[Illustration: "I am in the power of a maniac" Honoria murmured. --Page100. Henry French, del. E. Evans, sc. ]

 RUN TO EARTH

 A NOVEL

 BY THE AUTHOR OF

 "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET, " "AURORA FLOYD" "ISHMAEL, " "VIXEN, " "WYLLARD'S WEIRD" ETC. ETC. 

 CONTENTS. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER I. WARNED IN A DREAM CHAPTER II. DONE IN THE DARKNESS CHAPTER III. DISINHERITED CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE DEPTHS CHAPTER V. "EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD!" CHAPTER VI. AULD ROBIN GRAY CHAPTER VII. "O BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY!" CHAPTER VIII. AFTER THE PIC-NIC CHAPTER IX. ON YARBOROUGH TOWER CHAPTER X. "HOW ART THOU LOST! HOW ON A SUDDEN LOST!" CHAPTER XI. "THE WILL! THE TESTAMENT!" CHAPTER XII. A FRIEND IN NEED CHAPTER XIII. IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG CHAPTER XIV. A GHOSTLY VISITANT CHAPTER XV. A TERRIBLE RESOLVE CHAPTER XVI. WAITING AND WATCHING CHAPTER XVII. DOUBTFUL SOCIETY CHAPTER XVIII. AT ANCHOR CHAPTER XIX. A FAMILIAR TOKEN CHAPTER XX. ON GUARD CHAPTER XXI. DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE CHAPTER XXII. ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT CHAPTER XXIII. "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?" CHAPTER XXIV. "I AM WEARY OF MY PART" CHAPTER XXV. A DANGEROUS ALLIANCE CHAPTER XXVI. MOVE THE FIRST CHAPTER XXVII. WEAVE THE WARP, AND WEAVE THE WOOF CHAPTER XXVIII. PREPARING THE GROUND CHAPTER XXIX. AT WATCH CHAPTER XXX. FOUND WANTING CHAPTER XXXI. "A WORTHLESS WOMAN, MERE COLD CLAY" CHAPTER XXXII. A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION CHAPTER XXXIII. "TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST" CHAPTER XXXIV. CAUGHT IN THE TOILS CHAPTER XXXV. LARKSPUR TO THE RESCUE! CHAPTER XXXVI. ON THE TRACK CHAPTER XXXVII. "O, ABOVE MEASURE FALSE!" CHAPTER XXXVIII. "THY DAY IS COME" CHAPTER XXXIX. "CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH" CHAPTER XL. "SO SHALL YE REAP"

 CHAPTER I. 

 WARNED IN A DREAM. 

Seven-and-twenty years ago, and a bleak evening in March. There aregas-lamps flaring down in Ratcliff Highway, and the sound of squeakingfiddles and trampling feet in many public-houses tell of festivityprovided for Jack-along-shore. The emporiums of slop-sellers areilluminated for the better display of tarpaulin coats and hats, sostiff of build that they look like so many sea-faring suicides, pendentfrom the low ceilings. These emporiums are here and there enlivened byfestoons of many-coloured bandana handkerchief's; and on every pane ofglass in shop or tavern window is painted the glowing representation ofBritannia's pride, the immortal Union Jack. 

Two men sat drinking and smoking in a little parlour at the back of anold public-house in Shadwell. The room was about as large as agood-sized cupboard, and was illuminated in the day-time by a windowcommanding a pleasant prospect of coal-shed and dead wall. The paper onthe walls was dark and greasy with age; and every bit of clumsy, bulging deal furniture in the room had been transformed into a kind ofebony by the action of time and dirt, the greasy backs and elbows ofidle loungers, the tobacco-smoke and beer-stains of half a century. 

It was evident that the two men smoking and drinking in this darksomelittle den belonged to the seafaring community. In this they resembledeach other; but in nothing else. One was tall and stalwart; the otherwas small, and wizen, and misshapen. One had a dark, bronzed face, witha frank, fearless expression; the other was pale and freckled, and hadsmall, light-gray eyes, that shifted and blinked perpetually, andshifted and blinked most when he was talking with most animation. Thefirst had a sonorous bass voice and a resonant laugh; the second spokein suppressed tones, and had a trick of dropping his voice to a whisperwhenever he was most energetic. 

The first was captain and half-owner of the brigantine 'Pizarro', trading between the port of London, and the coast of Mexico. The secondwas his clerk, factotum, and confidant; half-sailor, half-landsman;able to take the helm in dangerous weather, if need were; and able toafford his employer counsel in the most intricate questions of tradingand speculation. 

The name of the captain was Valentine Jernam, that of his factotumJoyce Harker. The captain had found him in an American hospital, hadtaken compassion upon him, and had offered him a free passage home. Onthe homeward voyage, Joyce Harker had shown himself so handy apersonage, that Captain Jernam had declined to part with him at the endof the cruise: and from that time, the wizen little hunchback had beenthe stalwart seaman's friend and companion. For fifteen years, duringwhich Valentine Jernam and his younger brother, George, had beentraders on the high seas, things had gone well with these two brothers;but never had fortune so liberally favoured their trading as during thefour years in which Joyce Harker had prompted every commercialadventure, and guided every speculation. 

"Four years to-day, Joyce, since I first set eyes upon your face in thehospital at New Orleans, " said Captain Jernam, in the confidence ofthis jovial hour. "'Why, the fellow's dead, ' said I. 'No; he's onlydying, ' says the doctor. 'What's the matter with him?' asked I. 'Home-sickness and empty pockets, ' says the doctor; 'he was employed ina gaming-house in the city, got knocked on the head in some row, andwas brought here. We've got him through a fever that was likely enoughto have finished him; but there he lies, as weak as a starved rat. Hehas neither money nor friends. He wants to get back to England; but hehas no more hope of ever seeing that country than I have of beingEmperor of Mexico. ' 'Hasn't he?' says I; 'we'll tell you a differentstory about that, Mr. Doctor. If you can patch the poor devil upbetween this and next Monday, I'll take him home in my ship, withoutthe passage costing him sixpence. ' You don't feel offended with me forhaving called you a poor devil, eh, Joyce?--for you really were, youknow--you really were an uncommonly poor creature just then, " murmuredthe captain, apologetically. 

"Offended with you!" exclaimed the factotum; "that's a likely thing. Don't I owe you my life? How many more of my countrymen passed me by asI lay on that hospital-bed, and left me to rot there, for all theycared? I heard their loud voices and their creaking boots as I laythere, too weak to lift my eyelids and look at them; but not too weakto curse them. "

"No, Joyce, don't say that. "

"But I do say it; and what's more, I mean it. I'll tell you what it is, captain, there's a general opinion that when a man's shoulders arecrooked, his mind is crooked too; and that, if his poor unfortunatelegs have shrivelled up small, his heart must have shrivelled up smallto match 'em. I dare say there's some truth in the general opinion;for, you see, it doesn't improve a man's temper to find himself cut outaccording to a different pattern from that his fellow-creatures havebeen made by, and to find his fellow-creatures setting themselvesagainst him because of that difference; and it doesn't soften a poorwretch's heart towards the world in general, to find the world ingeneral harder than stone against him, for no better reason than hispoor weak legs and his poor crooked back. But never mind talking aboutme and my feelings, captain. I ain't of so much account as to make itworth while for a fine fellow like you to waste words upon me. What Iwant to know is your plans. You don't intend to stop down this way, doyou?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because it's a dangerous way for a man who carries his fortune abouthim, as you do. I wish you'd make up your mind to bank that money, captain. "

"Not if I know it, " answered the sailor, with a look of profoundwisdom; "not if I know it, Joyce Harker. I know what your bankers are. You go to them some fine afternoon, and find a lot of clerks standingbehind a bran new mahogany counter, everything bright, and shining, andrespectable. 'Can I leave a few hundreds on deposit?' asks you. 'Why, of course you can, ' reply they; and then you hand over your money, andthen they hand you back a little bit of paper. 'That's your receipt, 'say they. 'All right, ' say you; and off you sheer. Perhaps you feeljust a little bit queerish, when you get outside, to think that allyour solid cash has been melted down into that morsel of paper; butbeing a light-hearted, easy-going fellow, you don't think any more ofit, till you come home from your next voyage, and go ashore again, andwant your money; when it's ten to one if you don't find your fine newbank shut up, and your clerks and bran-new mahogany counter vanished. No, Joyce, I'll trust no bankers. "

"I'd rather trust the bankers than the people down this way, any day inthe week, " answered the clerk, thoughtfully. 

"Don't you worry yourself, Joyce! The money won't be in my keeping verylong. George is to meet me in London on the fifth of April, at thelatest, he says, unless winds and waves are more contrary than everthey've been since he's had to do with them; and you know George is mybanker. I'm only a sleeping partner in the firm of Jernam Brothers. George takes the money, and George does what he likes with it--puts ithere and there, and speculates in this and speculates in that. You'vegot a business head of your own, Joyce; you're one of George's ownsort; and you are up to all his dodges, which is more than I am. However, he tells me we're getting rich, and that's pleasant enough--not that I think I should break my heart about it if we were gettingpoor. I love the sea because it is the sea, and I love my ship for herown sake. "

"Captain George is right, though, " answered the clerk. "Jernam Brothersare growing rich; Jernam Brothers are prospering. But you haven't toldme your plans yet, captain. "

"Well, since you say I had better cut this quarter, I suppose I must;though I like to see the rigging above the housetops, and to hear thejolly voices of the sailors, and to know that the 'Pizarro' lies hardby in the Pool. However, there's an old aunt of mine, down in a sleepylittle village in Devonshire, who'd be glad to see me, and none theworse for a small slice of Jernam Brothers' good luck; so I'll take aplace on the Plymouth coach to-morrow morning, and go down and have apeep at her. You'll be able to keep a look-out on the repairs aboard ofthe 'Pizarro', and I can be back in time to meet George on the fifth. "

"Where are you to meet him?"

"In this room. "

The factotum shook his head. 

"You're both a good deal too fond of this house, " he said. "The peoplethat have got it now are strangers to us. They've bought the businesssince our last trip. I don't like the look on them. "

"No more do I, if it comes to that. I was sorry to hear the old folkshad been done up. But come, Joyce, some more rum-and-water. Let'senjoy ourselves to-night, man, if I'm to start by the first coach to-morrow morning. What's that?"

The captain stopped, with the bell-rope in his hand, to listen to thesound of music close at hand. A woman's voice, fresh and clear as thesong of a sky-lark, was singing "Wapping Old Stairs, " to theaccompaniment of a feeble old piano. 

"What a voice!" cried the sailor. "Why, it seems to pierce to the verycore of my heart as I listen to it. Let's go and hear the music, Joyce. "

"Better not, captain, " answered the warning voice of the clerk. "I tellyou they're a bad lot in this house. It's a sort of concert they giveof a night; an excuse for drunkenness, and riot, and low company. Ifyou're going by the coach to-morrow, you'd better get to bed early to-night. You've been drinking quite enough as it is. "

"Drinking!" cried Valentine Jernam; "why, I'm as sober as a judge. Come, Joyce, let's go and listen to that girl's singing. "

The captain left the room, and Harker followed, shrugging his shouldersas he went. 

"There's nothing so hard to manage as a baby of thirty years old, " hemuttered; "a blessed infant that one's obliged to call master. "

He followed the captain, through a dingy little passage, into a roomwith a sanded floor, and a little platform at one end. The room wasfull of sailors and disreputable-looking women; and was lighted byseveral jets of coarse gas, which flared in the bleak March wind. 

A group of black-bearded, foreign-looking seamen made room for thecaptain and his companion at one of the tables. Jernam acknowledgedtheir courtesy with a friendly nod. 

"I don't mind standing treat for a civil fellow like you, " he said;"come, mates, what do you say to a bowl of punch?"

The men looked at him and grinned a ready assent. 

Valentine Jernam called the landlord, and ordered a bowl of rum-punch. 

"Plenty of it, remember, and be sure you are not too liberal with thewater, " said the captain. 

The landlord nodded and laughed. He was a broad-shouldered, square-built man, with a flat, pale face, broad and square, like hisfigure--not a pleasant-looking man by any means. 

Valentine Jernam folded his arms on the rickety, liquor-stained table, and took a leisurely survey of the apartment. 

There was a pause in the concert just now. The girl had finished hersong, and sat by the old square piano, waiting till she should berequired to sing again. There were only two performers in thisprimitive species of concert--the girl who sang, and an old blind man, who accompanied her on the piano; but such entertainment was quitesufficient for the patrons of the 'Jolly Tar', seven-and-twenty yearsago, before the splendours of modern music-halls had arisen in theland. 

Valentine Jernam's dark eyes wandered round the room, till they lightedon the face of the girl sitting by the piano. There they fixedthemselves all at once, and seemed as if rooted to the face on whichthey looked. It was a pale, oval face, framed in bands of smooth blackhair, and lighted by splendid black eyes; the face of a Roman empressrather than a singing-girl at a public-house in Shadwell. Never beforehad Valentine Jernam looked on so fair a woman. He had never been astudent or admirer of the weaker sex. He had a vague kind of idea thatthere were women, and mermaids, and other dangerous creatures, lurkingsomewhere in this world, for the destruction of honest men; but beyondthis he had very few ideas on the subject. 

Other people were taking very little notice of the singer. The regularpatrons of the 'Jolly Tar' were accustomed to her beauty and hersinging, and thought very little about her. The girl was very quiet, very modest. She came and went under the care of the old blind pianist, whom she called her grandfather, and she seemed to shrink alike fromobservation or admiration. 

She began to sing again presently. 

She stood by the piano, facing the audience, calm as a statue, with herlarge black eyes looking straight before her. The old man listened toher eagerly, as he played, and nodded fond approval every now and then, as the full, rich notes fell upon his ear. The poor blind face wasilluminated with the musician's rapture. It seemed as if the noisy, disreputable audience had no existence for these two people. 

"What a lovely creature!" exclaimed the captain, in a tone of subduedintensity. 

"Yes, she's a pretty girl, " muttered the clerk, coolly. 

"A pretty girl!" echoed Jernam; "an angel, you mean! I did not knowthere were such women in the world; and to think that such a womanshould be here, in this place, in the midst of all this tobacco-smoke, and noise, and blasphemy! It seems hard, doesn't it, Joyce?"

"I don't see that it's any harder for a pretty woman than an ugly one, "replied Harker, sententiously. "If the girl had red hair and a snubnose, you wouldn't take the trouble to pity her. I don't see why youshould concern yourself about her, because she happens to have blackeyes and red lips. I dare say she's a bad lot, like most of 'em abouthere, and would as soon pick your pocket as look at you, if you gaveher the chance. "

Valentine Jernam made no reply to these observations. It is possiblethat he scarcely heard them. The punch came presently; but he pushedthe bowl towards Joyce, and bade that gentleman dispense the mixture. His own glass remained before him untouched, while the foreign seamenand Joyce Harker emptied the bowl. When the girl sang, he listened;when she sat in a listless attitude, in the pauses between her songs, he watched her face. 

Until she had finished her last song, and left the platform, leadingher blind companion by the hand, the captain of the 'Pizarro' seemedlike a creature under the influence of a spell. There was only one exitfrom the room, so the singing-girl and her grandfather had to passalong the narrow space between the two rows of tables. Her dark stuffdress brushed against Jernam as she passed him. To the last, his eyesfollowed her with the same entranced gaze. 

When she had gone, and the door had closed upon her, he startedsuddenly to his feet, and followed. He was just in time to see herleave the house with her grandfather, and with a big, ill-looking man, half-sailor, half-landsman, who had been drinking at the bar. 

The landlord was standing behind the bar, drawing beer, as Jernamlooked out into the street, watching the receding figures of the girland her two companions. 

"She's a pretty girl, isn't she?" said the landlord, as Jernam shut thedoor. 

"She is, indeed!" cried the sailor. "Who is she?--where does she comefrom?--what's her name?"

"Her name is Jenny Milsom, and she lives with her father, a veryrespectable man. "

"Was that her father who went out with her just now?"

"Yes, that's Tom Milsom. "

"He doesn't look very respectable. I don't think I ever set eyes on aworse-looking fellow. "

"A man can't help his looks, " answered the landlord, rather sulkily;"I've known Tom Milsom these ten years, and I've never known any harmof him. "

"No, nor any good either, I should think, Dennis Wayman, " said a manwho was lounging at the bar; "Black Milsom is the name we gave him overat Rotherhithe. I worked with him in a shipbuilder's yard seven yearsago: a surly brute he was then, and a surly brute he is now; and alazy, skulking vagabond into the bargain, living an idle life out atthat cottage of his among the marshes, and eating up his prettydaughter's earnings. "

"You seem to know Milsom's business as well as you do your own, JoeDermot, " answered the landlord, with some touch of anger in his tone. 

"It's no use looking savage at me, Dennis, " returned Dermot; "I neverdid trust Black Milsom, and never will. There are men who would takeyour life's blood for the price of a gallon of beer, and I think Milsomis one of 'em. "

Valentine Jernam listened attentively to this conversation--notbecause he was interested in Black Milsom's character, but because hewanted to hear anything that could enlighten him about the girl who hadawakened such a new sentiment in his breast. 

The clerk had followed his master, and stood in the shadow of thedoorway, listening even more attentively than his employer; the small, restless eyes shifted to and fro between the faces of the speakers. 

More might have been said about Mr. Thomas Milsom; but it was evidentthat the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' was inclined to resent anydisrespectful allusion to that individual. The man called Joe Dermotpaid his score, and went away. The captain and his factotum retired tothe two dingy little apartments which were to accommodate them for thenight. 

All through that night, sleeping or waking, Valentine Jernam washaunted by the vision of a beautiful face, the sound of a melodiousvoice, and the face and the voice belonged alike to the singing-girl. 

The captain of the 'Pizarro' left his room at five o'clock, and tappedat Joyce Marker's door with the intention of bidding him goodbye. 

"I'm off, Joyce, " he said; "be sure you keep your eye upon the repairsbetween this and the fifth. "

He was prepared to receive a drowsy answer; but to his surprise thedoor was opened, and Joyce stood dressed upon the threshold. 

"I'm coming to the coach-office with you, captain, " answered Harker. "Idon't like this place, and I want to see you safe out of it, never tocome back to it any more. "

"Nonsense, Joyce; the place suits me well enough. "

"Does it?" asked the factotum, in a whisper; "and the landlord suitsyou, I suppose?--and that man they call Black Milsom? There's somethingmore than common between those two men, Captain Jernam. However thatis, you take my advice. Don't you come back to this house till you cometo meet Captain George. Captain George is a cool hand, and I'm notafraid of him; but you're too wild and too free-spoken for such folksas hang about the 'Jolly Tar'. You sported your pocket-book too freelylast night, when you were paying for the punch. I saw the landlord spotthe notes and gold, and I haven't trusted myself to sleep too soundlyall night, for fear there should be any attempt at foul play. "

"You're a good fellow, Joyce; but though you've pluck enough for twentyin a storm at sea, you're as timid as a baby at home. "

"I'm like a dog, captain--I can smell danger when it threatens those Ilove. Hark! what's that?"

They were going down stairs quietly, in the darkness of the earlyspring morning. The clerk's quick ear caught the sound of a stealthyfootstep; and in the next minute they were face to face with a man whowas ascending the narrow stairs. 

"You're early astir, Mr. Wayman, " said Joyce Harker, recognizing thelandlord of the 'Jolly Tar'. 

"And so are you, for the matter of that, " answered the host. 

"My captain is off by an early coach, and I'm going to walk to theoffice with him, " returned Joyce. 

"Off by an early coach, is he? Then, if he can stop to drink it, I'llmake him a cup of coffee. "

"You're very good, " answered Joyce, hastily; "but you see, the captainhasn't time for that, if he's going to catch the coach. "

"Are you going into the country for long, captain?" asked the landlord. 

"Well, no; not for long, mate; for I've got an appointment to keep inthis house, on the fifth of April, with a brother of mine, who'shomeward-bound from Barbadoes. You see, my brother and me are partners;whatever good luck one has he shares it with the other. We've beenuncommon lucky lately. "

The captain slapped his hand upon one of his capacious pockets as hespoke. Dennis Wayman watched the gesture with eager eyes. All throughValentine's speech, Joyce Harker had been trying to arrest hisattention, but trying in vain. When the owner of the 'Pizarro' began totalk, it was very difficult to stop him. 

The captain bade the landlord a cheerful good day, and departed withhis faithful follower. 

Out in the street, Joyce Harker remonstrated with his employer. 

"I told you that fellow was not to be trusted, captain, " he said; "andyet you blabbed to him about the money. "

"Nonsense, Joyce. I didn't say a word about money. "

"Didn't you though, captain? You said quite enough to let that man knowyou'd got the cash about you. But you won't go back to that place tillyou go to meet Captain George on the fifth?"

"Of course not. "

"You won't change your mind, captain?"

"Not I. "

"Because, you see, I shall be down at Blackwall, looking after therepairs, for it will be sharp work to get finished against you want tosail for Rio. So, you see, I shall be out of the way. And if you did goback to that house alone, Lord knows what they might try on. "

"Don't you be afraid, Joyce. In the first place I shan't go back theretill twelve o'clock on the fifth. I'll come up from Plymouth by thenight coach, and put up at the 'Golden Cross' like a gentleman. And, inthe second place, I flatter myself I'm a match for any set ofland-sharks in creation. "

"No, you're not, captain. No honest man is ever a match for ascoundrel. "

Jernam and his companion carried the captain's portmanteau betweenthem. They hailed a hackney-coach presently, and drove to the "GoldenCross, " through the chill, gray streets, where the closed shutters hada funereal aspect. 

At the coach-office they parted, with many friendly words on bothsides; but to the last, Joyce Harker was grave and anxious. 

The last he saw of his friend and employer was the captain's dark facelooking out of the coach-window; the captain's hand waved in cordialfarewell. 

"What a good fellow he is!--what a noble fellow!" thought the wizenlittle clerk, as he trudged back towards the City. "But was there evera baby so helpless on shore?--was there ever an innocent infant thatneeded so much looking after?"

 * * * * *

Valentine Jernam arrived at Plymouth early the next morning, and walkedfrom Plymouth to the little village of Allanbay, in which lived theonly relative he had in the world, except his brother George. Walkingat a leisurely pace along the quiet road, Captain Jernam, although notusually a thoughtful person, was fain to think about something, andfell to thinking over the past. 

Light-hearted and cheery of spirit as the adventurous sailor wasnow-a-days, his childhood had been a very sad one. Motherless at eightyears of age, and ill-used by a drunken father, the boy had suffered asthe children of the poor too often suffer. 

His mother had died, leaving George an infant of less than twelvemonths old; and from the hour of her death, Valentine had been theinfant's sole nurse and protector; standing between the helpless littleone and the father's brutality; enduring all hardships cheerfully, solong as he was able to shelter little Georgy. 

On more than one occasion, the elder boy had braved and defied hisfather in defence of the younger brother. 

It was scarcely strange, therefore, that there should arise between thetwo brothers an affection beyond the ordinary measure of brotherlylove. Valentine had supplied the place of both parents to his brotherGeorge, --the place of the mother, who lay buried in Allanbaychurchyard; the place of the father, who had sunk into a living deathof drunkenness and profligacy. 

They were not peasant-born these Jernams. The father had been alieutenant in the Royal Navy; but had deservedly lost his commission, and had come, with his devoted wife, to hide his disgrace at Allanbay. The vices which had caused his expulsion from the navy had increasedwith every year, until the family had sunk to the lowest depths ofpoverty and degradation, in spite of the wife's heroic efforts toaccomplish the reform of a reprobate. She had struggled nobly till thelast, and had died broken-hearted, leaving the helpless children to themercy of a wretch whose nature had become utterly debased andbrutalized. 

Throughout their desolate childhood the brothers had been all in all toeach other, and as soon as George was old enough to face the world withhis brother, the two boys ran away to sea, and obtained employment onboard a small trading vessel. 

At sea, as on shore, Valentine stood between his younger brother andall hardships. But the rough sailors were kinder than the drunkenfather had been, and the two lads fared pretty well. 

Thus began the career of the two Jernams. Through all changes offortune, the brothers had clung to each other. Despite all differencesof character, their love for each other had known neither change nordiminution; and to-day, walking alone upon this quiet country road, thetears clouded Valentine Jernam's eyes as he remembered how often he hadtrodden it in the old time with his little brother in his arms. 

"I shall see his dear face on the fifth, " he thought; "God bless him!"

The old aunt lived in a cottage near the entrance to the village. Shewas comfortably off now--thanks to the two merchant captains; but shehad been very poor in the days of their childhood, and had been able todo but little for the neglected lads. She had given them shelter, however, when they had been afraid to go home to their father, and hadshared her humble fare with them very often. 

Mrs. Jernam, as she was called by her neighbours, in right of her sixtyyears of age, was sitting by the window when her nephew opened thelittle garden-gate: but she had opened the door before he could knock, and was standing on the threshold ready to embrace him. 

"My boy, " she exclaimed, "I have been looking for you so long!"

That day was given up to pleasant talk between the aunt and nephew. Shewas so anxious to hear his adventures, and he was so willing to tellthem. He sat before the fire smoking, while Susan Jernam's busy fingersplied her knitting-needles, and relating his hair-breadth escapes andperils between the puffs of blue smoke. 

The captain was regaled with an excellent dinner, and a bottle of wineof his own importation. After dinner, he strolled out into the village, saw his old friends and acquaintances, and talked over old times. Altogether his first day at Allanbay passed very pleasantly. 

The second day at Allanbay, however, hung heavily on the captain'shands. He had told all his adventures; he had seen all his oldacquaintances. The face of the ballad-singer haunted him perpetually;and he spent the best part of the day leaning over the garden-gate andsmoking. Mrs. Jernam was not offended by her nephew's conduct. 

"Ah! my boy, " she said, smiling fondly on her handsome kinsman, "it'sfortunate Providence made you a sailor, for you'd have been ill-fittedfor any but a roving life. "

The third day of Valentine Jernam's stay at Allanbay was the second ofApril, and on that morning his patience was exhausted. The face whichhad made itself a part of his very mind lured him back to London. Hewas a man who had never accustomed himself to school his impulses; andthe impulse that drew him back to London was irresistible. 

"I must and will see her once more, " he said to himself; "perhaps, if Isee her face again, I shall find out it's only a common face after all, and get the better of this folly. But I must see her. After the fifth, George will be with me, and I shan't be my own master. I must see herbefore the fifth. "

Impetuous in all things, Valentine Jernam was not slow to act upon hisresolution. He told his aunt that he had business to transact inLondon. He left Allanbay at noon, walked to Plymouth, took theafternoon coach, and rode into London on the following day. 

It was one o'clock when Captain Jernam found himself once more in thefamiliar seafaring quarter; early as it was, the noise of riot andrevelry had begun already. 

The landlord looked up with an expression of considerable surprise asthe captain of the 'Pizarro' crossed the threshold. 

"Why, captain, " he said, "I thought we weren't to see you till thefifth. "

"Well, you see, I had some business to do in this neighbourhood, so Ichanged my mind. "

"I'm very glad you did, " answered Dennis Wayman, cordially; "you'vejust come in time to take a snack of dinner with me and my missus, soyou can sit down, and make yourself at home, without ceremony. "

The captain was too good-natured to refuse an invitation that seemedproffered in such a hearty spirit. And beyond this, he wanted to hearmore about Jenny Milsom, the ballad-singer. 

So he ate his dinner with Mr. Wayman and his wife, and found himselfasking all manner of questions about the singing-girl in the course ofhis hospitable entertainment. 

He asked if the girl was going to sing at the tavern to-night. 

"No, " answered the landlord; "this is Friday. She only sings at myplace on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. "

"And what does she do with herself for the rest of the week?"

"Ah! that's more than I know; but very likely her father will look inhere in the course of the afternoon, and he can tell you. I say, though, captain, you seem uncommonly sweet on this girl, " added thelandlord, with a leer and a wink. 

"Well, perhaps I am sweet upon her, " replied Valentine Jernam "perhapsI'm fool enough to be caught by a pretty face, and not wise enough tokeep my folly a secret. "

"I've got a Little business to see to over in Rotherhithe, " said Mr. Wayman, presently; "you'll see after the bar while I'm gone, Nancy. There's the little private room at your service, captain, and I daresay you can make yourself comfortable there with your pipe and thenewspaper. It's ten to one but what Tom Milsom will look in before theday's out, and he'll tell you all about his daughter. "

Upon this the landlord departed, and Valentine Jernam retired to thelittle den called a private room, where he speedily fell asleep, wearied out by his journey on the previous night. 

His slumbers were not pleasant. He sat in an uneasy position, upon ahard wooden chair, with his arms folded on the table before him, andhis head resting on his folded arms. 

There was a miserable pretence of a fire, made with bad coals and dampwood. 

Sleeping in that wretched atmosphere, in that uncomfortable attitude, it was scarcely strange if Valentine Jernam dreamt a bad dream. 

He dreamt that he fell asleep at broad day in his cabin on board the'Pizarro', and that he woke suddenly and found himself in darkness. Hedreamt that he groped his way up the companion-way, and on to the deck. 

There, as below, he found gloom and darkness, and instead of a busycrew, utter loneliness, perfect silence. A stillness like the stillnessof death reigned on the level waters around the motionless ship. 

The captain shouted, but his voice died away among the shrouds. Presently a glimmer of star-light pierced the universal gloom, and inthat uncertain light a shadowy figure came gliding towards him acrossthe ocean--a face shone upon him beneath the radiance of the stars. Itwas the face of the ballad-singer. 

The shadow drew nearer to him, with a strange gliding motion. Theshadow lifted a white, transparent hand, and pointed. 

To what?

To a tombstone, which glimmered cold and white through the gloom of skyand waters. 

The starlight shone upon the tombstone, and on it the sleeper read thisinscription--"_In memory of Valentine Jernam, aged 33_. "

The sailor awoke suddenly with a cry, and, looking up, saw the man theycalled Black Milsom sitting on the opposite side of the table, lookingat him earnestly. 

"Well, you are a restless sleeper, captain!" said this man: "I droppedin here just now, thinking to find Dennis Wayman, and I've been lookingon while you finished your nap. I never saw a harder sleeper. "

"I had a bad dream, " answered Jernam, starting to his feet. 

"A bad dream! What about, captain?"

"About your daughter!"

 CHAPTER II. 

 DONE IN THE DARKNESS. 

Before Thomas Milsom, otherwise Black Milsom, could express hissurprise, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' returned from his businessexcursion, and presented himself in the dingy little room, where it wasalready beginning to grow dusk. 

Milsom told Dennis Wayman how he had discovered the captain sleepinguneasily, with his head upon the table; and on being pressed a little, Valentine Jernam told his dream as freely as it was his habit to telleverything relating to his own affairs. 

"I don't see that it was such a very bad dream, after all, " said DennisWayman, when the story was finished. "You dreamt you were at sea in adead calm, that's about the plain English of it. "

"Yes; but such a calm! I've been becalmed many a time; but I neverremember anything like what I saw in my dream just now. Then theloneliness; not a creature on board besides myself; not a human voiceto answer me when I called. And the face--there was something so awfulin the face--smiling at me, and yet with a kind of threatening look inthe smile; and the hand pointing to the tombstone! Do you know that Iwas thirty-three last December?"

The sailor covered his face with his hands, and sat for some moments ina meditative attitude. Bold and reckless though he was, thesuperstition of his class had some hold upon him; and this bad dreaminfluenced him, in spite of himself. 

The landlord was the first to break the silence. "Come, captain, " hesaid; "this is what I call giving yourself up to the blue devils. Youwent to sleep in an uncomfortable position, and you had anuncomfortable dream, with no more sense nor reason in it than suchdreams generally have. What do you say to a hand at cards, and a dropof something short? You want cheering up a bit, captain; that's whatyou want. "

Valentine Jernam assented. The cards were brought, and a bowl of punchordered by the open-handed sailor, who was always ready to invitepeople to drink at his expense. 

The men played all-fours; and what generally happens in this sort ofcompany happened now to Captain Jernam. He began by winning, and endedby losing; and his losses were much heavier than his gains. 

He had been playing for upwards of an hour, and had drunk severalglasses of punch, before his luck changed, and he had occasion to takeout the bloated leathern pocket-book, distended unnaturally with notesand gold. 

But for that rum-punch he might, perhaps, have remembered JoyceHarker's warning, and avoided displaying his wealth before these twomen. Unhappily, however, the fumes of the strong liquor had alreadybegun to mount to his brain, and the clerk was completely forgotten. Heopened his pocket-book every time he had occasion to pay his losses, and whenever he opened it the greedy eyes of Dennis Wayman and BlackMilsom devoured the contents with a furtive gaze. 

With every hand the sailor grew more excited. He was playing for smallstakes, and as yet his losses only amounted to a few pounds. But thesense of defeat annoyed him. He was feverishly eager for his revenge:and when Milsom rose to go, the captain wanted him to continue to play. 

"You shan't sneak off like that, " he said; "I want my revenge, and Imust have it. "

Black Milsom pointed to a little Dutch clock in a corner of the room. 

"Past eight o'clock, " he said; "and I've got a five-mile walk betweenme and home. My girl, Jenny, will be waiting up for me, and gettinganxious about her father. "

In the excitement of play, and the fever engendered by strong drink, Valentine Jernam had forgotten the ballad-singer. But this mention ofher name brought the vision of the beautiful face back to him. 

"Your daughter!" he muttered; "your daughter! Yes; the girl who sanghere, the beautiful girl who sang. "

His voice was thick, and his accents indistinct. Both the men hadpressed Jernam to drink, while they themselves took very little. Theyhad encouraged him to talk as well as to drink, and the appointmentwith his brother had been spoken of by the captain. 

In speaking of this intended meeting, Valentine Jernam had spoken alsoof the good fortune which had attended his latest trading adventures;and he had said enough to let these men know that he carried theproceeds of his trading upon his person. 

"Joyce wanted me to bank my money, " he said; "but none of your bankingrogues for me. My brother George is the only banker I trust, or evermean to trust. "

Milsom insisted upon the necessity of his departure, and the sailordeclared that he would have his revenge. They were getting to highwords, when Dennis Wayman interfered to keep the peace. 

"I'll tell you what it is, " he said; "if the captain wants his revenge, it's only fair that he should have it. Suppose we go down to yourplace, Milsom! you can give us a bit of supper, I dare say. What do yousay to that?"

Milsom hesitated in a sheepish kind of manner. "Mine's such a poorplace for a gentleman like the captain, " he said. "My daughter Jennywill do her best to make things straight and comfortable; but still itis about the poorest place that ever was--there's no denying that. "

"I'm no fine gentleman, " said the captain, enraptured at the idea ofseeing the ballad-singer; "if your daughter will give us a crust ofbread and cheese, I shall be satisfied. We'll take two or three bottlesof wine down with us, and we'll be as jolly as princes. Get your trapready, Wayman, and let's be off at once. "

The captain was all impatience to start. Dennis Wayman went away to getthe vehicle ready, and Milsom followed him, but they did not leaveCaptain Jernam much time for thought, for Dennis Wayman came backalmost immediately to say that the vehicle was ready. 

"Now, then, look sharp, captain!" he said; "it's a dark night, and weshall have a dark drive. "

It was a dark night--dark even here in Wapping, darker still on theroad by which Valentine Jernam found himself travelling presently. 

The vehicle which Dennis Wayman drove was a disreputable-lookingconveyance--half chaise-cart, half gig--and the pony was avicious-looking animal, with a shaggy mane; but he was a tremendouspony to go, and the dark, marshy country flew past the travellers inthe darkness like a landscape in a dream. 

The ripple of the water, sounding faintly in the stillness, toldValentine Jernam that the river was near at hand; but beyond this thesailor had little knowledge of his whereabouts. 

They had soon left London behind. 

After driving some six or seven miles, and always keeping within soundof the dull plash of the river, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' drew upsuddenly by a dilapidated wooden paling, behind which there was a low-roofed habitation of some kind or other, which was visible only byreason of one faint glimmer of light, flickering athwart a scrap ofdingy red curtain. The dull, plashing sound of the river was louderhere; and, mingling with that monotonous ripple of the water, there wasa shivering sound--the trembling of rushes stirred by the chill nightwind. 

"I'd almost passed your place, Tom, " said the landlord, as he drew upbefore the darksome habitation. 

"You might a'most drive over it on such a night as this, " answeredBlack Milsom, "and not be much the wiser. "

The three men alighted, and Dennis Wayman led the vicious pony to abroken-down shed, which served as stable and coach-house in Mr. Milsom's establishment. 

Valentine Jernam looked about him. As his eyes grew more familiar withthe locality, he was able to make out the outline of the dilapidateddwelling. 

It was little better than a hovel, and stood on a patch of wasteground, which could scarcely have been garden within the memory of man. By one side of the house there was a wide, open ditch, fringed withrushes--a deep, black ditch, that flowed down to the river. 

"I can't compliment you on the situation of your cottage, mate, " hesaid; "it might be livelier. "

"I dare say it might, " answered Black Milsom, rather sulkily. "I tookto this place because everybody else was afraid to take to it, and itwas to be had for nothing. There was an old miser as cut his throathere seven or eight year ago, and the place has been left to go todecay ever since. The miser's ghost walks about here sometimes, aftertwelve o'clock at night, folks say. 'Let him walk till he tires himselfout, ' says I. 'He don't come my way; and if he did he wouldn't scareme. ' Come, captain. "

Mr. Milsom opened the door, and ushered his visitor into the livelyabode, which the prejudice of weak-minded people permitted him tooccupy rent-free. 

The girl whom Jernam had seen at the Wapping public-house was sittingby the hearth, where a scrap of fire burnt in a rusty grate. She hadbeen sitting in a listless attitude, with her hands lying idle on herlap, and her eyes fixed on the fire; but she looked up as the two menentered. 

She did not welcome her father's return with any demonstration ofaffection; she looked at him with a strange, wondering gaze; and shelooked with an anxious expression from him to his companion. 

Dennis Wayman came in presently, and as the girl recognized him, atransient look, almost like horror, flitted across her face, unseen bythe sailor. 

"Come, Jenny, " said Milsom; "I've brought Wayman and a friend of hisdown to supper. What can you give us to eat? There's a bit of cold beefin the house, I know, and bread and cheese; the captain here hasbrought the wine; so we shall do well enough. Look sharp, lass. You'rein one of your tempers to-night, I suppose; but you ought to know thatdon't answer with me. I say, captain, " added the man, with a laugh, "ifever you're going to marry a pretty woman, make sure she isn't troubledwith an ugly temper; for you'll find, as a rule, that the handsomer awoman is the more of the devil there is in her. Now, Jenny, the supper, and no nonsense about it. "

The girl went into another room, and returned presently with such fareas Mr. Milsom's establishment could afford. The sailor's eyes followedher wherever she went, full of compassion and love. He was sure thisbrutal wretch, Milsom, used her badly, and he rejoiced to think that hehad disregarded all Joyce Harker's warnings, and penetrated into thescoundrel's home. He rejoiced, for he meant to rescue this lovely, helpless creature. He knew nothing of her, except that she wasbeautiful, friendless, lonely, and ill-used; and he determined to takeher away and marry her. 

He did not perplex himself with any consideration as to whether shewould return his love, or be grateful for his devotion. He thought onlyof her unhappy position, and that he was predestined to save her. 

The supper was laid upon the rickety deal table, and the three men satdown. Valentine would have waited till his host's daughter had seatedherself; but she had laid no plate or knife for herself, and it wasevident that she was not expected to share the social repast. 

"You can go to bed now, " said Milsom. "We're in for a jolly night ofit, and you'll only be in the way. Where's the old man?"

"Gone to bed. "

"So much the better: and the sooner you follow him will be so much thebetter again. Good night. "

The girl did not answer him. She looked at him for a few moments withan earnest, inquiring gaze, which seemed to compel him to return herlook, as if he had been fascinated by the profound earnestness of thoselarge dark eyes; and then she went slowly and silently from the room. 

"Sulky!" muttered Mr. Milsom. "There never was such a girl to sulk. "

He took up a candle, and followed his daughter from the room. 

A rickety old staircase led to the upper floor, where there were threeor four bed-chambers. The house had been originally something more thana cottage, and the rooms and passages were tolerably large. 

Thomas Milsom found the girl standing at the top of the stairs, as ifwaiting for some one. 

"What are you standing mooning there for?" asked the man. "Why don'tyou go to bed?"

"Why have you brought that sailor here?" inquired the girl, withoutnoticing Milsom's question. 

"What's that to you? You'd like to know my business, wouldn't you? I'vebrought him here because he wanted to come. Is that a good answer? I'vebrought him here because he has money to lose, and is in the humour tolose it. Is that a better answer?"

"Yes, " returned the girl, fixing her eyes upon him with a look ofhorror; "you will win his money, and, if he is angry, there will be aquarrel, as there was on that hideous night three years ago, when youbrought home the foreign sailor, and what happened to that man willhappen to this one. Father, " cried the girl, suddenly and passionately, "let this man leave the house in safety. I sometimes think my heart isalmost as hard as yours; but this man trusts us. Don't let any harmcome to him. "

"Why, what harm should come to him?"

For some time the girl called Jenny stood before her father in silence, with her head bent, and her face in shadow; then she lifted her headsuddenly, and looked at him piteously. 

"The other!" she murmured; "the other! I remember what happened tohim. "

"Come, drop that!" cried Milsom, savagely; "do you think I'm going tostand your mad talk? Get to bed, and go to sleep. And the sounder yousleep the better, unless you want to sleep uncommonly sound for thefuture, my lady. "

The ruffian seized his daughter by the arm, and half pushed, half flungher into a room, the door of which stood open. It was the dreary roomwhich she called her own. Milsom shut the door upon her, and locked itwith a key which he took from his pocket--a key which locked every doorin the house. "And now, I flatter myself, you're safe, my prettysinging-bird, " he muttered. 

He went down stairs, and returned to his guest, who had been pressed toeat and drink by Dennis Wayman, and who had yielded good-naturedly tothat gentleman's hospitable attentions. 

 * * * * *

Alone in her room, Jenny Milsom opened the window, and sat looking outinto the inky darkness of the night, and listening to the voices of thethree men in the room below. 

The voices sounded very distinctly in that dilapidated old house. Everynow and then a hearty shout of laughter seemed to shake the crazyrafters; but presently the revellers grew silent. Jenny knew they werebusy with the cards. 

"Yes, yes, " she murmured; "it all happens as it happened that night--first the loud voices and laughter; then the silence; then--GreatHeaven! will the end be like the end of that night?"

She clasped her hands in silent agony, and sank in a crouching positionby the open window, with her head lying on the sill. 

For hours this wretched girl sat upon the floor in the same attitude, with the cold wind blowing in upon her. All seemed tranquil in the roombelow. The voices sounded now and then, subdued and cautious, and therewere no more outbursts of jovial laughter. 

A dim, gray streak glimmered faint and low in the east--the first paleflicker of dawn. The girl raised her weary eyes towards that chill graylight. 

"Oh! if this night were only ended!" she murmured: "if it were onlyended without harm!"

The words were still upon her lips, when the voices sounded loud andharsh from the room below. The girl started to her feet, white andtrembling. Louder with every moment grew those angry voices. Then camea struggle; some article of furniture fell with a crash; there was thesound of shivered glass, and then a dull heavy noise, which echoedthrough the house, and shook the weather-beaten wooden walls to theirfoundations. 

After the fall there came the sound of one loud groan, and then subduedmurmurs, cautious whispers. 

The window of Jenny Milsom's room looked towards the road. From thatwindow she could see nothing of the sluggish ditch or the river. 

She tried the door of her room. It was securely locked, as she hadexpected to find it. 

"They would kill me, if I tried to come between them and their victim, "she said; "and I am afraid to die. "

She crept to her wretched bed, and flung herself down, dressed as shewas. She drew the thin patchwork coverlet round her. 

Ten minutes after she had thrown herself upon the bed, a key turned inthe lock, and the door was opened by a stealthy hand. Black Milsomlooked into the room. 

The cold glimmer of day fell full upon the girl's pale face. Her eyeswere closed, and her breathing was loud and regular. 

"Asleep, " he whispered to some one outside; "as safe as a rock. "

He drew back and closed the door softly. 

 * * * * *

Joyce Harker worked his hardest on board the 'Pizarro', and the repairswere duly completed by the 4th of April. On the morning of the 5th thevessel was a picture, and Joyce surveyed her with the pride of a manwho feels that he has not worked in vain. 

He had set his heart upon the brothers celebrating the first day oftheir re-union on board the trim little craft: and he had madearrangements for the preparation of a dinner which was to be a triumphin its way. 

Joyce presented himself at the bar of the 'Jolly Tar' at half-pasteleven on the appointed morning. He expected that the brothers would bepunctual; but he did not expect either of them to appear before thestroke of noon. 

All was very quiet at the 'Jolly Tar' at this hour of the day. Thelandlord was alone in the bar, reading a paper. He looked up as Joyceentered; but did not appear to recognize him. 

"Can I step through into your private room?" asked Joyce; "I expectCaptain Jernam and his brother to meet me here in half an hour. "

"To be sure you can, mate. There's no one in the private room at thistime of day. Jernam--Jernam, did you say? What Jernam is that? I don'trecollect the name. "

"You've a short memory, " answered Joyce; "you might remember CaptainJernam of the 'Pizarro'; for it isn't above a week since he was herewith me. He dined here, and slept here, and left early in the morning, though you were uncommonly pressing for him to stay. "

"We've so many captains and sailors in and out from year's end toyear's end, that I don't remember them by name, " said Dennis Wayman;"but I do remember your friend, mate, now you remind me of him; and Iremember you, too. "

"Yes, " said Joyce, with a grin; "there ain't so many of my pattern. I'll take a glass of rum for the good of the house; and if you can lendme a paper, I'll skim the news of the day while I'm waiting. "

Joyce passed into the little room, where Dennis took him the newspaperand the rum. 

Twelve o'clock struck, and the clerk began to watch and to listen forthe opening of the door, or the sound of a footstep in the passageoutside. The time seemed very long to him, watching and listening. Theminute-hand of the Dutch clock moved slowly on. He turned every now andthen towards the dusky corner where the clock hung, to see whatprogress that slow hand had made upon the discoloured dial. 

He waited thus for an hour. 

"What does it mean?" he thought. "Valentine Jernam so faithfullypromised to be punctual. And then he's so fond of his brother. He'dscarcely care to be a minute behindhand, when he has the chance ofseeing Captain George. "

Joyce went into the bar. The landlord was scrutinizing the address of aletter--a foreign letter. 

"Didn't you say your friend's name was Jernam?" he asked. 

"I did. "

"Then this letter must be for him. It has been lying here for the lasttwo or three days; but I forgot all about it till just this minute. "

Joyce took the letter. It was addressed to Captain Valentine Jernam, ofthe 'Pizarro', at the 'Jolly Tar', care of the landlord, and it camefrom the Cape of Good Hope. 

Joyce recognized George Jernam's writing. 

"This means a disappointment, " he thought, as he turned the letter overand over slowly; "there'll be no meeting yet awhile. Captain George isoff to the East Indies on some new venture, I dare say. But what canhave become of Captain Valentine? I'll go down to the 'Golden Cross, 'and see if he's there. "

He told Dennis Wayman where he was going, and left a message for hiscaptain. From Ratcliff Highway to Charing Cross was a long journey forJoyce; but he had no idea of indulging in any such luxury as a hackney-coach. It was late in the afternoon when he reached the hotel; andthere he was doomed to encounter a new disappointment. 

Captain Jernam had been there on the second of the month, and had neverbeen there since. He had left in the forenoon, after saying that heshould return at night; and in evidence that such had been hisintention, the waiter told Joyce that the captain had left a carpet-bag, containing clean linen and a change of clothes. 

"He's broken his word to me, and he's got into bad hands, " thoughtHarker. "He's as simple as a child, and he's got into bad hands. Buthow and where? He'd never, surely, go back to the 'Jolly Tar', afterwhat I said to him. And where else can he have gone? I know no morewhere to look for him in this great overgrown London than if I was anew-born baby. "

In his perfect ignorance of his captain's movements, there was only onething that Joyce Harker could do, and that was to go back to the "JollyTar, " with a faint hope of finding Valentine Jernam there. 

It was dusk by the time he got back to Ratcliff Highway, and theflaring gas-lamps were lighted. The bar of the tavern was crowded, andthe tinkling notes of the old piano sounded feebly from the inner room. 

Dennis Wayman was serving his customers, and Thomas Milsom was drinkingat the bar. Joyce pushed his way to the landlord. 

"Have you seen anything of the captain?" he asked. 

"No, he hasn't been here since you left. "

"You're sure of that?"

"Quite sure. "

"He's not been here to day; but he's been here within the week, hasn'the? He was here on Tuesday, if I'm not misinformed. "

"Then you _are_ misinformed, " Wayman said, coolly; "for your seafaringfriend hasn't darkened my doors since the morning you and he left to goto the coach-office. "

Joyce could say nothing further. He passed through the passage into thepublic room, where the so-called concert had begun. Jenny Milsom wassinging to the noisy audience. 

The girl was very pale, and her manner and attitude, as she sat by thepiano, were even more listless than usual. 

Joyce Harker did not stop long in the concert-room. He went back to thebar. This time there was no one but Milsom and Wayman in the bar, andthe two seemed to be talking earnestly as Joyce entered. 

They left off, and looked up at the sound of the clerk's footsteps. 

"Tired of the music already?" asked Wayman. 

"I didn't come here to hear music, " answered Joyce; "I came to look formy captain. He had an appointment to meet his brother here to-day attwelve o'clock, and it isn't like him to break it. I'm beginning to getuneasy about him. "

"But why should you be uneasy? The captain is big enough, and oldenough, to take care of himself, " said the landlord, with a laugh. 

"Yes; but then you see, mate, there are some men who never know how totake care of themselves when they get into bad company. There isn't abetter sailor than Valentine Jernam, or a finer fellow at sea; but Idon't think, if you searched from one end of this city to the other, you'd find a greater innocent on shore. I'm afraid of his having falleninto bad hands, Mr. Wayman, for he had a goodish bit of money abouthim; and there's land-sharks as dangerous as those you meet with on thesea. "

"So there are, mate, " answered the landlord; "and there's some queercharacters about this neighbourhood, for the matter of that. "

"I dare say you're right, Mr. Wayman, " returned Joyce; "and I'll tellyou what it is. If any harm has come to Valentine Jernam, let thosethat have done the harm look out for themselves. Perhaps they don'tknow what it is to hurt a man that's got a faithful dog at his heels. Let them hide themselves where they will, and let them be as cunning asthey will, the dog will smell them out, sooner or later, and will tearthem to pieces when he finds them. I'm Captain Jernam's dog, Mr. DennisWayman; and if I don't find my master, I'll hunt till I do find thosethat have got him out of the way. I don't know what's amiss with me to-night; but I've got a feeling come over me that I shall never look inValentine Jernam's honest face again. If I'm right, Lord help thescoundrels who have plotted against him, for it'll be the business ofmy life to track them down, and bring their crime home to them--andI'll do it. "

After having said this, slowly and deliberately, with an appallingearnestness of voice and manner, Joyce Harker looked from Dennis Waymanto Black Milsom, and this time the masks they were accustomed to weardid not serve these scoundrels so well as usual, for in the faces ofboth there was a look of fear. 

"I am going to search for my captain, " said Joyce. "Good night, mates. "

He left the tavern. The two men looked at each other earnestly as thedoor closed upon him. 

"A dangerous man, " said Dennis Wayman. 

"Bah!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "who's afraid of a hunchback'sbluster? I dare say he wanted the handling of the money himself. "

All that night Joyce Harker wandered to and fro amidst the haunts ofsailors and merchant captains; but wander where he would, and inquireof whom he would, he could obtain no tidings of the missing man. 

Towards daybreak, he took a couple of hours' sleep in a tavern atShadwell, and with the day his search began again. 

Throughout that day the same patient search continued, the sameinquiries were repeated with indomitable perseverance, in every likelyand unlikely place; but everywhere the result was failure. 

It was towards dusk that Joyce Harker turned his back upon a tavern inRotherhithe, and set his face towards the river bank. 

"I have looked long enough for him among the living, " he said; "I mustlook for him now amongst the dead. "

Before midnight the search was ended. Amongst the printed billsflapping on dreary walls in that river-side neighbourhood, Joyce Harkerhad discovered the description of a man "found drowned. " Thedescription fitted Valentine Jernam, and the body had been found withinthe last two days. 

Joyce went to the police-office where the man was lying. He had no needto look at the poor dead face--the dark, handsome face, which was sofamiliar to him. 

"I expected as much, " he said to the official who had admitted him tosee the body; "he had money about him, and he has fallen into the handsof scoundrels. "

"You don't think it was an accident?"

"No; he has been murdered, sir. And I think I know the men who did it. "

"You know the men?"

"Yes; but my knowledge won't help to avenge his death, if I can't bringit home to them--and I don't suppose I can. There'll be a coroner'sinquest, won't there?"

At the inquest, next day, Joyce Harker told his story; but that storythrew very little light on the circumstances of Valentine Jernam'sdeath. 

The investigation before the coroner set at rest all question as to themeans by which the captain had met his death. A medical examinationdemonstrated that he had been murdered by a blow on the back of thehead, inflicted by some sharp heavy instrument. The unfortunate manmust have died before he was thrown into the water. 

The verdict of the coroner's jury was to the effect that ValentineJernam had been wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown. And with this verdict Joyce Harker was obliged to be content. Hissuspicions he dared not mention in open court. They were too vague andshadowy. But he called upon a celebrated Bow Street officer, andsubmitted the case to him. It was a case for secret inquiry, forcareful investigation; and Joyce offered a handsome reward out of hisown savings. 

While this secret investigation was in progress, Joyce opened theletter addressed to Valentine by his brother George. 

"DEAR VAL, " wrote the sailor: "_I have been tempted to make anothertrip to Calcutta with a cargo shipped at Lisbon, and shall not be ableto meet you in London on the 5th of April. It will be ten or twelvemonths before I see England again; but when I do come back, I hope toadd something handsome to our joint fortunes. I long to see your honestface, and grasp your hand again; but the chance of a big prize lures meout yonder. We are both young, and have all the world before us, so wecan afford to wait a year or two. Bank the money; Joyce will tell youwhere, and how to do it; and let me know your plans before you leaveLondon. A letter addressed to me, care of Riverdale and Co. , Calcutta, will be safe. Good luck to you, dear old boy, now and always, and everygood wish. --From your affectionate brother_, " "GEORGE JERNAM. "

It was Joyce Harker's melancholy task to tell Valentine Jernam'syounger brother the story of the seaman's death. He wrote a longletter, recording everything that had happened within his knowledge, from the moment of the 'Pizarro' reaching Gravesend to the discovery ofValentine's body in the river-side police office. He told George theimpression that had been made upon his brother by the ballad-singer'sbeauty. 

"_I think that this girl and these two men, her father, Thomas Milsom, and Dennis Wayman, the landlord of the 'Jolly Tar', are in the secret--are, between them, the murderers of your brother. I think that when hebroke his promise to me, and came back to this end of London, beforethe fifth, he came lured by that girl's beauty. It is to the girl wemust look for a key to the secret of his death. I do not expect toextort anything from the fears of the men. They are both hardenedvillains; and if, as I believe, they are guilty of this crime, it isnot likely to be the first in which they have been engaged. The policeare on the watch, and I have promised a liberal reward for anydiscoveries they may make; but it is very slow work_. "

This, and much more, Joyce Harker wrote to George Jernam. The letterwas written immediately after the inquest; and on the night succeedingthat inquiry, Joyce went to the 'Jolly Tar', in the hope of seeingJenny Milsom. But he was doomed to disappointment; for in the concert-room at Dennis Wayman's tavern he found a new singer--a fat, middle-aged woman, with red hair. 

"What has become of the pretty girl who used to sing here?" he askedthe landlord. 

"Milsom's daughter?" said Wayman. "Oh, we've lost her She was a regularshe-devil, it seems. Her father and she had a row, and the girl ranaway. She can get her living anywhere with that voice of hers; and Idon't suppose Milsom treated her over well. He's a rough fellow, but anhonest one. "

"Yes, " answered Joyce, with a sneer; "he seems uncommonly honest. There's a good deal of that sort of honesty about this neighbourhood, Ithink, mate. I suppose you've heard about my captain?"

"Not a syllable. Is there anything wrong with him?"

"Ah! news seems to travel slowly down here. There was an inquest heldthis morning, not so many miles from this house. "

The landlord shrugged his shoulders. 

"I've been busy in-doors all day, and I haven't heard anything, " hesaid. 

Joyce told the story of his captain's fate, to which Dennis Waymanlistened with every appearance of sympathy. 

"And you've no idea what has become of the girl?" Harker asked, afterhaving concluded his story. 

"No more than the dead. She's cut and run, that's all I know. "

"Has her father gone after her?"

"Not a bit of it. He's not that sort of man. She has chosen to takeherself off, and her father will let her go her own way. "

"And her grandfather, the old blind man?"

"He has gone with her. "

There was no more to be said about the girl after this. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Wayman, " said Joyce, "I'm likely to be agood bit down in this neighbourhood, while I'm waiting for directionsabout my poor captain's ship from his brother Captain George, and asyour house suits me as well as any other, I may as well take up myquarters here. I know you've got plenty of room, and you'll find me aquiet lodger. "

"So be it, " answered the landlord, promptly. "I'm agreeable. "

Joyce deliberated profoundly as he walked away from the 'Jolly Tar'that night. 

"He's too deep to be caught easily, " he thought. "He'll let me into hishouse, because he knows there's nothing I can find out, watch as I may. Such a murder as that leaves no trace behind it. If I had been able toget hold of the girl, I might have frightened her into telling mesomething; but it's clear to me she has really bolted, or Wayman wouldnever let me into his house. "

For weeks Joyce Harker was a lodger at the 'Jolly Tar'; always on thewatch; always ready to seize upon the smallest clue to the mystery ofValentine Jernam's death; but nothing came of his watching. 

The police did their best to discover the key to the dreadful secret;but they worked in vain. The dead man's money had been partly in notesand gold, partly in bills of exchange. It was easy enough to dispose ofsuch bills in the City. There were men ready to take them at a certainprice, and to send them abroad; men who never ask questions of theircustomers. 

So there was little chance of any light being thrown on this dark andevil mystery. Joyce watched and waited with dog-like fidelity, ready toseize upon the faintest clue; but he waited and watched in vain. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER III. 

 DISINHERITED. 

Nearly a year had elapsed since the murder of Valentine Jernam, and theMarch winds were blowing amongst the leafless branches of the trees inthe Green Park. 

In the library of one of the finest houses in Arlington Street, agentleman paced restlessly to and fro, stopping before one of thewindows every now and then, to look, with a fretful glance, at the dullsky. "What weather!" he muttered: "what execrable weather!"

The speaker was a man of some fifty years of age--a man who had beenvery handsome and who was handsome still--a man with a haughtypatrician countenance--not easily forgotten by those who looked uponit. Sir Oswald Eversleigh, Baronet, was a descendant of one of theoldest families in Yorkshire. He was the owner of Raynham Castle, inYorkshire; Eversleigh Manor, in Lincolnshire; and his property in thosetwo counties constituted a rent-roll of forty thousand per annum. 

He was a bachelor, and having nearly reached his fiftieth year it wasconsidered unlikely that he would marry. 

Such at least was the fixed idea of those who considered themselves thelikely inheritors of the baronet's wealth. The chief of these wasReginald Eversleigh, his favourite nephew, the only son of a youngerbrother, who had fallen gloriously on an Indian battle-field. 

There were two other nephews who had some right to look forward to ashare in the baronet's fortune. These were the two sons of Sir Oswald'sonly sister, who had married a country rector, called Dale. But Lioneland Douglas Dale were not the sort of young men who care to wait fordead men's shoes. They were sincerely attached to their uncle; but theycarefully abstained from any demonstration of affection which couldseem like worship of his wealth. The elder was preparing himself forthe Church; the younger was established in chambers in the Temple, reading for the bar. 

It was otherwise with Reginald Eversleigh. From his early boyhood thisyoung man had occupied the position of an adopted son rather than anephew. 

There are some who can bear indulgence, some flowers that flourish bestwith tender rearing; but Reginald Eversleigh was not one of these. 

Sir Oswald was too generous a man to require much display of gratitudefrom the lad on whom he so freely lavished his wealth and hisaffection. When the boy showed himself proud and imperious, the baronetadmired that high, and haughty spirit. When the boy showed himselfreckless and extravagant in his expenditure of money, the baronetfancied that extravagance the proof of a generous disposition, overlooking the fact that it was only on his own pleasures thatReginald wasted his kinsman's money. When bad accounts came from theEton masters and the Oxford tutors, Sir Oswald deluded himself with thebelief that it was only natural for a high-spirited lad to be idle, andthat, indeed, youthful idleness was often a proof of genius. 

But even the moral blindness of love cannot last for ever. The day camewhen the baronet awoke to the knowledge that his dead brother's onlyson was unworthy of his affection. 

The young man entered the army. His uncle purchased for him acommission in a crack cavalry regiment, and he began his militarycareer under the most brilliant auspices. But from the day of hisleaving his military tutor, until the present hour, Sir Oswald had beenperpetually subject to the demands of his extravagance, and had of latesuffered most bitterly from discoveries which had at last convinced himthat his nephew was a villain. 

In ordinary matters, Sir Oswald Eversleigh was by no means a patient orlong-suffering man; but he had exhibited extraordinary endurance in allhis dealings with his nephew. The hour had now come when he could bepatient no longer. 

He had written to his nephew, desiring him to call upon him at threeo'clock on this day. 

The idea of this interview was most painful to him, for he had resolvedthat it should be the last between himself and Reginald Eversleigh. Inthis matter he had acted with no undue haste; for it had beenunspeakably distressing to him to decide upon a step which wouldseparate him for ever from the young man. 

As the timepiece struck three, Mr. Eversleigh was announced. He was avery handsome man; of a refined and aristocratic type, but of a typerather effeminate than powerful. And pervading his beauty, there was awinning charm of expression which few could resist. It was difficult tobelieve that Reginald Eversleigh could be mean or base. People likedhim, and trusted him, in spite of themselves; and it was only whentheir confidence had been imposed upon, and their trust betrayed, thatthey learned to know how despicable the handsome young officer couldbe. Women did their best to spoil him; and his personal charms of faceand manner, added to his brilliant expectations, rendered him anuniversal favourite in fashionable circles. 

He came to Arlington Street prepared to receive a lecture, and a severeone, for he knew that some of his late delinquencies had become knownto Sir Oswald; but he trusted in the influence which he had always beenable to exercise over his uncle, and he was determined to face thedifficulty boldly, as he had faced it before. 

He entered the room with a smile, and advanced towards his uncle, withhis hand outstretched. 

But Sir Oswald drew back, refusing that proffered hand. 

"I shake hands only with gentlemen and honest men, " he said, haughtily. "You are neither, Mr. Eversleigh. "

Reginald had been used to hear his uncle address him in anger; butnever before had Sir Oswald spoken to him in that tone of coolcontempt. The colour faded from the young man's face, and he looked athis uncle with an expression of alarm. 

"My dear uncle!" he exclaimed. 

"Be pleased to forget that you have ever addressed me by that name, orthat any relationship exists between us, Mr. Eversleigh, " answered SirOswald, with unaltered sternness. "Sit down, if you please. Ourinterview is likely to be a long one. "

The young man seated himself in silence. 

"I have sent for you, Mr. Eversleigh, " said the baronet, "because Iwished to tell you, without passion, that the tie which has hithertobound us has been completely broken. Heaven knows I have been patient;I have endured your misdoings, hoping that they were the thoughtlesserrors of youth, and not the deliberate sins of a hardened and wickednature. I have trusted till I can trust no longer; I have hoped till Ican hope no more. Within the past week I have learned to know you. Anold friend, whose word I cannot doubt, whose honour is beyond allquestion, has considered it a duty to acquaint me with certain factsthat have reached his knowledge, and has opened my eyes to your realcharacter. I have given much time to reflection before determining onthe course I shall pursue with one who has been so dear to me. You knowme well enough to be aware that when once I do arrive at a decision, that decision is irrevocable. I wish to act with justice, even towardsa scoundrel. I have brought you up with the habits of a rich man, andit is my duty to save you from absolute poverty. I have, therefore, ordered my solicitors to prepare a deed by which an income of twohundred a year will be secured to you for life, unconditionally. Afterthe execution of that deed I shall have no further interest in yourfate. You will go your own way, Mr. Eversleigh, and choose your owncompanions, without remonstrance or interference from the foolishkinsman who has loved you too well. "

"But, my dear uncle--Sir Oswald--what have I done that you should treatme so severely?"

The young man was deadly pale. His uncle's manner had taken him bysurprise; but even in this desperate moment, when he felt that all waslost, he attempted to assume the aspect of injured innocence. 

"What have you done!" cried the baronet, passionately. 

"Shall I show you two letters, Reginald Eversleigh--two letters which, by a strange combination of circumstances, have reached my hands; andin each of which there is the clue to a shameful story--a cruel anddisgraceful story, of which you are the hero?"

"What letters?"

"You shall read them, " replied Sir Oswald. "They are addressed to you, and have been in your possession; but to so fine a gentleman suchletters were of little importance. Another person, however, thoughtthem worth preserving, and sent them to me. "

The baronet took up two envelopes from the table, and handed them tohis nephew. 

At the sight of the address of the uppermost envelope, ReginaldEversleigh's face grew livid. He looked at the lower, and then returnedboth documents to his uncle, with a hand that trembled in spite ofhimself. 

"I know nothing of the letters, " he faltered, huskily. 

"You do not!" said his uncle; "then it will be necessary for me toenlighten you. "

Sir Oswald took a letter from one of the envelopes, but before readingit he looked at his nephew with a grave and mournful countenance, fromwhich all traces of scorn had vanished. 

"Before I heard the history of this letter, I fully believed that, inspite of all your follies and extravagances, you were at leasthonourable and generous-hearted. After hearing the story of thisletter, I knew you to be base and heartless. You say you know nothingof the letter? Perhaps you will tell me that you have forgotten thename of the writer. And yet you can scarcely have so soon forgottenMary Goodwin. "

The young man bent his head. A terrible rage possessed him, for he knewthat one of the darkest secrets of his life had been revealed to hisuncle. 

"I will tell you the history of Mary Goodwin, " said the baronet, "sinceyou have so poor a memory. She was the favourite and foster-sister ofJane Stukely, a noble and beautiful woman, to whom you were engaged. You met Jane Stukely in London, fell in love with her as it seemed, andpreferred your suit. You were accepted by her--approved by her father. No alliance could have been more advantageous. I was never betterpleased than when you announced to me your engagement. The influence ofa good wife will cure him of all his follies, I thought, and I shallyet have reason to be proud of my nephew. "

"Spare me, sir, for pity's sake, " murmured Reginald, hoarsely. 

"When did you spare others, Mr. Reginald Eversleigh? When did youconsider others, if they stood in the way of your base pleasures, yourselfish gratifications? Never! Nor will I spare you. As Jane's engagedlover, you were invited to Stukely Park. There you saw Mary Goodwin. Accident threw you across this girl's pathway very often in the courseof your visit; but the time came when you ceased to meet by accident. There were secret meetings in the park. The poor, weak, deluded girlcould not resist the fascinations of the fine gentleman--who lured herto destruction by means of lying promises. In due time you left StukelyPark, unsuspected. Within a few days of your departure, the girl, MaryGoodwin, disappeared. 

"For six months nothing was heard of the missing Mary Goodwin; but atthe end of that time a gentleman, who remembered her in the days of herbeauty and innocence at Stukely Park, recognized the features of MissStukely's _protégée_ in the face of a suicide, whose body was exhibitedin the Morgue at Paris. The girl had been found drowned. The Englishmanpaid the charges of a decent funeral, and took back to the Stukelys theintelligence of their _protégée's_ fate; but no one knew the secret ofher destruction. That secret was, however, suspected by Jane Stukely, who broke her engagement with you on the strength of the darksuspicion. 

"It was to you she fled when she left Stukely Park--in yourcompanionship she went abroad, where she passed as your wife, youassuming a false name--under which you were recognized, nevertheless. The day came when you grew weary of your victim. When your funds wereexhausted, when the girl's tears and penitence grew troublesome--in thehour when she was most helpless and miserable, and had most need ofyour pity and protection, you abandoned her, leaving her alone inParis, with a few pounds to pay for her journey home, if she shouldhave courage to go back to the friends who had sheltered her. In thishour of abandonment and shame, she chose death rather than such anordeal, and drowned herself. "

"I give you my honour, Sir Oswald, I meant to act liberally. Imeant, "--the young man interrupted; but his uncle did not notice theinterruption. 

"I will read you this wretched girl's letter, " continued the baronet;"it is her last, and was left at the hotel where you deserted her, andwhence it was forwarded to you. It is a very simple letter; but itbears in every line the testimony of a broken heart:--

"'_You have left me, Reginald, and in so doing have proved to me mostfully that the love you once felt for me has indeed perished. For thesake of that love I have sacrificed every principle and broken everytie. I have disgraced the name of an honest family, and have betrayedthe dearest and kindest friend who ever protected a poor girl. And nowyou leave me, and tell me to return to my old friends, who will nodoubt forgive me, you say, and shelter me in this bitter time of mydisgrace. Oh, Reginald, do you know me so little that you think I couldgo back, could lift my eyes once more to the dear faces that used tosmile upon me, but which now would turn from me with loathing andaversion? You know that I cannot go back. You leave me in this greatcity, so strange and unknown to me, and you do not care to ask yourselfany questions as to my probable fate. Shall I tell you what I am goingto do, Reginald? You, who were once so fond and passionate a lover--you, whom I have seen kneeling at my feet, humbly born and pennilessthough I was--it is only right that you should know the fate of yourabandoned mistress. When I have finished this letter it will be dark--the shadows are closing in already, and I can scarcely see to write. Ishall creep quietly from the house, and shall make my way over to thatriver which I have crossed so often, seated by your side in a carriage. Once on the bridge, under cover of the blessed darkness, all mytroubles will be ended; you will be burdened with me no longer, and Ishall not cost you even the ten-pound note which you so generously leftfor me, and which I shall enclose in this letter. Forgive me if thereis some bitterness in my heart. I try to forgive you--I do forgive you!May a merciful heaven pardon my sins, as I pardon your desertion ofme_! M. G. '"

There was a pause after the reading of the letter--a silence which Mr. Eversleigh did not attempt to break. "The second letter I needscarcely read to you, " said the baronet; "it is from a young man whomyou were pleased to patronize some twelve months back--a young man in abanking office, aspiring and ambitious, whose chief weakness was thedesire to penetrate the mystic circle of fashionable society. You weregood enough to indulge that weakness at your own price, and for yourown profit. You initiated the banker's clerk into the mysteries ofcard-playing and billiards. You won money of him--more than he had tolose; and after being the kindest and most indulgent of friends, youbecame all at once a stern and pitiless creditor. You threatened thebank-clerk with disgrace if he did not pay his losses. He wrote youpleading letters; but you laughed to scorn his prayers for mercy, andat last, maddened by shame, he helped himself to the money entrusted tohim by his employers, in order to pay you. Discovery came, as discoveryalways does come, sooner or later, in these cases, and your friend andvictim was transported. Before leaving England he wrote you a letter, imploring you to have some compassion on his widowed mother, whom hisdisgrace had deprived of all support. I wonder how much heed you tookof that letter, Mr. Eversleigh? I wonder what you did towards theconsolation of the helpless and afflicted woman who owed hermisfortunes to you?"

The young officer dared not lift his eyes to his uncle's face; theconsciousness of guilt rendered him powerless to utter a word in hisdefence. 

"I have little more to say to you, " resumed the baronet. "I have lovedyou as a man rarely loves his nephew. I have loved you for the sake ofthe brother who died in my arms, and for the sake of one who was evendearer to me than that only brother--for the sake of the woman whom weboth loved, and who made her choice between us--choosing the youngerand poorer brother, and retaining to her dying day the affection andesteem of the elder. I loved your mother, Reginald Eversleigh, and whenshe died, within one short year of her husband's death, I swore thather only child should be as dear to me as a son. I have kept thatpromise. Few parents can find patience to forgive such follies as Ihave forgiven. But my endurance is exhausted; my affection has beenworn out by your heartlessness: henceforward we are strangers. "

"You cannot mean this, sir?" murmured Reginald Eversleigh. 

There was a terrible fear at his heart--an inward conviction that hisuncle was in earnest. 

"My solicitors will furnish you with all particulars of the deed Ispoke of, " said Sir Oswald, without noticing his nephew's appealingtones. "That deed will secure to you two hundred a year. You have asoldier's career before you, and you are young enough to redeem thepast--at any rate, in the eyes of the world, if not before the sight ofheaven. If you find your regiment too expensive for your altered means, I would recommend you to exchange into the line. And now, Mr. Eversleigh, I wish you good morning. "

"But, Sir Oswald--uncle--my dear uncle--you cannot surely cast me offthus coldly--you--"

The baronet rang the bell. 

"The door--for Mr. Eversleigh, " he said to the servant who answered hissummons. 

The young man rose, looking at his kinsman with an incredulous gaze. He could not believe that all his hopes were utterly ruined; that hewas, indeed, cast off with a pittance which to him seemed positivelydespicable. 

But there was no hope to be derived from Sir Oswald's face. A mask ofstone could not have been more inflexible. 

"Good morning, sir, " said Reginald, in accents that were tremulous withsuppressed rage. 

He could say no more, for the servant was in attendance, and he couldnot humiliate himself before the man who had been wont to respect himas Sir Oswald Eversleigh's heir. He took up his hat and cane, bowed tothe baronet, and left the room. 

Once beyond the doors of his uncle's mansion, Reginald Eversleighabandoned himself to the rage that possessed him. 

"He shall repent this, " he muttered. "Yes; powerful as he is, he shallrepent having used his power. As if I had not suffered enough already;as if I had not been haunted perpetually by that girl's pale, reproachful face, ever since the fatal hour in which I abandoned her. But those letters; how could they have fallen into my uncle's hands?That scoundrel, Laston, must have stolen them, in revenge for hisdismissal. "

He went to the loneliest part of the Green Park, and, stretched at fulllength upon a bench, abandoned himself to gloomy reflections, with hisface hidden by his folded arms. 

For hours he lay thus, while the bleak March winds whistled loud andshrill in the leafless trees above his head--while the cold, gray lightof the sunless day faded into the shadows of evening. It was past seveno'clock, and the lamps in Piccadilly shone brightly, when he rose, chilled to the bone, and walked away from the park. 

"And I am to consider myself rich--with my pay and fifty pounds aquarter, " he muttered, with a bitter laugh; "and if I find a crackcavalry regiment too expensive, I am to exchange into the line--turnfoot-soldier, and face the scornful looks of all my old acquaintances. No, no, Sir Oswald Eversleigh; you have brought me up as a gentleman, and a gentleman I will remain to the end of the chapter, let who willpay the cost. It may seem easy to cast me off, Sir Oswald; but we havenot done with each other yet. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER IV. 

 OUT OF THE DEPTHS. 

After dismissing his nephew, Sir Oswald Eversleigh abandoned himselffor some time to gloomy thought. The trial had been a very bitter one;but at length, arousing himself from that gloomy reverie, he saidaloud, "Thank Heaven it is over; my resolution did not break down, andthe link is broken. "

Sir Oswald had made his arrangements for leaving London that afternoon, on the first stage of his journey to Raynham Castle. There were fewrailroads six-and-twenty years ago, and the baronet was in the habit oftravelling in his own carriage, with post-horses. The journey fromLondon to the far north of Yorkshire was, therefore, a long one, occupying two or three days. 

Sir Oswald left town an hour after his interview with ReginaldEversleigh. 

It was ten o'clock when he alighted for the first time in a large, bustling town on the great northern road. He had changed horses severaltimes since leaving London, and had accomplished a considerabledistance within the five hours. He put up at the principal hotel, wherehe intended to remain for the night. From the windows of his rooms wasto be seen the broad, open market-place, which to-night was brilliantlylighted, and thronged with people. Sir Oswald looked with surprise atthe bustling scene, as one of the waiters drew the curtains before thelong windows. 

"Your town seems busy to-night, " he said. 

"Yes, sir; there has been a fair, sir--our spring fair, sir--a cattlefair, sir. Perhaps you'd rather not have the curtains drawn, sir. Youmay like to look out of the window after dinner, sir. "

"Look out of the window?--oh, dear no! Close the curtains by allmeans. "

The waiter wondered at the gentleman's bad taste, and withdrew tohasten the well-known guest's dinner. 

It was long past eleven, and Sir Oswald was sitting brooding before thefire, when he was startled from his reverie by the sound of a woman'svoice singing in the market-place below. The streets had been for sometime deserted, the shops closed, the lights extinguished, except a fewstreet-lamps, flickering feebly here and there. All was quiet, and thevoice of the street ballad-singer sounded full and clear in thestillness. 

Sir Oswald Eversleigh was in no humour to listen to street-singers. Itmust needs be some voice very far removed from common voices whichcould awaken him from his gloomy abstraction. 

It was, indeed, an uncommon voice, such a voice as one rarely hearsbeyond the walls of the Italian opera-house--such a voice as is notoften heard even within those walls. Full, clear, and rich, themelodious accents sent a thrill to the innermost heart of the listener. 

The song which the vagrant was singing was the simplest of ballads. Itwas "Auld Robin Gray. "

While he sat by the fire, listening to that familiar ballad, Sir OswaldEversleigh forgot his sorrow and indignation--forgot his nephew'sbaseness, forgot everything, except the voice of the woman singing inthe deserted market-place below the windows. 

He went to one of the windows, and drew back the curtain. The night wascold and boisterous; but a full moon was shining in a clear sky, andevery object in the broad street was visible in that penetrating light. 

The windows of Sir Oswald's sitting-room opened upon a balcony. Helifted the sash, and stepped out into the chill night air. He saw thefigure of a woman moving a way from the pavement before the hotel veryslowly, with a languid, uncertain step. Presently he saw her totter andpause, as if scarcely able to proceed. Then she moved unsteadilyonwards for a few paces, and at last sank down upon a door-step, withthe helpless motion of utter exhaustion. 

He did not stop to watch, longer from the balcony. He went back to hisroom, snatched up his hat, and hurried down stairs. They were beginningto close the establishment for the night, and the waiters stared as SirOswald passed them on his way to the street. 

In the market-place nothing was stirring. The baronet could see thedark figure of the woman still in the same attitude into which he hadseen her sink when she fell exhausted on the door-step, half-sitting, half-lying on the stone. 

Sir Oswald hurried to the spot where the woman had sunk down, and bentover her. Her arms were folded on the stone, her head lying on herfolded arms. 

"Why are you lying there, my good girl?" asked Sir Oswald, gently. 

Something in the slender figure told him that the ballad-singer wasyoung, though he could not see her face. 

She lifted her head slowly, with a languid action, and looked up at thespeaker. 

"Where else should I go?" she asked, in bitter tones. 

"Have you no home?"

"Home!" echoed the girl. "I have never had what gentlemen like you calla home. "

"But where are you going to-night?"

"To the fields--to some empty barn, if I can find one with a doorunfastened, into which I may creep. I have been singing all day, andhave not earned money enough to pay for a lodging. "

The full moon shone broad and clear upon the girl's face. Looking ather by that silvery light, Sir Oswald saw that she was very beautiful. 

"Have you been long leading this miserable life?" Sir Oswald asked herpresently. 

"My life has been one long misery, " answered the ballad-singer. 

"How long have you been singing in the streets?"

"I have been singing about the country for two years; not always in thestreets, for some time I was in a company of show-people; but themistress of the show treated me badly, and I left her. Since then Ihave been wandering about from place to place, singing in the streetson market-days, and singing at fairs. "

The girl said all this in a dull, mechanical way, as if she wereaccustomed to be called on to render an account of herself. 

"And before you took to this kind of life, " said the baronet, strangelyinterested in this vagrant girl; "how did you get your living beforethen?"

"I lived with my father, " answered the girl, in an altered tone. "Haveyou finished your questions?"

She shuddered slightly, and rose from her crouching attitude. The moonstill shone upon her face, intensifying its deathlike pallor. 

"See, " said her unknown questioner, "here are a couple of sovereigns. You need not wander into the open country to look for an empty barn. You can procure shelter at some respectable inn. Or stay, it is closeupon midnight: you might find it difficult to get admitted to anyrespectable house at such an hour. You had better come with me to myhotel yonder, the 'Star'--the landlady is a kind-hearted creature, andwill see you comfortably lodged. Come!"

The girl stood before Sir Oswald, shivering in the bleak wind, with athin black shawl wrapped tightly around her, and her dark brown hairblown away from her face by that bitter March wind. She looked at himwith unutterable surprise in her countenance. 

"You are very good, " she said; "no one of your class ever beforestepped out of his way to help me. Poor people have been kind to me--often--very often. You are very good. "

There was more of astonishment than pleasure in the girl's tone. Itseemed as if she cared very little about her own fate, and that herchief feeling was surprise at the goodness of this fine gentleman. 

"Do not speak of that, " said Sir Oswald, gently; "I am anxious to getyou a decent shelter for the night, but that is a very small favour. Ihappen to be something of a musician, and I have been much struck bythe beauty of your voice. I may be able to put you in the way of makinggood use of your voice. "

"Of my voice!"

The girl echoed the phrase as if it had no meaning to her. 

"Come, " said her benefactor, "you are weary, and ill, perhaps. You lookterribly pale. Come to the hotel, and I will place you in thelandlady's charge. "

He walked on, and the girl walked by his side, very slowly, as if shehad scarcely sufficient strength to carry her even that short distance. 

There was something strange in the circumstance of Sir Oswald's meetingwith this girl. There was something strange in the sudden interestwhich she had aroused in him--the eager desire which he felt to learnher previous history. 

The mistress of the "Star Hotel" was somewhat surprised when one of thewaiters summoned her to the hall, where the street-singer was standingby Sir Oswald's side; but she was too clever a woman to express herastonishment. Sir Oswald was one of her most influential patrons, andSir Oswald's custom was worth a great deal. It was, therefore, scarcelypossible that such a man could do wrong. 

"I found this poor girl in an exhausted state in the street just now, "said Sir Oswald. "She is quite friendless, and has no shelter for thenight, though she seems above the mendicant class. Will you put hersomewhere, and see that she is taken good care of, my dear Mrs. Willet?In the morning I may be able to think of some plan for placing her in amore respectable position. "

Mrs. Willet promised that the girl should be taken care of, and madethoroughly comfortable. "Poor young thing, " said the landlady, "shelooks dreadfully pale and ill, and I'm sure she'll be none the worsefor a nice little bit of supper. Come with me, my dear. "

The girl obeyed; but on the threshold of the hall she turned and spoketo Sir Oswald. 

"I thank you, " she said; "I thank you with all my heart and soul foryour goodness. I have never met with such kindness before. "

"The world must have been very hard for you, my poor child, " hereplied, "if such small kindness touches you so deeply. Come to me to-morrow morning, and we will talk of your future life. Goodnight!"

"Good night, sir, and God bless you!"

The baronet went slowly and thoughtfully up the broad staircase, on hisway to his rooms. 

Sir Oswald Eversleigh passed the night of his sojourn at the 'Star' inbroken slumbers. The events of the preceding day haunted himperpetually in his sleep, acting themselves over and over again in hisbrain. Sometimes he was with his nephew, and the young man was pleadingwith him in an agony of selfish terror; sometimes he was standing inthe market-place, with the ghost-like figure of the vagrant ballad-singer by his side. 

When he arose in the morning, Sir Oswald resolved to dismiss allthought of his nephew. His strange adventure of the previous night hadexercised a very powerful influence upon his mind; and it was upon thatadventure he meditated while he breakfasted. 

"I have seen a landscape, which had no special charm in broad daylight, transformed into a glimpse of paradise by the magic of the moon, " hemused as he lingered over his breakfast. "Perhaps this girl is a veryordinary creature after all--a mere street wanderer, coarse andvulgar. "

But Sir Oswald stopped himself, remembering the refined tones of thevoice which he had heard last night--the perfect self-possession of thegirl's manner. 

"No, " he exclaimed, "she is neither coarse nor vulgar; she is no commonstreet ballad-singer. Whatever she is, or whoever she is, there is amystery around and about her--a mystery which it shall be my businessto fathom. "

When he had breakfasted, Sir Oswald Eversleigh sent for the ballad-singer. 

"Be good enough to tell the young person that if she feels herselfsufficiently rested and refreshed, I should like much to have a fewminutes' conversation with her, " said the baronet to the head-waiter. 

In a few minutes the waiter returned, and ushered in the girl. SirOswald turned to look at her, possessed by a curiosity which wasutterly unwarranted by the circumstances. It was not the first time inhis life that he had stepped aside from his pathway to perform an actof charity; but it certainly was the first time he had ever felt soabsorbing an interest in the object of his benevolence. 

The girl's beauty had been no delusion engendered of the moonlight. Standing before him, in the broad sunlight, she seemed even yet morebeautiful, for her loveliness was more fully visible. 

The ballad-singer betrayed no signs of embarrassment under Sir Oswald'ssearching gaze. She stood before her benefactor with calm grace; andthere was something almost akin to pride in her attitude. Her garmentswere threadbare and shabby: yet on her they did not appear the garmentsof a vagrant. Her dress was of some rusty black stuff, patched andmended in a dozen places; but it fitted her neatly, and a clean linencollar surrounded her slender throat, which was almost as white as thelinen. Her waving brown hair was drawn away from her face in thickbands, revealing the small, rosy-tinted ear. The dark brown of thatmagnificent hair contrasted with the ivory white of a complexion whichwas only relieved by transient blushes of faint rose-colour, that cameand went with emotion or excitement. 

"Be good enough to take a seat, " said Sir Oswald: "I wish to have alittle conversation with you. I want to help you, if I can. You do notseem fitted for the life you are leading; and I am convinced that youpossess talent which would elevate you to a far higher sphere. Butbefore we talk of the future, I must ask you to tell me something ofthe past. "

"Tell me, " he continued, gently, "how is it that you are so friendless?How is it that your father and mother allow you to lead such anexistence?"

"My mother died when I was a child, " answered the girl. 

"And your father?"

"My father is dead also. "

"You did not tell me that last night, " replied the baronet, with sometouch of suspicion in his tone, for he fancied the girl's manner hadchanged when she spoke of her father. 

"Did I not?" she said, quietly. "I do not think you asked me anyquestion about my father; but if you did, I may have answered atrandom; I was confused last night from exhaustion and want of rest, andI scarcely knew what I said. "

"What was your father?"

"He was a sailor. "

"There is something that is scarcely English in your face, " said SirOswald; "were you born in England?"

"No, I was born in Florence; my mother was a Florentine. "

"Indeed. "

There was a pause. It seemed evident that this girl did not care totell the story of her past life, and that whatever information thebaronet wanted to obtain, must be extorted from her little by little. Acommon vagrant would have been eager to pour out some tale of misery, true or false, in the hearing of the man who promised to be herbenefactor; but this girl maintained a reserve which Sir Oswald foundit very difficult to penetrate. 

"I fear there is something of a painful nature in your past history, "he said, at last; "something which you do not care to reveal. "

"There is much that is painful, much that I cannot tell. "

"And yet you must be aware that it will be very difficult for me togive you assistance if I do not know to whom I am giving it. I wish toplace you in a position very different from that which you now occupy;but it would be folly to interest myself in a person of whose history Ipositively know nothing. "

"Then dismiss from your mind all thoughts of me, and let me go my ownway, " answered the girl, with that calm pride of manner which imparteda singular charm to her beauty. "I shall leave this house grateful andcontented; I have asked nothing from you, nor did I intend to askanything. You have been very good to me; you took compassion upon me inmy misery, and I have been accustomed to see people of your class passme by. Let me thank you for your goodness, and go on my way. " Sosaying, she rose, and turned as if to leave the room. 

"No!" cried Sir Oswald, impetuously; "I cannot let you go. I must helpyou in some manner--even if you will throw no light upon your pastexistence; even if I must act entirely in the dark. "

"You are too good, sir, " replied the girl, deeply touched; "butremember that I do not ask your help. My history is a terrible one. Ihave suffered from the crimes of others; but neither crime nordishonour have sullied my own life. I have lived amongst people Idespised, holding myself aloof as far as was possible. I have beenlaughed at, hated, ill-used for that which has been called pride; but Ihave at least preserved myself unpolluted by the corruption thatsurrounded me. If you can believe this, if you can take me upon trust, and stretch forth your hand to help me, knowing no more of me than Ihave now told you, I shall accept your assistance proudly andgratefully. But if you cannot believe, let me go my own way. "

"I will trust you, " he said; "I will help you, blindly, since it mustbe so. Let me ask you two or three questions, then all questioningbetween us shall be at an end. "

"I am ready to answer any inquiry that it is possible for me toanswer. "

"Your name?"

"My name is Honoria Milford. "

"Your age?"

"Eighteen. "

"Tell me, how is it that your manner of speaking, your tones of voice, are those of a person who has received a superior education?"

"I am not entirely uneducated. An Italian priest, a cousin of my poormother's, bestowed some care upon me when I was in Florence. He was avery learned man, and taught me much that is rarely taught to a girl offourteen or fifteen. His house was my refuge in days of cruel misery, and his teaching was the only happiness of my life. And now, sir, question me no further, I entreat you. "

"Very well, then, I will ask no more; and I will trust you. "

"I thank you, sir, for your generous confidence. "

"And now I will tell you my plans for your future welfare, " Sir Oswaldcontinued, kindly. "I was thinking much of you while I breakfasted. Youhave a very magnificent voice; and it is upon that voice you mustdepend for the future. Are you fond of music?"

"I am very fond of it. "

There was little in the girl's words, but the tone in which they werespoken, the look of inspiration which lighted up the speaker's face, convinced Sir Oswald that she was an enthusiast. 

"Do you play the piano?"

"A little; by ear. "

"And you know nothing of the science of music?"

"Nothing. "

"Then you will have a great deal to learn before you can make anyprofitable use of your voice. And now I will tell you what I shall do. I shall make immediate arrangements for placing you in a first-classboarding school in London, or the neighbourhood of London. There youwill complete your education, and there you will receive lessons fromthe best masters in music and singing, and devote the greater part ofyour time to the cultivation of your voice. It will be known that youare intended for the career of a professional singer, and everyfacility will be afforded you for study. You will remain in thisestablishment for two years, and at the end of that time I shall placeyou under the tuition of some eminent singer, who will complete yourmusical education, and enable you to appear as a public singer. All therest will depend on your own industry and perseverance. "

"And I should be a worthless creature if I were not more industriousthan ever any woman was before!" exclaimed Honoria. "Oh, sir, how can Ifind words to thank you?"

"You have no need to thank me. I am a rich man, with neither wife norchild upon whom to waste my money. Besides, if you find the obligationtoo heavy to bear, you can repay me when you become a distinguishedsinger. "

"I will work hard to hasten that day, sir, " answered the girl, earnestly. 

Sir Oswald had spoken thus lightly, in order to set his _protégée_ moreat her ease. He saw that her eyes were filled with tears, and moving tothe window to give her time to recover herself, stood for some minuteslooking out into the market-place. Then he came back to his easy chairby the fire, and addressed her once more. 

"I shall post up to town this afternoon to make the arrangements ofwhich I have spoken, " he said; "you, in the meantime, will remain underthe care of Mrs. Willet, to whom I shall entrust the purchase of yourwardrobe. When that has been prepared, you will come straight to myhouse in Arlington Street, whence I will myself conduct you to theschool I may have chosen as your residence. Remember, that from to-dayyou will begin a new life. Ah, by the bye, there is one other questionI must ask. You have no relations, no associates of the past who arelikely to torment you in the future?"

"None. I have no relations who would dare approach me, and I havealways held myself aloof from all associates. "

"Good, then the future lies clear before you. And now you can return toMrs. Willet. I will see her presently, and make all arrangements foryour comfort. "

Honoria curtseyed to her benefactor, and left the room in silence. Herevery gesture and her every tone were those of a lady. Sir Oswaldlooked after her with wonder, as she disappeared from the apartment. 

The landlady of the "Star" was very much surprised when Sir OswaldEversleigh requested her to keep the ballad-singer in her charge for aweek, and to purchase for her a simple but thoroughly completewardrobe. 

"And now, " said Sir Oswald, "I confide her to you for a week, Mrs. Willet, at the end of which time I hope her wardrobe will be ready. Iwill write you a cheque for--say fifty pounds. If that is not enough, you can have more. "

"Lor' bless you, Sir Oswald, it's more than enough to set her up like aduchess, in a manner of speaking, " answered the landlady; and then, seeing Sir Oswald had no more to say to her, she curtseyed andwithdrew. 

Sir Oswald Eversleigh's carriage was at the door of the "Star" at noon;and at ten minutes after twelve the baronet was on his way back totown. 

He visited a great many West-end boarding-schools before he found onethat satisfied him in every particular. Had his _protégée_ been hisdaughter, or his affianced wife, he could not have been more difficultto please. He wondered at his own fastidiousness. 

"I am like a child with a new toy, " he thought, almost ashamed of theintense interest he felt in this unknown girl. 

At last he found an establishment that pleased him; a noble old mansionat Fulham, surrounded by splendid grounds, and presided over by twomaiden sisters. It was a thoroughly aristocratic seminary, and theladies who kept it knew how to charge for the advantages of theirestablishment. Sir Oswald assented immediately to the Misses Beaumonts'terms, and promised to bring the expected pupil in less than a week'stime. 

"The young lady is a relation, I presume, Sir Oswald?" said the elderMiss Beaumont. 

"Yes, " answered the baronet; "she is--a distant relative. "

If he had not been standing with his back to the light, the two ladiesmight have seen a dusky flush suffuse his face as he pronounced thesewords. Never before had he told so deliberate a falsehood. But he hadfeared to tell the truth. 

"They will never guess her secret from her manner, " he thought; "and ifthey question her, she will know how to baffle their curiosity. "

On the very day that ended the stipulated week, Honoria Milford madeher appearance in Arlington Street. Sir Oswald was in his library, seated in an easy-chair before the fire-place, with a book in his hand, but with no power to concentrate his attention to its pages. He wassitting thus when the door was opened, and a servant announced--

"Miss Milford!"

Sir Oswald rose from his chair, and beheld an elegant young lady, whoapproached him with a graceful timidity of manner. She was simplydressed in gray merino, a black silk mantle, and a straw bonnet, trimmed with white ribbon. Nothing could have been more Quaker-likethan the simplicity of this costume, and yet there was an eleganceabout the wearer which the baronet had seldom seen surpassed. 

He rose to welcome her. 

"You have just arrived in town?" he said. 

"Yes, Sir Oswald; a hackney-coach brought me here from the coach-office. "

"I am very glad to see you, " said the baronet, holding out his hand, which Honoria Milford touched lightly with her own neatly glovedfingers; "and I am happy to tell you that I have secured you a homewhich I think you will like. "

"Oh, Sir Oswald, you are only too good to me. I shall never know how tothank you. "

"Then do not thank me at all. Believe me, I desire no thanks. I havedone nothing worthy of gratitude. An influence stronger than my ownwill has drawn me towards you; and in doing what I can to befriend you, I am only giving way to an impulse which I am powerless to resist. "

The girl looked at her benefactor with a bewildered expression, and SirOswald interpreted the look. 

"Yes, " he said, "you may well be astonished by what I tell you. I amastonished myself. There is something mysterious in the interest whichyou have inspired in my mind. "

Although the baronet had thought continually of his _protégée_ duringthe past week, he had never asked himself if there might not be somesimple and easy solution possible for this bewildering enigma. He hadnever asked himself if it were not just within the limits ofpossibility that a man of fifty might fall a victim to that fatal fevercalled love. 

He looked at the girl's beautiful face with the admiration which everyman feels for the perfection of beauty--the pure, calm, reverentialfeeling of an artist, or a poet--and he never supposed it possible thatthe day might not be far distant when he would contemplate that lovelycountenance with altered sentiments, with a deeper emotion. 

"Come to the dining-room, Miss Milford, " he said; "I expected you to-day--I have made all my arrangements accordingly. You must be hungryafter your journey; and as I have not yet lunched, I hope you willshare my luncheon?"

Honoria assented. Her manner towards her benefactor was charming in itsquiet grace, deferential without being sycophantic--the manner of adaughter rather than a dependent Before leaving the library, she lookedround at the books, the bronzes, the pictures, with admiring eyes. Never before had she seen so splendid an apartment: and she possessedthat intuitive love of beautiful objects which is the attribute of allrefined and richly endowed natures. 

The baronet placed his ward on one side of the table, and seatedhimself opposite to her. 

No servant waited upon them. Sir Oswald himself attended to the wantsof his guest. He heaped her plate with dainties; he filled her glasswith rare old wine; but she ate only a few mouthfuls, and she coulddrink nothing. The novelty of her present position was too full ofexcitement. 

During the whole of the repast the baronet asked her no questions. Hetalked as if they had long been known to each other, explaining to herthe merits of the different pictures and statues which she admired, pleased to find her intelligence always on a level with his own. 

"She is a wonderful creature, " he thought; "a wonderful creature--apriceless pearl picked up out of the gutter. "

After luncheon Sir Oswald rang for his carriage, and presently HonoriaMilford found herself on her way to her new home. 

The mansion inhabited by the Misses Beaumont was called "The Beeches. "It had of old been the seat of a nobleman, and the grounds whichencircled it were such as are rarely to be found within a few miles ofthe metropolis; and they would in vain be sought for now. Shabby littlestreets and terraces cover the ground where grand old cedars of Lebanoncast their dark shadows on the smooth turf seven-and-twenty years ago. 

Honoria Milford was enraptured with the beauty of her new home. Thatstately mansion, shut in by noble old trees from all the dust andclamour of the outer world; those smooth lawns, and exquisitely keptbeds, filled with flowers even in this chill spring weather, must haveseemed beautiful to those accustomed to handsome habitations. What mustthey have been then to the wanderer of the streets--the friendlesstramp--who a week ago had depended for a night's rest on the chance offinding an empty barn. 

She looked at her benefactor with eyes that were dim with tears, as thecarriage approached this delightful retreat. 

"If I were your daughter, you could not have chosen a better place thanthis, " she said. 

"If you were my daughter, I doubt if I could feel a deeper interest inyour fate than I feel now, " answered Sir Oswald, quietly. 

Miss Beaumont the elder received her pupil with ceremonious kindness. She looked at the girl with the keen glance of examination whichbecomes habitual to the eye of the schoolmistress; but the most severescrutiny would have failed to detect anything unladylike or ungracefulin the deportment of Honoria Milford. 

"The young lady is charming, " said Miss Beaumont, confidentially, asthe baronet was taking leave; "any one could guess that she was anEversleigh. She is so elegant, so patrician in face and manner. Ah, SirOswald, the good old blood will show itself. "

The baronet smiled as he bade adieu to the schoolmistress. He had toldHonoria that policy had compelled him to speak of her as a distantrelative of his own; and there was no fear that the girl would betrayherself or him by any awkward admissions. 

Sir Oswald felt depressed and gloomy as he drove back to town. Itseemed to him as if, in parting from his _protégée_, he had lostsomething that was necessary to his happiness. 

"I have not spent half a dozen hours in her society, " he thought, "andyet she occupies my mind more than my nephew, Reginald, who for fifteenyears of my life has been the object of so much hope, so many cares. What does it all mean? What is the key to this mystery?"

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER V. 

 "EVIL, BE THOU MY GOOD. "

Reginald Eversleigh was handsome, accomplished, agreeable--irresistiblewhen he chose, many people said; but he was not richly endowed withthose intellectual gifts which lift a man to either the good or bademinence. He was weak and vacillating--one minute swayed by a goodinfluence, a transient touch of penitence, affection, or generosity; inthe next given over entirely to his own selfishness, thinking only ofhis own enjoyment. He was apt to be influenced by any friend orcompanion endowed with intellectual superiority; and he possessed sucha friend in the person of Victor Carrington, a young surgeon, a maninfinitely below Mr. Eversleigh in social status, but whose talents, united to tact, had lifted him above his natural level. 

The young surgeon was a slim, elegant-looking young man, with a pale, sallow face, and flashing black eyes. His appearance was altogetherforeign, and although his own name was English, he was half aFrenchman, his mother being a native of Bordeaux. This widowed mothernow lived with him, dependent on him, and loving him with a devotedaffection. 

From a chance meeting in a public billiard-room, an intimacy arosebetween Victor Carrington and Reginald Eversleigh, which speedilyripened into friendship. The weaker nature was glad to find a strongeron which to lean. Reginald Eversleigh invited his new friend to hisrooms--to champagne breakfasts, to suppers of broiled bones, eaten longafter midnight: to card-parties, at which large sums of money were lostand won; but the losers were never Victor Carrington or ReginaldEversleigh, and there were men who said that Eversleigh was a moredangerous opponent at loo and whist since he had picked up that fellowCarrington. 

"I always feel afraid of Eversleigh, when that sallow-faced surgeon ishis partner at whist, or hangs about his chair at _écarté_, " said oneof the officers in Reginald Eversleigh's regiment. "It's my opinionthat black-eyed Frenchman is Mephistopheles in person. I never saw acountenance that so fully realized my idea of the devil. "

People laughed at the dragoon's notion: but there were few of Mr. Eversleigh's guests who liked his new acquaintance, and there were somewho kept altogether aloof from the young cornet's rooms, after two orthree evenings spent in the society of Mr. Carrington. 

"The fellow is too clever, " said one of Eversleigh's brother-officers;"these very clever men are almost invariably scoundrels. I respect aman who is great in one thing--a great surgeon, a great lawyer, a greatsoldier--but your fellow who knows everything better than anybody elseis always a villain. "

Victor Carrington was the only person to whom Reginald Eversleigh toldthe real story of his breach with his uncle. He trusted Victor: notbecause he cared to confide in him--for the story was too humiliatingto be told without pain--but because he wanted counsel from a strongermind than his own. 

"It's rather a hard thing to drop from the chance of forty thousand ayear to a pension of a couple of hundred, isn't it, Carrington?" saidReginald, as the two young men dined together in the cornet's quarters, a fortnight after the scene in Arlington Street. "It's rather hard, isn't it, Carrington?"

"Yes, it _would be_ rather hard, if such a contingency were possible, "replied the surgeon, coolly; "but we don't mean to drop from fortythousand to two hundred. The generous old uncle may choose to draw hispurse-strings, and cast us off to 'beggarly divorcement, ' as Desdemonaremarks; but we don't mean to let him have his own way. We must takethings quietly, and manage matters with a little tact. You want myadvice, I suppose, my dear Reginald?"

"I do. "

The surgeon almost always addressed his friends by their Christiannames, more especially when those friends were of higher standing thanhimself. There was a depth of pride, which few understood, lurkingbeneath his quiet and unobtrusive manner; and he had a way of his ownby which he let people know that he considered himself in every respecttheir equal, and in some respects their superior. 

"You want my advice. Very well, then, my advice is that you play thepenitent prodigal. It is not a difficult part to perform, if you takecare what you're about. Sir Oswald has advised you to exchange into theline. Instead of doing that, you will sell out altogether. It will looklike a stroke of prudence, and will leave you free to play your cardscleverly, and keep your eye upon this dear uncle. "

"Sell out!" exclaimed Reginald. "Leave the army! I have sworn never todo that. "

"But you will find yourself obliged to do it, nevertheless. Yourregiment is too expensive for a man who has only a pitiful two hundreda year beyond his pay. Your mail-phaeton would cost the whole of yourincome; your tailor's bill can hardly be covered by another twohundred; and then, where are you to get your gloves, your hot-houseflowers, your wines, your cigars? You can't go on upon credit for ever;tradesmen have such a tiresome habit of wanting money, if it's only ahundred or so now and then on account. The Jews are beginning to besuspicious of your paper. The news of your quarrel with Sir Oswald ispretty sure to get about somehow or other, and then where are you?Cards and billiards are all very well in their way; but you can't liveby them, without turning a regular black-leg, and as a black-leg youwould have no chance of the Raynham estates. No, my dear Reginald, retrenchment is the word. You must sell out, keep yourself very quiet, and watch your uncle. "

"What do you mean by watching him?" asked Mr. Eversleigh, peevishly. 

His friend's advice was by no means palatable to him. He sat in a moodyattitude, with his elbows on his knees, and his head bent forward, staring at the fire. His wine stood untasted on the table by his side. 

"I mean that you must keep your eye upon him, in order to see that hedon't play you a trick, " answered the surgeon, at his own leisure. 

"What trick should he play me?"

"Well, you see, when a man quarrels with his heir, he is apt to turndesperate. Sir Oswald might marry. "

"Marry! at fifty years of age?"

"Yes. Men of fifty have been known to fall as desperately in love asany of your heroes of two or three and twenty. Sir Oswald would be asplendid match, and depend upon it, there are plenty of beautiful andhigh-born women who would be glad to call themselves Lady Eversleigh. Take my advice, Reginald, dear boy, and keep your eye on the baronet. "

"But he has turned me out of his house. He has severed every linkbetween us. "

"Then it must be our business to establish a secret chain ofcommunication with his household, " answered Victor. "He has someconfidential servant, I suppose?"

"Yes; he has a valet, called Millard, whom he trusts as far as hetrusts any dependent; but he is not a man who talks to his servants. "

"Perhaps not; but servants have a way of their own of getting atinformation, and depend upon it, Mr. Millard knows more of your uncle'sbusiness than Sir Oswald would wish him to know. We must get hold ofthis faithful Millard. "

"But he is a very faithful fellow--honesty itself--the pink offidelity. "

"Humph!" muttered the young surgeon; "did you ever try the effect of abribe on this pink of fidelity?"

"Never. "

"Then you know nothing about him. Remember what Sir Robert Walpolesaid, 'Every man has his price. ' We must find out the price of Mr. Millard. "

"You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington. "

"You think so? Bah, I keep my eyes open, that's all; other men gothrough the world with their eyes half-shut. I graduated in a goodschool, and I may, perhaps, have been a tolerably apt pupil?"

"What school?"

"The school of poverty. That's the sort of education that sharpens aman's intellect. My father was a reprobate and a gamester, and I knewat an early age that I had nothing to hope for from him. I have had myown way to carve in life, and if I have as yet made small progress, Ihave fought against terrible odds. "

"I wonder you don't set up in a professional career, " said Mr. Eversleigh; "you have finished your education; obtained your degree. What are you waiting for?"

"I am waiting for my chances, " answered Victor; "I don't care to beginthe jog-trot career in which other men toil for twenty years or so, before they attain anything like prosperity. I have studied as few menof five-and-twenty have studied, --chemistry as well as surgery. I canafford to wait my chances. I pick up a few pounds a week by writing forthe medical journals, and with that resource and occasional luck withcards, I can very easily support the simple home in which my mother andI live. In the meantime, I am free, and believe me, my dear Reginald, there is nothing so precious as freedom. "

"And you will not desert me now that I am down in the world, eh, oldfellow?"

"No, Reginald, I will never desert you while you have the chance ofsucceeding to forty thousand a year, " answered the surgeon, with alaugh. 

His small black eyes flashed and sparkled as he laughed. Reginaldlooked at him with a sensation that was almost fear. 

"What a fellow you are, Carrington!" he exclaimed; "you don't pretendeven to have a heart. "

"A heart is a luxury which a poor man must dispense with, " answeredVictor, with perfect _sang froid_. "I should as soon think of settingup a mail-phaeton and pair as of pretending to benevolent feelings orhigh-flown sentiments. I have my way to make in the world, Mr. Eversleigh, and must consider my own interests as well as those of myfriends. You see, I am no hypocrite. You needn't be alarmed, dear boy. I'll help you, and you shall help me; and it shall go hard if you arenot restored to your uncle's favour before the year is out. But youmust be patient. Our work will be slow, for we shall have to workunderground. If Sir Oswald is still in Arlington Street, I shall makeit my business to see Mr. Millard to-morrow. "

 * * * * *

Sir Oswald Eversleigh had not left Arlington Street, and at dusk on thefollowing evening Mr. Carrington presented himself at the door of thebaronet's mansion, and asked to see Mr. Millard, the valet. 

Victor Carrington had never seen his friend's kinsman; he was, therefore, secure against all chances of recognition. He had chosen thebaronet's dinner-hour as the time for his call, knowing that duringthat hour the valet must be disengaged. He sent his card to Mr. Millard, with a line written in pencil to request an interview onurgent business. 

Millard came to the hall at once to see his visitor, and ushered Mr. Carrington into a small room that was used occasionally by the upperservants. 

The surgeon was skilled in every science by which a man may purchasethe hearts and minds of his fellow-men. He could read Sir OswaldEversleigh's valet as he could have read an open book He saw that theman was weak, irresolute, tolerably honest, but open to temptation. Hewas a middle-aged man, with sandy hair, a pale face, and light, greenish-gray eyes. 

"Weak, " thought the surgeon, as he examined this man's countenance, "greedy, and avaricious. So, so; we can do what we like with Mr. Millard. "

Victor Carrington told the valet that he was the most intimate friendof Reginald Eversleigh, and that he made this visit entirely withoutthat gentleman's knowledge. He dwelt much upon Mr. Eversleigh's grief--his despair. 

"But he is very proud, " he added; "too proud to approach this house, either directly or indirectly. The shock caused by his uncle'sunexpected abandonment of him has completely prostrated him. I am amember of the medical profession, Mr. Millard, and I assure you thatduring the past fortnight I have almost feared for my friend's reason. I therefore determined upon a desperate step--a step which ReginaldEversleigh would never forgive, were he to become aware of it. Idetermined upon coming to this house, and ascertaining, if possible, the nature of Sir Oswald's feelings towards his nephew. Is there anyhope of a reconciliation?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. "

"That's a bad thing, " said Victor, gravely; "a very bad thing. A vastestate is at stake. It would be a bad thing for every one if thatestate were to pass into strange hands--a very bad thing for oldservants, for with strangers all old links are broken. It would be astill worse thing for every one if Sir Oswald should take it into hishead to marry. "

The valet looked very grave. 

"If you had said such a thing to me a fortnight ago, I should have toldyou it was impossible, " he said; "but now--. "

"Now, what do you say?"

"Well, sir, you're a gentleman, and, of course, you can keep a secret;so I'll tell you candidly that nothing my master could do wouldsurprise me after what I've seen within the last fortnight. "

This was quite enough for Victor Carrington, who did not leaveArlington Street until he had extorted from the valet the entirehistory of the baronet's adoption of the ballad-singer. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER VI. 

 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

A year and some months had passed, and the midsummer sunlight shoneupon the woods around Raynham Castle. 

It was a grand pile of buildings, blackened by the darkening hand oftime. At one end Norman towers loomed, round and grim; at anotherextremity the light tracery of a Gothic era was visible in window andarchway, turret and tower. The centre had been rebuilt in the reign ofHenry VIII, and a long range of noble Tudor windows looked out upon thebroad terrace, beyond which there was a garden, or _pleasaunce_, sloping down to the park. In the centre of this long façade there wasan archway, opening into a stone quadrangle, where a fountain playedperpetually in a marble basin. This was Raynham Castle, and all thewoods and pastures as far as the eye could reach, and far beyond thereach of any human eye, belonged to the castle estate. This was thefair domain of which Reginald Eversleigh had been for years theacknowledged heir, and which his own folly and dishonour had forfeited. 

Now all was changed. There was not a peasant in Raynham village who hadnot as much right to enter the castle, and as good a chance of awelcome, as he who had once been acknowledged heir to that prouddomain. It was scarcely strange if Reginald Eversleigh felt this bitterchange very keenly. 

He had placed himself entirely in the hands of his friend and adviser, Victor Carrington. He had sold out of the cavalry regiment, and hadtaken up his abode in a modest lodging, situated in a small street atthe West-end of London. Here he had tried to live quietly, according tohis friend's advice; but he was too much the slave of his own folliesand vices to endure a quiet existence. 

The sale of his commission made him rich for the time being, and, solong as his money lasted, he pursued the old course, betting, playingbilliards, haunting all the aristocratic temples of folly anddissipation; but, at the worst, conducting himself with greater cautionthan he had done of old, and always allowing himself to be heldsomewhat in check by his prudent ally and counsellor. 

"Enjoy yourself as much as you please, my dear Reginald, " said VictorCarrington; "but take care that your little follies don't reach theears of your uncle. Remember, I count upon your being reconciled to himbefore the year is out. "

"That will never be, " answered Mr. Eversleigh, with a tone of sullendespair. "I am utterly ruined, Carrington. It's no use trying to shirkthe truth. I am a doomed wretch, a beggar for life, and the sooner Ithrow myself over one of the bridges, and make an end of my miserableexistence, the better. According to Millard's account my uncle'sinfatuation for that singing-girl grows stronger and stronger. Not aweek now passes without his visiting the school where the youngadventuress is finishing her education. As sure as fate, it will end byhis marrying her and the street ballad-singer will be my LadyEversleigh. "

"And when she is my Lady Eversleigh, it must be our business to stepbetween her and the Eversleigh estates, " answered Victor, quietly. "Itold you that your uncle's marriage would be an unlucky thing for you;but I never told you that it would put an end to your chances. I think, from what Millard tells us, there is very little doubt Sir Oswald willmake a fool of himself by marrying this girl. If he does, we must setour wits to work to prevent his leaving her his fortune. She is utterlyfriendless and obscure, so he is not likely to make any settlement uponher. And for the rest, a man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteen isvery apt to repent of his folly. It must be our business to make youruncle repent very soon after he has taken the fatal step. "

"I don't understand you, Carrington. "

"My dear Eversleigh, you very seldom do understand me, " answered thesurgeon, in that half-contemptuous tone in which he was apt to addresshis friend; "but that is not of the smallest consequence. Only do whatI tell you, and leave the rest to me. You shall be lord of RaynhamCastle yet, if my wits are good for anything. "

 * * * * *

A year had elapsed, which had been passed by Sir Oswald between RaynhamCastle and Arlington Street, and during which he had paid more visitsthan he could count to "The Beeches. "

On the occasion of these visits, he only saw his _protégée_ for about aquarter of an hour, while the stately Miss Beaumont looked on, smilinga dignified smile upon her pupil and the liberal patron who paid sohandsomely for that pupil's education. She had always a good account togive of Sir Oswald's _protégée_--there never was so much talent unitedto so much industry, according to Miss Beaumont's report. Sometimes SirOswald begged to hear Miss Milford sing, and Honoria seated herself atthe piano, over whose notes her white fingers seemed to have alreadyacquired perfect command. 

The rich and clear soprano voice had attained new power since SirOswald had heard it in the moonlit market-place; the execution of thesinger improved day by day. The Italian singing-master spoke inraptures of his pupil--never was there a finer organ or more talent. Miss Milford could not fail to create a profound impression when hermusical education should be completed, and she should appear before thepublic. 

But as the year drew to its close, Sir Oswald Eversleigh talked lessand less of that public career for which he had destined his_protégée_. He no longer reminded her that on her own industry dependedher future fortune. He no longer spoke in glowing terms of thatbrilliant pathway which lay before her. His manner was entirelychanged, and he was grave and silent whenever any allusion was made byMiss Beaumont or Honoria to the future use which was to be made of thatsuperb voice and exceptional genius. 

The schoolmistress remarked upon this alteration one day, when talkingto her pupil. 

"Do you know, my dear Miss Milford, I am really inclined to believethat Sir Oswald Eversleigh has changed his mind with regard to yourfuture career, and that he does not intend you to be an opera-singer. "

"Surely, dear Miss Beaumont, that is impossible, " answered Honoria, quietly; "my education is costing my kind bene--relative a great dealof money, which would be wasted if I were not to make music myprofession. Besides, what else have I to look to in the future?Remember, Sir Oswald has always told you that I have my own fortune toachieve. I have no claim on any one, and it is to his generosity aloneI owe my present position. "

"Well, I don't know how it may be, my dear, " answered Miss Beaumont, "Imay be mistaken; but I cannot help thinking that Sir Oswald has changedhis mind about you. I need not tell you that my opinions are opposed toa professional career for any young lady brought up in myestablishment, however highly gifted. I'm sure my blood actuallyfreezes in my veins, when I think of any pupil of mine standing on apublic stage, to be gazed at by the common herd; and I told Sir Oswald, when he first proposed bringing you here, that it would be necessary tokeep your destiny a profound secret from your fellow-pupils; for Iassure you, my love, there are mammas and papas who would come to thishouse in the dead of the night and carry off their children, without amoment's warning, if they were informed that a young person intended toappear on the stage of the Italian Opera was receiving her educationwithin these walls. In short, nothing but your own discreet conduct, and Sir Oswald's very liberal terms, could have reconciled me to therisk which I have run in receiving you. "

The first year of Honoria Milford's residence at "The Beeches" expired, and another year began. Sir Oswald's visits became more and morefrequent. When the accounts of his _protégée's_ progress were more thanusually enthusiastic, his visits were generally followed very speedilyby the arrival of some costly gift for Miss Beaumont's pupil--a ring--abracelet--a locket--always in perfect taste, and such as a young ladyat a boarding-school might wear, but always of the most valuabledescription. 

Honoria Milford must have possessed a heart of stone, if she had notbeen grateful to so noble a benefactor. She was grateful, and hergratitude was obvious to her generous protector. Her beautiful face wasilluminated with an unwonted radiance when she entered the drawing-roomwhere he awaited her coming: and the pleasure with which she receivedhis brief visits was as palpable as if it had been expressed in words. 

It was midsummer, and Honoria Milford had been a year and a quarter at"The Beeches. " She had acquired much during that period; newaccomplishments, new graces; and her beauty had developed into freshsplendour in the calm repose of that comfortable abode. She was likedby her fellow-pupils; but she had made neither friends nor_confidantes_. The dark secrets of her past life shut her out from allintimate companionship with girls of her own age. 

She had, in a manner, lived a lonely life amongst all these companions, and her chief happiness had been derived from her studies. Thus it was, perhaps, that she had made double progress during her residence withthe Misses Beaumont. 

One bright afternoon in June, Sir Oswald's mail-phaeton and pair drovepast the windows of the school-room. 

"Visitors for Miss Milford!" exclaimed the pupils seated near thewindows, as they recognized the elegant equipage. 

Honoria rose from her desk, awaiting the summons of the schoolroom-maid. She had not long to wait. The young woman appeared at the door ina few moments, and Miss Milford was requested to go to the drawing-room. 

She went, and found Sir Oswald Eversleigh awaiting her alone. It wasthe first time that she had ever known Miss Beaumont to be absent fromthe reception-room on the visit of the baronet. 

He rose to receive her, and took the hand which she extended towardshim. 

"I am alone, you see, Honoria, " he said; "I told Miss Beaumont that Ihad something of a serious nature to say to you, and she left me toreceive you alone. "

"Something of a serious nature, " repeated the girl, looking at herbenefactor with surprise. "Oh, I think I can guess what you are goingto say, " she added, after a moment's hesitation; "my musical educationis now sufficiently advanced for me to take some new step in thepathway which you wish me to tread. "

"No, Honoria, you are mistaken, " answered the baronet, gravely; "so farfrom wishing to hasten your musical education, I am about to entreatyou to abandon all thought of a professional career. "

"To abandon all thought of a professional career! You would ask methis, Sir Oswald--_you_ who have so often told me that all my hopes forthe future depended on my cultivation of the art I love?"

"You love your art very much then, Honoria?"

"More than I love life itself. "

"And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a publiccareer--to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?"

There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone--

"I don't know. I have never thought of the public. I have neverimagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as Ihave stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion, singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thoughtof that--I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure whenI sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest opera-house that ever was built. "

"And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, aswell as your voice, would win--does the idea of resigning suchintoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?"

The girl shook her head sadly. 

"You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones ofthe market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I haveconfronted the public--not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, butthe squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, tolisten to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the richand the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration. I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws ahandful of half-pence, offers an insult with his donation. "

Sir Oswald contemplated his _protégée_ in silent admiration, and it wassome moments before he continued the conversation. 

"Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked, presently; "thatavenue of beeches is delightful, and--and I think I shall be betterable to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shallfeel less afraid of interruption. "

Honoria rose to comply with her benefactor's wish, with thatdeferential manner which she always preserved in her intercourse withhim, and they walked out upon the velvet lawn. Across the lawn lay thebeech-avenue, and it was thither Sir Oswald directed his steps. 

"Honoria, " he said, after a silence of some duration, "if you knew howmuch doubt--how much hesitation I experienced before I came here to-day--how much I still question the wisdom of my coming--I think youwould pity me. But I am here, and I must needs speak plainly, if I amto speak at all. Long ago I tried to think that my interest in yourfate was only a natural impulse of charity--only an ordinary tribute togifts so far above the common. I tried to think this, and I acted withthe cold, calculating wisdom of a man of the world, when I marked outfor you a career by which you might win distinction for yourself, andplaced you in the way of following that career. I meant to spend lastyear upon the Continent. I did not expect to see you once in twelvemonths; but the strange influence which possessed me in the hour of ourfirst meeting grew stronger upon me day by day. In spite of myself, Ithought of you; in spite of myself I came here again and again, to lookupon your face, to hear your voice, for a few brief moments, and thento go out into the world, to find it darker and colder by contrast withthe brightness of your beauty. Little by little, the idea of yourbecoming a public singer became odious to me, " continued Sir Oswald. "At first I thought with pride of the success which would be yours, theworship which would be offered at your shrine; but my feeling changedcompletely before long, and I shuddered at the image of your triumphs, for those triumphs must, doubtless, separate us for ever. Why should Idwell upon this change of feeling? You must have already guessed thesecret of my heart. Tell me that you do not despise me!"

"Despise you, Sir Oswald!--you, the noblest and most generous of men!Surely, you must know that I admire and reverence you for all yournoble qualities, as well as for your goodness to a wretched creaturelike me. "

"But, Honoria, I want something more than your esteem. Do you rememberthe night I first heard you singing in the market-place on the northroad?"

"Can I ever forget that miserable night?" cried the girl, in a tone ofsurprise--the question seemed so strange to her--"that bitter hour, inwhich you came to my rescue?"

"Do you remember the song you were singing--the last song you ever sangin the streets?"

Honoria Milford paused for some moments before answering It was evidentthat she could not at first recall the memory of that last song. 

"My brain was almost bewildered that night, " she said; "I was so weary, so miserable; and yet, stay, I do remember the song. It was 'Auld RobinGray. '"

"Yes, Honoria, the story of an old man's love for a woman young enoughto be his daughter. I was sitting by my cheerless fire-side, meditatingvery gloomily upon the events of the day, which had been a sad one forme, when your thrilling tones stole upon my ear, and roused me from myreverie. I listened to every note of that old ballad. Although thosewords had long been familiar to me, they seemed new and strange thatnight. An irresistible impulse led me to the spot where you had sunkdown in your helplessness. From that hour to this you have been theruling influence of my life. I have loved you with a devotion which fewmen have power to feel. Tell me, Honoria, have I loved in vain? Thehappiness of my life trembles in the balance. It is for you to decidewhether my existence henceforward is to be worthless to me, or whetherI am to be the proudest and happiest of men. "

"Would my love make you happy, Sir Oswald?"

"Unutterably happy. "

"Then it is yours. "

"You love me--in spite of the difference between our ages?"

"Yes, Sir Oswald, I honour and love you with all my heart, " answeredHonoria Milford. "Whom have I seen so worthy of a woman's affection?From the first hour in which some guardian angel threw me across yourpathway, what have I seen in you but nobility of soul and generosity ofheart? Is it strange, therefore, if my gratitude has ripened intolove?"

"Honoria, " murmured Sir Oswald, bending over the drooping head, andpressing his lips gently on the pure brow--"Honoria, you have made metoo happy. I can scarcely believe that this happiness is not somedream, which will melt away presently, and leave me alone anddesolate--the fool of my own fancy. "

He led Honoria back towards the house. Even in this moment of supremehappiness he was obliged to remember Miss Beaumont, who would, nodoubt, be lurking somewhere on the watch for her pupil. 

"Then you will give up all thought of a professional career, Honoria?"said the baronet, as they walked slowly back. 

"I will obey you in everything. "

"My dearest girl--and when you leave this house, you will leave it asLady Eversleigh. "

Miss Beaumont was waiting in the drawing-room, and was evidentlysomewhat astonished by the duration of the interview between Sir Oswaldand her pupil. 

"You have been admiring the grounds, I see, Sir Oswald, " she said, verygraciously. "It is not quite usual for a gentleman visitor and a pupilto promenade in the grounds _tête-à-tête_; but I suppose, in the caseof a gentleman of your time of life, we must relax the severity of ourrules in some measure. "

The baronet bowed stiffly. A man of fifty does not care to be remindedof his time of life at the very moment when he has just been acceptedas the husband of a girl of nineteen. 

"It may, perhaps, be the last opportunity which I may have of admiringyour grounds, Miss Beaumont, " he said, presently, "for I think ofremoving your pupil very shortly. "

"Indeed!" cried the governess, reddening with suppressed indignation. "I trust Miss Milford has not found occasion to make any complaint; shehas enjoyed especial privileges under this roof--a separate bed-room, silver forks and spoons, roast veal or lamb on Sundays, throughout thesummer season--to say nothing of the most unremitting supervision of apositively maternal character, and I should really consider MissMilford wanting in common gratitude if she had complained. "

"You are mistaken, my dear madam; Miss Milford has uttered no word ofcomplaint. On the contrary, I am sure she has been perfectly happy inyour establishment; but changes occur every day, and an importantchange will, I trust, speedily occur in my life, and in that of MissMilford. When I first proposed bringing her to you, you asked me if shewas a relation; I told you he was distantly related to me. I hope soonto be able to say that distant relationship has been transformed into avery near one. I hope soon to call Honoria Milford my wife. "

Miss Beaumont's astonishment on hearing this announcement was extreme;but as surprise was one of the emotions peculiar to the common herd, the governess did her best to suppress all signs of that feeling. SirOswald told her that, as Miss Milford was an orphan, and without anynear relative, he would wish to take her straight from "The Beeches" tothe church in which he would make her his wife, and he begged MissBeaumont to give him her assistance in the arrangement of the wedding. 

The mistress of "The Beeches" possessed a really kind heart beneath theice of her ultra-gentility, and she was pleased with the idea ofassisting in the bringing about of a genuine love-match. Besides, theaffair, if well managed, would reflect considerable importance uponherself, and she would be able by and bye to talk of "my pupil, LadyEversleigh;" or, "that sweet girl, Miss Milford, who afterwards marriedthe wealthy baronet, Sir Oswald Eversleigh. " Sir Oswald pleaded for anearly celebration of the marriage--and Honoria, accustomed to obey himin all things, did not oppose his wish in this crisis of his life. Oncemore Sir Oswald wrote a cheque for the wardrobe of his _protégée_, andMiss Beaumont swelled with pomposity as she thought of the grandeurwhich might be derived from the expenditure of a large sum of money atcertain West-end emporiums where she was in the habit of makingpurchases for her pupils, and where she was already considered a personof some importance. 

It was holiday-time at "The Beeches, " and almost all the pupils wereabsent. Miss Beaumont was, therefore, able to devote the ensuingfortnight to the delightful task of shopping. She drove into townalmost every day with Honoria, and hours were spent in the choice ofsilks and satins, velvets and laces, and in long consultations withmilliners and dressmakers of Parisian celebrity and boundlessextravagance. 

"Sir Oswald has intrusted me with the supervision of this mostimportant business, and I will drop down in a fainting-fit from sheerexhaustion before the counter at Howell and James's, sooner than Iwould fail in my duty to the extent of an iota, " Miss Beaumont said, when Honoria begged her to take less trouble about the wedding_trousseau_. 

It was Sir Oswald's wish that the wedding should be strictly private. Whom could he invite to assist at his union with a nameless andfriendless bride? Miss Beaumont was the only person whom he couldtrust, and even her he had deceived; for she believed that HonoriaMilford was some fourth or fifth cousin--some poor relative of SirOswald's. 

Early in July the wedding took place. All preparations had been made soquietly as to baffle even the penetration of the watchful Millard. Hehad perceived that the baronet was more than usually occupied, and inhigher spirits than were habitual to him; but he could not discover thereason. 

"There's something going on, sir, " he said to Victor Carrington; "butI'm blest if I know what it is. I dare say that young woman is at thebottom of it. I never did see my master look so well or so happy. Itseems as if he was growing younger every day. "

Reginald Eversleigh looked at his friend in blank despair when thesetidings reached him. 

"I told you I was ruined, Victor, " he said; "and now, perhaps, you willbelieve me. My uncle will marry that woman. "

It was only on the eve of his wedding-day that Sir Oswald Eversleighmade any communication to his valet. While dressing for dinner thatevening, he said, quietly--

"I want my portmanteaus packed for travelling between this and twoo'clock to-morrow, Millard; and you will hold yourself in readiness toaccompany me. I shall post from London, starting from a house nearFulham, at three o'clock. The chariot must leave here, with you and theluggage, at two. "

"You are going abroad, sir?"

"No, I am going to North Wales for a week or two; but I do not goalone. I am going to be married to-morrow morning, Millard, and LadyEversleigh will accompany me. "

Much as the probability of this marriage had been discussed in theArlington Street household, the fact came upon Joseph Millard as asurprise. Nothing is so unwelcome to old servants as the marriage of amaster who has long been a bachelor. Let the bride be never so fair, never so high-born, she will be looked on as an interloper; and if, asin this case, she happens to be poor and nameless, the bridegroom isregarded as a dupe and a fool; the bride is stigmatized as anadventuress. 

The valet was fully occupied that evening with preparations for thejourney of the following day, and could find no time to call at Mr. Eversleigh's lodgings with his evil tidings. 

"He'll hear of it soon enough, I dare say, poor, unfortunate youngman, " thought Mr. Millard. 

The valet was right. In a few days the announcement of the baronet'smarriage appeared in "The Times" newspaper; for, though he hadcelebrated that marriage with all privacy, he had no wish to keep hisfair young wife hidden from the world. 

"_On Thursday, the 4th instant, at St. Mary's Church, Fulham, SirOswald Morton Vansittart Eversleigh, Bart. , to Honoria daughter of thelate Thomas Milford. _"

This was all; and this was the announcement which Reginald Eversleighread one morning, as he dawdled over his late breakfast, after a nightspent in dissipation and folly. He threw the paper away from him, withan oath, and hurried to his toilet. He dressed himself with less carethan usual, for to-day he was in a hurry; he wanted at once tocommunicate with his friend, Victor Carrington. 

The young surgeon lived at the very extremity of the Maida Hilldistrict, in a cottage, which was then almost in the country. It was acomfortable little residence; but Reginald Eversleigh looked at it withsupreme contempt. 

"You can wait, " he said to the hackney coachman; "I shall be here inabout half an hour. "

The man drove away to refresh his horses at the nearest inn, andReginald Eversleigh strode impatiently past the trim little servant-girl who opened the garden gate, and walked, unannounced, into theminiature hall. 

Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection ofneatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but povertywas made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to whichReginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslincurtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, ofinexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases offreshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece. 

Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty. For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm. 

The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus. 

"Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking handswith his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something ofimportance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruptionthere. "

"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn'twanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington, "answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such anout-of-the-way hole?"

"I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough tocall it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rentsuits my pocket. "

"It looks like a doll's house, " said Reginald, contemptuously. 

"My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers, " answeredthe surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's. "

Victor Carrington's countenance seemed to undergo a kind oftransformation as he spoke of his mother. The bright glitter of hiseyes softened; the hard lines of his iron mouth relaxed. 

The one tender sentiment of a dark and dangerous nature was this man'saffection for his widowed mother. 

He opened the door of an apartment at the back of the house, andentered, followed by Mr. Eversleigh. 

Reginald stared in wonder at the chamber in which he found himself. Theroom had once been a kitchen, and was much larger than any other roomin the cottage. Here there was no attempt at either comfort orelegance. The bare, white-washed walls had no adornment but a dealshelf here and there, loaded with strange-looking phials and gallipots. Here all the elaborate paraphernalia of a chemist's laboratory wasvisible. Here Reginald Eversleigh beheld stoves, retorts, alembics, distilling apparatus; all the strange machinery of that science whichalways seems dark and mysterious to the ignorant. 

The visitor looked about him in utter bewilderment. 

"Why, Victor, " he exclaimed, "your room looks like the laboratory ofsome alchymist of the Middle Ages--the sort of man people used to burnas a wizard. "

"I am rather an enthusiastic student of my art, " answered the surgeon. 

The visitor's eyes wandered round the room in amazement. Suddenly theyalighted on some object on the table near the stove. Carringtonperceived the glance, and, with a hasty movement, very unusual to him, dropped his handkerchief upon the object. 

The movement, rapid though it was, came too late, for ReginaldEversleigh had distinguished the nature of the object which the surgeonwished to conceal from him. 

It was a mask of metal, with glass eyes. 

"So you wear a mask when you are at work, eh, Carrington?" said Mr. Eversleigh. "That looks as if you dabble in poisons. "

"Half the agents employed in chemistry are poisonous, " answered Victor, coolly. 

"I hope there is no danger in the atmosphere of this room just now?"

"None whatever. Come, Reginald, I am sure you have bad news to tell me, or you would never have taken the trouble to come here. "

"I have, and the worst news. My uncle has married this street ballad-singer. "

"Good; then we must try to turn this marriage to account. "

"How so?"

"By making it the means of bringing about a reconciliation. You willwrite a letter of congratulation to Sir Oswald--a generous letter--inwhich you will speak of your penitence, your affection, the anguish youhave endured during this bitter period of estrangement. You can ventureto speak freely of these things now, you will say, for now that yourhonoured uncle has found new ties you can no longer be suspected of anymercenary motive. You can now approach him boldly, you will say, foryou have henceforward nothing to hope from him except his forgiveness. Then you will wind up with an earnest prayer for his happiness. And ifI am not very much out in my reckoning of human nature, that letterwill bring about a reconciliation. Do you understand my tactics?"

"I do. You are a wonderful fellow, Carrington. "

"Don't say that until the day when you are restored to your oldposition as your uncle's heir. Then you may pay me any compliment youplease. "

"If ever that day arrives, you shall not find me ungrateful. "

"I hope not; and now go back to town and write your letter. I want tosee you invited to Raynham Castle to pay your respects to the bride. "

"But why so?"

"I want to know what the bride is like. Our future plans will dependmuch upon her. "

Before leaving Lorrimore Cottage, Reginald Eversleigh was introduced tohis friend's mother, whom he had never before seen. She was very likeher son. She had the same pale, sallow face, the same glittering blackeyes. She was slim and tall, with a somewhat stately manner, and withlittle of the vivacity usual to her countrywomen. 

She looked at Mr. Eversleigh with a searching glance--a glance whichwas often repeated, as he stood for a few minutes talking to her. Nothing which interested her son was without interest for her; and sheknew that this young man was his chief friend and companion. 

Reginald Eversleigh went back to town in much better spirits than whenhe had left the West-end that morning. He lost no time in writing theletter suggested by his friend, and, as he was gifted with considerablepowers of persuasion, the letter was a good one. 

"I believe Carrington is right, " he thought, as he sealed it: "and thisletter will bring about a reconciliation. It will reach my uncle at atime when he will be intoxicated with his new position as the husbandof a young and lovely bride; and he will be inclined to think kindly ofme, and of all the world. Yes--the letter is decidedly a fine stroke ofdiplomacy. "

Reginald Eversleigh awaited a reply to his epistle with feverishimpatience; but an impatience mingled with hope. 

His hopes did not deceive him. The reply came by return of post, andwas even more favourable than his most sanguine expectations had ledhim to anticipate. 

"_Dear Reginald_, " wrote the baronet, "_your generous and disinterestedletter has touched me to the heart. Let the past be forgotten andforgiven. I do not doubt that you have suffered, as all men mustsuffer, from the evil deeds of their youth_. 

"_You were no doubt surprised to receive the tidings of my marriage. Ihave consulted my heart alone in the choice which I have made, and Iventure to hope that choice will secure the happiness of my futureexistence. I am spending the first weeks of my married life amidst thelovely solitudes of North Wales. On the 24th of this month, LadyEversleigh and I go to Raynham, where we shall be glad to see youimmediately on our arrival. Come to us, my dear boy; come to me, as ifthis unhappy estrangement had never arisen, and we will discuss yourfuture together. --Your affectionate uncle_, OSWALD EVERSLEIGH. ""_Royal Hotel, Bannerdoon, N. W. _"

 Nothing could be more satisfactory than this epistle. ReginaldEversleigh and Victor Carrington dined together that evening, and thebaronet's letter was freely discussed between them. 

"The ground lies all clear before you now, " said the surgeon: "you willgo to Raynham, make yourself as agreeable as possible to the bride, winyour uncle's heart by an appearance of extreme remorse for the past, and most complete disinterestedness for the future, and leave all therest to me. "

"But how the deuce can you help me at Raynham?"

"Time alone can show. I have only one hint to give you at present. Don't be surprised if you meet me unexpectedly amongst the Yorkshirehills and wolds, and take care to follow suit with whatever cards yousee me playing. Whatever I do will be done in your interest, dependupon it. Mind, by the bye, if you do see me in the north, that I knownothing of your visit to Raynham. I shall be as much surprised to seeyou as you will be to see me. "

"So be it; I will fall into your plans. As your first move has been sowonderfully successful, I shall be inclined to trust you implicitly inthe future. I suppose you will want to be paid rather stiffly by andbye, if you do succeed in getting me any portion of Sir Oswald'sfortune?"

"Well, I shall ask for some reward, no doubt. I am a poor man, youknow, and do not pretend to be disinterested or generous. However, wewill discuss that question when we meet at Raynham. "

 * * * * *

On the 28th of July, Reginald Eversleigh presented himself at RaynhamCastle. He had thought never more to set foot upon that broad terrace, never more to pass beneath the shadow of that grand old archway; and asense of triumph thrilled through his veins as he stood once again onthe familiar threshold. 

And yet his position in life was terribly changed since he had laststood there. He was no longer the acknowledged heir to whom alldependents paid deferential homage. He fancied that the old servantslooked at him coldly, and that their greeting was the chilling welcomewhich is accorded to a poor relation. He had never done much to winaffection or gratitude in the days of his prosperity. It may be that heremembered this now, and regretted it, not from any kindly impulsetowards these people, but from a selfish annoyance at the chillingreception accorded him. 

"If ever I win back what I have lost, these pampered parasites shallsuffer for their insolence, " thought the young man, as he walked acrossthe broad Gothic hall of the castle, escorted by the grave old butler. 

But he had not much leisure to think about his uncle's servants. Another and far more important person occupied his mind, and thatperson was his uncle's bride. 

"Lady Eversleigh is at home?" he asked, while crossing the hall. 

"Yes, sir; her ladyship is in the long drawing-room. "

The butler opened a ponderous oaken door, and ushered Reginald into oneof the finest apartments in the castle. 

In the centre of this room, by the side of a grand piano, from whichshe had just risen, stood the new mistress of the castle. She wassimply dressed in pale gray silk, relieved only by a scarlet ribbontwisted in the masses of her raven hair. Her beauty had the same effectupon Reginald Eversleigh which it exercised on almost all who looked ather for the first time. He was dazzled, bewildered, by the singularloveliness. 

"And this divinity--this goddess of grace and beauty, is my uncle'swife, " he thought; "this is the street ballad-singer whom he picked upout of the gutter. "

For some moments the elegant and accomplished Reginald Eversleigh stoodabashed before the calm presence of the nameless girl his uncle hadmarried. 

Sir Oswald welcomed his nephew with perfect cordiality. He was happy, and in the hour of his happiness he could cherish no unkind feelingtowards the adopted son who had once been so dear to him. But whileready to open his arms to the repentant prodigal, his intentions withregard to the disposition of his wealth had undergone no change. He hadarrived, calmly and deliberately, at a certain resolve, and he intendedto adhere to that decision. 

The baronet told his nephew this frankly in the first confidentialconversation which they had after the young man's arrival at Raynham. 

"You may think me harsh and severe, " he said, gravely; "but theresolution which I announced to you in Arlington Street cost me muchthought and care. I believe that I have acted for the best. I thinkthat my over-indulgence was the bane of your youth, Reginald, and thatyou would have been a better man had you been more roughly reared. Since you have left the army, I have heard no more of your follies; andI trust that you have at last struck out a better path for yourself, and separated yourself from all dangerous associates. But you mustchoose a new profession. You must not live an idle life on the smallincome which you receive from me. I only intended that annuity as asafeguard against poverty, not as a sufficient means of life. You mustselect a new career, Reginald; and whatever it may be, I will give yousome help to smooth your pathway. Your first cousin, Douglas Dale, isstudying for the law--would not that profession suit you?"

"I am in your hands, sir, and am ready to obey you in everything. "

"Well, think over what I have said; and if you choose to enter yourselfas a student in the Temple, I will assist you with all necessaryfunds. "

"My dear uncle, you are too good. "

"I wish to serve you as far as I can with justice to others. And now, Reginald, we will speak no more of the past. What do you think of mywife?"

"She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. "

"And she is as good and true as she is beautiful--a pearl of price, Reginald. I thank Providence for giving me so great a treasure. "

"And this treasure will be possessor of Raynham Castle, I suppose, "thought the young man, savagely. 

Sir Oswald spoke presently, almost as if in answer to his nephew'sthoughts. 

"As I have been thoroughly candid with you, Reginald, " he said, "I mayas well tell you even more. I am at an age which some call the prime oflife, and I feel all my old vigour. But death sometimes comes suddenlyto men whose life seems as full of promise as mine seems to me now. Iwish that when I die there may be no possible disappointment as to thedisposal of my fortune. Other men make a mystery of the contents oftheir wills. I wish the terms of my will to be known by all interestedin it. "

"I have no desire to be enlightened, sir, " murmured Reginald, who feltthat his uncle's words boded no good to himself. 

"My will has been made since my marriage, " continued Sir Oswald, without noticing his nephew's interruption; "any previous will would, indeed, have been invalidated by that event Two-thirds--more than two-thirds--of my property has been left to my wife, who will be a veryrich woman when I am dead and gone. Should she have a son, the landedestates will, of course, go to him; but in any case, Lady Eversleighwill be mistress of a large fortune. I leave five thousand a year toeach of my nephews. As for you, Reginald, you will, perhaps, consideryourself bitterly wronged; but you must, in justice, remember that youhave been your own enemy. The annuity of two hundred a year which younow possess will, after my death, become an income of five hundred ayear, derived from a small estate called Morton Grange, inLincolnshire. You have nothing more than a modest competency to hopefor, therefore; and it rests with yourself to win wealth anddistinction by the exercise of your own talents. "

The pallor of Reginald Eversleigh's face alone revealed the passionwhich consumed him as he received these most unwelcome statements fromhis uncle's lips. Fortunately for the young man, Sir Oswald did notobserve his countenance, for at this moment Lady Eversleigh appeared onthe terrace-walk outside the open window of her husband's study, and hehurried to her. 

"What are to be our plans for this afternoon, darling?" he asked. "Ihave transacted all my business, and am quite at your service for therest of the day. "

"Very well, then, you cannot please me better than by showing me somemore of the beauties of your native county. "

"You make that proposition because you know it pleases me, artful puss;but I obey. Shall we ride or drive? Perhaps, as the afternoon is hot, we had better take the barouche, " continued Sir Oswald, while Honoriahesitated. "Come to luncheon. I will give all necessary orders. "

They went to the dining-room, whither Reginald accompanied them. Already he had contrived to banish the traces of emotion from hiscountenance: but his uncle's words were still ringing in his ears. 

Five hundred a year!--he was to receive a pitiful five hundred a year;whilst his cousins--struggling men of the world, unaccustomed to luxuryand splendour--were each to have an income of five thousand. And thiswoman--this base, unknown, friendless creature, who had nothing but herdiabolical beauty to recommend her--was to have a splendid fortune!

These were the thoughts which tormented Reginald Eversleigh as he tookhis place at the luncheon-table. He had been now a fortnight at RaynhamCastle, and had become, to all outward appearance, perfectly at hisease with the fair young mistress of the mansion. There are some womenwho seem fitted to occupy any station, however lofty. They need noteaching; they are in no way bewildered by the novelty of wealth orsplendour; they make no errors. They possess an instinctive tact, whichall the teaching possible cannot always impart to others. They glidenaturally into their position; and, looking on them in their calmdignity, their unstudied grace, it is difficult to believe they havenot been born in the purple. 

Such a woman was Honoria, Lady Eversleigh. The novelty of her positiongave her no embarrassment; the splendour around her charmed anddelighted her sense of the beautiful, but it caused her nobewilderment; it did not dazzle her unaccustomed eyes. She received herhusband's nephew with the friendly, yet dignified, bearing which it wasfitting Sir Oswald's wife should display towards his kinsman; and thescrutinizing eyes of the young man sought in vain to detect some secrethidden beneath that placid and patrician exterior. 

"The woman is a mystery, " he thought; "one would think she were someprincess in disguise. Does she really love my uncle, I wonder? She actsher part well, if it is a false one. But, then, who would not act apart for such a prize as she is likely to win? I wish Victor were here. He, perhaps, might be able to penetrate the secret of her existence. She is a hypocrite, no doubt; and an accomplished one. I would give agreat deal for the power to strip the veil from her beautiful face, andshow my lady in her true colours!"

Such bitter thoughts as these continually harassed the ambitious anddisappointed man. And yet he was able to bear himself with studiedcourtesy towards Lady Eversleigh. The best people in the county hadcome to Raynham to pay their homage to Sir Oswald's bride. Nothingcould exceed her husband's pride as he beheld her courted and admired. No shadow of jealousy obscured his pleasure when he saw younger menflock round her to worship and admire. He felt secure of her love, forshe had again and again assured him that her heart had been entirelyhis even before he declared himself to her. He felt an implicit faithin her purity and innocence. 

Such a man as Oswald Eversleigh is not easily moved to jealousy; butwith such a man, one breath of suspicion, one word of slander, againstthe creature he loves, is horrible as the agony of death. 

Reginald Eversleigh had shared in all the pleasures and amusements ofSir Oswald and his wife. They had gone nowhere without him since hisarrival at the castle; for at present he was the only visitor stayingin the house, and the baronet was too courteous to leave him alone. 

"After the twelfth we shall have plenty of bachelor visitors, " said SirOswald; "and you will find the old place more to your taste, I daresay, Reginald. In the meantime, you must content yourself with oursociety. "

"I am more than contented, my dear uncle, and do not sigh for thearrival of your bachelor friends; though I dare say I shall on verywell with them when they do come. "

"I expect a bevy of pretty girls as well. Do you remember Lydia Graham, the sister of Gordon Graham, of the Fusiliers?"

"Yes, I remember her perfectly. "

"I think there used to be something like a flirtation between you andher. "

Sir Oswald and Lady Eversleigh seated themselves in the barouche;Reginald rode by their side, on a thorough-bred hack out of the Raynhamstables. 

The scenery within twenty miles of the castle was varied in characterand rich in beauty. In the purple distance, to the west of the castle, there was a range of heather-clad hills; and between those hills andthe village of Raynham there flowed a noble river, crossed at intervalsby quaint old bridges, and bordered by little villages, nestling amidgreen pastures. 

The calm beauty of a rustic landscape, and the grandeur of wilderscenery, were alike within reach of the explorer from the castle. 

On this bright August afternoon, Sir Oswald had chosen for the specialobject of their drive the summit of a wooded hill, whence a superbrange of country was to be seen. This hill was called Thorpe Peak, andwas about seven miles from the castle. 

The barouche stopped at the foot of the hill; the baronet and his wifealighted, and walked up a woody pathway leading to the summit, accompanied by Reginald, who left his horse with the servants. 

They ascended the hill slowly, Lady Eversleigh leaning upon herhusband's arm. The pathway wound upward, through plantations of fir, and it was only on the summit that the open country burst on the viewof the pedestrian. On the summit they found a gentleman seated on thetrunk of a fallen tree, sketching. A light portable colour-box lay openby his side, and a small portfolio rested on his knees. 

He seemed completely absorbed in his occupation, for he did not raisehis eyes from his work as Sir Oswald and his companions approached. Hewore a loose travelling dress, which, in its picturesque carelessnessof style, was not without elegance. 

A horse was grazing under a group of firs near at hand, fastened to oneof the trees by the bridle. 

This traveller was Victor Carrington. 

"Carrington!" exclaimed Mr. Eversleigh; "whoever would have thought offinding you up here? Sketching too!"

The surgeon lifted his head suddenly, looked at his friend, and burstout laughing, as he rose to shake hands. He looked handsomer in hisartistic costume than ever Reginald Eversleigh had seen him lookbefore. The loose velvet coat, the wide linen collar and neckerchief ofdark-blue silk, set off the slim figure and pale foreign face. 

"You are surprised to see me; but I have still more right to besurprised at seeing you. What brings you here?"

"I am staying with my uncle, Sir Oswald Eversleigh, at Raynham Castle. "

"Ah, to be sure; that superb place within four miles of the village ofAbbey wood, where I have taken up my quarters. "

The baronet and his wife had been standing at a little distance fromthe two young men; but Sir Oswald advanced, with Honoria still upon hisarm. 

"Introduce me to your friend, Reginald, " he said, in his most cordialmanner. 

Reginald obeyed, and Victor was presented to Sir Oswald and his wife. His easy and graceful bearing was calculated to make an agreeableimpression at the outset, and Sir Oswald was evidently pleased with theappearance and manners of his nephew's friend. 

"You are an artist, I see, Mr. Carrington, " he said, after glancing atthe young man's sketch, which, even in its unfinished state, was nocontemptible performance. 

"An amateur only, Sir Oswald, " answered Victor. "I am by profession asurgeon; but as yet I have not practised. I find independence soagreeable that I can scarcely bring myself to resign it. I have beenwandering about this delightful county for the last week or two, withmy sketch-book under my arm--halting for a day or two in anypicturesque spot I came upon, and hiring a horse whenever I could get adecent animal. It is a very simple mode of enjoying a holiday; but itsuits me. "

"Your taste does you credit. But if you are in my neighbourhood, youmust take your horses from the Raynham stables. Where are your presentquarters?"

"At the little inn by Abbeywood Bridge. "

"Four miles from the castle. We are near neighbours, Mr. Carrington, according to country habits. You must ride back with us, and dine atRaynham. "

"You are very kind, Sir Oswald; but my dress will preclude--"

"No consequence whatever. We are quite alone just now; and I am sureLady Eversleigh will excuse a traveller's toilet. If you are not bentupon finishing this very charming sketch, I shall insist on yourreturning with us; and you join me in the request, eh, Honoria?"

Lady Eversleigh smiled an assent, and the surgeon murmured his thanks. As yet he had looked little at the baronet's beautiful wife. He hadcome to Yorkshire with the intention of studying this woman as a manstudies an abstruse and difficult science; but he was too great atactician to betray any unwonted interest in her. The policy of hislife was patience, and in this as in everything else, he waited hisopportunity. 

"She is very beautiful, " he thought, "and she has made a good marketout of her beauty; but it is only the beginning of the story yet--themiddle and the end have still to come. "

 * * * * *

After this meeting on Thorpe Peak, the surgeon became a constantvisitor at Raynham. Sir Oswald was delighted with the young man'stalents and accomplishments; and Victor contrived to win credit by theapparently accidental revelation of his early struggles, his mother'spoverty, his patient studies, and indomitable perseverance. He told ofthese things without seeming to tell them; a word now, a chanceallusion then, revealed the story of his friendless youth. Sir Oswaldfancied that such a companion was eminently adapted to urge his nephewonward in the difficult road that leads to fortune and distinction. 

"If Reginald had only half your industry, half your perseverance, Ishould not fear for his future career, Mr. Carrington, " said thebaronet, in the course of a confidential conversation with his visitor. 

"That will come in good time, Sir Oswald, " answered Victor. "Reginaldis a noble fellow, and has a far nobler nature than I can pretend topossess. The very qualities which you are good enough to praise in meare qualities which you cannot expect to find in him. I was a pupil inthe stern school of poverty from my earliest infancy, while Reginaldwas reared in the lap of luxury. Pardon me, Sir Oswald, if I speakplainly; but I must remind you that there are few young men who wouldhave passed honourably through the ordeal of such a change of fortuneas that which has fallen on your nephew. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that with most men such a reverse would have been utter ruin ofsoul and body. An ordinary man, finding all the hopes of his future, all the expectations, which had been a part of his very life, takensuddenly from him, would have abandoned himself to a career of vice; hewould have become a blackleg, a swindler, a drunkard, a beggar at thedoors of the kinsman who had cast him off. But it was not so withReginald Eversleigh. From the moment in which he found himself castadrift by the benefactor who had been more than a father to him, heconfronted evil fortune calmly and bravely. He cut the link betweenhimself and extravagant companions. He disappeared from the circles inwhich he had been admired and courted; and the only grief which preyedupon his generous heart sprang from the knowledge that he had forfeitedhis uncle's affection. "

Sir Oswald sighed. For the first time he began to think that it wasjust possible he had treated his nephew with injustice. 

"You are right, Mr. Carrington, " he said, after a pause; "it was a hardtrial for any man; and I am proud to think that Reginald passedunscathed through so severe an ordeal. But the resolution at which Iarrived a year and a half ago is one that I cannot alter now. I haveformed new ties; I have new hopes for the future. My nephew must paythe penalty of his past errors, and must look to his own exertions forwealth and honour. If I die without a direct heir, he will succeed tothe baronetcy, and I hope he will try his uttermost to win a fortune bywhich he may maintain his title. "

There was very little promise in this; but Victor Carrington was, nevertheless, tolerably well satisfied with the result of theconversation. He had sown the seeds of doubt and uncertainty in thebaronet's breast. Time only could bring the harvest. The surgeon wasaccustomed to work underground, and knew that all such work must beslow and laborious. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER VII. 

 "O BEWARE, MY LORD, OF JEALOUSY. "

The castle was gay with the presence of many guests. The baronet wasproud to gather old friends and acquaintances round him, in order thathe might show them the fair young wife he had chosen to be the solaceof his declining years. A man of fifty who marries a girl of nineteenis always subject to the ridicule of scandalous lips, the ironicaljests of pitiless tongues. Sir Oswald Eversleigh knew this, and hewanted to show the world that he was happy--supremely happy--in thechoice that he had made. 

Amongst those who came to Raynham Castle this autumn was one trustedfriend of Sir Oswald, a gruff old soldier, Captain Copplestone, a manwho had never won advancement in the service; but who was known to havenobly earned the promotion which had never been awarded him. 

This man was on brotherly terms with Sir Oswald, and was about the onlycreature who had ever dared to utter disagreeable truths to thebaronet. He was very poor; but had never accepted the smallest favourfrom the hands of his wealthy friend. Sir Oswald was devoutly attachedto him, and would have gladly opened his purse to him as to a brother;but he dared not offend the stern old soldier's pride by even hintingat such a desire. 

Captain Copplestone came to Raynham prepared to remonstrate with hisfriend on the folly of his marriage. He arrived when the reception-roomwas crowded with other visitors, and be stood by, looking on in grimdisdain, while the newly arrived guests were pressing theirfelicitations on Sir Oswald. 

By and bye the guests departed to their rooms, and the friends wereleft alone. 

"Well, old friend, " cried the baronet, stretching out both his hands tograsp those of the captain in a warmer salutation than that of hisfirst welcome, "am I to have no word of congratulation from you?"

"What word do you want?" growled Copplestone. "If I tell you the truth, you won't like it; and if I were to try to tell you a lie, egad! Ithink the syllables would choke me. It has been hard enough for me tokeep patience while all those idiots have been babbling their unmeaningcompliments; and now that they've gone away to laugh at you behind yourback, you'd better let me follow their example, and not risk the chanceof a quarrel with an old friend by speaking my mind. "

"You think me a fool, then, Copplestone?"

"Why, what else can I think of you? If a man of fifty must needs go andmarry a girl of nineteen, he can't expect to be thought a Solon. "

"Ah, Copplestone, when you have seen my wife, you will thinkdifferently. "

"Not a bit of it. The prettier she is, the more fool I shall think you;for there'll be so much the more certainty that she'll make your lifemiserable. "

"Here she comes!" said the baronet; "look at her before you judge hertoo severely, old friend, and let her face answer for her truth. "

The room in which the two men were standing opened into another andlarger apartment, and through the open folding-doors CaptainCopplestone saw Lady Eversleigh approaching. She was dressed in white--that pure, transparent muslin in which her husband loved best to seeher--and one large natural rose was fastened amidst her dark hair. Asshe drew nearer to the baronet and his friend, the bluff old soldier'sface softened. 

The introduction was made by Sir Oswald, and Honoria held out her handwith her brightest and most bewitching smile. 

"My husband has spoken of you very often, Captain Copplestone, " shesaid; "and I feel as if we were old friends rather than strangers. Ihave pleasure in bidding welcome to all Sir Oswald's guests; but notsuch pleasure as I feel in welcoming you. "

The soldier extended his bronzed hand, and grasped the soft whitefingers in a pressure that was something like that of an iron vice. Helooked at Lady Eversleigh with a serio-comic expression ofbewilderment, and looked from her to the baronet. 

"Well?" asked Sir Oswald, presently, when Honoria had left them. 

"Well, Oswald, if the truth must be told, I think you had some excusefor your folly. She is a beautiful creature; and if there is any faithto be put in the human countenance, she is as good as she isbeautiful. "

The baronet grasped his friend's hand with a pressure that was moreeloquent than words. He believed implicitly in the captain's powers ofpenetration, and this favourable judgment of the wife he adored filledhim with gratitude. It was not that the faintest shadow of doubtobscured his own mind. He trusted her fully and unreservedly; but hewanted others to trust her also. 

 * * * * *

While Sir Oswald and his friend were enjoying a brief interval ofconfidential intercourse, Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carringtonlounged in a pleasant little sitting-room, smoking their cigars, andleaning on the stone sill of the wide Gothic window. 

They were talking, and talking very earnestly. 

"You are a very clever fellow, I know, my dear Carrington, " saidReginald; "but it is slow work, very slow work, and I don't see my waythrough it. "

"Because you are as impatient as a child who has set his heart on a newtoy, " answered the surgeon, disdainfully. "You complain that the gameis slow, and yet you see one move after another made upon the board--and made successfully. A month ago you did not believe in thepossibility of a reconciliation between your uncle and yourself; andyet that reconciliation has come about. A fortnight ago you would havelaughed at the idea of my being here at Raynham, an invited guest; andyet here I am. Do you think there has been no patient thought necessaryto work out this much of our scheme? Do you suppose that I was onThorpe Hill by accident that afternoon?"

"And you hope that something may come of your visit here?"

"I hope that much may come of it. I have already dared to drop hints atinjustice done to you. That idea of injustice will rankle in youruncle's mind. I have my plans, Reginald, and you have only to bepatient, and to trust in me. "

"But why should you refuse to tell me the nature of your plans?"

"Because my plans are as yet but half formed. I may soon be able tospeak more plainly. Do you see those two figures yonder, walking in the_pleasaunce_?"

"Yes, I see them--my uncle and his wife, " answered Reginald, with agesture of impatience. 

"They are very happy--are they not? It is quite an Arcadian picture. Ibeg you to contemplate it earnestly. "

"What a fool you are, Carrington!" cried the young man, flinging awayhis cigar. "If my uncle chooses to make an idiot of himself, that is noreason why I should watch the evidence of his folly!"

"But there is another reason, " answered Victor, with a sinister look inhis glittering black eyes. "Look at the picture while you may, Reginald, for you will not have the chance of seeing it very often. "

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that the day is near at hand when Lady Eversleigh will fallfrom her high estate. I mean that an elevation as sudden as hers isoften the forerunner of a sudden disgrace. The hour will come when SirOswald will mourn his fatal marriage as the one irrevocable mistake ofhis life; and when, in his despair, he will restore you, the disgracednephew, to your place, as his acknowledged heir; because you will atleast seem to him more worthy than his disgraced wife. "

"And who is to bring this about?" asked Reginald, gazing at his friendin complete bewilderment. 

"I am, " answered the surgeon; "but before I do so I must have someunderstanding as to the price of my services. If the cat who pulled thechestnuts out of the fire for the benefit of the monkey had made anagreement beforehand as to how much of the plunder he was to receivefor his pains, the name of the animal would not have become a bye-wordwith posterity. When I have worked to win your fortune, I must have myreward, my dear Reginald. "

"Do you suppose I should be ungrateful?"

"Of course not. But, you see, I don't ask for your gratitude--I want agood round sum down on the nail--hard cash. Your uncle's fortune, ifyou get two-thirds of it, will be worth thirty thousand a year; and forsuch a fortune you can very well afford to pay me twenty thousand inready money within two years of your accession to the inheritance. "

"Twenty thousand!"

"Yes; if you think the sum too much, we will say no more about it. Thebusiness is a very difficult one, and I scarcely care to engage in it. "

"My dear Victor, you bewilder me. I cannot bring myself to believe thatyou can bring about my restoration to my old place in my uncle's will;but if you do, the twenty thousand shall be yours. "

"Good!" answered the surgeon, in his coolest and most business-likemanner; "I must have it in black and white. You will give me twopromissory notes; one for ten thousand, to fall due a year hence--theother for the same sum, to fall due in two years. "

"But if I do not get the fortune--and I am not likely to get it withinthat time; my uncle's life is a good one, and--"

"Never mind your uncle's life. I will give you an undertaking to cancelthose notes of hand if you have not succeeded to the Raynham estates. And now here are stamps. You may as well fill in the body of the notes, and sign them at once, and so close the transaction. "

"You are prepared with the stamps?"

"Yes; I am a man of business, although a man of science. "

"Victor, " said Reginald Eversleigh; "you sometimes make me shudder, There is something almost diabolical about you. "

"But if I drag yonder fair lady down from her high, estate, you wouldscarcely care if I were the foul fiend in person, " said Carrington, looking at his friend with a sardonic smile. "Oh, I think I know you, Reginald Eversleigh, better than you know me. "

 * * * * *

Amongst the guests who had arrived at the castle within the last fewdays was Lydia Graham, the young lady of whom the baronet had spoken tohis nephew. She was a fascinating girl, with a bold, handsome face, brilliant gray eyes, an aquiline nose, and a profusion of dark, wavinghair. She was a woman who knew how to make the most of every charm withwhich nature had endowed her. She dressed superbly; but with anextravagance far beyond the limits of her means. She was, for thisreason, deeply in debt, and her only chance of extrication from herdifficulties lay in a brilliant marriage. 

For nearly nine years she had been trying to make this brilliantmarriage. She had "come out, " as the phrase goes, at seventeen, and shewas now nine-and-twenty. 

During that period she had been wooed and flattered by troops ofadmirers. She had revelled in flirtations; she had triumphed in thepower of her beauty; but she had known more than one disappointment ofher fairest hopes, and she had not won the prize in the great lotteryof fashionable life--a wealthy and patrician husband. 

Her nine-and-twentieth birthday had passed; and contemplating herselfearnestly in her glass, she was fain to confess that something of thebrilliancy of her beauty had faded. 

"I am getting wan and sallow, " she said to herself; "what is to becomeof me if I do not marry?"

The prospect was indeed a sorry one. 

Lydia Graham possessed an income of two hundred a year, inherited fromher mother: but such an income was the merest pittance for a young ladywith Miss Graham's tastes. Her brother was a captain of an expensiveregiment, selfish and extravagant, and by no means inclined to open hispurse for his sister's benefit. 

She had no home; but lived sometimes with one wealthy relation, sometimes with another--always admired, always elegantly dressed; butnot always happy. 

Amidst all Miss Graham's matrimonial disappointments, she had endurednone more bitter than that which she had felt when she read theannouncement of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's marriage in the "Times"newspaper. 

She had met the rich baronet very frequently in society. She hadvisited at Raynham with her brother. Sir Oswald had, to all appearance, admired her beauty and accomplishments; and she had imagined that timeand opportunity alone were wanting to transform that admiration into awarmer feeling. In plain words, Lydia Graham had hoped with a littlegood management, to become Lady Eversleigh of Raynham; and no words canfully describe her mortification when she learnt that the baronet hadbestowed his name and fortune on a woman of whom the fashionable worldknew nothing, except that she was utterly unknown. 

Lydia Graham came to Raynham Castle with poisonous feelings rankling inher heart, but she wore her brightest smiles as well as her mostelegant dresses. She congratulated the baronet in honeyed words, andoffered warmest friendship to the lovely mistress of the mansion. 

"I am sure we shall suit each other delightfully, dear LadyEversleigh, " she said; "and we shall be fast friends henceforward-shallwe not?"

Honoria's disposition was naturally reserved. She revolted againstfrivolous and unmeaning sentimentality. She responded politely to MissGraham's proffers of friendship; but not with corresponding warmth. 

Lydia Graham perceived the coldness of her manner, and bitterlyresented it. She felt that she had reason to hate this woman, who hadcaused the disappointment of her dearest hopes, whose beauty wasinfinitely superior to her own; and who was several years younger thanherself. 

There was one person at Raynham whose scrutinizing eyes perceived theanimosity of feeling lurking beneath Lydia Graham's smooth manner. Thatpenetrating observer was Victor Carrington. He saw that the fashionablebeauty hated Lady Eversleigh, and he resolved to make use of her hatredfor the furtherance of his schemes. 

"I fancy Miss Graham has at some time of her life cherished an ideathat she might become mistress of this place, eh, Reginald?" he saidone morning, as the two men lounged together on the terrace. 

"How did you know that?" said Reginald, questioning and replying atonce. 

"By no diabolical power of divination, I assure you, my dear Reginald. I have only used my eyes. But it seems, from your exclamation, that Iam right. Miss Graham did once hope to become Lady Eversleigh. "

"Well, I believe she tried her uttermost to win my uncle for a husband. I have watched her manoeuvres--when she was here two years ago; butthey did not give me much uneasiness, for I thought Sir Oswald was aconfirmed bachelor. She used to vary her amusements by flirting withme. I was the acknowledged heir in those days, you know, and I have nodoubt she would have married me if I had given her the opportunity. Butshe is too clever a woman for my taste; and with all her brilliancy, Inever admired her. "

"You are wise, for once in the way, my dear Reginald. Miss Graham is adangerous woman. She has a very beautiful smile; but she is the sort ofwoman who can smile and murder while she smiles. But she may be made avery useful tool, notwithstanding. "

"A tool?"

"Yes; a good workman takes his tools wherever he finds them. I may bein want of just such a tool as Lydia Graham. "

All went merry as a marriage-bell at Raynham Castle during the brightAugust weather. The baronet was unspeakably happy. Honoria, too, washappy in the novelty of her position; happy in the knowledge of herhusband's love. His noble nature had won the reward such natures shouldwin. He was beloved by his young wife as few men are beloved in theheyday of their youth. Her affection was reverential, profound, andpure. To her mind, Oswald Eversleigh was the perfection of all that isnoble in mankind, and she was proud of his devotion, grateful of hislove. 

No guest at the castle was more popular than Victor Carrington, thesurgeon. His accomplishments were of so varied a nature as to make himinvaluable in a large party, and he was always ready to devote himselfto the amusement of others. Sir Oswald was astonished at theversatility of his nephew's friend. As a linguist, an artist, amusician, Victor alike shone pre-eminent; but in music he wastriumphant. Professing only to be an amateur, he exhibited a scientificknowledge, a mechanical proficiency, as rare as they were admirable. 

"A poor man is obliged to study many arts, " he said, carelessly, whenSir Oswald complimented him on his musical powers. "My life has beenone of laborious industry; and the cultivation of music has been almostthe only relaxation I have allowed myself. I am not, like LadyEversleigh, a musical genius. I only pretend to be a patient student ofthe great masters. "

The baronet was delighted with the musical talents of his guest becausethey assisted much in the display of Lady Eversleigh's exceptionalpower. Victor Carrington's brilliant playing set off the magnificentsinging of Honoria. With him as her accompanyist, she sang as she couldnot sing without his aid. Every evening there was an impromptu concertin the long drawing-room; every evening Lady Eversleigh sang to VictorCarrington's accompaniment. 

One evening, in the summer dusk, when she had been singing even moresuperbly than usual, Lydia Graham happened to be seated near SirOswald, in one of the broad open windows. 

"Lady Eversleigh is indeed a genius, " said Miss Graham, at the close ofa superb _bravura_; "but how delightful for her to have thataccomplished Mr. Carrington to accompany her--though some people preferto play their own accompaniments. I do, for instance; but when one hasa relative who plays so well, it is, of course, a different thing. "

"A relative! I don't understand you, my dear Miss Graham. "

"I mean that it is very nice for Lady Eversleigh to have a cousin whois so accomplished a musician. "

"A cousin?"

"Yes. Mr. Carrington is Lady Eversleigh's cousin--is he not? Or, I begyour pardon, perhaps he is her brother. I don't know your wife's maidenname. "

"My wife's maiden name was Milford, " answered the baronet, with somedispleasure in his tone. "And Mr. Carrington is neither her brother norher cousin; he is no relation whatever to her. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Miss Graham. 

There was a strange significance in that word "indeed"; and afterhaving uttered it, the young lady seemed seized with a sudden sense ofembarrassment. 

Sir Oswald looked at her sharply; but her face was half averted fromhim, as if she had turned away in confusion. "You seem surprised, " hesaid, haughtily, "and yet I do not see anything surprising in the factthat my wife and Mr. Carrington are not related to each other. "

"Oh, dear no, Sir Oswald; of course not, " replied Lydia, with a lightlaugh, which had the artificial sound of a laugh intended to disguisesome painful embarrassment. "Of course not. It was very absurd of me toappear surprised, if I did really appear so; but I was not aware of it. You see, it was scarcely strange if I thought Lady Eversleigh and Mr. Carrington were nearly related; for, when people are very old friends, they seem like relations: it is only in name that there is anydifference. "

"You seemed determined to make mistakes this evening, Miss Graham, "answered the baronet, with icy sternness. "Lady Eversleigh and Mr. Carrington are by no means old friends. Neither my wife nor I haveknown the gentleman more than a fortnight. He happens to be a veryaccomplished musician, and is good enough to make himself useful inaccompanying Lady Eversleigh when she sings. That is the only claimwhich he has on her friendship; and it is one of only a few days'standing. "

"Indeed!" said Miss Graham, repeating the exclamation which had soundedso disagreeable to Sir Oswald. "I certainly should have mistaken themfor old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italianextraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence ofreserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our coldernatures. "

Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliancewith the entreaties of the circle about her. 

She approached the grand piano, where Victor Carrington was stillsitting, turning over the leaves of some music, and at the same momentSir Oswald rose also, and hurried towards her. 

"Do not sing any more to-night, Honoria, " he said; "you will fatigueyourself. "

There was some lack of politeness in this speech, as Lady Eversleighwas about to sing in compliance with the entreaties of her guests. Sheturned to her husband with a smile--

"I am not in the least tired, my dear Oswald, " she said; "and if ourfriends really wish for another song, I am quite ready to sing one. That is to say, if Mr. Carrington is not tired of accompanying me. "

Victor Carrington declared that nothing gave him greater pleasure thanto play Lady Eversleigh's accompaniments. 

"Mr. Carrington is very good, " answered the baronet, coldly, "but I donot wish you to tire yourself by singing all the evening; and I begthat you will not sing again to-night, Honoria. "

Never before had the baronet addressed his wife with such cold decisionof manner. There was something almost severe in his tone, and Honorialooked at him with wondering eyes. 

"I have no greater pleasure than in obeying you, " she said, gently, asshe withdrew from the piano. 

She seated herself by one of the tables, and opened a portfolio ofsketches. Her head drooped over the book, and she seemed absorbed inthe contemplation of the drawings. Glancing at her furtively, SirOswald could see that she was wounded; and yet he--the adoring husband, the devoted lover--did not approach her. His mind was disturbed--histhoughts confused. He passed through one of the open windows, and wentout upon the terrace. There all was calm and tranquil; but the tranquilloveliness of the scene had no soothing influence on Sir Oswald. Hisbrain was on fire. An intense affection can scarcely exist without alurking tendency to jealousy. Until to-night every jealous feeling hadbeen lulled to rest by the confiding trust of the happy husband; butto-night a few words--spoken in apparent carelessness--spoken by onewho could have, as Sir Oswald thought, no motive for malice--hadaroused the sleeping passion, and peace had fled from his heart. 

As Sir Oswald passed the window by which he had left Lydia Graham, heheard that young lady talking to some one. 

"It is positively disgraceful, " she said; "her flirtation with that Mr. Carrington is really too obvious, though Sir Oswald is so blind as notto perceive it. I thought they were cousins until to-night. Imagine mysurprise when I found that they were not even distantly related; thatthey have actually only known each other for a fortnight. The womanmust be a shameless flirt, and the man is evidently an adventurer. "

The poisoned arrow shot to its mark. Sir Oswald believed that thesewords had never been intended to reach his ears. He did not for amoment suspect that Lydia Graham had recognized his approaching figureon the moonlit terrace, and had uttered these words to her friend onpurpose that they should reach his ears. 

How should a true-hearted man suspect a woman's malice? How should hefathom the black depths of wickedness to which a really false andheartless woman can descend?

He did not know that Lydia Graham had ever hoped to be mistress of hishome. He did not know that she was inspired by fury against himself--bypassionate envy of his wife. To him her words seemed only the carelessslander of society, and experience had shown him that in such slandersthere lurked generally some leaven of truth. 

"I will not doubt her, " he thought, as he walked onward in themoonlight, too proud and too honourable to linger in order to hearanything more that Miss Graham might have to say. "I will not doubt thewife I love so fondly, because idle tongues are already busy with herfair fame. Already! We have not been married two months, and alreadyevil tongues drop the poison of doubt into my ear. It seems too cruel!But I will watch her with this man. Her ignorance of the world may havecaused her to be more familiar with him than the rigid usages ofsociety would permit. And yet she is generally so dignified, soreserved--apt to err on the side of coldness rather than of warmth. Imust watch!--I must watch!"

Never before had Sir Oswald known the anguish of distrust. But his wasan impulsive nature, easily swayed by the force of any absorbingpassion. Blindly, unquestionably, as he had abandoned himself to hislove for Honoria Milford, so now he abandoned himself to the jealousdoubts inspired by a malicious woman's lying tongue. 

That night his slumbers were broken and feverish. The next day he sethimself to watch his wife and Victor Carrington. 

The mind, imbued with suspicion, contemplates everything in a distortedlight. Victor Carrington was especially attentive to the mistress ofthe castle. It was not that he talked to her, or usurped more of hersociety than his position warranted; but he devoted himself to herservice with a slavish watchfulness which was foreign to the manner ofan ordinary guest. 

Wherever Lady Eversleigh went, Carrington's eyes followed her; everywish of hers seemed to be divined by him. If she lingered for a fewmoments by an open window, Mr. Carrington was at hand with her shawl. If she was reading, and the leaves of her book required to be cut open, the surgeon had procured her a paper-knife before she could sufferinconvenience or delay. If she went to the piano, he was at theinstrument before her, ready to adjust her chair, to arrange her music. In another man these attentions might have appeared very common-place, but so quiet of foot, so subdued of voice, was Victor Carrington, thatthere seemed something stealthy, something secret in his devotion;something which had no right to exist. One long day of patientwatchfulness revealed all this to Sir Oswald Eversleigh; and with therevelation came a new and terrible agony. 

How far was his wife to blame for all that was exceptional in thesurgeon's manner? Was she aware of his devotion? Did she encourage thissilent and stealthy worship? She did not, at any rate, discourage it, since she permitted it. 

The baronet wondered whether Victor Carrington's manner impressedothers as it impressed himself. One person had, he knew, beenscandalized by the surgeon's devotion to Lady Eversleigh; and hadspoken of it in the plainest terms. But did other eyes see as LydiaGraham and he himself had seen?

He determined on questioning his nephew as to the character of thegentlemanly and accomplished surgeon, whom an impulse of kindness hadprompted him to welcome under his roof--an impulse which he nowbitterly regretted. 

"Your friend, Mr. Carrington, is very attentive to Lady Eversleigh, "said Sir Oswald to Reginald, with a pitiable attempt at indifference ofmanner; "is he generally so devoted in his attention to ladies?"

"On the contrary, my dear uncle, " answered Reginald, with an appearanceof carelessness which was as well assumed as that of his kinsman wasawkward and constrained; "Victor Carrington generally entertains themost profound contempt for the fair sex. He is devoted to the scienceof chemistry, you know, and in London passes the best part of his lifein his laboratory. But then Lady Eversleigh is such a superior person--it is no wonder he admires her. "

"He admires her very much, then?"

"Amazingly--if I can judge by what he said when first he becameacquainted with her. He has grown more reserved lately. "

"Oh, indeed. He has grown more reserved lately, has he?" asked thebaronet, whose suspicions were fed by every word his nephew uttered. 

"Yes. I suppose he thinks I might take objection to his enthusiasticadmiration of Lady Eversleigh. Very absurd of him, is it not? For, ofcourse, my dear uncle, you cannot feel otherwise than proud when yousee your beautiful young wife surrounded by worshippers; and onedevotee more or less at the shrine can make little difference. "

These words, carelessly spoken, galled Sir Oswald to the quick; but hetried to conceal his pain, and parted from his nephew with affectedgaiety of spirit. 

Alone in his own study, he pondered long and moodily over the events ofthe day. He shrank from the society of his wife. Her tender wordsirritated him; he began to think those soft and loving accents werefalse. More than once he answered Honoria's anxious questions as to thecause of his gloom with a harshness that terrified her. She saw thather husband was changed, and knew not whence the change arose. And thisvagrant's nature was a proud one. Her own manner changed to the man whohad elevated her from the very mire to a position of splendour andhonour. She, too, became reserved, and a cruel breach yawned betweenthe husband and wife who, a few short days before, had been so happilyunited. 

Truly, Victor Carrington's schemes prospered. Reginald Eversleighlooked on in silent wonder--too base to oppose himself to the foul plotwhich was being concocted under his eyes. Whatever the schemer bade himdo, he did without shame or scruple. Before him glittered the dazzlingvision of future fortune. 

A week elapsed--a weary week for Sir Oswald Eversleigh, for every dayand every hour seemed to widen the gulf between himself and his wife. Conscious of her innocence of the smallest offence against the man shetruly and honestly loved, Honoria was too proud to sue for anexplanation of that mysterious change which had banished all happinessand peace from her breast. More than once she had asked the cause ofher husband's gloom of manner; more than once she had been coldly, almost rudely, repulsed. She sought, therefore, to question him nofurther; but held herself aloof from him with proud reserve. The cruelestrangement cost her dear; but she waited for Sir Oswald to break theice--she waited for him to explain the meaning of his altered conduct. 

In the meantime, she performed all her duties as mistress of themansion with the same calm grace which had distinguished her from thefirst hour of her elevation to her new position. But the struggle was apainful one, and left its traces on her beautiful face. Sir Oswaldperceived the change in that lovely countenance, and his jealousydistorted this change into a damning evidence against her. 

"This man's devotion has touched her heart, " he thought. "It is of himshe is thinking when she is silent and pensive. She loves me no longer. Fool that I am, she never loved me! She saw in me a dupe ready to lifther from obscurity into the place she longed to occupy; and now thatplace is hers, she need no longer care to blindfold the eyes of herdupe; she may please herself, and enjoy the attentions of moreagreeable adorers. "

Then, in the next moment, remorse took possession of the baronet'sheart, and for awhile he fancied that he had wronged his wife. 

"Is she to blame because this man loves her?" he asked himself. "Shemay not even be aware of his love, though my watchful eyes havepenetrated the secret. Oh, if I could only take her away from Raynhamwithout delay--this very moment--or if I could clear the castle of allthis frivolous, selfish, heartless gang--what happiness it would be!But I can do neither. I have invited these people, and I must play mypart to the end. Even this Victor Carrington I dare not send out of myhouse; for, in so doing, I should confirm the suspicions of LydiaGraham, and all who think like her. "

Thus mused Sir Oswald as he paced the broad terrace-walk alone, whilehis guests were enjoying themselves in different parts of the castleand grounds; and while Lady Eversleigh spent the summer afternoon inher own apartments, brooding sadly on her husband's unkindness. 

There was one person to whom, in any ordinary trouble of mind, SirOswald Eversleigh would have most certainly turned for consolation; andthat person was his old and tried friend, Captain Copplestone. But thejealous doubts which racked his brain were not to be revealed, even tothis faithful friend. There was bitter humiliation in the thought ofopening those bleeding wounds which had so newly lacerated his heart. 

If Captain Copplestone had been near his friend in the hour of histrouble, he might, perhaps, have wrung the baronet's secret from him insome unguarded moment; but within the last week the Captain had beenconfined to his own apartments by a violent attack of gout; and excepta brief daily visit of inquiry, Sir Oswald had seen nothing of him. 

He was very carefully tended, however, in his hours of suffering. Evenher own anxiety of mind did not render Lady Eversleigh forgetful of herhusband's invalid friend. Every day, and many times a day, the Captainreceived some new evidence of her thoughtful care. It pleased her to dothis--apart from her natural inclination to be kind to the sufferingand friendless; for the soldier was her husband's valued friend, and intestifying her respect for him, it seemed to her as if she were in somemanner proving her devotion to the husband from whom she had become somysteriously estranged. 

Amongst the many plans which had been set on foot for the amusement ofthe guests at Raynham, there was one on which all the visitors, maleand female, had especially set their hearts. This much-talked-ofentertainment was a pic-nic, to take place at a celebrated spot, whosepicturesque loveliness was supposed to be unrivalled in the county, andscarcely exceeded by any scene in all the expanse of fair England. 

 CHAPTER VIII. 

 AFTER THE PIC-NIC. 

The place was called the Wizard's Cave. It was a gigantic grotto, nearwhich flowed a waterfall of surpassing beauty. A wild extent ofwoodland stretched on one side of this romantic scene; on the other abroad moor spread wide before a range of hills, one of which wascrowned by the ruins of an old Norman castle that had stood many asiege in days gone by. 

It would have been difficult to select a spot better adapted for a pic-nic; and some of the gentlemen who had ridden over to inspect the scenewere rapturous in their praises of its sylvan beauty. The cave laywithin ten miles of Raynham. "Just the distance for a delightfuldrive, " said the ladies--and from the moment that Sir Oswald hadproposed the entertainment, there had been perpetual discussion of thearrangements necessary, the probability of fine weather, and the dateto be finally chosen. The baronet had proposed this rustic _fête_ whenhis own heart had been light and happy; now he looked forward to theday with a sickening dread of its weariness. Others would be happy; butthe sound of mirthful voices and light laughter would fall with aterrible discordance on the ear of the man whose mind was tortured byhidden doubts. Sir Oswald was too courteous a host to disappoint hisvisitors. All the preparations for the rustic festival were duly made:and on the appointed morning a train of horses and carriages drew up ina line in the quadrangle of the castle. 

It would have been impossible to imagine a brighter picture of Englishlife; and as the guests emerged in groups from the wide, archeddoorway, and took their places in the carriages, or sprang lightly intotheir saddles, the spectacle grew more and more enlivening. 

Lydia Graham had done her utmost to surpass all rivals on thisimportant day. Wealthy country squires and rich young lordlings were tobe present at the festival, and the husband-huntress might, perchance, find a victim among these eligible bachelors. Deeply as she was alreadyin debt, Miss Graham had written to her French milliner, imploring herto send her a costume regardless of expense, and promising a speedypayment of at least half her long-standing account. The fair and falseLydia did not scruple to hint at the possibility of her making abrilliant matrimonial alliance ere many months were over, in order thatthis hope might beguile the long-suffering milliner into giving furthercredit. 

The fashionable beauty was not disappointed. The milliner sent thecostume ordered, but wrote to inform Miss Graham, with all duecircumlocution and politeness, that, unless her long-standing accountwere quickly settled, legal proceedings must be taken. Lydia threw theletter aside with a frown, and proceeded to inspect her dress, whichwas perfect in its way. 

But Miss Graham could scarcely repress a sigh of envy as she looked atLady Eversleigh's more simple toilet, and perceived that, with all itsappearance of simplicity, it was twice as costly as her own moregorgeous attire. The jewels, too, were worth more than all the trinketsLydia possessed; and she knew that the treasures of Lady Eversleigh'sjewel-cases were almost inexhaustible, with such a lavish hand had herhusband heaped his gifts upon her. 

"Perhaps he will not be so liberal with his presents in future, "thought the malicious and disappointed woman, as she looked at Honoria, and acknowledged to her own envious heart that never had she seen herlook more beautiful, more elegant, or more fitted to adorn the positionwhich Miss Graham would willingly have persuaded herself she disgraced. "If he thinks that her love is bestowed upon another, he will scarcelyfind such delight in future in offering her costly tributes ofaffection. "

There was a great deal of discussion as to who should occupy thedifferent carriages; but at last all was arranged apparently to everyone's satisfaction. There were many who had chosen to ride; and amongthe equestrians was Sir Oswald himself. 

For the first time in any excursion, the baronet deserted hisaccustomed place by the side of his wife. Honoria deeply felt theslight involved in this desertion; but she was too proud to entreat himto alter his arrangements. She saw his favourite horse brought round tothe broad steps; she saw her husband mount the animal without a word ofremonstrance, without so much as a reproachful glance, though her heartwas swelling with passionate indignation. And then she took her placein the barouche, and allowed the gentlemen standing near to assist inthe arrangement of the shawls and carriage-rugs, which were provided incase of change of weather. 

Sir Oswald was not slow to remark that appearance of indifference. Whenonce estrangement has arisen between those who truly love each other, everything tends to widen the breach. The jealous husband had chosen toseparate himself from his wife in a sudden impulse of angry distrust;but he was still more angry, still more distrustful, when he saw herapparent carelessness of his desertion. 

"She is happier without me, " he thought, bitterly, as he drew his horseon one side, and watched all that took place around the barouche. "Unrestrained by my presence, she will be free to revel in theflatteries of her younger admirers. She will be perfectly happy, forshe will forget for a while that she is chained for life to a husbandwhom she does not love. "

A silvery laugh from Honoria seemed to answer his thoughts, and toconfirm his suspicions. He little dreamed that laugh was assumed, inorder to deceive the malicious Lydia, who had just uttered a politelittle speech, intended to wound the mistress of Raynham. 

The baronet kept his horse a little way behind the carriage, andwatched his wife with jealous and angry eyes. 

Lydia Graham had taken her seat in the barouche, and there was now aslight discussion as to the gentlemen who should accompany the twoladies. Many were eager for the privilege, and the occasion was afitting one for the display of feminine coquetry. Miss Graham did notneglect the opportunity; and after a little animated conversationbetween the lady and a young fop who was heir to a peerage, thelordling took his place opposite the fashionable beauty. 

The second place still remained unoccupied. The baronet waited withpainful eagerness to see who would take this place, for amongst thegentlemen grouped about the door of the carriage was Victor Carrington. 

Sir Oswald had not to wait long. He ground his teeth in a sudden accessof jealous fury as he saw the young surgeon step lightly into thevehicle, and seat himself opposite Lady Eversleigh. He took it forgranted that it was on that lady's invitation the young man occupiedthis place of honour. He did not for a moment imagine that it was atLydia Graham's entreaty the surgeon had taken his seat in the barouche. And yet it was so. 

"Do come with us, Mr. Carrington, " Lydia had said. "I know that you arewell versed in county history and archaeology, and will be able to tellus all manner of interesting facts connected with the villages andchurches we pass on our road. "

Lydia Graham hated Honoria for having won the proud position sheherself had tried so hard to attain; she hated Sir Oswald for havingchosen another in preference to herself; and she was determined to berevenged on both. She knew that her hints had already had their effecton the baronet; and she now sought, by every base and treacheroustrick, to render Honoria Eversleigh an object of suspicion in the eyesof her husband. She had a double game to play; for she sought at onceto gratify her ambition and her thirst for revenge. On one hand shewished to captivate Lord Sumner Howden; on the other she wanted towiden the gulf between Sir Oswald and his wife. 

She little knew that she was only playing into the hands of a deeperand more accomplished schemer than herself. She little thought thatVictor Carrington's searching glance had penetrated the secrets of herheart; and that he watched her malicious manoeuvres with a calm senseof amusement. 

Though August had already given place to September, the weather waswarm and balmy, as in the full glory of midsummer. 

Sir Oswald rode behind Lady Eversleigh's barouche, too remote to hearthe words that were spoken by those who occupied the vehicle; but quitenear enough to distinguish the tones and the laughter, and to perceiveevery gesture. He saw Victor bend forward to address Honoria. He sawthat deferential and devoted manner which had so much offended himsince he had first set himself to watch the surgeon. And LadyEversleigh did not discourage her admirer; she let him talk; she seemedinterested in his conversation; and as Lydia Graham and Lord Howdenwere entirely occupied with each other, the conversation betweenHonoria was a complete _tête-à-tête_. The young man's handsome headbent lower and lower over the plumed hat of Lady Eversleigh; and withevery step of that ten-mile journey, the cloud that overshadowed thebaronet's mind grew more profound in its fatal gloom. He no longerstruggled against his doubts--he abandoned himself altogether to thepassion that held possession of him. 

But the eyes of the world were on Sir Oswald, and he was obliged tomeet those unpitying eyes with a smile. The long line of equipages drewup at last on the margin of a wood; the pleasure-seekers alighted, andwandered about in twos and threes amongst the umbrageous pathways whichled towards the Wizard's Cave. 

After alighting from the barouche, Lady Eversleigh waited to see if herhusband would approach her, and offer his arm; she had a faint hopethat he would do so, even in spite of his evident estrangement; but herhope was cruelly disappointed. Sir Oswald walked straight to a portlydowager, and offered to escort her to the cave. 

"Do you remember a pic-nic here twenty years ago, at which you and Idanced together by moon-light, Lady Hetherington?" he said. "We oldfolks have pleasant memories of the past, and are the fittestcompanions for each other. The young people can enjoy themselves muchbetter without the restraint of our society. "

He said this loud enough for his wife to hear. She did hear every word, and felt there was hidden significance in that careless speech. For amoment she was inclined to break down the icy barrier of reserve. Thewords which she wanted to speak were almost on her lips, "Let me gowith you, Oswald. " But in the next instant she met her husband's eyes, and their cold gaze chilled her heart. 

At the same moment Victor Carrington offered her his arm, with hisaccustomed deferential manner. She accepted the proffered arm, scarcelyknowing who offered it, so deeply did she feel her husband'sunkindness. 

"What have I done to offend him?" she thought. "What is this cruelmystery which divides us, and which is almost breaking my heart?"

"Come, Lady Eversleigh, " cried several voices; "we want you toaccompany us to the Wizard's Cave. "

Nothing could be more successful than the pic-nic. Elegantly dressedwomen and aristocratic-looking men wandered here and there amidst thewoodland, and by the margin of the waterfall; sometimes in gay littleparties, whose talk and laughter rang out clearly on the balmy air;sometimes strolling _tête-à-tête_, and engaged in conversations of amore confidential character. Half-hidden by the foliage of a littlethicket of pollard oaks, there was a military band, whose services SirOswald had obtained from a garrison-town some twenty miles fromRaynham, and the stirring music added much to the charm of thefestival. 

Lydia Graham was as happy as it is possible for any evil-minded womanto be. Her envious feelings were lulled to temporary rest by theenjoyment of her own triumphs; for the young lordling seemed to becompletely subjugated by her charms, and devoted himself exclusively toattendance upon her. 

The scheming beauty's heart thrilled with a sense of triumph. Shethought that she had at last made a conquest that might be better worththe making than any of those past conquests, which had all ended insuch bitter disappointments. 

She looked at Lady Eversleigh with flashing eyes, as she rememberedthat by the subjugation of this empty-headed young nobleman she mightattain a higher position and greater wealth than that enjoyed by SirOswald's envied wife. 

"As Lady Sumner Howden, I could look down upon the mistress of RaynhamCastle, " she thought. "As Countess of Vandeluce, I should takeprecedence of nobler women than Lady Eversleigh. "

The day waned. The revellers lingered long over the splendid collation, served in a marquee which had been sent from York for the occasion. Thebanquet seemed a joyous one, enlivened by the sound of laughter, thepopping of champagne corks, the joyous talk that emanated alike fromthe really light-hearted and those whose gaiety is only a mockery and asham. The sun was sloping westward when Lady Eversleigh arose, absentand despondent, to give the signal for the withdrawal of the ladies. 

As she did so, she looked to the other end of the marquee--to the tablewhere her husband had been seated. To her surprise, his place wasempty. 

Throughout the whole day Honoria had been a prey to gloomy forebodings. The estrangement between herself and her husband was so unexpected, soinexplicable, that she was powerless to struggle against the sense ofmisery and bewilderment which it had occasioned in her mind. 

Again and again she asked herself what had she done to offend him;again and again she pondered over the smallest and most insignificantactions--the lightest words--of the past few weeks, in order todiscover some clue to the mystery of Sir Oswald's altered conduct. 

But the past afforded her no such clue. She had said nothing, she haddone nothing, which could offend the most sensitive of men. 

Then a new and terrible light began to dawn upon her. She rememberedher wretched extraction--the pitiable condition in which the baronethad discovered her, and she began to think that he repented of hismarriage. "He regrets his folly, and I am hateful in his eyes, " thoughtHonoria, "for he remembers my degraded position--the mystery of my pastlife. He has heard sneering words and cruel innuendoes fall from thelips of his fashionable friends, perhaps; and he is ashamed of hismarriage. He little knows how gladly I would release him from the tiethat binds us--if, indeed, it has grown hateful to him. " Thus musingand wandering alone, in one of the forest pathways--for she hadoutstripped her guests, and sought a little relief for her overwroughtspirits, constrained to the courtesies of her position for the moment--she scarcely knew whither, she came presently upon a group of grooms, who were lounging before a rough canvas tent, which had been erectedfor the accommodation of the horses. 

"Is 'Orestes' in that tent, Plummer?" she asked of the old groom whogenerally attended her in her rides and drives. 

"No, my lady, Sir Oswald had him saddled a quarter of an hour ago, androde him away. "

"Sir Oswald has gone away!"

"Yes, my lady. He got a message, I think, while he was sitting atdinner, and he rode off as fast as he could go, across th' moor--it'sthe nighest way to the castle, you know, my lady; though it ain't thepleasantest. "

Honoria grew very uneasy. What was the meaning of this suddendeparture?

"Do you know who brought the message from Raynham?" she asked thegroom. 

"No, indeed, my lady. I don't even know for sure and certain that themessage was from Raynham. I only guess as much. "

"Why did not Sir Oswald take you with him?"

"I can't say, my lady. I asked master if I wasn't to go with him, andhe said, 'No, he would rather be alone. '" This was all that Honoriacould learn from the groom. She walked back towards the marquee, whencethe sound of voices and laughter grew louder as the sun sank across thebroad expanse of moorland. 

The ladies of the party had gathered together on a broad patch ofvelvet greensward, near the oak thicket where the band was stationed. Here the younger members of the party were waltzing merrily to theaccompaniment of one of Strauss's sweetest waltzes; while the elderssat here and there on camp-stools or fallen logs of trees, and lookedon, or indulged in a little agreeable gossip. 

Honoria Eversleigh made her way unobserved to the marquee, andapproached one of the openings less used and less crowded than theothers. Here she found a servant, whom she sent into the marquee with amessage for Mr. Eversleigh, to inquire if he could explain Sir Oswald'ssudden departure. 

The man entered the tent, in obedience to his mistress; and LadyEversleigh seated herself on a camp-stool, at a little distance, awaiting the issue of her message. 

She had been waiting only a few moments, when she saw Victor Carringtonapproaching her hurriedly--not from the marquee, but from the pathwayby which she herself had come. There was an unwonted agitation abouthis manner as he approached her, which, in her present state of nervousapprehension, filled her with alarm. 

She went to meet him, pale and trembling. 

"I have been looking for you everywhere, Lady Eversleigh, " he said, hurriedly. 

"You have been looking for me? Something has happened then-SirOswald--"

"Yes, it is, unhappily, of Sir Oswald I have to speak. "

"Speak quickly, then. What has happened? You are agonizing me, Mr. Carrington--for pity's sake, speak! Your face fills me with fear!"

"Your fears are, unhappily, too well founded. Sir Oswald has beenthrown from his horse, on his way across the moor, and lies dangerouslyhurt, at the ruins of Yarborough Tower--that black building on the edgeof the moor yonder. A lad has just brought me the tidings. "

"Let me go to him--for heaven's sake, let me go at once! Dangerouslyhurt--he is dangerously hurt, you say?"

"I fear so, from the boy's account. "

"And we have no medical man among our company. Yes; you are a surgeon--you can be of assistance. "

"I trust so, my dear Lady Eversleigh. I shall hurry to Sir Oswaldimmediately, and in the meantime they have sent from the tower formedical help. "

"I must go to him!" said Honoria, wildly. "Call the servants, Mr. Carrington! My carriage--this moment!"

She could scarcely utter the words in her excitement. Her voice had achoking sound, and but for the surgeon's supporting arm she must havefallen prone on the grass at his feet. 

As she clung to his arm, as she gasped out her eager entreaties that hewould take her to her husband, a faint rustling stirred the underwoodbeneath some sycamores at a little distance, and curious eyes peeredthrough the foliage. 

Lydia Graham had happened to stroll that way. Her curiosity had beenexcited by the absence of Lady Eversleigh from among her guests, and, being no longer occupied by her flirtation with the young viscount, shehad set out in search of the missing Honoria. 

She was amply rewarded for her trouble by the scene which she beheldfrom her hiding-place among the sycamores. 

She saw Victor and Lady Eversleigh talking to each other with everyappearance of agitation; she saw the baronet's wife clinging, in somewild terror, to the arm of the surgeon; and she began to think thatHonoria Eversleigh was indeed the base and guilty wretch she would fainhave represented her. 

Lydia Graham was too far from the two figures to hear a word that wasspoken. She could only watch their gestures, and draw her owninferences therefrom. 

"My carriage, Mr. Carrington!" repeated Honoria; "why don't you callthe servants?"

"One moment, Lady Eversleigh, " said the surgeon, calmly. "You mustremember, that on such an occasion as this, there is nothing soimportant as presence of mind--self-command. If I alarm your servants, all the guests assembled here will take the alarm; and they will rushhelter-skelter to Yarborough Tower, to testify their devotion to SirOswald, and to do him all the harm they possibly can. What would be theeffect of a crowd of half-drunken men, clustering round him, with theirnoisy expressions of sympathy? What I have to propose is this: I amgoing to Sir Oswald immediately in my medical capacity. I have a gigand horse ready, under that group of fir-trees yonder--the fastesthorse and lightest vehicle I could find. If you will trust yourself inthat vehicle behind that horse, I will drive you across the moor, andwe shall reach the ruins in half an hour. Have you courage to come withme thus, Lady Eversleigh, quietly, unobserved by any one?--or will youwait for your barouche; and wait until the revellers yonder are allready to start with you?"

The voices came loudly from the marquee as the surgeon spoke; andHonoria felt that he spoke wisely. 

"You are right, " she said; "these people must know nothing of theaccident until my husband is safely back at Raynham. But you had bettergo and tell Plummer, the groom, to send the barouche after us. Acarriage will be wanted to convey Sir Oswald from the tower, if he isfit to be moved. "

"True, " answered Victor; "I will see to it. "

"And quickly!" cried Lady Eversleigh; "go quickly, I implore. You willfind me by the fir-trees when you return, ready to start with you! Donot waste time in words, Mr. Carrington. Remember, it is a matter oflife and death. "

Victor left her, and she walked to the little grove of firs, where shefound the gig of which he had spoken, and the horse standing near it, ready harnessed, and with his bridle fastened to a tree. 

Two pathways led to this fir-grove--a lower and an upper--the uppercompletely screened by brushwood. Along this upper pathway, which wason the edge of a sloping bank, Lydia Graham made her way, careless whatinjury she inflicted on her costly dress, so eager was she to discoverwhither lady Eversleigh was going. Completely hidden from Honoria, though at only a few paces' distance, Miss Graham waited to watch theproceedings of the baronet's wife. 

She was mystified by the appearance of the gig and horse, stationed inthis out-of-the-way spot. She was still more mystified when she sawLady Eversleigh clasp her hands before her face, and stand for a fewmoments, motionless and statue-like, as if abandoned to despair. 

"What does it all mean?" Miss Graham asked herself. "Surely she cannotintend to elope with this Carrington. She may be wicked; but she cannotbe so insane as to throw away wealth and position for the sake of thisforeign adventurer. "

She waited, almost breathless with excitement, crouching amongst thebrushwood at the top of the woody bank, and looking downward towardsthe fir-grove, with watchful eyes. She had not to wait long. Victorappeared in a few minutes, out of breath from running. 

"Have you given orders about the carriage?"

"Yes, I have given all necessary orders. "

No more was said. Victor handed Lady Eversleigh into the vehicle, anddrove away--slowly while they were still on the edge of the wood; butaccelerating his pace as they emerged upon the moorland. 

"It _is_ an elopement!" exclaimed Miss Graham, whose astonishment wasunbounded. "It _is_ an elopement! The infamous creature has gone offwith that penniless young man. And now, Sir Oswald, I think you willhave good reason to repent your fine romantic marriage with a base-bornadventuress, whom nobody ever heard of until she burst forth upon theworld as Lady Eversleigh of Raynham Castle. "

Filled with the triumphant delight of gratified malice, Lydia Grahamwent back to the broad greensward by the Wizard's Cave. The gentlemenhad now left the marquee; the full moon was rising, round and yellow, on the horizon, like a great globe of molten gold. Preparations hadalready commenced for the return, and the younger members of the partywere busy discussing the arrangements of the homeward drive. 

That moonlight drive was looked forward to as one of the chiefpleasures of the excursion; it would afford such glorious opportunitiesfor flirtation. It would enable romantic young ladies to quote so muchpoetry about the moon and the summer night, while poetically-disposedyoung gentlemen replied in the same strain. All was animation andexcitement. The champagne and burgundy, the sparkling hock and moselle, which had been consumed in the marquee, had only rendered the majorityof the gentlemen more gallant and agreeable; and softly-spokencompliments, and tender pressures of pretty little delicately-glovedhands, testified to the devotion of the cavaliers who were to escortthe band of fair ones homeward. 

Lydia Graham hoped that she would be able to take up the thread of herflirtation with Lord Howden exactly where it had dropped when she hadrisen to leave the dinner-table. She had thought it even possible that, if she could secure a _tête-à-tête_ drive home with the weak-brainedyoung nobleman, she might lure him on until he made a formal proposal, from which he would find it no easy matter to recede; for CaptainGraham was at his sister's call, and was a gentleman of no veryyielding temper where his own interests were at stake. He had long beenanxious that his sister should make a wealthy marriage, for her debtsand difficulties annoyed him; and he felt that if she were wellmarried, he would be able to borrow money of her, instead of beingpestered by her applications for assistance. 

Miss Graham was doomed to endure a disappointment. Lord Sumner Howdenwas one of the few gentleman upon whom iced champagne and moselle hadproduced anything but an exhilarating effect. He was dull and stupid, pallid and sleepy; like some great, greedy school-boy who has over-eaten himself, and is suffering the consequences of his gluttony. 

The fair Lydia had the mortification of hearing him tell one of thegrooms to put him into a close carriage, where he could have a nap onhis way home. 

Reginald Eversleigh took the lordling's seat in the barouche, which wasthe first in the line of carriages for the homeward journey, in spiteof Honoria's entreaties to Victor Carrington. The young man was almostas dull and stupid, to all appearance, as Lord Sumner Howden; but, although he had been drinking deeply, intoxication had nothing to dowith his gloomy silence. 

He knew that Carrington's scheme had been ripening day by day; and heknew also that within a few hours the final blow was to be struck. Hedid not know the nature of that intended stroke of treachery; but hewas aware that it would involve misery and humiliation for Sir Oswald, utter ruin and disgrace for Honoria. The very uncertainty as to thenature of the cruel plot made it all the more dreadful; and he waitedwith no very pleasant feelings for the development of his friend'sscheme. 

When all was ready for the start, it was discovered that "dear LadyEversleigh" was missing. Servants were sent in every direction tosearch for her; but with no avail. Sir Oswald was also missed; butPlummer, the old groom, informed Mr. Eversleigh that his uncle had leftsome hours before; and as some of the party had seen the baronet leavethe dinner-table, in compliance with a sudden summons, this occasionedlittle surprise. 

The next person missed was Victor Carrington. It was Lydia who drewattention to the fact of his absence. 

The party waited an hour, while search for Lady Eversleigh was renewedin every direction, while many of the guests expressed their fears thatsomething must have happened to her--that she had wandered too far, and lost her way in the wood--or that she had missed her footing onthe edge of one of the deep pools by the cavern, and had fallen intothe water--or that she had been attacked by ruffians. 

But in due time it was discovered that Mr. Carrington had been seen totake a gig from amongst the vehicles; and a lad, who had been in chargeof the gig and the horse belonging to it, told the other servants thatMr. Carrington had said he wanted the vehicle to drive Lady Eversleighhome. She was tired, Mr. Carrington had said, and wanted to go homequietly. 

This information was brought to Reginald by one of the upper servants;and the question of Lady Eversleigh's disappearance being at once setat rest, the procession of carriages moved away in the moonlight. 

"It was really too bad of dear Lady Eversleigh to give us suchunnecessary alarm, " said Lydia Graham. 

The lady who had taken the second place in the barouche agreed withthis remark. 

"I never was more alarmed in my life, " she said. "I felt sure thatsomething very dreadful must have happened. "

"And to think that Lady Eversleigh should prefer going home in a gig, "said Lydia, maliciously; "for my part, I think a gig a most unpleasantvehicle. "

The other lady whispered something about Lady Eversleigh's humbleextraction, and her ignorance of the usages of society. 

"You can't wonder at it, my dear, " she murmured. "For my part, I wassurprised to see her so much at her ease in her new position. But, yousee, her ignorance has now betrayed her into a terrible breach of theproprieties. Her conduct is, to say the least of it, most eccentric;and you may depend, no one here will ever forget this ride home in agig with that clever young surgeon. I don't suppose Sir Oswald willvery much approve of such conduct. "

"Nor I, " said Lydia, in the same subdued tone. "Poor Sir Oswald! Whatcould he expect when he disgraced himself by such a marriage?"

Reginald Eversleigh leaned back in the carriage, with his arum folded, and his eyes fixed on vacancy, while the ladies gossipped in whispers. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER IX. 

 ON YARBOROUGH TOWER. 

No sooner had Victor Carrington got completely clear of the wood, thanhe drove his horse at a gallop. 

The light gig swayed from side to side, and jolted violently severaltimes on crossing some obstruction in the way. 

"You are not afraid?" asked Victor. 

"I am only afraid of delay, " answered Honoria, calmly; for by this timeshe had recovered much of her ordinary firmness, and was prepared toface her sorrow with at least outward tranquillity. "Tell me, Mr. Carrington, have you reason to think that my husband is in greatdanger?"

"I can tell you nothing for certain. You know how stupid the countrypeople are. The boy who brought the message told me that the gentlemanhad been thrown from his horse, and was very much hurt. He wasinsensible, and was injured about the head. I gathered from this, andfrom the boy's manner, rather than his words, that the injuries werevery serious. "

"Why was Sir Oswald taken to such a wretched place as a ruined tower?"

"Because the accident happened near the ruin; and your husband wasfound by the people who have charge of the tower. "

"And could they take him to no better place?"

"No. There is no habitation of any kind within three miles. "

No more was said. It was not very easy to talk while flying through theair at the utmost speed of a spirited horse. 

The moon bathed the broad moorland in mellow light. The wide expanse oflevel turf looked like a sea of black water that had suddenly beenfrozen into stillness. Not a tree--not a patch of brushwood, or asolitary bush--broke the monotony of the scene: but far away againstthe moonlit horizon rose a wild and craggy steep, and on the summit ofthat steep appeared a massive tower, with black and ruined battlements, that stood out grimly against the luminous sky. 

This was Yarborough Tower--a stronghold that had defied many abesieging force in the obscure past; but of the origin of which littlewas now known. 

Victor Carrington drove the gig up a rough and narrow road that curvedaround the sides of the craggy hill, and wound gradually towards thetop. 

He was obliged to drive slowly here, and Lady Eversleigh had ampleleisure to gaze upwards at the dreary-looking ruin, whose walls seemedmore densely black as they grew nearer and nearer. 

"What a horrible place!" she murmured. "To think of my husband lyingthere--with no better shelter than those ruined walls in the hour ofhis suffering. "

Honoria Eversleigh looked around her with a shudder, as the gig passedacross a narrow wooden drawbridge that spanned an enormous chasm in thecraggy hill-side. 

She looked up at the tower. All was dark, and the dismal cry of a ravensuddenly broke the awful stillness with a sound that was even yet moreawful. 

"Why are there no lights in the windows?" she asked; "surely Sir Oswaldis not lying in the darkness?"

"I don't know. The chamber in which they have placed him may be on theother side of the tower, " answered Victor, briefly. "And now, LadyEversleigh, you must alight. We can go no further with the vehicle, andI must take it back to the other side of the drawbridge. "

They had reached the entrance of the tower, an archway of solidmasonry, over which the ivy hung like a sombre curtain. 

Honoria alighted, and passed under the black shadow of the arch. 

"You had better wait till I return, Lady Eversleigh, " said Victor. "Youwill scarcely find your way without my help. "

Honoria obeyed. Anxious as she was to reach Sir Oswald without amoment's unnecessary delay, she felt herself powerless to proceedwithout a guide--so dark was the interior of the tower. She heard theravens shrieking hoarsely in the battlements above, and the ivyflapping in the evening wind; but she could hear nothing else. 

Victor came back to her in a few minutes. As he rejoined her, there wasa noise of some ponderous object falling, with a grating and rattlingof heavy chains; but Lady Eversleigh was too much absorbed by her ownanxieties to feel any curiosity as to the origin of the sound. 

"Come, " said Victor; "give me your hand, Lady Eversleigh, and let meguide you. "

She placed her hand in that of the surgeon. He led her to a steepstaircase, formed by blocks of solid stone, which were renderedslippery by the moss that had gathered on them. It was a windingstaircase, built in a turret which formed one angle of the tower. Looking upwards, Honoria saw a gap in the roof, through which themoonlight shone bright. But there was no sign of any other light. 

"Where is my husband?" she asked. "I see no lights; I hear no voices;the place seems like a tomb. "

Victor Carrington did not answer her question. 

"Come, " he said, in a commanding voice. "Follow me, Lady Eversleigh. "

He still held her hand, and she obeyed him, making her way with somedifficulty up the steep and winding staircase. 

At last she found herself at the top. A narrow doorway opened beforeher; and following her companion through this doorway, she emerged onthe roof of the tower. 

Around her were the ruined battlements, broken away altogether here andthere; below her was the craggy hill-side, sloping downwards to thewide expanse of the moorland; above her was the purple sky, floodedwith the calm radiance of the moon; but there was no sign of humanhabitation, no sound of a human voice. 

"Where is my husband, Mr. Carrington?" she cried, with a wild alarm, which had but that moment taken possession of her. "This ruin isuninhabited. I saw the empty rooms, through gaps in the broken wall aswe came up that staircase. Where is my husband?"

"At Raynham Castle, Lady Eversleigh, to the best of my knowledge, "answered the surgeon, with imperturbable calmness. 

He had seated himself on one of the broken battlements, in a loungingattitude, with one arm leaning on the ruined stone, and he was lookingquietly out at the solitary expanse of barren waste sleeping beneaththe moonlight. 

Lady Eversleigh looked at him with a countenance that had grown rigidwith horror and alarm. 

"My husband at Raynham--at Raynham!" she repeated, as if she could notcredit the evidence of her own ears. "Am I mad, or are you mad, Mr. Carrington? My husband at Raynham Castle, you say?"

"I cannot undertake to answer positively for the movements of anygentleman; but I should say that, at this present moment, Sir OswaldEversleigh is in his own house, for which he started some hours ago. "

"Then why am I here?"

"To answer that question clearly will involve the telling of a longstory, Lady Eversleigh, " answered Victor. "My motive for bringing youhere concerns myself and another person. You are here to farther theinterests of two people, and those two people are Reginald Eversleighand your humble servant. "

"But the accident? Sir Oswald's danger--"

"I must beg you not to give yourself any further alarm on that subject. I regret very much that I have been obliged to inflict unnecessary painupon a lady. The story of the accident is a little invention of my own. Sir Oswald is perfectly safe. "

"Thank heaven!" cried Honoria, clasping her hands in the fervour ofsudden gratitude; "thank heaven for that!"

Her face looked beautiful, as she lifted it towards the moonlit sky. Victor Carrington contemplated her with wonder. 

"Can it be possible that she loves this man?" he thought. "Can it bethat she has not been acting a part after all?"

Her first thought, on hearing that she had been deceived, was one ofunmingled joy, of deep and heartfelt gratitude. Her second thought wasof the shameful trick that had been played upon her; and she turned toVictor Carrington with passionate indignation. 

"What is the meaning of this juggling, sir?" she cried; "and why have Ibeen brought to this place?"

"It is a long story, Lady Eversleigh, and I would recommend you to calmyourself before you listen to it, if you have any wish to understand meclearly. "

"I can stop to listen to no long stories, sir. Your trick is a shamefuland unmanly one, whatever its motive. I beg that you will take me backto Raynham without a moment's delay; and I would advise you to complywith my request, unless you wish to draw upon yourself Sir Oswald'svengeance for the wrong you have done me. I am the last person in theworld to involve my husband in a quarrel; but if you do not immediatelytake steps towards restoring me to my own home, I shall certainly lethim know how deeply I have been wronged and insulted. "

"I am not afraid of your husband, my dear Lady Eversleigh, " answeredthe surgeon, with cool insolence; "for I do not think Sir Oswald willcare to take up the cudgels in your defence, after the events of to-night. "

Honoria Eversleigh looked at the speaker with unutterable scorn, andthen turned towards the doorway which communicated with the staircase. 

"Since you refuse to assist in my return, I will go alone andunassisted, " she said. 

Victor raised his hand with a warning gesture. 

"Do not attempt to descend that staircase, my dear Lady Eversleigh, " hesaid. "In the first place, the steps are slippery, and the descent verydangerous; and, in the next, you would find yourself unable to gobeyond the archway. "

"What do you mean?"

"Oblige me by looking down through that breach in the battlements. "

He had risen from his lounging position, and pointed downward as hespoke. 

Involuntarily Honoria followed the indication of his hand. 

A cry of horror broke from her lips as she looked below. The drawbridgeno longer spanned the chasm. It had fallen, and hung over the edge ofthe abyss, suspended by massive chains. On all sides of the toweryawned a gulf of some fifteen feet wide. 

At first Lady Eversleigh thought that this chasm might only be on oneside of the ruin, but on rushing to the opposite battlements, andlooking down, she saw that it was a moss-grown stone-moat, whichcompletely encircled the stronghold. 

"The warriors of old knew how to build their fortresses, and how toprotect themselves from their foes, " said Victor Carrington, as if inanswer to his companion's despairing cry. "Those who built this edificeand dug that moat, little knew how useful their arrangements would bein these degenerate days. Do not pace to and fro with that distractedair, Lady Eversleigh. Believe me, you will do wisely to take thingsquietly. You are doomed to remain here till daybreak. This ruin is inthe care of a man who leaves it at a certain hour every evening. Whenhe leaves, he drops the drawbridge--you must have heard him do it alittle while ago--and no hand but his can raise the chains that supportit; for he only knows the secret of their machinery. He has left theplace for the night. He lives three miles and a half away, at a littlevillage yonder, which looks only a black speck in the distance, and hewill not return till some time after daybreak. "

"And you would keep me a prisoner here--you would detain me in thismiserable place, while my husband is, no doubt, expecting me atRaynham, perplexed and bewildered by my mysterious absence?"

"Yes, Lady Eversleigh, there will be wonder and perplexity enough onyour account to-night at Raynham Castle. "

There was a pause after this. 

Honoria sank upon a block of fallen stone, bewildered, terror-stricken, for the moment powerless to express either her fears or herindignation, so strange, so completely inexplicable was the position inwhich she found herself. 

"I am in the power of a maniac, " she murmured; "no one but a maniaccould be capable of this wild act. My life is in the power of a madman. I can but wait the issue. Let me be calm. Oh, merciful heaven, give mefortitude to face my danger quietly!"

The strength she prayed for seemed to come with the prayer. 

The wild beating of her heart slackened a little. She swept the heavymasses of hair away from her forehead, and bound the fallen plaits in aknot at the back of her head. She did this almost as calmly as if shehad been making her toilet in her dressing-room at Raynham. VictorCarrington watched her with surprise. 

"She is a wonderful woman, " he said to himself; "a noble creature. Aspowerful in mind as she is lovely in person. What a pity that I shouldmake myself the enemy of this woman for the sake of such a mean-spirited hound as Reginald Eversleigh! But my interests compel me torun counter to my inclination. It is a great pity. With this woman asmy ally, I might have done greater things than I shall ever do bymyself. "

Victor Carrington mused thus while Honoria Eversleigh sat on the edgeof the broken wall, at a few paces from him, looking calmly out at thepurple sky. 

She fully believed that she had fallen into the power of a maniac. What, except madness, could have prompted such conduct as that ofVictor Carrington's?

She knew that there is no defence so powerful as an appearance ofcalmness; and it was with tranquillity she addressed her companion, after that interval of deliberation. 

"Now, Mr. Carrington, " she said, "since it seems I am your prisoner, perhaps you will be good enough to inform me why you have brought me tothis place, and what injury I have ever done you that you shouldinflict so deep a wrong on me?"

"You have never injured _me_, Lady Eversleigh, " replied VictorCarrington; "but you have injured one who is my friend, and whoseinterests are closely linked with mine. "

"Who is that friend?"

"Reginald Eversleigh. "

"Reginald Eversleigh!" repeated Honoria, with amazement. "In whatmanner have I injured Reginald Eversleigh? Is he not my husband'snephew, and am I not bound to feel interest in his welfare? How, then, can I have injured him?"

"You have done him the worst wrong that one individual can do another--you stand between him and fortune. Do you not know that, little morethan a year ago, Reginald Eversleigh was the heir to Raynham and allits surroundings?"

"I know that; but he was disinherited before I crossed his uncle'spathway. "

"True; but had you _not_ crossed Sir Oswald's path, there is no doubtReginald would have been restored to favour. But you have woven yourspells round his kinsman, and his only hope lies in your disgrace--"

"My disgrace!"

"Yes, Lady Eversleigh. Life is a battle, in which the weakest must betrodden down; you have triumphed hitherto, but the hour of your triumphis past. Yesterday you were queen of Raynham Castle; to-morrow nokitchen-wench within its walls will be so low as you. "

"What do you mean?" asked Honoria, more and more mystified every momentby her companion's words. 

For the first time, an awful fear took possession of her, and she beganto perceive that she was the victim of a foul and villanous plot. 

"What do you mean?" she repeated, in accents of alarm. 

"I mean this, Lady Eversleigh--the world judges of people's actions bytheir outward seeming, not by their inward truth. Appearances haveconspired to condemn you. Before to-morrow every creature in RaynhamCastle will believe that you have fled from your home, and with me--"

"Fled from my home!"

"Yes; how else can your absence to-night--your sudden disappearancefrom the pic-nic--be construed?"

"If I live, I shall go back to the castle at daybreak to-morrowmorning--go back to denounce your villany--to implore my husband'svengeance on your infamy!"

"And do you think any one will believe your denunciation? You will goback too late Lady Eversleigh. "

"Oh, villain! villain!" murmured Honoria, in accents of mingledabhorrence and despair--abhorrence of her companion's infamy, despairinspired by the horror of her own position. 

"You have played for a very high stake, Lady Eversleigh, " said thesurgeon; "and you must not wonder if you have found opponents ready toencounter your play with a still more desperate, and a still moredexterous game. When a nameless and obscure woman springs from povertyand obscurity to rank and riches, she must expect to find others readyto dispute the prize which she has won. "

"And there can exist a wretch calling himself a man, and yet capable ofsuch an act as this!" cried Honoria, looking upward to the calm andcloudless sky, as if she would have called heaven to witness theiniquity of her enemy. "Do not speak to me, sir, " she added, turning toVictor Carrington, with unutterable scorn. "I believed a few minutesago that you were a madman, and I thought myself the victim of amaniac's folly. I understand all now. You have plotted nobly for yourfriend's service; and he will, no doubt, reward you richly if yousucceed. But you have not yet succeeded. Providence sometimes seems tofavour the wicked. It his favoured you, so far; but the end has notcome yet. "

She turned from him and walked to the opposite side of the tower. Hereshe seated herself on the battlemented wall, as calm, in outwardseeming, as if she had been in her own drawing-room. She took out atiny jewelled watch; by that soft light she could perceive the figureson the dial. 

It was a few minutes after one o'clock. It was not likely that the manwho had charge of the ruins would come to the tower until seven oreight in the morning. For six or seven hours, therefore, HonoriaEversleigh was likely to be a prisoner--for six or seven hours shewould have to endure the hateful presence of the man whose treacheryhad placed her in this hideous position. 

Despair reigned in her heart, entire and overwhelming despair. Whenreleased from her prison, she might hurry back to the castle. But whowould believe a story so wild, so improbable, as that which she wouldhave to tell?

Would her husband believe her? Would he, who had to all appearancewithdrawn his love from her for no reason whatever--would he believe inher purity and truth, when circumstances conspired in damning evidenceof her guilt? A sense of hopeless misery took possession of her heart;but no cry of anguish broke from her pale lips. She sat motionless as astatue, with her eyes fixed upon the eastern horizon, counting themoments as they passed with cruel slowness, watching with yearning gazefor the first glimmer of morning. 

Victor Carrington contemplated that statuesque figure, that pale andtranquil face, with unalloyed admiration. Until to-night he haddespised women as frail, helpless creatures, only made to be flatteredby false words, and tyrannized over by stronger natures than their own. Among all the women with whom he had ever been associated, his motherwas the only one in whose good sense he had believed, or for whoseintellect he had felt the smallest respect. But now he beheld a womanof another stamp--a woman whose pride and fortitude were akin to theheroic. 

"You endure the unpleasantness of your position nobly, LadyEversleigh, " he said; "and I can find no words to express my admirationof your conduct. It is very hard to find oneself the enemy of a lady, and, above all, of a lady whose beauty and whose intellect are alikecalculated to inspire admiration. But in this world, Lady Eversleigh, there is only one rule--only one governing principle by which menregulate their lives--let them seek as they will to mask the truth withspecious lies, which other men pretend to believe, but do not. That onerule, that one governing principle, is SELF-INTEREST. For theadvancement of his own fortunes, the man who calls himself honest willtrample on the dearest ties, will sacrifice the firmest friendships. The game which Reginald Eversleigh and I have played against you is adesperate one; but Sir Oswald rendered his nephew desperate when hereduced him, in one short hour, from wealth to poverty--when he robbedhim of expectations that had been his from infancy. A desperate manwill do desperate deeds; and it has been your fate, Lady Eversleigh, tocross the path of such a man. "

He waited, with his eyes fixed on the face of Sir Oswald's wife. Butduring the whole of his speech she had never once looked at him. Shehad never withdrawn her eyes from the eastern horizon. Passionlesscontempt was expressed by that curving lip, that calm repose of eye andbrow. It seemed as if this woman's disdain for the plotting villaininto whose power she had fallen absorbed every other feeling. 

Victor Carrington waited in vain for some reply from those scornfullips; but none came. He took out his cigar-case, lighted a cigar, andsat in a meditative attitude, smoking, and looking down moodily at theblack chasm below the base of the tower. For the first time in his lifethis man, who was utterly without honour or principle--this man, whoheld self-interest as the one rule of conduct--this unscrupuloustrickster and villain, felt the bitterness of a woman's scorn. He wouldhave been unmoved by the loudest evidence of his victim's despair; buther silent contempt stung him to the quick. The hours draggedthemselves out with a hideous slowness for the despairing creature whosat watching for the dawn; but at last that long night came to an end, the chill morning light glimmered faint and gray in the east. It wasnot the first time that Sir Oswald's wife had watched in anguish forthe coming of that light. In that lonely tower, with her heart torturedby a sense of unutterable agony, there came back to her the memory ofanother vigil which she had kept more than two years before. 

_She heard the dull, plashing sound of a river, the shivering ofrushes, then the noise of a struggle, oaths, a heavy crashing fall, agroan, and then no more_!

Blessed with her husband's love, she had for a while closed her eyesupon that horrible picture of the past; but now, in the hour ofdespair, it came back to her, hideously distinct, awfully palpable. 

"How could I hope for happiness?" she thought; "I, the daughter of anassassin! The sins of one generation are visited on another. A curse isupon me, and I can never hope for happiness. "

The sun rose, and shone broad and full over the barren moorland; but itwas several hours after sunrise before the man who took care of theruins came to release the wretched prisoner. 

He picked up a scanty living by showing the tower to visitors, and heknew that no visitors were likely to come before nine o'clock in themorning. It was nearly nine when Honoria saw him approaching in thedistance. 

It was after nine when he drew up the bridge, and came across it to theruined fortress. 

"You are free from this moment, Lady Eversleigh, " said the surgeon, whose face looked horribly pale and worn in the broad sunlight. Thatnight of watching had not been without its agony for him. 

Honoria did not condescend to notice his words. She took up the plumedhat, which had been lying among the long grass at her feet. Thedelicate feathers were wet and spoiled by the night dew, and she tookthem from the fragile hat and flung them away. Her thin, white dresswas heavy with the damp, and clung round her like a shroud. But she hadnot felt the chilling night winds. 

Lady Eversleigh groped her way down the winding staircase, which wasdark even in the daytime--except here and there, where a gap in thewall let in a patch of light upon the gloomy stones. 

Under the archway she met the countryman, who uttered a cry onbeholding the white, phantom-like figure. 

"Oh, Loard!" he cried, when he had recovered from his terror; "I askpardon, my lady, but danged if I didn't teak thee for a ghaist. "

"You did not know, when you went away last night, that there was anyone in the tower?"

"No, indeed, my lady. I'd been away for a few minutes look'n' arter abit of peg I've got in a shed down yander; and when I keame back to letdown th' drawbridge, I didn't sing out to ax if there wur any one inth' old too-wer, for t'aint often as there be any one at that time ofnight. "

"Tell me the way to the nearest village, " cried Honoria. "I want to getsome conveyance to take me to Raynham. "

"Then you had better go to Edgington, ma'am. That's four miles fromhere--on t' Raynham ro-ad. "

The man pointed out the way to the village of which he spoke; and LadyEversleigh set forth across the wide expanse of moorland alone. 

She had considerable difficulty in finding her way, for there were nolandmarks on that broad stretch of level turf. She wandered out of thetrack more than once, and it was one o'clock before she reached thevillage of Edgington. 

Here, after considerable delay, she procured a carriage to take her onto Raynham; but there was little chance that she could reach the castleuntil between three and four o'clock in the afternoon. 

 CHAPTER X. 

 "HOW ART THOU LOST!--HOW ON A SUDDEN LOST!"

If Honoria Eversleigh had endured a night of anguish amid the wilddesolation of Yarborough Tower, Sir Oswald had suffered an agonyscarcely less terrible at Raynham. He had been summoned from thedinner-table in the marquee by one of his servants, who told him that aboy was waiting for him with a letter, which he would entrust to no onebut Sir Oswald Eversleigh himself. 

Mystified by the strange character of this message, Sir Oswald wentimmediately to see the boy who had brought it. He found a lad waitingfor him under the trees near the marquee. The boy handed him a letter, which he opened and read immediately. 

The contents of that letter were well calculated to agitate and disturbhim. 

The letter was anonymous. It consisted of the following words:--

"_If Sir Oswald Eversleigh wishes to be convinced of his wife's truthor falsehood, let him ride back to Raynham without a moment's delay. There he will receive ample evidence of her real character. He may haveto wait; but the friend who writes this advises him to wait patiently. He will not wait in vain_. 

 "A NAMELESS COUNSELLOR. "

A fortnight before, Sir Oswald would have flung such a letter as thisaway from him with indignant scorn; but the poison of suspicion haddone its corroding work. 

For a little time Sir Oswald hesitated, half-inclined to despise themysterious warning. All his better feelings prompted him to disregardthis nameless correspondent--all his noblest impulses urged him toconfide blindly and unquestioningly in the truth of the wife he loved;but jealousy--that dark and fatal passion--triumphed over everygenerous feeling, and he yielded to the influence of his hiddencounsellor. 

"No harm can arise from my return to Raynham, " he thought. "My friendsyonder are enjoying themselves too much to trouble themselves about myabsence. If this anonymous correspondent is fooling me, I shall soondiscover my mistake. "

Having once arrived at this determination, Sir Oswald lost no time inputting it into execution. He ordered his horse, Orestes, and rode awayas fast as the animal would carry him. 

Arrived at Raynham, he inquired if any one had asked for him, but wastold there had not been any visitors at the castle throughout the day. 

Again and again Sir Oswald consulted the anonymous letter. It told himto wait, but for what was he to wait? Half ashamed of himself forhaving yielded to the tempter, restless and uneasy in spirit, hewandered from room to room in the twilight, abandoned to gloomy andmiserable thoughts. 

The servants lighted the lamps in the many chambers of Raynham, whileSir Oswald paced to and fro--now in the long drawing-room; now in thelibrary; now on the terrace, where the September moon shone broad andfull. It was eleven o'clock when the sound of approaching wheelsproclaimed the return of the picnic party; and until that hour thebaronet had watched and waited without having been rewarded by thesmallest discovery of any kind whatever. He felt bitterly ashamed ofhimself for having been duped by so shallow a trick. 

"It is the handiwork of some kind friend; the practical joke of someflippant youngster, who thinks it a delightful piece of humour to playupon the jealousy of a husband of fifty, " mused the baronet, as hebrooded over his folly. "I wish to heaven I could discover the writerof the epistle. He should find that it is rather a dangerous thing totrifle with a man's feelings. "

Sir Oswald went himself to assist at the reception of his guests. Heexpected to see his wife arrive with the rest. For the moment, heforgot all about his suspicions of the last fortnight. He thought onlyof the anonymous letter, and the wrong which he had done Honoria inbeing influenced by its dark hints. 

If he could have met his wife at that moment, when every impulse of hisheart drew him towards her, all sense of estrangement would have meltedaway; all his doubts would have vanished before a smile from her. Butthough Sir Oswald found his wife's barouche the first of the carriages, she was not in it. Lydia Graham told him how "dear Lady Eversleigh" hadcaused all the party such terrible alarm. 

"I suppose she reached home two hours ago, " added the young lady. "Shehad more than an hour's start of us; and with that light vehicle andspirited horse she and Mr. Carrington must have come so rapidly. "

"My wife and Mr. Carrington! What do you mean, Miss Graham?"

Lydia explained, and Reginald Eversleigh confirmed her statement. LadyEversleigh had left the Wizard's Cave more than an hour before the restof the party, accompanied by Mr. Carrington. 

No words can describe the consternation of Sir Oswald. He did his bestto conceal his alarm; but the livid hue of his face, the ashen pallorof his lips, betrayed the intensity of his emotion. He sent out mountedgrooms to search the different roads between the castle and the sceneof the pic-nic; and then he left his guests without a word, and shuthimself in his own apartments, to await the issue of the search. 

Had any fatal accident happened to her and her companion?--or wereHonoria Eversleigh and Victor Carrington two guilty creatures, who hadabandoned themselves to the folly and madness of a wicked attachment, and had fled together, reckless alike of reputation and fortune?

He tried to believe that this latter chance was beyond the region ofpossibility; but horrible suspicions racked his brain as he paced toand fro, waiting for the issue of the search that was being made. 

Better that he should be told that his wife had been found lying deadupon the hard, cruel road, than that he should hear that she had lefthim for another; a false and degraded creature!

"Why did she trust herself to the companionship of this man?" he askedhimself. "Why did she disgrace herself by leaving her guests in thecompany of a young man who ought to be little more than a stranger toher? She is no ignorant or foolish girl; she has shown herself able tohold her own in the most trying positions. What madness could havepossessed her, that she should bring disgrace upon herself and me bysuch conduct as this?"

The grooms came back after a search that had been utterly in vain. Notrace of the missing lady had been discovered. Inquiries had been madeeverywhere along the road, but without result. No gig had been seen topass between the neighbourhood of the Wizard's Cave and Raynham Castle. 

Sir Oswald abandoned himself to despair. 

There was no longer any hope: his wife had fled from him. Bitter, indeed, was the penalty which he was called upon to pay for hisromantic marriage--his blind confidence in the woman who had fascinatedand bewitched him. He bowed his head beneath the blow, and alone, hidden from the cruel gaze of the world, he resigned himself to hismisery. 

All that night he sat alone, his head buried in his clasped hands, stunned and bewildered by his agony. 

His valet, Joseph Millard, knocked at the door at the usual hour, anxious to assist at his master's toilet; but the door was securelylocked, and Sir Oswald told his servant that he needed no help. Hespoke in a firm voice; for he knew that the valet's ear would be keento mark any evidence of his misery. When the man was gone, he rose upfor the first time, and looked across the sunlit woods. 

A groan of agony burst from his lips as he gazed upon that beautifullandscape. 

He had brought his young wife to be mistress of this splendid domain. He had shown her that fair scene; and had told her that she was to bequeen over all those proud possessions until the day of her death. Nohand was ever to rob her of them. They were the free gift of hisboundless love! to be shared only by her children, should heaven blessher and her husband with inheritors for this ancient estate. He hadnever been weary of testifying his devotion, his passionate love; andyet, before she had been his wife three months, she left him foranother. 

While he stood before the open window, with these bitter thoughts inhis mind, he heard the sound of wheels in the corridor without. Thewheels belonged to an invalid chair, used by Captain Copplestone whenthe gout held him prisoner, a self-propelling chair, in which thecaptain could make his way where he pleased. 

The captain knocked at his old comrade's door. 

"Let me in, Oswald" he said; "I want to see you immediately. "

"Not this morning, my dear Copplestone; I can't see any one thismorning, " answered the baronet. 

"You can see _me_, Oswald. I must and will see you, and I shall stophere till you let me in. "

A loud knock at the door with a heavy-headed cane accompanied the closeof his speech. 

Sir Oswald opened the door, and admitted the captain, who pushed hischair dexterously through the doorway. 

"Well, " said this eccentric visitor, when Sir Oswald had shut the door, "so you've not been to bed all night?"

"How do you know that?"

"By your looks, for one thing: and by the appearance of your bed, whichI can see through the open door yonder, for another. Pretty goings on, these!"

"A heavy sorrow has fallen upon me, Copplestone. "

"Your wife has run away--that's what you mean, I suppose?"

"What!" cried Sir Oswald. "It is all known, then?"

"What is all known?"

"That my wife has left me. "

"Well, my dear Oswald, there is a rumour of that kind afloat, and Ihave come here in consequence of that rumour. But I don't believethere's a word of truth in it. "

The baronet turned from his friend with a bitter smile of derision. 

"I may strive to hoodwink the world, Copplestone, " he said, "but I haveno wish to deceive you. My wife has left me--there is no doubt of it. "

"I don't believe it, " cried the captain. "No, Oswald Eversleigh, Idon't believe it. You know what I am. I'm not quite like the Miller ofDee, for I do care for somebody; and that somebody is my oldest friend. When I first heard of your marriage, I told you that you were a fool. That was plain-spoken enough, if you like. When I saw your wife, Itold you that had changed my mind, and that I thought your folly anexcusable one. If ever I saw purity and truth in a woman's face, I sawthem in the face of Lady Eversleigh; and I will stake my life that sheis as true as steel. "

Sir Oswald clasped his friend's hand, too deeply moved for words. Therewas unspeakable consolation in such friendship as this. For the firsttame since midnight a ray of hope dawned upon him. He had alwaystrusted in his old comrade's judgment. Might he not trust in himstill?

When Captain Copplestone left him, he went to his dressing-room, andmade even a more than usually careful toilet, and went to face "theworld. "

In the great dining-room he found all his guests assembled, and he tookhis seat amongst them calmly, though the sight of Honoria's empty placecut him to the heart. 

Never, perhaps, was a more miserable meal eaten than that breakfast. There were long intervals of silence; and what little conversationthere was appeared forced and artificial. 

Perhaps the most self-possessed person--the calmest to all appearance, of the whole party--was Sir Oswald Eversleigh, so heroic an effort hadhe made over himself, in order to face the world proudly. He had a fewwords to say to every one; and was particularly courteous to the guestsnear him. He opened his letters with an unshaking hand. But heabstained from all allusion to his wife, or the events of the previousevening. 

He had finished breakfast, and was leaving the room, when his nephewapproached him--

"Can I speak to you for a few moments alone?" asked Reginald. 

"Certainly. I am going to the library to write my letters. You can gowith me, if you like. "

They went together to the library. As Sir Oswald closed the door, andturned to face his nephew, he perceived that Reginald was deadly pale. 

"What is amiss?" he asked. 

"You ask me that, my dear uncle, at a time when you ought to know thatmy sympathy for your sorrow--"

"Reserve your sympathy until it is needed, " answered the baronet, abruptly. "I dare say you mean well, my dear Reginald; but there aresome subjects which I will suffer no man to approach. "

"I beg your pardon, sir. Then, in that case, I can tell you nothing. Ifancied that it was my duty to bring you any information that reachedme; but I defer to you entirely. The subject is a most unhappy one, andI am glad to be spared the pain involved in speaking of it. "

"What do you mean?" said the baronet. "If you have anything to tellme--anything that can throw light upon the mystery of my wife'sflight--speak out, and speak quickly. I am almost mad, Reginald. Forgive me, if I spoke harshly just now. You are my nephew, and themask I wear before the world may be dropped in your presence. "

"I know nothing personally of Lady Eversleigh's disappearance, " saidReginald; "but I have good reason to believe that Miss Graham couldtell you much, if she chose to speak out. She has hinted at being inthe secret, and I think it only right you should question her. "

"I will question her, " answered sir Oswald, starting to his feet. "Sendher to me, Reginald. "

Mr. Eversleigh left his uncle, and Miss Graham very speedily appeared--looking the very image of unconscious innocence--and quite unable toimagine what "dear Sir Oswald" could want with her. 

The baronet came to the point very quickly, and before Lydia had timefor consideration, she had been made to give a full account of thescene which she had witnessed on the previous evening between VictorCarrington and Honoria. 

Of course, Miss Graham told Sir Oswald that she had witnessed thisstrange scene in the most accidental manner. She had happened to be ina walk that commanded a view of the fir-grove. 

"And you saw my wife agitated, clinging to that man?"

"Lady Eversleigh was terribly agitated. "

"And then you saw her take her place in the gig, of her own free will?"

"I did, Sir Oswald. "

"Oh, what infamy!" murmured the baronet; "what hideous infamy!"

It was to himself that he spoke rather than to Miss Graham. His eyeswere fixed on vacancy, and it seemed as if he were scarcely aware ofthe young lady's presence. 

Lydia was almost terrified by that blank, awful look. She waited for afew moments, and then, finding that Sir Oswald questioned her nofurther, she crept quietly from the room, glad to escape from thesorrow-stricken husband. Malicious though she was, she believed thatthis time she had spoken the truth. 

"He has reason to repent his romantic choice, " she thought as she leftthe library. "Perhaps now he will think that he might have done betterby choosing a wife from his own set. "

The day wore on; Sir Oswald remained alone in the library, seatedbefore a table, with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on empty space--apicture of despair. 

The clock had struck many times; the hot afternoon sun blazed full uponthe broad Tudor windows, when the door was opened gently, and some onecame into the room. Sir Oswald looked up angrily, thinking it was oneof the servants who had intruded on him. 

It was his wife who stood before him, dressed in the white robes shehad worn at the picnic; but wan and haggard, white as the dress shewore. 

"Oswald, " she cried, with outstretched hands, and the look of one whodid not doubt she would be welcome. 

The baronet sprang to his feet, and looked at that pale face with agaze of unspeakable indignation. 

"And you dare to come back?" he exclaimed. "False-hearted adventuress--actress--hypocrite--you dare to come to me with that lying smile uponyour face--after your infamy of last night!"

"I am neither adventuress, nor hypocrite, Oswald. Oh, where have yourlove and confidence vanished that you can condemn me unheard? I havedone no wrong--not by so much as one thought that is not full of lovefor you! I am the helpless victim of the vilest plot that was everconcocted for the destruction of a woman's happiness. "

A mocking laugh burst from the lips of Sir Oswald. 

"Oh, " he cried, "so that is your story. You are the victim of a plot, are you? You were carried away by ruffians, I suppose? You did not gowillingly with your paramour? Woman, you stand convicted of yourtreachery by the fullest evidence. You were seen to leave the Wizard'sCave! You were seen clinging to Victor Carrington--were seen to go withhim, _willingly_. And then you come and tell me you are the victim of aplot! Oh, Lady Eversleigh, this is too poor a story. I should havegiven you credit for greater powers of invention. "

"If I am guilty, why am I here?" asked Honoria. 

"Shall I tell you why you are here?" cried Sir Oswald, passionately, "Look yonder, madam! look at those wide woodlands, the deer-park, thelakes and gardens; this is only one side of Raynham Castle. It was forthose you returned, Lady Eversleigh, for the love of those--and thosealone. Influenced by a mad and wicked passion, you fled with your loverlast night; but no sooner did you remember the wealth you had lost, theposition you had sacrificed, than you repented your folly. Youdetermined to come back. Your doting husband would doubtless open hisarms to receive you. A few imploring words, a tear or so, and the poor, weak dupe would be melted. This is how you argued; but you were wrong. I have been foolish. I have abandoned myself to the dream of a dotard;but the dream is past. The awakening has been rude, but it has beenefficacious. I shall never dream again. "

"Oswald, will you not listen to my story?"

"No, madam, I will not give you the opportunity of making me a secondtime your dupe. Go--go back to your lover, Victor Carrington. Yourrepentance comes too late. The Raynham heritage will never be yours. Goback to your lover; or, if he will not receive you, go back to thegutter from which I took you. "

"Oswald!"

The cry of reproach went like a dagger to the heart of the baronet. Buthe steeled himself against those imploring tones. He believed that hehad been wronged--that this woman was as false as she was beautiful. 

"Oswald, " cried Honoria, "you must and shall hear my story. I demand ahearing as a right--a right which you could not withhold from thevilest criminal, and which you shall not withhold from me, yourlawfully wedded and faithful wife. You may disbelieve my story, if youplease--heaven knows it seems wild and improbable!--but you shall hearit. Yes, Oswald, _you shall_!"

She stood before him, drawn to her fullest height, confronting himproudly. If this was guilt, it was, indeed, shameless guilt. Unhappily, the baronet believed in the evidence of Lydia Graham, rather than inthe witness of his wife's truth. Why should Lydia have deceived him? heasked himself. What possible motive could she have for seeking toblight his wife's fair name?

Honoria told her story from first to last; she told the history of hernight of anguish. She spoke with her eyes fixed on her husband's face, in which she could read the indications of his every feeling. As herstory drew to a close, her own countenance grew rigid with despair, forshe saw that her words had made no impression on the obdurate heart towhich she appealed. 

"I do not ask you if you believe me, " she said, when her story wasfinished. "I can see that you do not. All is over between us, SirOswald, " she added, in a tone of intense sadness--"all is over. You areright in what you said just now, cruel though your words were. You didtake me from the gutter; you accepted me in ignorance of my pasthistory; you gave your love and your name to a friendless, namelesscreature; and now that circumstances conspire to condemn me, can Iwonder if you, too, condemn--if you refuse to believe my declaration ofmy innocence? I do not wonder. I am only grieved that it should be so. I should have been so proud of your love if it could have survived thisfiery ordeal--so proud! But let that pass. I would not remain an hourbeneath this roof on sufferance. I am quite ready to go from this houseto-day, at an hour's warning, never to re-enter it. Raynham Castle isno more to me than that desolate tower in which I spent last night--without your love. I will leave you without one word of reproach, andyou shall never hear my name, or see my face again. "

She moved towards the door as she spoke. There was a quiet earnestnessin her manner which might have gone far to convince Oswald Eversleighof her truth; but his mind was too deeply imbued with a belief in herfalsehood. This dignified calm, this subdued resignation, seemed to himonly the consummate art of a finished actress. 

"She is steeped in falsehood to the very lips, " he thought. "Doubtless, the little she told me of the history of her childhood was as false asall the rest. Heaven only knows what shameful secrets may have beenhidden in her past life!"

She had crossed the threshold of the door, when some sudden impulsemoved him to follow her. 

"Do not leave Raynham till you have heard further from me, LadyEversleigh, " he said. "It will be my task to make all arrangements foryour future life. "

His wife did not answer him. She walked towards the hall, her headbent, her eyes fixed on the ground. 

"She will not leave the castle until she is obliged to do so, " thoughtSir Oswald, as he returned to the library. "Oh, what a tissue offalsehood she tried to palm upon me! And she would have blackened mynephew's name, in order to screen her own guilt!"

He rang a bell, and told the servant who answered it to fetch Mr. Eversleigh. His nephew appeared five minutes afterwards, still verypale and anxious-looking. 

"I have sent for you, Reginald, " said the baronet, "because I have aduty to perform--a very painful duty--but one which I do not care todelay. It is now nearly a year and a half since I made a will whichdisinherited you. I had good reason for that step, as you know; but Ihave heard no further talk of your vices or your follies; and, so faras I can judge, you have undergone a reformation. It is not for me, therefore, to hold sternly to a determination which I had made in amoment of extreme anger: and I should perhaps have restored you to yourold position ere this, had not a new interest absorbed my heart andmind. I have had cruel reason to repent my folly. I might feelresentment against you, on account of your friend's infamy, but I amnot weak enough for that. Victor Carrington and I have a terribleaccount to settle, and it shall be settled to the uttermost. I needhardly tell you that, if you hold any further communication with him, you will for ever forfeit my friendship. "

"My dear sir, you surely cannot suppose--"

"Do not interrupt me. I wish to say what I have to say, and to havedone with this subject for ever. You know I have already told you thecontents of the will which I made after my marriage. That will left thebulk of my fortune to my wife. That will must now be destroyed; and inthe document which I shall substitute for it, your name will occupy itsold place. Heaven grant that I do wisely, Reginald, and that you willprove yourself worthy of my confidence. "

"My dear uncle, your goodness overpowers me. I cannot find words toexpress my gratitude. "

"No thanks, Reginald. Remember that the change which restores you toyour old position is brought about by my misery. Say no more. Betterthat an Eversleigh should be master of Raynham when I am dead and gone. And now leave me. "

The young man retired. His face betrayed conflicting emotions. Lost toall sense of honour though he was, the iniquity of the scheme by whichhe had succeeded weighed horribly upon his mind, and he was seized witha wild fear of the man through whose agency it had been brought about. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XI. 

 "THE WILL! THE TESTAMENT!"

The brief pang of fear and remorse passed quickly away, and Reginaldwent out upon the terrace to look upon those woods which were once morehis promised heritage; on which he could gaze, as of old, with theproud sense of possession. While looking over that fair domain, heforgot the hateful means by which he had re-established himself as theheir of Raynham. He forgot Victor Carrington--everything except his owngood fortune. His heart throbbed with a sense of triumph. 

He left the terrace, crossed the Italian garden, and made his way tothe light iron gate which opened upon the park. Leaning wearily uponthis gate, he saw an old man in the costume of a pedlar. A broad, slouched hat almost concealed his face, and a long iron-grey bearddrooped upon his chest. His garments were dusty, as if with many aweary mile's wandering on the parched high-roads, and he carried alarge pack of goods upon his back. 

The park was open to the public; and this man had, no doubt, come tothe garden-gate in the hope of finding some servant who would bebeguiled into letting him carry his wares to the castle, for theinspection of Sir Oswald's numerous household. 

"Stand aside, my good fellow, and let me pass, " said Reginald, as heapproached the little gate. 

The man did not stir. His arms were folded on the topmost bar of thegate, and he did not alter his attitude. 

"Let me be the first to congratulate the heir of Raynham on his renewedhopes, " he said, quietly. 

"Carrington!" cried Reginald; and then, after a pause, he asked, "What, in heaven's name, is the meaning of this masquerade?"

The surgeon removed his broad-brimmed hat, and wiped his forehead witha hand that looked brown, wizen, and wrinkled as the hand of an oldman. Nothing could have been more perfect than his disguise. 

The accustomed pallor of his face was changed to the brown and sunburnthue produced by constant exposure to all kinds of weather. A network ofwrinkles surrounded the brilliant black eyes, which now shone undershaggy eyebrows of iron-grey. 

"I should never have recognized you, " said Reginald, staring for somemoments at his friend's face, completely lost in surprise. 

"Very likely not, " answered the surgeon, coolly; "I don't want peopleto recognize me. A disguise that can by any possibility be penetratedis the most fatal mistake. I can disguise my voice as well as my face, as you will, perhaps, hear by and by. When talking to a friend there isno occasion to take so much trouble. "

"But why have you assumed this disguise?"

"Because I want to be on the spot; and you may imagine that, afterhaving eloped with the lady of the house, I could not very safely showmyself here in my own proper person. "

"What need had you to return? Your scheme is accomplished, is it not?"

"Well, not quite. "

"Is there anything more to be done?"

"Yes, there is something more. "

"What is the nature of that something?" asked Reginald. 

"Leave that to me, " answered the surgeon; "and now you had better passon, young heir of Raynham, and leave the poor old pedlar to smoke hispipe, and to watch for some passing maid-servant who will admit him tothe castle. "

Reginald lingered, fascinated in some manner by the presence of hisfriend and counsellor. He wanted to penetrate the mystery hidden in thebreast of his ally. 

"How did you know that your scheme had succeeded?" he asked, presently. 

"I read my success in your face as you came towards this gate just now. It was the face of an acknowledged heir; and now, perhaps, you will begood enough to tell me your news. "

Reginald related all that had happened; the use he had made of LydiaGraham's malice; the interview with his uncle after Lady Eversleigh'sreturn. 

"Good!" exclaimed Victor; "good from first to last! Did ever any schemework so smoothly? That was a stroke of genius of yours, Reginald, theuse you made of Miss Graham's evidence. And so she was watching us, wasshe? Charming creature! how little she knows to what an extent we areindebted to her. Well, Reginald, I congratulate you. It is a grandthing to be the acknowledged heir of such an estate as this. "

He glanced across the broad gardens, blazing with rich masses of vividcolour, produced by the artistic arrangement of the flower-beds. Helooked up to the long range of windows, the terrace, the massivetowers, the grand old archway, and then he looked back at his friend, with a sinister light in his glittering black eyes. 

"There is only one drawback, " he said. 

"And that is--"

"That you may have to wait a very long time for your inheritance. Letme see; your uncle is fifty years of age, I think?"

"Yes; he is about fifty. " "And he has an iron constitution. He has leda temperate, hardy life. Such a man is as likely to live to be eightyas I am to see my fortieth birthday. And that would give you thirtyyears' waiting: a long delay--a terrible trial of patience. "

"Why do you say these things?" cried Reginald, impatiently. "Do youwant to make me miserable in the hour of our triumph? Do you mean thatwe have burdened our souls with all this crime and falsehood fornothing? You are mad, Victor!"

"No; I am only in a speculative mood. Thirty years!--thirty years wouldbe a long time to wait. "

"Who says that I shall have to wait thirty years? My uncle may die longbefore that time. "

"Ah! to be sure! your uncle may die--suddenly, perhaps--very soon, itmay be. The shock of his wife's falsehood may kill him--after he hasmade a new will in your favour!"

The two men stood face to face, looking at each other. 

"What do you mean?" Reginald asked; "and why do you look at me likethat?"

"I am only thinking what a lucky fellow you would be if this grief thathas fallen upon your uncle were to be fatal to his life. "

"Don't talk like that, Carrington. I won't think of such a thing. I amhad enough, I know; but not quite so bad as to wish my uncle dead. "

"You would be sorry if he were dead, I suppose? Sorry--with this domainyour own! with all power and pleasure that wealth can purchase for aman! You would be sorry, would you? You wish well to the kind kinsmanto whom you have been such a devoted nephew! You would prefer to waitthirty years for your heritage--if you should live so long!"

"Victor Carrington, " cried Reginald, passionately, "you are the fiendhimself, in disguise! Let me pass. I will not stop to listen to yourhateful words. "

"Wait to hear one question, at any rate. Why do you suppose I made yousign that promissory note at a twelvemonth's date?"

"I don't know; but you must know, as well as I do, that the note willbe waste-paper so long as my uncle lives. "

"I do know that, my dear Reginald; but I got you to date the documentas you did, because I have a kind of presentiment that before that dateyou will be master of Raynham!"

"You mean that my uncle will die within the year?"

"I am subject to presentiments of that kind. I do not think Sir Oswaldwill see the end of the year!"

"Carrington!" exclaimed Reginald. "Your schemes are hateful. I willhave no further dealings with you. "

"Indeed! Then am I to go to Sir Oswald, and tell him the story of lastnight? Am I to tell him that his wife is innocent?"

"No, no; tell him nothing. Let things stand as they are. The promise ofthe estate is mine. I have suffered too much from the loss of myposition, and I cannot forego my new hopes. But let there be no moreguilt--no more plotting. We have succeeded. Let us wait patiently forthe end. "

"Yes, " answered the surgeon, coolly, "we will wait for the end; and ifthe end should come sooner than our most sanguine hopes have led us toexpect, we will not quarrel with the handiwork of fate. Now leave me. Isee a petticoat yonder amongst the trees. It belongs to some housemaidfrom the castle, I dare say; and I must see if my eloquence as awandering merchant cannot win me admission within the walls which Idare not approach as Victor Carrington. "

Reginald opened the gate with his pass-key, and allowed the surgeon togo through into the gardens. 

 * * * * *

It was dusk when Sir Oswald left the library. He had sent a message tothe chief of his guests, excusing himself from attending the dinner-table, on the ground of ill-health. When he knew that all his visitorswould be assembled in the dining-room, he left the library, for thefirst time since he had entered it after breakfast. 

He had brooded long and gloomily over his misery, and had come to adetermination as to the line of conduct which he should pursue towardshis wife. He went now to Lady Eversleigh's apartments, in order toinform her of his decision; but, to his surprise, he found the roomsempty. His wife's maid was sitting at needlework by one of the windowsof the dressing-room. 

"Where is your mistress?" asked Sir Oswald. 

"She has gone out, sir. She has left the castle for some little time, Ithink, sir; for she put on the plainest of her travelling dresses, andshe took a small travelling-bag with her. There is a note, sir, on themantel-piece in the next room. Shall I fetch it?"

"No; I will get it myself. At what time did Lady Eversleigh leave thecastle?"

"About two hours ago, sir. "

"Two hours! In time for the afternoon coach to York, " thought SirOswald. "Go and inquire if your mistress really left the castle at thattime, " he said to the maid. 

He went into the boudoir, and took the letter from the mantel-piece. Hecrushed it into his breast-pocket with the seal unbroken--

"Time enough to discover what new falsehood she has tried to palm uponme, " he thought. 

He looked round the empty room--which she was never more to occupy. Herbooks, her music, were scattered on every side. The sound of her richvoice seemed still to vibrate through the room. And she was gone--forever! Well, she was a base and guilty creature, and it was better so--infinitely better that her polluting presence should no longerdishonour those ancient chambers, within which generations of proud andpure women had lived and died. But to see the rooms empty, and to knowthat she was gone, gave him nevertheless a pang. 

"What will become of her?" thought Sir Oswald. "She will return to herlover, of course, and he will console her for the sacrifice she hasmade by her mad folly. Let her prize him while he still lives toconsole her; for she may not have him long. Why do I think of her?--whydo I trouble myself about her? I have my affairs to arrange--a new willto make--before I think of vengeance. And those matters once settled, vengeance shall be my only thought. I have done for ever with love!"

Sir Oswald returned to the library. A lamp burned on the table at whichhe was accustomed to write. It was a shaded reading-lamp, which made awide circle of vivid light around the spot where it stood, but left therest of the room in shadow. 

The night was oppressively hot--an August rather than a Septembernight; and, before beginning his work, Sir Oswald flung open one of thebroad windows leading out upon the terrace. Then he unlocked a carvedoak bureau, and took out a packet of papers. He seated himself at thetable, and began to examine these papers. 

Among them was the will which he had executed since his marriage. Heread this, and then laid it aside. As he did so, a figure approachedthe wide-open window; an eager face, illuminated by glittering eyes, peered into the room. It was the face of Victor Carrington, hiddenbeneath the disguise of assumed age, and completely metamorphosed bythe dark skin and grizzled beard. Had Sir Oswald looked up and seenthat face, he would not have recognized its owner. 

After laying aside the document he had read, Sir Oswald began to write. He wrote slowly, meditating upon every word; and after having writtenfor about half an hour, he rose and left the room. The surgeon hadnever stirred from his post by the window; and as Sir Oswald closed thedoor behind him, he crept stealthily into the apartment, and to thetable where the papers lay. His footstep, light always, made no soundupon the thick velvet pile. He glanced at the contents of the paper, onwhich the ink was still wet. It was a will, leaving the bulk of SirOswald's fortune to his nephew, Reginald, unconditionally. VictorCarrington did not linger a moment longer than was necessary toconvince him of this fact. He hurried back to his post by the window:nor was he an instant too soon. The door opened before he had fairlystepped from the apartment. 

Sir Oswald re-entered, followed by two men. One was the butler, theother was the valet, Joseph Millard. The will was executed in thepresence of these men, who affixed their signatures to it as witnesses. 

"I have no wish to keep the nature of this will a secret from myhousehold, " said Sir Oswald. "It restores my nephew, Mr. ReginaldEversleigh, to his position as heir to this estate. You will henceforthrespect him as my successor. "

The two men bowed and retired. Sir Oswald walked towards the window:and Victor Carrington drew back into the shadow cast by a massiveabutment of stone-work. 

It was not very easy for a man to conceal himself on the terrace inthat broad moonlight. 

Voices sounded presently, near one of the windows; and a group ofladies and gentlemen emerged from the drawing-room. 

"It is the hottest night we have had this summer, " said one of them. "The house is really oppressive. "

Miss Graham had enchanted her viscount once more, and she and thatgentleman walked side by side on the terrace. 

"They will discover me if they come this way, " muttered Victor, as heshrank back into the shadow. "I have seen all that I want to see forthe present, and had better make my escape while I am safe. "

He stole quietly along by the front of the castle, lurking always inthe shadow of the masonry, and descended the terrace steps. Fromthence he went to the court-yard, on which the servants' hall opened;and in a few minutes he was comfortably seated in that apartment, listening to the gossip of the servants, who could only speak upon theone subject of Lady Eversleigh's elopement. 

 * * * * *

The baronet sat with the newly-made will before him, gazing at the openleaves with fixed and dreamy eyes. 

Now that the document was signed, a feeling of doubt had takenpossession of him. He remembered how deliberately he had pondered overthe step before he had disinherited his nephew; and now that work, which had cost him so much pain and thought, had been undone on theimpulse of a moment. 

"Have I done right, I wonder?" he asked himself. 

The papers which had been tied in the packet containing the old willhad been scattered on the table when the baronet unfastened the bandthat secured them. He took one of these documents up in sheer absenceof mind, and opened it. 

It was the letter written by the wretched girl who drowned herself inthe Seine--the letter of Reginald Eversleigh's victim--the very letteron the evidence of which Sir Oswald had decided that his nephew was nofitting heir to a great fortune. 

The baronet's brow contracted as he read. 

"And it is to the man who could abandon a wretched woman to despair anddeath, that I am about to leave wealth and power, " he exclaimed. "No;the decision which I arrived at in Arlington Street was a just and wisedecision. I have been mad to-day--maddened by anger and despair; but itis not too late to repent my folly. The seducer of Mary Goodwin shallnever be the master of Raynham Castle. "

Sir Oswald folded the sheet of foolscap on which the will was written, and held it over the flame of the lamp. He carried it over to the fire-place, and threw it blazing on the empty hearth. He watched itthoughtfully until the greater part of the paper was consumed by theflame, and then went back to his seat. 

"My nephews, Lionel and Douglas Dale, shall divide the estate betweenthem, " he thought. "I will send for my solicitor to-morrow, and make anew will. "

 * * * * *

Victor Carrington sat in the servants' hall at Raynham until pasteleven o'clock. He had made himself quite at home with the domestics inhis assumed character. The women were delighted with the showy goodswhich he carried in his pack, and which he sold them at prices farbelow those of the best bargains they had ever made before. 

At a few minutes after eleven he rose to bid them good night. 

"I suppose I shall find the gates open?" he said. 

"Yes; the gates of the court-yard are never locked till half-pasteleven, " answered a sturdy old coachman. 

The pedlar took his leave; but he did not go out by the court-yard. Hewent straight to the terrace, along which he crept with stealthyfootsteps. Many lights twinkled in the upper windows of the terracefront, for at this hour the greater number of Sir Oswald's guests hadretired to their rooms. 

The broad window of the library was still open; but a curtain had beendrawn before it, on one side of which there remained a crevice. Throughthis crevice Victor Carrington could watch the interior of the chamberwith very little risk of being discovered. 

The baronet was still sitting by the writing-table, with the light ofthe library-lamp shining full upon him. An open letter was in his hand. It was the letter his wife had left for him. It was not like the letterof a guilty woman. It was quiet, subdued; full of sadness andresignation, rather than of passionate despair. 

"_I know now that I ought never to have married you, Oswald_, " wroteLady Eversleigh. "_The sacrifice which you made for my sake was toogreat a one. No happiness could well come of such an unequal bargain. You gave me everything, and I could give you so little. The cloud uponmy past life was black and impenetrable. You took me nameless, friendless, unknown; and I can scarcely wonder if, at the first breathof suspicion, your faith wavered and your love failed. Farewell, dearest and best of men! You never can know how truly I have loved you;how I have reverenced your noble nature. In all that has come to passbetween us since the first hour of our miserable estrangement, nothinghas grieved me so deeply as to see your generous soul overclouded bysuspicions and doubts, as unworthy of you as they are needless andunfounded. Farewell! I go back to the obscurity from whence you tookme. You need not fear for my future. The musical education which I oweto your generous help will enable me to live; and I have no wish tolive otherwise than humbly. May heaven bless you_!"

HONORIA. 

This was all. There were no complaints, no entreaties. The letterseemed instinct with the dignity of truth. 

"And she has gone forth alone, unprotected. She has gone back to herlonely and desolate life, " thought the baronet, inclined, for a momentat least, to believe in his wife's words. 

But in the next instant he remembered the evidence of Lydia Graham--thewild and improbable story by which Honoria had tried to account for herabsence. 

"No no, " he exclaimed; "it is all treachery from first to last. She ishiding herself somewhere near at hand, no doubt to wait the result ofthis artful letter. And when she finds that her artifices are thrownaway--when she discovers that my heart has been changed to adamant byher infamy--she will go back to her lover, if he still lives to shelterher. "

A hundred conflicting ideas confused Sir Oswald's brain. But onethought was paramount--and that was the thought of revenge. He resolvedto send for his lawyer early the next morning, to make a new will infavour of his sister's two sons, and then to start in search of the manwho had robbed him of his wife's affection. Reginald would, of course, be able to assist him in finding Victor Carrington. 

While Sir Oswald mused thus, the man of whom he was thinking watchedhim through the narrow space between the curtains. 

"Shall it be to-night?" thought Carrington. "It cannot be too soon. Hemight change his mind about his will at any moment; and if it shouldhappen to-night, people will say the shock of his wife's flight haskilled him. "

Sir Oswald's folded arms rested on the table; his head sank forward onhis arms. The passionate emotions of the day, the previous night ofagony, had at last exhausted him. He fell into a doze--a feverish, troubled sleep. Carrington watched him for upwards of a quarter of anhour as he slept thus. 

"I think he is safe now--and I may venture, " murmured Victor, at theend of that time. 

He crept softly into the room, making a wide circle, and keepinghimself completely in the shadow, till he was behind the sleepingbaronet. Then he came towards the lamp-lit table. 

Amongst the scattered letters and papers, there stood a claret jug, alarge carafe of water, and an empty glass. Victor drew close to thetable, and listened for some moments to the breathing of the sleeper. Then he took a small bottle from his pocket, and dropped a few globulesof some colourless liquid into the empty glass. Having done this, hewithdrew from the apartment as silently as he had entered it. Twelveo'clock struck as he was leaving the terrace. 

"So, " he muttered, "it is little more than three-quarters of an hoursince I left the servants' hall. It would not be difficult to prove an_alibi_, with the help of a blundering village innkeeper. "

He did not attempt to leave the castle by the court-yard, which he knewwould be locked by this time. He had made himself acquainted with allthe ins and outs of the place, and had possessed himself of a keybelonging to one of the garden gates. Through this gate he passed outinto the park, climbed a low fence, and made his way into Raynhamvillage, where the landlord of the "Hen and Chickens" was just closinghis doors. 

"I have been told by the castle servants that you can give me a bed, "he said. 

The landlord, who was always delighted to oblige his patrons in SirOswald's servants' hall and stables, declared himself ready to give thetraveller the best accommodation his house could afford. 

"It's late, sir, " he said; "but we'll manage to make things comfortablefor you. "

So that night the surgeon slept in the village of Raynham. He, too, wasworn out by the fatigue of the past twenty-four hours, and he sleptsoundly all through the night, and slept as calmly as a child. 

It was eight o'clock next morning when he went down the steep, old-fashioned staircase of the inn. He found a strange hubbub and confusionbelow. Awful tidings had just been brought from the castle. Sir OswaldEversleigh had been found seated in his library, DEAD, with the lampstill burning near him, in the bright summer morning. One of the groomshad come down to the little inn, and was telling his story to allcomers, when the pedlar came into the open space before the bar. 

"It was Millard that found him, " the man said. "He was sitting, quitecalm-like, with his head lying back upon the cushion of his arm-chair. There were papers and open letters scattered all about; and they sentoff immediately for Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, to look to the papers, andseal up the locks of drawers and desks, and so on. Mr. Dalton is busyat it now. Mr. Eversleigh is awfully shocked, he is. I never saw such awhite face in all my life as his, when he came out into the hall afterhearing the news. It's a rare fine thing for him, as you may say; forthey say Sir Oswald made a new will last night, and left his nepheweverything; and Mr. Eversleigh has been a regular wild one, and is deepin debt. But, for all that, I never saw any one so cut up as he wasjust now. "

"Poor Sir Oswald!" cried the bystanders. "Such a noble gentleman as hewas, too. What did he die of Mr. Kimber?--do you know?"

"The doctor says it must have been heart-disease, " answered the groom. "A broken heart, I say; that's the only disease Sir Oswald had. It's mylady's conduct has killed him. She must have been a regular bad one, mustn't she?"

The story of the elopement had been fully discussed on the previous dayat the "Hen and Chickens, " and everywhere else in the village ofRaynham. The country gossips shook their heads over Lady Eversleigh'siniquity, but they said little. This new event was of so appalling anature, that it silenced even the tongue of gossip for a while. 

The pedlar took his breakfast in the little parlour behind the bar, andlistened quietly to all that was said by the villagers and the groom. 

"And where is my lady?" asked the innkeeper; "she came back yesterday, didn't she?"

"Yes, and went away again yesterday afternoon, " returned the groom. "She's got enough to answer for, she has. "

 * * * * *

Terrible indeed was the consternation, which reigned that day atRaynham Castle. Already Sir Oswald's guests had been making hastyarrangements for their departure; and many visitors had departed evenbefore the discovery of that awful event, which came like a thunderclapupon all within the castle. 

Few men had ever been better liked by his acquaintances than Sir OswaldEversleigh. 

His generous nature, his honourable character, had won him every man'srespect. His great wealth had been spent lavishly for the benefit ofothers. His hand had always been open to the poor and necessitous. Hehad been a kind master, a liberal landlord, an ardent and devotedfriend. There is little wonder, therefore, if the news of his suddendeath fell like an overwhelming blow on all assembled within thecastle, and on many more beyond the castle walls. 

The feeling against Honoria Eversleigh was one of unmitigatedexecration. No words could be too bitter for those who spoke of SirOswald's wife. 

It had been thought on the previous evening that she had left thecastle for ever, banished by the command of her husband. Nothing, therefore, could have exceeded the surprise which filled every breastwhen she entered the crowded hall some minutes after the discovery ofSir Oswald's death. 

Her face was whiter than marble, and its awful whiteness was contrastedby the black dress which she wore. 

"Is this true?" she cried, in accents of despair. "Is he really dead?"

"Yes, Lady Eversleigh, " answered General Desmond, an Indian officer, and an old friend of the dead man, "Sir Oswald is dead. "

"Let me go to him! I cannot believe it--I cannot--I cannot!" she cried, wildly. "Let me go to him!"

Those assembled round the door of the library looked at her with horrorand aversion. To them this semblance of agony seemed only theconsummate artifice of an accomplished hypocrite. 

"Let me go to him! For pity's sake, let me see him!" she pleaded, withclasped hands. "I cannot believe that he is dead. "

Reginald Eversleigh was standing by the door of the library, pale asdeath--more ghastly of aspect than death itself. He had been leaningagainst the doorway, as if unable to support himself; but, as Honoriaapproached, he aroused himself from a kind of stupor, and stretched outhis arm to bar her entrance to the death-chamber. 

"This is no scene for you, Lady Eversleigh, " he said, sternly. "Youhave no right to enter that chamber. You have no right to be beneaththis roof. "

"Who dares to banish me?" she asked, proudly. "And who can deny myright?"

"I can do both, as the nearest relative of your dead husband. "

"And as the friend of Victor Carrington, " answered Honoria, lookingfixedly at her accuser. "Oh! it is a marvellous plot, ReginaldEversleigh, and it wanted but this to complete it. My disgrace was thefirst act in the drama, my husband's death the second. Your friend'streachery accomplished one, you have achieved the other. Sir OswaldEversleigh has been murdered!"

A suppressed cry of horror broke simultaneously from every lip. As theawful word "murder" was repeated, the doctor, who had been until thismoment beside the dead man, came to the door, and opened it. 

"Who was it spoke of murder?" he asked. 

"It was I, " answered Honoria. "I say that my husband's death is nosudden stroke from the hand of heaven! There is one here who refuses tolet me see him, lest I should lay my hand upon his corpse and call downheaven's vengeance on his assassin!"

"The woman is mad, " faltered Reginald Eversleigh. 

"Look at the speaker, " cried Honoria. "I am not mad, ReginaldEversleigh, though, by you and your fellow-plotter, I have been made tosuffer that which might have turned a stronger brain than mine. I amnot mad. I say that my husband has been murdered; and I ask all presentto mark my words. I have no evidence of what I say, except instinct;but I know that it does not deceive me. As for you, ReginaldEversleigh, I refuse to recognize your rights beneath this roof. As thewidow of Sir Oswald, I claim the place of mistress in this house, untilevents show whether I have a right to it or not. "

These were bold words from one who, in the eyes of all present, was adisgraced wife, who had been banished by her husband. 

General Desmond was the person who took upon himself to reply. He wasthe oldest and most important guest now remaining at the castle, and hewas a man who had been much respected by Sir Oswald. 

"I certainly do not think that any one here can dispute LadyEversleigh's rights, until Sir Oswald's will has been read, and hislast wishes made known. Whatever passed between my poor friend and hiswife yesterday is known to Lady Eversleigh alone. It is for her tosettle matters with her own conscience; and if she chooses to remainbeneath this roof, no one here can presume to banish her from it, except in obedience to the dictates of the dead. "

"The wishes of the dead will soon be known, " said Reginald; "and thenthat guilty woman will no longer dare to pollute this house by herpresence. "

"I do not fear, Reginald Eversleigh, " answered Honoria, with sublimecalmness. "Let the worst come. I abide the issue of events. I wait tosee whether iniquity is to succeed; or whether, at the last moment, thehand of Providence will be outstretched to confound the guilty. Myfaith is strong in Providence, Mr. Eversleigh. And now stand aside, ifyou please, and let me look upon the face of my husband. "

This time, Reginald Eversleigh did not venture to dispute the widow'sright to enter the death-chamber. He made way for her to pass him, andshe went in and knelt by the side of the dead. Mr. Dalton, the lawyer, was moving softly about the room, putting seals on all the locks, andcollecting the papers that had been scattered on the table. The parishdoctor, who had been summoned hastily, stood near the corpse. A groomhad been despatched to a large town, twenty miles distant, to summon amedical man of some distinction. There were few railroads in thosedays; no electric telegraph to summon a man from one end of the countryto another. But all the most distinguished doctors who ever lived couldnot have restored Sir Oswald Eversleigh to an hour's life. All thatmedical science could do now, was to discover the mode of the baronet'sdeath. 

The crowd left the hall by and by, and the interior of the castle grewmore tranquil. All the remaining guests, with the exception of GeneralDesmond, made immediate arrangements for leaving the house of death. 

General Desmond declared his intention of remaining until after thefuneral. 

"I may be of some use in watching the interests of my dear friend, " hesaid to Reginald Eversleigh. "There is only one person who will feelyour uncle's death more deeply than I shall, and that is poor oldCopplestone. He is still in the castle, I suppose?"

"Yes, he is confined to his rooms still by the gout. "

Reginald Eversleigh was by no means pleased by the general's decision. He would rather have been alone in the castle. It seemed as if hisuncle's old friend was inclined to take the place of master in thehousehold. The young man's pride revolted against the general's love ofdictation; and his fears--strange and terrible fears--made the presenceof the general very painful to him. 

Joseph Millard had come to Reginald a little time after the discoveryof the baronet's death, and had told him the contents of the new will. 

"Master told us with his own lips that he had left you heir to theestates, sir, " said the valet. "There was no need for it to be kept asecret, he said; and we signed the will as witnesses--Peterson, thebutler, and me. "

"And you are sure you have made no mistake, Millard. Sir Oswald--mypoor, poor uncle, said that?"

"He said those very words, Mr. Eversleigh; and I hope, sir, now thatyou are master of Raynham, you won't forget that I was always anxiousfor your interests, and gave you valuable information, sir, when Ilittle thought you would ever inherit the estate, sir. "

"Yes, yes--you will not find me ungrateful, Millard, " answeredReginald, impatiently; for in the terrible agitation of his mind, thisman's talk jarred upon him. "I shall reward you liberally for pastservices, you may depend upon it, " he added. 

"Thank you very much, sir, " murmured the valet, about to retire. 

"Stay, Millard, " said the young man. "You have been with my uncletwenty years. You must know everything about his health. Did you everhear that he suffered from heart-disease?"

"No, sir; he never did suffer from anything of the kind. There neverwas a stronger gentleman than Sir Oswald. In all the years that I haveknown him, I don't recollect his having a day's serious illness. And asto his dying of disease of the heart, I can't believe it, Mr. Eversleigh. "

"But in heart-complaint death is almost always sudden, and the diseaseis generally unsuspected until death reveals it. "

"Well, I don't know, sir. Of course the medical gentlemen understandsuch things; but I must say that _I_ don't understand Sir Oswald goingoff sudden like that. "

"You'd better keep your opinions to yourself down stairs, Millard. Ifan idea of that kind were to get about in the servants' hall, it mightdo mischief. "

"I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for myopinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentimentsin the servants' hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head. In the first place, I don't take my meals in the servants' hall, but inthe steward's room; and it's very seldom I hold any communicationwhatever with under-servants. It don't do, Mr. Eversleigh--you maythink me 'aughty; but it don't do. If upper-servants want to berespected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves. "

"Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You canleave me now--my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event. "

No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle, and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encounteredVictor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment withVictor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood;but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting forhim somewhere without the boundary of the garden. 

He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway, he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of thespreading beeches. 

"I am glad you are here, " said Reginald; "I fancied I might find yousomewhere hereabouts. "

"And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last twohours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance ofseeing you. "

"You have heard of--of--"

"I have heard everything, I believe. "

"What does it mean, Victor?--what does it all mean?"

"It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead ofwaiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard, you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England. "

"You knew, then, that the will was made last night?"

"Well, I guessed as much. "

"You have seen Millard?"

"No, I have not seen Millard. "

"How could you know of my uncle's will, then? It was only executed lastnight. "

"Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that beenough for you. "

"It is too terrible, " murmured the young man, after a pause; "it is tooterrible. "

"What is too terrible?"

"This sudden death. "

"Is it?" cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion's face, with an expression of supreme scorn. "Would you rather have waitedthirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twentyyears?--ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know youbetter than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in thismatter. If your uncle's life had lain in your open palm last night, andthe closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would haveclosed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are ahypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to belike me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it asyou do. "

Reginald made no reply to this disdainful speech. His own weakness ofcharacter placed him entirely in the power of his friend. The two menwalked on together in silence. 

"You do not know all that has occurred since last night at the castle, "said Reginald, at last; "Lady Eversleigh has reappeared. "

"Lady Eversleigh! I thought she left Raynham yesterday afternoon. "

"So it was generally supposed; but this morning she came into the hall, and demanded to be admitted to see her dead husband. Nor was this all. She publicly declared that he had been murdered, and accused me of thecrime. This is terrible, Victor. "

"It is terrible, and it must be put an end to at once. "

"But how is it to be put an end to?" asked Reginald. "If this womanrepeats her accusations, who is to seal her lips?"

"The tables must be turned upon her. If she again accuses you, you mustaccuse her. If Sir Oswald were indeed murdered, who so likely to havecommitted the murder as this woman--whose hatred and revenge were, nodoubt, excited by her husband's refusal to receive her back, after herdisgraceful flight? This is what you have to say; and as every one'sopinion is against Lady Eversleigh, she will find herself in rather anunpleasant position, and will be glad to hold her peace for the futureupon the subject of Sir Oswald's death. "

"You do not doubt my uncle died a natural death, do you, Victor?" askedReginald, with a strange eagerness. "You do not think that he wasmurdered?"

"No, indeed. Why should I think so?" returned the surgeon, with perfectcalmness of manner. "No one in the castle, but you and Lady Eversleigh, had any interest in his life or death. If he came to his end by anyfoul means, she must be the guilty person, and on her the deed must befixed. You must hold firm, Reginald, remember. "

The two men parted soon after this; but not before they had appointedto meet on the following day, at the same hour, and on the same spot. Reginald Eversleigh returned to the castle, gloomy and ill at ease, andon entering the house he discovered that the doctor from Plimboroughhad arrived during his absence, and was to remain until the followingday, when his evidence would be required at the inquest. 

It was Joseph Millard who told him this. 

"The inquest! What inquest?" asked Reginald. 

"The coroner's inquest, sir. It is to be held to-morrow in the greatdining-room. Sir Oswald died so suddenly, you see, sir, that it's onlynatural there should be an inquest. I'm sorry to say there's a talkabout his having committed suicide, poor gentleman!"

"Suicide--yes--yes--that is possible; he may have committed suicide, "murmured Reginald. 

"It's very dreadful, isn't it, sir? The two doctors and Mr. Dalton, thelawyer, are together in the library. The body has been moved into thestate bed-room. "

The lawyer emerged from the library at this moment, and approachedReginald. 

"Can I speak with you for a few minutes, Mr. Eversleigh?" he asked. 

"Certainly. "

He went into the library, where he found the two doctors, and anotherperson, whom he had not expected to see. 

This was a country gentleman--a wealthy landed squire and magistrate--whom Reginald Eversleigh had known from his boyhood. His name wasGilbert Ashburne; and he was an individual of considerable importancein the neighbourhood of Raynham, near which village he had a fineestate. 

Mr. Ashburne was standing with his back to the empty fireplace, inconversation with one of the medical men, when Reginald entered theroom. He advanced a few paces, to shake hands with the young man, andthen resumed his favourite magisterial attitude, leaning against thechimney-piece, with his hands in his trousers' pockets. 

"My dear Eversleigh, " he said, "this is a very terrible affair--veryterrible!"

"Yes, Mr. Ashburne, my uncle's sudden death is indeed terrible. "

"But the manner of his death! It is not the suddenness only, but thenature--"

"You forget, Mr. Ashburne, " interposed one of the medical men, "Mr. Eversleigh knows nothing of the facts which I have stated to you. "

"Ah, he does not! I was not aware of that. You have no suspicion of anyfoul play in this sad business, eh, Mr. Eversleigh?" asked themagistrate. 

"No, " answered Reginald. "There is only one person I could possiblysuspect; and that person has herself given utterance to suspicions thatsound like the ravings of madness. "

"You mean Lady Eversleigh?" said the Raynham doctor. 

"Pardon me, " said Mr. Ashburne; "but this business is altogether sopainful that it obliges me to touch upon painful subjects. Is there anytruth in the report which I have heard of Lady Eversleigh's flight onthe evening of some rustic gathering?"

"Unhappily, the report has only too good a foundation. My uncle's wifedid take flight with a lover on the night before last; but she returnedyesterday, and had an interview with her husband. What took place atthat interview I cannot tell you; but I imagine that my uncle forbadeher to remain beneath his roof. Immediately after she had left him, hesent for me, and announced his determination to reinstate me in my oldposition as his heir. He would not, I am sure, have done this, had hebelieved his wife innocent. "

"And she left the castle at his bidding?"

"It was supposed that she left the castle; but this morning shereappeared, and claimed the right to remain beneath this roof. "

"And where had she passed the night?"

"Not in her own apartments. Of that I have been informed by her maid, who believed that she had left Raynham for good. "

"Strange!" exclaimed the magistrate. "If she is guilty, why does sheremain here, where her guilt is known--where she maybe suspected of acrime, and the most terrible of crimes?"

"Of what crime?"

"Of murder, Mr. Eversleigh. I regret to tell you that these two medicalgentlemen concur in the opinion that your uncle's death was caused bypoison. A _post-mortem_ examination will be made to-night. "

"Upon what evidence?"

"On the evidence of an empty glass, which is under lock and key inyonder cabinet, " answered the doctor from Plimborough; "and at thebottom of which I found traces of one of the most powerful poisonsknown to those who are skilled in the science of toxicology: and on thefurther evidence of diagnostics which I need not explain--the evidenceof the dead man's appearance, Mr. Eversleigh. That your uncle died fromthe effects of poison, there cannot be the smallest doubt. The nextquestion to be considered is, whether that poison was administered byhis own hand, or the hand of an assassin. "

"He may have committed suicide, " said Reginald, with some hesitation. 

"It is just possible, " answered Gilbert Ashburne; "though from myknowledge of your uncle's character, I should imagine it most unlikely. At any rate, his papers will reveal the state of his mind immediatelybefore his death. It is my suggestion, therefore, that his papersshould be examined immediately by you, as his nearest relative andacknowledged heir--by me, as magistrate of the district, and in thepresence of Mr. Dalton, who was your uncle's confidential solicitor. Have you any objection to offer to this course, Mr. Eversleigh, or SirReginald, as I suppose I ought now to call you?" It was the first timeReginald Eversleigh had heard himself addressed by the title which wasnow his own--that title which, borne by the possessor of a greatfortune, bestows so much dignity; but which, when held by a poor man, is so hollow a mockery. In spite of his fears--in spite of that senseof remorse which had come upon him since his uncle's death--the soundof the title was pleasant to his ears, and he stood for the momentsilent, overpowered by the selfish rapture of gratified pride. 

The magistrate repeated his question. 

"Have you any objection to offer, Sir Reginald?"

"None whatever, Mr. Ashburne. "

Reginald Eversleigh was only too glad to accede to the magistrate'sproposition. He was feverishly anxious to see the will which was tomake him master of Raynham. He knew that such a will had been dulyexecuted. He had no reason to fear that it had been destroyed; butstill he wanted to see it--to hold it in his hands, to haveincontestable proof of its existence. 

The examination of the papers was serious work. The lawyer suggestedthat the first to be scrutinized should be those that he had found onthe table at which Sir Oswald had been writing. 

The first of these papers which came into the magistrate's hand wasMary Goodwin's letter. Reginald Eversleigh recognized the familiarhandwriting, the faded ink, and crumpled paper. He stretched out hishand at the moment Gilbert Ashburne was about to examine the document. 

"That is a letter, " he said, "a strictly private letter, which Irecognize. It is addressed to me, as you will see; and posted in Parisnearly two years ago. I must beg you not to read it. "

"Very well, Sir Reginald, I will take your word for it. The letter hasnothing to do with the subject of our present inquiry. Certainly, aletter, posted in Paris two years ago, can scarcely have any connectionwith the state of your uncle's mind last night. "

The magistrate little thought how very important an influence thatcrumpled sheet of paper had exercised upon the events of the previousnight. 

Gilbert Ashburne and the lawyer examined the rest of the packet. Therewere no papers of importance; nothing throwing any light upon lateevents, except Lady Eversleigh's letter, and the will made by thebaronet immediately after his marriage. 

"There is another and a later will, " said Reginald, eagerly; "a willmade last night, and witnessed by Millard and Peterson. This earlierwill ought to have been destroyed. "

"It is not of the least consequence, Sir Reginald, " replied thesolicitor. "The will of latest date is the true one, if there should bea dozen in existence. "

"We had better search for the will made last night, " said Reginald, anxiously. 

The magistrate and the lawyer complied. They perceived the anxiety ofthe expectant heir, and gave way to it. The search occupied a longtime, but no second will was found; the only will that could bediscovered was that made within a week of the baronet's marriage. 

"The will attested last night must be in this room, " exclaimedReginald. "I will send for Millard; and you shall hear from his lips anexact account of what occurred. "

The young man tried in vain to conceal the feeling of alarm which hadtaken possession of him. What would be his position if this will shouldnot be found? A beggar, steeped in crime. 

He rang the bell and sent for the valet. Joseph Millard came, andrepeated his account of the previous night's transaction. It was clearthat the will had been made. It was equally clear that if it were stillin existence, it must be found in that room, for the valet declaredthat his master had not left the library after the execution of thedocument. 

"I was on the watch and on the listen all night, you see, gentlemen, "said Joseph Millard; "for I was very uneasy about master, knowing whattrouble had come upon him, and how he'd never been to bed all the nightbefore. I thought he might call me at any minute, so I kept close athand. There's a little room next to this, and I sat in there with thedoor open, and though I dropped off into a doze now and then, I neverwas sound enough asleep not to have heard this door open, if it didopen. But I'll take my Bible oath that Sir Oswald never left this roomafter me and Peterson witnessed the will. "

"Then the will must be somewhere in the room, and it will be ourbusiness to find it, " answered Mr. Ashburne. "That will do, Millard;you can go. "

The valet retired. 

Reginald recommenced the search for the will, assisted by themagistrate and the lawyer, while the two doctors stood by the fire-place, talking together in suppressed tones. 

This time the search left no crevice unexamined. But all was donewithout avail; and despair began to gain upon Reginald Eversleigh. 

What if all the crime, the falsehood, the infamy of the past few dayshad been committed for no result?

He was turning over the papers in the bureau for the third or fourthtime, with trembling hands, in the desperate hope that somehow or otherthe missing will might have escaped former investigations, when he wasarrested by a sudden exclamation from Mr. Missenden, the Plimboroughsurgeon. 

"I don't think you need look any farther, Sir Reginald, " said thisgentleman. 

"What do you mean?" cried Reginald, eagerly. 

"I believe the will is found. "

"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the young man. 

"You mistake, Sir Reginald, " said Mr. Missenden, who was kneeling bythe fire-place, looking intently at some object in the polished steelfender; "if I am right, and that this really is the document inquestion, I fear it will be of very little use to you. "

"It has been destroyed!" gasped Reginald. 

"I fear so. This looks to me like the fragment of a will. "

He handed Reginald a scrap of paper, which he had found amongst a heapof grey ashes. It was scorched to a deep yellow colour, and burnt atthe edges; but the few words written upon it were perfectly legible, nevertheless. 

These words were the following:--

"--_Nephew, Reginald Eversleigh--Raynham Castle estate--all lands andtenements appertaining--sole use and benefit_--"

This was all. Reginald gazed at the scrap of scorched paper with wild, dilated eyes. All hope was gone; there could be little doubt that thismorsel of paper was all that remained of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's latestwill. 

And the will made previously bequeathed Raynham to the testator'swindow, a handsome fortune to each of the two Dales, and a pittance offive hundred a-year to Reginald. 

The young man sank into a chair, stricken down by this overwhelmingblow. His white face was the very picture of despair. 

"My uncle never destroyed this document, " he exclaimed; "I will notbelieve it. Some treacherous hand has been thrust between me and myrights. Why should Sir Oswald have made a will in one hour anddestroyed it in the next? What could have influenced him to alter hismind?"

As he uttered these words, Reginald Eversleigh remembered that fatalletter of Mary Goodwin, which had been found lying uppermost amongstthe late baronet's papers. That letter had caused Sir Oswald todisinherit his nephew once. Was it possible that the same letter hadinfluenced him a second time?

But the disappointed man did not suffer himself to dwell long on thissubject. He thought of his uncle's widow, and the triumph that she hadwon over the schemers who had plotted so basely to achieve herdestruction. A savage fury filled his soul as he thought of Honoria. 

"This will has been destroyed by the one person most interested in itsdestruction, " he cried. "Who can doubt now that my uncle was poisoned, and the will destroyed by the same person?--and who can doubt thatperson to be Lady Eversleigh?"

"My dear sir, " exclaimed Mr. Ashburne, "this really will not do. Icannot listen to such accusations, unsupported by any evidence. "

"What evidence do you need, except the evidence of truth?" criedReginald, passionately. "Who else was interested in the destruction ofthat paper?--who else was likely to desire my uncle's death? Who buthis false and guilty wife? She had been banished from beneath thisroof; she was supposed to have left the castle; but instead of goingaway, she remained in hiding, waiting her chances. If there has been amurder committed, who can doubt that she is the murderess? Who canquestion that it was she who burnt the will which robbed her of wealthand station, and branded her with disgrace?"

"You are too impetuous, Sir Reginald, " returned the magistrate. "I willown there are grounds for suspicion in the circumstances of which youspeak; but in such a terrible affair as this there must be no jumpingat conclusions. However, the death of your uncle by poison immediatelyafter the renunciation of his wife, and the burning of the will whichtransferred the estates from her to you, are, when considered inconjunction, so very mysterious--not to say suspicious--that I shallconsider myself justified in issuing a warrant for the detention ofLady Eversleigh, upon suspicion of being concerned in the death of herhusband. I shall hold an inquiry here to-morrow, immediately after thecoroner's inquest, and shall endeavour to sift matters most thoroughly. If Lady Eversleigh is innocent, her temporary arrest can do her noharm. She will not be called upon to leave her own apartments; and veryfew outside the castle, or, indeed, within it, need be aware of herarrest. I think I will wait upon her myself, and explain the painfulnecessity. "

"Yes, and be duped by her plausible tongue, " cried Reginald bitterly. "She completely bewitched my poor uncle. Do you know that he picked herup out of the gutter, and knew no more of her past life than he knew ofthe inhabitants of the other planets? If you see her, she will fool youas she fooled him. "

"I am not afraid of her witcheries, " answered the magistrate, withdignity. "I shall do my duty, Sir Reginald, you may depend upon it. "

Reginald Eversleigh said no more. He left the library without utteringa word to any of the gentlemen. The despair which had seized upon himwas too terrible for words. Alone, locked in his own room, he gnashedhis teeth in agony. 

"Fools! dolts! idiots that we have been, with all our deeply-laid plotsand subtle scheming, " he cried, as he paced up and down the room in aparoxysm of mad rage, "She triumphs in spite of us--she can laugh us toscorn! And Victor Carrington, the man whose intellect was to conquerimpossibilities, what a shallow fool he has shown himself, after all! Ithought there was something superhuman in his success, so strangely didfate seem to favour his scheming; and now, at the last--when the cupwas at my lips--it is snatched away, and dashed to the ground!"

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XII. 

 A FRIEND IN NEED. 

While the new baronet abandoned himself to the anguish of disappointedavarice and ambition, Honoria sat quietly in her own apartments, brooding very sadly over her husband's death. 

She had loved him honestly and truly. No younger lover had ever wonpossession of her heart. Her life, before her meeting with Sir Oswald, had been too miserable for the indulgence of the romantic dreams orpoetic fancies of girlhood. The youthful feelings of this woman, whocalled herself Honoria, had been withered by the blasting influence ofcrime. It was only when gratitude for Sir Oswald's goodness melted theice of that proud nature--it was then only that Honoria's womanlytenderness awoke--it was then only that affection--a deep-felt and pureaffection--for the first time occupied her heart. 

That affection was all the more intense in its nature because it wasthe first love of a noble heart. Honoria had reverenced in her husbandall that she had ever known of manly virtue. 

And he was lost to her! He had died believing her false. 

"I could have borne anything but that, " she thought, in her desolation. 

The magistrate came to her, and explained the painful necessity underwhich he found himself placed. But he did not tell her of thedestruction of the will, nor yet that the medical men had pronounceddecisively as to Sir Oswald's death. He only told her that there weresuspicious circumstances connected with that death; and that it wasconsidered necessary there should he a careful investigation of thosecircumstances. 

"The investigation cannot be too complete, " replied Honoria, eagerly. "I know that there has been foul play, and that the best and noblest ofmen has fallen a victim to the hand of an assassin. Oh, sir, if you areable to distinguish truth from falsehood, I implore you to listen tothe story which my poor husband refused to believe--the story of thebasest treachery that was ever plotted against a helpless woman!"

Mr. Ashburne declared himself willing to hear any statement LadyEversleigh might wish to make; but he warned her that it was justpossible that statement might be used against her hereafter. 

Honoria told him the circumstances which she had related to Sir Oswald;the false alarm about her husband, the drive to Yarborough Tower, andthe night of agony spent within the ruins; but, to her horror, sheperceived that this man also disbelieved her. The story seemed wild andimprobable, and people had already condemned her. They were prepared tohear a fabrication from her lips; and the truth which she had to tellseemed the most clumsy and shallow of inventions. 

Gilbert Ashburne did not tell her that he doubted her; but, polite ashis words were, she could read the indications of distrust in his face. She could see that he thought worse of her after having heard thestatement which was her sole justification. 

"And where is this Mr. Carrington now to be found?" he asked, presently. "I do not know. Having accomplished his base plot, andcaused his friend's restoration to the estates, I suppose he has takencare to go far away from the scene of his infamy. "

The magistrate looked searchingly at her face. Was this acting, or wasshe ignorant of the destruction of the will? Did she, indeed, believethat the estates were lost to herself?

 * * * * *

Before the hour at which the coroner's inquest was to be held in thegreat dining-room, Reginald Eversleigh and Victor Carrington met at theappointed spot in the avenue of firs. 

One glance at his friend's face informed Victor that some fatal eventhad occurred since the previous day. Reginald told him, in brief, passionate words, of the destruction of the will. 

"You are a clever schemer, no doubt, Mr. Carrington, " he added, bitterly; "but clever as you are, you have been outwitted as completelyas the veriest fool that ever blundered into ruin. Do you understand, Carrington--we are not richer by one halfpenny for all your scheming?"

Carrington was silent for awhile; but when, after a considerable pause, he at length spoke, his voice betrayed a despair as intense in itsquiet depth as the louder passion of his companion. 

"I cannot believe it, " he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper. "I tell you, man, you must, have made some senseless mistake. The will cannot havebeen destroyed. "

"I had the fragments in my hand, " answered Reginald. "I saw my namewritten on the worthless scrap of burnt paper. All that was leftbesides that wretched fragment were the ashes in the grate. "

"I saw the will executed--I saw it--within a few hours of Sir Oswald'sdeath. "

"You saw it done?"

"Yes, I was outside the window of the library. "

"And you--! oh, it is too horrible, " cried Reginald. 

"What is too horrible?"

"The deed that was done that night. "

"That deed is no business of ours, " answered Victor; "the person whodestroyed the will was your uncle's assassin, if he died by the hand ofan assassin. "

"Do you really believe that, Carrington; or are you only fooling me?"

"What else should I believe?"

The two men parted. Reginald Eversleigh knew that his presence would berequired at the coroner's inquest. The surgeon did not attempt todetain him. 

For the time, at least, this arch-plotter found himself suddenlybrought to a stand-still. 

The inquest commenced almost immediately after Reginald's return to thecastle. 

The first witness examined was the valet, who had been the person todiscover the death; the next were the two medical men, whose evidencewas of a most important nature. 

It was a closed court, and no one was admitted who was not required togive evidence. Lady Eversleigh sat at the opposite end of the table tothat occupied by the coroner. She had declined to avail herself of theservices of any legal adviser. She had declared her determination totrust in her own innocence, and in that alone. Proud, calm, and self-possessed, she confronted the solemn assembly, and did not shrink fromthe scrutinizing looks that met her eyes in every direction. 

Reginald Eversleigh contemplated her with a feeling of murderoushatred, as he took his place at some little distance from her seat. 

The evidence of Mr. Missenden was to the effect that Sir OswaldEversleigh had died from the effects of a subtle and little-knownpoison. He had discovered traces of this poison in the empty glasswhich had been found upon the table beside the dead man, and he haddiscovered further traces of the same poison in the stomach of thedeceased. 

After the medical witnesses had both been examined, Peterson, thebutler, was sworn. He related the facts connected with the execution ofthe will, and further stated that it was he who had carried the carafeof water, claret-jug, and the empty glass to Sir Oswald. 

"Did you fetch the water yourself?" asked the coroner. 

"Yes, your worship--Sir Oswald was very particular about the waterbeing iced--I took it from a filter in my own charge. "

"And the glass?"

"I took the glass from my own pantry. "

"Are you sure that there was nothing in the glass when you took thesalver to you master?"

"Quite sure, sir. I'm very particular about having all my glass brightand clear--it's the under butler's duty to see to that, and it's myduty to keep him up to his work. I should have seen in a moment if theglass had been dull and smudgy at the bottom. "

The water remaining in the carafe had been examined by the medicalwitnesses, and had been declared by them to be perfectly pure. Theclaret had been untouched. The poison could, therefore, have only beenintroduced to the baronet's room in the glass; and the butler protestedthat no one but himself and his assistant had access to the place inwhich the glass had been kept. 

How, then, could the baronet have been poisoned, except by his ownhand?

Reginald Eversleigh was one of the last witnesses examined. He told ofthe interview between himself and his uncle, on the day preceding SirOswald's death. He told of Lydia Graham's revelations--he toldeverything calculated to bring disgrace upon the woman who sat, paleand silent, confronting her fate. 

She seemed unmoved by these scandalous revelations. She had passedthrough such bitter agony within the last few days and nights, that itseemed to her as if nothing could have power to move her more. 

She had endured the shame of her husband's distrust. The man she lovedso dearly had cast her from him with disdain and aversion. What newagony could await her equal to that through which she had passed. 

Reginald Eversleigh's hatred and rage betrayed him into passing thelimits of prudence. He told the story of the destroyed will, and boldlyaccused Lady Eversleigh of having destroyed it. 

"You forget yourself, Sir Reginald, " said the coroner; "you are here asa witness, and not as an accuser. "

"But am I to keep silence, when I know that yonder woman is guilty of acrime by which I am robbed of my heritage?" cried the young man, passionately. "Who but she was interested in the destruction of thatwill? Who had so strong a motive for wishing my uncle's death? Why wasshe hiding in the castle after her pretended departure, except for someguilty purpose? She left her own apartments before dusk, after writinga farewell letter to her husband. Where was she, and what was shedoing, after leaving those apartments?"

"Let me answer those questions, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, " said a voicefrom the doorway. 

The young baronet turned and recognized the speaker. It was his uncle'sold friend, Captain Copplestone, who had made his way into the roomunheard while Reginald had been giving his evidence. He was stillseated in his invalid-chair--still unable to move without its aid. 

"Let me answer those questions, " he repeated. "I have only just heardof Lady Eversleigh's painful position. I beg to be sworn immediately, for my evidence may be of some importance to that lady. "

Reginald sat down, unable to contest the captain's right to be heard, though he would fain have done so. 

Lady Eversleigh for the first time that day gave evidence of someslight emotion. She raised her eyes to Captain Copplestone's bronzedface with a tearful glance, expressive of gratitude and confidence. 

The captain was duly sworn, and then proceeded to give his evidence, inbrief, abrupt sentences, without waiting to be questioned. 

"You ask where Lady Eversleigh spent the night of her husband's death, and how she spent it. I can answer both those questions. She spent thatnight in my room, nursing a sick old man, who was mad with the torturesof rheumatic gout, and weeping over Sir Oswald's refusal to believe inher innocence. 

"You'll ask, perhaps, how she came to be in my apartments on thatnight. I'll answer you in a few words. Before leaving the castle shecame to my room, and asked my old servant to admit her. She had beenvery kind and attentive to me throughout my illness. My servant is agruff and tough old fellow, but he is grateful for any kindness that'sshown to his master. He admitted Lady Eversleigh to see me, ill as Iwas. She told me the whole story which she told her husband. 'Herefused to believe me, Captain Copplestone, ' she said; 'he who onceloved me so dearly refused to believe me. So I come to you, his bestand oldest friend, in the hope that you may think better of me; andthat some day, when I am far away, and time has softened my husband'sheart towards me, you may speak a good word in my behalf. ' And I didbelieve her. Yes, Mr. Eversleigh--or Sir Reginald Eversleigh--I did, and I do, believe that lady. "

"Captain Copplestone, " said the coroner; "we really do not require allthese particulars; the question is--when did Lady Eversleigh enter yourrooms, and when did she quit them?"

"She came to me at dusk, and she did not leave my rooms until the nextmorning, after the discovery of my poor friend's death. When she hadtold me her story, and her intention of leaving the castle immediately, I begged her to remain until the next day. She would be safe in myrooms, I told her. No one but myself and my old servant would know thatshe had not really left the castle; and the next day, when Sir Oswald'spassion had been calmed by reflection, I should be able, perhaps, tointercede successfully for the wife whose innocence I most implicitlybelieved, in spite of all the circumstances that had conspired tocondemn her. Lady Eversleigh knew my influence over her husband; and, after some persuasion, consented to take my advice. My diabolical gouthappened to be a good deal worse than usual that night, and my friend'swife assisted my servant to nurse me, with the patience of an angel, ora sister of charity. From the beginning to the end of that fatal nightshe never left my apartments. She entered my room before the will couldhave been executed, and she did not leave it until after her husband'sdeath. "

"Your evidence is conclusive, Captain Copplestone, and it exoneratesher ladyship from all suspicion, " said the coroner. 

"My evidence can be confirmed in every particular by my old servant, Solomon Grundy, " said the captain, "if it requires confirmation. "

"It requires none, Captain Copplestone. "

Reginald Eversleigh gnawed his bearded lip savagely. This man'sevidence proved that Lady Eversleigh had not destroyed the will. SirOswald himself, therefore, must have burned the precious document. Andfor what reason?

A horrible conviction now took possession of the young baronet's mind. He believed that Mary Goodwin's letter had been for the second timeinstrumental in the destruction of his prospects. A fatal accident hadthrown it in his uncle's way after the execution of the will, and thesight of that letter had recalled to Sir Oswald the stern resolution atwhich he had arrived in Arlington Street. 

Utter ruin stared Reginald Eversleigh in the face. The possessor of anempty title, and of an income which, to a man of his expensive habits, was the merest pittance, he saw before him a life of unmitigatedwretchedness. But he did not execrate his own sins and vices for themisery which they had brought upon him. He cursed the failure of VictorCarrington's schemes, and thought of himself as the victim of VictorCarrington's blundering. 

The verdict of the coroner's jury was an open one, to the effect that"Sir Oswald Eversleigh died by poison, but by whom administered therewas no evidence to show. "

The general opinion of those who had listened to the evidence was thatthe baronet had committed suicide. Public opinion around and aboutRaynham was terribly against his widow. Sir Oswald had been universallyesteemed and respected, and his melancholy end was looked on as herwork. She had been acquitted of any positive hand is his death; but shewas not acquitted of the guilt of having broken his heart by herfalsehood. 

Her obscure origin, her utter friendlessness, influenced people againsther. What must be the past life of this woman, who, in the hour of herwidowhood, had not one friend to come forward to support and protecther?

The world always chooses to see the darker side of the picture. Nobodyfor a moment imagined that Honoria Eversleigh might possibly be theinnocent victim of the villany of others. 

The funeral of Sir Oswald Eversleigh was conducted with all the pompand splendour befitting the burial of a man whose race had held theland for centuries, with untarnished fame and honour. The day of thefuneral was dark, cold, and gloomy; stormy winds howled and shriekedamong the oaks and beeches of Raynham Park. The tall firs in the avenuewere tossed to and fro in the blast, like the funereal plumes of thatstately hearse which was to issue at noon from the quadrangle of thecastle. 

It was difficult to believe that less than a fortnight had elapsedsince that bright and balmy day on which the picnic had been held atthe Wizard's Cave. 

Lady Eversleigh had declared her intention of following her husband tohis last resting-place. She had been told that it was unusual for womenof the higher classes to take part in a funeral _cortège_; but she hadstedfastly adhered to her resolution. 

"You tell me it is not the fashion!" she said to Mr. Ashburne. "I donot care for fashion, I would offer the last mark of respect andaffection to the husband who was my dearest and truest friend upon thisearth, and without whom the earth is very desolate for me. If the deadpass at once into those heavenly regions were Divine Wisdom reignssupreme over all mortal weakness, the emancipated spirit of him whogoes to his tomb this day knows that my love, my faith, never faltered. If I had wronged him as the world believes, Mr. Ashburne, I must, indeed, be the most hardened of wretches to insult the dead by mypresence. Accept my determination as a proof of my innocence, if youcan. "

"The question of your guilt or innocence is a dark enigma which Icannot take upon myself to solve, Lady Eversleigh, " answered GilbertAshburne, gravely. "It would be an unspeakable relief to my mind if Icould think you innocent. Unhappily, circumstances combine to condemnyou in such a manner that even Christian charity can scarcely admit thepossibility of your innocence. "

"Yes, " murmured the widow, sadly, "I am the victim of a plot soskilfully devised, so subtly woven, that I can scarcely wonder if theworld refuses to believe me guiltless. And yet you see that honourablesoldier, that brave and true-hearted gentleman, Captain Copplestone, does not think me the wretch I seem to be. 

"Captain Copplestone is a man who allows himself to be guided by hisinstincts and impulses, and who takes a pride in differing from hisfellow-men. I am a man of the world, and I am unable to form anyjudgment which is not justified by facts. If facts combine to condemnyou, Lady Eversleigh, you must not think me harsh or cruel if I cannotbring myself to acquit you. "

During the preceding conversation Honoria Eversleigh had revealed themost gentle, the most womanly side of her character. There had been apleading tone in her voice, an appealing softness in her glances. Butnow the expression of her face changed all at once; the beautifulcountenance grew cold and stern, the haughty lip quivered with theagony of offended pride. 

"Enough!" she said. "I will never again trouble you, Mr. Ashburne, byentreating your merciful consideration. Let your judgment be thejudgment of the world. I am content to await the hour of myjustification; I am content to trust in Time, the avenger of allwrongs, and the consoler of all sorrows. In the meanwhile, I will standalone--a woman without a friend, a woman who has to fight her ownbattles with the world. "

Gilbert Ashburne could not withhold his respect from the woman whostood before him, queen-like in her calm dignity. 

"She may be the basest and vilest of her sex, " he thought to himself, as he left her presence; "but she is a woman whom it is impossible todespise. "

The funeral procession was to leave Raynham at noon. At eleven o'clockthe arrival of Mr. Dale and Mr. Douglas Dale was announced. These twogentlemen had just arrived at the castle, and the elder of the tworequested the favour of an interview with his uncle's widow. 

She was seated in one of the apartments which had been allotted to herespecial use when she arrived, a proud and happy bride, from her briefhoneymoon tour. It was the spacious morning-room which had been sacredto the late Lady Eversleigh, Sir Oswald's mother. 

Here the widow sat in the hour of her desolation, unhonoured, unloved, without friend or counsellor; unless, indeed, the gallant soldier whohad defended her from the suspicion of a hideous crime might stoop tobefriend her further in her bitter need. She sat alone, uncertain, after the reading of the dead man's will, whether she might not bethrust forth from the doors of Raynham Castle, shelterless, homeless, penniless, once more a beggar and an outcast. 

Her heart was so cruelly stricken by the crushing blow that had fallenupon her; the grief she felt for her husband's untimely fate was sodeep and sincere, that she thought but little of her own future. Shehad ceased to feel either hope or fear. Let fate do its worst. Nosorrow that could come to her in the future, no disgrace, nohumiliation, could equal in bitterness that fiery ordeal through whichshe had passed during the last few days. 

Lionel Dale was ushered into the morning-room while Lady Eversleigh satby the hearth, absorbed in gloomy thought. 

She rose as Lionel Dale entered the room, and received him with statelycourtesy. 

She was prepared to find herself despised by this young man, who would, in all probability, very speedily learn, or who had perhaps alreadylearned, the story of her degradation. 

She was prepared to find herself misjudged by him. But he was thenephew of the man who had once so devotedly loved her; the husbandwhose memory was hallowed for her; and she was determined to receivehim with all respect, for the sake of the beloved and honoured dead. 

"You are doubtless surprised to see me here, madam, " said Mr. Dale, ina tone whose chilling accent told Honoria that this stranger wasalready prejudiced against her. "I have received no invitation to takepart in the sad ceremonial of to-day, either from you or from SirReginald Eversleigh. But I loved Sir Oswald very dearly, and I am hereto pay the last poor tribute of respect to that honoured and generousfriend. "

"Permit me thank you for that tribute, " answered Lady Eversleigh. "If Idid not invite you and your brother to attend the funeral, it was fromno wish to exclude you. My desires have been in no manner consultedwith regard to the arrangements of to-day. Very bitter misery hasfallen upon me within the last fortnight--heaven alone knows howundeserved that misery has been--and I know not whether this roof willshelter me after to-day. "

She looked at the stranger very earnestly as she said this. It wasbitter to stand _quite_ alone in the world; to know herself utterlyfallen in the estimation of all around her; and she looked at LionelDale with a faint hope that she might discover some touch ofcompassion, some shadow of doubt in his countenance. 

Alas, no, --there was none. It was a frank, handsome face--a face thatwas no polished mask beneath which the real man concealed himself. Itwas a true and noble countenance, easy to read as an open book. Honorialooked at it with despair in her heart, for she perceived but tooplainly that this man also despised her. She understood at once that hehad been told the story of his uncle's death, and regarded her as theindirect cause of that fatal event. 

And she was right. He had arrived at the chief inn in Raynham two hoursbefore, and there he had heard the story of Lady Eversleigh's flightand Sir Oswald's sudden death, with some details of the inquest. Slowto believe evil, he had questioned Gilbert Ashburne, before acceptingthe terrible story as he had heard it from the landlord of the inn. Mr. Ashburne only confirmed that story, and admitted that, in his opinion, the flight and disgrace of the wife had been the sole cause of thedeath of the husband. 

Once having heard this, and from the lips of a man whom he knew to bethe soul of truth and honour, Lionel Dale had but one feeling for hisuncle's widow, and that feeling was abhorrence. 

He saw her in her beauty and her desolation; but he had no pity for hermiserable position, and her beauty inspired him only with loathing; forhad not that beauty been the first cause of Sir Oswald Eversleigh'smelancholy fate?

"I wished to see you, madam, " said Lionel Dale, after that silencewhich seemed so long, "in order to apologize for a visit which mightappear an intrusion. Having done so, I need trouble you no further. "

He bowed with chilling courtesy, and left the room. He had uttered noword of consolation, no assurance of sympathy, to that pale widow of aweek; nothing could have been more marked than the omission of thosecustomary phrases, and Honoria keenly felt their absence. 

The dead leaves strewed the avenue along which Sir Oswald Eversleighwent to his last resting-place; the dead leaves fluttered slowlydownward from the giant oaks--the noble old beeches; there was not onegleam of sunshine on the landscape, not one break in the leaden grey ofthe sky. It seemed as if the funeral of departed summer was beingcelebrated on this first dreary autumn day. 

Lady Eversleigh occupied the second carriage in the stately procession. She was alone. Captain Copplestone was confined to his room by thegout. She went alone--tearless--in outward aspect calm as a statue; butthe face of the corpse hidden in the coffin could scarcely have beenwhiter than hers. 

As the procession passed out of the gates of Raynham, a tramp who stoodamong the rest of the crowd, was strangely startled by the sight ofthat beautiful face, so lovely even in its marble whiteness. 

"Who is that woman sitting in yonder carriage?" he asked. 

He was a rough, bare-footed vagabond, with a dark evil-lookingcountenance, which he did well to keep shrouded by the broad brim ofhis battered hat. He looked more like a smuggler or a sailor than anagricultural labourer, and his skin was bronzed by long exposure to theweather. 

"She's Sir Oswald's widow, " answered one of the bystanders; "she's hiswidow, more shame for her! It was she that brought him to his death, with her disgraceful goings-on. "

The man who spoke was a Raynham tradesman. 

"What goings-on?" asked the tramp, eagerly. "I'm a stranger in theseparts, and don't know anything about yonder funeral. "

"More's the pity, " replied the tradesman. "Everybody ought to know thestory of that fine madam, who just passed us by in her carriage. Itmight serve as a warning for honest men not to be led away by a prettyface. That white-faced woman yonder is Lady Eversleigh. Nobody knowswho she was, or where she came from, before Sir Oswald brought her homehere. She hadn't been home a month before she ran away from her husbandwith a young foreigner. She repented her wickedness before she'd gotvery far, and begged and prayed to be took back again, and vowed anddeclared that she'd been lured away by a villain; and that it was all amistake. That's how I've heard the story from the servants, and one andanother. But Sir Oswald would not speak to her, and she would have beenturned out of doors if it hadn't been for an old friend of his. However, the end of her wickedness was that Sir Oswald poisonedhimself, as every one knows. "

No more was said. The tramp followed the procession with the rest ofthe crowd, first to the village church, where a portion of the funeralservice was read, and then back to the park, where the melancholyceremonial was completed before the family mausoleum. 

It was while the crowd made a circle round this mausoleum that thetramp contrived to push his way to the front rank of the spectators. Hestood foremost amongst a group of villagers, when Lady Eversleighhappened to look towards the spot where he was stationed. 

In that moment a sudden change came over the face of the widow. Itsmarble whiteness was dyed by a vivid crimson--a sudden flush of shameor indignation, which passed away quickly; but a dark shadow remainedupon Lady Eversleigh's brow after that red glow had faded from hercheek. 

No one observed that change of countenance. The moment was a solemnone; and even those who did not really feel its solemnity, affected todo so. 

At the last instant, when the iron doors of the mausoleum closed with aclanging sound upon the new inmate of that dark abode, Honoria'sfortitude all at once forsook her. One long cry, which was like ashriek wrung from the spirit of despair, broke from her colourlesslips, and in the next moment she had sunk fainting upon the groundbefore those inexorable doors. 

No sympathizing eyes had watched her looks, or friendly arm wasstretched forth in time to support her. But when she lay lifeless andunconscious on the sodden grass, some touch of pity stirred the heartsof the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas Dale. 

The elder, Lionel, stepped forward, and lifted that lifeless form fromthe ground. He carried the unconscious widow to the carriage, where heseated her. 

Sense returned only too quickly to that tortured brain. HonoriaEversleigh opened her eyes, and recognized the man who stood by herside. 

"I am better now, " she said. "Do not let my weakness cause you anytrouble. I do not often faint; but that last moment was too bitter. "

"Are you really quite recovered? Can I venture to leave you?" askedLionel Dale, in a much kinder tone than he had employed before inspeaking to his uncle's widow. 

"Yes, indeed, I have quite recovered. I thank you for your kindness, "murmured Honoria, gently. 

Lionel Dale went back to the carriage allotted to himself and hisbrother. On his way, he encountered Reginald Eversleigh. 

"I have heard it whispered that my uncle's wife was an actress, " saidReginald. "That exhibition just now was rather calculated to confirmthe idea. "

"If by 'exhibition' you mean that outburst of despair, I am convincedthat it was perfectly genuine, " answered Lionel, coldly. 

"I am sorry you are so easily duped, my dear Lionel, " returned hiscousin, with a sneer. "I did not think a pretty face would have suchinfluence over you. "

No more was said. The two men passed to their respective carriages, andthe funeral procession moved homewards. 

In the grand dining-hall of the castle, Sir Oswald's lawyer was to readthe will. Kinsmen, friends, servants, all were assembled to hear thereading of that solemn document. 

In the place of honour sat Lady Eversleigh. She sat on the right handof the lawyer, calm and dignified, as if no taint of suspicion had evertarnished her fame. 

The solicitor read the will. It was that will which Sir Oswald hadexecuted immediately after his marriage--the will, of which he hadspoken to his nephew, Reginald. 

It made Honoria Eversleigh sole mistress of the Raynham estates. Itgave to Lionel and Douglas Dale property worth ten thousand a year. Itgave to Reginald a small estate, producing an income of five hundred ayear. To Captain Copplestone the baronet left a legacy of threethousand pounds, and an antique seal-ring which had been worn byhimself. 

The old servants of Raynham were all remembered, and some curious oldplate and gold snuff-boxes were left to Mr. Wargrave, the rector, andGilbert Ashburne. 

This was all. Five hundred a year was the amount by which Reginald hadprofited by the death of a generous kinsman. 

By the terms of Sir Oswald's will the estates of Lionel and DouglasDale would revert to Reginald Eversleigh in case the owners should diewithout direct heirs. If either of these young men were to dieunmarried, his brother would succeed to his estate, worth five thousanda year. But if both should die, Reginald Eversleigh would become theowner of double that amount. 

It was the merest chance, the shadow of a chance, for the lives of bothyoung men were better than his own, inasmuch as both had led healthfuland steadier lives than the dissipated Reginald Eversleigh. But eventhis poor chance was something. 

"They may die, " he thought; "death lurks in every bush that borders thehighway of life. They or both may die, and I may regain the wealth thatshould have been mine. "

He looked at the two young men. Lionel, the elder, was the handsomer ofthe two. He was fair, with brown curling hair, and frank blue eyes. Reginald, as he looked at him, thought bitterly, "I must indeed be thevery fool of hope and credulity to fancy he will not marry. But, if hewere safe, I should not so much fear Douglas. " The younger, Douglas, was a man whom some people would have called plain. But the dark sallowface, with its irregular features, was illuminated by an expression ofmingled intelligence and amiability, which possessed a charm for alljudges worth pleasing. 

Lionel was the clergyman, Douglas the lawyer, or rather law-student, for the glory of his maiden brief was yet to come. 

How Reginald envied these fortunate kinsmen! He hated them withpassionate hate. He looked from them to Honoria, the woman against whomhe had plotted--the woman who triumphed in spite of him--for he couldnot imagine that grief for a dead husband could have any place in theheart of a woman who found herself mistress of such a domain asRaynham, and its dependencies. 

Lady Eversleigh's astonishment was unbounded. This will placed her ineven a loftier position than that which she had occupied when possessedof the confidence and affection of her husband. For her pride there wassome consolation in this thought; but the triumph, which was sweet tothe proud spirit, afforded no balm for the wounded heart. He was gone--he whose love had made her mistress of that wealth and splendour. Hewas gone from her for ever, and he had died believing her false. 

In the midst of her triumph the widow bowed her head upon her hands, and sobbed convulsively. The tears wrung from her in this moment werethe first she had shed that day, and they were very bitter. 

Reginald Eversleigh watched her with scorn and hatred in his heart. 

"What do you say now, Lionel?" he said to his cousin, when the threeyoung men had left the dining-hall, and were seated at luncheon in asmaller chamber. "You did not think my respected aunt a clever actresswhen she fainted before the doors of the mausoleum. You will at leastacknowledge that the piece of acting she favoured us with just now wassuperb. "

"What do you mean by 'a piece of acting'?"

"That outburst of grief which my lady indulged in, when she foundherself mistress of Raynham. "

"I believe that it was genuine, " answered Mr. Dale, gravely. 

"Oh, you think the inheritance a fitting subject for lamentation?"

"No, Reginald. I think a woman who had wronged her husband, and hadbeen the indirect cause of his death, might well feel sorrow when shediscovered how deeply she had been loved, and how fully she had beentrusted by that generous husband. "

"Bah!" cried Reginald, contemptuously. "I tell you, man, LadyEversleigh is a consummate actress, though she never acted before abetter audience than the clodhoppers at a country fair. Do you know whomy lady was when Sir Oswald picked her out of the gutter? If you don't, I'll enlighten you. She was a street ballad-singer, whom the baronetfound one night starving in the market-place of a country town. Hepicked her up--out of charity; and because the creature happened tohave a pretty face, he was weak enough to marry her. "

"Respect the follies of the dead, " replied Lionel. "My uncle's love wasgenerous. I only regret that the object of it was so unworthy. "

"Oh!" exclaimed Reginald, "I thought just now that you sympathized withmy lady. "

"I sympathize with every remorseful sinner, " said Lionel. 

"Ah, that's your _shop_!" cried Reginald, who could not conceal hisbitter feelings. "You sympathize with Lady Eversleigh because she is awealthy sinner, and mistress of Raynham Castle. Perhaps you'll stophere and try to step into Sir Oswald's shoes. I don't know whetherthere's any law against a man marrying his uncle's widow. "

"You insult me, and you insult the dead, Sir Reginald, by the tone inwhich you discuss these things, " answered Lionel Dale. "I shall leaveRaynham by this evening's coach, and there is little likelihood thatLady Eversleigh and I shall ever meet again. It is not for me to judgeher sins, or penetrate the secrets of her heart. I believe that hergrief to-day was thoroughly genuine. It is not because a woman hassinned that she must needs be incapable of any womanly feeling. "

"You are in a very charitable humour, Lionel, " said Sir Reginald, witha sneer; "but you can afford to be charitable. "

Mr. Dale did not reply to this insolent speech. 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and his two cousins left the village of Raynhamby the same coach. The evening was finer than the day had been, and afull moon steeped the landscape in her soft light, as the travellerslooked their last on the grand old castle. 

The baronet contemplated the scene with unmitigated rage. 

"Hers!" he muttered; "hers! to have and hold so long as she lives! Anameless woman has tricked me out of the inheritance which should havebeen mine. But let her beware! Despair is bold, and I may yet discoversome mode of vengeance. "

While the departing traveller mused thus, a pale woman stood at one ofthe windows of Raynham Castle, looking out upon the woods, over whichthe moon sailed in all her glory. 

"Mine!" she said to herself; "those lands and woods belong to me!--tome, who have stood face to face with starvation!--to me, who haveconsidered it a privilege to sleep in an empty barn! They are mine; butthe possession of them brings no pleasure. My life has been blighted bya wrong so cruel, that wealth and position are worthless in my eyes. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XIII. 

 IN YOUR PATIENCE YE ARE STRONG. 

Early upon the morning after the funeral, a lad from the village ofRaynham presented himself at the principal door of the servants'offices, and asked to see Lady Eversleigh's maid. 

The young woman who filled that office was summoned, and came toinquire the business of the messenger. 

Her name was Jane Payland; she was a Londoner by birth, and a citizenof the world by education. 

She had known very little of either comfort or prosperity before sheentered the service of Lady Eversleigh. She was, therefore, in somemeasure at least, devoted to the interests of that mistress, and shewas inclined to believe in her innocence; though, even to her, thestory of the night in Yarborough Tower seemed almost too wild andimprobable for belief. 

Jane Payland was about twenty-four years of age, tall, slim, andactive. She had no pretensions to beauty; but was the sort of personwho is generally called lady-like. 

This morning she went to the little lobby, in which the boy had beentold to wait, indignant at the impertinence of anyone who could dare tointrude upon her mistress at such a time. 

"Who are you, and what do you want?" she asked angrily. 

"If you please, ma'am, I'm Widow Beckett's son, " the boy answered, inevident terror of the young woman in the rustling black silk dress andsmart cap; "and I've brought this letter, please; and I was only togive it to the lady's own maid, please. 

"I am her own maid, " answered Jane. 

The boy handed her a dirty-looking letter, directed, in a bold clearhand, to Lady Eversleigh. 

"Who gave you this?" asked Jane Payland, looking at the dirty envelopewith extreme disgust. 

"It was a tramp as give it me--a tramp as I met in the village; andI'm to wait for an answer, please, and I'm to take it to him at the'Hen and Chickens. '"

"How dare you bring Lady Eversleigh a letter given you by a tramp--abegging letter, of course? I wonder at your impudence. "

"I didn't go to do no harm, " expostulated Master Beckett. "He says tome, he says, 'If her ladyship once sets eyes upon that letter, she'llarnswer it fast enough; and now you cut and run, ' he says; 'it's amatter of life and death, it is, and it won't do to waste time overit. '"

These words were rather startling to the mind of Jane Payland. What wasshe to do? Her own idea was, that the letter was the concoction of somepractised impostor, and that it would be an act of folly to take it toher mistress. But what if the letter should be really of importance?What if there should be some meaning in the boy's words? Was it not herduty to convey the letter to Lady Eversleigh?

"Stay here till I return, " she said, pointing to a bench in the lobby. 

The boy seated himself on the extremest edge of the bench, with his haton his knees, and Jane Payland left him. 

She went straight to the suite of apartments occupied by LadyEversleigh. 

Honoria did not raise her eyes when Jane Payland entered the room. There was a gloomy abstraction in her face, and melancholy engrossedher thoughts. 

"I beg pardon for disturbing you, my lady, " said Jane; "but a lad fromthe village has brought a letter, given him by a tramp; and, accordingto his account, the man talked in such a very strange manner that Ithought I really ought to tell you, my lady; and--"

To the surprise of Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh started suddenly fromher seat, and advanced towards her, awakened into sudden life andenergy as by a spell. 

"Give me the letter, " she cried, abruptly. 

She took the soiled and crumpled envelope from her servant's hand witha hasty gesture. 

"You may go, " she said; "I will ring when I want you. "

Jane Payland would have given a good deal to see that letter opened;but she had no excuse for remaining longer in the room. So shedeparted, and went to her lady's dressing-room, which, as well as allthe other apartments, opened out of the corridor. 

In about a quarter of an hour, Lady Eversleigh's bell rang, and Janehurried to the morning-room. 

She found her mistress still seated by the hearth. Her desk stood openon the table by her side; and on the desk lay a letter, so newlyaddressed that the ink on the envelope was still wet. 

"You will take that to the lad who is waiting, " said Honoria, pointingto this newly-written letter. 

"Yes, my lady. "

Jane Payland departed. On the way between Lady Eversleigh's room andthe lobby in the servants' offices, she had ample leisure to examinethe letter. 

It was addressed--

"_Mr. Brown, at the 'Hen and Chickens_. '"

It was sealed with a plain seal. Jane Payland was very well acquaintedwith the writing of her mistress, and she perceived at once that thisletter was not directed in Lady Eversleigh's usual hand. 

The writing had been disguised. It was evident, therefore, that thiswas a letter which Lady Eversleigh would have shrunk from avowing asher own. 

Every moment the mystery grew darker. Jane Payland liked her mistress;but there were two things which she liked still better. Those twothings were power and gain. She perceived in the possession of herlady's secrets a high-road to the mastery of both. Thus it happenedthat, when she had very nearly arrived at the lobby where the boy waswaiting, Jane Payland suddenly changed her mind, and darted off inanother direction. 

She hurried along a narrow passage, up the servants' staircase, andinto her own room. Here she remained for some fifteen or twentyminutes, occupied with some task which required the aid of a lightedcandle. 

At the end of that time she emerged, with a triumphant smile upon herthin lips, and Lady Eversleigh's letter in her hand. 

The seal which secured the envelope was a blank seal; but it was notthe same as the one with which Honoria Eversleigh had fastened herletter half an hour before. 

The abigail carried the letter to the boy, and the boy departed, verywell pleased to get clear of the castle without having received anyfurther reproof. 

He went at his best speed to the little inn, where he inquired for Mr. Brown. 

That gentleman emerged presently from the inn-yard, where he had beenhanging about, listening to all that was to be heard, and talking tothe ostler. 

He took the letter from the boy's hand, and rewarded him with thepromised shilling. Then he left the yard, and walked down a laneleading towards the river. 

In this unfrequented lane he tore open the envelope, and read hisletter. 

It was very brief:

"_Since my only chance of escaping persecution is to accede, in somemeasure, to your demands, I will consent to see you. If you will waitfor me to-night, at nine o'clock, by the water-side, to the left of thebridge, I will try to come to that spot at that hour. Heaven grant themeeting may be our last_!"

Exactly as the village church clock struck nine, a dark figure crosseda low, flat meadow, lying near the water, and appeared upon the narrowtowing-path by the river's edge. A man was walking on this pathway, hisface half hidden by a slouched hat, and a short pipe in his month. 

He lifted his hat presently, and bared his head to the cool nightbreeze. His hair was closely cropped, like that of a convict. The broadmoonlight shining fall upon his face, revealed a dark, weather-beatencountenance--the face of the tramp who had stood at the park-gates towatch the passing of Sir Oswald's funeral train--the face of the trampwho had loitered in the stable-yard of the "Hen and Chickens"--the faceof the man who had been known in Ratcliff Highway by the ominous nameof Black Milsom. 

This was the man who waited for Honoria Eversleigh in the moonlight bythe quiet river. 

He advanced to meet her as she came out of the meadow and appeared uponthe pathway. 

"Good evening, my lady, " he said. "I suppose I ought to be humblybeholden to such a grand lady as you for coming here to meet the likesof me. But it seems rather strange you must needs come out here insecret to see such a very intimate acquaintance as I am, considering asyou're the mistress of that great castle up yonder. I must say it seemsuncommon hard a man can't pay a visit to his own--"

"Hush!" cried Lady Eversleigh. "Do not call me by _that_ name, if youdo not wish to inspire me with a deeper loathing than that which Ialready feel for you. "

"Well, I'm blest!" muttered Mr. Milsom; "that's uncommon civil languagefrom a young woman to--"

Honoria stopped him by a sudden gesture. 

"I suppose you expect to profit by this interview?" she said. 

"That I most decidedly do expect, " answered the tramp. 

"In that case, you will carefully avoid all mention of the past, forotherwise you will get nothing from me. "

The man responded at first only with a sulky growl. Then, after a briefpause, he muttered--

"I don't want to talk about the past any more than you do, my fine, proud madam. If it isn't a pleasant time for you to remember, it isn'ta pleasant time for me to remember. It's all very well for a youngwoman who has her victuals found for her to give herself airs about themanner other people find _their_ victuals; but a man must live somehowor other. If he can't get his living in a pleasant way, he must get itin an unpleasant way. "

After this there was a silence which lasted for some minutes. LadyEversleigh was trying to control the agitation which oppressed her, despite the apparent calmness of her manner. Black Milsom walked by herside in sullen silence, waiting for her to speak. 

The spot was lonely. Lady Eversleigh and her companion were justifiedin believing themselves unobserved. 

But it was not so. Lonely as the spot was, those two were not alone. Astealthy, gliding, female figure, dark and shadowy in the uncertainlight, had followed Lady Eversleigh from the castle gates, and thatfigure was beside her now, as she walked with Black Milsom upon theriver bank. 

The spy crept by the side of the hedge that separated the river bankfrom the meadow; and sheltered thus, she was able to distinguish almostevery word spoken by the two upon the bank, so clearly sounded theirvoices in the still night air. 

"How did you find me here?" asked Lady Eversleigh, at last. 

"By accident. You gave us the slip so cleverly that time you took itinto your precious head to cut and run, that, hunt where we would, wewere never able to find you. I gave it up for a bad job; and thenthings went agen me, and I got sent away. But I'm my own master againnow; and I mean to make good use of my liberty, I can tell you, mylady. I little knew how you'd feathered your nest while I was on theother side of the water. I little thought how you would turn up atlast, when I least expected to see you. You might have knocked me downwith a feather yesterday, when that fine funeral came out of the parkgates, and I saw your face at the window of one of the coaches. Youmust have been an uncommonly clever young woman, and an uncommonly slyone, to get a baronite for your husband, and to get a spooney old coveto leave you all his fortune, after behaving so precious bad to him. Did your husband know who you were when he married you?"

"He found me starving in the street of a country town. He knew that Iwas friendless, homeless, penniless. That knowledge did not prevent himmaking me his wife. "

"Ah! but there was something more he didn't know. He didn't know thatyou were Black Milsom's daughter; you didn't tell him that, I'll lay awager. "

"I did not tell him that which I know to be a lie, " replied Honoria, calmly. 

"Oh, it's a lie, is it? You are not my daughter, I suppose?"

"No, Thomas Milsom, I am not--I know and feel that I am not"

"Humph!" muttered Black Milsom, savagely; "if you were not my daughter, how was it that you grew up to call me father?"

"Because I was forced to do so. I remember being told to call youfather. I remember being beaten because I refused to do so--beaten till I submitted from very fear of being beaten to death. Oh, itwas a bright and happy childhood, was it not, Thomas Milsom? Achildhood to look back to with love and regret. And now, finding thatfortune has lifted me out of the gutter into which you flung me, youcome to me to demand your share of my good fortune, I suppose?"

"That's about it, my lady, " answered Mr. Milsom, with supreme coolness. "I don't mind a few hard words, more or less--they break no bones; and, what's more, I'm used to 'em. What I want is money, ready money, downon the nail, and plenty of it. You may pelt me as hard as you like withfine speeches, as long as you cash up liberally; but cash I must have, by fair means or foul, and I want a pretty good sum to start with. "

"You want a large sum, " said Honoria, quietly; "how much do you want?"

"Well, I don't want to take a mean advantage of your generosity, soI'll be moderate. Say five thousand pounds--to begin with. "

"And you expect to get that from me?"

"Of course I do. "

"Five thousand pounds?"

"Five thousand pounds, ready money. "

Lady Eversleigh stopped suddenly, and looked the man full in the face. 

"You shall not have five thousand pence, " she exclaimed, "not fivethousand pence. My dead husband's money shall never pass into yourhands, to be squandered in scenes of vice and crime. If you choose tolive an honest life, I will allow you a hundred a year--a pension whichshall be paid you quarterly--through the hands of my London solicitors. Beyond this, I will not give you a halfpenny. "

"What!" roared Black Milsom, in an infuriated tone. "What, JennyMilsom, Honoria, Lady Eversleigh, or whatever you may please to callyourself, do you think I will stand that? Do you think I will hold mytongue unless you pay me handsomely to keep silence? You don't know thekind of man you have to deal with. To-morrow every one in the villageshall know what a high-born lady lives up at the old castle--they shallknow what a dutiful daughter the lady of Raynham is, and how shesuffers her father to tramp barefoot in the mud, while she rides in hercarriage!"

"You may tell them what you please. "

"I'll tell them plenty, you may depend upon it. "

"Will you tell them how Valentine Jernam came by his death?" askedHonoria, in a strange tone. 

The tramp started, and for a few moments seemed at a loss for words inwhich to reply. But he recovered himself very quickly, and exclaimed, savagely--

"I'm not going to tell them any of your senseless dreams and fancies;but I mean to tell them who you are. That will be quite enough forthem; and before I do let them know so much, you'd better change yourmind, and act generously towards me. "

"Upon that subject I shall never change my mind, " answered HonoriaEversleigh, with perfect self-possession. "You will accept the pensionI offer you, or you will reject it, as you please--you will neverreceive more, directly or indirectly, from me, " she continued, presently. "As for your threat of telling my miserable history to thepeople of this place, it is a threat which can have no influence overme. Tell these people what you choose. Happily, the opinion of theworld is of small account to me. "

"You will change your mind between this and to-morrow morning, " criedBlack Milsom. 

He was almost beside himself with rage and mortification. He felt as ifhe could have torn this woman to pieces--this proud and courageouscreature, who dared to defy him. 

"I shall not change my mind, " answered Honoria. "You could not conquerme, even when I was a weak and helpless child; you must remember that. "

"Humph! you were rather a queer temper in those days--a strange-lookingchild, too, with your white face and your big black eyes. "

"Aye; and even in those days my will was able to do battle with men andwomen, and to support me even against your violence. You, and thosebelonging to you, were able to break my heart, but were not strongenough to bend my spirit. I have the same spirit yet, Thomas Milsom;and you will find it useless to try to turn me from my purpose. "

The man did not answer immediately. He looked fiercely, searchingly, atthe pale, resolute face that was turned to him in the moonlight. 

"The name of my solicitor is Dunford, " said Honoria, presently; "Mr. Joseph Dunford, of Gray's Inn. If you apply to him on your arrival inLondon, he will give you the first installment of your pension. "

"Five and twenty pounds!" grumbled Milsom; "a very handsome amount, upon my word! And you have fifteen thousand a year!"

"I have. "

"May the curse of a black and bitter heart cling to you!" cried theman. 

Lady Eversleigh turned from her companion with a gesture of loathing. But there was no fear in her heart. She walked slowly back to the gateleading into the meadow, followed by Milsom, who heaped abusiveepithets upon her at every step. As she entered the meadow, the figureof the spy drew suddenly back into the shadow of the hedge; from whichit did not emerge till Honoria had disappeared through the little gateon the opposite side of the field, and the heavy tramp of Milsom'sfootsteps had died away in the distance. 

Then the figure came forth into the broad moonlight; and that subdued, but clear radiance, revealed the pale, thin face of Jane Payland. 

 * * * * *

When Jane Payland was brushing her mistress's hair that night, sheventured to sound her as to her future movements, by a few cautions andrespectful questions, to which Lady Eversleigh replied with less thanher usual reticence. From her lady's answers, the waiting-maidascertained that she had no idea of seeking any relaxation in change ofscene, but purposed to reside at Raynham for at least one year. 

Jane Payland wondered at the decision of her mistress's manner. She hadimagined that Lady Eversleigh would be eager to leave a place in whichshe found herself the object of disapprobation and contempt. 

"If I were her, I would go to France, and be a great lady in Paris--which is twenty times gayer and more delightful than any place instupid, straight-laced old England, " thought Jane Payland. "If I hadher money, I would spend it, and enjoy life, in spite of all theworld. "

"I'm afraid your health will suffer from a long residence at thecastle, my lady, " said Jane, presently, determined to do all in herpower to bring about a change in her mistress's plans. "After such ashock as you have had, some distraction must be necessary. When I hadthe honour of living with the Duchess of Mountaintour, and we lost thedear duke, the first thing I said to the duchess, after the funeral, was--'Change of scene, your grace, change of scene; nothing like changeof scene when the mind has received a sudden blow. ' The sweet duchess'sphysician actually echoed my words, though he had never heard them; andwithin a week of the sad ceremony we started for the Continent, wherewe remained a year; at the end of which period the dear duchess wasunited to the Marquis of Purpeltown. "

"The duchess was speedily consoled, " replied Lady Eversleigh, with asmile which was not without bitterness. "No doubt the variety andexcitement of a Continental tour did much towards blotting out allmemory of her dead husband. But I do not wish to forget. I am in nohurry to obliterate the image of one who was most dear to me. "

Jane Payland looked very searchingly at the pale, earnest facereflected in the glass. 

"For me, that which the world calls pleasure never possessed anypowerful fascination, " continued Honoria, gravely. "My childhood andyouth were steeped in sorrow--sorrow beyond anything you can imagine, Jane Payland; though I have heard you say that you have seen muchtrouble. The remembrance of it comes back to me more vividly than evernow. Thus it is that I shrink from society, which can give me no realpleasure. Had I no special reason for remaining at Raynham, I shouldnot care to leave it"

"But you have a special reason, my lady?" inquired Jane, eagerly. 

"I have. "

"May I presume to ask--"

"You may, Jane; and I think I may venture to trust you fully, for Ibelieve you are my friend. I mean to stay at Raynham, because, in thishour of sorrow and desolation, Providence has not abandoned me entirelyto despair. I have one bright hope, which renders the thought of myfuture endurable to me. I stay at Raynham, because I hope next springan heir will be born to Raynham Castle. "

"Oh, what happiness! And you wish the heir to be born at the castle, mylady?"

"I do! I have been the victim of one plot, but I will not fallblindfold into a second snare; and there is no infamy which my enemiesare not base enough to attempt. There shall be no mystery about mylife. From the hour of my husband's death to the hour of his child'sbirth, the friends of that lost husband shall know every act of myexistence. They shall see me day by day. The old servants of the familyshall attend me. I will live in the old house, surrounded by all whoknew and loved Sir Oswald. No vile plotters shall ever be able to saythat there was trick or artifice connected with the birth of thatchild. If I live to protect and watch over it, that infant life shallbe guarded against every danger, and defended from every foe. And therewill be many foes ready to assail the inheritor of Raynham. "

"Why so, my lady?"

"Because that young life, and my life, will stand between a villain anda fortune. If I and my child were both to die, Reginald Eversleighwould become possessor of the wealth to which he once was theacknowledged heir. By the terms of Sir Oswald's will, he receives verylittle in the present, but the future has many chances for him. If Idie childless, he will inherit the Raynham estates. If his two cousins, the Dales, die without direct heirs, he will inherit ten thousand ayear. "

"But that seems only a poor chance after all, my lady. There is noreason why Sir Reginald Eversleigh should survive you or the two Mr. Dales. "

"There is no reason, except his own villany, " answered Honoria, thoughtfully. "There are some men capable of anything. But let us talkno further on the subject. I have confided my secret to you, JanePayland, because I think you are faithfully devoted to my interests. You know now why I am resolved to remain at Raynham Castle; and youthink my decision wise, do you not?"

"Well, yes; I certainly do, my lady, " answered Jane, after some momentsof hesitation. 

"And now leave me. Good night! I have kept you long this evening, I seeby that timepiece. But my thoughts were wandering, and I wasunconscious of the progress of time. Good night!"

Jane Payland took a respectful leave of her mistress, and departed, absorbed in thought. 

"Is she a good woman or a bad one?" she wondered, as she sat by thefire in her own comfortable apartment. "If she is a bad woman, she's anout-and-outer; for she looks one in the face, with those superb blackeyes of hers, as bright and clear as the image of truth itself. Shemust be good and true. She must! And yet that night's absence, and thatstory about Yarborough Tower--that seems too much for anybody on earthto believe. "

 CHAPTER XIV. 

 A GHOSTLY VISITANT. 

For nearly three years Thomas Milsom had been far away from London. Hehad been arrested on a charge of burglary, within a month of ValentineJernam's death, and condemned to five years' transportation. In lessthan three years, by some kind of artful management, and by theexercise of consummate hypocrisy, Mr. Milsom had contrived to gethimself free again, and to return to England his own master. 

He landed in Scotland, and tramped from Granton to Yorkshire, where anaccidental encounter with an old acquaintance tempted him to linger atRaynham. The two tramps, scoundrels both, and both alike penniless andshoeless, had stood side by side at the gates of the park, to see thestately funeral train pass out. 

And thus Thomas Milsom had beheld her whom he called his daughter, --thegirl who had fled, with her old grandfather, from the shelter of hisfatal roof three years before. 

After that unprofitable interview with Honoria, Thomas Milsom his faceLondonwards. 

"The day will come when you and I will square accounts, my lady, " hemuttered, as he looked up to those battlemented turrets, with ablasphemous curse, and then turned his back upon Raynham Castle, andthe peaceful little village beneath it. 

The direction in which Mr. Milsom betook himself, after he passed theborder-land of waste ground and newly-built houses which separatesLondon from the country, was the direction of Ratcliff Highway. Hewalked rapidly through the crowded streets, in which the crowd grewthicker as he approached the regions of the Tower. But rapidly as hewalked, the steps of Time were faster. It had been bright noon when heentered the quiet little town of Barnet. It was night when he firstheard the scraping fiddles and stamping feet of Ratcliff Highway. Hewent straight to the 'Jolly Tar'. 

Here all was unchanged. There were the flaring tallow candles, set in atin hoop that hung from the low ceiling, dropping hot grease ever andanon on the loungers at the bar. There was the music--the same Scotchreels and Irish jigs, played on squeaking fiddles, which were made moreinharmonious by the accompaniment of shrill Pandean pipes. There wasthe same crowd of sailors and bare-headed, bare-armed, loud-voicedwomen assembled in the stifling bar, the same cloud of tobacco-smoke, the same Babel of voices to be heard from the concert-room within;while now and then, amongst the shouts and the laughter, the oaths andthe riot, there sounded the tinkling of the old piano, and the feebleupper notes of a very poor soprano voice. 

Black Milsom had drawn his hat over his eyes before entering the "JollyTar. "

The bar of that tavern was sunk considerably below the level of thestreet, and standing on the uppermost of the steps by which Mr. Wayman's customers descended to his hospitable abode, Black Milsom wasable to look across the heads of the crowd to the face of the landlordbusy behind his bar. 

In that elevated position Black Milsom waited until Dennis Waymanhappened to look up and perceive the stranger on the threshold. 

As he did so, Thomas Milsom drew the back of his hand rapidly acrosshis mouth, with a gesture that was evidently intended as a signal. 

The signal was answered by a nod from Wayman, and then Black Milsomdescended the three steps, and pushed his way to the bar. 

"Can I have a bed, mate, and a bit of supper?" he asked, in a voicethat was carefully disguised. 

"Ay, ay, to be sure you can, " answered Wayman; "you can have everythingthat is comfortable and friendly by paying for it. This house is one ofthe most hospitable places there is--to those that can pay thereckoning. "

This rather clumsy joke was received with an applauding guffaw by thesailors and women next the bar. 

"If you'll step through that door yonder, you'll find a snug littleroom, mate, " said Dennis Wayman, in the tone which he might have usedin speaking to a stranger; "I'll send you a steak and a potato as soonas they can be cooked. "

Thomas Milsom nodded. He pushed open the rough wooden door which was sofamiliar to him, and went into the dingy little den which, in the'Jolly Tar', was known as the private parlour. 

It was the room in which he had first seen Valentine Jernam. Two yearsand a half had passed since he had last entered it; and during thattime Mr. Milsom had been paying the penalty of his misdeeds in VanDieman's Land. This dingy little den, with its greasy walls and low, smoky ceiling, was a kind of paradise to the returned wanderer. Here, at least, was freedom. Here, at least, he was his own master: free toenjoy strong drinks and strong tobacco--free to be lazy when hepleased, and to work after the fashion that suited him best. 

He seated himself in one chair, and planted his legs on another. Thenhe took a short clay pipe from his pocket, filled and lighted it, andbegan to smoke, in a slow meditative manner, stopping every now andthen to mutter to himself, between the puffs of tobacco. 

Mr. Milsom had finished his second pipe of shag tobacco, and had givenutterance to more than one exclamation of anger and impatience, whenthe door was opened, and Dennis Wayman made his appearance, bearing atray with a couple of covered dishes and a large pewter pot. 

"I thought I'd bring you your grub myself, mate, " he said; "though I'mprecious busy in yonder. I'm uncommonly glad to see you back again. I've been wondering where you was ever since you disappeared. "

"You'd have left off wondering if you'd known I was on the other sideof this blessed world of ours. I thought you knew I was--"

Mr. Milsom's delicacy of feeling prevented his finishing this speech. 

"I knew you had got into trouble, " answered Mr. Wayman. "At least, Ididn't know for certain, but I guessed as much; though sometimes I washalf inclined to think you had turned cheat, and given me the slip. "

"Bolted with the swag, I suppose you mean?"

"Precisely!" answered Dennis Wayman, coolly. 

"Which shows your suspicious nature, " returned Milsom, in a sulky tone. "When an unlucky chap turns his back upon his comrades, the worst wordin their mouths isn't half bad enough for him. That's the way of theworld, that is. No, Dennis Wayman; I didn't bolt with the swag--notsixpence of Valentine Jernam's money have I had the spending of; noeven what I won from him at cards. I was nobbled one day, without amoment's warning, on a twopenny-halfpenny charge of burglary--never youmind whether it was true, or whether it was false--that ain't worthgoing into. I was took under a false name, and I stuck to that falsename, thinking it more convenient. I should have sent to let you know, if I could have found a safe hand to take my message; but I couldn'tfind a living creature that was anything like safe--so there I was, remanded on a Monday, tried on a Tuesday, and then a fortnight aftershipped off like a bullock, along of so many other bullocks; and that'sthe long and the short of it. "

After having said which, Mr. Milsom applied himself to his supper, which consisted of a smoking steak, and a dish of still more smokingpotatoes. 

Dennis Wayman sat watching him for some minutes in thoughtful silence. The intent gaze with which he regarded the face of his friend, was thatof a man who was by no means inclined to believe every syllable he hadheard. After Milsom had devoured about a pound of steak, and at leasttwo pounds of potatoes, Mr. Wayman ventured to interrupt his operationsby a question. 

"If you didn't collar the money, what became of it?" he asked. 

"Put away, " returned the other man, shortly; "and as safe as a church, unless my bad luck goes against me harder than it ever went yet. "

"You hid it?" said Wayman, interrogatively. 

"I did. "

"Where?"

Mr. Milsom looked at his friend with a glance of profound cunning. 

"Wouldn't you like to know--oh, wouldn't you just like to know, Mr. Wayman?" he said. "And wouldn't you just dose me with a cup of druggedcoffee, and cut off to ransack my hiding-place while I was lyinghelpless in your hospitable abode. That's the sort of thing you'd do, if I happened to be a born innocent, isn't it, Mr. Wayman? But you seeI'm not a born innocent, so you won't get the chance of doing anythingof the kind. "

"Don't be a fool, " returned Dennis Wayman, in a surly tone. "You'llplease to remember that one half of Valentine Jernam's money belongs tome, and ought to have been in my possession long before this. I was anidiot to trust it in your keeping. "

"You trusted it in my keeping because you were obliged to do so, "answered Black Milsom, "and I owe you no gratitude for yourconfidence. I happened to know a Jew who was willing to give cash forthe notes and bills of exchange; and you trusted them to me because itwas the only way to get them turned into cash. "

The landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' nodded a surly assent to this rathercynical statement. 

"I saw my friend the Jew, and made a very decent bargain, " resumedMilsom. "I hid the money in a convenient place, intending to bring youyour share at the earliest opportunity. I was lagged that very night, and had no chance of touching the cash after I had once stowed it away. So, you see, it was no fault of mine that you didn't get the money. "

"Humph!" muttered Mr. Wayman. "It has been rather hard lines for me tobe kept out of it so long. And now you have come back, I suppose youcan take me at once to the hiding place. I want money very badly justnow. "

"Do you?" said Thomas Milsom, with a sneer. "That's a complaint you'rerather subject to, isn't it--the want of money? Now, as I've answeredyour questions, perhaps you'll answer mine. Has there been much stirdown this way while I've been over the water?"

"Very little; things have been as dull as they well could be. "

"Ah! so _you'll_ say, of course. Can you tell me whether any one haslived in my old place while my back has been turned?"

The landlord of the 'Jolly Tar' started with a gesture of alarm. 

"It wasn't _there_ you hid the money, was it?" he asked, eagerly. 

"Suppose it was, what then?"

"Why every farthing of it is lost. The place has been taken by a man, who has pulled the best part of it down, and rebuilt it. If you hidyour money _there_, there's little chance of your ever seeing itagain, " said Wayman. 

Black Milsom's dark face grew livid, as he started from his chair anddragged on the crater coat which he had taken off on entering the room. 

"It would be like my luck to lose that money, " he said; "it would bejust like my luck. Come, Wayman. What are you staring at, man?" hecried impatiently. "Come. "

"Where?"

"To my old place. You can tell me all about the changes at we go. Imust see to this business at once. "

The moon was shining over the masts and rigging in the Pool, and overthe house-tops of Bermondsey and Wapping, as Black Milsom and hiscompanion started on their way to the old house by the water. 

They went, as on a former occasion, in that vehicle which Mr. Waymancalled his trap; and as they drove along the lonely road, across themarshy flat by the river, Dennis Wayman told his companion what hadhappened in his absence. 

"For a year the house stood empty, " he said; "but at the end of thattime an old sea-captain took a fancy to it because of the water aboutit, and the view of the Pool from the top windows. He bought it, andpulled it almost all to pieces, rebuilt it, and I doubt if there is anyof the old house standing. He has made quite a smart little place ofit. He's a queer old chap, this Cap'en Duncombe, I'm told, and rather atough customer. "

"I'll see the inside of his house, however tough he may be, " answeredMilsom, in a dogged tone. "If he's a tough customer, he'll find me atougher. Has he got any family?"

"One daughter--as pretty a girl as you'll see within twenty miles ofLondon!"

"Well, we'll go and have a look at his place to-night. We'd better putup your trap at the 'Pilot Boat. '"

Mr. Wayman assented to the wisdom of this arrangement. The "Pilot Boat"was a dilapidated-looking, low-roofed little inn, where there were sometumble-down stables, which were more often inhabited by bloated greywater-rats than by horses. In these stables Mr. Wayman lodged his ponyand vehicle, while he and Milsom walked on to the cottage. 

"Why I shouldn't have known the place!" cried Milsom, as his companionpointed to the captain's habitation. 

The transformation was, indeed, complete. The dismal dwelling, whichhad looked as if it were, in all truth, haunted by a ghost, had beenchanged into one of the smartest little cottages to be seen in thesuburbs of eastern London. 

The ditch had been narrowed and embanked, and two tiny rustic bridges, of fantastical wood-work, spanned its dark water. The dreary pollard-willows had vanished, and evergreens occupied their places. The blackrushes had been exchanged for flowers. A trim little garden appearedwhere all had once been waste ground; and a flag-staff, with a bit ofbunting, gave a naval aspect to the spot. 

All was dark; not one glimmer of light to be seen in any of thewindows. 

The garden was secured by an iron gate, and surrounded by iron rails onall sides, except that nearest the river. Here, the only boundary was ahedge of laurels, which were still low and thin; and here Dennis Waymanand his companion found easy access to the neatly-kept pleasure-ground. 

With stealthy footsteps they invaded Captain Duncombe's little domain, and walked slowly round the house, examining every door and window asthey went. 

"Is the captain a rich man?" asked Milsom. 

"Yes; I believe he's pretty well off--some say uncommonly well off. Hespent over a thousand pounds on this place. "

"Curse him for his pains!" returned Black Milsom, savagely. "He knowshow to take care of his property. It would be a very clever burglarthat would get into that house. The windows are all secured withoutside shutters, that seem as solid as if they were made of iron, andthe doors don't yield the twentieth part of an inch. "

Then, after completing his examination of the house, Milsom exclaimed, in the same savage tone--

"Why, the man has swept away every timber of the place I lived in. "

"I told you as much, " answered Wayman; "I've heard say there wasnothing left of old Screwton's house but a few solid timbers and astack of chimneys. "

Screwton was the name of the miser whose ghost had been supposed tohaunt the old place. 

Black Milsom gave a start as Dennis uttered the words "stack ofchimneys. "

"Oh!" he said, in an altered tone; "so they left the chimney-stack, didthey?"

Mr. Wayman perceived that change of tone. 

"I begin to understand, " he said; "you hid that money in one of thechimneys. "

"Never you mind where I hid it. There's little chance of its beingfound there, after bricklayers pulling the place to pieces. I must getinto that house, come what may. "

"You'll find that difficult, " answered Wayman. 

"Perhaps. But I'll do it, or my name's not Black Milsom. "

 * * * * *

Captain Joseph Duncombe, or Joe Duncombe, as he generally calledhimself, was a burly, rosy-faced man of fifty years of age; a hearty, honest fellow. He was a widower, with only one child, a daughter, whomhe idolized. 

Any father might have been forgiven for being devotedly fond of such adaughter as Rosamond Duncombe. 

Rosamond was one of those light-hearted, womanly creatures who seemborn to make home a paradise. She had a sweet temper; a laugh which waslike music; a manner which was fascination itself. 

When it is also taken into consideration that she had a pretty littlenose, lips that were fresh and rosy as ripe red cherries, cheeks thatwere like dewy roses, newly-gathered, and large, liquid eyes, of thedeepest, clearest blue, it must be confessed that Rosamond Duncombe wasa very charming girl. 

If Joseph Duncombe doted on this bright-haired, blue-eyed daughter, hislove was not unrecompensed. Rosamond idolized her father, whom shebelieved to be the best and noblest of created beings. 

Rosamond's remembrance of her mother was but shadowy. She had lost thattender protector at a very early age. 

Within the last year and a half her father had retired from activeservice, after selling his vessel, the "Vixen, " for a large price, sogoodly a name had she borne in the merchant service. 

This retirement of Captain Duncombe's was a sacrifice which he made forhis beloved daughter. 

For himself, the life of a seaman had lost none of its attractions. Butwhen he saw his fair young daughter of an age to leave school, hedetermined that she should have a home. 

He had made a very comfortable little fortune during five-and-thirtyyears of hard service. But he had never made a sixpence the earning ofwhich he need blush to remember. He was known in the service as a modelof truth and honesty. 

Driving about the eastern suburbs of London, he happened one day topass that dreary plot of waste ground on which the miser's tumble-downdwelling had been built. It was a pleasant day in April, and the placewas looking less dreary than usual. The spring sunshine lit up thebroad river, and the rigging of the ships stood out in sharp blacklines against a bright blue sky. 

A board against the dilapidated palings announced that the ground wasto be sold. 

Captain Duncombe drew up his horse suddenly. 

"That's the place for me!" he exclaimed; "close by the old river, whosetide carried me down to the sea on my first voyage five-and-thirtyyears ago--within view of the Pool, and all the brave old ships lyingat anchor. That's the place for me! I'll sweep away that old ramshacklehovel, and build a smart water-tight little cottage for my pet and meto live in; and I'll stick the Union Jack on a main-top over our heads, and at night, when I lie awake and hear the water rippling by, I shallfancy I'm still at sea. "

A landsman would most likely have stopped to consider that theneighbourhood was lonely, the ground damp and marshy, the approach tothis solitary cross-road through the most disreputable part of London. Captain Duncombe considered nothing, except two facts--first the river, then the view of the ships in the Pool. 

He drove back to Wapping, where he found the house-agent who wascommissioned to sell old Screwton's dwelling. That gentleman was onlytoo glad to get a customer for a place which no one seemed inclined tohave on any terms. He named his price. The merchant-captain did notattempt to make a bargain; but agreed to buy the place, and to giveready money for it, as soon as the necessary deeds were drawn up andsigned. In a week this was done, and the captain found himselfpossessor of a snug little freehold on the banks of the Thames. 

He lost no time in transforming the place into an abode of comfort, instead of desolation. It was only when the transformation wascomplete, and Captain Duncombe had spent upwards of a thousand poundson his folly, that he became acquainted with the common report aboutthe place. 

Sailors are proverbially superstitious. After hearing that dismalstory, Joseph Duncombe was rather inclined to regret the choice he hadmade; but he resolved to keep the history of old Screwton a secret fromhis daughter, though it cost him perpetual efforts to preserve silenceon this subject. 

In spite of his precaution, Rosamond came to know of the ghost. Visiting some poor cottagers, about a quarter of a mile from RiverView, she heard the whole story--told her unthinkingly by a foolish oldwoman, who was amongst the recipients of her charity. 

Soon after this, the story reached the ears of the two servants--anelderly woman, called Mugby, who acted as cook and housekeeper; and asmart girl, called Susan Trott. 

Mrs. Mugby pretended to ridicule the idea of Screwton's ghost. 

"I've lived in a many places, and I've heard tell of a many ghostes, "she said; "but never yet did I set eyes on one, which my opinion isthat, if people will eat cold pork for supper underdone, not to mentioncrackling or seasoning, and bottled stout, which is worse, and liesstill heavier on the stomach--unless you take about as much groundginger as would lie on a sixpence, and as much carbonate of soda aswould lie on a fourpenny-bit--and go to bed upon it all directlyafterwards, they will see no end of ghostes. I have never trifled withmy digestion, and no ghostes have I ever seen. "

The girl, Susan Trott, was by no means so strong-minded. The idea ofMiser Screwton's ghost haunted her perpetually of an evening; and shewould no more have gone out into the captain's pretty little gardenafter dark, than she would have walked straight to the mouth of acannon. 

Rosamond Duncombe affected to echo the heroic sentiments of thehousekeeper, Mrs. Mugby. There never had been such things as ghosts, and never would be; and all the foolish stories that were told ofphantoms and apparitions, had their sole foundation in the imaginationsof the people who told them. 

Such was the state of things in the household of Captain Duncombe atthe time of Black Milsom's return from Van Diemen's Land. 

It was within two nights after that return, that an event occurred, never to be forgotten by any member of Joseph Duncombe's household. 

The evening was cold, but fine; the moon, still at its full, shonebright and clear upon the neat garden of River View Cottage. CaptainDuncombe and his daughter were alone in their comfortable sitting-room, playing the Captain's favourite game of backgammon, before a cheeryfire. The housekeeper, Mrs. Mugby, had complained all day of a touch ofrheumatism, and had gone to bed after the kitchen tea, leaving SusanTrott, the smart little parlour-maid, to carry in the pretty pink andgold china tea-service, and hissing silver tea-kettle, to Miss Rosamondand her papa in the sitting-room. 

Thus it was that, after having removed the tea-tray, and washed thepretty china cups and saucers, Susan Trott seated herself before thefire, and set herself to trim a new cap, which was designed for theespecial bewilderment of a dashing young baker. 

The dashing young baker had a habit of lingering at the gate of RiverView Cottage a good deal longer than was required for the transactionof his business; and the dashing young baker had more than once hintedat an honourable attachment for Miss Susan Trott. 

Thinking of the baker, and of all the tender things and bright promisesof a happy future which he had murmured in her ear, as they walked homefrom church on the last Sunday evening, Susan found the solitary hourspass quickly enough. She looked up suddenly as the clock struck ten, and found that she had let the fire burn out. 

It was rather an awful sensation to be alone in the lower part of thehouse after every one else had gone to bed; but Susan Trott was veryanxious to finish the making of the new cap; so she went back to thekitchen, and seated herself once more at the table. 

She had scarcely taken up her scissors to cut an end of ribbon, when alow, stealthy tapping sounded on the outer wooden shutter of the windowbehind her. 

Susan gave a little shriek of terror, and dropped the scissors as ifthey had been red-hot. What could that awful sound mean at ten o'clockat night?

For some moments the little parlour-maid was completely overcome byterror. Then, all at once, her thoughts flew back to the person whoseimage had occupied her mind all that evening. Was it not just possiblethat the dashing young baker might have something very particular tosay to her, and that he had come in this mysterious manner to say it?

Again the same low, stealthy tapping sounded on the shutter. 

This time Susan Trott plucked up a spirit, took the bright brasscandlestick in her hand, and went to the little door leading from thescullery to the back garden. 

She opened the door and peered cautiously out. No one was to be seen--that tiresome baker was indulging in some practical joke, no doubt, andtrying to frighten her. 

Susan was determined not to be frightened by her sweet-heart's tricks, so she tripped boldly out into the garden, still carrying the brasscandlestick. 

At the first step the wind blew out the candle; but, of course, thatwas of very little consequence when the bright moonlight madeeverything as clearly visible as at noon. 

"I know who it is, " cried Susan, in a voice intended to reach thebaker; "and it's a great shame to try and frighten a poor girl whenshe's sitting all alone by herself. "

She had scarcely uttered the words when the candlestick fell from herextended hand, and she stood rooted to the gravel pathway--a statue offear. 

Exactly opposite to her, slowly advancing towards the open door of thescullery, she saw an awful figure--whose description was too familiarto her. 

There it was. The ghost--the shadowy image of the man who had destroyedhimself in that house. A tall, spectral figure, robed in a long garmentof grey serge; a scarlet handkerchief twisted round the head renderedthe white face whiter by contrast with it. 

As this awful figure approached, Susan Trott stepped backwards on thegrass, leaving the pathway clear for the dreadful visitant. 

The ghostly form stalked on with slow and solemn steps, and entered thehouse by the scullery door. For some minutes Susan remained standing onthe grass, horror-struck, powerless to move. Then all at once femininecuriosity got the better even of terror, and she followed the phantomfigure into the house. 

From the kitchen doorway she beheld the figure standing on the hearth, his arms stretched above the fireplace, as if groping for something inthe chimney. 

Doubtless this had been the miser's hiding-place for his hoarded gold, and the ghost returned to the spot where the living man had beenaccustomed to conceal his treasures. 

Susan darted across the hall, and ran upstairs to her master's room. She knocked loudly on the door, crying, --

"The ghost, master! the ghost! the old miser's ghost is in thekitchen!"

"What?" roared the captain, starting suddenly from his peacefulslumbers. 

The girl repeated her awful announcement. The captain sprang out ofbed, dressed himself in trousers and dressing-gown, and ran down-stairs, the girl close behind him. 

They were just in time to see the figure, in the red head-gear and longgrey dressing-gown, slowly stalking from the scullery door. 

The captain followed the phantom into the garden; but held himself at arespectful distance from the figure, as it slowly paced along thesmooth gravel pathway leading towards the laurel hedge. 

The figure reached the low boundary that divided the garden from theriver bank, crossed it, and vanished amongst the thick white mists thatrose from the water. 

Joseph Duncombe trembled. A ghost was just the one thing which couldstrike terror to the seaman's bold heart. 

When the figure had vanished, Captain Duncombe went to the spot whereit had passed out of the garden. 

Here he found the young laurels beaten and trampled down, as if by theheavy feet of human intruders. 

This was strange. 

He then went to the kitchen, accompanied by Susan Trott, who, althoughshivering like an aspen tree, had just sufficient strength of mind tofind a lucifer and light her candle. 

By the light of this candle Captain Buncombe examined the kitchen. 

On the hearth, at his feet, he saw something gleaming in the uncertainlight. He stooped to pick up this object, and found that it was acurious gold coin--a foreign coin, bent in a peculiar manner. 

This was even yet more strange. 

The captain put the coin in his pocket. 

"I'll take good care of this, my girl, " he said. "It isn't often aghost leaves anything behind him. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XV. 

 A TERRIBLE RESOLVE. 

When the hawthorns were blooming in the woods of Raynham, a new lifedawned in the stately chambers of the castle. 

A daughter was born to the beautiful widow-lady--a sweet consoler inthe hour of her loneliness and desolation. Honoria Eversleigh liftedher heart to heaven, and rendered thanks for the priceless treasurewhich had been bestowed upon her. She had kept her word. From the hourof her husband's death she had never quitted Raynham Castle. She hadlived alone, unvisited, unknown; content to dwell in stately solitude, rarely extending her walks and drives beyond the boundary of the parkand forest. 

Some few of the county gentry would have visited her; but she would notconsent to be visited by a few. Honoria Eversleigh's was a proudspirit; and until the whole county should acknowledge her innocence, she would receive no one. 

"Let them think of me or talk of me as they please, " she said; "I canlive my own life without them. "

Thus the long winter months passed by, and Honoria was alone in thatabode whose splendour must have seemed cold and dreary to thefriendless woman. 

But when she held her infant in her arms all was changed She lookeddown upon the baby-girl, and murmured softly--

"Your life shall be bright and peaceful, dearest, whatever mine may be. The future looks bleak and terrible for me; but for you, sweet one, itmay be bright and fair. "

The young mother loved her child with a passionate intensity; but eventhat love could not exclude darker passions from her breast. 

There was much that was noble in the nature of this woman; but therewas also much that was terrible. From her childhood she had been giftedwith a power of intellect--a strength of will--that lifted her highabove the common ranks of womanhood. 

A fatal passion had taken possession of her soul after the untimelydeath of Sir Oswald; and that passion was a craving for revenge. Shehad been deeply wronged, and she could not forgive. She did not eventry to forgive. She believed that revenge was a kind of duty which sheowed, not only to herself, but to the noble husband whom she had lost. 

The memory of that night of anguish in Yarborough Tower, and that stilldarker hour of shame and despair in which Sit Oswald had refused tobelieve her innocent, was never absent from the mind of HonoriaEversleigh. She brooded upon these dark memories. Time could not lessentheir bitterness. Even the soft influence of her infant's love couldnot banish those fatal recollections. 

Time passed. The child grew and flourished, beautiful to her mother'senraptured eyes; and yet, even by the side of that fair baby's facearose the dark image of Victor Carrington. 

For a long time the county people had kept close watch upon theproceedings of the lady at the castle. 

The county people discovered that Lady Eversleigh never left Raynham;that she devoted herself to the rearing of her child as entirely as ifshe had been the humblest peasant-woman; and that she expended moremoney upon solid works of charity than had ever before been so spent byany member of the Eversleigh family, though that family had beendistinguished by much generosity and benevolence. 

The county people shrugged their shoulders contemptuously. They couldnot believe in the goodness of this woman, whose parentage no one knew, and whom every one had condemned. 

She is playing a part, they thought; she wishes to impress us with theidea that she is a persecuted martyr--a suffering angel; and she hopesthus to regain her old footing amongst us, and queen it over the wholecounty, as she did when that poor infatuated Sir Oswald first broughther to Raynham. This was what the county people thought; until one daythe tidings flew far and wide that Lady Eversleigh had left the castlefor the Continent, and that she intended to remain absent for someyears. 

This seemed very strange; but what seemed still more strange, was thefact that the devoted mother was not accompanied by her child. 

The little girl, Gertrude, so named after the mother of the latebaronet, remained at Raynham under the care of two persons. 

These two guardians were Captain Copplestone, and a widow lady of fortyyears of age, Mrs. Morden, a person of unblemished integrity, who hadbeen selected as protectress and governess of the young heiress. 

The child was at this time two and a half years of age. Very young, sheseemed, to be thus left by a mother who had appeared to idolize her. 

The county people shook their heads. They told each other that LadyEversleigh was a hypocrite and an actress. She had never really lovedher child--she had played the part of a sorrowing widow and a devotedmother for two years and a half, in the hope that by this means shewould regain her position in society. 

And now, finding that this was impossible, she had all of a suddengrown tired of playing her part, and had gone off to the Continent tospend her money, and enjoy her life after her own fashion. 

This was what the world said of Honoria Eversleigh; but if those whospoke of her could have possessed themselves of her secrets, they wouldhave discovered something very different from that which they imagined. 

Lady Eversleigh left the castle in the early part of Novemberaccompanied only by her maid, Jane Payland. 

A strange time of the year in which to start for the Continent, peoplesaid. It seemed still more strange that a woman of Lady Eversleigh'srank and fortune should go on a Continental journey with no otherattendant than a maid-servant. 

If the eyes of the world could have followed Lady Eversleigh, theywould have made startling discoveries. 

While it was generally supposed that the baronet's widow was on her wayto Rome or Naples, two plainly-dressed women took possession ofunpretending lodgings in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road. 

The apartments were taken by a lady who called herself Mrs. Eden, andwho required them only for herself and maid. The apartments consistedof two large drawing-rooms, two bedrooms on the floor above, and adressing-room adjoining the best bedroom. 

The proprietor of the house was a Belgian merchant, called JacobMulck--a sedate old bachelor, who took a great deal of snuff, andDisquieted himself very little about the world in general, so long aslife went smoothly for himself. 

The remaining occupant of the house was a medical student, who rentedone of the rooms on the third floor. Another room on the same floor wasto let. 

Such was the arrangement of the house when Mrs. Eden and her maid tookpossession of their apartments. 

Mr. Jacob Mulck thought he had never seen such a beautiful woman as hisnew lodger, when he entered her apartment, to ascertain whether she wassatisfied with the accommodation provided for her. 

She was sitting in the full light of an unshaded lamp as he entered theroom. Her black silk dress was the perfection of simplicity; its sombrehues relieved only by the white collar which encircled her slenderthroat. Her pale face looked of an ivory whiteness, in contrast to thedark, deep eyes, and arched brows of sombre brown. 

The lady pronounced herself perfectly satisfied with all thearrangements that had been made for her comfort. 

"I am in London on business of importance, " she said; "and shall, therefore, receive very little company; but I may have to hold manyinterviews with men of business, and I trust that my affairs may not bemade the subject of curiosity or gossip, either in this house oroutside it. "

Mr. Mulck declared that he was the last person in the world to talk;and that his two servants were both elderly women, the very pink ofsteadiness and propriety. 

Having said this, he took his leave; and as he did so, stole one moreglance at the beautiful stranger. 

She had fallen into an attitude which betrayed complete abstraction ofmind. Her elbow rested on the table by her side; her eyes were shadedby her hand. 

Upon that white, slender hand, Jacob Mulck saw diamonds such as are notoften seen upon the fingers of the inhabitants of Percy Street. Mr. Mulck occasionally dealt in diamonds; and he knew enough about them toperceive at a glance that the rings worn by his lodger were worth asmall fortune. 

"Humph!" muttered Mr. Mulck, as he returned to his comfortable sitting-room; "those diamonds tell a tale. There's something mysterious aboutthis lodger of mine. However, my rent will be safe--that's onecomfort. "

While the landlord was musing thus, the lodger was employed in a mannerwhich might well have awakened his curiosity, could he have beheld herat that moment. 

She had fallen on her knees before a low easy-chair--her face buried inher hands, her slender frame shaken by passionate sobs. 

"My child!" she exclaimed, in almost inarticulate murmurs; "my beloved, my idol!--it is so bitter to be absent from you! so bitter! so bitter!"

 * * * * *

Early on the morning after her arrival in London, Honoria Eversleigh, otherwise Mrs. Eden, went in a cab to the office of an individualcalled Andrew Larkspur, who occupied dingy chambers in Lyon's Inn. 

The science of the detective officer had not, at that time, reached itspresent state of perfection; but even then there were men who devotedtheir lives to the work of private investigations, and the elucidationof the strange secrets and mysteries of social life. 

Such a man was Andrew Larkspur, late Bow Street runner, now hanger-onof the new detective police. He was renowned for his skill in theprosecution of secret service; and it was rumoured that he had amasseda considerable fortune by his mysterious employment. 

He was not a man who openly sought employers. His services were ingreat request among a certain set of people, and he had little idletime on his hands. His name was painted in dirty white letters on theblack door of his dingy chambers on a fourth story. On this door hecalled himself, "_Andrew Larkspur, Commission Agent_. "

It will be seen by-and-by how Honoria Eversleigh had become acquaintedwith the fact of this man's existence. 

She went alone to seek an interview with him. She had found herselfcompelled to confide in Jane Payland to a very considerable extent; butshe did not tell that attendant more than she was obliged to tell ofthe dark business which had brought her to London. 

She was fortunate enough to find Mr. Andrew Larkspur alone, anddisengaged. He was a little, sandy-haired man, of some sixty years ofage, spare and wizened, with a sharp nose, like a beak, and thin, longarms, ending in large, claw-like hands, that were like the talons of abird of prey. Altogether, Mr. Lark spur had very much of the aspect ofan elderly vulture which had undergone partial transformation into ahuman being. 

Honoria was in no way repelled by the aspect of this man. She saw thathe was clever; and fancied him the kind of person who would be likelyto serve her faithfully. 

"I have been informed that you are skilled in the prosecution of secretinvestigations, " she said; "and I wish to secure your servicesimmediately. Are you at liberty to devote yourself to the task I wishto be performed by you?"

Mr. Larkspur was a man who rarely answered even the simplest questionuntil he had turned the subject over in his mind, and carefully studiedevery word that had been said to him. 

He was a man who made caution the ruling principle of his life, and helooked at every creature he encountered in the course of his career asan individual more or less likely to take him in. 

The boast of Mr. Larkspur was, that he never had been taken in. 

"I've been very near it more than once, " he said to his particularfriends, when he unbent so far as to be confidential. 

"I've had some very narrow escapes of being taken in and done for asneatly as you please. There are some artful dodgers, whose artfuldodging the oldest hand can scarcely guard against; but I'm proud tosay not one of those artful dodgers has ever yet been able to get thebetter of me. Perhaps my time is to come, and I shall be bamboozled inmy old age. "

Before replying to Honoria's inquiry, Andrew Larkspur studied her fromhead to foot, with eyes whose sharp scrutiny would have been veryunpleasant to anyone who had occasion for concealment. 

The result of the scrutiny seemed to be tolerably satisfactory, for Mr. Larkspur at last replied to his visitor's question in a tone which forhim was extremely gracious. 

"You want to know whether you can engage my services, " he said; "thatdepends upon circumstances. "

"Upon what circumstances?"

"Whether you will be able to pay me. My hands are very full just now, and I've about as much business as I can possibly get through. "

"I shall want you to abandon all such business, and to devote yourselfexclusively to my service, " said Honoria. 

"The deuce you will!" exclaimed Mr. Larkspur. "Do you happen to knowwhat my time is worth?"

Mr. Larkspur looked positively outraged by the idea that any one couldsuppose they could secure a monopoly of his valuable services. 

"That is a question with which I have no concern, " answered Honoria, coolly. "The work which I require you to do will most likely occupy allyour time, and entirely absorb your attention. I am quite prepared topay you liberally for your services, and I shall leave you to name yourown terms. I shall rely on your honour as a man of business that thoseterms will not be exorbitant, and I shall accede to them withoutfurther question. "

"Humph!" muttered the suspicious Andrew. "Do you know, ma'am, thatsounds almost too liberal? I'm an old stager, ma'am, and have seen agood deal of life, and I have generally found that people who are readyto promise so much beforehand, are apt not to give anything when theirwork has been done. "

"The fact that you have been cheated by swindlers is no reason whyshould insult me, " answered Honoria. "I wished to secure your services;but I cannot continue an interview in which I find my offers met byinsolent objections. There are, no doubt, other people in London whocan assist me in the business I have in hand. I will wish you goodmorning. "

She rose, and was about to leave the room. Mr. Larkspur began to thinkthat he had been rather too cautious; and that perhaps, this plainly-attired lady might be a very good customer. 

"You must excuse me, ma'am, " he said, "if I'm rather a suspicious oldchap. You see, it's the nature of my business to make a man suspicious. If you can pay me for my time, I shall be willing to devote myself toyour service; for I'd much rather give my whole mind to one business, than have ever so many odds and ends of affairs jostling each other inmy brain. But the fact of it is, ladies very seldom have any idea whatbusiness is: however clever they may be in other matters--playing thepiano, working bead-mats and worsted slippers, and such like. Now, Idare say you'll open your eyes uncommon wide when I tell you that mybusiness is worth nigh upon sixteen pound a week to me, taking goodwith bad; and though you mayn't be aware of it, ma'am, having, nodoubt, given your mind exclusive to Berlin wool, and such like, sixteenpound a week is eight hundred a year. "

Mr. Larkspur, though not much given to surprise, was somewhatastonished to perceive that his lady-visitor did not open her eyes anywider on receiving this intelligence. 

"If you have earned eight hundred a year by your profession, " shereturned, quietly, "I will give you twenty pounds a week for yourexclusive services, and that will be a thousand and forty pounds ayear. "

This time, Andrew Larkspur was still more surprised, though he was socompletely master of himself as to conceal the smallest evidence of hisastonishment. 

Here was a woman who had not devoted her mind to Berlin wool-work, andwhose arithmetic was irreproachable!

"Humph!" he muttered, too cautious to betray any appearance ofeagerness to accept an advantageous offer. "A thousand a year is verywell in its way; but how long is it to last? If I turn my back uponthis business here, it'll all tumble to pieces, and then, where shall Ibe when you have done with me?"

"I will engage you for one year, certain. "

"That won't do, ma'am; you must make it three years, certain. "

"Very well; I am willing to do that, " answered Honoria. "I shall, inall probability, require your services for three years. "

Mr. Larkspur regretted that he had not asked for an engagement of sixyears. 

"Do you agree to those terms?" asked Honoria. 

"Yes, " answered the detective, with well-assumed indifference; "Isuppose I may as well accept those terms, though I dare say I mightmake more money by leaving myself free to give my attention to anythingthat might turn up. And now, how am I to be paid? You see, you're quitea stranger to me. "

"I am aware of that, and I do not ask you to trust me, " repliedHonoria. "I will pay you eighty pounds a month. "

"Eighty pounds a month of four weeks, " interposed the cautiousLarkspur; "eighty pounds for the lunar month. That makes a difference, you know, and it's just as well to be particular. "

"Certainly!" answered Lady Eversleigh, with a half-contemptuous smile. "You shall not be cheated. You shall receive your payment monthly, inadvance; and if you require security for the future, I can refer you tomy bankers. My name is Mrs. Eden--Harriet Eden, and I bank with Messrs. Coutts. "

The detective rubbed his hands with a air of gratification. 

"Nothing could be more straightforward and business-like, " he said. "And when shall you require my services, Mrs. Eden?"

"Immediately. There is an apartment vacant in the house in which Ilodge. I should wish you to occupy that apartment, as you would thus bealways at hand when I had any communication to make to you. Would thatbe possible?"

"Well, yes, ma'am, it would certainly be possible, " replied Mr. Larkspur, after the usual pause for reflection; "but I'm afraid Ishould be obliged to make that an extra. "

"You shall be paid whatever you require. "

"Thank you, ma'am. You see, when a person of my age has been accustomedto live in one place for a long time, it goes against him to change hishabits. However, to oblige you, I'll get together my little traps, andshift my quarter to the lodging you speak of. "

"Good. The house in question is No. 90, Percy Street, Tottenham CourtRoad. "

Mr. Larkspur was surprised to find that a lady who could afford tooffer him more than a thousand a year, was nevertheless contented tolive in such a middle-class situation as Percy Street. 

"Can you go to the new lodging to-morrow?" asked Honoria. 

"Well, no, ma'am; you must give me a week, if you please. I must windup some of the affairs I have been working upon, you see, and hand overmy clients to other people; and I must set my books in order. I've afew very profitable affairs in hand, I assure you. There's one whichmight have turned out a great prize, if I had been only able to carryit through. But those sort of things all depend on time, you see, ma'am. They're very slow. I have been about this one, off and on, forover three years; and very little has come of it yet. "

The detective was turning over one of his books mechanically as he saidthis. It was a large ledger, filled with entries, in a queer, crampedhandwriting, dotted about, here and there, with mysterious marks in redand blue ink. Mr. Larkspur stopped suddenly, as he turned the leaves, his attention arrested by one particular page. 

"Here it is, " he said; "the very business I was speaking of. Fivehundred pounds for the discovery of the murderer, or murderers, ofValentine Jernam, captain and owner of the 'Pizarro', whose body wasfound in the river, below Wapping, on the third of April, 1836. That'sa very queer business, that is, and I've never had leisure to get verydeep into the rights and wrongs of it yet. "

Mr. Larkspur looked up presently, and saw that his visitor's face hadgrown white to the very lips. 

"You knew Captain Jernam?" he said. 

"No--yes, I knew him slightly; and the idea of his murder is veryshocking to me, " answered Honoria, struggling with her agitation. "Doyou expect to discover the secret of that dreadful crime?"

"Well, I don't know about that, " said Andrew Larkspur, with thecareless and business-like tone of a man to whom a murder is anincident of trade. "You see, when these things have gone by for a longtime, without anything being found out about them, the secret generallycomes out by accident, if it ever comes out at all. There are cases inwhich the secret never does come out; but there are not many suchcases. There's a deal in accident; and a man of my profession must bealways on the look-out for accident, or he'll lose a great manychances. You see those red marks stuck here and there, among all thatwriting in blue ink. Those red marks are set against the facts thatseem pretty clear and straightforward; the blue marks are set againstfacts that seem dark. You see, there's more blue marks than red. Thatmeans that it's a dark case. "

Honoria Eversleigh bent over the old man's shoulder, and read a fewfragmentary lines, here and there, in the page beneath her. 

"_Seen at the 'Jolly Tar', Ratcliff Highway, a low public-housefrequented by sailors. Seen with two men, Dennis Wayman, landlord ofthe 'Jolly Tar, ' and a man called Milson, or Milsom. The man Milson, orMilsom, has since disappeared. Is believed to have been transported, but is not to be heard of abroad. _"

A little below these entries was another, which seemed to HonoriaEversleigh to be inscribed in letters of fire:--

"Valentine Jernam was known to have fallen in love with a girl whosang at the 'Jolly Tar' public-house, and it is supposed that he waslured to his death by the agency of this girl. She is described asabout seventeen years of age, very handsome, dark eyes, dark hair--"

Mr. Larkspur closed the volume before Lady Eversleigh could readfurther. She returned to her seat, still terribly pale, and with asickening pain at her heart. 

All the shame and anguish of her early life, the unspeakable horror ofher girlhood, had been brought vividly back to her by the perusal ofthe memoranda in the detective's ledger. 

"I mean to try my luck yet at getting at the bottom of the mystery, "said Andrew Larkspur. "Five hundred pounds reward is worth working for. I--I've a notion that I shall lay my hands upon Valentine Jernam'smurderer sooner or later. "

"Who offers the reward?" asked Honoria. 

"Government offers one hundred of it; George Jernam four hundred more. "

"Who is George Jernam?"

"The captain's younger brother--a merchant-captain himself--the ownerof several vessels, and, I believe, a rich man. He came here, accompanied by a queer-looking fellow, called Joyce Harker--a kind ofclerk, I believe--who was very much attached to the murdered man. "

"Yes--yes, I know, " murmured Honoria. 

She had been so terribly agitated by the mention of Valentine Jernam'sname, that her presence of mind had entirely abandoned her. 

"You knew that humpbacked clerk!" exclaimed Mr. Larkspur. 

"I have heard of him, " she faltered. 

There was a pause, during which Lady Eversleigh recovered in somedegree from the painful emotion caused by memories so unexpectedlyevoked. 

"I may as well give you some preliminary instructions to-day, " shesaid, re-assuming her business-like tone, "and I will write you acheque for the first month of your service. "

Mr. Larkspur lost no time in providing his visitor with pen and ink. She took a cheque-book from her pocket, and filled in a cheque foreighty pounds in Andrew Larkspur's favour. 

The cheque was signed "Harriet Eden. "

"When you present that, you will be able to ascertain that your futurepayments will be secure, " she said. 

She handed the cheque to Mr. Larkspur, who looked at it with an air ofassumed indifference, and slipped it carelessly into his waistcoatpocket. 

"And now, ma'am, " he said, "I am ready to receive your instructions. "

"In the first place, " said Honoria, "I must beg that you will on nooccasion attempt to pry into my motives, whatever I may require ofyou. "

"That, ma'am, is understood. I have nothing to do with the motives ofmy employers, and I care nothing about them. "

"I am glad to hear that, " replied Honoria. "The business in which Irequire your aid is a very strange one; and the time may come when youwill be half-inclined to believe me mad. But, whatever I do, howevermysterious my actions may be, think always that a deeply rooted purposelies beneath them; and that every thought of my brain--every trivialact of my life, will shape itself to one end. "

"I ask no questions, ma'am. "

"And you will serve me faithfully--blindly?"

"Yes, ma'am; both faithfully and blindly. "

"I think I may trust you, " replied Honoria, very earnestly "And now Iwill speak freely. There are two men upon whose lives I desire to placea spy. I want to know every act of their lives, every word they speak, every secret of their hearts--I wish to be an unseen witness of theirlonely hours, an impalpable guest at every gathering in which theymingle. I want to be near them always in spirit, if not in bodilypresence. I want to track them step by step, let their ways be never sodark and winding. This is the purpose of my life; but I am a woman--powerless to act freely--bound and fettered as women only are fettered. Do you begin to understand now what I require of you. "

"I think I do. "

"Mr. Larkspur, " continued Honoria, with energy. "I want you to be mysecond self. I want you to be the shadow of these two men. Whereverthey go, you must follow--in some shape or other you must haunt them, by night and day. It is, of course, a difficult task which I demand ofyou. You have to decide whether it is impossible. "

"Impossible! ma'am--not a bit of it. Nothing is impossible to a man whohas served twenty years' apprenticeship as a Bow Street runner. Youdon't know what we old Bow Street hands can do when we're on ourmettle. I've heard a deal of talk about Fooshay, that was at the headof Bonaparty's police--but bless your heart, ma'am, Fooshay was a foolto us. I've done as much and more than what you talk of before to-day. All you have to do is to give me the names and descriptions of the twomen I am to watch, and leave all the rest to me. "

"One of these two men is Sir Reginald Eversleigh, Baronet, a man ofsmall fortune--a bachelor, occupying lodgings in Villiers Street. Ihave reason to believe that he is dissipated, a gamester, and areprobate. "

"Good, " said Mr. Larkspur, who jotted down an occasional note in agreasy little pocket-book. 

"The second person is a medical practitioner, called VictorCarrington--a Frenchman, but a perfect master of the English language, and a man whose youth has been spent in England. The two men are firmfriends and constant associates. In keeping watch upon the actions ofone, you cannot fail to see much of the other. 

"Very good, ma'am; you may make your mind easy, " answered thedetective, as coolly as if he had just received the most common-placeorder. 

He escorted Honoria to the door of his chambers, and left her todescend the dingy staircase as best as she might. 

 CHAPTER XVI. 

 WAITING AND WATCHING. 

Valentine Jernam's younger brother, George, had journeyed to and fro onthe high seas five years since the murder of the brave and generous-hearted sea-captain. 

Things had gone well with Captain George Jernam, and in the whole ofthe trading navy there were few richer men than the owner of the'Pizarro', 'Stormy Petrel', and 'Albatross'. 

With these three vessels constantly afloat. George Jernam was on thehigh road to fortune. 

His life had not been by any means uneventful since the death of hisbrother, though that mysterious calamity had taken away the zest fromhis success for many a day, and though he no longer cherished the samevisions of a happy home in England, when his circumstances should havebecome so prosperous as to enable him to "settle down. " This sameprocess of settling down was one by no means congenial to GeorgeJernam's disposition at any time; and he was far less likely to take toit kindly now, than when "dear old Val"--as he began to call hisbrother in his thoughts once more, when the horror of the murder hadbegun to wear off, and the lost friend seemed again familiar--had beenthe prospective sharer of the retirement which was to be so tranquil, so comfortable, and so well-earned. It had no attraction for George atall; for many a long day after Joyce Harker's letter had reached him henever dwelt upon it; he set his face hard against his grief, and workedon, as men must work, fortunately for them, under all chances andchanges of this mortal life, until the last change of all. At first, the thirst for revenge upon his brother's murderers had been hot andstrong upon George Jernam--almost as hot and strong as it had been, andcontinued to be, upon Joyce Harker; but the natures of the men differedmaterially. George Jernam had neither the dogged persistency nor thelatent fierceness of his dead brother's friend and protégé; and thelong, slow, untiring watching to which Harker devoted himself wouldhave been a task so uncongenial as to be indeed impossible to the moreopen, more congenial temperament of the merchant-captain. 

He had responded warmly to Harker's letters; he had more thansanctioned the outlay which he had made, in money paid and moneypromised, to the skilled detective to whom Harker had entrusted theinvestigation of the murder of Valentine Jernam. He had awaited everycommunication with anxious interest and suspense, and he had neverlanded after a voyage, and received the letters which awaited hisarrival, without a keen revival of the first sharp pang that had smotehim with the tidings of his brother's fate. 

Happily George Jernam was a busy man, and his life was full of variety, adventure, and incident. In time he began, not to forget, indeed, butto remember less frequently and less painfully, the manner of hisbrother's death, and to regard the fixed purpose of Joyce Harker's lifeas more or less of a harmless delusion. A practical man in his own way, George Jernam had very vague ideas concerning the lives of the criminalclasses, and the faculties and facilities of the science of detection;and the hope of finding out the secret of his brother's fate had longago deserted him. 

Only once had he and Joyce Harker met since the murder of ValentineJernam. George had landed a cargo at Hamburg, and had given hisbrother's friend rendezvous there. Then the two men had talked of allthat had been done so vainly, and all that remained to be done, Harkerhoped, so effectively. Joyce had never been able to bring hissuspicions concerning Black Milsom to the test of proof. Unweariedsearch had been made for the old man who had played the part ofgrandfather to the beautiful ballad-singer; but it had been whollyineffectual. All that could be ascertained concerning him was, that hehad died in a hospital, in a country town on the great northern road, and that the girl had wandered away from there, and never more beenheard of. Of Black Milsom, Joyce Harker had never lost sight, until hiscareer received a temporary check by the sentence of transportation, which had sent the ruffian out of the country. But all efforts of thefaithful watcher had failed to discover the missing link in theevidence which connected Black Milsom with Valentine Jernam's death. All his watching and questioning--all his silent noting of the idletalk around him--all his eager endeavour to take Dennis Waymanunawares, failed to enable him to obtain evidence of that one fact ofwhich he was convinced--the fact that Valentine Jernam had been at thepublic-house in Ratcliff Highway on the day of his death. 

When the inutility of his endeavours became clear to Joyce Harker, hegave up his lodging in Wayman's house, and located himself in modestapartments at Poplar, where he transacted a great deal of business forGeorge Jernam, and maintained a constant, though unprofitable, communication with the detective officer to whom he had confided thetask of investigation, and who was no other than Mr. Andrew Larkspur. 

In one of the earliest of the numerous letters which George Jernamaddressed to Harker, after the death of Valentine, the merchant-captainhad given his zealous friend and assistant certain instructionsconcerning the old aunt to whom the two desolate boys had owed so muchin their ill-treated childhood, and whom they had so well andconstantly requited in their prosperous manhood. These instructionsincluded a request that Joyce Harker would visit Susan Jernam inperson, and furnish George with details relative to that venerablelady's requirements, looks, health, and general circumstances. 

"I should have seen the good old soul, you know, " wrote George, "when Iwas to have seen poor Val; but it didn't please God that the one thingshould come off any more than the other, and it can't be helped. But Ishould like you to run down to Allanbay and look her up, and let herknow that she is neither neglected nor forgotten by her vagabondnephew. "

So Joyce Harker went down to the Devonshire village, and introducedhimself to George Jernam's aunt. The old lady was much altered sinceshe had last welcomed a visitor to her pretty, cheerful cottage, andhad listened with simple surprise and pleasure to her nephewValentine's tales of the sea, and they had talked together over thetroublous days of his unhappy childhood. The untimely and tragic deathof the merchant-captain had afflicted her deeply, and had filled hermind with sentiments which, though they differed in degree, closelyresembled in their nature those of Joyce Harker. The determination tobe revenged upon the murderers of "her boy" which Harker expressed, found a ready echo in the breast of his hearer, and she thanked himwarmly for his devotion to the master he had lost. Strong mutual likinggrew up between these two, and when her visitor left her--after havingcarried out all George's wishes in respect to her, on the scale ofliberality which the grateful nephew had dictated--Susan Jernam gavehim a cordial invitation to pass any leisure time he might have at thecottage, though, as she remarked--

"I am not very lively company, Mr. Harker, for you or anybody, for Ican't talk of anything but George and poor Valentine. "

"And I don't care to talk of much else either, Mrs. Jernam, " saidHarker, in reply; "so, you see, we couldn't possibly be better companyfor each other. "

Thus it happened that a second tie between George Jernam and JoyceHarker arose, in the person of the sole surviving relative of theformer, and that Joyce had made three visits to the pretty sea-sidevillage in which the childhood of his dead friend and his living patronhad been passed, before he and George Jernam met again on Englishground. 

When at length that long-deferred meeting took place, ValentineJernam's murder was a mystery rather more than five years old, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur had made no progress towards its solution. He had beenobliged to acknowledge to Joyce Harker that he had not struck the righttrail, and to confess that he had begun to despond. The disappearanceof Black Milsom from among the congenial society of thieves andruffians which he frequented was, of course, easily accounted for byMr. Larkspur, and the absence of any, even the slightest, additionalclue to the fate of Jernam, confirmed that astute person in theconviction, which he had reached early in the course of hisconfabulations with Harker, that the convict was the guilty man. Therewas, on this hypothesis, nothing for it but to wait until the worthyexile should have worked out his time and once more returned to gracehis mother-country, and then to resume the close watch which, thoughhitherto ineffectual, might in time bring some of his former deeds tolight. 

Such was the state of affairs when Captain Duncombe bought the desertedhouse which had had such undesirable tenants, first in the person ofold Screwton, the miser, and, secondly, of Black Milsom. Joyce Harkerwas aware of the transaction, and had watched with some interest thetransformation of the dreary, dismal, doomed place, into the cheery, comfortable, middle-class residence it had now become. If he had knownthat the last hours of Valentine Jernam's life had been passed on thatspot, that there his beloved master had met with a violent and crueldeath, with what different feelings he would have watched the work! Butthough, as the former dwelling of Black Milsom, the cottage had adreary attraction for him, he was far from imagining that within itswalls lay hidden one infallible clue to the secret for which he hadsought so long and so vainly. 

The new occupant of River View Cottage was acquainted with JoyceHarker, and held the solitary old man in some esteem. Captain JoeDuncombe and the _protégé_ of the Jernams had nothing whatever incommon in character, disposition, or manners, and the distance in thesocial scale which divided the prosperous merchant-captain from thepoor, though clever, dependent, was considerable, even according to thenot very strict standard of manners observed by persons of theirrespective classes. But Joe Duncombe knew and heartily liked GeorgeJernam. He had been in England at the time of Valentine's murder, andhe had then learned the faithful and active part played by Harker. Hehad lost sight of the man for some time, but when he had bought thecottage, and during the progress of the changes and improvements he hadmade in that unprepossessing dwelling, accident had thrown Harker inhis way, and they had found much to discuss in George Jernam'sprosperity, in his generous treatment of Harker, in the generalcondition of the merchant service, which the two men declared to begoing to the dogs, after the manner of all professions, trades, andinstitutions of every age and every clime, when contemplated from aconversational point of view; and in the honest captain's plans, hopes, and prospects concerning his daughter. 

Joyce Harker had seen Rosamond Duncombe occasionally, but had not takenmuch notice of her. Nor had Miss Duncombe been much impressed by thatgentleman. Joyce was not a lady's man, and Rosamond, who entertained arather disrespectful notion of her father's acquaintances in general, classing them collectively as "old fogies, " contented herself withdistinguishing Mr. Harker as the ugliest and grimmest of the lot. Joycecame and went, not very often indeed, but very freely to River ViewCottage, and there was much confidence and good-fellowship between thebluff old seaman and the more acute, but not less honest, adventurer. 

There was, however, one circumstance which Captain Duncombe nevermentioned to Harker. That circumstance was the apparition of oldScrewton's ghost. Joe Duncombe was, to tell the truth, a little ashamedof his credulity on that occasion. He entertained no doubt that he hadbeen victimized by a clever practical joke, and while he chuckled overthe recollection that it had been an expensive jest to the perpetrator, who had lost a valuable gold coin by the transaction, he had no fancyfor exposing himself to any further ridicule on the occasion. So thebluff, imperious, soft-hearted captain issued an ukase commandingsilence on the subject; and silence was observed, not in the leastbecause Rosamond Duncombe or Susan Trott were afraid of him, butbecause Rosamond loved her father, and Susan Trott respected her mastertoo much to disobey his lightest wish. 

There was also one circumstance which Joyce Harker never mentioned toCaptain Duncombe. This circumstance was the identity of the formeroccupant of the cottage with the man whom he believed to be themurderer of Valentine Jernam. 

"It is bad enough to live in a place that's said to be haunted, " saidHarker to himself, when he visited the cottage for the first time;"without my telling him that he comes after a man who is certainly aconvict, and probably a murderer. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XVII. 

 DOUBTFUL SOCIETY. 

Victor Carrington still lived in the little cottage on the outskirts ofLondon. Here, with his mother for his only companion, he led a simple, studious life, which, to any one ignorant of his character, would haveseemed the life of a good and honourable man. 

The few neighbours who passed to and fro beneath the wall whichsurrounded the cottage, knew nothing of the inner life of itsoccupants. They knew only that of all the houses in the neighbourhoodthis was the quietest. Yet those who happened to pass the house late atnight always saw a glimmer of light in an upper chamber, and the bluevapour of smoke rising from one particular chimney. 

Those who had occasion to pass the house frequently after darkperceived that the smoke from this chimney was different from thecommon smoke of common chimneys. Sometimes vivid sparks glittered andflashed upon the darkness. At other times a semi-luminous, green vapourwas seen to issue from the mouth of the chimney. 

These facts were spoken about by the neighbours; and by and by peoplediscovered that the smoke issued from the chimney of VictorCarrington's laboratory, where the surgeon was frequently employed, long after midnight, making experiments in the science of chemistry. 

The nature of these experiments was known to no one. The few neighbourswho had ever conversed with the French surgeon had heard him declarethat he was a student of the mysteries of electricity. It was, therefore, supposed that all his experiments were in some mannerconnected with that wondrous science. 

No one for a moment suspected evil of a young man whose life was sober, respectable, and laborious, and who went to the little Catholic chapelevery Sunday, with his mother leaning on his arm. 

Those who really knew Victor Carrington knew that he was without oneray of belief in a Divine Ruler, and that he laughed to scorn thoseterrors of heavenly vengeance which will sometimes restrain the hand ofthe most hardened criminal. He was a wretch who seemed to have beencreated without those natural qualities which, in some degree, redeemthe worst of humanity. He was a creature without a conscience--withouta heart. 

And yet he seemed the most dutiful and devoted of sons. 

Is it possible that filial love could hold any place in a soul so lostas his? It is difficult to solve this enigma. 

Victor Carrington was ambitious; and to gain the object of his ambitionhe was willing to steep his soul in guilt. But he was also cautious andcalculating, and he knew that to commit crime with impunity he must soshape his life as to escape suspicion. 

He knew that a devoted and affectionate son is always respected by goodmen and women; and he had studied human nature too closely not to beaware that there is more goodness than wickedness in the world, basethough some of earth's inhabitants may be. 

The world is easily hoodwinked; and those who watched the life of theyoung surgeon were ready to declare that he was a most deserving youngman. 

He had his reward for this apparent excellence. Patients came to himwithout his seeking; and at the time of Honoria Eversleigh's arrival inLondon he had obtained a small but remunerative practice. The moneyearned thus enabled him to live. The money he won by his pen in themedical journals he was able to save. 

He knew how necessary money was in all the turning-points of life, andhe denied himself every pleasure and every luxury in order to save asum which should serve him in time of need. 

Matilda Carrington was one of those quiet women who seem to take nointerest in the world around them, and to be happy without thepleasures which delight other women. She lived quite alone, without onefemale friend or acquaintance, and she saw little of her son, whosemidnight studies and medical practice absorbed almost every hour of hisexistence. 

Her life, therefore, was one long solitude, and but for thecompanionship of her birds and two Angora cats, she would have beenalmost as much alone as a prisoner in a condemned cell. 

There was but one visitor who came often to the cottage, and that wasSir Reginald Eversleigh. The young baronet contrived to exist, somehowor other, upon his income of five hundred a year; but, as he hadneither abandoned his old haunts, nor put aside his old vices, theincome, which to a good man would have seemed a handsome competence, barely enabled him to stave off the demands of his most pressingcreditors by occasional payments on account. 

He lived a dark and strange existence, occupying a set of shabby-genteel apartments in a street leading out of the Strand; but spendinga great part of his life in a house on the banks of the Thames--a housethat stood amidst grounds of some extent, situated midway betweenChelsea and Fulham. 

The mistress of this house was a lady who called herself a widow, butof whose real position the world knew very little. 

She was said to be of Austrian extraction, and the widow of an Austrianofficer. Her name was Paulina Durski. She had bade farewell to thefresh bloom of early youth; for at her best she looked thirty years ofage. But her beauty was of that brilliant order which does not need thecharm of girlhood. She was a woman--a grand, queen-like creature. Thosewho admired her most compared her to a tall white lily, alike statelyand graceful. 

She was fair, with that snowy purity of complexion which is so rare acharm. Her hair was of the palest gold--darker than flaxen, lighterthan auburn--hair that waved in sunny undulations on the broad whiteforehead, and imparted an unspeakable innocence to the beautiful face. 

Such was Paulina Durski. One charm alone was wanting to render thiswoman as lovable as she was lovely, and that wan the charm ofexpression. 

There was a lack of warmth in that perfect face. The bright blue eyeswere hard; the rosy lips had been trained to smile on friend or foe, onstranger or kinsman, with the same artificial smile. 

Hilton House was the name of the villa by the river-bank. It hadbelonged originally to a nobleman; but, on the decay of his fortunes, had fallen into the hands of a speculator, who intended to occupy it, but who failed almost immediately after becoming its owner. After thisman's bankruptcy, the house had for a long time been tenantless. It wastoo expensive for some, too lonely for others; and when Madame Durskisaw and took a fancy to the place, she was able to secure it for amoderate rent. The grounds and the house had been neglected. The rareand costly shrubs in the gardens were rank and overgrown; the exquisitedecorations of the interior were spoiled by damp. 

Madame Durski was a person who lived in a certain style; but itspeedily became evident that she was very often at a loss for readymoney. Her furniture arrived from Paris, and her household came alsofrom that brilliant city. It was the household of a princess; but of aprincess not unfamiliar with poverty. 

There was a Spanish courier, one Carlo Toas--a strange, silentcreature, whose stately and solemn movements seemed fitted for acourtly assembly, rather than for the unceremonious gatherings ofmodern society. The next person in importance in the household ofMadame Durski was an elderly woman, who attended on the fair Austrianwidow. She was a native of Paris, and her name was Sophie Elser. Therewere three other servants, all foreigners, and apparently devoted totheir mistress. 

The furniture was of a bygone fashion, costly and beautiful of itskind; but it was furniture which had seen better days. The draperies inevery chamber were of satin or velvet; but the satin was worn andfaded, the velvet threadbare. The pictures, china, plate, the bronzesand knick-knacks which adorned the rooms, all bore evidence of arefined and artistic taste. But much of the china was imperfect, andthe plate was of very small extent. 

The existence of Paulina Durski was one which might well excitecuriosity in the minds of the few neighbours who had the opportunity ofobserving her mode of life. 

This beautiful widow had no female acquaintances, save a humble friendwho lived with her, an Englishwoman, who subsisted upon the charity ofthe lovely Paulina. 

This person never quitted her benefactress. She was constant as hershadow; a faithful watch-dog, always at hand, yet never obtrusive. Shewas a creature who seemed to have been born without eyes and withoutears; so careless was the widow of her presence, so reckless whatsecrets were disclosed in her hearing. 

By daylight the life of Madame Durski and her companion, Miss Brewer, seemed the dullest existence ever endured by womankind. Paulina rarelyleft her own apartment until six in the evening; at which hour, she andMiss Brewer dined together in her boudoir. 

They always dined alone. After dinner Paulina returned to her apartmentto dress for the evening, while Miss Brewer retired to her own bedroomon the upper story, where she arrayed herself invariably in blackvelvet. 

She had never been seen by the visitors at Hilton House in any othercostume than this lustreless velvet. Her age was between thirty andforty. She might once have had some pretensions to beauty; but her facewas pinched and careworn, and there was a sharp, greedy look in thesmall eyes, whose colour was that neutral, undecided tint, that seemssometimes a pale yellowish brown, anon a blueish green. 

All day long the two women at Hilton House lived alone. No carriageapproached the gates; no foot-passenger was seen to enter the grounds. Within and without all was silent and lifeless. 

But with nightfall came a change. Lights shone in all the lowerwindows, music sounded on the still night air, many carriages rolledthrough the open gateway--broughams with flashing lamps dashed up tothe marble portico, and hack cabs mingled with the more stylishequipages. 

There were very few nights on which Paulina Durski's saloons were notenlivened by the presence of many guests. Her visitors were allgentlemen; but they treated the mistress of the house with as muchrespect as if she had been surrounded by women of the highest rank. Night after night the same men assembled in those faded saloons; nightafter night the carriages rolled along the avenue--the flashing lampsilluminated the darkness. Those who watched the proceedings of theAustrian widow had good reason to wonder what the attraction was whichbrought those visitors so constantly to Hilton House. Many speculationswere formed, and the fair widow's reputation suffered much at the handsof her neighbours; but none guessed the real charm of those nightlyreceptions. 

That secret was known only to those within the mansion; and from thoseit could not be hidden. 

The charm which drew so many visitors to the saloons of Madame Durskiwas the fatal spell of the gaming-table. The beautiful Paulina opened asuite of three spacious chambers for the reception of her guests. Inthe outer apartment there was a piano; and it was here Paulina sat--with her constant companion, Matilda Brewer. In the second apartmentwere small green velvet-covered tables, devoted to whist and _écarté_. The third, and inner, apartment was much larger than either of theothers, and in this room there was a table for _rouge et noir_. 

The door of this inner apartment was papered so as to appear whenclosed like a portion of the wall. A heavy picture was securelyfastened upon this papered surface, and the door was lined with iron. Once closed, this door was not easily to be discovered by the eye of astranger; and, even when discovered, it was not easily to be opened. 

It was secured with a spring lock, which fastened of itself as the doorswung to. 

This inner apartment had no windows. It was never used in the day-time. It was a secret chamber, hidden in the very centre of the house; andonly an architect or a detective officer would have been likely to havediscovered its existence. The walls were hung with red cloth, andMadame Durski always spoke of this apartment as the Red Drawing-room. Her servants were forbidden to mention the chamber in theirconversation with the neighbours, and the members of the Austrianwidow's household were too well trained to disobey any such orders. 

By the laws of England, the existence of a table for _rouge et noir_ isforbidden. All these precautions were therefore necessary to insuresafety for the guests of Madame Durski. 

Paulina, herself, never played. Sometimes she sat with Miss Brewer inthe outer chamber, silent and abstracted, while her visitors amusedthemselves in the two other rooms; sometimes she seated herself at thepiano, and played soft, plaintive German sonatas, or _Leider ohneWorte_, for an hour at a time; sometimes she moved slowly to and froamongst the gamblers--now lingering for a few moments behind the chairof one, now glancing at the cards of another. 

One of her most constant visitors was Reginald Eversleigh. Every nighthe drove down to Hilton House in a hack cab. He was generally the firstto arrive and the last to depart. 

It was also to be observed that almost all the men who assembled in thedrawing-rooms of Hilton House were friends and acquaintances of SirReginald. 

It was he who introduced them to the lovely widow. It was he whotempted them to come night after night, when prudence should haveinduced them to stay away. 

 * * * * *

The association between Reginald Eversleigh and Paulina Durski was nonew alliance. 

Immediately after the death of Sir Oswald Eversleigh, Reginald turnedhis back upon London, disgusted with the scene of his poverty andhumiliation, eager to find forgetfulness of his bitter disappointmentsin the fever and excitement of a more brilliant city than any to befound in Great Britain. He went to Paris, that capital which he hadshunned since the death of Mary Goodwin, but whither he returnedeagerly now, thirsting for riot and excitement--any opiate by which hemight lull to rest the bitter memories of the past month. 

He was familiar with the wildest haunts of that city of dissipation, and he was speedily engulphed in the vortex of vice and folly. If hehad been a rich man, this life might have gone on for ever; but withoutmoney a man counts for very little in such a circle as that whereinReginald alone could find delight, and to the inhabitants of thatregion five hundred a year would seem a kind of pauperism. 

Sir Reginald contrived to keep the actual amount of his income a secretlocked in his own breast. His acquaintances and associates knew that hewas not rich; but they knew no more. 

At the French opera-house he saw Paulina Durski for the first time. Shewas seated in one of the smaller boxes, dressed in pure white, withwhite camellias in her hair. Her faithful companion, Matilda Brewer, was seated in the shadow of the curtains, and formed a foil for thebeautiful Austrian. 

Reginald Eversleigh entered the house with a dissipated and fashionableyoung Parisian--a man who, like his companion, had wasted youth, character, and fortune in the tainted atmosphere of disreputable hauntsand midnight assemblies. The two young men took their places in thestalls, and amused themselves between the acts by a scrutiny of theoccupants of the house. 

Hector Leonce, the Parisian, was familiar with the inmates of everybox. 

"Do you see that beautiful, fair-haired woman, with the white camelliasin her hair?" he said, after he had drawn the attention of theEnglishman to several distinguished people. "That is Madame Durski, theyoung and wealthy widow of an Austrian officer, and one of the mostcelebrated beauties in Paris. "

"She is very handsome, " answered Reginald, carelessly; "but hers is acold style of loveliness--too much like a face moulded out of wax. "

"Wait till you see her animated, " replied Hector Leonce. "We will go toher box presently. "

When the curtain fell on the close of the following act the two menleft the stalls, and made their way to Madame Durski's box. 

She received them courteously, and Reginald Eversleigh speedilyperceived that her beauty, fair and wax-like as it was, did not lackintellectual grace. She talked well, and her manner had the tone ofgood society. Reginald was surprised to see her attended only by thelittle Englishwoman, in her dress of threadbare black velvet. 

After the opera Sir Reginald and Hector Leonce accompanied MadameDurski to her apartments in the Rue du Faubourg, St. Honoré; and therethe baronet beheld higher play than he had ever seen before in aprivate house presided over by a woman. On this occasion the beautifulwidow herself occupied a place at the _rouge et noir_ table, andReginald beheld enough to enlighten him as to her real character. Hesaw that with this woman the love of play was a passion: a profound andsoul-absorbing delight. He saw the eyes which, in repose, seemed of socold a brightness, emit vivid flashes of feverish light; he saw thefair blush-rose tinted cheek glow with a hectic crimson--he beheld thewoman with her mask thrown aside, abandoned to the influence of hermaster-passion. 

After this night, Reginald Eversleigh was a frequent visitor at theapartments of the Austrian widow. For him, as for her, the fierceexcitement of the gaming-table was an irresistible temptation. In herelegantly appointed drawing-rooms he met rich men who were desperateplayers; but he met few men who were likely to be dupes. Here neitherskill nor bribery availed him, and he was dependent on the caprices ofchance. The balance was tolerably even, and he left Paris neitherricher nor poorer for his acquaintance with Paulina Durski. 

But that acquaintance exercised a very powerful influence over hisdestiny, nevertheless. There was a strange fascination in the societyof the Austrian widow--a nameless, indefinable charm, which few wereable to resist. A bitter experience of vice and folly had robbedReginald Eversleigh's heart and mind of all youth's freshness andconfidence, and for him this woman seemed only what she was, anadventuress, dangerous to all who approached her. 

He knew this, and yet he yielded to the fascination of her presence. Night after night he haunted the rooms in the Rue du Faubourg, St. Honoré. He went there even when he was too poor to play, and could onlystand behind Paulina's chair, a patient and devoted cavalier. 

For a long time she seemed to be scarcely aware of his devotion. Shereceived him as she received her other guests. She met him always withthe same cold smile; the same studied courtesy. But one evening, whenhe went to her apartments earlier than usual, he found her alone, andin a melancholy mood. 

Then, for the first time, he became aware that the life she led wasodious to her; that she loathed the hateful vice of which she was theslave. She was wont to be very silent about herself and her ownfeelings; but that night she cast aside all reserve, and spoke with apassionate earnestness, which made her seem doubly charming to ReginaldEversleigh. 

"I am so degraded a creature that, perhaps, you have never troubledyourself to wonder how I became the thing I am, " she said; "and yet youmust surely have marvelled to see a woman of high birth fallen to thedepths in which you find me; fallen so low as to be the companion ofgamesters, a gamester myself. I will tell you the secret of my life. "

Reginald Eversleigh lifted his hand with a deprecating gesture. 

"Dear madame, tell me nothing, I implore you. I admire and respectyou, " he said. "To me, you must always appear the most beautiful ofwomen, whatever may be the nature of your surroundings. "

"Yes, the most beautiful!" echoed Paulina, with passionate scorn. "Youmen think that to praise a woman's beauty is to console her for everyhumiliation. I have long held that which you call my beauty as thepoorest thing on earth, so little, happiness has its possession won forme. I will tell you the story of my life. It is the only justificationI have. "

"I am ready to listen. So long as you speak of yourself, your wordsmust have the deepest interest for me. "

"I was reared amongst gamesters, Reginald Eversleigh, " continuedPaulina Durski, with the same passionate intensity of manner, "Myfather was an incorrigible gambler; and before I had emerged fromchildhood to girlhood, the handsome fortune which should have been minehad been squandered. As a girl the rattle of the dice, the clamour ofthe _rouge et noir_ table were the most familiar sounds to my ears. Night after night, night after night, I have kept watch at my ownwindow, and have seen the lighted windows of my father's rooms, andhave known that grim poverty was drawing nearer and nearer as the longhours of those sleepless nights went by. "

"My poor Paulina!"

"My mother died young, exhausted by the perpetual fever of anxietywhich the gambler's wife is doomed to suffer. She died, and I was leftalone--a woman; beautiful if you will, and, as the world supposed, heiress to a large fortune; for none knew how entirely the wealth whichshould have been mine had melted away in those nights of dissipationand folly. People knew that my father played, and played desperately;but few knew the extent of his losses. After my mother's death, myfather insisted on my doing the honours of his house. I received hisfriends; I stood by his chair as he played _écarté_, or sat by his sideand noted the progress of the game at the _rouge et noir_ table. Thenfirst I felt the fatal passion which I can but believe to be a taint inmy very blood. Slowly and gradually the fascinating vice assumed itshorrible mastery. I watched the progress of the play. I learned tounderstand that science which was the one all-absorbing pursuit ofthose around me. Then I played myself, first taking a hand at _écarté_with some of the younger guests, half in sport, and then venturing asmall golden coin at the _rouge et noir_ table, while my admirerspraised my daring, as if I had been some capricious child. In thoseassemblies I was always the only woman, except Matilda Brewer, who wasthen my governess. My father would have no female guests at thesenightly orgies. The presence of women would have been a hindrance tothe delights of the gaming-table. At first I felt all the bitterness ofmy position. I looked forward with unspeakable dread to the drearyfuture in which I should find destitution staring me in the face. Butwhen once the gamester's madness had seized upon me, I thought no moreof that dreary future; I became as reckless as my father and hisguests; I forgot everything in the excitement of the moment. To belucky at the gaming-table was to be happy; to lose was despair. Thus myyouth went by, till the day when my father told me that Colonel Durskihad offered me his hand and fortune, and that I had no alternative butto accept him. "

"Oh, then, your first marriage was no love-match?" cried Reginald, eagerly. 

"A love-match!" exclaimed Paulina, contemptuously. "No; it was amarriage of convenience, dictated by a father who set less value on hisdaughter's happiness than on a good hand of cards. My father told me Imust choose between Leopold Durski and ruin. 'This house cannot shelteryou much longer, ' he said. 'For myself there is flight. I can go toAmerica, and lose my identity in strange cities. I cannot remain inVienna, to be pointed at as the beggared Count Veschi. But with you formy companion I should be tied hand and foot. As a wanderer and anadventurer, I may prosper alone; but as a wanderer, burdened with ahelpless woman, failure would be certain. It is not a question ofchoice, Paulina, ' he said, resolutely; 'there is no alternative. Youmust become the wife of Leopold Durski. '"

"And you consented?"

"I ask you, Reginald Eversleigh, could I refuse? For me, love was aword which had no meaning. Leopold Durski was more than double my age;but in outward seeming he was a gentleman. He was reported to bewealthy; he had a high position at the Austrian Court. I was so utterlyhelpless, so desolate, so despairing, that it is scarcely strange if Iaccepted the fate my father pressed upon me, careless as to a futurewhich held no joy for me, beyond the pleasure of the gaming-table. Ileft the house of one gambler to ally myself to the fortunes ofanother, for Leopold Durski was my father's companion and friend, andthe same master-passion swayed both. It was strange that my father, himself a ruined gamester, should have become the dupe of a man whosereported wealth was as great a sham as his own. But so it was. Iexchanged poverty with one master for poverty with another master. Mynew life was an existence of perpetual falsehood and trickery. Ioccupied a splendid house in the most fashionable quarter of Vienna;but that house was maintained by my husband's winnings at the gaming-table; and it was my task to draw together the dupes whose money was tosupport the false semblance of grandeur which surrounded me. The dupescame. I had my little court of flatterers; but the courtiers paiddearly for their allegiance to their queen. I was the snare which wasset to entrap the birds whose feathers my husband was to pluck. If Ihad been like other women, my position would have been utterlyintolerable to me. I should have found some means of escape from a lifeso hateful--a degradation so shameful. "

"And you made no attempt to escape?"

"None. I was a gambler; the vice which had degraded my husband haddegraded me. We had both sunk to the same level, and I had no right toreproach him for infamy which I shared. We had little affection foreach other. Colonel Durski had sought me only because I was fitted toadorn his reception-rooms, and attract the dupes who were to suffer bytheir acquaintance with him. But if there was little love between us, we at least never quarrelled. He treated me always with studiedcourtesy, and I never upbraided him for the deception by which he hadobtained my hand. My father disappeared suddenly from Vienna, and onlyafter his departure was it discovered that his fortune had longvanished, and that he had for several years been completely insolvent. His creditors tittered a cry of execration; but in great cities thecries of such victims are scarcely heard. My reception-rooms were stillthronged by aristocratic guests, and no one cared to remember myfather's infamy. This life had lasted three years, when my husband diedand left me penniless. I sold my jewels, and came to this city, wherefor a year and a half I have lived, as my husband lived in Vienna, onthe fortune of the gaming-table. I am growing weary of Paris, and itmay be that Paris is growing weary of me. I suppose I shall go toLondon next. And next? Who knows? Ah, Reginald Eversleigh, believe methere are many moments of my life in which I think that the little walkfrom here to the river would cut the knot of all my difficulties. To-night I am surrounded with anxieties, steeped in degradation, hemmed inby obstacles that shut me out of all peaceful resting-places. To-morrowI might be lying very quietly in the Morgue. "

"Paulina, for pity's sake--"

"Ah, me! these are idle words, are they not?" said Madame Durski, witha weary sigh. "And now I have told you my history, Reginald Eversleigh, and it is for you to judge whether there is any excuse for such acreature as I am. "

Sir Reginald pitied this hopeless, friendless, woman as much as it wasin him to pity any one except himself, and tried to utter some words ofconsolation. 

She looked up at him, as he spoke to her, with a glance in which he sawa deeper feeling than gratitude. 

Then it was that Reginald declared himself the devoted lover of thewoman who had revealed to him the strange story of her life. He toldher of the influence which she exercised over him, the fascinationwhich he had sought in vain to resist. He declared himself attached toher by an affection which would know no change, come what might. But hedid not offer this friendless woman the shelter of his name, theostensible position which would have been hers had she become his wife. 

Even when beneath the sway of a woman's fascination Reginald Eversleighwas cold and calculating. Paulina Durski was poor, and doubtless deeplyin debt. She was a gambler, and the companion of gamblers. She was, therefore, no fitting wife for a man who looked upon marriage as astepping-stone by which he might yet redeem his fallen fortunes. 

Paulina received his declaration with an air of simulated coldness; butReginald Eversleigh could perceive that it was only simulated, and thathe had awakened a real affection in the heart of this desolate woman. 

"Do not speak to me of love, " she said; "to me such words can promiseno happiness. My love could only bring shame and misery on the man towhom it was given. Let me tread my dreary pathway alone, Reginald--alone to the very end. "

Much was said after this by Reginald and the woman who loved him, andwho was yet too proud to confess her love. Paulina Durski was not aninexperienced girl, to be persuaded by romantic speeches. She hadacquired knowledge of the world in a hard and bitter school. She couldfully fathom the base selfishness of the man who pretended to love her, and she understood why it was that he shrank from offering her the onlyreal pledge of his truth. 

"I will speak frankly to you, Paulina, " he said. "I am too poor tomarry. "

"Yes, " she answered, bitterly; "I comprehend. You are too poor to marrya penniless wife. "

"And I am not likely to find a rich one. But, believe me, that my loveis none the less sincere because I shrink from asking you to allyyourself to misery. "

"So be it, Sir Reginald. I am willing to accept your love for what itis--a wise and prudent affection--such as a man of the world may freelyindulge in without fear that his folly may cost him too dearly. Youwill come to my house; I shall see you night after night amongst thereckless idlers who gather round me; you will pay me compliments allthe year round, and bring me bon-bons on New Year's Day; and some day, when I have grown old and haggard, you will all at once forget the factof our acquaintance, and I shall see you no more. Let it be so. It ispleasant for a woman to fancy herself beloved, however false the fancymay be. I will shut my eyes, and dream that you love me, Reginald. "

And this was all. No more was ever said of love between these two; butfrom that hour Reginald was more constant than ever in his attendanceon the beautiful widow. The time came when she grew weary of Paris, andwhen those who had lost money began to shun the seductive delights ofher nightly receptions. Reginald Eversleigh was not slow to perceivethat the brilliant throng grew thin--the most distinguished guests"conspicuous by their absence. " He urged Paulina to leave Paris forLondon; and he himself selected the lonely villa on the banks of theThames, in which he found a billiard-room, lighted from the roof, thatwas easily converted into a secret chamber. 

It was by his advice that Paulina Durski altered her line of conduct ontaking up her abode in England, and refrained altogether from anyactive share in the ruinous amusements for which men frequented herreceptions. 

"It was all very well for you to take a hand at _écarté_, or to takeyour place at the _rouge et noir_ table, in Paris, " Reginald said, whenhe discussed this question; "but here it will not do. The English arefull of childish prejudices, and to see a woman at the gaming-tablewould shock these prejudices. Let me play for you. I will find thecapital, and we will divide the profits of each night's speculation. For your part, you will have only to look beautiful, and to lure thegolden-feathered birds into the net; and sometimes, perhaps, when I amplaying _écarté_ with one of your admirers, behind whose chair you mayhappen to be standing, you may contrive to combine a flatteringinterest in _his_ play with a substantial benefit to _mine_. "

Paulina's eyelids fell, and a crimson flush dyed her face: but sheuttered no exclamation of anger or disgust. And yet she understood onlytoo well the meaning of Sir Reginald's words. She knew that he wishedher to aid him in a deliberate system of cheating. She knew this, andshe did not withdraw her friendship from this man. 

Alas, no! she loved him. Not because she believed him to be good andhonourable--not because she was blinded to the baseness of his nature. She loved him in spite of her knowledge of his real character--sheyielded to the influence of an infatuation which she was so powerlessto resist that she might almost be pardoned for believing herself thevictim of a baleful destiny. 

"It is my fate, " she murmured to herself, after this last revelation ofher lover's infamy. "It must needs be my fate, since women with lessclaim to be loved than I possess are so happy as to win the devotion ofgood and brave men. It is my fate to love a cheat and trickster, onwhose constancy I have so poor a hold that a breath may sever themiserable bond that unites us. "

Victor Carrington was one of the first persons whom Reginald Eversleighintroduced to Madame Durski after her arrival in England. She waspleased with the quiet and graceful manners of the Frenchman; but shewas at a loss to understand Sir Reginald's intimate association with aman who was at once poor and obscure. 

She told Sir Reginald as much the next time she saw him alone. 

"I know that in most of your friendships convenience and self-interestreign paramount over what you call sentimentality; and yet you choosefor your friend this Carrington, whom no one knows; and who is, youtell me, even poorer than yourself. You must have a hidden motive, Reginald; and a strong one. "

A dark shade passed over the face of the baronet. 

"I have my reasons, " he said. "Victor Carrington was once useful tome--at least he endeavoured to be so. If he failed, the obligation isnone the less; and he is a man who will have his bond. "

 CHAPTER XVIII. 

 AT ANCHOR. 

The current of life flowed on at River View Cottage without so much asa ripple in the shape of an event, after the appalling midnight visitof Miser Screwton's ghost, until one summer evening, when CaptainDuncombe came home in very high spirits, bringing with him an oldfriend, of whom Miss Duncombe had heard her father talk very often; butwhom she had hitherto never seen. 

This was no other than George Jernam, the captain of the "Albatross, "and the owner of the "Stormy Petrel" and "Pizarro. "

In London the captain of the "Albatross" found plenty of business tooccupy him. He had just returned from an African cruise, and though hehad not forgotten the circumstances which had made his last intendedvisit to England only a memorable and melancholy failure, he was inhigh spirits. 

The first few days hardly sufficed for the talks between George Jernamand Joyce Harker, who aided him vigorously in the refitting of hisvessel. He had been in London about a week before he fell in withhonest Joe Duncombe. The two men had been fast friends ever since theday on which George, while still a youngster, had served as second-mateunder the owner of the "Vixen. "

They met accidentally in one of the streets about Wapping. JosephBuncombe was delighted to encounter a sea-faring friend, and insistedon taking George Jernam down to River View Cottage to eat what hecalled a homely bit of dinner. 

The homely bit of dinner turned out to be a very excellent repast; forMrs. Mugby prided herself upon her powers as a cook and housekeeper, and to produce a good dinner at a short notice was a triumph she muchenjoyed. 

Susan Trott waited at table in her prettiest cotton gown and smartestcap. 

Rosamond Duncombe sat by her father's side during the meal; and afterdinner, when the curtains were drawn, and the lamp lighted, the captainof the "Vixen" set himself to brew a jorum of punch in a large oldJapanese china bowl, the composition of which punch was his strongpoint. 

Altogether that little dinner and cheerful evening entertainment seemedthe perfection of home comfort. George Jernam had been too long astranger to home and home pleasures not to feel the cheerful influenceof that hospitable abode. 

For Joseph Duncombe the companionship of his old friend was delightful. The society of the sailor was as invigorating to the nostrils of aseaman as the fresh breeze of ocean after a long residence inland. 

"You don't know what a treat it is to me to have an old shipmate withme once more, George, " he said. "My little Rosy and I live here prettycomfortably, though I keep a tight hand over her, I can tell you, " headded, with pretended severity; "but it's dull work for a man who haslived the best part of his life on the sea to find himself amongst apack of spooney landsmen. Never you marry a landsman, Rosy, if youdon't want me to cut you off with a shilling, " he cried, turning to hisdaughter. 

Of course Miss Rosamond Duncombe blushed on hearing herself thusapostrophized, as young ladies of eighteen have a knack of blushingwhen the possibility of their falling in love is mentioned. 

George Jernam saw the blush, and thought that Miss Duncombe was theprettiest girl he had ever seen. 

George Jernam stayed late at the cottage, for its hospitable owner wasloth to let his friend depart. 

"How long do you stay in London, George?" he asked, as the young manwas going away. 

"A month, at least--perhaps two months. "

"Then be sure you come down here very often. You can dine with us everySunday, of course, for I know you haven't a creature belonging to youin London except Harker; and you can run down of an evening sometimes, and bring him with you, and smoke your cigar in my garden, with thebright water rippling past you, and all the ships in the Pool spreadingtheir rigging against the calm grey sky; and I'll brew you a jorum ofpunch, and Rosy shall sing us a song while we drink it. "

It is not to be supposed that George Jernam, who had a good deal ofidle time on his hands, could refuse to oblige his old captain, orshrink from availing himself of hospitality so cordially pressed uponhim. 

He went very often in the autumn dusk to spend an hour or two at RiverView Cottage, where he always found a hearty welcome. He strolled inthe garden with Captain Duncombe and Rosamond, talking of strange landsand stranger adventures. 

Harker did not always accompany him; but sometimes he did, and on suchoccasions Rosamond seemed unaccountably glad to see him. Harker paidher no more attention than usual, and invariably devoted himself to JoeDuncombe, who was frequently lazy, and inclined to smoke his cigar inthe comfortable parlour. On these occasions George Jernam and RosamondDuncombe strolled side by side in the garden; and the sailorentertained his fair companion by the description of all the strangestscenes he had beheld, and the most romantic adventures he had beenengaged in. It was like the talk of some sea-faring Othello; and neverdid Desdemona more "seriously incline" to hear her valiant Moor thandid Miss Duncombe to hear her captain. 

One of the windows of Joseph Duncombe's favourite sitting-roomcommanded the garden; and from this window the captain of the "Vixen"could see his daughter and the captain of the "Albatross" walking sideby side upon the smoothly kept lawn. He used to look unutterably sly ashe watched the two figures; and on one occasion went so far as to taphis nose significantly several times with his ponderous fore-finger. 

"It's a match!" he muttered to himself; "it's a match, or my name isnot Joe Duncombe. "

Susan Trott was not slow to notice those evening walks in the garden. She told the dashing young baker that she thought there would be awedding at the cottage before long. 

"Yours, of course, " cried the baker. 

"For shame, now, you impitent creature!" exclaimed Susan, blushing tillshe was rosier than the cherry-coloured ribbons in her cap; "you knowwhat I mean well enough. "

Neither Captain Duncombe nor Susan Trott were very far wrong. The"Albatross" was not ready for her next cruise till three months afterGeorge Jernam's first visit to River View Cottage, nor did the captainof the vessel seem particularly anxious to hasten the completion of therepairs. 

When the "Albatross" did drop down into the Channel, she sailed on acruise that was to last less than six months; and when George Jernamtouched English ground again, he was to return to claim RosamondDuncombe as his plighted wife. This arrangement had Joyce Harker'shearty approbation; but when he, too, had taken leave of George Jernam, he turned away muttering, "I think he really _has_ forgotten CaptainValentine now; but I have not, I have not. No, I remember him betterthan ever now, when there's no one but me. "

 * * * * *

The "Albatross" came safely back to the Pool in the early springweather. George Jernam had promised Rosamond that she should know ofhis coming before ever he set foot on shore, and he contrived to keephis word. 

One fine March day she saw a vessel sailing up the river, with a whiteflag flying from the main-mast. On the white flag blazed, in bright redletters, the name, "_Rosamond_!"

When Miss Duncombe saw this, she knew at once that her lover hadreturned. No other vessel than the "Albatross" was likely to sport sucha piece of bunting. 

George Jernam came back braver, truer, handsomer even than when he wentaway, as it seemed to Rosamond. He came back more devoted to her thanever, she thought; and a man must have been indeed cold of heart whocould be ungrateful for the innocent, girlish affection which Rosamondrevealed in every word and look. 

The wedding took place within a month of the sailor's return; and, after some discussion, George Jernam consented that he and his wifeshould continue to live at the cottage. 

"I can't come here to take possession of your house, " he had said, addressing himself to his future father-in-law; "that would be rathertoo much of a good thing. I know you'd like to keep Rosy in theneighbourhood, and so you shall. I'll do as you did. I'll find a littlebit of ground near here, and build myself a comfortable crib, with aview of the river. "

"Stuff and nonsense!" replied Captain Duncombe. "If that's what you aregoing to do, you shall not have my Rosy. I've no objection to herhaving a husband on the premises; but the day she leaves my roof forthe sake of any man in Christendom, I'll cut her off with a shilling--and the shilling shall be a bad one. "

The captain of the "Albatross" took his young wife into Devonshire fora brief honeymoon; and during this pleasant spring-time holiday, Rosamond made the acquaintance of her husband's aunt. Susan Jernam waspleased with the bright-eyed, pure-minded, modest girl, and in the fewdays they were together, learned to regard her with a motherly feeling, which was destined to be of priceless value to Rosy at an unforeseencrisis of the new life that began so fairly. 

Never did a married couple begin their new life with a fairer prospectthan that which lay before George Jernam and his wife when theyreturned to River View Cottage. Captain Duncombe received his son-in-law with the hearty welcome of a true seaman; but a few days afterGeorge Jernam's return, the old sailor took him aside, and made anannouncement which filled him with surprise. 

"You know how fond I am of Rosy, " he said, "and you know that ifProvidence had blessed me with a son of my own, he couldn't have beenmuch dearer to me than you are; so come what may, neither you or Rosymust doubt my affection for both of you. Come now, George, promise meyou won't. "

"I promise, with all my heart, " answered Captain Jernam; "I should nomore think of doubting your goodness or your love for us, than I shouldthink of doubting that there's a sun shining up aloft yonder. But whydo you speak of this?"

"Because, George, the truth of the matter is, I'm going to leave you. "

"You are going to leave us?"

"Yes, old fellow. You see, a lazy, land-lubber's life doesn't suit me. I've tried it, and it don't answer. I thought the sound of the waterwashing against the bank at the bottom of my garden, and the sight ofthe ships in the Pool, would be consolation enough for me, but theyain't, and I've been sickening for the sea for the last six mouths. Aslong as my little Rosy had nobody in the world but me to take care ofher, I stayed with her, and I should have gone on staying with her tillI died at my post. But she's got a husband now, and two trust-worthywomen-servants, who would protect her if you left her--as I suppose youmust leave her, sooner or later--so there's no reason why I should stopon shore any longer, pining for a sight of blue water. "

"And you really mean to leave us!" exclaimed George Jernam. "I amafraid your going will break poor Rosy's heart. "

"No it won't, George, " answered Captain Duncombe. "When a young woman'smarried, her heart is uncommonly tough with regard to everybody excepther husband. I dare say poor little Rosy-posy will be sorry to lose herold father; but she'll have you to console her, and she won't grievelong. Besides, I'm not going away for ever, you know. I'm only justgoing to take a little cruise to the Indies, with a cargo of dry goods, make a bit of money for my grandchildren that are to be, and then comehome again, fresher than ever, and settle down in the bosom of myfamily. I've seen a neat little craft that will suit me to a T; and Ishall fit her out, and be off for blue water before the month isended. "

It was evident that the old sailor was in earnest, and George Jernamdid not attempt to overrule his determination. Rosamond pleaded againsther father's departure, but she pleaded in vain. Early in June CaptainDuncombe left England on board a neat little craft, which he christenedthe "Young Wife, " in compliment to his daughter. 

Before he went, George promised that he would himself await the returnof his father-in-law before he started on a new voyage. 

"I can afford to be idle for twelve months, or so, " he said; "and mydear little wife shall not be left without a protector. "

So the young couple settled down comfortably in the commodious cottage, which was now all their own. 

To Rosamond, her new existence was all unbroken joy. She had loved herhusband with all the romantic devotion of inexperienced girlhood. Toher poetic fancy he seemed the noblest and bravest of created beings;and she wondered at her own good fortune when she saw him by her side, fond and devoted, consent to sacrifice all the delights of his free, roving life for her sake. 

"I don't think such happiness _can_ last, George, " she said to him oneday. 

That vague foreboding was soon to be too sadly realized! The sunshineand the bright summer peace had promised to last for ever; but a darkcloud arose which in one moment overshadowed all that summer sky, andRosamond Jernam's happiness vanished as if it had been indeed a dream. 

 CHAPTER XIX. 

 A FAMILIAR TOKEN. 

Joseph Duncombe had been absent from River View Cottage little morethan a month, and the life of its inmates had been smooth andchangeless as the placid surface of a lake. They sought no society butthat of each other. Existence glided by, and the eventless days leftlittle to remember except the sweet tranquillity of a happy home. 

It was on a wet, dull, unsettled July day that Rosamond Jernam foundher life changed all at once, while the cause for that dark changeremained a mystery to her. 

After idling away half the morning, Captain Jernam discovered that hehad an important business letter to write to the captain of his tradingship, the "Pizarro. "

On opening his portfolio, the captain found himself without a singlesheet of foreign letter-paper. He told this difficulty to his wife, asit was his habit to tell her all his difficulties; and he found her, asusual, able to give him assistance. 

"There is always foreign letter-paper in papa's desk, " she said; "youcan use that. "

"But, my dear Rosy, I could not think of opening your father's desk inhis absence. "

"And why not?" cried Rosamond, laughing. "Do you think papa has anysecrets hidden there; or that he keeps some mysterious packet of oldlove-letters tied up with a blue ribbon, which he would not like yourprying eyes to discover? You may open the desk, George. I give you mypermission; and if papa should be angry, the blame shall fall upon mealone. "

The desk was a large old-fashioned piece of furniture, which stood inthe corner of Captain Duncombe's favourite sitting-room. 

"But how am I to open this ponderous piece of machinery?" asked George. "It seems to be locked. "

"It is locked, " answered his wife. "Luckily I happen to have a keywhich precisely fits it. There, sir, is the key; and now I leave you todevote yourself to business, while I go to see about dinner. "

She held up her pretty rosy lips to be kissed, and then tripped away, leaving the captain to achieve a duty for which he had no particularrelish. 

He unlocked the desk, and found a quire of letter-paper. He dipped apen in ink, tried it, and then began to write. 

He wrote, "_London, July 20th_, " and "_My Dear Boyd_;" and havingwritten thus much, he came to a stop. The easiest part of the letterwas finished. 

Captain Jernam sat with his elbows resting on the table, lookingstraight before him, in pure absence of mind. As he did so, his eyeswere caught suddenly by an object lying amongst the pens and pencils inthe tray before him. 

That object was a bent gold coin. 

His face grew pale as he snatched up the coin, and examined it closely. It was a small Brazilian coin, bent and worn, and on one side of it wasscratched the initial "_G_. "

That small battered coin was very familiar to George Jernam's gaze, andit was scarcely strange if the warm life-blood ebbed from his cheeks, and left them ashy pale. 

The coin was a keepsake which he had given to his murdered brother, Valentine, on the eve of their last parting. 

And he found it here--here, in Joseph Duncombe's desk!

For some moments he sat aghast, motionless, powerless even to think. Hecould not realize the full weight of this strange discovery. He couldonly remember the warm breath of the tropical night on which he and hisbrother had bidden each other farewell--the fierce light of thetropical stars beneath which they had stood when they parted. 

Then he began to ask himself how that farewell token, the golden coin, which he had taken from his pocket in that parting hour, and upon whichhe had idly scratched his own initial, had come into the possession ofJoseph Duncombe. 

He was not a man of the world, and he was not able to reason calmly andlogically on the subject of his brother's untimely fate. He sharedJoyce's rooted idea, that the escape of Valentine's murderer was onlytemporary, and that, sooner or later, accident would disclose thecriminal. 

It seemed now as if the eventful moment had come. Here, on this spot, near the scene of his brother's disappearance, he came upon thistoken--this relic, which told that Valentine had been in some mannerassociated with Joseph Duncombe. 

And yet Joseph Duncombe and George had talked long and earnestly on thesubject of the murdered sailor's fate, and in all their talk CaptainDuncombe had never acknowledged any acquaintance with its details. 

This was strange. 

Still more incomprehensible to George Jernam was the fact thatValentine should have parted with the farewell token, except with hislife, for his last words to his brother had been--

"I'll keep the bit of gold, George, to my dying day, in memory of yourfidelity and love. "

There had been something more between these two men than a commonbrotherhood: there had been the bond of a joyless childhood spenttogether, and their affection for each other was more than the ordinarylove of brothers. 

"I don't believe he would have parted with that piece of gold, " criedGeorge, "not if he had been without a sixpence in the world. "

"And he was rich. It was the money he carried about him which temptedhis murderer. It was near here that he met his fate--on this very spot, perhaps. Joyce told me that before my father-in-law built this house, there was a dilapidated building, which was a meeting-place for thevilest scoundrels in Ratcliff Highway. But how came that coin in JosephDuncombe's desk?--how, unless Joseph Duncombe was concerned in mybrother's murder?"

This idea, once aroused in the mind of George Jernam, was not to bedriven away. It seemed too hideous for reality; but it took possessionof his mind, nevertheless, and he sat alone, trying to shut horriblefancies out of his brain, but trying uselessly. 

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's wealth. Had all that wealth beenhonestly won?

He remembered the captain's restlessness--his feverish desire to runaway from a home in which he possessed so much to render life happy. 

Might not that eagerness to return to the sailor's wild, roving lifehave its root in the tortures of a guilty conscience?

"His very kindness to me may be prompted by a vague wish to make somepaltry atonement for a dark wrong done my brother, " thought George. 

He remembered Joseph Duncombe's seeming goodness of heart, and wonderedif such a man could possibly be concerned in the darkest crime of whichmankind can be guilty. But he remembered also that the worst and vilestof men were often such accomplished hypocrites as to remain unsuspectedof evil until the hour when accident revealed their iniquity. 

"It is so, perhaps, with this man, " thought George Jernam. "That air oftruth and goodness may be but a mask. I know what a master-passion thegreed of gain is with some men. It has doubtless been the passion ofthis man's heart. The wretches who lured Valentine Jernam to this housewere tools of Joseph Duncombe's. How otherwise could this token havefallen into his hands?"

He tried to find some other answer to this question; but he tried invain. That little piece of gold seemed to fasten the dark stigma ofguilt upon the absent owner of the house. 

"And I have shaken this man's hand!" cried George. "I am the husband ofhis daughter. I live beneath the shelter of his roof--in this house, which was bought perhaps with my brother's blood. Great heavens! it istoo horrible. "

For two long hours George Jernam sat brooding over the strangediscovery which had changed the whole current of his life. Rosamondcame and peeped in at the door. 

"Still busy, George?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he answered, in a strange, harsh tone, "I am very busy. "

That altered voice alarmed the loving wife. She crept into the room, and stood behind her husband's chair. 

"George, " she said, "your voice sounded so strange just now; you arenot ill, are you, darling?"

"No, no; I only want to be alone. Go, Rosamond. "

The wife could not fail to be just a little offended by her husband'smanner. The pretty rosy lips pouted, and then tears came into thebright blue eyes. 

George Jernam's head was bent upon his clasped hands, and he took noheed of his wife's sorrow. She could not leave him without one moreanxious question. 

"Is there anything amiss with you, George?" she asked. 

"Nothing that you can cure. "

The harshness of his tone, the coldness of his manner, wounded herheart. She said no more, but went quietly from the room. 

Never before had her beloved George spoken unkindly to her--neverbefore had the smallest cloud obscured the calm horizon of her marriedlife. 

After this, the dark cloud hung black and heavy over that once happyhousehold; the sun never shone again upon the young wife's home. 

She tried to penetrate the secret of this sudden change, but she couldnot do so. She could complain of no unkindness from her husband--henever spoke harshly to her after that first day. His manner was gentleand indulgent; but it seemed as if his love had died, leaving in itsplace only a pitiful tenderness, strangely blended with sadness andgloom. 

He asked Rosamond several questions about her father's past life; buton that subject she could tell him very little. She had never livedwith her father until after the building of River View Cottage, and sheknew nothing of his existence before that time, except that he had onlybeen in England during brief intervals, and that he had always come tosee her at school when he had an opportunity of doing so. 

"He is the best and dearest of fathers, " she said, affectionately. 

George Jernam asked if Captain Duncombe had been in England during thatspring in which Valentine met his death. 

After a moment's reflection, Rosamond replied in the affirmative. 

"I remember his coming to see me that spring, " she said. "He came earlyin March, and again in April, and it was then he began first to talk ofsettling in England. "

"And with that assurance my last hope vanishes, " thought George. 

He had asked the question in the faint hope of hearing that JosephDuncombe was far away from England at the time of the murder. 

A fortnight after the discovery of the Brazilian coin, George Jernamannounced to his wife that he was about to leave her. He was going tothe coast of Africa, he said. He had tried to reconcile himself to alandsman's life, and had found it unendurable. 

The blow fell very heavily on poor Rosamond's loving heart. 

"We seemed so happy, George, only two short weeks ago, " she pleaded. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I tried to be happy; but you see, the life doesn'tsuit me. Tour father couldn't rest in this house, though he had madehimself such a comfortable home. No more can I rest here. There is acurse upon the house, perhaps, " he added, with a bitter laugh. 

Rosamond burst into tears. 

"Oh, George, you will break my heart, " she cried. "I thought our liveswere to be so happy; and now our happiness ends all at once like abroken dream. It is because you are weary of me, and of my love, thatyou are going away. You promised my father that you would remain withme till his return. "

"I did, Rosamond, " answered her husband, gravely, "and, as I am anhonest man, I meant to keep that promise! I am not weary of your love--that is as precious to me as ever it was. But you must not continue toreside beneath this roof. I tell you there is a curse upon this house, Rosamond, and neither peace nor happiness can be the lot of those whodwell within its fatal walls. You must go down to Allanbay, where youmay find kind friends, where you may be happy, dear, while I am away. "

"But, George, what is all this mystery?"

"Ask me no questions, Rosamond, for I can answer none. Believe me whenI tell you that you have no share in the change that has come upon me. My feelings towards you remain unaltered; but within the last fewweeks I have made a discovery which has struck a death-blow to myhappiness. I go out once more a homeless wanderer, because the quiet ofdomestic life has become unbearable to me. I want bustle, danger, hardwork. I want to get away from my own thoughts. "

Rosamond in vain implored her husband to tell her more than this. He, so yielding of old, was on this point inflexible. 

Before the leaves had begun to fall in the dreary autumn days the"Albatross" was ready for a new voyage. The first mate took her down toPlymouth Harbour, there to wait the coming of her captain, whotravelled into Devonshire by mail-coach, taking Rosamond to her futureabode. 

At any other time Rosamond would have been delighted with the romanticbeauty of that Devonian village, where her husband had selected apleasant cottage for her, near his aunt's abode; but a settledmelancholy had taken possession of the once joyous girl. She hadbrooded continually over her husband's altered conduct, and she had atlast arrived at a terrible conclusion. 

She believed that he was mad. What but sudden insanity could haveproduced so great a change?--a change for which it was impossible toimagine a cause. 

"If he had been absent from me for some time, and had returned analtered creature, I should not be so much bewildered by the change, "Rosamond said to herself. "But the transformation occurred in an hour. He saw no strange visitor; he received no letter. No tidings of anykind could possibly have reached him. He entered my father's sitting-room a light-hearted, happy man; he came out of it gloomy andmiserable. Can I doubt that the change is something more than anyordinary alteration of feeling or character?"

Poor Rosamond remembered having heard of the fatal effects ofsunstrokes--effects which have sometimes revealed themselves long afterthe occurrence of the calamity that caused them; and she told herselfthat the change in George Jernam's nature must needs be the result ofsuch a calamity. 

She entreated her husband to consult an eminent physician as to thestate of his health; but she dared not press her request, so coldly wasit received. 

"Who told you that I was ill?" he asked; "I am not ill. All thephysicians in Christendom could do nothing for me. "

After this, Rosamond could say no more. For worlds she would not haverevealed to a stranger her sad suspicion of George Jernam's insanity. She could only pray that Providence would protect and guide him in hisroving life. 

"The excitement and hard work of his existence on board ship may work acure, " she thought, trying to be hopeful. "It is very possible that thecalm monotony of a landsman's life may have produced a bad effect uponhis brain. I can only trust in Providence--I can only pray night andday for the welfare of him I love so fondly. "

And so they parted. George Jernam left his wife with sadness in hisheart; but it was a kind of sadness in which love had little share. 

"I have thought too much of my own happiness, " he said to himself, "andI have left my brother's death unavenged. Have I forgotten the timewhen he carried me along the lonely sea-shore in his loving arms? HaveI forgotten the years in which he was father, mother--all the world tome? No; by heaven! I have not. The time has come when the one thoughtof my life must be revenge--revenge upon the murderer of my brother, whosoever he may be. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XX. 

 ON GUARD. 

Mr. Andrew Larkspur, the police-officer, took up his abode in PercyStreet a week after his interview with Lady Eversleigh. 

For a fortnight after he became an occupant of the house in which shelived, Honoria received no tidings from him. She knew that he went outearly every morning, and that he returned late every night, and thiswas all that she knew respecting his movements. 

At the end of the fortnight, he came to her late one evening, andbegged to be favoured with an audience. 

"I shall want at least two hours of your time, ma'am, " he said; "and, perhaps, you may find it fatiguing to listen to me so late at night. Ifyou'd rather defer the business till to-morrow morning--"

"I would rather not defer it, " answered Lady Eversleigh; "I am ready tolisten to you for as long a time as you choose. I have been anxiouslyexpecting some tidings of your movements. "

"Very likely, ma'am, " replied Mr. Larkspur, coolly; "I know you ladiesare given to impatience, as well as Berlin wool work, and steel beads, and the pianoforte, and such like. But you see, ma'am, there's not aliving creature more unlike a race-horse than a police-officer. Andit's just like you ladies to expect police-officers to be FlyingDutchmen, in a manner of speaking. I've been a hard worker in my time, ma'am; but I never worked harder, or stuck to my work better, than Ihave these last two weeks; and all I can say is, if I ain't dead-beat, it's only because it isn't in circumstances to dead-beat me. "

Lady Eversleigh listened very quietly to this exordium; but a slight, nervous twitching of her lips every now and then betrayed herimpatience. 

"I am waiting to hear your news, " she said, presently. 

"And I'm a-going to tell it, ma'am, in due course, " returned thepolice-officer, drawing a bloated leather book from his pocket, andopening it. "I've got all down here in regular order. First andforemost, the baronet--he's a bad lot, is the baronet. "

"I do not need to hear that from your lips. "

"Very likely not, ma'am. But if you set me to watch a gentleman, youmust expect I shall form an opinion about him. The baronet has lodgingsin Villiers Street, uncommon shabby ones. I went in and took a goodsurvey of him and his lodgings together, in the character of abootmaker, taking home a pair of boots, which was intended for a Mr. Everfield in the next street, says I, and, of course, Everfield andEversleigh being a'most the same names, was calculated to lead toinconvenient mistakes. In the character of the bootmaker, Sir ReginaldEversleigh tells me to get out of his room, and be--somethinguncommonly unpleasant, and unfit for the ears of ladies. In thecharacter of the bootmaker, I scrapes acquaintance with a young personemployed as housemaid, and very willing to answer questions, and bedrawed out. From the young person employed as housemaid, I gets what Itake the liberty to call my ground-plan of the baronet's habits;beginning with his late breakfast, consisting chiefly of gunpowder teaand cayenne pepper, and ending with the scroop of his latch-key, to beheard any time from two in the morning to day-break. From the youngperson employed as housemaid, I discover that my baronet always spendshis evenings out of doors, and is known to visit a lady at Fulham veryconstant, whereby the young person employed as housemaid supposes he iskeeping company with her. From the same young person I obtain thelady's address--which piece of information the young person hasacquired in the course of taking letters to the post. The lady'saddress is Hilton House, Fulham. The lady's name has slipped my youngperson's memory, but is warranted to begin with a D. "

Mr. Larkspur paused to take breath, and to consult the memoranda in thebloated leather book. 

"Having ascertained this much, I had done with the young person, forthe time being, " he continued, glibly; "and I felt that my nextbusiness would be at Hilton House. Here I presented myself in thecharacter of a twopenny postman; but here I found the servants foreign, and so uncommonly close that they might as well have been so manymarble monuments, for any good that was to be got out of them. Failingthe servants, I fell back upon the neighbours and the tradespeople; andfrom the neighbours and the tradespeople I find out that my foreignlady's name is Durski, and that my foreign lady gives a party everynight, which party is made up of gentlemen. That is queer, to say theleast of it, thinks I. A lady who gives a party every night, and whosevisitors are all gentlemen, is an uncommonly queer customer. Havingfound out this much, my mouth watered to find out more; for a man whohas his soul in his profession takes a pleasure in his work, ma'am; andif you were to offer to pay such a man double to waste his time, hecouldn't do it. I tried the neighbours, and I tried the tradespeople, every way; and work 'em how I would, I couldn't get much out of 'em. You see, ma'am, there's scarcely a human habitation within a quarter ofa mile of Hilton House, so, when I say neighbours, I don't meanneighbours in the common sense of the word. There might beassassination going on every night in Hilton House undiscovered, forthere's no one lives near enough to hear the victims' groans; and ifthere was anything as good for our trade as pork-pie making out ofmurdered human victims going nowadays, ma'am, Hilton House would be theplace where I should look for pork-pies. Well, I was almost beginningto lose patience, when I sat down in a fancy-stationer's shop to restmyself. I sat down in this shop because I was really tired, not withany hope of making use of my time, for I was too far away from HiltonHouse to expect any luck in the way of information from the gentlemanbehind the counter. However, when a man has devoted his life toferreting out information, the habit of ferreting is apt to be verystrong upon him; so I pass the time of day to my fancy-stationer, andthen begins to ferret. 'Madame Durski, at Hilton House yonder, is anuncommonly handsome woman, ' I throw out, by way of an opening. 'Uncommonly, ' replies my fancy-stationer, by which I perceive he knowsher. 'A customer of yours, perhaps?' I throw out, promiscuous. 'Yes, 'answers my fancy-stationer. 'A good one, too, I'll be bound, ' I throwout, in a lively, conversational way. My fancy-stationer smiles, andbeing accustomed to study smiles, I see significance in his smile. 'Avery good one in _some_ things, ' replies my fancy-stationer, laying atremendous stress upon the word _some_. 'Oh, ' says I, 'gilt-edged note-paper and cream-coloured sealing-wax, for instance. ' 'I don't sell hera quire of paper in a month, ' answers my stationer. 'If she was as fondof writing letters as she is of playing cards, I think it would bebetter for her. ' 'Oh, she's fond of card-playing is she?' I ask. 'Yes, 'replies my fancy-stationer, 'I rather think she is. Your hair wouldstand on end if I were to tell you how many packs of playing-cards I'vesold her lady-companion within the last three months. The lady-companion comes here at dusk with a thick black veil over her face, andshe thinks I don't know who she is; but I do know her, and know whereshe lives, and whom she lives with. ' After this I buy myself a quire ofwriting-paper, which I don't want, and I wish my fancy-stationer goodafternoon. 'Oh, oh, ' I say to myself when I get outside, 'I know themeaning of Madame Durski's parties now. Madame Durski's house is aflash gambling crib, and all those fine gentlemen in cabs and broughamsgo there to play cards. '"

"The mistress of a gaming-house!" exclaimed Honoria. "A fittingcompanion for Reginald Eversleigh!"

"Just so, ma'am; and a fitting companion for Mr. Victor Carringtonlikewise. "

"Have you found out anything about _him_?" cried Lady Eversleigh, eagerly. 

"No, ma'am, I haven't. At least, nothing in my way. I've tried hisneighbours, and his tradespeople also, in the character of a postman, which is respectable, and calculated to inspire confidence. But out ofhis tradespeople I can get nothing more than the fact that he is aremarkably praiseworthy young man, who pays his debts regular, and isthe very best of sons to a highly-respectable mother. There's nothingmuch in that, you know, ma'am. "

"Hypocrite!" murmured Lady Eversleigh. "A hypocrite so skilled in thevile arts of hypocrisy that he will contrive to have the world alwayson his side. And this is all your utmost address has been able toachieve?"

"All at present, ma'am; but I live in hopes. And now I've got a bit ofnews about the baronet, which I think will astonish you. I've beenimproving my acquaintance with the young person employed as housemaidin Villiers Street for the last fortnight, and I find from her that mybaronet is on very friendly terms with his first cousin, Mr. Dale, ofthe Temple. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Honoria. "These two men are the last between whom Ishould have imagined a friendship impossible. "

"Yes, ma'am; but so it is, notwithstanding. Mr. Douglas Dale, barrister-at-law, dined with his cousin, Sir Reginald, twice last week;and on each occasion the two gentlemen left Villiers Street together ina hack cab, between eight and nine o'clock. My friend, the housemaid, happened to hear the address given to the cabmen on both occasions; andon both occasions the address was Hilton House, Fulham. "

"Douglas Dale a gambler!" cried Honoria; "the companion of his infamouscousin! That is indeed ruin. "

"Well, certainly, ma'am, it does not seem a very lively prospect for myfriend, D. D. , " answered Mr. Larkspur, with irrepressible flippancy. 

"Do you know any more respecting this acquaintance?" asked Honoria. 

"Not yet, ma'am; but I mean to know more. "

"Watch then, " she cried; "watch those two men. There is danger for Mr. Dale in any association with his cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. Donot forget that. There is peril for him--the deadliest it may be. Watch them, Mr. Larkspur; watch them by day and night. "

"I'll do my duty, ma'am, depend upon it, " replied the police officer;"and I'll do it well. I take a pride in my profession, and to me dutyis a pleasure. "

"I will trust you. "

"You may, ma'am. Oh, by-the-bye, I must tell you that in this house myname is Andrews. Please remember that, ma'am. "

"Mr. Andrews, lawyer's clerk. The name of Larkspur smells too strong ofBow Street. "

 * * * * *

The information acquired by Andrew Larkspur was perfectly correct. Anintimacy and companionship had arisen between Douglas Dale and hiscousin, Reginald Eversleigh, and the two men spent much of their timetogether. 

Douglas Dale was still the same simple-minded, true-hearted young manthat he had been before his uncle Oswald's death endowed him with anincome of five thousand a year; but with the accession of wealth thenecessity for industry ceased; and instead of a hard-working student, Douglas became one of the upper million, who have nothing to think ofbut the humour of the moment--now Alpine tourist, now Norwegian angler;anon idler in clubs and drawing-rooms; anon book collector, or amateurlitterateur. 

He still occupied chambers in the Temple; he still called himself abarrister; but he had no longer any desire to succeed at the bar. 

His brother Lionel had become rector of Hallgrove, a village inDorsetshire, where there was a very fine old church and a very smallcongregation. It was one of those fat livings which seem only to fallto the lot of rich men. 

Lionel had the tastes of a typical country gentleman, and he foundample leisure to indulge in his favourite amusement of hunting, afterhaving conscientiously discharged his duties. 

The poor of Hallgrove had good reason to congratulate themselves on thefact that their rector was a rich man. Mr. Dale's charities seemedalmost boundless to his happy parishioners. 

The rectory was a fine old house, situated in one of those romanticspots which one scarcely hopes to see out of a picture. Hill, wood, andwater combined to make the beauty of the landscape; and amid verdantwoods and fields the old red-brick mansion looked the perfection of anEnglish homestead. It had been originally a manor-house, and someportions of it were very old. 

Douglas Dale called Hallgrove the Happy Valley. Neither of the brothershad yet married, and the barrister paid frequent visits to the rector. He was glad to find repose after the fatigue and excitement of Londonlife. Like his brother, he delighted in the adventures and perils ofthe hunting field, and he was rarely absent from Hallgrove during thehunting season. 

In London he had his clubs, and the houses of friends. The manoeuvringmammas of the West End were very glad to welcome Mr. Dale at theirparties. He might have danced with the prettiest girls in London everynight of his life had he pleased. 

To an unmarried man, with unlimited means and no particular occupation, the pleasures of a life of fashionable amusement are apt to grow"weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable, " after a certain time. DouglasDale was beginning to be very tired of balls and dinner parties, flower-shows and morning concerts, when he happened to meet his cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, at a club to which both men belonged. 

Eversleigh could make himself very agreeable when he chose; and on thisoccasion he exerted himself to the utmost to produce a good impressionupon the mind of Douglas Dale. Hitherto Douglas had not liked hiscousin, Reginald; but he now began to fancy that he had been prejudicedagainst his kinsman. He felt that Reginald had some reason to considerhimself ill-used; and with the impulsive kindness of a generous nature, he was ready to extend the hand of friendship to a man who had beenbeaten in the battle of life. 

The two men dined together at their club; they met again and again;sometimes by accident--sometimes by appointment. The club was one atwhich there was a good deal of quiet gambling amongst scientific whist-players; but until his meeting with Reginald Eversleigh, Douglas Dalehad never been tempted to take part in a rubber. 

His habits changed gradually under the influence of his cousin andVictor Carrington. He consented to take a hand at _écarté_ after dinneron one day; on another day to join at a whist-party. Three months afterhis first meeting with Reginald, he accompanied the baronet to HiltonHouse, where he was introduced to the beautiful Austrian widow. 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his cards very cautiously. It was onlyafter he had instilled a taste for gambling into his kinsman's breastthat he ventured to introduce him to the fashionable gaming-housepresided over by Paulina Durski. 

The introduction had a sinister effect upon his destiny. He had passedunscathed through the furnace of London life; many women had sought toobtain power over him; but his heart was still in his own keeping whenhe first crossed the threshold of Hilton House. 

He saw Paulina Durski, and loved her. He loved her from the very firstwith a deep and faithful affection, as far above the selfish fancy ofReginald Eversleigh as the heaven is above the earth. 

But she was no longer mistress of her heart. That was given to the manwhose baseness she knew, and whom she loved despite her better reason. 

Sir Reginald speedily discovered the state of his cousin's feelings. Hehad laid his plans for this result. Douglas Dale, as the adoring slaveof Madame Durski, would be an easy dupe, and much of Sir Oswald'swealth might yet enrich his disinherited nephew. Victor Carringtonlooked on, and shared his spoils; but he watched Eversleigh's schemeswith a half-contemptuous air. 

"You think you are doing wonders, my dear Reginald, " he said; "andcertainly, by means of Mr. Dale's losses, you and I contrive to live--to say nothing of our dear Madame Durski, who comes in for her share ofthe plunder. But after all, what is it? a few hundreds more or less, atthe best. I think you may by-and-by play a better and a deeper gamethan that, Reginald, and I think I can show you how to play it. "

"I do not want to be mixed up in any more of your schemes, " answeredSir Reginald, "I have had enough of them. What have they done for me?"

The two men were seated in Sir Reginald's dingy sitting-room inVilliers Street when this conversation took place. 

They were sitting opposite to each other, with a little table betweenthem. Victor Carrington rested his folded arms upon the table, andleaned across them, looking full in the face of his companion. 

"Look you, Reginald Eversleigh, " he said, "because I have failed once, there is no reason that I am to fail always. The devil himselfconspired against me last time; but the day will come when I shall havethe devil on my side. It is yet on the cards for you to become owner often thousand a-year; and it shall be my business to make you owner ofthat income. "

"Stay, Carrington, do you think I would permit--?"

"I ask your permission for nothing: I know you to be a weak andwavering coward, who of your own volition would never rise from thelevel of a ruined spendthrift and penniless vagabond. You forget, perhaps, that I hold a bond which gives me an interest in yourfortunes. I do not forget. When my own wisdom counsels action, I shallact, without asking your advice. If I am successful, you will thank me. If I fail, you will reproach me for my folly. That is the way of theworld. And now let us change the subject. When do you go down toDorsetshire with your cousin, Douglas Dale?"

"Why do you ask me that question?"

"My curiosity is only prompted by a friendly interest in your welfare, and that of your relations. You are going to hunt with Lionel Dale, areyou not?"

"Yes; he has invited me to spend the remainder of the hunting seasonwith him?"

"At his brother's request, I believe?"

"Precisely. I have not met Lionel since--since my uncle's funeral--asyou know. " Sir Reginald pronounced these last words with considerablehesitation. "Douglas spends Christmas with his brother, and Douglaswishes me to join the party. In order to gratify this wish, Lionel haswritten me a very friendly letter, inviting me down to HallgroveRectory, and I have accepted the invitation. "

"Nothing could be more natural. There is some talk of your buying ahunter for Lionel, is there not, by-the-bye?"

"Yes. They know I am a tolerable judge of horseflesh, and Douglaswishes me to get his brother a good mount for the winter. "

"When is the animal to be chosen?" asked Victor, carelessly. 

"Immediately. We go down to Hallgrove next week, I shall select thehorse whenever I can get Douglas to go with me to the dealer's, andsend him down to get used to his new quarters before his hard workbegins. "

"Good. Let me know when you are going to the horse-dealer's: but if yousee me there, take no notice of me beyond a nod, and be careful not toattract Douglas Dale's attention to me or introduce me to him. "

"What do you mean by that?" asked Reginald, looking suspiciously at hiscompanion. 

"What should I mean except what I say? I do not see how even yourimagination can fancy any dark meaning lurking beneath the common-placedesire to waste an afternoon in a visit to a horse-dealer's yard. "

"My dear Carrington, forgive me, " exclaimed Reginald. "I am irritableand impatient. I cannot forget the misery of those last days atRaynham. "

"Yes, " answered Victor Carrington: "the misery of failure. "

No more was said between the two men. The sway which the powerfulintellect of the surgeon exercised over the weaker nature of his friendwas omnipotent. Reginald Eversleigh feared Victor Carrington. And therewas something more than this ever-present fear in his mind; there wasthe lurking hope that, by means of Carrington's scheming, he should yetobtain the wealth he had forfeited. 

The conversation above recorded took place on the day after Mr. Larkspur's interview with Honoria. 

Three days afterwards, Reginald Eversleigh and his cousin met at theclub, for the purpose of going together to inspect the hunters on saleat Mr. Spavin's repository, in the Brompton Road. 

Dale's mail-phaeton was waiting before the door of the club, and hedrove his cousin down to the repository. 

Mr. Spavin was one of the most fashionable horse-dealers of that day. Aman who could not afford to give a handsome price had but a smallchance of finding himself suited at Mr. Spavin's repository. For a poorcustomer the horse-dealer felt nothing but contempt. 

Half a dozen horsey-looking men came out of stables, loose boxes, andharness-rooms to attend upon the gentlemen, whose dashing mail-phaetonand stylish groom commanded the respect of the whole yard. The greatMr. Spavin himself emerged from his counting-house to ask the pleasureof his customers. 

"Carriage-horses, sir, or 'acks?" he asked. "That's a very fine pair inthe break yonder, if you want anything showy for a mail-phaeton. They've been exercising in the park. All blood, sir, and not an ouncetoo much bone. A pair of hosses that would do credit to a dook. "

Reginald asked to see Mr. Spavin's hunters, and the grooms and keeperswere soon busy trotting out noble-looking creatures for the inspectionof the three gentlemen. There was a tan-gallop at the bottom of theyard, and up and down this the animals were paraded. 

Douglas Dale was much interested in the choice of the horse which heintended to present to his brother; and he discussed the merits of thedifferent hunters with Sir Reginald Eversleigh, whose eye had lighted, within a minute of their entrance, upon Victor Carrington. The surgeonstood at a little distance from them, absorbed by the scene before him;but it was to be observed that his attention was given less to thehorses than the men who brought them out of their boxes. 

At one of these men he looked with peculiar intensity; and this man wascertainly not calculated to attract the observation of a stranger byany personal advantages of his own. He was a wizened little man, withred hair, a bullet-shaped head, and small, rat-like eyes. 

This man had very little to do with the display of the horses; butonce, when there was a pause in the business, he opened the door of aloose-box, went in, and presently emerged, leading a handsome bay, whose splendid head was reared in a defiant attitude, as the fieryeyeballs surveyed the yard. 

"Isn't that 'Wild Buffalo?'" asked Mr. Spavin. 

"Yes, sir. "

"Then you ought to know better than to bring him out, " exclaimed thehorse-dealer, angrily. "These gentlemen want a horse that a Christiancan ride, and the 'Buffalo' isn't fit to be ridden by a Christian; notyet awhile at any rate. I mean to take the devil out of him before I'vedone with him, though, " added Mr. Spavin, casting a vindictive glanceat the horse. 

"He is rather a handsome animal, " said Sir Reginald Eversleigh. 

"Oh, yes, he's handsome enough, " answered the dealer. "His looks are nodiscredit to him; but handsome is as handsome does--that's my motter;and if I'd known the temper of that beast when Captain Chesterlyoffered him to me, I'd have seen the captain farther before I consentedto buy him. However, there he is; I've got him, and I must make thebest of him. But Jack Spavin is not the man to sell such a beast to acustomer until the wickedness is taken out of him. When the wickednessis taken out of him, he'll be at your service, gentlemen, with JackSpavin's best wishes. "

The horse was taken back to his box. Victor watched the animal and thegroom with an intensely earnest gaze as they disappeared from hissight. 

"That's a curious-looking fellow, that groom of yours, " Sir Reginaldsaid to the horse-dealer. 

"What, Hawkins--Jim Hawkins? Yes; his looks won't make his fortune. He's a hard-working fellow enough in his way; but he's something likethe horse in the matter of temper. But I think I've taken the devil outof _him_, " said Mr. Spavin, with an ominous crack of his heavy riding-whip. 

More horses were brought out, examined, discussed, and taken back totheir boxes. Mr. Spavin knew he had to deal with a good customer, andhe wished to show off the resources of his stable. 

"Bring out 'Niagara, '" he said, presently, and in a few minutes a groomemerged from one of the stables, leading a magnificent bay. "Now, gentlemen, " said Mr. Spavin, "that animal is own brother to 'WildBuffalo, ' and if it had not been for my knowledge of that animal'smerits I should never have bought the 'Buffalo. ' Now, there's apt to bea good deal of difference between human beings of the same family; butperhaps you'd hardly believe the difference there can be between horsesof the same blood. That animal is as sweet a temper as you'd wish tohave in a horse--and 'Buffalo' is a devil; yet, if you were to see thetwo horses side by side, you'd scarcely know which was which. "

"Indeed!" exclaimed Sir Reginald; "I should like, for the curiosity ofthe thing, to see the two animals together. "

Mr. Spavin gave his orders, and presently Jim Hawkins, the queer-looking groom, brought out "Wild Buffalo. "

The two horses were indeed exactly alike in all physical attributes, and the man who could have distinguished one from the other must havehad a very keen eye. 

"There they are, gents, as like as two peas, and if it weren't for asmall splash of white on the inner side of 'Buffalo's' left hock, there's very few men in my stable could tell one from the other. "

Victor Carrington, observing that Dale was talking to the horse-dealer, drew near the animal, with the air of an interested stranger, andstooped to examine the white mark. It was a patch about as large as acrown-piece. 

"'Niagara' seems a fine creature, " he said. 

"Yes, " replied a groom; "I don't think there's many better horses inthe place than 'Niagara. '"

When Douglas Dale returned to the examination of the two horses, VictorCarrington drew Sir Reginald aside, unperceived by Dale. 

"I want you to choose the horse 'Niagara' for Lionel Dale, " he said, when they were beyond the hearing of Douglas. 

"Why that horse in particular?"

"Never mind why, " returned Carrington, impatiently. "You can surely doas much as that to oblige me. "

"Be it so, " answered Sir Reginald, with assumed carelessness; "thehorse seems a good one. "

There was a little more talk and consultation, and then Douglas Daleasked his cousin which horse he liked best among those they had seen. 

"Well, upon my word, if you ask my opinion, I think there is no betterhorse than that bay they call 'Niagara;' and if you and Spavin canagree as to price, you may settle the business without furtherhesitation. "

Douglas Dale acted immediately upon the baronet's advice. He went intoMr. Spavin's little counting-house, and wrote a cheque for the price ofthe horse on the spot, much to that gentleman's satisfaction. WhileDouglas Dale was writing this cheque, Victor Carrington waited in theyard outside the counting-house. 

He took this opportunity of addressing Hawkins, the groom. 

"I want a job done in your line, " he said, "and I think you'd be justthe man to manage it for me. Have you any spare time?"

"I've an hour or two, now and then, of a night, after my work's over, "answered the man. 

"At what time, and where, are you to be met with after your work?"

"Well, sir, my own home is too poor a place for a gentleman like you tocome to; but if you don't object to a public--and a very respectablepublic, too, in its way--there's the 'Goat and Compasses, ' three doorsdown the little street as you'll see on your left, as you leave thishere yard, walking towards London. "

"Yes, yes, " interrupted Victor, impatiently; "you are to be found at the'Goat and Compasses'?"

"I mostly am, sir, after nine o'clock of an evening--summer andwinter--"

"That will do, " exclaimed Victor, with a quick glance at the door ofthe counting-house. "I will see you at the 'Goat and Compasses' to-night, at nine. Hush!"

Eversleigh and his cousin were just emerging from the counting-house, as Victor Carrington gave the groom a warning gesture. 

"Mum's the word, " muttered the man. 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Douglas Dale took their places in thephaeton, and drove away. 

Victor Carrington arrived at half-past eight at the "Goat andCompasses"--a shabby little public-house in a shabby little street. Here he found Mr. Hawkins lounging in the bar, waiting for him, andbeguiling the time by the consumption of a glass of gin. 

"There's no one in the parlour, sir, " said Hawkins, as he recognizedMr. Carrington; "and if you'll step in there, we shall be quiteprivate. I suppose there ain't no objection to this gent and mestepping into the parlour, is there, Mariar?" Mr. Hawkins asked of ayoung lady, in a very smart cap, who officiated as barmaid. 

"Well, you ain't a parlour customer in general, Mr. Hawkins; but Isuppose if the gent wants to speak to you, there'll be no objection toyour making free with the parlour, promiscuous, " answered the damsel, with supreme condescension. "And if the gent has any orders to give, I'm ready to take 'em, " she added, pertly. 

Victor Carrington ordered a pint of brandy. 

The parlour was a dingy little apartment, very much the worse for staletobacco smoke, and adorned with gaudy racing-prints. Here Mr. Carrington seated himself, and told his companion to take the placeopposite him. 

"Fill yourself a glass of brandy, " he said. And Mr. Hawkins was notslow to avail himself of the permission. "Now, I'm a man who does notcare to beat about the bush, my friend Hawkins, " said Victor, "so I'llcome to business at once. I've taken a fancy to that bay horse, 'WildBuffalo, ' and I should like to have him; but I'm not a rich man, and Ican't afford a high price for my fancy. What I've been thinking, Hawkins, is that, with your help, I might get 'Wild Buffalo' abargain?"

"Well, I should rather flatter myself you might, guv'nor, " answered thegroom, coolly, "an uncommon good bargain, or an uncommon bad one, according to the working out of circumstances. But between friends, supposing that you was me, and supposing that I was you, you know, Iwouldn't have him at no price--no, not if Spavin sold him to you fornothing, and threw you in a handsome pair of tops and a bit of pinkgratis likewise. "

Mr. Hawkins had taken a second glass of brandy by this time; and thebrandy provided by Victor Carrington, taken in conjunction with the ginpurchased by himself was beginning to produce a lively effect upon hisspirits. 

"The horse is a dangerous animal to handle, then?" asked Victor. 

"When you can ride a flash of lightning, and hold that well in hand, you may be able to ride 'Wild Buffalo, ' guv'nor, " answered the groom, sententiously; "but _till_ you have got your hand in with a flash oflightning, I wouldn't recommend you to throw your leg across the'Buffalo. '"

"Come, come, " remonstrated Victor, "a good rider could manage thebrute, surely?"

"Not the cove as drove a mail-phaeton and pair in the skies, and waschucked out of it, which served him right--not even that sky-larkingcove could hold in the 'Buffalo. ' He's got a mouth made of cast-iron, and there ain't a curb made, work 'em how you will, that's any more tohim than a lady's bonnet-ribbon. He got a good name for his jumping asa steeple-chaser; but when he'd been the death of three jocks and twogentlemen riders, folks began to get rather shy of him and his jumping;and then Captain Chesterly come and planted him on my guv'nor, whichmore fool my governor to take him at any price, says I. And now, sir, I've stood your friend, and give you a honest warning; and perhaps itain't going too far to say that I've saved your life, in a manner ofspeaking. So I hope you'll bear in mind that I'm a poor man with afambly, and that I can't afford to waste my time in giving good adviceto strange gents for nothing. "

Victor Carrington took out his purse, and handed Mr. Hawkins asovereign. A look of positive rapture mingled with the habitual cunningof the groom's countenance as he received this donation. 

"I call that handsome, guv'nor, " he exclaimed, "and I ain't abovesaying so. "

"Take another glass of brandy, Hawkins. "

"Thank you kindly, sir; I don't care if I do, " answered the groom; andagain he replenished his glass with the coarse and fiery spirit. 

"I've given you that sovereign because I believe you are an honestfellow, " said the surgeon. "But in spite of the bad character you havegiven the 'Buffalo' I should like to get him. "

"Well, I'm blest, " exclaimed Mr. Hawkins; "and you don't look like ahossey gent either, guv'nor. "

"I am not a 'horsey gent. ' I don't want the 'Buffalo' for myself. Iwant him for a hunting-friend. If you can get me the brute a deadbargain, say for twenty pounds, and can get a week's holiday to bringhim down to my friend's place in the country, I'll give you a five-pound note for your trouble. "

The eyes of Mr. Hawkins glittered with the greed of gold as VictorCarrington said this; but, eager as he was to secure the temptingprize, he did not reply very quickly. 

"Well, you see, guv'nor, I don't think Mr. Spavin would consent to sellthe 'Buffalo' yet awhile. He'd be afraid of mischief, you know. He's avery stiff 'un, is Spavin, and he comes it uncommon bumptious about hischaracter, and so on. I really don't think he'd sell the 'Buffalo' tillhe's broke, and the deuce knows how long it may take to break him. ""Oh, nonsense; Spavin would be glad to get rid of the beast, dependupon it. You've only got to say you want him for a friend of yours, ajockey, who'll break him in better than any of Spavin's people could doit. "

James Hawkins rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 

"Well, perhaps if I put it in that way it might answer, " he said, aftera meditative pause. "I think Spavin might sell him to a jock, where hewould not part with him to a gentleman. I know he'd be uncommon glad toget rid of the brute. " "Very well, then, " returned Victor Carrington;"you manage matters well, and you'll be able to earn your fiver. Besure you don't let Spavin think it's a gentleman who's sweet upon thehorse. Do you think you are able to manage the business?"

The groom laid his finger on his nose, and winked significantly. 

"I've managed more difficult businesses than that, guv'nor, " he said. "When do you want the animal?"

"Immediately. "

 "Could you make it convenient to slip down here to-morrow night, orshall I wait upon you at your house, guv'nor?"

"I will come here to-morrow night, at nine. "

"Very good, guv'nor; in which case you shall hear news of 'WildBuffalo. ' But all I hope is, when you do present him to your friend, you'll present the address-card of a respectable undertaker at the sametime. "

"I am not afraid. "

"As you please, sir. You are the individual what comes down with thedibbs; and you are the individual what's entitled to make your choice. "

Victor Carrington saw that the brandy had by this time exercised apotent influence over Mr. Spavin's groom; but he had full confidence inthe man's power to do what he wanted done. James Hawkins was giftedwith that low cunning which peculiarly adapts a small villain for theservice of a greater villain. 

At nine o'clock on the following evening, the two met again at the"Goat and Compasses. " This time their interview was very brief andbusiness-like. 

"Have you succeeded?" asked Victor. 

"I have, guv'nor, like one o'clock. Mr. Spavin will take five-and-twenty guineas from my friend the jock; but wouldn't sell the 'Buffalo'to a gentleman on no account. "

"Here is the money, " answered Victor, handing the groom five bank-notesfor five pounds each, and twenty-five shillings in gold and silver. "Have you asked for a holiday?"

"No, guv'nor; because, between you and me, I don't suppose I should getit if I did ask. I shall make so bold as to take it without asking. Sham ill, and send my wife to say as I'm laid up in bed at home, andcan't come to work. "

"Hawkins, you are a diplomatist, " exclaimed Victor; "and now I'll makeshort work of my instructions. There's a bit of paper, with the name ofthe place to which you're to take the animal--Frimley Common, Dorsetshire. You'll start to-morrow at daybreak, and travel as quicklyas you can without taking the spirit out of the horse. I want him to befresh when he reaches my friend. "

Mr. Hawkins gave a sinister laugh. 

"Don't you be afraid of that, sir. 'Wild Buffalo' will be fresh enough, you may depend, " he said. 

"I hope he may, " replied Carrington, calmly. "When you reach FrimleyCommon--it's little more than a village--go to the best inn you findthere, and wait till you either see me, or hear from me. Youunderstand?"

"Yes, guv'nor. "

"Good; and now, good-night. "

With this Carrington left the "Goat and Compasses. " As he went out ofthe public-house, an elderly man, in the dress of a mechanic, who hadbeen lounging in the bar, followed him into the street, and kept behindhim until he entered Hyde Park, to cross to the Edgware Road; there theman fell back and left him. 

"He's going home, I suppose, " muttered the man; "and there's nothingmore for me to do to-night. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXI. 

 DOWN IN DORSETSHIRE. 

There were two inns in the High Street of Frimley. The days of mail-coaches were not yet over, and the glory of country inns had notentirely departed. Several coaches passed through Frimley in the courseof the day, and many passengers stopped to eat and drink and refreshthemselves at the quaint old hostelries; but it was not often that theold-fashioned bed-chambers were occupied, even for one night, by anyone but a commercial traveller; and it was a still rarer occurrence fora visitor to linger for any time at Frimley. 

There was nothing to see in the place; and any one travelling forpleasure would have chosen rather to stay in the more picturesquevillage of Hallgrove. 

It was therefore a matter of considerable surprise to the landlady ofthe "Rose and Crown, " when a lady and her maid alighted from the"Highflyer" coach and demanded apartments, which they would be likelyto occupy for a week or more. 

The lady was so plainly attired, in a dress and cloak of dark woollenstuff, and the simplest of black velvet bonnets, that it was only byher distinguished manner, and especially graceful bearing, that Mrs. Tippets, the landlady, was able to perceive any difference between themistress and the maid. 

"I am travelling in Dorsetshire for my health, " said the lady, who wasno other than Honoria Eversleigh, "and the quiet of this place suitsme. You will be good enough to prepare rooms for myself and my maid. "

"You would like your maid's bed-room to be adjoining your own, nodoubt, madam?" hazarded the landlady. 

"No, " answered Honoria; "I do not wish that; I prefer entire privacy inmy own apartment. "

"As you please, madam--we have plenty of bedrooms. "

The landlady of the "Rose and Crown" ushered her visitors into the bestsitting-room the house afforded--an old-fashioned apartment, with awide fire-place, high wooden mantel-piece, and heavily-timberedceiling--a room which seemed to belong to the past rather than thepresent. 

Lady Eversleigh sat by the table in a thoughtful attitude, while thefire was being lighted and a tray of tea-things arranged for thatrefreshment which is most welcome of all others to an Englishwoman. Jane Payland stood by the opposite angle of the mantel-piece, watchingher mistress with a countenance almost as thoughtful as that of Honoriaherself. 

It was in the wintry dusk that these two travellers arrived at Frimley. Jane Payland walked to one of the narrow, old-fashioned windows, andlooked out into the street, where lights were burning dimly here andthere. 

"What a strange old place, ma'am, " she said. 

Honoria had forbidden her to say "my lady" since their departure fromRaynham. 

"Yes, " her mistress answered, absently; "it is a world-forgotten oldplace. "

"But the rest and change will, no doubt, be beneficial, ma'am, " saidMiss Payland, in her most insinuating tone; "and I am sure you mustrequire change and fresh country air after being pent up in a Londonstreet. "

Lady Eversleigh shook off her abstraction of manner, and turned towardsher servant, with a calm, serious gaze. 

"I want change of scene, and the fresh breath of country air, Jane, "she said, gravely; "but it is not for those I came to Frimley, and youknow that it is not. Why should we try to deceive each other? Thepurpose of my life is a very grave one; the secret of my coming andgoing is a very bitter secret, and if I do not choose to share it withyou, I withhold nothing that you need care to know. Let me play my partunwatched and unquestioned. You will find yourself well rewarded by andby for your forbearance and devotion. Be faithful to me, my good girl;but do not try to discover the motive of my actions, and believe, evenwhen they seem most strange to you, that they are justified by onegreat purpose. "

Jane Payland's eyelids drooped before the serious and penetrating gazeof her mistress. 

"You may feel sure of my being faithful, ma'am, " she answered, promptly; "and as to curiosity, I should be the very last creature uponthis earth to try to pry into your secrets. "

Honoria made no reply to this protestation. She took her tea insilence, and seemed as if weighed down by grave and anxious thoughts. After tea she dismissed Jane, who retired to the bed-room allotted toher, which had been made very comfortable, and enlivened by a woodfire, that blazed cheerily in the wide grate. 

Jane Payland's bedroom opened out of a corridor, at the end of whichwas the door of the sitting-room occupied by Honoria. Jane was, therefore, able to keep watch upon all who went to and fro from thesitting-room to the other part of the house. She sat with her door alittle way open for this purpose. 

"My lady expects some one to-night, I know, " she thought to herself, asshe seated herself at a little table, and began some piece of fancy-work. 

She had observed that during tea Lady Eversleigh had twice looked ather watch. Why should she be so anxious about the time, if she were notawaiting some visitor, or message, or letter?

For a long time Jane Payland waited, and watched, and listened, withoutavail. No one went along the corridor to the blue parlour, except thechambermaid who removed the tea-things. 

Jane looked at her own watch, and found that it was past nine o'clock. "Surely my lady can have no visitor to-night?" she thought. 

A quarter of an hour after this, she was startled by the creaking soundof a footstep on the uncarpeted floor of the corridor. She rose hastilyand softly from her chair, crept to the door, and peeped put into thepassage. As she did so, she saw a man approaching, dressed like acountryman, in a clumsy frieze coat, and with his chin so muffled in awoollen scarf, and his felt hat drawn so low over his eyes, that therewas nothing visible of him but the end of a long nose. 

That long, beak-like nose seemed strangely familiar to Miss Payland;and yet she could not tell where she had seen it before. 

The countryman went straight to the blue parlour, opened the door, andwent in. The door closed behind him, and then Jane Payland heard thefaint sound of voices within the apartment. 

It was evident that this countryman was Lady Eversleigh's expectedguest. 

Jane's wonderment was redoubled by this extraordinary proceeding. 

"What does it all mean?" she asked herself. "Is this man some humblerelation of my lady's? Everyone knows that her birth was obscure; butno one can tell where she came from. Perhaps this is her native place, and it is to see her own people she comes here. "

Jane was obliged to be satisfied with this explanation, for no otherwas within her reach; but it did not altogether allay her curiosity. The interview between Lady Eversleigh and her visitor was a long one. It was half-past ten o'clock before the strange-looking countrymanquitted the blue parlour. 

This occurred three days before Christmas-day. On the following eveninganother stranger arrived at Frimley by the mail-coach, which passedthrough the quiet town at about seven o'clock. 

This traveller did not patronise the "Rose and Crown" inn, though thecoach changed horses at that hostelry. He alighted from the outside ofthe coach while it stood before the door of the "Rose and Crown, "waited until his small valise had been fished out of the boot, and thendeparted through the falling snow, carrying this valise, which was hisonly luggage. 

He walked at a rapid pace to the other end of the long, stragglingstreet, where there was a humbler inn, called the "Cross Keys. " Here heentered, and asked for a bed-room, with a good fire, and something orother in the way of supper. 

It was not till he had entered the room that the traveller took off therough outer coat, the collar of which had almost entirely concealed hisface. When he did so, he revealed the sallow countenance of VictorCarrington, and the flashing black eyes, which to-night shone with apeculiar brightness. 

After he had eaten a hasty meal, he went out into the inn-yard, despitethe fast-falling snow, to smoke a cigar, he said, to one of theservants whom he encountered on his way. 

He had not been long in the yard, when a man emerged from one of theadjacent buildings, and approached him in a slow and stealthy manner. 

"All right, guv'nor, " said the man, in a low voice; "I've been on thelook-out for you for the last two days. "

The man was Jim Hawkins, Mr. Spavin's groom. 

"Is 'Wild Buffalo' here?" asked Victor. 

"Yes, sir; as safe and as comfortable as if he'd been foaled here. "

"And none the worse for his journey?"

"Not a bit of it, sir. I brought him down by easy stages, knowing youwanted him kept fresh. And fresh he is--oncommon. P'raps you'd like tohave a look at him. "

"I should. "

The groom led Mr. Carrington to a loose box, and the surgeon had thepleasure of beholding the bay horse by the uncertain light of a stablelantern. 

The animal was, indeed, a noble specimen of his race. 

It was only in the projecting eye-ball, the dilated nostril, thedefiant carriage of the head, that his evil temper exhibited itself. Victor Carrington stood at a little distance from him, contemplatinghim in silence for some minutes. 

"Have you ever noticed that spot?" asked Victor, presently, pointing tothe white patch inside the animal's hock. 

"Well, sir, one can't help noticing it when one knows where to look forit, though p'raps a stranger mightn't see it. That there spot's a kindof a blemish, you see, to my mind; for, if it wasn't for that, thebrute wouldn't have a white hair about him. "

"That's just what I've been thinking, " answered Victor. "Now, my friendis just the sort of man to turn up his nose at a horse with anything inthe way of a blemish about him, especially if he sees it before he hastried the animal, and found out his merits. But I've hit upon a planfor getting the better of him, and I want you to carry it out for me. "

"I'm your man, guv'nor, whatever it is. "

The surgeon produced a phial from his pocket, and with the phial asmall painters' brush. 

"In this bottle there's a brown dye, " he said; "and I want you to paintthe white spot with that brown dye after you've groomed the 'Buffalo, 'so that whenever my friend comes to claim the horse the brute may beready for him. You must apply the dye three or four times, at shortintervals. It's a pretty fast one, and it'll take a good many pails ofwater to wash it out. "

Jim Hawkins laughed heartily at the idea of this manoeuvre. 

"Why you are a rare deep one, guv'nor, " he exclaimed; "that there gameis just like the canary dodge, what they do so well down Seven Dialsway. You ketches yer sparrer, and you paints him a lively yeller, andthen you sells him to your innocent customer for the finest canary asever wabbled in the grove--a little apt to be mopish at first, butwarranted to sing beautiful as soon as ever he gets used to his newmaster and missus. And, oh! don't he just sing beautiful--not at allneither. "

"There's the bottle, Hawkins, and there's the brush. You know whatyou've got to do. "

"All right, guv'nor. "

"Good night, then, " said Victor, as he left the stable. 

He did not stay to finish his cigar under the fast-falling snow; butwalked back to his own room, where he slept soundly. 

He was astir very early the next morning. He went down stairs, afterbreakfasting in his own room, saw the landlord, and hired a good stronghorse, commonly used by the proprietor of the "Cross Keys" on all hisjourneys to and from the market-town and outlying villages. 

Victor Carrington mounted this horse, and rode across the Common to thevillage of Hallgrove. 

He stopped to give his horse a drink of water before a village inn, andwhile stopping to do this he asked a few questions of the ostler. 

"Whereabouts is Hallgrove Rectory?" he asked. 

"About a quarter of a mile farther on, sir, " answered the man; "youcan't miss it if you keep along that road. A big red house, by the sideof a river. "

"Thanks. This is a great place for hunting, isn't it?"

"Yes, that it be, sir. The Horsley foxhounds are a'most allus meetingsomewheres about here. "

"When do they meet next?"

"The day arter to-morrow--Boxing-day, sir. They're to meet in the fieldby Hallgrove Ferry, a mile and a quarter beyond the rectory, at teno'clock in the morning. It's to be a reg'lar grand day's sport, I'veheard say. Our rector is to ride a new horse, wot's been given to himby his brother. "

"Indeed!"

"Yes, sir; I war down at the rectory stables yesterday arternoon, andsee the animal--a splendid bay, rising sixteen hands. "

Carrington turned his horse's head in the direction of HallgroveRectory. He knew enough of the character of Lionel Dale to be awarethat no opposition would be made to his loitering about the premises. He rode boldly up to the door, and asked for the rector. He was out, the servant said, but would the gentleman walk in and wait, or would heleave his name. Mr. Dale would be in soon; he had gone out with Captainand Miss Graham. Victor Carrington smiled involuntarily as he heardmention made of Lydia. "So you are here, too, " he thought; "it is justas well you should not see me on this occasion, as I am not helpingyour game now, as I did in the case of Sir Oswald, but spoiling it. "

No, the stranger gentleman thanked the man; he would not wait to seeMr. Dale (he had carefully ascertained that he was out before riding upto the house); but if the servant would show him the way, he would beglad, to get out on the lower road; he understood the rectory groundsopened upon it, at a little distance from the house. Certainly the mancould show him--nothing easier, if the gentleman would take the path tothe left, and the turn by the shrubbery, he would pass by the stables, and the lower road lay straight before him. Victor Carrington compliedwith these directions, but his after-conduct did not bear out theimpression of his being in a hurry, which his words and manner hadconveyed to the footman. It was at least an hour after he had held theabove-mentioned colloquy, when Victor Carrington, having made himselfthoroughly acquainted with the topography of the rector's premises, issued from a side-gate, and took the lower road, leading back toFrimley. 

Then he went straight to the stable-yard, saw Mr. Spavin's groom, anddismissed him. 

"I shall take the 'Buffalo' down to my friend's place this afternoon, "he said to Hawkins. "Here's your money, and you can get back to Londonas soon as you like. I think my friend will be very well pleased withhis bargain. "

"Ay, ay, " said Mr. Hawkins, whose repeated potations of execrablebrandy had rendered him tolerably indifferent to all that passed aroundhim, and who was actuated by no other feeling than a lively desire toobtain, the future favours of a liberal employer; "he's got to takecare of hisself, and we've got to take care of ourselves, and that'sall about it. "

And then Mr. Hawkins, with something additional to the stipulatedreward in his pocket, and a pint bottle of his favourite stimulant torefresh him on the way, took himself off, and Carrington saw no more ofhim. The people about the inn saw very little of Carrington, but it waswith some surprise that the ostler received his directions to saddlethe horse which stood in the stable, just when the last gleam of theshort winter's daylight was dying out on Christmas-day. Carrington hadnot stirred beyond the precincts of the inn all the morning andafternoon. The strange visitor was all uninfluenced either by thedevotional or the festive aspects of the season. He was quite alone, and as he sat in his cheerless little bedroom at the small country inn, and brooded, now over a pocket volume, thickly noted in his small, neathandwriting, now over the plans which were so near theiraccomplishment, he exulted in that solitude--he gave loose to thecynicism which was the chief characteristic of his mind. He cursed thefolly of the idiots for whom Christmas-time had any special meaning, and secretly worshipped his own idols--money and power. 

The horse was brought to him, and Carrington mounted him without anydifficulty, and rode away in the gathering gloom. "Wild Buffalo" gavehim no trouble, and he began to feel some misgivings as to the truth ofthe exceedingly bad character he had received with the animal. Supposing he should not be the unmanageable devil he wasrepresented, --supposing all his schemes came to grief, what then? Why, then, there were other ways of getting rid of Lionel Dale, and heshould only be the poorer by the purchase of a horse. On the otherhand, "Wild Buffalo, " plodding along a heavy country road, almost inthe dark, and after the probably not too honestly dispensed feeding ofa village inn, which Carrington had not personally superintended, wasno doubt a very different animal to what he might be expected to provehimself in the hunting-field. Pondering upon these probabilities, Victor Carrington rode slowly on towards Hallgrove. He had takenaccurate observations; he had nicely calculated time and place. All theservants, tenants, and villagers were gathered together under LionelDale's hospitable roof. To the feasting had succeeded games andstory-telling, and the absorbing gossip of such a reunion. That whichVictor Carrington had come to do, he did successfully; and when hereturned to his inn, and gave over his horse to the care of the ostler, no one but he, not even the man who was there listening to every wordspoken among the servants at the rectory, and eagerly scanning everyface there, knew that "Niagara" was in the inn-stable, and "WildBuffalo" in the stall at Hallgrove. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXII. 

 ARCH-TRAITOR WITHIN, ARCH-PLOTTER WITHOUT. 

The guests at Hallgrove Rectory this Christmas-time were Douglas Dale, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, a lady and gentleman called Mordaunt, andtheir two pretty, fair-faced daughters, and two other old friends ofthe rector's, one of whom is very familiar to us. 

Those two were Gordon Graham and his sister Lydia--the woman whoseenvious hatred had aided in that vile scheme by which Sir OswaldEversleigh's happiness had been suddenly blighted. The Dales and GordonGraham had been intimate from boyhood, when they had been school-fellows at Eton. Since Sir Oswald's death had enriched the twobrothers, Gordon Graham had taken care that his acquaintance with themshould not be allowed to lapse, but should rather be strengthened. Itwas by means of his manoeuvring that the invitation for Christmas hadbeen given, and that he and his sister were comfortable domiciled forthe winter season beneath the rector's hospitably roof. 

Gordon Graham had been very anxious to secure this invitation. Everyday that passed made him more and more anxious that his sister shouldmake a good marriage. Her thirtieth birthday was alarmingly near athand. Careful as she was of her good looks, the day must soon come whenher beauty would fade, and she would find herself among the ranks ofconfirmed old maids. 

If Gordon Graham found her a burden now, how much greater burden wouldshe be to him then! As the cruel years stole by, and brought her notriumph, no success, her temper grew more imperious, while the quarrelswhich marred the harmony of the brother and sister's affection becamemore frequent and more violent. 

Beyond this one all-sufficient reason, Gordon Graham had his ownselfish motives for seeking to secure his sister a rich husband. Thepurse of a wealthy brother-in-law must, of course, be always more orless open to himself; and he was not the man to refrain from obtainingall he could from such a source. 

In Lionel Dale he saw a man who would be the easy victim of a woman'sfascinations, the generous dupe of an adventurer. Lionel Dale was, therefore, the prize which Lydia should try to win. 

The brother and sister were in the habit of talking to each other veryplainly. 

"Now, Lydia, " said the captain, after he had read Lionel Dale's letterfor the young lady's benefit, "it will be your fault if you do not comeback from Hallgrove the affianced wife of this man. There was a timewhen you might have tried for heavier stakes; but at thirty, a husbandwith five thousand a year is not to be sneezed at. "

"You need not be so fond of reminding me of my age, " Lydia returnedwith a look of anger. "You seem to forget that you are five years mysenior. "

"I forget nothing, my dear girl. But there is no parallel between yourcase and mine. For a man, age is nothing--for a woman, everything; andI regret to be obliged to remember that you are approaching yourthirtieth birthday. Fortunately, you don't look more than seven-and-twenty; and I really think, if you play your cards well, you may securethis country rector. A country rector is not much for a woman who hasset her cap at a duke, but he is better than nothing; and as the caseis really growing rather desperate, you must play your cards withunusual discrimination this time, Lydia. You must, upon my word. "

"I am tired of playing my cards, " answered Miss Graham, contemptuously. "It seems as if life was always to be a losing game for me, let me playmy cards how I will. I begin to think there is a curse upon me, andthat no act of mine will ever prosper. Who was that man, in your Greekplay, who guessed some inane conundrum, and was always getting intotrouble afterwards? I begin to think there really is a fatality inthese things. "

She turned away from her brother impatiently, and seated herself at herpiano. She played a few bars of a waltz with a listless air, while thecaptain lighted a cigar, and stepped out upon the little balcony, overhanging the dull, foggy street. 

The brother and sister occupied lodgings in one of the narrow streetsof Mayfair. The apartments were small, shabbily furnished, inconvenient, and expensive; but the situation was irreproachable, andthe haughty Lydia could only exist in an irreproachable situation. 

Captain Graham finished his cigar, and went out to his club, leavinghis sister alone, discontented, gloomy, sullen, to get through the dayas best she might. 

The time had been when the prospect of a visit to Hallgrove Rectorywould have seemed very pleasant to her. But that time was gone. Thehaughty spirit was soured by disappointment, the selfish natureembittered by defeat. 

There was a glass over the mantel-piece. Lydia leaned her arms upon themarble slab, and contemplated the dark face in the mirror. 

It was a handsome face: but a cloud of sullen pride obscured itsbeauty. 

"I shall never prosper, " she said, as she looked at herself. "There issome mysterious ban upon me, and on my beauty. All my life I have beenpassed by for the sake of women in every attribute my inferiors. If Iwas unloved in the freshness of my youth and beauty, how can I expectto be loved now, when youth is past and beauty is on the wane? And yetmy brother expects me to go through the old stage-play, in the futilehope of winning a rich husband!"

She shrugged her shoulders with a contemptuous gesture, and turned awayfrom the glass. But, although she affected to despise her brother'sschemes, she was not slow to lend herself to them. She went out thatmorning, and walked to her milliner's house. There was a long andrather an unpleasant interview between the milliner and her customer, for Lydia Graham had sunk deeper in the mire of debt with every passingyear, and it was only by the payment of occasional sums of money onaccount that she contrived to keep her creditors tolerably quiet. 

The result of to-day's interview was the same as usual. Madame Susanne, the milliner, agreed to find some pretty dresses for Miss Graham'sChristmas visit--and Miss Graham undertook to pay a large instalment ofan unreasonable bill without inspection or objection. 

On this snowy Christmas morning Miss Graham stood by the side of herhost, dressed in the stylish walking costume of dark gray poplin, andwith her glowing face set off by a bonnet of blue velvet, with softgray plumes. Those were the days in which a bonnet was at once theaegis and the sanctuary of beauty. If you offended her, she took refugein her bonnet. The police-courts have only become odious by the clamourof feminine complainants since the disappearance of the bonnet. It wasawful as the helmet of Minerva, inviolable as the cestus of Diana. Norwas the bonnet of thirty-years ago an unbecoming headgear--a prettyface never looked prettier than when dimly seen in the shadowy depthsof a coal-scuttle bonnet. 

Miss Graham looked her best in one of those forgotten headdresses; therich velvet, the drooping feathers, set off her showy face, and Lauraand Ellen Mordaunt, in their fresh young beauty and simple costume, lost by contrast with the aristocratic belle. 

The poor of Hallgrove parish looked forward eagerly to the coming ofChristmas. 

Lionel Dale's parishioners knew that they would receive ample bountyfrom the hand of their wealthy and generous rector. 

He loved to welcome old and young to the noble hall of his mansion, aspacious and lofty chamber, which had formed part of the ancient manor-house, and had been of late years converted into a rectory. He loved tosee them clad in the comfortable garments which his purse hadprovided--the old women in their gray woollen gowns and scarlet cloaks, the little children brightly arrayed, like so many Red Riding hoods. 

It was a pleasant sight truly, and there was a dimness in the rector'seyes, as he stood at the head of a long table, at two o'clock onChristmas-day, to say grace before the dinner spread for those humbleChristmas guests. 

All the poor of the parish had been invited to dine with their pastoron Christmas-day, and this two o'clock dinner was a greater pleasure tothe rector of Hallgrove than the repast which was to be served at seveno'clock for himself and the guests of his own rank. 

There were some people in Hallgrove and its neighbourhood who said thatLionel Dale took more pleasure in this life than a clergyman and a goodChristian should take; but surely those who had seen him seated by thebed of sickness, or ministering to the needs of affliction, couldscarcely have grudged him the innocent happiness of his hours ofrelaxation. The one thing in which he himself felt that he was perhapsopen to blame, was in his passion for the sports of the field. 

No one who had stood amongst the little group at the top of the longtable in Hallgrove Manor-house on this snowy Christmas morning couldhave doubted that the heart of Lionel Dale was true to the very core. 

He was not alone amongst his poor parishioners. His guests hadrequested permission to see the two o'clock dinner-party in therefectory. Lydia affected to be especially anxious for this privilege. 

"I long to see the dear things eating their Christmas plum-pudding, "she said, with almost girlish enthusiasm. 

Mr. Dale's parishioners did ample justice to the splendid Christmasfare provided for them. 

Lydia Graham declared she had never witnessed anything that gave herhalf so much pleasure as this humble gathering. 

"I would give up a whole season of fashionable dinner-parties for sucha treat as this, Mr. Dale, " she exclaimed, with an eloquent glance atthe rector. "What a happy life yours must be! and how privileged thesepeople ought to think themselves!"

"I don't know that, Miss Graham, " answered Lionel Dale. "I think theprivilege is all on my side. It is the pleasure of the rich to ministerto the wants of the poor. "

Lydia Graham made no reply; but her eyes expressed an admiration whichwomanly reserve might have forbidden her lips to utter. 

While the pudding was being eaten, Mr. Dale walked round amongst hishumble guests, to exchange a few kindly words here and there; to shakehands; to pat little children's flaxen heads; to make friendlyinquiries for the sick and absent. 

As he paused to talk to one of his parishioners, his attention wasattracted by a strange face. It was the face of an old man, who sat atthe opposite side of the table, and seemed entirely absorbed by theagreeable task of making his way through a noble slice of plum-pudding. 

"Who is that old man opposite?" asked Lionel of the agriculturallabourer to whom he had been talking. "I don't think I know his face. "

"No, sir, " answered the farm-labourer; "he don't belong to these parts. Gaffer Hayfield brought 'un. I suppose as how he's a relation ofGaffer's. It seems a bit of a liberty, sir; but Gaffer Hayfield alwayswar a cool hand. "

"I don't think it a liberty, William. If the man is a relation ofHayfield's, there is no reason why he should not be here with theGaffer, " answered Lionel, good-naturedly, "I am glad to Bee that he isenjoying his dinner. "

"Yes, sir, " replied the farm-labourer, with a grin; "he seems to havean oncommon good twist of his own, wheresoever he belongs to. "

No more was said about the strange guest--who was an old man, with verywhite hair, which hung low over his eyebrows; and very white whiskers, which almost covered his cheeks. He had a queer, bird-like aspect, anda nose that was as sharp as the beak of any of the rooks cawinghoarsely amongst the elms of Hallgrove that snowy Christmas-day. 

After the dinner in the old hall, Lionel Dale and his guests returnedto their own quarters; Mrs. Mordaunt and the three younger ladieswalked in the grounds, with Douglas Dale and Sir Reginald Eversleigh inattendance upon them. 

Miss Graham was the last woman in the world to forget that the incomeof Douglas Dale was almost as large as that of his brother, the rector;and that in this instance she might have two strings to her bow. Shecontrived to be by the side of Douglas as they walked in theshrubberies, and lingered on the rustic bridge across the river; butshe had not been with him long before she perceived that all herfascinations were thrown away upon him; and that, attentive and politethough he was, his heart was far away. 

It was indeed so. In that pleasant garden, where the dark evergreensglistened in the red radiance of the winter sunset, Douglas Dale'sthoughts wandered away from the scene before him to the lovely Austrianwoman--the fair widow, whose life was so strange a mystery to him; thewoman whom he could neither respect nor trust; but whom, in spite ofhimself, he loved better than any other creature upon earth. 

"I had rather be by her side than here, " he said to himself. "How isshe spending this season, which should be so happy? Perhaps in utterloneliness; or in the midst of that artificial gaiety which is morewretched than solitude. "

 * * * * *

The rector of Hallgrove and his guests assembled in the old-fashioneddrawing-room of the manor-house rectory at seven o'clock on that snowyChristmas-night. The snowflakes fell thick and fast as night closed inupon the gardens and shrubberies, the swift-flowing river, and distanthills. 

The rectory drawing-room, beautified by the soft light of wax-candles, and the rich hues of flowers, was a pleasant picture--a picture whichwas made all the more charming by the female figures which filled itsforeground. 

Chief among these, and radiant with beauty and high spirits, was LydiaGraham. 

She had contrived to draw Lionel Dale to her side. She was seated by atable scattered with volumes of engravings, and he was bending over heras she turned the leaves. 

Her smiles, her flatteries, her cleverly simulated interest in therector's charities and pensioners, had exercised a considerableinfluence upon him--an influence which grew stronger with every hour. There was a sweetness and simplicity in the manners of the two MissesMordaunt which pleased him; but the country-bred girls lost much bycontrast with the brilliant Lydia. 

"I hope you are going to give us a real old-fashioned Christmasevening, Mr. Dale, " said Miss Graham. 

"I don't quite know what you mean by an old-fashioned Christmasevening. "

"Nor am I quite clear as to whether I know what I mean myself, "answered the young lady, gaily. "I think, after dinner, we ought to sitround that noble old fire-place and tell stories, ought we not?"

"Yes, I believe that is the sort of thing, " replied the rector. "For myown part, I am ready to be Miss Graham's slave for the whole of theevening; and in that capacity will hold myself bound to perform herbehests, however tyrannical she may be. "

When dinner was announced, Lionel Dale was obliged to leave thebewitching Lydia in order to offer his arm to Mrs. Mordaunt, while thatyoung lady was fain to be satisfied with the escort of the disinheritedSir Reginald Eversleigh. 

At the dinner-table, however, she found herself seated on the left handof her host; and she took care to secure to herself the greater shareof his attention during the progress of dinner. 

Gordon Graham watched his sister from his place near the foot of thetable, and was well satisfied with her success. 

"If she plays her cards well she may sit at the head of this table nextChristmas-day, " he said to himself. 

After less than half-an-hour's interval, the gentlemen followed theladies into the drawing-room, and the usual musical evening set in. Lydia Graham had nothing to fear from comparison with the MissesMordaunt. They were tolerable performers. She was a brilliantproficient in music, and she had the satisfaction of observing thatLionel Dale perceived and appreciated her superiority. She couldafford, therefore, to be as amiable to the girls as she was captivatingto the gentlemen. 

The Misses Mordaunt were singing a duet, when a servant entered, andapproached Lionel Dale. 

"There is a person in the hall who asks to see you, sir, " said the man, "on most particular business. "

"What kind of person?" asked the rector. 

"Well, sir, she looks like an old gipsy woman. "

"A gipsy woman! The gipsies about here do not bear the best character. "

"No, sir, " replied the man. "I bore that in mind, sir, with a view tothe plate, and I told John Andrew to keep an eye upon her while I cameto speak to you; and John Andrew is keeping an eye upon her at thispresent moment, sir. "

"Very good, Jackson. You can tell the gipsy woman that, if she needsimmediate help of any kind, she can apply in the village, to Rawlins, but that I cannot see her to-night. "

"Yes, sir. "

The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rosefrom the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments fromtheir hearers. 

Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herselfbefore the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she couldexcel the timid girls who had just left the piano. 

But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument. He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant, if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman. 

The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to stepoutside the room before he delivered his message. Lionel compliedimmediately, and followed the man into the corridor without. 

"I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir, " said the man, in an awe-stricken whisper; "folks have such ears. The woman says she must seeyou, sir, and this very night. It is a matter of life and death, shesays. "

"Then in that case I will see this woman. Go into the drawing-room, Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I findmyself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she andthe other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half anhour. "

"Yes, sir. "

The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found anold gipsy woman. 

She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff, strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it wasalmost impossible to discover what she really was like. Her shoulderswere bent and contracted as if with extreme age. Loose tresses of grayhair fell low over her forehead. Her skin was dark and tawny; andcontrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes. 

The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her headin response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as beforea superior in rank and station. 

"Come with me, my good woman, " said the rector, "and let me hear allabout this very important business of yours. "

He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, linedfrom ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parianshade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subduedlight on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room inshadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of thefire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, alarge, old-fashioned, easy-chair. 

"Sit down, my good woman, " said the rector, pointing to the latter; "Isuppose you have some long story to tell me. "

He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table, playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife. 

"I have much to say to you, Lionel Dale, " answered the old woman, in avoice which had a solemn music, that impressed the hearer in spite ofhimself; "I have much to say to you, and it will be well for you tomark what I say, and be warned by what I tell you. "

The rector looked at the speaker earnestly, and yet with a half-contemptuous smile upon his face. She was seated in shadow, and hecould only see the glitter of her dark eyes as the fitful light of thefire flashed on them. 

There was something almost supernatural, it seemed to him, in thebrilliancy of those eyes. 

He laughed at himself for his folly in the next instant. What was thiswoman but a vulgar impostor, who was doubtless trying to trade upon hisfears in some manner or other?

"You have come here to give some kind of warning, then?" he said, aftera few moments of consideration. 

"I have--a warning which may save your life--if you hear me patiently, and obey when you have heard. "

"That is the cant of your class, my good woman; and you can scarcelyexpect me to listen to that kind of thing. If you come here to me, hoping to delude me by the language with which you tell the countrypeople their fortunes at fairs and races, the sooner you go away thebetter. I am ready to listen to you patiently: if you need help, I amready to give it you; but it is time and labour lost to practise gipsyjargon upon me. "

"I need no help from you, " cried the gipsy woman, scornfully; "I tellyou again, I come here to serve you. "

"In what manner can you serve me? Speak out, and speak quickly!" saidLionel; "I must return to my guests almost immediately. "

"Your guests!" cried the gipsy, with a mocking laugh; "pleasant gueststo gather round your hearth at this holy festival-time. Sir ReginaldEversleigh is amongst them, I suppose?"

"He is. You know his name very well, it seems. "

"I do. "

"Do you know him?"

"Do _you_ know him, Lionel Dale?" demanded the old woman with suddenintensity. 

"I have good reason to know him--he is my first-cousin, " answered therector. 

"You _have_ good reason to know him--a reason that you are ignorant of. Shall I tell you that reason, Mr. Dale?"

"I am ready to hear what you have to say; but I must warn you that Ishall be but little affected by it. "

"Beware how you regard my solemn warning as the raving of a lunatic. Itis your life that is at stake, Lionel Dale--your life! The reason youought to know Reginald Eversleigh is, that in him you have a deadlyenemy. "

"An enemy! My cousin Reginald, a man whom I never injured by deed orword in my life! Has _he_ ever tried to injure me?"

"He has. "

"How?"

"He schemed and plotted against you and others before your uncle SirOswald's death. His dearest hope was to bring to pass the destructionof the will which left you five thousand a year. "

"Indeed! You seem familiar with my family history, " exclaimed Lionel. 

"I know the secrets of your family as well as I know those of my own. "

"Then you pretend to be a sorceress?"

"I pretend to be nothing but your friend. Sir Reginald Eversleigh hasbeen your foe ever since the day which disinherited him and made yourich. Your death would make him master of the wealth which you nowenjoy; your death would give him fortune, position in the world--allwhich he most covets. Can you doubt, therefore, that he wishes yourdeath?"

"I cannot believe it!" cried Lionel Dale; "it is too horrible. What!he, my first cousin! he can profess for me the warmest friendship, andyet can wish to profit by my death!"

"He can do worse than that, " said the gipsy woman, in an impressivevoice; "he can try to compass your death!"

"No! no! no!" cried the rector. "It is not possible!"

"It is true. Sir Reginald Eversleigh is a coward; but he is helped byone who knows no human weakness--whose cruel heart was never softenedby one touch of pity--whose iron hand never falters. Sir ReginaldEversleigh is little more than the tool of that man, and between thosetwo there is ruin for you. "

"Your words have the accent of truth, " said the rector, after a longpause; "and yet their meaning is so terrible that I can scarcely bringmyself to believe in them. How is it that you, a stranger, are sofamiliar with the private details of my life?"

"Do not ask me that, Mr. Dale, " replied the gipsy woman, sternly; "whena stranger comes to you to warn you of a great danger, accept thewarning, and let your nameless friend depart unquestioned. I have toldyou that an unseen danger menaces you. I know not yet the exact formwhich that danger may take. To-morrow I expect to know more. "

"I can pledge myself to nothing. "

"As you will, " answered the gipsy, proudly. "I have done my duty. Therest is with Providence. If in your blind obstinacy you disregard mywarning, I cannot help it. Will you, for your own sake, not for mine, let me see you to-morrow; or will you promise to see anyone who shallask to see you, in the name of the gipsy woman who was here to-night?Promise me this, I entreat you. I have nothing to ask of you, nothingto gain by my prayer; but I do entreat you most earnestly to do thisthing. I am working in the dark to a certain extent. I know something, but not all, and I may have learned much more by to-morrow. I may bringor send you information then, which will convince you I am speaking thetruth. Stay, will you promise me this, for my sake, for the sake ofjustice? You will, Mr. Dale, I know you will; you are a just, a goodman. You suspect me of practising upon you a vulgar imposition. To-morrow I may have the power of convincing you that I have not done so. You will give me the opportunity, Mr. Dale?"

The pleading, earnest voice, the mournful, dark eyes, stirred LionelDale's heart strangely. An impulse moved him towards trust in thiswoman, this outcast, --curiosity even impelled him to ask her, in suchterms as would ensure her compliance, for a full explanation of hermysterious conduct. But he checked the impulse, he silenced thepromptings of curiosity, sacrificing them to his ever-present sense ofhis professional and personal dignity. While the momentary strugglelasted, the gipsy woman closely scanned his face. At length he saidcoldly:

"I will do as you ask. I place no reliance on your statements, but youare right in asking for the means of substantiating them. I will seeyou, or any one you may send to-morrow. "

"You will be at home?" she asked, anxiously. "The hunt?"

"The hunt will hardly take place; the weather is too much against us, "replied Lionel Dale. "Except there should be a very decided change, there will be no hunt, and I shall be at home. " Having said this, Lionel Dale rose, with a decided air of dismissal. The gipsy rose too, and stood unshrinkingly before him, as she said:

"And now I will leave you. Good night. You think me a mad woman, or animpostor. This is the second occasion on which you have misjudged me, Mr. Dale. "

As the rector met the earnest gaze of her brilliant eyes, a strangefeeling took possession of his mind. It seemed to him, as if he hadbefore encountered that earnest and profound gaze. 

"I must have seen such a face in a dream, " he thought to himself;"where else but in a dream?"

The fancy had a powerful influence over him, and occupied his mind ashe preceded the gipsy woman to the hall, and opened the door for her topass out. 

The snow had ceased to fall; the bright wintry moon rode high in theheaven, amidst black, hurrying clouds. That cold light shone on thewhite range of hills sleeping beneath a shroud of untrodden snow. 

On the threshold of the door the gipsy woman turned and addressedLionel Dale--

"There will be no hunting while this weather lasts. "

"None. "

"Then your grand meeting of to-morrow will be put off?"

"Yes, unless the weather changes in the night. "

"Once more, good night, Mr. Dale. "

"Good night. "

The rector stood at the door, watching the gipsy woman as she walkedalong the snow-laden pathway. The dark figure moving slowly andsilently across the broad white expanse of hidden lawn and flower-bedslooked almost ghost-like to the eyes of the watcher. 

"What does it all mean?" he asked himself, as he watched that recedingfigure. "Is this woman a common impostor, who hopes to enrich herself, or her tribe, by playing upon my fears? She asked nothing of me to-night; and yet that may be but a trick of her trade, and she may intendto extort all the more from me in the future. What should she be but acheat and a trickster, like the rest of her race?"

The question was not easy to settle. 

He returned to the drawing-room. His mind had been much disturbed bythis extraordinary interview, and he was in no humour for empty small-talk; nor was he disposed to meet Reginald Eversleigh, against whom hehad received so singular, so apparently groundless, a warning. 

He tried to shake off the feeling which he was ashamed to acknowledgeto himself. 

He re-entered the drawing-room, and he saw Miss Graham's face light upwith sudden animation as she saw him. He was not skilled in theknowledge of a woman's heart, and he was flattered by that bright lookof welcome. He was already half-enmeshed in the web which she hadspread for him, and that welcoming smile did much towards his completesubjugation. 

He went to a seat near the fascinating Lydia. Between them there was achess-table. Lydia laid her jewelled hand lightly on one of the pieces. 

"Would you think it very wicked to play a game of chess on a Christmasevening, Mr. Dale?" she asked. 

"Indeed, no, Miss Graham. I am one of those who can see no sinfulnessin any innocent enjoyment. "

"Shall we play, then?" asked Lydia, arranging the pieces. 

"If you please. "

They were both good players, and the game lasted long. But ever andanon, while waiting for Lydia to move, Lionel glanced towards the spotwhere Sir Reginald Eversleigh stood, engaged in conversation withGordon Graham and Douglas Dale. 

If the rector himself had known no blot on the character of ReginaldEversleigh, the gipsy's words would not have had a feather's weightwith him; but Lionel did know that his cousin's youth had been wild andextravagant, and that he, the beloved, adopted son, the long-acknowledged heir of Raynham, had been disinherited by Sir Oswald--oneof the best and most high-principled of men. 

Knowing this, it was scarcely strange if Lionel Dale was in some degreeinfluenced by the gipsy's warning. He scanned the face of his cousinwith a searching gaze. 

It was a handsome face--almost a perfect face; but was it the face of aman who might be trusted by his fellow-men?

A careworn face--handsome though it was. There was a nervousrestlessness about the thin lips, a feverish light in the dark blueeyes. 

More than once during the prolonged encounter at chess, ReginaldEversleigh had drawn aside one of the window-curtains, to look out uponthe night. 

Mr. Mordaunt, a devoted lover of all field-sports, was also restlessand uneasy about the weather, peeping out every now and then, andannouncing, in a tone of disappointment, the continuance of the frost. 

In Mr. Mordaunt this was perfectly natural; but Lionel Dale knew thathis cousin was not a man who cared for hunting. Why, then, was he soanxious about the meet which was to have taken place to-morrow?

His anxiety evidently was about the meet; for after looking out of thewindow for the third time, he exclaimed, with an accent of triumph--

"I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow. It nolonger freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling. "

Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about fiveminutes with a radiant face. 

"I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard, " he said;"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right. The wind has shifted to thesou'-west; it is raining fast, and we may have our sport to-morrow. "

Lionel Dale's eyes were fixed on the face of his cousin as the countrysquire made this announcement. To his surprise, he saw that face blanchto a death-like whiteness. 

"To-morrow!" murmured Sir Reginald, with a sigh. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXIII. 

 "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?"

All through the night the drizzling rain fell fast, and on the morningof the 26th, when the gentlemen at the manor-house rectory went totheir windows to look out upon the weather, they were gratified byfinding that southerly wind and cloudy sky so dear to the heart of ahuntsman. 

At half-past eight o'clock the whole party assembled in the dining-room, where breakfast was prepared. 

Many gentlemen living in the neighbourhood had been invited tobreakfast at the rectory; and the great quadrangle of the stables wascrowded by grooms and horses, gigs and phaetons, while the clamour ofmany voices rang out upon the still air. 

Every one seemed to be thoroughly happy--except Reginald Eversleigh. Hewas amongst the noisiest of the talkers, the loudest of the laughers;but the rector, who watched him closely, perceived that his face waspale, his eyes heavy as the eyes of one who had passed a sleeplessnight, and that his laughter was loud without mirth, his talkboisterous, without real cheerfulness of spirit. 

"There is mischief of some kind in that man's heart, " Lionel said tohimself. "Can there be any truth in the gipsy's warning after all?"

But in the next moment he was ready to fancy himself the weak dupe ofhis own imagination. 

"I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is, " he thought;"the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed allthe brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour ofpleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strivesin vain to shake off. "

The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one. 

Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she lookmore attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark bluecloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made herappearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat anddainty whip in her hand. 

Her cheeks were flushed with a rich bloom--the warm flush of excitementand the consciousness of success. Lionel's attention on the previousevening had seemed to her unmistakeable; and again this morning she sawadmiration, if not a warmer feeling, in his gaze. 

"And so you really mean to follow the hounds, Miss Graham?" said Mrs. Mordaunt, with something like a shudder. 

She had a great horror of fast young ladies, and a lurking aversion toMiss Graham, whose dashing manner and more brilliant charms quiteeclipsed the quiet graces of the lady's two daughters. Mrs. Mordauntwas by no means a match-making mother; but she would have been far fromsorry to see Lionel Dale devoted to one of her girls. 

"Do I mean to follow the hounds?" cried Lydia. "Certainly I do, Mrs. Mordaunt. Do not the Misses Mordaunt ride?"

"Never to hounds, " answered the matron. "They ride with, their fatherconstantly, and when they are in London they ride in the park; but Mr. Mordaunt would not allow his daughters to appear in the hunting-field. "

Lydia's face flushed crimson with anger; but her anger changed todelight when Lionel Dale came to the rescue. 

"It is only such accomplished horsewomen as Miss Graham who can ride tohounds with safety, " he said. "Your daughters ride very well, Mrs. Mordaunt; but they are not Diana Vernons. "

"I never particularly admired the character of Diana Vernon, " Mrs. Mordaunt answered, coldly. 

Lydia Graham was by no means displeased by the lady's discourtesy. Sheaccepted it as a tribute to her success. The mother could not bear tosee so rich a prize as the rector of Hallgrove won by any other thanher own daughter. 

Douglas Dale was full of his brother's new horse, "Niagara, " which hadbeen paraded before the windows. The gentlemen of the party had allexamined the animal, and pronounced him a beauty. 

"Did you try him last week, Lionel, as I requested you to do?" askedDouglas, when the merits of the horse had been duly discussed. 

"I did; and I found him as fine a temper as any horse I ever rode. Irode him twice--he is a magnificent animal. "

"And safe, eh, Lio?" asked Douglas, anxiously. "Spavin assured me thehorse was to be relied on, and Spavin is a very respectable fellow; butit's rather a critical matter to choose a hunter for a brother, and Ishall be glad when to-day's work is over. "

"Have no fear, Douglas, " answered the rector. "I am generallyconsidered a bold rider, but I would not mount a horse I couldn'tthoroughly depend upon; for I am of opinion that a man has no right totempt Providence. "

As he said this, he happened by chance to look towards ReginaldEversleigh. The eyes of the cousins met; and Lionel saw that those ofthe baronet had a restless, uneasy look, which was utterly unlike theirusual expression. 

"There is some meaning in that old woman's dark hints of wrong andtreachery, " he thought; "there must be. That was no common look which Isaw just now in my cousin's eyes. "

The horses were brought round to the principal door; a barouche hadbeen ordered for Mrs. Mordaunt and the two young ladies, who had noobjection to exhibit their prettiest winter bonnets at the generalmeeting-place. 

The snow had melted, except here and there, where it still lay in greatpatches; and on the distant hills, which still wore their pure whiteshroud. 

The roads and lanes were fetlock-deep in mud, and the horses wentsplashing through pools of water, which spurted up into the faces ofthe riders. 

There was only one lady besides Lydia Graham who intended to accompanythe huntsmen, and this lady was the dashing young wife of a cavalryofficer, who was spending a month's leave of absence with his relativesat Hallgrove. 

The hunting-party rode out of the rectory gates in twos and threes. Allhad passed out into the high road before the rector himself, who wasmounted on his new hunter. 

To his extreme surprise he found a difficulty in managing the animal. He reared, and jibbed, and shied from side to side upon the broadcarriage-drive, splashing the melted snow and wet gravel upon therector's dark hunting-coat. 

"So ho, 'Niagara, '" said Lionel, patting the animal's arched neck;"gently, boy, gently. "

His voice, and the caressing touch of his hand seemed to have somelittle effect, for the horse consented to trot quietly into the road, after the rest of the party, and Lionel quickly overtook his friends. He rode shoulder by shoulder with Squire Mordaunt, an acknowledgedjudge of horseflesh, who watched the rector's hunter with a curiousgaze for some minutes. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Dale, " he said, "I don't believe that horseof yours is a good-tempered animal. "

"You do not?"

"No, there's a dangerous look in his eye that I don't at all like. Seehow he puts his ears back every now and then; and his nostrils have anugly nervous quiver. I wish you'd let your man bring you another horse, Dale. We're likely to be crossing some stiffish timber to-day; and, upon my word, I'm rather suspicious of that brute you're riding. "

"My dear squire, I have tested the horse to the uttermost, " answeredLionel. "I can positively assure you there is not the slightest groundfor apprehension. The animal is a present from my brother, and Douglaswould be annoyed if I rode any other horse. "

"He would be more annoyed if you came to any harm by a horse of hischoosing, " answered the squire. "However I'll say no more. If you knowthe animal, that's enough. I know you to be both a good rider and agood judge of a horse. "

"Thank you heartily for your advice, notwithstanding, squire, " repliedLionel, cheerily; "and now I think I'll ride on and join the ladies. "

He broke into a canter, and presently was riding by the side of MissGraham, who did not fail to praise the beauty of "Niagara" in a mannercalculated to win the heart of Niagara's rider. 

In the exhilarating excitement of the start, Lionel Dale had forgottenalike the gipsy's warning and those vague doubts of his cousin Reginaldwhich had been engendered by that warning. He was entirely absorbed bythe pleasure of the hour, happy to see his friends gathered around him, and excited by the prospect of a day's sport. 

The meeting-place was crowded with horsemen and carriages, countrysquires and their sons, gentlemen-farmers on sleek hunters, and humblertenant-farmers on their stiff cobs, butchers and innkeepers, all eagerfor the chase. All was life, gaiety excitement, noise; the hounds, giving forth occasional howls and snappish yelpings, expressive of animpatience that was almost beyond endurance; the huntsman cracking hiswhip, and reproving his charges in language more forcible than polite;the spirited horses pawing the ground; the gentlemen exchanging thecompliments of the season with the ladies who had come up to see thehounds throw off. 

At last the important moment arrived, the horn sounded, the houndsbroke away with a rush, and the business of the day had begun. 

Again the rector's horse was seized with sudden obstinacy, and againthe rector found it as much as he could do to manage him. An inferiorhorseman would have been thrown in that sharp and short strugglebetween horse and rider; but Lionel's firm hand triumphed over theanimal's temper for the time at least; and presently he was hurryingonward at a stretching gallop, which speedily carried him beyond theruck of riders. 

As he skimmed like a bird over the low flat meadows, Lionel began tothink that the horse was an acquisition, in spite of the sudden freaksof temper which had made him so difficult to manage at starting. 

A horseman who had not joined the hunt, who had dexterously kept theothers in sight, sheltering himself from observation under the fringeof the wood which crowned a small hill in the neighbourhood of themeet, was watching all the evolutions of Lionel Dale's horse closelythrough a small field-glass, and soon, perceived that the animal wasbeyond the rider's skill to manage. The stretching gallop which hadreassured Mr. Dale soon carried the rector beyond the watcher's ken, and then, as the hunt was out of sight too, he turned his horse fromthe shelter he had so carefully selected, and rode straight acrosscountry in an opposite direction. 

In little more than half an hour after the horseman who had watchedLionel Dale so closely left the post of observation, a short man, mounted on a stout pony, which had evidently been urged along atunusual speed, came along the road, which wound around the hill alreadymentioned. This individual wore a heavy, country-made coat, and leatherleggings, and had a handkerchief tied over his hat. This veryunbecoming appendage was stained with blood on the side which coveredthe right cheek and the wearer was plentifully daubed and bespatteredwith mud, his sturdy little steed being in a similar condition. As heurged the pony on, his sharp, crafty eyes kept up an incessantscrutiny, in which his beak-like nose seemed to take an active part. But there was nothing to reward the curiosity, amounting to anxiety, with which the short man surveyed the wintry scene around. All wassilent and empty. If the horseman had designed to see and speak withany member of the hunting-party, he had come too late. He recognizedthe fact very soon, and very discontentedly. Without being so great agenius, as he believed and represented himself, Mr. Andrew Larkspur wasreally a very clever and a very successful detective, and he had seldombeen foiled in a better-laid plan than that which had induced him tofollow Lionel Dale to the meet on this occasion. But he had notcalculated on precisely the exact kind of accident which had befallenhim, and when he found himself thrown violently from his pony, in themiddle of a road at once hard, sloppy, and newly-repaired with verysharp stones, he was both hurt and angry. It did not take him a greatdeal of time to get the pony on its legs, and shake himself to rightsagain; but the delay, brief as it was, was fatal to his hopes of seeingLionel Dale. The meet had taken place, the hunt was in full progress, far away, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur had nothing for it but to sitforlornly for awhile upon the muddy pony, indulging in meditations ofno pleasant character, and then ride disconsolately back to Frimley. 

In the meantime, Nemesis, who had perversely pleased herself bythwarting the designs of Mr. Larkspur, had hurried those of VictorCarrington towards fulfilment with incredible speed. He had ridden at aspeed, and for some time in a direction which would, he calculated, bring him within sight of the hunt, and had just crossed a bridge whichtraversed a narrow but deep and rapid river, about three miles distantfrom the place where he Andrew Larkspur had taken sad counsel withhimself, when he heard the sound of a horse's approach, at athundering, apparently wholly ungoverned pace. A wild gleam oftriumphant expectation, of deadly murderous hope, lit up his palefeatures, as he turned his horse, rendered restive by the noise of thedistant galloping, into a field, close by the road, dismounted, andtied him firmly to a tree. The hedge, though bare of leaves, was thickand high, and in the angle which it formed with the tree, the animalwas completely hidden. 

In a moment after Victor Carrington had done this, and while hecrouched down and looked through the hedge, Lionel Dale appeared insight, borne madly along by his unmanageable horse, as he dashedheedlessly down the road, his rider holding the bridle indeed, butbreathless, powerless, his head uncovered, and one of his stirrup-leathers broken. Victor Carrington's heart throbbed violently, and afilm came over his eyes. Only for a moment, however; in the next hissight cleared, and he saw the furious animal, frightened by a suddenplunge made by the horse tied to the tree, swerve suddenly from theroad, and dash at the swollen, tumbling river. The horse plunged in alittle below the bridge. The rider was thrown out of the saddle headforemost. His head struck with a dull thud against the rugged trunk ofan ash which hung over the water, and he sank below the brown, turbidstream. Then Victor Carrington emerged from his hiding-place, andrushed to the brink of the water. No sign of the rector was to be seen;and midway across, the horse, snorting and terrified, was strugglingtowards the opposite bank. In a moment Carrington, drawing somethingfrom his breast as he went, had run across the bridge, and reached thespot where the animal was now attempting to scramble up the steep bank. As Carrington came up, he had got his fore-feet within a couple of feetof the top, and was just making good his footing below; but thesurgeon, standing close upon the brink, a little to the right of thestruggling brute, stooped down and shot him through the forehead. Thehuge carcase fell crashing heavily down, and was sucked under, andwhirled away by the stream. Victor Carrington placed the pistol oncemore in his breast, and for some time stood quite motionless gazing ohthe river. Then he turned away, saying, --

"They'll hardly look for him below the bridge--I should say the fox ranwest;" and he letting loose the horse he had ridden, walked along theroad until he reached the turn at which Lionel Dale had come in sight. There he found the unfortunate rector's hat, as he had hoped he mightfind it, and having carried it back, he placed it on the brink of theriver, and then once more mounted him, and rode, not at any remarkablespeed, in the opposite direction to that in which Hallgrove lay. 

His reflections were of a satisfactory kind. He had succeeded, and hecared for nothing but success. When he thought of Sir ReginaldEversleigh, a contemptuous smile crossed his pale lips. "To work forsuch a creature as that, " he said to himself, "would indeed bedegrading; but he is only an accident in the case--I work for myself. "

Victor Carrington had discharged his score at the inn that morning, andsent his valise to London by coach. When the night fell, he took thesaddle off his horse, steeped it in the river, replaced it, quietlyturned the animal loose, and abandoning him to his fate, made his wayto a solitary public-house some miles from Hallgrove, where he hadgiven a conditional, uncertain sort of _rendezvous_ to Sir ReginaldEversleigh. 

 * * * * *

The night had closed in upon the returning huntsmen as they rodehomewards. Not a star glimmered in the profound darkness of the sky. The moon had not yet risen, and all was chill and dreary in the earlywinter night. 

Miss Graham, her brother Gordon, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh rodeabreast as they approached the manor-house. Lydia had been struck bythe silence of Sir Reginald, but she attributed that silence tofatigue. Her brother, too, was silent; nor did Lydia herself care totalk. She was thinking of her triumphs of the previous evening, and ofthat morning. She was thinking of the tender pressure with which therector had clasped her hand as he bade her good-night; the softexpression of his eyes as they dwelt on her face, with a long, earnestgaze. She was thinking of his tender care of her when she mounted herhorse, the gentle touch of his hand as he placed the reins in hers. Could she doubt that she was beloved?

She did not doubt. A thrill of delight ran through her veins as shethought of the sweet certainty; but it was not the pure delight of asimple-hearted girl who loves and finds herself beloved. It was thetriumph of a hard and worldly woman, who has devoted the bright yearsof her girlhood to ambitious dreams; and who, at last, has reason tobelieve that they are about to be realized. 

"Five thousand a year, " she thought; "it is little, after all, comparedto the fortune that would have been mine had I been lucky enough tocaptivate Sir Oswald Eversleigh. It is little compared to the wealthenjoyed by that low-born and nameless creature, Sir Oswald's widow. Butit is much for one who has drained poverty's bitter cup to the verydregs as I have. Yes, to the dregs; for though I have never known thewant of life's common necessaries, I have known humiliations which areat least as hard to bear. "

The many windows of the manor-house were all a-blaze with light as thehunting-party entered the gates. Fires burned brightly in all therooms, and the interior of that comfortable house formed a verypleasant contrast to the cheerless darkness of the night, the muddyroads, and damp atmosphere. 

The butler stood in the hall ready to welcome the returning guests withstately ceremony; while the under-servants bustled about, attending tothe wants of the mud-bespattered huntsmen. 

"Mr. Dale is at home, I suppose?" Douglas said, as he warmed his handsbefore the great wood fire. 

"At home, sir!" replied the butler; "hasn't he come home with you, sir?"

"No; we never saw him after the meet. I imagine he must have beencalled away on parish business. "

"I don't know, sir, " answered the butler; "my master has certainly notbeen home since the morning. "

A feeling of vague alarm took possession of almost everyone present. 

"It is very strange, " exclaimed Squire Mordaunt. "Did no one come hereto inquire after your master this morning?"

"No one, sir, " replied the butler. 

"Send to the stables to see if my brother's horse has been broughthome, " cried Douglas, with alarm very evident in his face and manner. "Or, stay, I will go myself. "

He ran out of the hall, and in a few moments returned. 

"The horse has not been brought back, " he cried; "there must besomething wrong. "

"Stop, " cried the squire; "pray, my dear Mr. Douglas Dale, do not letus give way to unnecessary alarm. There may be no cause whatever forfear or agitation. If Mr. Dale was summoned away from the hunt toattend the bed of a dying parishioner, he would be the last man tothink of sending his horse home, or to count the hours which he devotedto his duty. "

"But he would surely send a messenger here to prevent the alarm whichhis absence would be likely to cause amongst us all, " replied Douglas;"do not let us deceive ourselves, Mr. Mordaunt. There is somethingwrong--an accident of some kind has happened to my brother. Andrews, order fresh horses to be saddled immediately. If you will ride one way, squire, I will take another road, first stopping in the village to makeall possible inquires there. Reginald, you will help us, will you not?"

"With all my heart, " answered Reginald, with energy, but in a voicewhich was thick and husky. 

Douglas Dale looked at his cousin, startled, even in the midst of hisexcitement, by the strange tone of Reginald's voice. 

"Great heavens! how ghastly pale you look, Reginald!" he cried; "youapprehend some great misfortune--some dreadful accident?"

"I scarcely know, " gasped the baronet; "but I own that I feelconsiderable alarm--the--the river--the current was so strong after thethaw--the stream so swollen by melted snow. If--if Lionel's horseshould have tried to swim the river--and failed--"

"And we are lingering here!" cried Douglas, passionately; "lingeringhere and talking, instead of acting! Are those horses ready there?" heshouted, rushing out to the portico. 

His voice was heard in the darkness without, urging on the grooms asthey led out fresh horses from the quadrangle. 

"Gordon!" cried Lydia Graham, "you will go out with the others. Youwill do your uttermost in the search for Mr. Lionel Dale!"

She said this in a loud, ringing voice, with the imperious tone of awoman accustomed to command. She was leaning against one angle of thegreat chimney-piece, pale as ashes, breathless, but not fainting. Toher, the idea that any calamity had befallen Lionel Dale was verydreadful--almost as dreadful as it could be to the brother who so trulyloved him; for her own interest was involved in this man's life, andwith her that was ever paramount. 

She was well-nigh fainting; but she was too much a woman of the worldnot to know that if she had given way to her emotion at that moment, she would have given rise to disgust and annoyance, rather thaninterest, in the minds of the gentlemen present. She knew this, and shewished to please every one; for in pleasing the many lies the secret ofa woman's success with the few. 

Even in that moment of confusion and excitement, the scheming womandetermined to stand well in the eyes of Douglas Dale. 

As he appeared on the threshold of the great hall-door, she went up tohim very quietly, with her head uncovered, and her pale, clearly-cutface revealed by the light of the lamp above her. She laid her handgently on the young man's arm. 

"Mr. Dale. " she said, "command my brother Gordon; he will be proud toobey you. I will go out myself to aid in the search, if you will let medo so. "

Douglas Dale clasped her hand in both his with grateful emotion. 

"You are a noble girl, " he cried; "but you cannot help me in this. Yourbrother Gordon may, perhaps, and I will call upon his friendshipwithout reserve. And now leave us, Miss Graham; this is no fittingscene for a lady. Come, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, "the horses areready. I go by the village, and thence to the river; you will each takedifferent roads, and will all meet me on the river-bank, at the spotwhere we crossed to-day. "

In less than five minutes all had mounted, and the trampling of hoofsannounced their departure. Reginald was amongst them, hardly consciousof the scene or his companions. 

Sight, hearing, perception of himself, and of the world around him, allseemed annihilated. He rode on through dense black shadows, dark cloudswhich hemmed him in on every side, as if a gigantic pall had fallenfrom heaven to cover him. 

How he became separated from his companions he never knew; but when hissenses awoke from that dreadful stupor, he found himself alone, on acommon, and in the far distance he saw the glimmer of lights--veryfeeble and wan beneath the starless sky. 

It seemed as if the horse knew his desolate ground, and was goingstraight towards these lights. The animal belonged to the rector, andwas, no doubt, familiar with the country. 

Reginald Eversleigh had just sufficient consciousness of surroundingcircumstances to remember this. He made no attempt to guide the horse. What did it matter whither he went? He had forgotten his promise tomeet the other men on the river-brink; he had forgotten everything, except that the work of a demon had progressed in silence, and that itsfatal issue was about to burst like a thunder-clap upon him. 

"Victor Carrington has told me that this fortune shall be mine; he hasfailed once, but will not fail always, " he said to himself. 

The disappearance of Lionel Dale had struck like a thunderbolt on thebaronet; but it was a thunderbolt whose falling he had anticipated withshuddering horror during every day and every hour since his arrival atHallgrove. 

The lights grew more distinct--feeble lamps in a village street, glimmering candles in cottage windows scattered here and there. Thehorse reached the edge of the common and turned into a high road. Fiveminutes afterwards Reginald Eversleigh found himself at the beginningof a little country town. 

Lights were burning cheerily in the windows of an inn. The door wasopen, and from within there came the sound of voices that rang outmerrily on the night air. 

"Great heaven!" exclaimed Reginald, "how happy these peasants are--these brutish creatures who have no care beyond their daily bread!"

He envied them; and at that moment would have exchanged places with thehumblest field-labourer carousing in the rustic tap-room. But it wasonly now and then the anguish of a guilty conscience took this shape. He was a man who loved the pleasures and luxuries of this world betterthan he loved peace of mind; better than he loved his own soul. 

He drew rein before the inn-door, and called to the people within. Aman came out, and took the bridle as he dismounted. 

"What is the name of this place?" he asked. 

"Frimley, sir--Frimley Common it's called by rights. But folks call itFrimley for short. "

"How far am I from the river-bank at the bottom of Thorpe Hill?"

"A good six miles, sir. "

"Take my horse and rub him down. Give him a pail of gruel and a quartof oats. I shall want to start again in less than an hour. "

"Sharp work, sir, " answered the ostler. "Your horse seems to have doneplenty already. "

"That is my business, " said Sir Reginald, haughtily. 

He went into the inn. 

"Is there a room in which I can dry my coat?" he asked at the bar. 

He had only lately become aware of a drizzling rain which had beenfalling, and had soaked through his hunting-coat. 

"Were you with the Horsely hounds to-day, sir?" asked the landlord. 

"Yes. "

"Good sport, sir?"

"No, " answered Sir Reginald, curtly. 

"Show the way to the parlour, Jane, " said the landlord to achambermaid, or barmaid, or girl-of-all-work, who emerged from the tap-room with a tray of earthenware mugs. "There's one gentleman there, sir; but perhaps you won't object to that, Christmas being such aparticularly busy time, " added the landlord, addressing Reginald. "You'll find a good fire. "

"Send me some brandy, " returned Sir Reginald, without deigning to makeany further reply to the landlord's apologetic speech. 

He followed the girl, who led the way to a door at the end of apassage, which she opened, and ushered Sir Reginald into a light andcomfortable room. 

Before a large, old-fashioned fire-place sat a man, with his facehidden by the newspaper which he was reading. 

Sir Reginald Eversleigh did not condescend to look at this stranger. Hewalked straight to the hearth; took off his dripping coat, and hung iton a chair by the side of the roaring wood fire. Then he flung himselfinto another chair, drew it close to the fender, and sat staring at thefire, with a gloomy face, and eyes which seemed to look far away intosome dark and terrible region beyond those burning logs. 

He sat in this attitude for some time, motionless as a statue, utterlyunconscious that his companion was closely watching him from behind thesheltering newspaper. The inn servant brought a tray, bearing a smalldecanter of brandy and a glass. But the baronet did not heed herentrance, nor did he touch the refreshment for which he had asked. 

Not once did he stir till the sudden crackling of his companion'snewspaper startled him, and he lifted his head with an impatientgesture and an exclamation of surprise. 

"You are nervous to-night, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, " said the man, whose voice was still hidden by the newspaper. 

The sound of the voice in which those common-place words were spokenwas, at this moment, of all sounds the most hateful to ReginaldEversleigh. 

"You here!" he exclaimed. "But I ought to have known that. "

The newspaper was lowered for the first time; and Reginald Eversleighfound himself face to face with Victor Carrington. 

"You ought, indeed, considering I told you you should find me, or hearfrom me here, at the 'Wheatsheaf, ' in case you wished to do so, or Iwished you should do so either. And I presume you have come byaccident, not intentionally. I had no idea of seeing you, especially atan hour when I should have thought you would have been enjoying thehospitality of your kinsman, the rector of Hallgrove. "

"Victor Carrington!" cried Reginald, "are you the fiend himself inhuman shape? Surely no other creature could delight in crime. "

"I do not delight in crime, Reginald Eversleigh; and it is only a manwith your narrow intellect who could give utterance to such anabsurdity. Crime is only another name for danger. The criminal stakeshis life. I value my life too highly to hazard it lightly. But if I canmould accident to my profit, I should be a fool indeed were I to shrinkfrom doing so. There is one thing I delight in, my dear Reginald, andthat is success! And now tell me why you are here to-night?"

"I cannot tell you that, " answered the baronet. "I came hither, unconscious where I was coming. There seems a strange fatality in this. I let my horse choose his own road, and he brought me here to thishouse--to you, my evil genius. "

"Pray, Sir Reginald, be good enough to drop that high tragedy tone, "said Victor, with supreme coolness. "It is all very well to beaddressed by you as a fiend and an evil genius once in a way; but uponfrequent repetition, that sort of thing becomes tiresome. You have nottold me why you are wandering about the country instead of eating yourdinner in a Christian-like manner at the rectory?"

"Do you not know the reason, Carrington?" asked the baronet, gazingfixedly at his companion. 

"How should I know anything about it?"

"Because to-day's work has been your doing, " answered Reginald, passionately; "because you are mixed up in the dark business of thisday, as you were mixed up in that still darker treachery at RaynhamCastle. I know now why you insisted upon my choosing the horse called'Niagara' for my cousin Lionel; I know now why you were so interestedin the appearance of that other horse, which had already caused thedeath of more than one rider; I know why you are here, and why LionelDale has disappeared in the course of the day. "

"He has disappeared!" exclaimed Victor Carrington; "he is not dead?"

"I know nothing but that he has disappeared. We missed him in the midstof the hunt. We returned to the rectory in the evening, expecting tofind him there. "

"Did _you_ expect that, Eversleigh?"

"Others did, at any rate. "

"And did you not find him ?"

"No. We left the house, after a brief delay, to seek for him; I amongthe others. We were to ride by different roads; to make inquiries ofevery kind; to obtain information from every source. My brain wasdazed. I let my horse take his own road. "

"Fool! coward!" exclaimed Victor Harrington, with mingled scorn andanger. "And you have abandoned your work; you have come here to wasteyour time, when you should seem most active in the search--most eagerto find the missing man. Reginald Eversleigh, from first to last youhave trifled with me. You are a villain; but you are a hypocrite. Youwould have the reward of guilt, and yet wear the guise of innocence, even before me; as if it were possible to deceive one who has read youthrough and through. I am tired of this trifling; I am weary of thispretended innocence; and to-night I ask you, for the last time, tochoose the path which you mean to tread; and, once chosen, to tread itwith a firm step, prepared to meet danger--to confront destiny. Thisvery hour, this very moment, I call upon you to make your decision; andit shall be a final decision. Will you grovel on in poverty--the worstof all poverty, the gentleman's pittance? or will you make yourselfpossessor of the wealth which your uncle Oswald bequeathed to others?Look me in the face, Reginald, as you are a man, and answer me, Whichis it to be--wealth or poverty?"

"It is too late to answer poverty, " replied the baronet, in a gloomyand sullen tone. "You cannot bring my uncle back to life; you cannotundo your work. "

"I do not pretend to bring the dead to life. I am not talking of thepast--I am talking of the future. "

"Suppose I say that I will endure poverty rather than plunge deeperinto the pit you have dug--what then?"

"In that case, I will bid you good speed, and leave you to your povertyand--a clear conscience, " answered Victor, coolly. "I am a poor manmyself; but I like my friends to be rich. If you do not care to graspthe wealth which might be yours, neither do I care to preserve ouracquaintance. So we have merely to bid each other good night, and partcompany. "

There was a pause--Reginald Eversleigh sat with his arms folded, hiseyes fixed on the fire. Victor watched him with a sinister smile uponhis face. 

"And if I choose to go on, " said Reginald, at last; "if I choose totread farther on the dark road which I have trodden so long--what then?Can you ensure me success, Victor Carrington?"

"I can, " replied the Frenchman. 

"Then I will go on. Yes; I will be your slave, your tool, your willingcoadjutor in crime and treachery; anything to obtain at last theheritage out of which I have been cheated. "

"Enough! You have made your decision. Henceforward let me hear norepinings, no hypocritical regrets. And now, order your horse, gallopback as fast as you can to the neighbourhood of Hallgrove, and showyourself foremost amongst those who seek for Lionel Dale. "

"Yes, yes; I will obey you--I will shake off this miserable hesitation. I will make my nature iron, as you have made yours. "

Sir Reginald rang, and ordered his horse to be brought round to thedoor of the inn. 

"Where and when shall I see you again?" he asked Victor, as he wasputting on the coat which had hung before the fire to be dried. 

"In London, when you return there. "

"You leave here soon?"

"To-morrow morning. You will write to me by to-morrow night's post totell me all that has occurred in the interval. "

"I will do so, " answered Reginald. 

"Good, and now go; you have already been too long out of the way ofthose who should have witnessed your affectionate anxiety about yourcousin. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXIV. 

 "I AM WEARY OF MY PART. "

Reginald mounted his horse, questioned the ostler respecting the way tothe appointed spot on the river-bank, and rode away in the directionindicated. He had no difficulty in discovering the scene of theappointed meeting. The light of the torches in the hands of thesearchers guided him to the spot. 

Here he found gentlemen and grooms, huntsmen and farmers, on horseback, riding up and down the river-bank; some carrying lighted torches, whoselurid glare shone red against the darkness of the night; all busy, allexcited. 

Amongst these the baronet found Douglas Dale, who rode up to meet hiscousin, as the other approached. 

"Any news, Reginald?" he asked, in a voice that was hoarse with fatigueand excitement. 

"None, " answered Sir Reginald: "I have ridden miles, and made manyinquiries, but have been able to discover no traces. Have you notidings?"

"None but evil ones, " replied Douglas Dale, in a tone of despair "wehave found a battered hat on the edge of the river--hat which mybrother's valet identifies as that worn by his master. We fear theworst, Reginald--the very worst. All inquiries have been made in thevillage, at every farm-house in the parish, and far beyond the parish. My brother has been seen nowhere. Since we rode down the hill, it seemsas if no human eye had rested on him. In that moment he vanished asutterly as if the earth had opened to swallow him up alive. "

"What is it that you fear?"

"We fear that he tried to cross the river at some point higher up, where the stream is swollen to a perilous extent, and that both horseand rider were swept away by the current. "

"In that case both horse and rider must be found--alive or dead. "

"Ultimately, perhaps, but not easily, " answered Douglas; "the bed ofthe stream is a mass of tangled weeds. I have heard Lionel say that menhave been drowned in that river whose bodies have never beendiscovered. "

"It is horrible!" exclaimed Reginald; "but let us still hope for thebest. All this may be needless misery. "

"I fear not, Reginald, " answered Douglas; "my brother Lionel is not aman to be careless about giving anxiety to those who love him. "

"I will ride farther along the bank, " said the baronet; "I may hearsomething. "

"And I will wait here, " replied Douglas, with the dull apathy ofdespair. "The news of my brother's death will reach me soon enough. "

Reginald Eversleigh rode on by the river brink, following a group ofhorsemen carrying torches. Douglas waited, with his ear on the alert tocatch every sound, his heart beating tumultuously, in the terribleexpectation that each moment would bring him the news he dreaded tohear. 

Endless as that interval of expectation and suspense appeared toDouglas Dale, in reality it was not of very long duration. The cold ofthe winter's night did not affect him, the burning fever of feardevoured him. Soon he lost sight of the glimmering of the torches, asthe bearers followed the bend of the river, and the sound of the men'svoices died out of his ears. But after a while he heard a shout, thenanother, and then two men came running towards him, as fast as theycould in the darkness. Douglas Dale knew them both, and called out, "What is it, Freeman? What is it, Carey? Bad news, I fear. "

"Yes, Mr. Douglas, bad news. We've found the rector's hunting-whip. "

"Where?" stammered Douglas. 

"Below the bridge, sir, close by the ash-tree; and the bank is broken. I'm afraid it's all up, sir; if he went in there, the horse and he areboth gone, sir. "

Like a man walking in a dream, Douglas Dale accompanied the bearers ofthe evil tidings to the spot where the group of searchers was collectedtogether. In the midst stood Squire Mordaunt, holding in his hand aheavy hunting-whip, which all present recognized, and many had seen inthe rector's hand only that morning. They all made way for DouglasDale; they were very silent now, and hopeless conviction was on everyface. 

"This makes it too plain, Douglas, " said Squire Mordaunt, as he handedthe whip to the rector's brother; "bear it as well as you can, my dearfellow. There's nothing to be done now till daylight. "

"Nothing more?" said Reginald, while Douglas covered his face, andgroaned in unrestrained anguish; "the drags can surely be used? the--"

"Wait a minute, Sir Reginald, " said the squire, holding up his hand;"of course your impatience is very natural, but it would only defeatitself. To drag the river by torchlight would be equally difficult andvain. It shall be done as soon as ever there is light. Till then, thereis nothing for any of us to do but to wait. And first, let us get poorDouglas home. "

Douglas Dale made no resistance; he knew the squire spoke truth andcommon-sense. The melancholy group broke up, the members of the rectoryreturned to its desolate walls, and Douglas at once shut himself up inhis room, leaving to Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Squire Mordaunt thetask of making all the arrangements for the morrow, and communicatingto the ladies the dire intelligence which must be imparted. 

Early in the morning, Squire Mordaunt went to Douglas Dale's room. Hefound him stretched upon the bed in his clothes. He had made no changein his dress, and had evidently intended to prolong his vigil until themorning, but nature had been exhausted, and in spite of himselfDouglas? Dale slept. His old friend stole softly from the room, andcautioning the household not to permit him who must now be regarded astheir master to be disturbed, he went out, and proceeded to the search. 

Douglas Dale did not awake until nine o'clock, and then, starting upwith a terrible consciousness of sorrow, and a sense of self-reproachbecause he had slept, he found Squire Mordaunt standing by his bed. Thegood old gentleman took the young man's hand in silence, and pressed itwith a pressure which told all. 

They laid the disfigured dead body of him who but yesterday had beenthe beloved and honoured master of the house in the library, where hehad received the ineffectual warning of the gipsy. It was while DouglasDale was contemplating the pale, still features of his brother, withgrief unutterable, that a servant tapped gently at the door, and calledMr. Mordaunt out. 

"'Niagara' is come home, sir, " said the man. "He were found, just now, on the lower road, a-grazing, and he ain't cut, nor hurt in any way, sir. "

"He's dirty and wet, I suppose?"

"Well, sir, he's dirty, certainly; and the saddle is soaking; but he'spretty dry, considering. "

"Are the girths broken?"

"No, sir, there's nothing amiss with them. "

"Very well. Take care of the horse, but say nothing about him to Mr. Dale at present. "

The visitors at Hallgrove Rectory had received the intelligence whichSir Reginald Eversleigh had communicated to them with the deepestconcern. Arrangements were made for the immediate departure of theGrahams, and of Mrs. Mordaunt and her daughters. The squire and SirReginald were to remain with Douglas Dale until the painful formalitiesof the inquest and the funeral should be completed. 

Douglas Dale was not a weak man, and no one more disliked anyexhibition of sentiment than he. Nevertheless, it was a hard task forhim to enter the breakfast-room, and bid farewell to the guests who hadbeen so merry only yesterday. But it had to be done, and he did it. Afew sad and solemn words were spoken between him and the Mordaunts, andthe girls left the room in tears. Then he advanced to Lydia Graham, whowas seated in an arm-chair by the fire, still, and pale as a marblestatue. There were no tears in her eyes, no traces of tears upon hercheeks, but in her heart there was angry, bitter, ragingdisappointment--almost fury, almost despair. 

Douglas Dale could not look at her without seeing that in very truththe event which was so terrible to him was terrible to her also, andhis manly heart yearned towards the woman whom he had thought butlittle of until now; who had perhaps loved, and certainly now wasgrieving for, his beloved brother. 

"Shall we ever meet again, Mr. Dale?" she said, wonderingly. 

"Why should we not?"

"You will not be able to endure England, perhaps, after this terriblecalamity. You will go abroad. You will seek distraction in change ofscene. Men are such travellers now-a-days. "

"I shall not leave England, Miss Graham, " answered Douglas, quietly; "Iam a man of the world--I venture to hope that I am also a Christian--and I can nerve myself to endure grief as a Christian and a man of theworld should endure it. My brother's death will make no alteration inthe plan of my life. I shall return to London almost immediately. "

"And we may hope to see you in London?"

"Captain Graham and I are members of the same club. We are very likelyto meet occasionally. "

"And am I not to see you as well as my brother?" asked Lydia, in a lowvoice. 

"Do you really wish to see me?"

"Can you wonder that I do so--for the sake of old times. We are friendsof long standing, remember, Mr. Dale. "

"Yes, " answered Douglas, with marked gravity. "We have known each otherfor a long time. "

Captain Graham entered the room at this moment. 

"The carriage which is to take us to Frimley is ready, Lydia, " he said;"your trunks are all on the roof, and you have only to wish Mr. Dalegood-bye. "

"A very sad farewell, " murmured Miss Graham. "I can only trust that wemay meet again under happier circumstances. "

"I trust we may, " replied Douglas, earnestly. 

Miss Graham was bonneted and cloaked for the journey. She had dressedherself entirely in black, in respectful regard of the melancholycircumstances attending her departure. Nor did she forget that thesombre hue was peculiarly becoming to her. She wore a dress of blacksilk, a voluminous cloak of black velvet trimmed with sables, and afashionable bonnet of the same material, with a drooping feather. 

Douglas conducted his guests to the carriage, and saw Miss Grahamcomfortably seated, with her shawls and travelling-bags on the seatopposite. 

It was with a glance of mournful tenderness that Miss Graham utteredher final adieu; but there was no responsive glance in the eyes ofDouglas Dale. His manner was serious and subdued; but it was a mannernot easy to penetrate. 

Gordon Graham flung himself back in his seat with a despairing groan. 

"Well, Lydia, " he said, "this accident in the hunting-field has beenthe ruin of all our hopes. I really think you are the most unluckywoman I ever encountered. After angling for something like ten years inthe matrimonial fisheries, you were just on the point of landing avaluable fish, and at the last moment your husband that is to be goesand gets drowned during a day's pleasure. "

"What should you say if this accident, which you think unlucky, should, after all, be a fortunate event for us?" asked Lydia, withsignificance. 

"What the deuce do you mean?"

"How very slow of comprehension you are to-day, Gordon!" exclaimed thelady, impatiently; "Lionel Dale's income was only five thousand ayear--very little, after all, for a woman with my views of life. "

"And with your genius for running into debt, " muttered her brother. 

"Do you happen to remember the terms of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's will?""I should think I do, indeed, " replied the captain; "the will wassufficiently talked about at the time of the baronet's death. "

"That will left five thousand a year to each of the two brothers, Lionel and Douglas. If either should die unmarried, the fortune left tohim was to go to the survivor. Lionel Dale's death doubles DouglasDale's income. A husband with ten thousand a year would suit me verywell indeed. And why should I not win Douglas as easily as I wonLionel?"

"Because you are not likely to have the same opportunities. "

"I have asked Douglas to visit us in London. "

"An invitation which must be very flattering to him, but which he mayor may not accept. However, my dear Lydia, I have the most profoundrespect for your courage and perseverance; and if you can win a husbandwith ten thousand a year instead of five, so much the better for you, and so much the better for me, as I shall have a richer brother-in-lawto whom to apply when I find myself in difficulties. "

The carriage had reached Frimley by this time. The brother and sistertook their places in the coach which was to convey them to London. 

Lydia drew down her veil, and settled herself comfortably in a cornerof the vehicle, where she slept through the tedium of the journey. 

At thirty years of age a woman of Miss Graham's character is apt to bestudiously careful of her beauty; and Lydia felt that she needed muchrepose after the fever and excitement of her visit to HallgroveRectory. 

 * * * * *

Sir Reginald Eversleigh played his part well during the few days inwhich he remained at the rectory. No mourner could have seemed moresincere than he, and everybody agreed that the spendthrift baronetexhibited an unaffected sorrow for his cousin's fate, which proved himto be a very noble-hearted fellow, in spite of all the dark storiesthat had been told of his youth. 

Before leaving Hallgrove, Reginald took care to make himself thoroughlyacquainted with his cousin's plans for the future. Douglas, with tenthousand a year, was, of course, a more valuable acquaintance than hehad been as the possessor of half that income, even if there had beenno dark influence ever busy weaving its secret and fatal web. 

"You will go back to your old life in London, Douglas, I suppose?"said Sir Reginald. "There you will soonest forget the sad afflictionthat has befallen you. In the hurrying whirlpool of modern life thereis no leisure for sorrow. "

"Yes, I shall come to London, " answered Douglas. 

"And you will occupy your old quarters?"

"Decidedly. "

"And we shall see as much of each other as ever--eh, Douglas?" said SirReginald. "You must not let poor Lionel's fate prey upon your mind, youknow, my dear fellow; or your health, as well as your spirits, willsuffer. You must go down to Hilton House, and mix with the old setagain. That sort of thing will cheer you up a little. "

"Yes, " answered Douglas. "I know how far I may rely upon yourfriendship, Reginald. I shall place myself quite in your hands. "

"My dear fellow, you will not find me unworthy of your confidence. "

"I ought not to find you so, Reginald. "

Sir Reginald looked at his kinsman thoughtfully for a moment, fancyingthere was some hidden meaning in Douglas Dale's words. But the tone inwhich he had uttered them was perfectly careless; and Reginald'ssuspicion was dispelled by the frank expression of his face. 

Sir Reginald left Hallgrove a few days after the fatal accident in thehunting-field, and went back to his London lodging, which seemed veryshabby and comfortless after the luxury of Hallgrove Rectory. He didnot care to spend his evenings at Hilton House, for he shrank fromhearing Paulina's complaints about her loneliness and poverty. TheLondon season had not yet begun, and there were few dupes whom thegamester could victimize by those skilful manoeuvres which so oftenhelped him to success. It may be that some of the victims hadcomplained of their losses, and the villa inhabited by the elegantAustrian widow had begun to be known amongst men of fashion as a placeto be avoided. 

Reginald Eversleigh feared that it must be so, when he found the fewyoung men he met at his club rather disinclined to avail themselves ofMadame Durski's hospitality. 

"Have you been to Fulham lately, Caversham?" he asked of a younglordling, who was master of a good many thousands per annum, but notthe most talented of mankind. 

"Fulham!" exclaimed Lord Caversham; "what's Fulham? Ah, to be sure, Iremember--place by the river--very nice--villas--boat-races, and thatkind of thing. Let me see, bishops, and that kind of church-goingpeople live at Fulham, don't they?"

"I thought you would have remembered one person who lives at Fulham--avery handsome woman, who made a strong impression upon you. "

"Did she--did she, by Jove?" cried the viscount; "and yet, upon myhonour, Eversleigh, I can't remember her. You see, I know so manysplendid women; and splendid women are perpetually making an impressionupon me--and I am perpetually making an impression upon splendid women. It's mutual, by Jove, Eversleigh, quite mutual. And pray, who is thelady in question?"

"The beautiful Viennese, Paulina Durski. "

The lordling made a wry face. 

"Paulina Durski! Yes, Paulina is a pretty woman, " he murmured, languidly; "a very pretty woman; and you're right, Eversleigh--she didmake a profound impression upon me. But, you see, I found theimpression cost me rather too much. Hilton House is the nicest place inthe world to visit; but if a fellow finds himself losing two or threehundred every time he crosses the threshold, you can be scarcelysurprised if he prefers spending his evenings where he can enjoyhimself a little more cheaply. However, perhaps you'll hardlyunderstand my feelings on this subject, Eversleigh; for if I rememberrightly you were always a winner when I played at Madame Durski's. "

"Was I?" said Sir Reginald, with the air of a man who endeavours torecall circumstances that are almost forgotten. 

The lordling was not altogether without knowledge of the world and ofhis fellow-men, and there had been a certain significance in his speechwhich had made Eversleigh wince. 

"Did I win when you were there?" he asked, carelessly. "Upon my word, Ihave forgotten all about it. "

"I haven't, " answered Lord Caversham. "I bled pretty freely on severaloccasions when you and I played _écarté_; and I have not forgotten thefigures on the cheques I had the pleasure of signing in your favour. No, my dear Eversleigh, although I consider Madame Durski the mostcharming of women, I don't feel inclined to go to Hilton House again. "

"Ah!" said Sir Reginald, with a sneer; "there are so few men who havethe art of losing with grace. We have no Stavordales now-a-days. Theman who could win eleven thousand at a coup, and regret that he was notplaying high, since in that case he would have won millions, is anextinct animal. "

"No doubt of it, dear boy; the gentlemanly art of losing placidly isdying out; and I confess that, for my part, I prefer winning, " answeredLord Caversham, coolly. 

This brief conversation was a very unpleasant one for Sir ReginaldEversleigh. It told him that his career as a gamester must soon come toa close, or he would find himself a disgraced and branded wretch, avoided and despised by the men he now called his friends. 

It was evident that Viscount Caversham suspected that he had beencheated; nor was it likely that he would keep his suspicions secretfrom the men of his set. 

The suspicion once whispered would speedily be repeated by others whohad lost money in the saloons of Madame Durski. Hints and whisperswould swell into a general cry, and Sir Reginald Eversleigh would findhimself tabooed. 

The prospect before him looked black as night--a night illumined by onelurid star, and that was the promise of Victor Carrington. 

"It is time for me to have done with poverty, " he said to himself. "Lord Caversham's insolent innuendoes would be silenced if I had tenthousand a year. It is clear that the game is up at Hilton House. Paulina may as well go back to Paris or Vienna. The pigeons have takenfright, and the hawks must seek a new quarry. "

Sir Reginald drove straight from his club to the little cottage beyondMalda Hill. He scarcely expected to find the man whom he had last seenat an inn in Dorsetshire; but, to his surprise, he was conductedimmediately to the laboratory, where he discovered Victor Carringtonbending over an alembic, which was placed on the top of a smallfurnace. 

The surgeon looked up with a start, and Reginald perceived that he worethe metal mask which he had noticed on a former occasion. 

"Who brought you here?" asked Victor, impatiently. 

"The servant who admitted me, " answered Reginald. "I told her I wasyour intimate friend, and that I wanted to see you immediately. Shetherefore brought me here. "

"She had no right to do so. However, no matter. When did you return? Iscarcely expected to see you in town as soon. "

"I scarcely expected to find you hereafter our meeting at Frimley, "replied the baronet. 

"There was nothing to detain me in the country. I came back some daysago, and have been busy with my old studios in chemistry. "

"You still dabble with poisons, I perceive, " said Sir Reginald, pointing to the mask which Victor had laid aside on a table near him. 

"Every chemist must dabble in poisons, since poison forms an element ofall medicines, " replied Victor. "And now tell me to what new dilemma ofyours do I owe the honour of this visit. You rarely enter this houseexcept when you find yourself desperately in need of my humbleservices. What is the last misfortune?"

"I have just come from the Phoenix, where I met Caversham, I thought Ishould be able to get a hundred or so out of him at _écarté_ to-night;but the game is up in that quarter. "

"He suspects that he has been--_singularly_ unfortunate?"

"He knows it. No man who was not certain of the fact would have daredto say what he said to me. He insulted me, Carrington-insulted megrossly; and I was not able to resent his insolence. "

"Never mind his insolence, " answered Victor; "in six months yourposition will be such that no man will presume to insult you. So thegame is up at Hilton House, is it? I thought you were going on a littletoo fast. And pray what is to be the next move?"

"What can we do? Paulina's creditors are impatient, and she has verylittle money to give them. My own debts are too pressing to permit ofmy helping her; and such being the case, the best thing she can do willbe to get back to the Continent as soon as she can. "

"On no account, my dear Reginald!" exclaimed Carrington. "Madame Durskimust not leave Hilton House. "

"Why not?"

"Never mind the why. I tell you, Reginald, she must stay. You and Imust find enough money to stave off the demands of her sharpestcreditors. "

"I have not a sixpence to give her, " answered the baronet; "I canscarcely afford to pay for the lodging that shelters me, and can stillless afford to lend money to other people. "

"Not even to the woman who loves you, and whom you profess to love?"said Victor, with a sneer. "What a noble-minded creature you are, SirReginald Eversleigh--a pattern of chivalry and devotion! However, Madame Durski must remain; that is essential to the carrying out of myplans. If you will not find the money, I know who will. "

"And pray who is this generous knight-errant so ready to rush to therescue of beauty in distress?"

"Douglas Dale. He is over head and ears in love with the Austrianwidow, and will lend her the money she wants. I shall go at once toMadame Durski and give her a few hints as to her line of conduct. "

There was a pause, during which the baronet seemed to be thinkingdeeply. 

"Do you think that a wise course?" he asked, at last. 

"Do I think what course wise?" demanded his friend. 

"The line of conduct you propose. You say Douglas is in love withPaulina, and I myself have seen enough to convince me that you areright. If he is in love with her, he is just the man to sacrifice everyother consideration for her sake. What if he should marry her? Wouldnot that be a bad look-out for us?"

"You are a fool, Reginald Eversleigh, " cried Victor contemptuously;"you ought to know me better than to fear my discretion. Douglas Daleloves Paulina Durski, and is the very man to sacrifice all worldlyinterests for her sake; the man to marry her, even were she moreunworthy of his love than she is. But he never will marry her, notwithstanding. "

"How will you prevent such a marriage?"

"That is my secret. Depend upon it I will prevent it. You remember ourcompact the night we met at Frimley. "

"I do, " answered Reginald, in a voice that was scarcely above awhisper. 

"Very well; I will be true to my part of that compact, depend upon it. Before this new-born year is out you shall be a rich man. "

"I have need of wealth, Victor, " replied the baronet, eagerly; "I havebitter need of it. There are men who can endure poverty; but I am notone of them. If my position does not change speedily I may find myselfbranded with the stigma of dishonour--an outlaw from society. I must berich at any cost--at any cost, Victor. "

"You have told me that before, " answered the Frenchman, coolly, "and Ihave promised that you shall be rich. But if I am to keep my promise, you must submit yourself with unquestioning faith to my guidance. Ifthe path we must tread together is a dark one, tread it blindly. Theend will be success. And now tell me when you expect to see DouglasDale in London. "

Sir Reginald explained his cousin's plans, and after a briefconversation left the cottage. He heard Mrs. Carrington's birdstwittering in the cold January sunshine, and a passing glimpse throughthe open doorway of the drawing-room revealed to him the exquisiteneatness and purity of the apartment, which even at this season wasadorned with a few flowers. 

"Strange!" he thought to himself, as he left the house; "any strangerentering that abode would imagine it the very shrine of domestic peaceand simple happiness, and yet it is inhabited by a fiend. "

He went back to town. He dined alone in his dingy lodging, scarcelydaring to show himself at his club--Lord Caversham had spoken soplainly; and had, no doubt, spoken to others still more plainly. Reginald Eversleigh's face grew hot with shame as he remembered theinsults he had been obliged to endure with pretended unconsciousness. 

He feared to encounter other men who also had been losers at HiltonHouse, and who might speak as significantly as the viscount had spoken. This man, who violated the laws of heaven and earth with little terrorof the Divine vengeance, feared above all to be cut by the men of hisset. 

This is the slavery which the man of fashion creates for himself--theseare the fetters which such men as Reginald Eversleigh forge for theirown souls. 

But before we trace the progress of Sir Reginald from step to step inthis terrible career, we must once more revert to the strange visitorsat Frimley. 

Jane Payland by no means approved of passing Christmas-day in theuninteresting seclusion of a country inn, with nothing more festive tolook forward to than a specially ordered, but lonely dinner, andnothing to divert her thoughts but the rural spectacle afforded by theinn-yard. As to going out for a walk in such weather, she would nothave thought of such a thing, even if she had any one to walk out with;and to go alone--no--Jane Payland had no fancy for amusement of thatorder. The day had been particularly dreary to the lady's maid, becausethe lady had been busily engaged in affairs of which she had nocognizance, and this ignorance, not a little exasperating even in town, became well-nigh intolerable to her in the weariness, the idleness, andthe dullness of Frimley. When Lady Eversleigh went out in the darkevening, accompanied by the mysterious personage in whom Jane Paylandhad recognized their fellow-lodger, the amazement which she experiencedproduced an agreeable variety in her sensations, and the fact that theman with the vulture-like beak carried a carpet-bag intensified hersurprise. 

"Now I'm almost sure she is something to him; and she has come downhere with him to see her people, " said Jane Payland to herself, as shesat desolately by the fire in her mistress's room, a well-thumbed novellying neglected on her knee; "and she's mean enough to be ashamed ofthem. Well, I don't think I should be that of my own flesh and blood, if I was ever so great and so grand. I suppose the bag is full ofpresents--I'm sure she might have told me if it was clothes she wasgoing to give away; I shouldn't have grudged 'em to the poor things. "

Grumbling a good deal, wondering more, and feasting a little, JanePayland got through the time until her mistress returned. But for allher grumbling, and all her suspicion, the girl was daily growing moreand more attached to her mistress, and her respect was increasing withher liking. Lady Eversleigh returned to the inn alone late on thatdismal Christmas-night, and she looked worn, troubled, and weary. Aftera few kind words to Jane Payland, she dismissed the girl, and went tobed, very tired and heart-sick. "How am I to prove it?" she askedherself, as she lay wearily awake. "How am I to prove it? in myborrowed character I am suspected; in my own, I should not be believed, or even listened to for a moment. He is a good man, that Lionel Dale, and he is doomed, I fear. "

On the morning of the twenty-sixth Mr. Andrew Larkspur had another longprivate conference with Lady Eversleigh, the immediate result of whichwas his setting out, mounted on the stout pony which we have seen indifficulties in a previous chapter, and vainly endeavouring to come upwith Lionel Dale at the hunt. When Mr. Andrew Larkspur arrived at themelancholy conviction that his errand was a useless one, and that hemust only return to Frimley, and concert with Lady Eversleigh a newplan of action, he also became aware that he was more hurt and shakenby his fall than he had at first supposed. When he reached Frimley hefelt exceedingly sick and weak, ("queer, " he expressed it), and wasconstrained to tell his anxious and unhappy client that he must go awayand rest if he hoped to be fit for anything in the evening, or on thenext day. "I will see Mr. Dale to-night, if he and I are both alive, "said Mr. Larkspur; "but if he was there before me I could not say aword to him now. I don't mean to say I have not had a hurt or two inthe course of my life before now, but I never was so regularly dead-beat; and that's the truth. "

Thus it happened that the acute Mr. Larkspur was _hors de combat_ justat the time when his acuteness would have found most employment, andthus Lady Eversleigh's project of vengeance received, unconsciously, the first check. The game of reprisals was, indeed, destined to beplayed, but not by her; Providence would do that, in time, in the longrun. Meanwhile, she strove, after her own fashion, to become theexecutor of its decrees. 

The news of Lionel Dale's sudden disappearance, and the alarm to whichit gave rise, reached the little town of Frimley in due course; but itwas slow to reach the lonely lady at the inn. Lady Eversleigh had takencounsel with herself after Mr. Larkspur had left her, and had come tothe determination that she would tell Lionel Dale the whole truth. Sheresolved to lay before him a full statement of all the circumstances ofher life, to reveal all she knew, and all she suspected concerning SirReginald Eversleigh, and to tell him of Carrington's presence in herneighbourhood, as well as the designs which she believed him tocherish. She told herself that her dead husband's kinsman couldscarcely refuse to believe her statement, when she reminded him thatshe had no object to serve in this revelation but the object of truthand respect for her husband's memory. When he, Lionel Dale, could haverehabilitated her in public opinion by taking his place beside her, hehad not done so; it was too late now, no advance on his part could undothat which had been done, and he could not therefore think that intaking this step she was trying to curry favour with him in order tofurther her own interest. After debating the question for some time, she resolved to write a letter, which Larkspur could carry to therectory. 

A great deal of time was consumed by Lady Eversleigh in writing thisletter, and the darkness had fallen long before it was finished. Whenshe rang for lights, she took no notice of the person who brought them, and she directed that her dinner should not be served until she rangfor it. Thus no interruption of her task occurred, until Mr. Larkspur, looking very little the better for his rest and refreshment, presentedhimself before her. Lady Eversleigh was just beginning to tell him whatshe had done, when he interrupted her, by saying, in a tone which wouldhave astonished any of his intimates, for there was a touch of realfeeling in it, apart from considerations of business--

"I'm afraid we're too late. I'm very much afraid Carrington has beenone too many for us, and has done the trick. "

"What do you mean?" asked Lady Eversleigh, rising, in extremeagitation, and turning deadly pale. "Has any harm come to Lionel Dale?"

Then Mr. Andrew Larkspur told Lady Eversleigh the report which hadreached the town, and of whose truth a secret instinct assured themboth, only too completely. They were, indeed, powerless now; the enemyhad been too strong, too subtle, and too quick for them. Mr. Larkspurdid not remain long with Lady Eversleigh; but having counselled her tokeep silence on the subject, to ask no questions of any one, and topreserve the letter she had written, which Mr. Larkspur, for reasons ofhis own, was anxious to see, he left her, and set off for the rectory. He reached his destination before the return of the party who had goneto search for the missing man. He mingled freely, almost unnoticed, with the servants and the villagers who had crowded about the house andlodges, and all he heard confirmed him in his belief that the worst hadhappened, that Lionel Dale had, indeed, come by his death, eitherthrough the successful contrivance of Carrington, or by anextraordinary accident, coincident with his enemy's fell designs. Mr. Larkspur asked a great many questions of several persons that night, and as talking to a stranger helped the watchers and loiterers oversome of the time they had to drag through until the genuineapprehension of some, and the curiosity of others, should be realizedor satisfied, he met with no rebuffs. But, on the other hand, neitherdid he obtain any information of value. No stranger had been seen tojoin the hunt that day, or noticed lurking about Hallgrove thatmorning, and Mr. Larkspur's own reliable eyes had assured him thatCarrington was not among the recipients of the rector's hospitality onChristmas-day. The footman, who had directed the unknown visitor by theway past the stables to the lower road, did not remember thatcircumstance and so it did not come to Mr. Larkspur's knowledge. Whenthe party who had led the search for Lionel Dale returned to therectory, and the worst was known, Mr. Larkspur went away, after havingarranged with a small boy, who did odd jobs for the gardener atHallgrove, that if the body was brought home in the morning, he shouldgo over to Frimley, on consideration of half-a-crown, and inquire atthe inn for Mr. Bennett. 

"It's no good thinking about what's to be done, till the body's found, and the inquest settled, " thought Mr. Larkspur. "I don't think anythingcan be done _then_, but it's clear there's no use in thinking about itto-night. So I shall just tell my lady so, and get to bed. Confoundthat pony!"

At a reasonably early hour on the following morning, the juvenilemessenger arrived from Hallgrove, and, on inquiring for Mr. Bennett, was ushered into the presence of Mr. Larkspur. The intelligence hebrought was brief, but important. The rector's body had been found, much disfigured; he had struck against a tree, the doctors said, infalling into the river, and been killed by the blow, "as well asdrownded, " added the boy, with some appreciation of the additionalpiquancy of the circumstance. He was laid out in the library. The finefolks were gone, or going, except Squire Mordaunt and Sir Reginald, therector's cousin. Mr. Douglas took on about it dreadfully; the bay horsehad come home, with his saddle wet, but he was not hurt or cut about, as the boy knew of. This was all the boy had to tell. 

Mr. Larkspur dismissed the messenger, having faithfully paid him thestipulated half-crown, and immediately sought the presence of LadyEversleigh. The realization of all her fears shocked her deeply, and inthe solemnity of the dread event which had occurred she almost lostsight of her own purpose, it seemed swallowed up in a calamity soappalling. But Mr. Larkspur was of a tougher and more practicaltemperament. He lost no time in setting before his client the state ofthe case as regarded herself, and the purpose with which she had goneto Frimley, now rendered futile. Mr. Larkspur entertained no doubt thatCarrington had been in some way accessory to the death of Lionel Dale, but circumstances had so favoured the criminal that it would beimpossible to prove his crime. 

"If I told you all I know about the horse and about the man, " said Mr. Larkspur, "what good would it do? The man bought a horse very like Mr. Dale's, and he rode away from here mounted on that horse, on the sameday that Mr. Dale was drowned. I believe he changed the horses in Mr. Dale's stable; but there's not a tittle of proof of it, and how hecontrived the thing I cannot undertake to say, for no mortal saw him atthe rectory or at the meet; and the horse that every one would beprepared to swear was the horse that Mr. Dale rode, is safe at home atthe rectory now, having evidently been in the river. Seeing we can'tprove the matter, it's my opinion we'd better not meddle with it, moreparticularly as nothing that we can prove will do Sir ReginaldEversleigh any harm, and, if either of this precious pair of rascals isto escape, you don't want it to be him. "

"Oh, no, no!" said Lady Eversleigh, "he is so much worse than the otheras his added cowardice makes him. "

"Just so. Well, then, if you want to punish him and his agent, this iscertainly not the opportunity. Next to winning, there's nothing likethoroughly understanding and acknowledging what you've lost, and wehave lost this game, beyond all question. Let us see, now, if we cannotwin the next. If I understand the business right, Mr. Douglas Dale ishis brother's heir?"

"Yes, " said Lady Eversleigh; "his life only now stands between SirReginald and fortune. "

"Then he will take that life by Carrington's agency, as I believe hehas taken Lionel Dale's, " said Mr. Larkspur; "and my idea is that theproper way to prevent him is to go away from this place, where no goodis to be done, and where any movement will only defeat our purpose, byputting him on his guard--letting him know he is watched (forewarned, forearmed, you know)--and set ourselves to watch Carrington in London. "

"Why in London? How do you know he's there?"

Mr. Larkspur smiled. 

"Lord bless your innocence!" he replied. "How do I know it? Why, ain'tLondon the natural place for him to be in? Ain't London the place whereevery one that has done a successful trick goes to enjoy it, and everyone that has missed his tip goes to hide himself? I'll take my davy, though it's a thing I don't like doing in general, that Carrington'sback in town, living with his mother, as right as a trivet. "

So Lady Eversleigh and Jane Payland travelled up to town again, andtook up their old quarters. And Mr. Larkspur returned, and resumed hisroom and his accustomed habits. But before he had been many hours inLondon, he had ascertained, by the evidence of his own eyes, thatVictor Carrington was, as he had predicted, in town, living with hismother, and "as right as a trivet. "

 CHAPTER XXV. 

 A DANGEROUS ALLIANCE. 

In the afternoon of the day following that on which Sir Reginald paid avisit to Victor Carrington, the latter gentleman presented himself atthe door of Hilton House. The frost had again set in, and this timewith more than usual severity. There had been a heavy fall of snow, andthe park-like grounds surrounding Madame Durski's abode had an almostfairy-like appearance, the tracery of the leafless trees defined by thesnow that had lodged on every branch, the undulating lawn one bed ofpure white. 

He knocked at the door and waited. The woman at the lodge had told himthat it was very unlikely he would be able to see Madame Durski at thishour of the day, but he had walked on to the house notwithstanding. 

It was already nearly four o'clock in the afternoon; but at that hourPaulina had rarely left her own apartments. 

Victor Carrington knew this quite as well as the woman at the lodge, but he had business to do with another person as well as PaulinaDurski. That other person was the widow's humble companion. 

The door was opened by Carlo Toas, Paulina's confidential courier andbutler. This man looked very suspiciously at the visitor. 

"My mistress receives no one at this hour, " he said. 

"I am aware that she does not usually see visitors so early, " repliedCarrington; "but as I come on particular business, and as I come a longway to see her, she will perhaps make an exception in my favour. "

He produced his card-case as he spoke, and handed the man a card, onwhich he had written the following words in pencil:

"_Pray see me, dear madame. I come on really important business, whichwill bear no delay. If you cannot see me till your dinner-hour, I willwait. _"

The Spaniard ushered Victor into one of the reception-rooms, whichlooked cold and chill in the winter daylight. Except the grand piano, there was no trace of feminine occupation in the room. It looked likean apartment kept only for the reception of visitors--an apartmentwhich lacked all the warmth and comfort of home. 

Victor waited for some time, and began to think his message had notbeen taken to the mistress of the house, when the door was opened, andMiss Brewer appeared. 

She looked at the visitor with an inquisitive glance as she entered theroom, and approached him softly, with her light, greenish-grey eyesfixed upon his face. 

"Madame Durski has been suffering from nervous headache all day, " shesaid, "and has not yet risen. Her dinner-hour is half-past six. If yourbusiness is really of importance, and if you care to wait, she will behappy to see you then. "

"My business is of real importance; and I shall be very glad to wait, "answered Victor. "Since Madame Durski is, unhappily, unable to receiveme for some time, I shall gladly avail myself of the opportunity, inorder to enjoy a little conversation with you, Miss Brewer, " he said, courteously, "always supposing that you are not otherwise engaged. "

"I have no other engagement whatever, " answered the lady, in a cold, measured voice. 

"I wish to speak to you upon very serious business, " continued Victor, "and I believe that I can venture to address you with perfect candour. The business to which I allude concerns the interests of Madame Durski, and I have every reason to suppose that you are thoroughly devoted toher interests. "

"For whom else should I care?" returned Miss Brewer, with a bitterlaugh. "Madame Durski is the only friend I can count in this world. Ihave known her from her childhood--and if I can believe anything goodof my species, which is not very easy for me to do, I can believe thatshe cares for me--a little--as she might care for some piece offurniture which she had been accustomed to see about her from herinfancy, and which she would miss if it were removed. "

"You wrong your friend, " said Victor. "She has every reason to besincerely attached to you, and I have little doubt that she is so. "

"What right have you to have little doubt or much doubt about it?"exclaimed Miss Brewer, contemptuously; "and why do you try to palm offupon me the idle nonsense which senseless people consider it incumbenton them to utter? You do not know Paulina Durski--I do. She is a womanwho never in her life cared for more than two things. "

"And these two things are--"

"The excitement of the gaming-table, and the love of your worthlessfriend, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. "

"Does she really love my friend?"

"She does. She loves him as few men deserve to be loved--and least ofall that man. She loves him, although she knows that her affection isunreturned, unappreciated. For his sake she would sacrifice her ownhappiness, her own prosperity. Women are foolish creatures, Mr. Carrington, and you men do wisely when you despise them. "

"I will not enter into the question of my friend's merits, " saidVictor; "but I know that Madame Durski has won the love of a man who isworthy of any woman's affection--a man who is rich, and can elevate herfrom her present--doubtful--position. "

The Frenchman uttered these last words with a great appearance ofrestraint and hesitation. 

"Say, miserable position, " exclaimed Miss Brewer; "for Paulina Durski'sposition is the most degraded that a woman--whose life has beencomparatively sinless--ever occupied. "

"And every day its degradation will become more profound, " said Victor. "Unless Madame Durski follows my advice, she cannot long remain inEngland. In her native city she has little to hope for. In Paris, hername has acquired an evil odour. What, then, lies before her?"

"Ruin!" exclaimed Miss Brewer, abruptly; "starvation it may be. I knowthat our race is nearly run, Mr. Carrington. You need not troubleyourself to remind me of our misery. "

"If I do remind you of it, I only do so in the hope that I may be ableto serve you, " answered Victor. "I have tasted all the bitterness ofpoverty, Miss Brewer. Forgive me, if I ask whether you, too, have beenacquainted with its sting?"

"Have I felt its sting?" cried the poor faded creature. "Who has feltthe tooth of the serpent, Poverty, more cruelly than I? It has piercedmy very heart. From my childhood I have known nothing but poverty. Shall I tell you my story, Mr. Carrington? I am not apt to speak ofmyself, or of my youth; but you have evoked the demon, Memory, and Ifeel a kind of relief in speaking of that long-departed time. "

"I am deeply interested in all you say, Miss Brewer. Stranger though Iam, believe me that my interest is sincere. "

As Victor Carrington said this, Charlotte Brewer looked at him with asharp, penetrating glance. She was not a woman to be fooled by shallowhypocrisies. The light of the winter's day was fading; but even in thefading light Victor saw the look of sharp suspicion in her pinchedface. 

"Why should you be interested in me?" she asked, abruptly. 

"Because I believe you may be useful to me, " answered Victor, boldly. "I do not want to deceive you, Miss Brewer. Great triumphs have beenachieved by the union of two powerful minds. "

I know you to possess a powerful mind; I know you to be a woman aboveordinary prejudices; and I want you to help me, as I am ready to helpyou. But you were about to tell me the story of your youth. 

"It shall be told briefly, " said Miss Brewer, speaking in a rapid, energetic manner that was the very reverse of the measured tones shewas wont to use. "I am the daughter of a disgraced man, who was agentleman once; but I have forgotten that time, as he forgot it longbefore he died. 

"My father passed the last ten years of his life in a prison. He diedin that prison, and within those dingy smoke-blackened walls mychildhood was spent--a joyless childhood, without a hope, without adream, haunted perpetually by the dark phantom, Poverty. I emerged fromthat prison to enter a new one, in the shape of a West-end boarding-school, where I became the drudge and scape-goat of rich citizens'daughters, heiresses presumptive to the scrapings of tallow-chandlersand coal-merchants, linen-drapers and cheesemongers. For six years Iendured my fate patiently, uncomplainingly. Not one creature amongstthat large household loved me, or cared for me, or thought whether Iwas happy or miserable. 

"I worked like a slave. I rose early, and went to bed late, giving myyouth, my health, my beauty--you will smile, perhaps, Mr. Carrington, but in those days I was accounted a handsome woman--in exchange forwhat? My daily bread, and the education which was to enable me to earna livelihood hereafter. Some distant relations undertook to clothe me;and I was dressed in those days about as shabbily as I have beendressed ever since. In all my life, I never knew the innocent pleasurewhich every woman feels in the possession of handsome clothes. 

"At eighteen, I left the boarding-school to go on the Continent, whereI was to fill a situation which had been procured for me. Thatsituation was in the household of Paulina Durski's father. Paulina wasten years of age, and I was appointed as her governess and companion. From that day to this, I have never left her. As much as I am capableof loving any one, I love her. But my mind has been embittered by themiseries of my girlhood, and I do not pretend to be capable of muchwomanly feeling. "

"I thank you for your candour, " said Victor. "It is of importance forme to understand your position, for, by so doing, I shall be the betterable to assist you. I may believe, then, that there is only one personin the world for whom you care, and that person is Paulina Durski?"

"You may believe that. "

"And I may also believe that you, who have drained to the dregs thebitter cup of poverty, would do much, and risk much, in order to berich?"

"You may. "

"Then, Miss Brewer, let me speak to you openly, as one sincerelyinterested in you, and desirous of serving you and your charming butinfatuated friend. May I hope that we shall be uninterrupted for sometime longer, for I am anxious to explain myself at once, and fully, nowthat the opportunity has arisen?"

"No one is likely to enter this room, unless summoned by me, " said MissBrewer. "You may speak freely, and at any length you please, Mr. Carrington; but I warn you, you are speaking to a person who has nofaith in any profession of disinterested regard. "

As she spoke, Miss Brewer leaned back in her chair, folded her handsbefore her, and assumed an utterly impassible expression ofcountenance. No less promising recipient of a confidential scheme couldhave been seen: but Victor Carrington was not in the least discouraged. He replied, in a cheerful, deferential, and yet business-like tone:

"I am quite aware of that, Miss Brewer; and for my part, I should notfeel the respect I do feel for you if I believed you so deficient insense and experience as to take any other view. I don't offer myself toyou in the absurd disguise of a _preux chevalier_, anxious to espousethe unprofitable cause of two unprotected women in an equivocalposition, and in circumstances rapidly tending to desperation. "

Here Victor Carrington glanced at his companion; he wanted to see ifthe shot had told. But Miss Brewer cared no more for the almost openinsult, than she had cared for the implied interest conveyed in theexordium of his discourse. She sat silent and motionless. He continued:

"I have an object to gain, which I am resolved to achieve. Two ways tothe attainment of this object are open to me; the one injurious, infact destructive, to you and Madame Durski, the other eminentlybeneficial. I am interested in you. I particularly like Madame Durski, though I am not one of the legion of her professed admirers. "

Miss Brewer shook her head sadly. That legion was much reduced in itsnumbers of late. 

"Therefore, " continued Carrington, without seeming to observe thegesture, "I prefer to adopt the latter course, and further yourinterests in securing my own. I suppose you can at least understand andcredit such very plain motives, so very plainly expressed, MissBrewer?"

"Yes, " she said, "that may be true; it does not seem unlikely; we shallsee. "

"You certainly shall. My explanation will not, I hope, be undulytedious, but it is indispensable that it should be full. You know, MissBrewer, that Sir Reginald Eversleigh and I are intimate friends?"

Miss Brewer smiled--a pale, prolonged, unpleasant smile, and thenreplied, speaking very deliberately:

"I know nothing of the kind, Mr. Carrington. I know you are muchtogether, and have an air of familiar acquaintance, which is the trueinterpretation of friendship, I take it, between men of the world--of_your_ world in particular. "

The hard and determined expression of her manner would have discouragedand deterred most men. It did not discourage or deter VictorCarrington. 

"Put what interpretation you please upon my words, " he said, "butrecognize the facts. There is a strict alliance, if you prefer thatphrase, between me and Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and his presentintimacy, with his seeming devotion to Madame Durski, prevents him fromcarrying out the terms of that alliance to my satisfaction. I amtherefore resolved to break off that intimacy. Do you comprehend me sofar?"

"Yes, I comprehend you so far, " answered Miss Brewer, "perfectly. "

"Considering Madame Durski's feelings for Sir Reginald--feelings ofwhich, I assure you, I consider him, even according to my ownunpretending standard, entirely unworthy--this intimacy cannot bebroken off without pain to her, but it might be destroyed without anyprofit, nay, with ruinous loss. Now, I cannot spare her the pain; thatis necessary, indispensable, both for her good, and--which I don'tpretend not to regard more urgently--my own. But I can make the paineminently profitable to her, with your assistance--in fact, soprofitable as to secure the peace and prosperity of her whole futurelife. "

He paused, and Miss Brewer looked steadily at him, but she did notspeak. 

"Reginald Eversleigh owes me money, Miss Brewer, and I cannot afford toallow him to remain in my debt. I don't mean that he has borrowed moneyfrom me, for I never had any to lend, and, having any, should neverhave lent it. " He saw how the tone he was taking suited the woman'sperverted mind, and pursued it. "But I have done him certain servicesfor which he undertook to pay me money, and I want money. He has none, and the only means by which he can procure it is a rich marriage. Sucha marriage is within his reach; one of the richest heiresses in Londonwould have him for the asking--she is an ironmonger's daughter, andpines to be My Lady--but he hesitates, and loses his time in visits toMadame Durski, which are only doing them both harm. Doing her harm, because they are deceiving her, encouraging a delusion; and doing himharm, because they are wasting his time, and incurring the risk of hisbeing 'blown upon' to the ironmonger. Vulgar people of the kind, youknow, my dear Miss Brewer, give ugly names, and attach undue importanceto intimacies of this kind, and--and--in short, it is on the cards thatMadame Durski may spoil Sir Reginald's game. Well, as that game is alsomine, you will find no difficulty in understanding that I do not intendMadame Durski shall spoil it. "

"Yes, I understand that, " said Miss Brewer, as plainly as before; "butI don't understand how Paulina is to be served in the affair, and Idon't understand what my part is to be in it. "

"I am coming to that, " he said. "You cannot be unaware of theimpression which Madame Durski has made upon Sir Reginald's cousin, Douglas Dale. "

"I know he did admire her, " said Miss Brewer, "but he has not been heresince his brother's death. He is a rich man now. "

"Yes, he is--but that will make no change in him in certain respects. Douglas Dale is a fool, and will always remain so. Madame Durski hascompletely captivated him, and I am perfectly certain he would marryher to-morrow, if she could be brought to consent. "

"A striking proof that Mr. Douglas Dale deserves the character you havegiven him, you would say, Mr. Carrington?"

"Madam, I am at the mercy of your perspicuity, " said Victor, with amock bow; "however, a truce to badinage--Douglas Dale is a rich man, and very much in love with Madame Durski; but he is the last man in theworld to interfere with his cousin, by trying to win her affections, ifhe believes her attached to Sir Reginald. He is a fool in some things, as I have said before, and he is much more likely, if he thinks it acase of mutual desperation, to contribute a thousand a year or so toset the couple up in a modest competence, like a princely proprietor ina play, than to advance his own claims. Now, this modest competencebusiness would not suit Sir Reginald, or Madame Durski, or me, but theother arrangement would be a capital thing for us all. "

"H--m, you see she really loves your friend, Sir Reginald, " said MissBrewer. 

"Tush, " ejaculated Victor Carrington, contemptuously; "of course I knowshe does, but what does it matter? She would be the most wretched ofwomen if Reginald married her, and _he won't_, --after all, that's thegreat point, he won't. Now Dale will, and will give her unlimitedcontrol of his money--a very nice position, _not_ so elevated as toensure an undesirable raking-up of her antecedents, and the means ofproving her gratitude to you, by providing for you comfortably forlife. "

"That is all possible, " replied Miss Brewer, as calmly as before; "butwhat am I to do towards bringing about so desirable a state ofaffairs. "

"You have to use the influence which your position _auprès de_ MadameDurski gives you. You can keep her situation constantly before her, youcan perpetually harp upon its exigencies--they are pressing, are theynot? Yes--then make them more pressing. Expose her to the constantworry and annoyance of poverty, make no effort to hide theinconvenience of ruin. She is a bad manager, of course--all women ofher sort are bad managers. Don't help her--make the very worst ofeverything. Then, you can take every opportunity of pointing outReginald's neglect, all his defalcations, the cruelty of his conduct toher, the evidence of his never intending to marry her, the selfishnesswhich makes him indifferent to her troubles, and unwilling to help her. Work on pride, on pique, on jealousy, on the love of comfort andluxury, and the horror of poverty and privation, which are alwayspowerful in the minds of women like Madame Durski. Don't talk much toher at first about Douglas Dale, especially until he has come to townand has resumed his visiting here; but take care that her difficultiespress heavily upon her, and that she is kept in mind that help or hopefrom Reginald there is none. I have no doubt whatever that Dale willpropose to her, if he does not see her infatuation for Reginald. "

"But suppose Mr. Dale does not come here at all?" asked Miss Brewer;"he has broken through the habit now, and he may have thought it over, and determined to keep away. "

"Suppose a moth flies away from a candle, Miss Brewer, " returnedCarrington, "and makes a refreshing excursion out of window into thecool evening air! May we not calculate with tolerable certainty on hisreturn, and his incremation? The last thing in all this matter I shouldthink of doubting would be the readiness of Douglas Dale to tumblehead-foremost into any net we please to spread for him. "

A short pause ensued--interrupted by Miss Brewer, who said, "I supposethis must all be done quickly--on account of that wealthy Philistine, the ironmonger?"

"On account of my happening to want money very badly, Miss Brewer, andMadame Durski finding herself in the same position. The more quicklythe better for all parties. And now, I have spoken very plainly to youso far, let me speak still more plainly. It is manifestly for youradvantage that Madame Durski should be rich and respectable, ratherthan that she should be poor and--under a cloud. It is no lessmanifestly, though not so largely, for your advantage, that I shouldget my money from Reginald Eversleigh, because, when I do, get it, Iwill hand you five hundred pounds by way of bonus. "

"If there were any means by which you could be legally bound to thefulfilment of that promise, Mr. Carrington, " said Miss Brewer, "Ishould request you to put it in writing. But I am quite aware that nosuch means exist. I accept it, therefore, with moderate confidence, andwill adopt the course you have sketched, not because I look for thepunctual payment of the money, but because Paulina's good fortune, ifsecured, will secure mine. But I must add, " and here Miss Brewer satupright in her chair, and a faint colour came into her sallow cheek, "Ishould not have anything to do with your plots and plans, if I did notbelieve, and see, that this one is for Paulina's real good. "

Victor Carrington smiled, as he thought, "Here is a rare sample ofhuman nature. Here is this woman, quite pleased with herself, andpositively looking almost dignified, because she has succeeded inpersuading herself that she is actuated by a good motive. "

The conversation between Miss Brewer and Victor Carrington lasted forsome time longer, and then he was left alone, while Miss Brewer went toattend the _levée_ of Madame Durski. As he paced the room, Carringtonsmiled again, and muttered, "If Dale were only here, and she could bepersuaded to borrow money of him, all would be right. So far, all isgoing well, and I have taken the right course. My motto is the motto ofDanton--'_De l'audace, de l'audace, et toujours de l'audace_. '"

 * * * * *

Victor Carrington dined with Madame Durski and her companion. The mealwas served with elegance, but the stamp of poverty was too plainlyimpressed upon all things at Hilton House. The dinner served with suchceremony was but a scanty banquet--the wines were poor--and Victorperceived that, in place of the old silver which he had seen on aprevious occasion, Madame Durski's table was furnished with the mostworthless plated ware. 

Paulina herself looked pale and haggard. She had the weary air of awoman who finds life a burden almost too heavy for endurance. 

"I have consented to see you this evening, Mr. Carrington, inaccordance with your very pressing message, " she said, when she foundherself alone in the drawing-room with Victor Carrington after dinner, Miss Brewer having discreetly retired; "but I cannot imagine whatbusiness you can have with me. "

"Do not question my motives too closely, Madame Durski, " said Victor;"there are some secrets lying deep at the root of every man'sexistence. Believe me, when I assure you that I take a real interest inyour welfare, and that I came here to-night in the hope of serving you. Will you permit me to speak as a friend?"

"I have so few friends that I should be the last to reject any honestoffer of friendship, " answered Paulina, with a sigh. "And you are thefriend of Reginald Eversleigh. That fact alone gives you some claim tomy regard. "

The widow had admitted Victor Carrington to a more intimateacquaintance than the rest of her visitors; and it was fully understoodbetween them that he knew of the attachment between herself and SirReginald. 

"Sir Reginald Eversleigh is my friend, " replied Victor; "but do notthink me treacherous, Madame Durski, when I tell you he is not worthyof your regard. Were he here at this moment, I would say the same. Heis utterly selfish--it is of his own interest alone that he thinks; andwere the chance of a wealthy marriage to offer itself, I firmly believethat he would seize it--ay! even if by doing so he knew that he was tobreak your heart. I think you know that I am speaking the truth, MadameDurski?"

"I do, " answered Paulina, in a dull, half despairing tone. "Heaven helpme! I know that it is the truth. I have long known as much. We womenare capable of supreme folly. My folly is my regard for your friendReginald Eversleigh. "

"Let your pride work the cure of that wasted devotion, madame, " saidVictor, earnestly. "Do not submit any longer to be the dupe, the tool, of this man. Do you know how dearly your self-sacrifice has cost you? Iam sure you do not. You do not know that this house is beginning to betalked about as a place to be shunned. You have observed, perhaps, thatyou have had few visitors of late. Day by day your visitors will growfewer. This house is marked. It is talked of at the clubs; and ReginaldEversleigh will no longer be able to live upon the spoils won from hisdupes and victims. The game is up, Madame Durski; and now that you canno longer be useful to Reginald Eversleigh, you will see how much hislove is worth. "

"I believe he loves me, " murmured Paulina, "after his own fashion. "

"Yes, madame, after his own fashion, which is, at the best, a strangeone. May I ask how you spent your Christmas?"

"I was very lonely; this house seemed horribly cold and desolate. Noone came near me. There were no congratulations; no Christmas gifts. Ah! Mr. Carrington, it is a sad thing to be quite alone in the world. "

"And Reginald Eversleigh--the man whom you love--he who should havebeen at your side, was at Hallgrove Rectory, among a circle ofvisitors, flirting with the most notorious of coquettes--Miss Graham, an old friend of his boyish days. "

Victor looked at Paulina's face, and saw the random shot had gone home. She grew even paler than she had been before, and there was a nervousworking of the lips that betrayed her agitation. 

"Were there ladies amongst the guests at Hallgrove?" he asked. 

"Yes, Madame Durski, there were ladies. Did you not know that it was tobe so?"

"No, " replied Paulina. "Sir Reginald told me it was to be a bachelors'party. "

Victor saw that this petty deception on the part of her lover stungPaulina keenly. 

She had been deeply wounded by Reginald's cold and selfish policy; butuntil this moment she had never felt the pangs of jealousy. 

"So he was flirting with one of your fashionable English coquettes, while I was lonely and friendless in a strange country, " she exclaimed. And then, after a brief pause, she added, passionately, "You are right, Mr. Carrington; your friend is unworthy of one thought from me, and Iwill think of him no more. "

"You will do wisely, and you will receive the proof of what I say erelong from the lips of Reginald Eversleigh himself. Tell me the truthdear madame, are not your pecuniary difficulties becoming daily morepressing?"

"They have become so pressing, " answered Paulina, "that, unlessReginald lends me money almost immediately, I shall be compelled to flyfrom this country in secret, like a felon, leaving all my poorpossessions behind me. Already I have parted with my plate, as you nodoubt have perceived. My only hope is in Reginald. "

"A broken reed on which to rely, madame. Sir Reginald Eversleigh willnot lend you money. Since this house has become a place of evil odour, to be avoided by men who have money to lose, you are no longer of anyuse to Sir Reginald. He will not lend you money. On the contrary hewill urge your immediate flight from England; and when you have gone--"

"What then?"

"There will be an obstacle removed from his pathway; and when thechance of a rich marriage arises, he will be free to grasp it. "

"Oh, what utter baseness!" murmured Paulina; "what unspeakable infamy!"

"A selfish man can be very base, very infamous, " replied Victor. "Butdo not let us speak further of this subject, dear Madame Durski. I havespoken with cruel truth; but my work has been that of the surgeon, whouses his knife freely in order to cut away the morbid spot which ispoisoning the very life-blood of the sufferer. I have shown you thedisease, the fatal passion, the wasted devotion, to which you aresacrificing your life; my next duty is to show you where your curelies. "

"You may be a very clever surgeon, " replied Paulina, scornfully; "butin this case your skill is unavailing. For me there is no remedy. "

"Nay, madame, that is the despairing cry of a romantic girl, and isunworthy the lips of an accomplished woman of the world. You complainedjust now of your loneliness. You said that it was very sad to bewithout a friend. How if I can show you that you possess one attachedand devoted friend, who would be as willing to sacrifice himself foryour interests as you have been willing to devote yourself to ReginaldEversleigh?"

"Who is that friend?"

"Douglas Dale. "

"Douglas Dale!" exclaimed Paulina. "Yes, I know, that Mr. Dale admiresme, and that he is a good and honourable man; but can I take advantageof his admiration? Can I trade upon his love? I--who have no heart togive, no affection to offer in return for the honest devotion of a goodman? Do not ask me to stoop to such baseness--such degradation. "

"I ask nothing from you but common sense, " answered Victor impatiently. "Instead of wasting your love upon Reginald Eversleigh, who is notworthy a moment's consideration from you, give at least your esteem andrespect to the honourable and unselfish man who truly loves you. Instead of flying from England, a ruined woman, branded with the nameof cheat and swindler, remain as the affianced wife of Douglas Dale--remain to prove to Reginald Eversleigh that there are those in theworld who know how to value the woman he has despised. "

"Yes, he has despised me, " murmured Paulina, speaking to herself ratherthan to her companion; "he has despised me. He left me alone in thisdreary house; in the Christmas festival time, when friends and loversdraw nearer together all the world over, united by the sweet influencesof the season; he left me to sit alone by this desolate hearth, whilehe made merry with his friends--while he sunned himself in the smilesof happier women. What truth can he claim from me--he who has beenfalsehood itself?"

She remained silent for some minutes after this, with her eyes fixed onthe fire, her thoughts far away. Victor did not arouse her from thatreverie. He knew that the work he had to do was progressing rapidly. 

He felt that he was moulding this proud and passionate woman to hiswill, as the sculptor moulds the clay which is to take the form of hisstatue. 

At last she spoke. 

"I thank you for your good advice, Mr. Carrington, " she said, calmly;"and I will avail myself of your worldly wisdom. What would you have medo?"

"I would have you tell Douglas Dale, when he returns to town and comesto see you, the position in which you find yourself with regard tomoney matters, and ask the loan of a few hundreds. The truth and depthof his love for you will be proved by his response to this appeal. "

"How came you to suspect his love for me?" asked Paulina. "It has neveryet shaped itself in words. A woman's own instinct generally tells herwhen she is truly loved; but how came you, a bystander, a mere looker-on, to discover Douglas Dale's secret?"

"Simply because I am a man of the world, and somewhat of an observer, and I will pledge my reputation as both upon the issue of yourinterview with Douglas Dale. "

"So be it, " said Paulina; "I will appeal to him. It is a newdegradation; but what has my whole life been except a series ofhumiliations? And now, Mr. Carrington, this interview has been verypainful to me. Pardon me, if I ask you to leave me to myself. "

Victor complied immediately, and took leave of Madame Durski with manyapologies for his intrusion. Before leaving the house he encounteredMiss Brewer, who came out of a small sitting-room as he entered thehall. 

"You are going away, Mr. Carrington?" she asked. 

"Yes, " he answered; "but I shall call again in a day or two. Meantime, let me hear from you, if Dale presents himself here. I have had sometalk with your friend, and am surprised at the ease with which the workwe have to do may be done. She despises Reginald now; she won't lovehim long. Good night, Miss Brewer. "

 CHAPTER XXVI. 

 MOVE THE FIRST. 

After the lapse of a few days, during which Victor Carrington carefullymatured his plans, while apparently only pursuing his ordinarybusiness, and leading his ordinary life of dutiful attention to hismother and quiet domestic routine, he received a letter in ahandwriting which was unfamiliar to him. It contained the followingwords:

"_In accordance with your desire, and my promise, I write to inform youthat, D. D. Has notified his return to London and his intention tovisit P. He did not know whether she was in town, and, therefore, wrotebefore coming. She seemed much affected by his letter, and has repliedto it, appointing Wednesday after-noon for receiving him, and invitinghim to luncheon. No communication has been received from R. E. , and shetakes the fact easily. If you have any advice, or I suppose I shouldsay instructions, to give me, you had better come here to-morrow(Tuesday), when I can see you alone. --C. B. _"

Victor Carrington read this note with a smile of satisfaction, whichfaithfully interpreted the feelings it produced. There was a business-like tone in his correspondent's letter which exactly suited his ideasof what it was advisable his agent should be. 

"She is really admirable, " he said, as he destroyed Miss Brewer's note;"just clever enough to be useful, just shrewd enough to understand theprecise force and weight of an argument, but not clever enough, orshrewd enough, to find out that she is used for any purpose but the onefor which she has bargained. "

And then Victor Carrington wrote a few lines to Miss Brewer, in whichhe thanked her for her note, and prepared her to receive a visit fromhim on the following day. This written and posted, he walked up anddown his laboratory, in deep thought for some time, and then once moreseated himself at his desk. This time his communication was addressedto Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and merely consisted of a request that thatgentleman should call upon him--Victor Carrington--on a certain day, ata week's distance from the present date. 

"I shall have more trouble with this shallow fool than with all therest of them, " said Victor to himself, as he sealed his letter; and, as he said it, he permitted his countenance to assume a very unusualexpression of vexation; "his vanity will make him kick against lettingPaulina turn him off; and he will run the risk of destroying the gamesooner than suffer that mortification. But I will take care he _shall_suffer it, and _not_ destroy the game. 

"No, no, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, _you_ shall not be my stumbling-blockin this instance. How horribly afraid he is of me, " thought VictorCarrington, and a smile of cruel satisfaction, which might have becomea demon, lighted his pale face at the reflection; "he is dying to knowexactly how that business of Dale the elder was managed; he has thehaziest notions in connection with it, and, by Jove, he dare not askme. And yet, I am only his agent, --his _to be paid_ agent, --and heshakes in his shoes before me. Yes, and I will be paid too, richlypaid, Sir Reginald, not only in money, but in power. In power--the bestand most enjoyable thing that money has to buy. "

Victor Carrington sent his letter to the post, and joined his mother inher sitting-room, where her life passed placidly away, among her birdsand her flowers. Mrs. Carrington had none of the vivacity about herwhich is so general an attribute of French women. She liked her quietlife, and had little sympathy with her son's restless ambition anddevouring discontent. A cold, silent, self-contained woman, she shutherself up in her own occupations, and cared for nothing beyond them. She had the French national taste and talent for needlework, andgenerally listened to her son, as he talked or read to her, with apiece of elaborate embroidery in her hand. On the present occasion, shewas engaged as usual, and Victor looked at her work and praised it, according to his custom. 

"What is it for, mother?" he asked. 

"An altar-cloth, " she replied. "I cannot give money, you know, Victor, and so I am glad to give my work. "

The young man's dark eyes flashed, as he replied;--

"True, mother, but the time will come--it is not far off now--when youand I shall both be set free from poverty, when we shall once more takeour place in our own rank--when we shall be what the Champfontaineswere, and do as the Champfontaines did--when this hateful English nameshall be thrown aside, and this squalid English home abandoned, and thepast restored to us, we to the past. " He rose as he spoke, and walkedabout the room. A faint flush brightened his sallow face, an unwontedlight glittered in his deep-set eyes. His mother continued to ply herneedle, with downcast eyes, and a face which showed no sign of sympathywith her son's enthusiasm. 

"Industry and talent are good, my Victor, " she said, "and they bringcomfort, they bring _le bienêtre_ in their train; but I do not thinkall the industry and talent you can display as a surgeon in London willever enable you to restore the dignity and emulate the wealth of theold Champfontaines. "

Victor Carrington glanced at his mother almost angrily, and for aninstant felt the impulse rise within him which prompted him to tell herthat it was not only by the employment of means so tame and common-place that he designed to realize the cherished vision of his ambition. But he checked it instantly, and only said, with the reverentialinflection which his voice never failed to take when he addressed hismother, "What, then, would you advise me to try, in addition?"

"Marry a rich woman, my Victor; marry one of these moneyed Englishgirls, who are, for the most part, permitted to follow theirinclinations--inclinations which would surely, if encouraged, lead manyof them your way. " Mrs. Carrington spoke in the calmest tone possible. 

"Marry--I marry?" said Victor, in a tone of surprise, in which a quickear would have noticed something also of disappointment. "I thought youwould never like that, mother. It would part us, you know, and thenwhat would you do?"

"There is always the convent for me, Victor, " said his mother, "if youno longer needed me. " And she composedly threaded her needle, and begana very minute leaf in the pattern of her embroidery. 

Victor Carrington looked at his mother with surprise, and some vaguesense of pain. She _could_ make up her mind to part with him--she hadthought of the possibility, and with complacence. He muttered somethingabout having something to do, and left her, strangely moved, while shecalmly worked in at her embroidery. 

 CHAPTER XXVII. 

 "WEAVE THE WARP, AND WEAVE THE WOOF. "

On the following day Victor Carrington presented himself at HiltonHouse, and was received by Miss Brewer alone. She was pale, chilly, andungracious, as usual, and the understanding which had been arrived atbetween Carrington and herself did not move her to the manifestation ofthe smallest additional cordiality in her reception of him. 

"I have to thank you for your prompt compliance with my request, MissBrewer, " said Victor. 

She made no sound nor sign of encouragement, and he continued. "Since Isaw you, another complication has arisen in this matter, which makesour game doubly safe and secure. In order to explain this complicationthoroughly, I must ask you to let me put you through a kind ofcatechism. Have I your permission, Miss Brewer?"

"You may ask me any questions you please, " returned Miss Brewer, in ahard, cold, even voice; "and I will answer them as truthfully as Ican. "

"Do you know anything of Douglas Dale's family connections andantecedents?"

"I know that his mother was Sir Oswald Eversleigh's sister, and that heand Lionel Dale, who was drowned on St. Stephen's day, were left largeincomes by their uncle, in addition to some inconsiderable familyproperty which they inherited from their father, Mr. Melville Dale, whowas a lawyer, and, I believe, a not very successful one. "

"Did you ever hear anything of the family history of this Mr. MelvilleDale, the father of Lionel and Douglas?"

"I never heard more than his name, and the circumstance I have alreadymentioned. "

"Listen, then. Melville Dale had a sister, towards whom their fatherconceived undue and unjust partiality (according to the popularversion) from their earliest childhood. This sister, Henrietta Dale, married, when very young, a country baronet of good fortune, one SirGeorge Verner, and thereby still further pleased her father, andsecured his favour. Melville Dale, on the contrary, opposed the oldgentleman in everything, and ultimately crowned the edifice of hisoffences by publishing a deistical treatise, which made a considerablesensation at the time of its appearance, and caused the author'sexpulsion from Balliol, where he had already attained a bad eminence bynumerous escapades of the Shelley order. This proceeding so incensedhis father that he made a will, in the heat of his anger, by which hedisinherited Melville Dale, and left the whole of his fortune to hisdaughter, Lady Verner. If he repented this summary and vindictiveproceeding, neither I nor any one else can tell. The disinherited sonreformed his life very soon after the breach between himself and hisfather, and was lucky enough to win the affections of Sir OswaldEversleigh's sister. But he was too proud to ask for his father'sforgiveness, and the father died a year after Douglas Dale's birth--never having seen Mrs. Dale or his grandchildren. At the time of herfather's death, Lady Verner had no children, and she was, I believe, disposed to treat her brother very generously; but he was an obstinate, headstrong man, and persisted in believing that she had purposely donehim injury with his father. He would not see her. He refused to acceptany favour at her hands, and a complete estrangement took place. Thebrother and sister never met again; and it was only through the mediumof the newspapers that Lionel and Douglas Dale learned, some time aftertheir father's death (Melville Dale died young), that severe afflictionhad befallen their aunt, Lady Verner. The bitter and deadly breachbetween father and son, and between brother and sister, was destinednever to be healed. Lionel and Douglas grew up knowing nothing of theirfather's family, but treated always with persistent kindness by theiruncle, Sir Oswald Eversleigh, who insisted upon their making RaynhamCastle a second home. "

"Their cousin Reginald must have liked _that_, I fancy, " remarked MissBrewer, in her coldest tone. 

"He _did_, as you suppose, " said Carrington; "he hated the Dales, and Ifancy they had but little intimacy with him. He was early taken up bySir Oswald, and acknowledged and treated as his heir. You know, ofcourse, how all that came to grief, and how Sir Oswald married anobody, and left her the bulk of his fortune?"

"Yes, I have heard all that, " said Miss Brewer. "Sir Reginald did notspare us the details of the injustice Sir Oswald had done him, or theexpression of his feelings regarding it. Sir Reginald is the mostegotistical man I know. "

"Well, then, as you are in possession of the family relations so far, let me return to Lady Verner, of whom her nephews knew nothing duringtheir father's lifetime. She had lost her husband shortly after thebirth of her only child, and continued to live at Naples, whither SirGeorge had been taken, in the vain hope of prolonging his life. A shorttime after Sir George Verner's death, and while his child was almost aninfant, Lady Verner's villa was robbed, and the little girl, with hernurse, disappeared. The general theory was, that the nurse had connivedat the robbery, and gone off with the thieves; and being, after thefashion of Italian nurses, extraordinarily fond of the child, hadrefused to be parted from her. Be that as it may, the nurse and childwere never heard of again, and though the case was put into the handsof the cleverest of the police, in Paris and London, no discovery hasever been made. Lady Verner fell into a state of hopeless melancholy, in which she continued for many years, and during that period, ofcourse, her wealth accumulated, and is now very great indeed. I see byyour face, Miss Brewer, that you are growing impatient, and aredisposed to wonder what the family history of the Dales, and thetroubles of Lady Verner, have to do with Paulina Durski and our designsfor her future. Bear with my explanation a little longer, and you willperceive the importance of the connection between them. "

Miss Brewer gave her shoulders a slight shrug, expressive of supremeresignation, and Victor continued. 

"Lady Verner has now recovered, under the influence of time and medicalskill, and has come to London with the avowed purpose of arranging theaffairs of her large property. She has heard of Lionel Dale's death, and, therefore, knows that there is a candidate the less in the field. Sir Reginald Eversleigh has obtained access to this lady, and he hascarefully nipped in the bud certain symptoms of interest which shebetrayed in the fate of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's widow and orphandaughter. Lady Verner is an exceedingly proud woman, and you maysuppose her maternal instincts are powerful, when the loss of her childcaused her years of melancholy madness. My gifted friend speedilydiscovered these characteristics, and practised on them. Lady Vernerwas made aware that the widow of Sir Oswald Eversleigh was a person oflow origin, and dubious reputation, and cared so little for her childthat she had gone abroad, for an indefinite time, leaving the littlegirl at Raynham, in the care of servants. The result of thisrepresentation was, that Lady Verner felt and expressed extremedisgust, and considerable satisfaction that she had not committedherself to a course from which she must have receded, by opening anycommunication with Lady Eversleigh. One danger thus disposed of--and Imust say I think Reginald did it well--he was very enthusiastic, hetells me, on the virtues of his uncle, and his inextinguishable regretfor that benefactor of his youth. "

Miss Brewer's cold smile, and glittering, baleful eye, attractedCarrington's attention at this point. 

"That shocks you, does it, Miss Brewer?" he asked. 

"Shock me? Oh no! It rather interests me; there's an eminence ofbaseness in it. "

"So there is, " said Carrington, with pleased assent, "especially to onewho knows, as I do, how Reginald hated his uncle, living-how he hateshis memory, dead. However, he did this, and did it well; but it wasonly half his task. Lady Verner would keep herself clear of LadyEversleigh, but she must be kept clear of Douglas Dale. "

"Ha!" said Miss Brewer, with a slight change of attitude andexpression, "I see now; she must be turned against him by means ofPaulina--poor Paulina! She says she is fatal to him; she says he oughtto fly from her. This looks still more like her being right. "

"It does, indeed, Miss Brewer, " said Carrington, gravely. "You areright. It was by means of Madame Durski that the trick was done; butneither you nor I--and I assure you I like your friend immensely--canafford to take objection to the manner of doing it. Lady Verner wasmade to understand that by extending her countenance to, or enrichingDouglas Dale, she would only be giving additional security and _eclât_to a marriage scarcely less disgraceful than that which Sir OswaldEversleigh had contracted. The device has been successful, so far. Andnow comes the third portion of Sir Reginald's game--the substitution ofhimself in Lady Verner's good graces for the nephew he has ousted. Thisis only fair, after all. Dale cut him out with his uncle--he means tocut Dale out with his aunt. You understand our programme now, MissBrewer, don't you?"

"Yes, " she replied, slowly, "but I don't see why I should lend him anyassistance. It would be more to my interest that Douglas Dale shouldinherit this lady's fortune; the richer Paulina's husband is, thebetter for me. "

"Unquestionably, my dear Miss Brewer, " said Carrington. "But Dale willnot marry Paulina if Sir Reginald Eversleigh chooses to prevent it; andDouglas Dale will not give you five hundred pounds for any serviceswhatever, because there are none which you can render him. I think youcan see that pretty plainly, Miss Brewer. And you can also see, Ipresume, that, provided _I_ get _my_ money from Eversleigh, it is amanner of total indifference to me whether he gets _Lady Verner's_money, or whether Dale gets it. The only means by which I can get mymoney is by detaching Sir Reginald from Paulina, and making him marrythe ironmonger's heiress. When that is done, and the money is paid, Iam perfectly satisfied that Dale should get the fortune, and I think itvery likely he will; but you must perceive that I cannot play my owngame except by appearing to play Reginald's. "

"Is Lady Verner likely to think the ironmonger's heiress a good matchfor Sir Reginald Eversleigh?" Miss Brewer asked, in a coldly sarcastictone. 

"How is she to know anything of her origin?" returned Carrington, whowas, however, disconcerted by the question. "She lives a most retiredlife; no one but Reginald has any access to her, and he can make herbelieve anything he likes. "

"That's fortunate, " said Miss Brewer, drily; "pray proceed. "

"Well, then, you see these points as clearly as I do--the next thing tobe done is to secure Paulina's marriage with Douglas Dale. "

"I don't think that needs much securing, " said Miss Brewer. "Judgingfrom his manner before he left town, and from the tone of his letter, Ishould think very little encouragement from her would ensure a proposalof marriage from him. "

"And will she give him that encouragement?"

"Undoubtedly--I fully believe she will marry Douglas Dale. She hascertainly learned to despise Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and I think Mr. Dale has caught her heart in the rebound. "

"Have you attended to my instructions about impressing her moneydifficulties on her mind--have you made things as bad as possible?"

"Certainly, " answered Miss Brewer. "Only this morning I have sent intoher room several pressing and impertinent letters from hertradespeople, and I put some accounts of the most dispiriting characterbefore her last night. She is in dreadfully low spirits. "

"So much the better! If we can but induce her to borrow money fromDale, all will be well; he will take that as a convincing proof ofregard and confidence, and will propose to her at once. I am sure ofit. So sure, that I will pass that matter by, and take it for granted. And now--if this comes to pass, and Douglas Dale is here as theaccepted lover of Paulina, I must have constant access to the house, and he must not know me as Victor Carrington. He has never seen me, though I am familiar with his appearance. "

"Why?" asked Miss Brewer, in a tone of suspicious surprise. 

"I will tell you, by-and-by. Suffice it for the present that it must beso. Then again, it would not do to have a man, who is not a relative, established _l'ami de la maison_. That it is not the sort of thing thatan affianced lover could be expected to like. You must introduce me toDouglas Dale as your cousin, and by the name of Carton. It issufficiently like my real name to prevent the servants knowing my nameis changed, since they always bungle over the 'Carrington. ' As VictorCarrington, Dale might refuse to know me, and certainly would not formany intimacy with me, and that he should form an intimacy with me isessential to my purpose. "

"Why?" said Miss Brewer, in exactly the same tone as before. 

"I will tell you by-and-by, " said Carrington. "You consent, do younot?"

"I am not sure, " she answered. "But, even supposing I do consent, thereis Paulina to be consulted. How is she to be induced to call you Mr. Carton and my cousin?"

"I will undertake to persuade Madame Durski that it will be for herbest interests to consent, " said Carrington. "And now to myexplanation. Reginald Eversleigh is a man who is not to be trusted fora moment, even where his own interests are closely concerned. He caresnothing for Paulina; he knows the best thing that can happen to himwould be her marriage with Dale, for he calculates upon his hold overthe wife giving him the chance of a good share of the husband's moneyin some way. Yet, such is his vanity, so unmanageable is his temper, that if he were not too much afraid of me, too much in my power, hewould indulge them both at the cost of destroying our plan. If he knewme to be absent, or unable to present myself freely here, he wouldpersecute Paulina--she would never be free from him. He wouldcompromise his own chance with the heiress, which is, naturally, mychief consideration, and compromise her with Douglas Dale. Again, I donot mind admitting to you, Miss Brewer, that I am of a cautious andsuspicious temperament; and when I pay an agent liberally, as I intendto pay you, I always like to see for myself how the work is done. "

"That argument, at least, is unanswerable, " she replied. "You shall, sofar as I can answer for it, pass as my cousin and Mr. Carton, and havea free _entré_ here. "

"Good, " said Carrington, rising. "And now there is nothing more to besaid just at present. "

"Pardon me; you have not told me why an intimacy with Mr. Dale isessential to your purpose. "

"Because I must watch his proceedings and intentions--in fact, know allabout him--in order to discover whether it will suit my interests bestto forward Eversleigh's plans with respect to Lady Verner, or to betraythem to Dale. "

Miss Brewer looked at him with something like admiration. She thoughtshe understood him so perfectly now, that she need ask nothing farther. So they parted with the understanding that she was to report fully onDouglas Dale's visit, and Carrington was to call on Paulina on the daysucceeding it. When she was alone, Miss Brewer remembered thatCarrington had not explained why it was he felt certain Dale would notform any intimacy with him as Victor Carrington. As he walkedhomewards, Victor muttered to himself--

"Heavens, what a clever fool that woman is. Once more I have won, andby boldness. "

 * * * * *

The feelings with which Douglas Dale prepared for his visit to HiltonHouse on the day following that on which Victor Carrington had madehis full and candid explanation to Miss Brewer, were such as anywoman--the purest, the noblest, the best--might have been proud ofinspiring. They were full of love, trust, pity, and hope. Douglas Dalehad by no means ceased to feel his brother's loss. No, the death ofLionel, and, even more, the terrible manner of that death, stillpursued him in every waking hour--still haunted him in his dreams; butsorrow, and especially its isolating tendency, does but quicken andintensify feelings of tenderness in true and noble hearts. 

He drove up to Hilton House with glad expectancy, and his eyes were dimas he was ushered into the drawing-room in which Paulina sat. 

Madame Durski's emotions on this occasion were unspeakably painful. Sowell had Miss Brewer played her part, that she had persuaded Paulinaher only chance of escape from immediate arrest lay in borrowing money, that very day, from Douglas Dale. Paulina's pride revolted; but theneed was pressing, and the unhappy woman yielded. 

As she rose to return her visitor's greeting, and stood before him inthe cold January sunset, she was indeed, in all outward seeming, worthyof any man's admiration. 

Remorse and suffering had paled her cheeks; but they had left nodisfiguring traces on her perfect face. 

The ivory whiteness of her complexion was, perhaps, her greatest charm, and her beauty would scarcely have been enhanced by those rosy tintsso necessary to some faces. 

To-day she had dressed herself to perfection, fully conscious of theinfluence which a woman's costume is apt to exercise over the heart ofthe man who loves her. 

Half an hour passed in conversation of a general nature, and thenluncheon was announced. When Paulina and her visitor returned to thedreary room, they were alone; Miss Brewer had discreetly retired. 

"My dear Madame Durski!" exclaimed Douglas, when the widow had seatedherself and he had placed himself opposite to her, "I cannot tell youwhat intense pleasure it gives me to see you again, and most of allbecause it leads me to believe that I can in some manner serve you. Iknow how secluded your habits have been of late, and I fancy you wouldscarcely so depart from them in my favour if you had not some real needof my service. "

This speech was peculiarly adapted to smoothe away the difficulties ofPaulina's position. Douglas had long guessed the secret of her poverty, and had more than half divined the motive of her letter. He was eagerto save her, as far as possible, from the painfulness of the requestwhich he felt almost sure she was about to make to him. 

"Your cordial kindness affects me deeply, Mr. Dale, " said Paulina, witha blush that was the glow of real shame. "You are right; I should bethe last woman in the world to appeal to you thus if I had not need ofyour help--bitter need. I appeal to you, because I know the goodnessand generosity of your nature. I appeal to you as a beggar. "

"Madame Durski, for pity's sake, do not speak thus, " cried Douglas, interrupting her. "Every penny that I possess in the world is at yourcommand. I am ready to begin life again, a worker for my daily bread, rather than that you should suffer one hour's pain, one moment'shumiliation, that money can prevent. "

"You are too generous, too noble, " exclaimed Paulina, in a brokenvoice. "The only way in which I can prove my gratitude for yourdelicate goodness is by being perfectly candid. My life has been astrange one, Mr. Dale--a life of apparent prosperity, but of realpoverty. Before I was old enough to know the value of a fortune, I wasrobbed of that which should have been mine, and robbed by the fatherwho should have protected my interests. From that hour I have knownlittle except trouble. I was married to a man whom I never loved--married at the command of the father who had robbed me. If I have notfallen, as many other women so mated have fallen, I take no pride in mysuperior strength of mind. It may be that temptation such as luresother women to their ruin never approached me. Since my husband died, my life, as you too well know, has been a degraded one. I have been thecompanion and friend of gamesters. It is, indeed, only since I came toEngland that I have myself ceased to be a gambler. Can you remember allthis, Mr. Dale, and yet pity me?"

"I can remember it all, and yet love you, Paulina, " answered Douglas, with emotion. "We are not masters of our own affections. From the hourin which I first saw you I have loved you--loved you in spite ofmyself. I will admit that your life has not been that which I wouldhave chosen for the woman I love; and that to remember your pasthistory is pain to me. But, in spite of all, I ask you to be my wife;and it shall be the business of my future life to banish from yourremembrance every sorrow and every humiliation that you have sufferedin the past. Say that you will be my wife, Paulina. I love you as fewwomen are loved. I am rich, and have the power to remove you far fromevery association that is painful to you. Tell me that I may be theguardian of your future existence. "

Paulina contemplated her lover for a few moments with singularearnestness. She was deeply impressed by his generous devotion, and shecould not but compare this self-sacrificing love with the baseselfishness of Reginald Eversleigh's conduct. 

"You do not ask me if I can return your affection, " she said, afterthat earnest look. "You offer to raise me from degradation and poverty, and you demand nothing in return. "

"No, Paulina, " replied Douglas; "I would not make a _bargain_ with thewoman I love. I know that you have not yet learned to love me, and yetI do not fear for the future, if you consent to become my wife. Truelove, such as mine, rarely fails to win its reward, sooner or later. Iam content to wait. It will be sufficient happiness to me to know thatI have rescued you from a miserable and degrading position. "

"You are only too generous, " murmured Paulina, softly; "only toogenerous. "

"And now tell me the immediate object of this most welcome summons. Iwill not press you for a prompt reply to my suit; I will trust thattime may be my friend. Tell me how I can serve you, and why you sentfor me to-day?"

"I sent for you that I might ask you for the loan of two hundredpounds, to satisfy the claims of my most urgent creditors, and toprevent the necessity of an ignominious flight. "

"I will write you a cheque immediately for five hundred, " said Douglas. "You can drive to my banker's, and get it cashed there. Or stay; itwould not be so well for my banker to know that I lent you money. Letme come again to you this evening, and bring ink sum in bank-notes. That will give me an excuse for coming. "

"How can I ever thank you sufficiently?"

"Do not thank me at all. Only let me love you, looking forwardhopefully to the day in-which you may learn to love me. " "That day mustsurely come ere long, " replied Paulina, thoughtfully. "Gratitude soprofound as mine, esteem so sincere, must needs grow into a warmerfeeling. "

"Yes, Paulina, " said Douglas, "if your heart is free. Forgive me if Iapproach a subject painful to you and to me. Reginald Eversleigh--mycousin--have you seen him often lately?"

"I have not seen him since he left London for Hallgrove. I am notlikely to see him again. "

"I am very glad of that. There is but one fear in my mind when I thinkof our future, Paulina. "

"And that is?"

"The fear that Reginald Eversleigh may come between you and me. "

"You need no longer fear that, " replied Madame Durski. "You have beenso noble, so devoted in your conduct to me, that I must be indeed aworthless wretch if I shrink from the painful duty of laying my heartbare before you. I have loved your cousin Reginald, foolishly, blindly;but there must come an end to all folly; there must come a day when thebandage falls from the eyes that have obstinately shunned the light. That day has come for me; and Sir Reginald Eversleigh is henceforwardnothing more to me than the veriest stranger. "

"A thousand thanks, dearest, for that assurance, " exclaimed Douglas;"and now trust in me. Tour future shall be so bright and happy that thepast will seem to you no more than a troubled dream. "

 CHAPTER XXVIII. 

 PREPARING THE GROUND. 

Black Milsom made his appearance in the little village of Raynhamimmediately after Lady Eversleigh's departure from the castle. But onthis occasion it would have been very difficult for those who had seenhim at the date of Sir Oswald Eversleigh's funeral to recognize, in therespectable-looking, well-dressed citizen of to-day, the ragged trampof that period. 

While Honoria Eversleigh was living under a false name in Percy Street, Tottenham Court Road, the man who called himself her father, established himself in a little river-side public-house, under theshadow of Raynham Castle. The house in question had never borne toogood a character; and its reputation was in nowise improved when, onthe death of its owner, it passed into the custody of Mr. Milsom, whocame down to Raynham one November morning, almost immediately afterLady Eversleigh's departure, saw the "Cat and Fiddle" public-housevacant, and went straight to the attorney who had the letting of it, tooffer himself as a tenant, announcing himself to the lawyer as ThomasMaunders. 

The attorney at first looked rather suspiciously at the gentleman whohad earned for himself the ominous nickname of Black Milsom; but whenthe would-be tenant offered to pay a year's rent in advance down on thenail, the man of law melted, and took the money. 

Thomas Milsom lost no time in taking possession of his new abode. Itwas the haunt of the lower class of agricultural labourers, and of thebargemen, who moored their barges sometimes beneath the shadow ofRaynham Bridge, while they dawdled away a few lazy hours in the villagepublic-house. 

Any one who had cared to study Mr. Milsom's face and manners during hisresidence at Raynham, would have speedily perceived that the life didnot suit him. He lounged at the door of the low-gabled cottage, lookingout into the village street with a moody and sullen countenance. 

He drank a great deal, and swore not a little, and led altogether asdissolute a life as it was possible to lead in that peaceful village. 

No sooner had Mr. Milsom established himself at Raynham, than he madeit his business to find out the exact state of affairs at the castle. He contrived to entice one of the under-servants into his bar-parlour, and entertained the man so liberally, with a smoking jorum of strongrum-punch, that a friendly acquaintance was established between the twoon the spot. 

"There's nothing in my place you ain't welcome to, James Harwood, " hesaid. "You're uncommonly like a favourite brother of mine that diedyoung of the measles; and I've taken a fancy to you on account of thatlikeness. Come when you like, and as often as you like, and call forwhat you like; and there shan't be no talk of scores between you andme. I'm a bitter foe, and a firm friend. When I like a man there'snothing I couldn't do to prove my liking; when I hate him--"

Here Mr. Milsom's speech died away into an ominous growl; and JamesHarwood, who was rather a timid young man, felt as if drops of coldwater had been running down his back. But the rum-punch was very nice;and he saw no reason why he should refuse Mr. Milsom's offer offriendship. 

He did drop in very often, having plenty of leisure evenings in whichto amuse himself; and through him Thomas Milsom was enabled to becomefamiliar with every detail of the household at Raynham Castle. 

"No news of your lady, I suppose, Mr. Harwood?" Milsom said to him oneSunday evening in January. "Not coming home yet, I suppose?"

"No, Mr. Maunders, " answered the groom; "not to my knowledge. And as tonews, there ain't anymore news of her than if she and Miss Payland hadgone off to the very wildest part of Africa, where, if you feellonesome, and want company, your only choice lies between tigers andrattlesnakes. "

"Never mind Africa! What was it that you were going to say about yourlady?"

"Well, I was about to inform you, " replied the groom, with offendeddignity, "when you took me up so uncommon short as to prevent me--I wasabout to observe that, although we haven't received no news whatsoeverfrom my lady direct, we have received a little bit of news promiscuousthat is rather puzzling, in a manner of speaking. "

"What is it?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Maunders, " began James Harwood, with extremesolemnity, "it is given out that Lady Eversleigh is gone abroad to theContinent--wherever that place may be situated--and a very nice placeI dare say it is, when you get there; and it is likewise given out thatMiss Payland have gone with her. "

"Well, what then?"

"I really wish you hadn't such a habit of taking people up short, Mr. Maunders, " remonstrated the groom. "I was on the point of telling youthat our head-coachman had a holiday this Christmas; and where does hego but up to London, to see his friends, which live there; and while inLondon where does he go but to Drury Lane Theatre; and while coming outof Drury Lane Theatre who does he set his eyes on but Miss Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid, as large as life, and hanging on the arm ofa respectable elderly man, which might be her father. Our head-coachmanwarn't near enough to her to speak to her; and though he tried to catchher eye he couldn't catch it; but he'll take his Bible oath that theyoung woman he saw was Jane Payland, Lady Eversleigh's own maid. Now, that's rather a curious circumstance, is it not, Mr. Maunders?"

"It is, rather, " answered the landlord; "but it seems to me yourmistress, Lady Eversleigh, is rather a strange person altogether. It'sa strange thing for a mother to run away to foreign parts--if she hasgone to foreign parts--and leave her only child behind her. "

"Yes; and a child she was so fond of too; that's the strangest part ofthe whole business, " said the groom. "I'm sure to see that mother andchild together, you'd have thought there was no power on earth wouldpart them; and yet, all of a sudden, my lady goes off, and leaves MissGertrude behind her. But if Miss Gertrude was a royal princess, shecouldn't be more watched over, or taken more care of, than she is. Tosee Mrs. Morden, the governess, with her, you'd think as the littlegirl was made of barley-sugar, and would melt away with a drop of rain;and to see Captain Copplestone with her, you'd think as she was thecrown-jewels of England, and that everybody was on the watch to get thechance of stealing her. "

Black Milsom smiled as the groom said this. It was a grim smile, not byany means pleasant to see; but James Harwood was not an observer, andhe was looking tenderly at his last spoonful of rum-punch, andwondering within himself whether Mr. Milsom was likely to offer himanother glass of that delicious beverage. 

"And pray what sort of a customer is Captain Copplestone?" askedMilsom, thoughtfully. 

"An uncommonly tough customer, " replied James Harwood; "that's what heis. If it wasn't for his rheumatic gout, he's a man that would be readyto fight the champion of England any day in the week. There's very fewthings the captain wouldn't do in the way of downright pluck; but, yousee, whatever pluck a man may have, it can't help him much when he'slaid by the heels with the rheumatic gout, as the captain is veryoften. "

"Ha! and who takes care of little missy then?"

"Why, the captain. He's like a watch-dog, and his kennel is at littlemissy's door. That's what he says himself, in his queer way. MissGertrude and her governess live in three handsome rooms in the southwing--my lady's own rooms--and the principal way to these rooms isalong a wide corridor. So what does the captain do when my lady goesaway, but order a great iron door down from London, and has thecorridor shut off with this iron door, bolted, and locked, and barred, so that the cleverest burglar that ever were couldn't get it open. "

"But how do people get to the little girl's rooms, then?" asked ThomasMilsom. 

"Why, through a small bed-room, intended for Lady Eversleigh's maid;and a little bit of a dressing-room, that poor Sir Oswald used to keephis boots, and hat-boxes, and such like in. These rooms open on to thesecond staircase; and what does the captain do but have these two smallrooms fitted up for hisself and his servant, Solomon Grundy, with athin wooden partition, with little glass spy-holes in it, put acrossthe two rooms, to make a kind of passage to the rooms beyond; so thatnight and day he can hear every footstep that goes by to MissGertrude's rooms. Now, what do you think of such whims and fancies?"

"I think the captain must be stark staring mad, " answered Milsom; butit was to be observed that he said this in rather an absent manner, andappeared to be thinking deeply. 

"Oh no, he ain't, " said James Harwood; "there ain't a sharper customergoing. "

And then, finding that the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle" did notoffer anything more in the way of refreshment, Mr. Harwood departed. 

There was a full moon that January night, and when Mr. Milsom hadattended to the wants of his customers, seen the last of them to thedoor a little before twelve o'clock, shut his shutters, andextinguished the lights, he stole quietly out of his house, went forthinto the deserted street, and made his way towards the summit of thehill on which the castle stood, like an ancient fortress, frowningdarkly upon the humble habitations beneath it. 

He passed the archway and the noble gothic gates, and crept along bythe fine old wall that enclosed the park, where the interlacedbranches of giant oaks and beeches were white under the snow that hadfallen upon them, and formed a picture that was almost like a scene inFairyland. 

He climbed the wall at a spot where a thick curtain of ivy afforded hima safe footing, and dropped softly upon the ground beneath, where thesnow had drifted into a heap, and made a soft bed for him to fall on. 

"There will be more snow before daylight to-morrow, " he muttered tohimself, "if I'm any judge of the weather; and there'll be no trace ofmy footsteps to give the hint of mischief. " He ran across the park, leaped the light, invisible fence dividing the park from the gardens, and crept cautiously along a shrubberied pathway, where the evergreensafforded him an impenetrable screen. 

Thus concealed from the eyes of any chance watcher, he contrived toapproach one end of the terraced slope which formed the garden front ofthe castle. Each terrace was adorned with stone balustrades, surmountedby large vases, also of stone; and, sheltered by these vases, Milsomascended to the southern angle of the great pile of building. 

Seven lighted windows at this southern end of the castle indicated theapartments occupied by the heiress of Raynham and her eccentricguardian. The lights burned but dimly, like the night-lamps leftburning during the hours of rest; and Milsom had ascertained from Mr. Harwood that the household retired before eleven o'clock, at thelatest. 

The apartments occupied by the little girl were on the first floor. Themassive stone walls here were unadorned with ivy, nor were there any ofthose elaborate decorations in stonework which might have afforded ahold for the foot of the climber. The bare stone wall frowned down uponThomas Milsom, impregnable as the walls of Newgate itself. 

"No, " he muttered to himself, after a long and thoughtful scrutiny; "noman will ever get at those rooms from the outside; no, not if he hadthe power of changing himself into a cat or a monkey. Whoever wants tohave a peep at the heiress of Raynham must go through this valiantcaptain's chamber. Well, well, I've heard of tricks played uponfaithful watch-dogs before to-day. There's very few things a man can'tdo, if he only tries hard enough; and I mean to be revenged upon myLady Eversleigh!" He paused for a few moments, standing close againstthe wall of the castle, sheltered by its black shadow, and looking downupon the broad domain beneath. 

"And this is all hers, is it P--lands and houses; horses and carriages;powdered footmen to fetch and carry for her; jewels to wear; plates anddishes of solid gold to eat her dinner off, if she likes! All hers! Andshe refuses me a few hundred pounds, and defies me, does she? We'll seewhether that's a safe game. I've sworn to have my revenge, and I'llhave it, " he muttered, shaking his brawny fist, as if some phantomfigure were standing before him in the wintry moonlight. "I can affordto wait; I wouldn't mind waiting years to get it; but I'll have it, ifI grow old and gray while I'm watching and plotting for it. I'll bepatient as Time, but I'll have it. She has refused me a few hundreds, has she? I'll see her there, on the ground at my feet, grovelling likea beaten dog, offering me half her fortune--all her fortune--her verylife itself! I'll humble her proud spirit! I'll bring her grandeur downto the the dust. She won't own me for a father, won't she! Why, if Ichoose, she shall tramp barefoot through the mud after me, singingstreet-ballads in every town in England, and going round with mybattered old hat to beg for halfpence afterwards. I'll humble her! I'lldo it--I'll do it--as sure as there's a moon in the sky!"

 CHAPTER XXIX. 

 AT WATCH. 

Sanguine as Victor Carrington had been, confidently as he hadcalculated upon the fascination which Paulina had exerted over DouglasDale, he was not prepared for the news contained in Miss Brewer'spromised letter, which reached him punctually, a few hours afterPaulina had become the affianced wife of Douglas Dale. This was indeedsuccess beyond his hopes. He had not expected this result for somedays, at the very earliest, and the surprise and pleasure with which helearned it were almost equal. Carrington did not believe in good; heabsolutely distrusted and despised human nature, and he never dreamedof imputing Madame Durski's conduct to anything but coquetry andfickleness. "She's on with the new love, beyond a doubt, " said he tohimself, as he read Miss Brewer's letter; "whether she's off with theold is quite another question, and rests with him rather than with her, I fancy. "

Victor Carrington's first move was to present himself before MadameDurski on the following day, at the hour at which she habituallyreceived visitors. He took up the confidential conversation which theyhad had on the last occasion of their meeting, as if it had not beendropped in the interval, and came at once to the subject of DouglasDale. This plan answered admirably; Paulina was naturally full of thesubject, and the ice of formalism had been sufficiently broken betweenher and Victor Carrington, to enable her to refer to the interviewwhich had taken place between herself and Douglas Dale without anyimpropriety. When she had done so, Carrington began to play his part. He assured Paulina of his warm interest in her, of the influence whichhe possessed over Sir Reginald Eversleigh, and the fears which heentertained of some treacherous proceeding on Reginald's part whichmight place her in a most unpleasant position. 

"Reginald has no real love for you, " said Carrington; "he would nothesitate to sacrifice you to the meanest of his interests, but hisvanity and his temper are such that it is impossible to calculate uponwhat sort of folly he may be guilty. "

Paulina Durski was a thorough woman; and, therefore, having utterlydiscarded Reginald from her heart, having learned to substitute uttercontempt for love, she was not averse to receiving any information, tolearning any opinion, which tended to justify her change of feeling. 

"What harm can he do me with Douglas?" asked Paulina, in alarm. 

"Who can tell that, Madame Durski?" replied Carrington. "But this isnot to the purpose. I don't pretend to be wholly disinterested in thismatter. I tell you plainly I am not so; it is very important to me thatSir Reginald should marry a woman of fortune, and should not marryyou. "

"He never had any intention of marrying me, " said Paulina, hastily andbitterly. 

"No, I don't believe he had; but he would have liked very well to havecompromised you in the eyes of society, so that no other man would havemarried you, to have bragged of relations existing between you whichnever did exist, and to have effectually ruined your fortunes in anyother direction than the gaming-table. Now this I am determined heshall not do, and as I have more power over him than any one else, itlies with me to prevent it. What that power springs from, or how I havehitherto exercised it, you need not inquire, Madame Durski; I only wishyou to believe that I exercise it in this instance for your good, foryour protection. "

Paulina murmured some vague words of acknowledgment. He continued--

"If Reginald Eversleigh knows I am here, constantly cognizant of thestate of affairs, and prepared to act for your advantage, he will notdare to come here and compromise you by his violent and unreasonablejealousy; he will be forced--it is needless to explain how--to keep hisenvy and rage to himself, and to suppress the enmity with which heregards Douglas Dale. Let me tell you, Madame Durski, Reginald's enmityis no trifling rock ahead in life, and your engaged lover has that rockto dread. "

Paulina turned very pale. 

"Save him from it, Mr. Carrington, " she said, appealingly. "Save himfrom it, and let me have a little happiness in this weary world, ifsuch a thing there be. "

"I will, Madame Durski, " replied Victor. "You have already done as Ihave counselled you, and you have no reason to regret the result. "

The soft, dreamy smile of happy love stole over Paulina's face as shelistened to him. 

"Let me be here with you as much as possible, and you will have noreason to fear Reginald. He is capable of anything, but he is afraid ofme, and if he knows that I am determined to advance the marriage ofyourself and Douglas Dale, he will not venture to oppose it openly. Butthere is one condition which I must append to my frequent presencehere"--he spoke as though he were conferring the greatest favour onher--"Mr. Dale must not know me as Victor Carrington. "

With an expression in which there was something of the suspiciousquickness which Miss Brewer had manifested when Carrington made asimilar statement to her, Paulina asked him why. 

Then Victor told her his version of the story of Honoria Eversleigh, the "unfortunate woman, " whom Douglas Dale's unhappy and misguideduncle had raised to such undoubted rank and fortune, and the wild andabsurd accusations the wretched woman had made against him. 

"Mr. Dale never saw me, " said Victor, "and I know not whether he wasthoroughly aware of the absurdity, the insanity of this woman'saccusations. At all events, I don't wish to recall any unpleasantnessto his mind, and therefore I venture to propose that I should visithere, and be introduced to him as Mr. Carton. The fraud is a veryharmless one; what do you say, Madame Durski?"

Paulina had her full share of the feminine love of mystery andintrigue, and she consented at once. "What can the name matter, " shethought, "if it is really necessary for this man to be here?"

"And there is another consideration which we must take into account, "said Victor; "it is this. Mr. Dale may not like to find any manestablished here, in the degree of intimacy to which (in yourinterests) I aspire; and therefore I propose, with your leave, to passas a relation of Miss Brewer's--say, her cousin. This will thoroughlyaccount for my intimacy here. What do you say, Madame Durski?"

"As you please, " said Paulina, carelessly. "I am sure you are right, Mr. Carrington--Carton, I mean, and I am sure you mean kindly and wellby me. But how odd it will seem to Charlotte and me, lonely creatures, waifs and derelicts as we have been so long, to have any one with whomwe can claim even a pretended kinship!"

She spoke with a mingled bitterness and levity which have been painfulto any man of right feelings, but which was pleasant to VictorCarrington, because it showed him how helpless and ignorant she was, how her mind had been warped, how ready a tool he had found in her. When the interview between them came to an end, it had been arrangedthat Mr. Dale was to be introduced on the following day at Hilton Houseto Miss Brewer's cousin, Mr. Carton. 

The introduction took place. A very short time, well employed in closeobservation, sufficed to assure Victor that Douglas Dale was as much inlove as any man need be to be certain of committing any number offollies, and that Paulina was a changed woman under the influence ofthe same soul-subduing sentiment which, though not so strong in hercase, was assuming strength and intensity as each day taught her moreand more of her lover's moral and intellectual excellence. Douglas Dalewas much pleased with Mr. Carton; and that gentleman did all in hispower to render himself agreeable, and so far succeeded that, beforethe close of the evening, he had made a considerable advance towardsestablishing a very pleasant intimacy with Sir Reginald Eversleigh'scousin. 

Victor Carrington, always an observant man, had peculiarly the air ofbeing on the watch that day during dinner. He noticed everything thatPaulina ate and drank, and he took equal note of Miss Brewer's andDouglas Dale's choice of meats and wines. Miss Brewer drank no wine, Paulina very little, and Douglas Dale exclusively claret. When thedinner had reached its conclusion, a stand of liqueurs was placed uponthe table, one of the few art-treasures left to the impoverishedadventuress, rare and fragile Venetian flacons, and tiny goblets ofopal and ruby glass. These glasses were the especial admiration ofDouglas Dale, and Paulina filled the ruby goblet with curaçoa. Shetouched the edge of the glass playfully with her lips as she handed itto her lover; but Victor observed that she did not taste the liqueur. 

"You do not affect curaçoa, madame?" he asked, carelessly. 

"No; I never take that, or indeed, any other liqueur. "

"And yet you drink scarcely any wine?"

"No, " replied Paulina, indifferently; "I take very little wine. "

"Indeed!"

There was the faintest possible significance in Carrington's tone as hesaid this. He had watched Madame Durski closely during dinner, and hehad noted an excitement in her manner, a nervous vivacity, such as aregenerally inspired by something stronger than water. And yet this womanhad taken little else than water during the dinner. And it was to beobserved that the almost febrile gaiety which distinguished her mannerthis evening had been as apparent when she first entered the drawing-room as it was now. This was a physiological or psychological enigma, extremely interesting to Mr. Carrington. He was not slow to find asolution that was, in his opinion, sufficiently satisfactory. "Thatwoman takes opium in some form or other, " he said to himself. 

Miss Brewer did not touch the liqueur in question, and her cousin tookMaraschino. After a very short interval, Douglas Dale and his newfriend rose to join the ladies. They crossed the hall together, but asthey reached the drawing-room door, Mr. Carrington discovered that hehad dropped a letter in the dining-room, and returned to find it, firstopening the drawing-room door that Dale might pass through it. 

All was undisturbed in the dining-room; the table was just as they hadleft it. Victor approached the table, took up the carafon containingcuraçoa, and, holding it up to the light with one hand, poured thecontents of a small phial into it with the other. He watched the oneliquid mingling with the other until no further traces of the operationwere visible; and then setting the carafon softly down where he hadfound it, went smiling across the hall and joined the ladies. 

 CHAPTER XXX. 

 FOUND WANTING. 

Reginald Eversleigh was in complete ignorance of Victor Carrington'sproceedings, when he received the letter summoning him to an interviewwith his friend at a stated time. Carrington's estimate of Reginald'scharacter was quite correct. All this time his vanity had been chafingunder Paulina's silence and apparent oblivion of him. 

He had not received any letter from Paulina, fond as she had been ofwriting to him long, half-despairing letters, full of complaint againstdestiny, and breathing in every line that hopeless love which thebeautiful Austrian woman had so long wasted on the egotist and coward, whose baseness she had half suspected even while she still clung tohim. 

Sir Reginald had been in the habit of receiving these letters as coollyas if they had been but the fitting tribute to his transcendant merits. 

"Poor Paulina!" he murmured sometimes, as he folded the perfumed pages, after running his eyes carelessly over their contents; "poor Paulina!how devotedly she loves me. And what a pity she hasn't a penny she cancall her own. If she were a great heiress, now, what could be moredelightful than this devotion? But, under existing circumstances, it isnothing but an embarrassment--a bore. Unfortunately, I cannot be brutalenough to tell her this plainly: and so matters go on. And I fear, inspite of all my hints, she may believe in the possibility of myultimately making a sacrifice of my prospects For her sake. "

This was how Reginald Eversleigh felt, while Paulina was scattering athis feet the treasures of a disinterested affection. 

He had been vain and selfish from boyhood, and his vices grew strongerwith increasing years. His nature was hardened, and not chastened, bythe trials and disappointments which had befallen him. 

In the hour of his poverty and degradation it had been a triumph forhim to win the devotion of a woman whom many men--men better thanhimself--had loved in vain. 

It was a rich tribute to the graces of him who had once been theirresistible Reginald Eversleigh, the favourite of fashionable drawing-rooms. 

Thus it was that, when Paulina's letters suddenly ceased, Sir Reginaldwas at once mortified and indignant. He had made up his mind to obeyVictor's suggestion, or rather, command, by abstaining from eithervisiting or writing to Paulina; but he had not been prepared for asimilar line of proceeding on her part, and it hurt his vanity much. She had ceased to write. Could she have ceased to care for him? Couldany one else, richer--more disinterested--have usurped his place in herheart?

The baronet remembered what Victor Carrington had said about DouglasDale; but he could not for one moment believe that his cousin--a manwhom he considered infinitely beneath him--had the power to win PaulinaDurski's affection. 

"She may perhaps encourage him, " he said to himself, "especially nowthat his income is doubled. She might even accept him as a husband--women are so mercenary. But her heart will never cease to be mine. "

Sir Reginald waited a week, a fortnight, but there came no letter fromPaulina. He called on Carrington, according to appointment, but hisfriend had changed his mind, or his tactics, and gave him noexplanation. 

Victor had been a daily visitor at Hilton House during the week whichhad intervened since the day he had dined there and been introduced toDouglas Dale. His observation had enabled him to decide uponaccelerating the progress of his designs. The hold which Paulina hadobtained upon Douglas Dale's affection was secure; he had proposed toher much sooner than Victor had anticipated; the perfect understandingand confidence subsisting between them rendered the cautious game whichhe had intended to play unnecessary, and he did not now care how soon afinal rupture between Paulina and Reginald should take place. Indeed, for two of his purposes--the establishment of an avowed quarrel betweenDouglas Dale and his cousin, Sir Reginald, and the infliction of ever-growing injury on Paulina's reputation, --the sooner such a rupturecould be brought about the better. Therefore Victor Carrington assumeda tone of reserve and mystery, which did not fail to exasperate SirReginald. 

"Do not question me, Reginald, " he said. "You are afflicted with a lackof moral courage, and your want of nerve would only enfeeble my hand. Know nothing--expect nothing. Those who are at work for you know how todo their work quietly. Oh, by the way, I want you to sign a littledocument--very much the style of thing you gave me at Raynham Castle. "

Nothing could be more careless than the Frenchman's tone and manner ashe said this; but the document in question was a deed of gift, by whichReginald Eversleigh bestowed upon Victor Carrington the clear half ofwhatever income should arise to him, from real or personal property, from the date of the first day of June following. 

"I am to give you half my income?"

"Yes, my dear Reginald, after the first of next June. You know that Iam working laboriously to bring about good fortune for you. You cannotsuppose that I am working for nothing. If you do not choose to signthis document, neither do I choose to devote myself any longer to yourinterest. "

"And what if you fail?"

"If I fail, the document in question is so much waste paper, since youhave no income at present, nor are likely to have any income betweenthis and next June, unless by my agency. "

The result was the same as usual. Reginald signed the deed, withouteven taking the trouble to study its full bearing. 

"Have you seen Paulina lately?" he asked, afterwards. 

"Not very lately. "

"I don't know what's amiss with her, " exclaimed Reginald, peevishly;"she has not written to me to ask explanation of my absence andsilence. "

"Perhaps she grew tired of writing to a person who valued her lettersso lightly. "

"I was glad enough to hear from her, " answered Reginald; "but I couldnot be expected to find time to answer all her letters. Women havenothing better to do than to scribble long epistles. "

"Perhaps Madame Durski has found some one who will take the trouble toanswer her letters, " said Victor. 

After this, the two men parted, and Reginald Eversleigh called a cab, in which he drove down to Hilton House. 

He might have stayed away much longer, in self-interested obedience toCarrington, had he been sure of Paulina's unabated devotion; but he waspiqued by her silence, and he wanted to discover whether there was arival in the field. 

He knew Madame Durski's habits, and that it was not till late in theafternoon that she was to be seen. 

It was nearly six o'clock when he drove up to the door of Hilton House. Carlo Toas admitted him, and favoured him with a searching and somewhatsevere scrutiny, as he led the way to the drawing-room in which Paulinawas wont to receive her guests. 

Here Sir Reginald felt some little surprise, and a touch ofmortification, on beholding the aspect of things. He had expected tofind Paulina pensive, unhappy, perhaps ill. He had expected to see heragitated at his coming. He had pondered much upon the cessation of herletters; and he had told himself that she had ceased to write becauseshe was angry with him--with that anger which exists only where thereis love. 

To his surprise, he found her brilliant, radiant, dressed in her mostcharming style. 

Never had he seen her looking more beautiful or more happy. 

He pressed the widow's hand tenderly, and contemplated her for somemoments in silence. 

"My dear Paulina, " he said at last, "I never saw you looking morelovely than to-night. And yet to-night I almost feared to find youill. "

"Indeed; and why so?" she asked. Her tone was the ordinary tone ofsociety, from which it was impossible to draw any inference. 

"Because it is so long since I heard from you. "

"I have grown tired of writing letters that were rarely honoured byyour notice. "

"So, so, " thought the baronet; "I was right. She is offended. "

"To what do I owe this visit?" asked Madame Durski. 

"She is desperately angry, " thought the baronet. "My dear Paulina, " hesaid, aloud, "can you imagine that your letters were indifferent to me?I have been busy, and, as you know, I have been away from London. "

"Yes, " she said; "you spent your Christmas very agreeably, I believe. "

"Not at all, I assure you. A bachelors' party in a country parsonage isone of the dullest things possible, to say nothing of the tragicalevent which ended my visit, " added Reginald, his cheek paling as hespoke. 

"A bachelors' party!" repeated Paulina; "there were no ladies, then, atyour cousin's house?"

"None. "

"Indeed!"

Paulina Durski's lip curled contemptuously, but she did not openlyconvict Sir Reginald of the deliberate falsehood he had uttered. 

"I am very glad you have come to me, " she said, presently, "because Ihave urgent need of your help. "

"My dear Paulina, believe me--" began the baronet

"Do not make your protest till you have heard what I have to ask, " saidMadame Durski. "You know how troublesome my creditors had become beforeChristmas. The time has arrived when they must be paid, or when I--"

She stopped, and looked searchingly at the face of her companion. 

"When you--what?" he asked. "What is the alternative, Paulina?"

"I think you ought to know as well as I, " she answered. "I must eitherpay those debts or fly from this place, and from this country, disgraced. I appeal to you in this bitter hour of need. Can you nothelp me--you, who have professed to love me?"

"Surely, Paulina, you cannot doubt my love, " replied Sir Reginald;"unhappily, there is no magical process by which the truest and purestlove can transform itself into money. I have not a twenty-pound note inthe world. "

"Indeed; and the four hundred and fifty pounds you won from LordCaversham just before Christmas--is that money gone?"

"Every shilling of it, " answered Reginald, coolly. 

He had notes to the amount of nearly two hundred pounds in his desk;but he was the last man in Christendom to sacrifice money which hehimself required, and his luxurious habits kept him always deeply indebt. 

"You must have disposed of it very speedily. Surely, it is not allgone, Reginald. I think a hundred would satisfy my creditors, for atime at least. "

"I tell you it is gone, Paulina. I gave you a considerable sum at thetime I won the money--you should remember. "

"Yes, I remember perfectly. You gave me fifty pounds--fifty pounds forthe support of the house which enabled you to entrap your dupes, whileI was the bait to lure them to their ruin. Oh, you have been verygenerous, very noble; and now that your dupes are tired of beingcheated--now that your cat's paw has become useless to you--I am toleave the country, because you will not sacrifice one selfish desire tosave me from disgrace. "

"This is absurd, Paulina, " exclaimed the baronet, impatiently; "youtalk the usual nonsense women indulge in when they can't haveeverything their own way. It is not in my power to help you to pay yourcreditors, and you had much better slip quietly away while you are freeto do so, and before they contrive to get you into prison. You knowwhat Sheridan said about frittering away his money in paying his debts. There's no knowing where to leave off if you once begin that sort ofthing. "

"You would have me steal away in secret, like what you English call aswindler!"

"You needn't dwell upon unpleasant names. Some of the best people inEngland have been obliged to cross the water for the same reasons thatrender your residence here unpleasant. There's nothing to be gained bysentimental talk about the business, my dear Paulina. My friends at theclubs have begun to grow suspicious of this house, and I don't thinkthere's a chance of my ever winning another sovereign in these rooms. Why, then, should you remain to be tormented by your creditors? Returnto Paris, where you have twice as many devoted slaves and admirers asin this detestable straight-laced land of ours. I will slip across assoon as ever I can settle my affairs here some way or other, and oncemore you may be queen of a brilliant _salon_, while I--"

"While you may find a convenient cat's paw for getting hold of newplunder, " cried Paulina, with unmitigated scorn. Then, with a suddenburst of passion, she exclaimed, "Oh, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, I thankProvidence for this interview. At last--at last, I understand youcompletely. I have been testing you, Sir Reginald--I have been soundingyour character. I have stooped to beg for help from you, in order thatI might know the broken reed on which I have leaned. And now I canlaugh at you, and despise you. Go, Sir Reginald Eversleigh; this houseis mine--my home--no longer a private gambling-house--no longer a snarefor the delusion of your rich friends. I am no longer friendless. Mydebts have been paid--paid by one who, if he had owned but onesixpence, would have given it to me, content to be penniless himselffor my sake. I have no need of your help. I am not obliged to creepaway in the night like a felon, from the house that has sheltered me. Ican now dare to call myself mistress of this house, unfettered by debt, untrammelled by the shameful secrets that made my life odious to me;and my first act as mistress of this house shall be to forbid its doorsto you. "

"Indeed, Madame Durski!" cried Reginald, with a sneer; "this is awonderful change. "

"You thought, perhaps, there were no limits to a woman's folly, " saidPaulina; "but you see you were wrong. There is an end even to that. Andnow, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, I will wish you good evening, andfarewell. "

"Is this a farce, Paulina?" asked the baronet, in a voice that wasalmost stifled by rage. 

"No, Sir Reginald, it is a stern reality, " answered Madame Durski, laying her hand on the bell. 

Her summons was speedily answered by Carlo Toas. 

"Carlo, the door, " she said, quietly. 

The baronet gave her one look--a dark and threatening glance--and thenleft the room, followed by the Spaniard, who conducted him to his cabwith every token of grave respect. 

"Curse her!" muttered Sir Reginald, between his set teeth, as he droveaway from Hilton House. "It must be Douglas Dale who has given her thepower to insult me thus, and he shall pay for her insolence. But whydid Victor bring those two together? An alliance between them can onlyresult in mischief to me. I must and will fathom his motive for conductthat seems so incomprehensible. "

 * * * * *

Sir Reginald and his fatal ally, Carrington, met on the following day, and the former angrily related the scene which had been enacted atHilton House. 

"Your influence has been at work there, " he exclaimed. "You havebrought about an alliance between this woman and Douglas Dale. "

"I have, " answered Victor, coolly. "Mr. Dale has offered her his handand fortune, as well as his heart, and has been accepted. "

"You are going to play me false, Victor Carrington!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes, or else why take such pains to bring about this marriage?"

"You are a fool, Reginald Eversleigh, and an obstinate fool, or youwould not harp upon this subject after what I have said. I have toldyou that the marriage which you fear will never take place. "

"How will you prevent it?"

"As easily as I could bring it about, did I choose to do so. Pshaw! mydear boy, the simple, honest people in this world are so many puppets, and it needs but the master-mind to pull the strings. "

"If this marriage is not intended to take place, why have you broughtabout an engagement between Paulina and Douglas?" asked the baronet, innowise convinced by what his ally had said. "I have my reasons, andgood ones, though you are too dull of brain to perceive them, " repliedVictor, impatiently. "You and your cousin, Douglas Dale, have been fastfriends, have you not?"

"We have. "

"Listen to me, then. If he were to die without direct heirs you are theonly person who would profit by his death; and if he, a young; man, powerful of frame, in robust health, no likely subject for disease, were to die, leaving you owner of ten thousand a year, and were to diewhile in the habit of holding daily intercourse with you, known to beyour friend and companion, is it not just possible that malevolent andsuspicious people might drop strange hints as to the cause of hisdeath? They might harp upon your motives for wishing him out of theway. They might dwell upon the fact that you were so much together, andthat you had such opportunities--mark me, Reginald, _opportunities_--for tampering with the one solitary life which stood between you andfortune. They might say all this, might they not?"

"Yes, " replied Reginald, in his gloomiest tone, "they might. "

"Very well, then, if you take my advice, you will cut your cousin'sacquaintance from this time. You will take care to let your friends ofthe clubs know that he has supplanted you in the affections of thewoman you loved, and that you and he are no longer on speaking terms. You will cut him publicly at one of your clubs; so that the fact of thecoldness between you may become sufficiently notorious. And when youhave done this, you will start for the Continent. "

"Go abroad? But why?"

"That is my secret. Remember, you have promised to obey me blindly, "answered Victor. "You will go abroad; you will let the world know thatyou and Douglas Dale are divided by the width of the Channel; you willleave him free to devote himself to the woman he has chosen for hiswife; and if, while engaged to her, an untimely fate should overtakethis young man--if he, like his elder brother, should be removed fromyour pathway, the most malicious scandal-monger that ever lived couldscarcely say that you had any hand in his fate. "

"I understand, " murmured Reginald, in a low voice; "I understand. "

He said no more. He had grown white to the very lips; and those palelips were dry and feverish. But the conversation changed abruptly, andDouglas Dale's name was not again mentioned. 

In the meantime, the betrothed lovers had been very happy and thisinterview, which she had always dreaded but felt she could not avoid, having passed over, Paulina was more at liberty to realize her changedposition, and dwell on her future prospects. She was really happy, butin her happiness there was some touch of fever, something too much ofnervous excitement. It was not the calm happiness which makes thecrowning joy of an untroubled life. A long career of artificialexcitement, of alternate fears and hopes, the mad delight and madderdespair which makes the gambler's fever, had unfitted Paulina for thequiet peace of a spirit at rest. She yearned for rest, but the angel ofrest had been scared away by the long nights of dissipation, and wouldnot answer to her call. 

Victor Carrington had fathomed the mystery of her feverish gaiety--herintervals of dull apathy that was almost despair. In the depth of hermisery she had lulled herself to a false repose by the use of opium;and even now, when the old miseries were no more, she could not existwithout the poisonous anodyne. 

"Douglas Dale must be blinded by his infatuation, or he would havefound out the state of the case by this time, " Victor said to himself. "Circumstances could not be more favourable to my plans. A man who isblind and deaf, and utterly idiotic under the influence of an absurdinfatuation, one woman whose brains are intoxicated by opium, andanother who would sell her soul for money. "

 * * * * *

These incidents, which have occupied so much space in the telling, inreality did not fill up much time. Only a month had elapsed sinceLionel Dale's death, when Reginald Eversleigh and Paulina had theinterview described above. And now it seemed as though Fate itself wereconspiring with the conspirators, for the watch kept upon them byAndrew Larkspur was perforce delayed, and Lady Eversleigh's designs ofretributive punishment were suspended. A few days after the return ofMr. Larkspur to town, that gentleman was seized with serious illness, and for three weeks was unable to leave his bed. Mr. Andrew lay illwith acute bronchitis, in the lodging-house in Percy Street, and Mrs. Eden was compelled to wait his convalescence with what patience shemight. 

 * * * * *

Sir Reginald Eversleigh and Douglas Dale met at the Phoenix Club soonafter Reginald's interview with Madame Durski. 

Douglas met his cousin with a quiet and courteous manner, in whichthere was no trace of unfriendly feeling: a manner that expressed solittle of any feeling whatever as to be almost negative. 

It was not so, however, with Sir Reginald. He remembered VictorCarrington's advice as to the wisdom of a palpable estrangement betweenhimself and his cousin, and he took good care to act upon that counsel. 

This course was, indeed, the only one that would have been at allagreeable to him. 

He hated Douglas Dale with all the force of his evil nature, as theinnocent instrument of Sir Oswald's retribution upon the destroyer ofMary Goodwin. 

He envied the young man the advantages which his own bad conduct hadforfeited; and he now had learned to hate him with redoubled intensity, as the man who had supplanted him in the affections of Paulina Durski. 

The two men met in the smoking-room of the club at the most fashionablehour of the day. 

Nothing could have been more conspicuous than the haughty insolence ofthe spendthrift baronet as he saluted his wealthy cousin. 

"How is it I have not seen you at my chambers in the Temple, Eversleigh?" asked Douglas, in that calm tone of studied courtesy whichexpresses so little. 

"Because I had no particular reason for calling on you; and because, ifI had wished to see you, I should scarcely have expected to find you inyour Temple chambers, " answered Sir Reginald. "If report does not belieyou, you spend the greater part of your existence at a certain villa atFulham. "

There was that in Sir Reginald Eversleigh's tone which attracted theattention of the men within hearing--almost all of whom were wellacquainted with the careers of the two cousins, and many of whom knewthem personally. 

Though the club loungers were too well-bred to listen, it wasnevertheless obvious that the attention of all had been more or lessaroused by the baronet's tone and manner. 

Douglas Dale answered, in accents as audible, and a tone as haughty asthe accents and tone of his cousin. 

"Report is not likely to belie me, " he said, "since there is no mysteryin my life to afford food for gossip. If by a certain villa at Fulhamyou mean Hilton House, you are not mistaken. I have the honour to be afrequent guest at that house. "

"It is an honour which many of us have enjoyed, " answered Reginald, with a sneer. 

"An honour which I used to find deuced expensive, by Jove!" exclaimedViscount Caversham, who was standing near Douglas Dale. 

"That was at the time when Sir Reginald Eversleigh usurped the positionof host in Madame Durski's house, " replied Douglas. "You would findthings much changed there now, Caversham, were the lady to favour youby an invitation. When Madame Durski first came to England she was sounfortunate as to fall into the hands of evil counsellors. She haslearned since to know her friends from her enemies. "

"She is a very charming woman, " drawled the viscount, laughingly; "butif you want to keep a balance at your banker's, Dale, I should stronglyadvise you to refuse her hospitality. "

"Madame Durski will shortly be my wife, " replied Douglas, in a voiceloud enough to be heard by the bystanders; "and the smallest wordcalculated to cast a slur on her fair fame will be an insult to me--aninsult which I shall know how to resent. "

This announcement fell like a thunderbolt in the assembly offashionable idlers. All knew the history of the house at Fulham. Theyknew of Paulina Durski only as a beautiful, but dangerous, syren, whosefatal smiles lured men to their ruin. That Douglas Dale should unitehimself to such a woman seemed to them little short of absolutemadness. 

Love must be strong indeed which will face the ridicule of mankindunflinchingly. Douglas Dale knew that, in redeeming Paulina from hermiserable situation, in elevating her to a position that many blamelessand well-born Englishwomen would have gladly accepted, he was making asacrifice which the men amongst whom he lived would condemn as the actof a fool. But he was willing to endure this, painful though it was tohim, for the sake of the woman he loved. 

"Better that I should have the scorn of shallow-brained worldlings thanthat the blight on her life should continue, " he said to himself. "Whenshe is my wife, no man will dare to question her honour--no woman willdare to frown upon her when she enters society leaning on my arm. "

This is what Douglas Dale repeated to himself very often during hiscourtship of Paulina Durski. This is what he thought as he stood erectand defiant in the crowded room of the Pall Mall club, facing thecurious looks of his acquaintances. 

After the first shock there was a dead silence; no voice murmured thecommon-place phrases of congratulation which might naturally havefollowed such an announcement. If Douglas Dale had just announced thatsome dire misfortune had befallen him, the faces of the men around himcould not have been more serious. No one smiled; no one applauded hischoice; not one voice congratulated him on having won for himself sofair a bride. 

That ominous silence told Douglas Dale how terrible was the stigmawhich the world had set upon her he so fondly loved. The anguish whichrent his heart during those few moments is not to be expressed bywords. After that most painful silence, he walked to the table at whichit was his habit to sit, and began to read a newspaper. Sir Reginaldwatched him furtively for a few moments in silence, and then left theroom. 

After this the two cousins met frequently; but they never spoke. Theypassed each other with the coldest and most ceremonious salutation. Theidlers of the club perceived this, and commented on the fact. 

"Douglas Dale and his cousin are not on speaking terms, " they said:"they have quarrelled about that beautiful Austrian widow, at whosehouse there used to be such high play. "

In Paulina's society, Douglas tried to forget the cruel shadow whichdarkened, and which, in all likelihood, would for ever darken, hername; and while in her society he contrived to banish from his mind allbitter thought of the world's harsh verdict and cruel condemnation. 

But away from Paulina he was tortured by the recollection of that sceneat the Phoenix Club; tormented by the thought that, let him make whatsacrifice he might, he could never wipe out the stain which thosemidnight assemblies of gamesters had left on his future wife'sreputation. 

"We will leave England for ever after the marriage, " he said to himselfsometimes. "We will make our home in some fair Italian city, where myPaulina will be respected and admired as if she were a queen, as wellas the loveliest and sweetest of women. "

If he asked Paulina where their future life was to be spent she alwaysreplied to him in the same manner. 

"Wherever you take me I shall be content, " she said. "I can never begrateful enough for your goodness; I can never repay the debt I oweyou. Let our future be your planning, not mine. "

"And you have no wish, no fancy, that I can realize, Paulina?"

"None. Prom my earliest girlhood I have sighed for only one blessing--peace! You have given me that. What more can I ask at your hands? Ah!Douglas, I fear my love has already cost you too dearly. The world willnever forgive you for your choice; you, who might make so brilliant amarriage!"

Her generous feelings once aroused, Paulina could be almost as noble asher lover. Again and again she implored him to withdraw his promise--toleave, and to forget her. 

"Believe me, Douglas, our engagement is a mistake, " she said. "Considerthis before it is too late. You are a proud man where honour isconcerned, and the past life of her whom you marry should be withoutspot or blemish. It is not so with me. If I have not sinned as otherwomen have sinned, I have stooped to be the companion of gamblers androués; I have allowed my house to become the haunt of reckless anddissipated men. Society revenges itself cruelly upon those who breakits laws. Society will neither forget nor forgive my offence. "

"I do not live for society, but for you, Paulina, " replied Douglas, passionately; "you are all the world to me. Let me never hear thesearguments again, unless you would have me think that you are weary ofme, and that you only want an excuse for getting rid of me. "

"Weary of you!" exclaimed Paulina; "my friend, my benefactor. How can Iever prove my gratitude for your goodness--your devotion?"

"By learning to love me a little, " answered Douglas, tenderly. 

"The lesson ought not to be difficult, " Paulina murmured. 

Could she do less than love this noble friend, this pure-minded andunselfish adorer?

He came to her one day, accompanied by a solicitor; but beforeintroducing the man of law, he asked for a private interview withPaulina, and in this interview gave her a new proof of his devotion. 

"In thinking much of our position, dearest, I have been struck with asudden terror of the uncertainty of life. What would be your fate, Paulina, if anything were to happen--if--well, if I were to diesuddenly, as men so often die in this high-pressure age, beforemarriage had united our interests? What would be your fate, alone andhelpless, assailed once more by all the perplexities of poverty, and, perhaps, subject to the mean spite of my cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, who does not forgive me for having robbed him of his place in yourheart, little as he was worthy of your love?"

"Oh, Douglas!" exclaimed Paulina, "why do you imagine such things? Whyshould death assail you?"

"Why, indeed, dearest, " returned Douglas, with a smile. "Do not thinkthat I anticipate so sad a close to our engagement. But it is the dutyof a man to look sharply out for every danger in the pathway of thewoman he is bound to protect. I am a lawyer, remember, Paulina, and Icontemplate the future with the eye of a lawyer. So far as I can secureyou from even the possibility of misfortune, I will do it. I havebrought a solicitor here to-day, in order that he may read you a willwhich I have this morning executed in your favour. "

"A will!" repeated Madame Durski; "you are only too good to me. Butthere is something horrible to my mind in these legal formalities. "

"That is only a woman's prejudice. It is the feminine idea that a manmust needs be at the point of death when he makes his will. And now letme explain the nature of this will, " continued Douglas. "I have toldyou that if I should happen to die without direct heirs, the estateleft me by Sir Oswald Eversleigh will go to my cousin Reginald. Thatestate, from which is derived my income, I have no power to alienate; Iam a tenant for life only. But my income has been double, and sometimestreble, my expenditure, for my habits have been very simple, and mylife only that of a student in the Temple. My sole extravagance, indeed, has been the collection of a library. I have, therefore, beenable to save twelve thousand pounds, and this sum is my own tobequeath. I have made a will, leaving this amount to you, Paulina--charged only with a small annuity to a faithful old servant--togetherwith my personal property, consisting only of a few good Italianpictures, a library of rare old books, and the carvings and decorationsof my roams--all valuable in their way. This is all the law allows meto give you, Paulina; but it will, at least, secure you from want. "

Madame Durski tried to speak; but she was too deeply affected by thisnew proof of her lover's generosity. Tears choked her utterance; shetook Douglas Dale's hand in both her own, and lifted it to her lips;and this silent expression of gratitude touched his heart more than themost eloquent speech could have affected it. 

He led her into the room where the attorney awaited her. 

"This gentleman is Mr. Horley, " he said, "a friend and adviser in whomyou may place unbounded confidence. My will is to remain in hispossession; and should any untimely fate overtake me, he will protectyour interests. And now, Mr. Horley, will you be good enough to readthe document to Madame Durski, in order that she may understand whather position would be in case of the worst?"

Mr. Horley read the will. It was as simple and concise as the lawallows any legal document to be; and it made Paulina Durski mistress oftwelve thousand pounds, and property equal to two or three thousandmore, in the event of Douglas Dale's death. 

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXXI. 

 "A WORTHLESS WOMAN, MERE COLD CLAY. "

Neither Lydia Graham nor her brother were quick to recover from thedisappointment caused by the untimely fate of Lionel Dale. Miss Grahamendeavoured to sustain her failing spirits with the hope that inDouglas she might find a wealthier prize than his brother; but Douglaswas yet to be enslaved by those charms which Lydia herself felt were onthe wane, and by fascinations which twelve years of fashionableexistence had rendered somewhat stale even to the fair Lydia's mostardent admirers. 

It was very bitter--the cup had been so near her lips, when an adversedestiny had dashed it from her. The lady's grief was painfully sincere. She did not waste one lamentation on her lover's sad fate, but she mostbitterly regretted her own loss of a rich husband. 

She watched and hoped day after day for the promised visit from DouglasDale, but he did not come. Every day during visiting hours she wore hermost becoming toilets; she arranged her small drawing-room with thestudied carelessness of an elegant woman; she seated herself in hermost graceful attitudes every time the knocker heralded the advent of acaller; but it was all so much wasted labour. The only guest whom shecared to see was not among those morning visitors; and Lydia's heartbegan to be oppressed by a sense of despair. 

"Well, Gordon, have you heard anything of Douglas Dale?" she asked herbrother, day after day. 

One day he came home with a very gloomy face, and when she uttered theusual question, he answered her in his gloomiest tone. 

"I've heard something you'll scarcely care to learn, " he said, "as itmust sound the death-knell of all your hopes in that quarter. You know, Douglas Dale is a member of the Phoenix, as well as the Forum. I don'tbelong to the Phoenix, as you also know, but I meet Dale occasionallyat the Forum. Yesterday I lunched with Lord Caversham, a member of thePhoenix, and an acquaintance of Dale's; and from him I learned thatDouglas Dale has publicly announced his intended marriage with PaulinaDurski. "

"Impossible!" exclaimed Lydia. 

She had heard of Paulina and the villa at Fulham from her brother, andshe hated the lovely Austrian for the beauty and the fascination whichwon her a kind of renown amongst the fops and lordlings--the idlers andspendthrifts of the fashionable clubs. 

"It cannot be true, " cried Miss Graham, flushing crimson with anger. "It is one of Lord Caversham's absurd stories; and I dare say iswithout the slightest foundation. I cannot and will not believe thatDouglas Dale would throw himself away upon such a woman as this MadameDurski. "

"You have never seen her?"

"Of course not. "

"Then don't speak so very confidently, " said Captain Graham, who wasmalicious enough to take some pleasure in his sister's discomfiture. "Paulina Durski is one of the handsomest women I ever saw; not abovefive-and-twenty years of age--elegant, fascinating, patrician--a womanfor whose sake a wiser man than Douglas Dale might be willing tosacrifice himself. "

"I will see Mr. Dale, " exclaimed Lydia. "I will ascertain from his ownlips whether there is any foundation for this report. "

"How will you contrive to see him?" "You must arrange that for me. Youcan invite him to dinner. "

"I can invite him; but the question is whether he will come. Perhaps, if you were to write him a note, he would be more flattered than by anyverbal invitation from me. "

Lydia was not slow to take this hint. She wrote one of those charmingand flattering epistles which an artful and self-seeking woman of theworld so well knows how to pen. She expressed her surprise and regretat not having seen Mr. Dale since her return to town--her fear that hemight be ill, her hope that he would accept an invitation to a friendlydinner with herself and her brother, who was also most anxious abouthim. 

She was not destined to disappointment. On the following day shereceived a brief note from Mr. Dale, accepting her invitation for thenext evening. 

The note was very stiffly--nay, almost coldly worded; but Lydiaattributed the apparent lack of warmth to the reserved nature ofDouglas Dale, rather than to any failure of her own scheme. 

The fact that he accepted her invitation at all, she considered a proofof the falsehood of the report about his intended marriage, and a goodomen for herself. 

She took care to provide a _recherché_ little dinner for her importantguest, low as the finances of herself and her brother were--and werelikely to be for some time to come. She invited a dashing widow, whowas her obliging friend and neighbour, and who was quite ready to playpropriety for the occasion. Lydia Graham looked her handsomest whenDouglas Dale was ushered into her presence that evening; but she littleknew how indifferent were the eyes that contemplated her bold, darkbeauty; and how, even as he looked at her, Douglas Dale's thoughtswandered to the fair, pale face of Paulina Durski--that face, which forhim was the loveliest that had ever beamed with light and beauty belowthe stars. 

The dinner was to all appearance a success. Nothing could be morecordial or friendly, as it seemed, than that party of four, seated at aprettily decorated circular table, attended by a well-trained man-servant--the dashing widow's butler and factotum, borrowed for theoccasion. 

Mrs. Marmaduke, the dashing widow, made herself very agreeable, andtook care to engage Captain Graham in conversation all the evening, leaving Lydia free to occupy the entire attention of Douglas Dale. 

That young lady made excellent use of her time. Day by day her chancesof a rich marriage had grown less and less, and day by day she hadgrown more and more anxious to secure a position and a home. She had avery poor opinion of Mr. Dale's intellect, for she believed only in thecleverness of those bolder and more obtrusive men who make themselvesprominent in every assembly. She thought him a man easily to bebeguiled by honeyed words and bewitching glances, and she had, therefore, determined to play a bold, if not a desperate game. WhileMrs. Marmaduke and Captain Graham were talking in the front drawing-room, Lydia contrived to detain her guest in the inner apartment--atiny chamber, just large enough to hold a small cottage piano, a standof music-books, and a couple of chairs. 

Miss Graham seated herself at the piano, and played a few bars with anabsent and somewhat pensive air. 

"That is a mournful melody, " said Douglas. "I don't think I ever heardit before. "

"Indeed!" murmured Lydia; "and yet I think it is very generally known. The air is pretty, is it not? But the words are ultra-sentimental. "

And then she began to sing softly--

 "I do not ask to offer thee A timid love like mine; I lay it, as the rose is laid, On some immortal shrine. "

"I think the words are rather pretty, " said Douglas. 

"Do you?" murmured Miss Graham; and then she stopped suddenly, lookingdownward, with one of those conscious blushes which were always at hercommand. 

There was a pause. Douglas Dale stood by the music-stand, listlesslyturning over a volume of songs. 

Lydia was the first to break the silence. 

"Why did you not come to see us sooner, Mr. Dale?" she asked. "Youpromised me you would come. "

"I have been too much engaged to come, " answered Douglas. 

This reply sounded almost rude; but to Lydia this unpolished mannerseemed only the result of extreme shyness, and, indeed, embarrassment, which to her appeared proof positive of her intended victim'senthralment. 

Her eyes grew bright with a glance of triumph. 

"I shall win, " she thought to herself; "I shall win. "

"Have you really wished to see me?" asked Douglas, after another pause. 

"I did indeed wish to see you, " she murmured, in tremulous tones. 

"Indeed!" said Douglas, in a tone that might mean astonishment, delight, or anything else. "Well, Miss Graham, that was very kind ofyou. I go out very little, and never except to the houses of intimatefriends. "

"Surely you number us--my brother, I mean--among that privilegedclass, " said Lydia, once more blushing bewitchingly. 

"I do, indeed, " said Douglas Dale, in a candid, kind, unembarrassedtone, which, if she had been a little less under the dominion of thatproverbially blinding quality, vanity, would have been the mostdiscouraging of all possible tones, to the schemes which she hadformed; "I never forget how high you stood in my poor brother's esteem, Miss Graham; indeed, if you will pardon my saying so, I thought therewas a much warmer feeling than that, on his part. "

Lydia hardly knew how to take this observation. In one sense it wasflattering, in another discouraging. If the belief brought Douglas Daleinto easier relations with her, if it induced him to feel that a bondof friendship, cemented by the memory of the past, subsisted betweenthem, so much the better for her purpose; but if he believed that thissupposed love of Lionel's had been returned, and proposed to cultivateher on the mutual sympathy, or "weep with thee, tear for tear, "principle, so much the worse. The position was undeniably embarrassingeven to a young lady of Miss Lydia Graham's remarkable strength ofmind, and _savoir faire_. But she extricated herself from it, withoutspeaking, by some wonderful management of her eyes, and a slightdeprecatory movement of her shoulders, which made even Douglas Dale, aby no means ready man, though endowed with deep feelings and strongcommon sense, understand, as well as if she had spoken, that Lionel hadindeed entertained feelings of a tender nature towards her, but thatshe had not returned them by any warmer sentiment than friendship. Itwas admirably well done; and the next sentence which Douglas Dale spokewas certainly calculated to nourish Lydia's hopes. 

"He might have sustained a terrible grief, then, had he lived longer, "said Douglas; "but I see this subject pains you, Miss Graham; I willtouch upon it no more. But perhaps you will allow the recollection ofwhat we must both believe to have been his feelings and his hopes, toplead with you for me. "

"For you, Mr. Dale!" and Lydia Graham's breast heaved with genuineemotion, and her voice trembled with no artificial faltering. 

"Yes, Miss Graham, for me. I need a friend, such a friend as you couldbe, if you would, to counsel and to aid me. But, pardon me, I amdetaining you, and you have another guest. " (How ardently Lydia Grahamwished she had not invited the accommodating widow to play propriety!)"You will permit me to visit you soon again, and we will speak of muchwhich cannot now be discussed. May I come soon?"

As he spoke these hope-inspiring words, there was genuine eagerness inthe tone of Douglas Dale's voice, there was brightness in his frankeyes. No wonder Lydia held the story her brother had told her inscornful disbelief; no wonder she felt all the glow of the fulfilmentof long-deferred hope. What would have been her sensations had sheknown that Douglas Dale's only actuating motive in the proposedfriendly alliance, was to secure a female friend for his adoredPaulina, to gain for her the countenance and protection of a womanwhose place in society was recognized and unassailable?

"You will excuse my joining your brother and your friend now, will younot, Miss Graham? I must, at all events, have taken an early leave ofyou, and this conversation has given me much to think of. I shall seeyou soon again. Good night!"

He moved hastily, passed through the door of the small apartment which, opened on the staircase, and was gone. Lydia Graham remained alone fora few moments, in a triumphant reverie, then she joined Gordon Grahamand the bewitching widow, who had been making the most of theopportunity for indulging in her favourite florid style of flirtation. 

"I have won, " Lydia said to herself; "and how easily! Poor fellow; hisagitation was really painful. He did not even stop to shake hands withme. "

Mrs. Marmaduke took leave of her dearest Lydia, and her dearest Lydia'sbrother, soon after Douglas Dale had departed, and Miss Graham and herbrother were left _tête-à-tête_. 

"Well, " said Gordon Graham, with rather a sulky air, "you don't seem tohave done much execution by your dinner-party, my young lady. Dale wentoff in a great hurry, which does not say much for your powers offascination. "

Lydia gave her head a triumphant little toss as she looked at herbrother. 

"You are remarkably clever, my dear Gordon, " she said; "but you are aptto make mistakes occasionally, in spite of your cleverness. What shouldyou say if I were to tell you that Mr. Dale has this evening almostmade me an offer of his hand?"

"You don't mean to say so?"

"I do mean to say so, " answered Lydia, triumphantly. "He is one of thateccentric kind of people who have their own manner of doing things, anddo not care to tread the beaten track; or it may be that it is only hisreserved nature which renders him strange and awkward in his manner ofavowing himself. "

"Never mind how awkwardly the offer has been made, provided it isgenuine, " returned the practical Captain Graham. "But I don't like'almosts. ' Besides, you really must mind what you are about, Lydia; forI assure you there is no doubt at all about the fact of his engagement. He stated it himself. "

"Well, and suppose he did, " said Lydia, "and suppose some good-for-nothing woman, in an equivocal position, _has_ trapped him into anoffer. Is he the first man who has got into a dilemma of that kind, andgot out of it? He thought I cared for Lionel, and that so there was nohope for him. I can quite understand his getting himself into anentanglement of the kind, under such circumstances. "

Gordon Graham smiled, a certain satirical smile, intensely irritatingto his sister's temper (which she called her nerves), and which it wasrather fortunate she did not see. He was perfectly alive to theomnivorous quality of his sister's vanity, and perfectly aware that ithad on many occasions led her into a fool's paradise, whence she hadbeen ejected into the waste regions of disappointment and bitterness ofspirit. He had been quite willing that she should try the experimentupon Douglas Dale, to which that gentleman had just been subjected; buthe had not been sanguine as to its results, and he did not implicitlyconfide in the very exhilarating statement now made to him by Lydia. IfDouglas Dale's "almost" proposal meant nothing more than that he wouldbe glad, or implied that he would be glad to be off with Paulina and onwith Lydia, he did not think very highly of the chances of the latter. A man of the world, in the worst sense of that widely significant word, Gordon Graham was inclined to think that Douglas Dale was merelytrifling with his sister, indulging in a "safe" flirtation, under theaegis of an avowed engagement. Graham felt very anxious to know theparticulars of the conversation between Dale and his sister, in orderto discover how far they bore out his theory; but he knew Lydia toowell to place implicit reliance on any statement of them he mightelicit from her. 

"Well, but, " said he, "supposing you are right in all this, the'entanglement, ' as you call it, exists. How did he explain, or excuseit?"

Lydia smiled, a self-satisfied, contemptuous smile. She was not jealousof Madame Durski; she despised her. "He did not excuse it; he did notexplain; he knows he has no severity to fear from me. All he needs isto induce me to acknowledge my affection for him, and then he will soonrid himself of all obstacles. Don't be afraid, Gordon; this is a greatfalling off from the ambitions I once cherished, the hopes I onceformed; this is a very different kind of thing from Sir OswaldEversleigh and Raynham Castle, but I have made up my mind to be contentwith it. "

Lydia spoke with a kind of virtuous resignation and resolution, infinitely assuring to her brother. But he was getting tired of thediscussion, and desirous to end it. Anxious as he was to be rid of hissister, and to effect the riddance on the best possible terms, he didnot mean to be bored by her just then. So he spoke to the point atonce. 

"That's rather a queer mode of proceeding, " he said. "You are to avowyour affection for this fine gentleman, and then he is to throw overanother lady in order to reward your devotion. There was a day whenMiss Graham's pride would have been outraged by a proposition whichcertainly seems rather humiliating. "

Lydia flushed crimson, and looked at her brother with angry eyes. Shefelt the sting of his malicious speech, and knew that it was intendedto wound her. 

"Pride and I have long parted company, " she answered, bitterly. "I havelearnt to endure degradation as placidly as you do when you condescendto become the toady and flatterer of richer men than yourself. "

Captain Graham did not take the trouble to resent this remark. Hesmiled at his sister's anger, with the air of a man who is quiteindifferent to the opinion of others. 

"Well, my dear Lydia, " he said, good-humouredly, "all I can say is, that if you have caught the brother of your late admirer, you are verylucky. The merest schoolboy knows enough arithmetic to be aware thatten thousand a year is twice as good as five. And it certainly is notevery woman's fortune to be able to recover a chance which seemed sonearly lost as yours when we left Hallgrove. By all means nail him tohis proposition, and let him throw over the lovely Paulina. What a foolthe man must be not to know his mind a little better!"

"Madame Durski entrapped him into the engagement, " said Lydia, scornfully. 

"Ah, to be sure, women have a way of laying snares of the matrimonialkind, as you and I know, my dear Lydia. And now, good night. Go andthink about your trousseau in the silence of your own apartment. "

Lydia Graham fell asleep that night, secure in the certainty that theend and aim of her selfish life had been at last attained, and disposedto regard the interval as very brief that must elapse before DouglasDale would come to throw himself at her feet. 

For a day or two unwonted peace and serenity were observable in LydiaGraham's demeanour and countenance. She took even more than theordinary pains with her dress; she arranged her little drawing-roommore than ever effectively and with sedulous care, and she remained athome every afternoon, in spite of fine weather and an unusual number ofinvitations. But Douglas Dale made no sign, he did not come, he did notwrite, and all his enthusiastic declarations seemed to have ended innothing. The truth was that Paulina Durski was ill, and in his anxietyand uneasiness, Douglas forgot even the existence of Lydia Graham. 

A vague alarm began to fill Lydia's mind, and she felt as if the goodestablishment, the liberal allowance of pin-money, the equipages, theclever French maid, the diamonds, and all the other delightful thingswhich she had looked upon almost as already her own, were suddenlyvanishing away like a dream. 

Miss Graham was in no very amiable humour when, after a week's watchingand suspense, she descended to the dining-room, a small and shabbilyfurnished apartment, which bore upon it the stamp peculiar to Londonlodging-houses--an aspect which is just the reverse of everything welook for in a home. 

Gordon Graham was already seated at the breakfast-table. 

A letter for Miss Graham lay by the side of her breakfast-cup--a bulkydocument, with four stamps upon the envelope. 

Lydia knew the hand too well. It was that of her French milliner, Mademoiselle Susanne, to whom she owed a sum which she knew never couldbe paid out of her own finances. The thought of this debt had been aperpetual nightmare to her. There was no such thing as bankruptcy for alady of fashion in those days; and it was in the power of MademoiselleSusanna to put her high-bred creditor into a common prison, and detainher there until she had passed the ordeal of the Insolvent Debtors'Court. 

Lydia opened the packet with a sinking heart. There it was, the awfulbill, with its records of elegant dresses--every one of which had beenworn with the hope of conquest, and all of which had, so far, failed toattain the hoped-for victory. And at the end of that long list came thefearful total--close upon three hundred pounds!

"I can never pay it!" murmured Lydia; "never! never!"

Her involuntary exclamation sounded almost like a cry of despair. 

Gordon Graham looked up from the newspaper in which he had beenabsorbed until this moment, and stared at his sister. 

"What's the matter?" he exclaimed. "Oh, I see! it's a bill--Susanne's, I suppose? Well, well, you women will make yourselves handsome at anycost, and you must pay for it sooner or later. If you can secureDouglas Dale, a cheque from him will soon settle Mademoiselle Susanne, and make her your humble slave for the future. But what has gone wrongwith you, my Lydia? Your brow wears a gloomy shade this morning. Haveyou received no tidings of your lover?"

"Gordon, " said Lydia, passionately, "do not taunt me. I don't know whatto think. But I have played a desperate game--I have risked all uponthe hazard of this die--and if I have failed I must submit to my fate. I can struggle no longer; I am utterly weary of a life that has broughtme nothing but disappointment and defeat. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXXII. 

 A MEETING AND AN EXPLANATION. 

For George Jernam's young wife, the days passed sadly enough in thepleasant village of Allanbay. Fair as the scene of her life was, topoor Rosamond it seemed as if the earth were overshadowed by darkclouds, through which no ray of sunlight could penetrate. The affectionwhich had sprung up between her and Susan Jernam was deep and strong, and the only gleam of happiness which Rosamond experienced in hermelancholy existence came from the affection of her husband's aunt. 

If Rosamond's existence was not happy, it was, at least in all outwardseeming, peaceful. But the heart of the deserted wife knew not peace. She was perpetually brooding over the strange circumstances of George'sdeparture--perpetually asking herself why it was he had left her. 

She could shape no answer to that constantly repeated question. 

Had he ceased to love her? No! surely that could not be, for the changewhich arises in the most inconstant heart is, at least, gradual. GeorgeJernam had changed in a day--in an hour. 

Reason upon the subject as she might, the conviction at which Rosamondarrived at last was always the same. She believed that the mysteriouschange that had arisen in the husband she so fondly loved was a changein the mind itself--a sudden monomania, beyond the influence of theouter world--a wild hallucination of the brain, not to be cured by anyordinary physician. 

Believing this, the wife's heart was tortured as she thought of theperils that surrounded her husband's life--perils that were doublyterrible for one whose mind had lost its even balance. 

She watched every alteration in the atmosphere, every cloud in the sky, with unspeakable anxiety. As the autumn gave place to winter, as thewinds blew loud above the broad expanse of ocean, as the foam-crests ofthe dark waves rose high, and gleamed white and silvery in the dimtwilight, her heart sank with an awful fear for the absent wanderer. 

Night and day her prayers arose to heaven--such prayers as only theloving heart of woman breathes for the object of all her thoughts. 

While Rosamond occupied the abode which Captain Jernam had chosen forher, River View Cottage was abandoned entirely to the care of Mrs. Mugby and Susan Trott, and the trim house had a desolate look in thedismal autumn days, and the darkening winter twilights, carefully as itwas kept by Mrs. Mugby, who aired the rooms, and dusted and polishedthe furniture every day, as industriously as if she had been certain ofthe captain's return before night-fall. 

"He may come this night, or he may not come for a year, " she said toSusan very often, when Miss Trott was a little disposed to neglect someof her duties, in the way of dusting and polishing; "but mark my words, Susan, when he does come, he'll come sudden, without so much as oneline of warning, or notice enough to get a bit of dinner ready forhim. "

The day came at last when the housekeeper was gratified to find thatall her dusting and polishing had not been thrown away. CaptainDuncombe returned exactly as she had prophesied he would return, without sending either note or message to give warning of his arrival. 

He rang the bell one day, and walked into the garden, and from thegarden into the house, with the air of a man who had just come homefrom a morning's walk, much to the astonishment of Susan Trott, whoadmitted him, and who stared at him with eyes opened to their widestextent, as he strode hurriedly past her. 

He went straight into the parlour he had been accustomed to sit in. Afire was burning brightly in the polished steel grate, and everythingbore the appearance of extreme comfort. 

The merchant-captain looked round the room with an air of satisfaction. 

"There's nothing like a trip to the Indies for making a man appreciatethe comforts of his own home, " he exclaimed. "How cheery it all looks;and a man must be a fool who couldn't enjoy himself at home aftertossing about in a hurricane off Gibraltar for a week at a stretch. Butwhere's your mistress?" cried Joe Duncombe, suddenly, turning to theastonished Susan. "Where's Mrs. Jernam?--where's my daughter? Doesn'tshe hear her old father's gruff voice? Isn't she coming to bid mewelcome after all I've gone through to earn more money for her?"

Before Susan could answer, Mrs. Mugby had heard the voice of hermaster, and came hurrying in to greet him. 

"Thank you for your hearty welcome, " said the captain, hurriedly; "butwhere's my daughter? Is she out of doors this cold winter day, gaddingabout London streets?--or how the deuce is it she doesn't come to giveher old father a kiss, and bid him welcome home?"

"Lor', sir, " cried Mrs. Mugby, "you don't mean to say as you haven'theard from Miss Rosa--begging your pardon, Mrs. Jernam--but the otherdo come so much more natural?"

"Heard from her!" exclaimed the captain. "Not I, I haven't had a linefrom her. But heaven have mercy on us! how the woman does stare! Thereisn't anything wrong with my daughter, is there? She's well--eh?"

The captain's honest face grew pale, as a sudden fear arose in hismind. 

"Don't tell me my daughter is ill, " he gasped; "or worse--"

"No, no, no, captain, " cried Mrs. Mugby. "I heard from Mrs. Jernam onlya week ago, and she was quite well; but she is residing down inDevonshire, where she removed with her husband last July; and I madesure you would have received a letter telling you of the change. "

"What!" roared Joseph Duncombe; "did my daughter go and turn her backupon the comfortable little box her father built for her--the place hespent his hard-won earnings upon for her sake? So Rosy got tired of thecottage, did she? It wasn't good enough for her, I suppose. Well, well, that does seem rather hard somehow--it does seem hard. "

The captain dropped heavily down into the chair nearest him. He wasdeeply wounded by the idea that his daughter had deserted the homewhich he had made for her. 

"Begging your pardon, sir, " interposed Mrs. Mugby, in her mostinsinuating tone, "which I am well aware it's not my place to interferein family matters; but knowing as devotion itself is a word not strongenough to express Mrs. Jernam's feelings for her pa, I cannot stand byand see her misunderstood by that very pa. It was no doings of hers asshe left River View, Captain Buncombe, for the place was very dear toher; but Captain Jernam, he took it into his head all of a sudden he'dset off for foreign parts in his ship the 'Albert's horse'; and beforehe went, he insisted on taking Mrs. Jernam down to Devonshire, whichburying her alive would be too mild a word for such cruelty, I think. "

"What! he deserted his post, did he?" exclaimed the captain. "Ran awayfrom his pretty young wife, after promising to stop with her till Icame back! Now, I don't call that an honest man's conduct, " added thecaptain, indignantly. 

"No more would any one, sir, " answered the housekeeper. "A wild, rovinglife is all very well in its way, but if a man who is just married to apretty young wife, that worships the very ground he walks on, can'tstay at home quiet, I should like to know who can?"

"So he went to sea himself, and took his wife down to Devonshire beforehe sailed, eh?" said the captain. "Very fine goings on, upon my word!And did Miss Rosy consent to leave her father's home without a murmur?"he asked, angrily. 

"Begging your pardon, sir, " pleaded Mrs. Mugby, "Miss Rosamond was notthe one to murmur before servants, whatever she might feel in herheart. I overheard her crying and sobbing dreadful one night, poordear, when she little thought as there was any one to overhear her. "

"Did she say anything to you before she left?"

"Not till the night before she went away, and then she came to me in mykitchen, and said, 'Mrs. Mugby, it's my husband's wish I should go downto Devonshire and live there, while he's away with his ship. Of course, I am very sorry to leave the house that my dear father made such ahappy home for me, and in which he and I lived so peaceably together;but I am bound to obey my husband, let him ask what he will. I shallwrite to my dear father, and tell him how sorry I am to leave myhome. '"

"Did she say that?" said the captain, evidently touched by this proofof his child's affection. "Then I won't belie her so much as to doubther love for me. I never got her letter; and why George Jernam shouldkick up his heels directly I was gone, and be off with his shipgoodness knows where, is more than I can tell. I begin to think thebest sailor that ever roamed the seas is a bad bargain for a husband. I'm sorry I ever let my girl marry a rover. However, I'll just settlemy business in London, and be off to Devonshire to see my poor littledeserted Rosy. I suppose she's gone to live at that sea-coast villagewhere Jernam's aunt lives?"

"Yes, sir, Allandale--or Allanbay--or some such name, I think, theycall the place. "

"Yes, Allanbay--I remember, " answered the captain. "I'll try and getthrough the business I've got on hand to-night, and be off toDevonshire to-morrow. "

Mrs. Mugby exerted herself to the uttermost in her endeavour to makethe captain's first dinner at home a great culinary triumph, but thedisappointment he had experienced that morning had quite taken away hisappetite. He had anticipated such delight from his unannounced returnto River View Cottage; he had pictured to himself his daughter'srapturous welcome; he had fancied her rushing to greet him at the firstsound of his voice; and had almost felt her soft arm clasped around hisneck, her kisses on his face. 

Instead of the realization of this bright dream, he had found onlydisappointment. 

Susan Trott placed the materials for the captain's favourite punch uponthe table after she had removed the cloth; but Joseph Duncombe did notappear to see the cherry preparations for a comfortable evening. Herose hastily from his chair, put on his hat, and went out, much to thediscomfiture of the worthy Mrs. Mugby. 

"After what I went through with standing over that roaring furnace of akitchen-range, it does seem hard to see my sole just turned over andplayed with, like, and my chicking not so much as touched, " said thedame. "Oh, Miss Rosamond, Miss Rosamond, you've a deal to answer for!"

Captain Duncombe walked along the dark road between the cottage andRatcliff Highway at a rapid pace. He soon reached the flaring lights ofthe sailors' quarter, through which he made his way as fast as he couldto a respectable and comfortable little tavern near the Tower, muchfrequented by officers of the merchant service. 

He had promised to meet an old shipmate at this house, and was veryglad of an excuse for spending his evening away from home. 

In the little parlour he found the friend he expected to see, and thetwo sailors took their glasses of grog together in a very friendlymanner, and then parted, the captain's friend going away first, as hehad a long distance to walk, in order to reach his suburban home. 

The captain was sitting by the fire meditating, and sipping his lastglass of grog, when the door was opened, and some one came into theroom. 

Joseph Duncombe looked up with a start as the new-comer entered, and, to his intense astonishment, recognized George Jernam. 

"Jernam!" he cried; "you in London? Well, this is the greatest surpriseof all. "

"Indeed, Captain Duncombe, " answered the other, coolly; "the'Albatross' only entered the port of London this afternoon. This is thefirst place I have come to, and of all men on earth I least expected tomeet you here. "

"And from your tone, youngster, it seems as if the surprise were by nomeans a pleasant one, " cried Joseph Duncombe. "May I ask how RosamondDuncombe's husband comes to address his wife's father in the tone youhave just used to me?"

"You are Rosamond's father, " answered George; "that is sufficientreason that Valentine Jernam's brother should keep aloof from you. "

"The man's mad, " muttered Captain Duncombe; "undoubtedly mad. "

"No, " answered George Jernam, "I am not mad--I am only too acutelyconscious of the misery of my position. I love your daughter, JosephDuncombe; love her as fondly and truly as ever a man loved the wife ofhis choice. And yet here am I skulking in London, alone and miserable, at the hour when I should be hurrying back to the home of my darling. Dear though she is to me--truly as I love her--I dare not go back toher; for between her and me there rises the phantom of my murderedbrother Valentine!"

"What on earth has my daughter Rosamond to do with the wretched fate ofyour brother?" asked the captain. 

"In her own person, nothing; but it is her misfortune to be allied toone who was in league with the assassin, or assassins, of my unhappybrother. "

"What, in heaven's name, do you mean?" asked the bewildered captain ofthe "Vixen. "

"Do not press me for my meaning, Captain Duncombe, " answered George, ina repellant tone; "you are my father-in-law. The knowledge whichaccident revealed to me of one dark secret in your life of seeminghonesty came too late to prevent that tie between us. When the fataltruth revealed itself to me I was already your daughter's husband. Thatsecures my silence. Do not force yourself upon me. I shall do my dutyto your daughter as if you and your crime had never been upon thisearth. But you and I can never meet again except as foes. Theremembrance of my brother Valentine is part and parcel of my life, anda wrong done to him is twice a wrong to myself. "

The captain of the "Vixen" had arisen from his chair. He stood beforehis son-in-law, breathless, crimson with passion. 

"George Jernam, " he cried, "do you want me to knock you down? Egad, myfine gentleman, you may consider yourself lucky that I have not done itbefore this. What do you mean by all that balderdash you've beentalking? What does it all mean, I say? Are you drunk, or mad, or both?"

"Captain Duncombe, " said George, calmly, "do you really wish me tospeak plainly?"

"It will be very much the worse for you if you don't, " retorted theinfuriated captain. 

"First, then, let me tell you that before I left River View Cottagelast July, your daughter pressed me to avail myself of the contents ofyour desk one day when I was in want of foreign letter-paper. "

"Well, what then?"

"Very much against my own inclination, I consented to open that deskwith a key in Rosamond's possession. I did not pry into the secrets ofits contents; but before me, in the tray intended for pens, I saw anobject which could not fail to attract my attention--which riveted mygaze as surely as if I had 'lighted on a snake. "

"What in the name of all that's bewildering could that object havebeen?" cried the captain. "I don't keep many curiosities in my writing-desk!"

"I will show you what I found that day, " answered George. "The findingof it changed the whole current of my life, and sent me away from thatonce happy home a restless and miserable wanderer. "

"The man's mad, " muttered Captain Duncombe to himself; "he must bemad!"

George Jernam took from his waistcoat pocket a tiny parcel, andunfolding the paper covering, revealed a gold coin--the bent Braziliancoin--which he placed in the captain's hands. 

"Why! heaven have mercy on us!" cried Joseph Duncombe, "if that isn'tthe ghost's money!"

There was astonishment plainly depicted on his countenance; but no lookof guilt. George Jernam watched his face as he contemplated the token, and saw that it was not the face of a guilty man. 

"Oh, captain, captain!" he exclaimed, remorsefully, "if I havesuspected you all this time for nothing?"

"Suspected me of what?"

"Of being concerned, more or less, in my brother's murder. That pieceof gold which you now hold in your hand was a farewell token, given byme to him; you may see my initials scratched upon it. I found it inyour desk. "

"And therefore suspected that I was the aider and abettor of thievesand murderers!" exclaimed the captain of the "Vixen. " "George Jernam, Iam ashamed of you. "

There was a depth of reproach in the words, common-place though theywere. 

George Jernam covered his face with his hands, and sat with bent headbefore the man he had so cruelly wronged. 

"If I was a proud man, " said Joseph Duncombe, "I shouldn't stoop tomake any explanation to you. But as I am not a proud man, and as youare my daughter's husband, I'll tell you how that bit of gold came intomy keeping; and when I've told you my story, I'll bring witnesses toprove that it's true. Yes, George, I'll not ask you to believe my word;for how can you take the word of a man you have thought base enough tobe the accomplice of a murderer? Oh, George, it was too cruel--toocruel!"

There was a brief silence; and then Captain Duncombe told the story ofthe appearance of old Screwton's ghost, and the coin found in thekitchen at River View Cottage after the departure of that apparition. 

"I've faced many a danger in my lifetime, George Jernam, " said CaptainDuncombe; "and I don't think there's any man who ever walked the ship'sdeck beside me that would call me coward; and yet I'll confess to you Iwas frightened that night. Flesh and blood I'll face anywhere andanyhow; I'll stand up alone, and fight for my life, one against six--one against twenty, if needs be; but when it comes to a visit from theother world, Joseph Duncombe is done. He shuts up, sir, like anoyster. "

"And do you really believe the man you saw that night was a visitantfrom the other world?"

"What else can I believe? I'd heard the description of old Screwton'sghost, and what I saw answered to the description as close as couldbe. "

"Visitors from the other world do not leave substantial evidences oftheir presence behind them, " answered George. "The man who dropped thatgold coin was no ghost. We'll see into this business, Captain Duncombe;we'll fathom it, mysterious as it is. I expect Joyce Harker back fromCeylon in a month or so. He knows more of my brother's fate than anyman living, except those who were concerned in the doing of the deed. He'll get to the bottom of this business, depend upon it, if any mancan. And now, friend--father, can you find it in your heart to forgiveme for the bitter wrong I have done you?"

"Well, George, " answered Joseph Duncombe, gravely, "I'm not anunforgiving chap; but there are some things try the easiest of menrather hard, and this is one of them. However, for my little Rosy'ssake, and out of remembrance of the long night-watches you and I havekept together out upon the lonesome sea, I forgive you. There's my handand my heart with it. "

George's eyes were full of tears as he grasped his old captain's stronghand. 

"God bless you, " he murmured; "and heaven be praised that I came intothis room to-night! You don't know the weight you've lifted off myheart; you don't know what I've suffered. "

"More fool you, " cried Joe Duncombe; "and now say no more. We'll startfor Devonshire together by the first coach that leaves London to-morrowmorning. "

 * * * * *

 CHAPTER XXXIII. 

 "TREASON HAS DONE HIS WORST. "

Black Milsom, otherwise Mr. Maunders, kept a close watch on RaynhamCastle, through the agency of his friend, James Harwood, whose visitshe encouraged by the most liberal treatment, and for whom he was alwaysready to brew a steaming jorum of punch. 

Mr. Maunders showed a great deal of curiosity concerning the details oflife within the castle, and was particularly fond of leading Harwood totalk about the excessive care taken of the baby-heiress, and theprecautions observed by Lady Eversleigh's orders. One day, when he hadled the conversation in the accustomed direction, he said:

"One would think they were afraid somebody would try to steal thechild. "

"So you would, Mr. Maunders. But you see every situation in life hasits trials, and a child can't be a great heiress for nothing. One day, when I was sitting in the rumble of the open carriage, I heard CaptainCopplestone let drop in his conversation with Mrs. Morden as how thechild has enemies--bitter enemies, he said, as might try to do herharm, if she wern't looked after sharp. "

"I've known you a good long time now, Mr. Harwood, and you've partakenof many a glass of rum-punch in my parlour, " said Black Milsom, otherwise Mr. Maunders, of the "Cat and Fiddle "; "and in all that timeyou've never once offered to introduce me to one of your fellow-servants, or asked me to take so much as a cup of tea in yourservants'-hall. "

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Maunders, " said the groom, in an insinuatingtone; "as to askin' a friend to take a cup of tea, or a little bit ofsupper, without leave from Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, is more thanmy place is worth. "

"But you might get leave I should think, eh, James Harwood?" returnedMilsom; "especially if your friend happened to be a respectablehouseholder, and able to offer a comfortable glass to any of yourfellow-servants. "

"I'm sure if I had thought as you'd accept a invitation to theservants'-'all, I'd have asked leave before now, " replied JamesHarwood; "but I'm sure I thought as you wouldn't demean yourself totake your glass of ale, or your cup of tea, any-wheres below thehousekeeper's room--and she's a rare starched one is Mrs. Smithson. "

"I'm not proud, " said Mr. Milsom. "I like a convivial evening, whetherit's in the housekeeper's room or the servants'-hall. "

"Then I'll ask leave to-night, " answered James Harwood. 

He sent a little scrawl to Milsom next day, by the hands of a stable-boy, inviting that gentleman to a social rubber and a friendly supperin the servants'-hall that evening at seven o'clock. 

To spend a few hours inside Raynham Castle was the privilege whichBlack Milsom most desired, and a triumphant grin broke out upon hisface, as he deciphered James Harwood's clumsy scrawl. 

"How easy it's done, " he muttered to himself; "how easy it's done, if aman has only the patience to wait. "

The servants'-hall was a pleasant place to live in, but if Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, was liberal in her ideas she was alsostrict, and on some points especially severe; and the chief of thesewas the precision with which she required the doors of the castle to belocked for the night at half-past ten o'clock. 

On more than one occasion, lately, Mrs. Smithson had a suspicion thatthere was one offender against this rule. The offender in question wasMatthew Brook, the head-coachman, a jovial, burly Briton, withconvivial habits and a taste for politics, who preferred enjoying hispipe and glass and political discussion in the parlour of the "Hen andChickens" public-house to spending his evenings in the servants'-hallat Raynham Castle. 

He was rarely home before ten; sometimes not until half-past ten; andone never-to-be-forgotten night, Mrs. Smithson had heard him, with herown ears, enter the doors of the castle at the unholy hour of twentyminutes to eleven!

There was one appalling fact of which Mrs. Smithson was entirelyignorant. And that was the fact that Matthew Brook had entered thecastle by a little half-glass door on several occasions, half an houror more after the great oaken door leading into the servants'-hall hadbeen bolted and barred with all due solemnity before the approving eyesof the housekeeper herself. 

The little door in question opened into a small ground-floor bed-room, in which one of the footmen slept; and nothing was more easy than forthis man to shelter the nightly misdoings of his fellow-servant byletting him slip quietly through his bedroom, unknown to any member ofthe household. 

James Harwood, the groom was a confirmed gossip; and, of course, he hadnot failed to inform his friend, Mr. Maunders, otherwise Black Milsom, of Matthew Brook's little delinquencies. Mr. Maunders listened to theaccount with interest, as he did to everything relating to affairs inthe household of which Harwood was a member. 

It was some little time after this conversation that Mr. Milsom wasinvited to sup at the castle. 

Several friendly rubbers were played by Mrs. Trimmer, the cook; MatthewBrook, the coachman; James Harwood, and Thomas Milsom, known to thecompany as Mr. Maunders. Honest Matthew and he were partners; and itwas to be observed, by any one who had taken the trouble to watch theparty, that Milsom paid more attention to his partner than to hiscards, whereby he lost the opportunity of distinguishing himself as agood whist-player. 

The whist-party broke up while the cloth was being laid on a largetable for supper, and the men adjourned to the noble old stonequadrangle, on which the servant's-hall abutted. James Harwood, Brook, Milsom, and two of the footmen strolled up and down, smoking under acold starlit sky. The apartments occupied by the family were all on thegarden front, and the smoking of tobacco in the quadrangle was notforbidden. 

Milsom, who had until this time devoted his attention exclusively tothe coachman, now contrived to place himself next to James Harwood, asthe party paced to and fro before the servants' quarters. 

"Which is the little door Brook slips in at when he's past his time?"he asked, carelessly, of Harwood, taking care, however, to drop hisvoice to a whisper. 

"We're just coming to it, " answered the groom; "that little glass dooron my right hand. Steph's a good-natured fellow, and always leaves hisdoor unfastened when old Mat is out late. The room he sleeps in wasonce a lobby, and opens into the passage; so it comes very convenientto Brook. Everybody likes old Mat Brook, you see; and there isn't oneamongst us would peach if he got into trouble. "

"And a jolly old chap he is as ever lived, " answered Black Milsom, whoseemed to have taken a wonderful fancy to the convivial coachman. 

"You come down to my place whenever you like, Mr. Brook, " he said, presently, putting his arm through that of the coachman, in a veryfriendly manner. "You shall be free and welcome to everything I've gotin my house. And I know how to brew a decent jorum of punch when I givemy mind to it, don't I, Jim?"

Mr. James Harwood protested that no one else could brew such punch asthat concocted by the landlord of the "Cat and Fiddle. "

The supper was a very cheery banquet; ponderous slices of underdoneroast beef disappeared as if by magic, and the consumption of pickles, from a physiological or sanitary point of view, positively appalling. After the beef and pickles came a Titanic cheese and a small stack ofcelery; while the brown beer pitcher went so often to the barrel thatit is a matter of wonder that it escaped unbroken. 

At a quarter past ten Mr. Maunders bade his new acquaintance goodnight; but before departing he begged, as a great favour, to bepermitted one peep at the grand oak hall. 

"You shall see it, " cried good-natured Matthew Brook. "It's a sightworth coming many a mile to see. Step this way. "

He led the way along a dark passage to a door that opened into thegreat entrance-hall. It was indeed a noble chamber. Black Milsom stoodfor some moments contemplating it in silence, with a reverential stare. 

"And which may be the back staircase, leading to the little lady'srooms?" he asked, presently. 

"That door opens on to the foot of it, " replied the coachman. "CaptainCoppletone sleeps in the room you come to first, on the first floor;and the little missy's rooms are inside his'n. "

Gertrude Eversleigh, the heiress of Raynham, was one of those lovelyand caressing children who win the hearts of all around them, and inwhose presence there is a charm as sweet as that which lurks in thebeauty of a flower or the song of a bird. Her mother idolized her, aswe know, even though she could resign herself to a separation from thisloved child, sacrificing affection to the all-absorbing purpose of herlife. Before leaving Raynham Castle, Honoria had summoned the one onlyfriend upon whom she could rely--Captain Copplestone--the man whosetestimony alone had saved her from the hideous suspicion of murder--theman who had boldly declared his belief in her innocence. 

She wrote to him, telling him that she had need of his friendship forthe only child of his dead friend, Sir Oswald; and he came promptly inanswer to her summons, pleased at the idea of seeing the child of hisold comrade. 

He had read the announcement of the child's birth in the newspapers, and had rejoiced to find that Providence had sent a consolation to thewidow in her hour of desolation. 

"She is like her father, " he said, softly, after he had taken the childin his arms, and pressed his shaggy moustache to her pure young brow. "Yes, the child is like my old comrade, Oswald Eversleigh. She has yourbeauty, too, Lady Eversleigh, your dark eyes--those wonderful eyes, which my friend loved to praise. "

"I wish to heaven that he had never seen them!" exclaimed Honoria;"they brought him only evil fortune--anguish--untimely death. "

"Come, come!" cried the captain, cheerily; "this won't do. If theworkings of two villains brought about a breach between you and my poorfriend, and resulted in his untimely end, the sin rests on their guiltyheads, not on yours. "

"And the sin shall not go unpunished even upon this earth!" exclaimedHonoria, with intensity of feeling. "I only live for one purpose, Captain Copplestone, and that is to strip the masks from the faces ofthe two hypocrites and traitors, who, between them, compassed mydisgrace and my husband's death; and I implore you to aid me in thecarrying out of my purpose. "

"How can I do that?" cried the captain. "When I begged you to let mechallenge that scoundrel, Carrington, and fight him--in spite of ourcowardly modern fashion, which has exploded duelling--you implored menot to hazard my life. I was your only friend, you told me, and if mylife were sacrificed you would be helpless and friendless. I gave wayin order to satisfy you, though I should have liked to send a bulletthrough that French scoundrel's plotting brains. "

"And I thank you for your goodness, " answered Lady Eversleigh. "It isnot by the bullet of a brave soldier that Victor Carrington should die. I will pursue the two villains silently, stealthily, as they pursuedme; and when the hour of my triumph comes, it shall be a real triumph, not a defeat like that which ended their scheming. But if I stoop towear a mask, I ask no such service from you, Captain Copplestone. I askyou only to take up your abode in this house, and to protect my childwhile I am away from home. "

"You are really going to leave home?"

"For a considerable time. "

"And you will tell me nothing about the nature of your schemes?"

"Nothing. I shall do no wrong; though I am about to deal with men sobase that the common laws of honour can scarcely apply to any dealingswith them. "

"And your mind is set upon this strange scheme?"

"My mind is fixed. Nothing on earth can alter my resolution--not evenmy love for this child. "

Captain Copplestone saw that her determination was not to be reasonedaway, and he made no further attempt to shake her resolve. He promisedthat, during her absence from the castle, he would guard Sir Oswald'sdaughter, and cherish her as tenderly as if she had been his own child. 

It was by the captain's advice that Mrs. Morden was engaged to act asgoverness to the young heiress during her mother's absence. She was thewidow of one of his brother-officers--a highly accomplished woman, anda woman of conscientious feelings and high principle. 

"Never had any creature more need of your protection than my childhas, " said Honoria. "This young life and mine are the sole obstaclesthat stand between Sir Reginald Eversleigh and fortune. You know whatbaseness and treachery he and his ally are capable of committing. Youcannot, therefore, wonder if I imagine all kinds of dangers for mydarling. "

"No, " replied the captain; "I can only wonder that you consent to leaveher. "

"Ah, you do not understand. Can you not see that, so long as those twomen exist, their crimes undiscovered, their real nature unsuspected inthe world in which they live, there is perpetual danger for my child?The task which I have set myself is the task of watching these two men;and I will do it without flinching. When the hour of retributionapproaches, I may need your aid; but till then let me do my work alone, and in secret. "

This was the utmost that Lady Eversleigh told Captain Copplestonerespecting the motive of her absence from the castle. She placed herchild in his care, trusting in him, under Providence, for theguardianship of that innocent life; and then she tore herself away. 

Nothing could exceed the care which the veteran soldier bestowed uponhis youthful charge. 

It may be imagined, therefore, that nothing short of absolute necessitywould have induced him to leave the neighbourhood of Raynham during theabsence of Lady Eversleigh. 

Unhappily this necessity arose. Within a fortnight after the night onwhich Black Milsom had been invited to supper in the servants'-hall, Captain Copplestone quitted Raynham Castle for an indefinite period, for the first time since Lady Eversleigh's departure. 

He was seated at breakfast in the pretty sitting-room in the southwing, which he occupied in common with the heiress and her governess, when a letter was brought to him by one of the castle servants. 

"Ben Simmons has just brought this up from the 'Hen and Chickens, 'sir, " said the man. "It came by the mail-coach that passes throughRaynham at six o'clock in the morning. "

Captain Copplestone gazed at the superscription of the letter withconsiderable surprise. The handwriting was that of Lady Eversleigh, andthe letter was marked _Immediate and important_. 

In those days there was no electric telegraph; and a letter conveyedthus had pretty much the same effect upon the captain's mind that atelegram would now-a-days exercise. It was something special--out ofthe common rule. He tore open the missive hastily. It contained only afew lines in Honoria's hand; but the hand was uncertain, and the letterscrawled and blotted, as if written in extreme haste and agitation ofmind. 

"_Come to me at once, I entreat. I have immediate need of your help. Pray come, my dear friend. I shall not detain you long. Let the childremain in the castle during your absence. She will be safe with Mrs. Morden_. 

"_Clarendon Hotel, London_. "

This, and the date, was all. 

Captain Copplestone sat for some moments staring at this document witha look of unmitigated perplexity. 

"I can't make it out, " he muttered to himself. 

Presently he said aloud to Mrs. Morden--

"What a pity it is you women all write so much alike that it'suncommonly difficult to swear to your writing. I'm perplexed by thisletter. I can't quite understand being summoned away from my pet. Ithink you know Lady Eversleigh's hand?"

"Yes, " answered the lady; "I received two letters from her beforecoming here. I could scarcely be mistaken in her handwriting. "

"You think not? Very well, then, please tell me if that is her hand, "said the captain showing Mrs. Morden the address of the missive he hadjust received. 

"I should say decidedly, yes, that is her hand. "

"Humph!" muttered the captain; "she said something about wanting mewhen the hour of retribution drew near. Perhaps she has succeeded inher schemes more rapidly than she expected, and the time is come. "

The little girl had just quitted the room with her nurse, to be dressedfor her morning run in the gardens. Mrs. Morden and the captain werealone. 

"Lady Eversleigh asks me to go up to London, " he said, at last; "and Isuppose I must do what she wishes. But, upon my word, I've watched overlittle Gertrude so closely, and I've grown so foolishly fond of her, that I don't like the idea of leaving her, even for twenty-four hours, though, of course, I know I leave her in the best possible care. "

"What danger can approach her here?"

"Ah; what danger, indeed!" returned the captain, thoughtfully. "Withinthese walls she must be secure. "

"The child shall not leave the castle, nor shall she quit my sightduring your absence, " said Mrs. Morden. "But I hope you will not stayaway long. "

"Rely upon it that I shall not remain away an hour longer thannecessary, " answered the captain. 

An hour afterwards he departed from Raynham in a post-chaise. 

He left without having taken any farewell of Gertrude Eversleigh. Hecould not trust himself to see her. 

This grim, weather-beaten old soldier had surrendered his heartentirely to the child of his dead friend. He travelled Londonwards asfast as continual relays of post-horses could convey him; and on themorning after he had received the letter from Lady Eversleigh, a post-chaise covered with the dust of the roads, rattled up to the ClarendonHotel, and the traveller sprang out, after a sleepless night ofimpatience and anxiety. 

"Show me to Lady Eversleigh's rooms at once, " he said to one of theservants in the hall. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, " said the man; "what name did you say?"

"Lady Eversleigh--Eversleigh--a widow-lady, staying in this house. "

"There must be some mistake, sir. There is no one of that name atpresent staying in the hotel, " answered the man. 

The housekeeper had emerged from a little sitting-room, and hadoverheard this conversation. 

"No, sir, " she said, "we have no one here of that name. "

Captain Copplestone's dark face grew deadly pale. 

"A trap!" he muttered to himself; "a snare! That letter was a forgery!"

And without a word to the people of the house, he darted back to thestreet, sprang into the chaise, crying to the postillions, "Don't lose a minute in getting a change of horses. I am going back toYorkshire. "

The intimacy with the household of Raynham Castle, begun by Mr. Maunders at the supper in the servants'-hall, strengthened as time wentby, and there was no member of the castle household for whom Mr. Maunders entertained so warm a friendship as that which he felt forMatthew Brook, the coachman. Matthew began to divide his custom betweenthe rival taverns of Raynham, spending an evening occasionally at the"Cat and Fiddle, " and appearing to enjoy himself very much at thatInferior hostelry. 

About a fortnight had elapsed after the comfortable supper-party at thecastle, when Mr. Milsom took it into his head to make a formal returnfor the hospitalities he had received on that occasion. 

It happened that the evening chosen for this humble but comfortableentertainment was the evening after Captain Copplestone's departurefrom the castle. 

The supper was well cooked, and neatly placed on the table. A foamingtankard of ale flanked the large dish of hissing steaks; and thegentlemen from the castle set to work with a good will to do justice toMr. Maunders's entertainment. 

When the table had been cleared of all except a bowl of punch and atray of glasses, it is scarcely a matter for wonder if the quartettehad grown rather noisy, with a tendency to become still louder in itsmirth with every glass of Mr. Milsom's excellent compound. 

They were enjoying themselves as much as it is in the power of humannature to enjoy itself; they had proposed all manner of toasts, and haddrunk them with cheers, and the mirth was at its loudest when the clockof the village church boomed out solemnly upon the stillness of night, and tolled the hour of ten. 

The three men staggered hastily to their feet. 

"We must be off, Maunders, old fellow, " said the coachman, with acertain thickness of utterance. 

"Right you are, Mat, " answered Stephen. "You've had quite enough ofthat 'ere liquor, and so have we all. Good night, Mr. Maunders, andthank you kindly for a jolly evening. Come, Jim. Come, Mat, old boy--off we go!"

"No, no, " cried Mr. Maunders, the hospitable; "I'm not a-going to letMatthew Brook leave my house at ten o'clock when he can stay as long ashe likes. You and he beat me at whist, but I mean to be even with himat cribbage. We'll have a friendly hand and a friendly glass, and I'llsee him as far as the gates afterwards. You'll let him in, Plumpton, come when he will, I know. If he can stay over his time at the otherhouse, he can stay over his time with me. Come, Brook, you won't sayno, will you, to a friend?" asked Milsom. 

Matthew Brook looked at Mr. Milsom, and at his fellow-servants, in astupid half-drunken manner, and rubbed his big head thoughtfully withhis big hand. 

"I'm blest if I know what to do, " he said; "I've promised Stephen Iwouldn't stay out after time again--and--"

"Not as a rule, perhaps, " answered Mr. Milsom; "but once in a way can'tmake any difference, I'm sure, and Stephen Plumpton is the last to beill-natured. "

"That I am, " replied the good-tempered footman. "Stay, if you like tostay, Mat. I'll leave my door unfastened, and welcome. "

On this, the two other men took a friendly leave of their host anddeparted, walking through the village street with legs that were not byany means too steady. 

There was a triumphant grin upon Mr. Milsom's face as he shut the dooron these two departing guests. 

"Good night, and a good riddance to you, " he muttered; "and now forMatthew Brook. You'll sleep sound enough to-night, Stephen Plumpton, I'll warrant. So sound that if Old Nick himself went through your roomyou'd scarcely be much wiser. "

He went back to the little parlour in which he had left his guest, thecoachman. As he went, he slipped his forefinger and thumb into hiswaistcoat pocket, where they closed upon a tiny phial. It contained apennyworth of laudanum, which he had purchased a week or so before fromthe Raynham chemist, as a remedy for the toothache. 

Here he found Matthew Brook seated with his arms folded on the table, and his eyes fixed on the cribbage-board with that stolid, unseeinggaze peculiar to drunkenness. 

"He's pretty far gone, as it is, " Mr. Milsom thought to himself, as helooked at his guest; "it won't take much to send him further. Takeanother glass of punch before we begin, eh, Brook?" he asked, in thattone of jolly good-fellowship which had made him so agreeable to thecastle servants. 

"So I will, " cried Matthew; "'nother glass--punish the punch--eh--oldboy? We'll punish glass--'nother punch--hand cribbage--gloriousevenin'--uproarious--happy--glorious--God save--'nother glass. "

While Mr. Brook attempted to shuffle the cards, dropping them halfunder the table during the process, Black Milsom moved the bowl andglasses to a table behind the coachman's back. 

Here he filled a glass for Mr. Brook, which the coachman emptied at adraught; but after having done so he made a wry face, and lookedreproachfully at his host. 

"What the deuce was that you gave me?" he asked, with some indignation. 

"What should it be but rum-punch?" answered Milsom; "the same as you'vebeen drinking all the evening. "

"I'll be hanged if it is, " answered Mr. Brook; "you've been playing offsome of your publican's tricks upon me, Mr. Maunders, pouring the dregsof some stale porter into the bowl, or something of that kind. Don'tyou do it again. I'm a 'ver goo'-temper' chap, ber th' man tha'takes--hic--libert' with--hic--once don't take--hic--libert' with m'twice. So, don't y' do that 'gen!"

This was said with tipsy solemnity; and then Mr. Brook made anothereffort to shuffle the cards, and stooped a great many times to pick upsome of those he had dropped, but seemed never to succeed in picking upall of them. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Maunders, " he said, at last; "I'm getting anold man; my sight isn't what it used to be. I'm bless' if--can tell aking from--queen. "

Before he could complete the shuffling of the cards to his ownsatisfaction, Mr. Brook's eyelids began to droop over his watery eyes, and all at once his head fell forward on the table, amongst thescattered cards, his hair flopping against a fallen candlestick andsmoking tallow candle. 

Mr. Milsom's air of jolly good-fellowship disappeared: he sprang upsuddenly, went to his friend, and shook him, rather roughly for suchfriendship. 

Matthew snored a little louder, but slept on. 

"He's fast as a rock, " muttered Black Milsom; "but I must wait tillit's likely Stephen Plumpton will be as sound asleep as this one. "

Mr. Milsom went to his kitchen and ordered his only servant--a sturdyyoung native of the village--to go off to bed at once. 

"I've got a friend in the parlour: but I'll see him out myself when hegoes, " said Mr. Milsom. "You pack off to bed as soon as you've put outthe lights in the bar, and shut the back-door. "

Mr. Milsom then returned to the apartment where his sleeping guestreposed. 

The coachman's capacious overcoat hung on a chair near where its ownerslept. 

Mr. Milsom deliberately put on this coat, and the hat which Mr. Brookhad worn with it. There was a thick woollen scarf of the coachman'slying on the floor near the chair, and this Black Milsom also put on, twisting it several times round his neck, so as to completely mufflethe lower part of his face. 

He was of about the same height as Matthew, and the thick coat gave himbulk. 

Thus attired he might, in an uncertain light, have been very easilymistaken for the man whose clothes he wore. 

Mr. Milsom gave one last scrutinizing look at the sleeping coachman, and then extinguished the candle. 

The fire he had allowed to die out while he sat smoking: the room was, therefore, now in perfect darkness. 

He paused by the door to look about him. All was alike still andlonely. The village street could have been no more silent and empty ifthe two rows of houses had been so many vaults in a cemetery. 

Black Milsom walked rapidly up the village street, and entered thegardens of the castle by a little iron gate, of which Matthew Brook, the reprobate and offender, had a key. This key Black Milsom had oftenheard of, and knew that it was always carried by Brook in a smallbreast-pocket of his overcoat. 

From the garden he made his way quickly, silently, to the quadrangle onwhich Stephen Plumpton's bed-chamber opened. 

Here all was dark and silent. 

Milsom went straight to the little half-glass door which served both asdoor and window for the small sleeping-chamber of Stephen Plumpton. 

He opened this door with a cautious hand, and stepped softly into theroom. Stephen lay with his head half covered with the bed-clothes, andhis loud snoring resounded through the chamber. 

"The rum-punch has done the trick for you, my friend, " Mr. Milsom saidto himself. 

He crossed the room with slow and stealthy footsteps, opened the doorcommunicating with the rest of the house, and went along the passageleading to the hall. 

With cautious steps he groped his way to the door opening on thesecondary staircase, and ascended the thickly carpeted staircasewithin. 

Here a lamp was left dimly burning all night, and this lamp showed himanother cloth-covered door at the top of the first flight of stairs. 

Black Milsom tried this door, and found it also unfastened. 

This door, which Black Milsom opened, communicated with the littlepassage that had been made across the room usually tenanted by CaptainCopplestone. Within this room there was a still smaller chamber--littlemore, indeed, than a spacious closet--in which slept the faithful oldservant, Solomon Grundy. 

Both the doors were open, and Black Milsom heard the heavy breathing ofthe old man--the breathing of a sound sleeper. 

Beyond the short passage was the door opening into the sitting-roomused by the young heiress of Raynham. 

Black Milsom had only to push it open. The intruder crept softly acrossthe room, drew aside a curtain, and opened the massive oak door whichdivided the sitting-room from the bed-room. 

Mr. Milsom had taken care to make himself familiar with the smallestdetails of the castle household, and he had even heard of Mrs. Morden'shabit of sleeping within closely drawn curtains, from his generalinformant, James Harwood, the groom, who had received his informationfrom one of the housemaids, in that temple of gossip--the servants'hall. 

Gertrude Eversleigh slept in a white-curtained cot, by the side of Mrs. Morden's bed. 

Black Milsom lifted the coverlet, threw it over the face of thesleeping child, and with one strong hand lifted her from her cot, herface still shrouded by the thick down coverlet, which must effectuallyprevent her cries. With the other hand he snatched up a blanket, andthrew it round the struggling form, and then, bundled in coverlet andblanket, he carried the little girl away. 

Only when his feet were on the turf, and the castle stood up blackbehind him, did he withdraw the coverlet from the mouth of the half-suffocated child. 

 CHAPTER XXXIV. 

 CAUGHT IN THE TOILS. 

Captain Copplestone did not waste half an hour on the road betweenLondon and Raynham. 

No words can paint his agony of terror, the torture of mind which heendured, as he sat in the post-chaise, watching every landmark of thejourney, counting every minute of the tedious hours, and continuallyputting his head out of the front window, and urging the postillions togreater speed. 

He hated himself for having been duped by that forged letter. 

"I had no business to leave the child, " he kept repeating to himself;"not even to obey her mother. My place was by little Gertrude, and Ihave been a fool to desert my post. If any harm has come to her in myabsence, by the heaven above me, I think I shall be tempted to blow outmy brains. "

Once having decided that the letter, purporting to be written by LadyEversleigh, was a forgery, he could not doubt that it formed part ofsome plot against the household of Raynham Castle. 

To Captain Copplestone, who knew that the life of his friend had beensacrificed to the dark plottings of a traitor, this idea was terrible. 

"I knew the wretches I had to deal with; I was forewarned thattreachery and cunning would be on the watch to do that child wrong, " hesaid to himself, during those hours of self-reproach; "and yet Iallowed myself to be duped by the first trick of those hidden foes. Oh, great heaven! grant that I may reach Raynham before they can have takenany fatal advantage of my absence. "

It was daybreak when the captain's post-chaise dashed into the villagestreet of Raynham. He murmured a thanksgiving and a prayer, almost inthe same breath, as he saw the castle-turrets dark against the chillgray sky. 

The vehicle ascended the hill, and stopped before the arched entranceto the castle. An old woman, who acted as portress, opened the carvediron gates. He glanced at her, but did not stop to question her. Oneword from her would have put an end to all suspense; but in this lastmoment the soldier had not courage to utter the question which he sodreaded to have answered--Was Gertrude safe?

In another moment that question was answered for Captain Copplestone--answered completely, without the utterance of a word. 

The principal door of the castle was open, and in the doorway stood twomen. 

One was Mr. Ashburne, the magistrate; the other was Christopher Dimond, the constable of Raynham. 

The sight of these two men told Captain Copplestone that his fears werebut too surely realized. Something had happened amiss--something ofimportance--or Gilbert Ashburne, the magistrate, would not be there. 

"The child!" gasped the captain; "is she dead--murdered?"

"No, no, not dead, " answered Mr. Ashburne. 

"Not dead! Thank God!" exclaimed the soldier, in a devout whisper. "What then? What has happened?" he asked, scarcely able to commandhimself so far as to utter these few words with distinctness. "Forpity's sake speak plainly. Can't you see that you are keeping me intorture? What has happened to the child?"

"She has disappeared. "

"She has disappeared!" echoed the captain. "I left strict orders thatshe should not be permitted to stir beyond the castle walls. Who daredto disobey those orders?"

"No one, " answered Mr. Ashburne. "Miss Eversleigh was not allowed toquit her own apartments. She disappeared in the night from her own cot, while that cot was in its usual place, beside Mrs. Morden's bed. "

"But who could penetrate into that room in the night, when the castledoors are secured against every one? Where is Mrs. Morden? Let me seeher; and let every servant of the house be assembled in the greatdining-room. "

Captain Copplestone gave this order to the butler, who had come out tothe hall on hearing the arrival of the post-chaise. The man bowed, anddeparted on his errand. 

"I fear you will gain nothing by questioning the household, " said Mr. Ashburne. "I have already made all possible inquiries, assisted byChristopher Dimond here, but can obtain no information that throws thesmallest ray of light upon this most mysterious business. "

"I thank you, " replied the captain; "I am sure you have done all thatfriendship could suggest; but I should like to question those peoplemyself. This business is a matter of life and death for me. "

He went into the great dining-room--the room in which the inquiry hadbeen held respecting the cause of Sir Oswald's death. Mr. Ashburne andChristopher Dimond accompanied him, and the servants of the householdcame in quietly, two and three at a time, until the lower end of theroom was full. Mrs. Morden was the last to come. She made noprotestations of her grief--her self-reproach--for she never for amoment imagined that any one could doubt the intensity of her feelings. She stood before the captain, calm, collected, ready to answer hisquestions promptly and conscientiously. 

He questioned the servants one by one, beginning with Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, who was ready to declare that no living creature, except the members of the household, could have been within the castlewalls on the night of Gertrude Eversleigh's disappearance. 

"That anybody could have come into this house and gone out of it in anight, unknown to me, is a moral impossibility, " said the housekeeper;"the doors were locked at half-past ten, and the keys were brought in abasket to my room. So, you see it's quite impossible that any one couldhave come in or gone out before the doors were open in the morning. "

"What time was the child's disappearance discovered?"

"At a quarter to five in the morning, " answered Mrs. Morden; "beforeany one in the house was a-stir. My darling has always been in thehabit of waking at that hour, to take a little milk, which is left in aglass by her bedside. I woke at the usual time, and rose, in order togive her the milk, and when I looked at her cot, I saw that it wasempty. The child was gone. The silk coverlet and one blanket haddisappeared with her. I gave the alarm immediately, and in a quarter ofan hour the whole household was a-stir. "

"And did you hear nothing during that night?" asked the captain, turning suddenly to address Solomon Grundy, who had entered amongst therest of the servants. 

"Nothing, captain. "

"Humph, " muttered the old soldier, "a sorry watch-dog. "

"There is only one entrance to the castle which is at all weaklyguarded, " said the magistrate, presently; "and that is a small doorbelonging to the bed-room occupied by one of the footmen. But this mantells me that he was in his room that night at his usual hour, and thatthe door was locked and bolted in the usual way. "

As he said this, the magistrate looked towards the end of theapartment, where Stephen Plumpton stood amongst his fellow servants. The young man had been weak enough, or guilty enough, to commit himselfto a false statement; first, because he did not want to betray themisdoings of Matthew Brook, and secondly, because he feared to admithis own culpable carelessness. 

"My telling the truth won't bring the child back, " he argued withhimself. "If it would, I'd speak out fast enough. "

"You say that it is impossible that any one can have entered thishouse, and left it, during that night, " said Captain Copplestone to thehousekeeper; "and yet some one must have left the house, even if no oneentered it, or Gertrude Eversleigh must be hidden within these walls. Has the castle been thoroughly searched? There are stories of childrenwho have hidden themselves in sport, to find the sport end in terribleearnest. "

"The castle has been searched from garret to cellar, " answered Mrs. Morden. "Mrs. Smithson and I have gone together into every room, andopened every cupboard. "

The captain dismissed the assembly, after having asked many questionswithout result. When this was done, he went alone to the library, wherehe shut himself in, and seated himself at the writing-table, with penand ink before him, to meditate upon, the steps which should be firsttaken in the work that lay before him. 

That work was no less painful a task than the writing of a letter toLady Eversleigh, to inform her of the calamity which had taken place--of the terrible realization of her worst fears. Captain Copplestone'svaried and adventurous life had never brought him a severer or morepainful duty, but he was not the man to shirk or defer it, because itinvolved suffering to himself. 

The letter was written, and despatched by the evening post, and thenthe captain shut himself up in his own room, and gave way to thebitterest grief he had ever experienced. 

Who shall describe the agony which Lady Eversleigh suffered whenCaptain Copplestone's letter reached her? For the first half-hour aftershe read it, a blight seemed to fall upon her senses, and she sat stillin her chair, stupefied; but when she rallied, her first impulse was tosend for Andrew Larkspur, who was now nearly restored to his usualstate of sound health. 

She rang the bell, and summoned Jane Payland. 

"There is a lawyer's clerk living in this house, " she said; "Mr. Andrews. Go to him immediately, and ask him to favour me with aninterview. I wish to consult him on a matter of business. "

"Yes, ma'am, " answered Miss Payland, looking inquisitively at the ashenface of her mistress. "There's something fresh this morning, " shemuttered to herself, as she tripped lightly up the stairs to do herbidding. 

Mr. Larkspur--or Mr. Andrews--presented himself before Lady Eversleigha few minutes after he received her message. He found her pacing theroom in a fever of excitement. 

"Good gracious me, ma'am!" he exclaimed; "is there anything amiss?"

"Yes, " she answered, handing him the letter. 

Mr. Larkspur read the letter to the end, and then read it again. 

"This is a bad job, " he said, calmly; "what's to be done now?"

"You must accompany me to Raynham Castle--you must help me to find mychild!" cried Honoria, in wild excitement. "You are better now, Mr. Larkspur, you can bear the journey? For Heaven's sake, do not say youcannot aid me. You must come with me, Andrew Larkspur. I do not offerto bribe you--I say you must come! Bring me my darling safe to myarms, and you may name your own reward for that priceless service. "

"No, no, " said Mr. Larkspur; "I don't say _that_. I am well enough, sofar as that goes, but how about our little schemes in London?"

"Never mind them--never think of them! What are they to me now?"

"Very well, my lady, " answered Mr. Larkspur; "if it must be so, it mustbe. I must turn my back upon the neatest business that ever a BowStreet officer handled, just as it's getting most interesting to awell-regulated mind. "

"And you'll come with me at once?"

"Give me one hour to make my plans, ma'am, and I'm your man, " repliedMr. Larkspur. "I'll pack a carpet-bag, leave it down stairs, take ahackney coach to Bow Street, see my deputy, and arrange some mattersfor him, and be ready one hour from this time, when you'll be so kindas to call for me in a post-chaise--not forgetting to bring my carpet-bag with you in the boot, if you please. And now you be so good as tokeep up your spirits, ma'am, like a Trojan--which I've heard theTrojans had an uncommon hard time of it in their day. If the child isto be found, Andrew Larkspur is the man to find her; and as to reward, we won't talk about that, if you please, my lady. I may be a hard-fisted one, but I'm not the individual to trade upon the feelings of amother that has lost her only child. "

Having said this, Mr. Larkspur departed, and in less than two hours heand Lady Eversleigh were seated in a post-chaise, behind four horses, tearing along the road between London and Barnet. 

And thus additional security attended the schemes of Victor Carrington. 

 CHAPTER XXXV. 

 LARKSPUR TO THE RESCUE. 

The journey of Lady Eversleigh and her companion, the Bow Streetofficer, was as rapid as the journey of Captain Copplestone. Along thesame northern road as that which he had travelled a few days beforeflew the post-chaise containing the anguish-stricken mother and herstrange ally. In this hour of agony and suspense, Honoria Eversleighlooked to the queer, wizened little police-officer, Andrew Larkspur, asthe best friend she had on earth. 

"You'll find my child for me?" she cried many times during the courseof that long journey, appealing to Mr. Larkspur, with clasped hands andstreaming eyes. "Oh, tell me that you'll find her for me. For pity'ssake, give me some comfort--some hope. "

"I'll give you plenty of comfort, and plenty of hope, too, mum, ifyou'll only cheer up and trust in me, " answered the luminary of BowStreet, with that stolid calmness of manner which seemed as if it wouldscarcely have been disturbed by an earthquake. "You keep up yourspirits, and don't give way. If the little lady is alive, I'll bringher back to you safe and sound. If--if--so be as she's--contrarywise, "added Mr. Larkspur, alarmed by the wild look in his companion's eyes, as he was about to pronounce the terrible word she so much feared tohear, "why, in that case I'll find them as have done the deed, and theyshall pay for it. "

"Oh, give her back to me!" exclaimed Honoria; "give her back! Let mehold her in my arms once more. I abandon all thought of revenge uponthose who have so basely wronged me. Let Providence alone deal withthem and their crime. It may be this punishment has come to me, becauseI have sought to usurp the office of Providence. Let me have my darlingonce more, and I will banish from my heart every feeling which aChristian should abjure. "

Bitter remorse was mingled with the agony which rent the mother's heartin those terrible hours. All at once her eyes were opened to the deepand dreadful guilt involved in those vengeful feelings she had so longnourished, to the exclusion of all tender emotions, all generousinstincts. 

Bitterly did the mother upbraid herself as she sat, with her handsclasped tightly together, her pale face turned to the window, herhaggard eyes looking out at every object on the road, eager to beholdany landmark that would tell her that she was so many miles nearer theend of her journey. 

She had concluded that, as a matter of course, the disappearance of thechild had been directly or indirectly the work of Sir ReginaldEversleigh; and she said as much to Mr. Larkspur. But, to her surprise, she found that he did not share her opinion upon this subject. 

"If you ask me whether Sir Reginald is in it, I'll tell you candidly, no, my lady, I don't think he is. I don't need to tell you that I'vehad a deal of experience in my time; and, if that experience is worth abrass button, Sir Reginald hasn't any hand in this business down inYorkshire. "

"Not directly, perhaps, but indirectly, " interrupted Honoria. 

"Neither one nor the other, " answered the great man of Bow Street. "I've had my eye upon the baronet ever since you put me up to watchinghim; and there's precious little he could do without my spotting him. Iknow what letters he has written, and I know more or less what has beenin those letters. I know what people he has seen, and more or less whathe has said to them; and I don't see that it's possible he could havecarried on such a game as this abduction of Missy without my having aninkling of it. "

"But what of his ally--his bosom-friend and confederate--VictorCarrington? May not his treacherous hand have struck this blow?"

"I think not, my lady, " replied Mr. Larkspur. "I've had my eye uponthat gentleman likewise, as per agreement; for when Andrew Larkspurguarantees to do a thing, he ain't the man to do it by halves. I'vekept a close watch upon Mr. Carrington; and with the exception of his_parleyvous francais_-ing with that sharp-nosed, shabby-genteel lady-companion of Madame Durski's, there's very few of _his_ goings-on Ihaven't been able to reckon up to a fraction. No, my lady, there's someone else in this business; and who that some one else is, it'll be myduty to find out. But I can't do anything till I get on the ground. When I get on the ground, and have had time to look about me, I shallbe able to form an opinion. "

Honoria was fain to be patient, to put her trust in heaven, and, beneath heaven, in this pragmatical little police-officer, who reallyfelt as much compassion for her sorrow as it was possible for a man sosteeped in the knowledge of crime and iniquity, and so hardened bycontact with the worst side of the world, to feel for any human grief. She was compelled to be patient, or, at any rate, to assume thatoutward aspect of calmness which seems like patience, while the heartwithin her breast throbbed tumultuously as storm-driven waves. 

At last the wearisome journey came to an end. She entered the archedgateway of Raynham Castle; and, as she looked out of the carriagewindow, she saw the big black letters, printed on a white broadside, offering a reward of three hundred pounds for the early restoration ofthe missing child. 

Mr. Larkspur gave a scornful sniff as he perceived this bill. 

"That won't bring her back, " he muttered. "Those who've taken her awaywill play a deeper game than to bring her back for the first rewardthat's offered, or the second, or the third. She'll have to be found bythose that are a match for the scoundrel that stole her from her home;and perhaps he _will_ find his match before long, clever as he is. "

The meeting between Honoria and Captain Copplestone was a very quietone. She was far too noble, far too just to reproach the friend in whomshe had trusted, even though he had failed in his trust. 

He had heard the approach of the post-chaise, and he awaited her on thethreshold of the door. He had gone forth to many a desperate encounter;but he had never felt so heart-piercing a pang as that which he enduredthis day when he went to meet Lady Eversleigh. 

She held out her hand to him as she crossed the threshold. "I have donemy duty, " he said, in low, earnest tones, "as I am a man of honour anda soldier, Lady Eversleigh; I have done my duty, miserable as theresult has been. "

"I can believe that, " answered Honoria, gravely. "Your face tells methere are no good tidings to greet me here. She is not found?"

The captain shook his head sadly. 

"And there are no tidings of any kind?--no clue, no trace?"

"None. The constable of this place, and other men from the market-town, are doing their utmost; but as yet the result has been only newmystification--new conjecture. "

"No; nor wouldn't be, if the constables were to have twenty years to dotheir work in, instead of three days, " interrupted Mr. Larkspur. "Perhaps you don't know what country police-officers are? I do; and ifyou expect to find the little lady by their help, you may just as welllook up to the sky yonder, and wait till she drops down from it, for ofthe two things that's by far the most likely. I can believe inmiracles, " added Mr. Larkspur, piously; "but I can't believe in ruralpolice-constables. "

The captain looked at the speaker with a bewildered expression, andLady Eversleigh hastened to explain the presence of her ally. 

"This is Mr. Larkspur, a well-known Bow Street officer, " she said: "andI rely on his aid to find my precious one. Pray tell me all that hashappened in connection with this event. He is very clever, and he maystrike out some plan of action that will be better than anything whichhas yet been attempted. "

They had passed into a small sitting-room, half ante-room, half study, leading out of the great hall, and here the police-officer seatedhimself, as much at home as if he had spent half his life within thewalls of Raynham, and listened quietly while Captain Copplestone gave acircumstantial account of the child's disappearance, taking care not toomit the smallest detail connected with that event. 

Mr. Larkspur made occasional pencil-notes in his memorandum-book; buthe did not interrupt the captain's narration by a single remark. 

When all was finished, Lady Eversleigh looked at him with anxious, inquiring eyes, as if from his lips she expected to receive thesentence of fate itself. 

"Well?" she muttered, breathlessly, "is there any hope? Do you see anyclue?"

"Half a dozen clues, " answered the police-officer, "if they're properlyhandled. The first thing we've got to do is to offer a reward for thatsilk coverlet that was taken away with the little girl. "

"Why offer a reward for the coverlet?" asked Captain Copplestone. 

"Bless your innocent heart!" answered Mr. Larkspur, contemplating thesoldier with a pitying smile; "don't you see that, if we find thecoverlet, we're pretty sure to find the child? The man who took heraway made a mistake when he carried off the coverlet with her, unlesshe was deep enough to destroy it before he had taken her far. If hedidn't do that--if he left that silk coverlet behind him anywhere, Iconsider his game as good as up. That is just the kind of thing that apolice-officer gets his clue from. There's been more murders andburglaries found out from an old coat, or a pair of old shoes, or awalking-stick, or such like, than you could count in a day. I shan'tmake any stir about the child just yet, my lady: but before forty-eighthours are over our heads, I'll have a handbill posted in every town inEngland, and an advertisement in every newspaper, offering five poundsreward for that dark blue silk coverlet you talk of, lined withcrimson. "

"There seems considerable wisdom in the idea, " said the captain, thoughtfully. "It would never have occurred to me to advertise for thecoverlet. "

"I don't suppose it would, " answered the great Larkspur, with a slighttouch of sarcasm in his tone. "It has took me a matter of thirty yearsto learn my business; and it ain't to be supposed as my knowledge willcome to other folks natural. "

"You are right, Mr. Larkspur, " replied the captain, smiling at thepolice-officer's air of offended dignity; "and since you seem to bethoroughly equal to the difficulties of the situation, I think we canscarcely do better than trust ourselves entirely to your discretion. "

"I don't think you'll have any occasion to repent your confidence, "said Mr. Larkspur. "And now, if I may make so bold as to mention it, Ishould be glad to get a morsel of dinner, and a glass of brandy-and-water, cold without; after which I'll take a turn in the village andlook about me. There may be something to be picked up in that directionby a man who keeps his eyes and ears open. "

Mr. Larkspur was consigned to the care of the butler, who conducted himat once to the housekeeper's room, where that very important person, Mrs. Smithson, received him with almost regal condescension. 

Mrs. Smithson and the butler both would have been very glad to conversewith Mr. Larkspur, and to find out from that gentleman's conversationwho he was, and all about him; but Mr. Larkspur himself had noinclination to be communicative. He responded courteously, but briefly, to all Mrs. Smithson's civilities; and after eating the best part of acold roast chicken, and a pound or so of ham, and drinking about half apint of cognac, he left the housekeeper's room, and retired to anapartment to which the butler ushered him--a very comfortable littlesitting-room, leading into a small bedchamber, which two rooms were tobe occupied by Mr. Larkspur during his residence at the castle. 

Here he employed himself until dark in writing short notes to the chiefpolice-officers of all the principal towns in England, ordering theprinting and posting of the handbills of which he had spoken to LadyEversleigh and the captain. When this was done he put on his hat, andwent out at the great arched gateway of the castle, whence he made hisway to the village street. Here he spent the rest of the evening, andhe made very excellent use of his time, though he passed the greaterpart of it in the parlour of the "Hen and Chickens, " drinking very weakbrandy-and-water, and listening to the conversation of the gentry whopatronized that house of entertainment. 

Among those gentry was the good-tempered, but somewhat weak-minded, Matthew Brook, the coachman. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Mat Brook, " said a stout, red-facedindividual, who was butler at one of the mansions in the neighbourhoodof Raynham, "you've not been yourself for the last week; not sincelittle Missy was stolen from the castle yonder. You must have beenuncommonly fond of that child. "

"I was fond of her, bless her dear little heart, " replied Matthew. 

But though this assertion, so far as it went, was perfectly true, therewas some slight hesitation in the coachman's manner of uttering it--ahesitation which Andrew Larkspur was not slow to perceive. 

"And you've lost your new friend down at the 'Cat and Fiddle, ' whereyou was beginning to spend more of your evenings than you spent here. What's become of that man Maunders--eh, Brook?" asked the butler. "Thatwas a rather queer thing--his leaving Raynham so suddenly, leaving hishouse to take care of itself, or to be taken care of by a stupidcountry wench, who doesn't know her business any more than a cow. Doyou know why he went, or where he's gone, Mat?"

"Not I, " Mr. Brook answered, rather nervously, and reddening as hespoke. 

The police-officer watched and listened even more intently than before. The conversation was becoming every moment more interesting for him. 

"How should I know where Mr. Maunders has gone?" asked Matthew Brook, rather peevishly, as he paused from smoking to refill his honest claypipe. "How should I know where he's gone, or how long he means to stayaway? I know nothing of him, except that he seems a jolly, good-heartedsort of a chap in his own rough-and-ready way. James Harwood broughthim up to the castle one night for a hand at whist and a bit of supper, and he seemed to take a regular fancy to some of us, and asked us totake a glass now and then down at his place, which we did; and that'sall about it; and I don't mean to stand any more cross-questioning. "

"Why, Brook, " cried his friend, the butler, "what's come to you? Itisn't like you to answer any man in that way, least of all such on oldfriend as me. "

Mr. Brook took no notice of this reproach. He went on smoking silently. 

"I say, Harris, " said the butler, presently, when the landlord of the"Hen and Chickens" came into the room to attend upon his customers, "doyou know whether the landlord of the 'Cat and Fiddle' has come backyet?"

"No, he ain't, " answered Mr. Harris; "and folks complain sadly of beingserved by that awkward lass he's left in charge of the house. I've hada many of his old customers come up here for what they want. "

"Does anybody know where he's gone?"

"That's as may be, " answered Mr. Harris. "Anyhow, I don't. Some sayhe's gone to London for a fortnight's pleasure; but if he has, he's avery queer man of business; and it strikes me, when he comes back hewill find his customers all left him. "

"Do you think he's cut and run?"

"Well, you see, he might be in debt, and want to give his creditors theslip. "

"But folks down the village say he didn't owe a five-pound note, "returned the landlord, who was a great authority with regard to alllocal gossip. "It's rather a queer business altogether, that chaptaking himself off without why or wherefore, and just about the time asthe little girl disappeared from the castle. "

"Why, you don't think he had anything to do with _that_, Joe Harris?"exclaimed the butler. 

Andrew Larkspur took occasion to look at Matthew Brook at this moment;and he saw the coachman's honest face grow pallid, as if under theinfluence of some sudden terror. 

"You don't believe as Maunders had a hand in stealing the child, eh, Joe Harris?" repeated the butler. 

Joe Harris shook his head solemnly. 

"I don't think nothing, and I don't believe nothing, " he answered, witha mysterious air. "It ain't my place to give an opinion upon this heresubjick. It might be said as I was jealous of the landlord of the 'Catand Fiddle, ' and owed him a grudge. All I says is this: it's a veryqueer circumstance as the landlord of the 'Cat and Fiddle' shoulddisappear from the village directly after little Miss Eversleighdisappeared from the castle. You may put two and two together, and youmay make 'em into four, if you like, " added Mr. Harris, with profoundsolemnity; "or you may leave it alone. That's your business. "

"I'll tell you what it is, " said the butler; "I've had a chat with oldMother Smithson since the disappearance of the young lady; and fromwhat I've heard, it's pretty clear to my mind that business wasn'tmanaged by any one outside the castle. It couldn't be. There was someone inside had a hand in it. I wouldn't mind staking a twelvemonth'swages on that, Matthew and you musn't be offended if I seem to goagainst your fellow-servants. "

"I ain't offended, and I ain't pleased, " answered Matthew, testily;"all I can say is, as I don't like so much cross-questioning. There's asort of a lawyer chap has come down to-day with my lady, I hear, thoughI ain't set eyes on him yet; and I suppose he'll find out all aboutit. "

No more was said upon the subject of the lost heiress, or the landlordof the "Cat and Fiddle. "

The subject was evidently, for some reason or other, unpleasant to Mr. Brook, the coachman; and as Matthew Brook was a general favourite, thesubject was dropped. Mr. Larkspur devoted the next morning to acareful examination of all possible entrances to the castle. When hesaw the half-glass door opening from the quadrangle into the littlebedchamber occupied by Stephen Plumpton, the footman, he gave a long, low whistle, and smiled to himself, with the triumphant smile of a manwho has found a clue to the mystery he wishes to solve. 

Mrs. Smithson, the housekeeper, conducted Andrew Larkspur from room toroom during this careful investigation of the premises; and she andStephen Plumpton alone were present when he examined this half-glassdoor. 

"Do you always bolt your door of a night?" Mr. Larkspur asked of thefootman. 

"A ways, sir. "

The tone of the man's voice and the man's face combined to betray himto the skilled police-officer. 

Andrew Larkspur knew that the man had told him a deliberate falsehood. 

"Are you certain you bolted this door on that particular night?"

"Oh, quite certain, sir. "

The police-officer examined the bolt. It was a very strong one; but itmoved so stiffly as to betray the fact that it was very rarely used. 

Mrs. Smithson did not notice this fact; but Mr. Larkspur did. It washis business to take note of small facts. 

"Can you remember what you were doing on that particular night?" heasked, presently, turning again to the embarrassed Stephen. 

"No, sir; I can't say I do remember exactly, " faltered the footman. 

"Were you at home that night?"

"Well, yes, sir, I think I was. "

"You are not certain?"

"Well, yes, sir; perhaps I might venture to say as I'm certain, "answered the miserable young man, who in his desire to screen hisfellow-servant, found himself led on from one falsehood to another. 

He knew that he could rely on the honourable silence of the servants;and that none among them would betray the secret of the party at the"Cat and Fiddle. "

After completing the examination of the premises, Mr. Larkspur dinedcomfortably in the housekeeper's room, and then once more sallied forthto the village to finish his afternoon. But on this occasion it was tothe "Cat and Fiddle, " and not the "Hen and Chickens, " that the police-officer betook himself. Here he found only a few bargemen andvillagers, carousing upon the wooden benches of a tap-room, drinkingtheir beer out of yellow earthenware mugs, and enjoying themselves inan atmosphere that was almost suffocating from the fumes of strongtobacco. 

Mr. Larkspur did not trouble himself to listen to the conversation ofthese men; he looked into the room for a few minutes and then returnedto the bar, where he ordered a glass of brandy-and-water from the girlwho served Mr. Maunders's customers in the absence of that gentleman. 

"So your master is away from home, my lass, " he said, in his mostinsinuating tone, as he slowly stirred his brandy-and-water. 

"Yes, he be, sir. "

"Do you know when he's coming back?" inquired Larkspur. 

"Lawks, no, sir. "

"Or where he's gone?"

"No, sir, I don't know that neither. My master's a good one to hold histongue, he is. He never tells nobody nothing, in a manner of speaking. "

"When did he go away?"

The girl named the morning on which had been discovered thedisappearance of Sir Oswald's daughter. 

"He went away pretty early, I suppose?" said Mr. Larkspur, with assumedindifference. 

"I should rather think he did, " answered the girl. "I was up at sixthat morning, but my master had gone clean off when I came down stairs. There weren't a sign of him. "

"He must have gone very early. "

"That he must; and the strangest part of it is that he was up very latethe night before, " added the girl, who was one of those people who asknothing better than the privilege of telling all they know aboutanything or anybody. 

"Oh, " said Mr. Larkspur; "he was up late the night before, was he?"

"Yes. It was eleven when he sent me to bed, ordering me off as sharp asyou please, which is just his way. And he couldn't have gone to bed forabove an hour after that, for I lay awake, on the listen, as you maysay, wondering what he was up to downstairs. But though I lay awakeabove an hour, I didn't hear him come up stairs at all; so goodnessknows what time he went to bed. You see he had a party that night. "

"Oh, he had a party, had he?" remarked the police-officer, who saw thathe had no occasion to question this young lady, so well-inclined wasshe to tell him all she knew. 

"Yes, sir. His friends came to have a hand at cards and a hot supper;and didn't it give me plenty of trouble to get it all ready, that'sall. You see, master's friends are some of the gentlemen up at thecastle; and they live so uncommon well up there, that they're veryparticular what they eat. It must be all of the best, and done to aturn, master says to me; and so it was. I'm sure the steak was aperfect picture when I laid it on the dish, and the onions were fried abeautiful golden brown, as would have done credit to the Queen ofEngland's head-cook, though I says it as shouldn't perhaps, " added thedamsel, modestly. 

"And which of the gentlemen from the castle came to supper with yourmaster that night?" Mr. Larkspur asked, presently. 

"Well, sir, you see there was three of them. Mr. Brook, the coachman, agood-natured, civil-spoken man as you'd wish to meet, but a littlegiven to drink, folks say; and there was James Harwood, the under-groom; and Stephen Plumpton, the footman, a good-looking, fresh-coloured young man, which is, perhaps, beknown to you. "

"Oh, yes, " answered Mr. Larkspur, "I know Stephen, the footman. "

Mr. Larkspur and the damsel conversed a good deal after this; butnothing of particular interest transpired in this conversation. Thegentleman departed from the "Cat and Fiddle" very well satisfied withhis evening's work, and returned to the castle in time to take acomfortable cup of tea in the housekeeper's room. 

He was quite satisfied in his own mind as to the identity of thedelinquent who had stolen the child. 

The next thing to be discovered was the manner in which the landlord ofthe "Cat and Fiddle" had left Raynham. It must have been almostimpossible for him to leave in any public vehicle, carrying the stolenchild with him, as he must have done, without attracting the attentionof his fellow-passengers. Andrew Larkspur had taken care to ascertainall possible details of the man's habits from the communicativebarmaid, and knew that he had no vehicle or horse of his own. He must, therefore, have either gone in a public vehicle, or on foot. 

If he had left the village on foot, under cover of darkness, he mighthave left unseen; but he must have entered some other village atdaybreak; he must sooner or later have procured some kind ofconveyance; and wherever he went, carrying with him that stolen child, it was more than probable his appearance would attract attention. 

After a little trouble, the astute Andrew ascertained that Mr. Maundershad certainly not left the village by any public conveyance. 

It was late when Mr. Larkspur returned to the castle, after havingmastered this fact. He found that Lady Eversleigh had been inquiringfor him; and he was told that she had requested he might be sent to herapartments at whatever time he returned. 

In obedience to this summons, he followed a servant to the roomoccupied by the mistress of Raynham Castle. 

"Well, Mr. Larkspur, " Honoria asked, eagerly, "do you bring many hope?"

"I don't exactly know about that, my lady, " answered the ever-cautiousAndrew; "but I think I may venture to say that things are going onpretty smoothly. I ain't wasting time, depend upon it; and I hope in aday or two I may have something encouraging to tell you. "

"But you will tell me nothing yet?" murmured Honoria, with a despairingsigh. 

"Not yet, my lady. "

No more was said. Lady Eversleigh was obliged to be content with thissmall comfort. 

Early the next morning Mr. Larkspur set out on his voyage of discoveryto the villages within two, three, four, and five hours' walk ofRaynham. 

 CHAPTER XXXVI. 

 ON THE TRACK. 

The next day Mr. Larkspur spent in the same manner, and returned to thecastle late at night, and very much out of sorts. He had of late beenspoiled by tolerably easy triumphs, and the experience of failure wasvery disagreeable to him. 

On both evenings he was summoned to Lady Eversleigh's apartments, andon each occasion declined going. He sent a respectful message, to theeffect that he had nothing to communicate to her ladyship, and wouldnot therefore intrude upon her. 

But early on the morning after the second day's wasted labour, the postbrought Mr. Larkspur a communication which quite restored him to hisaccustomed good humour. 

It was neither more nor less than a brief epistle from one of theofficials of the police-staff at Murford Haven, informing Mr. Larkspurthat an old woman had produced the silken coverlet advertised for, andclaimed the offered reward. 

Mr. Larkspur sent a servant to inquire if Lady Eversleigh would bepleased to favour him with a few minutes' conversation that morning. The man came back almost immediately with a ready affirmative. 

"My lady will be very happy to see Mr. Larkspur. "

"Oh, Mr. Larkspur!" exclaimed Honoria, as the police-officer enteredthe room, "I am certain you bring me good news; I can see it in yourface. "

"Well, yes, my lady; certainly I've got a little bit of good news thismorning. "

"You have found a clue to my child?"

"I have found out something about the coverlet, " answered Andrew; "andthat's the next best thing, to my mind. That has turned up at MurfordHaven, thirty miles from here; though how the man who stole MissEversleigh can have got there without leaving a single trace behind himis more than I can understand. "

"At Murford Haven!--my darling has been taken to Murford Haven!" criedHonoria. 

"So I conclude, my lady, by the coverlet turning up there, " replied Mr. Larkspur. "I told you the handbills would do the trick. Murford Havenis a large manufacturing town, and the sort of place a man who wantedto keep himself out of sight of the police might be likely enough tochoose. Now, with your leave, my lady, I'll be off to Murford Haven assoon as I can have a post-chaise got ready for me. "

"And I will go with you, " exclaimed Lady Eversleigh; "I shall feel asif I were nearer my child if I go to the town where you hope to findthe clue to her hiding-place. "

"I, too, will accompany you, " said Captain Copplestone. 

"Begging you pardon, sir, " remonstrated Mr. Larkspur, "if three of usgo, and one of those three a lady, we might attract attention, even insuch a busy place as Murford Haven. And if those that have got littlemissy should hear of it, they'd smell a rat. No, my lady, you let me goalone. I'm used to this sort of work, and you ain't, and the captainain't either. I can slip about on the quiet anywhere like an eel; andI've got the eye to see whatever is to be seen, and the ear to pick upevery syllable that's to be heard. You trust matters to me, and dependupon it, I'll do my duty. I've got a clue, and a clue is all I everwant. You keep to this spot, my lady, and you, too, captain; for theremay come some kind of news in my absence, and you may have to actwithout me. I shan't waste time, you may rely upon it; and all you'vegot to do, my lady, is to trust to me, and hope that I shall bring youback good news from Murford Haven. "

Very little more was said, and half an hour after this interview, thepolice-officer left Raynham in a post-chaise, on the first stage of thejourney to Murford Haven. 

Words are too weak to describe the sufferings of the mother of the lostchild, and of the friends to whom she was hardly less dear. They waitedvery quietly, with all outward show of calmness, but the pain ofsuspense was not less keen. They sat silent, unoccupied, counting thehours--the minutes even--during the period which must elapse before thereturn of the police-officer. 

He came earlier than Honoria had dared to expect him, and he broughtwith him so much comfort that she could almost have fallen on herknees, like Thetis at the feet of Jove, in the extremity of hergratitude for his services. 

"I've got the coverlet, " said Mr. Larkspur, dragging the little silkencovering from his carpet-bag, and displaying it before those to whom itwas so familiar. "That's about the ticket, I think, my lady. Yes, justso. I found a nice old hag waiting to claim her five pounds reward;for, you see, the men at the police-office at Murford Haven contrivedto keep her dancing attendance backward and forwards--call again in anhour, and so on--till I was there to cross-question her. A preciousdeep one she is, too; and a regular jail-bird, I'll wager. I soonreckoned her up; and I was pretty sure that whatever she knew she'dtell fast enough, if she was only paid her price. So, after a good dealof shilly-shally, and handing her over five-and-twenty pounds in solidcash, and telling her that she'd better beware how she trifled with agentleman belonging to Bow Street, she consented to tell me all aboutthe little girl. The man that stole little missy had been to herprecious hovel, and old Mother Brimstone had found a change of clothesfor little missy, in token of which, and on payment of anothersovereign, the old harpy gave me little missy's own clothes; and therethey are. "

Hereupon Mr. Larkspur dragged from his capacious carpet-bag thedelicate little garments of lawn and lace which had been worn by thecherished heiress of Raynham. Ah! who can describe the anguish of themother's heart as she gazed upon those familiar garments, so associatedwith the form of the lost one?

"Well, " gasped Honoria, "go on, I entreat! She told you the child hadbeen there. But with whom? Did she tell you that?"

"She did, " returned Andrew Larkspur. "She told me that the scoundrelwho holds little missy in his keeping is no other than the mansuspected of a foul murder--a man I have long been looking for--a manwho is well known amongst the criminal classes of London by the name ofBlack Milsom. "

Black Milsom! the face of Lady Eversleigh, pale before, grew almostghastly in its pallor, as that hated name sounded in her ears, ominousas a death-knell. 

"Black Milsom!" she exclaimed at last. "If my child is in the power ofthat man, she is, indeed, lost. "

"You know him, my lady?" cried Andrew Larkspur, with surprise. "Ah, Iremember, you seemed familiar with the details of the Jernam murder. You know this man, Milsom?"

"I do know him, " answered Honoria, in a tone of utter despair. "Do notask me where or when that man and I have met. It is enough that I knowhim. My darling could not be in worse hands. "

"He can have but one motive, and that to extort money, " said CaptainCopplestone. "No harm will come to our darling's precious life. Youhave reason to rejoice that your child has not fallen into the hands ofSir Reginald Eversleigh. "

"Tell me more, " said Honoria to Mr. Larkspur. "Tell me all you havediscovered. "

"All I could discover was that the man Milsom had taken the child toLondon by a certain coach. I went to the inn from which that particularcoach always starts; and here, after much trouble and delay, I waslucky enough to see the guard. From him I derived some valuableinformation; or perhaps, I ought to say some information that I thinkmay turn up trumps. He perfectly remembered the man Milsom by mydescription of him, I having got the description from old MotherBrimstone; and he remembered the child, because of her crying a deal, and the passengers pitying her, and being pleased with her prettylooks, and trying to comfort her, and so on. The guard himself took adeal of notice of the child, and thought the man was not much good; andwhen they got to London, he felt curious like, he said, to know wherethe two would go, and what would become of them. "

"And did he find out?" gasped Lady Eversleigh. 

"As good luck would have it, he did. The man got into a hackney-coach, and the guard heard the driver tell him to go to Ratcliff Highway--thatwas all. "

"Then I will find him, " exclaimed Honoria, with feverish excitement. "Iknow the place well--too well! I will go with you to London, Mr. Larkspur, and I myself will help you to find my treasure. "

In the extremity of her excitement she was reckless what secrets shebetrayed. She had but one thought, one consideration, and that to herwas life or death. 

"Don't question me, " she said to Captain Copplestone, who stared at herin amazement; "my girlhood was spent in a den of thieves--my womanhoodhas been one long struggle against pitiless enemies. I will fightbravely to the last. And now, in this most bitter trial of my life, theexperience of my miserable youth shall serve in the contest with thatvillain. "

She would brook no delay; she would explain nothing. 

"Do not question me, " she repeated. "You have counselled me to trust inthe experience of Mr. Larkspur, and I will confide myself to hiswisdom; but I must and will accompany him in his search for my child. Let a post-chaise be ordered immediately. Can you dispense with rest, and take a hurried dinner before you start, Mr. Larkspur?" she added, turning to her ally. 

"Dispense with rest? Bless your innocent heart, my lady, I don't knowthe meaning of rest when I'm in business; and as for dinner, a hamsandwich and a glass of brandy out of a pocket-pistol is as much as Iask for when my blood's up. " "You shall be richly rewarded for yourexertions. "

"Thank you kindly, ma'am. The promise of a reward is very encouraging, of course; but, upon my word, my heart's more in this business than itever was before in anything under a murder; and I feel as if it was inme to do wonders. "

No more was said. Andrew Larkspur hurried away to eat as good a dinneras he could get through in ten minutes, and Honoria went to herdressing-room to prepare herself for her journey. 

"Pray for me, kind and faithful friend, " she said, earnestly, as shebade adieu to the captain. 

In a few minutes more she was once again speeding along the familiarroad which she had travelled under such different circumstances, andwith such different feelings. She remembered the first time she haddriven through those rustic villages, past those swelling uplands, those woods and hills. 

Then she had come as a bride, beloved, honoured, seated by the side ofan adoring husband--a happy future shining before her, a bright horizonwithout one cloud. 

Only one shadow to come between her and the sunshine, and that theshadow of a cruel memory--the haunting recollection of that foul deedwhich had been done beneath the shelter of the darkness, by the side ofthe ever-flowing river. Even to-day, when her heart was full of herchild's sweet image, that dark memory still haunted her. It seemed toher as if some mystic influence obliged her to recall the horrors ofthat night. 

"The curse of innocent blood has been upon me, " she thought to herself. "I shall never know rest or peace till the murder of Valentine Jernamhas been avenged. "

Lady Eversleigh went at once to her rooms in Percy Street, and Mr. Andrew Larkspur betook himself to certain haunts, in which he expectedto glean some information. That he was not entirely unsuccessful willappear from his subsequent conversation with Lady Eversleigh. After anabsence, in reality short, but which, to her suspense and impatienceappeared of endless duration, Mr. Larkspur presented himself beforeher. 

"Well, Mr. Larkspur, what news?" she cried, eagerly, as he entered theroom. 

"Not much, my lady; but there's something done, at any rate. I've foundout one fact. "

"And what is that?"

"That the little lady has not been taken out of the country. Now, youseem to know something of the man Milsom, my lady. Have you any ideawhether there is any particular place where he'd be _likely_ to takelittle missy?"

For some minutes Lady Eversleigh remained silent, evidently lost inthought. 

"Yes, " she said, at last, "I do know something of that man's pastcareer; so much, that the very mention of his name sends a thrill ofhorror through my heart. Yes, Mr. Larkspur, it is my misfortune to haveknown Black Milsom only too well in the bitter past. "

"If your ladyship wouldn't consider it a liberty, " said the police-officer, with some hesitation, "I should very much like to put aquestion. "

"You are free to ask me what questions you please. "

"What I should like to ask is this, " replied Mr. Larkspur, "when andwhere did your ladyship happen to meet Black Milsom? If you would onlybe so kind as to speak freely, it might be a great help to me in thework I've got in hand. "

Honoria did not answer him for some moments. She had risen from herchair, and was walking up and down the room in deep thought. 

"Will it help you in your search for my child, " she said, at length, "if I tell you all I know?"

"It may help me. I cannot venture to say more than that, my lady. "

"If there is even a chance, I must speak, " replied Honoria. "I willtell you, then, " she said, throwing herself into a chair, and fixingher grave, earnest eyes upon the face of her companion. "In order totell you what I know of Black Milsom, I must go back to the days of mychildhood. My first memories are bright ones; but they are so vague, soshadowy, that it is with difficulty I can distinguish realities fromdreams; and yet I believe the things which I remember _must_ have beenreal. I have a faint recollection of a darkly beautiful face, that bentover me as I lay in some bed or cradle, softer and more luxurious thanany bed I ever slept in for many years after that time. I remember asoft, sweet voice, that sang me to sleep. I remember that in the placeI called home everything was beautiful. "

"And do you not even know where this home was?"

"I know nothing of its locality. I was too young to remember the namesof persons or places. But I have often fancied it was in Italy. "

"In Italy!"

"Yes; for the first home which I really remember was a fisherman's hut, in a little village within a few miles of Naples. I was the only childin that miserable hovel--lonely, desolate, miserable, in the power oftwo wretches, whose presence filled me with loathing. "

"And they were--?"

"An old woman, called Andrinetta--I know that, though I called her'nurse' when she was with me in the beautiful home I so dimlyremember--and the man whom you have heard of under the name of BlackMilsom. "

"Is he an Italian?" asked Andrew, astonished. 

"I don't know, " replied Honoria. "In England he calls himself anEnglishman--in Italy he is supposed to be an Italian. What his realcalling was in those days I do not know; but I feel assured that itmust been dark and unlawful as all his actions have been since thattime. He pretended to get his living like the other fishermen in theneighbourhood; but he was often idle for a week at a time, and stillmore often, absent. I have seen him count over gold and jewels with oldAndrinetta on his return from some expedition. To me he was harsh andcruel. I hated him, and he knew that I hated him. He ordered me to callhim father, and I was more than once savagely beaten by him because Irefused to do so. Under such treatment, in such a wretched home, deprived of all natural companionship, I grew wild and strange. My willwas indomitable as the will of my tyrant; and on many occasions Iresisted him boldly. Sometimes I ran away, and wandered for daystogether among the neighbouring hills and woods; but I returned alwayssooner or later to my miserable shelter, for I knew not where else togo. My lonely life had made me shrink from all human creatures, exceptthe two wretches with whom I lived; and when the few neighbours wouldhave shown me some kindness, I ran from them in wild, unreasoningterror. "

"Strange!" muttered the police-officer. 

"Yes; a strange history, is it not?" returned Lady Eversleigh. "And youwonder, no doubt, to hear of such a childhood from the lips of SirOswald Eversleigh's widow. One day I heard a neighbour reproaching theman with his cruel treatment of me. 'It is bad enough to have stolenthe child, ' he said; 'you shouldn't beat her as well. ' From that hour Iknew that I was a stolen child. I told him as much one night, and thenext morning he took me to Naples, where, in the most obscure and yetmost crowded part of the city, I lived for some years. 'Nobody willtrouble himself about you here, my young princess, ' my tyrant said tome. 'Children swarm by hundreds in all the alleys; you will only be onemore drop of water in the ocean. '"

There was a pause, during which Honoria sat in a meditative attitude, with her eyes fixed upon vacancy. It seemed as if she was looking backinto the shadowy past. 

"I cannot tell you how wretched my life was for some time. Andrinettahad accompanied us to Naples; and soon I saw she was very ill, and shehad fits of violence that approached insanity. Within doors she was mysole companion. The man only slept in the house, and at times wasabsent for months. How he earned his livelihood I knew no more than Ihad known in the little sea-side village. I now rarely saw jewels orgold in his possession; but at night, after he had gone to his chamber, I often heard the chink of golden coin through the thin partition whichdivided my room from his. I think in these days I must have perishedbody and soul if Providence had not sent me a friend in the person of agood Catholic priest--a noble and saintly old man--who visited thewretched dens of poverty and crime, and who discovered my desolatestate. I need not dwell on that man's goodness to me; it is, doubtless, remembered in heaven, whither he may have gone before this time. Hetaught me, he comforted me, he rescued me from the abyss ofwretchedness into which I had fallen. I took care to conceal his visitsfrom my tyrant, for I knew how that wicked heart would revolt againstmy redemption from ignorance and misery. When I was fifteen years ofage, Andrinetta died. One day, soon after her death--for me a mostsorrowful day--Tomaso (as they called him there) told me that he wasgoing to bring me to England, I came with him, and for two years Iremained his companion. I will not speak of that time. I have told younow all that I can tell. "

"But the murder of Valentine Jernam!" exclaimed Andrew. "Suspicionpointed to this man; and you--you know something of that?"

"I will not speak of that now, " replied Honoria. "I have said enough. The day may come when I may speak more freely; but it has not yetarrived. Trust me that I will not impede the course of justice wherethis man is concerned. And now tell me, does my revelation afford oneray of light which may help to dispel the darkness that surrounds myGertrude's fate?"

"No, I cannot say it does. I cannot find out anything to indicate thatshe has been taken far away. I am sure she is in England, and that oneof Milsom's pals, a man named Wayman--"

Lady Eversleigh started, and exclaimed, "I know him! I know him! Go on!go on!"

Larkspur directed a glance of keen and eager curiosity towards LadyEversleigh. "You know Wayman?" he said. 

"Well, well, " she repeated. "I know him to be an unscrupulous ruffian. If he knows where my child is, he will sell the secret for money, andwe will give him money--any sum; do you think I shall count the cost ofher safety?"

"No, no, " said Andrew Larkspur, "but you must not get so excited; keepquiet--tell me all you know of Wayman, and then we shall see our way. "

At this point of the conversation Jane Payland knocked at the door ofher mistress's sitting-room, and the interview between Honoria and thepolice-officer was interrupted. 

 CHAPTER XXXVII. 

 "O, ABOVE MEASURE FALSE!"

Victor Carrington was very well content with the state of affairs atHilton House in all but one respect. The fulfilment of his purpose wasnot approaching with sufficient rapidity. The rich marriage which hehad talked about for Reginald was a pure figment; the virtuousironmonger, with the richly dowered daughter, existed only in hisprolific brain--the need of money was growing pressing. He had donemuch, but there was still much to do, and he must make haste to do it. He had also been mistaken on one point of much importance to hissuccess; he had not calculated on the strength of Douglas Dale'sconstitution. Each day that he dined with Paulina--and the days onwhich he did not were exceedingly few--Dale drank a small quantity ofcuraçoa, into which Carrington had poured poison of a slow but surenature. As the small carafon in which the liquor was placed upon thetable was emptied, the poisoner never found any difficulty in gainingaccess to the fresh supply. 

The antique liquor-chest, with its fittings of Venetian glass wasalways kept on the side-board in the dining-room, and was never locked. Paulina had a habit of losing anything that came into her hands, andthe key of the liquor-chest had long been missing. 

But the time was passing, and the poison was not telling, as far as he, the poisoner, could judge from appearances, on Douglas Dale. He nevercomplained of illness, and beyond a slight lassitude, he did not seemto have anything the matter with him. This would not do. It behovedCarrington to expedite matters. His project was to accomplish the deathof Douglas Dale by poison, throwing the burthen of suspicion--shouldsuspicion arise--upon Paulina. To advance this purpose, he hadindustriously circulated reports of the most injurious characterrespecting her; so that Douglas Dale, if he had not been blinded andengrossed by his love, must have seen that he was regarded by the menwhom he was in the habit of meeting even more coldly and curiously thanwhen he had first boldly announced his engagement to Madame Durski. Hemade it known that Douglas Dale had made a will, by which the whole ofhis disposable property was bequeathed to Paulina, and circulated arumour that the Austrian widow was utterly averse to the intendedmarriage, in feeling, and was only contracting it from interestedmotives. 

"If Dale was only out of the way, and his heir had come into the money, she would rather have Reginald, " was a spiteful saying current amongthose who knew the lady and her suitor, and which had its unsuspectedorigin with Carrington. Supposing Dale to come to his death by poison, and that fact to be ascertained, who would be suspected but the womanwho had everything to gain by his death, whose acknowledged lover washis next heir, and who succeeded by his will to all the property whichdid not go immediately into the possession of that acknowledged lover?The plan was admirably laid, and there was no apparent hitch in it, andit only remained now for Carrington to accelerate his proceedings. Hestill maintained reserve with Reginald Eversleigh, who would go to hishouse, and lounge purposelessly about, sullen and gloomy, but afraid toquestion the master-mind which had so completely subjugated his weakand craven nature. 

The engagement between Paulina and Douglas had lasted nearly twomonths, when a cloud overshadowed the horizon which had seemed sobright. 

Madame Durski became somewhat alarmed by a change in her lover'sappearance, which struck her suddenly on one of his visits to thevilla. For some weeks past she had seen him only by lamplight--thatlight which gives a delusive brightness to the countenance. 

To-day she saw him with the cold northern sunlight shining full uponhis face; and for the first time she perceived that he had altered muchof late. 

"Douglas, " she said, earnestly, "how ill you are looking!"

"Indeed!"

"Yes; I see it to-day for the first time, and I can only wonder that Inever noticed it before. You have grown so much paler, so much thinner, within the last few weeks. I am sure you cannot be well. "

"My dearest Paulina, pray do not look at me with such alarm, " saidDouglas, gently. "Believe me, there is nothing particular the matter. Ihave not been quite myself for the last few weeks, I admit--a touch oflow fever, I think; but there is not the slightest occasion for fear onyour part. "

"Oh, Douglas, " exclaimed Paulina, "how can you speak so carelessly of asubject so vital to me? I implore you to consult a physicianimmediately. "

"I assure you, my dearest, it is not necessary. There is nothing reallythe matter. "

"Douglas, I beg and entreat you to see a physician directly. I entreatit as a favour to me. "

"My dear Paulina, I am ready to do anything you wish. "

"You will promise me, then, to see a doctor you can trust, without anhour's unnecessary delay?"

"I promise, with all my heart, " replied Douglas. "Ah, Paulina, whathappiness to think that my life is of some slight value to her I loveso fondly!"

No more was said upon the subject; but during dinner, and throughoutthe evening, Paulina's eyes fixed themselves every now and then with ananxious, scrutinizing gaze upon her lover's face. 

When he had left her, she mentioned her fears to her _confidante_ andshadow, Miss Brewer. 

"Do you not see a change in Mr. Dale?" she asked. 

"A change! What kind of change?"

"Do you not perceive an alteration in his appearance? In plainer words, do you not think him looking very ill?"

Miss Brewer, generally so impassive, started, and looked at herpatroness with a gaze in which alarm was plainly visible. 

She had hazarded so much in order to bring about a marriage betweenDouglas and her patroness; and what if mortality's dread enemy, Death, should forbid the banns?

"Ill!" she exclaimed; "do you think Mr. Dale is ill?"

"I do, indeed; and he confesses as much himself, though he makes lightof the matter. He talks of low fever. I cannot tell you how much he hasalarmed me. "

"There may be nothing serious in it, " answered Miss Brewer, with somehesitation. "One is so apt to take alarm about trifles which a doctorwould laugh at. I dare say Mr. Dale only requires change of air. ALondon life is not calculated to improve any one's health. "

"Perhaps that is the cause of his altered appearance, " replied Paulina, only too glad to be reassured as to her lover's safety. "I will beg himto take change of air. But he has promised to see a doctor to-morrow:when he comes to me in the afternoon I shall hear what the doctor hassaid. "

Douglas Dale was very much inclined to make light of the slightsymptoms of ill-health which had oppressed him for some time--alanguor, a sense of thirst and fever, which were very wearing in theireffect, but which he attributed to the alternations of excitement andagitation that he had undergone of late. 

He was, however, too much a man of honour to break the promise made toPaulina. 

He went early on the following morning to Savile Row, where he calledupon Dr. Harley Westbrook, a physician of some eminence, to whom hecarefully described the symptoms of which he had complained to Paulina. 

"I do not consider myself really ill, " he said, in conclusion; "but Ihave come to you in obedience to the wish of a friend. "

"I am very glad that you have come to me, " answered Dr. Westbrook, gravely. 

"Indeed! do you, then, consider the symptoms alarming?"

"Well, no, not at present; but I may go so far as to say that you havedone very wisely in placing yourself under medical treatment. It is amost interesting case, " added the doctor with an air of satisfactionthat was almost enjoyment. 

He then asked his patient a great many questions, some of which DouglasDale considered frivolous, or, indeed, absurd; questions about hisdiet, his habits: questions even about the people with whom heassociated, the servants who waited upon him. 

These latter inquiries might have seemed almost impertinent, if Dr. Westbrook's elevated position had not precluded such an idea. 

"You dine at your club, or in your chambers, eh, Mr. Dale?" he asked. 

"Neither at my club, nor my chambers; I dine every day with a friend. "

"Indeed; always with the same friend?"

"Always the same. "

"And you breakfast?"

"At my chambers. "

Here followed several questions as to the nature of the breakfast. 

"These sort of ailments depend so much on diet, " said the physician, asif to justify the closeness of his questioning. "Your servant preparesyour breakfast, of course--is he a person whom you can trust?"

"Yes; he is an old servant of my father's. I could trust him implicitlyin far more important matters than the preparation of my breakfast. "

"Indeed! Will you pardon me if I ask rather a strange question?"

"Certainly, if it is a necessary one. "

"Answered like a lawyer, Mr. Dale, " replied Dr. Westbrook, with asmile. "I want to know whether this old and trusted servant of yourshas any beneficial interest in your death?"

"Interest in my death--"

"In plainer words, has he reason to think that you have put him down inyour will--supposing that you have made a will; which is far fromprobable?"

"Well, yes, " replied Douglas, thoughtfully; "I have made a will withinthe last few months, and Jarvis, my old servant knows that he isprovided for, in the event of surviving me--not a very likely event, according to the ordinary hazards; but a man is bound to prepare forevery contingency. "

"You told your servant that you had provided for him?"

"I did. He has been such an excellent creature, that it was onlynatural I should leave him comfortably situated in the event of mydeath. "

"No; to be sure, " answered the physician, with rather an absent manner. "And now I need trouble you with no further questions this morning. Come to me in a few days, and in the meantime take the medicine Iprescribe for you. "

Dr. Westbrook wrote a prescription, and Mr. Dale departed, very muchperplexed by his interview with the celebrated physician. 

Douglas went to Fulham that evening as usual, and the first questionPaulina asked related to his interview with the doctor. 

"You have seen a medical man?" she asked. 

"I have; and you may set your mind at rest, dearest. He assures me thatthere is nothing serious the matter. "

Paulina was entirely reassured, and throughout that evening she wasbrighter and happier than usual in the society of her lover--morelovely, more bewitching than ever, as it seemed to Douglas. 

He waited a week before calling again on the physician; and he might, perhaps, have delayed his visit even longer, had he not felt that thefever and languor from which he suffered increased rather than abated. 

This time Dr. Westbrook's manner seemed graver and more perplexed thanon the former visit. He asked even more questions, and at last, after athoughtful examination of the patient, he said, very seriously--

"Mr. Dale, I must tell you frankly that I do not like your symptoms. "

"You consider them alarming?"

"I consider them perplexing, rather than alarming. And as you are not anervous subject I think I may venture to trust you fully. "

"You may trust in the strength of my nerve, if that is what you mean. "

"I believe I may, and I shall have to test your moral courage andgeneral force of character. "

"Pray be brief, then, " said Douglas with a faint smile. "I can almostguess what you have to say. You are going to tell me that I carry theseeds of a mortal disease; that the shadowy hand of death already holdsme in its fatal grip. "

"I am going to tell you nothing of the kind, " answered Dr. Westbrook. "I can find no symptoms of disease. You have a very fair lease of life, Mr. Dale, and may enjoy a green old age, if other people would allowyou to enjoy it. "

"How do you mean?"

"I mean that if I can trust my own judgment in a matter which issometimes almost beyond the reach of science, the symptoms from whichyou suffer are those of slow poisoning. "

"Slow poisoning!" replied Douglas, in almost inaudible accents. "It isimpossible!" he exclaimed, after a pause, during which the physicianwaited quietly until his patient should have in some manner recoveredhis calmness of mind. "It is quite impossible. I have every confidencein your skill, your science; but in this instance, Dr. Westbrook, Ifeel assured that you are mistaken. "

"I would gladly think so, Mr. Dale, " replied the doctor, gravely; "butI cannot. I have given my best thought to your case. I can only formone conclusion--namely, that you are labouring under the effects ofpoison. "

"Do you know what the poison is?"

"I do not; but I do know that it must have been administered with acaution that is almost diabolical in its ingenuity--so slowly, by suchimperceptible degrees, that you have scarcely been aware of the changewhich it has worked in your system. It was a most providentialcircumstance that you came to me when you did, as I have been able todiscover the treachery to which you are subject while there is yetample time for you to act against it. Forewarned is forearmed, youknow, Mr. Dale. The hidden hand of the secret poisoner is about itsfatal work; it is for you and me to discover to whom the hand belongs. Is there any one about you whom you can suspect of such hideous guilt?"

"No one--no one. I repeat that such a thing is impossible. "

"Who is the person most interested in your death?" asked Dr. Westbrook, calmly. 

"My first cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh, who would succeed to a veryhandsome income in that event. But I have not met him, or, at any rate, broke bread with him, for the last two months. Nor can I for a momentbelieve him capable of such infamy. "

"If you have not been in intimate association with him for the last twomonths, you may absolve him from all suspicion, " answered Dr. Westbrook. "You spoke to me the other day of dining very frequentlywith one particular friend; forgive me if I ask an unpleasant question. Is that friend a person whom you can trust?"

"That friend I could trust with a hundred lives, if I had them tolose, " Douglas replied, warmly. 

The doctor looked at his patient thoughtfully. He was a man of theworld, and the warmth of Mr. Dale's manner told him that the friend inquestion was a woman. 

"Has the person whom you trust so implicitly any beneficial interest inyour death?" he asked. 

"To some amount; but that person would gain much more by my continuingto live. "

"Indeed; then we must needs fall back upon my original idea and painfulas it may be to you, the old servant must become the object of yoursuspicion. "

"I cannot believe him capable--"

"Come, come, Mr. Dale, " interrupted the physician. "We must look atthings as men of the world. It is your duty to ascertain by whom thispoison has been administered, in order to protect yourself from theattacks of your insidious destroyer. If you will follow my advice, youwill do this; if, on the other hand, you elect to shut your eyes to thedanger that assails you, I can only tell you that you will mostassuredly pay for your folly by the forfeit of your life. "

"What am I to do?" asked Douglas. 

"You say that your habits of life are almost rigid in their regularity. You always breakfast in your own chambers; you always dine and takeyour after-dinner coffee in the house of one particular friend. Withthe exception of a biscuit and a glass of sherry taken sometimes atyour club, these two meals are all you take during the day. It is, therefore, an indisputable fact, that poison has bee a administered atone or other of these two meals. Your old butler serves one--theservants of your friend prepare the other. Either in your own chambers, or in your friend's house, you have a hidden foe. It is for you to findout where that foe lurks. "

"Not in her house, " gasped Douglas, unconsciously betraying the depthof his feeling and the sex of his friend; "not in hers. It must beJarvis whom I have to fear--and yet, no, I cannot believe it. Myfather's old servant--a man who used to carry me in his arms when I wasa boy!"

"You may easily set the question of his guilt or innocence at rest, Mr. Dale, " answered Dr. Westbrook. "Contrive to separate yourself from himfor a time. If during that time you find your symptoms cease, you willhave the strongest evidence of his guilt; if they still continue, youmust look elsewhere. "

"I will take your advice, " replied Douglas, with a weary sigh;"anything is better than suspense. "

Little more was said. 

As Douglas walked slowly from the physician's house to the PhoenixClub, he meditated profoundly on the subject of his interview with Dr. Westbrook. 

"Who is the traitor?" he asked himself. "Who? Unhappily there can be nodoubt about it. Jarvis is the guilty wretch. "

It was with unspeakable pain that Douglas Dale contemplated the idea ofhis old servant's guilt: his old servant, who had seemed a model offidelity and devotion!

This very man had attended the deathbed of the rector--Douglas Dale'sfather--had been recommended by that father to the care of his twosons, had exhibited every appearance of intense grief at the loss ofhis master. 

What could he think, except that Jarvis was guilty? There was but oneother direction in which he could look for guilt, and there surely itcould not be found. 

Who in Hilton House had any interest in his death, except that oneperson who was above the possibility of suspicion?

He sat by his solitary breakfast-table on the morning after hisinterview with the physician, and watched Jarvis as he moved to andfro, waiting on his master with what seemed affectionate attention. 

Douglas ate little. A failing appetite had been one of the symptomsthat accompanied the low fever from which he had lately suffered. 

This morning, depression of spirits rendered him still less inclined toeat. 

He was thinking of Jarvis and of the past--those careless, happy, childish days, in which this man had been second only to his ownkindred in his boyish affection. 

While he meditated gravely upon this most painful subject, deliberatingas to the manner in which he should commence a conversation that waslikely to be a very serious one, he happened to look up, and perceivedthat he was watched by the man he had been lately watching. His eyesmet the gaze of his old servant, and he beheld a strange earnestness inthat gaze. 

The old man did not flinch on meeting his master's glance. 

"I beg your pardon for looking at you so hard, Mr. Douglas, " he said;"but I was thinking about you very serious, sir, when you looked up. "

"Indeed, Jarvis, and why?"

"Why you see, sir, it was about your appetite as I was thinking. It'sfallen off dreadful within the last few weeks. The poor breakfastes asyou eats is enough to break a man's heart. And you don't know the painsas I take, sir, to tempt you in the way of breakfastes. That fish, sir, I fetched from Grove's this morning with my own hands. They comes up ina salt-water tank in the bottom of their own boat, sir, as lively as ifthey was still in their natural eleming, Grove's fish do. But theymight be red herrings for any notice as you take of 'em. You're notyourself, Mr. Douglas, that's what it is. You're ill, Mr. Douglas, andyou ought to see a doctor. Excuse my presumption, sir, in making theseremarks; but if an old family servant that has nursed you on his kneescan't speak free, who can?"

"True, " Douglas answered with a sigh; "I was a very small boy when youcarried me on your shoulders to many a country fair, and you were verygood to me, Jarvis. "

"Only my dooty, sir, " muttered the old man. 

"You are right, Jarvis, as to my health--I am ill. "

"Then you'll send for a doctor, surely, Mr. Douglas. "

"I have already seen a doctor. "

"And what do he say, sir?"

"He says my case is very serious. "

"Oh, Mr. Douglas, don't 'ee say that, don't 'ee say that, " cried theold man, in extreme distress. 

"I can only tell you the truth, Jarvis, " answered Douglas: "but thereis no occasion for despair. The physician tells me that my case is agrave one, but he does not say that it is hopeless. "

"Why don't 'ee consult another doctor, Mr. Douglas, " said Jarvis;"perhaps that one ain't up to his work. If it's such a difficult case, you ought to go to all the best doctors in London, till you find theone that can cure you. A fine, well-grown young gentleman like yououghtn't to have much the matter with him. I don't see as it can bevery serious. "

"I don't know about that, Jarvis; but in any case I have resolved upondoing something for you. "

"For me, sir! Lor' bless your generous heart, I don't want nothing inthis mortal world. "

"But you may, Jarvis, " replied Douglas. "You have already been toldthat I have provided for you in case of my death. "

"Yes, sir, you was so good as to say you had left me an annuity, and itwas very kind of you to think of such a thing, and I'm duly thankful. But still you see, sir, I can't help looking at it in the light of akind of joke, sir; for it ain't in human nature that an old chap likeme is going to outlive a young gentleman like you; and Lord forbid thatit should be in human nature for such a thing to happen. "

"We never know what may happen, Jarvis. At any rate, I have providedagainst the worst. But as you are getting old, and have worked hard allyour life, I think you must want rest; so, instead of putting you offtill my death, I shall give you your annuity at once, and you mayretire into a comfortable little house of your own, and live the lifeof an elderly gentleman, with a decent little income, as soon as youplease. "

To the surprise of Douglas Dale, the old man's countenance expressedonly grief and mortification on hearing an announcement which hismaster had supposed would have been delightful to him. 

"Begging your pardon, sir, " he faltered; "but have you seen a youngerservant as you like better and as could serve you better, than poorold Jarvis?"

"No, indeed, " answered Douglas, "I have seen no such person. Nor do Ibelieve that any one in the world could serve me as well as you. "

"Then why do you want to change, sir?"

"I don't want to change. I only want to make you happy, Jarvis. "

"Then make me happy by letting me stay with you, " pleaded the oldservant. "Let me stay, sir. Don't talk about annuities. I want nothingfrom you but the pleasure of waiting on my dear old master's son. It'sas much delight to me to wait upon you now as it was to me twenty yearsago to carry you to the country fairs on my shoulder. Ah, we did haverare times of it then, didn't we, sir? Let me stay, and when I die giveme a grave somewhere hard by where you live; and if, once in a way, when you pass the churchyard where I lay, you should give a sigh, andsay, 'Poor old Jarvis!' that will be a full reward to me for havingloved you so dear ever since you was a baby. "

Was this acting? Was this the perfect simulation of an accomplishedhypocrite? No, no, no; Douglas Dale could not believe it. 

The tears came into his eyes; he extended his hand, and grasped that ofhis old servant. 

"You _shall_ stay with me, Jarvis, " he said; "and I will trust you withall my heart. "

Douglas Dale left his chambers soon after that conversation, and wentstraight to Dr. Westbrook, to whom he gave a fall account of theinterview. 

"I have tested the old man thoroughly, " he said, in conclusion; "and Ibelieve him to be fidelity itself. "

"You have tested him, Mr. Dale! stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed thepractical physician. "You surely don't call that sentimentalconversation a test? If the man is capable of being a slow poisoner, heis, of course, capable of acting a part, and shedding crocodile's tearsin evidence of his devoted affection for the master whose biliaryorgans he is deranging by the administration of antimony, or aconite. If you want to test the man thoroughly, test him in my way. Contrive toeat your breakfast elsewhere for a week or two; touch nothing, not somuch as a glass of water, in your own chambers; and if at the end ofthat time the symptoms have ceased, you will know what to think of thatpattern of fidelity--Mr. Jarvis. "

Douglas promised to take the doctor's advice. He was convinced of hisservant's innocence; but he wanted to put that question beyond doubt. 

But if Jarvis was indeed innocent, where was the guilty wretch to befound?

Douglas Dale dined at Hilton House upon the evening after his interviewwith Dr. Westbrook, as he had done without intermission for severalweeks. He found Paulina tender and affectionate, as she had ever beenof late, since respect and esteem for her lover's goodness haddeveloped into a warmer feeling. 

"Douglas, " she said, on this particular evening, when they were alonetogether for a few minutes after dinner, "your health has not improvedas much as I had hoped it would under the treatment of your doctor. Iwish you would consult some one else. "

She spoke lightly, for she feared to alarm the patient by anyappearance of fear on her part. She knew how physical disease may beaugmented by mental agitation. Her tone, therefore, was one of assumedcarelessness. 

To-night Douglas Dale's mind was peculiarly sensitive to everyimpression. Something in that assumed tone struck strangely upon hisear. For the first time since he had known her, the voice of the womanhe loved, seemed to him to have a false sound in its clear, ringingtones. 

An icy terror suddenly took possession of his mind. 

What if this woman--this woman, whom he loved with such intenseaffection--what if she were something other than she seemed! What ifher heart had never been his--her love never withdrawn from thereprobate upon whom she had once bestowed it! What if her tenderglances, her affectionate words, her graceful, caressing manner, wereall a comedy, of which he was the dupe! What if--

"I am the victim of treachery, " he thought to himself; "but the traitorcannot be here. Oh, no, no! let me find the traitor anywhere ratherthan here. "

Paulina watched her lover as he sat with his eyes fixed on the ground, absorbed in gloomy meditation. 

Presently he looked up suddenly, and addressed her. 

"I am going on a journey, Paulina, on business, " he said; "business, which I can only transact myself. I shall, therefore, be compelled tobe absent from you for a week; it may be even more. Perhaps we shallnever meet again. Will that be very distressing to you?"

"Douglas, " exclaimed Paulina, "how strangely you speak to me to-night!If this is a jest, it is a very cruel one. "

"It is no jest, Paulina, " answered her lover. "Life is very precarious, and within the last week I have learnt to consider my existence inimminent peril. "

"You are ill, Douglas, " said Paulina; "and illness has unnerved you. Pray do not give way to these depressing thoughts. Consult some otherphysician than the man who is now your adviser. "

"Yes, yes; I will do so, " answered Douglas, with, a sudden change oftone; "you are right, Paulina. I will not be so weak as to become theprey of these distressing fancies, these dark forebodings. What have Ito fear? Death is no terrible evil. It is but the common fate of all. Ican face that common doom as calmly as a Christian should face it. Butdeceit, treachery, falsehood from those we love--those are evils farmore terrible than death. Oh, Paulina! tell me that I have no need tofear those?"

"From whom should you fear them, Douglas!"

"Aye, from whom, that is the question! Not from you, Paulina?"

"From me!" she echoed, with a look of wonder. "Are you mad?"

"Swear--swear to me that there is no falsehood in your heart, Paulina;that you love me as truly as you have taught me to believe; that youhave not beguiled me with false words, as false as they are sweet!"cried the young man, in wild excitement. 

"My dear Douglas, this is madness!" exclaimed Madame Durski; "folly toowild for reproof. This passionate excitement must be surely the effectof fever. What can I say to you except that I love you truly anddearly; that my heart has been purified, my mind elevated by yourinfluence; that I have now no thought which is not known to you--nohope that does not rest itself upon your love. You ought to believethis, Douglas, for my every word, my every look, should speak thetruth, which I do not care to reiterate in protestations such as these. It is too painful to me to be doubted by you. "

"And if I have wronged you, I am a base wretch, " said Douglas, in a lowvoice. 

Early the following morning he paid another visit to Dr. Westbrook. 

"I will not trespass on your time this morning, " he said, after shakinghands with the physician. "I have only come here in order to ask onequestion. If the poison were discontinued for a week, would there beany cessation of the symptoms?"

"There would, " replied the doctor. "Nature is quick to reassertherself. But if you are about to test your butler, I should recommendyou to remain away longer than a week--say a fortnight. "

But it was not to test his old servant that Douglas Dale absentedhimself from London, though he had allowed the physician to believethat such was his intention. He started for Paris that night; but hetook Jarvis with him. 

His health improved day by day, hour by hour, from the day of hisparting from Paulina Durski. The low fever had left him before he hadbeen ten days in Paris; the perpetual thirst, the wearisome debility, left him also. He began to be his old self again; and to him thisrecovery was far more terrible than the worst possible symptoms ofdisease could have been, for it told him that the hidden foe who hadrobbed him of health and strength, was to be found at Hilton House. 

In that house there was but one person who would profit by DouglasDale's death, and she would profit largely. 

"She has never loved me, " he thought to himself. "She still lovesReginald Eversleigh. My death will give her both fortune and liberty;it will leave her free to wed the man she really loves. "

He no longer trusted his own love. He believed that he had been madethe dupe of a woman's treachery; and that the hand which had so oftenbeen pressed passionately to his lips, was the hand which, day by day, had mingled poison with his cup, sapping his life by slow degrees. Against the worldly wisdom of his friends he had opposed the blindinstinct of his love; and now that events conspired to condemn thiswoman, he wondered that he could ever have trusted her. 

At the end of a fortnight Douglas Dale returned from Paris, and wentimmediately to Paulina. He believed that he had been the dupe of anaccomplished actress--the vilest and most heartless of women--and hewas now acting a part, in order to fathom the depth of her iniquity. 

"Let me know her--let me know her in all her baseness, " he said tohimself. "Let me tax the murderess with her crime! and then, surely, this mad love will be plucked for ever from my heart, and I shall findpeace far from the false syren whose sorcery has embittered my life. "

Douglas had received several letters from Paulina during his visit toParis--letters breathing the most devoted and disinterested love; butto him every word seemed studied, every expression false. Those veryletters would, a few short weeks ago, have seemed to Douglas theperfection of truth and artlessness. 

He returned to England wondrously restored to health. Jarvis had beenhis constant attendant in Paris, and had brought him every morning acup of coffee made by his own hands. 

At the Temple, he found a note from Paulina, telling him that he wasexpected hourly at Hilton House. 

He lost no time in presenting himself. He endeavoured to stifle allemotion--to conquer the impatience that possessed him; but he couldnot. 

Madame Durski was seated by one of the windows in the drawing-room whenMr. Dale was announced. 

She received her lover with every appearance of affection, and with anemotion which she seemed only anxious to conceal. 

But to the jaundiced mind of Douglas Dale this suppressed emotionappeared only a superior piece of acting; and yet, as he looked at hisbetrothed, while she stood before him, perfect, peerless, in herrefined loveliness, his heart was divided by love and hate. He hatedthe guilt which he believed was hers. He loved her even yet, despitethat guilt. 

"You are very pale, Douglas, " she said after the first greetings wereover. "But, thank heaven, there is a wonderful improvement. I can seerestored health in your face. The fever has gone--the unnaturalbrightness has left your eyes. Oh, dearest, how happy it makes me tosee this change! You can never know what I suffered when I saw youdrooping, day by day. "

"Yes, day by day, Paulina, " answered the young man, gravely. "It was agradual decay of health and strength--my life ebbing slowly--almostimperceptibly--but not the less surely. "

"And you are better, Douglas? You feel and know yourself that there isa change?"

"Yes, Paulina. My recovery began in the hour in which I left London. Myhealth has improved from that time. "

"You required change of air, no doubt. How foolish your doctor musthave been not to recommend that in the first instance! And now thatyou have returned, may I hope to see you as often as of old? Shall werenew all our old habits, and go back to our delightful evenings?"

"Were those evenings really pleasant to you, Paulina?" asked Mr. Dale, earnestly. 

"Ah, Douglas, you must know they were!"

"I cannot know the secrets of your heart, Paulina, " he replied, withunspeakable sadness in his tone. "You have seemed to me all that isbright, and pure, and true. But how do I know that it is not allseeming? How do I know that Reginald Eversleigh's image may not stillhold a place in your heart?"

"You insult me, Douglas!" exclaimed Madame Durski, with dignity. "But Iwill not suffer myself to be angry with you on the day of your return. I see your health is not entirely restored, since you still harbourthese gloomy thoughts and unjust suspicions. "

His most searching scrutiny could perceive no traces of guilt in thelovely face he looked at so anxiously. For a while his suspicions werealmost lulled to rest. That soft white hand, which glittered with gemsthat had been his gift, could not be the hand of an assassin. 

He began to feel the soothing influence of hope. Night and day heprayed that he might discover the innocence of her he so fondly loved. But just as he had begun to abandon himself to that sweet influence, despair again took possession of him. All the old symptoms--the fever, the weakness, the unnatural thirst, the dry, burning sensation in histhroat--returned; and this time Jarvis was far away. His master hadsent him to pay a visit to a married daughter, comfortably settled inthe depths of Devonshire. 

Douglas Dale went to one of the most distinguished physicians in London. He was determined to consult a new adviser, in order to discoverwhether the opinion of that other adviser would agree with the opinionof Dr. Harley Westbrook. 

Dr. Chippendale, the new physician, asked all the questions previouslyasked by Dr. Westbrook, and, after much deliberation, he informed hispatient, with all proper delicacy and caution, that he was sufferingfrom the influence of slow poison. 

"Is my life in danger, Dr. Chippendale?" he asked. 

"Not in immediate danger. The poison has evidently been administered ininfinitesimal doses. But you cannot too soon withdraw yourself from allthose who now surround you. Life is not to be tampered with. Thepoisoner may take it into his head to increase the doses. "

Douglas Dale left his adviser after a long conversation. He then wentto take his farewell of Paulina Durski. 

There was no longer the shadow of doubt in his mind. The horriblecertainty seemed painfully clear to him. Love must be plucked for everfrom his breast, and only contempt and loathing must remain where thatdivine sentiment had been enthroned. 

Since his interview with the physician, he had carefully recalled tomemory all the details of his life in Paulina's society. 

She had given him day by day an allotted portion of poison. 

How had she administered it?

This was the question which he now sought to solve, for he no longerasked himself whether she was guilty or innocent. He remembered thatevery evening after dinner he had, in Continental fashion, taken asingle glass of liqueur; and this he had received from Paulina's ownhand. It had pleased him to take the tiny, fragile glass from thosetaper fingers. The delicate liqueur had seemed sweeter to him becauseit was given by Paulina. 

He now felt convinced that it was in this glass of liqueur the poisonhad been administered to him. 

On more than one occasion he had at first declined taking it; butPaulina had always persuaded him, with some pretty speech, some halfcoquettish, half caressing action. 

He found her waiting him as usual: her toilet perfection itself; herbeauty enhanced by the care with which she always strove to renderherself charming in his eyes. She said playfully that it was a tributewhich she offered to her benefactor. 

They dined together, with Miss Brewer for their sole companion. Sheseemed self-contained and emotionless as ever; but if Douglas had notbeen so entirely absorbed by his thoughts of Paulina, he might haveperceived that she looked at him ever and anon with furtive, butsearching glances. 

There was little conversation, little gaiety at that dinner. Douglaswas absent-minded and gloomy. He scarcely ate anything; but theconstant thirst from which he suffered obliged him to drink longdraughts of water. 

After dinner, Miss Brewer brought the glasses and the liqueur to MadameDurski, after her customary manner. 

Paulina filled the ruby-stemmed glass with curaçoa, and handed it toher lover. 

"No, Paulina, I shall take no liqueur to-night. "

"Why not, Douglas?"

"I am not well, " he replied, "and I am growing rather tired ofcuraçoa. "

"As you please, " said Paulina, as she replaced the delicate glass inthe stand from which she had just taken it. 

Miss Brewer had left the room, and the lovers were alone together. Theywere seated face to face at the prettily decorated table--one withutter despair in his heart. 

"Shall I tell you why I would not take that glass from your hands justnow, Paulina Durski?" asked Douglas, after a brief pause, rising toleave the table as he spoke. "Or will you spare me the anguish ofspeaking words that must cover you with shame?"

"I do not understand you, " murmured Paulina, looking at her lover witha gaze of mingled terror and bewilderment. 

"Oh, Paulina!" cried Douglas; "why still endeavour to sustain adeception which I have unmasked? I know all. "

"All what?" gasped the bewildered woman. 

"All your guilt--all your baseness. Oh, Paulina, confess the treacherywhich would have robbed me of life; and which, failing that, has forever destroyed my peace. If you are human, let some word of remorse, some tardy expression of regret, attest your womanhood. "

"I can only think that he is mad, " murmured Paulina to herself, as shegazed on her accuser with wondering eyes. 

"Paulina, at least do not pretend to misunderstand me. "

"Your words, " replied Madame Durski, "seem to me the utterances of amadman. For pity's sake, calm yourself, and speak plainly. "

"I think that I have spoken, very plainly. "

"I can discover no meaning in your words. What is it you would have meregret? Of what crime do you accuse me?"

"The worst and darkest of all crimes, " replied Douglas; "the crime ofmurder. "

"Murder?"

"Yes; the crime of the secret poisoner!"

"Douglas!" cried Paulina, with a stifled shriek of terror; and then, recoiling from him suddenly, she fell half fainting into a chair. "Oh, why do I try to reason with him?" she murmured, piteously; "he is mad--he is mad! My poor Douglas!" continued Paulina, sobbing hysterically, "you are mad yourself, and you will drive me mad. Do not speak to me. Leave me to myself. You have terrified me by your wild denunciations. Leave me, Douglas: for pity's sake, leave me. "

"I will leave you, Paulina, " answered her lover, in a grave, sad voice;"and our parting will be for ever. You cannot deny your guilt, and youcan no longer deceive me. "

"Do as you please, " replied Madame Durski, her passionate indignationchanging suddenly to an icy calmness. "You have wronged me so deeply, you have insulted me so shamefully, that it matters little what furtherwrong or insult I suffer at your hands. In my own justification, I willsay but this--I am as incapable of the guilt you talk of as I am ofunderstanding how such a wild and groundless accusation can come fromyou, Douglas Dale, my affianced husband--the man I have loved andtrusted, the man whom I have believed the very model of honour andgenerosity. But this must be madness, and I am not bound to endure theravings of a lunatic. You have said our farewell was to be spoken to-night. Let it be so. I could not endure a repetition of the scene withwhich you have just favoured me. I regret most deeply that yourgenerosity has burthened me with, pecuniary obligations which I maynever be able to repay, and has, in some measure, deprived me ofindependence. But even at the hazard of being considered ungrateful, Imust tell you that I trust we may meet no more. "

No one can tell the anguish which Paulina Durski endured as she utteredthese words in cold, measured accents. It was the supreme effort of aproud, but generous-minded woman, and there was a kind of heroism inthat subjugation of a stricken and loving heart. 

"Let it be so, Paulina, " answered Douglas, with emotion. "I have nowish to see your fair, false face again. My heart has been broken byyour treachery; and my best hope lies in the chance that your hand mayhave already done its wicked work, and that my life may be forfeited tomy confidence in your affection. Let no thought of my gifts troubleyou. The fortune which was to have been shared with you is henceforthpowerless to purchase one blessing for me. And of the law which youhave outraged you need have no few; your secret will never be revealedto mortal ears by me. No investigation will drag to light the detailsof your crime. "

"_You_ may seek no investigation, Douglas Dale, " cried Paulina, withsudden passion; "but I shall do so, and without delay. You have accusedme of a foul and treacherous crime--on what proof I know not. It is forme to prove myself innocent of that black iniquity; and if humaningenuity can fathom the mystery, it shall be fathomed. I will bringyou to my feet--yes, to my feet; and you shall beseech my pardon forthe wicked wrong you have done me. But even then this breach of yourown making shall for ever separate us. I may learn to forgive you, Douglas, but I can never trust you again. And now go. "

She pointed to the door with an imperious gesture. There was a quietdignity in her manner and her bearing which impressed her accuser inspite of himself. 

He bowed, and without another word left the presence of the woman whofor so long had been the idol of his heart. 

He went from her presence bowed to the very dust by a sorrow which wastoo deep for tears. 

"She is an accomplished actress, " he said to himself; "and to the verylast her policy has been defiance. And now my dream is ended, and Iawake to a blank, joyless life. A strange fatality seems to haveattended Sir Oswald Eversleigh and the inheritors of his wealth. Hedied broken-hearted by a woman's falsehood; my brother Lionel bestowedhis best affections on the mercenary, fashionable coquette, LydiaGraham, who was ready to accept another lover within a few weeks of herpretended devotion to him; and lastly comes my misery at the hands of awicked adventuress. "

Douglas Dale resolved to leave London early next day. He returned tohis Temple chambers, intending to start for the Continent the nextmorning. 

But when the next day came he did not carry out his intention. He foundhimself disinclined to seek change of scene, which he felt could bringhim no relief of mind. Go where he would, he could not separate himselffrom the bitter memories of the past few months. 

He determined to remain in London; for, to the man who wishes to avoidthe companionship of his fellow-men, there is no hermitage more securethan a lodging in the heart of busy, selfish London. He determined toremain, for in London he could obtain information as to the conduct ofPaulina. 

What would she do now that the stage-play was ended, and deceptioncould no longer avail? Would she once more resume her old habits--openher saloons to the patrician gamblers of West-end London, and steep herweary, guilt-burdened soul in the mad intoxication of the gaming-table?

Would Sir Reginald Eversleigh again assume his old position in herhousehold?--again become her friend and flatterer? She had affected todespise him; but that might have been only a part of the greatdeception of which Douglas had been the victim. 

These were the questions the lonely, heartbroken man asked himself thatnight, as he sat brooding by his solitary hearth, no longer able tofind pleasure in the nightly studies which had once been so delightfulto him. 

Ah! how deeply he must have loved that woman, when the memory of herguilt poisoned his existence! How madly he still clung to the thoughtof her!--how intensely he desired to penetrate the secrets of her life!

 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

 "THY DAY IS COME!"

"What is it, Jane?" asked Lady Eversleigh, rather impatiently, of hermaid, when her knock at the door of her sitting-room in Percy Streetinterrupted the conversation between herself and the detective officer, a conversation intensely and painfully interesting. 

"A person, ma'am, who wants to see Mr. Andrews, and will take nodenial. "

"Indeed, " said Mr. Larkspur; "that's very odd: I know of nothing up atpresent for which they should send any one to me here. However, " and herose as he spoke, "I suppose I had better see this person. Where ishe?"

"In the hall, " replied Jane. 

But Lady Eversleigh interposed to prevent Mr. Larkspur's departure. "Pray do not go, " she said, "unless it concerns this business, unlessit is news of my child. This may be something to rob me of your timeand attention; and remember I alone have a right to your services. "

"Lor' bless you, my lady, " said Mr. Larkspur, "I haven't forgot that;and that's just what puzzles me. There's only one man who knows the layI'm on, and the name I go by, and he knows I would not take anythingelse till I have reckoned up this; and it would be no good sendinganybody after me, unless it were something in some way concerning thisbusiness. "

In an instant Lady Eversleigh was as anxious that Mr. Larkspur shouldsee the unknown man as she had been unwilling he should do so. "Pray goto him at once, " she urged; "don't lose a moment. "

Mr. Larkspur left the room, and Lady Eversleigh dismissed Jane Payland, and awaited his return in an agony of impatience. After the lapse ofhalf an hour, Mr. Larkspur appeared. There were actually some slighttraces of emotion in his face, and the colour had lessened considerablyin his vulture-like beak. He was followed by a tall, stalwart, fine-looking man, with the unmistakeable gait and air of a sailor. As LadyEversleigh looked at him in astonishment, Mr. Larkspur said:--

"I ain't much of a believer in Fate in general, but there's surely aFate in this. My lady, this is Captain George Jernam!"

 * * * * *

The time had passed slowly and wearily for Rosamond Jernam, and all theefforts conscientiously made by her husband's aunt, who liked the girlbetter the more she saw of her, and entirely acquitted her of blame inthe mysterious estrangement of the young couple, failed to make hercheerful. She was wont to roam disconsolately for hours about thesecluded coast, giving free course to her sadness, and cherishing onedear secret. Rosamond was so much changed in appearance of late thatSusan Jernam began to feel seriously uneasy about her. She had lost herpretty fresh colour, and her face wore a haggard, weary look; it wasplain to every eye that some hidden grief was preying on her mind. Mrs. Jernam, though a quiet person, and given to the minding of her ownaffairs, was not quite without "cronies, " and to one of these sheconfided her anxiety about her niece. The _confidante_ was a certainMrs. Miller, a respectable person, but lower in the social scale thanMrs. Jernam. She was a widow, and lived in a tiny cottage, close to thebeach at Allanbay; she kept no servant, but her trim little dwellingwas always the very pink and pattern of neatness. She was of a silent, though not a morose temperament. It was generally understood that Mrs. Miller's husband had been a seafaring man, and had been drowned manyyears before she went to live at Allanbay. She had no relatives, and noprevious acquaintances in that quiet nook; and if she had been a littlehigher in the social scale, belonging to that class which requiresintroductions, she might have lived a life of unbroken solitude. As itwas, the neighbours made friends with her by degrees, and the poorwidow's life was not an unhappy or solitary one. Mrs. Jernam had earlylearned the particulars of her case, and a friendship had grown upbetween them, of which Mrs. Miller duly acknowledged the condescensionon Mrs. Jernam's part. 

Mrs. Jernam called on her humble friend one day, to bestow some smallfavour, and, to her surprise, found her, not alone as usual, but in theact of taking leave of a man whose appearance was by no meansprepossessing, and who was apparently very much disconcerted by Mrs. Jernam's arrival. Mrs. Jernam immediately proposed to go away andreturn on another occasion, but the man, who did not hear her namementioned, said, gruffly:

"No call, ma'am, no call; I'm going away. Good-bye, Polly. Rememberwhat you've got to do, and do it. " Then he turned off from the cottage-door, and was out of sight in a few moments. 

Mrs. Miller stood looking at her guest, rather awkwardly, but said atlength:

"Pray sit down, ma'am. That's my brother; the only creature I havebelonging to me in the world. " And here Mrs. Miller sighed, and lookedas if the possession were not an unqualified advantage. 

"Has he been here long?" asked Mrs. Jernam. 

"No, ma'am; he only came last night, and is gone again. He came tobring me a child to take care of, and a great tax it is. "

"A child!" said Mrs. Jernam, "whose child?"

"That's more than I can tell you, ma'am, " replied Mrs. Miller; "andmore than he told me. She's an orphan, he says, and her father was aseafaring man, like your nephew, as I've heard you speak of. And I'm tohave the charge of her for a year, and thirty pounds--it's handsome, Idon't deny, but he knows that I'd take good care of any child--andshe's a pretty dear, to tell the truth, as sweet a little creature asever walked. She don't talk very plain yet, and she says, as well as Ican make it out, as her name is Gerty. "

And then Mrs. Miller asked Mrs. Jernam to walk into her little bedroom, and showed her, lying on a neat humble bed, carefully covered with awhite coverlet, and in the deep sleep of childhood, the infant heiressof Raynham! If either of the women had only known at whom she waslooking, as they scrutinized the child's fair face and talked of herbeauty and her innocence in tearful whispers, looking away from thesleeping form, pitifully, at a little heap of black clothes on a chairby the bed!

"I suppose she's the child of one of my brother's old shipmates, asrose to be better off, " said Mrs. Miller, "for she's fretted about acaptain, and cried bitter to go to him when I put her to bed. " Then thetwo returned to the little parlour, and talked long and earnestly aboutthe child, about the necessity for Mrs. Miller's now employing theservices of "a girl, " and about Rosamond Jernam. 

Rosamond was greatly delighted with the child left in Mrs. Miller'scare. The little girl interested her deeply, and every day she passedmany hours with her, either at Mrs. Miller's house or her own. Thegrace and beauty of the child were remarkable; and as, with the happyfacility of childhood, she began to recover from the first feeling ofstrangeness and fear, the little creature was soon happy in her new, humble home. She was too young to appreciate and lament the change inher lot; and, as she was well fed, well cared for, and treated with themost caressing affection, she was perfectly happy. Rosamond began tofeel hopeful under the influence of the child's smiles and playfultalk. The time must pass, she told herself, her husband must return toher, and soon there would be for them a household angel like this one, to bring peace and happiness permanently to their home. 

Susan Jernam and Rosamond were much puzzled about this lovely child, Gerty Smith, as she was called. Not only her looks, but certain littleways she had, contradicted Mrs. Miller's theory of her birth, andthough they fully credited the good woman's statement, and believed heras ignorant of the truth as themselves, they became convinced thatthere was some mystery about this child. Mrs. Miller had never spokenof her brother until he made his sudden and brief appearance atAllanbay; and unsuspicious and unlearned in the ways of the world asMrs. Jernam was, she had perceived that he belonged to the doubtfulclasses. The truth was, that Mrs. Miller could have told them nothingabout her brother beyond the general fact of his being "a bad lot. " Shehad heard of him only at rare intervals since he had left his father'shonest home, in his scampish, incorrigible boyhood, and ran away tosea. She had heard little good of him, and years had sometimes passedover during which she knew nothing of his fate. But even in BlackMilsom--thief, murderer, villain, though he was--there was one littletrace of good left. He did care a little for his sister; he did "lookher up" at intervals in his career of crime; he did send her small sumsof money--whence derived she had, happily, no suspicion--when he was"flush;" and he did hope "Old Polly" would never find out how bad afellow he had been. Mrs. Miller's nature was a very simple andconfiding one, and she never speculated much upon her brother's doings. She was pleased to have the charge of the child, and she fulfilled itto the best of her ability; but those signs and tokens of a higherstation, which Susan Jernam and Rosamond recognized, were quite beyondher ken. 

One morning the little household at Susan Jernam's cottage, consistingonly of the mistress and her maid, was roused by a violent knocking atthe door. Mrs. Jernam was the first to open it, and to her surprise andalarm, she found Mrs. Miller standing at the door, her face expressingalarm and grief, and little Gerty, wrapped in a large woollen shawl, inher arms. Her explanation of what had occurred thus to upset her was atfirst incoherent enough, but by degrees Mrs. Jernam learned that Mrs. Miller had come to entreat her to take care of the child for a day ortwo as she was obliged to go to Plymouth at once. 

"To Plymouth!" said Mrs. Jernam--"how's that?--but come in, come in"--and they went into Mrs. Jernam's spotlessly neat parlour, that parlourin which Valentine Jernam had been permitted to smoke, and had told hisaunt all his adventures, little recking of the final one then so closeupon him. In the parlour, Mrs. Miller set little Gerty down, and thechild, giddy and confused with her sudden waking, and being thuscarried through the chill morning air, climbed up on the trim littlesofa, and curling herself into a corner of it, sat quite motionless. Then, her agitation finding vent in tears, Mrs. Miller told SusanJernam what had befallen. It was this:--

Just as day was dawning, a dog-cart, driven by a gentleman's servant, had come to her door--the dog-cart was now standing at a littledistance from Mrs. Jernam's house--and she had been called out by theservant, and told that he had been sent to bring her over to Plymouth, with as little delay as possible. It appeared that her brother, who hadgone to Plymouth after depositing the child with her, had been run overin the street by a heavy coal-waggon, and severely injured. He had beencarried to a hospital, and was for some time insensible. When herecovered his speech he was delirious, and the surgeons pronounced hiscase hopeless. He was now in a dying state, but conscious; and had beenvisited by a clergyman named Colburne, the man's master, who hadinduced him to express contrition for his past life, and to make suchreparation as now lay in his power. The first step towards this, as heinformed Mr. Colburne, was seeing his sister. There was no time to belost; the man's life was fast ebbing; it was only a matter of hours;and the good clergyman, who had been with the dying man far into thenight before he had succeeded in inducing him to consent to this step, hurried home, and sent his servant off to Allanbay before daybreak. 

There was little delay. A few words of earnest sympathy from Mrs. Jernam, an assurance that the child should be well cared for, and Mrs. Miller left the house, ran down the road to the dog-cart, climbed intoit, and was driven away. 

Rosamond came in from her own little dwelling to her aunt's, at anearly hour that day, and when the first surprise and pleasure offinding the child there had passed away, the two women fell tospeculating on what kind of revelation it might be which awaited Mrs. Miller. 

"Depend upon it, aunt, " said Susan, "we shall hear the truth aboutlittle Gerty now. "

 * * * * *

The hours wore solemnly away in the great building, consecrated tosuffering and its relief, in which Black Milsom lay dying, with hissister kneeling by his bed, while the good clergyman, who had had pityon the soul of the sinner, sat on the other side, gravely andcompassionately looking at them both. The meeting between the brotherand sister had been very distressing, and the agony exhibited by thepoor woman when she was made aware that her brother had acknowledgedhimself a criminal of the deepest dye, was intense. Calm--almoststupor--had succeeded to her wild grief, and the clergyman had spokenwords of consolation and hope to the dying and the living. The surgeonshad seen the man for the last time; there was nothing more to be donefor him now--nothing to do but to wait for the equal foot approachingwith remorseless tread. 

It was indeed a fearful catalogue of crime to which the Rev. PhilipColburne had listened, and had written with his own hand at the dyingman's dictation. Not often has such a revelation been made to mortalears, and the two who heard it--the Christian minister and thetrembling, horrified sister--felt that the scene could never be effacedfrom their memories. 

With only two items in that awful list this story has to do. 

The first is, the murder of Valentine Jernam. As Mrs. Miller heard herbrother, with gasping breath and feeble utterance, tell that horriblestory, her heart died within her. She knew it well. Who at Allanbay hadnot heard of the murder of Mrs. Jernam's darling nephew, the bright, popular, kind-hearted seaman, whose coming had been a jubilee in thelittle port; whose disappearance had made so painful a sensation? Shehad heard the story from his aunt, and Rosamond had told her how herhusband lived in the hope of finding out and punishing his brother'smurderer. And now he was found, this murderer, this thief, this guilt-burdened criminal: and he was her only brother, and dying. Ah, well, Valentine Jernam was avenged. Providence had exacted George Jernam'svengeance: the wrath of man was not needed here. 

The second crime with which this story has to do was one of old date, one of the earliest in Black Milsom's dreadful career. The dying wretchtold Mr. Colburne how he had headed a gang of thieves, chiefly composedof sailors who had deserted their ships, some twenty-one or two yearsbefore this time, when retribution had come upon him, and in theircompany had robbed the villa of an English lady at Florence. This crimehad been committed with the connivance and assistance of the Italianwoman who was nurse to the English lady's child. Milsom, then ahandsome young fellow, had offered marriage to the woman, which offerwas accepted; and she had made his taking her and the child with him--for nothing would induce her to leave the infant--a condition of heraid. He did so; but the hardship of her new life soon killed theItalian woman; and the child was left to the mercy of Milsom and an oldhag who acted as his drudge and accomplice. What mercy she met with atthose hands the reader knows, for that child was the future wife of SirOswald Eversleigh. Mr. Colburne listened to this portion of Milsom'sconfession with intense interest. 

"The name?" he asked; "the name of the lady who lived at Florence, themother of the child? Tell me the name!"

"Verner, " said the dying man, in a hoarse whisper, "Lady Verner; thechild's name was Anna. "

He was very near his end when he finished his terrible story. While Mr. Colburne was trying to speak peace to the poor darkened, frightened, guilty soul, Mrs. Miller knelt by the bedside, sobbing convulsively. Suddenly she remembered the child she had the care of. Had his accountof her been true? Was she also the victim of a crime? She waited, withdesperate impatience, but with the habitual respect of her class, untilMr. Colburne had ceased to speak. Then she put her lips close to thedying man's ear, and said--

"Thomas, Thomas, for God's sake tell me about the child--who is she? Iswhat you told me true? If not, set it right--oh, brother, brother, setit right--before it is too late. "

The imploring tone of her voice reached her brother's dull ear; a faintspasm, as though he strove in vain to speak, crossed his white drawnlips. But the disfigured head in its ghastly bandages was motionless;the shattered arm in its wrappings made no gesture. In terror, indespair, his sister started to her feet, and looked eagerly, closely, into his face. In vain the white lips parted, the eyelids quivered, ashiver shook the broad, brawny chest--then all was still, and BlackMilsom was dead!

On the following morning Mr. Colburne took Mrs. Miller back toAllanbay, after giving her a night's rest in his own hospitable home. He left her at her own cottage, and went to Mrs. Jernam's house, as hehad promised the afflicted woman he would save her the pain of tellingthe terrible story which was to clear up the mystery surrounding themerchant captain's fate. When the clergyman reached the house, andlifted his hand to the bright knocker, he heard a sound of many andgleeful voices within--a sound which died away as he knocked foradmittance. 

Presently the door was opened by Mrs. Jernam's trim maid, who replied, when Mr. Colburne asked if he could see Mrs. Jernam, and if she werealone--as a hint that he did not wish to see any one beside--

"Please, sir, missus is in, but she ain't alone; Captain George andMrs. George's father have just come--not half an hour ago. "

 * * * * *

And so Joyce Harker's self-imposed task was at an end, and GeorgeJernam's long brooding upon his brother's fate was over. A solemnstillness came upon the happy party at Allanbay, and Rosamond's tearsfell upon little Gerty, as she slept upon her bosom--slept whereGeorge's child was soon to slumber. Mr. Colburne asked no questionsabout the child. Mrs. Miller had said nothing to him respecting hercharge, and Milsom's death, ensuing immediately on her question, hadcaused it to pass unnoticed. George Jernam, his wife, and CaptainDuncombe started for London early the next day. They had come to aunanimous conclusion, on consultation with Mrs. Miller, that there wasa mystery about the child, and that the best thing to be done was tocommunicate with the police at once. "Besides, " said George, "I mustsee Mr. Larkspur, and tell him he need not trouble himself farther; nowthat accident, or, as I believe Providence, has done for us what allhis skill failed to do. "

When George Jernam presented himself at Mr. Larkspur's office heunderwent a rigid inspection by that gentleman's "deputy, " and having, by a few hints as to the nature of his business, led that astute personto think that it bore on his principal's present quest, he wasentrusted with the address of Mr. Andrews, in Percy Street. 

 * * * * *

"So, you see, I don't get my five hundred, because I didn't find outCaptain Jernam's murderer, " said Mr. Larkspur, after a long andagitating explanation had put Lady Eversleigh in possession of all theforegoing circumstances. "And here's Captain Jernam's brother comes andtakes the job of finding little missy out of my hands--does my work forme as clean as a whistle. "

"But I did not know I was doing it, Mr. Larkspur, " said George. "I didnot know the little Gerty that my Rosamond is so sorry to part with, was Miss Eversleigh; you found it out, from what I told you. "

"As if any fool could fail to find out that, " said Mr. Larkspur good-humouredly. He had a strong conviction that neither the relinquishmentof Lady Eversleigh's designs of punishing her enemies, nor the findingof the heiress by other than his agency, would inflict any injury uponhim--a conviction which was amply justified by his future experience. 

"My good friend, " said Lady Eversleigh, "if I do not need your aid torestore my child to me, I need it to restore me to my mother. I cannotrealize the truth that I have a mother, I can only feel it. I can onlyfeel how she must have suffered by remembering my own anguish. Andhers, how much more cruel, how prolonged, how hopeless! You will see tothis at once, Mr. Larkspur, while I go to my child. "

"Lord bless you, my lady, " said Mr. Larkspur, cheerily, "there's nooccasion to look very far. You have not forgotten the lady, she thatlives so quiet, yet so stylish, near Richmond, and that Sir ReginaldEversleigh pays such attention to? You remember all I told you abouther, and how I found out that she was Mr. Dale's aunt, and he knownothing about her?"

"Yes, yes, " said Lady Eversleigh, breathlessly, "I remember. "

"Well, my lady, that party near Richmond is Lady Verner, yourladyship's mother. "

Lady Eversleigh was well nigh overwhelmed by the throng of feelingswhich pressed upon her. She, the despised outcast, the first-cousin ofthe man who had scorned her, a connection of the great family intowhich she had married, her husband's equal in rank, and in fortune!She, the woman whose beauty had been used to lure Valentine Jernam tohis death, she who had almost witnessed his murder; she owed toValentine's brother the discovery of her parentage, the defeat of hercalumniators, her restoration to a high place in society, and to familyties, the destruction of Reginald Eversleigh's designs on Lady Verner'sproperty, and--greatest, best boon of all--the recovery of her child. Her own devices, her own wilfulness had but led her into deeper danger, into more bitter sorrow; but Providence had done great things for herby the hands of this stranger, between whom and herself there existedso sinister a link. 

"Can you ever forgive me, Captain Jernam, " she said, "for my share inyour brother's fate? Must I always be hateful in your sight? Will Mrs. Jernam ever permit me to thank her for her goodness to my child?"

For the answer, George Jernam stooped and kissed her hand, with all thenatural grace inspired by natural good-feeling, and Lady Eversleighfelt that she had gained a friend where she had feared to meet arelentless foe. The little party remained long in consultation, and itwas decided that nothing was to be done about Lady Verner until LadyEversleigh had reclaimed her child. George Jernam entreated her topermit him to go to Allanbay and bring the little girl to her mother, but she would not consent. She insisted upon George's bringing his wifeto see her immediately, as the preparations for departure did not admitof her calling upon Mrs. Jernam. The gentle, happy Rosamond compliedwillingly, and so thoroughly had the beautiful lady won the girl'sheart before they were long together, that Rosamond herself proposedthat George should accompany Lady Eversleigh to Allanbay. With prettyimperiousness she bore down Lady Eversleigh's grateful scruples, andthe result was, that the two started that same evening, travelled asfast as post-horses could carry them, and arrived at Allanbay beforeeven Lady Eversleigh's impatience could find the journey long. SusanJernam had kept the child with her, and she it was who put little Gertyinto her mother's arms. Rarely in her life had Lady Eversleigh laindown to rest with do tranquil a heart as that with which she sleptunder the humble roof of Captain Jernam's aunt. 

 CHAPTER XXXIX. 

 "CONFUSION WORSE THAN DEATH. "

Sir Reginald Eversleigh had paid Victor Carrington a long visit, at thecottage at Maida Hill, on the day which had witnessed the distressinginterview and angry parting between Douglas Dale and Madame Durski. They had talked a great deal, and Reginald had been struck by thestrange excitement--the almost feverish exultation--in Carrington'stone and manner. He was not more openly communicative as to his plansthan usual, but he expressed his expectation of triumph in a way whichEversleigh had never heard him do before. 

"You seem quite sanguine, Victor, " said Sir Reginald. "Mind, I don'task questions, but you really are sure all is going well?"

"Our affairs march, _mon ami_. And you are making your game with theold lady at Richmond admirably, are you not?"

"Nothing could be better, and indeed I ought to succeed, for it's dullwork, I can tell you, especially when she begins talking resignedlyabout the child that was stolen a few centuries ago, and her hopes ofmeeting it in a better world. Horrid bore--dreadful bosh; but anythingis worth bearing if money is to be made of it--good, sure, sterlingmoney. I think it will do me good to see some real money--bank-notesand gold, and that sort of thing--for an accommodation bill is the onlyform of cash I've handled since I came of age. How happy we shall bewhen it all comes right--your game and mine!" continued the baronet. "My plans are very simple. I shall only exchange my shabby lodgings inthe Strand for apartments in Piccadilly, overlooking the Park, ofcourse. I shall resume my old position among my own set, and enjoy lifeafter my own fashion; and when once I am possessor of a handsomefortune, I dare say I shall have no difficulty in getting a rich wife. And you, Victor, how shall you employ our wealth?"

"In the restoration of my name, " replied the Frenchman, with suppressedintensity. "Yes, Sir Reginald, the one purpose of my life is told inthose words. I have been an outcast and an adventurer, friendless, penniless; but I am the last scion of a noble house, and to restore tothat house some small portion of its long-lost splendour has been theone dream of my manhood. I am not given to talk much of that which liesnearest my heart, and never until to-night have I spoken to you of mysingle ambition; but you, who have watched me toiling upon a wearyroad, wading through a morass of guilt, must surely have guessed thatthe pole-star must needs be a bright one which could lure me onwardupon so hideous a pathway. The end has come at last, and I now speakfreely. My name is not Carrington. I am Viscomte Champfontaine, ofChampfontaine, in the department of Charente, and my name was once thegrandest in western France; but the Revolution robbed us of lands andwealth, and there remain now but four rugged stone towers of thatsplendid chateau which once rose proudly above the woods ofChampfontaine, like a picture by Gustave Doré. The fountain in thefield still flows, limpid as in those days when the soldier-Gaulpitched his tent beside its waters, and took for himself the name ofChampfontaine. To restore that name, to rebuild that chateau--that isthe dream which I have cherished. "

Excited by this unwonted revelation of his feelings, and by theanticipation of the realization of all his hopes, the Frenchman rose, and paced rapidly up and down the room. 

"I will go to Champfontaine, " he said. "I will look once more upon thecrumbling towers, so soon to be restored to their primitive strengthand grandeur. "

Reginald watched him wonderingly. This enthusiasm about an ancient namewas beyond his comprehension. He too, bore a name that had beenhonourable for centuries, and he had recklessly degraded that name. Hehad begun life with all the best gifts of fortune in his hands, and hadsquandered all. 

"I hear your cousin Douglas is very ill, " said Carrington, checking hisexcited manner, and speaking with a sudden change of tone, whichproduced a strange thrill of Sir Reginald's somewhat weak nerves. "Ishould recommend you to go and call upon him at his chambers. Nevermind any coolness there may have been between you. You needn't see him, you know; in fact it will be much better for you to avoid doing so. Butjust call and make the inquiry. I am really anxious to know if there isanything the matter with him. "

Sir Reginald Eversleigh looked at the Frenchman with a half doubtful, half horror-stricken look--such a look as Faust may have cast atMephistopheles, when Gretchen's soldier-brother fell, stricken by theinvisible sword of the demon. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Victor, " he said, after a pause, "unless ourluck changes pretty quickly, I shall throw up the sponge some finemorning, and blow my brains out. Affairs have been desperate with mefor a long time, and your fine schemes have not made me a halfpennyricher. I begin to think that, in spite of all your cleverness, you'reno better than a bungler. "

"I shall begin to think so myself, " answered Victor, between his setteeth, "unless success comes to us speedily. We have been workingunderground, and the work has been slow and wearisome; but the endcannot be far distant, " he added, with a heavy sigh. "Go and inquireafter your cousin's health. "

And so Reginald Eversleigh strove to dismiss the subject from his mind. So powerful is self-deception, that he almost succeeded in persuadinghimself that he had no part in Carrington's plots--that he did not knowat what he was aiming and that he was, personally, absolved from anyshare in the crime that was being perpetrated, if crime there was; butthat there was, he even affected himself to doubt. 

After Sir Reginald left him, Victor Carrington threw himself into achair in a fit of deep despondency. After a time that mood passed away, and he roused himself, and thought of what he had to do that day. Hehad seen Miss Brewer only the previous day. He had learned how muchalarmed Paulina was about her lover's health, and with what goodreason. Victor Carrington came to a resolution that this day should bethe last of waiting--of suspense. He took a phial from the press wherehe kept all deadly drugs, placed it in his breast-pocket, and went tohis mother's sitting-room. The widow was sitting, as usual, at herembroidery-frame. She counted some stitches before she raised her headto look at her son. But when she did look up, her own face changed, andshe said, --

"Victor, you are ill. I know you are. You look very ill--not likeyourself. What ails you?"

"Nothing, mother, " replied Victor; "nothing that a little fresh air andexercise will not remove. I have been a little over-excited, that isall. I have been thinking of the old home that sheltered my grandfatherbefore the sequestrations of '93--the home that could be bought backto-day for an old song, and which a few thousands, judiciouslyinvested, might restore to something of its old grandeur. One of theChampfontaines received Francis I. And his sister Marguerite in the oldchateau which they burnt during the Terror. Mother, I will tell you asecret to-day: ever since I can remember having a wish, the one greatdesire of my life has been the desire to restore the place and thename; and I hope to accomplish that desire soon, mother--very soon. "

"Victor, this is the talk of a madman!" exclaimed the Frenchwoman, alarmed by her son's unwonted vehemence. 

"No, mother, it is the talk of a man who feels himself on the verge ofa great success--or--a stupendous failure. "

"I cannot understand--"

"There is no need for you to understand any more than this: I have beenplaying a bold game, and I believe it will prove a winning one. "

"Is this game an honest one, Victor?"

"Honest? oh, yes!" answered the surgeon, with an ominous laugh, "whyshould I be not honest? Does not the world teach a man to be honest?See what noble rewards it offers for honesty. "

He took a crumpled letter from his pocket as he spoke, and threw itacross the table to his mother. 

"Read that, mother, " he said; "that is my reward for ten years' honesttoil in a laborious profession. Captain Halkard, the inaugurator of anArctic expedition for scientific purposes, writes to invite me to joinhis ship as surgeon. He has heard of my conscientious devotion to myprofession--my exceptional talents--see, those are his exact words, andhe offers me the post of ship's surgeon, with a honorarium of fiftypounds. The voyage is supposed to last six months; it is much morelikely to last a year; it is most likely to last for ever--for, fromthe place to which these men are going, the chances are against anyman's return. And for unutterable hardship, for the hazard of my life, for my exceptional talents, my conscientious devotion, he offers mefifty pounds. That, mother, is the price which honesty commands in thegreat market of life. "

"But it might lead to something, Victor, " murmured the mother, as sheput down the letter, pleased by the writer's praises of her son. 

"Oh, yes, it might lead to a few words of commendation in a scientificjournal; possibly a degree of F. R. G. S. ; or very probably a grave underthe ice, with a grizzly bear for sexton. "

"You will not accept the offer?"

"Not unless my great scheme fails at the last moment--as it cannotfail--as it cannot!" he repeated, with the air of a man who tries torealize a possibility too horrible for imagination. 

 * * * * *

It was very late that night before Paulina Durski, worn out by theemotion she had undergone, could be persuaded to retire to rest. AfterDouglas had left her, all the firmness forsook her, all her pride wasoverthrown. Despair unutterable took possession of her. With him wenther last hope--her one only chance of happiness. She flung herself, face downwards, on her sofa, and gave way to the wildest, mostagonizing grief. Thus Miss Brewer found her, and eagerly questioned herconcerning the cause of her distress. But she could obtain noexplanation from Paulina, who only answered, in a voice broken byconvulsive sobs, "Some other time, some other time; don't ask me now. "So Miss Brewer was forced to be silent, if not content, and at lengthshe persuaded Paulina to go to bed. 

The faithful friend arranged everything with her own hands for MadameDurski's comfort, and would not consent to leave her till she had laindown to rest. The broken-hearted woman bade her friend good nightcalmly enough, but before Miss Brewer reached the door, she heardPaulina's sobs burst forth again, and saw that she had covered her facewith her hands, and buried it in the pillow. 

 * * * * *

It was late on the following morning when Miss Brewer entered Paulina'sroom, and having softly opened the shutters, drew near the bed with anoiseless step. The bed-clothes, which were wont to be tossed andtumbled by the restless sleeper, were smooth and undisturbed. Never hadMiss Brewer seen her mistress in an attitude so expressive of completerepose. 

"Poor thing! she has had a good night after all, " thought thecompanion. 

She bent over the quiet figure, the pale face, so statuesque in thatcalm sleep, and gently touched the white, listless hand. 

Yes--this indeed was perfect repose; but it was the repose of death. The bottle from which Paulina had habitually taken a daily modicum ofopium, lay on the ground by the bedside, empty. 

Whether the luckless, hopeless, heart-broken woman, overwhelmed by thesense of an inscrutable Fate that forbade her every chance of peace orhappiness, had, in her supreme despair, committed the sin of thesuicide, who shall say? It is possible that she had only taken an over-dose of the perilous compound unconsciously, in the dull apathy of herdespair. 

She was dead. Life for her had been one long humiliation, one longstruggle. And at last, when the cup of happiness had been offered toher lips, a cruel hand had snatched it away from her. 

 * * * * *

When Miss Brewer recovered her senses and her power of action, she sentfor Douglas Dale. News of the awful event had got abroad by that time, through the terrified servants; and two doctors and a policeman were onthe premises. A messenger was easily procured, who tore off in a hansomto the Temple. As the man ran up the steps leading to Dr. Johnson'sBuildings, where Dale's new chambers were situated, he encountered twoladies on the first landing. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, pushing them, however, very decidedlyaside as he spoke, "I must see Mr. Dale; please do not detain him. Itis most important. " The ladies stood aside exchanging frightened andcurious looks, but made no attempt to make their presence known to Mr. Dale, who came out of his rooms in a few minutes, attended by themessenger, and passed them without seeming in the least aware of theirpresence, and wearing the ghastliest face that ever was seen on mortalman. That face struck them dumb and motionless, and it was not untilJarvis had twice asked them their names and business, that the elderlady replied. "They would call again, " she told him, and handed himcards bearing the names of "Lady Verner, " "Lady Eversleigh. "

 * * * * *

Victor Carrington appeared at Hilton House early in the afternoon. Hehad calculated that his work must needs be very near its completion, and he came prepared to hear of Douglas Dale's mortal illness. 

The blow that awaited him was a death-blow. Miss Brewer had toldDouglas all: the lies, the artifices, by which the man Carton hadcontrived to make himself a constant visitor in that house. In amoment, without the mention of the schemer's real name, Heaven's lightwas let in upon the mystery; the dark enigma was solved, and the woman, so tenderly loved and so cruelly wronged, was exonerated. 

Too late--too late! _That_ was the agonizing reflection which smote theheart of Douglas Dale, with a pain more terrible than the sharpestdeath-pang. "I have broken her heart!" he cried. "I have broken thattrue, devoted heart!"

The appearance of Victor Carrington was the signal for such a burst ofrage as even his iron nature could scarcely brook unshaken. 

"Miscreant! devil! incarnate iniquity!" cried Douglas, as he graspedand grappled with the baffled plotter. "You have tried to murder me--and you have tried to murder her! I might have forgiven you the firstcrime--I will drag you to the halter for the second, and think myselfpoorly revenged when I hear the rabble yelling beneath your scaffold!"

Happily for Carrington, the effects of the poison had reduced hisvictim to extreme weakness. The convulsive grasp loosened, the hoarsevoice died into a whisper, and Douglas Dale swooned as helplessly as awoman. 

"What does it mean?" asked Victor. "Is this man mad?"

"We have all been mad!" returned Miss Brewer, passionately. "The blind, besotted dupes of your demoniac wickedness! Paulina Durski is dead!"

"Dead!"

"Yes. There was a quarrel, yesterday, between these two--and he lefther. I found her this morning--dead! I have told him all--the part Ihave played at your bidding. I shall tell it again in a court ofjustice, I pray God!"

"You can tell it when and where you please, " replied Victor, withhorrible calmness. "I shall not be there to hear it. "

He walked out of the house. Douglas Dale had not yet recoveredconsciousness, and there was no one to hinder Carrington's departure. 

For some time he walked on, unconscious whither he went, unable tograsp or realize the events that had befallen. But at last-dimly, darkly, grim shapes arose out of the chaos of his brain. 

There would be a trial--some kind of trial!--Douglas Dale would not bebaffled of vengeance if the law could give it him. His crime--what wasit, if it could be proved? An attempt to murder--an attempt the basest, the most hideous, and revolting. What hope could he have of mercy--he, utterly merciless himself, expected no such weakness from his fellow-men. 

But in this supreme hour of utter defeat, his thoughts did not dwell onthe hazards of the future. The chief bitterness of his soul was theagony of disappointment--of baffled hope--of humiliation, degradationunspeakable. He had thought himself invincible, the master of hisfellow-men, by the supremacy of intellectual power, and remorselesscruelty. And he was what? A baffled trickster, whose every move uponthe great chessboard had been a separate mistake, leading step by stepto the irrevocable sentence--checkmate!

The ruined towers of Champfontaine arose before him, as in a vision, black against a blood-red sky. 

"I can understand those mad devils of '93--I can understand the roll-call of the guillotine--the noyades--the conflagrations--the foulorgies of murderous drunkards, drunken with blood. Those men hadschemed as I have schemed, and worked as I have worked, and waited as Ihave waited--to fail like me!"

He had walked far from the West-end, into some dreary road eastward ofthe City, choosing by some instinct the quietest streets, before he wascalm enough to contemplate the perils of his position, or to decideupon the course he should take. 

A few minutes' reflection told him that he must fly--Douglas Dale woulddoubtless hunt him as a wild beast is hunted. Where was he to go? Wasthere any lair, or covert, in all that wide city where he might besafely hidden from the vengeance of the man he had wronged so deeply?

He remembered Captain Halkard's letter. He dragged the crumpled sheetof paper from his pocket, and read a few lines. Yes: it was as he hadthought. The "Pandion" was to leave Gravesend at five o'clock nextmorning. 

"I will go to the ice-graves and the bears!" he exclaimed. "Let themtrack me there!"

Energetic always, no less energetic even in this hour of desperation, he made his way down to the sailors' quarter, and spent his few lastpounds in the purchase of a scanty outfit. After doing this, he dinedfrugally at a quiet tavern, and then took the steamer for Gravesend. 

He slept on board the "Pandion. " The place offered him had not beenfilled by any one else. It was not a very tempting post, or a verytempting expedition. The men who had organized it were enthusiasts, imbued with that fever-thirst of the explorer which has made manymartyrs, from the age of the Cabots to the days of Franklin. 

The "Pandion" sailed in that gray cheerless morning, her white sailsgleaming ghastly athwart the chill mists of the river, and so vanishedfor ever Victor Carrington from the eyes of all men, save those whowent with him. The fate of that expedition was never known. Beneathwhat iceberg the "Pandion" found her grave none can tell. Brave andnoble hearts perished with her, and to die with those good men was toohonourable a doom for such a wretch as Victor Carrington. 

 CHAPTER XL. 

 "SO SHALL YE REAP. "

Little now remains to be told of this tale of crime and retribution, ofsuffering and compensation. Miss Brewer told her dreadful story, as faras she knew it, with perfect truth; and her evidence, together with theevidence of the chemist who had supplied Madame Durski from time totime with the fatal consoler of all her pains and sorrows, made itclear that the luckless woman, lying quietly in the darkened room atHilton House, had died from an over-dose of opium. 

Douglas Dale could not attend that inquest. He was stricken down withfever; the fate of the woman he had so loved, so unjustly suspected, nearly cost him his life, and when he recovered sufficiently, he leftEngland, not to return for three years. Before his departure he sawLady Eversleigh and her mother, and established with them a bond offriendship as close as that of their kin. He provided liberally forMiss Brewer, but her rescue from poverty brought her no happiness: shewas a broken-hearted woman. 

Victor Carrington's mother retired into a convent, and was probably ashappy as she had ever been. She had loved him but little, whose onlyvirtue was that he had loved her much. 

Captain Copplestone's rapture knew no bounds when he clasped littleGertrude in his arms once more. He was almost jealous of RosamondJernam, when he found how great a hold she had obtained on the heart ofher charge; but his jealousy was mingled with gratitude, and he joinedLady Eversleigh in testifying his friendship for the tender-heartedwoman who had protected and cherished the heiress of Raynham in thehour of her desolation. 

It is not to be supposed that the world remained long in ignorance ofthis romantic episode in the common-place story of every-day life. 

Paragraphs found their way into the newspapers, no one knew how, andsociety marvelled at the good fortune of Sir Oswald's widow. 

"That woman's wealth must be boundless, " exclaimed aristocraticdowagers, for whom the grip of poverty's bony fingers had been tightand cruel. "Her husband left her magnificent estates, and an enormousamount of funded property; and now a mother drops down from the skiesfor her benefit--a mother who is reported to be almost as rich asherself. "

 * * * * *

Amongst those who envied Lady Eversleigh's good fortune, there was nonewhose envy was so bitter as that of her husband's disappointed nephew, Sir Reginald. 

This woman had stood between him and fortune, and it would have beenhappiness to him to see her grovelling in the dust, a beggar and anoutcast. Instead of this, he heard of her exaltation, and he hated herwith an intense hatred which was almost childish in its purposelessfury. 

He speedily found, however, that life was miserable without his evilcounsellor. The Frenchman's unabating confidence in ultimate successhad sustained the penniless idler in the darkest day of misfortune. Butnow he found himself quite alone; and there was no voice to promisefuture triumph. He knew that the game of life had been played to thelast card, and that it was lost. 

His feeble character was not equal to support the burden of poverty anddespair. 

He dared not show his face at any of the clubs where he had once beenso distinguished a member; for he knew that the voice of society wasagainst him. 

Thus hopeless, friendless, and abandoned by his kind, Sir ReginaldEversleigh had recourse to the commonest form of consolation. He fledfrom a country in which his name had become odious, and took up hisabode in Paris, where he found a miserable lodging in one of thenarrowest alleys in the neighbourhood of the Luxembourg, which was thena labyrinth of narrow streets and lanes. 

Here he could afford to buy brandy, for at that date brandy was muchcheaper in France than it is now. Here he could indulge his growingpropensity for strong drink to the uttermost extent of his means, andcould drown his sorrows, and drink destruction to his enemies, in fierydraughts of cognac. 

For some years he inhabited the same dirty garret, keeping the key ofhis wretched chamber, going up and down the crumbling old staircaseuncared for and unnoticed. Few who had known him in the past would haverecognized the once elegant young man in this latter stage of hisexistence. Form and features, complexion and expression, were alikedegraded. The garments worn by him, who had once been the boastedpatron of crack West-end tailors, were now shapeless and hideous. Thedandy of the clubs had become a perambulating mass of rags. 

Every day when the sun shone he buttoned his greasy, threadbareovercoat across his breast, and crawled to the public garden of theLuxembourg, where he might be seen shuffling slipshod along thesunniest walk, an object of contempt and aversion in the eyes ofnursery-maids and _grisettes_--a butt for the dare-devil students ofthe quarter. 

Had he any consciousness of his degradation?

Yes; that was the undying vulture which preyed upon his entrails--theconsuming fire that was never quenched. 

During the brief interval of each day in which he was sober, SirReginald Eversleigh was wont to reflect upon the past. He knew himselfto be the wretch and outcast he was; and, looking back at his start inlife, he could but remember how different his career might have beenhad he so chosen. 

In those hours the slow tears made furrows in his haggard cheeks--thetears of remorse, vain repentance, that came too late for earth; butnot, perhaps, utterly too late for heaven, since, even for this lastand worst of sinners, there might be mercy. 

Thus his life passed--a changeless routine, unbroken by one brightinterval, one friendly visit, one sign or token to show that there wasany link between this lonely wretch and the rest of humanity. 

One day the porter, who lived in a little den at the bottom of thelodging-house staircase, suddenly missed the familiar figure which hadgone by his rabbit-hutch every day for the last six years; the besottedface that had stared at him morning and evening with the blank, unseeing gaze of the habitual drunkard. 

"What has become of the old toper who lives up yonder among thechimney-pots?" cried the porter, suddenly, to the wife of his bosom. "Ihave not seen him to-day nor yesterday, nor for many days. He must beill. I will go upstairs and make inquiries by-and-by, when I haveleisure. "

The porter waited for a leisure half-hour after dark, and then trampedwearily up the steep old staircase with a lighted candle to see afterthe missing lodger. He might have waited even longer without detrimentto Sir Reginald Eversleigh. 

The baronet had been dead many days, suffocated by the fumes of hispoor little charcoal stove. A trap-door in the roof, which he had beenaccustomed to open for the ventilation of his garret, had been closedby the wind, and the baronet had passed unconsciously from sleep todeath. 

He had died, and no one had been aware of his death. The people of thehouse did not know either his name or his country. His burial was thatof an unknown pauper; and the bones of the last male scion of the houseof Eversleigh were mingled with the bones of Parisian paupers in thecemetery of Père la Chaise. 

While Sir Reginald Eversleigh dragged out the wretched remnant of hisexistence in a dingy Parisian alley, there was perfect peace andtranquil happiness for the woman against whose fair fame he and VictorCarrington had so basely conspired. 

Yes, Anna was at peace; surrounded by friends; delighted day by day towatch the budding loveliness, the sportive grace of GertrudeEversleigh, the idolized heiress of Raynham. As Lady Eversleigh pacedthe terraces of an Italian garden, her mother by her side, withGertrude clinging to her side; as she looked out over the vast domainwhich owned her as mistress--it might seem that fortune had lavishedher fairest gifts into the lap of her who had been once a friendlessstranger, singing in the taverns of Wapping. 

Wonderful indeed had been the transitions which had befallen her; buteven now, when the horizon seemed so fair before her, there were darkshadows upon the past which, in some measure, clouded the brightness ofthe present, and dimmed the radiance of the future. 

She could not forget her night of agony in the house amongst themarshes beyond Ratcliff Highway; she could not cease to lament the lossof that noble friend who had rescued her in the hour of her despair. 

The world wondered at the prolonged widowhood of the mistress ofRaynham. People were surprised to find that a woman in the golden primeof womanhood and beauty could be constant to the memory of a husbandold enough to have been her father. But in due time society learned toaccept the fact as a matter of course, and Lady Eversleigh was nolonger the subject of hopes and speculations. 

Her constant gratitude and friendship for the Jernams suffered nodiminution as time went on. The difference in their social positionmade no difference to her; and no more frequent or more welcome guestswere seen at Raynham than Captain Duncombe, his daughter and son-in-law, and honest Joyce Harker. Lady Eversleigh had a particular regardfor the man who had so true and faithful a heart, and she would oftentalk to him; but she never mentioned the subject of that miserablenight on which he had seen her down at Wapping. That subject wastacitly avoided by both. There was a pain too intense, a memory toodark, associated with the events of that period. 

And so the story ends. There is no sound of pleasant wedding bells toclose my record with their merry, jangling chorus. Is it not the fateof the innocent to suffer in this life for the sins of the wicked? LadyEversleigh's widowhood, Douglas Dale's lonely life, are the work ofVictor Carrington--a work not to be undone upon this earth. If he hasfailed in all else, he has succeeded at least in this: he has ruinedthe happiness of two lives. For both his victims time brings peace--asober gladness that is not without its charm. For one a child'saffection--a child's growing grace of mind and form, bring a happinesson, clouded at intervals by the dark shadows of past sorrow. But in theheart of Douglas Dale there is an empty place which can never be filledupon earth. 

"Will the Eternal and all-seeing One forgive her for her reckless, useless life, and shall I meet her among the blest in heaven?" he askshimself sometimes, and then he remembers the holy words of comfortunspeakable: "Come unto me, ye that are weary and heavy laden, and Iwill give you rest. "

Had not Paulina been "weary, and heavy laden, " bowed down by the burdenof a false accusation, friendless, hopeless, from her very cradle?

He thought of the illimitable Mercy, and he dared to hope for the dayin which he should meet her he loved "Beyond the Veil. "

 THE END.