, 
 and very fussy ; and if the degrees of human
 
 233 
 
 intelligence should be expressed by the ten 
 digits, progressively, that of the Rev. F. Close, 
 J. P., would have been represented by the 
 figure 2, at highest. Poor Batty 's, however, 
 stood only at ^ or so, and he quailed before 
 that important and awe-inspiring man as a 
 mouse before an owl. Weeping and wring- 
 ing his hands, he pitifully expressed his 
 contrition for his oifence even before it had 
 been formally laid to his charge ; while, 
 dividing the public attention with him, old 
 Mr. Bourne, on the seat remotest from our 
 little party, drooped his shaggy eyebrows 
 ^nd bit his nails. It may be imagined, 
 therefore, that the whole scene contained 
 elements of dramatic interest, and for my 
 part I could not help reflecting how excel- 
 lently it might be adapted for the stage. 
 
 'Hum, ha!' said the chairman, regard- 
 ing Batty with a solemn shake of his white 
 head. ' What is the prisoner's name, police- 
 man?' 
 
 Now, this question, simple as it seemed,
 
 234 
 
 was not an easy one for anybody to answer, 
 and totally beyond the power of the person 
 interrogated. 
 
 ' AVell, your worship, it's just "Batty/'' 
 returned the eonstable, m hesitating aecents ; 
 and indeed the })Oor felloAv had never been 
 knoAvn, save in the parish register, where, 
 I suppose, he had been entered under his 
 matronymic, by any other name. Every- 
 body looked at old ]\lr. Jjourne, and one or 
 two (far back in the croAv^d) even began to 
 snigger. 
 
 'Hum, ha!' reiterated the chairman, his 
 face and bald head becoming red as a neAV- 
 born infant Avith the sudden recollection of 
 the scanddlniii magnatum. against his bro- 
 ther-magistrate. ' Very good ; proceed Avith 
 the charge.' Whereupon Batty having 
 pleaded 'Not guilty,' the village constable 
 had his innings, and detailed the circum- 
 stances of the prisoner's capture and con- 
 fession Avith painstaking circumlocution, 
 and reiterated expressions of hope that his
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 235 
 
 evidence might give pleasure to their wor- 
 shijDs. 
 
 'Are you sure now, policeman,' inquired 
 the chairman sternly, ' that this acknow- 
 ledgment of the prisoner's guilt that you 
 have detailed to us was made of his own 
 free-will, and after due warning had been 
 given to him, that whatever he said might 
 subsequently be used against him ?' 
 
 ' Lor bless your worship,' replied the 
 constable, looking towards Batty with a 
 pitying smile, ' he couldn't have understood 
 nothin' o' that — not he.' 
 
 ' I don't ask you whether the prisoner 
 would have understood you, sir,' exclaimed 
 the chairman irascibly; 'I ask whether you 
 o'ave him due le^-al admonishment?' 
 
 o o 
 
 Mr. Bourne nodded approval in reply 
 to the sweeping glance of triumph at his 
 own sagacity that here emanated from the 
 Chair, and a murmur of applause arose from 
 the spectators. 
 
 ' Justice Close knows how to tackle a
 
 236 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 fellow, mind ye, when it comes to law,' was 
 an opinion uttered in my hearing, and re- 
 ceived with marks of general adhesion. 
 The constable's air, of late so impressively 
 suggestive of having done his country a 
 good turn, now became quite chop-fallen. 
 
 ' Well, no, your worshij) ; I can't say as 
 I did.' 
 
 ' Did what, sir ?' inquired the inexorable 
 chairman. ' Let us hear the whole truth.' 
 
 ' Well, I didn't give him no due — what- 
 ever your worship pleased to call it — my 
 old woman and me, we only gave him his 
 supjDcr.' 
 
 A roar of laughter followed this an- 
 nouncement, in which poor Batty joined 
 tumultuously. He thought that everything 
 was now good-humouredly arranged, and 
 made an attempt to get out of his box, 
 which had to be frustrated by physical 
 force. 
 
 ' It seems to me, Mr. Chairman,' ob- 
 served Mr. Bourne, in a husky voice, ' that
 
 THE magistrates' MEETIIN^G. 237 
 
 the evidence we have just heard, having 
 been illegally extracted by the constable, 
 on the prisoner's own confession, is quite 
 worthless, and cannot be used against the 
 accused at all.' 
 
 ' What, what ? Then Avhat the deuce 
 is to be done?' returned the chairman in 
 a whisper. ' Can't dismiss the case, you 
 know ; that's impossible.' 
 
 'Why not?' answered the old man in 
 the same low tones ; ' there's no case to go 
 on with.^ 
 
 ' No case ! Why, I'm come here on 
 purpose ; pooh, pooh. — What do you say^ 
 Mr. Wray?' 
 
 My father shrugged his shoulders: he 
 knew well enough what should l}e done, I 
 saw, but he did not wish to take any lead- 
 ing part in the affair. 'Ask the clerk,' said 
 he curtly. 
 
 Now the magistrates' clerk at Holksham 
 (as in one or two other country seats of 
 justice in these isles) was in fact the sole
 
 238 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 authority from wliicli all judgments of the 
 bench were derived ; Ijut the fiction was 
 always kept up among the Great Unpaid of 
 his being the mere amanuensis and recorder 
 of their le^i\l decisions. To ' ask the clerk' 
 was therefore an impossible suggestion, and 
 one which caused the Rev. Mr. Close to 
 frown and shake his head ; but he bent 
 down over the table, and held a consulta- 
 tion with that functionary in a low tone, 
 the peculiarity of which was that all the 
 signs of gesture-language were reversed in 
 it, so that to the eyes of the spectators it 
 appeared as if the clerk were humbly put- 
 tino; his interros^atories, and the chairman 
 blandly but firmly laying down the law. 
 It was really a very clever })erformance on 
 the part of his worship, and got him great 
 credit ; l)ut it was even a still ele^'erer on 
 the part of the clerk, shice it got him not 
 only credit, but insured the continuance of 
 a salary of some hundreds a year. 
 
 'Let those witnesses be summoned,' ob-
 
 THE MAGISTEATES' MEETIJ^G. 239 
 
 served the chairman, speaking aloud, and 
 with great dignity, ' upon whose informa- 
 tion the constable was induced to arrest the 
 prisoner.' 
 
 At this there was a slight commotion in 
 the crowd, as though two or three persons 
 were making a hurried exit; and when the 
 constable had indicated who the proposed 
 Avitnesses were, it was discovered that they 
 were not in court; for to be connected with 
 a gTcat public event in its first stage — such 
 as picking up a man who has been run over 
 by a Hansom-cab, or running for the fire- 
 escape when we see flames — is often very 
 gratifying ; whereas some subsequent de- 
 velopment of the affair — such as an inquest, 
 or an action at law by an insurance com- 
 pany — may cause us a good deal of trouble, 
 if it does not seriously compromise us. 
 
 Thus, hi the skittle-ground of the l^ed 
 Lion, it had doubtless been very pleasant 
 to detect a wilful murderer ; but it was not 
 at all pleasant to have to prove the fact on
 
 240 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 oath before the Holksham bench, and then 
 to be ^ bound over,' perhaps, to do it again 
 before the still more impressive majesty of 
 the judges of assize. The constable's self- 
 important airs had persuaded his informers 
 that all responsibility had been shifted to 
 his official shoulders, and now that they 
 found themselves about to share it, they 
 had turned and iled. The getting up of 
 criminal cases, as may be inferred, was not 
 an art brought to perfection at Holksham, 
 
 The witnesses having in vain been sum- 
 moned, the proceedings came once more to 
 a dead-lock ; and again Mr. Bourne remon- 
 strated with 'the chair' against the case 
 being proceeded with. 
 
 ' But we are not proceeding, Mr. Bourne,' 
 argued the unhappy chairman; 'we are wait- 
 ing for evidence.' 
 
 ' You may do as you please, Mr. Chair- 
 man,' answered the old man, raising his 
 voice, ' but it will be at your own risk. I 
 am not at all sure that the prisoner may not
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 241 
 
 have grounds for bringing an action against 
 ns for false imprisonment. He has pleaded 
 "Not guilty," and nothing has been brought 
 forward — ' 
 
 ^ Please, your worships,' here exclaimed 
 one of the constables in charge of Batty, 
 ^ the prisoner is a-telling us as how he did 
 it.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' ejaculated the 
 chairman incredulously, yet welcoming any 
 solution of the difficulty in which he found 
 himself involved. ' He's not saying he is 
 guilty, is he?' 
 
 ' I did it, I did it !' here broke out poor 
 Batty, wearied with the tediousness of the 
 proceedings, and thoroughly disenchanted 
 of the attractions of a public position. ' I 
 stole the props, and made the cave fall in. 
 There, there ! Now let's be off to London.' 
 It was a pitiful sight to behold the wit- 
 less, friendless lad (he was not much over 
 twenty, and looked younger) turning from 
 one to the other of those who stood about 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 him, and pleading to be taken away. Even 
 old Mr. Bourne had for once the sympathies 
 of his hearers with him, when he pointed 
 out to the chairman the absurdity of pursu- 
 ing so serious a charge against one who had 
 manifestly shown himself an irresponsible 
 agent. 
 
 ' But there's a man been killed,' urged 
 Mr. Close ; ^ and here's the fellow that did 
 it, and says he did it.' 
 
 * That's just the point, my good sir. This 
 unfortunate lad will say anything, because, 
 as everybody is aware, he does not know 
 what he says.' 
 
 ^ Well, well, you know more about him 
 than I do, Mr. Bourne: that is,' stammered 
 the chairman, 'you ought to do so; I mean, 
 because he belongs to your parish. But we 
 who sit here have nothing to do with pre- 
 vious acquaintance with an accused person 
 — What do you say, Mr. Wray ?' 
 
 * If you ask my opinion,' said my father 
 gravely, ' I must needs say that, since we
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 243 
 
 have this poor fellow before us protesting 
 that he committed the offence with which 
 he is charged, I see no other alternative than 
 to send him for trial. A judge and a jury 
 are as competent to perceive his irresponsi- 
 bility as ourselves. Indeed, we have no 
 power, as it seems to me, to deal with the 
 matter otherwise.' 
 
 The chairman looked towards the clerk, 
 who, with obsequious face, seemed to reply: 
 ' Just as you please, sir ; you are the best 
 judge;' but I caught in his deferential whis- 
 per the words : ' Your only course,' and 
 ' the Home Secretary ;' and then Mr. Close's 
 answer : ' The devil it is : then that settles 
 it.' 
 
 Then the chairman blew his nose, hke a 
 trumpeter proclaiming silence, settled his 
 spectacles, that had been disturbed by that 
 operation, and addressed Batty in solemn 
 tones. 
 
 ' Prisoner at the bar, you stand com- 
 mitted.'
 
 244 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 ' I didn't commit it,' roared Batty ; ' I 
 was set on to do it. I was given money to 
 do it' 
 
 ' Set on to do it ! money !' ejaculated Mr. 
 Close. 
 
 ^ Yes, money,' repeated Batty in a grudg- 
 ing tone. ' I knew I shouldn't be allowed 
 to keep it — I never am; I have got it in 
 the waistband of my breeches. They've 
 taken away my knife, or I would let you 
 see the gold.' 
 
 ' He has got money, your worship,' said 
 the constable, rapidly investigating the re- 
 pository thus indicated, ' though I'm sure I 
 searched him through and through. Here 
 are five golden sovereigns.' 
 
 If Batty had suddenly announced him- 
 self in possession of his five wits, and had 
 laid them for inspection on the magistrates' 
 table, they could not have excited greater 
 wonderment than did the exhibition of this 
 wealth. That Batty should have been in 
 possession of such a sum was indeed as asto-
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 245 
 
 nishing as tliougli a vein of gold should have 
 suddenly been come upon m the sand-clifF; 
 a few shillings was the very most the poor 
 fellow had ever had to call his own in his 
 life; indeed, as a general rule, he did not 
 earn sufficient to support himself, his scant}' 
 wages being supplemented by charity and 
 parish relief. 
 
 'Where did you get this gold from, 
 Batty ?' said my father gravely ; his magis- 
 terial functions utterly lost sight of for the 
 moment, in the interest which this unex- 
 pected turn had given to the case. If this 
 poor lad had really been bribed to remove 
 the props, there was murder in the matter 
 Avith a vengeance ; but of course it seemed 
 more probable that he had stolen the gold. 
 That was the view, also, which even Batty 
 understood his audience to entertain, for he 
 replied at once: 'It's my own money; it 
 was given me for taking away the props.' 
 
 ' Good heavens !' ejaculated Cecil in my 
 ear. ' Did you ever hear anything so hor-
 
 246 Cecil's tryst. 
 
 rible! Perhaps poor Richard was right, 
 after all, when he said ; "I am a murdered 
 man." ' 
 
 ' When was it given to you, and by 
 whom?' continued my father kindly. 'You 
 will not be punished for speaking the truth, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' It was given to me last Thursday ; I 
 remember that, because I got my dinner up 
 at the Manor-house just before. They're 
 always good to me up there.' There was 
 a simple gratefulness in Batty's tone that 
 touched one, but a curious sort of apologetic 
 hesitation also ; and he cast a wistful look 
 at his interrogator, as much as to say, ' Do 
 you really wish me to tell ?' 
 
 ' It was on Thursday, was it?' said my 
 father. ' Well, and now tell us who it was 
 who gave you these five sovereigns to take 
 away the props from Richard Waller's pit.' 
 
 It was a calm summer day, and though 
 the court-house windows were all open, not 
 a breeze was stirring; the drowsy crow of
 
 THE magistrates' MEETING. 247 
 
 a cock alone broke the husli without, and 
 Avithin was unbroken silence. Every eye 
 was fixed on Batty, and every ear was 
 stretched to catch his answer. He hesi- 
 tated, glanced nervously in our direction, 
 and then, nodding towards my cousin, as 
 thouofh in unwillino; recoo:nition of him, an- 
 swered simply : ^ It was Mr. Cecil, yonder.' 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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 Bide Time and Tide. By J. T. Newall, author of 
 
 " The Gage of Honour," " The Eastern Hunters," (fee. 3 vols. 
 
 The Scandinavian Eing. By John Pomeroy. 3 vols. 
 Tregarthen Hall. By James Garland. 3 vols. 
 
 tinsley brothers, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 Tinsley Brothers' Popular Novels. 11 
 
 Title and Estate. By F. Lancaster. 3 vols. 
 HoUowliill Farm. By John Edwardson. 3 vols. 
 The Sapphire Cross : a Tale of Two Generations. 
 
 By G. M. Fenn, author of *' Bent, not Broken," &;c. 3 vols. 
 
 Edith. By C. A. Lee. 2 vols. 
 
 Lady Judith. By Justin McCarthy, author of 
 
 " My Enemy's Daughter," " The Waterdale Neighbours," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Only an Ensign. By James Grant, author of ''The 
 
 Romance of "War," " Lady Wedderburn's Wish," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Old as the Hills. By Douglas Morey Ford. 3 vols. 
 Not "Wooed, but Won. By the Author of ''Lost 
 
 Sir Massingberd," " Found Dead," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 My Heroine. 1 vol. 
 
 The Prussian Spy. By Y. Yalmont. 2 vols. 
 
 Sundered Lives. By Wybert Eeeve, author of the 
 
 Comedies of " Won at Last," " Not so Bad after all," occ. 3 vols. 
 
 The Nomads of the North : a Tale of Lapland. By 
 
 J. LovEL Hadwen. 1 vol. 
 
 Family Pride. By the Author of " Olive Yarcoe," 
 
 " Simple as a Dove," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Fair Passions ; or the Setting of the Pearls. By the 
 
 Hon. Mrs. Pigott Carleton. 3 vols. 
 
 Harry Disney: an Autobiography. Edited by 
 
 Atholl de Walden. 3 vols. 
 
 Desperate Eemedies. 3 vols. 
 
 The Foster Sisters. By Edmond Brenan Loughnan. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 tinsley brothers, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 12 Tinsley Brothers' Popular Novels. 
 
 Only a Commoner. By Henry Morford. 3 vols. 
 Madame la Marquise. By the Author of "Dacia 
 
 Singleton," " What Money Can't Do," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Clara Delamaine. By A. "W. Cunningham. 3 vols. 
 Sentenced by Fate. By Miss Edgcombe. 3 vols. 
 Fairly Won. By Miss H. S. Engstrom. 3 vols. 
 Joshua Marvel. By B. L. Farjeon, author of 
 
 " Grif ." 3 vols. 
 
 Blanche Seymour. 3 vols. 
 
 By Birth a Lady. By G. M. Fenn, author of 
 
 " Mad," " Webs in the Way," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 A Life's Assize. By Mrs. J. H. Eiddell, author 
 
 of " George Geith," " City and Suburb," " Too much Alone," &c 
 3 vols. 
 
 Gerald Hastings. By the Author of '' No Appeal," 
 
 &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Monarch of Mincing-Lane. By "William Black, 
 
 author of " In Silk Attire," " Kilmeny," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 The Golden Bait. By H. Holl, author of "The 
 
 King's Mail," &c. In 3 vols. 
 
 Like Father, like Son. By the Author of " Lost 
 
 Sir Massingberd," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Beyond these Voices. By the Earl of Desart, 
 
 author of " Only a Woman's Love," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 The Queen's Sailors. A Nautical Novel. By Ed- 
 ward Greey, 3 vols. 
 
 Bought with a Price. By the Author of '' Golden 
 
 Pippin," &c. 1 vol. 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 Tinsley Brothers' Popular Novels. 13 
 
 The Florentines: a Story of Home -life in Italy. 
 
 By the Countess Marie Montemeeli, author of " Four Months in 
 a Garibaldian Hospital," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 The Inquisitor. By "William Gilbert, antlior of 
 
 " Doctor Austin's Guests," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Falsely True. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey, author of 
 
 " A House of Cards," &c. In 3 vols. 
 
 After Baxtow's Death. By Morley Farrow, author 
 
 of " No Easy Task," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Hearts and Diamonds. By Elizabeth P. Eamsay, 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 The Bane of a Life. By Thomas Wright (the 
 
 Journeyman Engineer), author of " Some Habits and Customs of the 
 "Working Classes," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Eohert Lynne. By Mary Bridgman. 2 vols. 
 Baptised with a Curse. By Edith S. Drewry. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 Brought to Book. By Henry Spicer, Esq. 2 vols. 
 Fenacre Grange. By Langford Cecil. 3 vols. 
 Schooled with Briars : a Story of To-day. 1 vol. 
 A Eighted Wrong. By Edmund Yates, author of 
 
 " Black Sheep," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. By the Author of ^' Lost 
 
 Sir Massingberd," *' Found Dead," &c. 2 vols. 
 
 A FooFs Paradise. By Thomas Archer, author of 
 
 " strange Work," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 George Canterbury's Will. By Mrs. Henry Wood, 
 
 author of " East Lynne," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 tinsley brothers, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 14 Tinsley Brothers' Popular Novels. 
 
 Gold and Tinsel. By the Author of '^Ups and 
 
 Downs of an Old Maid's Life." 3 vols. 
 
 Sidney Bellew. A Sporting Story. By Francis 
 
 Francis. 2 vols. 
 
 Grif; a Story of Australian Life. By B. Leopold 
 
 Farjeon. 2 vols. 
 
 I^Tot while She Lives. By the Author of "• Faith- 
 less ; or the Loves of the Period." 2 vols. 
 
 A Double Secret and Golden Pippin. By John 
 
 POMEROY. 3 vols. 
 
 Wee Wifie. By Eosa I^ouchette Carey, author of 
 
 " Nellie's Memories." 3 vols. 
 
 Oberon Spell. By Eden St. Leonards. 3 vols. 
 Daisie's Dream. By the Author of '^Kecommended 
 
 to Mercy," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Heathfield Hall ; or Prefatory Life. A Youthftd 
 
 Eeminiscence. By Hans Schreiber, author of " Nicknames at the 
 Playingfield College," &c. 10*. Gd. 
 
 Phoebe's Mother. By Louisa Ann Meredith, 
 
 author of " My Bush Friends in Tasmania." 2 vols. 
 
 Strong Hands and Steadfast Hearts. By the 
 
 Countess von Bothmer. 3 vols. 
 
 The Lily and the Eose. By G. H. Harwood. 3 vols. 
 Love Stories of the English "Watering-Places. 3 
 
 vols. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. By Justin McCarthy, 
 
 author of " The Waterdale Neighbours," *' Paul Massie," &e. 3 vols. 
 
 A County Family. By the Author of ^^Lost Sir 
 
 Massingberd," &;c. 3 vols. 
 
 tinsley brothers, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 Tinsley Brothers' Popular Novels. 15 
 
 Only a "Woman's Love. By the Earl of Desart. 
 
 2 vols. 
 
 Up and Down the Workl. Ey the Author of 
 
 "Never — for Ever." 3 vols. 
 
 Lost Footsteps. By Joseph Yerey. 3 vols. 
 The Gage of IIonoiu\ By Captain J. T. Newall. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 Twice Eefused. By Charles E. Stirling. 2 vols. 
 Fatal Zero. By the Author of '' Polly," &c. 2 vols. 
 Stretton. By Henry Kingsley, author of ^^ Geoffi-y 
 
 Hamlyn," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 False Colours. By Annie Thomas (Mrs. Pender 
 
 CuDLip), author of " Denis Dorme." 3 vols. 
 
 In Silk Attire. By William Black, author of 
 
 " Love or Marriage ?" 3 vols. Second Edition. 
 
 All but Lost. By G. A. Henty, author of ^^The 
 
 March to Magdala." 3 vols. 
 
 A London Eomance. By Charles H. lloss. 3 vols. 
 Home fi'om India. By John Pomeroy. 2 vols. 
 John Twiller: a Eomance of the Heart. By D. 
 
 Starkey, LL.D. 1 vol. 
 
 The Doctor of Beauweir. By "William Gilbert, 
 
 author of " Shirley Hall Asylum," " Dr. Austin's Guests," &c. &c. 
 2 vols. 
 
 Mad : a Story of Dust and Ashes. By George 
 
 Manville Fenn, author of " Bent, not Broken." 3 vols. 
 
 Buried Alone. By a I^ew Writer. 1 vol. 
 
 tinsley brothers, 18 CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
 
 16 Tinsley Brothers Popular Novels. 
 
 ISTellie's Memories : a Domestic Story. By Kosa 
 
 NoucHETTE Carey. 3 vols. 
 
 Clarissa. By Samuel Eiciiardsox. Edited by 
 
 E. S. Dallas, author of '* The Gay Science," ka. 3 vols. 
 
 Love or Marriage ? By William Black. 3 vols. 
 John Haller's Niece. By the Author of ^' Never — 
 
 for Ever." 3 vols. 
 
 Neighbours and Friends. By the Hon. Mrs. Henry 
 
 Weyland Chetwynd, author of " Three Hundred a Year." 3 vols. 
 
 Martyrs to Fashion. By Joseph Yerey. 3 vols. 
 A House of Cards. By Mrs. Cashel Hoey. 3 vols. 
 Out of the Meshes. 3 vols. 
 Wild as a Hawk. By Mrs. Macquoid, author of 
 
 " Hester Kirton," &c. 3 vols. 
 
 Diana Gay. By Percy Fitzgerald. 3 vols. 
 Giant Despair. By Morley Farrow. 3 vols. 
 
 Francesca's Love. By Mrs. Edward Pulleyne. 3 
 
 vols. 
 
 Polly : a Village Portrait. 2 vols. 
 
 tinsley brothers, is CATHERINE street, STRAND.