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CAS T A WA Y. 
 
hCXDOM : 
 ROBEOX AND SOXS, nUNTERP, TANCHAS RO..\D, N.AV. 
 
CAS TAW AY, 
 
 % Hobc(. 
 
 By EDMUXD YATES, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'yOBOI)Y'S FORTCXE," ' DR. WAINWRIGHT'S PATIEST,' 
 "WRECKED IX PORT,' ETC. 
 
 * Like some forlorn and desperate castaway.' TU. And. 
 
 IX THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I, 
 
 LOXDOX: 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY 
 
 1872. 
 
 [ZAU rigfds reserved."] 
 

 tn 
 
 en 
 
 (M 
 
 UJ 
 CD 
 
 To Shii^ey Brooks. 
 
 Just eighteen years ago, I read in the Aforning 
 
 25 Chronicle some kind words about a story in verse which 
 
 ^ I had contributed to the Keepsake, and which was the 
 
 first composition of mine that attained the dignity of 
 
 %)ublication. Those kind words I found, on inquiry, 
 
 were wTitten by you; since then they have been followed 
 
 -iy many kind deeds. 
 
 A 
 -t In very slight acknowledgment of our long friend- 
 
 '^ship, I inscribe this Book to you. 
 
 o EDMUND YATES, 
 
 J) 
 
 London, January 1872. 
 
 I 
 i 
 
CONTEXTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 :€^^ 
 
 $r0l0gw. 
 
 CHAP. 
 
 I. After IMess 
 
 II. Ix THE Billiard-room 
 
 III. Sitting ix Judgmext 
 
 IV. Sentenced 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I 
 
 JO 
 21 
 
 34 
 
 gook l^c ^irst 
 
 I. Miss Cave's Lodgixgs . 
 II. Before the Storm . 
 
 III. Juliet .... 
 
 IV. Friends in Couxcil 
 
 V. A IMeetixg by Mooxlight 
 VI. A !Meetixg by Daylight 
 VII. Gerald's Luck 
 VIII. * In the dead unhappy Xight 
 IX. Doubt .... 
 X. Despair 
 
 S9 
 74 
 91 
 113 
 134 
 156 
 179 
 203 
 229 
 2^2 
 
CASTAWAY. 
 
 prologue. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AFTER 3IESS. 
 
 ' Just fetch my coat out of the commercial- 
 room, Sam, and get my lugo^age ready for the 
 bus — I am going by the eight-forty -five.' 
 
 ' Is this yours, Mr. Baines ?' said the per- 
 son addressed, the boots of the hotel, point- 
 ing to a number of queer-looking packages 
 wrapped in leather, and secured with huge 
 straps and buckles, which were lying in the 
 passage of the George Inn at Checseborough. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
2 CASTA WAV. 
 
 * Yes,' replied Mr. Baiiics; ' 3'ou ought to 
 know, you have seen them often enough.' 
 
 ' Well, do }'ou know,' said the boots slowly, 
 ' I daresay you may think it odd, but there 
 is a good deal of luggage of the same pattern 
 as is brought to this house. The fancy line 
 ain't what it was, Mr. Baines.' 
 
 * You are right, Sam,' said IMr. Baines, ' it's 
 overdone, it's — Hallo! what's that?' he cried, 
 as a roar of laughter rang through the house. 
 ' Got a public dinner going on, Sam ?' 
 
 ' No, not exactly,' said Sam. ' Yeomanry's 
 out, and a fine out they are making of it. 
 There is six hundred of them in one place 
 and another up and down the town ; and 
 there has been a review to-day, and the 
 officers has been dining here afterwards. 
 That was them hallooing just now.' 
 
 ' Yeomanry, eh !' said Mr. Baines. ' I don't 
 hold much with yeomanry, Sam ; my idea is 
 that the proper way to defend this country — ' 
 
 Ikit ]\[r. Baines was compelled to post- 
 pone his intention of imparting his notions 
 for the national defence, as at that moment 
 
AFTER MESS. 3 
 
 the omnibus drove up, and seeing in it a 
 representative of the rival house of Peto and 
 AViggins, Mr. Baines hastened to cHmb the 
 box with the view of learning all about the 
 intended movements of his brother commer- 
 cial. 
 
 Meanwhile the stout Major, whose jokes, 
 principally levelled against himself, had 
 evoked the laughter thus commented upon, 
 had brought his speech to a humorous con- 
 clusion, and sat down amid the applause of 
 his comrades. The disinclination for more 
 orator}', and the desire to smoke, now im- 
 pelled most of the officers to push away their 
 chairs and adjourn to the billiard-room ; no 
 one, however, ventured to move, until the 
 ]jresident, Lieutenant-Colonel Goole — a tall, 
 handsome man, wearing the Crimean and In- 
 dian medals — had risen from his seat, and 
 Ijidding his brother officers good -night, and 
 bowin^T ri^rht and left, had left the room. 
 
 Then all restraint was thro^vn off, ever}'- 
 body began talking to everybody else, caps 
 and shakoes were hastily donned, and the 
 
4 CASTA IVA V. 
 
 doors bein^ thrown open by the waiters, the 
 crowd of young men surged into the passage, 
 and thence into the billiard-room, while some, 
 more highly favoured than the rest, sought 
 the snuggery behind the bar, and there enter- 
 tained themselves with flirting with the good- 
 looking barmaids. 
 
 Only two men remained in the room where 
 the dinner had been held. Both were middle- 
 aged, but one had retained his figure, and a 
 certain unmistakable soldier-like smartness, 
 while the other, close verging on corpulency, 
 unbuttoned his jacket and flung himself back 
 in his chair, with an air of one accustomed 
 to subordinate everything to his sense of per- 
 sonal comfort. 
 
 His companion watched these proceedings 
 Avith a certain amount of curiosity, and when 
 they were completed said, with a laugh : 
 
 ^ By Jove, Jack, this'll never do ! If you 
 go on like this you will have to pay three 
 hundred pounds for a charger to carry you. 
 This all comes of selling- ont carlv, and cfoinir 
 
 CD .7 O r^ 
 
 in for domesticity and gentleman-farming.' 
 
AFTER MESS. 5 
 
 ' Upon my Avorcl I believe you are right, 
 Cleetliorpe. I must ride close upon sixteen 
 stone now, and it seems to me that I am 
 putting on flesh every year. I think you are 
 Trrono' about the selling' out thouo-h. I could 
 not have stood that confounded " stables'' 
 much lono-er ; and as for the domesticitv, I 
 was meant to be a home bird, and not a 
 battered old London rake like vou.' 
 
 ' Exactly,' said Captain Cleethorpe, light- 
 ino^ a cio^ar and handing' his case to his friend, 
 ' exactly ; the only wonder is to me -that you 
 still remain in this regiment.' 
 
 ' Well, you see, Cleethorpe,' said his com- 
 panion, slowly expelling his smoke, 'there is 
 nothing that I know of so good that you 
 cannot have a little too much of it, and I find 
 that to come down here to see you, my old 
 chum of so many years' standing, and to talk 
 with the Colonel, who is a deuced nice gen- 
 tlemanly fellow and a man of the world, and 
 to mix with these young fellows, who show 
 me what the present generation is like, does 
 me good by rubbing off the rust — ' 
 
6 CASTAWAY. 
 
 He sto})ped as the door opened, and a young 
 man entered the room. A man a little above 
 the middle height, and apparently not more 
 than eighteen years of age, with a small and 
 singularly well -shaped head and handsome 
 rejrular features. So handsome was he, with 
 his dark blue eyes and dark chestnut hair, 
 which curled in natural and most unusual 
 ripples over his head, that even men, who 
 are o:enerallv accustomed to scorn anvthino^ 
 like personal beauty in one of their own sex, 
 were fain to admit that he was good-looking. 
 Artists found his lips too full, and his fore- 
 head a little too narrow, but principally 
 admired the shape of his head, and the way 
 in which it was joined to his throat, which 
 they pronounced classical and Byron -like, 
 though they complained that the delicate 
 tints of his complexion were too essentially 
 feminine. 
 
 There was, however, nothing effeminate 
 in the young man's manner. He strode into 
 the room without swagger indeed, but with 
 perfect manly ease, and walked up to the far 
 
AFTER MESS. 7 
 
 end of the table where he had been sittin<r 
 during dmner. 
 
 ' Come to hunt for my cigar-case,' he said, 
 as he passed his two brother officers ; ' must 
 have dropped it under the table. 0, here it 
 is. Not coming to the billiard-room. Captain 
 Cleethorpe ? Do come, there is great fun 
 going on; just going to get up a pool, Cap- 
 tain Xorman, and must have you ; capital 
 thmg for you after dinner. I'll be your 
 player, and take care you have plenty of 
 exercise in walking after your ball.' 
 
 And before either of them could reply, 
 he had laughed and quitted the room. 
 
 ' That's a cheeky youth,' said Captain Nor- 
 man, looking after him ; ' cheeky, but deuced 
 good-looking. One of the new lot, isn't it ? 
 Which; not Travers?' 
 
 ' No,' said Cleethorpe. ' Travers is the 
 great hulking fellow that sat within two of 
 you just now ; this lad's name is Heriot. His 
 father is an old army man, now a ]\Iajor- 
 general and a K.C.B., who has been out in 
 India all his life, and has just retired from 
 
8 CASTAWAY. 
 
 the service. Goole is an old chum of his, 
 which accounts for the lad being with us, 
 though I think I understood he is going into 
 the regulars.' 
 
 'The cub is deuced good-looking,' said 
 Captain Norman, 'but he'll want a good deal 
 of licking into shape.' 
 
 ' I don't think that,' said Captain Clee- 
 thorpe ; 'he is only a boy, you see, and 
 cheeky as most boys are, but his manners 
 are generally pretty enough. The sort of 
 boy I think I should be proud of,' said the 
 Captain, slowly puffing at his cigar. ' I won- 
 der what Sir Geoffry will think of him? The 
 lad hasn't seen his father, he tells me, since 
 he was a baby.' 
 
 ' AVhat was it I heard about this old He- 
 riot ?' said Captain Xorman ; ' something, I 
 know; a tremendous martinet, wasn't he?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Cleethorpe ; ' when I saw him 
 out in India he was a strict disciplinarian 
 and a first-class soldier. Kimandine Heriot 
 they used to call him out there, from some 
 w^onderful exploit of his in either attacking or 
 
AFTER MESS. 9 
 
 holding — I forget which — some pass during 
 the Sikh war. But Goole, who, as I say, 
 knows him very well, was telling me some 
 other things about him the other da}-. It 
 appears when he was last at home he mar- 
 ried a goodish - looking woman with money 
 and position, and that sort of thing, and 
 everybody thought he would go on the re- 
 tired list ; but he didn't. After some little 
 time he went out to India again, leaving her 
 behind him, and she and this boy lived toge- 
 ther till she died, about ten years ago, and 
 since then he has been educated in France. 
 That's what Goole told me.' 
 
 ^Devilish interesting story,' said Captain 
 Xorman, who was very nearly asleep, and 
 roused himself with a start. ' Xow let's go 
 and have a pool.' And he pushed aside his 
 chair, and stretched himself as he rose. 
 
 ' All right,' said Captain Cleethorpe, rising 
 at the same time ; and the two officers walked 
 off together. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 
 
 ^ Nice atmosphere this/ said Captain Clee- 
 thorpe to his companion, as he opened the 
 door of the bilhard-room, and walked into a 
 perfect vapour-bath of tobacco smoke. 
 
 ' Yes/ said Captain Xorman, waving his 
 hand to and fro before him, in the vain at- 
 tempt to clear some of the smoke away; 
 ^ rather glad I am not going home to-night — 
 it clings about you so confoundedly, and the 
 smell of stale smoke is the only one thing 
 that ^Irs. Xorman makes a row about. She 
 don't mind it fresh, but hates it when it is 
 stale.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Cleethorpe, ' then it won't do 
 for vou ever to ]mu!^ her to see me at the 
 
LY THE BILLIARD-ROOM. ii 
 
 Bungalow; our parson's wife tells me my 
 place smells just like the inside of a pipe, and 
 she ought to know, for the padre can never 
 put his sermon together on a Saturday vAt\\- 
 out his meerschaum in his mouth. It's clear- 
 ino: off now a bit, or we are o^ettino; accus- 
 
 O 1 CD CD 
 
 tomed to it. Let us see who are here.' 
 
 The billiard-room at the George was a 
 very large one, containing two tables — one at 
 either end, and flanked all round the wall by 
 stout horse-hair seats. Billiards were an in- 
 stitution in Cheeseborough ; the town had 
 produced one of the most celebrated profes- 
 sional players ; and no matter what might be 
 the season of the year, the room at the George 
 was always well filled. The town itself was 
 split into two political parties, hating each 
 other with undying animosity, and keeping 
 up their antagonism not merely at election 
 times, or other periods of political excitement, 
 but throughout the whole year. Each party 
 had its head-quarters ; the Liberals at the 
 George and the Conservatives at the Boyal, 
 and all banquets, balls, fancy fairs, and public 
 
12 CASTAWAY. 
 
 meeting's of any kind in Avhicb the leaders of 
 cither part}^ were interested, took place at one 
 or other of their respective houses. 
 
 A Liberal elector of Cheeseborough would 
 as soon have thought of smacking his lips over 
 a glass of senna prepared for him by Mr. 
 Tofts, the chemist, as of whetting his appetite 
 with sherry -and-bitters at the Royal. A Con- 
 servative, if he could have imagined himself 
 ordering: such a drau^^ht, Avould not have 
 been surprised to find death in the soda-and- 
 brandy mixed for him by the barmaid at the 
 George. But there was no billiard-room at 
 the Royal, and as the game of billiards was a 
 necessity both for Conservatives and Liberals, 
 the billiard-room at the George was looked 
 upon as a kind of neutral ground where they 
 might meet together in friendly union, and 
 where any reference to politics was rigidly 
 tabooed. As happens not unfrequently, some 
 of the keenest local politicians were the most 
 energetic supporters of the game, and it was 
 to their credit that they met night after night, 
 without ever permitting themselves even a 
 
AV THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 13 
 
 reference to the subjects which they dis- 
 cussed so acrimoniously at all other times 
 and places. 
 
 On the evening in question the billiard- 
 room was even more full than usual ; both 
 tables were occupied, the one with a game of 
 pool, in which most of the officers, and some 
 of the visitors who had been present at the 
 officers' mess, were engaged, the other by a 
 match keenly contested by four of the best 
 players amongst the townspeople. All along 
 the seats ranged round the wall were men in 
 various lounging attitudes, watching the pla}', 
 and discussing the merits of the players with 
 perfect freedom, or talking over various oc- 
 currences of that day's review, at which most 
 of them had been present. 
 
 ^Goole's not here, I suppose?' said Nor- 
 man, as they seated themselves at the upper 
 end of the room ; ' at least I have not come 
 across him yet.' 
 
 ^ No,' said Cleethorpe ; ' he cleared off for 
 home at once ; this sort of thing won't do for 
 him.' 
 
14 CASTAWAY. 
 
 'Don't he like tobacco smoke?' 
 
 ' 0, it isn't that a bit — like most old 
 Indians, he's seldom without a cheroot in 
 his mouth — but the fact is, Goole is a very 
 strict disciplinarian, and, having passed the 
 greater part of his life in the command of 
 ni<X2fers and natives, he finds it difficult to 
 understand this kind of material,' said Clee- 
 thorpe, motioning with his cigar to some of 
 the yeomanry who were standing at the far- 
 ther table. 
 
 ' He's like your old friend Heriot, that 
 you were speaking of — a bit of a martinet?' 
 
 ' Well, yes,' said Cleethorpe. ' He doesn't 
 seem to understand that this is a quasi-volun- 
 teer service, and that these men, who give up 
 a certain amount of their time and money — 
 thou ah I allow it is to them amusement — are 
 not to be treated as mere privates in the Line. 
 For instance, Goole would think it quite de- . 
 rogatory to sit in this room while men in the 
 regiment were so far forgetting the respect 
 due to him as to play billiards in his august 
 presence.' 
 
IX THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 15 
 
 ^Perhaps tlie Major thinks so too?' said 
 Norman; 'as he has taken himself off, and 
 you are the senior officer left to us.' 
 
 'The Major has taken himself off because 
 he has discussed one bottle of sherry and two 
 bottles of claret, and makes it a rule never to 
 take spirits after good wine,' said Cleethorpe.; 
 ' and, moreover, I do not intend my dignity 
 as senior officer to prevent my enjoying my- 
 self. What do you say; shall we join the 
 next pool ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Norman lazily. ' I am tired 
 after all that bumping about this morning ; 
 besides those young fellows make such a tre- 
 mendous row. Let's talk to some of these 
 yokels.' 
 
 'Well, Mr. Martin,' said he, turning to a 
 stout man in a suit of dark gray, who was 
 sitting next him ; ' were }'ou at the review to- 
 day? 
 
 ' I were, indeed, Captain, and a main fine 
 sight it was.' 
 
 ' How did you think your boy Tom looked, 
 Martin?' asked Captain Cleethorpe. 'I told 
 
1 6 CASTAWAY. 
 
 you the riding-master would make something 
 of that seat of his.' 
 
 ' AVell, sir,' said farmer Martin, ' may be 
 'tis right in tlie military fashion to hold your 
 heels down and turn your toes out, as if you 
 were at dancing-school, and to jolt about in 
 your saddle like one sack of flour in a large 
 wagon ; but that wouldn't do for cross- 
 country work. Captain ; you must shorten 
 your stirrup-leathers there.' 
 
 'Ay, ay,' said Cleethorpc, nodding. 'By 
 the wa}', didn't you say you wanted to speak 
 to me this evening, Martin?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' said the old man, dropping his 
 voice, and edging up confidentially towards 
 Captain Cleethorpe. ' It's about Mr. Travers, 
 sir; that tall gentleman with the cue in his 
 hand now.' 
 
 'I see. Don't point; he's looking at you,' 
 said Cleethorpe. 
 
 ' Xo offence, sir,' said Martin. ' But this 
 IMuster Travers, Tom's in his troop, sir, and 
 he du worry Tom's life out.' 
 
 ' Stop, stop, Martin, I cannot hear this,' 
 
ly THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 17 
 
 said Captain Cleetliorpe hurriedly; 'I cannot 
 listen to complaints of this kind, at all events 
 at such a time, and in such a place. If you 
 have anything to complain of, or rather if 
 your son has anything to complain of against 
 Mr. Travers, he must hrincr it forward in a 
 proper manner before the Colonel. Did you 
 hear that?' continued Cleethorpe, turning to 
 his friend. ' Xot a very popular youth is ^Ir. 
 Travers, I suspect.' 
 
 ' Ill-conditioned brute,' said Captain Xor- 
 man ; ' quarrelsome, cantankerous, low-bred 
 lout ; a complete specimen of what these 
 vouno' fellows call, in their modern slans", 
 "bad form."' 
 
 'He must be a singularly bad lot,' said 
 Cleethorpe, ' for he even managed to-day to 
 have a row with the Major, which I should 
 have thought an impossibility. Hallo ! what's 
 that?' He pointed as he spoke to the other 
 end of the room, where a little knot of men 
 were o:athered to^fether. 
 
 Above the hum arising round them, a 
 thick voice was heard saying, in coarse, coni- 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
i8 CASTAWAY. 
 
 moil tones, 'Can't you stand still? Always 
 jumping about in that infernal French fashion, 
 like a dancing-master ! That's the second time 
 you have spoiled my stroke !' 
 
 ' That's that brute Travers, by the voice,' 
 said Xorman, raising himself up on his elbow, 
 the better to look at the group. 'Whom is 
 he speaking to in that charming, gentlemanly 
 manner ?' 
 
 ' I cannot see clearly, but to Heriot, I 
 should fancy, by that graceful allusion to the 
 boy's French bringing up. Yes, it is. I hear 
 Heriot's shrill voice in reply, and the strong 
 foreign accent which always crops up when 
 he's excited.' 
 
 ' That Travers is just the sort of fellow 
 who would bully and swagger where he 
 thought he could do so unchecked.' 
 
 ' He had better not try on such practices 
 with Heriot,' said Cleethorpe. 'That young 
 man has, I fancy, a spirit of his own. At all 
 events, if he takes after his father, he would 
 be one of the last to stand any — By Jove, 
 they are at it again.' 
 
IN THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 19 
 
 As lie spoke, the little knot of men had 
 formed again in the same place, and again 
 Travers's voice was heard above the others, 
 crying out, this time in louder and more 
 passionate accents, ' Keep back, sir, will you V 
 You have spoiled my stroke again. That 
 time I believe you did it on purpose.' 
 
 'I didn't,' in Heriot's shrill accents. 
 
 ' You did.' 
 
 ' You're a liar I' 
 
 And immediately on the utterance of the 
 words, there followed a dull heavy sound like 
 a thud. 
 
 Travers had hit out, and caught Heriot 
 on the cheek. Then with something that was 
 more of a scream than an ordinary exclama- 
 tion, Heriot was rushing in upon his adver- 
 sary, when the bystanders laid hold of him, 
 and Captain Cleethorpe rushing up, pushed 
 his way through the crowd, and taking the 
 lad by the arm, cried out, ' Mr. Heriot, what 
 is the meaning of all this ?' 
 
 The boy, who was trembling with ex- 
 citement from head to foot, stared at him 
 
20 CASTA JVA V. 
 
 vacantly for a moment, tlicn said, incohe- 
 rently, 'lie — I — ' and then, to Cleethorpe's 
 intense dismay, burst into a flood of passionate 
 tears. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 SITTING IN JUDGMENT. 
 
 Every morning at six o'clock, the bell in the 
 turret of the stables attached to Lacklands, 
 the pretty villa in the neighbourhood of 
 Cheeseborough, where Lieutenant - Colonel 
 Goole resides, is rung for full five minutes, 
 its shrill notes warning all those who hear it, 
 and who are in the Colonel's employ, that for 
 them the new day has begun, and that they 
 may at any time expect a visit from their 
 master. 
 
 Mr. Boulger, who lives at Valparaiso Villa, 
 the property adjoining Lacklands, and who 
 made his money as a shipping agent at Bir- 
 kenhead, objects very strongly to this bell, 
 as do other residents in the neighbourhood. 
 Colonel Goole receives their protests, which 
 
22 CASTAWAY. 
 
 are sometimes made verbally, sometimes in 
 writina', very politely, and in reply informs 
 them, in a gentleman-like manner, and well- 
 chosen terms, that he finds it necessary to 
 make some such public announcement to the 
 people employed by him, and that as an old 
 Indian officer, accustomed to early rising, he 
 considers the time he has fixed upon as the 
 very latest at which work ought to be com- 
 menced. He himself, he avers, is always out 
 of bed an hour before that time ; and he 
 might have added, is generally on the spot to 
 see that the warning of the bell is not with- 
 out its proper attention. 
 
 This mornimi, for instance, he has been 
 throuo:h the stables, and looked over the 
 occupant of each of his four stalls, has talked 
 with the ijardener about the comino^ fruit 
 crop, and consulted the shepherd as to the 
 chances of fine weather; and now, just as the 
 clock is strikino^ seven, is striding: about with 
 a spud in his hand, devising certain altera- 
 tions in the little slips of garden specially set 
 aside for the behoof of his children. 
 
SITTING IN JUDGMENT. 23 
 
 The sunlight is even noAv sufficiently 
 strong to dazzle his eyes as he looks up from 
 the ground which he has been marking out, 
 and he is compelled to shade them with his 
 hand before he can make out the fio-ure of a 
 man, mounted on horseback, slowly approach- 
 ing up the valley. Colonel Goole's eyesight 
 had stood him in good stead on many occa- 
 sions in India, and is good still. ' Cleethorpe,' 
 he says to himself, after his survey ; ' Clee- 
 thorpe, on that leggy mare which he tried to 
 make a charger of, but which he is quite wise 
 in keeping for a hack. AYhat can bring him 
 here so early this morning? He's not a man 
 to come out merely for the sake of a ride, or 
 for breakfast ; there must be somethincr the 
 matter in the regiment, I expect.' And with- 
 out relinquishing his hold of the spud, Colonel 
 Goole started off down the hill to meet his 
 brother officer. 
 
 The Colonel's apprehensions were by no 
 means set at rest by the Captain's manner or 
 appearance. Both, however, w^ere practical 
 men, unaccustomed to beat about the bush, 
 
24 CASTAWAY. 
 
 or to attem2:)t to mystify each other, and they 
 came to the point at once. 
 
 ' Good-morning, Cleethorpe,' said the Colo- 
 nel, Avhen he ^vas within earshot of his friend; 
 'what brings yon ont here so early this 
 morning? Something has happened, I sup- 
 pose ?' 
 
 'You're right, sir,' said Captain Cleethorpe, 
 returning his salute, ' something has hap- 
 pened.' 
 
 ' Unpleasant?' 
 
 'Very unpleasant !' 
 
 ' I thouo'ht so ' said the Colonel, who had 
 paused until his friend joined him, and who 
 now turned round and walked by the horse's 
 side. ' Please state shortly what it is.' 
 
 'A row in the billiard-room of the George, 
 last night.' 
 
 The Colonel's face darkened at these 
 words, and he muttered, ' Creditable that, by 
 Jove ! Any civilian mixed up in it ?' 
 
 ' Xo, sir ; the quarrel was between Mr. 
 Travers and Mr. Heriot,' 
 
 ' George Heriot I' replied the Colonel 
 
SITTING IN JUDGMENT. 25 
 
 quickly ; then shaking his head, ' I'm sorry 
 for that. Go on.' 
 
 'Mr. Travers several times accused Mr. 
 lieriot of undul}^ pressing upon him, and 
 spoiling his stroke in the game that was being- 
 played. At length, in the most marked and 
 offensive manner, he accused Mr. Heriot of 
 having pushed his arm.' 
 
 'Well, Cleethorpe, well?' 
 
 ' I regret to say, sir, that upon this provo- 
 cation Mr. Heriot gave Mr. Travers the lie, 
 and that then Mr. Travers struck Mr. Heriot 
 a blow.' 
 
 ' A blow ! struck Georsfe a blow ?' said 
 the Colonel, stoj)ping short, and looking up 
 in horror at his friend. ' By Jove, Cleethorpe, 
 I am not a rich man, but I would have given 
 five hundred pounds sooner than this should 
 have happened. Who were present at this 
 scene?' 
 
 ' Man}', sir ; quite a crowd. Captain Xor- 
 man and I, some dozen of the regiment, and 
 several townspeople. One of the waiters and 
 the marker were in the room, too, at the 
 
26 CASTA WAV. 
 
 time; in fact, as you ^vill sec from the sequel, 
 it is impossible to liiish the matter up.' 
 
 ' Sequel ! AVhat, have you more to tell 
 me?' 
 
 ' I have, indeed, and the worst part of it.' 
 
 'By Jove, Cleethorpc,' said the Colonel, 
 who had fallen into deep thought, ' Lord Oke- 
 hampton will be furious when he hears of 
 this; and if there's a meeting between these 
 vounfi: men — ' 
 
 ' You may spare yourself the trouble of 
 calculating the consequences of such a result, 
 Colonel Goole ; there will be no meeting.' 
 
 ' Xo meeting ; that's by your manage- 
 ment then, Cleethorpe,' said the Colonel, lay- 
 ing his hand on the Captain's arm; 'mutual 
 retractations and apologies, eh ? Cleverly 
 managed, my friend.' 
 
 ' I don't deserve your compliment, and I 
 regret that you have quite misapprehended 
 the state of affairs. ]\Ir. Travers distinctly 
 refuses to retract anvthiniif that he has said, 
 or to apologise for the blow given to Mr. 
 Heriot.' 
 
SirriXG IX JUDGMENT. 27 
 
 ' The deuce he does I' said the Colonel 
 anxiously. ' Well, then, Cleethorpe, the days 
 of duelling are over, and rightly, too, I sup- 
 pose, but — ^bnt a Llo^v is a deuced awkward 
 thing; George Heriot can't sit down under 
 that ; he must have him out, sir, he must 
 have him out!' 
 
 ' That course has alreadv been su;x^ested 
 to Mr. Heriot,' said Captain Cleethorpe ; ' not 
 by me, I am too old to be mixed up in such 
 matters, but by some gentlemen more of his 
 own standino' in the reo-iment ; but Mr. Heriot 
 won't fight.' 
 
 ' What !' cried the Colonel, so loudly and 
 suddenly as to frighten Cleethorpe's horse ; 
 ' won't fight ?' 
 
 ' He declines to ask Mr. Travers for satis- 
 faction for the insult passed upon him. The 
 young man is a favourite in the regiment, 
 and his comrades hesitated before accepting 
 his reply. It was pointed out to him that 
 the insult offered to him was the grossest 
 which could be passed upon any gentleman, 
 and one which it was impossible for hmi to 
 
28 CASTA WAV. 
 
 bear, and remain in the society of gentlemen. 
 ]\Ir. Heriot did not attempt to argue the 
 point ; he simply declined to send a chal- 
 lenge.' 
 
 'But didn't he give any reason for this 
 extraordinary conduct ?' 
 
 ' Xot the least in the world. He said he 
 had a reason which satisfied himself, but 
 which he could not explain.' 
 
 ' This is very bad, Cleethorpe.' 
 
 ' Very bad indeed, Colonel. As I have 
 told you, I thought it better to keep clear of 
 the affair last night ; but this morning I went 
 to the young man's room — I knew something 
 of his father in India, as I told you — and 
 tried to represent to him the position in 
 which he had placed himself It was of no 
 use. He still refuses to take proper notice of 
 ^Ir. Travers's blow.' 
 
 ' He must go, Cleethorpe,' said the Colo- 
 nel, looking up at him. 
 
 ' Xot a doubt of that. Colonel. The pres- 
 tige of the regiment would be ruined if he 
 were suffered to remain. Two or three men 
 
SITTIXG IX JUDGMENT. 29 
 
 expressed that opinion to me last niiiht, 
 amongst them Norman, who is quiet and 
 sensible, and by no means hot - headed. In- 
 deed, I feel it myself.' 
 
 ' So do I,' said Colonel Goole quietly. 
 'You mentioned his father just now; I don't 
 know how I shall be able to break it to Sir 
 GeofFry, and he intended to make a soldier of 
 the lad.' 
 
 'Ah!' said Captain Cleethorpe, patting his 
 horse's neck, ' it was only last evening that 
 I was half inclined to deplore my bachelor 
 state, and to wish that I had a boy like his ; 
 but now I cannot be too thankful for the im- 
 mense amount of anxiety and possible misery 
 that I have been spared.' 
 
 ' You're right. God help poor Sir Geoffry! 
 He will suffer frightfully. I must write to 
 him, of course, and to Lord Okehampton ; and 
 that will be a ver}' pleasant business for me, 
 by the way, for it was principally on my 
 representation that Okehampton gave the boy 
 his commission. However, we will go in and 
 get our breakfist now, and afterwards I will 
 
30 CASTAWAY. 
 
 write the letters, and vou shall take them in 
 Avith you and dispatch them. Hard lines for 
 Heriot — frightful hard lines for a man at the 
 close of an honourable career to find his hopes 
 blighted and his name slurred, and that by 
 no fault of his own. By the way, does the 
 vouno; man know that he must q:o ? He had 
 better apply for leave until the matter can be 
 formally arrano^ed.' 
 
 ' I settled that Avith him this morning, and 
 am the bearer of his application. He knows, 
 too, that he must give up all chance of enter- 
 ing the army.' 
 
 ' How does he behave about that ?' 
 
 ' Yery quietly, and not without a certain 
 amount of dignity. In spite of all that has 
 happened, there is something about the }'oung 
 man's manner which one could never find in 
 a coward. If one could only know his reason 
 for this conduct !' 
 
 ' That, you say, he distinctly refuses to 
 give?' said the Colonel. 
 
 ' Most decidedly.' 
 
 ^ Then,' said the Colonel, shru<2:iiiun[ his 
 
SITTING IN JUDGMENT. 31 
 
 shoulders, ' we can only act on what is brought 
 before us.' 
 
 ' I suppose so/ said Captain Cleethorpe, 
 repeating the shrug, and turning his horse's 
 head in the direction of the stables, while the 
 Colonel moved towards the house. 
 
 Their talk at breakfast was about other 
 matters, and when the meal was finished, they 
 adjourned to the little study, and there, after 
 much cogitation and many alterations, their 
 joint labours produced the following letter : 
 
 ' Cheeseborough, May 18, 1860. 
 
 ^ My dear Heriot. — I much rei^ret to be 
 compelled to announce to you some ill news, 
 which I fear will affect you very deeply. Like 
 most old soldiers, I am not a very good hand 
 Avith the pen, but you will understand that it 
 is not for any want of sympathy that I come 
 at once to the point, and tell you that your 
 son must send in his resiirnation of the com- 
 mission which he holds in the Cheddar Yeo- 
 manry. It appears that last night he and 
 another subaltern, a Mr. Travers, came to 
 
CASTA IVAV. 
 
 liidi words 111 u billiard-room in this town. 
 
 c 
 
 Your son gave ^Ir. Travers the lie, and Tra- 
 vers retorted by a IjIow. I need not point 
 out to you that after this, more especially as 
 the affair took place in public, and in the pre- 
 sence of several of the townspeople, there was 
 but one course to pursue. That course, how- 
 ever, Mr. Heriot, although it has been plainly 
 pointed out to him, declines to take, and is 
 content, as it seems, to sit down patiently 
 under the insult that he has received. Of 
 course, his continuance in the regiment under 
 these circumstances is impossible, as hence- 
 forward all fellowship with his brother offi- 
 cers, or respect from the men, would be at 
 an end. 
 
 ' I cannot tell you, my dear Heriot, know- 
 ing as 1 do your acute sense of honour, how 
 deeply I sympathise with you under these 
 unha})p}' circumstances ; more especially as I 
 am sure, if George had only done what might 
 have been expected of him, the matter could 
 have been easily arranged. This Mr. Travers 
 with whom he quarrelled is an underbred 
 
SITTIXG IN JUDGMEXT. 33 
 
 bully, and from what I have heard from Cap- 
 tam Cleethorpe, who was present at the row, 
 and whom I think you know, I could easily 
 have prevented matters from goinp: to extre- 
 mities. George's refusal to notice the insult 
 has, however, completely taken the matter 
 out of my hands. He says he has a reason 
 for his conduct, which is quite sufficient for 
 himself, but declines to impart it to any of 
 us. He is prepared to send in his resigna- 
 tion, and I have no option but to advise its 
 acceptance. I write to Lord Okehampton ac- 
 cordingly by this post. Again assuring you 
 of my deep regret, I am, my dear Heriot, 
 sincerely yours, Markha^i Goole.' 
 
 'There,' said Colonel Goole, folding up 
 the letter, 'this affair will either break the 
 old man's heart, or cause him to break his 
 sou's spirit.' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said Captahi Clee- 
 thorpe doubtfully ; ' for my part, I look upon 
 the first process as difficult, the last as impos- 
 sible.' 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 SENTENCED. 
 
 ' Glad you have come in, Mr. Eiley ; the 
 General has rung twice.' 
 
 ' And why didn't you answer the bell ?' 
 asked ^Ir. Riley, a tall, weather-beaten, gray- 
 haired man, of soldierly appearance. 
 
 ' Xo, I thank }'ou,' replied the butler ; 
 'when I have known him as long as you, 
 perhaps I will, but our acquaintance is much 
 too short at present ; '' and never let me see 
 you before lunch time," he says to me the 
 other day, and I made up my mind that I 
 would act accordingly.' 
 
 'The General's rather short tempered m 
 the morning,' said Riley, with a grim smile as 
 he left the room to answer the bell, which 
 pealed out for the third time. 
 
 ' Short tempered,' said the butler to the 
 
SENTENCED. 3 5 
 
 footman, who entered the pantry at the mo" 
 ment, bearmg a tray of glasses; 'short tem- 
 pered ! He thinks he's among the niggers 
 still, I suppose, but he'll have to alter all that 
 now he's come over here.' 
 
 ' Of course he will, Mr. Johnson,' said the 
 footman ; ' I don't hold with blacks, which 
 is good enough to sweep crossings and sell 
 tracts, but not figures enough for indoor ser- 
 vice.' 
 
 Meanwhile, Riley rapidly made his way to 
 the library, opened the door, closed it care- 
 fully behind him, and stood upright at the 
 attitude of attention, waiting for his master 
 to address him. The room was empty at the 
 moment, but through a doorway at the far- 
 ther end of it came a man with quick, hasty 
 footsteps, bearing two letters in his hand. .A 
 man above the middle height, and consider- 
 ably past middle age, thin almost to gaunt- 
 ness, upright in his carriage, rapid and nerv- 
 ous in his movements. His iron -gray hair, 
 worn without parting or division, curled in a 
 thick crisp mass on his head. His small gray 
 
36 CASTAWAY. 
 
 moustache shaded his thin lips, but his cheeks 
 were whiskerless, and no beard softened the 
 outbnos of the strong and heavy jaw, which 
 plainly indicated the o^\aier's possession of a 
 quality characterised by his friends as firm- 
 ness, by his foes as obstinacy. 
 
 Such outward appearance had Major-Ge- 
 neral Sir GeofFry Heriot. As he entered the 
 room, he looked somewhat vacantly at the 
 servant, then seatino^ himself at his writino^- 
 table, spread his letters open before him, and 
 commenced the perusal of one of them. Riley 
 waited until his master again looked up, when 
 he said, 
 
 ' You rang. General ?' 
 Sir GeofFry roused in an instant. 
 * Three times, Riley. Where were you?' 
 'Gone to the stables, General, to look at 
 the horse that came last night. It's against 
 your orders for any of the servants to come 
 to }'ou in the morning, and I thought you 
 would like to hear news of the horse. He'll 
 make a fine charger. General, and will carry 
 Mr. George splendidly.' 
 
SENTENCED. 37 
 
 ' How can you tell that '?' said Sir GeofFry 
 quickly ; 'you never saAv Mr. George!' 
 
 ' Xo, General, that's true,' said Riley ; 
 ' but—' 
 
 'You never will see him,' said Sir GeofFry. 
 
 ' Xever see Mr. George,' cried the man in 
 astonishment ; ' why I thought in a month's 
 time he was coming here ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Georo^e Heriot will never come here,' 
 said Sir Geoffr}', looking up sternly at his 
 servant ; * more than that, there is no such 
 person,' 
 
 'Xo such person as your honour's son?' 
 cried Eiley, who, like most of his countrymen, 
 when excited flavoured his sentences with a 
 vast amount of brogue. 
 
 ' I have no son, Riley.' 
 
 'Is Mr. George dead?' asked the man, 
 dropping his voice. 
 
 ' He's dead to me,' said Sir GeofFry, in the 
 same tone; 'do you understand?' 
 
 ' That's just what I don't do,' said he, 
 looking up in despair. 
 
 ' All that vou have occasion to know," said 
 
38 CASTA WA Y. 
 
 Sir Geoffry Heriot coldly, ' and you should 
 not know even so much, if you had not served 
 me faithfully so many years, is this : that the 
 person whom I have hitherto been accustomed 
 to think of as my son, and to whose com- 
 panionship and affection I have been looking 
 forward as the solace of my life, has done 
 something which renders it necessary for me 
 not merely to discard and disown him, but to 
 forget that he ever existed.' 
 
 ' Your honour,' said Itiley, involuntarily 
 taking a step nearer to his master, and speak- 
 ing with trembling lips and outstretched 
 hands, ' to discard and disown — is it Mr. 
 George, your son?' 
 
 ' Have I any other son, that you need 
 ask ?' said Sir Geoffry, unmoved. ' Under- 
 stand, too, that henceforward his name will 
 never pass my lips, and must never be men- 
 tioned by you. I ani aware, Riley, that silence 
 is one of your qualities, but have you ever 
 spoken of my son's expected visit here to any 
 of your new associates in the servants' hall ?' 
 
 'Never, Sir Geoffry.' 
 
SENTENCED. 39 
 
 ' Never even mentioned his existence ?' 
 
 'Never, General. Mr. George's name has 
 never crossed my lips save to your honom-, 
 since we left the regiment.' 
 
 'That's right; now attend to me. I ex- 
 pect a visitor to- da}'. You will have timely 
 notice of his approach, by seeing the carriage 
 coming up the avenue, and you will take care 
 to be in the way to open the hall-door. Mind 
 that this is done by you, and none of the 
 other servants; let them know, if they ask 
 anything about it, that it is by my special 
 orders. You will not ask the gentleman his 
 name ; if he gives it, you will keep it to your- 
 self, and not even repeat it to me. You will 
 simply announce him as a gentleman, send the 
 carriage to the stables, and bid the driver 
 come round again in half an hour's time. 
 When I rin": the bell vou will see the o-entle- 
 man to the door, and show him out, without 
 a word. You understand me, without a word.' 
 
 ' I understand, General,' said the man, 
 with his head bent down, and in a low tone of 
 voice. 
 
40 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' Xow iro !' and Sir Geoffrv pointed to the 
 door. 
 
 *It's ]\Ir. George,' thought Riley to him- 
 self, as he Trent slowly down the passage ; ' it's 
 Mr. Oeoro'el He's comino- to see his father 
 for the last time, and not all the angels in 
 heaven, or all the other things anywhere else, 
 Avould make the General budge an inch when 
 he has made his mind up to do even so cruel 
 a thins: as this.' 
 
 When Sir Geoffiy was left to himself, he 
 took up the longer of the two letters which 
 la A' before him, and read it again attentively. 
 As he read, the blood flushed in his bronzed 
 cheeks, his teeth were set firmly together be- 
 hind his thin lips, his eyes kindled, and at 
 leno"th crushina' the letter in his hand, he 
 began pacing the room with hasty strides. 
 
 ' A coward I' he inuttered, in short, broken 
 sentences; 'a coward, that is it, neither more 
 nor less. To think, after all I have gone 
 through and all I have anticipated, that I 
 should come back to this; that flesh and blood 
 of mine should receive a blow, and, as Goole 
 
SENTENCED. 41 
 
 phrases it, ''sit doAvii patiently uuder the in- 
 sult/' A co'vvarcl, eh? Oave this other man 
 the lie, and Avhen he hit out, naturallv enoucfh 
 — Avhat else could have been expected of him? 
 — refused to call Lim out, but sits down pa- 
 tiently under the insult. That's the tailor's 
 ])lood cropping up in that — you can never get 
 rid of the taint ; like gout it A\ill skip one 
 generation, but it comes out in the next: it 
 passed by me and shows itself in him. Just 
 like vour low-bred ciu\ who ^vill flv out and 
 bark and growl, but runs away directly a stick 
 is shaken at him. To think that he should 
 have received a blow, and — AVhat does Goole 
 say ?' Here he referred to the letter. ' ** To^vns- 
 people present.'' 1 am thankful to Provi- 
 dence that I did not obey my first impidse, 
 and go up to Cheeseborough to see this lad 
 and his re^i-iment directlv I landed. With the 
 exception of Goole and this man — what is his 
 name? — Cleethorpe — whom he refers to, they 
 know nothing of me except my name, and 
 they are not likely to remember that for long 
 after their drill meeting- is over. The\' were 
 
42 CASTA WAV. 
 
 all county men, I recollect Goolc telling me, 
 and Clieddar is a long way off, and has not 
 much communication with London, so that I 
 am not likely to be brought across any of 
 them. " This reason for his refusal to fight," ' 
 continued Sir Geoffry, again referring to the 
 letter, ' " this reason he declines to impart to 
 anybody.'' Declines to impart! What does 
 Goole mean by writing such stuff as that to 
 me, even if he be taken in by it himself? 
 lieason — a man has no reason for being a 
 coward save that he is one. And here I am, 
 with this word '' coward'' ringing out in every 
 sentence, and knowing that it is applied to my 
 own son !' 
 
 He stopped suddenly, and threw up his 
 arms in the violence of his rage and grief, 
 then let them drop by his side, and continued 
 mechanically pacing to and fro with his chin 
 resting on his breast. 
 
 After about an hour had passed away in 
 this manner. Sir Geoffry 's quick ear caught 
 the sound of footsteps in the passage close to 
 the door. He had only time to tln'ow him- 
 
SENTENCED. 43 
 
 self into a chair at the writing-table, and to 
 assume the appearance of being engaged with 
 his pen, when the door was opened, and Eile}' 
 appeared. Close Ijehind him Sir GeofFry saw 
 the outline of another figure, and it required 
 all the self-command he possessed to subdue 
 the nervous shivering', which ran throuo'h him 
 at the sight from head to heel. 
 
 Riley studiously averted his eyes from his 
 master as he made the announcement: 'A 
 gentleman, Sir Geoffry!' Sir Geotfiy replied, 
 ' Show him in;' but, after the first glance, did 
 not look up from the writing in front of him 
 mitil he heard the sound made by the closing- 
 door. Then he raised his head, and rose from 
 his chair, but as his glance fell upon the 
 young man standing before him, his thoughts 
 leaped back over the abyss of twenty years, 
 and a woman's face, which he had not seen 
 during that period, but which, when he last 
 looked at it, bore just the same strange, proud 
 expression, rose before his fancy. He sank 
 back in his chair again, and shut the vision 
 out with his hand. 
 
44 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' Father,' cried the young man, steppmg 
 forward. 
 
 In an instant Sir Geoffrv was himself asrain. 
 
 ' Son,* he replied, rising to his feet, and 
 2:)utting forth his hand to check the yomig'^ 
 man's advance, ' this is the first time we have 
 ever interchanged these terms, and it will be 
 the last.' 
 
 ' Father !' again cried the youth. 
 
 ' I am Sir GeofFry Heriot, if you please^ 
 to you as Avell as to everybody else. Whom 
 }'0u are now I know, but what you may be 
 for the future is for your own decision, and 
 utterly without any reference to me.' 
 
 The young man looked up as though doubt- 
 ing the evidence of his ears. 
 
 Presently he said : 
 
 ' You have had a letter from me, sir ?' 
 
 ^ I have had a letter from Colonel Goole^ 
 stating what occurred on Thursday night in 
 a billiard-room at Cheeseborough,' said Sir 
 GeofFrv. 
 
 ' But from me, I ask,' said the young man 
 impetuously ; ' had you not a letter from me, 
 
SENTENCED. 45 
 
 statins: that I was comino; to vou forthwith, 
 and that I would explain that occurrence?' 
 
 'I had,' said Sir Geoffry quietly; 'but 
 there was no occasion for vou to have troubled 
 yourself to have come on such an errand. I 
 have no doubt Colonel Goole states the cir- 
 cumstances correctly; you can take his letter 
 and judge for yourself.' And he threw the 
 letter across the table. 
 
 George Heriot took up the letter and read 
 it through, Sir GeofFry watching him intently. 
 muttering as he did so, ' And he can read of 
 his own disgrace without turning^ a hair !' 
 
 ' The facts are correctly stated, sir,' said 
 George, folding the letter, and handing it back 
 to his father. 
 
 . ' Of course,' said Sir GeofFry, contemp- 
 tuouslv ; ' ofentlemen are no more in the habit 
 of per^^erting facts than of submitting tamely 
 to insult. We will go through the statements 
 seriatim if you please. Yoti and this Mr. 
 Travers,' said the General, referring to the 
 letter, ' had this quarrel at a billiard- table ?' 
 
 ' AVe had.' 
 
46 CASTA WA V. 
 
 'He accused you of obtruding on his 
 stroke, and of purposely pushing his arm?' 
 
 ' He did; 
 
 ' You gave him the lie ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And he then struck you a blow ?' 
 
 ' He did; 
 
 ' That bloAv you have not attempted to 
 avenge. You remain, as it were, with a red 
 mark of his buffet on your cheek. You have 
 not demanded satisfaction for this insult that 
 has been put upon you?' 
 
 ' I have not.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, you have refused to call 
 this man to account?' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 'And you dare, sir, to come here and 
 confront me with such a decision as that in 
 your mouth ?' cried the General, almost shriek- 
 ing with rage. 
 
 ' I dare,' said George Heriot, very quietly. 
 
 His son's coolness had a subduing effect 
 upon the elder man. His look was still dis- 
 dainful, and his manner imperious, but his 
 
SENTEJ\'CED. 4^ 
 
 voice was considerably moderated as he 
 said: 
 
 ' Your daring to do so proves more plainly 
 than anything else that we have never met 
 before, and that you have been brought up in 
 complete ignorance of my character.' 
 
 ' I certainly was not brought up to regard 
 you either as an idol whom I was to worship, 
 or as a bully from whom I was to run away,^ 
 said the young man, still very quietly. 
 
 Sir Geoffry's face darkened, and he seemed 
 as thouo^h about to ao^ain o^ive vent to his 
 passion. But he checked himself, and said : 
 
 ' I am indebted to those to whom your 
 early days were confided for having failed to 
 represent me in the last objectionable charac- 
 ter. As to the former,' he added grimly, 
 ' they were not likely to make any mistake 
 about that. However, that is not relevant 
 to the subject at present under discussion. 
 You allow that all that is said by Colonel 
 Goole in this matter is true?' 
 
 ' Perfectly true.' 
 
 ' Then it only remains with me to an- 
 
48 CASTAWAY. 
 
 nounce the detenninatioii which I have come 
 to in the matter. Stay, though. Colonel 
 Goole tells me that you describe yourself as 
 haviuo: some reason for refusing: to demand 
 satisfaction of this man.' 
 
 ' Of any man,' interrupted George. 
 
 ' Of any man,' repeated the General. ' I 
 beg your pardon, and accept your correction 
 in its wider sense. This reason you declined 
 to state to Colonel Goole, or to any of your 
 brother officers. Does your objection to men- 
 tion it apply equally to me?' 
 
 ' It does not.' 
 
 ' Xo I Then you can give me your rea- 
 sons t 
 
 ' I can.' 
 
 'And will?' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' I confess I shall be curious to hear what 
 can have been your motive for sacrificing a 
 very promising career, almost before you had 
 entered upon it.' 
 
 ' My sole motive for refusing to fight a 
 •duel — that is the right way to put it, as, even 
 
SENTENCED. 
 
 49 
 
 had I been challenged, I should have declined 
 the meeting — was, that I had sworn a solemn 
 oath never to engage in such an encounter.' 
 
 Sn* GeofFry laughed aloud. 
 
 'The old story,' he cried, with a sneer; 
 ' the coward's never-failing plea. So tender 
 of his word, so regardless of his honour. 
 And to whom, pray, and under what circum- 
 stances, was this oath given?' 
 
 ' To whom? To your wife : my mother.' 
 
 Sir Geoffry started, and shook himself as 
 though he had received a cut from a whip. 
 He steadied himself quickly, and then, placing 
 his fingers upon the table, remained standing. 
 
 ' And vou ask under what circumstances,' 
 continued the lad. ' I will tell you. The 
 first time I can recollect any allusion to it 
 was when I was quite a little child. We 
 were livino^ then at Saumer, a little villao;e 
 within a short distance of Boulogne. We 
 used to ;i'o into Boulo^-ne in a kind of omni- 
 bus, drawn by one horse, and driven by a 
 man named Joseph. It used to start very 
 early in the morning, that the countrywomen 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 CASTAWAY. 
 
 might be betimes at market with their fruit, 
 and flowers, and vegetables. And one morn- 
 ing, just as Ave were skirting the sands, we 
 saw a little knot of men gathered round some- 
 thing Avhich they were slowly carrying away. 
 Joseph stopped his horse, and ran to see 
 what it was, and coming back told us that it 
 was the body of an officer who had been just 
 killed in a duel. That night I spoke to my 
 mother about it, and asked her what a duel 
 meant, and why the officer had been killed. 
 After she had explained this, she cried a 
 great deal, I recollect, and made me promise 
 never to allow myself to be mixed up in such 
 matters. The subject was never alluded to 
 again between us until' — and here the lad's 
 voice broke a little — ^ until she was dying. 
 We had had a long, long talk, and she had 
 told me of all that she wished me to do. I 
 was sitting by her ; her eyes Avere closed, and 
 I thought she was sleeping, when she sud- 
 denly roused up, and clutching me by the 
 arm, reminded me of the scene which we had 
 witnessed from the Saumer omnibus, and of 
 
SENTENCED. 
 
 51 
 
 the promise which I then made. " You Avere 
 very young then," she said, " and you are but 
 a mere chiki now, but you will have sense 
 enough to understand me, and to do Avhat I 
 bid you, when I tell you that it is nly urgent 
 wish, and that I am going away from you, 
 and you will never see me ai>:ain. Sav after 
 me these words : ' I swear by my hopes of 
 salvation, and by the love I have for my 
 mother, that I will never fight a duel, or take 
 part in one in any way.' " I repeated the 
 words after her, then I laid down beside her, 
 and she put her arms round my neck, and 
 kept them there till she died.' 
 
 The boy ceased. The vivid recollection 
 of what he had described had excited him 
 somewhat as he proceeded, and his narrative 
 had, he imagined, had some effect upon his 
 father, who sat with his face averted, and his 
 head resting on his hand. 
 
 But whatever emotion Sir Geoffrv mi^-ht 
 have felt, he was careful to let no sign of it 
 escape him. After a pause he looked up, and 
 said, in hard, dr}* tones : 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 CASTAWAY. 
 
 'It is ji pity you did not tliink of all this 
 before }'ou gave the lie to your brother of- 
 ficer, or that, having done so, you did not 
 suffer the fact to escape your memory. The 
 circumstances beino^ as thev are, I do not 
 allow for a moment that your statement is a 
 sufficient excuse for your conduct. But it 
 has had a certain effect. When I received 
 your Coloners letter this morning, I deter- 
 mined upon disowning and discarding you on 
 account of your conduct as described to me 
 by him, without entering into any parley as 
 to the past or the future. That determina- 
 tion I adhere to, but in consequence of what 
 you have said, I feel it due to myself to let 
 you know something, at least, of the history 
 of the past. When you have heard it, you 
 will more readily comprehend your mother's 
 horror of duelling, and what may perhaps 
 have been a mvstery to vou — the reason that 
 the latter portion of her life was passed away 
 from me. 
 
 ' Your grandfather was a tailor named 
 Causton, residing in a small hamlet near 
 
SENTENCED. 53 
 
 London, where there was a good foundation 
 school. To this school he sent me, his son, 
 and there, when quite a child, I formed an 
 intimate friendship with a lad named Heriot. 
 This lad died when he was about eleven years 
 old, and his father, who was a clerk high u]) 
 m the India House, adopted me in his place, 
 on condition that I should bear his name, and 
 give myself up entirely to his direction. My 
 father was dead at that time, and I never cared 
 particularly about the tailor's connection, so 
 that I gladly accepted Mr. Heriot' s offer, and, 
 under my new name, I was sent to Addis- 
 combe, and thence into the Indian army. I 
 stuck resolutely to my profession, never ask- 
 ing for leave of absence during twenty jears. 
 Then I obtained a long furlough, and came 
 home to England. All traces of the Causton 
 name and the tailor parentage were obliterated 
 by this time. I was Major Heriot, well known 
 and highly respected throughout the Indian 
 service; and, as I had lived frugally, I had 
 been enabled to save ample means. 
 
 ' I met your mother in society, and ad- 
 
54 CASTA WAV. 
 
 mired her immensely. She was one of two 
 sisters, both of whom were raved about; but 
 }our mother s was the softer beauty of the 
 two, and in manner she was much the swxeter 
 and more innocent. My attentions pleased 
 her, my position was thought an eligible one 
 by her friends, and w^e w^ere luarried. Within 
 a year of our marriage, and shortly after your ^ 
 birth, your mother presented to me a gentle- 
 man named Yeldham, w^hom she had known 
 before she made my acquaintance. He was 
 an Englishman, but had lived most of his time 
 abroad, had foreign manners, and was accus- 
 tomed to foreign ways. He Avas a dilettante 
 artist and an amateur musician, and was sup- 
 posed to be particularly fascinating to women. 
 Your mother took great delight in his societ}-, 
 and he Avas so much at our house that T spoke 
 to her about it. She laughed at the time, and 
 told me if I used my eyes I could see that it 
 was her sister, who was living w^ith us, that 
 was in reality Mr. Yeldham's attraction. I 
 thought no more of it, and shortly after we 
 all went abroad, loitering up the Rhine to Ba- 
 
SENTENCED. 55 
 
 clen, where Mr. Yeldham joined iis. I again 
 fancied I perceived an understanding between 
 your mother and this man, which was any- 
 thing but agreeable to me. I spoke about it 
 in confidence to her sister. Miss Hastings, 
 and although she strove to make me believe 
 I was wrong, I was not satisfied with her ex- 
 planation. Finally I watched their conduct at 
 a grand fancy ball given by a French banker, 
 who was staying at the place: and in conse- 
 quence of what I saw, I sent Mr. Yeldham a 
 challenge. Twenty -four hours after that we 
 met at one of the small islands on the Rhine, 
 and I shot him throuoh the chest. AVith his 
 dying breath he declared that I had been in 
 error throughout, and that it ^vas not even 
 your mother with whom I had seen him at 
 the ball. He was a man of honour, and did 
 his best to save a woman's reputation, but of 
 course his statement was false.' 
 
 'What did my mother say?' interrupted 
 George. 
 
 ' She corroborated Mr. Yeldham in eveiy 
 particular, and accused me of being a mur- 
 
56 CASTAWAY. 
 
 derer,' said Sir Geoffry bitterly; 'and as we 
 held such very unpleasant opinions regarding 
 each other, I thought it best that we should 
 separate, and I accordingly returned to India. 
 Her horror of duelling, and the reason of my 
 separation from her, are now, I think, suffi- 
 ciently explained.' 
 
 ^Perfectly,' said George; 'but — ' 
 ' One moment,' interrupted Sir GeofFry ; 
 ' I have given you this explanation, Avhich I 
 was by no means called uj^on to do; and I 
 now proceed to state to you my determmation 
 with regard to yourself You have disgraced 
 the name which I have raised, and for the first 
 time that I have borne it have caused me to 
 blush at its mention. The name is yours, and 
 I cannot forl3id your bearing it ; but you shall 
 never again be acknowledged or treated by 
 me as my son. From this moment I discard 
 and disown you. You are entitled, when of 
 age, to your mother's i:)roperty ; I am wilhng 
 to anticipate that event, and alloA\' }ou to en- 
 joy the income arising from it now, on con- 
 dition that you assume another name, and 
 
SENTENCED. 57 
 
 pledge your Avorcl never in any way to reveal 
 your identit}^, or claim relationship with me.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to you, sir,' said the 
 young man, struggling to repress his emotion, 
 ' for your very generous offer, which does you 
 ecjual credit as a gentleman and as my father. 
 I will not touch one penny of my mother's 
 fortune until I am legally entitled to it. But, 
 meanwhile, you need have no fear of my de- 
 grading that name by which you set such 
 store, but which, after all, does not belong to 
 you.' 
 
 ^ Sir !' cried Sir Geoff ry. 
 
 'Be good enough to hear me out,' said 
 George quietly. ' You cannot forget that you 
 are my father more readily than 1 will rid my- 
 self of every recollection that I am your son. 
 No intrusion of mine shall ever remind you of 
 my existence. I shall leave you to the enjoy- 
 ment of the reflections which cannot fail to 
 arise when you look back upon your estimable 
 conduct, both as a husband and a father. But 
 I anticipate the pleasure of seeing you once 
 again. I shall make it the business of my life 
 
58 CASTA WAV. 
 
 to discover the real history of ^Ir. Yeldham's 
 acquaintance with my mother ; and when I 
 find, as I am certain I shall find, that you were 
 grievously deceived by }'our own vanity and 
 jealousy, I shall have the pleasure of coming 
 and proving it to you, as some slight return 
 for your noble conduct towards my mother 
 and myself. And now I must trouble you to 
 rinji' the bell and order the carriao;e to be 
 brought round.' 
 
 AVith this, and a slight bow, the young' 
 man turned on his heel and quitted the room. 
 
 For a moment Sir GeofFry was speechless^ 
 his rage choked him ; then he said, 
 
 ' What an insolent rascal ! But, after all, 
 it was better than whining ; it shows he has 
 some pluck left ; and I was afraid he would 
 whine.' 
 
 END OF THE PROLOGUE. 
 
¥.0oh tbc first. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 r-T-i' 
 
 ]\nSS CAVE S LODGINGS. 
 
 Out of the bright and busy High-street of 
 Wexeter, parallel with the narrow little court 
 leadino- to the cathedral, there runs a small 
 street of small houses, leading into an open 
 space, and flanked on either side by a crescent. 
 Big, heavy, old-fashioned red-brick houses, 
 speaking of bygone times, when the gentry 
 who have now established themselves in vari- 
 ous countrv seats thouo-ht it no disg^race to 
 dwell within the Avails of the citv, and when 
 the peaceful and aristocratic quarter of South- 
 Hedge, in which such as are left of them now 
 
6o CASTAirAV. 
 
 reside, was by no means sufficient to contain 
 them. At the present time, hoAvever, a dif- 
 ferent set of people is to l)c found in the 
 crescent, and an eruption of brass-plates has 
 broken out amongst its heavy railings. Doc- 
 tors are there, and even dentists, a2:ents for 
 insurance comj)anies, and solicitors; some of 
 the houses in the middle of the Eastern Cres- 
 cent have been transformed into a chapel, and 
 one at the westernmost corner has only nar- 
 rowly escaped being converted into a shop. 
 The half-o^lazed door with the word ' office' on 
 its window-pane has prevented this degrada- 
 tion ; but when you have passed this Eubicon, 
 you find yourself in a place furnished ^vith a 
 counter, and shelves, and other appurtenances 
 of a shop, shoppy. 
 
 How the builders of the theatre ever ven- 
 tured to select a site for that structure in such 
 a grave and decorous neighbourhood, it is dif- 
 iicult to imagine ; but there it is at the other 
 end of the crescent, and, truth to tell, not very 
 far from the chapel. A square building, with 
 medallions of the tragic and comic muses let 
 
M/SS CAVES LODGINGS. 6i 
 
 into its frontj and with an overhanging; portico, 
 on one side of Avhich is situated the box-office, 
 while on the other, during the daytime at least, 
 Miss Bult, the milliner, plies her trade. Whe- 
 ther the situation and the surroundinofs have 
 anything to do with it or not, it is impossible 
 to say; but it is a fact, that the theatre at 
 Wexeter always has stood high, not merely 
 in the opinion of those engaged in it, which 
 is of common occurrence enough, but in the 
 estimation of those who dwelt around it, and 
 on whose patronage it was greatly dependent. 
 Great actors have been bred and educated on 
 the circuit of which Wexeter was the principal 
 town. The management of this circuit has 
 been in one family for several generations, be- 
 queathed from sire to son, and has always been 
 carried on after the same regular resj^ectable 
 fashion. These facts were of course known to 
 the townspeople and the neighbourhood; but 
 no stranorer, wantino; to enorao^e a seat, could 
 possibly have walked into the box-office, with, 
 out being at once convinced of the respecta- 
 bilitv of the entire concern. 
 
62 CASTA JVAV. 
 
 For in the box-office, Avith tlie box plan 
 spread out before her, while she occupied her- 
 self either with knitting or Berlin-worlv, or 
 some humbler employment for her needle, sat 
 Miss Cave during the whole of the day, look- 
 ing, with her silver-rimmed spectacles, her 
 pepper-and-salt 'front,' consisting of two large 
 iiat curls over each eye, and an impossible 
 parting in the middle, her neat cap, and her 
 muslin kerchief crossed over her shoulders, 
 the embodiment of respectability. There in 
 the box-office she sat, as a guarantee for the 
 style of entertainment for which she would 
 sell you a seat. No one with such an appear- 
 ance could have anv connection with bur- 
 lesques, breakdowns, or comic singing. The 
 ' Highland Fling, in character, by Miss M' Al- 
 pine;' the ' One-horse Shay,' by special desire, 
 on the occasion of his benefit, by the low 
 comedian ; or a variety of singing and dancing 
 between the pieces when the bill was short, 
 might ])Q looked for; otherwise Shakespeare 
 or Sheridan, with a staid old-fashioned farce, 
 formed the staple of the entertainment. 
 
MISS CAVE'S LODGINGS. 6^ 
 
 Miss Cave was an elderly lady — so old 
 that none of the inhabitants ofWexeter had 
 ever recollected her as anything else. Tradi- 
 tion reported that her father had been in the 
 choir, and had been specially noticed for his 
 fine voice by George the Third, when that old 
 monarch and Queen Charlotte paid their visit 
 to the city. And it is certain that Miss Cave 
 always maintained amicable relations with the 
 authorities of the cathedral, attending divine 
 service regularly every Sunday, and never 
 meeting canons, deans, or even the bishop 
 himself, without receiving a pleasant greeting 
 and a few words of salutation. Indeed, on 
 the occasion of Miss Cave's annual benefit, 
 a large number of the resident clergy not 
 merely sent their families, but were them- 
 selves to be found seated in the dress -boxes 
 of the theatre. The entertainment then pro- 
 vided never varied, commencing with one of 
 Shakespeare's tragedies, concluding either with 
 the Critic or the Trip to Scarboroiujh. ]\liss 
 M 'Alpine knew that at such a time it Avould 
 be useless for her to attempt to interpolate the 
 
64 CASTA U'A V. 
 
 Highland fling, and the low comedian per- 
 fectly understood that he would not be called 
 upon to exercise his vocal powers. 
 
 Miss Cave lives in a bright little house, 
 one of the row just beyond the theatre — a 
 little house just high enough for its top win- 
 dows to look over the old red-brick wall of the 
 deanery garden. With Miss Cave lived her 
 brother Samuel, who had been for years un- 
 numbered the recognised barber and perru- 
 quier of the theatre, and the temporary at- 
 tendant on such of those great actors visiting 
 it as did not bring their own servants. It 
 was Mr. Samuel's boast that he had 'wigged 
 and painted' more ' stars' than any other man 
 out of London ; but that he was getting a 
 little tired of it now — a statement which, con- 
 sidering that most of his anecdotes were per- 
 sonal reminiscences of the elder Kean and his 
 compeers, might — as regards the latter por- 
 tion of it at all events — be deemed veracious. 
 
 The brother and sister occupy the par- 
 lours and the attics of the little house ; the 
 drawing-room floor is generally let as lodg- 
 
J//SS CA VE'S LODGINGS. 65 
 
 ings, cither to the permanent members of the 
 theatrical company, or to any distinguished 
 artist engaged as a temporary attraction. At 
 the present time they are occupied by a 
 leading lady of the company, Miss Pierre- 
 point, and her younger sister. Miss Cave has 
 the highest opinion of Miss Pierrepoint, not 
 merely professionally, but privately. The old 
 lady admires her lodger's appearance, voice, 
 manner, and style of elocution, thinks she is 
 a credit to the company, which has sent up 
 some of the iirst leading ladies to the metro- 
 polis, and is only anxious lest any London 
 theatrical manao:er should o-et a hint of the 
 hidden treasure and come down to bear her 
 away. But, above all, she admires Miss 
 Pierrepoint's modesty, and the propriety of 
 her private life. Some of Miss Cave's former 
 lodo'ers had been «:iven to ' o-allivantino;' and 
 ^ carryings - on' — proceedings never explained 
 by the old lady in other terms, but generally 
 believed by her intimates to be in relation to 
 the other sex, and too horril)le to mention. 
 Miss Pierrepoint is given to none of these 
 
 VOL. I. F' 
 
66 CASTAJVAV. 
 
 atrocities : she has very few visitors ; none, 
 indeed, beyond ^Ir. Dobson the manager, ^Ir. 
 Potts the prompter, and young Mr. Gerald 
 Hardinge the scene-painter. She never goes 
 out to supper, has no anonymous letters or 
 flowers left for her, but spends all her time 
 in working at her profession and finishing the 
 education of her sister Rose. 
 
 Xot that Miss Pierrepoint might not have 
 had admirers in plenty, bless you ; ]Miss Cave 
 knows that. Gentlemen are constantly inquir- 
 ino' at the box-ofhce who she is, and where 
 she comes from; and the admiration evoked 
 by her powers of acting is by no means con- 
 fined to applause, but forms the topic of much 
 conversation between the acts, as Miss Cave, 
 hidden away in the little pay-box on the top 
 of the landing, can hear very well through 
 the pigeon-hole in front of her, where she 
 takes the money and gives the change. The 
 old ladv has heard, too, that when Miss 
 
 ^ 7 7 
 
 Pierrepoint went to the party at Mrs. Pro- 
 bus's — Probus was a carriage -builder and a 
 Shakespearian enthusiast — she was made more 
 
MISS CAVE'S LODGIXGS. 67 
 
 of than any other woman in the room, which 
 naturally accounted for her never having been 
 asked ao:ain. But ' nothing' came of it,' the 
 old lady used to say, although she had ex- 
 pected that, on the night after Probus's party, 
 all the eligible young men of the town Vv'ould 
 have called at Xo. 9 The Precinct, prepared 
 to lay their hands and fortunes at Miss Pierre- 
 point's feet. 
 
 Xo ; there was no one actually in love 
 with her that Miss Cave could point to, un- 
 less it was Mr. Gerald Plardinge, the scene- 
 painter, who was a mere boy, much too young 
 for her. As the old lady remarked, she did 
 not hold with makino^ a 2:reat outcrv about 
 disparagement (by which she probably meant 
 disparity) of years; but Miss Pierrepoint must 
 be at least six years older than Mr. Hard- 
 inge ; and there were temptations enough for 
 a man in the profession, without his having 
 a wife so much his senior. And he was a 
 deal too handsome, Mr. Hardinge was, to be 
 exposed to temptations of any sort more than 
 could be helped, Miss Cave thought, 'having 
 
68 CASTAJr.n\ 
 
 one of tlio>e lieads, my dear, whicli would 
 look so well cut off just above the shoulders, 
 and without anv shirt -collar, on a medallion 
 at the south end of tlie choir.' He was a 
 kind-hearted lad too, Miss Cave allowed, and 
 generous with his money, when he had any, 
 and gave little Rose Picrrepoint lessons in 
 drawino: for nothin<2: ; and the elder sister was 
 ao-reeable to him, and liked him verv much, 
 thoui2:h the old ladv 'did not think there was 
 anything between them.' 
 
 It was a hot nio;ht, towards the end of 
 June ; the heat had been stifling and oppres- 
 sive all day ; and the windows of Miss Cave's 
 lodgings were thro^\ql wide open for the ad- 
 mittance of as much air as could be found. 
 This was little enough ; but such as it was it 
 came laden with a thousand odours from the 
 flowers in the deanery garden, rejoicing the 
 heart of liose Pierrepoint, the sole occupant 
 of the room, who w^as seated at a table, draw- 
 ing by the light of a shaded lamp, and who 
 raised her head from time to time, and glanced 
 now at the open window, then at the closed 
 
M/SS CAVE'S LODGINGS. 69 
 
 door. As far as could be seen of her in her 
 sittmg position, a girl slight and small in 
 figure, with a small head, delicate features, 
 and large dark eyes. Her age was about six- 
 teen, and she looked even younger; and the 
 manner in which she wore her hair, taken off 
 her forehead, and kept back by a comb, ren- 
 dered her appearance still more youthful. 
 Her hands were thin and delicate, as was 
 especially noticeable when from time to time 
 she drummed them impatiently on the table 
 before her; Avhile the frequent expression of 
 anxiety or irritability discomposed her other- 
 wise handsome face. 
 
 At length she seemed as if she could bear 
 her occupation no longer. She threw down 
 the pencil and walked to the window. The 
 whole sky was darkened by an enormous pur- 
 ple cloud, save on the horizon immediatelv 
 opposite the window, where one fading streak 
 of yellow light was reflected on the girl's face. 
 Dazzled by this, after the darkness in which 
 she had been sitting, the girl shaded her 
 eyes with her hand, and, bending out of the 
 
70 CASTA IVA V. 
 
 window, looked down the street in the direc- 
 tion of the theatre. Instantly she drew back, 
 and, crossing the room, resumed her seat at 
 the tal)le. She had hardly done so, taking 
 up her pencil again, and becoming apparently 
 engrossed in her work, when a light step was 
 heard on the stairs. The door opened, and 
 a young man entered the room. The girl 
 looked up from her drawing in the direction 
 of the door. 
 
 ' Is that Mr. Hardinge ?' she asked. 
 
 ' It is,' was the reply. 
 
 The man who said these words was kno^v^i 
 to the small world in which he lived (and 
 consequently must henceforth be known in 
 these pages) as Gerald Hardinge ; but when 
 the reader saw him two years ago lie Avas 
 called Georo'e Heriot. 
 
 In those two years a considerable change 
 had taken place in the young man's appear- 
 ance. He was darker and stouter; his figure 
 was more set ; while the growth of a light 
 curling brown beard had rendered him much 
 more manly -looking. He was dressed in a 
 
MISS CAVE'S LODGIXGS. 
 
 71 
 
 light gray suit of clothes, much worn, and 
 carried a soft felt hat in his hand. 
 
 ' All alone, Rose ?' was the first exclama- 
 tion, in a tone of disappointment. 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Gerald,' said the girl quietly. 
 ' Madge is not come back from the theatre.' 
 
 'The piece is over,' said Hardinge. 'I 
 heard them rinoino;-iii the orchestra for the 
 last piece as I came away from the painting- 
 room. AVhat's the last p^iece to-night?' 
 
 ' The Warloch of the Glen^ said the girl ; 
 ' and Madge don't play in the Warloch.'' 
 
 ' I should think not ' said Hardin o^e with 
 a sneer. 
 
 ' But she won't be home yet,' continued 
 Rose. ' She told me she had something very 
 particular to do, which would detain her per- 
 haps for a couple of hours after she had 
 finished. I was not to sit up for her if I was 
 tired; and I was to tell you or ]\Ir. Potts, if 
 either of you came, that you were not to wait 
 for her, as she would not be home till late.' 
 
 ' All right,' said Hardinge, discontentedly 
 enough; 'her commands must be obeyed.' 
 
72 CASTAWAY. 
 
 He was moving; towards the door, when, 
 
 O 7 7 
 
 thinkiiio; he had been somewhat nno^racioiis, 
 lie turned back to the table, and, pomting to 
 the drawing on which the girl had been en- 
 iraired, said: 'At it still? What an industri- 
 ous little woman it is ! Let me look, liose.' 
 And he put out his hand, as though to take it. 
 But Rose threw a sheet of cartridge-pa2:)er 
 over the sketch, saying, ' Not to-night, ]\Ir. 
 Hardinge; come to-morrow, and you shall see 
 
 it; 
 
 ' Ri<rht,' he said ; ' I will come to-morrow 
 morning, and we will have another lesson. 
 Good - night, little one. Tell your sister I 
 called.' And he nodded and left the room. 
 
 When she heard the street-door close be- 
 hind him the girl stole softly to the window, 
 and watched his retreating figure down the 
 street. When she could no longer distinguish 
 it she turned sadly away. 
 
 'Was there ever any one so handsome? 
 was there ever any one so fascinating?^ she 
 murmured to herself 
 
 An hour afterwards, and the girl's mind 
 
MISS CAVE'S LODGINGS. 
 
 73 
 
 was still filled with visions of Gerald Hard- 
 inge, in her dream-haunted sleep; while Ger- 
 ald Hardinge himself was pacing up and 
 down the street, with rage and jealousy at his 
 heart. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 BEFORE THE STORM. 
 
 The streets of AVexeter, save during the pe- 
 riod set apart for the militia training, or other 
 times of festivity, are left solitary and deserted 
 at a comparatively early period of the even- 
 ing. The railway omnibuses, bound for the 
 different hotels, roll from the great central 
 station up the High-street at stated intervals 
 up to ten o'clock ; and about that hour small 
 parties of pleasure-seekers may be seen here 
 and there wending their way homeward from 
 the theatre, or from the little social gatherings 
 where the}' have spent an unmistakably quiet 
 evening. But, by that time, such places as in 
 the day are the busiest haunts of traffic — if 
 any region Avithin the limits of the dull and 
 decorous old city can be so spoken of — have 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 75 
 
 relapsed into quiet, while in the precincts of 
 the cathedral, in the still aristocratic region 
 of South-Hedge, and in the straggling suburb 
 of villas which has grown up thereabouts, all 
 symptoms of life have died out at a much 
 earlier hour, and the entire neighbourhood 
 has long since been hushed into repose. 
 
 At half-past nine o'clock on the night when 
 Rose Pierrepoint, sitting over her drawing, 
 was interrupted b}' a visit from Gerald Hard- 
 inge, a tall woman issued from the stage-door 
 of the Wexeter Theatre, and was suddenlv 
 confronted by Mr. Gonnop, the hall -keeper, 
 who was smoking a long claj' pipe, and ^2^- 
 trolling the measured space of pavement out- 
 side, and to whom she wished ' o;ood-nio:ht.' 
 
 ' Good-night, Miss Pierrepoint,' responded 
 the hall-keeper ; ' it looks amazing thick over 
 there,' he added, pointing with his pipe in 
 the direction where a large black cloud was 
 spreading over the city, ' and we'll have rain 
 before long, I reckon. Let's hope it'll come 
 down, miss, and get all clear again before next 
 Thursday.' 
 
76 CASTAWAV. 
 
 ' And why particularly next Thursday, 
 Goiinop?' asked Miss Pierrepoint, in a clear 
 voice. 
 
 ^ Your benefit night, miss !' said the man, 
 looking up at her in wonder ; ' can t have for- 
 gotten that, surely?' 
 
 " I had, indeed, for the moment; but now 
 I remember, and thank you for your good 
 wishes.' 
 
 ' Xot that fine wxather always does it,' said 
 Gonnop, slowdy emitting his smoke and look- 
 ing steadily at her, ' being good for tea-gar- 
 dens, and steamboat excursions, and ridiculous 
 things of that sort, as is by their very nature 
 contrary to theatres. For, look you, when the 
 sun is shining — good-night,' said Gonnop, 
 bringing his sentence to a hurried conclusion 
 as the lady moved rapidly away. 
 
 When Miss Pierrepoint reached the end of 
 the cul-de-sac in which the stage-door was 
 situated, she turned to the rifj-ht, and lookin": 
 straight before her, could have seen Miss 
 Cave's house, conspicuous by the brightness 
 of its knocker and the shinino- cleanliness of 
 
BEFORE THE STOR.^r. 77 
 
 its door-step, within fifty yards. Their proxi- 
 mity to the theatre was indeed almost as prreat 
 a reason for the popularity of Miss Cave's 
 lodgings as their comfort and respectability ; 
 but on this occasion ^liss Pierrepoint had no 
 intention of proceeding direct to her resid- 
 ence ; but after looking carefully round to see 
 that she was not followed or watched, she 
 turned off at an acute angle, and quickening 
 her footsteps speedily found herself in the 
 aristocratic quarter of South-Hedge. 
 
 The quarter before the hour chimed out 
 from the cathedral clock as she passed into 
 South-Hedo;e, where the licrhts were already 
 beginning to appear in the bedroom windows, 
 and where her footfall was the only sound 
 breaking the solemn silence. Past the newlv- 
 built almshouses, whose gothic proportions, 
 which were the delight of the surrounding' 
 o^entrv and the fashionable local architect, 
 stood dim, and black, and blurred against the 
 background of thick pur[)le cloud behind them; 
 over the railway bridge, in the hollow beneath 
 which the hu2:e eno:ines destined to the ser- 
 
 •o^ ^*'C 
 
78 CASTA JVAV. 
 
 vice of goods traffic, apparently undecided as 
 to what was Lest for thcni to do, were called 
 upon now to progress a little, now in an equal 
 deirree to retreat, and were ever and anon 
 shriekinix out tlicir doleful lamentations at 
 the indecision of their drivers. 
 
 Breastinsf the hill now, and now on the 
 top of it in something like open country, 
 \dllas scattered here and there, perched in 
 grounds where the landscape gardener had 
 sou^rht to rival the handiwork of nature, and 
 for the most part had signally failed ; a brand- 
 new stucco church, built in imitation of a 
 celebrated prototype in stone, but looking pale 
 and unhealthy, of the complexion of a slack- 
 baked, ill-toasted muffin ; then, very much out 
 of place, a squat dumpy toll-gate, the sole rem- 
 nant of the pre- suburban locality, of the pre- 
 genteel day, v/hen, teste the weather-beaten 
 sign-post still extant. Manor ]\Iead was known 
 as Dumpington, and the almshouses and the 
 villas, and the slack-baked church, had no ex- 
 istence. 
 
 The turnpike-gate was closed, and no light 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 79 
 
 "Nvas to be seen in the toll-house, as Miss 
 ]?ierrepoint, winding her way at the back of 
 it, turned into a narrow lane which was shaded 
 and screened h\ the hio-h ;:'rowin!i hedi^es on 
 either side. Here, after a hastv aiance round 
 to assure herself that there was no one niii'h, 
 she relaxed the swiftness of her pace and 
 threw back her veil, holding up her face to 
 catch whatever air mi^-ht have found its wav 
 into the quiet little retreat. Then she peered 
 long and anxiously into the darkness, and 
 turned her head towards the quarter from 
 whence she had come, as thou^iii listenino; for 
 approaching footsteps. But she heard nothing, 
 save the first dull long rumble of distant thun- 
 der which immediately preceded the striking 
 of the cathedral clock. 
 
 ' Only just ten,' she said to herself. ' I am 
 here before my time then as usual, and, as 
 usual, he will be after his. What could have 
 brought him do^^^l here, I wonder, now? Xot 
 that I need wonder, when I know well enous'h 
 that the want of money, and the idea that I can 
 be of use to him in some scheme for raising 
 
8o CASTA WA V. 
 
 it, are the only things now which induce Phi- 
 lip to break off, for ever so short a time, from 
 the life which exercises such a fascination over 
 him, and to come to me.' 
 
 She listened a2:ain, but after a minute re- 
 sumed her pacing to and fro. 
 
 ^ I wonder if he ever thinks for a minute 
 how and where it will all end ? Whether, in 
 the easy-going current of his life, the idea ever 
 comes across him of the position I occupy, 
 not merely by his tacit consent, but by his 
 express desire ? If he ever does think of it, 
 he must be a very different man from the 
 Philip Vane of two years ago, to allow it to 
 continue, or to bear it calmly. AYhy, then 
 the mere notion would — What a fool I am 
 to trouble myself with such memories! What- 
 ever may be the change in him, it cannot be 
 greater than it is with me; and all I have to 
 do is to accept the present state of things, and 
 to make the best of it. This must be he at 
 last!' 
 
 She turned swiftly round, as she caught 
 siaht of a man's fio-ure cominir round bv the 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 8i 
 
 toll-house. The next minute a tall man joined 
 her, and after a hasty glance around, put his 
 arms round her, and bending down kissed her 
 cheek. 
 
 ' You need not have looked, Philip, to 
 make sure that we were unobserved,' she said, 
 with a short lauijh. ' There was no one near 
 to see you take the unwarrantable liberty of 
 kissing your wife I You are generally pru- 
 dent enough to select as our place of meeting 
 some spot where there would be no chance of 
 interruption.' 
 
 As he heard these words, and marked the 
 tone in which they were spoken, a dark savage 
 look crossed the man s face. It was gone in 
 an instant, and his big black eyes were laugh- 
 ing merrily and his Avhite teeth were gleaming 
 1 )rightly between his smiling lips, as he said : 
 
 ' Savage to-night, old lady ! Upset, eh, 
 Madge? Don't like to be kept cooling her 
 pretty heels in this particularly cut -throat- 
 looking lane waiting for me, is that it ?' And 
 once again he placed his arms about her and 
 kissed her cheek. 
 
 vo:.. I. G 
 
82 CASTAWAY. 
 
 * Xo,' she said, ' that isn't it particularly. 
 1 don't know tliat I am sava2:e, and I do 
 know that I am accustomed to wait my lord's 
 convenience.' 
 
 ' Well, there, don't say any more about it,' 
 the man said, in a sharper tone. ' I could not 
 get away before, and that's enough. You got 
 my telegram all right?' 
 
 ' Of course, or I should not be here.' 
 
 ' How confoundedly sharp you are to-night, 
 iladge; down upon every word I say! No- 
 thing gone wrong, has there ? How's the book- 
 ing for the benefit?' 
 
 ' Very good, indeed ; the house will be 
 more than full, I think.' 
 
 ' That's right, the money will just come 
 in handy. I made rather a mess of it at 
 Taunton yesterday.' 
 
 ' Have there been races at Taunton?' 
 
 ' Yes, of course ; that's why I came on to 
 see you. Shouldn't have been in the nei^h- 
 bourhood for some time to come, and there- 
 fore thou2:ht I had better take advantaire of 
 
 the chance. 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 83 
 
 ' Then it was really to see me that you 
 came this time, Philip?' said the girl, nestling 
 towards him, and looking np into his face. 
 
 ' Of course it was, rn}^ dear !' he replied. 
 ' What did you think it was — not business ? 
 There is no information to be got, no money 
 to be made out of you ?' 
 
 'Isn't there?' she said quietly; ' I thought 
 there was.' 
 
 ' You knoAv what I mean,' he said. ' By 
 the way, don't forget to send me that benefit 
 money as soon as you get hold of it. You 
 could send it to the club, you knoAv. AVhat 
 do vou think the fio;ure is likelv to be?' 
 
 ' The fio^ure?' 
 
 ' Yes, the amount, the sum total. Hea- 
 vens on earth, Madge, how slow you are !' 
 
 'Yes,' said the girl quietly; 'I am thor- 
 oughly provincial ; you see I have not had 
 the chance recently of having my wits sharp- 
 ened, by contact with the clever people in 
 London! You want to know the sum to be 
 realised by the benefit? I should say forty- 
 two or forty- three pounds.' 
 
84 C.1STAJFAV. 
 
 Pliilip A'mic li'avc a low Avliistlo. 
 
 ' That's a very mild amount,' he said. ' I 
 was loolvinsr for somethinn: much liig^her than 
 that ! By George, Madire, this will never do ! 
 Three pounds a-week, and a benefit produc- 
 m^ under fifty pounds; those are starvation 
 prices! T must take you up to London. I 
 suppose you would do there, though it's a 
 confounded pity you can't sing and dance !' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the girl bitterly, ' those are 
 qualifications, the absence of which, in his 
 wife, every man ou^'ht to reirret.' 
 
 He looked up at her under his eyebrows, 
 but it was too dark for him to catch the ex- 
 pression of her face. There was, however, 
 no mistakin^: the sneer conveved in the tone 
 of her voice. It was the second time during 
 their short interview that she had thus of- 
 fended him. 
 
 'What ails vou to-ni<]:ht?' he said. 'What 
 do you mean by sneering and gibing at me in 
 this manner?' 
 
 ' AA'hat do I mean !' she cried. ' I will tell 
 you plainly what I mean — I mean that I am 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 85 
 
 sick of the manner in which you treat me ! 
 You think that I am dull and stupid, but I 
 am neither so stupid nor so dull that I cannot 
 see plainly enough the value you put upon 
 me, without the necessity for your insulting 
 me by explaining it in words. 1 am your 
 wife, which means vour drudofe, vour bread- 
 winner. Be it so; I don't repine, I did not 
 expect to Ije made a line lady of, or to hve 
 in idleness after vou married me: but I did 
 expect that you woidd be content with me 
 and my talents, such as they were, and would 
 not complain while I worked my hardest, even 
 if my earnings might be small.' 
 
 She paused and stood confronting him, 
 her head erect, her hands nervously clasped 
 too^ether beneath her cloak. 
 
 ' Have vou anvthino- more to sav ?' he 
 asked in a low voice. 
 
 ' Yes,' she continued. ' I want to know 
 when there is to be an end to this deception? 
 When you intend to acknowledge me openly 
 as your wife, and take me out of my present 
 position, which is inexpressibly painful to me, 
 
86 CASTAWAY. 
 
 and, mark my words, iniinitel}' perilous to 
 }ou ? I do not want rest, or ease, or luxury. 
 I did not expect what most women are led to 
 expect, that they are to look to their hus- 
 bands for support : God knows, I am willinf^ 
 to work, and not merely willing, but de- 
 li izhted. I do not know tliat I should be 
 liappy without my work, but I want you to 
 give me my position as your wife, and to be 
 content with what I earn in that position.' 
 
 As she ceased speaking, the low rumble 
 of the thunder, this time much nearer, was 
 again audible. There was a pause for a mo- 
 ment as its last faint mutterings died away, 
 then Philip Yane said : 
 
 ' You're right, Madge, in what you say, 
 and I was a brute to grumble, knowing how 
 hard and how cheerfuU}' you work. And 
 you are right, too, about your position. It 
 is hard lines for you to have to come out 
 here to meet me on such a niglit as this is 
 going to be ; to have to tramp all along the 
 road after playing — ' 
 
 ' It is not that, Philip,' interrupted the 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 87 
 
 girl. ' I don't mind that. I don't mind the 
 hardship ; all I hate is the deceit, the having 
 to hide the fact of our marriage even from 
 Rose, the havino; to nod and smile at the 
 kindly prophecies of the old landlady at the 
 lodgings as to my future, the having to re- 
 ceive attentions from honourable men, which 
 would be naturally gratifying to an unmarried 
 i2:irl, which are desfradino^ to me as your wife.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Philip Yane, ' I understand 
 all that, of course, and as soon as I can I 
 will put it right. I cannot do it just now, 
 but I hope in a few months to make that all 
 square. By the way, Madge, talking about 
 attentions, what about the scene-painter — is 
 he still here?' 
 
 ' Yes, he is still with the company.' 
 
 ' And still as spoony as ever ?' 
 
 ' I don't know about being ' spoony ;' I 
 think he is very fond of me, but he's a mere 
 boy, you know, and — ' 
 
 ' Yes, I know ! And have vou still ijot 
 that notion that you told me about his being 
 a swell ?' 
 
88 CASTAWAY. 
 
 * I have no doubt that he is a gentleman 
 by position and education ; beyond that 1 
 know nothina*.' 
 
 'Exaeth' ; that's quite enough I I shouldn't 
 discourage his spooniness if I were you, ]\Iadge ; 
 something may turn up out of it. Don't you 
 fear my being jealous. I can trust you, old 
 woman ; and if this man ever came into any 
 money, or was received back by his friends, 
 from whom }'ou seem to su})pose he has run 
 awav, we ma^' make something' out of him. 
 He's written you some letters, I suppose T 
 
 ]\[adge hesitated for a moment. 
 
 ' Yes, some,' she said. 
 
 ' Ah ! I don't want to see them, bless 
 you,' cried Philip Yane ; ' I can trust you 
 perfectly, only 1 think you had better keep 
 them, not tear them \x]) or destroy them in 
 any way ; they may be useful one of these 
 days. By Jove ! here it comes,' he cried, as, 
 after a few thick drops, a heavy peal of thun- 
 der broke right above their heads. ' We had 
 better make a bolt of it at once. I've ^rot a 
 cab waiting the other side of the turnpike, 
 
BEFORE THE STORM. 89 
 
 and can set you down where you like. Don't 
 l)e afraid, ^ladge ; the driver doesn't know 
 me, and Pll take care he doesnt recognise 
 you.' 
 
 The storm was sharp while it lasted, but 
 was soon over. Miss Cave, who had sat up 
 for her lodo:er and ' 2:one round the house,' 
 as was her wont no matter how late the 
 hour, after everv one else had retired to rest, 
 knocked at Miss Pierrepoint's door to inform 
 her that the clouds had quite cleared away, 
 and that the moon was shinino- l^riehtlv. 
 
 ' A good omen for Thursday, my dear/ 
 added the old lad^', as she retired to bed. 
 
 'I hope so,' said Madge to herself; 'I 
 hope so, for then Philip will get this monev 
 that he says he wants. 0, my God!' cried 
 the o^irl, as she seated herself on the edsfe of 
 the bed, ' how rapidly the romance is dying 
 out of my life ! Xever has he spoken so 
 plainly as to-night, never striven so little to 
 disguise himself ! The money, and the money, 
 and the money I To take what I can earn 
 down here, to ^\Tsh that I could earn more in 
 
90 CASTAIVAV. 
 
 London, to bid me gull the boy and lead him 
 on, and take care that I keep liis letters, of 
 which something; miii^ht be made ! All this 
 Philip did not scruple to do, and then he pats 
 my cheek and tells me '' he trusts me" ! ' 
 
 About the same time Philip Vane, the 
 sole occupant of the smoking-room at the 
 Half ]\Ioon, was moodily puffing out the last 
 fraofment of his cis^ar. 
 
 ' Forty pounds,' he muttered to himself, 
 ' and I looked for at least seventy. Rode as 
 rusty as a nail when I said I wished she could 
 sing, and was cantankerous about everything ! 
 AVorrying about her "position," too. I thought 
 I had settled that question, but to-night she 
 chose to revive it. I shall have to put my 
 foot doAvn upon one or two of these things, 
 and upon Miss Madge herself if she doesn't 
 mind.' 
 
 So saying, Philip Vane threw the stump of 
 his cigar into the emj)ty fireplace, and strode 
 off to bed. 
 
CHAPTER ILL 
 
 JULIET. 
 
 Mr. Philip Vane was up early the next morn- 
 ing, intending' to go off to town by the first 
 express train, which left Wexeter soon after 
 nme. He ahvays travelled in first-class car- 
 riages and by express trains; always went to 
 first-class hotels, asked for the best rooms, and 
 lived on the most luxurious fare. He was one 
 of those self-indulgent scoundrels who always 
 found it necessary to make an excuse for the 
 manner in which they pet and pamper them- 
 selves. Mr. Philip Vane had a stock of these 
 excuses, which he had used so long and so 
 frequently, that he actually began to believe 
 in them. Thus, in regard to his travelling, 
 he was in the habit of saying that time was 
 money, that it was important for him to waste 
 as little as possible of the day upon the road, 
 
()2 CAS'J'.UrAY. 
 
 xind that, travelling by express, lie was en- 
 abled to transact business up to the last minute 
 iit the town which he was leaving', and to l^e 
 ready to commence afresh the instant he ar- 
 rived at his destination. Also, in regard to 
 his selection of the best hotels and his luxuri- 
 ous habits generally, he would remark that, 
 as he depended entireh' upon his own exer- 
 tions for his income, it Avas necessary that he 
 should keep himself in good condition, and 
 obviate as far as possible the ill effects of the 
 constant mental strain, bv attention to his 
 bodily comforts. 
 
 Listening to this style of conversation, one 
 would have imaoined that Mr. A'ane was a 
 professional man in large practice, a busy mer- 
 chant, or a o'entleman holdinu" in his own hands 
 the control of several large estates ; instead o"^ 
 being, as he was, a very common sharper, liv 
 ing on his wits. On those very rare occasions, 
 ivhen he permitted any of his more intimate 
 associates to think that he was takino- them 
 into his confidence, he would speak of himself 
 as ^a kind of modern Ishmael, sir; a sort of 
 
JULIET. 93 
 
 fellow whose hand has been a2:amst everv man, 
 and who, consequently, has had every man's 
 liand asrainst him: bnt who has manag^ed to 
 2:et on tolerably notwithstandino*.' 
 
 Those assertions, like most others emanat- 
 inof from the same source, were whollv and 
 entirely false. ^Ir. Philip Yane's hand, in- 
 stead of having been raised against every man, 
 had generally passed its time in patting the 
 shoulder, or gently insinuating itself under the 
 arm of every man from whom he thought he 
 could reap the smallest benefit. All things to 
 all men was Mr. Philip Yane : specious, sly, 
 frank, cunning, outspoken, reticent, just as 
 suited the occasion. This hazy comparison 
 of himself T\^th Ishmael arose from the fact, 
 that he had never enjoyed the advantage of 
 parental rearing. His earliest recollections 
 were of the preparatory school in the suburbs 
 of London, where, smallest among: the small 
 denizens of that little world — too small even 
 to be placed in the lowest class — he roamed 
 about the house and garden, and learned his 
 alphabet from some elder pupil inclined to 
 
94 CASTAJl'AV. 
 
 gratify his dignity by teaching him. There 
 he remained for some years, until old enough 
 to be removed to a grammar-school. Previous 
 to this removal, he, for the first time, experi- 
 enced that irreatest of all deliirhts of a school- 
 boy, the charm of ' going home.' 
 
 Home, as realised by little Yane, was a 
 large house in a fashionable square in Brigh- 
 ton, belomrine, as the child understood, to his 
 uncle, his father's brother, a leading physician 
 of the place. Doctor Yane Philip remembered 
 as a quiet little man, with white hair and a 
 thoughtful face, who used to pat the boy's 
 head, and surreptitiously give him half-crowns 
 — surreptitiously, that is to say, as fiir as con- 
 cerned !Mrs. Yane, a full-blown handsome wo- 
 man, whom Philip always remembered Avith 
 flowers in her cap, and a very fresh complexion. 
 From the first, Philip had a dim childish no- 
 tion that the doctor was afraid of Mrs. Yane, 
 whom, as the child learned in the course of 
 time, he had married when a widow, and who 
 had two sons, one with very large whiskers, 
 and the other with a Ijlack-and-white dog. 
 
JULIET. 95 
 
 When the chikl came back for the next holi- 
 days, he learned that the dog-owning son had 
 gone to Spain, which was a long way off, as 
 he understood, to fio-ht for soniethino; or some- 
 body not clearly defined; bnt the other son 
 with the whiskers was still there, and took 
 Philip up to his bedroom, which was at the 
 top of the house, and made him very sick by 
 insisting upon his smoking a pipe — a proceed- 
 ino' which seemed frauo'ht with orreat delight 
 to the whiskered gentleman. AVhen Philip) 
 came home six months afterwards, at Christ- 
 mas, he found the house in sad tribulation, for 
 the son with the dog was dead, and the son 
 with the whiskers had gone to Australia, not, 
 as the boy gathered from the talk among the 
 servants and the visitors to the house, without 
 having distinguished himself by squandering 
 a vast amount of money and running verv 
 deeply into debt. The Doctor, Philip noticed, 
 was thinner, whiter, and more thoughtful than 
 ever; and though Mrs. A'ane wore as manv 
 flowers in her cap, she seemed to have dropped 
 suddenly into an old woman, and shed her 
 
o6 CASTA ]l' AY. 
 
 teeth, fis lie had lieard of deer sheddino- their 
 horns, Avhile her fresh complexion was, he no- 
 ticed, muddled and streaky. 
 
 The boy never saw his uncle alive again; 
 lie was sent home from school to attend the 
 funeral, and formed one of a very small pro- 
 cession which, in the roaring wind and drifting 
 rain, struggled up one of the back streets of 
 the town to the little Evangelical chapel, at 
 which, at his wife's command, the kindly old 
 Doctor had iriven reo-ular attendance, and in 
 the burying-ground attached to which his re- 
 mains were laid. After the ceremony, the 
 little funeral party broke up, the well-known 
 yellow carriage of the physician who had paid 
 the last respects to his old friend stood at the 
 churchyard-gate, ready to bear him oif on his 
 round of visits ; an old school - friend of the 
 deceased, who had come down from town, 
 jumped into a cab to catch the return train ; 
 and Philip and the lawyer got into the mourn- 
 ing-coach to return together. On their way 
 back, the laAvyer told the boy that Mrs. Vane 
 was not well enougli to see him, but that he 
 
JULIET. 97 
 
 Avas to go back to school that evening as soon 
 as he had had his dinner ; then, to Philip's 
 .<2:reat wonderment, asked him whether he had 
 read Ilohinson Crusoe and Pldlip Quarll^ and 
 whether he did not think he should like to be 
 a great traveller like those heroes. The mean- 
 ing of these questions was explained a few days 
 afterwards, when the schoolmaster called him 
 into the apartment which was alternately a 
 reception-room and a torture - chamber ; and 
 instead of, as the boy expected, bidding him 
 prepare for immediate punishment, told him 
 that he was to leave school the next day for 
 Plymouth, where his passage had been taken in 
 one of the steamers immediately startino; for the 
 AVest Indies, he having been bound apprentice 
 to a cousin of Mrs. Vane's, who was a merchant 
 and planter in the island of St. Vincent. 
 
 Philip Vane went to Plymouth, and to the 
 AYest Indies, but not to St. Vincent. Indeed, 
 he carefully avoided that island, having, while 
 on board the royal mail steamer Shannon, 
 made the acquaintance of several young gen- 
 tlemen who were going out to join her Ma- 
 
 vor. I. H 
 
9S CASTAIVAY. 
 
 jesty's Innd forces, then quartered at Jamaica; 
 and by whos(», aid the lad, quick at ,:!;ames of 
 skilL and hicky at 2fames of chance, turned the 
 iiftv pounds with which he liad been presented 
 bv ^Frs. Vane's ao-ent on sailin?x into a sum 
 worth four times the original amount. For 
 two or three years he remained in the colonies, 
 enjoying the hospitality invariably extended 
 there to everv one who makes himself a<rree- 
 able, livinix at the different messes, ridini]; races 
 for the officers, staying with the merchants at 
 their up-country villas, and providing himself 
 with pocket-money by bold and lucky card- 
 nlayimr. Bv the time that the desire to return 
 to his native country became too strong to be 
 denied, Mr. Philip Vane had mixed so much 
 with the military, and was so thoroughly con- 
 versant with their manners and customs, that, 
 on his arrival in Enirland, he deemed it ex- 
 pedient to announce himself as Captain Vane. 
 It was as Captain Vane, ostensiblv flv-fishino- 
 for his amusement at Chepstow, but in reality 
 hiding from the officers of the sheriff of ^Ion- 
 mouth, acting in conjunction with their bro. 
 
JULIET. c)C) 
 
 tlier-officers of Middlesex, that he made the 
 acquahitance of Miss Pierrepoint, who at the 
 time was acting in that ancient town. His 
 intentions towards that young lady were at 
 first strictly dishonourable ; but finding that 
 she was not to be won by anything short of 
 the marriao'e ceremony, and believing: that he 
 saw in the development of her talent the foun- 
 dation of a future income for himself, he hon- 
 oured her by making her his wife. Captains 
 becoming:: somewhat common, he o'ave himself 
 a kind of billiard-room brevet, and appeared 
 as Major Yane, under which title he was fa- 
 vourably known in a shady fifth-rate little club, 
 composed of adventurers like himself, and their 
 victims, calling itself by the high-sounding 
 name of the Craven, and locating: itself in a 
 dingry little street in the neig^hbourhood of 
 Piccadilly; had his presence 'remarked' by 
 the reporters of sporting newspapers as a re- 
 gular attendant at the principal turf-meetings, 
 and led that odd sort of flashy, swindling, dis- 
 reputable existence which has so many votaries 
 in the present day. Though two years had 
 
100 CASTAWAY. 
 
 passed since his marriage, he had never intro- 
 duced his wife to any one, and had insisted 
 upon licr keeping their connection secret, even 
 from the httle sister who was her sole relative. 
 From time to time he appeared at places where 
 she was acting, as he had just appeared at 
 Wexeter, giving her the benefit of his society 
 sometimes for a longer, sometimes for a shorter 
 period, but invariably insisting, whether pre- 
 sent or not, on receiving two -thirds of the 
 salarv which she earned l)v her exertions, and 
 leaving her and her sister to subsist on the 
 remainder. 
 
 Had the salary thus earned been tolerably 
 large, it is not improbable that Major Yane's 
 coniu^^al attentions mi^-ht have l)een o-reater 
 than they actually were ; but the ]\Iajor con- 
 fessed to himself that his matrimonial specu- 
 lation, as a speculation, had been a fnilure. In 
 confidential communication with himself, the 
 ^lajor did not scruple to own that he had not 
 much regard for his wife. Even when he 
 perpetrated marriage, it was from the com- 
 mercial aspect that he regarded the step; and 
 
JULIET. loi 
 
 from that point of view it had been a decided 
 failure. It ought to have turned out right ; 
 he himself could check off a score of instance*, 
 in which worthy gentlemen, friends of his own, 
 were deriving large sums from the theatrical 
 earnino;s of ladies who were their acknow- 
 ledged or unacknowledged partners; but these 
 ladies were spirited persons, with little cloth- 
 ing and less grammar, whose portraits were 
 in the photographers" windows, and whose 
 Christian names, affectionately diminished, 
 were in the mouths of London generally. 
 
 More than once he had suo-aested to his 
 
 CO 
 
 wife that an equally glorious career lay before 
 her if she only chose to embrace the oppor- 
 tunity and accept an engagement wliicli, with- 
 out his connection with her bemg at all known, 
 he could procure for her; but she invariably 
 shook her head and refused, remainino- at 
 Wexeter, or some such dreary place, ' doing 
 her spouting,' as he pleasantly Init ironically 
 called it, for a salary of three pounds a week 
 and a benefit, which did not realise more than 
 forty pounds. 
 
102 CASTAJl'AV. 
 
 Major Vane, however, was a philosopher. 
 liis inarriaue had l)ecn a mistake; lie owned 
 it to himself, but to no one else. And by the 
 time that he liad descended to the coffee-room 
 to breakfast on the morning: after the meetino; 
 in the lane behind the turnpike, he had tlior- 
 oughl}' determined on ridding himself of the 
 connection at the first available opportunity. 
 Meantime, he should receive the money for 
 the benefit and the two-thirds of the week's 
 salary ; and when an opportunity offered itself, 
 he should grasp it, and Miss Pierrepoint would 
 hear of him no more. 
 
 While the omnibus containing' this laroe- 
 souled (gentleman was movin^: towards the 
 railway station, ^liss Pierrepoint emerged 
 from her lodoino- and made the best of her 
 
 o o 
 
 way towards the theatre. It was very early for 
 a rehearsal, even at such an unconventional 
 theatre as that of Wexeter ; but Avith a view 
 to see whether she could not make some effect 
 in other than inerely ' spouting' parts, and 
 thus please her husband. Miss Pierrepoint had 
 determined on playing for her benefit the 
 
JULIET. 103 
 
 part of l^habe in Paul Pnj^ one of those wait- 
 ino^-niaids known onh' to the sta^-e, who carrv 
 then' hands in the pockets of their little black- 
 silk aprons, who are tlie chosen recipients of 
 their young mistresses' secrets, and the terror 
 of the lives of the elderly gentlemen, their 
 masters. Phoebe has sono-s to sine:, and the 
 
 O 07 
 
 leader of the band, who, like every other per- 
 son in the theatre, would have done anything 
 for Miss Pierrepoint, was comino- earlv to try 
 them over with her. Ph(jube has a certain 
 amount of interchange of repartee with the 
 principal character; and the low comedian, 
 whose notion of rejiartee consisted in making- 
 faces at the gallery, and whose ' dry humour,' 
 so often lauded, resolved itself into forgetting 
 his part, and substituting the slang sayings of 
 the day, was coming to ' go through their 
 scenes.' After that there was a full rehearsal 
 of liomeo and Jidiet^ which was to be the lead- 
 ing piece on the benefit evening; so that it 
 was tolerablv late in tlie dav before Miss 
 Pierrepoint s work was over. 
 
 Just as she was movino' toward the staire- 
 
104 CASTA WAV. 
 
 door, she felt her arm touched, and a low voice 
 said ill her ear : 
 
 ^ Won't you speak to me ?' 
 
 Turning round she saw Gerald Hardinge; 
 he was dressed in his working garb, a loose 
 canvas jacket and trousers, spotted here and 
 there with great daubs of paint. 
 
 'Mr. Hardinge!' she cried, putting out her 
 hand. 
 
 ' Xo,' he said, drawing back, ' I cannot 
 shake hands with you now; I have been at 
 w^ork and have not had time to wash the traces 
 of it off. I looked down from the " flies" and 
 saw you were going away, so hurried down to 
 stop you, as I have something to say to you.' 
 
 ' I am very glad you did ; I was sorry to 
 have missed vou last nio^ht — ' 
 
 ' Yes,' interrupted the young man, ' but 
 we cannot talk here in this passage with the 
 wind blowing in, and old Gonnop listening to 
 every word. Come down on to the stage, 
 there is no one there now, and we can have it 
 all to ourselves.' 
 
 She turned back, and passing through the 
 
JULIET. 105 
 
 littered mass of disused scenery stacked \\\) 
 ao'ainst the walls, thcA' went down on to the 
 stage, now but very partially illumined by a 
 faint ^leam of li^ht, comin<>' throuj^h the win- 
 dow at the back of the distant 2:aller^'. For 
 a minute neither of them spoke, then Miss 
 Pierrepoint said: 
 
 'What has kept you at work so late to- 
 day, Mr. Hardinge ? I have heard of no new 
 piece in preparation.' 
 
 ' Xo,' he said, ' there is nothing new, only 
 I think it would be a diso:race to the theatre 
 if we put on that worn and ragged old pair of 
 flats for the garden scene in Borneo and Juliet.^ 
 and I persuaded old Potts to let me touch it 
 up afresh.' 
 
 ' Was it only for the credit of the theatre 
 that vou did that ?' asked Maclofe, lookino: softlv 
 at him. 
 
 ' Well, no, perhaps not,' he said. ' I dare- 
 say 1 should not have done it if it had been 
 Miss Delamere's benefit, or if ^liss Montmo- 
 rency had been playing Juliet. You know well 
 enough why I did it.' 
 
io6 CASTA WAV. 
 
 ' You are a kind, good boy, Gerald,' said 
 Miss Pierrepoint, softly laying her hand on his 
 arm, 'and never mind giving up your time, 
 or taking trouble for me.' 
 
 ' Kind, good boy, am I ?' said he petu- 
 lantly ; ' it is very little I am able to do, but 
 even that don't meet with much return.' 
 
 ' Gerald !' said Miss Pierrepoint, ' what do 
 you mean?' 
 
 ' AVhere were you last night ?' asked he,, 
 turning suddenl}' on her ; ' where did you go 
 to after you had finished here?' 
 
 * You have not the sho-htest ri^iit to ask 
 me that question, Mr. Hardinge,' said Miss 
 Pierrepoint, drawing herself up and looking 
 straight at him, ' and certainly not to ask 
 it in that tone.' 
 
 ' I know I have no right,' interrupted Ger- 
 ald. 
 
 ' But as I have no reason to be ashamed 
 of what I did,' continued Miss Pierrepomty 
 without heeding him, ' I do not mind telling 
 you that I went to meet a person on important 
 private business of my own.' 
 
JULIET. 107 
 
 ' And you did not get back until nearly 
 midnio'lit,' s«ml Gerald. 
 
 ' How do you know that ?' 
 
 ^ How do I knoAv it ? 1 because I saw ^ou 
 return. I walked up and down the street in 
 front of your door, from the time Eose told 
 me you were out, until I saw you safe once 
 more within the house.' 
 
 ' What, were vou there durino- all that 
 terrible storm?' asked Miss Pierrepoint. 
 
 ' Yes, I was. I did not mhid that ; there 
 was far too o-reat a storm o-oino; on within mv 
 breast for me to pay much attention to the 
 thunder and lightning ; I thought perhaps you 
 had ofone to meet some man, and I was nearly 
 mad.' 
 
 ' My poor boy,' said Madge soothingly. 
 
 ' 0, Mad^'e, Mad^'e I if vou onlv knew what 
 I suffer through jealousy; all this morning I 
 have been like a lunatic, looking down on to 
 the sta<re, and seeing' that old Boodle make 
 love to you at rehearsal.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Boodle plays Romeo, Gerald!' 
 
 ' Yes, I know all about that ; of course he 
 
loS CASTAWAY. 
 
 must do it ; and he is fifty years old, and 
 wears a wiir and false teeth, but still I hate to 
 see him or any one else come near you, or 
 touch you.' 
 
 ' But Avliy arc you so jealous, Gerald?' 
 
 ' Why y Because I love you. You know 
 it, ]\Iadg'e, you know this, you are certain of 
 it, and yet you ask me why I am jealous.' 
 
 ' Yes, Gerald,' she said hi a low voice, her 
 hand again falling softly on his arm, ' I think 
 }'0U are fond of me ; you have shoAvn that you 
 are, indeed, more than once.' 
 
 'No, I have not!' he burst out; 'I have 
 no chance or opportunity of doing so ! I only 
 want to prove to you how much I love you! 
 I hate the life you are leading, and I want to 
 take you away from it — I hate to see you 
 stared at by a lot of senseless gabies, who 
 think they are patronising you by clapping 
 their hands and thumping their infernal um- 
 brellas. I hate to see these brutes of officers — 
 we shall have them all here on Thursday night, 
 I suppose — haw-hawing about the passages, 
 and talkinix of vou in their idiotic manner. I 
 
JULIET. IC9 
 
 want to take you out of all this, I want to 
 many you and make you mine, and mine 
 alone !' 
 
 ' To marry me !' she said with a very sad 
 smile. 'You forget, Gerald, that I am six 
 years older than you, and that I shall be an 
 old woman — ' 
 
 ' I knew you would say that ! I hate it ! 
 You shouldn't say that,' he broke out im- 
 petuously. ' How many hundreds of men are 
 there who have married women older than 
 themselves, and lived perfectly happy lives ! 
 You make yourself older than you are by the 
 hard work you do. I want to work for you, 
 to slave for you, to make money that you 
 may share it, to make a name that you may 
 be proud of me ; and I will do it yet. I am 
 not always going to remain a drudge in a 
 countrv theatre. I shall 2:et the chance some 
 day; and then, 0, Madge, how proud I shall 
 be of you as my wife !' 
 
 ' You are a foolish boy,' she said, bending 
 her deep hazel eyes full upon him, ' and must 
 not talk to me in this way.' 
 
no CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' Xo,' lie said, curling his lip and shrugging 
 his shoulders ; ^ such talk is idle now, I know ; 
 J know I have nothing to offer now. If I ever 
 had tlie chance of attaining a position, 1 would 
 ask vou to marrv me ; for then the knowledo^e 
 til at I was fighting for you would nerve me 
 in the struggle ; and you would not say No 
 to me then, would you, Madge ?' 
 
 'You shall ask me when the chance ar- 
 rives, Gerald,' said the girl in a Ioav tone, 
 'and I will answer }'ou then.' 
 
 ' That time may be nearer than you ima- 
 o-ine ' said the vounof man. ' Xow, you have 
 had a long da}', and will have to begin again 
 shortly. Let me see you to your home.' 
 
 It was Miss Pierrepoint's custom to lie 
 down on her bed for an hour every afternoon 
 before proceeding to the theatre, and thus 
 prepare herself for the exertions of the even- 
 ing. Visitors were refused admittance; per- 
 fect quiet reigned throughout the liouse; and 
 Hose Pierrepoint sat in the drawing - room 
 with the door open, ready to rush out and 
 
JULIET. Ill 
 
 scarce away any chance irruption of cackling 
 poultry, barking dogs, or grinding organ-men. 
 On this day, however, though the house was 
 as cjuiet and Eose as vigilant as ever, Madge 
 Pierrepohit could not sleep. She lay outside 
 the bed, her long brown hair unloosed, hastily 
 combed off her face and floating: over her 
 shoulders, her head restimr on her hand, and 
 an odd wild gleam in her brown eyes. 
 
 ' How wonderful,' she said to herself, ' how 
 wonderful that Gerald should choose to-day, 
 of all days in the year, to say what he just 
 said to me ! I knew that he was fond of me, 
 of course ; I could not help knowing it ; but 
 he had never spoken so plainly as he did just 
 now. AVhat a contrast between what I heard 
 last night and what I heard to - day ! Philip 
 grumbling at me for not making more money; 
 urumblimT; at the sum — little enou^fh, but 
 hardlv earned — which I am able to send to 
 him; dissatisfied because I have none of those 
 accomplishments which, as he seems to think, 
 alone go down with a London audience. And 
 then this bov, hatimr the mere fact of mv be- 
 
112 CASTAirAY. 
 
 ing compelled to appear in public; ^vl4thin;]^ 
 under the notion that my name is bandied 
 about in men's mouths, and that I am a sub- 
 ject of discussion, however complimentary; 
 anxious only to give me rest, and quite con- 
 tented, as he says, to slave for me, and desir- 
 ous only of fjime that I may share it with 
 him. And Philip tells me he '' trusts me," and 
 bids me dally with the boy's affection, and see 
 how much money can be made out of him. 
 To that baseness I will not stoop ! I will put 
 an end to this nonsense altogether ; I will no 
 longer listen to — ■ And yet how wonderfully 
 soft and tender his manner is ! Heaven knows 
 my life is hard enough — a grinding servitude, 
 with only this one gleam of affection to light 
 it up. And that I will not deny myself. Xo ; 
 the chance that Gerald talks of will never 
 come. He will weary of me as Philip has 
 wearied. ^leanwhile, until he does weary of 
 me, I will not deprive myself of his society — 
 no, nor of his worship — the only sunshine in 
 mv life.' 
 
CHAPTER lY. 
 
 FRIEXDS IN COUNCIL. 
 
 The income which ^Major Yane derived from 
 his sporting transactions being of a fluctuat- 
 ing character, and the sum regularly trans- 
 mitted to him by his wife being, as he justly 
 considered, contemptible in amount, that gal- 
 lant officer was unable to have his permanent 
 home as luxurious, or even as comfortable, as 
 he undeniably wished it to be. Though ac- 
 customed to speak of his abode vaguely and 
 generally as his 'rooms,' the Major in reality 
 occupied only one apartment, which was situ- 
 ate at the top of a house, the ground floor of 
 which was a shop of such enormous dimen- 
 sions, that it not merely absorbed the first 
 and the second floors, but so bulo-ed out at 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 CASTA WAV. 
 
 the side as only to leave space for a private 
 door so narrow that it looked like one plank, 
 and for a staircase which Avas perfectly ladder- 
 like in the slimness of its proportions. In the 
 fanlight above the narrow door — so narrow 
 as to consist only of one pane of glass — and 
 immediately above the small speck of blue 
 gas that was allowed to issue from the one 
 tiny burner, Avas pasted in the off season a 
 fly-])lown skimpy little bill, inscribed with a 
 legend, setting forth that apartments were to 
 be let 'for club gentlemen.' 
 
 In the off season only ; for during the sea- 
 son the ' club o'cntlemen' mustered so strono^lv 
 as to render the announcement quite unneces- 
 sary. Of various kinds were the}', and so 
 numerous, that one wondered where they 
 could find space sufficient to stow themselves 
 away. Blue - faced majors of the Bagstock 
 breed, with pendulous cheeks and double- 
 breasted coats and buckskin gloves, occasion- 
 ally took up their (juarters in the ' apartments 
 for clul) gentlemen,' which also afforded shel- 
 ter to an Irish M.P., who was popularly sup- 
 
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 115 
 
 posed to live upon the produce of the sale of 
 blue-books and printed parliamentary docu- 
 ments for waste pjaper, and whose tall hat 
 was so extremely shiny as to cause the par- 
 liamentary funny man — like most parliament- 
 ary funny men, but a poor joker — to say that 
 O'Dwyer must have forpfotten to take his hat 
 off one morning when he crpeased his hair. 
 There, too, for three weeks, in the very height 
 of the season, sleeping for about two hours 
 out of the twenty-four, was to be found a pro- 
 vincial newspaper reporter, who spent all the 
 money and health which he had gained dur- 
 ing the previous eleven months in rushing 
 about from theatre to concert, from dance to 
 drum, from artist's studio to author's library, 
 chatting, note -taking, observing, and gather- 
 incr to^rether an amount of anecdote and chit- 
 chat, upon the distinction due to the purveyor 
 of which he lived, a courted guest, on his re- 
 turn to his native town. 
 
 In the midst of this motley colony ^lajor 
 Yane was the sole res^ular tenant. The bed- 
 room which he inhabited, though at the top 
 
ii6 CASTAWAY. 
 
 of the house, was larger, airier, and better 
 furnished than the rest, and he kept it on 
 throughout the year; because, though he was 
 often absent for weeks together, going from 
 race-meeting to race-meeting, or staying in 
 the country-houses of trainers and jockeys, 
 with certain of whom he was a great favourite, 
 he was always liable to be summoned to Lon- 
 
 ft/ 
 
 don, where he made it a point of having a 
 fied-a-terre. There was a certain recklessness 
 of tone about the whole aifair which amused 
 him. He laughed at the open note, written in 
 a round hand bv the landlady, and skewered 
 on to the extinguisher of the Irish member's 
 candlestick, informing that distinguished poli- 
 tician that the cabman who brought him from 
 the House on the previous wet night had 
 called twice, and would take out a summons 
 unless the money Avas left for him in the 
 morning. He grinned as he inspected the 
 highly -scented notes, addressed in violet ink 
 and very scrawly writing, which awaited the 
 return of the blue -faced major. He laughed 
 as he stumbled over the enormous high -lows 
 
FRIENDS IX COUNCIL. 
 
 T17 
 
 of the provincial newspaper reporter. He did 
 not mind the smell of Avarm mutton fat, tem- 
 pered by tobacco, which lingered on the stair- 
 case. He did not mind the normal state of 
 blackness in which lived the female slave of 
 the establishment, who printed off impres- 
 sions of her fingers and thumbs on every- 
 thing which she could possibly clutch hold 
 of. He would have objected to her very 
 strongly, indeed, and to the black-beetles, in 
 whose company she lived, and which, when 
 dead, were in the habit of dropping out of 
 her costume as she moved along; and to her 
 cooking — an art which, judging from the re- 
 sult, she seemed generally to practise con- 
 temporaneously with the performance of her 
 toilet and the arrangement of her hair. He 
 would have objected to all this, had he had 
 anything to do with it. But the fact was, 
 that Major Yane only slept at his lodgin<^s, 
 and ate, drank, wrote, read, played cards, re- 
 ceived visits, and gave his address at his club. 
 "The Craven, to which Major Vane be- 
 longed, may best be described as a shady 
 
iiS CASTAWAY. 
 
 club. It was situated on the shady side of 
 the way, in a shady street, in the neighbour- 
 hood of Piccadilly, and the members were all 
 more or less shady, generally more. There 
 were shady majors, and colonels, and cap- 
 tains, some of whom had been in the regular 
 service, which they had quitted in a remark- 
 ably shady manner, but most of whom were 
 accredited by or attached to Indian nawabs, 
 or foreign potentates of the shadowiest as 
 well as the shadiest order. There were shady 
 barristers, whose names were recollected in 
 connection with the shadiest cases, and shady 
 attorneys who employed them. Such mem- 
 bers of the Craven Club as had well-known 
 names, were for the most part the worst of 
 all. Whenever one of those names Avas men- 
 tioned, the question arose, 'What have I heard 
 about that man?' and the reflection was gener- 
 ally certain to bring something forward to 
 the discredit of the gentleman in question. 
 
 One noticeable feature of the Craven Club, 
 too, was that thouirh most of its members 
 were seen a great deal in puljlic, driving 
 
FRIEXDS IX COUNCIL. 
 
 119 
 
 handsome horses in the park, lounging out 
 of pit-boxes at the opera, and sprawling in 
 stalls at theatres, always expensively dressed 
 in exao'o-eration of the rei^'nino; fashion — no 
 one ever met them in general society. They 
 gave each other elaborate banquets at the 
 club, they were seen during the season at 
 Richmond and Greenwich, entertaining ladies, 
 quietly dressed, and not indecorous in man- 
 ner, who were equally unknown to the rest 
 of the London world. Sometimes they would 
 make an attempt to assert themselves. The 
 men would get themselves proposed for some 
 established and well-known club, when the}^ 
 would be either black-balled or withdrawn. 
 The women would call upon some ladies 
 whose husbands had been introduced to them ; 
 the visit would not be returned, and an\' fur- 
 ther attempt at intercourse with the outer 
 world would for a time be abandoned. 
 
 Xot that they would be discouraged at 
 these rebuffs. They ignored them as far as 
 possible, and when compelled to accept them, 
 they would shrug their shoulders, and talk 
 
120 CASTA H^AV. 
 
 of themselves as Bohemians; though between 
 their debased and sensuous lives and the hon- 
 est, free Bohemianism of literature and art, 
 there was as much resemblance as between 
 their purple wliiskers and painted faces and 
 the black locks and bronzed cheeks of the 
 real Romany. 
 
 In its external life, at least, the Craven 
 had some resemblance to other clubs ; men 
 ate and drank there, and there was a writino^- 
 room (the blotting-cases of which, if they 
 could have revealed the secrets confided to 
 them, would have been invaluable to Messrs. 
 Moss and ^loss, the attorneys of Thavies-inn, 
 or Serjeant Skinner, the well-known leader 
 in the Divorce Court), and a smoking-room, 
 where many curious little 'plants' had been 
 concocted, and a card -room and a billiard- 
 room. The wines and spirits supplied to the 
 members were undeniably good ; Dick Wrang- 
 ham, commonly known as liingiet Wrang- 
 ham, took care of that, for after he had sold 
 out of the cavalry and failed as a horse-dealer, 
 some of his friends set him u[) as the pro- 
 
FRIENDS IX COUNCIL. 121 
 
 prietor of the Craven, and out of its profits 
 he earned a very tolerable income. 
 
 About noon on the second day after his 
 return from AVexeter, Major Yane entered 
 the club, and ordered his breakfast. In the 
 coiFee-room he found several other members 
 engaged in discussing the same meal; break- 
 fast, however, at the Craven Club, was by 
 no means of the ordinary kind. On the tables 
 was seldom to be seen anv tea or coffee, or 
 then' usual accompaniments; there was toast, 
 certainly, but it was prepared with anchovy; 
 there were devilled biscuits and cavenned 
 legs of poultry, and artful thirst - provoking- 
 preparations of dried fish ; and for the allay- 
 ing of the thirst when provoked, there were 
 cool cups, which on the whole were found 
 to inebriate considerably more than they 
 cheered, and effervescing liquors of all kinds. 
 
 Xoon was the very earliest period of the 
 dav recoo;nised at the Craven Club ; the num- 
 ber of members did not admit of more than 
 one staff of servants being kept, and as the 
 habits of its frequenters were undoubtedly 
 
12 2 CASTAWAY. 
 
 late, much aliicrity before noon could not be 
 expected of the waiters who had not retired 
 to rest before daybreak. Very filmy - eyed 
 and cloudy-linened were these domestics in 
 the morning, as they yawned in the bay-win- 
 dows and swe])t up the fragments of cigar- 
 ash with dirty dusters, and plunged their 
 fingers into fiat remains of half-emptied tum- 
 blers. The grim old porter, who had an 
 easier time than most of them, as he slept 
 soundly during the latter part of the night 
 in his glazed box, always had a hoar frost 
 of silver beard upon his mottled cheeks, and 
 cursed, and envied while he cursed, the bright 
 freshness of the boy who slapped the news- 
 papers down on the desk before him and 
 lau fished in his face. The man who brouo:ht 
 the play-bills knew something about sitting 
 up late, and the woman who left the milk 
 knew something about getting up early; but 
 in regard to the number of hours' sleep they 
 had, one might be regarded as Rip Van 
 Winkle, and the other as the Sleeping Beauty, 
 in comparison to this hall-porter. ]jy noon, 
 
FRIENDS IX COUXCIL. 123 
 
 however, all the establishment was on the 
 alert ; the members who lived in lodging-s 
 wanted their breakfasts, and the members 
 who lived at home, and who for various rea- 
 sons did not care to have their correspond- 
 ence addressed to their private houses, wanted 
 their letters. There was generally great 
 anxiety to see the sporting papers, several 
 copies of which were taken in at the Craven, 
 and there were hazy reminiscences of last 
 night's conversation to adjust, and half-made, 
 half-dreamt - of wao-ers to reo;ulate and settle. 
 
 All the men at breakfast looked up as 
 Philip Yane swaggered to the waiter's desk 
 to give his orders, and two or three of them 
 growled out 'Good-morning.' He was a popu- 
 lar man in the club, and had it been dinner 
 time, would have been received with a chorus 
 of acclamation, but the members of the Craven 
 were generally short - tempered and reticent 
 in the morning, and thought a nod quite suf- 
 ficient greeting. Major Yane returned the 
 salutations in his usual careless, insolent way, 
 seated himself at his table, and buried him- 
 
124 aiSTAlVAV. 
 
 self in the folds of a sporting newspaper. 
 From the vaticinations of the writer, whose 
 principal merit appeared to be the ingenious 
 manner in Avhich lie refrained from mention- 
 ing; the name of the horse whose merits he 
 was discussmo^, alludinn; to it now as the son 
 of its sire, now as the native of the place 
 where it was bred, and now as the property 
 of the person who owned it, Major Vane's 
 attention Avas distracted by the simultaneous 
 arrival of his breakfast and of a friend. 
 
 There were some points of similarity and 
 dissimilarity between them; the breakfast was 
 sound and good, the friend was neither; the 
 breakfast had to be paid for, so generally had 
 the friend. There was a doubt as to whether 
 the breakfast mi^ht disaorree with one, there 
 was no doubt about the friend's disagreeing 
 with one, if bv so doing; he saw a chance of 
 bettering his position. Delabole was the 
 friend's name, his status that of gentleman, 
 though twenty years before, when he spent 
 a few happy days with Lieutenant Bird, the 
 frovernor of Alnwick ^aol, his name was Mun- 
 
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 125 
 
 ker, his profession horse coping. But Aln- 
 wick was a lonix wav off, and Lieutenant Bird 
 had been dead for many years. 
 
 A short fat man, ^Ir. Delabole, with a 
 square head Hke a tin loaf, no neck to speak 
 of, an enormous chest, always set off by a 
 very open shirt-front, or covered by a water- 
 fall of satin, with one valuable pin in its 
 centre; short awkward legs, and very small 
 hands and feet. The latter, which were flat 
 as well as small, alwavs looked like the feet 
 of the dummies in the tailors' shops ; the little 
 fino-ers of the former were alwavs covered 
 to the knuckles with lustrous rings. Philip 
 Yane saw the rings blazing on his shoulder 
 before he looked round at their owner. Mr. 
 Delabole always put his hands on his friends' 
 shoulders and generally called them 'dear 
 boy.' He was a large-hearted man, verv. 
 
 ' We wanted you with us last niaht, dear 
 boy,' were Mr. Delabole's first words after 
 the interchangfe of frreetimrs. 
 
 ' And I wanted you here,' said Philip 
 Yane. 
 
126 CiSTAJl'AV. 
 
 There was something in his look which 
 aroused Delabole's attention, for he said 
 quickly : 
 
 ' Why, has anything been done ?' 
 
 ' Xot much. BolckofF brought his cousin 
 here, the man from Germany, about whom he 
 is always swaggering.' 
 
 ' I know.' 
 
 ' Well, I played ecarte with him.' 
 
 'Well!' 
 
 ' We played five games, of which he won 
 three.' 
 
 ' Ah ! that means nothing, dear boy !' said 
 Mr. Delabole, drawing up his chair, and drop- 
 ping his voice. ' You were playing — ' 
 
 ' Foxey !' said Yane in a whisper; ' so was 
 he, foxey to the teeth and eyes, foxey all 
 over! Yine grower at Xeuwied, BolckofF 
 called him, and thought I believed it ! Xo 
 Rhenish grape merchant ever handled his 
 cards like that Viennese, my dear Delabole ! 
 As keen a A^iennese sharp as ever swaggered 
 in the Prater, or played at the Yerein.' 
 
 Philip Yane's eyes flashed, and his voice 
 
FRIENDS IX COUA'CIL. 127 
 
 o^rew a little louder as he finished this sen- 
 tence. ]\Ir. Delabolc held up a Avarning 
 finger, and when he spoke there was no trace 
 of emotion in his tone. 
 
 ' It is very, very likely, dear l3oy !' he 
 said, in a fat whisper; 'it's just one of Bole - 
 koff' s moves ! Your Polish Jew, sir,' con- 
 tinued Mr. Delabole, shaking his head senten- 
 tiously, ' your Polish Jew is a bad breed I' 
 Then, in quite a different tone, he added, 
 ' What did you want me for, dear boy ?' 
 
 ' ^lerely to know whether I was right as 
 to our friend's style; merely to see whether 
 you agreed with my idea of it.' 
 
 ' Xo occasion for my j^resence for that ; 
 trust my Philip for the spot- stroke in such a 
 case! For finding needles very judiciously 
 hidden in bottles of hay, there is not, I be- 
 lieve, your equal.' 
 
 ' You must want somethino- of me ver\' 
 badly indeed, Delabole,' said Yane grimh'. 
 ' I never heard you so complimentary. Has 
 it anything to do with last night, of which 
 you were speaking?' 
 
128 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ^ It had nothing to do with anything in 
 the world, dear hoy,' said Dclahole, ^ cer- 
 tainly not with anything of hist night, which 
 was devoted to pleasure, and in which no 
 trace of business intruded.' 
 
 ' Pleasure !' repeated Philip Yane. 
 
 ' Pleasure, and nothing else,' said Dela- 
 bole. ' A delightful little supper given to 
 Lotty Lopez, and a few of her female friends.' 
 
 ' Ah !' said Philip Vane shortly. 
 
 ' And why " ah !" dear boy?' 
 
 ' I don't ^o in for that sort of thino^.' 
 
 'Perhaps not,' said Mr. Dclabole, in his 
 airiest manner ; ' but because you are virtu- 
 ous, are there to be no more cakes and ale? 
 It was really a very pleasant little gathering, 
 not the less so from the touch of romance 
 attendino; the circumstances.' 
 
 * Romance ?' echoed Philip Yane, with a 
 launch. 'What was there romantic about it? 
 "Was the landlord so faschiated by Miss 
 Lotty's beaux yeux, that he declined to take 
 any money for the bill, or was the brilliancy 
 so contao^ious that one of tlie waiters exhi- 
 
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 
 
 ] 29 
 
 bited a talent which he had hitherto hidden 
 under a napkin?' 
 
 ^ Neither, dear boy,' said Mr. Delabole 
 quietly ; ' nor was any one rude — as you are 
 just now ! Eudeness isn't clever, dear boy, 
 and as a general rule doesn't pay. No ; the 
 little spice of romance was derivable from the 
 fact that it was a farewell banquet to Lotty, 
 who, mth her little troupe, has been engaged 
 by WuiF on a travelling tour for three years, 
 and quits these shores for America next 
 week.' 
 
 ' What a blow for England !' said Philip 
 Yane ; ' how she will sigh over her departing, 
 children !' 
 
 ' There are others of her children,' said 
 Mr. Delabole, ' who may some day be called 
 upon to depart from her shores, under dif- 
 ferent circumstances, and whom she will not 
 regard so much ! As for myself, little Lotty 
 always amused me, and I am sorry she is 
 going; I could have better spared a better 
 woman. That's a quotation, I believe, but, 
 oddly enough, it's true.' 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
I30 CASTA IVAV. 
 
 ' If you are so fond of her, why don't you 
 2^0 with her ?' said Vane. 
 
 ' Because it wouldn't suit me, dear boy ; 
 because there is no opening for me; because 
 — I don't want to, in point of fact. But, for 
 the matter of that, why don't you ? WufF's 
 at his wits' end for a leading man and lead- 
 ing woman. Let me write him a line, and 
 say I have found the first in you ?' 
 
 A sudden thought struck Philip Yane. 
 
 ' Hold on a minute and drop chaffing. 
 Does he really want a leading actress to go 
 out with this lot with him? Not a dancing, 
 capering wench, I mean, but a woman who 
 can act?' 
 
 ' He does want one most infernally.' 
 
 ' What will he 2:1 ve ?' 
 
 ' Well, our friend Wuff isn't in the open- 
 handed, melting, charity line, but I should 
 think he would stand six pounds a week, and 
 travelling expenses. He gives Lotty ten, I 
 know, but then — ' 
 
 * I'll find him the person he wants,' said 
 Philip Vane quickly. 
 
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 131 
 
 'You, dear boy?' said Delabole, surprised. 
 ' I thought you said just now you were not in 
 that line?' 
 
 ' Nor am I, but when I was down in the 
 West the other day, I saw a girl — Miss PieiTe- 
 point, I think she was called — ' 
 
 ' Pierrepoint !' said Delabole. ' Yes, I've 
 heard of her in the provinces. Good, isn't 
 she?' 
 
 ' So far as I understand these matters, 
 very good,' said Yane \ ' a friend of mine is 
 interested in her.' 
 
 ^ Ah, ah,' said Delabole, ' we know what 
 that means.' 
 
 Vane knew, too, what Delabole's tone 
 meant ; knew that it was his wife thus al- 
 luded to, but took no notice. 
 
 ' I mean,' he continued, 'he should be glad 
 to see her position improved, and this is an 
 opportunity which I think would suit her.' 
 
 ' I would, if I were you, dear boy,' said 
 Delabole, looking at him straight in the face, 
 ' I would just put on my friend's hat and my 
 friend's coat, put my friend into the train. 
 
132 CASTA M^AV. 
 
 and get him to discuss the matter with Miss 
 Picrrepoint/ 
 
 ' You think that's devilish funny,' said 
 Major Vane, returning his stare, ' but you're 
 Trrono; for once. The woman is nothino: to 
 me, only I thought it might suit her, and do 
 your friend a good turn at the same time.' 
 
 ' All right, dear boy,' said Mr. Delabole. 
 ' I will let Wuff know. If it comes off, she 
 must start next week.' 
 
 • I have heard,' said Mr. Delabole to him- 
 self, as he climbed into the mail -phaeton 
 which was waiting for him at the door, ' I 
 have heard Philip tell a great many lies cle- 
 verly, but never so cleverly as that one he 
 told just now. His face was a perfect study 
 of candour. Pierrepoint ? I'll make a little 
 memorandum of this conversation when I get 
 into the city.' 
 
 When Philip Yane had finished his break- 
 fast, he went into the writing-room, and wrote 
 this letter to his wife : 
 
 ' Thursday. 
 ' You need not send up the benefit money 
 
FRIENDS IN COUNCIL. 133 
 
 to-morrow, I will come down and fetch it. 
 Meet me in the same place at the same time 
 to-morrow; I have something very important 
 to say to you.' 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Miss Pierrepoint's benefit was even a greater 
 success than her warmest and mo^t sanguine 
 friends had anticipated. The dramatic critic 
 of the Wexeter Flying Post remarked the 
 next day that ' such a galaxy of beauty and 
 fashion had never before been gathered toge- 
 ther in our httle temple of Thespis.' 
 
 And he was almost justified in his state- 
 ment. The clerical party was fully repre- 
 sented. The bishop was away in London ; 
 but the dean was there, rosy and bland, fol- 
 lowing the text of the tragedy in a large 
 quarto volume, which he had brought with 
 him, beating time to the delivery of Mercu- 
 tio's speech about Queen Mab as though he 
 had been conducting an oratorio, and be- 
 nignly deaf to the profane remarks with 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 135 
 
 which the representative of Colonel Hardy in 
 Paul Pry thought fit to season the author's 
 dialogue. Emboldened by their august leader's 
 presence and evident delight, the other pillars 
 of the church gradually relaxed from the ex- 
 treme state of severity into which they had 
 thought fit to settle themselves on their en- 
 trance, while the female members of their 
 families sighed over Juliet's woes, and tit- 
 tered at Phoebe's impudence, in unrestrained 
 freedom. Be sure that Probus, the coach- 
 maker and Shakespearian enthusiast, was in 
 the front-row with his family, looking as if 
 he knew all about the trao^edy, and wao^oincr 
 his head as one who should say, 'I am pleased 
 to see the delight it affords you, my friends, 
 but I have been steeped in it for many years.' 
 Gerald Hardinge was right in his anticipation 
 of the presence of the military. The officers 
 were there in force, from the colonel to the 
 youngest subaltern, and being one and all in 
 severe evening dress, gave quite an aristo- 
 cratic appearance to that portion of the dress- 
 circle which they filled. So Sam Cave said. 
 
136 CASTAWAY. 
 
 at least, and Sam Cave ouglit to have known, 
 having twice attended the performances of 
 Madame Malibran in London, and being the 
 only person within many miles who was sup- 
 posed to know what Fop's Alley was, or what 
 it meant. 
 
 The good townspeople, too, most of whom 
 had heard from Miss Cave of her lodo^er's 
 quiet life, and of the way in she supported 
 her younger sister, made a point of attending 
 in crowds, and of cheering the heroine of the 
 evening to the echo. These cheers she really 
 deserved, as, always conscientious and pains- 
 taking, she had never so thoroughly identified 
 herself with any character, never so sunk her 
 own individuality in the part to be assumed, 
 as on this occasion. The extra excitement 
 and fatigue, indeed, had so far prostrated her, 
 that at the conclusion of the performance. 
 Miss Cave, who had been checking the ac- 
 counts in the front of the house, ran round to 
 the stao^e-door, and seeino: Gerald Hardinore 
 in waiting on Miss Pierrepoint, bade him take 
 her home at once, leave her at the door, and 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 137 
 
 not attempt to talk to her that night, and the 
 worthy soul added to Madge, ' You will not 
 see me, my dear, until to-morrow morning, or 
 hear anything from me about it ; though I 
 can tell you that omng to Sam's having 
 packed them together like herrings, we have 
 got more money than I can ever recollect 
 into the house, and the result will be better 
 than I told you; I will come up to your room 
 the first thing to-morrow morning with the 
 amount. And now, Mr. Hardinge, take her 
 off directly.' 
 
 The next morning, when Miss Pierrepoint 
 awoke, she found that the kind old lady had 
 already been to her room, for lying on her 
 pillow was a small white -paper parcel con- 
 taining the items of the account jotted down 
 in Miss Cave's neat, though now tremulous 
 handwriting, and more than forty-eight pounds 
 in notes, gold, and silver. 
 
 Forty-eight pounds ! Madge counted it 
 over two or three times and was delighted, 
 for that was considerably more than she had 
 led Phihp to expect. How pleased he will 
 
T38 CASTAWAY. 
 
 be ! Perhaps he Avill be able to spare her a 
 little of it ; she would like to make old Miss 
 Cave a present, and some acknowledgment to 
 two or three others, who had put themselves 
 to extra trouble and inconvenience on her 
 account, and who could little spare the time 
 they had given up. Rose, too, wanted a new 
 gown sadly ; Madge knew the girl was 
 ashamed of her dress, though she never com- 
 plained. But she had refused to go out walk- 
 ing very often lately, except in the evening 
 dusk, and Madge was sure that was the reason. 
 As Madge was in the midst of this wonder- 
 ment, there came a knock at the door, and 
 Miss Cave entered the room. 
 
 ' That's a good girl/ said the old lady, 
 looking not without admiration at the pretty 
 figure before her, with its long brown hair 
 floating ■ over its shoulders ; ' I thought you 
 would not be foolish enough to get up just 
 yet after all your fatigue, so I have brought 
 you a letter which has just been left by the 
 postman. There it is,' she continued, laying 
 it on the bed, ' a letter with the London post- 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 139 
 
 mark and a smart seal ; I only hope it is not 
 from any London manager, who has heard of 
 vou and wants to offer you an enofao-ement. 
 Perhaps it's from Mr. Boscawen. I sent him 
 one of your circulars, but I heard afterwards 
 he had gone to London.' 
 
 ' No,' said Madge, ' it isn't from a manager, 
 and it isn't from Mr. Boscawen. It is not 
 a very important communication. How very 
 good of you, dear Miss Cave, to take so much 
 trouble about me, and to get me all this 
 money!' She looked up and tried to smile, 
 but the light had died out of her eyes, and 
 her lips trembled. 
 
 ' No thanks at all, my dear,' said the old 
 lady; 'it was your own talent and niceness 
 that drew the money, and all I had to do was 
 to collect it, and make it up for you. Now, if 
 you don't want to sleep any more, I will make 
 you a nice cup of tea, and bring it up to you 
 before you dress.' 
 
 So soon as she was left alone, Madge took 
 up the letter and read it again. 
 
 ' What can it mean ?' she said to herself 
 
140 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' Philip knows I would send him the money at 
 once and safely. 1 have done so before ; it 
 cannot be for that, then, that he is coming ! 
 There must be something important that 
 brings him here so soon again ! It's over- 
 fatigue only, I suppose, but I am horribly low 
 and down this morning, and feel as if some- 
 thing evil were going to happen.' 
 
 All day long the same wonder beset her. 
 What could it be? And the apparent im- 
 portance of it grew as she thought it over. 
 
 One thing was certain, she must meet him 
 that night. There would be a difficulty, but 
 that must be overcome. Gerald Hardinge 
 would want to see her of course. Now and 
 then, once a week, perhaps, he was in the 
 habit of coming in when he had seen her 
 home from the theatre, and partaking of their 
 frugal supper with her sister and herself, a 
 small but pleasant meal, to which, on such 
 occasions, he always insisted on contributing. 
 
 He would want to come that night doubt- 
 less. There were numerous incidents of the 
 benefit to be talked over; she had scarcely 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 141 
 
 seen him since, and he would doubtless pro- 
 pose himself as a visitor that night. It could 
 not be. She must go and meet Philip, that 
 was imperative ; she must devise some story 
 which would satisfy Gerald, and in order to do 
 that, Rose must be taken into her confidence. 
 That last necessity was very unpleasant 
 to Madge Pierrepoint. In the course of her 
 career, straight as she endeavoured to keep 
 it, she had to undergo various little shifts and 
 privations, to pass through various phases of 
 life, not necessarily base or ignoble in them- 
 selves, but rendered so by their connections 
 and surroundings. But all these were with 
 scrupulous care hidden from the knowledge 
 of her younger sister. Madge Pierrepoint 
 was not unacquainted with the mysteries of 
 the pawnbroker's shop; she had had experi- 
 ence of the hard bargains driven by the tally- 
 man for clothes which were absolutely neces- 
 sary to her in her profession, and of the ex- 
 tortions of the usurer — not unfrequently some 
 other member of the company — for salary lent 
 to her in advance. 
 
142 CASTA IVA V. 
 
 But Rose knew nothing of all these thmgs. 
 She was but a child, Madge said, and it was 
 desirable that she should be kept as long as 
 possible in ignorance of all the bad ways of 
 this weary work-a-day world. She had her 
 French lessons to do, with her music, and 
 then there was her painting, in which she 
 took such interest, and in which Gerald 
 Hardinge so kindly helped her. Let her go 
 on with this until the time came when she 
 must struggle for herself; but until that time 
 came, let the meanness and the shifts of hard- 
 grinding poverty be kept from her. 
 
 Now, however, she must be taken into 
 confidence, so far at least as to throw dust 
 in the eyes of Gerald Hardinge and Miss 
 Cave, both of whom would be curious as to 
 Madge's proceedings. Madge recognised this, 
 and thought out her plan of action while she 
 dressed herself, and when she crossed over 
 into her little sitting-room, she was perfectly 
 prej^ared with it. 
 
 Rose was delighted to see Madge, and ran 
 up and kissed her, and congratulated her on 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 143 
 
 the success of the benefit. Rose had never 
 seen Madge look so gloriously, or play so 
 splendidly, as she had done on the previous 
 night ; and Miss Cave had told her that 
 Madge had made a lot of money; and that 
 was good hearing; for they wanted it badly 
 enough, goodness knows. 'Just look at my 
 rags,' said Rose in parenthesis, holding up her 
 arm, and showing where the poor cheap stuff 
 had undeniably frayed away. And Madge 
 must be awfully tired, mustn't she — good thing 
 she only played in the first piece that evening 
 — and she must come home directly after and 
 go to bed, and the next day there was no 
 rehearsal, and she could take a long rest, and 
 they could talk over all that was to be done. 
 
 There was Madge's chance. She replied 
 affectionately and sweetly to all her sister's 
 congratulations, and then she added, ' I was 
 very tired, dear, but I have had a good long 
 sleep, and I cannot come home early to-night, 
 as you suggest, because I have to go out for 
 an hour or two on a matter of business.' 
 
 Rose's face flushed instantly. ' Going out, 
 
144 CASTA WAV. 
 
 Madsre, what a^ain? You were out — when 
 was it? — Monday night, the night of the 
 storm. How very strange !' 
 
 ' And I shall be out again and again, or I 
 shall remain at home here without moving 
 out at all, just whenever it suits my purpose, 
 however strange you may think it, my dear 
 Rose,' said Madge quietly. 
 
 ' Well, but—' 
 
 ' Be o-ood enoucrh to attend to me ; I have 
 business which calls me out to-night. It is 
 probable that when Gerald Hardinge does not 
 find me in the theatre, he will come on here.' 
 
 ' 0, then your business does not concern 
 Gerald Hardinge ?' 
 
 ' My business concerns myself — and you — 
 and no one else.' And Madge's cheek burned 
 as she uttered the lie. 
 
 '0, I only thought — What then?' said 
 Rose inconsequently, but much less acrimoni- 
 ously than before. 
 
 ' Well, if Gerald comes on here, you must 
 tell him that I have gone to bed thoroughly 
 tired out, but I will see him in the morning.' 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 145 
 
 ' 0, Madge ! but suppose he sees Miss 
 Cave?' 
 
 ' If Miss Cave comes home before Gerald 
 arrives, you must tell her the same story ; if 
 she comes after him, you will tell her that I 
 have gone to Mrs. Probus's, who wanted 
 especially to see me, and that I shall not be 
 late.' 
 
 * But, Madge, won't it — ' 
 
 ' Do as I tell you, Rose, and don't ask any 
 questions ! Depend upon it that what I am 
 going to do is both for your interest and 
 mine.' 
 
 And Rose, who took a very different view 
 of the affair when she found that Mr. Gerald 
 Hardinge was not mixed up with her sister's 
 proceedings, promised comphance, and said 
 no more. 
 
 It was dull work that night at the theatre ; 
 Romeo and Juliet was played again, ' in con- 
 sequence of its enormous attraction ;' but no 
 one who had been present on the previous 
 night would have recognised the performance. 
 Reaction was evident everywhere, even down 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
146 CASTAWAY. 
 
 to the two ' supers,' and Mrs. Gonnop, who 
 played the Xurse. The house was not one- 
 third full, and those persons who were pre- 
 sent seemed bored and dissatisfied. The cur- 
 tain was no sooner down than Madge Pierre- 
 point ran to her dressing-room, threw a large 
 cloak over her stage-dress, dashed some water 
 over her face, twisted up her hair, put on her 
 bonnet, and sallied forth. She saw nothing 
 of either Miss Cave or Gerald Hardinge, but 
 turned rapidly into the street, and along the 
 road up which we have before tracked her 
 footsteps. 
 
 A very different night from that on which 
 she last went this expedition. Now all was 
 briofht and clear, the moon ridino^ hio-h in the 
 blue sky, and every object in the landscape 
 standing out square and closely defined against 
 her light. ^lellowed and softened by her rays, 
 the Dumpington-turnpike threw a shadow, 
 strange, foreign, and kiosk-like, over the road 
 into the little lane, the moonbeams penetrated 
 through interlacing trees, working a wavy 
 arabesque pattern on the green hedo-erows. 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 147 
 
 and chequering the winding path with light 
 and shade. 
 
 This time Madge was not the first to ar- 
 rive. As she turned into the lane, a figure 
 arose from the bank, against which it had 
 been lying, and advanced to meet her. It was 
 her husband. 
 
 ' You're late,' was his genial greeting. 
 
 ' I came away as soon as I could, Philip,' 
 she replied ; ' didn't even stop to change my 
 dress — look here.' And she opened her cloak, 
 showing Juliet's white robe underneath. 
 
 ' By Jove,' he said, glancing at her, ' there's 
 purity ! What is it, a Druidical priestess, or a 
 virgin of the sun?' 
 
 She flushed angrily for a moment, but re- 
 covered herself directly, then said -s^ith a short 
 laugh, ' You would rather it were lago's 
 doublet, I suppose, and that I could not mere- 
 ly give you his counsel, " put money in thy 
 purse," but act upon the advice. However, I 
 can do that as it happens without the doublet. 
 This is for you,' and she placed a small packet 
 in his hand. 
 
148 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' What is this ? he exclaimed, as he took 
 it. ' yes, the benefit, I forgot all about it ! 
 How much is there here ?' 
 
 'Forty-eight pounds, Philip,' she cried, 
 laying her hand upon his shoulder, and look- 
 ing up into his face. ' Isn't it good ?' 
 
 ' Might have been worse,' he said, quietly 
 slipping the money into his pocket. ' Well, 
 and how did it go off, and all that sort of 
 thing T 
 
 'I scarcely know what you mean by all 
 that sort of thing,' said Madge; 'the house 
 was very full, as you will know by the con- 
 tents of your waistcoat -pocket.' 
 
 'Yes, but you? Did you tip 'em the word 
 in grand style ? Did you let 'em have it from 
 the shoulder?' 
 
 ' I spoke the text of the part, so that I 
 conclude that I did tij) them the word. I 
 don't understand your delicate allusion to the 
 shoulder.' 
 
 ' There, don't be cross, Madge,' said 
 Philip Yane, ])utting his arm round her; 'I 
 know I am always talking slang, but that's 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 149 
 
 the fault of the people I live with; I've no 
 doubt you acted splendidly and got j)lenty of 
 applause.' 
 
 ' Old Mr. Probus wrote me a note this 
 morning, declaring he had never seen Juliet 
 better played, and he recollects Miss O'Neil.' 
 
 ' Dear old Probus,' said Philip Yane. 
 ' What will he take to drink ? Seriously 
 though, I am delighted to hear it. Well, and 
 what have you got to say to me ?' 
 
 ' I thought it was to say something to me 
 that you came down here,' said Madge; 'for 
 my part I have not got much to say. yes, 
 Philip, one thing T want you to do, if you 
 can, to spare me a little of that money.' 
 
 '0,' said Major Yane, ' a little of that 
 money, eh? 
 
 'A very little will do, Philip: there are 
 two or three things that I absolutely must 
 have in my theatrical wardrobe, and poor Rose 
 has scarcely a gown to her back.' 
 
 ' It seems to me a devilish hard thino^ that 
 we should have to provide poor Pose's go^vns 
 out of our income,' said the Major; 'however. 
 
150 CASTAWAY. 
 
 of course, she can't be allowed to disgrace the 
 family. Let me see,' he added, taking the 
 packet from his pocket. ' What did you say 
 the figure was?' 
 
 ' Forty-eight pounds,' said Madge. 
 
 ' Forty-eight. Five, ten, fifteen, ah, very 
 neatly made up, forty-five in notes and three 
 in gold. Well, Madge, I will see if I can spare 
 you the three pounds, though I must confess 
 that just now it is deuced inconvenient.' 
 
 Madge took the three sovereigns without 
 a word. The devils of passion and wounded 
 pride were struggling within her, and she dare 
 not trust herself to open her lips. 
 
 ' And, by the way,' continued Philij) Vane, 
 'it was upon the very subject of money that 
 I have come down to talk to you. You know 
 all this applause and all these compliments 
 from old Potbus, or whatever his name is, are 
 very well in their way, but there is nothing 
 substantial about them. The only way to 
 appreciate a thing is by its money value, and 
 the salary you are earning just now is an un- 
 commonly small one.' 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 151 
 
 ' When you say " appreciate a thing," you 
 mean appreciate me by my money value, I 
 suppose,' said Madge, ' and that to you is 
 small. You must permit me to say, however, 
 that you knew what it was when you con- 
 descended to accept it; and that it has not 
 deteriorated since.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Philip Yane impatiently, ' all 
 right ! Just come off the high ropes, will you, 
 and let's talk this thing through quietly, and 
 in a business-Hke way. Our interests are the 
 same, or ought to be.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Madge bitterly, ' '^or ought to 
 be"!' 
 
 ^ Xow, if I were not the best-tempered man 
 in the world, you really would put me out by 
 your interruption ! Our interests are the same, 
 and what is good for you is good for me. Now 
 I have an idea, which, if I can only carry it 
 out, will improve both your position and our 
 interests.' 
 
 ' Xot by my going to London, Philip ; not 
 by my attempting to play in burlesque, and 
 sing songs. 0, for goodness' sake, don't ask 
 
152 CASTA IVAV. 
 
 me to do it ! It would not be of the smallest 
 use either ; I should make a dead flat failure 
 of it, and lose the little fame I have gained in 
 my present humble way/ 
 
 ' My good girl, I am not going to do any- 
 thmcr of the sort. I would not dream of in- 
 flicting upon you such a degradation! On 
 the contrar}^, what I have to propose entirely 
 arises from the fact that you are what you 
 are, a leading actress, and not one of those 
 jigging jades.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say you have heard of 
 an opening for me in my own line in London, 
 Philip ?' cried Madge eagerly. 
 
 ^ Well, no, not in London exactly,' said 
 Major Yane 
 
 ' Liverpool or Manchester ?' she asked. 
 
 ' No, wrong again ; a little farther ofl*. The 
 fact is, that Mr. WufF, whose name I daresay 
 you have heard, a man who has been mixed 
 up in theatrical matters for the last hundred 
 years, I believe, has been organising a troupe 
 to go out under his supervision to America, * 
 Australia, and other places of that kind, on a 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 153 
 
 three years' tour. He has made his arrange- 
 ments Tvith the best ballet people and that 
 sort of thing, and he wants some one for a 
 star actress, and I have come down to propose 
 that you should go.' 
 
 Madge had been listening open-eyed and 
 open-mouthed. When he ceased, she was si- 
 lent for a moment ; then her first words were, 
 'But what of Rose?' 
 
 ' 0, damn it,' cried Major Yane, 'must she 
 go too ?' 
 
 ' She must, of course. How could I leave 
 her, with whom could I leave her ? Of course 
 she must go !' 
 
 'Well,' said Major Yane, after a moment's 
 reflection, 'I daresay that could be managed.' 
 WufF will make her play pages' parts, or turn 
 her into somethin^]^ useful, he thou^rht to him- 
 self. 
 
 'Three years,' said Madge reflectively; 
 ' if s a long time to be away. Do you think 
 you could manage to live without seeing Lon- 
 don, and London acquaintances, and London 
 ways, for three years, Philip ?' 
 
154 CASTAIVAV. 
 
 ' No,' said that gentleman candidly, ' I am 
 certain I could not.' 
 
 ' But you will have to, if we accept this 
 offer?' said Madge. 
 
 'Eh?' cried Major Yane, in a loud and 
 startled tone ; ' you don't imagine that I am 
 going away to play a leading lady too, do 
 you?' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you are not 
 going, Philip?' 
 
 ' I have not the remotest intention of doing 
 anything of the sort ; my business engage- 
 ments here, my good girl, would prevent me.' 
 
 ' 0,' said Madge quietly, 'your proposition, 
 then, relates to me alone ?' 
 
 ' Exactly !' 
 
 ' You don't expect me to give you an ans- 
 wer here, and at once, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' AYell, I did, as I rather want to get back 
 to London.' 
 
 ' It is impossible ! It is a matter which 
 will take serious reflection. If you are so 
 pressed you had better go; I will write to 
 you my decision.' 
 
A MEETING BY MOONLIGHT. 155 
 
 ' Xo,' said Philip Yane promptly, ' that 
 won't do ; you must make up your mind, 
 please, Avithin the next twelve hours,' looking 
 at his watch. ^ It is now eleven o'clock ; at 
 eleven o'clock to-morrow morning I will be 
 here again, and you will be good enough to 
 meet me. Consider it thoroughly, and don't 
 act upon impulse ; your reply may have a 
 greater influence on your future than you are 
 at present aware of. Xow, good-night.' 
 
 He did not offer to embrace her; he did 
 not even approach her ; but kissed the tips of 
 his fingers airily, and walked off. 
 
 Madge, standing in exactly the same posi- 
 tion, heard the rumble of the departing wheels 
 of the cab which, as before, he had left at the 
 bottom of the lane; then, with sad face and 
 rebeUious heart, she made the best of her way 
 towards what she called her home. 
 
CHAPTER YI. 
 
 A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 
 
 When ]Madge Pierrepoint arrived at her lodg- 
 ings, she found the door open, and Miss Cave 
 looking down the street. 
 
 'At last, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I 
 thought you were never coming; I have got 
 the fidgets upon me to-night, and have been 
 up two or three times to look out for you; 
 and when I heard your footstep coming round 
 the crescent — I would know it in a thousand 
 — I thought I would wait, and get a little 
 fresh air until you came up. Now in with 
 you and get to bed at once; what with last 
 night and all, you must be dog-tired.' 
 
 ' And I am very tired. Miss Cave,' said 
 Madge, with a faint smile. 
 
 ' Tired, my dear ; I have no patience with 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 157 
 
 that old Probus keeping you up to this hour. 
 Was he pleased with what you did last night ?' 
 
 ' Very much pleased indeed,' said Madge, 
 recollecting the letter she had received from 
 the Shakespearian enthusiast ; ' he said he had 
 not seen anything like it since Miss O'Xeil.' 
 
 ' Did he ? Xow, come, that was very civil 
 of him, and not bad judgment either, for I 
 saw her myself, and you resemble her in 
 many points. Come now, my dear, you are 
 dropping off to sleep, just you O'Xeil off to 
 bed.' 
 
 And the good old woman, closing the 
 door, took Madge gently by the shoulder, and 
 pushed her before her up the stairs. 
 
 On the dressing-table, in Madge's room, 
 lay a twisted slip of paper. She took it up 
 and read in Eose's hand^vriting : 
 
 ' G. H. was greatly disappointed at not 
 finding you to-night. He has something very 
 particular to say to you ; he will be away all 
 day to-morrow. He says he will see you in 
 the evening, and you must keep yourself dis- 
 engaged, as it is most important. I wonder 
 
158 CASTAWAY. 
 
 what it is : you T^'ill tell me, Madge, won^t 
 you ?' 
 
 'When Madofe had finished readino: the 
 paper, she smoothed it out mechaijically be- 
 tween her hands, laid it on the table again, 
 and seated herself on the edge of her bed. 
 The words which she had just perused made 
 no impression on her mind. Her thoughts 
 went back to the interview she had gone 
 through, and as she recollected Philip Yane's 
 last speech, her face grew gray, and set, and 
 rigid, and her hands almost involuntarily 
 locked themselves together in front of her. 
 
 ' Xot the remotest intention of <2:oino: mth 
 me ! that was what he said ; his business en- 
 gagements would prevent him. His business 
 engagements ! So that I am to go away to Ame- 
 rica, Australia, or to any other place where 
 my employers may choose to take me, and 
 he is to remain at home. I am to be thrown 
 into such society as I may chance to meet, 
 to make my own way as best I can, and he, 
 the only person in the world to whom I can 
 look, or ought to look, for advice, consolation, 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 
 
 159 
 
 or help, is to remain here, consoling himself 
 for my absence by the receipt of a larger 
 income derived from mv earnino-s, which he 
 will undoubtedly take every means to secure. 
 It is too low, too mean, too unmanly ! 
 
 ' To go away by myself to the other end 
 of the world for three vears, that is what he 
 asked me I I will not do it, come what may, 
 I will not do it ! I have been too patient 
 and too quiet as it is ; I have slaved for him 
 ungrudgingly, unrepiningly, in the knowledge 
 that I was his wife, and in the ridiculous 
 hope that his acknowledgment of my posi- 
 tion was merely a matter of time. Xow he 
 proposes to get rid of me for three years, 
 and with such a man as Philip Yane, it is 
 not difficult to understand what that means. 
 Three years ! But only two have elapsed 
 since we were married, and even in that 
 short time my attraction for him has so 
 waned, my hold on him has so relaxed, that 
 he makes me such a proposition as this. 
 
 ' What is it ?' she cried suddenly, stepping 
 leisurely across the room, and looking at her- 
 
i6o CASTA JVAV. 
 
 self in the looking-glass on the dressing-table. 
 ' Have I groAvn plain, old, or repulsive ? I 
 confess I cannot see the alteration,' she added 
 proudly, shaking her hair back, after a mo- 
 ment's inspection of herself; 'nor if Mr. Philip 
 Vane thmks so, is his opinion shared by every 
 one. Here,' laying her hand on Rose's crum- 
 pled note, 'here is evidence to the contrary. 
 Here is some one younger, better looking, 
 and, unless I am very much mistaken, better 
 bred, than Mr. Philip Yane, who would give 
 all that he holds dearest in life for the com- 
 panionship which that gentleman despises ! 
 Another example, God knows not wanted, 
 of the misery set forth in those words, " too 
 late." If I had only known Gerald Hardinge 
 — I talk like a fool ! Gerald Hardinge is a 
 boy, who is nothing to me, and Philip Yane 
 is — m}^ husband.' 
 
 Her husband ! The mere sound of the 
 word sent her thoughts into a different cur- 
 rent. Philip Yane was still the principal 
 figure, not as she had just seen him — cold, 
 sneering, practical, and hard — but ardent. 
 
A MEE TING BY DA Y LIGHT. 1 6 r 
 
 romantic, and impassioned. Chepstow Castle 
 and the path along the wmdings of the silver 
 Wye, the yonng man so different in the pol- 
 ished ease of his demeanour, and the style of 
 his conversation, even in the fit of his clothes, 
 and his graceful negligent manner of carrying 
 himself, from any one she had ever seen be- 
 fore. The stolen interviews, the long walks, 
 finally the quiet marriage, Avith the local fish- 
 erman and his wife as the onlv witnesses ; all 
 these scenes and imaoinations came iloatino- 
 across her brain and mysteriously served to 
 still the storm Avhich was raoin^r within her 
 breast. Philip could not mean what he had 
 said ; he could not think of parting with her 
 for three years ! It was to try her, perhaps, 
 that he had suofo-ested it ; and she had fallen 
 so readily into the trap. Perhaps she, too, 
 was to blame ; her place was by his side, 
 and she ought to have tried to fall in with 
 his proposition for her going to London. Slie 
 would agree to that now, she would tell him 
 so to-morrow, and then there would be no 
 more questions of her going abroad, and the 
 
 VOL. T. M 
 
i62 CASTAWAY. 
 
 old liappy time, the time of two years ago, 
 would come back again. .\nd so thinking, 
 Madge Pierrepoint fell asleep. 
 
 These kindly feelings, these hopes for the 
 future, had not passed away when Madge 
 awoke in the morning. On first opening her 
 eyes, indeed, the sense of some impending ca- 
 lamity, which she had felt so strongly on the 
 receipt of Philip's last letter on the previous 
 morning, haunted her again ; but when she 
 recollected her recent thouo;hts, and her de- 
 termination to submit herself to her husband's 
 wishes, so far at least as accepting an engage- 
 ment in London Avas concerned, she speedily 
 got the better of her weakness, and had not 
 much difficulty in persuading herself that a 
 happy future was yet in store for her. So, 
 full of hopes and anticipations, she started forth 
 soon after she had finished her breakfast. 
 She knew that at that time she need fear no 
 interruption from Pose, who during the whole 
 of the morning was busy with Iier various 
 lessons, or from Miss Cave, who, after the 
 ordering of her httle household, invariably 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 163 
 
 set forth to take her pLice m the box-office 
 of the theatre, a position which just then 
 claimed her attention even more riiZ'idlv than 
 usual, as the season was about to terminate, 
 and all outstanding accounts had to be care- 
 fully gone through. 
 
 Madge knew, moreover, that at such an 
 hour she should be able to walk through the 
 streets without undero^oino; the severe scru- 
 tiny which was usually bestowed upon her. 
 The good people of Wexeter, though better 
 bred than those of many other provmcial 
 towns, were yet human. Consequently, the 
 sight of anybody whom they recognised as 
 connected with the theatrical profession, when 
 attired in ordinary costume, and proceeding 
 through the streets in an ordinary manner, 
 awoke in them an amount of curiosity which 
 betrayed itself, even amongst the highest and 
 most refined, in covert glances, amongst the 
 less delicate in prolonged stares, and amongst 
 the boys in loud shouts of recognition and 
 w^ar- whoops of a wild character, indicative of 
 a desire on the part of the shouters to make 
 
1 64 CASTAWAY. 
 
 an onsljiuulit on the persons observed, and to 
 ascertain bv pincbes and otber manual ap- 
 pliances whetber they were really flesh and 
 blood. ^Tiss Cave, indeed, had a legend which 
 she was accustomed to narrate on special oc- 
 casions, setting forth that within the memory 
 of her father, the actors had been known as 
 ' lakers,' and that on any of them being re- 
 cognised in the streets, the cry of ' The lakers, 
 the lakers !' would call forth the utterance of 
 the ferocious hint to ^ smash their heads agin 
 the wall.' This, however, was in the dark 
 acres : and now the recoo-nised members of 
 the company were only subjected to a great 
 amount of staring and whispered observations, 
 generally of a complimentary character. 
 
 Even from this torture — for torture it Avas 
 to a sensitive-minded woman — Madge Pierre- 
 point was free during her early walk. It was 
 a tacitly -recognised tradition among the Wex- 
 eter people, that no one was to be seen in the 
 streets until the afternoon. The members of 
 the cathedral, their families, and a few ladies, 
 old and young, regularly attended morning 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 165 
 
 service, before and after which the female heads 
 of families mi^iit have been seen discharoino- 
 their marketing duties ; but the generality of 
 these persons, constituting what was called so- 
 ciety in the good old town, never appeared in 
 public until after that meal, which by a polite 
 fiction passed as luncheon, but which in most 
 cases was understood to be dinner. 
 
 Thus, when Madge reached the lane at the 
 back of the Dumpington turnpike, she found 
 the spot almost as much deserted as on the 
 previous night, scattered parties of working 
 people in the distant fields being the only hu- 
 man creatures within ^iew. 
 
 Eleven o'clock rano- out from the cathedral 
 as she arrived within sight of her destination ; 
 and on hearing the sound, she quickened her 
 pace ; and when she turned into the Httle lane, 
 her heart was beating fast, and her face was 
 all aglow. She was compensated for her hurry, 
 however, by finding that she was first at the 
 spot ; and it was not until after she had taken 
 two or three leisurely turns up and do^\ai, re- 
 coverins: her breath, that she heard the sound 
 
1 66 CASTAWAY. 
 
 of wheels, and looking round, saw Philip A^ane 
 alight from a cab by the turnpike, and advance 
 towards her. 
 
 That ]\lajor A^ane Avas not in a very good 
 temper, was evident from his first words. 
 
 ' You are going to tell mo that I am late, 
 I suppose,^ he said; 'but you need not, be- 
 cause I know it. Not that 1 overslept myself, 
 or anything of that sort. How anybody sleeps 
 at all in that infernal hotel, is a matter of won- 
 der to me; it's a sin and a shame that a place 
 like that shouldn't have something better than 
 such a pothouse for a gentleman to put up at.' 
 
 ' I wasn't going to say a word about your 
 being late, Phihp; I am only sorry to hear 
 you were not comfortable at the Half Moon. 
 Everybody speaks so well of the house.' 
 
 ' It may be all very well for bagmen, and 
 people of that kind,' said Major A'ane, with 
 great disgust. 
 
 ' It has the reputation of being very clean," 
 said Madge. 
 
 ' Clean !' echoed the Major ; ' I knew you 
 would say that. When people can say nothing 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 167 
 
 else for an inn, they say it's clean. Just as 
 when they can say nothing else for a man, they 
 say he is good-natured. All I know is, the 
 beds seem as if they were stuffed with potatoes 
 instead of feathers ; and they give you cotton 
 sheets — cotton sheets, by Jove I' 
 
 'AVell, it was only for one night, Philip,' 
 said Madge soothingly. ' To-day 3'ou will be 
 able to go back to your London luxuries.' 
 
 'My London luxuries — while vou struo-- 
 ode on here I Is that what vou mean to con- ' 
 vey?' said Philip ^^ane, looking at her sharply. 
 
 ' Xo, indeed, I did not mean to convey 
 anything of the kind,' said Madge quietly; 'I 
 meant no sneer. And, indeed,' she added, ^\^\h. 
 a desperate efiwt at cheerfulness, 'I do not 
 intend you to enjoy those luxuries, if luxuries 
 they be, much longer by yourself I intend 
 to come up and share them with you.' 
 
 'The deuce you do!' said the Major in a 
 loud key. ' 0, you have been thinking over 
 what I said to you last nidit, then?' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 'What is the result of vour deliberation? 
 
i68 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' I will tell you, Philip ; but before I tell 
 you, let me say one word about myself, a])out 
 ourselves. I have been thinking' a o^reat deal, 
 not nicrel}' about this one proposition, but 
 about our lives altogether; and it strikes me 
 that, for the last few months at all events, 
 there has been a sort of division between us ; 
 not expressed, indeed, but nevertheless exist- 
 ino- which should not be. Our interests are 
 one, and our great point in life should be to 
 carry them out by working together loyally, 
 and in unison. Do you follow me, Philip?^ 
 
 He was standing with his face turned to- 
 wards her now, but with his eyes looking far 
 away over her shoulder, swaying himself to 
 and fro, and switching; his les^s with a small 
 cane which he carried in his hand. 
 
 '0 yes, I follow you!' he said; 'it isn't 
 time for me to speak just yet, while }'ou are 
 dealing in generalities. I am Avaiting until 
 you come to the point, before I have my little 
 say.' 
 
 ^ladge winced as he spoke, but took no 
 farther notice. Then she proceeded: 
 
A MEET! AG BY DAYLIGHT. 169 
 
 'I have no doubt that I have been very 
 foolish ill allowing my fears to get the better 
 of me, and in refusing to go and act in Lon- 
 don. It must seem ridiculous to you that I 
 should be wasting- what remains to me of mv 
 youth and energy in playing to provincial au- 
 diences, and in earning so small a salary. I 
 can fully understand that, from what you saw 
 of me two years ago, you imagmed that 1 
 should by this time have made much greater 
 progress, and been enabled to contribute much 
 more effectively to our income. You shall 
 not have that cause for complaint any longer. 
 I will not even refuse to appear in any style 
 of character which your good sense and know- 
 ledge of the world may decide that I should 
 undertake with a chance of success ; I will 
 give up any scruples of the kind Avhich I have 
 hitherto held, and if you will get me an en- 
 gagement — and I am sure, amongst all the 
 people you know, there must be plenty who 
 would be proud to oblige you — I will go to 
 London.' 
 
 She looked up into his face as she said 
 
I JO CASTAWAY. 
 
 these last Avords, and made a slight movement 
 of her hand towards him, as though expect- 
 ant of some little recognition of her speech. 
 In this, however, she was disappointed. Major 
 Yane merely stopped himself in the act of 
 switching his legs, and looking down at her, 
 said, 
 
 ' You seem to liave mistaken what I said 
 to you last night; there was no question of 
 going to London in the matter.' 
 
 'Xo, not in what you last proposed, I 
 know ; l^ut you have said more than once that 
 vou wished I would 2:0 to London, and now 
 I am not merelv Avillino;, but anxious to do so, 
 Philip.' 
 
 ' It seems impossible to get you women to 
 be business-like,' said Major Yane pettishly. 
 ' I took the trouble to come down here yester- 
 day, bringing you an offer, which I should 
 have thought you would only have been too 
 glad to have availed yourself of, and given me 
 my reply at once. You demanded time for 
 deliberation, and I accorded it. Xow, when 
 you should communicate to me your de- 
 
A MEETING BY DA\ 'LIGHT. 1 7 1 
 
 cision, you branch off upon a totall}' difFerent 
 topic' 
 
 His tone was harsh and morose; his man- 
 ner half scornful, half savao'e. As Mado-e list- 
 ened to and looked at him, all her recently- 
 formed resolutions of submission, all her grow- 
 ing hopes for peace in the present, and happi- 
 ness in the future, melted awav. If such were 
 to be the response to all her overtures of affec- 
 tion, they had been made for the last time. 
 
 Hurt, proud, and defiant, she threw her 
 head back, and said mth as much calmness as 
 she could call to her aid, 
 
 ' Since you wish our relations to be merely 
 on a strict business footing, you will find me 
 prepared to meet your wishes so far. You 
 ask me if I will accept a three years' engage- 
 ment to travel with a theatrical company 
 through America and Australia, you during 
 that time remainino- in Eno:land. Do I state 
 the matter rightly?' 
 
 'AVith almost legal precision,' said Major 
 A'ane A\4th a sneer. 
 
 'Then to that proposition I answer, Xo, 
 
172 CASTAWAY. 
 
 no, no ! See here, Philip Yane : I came to 
 you this morning prepared to do my best to 
 set matters right between us ; to meet you 
 more than halfway; to give you, if it were 
 ^Dossible, even more freedom than you have 
 now; and ]iot to attempt to claim my position 
 until I had made such a name in London as 
 would render you not ashamed to acknow- 
 ledge me. To this separation — for such the 
 Australian scheme really is, call it by what 
 name you like — I could not have consented; 
 but it might have been modified in some way, 
 or if you had been kind and gentle with me, 
 I — God knows — I might have gone away. 
 But,' she added, speaking slowly, and curling 
 her lip, and looking him full in the face, 'when 
 you allow your hard bed and cotton sheets to 
 influence your temper so far as to make you 
 forget, not merely the regard due to me as 
 your mfe, but the respect which I should 
 claim as a woman, I meet you on your own 
 ground, and distinctly refuse to accept this 
 ofler which you have made me.' 
 
 ' 0, you do, do you?' said the Major slowly, 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 
 
 17. 
 
 giving his legs one vicious switch; 'don't let's 
 have anv mistake about it this time ; let me 
 understand you quite clearly. You refuse ?' 
 
 ' I do !' she cried, exasperated at the mock- 
 ing tone in ^vhich he spoke ; ' I do, and I tell 
 you so plainly. Do you think I have been 
 blinded by this pretext for an instant ? Do 
 you think that I do not see plainly enougli 
 that your object is to rid yourself of me, appa- 
 rently for a time only, but really for ever?' 
 
 'Well, and suppose it were ?' he said 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Suppose it were !' she echoed ; ' well, then, 
 I tell you plainly, I would frustrate it. Do 
 you hear? There is a devil I have in me, 
 which, once roused, renders me a match for 
 you, long-headed and crafty as you are.' 
 
 ' Xice style of woman this, by George !' 
 muttered Major Yane, Ioav, but loud enough 
 for her to hear. 
 
 ' If she is not a nice stvle of woman, she 
 has only you to thank for it,' cried Madge. 
 'What she is, you made her; for what she 
 will be, the responsibility will rest on you. If 
 
174 CASTIIWIY. 
 
 you were a different style of man, I would 
 speak to you in a different way. I would 
 appeal to you, for God's sake, to remember 
 what we are to each other, and to avert this 
 ruin of soul and body which is overhanging 
 us b}^ acknowledging me, and giving me a 
 portion, a very small portion, of your life. 
 But to you I simply say that I am your wife; 
 that I shall claim the position which the law 
 will award me; and that any attempt of yours 
 to disown or get rid of me will be fruitless 
 and vain.' 
 
 As she uttered these last words, she em- 
 ]jhasised them by stamping her foot and throw- 
 ino- out her hand. It was a natural movement 
 with her ; but scarcely had she made it before 
 she ^'rew hot and flushed, knowing; to what 
 taunt she had exposed herself. Philip A^ane 
 was much too brutal to neglect such an op- 
 portunity. 
 
 '• Brara^ hrava P he cried, clapping his 
 hands softly together. ' Deuced good that ! 
 Always keep your energy for your perora- 
 tion. You really have improved wonderfully; 
 
A MEETING BY DAY LIGHT. 175 
 
 and I am deuced sorry, for Wuffs sake, that 
 you decline to astonish — not the natives, but 
 the colonists. Xow to business. You have 
 been remarkably candid with me ; I will be 
 ecjually frank with you. In the first place, 
 the fact, which you make such a point of 
 asserting, and which you look upon as your 
 trump card — that I am your husband — would 
 be the very thing which would upset your 
 apple-cart and rum your play. I have only 
 to prove that I am your husband, and the 
 law, which you were good enough just now 
 to threaten to evoke, will give me the power 
 of forcing you to accept this very excellent 
 offer, which you refuse so contemptuously.' 
 
 'I don't believe it.' 
 
 ' Exactly. I thought you wouldn't ; and, 
 unfortunately, it isn't a question which we 
 shall be able to brini^: to anv issue, as I don't 
 intend to assert my conjugal rights. You 
 have happened to hit with remarkable dex- 
 terity the right nail on the head : I did intend 
 our little separation to be not merely tempo- 
 rary, but final. Oddly enough, I intend it still.' 
 
176 CAST.Ul'AY. 
 
 ^ You may intend it,' said Madge bitterly; 
 • but you cainiot carry it out.' 
 
 ' There,' said the Major, giving his leg a 
 few persuasive taps, ^ there we differ. I ra- 
 ther think I can. You are my wife — under- 
 stand, I admit that at once. If, to speak after 
 the pleasant fiishion which you liave adopted 
 — if you had been another style of woman, I 
 mi2:ht have been more reserved. I mio-lit 
 have introduced a little innocent deception 
 into the matter ; have told you, as they do 
 in novels, that our marriage isn't a legal one, 
 either because the parson was a postman in 
 disguise, or that I was a Quaker, while }^ou 
 were a Protestant, or some ingenious stra- 
 tagem of that kind. But with you I do no- 
 thing of the sort ; I fully admit the legality 
 of our marriao'e : while at the same time I bid 
 you a respectful farewell.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Simply this : that by a method more 
 speedy, more efficacious, and less expensive 
 than an}' known to your friend the law, I 
 dissolve this marriage between us. And I 
 
A MEETING BY DAYLIGHT. 177 
 
 will be generous enough to let you into my 
 plan, which is as simple as it is excellent. 
 From this day forth you will never look upon 
 me again. I disappear — efface myself, as the 
 French say. Don't ask me how, because I 
 scarcely know myself yet. I may emigrate ; 
 I may go abroad; may join AVuff's company 
 as the Bounding Brother of something or 
 other. I don't know what I shall do; but I 
 do know this, that you will never see me 
 again. Listen now, Madge Pierrepoint,' said 
 he, suddenly changing his tone; *for Madge 
 Pierrepoint you are once again. T have been 
 talkino; in a lio;ht tone; but I have meant 
 every word I said — every syllable, by George ! 
 Our marriaiife is known to no one but our- 
 selves ; and when we decide npon ignoring 
 it, it is just as though it had never happened. 
 I will never interfere with your plans and 
 projects. I swear that. But on your part 
 you must leave me free. I need say nothing 
 about that, however ; for you will have no 
 choice in the matter.' 
 
 lie wheeled round, and walked rapidly 
 
 VOL. I. ]N' 
 
178 CASTA ll'yU'. 
 
 away without turning his head. Had he 
 looked round, possibly he might have felt 
 some touch of compunction or compassion ; 
 for he would have seen his wife lying sense- 
 less on the ground. 
 
CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Gerald's luck. 
 
 The Dumpington turnpike -keeper — a man 
 naturally of a pleasant and social disposition, 
 and inclined secretly to repine at the dulness 
 of the life to which circumstances had rele- 
 i>:ated him — was in the habit of killino- time 
 by gazing out of one or other of the square 
 panes of glass let in at either side of the toll- 
 house, and wondering what would be the next 
 object likely to present itself for the relief of 
 his monotony. The dust left by the passing 
 by of a flock of sheep yet lingered in the air ; 
 and the turnpike - man had derived at least 
 five minutes' amusement in watchino- the man- 
 ner in which the sheep had at first blindly 
 refused to go through the gate, dashing off 
 in every other direction, sticking their heads 
 
i8o CASTAWAY. 
 
 into the hedgerows, bleating in a remonstrat- 
 ing manner, which was ineffective perhaps 
 from beino^ carried on in one note, notwith- 
 standing the shake with which it concluded, 
 and in seeing them finally, after having been 
 run over by a very circus -rider of a dog, be- 
 ing hustled through the gate ignominiously 
 on three leg^s, the fourth remaining' in the 
 hands of the driver or his assistant boy. 
 The turnpike-keeper, with these reminiscences 
 fresh in his mind, and a vacuous smile on his 
 face, suddenly descried a new object of in- 
 terest. 
 
 This was a woman advancing slowly, and 
 with wavering footsteps. Her dress was co- 
 vered with dust, and her hat w^as crushed and 
 bent. When the turnpike -man first saw her, 
 her veil was off, and her head thrown back 
 as if to catch the air ; but, as she approached, 
 she pulled the veil over her face, and seem- 
 ingly nerving herself for what she had to do, 
 tried to steady her footsteps, and advanced 
 with a swifter and surer pace. With more 
 delicacy than could have been expected from 
 
GERALDS LUCK. i8i 
 
 him, the Robmson Crusoe of the highway 
 gave up his first idea of addressing her, it 
 being his custom, for the mere sake of hear- 
 ing the sweet music of speech, to accost every 
 passer-by, and did not even look after her 
 until she was through the gate, and some 
 distance on the road to the town. Then, 
 standing at his door, and scientifically, with 
 his little finger, plumbing the depths of his 
 pipe - bowl preparatory to fillmg it anew, the 
 worthy man muttered to himself: 
 
 ^She had had a doAvner, she had; was all 
 covered with dust, and went A*ery shaky on 
 her legs. Queer case that; respectable -look- 
 ing woman, too respectaljle for a tramp, but 
 been on the drink like the rest of 'em. That's 
 what ruins 'em ail — the drink. If it hadn't 
 been for the drink, my wife would have been 
 here now, sitting in that easy-chair, and giv- 
 ing me a bit of her mind probably. Ah, well, 
 the drink ain't so black as he's painted; but 
 he had laid hold of that poor creature that 
 went by just noAV, surely.' 
 
 And the toll-keeper, turning back into the 
 
1 82 CASTA IV AY. 
 
 house, proceeded to fill his pipe from the 
 capacious stomach of a brown earthenware 
 image which stood on his chimney-piece, with 
 the full conviction that the ^voman he had 
 just seen go by was drunk. 
 
 That woman Avas Madge Pierrepoint ; and 
 after a cursory glance at her, most peo]3le 
 would have been of the toll -keeper's opinion. 
 When she had passed beyond the ken of such 
 as mio'ht be within the toll -house, slie threw 
 back her veil and raised her head well aloft 
 again, once more clropping into the slow and 
 wavermg pace. It was with difficulty, in- 
 deed, that she managed to make any progress ; 
 for her knees trembled beneath her, and her 
 vision was so dim and flurried as to necessi- 
 tate her stopping after every few paces, and 
 pressing her hands tightly before her eyes. 
 
 In these short intervals of rest tlie recol- 
 lection of what she had just gone through 
 would come back upon her : the vision of her 
 husband confronting her, with a sneer upon 
 his lips, would stand out terribly distinct ; 
 some of his words, the cruellest and most 
 
GERALDS LUCK. 183 
 
 bitter of them, would surge up in her ears. 
 Then, knowing that another instant's aban- 
 donment of herself to such thoughts would 
 cause her again to faint away, with one strong- 
 act of will she would dismiss them from her 
 mind, and doggedly plod on her way. Later 
 on \she would think of all this, o-o throuo;h it 
 bit by bit, sift out what it meant, and deter- 
 mine what she ought to do; later on, when 
 there was a bed near on which she could fall 
 back and rest, a hand near to steady her or 
 to smooth her forehead, a voice to tell her 
 that she was not all alone in the Avorld, and 
 that though she had been deserted — Xo, no; 
 that no one must ever know. But she was 
 weak now, and could not think it out pro- 
 perly. Only let her get home. 
 
 So on through the quaint old streets, quiet 
 and deserted now; for it is one o'clock, and 
 at that hour Wexeter dines. The cathedral 
 dignitaries are taking their luncheon in plea- 
 santly shaded rooms, with low ceilings and 
 black oak fittings, where generations of cathe- 
 dral dignitaries had done precisely the same 
 
i84 CAST.Ul'AY. 
 
 thinp: at precisely the same hour. The ill- 
 used hard-Avorked uotes of the lono:-leo-o;ed 
 narrow -bodied j^ianos in the establishments 
 for Youno' ladies at South-IIedo'e have ceased 
 to sound; for the young ladies are now en- 
 gaged in attacking roast mutton with an ap- 
 ])etite which they will speedily learn to be 
 ashamed of And afterwaids there will be 
 an hour's walk in the garden, with their arms 
 lovingly entwined round each other's waists, 
 and their mouths filled with little backbitings 
 and jealousies, before the overture to Semi- 
 ramide bursts forth upon the scent -laden air, 
 to the delight of the invalid old gentleman 
 who has taken lodgings in that quarter for 
 quiet and re2:)0se. Peacefully sleeps Mrs. 
 Twiddle, original manufacturer of the cele- 
 brated Bonneton lace : and three doors off, 
 equally peacefully, sleeps Miss Grylls, her late 
 assistant and present rival, behind the wire- 
 blind in her shop-window, on which the word 
 * from' is painted so very small, and ' Twiddle's' 
 so very large. Nothing is to be seen of the 
 proprietor of the photographic and religious 
 
GERALD'S LUCK. 185 
 
 fancy - assortment shop, where you may pick 
 up a neat ecclesiastical book-marker for thirty 
 shillings, or a reduced copy in stone of the 
 ancient abbey font, handy to keep rings and 
 shirt-studs in, for ^\q pounds. Slumber, too, 
 his young men, who wear white cravats and 
 black coats, and look like curates. Only one 
 vero^er, standino^ at the cathedral door — for 
 there is a train due about this time, and it is 
 a likely day for excursionists — sees Madge 
 Pierrepoint crossing the yard under the shade 
 of the great elm -trees, where the rooks are 
 holding a noisy concert over her head, and 
 he does not recognise her. Her progress has 
 been slow, but unwatched ; and at length she 
 has reached her own door. 
 
 Madge longs for rest and quiet ; but she 
 is not to enjoy them yet. At the foot of the 
 stairs she is confronted by Miss Cave. The 
 old lady has just returned from a long morn- 
 ing's work at the box - office, having gone 
 through all the accounts of the closing season, 
 ha^ing paid away and received to the utter- 
 most farthing, and having been able to submit 
 
1 86 CASTA WAV. 
 
 a very satisfactory balance-sheet to Mr. Dob- 
 son the manag-er. Naturally, therefore, she 
 is in p^ good temper, and anxious to relieve 
 herself, after the tedium of business, by a 
 pleasant chat with her lodger, who is such a 
 favourite with her. 
 
 ' Why, where have you been, my dear ? 
 said Miss Cave, holding up her hands as her 
 eyes fell upon Madge's dust -covered dress. 
 'Not been knocked down by one of those 
 dreadful cows, surely ?' the idea of being 
 tossed, gored, and trampled upon by errant 
 cattle ranking foremost amongst the old lady's 
 self-inflicted troubles. 
 
 ^ No, Miss Cave,' said Madge with a faint 
 smile, looking down at her dress and endeav- 
 ouring to brush the dust off with her hand ; 
 ' no, I have only been for a country walk, and, 
 feeling a little tired, sat down in the hedge- 
 row, without particularly observing where I 
 placed myself.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, what you can want with 
 taking long country walks, after all the work 
 you have gone through, I cannot understand. 
 
GERALirS LUCK. 187 
 
 I can't say I think much of the country ; for 
 what with the cows and the dust and the 
 crowds of midges that buzz all about you, it 
 seems to me to be more pain than pleasure, 
 takino' it altoo'cther. Xow, when I ^o out of 
 Wexeter, give me the seaside, I say; and, 
 talking of that, my dear, I have l)rought some 
 news which I think will please you.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Miss Cave ; and what might that 
 be?' 
 
 'Well, Mr. Dobson is finely delighted at 
 the success of his season — as well he may be, 
 as being the best he has had the last three 
 years. And when he said so to me just now, 
 I up and told him at once that it was all 
 ovdng to you, my dear, and that he had had 
 no leading lady here for years that was a 
 patch upon you, and that you were as great 
 a favourite out of the theatre as in it.' 
 
 'That was very kind of you, dear Miss 
 Cave.' 
 
 'It was only the truth, Madge — there, I 
 never called you ]\Iad<2:e before, not beiuir 
 given to use Christian names freely, as I find 
 
iSS CASTAll'AV. 
 
 is the custom in music-halls and low places 
 of that kind; but as I am fond of you, I will 
 do so now and in future — it was only the 
 truth, Madge; and Mr. Dubson agreed to it; 
 and then he asked me how I thought it would 
 do if he was to take the Avonmouth Theatre 
 for the short summer season; that would take 
 in the reo:atta and the races and the o-rand 
 military review. " Miss Pierrepoint would be 
 new at Avonmouth," he said; "and I think 
 she would draw." I told him I thought so 
 too; but that he must give you better terms 
 than you had here ; for there would be the 
 expenses of moving for yourself and your 
 sister; and you would have perhaps to dress 
 a little more than you do here, it being a gay 
 place. Dobson didn't see it at first; but I 
 held to it. So finally he told me to talk to 
 you about it, and offer you an extra pound a 
 week.' 
 
 Miss Cave had expected that her announce- 
 ment would be received with great pleasure. 
 She was disappointed when ]\Iadge, with a 
 grave face, said : 
 
GERALD'S LUCK. 1S9 
 
 ' I am much obliged to yon, clear ^liss 
 Cave, and to Mr. Dobson ; but I don't think 
 the offer would suit.' 
 
 ' Not suit you ! You are too shy and 
 timid, Madge. You dislike going among 
 strange people ; and perhaps you are afraid 
 of the officers and flio^htv fellows that you 
 have heard of in Avonmouth. Don't you be 
 afraid of them, my dear. Dobson wouldn't 
 dream of o'oino^ without takino: me with him ; 
 and I shall be sure to look after you.' 
 
 'Xo, indeed, it isn't that.' 
 
 ' Indeed, what can it be, then ? (), I know 
 — that young Hardinge.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hardinge ? What about him ?' 
 
 'Well, Dobson wanted him to ^o too. 
 The Avonmouth Theatre has not been open 
 for two years now, and the scenery all wants 
 looking after and touching up ; and Dobson 
 wanted young Hardinge to go off in advance, 
 and get it ready by the time you came there ; 
 but when he was spoken to this morning, he 
 said he was very sorry he could not, that his 
 engagement was up, and that he did not think 
 
19P CASTAJl'AY. 
 
 there was any chance of his coming back to 
 the circuit.' 
 
 ' And what has that to do with me, dear 
 Miss Cave ?' 
 
 'Well, my dear, I have got eyes in my 
 head, though they are not so bright as they 
 were, and J can see that while that young 
 man is desperately in love with you, you have 
 a sneaking kindness for him; and I thought 
 you might have set your horses together, 
 and — ' 
 
 ' Mr. Hardinge hasn't spoken to me on the 
 subject, dear ]\Iiss Cave; and I assure you I 
 have not the smallest knowledge of his move- 
 ments.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, no offence. I won't take 
 your answer to Dobson just now, lest you 
 might change your mind. Think it over and 
 let me know to-morrow ; and if I were you, I 
 would lie down a bit after dinner and rest 
 myself. You ought to be very brilliant to- 
 night; for it is not only the last night, but 
 Dunsany's benefit; and he's sure to have a 
 fine house; for he's a Buffalo, or a Druid, or 
 
GERALUS LUCK. 191 
 
 something of that kind ; and we shall be full 
 of brothers, with aprons on, and green ribbons 
 and tin thing-a-me-jigs round their necks.' 
 
 Then Madge, nodding kindly at the old 
 Lady, went upstairs, and, after looking into the 
 sitting-room to tell Rose to get her dinner by 
 herself, as she felt too tired and unwell to eat, 
 went to her own room, and, locking the door, 
 threw herself at full length upon her bed. 
 There are some people upon whom any great 
 grief has a stunning overwhelming effect, so 
 overwhelming that it numbs their brain and 
 paralyses their power of thought. Madge 
 Pierrepoint was of these. With all the wish, 
 she felt utterly powerless to deliberate what 
 effect her recent interview ^^ith her husband 
 ought to have on her future life, or even to 
 recollect the details of that interview. It was 
 all too sudden, too recent; the weight of the 
 blow seemed to have deprived her of the 
 power of thinking over what would be its re- 
 sult, or even when it had been driven. She 
 strove to rally, to collect her senses, to think 
 it over; but all in vain. She lav in a dull 
 
192 CASTAIVAV. 
 
 lethargic state, from which the recollection of 
 what Miss Cave had said about (ierald Hard- 
 inge roused her only for an instant. Then 
 she relapsed, and, gradually losing conscious- 
 ness, fell into a deep unbroken sleep. 
 
 In that state she remained, until she was 
 roused by a loud knocking at the door, and 
 Rose's voice outside, telling her it was time 
 for her to go to the theatre. At first she 
 listened mechanically, without the power to 
 move or even to speak, then muttering some- 
 thing sufficient to satisfy her sister that she 
 had been heard, Madge struggled into a sit- 
 ting position, and clasping her head with 
 both her hands, strove to collect her scattered 
 senses, and to comprehend what had been 
 passing around her. It flashed upon her in 
 an instant, the interview with Philip in the 
 lane, the long dreary walk l^ack, with heavy 
 heart and wavering footsteps, the talk with 
 Miss Cave, and her mention of the Avon- 
 mouth Theatre. She recollected it all, but 
 what would be the result of it all Avas as 
 far off as ever; she had come to no decision, 
 
GERALI7S LUCK. 193 
 
 and she could come to none now. AVhat she 
 had to do now was to hurry off to the theatre 
 and to act. To act I AVith the feeling of an 
 iron band around her temples, and her heart 
 throbbing like a ball of fire. 
 
 ^[r. Dunsany's friends, Avho, as Miss Cave 
 expected, mustered in large numbers, were 
 very much pleased with their evening's enter- 
 tainment, more especially when the hero of 
 the night came on in the after-piece, wearing, 
 in addition to his theatrical costume, the in- 
 signia of the Order of Friendly Brothers, to 
 which he belonged, and interpolated in his 
 dialogue many mystic allusions, only under- 
 stood by the initiated. The audience gener- 
 ally was of a convivial rather than of a critical 
 character, and more appreciative of the comic 
 than of the traii^ic actino'. It was aixreed on 
 all sides, however, that Miss Pierrepoint was 
 ' a fine woman,' and if she failed in impress- 
 ing them as they had been led to believe, 
 they laid it more to their own want of com- 
 prehension, than to any shortcoming on her 
 part. 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 CASTA JTAV. 
 
 As for Madge herself, fthe acknowledged 
 afterwards she owed it entirely to the earh' 
 training of her memory, and to her method- 
 ical practice of her profession, that she got 
 througli her part at all. She dressed herself 
 in a dream, and in a dream she went through 
 her various scenes, speaking when the cue 
 was given to her, and not missing a word of 
 wliat she had to say, ' doing her spouting,' as 
 Philip Yane would have called it, with due 
 emphasis and intonation, but with eyes that 
 were without hre, and gesticulations void of 
 life or energ}'. How she got througli it she 
 knew not, but at last her performance came 
 to an end, and she was led on before the cur- 
 tain by the delighted Dunsany. Still dazed, 
 she went to her dressing-room, and exchanged 
 her theatrical attire for her ordinary walking- 
 dress. Still dazed, she was coming forth from 
 the stage-door, when she was confronted by 
 Gerald Ilardinge, who took her hand. 
 
 Then she roused at once. 
 
 ' Good - evening, Miss Pierrepoint,' said 
 Gerald, very polite, and rather distant, for 
 
GERALD'S LUCK. 195 
 
 Gonnop, the liall-keeper, was standing close 
 by, and his ears were full-cocked ; ^ may I 
 have the pleasure of seeing you home?' 
 
 Madge thanked him for his proposed es- 
 cort, and they went out together. 
 
 AVhen they were in the street, and out of 
 hearinof. Gerald turned to her and said : 
 
 ^ Didn't Rose give you my message?' 
 
 ' Certainly.' 
 
 ' And you were going away without wait- 
 ing for me ?' 
 
 ' Xot at all. I fully expected to see you 
 where I did.' 
 
 'Did you? And yet you looked astonished 
 as though my presence had taken you quite 
 unawares. You have had that same strange 
 look, however, during the whole evening. I 
 was watching you from the wings while you 
 were acting, and I saw it then. I see it now.' 
 
 ' Do you ?' said Madge, trying to smile, 
 but there was a leaden weight on her eye- 
 lids, and the muscles of her mouth refused to 
 move. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gerald Plardinge, gazing into 
 
196 CASTA IVAV. 
 
 her face ; ' your appearance p^ives, me the no- 
 tion of some one who has been bewitched, or 
 is under a spell.' 
 
 ' Break the spell, then, and exorcise the 
 demon ' cried ]\Iadf]^e, still striving: ao:ainst 
 herself; ' l)iit don't let us stand here in the 
 middle of the street, glaring into each other's 
 faces, or we shall excite the wonderment of 
 the passers-ljy.' 
 
 ' Xo,' said Gerald; ' let me take you home, 
 I have lots to say to you.' 
 
 ' We won't go to my lodgings, I think, 
 Gerald ' said Madcre, mindful of what Miss 
 Cave had said to her in the morning; 'let's 
 walk round the crescent, there is not a soul 
 near, and vou shall tell me all vou have to 
 say.' 
 
 ' As you please,' he said shortly. 
 
 ' Don't be angry, Gerald ; I am sure I am 
 right in what I am doing,' whispered Madge, 
 laying her hand on his arm. And instantly 
 he was tamed and happy. 
 
 As they turned into the crescent, the 
 chimes of the cathedral clock raua: out the 
 
GERALiyS LUCK. 197 
 
 four quarters, and the deep bell struck eleven. 
 Listening to it, and looking up at the great 
 yelloAv moon riding high in the sky, Madge 
 recollected where she had been the same hour 
 on the previous evening, and an irrepressible 
 shudder ran throu^-h her frame. Gerald felt 
 the vibration of the hand lying on his arm, 
 and looked down gravely and earnestly at her. 
 
 ' AVhat is it, Madge?' he asked. 'You 
 trembled then from head to foot ; there is 
 something the matter with you. AA^hat is it? 
 I insist upon knowing !' 
 
 ' There is nothing wrong wT.th me, Gerald, 
 indeed,' said Madge ; ' believe me there is not. 
 I have been working hard, you know, and I 
 was perhajDs a little overcome by the fatigue 
 and the heat. But the season is over now, 
 and I shall have rest — at least until I a'o to 
 Avonmouth.' 
 
 ' 0, Dobson has made that proposition 
 already, has he ?' said Gerald. ' I knew he 
 was going to do so, but I scarcely thought it 
 would be so quick ; however, you are not 
 going to Avonmouth, Madge.' 
 
19S CASTA JVAY. 
 
 ' You arc not, Gerald, I know.' 
 
 ' Xor are you !' 
 
 ' Are mv future movements, then, to be 
 influenced by yours, sir?' 
 
 ' I hope and trust so, ]\Iadge,' said the 
 }'oung man earnestly ; ' I devoutly hope and 
 trust so.' 
 
 There was somethino; in his tone which 
 had more effect in rousin^: her and fixinc^ her 
 attention than anything she had experienced 
 within the last twenty -four hours. Up to 
 this point she had been striving against an 
 ovcrpowermg lassitude and want of energy, 
 which still retained their hold upon her; had 
 been trying to laugh and make light conver- 
 sation, as it were, for the mere sake of keep- 
 ing herself up to the required pitch of answer- 
 ing her companion's remarks. But his last 
 few earnest words had worked a charm. Her 
 attention was aroused, and her interest ex- 
 cited. 
 
 ' If that is to be the case,' said she, ' you 
 must no longer talk in riddles, but speak out 
 plainly, Gerald.' 
 
GERALD'S LUCK. 199 
 
 ' I want nothing better,' said the young 
 man. ' I told liose, last night, to let you 
 know I wanted to speak to you on a most 
 important matter.' 
 
 • Yes, I recollect on making the appoint- 
 ment Rose told me that it was important ; 
 and it is important, is it, Gerald ?' 
 
 ' To me the most important matter in my 
 life,' said Gerald, not looking at her, and 
 speaking very low. 
 
 ' Tell me, then ' said Madcix*, in tlie same 
 tone. 
 
 Under the fascination of that moment, 
 with his low voice murmuring in her ear, her 
 hand resting on his arm, in the full conscious- 
 ness that he was devoted to her body and 
 soul, the ^eat mental a^ronv she had iust 
 been labouring under melted away entirely 
 for the time. 
 
 ' Tell me, then,' she whispered again. 
 
 ' Why should I tell you the first part of 
 it again?' he murmured, ' unless, indeed, you 
 have the same gratification in hearing that I 
 have in saying it. You kno^v how I love and 
 
2 00 CASTAll'AV. 
 
 worship }'on, my dnrliiig! Plow, since the 
 first hour I saw you, I have bceu your slave, 
 never happy but when near you, and having 
 no other thought hut of and for you. You 
 hear me, ]\Iadge?' 
 
 She made liim no answer, save what he 
 might infer from the smallest pressure of her 
 hand upon his arm. 
 
 ' I have said all this to you before, and 
 you have listened to me and laughed at me,. 
 and while you lialf forbade my thus address- 
 ing you, let me go on, because you said it 
 was idle talk. I told you then that the time 
 would come when such talk would be idle no 
 longer, when I might have the power of at- 
 taining such a position as would enable me to 
 ask you to marry me. You recollect all this,, 
 Madge?' 
 
 He bent his head and looked doAvn at her. 
 Her face was very white, and it was more by 
 the motion of her lips than from anything he 
 heard, that he understood lier to assent. 
 
 ' Do you recollect further what you said?' 
 
 ' I do.' 
 
GERALD'S LUCK'. 201 
 
 ' I recollect the very words : '* You shall 
 ask me when the time arrives, Gerald," you 
 said, '• and I will answer you then." Madge, 
 the time has arrived now, and I clahn your 
 answer.' 
 
 • Gerald !' said Madi^e, with a low crv. 
 
 ' It has arri^'ed now, mv darlino- ' he con- 
 tinned, passing his arm around her. ' I am 
 to remain a scene-painter and a theatre 
 drudo'e no loii2'er. Listen, dear one! For 
 months past I have been working in secret, 
 and have completed two pictures, which I 
 sent TO London. Yesterday mornmg 1 heard 
 from the agent I had consigned them to, that 
 they have been bought at the prices which I 
 had fixed uj^on them; bought, the agent tells 
 me, by some ricli, eccentric old man, who 
 wishes me to come to London, and pledges 
 himself to find sutficient commissions for me to 
 occupy my time for months to come. More 
 than this, the agent advises me at once to 
 come to town, and introduce myself to my 
 patron, as, should he take a fancy to me, 
 there is no knowino- where the u'ood results 
 
202 CASTAWAY. 
 
 may end. AVlicn I got that letter, Afaclge, 
 my first thought Avas of you ; now, I said, I 
 can ask her to be mv wife ; now I can ask her 
 to hnk her lot with mine, not as the ohscure 
 drudge of a country theatre, but as one who 
 has a fair prospect of fame and fortune ; now 
 I can offer her rest from the toil she has 
 undergone, and freedom from the annoyances 
 and insolences which she is compelled to put 
 up with. Madge, darling, I can, I do, offer 
 you this now. AVhat do you say in reply ?' 
 
 No thin 2:. 
 
 She said nothing. He drew her closely to 
 him, and l3ending down noticed that her eye- 
 lids were closed, and when he pressed his lips 
 upon her cheek, it was stone cold. 
 
 Gerald feared she had fainted, but imme- 
 diately afterwards she half unclosed her eyes, 
 and murmured, in l^roken tones, ' I am very 
 ill, Gerald! Take me home — take me home!' 
 
CHAPTER Yin. 
 
 'in the dead unhappy night.' 
 
 In her room at last. Unseen bv Miss Cave, 
 who had remained at the theatre to settle 
 accounts with Dunsany, and to talk over the 
 jpros and cons of the suggested Avonmouth 
 season with manager Dobson. Scarcely seen 
 by her sister Rose, who had been awaiting 
 her arrival impatiently, and who rushed for- 
 ward, directly she entered, to ask her what 
 had been the purport of Gerald Hardinge's 
 communication, but whose love was greater 
 even than her curiosity, and Avho. on seemg 
 that Mad^iC was ill and suiFerino", at once 
 consented to postpone her inquiries until the 
 morning. 
 
 In her o^vn room at last, with the door 
 
204 CASTA Jl'AV. 
 
 locked, her hot heavy clothes thrown aside, 
 and a light dressing-gown donned in their 
 place. There she is, seated at the dressing- 
 table, her hair thrown back over her shoul- 
 ders, and her chin resting' on her hand. The 
 time was now arrived when she could think it 
 all out, the time that she lon^-ed for durin^: 
 her weary walk homeward up the Dumping- 
 ton-road, tlie time that she lon^'ed for as she 
 lay prostrate, dazed and semi-conscious, upon 
 the bed before uoino' to the theatre. She 
 could think it all out now — all — all. Wh}', 
 good Heavens ! even since she was last in 
 that room what a change had swept over 
 the current of her life! What a new vista 
 for the future had been opened up before 
 her: 
 
 He did intend that the Australian journey 
 should be merely an excuse for a separa- 
 tion, not merely temporary, but hnal. AVhen 
 she taxed him with it, he acknowledged it. 
 She was glad she had been beforehand with 
 him there ; that was one instance, at least ,. 
 where the cunning on Avhich he so prided him- 
 
IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 205 
 
 self had not been able to cajole or deceive 
 her. What a moral coward he was ! He would 
 have taken leave of her with fine promises 
 and pleasant speeches, and let her go away; 
 and then, when he knew himself to be far be- 
 yond her reach, he would have let her know 
 the truth, that he had deserted her and cast 
 her off for ever. Not even then, perhaps : he 
 miofht have allowed her to 2:0 on wearinir awav 
 her life, hoping against hope, and ignorant of 
 the state of widowhood to which she had lono- 
 since been abandoned. 
 
 Now she knew the worst. Come what 
 might in the future, at least she would not 
 drift into it im prepared. He had spoken 
 plainly enough, said in so many words, that 
 marriage vv'as dissolved between them. He 
 must have had that step in contemplation for 
 some time past; such a resolution was not 
 taken on the spur of the moment. And as 
 she passed in review the recent occasions on 
 which she and PhiHp Yane had met, and the 
 tone of the few short letters he had written 
 to her, she saw clearly how he had, bit by 
 
2o6 CASTAWAY. 
 
 bit, been loosening the tie — never very strong, 
 save in its legality — which existed between 
 them, and preparing for the final rupture. 
 
 And now it had come. ' You will never 
 look upon my face again;' that was Avhat he 
 said. What had she done ? Had she been 
 so specially wicked, had her life been so spe- 
 cially happy, that she should be visited by an 
 affliction like this, that she shonld be forced 
 to bear the brunt of the battle alone, quite 
 nnaided ; more than that, even having to suc- 
 cour and provide for one weaker and younger 
 than herself, without one friend to turn to in 
 her extremitv, without one living^ soul to 
 speak to her a kind word, or to lend her a 
 helping hand? 
 
 Gerald Hardinsre I x\s the thouc^ht flashed 
 across her the name rose simultaneously to 
 her lips, and was spoken aloud. 
 
 She raised her fiice from her hands, 
 where in the agony of her grief she had 
 buried it, and catching sight of its reflec- 
 tion in the glass before her, could not help 
 noticing, all blurred and tear-stained as it Avas. 
 
/.\' THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 207 
 
 the delicacy of its features, the sweetness of 
 its expression. She peered at it long and 
 curiouslv, as thono'h it had been another wo- 
 man's face, now pitting a dimple with her 
 fino-er, now tracin*:: with her nail the track of 
 a line or two which had already begun to ap- 
 pear near her eyes. Then suddenly pushing 
 her chair aside she rose to her feet and again 
 muttered aloud, ' Gerald Hardinge !' 
 
 ' The last time that Gerald spoke to me,' 
 she continued, pachig to and fro in the room, 
 'I listened to him carclessh' and talked to 
 him lio-htlv. Knowino^ the barrier that existed 
 between us, there was no harm, I thought, in 
 so listening, for it was a break in my dull and 
 dreary life, and a pastime to me ; and I knew 
 that Gerald was too much of a gentleman to 
 say anything that might not properly be said 
 to — what he imagined me to be — a good and 
 virtuous girl. Xow that barrier exists no 
 lonirer, and he must learn the truth ; I must 
 tell him that I am the deserted wife of an- 
 other man, that the confidence and companion- 
 ship which have hitherto existed between us 
 
2oS CASTAirAV. 
 
 must now be brought to an end, that the terms 
 on which avc have hitherto lived, were they to 
 continue, would be dangerous to him and 
 compromising for me. Yes,' she added, after 
 a pause, during which she had remained rapt 
 in consideration, ' tlic retribution which Philip 
 Yane will inflict Tipon me for refusing to obey 
 his commands will be bitter indeed. He can 
 disappear, " efface himself," as he says, banish 
 all remembrance of me, if it be not already 
 banished, blot out all traces of his married 
 life, commence a fresh career of dissipation, 
 and look for a new victim to wheedle, and 
 make use of, and desert. He can do all this, 
 for he will be free, while I must remain here, 
 fettered and heart-broken and solitary.' 
 
 She flung herself prone upon the bed, and 
 clasping her hands behind her head, lay there 
 motionless for some time. When at length 
 she raised her face from the pillow in which 
 it had been hidden, there was on it a strange 
 odd expression, such as those who were most 
 intimate with it had never seen there. A 
 bright scarlet patch bnriiod on each of her 
 
IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 209 
 
 cheeks, there was a wild restless look in her 
 large brown eyes, and her lips, ordinarily so 
 soft and mobile, were set and rigid. 
 
 'Why should I be solitary?' she broke 
 forth, raising herself on her elboAv, and gazing 
 eagerly before her. ' Why should his be all 
 the triumph, and mine all the misery ? Why, 
 while he creates a fresh life for himself, should 
 I settle doAvn in apathetic wretchedness and 
 dull despair? He said, truly enough, that 
 our secret was our own, that our marriaofe 
 was known to none but ourselves; and that 
 when he decided upon ignoring it, it would 
 be just as though it had never happened. It 
 was known but to ourselves and to two others, 
 hired witnesses, whom in no human probabi- 
 lity I shall ever come across. What is to pre- 
 vent me, then, from shaking myself free from 
 the shackles, and seeing whether in life there is 
 not yet some happiness in store for me? What 
 is to prevent? My conscience? Duty? The 
 duty I owe to Phihp Yane would sit lightly 
 enough upon me ; and is it not his wish ? "I 
 will never interfere with your plans and pro- 
 
 VOL. I. p 
 
2 TO CASTAWAY. 
 
 jects, be they Avliat tlicy may;" he swore that, 
 and lie will kcc]") his word, only too thankful 
 to lay hold of any act of mine which would 
 tend to our fiirther estrangement and ratify 
 the separation between us. 
 
 ' And here is Gerald, whose only thou^ii'ht 
 is to take me to his heart, and make me his 
 wife, who, hard worked as he is at the theatre, 
 has been devoting his extra hours in labour 
 to gain a position which he could consider 
 worthy to offer me, and who is steeped to the 
 lips not merely in patient devotion to me, but 
 in the desire to rid me of the burden which I 
 now have to bear, and to render life smooth 
 and easy to me. 
 
 * Gerald Hardinge's wife ! He asked me 
 to become so at once, why should I refuse? 
 I am older than he is, it is true, and mv vouth 
 has been passed in toil, and, to a certain ex- 
 tent, in privation. But,' she added, stopping 
 before the glass, and again surveying her fea- 
 tures in it, ^I do not think I show the traces 
 of it; I do not think, speaking dispassionately, 
 as Heaven knows I feel, there are many who 
 
IX THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 211 
 
 are better or more attractive-looking, how- 
 ever much my beauty may have palled on Phi- 
 lip Yane. 
 
 ' Gerald Hardingc's wife I Could I return 
 the love he gives me? My capabilities of 
 loving have not been put to any severe test ; 
 it was that silly admiration of a good-looking 
 face and specious manners which led me to 
 like Philip Yane ; the idiotic folly of a school- 
 girl, which raves about the colour of a man's 
 eyes, or the shape of his nose; but I doubt 
 whether there was much question of love in 
 the matter. I was sillily fascinated by him in 
 the first few days of our married life ; I re- 
 member I showed it as much as he would let 
 me, but that is so far off that it seems like a 
 dream. Since then I have been almost con- 
 stantly separated from him; and when we 
 have met there has been no question of love 
 between us, certainly none shown, even of 
 regard, on his part. I wonder whether I have 
 ever possessed the faculty of loving, and if so, 
 whether it has died out? I think I can ans- 
 wer that question,' she said, smiling gravely. 
 
2 12 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' Last night, when Gerald's arm was round me 
 holding me closely to him, when his flice was 
 l)endiiig ch)se to mine, when I felt his soft 
 breath on my cheek, and saw the lovelight 
 trembling and fading in his eyes, a shiver ran 
 through me from head to foot, and my soul 
 yearned towards him A\ith a passion hitherto 
 strai]ge to it. All, why,' she cried, clasping 
 her hands above lier head, ' why should my 
 life be solitary and blank? Why should this 
 wealth of love Avhich I possess be thus wasted ? 
 AVhy should I not solace Avhat remains to me 
 of my youth, and give up such beauty as I 
 still possess to him who prizes it so dearly ? 
 I cannot, I will not, let slip this chance which 
 is offered me so oj)portunel3\ I will write a 
 line to Gerald telling him that I accept his 
 offer, and am only impatient to call myself 
 his wife, and thus at the same time I will 
 gratify my love f(n' him, and my revenge on 
 Philip Vane.' 
 
 The scarlet spot on her cheek burned more 
 brightly than before, and the light was still 
 in her eyes ; but the muscles of her mouth, 
 
LY THE DEAD UXHAPPY XIuIJT. 213 
 
 instead of being rigid and set, were moving in- 
 voluntarily, and her lips were full and humid. 
 She took her blottino:-book and ink- stand 
 from off the chest of drawers, arranged them 
 on the table, and sat down to write. But her 
 brain was too much excited, her heart beating 
 far too quickly, to admit of her sufhciently 
 steadying her thoughts ; and the next mo- 
 ment she was up and pacing the room again 
 to and fro, to and fro. Xo reminiscences of 
 past misery now ; all visions of future happi- 
 ness with Gerald! How handsome he was! 
 how hio'h-bred and 2'entlemanlv he alwavs 
 looked ! Xot even his coarse common paint- 
 ino;-clothes could disfio-ure him. How softlv 
 he always spoke to her, and how he always 
 looked straight into her eyes — not boldly, not 
 triumphantly, but with a strange mixture of 
 diffidence and love ! She recollected too the 
 long clinging pressure of his hand. Ah, how 
 she would love him, how she would make up 
 for past years of coldness and neglect ! She 
 longed to have him there by her side, that 
 she might tell him how wiu-mly she reci[)ro- 
 
2 14 CASTAWAY. 
 
 catcd all lie had said to her on the previous 
 niirht. Unable to sec hiii) at that instant, she 
 must Avrite to him ; that was the next best 
 thinii; she could do, and she would do so at 
 once. 
 
 Seated at the table once again, one hand 
 drumming: on the blottino^ - book, the other 
 idly stretched on the paper in front of her. 
 How should she commence her letter to him? 
 How should she end it? She knew that, she 
 thought. She should put ' your wife.' His 
 wife ? And then the pen slipped from between 
 her fingers, and the other hand ceased drum- 
 ming, and convulsivel}' grasped the table. 
 
 His wife ? Not his, but Philip A^ane's. 
 
 That fact remained indisputable, notwith- 
 standing Philip's repudiation of it, and in spite 
 of all the sophistry which he had talked, and 
 which she had allowed herself to be persuaded 
 into accepting. Philip A'^ane's wife, in the 
 sight of heaven, and in the eye of the law. 
 Philip A^ane's wife — that was her condition, 
 only to be released therefrom by her own or 
 his death. 
 
IN THE DEAD UXHAPPY NIGHT. 215 
 
 All, what vague hopes she had cherished 
 of placing herself on an equality with him ! 
 what fruitless boasts she had made to herself 
 of claimuig as much freedom in her future as 
 he had insisted on his I AVere she to take the 
 step she had contemplated — were she to ac- 
 cept the position offered to her — the mere 
 prospect of the expectation of which had filled 
 her with happiness and joy mexplicable — what 
 would be the result? In her own secret soul 
 she would know herself, whatever she mi2;ht 
 pass for to him and to the world, not to be Ger- 
 ald Hardinge's wife, but his mistress, and to be 
 Philip A'ane's wife still. Even if — looking at 
 the happmess which such a prospect op)ened 
 up to licr, and contrasting it with the certain 
 miserv of her future — miserv embittered a 
 thousandfold by the omnipresent recollection 
 of what mioht have been — she could have 
 stifled the voice of conscience, and clung to 
 the chance thus offered, what guarantee had 
 she that Philip A'ane might not some day or 
 other put in an appearance upon the scene, 
 and seek to gain advantage by her defaidt? 
 
2i6 CASTA IP^AV. 
 
 He had sworn that he would not do so ; but 
 she knew well enough that to such a man such 
 an oath meant nothing ; and then for the mere 
 passhig gratification of two passions, revenge 
 and love, she Avould have entailed misery not 
 merely upon herself, but upon the boy who 
 had offered his life for her disposal, and so 
 frankly and loyally had placed his future in 
 her hands. 
 
 Following out with strictest scrutiny her 
 self-examination, ^ladge felt compelled to con- 
 fess that there were several reasons for giving 
 up the step on which she had so recently de- 
 termined. The difference of ao-e between them 
 must not be lost si2:ht of It was well enouo^h 
 now, while Gerald was under the influence of 
 his boyish passion, and while she yet retained 
 enough of her youthful beauty to keep him in 
 thrall, and to render her an object of admira- 
 tion among his friends. But in a few, very 
 few years' time, she w^ould have lost her bloom, 
 and be advancing towards middle age, while 
 he would yet be in the prime of early man- 
 hood. AVhat should she expect then but what 
 
/X THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. ii-] 
 
 she had ah'eadv underofone? Xot that it Avas 
 possible Gerald could ever treat her as Philip 
 Vane had treated her — li" was too manly, too 
 high-spirited, too tender-hearted ; but would 
 it not be worse for her than anvthiuG: she had 
 vet endured, to see that she was merelv toler- 
 ated by a man to whom her whole soul was 
 given, and in whom the wild ardour of love 
 had been superseded by a feeling of mere ten- 
 derness and compassion? 
 
 Xo, no — a thousand times no I She could 
 bear anytliin^^; but that. Better pluck out this 
 passion of recent growth, though she plucked 
 out her heart and her life at the same time, 
 than let it have a short season of bloom, 
 and a long period of withering decay. The 
 mirage was fast vanishing away, and again the 
 long level sands of the desert of life which she 
 was compelled, to travel, with no well of hope, 
 no oasis of rest and happiness in sight, lay 
 fitretchino- out before her. The shining' sands 
 had to be traversed, and the bubbling foun- 
 tains and the palm-trees' shade had proved 
 mere mockeries of mental virion; so let her 
 
2iS CASTA WAV. 
 
 })roceGcl upon hcT pilgrimage at once, and give 
 lip all farther thought of those unsubstantial 
 and impossible delights. It could not, must 
 not be. And when ]\Iadge Pierrepoint had 
 once faced that fact, although in facing it she 
 went through such mental torture as, since 
 the world's creation, has been suffered only 
 by those white-robed few who sacrifice their 
 all in all for duty's sake, she determined on 
 carrying out her resolutions, and came out of 
 the conflict Avorn and pale and haggard, in- 
 deed, but victorious and determined. 
 
 AVhat was to be done ? The proper course 
 for her to pursue was, as she knew, to see 
 Gerald, and tell him all. ]]ut that she could 
 not do. She dared not trust herself. Her 
 courage was insufficient, not merely to carry 
 her through the story of her wrongs, but to 
 bear her up in what she knew to be the un- 
 avoidable result, his appeal to her to throw 
 her past life to the winds, and intrust him 
 with her future. She dared not trust herself 
 to see him again; she must hurry away from 
 that place, Avithin tlie next few hours, in the 
 
LV THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 219 
 
 early morning, and loa^-e what slie had to say 
 to hmi in a note wliich would be oiyen to ]\Iiss 
 Cave. AA^hat should she say in that note ? 
 Tell him the real state of the case, and appeal 
 to his sense of honour, to his feeling of pity, 
 not to attempt to follow her? That would 
 never do. Madge Pierrepoint's experience of 
 the world was not large ; but it was sufficient 
 to tell her that when a man, and especially 
 a young man, is madly in love, appeals to 
 such sentiments are generally made in vain. 
 Such a confession would probably act as a 
 provocative to his pursuit, and that must be 
 stopped at any cost. Seeing Gerald under 
 such circumstances as those, Madge would not 
 have answered for herself; and all the mental 
 an Ornish which she had under o^one, and the 
 triumph which she had obtained, would have 
 been in vain. 
 
 After reflection, then, she came to the con- 
 clusion that there was but one way by which 
 the end she sought for was to Ije obtained. 
 
 And that way was, to strike his kind and 
 trusting' heart a blow which, comin^; from her 
 
.220 CASTAU\IY. 
 
 luiud, would numb and paralyse its action, and 
 prevent its ever again throbbing in response 
 to hers. She ' must be cruel only to be kind/ 
 and must be content to pass as cold and heart- 
 less in Gerald's eves, rather than let him know 
 her for what she reallv was. Knowino^ Gerald 
 as Madge did, she never doubted for an in- 
 stant that he would refuse to take from her Hps 
 any denial which was dictated by prudence or 
 policy, and that the only method by which he 
 could be restrained from farther pursuit would 
 be by touching his pride. That must be done, 
 no matter at what cost to herself; wittingly 
 and knoAvingiy, she must degrade herself in 
 the sioiit of the man who so loved her, and 
 had just asked permission to dedicate his life 
 to her. 
 
 So she sat down to do it. There, spread 
 out before her, lay the paper which was to 
 have borne his summons to her side, whereon 
 was to have hccn written her acceptance of 
 his offer. She thought of all this, and the 
 pen which she had taken up dropped again 
 from her fingers. Ah, surely the task was 
 
LY THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 221' 
 
 too cruel, the self-imposed burden too heavr 
 for her to bear! Was it not too much to 
 expect that she should not merely continue- 
 in the strait and thorny path, closing her 
 eyes to the temptations of the lovely gardens 
 stretchino' on either side of her, but that she^ 
 should be called upon to "wound and outrage 
 him who oifered to share that paradise with 
 her? She could not do it — she could not 
 do it ! And ]\Iado^e hid her face in her hands, 
 and the bitter tears burst forth aofain. When' 
 the paroxysm was over, she rose and bathed 
 her face, and once more returned to the table. 
 Then, stopping for some time to tr}^ and get 
 more command over her trembling iingers, to> 
 try and still the audible beating of her heart, 
 to trv and find words in which her meanins; 
 might be, with as little harshness as possible^ 
 expressed, she wrote the following letter : 
 
 ' My dear Gerald, — If you have ever 
 had anv kind feelijifr for mc, and I know 
 you have, Gerald, you will need to remember 
 it all when vou read this. What I write nov.' 
 
222 CASrAJl'AV. 
 
 I ou;:»'ht to have said to you last niglit, if not 
 before. Xo, not l3efore, for up till last night 
 I had only looked upon what you have said 
 to me from time to time as so much boyish 
 nonsense, not to be thought of seriously by 
 either of us. I knew that most boys — don't 
 be offended, Gerald, there will come a time 
 when vou will consider vouth a thinir not to 
 be ashamed of — that most bovs admire wo- 
 men older than themselves; and there was 
 a srreater reason for vour likinc: me, as we 
 have been thrown so much too:ether, and 
 there are not many people — in the company, 
 at least, I mean — with whom you seem to 
 have much in common. I have always, as 
 you will remember, Gerald, endeavoured to 
 stop you when you were going to say any- 
 thing definite to me; I have always refused 
 to give you any definite answer, on the plea 
 that it would be sufficient to ask me for one 
 when you were in a position to speak seri- 
 ously to me. Last night you told me that 
 time had now arrived, and it is my duty 
 therefore to speak definitely to you. 
 
-J 
 
 ^ Gerald, I cannot be your ^vife ! I must 
 not even be to you what I bave been — a 
 chosen companion, a woman in whose society 
 3'ou have been bappy! In saying this I am 
 not bard nor worldly. I have no doubt of 
 your success in life, and I know that, sbould 
 you continue to think as }'ou do at present, 
 your pleasure in that success would be doubled 
 if it were shared by me. Should you con- 
 tinue to think? Ah, that is one point, Gerald! 
 You bave not seen enougb of the world to 
 know your own mind, and the woman whom 
 you worship now might seem very homely 
 and verv dull to vou in a few vears' time ! 
 
 ' But my chief reason for writing to vou 
 is to tell vou that I am no longer free, that 
 I have for some time been eno^ao^ed to be 
 married to a gentleman who now claims my 
 promise. I ou^rht to bave told vou this last 
 night, Gerald, but I was overcome by the 
 extra fatliiue which I had underofone durins: 
 the past week, and my dread of the annoy- 
 ance whicb I knew my answer would give 
 you was too much for me, so I write it to 
 
224 CASTA JJ'AV. 
 
 you instead ! You must try and not think 
 very badh' of me for not telling you before. 
 I had my reasons, reasons which I cannot 
 explain now, but may be able to do so some 
 day. I am going away from this at once, 
 and am to be married very shortly. Good- 
 bye, Gerald ! God bless you ! Most likely 
 we shall never meet airain, but I sliall alwavs 
 think ofratefullv of the kindness that vou 
 have shown to me, and })ray for your welfare. 
 Once more, good-bye I 
 
 ' Yours sincerelv, 
 
 ' Margaret Pierre point.' 
 
 It was finished at last, after many altera- 
 tions and much dclav. As Mado^e read it 
 over she said to herself, ' This is doing evil 
 that good may come of it; may God forgive 
 me this bitter, bitter lie!' Then she folded 
 the letter, addressed it, shut it in her blotting- 
 book, and went into Hose's bedroom. 
 
 The sun had risen by this time and was 
 pouring in through the thin white cnrtains. 
 ^ladge stepped softly up to the bed, and could 
 
IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 225 
 
 not help noticing Rose's delicate heauty as 
 she lay with her face nptnrned and her head 
 restinc: on one of her arms. 
 
 ' Too delicate and too sensitive to do 
 much in the great battle of life,' said Madge 
 as she bent over her. 'Poor little flower, 
 it's lucky she has me to stand between her 
 and the rouo^h wind outside. Smilino; in her 
 sleep, too,' she added, after a moment's pause; 
 ' it seems a shame to rouse her from a plea- 
 sant dream to the dull realities of packing 
 and departure, but the time grows short, and 
 we have much to do.' 
 
 Then she touched her sister lightly on the 
 shoulder, and the girl awoke and sat up in 
 bed, looking before her with large eyes full 
 of surprise. 
 
 'What is it, Madofe?' she cried. ' AVhat 
 has made you awake so early? I am gener- 
 ally up long before you; and your eyelids 
 are all red and swollen too. I don't believe 
 you have been to bed all night. What is 
 the matter?' 
 
 'No, dear,' said the elder sister quietly, 
 
 VOL. T. Q 
 
226 C.lSTAirAV. 
 
 'there is nothing the matter, only you must 
 get up at once and pack your own things, and 
 help me to pack mine ; Ave arc going away.' 
 ' Going away !' repeated Rose. ' When? 
 ' Now directly, by the seven o'clock train. 
 AVe have scarcely time for our packing and 
 our breakfast.' 
 
 ' But where are we going to, Madge, and 
 why ?' 
 
 ' I don't know yet, dear, where, though 
 probably we shall stop first at Springside; 
 and as for why. Ivose, the answer is, because 
 I wish it.' 
 
 Then Hose, who knew that when her sis- 
 ter was in what she was pleased to call ' one 
 of those tempers' there was no gainsaying her, 
 promised to get up immediately, and Madge 
 returned to her room, and began emptying 
 her chest of drawers of its contents. 
 
 As she was in the midst of her packing, 
 ]Miss Cave, Avho had been roused by the drag- 
 o'ino* about of the boxes, came in full of won- 
 der and surprise at all she saAv and heard. 
 For !Madge told the old lady a long story 
 
IN THE DEAD UNHAPPY NIGHT. 227 
 
 about her beiiio- not merely mucli fatio-ued, 
 but more seriously out of health than she had 
 imaghied, adding', that Doctor Kent, whom 
 she had consulted, had recommended her to 
 try the mineral waters at Springside, and that 
 she was about to proceed there with that ob- 
 ject. 
 
 It was a great blow to Miss Cave to lose 
 sight of her favourite, even for, as she ima. 
 gined, a very short period, as she had fully 
 calculated on their beins; to^'cther at Avon- 
 mouth. However, as the old lady remarked, 
 an extra pound a week and half a clear benefit 
 were good things in their way, but not to 
 be compared to health, and Doctor Kent's 
 opinion should be followed to the letter. 
 
 The packing was completed, the prepara- 
 tions for departure were all made, and they 
 were standing on the platform just before the 
 train started, when Madge handed to Miss 
 Cave a letter, and requested that it might 
 be sent round to ]\Ir. Ilardinge's lodging. 
 Her hand did not tremble in the slightest 
 degree, nor was there in her face, which was 
 
2 28 CASTA IVAV. 
 
 closely scanned by the old lady, a trace of 
 any unusual expression. Once resolved that 
 the sacrifice was due from her, IMadge went 
 to the stake not merely with courage but 
 with dio;nity. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 "W'hex Gerald Hardinge saw the street-door 
 close, shutting Madge Pierrepoint from his 
 view, he remained stationary for a minute, 
 gazing on the spot whence she had disap- 
 peared, and then turned away with an in- 
 describable feeling of happiness and elation 
 in his breast. Her last words to him had 
 been but feebly uttered, it is true, and had 
 told him that she was ill, but he believed 
 this illness to be merely the result of mental 
 excitement and physical prostration, which 
 would speedily pass away, never to reap- 
 j)ear in the calm happy future which he had 
 planned for her, while the thrilling pressure 
 of her hand, as she left him, oave hi^rher 
 
230 CASTAWAY. 
 
 hopes than could be given b}' any words that 
 this future was accepted by her. 
 
 As the young man walked with a light 
 quick step along the deserted streets, he lifted 
 his hat to catch as much as possible of the 
 cool night breeze, which retained some of the 
 freshness of the sea, whence it was blown, 
 mincT^led with the frairrance of the fjardens 
 and orchards which it had traversed in its 
 career towards the old city, and raising his 
 eyes to the star-strewn blue heavens above 
 him, felt half inclined to believe that all 
 nature gloried in his happiness, and shared 
 in his success. Conscious presently of the 
 creeping, shambling female figure by his side, 
 which addressed him in whinina' tones, im- 
 ploring alms, he stopped and handed to it 
 such largess as to evoke a shower of fulsome 
 thanks from its recipient, who hurried away, 
 fearful lest a second thought should make 
 him rejient of his munificence. Needless to 
 say that no such thought crossed Gerald's 
 mind. Xot on such a night as that at least 
 could he be apjiealed to in vain; he had him- 
 
DOUBT. 231 
 
 self been made supremely liappy, and only 
 delio'lited in doin£>: what lie could to increase 
 the happiness of others. 
 
 Supremely happy indeed ! The silence of 
 the streets was almost o})pressive to him. 
 He wanted to take not man but nature into 
 his confidence. He wanted to be alone in a 
 garden, on a mountain top, in a boat upon 
 the river or tlie sea, anywhere, so that with- 
 out rendering himself ridiculous he could put 
 into words the gratitude that filled his heart, 
 the jo}' that thrilled his frame, and tingled 
 in his pulses. Y.\^\\ there, in the Precinct, 
 hemmed in bv the hiii'h old irabled houses, 
 inside of which the decorous dignitaries of 
 
 the cathedral and their staid families lav 
 
 •J 
 
 wrapped in dreamless slumber, he felt in- 
 clined to cry aloud, to break into a swift 
 runnmg pace, to do anything which woidd 
 give vent to the unspoken joy then pent 
 within his breast. 
 
 It was luckv that he refrained from ^fivino; 
 way to any of these eccentricities ; for the 
 next moment, as he turned the corner of 
 
232 CASTAWAY. 
 
 the street, lie found himself confronted by 
 a group of men who were iKhancing from 
 the opposite direction. Scarcely gazing at 
 them — assuredly not recognising any of them 
 — Gerald was stepphig into the roadway Avith 
 the intention of allowing them to pass, when 
 he heard his own name called out in a loud 
 tone, and hnmediately recognised the voice 
 pronouncing it as belonging to Mr. Dun- 
 sany. The speaker was indeed that histri- 
 onic genius, who followed up his salutation by 
 seizing Gerald lightl}' by the collar, and, as he 
 turned round to his admiring friends, calling- 
 out Avith tragic emphasis, ' Trapped at last.' 
 
 ' Trapped at last,' echoed a tall man, with 
 a thin hatchet face, bright beady eyes, and a 
 thick moustache. ' Deuced good title for a 
 three-act drama ; see my way to it at once. 
 Act the first. Setting the Snare ; act the 
 second, Ivnotting the Xoose ; act the third, 
 Trapped at Last. Lapse of ten years is sup- 
 posed to occur between the second and third 
 acts. There you have it !' 
 
 ' O, drop that ^-^^^ Ilayward,' said Dun- 
 
DOUBT. 233 
 
 sany ; ' and you, Gerald, don't stand there 
 looking like old Blowliard when he plaj's the 
 Idiot AVitness.' 
 
 ' A part which comes quite natural to 
 him,' interrupted ]\Ir. Hayward. 
 
 '" AVell, come along, Gerald,' continued 
 Dunsany ; '" we have got a little supper at 
 the Swan, and I have been looking every- 
 w^here for vou to make one of the r>artv. 
 Now I've crot vou, so come alons'.' 
 
 ' Xot to-night,' commenced Gerald; 'I am 
 awfullv tired, and was on mv wav home to 
 bed. Xot to-night, please.' 
 
 ' 0, nu, not to-night,' repeated Dimsany 
 in a bantering tone, ' certainly not to-night ; 
 let us say we will meet this night twelve- 
 month, and at Philippi, please ! Come out of 
 that, vou villain I Do \o\\ think I am aoino- 
 to let vou 00 now I have once oot hold of 
 you ? More especiall}' when old Blowhard 
 told me iust now ^ou were not comino- back 
 to him, and he should have to look out for 
 a new scene-painter. Put your arm in mine, 
 and come alono-.' 
 
234 CASTAll'AV. 
 
 ' But I really am horribly tired,' pleaded 
 Gerald. 
 
 ' If }'ou arc tired, Count' (the nickname 
 Avhich Gerald Ilardinge's looks and manners 
 had gained for him amongst the company, 
 and l)y which he generally went), ' if you 
 are tired, Count,' said another of the by- 
 standers, Mr. Minneken, a dashing young roue 
 of fifty-eight, with a purple head and a ragged 
 piu'ple moustache, and ^vho was the light co- 
 median of the company, ' go to your bed at 
 the natural hour of four a.m. Xever invoke 
 the miserable ^lorpheus at a time which 
 should be sacred to the blisses of Bacchus 
 and the kisses of Venus.' 
 
 A general chorus of ' Bravo, Minny !' re- 
 warded this flight of fancy. 
 
 ' Letting alone the fact that I sleep next 
 to you, my dear Gerald,' said Dunsany, ' and 
 that when I arrive at the hour so neatly in- 
 dicated just now, I am likely to disturb you 
 from your slumber.' 
 
 The proposition to end his evening in this 
 manner was assuredly very different from 
 
DOUBT. 235 
 
 what Gerald Hardinge had either expected 
 or wished. He had lon^aed for some phice 
 in Avhich he couki commune Avith himself, 
 for some solitude where he could orally con- 
 vince himself of the happiness which he had 
 just secured; and he was now bidden to make 
 one of a party of convivial roisterers in a 
 tavern reeking with liquor and tobacco. But 
 he did not like to urge any farther the re- 
 fusal to the invitation thus pressed upon him. 
 Several of those present, and especially Dun- 
 sanv, had shown him much rouirh kindness 
 and attention during the time he had passed 
 among them, and he was conscious that there 
 was prevalent in the company an intuitive 
 suspicion of the difference between his former 
 and his present 2:)Osition in life, which would 
 render them doubly susceptible to any ap- 
 parent slight. So he ceased to make any 
 farther opposition to their wishes, and his 
 assent being received with a shout which 
 awoke the slumberin2r echoes of the old Guild- 
 hall portico, and brought the policeman down 
 a by-street with hurried foot-steps very dif- 
 
236 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ferent from Lis usual measured pace, the party 
 proceeded on their way rejoicing. 
 
 The Swan, towards which the convivial 
 compan}' was making its way, was a regular 
 type of a theatrical tavern. Ordinarily, the 
 house ^used' by the actors and their friends 
 is to be found in the immediate vicinit}* of 
 the theatre. But the inhabitants of AVexeter 
 had scruples about allowing any establish- 
 ment of the kind to flourish in the proximity 
 of the cathedral; while the church dignitaries, 
 who were potential in such matters, took care 
 that the precincts dwelt in by them should 
 be kept free from the contamination of a 
 tavern of any kind, and especially one which 
 was likely to be frequented by the lower class 
 of theatrical performers. So that the Swan 
 was compelled to build her nest at some little 
 distance off, down at the bottom of the hill 
 indeed, and near the wharves abuttino^ on the 
 navigable portion of the river Wexe, where 
 huge balks of timber lie strewn about, where 
 the road is alwa\s gritty with coal-dust, and 
 where there is a perpetual maritime smell 
 
DOUBT. 237 
 
 of boiling pitch and fresh tar. None of the 
 bargemen, Jacks -in -the -water, or river -side 
 idlers, however, dream of going into the 
 Swan, which is known as the actors' house 
 of call, and is given up exclusively to them. 
 The landlord is a retired ' heavy man' from 
 the Norfolk circuit; his wife, stout and un- 
 wieldy though she be now, was once the 
 brightest of singing chambermaids at Ports- 
 mouth ; and his two sons, with their cele- 
 brated dog Beppo, are now extracting money 
 from the pockets of Australian diggers, by 
 their splendid performance of the Forest of 
 Bondy. All day long, lounging in front of 
 the street-door, or leaning listlessly against 
 the portal, are to be seen sallow, keen- eyed 
 men, whiskerless, indeed, but with an out- 
 line blue map on cheek and chin, showing 
 what tremendous hirsute power is kept in 
 abeyance by the exigences of the profession. 
 From time to time they will enter the house 
 and drop into the bar — a snuggery where not 
 one scrap of wall is to be seen, so covered is 
 it with play-bills and placards, and portraits 
 
23S CASTA ]l'AV. 
 
 of celebrated theatrical characters — take a 
 drink standing:, chat with the barmaid, who, 
 like every other inmate of the establishment, 
 is steeped to the lips in dramatic lore, or 
 glance throngh the pages of the Hare.\foot^ 
 the theatrical journal, especially conning the 
 advertisements of managers in quest of talent. 
 In the course of the theatrical season 
 many banquets were usually given at the 
 Swan, actors being proverbially of a hospit- 
 able and generous disposition ; and no success 
 of even the smallest kind was ever «:ained bv 
 any member of the company without its being 
 duly commemorated in liquor. ])ut there was 
 never any noise or disturbance at these enter- 
 tainments; and as the house Avas thoroucrhlv 
 
 ' CD ^ 
 
 well conducted, the police never interfered 
 vath. its arrani2^ements, and winked at occa- 
 sional infractions of the law which prescribed 
 a certain hour for closing. 
 
 That hour had pretty nearly arrived when 
 Mr. Dunsany and his friends reached the 
 Swan; and most of the ordinary guests had 
 taken their departure. For the expected party. 
 
DOUBT. 
 
 239 
 
 however, a room was prepared ; and in a few 
 minutes they were all seated round the table 
 covered with the materials for a sabstantial 
 meal. As the host, ]\Ir. Dunsany took the 
 chair, having Gerald on his right, and ]\Ir. 
 IMinneken on his left. Thev were all too 
 hungry to talk much at first ; and, when their 
 appetite began to be appeased, the conversa- 
 tion which ensued was such as might be ex- 
 pected in such a circle. The performances 
 of the evening and of the past season gener- 
 ally, the shortcomings, meannesses, and vanity 
 of the manager Dobson (always spoken of as 
 Blowhard), the chances of London engage- 
 ments, and the gratitude due to the press, of 
 which Mr. Hay ward was the esteemed repre- 
 sentative then present. All these subjects 
 were in turn discussed; and (ierald, who had 
 taken very little part in the conversation, 
 thought he saw the longed-for opportunity 
 to slip away un])erceived, when he heard a 
 remark which instantly changed his inten- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. Minneken was the speaker. 
 
240 CASTA JJ\4V. 
 
 'A (livinity, sir,' he exclaimed; 'Madge 
 l^ierrepoint is a divinity, nothing else. There 
 is nothin^' to touch her on the stage nowa- 
 days, nor has there been in my time. Pve 
 seen them all, sir — the finest women in Lon- 
 don, by George ! and there is not one of them 
 you can compare to our Madge. Such an 
 arched neck, such pouting lips, such a mass 
 of capillary attractions, such a magnificent 
 mane. By heavens, sir, she is delicious !' 
 And !Mr. Minneken first kissed the tips of his 
 finofers, and then waved them in the air. 
 
 AVhen Oerald first heard the name of the 
 woman he loved thus mentioned in a public 
 company, he felt hot and angry. But it was 
 impossible to be annoyed with ISlr. ^linneken, 
 so earnest and impulsive was he, so chival- 
 rous, and withal so respectful. Gerald recol- 
 lected, moreover, that he had heard Madge 
 speak of the kindness — which it was impos- 
 sible to think of as influenced by any ulterior 
 motive — shown to her by the old beau on 
 her first joining the company. But he feared 
 that the subject might l)e taken up by others. 
 
DOUBT. 241 
 
 who would not handle it quite so tenderly; 
 and he was right. 
 
 ' She is all very well to look at,' said Mr. 
 Hay ward ; ' what you call a fine woman, and 
 that sort of thino; • but she's no actress.' 
 'No actress!' cried Dunsany. 
 'When did you find that out, Hay ward?' 
 asked Minneken. 
 
 ' Ever since she refused to ^^lay the hero- 
 ine in Hay ward's five-act tragedy oi Boadicea^'' 
 said Gerald Hardinge. ' Our friend has had no 
 opinion of Miss Pierrepoint's talent since then.' 
 'Has Hay ward written a five-act tragedy?' 
 asked some one from the end of the table. 
 
 'I vote he stands a dinner, and reads it 
 to us l)efore it,' said Mr. Potts the prompter, 
 who had been steadily eating ever since he 
 arrived, and whose first utterance had refer- 
 ence to future food. 
 
 ' Xo, no ; after, after,' cried Dunsany. ' If 
 he read the tragedy first, none of us would be 
 alive for the dinner.' 
 
 'Who was Boadicea?' asked Mr. Potts's 
 neighbour. 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 aiSTAJVAV. 
 
 ' Some Roman cove, I think,' said the 
 prompter. 
 
 ' It sounds to me like a name in the Bible,' 
 said his ncip^hbonr. 
 
 ' Can't say,' said Mr. Potts, whose Biblical 
 lore was limited. 
 
 'Well, I daresay you think all this is 
 devilish funny,' said ]\Ir. Hay ward, whose na- 
 turally sallow complexion seemed to be grow- 
 ing: into a briirht 2:reen ; ' but with all defer- 
 
 O C CD ^ 
 
 ence to that ver}^ excellent 3^oung gentleman 
 over there, I repeat my oj)inion that Miss 
 Pierrepoint is no actress.' 
 
 ' By heavens, sir, how you can say that 
 I cannot understand !' said Minneken, wisely 
 stepping in to intercept the outbreak of wrath 
 which he anticipated from Gerald Hardinge. 
 ' Don't even the benighted clodhoppers in this 
 semi - agricultural, semi - ecclesiastical neigh- 
 bourhood worship her ? Don't they start at 
 the smallest scintilla emitted by her glorious 
 eye ? Don't they follow every murmur of 
 that deliciously soft voice, which comes to 
 them through those rows of pearls like the 
 
DOUBT. 243 
 
 sighing of the west wind over a summer sea? 
 What more ^Yould you have, sir?' 
 
 'What more?' said Mr. Hay ward savagely. 
 ' I would have a little more go ; a little more 
 life ; a little more passion. You, ^linneken, 
 have a reputation of having seen a good deal 
 of life, and you have lived long enough, hea- 
 ven knows ! but did you, in your experience, 
 ever see a woman so cold and statuesque and 
 passionless? Take her from first to last in 
 all the love -scenes she plays, and tell me is 
 there a scrap of heart, a scrap of warmth in 
 one of them ?' 
 
 Before Mr. ^linneken could reply, a little 
 man, sitting midway down the table, said, 
 mth a low chucklino; lauo:h : 
 
 ' Perhaps she keeps her heart, and her 
 warmth, and her passion, and all that, for 
 private use. Don't do to parade 'em in public 
 — 0, no!' 
 
 The speaker was ^Ir. Snick, who was the 
 ' second old man' of the company, and who 
 was generally regarded as having been allotted 
 in life the same line of character which he had 
 
244 CASTA Jl'AV. 
 
 sustained all along in the theatre, namely, be- 
 ing sent on to make play for others, and only 
 speaking in order to give other people the 
 chance of repl}^ The expression by him of 
 any original idea would have astonished the 
 company; but such an opinion, emphasised as 
 it was by him with his chuckle, caused intense 
 surprise ; and a short silence ensued, which 
 was broken by Gerald Hardinge, who inquired: 
 in rather a savage tone, what grounds Mr. 
 Snick had for his statement. 
 
 To find the old man's remark taken seri- 
 ously, delighted the company in general; and 
 Mr. Potts's neii^hbour, who had made the in- 
 quiry about Boadicea, rising to his feet, said 
 ofravelv, 'That he thoudit their friends would 
 agree with him that no gentleman had a right 
 to ask any questions about Mr. Snick's little 
 love-affairs.' 
 
 The applause and laughter which greeted 
 this remark incensed Gerald Hardinge still 
 farther. His cheeks flushed and his eyes 
 sparkled as he rose from his chair, and said 
 hurriedly : 
 
DOUBT. 245 
 
 ' I care nothincr about Mr. Snick, or his 
 love-afFairs either ; but he alkided to a lady, 
 Avhose acquaintance I have the pleasure of 
 possessing, in an offensive way, and with a 
 certain innuendo in his manner which 1 think 
 demands explanation.' 
 
 Some of the company cried ' Hear I' some, 
 ^ Bosh I' and Mr. Dunsany called out, at the top 
 of his voice, ' Come, Snick, you innuendoing 
 vagabond, make a clean breast of it, and ex- 
 plain !' 
 
 Mr. Snick did not seem in the smallest 
 degree put out by the hubbub and excite- 
 ment he had created. On the contrar}', he 
 sat quietly sucking away at his long pipe; 
 and when thus directly appealed to by ^\y. 
 Dunsany, he indulged in a few more chuckles 
 before he remarked : 
 
 'What I said I will stick to. Onlv when 
 I spoke before I said perhaps she kept her 
 warmth and her passion for private use ; now 
 I say there is no perhaps at all about it — I am 
 sure she does.' 
 
 ' Sure ! How the devil can you be sure ?' 
 
246 • CASTAWAY. 
 
 asked ^Ir. Haywfird, looking across at him 
 witli a glance in whicli surprise was mingled 
 with contempt. 
 
 ' How can I be sure?' said the little man, 
 with another chuckle. ' Why, from what you 
 call in your newspaper language ocular de- 
 monstration. I have seen her.' 
 
 ' Seen your grandmother I' roared out Mr. 
 Dimsany, not liking the expression on Gerald 
 Hardiiige's face, and wishing to put an end to 
 the discussion as quickly as possible. ' Come 
 out of that, Snick, and don't let's have any of 
 your anecdotes !' 
 
 'Xot at all I' cried out Gerald Hardinge, 
 starting to his feet. ' Mr. Snick, coming out 
 of the region of possibility, has now made a 
 positive statement respecting Miss Pierrepoint, 
 and I demand that he now enters fully into 
 detail concernino^ what he alle^fes he saw.' 
 
 ' What right have you to demand anything 
 of the kind?' asked Islv. Hay ward. 
 
 ' I will answer that question by and by,' 
 said Gerald Hardinge very quietly. 
 
 ^0, sit down, Gerald, and don't be bother- 
 
DOUBT. 247 
 
 ing about an old omaclhouii like that Snick, 
 said Mr. Dunsany. ' Sure, in addition to be- 
 ing always moitbered, he has got about a pint 
 of pimcli under his belt now, and is half drunk 
 already!' 
 
 But Gerald Hardinge was deaf to all such 
 entreaty ; the accusation, he said, had been 
 made, and must be given in detail. The 
 others, by degrees, came round to this oj)i- 
 nion, and even ]\Ir. Dunsany said, in a half- 
 jocular, half- savage manner: 
 
 ' Come, Snick, down on your marrow- 
 bones, and confess your peccadillo, and I'll 
 promise you absolution.' 
 
 The various stages of these proceedings 
 seemed frauo-lit vvith the "Teatest delio^ht to 
 Mr. Snick, who still sat calmly sucking at 
 his pipe, and chuckling after the emission of 
 every separate Avhiff; and when he was at 
 length called upon to speak, he spoke slowly 
 and deliberately, but without the smallest 
 hesitation. 
 
 ' Some of you may know,' he said, ' and 
 some mayn't, that owing to the screw I get 
 
248 CASTA irAV. 
 
 from old Blowhard not being too magnificent, 
 I endeavour to earn a little money by acting 
 as agent for the sale of mineral waters and 
 ginger-beer. There may be some among the 
 comj)any present,' said the little man, looking 
 round him Avith a leer and a chuckle, ' who 
 may have had soda-water from me which 
 they have not paid for, and there may not. 
 But that's neither here nor there. ^Vhat I 
 am coming to is this, that a few nights ago, 
 it might be, I cannot say the exact day, 
 but you will recollect it by that tremendous 
 thunder-storm which we had, the only one 
 there has been this summer, I thousht to 
 myself that, not being in the bill that night, 
 I would just walk up as far as Dumpington 
 turnpike, where the tollman owed me a small 
 account for g^inofcr-beer, which he manao-es to 
 sell a good deal of, it being good stuff, and 
 not like the penny bottles, all pop and froth. 
 Accordingly, soon after it was dusk, I strolled 
 out there, and smoked a pipe with the toll- 
 man, and got the money from him, and set 
 off to come back. I hadn't gone a hundred 
 
DOUBT. 249 
 
 yards before I saw — it was a dark iiiglit, but 
 I've frot eves like a cat — I saw a tall woman 
 coming towards me, and I recognised her 
 figure in a minute as Miss Pierrepoint. 
 '' What are you doing here, my lady, at this 
 time of night?" says I to myself. " I may as 
 well see," I says to myself, and with that I 
 slipped into the hedge. She passed me so 
 close that her dress almost brushed against 
 me, and then I set out after her. She went 
 along the road, and passed the turnpike, and 
 up that narrow lane, which, as some of you 
 may know, runs by it. There she waited, 
 walking up and down, as though expecting 
 some one. I had hidden myself in another 
 hedge, and was looking on, and presently I 
 heard a heavy footstep, and I saw a tall man 
 approaching. She walked straight up to meet 
 him, and he stooped down, and put his arms 
 around her, and kissed her. That's what he 
 did I' 
 
 And having made his point, the little man 
 looked round to see the result. 
 
 Mr. Snick had expected, on reaching his 
 
250 CASTA JVAV. 
 
 climax, lie would have been hailed with a 
 jsliout of delight from his audience, but there 
 was no such outburst. On the contrary, a 
 feeling of awkwardness seemed to prevail 
 among them, and, after looking stealthily at 
 each other, they, with one accord, glanced 
 towards Gerald Hardinge. The expression 
 on Mr. Dunsany's face was especially anxious, 
 and when Mr. Snick stopped speaking, Gerald 
 felt his knee clasped by his friend's hand, in 
 protest against any outbreak on his part. 
 
 The young man, hoAvever, needed no such 
 warning. His lips twitched a little when Mr. 
 Snick made his point, but all sign of emotion 
 had passed away as he asked : 
 
 ' The night was dark, and I think you say 
 you did not recognise the gentleman's face?' 
 
 'Xo,' said Mr. Snick; 'I could only see 
 that he was a tall man.' 
 
 ' The darkness must have deceived you in 
 that respect too,' said Gerald, with an attempt 
 at a smile, ' for,' turning to the company, ' I 
 cannot be considered tall, and yet I was the 
 man who met ^liss Pierrepoint on the night 
 
DOUBT. 251 
 
 in question, when this estimable gentleman 
 was good enough to play the spy upon our 
 actions.' 
 
 ' You I' cried Mr. Snick. 
 
 ' You !' cried ^Ir. Hay ward. 
 
 ' You !' echoed Mr. Potts the prompter. 
 ' You been kissino^ and makino- love to our 
 leading lady?' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gerald Hardinge \ ' yes, Mr. 
 Potts, and making love to her successfully, I 
 am happy to say, foA' ]\Iiss Pierrepoint is now 
 my affianced wife.' 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 The silence which fell upon the company at 
 Gerald Hardinge's unexpected announcement 
 was broken by Mr. Dunsany, who called out 
 in his most melodious tones : 
 
 ' My dear Gerald, I am dehghted that you 
 have thought the time has arrived when it is 
 expedient to make this announcement, to the 
 public as it were. AVhen, weeks ago, you 
 first mentioned to me, as your intimate friend, 
 the fact of your engagement with Miss Pierre- 
 point, I told you, if you recollect, that it 
 would be advisable to make your friends ac- 
 quainted, as speedily as possible, with the 
 exact position of afi'airs, in order that there 
 mi^ht be no possible misunderstanding. And 
 you will acknowledge I was right, for I am 
 
DESPAIR. 2-3 
 
 sure if our friend Hayward had kllo^^^l how- 
 matters had stood he would not have hinted a 
 doubt as to Miss Pierrepoint's ability; while 
 as to Snick — ' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, Dunsany,' said Mr. 
 Hayward, ' I said nothing about Miss Pierre- 
 point's appearance or conduct, of both of 
 which I have the highest admiration; but I 
 cannot allow that even the great fact of her 
 marrying the Count here is likely to endow 
 her with ability, or to render her a modern 
 Mrs. Siddons.' 
 
 ' Perhaps it will be advisable to chan^-c 
 the subject,' said Gerald Hardinge haughtily. 
 ' After the announcement that T have made, 
 it is perhaps scarcely in good taste to discuss- 
 Miss Pierrepoint's qualities or qualifications 
 in my presence. The restriction, however' 
 need be but very temporary, as I am about 
 to take my departure; the season is broken 
 up,' continued he, rising from his chair, ' and 
 this will be the last time of our meetino;; but 
 I hope at some future period, gentlemen, to 
 renew the pleasant impressions which I have 
 
254 CASTAWAY. 
 
 had during my companionship with you, and 
 to come amon^^st vou once aorain.' 
 
 ' And bring your wife,' suggested Mr. 
 Snick, who, since the conckision of his story, 
 had remamed perfectly quiet, sucking away 
 at his pipe with great enjoyment. 
 
 'And bring my wife, sir!' echoed Gerald 
 angrily. He would have said more, but for 
 the warning pressure of Dunsan}''s foot. As 
 it was, he merely l^owed and left the room, 
 amidst general cheering and expressions of 
 good A\'ishes. 
 
 When Gerald Hardin ire left the tavern, 
 with his brain on fire and his heart aching 
 within him, he felt the necessity for solitude 
 and self-examination ; and accordingly skirt- 
 ing the wharves on the edge of the Wexe, 
 and crossing by the lower railway station, 
 made the best of his way to the gardens of 
 Xorth-Hedge. These gardens, given up dur- 
 ing the day to nurse-maids and their charges, 
 and to feeble valetudinarians of both sexes, 
 who, screened by large banks of greenery 
 from the cutting winds, sit idly watching the 
 
DESPAIR. 255 
 
 railway traffic beneath, them, are closed at 
 sundown, and supposed to be deserted during 
 the night. In the earlier days, however, of 
 his sojourn at AVexeter, Gerald had often 
 used them as a short cut from one part of 
 the town to the other : and recollectinof a 
 gate which could be scaled with tolerable 
 ease, he proceeded to climb it, and speedil}^ 
 flung himself down on one of the benches 
 which nestle under the avenue of broad elms 
 intersecting the garden. The business car- 
 ried on at the railway station at Wexeter 
 has apparently been affected by the general 
 quietude of the place; there are but two pas- 
 seno^er trains durins; the nis^ht, and the ofoods 
 traffic is very limited, so that the station 
 upon which Gerald Hardinge was looking 
 down lay hushed in repose, and, save by the 
 siofhinfT^ of the nis^ht winds throu^^h the trees, 
 
 coo O ' 
 
 the silence around him was unbroken. 
 
 This was as he ^vished it. The thoughts 
 which racked him might be too deep for con- 
 cealment, and he would have had no human 
 eye to play the spy upon such consequences 
 
256 CASTAWAY. 
 
 as would result from his contemplated ana- 
 lysis of his own feelings, and the determi- 
 nation which lie would then arrive at. To 
 stop a ribald laugh, to controvert the effect 
 of a sneer upon a woman whom he had loved, 
 he had in the heat of the moment publicly 
 assumed a position, the retention or resigna- 
 tion of which, fraught with the deepest in- 
 terest as it would be on his future life, must 
 be determined upon at once. 
 
 A woman whom he had loved ! Was he, 
 then, to think of as past and bygone that 
 passion which thrilled his soul and tingled 
 in his veins, when he held Madge in his arms 
 but a few short hours previously; as faded 
 and vanished that love - lit light which had 
 cast its glamour over the ordinnry occur- 
 rences of every-day life, and steeped them all 
 in roseate hues ? Was the temple of his love 
 so fairy a fabric that at an idle or a lying 
 word uttered by a gossip it should suddenly 
 collapse, l)urying in its ruins the idol which 
 he had set up therein and worshipped so ten- 
 derlv ? An idle or lying Avord ? Xo. to the 
 
DESPAIR. 257 
 
 talc told by that Avretclied old man neither 
 of these terms conld be applied. 
 
 Alas! what Gerald did know tallied com- 
 pletely with what Mr. Snick had said. It 
 was on the night of the thunder-storm that 
 he had called at Madge Pierrepoint's lodg- 
 inof, and found her absent, attendino- as her 
 sister Eose had told him. to a business en- 
 o^ao'cment. He recollected how he had waited 
 for her, patiently walking up and down the 
 street, heedless of the raging elements, and 
 how he had seen her return at a late hour. 
 He recollected how he had accused her the 
 next day of having been to meet some man, 
 and how, without positively denying it, she 
 had put aside the question in her soothing 
 way. And all that time, while he was wait- 
 ing for her in the storm, not even with a 
 hope of speaking to her, and going away as 
 it might be almost contented when he had 
 seen her safely shut within her own door, she 
 had been to meet another man, who ' stooped 
 and put his arms round her and kissed her' ! 
 Gerald remembered the exact words which 
 
 VOL. T. s 
 
258 CASTAIVAY. 
 
 Mr. Snick had used, and cursed him aloud 
 for using them. 
 
 And yet, in the full knowledge of her 
 treachery and deceit, he had acknowledged 
 her before them as his affianced wife ! His 
 affianced wife ! That was the position that 
 he had publicly declared her to hold; that 
 was the position that she actually held; for 
 from her manner that evening, her last words, 
 her parting touch, Gerald had but little doubt 
 as to Madge's answer to his appeal. His affi- 
 anced wife! who went to meet another man 
 in secret, and refused to give him, who would 
 have died for her, any account of her pro- 
 ceedincfs on that eventful evenino^. 
 
 Now what was he to do? The idea of 
 withdrawing the proposal which he had made, 
 of breaking away from the compact which, 
 as he imagined, was virtually agreed upon 
 between them, never entered into Gerald's 
 mind. What he had said to Madge Pierre- 
 point w^as, according to his view, quite suf- 
 ficient in itself to bind him, without taking 
 into consideration the quasi-public announce- 
 
DESPAIR. 259 
 
 ment which he had made. And this act of 
 hers — the meetino; with this unknown man 
 — took place before he had actually proposed 
 to her, and while she was yet a free agent. 
 What was he to do? He must m^ throu2:h 
 Avith it, carrying the burden which he had 
 laid upon his own shoulders as best he might. 
 He would see Mado:e the first thins: in the 
 morning, tell her exactly what had occurred, 
 repeat the story as it had been told to him, 
 and ask her what she had to say in her de- 
 fence. She would be truthful in her reply 
 — he had an innate conviction of that — and 
 then he should know what to decide. If she 
 acknowledged that there was a foundation for 
 Mr. Snick's story — and it seemed impossible 
 to think that anything so circumstantial could 
 be the work of mere invention — where would 
 be that happiness in the future which he 
 had so joyfully pictured to himself? 
 
 He would keep his word ; she should have 
 nothing to complain of on that score : he 
 would marry her, and take her away with 
 him to London; but as to living with her, 
 
2 6o CASTAWAY. 
 
 that could never be. If she had deceived 
 him then, with what confidence conld he trust 
 his honour to her keeping when surrounded 
 by flatterers and tried by temptation! No; 
 that is the only course open to him, and the 
 one that he must follow, provided always that 
 their manner of living can be kept a secret 
 from the world. If the secret of his betrayed 
 trust, of his lilio-hted life, were once known, 
 Gerald felt that the exposure would kill him. 
 Those were the only terms he would exact 
 from Mado^e : that it should be a life - lono; 
 secret between them, and so long as she kept 
 to them, she should share his income, and 
 be left to do as she pleased. And ha\dng 
 settled this in his own mind, Gerald rose from 
 his seat, and made the best of his way home. 
 
 When he arrived at his lodging, he let 
 himself in with his key, and was proceeding 
 strai^rht to bed, when, thinking' he saw a lio-ht 
 in the sitting-room occupied conjointly by 
 hunself and Mr. Dunsany, he opened the door, 
 and discovered that worthy stretched at full 
 leno^th on the sofa, and snorino: in a remark- 
 
DESPAIR. 261 
 
 ably resonant manner. Gerald was about to 
 retire quietly, when a snore of extra power 
 awoke the sleeper, and Mr. Dunsany, rubbing 
 his eyes, sat upright, apparently considerably 
 refreshed by his slumber. 
 
 •Come in, Gerald,' he cried; 'and don't 
 be after scuttling off to bed like that, when I 
 have been sitting up here broad awake, and 
 denying myself natural sleep, for the chance 
 of a talk to you. I went straight to your 
 room directly I got back; and, finding you 
 were not there, I determined to sit up on the 
 chance of catching you before you turned in, 
 as I have something very important to say to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Say away, then,' said Gerald, throwing 
 himself listlessly into a chair, and plunging 
 his hands into his pockets; 'say away; I'm 
 listening.' 
 
 ' Listening !' echoed ]Mr. Dunsany, who 
 had gone to a little sideboard, and placed 
 some bottles and iilasses on the table. ' 13 ut 
 I want you to talk as well ; and, with a view 
 to that, hadn't }-ou better put a pipe in your 
 
262 CASTA WAY. 
 
 mouth ? I have no hopes of improving your 
 accent, which is essentially English and bad ; 
 but tobacco is a great tranquilliser, and brings 
 out the philosophy in a man's nature; and 
 that is a quality of which you have decidedly 
 no superfluity.' 
 
 'It is a quality which nil of us require 
 more or less,' said Gerald ; ' and most of us 
 more.' 
 
 ' Don't be sneerino- and "foino; in for the 
 Diogenes business, my dear Gerald,' said Mr. 
 Dunsany, who, meanwhile, had mixed himself 
 a tumbler of grog, and lighted a large pipe ; 
 'it's not natural to you, I know; but you are 
 upset and worried just now.' 
 
 ' I am utterl}' miserable, Dunsany,' said 
 Gerald with a groan. 
 
 ' Don't say that, my dear lad, for heaven's 
 sake!' cried his friend. 'I've made a good 
 many blunders in my time ; but I never made 
 a greater than when I persuaded you to come 
 to that confounded supper to-night, or when 
 I permitted that preposterous old idiot Snick 
 to tell that cock-and-bull story.' 
 
DESPAIR. 263 
 
 Gerald raised his head, and looked up 
 earnestly. 
 
 ' You don't believe that story?' he asked. 
 
 'Which part of it?' asked Mr. Dunsany. 
 
 ' Any part,' said Gerald. 
 
 'Which part would you wish me to be- 
 lieve?' asked Mr. Dunsan3\ ^I am open to 
 conviction, m}' dear lad, and I will oblige you 
 to the best of my ability.' 
 
 • Don't be fooling, Dunsany ! It is scarcely 
 a subject for jest. Give me a plain answer, if 
 you can.' 
 
 ' My dear Gerald, the question is rather a 
 comphcated and a delicate one, and I wanted 
 to deal with it as delicately as I could. It 
 resolves itself into this : do I believe that a 
 certain lady, a common acquaintance of ours, 
 went on a certain evening, memorable as the 
 occasion of the thunder-storm, up the Dump- 
 ington-road, and, in a lane near the turnpike, 
 was met and embraced by a gentleman? Is 
 that the question, or, rather, one of the ques- 
 tions?' 
 
 ' It is.' 
 
264 CASTAirAY. 
 
 ' \Yell, then, upon my honour, I do believe 
 it ! In the first place, I do not think that old 
 Snick has the power of inventing anything at 
 all, much less anything so circumstantial as 
 that story was in its details of ginger -beer, 
 turnpike, tollman, and all the rest of it ; and, 
 in the next place, I have noticed, for the last 
 few days, a certain absence of mind and pre- 
 occupation of manner in the lady in question. 
 Xow, as to the other part of it : do I believe 
 that one Gerald Hardinge was the gentleman 
 who met the lady in the lane near the Dump- 
 ington turnpike? Upon my conscience, I do 
 not. Xow, am I right ?' 
 
 ^ So far as I am concerned, you are quite 
 right,' said Gerald, with a heavy sigh. 
 
 ^Exactly,' cried Mr. Dunsany; 'and it 
 was a fine manly thing of you to dash in as 
 you did, my dear lad, and endeavour to save 
 a lady's character, which was being roughly 
 handled. Only, like most other spirited and 
 inexperienced persons, you went too far, and 
 you proved too much. Why the deuce couldn't 
 you content yourself Avitli vindicating Miss 
 
DESPAIR. 265 
 
 Pierrepoint's character, ^\ithout asserting that 
 she is your affianced ^vife?' 
 
 ' I said so because it is the fact,' said Ger- 
 ald quietly. 
 
 ' The devil it is !' cried ^Ir. Dunsany with 
 a long whistle ; adding, after a little pause, 
 ' that quite alters the case. You should have 
 told me that before you asked me my opinion.' 
 
 ' It was scarcely a subject you would have 
 expected me to joke upon,' said Gerald. 
 
 * Xo,' said Dunsany, ' not to joke ; but 
 when a point is stretched here it may easily 
 be stretched there. However, it's no use for 
 us to be beatino' about the bush in this wav. 
 You sa}' you are utterly miserable. I have 
 been your chum as yet, and, as a man who is 
 older than you, and has had much more expe- 
 rience of the world, I want to see what can 
 be done to help you.' 
 
 ' Xothino; can be done ' said Gerald mood- 
 ily; 'nothing.' 
 
 ' Bah, nothmg !' said Mr. Dunsany. ' Xow 
 let us see how the land hes. You say you are 
 engaged to Miss Pierrepoint ?' 
 
266 CASTAWAY. 
 
 ' AYell, not exactly engaged. I have asked 
 her to become my wife.' 
 
 ' And she has not replied?' 
 
 ' Xot exactly.' 
 
 ' Faith, that's a line sort of engagement/ 
 said Mr. Dunsany ; ' like my countrymen's 
 reciprocity, all on one side.' 
 
 ' What I mean is, she has not replied in so 
 many words,' said Gerald ; ' but there is no 
 doubt of her understanding the offer I made 
 her, and of her accepting it — unfortunately.' 
 
 ' And why unfortunately ?' 
 
 ' Do you ask me that after having heard 
 Mr. Snick's story?' 
 
 ' To the devil with ^Ir. Snick and his 
 story,' said Mr. Dunsany. ' When did you lay 
 your title and lands at Miss Pierrcpoint's feet ?' 
 
 ' I asked her to become my wife to-night, 
 not half an hour before I met you.' 
 
 ' To-night!' echoed Mr. Dunsany. 'And you 
 are grizzhng your head off because she chose to 
 meet somebod}^ a few nights ago.' 
 
 ' But she knew that I was fond of her 
 then,' pleaded Gerald. 
 
DESPAIR. 267 
 
 ' Knew that you were fond of her ! A 
 young lady of her beauty and powers of fasci- 
 nation must know that there are hundreds of 
 men who are fond of her, but she cannot be 
 expected to reserve her hand for any one in 
 particular, unless he asks for it.' 
 
 ' Xo, certainly, but — ' 
 
 ' But me no buts, as I have no doubt Ha}*- 
 ward says in his five-act tragedy, which Miss 
 Pierrepoint would not play. Seriously, Gerald, 
 you are making a donkey of yourself Instead 
 of being ready to jump out of your skin with 
 delight at the fact of being about to be mar- 
 ried to one of the prettiest and cleverest yomig 
 women possibly to be met with, you are croon- 
 ing over a cock-and-bull story of her having 
 met some one else some time before }'ou did 
 her the honour to propose to her.' 
 
 ' There is something in what you say,' said 
 Gerald, brightening a little. 
 
 ^ Something ! There is more than you will 
 ever be able to compass, unless your mind 
 expands a great deal, and that's not likely 
 now that you are going away from us, and 
 
268 CASTA IVAK 
 
 you will lose the chance of my tuition. Be- 
 sides, take mv word for it, that meetino^ was 
 not exactly as it was represented by that old 
 Snick, who is a malevolent little wretch, and 
 would put the worst construction on anything. 
 Even you must have sense enough to see that 
 Miss Pierrepoint is not the sort of woman 
 likely to allow herself to be mixed up in any 
 compromising affair.' 
 
 ' I am afraid there is no question about 
 the meeting,' said Gerald doubtfully. 
 
 'No,' said Dunsany; 'but granted that a 
 meeting took place, the whole force of it, for 
 good or for evil, depends upon the person 
 whom she met.' 
 
 ' It was a man,' said Gerald. 
 
 ' Xo doubt,' said Dunsany; 'even Snick is 
 not idiot enouo-h to make a mistake in that. 
 But, as I said before, Miss Pierrepomt is not 
 the sort of person to make promiscuous assig- 
 nations, and you may take your oath that this 
 man was her father, her brother, or something 
 of that kind.' 
 
 ' She never spoke to me of any of her rela- 
 
DESPAIR. 269 
 
 tions, except the sister who lives with her,' 
 said Gerald. 
 
 ' The very reason Avhy she would be more 
 likely to meet them in secret,' said Dmisany. 
 ' When you have known a little more of the 
 profession, my dear Gerald, you will find there 
 are numbers of persons in it, especially the 
 female members, who have relations whom 
 they are very shy of noticing in public. 
 Thus, for instance, Miss Montmorency has 
 picked up a bit of education here and there, 
 has a fine fissure and a o^ood voice, and is lead- 
 ing lady on the Worcester circuit \ Avhile her 
 papa, who is not called ^lontmorency at all, 
 but Glubb, keeps a small shop or shed in the 
 Xew Cut. Her line is light comedy, his is 
 onions and coke. Depend upon it, something 
 of that sort is the case in this instance, and 
 you will be very good friends with the old 
 gentleman some da}', and let him supply the 
 Wallsends when vou settle in town.' 
 
 ' Snick said it was a tall man,' said Gerald. 
 
 ' There is no particular reason that I know 
 of whv a father should not be tall,' said Dun- 
 
2 70 CASTAWAY, 
 
 sany, ' thoiigli most of them do run short and 
 broad. However, this might be the brother, 
 the Wife's Secret business. You recollect the 
 play? A brother who has come to grief, 
 and is in hiding, and comes to visit his sister 
 secretly, and is suspected by the husband to 
 be her lover. Just our story, by George ! 
 Perhaps Miss Pierrepoint's brother has come 
 to grief, frisked the till, or climbed up behind 
 somebody's back on a bill-stamp, or some in- 
 genious little proceeding of that nature, and 
 is keeping out of the way. Depend upon it, it 
 is something of that kind. Xow finish your 
 grog, and get off to bed easy in your mind; 
 you are sure to find it all right in the morning.' 
 
 ' I shall go round and call upon her the 
 first thing,' said Gerald. 
 
 ' Do,' said Mr. Dunsany. ' So long as you 
 have a good sleep to-night you may do what 
 you please to-morrow. Well,' he muttered to 
 himself, looking after the young man's depart- 
 ing figure, ' I hope Fm right ; I do not think 
 the girl is the sort to play double, particularly 
 with such a frank, honest nature as his. But, 
 
DESPAIR. 271 
 
 even if it comes to the worst, I have postponed 
 his misery twelve hours, and it was worth 
 while sitting up a little later and drinking an 
 extra srlass of s^roo; to do that.' 
 
 ' And what is the matter with my Susan ?' 
 said ^Ir. Dunsany, coming down to breakfast 
 the next morning and meeting Miss Cave on 
 the staircase. ' Has she come to say that 
 she can conceal her passion for her Mike no 
 longer ? And has she a carriage and four 
 outside waiting to convey him to the village 
 church ?' 
 
 ' Get along with you, do, Dunsany,' said 
 Miss Cave, grinning. ' I was not looking for 
 you, but for Mr. Hardinge.' 
 
 ' As I tapped at Mr. Hardinge's door just 
 now, he roared out that he was in his batli,' 
 said Dunsany ; ' consequently he is not in a 
 position to meet my Susan's gaze.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I will oive this letter to vou 
 to take to him. It's from ^liss Pierrepoint, 
 and important I am sure, because she begged 
 me to bring it to him myself.' 
 
272 CASTA WAV. 
 
 ' Right }'ou arc,' said Dunsany. And lie 
 took the letter to Gerald, whom he found in 
 his dressing-gown. Gerald turned very pale 
 when he saw the writing. 
 
 ' It's from Madge,' he said. 
 
 ' I know it,' said Dunsany. ' Miss Cave 
 told me; open it now. It's all right, depend 
 upon it.' 
 
 Gerald opened the letter and read it 
 throu2:h. Then tossing; it to his friend, he 
 fell back in his chair, and buried his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 ' My poor dear fellow, what can be the 
 matter?' said Dunsany. Then casting his eye 
 over the letter, added, ' By George ! old Snick 
 was right after all.' 
 
 EJST) OF BOOK THE FIKST. 
 
 LON'DON: R02SON AND SO>'S, PRIXTERS, PAXCKAS KOAD, N.W. 
 
UNIVERSmr OP ILLINOtS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 056551424 
 
 
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