a I E) RARY OF THE U N IVER^SITY Of ILLINOIS 823 CI4p v.l r \V ^*7 ^ '{^^ PURE GOLD. BY Mrs H. LOVETT CAMEEON, AUTHOR OF " POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE," " JULTET's GUARDIAN, "DECEIVERS EVER," ETC., ETC. Nay, but you who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress ? " Robert Browning. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND, LONDON. 188 4. [All Righte rcscn'cd,} COLSTON AND SON, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. CONTENTS. ^ ^ CHAPTER I. THE OTHER NEPHEW, LETTY ORMOND, CHAPTER 11. CHAPTER III. ^ A miser's advice, . - CHAPTER IV. ON THE LAKE, ) C H A P T E R Y. '"" "if SHE BE NOT FAIR FOR ME," ^ CHAPTER VI. THE gambler's DAUGHTER, CHAPTER VII. ; A tete-a-t£;te dinner, CHAPTER VIII. HOW VAL TOOK THE NEWS, . PAGE 1 14 24 3G 47 57 67 82 Contents. CHAPTER IX. A VOICE FROM THE DEAD, . CHAPTEK X. " I WOULD RATHER DIE," . PAGE 98 112 CHAPTER XI. THE COUSINS, 128 CHAPTER XII. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER, CHAPTER XIII. " A WOMAN SCORNED," CHAPTER XIV. MRS MALSHAM'S " SWORRY," . 144 . 158 175 CHAPTER XV. UNDER THE SPELL, . 190 CHAPTER XYI. ARDENCAPEL HOUSE, CHAPTER XYII. LETTY's TEMPTATION, . 206 220 PURE GOLD, CHAPTER L THE OTHER NEPHEW. NCE upon a time—as tliey say in the story books of our childhood — there lived in the county of West- moreland an old gentleman called Michael Gale, who was very rich, very miserly, and very bad tempered. He lived in a grim old tower of grey granite, hewn centuries ago out of the bleak rocks be- hind it, and from wdiich indeed, at a little distance, it was hardly distinguishable. Crag- stone Edge, as this gloomy dwelling was called, consisted solely of one tall fortress-like tower castellated at the top, and garnished with narrow windows at irregular intervals, flanked at the side by a kind of low shanty of red brick, roofed with slates which, in modern VOL. I. A 2 Pure Gold, times, had been inharmoniously added on to it, and which represented the kitchen and outhouses of the establishment. Around Crao^stone Edg;e there were no flowery gardens, no gay parterres, no um- brageous shrubberies, nor blossoming alleys. A kind of wild park surrounded it on three sides, fenced in by a low stone wall, and traversed by one rough road, full of deep ruts, which led up to the main entrance of the house. In this park there were only a few stunted trees, and all over the soft, long grass which carpeted it, a flock of black-faced mountain sheep grazed at their pleasure, or scrambled over the stone wall and disap- peared up the slope of the dark fell behind as it suited their fancy. This was not the show side of the county of Westmoreland. Tourists and excursionists never flooded the little valley in July and August, nor did sightseers come prying about the dark, narrow lake that lay silent and violet-hued at the foot of the hills. For the fells in this remote little corner of the' world were wild without being picturesque ; even Cragstone itself, a bluff" scar of grey rock that reared its head at the end of the valley, being unstriking in outline and inconsiderable in height. Neither was the lake a smiling and wood-bordered sheet of water — it was simply a tarn, a mile long, and a quarter-of-a-mile wide, with a setting of emerald green moss and fern about it ; lovely and dear to those The other Nephew. 3 who had known it from childhood, but not specially attractive to the outer world. Here Michael Gale lived and died and hoarded wealth year by year. That was why he chose to live here, in this gloomy fortress which his father had 23urchased for a mere song, and had bequeathed to his son, amongst his other more valuable properties and belongings. For naturally there was nothing; to be made out of Crao^stone Edo;e — there were no rents, no rich pastures, no fine timbered tracts of land, nor even any mineral wealth to be extracted from the barren soil. Michael Gale owned hundreds of acres of land on the western side of the county, and in other parts of England — acres that in- cluded many a village and hamlet,, and many a productive coalpit within their area. That was where the money came from, but he chose to live at Gragstone Edge so that he might save it — saving, being the ruling passion of the man's being. Michael Gale was a bachelor ; he would not marry for fear he might stumble upon a wife who might squander a few hundreds of his wealth upon her dresses or her carriages. It was safer to avoid women, he told himself; a man never knows how they will turn out after marriage. In time he came to have a rooted horror of the other sex, and so he remained single. He had, however, two living relations in the world — two nephews. They were not 4 Pure Gold. brothers, but cousins, being the sons of his two sisters, now dead. The elder of the two was the son of the elder and favourite sister, and Mr Gale chose to constitute him his sole heir. His name was Oswald Power, and he had been brought up to consider the inherit- ance of his uncle's wealth as a certainty. His mother had, up to the very day of her death, constantly talked to him about it ; and, to make assurance doubly sure, his uncle himself had on more than one occasion informed him that he had made a will entirely in his favour — so that there had never been any sort of concealment about it. With quite as much certainty, on the other hand, did the younger nephew feel himself convinced that he had nothing whatever to gain by his uncle's death, Valentine Eyre suffered in his own person for the delinquencies of his parents — liis mother having, whilst still very young, irrevocably offended her brother by running away with a handsome young subaltern, who had nothing save his pay on which to support his pretty, young wife. Michael Gale wTote an insulting letter to the young couple, telling them that neither they nor theirs need ever hope to touch a penny of his money, and then he washed his hands of them altogether. The pretty Constance and her soldier died, after a short but happy married life, and died as they had lived — poor and unforgiven. Once, and once only, had Mr Gale ever The other Nephe\ V, seen the fruit of this union. When young Valentine was a mere lad he sent for him to Cragstone Edge, and kept him there during the whole of one summer holidays. The boy was handsome and active, fond of scramblinor over the moor, of fishins; in the lake, of wandering about with a dog behind him and a gun under his arm over the wild country. His uncle let him do as he liked, and took very little notice of him. When, the day came for his return to school, Mr Gale gave him a sovereign, and made him the following speech : — "You may show this to your mother, and tell her that it is the first and last you will ever get from me ; and you may tell her that, having made your acquaintance, I don't wish to know more of you, and that, in all pro- bability, it will be many years before I see again." The old gentleman was as good as his word. Captain and Mrs Eyre died within a few months of each other, and Valentine eventu- ally obtained, through Mr Gale's influence, a clerkship in a London solicitor's oflice ; but after conferring that doubtful favour upon him, he took no further notice of his younger nephew. At the time our story begins, Valentine Eyre was in the receipt of one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, for which modest sum he underwent daily an untold amount of drudgery. He lived in two small rooms, a very you^^ Pure Gold. long way off, down the Fulham Eoad, but which, owing probably to the distance from the centre of London life, he got at a very low rent. They were, moreover, conveniently situated near one of the underground railway stations. In fine weather he w^alkecl back- wards and forwards to the city where his office was ; in wet weather he w^ent by the railw^ay. When he got to his office he sat in a high chair at a tall desk in a dingy back room, and copied deeds or wrote letters as his employer ordered him. When two o'clock came he went out and got himself a sandwich or a slice of cold meat and a glass of beer at the nearest eating-house, and then he returned to his work till sunset. Of friends he had few, of society positively none. There was indeed a maiden aunt of his father's, w^ho lived at Hampstead, and who was kind to him, and at whose sombre, old-fashioned house — once handsome and com- fortable, but now bare and poverty-stricken — he was accustomed to eat his Sunday dinner, and to spend his bank holidays. But this aunt was elderly and not rich, and the friends of her youth had all dropped away from her, as friends mostly do from the poor and old, so that she had no in- troductions to good houses to give to her hard-working nephew. Mr Malsham, his master, who was also Mr Gale's family solicitor, never took any notice of his junior clerk. He had taken him into The other Nephew. 7 his office at Mr Gale's request, and had made somewhat of a favour of doing so. He paid him his sahiry quarterly, and there his notice of him ended. Once, indeed, he had received an " At Home " card from Mrs Malsham, and had been deluded into spending five shillings for a pair of gloves, and half-a-crown for a flower, in addition to his cab fare, in order to put in an appearance at that lady's smart house in Bayswater. He might have saved himself the money for all the pleasure he derived from the enter- tainment. He had stood in an ano-le between o the two drawing-rooms, very much crushed up by the passing crowd, for the space of an hour. No one had spoken to him, and he knew not a soul in the room. The dauo-hter of the house had looked once or twice in his direction, and he noticed once that she whis- pered something to her mother. Yal did not hear what tlie girl said, but the mother's answer w^as plainly audible to him, — '^ That I Good gracious ! it's only one of your father's clerks, Bella. Don't think of taking any notice of Mm ! " Then Yal had extricated himself from his corner, and had made his way downstairs, and out into the street, swearinor to himself that " Society," such as it was to be found in Kensington Garden Square, should see him no more. After that he worked harder than ever, and lived a more solitary life than before. It is 8 Pure Gold, possible to be in perfect solitude in the midst of London din and bustle ; and no young anchorite in the desert wilds of an unpeopled land could have had fewer pleasures or fewer friends than had our hero at this time of his life. And yet he had as keen a capacity for enjoyment as have most young men of eight-and-twenty. From his father he inhe- rited a handsome person and agreeable man- ners, and an exceeding, although hitherto unsatisfied, love of field sports ; from his mother, an enthusiastic and ardent nature. He had his fancies and his creeds. He read much and thought much in those solitary evenings in the Fulham Eoad. He believed in all sorts of odd theories about Darwinian development, and the mysteries of future existence. He had a fatalistic code concern- ing the grandeur of the main scheme of creation, and the nothingness of the indi- vidual whose being merely contributed an atom to the general whole. His mind was occupied with these things rather than with the subjects that were more natural to his age. He would have liked sport if he could have got it ; but as it did not lie within the range of his life or his pocket, he told himself that his place in the universe was that of a worker and not a pleasure seeker, and he resigned himself accordingly. He had the same philosophy regarding Society. He had no desire to mix in fashionable life — The other N'ephcw. 9 such things were not for him — and he felt himself vaguely superior to the butterfly throng amongst which he sometimes shoul- dered his way on a summer afternoon on his road homeward tlirough the Park. " If every man would only estimate him- self at the worth of his own brains, instead of by the length of his pedigree, or of his banker's balance," said this young philosopher to him- self, " there would be no democracies, and no cry for an impossible ecjuality ; " and as he said it, he felt himself to be in no way inferior to his fellows, and was content with his lot. Having thus briefly introduced my hero, and described in a few words his original nature, which was studious, earnest, and simple, it is now my purpose to detail a cer- tain course of events, and to trace the effect which they had in the end upon his character. One morning; on arrivino; at his office at the usual hour, Valentine was somewhat surprised to receive a message from Mr Malsham, re- questing him to come and speak to him in his private room. Such an extraordinary event, he considered, could mean but one of two things — either he had made an egregious mistake in some deed, and was to be called over the coals for it, or else his employer had become so deeply struck by the value of his services that he was about to raise his salarv. Hoping the latter, and yet fearing the former, he presented himself in the solicitor's room. ^Ir Malsham, hardly raising his eyes from the TO Pure Gold. voluminous mass of his morning correspond- ence, which hiy on the table before him, motioned him with his hand to a chair, and remained for several minutes in silence. Then he looked up suddenly over his glasses, and as if for the first time realising the pres- ence of his junior clerk, said, — '' Oh, that is you, Eyre ? " Val modestly intimated that it was. " Oh — ah, yes — there is a letter for you, enclosed in one to myself from your excellent uncle. Ah, here it is — pray read it here," he added quickly, as Val, taking the note from his hand, was preparing to leave the room with it. He sat down again and opened the letter. Ceagstone Edge, March 29. " My dear Nephew Valentine, — I have not seen you for many years, and I am get ting an old man, and should like to see you before I die. Tell Malsham to give you a fortnight's holiday, and come up and stay at Cragstone with me ; don't put it off later than next week, and be here by Sunday if you can. — Your affectionate uncle, " Michael Gale." Val read this letter through three times before he could be quite sure that he was not dreaming, then he looked up at his employer in some dismay. Mr Malsham said — " Well ? " encouragingly, and smiled. The other Nephew. 1 1 Val did not think he had ever seen Mr Malsham smile before. " I am sure I don't know what you will say to this letter, sir," said the young man doubtfully. *' What does your uncle say, Eyre ? " " He says — he wishes me to ask you for a fortnight's holiday ; but I feel sure that just now at such a busy time I could not be spared — " " And why not, my dear young friend ? " cried the solicitor heartily. "A holiday will do you all the good in the world — and most natural and right at your age that you should enjoy one. Does your uncle invite you to Crao'stone Edg;e ? " '' Perhaps you had better read his note, sir," said Val, to whom the unusual affability of his employer w^as no less bewildering than the letter from his uncle. Mr Malsham put on his spectacles and read the letter, nodding his head approvingly as he did so. " Quite right — very right indeed," he mur- mured. " You must fall in with your uncle's wishes, my dear boy, and go up to him on Saturday. I shall not require you at the office at all after Friday — and, look here," unlocking one of the drawers in the heavy writing-table before him, and drawing out two five-pound notes. " I have no doubt you are short of money, — you young fellows generally are — and there will be your journey and sundry 12 Pure Gold. little expenses, no doubt, so I shall be pleased to advance this to you on your salary." " Oh, my dear Mr Malsham ! " " There, there, no thanks, my dear boy — a mere trifle ! I am only too happy to oblige you — go and write to your excellent uncle at once, and accept his invitation." Valentine Eyre went out from his employer's presence bewildered indeed. That Mr Malsham should call him *' my dear boy," was astonishing enough, but that he should actually give him ten pounds was something so extraordinary, that Val might well be excused for wondering if the age of miracles was about to be revived. " What can have happened ! " he said to himself; ''the world must be coming to an end ! " Meanwhile Mr Malsham was carefully read- ing over his own letter from Mr Gale, and comparing it in his mind with the note he had just read, — "Dear Malsham," — wrote Uncle Michael to his solicitor, — *'do you know that that extravagant young blockhead Oswald Power has started a four-in-hand ? I suppose he im- agined it would not come to my ears. It is not likely I am going to leave the savings of years to be squandered in that fashion. Give the enclosed to my other nephew, who is, I suppose, still in your employ. I will have a look at him, and see what I think of him. Mind not a hint to him. I shall not change The other Nephew, 1 3 my will unless I take a fancy to him. — Yours truly, Michael Gale." " A wise man can tell the way the wind blow^s from the direction taken by the floating straws," said Mr Malsham to himself as he fastened this letter carefully up in his pocket- book. " Let me see," he added musingly. " Young Eyre must be twenty-eight. Bella is twenty-four. She's a fine-looking girl, and ought to be clever, from the lot of money I have spent on her education. Young Yal must be asked to dinner when he comes back. Why not Bella as well as another ? there is nothing like being early in the field in these matters." By which it will be seen that Mr Malsham had a good hope that his ten-pound note would not eventually be throw^n away. Yal Eyre, therefore, left London on the Friday by the night mail, and presented him- self duly about midday on the following day at Cragstone Edge, in the county of Westmore- land. CHAPTER II. LETTY ORMOND. of it ^% ONE-STOEIED white cottage, high up in a hollow in the green bosom of the hills ; a verandah, covered with budding creepers along one a white gate into a stony road in front ; and all about it a parterre of spring flowers gleaming, many hued and radiant, under the bright, cold, March sunshine. This is Lady Cornelia Fanshawe's summer cottage, where she spends the autumn montlis, and to which she also comes for a fortnight at Easter, accompanied by one or more of her nieces. Lady Cornelia is a widow, with no children of her own ; she is middle-aged and full of energy, with strong feelings concerning the duty of helping on her sister's children in the world. Her sister, Lady Helena Ormond, is a weak, pliable character, whose early marriage with Mr Ormond has been a subject of regret Letty Onnond. 15 to all lier family. Lady Helena has poor health, and is unable to go out much into society, and she is weighed to the very ground mentally and physically by the terrible burden of the eight children which it has been her misfortune to bring into this troublesome and naughty world. Mr Ormond is an over- worked barrister, of no great talent, whose life is spent at Lincoln's Inn, who has no time to look after the worldly advancement of his daughters, nor even to attend overmuch to the educational career of his sons. What the family would do w^ithout Lady Cornelia, her sister often shudders to think of. It is she who through long years has arranged and planned everything for her ne23hews and nieces, enoraaed tutors and o;overnesses, and superintended classes and courses of lectures ; it is she who got Ralph his nomination to the Treasury, and. who has the promise of a secretaryship for Teddy as soon as he shall be old enough ; it is she, finally, who success- fully piloted Helen, the eldest daughter, into a rich marriage a year ago, and who now chaperons Letitia, the second, and is doing her best to do for her as well as she did for her sister. It is not for nothing assuredly that Lady Cornelia has brought her niece up to her cottage in Westmoreland for the fortnight of her Easter vacation. Lady Cornelia never wastes valuable time, and although fresh air i6 Pure Gold. and healthy outdoor exercise are no doubt grand things for London-bred young ladies, Letty's aunt has something far more important in her mind than a mere regard for her niece's bodily health and strength. The drawing-room window at the cottage is half open. Letty Ormond leans her arms upon the window sill, and stretches her young head out into the spring sunshine. The garden, bright with scarlet tulips and rows of yellow crocuses, smiles up into her face. A soft puff of wind comes up the narrow green valley from the lake below. It ruffles the little loose locks on Letty's forehead — locks that are deepest brown in the shade, but warm almost to chesnut in the sunshine ; her round grey eyes, fringed with dark lashes, look lonoinorlv towards the dancino^ waters of the strip of blue lake, of which glimpses can just be caught between the trees below the house ; her cheek is rosy with health and youth ; her little nose, that was evidently originally in- tended to be straight and fine and Grecian, but had somehow thought better of it half way, and finished itself off into the prettiest and pertest of little retrousse nostrils, sniffs up the fresh spring breeze with delight, as if it could not drink in enough of the sweet mountain air. Behind her, Lady Cornelia sits at her writing- table. Her steel pen goes scritch, scratch over the paper before her with a fearful rapidity, for Lady Cornelia's corres|)ondence Letty Ormond, ly is a voluminous affair, and occupies her active mind for many hours daily. There seems no end to the number of letters she writes and receives, and to the multitudinous subjects she is interested in. She gets up sul)scrip- tions, orgfanises bazaars, has an unlimited supply of imbecile and blind children, daugh- ters of poor officers and sons of poor clergy, on hand to be canvassed for. There is no charity ball upon whose prospectus she does not appear as a patroness, no new scheme for benefitting; her fellow-creatures for which she does not eagerly promise her interest and good offices. Besides all this, there was her private correspondence. Lady Coriielia's friends lived far and wide, and were leg;ion in number. Through them she kept herself au courant with all the latest scandal of town-talk. She was well up in all her neighbours' affairs. Not a \7iarriaofe was arrano^ed but she knew all the ins and outs of it ; not a death occurred but she was in the secrets of the testator long before the will was made public ; she knew how much everybody would be left, who would rejoice and who be disappointed. AVhen there was a black sheep in a family, Lady Cornelia would look mysterious and shake her head over him ; when a girl had fallen in love, " not wisely but too well," she would sigh over her, and drop hints, vague but awful, of her shortcomings, — in fact, Lady Cornelia was one of those people who know everything and everybody, and whose finger VOL. I. B 1 8 Pure Gold. is everlastingly inserted into every pie that is baked upon the face of the earth. As a matter of course, she made mistakes — fearful, outras^eous mistakes sometimes, but that did not seem to affect her credit with the world, and she was good-humouredly indiffer- ent to being found out in her errors. Natur- ally, when a woman affirms of nine-tenths of her acquaintances that she knows their in- comes, the condition of their banker's balance, the items of the bills of the son at college, the exact fio'ure of the dauo-hter's trousseau ; when she states that she understands why Lord so- and-so never wt on with his wife, and whv his wife gets on much better with somebody else ; when she asserts herself positively ac- quainted with the number of proposals Mrs A.'s daughter has received, and with the reasons why young Sir John B. wouldn't marry the girl his mother desired him to espouse, why, it stands to reason that this heterogeneous mass of knowledge must occasionally find itself at fault. But Lady Cornelia didn't care ; if she stumbled, she picked up the bits, and went on again. " I want to go out, aunt. I su23pose you have no objection ? " says Letty, half turning round at the window. '' None whatever ; get your hat, my dear. Letty," looking up from her writing as the girl was leaving the room ; *' in which direction are you going ? " Lctty Oinnond. 19 " I was going in the boat, aunt, to row my- self across the lake." " Well, I had rather yon did not do that. Go for a walk — g;o along; the road towards Cragstone Tower." Letty gave one sharp look from under her eyelashes ; something like a smile hovered about the corners of her mouth. *' It's a nice dry road," continued Lady Cornelia, without looking at her, " and more cheerful ; and you ought to understand that I particularly wish you to go in that direction." Letty laughed a short defiant laugh, toss- ing back her brown head scornfully. " Oh yes, I understand, Aunt Cornelia. I am quite clever enough to know perfectly what you mean ; it would not be wonderful, would it, if I were to stumble upon Oswald Power along the Cragstone road ? he generally comes up about this time of the year for Easter. He and I might meet ' accidentally on purpose,' of course ! it would happen so oddly and so conveniently if I were to be lucky enough to run him to ground up in Westmoreland. You thought of all that, of course, when you asked me to come up here for Easter with you, although it was Eita's turn, and not mine." Lady Cornelia tapped her foot impatiently. " You put things very broadly and coarsely, my dear ; a modest-mindeci girl should never, even to her nearest and dearest relations, openly speak about ' running a gentleman to ground,' it does not sound nice." 20 Pure Gold. '' No, she is only taught to do it, not to talk about it ! " said Letty, contemptuously. " I am afraid I am not modest-minded or nice, for I generally speak a thing out if it is in my mind." " Far too much — far too much, Letty. Your mother and I never in our most intimate con- versations put things in such bold language as you have just done unblushingly. We might both of us have known that Mr Power may very possibly come to Cragstone Edge this month, but it did not pass our lips, I assure you, we only hoped that if — mind I only say ^/'— you did happen to meet, that you would not again be so foolish, so wrong, as to refuse a man who will have, at the very least, twenty thousand a-year as soon as the breath is out of his uncle's body. You made a great mis- take last season. A man like that — a catch — doesn't often care to give another chance to a girl who is one of a large family, and never likely to have a penny of her own. He may never' ask you again — certainly he never would in town — these wealthy young men are so run after, and so mobbed ; but up here, amongst the hills and the lakes, bored to death at that grim old castle, without an educated being to speak to, his old interest in you might easily revive." Letty listened patiently all through this speech ; then she gave her head a toss. *'What a pretty romance you and mamma have woven ! quite a three-volume novel ! Letfy Onnoiid. 21 only, unfortunately, there is a little item missino[ — the heroine is here in the flesh — but where is the hero ? Certainly not at Crag- stone Edge ! " " Well, I am not so sure of that, my dear. Evans tells me he saw the castle do2f-cart coming along the station road, on Saturday afternoon, with a young gentleman up in front, and a portmanteau and a jfishing-rod at the back 1 " '* Yes ; but it wasn't Oswald Power," said Letty, rather triumphantly, nodding her head. "Who else could it have been?" asked Lady Cornelia, sharply. " The other nephew — Mr Eyre." '' Impossible ! who told you so ? " " Mary heard it, yesterday morning, at Kirtlebeck church, from her sister, who goes in to work at Mr Gale's twice a-week — she was there on Saturday when he arrived — and it is Valentine Eyre ! " '* Dear me, how very strange ; I wonder what brings hmi up here ? " " Some freak of the old man's, I daresay. I remember him perfectly when he was up here years ago, and Helen and I were staying with you — he was about fourteen, and Helen was nine and I was six — -he used to kiss Helen and take her out in his boat ; but he used to torment me horribly. He was a very good- looking boy, with dark blue eyes. I wonder if he has grown up handsome ? " " I don't see that it matters, Letty." 22 Piu^e Gold. *' Well, I don't know ; I shall be very pleased to meet him again. I wonder if he will re- member me ? " continued the girl musingly. "I don't think it sionifies whether this young man remembers you or not," said Lady Cornelia impatiently ; " I should hope you will not be so lost to self-respect as to attempt any renewal of acquaintance with him." " Why on earth not ? " asked Letty, open- ing her eyes in surprise. '* I know it for a fact that lie will never have a penny of his uncle's money ; old Mr Gale tells everyone so." " Oh, is that all ! ineligible ! to be sure — I understand — I think that is the very reason I should like him." " Letty, you are incorrigible ! " cried her aunt angrily ; '* what is the use of trying to instil proper feeling into a girl so perverse as you are ? if you die a pauper it will be your own fault." " Not yours, certainly," said Letty lightly ; " don't alarm yourself, Aunt Cornelia, I am not going to elope with Mr Gale's penniless nephew — not this week at all events 1 " Lady Cornelia was silent for a moment or two, but her pen flew over the paper and she frowned heavily to herself. Truth to say, her niece Letitia was a thorn in the flesh to her — she was not eager to marry well or to have fine clothes and carriages and jewels as her sister Helen had been, nor was she meek and gentle and docile as Eita, the younger Letty Oi^mond. 23 girl, promised to be. Letty was audacious and outspoken — she declined to be disposed of like a bale of goods — she had independent and altogether impracticable notions about love in a cottage, and she had refused the best match of the season, and was not one whit ashamed of herself for doing so ; W'hat was to be done with a girl of this kind ? Lady Cornelia knew that she had a handful in Letty ; but not for that did she shrink from what she believed to be her duty or desire to shirk the responsi- bility of disposing of her niece's life in a suit- able manner. Only Letty was an anxiety to her. " Have you done talking to me — may I go ? " said Letty's voice behind her. Lady Cornelia nodded, and Letty vanished. Nothing more had been said about the walk alono^ the road to Crao'stone Tower, so chuck- ling to herself like a naughty child bent on mischief, the girl ran quickly down the steep stony road towards the lake. " What the eye does not see the heart does not grieve over ! " said Letty to herself as she jumped into the little boat that lay amongst the rushes by the water's edge. CHAPTEE III. A M I S E e's advice. I T down, nephew Valentine. I wish to talk to you." The speaker was old Michael Gale, and the place was the one inhabited sitting;-room in use at Crao^stone Jiidge — a room small, meagre, and bare to the last deo^ree. It was on. the same sunny Monday morning after his arrival in Westmoreland on which Letty Ormond, two miles away, had thrust forth her pretty head from the window, and had looked longingly at the lake, that Val found himself thus formally addressed by his uncle. He too had cherished a half- ripened pro- ject of strolling out to the mere with his fishing-rod, for his starved London eyes had looked longingly upon the emerald -set sheet of dancing water, that was visible in its full length and breadth from every window of A Miser s Advice. 25 the house, and had longed to feast themselves with a nearer view of its beauty. But these projects were summarily stifled by the above mentioned remark of his host and uncle. He sat down as he was desired upon a singidarly hard-seated and straight-backed chair, and resigned himself to his fate. Michael Gale sat opposite him on the further side of a much worn and very shabby writing- table. He was a small, smooth-shaven little old man, with sharp, keen-looking eyes, that had never yet needed the help of glasses — his head was habitually somewhat bent forward, and he had a way of peering up at people from under his bushy grey eyebrows that was peculiarly embarrassing and disagreeable. He had a bald head and a protuberant forehead, a nose that was slightly hooked, and lips that were thin and singularly remorseless and cruel in their expression. He was not a pleasant- lookino^ old man, but there was intelliorence and even power in his face, and he was in full possession of all his faculties. As Valentine Eyre sat opposite his uncle, he felt drawn by no sentiments of affection towards his mother s brother ; neither was there, on the other hand, the sliohtest feelino^ in his mind that it would be desirable for him to flatter or to cajole this wealthy old gentle- man. Val was rather o-rateful to him for havingr asked him up to Cragstone — he thought it kind of him to have procured him a holiday — 2 6 Pure Gold. and if he speculated at all about the cause of his kindness, merely imagined that a feeling of remorse for his neglect of his dead sister had led him to make some slight advances towards her son. Mr Gale spread his hand- kerchiefs — a yellow silk one of an old-fashioned pattern — across his knees, and looked up at his nephew in the sharp and unpleasant fashion before mentioned. Val, who did not like being peered at as if he was a witness under cross - examination, moved uneasily in his chair, and allowed his own eyes — that were (|uite as blue as Letty Ormond remembered them to be — to wander away out of the window. " Nephew Valentine," said Michael Gale, in a sharp, harsh voice, " I wish to know what sort of life you lead in London." Val started. The question was compre- hensive and somewhat formidable, but the young man was more surprised than non- plussed by it. There was nothing to hide or to keep back in so simple and so laborious an existence as his own. Nevertheless, he hesi- tated a little. " In what way, uncle ? " he asked. " What do you do with yourself — who, to begin with, are your intimate friends ? " " I have none." '' None ? — good ! Do you go into society ? " "Not at all." " Do you bet, or drink or gamble ? " " No, sir — certainly not." A Misers Advice, 27 " Do you smoke ? " " Well— a little." " All — pipes or cigars ? " " Pipes, as a rule," said Yal, fairly laughing at this sinoular eatechisins;. The old man nodded approvingly. "Well, well. I don't object to a pipe my- self. It's a comfort, and often saves food — the extravagance of cigars is quite another matter. I am glad you don't smoke cigars, nephew." Val, who was perhaps not so guiltless on this subject as his uncle imagined him to be, looked down modestly, and prudently held his tongue. " Then, what do you do with yourself all day ? " continued the old gentleman. "I go to Mr Malsham's, sir, every day of my life. I am there from ten o'clock till six. Such a life does not leave much leisure for enjoyment, as you may imagine." " No, no, and Cjuite right, too. Young men ought to work, or else how do they expect to live when they are old. But tell me, nephew, — you live, I believe, a long way from the city, in the west end 1 " " Yes, sir, in the Fulham Road." " And how do you go backwards and for- wards to your work ? " " I generally walk, sir." " Good, good ! walking is a healthy exer- cise, and it is cheap. Quite right to walk always." " I do, unless it is wet." 28 Pure Gold. *' And if it is wet, what do you do ? " He leant forward in his chair, and frowned. " Don't tell me, sir, that if it is wet you are guilty of the iniquitous extravagance of hiring a hansom or four-wheeled cab ! " ''Not I, sir," answered Val cheerily; "I take the underground railway." Mr Gale leant back with a sigh of relief. " Ah, yes, to be sure ; I had forgotten that. It is since my time they have got the under- ground railway." He was silent for a few seconds, then sud- denly sat bolt upright in his chair, as though a new idea had struck him. " What class do you go by ? " he inquired sharply. Val flushed a little, and looked down. He was poor, and, as a rule, he saw no shame in his poverty. But the simplest-minded man does not, perhaps, care always to confess to the little shifts and straio^hts which his o poverty has reduced him to practise. He hesitated. " What class, sir ? " cried his uncle again, stretching forth his withered brown hand, and bending forward eagerly in his chair, as though, at last, he had discovered a flaw in his conduct. Then Val owned, blushingiy, that he usually travelled third class. Michael Gale positively chuckled ; there passed over his countenance an expression of extreme satisfaction ; he rubbed his hands, one over the other, with unconcealed delight. A Misers Advice, 29 " Ah ! " he said to himself, below his breath, '' the boy has the Gale blood in him ; that's what I like to hear. Save the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves. That is what I was brought up to learn. Have you ever, sir," turning to his nephew, ^' calcu- lated how many shillings you save in one year by always travelling third, instead of first class ? " "No, sir," answered Yal, smiling; "I cer- tainly never have done so. I should be very glad to travel first class if I could," he added. " Ah, don't say that, my boy, — don't say that. Waste of money is always wrong. What was money given us for ? " Val felt inclined to answer, — " To spend." But his better angel fortu- nately restrained him from making so impru- dent a response, and Michael Gale answered his own question — " To save, sir — to save ! I am a poor man, nephew Valentine, — a very poor man, what- ever anybody may say ; but I should be poorer than I am if I had not saved what I could in those little ways all my life. Do you know," continued Mr Gale, after a short pause, during which Yal fidgeted on his chair, and wondered how soon he would be allowed to go out. "do you know," in a voice of deep disapproval, " that your cousin has started a coach ? " Val again repressed, with an efi'ort, the natural expression that rose to his lips. 30 Pu7^e Gold. " Lucky beggar ! " he felt inclined to say ; but, wisely, he only remarked, — "Yes, I have heard so." '' And four horses !'' continued the old man, in a voice of increasing horror, as though that was an additional offence. Val was silent. He did not care for his cousin — hardly knew him, in fact ; but it was not in his nature to cast a word of censure at a man whose o;ood fortune he envied. " You know," continued old Gale, who was watching him narrowly — '' you know that he is my heir ? " " Yes, sir," *'He will have all my money, every penny of it — tliat is, what there is. It's little enough ; but he will get it cdV *' I am sure, sir, I do not grudge it to him," answered Val, heartily, and controlling his temper perfectly, although it was certainly aggravating to be told this over and over again. And then Michael Gale lay back in his chair, and laughed softly to himself, much as a cat may laugh over the maimed mouse she is in the act of tormenting. " There ! there ! you may go now, nephew ; I see you are longing to be out. Take your rod, and see if you can catch a trout or two ; they will do for our dinner, and save butchers' meat, which, heaven help us, is dear enough in all conscience ! " Val rose quickly, and in spite of the pro- A Miser's Advice. 31 spect of this most luxurious meal, felt glad enough to be released. He was already half- way to the door, when his uncle called him back. " By the way, Val, there is one question I have forgotten to ask you." "Yes, sir." The young man stood with his hand on the back of a chair. He was tall of limb, broad shouldered, brio;ht o^hmced, and well featured, the very picture of a man whom all men should like, and all women love. " I hope and trust, Val, that you are not in love ! " " In love ! Good gracious, no, uncle ! " he answered, laughing heartily. " What on earth put such an idea into your head ] Do I look like a love-sick swain ? " " No, no, my boy ; you have never thought of marriage then ? " " Never. How should I ? I am not in a position to marry." " No, that is true. Avoid women as you would the Devil, my boy ; they are the root of all waste and extravagance. A man who marries lays the foundation of his own ruin." "I have no thought of marrying, uncle," answered Val, very seriously, " although I hope I have not quite so bad an opinion of the sex as you have. But as I have no money, no woman would probably desire to marry me. Moreover, 1 have always believed 32 Pure Gold. myself to be one of the men whose life is meant to be given to other and higher thoughts than the love of woman. I am not destined for the soft and flowery gardens of existence. Each has his path in life, and mine is over a stonier track." It was almost ludicrous to see the fervent conviction with which this young man spoke these words. But, naturally, he talked some- what above the head of the sordid old miser whom he was addressing. "Eh, wdiat ? I don't quite follow your meaning, nephew ; but, at all events, the upshot is plain, and you agree with me. Keep clear of the women ; they play the very deuce with a man. They want dresses, and bonnets, and ribbons, and God knows how many kickshaws ; and they must have their carriages, and their parties, and if a man doesn't give it to them he gets called a tyrant and a monster. No, no, a bachelor's life is the only one for a sensible man to lead. There will be always plenty of fools left to people the earth. A wise man wants to keep his money himself, not to see it wasted and squandered on vanities and frivolities that profit nothing at all." Then Val was released, and went his way out of the grim old stone castle across the fresh green grass and springy heather, with his rod over his shoulder, down the slope towards the sparkling waters of the lake. The blue sky, flecked with feathery clouds. A Miser s Advice. 33 was above him ; the crisp breeze blew freshly against his brow, and all God's beantiful earth was about him, but Yal walked with a down- cast face, and with a mind absorbed in thoug;ht. He pitied — yes, pitied — that poor old miser sitting up alone in his house, with his money bags, from the bottom of his heart. He woii- dered how many years it had taken to dry up all the fresh, generous impulses of his being, and to render him the mean-soul ed, sordid- minded creature he was now ; whether he had ever, even in early youth, possessed a softer heart, a wider mind, a more noble nature, or whether he had been born as he was now — mean, narrow-minded, selfish, with only one love in his soul, and that a desj)icable one — the love of money. The force of circum- stances had made Val careful of his little store, and anxious to live honestly within his small income, paying his way as he went, and owing no man anything. But the spectarle of his uncle's miserly nature caused a sort of reaction in his feelings, the first, perhaps, of many that were to follow. " P>y Heaven ! " he exclaimed aloud, " if I were (Jswald, and came into all the old brute s money, I would sooner spend and scpander it in every direction than become the miserable, contemptible hoarder that wretched old man is. Why, they say he has fifteen or twenty thousand ayear, and all his life long he has never benefited one single human being, or VOL. I. C 34 Picre Gold. done one single good or generous action with bis wealth ; and he sits there, at the eiid of his life, unloved and unblest, with his cursed money hanging about his neck like a mill- stone, drao-oino; his soul down ever lower and lower. I shouldn't w^onder now if he buried it all under the hearthstone and Oswald never got a penny of it 1 Well, I had sooner be what I am, a clerk on a hundred and twenty pounds a-year, than be my uncle with all his money, and his wickedly profitless life to look back upon." <' Mr Valentine Eyre, don't you remember me — little Letty Ormond, wdiose doll's eyes you used to poke out ? You will tumble into the water if you walk about so absorbed in meditation. Are you struggling with an epic poem, or composing your maiden speech for Parliament when you are returned for the county ?" Val looked up suddenly, startled by the fresh young voice and the mocking words. He stood, in fact, close to the water's edge ; and there, just before him in the sunshine, among the tall-pointed leaves of the arrow- headed water plants, floated a little boat. The oars lay white and glistening at rest upon the surface of the water, — and Letty Ormond smiled at him not six yards off. " Wait a minute," said Letty, " and I will take you up in my boat and row you across the lake." " I came out to fish," said Val. A Miser s Advice. 35 " Never mind. Leave fishingr aloDe ; it's a cruel sport at which women are cleverer than men. Get into the boat — steady 1 don't upset me. Now you shall talk instead of fi&hinof ; it's far more amusing." So Val got into the boat. CHAPTER IV. ON THE LAKE. SUPPOSE you don't remember me in the very least ? " said Letty, when she had safely shipped her passenger into her little cockle-shell of a boat. " Oh, yes, I do perfectly," answered Val ; " at least, I remember your sister." " How very Irish ! " laughed Letty, " and how very far from complimentary ! " '* I am sure I beg your pardon," said her companion, blushing up to his eyes. " I am dreadfully awkward and stupid, I am afraid ; but, you see, I am so little used to talking to young ladies." " Oh, don't apologise ; I like it ; it's so delightfully refreshing. After all, it was a conceited presumption of mine that you would remember me, for I know your affections were always given to Helen ; but I did think that Araminta, whose blue eyes you so barbarously On the Lake. 37 reduced to ^^awning and sightless chasms, in spite of my despairing shrieks, to say nothing of tlek^n's remonstrances, would have lingered in your memory." " How is she ? what has become of her ? " •' Who^Araminta ? " " No, Helen — your sister, I mean, of course." " Helen was married a year ago to Sir George Armstrong ; does that distress you ? " " Not in the very least — why should it ? " *' I am glad of that," answered Letty, " be- cause I detest people in love. If you were to think yourself bound to be melancholy over Helen, you would not make yourself agreeable to me, which is what I want you to do." Valentine Eyre was not at all accustomed to this kind of lis^ht badinao;e. The talk of the London young lady was bewildering, almost startling to him ; his answer was perfectly serious. " I should not have dared to pretend to be melancholy about your sister. I have never seen her since she was a child, as you know." It was Letty 's turn to be surprised. " What an odd man you are ! " she said, opening her grey eyes at him ; " I don't think I ever met anyone like you before. Of course I was only joking. All the same," with a little smile, that came rippling up from her rosy lips to her eyes, " I am glad you are not one of Helen's admirers. You can't think," she went on seriously, "how sick I got of them before she married ; there were so many of them, you see." 38 Pure Gold. *' Is she happy ? " asked Val. Letty shrugged her shoulders. *' Who knows ? " she said carelessly. " She ought to be ; she has a brougham and a Vic- toria, a house in town, and a place in the country ; and, oh ! lots of diamonds. When a woman has all that," she continued, in a voice that was full of bitter mockery, "it is her dutij to be happy, is it not ? Her family are quite satisfied about her. We none of us make any further inquiries." Val listened aghast. The contrast betw^een what he saw, and what he heard, came almost like a physical shock to him. God's world about him was so pure and lovely, so at vari- ance with man's meannesses and pettinesses. The rippling waters of the lake danced about the boat ; the purple hills mirrored themselves brokenly on its surface ; the blue heaven, flecked with white swan's down puffs of cloud, and brilliant with sunshine, was spread over head ; the girl herself, who sat opposite him, was so fresh, so fascinating in her youth and loveliness — and yet how horrible, how revolt- ing w^ere the words she had just spoken ! Val knew too little of the female sex to understand anything about that strange and perplexing mania wdiich possesses nine women out of ten — that of making themselves out to be worse than they really are — of asserting and affirm- ing their faith in things which in their hearts they despise and condemn ; he knew nothing at all about this curious and inexplicable On the Lake, 39 moral disease, and his whole generous soul revolted in horror from what he considered to be a most terrible degradation of a girl's pure nature. He had just left the presence of the mean old miser, whose love of gold had sickened and disgusted him, and he had turned gladly and joyfully to the fresh 3'oung face that had greeted and welcomed him ; and, lo, here it w^as a_i:^ain — this cursed love of Mammon ! only that it became ten times more hideous and more frightful as displayed by a lovely young girl than it was in a decrepid octogenarian. " What you say is very dreadful," he said to her, gravely and coldly. '' Dreadful, isn't it ? " answered Letty, lightly, all unconscious of the tragic impres- sion her w^ords had made upon her companion ; . " but you see it is the way in which we are all of us brought up — we girls now-a-days." " Do not say so — pray !" said Val, earnestly, so earnestly that Letty's eyes, that were wan- dering carelessly from the blue sky to her wet gleaming oars, and from the dancing water to the purple head of Cragstone scar, came back suddenly, and with a start to her com- panion's face. Val was leaning; forward in the boat, his handsome face w^as flushed, his dark eyes contracted with intensity of feeling. '* Do not say that — look here ! I am almost a stranger to you. I shall meet you here for a few days, perhaps, and then we shall part — we shall each go our owm w^ay ; you back again to your world of fashion and dissipation, and 40 Pure Gold. I to my lonely life of toil and solitude — we may never meet again. Yet I, a stranger, one who is nothing to you, entreat, implore you to banish these hard, worldly money-loving thoughts out of your being — now in the first dawn of your youth and your loveliness — ere it is too late, and your heart hardens, and you become like that poor, pitiful old man up yon- der, whose presence I have just left — sordid, mean-souled, loveless and unloved — a miser- able warning to all who come near him ! Letty Ormond — little Letty, whom I used to play with, an innocent little child on the borders of this very lake — have you left all your purity, all your candid child-soul far behind you, on the barren shingle of your early years ?" Letty listened like one entranced ; the oars slipped from her hands, and floated idly by themselves on the surface of the water; she gazed at the speaker intently, eagerly — her red lips were parted, her heart beat, her breath came short and quick. " You care f " she said, in a low w^ondering voice, " is it possible that you cave ? Ah ! " pulling herself up suddenly, and throwing back her head, *'if men had the courage some- times to speak like that to us, how different we should be, we women !" He saw, to his sur- prise, that her eyes were suddenly filled with tears. " Have I off'ended you ? have I grieved you ? " he said, much distressed, and a good deal puzzled by the variable moods of thii On the Lake. 41 changeable young lady — for the life of liim he could not tell what ailed her ! He touched her hand timidly, just with the tip of his finger, as he might have touched an exotic flower, off which he feared to brush the bloom. She half laughed, and d]-ew the hand hastily across her eyes ; and, lo and behold, the tears vanished ! and they looked at him ao;ain, filled with nothino' but mockino: smiles. " Don't make me sentimental ? I should believe myself in for a serious illness, if I were to turn lackadaisical ! it would be so unbe- comino^ too ! AVhoever heard of a mrl with a turn-up nose being sentimental ? It's not at all in my style, as my aunt says ! You ought to talk sentiment to Madeline x\bbott; she would understand it — you and she would get on capitally !" " And who is Madeline Abbott ? " " What ! don't you know her ? but you must have heard of her surely ? " '* You forget that I know no one," answered Val. " Who, and what is slie ? " " Ah, I can never describe her — she is per- fect ! " " That is saying a great deal," he said, smiling at her enthusiasm ; " describe her to me { " How odd that you should not even know her by sight ! " said Letty. " Not to know Madeline Abbott argues a lamentable ignorance of the world ! She is one of the beauties, you 42 Pure Gold. know ; her portrait is in the shop windows ; her name figures in the ' society ' 2ja}>ers — people whisper her name and turn back to stare after her as she passes." " Is she, then, so very beautiful ? " inquired Val, faintly interested. " She is what is far more to the purpose now-a-days — she is the fashion ! " " I am certain, then, that I should not care about your friend, Miss Ormond. A fine lady of fashion would be rather an object of disgust than of admiration to me." " Oh, but Madeline is not a fine lady at all," interrupted Letty eagerly. " She is so gentle and womanly, and so free from those mean, sordid motives you find so disagreeable in me. And she is so good — too good for the world she lives in — it is no wonder that people run after her ; they can no more help admirmg her than they can help admiring a lovely flower, or a beautiful landscape ; she possesses every- thing that is worthy of praise — " " She possesses one good thing at least," said Val with a smile, " and that is, a very eager partisan ! You are a good friend. Miss Or- mond. Do you make as good an enemy ? " " I don't know, for I never was tried. 1 hate my Aunt Cornelia, certainly, but I don't suppose I should have the strength of mind to murder her, even if I got the chance. I should like you to know Madeline," she added thought- fully, after a pause. " I am not very likely to know her, I am On the Lak e. afraid — in fact, nothing is more improbable than that I should ever do so." " I am sorry for that." There was a pause. Long afterwards those few commonplace words came back to the memories of them both with a strange dis- tinctness. Letty could see again the rippling lake and the green hills — the gloomy old castle that kejit w^atch on the one side, and the bluff, bare front of Cragstone scar on the other, — and she seemed to hear again that little conversa- tion about the woman who was far, far away, and wdiose name had so oddly become the theme of their talk. How little either of them dreamt that that name, so idly spoken, would have the power one day to thrill through both their hearts, with the keen- ness of actual physical pain ! How oddly the future is woven up with the present ; how strange are the small threads that first begin to spin the great woofs of our life story — un- noted, unheeded at the time — they stand out afterwards clearly and plainly to our mental vision, and we ask ourselves with bitter an- guish, " Why did we not guess — why did we not foresee it ? " Better, perhaps, that that power of prevision is denied us, since we can neither alter nor avert the doom that awaits us along the path of life. At that moment these two people, alone together in a little boat, in that obscure and far-away corner of the earth, had touched, all unconsciously, the very key-note of their futur(i 44 Pure Gold. lives ; and yet they knew it not ! Perhaps it was some subtle influence — some magnetic current, unknown and unsuspected, that kept them both absolutely silent for a few minutes, each absorbed in thought. The water rippled beneath the bows ; the breeze caressed their cheeks ; the sunshine came straightly down upon their young heads ; far away overhead a huk, invisible in the brightness of the blue heavens, poured forth his morning shout of joy, dying away, fainter and fainter, as he rose. " Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloncl of fire, The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still doest soar, and soaring ever singest. Teach ine half the gladness Tiiat thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then as I am listen- ing now," quoted Val, as he lay on his back with his arms stretched up behind his head. Then Letty, smiling, murmured a line or two more of Shelley's immortal poem, and thus Madeline Abbott's name was forgotten, and she was mentioned no more. The skylark, floating heavenward, had borne away that half-glimpse of a fateful futurity upon his fluttering wing;s. The pleasantest and happiest of mornings On the Lake. 45 must come to an end, and presently Letty discovered that it was luncheon time, and that she must go home. Whilst Val recollected that he had no fish to take hack to the castle. " I shall starve to-day," he said dismally, as Letty pulled the boat back with a dozen vigorous strokes to the shore. " Starve ? " " Yes. I was to bring; in a dish of fish for my uncle's dinner ; failing that, I am under the impression that he will give me nothing to eat." " How dreadful ! You should have broug^ht up a case of potted meats from Fortnum h Mason. I have always understood that Mr Gale starves everybody in his house. Well, if you are very hungry, poor fellow, you must come up to the cottage and get something to eat." "May I come to the cottao-e ? Really!" cried Val, eagerly. " Will Lady Cornelia like me to come ? " " Well, no, if you ask me, I must candidly own that my aunt will prol)ably not be glad to see you," admitted Letty. " Oh ! " in a disa})pointed tone. " But / shall ! " added Miss Ormond, with a sudden fiash of saucy light in her grey eyes. " Then I will come," said Val, promptly. " Do you know what you will get ? — an awful snubbino." " I have been snubbed all my life, so that will not terrify me." 4-6 Pure Gold. *' She will not be civil to you ; in point of fact, she will be dreadfully rude, I daresay." " I will win her over by extra politeness." " You couki not do that," said Letty, shak- ing her head. " You can't imagine how^ bad- mannered these well-bred women can be wdien it suits them to make themselves disagreeable. I shall stand by, and get hot all over whilst you are being insulted." *' As long as you stand by me, I shall not mind," answered Val, laughing. " Oh, naturally, I shall do that. Are you not my friend ?" " Am I ? " he repeated softly, whilst a tender light gleamed for one instant in the deep-set eyes that were fixed upon her. " Then I shall brave Lady Cornelia," he said after a moment's pause. But Letty Ormond hung her head and answered nothing. -^^ CHAPTER Y. IF SHE BE NOT FAIR FOR ME. LAS ! for Letty, that on that par- ticular afternoon which Mr Valen- tine Evre selected to make his appearance at her aunt's door, she should have been sittino^ talkino^ to old Betty Crossthwaite about her rheumatism in the cottage at the bottom of the lane ! And, alas ! for Val too ! " There is a gentleman at the front door, Jennings," said her ladyship, putting her head into the passage ; and there was a certain flutter of excitement in her heart, for visitors in this remote corner of the world were few and far between. " Yes, my lady. I think it is Mr Gale's nephew," answ^ered the discreet and ancient personage, who, having resided for many years with Lady Cornelia Fanshawe, had naturally a fair insight into most of the family secrets. 48 Pttre Gold. Jennino^s, who was " own maid " to her lady in more civilised regions, coml)ined a variety of offices up at the tiny cottage in Westmoreland. Amongst other things, she answered the visitor's bell at the front door. This reply excited Lady Cornelia still fur- ther, so that it was quite a shock to her when the name of the poor nephew, instead of the rich one, struck upon her dismayed ears, for it was Valentine Eyre who was announced. She looked up from her everlasting writing at him, in a manner that was frigid and repellant in the extreme. Many was the faint-hearted youth who had in past times been frozen into ice, and driven to flight by that stony glance. Even Val, who had been prepared for it, quailed slightly before her, and was embarrassed by her greeting. "I think there must be some mistake," said Lady Cornelia, coldl}^ " I expected to see Mr Oswald Power." *' I am sorry I am not my cousin. He is not in the north now," answered Val, smiling. " Oh ! And to what then, sir, do I owe the honour of this visit % " Val looked into his hat, and hesitated. " I thought, perhaps — I have been here as a boy — you were kind enough to ask me. Li short, Lady Cornelia, I ventured to call to renew my old acquaintance with you." " Very obliging and good of you, I am " If She be not Fair for Me!' 49 sure," said the lady, witlieringly ; "pray be seated." Val sank into the nearest chair, and wished, if the truth be known, that he could sink into the floor. He looked round the tiny room ; there was no sign of Letty. " Miss Ormond," he beg^an, with hesitation. " Miss Ormond is not at home," replied Lady Cornelia, promptly. " Perhaps she will come in soon ? " hazarded Val. " I think not. Have you any message to leave for her, Mr Eyre ? " " Oh, no — not at alL I met her the other morninor on the lake." "Ohr indeed!" This was news to Lady Cornelia. Then there was an awkward silence. The lady was turning over in her mind how she could get rid of her visitor — the visitor was considering how soon he could in politeness take his departure. Then, not being very well versed in the ways of the world, Val had the imprudence again to mention the name of the absent niece. *' Miss Ormond was good enough to tell me that I might call and see you," he said. Then Lady Cornelia waxed wroth. "This young man must be snubbed," she said to herself. " He must be taught his place once and for all, since that madcap girl has evidently been foolish enough to encourage him." VOL. I. J> 50 Pure Gold. ** Am I to understand, Mr — Mr Eyre," said she, looking at him sharply, — " am I to under- stand by your saying you met Miss Ormond on the lake, that you were in a boat with her ? " Valentine shufEed uneasily in his chair. " Certainly it was in a boat," he admitted. " Was there any great objection ? " " It was frightfully imprudent ! " exclaimed Lady Cornelia angrily. " I assure you it was perfectly calm, Lady Cornelia ! " cried Yal, entirely misunderstand- ing her ; " there was merely a ripple upon the water, and the sky was as clear as midsummer. Had there been the smallest symptom of a squall, I should of course have urged Miss Ormond to put back to land — " Lady Cornelia made a gesture of im- patience. '' You don't understand my meaning, Mr Eyre ; I was not alluding to the weather. You ouo:ht to have recollected that the lake is in full view of your uncle's house. There might be many eyes who saw^ you, and many tongues that might be ready to repeat that you spent the morning in a boat with my niece to your cousin ? " ** To my cousin ? — to Oswald, do you mean?" " Certainly, I do. "Whom else should I mean ? " " But what has Oswald to say to it ? " said Yal, much bewildered. "■ Well " — and the Lady Cornelia bent her '* If She be not Fair for Me!' 5 1 head to one side with a meaning smile, — "he might object very much." There was a silence. What was it that made Yal's heart go thud, thud so heavily against his ribs ? Why was there that peculiar whizzing sensation in his ears, and why did Lady Cornelia's French clock upon the chim- ney-jDiece tick forth the minutes with such painful and harsh distinctness, so that he seemed for a few seconds to be conscious of nothing else ? Val could not have told why Lady Cornelia's remark produced such a singu- lar effect upon him. When he spoke his voice sounded to himself to be hollow and far away, as if it did not belong to him, and his words came out disjointedly in jerks. '' Miss Ormond — is engaged — to my cousin —then ? " " Well," — with another smile, as she referred to some printed circular she held in her hand, and jotted off a few names with her pen, — " well, engaged is a strong word ; but had you been at all in society last season, Mr Eyre, you would probably not have failed to discover that there w^as a matrimonial alliance in negotiation between the two families. These things are often suT le tapis when they are not openly talked about ; but amongst well-bred people it is customary to make mental notes of these situ- ations, and to order one's actions accordingly." Then Val arose from his chair, with a bow. " That I was not at all in society last UNWLKSITY OF ILLIM013 52 Pure Gold. season, Lady Cornelia, must be my apology for the mistakes into which my ignorance has led me," he said, gravely. " Going, are you ? " she answered, briskly, rising to her feet simultaneously with her visitor. " Well, I am very busy this morning, so I don't ask you to lunch ; besides, two women alone are poor company for a man. G^ooc^-bye," extending her smooth, many- ringed hand, almost with effusion. Val took the hand, and bowed deferentially over it. " I am deeply grateful to Lady Cornelia Fanshawe for the admirable lesson upon good- breeding which she has been good enough to give me," said this dreadful young man. '' Eh, what ? " She looked up into his face ; not a muscle of it moved. To this hour Lady Cornelia never knows if young Eyre seriously intended what he said with so much earnestness and gravity, or whether he was not scorching her with blighting sarcasm in reply to her polite- ness concerning the luncheon. She dropped his hand in a hurry, and allowed him to get himself to the door before she had sufficiently recovered from the horrible suspicion called forth by his words to be able to launch her parthian arrow at him, — " Any message 1 can give my niece for you, Mr Eyre ? " " None, thanks," he answered, laconically, and departed. " If She be not Fair for Me!' 53 He strode away from the tiny cottage in the green valley, across the crocus-bordered garden, and out at the white gate on to the road beyond, with a storm of unreasonable anger at his heart. Why he was so angry he would have found it hard to tell. It was not possible that in one short morniug upon the water of Cragstone Mere he had fallen in love with Letty. Neither was it to be supposed that he who had so lately told his uncle, what was in truth his real conviction, that love and marriao-e were thino;s meant for others, and not for himself, should have formed any de- liberate intention of requesting Miss Ormond to share his lodging in the Fulham Road, and the hundred and twenty pounds a-year which was all that he could call his own. Such a thought indeed had never entered into his mind. What had entered therein it would be difficult to say, but something undoubtedly must have stirred him strangely, for he walked rapidly down to the water side, swinging his stick angrily backwards and forwards, and mutter- ing in a truly tragical fashion to himself as he went. Then suddenly he stopped short, and laughed aloud to himself " Fool that I am !" he said aloud, flinging back his head. " What on earth am I loosing my temper for ? what have I to do with Letty Ormond and her fortunes, and what more natural than that my cousin should have fallen in love with her ? I wonder what made 54 Ptire Gold. her aunt so rude to me ? I do not think I can venture to go there again, for she evidently took a dislike to me. Val, my boy, you had better stick to your fishing-rod and leave the ladies alone ; they are not in your line at all — that is evident ! " But all day long as he plied his rod upon the stream, Letty Ormond's face haunted his thoughts in a manner that was strange and wholly incomprehensible to our young philo- sopher. He thought of her, not with regard to himself, but with regard to his cousin Oswald Power, and he began — for her sake, to take a deeper interest in that young gentle- man than he had ever done before. He re- collected that Oswald was good-natured, and popular, and much sought after in that world of London, of which he knew so little. Jt need not necessarily be his future prospects that had attracted Letty's fancy. Oswald, he told himself with an anxiety that was almost painful, might be easily loved for himself — but he wished from the bottom of his heart that Letty had not talked in so mercenary a fashion to him. "If ever I am in a position to marry," said Valentine aloud to myself, " I will take good care that the woman 1 love is not mercenary — of all hateful and degrading things, the greed of money is the most abhorrent to me. The spectacle of this mean, old miser, living alone and unloved amongst his accumulated hoardino^s shall be an everlastins; warning; to " If She be not Fair for Jfe." 55 me. And as to a mercenary woman — she is simply a monster ! " herewith he pulled up a fine trout, and, in the excitement of sport, Letty was for the time forgotteu. And yet Valentine was at this time so exceedingly simple-minded, that it positively did not strike him that Lady Cornelia's rude- ness to him had been based solely upon his lowly position in life, and his barren prospects. Lady Cornelia, so he thought, had taken a dislike to his appearance or his manners, he need never see her again, for as Letty was going to marry Oswald, she would be able, if she cared to do so, to renew her acquaintance with him after her marriao^e. Her marriaofe ! there came again with that thought a sharp pang through his heart which he could not comprehend nor account for, for Val had never in his whole life, up to this moment, experienced love's premonitory signs and symptoms, and he was quite at a loss to understand his sensations. For what has a young philosopher, whose worldly income is one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, and whose soul is set above common things, with a proud conviction of its own immeasur- able superiority, what, I say, has such a one to do with the contemptible concerns of the chil- dren of the world who marry, and are given in marriage ? Valentine Eyre was at this period of his life like the fox in the fable. ** Grapes are very nasty things," said Valen- 56 Pure Gold. tine when he saw how far out of his reach hung the purple cluster; " there are a great many things that are far more profitable to the im- mortal mind of man." So he got up and turned his back upon them, and consoled himself with his philosophy. But he went no more to the crocus-gardened cottage behind the green shoulder of the hill, lest Letitia Ormond's fairness, that was all for his cousin Oswald, should trouble the repose of his souL CHAPTER VI. THE GAMBLERS DAUGHTER. ;HESTER square, Belgravia, com- bines many advantages as a resi- dence, which render it justly a popular situation. It hangs on to the skirts of the v/orld of wealth and fashion so closely that it may be almost said to be within that charmed circle ; and, at the same time, its houses, small, and not exorbitantly highly rented, are within the scope of many persons of moderate income who are desirous of making the most of their means. There is a flavour of aristocracy about it, and, at the same time, a due regard to economy is not foreign to it. It is conveniently near the underground railway, and not beyond an easy walk of Hyde Park corner ; the clubs are accessible from it, and the best shops are at no insurmountable distance. For all these considerations, and a few others, Colonel James Abbott, late of Her Majesty's Dragoon 58 Pui^e Gold, Guards, had pitched his tent upon the southern side of this deservedly popular square. Colonel Abbott had a daughter to marry, whose face was her fortune, and to whom it was essential that she should be in the best society, and go out amongst the best people. To live at a stone's-throw from their doors was therefore a necessity to her. It was no less a necessity to the colonel that he should be within an easy walk of a certain house in a certain quiet street that led out of St James' Street, whither he nightly bent his footsteps, and by cutting across St James' Park, the colonel could be upon the doorstep of this particular house exactly fifteen minutes after he left his own. Chester Square as a situation suited the father and the daughter equally well. Miss Abbott had no carriage, and was driven frequently by her friends, who were extremely kind to her in this respect, but then she lived so close that, as thej^ said, it was no trouble to call for her. On days when she could not make use of her friends' broughams and Victorias, Miss Abbott put on her thickest veil, and went forth by the under- ground railway to transact her business. She hated doing it, but still she did it. She rarely wasted a shilling on a cab, for her shillings were valuable to her, and she spent as many of them as she could upon her back. For good clothes were as good as investments to Madeline Abbott, whereas cab fares were sheer waste, and could lead to nothing. The Gamblers Daughter. 59 One fine morning, early in May, Colonel Abbott sat idlv in his dan 2; liter's drawinor- room, resting his high white forehead upon his taper-fingered hand, and occasionally strok- ing his silky grey moustache in a meditative manner. The Venetian blinds were half drawn down. White and pink muslin curtains fluttered at the windows. There was a subdued half light in the room. The furniture was pretty and well chosen, but not costly. There were plenty of bright common flowers in jars and basins upon the mantlepiece and the tables — daffodils and jonquils and wallflowers — that Madeline had purchased for a few pence in the street, but that were none the less lovely and sweet scented for that, and that converted the small room into a very bower of spring-like fragrance. There was a high Japanese screen half across the back drawing-room, and a very wide low sofa in one corner, on which three or four brig-ht silk cushions, rich with oriental em- broidery, were carelessly flung — altogether the room looked thoroughly comfortable and liveable, but there was nothing sumptuous about it. The master of the house was a man between fifty and sixty, who looked older than he was, from the whiteness of his hair and moustache. He was still a very handsome man, tall and slight, with an upright soldiery figure, of which he was unmistakably vain. He dressed with scrupulous neatness and exactitude, and was 6o Pure Gold. very particular about the whiteness and stiff- ness of his shirt fronts and collars. He was undoubtedly, as far as his looks went, a father of whom any young woman might be justly proud ; and Madeline's devotion to him was a recognised and well-understood thing amongst her friends. At the present moment the colonel is alone, and evidently in a thoughtful frame of mind ; but presently the door behind the high Japan- ese screen opens softly, and a woman's foot- step, and the subdued rustle of a woman's skirt, become audible behind him. The colonel throws up his head without looking round. " Ha ! Madeline ! is that you ? " " Not gone out, papa ? How is that ? " " My dear, I waited to speak to you. Come here, my child." Madeline comes and stands in front of him. She is beautiful. Tall and well-developed, with the figure of a Juno, a small head, well set upon a long full neck, and the most beauti- ful shoulders in the world ; her hair is raven black, her eyes shadowy, and yet luminous as the night. A woman of strong passions and a strong will, born to command and to rule. A woman to whom success is the very breath of life, to whom failure would be death. The colonel looks up at her as she stands before him. His white hands fall nervously together upon his knees, his face assumes a doubtful, wavering expression ; it is easy to The Gambler s Daiicrhte7\ 6i c*> see now whicli of the two is the master- mind. " You have had bad luck ag-ain," savs Madeline shortly. " My dear — I — " he hesitates. " This is the third day running," she con- tinues, with a certain merciless hardness. *' I know — I know," he answers weakly. " It's the fortune of war, my dearest. One can't always be in luck. I shall do better to- night, no doubt. No great harm done — the stakes were small. I feel I shall do better to-night." " I doubt it," answers Madeline coldly. " Your hands are trembling, your nerves are shaken — wait." She took a key from her watch chain and opened a small ebony inlaid cabinet, and rapidly poured out some drops out of a phial that stood Avithin upon the shelf. '' Here, drink this," she said, handino- it to him, " and for Heaven s sake learn to control yourself — even when we are alone." And as the handsome colonel took the wine- glass from his daughter's hand and drained it eagerly, it was easy to guess at the skeleton in that well-ordered household in Chester Square. The father wdio, in public, was the polished courtier, the gallant, high-minded old soldier, the idolised father of his only child, in the ahandon of private life, when all these beauti- ful theories were for a moment laid aside, appeared in his true colours, and became him- self — an inveterate, and not always a success- 62 Pure Gold. ful, gambler, whose unholy gains were the sole source of income upon which both father and daughter depended. "There, now, you look better again," said Madeline, as she took the empty glass from his hand. " Do not lose your pluck, my dear father. If you had been utterly broke you couldn't have looked worse." '* I am pretty near it, or shall be, unless my luck turns," he grumbled. ''And that brings me to what I wanted to say to you. How is your little sj^eculation going on, Madeline \ " Madeline stood at the cabinet, replacing the glass and the bottle, and locking up the double doors with her little gilded key. For a mioment or two she made no answer, then, rather slowly and almost reluctantly, she spoke, — '' Well, I am afraid I have nothing much to report as yet ; these things take time, you know." Colonel Abbott laughed. *' You have had no luck either, then ? " " I have had no reverse of luck," she answered ; " this kind of business is not to be done ill a day ; the season is only just be- ginning, and besides, one has to be very care- ful — nothing can be gained by precipitation, and every thing might be lost." *' I wish 3^ou would exj)lain yourself more clearly," said her father irritably. " Why can't you speak out instead of hinting and insinuatincf ?" The Ga77iblers Daughter. 63 *' I have no wish to conceal anything from you, papa," replied Madeline calmly, stooping over a vase full of jonquils, and rearranging their waxen heads with her delicate fingers, that were white and tapering like her father's. I am not going to engage myself to Mr Power until I am quite certain that he gets his uncle's money." " Pshaw ! that is splitting straws indeed ! Why, that is a certainty." " I prefer to wait and see." *'And meanwhile, if the luck goes on against me, we shall be in a nice hole ! I can't go on entertaining and paying for dresses if it's all to lead to nothing. Why, you maj^ wait for years before you can know for cer- tain whether Oswald Power gets his uncle's money ! " " I think not. I have reason to believe we shall know it very soon." *' What makes you say that ? " asked her father, quickly. " The uncle is dying." " No — really ? How on earth did you learn that?'' "Well," replied Madeline, smiling, "there is a girl of the name of Bella Malsham — " " Yes, and a very second-rate sort of girl, too. I have always w^ondered, Madeline, what on earth ever made you take up with her." " Well, now you know," answered Madeline, smiling; still, "Bella Malsham's father is Mr Gale's solicitor." 64 Pure Gold. Colonel Abbott drew a Ion 2^ breath. " By Jove ! Madeline, you are as clever as the Devil ! " " And she tells me there is another nephew,'' continued Madeline serenely. Her father nodded in silent approval. ** The worst of it is," he observed, '' that these old men often take a long time to die — they are as tough as nails — and meanwhile — " " Meanwhile, Oswald Power has a certain amount of ready money, whilst we have none." '* Exactly," replied her father, dryly. Madeline moved for a few moments softly about the room, taking up first one ornament and then the other. "That being the case," she said presently, holding up a favourite Sevres cup against the light as though to admire its exquisite trans- parency, and then dusting it tenderly with her little embroidered handkerchief, " that beinor the case, dearest papa, why have you never given Oswald Power supper at the ' Octopus ' ? " Colonel Abbott started — a dark red colour flushed suddenly up to his forehead — he looked at his daughter with a deep admiration mingled with astonishment. " By Jove ! " he ejaculated again below his breath, and seemed incapable of another word. " Peady money is a bad thing for young men," continued Madeline airily, still dusting her pet cup with affection. *' But — but — " gasped her father, " you The Gambler s Daughter. 65 might marry him. You surely don't want him rooked first ? " Then Madeline dashed down the Sevres cup upon the nearest table with such force that it was a marvel she did not break it — and she frowned heavily and angrily. " Papa ! " she cried indignantly, " I will not have you use such a low ungentlemanlike word ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself to sav such a thing; about a dear friend ! — even in joke — of course it was a joke, I know — but it's a horrible kind of joke, so pray don't repeat it." " What the devil do you want to keep the spangles on for when we are alone ? " grumbled her parent. " Spangles are very pretty things," replied his daughter more calmly, " and often answer the purpose of diamonds admirably well.'' There was a little silence between the two, then Colonel iVbbott inquired mildly as one who might be rehearsing a lesson, — " Do you think, then, that Oswald Power would like to have supper some night at the ' Octopus ' ? " Now the " Octopus " was the name of that particular club of a small and private nature, near St James' Street, where Colonel Abbott was wont to bend his nocturnal footsteps. Madeline's smile was charming in its frank candour. " 1 should think he would be deliohted, dear papa ; we entertain in such a small way, you VOL. I. E 66 Pure Gold. know — we have so little to offer in return to our friends — and Mr Power has been so kind — I have driven so often on his coach, and he sends us so much game in the winter. I am really quite ashamed to think how little we are ahle to repay these civilities ; it would be a little attention, you know." " Quite so, my dear." Both father and daughter had donned the spangles by this time. " I quite understand ; but I hardly ever see Oswald Power now to ask him." ''Stop and have lunch, dearest papa. I have some plovers' eggs — your favourite dish — and no end of good things, and Mr Power has promised to lunch with me ; it will be an additional pleasure to him to meet you here. Ah ! here, I think, he comes." The door opened, and from behind the Japanese screen Oswald Power walked into the room. CHAPTEE VII. A TETE-A-TETE DINNER. E OSWALD POWEE was a young gentleman who, from no particular merit of his own, had for some years enjoyed the sweets of life to a very high degree. In person he was short and broad-shouldered, with a round, rubicund face, and pale blue eyes, that were good- natured but not particularly intelligent in expression, and a smile whose vapidity was fortunately much concealed by a bushy auburn moustache. His mind was neither well edu- cated nor original, nor was his conversation in any way brilliant or remarkable. And yet he was, or seemed to be, a general favourite. The best houses were open to him — the best peojDle received him with open arms ; he had friends without number ; his table was littered with invitation cards, and he could have enjoyed any amount of hunting, shooting, and fishing at his friends' houses, had he chosen to do so, 68 Pure Gold. without ever paying a farthing for any of it. But, in truth, Oswald Power availed himself but little of these proffered delights ; he was a bad shot, an indifferent rider, and he pre- ferred to linger over a cup of tea in a lady's boudoir to all the best sport which the British dominions had to offer to him. The secret of his popularity was, no doubt, his brilliant prospects, about which he made no secret at all — he was sole heir to a million- aire, who was at the same time an octogenarian. So ran the story. He was — or would be shortly — one of the richest commoners in Eng- land, who, therefore, was likely to care or con- sider that his person was mediocre, and his intelligence below the average ! Meanwhile, neither was Oswald by any means a pauper — he inherited from his parents a fortune of eight hundred a year, upon which he managed to make a very good display indeed. He had rooms in Clarges Street, kept a brougham, gave little dinners to ladies at Hurlingham, or at the Orleans Club, sent about a good many bouquets and parcels of ten-buttoned gloves ; and he had even started a coach, which he drove very badly, in order that he might make himself thoroughly popular with the fair sex. Oswald Power was always falling violently in love ; unfortunately, or fortunately for the objects of his attachment, the attacks of the malady to which he so often succumbed were, although very severe, remarkably short, so that A Tete-d-tete Dinner. 69 they never seemed to end in anything. Before he had reached a satisfactory climax with one lovely woman, he would catch a glimpse of another who seemed to surpass her in beauty — instantly his volatile heart w^ould fly off at a tangent, and precipitate itself headlong at the feet of th^ fresh attraction, until she again, in her turn, w^ould be displaced by some other novelty. In this way Oswald kept hope alive in the hearts of a great many mothers and damsels, and, at the same time, preserved his own freedom intact. Once, and once only, had his fancy been of a deeper and more lasting nature, and that was last season, when for three wdiole months he had pursued Letitia Ormond, and in the end had actually proposed to her, and — had been refused ! After that unexpected slap in the face he was broken- hearted — for a month ! grew^ thin, and was unable to do justice to his dinner, until, burying the secret of his failure in his o^'n breast, he went abroad for change of air and scene. There he fell in with an Italian countess, for whose fair sake Letty w^as soon forgotten ; but as the Italian lady could not speak Eugiish, and Oswald knew very little Italian, that flirtation came speedily to an end, so that when he reappeared in Charges Street, early in the spring, the field of his affections was again quite clear for a new competitor ; and this time he fell iu love with Madeline Abbott. And Madeline knew what she was about. She was clever, far cleverer than any JO Pure Gold. woman lie had ever met hitherto, and she was well aware of the prize that had fallen into her hands. She set herself to work to befool him as he had never been befooled before. She led him on by a hundred arts and devices ; she bewildered him with her beauty ; she turned his head with her sweetness and graciousness — at times she froze him with her coldness ; at times she tantalised him almost to madness. But she kept him, and she slowly but surely drove him on. Then came Bella Malsham's revelation concerning the second nephew — and all of a sudden Madeline stayed her hand, and susjDended all her tactics. Was it possible that her pains and her time should become wasted ? that all those little lunches and din- ners which had been so frequently spread for him in Chester Square were to have been in vain ? But no ; Madeline was determined that, whatever might be the ultimate issue, her labours should not be altogether thrown away — if he could not be used in one way he should be in another ; meanwhile, she kept back her cards and waited — and her game became very difficult, indeed, to play. For it had come to this, that Oswald pressed for an answer, and Madeline put him, ofi' from day to day with- out one. When he came into the drawing-room at Chester Square, his eyes rested one moment in disappointment upon the figure of Colonel Abbott, and then sought hers in reproach. He had expected to find her alone. A Tete-a-tete Dinner. 71 But Madeline came forward and greeted him with such charming enthusiasm in her face and manner, that he had not the heart to be annoyed with her. " Ah, how good of you to remember my little lunch ! " she cried, giving both her white hands into his. " Do you suppose I could forget ? " he murmured, gazing rapturously into the shadowy depths of her beautiful eyes, which, because she was tall for a woman and he short for a man, were upon a level with his own. " Ah, all you men are so changeable ! " she said, lightly dropping her eyes, with becoming modesty, under his ardent gaze. ''Here, for instance, is papa, who ought to have been at his publishers, by appointment, at least an hour ago." Colonel Abbott had a fluent pen, and scribbled off a military biography occasionally, an occupation which his daughter made the very most off. '• Here is this naughty papa, who has actu- ally declared he would stay at home to meet you at lunch ! " And Madeline looked peni- tently at her suitor, as though to say, — " It is not my fault, he would stay to spoil our tete- a-teteJ' Naturally, he forgave her. ** I so seldom now have the pleasure of meet- ing you, Power," said the colonel, in his best company manner. ** I thought perhaps you 72 Pure Gold. and my girl would not object to an old fellow's society." *' My dear sir." " And I wanted to ask you to do me a great favour and kindness," continued the colonel. " I — I am sure anything I could do, I should be only too delighted," responded Oswald, with a rapid mental wonderment as to whether his di- vinity's father wanted to borrow money of him. " The fact is, I have a young friend up in town for a few days — young Heninker ; you don't happen to know him, do you ? " with a quick glance. Young Heninker was an habitue of the Octo- pus, and did not enjoy a very good reputation, even in that choice and select community. Oswald said " No ; he had never met him." " Ah ! well, his father was an old friend, an old comrade of mine, and I have asked him to supper with me to-night at my little club — a quiet, little place. Power — and if you would do me the kindness to join us ? " " My dear colonel, of course ; the kindness is all on your side," cried Oswald heartily. " The only thing is — " and he looked doubt- fully at Madeline — " I should like nothing better ; but I really don't know whether I ought — whether it would be considered inde- corous. The fact is, that 1 have just received news of my uncle's death." Quick as thought, the eyes of the father and daughter met in one telegraphic flash of comprehension. A Tete-d-tete Dinner. 73 In the father's eyes was an inquiry ; in the dauo'hter's an assent. "Dear, dear — how very sad ! " murmured Madeline ; and she sat down, but not a muscle of her face altered. " You will have to go to the funeral, Power ?" inquired Colonel Abbott, with kindly concern. '' Oh, of course, and to the readiuof of the will ; but I need not leave town till Thursday night. He will not be buried till Saturday." "I do not see that it need prevent your supping with me to-night, in a quiet way," said the colonel. Oswald seemed to hesitate. No doubt, a certain affectation of grief at the death of a relative, whose wealth was so greatly to enrich him, would be becoming, and the temptation of a supper with the colonel was not perhaps excessive, under the circumstances ; Colonel Abbott glanced at his daughter, and Made- line took in the situation, and rushed into the breach. " Now, that is too unkind of you, papa, to give horrid men supper parties, in which I cannot join ! If Mr Power accepts your in- vitation, I must positively insist upon his dining here with us first." " My dear, I'm dining with General Praed at the Piag " This, of course, Madeline knew beforehand. " Oh, what a pity ! But then," said Made- line, with her sweetest smile and an upward glance of her beautiful eyes, that sent the 74 Pure Gold. hlood in a whirligig to the young man's brain, *'then have pity on my solitude, and come and dine with me alone at eisfht. I will send you on to join papa at ten." *' Or rather, I will call for you here," amended the colonel, quickly. And so the bait havins^ been made attrac- tive enough, Oswald fell into the trap, and consented. At that tete-a-tete dinner, Madeline strained her powers of fascination to their very utmost. She knew now that in a few days, a week at the longest, her fate would be decided with regard to this man. At this very time, in- deed, he was either one of the richest men in London, and her own future husband, or else he was to count as nothing to her for evermore. It behoved her, therefore, to be wary and cautious ; she must establish her powxr over him entirely, and yet she must not yet resign her own freedom, or give him a word which she would find it afterwards difficult to with- draw. She had put on a dark, ruby-coloured dress, cut low at the neck, and displaying to the utmost advantage the exquisite fairness of her cream-white skin ; diamonds glittered in her black hair, and a row of single pearls were clasped closely round her full throat. There was a dangerous softness in her eyes, an unw^onted tenderness in her voice, a certain languor in her attitudes, that stole over his senses and bewildered him, like a draught of A Tete-a-tete Dimter. 75 honey-sweet poison. All the siirroimdings, too, of her little dinner-table were in keeping with the fascination of her presence. The shaded lights upon the table, the flowers with wdiich it was adorned, the dainty, well-chosen din- ner, the wine that was of the best, all added to the subtle charm that surrounded this woman, and rendered her society charming to him ; for Madeline was too thoroughly versed in the management of her victims to neglect one single detail that could serve in the re- motest decree to streng;then her bold over them. But thoug^h she had laid herself out to charm him, she was cruelly anxious. She could not, indeed, forbear from alluding to the subject that was uppermost in her mind. " There will be nobody at your uncle's funeral but yourself, I suppose ? " " Oh, nobody. It will be a horrible busi- ness." " You have a cousin, have you not ? " in- quired Madeline, intent apparently upon her rissole, and speaking in the most careless and unconcerned manner — "at least somebody told me so, I think." "Oh, poor young Eyre, you mean ? Yes. Do you know I am ashamed to say how little I know him. It must be two years since I have spoken to him ; but then he is a clerk or something in a city ofiice, and goes nowhere and knows nobody. What can one make of a fellow of that sort, you know ? It's no kind- 76 Pure Gold, iiess to ask him to dinner ; he is out of every- thing, like a fish out of water." " He is not likely, I suppose, to come in for any of your uncle's money ? " said Madeline, sipping her champagne with the air of a con- noisseur. " Do you not think this wine rather too dry ? " '' Not at all ; it's excellent — just what I like. AVhat were we talking of? Oh, poor Val Eyre. Oh no, poor beggar ! 1 wish he might get a legacy ; tut I am afraid he hasn't a chance. My poor uncle had a grudge against his father and mother. I don't think he has even seen Val for years. I must look him up, poor chap, and see if I can do any- thing for him." '' That will be kind of you," answered Madeline, helping herself to a Caille en Aspic. It was evident that Oswald had no fears with regard to his cousin ; but it was evident also that he was in ignorance of a fact which Madeline had learnt from Bella Malsham, that Valentine Eyre had spent ten days at Crag- stone Edge only this very Easter ! These things made Madeline thoughtful and slightly preoccupied. When the servant had left them alone, Oswald Power began to speak of the subject nearest his heart. He put forth his hand timidly across the corner of the table and laid it upon her wrist. " Madeline," he said softly, " are you going to give me your answer to-night ? " A Tete-a-tete Dinner. jy She did not move her hand, but her eyes fell. "You must not be angry with me," she murmured. ''Angry!'' " And you must have patience," with a smile. "And have I not been patient ? Oh, Made- line, surely I have earned my reward ? " Then she withdrew her hand suddenly, and shaded her eyes with it. The action was as though she wished to hide some emotion — that of o'atherino; tears — from his sio-ht. "'Do not blame me. I have not yet dared to break it to my father. I have not had the opportunity. If you understood the way in which he worships me ! It would break his heart to think of parting with me. Poor father, if you knew what a bitter blow it would be to him, and how hard I fiud it to bring him such a grief ! " "But indeed I do know; I do understand. Does not everybody see and admire your perfect devotion to your father ? Dearest, if I were to hurry you I should be brutal indeed. Only say that you love me, and I will be con- tent to wait. ' But she would not say it — not in words — only she flashed one bewildering look into his eyes that seemed to him in his infatuation to be an all-sufhcient answer. " I had hoped to have secured your promise to-day," he said caressingly ; " but never 78 Pure Gold. mind, I will be patient still, my queen, and wait for you ; and now I am bolder to offer you all I have, for I feel that, with the wealth which I shall inherit from my poor uncle, I can lavish on you everything that money can give. There is nothing on earth that my Madeline shall not have." She turned on him for a moment with flashing eyes. " You do not think that I should be influ- enced by that ? You do not think that I am so mean — so mercenary ? " "No, no ! God forbid ! " he continued hastily, believing her from the bottom of his heart. " I know that to you such a thought has never come ; but it will be a happiness to me to be rich for your sake." How sweet were these promises to her ears ! If only the uncle's will was as it should be — ah, if only ! She remembered the other nephew with a shiver, and turned the con- versation out of this too dangerously senti- mental channel. Upstairs she sang to him, wdth a rich con- tralto voice, scraps of Italian songs or plaintive German airs. He sat behind her and listened as in duty bound ; but he did not care much about music, and would sooner have talked to her ; but Madeline knew wdiat she was about, and considered that there had been talking enough. A week would decide every- thing now, and then, if all went well, she would keep him at arm's-length no longer. A Tete-a-tete Dinner. 79 Meanwhile music was useful. If a lady- volunteers to sing to a man, he is bound to listen to her ; he can do no less, but he can do no more. Osw^ald lay back in a low chair, smoked his cigarette, feasted his eyes upon Miss Abbott's perfect profile, and was silent. And then, in an incredibly short space of time, the tete-a-tete to which he had looked forward so rapturously was at an end, and Colonel Abbott came in to carry him off to his supper-party at the Octopus. " We w^ill have just a quiet rubber first, or a little game of ecarte,^' said the colonel, in his pleasant, friendly way, " just to give one an appetite for supper, you know." " With all my heart, sir ; but I'm a poor hand at cards," answered Oswald, readily. " Oh, for the matter of that, so am I, my dear fellow. I don't profess to play well at all. In fact, it's very good of anybody to take a hand with me. Now, let us be off. Good- night, my dearest child ; go and get some beauty-sleep. We mustn't allow your roses to fade, must w^e, my pet ? " A fond embrace passed between the father and daughter, wdiich Oswald Power, standing by, watched with eyes of admiration and sym- pathy. Surely so good a daughter would make a dear, good wdfe 1 And then he pressed her extended hand, and, with one glance of deep love and devotion, followed her father from the room. 8o Pure Gold. I.eft alone, Madeline had no tlioiiglits of going to bed. She replenished the fire ; went upstairs and divested herself of her handsome dress and her diamond ornaments ; then wrap- ping a loose, warm tea-gown round her, came dow^n again into the drawing-room, turned up the lamp, rang the bell, and told the servants to go to bed, and settled herself with a novel, and her feet on the fender, to await her father's return. And the hours went by slowly and silently into the early morning. The fire went out, but it was warm, and she had only needed it for company's sake. Her novel slipped down from her knees on to the floor, and she did not take the trouble to pick it up. She yawned, stretched her arms up over her head, and sat watching the clock. She wondered what was going on, and shivered a little as the thought came across her that her father's luck might be bad again. He was very late — later than usual. Now and then a carriage went swiftly by, or a sharp, lonely footstep rang along the pavement, then all was still again. At last a sound caught her ear — the small, scraping click of a key in the latch of the door. At last ! She sprang to her feet, and went to the top of the stairs. Her father was coming up. He was flushed, and a little disordered in his dress, but there was a look of triumph in his eyes. " Well ? " she said, breathlessly. A THe-d-tete Dinner, 8 1 " All right," he answered, laconically. " How much ? " " Five thou." " Did he— did he mind ? " " Pooh ! not a rap. What's that to an income of twenty thousand a-year ! " " Yes, if he gets it." " Oh, he seems sure enough. Good heavens, how tired I am ! It's been hard work, I can tell you." " Will he pay up ? " "Oh, of course. I've given him a week. Good-night, my child." " Good-night, papa." VOL. I. CHAPTEK VIII. HOW VAL TOOK THE NEWS. ALENTINE EYEE came rushing into Mr Malsham's office in the City one morning about a week later, considerably out of breath. An unusual thing had happened to him ; he was twenty minutes behind his time. It was a wet morning, and he had come by the underground railway. There had been a slight breakdown on the line, and the trains had been delayed. Valentine, who knew that Mr Malsham was extremely particular about the punctuality of his clerks, was in no way surprised to be met upon his arrival by a re- quest that he would at once go into the soli- citor's private room. " I know I'm horribly late," he said to his fellow clerk. " It's not my fault, though ; the train was delayed. Is Mr Malsham very angry?" ^ [ *'No, I don't think he is angry," answered How Val took the News. Z^ his fellow clerk, a youth who had sandy hair and a turn-up nose, and a peculiar fondness for nuts, which he kept continually in his pocket, and cracked at all times and seasons with his teeth. " He didn't seem angry at all. He only said you were to go in to him the instant you arrived." Not without trepidation, Valentine passed through the outer office, and knocked at his employer's door. In his hurry he did not even hang up his hat upon its accustomed peg, but carried it in his hand. It was a shabby hat, but its shabbiness was slightly concealed by a narrow hatband which, upon hearino^ from Mr Malsham of the death of his uncle, some vague feeling of respect and regret for the old miser who had passed away had made him get. " After all, he was my mother's brother," he had said to himself, as he turned into a hatter's in the Strand, so that this trivial sign of mourning; mio;ht be affixed to his attire. He carried it now in his hand, as he knocked at Mr Malsham's door. As he entered the room, he became imme- diately aware that the solicitor was not alone. A gentleman, of a florid complexion, and with very black hair and whiskers, rose from the further side of Mr Malsham's table, and made him a low bow. This struck Valentine as somethinor ludicrous, and the idea went throug^h his mind that the gentleman was mistaking him for some one else. However, he was so S4 Pure Gold. intent upon making his apology to his em- ployer, that he troubled himself no further concerning the presence of the stranger. " I am extremely sorry to be so late, Mr Malsham," he began hurriedly; ''but I can nssure you that it was not my fault at all. I came by the underground railway, and the trains were all delayed by a slight accident — " " My dear young friend, pray do not apolo- gise. What can it signify ? " and to Val's astonishment, Mr Malsham walked across the room and shook hands with him. Ever since his visit to Cragstone Edge, Mr Malsham had certainly been much more civil and gracious to his junior clerk; but that he should condescend to come forward and shake hands with him was something; so extraordi- nary that Valentine could only be silent from sheer astonishment. " Let me introduce you to Mr Gilfillan, of Carlisle — a great friend of your late uncle's — who is most anxious to make your acquaint- ance ; " and here Mr Gilfillan too came forward and shook hands with him, with absolute effu- sion. '' Sit down, sit down, my dear Mr Eyre," and Mr Malsham actually pushed for- ward his own leathern arm-chair from its place, and gently pressed his young clerk into it. " Mr Gilfillan and I wish to speak to you upon a most important matter." " Yes — please explain," murmured Val. "You know, my dear Mr Eyre, that I returned late last night from Westmoreland, where I How Val took the News. 8 5 went upon a most melancholy occasion — your poor uncle's funeral." **Mr Eyre ought to have been there him- self," said Mr Gilfillan, in a gruff, blunt voice ; *' he should have been there." " Certainly, certainly, so he would have been ; but our late dear friend w^as a most eccentric person, as you, my dear boy," half turning to Valentine, " must know. And he left, in a private letter of instructions to me, a special desire that nobody should attend his funeral but myself and Mr Gilfillan, who is co-trustee and executor with myself of his estate." *' Was not my cousin there ? " asked Valen- tine, in surprise. " No ; Mr Power was not present. He wished to come very properly — ahem — was desirous of showing all respect and so forth ; but after I had read your uncle's private letter, I telegraphed to him at once not to come. No, my dear boy, Mr Gilfillan and myself alone followed the mortal remains of your poor dear uncle to their last resting-place." Mr Malsham bowed his head, as thoug^h troubled with emotion, and was silent. There was a pause. Val, in fancy, w^as away up among the Westmoreland hills — he seemed to see, be- fore his eyes, the frowning grey stone tower, and the long white road by the side of the rippling lake, along which the melancholy little funeral cortege must have wound its slow way to the churchyard, far away upon the brown iirave 86 Pure Gold. moorside under Crao;stone rock. Fitting end to a loveless life ! he thought sadly, that such a one as Michael Gale should not have cared to have one of his own kith and kin — only these two strangers — to follow him to his ! Then Mr Gilfillan's voice broke in upon the silence, gruffly prosaic. " And after the funeral we read the will," he said, briefly. Valentine started. Since he had heard of his uncle's death he had not given one thought to his uncle's money, save to wonder once or twice, rather sadly, how soon now his cousin would marry Letty Ormond ; and if ever, in this new relationship to himself, he would come across her again. But now something peculiar in the looks which the two elder men bent upon him, struck him suddenly with a sense of bewilder- ment. Why did they look at him with that deferential expectant manner, as though they waited for him to ask a question ? Something startled him into a sudden excitement. " What is it ? " he said, looking from one to the other. '' Why do you both look at me so strangely ? Have you anything to tell me ? " " My dear young friend," said Mr Malsham, in his most mellifluous tones, " you must pre- pare yourself for a change — a wonderful change in your fortune ; and I hope you will never cease to remember, in your prosperity, that I have been your true and constant friend during How Val took the News. Sy the years of your adversity — that I have given you counsel and employment ; and that Mrs Malsham has invited you to her house." ''And I hope and trust, sir," — here inter- rupted Mr Gilfillan, rising and taking the young man by the hand — " that you will not withdraw your account from my house — I'm a banker in Carlisle, sir — and for five-and- fifty years your late uncle has banked with me and with my father before me, and I trust that you will extend to me the same confidence which he was good enough to repose in my bank." Valentine looked from one to the other in absolute bewilderment. Whilst each was urging some personal claim upon him, he himself was in ignorance of the drift of their words. He rose suddenly to his feet and shook him- self free of them both. " Tell me ! " he cried, " what is it ? What has happened ? Has my uncle, by any wonderful chance, left me a legacy ? " '* A legacy ! " repeated Mr Malsham with a smile. " He has left you an estate." " He has left me Crag-stone Edo-e ! " cried Val, with a flush. " Oh, how glad I should be of that ! " For the old tower in the north had struck a cord of sympathy in his heart. If it were his ow^n, Valentine felt he could love it and live in it — its solitude and its sadness agreed well with his own silent, self-contained nature. Oh, yes, if Michael Gale had left 88 Pure Gold. him Cragstone Edge, he would be grateful in- deed to him. Mr Gilfillan coughed behind his hand. *' Cragstone Edge would be of small value by itself," he said, dryly ; " though no doubt it is left to you, Mr Eyre. It comes in with the Westmoreland estates, which are of no great remunerative worth ; but there is beside the Yorkshire estate — " " And the Lancashire property, which com- prises two-thirds of the town of Preston," put in Mr Malsham. ** And the Cumberland estate, which in- cludes a vast tract of coal," remarked Mr Gilfillan. " And coal property in Durham and Derby- shire ; besides five thousand acres near Linford, in Lincolnshire," murmured Mr Malsham. "And a considerable accumulation in the funds," added Mr Gilfillan,— " in short, Mr Eyre, Mr Malsham and myself have en- deavoured to break the truth to you gently, fearing that too sudden a revelation of your good fortune might be too much for you; but the long and short of the matter is, that Mr Michael Gale has constituted you his sole heir." Valentine turned very ]Dale and sat down. " It's impossible ! " he said, turning to Mr Malsham. " It can't be right, you know — there's my cousin." Mr Malsham shrugged his shoulders. *' Your cousin, Mr Ej^e, had the ill fortune How Val took the News, 89 to offend your uncle — you, on the contrary, had the good fortune to jDlease him. The con- sequence is that, after your recent visit to him, Mr Gale tore up his last will and wrote in- structions to me to draw up a fresh one, leav- ing everything to you instead of to Oswald Power. This will was only completed ten days ago, and was signed by your uncle the very day before he died — " *' But has he left Oswald nothing ? — nothing at all f " repeated Valentine, incredulously. " Not a brass farthing ! " replied the solicitor, with another shrug of his shoulders. " What a shame ! — what a wicked shame ! " cried Valentine, indignantly, flushing hotly with wrath. The two elder men exchanged glances. This was certainly a singular fashion in which to take the announcement of great wealth. " I call it infamous ! " cried Valentine, ex- citedly, pacing up and down the room. " My cousin has been taught to consider himself my uncle's heir — he has been brought up with that idea. Something; must be done — cannot the will be disputed or something ? " Mr Malsham all but burst out laug^hing;. *' I don't see how you are to dispute a will made in your favour. Your cousin might do so, but he wouldn't have a leg to stand upon. I drew up the will myself; it was all in proper order, and was correctly signed and attested." 90 Ptnx Gold. " Then I must do something. Give him something — make him an allowance — he must have the half of it. How much is it, by the way { He stopped short, and confronted the two executors. " Well, we cannot exactly tell you at pre- sent. Everything, of course, will have to be gone into," said Mr Gilfillan, cautiously. " But I should say that your uncle's estate ought to bring in an income of betw^een twenty and thirty thousand a-year." Valentine groaned. "What on earth am I to do with it? I don't want it. I must give half of it to Oswald Powder." " You can do as you like, of course, Mr Eyre," said Mr Malsham, rather coldly ; " but if you will allow me to say so, I think all such ideas are rather Quixotic. Your cousin is not a pauper ; wh}" should he accept money at your hands ? His father left him an in- dependent fortune, and had Mr Gale made him his heir, instead of yourself, do you imao;ine for one moment that he would have relinquished any portion of it to you ? " Valentine appeared to be rather struck with this. He paced the room once or twice in silence. No, certainly, he reflected, Osw^ald Power, who, all these years, had done nothing for him — had not even troubled himself to inquire whether he was alive or dead — certainly he could not imagine for an instant How Val took the N'ews. 9 1 that had all this money gone to him he would have remembered to better, in ever so small a decree, the fortunes of the cousin whose existence he had so persistently ignored. But then there was Letty Ormond ! Letty, whom he was going to marry, and who loved money, and for her sweet sake surely some- thino^ could be done. He turned round, and paused in his troubled walk. " Have you any instructions that you wish to give me ? " inquired Mr Malsham, deferentially. The queerness in the sudden change of their positions hardly seemed to strike the clerk and his master, so soon does the human mind accommodate itself to fresh conditions of life. " Yes," replied Valentine, and glanced at Mr Gilfillan. The banker rose at once, pleaded another engagement, and took his leave. "Now, my dear boy, that we are alone, what do you wish me to do for you ? " said Mr Malsham, with an increased affability of manner. " A little advice, no doubt, from an old and valued friend." " I want you to draw up a will," said Yal, shortly. *' A will ? " repeated the solicitor, doubtfully. " Yes ; my will. There can be no difficulty, I suppose ? " " Oh dear, no ; none in the world, of course, if you wish it. But are you not rather in a hurry ? " " Not at all. Life is uncertain, and there 92 Pure Gold. is no time like the present. Do you wish to take my instructions, Mr Malsham ? " Insensibly Yal's manner was that, not of a clerk to his master, but of a wealthy client to his obsequious man of business. Mr Malsham sat down in his chair of office, and took up his pen. " If you will kindly allow me to jot down your directions, a will shall be prepared ac- cording to your instructions as Cjuickly as possible." " It will be very short. I wish to leave everything to Oswald Power." " But he is older than you are ; he w^ill probably not survive you." " Then his children are to inherit ; and I wish to settle forty thousand pounds ab- solutely upon his wife the day that he marries her." ''But," cried Mr Malsham, in despair, "he is not married ! and you may marry yourself ! " " I shall never marry ; put that down, please." " Is there nothino; else ? Who are to be the executors ? " " Yourself and Mr Gilfillan." ''No legacies?" " A thousand pounds to my great aunt. Miss Eyre, of Abingdon House, Hampstead. That is all. Everything else to Oswald, and fail- ing him, to his children." " But this is sheer madness ! " cried Mr Malsham, laying down his pen. How Val took the News. 93 " Not at all ; it is simple justice," replied his client. " I hope to make another will for you, my dear young friend, some day. You will marry, of course, and all this will count for nothing," said the solicitor, hotly. " I shall not marry," repeated Valentine ; aud Mr Malsham thought of his daughter Bella, and determined otherwise. " By the way," he said, suddenly unlocking a drawer in his writing-table, ''here is a docu- ment which, now that we are alone, I have to deliver to you. I found it amongst your uncle's papers. It is, I suppose, some private wishes that he desires you to carry out ; nothing of any importance, I imagine." Valentine took from Mr Malsham's hand a long, blue envelope, carefully sealed at the four corners, and addressed to him thus, — " For my nephew, Valentine Eyre, to be given to him, after my death, by Edward Malsham, when no one else is present." Val broke open the seals, and discovered a second envelope within, equally carefully fastened up. Upon this was written, — ''Valentine Eyre — to be opened when he is quite alone." Mr Malsham was watching him curiously. " I am to open it when I am by myself," said Val, and slij)ped the packet into his breast-pocket. " Ah — of no importance probably," said the solicitor, carelessly. "And now, my dear 94 Pttre Gold. boy, what are you going to do with yourself to-day ? " "Well, there are those letters to Smithson & Co., you told me to copy yesterday. I had better go and do them, I su]3j)ose," replied Valentine. ''My dear Mr Eyre ! you cannot mean such a thing seriously ! You are no longer my clerk — of course you can draw on me for any- thing you want, or upon Mr Gilfillan — in fact, he told me to assure you that there was plenty of money in the bank at Carlisle at your im- mediate service. You must not talk of copy- ing letters any longer." " I don't know — I'd as soon do that as any- thing else this morning, though, of course, I shall be glad of a little money if I can have it." " Certainly — certainly, but do let me ad- vise you to go and call on Mrs Malsham — go, and lunch, she will be delighted to see you, and she's just the very one to tell you what to do — put you in the way of changing your style of living, and so forth. A clever, prac- tical woman, and knows the right way to do things — would give you invaluable advice, I know ; just you go off and see her." " Many thanks, but I don't think I can call on Mrs Malsham to-day. I shall go and see my aunt, by-and-by, and meanwhile, I had de- cidedly rather copy those letters ; they are all tumbled up in my desk anyhow, and I should not like to leave them in disorder." " You will, at any rate, dine with us to- How Val took the News. 95 night," pleaded Mr Malsham. " We shall be quite hurt if you do not give us the great pleasure of seeing you at dinner on this, the first day of your prosperity." Valentine had no desire to subject himself to Mrs Malsham's council and advice, for he had not forgotten that lady's reception of him on the one and only occasion that he had presented himself at her house ; but at the same time he did not wish to be ungracious to ]\Ir Malsham, so he accepted the invitation. "Thanks, I shall be delighted to come — at what time do you dine ? " " Seven-thirty, sharp. It will be a real pleasure to wish you joy and to drink your health ; besides, there are many things you and I w^ill have to talk over." And then this sino;ular young; man went his way into the outer office, and sat himself down on his high stool before his desk, and set to work to his usual daily tasks, as Cjuietly as thoug;h Michael Gale's monev was nothing; to him. " I say," said his fellow clerk with the sandy hair, who sat on the next stool to his oavu, '* you've been a precious long time in the guv'nor's room. Did he blow^ you up much ? " " Not very much, Wright," said Val, with a smile. " Well, I'm glad of that," answered James W^right, pausing for half a second to demolish a nut shell before he added, " for I can tell 96 Pure Gold. you I've been quite in a stew thinking of how you were catching it from the old boy." " Thank you, that was kind of you," said Val, quietly. A silence, broken only by the scratching of pens and by the occasional crash of a nut shell. *' I say, Eyre." ''Yes?" " You don't happen to have fifteen bob about you, you could lend a fellow, could you ? there's that confounded Jew at the cigar shop at the corner keeps on dunning me. I could pay you back next week, you know." Valentine rose from his place and went and knocked at Mr Malsham's door. " If you please, Mr Malsham, can you give me a little money ? " " My dear Mr Eyre, of course ! I was on the point of sending for you to do so — here are two ten-pound notes I was just putting up for you." Valentine took the notes and went back to the outer office ; he folded one up inside his pocket-book, and then, blushing like a school- boy, he scrunched the other up and pressed it into Jim Wright's red hand, as he took his place again beside him. " Hallo ! what's this ? " exclaimed that gentleman as he stared down almost in con- sternation at the crisp bank note. '' "What the—" " Hush ! it's nothing," said Valentine stam- meringly. How Val took the News. 97 ** I — I only thought I should like — to — give you a little present before I leave." " You are going to leave ? " *' Yes — it's only a trifle — ^just to get yourself anything you want, and you can pay the cigar man, you know." Mr Wright, who was a philosopher, cracked another nut, and pocketed his bank note. Then presently he said rather unsteadily, as he looked down his snub nose at his writing. ** Thanks, old fellow. You're a good sort, you are, and if ever I can do you a good turn, I will." Valentine smiled. But James ^Yright never forgot that promise. VOL. I. CHAPTEE IX. A VOICE FEOM THE DEAD. OU must, of course, change your lodgings, Mr Eyre. It would never do for a gentleman in your position to think of living in the Fulham Road ! " The speaker was Mrs Malsham. The place was the front drawing-room of the house in Kensington Gardens Square. The time was after dinner, when the gentlemen had rejoined the ladies. Mrs Malsham, in her best ckiret-coloured satin, sat opposite him in a big arm-chair ; the two Miss Malshams flitted about in white muslin and blue ribbons. The heir of the house of Malsham, aged eighteen, lolled upon a sofa hard by. Valen- tine Eyre sat among them all, feeling rather strano^e and out of place. " What is my position ? " inquired Valentine mildly, with his quiet smile. ** Well — that of a gentleman of wealth — " *' I have always been a gentleman, I trust, A Voice fi'om the Dead. 99 even tIioug;h I have lived in the Fulham Eoad. Does the wealth make so very much differ- ence ? " "Oh, Mr Eyre, you do put things so funnily!" said Bella from behind him. Valentine half turned round and looked at her. She was a handsome, showy-looking girl, with red lips and round brown eyes ; she bad a certain bold, careless manner that, if it was somewhat vulvar, was also rather strikinoc. Her younger sister, Clementina, was a smaller and paler edition of herself. The two girls had seated themselves together on a sofa, with their arms fondly entwined around each other's waists. " Do ijou think I ought to change my lodg- ings. Miss Malsham ? " asked Val, with a smile. After all, he thought, the girls were kind and simple hearted. ** Oh, mamma knows best," answered Bella, with a playful toss of her full, square chin ; *' you can't do wrong in following her advice ; and you know it must be a poky sort of place where you live now. You ought to have good rooms in the Albany or in St James Street, — people won't notice you much where you live now." " Don't talk nonsense, Bella ; people will notice Mr Eyre wherever he may choose to live," said her mother, frowning at her. " I am used to be unnoticed," said Val simply. " I remember once standing in a corner of this very room — " loo Pure Gold, Mrs Malsham turned suddenly hot and cold. **Ah, my dear Mr Eyre," she cried, ''and you ran away from us so soon ! I remember well — I was so distressed to find that you had flown. I was so surrounded and mobbed by my guests. You know what these horrible receptions are, don't you % " *' No, indeed ; I never was at one before. But I think," with a kind glance at Bella, *' that Miss Malsham would have liked to have spoken to me." Bella blushed with pleasure ; and Mrs Mal- sham hastened to exclaim, *' Yes ; and I told her to go and introduce herself; but, silly girl, she was shy ! and then it was too late, for you had run away. I was so vexed ! " Valentine remembered quite well Mrs Mal- sham's whispered rebuke to her daughter ; but he only smiled and bowed. Meanwhile, Mr Malsham sat by and listened attentively ; he was a shrewd man, accustomed to study his fellow-creatures, and it struck him, as he noted his ex-clerk's quiet and composed words and manner, that he had to deal with a young man who was not at all of the nature that he had anticipated. The poor shy youth, whose very livelihood had depended upon him, who feared his censure and looked eagerly for his faintest word of commendation — was a very different sort of person to the man he bad now before him. Here was no weak malleable character, elated by a sudden accession to wealth, and dazzled by his own importance. A Voice from the Dead. loi Valentine Eyre was cool and collected — a little bit inclined to be cynical, and as much in com- mand of all bis sober senses as though he had no part in that colossal fortune which had just fallen so unexpectedly to his share. " Hang it all ! " said Mr Malsham to himself, as leaning back in his arm-chair he watched his guest through half-closed eyelids. " He takes it as coolly as if it was a five-pound note that had come to him ! His first impulse was in- dignation on Powers' account, and it beats me how he could have gone back to the office and done all that copying immediately after as if nothing had happened — and now he sits there with that odd smile listening to all the women say, but not attending to it one bit. I doubt if I shall not find him a very troublesome cus- tomer to manage ! " Then, aloud, Mr Mal- sham addressed his eldest daughter. " Bella, my love, give us a song," and as she moved obediently to the piano, he added, " that girl sings superbly, sir. I've spent a lot of money on her education — there's nothing she can't do — nothing ! She's a little wonder ! " Val murmured his respectful admiration of the little wonder, and from the back drawing- room Bella cried out coquettishly to him, fling- ing her head back over her shoulder, — " Come, Mr Eyre, and turn over my pages for me ; I know you adore music." ** Indeed, Miss Malsham, I understand very little about it," answered Val simply, but I02 Pu7'e Gold, going, nevertheless, at her bidding to her side at the piano. Bella had a powerful but rather harsh con- tralto voice. She sang with considerable ex- pression, but without much tenderness or grace. She selected a very impassioned love song, of which two lines seemed constantly to repeat themselves — " Come to me — thou shall be mine ; Do not reject me, for I am thine ! " she trolled out loudly and almost wildly. And truly, as she thought of Valentirje and all his^ thousands standing so close behind her, Bella was able to throw her whole heart and soul into these frantic appeals to an imaginary lover. Val turned over the pages, and quietly said, '* Thank you," at the end of the song. He knew, as he had said, but very little about music — as little, perhaps, as he did about young ladies ; but instinctively he disliked the song and the manner in which it was sung. " He isn't musical," said Bella to herself, and was too clever to repeat the experiment. She shut up the piano, and determined to try something else. Fortune favoured her. As Yal followed her into the front drawing-room, his sleeve caught in an elaborately-worked chair cover in lace and coloured silks, which adorned the top of a jprie-dieu chair. " How very awkward I am, Miss Malsham !" he exclaimed, stooping down to pick up the A Voice from the Dead. 103 fallen article. " I do hope I have done no harm to this truly beautiful and wonderful piece of work ? " '' Oh dear, no, Mr Eyre ! But do you really admire it ? 1 am so glad ; for it is my work, and I should be so very pleased if you would allow me to make you a set for your new rooms, you know." " Oh, I couldn't think of letting you take so much trouble for me ! " " It would be no trouble, I assure you — only the very greatest pleasure. Now, Mr Eyre, you really must not say no to me ; for I am too deliohted to have found somethino; to do for you. I will get the materials aud begin them to-morrow. Now do say I may ? " Val could only murmur a grateful assent, and Miss Malsham clapped her hands together in infantile glee. Oh, unlucky young man ! Little did he realise the long vistas of persecutions which that unguarded permission concerning chair- backs was destined to open out before his unwary steps. " I think Bella got on with him to-night," said Mrs Malsham to her husband late that night, when they found themselves in the privacy of the marital chamber. " Umph ! Bella will have a good deal to do before you can hope to call Valentine Eyre your son-in-law, my dear," replied her spouse dubiously. " He's a big fish, and will take a deal of landing." 104 Pure Gold. " Fm sure lie seems very simple and boy- isli," said Mrs Malsham. " I think he is less simple than you imagine. Upon my soul I " added the solicitor, after a moment's pause, " I can't make the fellow out one bit ; and yet he has sat in my oflice every day for eight years ! " Meanwhile Valentine was walking slowly homeward towards the Fulham Road. The silence of the dusky London night was grate- ful to him ; he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, and to realise the w^onderful change that had come to him. Of one thing he was quite sure — he regarded his accession to great wealth as a thing to be regretted rather than rejoiced in. " What am I to do with thirty thousand a-year ? " he said to himself over and over again, with a sort of comic despair, at which he was himself amused. Had his uncle left to him a modest inde- pendence of a few hundreds a-year, he thought he would have been happy and grateful enough. His utmost longings had never gone beyond a couple of hunters in the winter, a fair amount of shooting during the autumn months, or a run to Norway now and again in the salmon season. Had Michael Gale left to him sufficient to gratify these not very extra- vagant desires, he would have been right royally content indeed. He liked now to fancy how he would have planned and man- aged to make this small fortune yield him A Voice from the Dead. 105 the few things that he coveted. How he would have set to work to buy his hunters cheaply and to the best advantage ; how he would have rented that little bit of rough shooting in the north that had always struck his fancy ; how he would have bought a new gun, fitted himself out with a few new gar- ments, and above all, have found cash and to spare to purchase a few more much longed-for books I But what pleasure could he take in the colossal wealth which would enable him if he was so minded to purchase his hunters by the dozen, his guns and his books by the gross — when his shooting and his houses were all ready provided for him, and nothing more was left for him to long after or to desire ? " Man values most the things which cost him trouble to attain," said our philosopher to himself as he strolled slowly homeward. No doubt, he reflected, had he been brought up in anticipation of this tremendous wealth — as had been his unlucky cousin — no doubt then he would have been better prepared to receive it when it came to him. He would have ordered his life difl'erently ; he would not, for instance, have wasted his best years on a stool in a clerk's oflice — he would have made more friends, mixed more with his fellow-creatures, looked at life from a difi'erent standpoint, and done, in short, probably much as Oswald Power had done. But coming as it came to him now, Michael Gale's money found him alone in the io6 Pure Gold, world. One old woman at Hampstead was his only friend — one young one, who had once smiled upon him, and was promised to another, his only day dream. His strong contempt for his uncle's pitiful life and miserable death dis- inclined him, surely, from becoming a miser ; but neither did the tastes of his simple exist- ence, nor the bent of his mind, incline him to any wild or reckless extravagance. '' What am I to do with it all ! " he groaned half aloud as he put his latch-key into his door and entered the house where were his lodgings. He could think of only one thing that he was to do, and that was to remain unmarried, and to make that will in his cousin's favour, of which he had spoken about to Mr Malsham that morning, and which seemed to him only a bare act of tardy justice, which Oswald Power would have a good right to expect at his hands. As he went slowly up the narrow staircase he had no other thought in his mind but to do this. When he opened his door the lamp was burning brightly on the red-covered round table in the middle of his sitting-room. A tray, with a lemon and a bottle of soda-water, his nightly potation, was duly set forth at one side of it, and there, right under the radiance of the lamp's brilliance, lay a long blueish ob- ject — his uncle's private letter. He had not yet opened it. On leaving Mr Malsham's office in the morning, he had gone to visit his great aunt at Hampstead, coming home only A Voice from the Dead. 107 barely in time to dress for his dinner in Ken- sington Garden Square, so that he had pur- posely deferred opening his late uncle's letter — to which, indeed, he did not attach much im- portance — until he should come home. Now, it seemed to him, the time had arrived when it was fitting that he should read it. He took off his coat and hat, drew his arm- chair forward to the table, and broke the seals of the envelope. And this is what he read, — "My deae Nephew Valentine Eyre, — When you open this letter I shall be dead. Therefore I desire that, before you pro- ceed further with it, you will endeavour to realise that these written words are words spoken to you out of Eternity — that the voice with which I address you is a voice out of that Somewhere in which my everlast- ing spirit now dwells — that the things I am going to impress upon you are the last wishes of one who has put off mortal desires, and who, through this paper, reaches out once more to earth out of that great Unknown, where I am now hidden from your bodily eyes." Oh, solemn and awful words ! The hands that held the dead man's letter sank upon Val's knee ; his eyes gazed strangely and fixedly before him. The silence in the room was intense ; there was no sound but the tick- ing of the clock on the mantelpiece. The dark- ness of the nio'ht covered the face of the earth io8 Pure Gold. without — a stillness that was like a thick cloak seemed to fall upon his soul. At that moment it appeared to him, indeed, as if the spirit of his uncle stood face to face with him, and addressed him through the written words in' his hands, out of that immensity of the un- known world to which he had so lately been taken away. Filled with this solemn thought he resumed the letter. " Although I am appealing to you in this fashion, I am well aware that what I am go- ing to desire you to do has no legal force ; that many a man in your place would throw this letter, when read, into the fire, and go their own way, and forget both the writer and what he writes. But I do not think you will do this. I think you are honest, and that you have a conscience. Valentine Eyre, I charge you, as you hope for a dead man's blessing upon the wealth I have left you — as you wish to avoid a dead man's curse upon your life— I charge you, by the soul of your dead mother who, as you read these words, is with me in another World, I charge you to obey me ! " Again Val paused — half stifled with the weight of these tremendous adjurations — he drew a long shuddering breath, and passed his hand over his eyes ere he looked back once again to the letter. " I have left you sole heir to my wealth. You will be astounded — perhaps almost be- wildered — when the news is broken to you. In my will I have laid no conditions upon A Voice from the Dead, 109 you ; I have left you free as air, because I desire that the condition I am going to impose upon you shall be known to no human crea- ture but yourself, and shall form the link which binds your living self to my dead spirit. Eemember this, and listen. The reason for which I make you my heir is this : I see in you — I have gathered from your w^ords — a sympathy with my own nature and with my own prejudices that I have not found in my other nephew. You have been poor, but you have been honest and hard-w^orking. You despise the glitter of w^ealth, and the empty vanities of fashion ; you are free of false pride, and are self-sufficient to yourself; and above all — and it is for this crowning virtue that I rew^ard you — you hate and shun the company of women. All my life I have dreaded the influence of the other sex. I fear their ex- travagance and their dissipation ; I abhor their frivolity and heartlessness. I have remained single myself; it is my hope that you w^ill be wise, and follow my example. However, I impose nothing upon you. Marry, if you think w^ell to do so. Only, I desire that no woman shall have the powder to squander the gold that I have toiled early and late, through a long life of labour and 23riva- tion, to get and to keep. Therefore, if you do marry, this is what you are to do : — ''You are to draw up a deed of gift, on the eve of your marriage, w^hich you are to sign before proper witnesses, immediately I lo Pure Gold, after your return from the church where you are married, and this is what the deed is to comprise, — *' A gift of forty thousand pounds to your cousin Oswald Power. " A gift of three thousand pounds to Ed- ward Malsham. *' A gift of three thousand pounds to Thomas Gilfillan. " A sum of fifty thousand pounds to the said Edward Malsham and Thomas Gilfillan, in trust, for the building and endowment of a home for aged and decrepit bachelors in the county of Westmoreland. "You are to retain for your own, forty thousand pounds, and the property and Tower of Cragstone Edge, in Westmoreland. The balance of the property is to be divided equally between the county hospitals of the counties of Westmoreland, Cumberland, Lancashire, and Yorkshire. " That, in the event of your marriage, you should fulfil faithfully these conditions that I impose upon you is the fervent desire and the solemn injunction of your uncle who is dead, Michael Gale." The night wore away ; the grey dawn crept through the window blinds ; the sounds of awakening London began to make them- selves heard in the street without ; but still Valentine Eyre sat still at his red-covered table, with the dying lamp at his elbow A Voice from the Dead. 1 1 t nnd the message from the dead man in his hands. Then at last he arose slowly, like a man in a dream, and took from its shelf a small, shabby book — his mother's Bible. Then, holding it in his hand, he said aloud, very distinctly, — " Uncle, I swear to fulfil your commands to the letter. So help me God." He raised the volume to his lips, and then replaced it upon the shelf. Then he lifted his arms above his head, and drew a lonof breath, as though of intense relief. Later on in the day, Edward Malsham re- ceived a short note from his new client. "Dear Mr Malsham, never mind about the will. I've changed my mind. — Yours, " V. Eyre." *'AVhew!" breathed the solicitor, softly opening his eyes as he scanned it. ''So it seems that Mrs M. was rig;ht, and Miss Bella made more progress last night than I had imagined ! My young gentleman is no longer bent upon celibacy apparently ! " CHAPTEE X. I WOULD RATHEK DIE. H^EWS ! news, news ! " cried Ealph (t /^\4^ Ormond, aged sixteen, flourish- ^1^^^ ing the tongs about his head, as he sprang upon the study-table, and executed a war dance upon that ancient and venerable article of furniture. " News ! news for you girls, I tell you ! " '' You will break the table down, Ealph," mildly remonstrated Eita, a slight delicate- looking girl of seventeen, who sat in the window with a novel in her hand. " How can you expect the brats to learn their lessons with all this row going on ? " re- marked Letty, from the hearthrug, where, attired in one of the cook's aprons, she was down upon her knees, with a paste-pot and a pair of scissors, adorning a scrap-book wdth her own and her brothers' and sisters' last year's Christmas cards. " / would 7^atker ciieT \ r 3 "The brats" — generic term for the junior members of the Ormond fomily — looked up. the one from his slate, and the other from his Magnall's questions, and grinned. One of them was furthermore heard to murmur that he had no absorbing desire to learn his lessons at all. " Then you ought to have," replied Ealph, charging at him with the tongs from his vant- ag^e position upon the table. " When I was a little boy of eight years old, I loved my lessons. I used to cry if I wasn't allowed to learn a double quantity of them every day. They had to lick me every evening to stop me from sitting up till midnight doing multiplication sums, and tie me down in bed for fear of my getting up, in the middle of the night, to learn the dates of the kino-s of Eno^land." " What a pity you haven't retained a little more of the thirst for knowledge that distin- guished your early years," observed Letty, rather significantly, for Ralph, who went to a " crammer s " every morning in South Ken- sington, with a view to passing an examination for a clerkship in the Treasury, for which he had a nomination — was not specially famous either for industry or application. " But what about your news, Ralph ?" asked Rita ; " have you really anything to tell us ? and, if so, will it be of the faintest interest to anybody ?" " Except in the matter of sisterly sympa- thy, my love, it does not immediately concern VOL. I. H 1 1 4 Pure Gold. your lovely self — it has to do with the beauteous and accomplished elder sister, whom I now see crouching at my feet, with a smear of paste across her damask cheek." "Meaning mef" inquired Letty, without looking up. " Meaniug you ; oh, lovely Letitia ! " " Why, what can you have heard about me ?" said Letty, laughingly ; " has anything hap- pened to me without my knowledge ?" " Not to you ; but to one of your numerous lovers, my angel. We, inferior members of the family, scarcely apprehend whether this gentle- man is your accepted suitor or not — for your sake it's to be hoped not. Aha ! my lady, your cheeks are red ! I thought I should arouse the maiden blushes; and here's Eita, who has thrown aside her third volume ! So you wouldn't take any interest wouldn't you, young ladies ? I thought I should wake up Miss Conscience, when I talked about her lovers to her ; " and Ealpli indulged forthwith in a jpas seul upon the table. " Ealph ! you donkey, come down and leave off talking rubbish, and explain yourself if you can," cried Letty. " And do tell us what you mean about Letty's suitor, and why do you hope she hasn't accepted him ? " said Eita, eagerly, for not being allowed to come out herself, until Letty should be married off, she naturally took a deep interest in her sister's love affairs. Ealph let himself down with a thump into ** / would rather die!' 1 1 5 a sitting posture upon the edge of the table, where he remained swing-ino; his leo^s, and snapping the tongs together in an irritating manner. " Because his uncle is dead," he beo^an in a solemn and impressive manner. *' It's Mr Power then, you mean ? " said Eita. " His uncle has left him his money ?" said Letty, rather breathlessly, whilst her heart began to beat oddly. ** His uncle has cut him off with the muni- ficent sum of one shilling ! " responded Ealph, oracularly nodding his head up and down, and enjoying the sensation he was creating. Eita drew a long breathed " Oh — ! " but Letty looked away and said nothing. The brats nudg^ed each other and gii^g-led and whispered. These two young gentlemen — who went to a day school hard by in the morning, and learnt their lessons at home in the afternoon, in the dingy little back-room, with a ground-glass window, like a white blind eye, that went by the dignified name of the "study" — enjoyed at times a good deal of miscellaneous fun and excitement in the intervals of their sums and Latin exercises, for this little dingiest and shabbiest corner of the gloomy threadbare house in Bryanstone Square, where they had been all born and brought up, was often the favourite resort of the elder members of the family. Here, on a wet day — like to-day — or when unwelcome 1 1 6 Pure Gold. visitors detained Lady Helena upstairs, Letty would bring her " messes," and Eita her novel, and Ealph would saunter in to keep them all alive. Here took place toffee-makings and currant-cake bakings on the shovel, and here, there were afternoon teas of buttered toast and scones, the like of which were unknown in the large gloomy drawing-room above. Sometimes in the holidays, when the full complement of " brats " was made up by the presence of Teddy and Wilfred, the two schoolboys proper, now " mercifully," as Ealph often said, absent, the fun would wax fast and furious in the back study ; but at all times of the year little Jim and Tim had very fine times in the afternoons in the little dingy room when any of the elders favoured them with their com- pany, and they picked up a good deal of extraneous information — social, moral, and metaphysical — which had very little bearing upon Latin declensions or the exact rendering of the multiplication table. They had known all about Oswald Power's courtship of their pretty elder sister — what little boys of eight and ten, thus initiated into the ways of their elders, would not ? — they knew he was " beastly rich," and had hoped, if he married Letty, he would tijD them well and take them to the pantomime next winter ; and they understood that Letty was somehow under a cloud about him now, and that mother and aunt had scolded her till she had cried one day. They didn't know quite what had '' / W02ild rather dieT 1 1 7 happened, but they were inclmed to thiuk — for girls are seldom divinities to their younger brothers — that Oswald had thought her rather " a duffer," and had not in consequence defi- nitely " popped the question," much to her own and their mother's disoaist. They whispered together quite eagerly now. They were sharp enough to understand that if Mr Power wasn't " so very rich," mother and aunt wouldn't let Letty marry him, and tips and pantomimes and heavy wedding-cake faded away together into dim unreality. " The money has all gone to some cousin of his whom nobody ever heard of," announced Ealph presently, keeping up a pleasant jingling accompaniment with the tongs. Letty, who had been carefully contemplating a red Bohemian glass atrocity, much esteemed by her in childhood, that stood on the mantel- piece, dropped it with a snap that might easily have broken this venerable relic, and turned round with a start. " What ! But how on earth do you know all this, Ealph ? You must give your authority. How can you possibly have heard it all?" " Did you not remark that the visitors' bell rang twenty minutes ago ? it was our beloved and aristocratic aunt — such an advantage, dearest brats " — waving his arm in the direc- tion of the two small boys who were, needless to say, listening hard — " such an advantage to you, my innocents, to have a mother and an 1 1 8 Pure Gold. aimt of sucli aristocratic orioin — thank Pro- vidence, my infants, for tliis inestimable blesbino;." " Oil, Ealph, do go on ! " interrupted Rita. "Patience, dearest sister, is the keystone of wit, which is to say, being interpreted — hurry no man's cattle. Well, I was on the upper stairs, from whence 1 witnessed the arrival on the scene of our adored and beautiful aunt — she came in like this — " Here Ralph jumped off the table, tucked his coat-tails under his arms, and began stepping on tip-toe daintily across the room, with his chin well in the air. The brats laughed till they nearly tumbled off their chairs. Even Letty and Rita joined in the hilarity, for Ralph's mimicry was admirable. " That's the way her ladyship came up, mincingly, with her lips tight together, and her eyelids winking away like fun. I could see something was up. She went into the drawing-room, and left the door ajar, and so 1 ran downstairs to the landing, and — " " You listened outside the door, Ralph ! " cried Letty, reproachfully. " My angel ! I merely paused upon the landing to study the marble bust of Minerva — on the table outside the door — a work of great art, I assure you, wdiich was presented to our fatlier by a great Italian sculptor." " You listened ! " repeated Letty. " Beauteous sister, why these dark suspi- cions ? Providence has beneficently endowed ** / zuould rather die'^ 1 1 9 me with ears — they are neither large nor un- wieldy — like Eita's, when she forgets to pull her hair over them ; but they are sharp. How can you blame me for making use of the talents with which nature has endowed me ? " Letty could not help laughing, whilst Eita urged Ealph to go on, and tell them what ho had overheard. " Well, I heard old Corny telling the mater that Oswald Power was left without a penny, and that the old miser had left all his money to the cousin. She had it on the best authority, she said — on the very best authority;" and, again, Ealph half-closed his eyelids, and nodded his head up and down, pursing up his lips in exact imitation of his mother's sister — who certainly was no favourite with these ungrate- ful young people ; " and then she called mother her ' dearest Helena,' and kissed her a great deal, poor mother ! then they both said they had had a providential escajDC — I don't quite understand why, and that Letty was a dear, good, sensible girl — so you are in favour again — and nothino; could be more fortunate than something; — Hark ! there's the drawino'-room bell — that's for you Letty, or I'm a Dutch- man !" Five minutes later, having hurriedly washed her hands and face, and divested herself of the cook's a23ron — Letty presented herself upstairs. Lady Helena lay on the sofa, holding a handkerchief to her nose — there was a strong I20 PtLve Gold. smell of ether and eau de Cologne in the room, — which Letty, from force of long custom, understood to indicate one of her mothers attacks of the nerves. Lady Helena was a pale, faded woman, who had once been pretty, but was now a mere w^ashed-out shadow of her former self. She suffered much from depression and low spirits, and had no strength of character to struggle against her malady. Her strong-minded sister was the pillar of strength against w^hich she propped up her existence. She beckoned Letty to her sofa, and kissed her fondly. Lady Cornelia was pacing up and down the room. " Your dear aunt has brought us wonderful news, my dear Letty,'' said her mother. " It seems that we have been all mistaken." " Yes, I w^as mistaken — I own it, Helena — you need not reproach me — the best of us are liable to error — " "My dear, I don't reproach you," murmured Lady Helena, almost in tears. " I am sure you are hardly ever wrong." "Well, this time I am rio^ht enouoh. I have it on the best authority — the very best." Letty could hardly help laughing. Lady Cornelia looked so exactly like Ealph as she said this, nodding her head and pinching up her lips. " It appears," she said, turning suddenly and almost fiercely upon Letty, " it appears " / would rather die!' 1 2 1 that we have all been mistaken, and that young Power was nothing but an impostor after all ! " '' An impostor, aunt ? What can you mean ? " queried Letty, quite sharply. ''There was a mistake," murmured Lady Helena, apologetically. " No doubt the poor fellow—" " A mistake, indeed ! " interrupted Lady Cornelia, tossing her head. " A pretty mis- take to come into people's houses passing him- self off as heir to a large fortune, and allowing parents w^ith marriageable daughters to ask him to dinner, and show^ him all sorts of civilities ; and now it turns out that he is nothing but a WTetched, miserable pauper ! I call it a fraud, Helena — a fraud upon society ! " " It's a pity, certainly," murmured Lady Helena, meekly acquiescent as usual. " What a sinful, wicked voung man ! " here remarked Letty, with that perfect gravity of manner which always made Lady Cornelia feel uncomfortable. This girl was the only one of her sister's children whom ever she had had any trouble with. She looked up at her quickly. Letty's grey eyes expressed cjuite an intense horror at Oswald Power's conduct. The lines of her mouth were grave and serious. Was she in earnest? Lady Cornelia wondered; or was she secretly laughing at her ? She could not tell. '• Well," she said, rather uneasily, " it 122 Pure Gold. certainly does almost amount to wickedness, for he might have done incalculable mischief ; but for your good sense, dear child, and for your cleverness in guessing that all was not quite so safe as everyone supposed, for no doubt, you sly puss, you did guess it — " " Of course ! I had it on the best authority," said Letty, demurely. " But for that," went on Lady Cornelia, as though she had not heard this irrelevant observation, " you would have now been — " ''Utterly lost," suggested Letty. " Well — yes — one may say so, for his uncle has left him nothing — absolutely nothing ; and beyond a few hundreds, which no doubt the wretched young man has utterly squandered, he can have nothing to call his own but a mass of debts — he always was recklessly ex- travagant ; well, we are well rid of him. I am sure I don't know what anyone ever saw in him." " He is certainly not good looking," said Lady Helena. " Nor clever," remarked her sister. "His manners are quite unpolished." " Quite the worst mannered young man I ever came across." "And so egotistical." "Oh, he was most conceited — an insuffer- able puppy, in fact." Here Letty laughed shortly. " Poor Mr Oswald Power 1 " she cried ; " and only yesterday he was the petted favourite of ' ' / would rather die^ 123 society. Everyl3ody worshipped him ; no party could be j^erfect without him ; no woman so to be envied as the one he chose to smile upon ! " " Well, my dear," said her aunt quickly, with rather a heightened colour, " if other people change their opinion about him, you, at all events, have always thought the same of him ; you have always been against him, even before he had the impertinence and audacity to propose to you ; you used to turn your back upon him, and snub him in every possible way ; you cannot deny that you dislike him thoroughly." " On the contrary," cried Letty defiantly, " I never liked him so much as 1 do now that he is in trouble." Lady Cornelia literally jumped in her chair ; and even her mother uttered an exclamation of dismay ; the two ladies exchanged glances of horror and amazement. Was it possible that this incomprehensible and perverse girl was actually going to fall in love with Oswald Power, now that he wasn't worth a brass farthing ? Can anybody ever be up to the contrarniesses of young women ? thought Lady Cornelia, with a groan. " She cannot mean it ! " murmured the girl's mother, almost in tears. " But, Letty, you must be mad ! " exclaimed her aunt, despairingly. " Why, you knoiv you always liked that other young man the best, the other nephew, that good-looking, pleasant-spoken Mr Valentine Eyre, to whom 124 Pttre Gold. old Mr Gale has left the whole of his large fortune." It was Letty's turn now to jump. " Oh, has he really, really left him every- thing ? " she cried excitedly, clasping her hands together, whilst her eyes danced, and the bright colour leapt into her face. " Yes, everything. I have it from the best authority ; from Mr Malsham, who is my man of business, and who is also one of Mr Gale's executors. There can be no doubt about it. Valentine Eyre comes in to every farthing of his uncle's money." " How very, very glad I am," cried Letty, clasping her hands together, with kindling eyes. Then Lady Cornelia glanced at her sister. Poor Lady Helena seemed to pluck up her courage ; there was something evidently that it was now her duty to say. She began hesitatingly, — " We have been thinking, dear — your aunt and I ; we thought we would suo^o;est a little graceful action to you. As you and tliis young man have known each other as children, and as he seems that he is such a delightful person — so very desirable an acquaintance in every way ; in fact, as you know him — he might be gratified — it might be a kind thing to do — " Poor Lady Helena blundered on hopelessly, getting into a perfect fog of embarrassment. She looked helplessly at her sister, who here rushed in to the rescue. " Li short, Letty, we think you ought to * ' I wotdd rather die. " 125 write to this young man, and congratulate him on his good fortune, and tell him to call here and make your parents' acquaintance." Lctty coloured up to the roots of her hair. " /," she repeated, looking at them both strangely, "I write to Valentine Eyre, and ask him to come here ! I wonder you dare ask me to do such a thing, Aunt Cornelia. You, who turned him out of your house in the north when he came to call on you, not more than a month ao;o ! " It was Lady Cornelia's turn to colour. "Dear me, Letty, you use very strange words, I think. Talk about ' daring ' to me, and telling me that I turn people out of doors." "You boasted of it to me when I came in." " Well, tlie circumstances were very differ- ent then. The young man was a nobody ; one knew nothing about him. How could I tell what sort of a character he mig;ht be ? " " That is to say," cried Letty indignantly, with an angry wave of her hand, " that he was poor then, and now he is rich. It seems that, when you are poor, you are wicked in this world, and wdien you become rich, you also become virtuous. Poor Oswald Power, who used to be the text of all your sermons to me, is now" everything that is bad in your eyes ; extravagant, ugly, bad mannered, con- ceited, and stupid. Do you remember, Aunt Cornelia, how yoM used to cry him up to me last season, till I loathed the very sound of his name ? Or. perhaps, you have conveniently 126 Pure Gold, forgotten all that. It is for him I feel now ; to him I feel inclined to write, not for my own sake, but for Madeline Abbott's, to whom I believe him to be engaged ; for I am sorry for them both." " Pooh ! don't waste pity on Miss Abbott, my dear. She will not think of marrying him now." " I have a better opinion of her. Do you suppose that she could be so base as to throw over the man she loves because he is less rich than she expected ? I should despise her for ever if she did so ! " Lady Cornelia laughed softly. " Madeline Abbott has common sense, my dear, which you have not. I happen to know that she will not marry Oswald Power." " I had rather not discuss the question," answered Letty hotly. " You do not under- stand Madeline Abbott." Lady Cornelia laughed. " That is neither here nor there, Letty. We have nothing to do with Miss Abbott and her o love affairs ; will you please do as your mother and I tell you, and write a note to Mr Eyre ? " Letty looked at her oddly. " No," she answered, '•' I will not write to him." " My dear, why on earth not ? it would be the most natural thing in the world." There was a look in the girl's eyes she did not like. Lady Cornelia was inclined to be conciliatory. ' ' / would rather die. " 127 " Yes ; it would be, as you say, most natu- ral," answered the girl strangely; "we were friends as children — shall always be friends, I hope — had you been kind to him, aunt, when he was poor that day he came to your house — had you even behaved to him like a lady — " '' Letty ! " " Then I would have written to him," she continued, reckless of the interruption ; " but, as it is, as you were rude to him when he was poor and friendless, and turned him out of doors without even offering him lunch — well, as it is — I would rather die ! " The door closed behind her and she was gone. '' That is a dreadful girl ! " said Lady Cor- nelia to her sister, looking rather white and uncomfortable — but she did not again ask Letty to write to Valentine Eyre. CHAPTER, XL THE COUSINS. '^''^^S^N his handsomely- furnished rooms ^if in Chirges Street, sat an exceed- ingly miserable young man. Every- thing about him denoted luxury and prosjDerity, rich satin draperies hung at the windows, and over the doors, handsome velvet couches and arm-chairs, and fine inlaid cabinets furnished the room ; valuable water- colour pictures hung upon the walls ; a few rare bits of china stood upon the mantel-shelf. The tables w^ere littered with expensive nick- nacks, and through the half-drawn portiere that led into the bedroom beyond could be seen a dressing-table set out with gold and silver- topped bottles, and strewn over with jeweller}^ of considerable value. There was a card-bowl filled to the brim upon the table, and a great number of invitation cards and notes were stuck against the frame of the mirror over the firej)lace. The Cousins. i 29 In the midst of all this luxurious disorder sat Oswald Power, with his head on the table, buried in his outstretched arms, a picture of absolute heart-broken despair. For he was ruined, indeed ; ruined in his fortune and ruined in his love — and, to do him justice, he felt the latter sorrow the worst. Between his clenched hands there was clasped a crushed-up scrap of paper which had come to him by last night's post, and which had put the climax to all his woes — he told himself that he could have borne all save this ; but that this last blow was the worst of all — that it would kill him. He had loved — or fancied he had loved — many times before ; but this last love had seemed to him to have been the strongest and most absorbing of all. He thought over her beauty and graciousness — he recalled the lines of her grand figure, the flash of her wonderful eyes into his, the melodious tones of her sweet, soft voice, until these memories seemed well nigh to madden him, for she had thrown him over basely and cruelly — and, in spite of all his love, he perceived for the first time that she was unworthy — his idol was not only lost to him, but shattered and fallen for ever. He lifted up a face white and haggard with misery and sleeplessness, and groaned aloud, — "And I owe her father ^n^ thousand pounds ! " he cried aloud. '' Where am I to get as many shillings ? If I could only pay him off I could breathe ; but to remain in his debt VOL. I. I 130 Pure Gold. after this — this from her — will choke me ! I do not suppose there is one among all these fine-weather friends who have sent me so many invitations ; and been so glad to see me, who would lend me five pounds to-day ; and these sharks of tradesmen will be down upon me for their money from every direction. I shall have to bolt, for I sha'n't be able to pay them ; and goodness only knows what will be left for me to live on ; but if I could pay Colonel Abbott, I should not mind." Once more he dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He was right ; out of all the hundreds of men who had smiled upon him in his prosperity, who had grasped his hand in hearty greeting, who had pressed him to dine at their tables and to stay in their houses, not one had written him one line, or made him one offer of sympathy or help in his adver- sity. In twenty-four hours the news had flown like wildfire all over the town — that Oswald's old uncle had left him nothing ! Already it was the talk of the clubs, and the gossip of the drawing-rooms in which he had ever been so favoured and welcome a guest. Already men and women had begun to shake their heads over him — they had never thought much of Oswald Power ; he had had no business to reckon on his uncle's money, and to pass him- self off for a rich man ; the tide had turned against him. They repeated, as Lady Cornelia had done, that he was conceited and empty . headed ; that he had bad manners and a worse The Cousins. 131 disposition — in short, what anybody had ever seen in him to like was inconceivable — they, for their parts, had always thought there w^as something not altogether nice about him, etc., etc. Poor Oswald Power ! his day was over, his glory was at an end. Many an ivory and tortoiseshell-handled penw^as scratched through his name that day in many a gilt-edged, Russia leather - visiting book; from many a dainty drawing-room, where he had so often whiled away his idle hours, sipping tea out of fragile cups, teasing the pug, winding up scattered wools, and flirting pleasantly with the fair owner the while, — from many such a room was he henceforth to be for ever banished, and his place was to know him no longer. As to helping him, or lending him money, or offering to buy his pictures and his china, his horses and his carriages at a good price, — do you suppose that one of them would have lifted a finger to do him a good turn of the kind ? No, not one. Here and there some one kinder hearted than the rest forebore to throw a stone at the fallen one, and murmured a brief reg;ret over the chano-e in his position. But even to these he had become a fallen creature, and as such, best forgotten as soon as possible. Whilst there was one man — one who had seemed his friend — whom, had all gone well, w^ould have been his nenr relation, who went about complaining openly and loudly of his wrongs. 132 Pure Gold. " Hang it, sir ! " this gentleman was saying over and over again to his friends and ac- quaintances, "the fellow owes me money — a considerable sum of money, sir ! I'm not a rich man ; I can't afford to lose it. I've a daughter to think of, you know. I must get that money out of him somehow — the unprin- cipled young scoundrel ! " and the acquaint- ances considered that Colonel Abbott was very much to be pitied indeed. As to Oswald Power's fashionable and hitherto lonsf-sufferino; tradesmen, vou should have seen how they all took out their books on that particular morning, and how glibly they all made out their accounts, and what a hurry of consternation they were in to send off their little bills. There was the tailor and. the hatter and the hosier, and there was the jeweller and the florist and the perfumer. There was really quite a little commotion in the usually tranquil establishments appertaining to each of these good gentlemen to-day ; for if rats forsake a sinking ship, vultures are not behindhand in swooping down fiercely upon the wretch who stumbles and falls by the roadside of life, and lays himself down to perish of his despair. The friends had left him. The air was darkening already with the birds of prey that came howling about him in his destitution and his loneliness. So Oswald Power sat alone in his misery, and knew not where to turn or what to do ; even his landlady had scowled as she brought The Cousins. -^zz up his morning tec% and had set down the tray with an angry datter by his bedside, for she was thinking of her rent, and that reflection effectually stifled every feeling of compassion and sympathy within her. For however much we may gloss it over, and however strenuously we may strive to shut our eyes to it, there remains one great fact that is incontrovertible in the philosophy of this world. The rich man has many friends, the insolvent man has nothing but foes ; and that is wdiat makes us all so bad and base and mean ; that renders society such a sham and a cheat ; that makes Englishmen — as Thackeray has told us that we are — a nation of snobs ; that vile thinof that blackens our lives and hardens our hearts, and ruins all our noblest instincts — the love of gold ! " God made gold ; but gold is the god that man has set up." And as he sat there, a ruined and miserable man, there came a ring at his door. " A gentleman, sir, to see you," said his landlady, flinging wide open his door. Oswald sprang to his feet. "Oh, I can't see anybody ; say I'm out ! " he exclaimed, hastily, for his imagination flew at once to some persecuting dun come already to demand money from him. The landlady possibly thought the same, and rejoiced grimly thereat, for there was a glimmer of fiendish satisfaction in her eyes. *' Too late, sir ; the gentleman wouldn't take no refusal. He is following me up the stairs. 134 Pure Gold. You'll have to see him ! " she added, with a decided lack of her customary respect ; and standing back, she ushered into the room a youDg man whom, at the first moment, Oswald did not think he had ever seen before. He looked at him curiously, and somewhat uneasily. The stranger waited until the linger- ing landlady had shut the door, then he held out his hand. " Oswald, do you not know me ? " " You are Valentine Eyre," said the other, with a sudden flash of recognition ; but he did not hold out his own hand. "Won't you shake hands?" asked Val, almost pleadingly. "I don't know why I shouldn't," said Oswald, gruffly ; " though I really don't quite see what you have come for." Val glanced round the room, — he had had a slight trouble in discovering his cousin's address ; his club he had known of, but not his private rooms — and as his quick eyes took in the details of the rich and luxurious sur- roundings, the like of which in a bachelor's habitation he had certainly never seen before, it did come across Val's mind to remember that, during all his weary years of toiling by day in a city office — of long solitary evenings in his shabby lodging in the Fulham Eoad — Oswald Power had never once stretched out a friendly hand to him ; never asked him within his doors ; never offered him so much as a glass of water in hospitality. The Cousins, 135 Having looked round the room his eyes came back to his cousin's face. There was no mistaking the look of despair and misery there. Oswald had the appearance of a man who had been awake all night, and his white face and haggard eyes gave sufficient evidence of the condition of his mind. '* This is a bad business, Oswald." The other laughed shortly. " I don't see that you have much cause to say so ; it's all to the good for you as far as I can see." " I don't think so ; I never wished to be very rich, though I should have been glad to be made independent. But it is very hard upon you. One does not wish to judge the dead ; but — " " Oh no, pray, don't ; what does it signify ; it can't be helped or altered now." " No, it can't be altered," repeated Va], gravely ; and if Oswald had cherished any secret hopes that his cousin was quixotically disposed to hand over part of his fortune to himself, these hopes were hereupon put to flight. " Well, then, what is the use of talking about it ? I daresay you came here to say you were sorry for me ; but I don't want your pity. I daresay I shall get along all right." " I didn't come to otter pity, only to see if I could help you. 1 mean, of course," he said quickly, with a flush, " in case you are in any temporary embarrassment. I know 136 Pure Gold. that you are quite independent, and have plenty of money to live on ; but I thought perhaps this unexpected change in your pro- spects might cause you some annoyance. You may have reckoned upon it ; overdrawn your balance ; got into debt ; heaven knows what ; may I not help you if this is the case ? " " I do not want your help," began the other, coldly and ungraciously ; and then a sudden thought of Colonel Abbott and the five thousand pounds rushed into his mind ; it was like the grasp of a rope to a drowning man. " Yet stay," he said, turning round quickly upon his cousin ; " do you really mean what you say, I wonder ? " There was an anxious, troubled look in the eyes he fixed upon him. " Oswald," said Yal, simply, " we are strangers, and yet we are cousins ; blood is thicker than water, they say, and our mothers were sisters ; you look like a man in grievous trouble, whom should you come to, if not to me? Be generous to me, and let me help you!" Oswald Power was neither clever nor noble minded, but somewhere or other beneath his foolishness there was a soft spot in his heart. He could not but be touched by this appeal ; could not but see that there was no unreality in Yal's ofi'er of help. A sudden burst of con- fidence moved him to put his hands out to the younger man. '' Ah ! " he said, " you cannot help me with The Cousins. 137 the worst of my trouble ; and yet there is something you could do for me if you would. I would not ask you if it were only for the money, but it is for honour too." Val looked sympathetic and full of interest. " You are a good fellow, I do believe, Val- entine," continued Oswald, with a ghost of a smile. " You must think me an UDmannerly brute, and that I grudge you your good luck ; but you would forgive me for my bad temper if you knew all. Look here," he continued, after a pause, "it is not only money — though that is bad enough, for I am pretty near broke and in debt all over the place — but there was a woman I loved." Poor Oswald ! once launched upon this subject, his secret flowed easily from his breaking heart ! His voice trembled, and his eyes grew thin and blurred as he spoke of it. "A girl whom I was to have married ; whom I thought good and true." " Yes, yes," murmured Val, with a strangely beating heart. '' I thought that she cared for me — for me — TYiyself, you understand — not for any money that 1 might be going to have. Her eyes were so loving, her voice so tender. Ah, if you had seen her, you would have believed in her too 1 " "Yes," he murmured once more, with a faint sickening dread at his heart. " And now," continued Oswald, desperately, " now, because I am disinherited — because I am poor — she has thrown me over." 138 Pure Gold. " Oh no, no, no ! " cried Valentine, with a passionate reiteration of denial. " No, it can- not be possible. You must have misunder- stood her ; there must be some mistake." " Mistake, indeed ! " repeated the other, with a bitter laugh. " Not much mistake about it, I fancy. Eead that." He tossed the little crumpled-up note into his cousin's hands. Val opened it. He had turned very pale. This is what he read, — '•' I have just heard the dreadful news, and I write at once to give you up for ever. Poverty would suit neither of us. You pressed me yesterday for an answer, and this is my answer. Do not think me un- kind ; I have my duty, as a daughter, to consider. Under other circumstances we might have been happy together ; as it is, let us remain good friends, but remember that we can never be anything more." There was no signature. Valentine sat staring blankly, hopelessly, at this hand- writing, which he had never seen before, till the words danced confusedly upon the white paper before his eyes, and the writing, bold and large in character, burnt itself for ever into his memory. In a moment he was far away from Clarges Street and Oswald Power ; floating on a blue, rippled AVestmoreland lake ; and before him there gleamed a sweet, girlish face, with earnest, grey eyes, whilst a clear voice seemed to ring once more in his ears. The Cottsins. 139 " You see it is the way we are all of us brought up, we girls, now-a-days." It was Letty's voice that seemed to say this to him over again. False, heartless, and mercenary ! Had she said to him — to Valentine Eyre — " I can never love you — never be yours," that he told himself would have been easy to bear. But that he should behold her revealed to his eyes in this horrible, this degrading, character, this seemed to him to be an agony that was almost intolerable. Death may take our dear ones, and their places may be filled up in our hearts, but never, never again can life restore to us the broken hopes, the shat- tered illusions, of our youth's fond imagin- ings. These things once slain, have perished for ever. These are griefs for which there is no healing, wdiich leave a scar that time has no power to obliterate. " That is woman's love ! " interrupted Os- wald, with a scornful laugh breaking in upon his reverie. '' My dear Valentine, you are a wealthy man, and I am a ruined one, but I am older than you, and I've seen the world, and you have not yet entered upon it. Let me give you one piece of useful advice before you do so. Don't put your heart at the mercy of a woman. If you do, you will re- pent it, as I do to-day." But Oswald had said this many times about many women. At this moment, it was Val- entine who suffered the most. 140 Pure Gold. " It is sad — very sad," he said, as he gave him back the note, nothing doubting but that it had been written b}^ Letty Ormonct, between whom and his cousin he had Lady Cornelia's authority for believing there had existed an engagement. " You are right, Oswald. I cannot help you there ; I can only pity you. Let us not speak of it. Tell me rather w^hat it is that I can do for you." "It is because of — of her — that this other matter is so bitter to me," said Oswald, hesi- tatingly. " I ow^e money — to — to a member of her family ; they are poor, you know." "Yes; and you promised to lend them money ? " " No ; I was foolish enough to play high. I lost." " It is a gambling debt then ? " said young Valentine, with a frown upon his clear brow. " Well, a debt of honour." " I don't see much ' honour ' myself about it," replied his cousin, quickly. " How much is it ? " " A great deal, I am afraid — five thousand jDouncls. You see, to remain in debt to any- one ])elonging to her — " " Is absolutely impossible, either for you or for me," said Val, hastily. "This is my business, Oswald, quite as much as yours. There is no difficulty about it at all. Tell me the name of your banker, and the money shall be j^aid into your account this afternoon. I will see about it at once." He took out his pocket-book, and wrote dow^n a rapid The Cousins, 141 memorandum. ''But surely, Oswald, I can help you more than in this. AVhat are you going to do with yourself ? " " I shall have to bolt. I am horribly in debt, and I've been living beyond my income. 1 must go abroad." Val thought a moment, then he said, — " Look here, Oswald, I have a proposition to make to you, with a condition. I will pay your debts for you — give me all your bills and they shall be settled, only let me have every one of them." " My dear Valentine, I could not think of it, — why should you ? " '' Wait ! you have not heard my conditions. By the way, these rooms — what are you going to do about them ? " *• Sell the furniture, I suppose. I must give them up." '' Well, I think they will suit me. I will take them off your hands, if you like." " You are too good to me," murmured Oswald, almost overcome. " Not at all ; I want good rooms, and these will do for me admirably, and save me the trouble of furnishing. But 1 have not told you all. I will set you clear on one condition — you must do something for me." " I will do anything — anything you ask," said Oswald fervently. And he meant it at the moment. " I want you to go and live up in West- moreland, at the old Tower." 142 Pure Gold. " At Cragstone Edge ? " *' Yes ; it will be very dull, but you will have plenty to do. I am going to do up the old place thoroughly. It will be re-decorated and re-furnished throughout. I shall send dow^n workmen from town. The grounds, too, are to be laid out afresh, gardens and shrubberies to be made, and glass houses built. I shall send practical men from London, but I wish you to live on the spot, to overlook and direct everything. You will be my agent, in fact, and free to exercise your own taste and discretion in everything. The house must be arranged inside and out in a fitting style for a lady's occupation. I intend to marry, and when I marry I shall live there." " You intend to marry ? You are not then warned by my example ? " hazarded Oswald. "Yes, I shall marry," replied Yal, gravely ■ — too gravely for such a subject. '' 1 do not think I shall run the same risk as you have done," he added enigmatically. Osw^ald did not understand him, but he offered no explanation. " It does not suit me to leave town : you wdll be the greatest help to me u]) there. In a year's time I reckon that Cragstone will be fit for my reception, and for that of the lady whom I shall make my wife. I do not know her yet," he added, with a smile, as he caught Osw^ald's puzzled expression. " AY ell, do you agree to my terms ? " " With all my heart. How, indeed, could The Cousins. 143 I do otherwise ? They are simply salvation to me." " Very well. In a year's time you will pull round. Of course you live at my expense ; and you will be able to face the world again." And then he went away, leaving Oswald Power under the impression that, though a good fellow, he was decidedly rather mad. CHAPTEE XII. A CHANCE ENCOUNTER. NEW object in life, a fresh im- petus altogether, had been given to Valentine Eyre by that private letter from Michael Gale, contain- ing the eccentric old man's commands and injunctions. When he had first learnt that he was the inheritor of his uncle's vast fortune, he had been filled with perplexity, almost with dismay. He had not wanted it ; he did not think be knew what to do with it : and although, as a matter of fact, he had an equal right with Osw^ald to be his uncle's heir, being equally related to him, he did not consider that his cousin had been fairly treated by the narrow-minded and miserly old man. It was clearly an injustice to have led him to expect everything, and then to have left him nothing at all. And Valentine hated injustice. That he should be himself in his own person the instrument by which the unholy caprices of A Chance Encoimter. 145 the dead man were to be carried out, was odious to him. He had cast about at once to see what could be done to repair the great evil that had been committed. To die un- married, leaving a will in his cousin's favour, had been the simplest method that had at first occurred to his mind ; but that process was tedious, and not altogether effectual. 'J'o beo-in with, he was vouno;er than Oswald, and might in all probability outlive him. There was also an unreality about it that did not commend itself to his mind. And, whilst he was debating within himself what else he could do, there had come the reading of that singular letter in which his future path was plainly cut out for him. That he should disregard or dis- obey these last injunctions from the dead rela- tive who had enriched him, never for a moment entered into Valentine's mind. The conditions that were there laid down seemed to him to be as absolutely binding upon him as though they were actually legal and incontrovertible. In fact, he grasped at them eagerly and gladly. Here was a solution of all his difficulties, a way out of his perplexi- ties — a way that was no longer a fanciful fashioning of his own, but was an actual duty to the dead. Duty to Valentine's earnest well-ordered mind possessed a soothing and comforting power, which to a man whose youth had been less stern and barren, would have been quite incomprehensible. It was as if all the mists of uncertainty had cleared away, and VOL. I. K J 46 Pure Gold. liis path in life had been distinctly pointed out to him. Along that path he determined to walk. He would marry — and by his marriage re- store to his cousin that fair proportion of their uncle's property, which was certainly his right — it is true that the greater part of Michael Gale's wealth would be diverted into other channels ; but that did not seem an evil to him, since Oswald, as well as him- self, would be left with a fortune, which would surely be amply adequate to the wants of each. Meanwhile, and since Crags tone Edge was to be eventually his home, Valentine deter- mined, during the time that must necessarilv elapse before he could choose his wife, and actually m.arry her, that he would — as was within his right — spare no expense to make the ancient castle amongst the hills, a fit and suitable abode to which to bring his bride. It was thus that the idea occurred to him, whilst hearinof of his cousin's difficulties, to lend him a helping hand by setting him a task which would take him away from the life which had become a failure to him, and give him time to recruit his damaged fortunes before the day of his own marriage came, that was to render him once more independent, and the possessor of a fair income. As to the wife that he was to choose — Val- entine had as yet given the subject but little thought ; there had been but one woman in his mind — this morijiuo; she Lad been beyond A Chance Encounter'. 147 his reach ; and now, as he left his cousin's rooms in Clarg-es Street, she was beneath his contempt. In either case, she was no wife for him. Putting Letty (3rmond aside — once and for ever — he still made no doubt that in the w^orhl to which the golden keys of his great wealth would now gain him an easy entrance, ther«3 would be many gracious and loving women, with whom he would think it an honour to link his life. Only of one thing he was abso- lutely determined — no w^oman who loved nr.t himself but his reputed gold, shoukl be his wife. Id deed, as things were, he held a talis- man by Avhich this fatal mistake was an impos- sibility to him. Before he married her he should put his future wife to a test, which none but a truly loving woman could go throng !i safely ; and, thinking of this, he hugged his secret delightedly to his heart, and wasinclint'd to bless his uncle for this great power of reading a woman's heart, with which he had almost miraculously endowed him — more than for all the wealth by which his will had enriched him. Valentine's first perplexities seemed all !'» have vanished now. He walked along as if on air. As to Letty, the utter contempt in whicli he held her, seemed to erase — for the time at least — her image out of his fancy ; her conduct to Oswald seemed to portray her in such bhick colours, that nothing could ever more restore her to his recrard. 148 Pure Gold. As be walked aloDg eastwards, thinking of these things, making his way on foot towards JMr Malsham's office, whither he was bound, walking rather than driving, from force of the habit of long years, which disinclined him to make any alteration in the simple little customs of his every-day life, he became sud- denly conscious, amongst the crowTl of persons upon the pavement before him, of one couple in front of him, whose appearance seemed to sino-le them out at once from the commoner throng amongst which they were w^alking. A lady and gentleman, both tall, and with a certain grace in the carriage and bearing of each, were before him. The lady's hair was gathered in a thick, heavy knot, beneath the edge of her bonnet, and was black as night ; the man's was of a venerable grey. Valentine, with a passing interest which struck into his mind in the midst of his own absorbing re- flections, judged them to be father and daughter, as he walked for some minutes close behind them, he could occasionally see the profile of one or the other, as they talked. There was a great similarity in the regular, hand- some features. As he quickened his steps to pass by them, he overheard the gentleman say,— '' Suppose he were to go away ? " And the lady replied soothingly, — " You are always frightening yourself, paj^a. Did I not tell you to leave it all to me. I have taken steps to bring it all right. You A Chance Encotmter. 149 will see tliat no such catastrophe will happen to us." The words conveyed no meaning whatever to the ears of the chance passer-by who over- heard them. He had passed swiftly by the couple who had momentarily attracted his attention, and in another instant would have been swept away from them by the crowd. But just then there was a little scuffle behind him ; a rough man hustled rudely through. Valentine heard a little exclamation of disma}", and a small, silver-bound portemonnaie came spinning along the pavement, in front of liis feet. He picked it up, and, turning round, came face to face with the lady, who had made a step forward to recover her property. Valen- tine lifted his hat. "It is your purse ? " " Yes ; oh, thank you so very much. That horrid man pushed against me and knocked it out of my hand as he went by." " Yes ; that is the regular dodge with these pickpockets," said her father. " I think, my dear, that you had better get into a cab. It is really hardly fit for a lady to walk in these' crowded thoroughfares," he added, looking at Valentine. Then he put up his stick, and signalled to a passing hansom. Meanwhile the young lady turned once more towards him. " I really must thank you very much, in- deed, for your politeness," she said, lifting I =;o Pure Gold. u})Oii him two wonderful eyes, whose magic power seemed to penetrate all at once into liis very soul. " Pray, do not thank me," he said con- fusedly. " I did nothing at all ; and — and I am already more than thanked." The hansom drew up by the pavement. Val- entine was modest, and did not attempt to offer his services ; but the elderly gentleman made no movement, and the young lady gave him a smile. Somebody evidently must help her into the cab, and, since her natural protector remained immoveable, what was Val to do ! Encouraged by that smile, he stejDped forward. ''Allow me," he said. She required bnt little assistance, and sprang lightly into the cab ; but for one instant her hand pressed gently upon his arm. He noticed the glitter of some jingling bangles at lier wrist, felt the soft rustle of her draperies against his shoulder, smelt a whiff of some delicate perfume, and for one instant again caught a glance of those wonderful eyes, and a smile from those perfect lips, that sent the blood whizzing curiously and unaccustomedly to his head. For less things than these, a man has been ready to sell his soul. In a moment the cab had turned, and this beautiful vision of a gloriously handsome woman was whirled away out of his sight. The two men remaining upon the pavement lifted tbeir hats politely to each other, and each went his own w\ay. The elder man pondering A ChaJice Encounter, 151 as he walked, upon many practical and wlioUy unlovely matters. — the younger, with his brain on fire, and his thoughts in a strange chaos. It was only when he had gone nearly half a mile, that he suddenly recollected that he had not even listened to the address which her father had given to the cabman. " Fool that I was ! " he exclaimed aloud. " Why did not I have the sense to ask for his name, or beg: leave to call — or — " and then he burst out laughing at the extravagance of the idea. For, after all, what had he done ? AYliat claim could he possibly have to have made such a request ? He had not saved her life- — not even preserved her beautiful person from the rough shock of the brute who had dared to hustle up against her. He had only — oli. descent from the sublime to the ridiculous !— picked up her purse ! Any little dirty child in the crowd could have done as much. And yet she had smiled upon him with her lips and with her eyes — and, good heavens, what a smile it was ! After that little incident Val certainly trans- acted a Q-ood deal of business. He went to Mr Malsham, and made a good many arrange- ments regarding his newly-acquired wealth ; he furthermore drew a cheque for five thousand pounds, and paid it in himself to his cousin's banker's account ; after which, he visited a tailor in Savile Kow, and a hatter in Bond Street, and paid his respects to sundry 152 ' Pure Gold. other eminent tradesmen, of whose good offices he stood sorely in need. Later on in the afternoon he found himself again, by appointment, at Oswald Power's rooms, where many matters, present and future, were discussed at great length between the two cousins. But during all these various occupations, one thought only was in his mind, one sight was ever before his eyes — that face of rare and wonderful beauty that had smiled upon him in the morning. He even went the length of sauntering into the Park towards ^^^ o'clock in the afternoon — an occupation he had always hitherto condemned with bitter sarcasm — in order that he might carefully scan the passing carriages, with an insane hope that he might see again the face that had fascinated him. But all in vain — he saw" her not. He could not help smiling to himself over his own foolishness. " I who used to say that women were not for me — that I cared nothing; for them ! How difficult it is to understand one's own nature ! " Val did not perhaps take sufficiently into account how entirely altered now were the circumstances of his life, and that by one turn of the wheel of fortune. Whereas of old it had been his creed to avoid and shun women, it had now become almost his business to seek them out. When he found that his search was fruitless, he went out of the Park, and put himself into A Chance Encotmter. 153 a hansom, and had himself driven out to Hampstead to dine with his aunt. Miss Eyre lived in one of those charming old suburban houses — now, alas ! fast falling into the hands of speculative builders — of which there used to be so many hundreds in the immediate neighbourhood of London. Years ago this particular house — of a deep red brick mellowed by time and weather, and with narrow windows with grey stone copings like eyebrows above each — used to be a perfectly rural residence. It stood on the slope of the hill below the heath, and looked out over miles of crowded house-tops towards the dis- tant cloud of smoke that hung over the great City of London. Once there had been green fields and hedge- row^s close up to its garden walls ; narrow lanes, where lovers had lingered on sunny evenings ; wooden stiles, where children had loitered to play on their way to the village school ; copses, where the nightingales had suns: in the summer, and the cuckoo trilled forth his double note in the early spring. But all that was swept away now, and new roads had been laid out, and smart new villas built in rows up to the very walls of Miss Eyre's old-world garden. Without these walls all was progress and bustle and disquiet ; within their peaceful shadow you were at once carried back half a century. The long lines of thick yew hedges of an extraordinary depth and solidity, clipped 154 Pure Gold. and trimmed here and there into quaint fantastic shapes of peacocks and pagodas ; the straight, prim flower - beds, filled with old - fashioned blossoms that were neither showy nor gaudy, yet had a fragrance and tenderness of their own as they straggled one upon the other at their own sweet wills ; a couple of gigantic cedars, spreading their long arms far across the smooth law^n ; a decrej)it yet still abun- dantly-plentiful mulberry tree, supported by stakes and tied up with chains to prevent its falling to the ground ; and at the end the grave old house, square and solid, looking solemnly and sadly, as it had done for years, into the quiet, old garden, over which it had so long presided. All this, as one came out of the high-road throuo;h the solid wooden doors in the high ivy - covered wall, impressed one with an odd sense of unreality as one crossed the threshold of Abingdon House ; or rather, it was as if the world without was a noisy, brawling dream, and this still, left-behind corner of the earth the only sober f^ict of existence. Abingdon House was Miss Eyre's free- hold property, inherited by her from her father before her. He had chosen to leave it to his eldest unmarried daughter rather than any of his younger children — probably to insure a special provision and a perpetual refuge for her, because she was so gentle and so little capable of fighting her way in the noisy battle of life. A Chance Enco2inte7'. 155 Ann Eyre was now an old woman, and a very poor one. The old house and garden was all that remained to her of former comfort and position. She lived, with two maids to serve her, in two or three rooms, shutting up the remainder. One old man tended the gar- den and mowed the lawn ; and the long rows of stalls in the stables had been untenanted for years. Many and many a time Ann Eyre might have restored herself to comparative wealth and independence — might have set up her household gods in one of the smart new villas below, and kept her brougham and horse, or have mio^rated to London, and held her own there with her equals, had she chosen to sell Abingdon House and its grounds. Many a builder and contractor had coveted its venerable solitudes, to turn it into " eligible })lots of building-ground," or to run up a fashionable terrace of houses, " with a com- manding view," upon so favoured a site. But such an idea was desecration in Miss Eyre's eyes. In vain were tempting offers of the most advantageous kind presented to her notice. She had but one answer to give, and she gave it over and over again, — " My father was born here, and so was my grandfather. Here my mother came as a bride. Here did they all die ; and here will I die too." But as she grew older it became an anxious problem to her how, after she was dead and 156 Pure Gold. gone, the old house was to be preserved from that destruction which these ravening wolves were thirsting to bring upon it. This was a question which she had as yet been unable to answer satisfactorily to herself. As Valentine came in at the doorway in the old wall, having stopped his hansom outside — for he would not have thought of offending Miss Eyre's prejudices by driving up to the house, and tearing up her smooth gravel with the traces of wheels and horse's hoofs — a sense of peace and rest came over him as he walked round the corner of the lawn, and came upon a little encampment of chairs and footstools, which surrounded a lady who was seated on the broad stone terrace in front of the open drawino:-room windows. It was as though some voice whispered to his soul, — '* Leave behind all the turmoil and confu- sion of the busy world all ye who enter here." Miss Eyre — a small, grey-haired woman, with a gentle face and eyes that, owing to fast-failing eyesight, were a little wandering and uncertain in their glances, half rose from her chair as her nephew appeared round the corner of the house. There was unfeigned delight in her welcome of this her only relation. " Ah ! my dear boy," she cried, holding out both hands to greet him, " so you are here again ? So, though this great news about your wealth is not yet twenty-four hours old, A Chance E7icounter. 157 you have come down again to see an old woman ? Kiches have not turned your heart, nephew\" " Why should they, Aunt Ann ? " answered the young man, laughingly, as he took a vacant chair beside her. *' They do not at all events interfere with my appetite ; and I have come to beg for dinner. Will you give me some ? " '' Surely, surely. Fenella, go and tell cook — ah ! where is that girl ? " and she half turned round in her chair, and peered about, as if she had expected to find some one be- hind her. " Miss Snow is not here, aunt." " She really is an irritating girl," said Miss Eyre. " One wants a companion to keep one com- pany ; at least that I understand is the meaning of the word. This child is always dancing away like a will-o'-the-wisp. Fenella ! Fenella ! " From the shadows of the room behind them with the open windows, a A^oice answered, — " I am here." CHAPTEE XIII. A WOMAN SCOENED. EVENTEEN years ago, when Ann Eyre was still comparatively l^^^XJ^ a young woman, and during the ^*~ time when her father was alive, and reigned at Abingdon House, she was returning on foot, with her maid behind her, about nine o'clock, one snowy evening in January, from some mild festivity at a neigh- bouring house, when, on arriving at the thres- hold of her father's gate, she stumbled, and almost fell over a bundle that was laid upon the doorstep. In great surprise she stooped down, and found to her astonishment that the stumbling-block in her path was nothing less than a very small female child, rolled up in a ragged blanket, and seemingly nearly frozen to death. To so kind-hearted a woman as Ann there was only one thing to be done. A few words of astonishment and compassion passed between herself and her maid, and ''A W 0771 an scorned!^ 159 then they carried the little waif into the house. The child was about three 3^ears of age. AVhen it recovered consciousness and anima- tion, it was found to be able to prattle a few indistinct words, but was totally unable to give any account of itself. Mr Eyre, the father, did his best to discover who were the rig^htful owners of the little foundlino^. He gave infor- mation to all the police stations round, offered rewards, and put advertisements in all the newspapers. Nothing, however, resulted from these inquiries ; and after about three weeks he yielded to his daughter's entreaties, and consented to allow her to adopt the child, or, at all events, to undertake the charge of it until its relations should be discovered. The child, warmed, and fed, and clothed, began to develop pretty little ways and engag- ing manners. It was found that she called herself, in her baby lingo, " Finna," and as no known nnnie could be hunted up exactly to correspond with this curious appellation, Ann fixed upon the name of " Fenella," as the nearest approach to it, and which was probably suggested by Scott's " Peveril of the Peak," which she happened to be reading at the time. Her little foundling (for fear of accidents) was accordingly properly christened in the parish church under this name. And then because it was necessary to give her a surname, she called her " Snow," in allusion to the white world in which she had found her. i6o Pure Gold. So Fenella Snow grew up and became a regu- lar inmate of Abingdon House. Miss Eyre soon left off thinking of the chance of discover- ing her parents, and after a few years- she would have been very sorry to have done so. By-and-by she sent FenelJa to school, and gave her a good, sound, old-fashioned education. Afterwards, as she was growing old, and her eyesight began to fail her, Miss Eyre told her that instead of making her an allow^ance of pocket-money, she would give her a fixed salary, and call her her companion, and that she should expect her to make herself useful in that capacity to her. Whatever Fenella thought about this ar- rangement, she said very little about it — not being given to many words — but she probably reflected that " beggars mustn't be choosers," and submitted to the inevitable. Ann some- times complained of her companion, and scolded her grumblingly, but she loved her dearly, and willingly forgave her any little re- missness in her attentions. Miss Eyre was by this time convinced that no discovery con- cerning Fenella's relations could possibly be to her benefit — she was undoubtedly the child ot paupers, whose poverty had caused them to forsake her, either to be taken in out of cha- rity at the door at which they had laid her down — or else to perish of cold and starvation as the case might be. But as to Fenella there were no end to her dreams, and castles in the air concerning herself — she had no doubt what- "A PVojnan scorned." i6i ever in her own mind that she was the child of rich and noble parents, a sort of princess in disguise, who would one day be revealed to the astonished eyes of her little world in her true colours. And constant indulgence in these fancies caused her to regard her kind bene- factress less with feelings of gratitude than with a sort of condescending submission to what, after all, must be but a mere temporary phase of her existence. Fenella Snow, as she appeared in answer to Miss Eyre's call at the open window, with the dusky gloom of the darkening room behind her, was by no means a revelation in any way to Valentine. She w^as a small person, with a tiny waist and diminutive hands and feet ; her features were doll-like, and rather pretty ; and her eyes, which were light grey, w^ere restless, and had a trick of roving about un- easily, never fixing themselves upon anything that they looked at. The most remarkable part of her perhaps was her hair. It was very light in colour, and so flufi'y in texture that it stood out from her head in a soft impalpable cloud, which in certain lights almost reminded one of the aureole surrounding the head of a saint. There was not, however, much of the saint about her. Valentine Eyre lifted his hat to her. She v\'as not excitino' or interesting- to him in an\' way. As long as he could remember Abing- don House she had always formed a part of it — ever since he had lived in London, he had VOL. I. L 1 62 Pm-e Gold. oaten his Sunday dinner sitting face to face with this little person with flutFy hair. He had paid her the ordinary small civilities of life — had filled her wineglass, had helped her to vegetables, and had risen to open the door for her when she left the room — beyond this he had taken very little notice of his aunt's protegee. He took very little notice of her now ; when he lifted his hat Fenella glanced at him in her quick way, but her eyes wandered away again instantly across tlie garden. " Fenella, my dear, go and tell cook that my nephew will dine with us this evening." "Yes, Miss Eyre." Fenella went away, but by-and-by she crept softly back to the sitting-room, and sat down behind the shadow of the faded maroon curtains, leaning her head back against the shutters. Outside, Miss Eyre and her nephew were talking in subdued voices ; the twilight stole over the garden with its sombre yew hedges and cedars.' Their backs were turned to her ; to do her justice, Miss Snow had at first no intention of playing the spy. It did not occur to her that there was anything particular which the old lady might have to say to her nephew. She often sat silently by wlnlst they talked, listening to them when tliey seemed to have forgotten her presence. This evening, as she sat down in her corner by the window, she only said to herself, — " Here, I shall at least hear the sound of his voice ! " ''A Woman scorned^ 163 And for some minutes she was actually un- conscious of the subject of their conversation ; suddenly, however, she started and listened, for she heard her own name. "It is Fenelia Snow that troubles me most," Miss Eyre was saying. " My dear aunt, can you not do as you like with your own ? Why not leave the old house to her ? " " No, no, Val ; it should go to an Eyre. Your grandfather and your great-grandfather died here. I have hesitated and debateil much all the time you were a poor man, for I felt I had no right to saddle you w^th a j^roperty that I should forbid you to sell, and yet that I could not leave you money enough to keep up properly. It is, you know, my greatest wish, that the dear old house should remain as it is — my greatest terror, that aft(*r I am gone it may be cut up, and sold to those horrible, wicked builders and land ao;ents. But now that you have become a rich man, half my perplexities seem cleared aw^ay, for, of course, you could afford to open the wdioh^ house, and do it up properly ; and you will live in it sometimes, too, will you not \ " This last was anxiously said. " I would rather you did not count on that," said Val, hesitatingly. " I might not be able to spend much money on it ; there are so many other claims ; so much, in fact, to be done. There are things connected with my cousin Oswald Power." 164 Pure Gold. He seemed unable quite to explain liimself ; lie was, in fact, debating in his own mind tvhetber, upon the reduced income which he Avould have to live upon at his marriage, he would be justified in undertaking to keep up and inhabit a rambling old house in the sul^urbs, wdiich he would be forbidden to sell, and which w^ould certainly be an encum- brance mther than a benefit to him. The old lady looked at him with a painful anxiety. " You do not mean, Val — oh. surely you do not mean ! — that you would rather not be troubled with the old house — the house 1 love so dearly — where I was born, and where T mean to die % " Her voice trembled, and broke. Val put forth his hand. " My dear, dearest aunt, do not accuse me of such heartlessness- If you are good enough to leave Abingdon House to me, I will, of course, value the gift, and love the dear old place." In his own mind he rapidly came to the conclusion that to gratify this whim of his aunt's, he must make Abingdon House his home, in lieu of a house actually in London, when he came south. His wife surely, if she loved him truly, would not object to this. It was wonderful with how much patience and consideration Valentine endued this future bride of his ! " I think I could manage to promise you this much — that it shall be kept in good re- "A IVoman scorned^ 165 pair, and that I will live in it for some montJis in every year," he added, still thinking it over deeply in his mind. " But then," he sai«], looking up with a smile, " what about Fenella Snow, Aunt Ann ? " " Ah, there is the question ! and that is w^hat troubles me. Fenella is a grave anxiety to me." They were both silent for the space of tw« > or three minutes. Fenella, behind them, in the shadows, bent her head forward eagerly. Perhaps, indeed, there w^ere innate evidences in her character which proved too surely to Miss Eyre that Fenella was of no exalted birth. It did not, for instance, occur to her to see anything mean or base in her conduct at the present moment. There was something going to be said about her, and Fenella felt curious to know what it was ; so she kept very still, and w^ent on list- ening. " There is a way," resumed Miss Eyre, presently, with a certain amount of hesita- tion, '' a way I have thought of that would certainly be a most happy solution of all my difficulties." " Yes, aunt ? " Valentine's voice betrayed no absorbing interest. " You know, my dear boy, that Fenella has lived here all her life. She has known no other home — has no other memories ; and although her origin is probably very humljl(% 166 Ptire Gold. she has been so completely deserted by her friends that it is absolutely impossible that any unpleasant connections should ever turn up after all these years to annoy us. In point of ftict, I have brought her up as my child, and as such I consider her." " Certainly, and she does you credit," answered the young man, knowing that praise of her foundling gave the old lady pleasure. And Fenella's heart beo^an to beat. " Yes ; does she not ? " said Miss Eyre, eagerly. " She is a dear child, and pretty and pleasing, good enough for any position, A'al," looking at him very earnestly. " 1 should like Fenella Snow to live here always." " Well, aunt, that can be easily managed. Leave her a life-interest in the place ; or, if you like it better, make me her landlord. I will keep it in repair for her, and she shall be my tenant for the remainder of her life." " Oh, Yal, Val ! you do not understand me ; " and Miss Eyre shook her head. " There is something better than that that I wish for her, and for you ; something that w^ould make loe happy — so happy, that I should have no more Y\ orries and anxieties ; I should die in peace." " Dear Aunt Ann, if there is anything that I can do that can give you this happiness and peace, do you not know that I would do it gladly. In all these years of my poverty jiave you not been my only friend, your house my only home ? Am I likely to forget you, now tbat I am prosperous ?" ^'A Woman scorncdr 167 He reached out his strong, young hand, and the old Lady phiced hers, thin and wrinkk'd, within it. " Ah ! " she said, with a sigh, *' you are a good lad, but this is asking much — ver\' much ; and yet," she added, more brightly, after a moment's pause — " and yet, why not \ You are both young ; you have known eacJi other for years, and, vain old woman that 1 am, I think you both love me ! Valentine, will you marry Fenella Snow ? " A dead silence. The little summer breeze, fluttered the roses upon the walls ; a b.it circled round on heavy wing; ; a nio;htinoak^ took up his parable, and warbled his first love- notes away in the lime trees beyond the lawn, but Valentine Eyre made no answer, and all tlie time one half-sutfocating heart beat wildly and madly in an agony of suspense behind him. And Val was thinkino-. Last nig-ht, had ^liss Eyre said this thiug to him, he would have consented. Last night he had merely thought to himself that a wife was a necessity and a duty to him ; and Letty Urmoud being be- yond his reach, any sweet, gentle girl wh(^ would be likely to love him, and be true to him, would have answered his purpose, he would have been glad to do this simple, easy thing that sliould give his good old rehi- tive so much pleasure, and, as she had said, enable her to die in peace. For no doubt Fenella was all she had said, and more. She had been brought up in absolute seclusion by 1 68 Pure Gold. a good and high -principled gentlewoman — all sweet old-fashioned virtues, such as were rare in the throng of London life, must surely be hers. No doubt she was modest and gentle and true, a girl who would give her heart for love, not sell herself for gold. Yal felt sure that had this proposition come to him only yesterday, he would have ac- cepted it gladly and gratefully. But to-day all was altered. A face in a crowd — a smile ; a murmur of thanks ; a glance from deep lus- trous eyes — just that, and it had changed the whole current of his being. He did not even know her name, but his soul had; gone forth in worship and adoration. Wherever she might dwell, whoever she might be, he would find her out, and lay his life at her feet. Such a, face must mean to him all he sought for on earth ! Until his aunt had spoken, until she ]iad given that ideal " wife " a name and a beino;, and had offered him little Fenella Snow — until that moment Yal had had no special intention or determination ; but now, at her words, the scales seemed to fall from his eyes, and his heart rose up in denial of the wife she suggested to him. No, whilst that woman who was surely all a man might dream of — Venus, Juno, and Min- erva in one — whilst she existed somewhere in the vague unknown of London's infinite possi- bilities, never should any other image, save hers, occupy the vacant heart wdiich her beauty had filled in one moment unto overflowing. ''A Woman scorned ^ 169 He sat quite still, whilst one might count twenty, then he spoke slowly, and with .difficulty, — " You have asked me a hard thing, Aunt Ann." " Ah, say no more, Yal ! " she said, quickly, and with some pain in her voice. " I see that it cannot be. I am a foolish old woman to have dreamed of it. Perhaps you do not like the child, or perhaps there is some other ? " But Yal would not speak of that vague intanmble " some one " who had filled his imao'ination. ''Nay, why should I not like Fenella?" he answered, smiling. " She is all that you say, no doubt — pretty and gentle and sweet-man- nered. Perhaps I have seen her too often, and studied her too little, or perhaps — We Eyres are proud, you know, aunt. You your- self are not free from the family failing. Per- haps I would prefer a wife of whose parentage one could feel more assured than of that of your little protegee. Man is a strange animal, you know, and is often ungratefully unwilling to take the good things that fate is ready to shower on him ; but do not regret it too much — possibly you think me a richer man than, in certain thinos, I am." He spoke lightly, meaning to turn the cur- rent of the old lady's evident disappointment. Unseen by them both, there was a movement uf the maroon curtains behind them. Fenella left her hiding-place, and fled. - 170 Pure Gold. " Then you decidedly decline Fenella as a wife ? " said Miss Eyre, after a pause. *' I am afraid so, aunt. But if you will trust me, Miss Snow shall never want for anything as long as I am alive.'' *' I will trust you, nephew ; " and Miss Eyre reached forth her hand to him. " It is not good for us to have all our prayers granted. And now let us go in, for it is getting cold, and it must be nearly dinner-time." Dinner was perhaps never a very lively meal at Abingdon House, but to-night, cer- tainly, it was even more depressing than usual. The small table, laid for three, seemed lost in the middle of the vast wilderness of the great bare dining-room, where thirty people might have feasted with ease. The footsteps of the ancient waiting;-maid — the same w^ho had helped her mistress on that snowy night, now seventeen years ago, to carry in the little human bundle laid upon the doorstep — were slow and ponderous. She had grown grey, too, poor old Bridget, and was now almost too infirm for the many functions she per- formed in the impoverished household to which she still clung with faithful aff'ection. For Bridget was housemaid or lady's-maid or parlour-maid, just as the occasion served. The fare was plain, and not over plentiful ; the wine thin and poor. A few flowers in an old- fashioned china bowl adorned the centre of the table, across which Yal looked at Fenella with *'A Woman scorned." 171 a greater amount of interest than usual, owing to his recent conversation with his aunt con- ceruinor her. But he found no reason to resrret his decision regardino^ her. Miss Snow^ w^is certainly even less entertaining than usual. 8he kept her eyes studiously aw^ay from him, and ate her dinner in silence. He was therefore a good deal surprised upon leaving the table, when, instead of following Miss Eyre into the drawing-room, Fenella came up to him and said, — '' It is a fine evening, Mr Eyre ; will you take a turn round the garden w^ith me before you go ? " " Certainly, ]\liss Snow," he answ^ered promptly, but with evident astonishment. He threw^ up the sash of the window', and they went out together. It w^as now quite dark ; but in the gloom of the old garden the broad gravel w^alk that led round the clump of cedars could be just faintly discerned. Fenella and her companion followed it in silence for some minutes. When they came quite under the darkness of the cedars, Fenella stopped short, and said sud- denly, — " I overheard what you and Miss Eyre were talking about before dinner." " Miss Snow ! " *' Miss Eyre asked you if you would marry me, and you declined." " You should not have listened ! " cried Valentine, with indicfnation. 172 Pure Gold. '* Perhaps not," she answered calmly ; " but you see I did." " I would not have pained you for worlds, had I known," stammered Val. " Had you known that I was listening ? — was that what you were going to say ? Never mind that ; I want to tell you some- thing. You told her — your aunt — that you would not marry me because you were un- certain of my parentage." Val was silent. '' I want to tell you that if you chose to help me, we might overcome tluit difficulty. I am convinced, in my own mind, that I am of good birth ; I feel it here " — she struck her hands against her breast. " I have only one clue, a locket that was hung upon a hair chain round my neck ; it is my greatest treasure ; with money, I am certain that the mystery of my birth might be cleared up. Miss Eyre has never been able to make the effort ; but you — I hear you are rich now — " " If there is anything I can do for you. Miss Snow, in this matter," cried Val eagerly, '* be- lieve me, I would spare no expense to help you in your researches ; but — " " But — it would make no difference to you, you mean ? " she asked, with perfect quietness. Val could not frame his lips to a suitable answer. She walked on again in silence ; presently she stopped again. " Then that was not your real reason ? " slie asserted, rather than inquired. ''A lVo77iaii scorned.'' 173 " Not entirely," he murmured. Could any unfortunate man, he said to himself, be placed in a more terrible predicament than he was at this moment ! Val felt as if that sweep of the gravel walk would never bring him back again to the shelter of the house with its lighted windows — he looked long^ins^lv towards it. A\\ at once his companion s manner altered, — although he could not see her face, he felt instinctively that all the coldness and the self-control w^as gone out of it — her voice broke ; she laid upon his arm a hand that trembled and shook. " There is one thing you do not know. I speak to you little ; I do not seem to interest you much ; but there is one thing that must alter everything to you — that has grown with my growth and lived wdth my life — Valentine ]^]yre — / love you ! " He was j)ositively startled by the passion in her voice — a passion he had never indeed dreamt of or suspected. He could not at first find words to answer her. When he did, he spoke slowly, and with difficulty. " I cannot describe to you the pain — the distress — w^hich what you say causes me." And then in the darkness he knew that the whole woman was altered once more ; the tenderness, the emotion, had vanished ; a (juick, haughty anger took its place. " But you reject me ; you scorn me ! Save yourself the pain, and me the humiliation of regret ! Some day you will be sorry ; you 174 Pure Gold. will repent in very truth that you were blind enough and mad enough to turn the love that Fenella Snow offers you into deadly hatred." And she turned and fied from him swiftly in the darkness. CHAPTER XIV. MRS MAL sham's " S W R R yJ ;HE household in Kensington Garden Square was in a ferment of agita- tion. All day long there were tradesmen's carts dashing up to the area gate, and confectioners bearing mysterious trays on their heads seen disap- pearing down the area steps ; strange parcels were stealthily taken in at the front door, and whole groves of palms and ferns were carried into the house. Indoors all was excitement and confusion, the footman and the maids rushed about breathlessly ; workmen w^ere in the drawing-room moving the furniture ; ^Irs Malsham, caph^ss and red in the face, ran up and downstairs, i^ivino: manifold orders and directions ; the young ladies, up in their bed- rooms, were surveying with delight the new dresses just home from the dressmakers ; whilst upstairs and downstairs, above and below, tlie air was redolent of a strong unctuous odour of 1/6 Pit re Gold. rich foods of divers kinds in the process of be- ing cooked. For that evening Mrs Malsham was to give a large dinner-party, at which eighteen guests were to sit down at the festive board, to be followed at a later hour by, what the good lady impressively called, a " s worry." And all this was in honour of Valentine Eyre. It was for him the fatted calf was slain; for him the entrees and the ices and the jellies from Bridgeman's kept pouring down the area; for him the hired waiters at ten-and-sixpence per night had been engaged ; for his sake that oreat and small were slavins; and toilino; from attic to cellar, from sunrise to sundown. Valentine Eyre had now been for six weeks in possession of his fortune. All the law busi- ness had been settled ; all the legacy duties had been paid. There was nothing more for him to do but to set to work to enjoy himself and to spend his money — and, to a certain extent, he did so. The London season was in full swing, and Valentine was now quite established in the comfortable rooms in Clarges Street that had belonged to Oswald Power — that gentleman having migrated to Cragstone Edge. He had bought a great many clothes and cigars and trinkets ; he had set up a brougham and a buggy, two harness horses, and a park hack ; he had returned a countless number of cards which had come pouring in upon him from all directions, and he had accepted manifold in- vitations to the houses of persons he had never Mrs Malshani s " Szuo7^ry.'^ // heard of in his life before. And with all that his head was not in the very least bit turned. He began to understand, with a fright- ful plainness, that it was his money and not himself that was beino: courted and sought after, and the comprehension of this fact aroused in him an immense contempt for the smiling world that opened its arms so cordially to receive him. And yet though he despised it, he did not turn his back upon it. On the contrary, he took what it offered him as part of the necessary duty which he had set himself to fulfil, for he said to himself that somewhere surely amongst all these fair and well-born women he should meet that one woman who must be as guileless and pure as she was beautiful, and who would love him for himself and not for his gold. Neither did his money make him happy. On the contrary, the con- sciousness of his wealth was at times an absolute oppression to him. When he remembered his cousin banished to that lonely tower in the north, and working there as his paid agent, it often seemed to him as if he were committing some crime, in not hastening on w^ith greater speed that day which was to mete out equal justice to them both. " Great riches, without contentment, what is it ? " said our philosopher to himself, wonder- ing vaguely whether he had not been happier on the whole in the days when he sat in Mr Malsham's office on a high stool, and earned a hundred and twenty pounds a-year. VOL. I. M 178 Pure Gold. Now in these days it was that Eichard iVIalsham said to the wife of his bosom, — '' If you don't keep a hold on that young man he will slip through our fingers altogether. There are no end of swells after him already, and if Bella don't look sharp she'll be out of it." " She's working night and day at a sot of antimacassars for him," said Mrs MaLsham. '' I'm sure if he bought them at the School of Art in South Kensington they couldn't be more beautifully worked, not if he paid five guineas a-piece for them." " Pooh ! what's that to him ? He could buy dozens at fifty guineas each if he wanted them. A man don't care for antimacassars ; if you want to get at his heart, give him a first-class dinner." Mrs Malsham took these hints concerning the weak point in the masculine armour in good part, and the result was an invitation to dinner, to be followed by "a few friends in the even- ing," which Val, with a kindly feeling towards his old master and present man of business, was careful to accejDt. Instantly more in- vitations flew out all over the town, and by the time the eventful day arrived, Mrs Malsham was in the proud hope of receiving a select party of eighteen to dinner, and a party — not at all select — of some hundred and fifty persons to the entertainment in the evening, which was to follow in the wake of the banquet. Of course, Val took down Bella to dinner, Mrs Malsham s " Sworry.'^ 179 and was seated between her and her mother — ■ in fact, there was a regular Malsham fortifi- cation on every side of him, for young Albert Malsham was planted exactly opposite to him, whilst betw^een an opening of the ferns and exotics further down the table the head of Bella's younger sister was constantly to be seen, nodding playfully and archly towar