L I E) RA R.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 323 
 
 G_1,99m 
 v.l
 
 MAURICE DURANT,
 
 Maurice Durant. 
 
 CHARLES GARVICE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "ONLY COUNTRY LOVE," " EVE," &C. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 A. SMITH, 334, STRAND, W.C. 
 
 1875.
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED BY BEVERIDGE AND CO. 
 
 fulwood's rents, HOLBORN,
 
 v.l. 
 
 TO 
 
 HENRY IRVING, 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 WARMEST ADMIRATION 
 
 AND ESTEEM.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Prefaces are out of date, but I may- 
 be permitted, here, to state that this Novel 
 of Incident was written some years ago when 
 the Author's acquaintance with the world, 
 the flesh, and His Satanic Majesty was small 
 in degree and imaginative in quality. The 
 story was first published in a periodical, and, 
 notwithstanding its too palpable inconsis- 
 tencies and crudity, obtained a fair share of 
 success. That success is the cause of its 
 republication in this form. While reading 
 the proofs for this edition I attempted to
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 prune and revise ; but the attempt proved, 
 at the outset, that the wiser course would be 
 to resign the imperfect whole to the critics, 
 who, in their tenderness for all things young 
 — not to say vernal — may, perchance, temper 
 justice with mercy. 
 
 CHARLES GARVICE. 
 
 The Retreat, Cookham, 
 Aug. 24TH, 1875.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know. 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good ; 
 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 What need is there to describe Grassmere ? 
 Who does not know it, with its half dozen 
 rustic houses, handful of farms, irregular cluster 
 of cottages, old, time-eaten church, rotting pil- 
 lory and rusty stocks ; its bright, silver stream, 
 tall, regal trees, green-robed valleys, and heather- 
 covered hills ; and, lastly, its ancient, stately 
 Hall and moss-grown Rectory ? 
 
 Our English rural villages are very much 
 
 alike, and between Grassmere and any other 
 
 of the thousand and one English hamlets there 
 
 is but little or no difference. Perhaps it 
 
 B
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 might boast — for every village, no matter how 
 small, boasts of something — of its old Hall and 
 of the ancient blood of the people who held it, 
 and in doing so it would not be vaunting with- 
 out cause, for Chichester Hall was a noble pile, 
 honoured by age and a perfect halo of historic 
 memories. 
 
 Artists travelled far and from all corners of 
 the civilised world to gaze ecstatically upon 
 its antique beauties, and transfer its left wing, 
 right wing, and its noble fagade to their bulky 
 sketch books. The greatest poet of the day 
 had visited it and made it the scene of one of 
 his greatest songs ; and antiquarians, when dis- 
 cussing its age, beauties, and history, were wont 
 to grow eloquent and declare that it was the 
 purest specimen of old English mansions. 
 
 With all this to back them the Grassmerians 
 may be excused in looking upon their Hall as 
 the greatest piece of glory in brick and stone 
 under the sun. 
 
 The present owner of the Hall, Sir Fielding
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 3 
 
 Chichester, was as proud of the majestic pile 
 as the villagers who dwelt outside its gates. 
 He loved every inch of it, from musty cellar 
 to carven chimney-stack, and could have told, 
 had he chosen to do so, its whole history, from 
 the day when Luke Chichester laid the huge 
 foundation stone with his own hands — which 
 were scarcely cleansed of the blood spent in 
 the late wars of King Charles the Unfortunate 
 — to the present time, when its grim walls and 
 corridors were lightened by crimson damask 
 and statuary, and the sunlight of peaceful hap- 
 piness shone through its stained windows. 
 
 But Sir Fielding Chichester would not have 
 chosen to have told it, for he spoke but little, 
 and then only of his books, for Sir Fielding 
 lived and had his being only in the spacious 
 library of the Hall. There you could find him 
 almost the whole day through, and very often 
 all night. There, between four high book-lined 
 walls, the owner of a vast and beautiful estate, 
 the possessor of an ancient name and an enor- 
 B 2
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 mous county influence, the father of a hand- 
 some, noble-hearted son and lovely daughter, 
 spent his life. It was his world ; in no other 
 air save that filled with the odour of Russia 
 leather and time-stained parchment could he 
 breathe happily. In nothing but the absolute 
 silence of the vast library, with its double doors 
 and thickly painted windows, could he be at 
 ease, and in no friend — not even in his beloved 
 children — could he find that comfort and com- 
 panionship* which the silent record of the mighty 
 dead opened up to him. 
 
 Yet let not our readers misunderstand the 
 man. He was no mere bookworm, blindly 
 creeping through the mountain of knowledge ; 
 no shrunken student in snuff-stained and 
 neglected attire. No, these almost inevitable 
 consequences of such a life in another man 
 were averted in Sir Fielding Chichester by the 
 old blue blood which kept him, no matter 
 what, in habits a perfect gentleman, even to 
 the tying of his cravat.
 
 MAITRICE DURANT. 5 
 
 Slightly bent, yet still looking tall, with pale 
 face and clear-cut features, keen, bright eyes 
 and lofty forehead, small handed and footed, 
 he could have held his head up in point of 
 aristocratic appearance even with the Charles 
 Chichester whose kingly form shone down from 
 its gilt frame in the picture gallery outside his 
 library door. 
 
 With such ancestors it was little wonder that 
 Chudleigh Chichester should be both distingue 
 looking and handsome. He was of rather 
 larger build than Sir Fielding, with fair hair 
 and dark eyes. That there was a look of firm- 
 ness about the lower part of his face, and an 
 air of thoughtful determination upon the white 
 forehead were matters of congratulation, con- 
 sidering thart the whole care of the estates fell 
 upon his broad shoulders. 
 
 Everything was left to Chudleigh, and had 
 been since he was of an age to understand the 
 steward's books, and the nature of a landlord's 
 duties.
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 He was now twenty-three years old, though 
 looking younger, being fair, good-looking, as 
 we have said, and heart free, save for the affec- 
 tion he bore his father, and the great love he 
 poured out on his sister Maud, the belle of 
 the county, and the object of Grassmere's" 
 adoration. 
 
 We have experienced comparatively little 
 difficulty in describing one small portion of the 
 Chichester family, but as our pen writes 
 " Maud " it falters and stops motionless and 
 powerless to describe the vision of beautiful 
 purity which memory calls up. If we may 
 say that her face was a perfect oval, her eyes 
 dark, deep, and as clear and fine as the dew 
 upon a rose, her mouth perfect and bud-like, 
 and her hair a marvellous shower of silken 
 light, how nearer are we to producing sweet 
 Maud Chichester than when we had merely 
 written her musical name ? 
 
 Maud was nineteen, but as unlike the usual 
 run of girls at that age as it was possible for
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 her to be. Perfectly free from affectation, for 
 she had no female friend to teach it her; with- 
 out an ounce of vanity, she was as open, as 
 pure, and as noble-minded as only a young 
 girl of good birth brought up under such cir- 
 cumstances could be. 
 
 See her as she enters the breakfast room 
 one NDvember morning, clad in a dark morning 
 dress of a deep, rich colour, that serves as 
 a foil to her rich young beauty, her hair brushed 
 from her fair white forehead, and her eyes 
 sparkling with affection as she crosses to the 
 fireplace, against which the tall form of her 
 brother Chudleigh is leaning. 
 
 "Up already, Maud!" he exclaimed, taking 
 her in his arms and lifting her up — unneces- 
 sarily — for a kiss. " I did not expect you for 
 another half-hour." 
 
 " Well, don't look so disappointed, or I will 
 go to bed again," she retorted, with a pout. 
 " Is papa down yet .^" 
 
 " Yes, in the library," replied Chudleigh ; " I
 
 8 CHAPTER I. 
 
 have sent' to tell him the coffee is on the 
 table, but " 
 
 " I will go," said Maud, and with a light 
 step hurried from the room. 
 
 Chudleigh looked after her with a sigh and 
 a sudden cloud across the brow, then resumed 
 the old attitude — a somewhat despondent one 
 — at the fire. 
 
 " Dear Maud, dear Maud," he muttered, 
 " poor Maud — heigh-ho !" 
 
 In a few moments the door opened and the 
 young girl re-entered with Sir Fielding 
 Chichester leaning on her arm. In each hand 
 was a book and in the breast of his waistcoat 
 was a folded paper evidently thrust there in 
 a moment of abstraction, and forgotten. 
 
 " Good morning, Chud, good morning," he 
 exclaimed, in the musical voice that had always 
 belonged to the Chichesters. 
 
 " Good morning, sir," said Chudleigh. 
 
 " Maud, my darling, what do you want with 
 me.?"
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 " Breakfast, you know, papa " 
 
 "Ah, ah, dear me, yes," softly replied the 
 baronet, " of course. How stupid of me. I 
 had forgotten. Dear me, here are Pliny s 
 Letters and the last Essays of the Didactic 
 Society,'' and he looked at the books in his 
 hand. " I — I brought them from the library. 
 Excuse me a moment, Chudleigh, while I 
 take them back," and he moved towards 
 the door. 
 
 Maud rose from her seat hastily — she knew 
 that once in the library again all remembrance 
 of the breakfast would have vanished from 
 Sir Fielding's mind. 
 
 " Let me take them, papa," she said, and 
 with a kiss she took them from Sir Fielding's 
 reluctant hands. 
 
 " Dear me, I had no idea it was snowing," 
 he remarked, walking to the window. " What's 
 the day of the month, Chud .?" 
 
 " Twenty-sixth, sir," said Chudleigh. 
 
 " Twenty-sixth and the Scientific Review not
 
 lO CHAPTER I. 
 
 come yet," exclaimed Sir Fielding, shaking 
 his head, and adding, softly, "very late — very 
 late." 
 
 " The post has not come in yet," remarked 
 Chudleigh. " I'm afraid Markham has some 
 difficulty in driving." 
 
 Markham was the rural postman. 
 
 "Why, Chud, why.?" asked the baronet, 
 dreamily. 
 
 " The roads are so thick with snow — a foot 
 deep round the Hollow." 
 
 " Ah, yes, the snow, dear me, dear me, the 
 snow," murmured Sir Fielding, sinking into 
 his chair by the fire. " Have you been out 
 this morning.?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Chudleigh, " to see Giles. 
 He is rather behindhand with his rent. New- 
 born could do nothing with him, so I thought 
 I'd walk over and see into it." 
 
 " Dear me," said the baronet, with perfect 
 indifference, "and what does he say, Chud, 
 what does he say.?"
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 " The usual story. Everything gone wrong, 
 crops short, the hay queer, mouth disease, 
 and — oh, every mishap under the sun, of 
 course. I was going to ask you what I am 
 to do." 
 
 " My dear Chud, what is the use of asking 
 me.^" exclaimed the baronet, with mild sur- 
 prise, '* for you know I never interfere in any 
 way with anything. I assure you I didn't even 
 know that Giles was in arrears. I leave it 
 to you, Chud, I leave it to you." 
 
 And the father wheeled his chair round 
 towards the table with the air of having washed 
 his hands of the subject. 
 
 The son sighed and his brows wrinkled as 
 he looked at the serene face. 
 
 For a moment he was silent, then, drawing 
 his chair towards the table, he balanced his 
 knife thoughtfully, and with his face still 
 troubled said : 
 
 " You know how sorry I always am to 
 trouble you on business matters, sir, but I'm
 
 12 CHAPTER I. 
 
 afraid I must ask you to go over a few things 
 with me after breakfast." 
 
 "Yes, yes, after breakfast, dear Chud, after 
 breakfast," repeated Sir Fielding, catching 
 eagerly at the postponement. 
 
 The next moment the door opened and 
 Maud re-entered with a letter-bag in her hand. 
 
 " Here's the post at last, Chud," she said. 
 Now, papa, let me see. Here are the papers, 
 your beloved Quarterly, the Didactic Report, 
 and a catalogue from Northeran's. Those for 
 you. Chud, here are your letters, and what 
 do you think } — one from Aunt Mildred for 
 me." 
 
 Chudleigh looked up with a smile, but not 
 a very interested air, for he had already com- 
 menced the perusal of a pile of envelopes, and 
 the baronet took no notice whatever, for he 
 was lost in the contents of the Quarterly. 
 
 For a few minutes there was silence, broken 
 only by the trickling of the coffee into the cups 
 and the occasional play of Chudleigh's knife
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 3 
 
 and fork, but suddenly Maud looked up with 
 a pleased smile upon her beautiful face, and 
 said : 
 
 " Papa, Chud, what do you think ?" 
 
 Chud threw down his letters at once, and 
 looked up all attention. 
 
 " Nothing. What do you .?" 
 
 " Aunt Mildred's coming here, and going to 
 bring some one with her." 
 
 " Bring some one with her ? Whom ?" asked 
 Chud. 
 
 " A companion," answered Maud. " Oh, how 
 delightful. Listen, it's quite romantic : 
 
 *** You remember me telling you of a Captain 
 Lawley, who has been staying in Paris for some 
 months. He is dead, my dear. Is it not 
 shocking ? He was shot in some wicked duel 
 or other, and has left his daughter Carlotta, 
 the beautiful girl I wrote to you about, you 
 remember, — an orphan on the wide, wide world. 
 Poor girl. She is so charming, so very charm- 
 ing, my dear Maud. You will be delighted
 
 14 CHAPTER I. 
 
 with hen' Dear Aunt Mildred. She rather 
 puzzled me, Chud, but a postscript explains 
 it. ' We are coming over to England at once, 
 as Paris is a painful locality, of course, for 
 dear Carlotta. You have no idea how bravely 
 she bears everything, for Captain Lawley left 
 her penniless, and I had a hard struggle 
 in persuading her from going into the world 
 as a governess. Dreadful, is it not, my 
 dear Maud > However, everything is settled 
 now, and she is coming with me as. my com- 
 panion. We expect to reach London by the 
 first of December, so that if you will kindly 
 ask Chud to have the goodness to see to the 
 cottage ' " 
 
 " First of December ! " exclaimed Chudleigh, 
 quickly. "Phew! Just like Aunt Mildred. 
 How on earth am I to get the cottage ready 
 in a week.?" and he rose from the table and 
 walked to the window thoughtfully. 
 
 He could see the little cottage which his 
 Aunt Mildred had occupied since her husband,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 5 
 
 Sir Wilford Gordon, had died ; indeed, from 
 where he stood he could scan the whole village 
 and most of the outlying houses — from the 
 deserted Rectory, an old moss-grown mansion, 
 tenantless for years, with a history mysterious 
 and gloomy, to the great red-brick mon- 
 strosity which a self-made Manchester man 
 had erected on the borders of the Chichester 
 Park. 
 
 Lady Mildred's cottage, a pretty, rustic little 
 box, just suited to her means, which were not 
 very abundant, was about a quarter of an 
 hour's walk from the Hall, and on a level with 
 the dreary Rectory surrounded by its belt of 
 thickly-planted trees, which seemed to over- 
 shadow the little church and all round it, like 
 an army of giants with weird arms and clenched 
 hands. 
 
 *' I must ride over to Armsthorpe at once," 
 said Chudleigh, returning to the table. 
 
 " Oh, yes, do, Chud," exclaimed Maud. " We 
 must have the cottage ready for Aunt Mildred.
 
 1 6 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Isn't it delightful, a companion, and such a 
 charming one? I am sure I shall like her if 
 she is anything half so nice as aunt describes 
 her. Poor girl. Think, papa ! her father killed 
 in a duel and she left in a strange country 
 without any money or friends excepting aunt. 
 Oh, my heart is wrung for her ! If she will 
 let me, I will love her — that I will. Chud, 
 you will make the cottage very nice, will you 
 not ? — very nice ! Oh, Chud, let me come over 
 to Armsthorpe with you ; I can help you — 
 I'm sure I can. I can choose different things, 
 and Oh, Chud, what is the matter.?" 
 
 For Chud, who had been reading a letter in 
 his hand, had suddenly started to his feet with 
 an exclamation, whether of surprise or anxiety 
 it was difficult to say. 
 
 " Eh, what's the matter, Chud ?'' asked Sir 
 Fielding, glancing up from his Quarterly. 
 "What's the matter.?" 
 
 «< N — nothing, sir," said Chudleigh, sitting 
 down again, and placing the letter in his
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1/ 
 
 pocket. " Now, Maud, you want to go with 
 me to Armsthorpe, so you shall ; go and get 
 ready. I don't see how the cottage is to be 
 prepared in time for Lady Mildred. Let me 
 see — the twenty-sixth — no, I don't think it can 
 be done." 
 
 " Then," said Maud eagerly, " let us have 
 them here, papa." 
 
 " Of course, if your aunt will come, my 
 dear," said Sir Fielding. " Of course, of 
 course." 
 
 " I will write at once," said Maud. " Now, 
 Chud, you need not be in such a hurry about 
 the cottage— the longer the better. Another 
 cup of coffee before I go, papa. Chud ? " 
 
 " No more, my darling," said Sir Fielding, 
 and Chud had risen and walked to the window 
 again. 
 
 So, holding the welcome letter in her hand, 
 Maud ran from the room. 
 
 Chudleigh walked to the door, and held the 
 handle. 
 
 c
 
 r8 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Sir Fielding looked up, and actually shuffled 
 in his chair. 
 
 " Well, Chud," he commenced, thinking it best 
 to make a virtue of necessity, " you want to 
 go over something with me, eh ? I don't know 
 what for, I am sure ; for if it's anything of a 
 muddle, it will be twenty times more muddled 
 if I have anything to do with it. Figures, my 
 dear Chud, were never my forte — never," and 
 the baronet shook his head with mild em- 
 phasis. 
 
 His son came up to his chair, and leaning 
 over him, put his hand upon his shoulder. 
 
 The baronet looked up with apprehensive 
 astonishment, for Chudleigh was not usually 
 demonstrative, and there was a meaning in his 
 half-caressing grasp. 
 
 " What is it, Chud .? " he said. 
 
 " Bad news, sir," repHed Chudleigh gravely, 
 taking the letter from his pocket and hold- 
 ing it out to his father. " Will you read that, 
 sir > "
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I9 
 
 " No, no ; you read — you tell me, Chud. Oh, 
 from Norton and Read it seems by the look of 
 it, and I never can read lawyers' writing. Tell 
 me what is in it," said Sir Fielding, passing his 
 white hand across his smooth forehead with a 
 weary gesture. 
 
 Chudleigh opened the letter. 
 
 " There is not much to tell, sir," he said 
 gravely. " Norton has received notice that Mr. 
 Hassell intends foreclosing the mortgage." 
 
 Sir Fielding Chichester started, and his hand 
 dropped from his forehead. 
 
 " What ! " he said breathlessly. " Give me 
 the letter." 
 
 Chudleigh gave it him. 
 
 " Norton writes as if there were no loophole 
 left, and does not forget to remind you that the 
 estate, having deteriorated, is not worth the sum 
 advanced. I — I " 
 
 Sir Fielding, who had not been listening to 
 him, dropped the letter from his hand and 
 staggered to his feet. 
 
 C 2
 
 20 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Chud ! " he said, drawing a long breath, " we 
 are ruined ! " and uttering a groan, he leant his 
 arm on the mantelpiece and buried his face 
 in it. 
 
 The son said nothing, but the twitching of the 
 lip and sudden pallor proclaimed how great a 
 struggle the calmness cost him. 
 
 There was a dead silence, in which the ticking 
 of the antique bronze timepiece with its figure 
 of the inexorable Father crushing down the 
 minutes with a sweep of his deadly scythe, 
 sounded harsh and foreboding. 
 
 Suddenly a burst of music floated into the 
 room, and a girl's clear voice rang out joy- 
 fully from the room above in some simple 
 ballad. 
 
 The father started as if he had been struck — 
 the brother hid his face in his hands and 
 groaned. 
 
 "Oh, Heaven — my Maud, my Maud!" 
 breathed Sir Fielding, all the books in his 
 heart turned out to make place for his dar-
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 21 
 
 ling, " My poor child ! Chud, what shall 
 we do ? " 
 
 " Ay, what shall we do ? that is the question," 
 said Chudleigh, catching eagerly at the escape 
 from the dread apathetic despair and drawing 
 himself up to his full height. " Bear up, 
 sir ; all is not lost yet. Surely there is some 
 one " 
 
 Sir Fielding raised his head, startling Chud- 
 leigh at sight of his face, which looked ten years 
 older than when he had seen it last. 
 
 " Some one ! ay, but where ? No, no, Chud ; 
 I have no friends now. I have been living out 
 of the world for nearly twenty years. Once," 
 and he walked to the window, Chudleigh follow- 
 ing him — ** once," raising his hand and pointing 
 it for a second at the tall, crumbling chimneys 
 of the Rectory, '* there would have been refuge, 
 for no Durant ever closed his hand against a 
 Chichester, nor a Chichester ever denied a 
 Durant. But," and he sighed with a world of 
 mournfulness, *' where is a Durant now ? No,
 
 22 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Chudleigh, that was our only chance ; but you 
 know how utterly that is lost to us." 
 
 And once more the baronet, gazing at the 
 deserted house, sighed wearily and with utter 
 hopelessness.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Grace was in all her steps, heaven in her eye, 
 In every gesture dignity and love." — Milton, 
 
 The first of December had arrived, and with 
 it Lady Mildred, covered in furs, and accom- 
 panied by her friend and companion, Carlotta 
 Lawley. 
 
 Chudleigh had been compelled to go to town 
 the preceding day to see the family solicitor, 
 and had not returned when her ladyship arrived, 
 so that Sir Fielding and Maud did the honours 
 of the house — Maud with some little shyness 
 and reserve, for Miss Lawley had taken her by 
 surprise. She had expected to see a beautiful 
 and accomplished girl from her aunt's purposely 
 obscure description, but the portrait her imagina-
 
 24 CHAPTER II. 
 
 tion had drawn fell so far short of the reality, 
 that she was startled and surprised. 
 
 To say that Carlotta Lawley was beautiful 
 was to assert but little. She was more proud 
 and more bewitching than charming. Taller 
 than Maud, a brilliant brunette, with dark, 
 piercing eyes that shone like a jewel, or a 
 gipsy's — a graceful form, almost queenly in its 
 bearing, and a mouth that rivalled Cleopatra's 
 in its coral-like curves and fulness — she was 
 indeed what the best Parisian judges of woman's 
 looks had called her — superb. 
 
 Beside Maud's fresh, fair loveliness her beauty 
 shone to its greatest advantage, and Sir Field- 
 ing, who came from his dream-world with all the 
 Chichester courtliness to welcome her, muttered 
 a half audible note of admiration, which it was 
 well for Carlotta's vanity did not reach her ear. 
 
 She was very quiet — naturally, thought Maud 
 — but expressed her admiration of the grand old 
 house with such fervour as to win Sir Fielding's 
 and Maud's love immediately.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 2$ 
 
 Said Maud, stopping before an open door 
 through which a small sitting-room could be 
 seen : 
 
 " These rooms are Chudleigh's. Oh, I forgot 
 to tell you," she exclaimed, in answer to the 
 look of interrogation on Carlotta's face. " Chud- 
 leigh is my brother. He is so good — so kind. 
 We all of us lean on him. Papa is — is very 
 busy in the library, you know, always, and 
 everything is left to Chud. And everything 
 fares well too. Oh, you must like Chudleigh." 
 
 " I am sure I shall if he resembles you in the 
 slightest," murmured Carlotta. 
 
 " He went to London on business yesterday, 
 but he will be back to dinner, I hope. You 
 must let him take you all over the Hall — I 
 mean in the closed-up rooms you know. He 
 can tell you the history of every room." 
 
 *' If he will take so much trouble, I shall only 
 be too grateful," said Carlotta. " I am fond of 
 old houses and their histories." 
 
 " And now you must come and see my room,"
 
 26 CHAPTER II. 
 
 she said, winding her arm round her new 
 friend's waist, and leading her into the Httle 
 rose-coloured boudoir and bed-chamber, which 
 was honoured by the title of "Miss Maud's." 
 " Do you like them ? If you do, you shall have 
 them while you stay — and I wish that may be 
 for ever." 
 
 " Do you ? " said Carlotta, leaning down with 
 a sudden moisture in her dark eyes, her voice 
 ringing tremulously musical — more musical than 
 Maud had ever heard or thought it possible for 
 a voice to be. " So do I ! How very kind you 
 are ! You must forgive me if I seem somewhat 
 cold ; until I knew Lady Mildred I never 
 experienced such goodness." 
 
 And the lips quivered slightly, although the 
 eyes lit up with a mournful smile. 
 
 Maud drew her closer to her. 
 
 " You must not say such things ; I am not 
 kind. It seems so ridiculous to hear you say 
 that to me." And she laughed merrily as 
 she glanced at the grand beauty of the
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 2/ 
 
 Other, against which she looked so fresh and 
 childlike. 
 
 " It's you who must be good to me. You will 
 try and love me, won't you } I love you 
 already." 
 
 Again the dark eyes filled with tears, but the 
 lips said nothing as she stooped to kiss her. 
 
 " And now you must rest after your journey. 
 See, I will make up the fire and cover you up 
 with these furs. Then, while I go and see 
 whether Aunt Mildred is comfortable, you can 
 have a quiet sleep." 
 
 Carlotta Lawley laughed a low, musical 
 laugh. 
 
 " Sleep ! " she said. " I could not. I am not 
 tired. You do not know how much I have 
 travelled in my short life, or you would not 
 think me worn out by a short trip from Paris 
 I once journeyed from Siberia, night and day, 
 and had but six hours' sleep the whole time." 
 
 Maud gazed at her with something approach- 
 ing awe.
 
 28 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " Siberia ! Oh, dear me ! what a great deal 
 you will have to tell me ! " she said, with a 
 quiet delight, but added suddenly, " but perhaps 
 you won't tell me ? " 
 
 "Yes, I will tell you everything," replied 
 Carlotta, "nearly everything." 
 
 Meanwhile Lady Mildred — a good-natured 
 lady, loved and respected by all, who bore 
 about her the Chichester characteristics in 
 features and manner — was narrating to her 
 brother the history — or rather what little she 
 knew of it— of Carlotta and her father, Captain 
 Lawley. 
 
 Womanlike, she of course commenced the 
 conversation by asking Sir Fielding what he 
 thought of her new companion. 
 
 " She is majestic," he said, " Oriental in her 
 beauty. What a woman her mother must have 
 been ! Who was she .? " 
 
 " No one knows," said Lady Mildred. " Cap- 
 tain Lawley had been a widower for years, so 
 it is said. He was a strange man, Fielding
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 29 
 
 such a very strange man — very handsome. 
 Carlotta has her father's eyes, and his hair too." 
 
 " What was he .? " said Sir Fielding. 
 
 " Ah, that too no one knows. He had 
 travelled a great deal. He had been to — oh, I 
 don't know where — every country you can men- 
 tion. He could speak every language on the 
 face of the earth, I think. I have heard him 
 scold an Arab who used to bring us flowers in 
 Paris in pure Arabic." 
 
 " Eh, how do you know it was pure } " asked 
 Sir Fielding, with a quiet smile, not half attend- 
 ing to her. 
 
 " Oh — ahem ! — how absurd, Fielding ! How 
 do I know it was pure ,? Why, how could the 
 man have understood him if it hadn't been ? 
 Ah, he was a strange character ! So gentle- 
 manly, he looked a lord ; but — well, very wild, I 
 think. There were stories about a Russian 
 princess, an escapade at court, and a dismissal ; 
 but people will talk, you know, and tell such 
 stories too. Anyway, everybody said that some-
 
 30 CHAPTER II. 
 
 thing had happened in some court or other, and 
 that Captain Lawley was a ruined man. I never 
 will believe he was an adventurer. No one who 
 could bow as he did could be an adventurer." 
 
 " Hem ! " said Sir Fielding. " And what 
 about the duel ? " 
 
 " Ah, was not that sad ? " said Lady Mildred, 
 throwing up her hands. " Ah, it was dreadful ! 
 I don't know what it was about — never could 
 find out. Some said that it was a gambling 
 affair ; but there again, you see, reports are so 
 untrue. Poor Captain Lawley ! I am sure I 
 was as grieved as if he'd been my own brother 
 when they told me that he was shot through the 
 breast — through the heart. Fielding — think of 
 that ! " 
 
 " And this poor girl is utterly penniless," said 
 Sir Fielding, " eh, utterly penniless, didn't you 
 say .? " 
 
 " Hasn't a penny in the world. Shocking, is 
 it not, with such doubtful antecedents and no 
 fortune ? Poor Carlotta ! "
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 3 1 
 
 Then the conversation ended by Sir Fielding 
 getting up in an abstracted manner and walking 
 dreamily out of the room, of course in the direc- 
 tion of the library. Lady Mildred, who was too 
 used to her brother's queer ways to be offended, 
 then sought her dressing-room. 
 
 Two hours afterwards the four met in the 
 oaken dining-room. 
 
 Chudleigh had not arrived, and Sir Fielding, 
 as he stood at the head of the table, pulled out 
 his watch with an anxious look. 
 
 " Chudleigh is late," he said. ** Had he any 
 commission from you, Maud .? " 
 
 " No," said Maud, from where she was sitting 
 beside Carlotta, who was dressed in deep mourn- 
 ing, that set off her clear skin to perfection. 
 " No ; he said he should not have time to do 
 more than buy some books for you at Chester's, 
 papa." 
 
 " Ah, ah," said Sir Fielding, sighing, " I'm 
 afraid he hasn't been able to get the books. 
 They were very scarce. An old copy of
 
 32 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ' Marcus Aurelius ' and a marginal ' Ovid,' my 
 dear Miss Lawley, a marginal ' Ovid ! ' " 
 
 " That must be very scarce," said Carlotta 
 quietly. " I have only seen one, and that was 
 at Lorenzo Bardolphus's." 
 
 " Eh," exclaimed Sir Fielding eagerly. 
 " Have you been over Lorenzo's library ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said simply. " I have spent days 
 there." 
 
 " Dear me, dear me," said Sir Fielding, for- 
 getting the soup which had just been brought 
 in, and Lady Mildred's plate which was being 
 held beside him. 
 
 "I envy you, I envy you. Lorenzo Bar- 
 dolphus's library, and you saw the * Ovid ! ' 
 Perhaps you saw that old tractate of Gregory's. 
 I heard he had a copy." 
 
 " My dear Carlotta, don't say a word more," 
 interrupted Lady Mildred, " or I shall never get 
 any soup." 
 
 Maud laughed. 
 
 " Soup ! Dear me, yes," said Sir Fielding.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 33 
 
 " You will tell me about Lorenzo's after 
 dinner, will you not, Miss Lawley ? After 
 dinner ! Yes, yes." 
 
 Before Carlotta's " Yes " had died upon her 
 lips, the door opened, and Chudleigh entered. 
 He started at seeing the beautiful girl at his 
 sister's side ; for, like every one else, her loveli- 
 ness took him by surprise. And she, Carlotta, 
 was, on her part, somewhat startled ; for, from 
 Maud's description, she had drawn for herself 
 the picture of a little, undersized man, rather 
 poor-looking, very business-like, and wholly 
 unprepossessing, whereas Chudleigh Chichester, 
 as he stood in evening dress, with the glow of 
 exercise upon his handsome face, looked none 
 of these. 
 
 Sir Fielding looked up anxiously, trying 
 to read, if he could, his son's tidings from his 
 face. Then, discovering nothing, and smother- 
 ing a sigh, he introduced him to Carlotta, 
 Maud making room for her brother between 
 them. 
 
 D
 
 34 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " I didn't hear you come in^ Chud," said Sir 
 Fielding, 
 
 " I walked up the avenue/' said Chud. Then, 
 turning to Carlotta, he added, " You have had a 
 cold and wearisome journey } " 
 
 " A little," she said, answering the kindly 
 regard of his great, honest eyes, in which still 
 lingered a touch of his first admiring surprise — 
 " a little ; we were well wrapped up, were we 
 not, Lady Mildred } " 
 
 " Yes, my dear," said Lady Mildred, " and 
 well taken care of too ; for a gentleman, very 
 good-looking, was exceedingly attentive, and 
 insisted on converting Carlotta and myself into 
 respectable mummies with waterproofs and 
 shawls, besides bringing us hot soup and coffee 
 every five minutes. Of course Martha was too 
 ill to move." 
 
 Martha was Lady Mildred's maid. 
 
 " A right courteous gentleman. Do you 
 know his name ? " 
 
 " We did hear it, but I have forgotten it,"
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 35 
 
 said her ladyship. " Do you remember, Car- 
 lotta ? " 
 
 " No, I do not. I heard some one address 
 him as the Honourable Mr. something, and that 
 was all. He was very kind." 
 
 Chudleigh looked round from his soup at the 
 pale, grand face, and wondered how under the 
 circumstances any one could be otherwise. 
 
 " Let me send you some snipe. Miss Law- 
 ley," said Sir Fielding, glancing at her empty 
 plate. 
 
 But she declined. 
 
 " You are eating nothing," said Maud, with 
 loving reproach. 
 
 " You are tired," said Chudleigh ; " let me 
 give you some wine," and he poured out a glass 
 of port. 
 
 " I do not wonder at her being worn out. 
 She would not lie down even for half an hour, 
 aunt. It was very wrong, was it not .^ " said 
 Maud. 
 
 " Carlotta is very young," said Lady Mildred, 
 
 D 2
 
 36 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " and can afford to be extravagant with her 
 energy. When she gets to my age " 
 
 "My dear Mildred," expostulated Sir Field- 
 ing, in so comically courteous a tone that all 
 laughed, even Carlotta ; and Chudleigh, in 
 whose ears her voice had been ringing since 
 she had first spoken, drank in the low, rippling 
 laughter as one listening to some marvellous 
 music. 
 
 ' A spell seemed to fall over him when she 
 spoke, and towards the close of the dinner he 
 was startled to find himself setting traps to 
 catch her speech, and listening with rapt atten- 
 tion to her low replies. 
 
 " Now Chud and I will have one little bottle," 
 said Sir Fielding, " and then join you in the 
 drawing-room. I must send you to bed early 
 to-night, Miss Lawley, but after to-day you 
 shall do as you like. Chichester Hall is Liberty 
 Hall— eh. Aunt Mildred.? Liberty Hall, eh.?" 
 and the old baronet rubbed his white hands 
 agreeably. " Now, Chud, what of the night ? "
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. ^J 
 
 he said, anxiously, as soon as the door had 
 closed on the ladies, and the old butler had 
 disappeared. 
 
 " Black, sir," he said. " Norton says that for 
 the present nothing can be done ; but he is 
 keeping a careful look-out for a fresh mortgagee, 
 although he fears the estate must be sold." 
 
 Sir Fielding groaned. 
 
 "My poor Chud ! " he said. "This is hard 
 for you — very hard." 
 
 Chudleigh smiled bravely. 
 
 " I can bear it, sir," he said ; then, with a 
 touch of pride : " We Chichesters, sir, are not 
 used to give in easily. I am not an idiot, I 
 hope, and can make my way. As for Maud — 
 there is her mother's money." 
 
 " A mere pittance, Chud, a mere pittance," 
 said Sir Fielding, in a dry voice." 
 
 " Five hundred a year, sir," replied Chud, 
 suppressing a sigh and speaking cheerily. 
 " Five hundred a year is not to be lamented 
 over."
 
 38 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Sir Fielding sighed deeply, and his eyes filled 
 with tears. 
 
 " Maud Chichester with five hundred a year, 
 and the heir to Chichester Hall working for his 
 daily bread ! " he breathed. 
 
 A million others, more deserving men, do, sir," 
 said Chudleigh, eagerly, his face flushing and his 
 hand unconsciously clasping the thin claret glass 
 until the stem snapped. Then he continued, 
 more quietly and with great feeling : " Think of 
 yourself, sir ; you will suffer most. You are 
 not young, not strong, sir, as we are. Your 
 books " 
 
 Sir Fielding winced. 
 
 " Think of myself," he said, in a tone of self- 
 reproach and with a twitching of the lips. " I 
 have been thinking of myself too long, Chud. 
 I might have repaired the hole in the wall if I 
 had buckled to it in earnest. The estate is a 
 large one, and, like a mine, would pay well if it 
 were properly worked. I might at least have 
 made the old Hall safe for you, Chud ; but I
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 39 
 
 have been living a dream-life all these years, 
 shut up like an anchorite between four walls of 
 books — and, oh, Chud, Chud ! though I know it 
 is selfish, I feel the coming loss of my books 
 almost as much as anything," 
 
 And the poor man, so great a student of the 
 great past, so ignorant a novice of the present, 
 bent his face in his hands and groaned again. 
 
 Chudleigh's eyes burnt and he felt choking, 
 but he looked positively stern as, struggling with 
 might and main to suppress his emotion, he 
 said : 
 
 ^ " Bear up, sir, for God's sake, bear up. We 
 will save the books at all cost. Come, sir, to 
 the drawing-room. Of course the women must 
 not know a word of this." 
 
 " Not a word," said Sir Fielding, taking the 
 strong arm held out to him, and father and son 
 walked into the drawing-room.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " There stands the house in solemn gloom, 
 Black as the night and dismal as the tomb." 
 
 " Maud, I am trying to persuade Miss 
 Lawley to accompany me to the village. It 
 is bright over head, crisp under foot, and not 
 too cold. I have offered to play showman 
 to all the dead, brick-and-mortar lions, and 
 see that she does not take cold ; but still she 
 hesitates. Can you throw in a word to weigh 
 down the balance ? " 
 
 So said Chudleigh, leaning against the balus- 
 trade in the great hall, clad in rich garments of 
 seal and Cheviot, and as he spoke he looked up 
 smilingly to where Maud was standing, then at 
 Carlotta, who, book in hand, stood at the open 
 door of the drawing-room.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 41 
 
 " Liberty Hall, Liberty Hall," said Maud, her 
 soft, bright face lit up with a smile. " You can 
 trust yourself to his guidance, Carlotta, if you 
 care to go. He is very safe, and will not let you 
 slip." 
 
 " I am not afraid of slipping," replied Carlotta, 
 quietly ; " but," she continued, with a smile, 
 " shall I not be troubling you } " 
 
 " I have won," said Chudleigh, eagerly. " If 
 that is your only objection you can go and get 
 your bonnet at once. But — don't let me take 
 you away from your book by force," he said, 
 suddenly, a doubt seizing him whether she really 
 cared to go or not. 
 
 " I should like to go very much, if I should 
 not trouble you." 
 
 So they went, walking side by side down the 
 avenue and across the park into the clear, frost- 
 bound road that led to the village. 
 
 " Now for the lions," said Chudleigh. '' You 
 see that red house on the hill there ? Guess 
 what it is."
 
 42 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " I cannot," she said. " It is very ugly. The 
 workhouse." 
 
 Chudleigh laughed. 
 
 " Oh, capital," he said, enjoyingly. " I must 
 tell that to Sir Fielding. He will love you to 
 the end of his days. That is Gregson's Folly, 
 built by a Manchester millionaire, named Greg- 
 son. His grounds border upon the park ; but 
 we see very little of the family, as my father has 
 taken umbrage at the close proximity of Greg- 
 son's palatial dwelling-place." 
 
 " A millionaire ? " said Carlotta, gazing, as it 
 seemed to her companion, with sudden interest 
 at the ugly monstrosity, 
 
 "Ay, a millionaire," said Chudleigh, with a 
 touch of sadness in his deep voice. " It is a 
 grand title, is it not .? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, and, to his surprise, a deep 
 gravity came into her voice and eyes. " Yes ; 
 wealth is the grandest thing in this world." 
 
 For a moment he was too astonished to reply. 
 He found it difficult to believe that the sweet.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 43 
 
 pure lips could have uttered such an assertion ; 
 then he said, earnestly : 
 
 " I do not think so. And — you will pardon 
 me — I am astonished to hear you say so. Ah ! 
 you were sarcastic ? " 
 
 " No, I was not," she said, simply. " You 
 have never been acquainted with poverty ; I 
 have. A lion in a story book and face to face 
 in a huge forest are two different things." 
 
 He looked at her, and would have replied, 
 but a something about her lips stopped him. 
 
 " Has he any children ? " she said. 
 
 "Yes, two daughters and a son," said Chud- 
 leigh. " We don't know much of them, because 
 Sir Fielding will not visit them. I meet the 
 Gregsons, father and son, in parochial affairs 
 occasionally, and Maud is on speaking terms 
 with the ladies. Indeed, she rather likes them, 
 and would have been glad to have accepted 
 their invitations, but my father is stern, and 
 his decrees are as unalterable as were those of 
 the Medes and Persians."
 
 44 CHAPTER III. 
 
 "There is the barrier of Caste betwixt the 
 Hall and the Folly," said Carlotta, dreamily. 
 
 ''That is it," said Chudleigh, with a smile. 
 "But it is a barrier not of my building, re- 
 member." 
 
 "That is a pretty cottage," said Carlotta, as 
 they entered a little lane, whose frosted hedges 
 and bare, thick-boughed trees gave promise of 
 a verdant avenue in summer-tide. 
 
 "You like it.?" he said, eagerly. "That is 
 your future home ! " 
 
 " Lady Mildred's !" she said, the colour rising 
 to her face. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " It is very beautiful in the 
 summer. The river runs at the back, an orchard 
 stands at its side, and there is a croquet lawn 
 unrivalled in the county." 
 
 "You have pictured an Eden," she said, 
 smiling. 
 
 "It is — at least to me," he said. "I spend 
 — that is to say, I used to spend," he put in 
 quickly, and the girl flushed slightly at the
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 45 
 
 addendum, "most of my time here. There is 
 a Httle boathouse at the end of the garden, 
 where many treasures of mine in the shape of 
 anghng, shooting, and skating lie hidden. Are 
 you fond of boating.?" 
 
 " I don't know what to answer," she said. 
 " My experience of boating is un-EngHsh. I 
 only know the gondola of Venice." 
 
 "Venice!" said Chudleigh. "You have 
 added another story to the edifice of envy. 
 I do envy you. You seem to have travelled 
 all over the globe." 
 
 " You would not," she said, gravely, " if you 
 knew all. What is that little Gothic place 
 there .?" 
 
 " Our curate's ; that is the steeple of the old 
 church you see in the hollow there. We have 
 no rector, you know — or, rather, of course you 
 don't. The curate holds a sort of perpetual 
 appointment. He's a very capital little fellow, 
 does his work well, and is respected and liked 
 from one end of the parish to the other. His
 
 46 CHAPTER III. 
 
 name is Hawes — Stephen Hawes. There he is," 
 and Chudleigh raised his hat as a short, fair- 
 haired young man, dressed in the usual eccle- 
 siastical long coat and high waistcoat, emerged 
 from the doorway of a cottage. 
 
 Then they walked on towards a dark-looking 
 piece of woodland until they reached a broken 
 moss-eaten gate which barred a path weed- 
 grown and untrodden. 
 
 Holding it open for Carlotta, Chudleigh 
 said : 
 
 " We are going to the old Rectory." 
 
 " A rectory here ! " she said ; " how deserted 
 and unclerical it looks." 
 
 Chudleigh did not reply, and they traversed 
 a long, winding path, as solitary and overgrown 
 as the piece at the gate, for some distance, the 
 trees growing thicker and more wild-looking, 
 when a sudden turn brought them to a large 
 square that had once been a lawn, but was 
 now nothing but a wilderness of long rank 
 grass, and Carlotta, looking up, saw facing her
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 4/ 
 
 a huge, straggling mansion of ancient architec- 
 ture, and bearing on its every side some sign 
 of decay and neglect. Its time-eaten walls, 
 down which the damp had drawn long green 
 wrinkles, its black, dust-obscured windows, 
 broken gables, and rotting stonework filled her 
 with nameless awe and dread, and her voice 
 insensibly quivered and grew hushed as she 
 said : 
 
 "And this is the Rectory?" 
 
 " Yes, this is the Rectory," replied Chudleigh, 
 with slow gravity. " It is a grand old ruin, is it 
 not .?" 
 
 " Yes, grand and awful," she replied, dreamily, 
 gazing at the forsaken pile with thoughtful eyes. 
 
 " You could scarcely imagine this house alight 
 and alive with warmth and colour, wealth and 
 prosperity, only twelve years back, can you ?" 
 
 "No," she said, simply, "the windows look 
 as if no human face had ever gazed through 
 them, the steps as if they had never been 
 trodden upon, and this grass plot I cannot
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 imagine anything but the soul-stirring piece of 
 wilderness it is." 
 
 " And yet only twelve years back the Rec- 
 tory, for life and merriment, could outshine 
 any house in the county. There is a history 
 attached to it. Would you like to hear an 
 outline while we walk round .?" 
 
 " I am eager to hear anything respecting 
 it," she said, and her large dark eyes lit up 
 curiously. 
 
 " Once upon a time, then, you must know 
 that the Durants — singular name, isn't it ? — 
 strangers always call it * Durrant ' — it is Durant, 
 the * Du ' long — were amongst the mightiest 
 people of this part of the land. They were 
 of very ancient lineage, but without titles, for 
 they invariably refused them, of enormous 
 wealth, and great popularity. The land you 
 see round this deserted place had belonged to 
 them as long as any one could remember, 
 how long no one could find out, though many 
 an antiquary had pored over parchment and
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 49 
 
 black letter in his endeavour to do so. We 
 Chichesters, though priding ourselves on our 
 old name, are mushrooms compared to the 
 Durants. No, I was wrong in saying that 
 they had no title, for they always had one in 
 the family, and that was Reverend. The son, 
 generally the eldest in each generation, held 
 the living of Grassmere, and since the old 
 church has been built it has owned no rector- 
 ship save that of Durant. Don't be alarmed ; 
 I am not going to take you back to the first 
 Durant and downward, with a history attached 
 to each. I am only going to tell you how 
 this old place came to be deserted. 
 
 " You must know, then, that the present 
 owner is a certain Maurice Durant, who dis- 
 appeared twelve years ago, and has never been 
 heard of since. His father, Gerald Durant, was 
 a schoolfellow and firm friend of my father, 
 though totally unlike him, having no taste for 
 books or study, and being rather given to hard 
 riding, hard drinking, and fast spending. Stilly 
 E
 
 50 CHAPTER III. 
 
 however, they were great friends, and I don't 
 beHeve that Sir Fielding has ever known 
 another man to whom he could give the same 
 confidence. 
 
 " Gerald Durant married ten years before my 
 father and had one son, this Maurice mentioned, 
 of whom he was worthily proud. His love for 
 him was a passion partaking of the fearful in 
 its intensity, so they say, and * Gerald's Boy * 
 was a by-word in the county. Nothing was 
 good enough for him. No extravagance was 
 sufficiently prodigal to meet his wishes. No- 
 thing Maurice desired, if it was on earth and 
 procurable at any cost, did his father deny 
 him. The result you can imagine. Maurice 
 grew into manhood with the pride of a king 
 and the hauteur of a Spanish hidalgo. He 
 was sent to college, and there, to the almost 
 unutterable deMght of his father, he took 
 honours and holy orders. He was very clever, 
 could paint and play — indeed, had taken a 
 Bac. Mus. degree with the other honours. He
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 came of age. The whole village was deco- 
 rated. Twelve oxen were roasted whole. A 
 flock of sheep and several thousand pounds 
 were given to the poor, and a grand ball, dis- 
 tinguished by a princely magnificence, was held 
 at the Hall, at which gathered the elite of the 
 county and a host of the best blood from the 
 Court, all in honour of Maurice. Then came 
 the time when he grew restless. He must 
 travel. 
 
 " Gerald Durant, for the first time in his life, 
 gave a reluctant consent, but still consent. A 
 tutor and companion was obtained, and the 
 parting, which nearly broke the old man's heart, 
 took place. 
 
 " Maurice started for the Continent. For six 
 months letters came from him with tolerable 
 regularity. At the end of that time they grew 
 few and far between. The father looked wan 
 and anxious — more wan and anxious when they 
 ceased altogether, and no messenger or inquiry 
 could discover the whereabouts or the track ol 
 E 2 

 
 52 CHAPTER III. 
 
 the missing son — for it had come to that. 
 Maurice Durant had given his tutor and servants 
 the sHp one moonlight night in some German 
 village, and had flown, leaving no sign behind. 
 
 " Then the father's heart grew harder. His 
 hand was closed against the poor, and his house 
 against his friends. He shut himself up in this 
 dreary place, refused all ofl"ers of consolation 
 and comfort, and waited for the end. 
 
 " It came. 
 
 " One bleak March night a horseman rode up 
 the avenue along which we have just walked, 
 and, dripping with the rain, his hair blown 
 across his face by the wind, demanded to see 
 Gerald Durant. 
 
 " He was refused admittance. It was Mr. 
 Durant's order that no stranger should pass 
 the threshold of the Rectory. The horseman 
 thrust a letter into the servant's hand, and bade 
 him bear it to his master, saying it contained 
 tidings of his son. The servant took it to the 
 dim, ghastly room, lined with faded tapestry and
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 5 
 
 50 
 
 dusty books, in which the old man spent the 
 few remaining days this side of eternity, and 
 then retired. An hour afterwards, fancying he 
 heard a noise, he returned, and found his master 
 stretched across the table — dead. The contents 
 of the letter no one ever knew, for all that 
 remained of it was a little heap of ashes 
 in the grate, and the horseman had vanished 
 as suddenly and mysteriously as he had ap- 
 peared. 
 
 " That is the history of the Rectory, as I have 
 heard it a hundrea times. Miss Lawley, you 
 are quite pale, and, surely, not weeping ? How 
 thoughtless of me. I might have known that 
 the cheerless place and the story would have 
 affected you. Pray " 
 
 And with self-reproachful eagerness he seized 
 her arm. 
 
 " Forgive me, I am very foolish," she said ; 
 ** but you told it too graphically. I could see 
 the poor old man ! And has he — Maurice, did 
 you not say ? — never been heard of } "
 
 54 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " Never," said Chudleigh, curtly, anxious to 
 get away from the subject. " Now let me take 
 you to see the church. No, stay, that is too 
 dismal after this. We will walk round the vil- 
 lage home and finish the lions another day."
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Nothing is better, I well think, 
 
 Than love ; the hidden well water 
 Is not so delicate to drink. Swinburne. 
 
 Oh, great one, some men love and are ashamed ; 
 
 Some men are weary of the bonds of love : 
 Yea, and by some men lightly art thou blamed, 
 
 That, from thy toils their life they cannot move, 
 
 And 'mid the ranks of men their manhood prove. 
 * * * * ^ 
 
 Think then will it bring honour to thy head 
 
 If folk say, " Everything aside he cast. 
 And to all fame and honour was he dead " ? 
 
 Morris. 
 
 A WEEK passed, rapidly as it seemed to the 
 inmates of the Hall, for to Sir Fielding there 
 were seven days less of the short grace afforded 
 him to meet the large sum required. 
 
 To his son, Chudleigh, the days had flown by 
 with the speed happiness always lends time, for
 
 56 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 he was happy — happy with a strange inward 
 joy, the source of which he could not discern, 
 although he had only to search his own heart to 
 unearth it immediately. So happy was he in 
 those short December days, notwithstanding the 
 cloud which hung over his fortunes, that he 
 longed for them to last for ever. 
 
 As for Maud, rejoicing with all her heart in 
 the acquisition of her new friend, she was more 
 prodigal of her rippling laughter and sunny 
 smiles than ever, and flitted through the old 
 house with her arm wound round the waist of 
 the beautiful Carlotta like a flash of sunlight 
 leading the moon captive. 
 
 And Carlotta, whether she were happier than 
 usual her face and manner did not chronicle. 
 Always speaking in the soft-toned musical 
 voice, always ready to exchange serene, loving 
 glances with Maud, or a quiet smile for some 
 pleasantry of Chudleigh's, she looked as if she 
 were too used to change, pleasant or otherwise, 
 to be afl"ected by the sudden gleam of peace
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 5/ 
 
 and prosperity thrown across her path. Only 
 to Sir Fielding did her serenely calm bearing 
 ever vary ; to him her manner was inexpressibly 
 soft and tender. Her attention was absorbed 
 immediately by him if he spoke to her ; she 
 would listen to his rambling, old-lore talk with 
 her dark eyes fixed on his face, wearing an 
 expression which Chudleigh would have given 
 a world, had he possessed it, to find in them 
 when she looked his way. For, try as he would 
 to ignore the fact, Chudleigh's heart was slip- 
 ping away from him fast, his knees were bending 
 to the dark, queen-like form with the adoration 
 of love. 
 
 He struggled against it manfully, for he read 
 no encouragement in Carlotta's eyes, but the 
 strange thrill at her chance touch, and the 
 buoyant feeling of happiness in her presence, 
 and the joyous echo of his heart to her low 
 musical laugh grew hour by hour. 
 
 During the week Chudleigh had fulfilled his 
 promise, and finished the lions for Carlotta, but
 
 58 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 after that first day when he told the story of the 
 the Rectory they were always accompanied by 
 Maud. 
 
 Fond as he was of his sister, he could have 
 spared her presence in these winter walks and 
 gallops, but some chance word of Carlotta 
 always brought Maud with them, and Chud's 
 sensitiveness, quickened by the sharp point of 
 Cupid's dart, perceived that Carlotta purposely 
 planned against another tete-a-tete with him, and 
 for a little time the idea gave a certain reserve 
 and coldness to his manner, but the ice melted 
 beneath the calm serenity of Carlotta's smile, 
 and before three days had passed he was as 
 much in bondage as ever. 
 
 Once or twice in the course of conversation 
 Carlotta let fall some incident or other of her 
 strange life, but it was only when off her guard 
 as it seemed, and each flash of confidence was 
 followed by a tightening of the lip and a sudden 
 marked reserve, which only served to deepen 
 the mystery in which her life seemed wrapped.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 59 
 
 On the eighth day of their sojourn at the 
 Hall, Chudleigh walked into the drawing-room 
 where Lady Mildred, Carlotta and Maud were 
 sitting, and passing up to her ladyship's arm- 
 chair beside the fire, said : 
 
 " I have just seen Chafifer, the decorator. He 
 tells me the cottage is quite finished." 
 
 " Eh ^" said Lady Mildred, waking from a 
 pleasant dream of a game at whist she was 
 playing with a good hand and half-crown 
 points. " What do you say, my dear Chud ? 
 The cottage finished ? Carlotta, do you hear ? 
 We must think of packing." 
 
 Chudleigh tried to laugh with polite indiffer- 
 ence, but there was an eagerness in his voice he 
 could not hide. 
 
 " Packing ! — nonsense, aunt ! That the cottage 
 is finished is no reason why you should fly from 
 the Hall like a caged pigeon suddenly released. 
 Besides, I could not think of allowing you to go 
 for another" — week he was going to say, but in 
 for a penny in for a pound — " month "
 
 6o CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " Nonsense, Chud ! " interrupted Lady Mil- 
 dred, " another month. Long enough to dry a 
 cathedral. Besides, the cottage has only been 
 whitewashed and repapered, or something of 
 that sort, has it not ? " 
 
 " Oh, lots of things ; it's very damp indeed, 
 very damp," said Chudleigh, earnestly. ** You 
 mustn't think of going for some weeks at least." 
 
 " Ah, but I want to get settled, Chud. Think 
 how long I have been away, gadding about. 
 Have some fires lit all over the house, and — 
 and do anything of that sort you can think 
 of, Chud, there is a dear boy, so that we may 
 g-et into our little nest — Carlotta and I — in 
 three or four days." 
 
 "You are in a great hurry to leave the 
 Hall, aunt," said Chudleigh, with a slight 
 frown, then, walking over to where Maud and 
 Carlotta sat leaning over some views of Italy, 
 he added, " I hope Miss Lawley is not so 
 anxious to fly from us — at least, she will not 
 declare her eagerness so openly."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 6 1 
 
 She looked up with a smile at his anxious 
 yet smiling face. 
 
 " You know I am not," she said. " I should 
 be very sorry to go but that we shall not be 
 far away, you know. We can see the north 
 turret from the cottage." 
 
 " Oh, you must not go yet," broke in Maud, 
 eagerly. " What should I do without you ? 
 and what would papa ? If you go there will 
 be no one to talk to him about his authors, 
 or find quotations in his books. Oh, aunt, 
 you must not go. It will be so lonely when 
 you are gone, will it not, Chud ?" 
 
 Chud said nothing, perhaps he did not hear 
 from where he stood beside the fire, looking 
 into the glowing coals. 
 
 " Say you will stay another fortnight," con- 
 tinued Maud, going over to her aunt and 
 kissing her. " Be a good auntie, and let me 
 have Carlotta a little longer." 
 
 " Carlotta can stay, my dear, if she likes," 
 said Lady Mildred, graciously.
 
 62 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Chudleigh looked up quickly. 
 
 "Will you stay.?" he said, eagerly. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 " No, thank you very much. If Lady Mildred 
 will let me, I will accompany her," she said, 
 almost coldly, after a minute's pause, lifting 
 her eyes for one instant to his face. " No, I 
 think I will go with Lady Mildred." 
 
 Chudleigh said nothing more. Perhaps the 
 remembrance that he could see the cottage 
 from the north turret at any time he liked to 
 mount it was consolation enough to keep him 
 silent. 
 
 In a week's time they had gone, and the 
 Hall seemed strangely still and solemn with- 
 out Lady Mildred's quick, cheerful chatter and 
 Carlotta's low-toned voice. 
 
 Chudleigh had gone over w^ith them in the 
 carriage, and, waiting barely long enough to 
 receive his aunt's thanks for the way in which 
 the cottage was decorated, and Carlotta's few 
 quiet words in admiration of the drawing-room.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 63 
 
 returned to the Hall with a nameless void in 
 his heart and a great feeling of ennui. 
 
 Maud was in her boudoir, and, hearing him 
 pass on his way to his own room, she called 
 him. 
 
 " Back already, Chud, dear ? " she said as he 
 came behind her chair and stooped to kiss 
 her. " I did not expect you back to dinner, 
 and was thinking how lonely I should feel 
 with only quiet papa and Simmons, the butler, 
 to keep me company. Why didn't you stay, 
 Chud?" 
 
 '' Why didn't I t " said Chud. " Why should 
 I } It is not likely they would ask me on 
 the very first day of their taking possession. 
 I should have been in the way — a nuisance." 
 
 "A dear old nuisance," breathed Maud, 
 caressing his hand. " What do you think of 
 Carlotta } Is she not beautiful, grandly beau- 
 tiful.?" 
 
 "Yes," said Chudleigh, staring at the fire. 
 
 "And so clever. She knows all about the
 
 64 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 old books and the new ones too, which papa 
 is so fond of, and has travelled so very much. 
 My poor geography does not go half so far 
 as Carlotta has been. Yet, poor thing, while 
 I envy her I cannot help pitying her at the 
 same time, can you, Chud ? She seems so 
 unnaturally quiet, so solemnly calm, and her 
 smile, though it is so beautiful, is so sorrowful 
 and sad sometimes. Do you know, Chud, I 
 think Carlotta has not found life very pleasant 
 up to this time. She so seldom speaks of her 
 father, never of herself, and seems to shun the 
 past so carefully. Did you notice that, Chud .?" 
 
 " Yes," said Chud again. 
 
 Maud looked up. 
 
 *' Are you listening, brother mine ? I don't 
 believe you heard or understood a word of 
 what I have been saying." 
 
 "Yes, I have, Httle one," said Chud. "I 
 was thinking." 
 
 "What of.?" said Maud. "Those horrible 
 books and accounts the steward is always
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 65 
 
 bothering you about, I suppose. Poor Chud, 
 they are worrying you into wrinkles ! " 
 
 She laughed sweetly as she stroked his strong 
 hand with her tiny soft ones. 
 
 He had not been thinking of them, but her 
 words brought them to his mind and deepened 
 the shadow across his forehead. 
 
 What if he did love ? No, no ; it could 
 not be. He was poor. He had his way to 
 fight, and could not drop his sword or un- 
 buckle his armour to woo and wed a portion- 
 less girl, the daughter of a man whom the 
 world called an adventurer, be she as queenly 
 as Cleopatra and as beautiful as the first 
 mother, Eve. 
 
 " We shall have a storm," he said, stretch- 
 ing his great limbs into an upright position. 
 " How much longer are you going to toast 
 your toes, miss ^ I must go and dress."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Behold your house is left unto you desolate. 
 
 The storm prophesied by Chudleigh had 
 come, dashing the sleet against the windows 
 •of the Hbrary, and causing Sir Fielding to look 
 ?up frpm his book with a start, rattling through 
 the avenue of chestnuts as if it meant to strip 
 the trees of their very branches, and sweeping 
 across the moor, and amidst the belt of oaks 
 found the deserted Rectory, till they bent be- 
 neath the bitter blast, and moaned like living 
 creatures writhing beneath a scourge. 
 
 It would seem impossible for a human being 
 to stand against the furious drenching of the 
 icy sleet, yet the dark figure of a man, closely 
 wrapped in a black cloak of foreign make and
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 6/ 
 
 shape, bent its head against the downpour, 
 and, struggling Hke a wrecking ship in the 
 deep troughs of a heavy sea, Hterally fought 
 its way across the moor in the direction of the 
 wood. 
 
 Sometimes when the wind paused to gain 
 fresh strength and fury, and the bhnding sleet 
 lifted and lightened for a moment, the man 
 quickened his pace hke one well accustomed 
 to wrestle with the elements, and used the 
 respite to good purpose, tightening his cloak 
 around him, then, bending his head lower when 
 the wind rose again, he relapsed into the old 
 attitude of stolid determination. 
 
 It was a grand sight to witness the tall, 
 massive frame capped by a well-formed head, 
 round which a wealth of thick black hair was 
 blown with each gust of the wind ; the dark 
 face lit up by large, piercing, sadly resolute 
 eyes, and ennobled by a handsome though 
 sternly set mouth, contesting inch by inch the 
 desolate path with the furious elements. 
 F 2
 
 68 CHAPTER V. 
 
 For an hour the struggle lasted, the way- 
 farer progressing slowly but surely towards the 
 friendly haven of the dark oaks looming in 
 the distance : and relaxing his sturdy attitude 
 not one whit, nor resting a moment till he had 
 reached the rickety gate — which had been torn 
 from its rusted hinges, and lay a perfect wreck 
 upon the ground — and stood panting, but tri- 
 umphant, beneath the leafless branches of a 
 huge old oak. 
 
 Then loosening his coat, he raised his travel- 
 ling cap, and sweeping his scattered hair from 
 off his wet forehead, exclaimed : 
 
 " Whew ! a tough fight. England, I left thee 
 in a storm, thy thunders hurling menace at 
 my back, and I return to find thee no more 
 courteous, but prepared to sweep me from thy 
 face with ice and sleet ! " 
 
 Then he leaned against the tree, and, 
 folding his arms, looked moodily round upon 
 what little he could see of the desolation 
 around.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 69 
 
 " A wreck ! " he muttered, moodily. " A 
 wreck ! God forsaken and man forsaken ! Ah, 
 old trees ! what have you and I suffered since 
 last you looked down upon me ? We both bear 
 traces of it too. You are black and gnarled, 
 and I — bah ! — who says the Wandering Jew 
 lives but in fable .'' The old house must be 
 almost within sight. Strange that my heart 
 leaps at the thought of seeing it ! I fancied 
 there was scarce enough blood left in me to 
 leap at anything ! But the old house — the old 
 house !" 
 
 Then he relapsed into silence for a moment, 
 his face growing darker and his eyes blacker 
 as he gazed moodily at the sodden ground ; 
 but suddenly his self-communing commenced 
 again, abruptly, almost fiercely. 
 
 " Why should I see it ? What good can it 
 do thee, thou lost sheep, to stare at the old 
 homestead ? What good, say I ? — rather what 
 amount of evil ? A happy past is best forgot, 
 it makes the bitter present more galling to the
 
 70 CHAPTER V. 
 
 mind. Bah ! does the air of England breed 
 sentiment, or has the storm scattered the Httle 
 brains I had ?" 
 
 And, shaking himself till the wet flew from 
 his cloak in a shower of glistening drops, he 
 emerged from the shelter of the tree and strode 
 up the path which led to the front of the 
 desolate mansion. 
 
 Then, looking up at its windows re-echoing 
 the storm, his face grew white, and his hands, 
 large and sinewy, clenched under his cloak 
 across his heart, vainly trying to keep down 
 the storm raging within, that threatened to burst 
 forth in unison with the storm without. 
 
 For a moment he stood motionless as a 
 statue, then drawing a deep breath of pain he 
 groaned between his clenched teeth : — 
 
 " ' Behold, your house is left unto you deso- 
 late!'" 
 
 And, muttering this twice, thrice, a score of 
 times, he stood, exposed to the pitiless sleet and 
 the fury of the wind, gazing at the ruined house
 
 MAURICE DURANT. J\ 
 
 as if he were indeed the senseless stone he re- 
 sembled. 
 
 ****** 
 
 When the storm commenced Maud was in 
 the drawing-room, idly fingering the keys of 
 the grand piano, occasionally breaking away 
 from her thoughts sufficiently to play a scrap 
 from one of the operas. 
 
 Once she commenced singing an old English 
 ballad which her father had dug up from some 
 forgotten collection, but the wind played so 
 discordant an accompaniment to the soft sad 
 words, that she ceased, and half determined to 
 go in search of Chud, who was writing a letter 
 in his own room ; but, struggling against her 
 weakness, she sat still to listen to the rattling 
 sleet, and touching the keys restlessly, com- 
 menced Gounod's " Ave Maria," but at the first 
 bar of that melody — surely the most sublime 
 of devotional music — she succeeded in forgetting 
 the storm, and, half closing her eyes, lost her- 
 self in the subtle wailing of the music, which
 
 J2 CHAPTER V. 
 
 rang through the room Hke a Hving friend 
 bringing consolation and assurance. 
 
 As she played, the tall, dark figure, which 
 but a little time since stood gazing at the 
 deserted Rectory, was rooted, bare-headed, out- 
 side the window, its face sunk upon its breast 
 and its hands clasped in front of it. 
 
 With the last note throbbing, dying through 
 the air, Maud rose, and, the glamour of the 
 music still over her, seated herself in a low 
 chair by the fire, and there, lulled by the storm 
 and the dead red of the coals, she fell asleep, 
 her beautiful face lit up with the smile that 
 only the pure and childlike at heart can wear. 
 
 How long she slept she knew not, but a 
 slight noise awakened her, and, looking up with 
 a start, she saw the dark figure of a man 
 standing in the room looking at her. 
 
 With a low cry of alarm she rose from the 
 chair. 
 
 The stranger lifted his head with a grave 
 smile, such that reassured her even before his
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 73 
 
 lips opened, and, in a voice whose noble gentle- 
 ness charmed all her fear away, said : 
 
 " Madam, be not afraid ; I am not so harmful 
 as my appearance may proclaim me. For this 
 intrusion I crave with painful humility your 
 forgiveness. It was not intentional ; I sought 
 Sir Fielding Chichester. The night is dark 
 and the storm confusing, and I, a stranger, 
 missed the path. Nay, rather, your music drew 
 me from it. By some chance a side door had 
 been blown open by the wind ; I entered — 
 wrongly, I admit with sorrow — and, meeting 
 no one, found my way here, when I would 
 rather have perished in the storm than entered 
 if I have caused you one second's uneasiness." 
 
 Pouring out this strange confession in a voice 
 almost tremulous in its musical softness, with 
 a slightly foreign accent that lent it an addi- 
 tional charm, and expressing with a slight 
 gesture the most profound yet eager humility, 
 he bent low before her. 
 
 " I — I am not frightened," said Maud, her
 
 74 CHAPTER V. 
 
 gaze riveted on the face and form that were 
 noble and kingly notwithstanding their expres- 
 sion of profound respect. " I will call my father. 
 Will you be seated ?" and, still unable to re- 
 move her eyes from him, she walked towards 
 the door. 
 
 With a gesture he declined a seat, and cross- 
 ing to the fire, leaning one arm upon the carved 
 mantel, the firelight making a ruddy background 
 to his stalwart form, looked towards the door 
 and waited. 
 
 In a few minutes it opened, and Sir Fielding 
 entered, and advancing towards the stranger 
 said, in his mild, dreamy voice : 
 
 "You wish to see me?" 
 
 The stranger fixed his dark eyes upon the 
 pale, smooth face for a moment, seemingly 
 absorbed in contemplation, then, waking as it 
 were with a start, replied, in a voice from which 
 all the tenderness had gone — 
 
 " Do you wish to see me. Sir Fielding Chi- 
 chester ? "
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 75 
 
 The old man started with an exclamation, 
 then, going close up to the speaker and scan- 
 ning his features anxiously, exclaimed, as his 
 face lit up with the light of recognition : 
 
 " Maurice Durant ! " 
 
 The son of Gerald Durant, for it was he, 
 nodded. 
 
 " Yes, Maurice Durant. You are surprised, 
 Sir Fielding, yet not so much as I, for a week 
 since I had as little thought of seeing your 
 Chichester Hall as Heaven." 
 
 "Thank God! — thank God!" exclaimed Sir 
 Fielding, grasping the outstretched hand, and 
 wringing it with his feeble one. " Oh, Maurice, 
 Maurice ! we all thought you were dead." 
 
 " Heaven has not proved so kind," muttered 
 Maurice Durant. 
 
 " We never expected to see you again. And 
 you have come back to us as suddenly as — 
 as " 
 
 "Why do you hesitate?" said Maurice, 
 frowning. "Yes. A week since I was sleep-
 
 76 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ing in a peasant's hut beside an Alpine ravine. 
 I dreamt of England, dreamt so vividly that 
 when I awoke the vision had left a longing 
 for the reality. I struggled against it, but — 
 bah ! — when a man fights himself what chance 
 has he of victory } I decided to come — I came 
 — I am here." 
 
 He strode up to the fire, extending his hands 
 towards the blaze. 
 
 "Dear me — dear me," said Sir Fielding, 
 strangely, bewildered by the deep voice, the 
 strange gesture and the foreign accent, as much 
 as by the singular manner of the man. " I 
 heard no carriage drive up." 
 
 Maurice faced round. 
 
 " Nor do I see how you could, considering 
 that I trod your moor and heath from north to 
 south, and fought my way against a greater 
 storm than those which carry an avalanche upon 
 their backs. I walked." 
 
 " Walked ! God bless me !" said the baronet, 
 *' then," catching at the cloak, " you must be.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. "jy 
 
 you are, wringing wet. My dear sir, this is 
 enough to give you your death !" 
 
 Maurice Durant smiled a smile without a 
 particle of mirth in it." 
 
 " Death !" he replied. " Death will not come 
 to me clad in a cold. I have slept in a damper 
 clothes than these, and found them frozen in the 
 morning. Take no heed of me, but rather of 
 your carpet, which I am gradually spoiling." 
 
 " Never mind the carpet," said Sir Fielding 
 hastily, and walking towards the bell. " You 
 must change your clothes immediately. I will 
 tell them to see that my own room will be 
 got ready for you ; meanwhile if you will accept 
 my son Chudleigh's, in which you will find a 
 fire " 
 
 Maurice Durant held up his hand with a 
 gesture almost of impatience. 
 
 " Sir Fielding, I shall be gone in five minutes. 
 Cease I beg of you, for it pains me to give 
 you a refusal. A whim seized me to take one 
 look at the hall. I fought my way here through
 
 yS CHAPTER V. 
 
 the storm, and standing outside this window, 
 was drawn hither by your daughter's music. 
 Why should I stay? I have seen her whom 
 I left a child ; you, whom in the old time I had 
 more than a friendship for, and there is naught 
 left for me but to return," and with calm com- 
 posure and a majestic grace, he swung his cloak 
 round him and held out his hand. 
 
 Sir Fielding stared at the stern, weather- 
 tanned face with its deep wrinkles and great 
 piercing eyes in astonishment. 
 
 " Impossible !" he exclaimed. " You cannot 
 again brave such a night as this, it would be an 
 insult to me ! At least," he added, hastily, as 
 Maurice Durant shook his head, "at least you 
 will stay and eat something .?" 
 
 Still the stalwart figure held out his hand, and 
 Sir Fielding grew despairing as he saw the 
 heavy forehead darken impatiently. 
 
 "Well, if you will neither rest nor eat, at 
 least you will wait and see Chudleigh .?" he 
 cried.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 79 
 
 " I think not," was the reply. " I shall get 
 another opportunity soon perchance. At this 
 moment I am anxious to be on my road 
 again." 
 
 " Where are you going — where will you 
 sleep .'^" asked Sir Fielding, in utter bewilder- 
 ment, and feeling powerless before the stern 
 will which proclaimed itself in such gravely 
 musical tones. " The village, Maurice Durant, 
 is a long way ; there is no inn on the road, 
 not a single place that will open its doors to 
 you to-night " 
 
 " Save one," said Maurice Durant, in a signifi- 
 cant tone. 
 
 "Which.?" said Sir Fielding. 
 
 " The Rectory," replied the other. " I sleep 
 in my own house to-night." 
 
 Sir Fielding shuddered. 
 
 "No, no!" he breathed, "you shall stay!" 
 and going to the door he called out : 
 
 "Chudleigh!" 
 
 Chudleigh came down stairs with a prompti-
 
 8o CHAPTER V. 
 
 titude quickened by curiosity, for he had never 
 heard his father's voice raised so loudly 
 before. 
 
 " Chud," commenced Sir Fielding, with agita- 
 tion, but before he could get farther the traveller 
 stepped forward and, laying his strong hand on 
 the baronet's trembling arm, said in a deep 
 grave voice, quickened by the rich foreign 
 accent : 
 
 " Chudleigh Chichester, your father would 
 keep me prisoner in his castle, and I am forcing 
 my way out ; you are a friend to freedom and 
 will sympathise. Sir Fielding, it is not right to 
 break one's oath. I have vowed to sleep be- 
 neath no roof in England before my own. 
 Good-night!" and raising his cap with a gesture 
 of farewell he strode to the door, and before 
 either Sir Fielding or his son could recover from 
 the commanding charm of his manner, it had 
 swung to behind him, letting in a blast of icy 
 wind and a shower of sleet. 
 
 "Good Heavens!" exclaimed Sir Fielding;
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 8i 
 
 "how changed. I seem to be dreaming! Maurice 
 Durant ! Maurice Durant !" 
 
 " Maurice Durant," breathed a low voice at 
 his side, as Maud's trembling fingers clasped 
 his arm. "Oh! was that Maurice Durant.^"
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " With voice despairing, grim, and dread. 
 He hurls his thunders at their head." 
 
 It was Sunday morning. The storm of 
 Friday had cleared the air, and the sun, washed 
 brilliant by the sleet and rain, and blown quite 
 awake by the wind, shone down on Grassmere, 
 and lit up the ice-bound ways and whitened 
 fields, until they reflected his genial beams like 
 burnished silver set with innumerable diamonds. 
 
 The little church in the dale was slowly filling, 
 the simple villagers strolling up the clean-kept 
 gravel path in complete families, and clustering 
 round the porch in conversational groups. 
 
 It wanted ten minutes to service time, and 
 they were waiting for the gentlefolks to arrive, 
 for these simple folks considered it a part of
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 83 
 
 their religious duty to form a line for Sir Field- 
 ing Chichester and the " people of the Folly," 
 as the Gregsons were called, to pass through, 
 and be courtesied to, and they no more thought 
 of neglecting it than they would have left un- 
 done any other of the few duties of their life, 
 which they had been taught from the cradle up. 
 
 Five minutes to eleven, and there came the 
 rattle of a carriage — Sir Fielding's, followed by 
 Lady Mildred's — Sir Fielding in his dark, old- 
 fashioned coat and frill, looking every inch a 
 Chichester, and Chudleigh with Maud on his 
 arm, looking as handsome as even the good 
 people of Grassmere, who were used to good 
 looks in their lord's family, could desire. 
 
 Carlotta, who accompanied Lady Mildred, 
 excited much unobtrusive curiosity, dressed in 
 her deep mourning, edged with sable, and 
 received as respectful a recognition as Lady 
 Mildred, who, next to Maud, was perhaps the 
 favourite. 
 
 At the porch Maud stopped for a moment to 
 G 2
 
 84 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 inquire after one of the labourers' wives who 
 had been ill, and Chudleigh, seizing the oppor- 
 tunity, approached Lady Mildred. 
 
 " Well, Chud, we thought you had lost your 
 way the other night or got drowned as you had 
 not come to see us. I don't think Sir Fielding 
 would have been guilty of such unpardonable 
 neglect." 
 
 And she shook her head reproachfully. 
 
 Chudleigh glanced at Carlotta. 
 
 " Had I known that you were so anxious to' 
 see me, my dear aunt, I should have ridden or 
 walked over without fail. Have you got settled 
 yet ? Do you feel at home } " he said to Car- 
 lotta. 
 
 " Quite," she said ; '* one could not be other- 
 wise, the house is so beautiful, and Lady 
 Mildred is so kind." 
 
 " I am glad you like the cottage," he said, 
 eagerly. " Did you hear the storm on Friday .!*" 
 
 " Hear it," she said, with great surprise. " It 
 was terrible. We thought the house would have
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 been swept away. The old Rectory must have 
 suffered much, I should think. I felt a positive 
 relief at seeing it still towering above the old 
 trees." 
 
 " Ah, the Rectory," said Chud. " By the way, 
 I have quite a piece of romance for you. You 
 remember the history I told you the other 
 morn " 
 
 " Come, Chud," said Sir Fielding, " it is time 
 to get to our pew." 
 
 So Chudleigh had to keep the story of 
 Maurice Durant's return to tell at some future 
 time. 
 
 Scarcely had they taken their seats than the 
 Folly carriage drove up, glittering with plated 
 harness and magnificent liveries, and Mrs. Greg- 
 son, the son, and the two daughters, alighted, 
 accompanied by a tall, military-looking gentle- 
 man, dressed in the height of fashion, and with 
 the most extreme care, so striking the villagers 
 by his languid manner, and filling them with 
 admiration of his golden hair and sealskin coat,
 
 86 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 that they forgot the customary scrape, and 
 stared as if he were some strange animal. 
 
 With much rusthng of silks and satins, and 
 passing to and fro of dazzling footmen, bearing 
 books and hassocks, the Folly settled down, then 
 the mild-faced curate ascended the plain, oaken 
 desk, and commenced in the weakest voice pos- 
 sible to read the Morning Prayers to his '* Dearly 
 beloved brethren." 
 
 The Prayers were finished, the Litany droned 
 through, and the Ten Commandments drearily 
 recited, and Sir Fielding was serenely preparing 
 to wake up for the hymn which the choir had 
 been practising the whole of the week, prepara- 
 tory to setting himself again for the sermon, 
 when a half-audible buzz from the congrega- 
 tion drew his attention to the fact that the little 
 curate, instead of marching off to the vestry to 
 exchange his surplice, had taken his seat in one 
 of the altar chairs, as if he had quite finished his 
 part of the service, and was prepared to rest. 
 
 Before Sir P'ielding had recovered from his
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 87 
 
 astonishment at the unusual proceeding on the 
 part of the curate, the vestry door was heard to 
 close, and the next instant a figure of command- 
 ing height and bearing, attired in an old black- 
 brown robe of time-worn silk, strode across the 
 chancel, and entered the pulpit. 
 
 The whole congregation were too astonished 
 to do aught but stare at the grand head bent 
 over the cushion in the introductory prayer, 
 which rang out in a deep, grave voice, as unlike 
 in its full, rich music the good little curate's 
 piping, as the strains of a cathedral organ are 
 to the squeakings of a church mouse. 
 
 Then when the head was raised the villagers 
 and gentlefolks drew a deep breath, and, fixing 
 their eyes upon the calm, set face, stamped with 
 a true nobility, and marked by deep, heavy lines 
 above the large, stern eyes, waited for the text ; 
 all, excepting those who remembered Gerald 
 Durant and his son, wondering who it was that 
 had come down upon them with the air of a 
 Roman emperor and the face of a king.
 
 88 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Sir Fielding drew himself up, and gazed 
 round with a look of bewilderment, and, turn- 
 ing to Maud, who was still kneeling, her sweet 
 face turned up towards the pulpit, with an 
 expression of wondering awe almost piteous, 
 whispered : 
 
 " Maurice Durant." 
 
 She did not seem to hear him, but slowly 
 rising from her knees as the text " All is vanity 
 and vexation of spirit" rolled through the 
 church, and clinging to Sir Fielding's arm, 
 listened to the sermon with her eyes fixed upon 
 the preacher's face. 
 
 What a sermon it was ! Commencing in 
 slow, measured tones, the man who had fought 
 his way through storm and wind sufficient to 
 appal the stoutest heart, explained the short, 
 curt line, " All is vanity " — explained it with 
 unflinching severity — a severity and harshness 
 that were terrible in their depth and eloquence, 
 and then, warming with his subject, poured 
 forth upon the heads of the spell-bound con-
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 89 
 
 gregation a declamation and a denunciation so 
 terrible in its merciless sternness, so bitter in 
 its despair, so touching in its hopeless remorse, 
 that when he had finished — his face lit up with 
 an unyielding austerity that was awful in its 
 rigid lines, and his strong white hand resting 
 heavily on the oaken side of the pulpit, as if 
 weighted with a crime — every soul drew a 
 breath of relief, and shuddered as they waited 
 for the Benediction. But they waited in vain, 
 for with the same gesture he had used in throw- 
 ing his cloak round him, he turned, and with the 
 same firm, commanding step, looking neither to 
 the right nor the left, descended the pulpit 
 stairs, crossed the chancel and was lost to sight. 
 
 Amidst a death-like silence the little curate, 
 white and frightened, approached the altar rails, 
 and in faltering accents delivered the Benedic- 
 tion, which Maurice Durant had either forgotten 
 or purposely omitted. 
 
 Then the congregation hurried out to crowd 
 the porch and path with eager and curious
 
 90 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 groups, inquiring- who the strange clergyman 
 was, to find their curiosity farther heightened 
 by hearing those who had remembered him 
 declare that the man who had thrilled them to 
 the heart so wondrously was none other than 
 the long-lost Maurice Durant. 
 
 Sir Fielding, with a hurried request that 
 Chudleigh would take charge of the ladies 
 and a reminder that Lady Mildred and Car- 
 lotta were to dine at the Hall, hastened to the 
 vestry in time to see the curate, still agitated 
 and frightened, remove his surplice, aided by 
 the old clerk, the only person in the room. 
 
 " Where is Mr. Durant ? " asked Sir Fielding. 
 
 " I don't know, sir," replied little Mr. Hawes, 
 piteously. "He was not here when I came in. 
 Dear me, sir, I am so startled I can scarcely 
 compose myself. Did you ever hear such a 
 serm " 
 
 " When did you know Mr. Durant was going 
 to preach ? " inquired Sir Fielding, cutting short 
 his bleating.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 9 1 
 
 " Only this morning, sir," was the reply. " I 
 was just putting on my surplice when the door 
 opened, and thinking it was Mr. Price here, sir, 
 I didn't turn round until I heard a voice — such 
 a voice, too ! — say, ' Are you the curate ? ' I 
 turned round, pale and startled I must confess, 
 and said that I was. ' I am Maurice Durant, 
 your rector,' said he. * I wish to preach here 
 this morning. Have you the key to that cup- 
 board ? ' and he pointed to the old press where 
 the robes are kept. I told him I had not, and 
 was going to ask him for some proof, some 
 further explanation, but before I could speak he 
 walked to the cupboard, and with a turn of his 
 hand wrenched it open. Then, taking the old 
 silk gown you saw him wear, he said, * The bell 
 has ceased — go!' and too confused. Sir Field- 
 ing, to offer any resistance, I went. Oh, dear, 
 I sincerely hope there is nothing wrong ; if so, 
 it is sure to come to the bishop's ears." 
 
 " There is nothing wrong, Mr. Hawes," said 
 Sir Fielding. " It is Maurice Durant who
 
 92 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 preached this morning. Make your mind 
 easy, and remember that however strange his 
 manner may be, he is your rector," and" with- 
 out waiting for the curate's expression of thank- 
 fulness, he turned back to the carriages which 
 were waiting for him, passing several groups 
 of cottagers who were eagerly discussing the 
 mysterious event. 
 
 Entering the Hall carriage, which contained 
 the ladies only — Chudleigh had sent Lady 
 Mildred's carriage back to the cottage, and 
 decided to walk — Sir Fielding, in answer to 
 the shower of questions poured upon him by 
 Lady Mildred, gave her an exact description 
 of the scene at the Hall on the night of 
 Maurice's return. 
 
 "And he faced the storm there that night," 
 said Carlotta, with quiet astonishment. " It 
 seemed to me sufficient to sweep a- human 
 being from the earth." 
 
 " It was terrible," murmured Maud, shudder- 
 ing and nestling against her companion. " Think,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 93 
 
 Carlotta ! he fought his way to the Rectory and 
 slept there, in that deserted, ghostly place where 
 his father fell dead ! Carlotta, I think, I know 
 not why, that he slept in the very room — he 
 looked aged to-day even from two days since, 
 aged and wan as if he had seen some frightful 
 sight or endured some fearful agony," and she 
 shuddered, uttering a low sob that alarmed 
 her beautiful companion. 
 
 " Hush, hush, Maud," she said. " He has 
 terrified you." 
 
 " No, no," exclaimed Maud, eagerly ; " he 
 does not frighten me. I feel for him, I — oh, 
 Carlotta, think of his face: it is so kingly, so 
 sorrowful, so sad ; I am sure he has suffered, 
 suffered terribly, and I pity him so," and she 
 laid her face amongst the furs on Carlotta's 
 breast. 
 
 " Poor Maud," exclaimed Sir Fielding. " It 
 has quite upset her. Into the drawing-room 
 where she was playing alone he found the way 
 unseen by any of the servants, how or by what
 
 94 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 means I cannot understand, and appeared be- 
 fore her, with the rain streaming from a large 
 cloak which he wore in a foreign fashion, and 
 his hair blown about his head like a figure 
 from a Raphael cartoon. He startled me so 
 that I am not surprised at Maud being un- 
 nerved." 
 
 " Of course not. I confess that I never felt 
 so terrified in my life as I did this morning. 
 It was quite terrible,," said Lady Mildred. " I 
 never heard such fearful eloquence." 
 
 " One could only learn in suffering such won- 
 drous knowledge of human passion as he dis- 
 played," said Carlotta, in a low voice. 
 
 "You are right, my dear Miss Lawley, you 
 are right," said Sir Fielding. " Heaven knows 
 what Maurice Durant has gone through during 
 his wanderings." 
 
 " If his history be half as mysterious as his 
 appearance would lead one to imagine it," said 
 Lady Mildred, " it is a sad one, Fielding." 
 
 " Ay, ay," echoed Sir Fielding, sighing.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 95 
 
 " Is he at the Rectory still, Sir Fielding ? " 
 asked Carlotta, as the carriage drew up at the 
 Hall. 
 
 " Yes, I believe so," said he. '' I sent Wilson 
 over this morning with an invitation to dine 
 here. I put it in the most supplicating lan- 
 guage I could, but I do not know — ah, here is 
 Wilson," he broke off as his valet approached 
 the carriage. " Well, Wilson, have you been to 
 the Rectory," he asked. 
 
 " Yes, Sir Fielding," replied the man. * 
 
 "And did you find Mr. Durant ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I knocked several times, and, re- 
 ceiving no answer, was going away, especially 
 as all the windows were as dark and the place 
 looked as desolate as usual, but as soon as I 
 got down the steps, I saw a tall gentleman 
 sitting on one of the broken terraces, smoking 
 a foreign-looking pipe, and watching me quite 
 cool and unconcerned. " Why are you knock- 
 ing," he said. I lifted my hat respectfully, for 
 I guessed it was Mr. Durant, Sir Fielding, and
 
 96 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 said I had a letter for Mr. Durant. He held 
 out his hand without a word, and after reading 
 the letter, fell to smoking his pipe again, as if 
 he had quite forgotten me. I stood silent some 
 time, and determined to remind him by a 
 cough. He looked up with a start, and, thrust- 
 ing your letter into his pocket, said, as he 
 walked toward the house, ' Tell your master 
 that I beg to be excused." 
 
 Sir Fielding sighed. 
 
 " Strange, marvellously strange. It is like 
 him. I fancy I can see him at this moment 
 walking away, and hear his foreign accent, 
 which is the most singular I ever heard." 
 
 Maud sighed deeply. 
 
 " Papa," she said, " what will he get to 
 eat.? Will he have any dinner.?" she asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I'm afraid not, my dear," said Sir 
 Fielding. 
 
 " It will not be the first time Maurice Durant 
 has gone dinnerless," thought Carlotta, for she
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 97 
 
 had been used to faces . that bore the hall-mark 
 of hunger. 
 
 And if she was not mistaken she could 
 read a story of want and privation in Maurice 
 Durant's. 
 
 H
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 '" There are strange creatures with manners queer, 
 Who crop up in our world from year to year : 
 Yet of them all — ah, find me, if you can, 
 A more offensive being than the self-made man." 
 
 Lyrics of Society. 
 
 The " Folly " was new, so was everything in 
 it, from the lord and master thereof to the 
 gaudy dinner service — carved, stamped, and 
 engraved with the Gregson crest wherever there 
 was room to put it — and the glittering armour 
 ranged down the hall, worn by Mr. Gregson's 
 ancestors, who existed in any age Mr. Gregson's 
 imagination might select. 
 
 Mr. Gregson's manners were new too, and 
 striking. A little, short, thick-set man, with a 
 red face, rough head of hair, and stubby iron- 
 gray whiskers, large, lobster-hued hands, which
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 99 
 
 he had a habit of banging on tables or chairs 
 in support of an argument, or to emphasise a 
 command, he looked from head to foot that 
 most obnoxious of individuals — a self-made 
 man, who never can forget his manufacturer. 
 
 Of Mrs. Gregson little need be said. She 
 was a worthy woman, who really merited better 
 things than a life made miserable by being 
 placed in a false position. 
 
 The son, Tom Gregson, bore a strong re- 
 semblance to his father, though his manners 
 were slightly better, and he looked something 
 of a gentleman, though, unfortunately, some- 
 what of the fast school. Tom Gregson was 
 particular about his clothes, took an interest in 
 race-meetings and handicaps, and never omitted 
 to back his opinion, however trivial the subject 
 upon which he offered it ; indeed, nearly all his 
 sentences commenced or ended with " I bet you 
 two to one," or *' I'll take six to four," and the 
 like phrases, which shocked his would-be refined 
 sisters, and made his father use bad language. 
 H 2
 
 100 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Of the girls it would be scarcely fair to speak 
 too critically. They were as well-mannered and 
 unaffected as could be expected of them in such 
 bad-mannered and affected surroundings, were 
 tolerably good-looking, rather showy than beau- 
 tiful, and extremely desirous of entering the 
 charmed circle of aristocracy, and especially of 
 the Hall, which stood at its head. 
 
 Occasionally Tom Gregson made the ac- 
 quaintance of some smaller stars of the fashion- 
 able hemisphere, and, obeying his father's 
 order, would invite them down to the Folly, 
 but seldom succeeded in getting acceptations, 
 for there was no shooting and very little fishing 
 to be had on the Folly grounds, and, as for the 
 hunting, the Grassmere pack was not celebrated 
 enough to tempt a hunting-man of these hard- 
 riding, long-run days. 
 
 Sometimes, however, Tom succeeded in hook- 
 ing a fish, and this Christmas was one of them, 
 for a certain Honourable Clarence Hartfield, 
 having nothing else to do, and feeling rather
 
 MAURICE DURANT. lOI 
 
 bored with his own " high-toned lot," as he 
 termed Lord CrownbrilHants and the ladies of 
 his family, had accepted Tom's invitation, and 
 was dangling his patent leather-clad heels, and 
 twirling his golden-hued moustache, in the Folly 
 drawing-room, rather enjoying in a quiet way 
 the persistent toadyism of Papa Gregson, and 
 the outspoken idolatry of the Misses Lavinia 
 and Bella. 
 
 Coming home from church with the strange 
 sermon ringing in their ears, the Misses Gregson 
 had, of course, burst into a torrent of chatter, 
 in which, as usual, the Honourable Clarence 
 Hartfield did not join, being averse to hard- 
 talking as well as to all other hard work, and 
 preferring to lie back amongst the soft cushions 
 and listen with half-closed eyes. Besides which 
 Mr. Hartfield had another reason for silence. 
 He was thinking — and that was a great under- 
 taking for one of Clarence Hartfield's class — 
 thinking, not of the strange sermon or the 
 preacher, but of a certain lovely face he had
 
 02 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 seen in the little church, and wondering where 
 he had seen it before. 
 
 So engrossed was he on this especial occasion 
 that he was quite dumb to the volley of excited 
 questions, as to whether he had ever seen 
 such an extraordinary-looking man, or heard 
 such a singular sermon ! which the mamma and 
 daughters fired at him, and when the gaudy 
 equipage pulled up with a clash at the door, he 
 lounged off to his room, and was seen no more 
 till dinner-time, when he entered the drawing- 
 room in exquisitely-fitting evening suit, with 
 diamond studs at his white wrists and flashing 
 in his spotless shirt front. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Hartfield, we thought you had gone 
 to bed," said Miss Bella, sweeping up her silken 
 skirts to make room for him. 
 
 " Did you ?" drawled the honourable swell, 
 in a languid monotone. " I did think of it, 
 but — oh, ah, yes," dropping his eyeglass, and 
 recovering from the fit of abstraction which had 
 seized him before he had laboured through his
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 103 
 
 sentence. " Oh, weally, I don't know why I 
 didn't. Pwaps I smelt something you'd got for 
 dinner that I thought I hked," and he laughed 
 spasmodically. 
 
 " A plain dinner, sir, a plain joint and vege- 
 tables, sir ! " shouted old Gregson, from the fire, 
 before which he was roasting his coat tails, and 
 adding a deeper tint to his crimson hands. 
 " * None of your foreign kickshaws for me on 
 Sunday, Mrs. Gregson,' says I. ' Whatever you 
 may do on other days, let's have wholesome 
 victuals on Sunday.' " 
 
 "Oh, papa," remonstrated the girls, while 
 Mrs. Gregson smiled with vacant uneasiness. 
 
 But Mr. Gregson was not to be put down. 
 Removing one hand from its cooking, he 
 flourished it and continued : 
 
 " I hate the French muck I'm obliged to eat 
 here six days a week. What with your soups 
 with names no sensible man can pronounce, 
 and your made dishes which nobody but an 
 idiot would eat, I'm almost poisoned — almost
 
 104 CHAPTER yil. 
 
 poisoned," and the eminent Manchester nier- 
 chant emphasised the last assertion by turning 
 round and poking the fire with sufficient force 
 to knock the back of a new enamelled grate 
 out, adding to the languid Clarence, "and I'm 
 surprised a sensible man like you, sir, can eat 
 them." 
 
 " Ye — s, it is surpwising," said Mr. Hartfield, 
 with deep gravity ; " I agwee with you." A 
 chorus of "Oh, Mr. Hartfield!" "Oh, I do 
 weally. You don't know how fond I am of beef 
 and mutton ! " 
 
 Wherepon, just as Miss Bella had declared 
 that she doated on mutton likewise, Mr. Tom 
 entered, and proceeded at once to join the hunt 
 with : 
 
 " Hullo ! I'll bet you what you like we've got 
 beef for dinner." 
 
 "What the devil do you mean, sir .^" roared 
 old Gregson. "Isn't beef good enough for you } 
 Do you mean to turn up your nose at whole- 
 some food, sir .? "
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I05 
 
 *' Easy, governor," retorted Tom, thrusting 
 his hands in his pockets and faUing into a 
 chair ; " who said I didn't like beef ? It's good 
 enough, I dare say, when there isn't anything 
 better to be got. Well, girls, what's the text ?" 
 
 "Why didn't you go and hear it for your- 
 self, sir?" growled the father, ignoring the 
 fact of his own absence. " When I was your 
 age " 
 
 " You were a mighty clever fellow," muttered 
 the dutiful son. 
 
 " I thought nothing of walking ten miles to 
 church, twice a day too, wet or dry." 
 
 "What an appetite you must have had !" said 
 Mr. Hartfield, chuckling. 
 
 " I had, sir. I enjoyed my meals then, and 
 they did me good," asserted Mr. Gregson, " and 
 sometimes I had only a lump of cheese " 
 
 " Papa," exclaimed Miss Lavinia, jumping 
 up to stop those reminiscences of the honest 
 past they were so anxious to bury, " there is 
 the dinner-gong."
 
 I06 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 So they went in to the plain joint and et 
 ceteras^ Mr. Gregson snarling on the way at 
 a footman who happened to run against him 
 with some vegetables. 
 
 " Mamma, did you see that the Chichesters 
 had a stranger with them this morning?" said 
 Miss Lavinia. 
 
 " Do you mean the young lady dressed in 
 black, my dear.?" asked Mrs. Gregson. 
 
 "Yes. Poor thing!" replied Miss Lavinia. 
 " Black did not become her, did it ?" 
 
 " No," drawled the Honourable Clarence ; 
 "but don't you think she became her black.?" 
 
 The girls laughed, but not very heartily. 
 
 " Really you are so humorous," murmured 
 Miss Bella, adding aloud, " Do you know who 
 she was, mamma.?" 
 
 " No, my dear," said Mrs. Gregson ; " she 
 was in Lady Mildred's carriage. Lady Mildred 
 arrived from Paris only a few weeks ago. 
 She brought this young lady with her, I 
 think."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 10/ 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Mr. Hartfield, "I've 
 got it." 
 
 "Got what, sir?" growled Mr. Gregson. 
 "Not a bone down your throat, I hope.?" 
 
 " No, not a bone," replied Clarence Hartfield, 
 relapsing into his lethargic state ; " but — a — 
 the clue to a pwoblem I've been endeavouring 
 to solve all the morning. Given, a young 
 lady's face in church, which you wecognise : 
 quewy, when did you see it.?" and he 
 chuckled. 
 
 "Have you seen her before then.?" asked 
 Bella and Lavinia, eagerly, with an almost 
 painful curiosity. 
 
 "Yes," replied Hartfield; "on the Calais 
 boat." 
 
 ''You came over with them.?" suggested 
 Miss Bella. 
 
 "Yes," said Hartfield. "It was such fun. 
 Evewybody was ill excepting me," and he 
 chuckled. " Captain said I was a bwick, 
 which, though rather impertinent, was twue ;
 
 I08 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 for a fellow that can come over in one of those 
 wetched boats without being queer must be a 
 bwick." 
 
 "And the lady was ill?" said Bella, feeling 
 some little consolation in the thought. 
 
 " No, she wasn't," replied Hartfield. " Not 
 wegularly ill, you know ; only squeamish — 
 ugly word, squeamish, Mr. Gwegson — eh .?" 
 
 " I don't see anything the matter with it," was 
 the surly reply. 
 
 " Of course you did the polite — eh, Hartfield .?" 
 remarked Mr. Tom, looking up from his plate 
 for the first time. " I'll bet any money you 
 made yourself uncommonly agreeable," and he 
 winked knowingly, bringing down upon himself 
 a suppressed growl from his father, a withering 
 frown from the girls, an " Oh, Tom !" from his 
 mother, and a steady stare through the Honour- 
 able Clarence's eyeglass, under which he was 
 beaten back to his plate again. 
 
 " How singular .?" said Miss Bella, " quite a 
 coincidence, I declare. How funny it will be to
 
 MAURICE DURANT. IO9 
 
 meet as strangers after going through that terri- 
 ble voyage together." 
 
 " We shan't meet as stwangers," said Clarence, 
 quietly. " My people know Lady Mildwed — 
 at least I think they do, and I shall give her a 
 call to-morrow." 
 
 Both the girls tried to smile as they said 
 " Yes," but it was hard work, for the demons 
 of fear and jealousy were at work within their 
 bosoms. 
 
 Were they going to have their prey taken 
 from their nets at the very moment they flat- 
 tered themselves they were hauling him up } 
 
 Dinner went rather slowly after this, an offer 
 of Mr. Tom to bet four to one that Flurry colt 
 would win the county handicap bringing down 
 an outbreak of his father's volcanic language, 
 which ran through the remainder of the course, 
 driving the aristocrat into the smoking room, 
 and the ladies to their place of refuge, the 
 drawing room, where they sat in solemn con- 
 clave, discussing with much anxiety and dis-
 
 no CHAPTER VII. 
 
 quietude the projected visit of their guest to 
 Lady Mildred, and searching their poor brains 
 to find some means of preventing it, for they 
 read in the Honourable Mr. Hartfield's sudden 
 fit of abstraction the symptoms of a sudden 
 fancy which boded no good to their hopes. 
 
 But all their little plots and plans, consisting 
 of seductive offers of a skating trip, and a long 
 walk on the morrow, could not induce Mr. 
 Clarence Hartfield to give up his intended visit, 
 and on the following morning they had the 
 mortification of seeing him, dressed with even 
 more than his usual care, start on his way to the 
 Cottage. 
 
 " The Honourable Clarence Hartfield," said 
 Lady Mildred, reading the card which a servant 
 brought her. "Why, Carlotta, my dear, that 
 must be the good-looking gentleman who was 
 so attentive on board the packet. I am sure 
 that was the name I heard."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. Ill 
 
 " How Strange," said Carlotta, " Do you 
 know him, Lady Mildred ? " 
 
 " That is just what I was asking myself," said 
 Lady Mildred. " Hartfield, Hartfield ! Dear 
 me — yes, I remember. I know his people, 
 my dear. All right, James," and in a few 
 minutes the Honourable Mr. Clarence Hartfield 
 entered. 
 
 The usual salutations were gone through, and 
 Mr. Hartfield, quite at home in a lounge chair, 
 was calling to her ladyship's mind several little 
 parties at which they had met, when Lady 
 Mildred, with her usual suddenness, said : 
 
 " Mr. Hartfield you are quite ignoring the 
 subject, but I must insist upon thanking you 
 for your kindness during that frightful journey. 
 I do not know what we should have done 
 without you. It was strange I should not have 
 remembered you." 
 
 " Not at all," said Mr. Hartfield, who was 
 conversing with a great deal more life and 
 much less langour than he displayed at the
 
 112 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Folly, " not at all. I don't think I showed more 
 than the tip of my nose, which is not a very 
 wecognizable feature — eh. Miss Lawley ? Be- 
 sides, it was so dark, and there was so much 
 confusion, that in fact I never expected you 
 to wemember." 
 
 And Mr. Clarence smiled with due humility ; 
 then, turning to Carlotta, said : 
 
 " The voyage must have twied you severely ; 
 nasty twip. By Jove! I've heard fellows say 
 that they'd sooner go to Pewu than to Pawis 
 by water. They couldn't go by any other 
 way, though, could they ?" 
 
 Carlotta smiled ; the question did not admit 
 of a verbal reply. 
 
 "I am staying at the Folly," he continued. 
 "Do you know the Gwcgsons.?" 
 
 " I had never seen Grassmere before we 
 arrived three weeks since," she said. 
 
 " Charming ladies the Misses "Gwegson are," 
 said he. " Do you know them, Lady Mil- 
 dwed.?"
 
 MAURICE DURANT. II3 
 
 Her ladyship shook her head, and smiled 
 blandly. 
 
 " We have not met," she said, significantly. 
 
 Mr. Hartfield, not a bit nonplussed, drawled 
 on. 
 
 " That's a pity. Your ladyship would find 
 them intewesting girls — vewy amusing, by Jove! 
 So is Mr. Gwegson, most owiginal," — and he 
 smiled — " quite a chawacter in his way, you 
 know." 
 
 "Yes," said her ladyship, and, anxious to 
 change the subject, she asked after the condi- 
 tion of the ice. 
 
 " First wate," replied the exquisite. " Do you 
 skate ?" he inquired of Carlotta. 
 
 " A little," she said. " I am very fond of it." 
 
 "Why didn't you say so, my dear.?" said 
 Lady Mildred. " We could have gone to the 
 pond." 
 
 Carlotta smiled. 
 
 " I never thought of it," she said. " Besides, I 
 had no skates." 
 
 I
 
 114 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Clarence Hartfield looked up eagerly. 
 
 " I'll tell you better fun than skating," he said, 
 " that's sledging. Its glowious, Lady Mildwed ! 
 I had a sledge coming down from London, it 
 ought to have been here a week ago, but the 
 wascal forgot to send it. Will you permit me 
 to bwing it over some day and givQ you and 
 Miss Lawley a ride," 
 
 "You are very kind," said Lady Mildred, 
 looking over at Carlotta, across whose brow a 
 cloud swept swiftly. " You would enjoy it, my 
 dear, would you not ? " 
 
 " Very much indeed," replied the beautiful 
 girl, with a smile. " It would be delightful ! " 
 
 " Delightful ! I'll bwing it ! " exclaimed the 
 aristocrat, with a chuckle, rising to go. " I'll 
 bwing it, and we'll dwive all wound the lake — 
 eh > Ha, ha ! " 
 
 He laughed with quiet enjoyment, in which 
 Lady Mildred, immensely amused at his languid 
 delight, joined, and Carlotta, though the cloud 
 swept once across her brow, chimed in.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. n 
 
 Before the concert had drawn to a close, the 
 door opened, and Chudleigh was announced. 
 
 He started with a sHght frown — though why 
 he should frown he knew not — at the sight of 
 the honourable swell, but bowed courteously as 
 his aunt made the two men known to each 
 other. 
 
 A few words passed between them on the 
 usual topic, the weather, and then Mr. Hartfield 
 made his adieux, muttering as he lounged 
 towards the Folly : 
 
 " Deuced nice girl. By Jove ! wonder if she 
 is the old lady's niece — no welation whatever 
 should say from the likeness ; how absurd ! 
 I mean the no likeness. And that long, 
 big bweasted fellow is Sir Chichester's son. 
 Looked rather annoyed at seeing me there. 
 Wonder if he's sweet on that girl. By Jove ! 
 she's a queen. Clarence, my boy, you're hit, 
 you're hit, Clarence ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Chudleigh was trying to recover 
 his temper and make himself agreeable. 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Maud asked me to bring you this," he said, 
 handing a small parcel to Carlotta — *' some 
 piece of spider spinning, as I call crochet, or 
 wool-work," he added, smiling. 
 
 " No," she said, cutting the string. " It's a 
 volume containing some engraving I want to 
 copy," holding it out to him. 
 
 " You draw," he said, " or paint ? " 
 " Both a little," she replied. " I am very fond 
 of the pastime, and waste a deal of good paper 
 and colour over my fancy." 
 
 " Nonsense, Carlotta," said Lady Mildred. 
 " Chudleigh, get her to show you her sketch- 
 book," she added. " I am going to see the 
 gardener, who is waiting." 
 
 Chudleigh looked supplicatingly. 
 " Will you show it me ^ " he said. 
 " Yes," she said, " if you would really like to 
 see it," and going to a bureau she took from a 
 drawer a small portfolio. " There they are," she 
 said. " I am ashamed to let you see them, they 
 are such imperfect daubs."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 11/ 
 
 "Daubs!" he exclaimed, reverently taking one 
 up, and starting with something like pain, for 
 in the beautiful sketch before him he saw the 
 evidence of an accomplishment which added an 
 increased lustre to the beautiful girl, who seemed 
 already in beauty and talent far above his reach. 
 " They are wonderful," he said, quietly. " I'm 
 no artist myself, but I feel assured that these 
 are beautiful. Will you let me show them to 
 Sir Fielding } " 
 
 " No, no," she said, hastily, in her eagerness 
 laying one white hand upon the portfolio. 
 
 Chudleigh looked surprised. There was some- 
 thing more than deprecating modesty in the 
 frightened tone and gesture. 
 
 She noticed his look of surprise, and her face 
 paled. 
 
 " Excuse my refusal," she said. " They would 
 give no pleasure to Sir Fielding ; they are 
 worthless, believe me. You see, I may safely 
 say so, although you have been kind enough to 
 praise them, because you own that you are no
 
 1 8 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 artist, and, however unsuccessfully, I have been 
 a student of art." 
 
 All this she said hurriedly, and as if with the 
 object of covering the pained " No, no," with 
 which she had refused, but Chudleigh's curiosity, 
 backed though it was with the reverence 
 a growing love inspires, was too deep to be 
 evaded. 
 
 "Why were you so alarmed at the idea of 
 my father seeing them ? " he said, with a smile. 
 
 She looked at him for a moment with a 
 strange expression in her eyes. 
 
 " If you must know," she said, " I will tell 
 you, Mr. Chichester. These sketches are pain- 
 ful mementoes of a bitter, very bitter past, when 
 I painted them and their fellows for my daily 
 bread. Can you guess why I should not like 
 the records of my poverty to display themselves 
 in the luxury of Chichester Hall ? " 
 
 Chudleigh dropped the sketches and turned 
 towards her, his face as pale as hers and his 
 lips quivering.
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 1 19 
 
 " Can you forgive me ? '' he murmured, bro- 
 kenly. 
 
 At the sight of his face and the sound of 
 his distressed voice, her own self-possession, 
 which she had never lost for a moment, became 
 strengthened, and, laughing lightly, she said, 
 holding out her hand : 
 
 " Forgive you ! What for, Mr. Chichester } 
 Rather let me ask your pardon for a piece of 
 silly sensitiveness." 
 
 He took her hand, and, pressing it within 
 his own strong one, was about to raise it to 
 his lips, when the white fingers were calmly 
 but resolutely withdrawn, and the next moment 
 Lady Mildred's entrance put an end to a scene 
 which was not altogether a painful one for 
 either Chudleigh or Carlotta.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ** Oh, Love was once a little boy, 
 And oftentimes a fool ; 
 Yet they who'd gain experience 
 Must learn it in his school." 
 
 Filled with curiosity though they were, the 
 inhabitants of Grassmere had to restrain it in 
 the direction of the rectory, for nothing could 
 be more mysterious, silent, or unsatisfactory 
 than the conduct of its owner. 
 
 Since his appearance in the church he had 
 been seen but twice — once when he had tra- 
 versed the village in search of an old woman 
 who had been hopelessly dumb for years, and 
 to whom he consigned the care of the Rectory 
 — and again when he visited the carpenter 
 with instructions to replace the broken wicket
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 121 
 
 with a strong oaken gate and the glassless 
 window panes with blackened wood. 
 
 With the exception of these repairs, if repairs 
 they could be called, the Rectory underwent 
 no other renovation for its master. 
 
 Two rooms were cleansed from their time- 
 honoured dust, some of the old oaken fur- 
 niture with its faded velvet and armorial bear- 
 ings were carried into them, and in these 
 Maurice Durant lived, buried from the world. 
 
 Since his curt refusal of the first invitation. 
 Sir Fielding had deemed it best for awhile to 
 leave the strange being undisturbed, although 
 every one at the Hall and the Cottage was 
 most anxious to see more of him, and, with 
 the exception of Maud, continually talked of 
 him. 
 
 She, singularly enough, kept closed lips when- 
 ever the subject was brought up, and listened 
 sometimes with a pained flush to some remark 
 of Chudleigh's concerning Maurice Durant and 
 his strange retirement.
 
 122 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 Indeed Maud had undergone some change 
 since that evening when the tall figure had 
 startled her by its sudden appearance, and had 
 grown quiet and somewhat pensive, sitting 
 thoughtfully alone where she used to be sing- 
 ing blithely, and often relapsing into a fit of 
 abstraction during the meals at which she was 
 wont to be the light and colour. 
 
 Sir Fielding was perhaps too engrossed with 
 his beloved books and the ever-present cloud 
 of the foreclosing mortgage to notice the 
 change, but Chudleigh had seen it and troubled 
 over it, but had deemed it best to let it pass 
 uncommented on, thinking, perhaps, that her 
 melancholy and depression were but the effects 
 of the strange scene on the night of Maurice 
 Durant's arrival. 
 
 On the Sunday following that on which 
 Maurice Durant had preached the little church 
 was crammed, all expecting that they should 
 again see and listen to him, but at the end 
 of the Communion Service the little curate
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 23 
 
 mounted the old pulpit, and the congregation 
 was doomed to disappointment. 
 
 Maud, who as the service had progressed had 
 drawn closer to Sir Fielding, drew a breath of 
 relief not unmingled with pain when she saw 
 that the rector would not preach, and Sir Field- 
 ing, looking down upon her face as she knelt 
 devoutly through the valedictory prayer, saw it 
 flush and pale by turns. 
 
 On Wednesday the Honourable Clarence 
 Hartfield provided the gossips with new mate- 
 rial for conversation by driving through the 
 village at break-neck pace in a gaily painted 
 sledge, the tinkling of whose bells as they 
 shook on the harness brought Lady Mildred 
 and Carlotta to the drawing-room window of 
 the Cottage. 
 
 " Dear me, there is Mr. Hartfield and the 
 sledge," exclaimed Lady Mildred. " What a 
 beautiful little thing it is. I had no idea he 
 really meant to bring it, had you, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Carlotta ; " he looked like it.
 
 124 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Hush, here he comes," she added, as the door 
 opened and admitted Clarence Hartfield, en- 
 veloped in sealskin. 
 
 " Haw ! here I am, you see. What do you 
 think of the sledge ? I told the wascal who 
 made it it was too highly coloured, but he said, 
 ' Oh, no ; can't have sledge too highly coloured,' 
 eh! eh!" 
 
 " It is very pretty, I am sure," said Carlotta. 
 ** Is it quite safe .? " she added, smiling. 
 
 " Safe ! " exclaimed Mr. Hartfield. " Safe ! I 
 could dwive it full of eggs. Besides, the horse 
 is the quietest thing I ever knew. Ay, you 
 could dwive him if you liked — would you like.?" 
 
 Carlotta smiled. 
 
 " I should not mind, if there were any occa- 
 sion for it," she said. 
 
 Clarence Hartfield laughed. 
 
 " She's vewy quiet, but she won't stand in the 
 cold long," he said. 
 
 Accepting the intimation, the ladies left the 
 room to don their furs.
 
 MAURICE DUR.A^^T. 1 25 
 
 It was certainly very delightful gliding over 
 the ice-bound roads and flying across the lake 
 on the very wings of the wind, and Carlotta's 
 face grew very red and her eyes bright, in the 
 clear, crisp air, while her lips were wreathed 
 in oft-repeated smiles at the fervour of her 
 companion, whose blase manner was gradually 
 giving way each moment to a stuttering delight 
 that made every " r " a " w," and filled the air 
 with his Dundeary laugh. 
 
 On their way home they met Chudleigh and 
 Maud, who were going in the direction of the 
 Rectory. 
 
 Lady Mildred asked Clarence Hartfield to 
 pull up, which he did just in front of the grave 
 face of Chudleigh and the slightly pale one of 
 Maud. 
 
 " We have had such a delightful ride, Chud," 
 said her ladyship, " thanks to Mr. Hartfield. 
 Isn't this is a singular vehicle?" 
 
 " Very,'' said Chudleigh, glancing at the 
 gaudily painted aftair. " Quite Continental. I
 
 126 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 congratulate Mr. Hartfield on the acquisition 
 of such a curiosity, and implore him to tell 
 me whence he procured it." 
 
 Carlotta looked up gravely at his slightly 
 sarcastic tone, and their eyes met. She lowered 
 hers immediately, while her cheeks flushed with 
 the slightest soiipqou of crimson, and he looked 
 away with a sharp spasm of jealousy. She 
 looked so bright and happy — was it only the 
 fresh air and exercise, or the congenial com- 
 panionship of the Honourable Clarence } he 
 asked himself. 
 
 "Where did I get it.?" replied Clarence. 
 " Ton my word I don't think I shall let the 
 secret out ; everybody will be having a sledge," 
 and he laughed, murmuring to himself : " That 
 fellah's quizzing me, by Jove !" 
 
 " You need not be under any great appre- 
 hension on that score, Mr. Hartfield!" said 
 Chudleigh, laughing at the piece of simple 
 conceit. " Our frosts are not usually severe 
 enough to warrant the building of such a piece
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 12/ 
 
 of magnificence as this," and he laid his hand 
 upon the carriage. 
 
 Meanwhile Maud was answering a question 
 of Carlotta's. 
 
 '* When am I coming to the Cottage, dear ? 
 Oh, as soon as Chudleigh will bring me." 
 
 "What's that, Maud.?" said Lady Mildred. 
 " Waiting for Chud ? We'll soon bring him 
 to book. Chud," turning to him, where he 
 stood, patting the horse's neck, " come over 
 and dine with us to-morrow, and bring Maud. 
 Perhaps I can prevail upon Mr. Hartfield 
 to join us!" and she flashed round upon Mr. 
 Clarence. 
 
 " Most happy, I'm sure," said he, with 
 evident pleasure, while Chudleigh stood hesi- 
 tating. 
 
 " Thanks, aunt ; we shall be very glad, shall 
 we not, Maud ? Seven, as usual, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes, seven," said Lady Mildred. "Now, 
 girls, you must bring your conference to an 
 end."
 
 128 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 And the next minute the sledge was on its 
 way again. 
 
 "Who is Mr. Hartfield, Chud.?" said Maud, 
 as they walked briskly on. 
 
 "I don't know^" said Chud, absently. "A 
 son of the Earl of Crownbrilliants, I think. 
 He's staying at the Folly." 
 
 " Staying at the Folly, and driv.ing Aunt 
 Mildred and Carlotta," laughed Maud. "Where 
 are his manners ? " 
 
 " Perished, with his sense, at his birth," said 
 Chudleigh, curtly, adding, more graciously, 
 " Not much of ill-manners about it ; Lady 
 Mildred knows the earl and countess, and the 
 Folly is Liberty Hall, I believe, to all its 
 visitors ; though I expect the Misses Gregson 
 are not over-pleased at the defection of this 
 curled fop — " 
 
 " Curled fop, Chud ! " laughed Maud. " How 
 severe ! I am sure he is very good- 
 looking — " 
 
 " Very pretty, indeed, said Chudleigh, " I
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 29 
 
 have seen nothing to equal him since I poked 
 the eyes out of that wax doll you had when 
 you were a child ; but " — and he laughed rather 
 bitterly — " he is a fascinating fellow, no doubt 
 — at least to judge from the happy faces of 
 Lady Mildred and Miss Lawley." 
 
 Maud looked up quickly and read poor 
 Chud's secret in a minute, but, with a woman's 
 wisdom, took care not to let him know what 
 she had learnt. 
 
 " I don't think Carlotta was overjoyed," she 
 said. " She is scarcely the girl to be much 
 flattered or delighted at the attention of such 
 an exquisite as Mr. Hartfield seems, although 
 he is as pretty as my poor doll." 
 
 " Did you think she looked bored, eh ? " said 
 Chud, eagerly. 
 
 " Quite as much bored as amused," said 
 Maud, pouring balm over her brother's wounds. 
 " I am glad we are going to-morrow, Chud. 
 I was afraid we should not see Carlotta for 
 some time." 
 
 K
 
 130 CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 " I was over there yesterday," said Chudleigh; 
 trying to look indifferent. 
 
 " Were you ? " said Maud. " You didn't tell 
 me, you naughty boy," 
 
 " Did I not } " said Chudleigh. " I was only 
 
 just passing, and What's the matter } " he 
 
 broke off to inquire, as he felt Maud start, 
 and looking down saw her staring in front of 
 her amongst the trees. 
 
 " Look ! " she said breathlessly. " What is 
 that > " 
 
 Chud looked, and saw the tall form of 
 Maurice Durant leaning against the trunk of 
 an old oak, his head bent upon his breast, 
 one hand grasping a fowling-piece, the other 
 hanging white and shapely by his side. 
 
 The long cloak had been discarded for a 
 short coat made of wolves' fur, which, fitting 
 tightly, displayed the magnificent figure to the 
 best advantage. The Corsican cap was still 
 retained, but at the present moment it was 
 lying at the feet of a huge mastiff, who, hear-
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I3I 
 
 ing footsteps, raised his head, and with an 
 ominous growl sprang at a clear bound over 
 the ruined hedge and stood ready to spring 
 at Chudleigh. 
 
 At the sound of the dog's growl its master 
 looked up, and, striding forward, uttered a 
 command in some foreign tongue, at the same 
 time springing over the hedge and advancing 
 to where Chudleigh, pressing Maud to his side, 
 stood with stick upraised on the defensive. 
 
 At the sound of its master's voice, however, 
 the dog dropped on the ground with instant 
 and most perfect submission, and Chudleigh, 
 turning round with a whispered "All right, 
 don't seem frightened " to Maud, said : 
 
 " Good morning ; that is a fine dog of yours, 
 Mr. Durant." 
 
 Maurice Durant raised his dusky eyebrows. 
 
 "That is gracious of you, Mr. Chudleigh 
 Chichester, considering that my rough beast 
 has somewhat frightened you. He is harmless," 
 he continued, crossing to Maud, with a per- 
 
 K 2
 
 32 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ceptible softening of his deep voice — " harmless 
 as a child where he is told to respect. See ! " 
 and raising his hand he spoke again in 
 some foreign tongue, and the dog, with a 
 whine of humility, commenced dragging itself 
 on its body towards Maud. 
 
 " You could slay it as it lies now," he said, 
 " and it would not resist. Have you re- 
 covered from your alarm sufficiently to stroke 
 it ? " 
 
 Maud looked up, and meeting the command- 
 ing gaze of the dark eyes, felt bound to obey, 
 so stretching out her hand she touched the 
 dog's head. 
 
 Immediately the animal, with a joyful snort, 
 commenced licking her hand, and, with all a 
 girl's love for a big dog, Maud bent down 
 and put her arm round its shaggy neck, mur- 
 muring coaxing words, which seemed to fill 
 the dog with delight, Maurice Durant and 
 Chudleigh looking down at the beautiful pair 
 in silence.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 33 
 
 " You are fri'ends now ? " said Maurice Durant, 
 so suddenly that Maud started. 
 
 " Quite," she said, in a low voice, lifting her 
 large eyes timidly to the weather-beaten face 
 above her. " He is a beautiful dog. Will you 
 tell me his name ? " 
 
 " His name is Tigris — not because he is like 
 a tip-er, but because he has fought one and 
 
 *fc>' 
 
 killed it. Hast thou not, Tigris ? " 
 
 At the sound of its master's voice the animal 
 bounded to his side, but at a gesture from 
 Maurice returned to Maud, who had now 
 gained an upright position, and stretched itself 
 at her feet again. 
 
 " Do you find much sport } " said Chudleigh, 
 glancing at the gun. 
 
 Maurice Durant shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " No," he said, " not much. I fear I have 
 scarcely sought it with sufficient earnestness. 
 My gun accompanies me as a companion as 
 much as anything else. It is an old favourite." 
 
 Chudleigh looked at the weapon of foreign
 
 134 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 make, with its barrel covered with strange 
 devices. 
 
 " There are plenty of birds in the Hall chase," 
 he said. " Will you not honour us by thinning 
 them ? Sir Fielding took it for granted that 
 you would consider the grounds as well as the 
 Hall at your disposal." 
 
 " Sir Fielding Chichester is most kind, but 
 the Rectory grounds afford me sufficient 
 scope for what little shooting I require," he 
 added courteously, but with sufficient cold- 
 ness to bring a hurt expression upon Chud- 
 leigh's face. 
 
 " I am afraid we shall never be able to induce 
 you to quit your solitary life, Mr. Durant," he 
 said, with a grave smile. " I am commissioned 
 by my father to entreat you to dine with us to- 
 day, but I fear there is little hope of prevailing 
 upon you to accept such a sans ceremonie invita- 
 tion." 
 
 Maurice Durant's face clouded for a moment, 
 and his piercing eyes wandered first from Chud-
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 135 
 
 leigh then to Maud, where she still knelt at a 
 little distance beside the dog. 
 
 Then he said, slowly, and with a sad, grave 
 smile, that gave a mournful charm to his words : 
 
 " Mr; Chichester, you are right in thinking I 
 love my solitary life, and am loth to leave it, 
 even for a day. I have lived by myself without 
 a friend — save the dog there — in city and in 
 waste — alone ! Solitude has become almost a 
 necessity to me. I am unfitted for the social 
 life. Still, to prove to you I am not quite the 
 hermit and anchorite I see you half think me, I 
 will dine with you to-night." 
 
 " You will ? " said Chudleigh. " Sir Fieldino- 
 
 will be delighted; for myself " He stopped, 
 
 for his eager manner had brought a regretful 
 reluctance upon the dark face, and he feared 
 that the promise would be withdrawn if he 
 continued. 
 
 " We dine at seven," he said ; '* but if that is 
 too early, or a later hour than your usual " 
 
 "My usual hour for dinner," said Maurice
 
 136 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Durant, "is when I need it. Seven, eight, or 
 any time will suit me equally well." 
 
 " Then we shall expect you at seven," said 
 Chudleigh. 
 
 " I will be with you," replied Maurice 
 Durant, and with a slight inclination he turned 
 away. 
 
 Maud looked up, and saw him walking 
 quickly from them, and, patting the dog, joined 
 Chudleigh, who was standing looking after the 
 strange being whom he remembered as the 
 open, light-hearted boy of twenty. 
 
 " Mr. Durant has consented to dine with us 
 to-night, Maud," he said, as his sister came up 
 and took his arm. 
 
 Maud started and looked up with a sudden 
 flush, but said nothing, and walked on. 
 
 '* Hullo ! " said Chudleigh, with an exclama- 
 tion, upon coming up to where Maud had left 
 the dog, for it lay there motionless, with its 
 head turned in their direction and whining, 
 " here's the dog," and he attempted to send it
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 37 
 
 after its departing master. But the dog refused 
 to move, wagging its tail and fawning upon 
 Maud. "What a nuisance," said Chudleigh. "I 
 must run after Durant and tell him. It will 
 never do to leave the animal here," and he 
 leaped the broken hedge and walked quickly in 
 pursuit of Maurice Durant, calling the dog, who 
 still, however, stuck fast to his post beside the 
 beautiful girl. 
 
 Maurice Durant looked round as Chudleigh, 
 touching him on the arm, said : 
 
 " Will you call your dog ? He seems to have 
 taken a fancy to my sister, and does not look 
 inclined to follow you." 
 
 " Your pardon ! " he said, raising his eye- 
 brows, " I had forgotten the dog." 
 
 He turned and walked quickly back to the 
 road, saying to Maud : 
 
 " I told Tigris to stay by you, and he would 
 do so unless I recalled him until the day of his 
 death." 
 
 Maud looked up with surprise.
 
 138 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 " And leave you ? " she said, with an innocent 
 artlessness that was charming. 
 
 "Ay," replied Maurice. "Tigris knows that 
 the best part of affection is obedience." 
 
 "And he would have followed me home?" 
 said Maud, looking wistfully at the dog, who 
 was stretched at her feet. 
 
 "Yes, and shall do so if you wish it," said its 
 owner, reading the wistful look with a calm 
 smile. " He is yours." 
 
 " No, no," said Maud, eagerly, even pushing 
 the dog's head away with her tiny hand ; 
 " I would not deprive you of him. He is the 
 
 only " " being you have to love," she was 
 
 going to say ingenuously, but stopped and 
 flushed painfully. 
 
 "The only thing I have to amuse me," he 
 said, intentionally misunderstanding her sudden 
 silence, and adding, with a smile, " Not so ; 
 there are still the trees and the rooks and my 
 gun. Tigris shall go with you, and if you tire 
 of him, why he can join his master's broken
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 39 
 
 fortunes again," and lifting his cap from his 
 head he left them once more, this time un- 
 followed. 
 
 Maud stood looking after him with a pale face 
 and wonder-filled eyes. 
 
 Chudleigh regarded her for a moment in 
 silence, then with a laugh said : 
 
 " Come, Maud, and bring your prize with you. 
 By Jove ! never was anything presented with a 
 more royal air. He is like a prince in an old- 
 fashioned romance, and the dog is as noble." 
 
 " Not so noble as its master," said Maud, in 
 a low voice. And Chudleigh, looking down at 
 her lowered face, saw, with some surprise, that 
 her eyes were filled with tears. 
 
 However, he merely whistled, and they walked 
 on, the dog trotting calmly by Maud's side, as if 
 it had never owned another master.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Nor may we e'er forget 
 The follies we commit ; 
 Fate reaps in after years 
 Full harvest of our tears." 
 
 Dinner was over, and the drawing-room at 
 the Hall was shining softly in the light of 
 the tall wax candles, which burnt with a 
 delicious softness that our modern aching eyes, 
 accustomed to the garish glare of hideous gas 
 chandeliers, know nothing of. 
 
 Sitting in a velvet chair, the dark blue of 
 which made her fair skin look whiter and 
 purer than ever, Maud, gazing at the fire with 
 dreamy eyes, was thinking of the scene that 
 had occurred in the morning, and, with Tigris's 
 head resting on her tiny foot, was weaving
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 141 
 
 an imaginary history of the man who was 
 sitting beside her father and brother in the 
 dining-room ; for Maurice Durant had kept 
 his promise, and arrived at the Hall at half- 
 past six. 
 
 When Maud entered the drawing-room before 
 dinner she started, the tall form, attired in 
 an evening suit, with its grand face, from which 
 the long, thick hair was brushed in a mass 
 of rugged curls, leaving the forehead bare 
 and white, looking strangely handsome, was 
 so great a contrast to its wild, almost savage, 
 appearance of the morning. 
 
 Still, though clad in the uniform which so 
 seldom becomes an English gentleman, Maud 
 felt a strange pleasure in the consciousness 
 that Maurice Durant looked not one whit less 
 noble in the black coat of fashion than in 
 his tunic of wolfskin. 
 
 One thing that struck her at once was, that 
 whereas her father and Chudleigh both wore 
 a few articles of jewellery, Maurice Durant's
 
 142 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 only trinket was an antique ring, with a dull, 
 leaden-looking stone set in it. 
 
 Maurice Durant wore neither watch-chain 
 nor ornamented studs, his shirt, down the front 
 of which ran an edging of foreign work, being 
 fastened with black stones, which were cer- 
 tainly not ornamental, whatever their intrinsic 
 worth. 
 
 At dinner he had eaten little, and drank 
 scarcely more than a glass of claret, and, save 
 for a few remarks addressed to Sir Fielding, 
 had maintained a thoughtful, somewhat ab- 
 stracted, silence. Still, his manner and, more 
 than all, the grand cast of his face, kept his 
 taciturnity from offence, for it was impossible 
 to measure Maurice Durant with the rule 
 applied to the ordinary run of men ; and, 
 indeed, Sir Fielding was too pleased with the 
 success of his attempt to coax his strange 
 neighbour to the Hall to risk losing him for 
 ever by forcing him into unwilling conversation, 
 trusting that in time the strange reserve would
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I43 
 
 melt before the constant warmth of unobtru- 
 sive friendship. 
 
 Besides which, Sir Fielding had not forgotten 
 amongst his books sufficient of his knowledge of 
 the world to be long in surmising that his guest 
 had undergone sorrow and trial enough to war- 
 rant the strangeness of his manner and. speech. 
 So that the dinner had gone off very quietly, 
 Chudleigh and Sir Fielding carrying on a ram- 
 bling conversation, Maurice Durant breaking in 
 suddenly with a question or remark, always to 
 the purpose, and Maud speaking seldom, and 
 listening when Maurice spoke with a rapt atten- 
 tion. 
 
 After she had withdrawn to the drawing- 
 room, Sir Fielding rang the bell for a particular 
 old port, but Maurice Durant declined any more 
 wine. 
 
 " If you will not taste my old port," said Sir 
 Fielding, smiling, " you will have some more 
 claret and a cigar." 
 
 But these also were declined, and, after a
 
 144 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 glass with Chudleigh, Sir Fielding led the way 
 into the drawing-room. 
 
 Tigris rose as his master entered, and sprang 
 towards him ; but, holding up his hand, Maurice 
 Durant spoke two words in the same language 
 in which he had bidden him follow Maud, and 
 the dog returned instantly to its place. 
 
 " That's Corsican, is it not ? " said Sir Field- 
 ing, who had caught the words. 
 
 " Yes," said Maurice Durant. '* Do you speak 
 it .? " 
 
 Sir Fielding shook his head. 
 
 " No, unfortunately," he said ; " but I chanced 
 to know the two words you spoke. Is the dog 
 Corsican > " 
 
 " Yes," said Maurice, almost curtly, and, 
 turning to a picture, changed the subject by 
 saying, after a few minutes' examination : " A 
 Carlo Dolci .? " 
 
 " Yes," said Sir Fielding. " It is good, is 
 it not .? " 
 
 " Very," was the reply. " It is the finest
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I45 
 
 head I have seen of his save one that hung 
 above an altar in a small Florentine chapel." 
 
 " There are several good pictures in the 
 gallery," said Chudleigh. " Would you like to 
 see them ? " 
 
 " Much," said Maurice Durant, ** if it would 
 not be giving you trouble. I am fond of 
 pictures." 
 
 " And music ? " added Sir Fielding, inter- 
 rogatively. 
 
 " And music," assented Maurice Durant, his 
 face lighting up suddenly. " Had we more 
 music the world would be a brighter one." 
 
 " And a better," said Chudleigh, ringing the 
 bell as he spoke. 
 
 " Is there a fire in the gallery ? " asked Sir 
 Fielding of the footman who appeared. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said the man. " Mr. Chichester's 
 instructions were that it should be lit during 
 the frost." 
 
 " Ah, yes ; I had forgotten," said Chudleigh. 
 " Shall we go there } Come, Maud." 
 
 L
 
 14^ CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The three made their way through the hall 
 and up the spacious oaken staircase to the 
 long gallery lined with various pictures and 
 the family portraits. 
 
 F'or some minutes Maurice Durant examined 
 the pictures in silence, moving slowly on. But 
 coming upon the grand organ, which stood in 
 a recess built in the middle of the gallery, 
 he exclaimed, with an unmistakable air of 
 pleasure : 
 
 " An organ ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Chudleigh. " I must crave your 
 forgiveness for not mentioning it before. I 
 ought to have known you would like to see 
 it." 
 
 Maurice Durant bowed slightly. 
 
 " It is a grand one. I know the maker." 
 
 "Will you try it.?" said Sir Fielding. "I 
 fear it has lost some tone, for Maud seldom 
 touches it, and I never." 
 
 " Do you not like the organ .?" asked Maurice, 
 turning suddenly to Maud.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I47 
 
 She started at the abruptness of the question, 
 and hesitated as she repHed, faintly : 
 
 " Yes, but I cannot play it well enough, 
 and it — it seems almost wrong to trifle with 
 its grand music." 
 
 Maurice Durant looked at the pale face with 
 a sudden interest, 
 
 " Will you play for me ? " he said, gently, 
 fixing his dark eyes upon hers. 
 
 She would have given worlds to be able to 
 refuse, but she could not, for the request, soft- 
 toned as it was, sounded like a command. 
 
 Trembling in every limb, and flushing for 
 an instant, she sat down to the instrument and 
 played a " Gloria," her quivering fingers almost 
 refusing to press the keys. 
 
 Maurice Durant's face grew thoughtful as 
 the music swelled out, and when she had 
 finished he inclined his head gravely with 
 courteous thanks. 
 
 " Your objection to the instrument would soon 
 lose its colour did you but play oftener," he said. 
 L 2
 
 148 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " If I were sure " she hesitated, flushing 
 
 at his mild praise. 
 
 " You may be," he said, laying his hand upon 
 the carved oak of the organ. " Give it more 
 of your love and it will give you more of 
 its music." 
 
 " I will play more," she said, in a low voice ; 
 then, hesitating, she said : 
 
 " Will you play ? " 
 
 His eyes looked a negative for a moment, 
 and he shook his head ; but suddenly he moved, 
 and instead of turning away seated himself at 
 the organ, playing some subtle piece of music 
 quite unknown to Sir Fielding, who was no 
 poor musician in theory, and the like of which 
 for sweetness and sorrowful grandeur the lis- 
 teners had never even imagined. 
 
 First there floated through the vaulted gallery 
 a low, solemn wail, which might have been the 
 ghosts of the departed Chichesters chaunting in 
 unison a song of the spirit world. 
 
 Mournful to a degree, it brought the tears to
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I49 
 
 Maud's eyes, and caused Sir Fielding's head to 
 droop upon his breast. Gradually it swelled out 
 into a burst of grand harmony, that rang echo- 
 ing and re-echoing like the joyful acclamation 
 of a choral multitude, then suddenly changed to 
 a soft, delicious melody born of a dream, and 
 so, gradually growing lower and more mournful, 
 died away like the sighing of a summer breeze. 
 
 For a second there was a dead silence, the 
 steady, subdued light falling upon the magnifi- 
 cent head of the player as it bent over the 
 instrument, and upon the beautiful one of the 
 young girl, also bent — but to hide her tears. 
 Then Sir Fielding rose from the seat he had 
 dropped noiselessly into, and advanced towards 
 the organ. 
 
 Maurice Durant started at the sound of his 
 footsteps and rose, turning his face, upon which 
 rested such an expression of perfect serenity 
 and peace as might have befitted a saint, but 
 seemed marvellously strange upon those sorrow- 
 marred features.
 
 I50 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 "Thank you, thank you," said Sir Fielding, 
 in a low voice. " I never imagined anything so 
 beautiful." 
 
 " Nor I," said Chudleigh, coming from behind, 
 his face likewise moved. " Surely, Mr. Durant, 
 you must be the most glorious organist that 
 ever lived ! " 
 
 The musician shrugged his shoulders, his face 
 having lost the softness, and grown as stern and 
 impassive as ever, 
 
 " You have only to visit any Italian cathedral 
 to hear better playing than poor mine," he said. 
 " Your organ is a fine one ; it should never be 
 silent a day." 
 
 " It never should be if I had my choice," said 
 Sir Fielding, eagerly, "and you should be its 
 interpreter, Mr. Durant. It is waste of words 
 to assure you that the greatest service you 
 can do me is to use the Hall, and every- 
 thing pertaining to it, with the utmost free- 
 dom. Beside the organ, I am afraid we have 
 nothing to tempt you in the slightest ; but
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1$! 
 
 if that does, let me entreat of you not to 
 resist it." 
 
 Maurice Durant bowed his head. 
 
 " Your hospitality is Arabian, Sir Fielding." 
 he said. " But, as regards the organ, let me re- 
 mind you that you have one who can interpret it 
 nearer home," and he turned with a slight smile 
 to Maud, who was standing with her hands 
 clasped, gazing thoughtfully at the keys, her 
 ears drinking in eagerly the tones of Maurice 
 Durant's voice. 
 
 She looked up with earnest eyes, in which the 
 teardrops still glistened, and, shaking her head, 
 said : 
 
 " I shall never touch it again. It would be 
 desecration." 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 " You make me regret my little theme," he 
 said. " If you will retract your declaration, 
 and will permit me, I will send you the score 
 for it." 
 
 She looked up with a flush of pleasure.
 
 152 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " If you will send it me I will try to play it," 
 she said, earnestly. 
 
 " Good," he said, smiling. " It is a contract. 
 I will write it for you to-night." 
 
 " Ah," said Sir Fielding, catching at the ad- 
 mission, " then it is your own composition." 
 
 But there came no reply, and Sir Fielding, 
 regretting his hasty speech, recalled attention to 
 the pictures. But canvas, glowing as it might 
 be, was but poor fare after the rich repast they 
 had enjoyed, and, although Maurice Durant 
 seemed willing to examine the masterpieces 
 closely. Sir Fielding was anxious to take him 
 into the library and Chudleigh to get him to 
 the piano. 
 
 Maud had sunk into a seat and let them go 
 on without her. She could still see them and 
 hear every word spoken however. 
 
 " That is a fine piece of colouring," said 
 Maurice Durant, looking at a dark Dutch land- 
 scape. "You have a fine collection. Sir Fielding," 
 he added, " the older ones especially."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I 53 
 
 " The more modern ones are in the smaller 
 corridor leading to the library," said Sir Field- 
 ing, eagerly. " There are some there you would 
 recognise, I have no doubt. Shall we go ? — 
 that is if you are not wearied." 
 
 And he led the way down a smaller oaken 
 staircase than the one by which they had 
 ascended. 
 
 *' This is the nearest way to the smaller 
 
 gallery," said Sir Fielding. " It " He 
 
 broke off suddenly to turn round with aston- 
 ishment, which soon changed to alarm as he 
 saw ]\Iaurice Durant, who had not yet com- 
 menced descending, leaning against the heavy 
 balustrade in an attitude of terror or some 
 other strong em.otion, his face livid as death, 
 even to the lips, and his eyes, which were fixed 
 on a small painting of a woman's head, all 
 ablaze with light. 
 
 Chudleigh turned at the same moment, and, 
 uttering an exclamation of alarm, hurried to 
 Maurice Durant's side.
 
 154 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 At the same moment Maud sprang from the 
 recess. 
 
 " Papa, papa," she cried, in agony. " He is 
 ill, he is dying ! " 
 
 And as if forgetful of everything but the dis- 
 torted face, she flung herself on her knees, and 
 seized Durant's hand, which hung rigid and life- 
 less at his side. 
 
 At the sound of her voice, and still more at 
 the touch of her trembling hand, the stricken 
 man lowered his eyes from the staring, mock- 
 ing ones of the picture, and with seemingly a 
 tremendous effort overcome the thralls which 
 bound him. 
 
 Standing upright, and pressing his closed 
 hand against his heart, he turned with a smile 
 upon his curved lips to the terrified Sir Fielding, 
 who exclaimed : 
 
 " Good God ! What is the matter ? Are 
 you ill, Maurice } " using in the excitement of 
 the moment, the simple name that had once 
 been so familiar.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I 55 
 
 " A mere trifle," was the reply, in hoarse yet 
 regular tones. " I am unfit for polite society, 
 Sir Fielding ; I frighten it. A mere nothing," 
 he continued, holding up his hand with a 
 gesture almost of command as Sir Fielding 
 was about to speak. " A sudden pain at the 
 heart with which I am on intimate terms. I 
 beg you not to distress yourself farther con- 
 cerning it ; it is the veriest trifle, the merest 
 puff of wind " 
 
 And, for the first time since they had seen 
 him, he laughed a low laugh of strange, subtle 
 music, that thrilled through them somewhat as 
 the wailing of the organ had done. 
 
 " And now for the smaller corridor," he said, 
 abruptly. " You have piqued my curiosity, Sir 
 Fielding, and I am anxious to satisfy it." 
 
 And he turned aside without glancing even 
 in the direction either of the small picture 
 before which he had succumbed, or at the 
 beautiful girl who had flown to his side, and 
 who stood at a little distance gazing on his
 
 156 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 face with a reverent solicitude. Perhaps the 
 avoidance on both sides was intentional. 
 
 ****** 
 
 It was midnight. The Hall was dark, its 
 guest had departed for his own house — the 
 dreary Rectory — which looked more ghostly 
 than ever with its one solitary, dimly-lighted 
 window, behind which paced to and fro the 
 strange owner. 
 
 The broad brow was more marked, the thin 
 lips, sterner and more unbending, and the eyes 
 fiercer yet sadder than ever, as, never pausing 
 in his monotonous striding up and down the 
 chamber, with its faded old-world furniture 
 and worn tapestry, its rows of dust-covered, 
 carved book shelves and rust-eaten armour, he 
 muttered : 
 
 *' To the ends of the earth, even here, she 
 follows me ! Oh, God ! how dire is thy ven- 
 geance ! Here, where I had flown for solitude 
 and refuge — here, where I had meant to dwell 
 apart from all — here, within the shadow of the
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I 5/ 
 
 noble house I have brought to ruin and de- 
 solation — I find her gibing, mocking, fiendish 
 face." 
 
 Here the bitter soliloquy broke off, while 
 the speaker hid his burning eyes in his clenched 
 hands and groaned. 
 
 But presently the voice, which rose and fell 
 with a low, tremulous sound, like the cry of 
 a being in mortal agony, caught up the thread 
 of thought and spun it into words again, the 
 communer unconsciously using the sweet-toned 
 " thou " and ** thy " which had become familiar 
 to him by his long sojourn in foreign lands. 
 
 " Whither wilt thou go, Maurice Durant ? 
 Whither wilt thou go to forget thyself and 
 the dreaded past .? In the frozen seas thou 
 wouldst see her face reflected on the ice ; in 
 the desert thou wouldst see it traced in the 
 sand ! Fly ! of what avail is flight ? Thou 
 canst not fly from thine own black heart ! 
 Thou canst not escape from thine own memory ! 
 No, no, a thousand times no, no. The past
 
 158 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 bears bitter fruit — deadly wine which thou 
 must drink to the dregs. And yet how hard ! 
 oh, God, how hard ! How different might have 
 been thy lot ! Thou idiot, thou idiot ! didst 
 thou never dream of some fair face like that 
 of the sweet, pale lily that caressed thy world- 
 worn hands to-night ? If thou hadst, thy dream 
 would have saved thee ! " 
 
 Then came another pause, but the voice, this 
 time slower, softer, yet with more of pain in 
 its determination, breathed forth : 
 
 " Thou must go, Maurice, before the ill is 
 done ; the sweet face is creeping into thy 
 heart, and the sweet girl-eyes already bear 
 within them the dawning of love. Love ! oh, 
 bitter mockery that so pure a being should 
 love thee, Maurice Durant. She must not, 
 she shall not," he continued, throwing up his 
 hands and gasping as if for breath. " Save 
 her, Maurice ; fly and save her if thou wouldst 
 not merit the hell which awaits thee ! "
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " Cursed be the forms that err from Nature's golden rule ! 
 Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of 
 the fool ! " 
 
 ** I LOOK upon dinner, Aliss Lawley, as one 
 of the most important things in life," said the 
 Honourable Mr. Hartfield, shaking his curled 
 head with profound earnestness, and crossing 
 his long legs with an air of comfortable ease. 
 " You look as if you thought me wrong. I'm 
 right, I assure you. I know a fellow — he's 
 vewy old — said he'd tried everything — by Jove ! 
 fighting, travelling, working, marrying — but all 
 turned out blanks, nothing a prize except 
 his dinner. He's a — a — what's his name ? — 
 Solomon — you know, eh ? " 
 
 The scene was the drawing room at Lady
 
 l60 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mildred's. Dinner had just come to an end. 
 Sir Fielding was comfortably esconced in an 
 easy-chair beside the fire, opposite Lady Mil- 
 dred, who, with Maud at her side, was re- 
 counting some travelling experience. 
 
 In a corner of the room, Chudleigh, with 
 an album in his hand, was leaning, watching 
 Carlotta and the Honourable Clarence, who 
 were seated on an ottoman. 
 
 Mr. Hartfield's voice, as it rose and fell, 
 floated over to him, jarring upon his ears most 
 discordantly, and set him wondering with a 
 fiery impatience how the beautiful Carlotta 
 could sit and listen with such smiling attention. 
 
 " Can you find no higher aim or end than 
 dining, Mr. Hartfield .? " said Carlotta, with 
 a slight smile. "What would become of the 
 world if all its inhabitants thought with 
 you.?" 
 
 " Good ! by Jove ! " murmured the exquisite. 
 " That's a poser. Not that I care for the 
 world, you know ; no fellow does."
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. l6l 
 
 " You have not answered my question," said 
 Carlotta. 
 
 "I can't," replied Mr. Hartfield ; "it's so 
 like a widdle, and I never could make out a 
 widdle. I took a magazine in once — you know 
 what I mean ; not a p-powder magazine, but 
 a monthly journal. It was vewy good, you 
 know — all stories and poetry ; but there was 
 always a page of c-conundrums and enigmas 
 at the end ; and I used to turn to this page 
 — not because I wanted to, you know, but 
 because I couldn't help it. I was f-fascinated, 
 
 er, er ! — difficult word, fascinated — and 
 
 Where was I ? Oh, the widdles. Well, they 
 used to stick in my mind for days and 
 months, and I always used to be asking my- 
 self and sometimes other fellows why a 
 p-pastrycook is like St. Paul's Cathedral, and 
 all that sort of thing ! " and, overcome by the 
 ridiculousness of the idea, the honourable gen- 
 tleman leaned back and burst into a ripple of 
 " eh, ehs ! " in which Sir Fielding and Lady 
 M
 
 l62 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Mildred joined, for it was impossible to refrain 
 from laughing at the absurd tone and manner 
 of the fashionable exotic. 
 
 Chudleigh dropped the album with sudden- 
 ness enough to make them all jump, and crossed 
 over to the fire, and Maud, looking up, saw the 
 frown upon his face, and, pitying him, rose from 
 her seat and crossing over to Carlotta, said : 
 " Will you sing something ? " 
 " Ah do, my dear," said Lady Mildred ; and 
 Carlotta rose and walked towards the piano, 
 which Chudleigh opened for her, saying, in a 
 low voice as he did so : 
 
 " It was a shame to disturb you." 
 She raised her eyes for one moment to his 
 cloudy face, and seemed about to answer him, 
 but dropped them again without speaking, and 
 commenced playing. 
 
 Chudleigh leaned against the piano with his 
 arms folded across his breast and his head 
 lowered thoughtfully. 
 
 Mr. Hartfield had exchanged his seat for one
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 63 
 
 beside Sir Fielding's chair, and at the pause of 
 the song Chudleigh heard his father say, in 
 answer to some question of the exquisite's : 
 
 " Mr. Gregson and I don't meet very often. I 
 regret to say that I am not of much use in 
 parochial affairs." 
 
 "You ought to know him, weally," said Mr. 
 Hartfield. " He's a vewy good fellow — wough, 
 you know, vewy wough, but made of the wight 
 sort of metal." 
 
 Sir Fielding bowed. 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so," he said, 
 mildly. 
 
 " Oh, yes, he is, I assure you," said Mr. Hart- 
 field, who, for some reason or other, seemed 
 bent upon championing his friends. " Here's 
 an example — I don't like examples, they remind 
 one of arithmetic as a wule — one of your bulls 
 got into his flower garden the other morning 
 and did no end of d-damage. Now another 
 fellow would have p-pounded the animal and 
 made a disturbance — eh ? But Gwegson didn't, 
 
 M 2
 
 64 CHAPTER X. 
 
 by Jove ! He went about by himself vocifera- 
 ting for a quarter of an hour, and then had the 
 bull driven back into your m-meadow, and set 
 his man to mend the hedge. That's owiginal — 
 eh? By Jove!" 
 
 " It's more than original," said Sir Fielding, 
 warmly. '' It's generous and gentlemanly. I 
 will lose no time in writing to thank Mr. Greg- 
 son." 
 
 "By Jove! you mustn't "do it that way, you 
 know," said Mr. Hartfield, quickly, shaking his 
 head. " Gwegson would know I'd split on him, 
 and — by Jove ! Oh, I say, you know — eh ?'* 
 
 " I understand you," said Sir Fielding, smiling 
 at the enigmatical objection. "At least, I must 
 thank him in some way." 
 
 " May I suggest that you wide over to the 
 Folly to-morrow morning ? " said Mr. Hartfield. 
 " I'm sure you'd like them. They must be 
 good-natured sort of people to let a fellow go on 
 his own hook as I do. Twy them, as the twades- 
 people say. Sir Fielding. It would weally be a
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 165 
 
 kindness — eh, Miss Chichester ? " and he turned 
 to Maud with a smile. 
 
 " Do call, papa," said Maud. " It was very- 
 good of Mr. Gregson, was it not } " and, leaning 
 over, she touched Chudleigh — who, as he was 
 bending over Carlotta and saying something in 
 a quiet, eager voice, started at the interruption — 
 and told him the incident of the bull and the 
 flower-garden, adding, in a lower tone : " See, 
 Chud, papa has almost given way. Do per- 
 suade him to call." 
 
 Chudleigh nodded acquiescingly, but not with 
 any show of pleasure, and, seating himself beside 
 Carlotta, continued the conversation, if conver- 
 sation it could be called when he alone was 
 speaking, Carlotta listening with lowered face 
 and eyes. 
 
 " The horse is quite safe. You know I would 
 not let you ride it if it were not. Say you will 
 come. Give me your promise, Maud will be 
 so delighted ; she is fond of a gallop, you know. 
 Let me bring the horse round for you to-
 
 1 66 CHAPTER X. 
 
 morrow morning if the weather be bright, will 
 you ? " and he waited eagerly for the answer, 
 which she seemed loth to give. " I know you 
 are fond of riding," he continued, persuadingly, 
 " for I heard you tell Maud that you were, and 
 I am sure you will like ' The Sultan.' You will 
 come, will you not ? " 
 
 With a troubled look and a slight flush she 
 raised her head and almost said yes, when the 
 Honourable Hartfield came lounging up to 
 them, and, with a start, Carlotta regained her 
 usual calmness, and said : 
 
 " No, thank you very much ; not to-morrow, 
 please," and Chudleigh, giving a stern frown 
 at the exquisite as he passed, rose and walked 
 up to Lady Mildred. 
 
 "Aunt," he said, " I have a few letters to write 
 to-night. You will excuse me, will you not } " 
 
 " Not going yet, Chudleigh ? " said Lady 
 Mildred. " Dear me, how is that ? The car- 
 riage will not be here for another hour, will it. 
 Sir Fielding } "
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 167 
 
 "No," said Sir Fielding, looking up at Chud- 
 leigh. "Must you go, Chud ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," he replied, and, shaking hands 
 with Lady Mildred, he went to the ottoman. 
 
 "Good night, Mr. Hartfield," he said, as 
 cordially as he could, and " Good night. Miss 
 Lawley," as icily. 
 
 Poor fellow! It was an unhappy time for 
 him. It seemed hard that such an idiot as the 
 Honourable Clarence appeared to be could win 
 smiles from the woman he loved, whereas he 
 gained nothing but cold looks and cold words.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 " Here comes the aristocrat 
 
 With courtly mien and gait ; 
 While close upon his heels 
 The men of money wait." 
 
 Be the Honourable Mr. Hartfield's reason 
 for bringing about an acquaintance between the 
 Hall and the Folly what it might, he certainly 
 had arranged his tactics in an astonishingly 
 masterly way and successfully, for the morning 
 after the dinner at the Cottage, Sir Fielding 
 and Chudleigh rode over to the large red- 
 bricked house which they had so long ignored. 
 
 Hartfield had advised the Gregsons of the 
 intended visit in a few languid, offhand words, 
 and the family were on the qui vive of expecta- 
 tation, old Gregson being warned in a timid 
 way by his daughters to keep watch and guard
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 1 69 
 
 over his language, and Tom counselled to 
 absent himself altogether during the interview, 
 or to keep a prudent silence, and on no account 
 to ofYer to " lay " Sir Fielding two to one, or 
 bet him the odds. 
 
 Notwithstanding these preparations, the Greg- 
 son family were extremely agitated when Sir 
 Fielding and Chudleigh dismounted and were 
 ushered into the drawing-room. 
 
 " How do you do, Sir Fielding," said Mr. 
 Gregson, grasping the long white hand in his 
 short red one. " Happy to see you. Quite an 
 honour, sir. Hope you're well, Mr. Chichester. 
 Mrs. Gregson : my daughters. Misses Bella and 
 Lavinia. Met Miss Maud at the Mothers' Meet- 
 ing, I believe, several times." 
 
 Sir Fielding and Chudleigh then passed over 
 to the ladies, who, all smiles and flutterings, 
 made room for them on the sofa, old Gregson 
 seating himself in an easy chair and commenc- 
 ing a conversation — concerning the weather, of 
 course — with Chudleigh.
 
 I/O CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Sir Fielding, between the two girls, was 
 highly amused for some few minutes, not in- 
 sensible to their evident attempts at blandish- 
 ment, and, thinking after all that they were 
 rather well behaved and quiet, said : 
 
 " My daughter would have accompanied us 
 this morning, but she has a headache. I am 
 commissioned with her compliments, which I 
 beg of you to accept. Will you do us the 
 honour of calling at the Hall when next you 
 are near } " 
 
 Mr. Gregson bowed, and the girls murmured 
 " Delighted." Then Sir Fielding rose and com- 
 menced the real object of his visit. 
 
 " Mr. Gregson," he said, " I owe you 
 some thanks. Permit me to discharge the 
 debt." 
 
 "What's that, sir.?" asked Mr. Gregson, 
 bristling up from his chair. " Wasn't aware 
 of any debt. No thanks due to me for any- 
 thing that I know of Don't quite understand. 
 Sir Fielding."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I/I 
 
 ** You have added to your generosity by for- 
 getting it so quickly," replied Sir Fielding, with 
 his quiet, courtly smile. " I have come to 
 apologise for my bull, and express my regret 
 for the damage and annoyance which his tress- 
 pass must have caused you. I only learnt it 
 yesterday, or, be assured, would have found an 
 earlier opportunity to thank you for your con- 
 sideration." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense ! " retorted Mr. Greg- 
 son, slowly relapsing into his old manner at 
 the warmth of Sir Fielding's apology. " Bulls 
 will be bulls. He didn't do much harm, and 
 if he had I suppose that wouldn't be any reason 
 why one gentleman should forget himself in 
 regard to another. I'm about sure if one o' 
 my cattle had got on to your grounds you 
 would have acted something after the same 
 style." 
 
 Sir Fielding coloured slightly, for he had a 
 shrewd suspicion that Mr. Gregson's bull, had 
 it trespassed on the Chichester grounds, would
 
 172 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 have gone into the pound ; therefore, he thought 
 it safest to bow. 
 
 " Just so," exclaimed Mr. Gregson. " ' Do 
 as you'd be done by ' is my motto, and always 
 has been since I first started in life. I com- 
 menced on that principle and went along on 
 that principle, and I'm going on it now," and 
 he brought his heavy fist down upon a papier 
 mache table with sufhcient force to make Sir 
 Fielding jump and Chudleigh smile. 
 
 " A very good principle," said Sir Fielding, 
 his soft, well-bred voice presenting a marked 
 contrast to the burly one just silent. " With 
 such a principle a man should prosper." 
 
 " And I have prospered, Sir Fielding," replied 
 Mr. Gregson, looking round with a defiant air. 
 ** I have prospered. I began life with two and 
 fourpence halfpenny in my pocket, and here I 
 am with — well, it doesn't matter how much. 
 I'm content. I've worked hard but uprightly. 
 This hand may be hard but it's honest," and 
 Mr. Gregson flourished his right hand before
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1/3 
 
 him with a decided shake of the head, while 
 Sir Fielding muttered beneath his breath : 
 
 " It is hard." 
 
 "I've worked my own way, sir, I may say 
 unhelped, unaided. I've known what hardship 
 is and the bitter crust, and I've known what 
 misfortune is ; but hardship and misfortune 
 don't hurt a man ; it's luxury and ignorance, 
 extravagance and vice, as ruins a man, and 
 that's what England is coming to." 
 
 Mr. Gregson having delivered his opinion, 
 emphasised by another bang on the unoffend- 
 ing table, sat down. 
 
 Sir Fielding smiled. 
 
 " Your life must have been an interesting 
 one," said he. 
 
 Then, turning to the window, and anxious to 
 change or rather avoid a continuance of the 
 subject, he said : 
 
 " That is a fine position for your fruit 
 trees." 
 
 ** Yes, very good," said Chudleigh. " Miss
 
 174 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Gregson tells me that their gardener got the 
 prize at the last show." 
 
 " Three prizes," said Miss Lavinia, modestly. 
 
 " Dear me ! " said Sir Fielding, who within his 
 heart had cherished the idea that no plums 
 could compare with the Chichester. 
 
 " Would you like to walk round ? " said Mr. 
 Gregson, and. Sir Fielding assenting, the three 
 gentleman made their way into the conserva- 
 tories. 
 
 Sir Fielding was astounded at their magnitude 
 and appointments. 
 
 " This is very beautiful," he said, with admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " That arrangement for the firs is a splendid 
 improvement," said Chudleigh. "Maud's ferns 
 would be improved if she adopted this plan." 
 
 Mr. Gregson looked pleased. 
 
 " Well," he said, " they are nice, I suppose. 
 They ought to be, for they cost a mint of 
 money — a mint of money," and he shook his 
 head slowly. " But, there, I don't mind, it's a
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 75 
 
 whim of my daughters, and they never have a 
 wish ungratified. ' Papa,' they say, ' I want a 
 conservatory. I want a new pony. I want a 
 set of brilliants.' They have them. Conserva- 
 tory, ponies, brilliants — no matter what they ask 
 for they get it." 
 
 Sir Fielding murmured something which 
 sounded like " Indulgent father, value of 
 money," and the three descended the steps on 
 to the lawn. 
 
 As they did so, Mr. Hartfield appeared 
 coming round the corner, exquisitely dressed 
 in a loose morning coat of purple velvet, per- 
 fectly fitting pearly-gray trousers and a deer- 
 stalker that set off his golden hair to perfection. 
 
 Arranging his eyeglass, Mr. Hartfield lounged 
 forward, and with a noiseless laugh of delight 
 shook hands. 
 
 " Ah, Sir Fielding, delightful morning, is it 
 not ? Ah, Mr. Chichester, can you play racket ? 
 Yes ! Give me a game, eh ? em ! Points ? 
 Oh, deuced bad player, I assure you. Mr.
 
 176 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Gregson, Tom, I mean, beats me frightfully. 
 Ah, by Jove ! here is Mr. Gregson," he added, 
 as Tom Gregson, in a brown cut-away coat, 
 light trousers, and horsey-looking deerstalker, 
 emerged from the racket-hall. 
 
 " Mr. Chichester, Mr. Gregson. If you want 
 any information about the next handicap, Mr. 
 Chichester, Mr. Gregson's the man. He knows 
 a horse when he sees it. No, no, I don't mean 
 that. I should have said that he's a most excel- 
 lent judge of horses. Eh, Tom, eh } " 
 
 Mr. Thomas Gregson looked half surly, half 
 complimented. 
 
 " I am not a bad judge of a horse," he ad- 
 mitted. 
 
 " Coming to have a game, Mr. Chichester > 
 Fine game. I will bet you what you like there 
 is not a healthier sport except hunting going. 
 Now, Hartfield, what points.?" 
 
 Chudleigh shook his head. 
 
 " I am very sorry," he said, " I must return 
 with Sir Fielding."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I// 
 
 Sir Fielding and Mr. Gregson had gone on to 
 the stables. 
 
 The three younger men followed them, 
 Clarence Hartfield talking all the time, and 
 managing imperceptibly to cover Mr. Tom's 
 occasional remarks with his frequent, *' Eh, 
 eh ? " and striving, so it seemed to Chudleigh, 
 who, being jealous of the exquisite, was natu- 
 rally suspiciously keen-eyed, to pass the meeting 
 over pleasantly. 
 
 " Hullo, here's the governor," said Tom, 
 entering the first stable. " Look here, Mr. 
 Chichester. I can show you a good bit of 
 horseflesh. What do you think of that .^" and, 
 with a knowing look, he pulled the cloth off 
 a showy-looking animal. " That's a good one 
 to look at, eh.? How do you do, sir?" he 
 added, turning to Sir Fielding, who at that 
 moment entered. 
 
 Sir Fielding shook hands with him and stood 
 to look at the horse. 
 
 "A splendid creature," said Chudleigh, with 
 N
 
 178 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 honest admiration. " Rather a tough one, is 
 it not ? Its ears look suspicious." 
 
 •* Tough!" repeated Mr. Tom; "I should 
 guess she is too. I'll bet there is not a 
 nastier-tempered animal in the country. Have 
 a spin round .?" 
 
 And he jerked his head at the courtyard. 
 
 Chudleigh was a good horseman, and did 
 not know what fear was, but it struck him 
 that it would be scarcely wise to get a broken 
 head or a damaged nose simply to contribute 
 to Mr. Tom Gregson's amusement, so he de- 
 clined. 
 
 " Quite right, sir, you're quite right," said 
 Mr. Gregson, senior. "Tom's an idiot with 
 horses, a perfect idiot. This animal, sir, is a 
 beast. Knew it the moment I saw it, but my 
 son insisted upon purchasing it, and conse- 
 quently there is a hundred guineas gone in a 
 kicking machine," and he waved his hand in 
 denunciation at the obnoxious quadruped, who 
 by its fidgeting to and fro, seemed to under-
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 79 
 
 stand the lavish condemnation passed upon 
 her. 
 
 " Oh, she ain't so bad as all that/' said Mr. 
 Tom. " Look here. Bob says he can't mount 
 her ; says she kicks him off as soon as he's 
 on. Now I say it's his fault. What does he 
 let her kick him off for when once he's on ? 
 Look here, Hartfield ; I'll bet you two to one 
 in guineas I mount her and keep her as still 
 as a statue without a kick to the bad." 
 
 Mr. Gregson opened his mouth, pretty widely 
 too, but Clarence Hartfield's voice stopped 
 the abuse, or whatever was coming, by 
 drawling : 
 
 " Done, by Jove ! and tweble if you like." 
 
 *' ril double it," said Tom, without hesita- 
 tion, and telling one of the grooms to come 
 and saddle her. 
 
 It was hard work for the man, but after a 
 great deal of backing, kicking, hoisting, and 
 other gymnastics the saddle was slipped on 
 and all ready. 
 
 N 2
 
 l80 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Chudleigh and Sir Fielding looked on with 
 some little astonishment. 
 
 To mount the horse alone would be a matter 
 of no little danger, and they had not given 
 Mr. Tom Gregson credit for courage. 
 
 " All ready, sir," said the groom, touching 
 his cap. 
 
 "Then take her out into the yard." 
 
 "Yard, sir.?" muttered the groom, interro- 
 gatively, "not the paddock.!^" 
 
 " Yard, yard, I said," replied Tom. 
 
 " Beg pardon, sir," said the groom, with 
 whom Mr. Tom, through similarity of tastes, 
 was a favourite. " I was thinking of the 
 stones." 
 
 " Then you shouldn't think of the stones," 
 retorted Tom. *' Go and do as you're told." 
 
 The man led the horse out. The animal 
 was as quiet as a lamb, but with her ears laid 
 well back, and her eyes leering viciously. 
 
 " Don't you think you'd better try the 
 paddock, Mr. Gregson.?" said Sir Fielding,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. l8l 
 
 mildly. " A fall on those stones would be 
 dangerous." 
 
 " But I'm not going to fall, sir," said Tom. 
 " Besides, the bet was for the yard, and I'll 
 stick to it." 
 
 " Don't be a fool," growled his father. 
 
 But to this mild exhortation Mr. Tom made 
 no reply, and, followed by the others, walked 
 into the yard. 
 
 The moment he approached the horse it 
 reared on its hind legs, then coming down 
 with an ominous crash, struck out behind. 
 
 " I'm off the bet if you like, Tom," said Mr. 
 Hartfield. " You'll break your neck." 
 
 " I'll treble it if you like," retorted Tom. 
 
 " No, it's wobbing you," said Clarence, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 "All right," said Tom. 
 
 And taking his whip from the groom, he 
 with a sudden spring, vaulted on to the saddle, 
 and, holding the bridle with a grasp of iron, 
 gave the beast a good slash across its satin skin.
 
 1 82 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Off she went across the yard like a thunder- 
 bolt, then made a sudden stop and an attempt 
 to raise her heels, but with another slash and 
 a peculiar turn of the hand her rider got her 
 mouth well under, and she stood still. 
 
 "Keep a look-out, sir!" cried one of the 
 grooms, as the beast, perfectly astounded, laid 
 back her ears right along her neck. 
 
 " Confound you ! mind your own business," 
 shouted Tom, irately, and the groom slunk 
 away. 
 
 " Now then," cried Tom, " she's to stand 
 three minutes." 
 
 And with a lash of the merciless whip again 
 he brought her with a leap into the centre of 
 the yard. 
 
 Then, stroking her neck, but in no whit 
 lessening the strain on the bit, he kept her 
 motionless almost as a statue, and, as Chud- 
 leigh cried out the third minute, he leapt to 
 the ground with a grin. 
 
 "By Jove!" exclaimed Clarence Hartfield,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 83 
 
 assuming, with the aid of his eye-glass, a look 
 of astonishment that was perfectly ridiculous, 
 although he had known well that the feat 
 would be performed. ** Tom, you are a 
 w-onder. Here's the m-money ; and the twick 
 was worth it, eh, Sir Fielding?" 
 
 " Beautifully done," assented Sir Fielding, 
 with genuine admiration, adding to Tom, 
 whom he regarded with very different eyes to 
 those which acknowledged his greeting, *' If 
 you would do me the favour to look over 
 the stables at the Hall, Mr. Gregson, I think 
 you would find one or two animals there that 
 would interest you." 
 
 "You are very kind," said Tom, candidly. 
 " I should be glad to come. To tell you the 
 truth, Fm fond of horses " 
 
 "Too fond," muttered his father, who, though 
 proud of his son's achievement, could not miss 
 an opportunity of growling at him. 
 
 "And Fm glad to make the acquaintance 
 of a strange one now and then," he continued.
 
 1 84 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Then come over to the Hall by all means," 
 said Chudleigh. " I have just bought a new 
 hack ; perhaps you would be kind enough to 
 give me your opinion of him. Will to-morrow 
 suit you ?" 
 
 " To-morrow will suit me," said Tom. 
 
 And with this the gentlemen returned to 
 the drawing-room, where the ladies were 
 anxiously awaiting them. 
 
 " Sir Fielding," said Mrs. Gregson, tremu- 
 lously, " will you and Mr. Chichester partake 
 of a little luncheon ? There is some laid in 
 the dining-room, and " 
 
 " Ah, do. Sir Fielding," broke in Mr. Greg- 
 son. " I can give you a glass of dry sherry, 
 the Amontillado, Count Laminte, Milan." 
 
 " Deuced good," commented Clarence Hart- 
 field. " Let me wecommend. Sir Fielding." 
 
 But neither Sir Fielding nor Chudleigh could 
 be prevailed upon to stay, and after a little 
 more small talk and the accepting of invita- 
 tions to the Hall, father and son departed.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 85 
 
 For half a mile on the homeward journey 
 neither spoke. Sir Fielding seeming lost in 
 thought, and Chudleigh, who never on any 
 occasion interrupted his father's meditative 
 mood, walking by his side in silence. 
 
 Suddenly, however, Sir Fielding said : 
 
 ''Well, Chud, what do you think of them ?" 
 
 " All is not brass that glitters," replied Chud- 
 leigh, epigrammatically. 
 
 "That is true, that is true, Chud," assented 
 Sir Fielding, smiling. " I think there is gold 
 beneath the gilt." 
 
 " The father is a self-made man, but he is 
 genuine," said Chudleigh. " And his son — 
 well, he doesn't lack courage." 
 
 " No," said Sir Fielding. " I confess to some 
 astonishment at the spirit he showed in master- 
 ing that animal. I did not imagine he pos- 
 sessed either the courage or the tact." 
 
 " I can't say I like him," said Chudleigh, 
 " but I must say I admire his pluck. I suppose 
 we must make them welcome at the Hall."
 
 1 86 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Of course," said Sir Fielding, at once, his 
 hospitality horrified at the thought of any half- 
 measures. 
 
 Then there came a silence, again broken by 
 Sir Fielding. 
 
 *'What do you think of the women, Chud V 
 
 " I haven't thought about them, sir," said 
 Chud. " They are very passable. I like Mrs. 
 Gregson, and pity her. As to the girls, well, 
 three weeks of Maud and a month of Miss 
 Lawley " — here his face flushed — " taken con- 
 secutively would do them good, I think." 
 
 Sir Fielding sighed. 
 
 " It is for Maud's sake principally," he said, 
 " that I have made their acquaintance. My 
 darling has been looking unwell lately, Chud — 
 eh } She is nothing nearly so light-hearted 
 as she used to be. Looks pale and thought- 
 ful, — too thoughtful for bright-eyed Maud. 
 What is it, Chud, what is it.?" he asked, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " I cannot say," said Chud ; " I have noticed
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 8/ 
 
 that Maud has become very quiet lately, and 
 that she looks pale and distrait^ but I don't 
 hold the clue, sir. Perhaps she wants a little 
 society, and the Gregsons may do her good : 
 certainly they will amuse her." 
 
 " She has never been the same girl since the 
 night Maurice Durant came back." 
 
 "Ah!" said Chudleigh, "Have you heard 
 how he is, sir V 
 
 Sir Fielding shook his head. 
 
 " I sent Wilson," he said, " but although he 
 knocked several times no one came to him. 
 Maurice Durant must have been out in the 
 woods and the old woman may have been in 
 the village. Chudleigh, there is some mystery 
 — I fear a dark one — hanging about Maurice 
 Durant. Heaven knows why, but since his 
 return I have never seen him or heard his name 
 without feeling a chill presentiment of coming 
 ill in connection with him. He makes me 
 tremble, yet I cannot help being drawn towards 
 him, and — ah, — Chud, let us change the subject.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 What do you think Mr. Gregson asked me in 
 the stable.?" 
 
 " Impossible to guess," said Chudleigh. 
 
 " He wants me to give him, or rather the 
 village, that piece of ground at the end of 
 the green on which to build a school for the 
 children." 
 
 Chudleigh sighed. 
 
 "What did you say, sir?" he said, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 " I did not tell him that every inch of the 
 ground was mortgaged, Chud ; I evaded the 
 request, and let him think me a close-fisted 
 miser. Oh, Chud, Chud, if you could know 
 what I suffered in being obliged to refuse that 
 Manchester cotton-spinner a piece of ground, 
 and for such a purpose, when he himself, mark 
 you, was willing to spend his gold in building 
 the school, you would pity me." 
 
 " I do, sir," said Chudleigh, with a pressure 
 of the hand. 
 
 Then they walked on for a few moments,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 89 
 
 absorbed in their own sad thoughts, but sud- 
 denly Chudleigh looked up with a hesitating 
 air, and Sir Fielding, reading it in a moment, 
 said : 
 
 " What is it, Chud ? what are you thinking 
 of?" 
 
 " I do not like to tell you, sir," said Chud- 
 leigh. 
 
 "Why not?" asked Sir Fielding. "Speak 
 out, Chud, speak out." 
 
 " Well, if you insist upon it, sir," said Chud, 
 still hesitating. "An idea has just struck me. 
 It pains me to refer to the subject, sir, but I 
 cannot help it." 
 
 " You mean the mortgage, Chud ?" murmured 
 Sir Fielding, without raising his head. 
 
 Chudleigh nodded. 
 
 " There seems no lack of money there, sir. 
 Mr. Gregson might " 
 
 Sir Fielding winced as if Chudleigh had 
 struck him an actual blow. 
 
 " Don't speak of it, Chud ! I'll think it over.
 
 IQO CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Oh, Chud, Chud, the Hall under the thumb 
 of a Manchester cotton-spinner!" 
 
 ****** 
 
 Great was the congratulation at the Folly 
 as to the visit just brought to an end. Mr. 
 Gregson's head was up an inch higher, and 
 his voice, strange to say, a tone lower ; per- 
 haps Sir Fielding's soft accents had influenced 
 it. Tom Gregson was in a state of radiant 
 self-satisfaction, and the ladies flushed with 
 pleasure and delight. 
 
 "We have to thank you for this pleasant 
 morning, have we not .-*" murmured Miss Bella 
 in Clarence Hartfield's ear, forgetting her 
 affectation in her overwhelming joy. 
 
 Clarence Hartfield smiled. 
 
 " Eh } Told Sir Fielding that you'd get on 
 well together. I was wight, you see. Always 
 am, eh? Mr. Chichester jolly fellow, eh.?" 
 
 " Oh, very nice ! " said the girls, warmly. 
 " So grave and gentlemanly — quite a second 
 edition of Sir Fielding."
 
 MAURICE DURANT. IQI 
 
 " He ! he ! Thought you'd like him," said 
 Clarence, rising slowly. " I'm going to have 
 a glass of shewwy. Will anybody come and 
 see I don't drink too much?" 
 
 Then, with another noiseless laugh, he 
 lounged into the dining-room, where, behind 
 his glass, he could chuckle unobserved, and 
 mutter : 
 
 "What a deuced clever fella' you are, 
 Clawence, my boy ! Wegularly netted the 
 whole of 'em! With Miss Bella and Miss 
 Lavinia dancing wound him, he won't have 
 much time to dance wound Miss Lawley — 
 beautiful Carlotta ! — and so leave the course 
 clear for you, Clawence, my boy. He ! he ! 
 this fella' is not half such a f-f-fool as he 
 looks !" 
 
 In which latter assertion the reader will 
 perhaps give Mr. Hartfield credit for some 
 truth.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 " By the pricking of my thumbs 
 Something wicked this way comes." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 There are some parts of Hatton Garden, 
 pretty as its name is, where a well-dressed 
 person could not be reasonably secure of re- 
 taining his watch and chain, or indeed his 
 life, if he did not look well after it. There 
 are courts and alleys cutting through its dark, 
 noisome streets that are blind in more senses 
 of the word than one ; tall, dark, dirt-stained 
 houses, mysteriously occupied, and guarded as 
 carefully as the Bank of England ; and small, 
 disreputable - looking public - houses, behind 
 whose grease-marked doors, — which swing with 
 a noiseless, furtive sort of secrecy peculiar to
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 1 93 
 
 the atmosphere and surroundings, swarthy faces 
 and queerly clad beings sit plotting and plan- 
 ning, drinking and frowning, playing the eternal 
 dominoes, and occasionally stabbing each other, 
 with a perseverance in the carrying out of foreign 
 manners and customs astounding in this great 
 city of ours. 
 
 Wending our way through the close-smelling 
 thoroughfares, bordered on each side by dens 
 of misery and filth, at the doors of which 
 lounge dark-hued Italians with blackened pipes 
 in their mouths, or black-eyed, sallow-looking 
 children sulkily squatting in the gutter or the 
 kerb, let us penetrate an alley — dark and dismal 
 even in the spring sunset — and, pushing open 
 the low door of the heavy-browed public-house 
 which stands at its end, pass into the small 
 sawdusted space before the bar. 
 
 Three men are standing there, all of them 
 dark, swarthy- visaged, with jet-black, twink- 
 ling eyes, the fire in which smacks of ferocity 
 and the quick flashing of cunning. Thin lipped, 
 O
 
 194 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 high cheek boned, and compact of limb, one 
 would at once judge them Italians. 
 
 Silently for a time they lounge moodily 
 against the greasy bar and its partition, occa- 
 sionally lifting their wine-glasses — for they are 
 drinking pure Rhenish, the like of which could 
 not be obtained at any aristocrat's dinner, 
 imported, stored, and sold only to his own 
 particular customers by the Italian landlord 
 of this dirty public-house — and puffing at the 
 tiny cigarettes which they hold between their 
 white teeth. 
 
 At last the eldest one glanced at the clock, 
 stretched himself, and said, in the patois of 
 an Italian village : 
 " He is late." 
 
 *' When is he not > Tell me, Piete," retorted 
 the second, flinging himself down upon the 
 hard wooden bench and supporting his head 
 upon his long, sinewy hand, 
 
 "Your English is always late!" said the 
 third. " He is all promise, but no perform.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. I95 
 
 He will swear you to punctuality with an 
 eagerness and solemnity sublime, and keep 
 you waiting half an hour after his own time. 
 Bah ! Baptiste, Piete, be patient. You have 
 not endured this abominable clime nor its 
 detestable people so long as I, Jean, have. 
 When you have you will take these things as 
 the English themselves do — quietly," and with 
 a gleam of his white teeth the third lifted 
 his glass to his mouth and drained it. 
 
 " Know you aught of this mission, Baptiste .?" 
 asked Piete, when the landlord, at a signal 
 from Jean, had filled the glasses and returned 
 to his perusal of an Italian newspaper in a 
 corner of the bar. 
 
 " Not a scrap," was the reply. " It is some 
 move of Spazzola's. He told me to wait with 
 you two here till six, and he would come with 
 the instructions ; but, by Saint Paulo ! it is 
 near seven, and I'm wearied to the death." 
 
 " It will not be safe to go," muttered Piete. 
 " What say you — shall we wait, Jean ?" 
 O 2
 
 19^ CHAPTER XII. 
 
 "Why do you ask?" snarled Jean. "You 
 know it is more than our necks are worth to 
 trifle with Spazzola. He tells you, me, to be 
 here — we are here. He does not come — we 
 wait. What else were we to do ? what else .? " 
 
 " Pa ! You are ill-grained this even, Fratello 
 Jean. Wine, wine for Jean, that it may soak 
 his humour down." 
 
 "St-r-r!" hissed Baptiste, between his teeth. 
 "Cease snarling, wolves — the lion comes!" and 
 he flashed his eyes at the door, which opened 
 at the moment and admitted a tall, fierce-look- 
 ing Italian, half concealed by a ragged cloak 
 and a sombrero hat, followed by a short, thick- 
 set Englishman, whose flat, bull-dog features, 
 short oily hair, suit of corduroy, and well-worn 
 velveteen, blue spotted neckcloth, and heavy 
 soled boots proclaimed him at once a brother 
 of the fraternity whose unexpected midnight 
 visits at wealthy mansions result in compulsory 
 absence from their native land, for the benefit of 
 their own morals and their country's well-being.
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 1 97 
 
 In short, the Italian's companion was a ticket- 
 of-leave man, and looked it as plainly as if he 
 had stitched the ticket on the breast of his 
 jacket. 
 
 Raising his eyebrows as a token of recog- 
 nition, the Italian sauntered up to the bar, 
 and directed a quick gesture at the ticket-of- 
 leave man. 
 
 " A go of gin," said he, in a hoarse voice, 
 apparently proceeding from the region of his 
 thick boots. "Hot!" he added, then stood 
 regarding the three Italians with side glances 
 from his small, sharp-set eyes, that were near 
 akin in cunning to their own. 
 
 The steaming glass of fiery liquor disposed 
 of at one gulp, and a glass of wine having 
 been finished by the Italian, the latter, nodding 
 to the three others, took the ticket-of-leave 
 man's arm and walked through a low door- 
 way into a dark room, followed by the three 
 others. 
 
 The door of this apartment Jean carefully
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 bolted, then, taking a whistle from his pocket, 
 blew three soft calls. 
 
 After two minutes' waiting a portion of the 
 floor at the corner of a room was raised in the 
 shape of a trap-door, and, still without speaking, 
 the five men went down — the trap-door closing 
 after them as noiselessly as it had opened. 
 
 At the foot of the ladder by which they had 
 descended was an apartment, something between 
 a cellar and tap-room, the walls unpapered 
 and streaked with the mould of damp, and the 
 floor covered with thick sawdust over which the 
 feet made no noise. Two or three tables, a 
 wooden bench, and a few chairs comprised the 
 furniture of the room, if one omits the broken 
 bottles and glasses and a small tin frame for 
 candles dangling from the roof. 
 
 " Now," said Spazzola, dropping into a chair, 
 and motioning to the rest to follow his example ; 
 " now we are safe, let's to business. First, 
 Mon Piete, Baptiste, Jean, let me introduce you 
 to a brother. His name is Bill, his profession
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 199 
 
 is — ours. // mio ainicOy these are my brothers. 
 Soh ! it is good!" he exclaimed, as the man 
 introduced as Bill rose slowly from his chair, 
 expectorated, grasped the hands held out to 
 him, and then sat down again with the air of 
 one who had undergone much in the cause of 
 politeness. 
 
 " Baptiste, we will drink." 
 
 Baptiste rose, and, touching a spring, sum- 
 moned a dwarfish, ill-looking ruffian ; who came 
 from a side door let into the wood, in the 
 manner of a reptile dropping from the roof, and 
 taking their orders returned in a few minutes 
 with a bottle of wine and enough gin to last 
 several " goes," then, disappearing, left the party 
 free to continue the conversation. 
 
 "Any news, Jean.?" asked the one called 
 Spazzola, who seemed by his manner and tone 
 to hold the position of head. 
 
 "None, Spazzola!" replied Jean. "None, 
 save that money is scarce, wine dear, and our 
 hands idle."
 
 200 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ''AH which ills I came to dissipate !" retorted 
 Spazzola. " I have news — perhaps because, 
 unlike you, I seek it. Hands are idle when 
 they seek no work, money is scarce when it is 
 not chased, and wine — bah ! wine is always dear 
 while a rogue keeps the cellar. Soh ! I have 
 news, said I, and good news. Piete, your head, 
 so long held down like a beat cur's tail, shall 
 raise itself like a padrone's. 
 
 "Jean, your dry throat can, an you choose, 
 lap Rhenish all the day ; and you, oh, slender- 
 waisted, calf-eyed Baptiste, shall have gold 
 enough to deck a dozen green-eyed Maries." 
 
 And, with a short laugh, he caught up the 
 glass and emptied it, while the three men, 
 suddenly roused from their lethargic attitude, 
 bent forward across the table and fixed their 
 glittering eyes upon his mocking face. 
 
 " It is time," muttered Jean, sinking back into 
 his chair and lowering his eyes. " Hungry dogs 
 grow impatient." 
 
 "And yelp!" retorted Spazzola. "Enough,
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 201 
 
 amico. The prelude is over — for the opera. 
 Piete, you Httle think of the trouble, the labour, 
 the travail your Spazzola undergoes to feed you. 
 You little know the danger. Soh ! enough. 
 For three weeks I have left you to try the 
 chase. Ay, for three weeks or all but a 
 day, with no luck, but your waiting horse 
 wins. Is it not so, il 7nio amico f' he in- 
 quired, turning to the Englishman, who nodded 
 surlily. 
 
 " And on the last day, meaning but yesterday 
 night, I came across my friend here, who was 
 looking far and wide for Spazzola and his 
 lambs. That we met was a chance, for I had 
 dropped into a crowd to try my luck with the 
 pockets when I saw him relieving a too trustful 
 idiot of his trinkets. We went to the kitchen 
 at Whitechapel, stayed the night, and arranged 
 an undertaking which, by the holy Mary, shall 
 
 line our girdles. Listen. There is Stop ; 
 
 let our friend relate himself the plan of the 
 campaign, for he is generalissimo."
 
 202 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 And he slapped the ticket-of-leave man on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 Bill got up with a clumsy movement, strangely- 
 contrasting with the graceful play of the Italian's 
 limbs, and said, suddenly, stopping to gulp some 
 gin: 
 
 '' What I got to say won't take half the time 
 you've been palavering in — it's as plain as a 
 pikestaff and as straight as a jemmy. Your 
 mate here came across me cly faken the other 
 evenin' and being palish I asked him to go in 
 with a little affair I had on hand. He seemed 
 agreeable if so be I'd take on three more, and, 
 as it's allers in affairs of this kind the more on 
 us the merrier, I agreed." 
 
 "And the plot— the affair.?" asked Jean, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Is this," replied Bill, looking cautiously 
 round, and lowering his voice till, what with 
 its hoarseness and burglar slang, the three could 
 scarcely follow him. " Down in the country, 
 inland, there's a jolly fine chance of gamey bit
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 203 
 
 o' cribbing. It's a old house, reg'lar matchbox 
 stuff to get through, and I beUeve crammed 
 full o' swag. The only man as lives in it is 
 a crazed parson o' some sort ; him and a 
 woman as is deaf and dumb are the only 
 people livin' in it. There's a dawg, but I'd 
 manage him. I'm good at dawgs. Next to 
 the crib itself is a big 'all and several other 
 'ouses, tidy-sized, so that we could go in for 
 a hat-full if so be you'd pluck to run it. 
 Anyhow, this 'ere alone's a good pull and a 
 safe one, and if you'll stand by a cove, play 
 fair — mind, no splitting or shirking — we shall 
 collar a lot o' swag." 
 
 Breathlessly the men listened, following each 
 word with charmed ears and flashing eyes. 
 
 " What sort .?" asked Baptiste, in a whisper. 
 
 " Plate !" replied the burglar. " Solid lumps, 
 old-fashioned. I've been told that there's chests 
 and chests, cupboards and cupboards full of 
 it." 
 
 The Italians rose to their feet with a gesture
 
 204 MAURICE DURANT. 
 
 of excitement, but Spazzola's raised hand 
 warned them into calmness. 
 
 " The cove in the crib is a strong 'un. I've 
 see'd him — went down a purpose. He'd be a 
 tight bit if he turned crusty. There ain't to 
 be no shirking." 
 
 A sudden gesture of the Italians interrupted 
 him. They raised their hands, and the steel 
 blades of three stilettoes flashed in the dimness. 
 
 " Right you are ! " croaked the burglar, hold- 
 out his fist. " Give us your fins."
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 "Yea, Love is lord of all, 
 Simple and wise; 
 Strive how we may 
 He blinds our eyes. 
 
 Oh, Lov our king, 
 To thee we sing." 
 
 Once more the Rectory was deserted. When 
 and how its master had departed only one 
 person knew, and she — the old housekeeper — 
 being dumb, could not tell, even if she chose. 
 
 Maurice Durant had departed in the night 
 it was supposed ; what direction he had taken 
 it was impossible to conjecture even, for there 
 were no traces of his flight, searched for though 
 they were ; for Sir Fielding, even at the risk 
 of the strange being's displeasure should he 
 hear of it, had caused careful inquiries to be 
 made for miles round.
 
 206 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Nothing could be learned. 
 
 One man had asserted that, as he lay be- 
 neath a hedge on the night Maurice Durant 
 had dined at the Hall, he had seen a tall, 
 dark figure, wrapped in a cloak and followed 
 by a huge mastiff, pass by like a ghost, going 
 in the direction of London, but no further 
 trace could be found, and Sir Fielding, arguing 
 that Maurice Durant must have stopped some- 
 where for food and drink on the road, came 
 to the conclusion that he had gone farther into 
 the country, or perhaps had, by a circuitous 
 route, reached the sea coast, and so taken 
 ship for the Continent. 
 
 That so much mystery should enwrap the 
 movements of Maurice Durant gave him no 
 surprise, for it was impossible to weigh his 
 actions in the same balance with ordinary men. 
 
 Much as Sir Fielding regretted his flight, 
 he could not help feeling a certain sense of 
 relief which Chudleigh shared, though why he 
 could not tell.
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 20/ 
 
 How much his absence touched Maud it was 
 impossible to say. She never mentioned his 
 name, and her face gave no sign, though the 
 dreamy, wistful, almost indescribable expres- 
 sion that came upon it when Maurice Durant 
 first spoke, never left it. 
 
 At the end of two months the Folly and 
 Hall were " hail, fellow, well met." 
 
 The Chichester visit had been supplemented 
 by Lady Mildred's, and the Folly had returned 
 them both. 
 
 Then invitations to dinner passed to and 
 fro, followed by rides and drives in the fresh 
 spring mornings, and at the Folly a grand ball, 
 at which, owing to Sir Fielding's example, some 
 of the principal county families had appeared. 
 
 This overstepping of the high bounds of caste 
 produced good results to both families. It 
 elevated the Gregsons, toned them down, and 
 made them presentable, and brought a fresh 
 dash of interest into the somewhat monotonous 
 life at the Hall.
 
 208 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 The Honourable Clarence Hartfield had sud- 
 denly been summoned to town to attend the 
 sick bed of Lord Crownbrilliants, so that he was 
 robbed for the present of the fruit of his plotting, 
 but as he had promised to return immediately 
 his father was convalescent, he still rejoiced in 
 the success of his pretty little scheme. 
 
 Maud was delighted at the acquisition of new 
 friends, and by her meek, gentle manner, so free 
 from affectation, and so thorough-bred, won 
 the admiring devotion of the Misses Bella and 
 Lavinia directly, to say nothing of her conquest 
 over Tom, which was very amusing. 
 
 One morning Tom had ridden over with his 
 sisters to entice Maud into a ride, and, she at 
 once consenting, the four were soon cantering 
 towards the Cottage to call for Carlotta. 
 
 A pony carriage dashed round a corner when 
 they had reached the heath, and Miss Bella, 
 who was blessed with long vision, declared that 
 Lady Mildred and Miss Lawley were seated 
 therein.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 209 
 
 In another minute her assertion was proved 
 to be correct, by thq pony carriage halting on 
 the roadway, and Lady Mildred's parasol being 
 raised to beckon the riding party across. 
 
 " Well, girls," said Lady Mildred, as the party 
 clustered round the dainty little turn-out and 
 poured forth a stream of salutations. " Mr.^ 
 Gregson, how do you do } Carlotta and I are 
 going to Chudleigh's flower show. How is it 
 you are not there, Maud .?" 
 
 " Too early yet, aunt," said Maud ; " it was 
 to take place at three o'clock." 
 
 "Two o'clock Chud told us — did he not, 
 Carlotta.?" said Lady Mildred. 
 
 " Yes," said Carlotta. " Perhaps he made 
 a mistake." 
 
 "Very unlike Chud if he did," said Lady 
 Mildred, emphatically "Are you one of the 
 judges, Mr. Gregson.?" 
 
 "No, but my father is, Lady Mildred," said 
 Tom. " I don't know a cabbage from a ge- 
 ranium."
 
 210 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 " If it were a horse show," said Bella, " Tom 
 would be tolerably competent." 
 
 " If it were a bonnet show," retorted Tom, " I 
 know a young lady " 
 
 " Come," said Lady Mildred, laughing. " I 
 won't stay if you're going to teaze each other. 
 As it is, I don't know what to do. If we really 
 are an hour too soon I shall scold Chudleigh." 
 
 " Drive round the moor, aunt, and we will 
 gallop round and meet you. That will fill some 
 of the time up," said Maud. 
 
 "But you are not going in your habits!" 
 said Lady Mildred, in comic dismay. 
 
 " Oh, yes, we are," said Bella. " It is a very 
 unpretentious affair. Lady Mildred. Mr. Chi- 
 chester allows only the villagers and labourers 
 to exhibit, and the flowers are set out in the 
 school-room. We are to walk through and see 
 you distribute the prizes, and then ride back 
 — isn't that to be it. Miss Chichester.?" 
 
 " Yes," said Maud. " Chudleigh says it will 
 be so crowded that we must not stay long."
 
 MAURICE DURAXT. 211 
 
 " How thoughtful he is," said Lady Mildred 
 to Carlotta. " Nothing seems to escape him 
 when he is planning anything for the good of 
 the villagers. I'll be bound he will work really 
 hard to-day, give up his luncheon and very 
 likely his dinner, just to please a set of people 
 who really are never grateful." 
 
 Carlotta looked down coldly through her veil, 
 which barely hid the sudden colour that tinted 
 her beautiful face. 
 
 " I fancy he does not do it for their grati- 
 tude," she said. 
 
 " Of course not," said Lady Mildred. " It's 
 a matter of duty with him, and Chudleigh is 
 perfectly Quixotic in his ideas of duty." 
 
 Carlotta made no reply, but, turning to Tom, 
 asked him how a certain colt was progressing. 
 
 " Oh, very well. Miss Lawley," said Tom. 
 " He'll turn out a good one, I think. He's 
 clean about the legs — pretty head too. You 
 intimated you would come over and look at 
 him, but you have not done so." 
 
 P 2
 
 212 CHAPTER XITI. 
 
 "I will," said Carlotta, "believe me." 
 
 " I got a letter from Hartfield this morning," 
 said Tom, as Carlotta gathered her reins in 
 hand and raised her whip, the girls having 
 already turned their horses' heads. 
 
 " Indeed," she said, calmly, her eyes fixed 
 upon the off pony's head. ^' I hope Lord 
 Crownbrilliants is better." 
 
 " Hartfield says he's the same," said Tom, 
 " but I don't think, from what I hear, that his 
 lordship is likely to pull round." 
 
 Carlotta, still keeping her eyes fixed, said : 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear that." 
 
 " Yes," said Tom, '' it's a bad job. Hartfield 
 is the next Lord Crownbrilliants, you know." 
 
 The next moment he was alone, the ponies 
 obeying a sudden pull, starting off with suf- 
 fficient spirit to jerk Lady Mildred's parasol 
 from her hand and spinning away at a pace 
 which Tom mentally pronounced " stunning."
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Now, by two-headed Janus, 
 Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time." — 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 As the sun sank behind the housetops and 
 the last patch of smoke-dimmed crimson gave 
 place to the dingy darkness which Londoners 
 call twilight, a tall Italian walked silently and 
 with the peculiar stealthiness of a cat down an 
 old-fashioned street in Chelsea. 
 
 Perhaps the rambling wooden houses with 
 their pointed gables and crossbeams, toned by 
 time and the gloriously miserable English cli- 
 mate, and spotted here and there by latticed 
 windows, which seemed to have been designed 
 for the purpose of keeping out the light as 
 well as preventing any one from seeing through
 
 214 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 them, reminded him of a certain small Italian 
 town in which he had first drawn breath ; or 
 perhaps he was looking for that pretty familiar 
 object, a public-house. 
 
 WTiatever his purpose he stopped at the middle 
 of the street and, shivering slightly with the 
 cold, although an Englishman would have called 
 the day warm, gazed up and down, muttering : 
 
 ** Filthy climate ! Dante must surely have 
 meant this detestable England when he made 
 his infernal regions of ice. I vow by the saints 
 I freeze on its hottest day. Ugh ! What horrid 
 place is this where one finds no wine-shop, no 
 cigar seller ? Oh, Spazzola ! woe to thee that 
 thou shouldst leave thy Italia for such a pur- 
 gatory as this befogged and dismal isle ! Pah ! 
 ^^■hy do I growl ? A hungry dog must take 
 his bone Avhere it is thrown him. Not that 
 my bone has fallen yet. By St. Joseph ! I 
 fear me it will never leave the hand of the 
 Fates which hold it. Ha ! at last here is a 
 den. Pah ! why should I dub myself idiot by
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 21$ 
 
 asking for that which they cannot give ? Wine ! 
 They know not what it is. The ambrosial 
 nectar to them spells p-o-r-t or s-h-e-r-r-y — 
 thick, hot, sweet, fiery, and altogether detestable. 
 Ah, Spazzola, thou art doomed to horrid beer, 
 bitter as gall, heavier than lead, and sour to 
 the throat." 
 
 With this wholesale condemnation of one of 
 the English leading articles of commerce he 
 stepped into a low-doored public-house, which, 
 being within sight of the water, had been dubbed 
 the "Waterman's Arms," and above its heavy 
 door bore a fancy portrait of an impossible sailor 
 rowing an impossible boat on an impossible piece 
 of water. 
 
 This work of art the Italian stopped to gaze 
 at with wonder and sorrow, and an anathema 
 on British art, which he transferred to British 
 beer, as that delicious concoction of malt, treacle, 
 sugar, blacking, and Heaven knows what be- 
 sides, rolled down his throat. 
 
 Behind the little bar, which was scrupulously
 
 2l6 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 clean, a young girl fluttered about — not serving, 
 because excepting the Italian there was no one 
 to serve. 
 
 In her bright blue dress, upon the neck of 
 which fell a shower of black hair, she looked 
 pretty and enticing in the extreme, and Spaz- 
 zola, a true Italian in his admiration of the 
 beautiful, whether embodied in a graceful water- 
 butt or a pretty girl, having nothing better to 
 do, sought to forget his disgust for the beer 
 by engaging in a little chit-chat ; so commenced 
 by establishing himself in a comfortable atti- 
 tude, and uttering the remark that there were 
 not many customers. 
 
 " No," said the girl, " not in the afternoon. 
 We get them in the evening when the watermen 
 and lightermen come off." 
 
 "Come off where.?" asked the Italian, with 
 his foreign accent and puzzled raising of the 
 eyebrows. 
 
 " The river, of course," replied the girl. 
 
 "Ah, soh!" assented the Italian. "And do
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 21/ 
 
 not the gentlemen, the— what do you call them ? 
 — the nobles, come and play their dommoes 
 —eh?" 
 
 " Nobles ! Bless me, no," said the girl, laugh- 
 ing. There are no noblemen in Chelsea, and 
 not many gentlemen either. Leastways," she 
 added, " we don't see them here. In the summer 
 sometimes the boating gentlemen come down 
 as far as this, but they're very noisy, and want 
 serving all at once, and that ain't what I call 
 gentlemanly. There's no one can pull a pint 
 of beer quicker than I can, but when it comes 
 to twenty people wanting twenty pints of ale 
 and twenty bottles of ginger-pop all in two 
 minutes and a half I'm not equal to it." 
 
 "No. What for do they want *pop'.?" 
 queried the Italian, to whom, tolerably well 
 acquainted with the English language though 
 he was, fresh slang words cropped up daily to 
 puzzle. 
 
 " To drink, of course," retorted the damsel. 
 " ' Pop ' is what we call ginger-beer for short."
 
 2l8 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " Ah, ah ! I see, I see," said the Italian, 
 ejaculating in his own language, " Ginger-beer ! 
 What will these English not use for their vile 
 liquor ? Ginger ! Oh, St. Marie ! Have you 
 no gentlemen who veesit here of an evening 
 for a little conversazione .^" 
 
 " We don't sell it if they did," said^ the 
 girl ; but gleaning from the puzzled expres- 
 sion of Spazzola's face that she had mis- 
 understood him, caught at his meaning, and 
 added, "Oh, I know. No. Most of the 
 people about here never go out. They're a 
 most unsociable lot. Why, I've knowed some 
 people livin' in this street for four years and 
 only send for supper beer twice the whole 
 time." 
 
 " It ees shameful ! " said the Italian, looking 
 greatly shocked, though in his heart, considering 
 what supper beer was, he admired them for their 
 abstinence. 
 
 "There's another gentleman as has been 
 lodgin' in the street for more than two months.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 219 
 
 and he ain't been inside the doors, although he 
 always passes after dark." 
 
 "After dark!" repeated the Italian, greatly- 
 interested in an individual who possessed a 
 habit so particularly his own. " Does he not 
 walk out in the day .? " 
 
 " No, never," replied the girl, " and when he 
 does go out at night he is wrapped up to such 
 an extent you can't see more than the tip of his 
 nose and his black hair, which, by the way in 
 which it falls about the collar of his cloak, and 
 by the cloak too, which is a beastly thing, just 
 like a foreigner's, I should say as he was an 
 Italian." 
 
 " Italian ! " repeated Spazzola. " Ees that so ? 
 A countryman of mine ! I am Italian," he 
 ejaculated, striking his breast. " Where does he 
 live, la vtia figlia ?" 
 
 " There, in the top room of that house," she 
 replied, pointing to the top window of an old- 
 fashioned house across the street. " He lives 
 there all day, doing something — working, I
 
 220 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 suppose — and comes out like a bat or an owl 
 at night," and she laughed at the comparison. 
 
 '• It is strange," said the Italian, his dark eyes 
 fixed on the ground, thoughtfully. " I think I 
 will go and speak with my countryman. What 
 say you, la mia figlia ? Is he amiable, polite, a 
 bo 71 camarade ? " 
 
 " I should say not," said the barmaid. " From 
 all I have heard I should think he was a regular 
 crusty old fellow. But why don't you go and 
 see for yourself.? He'd be glad to see a 
 countryman, if he is an Italian." 
 
 " I weel," said the Italian. " I wish you good- 
 day, senora. The spot is charming, your beer 
 is superb, and yourself — ah, me ! And I once 
 refused to believe there were angels on the 
 earth ! " 
 
 With these last words he stepped through the 
 doorway, and, looking cautiously round him, 
 walked slowly up to the house the girl had 
 pointed out to him. 
 
 While he was lounging softly past, meditating
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 221 
 
 upon the mode in which he should effect an 
 entry, the door opened, and a girl ran across the 
 street to a chandler's shop, leaving the door ajar. 
 
 With a mental blessing on the propitious 
 Fates, Spazzola, with the speed and noiseless- 
 ness of a snake, darted into the passage, and, 
 listening for one moment at the foot of the 
 stairs, walked up. 
 
 At the second flight a door opened and a 
 woman looked out, but Spazzola's face looked 
 so calm and his step was so staid and unflurried 
 that the woman's suspicions, if she had any, 
 were allayed, and, muttering " Going up to the 
 top, I suppose," withdrew her head and slammed 
 the door. 
 
 As he neared the top landing, the Italian's 
 footsteps became almost noiseless, and, bending 
 forward, he stole up the stairs like a cat, his 
 hand instinctively grasping the handle of the 
 stiletto beneath his cloak. 
 
 Given a background of some rotten Italian 
 palace instead of the faded paper of the dingy
 
 222 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 staircase and he would have made an interesting 
 picture. * 
 
 . " This must be it," he muttered, as he stooped 
 down at the keyhole of the door. " Almost 
 dark. Can see no one. I will knock. Courage, 
 Spazzola ; this may lead to business," and he 
 knocked softly at the door. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 He waited for two minutes and knocked 
 again, this time louder. 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 Then he listened breathlessly, and, hearing 
 nothing, tried the handle of the door. 
 
 It was locked. 
 
 *• Soh ! " he muttered, " my sweet child was 
 wrong for once. This owl does fly by day. I 
 am curious. It is a mere plaything, this lock. 
 Pah ! We will for amusement — mark me, only 
 amusement — take one peep at the owl's nest." 
 
 With a smile that lit up his face like a flash 
 of sunlight, and showed his glittering teeth, he 
 took from his pocket a small steel instrument.
 
 MAURICE DURANT. 223 
 
 inserted it in the keyhole, turned it with a 
 pecuHar twist of the hand, and opened the door. 
 
 An exclamation of astonishment burst from 
 his lips as the interior of the room met his view. 
 Beside the plain table and chair, piece of square 
 carpet, and poverty-stricken aspect, the room, 
 though utterly devoid of anything approaching 
 comfort in the way of furniture, was furnished 
 in one corner with an easel, upon which shone 
 the commencement of what promised to be a 
 superb study of an old country house. On the 
 walls glistened a number of unframed pictures, 
 women's heads, bits of landscape, a scene from 
 one of Racine's plays, a scrap of forest foliage, 
 and the portrait of a superb mastiff, all bearing 
 about them the evidence of a master-hand, which 
 the Italian, no mean critic, detected at a glance. 
 
 On the plain deal table, lying beside palettes 
 and brushes, was a cup of water and a crust of 
 bread. 
 
 Taking off his hat with an air of profound 
 respect, Spazzola entered.
 
 224 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 " It is superb," he murmured, " superb. I 
 have found a Carlo Dolci, a Titian, a Rubens, 
 a — St. Peter! what colours ! what forms ! It is 
 magnificent. Spazzolo, thou art in a great 
 man's studio. Tread softly. Dry bread and 
 water ! Oh, genius, thou dost always starve, 
 and thus, being light, canst float to heaven, 
 while heavier souls are chained to earth. And 
 this," he continued, going to the easel, " this is 
 — ah, Marie ! what is this ? These leaves ! this 
 sky ! It is he ! At last ! My soul, keep thou 
 within my bosom. I have him at last ! Spaz- 
 zola," he cried, throwing up his hands in a 
 frenzy of delight, " thou art not mistaken. Thy 
 prey is in thy grasp. St. Marie ! If Felise could 
 see this and these," waving his arms towards the 
 pictures, "would she not die of joy, of malice, of 
 desire ? At last ! at last ! Oh, monsieur, milord, 
 duke, or whatever they call you, Spazzoia's claws 
 are round thy throat and purse ! " 
 
 END OF VOL I. 
 
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