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Roger Kyffin's Ward

by William Henry Giles Kingston · English · Gutenberg #40690 · 476,425 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Roger Kyffin's Ward

Author: William Henry Giles Kingston


        
Release date: September 6, 2012 [eBook #40690]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/40690

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROGER KYFFIN'S WARD ***

Roger Kyffin's Ward, by WHG Kingston.

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ROGER KYFFIN'S WARD, BY WHG KINGSTON.

CHAPTER ONE.

A PANIC IN THE CITY.

London was in commotion.  On a certain afternoon in the early part of
the year 1797, vast numbers of persons of all ranks of society, wealthy
merchants, sober shopkeepers, eager barristers, country squires, men of
pleasure, dandies, and beaus, and many others of even more doubtful
position, might have been seen hurrying up through lanes and alleys
towards the chief centre of British commerce--the Bank of England, that
mighty heart, in and out of which the golden stream flows to and fro
along its numberless arteries.  Numerous carriages, also, some with
coronets on their panels, and powdered footmen behind, rolled up from
Cheapside.  Among their occupants were ministers of state, foreign
ambassadors, earls and barons of the realm, members of parliament,
wealthy country gentlemen, and other persons of distinction.  While in
not a few were widows and spinster ladies, dowager duchesses and maids
of honour, and other dames with money in the funds.  On the countenances
of the larger portion of the moving throng might be traced a word of
uncomfortable import--"Panic."

It was an eventful period.  Seldom during that or the present century
have English patriots had greater cause for anxiety.  Never, certainly,
from the day of the explosion of the South Sea Bubble up to that period,
had the mercantile atmosphere been more agitated.  The larger portion of
the motley crowd turned on one side to the Bank of England, where the
ladies, descending from their carriages, pressed eagerly forward amidst
the people on foot, one behind the other, to reach the counters.
Another portion entered the Royal Exchange, while a considerable number
of the carriages proceeded along Cornhill.

The appearance of the surrounding edifices was, however, different from
that of the present day.  The old Mansion House was there, and the new
Bank of England had been erected, but all else has been altered.  The
then existing Royal Exchange was greatly inferior to the fine structure
at present to be seen between the Mansion House and the Bank.  It stood
in a confined space, surrounded by tall blocks of buildings, dark and
dingy, though not altogether unpicturesque.  Whatever were its defects,
it served its purpose, and would have been serving it still, probably,
had it not been burnt down.

Numerous excited groups of men now filled the greater part of the
interior area; some were bending eagerly forward, either more forcibly
to express an opinion, or to hear what was said by the speaker on the
opposite side of the circle.  Others were whispering into their
neighbours' ears, with hands lifted up, listening attentively to the
remarks bestowed upon them, while others were hurrying to and fro
gathering the opinion of their acquaintances, and then quickly again
putting it forth as their own, or hastening away to act on the
information they had received.

"Terrible news!  The country will be ruined to a certainty!  The French
will be here within a week!  Fearful disaster!  The fleet has mutinied!
The army will follow their example!  Ireland is in open rebellion!  The
bank is drained of specie!  Failures in every direction!  The funds at
fifty-seven!"

Such were some of the remarks flying about, and which formed the subject
matter of the addresses delivered by the various speakers.  Many persons
then collected were sober-minded citizens, merchants of good repute,
trading with the West Indian Sugar Islands, Africa, the Colonies of
North America, or the Baltic, East India directors, or others, whose
transactions compelled them to assemble, for the negotiation of their
bills on 'change.

A considerable number, however, of those who came into the city from the
West End did not stop at the Exchange, but continued their course a
short distance farther, along Cornhill, where turning on one side they
found themselves in the precincts of Change Alley.  An old writer
describes that region: "The limits are easily surrounded in a minute and
a half.  Step out of Jonathan's into the alley, turn your face due east,
move on a few paces to Garraway's.  From thence go out at the other
door, and go on still east, into Birchin Lane, and then halting at the
Sword-blade bank, and facing the north, you will enter Cornhill, and
visit two or three petty provinces there to the west, and thus having
boxed your compass, and sailed round the stock-jobbing globe, you turn
into Jonathan's again."

In Jonathan's well-known coffee-house, and in its immediate
neighbourhood, was assembled a large number of persons, varying in rank
and appearance far more than those who were inside the Exchange.  To
this point the coroneted carriages had been directing their course.  The
occupants of some had got out and entered the coffee-house.  Others
remained with their brokers at the door, eager to gain certain
intelligence, which was to raise or depress the market.  Here too were
to be seen persons in Eastern costume, and others in English dress, both
however with the unmistakable features of the Jew.  There were courtiers
and gentlemen from the fashionable parts of the metropolis, in silk
stockings and diamond-buckled shoes, with powdered wigs, frilled shirts,
and swords by their sides, or quakers in broad-brimmed hats and garments
of sombre hue, such as were worn by our puritan ancestors of the
previous century.  Here too were portly citizens with gold-headed canes
and well-brushed beavers, their countenances anxious, but honest and
straightforward, though many other persons were there, some in
shabby-genteel costume, others in threadbare and almost ragged coats,
and again, many whose sharp eager eyes and pale features showed that
they had been long accustomed to the transactions of the place.  The two
great parties in the State might in most cases have been distinguished
by the difference of their costume.  The Tories, the supporters of the
war, determined foes of the men then in power in France, generally
retained the gay and handsome costume of their fathers, while the Whigs
and Jacobinical party affected a republican simplicity, and dressed in
straight-cut coats and low-crowned hats, which had been introduced in
France.

We shall have to return to Jonathan's by-and-bye, and will in the
meantime go back to the Royal Exchange.  Among those who were making
their way towards it from the lanes which led up from the banks of the
river was a person not unworthy of notice.  He was a man past the
meridian of life, of tall and commanding figure.  The leather-like skin
of his colourless face, though free from spot or blemish, was slightly
wrinkled, and his somewhat massive features wore a calm and unmoved
expression, which might have surprised those who could have defined the
feelings agitating his bosom.  No wonder that his mind was troubled.
Those were anxious times for men engaged even in very limited
transactions.  Stephen Coppinger's were extensive and complex.  There
was scarcely a pie baked in those days in which he had not a finger.  He
walked at a dignified pace, with a smile on his lips, and his bright
eyes calm, though watchful.  His dark-coloured suit of fine cloth with
brass buttons was carefully brushed, a small quantity of powder only
shaken on his hair, which was fastened behind in a long queue, resting
on his collar.  The folds of his white neck-cloth, and the frill of fine
lace which appeared beneath his waistcoat, were scrupulously clean and
well arranged.  Silk stockings with knee breeches, and shoes with steel
buttons, encased his legs and feet.  In his hand he carried a thick
gold-headed walking-stick, though scarcely requiring it to support his
steps, while a plain cocked hat, and a spencer, for the weather was
cold, completed his costume.  His step was firm, his head erect, as he
walked along with a dignified air, bowing to one acquaintance, nodding
to another, and returning with condescension the salutations of his
inferiors.  He observed many other persons proceeding in the same
direction, several of whom he knew, the countenances of not a few
wearing that expression of anxiety which he took care his own should not
exhibit.  Several of them did not notice him, as, lost in thought, with
their heads cast down, they picked their way over the uneven pavement.

Stephen Coppinger had scarcely reached his accustomed "walk" in the
Exchange, when his acquaintance, Alderman Bycroft, bustled up to him.

"Well, friend Coppinger, you look as calm as if nothing had happened!"
exclaimed the alderman; "have you not heard the news?"

"Which news?" asked the merchant in a quiet voice, without the slightest
change of countenance; "so many reports are flying about that I believe
none of them."

"You could not have heard the news, or you would not look so abominably
unconcerned," exclaimed the alderman, who was a somewhat fussy excitable
gentleman.  "Why, the news is positively fearful!  A mutiny has broken
out on board the channel fleet at Spithead!  They have murdered Lord
Bridport and most of their officers, and threatened, if they have not
everything their own way, to carry the ships over to the French.  The
enemy's fleets are mustering in great force, and may be across the
Channel, for what we can tell, at this moment.  The Irish are in
rebellion, and are certain to join them and cut all our throats."

"Terrible, if true," answered Mr. Coppinger, with a smile, which he
could afford to bestow on his excitable friend; "but I think, my dear
alderman, I can correct you.  The crews of the Channel fleet have
undoubtedly refused to proceed to sea unless their very reasonable
demands are agreed to, and I know for certain that they have treated the
admiral and their officers with every respect.  They will, I have no
fear, therefore, when their petition is granted, return to their duty.
If the French come we will give them a warm reception.  In the meantime,
however, I acknowledge we are likely to suffer by having our merchantmen
exposed to the depredations of the enemy's ships, and this is about the
worst danger I apprehend."

"You take things too calmly, my friend!" exclaimed the alderman.
"Suppose the fleet refuses to obey orders, what are we to do?  There's
the question.  I am of opinion that we should call out the train-bands,
the volunteers, and the militia, and man every vessel in the Thames, and
sail down and capture the mutineers."

"I suspect, my friend, that your proposed flotilla would very soon be
sent to the right-about, if not to the bottom.  It would be wiser to
inquire into the complaints of the seamen, and to redress their
grievances.  Their pay was small enough at first during Charles the
Second's reign, and since then all necessary articles of subsistence
have advanced fully fifty per cent, and all the men require is, that
their wages may be proportionably increased.  They ask also that the
naval pensions may be augmented, as have those of Chelsea, to 13 pounds
a year.  The Greenwich pensions still remain at 7 pounds.  They also beg
that while in harbour they may have more liberty to go on shore, and
that when seamen are wounded they may receive their pay till cured or
discharged.  Their other requests are really as moderate, and though I,
for one, would never countenance mutiny, from my heart I believe that
their demands are just."

"Can't see that," answered the alderman.  "In my opinion the country is
going to rack and ruin.  What are we to do without gold?  Then we are to
have more loans.  We have already lent Prussia, Sardinia, and the
Emperor of Austria some seven or eight millions, and are now going to
make a further loan to Portugal, and for all I know to the contrary we
shall soon be subsidising all the rest of Europe."

"If this war with France is to continue, I, for my part, shall be glad
if we have so many friends on our side," observed Mr. Coppinger, whose
great object at the moment was to tranquillise the minds of his City
friends.  "We are not likely to pay money away without getting something
for it."

"Not so sure of that," replied the alderman; "John Bull is apt to throw
his cash away with his eyes shut, and that is what we have been doing
for some time past.  Had Lord Malmesbury been successful in his
negotiation for peace, things might have been different, but what can be
worse with consols down to fifty-seven, a fearful run on the Bank of
England, and now a suspension of payment in specie altogether, with this
dangerous mutiny of the fleet as a climax!  Then look at Ireland--half
the country in a state of rebellion; the people shrieking out for the
assistance of the French, and cutting each other's throats in the
meantime.  Then these Jacobin clubs in London and throughout all our
large towns, doing their utmost to bring about a republic in England.
If they could imitate the French and cut off our king's head, they would
do it.  And as to the army, I am not certain that we can put confidence
in it.  Ah! my dear sir, the sun of England's glory has set; that is my
opinion.  I may be wrong--I hope so--but that is my opinion."

"You take too gloomy a view of the state of affairs, alderman," said Mr.
Coppinger.  "Things are very bad, I'll own, but they may improve.  Lord
Duncan's late victory should give us confidence.  The fate of the French
who landed in Pembrokeshire the other day, shows that even though our
enemies may set foot on our shores, they may not gain much by their
impudence.  No fear about our army, that is staunch, and the navy will
soon return to its duty, and then Old England will be well able to hold
her own against all her enemies."

Stephen Coppinger was anxious to get rid of the alderman without
rudeness, and that worthy finding he could not frighten his friend, soon
bustled off to communicate his alarm to some more excitable listener.

The merchant, however, was very far from feeling the tranquillity he
exhibited.  He well knew the desperate state of affairs, but at the same
time it was important that the public mind should be tranquillised.  He
had also several bills to negotiate and other business to transact,
which required his own mind to be peculiarly calm and collected.  Many
other persons addressed him, most of them as agitated as Alderman
Bycroft.  He had to get rid of them one after the other, and having
despatched his own business, maintaining his usual composed manner, he
quitted the Exchange.

He proceeded along Cornhill to the narrow passage which led into Change
Alley, and with deliberate steps entered Jonathan's.  Every room in that
once celebrated coffee-house was full.  Some persons were transacting
private business in the smaller rooms, while in the larger, stood eager
groups of brokers and dealers, with their books in their hands, noting
the various transactions in which they were engaged.

The news flying about had caused the funds to fall yet lower than on the
previous day, and brokers were hurrying to and fro, receiving orders
from their various constituents, some to buy, others to sell forthwith.
Stephen Coppinger gave certain directions to his broker in a subdued
tone.  It was even with greater difficulty than in the morning that he
could command his voice, then bowing to his acquaintance as he passed,
he took his way back to Idol Lane.

He preserved his calm and dignified air, during his walk to his
counting-house.  Passing through the public office to his private room,
he closed the door, and throwing himself back into his arm-chair,
pressed his hands on his brow for some minutes, lost in thought.  At
length turning round towards his large black writing-table, and
referring to some letters and other papers, he seized a pen which he
mechanically mended, almost in so doing cutting through his thumb nail,
and made some rapid calculations.  They were not apparently
satisfactory.  He rang sharply a hand-bell by his side.  Scarcely had
the silvery sounds died away when the heavy door of the oak-panelled
room slowly opened, and a clerk, with a ponderous volume under his arm,
entered.  He was dressed as became the managing clerk of a large
establishment, with great neatness and precision, his hair being
carefully powdered, though his side curls were somewhat smaller than
those of his employer.  His complexion was clear, with a good colour on
his cheeks, which betokened sound health, while his countenance wore a
peculiarly calm expression, calculated to gain the confidence of those
with whom he had dealings.  Roger Kyffin was highly esteemed by his
principal as well as by all his subordinates.  His word was, in truth,
as good as Stephen Coppinger's bond.  What Roger Kyffin said Stephen
Coppinger would do, was done.  On the day and hour Roger Kyffin promised
that cash should be paid, it was paid without fail.  Stephen Coppinger
had no partner.  He scorned to throw responsibility on an unknown
company, while, with only one exception, to no other breast than his own
would he confide the secrets of his transactions.  That exception was
the breast of Roger Kyffin.  Roger Kyffin placed the open folio before
his principal, and produced a paper with the remarks he had made
respecting certain entries.

"Bad!" observed Stephen Coppinger, as he ran his eye over the book and
paper; "but see, these letters bring worse news.  The `Belmont Castle'
has been taken by the enemy.  The `Tiger' has foundered during a
hurricane in the West Indies.  Jecks Tarbett and Simmons have failed;
their debt is a large one.  Hunter and Dove's affairs are in an
unsatisfactory condition.  I don't like Joseph Hudson's proceedings in
Change Alley; he yesterday begged that I would renew his bill.  In
truth, Roger Kyffin, unless matters improve..."  A groan escaped from
Stephen Coppinger's bosom.

"The amount you require must be raised," observed Roger Kyffin, taking
half a turn across the room.  "Leave that to me.  You have so often
aided friends in need, that I anticipate no difficulty in obtaining
help."

"It will be from no want of exertion on your part if you fail," said
Stephen Coppinger, brightening up slightly.

"Keep up your spirits, sir," said Roger Kyffin.  "The credit of your
firm will not suffer, depend on that.  I will now set out and see what
can be done.  I hope to bring satisfactory intelligence before evening."

Saying this, Roger Kyffin left the room, carefully closing the door
behind him.  While putting on his spencer and hat, he intimated to his
principal subordinate, Mr. Silas Sleech, that he should probably be
absent for some hours.  Mr. Sleech glanced after him with a pair of
meaningless eyes, set in an immovable countenance, and saying, "Oh, very
well," went on with his work.

More respecting Mr. Silas Sleech and his doings may possibly be
mentioned.

CHAPTER TWO.

IN WHICH SEVERAL PERSONAGES ARE INTRODUCED.

Roger Kyffin took his way westward.  As soon as he had got out of the
crowded thoroughfares, he called a coach, for in those days walking in
London was a more fatiguing operation than at present.  The progress of
the vehicle, however, in which he took his seat was not very rapid.  It
was a large and lumbering affair, drawn by a pair of broken-down hacks,
the asthmatic cough of one keeping in countenance the shattered knees of
the other.  At length he reached the door of a substantial mansion in
the middle of Clifford Street.  The bell was answered by a servant in
sober livery.

"Is Mr. Thornborough at home?" he asked, at the same time presenting a
card with his name in a bold hand written on it.  The servant was absent
but a short time, when he returned, saying that his master would be glad
to see Mr. Roger Kyffin.  The visitor was shown into a handsome parlour,
where, seated before a fire with his buckled shoes on a footstool, was a
venerable-looking gentleman, with his silvery locks slightly powdered
hanging down over his shoulders.  A richly-embroidered waistcoat, a
plum-coloured coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, knee breeches, and
black silk stockings with clocks, completed his costume.  By his side
sat a lady dressed in rich garments, though of somewhat sombre hue.

The white curls which appeared under her high cap showed that she was
advanced in life, and the pleasant smile on her comely features
betokened a kind and genial disposition.  She rose from her seat, and
kindly welcomed Roger Kyffin, directing the servant to place a chair for
him before the fire.  The old gentleman shook his hand, but pleaded age
as an excuse for not rising.

"You have given us but little of your company for many a day, Mr.
Kyffin," said the lady in a kind tone.  "We thought you must have left
London altogether."

"No, Mrs. Barbara, I have scarcely been beyond the sound of Bow Bells;
but I must plead business as an excuse for my negligence.  These are
anxious times, and mercantile men must needs pay more than double
attention to their affairs."

"If they demand more time, undoubtedly we should give it; if not, we are
robbing other matters of their due attention," observed Mr.
Thornborough.

"I agree with you, sir," answered Mr. Kyffin; "I must confess, indeed,
that a matter of business of great importance to a friend brought me to
the west.  I would ask you to allow me a few minutes that I may explain
the matter to you clearly."

"Speak on, friend, I keep no secrets from Barbara, and if she does not
know all my affairs, it is through no wish on my part to hide them from
her.  My sister is a discreet woman, Mr. Kyffin, and that's more perhaps
than can be said of all her sex."

Mr. Kyffin bowed his acquiescence in this opinion.  He, then turning to
the old gentleman, explained clearly the difficulties which surrounded
his friend and principal, Mr. Stephen Coppinger.  Mr. Thornborough
uttered two or three exclamations as Roger Kyffin went on in his
account.

"I thought that my friend Stephen had been a more prudent man," he
observed.  "How could he enter into such a speculation?  How could he
trust such people as Hunter and Dove?  Why, Roger Kyffin, you yourself
should have been better informed about them.  However, if we were only
to undertake to assist the wise and prudent we might keep our money
chests locked and our pockets buttoned up.  Stephen Coppinger is an
honest man, and has shown himself a kind and generous one, albeit he
might not always have exhibited as much prudence, as was desirable.  The
amount you mention shall, however, be at his disposal.  We must not let
a breath of suspicion rest on his name.  I have a regard for him, and
his six fair daughters, and it would be cruel to allow the maidens to go
out into the world without sufficient dowers or means of maintenance,
whereas if Stephen Coppinger tides over the present crisis, he may leave
them all well off."

"That's right, that's right," said Mrs. Barbara, looking approvingly at
her brother.  "He gives good advice, and acts it, too, eh, Mr. Kyffin?
And now my brother has had his say I must have mine.  What about the
negro slave trade?  We have not seen Mr. Wilberforce nor any of his
friends for several weeks, and my brother cannot help on the cause as he
used to do."

"It is a good cause, that will ultimately be successful," answered Roger
Kyffin; "but, my dear Mrs. Barbara, like other good causes, we may have
a long fight for it before we gain the day.  Just now men's minds are so
engaged with our national affairs that the poor blacks are very little
thought of."

"Too true," answered Mistress Barbara; "I wish, however, that Mr.
Wilberforce would call here.  I want to tell him how delighted I am with
his new book, which I got a few days ago--his `Practical View of
Christianity.'  It will open the eyes, I hope, of some of the upper
classes, to the hollow and unsatisfying nature of the forms to which
they cling.  I think, and my brother agrees with me, it's one of the
finest books on theology that has ever been written; that is to say, it
is more likely to bring people to a knowledge of the truth than all the
works of the greatest divines of the past and present age.  Get the book
and judge for yourself."

Mr. Kyffin promised to do so, and after some further conversation, he
rose to take his departure.  Mrs. Barbara did not fail to press him to
come again as soon as his occupations would allow.

"The money shall be ready for you before noon to-morrow," said Mr.
Thornborough, shaking his hand.  Roger Kyffin hastened back to Idol
Lane.  Mr. Coppinger had not risen from his arm-chair since he quitted
the house.  The belief that his liabilities would be met without further
difficulty, greatly relieved the merchant's mind, and he thanked Roger
Kyffin again and again for the important assistance afforded him.

"Say not a word about it," answered the clerk; "if I have been useful to
you, it was my duty.  You found me in distress, and I shall never be
able to repay the long-standing debt I owe you.  Still I wish to place
myself under a further obligation.  I would rather have deferred
speaking on the matter, but it will allow of no delay.  I have to plead
for a friend, ay, more than a friend--that unhappy young man--your
nephew.  You are mistaken as to his character.  However appearances are
against him.  I am certain that Harry Tryon is not guilty of the crime
imputed to him.  Some day I shall be able to unravel the mystery.  In
the meantime I am ready to answer for his conduct, if you will reinstate
him in the position which he so unwisely left.  He has no natural love
for business, I grant, but he is high-spirited and excessively
sensitive, and I am therefore sure that he will not rest satisfied
unless he is restored to his former position, and enabled to establish
his innocence."

"You press me hard, Kyffin," answered Mr. Coppinger.  "Besides the fact
that the lad is my great-nephew, although his grandmother and I have
kept up very little intercourse for years, I have no prejudice against
him, and I consider that I acted leniently in not sending after him, and
compelling him to discover the authors of the fraud committed against my
house.  Even should he not be guilty, he must know who are guilty."

"Granted, sir, and I speak it with all respect," said Roger Kyffin, "but
if he is innocent, and that he is I am ready to stake my existence, he
would, had you examined him, have had an opportunity of vindicating
himself.  I know not now what has become of the lad, and I dread that he
may be driven into some desperate course.  I am, however, using every
means to discover him, and I should be thankful if I could send him word
that you are ready to look into his case."

"No, no, Kyffin, I am resolved to wash my hands of the lad and his
affairs, and I would advise you to do the same," replied Mr. Coppinger.
"I find that he got into bad company, and was led into all sorts of
extravagances, which of course would have made him try to supply himself
with money.  Had he been steady and industrious, I should have been less
willing to believe him guilty."

An expression of pain and sorrow passed over Roger Kyffin's countenance
when he heard these remarks.

"It is too true, I am afraid, that the lad was drawn into bad company,
and I must confess that appearances are against him," he answered.  "I
judge him, knowing his right principles, and, though in a certain sense,
he wants firmness of character, I am sure that nothing would induce, him
to commit the act of which he is suspected.  I might tell you of many
kind and generous things he has done.  Since he has grown up he has
shown himself to be a brave, high-minded young man."

"I do not doubt his bravery or his generosity," answered Mr. Coppinger;
"both are compatible with extravagance and dissipated conduct.  But I am
not prejudiced against the lad, and I would rather take your opinion of
him than trust to my own.  I would wish you, therefore, to follow your
own course in this matter.  If you think fit, get the lad up here.  We
will hear what he has to say for himself, and carefully go into his
case.  I wish that we had done so at first instead of letting him escape
without further investigation."

"Thank you, sir, thank you, Mr. Coppinger; that is all I require,"
exclaimed Roger Kyffin.  "Where to find the lad, however, is the
difficulty.  He has gone through numerous adventures and dangers, and
has been mercifully preserved.  I had, indeed, given him up as lost, but
I received a letter from him the other day, though, unfortunately, he
neglected to date it.  He spoke of others which he had written, but
which I have not received.  All I can hope now is that he will write
again and let me know where he is to be found.  Of one thing I am
certain, that when he is found he will be well able to vindicate his
character."


Not till a late hour was the counting-house in Idol Lane closed that
day.  Further news of importance might arrive, and Stephen Coppinger was
unwilling to risk not being present to receive it.  A link boy was in
waiting to light him to his handsome mansion in Broad Street.  He had
not yet retired, as was his custom later in the year, to his rural villa
at Twickenham.

Clerks mostly lived in the city.  Few, at that time, could enjoy a
residence in the suburbs.  Roger Kyffin, however, had a snug little
abode of his own at Hampstead, from and to which he was accustomed to
walk every day.  In the winter season, however, when it was dark,
several friends who lived in the same locality were in the habit of
waiting for each other in order to afford mutual protection against
footpads and highwaymen, to whose attacks single pedestrians were
greatly exposed.  At one time, indeed, they were accompanied by a
regular guard of armed men, so audacious had become the banditti of
London.

Roger Kyffin felt more than an ordinary interest in Mr. Coppinger's
great-nephew--Harry Tryon--who has been spoken of.  He loved him, in
truth, as much as if he had been his own son.

When Roger Kyffin was a young man full of ardent aspirations, with no
small amount of ambition, too, he became acquainted with a beautiful
girl.  He loved her, and the more he saw of her, the stronger grew his
attachment.  He had been trained for mercantile business, and had
already attained a good situation in a counting-house.  He had thus
every reason to believe, that by perseverance and steadiness, he should
be able to realise a competency.  He hoped, indeed, to do more than
this, and that wealth and honours such as others in his position had
attained, he might be destined to enjoy.  Fanny Ashton had, from the
first, treated him as a friend.  She could not help liking him.  Indeed,
possibly, had his modesty not prevented him at that time offering her
his hand, she might have become his wife.  At the same time, she
probably had not asked herself the question as to how far her heart was
his.  She was all life and spirits, with capacity for enjoying
existence.  By degrees, as she mixed more and more with the gay world,
her estimation of the humble clerk altered.  She acknowledged his
sterling qualities, but the fashionable and brilliant cavaliers she met
in society were more according to her taste.  An aunt, with whom she
went to reside in London, mixed much in the world.  Roger Kyffin, who
had looked upon himself in the light of a permitted suitor, though not
an accepted one, naturally called at her aunt's house in the West End.
His reception by Fanny was not as cordial as formerly.  Her manner after
this became colder and colder, till at last when he went to her aunt's
door he was no longer welcomed.  Still his love for Fanny and his faith
in her excellencies were not diminished.

"When she comes back to her quiet home she will be as she was before,"
he thought to himself, and so, though somewhat sad and disappointed, he
went on hoping that he might win her affection and become her husband.

At length Fanny Ashton returned home.  Roger Kyffin, with the eye of
love, observed a great change in her.  She was no longer lively and
animated as before.  Her cheek was pale, and an anxious expression
passed constantly over her countenance.  She received him kindly, but
with more formality than usual.  Still Mr. Kyffin ventured to speak to
her.  She appreciated his love and devotion, she said, and regretted she
could not give her love in return.

Roger Kyffin did not further press his suit, yet went as frequently to
the house as he could.  Several times he had observed a gentleman in the
neighbourhood.  He was a fashionably-dressed, handsome man.  There was
something, however, in the expression of his countenance which Roger
Kyffin did not like, for having seen him once, the second time they met
he marked him narrowly.  What brought him to that neighbourhood?  One
day as he was going towards Mrs. Ashton's house--Fanny's mother was a
widow, and she was her only child--he met the stranger coming out of the
door.  He would scarcely have been human had his jealousy not been
aroused.  He turned homeward, for he could not bring himself to call
that day.  The following evening, however, he went as usual, but great
was his consternation to find that Fanny had gone to stay with her aunt.
His worst fears were realised when, three weeks after this, he heard
that Fanny Ashton had married Major Tryon.  He could have borne his
disappointment better if he could have thought that Fanny had married a
man worthy of her.

To conquer his love he felt was impossible.  His affection was true and
loyal.  He would now watch over her and be of service if he could.  His
inquiries as to the character of Major Tryon were thoroughly
unsatisfactory.  He was a gay man about town, well known on the turf,
and a pretty constant frequenter of "hells" and gambling-houses.  He was
the son of an old general, Sir Harcourt Tryon, and so far of good
family.  Though a heartless and worthless _roue_, he seemed really to
have fallen in love with Fanny Ashton, and having done his best to win
her affections, he had at length resolved, as he called it, to "put his
neck into the noose."  Roger Kyffin trembled for Fanny's happiness, not
without reason.  Major Tryon had taken lodgings for her in London.
Roger Kyffin discovered where he was residing.  Unknown to her, he
watched over her like a guardian angel, a fond father, or a devoted
brother.  In a short time her husband took her to the neighbourhood of
Lynderton, in Hampshire, where Sir Harcourt and Lady Tryon resided, in
the hopes, probably, that they would take notice of her.  He engaged a
small cottage with a pretty little garden in front of it, from which a
view of the Solent and the Isle of Wight was obtained.  Lady Tryon,
however, and she ruled her husband, had greatly disapproved of her son's
marriage with the penniless Fanny Ashton, and consequently refused even
to see his young wife.

In a short time Fanny was deserted by her worthless husband.  Not many
months had passed away before she received the announcement of his death
in a duel.  That very evening her child Harry was born.  She never quite
recovered from the shock she had received.  Sad and dreary were the
weeks she passed.  No one called on her, for though it was known that
Major Tryon was married, people were not aware that his young widow was
residing at Sea View Cottage, which, standing at a distance from any
high road, few of them ever passed.  Her little boy was her great
consolation.  All her affections were centred in him.  Her only visitor
was good Dr. Jessop, the chief medical practitioner at Lynderton.  She
called him in on one occasion when Harry was ill.  There was not much
the matter with the child, but he saw at once that the mother far more
required his aid.  There was a hectic flush on her cheek, a brightness
in her eye, and a short cough which at once alarmed him, and he resolved
to keep Master Harry on the sick list, that he might have a better
excuse for going over to see the poor young widow.

CHAPTER THREE.

THE HERO'S EARLY DAYS, AND A DESCRIPTION OF A LADY OF QUALITY.

Roger Kyffin heard of Major Tryon's death soon after it occurred.  He
was afraid that Fanny might be left badly off, and he considered how he
could with the greatest delicacy assist her.  He would not intrude on
her grief, but he thought that he might employ some person in the
neighbourhood who would act as agent to take care that she was supplied
with every comfort.

That evening he was travelling down in the mail coach to Lynderton.  He
knew his way to the cottage as well as anybody in the place.

Near it was a little inn, to which he had his carpet bag conveyed.  Here
he took up his abode.  He felt a satisfaction in being near her, but was
nervous lest by any means she should find out that he was in the
neighbourhood.  He soon discovered that Dr. Jessop drove by every day
and visited the cottage, and he resolved, therefore, to stop the doctor
and introduce himself as a friend of Mrs. Tryon's family.  If he found
him a trustworthy and sensible person, he would employ him as his agent
in affording the assistance he wished to render the widow.  He saw him,
and was satisfied that Dr. Jessop was just the person he hoped to find.

"I have had a long round of visits," said the worthy practitioner, "and
would gladly put up my horse at the inn and talk the matter over with
you."

They were soon seated together in the little parlour allotted to Mr.
Kyffin.  His wishes were easily explained.  "My interesting patient
will, I am sure, feel grateful for the sympathy and assistance of her
unknown friend," said the doctor; "but to be frank with you, Mr. Kyffin,
I fear she will not enjoy it for many years.  I believe that her days
are numbered--"

He stopped suddenly, observing Roger Kyffin's countenance.

"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "I was not aware how deeply I was wounding
you, and yet, my friend, it is better to know the truth.  You may yet
prove a friend to her boy, and should she be taken away, the poor child
will greatly need one."

It would be difficult to describe the feelings which agitated Roger
Kyffin's kind heart.  He had one consolation.  He might, as the doctor
suggested, prove a friend and guardian to the orphan boy.  The kind
doctor called every day to report on the health of his patient.  He
gladly undertook to do all in his power in carrying out Mr. Kyffin's
wishes, and promised not to betray the donor of the money which was to
be placed at Mrs. Tryon's disposal.

Roger Kyffin could with difficulty tear himself away from the
neighbourhood.  He received constant communications from Dr. Jessop, who
sent him rather more favourable reports of Mrs. Tryon.  Five years
passed by--Mrs. Tryon's mother was dead.  She had no wish to leave her
little cottage.  Where, indeed, could she go?  Her only employment was
that of watching over her little boy.  During this time several changes
had taken place in the neighbourhood.  Sir Harcourt Tryon died.  Though
he must have been aware of his grandson's existence, he had never
expressed any wish to see him.  At length the mother caught cold.  The
effect was serious.  Dr. Jessop became alarmed, and wrote an account of
her state to Mr. Kyffin.  She could no longer take Harry out to walk,
and had therefore to send him under charge of a nursemaid.


One day he and his nurse were longer absent than usual.  What could have
kept them?  The young mother went to the garden-gate several times, and
looked anxiously along the road.  She felt the wind very cold.  Again
she entered the house.  Could she have mistaken the hour?  The next time
she threw a shawl over her shoulders, but the cold made her cough
fearfully.  At last she saw a female figure in the distance.  It was
Susan the nurse, but Harry was not with her.  Mrs. Tryon had to support
herself by the gate till the girl came up.

"Where is Harry? where is my child?" she exclaimed.

"I could not help it, ma'am, I did my best to prevent it," answered the
nurse, crying.

Poor Fanny's heart sank within her; her knees trembled.

"Prevent what?" she exclaimed; "what has happened? where is my boy?"

"No harm has come to him, ma'am, though there might have been, but it is
all right now," answered Susan.  "We were going on, Master Harry
skipping and playing in front of me, when I saw a carriage coming along
the road very fast.  I ran on to catch hold of him, but he darted away
just under the horses' feet.  I screamed out, and the coachman pulled
up.  An old lady was in the carriage, and putting her head out of the
window she asked what was the matter?  Seeing the little boy, she wanted
to know whose child he was.  When I told her, she ordered the footman to
lift him into the carriage.  She looked at his face as if she was
reading a book, then she kissed him and sat him down by her side.  I
begged the lady to let me have him again, as I wanted to come home.
`No,' she said, `go and tell your mistress that his grandmother has
taken him with her, that she is pleased with his looks, and must take
him for a short time.'  I knew, ma'am, that you would be vexed, and I
begged the lady again and again to let me have him, but she answered
that he must go with her, and that it would be better for him in the
end."

Poor Mrs. Tryon had been listening with breathless eagerness to this
account of the nursemaid's.  Leaning on the girl's arm, she tottered
back to the house, scarcely knowing whether or not she ought to be
thankful that the boy had been seen by his grandmother.  One thing she
knew, she longed to press him to her own bosom.  She felt, however, weak
and ill.  While yet undecided how to act, Dr. Jessop's carriage drove up
to the gate.  As he entered the house, she was seized with a fit of
coughing, followed by excessive weakness.  As she was leaning back in
the arm-chair, the doctor felt her pulse.  As soon as she could speak
she told him what had happened.  He looked very grave.

"My dear madam," he said, "I am sorry that her ladyship has carried off
the little boy.  If you will give me authority, I will drive on and
bring him back to you.  An old friend of yours has come down to this
neighbourhood, and he wishes to see Harry.  He has heard that you are
ill, and desires to know from your own lips your wishes with regard to
your boy."

"What do you mean, doctor?" asked the dying lady, looking up with an
inquiring glance at the doctor's face.  "The child is so young that I
should not wish to part from him for some years to come."

"My dear lady," said Dr. Jessop, solemnly, "the lives of all of us are
in God's hands.  You are suffering from a serious complaint.  It would
be cruel in me not to warn you that you are in considerable danger."

"Do you mean to say I'm going to die, doctor--that I must part from my
boy?" gasped out poor Fanny, in a faint voice.

"I should wish you to be prepared, should it be God's will to call you
away," answered the doctor, much moved.  "If you will give authority to
your devoted friend, Mr. Roger Kyffin, I am sure he will act the part of
a parent to your boy.  I expect him here this evening, and as he wishes
to see Harry, I will drive over to Lady Tryon and request her ladyship
to allow me to bring your boy back to you.  Certainly in most cases a
child's grandmother is a proper person to act as guardian, but though I
attend Lady Tryon professionally when she is in the country, I am unable
to express a satisfactory opinion as to her fitness for the task.  I
begged my friend Tom Wallis, the solicitor at Lynderton, to ride over
here with Mr. Kyffin; so that should you wish to place your boy under
the legal protection of your old friend, you may be able to do so."

"Surely his grandmother is a proper person to take charge of Harry;
though I have no cause to regard her with affection," said Fanny, in a
faint voice, "yet I could with more confidence consign him to that kind
and generous man, Mr. Kyffin; I will do therefore as he wishes, only
requesting that the boy may be allowed to remain as much as possible
during his childhood with his grandmother."

Poor Fanny! a lingering feeling of pride prompted this resolution.  Far
better would it have been, in all human probability, for the boy, had
she committed him entirely to her faithful friend's care, and not
mentioned Lady Tryon.  The doctor knew too well that his patient had not
many hours to live.  He hurried off to Aylestone Hall, the residence of
Lady Tryon.  The old lady expressed herself delighted with the child,
and was very unwilling to part with him.  Indeed, though she was told of
her daughter-in-law's dangerous state, she positively refused to give
him up, unless the doctor promised to bring him back again.  Harry was
accordingly placed in the doctor's carriage, which drove rapidly back to
Mrs. Tryon's cottage.

"I can give you but little hopes," said the doctor to Roger Kyffin,
whom, in company with Mr. Wallis, he met at the cottage gate.

Roger Kyffin sighed deeply.  The little boy flew towards his mother.
She had scarcely strength to bend forward to meet him.  The doctor held
him while she pressed him to her bosom.

"May he come in?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," she whispered, "I should be glad to see him before I die; you
were right, doctor, and kind to warn me."

Roger Kyffin entered the room, but his knees trembled, and he could
scarcely command his voice.  Fanny thanked him for all his kindness;
"continue it," she said, "to this poor child."

The doctor signed to Mr. Wallis to come forward.  He had brought writing
materials.  Fanny expressed her wish to place her child under Roger
Kyffin's guardianship.  She signed the paper.  She evidently wished to
say more, but her voice failed her.  It was with difficulty she could
gasp out the last words she had uttered.  In vain the doctor
administered a restorative.  With her one arm flung round her boy, while
Roger Kyffin held her other hand, her spirit took its departure.

Roger Kyffin would gladly have carried Harry off to London, but no
sooner did Lady Tryon hear of the death of her neglected
daughter-in-law, than, driving over to the cottage, she took Harry with
her back to Aylestone Hall.  She directed also that a proper funeral
should be prepared; and at her request several distant members and
connections of the family attended it.  Thus Mrs. Tryon was laid to rest
with as much pomp and ceremony as possible, in Lynderton churchyard.

With a sad heart Roger Kyffin returned to London and devoted himself
with even more than his usual assiduity to his mercantile duties.

Aylestone Hall was a red brick building, surrounded by a limited extent
of garden and shrubbery, within half a mile of the town of Lynderton.
The interior, for a country house, had a somewhat gloomy and
unpicturesque aspect.  Young Harry felt depressed by the atmosphere, so
different from the cheerful little cottage, with its flower-surrounded
lawn, to which he had been accustomed.  He was not drawn either to his
grandmother, though she intended to be kind to him.  She treated him
indeed much as a child does a new plaything, constantly fondling it at
first, and then casting it aside uncared for.  Harry was also soon
nauseated by the old lady's caresses.  He had, too, a natural antipathy
to musk, of which her garments were redolent.

Lady Tryon was a small woman with strongly marked features, decidedly
forbidding at first sight, though she possessed the art of smiling, and
making herself very agreeable to her equals.  She could smile especially
very sweetly when she had an object to gain, or wished to be
particularly agreeable; but her countenance could also assume a very
different aspect when she was angry.  She had bright grey eyes, which
seemed to look through and through the person to whom she was speaking,
while her countenance, utterly devoid of colour, was wrinkled and
puckered in a curious way.  She always wore rouge, and was dressed in
the height of fashion.  She very soon discarded her widow's ugly cap,
and the gayest, of colours decked her shrivelled form, the waist almost
close up under the arms, and the dress very low, a shawl being flung
over her shoulders.  She could laugh and enjoy a joke, but her voice was
discordant, and even when she wished to be most courteous there was a
want of sincerity in its tone.  Lady Tryon had been maid of honour in
her youth to a royal personage, and possessed a fund of anecdote about
the Court, which was listened to with respectful delight by her country
neighbours.  She was supposed to have very literary tastes, and to have
read every book in existence.  The fact was that she scarcely ever
looked into one, but she picked up a semblance of knowledge, and having
a retentive memory was able to make the most of any information she
obtained.  In the same way she had got by heart a large supply of
poetry, which she was very clever in quoting, and as her audience was
not often very critical, any mistakes of which she might have been
guilty were rarely discovered.  Her chief talent was in letter-writing,
and she kept up a constant epistolary correspondence with aristocratic
friends.  No one could more elegantly turn a compliment or express
sympathy with sorrow and disappointment.  She occasionally, too, penned
a copy of verses.  If there was not much originality in the lines, the
words were well chosen, and the metre correct.  She described herself as
being a warm friend and a bitter enemy.  The latter she had undoubtedly
proved herself on more than one occasion; but the warmth of her
friendship depended rather upon the amount of advantage she was likely
to gain by its exhibition than from any sensation of the heart.  In
fact, those who knew her best had reason to doubt whether she was
possessed of that article.  In reality, its temperature was, without
variation, down at zero.  Poor Sir Harcourt, a warmhearted man, had
discovered this fact before he had been very long united to her.  She,
however, managed from the first to rule him with a rod of iron, and to
gain her own way in everything.  Most fatally had she gained it in the
management of her son, whom she had utterly ruined by her pernicious
system of education.  Sir Harcourt endeavoured to make all the excuses
for her in his power.

"She is all mind!" he used to observe.  "A delightful woman--such powers
of conversation!  We must not expect too much from people!  She has a
wonderful command of her feelings: never saw her excited in my life!  A
wonderful mind, a wonderful mind has Lady Tryon!"

Lady Tryon had, however, one passion.  It absorbed her sufficiently to
make her forget any annoyances.  She was fond of play.  She would sit up
half the night at cards, and, cool and calculating, she generally
managed to come off winner.  Of late years she had not been so
successful.  Her mind was not so strong as it was, and all her powers of
calculation had decreased.  Still she retained the passion as strong as
ever.  In London she had no difficulty in gratifying it, but during her
forced visits to the country she found few people willing to play with
her.  At first, her country neighbours were highly flattered at being
invited to her house, but they soon found that they had to pay somewhat
dear for the honour.  Still her ladyship, while winning their money, was
so agreeable, and smiled so sweetly, and spoke so softly, that like
flies round the candle, they could not resist the temptation of
frequenting her house.  For some years she managed to rule the
neighbourhood with a pretty high hand.  There was only one person who
refused to succumb to her blandishments, and of her she consequently
stood not a little in awe.  This person was an authoress, not unknown to
fame.  She had more than once detected the piracies of which Lady Tryon
had been guilty in her poetical effusions, and could not resist, when
her ladyship spoke of books, asking her in which review she had seen
such and such remarks.  Miss Bertrand was young, not pretty, certainly,
but very genuine and agreeable, and possessed of a large amount of
talent.  She drew admirably, and her prose and poetical works were
delightful.  Lady Tryon looked upon her as a rival, and hated her
accordingly.

Such was the grand-dame under whose care Harry Tryon was to be brought
up.  Dr. Jessop was not happy about the matter.  He would far rather
that the honest clerk had taken charge of the boy.  He resolved,
however, as far as he had the power, to counteract the injudicious
system he discovered that Lady Tryon was pursuing.  For this purpose he
won the little fellow's affection, and as he was a constant visitor at
the house in his official capacity, he was able to maintain his
influence.  When her ladyship went to town he induced her to allow Harry
to come and stay with him, and on these occasions he never failed to
invite Roger Kyffin down to pay him a visit.  The worthy clerk's
holidays were therefore always spent in the neighbourhood of Lynderton.
The two kindly men on these occasions did their best to pluck out the
ill weeds which had been growing up in Master Harry, while under his
grandmother's care.  It was, however, no easy task to root them out, and
to sow good seed in their stead.  Still, by their means Harry did learn
the difference between good and evil, which, if left to Lady Tryon's
instructions, he certainly would never have done.  He also became very
much attached to the old doctor and to his younger friend, and would
take advice from them, which he would receive from no one else.  He grew
up a fine, manly boy, with many right and honourable feelings; and
though his mental powers might not have been of a very high order, he
had fair talents, and physically his development was very perfect.  Lady
Tryon herself began to teach him to read, and as he showed a
considerable aptitude for acquiring instruction, and gave her no
trouble, she continued the process till he was able to read without
difficulty by himself.  She put all sorts of books into his hands, from
which his brain extracted a strange jumble of ideas.  He certainly
acquired very good manners from his grandmother, and to the surprise of
the neighbourhood, when he was ten years old there was scarcely a better
behaved boy in Lynderton.  Dr. Jessop then suggested that he should be
sent to Winchester School, or some other place of public instruction.
Lady Tryon would not hear of this, though she consented that he should
attend the grammar school at Lynderton.  For this the worthy doctor was
not sorry.

"I can look after him the better," he said to himself, "and go on with
the process of pulling up the weeds during her ladyship's absence."
Harry's holidays were generally spent in the country.  Twice, however,
his grandmother had him up to London in the winter.  On these occasions,
Mr. Kyffin got leave from her ladyship to have him to stay with him part
of the time.  Every spare moment of the day was devoted to the lad.  He
took him to all the sights of London, and in the evenings contrived for
him variety of amusement.  Harry became more and more attached to Mr.
Kyffin, and more ready to listen to his advice, and more anxious to
please him.  Thus the boy grew on, gaining mental and physical strength,
though without forming many associates of his own rank in life.  His
manners were very good, and his tastes were refined, and this prevented
him associating with the ordinary run of boys at the grammar school.

CHAPTER FOUR.

HARRY TRYON'S FIRST ADVENTURE.--LYNDERTON AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD.

Harry Tryon in his new home had the sea constantly before his eyes.
Sometimes he saw it blue and laughing, and dotted over with the white
canvas of numerous vessels glistening in the sunshine.  At other times
the stout ships were tossed by tempests, or doing battle with the
foaming waves.  Often the boy longed for the life of a sailor, to go
forth over that broad unknown ocean in search of adventure; but the old
lady would not hear of it.  It was the only wish in which she thwarted
him: she usually spoiled him, and gave him everything he asked for,
especially if he cried loud enough for it.  But he was now getting too
old to cry for what he wanted, and he must take some other means to
obtain his wishes.  Poor Harry! his nursery life had been a checkered
one; sometimes shut up by himself in a dark room, sometimes almost
starved and frightened to death; at others pampered, stuffed with rich
food, exhibited in the drawing-room as a prodigy, his vanity excited,
and allowed to do exactly as he listed.  Perhaps one style of treatment
checked the bad effects of the other.

Lynderton stood on the bank of a small river.  Harry had no difficulty
in obtaining a boat, in which he learned to row.  Lady Tryon did not
know how he was employed, or she would probably have sent for him, and
kept him driving about in her musk-smelling carriage, which Harry hated.
As he grew older he managed to get trips in fishing vessels, on board
small traders which ran between the neighbouring ports, and sometimes he
got a trip on board a revenue cruiser--the old "Rose," well known on the
coast.  There were not many yachts in those days; but two or three of
the people residing at Lynderton had small vessels, and Harry was always
a welcome guest on board them.  His love for the sea was thus partially
gratified and fostered, and he became a first-rate hand in a boat or
yacht.  Still he yearned for something else.

One day he was standing on the quay at the foot of the town, when a
stout sailor lad stopped near him, and putting out his hand exclaimed:
"Well, Master Harry!  I did not know you at first: you are grown so.
You're looking out for a sail down the river, I'll warrant?"

"You are right, Jacob," answered Harry, shaking the proffered hand.  "I
have not had a sniff of salt water for the last week.  But where have
you been all this time?"

"I have been to sea, Master Harry--to foreign lands--and if you are so
minded I will help you to take a trip there, too."

"You have not been away long enough to go to any foreign lands that I
know of, except perhaps the coast of France or to Holland," observed
Harry.

"That's just where I have been, Master Harry, and if you like to come
down along the quay I will show you the craft I went in.  She's not one
a seaman need be ashamed of, let me tell you."

Harry accompanied his friend.  Jacob Tuttle had been one of Harry's
first companions in a boat, and he indeed taught him to row.  As he was
six or eight years older than Harry, the latter looked at him with great
respect, and considered him an accomplished seaman.  He was, indeed, a
good specimen of the British sailor of those days, brave, open-hearted,
and generous, but with the smallest possible amount of judgment or
discretion.  Harry accompanied him along the bank of the river for some
distance.

"There! what do you think of her?" asked Jacob, pointing to a
wonderfully long, narrow lugger which lay alongside the wooden quay or
jetty.  "She measures 120 feet from the tip of her bowsprit to the end
of her outrigger, and she sails like the wind.  We pull forty oars, and
there is no revenue cutter can come near us, blow high or blow low."
The vessel at which Harry and his companion were looking was indeed a
beautiful craft.  She had fore and aft cuddies for sleeping berths, and
was open amid-ships "for the stowage of 2,000 kegs of spirits," Jacob
whispered in Harry's ear.  "Would you not like to take a trip in her,
Master Harry?"

Harry confessed that he should like it very much.

Lady Tryon was on the point of starting for London.  Probably the "Saucy
Sally" would not sail for two or three days.  He might make the trip and
be back again without anybody knowing anything about it.  Tuttle would
introduce Harry to the skipper.  He was a first-rate fellow, whether an
Englishman or a foreigner he could not tell, but his equal was not
easily to be found.  It was a pleasure to be with him in a gale of wind,
and to hear him issue his orders.  Captain Falwasser was his name.  The
"Saucy Sally" carried fifty hands, officers and crew, all told, and had
guns too, but they were kept stowed away below, unless wanted.

"But, Harry, come on board."

Harry could not resist the temptation.  He reflected little about the
rights of the thing, and even if he had, to say the truth, Captain
Falwasser's occupation was at that time not much condemned by public
opinion.  He soon found himself visiting every part of the "Saucy
Sally," and being introduced to her daring skipper.  Captain Falwasser
was a strongly-built man, but in other respects refined and gentlemanly
in appearance.  The expression of his lips showed wonderful
determination, and those who looked at his eye felt that they were in
the presence of a man accustomed to command his fellows.  His cheek was
pale and sunken, and there was on his features a settled expression of
melancholy.  Harry was delighted with all he saw, and longed more than
ever to take a trip on board the lugger.  Captain Falwasser, however,
did not seem inclined to indulge him in his wish.  At last he had to go
on shore, and return home.  A few days after this he saw the "Saucy
Sally" with her jovial crew, loudly cheering, while she dropped down the
river, the Custom House officers looking on.

"We'll catch them one of these days, in spite of all their cunning,"
observed one.  "They think we don't know when they are coming back.  We
will show them their mistake."

Harry kept thinking of the "Saucy Sally" and her bold skipper, and he
still entertained the hopes of some day making a trip in her.  Two or
three weeks passed away, and once more she lay in Lynderton river, with
her empty hold looking as innocent as if she had been merely out for a
few hours' pleasure trip.  There were reports of a large cargo having
been run somewhere on the Dorsetshire coast, not far from Yarmouth, but
of course the crew of the "Saucy Sally" knew nothing of the matter.  A
body of yeomanry had met a large party of waggons, surrounded by two or
three hundred men, each with pistols in their holsters, and carbines in
their hands, proceeding northward; but the soldiers considered
discretion, in this case, the better part of valour, being very sure,
had they attempted to interfere with them, they would be cut down to a
man.  It was shrewdly suspected that this cavalcade was conveying to a
place of safety the cargo landed from the "Saucy Sally."  Harry very
naturally went down to have a look at the lugger.  Jacob Tuttle told him
how sorry he had felt that he could not come the last trip.

"If you have a mind for it still, come on board the night before, and I
will stow you away.  When we are fairly at sea, you can come out, and if
the skipper is angry I will stand the blame."

Harry managed to get away from Aylestone Hall, his grandmother being
still absent, and was, unseen by any one, stowed on board the "Saucy
Sally."  It is possible that more than once, while shut up in the close
cuddy, he repented of his proposed exploit.  However, he was in for it,
as the crew, most of them half-seas over, kept coming on board.  The
next morning, if not as sober as judges, they were yet pretty well able
to handle the lugger, and with their usual exulting shouts they manned
their oars and pulled down the river.  They were soon at sea, and
getting a slant of wind, the smuggler's enormous lug-sails were hoisted,
and away she stood towards the French coast.  Jacob, according to
promise, released Harry.  The skipper's sharp eye soon singled him out,
though he kept forward among the crew.  He was summoned aft, and fully
expected a severe scolding.

"What made you come with us, my boy?" asked Captain Falwasser, in a kind
tone.  "You are too young to run the dangers we have to go through.  You
will have enough of them by-and-bye.  And so Jacob Tuttle brought you,
did he?  I will settle that business with him.  You must be under my
charge till I land you again at Lynderton."

Jacob Tuttle not only got a severe scolding, but the captain threatened
to dismiss him as soon as they got back to England.  Meantime the
appearance of the lugger was being changed.  The crew, as they drew near
the French coast, dressed as Frenchmen, and pieces of painted canvas
were hung over the sides of the vessel, so that she no longer looked
like the trim, dashing craft she really was.  The "Saucy Sally" dropped
her anchor close in with the coast, just as the shades of evening fell
over the ocean.  A boat was lowered.  Harry had been made to change his
dress like the rest.  The skipper invited him to accompany him.

"Remember you are to be dumb," said Captain Falwasser.  "If you keep
close to me no harm will come to you."

A light was shown on board the vessel, and was immediately answered by
another on shore.  Soon afterwards a number of boats were heard
approaching.  The captain exchanged a signal with one of them, and then
continued his course to the shore.  After walking some distance they
reached a town.  The captain paid several visits, and as he spoke
French, Harry could not make out what was said.  The captain seemed
greatly surprised and shocked at some disastrous news he heard.  He
transacted business with some people on whom he called, and Harry saw
him pay away the contents of a large bag of gold.  He was more silent
than ever on his walk back to the beach.  He sighed deeply.  "Unhappy
France, unhappy France!" he said to himself; "what is to become of you?"

When they got on board the lugger again, she was deeply laden with kegs
and bales of goods.  That instant her anchor was tripped, and sail being
made, she stood back towards the English coast.  Daylight soon
afterwards broke.  She made the land some time before dark, but waited
till she could not be seen from the shore before she ran in.  Sharp eyes
kept looking out for the expected signal: it was made.  She ran in till
her bows almost touched the sand.  Fully three hundred people were
waiting on the beach; with wonderful rapidity her cargo was landed, and
each cask or bale being put on the broad shoulders of a stout fellow,
was carried away instantly up the cliff.  Not a yard of silk, a bottle
of brandy, nor a pound of tobacco remained on board.  Instantly the oars
were got out, and before daylight she was once more at the mouth of
Lynderton river.

"I have only one request to make," said the captain to Harry, "that you
will promise me faithfully not to tell to any one what you have seen.
You came on board the `Saucy Sally,' were away a couple of nights, and
were once again put safely on shore at Lynderton.  That's all you may
tell, remember."

Harry gave his promise; he felt grateful to.  Captain Falwasser for the
kind treatment he had received.  Harry begged that Jacob Tuttle might be
forgiven.  The captain replied he would consider the matter; but Jacob
did not seem inclined to trust to him, and soon afterwards entered on
board a man-of-war.

This was Harry's first adventure.  He was somewhat disappointed in the
result.  It was some time before he engaged in another.

There were a good many country houses scattered about in the
neighbourhood of Lynderton; and at most of them Harry, who was growing
into a remarkably fine-looking young man, had become a great favourite.
He danced well, could talk agreeably, and was always ready to make
himself useful.  He was a welcome guest, especially at Stanmore Park,
the residence of Colonel Everard.  The Colonel was one of the
representatives of the oldest and most influential families in that part
of the country.  General Tryon had been an old friend of his, and he was
very glad when Lady Tryon acknowledged her grandson, and took him under
her protecting wing.  Had the Colonel been a more acute observer than he
was, he might not have so readily congratulated the boy on his good
fortune.  Colonel Everard had an only daughter, Lucy; and a niece,
Mabel, who resided with him.  The latter was the daughter of his
brother, Captain Digby Everard, who was constantly at sea.  When he came
on shore for a short period he took up his residence at Stanmore Park.
A maiden sister, always called Madam Everard, who superintended his
household, was the only other constant member of his family.  Stanmore
Park was a fine old place of red brick, with spreading wings.  A long
drive under an avenue of noble trees led up to the front of the house,
and looked out on a wide extent of park land.  There was a beautiful
view of the sea from the windows on the opposite side.  There was a
magnificent lawn of thick shrubberies, and lofty umbrageous trees, and
extensive lakes, across which were bits of woodland scenery, the
graceful trees of varied foliage being reflected in the calm water.
Altogether, Stanmore Park was a very delightful place.  Harry, however,
although he was very fond of going there, liked the inhabitants even
more than the place itself.  Madam Everard was a good kind woman who,
though advanced in life, had feelings almost as fresh as those of her
young nieces, who were pretty, attractive girls.  Harry thought so, and
as he saw a good deal of them, he was well able to judge.  His happiest
days were spent in their society; sometimes attending them on horseback,
sometimes fishing with them in the lake, sometimes rowing them in a boat
on the largest piece of water.  Captain Everard had had a miniature
frigate placed on the lake; and Harry was present while it was being
fitted out and rigged, so that he learnt the name of every rope and sail
belonging to her.  It was wonderful how much nautical knowledge he
gained on that occasion.

CHAPTER FIVE.

TWO YOUNG FIRE-EATERS OUT-GENERALLED.

Lynderton was about that time made a depot of a foreign legion, and
although the presence of a large body of military did not add much to
the morality of the place, there was a considerable number of talented
persons among the officers and their wives.  Instruction could now be
procured in abundance, in foreign languages, dancing, singing, in the
use of all sorts of instruments, from pianos down to flageolets, and in
drawing and painting.  Counts and barons were glad to obtain
remuneration for their talents, and many a butcher's or grocer's bill
was liquidated by the instruction afforded to the female portions of the
commercial families of the place in dancing and singing.  Colonel
Everard engaged a very charming countess to instruct his daughter and
niece in dancing, and as it was convenient to have a third person, Harry
was invited over to join the lessons.  The name of the French lady who
taught them dancing was Countess de Thaonville.  She was a very handsome
person, but there was a deep shade of melancholy on her countenance.  No
wonder.  Her history was a sad one, as was that of many of her
countrywomen and countrymen, now exiles in a foreign land.  Harry
benefited greatly by these lessons.  They contributed to civilise and
refine him.  Had, however, Madam Everard known a little more of the
world, as years rolled on, she would probably not have invited him so
often to come to the house.  In his young days he had looked on Lucy and
Mabel very much in the light of sisters, but somehow or other he began
to prefer one to the other.  Mabel was certainly his favourite.  How it
came to pass he could not tell, but he was happier in her society than
in that of her cousin, or in that of anybody else.  He was only about
two years her senior, while Lucy was several years older.  This might
have made some difference.  Occasionally the Countess brought a young
officer of the legion, Baron de Ruvigny, to the house to assist in the
music, as he played the violin well.  He was a mere youth, but very
gentlemanly and pleasing, and he became a great favourite with Madam
Everard.  Harry did not quite like his coming; he thought he seemed
rather too attentive to Mabel.  However, he was a very good fellow,
although he could not play cricket or row a boat, and as Mabel certainly
gave him no encouragement, Harry began to like him.

By the time Harry was eighteen Mabel had become a lovely and an amiable
girl.  No wonder that being much in her society he should have loved
her.  Lady Tryon, who had always indulged him, was not long in
discovering the state of his affections, and instead or attempting to
check him, she encouraged him in his wish to obtain the hand of Mabel
Everard.

Colonel Everard, like many old soldiers, was an early riser.  He
usually, in the summer, took a walk before breakfast through the
grounds.  His figure was tall and commanding.  Although considerably
more than seventy, he still walked with an upright carriage and
soldier-like air.  He carried a stick in his hand, but often placed it
under his arm, as he was wont in his youth to carry his sword.  The
front part of his head was bald, and his silvery locks were secured
behind in a queue, neatly tied with black ribbon.  His features were
remarkably fine, and age had failed to dim the brightness of his blue
eye.  His invariable morning costume was an undress military coat, which
had seen some service, while no one could look at him without seeing
that he was a man accustomed to courts as well as camps.  One morning he
was stopping to look at a flower-bed lately laid out by his daughter
Lucy, when he heard footsteps approaching him.  A turn of the walk
concealed him from the house.

"Well, Paul, what is it?" he asked, looking up.

"I have something to communicate, Colonel."

The speaker was a tall thin man, with a mark of a sword-cut on one of
his well-bronzed and weather-beaten cheeks, which had not added to his
beauty.  There was, notwithstanding this, an honest, pleasant expression
in his countenance which was sure to command confidence.  His air was
that of an old soldier; indeed, as he spoke, his hand went mechanically
up to his hat, while as he halted, he drew himself as upright as one of
the neighbouring fir-trees.  Paul Gauntlett, the Colonel's faithful
follower and body servant, had left Lynderton with him upwards of fifty
years before, and had been by his side in every battle in which he had
been engaged.

"There's mischief brewing, and if it is not put a stop to, harm will
come of it," he continued.

"What do you mean?" asked the Colonel.

"Just this, sir.  I was lying down close to the lake to draw in a night
line I set last night, when who should come by but young Master Harry
Tryon with his fishing-rod in his hand, and his basket by his side.  I
was just going to get up and speak to him, for he did not see me, when I
saw another person, who was no other than that young foreigner, the
Baron de Ruvigny, as he calls himself.  Master Harry asked him what he
was doing, and he said that it was no business of his, as far as I could
make out.  Then Master Harry got very angry, and told him that he should
not come to the park at all, and the other said that he was insulted.
Then Master Harry asked him what business he had to write letters to
young ladies, and the end of it was that they agreed to go into the town
and get swords or pistols and settle the matter that way.  If they fix
on pistols it may be all very well; but if they fight with swords,
Master Harry's no hand with one, and the young Frenchman will pink him
directly they cross blades."

"I am glad you told me of this," observed the Colonel.  "It must be put
a stop to, or the hot-headed lads will be doing each other a mischief.
Who could the Frenchman have been writing to?  Not my daughter or niece
I hope.  It will not do to have their names mixed up in a brawl."

"I think we could manage it at once, sir; they have not yet left the
grounds.  They spoke as if they did not intend to fight till the
evening, as each of them would have to look out for his seconds.  When
they parted, Master Harry walked on along the side of the lake and began
to fish, looking as cool as a cucumber, while the young Frenchman went
back into the summer-house, where he had been sitting when Master Harry
found him, and went on writing away on a sheet of paper, he had spread
on his hat.  Now, sir, if you go down the walk you are pretty sure to
find him there still, and I have no doubt that I shall be able to fall
in with Master Harry, and I can tell him you want to see him at
breakfast, and that he must come, and make no excuse."

Great was Harry's surprise to find the young Frenchman in the
breakfast-room, where the Colonel and the rest of the party were already
assembled.  He was, as usual, cordially welcomed, and the butler shortly
afterwards announced that the fish he had caught would be speedily
ready.

"We are very glad you have come, Harry," said Madam Everard, "you can
help us in arranging an important matter.  The Colonel has just heard
that his Majesty intends honouring us with a visit in the course of a
day or two.  The King sends word that he shall ride over from Lyndhurst,
and that we are to make no preparations for his reception; but he is
always pleased when there is some little surprise and above all things
he likes to see his subjects making themselves happy."

"The Baron de Ruvigny says he is certain that Colonel Lejoille will lend
the band of the regiment, and we must have the militia and volunteer
bands.  Will it not be delightful?" exclaimed Mabel.

"We must have two large tents put up on one side of the lawn, so as not
to shut out the view from the windows."

"There must be one for dancing," said Lucy, who was especially fond of
dancing.  "There will be no want of partners, as there used to be before
the foreign officers came here.  How very kind of the King to say he
will come."

"Do you think that Cochut will have time to prepare a breakfast?" asked
the Colonel, looking at his sister.  "We must send for him at once to
receive his orders.  Baron, we must leave the bands of the regiments to
you.  Harry, you must arrange with Mr. Savage, the sail-maker, for the
tents."

"Now, recollect you two young men are to devote all your time and
energies to these objects," said Madam Everard, looking at them with a
meaning glance.

"I must see you both in my study before you leave," said the Colonel,
"and now, lads, go to breakfast."

The two young men looked at each other, and possibly suspected that the
Colonel might, by some wonderful means, have heard of their quarrel.

CHAPTER SIX.

ROYAL VISITORS.--THE KING AND THE MACE-BEARER.--THE FOES RECONCILED.

The news of the good King's intended visit to Stanmore Park was soon
spread abroad.  The mayor and burgesses of Lynderton resolved that they
would request his Majesty to honour their borough by stopping on his way
at their town-hall.  The whole place was speedily in a state of the most
intense commotion.  While the Colonel and his womankind were making all
the necessary preparations at the park, the lieges of Lynderton were
engaged in the erection of triumphal arches, with a collection of
banners of all sorts of devices, painting signboards and shop-fronts,
and the polishing up of military accoutrements.

Lynderton was got into order for the reception of royalty even before
Stanmore Park had been prepared.  One chief reason was that there were
many more hands in the town to undertake the work, and another was,
there was less work to be done.  The great difficulty was to have the
band playing at both places at once.

Colonel Everard had already engaged them, and they could not on any
account disappoint him.  Still for the honour of Lynderton it was
necessary that a musical welcome should be wafted to the King as he
entered the precincts of the borough.  At last it was arranged that a
part of the foreign band should remain in the town to welcome the King,
and then set off at a double-quick march to Stanmore, to be in readiness
to receive him there.

The eventful morning at length arrived.  It broke, however, with a
threatening aspect.  There were clouds in the sky, which looked more
inclined to gather than disperse.  Jacob Tuttle, who met Harry on his
way to Stanmore, where he was to finish getting the tents in order, told
him that it would be a rainy day.  Madam Everard was in a state of
greater anxiety than any one else; indeed, she had many things to
trouble her.  She was not sure that Monsieur Cochut would have performed
his work to her satisfaction.  Then there were so many mouths to feed,
besides the King and his attendants, that she was afraid there might not
be sufficient provisions for them.  The tents were already erected.
Harry had performed his part in a most satisfactory manner.  She had no
doubt the Baron de Ruvigny would arrange the band.

Not only was the King expected, but good Queen Charlotte and one or two
of the princesses had expressed their intention of driving over to
Stanmore.  A few select guests had been invited to meet them.  Among
others was Lady Tryon.  There were also General Perkins and his wife,
and the well-known couple, Sir James and Lady Wallace.  The General and
the Admiral were old friends, and older enemies, for they had met as
lads, when one was lieutenant of marines, and the other a midshipman,
and had actually fought a duel, at a time when that foolish and wicked
custom was in vogue even among youths.

[The writer thinks it well at this point to state that the Royal visit
actually took place as described; also that the main facts and
characters in the story are taken from an unpublished diary of the time,
in possession of a member of the family.]

The great mass of the neighbourhood were invited to the grounds.  All
the arrangements were reported complete; but Madam Everard kept looking
up anxiously at the sky, which threatened every instant to send down its
waters upon the earth.  The clouds gathered closer and closer, and some
time before the hour at which the royal family were expected to arrive
the rain began to descend.  It was melancholy to look at the tents
growing darker and darker as the water poured down on them, and to see
the flags which should have been blowing out joyfully drooping on the
flagposts.  The rain pattered against the window panes, and the air blew
in with a damp feel, which gave promise of a drenching day.  Madam
Everard became very unhappy; even the young ladies lost their spirits.
The Colonel was the only person who seemed unconcerned.

"I have done my best," he observed, "and there is no man more ready to
make allowance than the King, God bless him."  The Colonel had been page
to George the Second, and had been attached to the court of the present
King, and knew him well, and, moreover, his many trials and
difficulties.  "`Uneasy is the head that wears a crown.'  Our good King
finds it so, and few of his subjects have greater domestic as well as
public trials to go through."

Harry Tryon had been very busy and highly flattered by the confidence
which the Colonel and Madam Everard had placed in him.  Whether or not
he still contemplated fighting the Baron de Ruvigny cannot now be said.

Seeing Madam Everard's anxiety, he offered in spite of the rain to mount
a horse and gallop off to ascertain whether the royal party were coming
or not.  His offer was accepted, and he was soon galloping away through
the street of Lynderton on the high road to Lyndhurst, by which it was
expected the King would come.  He met on his way an open carriage and
four horses, full, as it seemed to him, of old women wrapped up in red
cloaks and hoods, such as were worn by the peasantry.  He had got to the
turnpike kept by an old woman, Mammy Pocock by name, when he inquired
whether the royal family had come by.

"Why, bless you, yes; that be they," said the old woman, pointing along
the road.  "They stayed in here ever so long, but at last they thought
Madam Everard would be waiting for them, and so they borrowed my cloak,
and they sent out, and borrowed as many cloaks and shawls as could be
found in all the cottages near.  It was curious to see the Queen and
princesses laughing as they put them on."

Harry was going to hurry back with the news, when he saw a party of four
or five horsemen coming along the road.  By this time the rain had
somewhat ceased.  He drew up on one side to see who the strangers were.
He had little difficulty in recognising in the old gentleman who rode
first with his coat buttoned up, but without any great coat, the King of
England.  Sir George Rose and two or three other gentlemen accompanied
his Majesty.  One of them, apparently, was urging him to stop at the
tollgate, and dry his clothes.

"A little wet won't hurt a man! a little wet won't hurt a man!" answered
the King.  "The sun will soon come out, and answer the purpose better
than a fire."

As Harry knew that the Queen would arrive at Stanmore before he could
get there, and that the King would be delayed for some time at Lynderton
he followed the cavalcade at a respectful distance.

As they reached the entrance of the town the rain altogether ceased, and
the sun shone forth, and shouts of welcome rent the air, and the band
played a joyous tune, and the Mayor and the whole corporation in state
came forth to welcome his Majesty, and to accompany him to the entrance
of the town-hall.  He there was ushered up, and led to a seat at the
farther end, where he graciously received an address from the mayor,
who, with the members of the corporation, were formally introduced.

Conspicuous at the other end of the room was a gaunt personage in
scarlet robes trimmed with yellow fringe, bearing in his hand an
enormous gilt club, so it looked.

"Who is that?" asked the King, eyeing the figure with a comical
expression.

"That's our mace-bearer, your Majesty, Jedidiah Pike."

Jedidiah Pike, hearing his name announced, supposed that he was
summoned, and advanced up the room.  Overcome, however, by his feelings,
and awe at finding himself in the presence of majesty, down he went on
his knees, mace and all, and prostrated himself at the King's feet,
while, looking up with an expression of the most intense reverence, he
endeavoured to kiss the hand of majesty.

"Get up, man! get up!" exclaimed the King, scarcely refraining his
laughter, "I am not the Grand Seignior nor a three-tailed Basha.  Get
up, get up, man, and you shall kiss my hand, if it pleases you."  The
King could restrain his laughter no longer, and gave way to a hearty
cachination, in which his attendants, and even the mayor and corporation
of Lynderton, heartily joined, greatly to the confusion of poor Pike,
who retreated backwards, very nearly tumbling over his own gown as he
endeavoured to escape from the royal presence.  During the remainder of
the ceremony, the King every two minutes gave way to another hearty
laugh, and as he descended the stairs to mount his horse, he looked
round, and again inquired for his friend Pike.

The King rode on as before, attended by the few gentlemen who had come
with him from Lyndhurst, the populace following at a respectful
distance.  While he rode on, either side was lined with eager
spectators, who gave forth with cheerful voices reiterated welcomes.
The king nodded kindly, thanking the people now and then in words as he
rode on.

Harry galloped on by a path he knew across the country, and the Colonel
was in readiness to receive his royal guest on his arrival.

Meantime, the guests who had been invited to the _fete_ on the lawn
arrived from all quarters, while the breakfast-room which overlooked it
had been prepared for the royal family.  They dined alone--the Colonel
and the ladies of his family, aided by Lady Tryon, attending on them.
Lady Tryon was delighted at being invited by the Queen to attend on her.
She made herself especially agreeable, and took the opportunity of
introducing her grandson to their Majesties.

Harry behaved remarkably well under circumstances so novel to him, and
Mabel, at all events, thought that she had never seen him looking so
handsome.

"He would make a charming page," Lady Tryon whispered in her ear; "I
must try and get their Majesties to take him."

Meantime the sky had cleared, the sun shone forth brightly.  The guests
were soon seen in their gayest costumes crossing the lawn to the tents,
the band struck up and played the most joyous tunes, and the King came
to the window and clapped his hands with delight.

It was pleasant to see their Majesties mixing among the crowd, and
talking familiarly to many of the guests.  Several the King recognised;
among others, Sir James Wallace, and his friend, General Perkins.
Upwards of an hour was thus passed, when one of the gentlemen-in-waiting
suggested to his Majesty that unless they soon commenced their homeward
ride it would be dark before they could reach Lyndhurst.  The Queen and
princesses had already retired, as they purposed returning by the road
they came.

"We must restore her cloak to Dame Pocock," observed the Queen, "and
other friends who were kind enough to lend them to us."

The King, however, purposed riding across the forest by a shorter cut,
and through much beautiful woodland scenery.  Harry held the King's
horse, while Colonel Everard assisted him to mount.

"Ah!" said his Majesty, shaking the Colonel by the hand, "I am a happy
King to be able thus to ride through a forest with only three or four
unarmed attendants.  Is there another sovereign in Europe that could do
the same?  I wot not, Colonel."

"Perhaps this young gentleman would like to accompany us," said one of
the gentlemen-in-waiting, turning to the Colonel.  "I know my way across
the forest, but he probably is better acquainted with the paths on this
side of it, and may somewhat shorten our ride.  I am anxious to get the
King home again lest his Majesty should have suffered by remaining so
long in his damp clothes."

Harry was soon on horseback and galloping along to overtake the royal
party.  Every path and glade in that part of the forest was well known
to him, and he was thus able to conduct the King, not only by shorter
paths, but to show him some especial bits of woodland scenery.  The King
was much pleased, and complimented Harry on his taste.  Whole troops of
deer were seen coming in from all directions towards a keeper's lodge,
where they were accustomed to assemble every evening to be fed.

"A pity to shoot such beautiful creatures," said the King; "this forest
should be their own.  If I had to frame new forest laws I should
certainly let the deer benefit by them.  What say you, young gentleman?"

Harry had to confess he had no objection to ride after a stag with a
pack of hounds, nor indeed to exercise his skill as a marksman on a fat
buck.

The King laughed.

"We must not be too much guided by our feelings," he observed.

The King conversed constantly with Harry during the ride, and told him
that he hoped to see him again.  The young man bowed low as they reached
Lyndhurst, and it is not surprising that his spirits should have been
somewhat elated at the honour which had been done him.  He turned his
horse, and galloped quickly over the soft turf back again towards
Stanmore, eager to report the safe arrival of the King, and, it is
possible, to enjoy another dance with Mabel.  She was not less well
pleased than he was with the honour the King had done him, and it is not
surprising that the young people should have thereon built up a somewhat
lofty castle in the air, vapoury and changeable, as such castles
invariably are.  Lady Tryon was still more pleased.  Her grandson had
achieved a success.  She saw him in imagination basking in the smiles of
royalty, and obtaining the advantages which such smiles occasionally
bring.  Not always, though, as they are apt to raise up "envy, hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness," in the hearts of rivals.

Dancing was still going on when Harry got back.  On such occasions the
officers of the foreign legion considerably eclipsed the less
nimble-footed Englishmen, and were proportionally favourites.  They
were, therefore, far more popular with the ladies than with the male
part of the community.

Harry had not forgotten his quarrel with the Baron de Ruvigny, and was
somewhat surprised that the young lieutenant looked at him in so
unconcerned a manner.  He was not revengeful by disposition, but he
fancied that he was in honour bound to settle the matter.

"The sooner the better," he thought to himself.  "I will look out for
him on his way to Lynderton, and see what he has to say for himself."

In the meantime he danced with Lucy and Mabel, and two or three other
young ladies, for although it had been the custom for a gentleman to
confine himself to the same partner during the whole of the evening, the
foreign officers had managed to break through it, and thus to divide
their attentions more generally among the fair sex.  At length the
_fete_ came to an end.  Everybody declared it was delightful.  Harry saw
Lady Tryon into her carriage, and saying that he would walk home, went
back to pay his adieus to the ladies.  Mabel looked more beautiful than
ever, and gave him a smile which made him feel very happy.

"By-the-bye," said the Colonel, drawing him aside, "if you ever have an
`affair of honour,' you must promise to ask me to be your second.
Remember I am an old soldier, and you could not have a better man.  I
must exact this promise."

Harry felt very foolish.  He did not know how he looked.  He could not
help suspecting that the Colonel knew his secret; yet "how could he have
known it?"  The Colonel, however, would not let him go till he had
passed his word.

"Perhaps I may have to call upon you sooner than you expect, sir," he
said; "really, these foreigners try one's temper."

"Perhaps you don't understand the foreigners, Harry," he said, in a
good-natured tone.  "However, good-night;" and the old officer returned
chuckling into the drawing-room.

Harry hurried on.  He had seen the Baron de Ruvigny leave the house but
a short time before, and he expected soon to catch him up.  He was not
disappointed.  The moon shone brightly.  He knew the baron's figure, and
saw him a little way ahead in company with several other officers.

Harry soon overtook them, and walking up to the side of the young baron,
touched him on the shoulder.

"We had a little affair to settle the other day, baron," said Harry.

The young baron hesitated.

"I was labouring under a mistake.  I confess it," he answered.  "Colonel
Everard has spoken to me, and has made me promise not to carry the
matter further.  I did not consider that you had a right to interfere,
and I was, therefore, angry.  I tender you my apology."

Harry hesitated a moment.  Was it generosity or cowardice which made the
young baron act in this way?  "It is the first, I am sure," thought
Harry.  "I accept your apology gladly," he answered.

The young men shook hands and walked on side by side, both probably
feeling much happier than they did before.  They might, to be sure, have
caused some sensation in the place had they fought; but even had one of
them been killed, the event would probably have been no more than a
"nine days' wonder," and even his most intimate acquaintance would soon
have ceased to mourn.  The two after this became fast friends.

The baron especially had many interesting adventures to relate,
especially those he had undergone in escaping from France--"La belle
France!" as he still called his native country.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A FAREWELL VISIT.--SAD END OF A FESTIVE SCENE.

Mabel Everard and Harry Tryon stood together under the shade of the
wide-spreading trees which extended their boughs over the edge of the
large lake in Stanmore Park watching a couple of graceful swans which
glided noiselessly by across the mirror-like surface of the water.

"I have come to wish you good-bye, Mabel," said Harry, and his voice
trembled slightly.  "Lady Tryon insists on my accompanying her to
London, and I cannot refuse to obey her.  It is time, and she says truly
that I should choose a profession; but which can I choose?  I should
have preferred going to sea some years ago, but I am getting too old for
that, and though I have no objection to the army, yet it would take me
away for years, perhaps for long years, Mabel, and that I could not
stand."


He looked affectionately into her face as he spoke.

"I should not wish you to go, Harry," she answered in a low voice, "and
yet I know that it is right and manly to have a profession.  I should
not like you to be in any better, yet it is so full of dangers that I
should be very miserable."

"No, I see, I must live in the country and turn farmer," said Harry, as
if a bright idea had struck him.  "I have always been told that Lady
Tryon is sure to leave me all her property, and that must be sufficient
for all my wishes.  However, when I go to London I will try and learn
what profession is likely to suit me.  I certainly don't wish to be
idle; and the thought of winning you, and making a home fit for your
reception, will stimulate me to exertion."

"I shall be glad if it does."

A boat was moored near where they stood.  Harry proposed to row Mabel
round the lake.  They looked very interesting as they two sat in the
boat, Harry rowing, and Mabel smiling and talking cheerfully,
occasionally catching at a water-lily.

They talked of Lucy.  The theme was a sad one.  Since the day of the
_fete_ she had never been well.  There was a colour in her cheek and a
brightness in her eye, which alarmed her aunt.  She communicated her
fears to Mabel.

"But dear Lucy does not consider that she is in any danger, or she would
not urge my uncle to have the ball next week."

"Perhaps your aunt is unduly alarmed," said Harry, "Lucy seems in such
spirits that I cannot suppose there is any danger.  I was in a great
fright at first, thinking that Lady Tryon would insist on going to
London before the ball, but I am thankful to say she consents to stay
till it is over.  There is only one thing I don't like in these balls.
I say, Mabel, you must not let those French officers flirt too much with
you.  They are marquises and barons, to be sure; but after all, except
their pay, they have nothing to bless themselves with.  Somehow or
other, I never can like a foreigner as much as an Englishman."

"That is rather hard upon papa," said Mabel, looking up.  "You know his
mother was a foreigner.  Did you not know that she was French?
Grandpapa married, when he was a very young man, just as he was a
lieutenant, a French lady.  She, too, was very young and very pretty."

"That I am sure she must have been," said Harry, looking up at Mabel.

"The story is a very sad one.  Poor mamma died, I believe, when I was
born, and grandpapa had just time to carry away his boy to England, and
to place me with Aunt Ann, when he was obliged to go to sea.  The little
I know of the early history of our family I have learnt from Aunt Ann."

They were nearing the shore when they heard a voice hailing them from
the spot from which they set out.  They soon reached a landing-place.  A
fine officer-like looking man was standing near it.  Mabel sprang out
and threw herself into his arms.

"Oh! papa, you have come back without giving us warning.  Oh! dear, dear
papa, how happy you have made me!"

Captain Digby Everard returned his daughter's embrace.  He looked
inquiringly at Harry, whom he did not recognise.

"This is Harry Tryon," she said.  "You remember him as a boy; but he has
grown a good deal since then."  The Captain smiled.

"I am very happy to renew my acquaintance with him," he said, holding
out his hand, "and I am glad to see so accomplished an oarsman: it is a
pity that he has not been bred to the sea.  However, perhaps it is not
too late.  Lord Cochrane did not go afloat till he was as old as Harry
is, and he has already made a name for himself."

The Captain and his daughter walked on towards the house, she leaning on
his arm, and looking up, ever and anon, into his face as he spoke
affectionately to her.

Harry, thinking that the Captain might consider him intrusive, made his
adieus to Mabel and her father.

"Aunt Ann will want you to help her in preparing for the entertainment,"
said Mabel, as she shook hands with him.

"And I should be happy to become better acquainted with you," added the
Captain, warmly shaking him by the hand.

Harry was becoming very popular in the neighbourhood: a good-looking
young man, with apparently ample means, is certain to be so, if he is
tolerably well behaved in other respects.  People do not pry too closely
into the character of youths of good fortune.  Harry, however, was
unexceptionable.  The banker and some of the tradesmen of Lynderton
might have had their suspicions that Lady Tryon would not "cut up" as
well as was expected; but as they had had no quarrel with her grandson,
they did not allow this idea to go forth to his detriment.  Harry,
therefore, dined as frequently out as at home.  Indeed, the attractions
of Ayleston Hall were not very great, to his taste.

One day, however, she insisted upon his remaining and taking a
_tete-a-tete_ dinner with her.  Her eyes were weak, and she wanted him
to read to her afterwards a new tale by Miss Burney.  To that he had no
objection.  It was very romantic, and suited his humour.

"Well, Harry, you must make your fortune some day by a wife," said the
worldly old lady, "and really if you succeed with that pretty girl,
Mabel Everard, you will do well.  Under some circumstances I might not
have encouraged it; but as it is, I have an idea: you know Lucy's mother
died of consumption, and if Lucy dies the Captain becomes his uncle's
heir."

"But my mother died of consumption," answered Harry, who hated the
thought of being mercenary; "I hope Lucy may live, and that I may have
the means of making a fortune to support a wife whenever I marry."

"Silly boy, fortunes are not so easily made," said the old lady, in a
voice which sounded somewhat harsh to Harry's ear.  "If you don't marry
a fortune, there will probably be poverty and beggary in store for you.
They are the most dreadful things in my opinion in this life.  Be a wise
lad, Harry, and try and win Mabel.  You don't mean to say, boy, that you
have no wish to marry her?"

Harry hesitated to acknowledge his love to his grandmother.  The old
lady's manner did not encourage confidence.  Instinctively he mistrusted
her.  The old lady eyed him narrowly.

"Take my advice, and be attentive to the girl.  If you follow it I shall
be well pleased; if not, I shall act accordingly.  Or perhaps when you
go to London you would like to be introduced to your cousins, the
Coppinger girls.  There are a good many of them, I believe, but I have
kept up no intercourse for some years past with my worthy brother
Stephen.  Indeed, he and I have different notions on most subjects.
However, if there is anything to be gained, I should have no objection
to call on my nieces.  He is very rich, I am told, and will probably
divide his fortune between them.  Still, though our family is a good
one, as he has always lived in the city, a daughter of his cannot bring
you the county influence and credit which you would derive from such a
girl as Mabel Everard."

Harry seldom acted the hypocrite.  He did so, however, on this occasion.
He should be very happy to become acquainted with his fair cousins, and
he did not for a moment deny the attractions of Mabel Everard, or the
advantages which might accrue, should he be fortunate enough to win her
hand.

The old lady, with all her acuteness, did not quite understand her
grandson.  On this occasion, however, she read his mind better than
usual.  Had he been perfectly frank she might have doubted him, but now
that he attempted to compete with her in hypocrisy, she read him through
and through.

"Why the lad thinks of marrying that little girl," she thought to
herself, "and unless her father should marry again, she will be one of
the chief heiresses of the county, should her cousin die."

The intended ball was to be the largest which had yet taken place at
Stanmore, and Lucy especially wished for it.  It was her birthday, and
the Colonel could deny her nothing.  Besides, Captain Everard had come
home, and it would help to do him honour.  Not only was all the
neighbourhood asked, but people from all parts of the county.  The house
was to be full.  As it was originally a hunting lodge, the outbuildings
were very extensive, and could hold all the carriages and horses of the
numerous guests.  People do not mind packing tolerably close on such
occasions.  There was a long range of rooms in one of the wings for
bachelors, and another similar range where a vast number of young ladies
could be put up, with their attendant waiting-maidens.  The new
dining-hall, in which the dancing was to take place, was very extensive.
It was to be ornamented with wreaths of flowers, and numerous bracket
lights on the walls.  The chandeliers were looked upon as wonderful
specimens of art, though greatly surpassed by those of later years.  A
considerable number of guests who came from a distance arrived the day
before.  Lucy and Mabel had exerted themselves, especially in preparing
the wreaths, and running about the house all the day assisting their
aunt.  Harry, of course, had been summoned over to help, and so had the
Baron de Ruvigny.

Harry had got over his jealousy of the young Frenchman, with regard to
Mabel.  He saw, indeed, that the Baron's attentions were devoted
exclusively to Lucy.  He was certainly in love with her; of that there
appeared no doubt.

The Colonel invited Harry to stop to dinner.  It was more hurried than
usual, because Lucy insisted that they should have dancing after it, to
practise for the next day.  Those were primitive days.  Lynderton
boasted of but one public conveyance, denominated the Fly, though it
seldom moved out of a snail's pace, except when the driver was somewhat
tipsy, and hurrying back to obtain a second fare.  Harry had been sent
round a short time before dinner to invite several maiden ladies, with
one or two other dames who were not able to attend the ball the
following day, while three or four of the foreign officers had received
an intimation that they would be welcome.

Dinner over, and the tables cleared away, the gay young party began
tripping it merrily to the music of harpsichord, violin, and flageolet,
played by the foreign officers.  Lucy appeared in excellent health and
spirits, in spite of the fatigue she had gone through in the morning.
No one danced more eagerly or lightly after the first country dance.
She and the young Baron stood up to perform their proposed minuet: every
one remarked how lovely she looked, and how gracefully she moved.
People forgot to watch the slides and bows of the young Frenchman; at
least, some of the guests did, though he was rewarded for his exertions
by the evident admiration of several of the young ladies.

"That young Tryon, who is dancing with Mabel Everard, considering he is
an Englishman, acquits himself very well indeed," observed the Dowager
Countess of Polehampton, eyeing the young couple through her glass.  "If
any creature could make a man dance, Mabel Everard would do so.  Do you
admire her or her cousin most?"

"Really, your ladyship, they are both fine girls; it is difficult to
decide between them," answered Sir John Frodsham, an old beau who
faithfully danced attendance on the Countess.  "If I were a young man I
might be called upon to decide the question, and then I should certainly
have voted in favour of the heiress; but now Lady Frodsham puts that out
of my power."

"Oh, fie!  Sir John, you men are all the same, money carries off the
palm with young and old alike."

Harry meantime was enjoying his dance with Mabel, caring very little
what the Countess of Polehampton or Sir John Frodsham might say of him.

During that evening more than one could not help remarking the rich
colour and the sparkling eyes of the heiress of Stanmore.  Never had she
looked so lovely; indeed, generally she carried off the palm from her
cousin.  The dance continued, the amateur musicians exerting themselves
to the utmost; and everybody declared that if the present impromptu
little party went off so well, that of the next day must be a great
success.  The Colonel was seated at the end of the room, paying
attention to his more elderly guests, and occasionally saying a pleasant
word or two to the young ones.  Madam Everard kept moving about and
acting the part of an attentive hostess.  Frequently her nieces assisted
her, when not actually engaged in dancing.  There was a question to be
decided as to what dance should next take place.

"Where is Lucy?" exclaimed Madam Everard, looking round.  Lucy had left
the room; some minutes passed, and she did not return.  Madam Everard
became anxious.  Mabel was again dancing, or she would have sent her to
look for her cousin.  Madam Everard hastened from the ball-room; she
went up-stairs, and met a servant by the way.

"Miss Everard went up into her room some time ago."

Madam Everard hastened forward, telling the maid to follow.

The door was slightly open.  There was no sound in the room--a lamp
burned on the table; Madam Everard's heart sank with dread.  She looked
round.  Stretched on the floor lay her beloved niece in her gay ball
dress, her countenance like marble, and blood flowing from her lips!

"She breathes, she breathes!" she said; and she and the maid lifted her
on to the bed.

She had broken a blood-vessel.  Madam Everard knew that at a glance:
Lucy's mother had done the same.

"Dr. Jessop must be sent for immediately;" but Madam Everard did not
wish to give the alarm to the rest of the guests.  She would let the
visitors depart, and allow those who were to remain in the house to go
to their rooms before the sad intelligence was conveyed to them.  She
did all that could be done, and applied such restoratives as she
believed would be effectual.

Immediately Paul Gauntlett threw himself on horseback, and galloped off
to fetch Dr. Jessop.  He would not even stop to put a saddle on the
horse's back, and would have gone off with the halter.

Meantime Lucy returned to consciousness, and declared that she did not
feel ill, only somewhat tired, and would like to go to sleep.  The
guests shortly began to take their departure.  The maid-servants of the
maiden ladies came with their pattens and hoods, and big cloaks, some
with huge umbrellas in addition.  There were footmen and footboys also,
with many-coloured liveries, carrying huge stable lanterns to light
their mistresses.  They were generally employed in the service of the
dowagers.  The Fly was in requisition, but only for a select few.

As the guests came down-stairs, the foreign officers stood in the hall,
occasionally making themselves useful, by assisting to put on the
ladies' hoods, cloaks, or shawls.

The young Baron de Ruvigny alone lingered.  He had seen Lucy leave the
room, and he became anxious, finding that she did not return.  He asked
the Colonel where she was.  Just then a maid-servant came down with a
message from Madam Everard, requesting Colonel Everard to come to his
daughter's room.

"What is the matter?" asked the young Baron of the servant, as the
Colonel hurried off.

"Our mistress is very ill, very ill indeed, and I fear there's no hope
of her recovery," answered the girl.

The young Baron entreated that he might be allowed to remain till the
doctor had seen her.

Paul had found Dr. Jessop at home.  He accompanied him back at full
speed.  He looked very grave after he had seen Miss Lucy.

"I should like my friend Dr. Musgrave to see her.  If the skill of any
man can avail, I am sure that his will, but it would take two days to
get him down here, and this is a case demanding immediate remedies."

Paul Gauntlett had come in with the doctor, and was waiting outside Miss
Lucy's room to hear his opinion.

"I will do it, sir!" he exclaimed, "if you will tell me where Dr.
Musgrave is to be found; I will be off and bring him down as soon as
possible."

"Stay, friend," said Dr. Jessop; "while you are taking some refreshment
and getting your horse ready, I will write out a state of the case, and
if Dr. Musgrave cannot come he will send by you such remedies as he may
consider efficacious."

Paul scarcely liked the delay.  He would have started on the back of the
first horse he could lead out of the stable without thinking of food for
himself.  Within ten minutes he was galloping along through the forest.
He could get to Redbridge, and Southampton, and so on to Winchester
before daybreak.  He could there get a fresh horse.  He would distance
any post-chaise; he was sure of that.  He had left orders to have a
fresh horse brought on for him to Southampton.  He resolved not to waste
a moment till he had brought the remedy for his dear Miss Lucy.  His
horse carried him nobly; he seemed to be aware that it was a matter of
life and death.  Paul had been with his master in London on several
occasions.  He knew the road, and being an old campaigner, without
difficulty found his way to the doctor's house.  The doctor was out
visiting patients.  Paul fretted and fumed more than he had ever done in
his life before.  The servant was disposed to shut the door in his face,
and send him to an inn.

"That will not do, master," said Paul; "I must wait here till the doctor
comes back, and you must put up my horse, and rub him down, and feed him
well.  It's a matter of life and death;" and Paul expatiated on the
youth and beauty and gentle disposition of his young mistress, till the
tears rolled down his cheek, and he almost made the doctor's somewhat
morose butler weep with him.

"Oh, sir, sir, can you save her?" he exclaimed, handing Dr. Jessop's
note to Dr. Musgrave, when he came back.  "It's impossible that so young
and sweet a creature as Miss Lucy should be allowed to die.  It cannot
be, sir; it cannot be; it would break the Colonel's heart, and mine,
too."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE YOUNG HEIRESS.--HARRY COMES OUT IN LONDON NOT UNDER THE BEST OF
AUSPICES.

Mr. Musgrave threw himself into his arm-chair, and crossing his legs,
with a frown of thought on his brow, looked over Dr. Jessop's notes.  "I
will go down to-morrow," he said, turning to Paul, who stood before him
eagerly watching his countenance, as if he could there read the probable
fate of his beloved young mistress.  "I cannot possibly go to-day; I may
be of some use, but it is doubtful.  However, I will send a medicine
which may be efficacious, and suggest to Dr. Jessop how he may treat the
young lady."

"Oh! sir, cannot you come, cannot you save her?" exclaimed Paul, not
understanding what the doctor had said, but only making out that he was
unable to accompany him back.

"Yes, yes, my friend," answered the doctor, touched by the old soldier's
earnestness, "To-morrow I'll start.  I must go in a post-chaise, I
cannot ride express as you do.  Now go down, and my man Mumford will
attend to your wants while your horse is fed.  In the meantime, I will
look out the medicines, and write a letter to my good friend Dr. Jessop.
Will that satisfy you?  Now do go, my good man, do go."

Paul could with difficulty get down any food, but at the same time his
experience told him that when work was to be done the body must be fed.

He thought the doctor was a long time in concocting the medicine, but
hoped that it would be more efficacious in consequence.

When once mounted, with the medicine in a case slung at his back, he did
not spare his speed.  His only fear was falling.  A horse had been sent
on to Winchester to meet him.  He exchanged it for his tired steed.
Winchester was soon passed through and Southampton reached.  Shortly
after leaving the latter place, he encountered Harry Tryon, with a led
horse, coming to meet him.  He mounted it gladly, for his own was
already tired, and together they galloped back through the forest.

Harry was afraid that Miss Lucy was worse.  At all events, they were
anxiously looking out for the doctor or his remedies.  The Colonel met
them at the hall-door steps.  His face was very grave and anxious.  He
was disappointed at not seeing the doctor, but eagerly took the case of
medicines.

"Paul, you saved my life once, and by God's providence you may be the
means of paving my daughter's.  His will be done, whatever happens."

Dr. Jessop was in attendance.  The remedies sent by the London doctor
were administered, but Lucy was very weak.  Harry asked Dr. Jessop what
he thought.

"My boy, doctors at all times must not express their thoughts," he
answered, evasively.  "Miss Everard is young, and youth is a great thing
in a patient's favour.  Remember that, and make a good use of yours
while you enjoy it."

The guests with sad hearts took their departure.  The long-expected ball
was not to be.  Messages were sent round to the residents in the
neighbourhood, informing them that the ball was put off, but in the
evening several who had not heard of what had occurred arrived at the
door.  The Colonel went down to speak to them himself.  It was with
difficulty he could command his voice, for he saw, with the eye of
affection, that his beloved daughter was struck by the hand of death.
Among others, a party of foreign officers arrived from a neighbouring
town.  Captain Everard begged his uncle that he might be allowed to go
and speak to them.  Refreshments had been placed for those who might
come from a distance, and they were accordingly invited in.  They were
gentlemanly men, and Captain Everard received them as a man of the
world.  Having mentioned the serious illness of Miss Everard, he at once
turned the conversation to other subjects.  Among the guests, he saw one
whose face was familiar; he looked at him again and again, and was
trying to consider where he had seen him.  The officer at length became
aware that Captain Everard's eyes were fixed on him.

"Surely we have met before," said the latter.  "Was it not at Toulon?"
A deep melancholy came over the foreigner's countenance.

"It may be, for I was there once," he answered; "would that I had died
there, too; but my life was saved by a brave English officer, who, at
the risk of his own, carried me away amid showers of musketry poured
down upon us by my countrymen, and amidst exploding ships, and masses of
burning ruin which showered down upon our heads.  Tell me, sir, are you
that officer? for as you know well, my mind was unhinged by the dreadful
events of that night, and though I have a dim recollection of his
features, if you are he, you will recollect that I had scarcely
recovered when he was compelled to send me to the hospital."

"Yes, indeed," cried Captain Everard, "I had the satisfaction of saving
the life of a French officer in the way you describe.  Captain Rochard,
I understood, was his name, and although he remained several weeks in my
cabin, all that time he was scarcely conscious of what was taking place
around him."

"Yes, yes, I am the very man," exclaimed the foreign officer, rising
from his seat, and taking Captain Everard's hand in his own.  "Let me
now express my gratitude to you, which I was at that time unable to do.
I have since then lived a chequered and adventurous life, and though I
dare not contemplate the past, I feel that there is still pleasure and
satisfaction to be found in the present.  While a spark of hope remains
in the bosom of a man, he cannot desire death."

The other officers seemed much interested at the meeting between their
friend and the English captain.  Captain Rochard, they said, had joined
them, and one or two had known him formerly when he was in the French
marine, and they were convinced that he would do credit to their corps.

Harry Tryon had come to the house twice before in the day to inquire for
Lucy; he now returned with the Baron de Ruvigny, who really looked
dejected and almost heartbroken at the illness of the young lady.  Harry
had exchanged a few words with Mabel; they were parting words, so we
must not too curiously inquire into what was said.  He had been,
however, anxious to remain a few days longer, but Lady Tryon insisted on
setting off the next day for London.  He once more rejoined the Baron at
the hall-door.  He found him standing with the foreign officers, whom he
had invited to spend the rest of the evening at Lynderton.  Harry was of
course asked to join the party.  Captain Everard was parting from them
at the hall-door, and as the light fell on Captain Rochard's features
Harry was sure that he was an old acquaintance.  Captain Rochard dropped
a little behind his companions as they walked down the avenue, and Harry
took this opportunity of addressing him.

"We have met before, Captain Falwasser," said Harry; "I am sure that I
am not mistaken, and you were very kind to me on one occasion when I was
a boy."

"Ah!" answered the Captain, with a start, "that was my name; I will not
deny it; that is to say, it was my name for a time, and it may be my
name again; but at present I must beg you will know me as Captain
Rochard, the friend of your relative--is he not?--Captain Everard."

"I will be careful to obey your wishes, Captain Rochard," said Harry;
"but Captain Everard is not a relative."

Harry felt himself blushing as he said this, for he certainly hoped that
he might be so some day.  Harry felt very curious to know who this
Captain Rochard could possibly be.  He had known him, apparently, as the
commander of a smuggler; now he found him in the character of a military
officer.  "Perhaps, after all, he may be neither one nor the other,"
thought Harry; "there is a peculiarly commanding and dignified air about
him."

The evening was spent very pleasantly, for although the young Baron was
sad at heart, he endeavoured to overcome his feelings, for the sake of
entertaining his guests, and music and pleasant conversation made the
hours pass rapidly away.  The officers of the foreign legion had neither
the inclination nor the means of imitating the example of British
military officers, who at that time, and on such an occasion, would have
spent the evening in a carouse.  A few glasses of lemonade was probably
the extent of the entertainment afforded by the host, or expected by the
guests.

The next morning Harry found himself on the box of Lady Tryon's coach,
rumbling away towards London.  Her lady's-maid was inside.  The footman
sat on the box with Harry.  Even the beautiful forest scenery through
which they passed failed to raise Harry's spirits.  He was constantly
looking back in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the chimneys of
Stanmore; not that he could really have seen them, by-the-bye, but his
heart flew, at all events, in the direction of his eye.  He thought,
too, of dear sweet Lucy lying on her sick-bed, too likely, he feared, to
prove her death-bed.

The road was none of the best in those days, and Harry and the footman
had often to get off and help the carriage along.  This was a relief,
however.  They each had a brace of pistols, and a blunderbuss was strung
at the back of the box.  Harry, however, had a strong suspicion that
Simon, the footman, would be very unwilling to use it, even in defence
of the matured charms of Miss Betsy Frizzle, her ladyship's much
suffering and much enduring handmaiden.  Sometimes the journey occupied
three days, but her ladyship was in a hurry, and her carriage being
unusually light, and the roads in tolerably good order, they were only
to sleep one night on the road.

Harry had been so constantly away from home for the last few days, that
he had had no conversation with his grandmother.  As they were seated at
tea in their inn, the old lady again spoke of his marriage with Mabel.

"I told you, Harry, that the Colonel's daughter would die.  I knew it
long ago.  I saw it in her eye, and her voice told me that she was not
to live many years in this world.  Thus, mark me, Miss Mabel will become
the mistress of Stanmore.  Now, Harry, I intend to leave you all I have
got, so that you may cut a figure in the world.  You are like your
father in face and figure, and I love you on that account.  He was more
a man of the world than you are, or will ever become, I suspect.  Let me
tell you it is an important thing to know the world well.  I do, and
have no great respect for it in consequence; but I know how to manage
it, and that's what I want you to do.  You will have many opportunities
in London; I must beg that you will not throw them away.  You may be the
possessor of a large fortune, and yet unless you know how to manage it,
it may be of little use to you.  Many a man, with three or four thousand
a year, does more than others with thirty or forty thousand.  I would
have you also, Harry, pay every attention to the wishes of your
guardian, Mr. Kyffin.  He is a very respectable man, and will probably
save money, and as far as I can learn, as he has no other relations of
his own, he will undoubtedly leave it to you.  Thus I hope that you may
be very well off.  Still both Mr. Kyffin and I may live for a good many
years.  When he last called for you in London I examined his
countenance, and considered him a remarkably hale and healthy man, while
I myself feel as well as I ever did in my life.  However, I don't wish
to think of the time when you will come into my property."

Harry, of course, begged that the old lady would not think of such an
event, and declared himself ready to enter some profession, by which he
might make himself independent of the expected fortunes of his friends.
He thought that he might like the law.  Life in London and in dusty
chambers was not exactly what he had been accustomed to, but still,
where an important object was to be gained, he was ready to submit to
anything.  Lady Tryon laughed at the notion.  He might certainly eat his
dinners at the Inns of Court and live in dusty chambers, but as to
making anything by so doing, the idea was preposterous.  A young fellow
like him, of good family and presentable appearance, must marry an
heiress.  He was fit for that, and nothing else.

Harry saw that there was no use discussing the matter with his
grandmother.  He resolved, however, to talk it over with his guardian as
soon as they met.  He saw that the old lady had some project in her
head, which she had resolved to keep secret from him.  It must be
confessed, he was very glad when her ladyship rang for Betsy Frizzle,
and retired to her room.  They arrived next day late in the evening at
Lady Tryon's house, in the middle of ---Street.

Harry set off the next day to visit Mr. Roger Kyffin, of Hampstead.  He
found that the coach ran twice in the day to that far-distant suburb.
It was a pleasant drive, among green fields, here and there a smiling
villa, but otherwise with few buildings.  Mr. Kyffin had not come back
from the city when Harry arrived, but his careful housekeeper received
him with every attention, and insisted on his partaking of some of her
preserves and home-made wine, just to give him an appetite for supper,
as of course her master always dined in London.

At last Mr. Kyffin arrived.  He was much pleased with Harry's
appearance.  They spent a very pleasant evening.  Harry could not help
contrasting the conversation of his guardian with that of his
grandmother--the man of business, so unworldly, and with a heart so full
of warm affection, anxious for the welfare of his fellow-creatures,
while the old lady with one foot in the grave was truly of the earth--
earthy.  Harry did not exactly say as much as this to himself, but he
felt it, notwithstanding.  Roger Kyffin was very much pleased to hear of
Harry's wish to enter a profession.  "I would not have you decide in a
hurry," he said, "and you must consider for what you are best fitted.
You know that I, as far as I have the power, will help you to the
utmost--on that you may depend.  Further than that, Harry, I don't wish
to bias you."  Harry slept at Mr. Kyffin's, a pretty little cottage, and
accompanied him the next day back to London.  He found that the mornings
hung somewhat heavily on his hands; the evenings, too, were not spent in
a way particularly agreeable to him, as Lady Tryon insisted on his
accompanying her to the routs and other parties she frequented.  He had
a dislike to cards, and could never learn to play, so she had not
insisted on his joining her, but she spent the whole of the evening at
the card-table.  He saw, however, from the piles of gold placed before
her that she was playing high; how high he could not tell; but very
often she returned home in an unusually bad humour, when he found it
safer to keep silence than to attempt any conversation with her.

At this time, ladies of fashion, as well as gentlemen, were fearfully
addicted to the vice of gambling.  The law was doing its utmost to put
down public hells, but it was unable in general to stop the practice in
private houses, in consequence of the difficulty of obtaining evidence.

One evening Lady Tryon had been at the house of the Countess of
Buckinghamshire, to which Harry had, very unwillingly, been compelled to
accompany her.  As usual, gambling went on, a gentleman of fashion
keeping the faro-table.  Harry saw by the expression of his
grandmother's countenance that she was a heavy loser.  The more she
lost, the higher stakes she seemed inclined to play for.

"Let the old lady have her way," he heard a gentleman near whom he was
standing observe, "a little bleeding will do her no harm."

The Countess's handsome rooms were full of people of rank and fashion.
Tables were scattered about on each side with eager players, some
engaged in cards, others casting the dice, while others stood round
staking considerable sums on the turn of a card or throw of the ivory.
All of them seemed brought together by one absorbing passion, which they
shared with the stockbrokers of Change Alley and the frequenters of the
lowest hells.  A few like Harry might have been compelled to go there
against their will--young daughters to attend their mothers, who were
leading them into vice, and a few like Harry who had no money to stake.
As he looked at the group of excited beings with sparkling eyes, the
rouge cheeks of the ladies, with here and there a black patch to hide a
blemish, or to set off the fairness of their skins; the haggard faces of
the men, with their perukes pushed on one side, their lips puckered,
pressed close together, many of them holding the cards with trembling
knees, evidently with one foot in the grave, Harry could not help hoping
that he might never become like one of them, and he longed once more to
be back at Stanmore in the company of Mabel.  He thought, too, of her
dying cousin, for the last account which had been received gave no hopes
of her recovery, and every day he expected to hear that she was no more.
He was thankful when at length he received Lady Tryon's commands to
order her coach.  She was in a worse humour even than usual.

"Fortune won't desert me," she said at length, as they were nearing
home; "there's another chance; I intend to purchase some lottery
tickets: they can bring me through, though nothing else can, unless,
Harry, when you marry the little heiress you take care of your old
grand-dame; you owe her something for bringing you up as a gentleman,
for if I had not taken you up you would have been even now a merchant's
clerk in the city!  Faugh! that such should be the fate of a grandson of
General Tryon."

Harry did not venture to remark that her ladyship's brother was a
merchant, and probably had been a merchant's clerk in his younger days;
however, he thought as much.

CHAPTER NINE.

PLAYED OUT.--THE LAST THROW.

Lady Tryon had descended to her drawing-room, to which Harry had been
summoned to receive her commands.  He felt greatly disposed to
emancipate himself from his thraldom.  "Better a crust of bread and a
cup of cold water than this sort of work," he thought; "yet my
grandmother has brought me up, she is the only relative to whom I owe
obedience; perhaps something will turn up to free me."

He thought this as he came up from his room.  The post arrived at the
same moment.  A letter was delivered to him.  It was from Mabel,
announcing her cousin's death.  She called him her dear Harry, and
concluded with "ever the same."  Had he been alone he would have pressed
the letter to his lips; as it was, he merely repeated the more important
part of its contents to his grandmother.  Utterly worldly, and devoid of
any higher feeling, the old lady received the news in a heartless way.
She scarcely uttered an expression of regret; indeed, Harry could not
help seeing that she was highly pleased.

"You must marry the heiress," she said; "you must praise her to Mr.
Kyffin, and I will back you up, and we will see what he can do for you."

She suddenly seemed to think Harry appeared doubtful as to what he
should do.

"I tell you, boy, I'll cut you off to a shilling," she said, getting up
and laying her hand on his arm.  "You will be a beggar, and a wretched
beggar, if you don't follow my advice.  I will not say more; I have said
enough; but remember."

"Yes, your ladyship has said enough," answered Harry.  "I love Mabel too
well to have her for the sake of her fortune, and I have no wish to see
her father die that I may become its possessor."

"Nonsense, boy!" exclaimed the old lady, in a harsh, shrill voice.
"You're a fool, Harry."

The unpleasant conversation was interrupted by a servant entering, and
announcing a visitor.

"Mr. Flockton, who is he?" asked Harry, as he looked at the card.

"I know him; I am glad he has come," said Lady Tryon; "it will save me a
long drive into the city."

As she spoke, a middle-aged gentleman in fashionable costume entered the
room.  He was a somewhat short man, broadly built, with regular
features, and a shining bald forehead, from which his lightly-powdered
hair was completely drawn off, and fastened behind in a pigtail.  The
expression of his countenance was bland, with an apparently candid
manner, a smile showing his fine white teeth; and an air of nonchalance,
though rather evidently the result of artificial politeness than of
natural courtesy or good breeding.  He bowed with a flourish of his hat
to Lady Tryon, and gave a familiar nod to the young gentleman as he sank
back in the seat placed for him by the servant.  Lady Tryon had had some
previous transactions with Mr. Flockton, who was the great lottery
contractor.  It was part of his business to know everybody, as well as
their private concerns, in all parts of the United Kingdom.  Many was
the lady of rank, a merchant's or a shopkeeper's wife in London, with
whom Mr. Flockton had managed to scrape acquaintance, but his chief
constituents were among the great masses of society that underlie the
noble and the wealthy.  His baits and nets lay ready for fish of the
smallest size, also, many who could with difficulty raise the sum of 1
pound 11 shillings 6 pence, whereby a sixteenth share of the 20,000
pound prize might by two lucky turns of the wheel of fortune be gained.
He caught others by half and even whole tickets at various prices.  In
country inns Mr. Flockton's advertisements were found fastened up among
the political ballads on the walls of the public rooms.  They were often
circulated by the same book-hawkers who supplied the vast numbers of
tracts and verses then published on "The rights of man," and "Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity," advocated by the French Revolutionists and
the English Jacobins.  In every manufacturing town and district they
came round with parcels of goods and patterns, and were eagerly read by
workpeople and masters alike.  They circulated in the servants' halls,
even before they were read in the oak parlours and cedar galleries of
the granges and lordly castles of the land, and many a poor clergyman
dreamed of education for his boys and portions for his girls from the
result of a lottery ticket.

"I have called, your ladyship, to bring the ten lottery tickets you
desired to possess.  A cheque on your bankers will pay me for them, and
it is my belief that you will find that one of them brings you the great
prize.  Perhaps this young gentleman would like to take two or three, a
mere trifle will give him every prospect of a large sum, and should your
ladyship miss it, he would have a greater chance of gaining the prize.
What does your ladyship say?  Surely you have balance at your bankers'
sufficient to buy fifty tickets, and, in my opinion, the wisest people
will buy the most; the more bought, the greater the chance of success."

Lady Tryon was for a moment silent.  She recollected too well that on
the previous night she had not only lost every shilling which she had at
her bankers', but a considerable sum above it; not only that, but she
had raised large sums at different times of late, which if she paid the
principal would absorb the whole of her property.  Should she pay her
debts of honour, or buy the lottery tickets?  Mr. Flockton's confident
and glowing descriptions decided her on the latter course.  When she got
the lottery prize she would satisfy the debts she had incurred at cards.
She took the tickets Mr. Flockton offered, giving him a cheque, which
left her scarcely more that 50 pounds at her bankers'.  Her greatest
annoyance arose from her thus being unable to indulge in gambling till
the day for drawing the lottery.  Mr. Flockton handing the tickets to
her ladyship, and buttoning up the cheque, took his departure.

Scarcely had he gone, when a servant entered with an announcement that a
person of a very suspicious appearance desired to see her ladyship.  "I
told him, my lady, that you were engaged, but he would take no denial."

Lady Tryon, who was constitutionally brave, having Harry by her side,
desired that the man might be shown up.  He entered the room with a
confident air, though perfectly respectful, and presented an
official-looking document.

"Why, it's to summon me to Bow Street police-office for gambling!"
exclaimed Lady Tryon.  "What is this?  Are ladies and gentlemen not to
be allowed to amuse themselves if they think fit?"

"I have nothing to do with that, my lady," answered the man, "I have
delivered the summons; this young gentleman and your servant are witness
to that; the hour is mentioned on the paper.  I've done my duty, I wish
your ladyship good-morning."

"Fearful impertinence!" exclaimed Lady Tryon.  "What is the country
coming to?  Ladies of rank to be treated like criminals, and ordered
about at the pleasure of police magistrates!"

Harry was naturally considerably annoyed, at the same time he could not
forget the scene of the previous evening, and he had heard that some
very just enactments had lately been passed to put a stop to gambling,
both public and private.

"I will go instead of you," he said, "if that will answer."

"No, I must go myself," she said, looking at the paper through her
spectacles.  "Fearful _impertinence_ of these people!  Horrible
indignity to be subjected to!"

At the time appointed Lady Tryon drove up to the police-office.  Several
carriages were already there, their occupants fashionably-dressed
ladies.  Lady Tryon recognised them as her acquaintances, with whom she
had played at Lady Buckinghamshire's.  The gentleman who had acted as
_croupier_, and kept the faro-table, was among them.  They entered
together, looking very hot and very indignant; they were accommodated
with seats while the evidence was read.  The witnesses against them were
two servants, who had been dismissed from her ladyship's service, and
had taken these means to revenge themselves.  As these ladies of rank
had no excuse to offer, and could not deny the charge, they were each
fined 50 pounds, while the keeper of the table, a gentleman of fashion,
had to pay 200 pounds as a punishment for his transgression of the law.

Lady Tryon drove back in even a worse temper than usual.  The 50 pounds
she was to pay was the remainder of the balance at her banker's.  She
was now literally penniless unless her lottery tickets should turn up
prizes.  The eventful day of the drawing was looked forward to, not only
by her, but by thousands more, with intense anxiety.  At length it
arrived.  Harry set forth with his grandmother in her carriage.  The
evening before she had sent for the doctor, and procured a quieting
potion.  In truth she required it, for she looked very ill and excited.
Harry saw her maid, by her directions, put into the pocket of the
carriage two or three small bottles.

"They are little draughts which I may require, Harry, to keep me up.  I
am an old woman, you know, and my nerves are not as strong as they used
to be."

They drove on.  The crowd increased as they proceeded westward, towards
Guildhall.  The great drawing was to take place there.

"We are certain, Harry, to obtain a prize; if not the 20,000 pound
prize, a smaller one, at all events, and that will enable me to purchase
a few more tickets for another lottery, or to set me up at the
card-table again.  If I get the 20,000 pound prize you shall have 1,000
pounds, I will promise you, to cut a figure with in town, and then to go
down and marry pretty Mabel Everard.  Ah, Harry! you are a fortunate
fellow to have such a kind old grandmother as I am, and to be loved by
such a sweet girl as Mabel.  I know your secret; she loves you, you
rogue, and you have only to ask her, and she will marry you at once.  I
can manage her father; he is a good-natured, easy man, and has a great
respect for me."

Thus Lady Tryon ran on; but she could not long keep her thoughts from
the hope of the prize.  As they passed by Saint Paul's they found a
dense crowd: every moment it increased.  Besides a long string of
carriages there were numberless people on foot: not only those who
possessed tickets, and those who had ensured them, but the friends of
the holders, and also many idlers who came to see the drawing, and not a
few who were there to prey on the unwary, and pick their pockets
literally and metaphorically.  As much time would have been lost had the
carriage attempted to reach Guildhall, Lady Tryon alighted in Cheapside,
and leaning on the arm of her grandson, walked with eager steps towards
the renowned hall.  Harry felt her arm tremble as she hung heavily on
his; but not a word did she utter.  All her thoughts and feelings were
absorbed in the prospect of the prize she hoped to obtain.  Had he known
more than he did, he would have understood how much hung upon it.

CHAPTER TEN.

PRIZE OR BLANK?

As they entered at the farther end of the vast hall, where civic _fetes_
and feasts were wont to take place, and the huge figures of Gog and
Magog looked forth from their pedestals, it was already crowded.  On
either side were low galleries; one devoted to ladies, the other to
gentlemen, while the centre was filled with a mixed multitude of every
degree, among whom it was very evident that the pickpockets were already
busy.  All were looking up towards the farther end, where a large stage
was erected.  In the centre was a table, at which sat several grave
personages--the commissioners of the lottery; while on either side were
two large circular cases or wheels, in front of each of which stood a
Bluecoat boy, from Christ's Hospital, with the sleeves of their coats
turned up.  In front of the table were several clerks engaged in noting
the proceedings of the day.  At either end of the table stood a man, who
with a loud voice cried forth the names of the numbers which were drawn
at each turn of the wheel by the Bluecoat boys.

Lady Tryon pushed her way forward in the gallery that she might be as
near as possible to the table.  Harry had to leave her.  He went round
into the centre space, and stood under the part of the gallery where she
at length found a seat.  With trembling hands, Lady Tryon sat with the
numbers of her tickets before her.  She kept those also which she
professed to give to Harry.  As the numbers were loudly proclaimed a
change came over the countenance of the eager spectators.  When the
tickets turned up blanks a look of satisfaction beamed on the faces of
all, except the unhappy holder of the number, whereas when a prize was
announced, each one present felt that his or her chance was lessened of
obtaining the wished-for wealth.  Sometimes a _groan_ of despair
succeeded the drawing of a number.  To purchase that number yon wretched
man has been hoarding perhaps for months past, nearly starving himself
and those dependent on him, or may be he has been robbing his employer,
intending to repay when he should become the possessor of the mighty
prize which has been the dream of his midday thoughts and nightly
slumbers for so many weeks past.  Occasionally, at small intervals,
shouts arose from a small group--they had divided the sixteenth part of
a ticket among them, and it had turned up a prize.  They might be seen
shaking hands and laughing strangely, and running into each other's
arms, as their feelings prompted them.  Too probably, however, the
greater part of the amount would be spent in other tickets, to turn up
blanks.  A young man was there standing near Harry with haggard
countenance, his eager eye fixed on the wheels.  A number was cried out.
He gazed at a paper before him and ran out, frantically striding his
forehead.  A pistol shot was heard outside the hall, but the sound
scarcely moved one of the eager crowd.  Harry afterwards heard that the
young man had shot himself, utterly ruined.  Such has been the fate of
many a man after losing his all at a gambling-house.  Such in reality
was the use to which the Guildhall of London was at that time put.  As
the numbers were called out, Harry guessed by the expression of Lady
Tryon's countenance that one after the other of those she held in her
hand had turned up blanks.  Even the rouge on her cheeks could not
conceal the deadly pallor which was creeping over her countenance.  Her
hands trembled more and more.  She dropped paper after paper.  At length
she held but one in her hand.  Some hours had already passed since they
entered the hall: no wonder that she was fatigued.  Each time another
number was called out she glanced at her paper.  And now, in the same
indifferent voice as before, the crier announced another number.  A
piercing shriek was heard.

"The old lady has fainted!" cried some of the females in the gallery
near her, and Harry saw his grandmother falling back from her chair.

"Help! help!" was cried.  "She is dying!"

He made his way to the gallery and lifted her in his arms.  Her head
fell helplessly down; her hands drooped.  One hand still grasped the
paper which had been declared a blank.  Not one of those females, most
of them ladies of rank and supposed sensibility, offered him the
slightest assistance.  Their numbers had not yet been drawn, and they
would not sacrifice a moment to assist a dying fellow-creature even of
their own station in life.  Harry exerted all his strength to get Lady
Tryon out of the gallery.

"Is there no medical man who will assist me?" he cried out.

"I will, sir," exclaimed a somewhat foppishly dressed individual,
stepping forward.

"Stay, beware of him, he is a pickpocket," said a voice near him.

Harry declined the services of the stranger.

No medical man came forward.  A crowd, however, collected round him, and
even before his eyes he saw the brooch and chains which his grandmother
wore torn off and carried away by nimble fingers, at which he in vain
attempted to grasp.  "It matters little," he thought, "she will never
discover her loss."  He hoped to be able to carry her to her carriage,
and as the crowd at last made way for him he bore her along the street.
Fortunately he soon caught sight of the livery of her coachman.  She was
placed in her carriage, and Harry took his seat by her side, telling the
coachman to stop at the first doctor's shop they came to.  The carriage
soon stopped in front of a window full of bright-coloured liquids, and
before Harry had time even to get out, a gentleman bustled up to the
carriage door.


"Can I render any professional assistance?" he asked, looking in.

"Yes," exclaimed Harry; "what can be done for this lady?"

"Will she step out?" asked the medical practitioner.

"She is unable, sir," said Harry.

"Oh!  I beg pardon; I will feel her pulse," was the rejoinder.  The
apothecary made a long face.

"Why, do you know, sir, the old lady is dead!" he exclaimed, rather
offended at Harry having brought him out to a dead patient.  "I can do
nothing for her, sir."

"Dead!" exclaimed Harry, with a feeling of horror.  "Are you sure that
she is dead?"

"Never was more sure of a fact in my life, sir.  You can send for her
executors and the undertaker when you get home; that is the only advice
I can give you."

Harry told the coachman to drive on.  "But do I not owe you a fee, sir,
for your trouble?"

"Oh, no, sir, no; that would be too much," said the apothecary, thinking
that he had been too plain-spoken with the young man, who might possibly
be a relative of the old lady, though he was somewhat young to be her
son.

Harry fortunately recollected Lady Tryon's man of business.  He sent for
him, as he did also for Mr. Kyffin.

"I will leave you still here," said his old friend, who came that very
evening, "and when your grandmother's affairs have been arranged you
must come to my house.  I hope that you will find yourself left
comfortably off.  Let me entreat you not to be idle, Harry; it is the
very worst employment a man can engage in."  Harry shook his head.  "I
doubt my being well off," he answered.  "We will hope for the best,"
said Mr. Kyffin.  Harry had good reason for his doubts.  Even before his
grandmother's body was placed in her coffin, an execution was put into
the house.  Every article in it was seized by her creditors, and even
after all her property had been disposed of, many were still left
unpaid.  Harry was literally destitute.  For himself he would not have
felt it so much, but it was a cruel thought that he must relinquish all
his hopes of obtaining Mabel.  He had, however, one firm friend.

"My dear boy," said Mr. Kyffin, "this may be, after all, the best thing
that could have happened to you.  Had your grandmother left you well off
you might have turned out an idler.  I have sufficient influence, I
think, with your relative, Mr. Coppinger, to obtain a situation for you
in his house of business.  The very fact that your unhappy grandmother
has deceived you and left you totally unprovided for will weigh greatly
with him."

Harry wrote immediately to his great-uncle, Mr. Coppinger, and other
relatives, announcing his grandmother's death.  The following day the
merchant appeared.  He spoke kindly to Harry, and seemed satisfied with
the way he expressed himself.

"I have seen so little of my sister for so many years that I know
nothing of her affairs," he observed, "but from what you tell me I am
afraid that they are not in a satisfactory condition."

Harry, at that time, was not aware how utterly his grandmother had
ruined herself.  In a very few days, however, the merchant discovered
that his sister had not left sufficient to pay her debts.

"However, it cannot be helped now.  We must have as quiet a funeral as
possible, and the less said about the matter the better.  I am not
surprised, as I heard something about her habits; but for you I am
sorry, Harry.  However, you are young, and the world is before you.  If
you are disposed to work you can make your way, as many an honest steady
man has done, with fewer abilities than you possess, I suspect."

Harry assured his uncle that he was ready to work, but though he might
have preferred entering the army or navy, he saw now clearly that he
must attempt some career by which he might maintain himself.

"Well, I will talk the matter over with your friend Mr. Kyffin, and he
will communicate the result to you," said Mr. Coppinger.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The people of Lynderton were greatly disappointed, and considered that
they had a right to complain of Lady Tryon when they discovered that she
was not to be interred in their churchyard with the usual
pomp-and-ceremony of persons of her position.  Instead of that, she was
laid to rest in the burying-ground of the parish in which she died.
Still more aggrieved were her creditors when they found they had to
accept only five shillings in the pound, and that they might consider
themselves very fortunate in obtaining that amount.

Roger Kyffin insisted on his young ward coming to live with him, and as
soon as the creditors had taken charge of the house, Harry Tryon packed
up his small possessions and removed to Hampstead.

"It is all arranged, Harry," said Mr. Kyffin, the following day; "your
uncle will receive you as a clerk at a salary of 100 pounds a year.  It
is a very good one, let me assure you, for a beginner.  Many a young man
has to pay a large premium to be admitted into such a house; you may
therefore consider yourself especially fortunate.  All you have now to
do is to be punctual, to be ready to do every thing you are required,
and to forward to the utmost of your power your principal's interest.
Exactness is a great thing, and above all, rigidly honourable conduct.
You will not discredit my recommendation, Harry, I feel sure of that."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

"SEEING LIFE IN LONDON."

Harry accompanied his kind guardian into London the following day, and
was introduced in due form to Mr. Silas Sleech, one of the principal
clerks under Mr. Kyffin, as well as to the other persons engaged in Mr.
Coppinger's counting-house in Idol Lane.

"You are welcome, Mr. Tryon," said Mr. Sleech, with whom Harry found
himself left for a short time.  "I have heard of you before at
Lynderton; indeed, I remember your countenance very well as a boy.  You
do not probably recollect me, however.  Still you may possibly have
heard the name of my respected father, one of the principal lawyers in
Lynderton.  We are a very well-connected family, but we do not boast of
that here.  While in this office, we are men of business; we sink every
other character.  You understand me, Mr. Tryon, and if you are wise you
will follow my advice.  Here I am your superior and director, but
outside this door we are equals, and I hope soon to say, we are
friends."

Harry watched Mr. Sleech's countenance while he spoke.  He did not
particularly like its expression.  It was then animated and vivacious
enough, but directly afterwards, when Mr. Kyffin drew near, it assumed a
peculiarly dull and inanimate look, as if he was absorbed completely in
the books over which he was poring.

Mr. Coppinger himself soon afterwards arrived, and called Harry into his
private room.  He spoke to him much in the same way that Mr. Kyffin had
done.

"You could not be in better hands than those of your guardian," he
observed.  "However, as after a time you may grow tired of your daily
walk backwards and forwards to Hampstead, you shall have the room over
the counting-house, and I shall be happy to see you at my house, where
you can become better acquainted with your cousins."

Harry thanked his uncle for his kindness, and expressed a hope that he
should be attentive to business.  The first moment he had time he wrote
to Mabel, telling her of his good fortune in having a situation given
him in Mr. Coppinger's house.  He had previously written in a very
different tone, giving an account of his grandmother's death, and the
penury in which she had left him.  He had not, however, told Mabel that
he would release her from her engagement to him.  While any hope yet
lingered in his bosom he could not bring himself to do that.  Now he was
once more in spirits, and he felt sure that fortune would smile on him.
He had never told Mabel that it was very possible Mr. Kyffin might leave
him his property.  He had determined never to build on such a
possibility.  In the first place, Mr. Kyffin was not an old man, and
might live for many years, or he might have relatives who had claims on
him, or he might not consider it necessary, simply because he was his
ward, to leave him anything.

What a blessed thing is hope, even in regard to mere mundane matters.
Harry had at this time nothing else to live upon.  After all the grand
expectations he had enjoyed, to find himself at last only a merchant's
clerk with 100 pounds a year!  Roger Kyffin's society might possibly
have been more improving to Harry than that of his grandmother.  At the
same time, after a few weeks, it must be owned that Harry began to wish
for a little change.  Roger Kyffin had been in the habit of living a
good deal by himself, and had not many acquaintances in the immediate
neighbourhood.  Now and then a few friends came to dine with him, but he
seemed to think it a mark of respect to Harry's grandmother not to see
any society at his house for the first two or three weeks after her
death.

Mr. Coppinger invited him to dinner the following day.  He was to sleep
at the counting-house, where a room had been prepared for him, which he
could occupy whenever he pleased.

"You may wish to see a little more of London and your friends," said Mr.
Coppinger, "and you can scarcely do so if you go out to Hampstead every
evening."

Harry of course thanked his uncle for his consideration, and the next,
day prepared with some little interest to pay his respects to his
unknown cousins.

Although at that time many persons dined early, the custom of late
dinners was being generally introduced.  Harry arranged his toilet with
more than usual care, and somewhat before the hour of five took his way
to his uncle's house in Broad Street.  It was a handsome mansion.  As
Harry knocked, the door flew open, and a couple of livery servants with
powdered hair stood ready to receive him, and take his hat and cloak.
He followed the servant up-stairs, and was ushered into a large
drawing-room.  A lady came forward, not very young, according to his
idea, but fair and good-looking, with a somewhat full figure, and a
pleasant expression of countenance.

"And are you our cousin Harry?" she said, putting out her hand.  "Why
did you not come before?  We heard about you, and are very glad at last
to make your acquaintance."

"I scarcely liked to come without my uncle's invitation," said Harry,
"but am very happy to have the opportunity of making his daughter's
acquaintance.  I conclude that you are Miss Coppinger."

"Yes, I am generally so called," answered the young lady, "but I am your
cousin Martha, remember that.  You must not be formal with us.  My
younger sisters may encourage you to be so, but you must not attend to
their nonsense."

"I should like to know something about them," said Harry, feeling
himself quite at home with Martha, evidently a kind and sensible woman,
and, as people would say, a bit of a character.

"That's very sensible in you, Harry," she answered.  "Fortunately they
have been all out, and only lately went up to dress, so that I shall
have time to tell you about them.  Next to me there is Susan--she is
like me in most respects, and some people take us for twins.  However,
she really is two years younger.  Then there is Mary.  She has only one
fault.  She is somewhat sentimental, and too fond of poetry--reads
Cowper and Crabbe, and Miss Burney's novels, half-bound volumes in
marble covers.  She sighs over Evelina, and goes into raptures with
Clarissa.  She is dark, thin, and slight, not a bit like Susan and me.
Then there is Maria Jane.  She is fair and addicted to laughing, and
very good-natured, and not a bit sentimental.  Then there is Estella.
Harry, you must take care of her.  She is something like Mary, but more
lively and more practical too.  Mary lives in an idea of her own:
Estella carries out her romantic notions.  Then there is our youngest
sister, Sybella, or baby we always used to call her, but she rather
objects to the appellation.  You must find out about her yourself.
There, now you know us all.  You are known to us, so you will find
yourself perfectly at home by the time you see us assembled round the
dinner-table.  As we have no brothers we shall make a great deal of you,
and take care that you are not spoilt.  Above all things, don't fall in
love.  You will become hideous and useless if you do.  I don't at all
approve of the passion, except when exhibited in gentlemen of
comfortable incomes, nor does papa.  I warn you of that, so if you wish
to take advantage of such hospitality as we can afford you--and we
really desire to be kind--you have been cautioned and must act
accordingly."

Harry cordially thanked Martha for the description of her sisters, and
with perfect sincerity promised to follow her advice.  It showed him
that she, at all events, was not aware of his love for Mabel, and though
he thought her a very good-natured woman, he had no intention of making
her his confidant on that matter.

Harry had soon the opportunity of discovering the correctness of her
description of her sisters.  The youngest came in last.  There was a
considerable amount of beauty among them, so that they passed for a
family of pretty girls, but when he saw Sybella, he at once acknowledged
that she surpassed them all.

She was a bright little fairy, just entering womanhood.  Curiously like
Mabel, so he thought: indeed, he would not otherwise have admired her so
much.

"I am not surprised that Martha warned me," he thought to himself.  "If
it were not for Mabel, I should certainly have fallen in love with that
little girl, and yet Mabel is her superior in many ways; I am sure of
that."

They were seated at the dinner-table when these thoughts came into
Master Harry's head.  Sybella's eyes met his.  She blushed.  Could she
have divined his thoughts?

His uncle was very kind.  No man indeed appeared to better advantage at
his dinner-table than did Mr. Coppinger.  He at once made Harry feel
perfectly at home, and as his cousins addressed him by his Christian
name, he soon found himself calling them by theirs in return.

"We must make a great deal of use of you, Harry," said Miss Coppinger.
"We sadly want a beau to accompany us in the evenings when we go out.
Father cannot often come with us.  He comes home tired from business.
We six spinsters have consequently to spend most of our time in
solitude."

"You do not look as if you had often been melancholy," said Harry.
"However, I shall be very happy to be at your service whenever you
choose to command me."

"Very prettily spoken," answered Martha.

When Harry glanced round at his six blooming cousins he felt that they
were not likely often to be left in solitude.  There were a few other
guests at table--Alderman Bycroft and his wife and daughter; one a
full-blown rose, the other a bursting bud, giving promise of the same
full proportions as her mother.

There was a young gentleman, the son of a wealthy distiller, dressed in
the height of fashion, who seemed to consider that he was greatly
honouring Mr. Coppinger's family by his presence, and there was another
youth of unpretending appearance, who looked as if he felt himself
highly honoured by the invitation, though he had in reality taken a high
degree at the University, and was the descendant of a long line of proud
ancestors.

The distiller, Mr. Gilby, was inclined to patronise Harry, especially
when he heard Lady Tryon spoken of.

"I will show you a little of London life, my boy," he whispered.  "You
know nothing of it as yet, and unless you had a friend like me to
introduce you, you might live ten years here and know no more of the ins
and outs and doings of this great city than you do now."

"Mr. Tryon would thereby, I suspect, be more fortunate than if he were
introduced to the ways of London as you suggest," observed Mr. Pennant,
the pale-faced young student.

"I hope you enjoyed your dinner at your uncle's, yesterday," said Mr.
Silas Sleech, as Harry took his seat near him at his office desk the
next morning.  "Fine girls your cousins, don't you think?  I dine there
sometimes, and I then always mind my P's and Q's.  I flatter myself I
stand well there with the fairer portion of the family, and of course
our principal has a great respect for my uprightness and integrity," and
a curious leer came into Mr. Sleech's eyes which he could not repress.
"Who was there, Tryon?"

Harry told him.

"Oh! young Gilby! was he?  He's a rollicking blade.  He offered to
introduce you into London society, did he?  Why, he knows nothing about
it.  Do not trust him.  He would only take you to a few low haunts,
where you would see enough certainly of what he calls life.  He invited
you to dine with him a week hence, did he?  Well, then, come with me
to-night, and before that time I will enable you to show him that you
know far more of London life than he does.  But, mum, here comes your
respected guardian, Mr. Roger Kyffin.  Will this pen suit you, Mr.
Tryon?" he said, in a loud voice.  "A good handwriting is an important
matter in the qualifications of a young clerk."

Harry scarcely knew what to think of Silas Sleech.  His manner offended
him, but he seemed good-natured and obliging; so he thought to himself,
"I will take him as I find him, and he is more likely to initiate me
into real London life than that young fop Gilby."  Harry agreed,
therefore, to dine with Mr. Sleech that evening at a coffee-house, and
to accompany him afterwards to some place of amusement.

Harry Tryon was not a hero of romance.  He had never got into any
serious scrape, but then he had not been much tempted.  He was now to be
left very much to his own resources.  His kind guardian had formed a
higher opinion of him than he perhaps deserved.  He also held Mr. Sleech
in considerable esteem.  It is surprising that he did so, but the fact
was, that that individual was a most consummate hypocrite--he otherwise
would not certainly have deceived such acute observers as Mr. Coppinger
and his managing clerk.  Harry could not have met with a worse person as
a companion in London.  Young Gilby might have led him into scrapes,
while the other, by imbuing him with his own principles, and introducing
him to profligates and designing knaves, might injure his future
prospects, and destroy him body and soul, as many another young man has
been destroyed.  Harry, when he accepted Mr. Sleech's proffered
civilities, had no conception of the dangerous course into which he was
about to lead him.  He remembered old Sleech at Lynderton, a
smooth-spoken, oily-tongued, civil gentleman, profuse in his bows to
gentlemen on horseback or ladies in their carriages, but very apt to
button up his breeches pockets at the approach of a supplicant.  As to
his character he knew nothing, except that he was looked upon as a
lawyer of sharp practice.  Once upon a time Harry would not have wished
to be seen walking down Lynderton Street in company with Silas Sleech,
but now things were altered.  In London people needed not to be so
particular as to their associates.

As soon as the counting-house was closed, Harry set off with Silas
Sleech to the West End.  That first evening was spent in a way that even
Roger Kyffin, had he made enquiries, would probably have approved.  They
had been to the play, and afterwards supped at a respectable chop-house,
frequented by several actors, authors, and wits.  Silas Sleech even
suggested that Harry should mention it to his guardian.

"I don't often go to such places myself, you see," he observed
afterwards to Mr. Kyffin, "but I thought that Harry would require
something to divert his mind, and I rather put myself out of the way to
amuse him."

Mr. Kyffin begged that Mr. Sleech would in future take no trouble on
that score; and at the same time he did not wish to shut Harry up
altogether, and was much obliged to him for what he had done.

"You were always kind and wise, sir," said Mr. Sleech, in his softest
tone; "it is really a pleasure to me to enter into such scenes for the
sake of our young friend, otherwise I confess that more sober amusements
suit me best."

It was strange, however, that Mr. Sleech should press Harry the
following evening to spend it precisely in the same way as the former,
though the house to which he took him after the play was of a somewhat
different character from that of the previous evening.  He observed the
guests occasionally slipping out of the public room and going up-stairs.

"I should like to know what they are about," said Mr. Sleech to Harry;
"what do you say, shall we try and get up?"

Harry, of course, had no objection.

"Follow me, then," said Sleech; "I observed the turn the others took,
and dare say that I can find my way."

Mr. Sleech had no difficulty, although there were several dark passages
and a flight or two of stairs to be passed.  At length a light fell on
their faces from an opening in the upper part of the wall.  Mr. Sleech
uttered a few strange words, and a door, hitherto invisible, opening, he
drew Harry through it.  Another passage and another door were passed
through, and they found themselves in a room of considerable size, in
which a number of people were assembled round a table on which dice were
rattling, and a gentleman with a long stick was drawing up towards him
small piles of gold placed at the edge, and occasionally paying out
others to some bystanders.

"Why, we have got into something like a hell," whispered Mr. Sleech to
Harry.  "I had no idea of the sort of place we were coming to.  However,
now we are here, let us stop and see the fun; it seems very exciting.
See how eager these men watch the throws.  I say, I feel quite a longing
to have a cast myself; it is not a right thing to do, but when one once
is in such a place it cannot much matter."

"I would rather look on," said Harry.

"So, of course, would I, generally," said Sleech; "still it won't do to
be here long without having a throw now and then; but still it is better
you should keep to your good resolution.  If you like to take any
refreshment, you will find plenty of it on the sideboard there.  You
will have nothing to pay; and if it is necessary I will see about that."

Harry watched the proceedings for some time.  He had too often, when
with Lady Tryon, witnessed play going forward in private not to be too
well acquainted with all the games in vogue.  By degrees, therefore, his
interest was aroused.  Silas Sleech seemed unable any longer to resist
the influence, and soon, pulling out some gold, he began to bet as the
rest of the guests were doing.  He was the winner of a considerable sum.
Coming round to Harry, he put ten guineas into his hand.  "There, my
boy," he said, "just try your luck with this; if you are the winner you
can pay me, if not, never mind.  It's luck's profits, so I shall not
feel the loss."

Harry hesitated.  He had no love for gambling, and he knew that his
guardian would be sorry to hear that he had engaged in play.  Sleech,
however, urged him to go on.  "You're sure to win, and you'll repent it
if you go away without anything in your pocket."

Thus persuaded, Harry staked a couple of guineas and won.  He then
staked five, and was also successful.  He doubled his stakes--again he
came off the winner.  It would have been better for him had he lost.  He
was still moderate in his stakes--fortunately, for luck, as Sleech
called it, began to go against him.  However, he left off with 100
pounds in his pocket.  Sleech congratulated him as they wound their way
out of the room down-stairs again.

"It's a nice little sum," he whispered; "you see what can be done if a
man is cool and calm; only there is one little piece of advice I wish to
give you: Don't mention the matter to Mr. Kyffin.  If he asks you, just
say that you have been to the same sort of place that you went to
yesterday, but that you have seen enough of that sort of thing for the
present.  You know that to-morrow you are engaged to Mr. Coppinger's; so
you told me.  So we cannot go again for some little time."

His second dinner at his uncle's went off as pleasantly as the first.
His cousins even improved on acquaintance.  Sybella especially made
herself agreeable to him.  She did not try; it was her artless, natural
manner which was so attractive.  She was a sweet little creature, there
was no doubt about that, and had not his heart been already given to
Mabel, he would certainly have lost it to her.  The only other guest was
Mr. Gilby.  He seemed to be a very frequent visitor at the house, but
Harry could not discover which of his cousins was the attraction.
Perhaps the young gentleman himself had not made up his mind.  Mr.
Coppinger was kind and courteous, but treated Harry with quite as much
attention as he did the wealthy Mr. Gilby.  Indeed, that gentleman knew
perfectly well that, should he wish to secure him for one of his
daughters, the surest way to succeed would be to show perfect
indifference about the matter.  Harry was somewhat surprised at the
interest his cousins took in the descriptions Mr. Gilby gave of some of
his exploits.  He himself had never seen the fun of knocking down
watchmen, running off with their rattles, and rousing up medical
practitioners from their midnight slumbers, or calling reverend
gentlemen out of their beds to visit dying people.  By his own account,
also, he had the _entree_ behind the scenes at all the theatres, and in
many of them his chair upon the stage.  He was a regular frequenter of
Newmarket and the principal races in the kingdom, and there were very
few hells and gambling-houses of every sort into which he had not found
his way.  He, however, seemed to be aware that Mr. Coppinger could not
approve of this part of his proceedings, and therefore only spoke of
them out of hearing of his host.  He seemed to look down with supreme
contempt on Harry, who had not such experiences to talk of, and again
offered to introduce him into life.

"Thank you," said Harry; "but you see I have become a man of business,
and have very little time to spare for those sort of amusements;
besides, I confess I care very little about them."

"Well, you must take your own way," answered the young gentleman,
"though I must say I don't think a young fellow of spirit would be
content to live the humdrum life you do; or perhaps `still waters run
deep,' eh? that's it, is it not?"

Wherever Harry had been on the previous night, or however late he had
been in bed, he was always at his desk directly the office was open, and
he also got through his work very much to Roger Kyffin's satisfaction.
Silas Sleech also always praised him.  He told him also, should he find
any difficulty, to come to him, and on several occasions Harry had to
take advantage of his offer.  His uncle, after some months, spoke
approvingly to him.  "You will, I have great hopes, in time be fitted to
fulfil an important post in my office, from the reports I hear of you,
and the way in which I see you get on with your work.  You have your own
fortune in your own hands, Harry, and I see no reason why you should not
make it.  Your success is secure if you go on as you have begun."

Harry was not happy, however.  He had great doubts on that subject.  Mr.
Silas Sleech had been more cautious in his proceedings.  He suspected
that Harry might easily have been alarmed had he attempted to initiate
him too rapidly into London life.  For several weeks he did not take
Harry to the gaming-house into which he had before introduced him.
Indeed, sometimes he declined taking him out at all.

"It won't do, my boy," he said; "you are knocking yourself up with
dissipation, and I am afraid you will get a taste for those sort of
things if I take you out too often.  Why you won more money last night
than I have pocketed for months together.  `The pitcher which goes too
often to the well gets broken,' and if you don't take care you will have
a run of ill-luck, and if you lose, where is the money to come from to
pay your debts of honour?"

By these remarks it will be understood that Harry Tryon had not resisted
the temptations to play which Silas had placed in his way, but as he had
come off the gainer hitherto, he had in consequence suffered no
inconvenience.  He had been too much accustomed to see his grandmother
replenish her purse in that way to feel acutely any sense of shame at
depriving others of their property, which happily keeps some high-minded
men from the vice.  Silas Sleech had other baits by which he hoped to
obtain entire power over his young companion.  There was one, however,
with which he entirely failed, Harry would never be allured by
meretricious beauty.  Silas was puzzled.  He took good care to conceal
his own sins from public view.

"The young one is deep," he thought to himself.  "He knows what he's
about, I am pretty sure of that."

Harry, though duped by Silas, had never made him his confidant.  He saw
that Harry delighted in excitement, and took him once or twice to hear
the debates in the House of Commons.  They were pretty stormy sometimes,
when Fox, and Pitt, and Wyndham were on their feet.  Silas professed to
be a "friend of the people."  Harry's generous heart rose in rebellion
against anything like tyranny and oppression, and Silas easily persuaded
him that the French Revolution had been brought about by the tyrannical
way in which the aristocracy had treated the people.

"Let me ask you, Harry," he said, "are not our own people treated very
much in the same way?  Look at our ill-fed, ill-clad soldiers, robbed on
all sides, and left to perish like dogs from neglect.  Then see our
sailors.  Were you ever on board a man-of-war, Harry?  I have been.
Just see the tough dry meat, and weevily biscuit they are fed with; the
fearful way in which they are flogged for the slightest offence, at the
will, often capricious, of their captains; the little care taken of them
in sickness; the ill-paid, half-educated men sent out as surgeons; and
the wretched pensions they receive after, if they escape death, when
wounded in battle."

So Silas talked on.  There was much truth in what he said, but his
statements were often exaggerated.

"However, I am but a poor speaker, Harry," he said; "come with me some
evening, and you shall hear all that I have said put forth far more
forcibly, and in far better language.  Don't tell old Kyffin where you
have been, that's all.  He holds to old-fangled notions, and has no
faith in Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.  We will look in first at
two or three of the clubs to which I belong, and there's no reason why
he should not suppose that you have been to one of those.  There's the
Hums'; you remember my taking you there, at the Blue Posts, in Covent
Garden, and the `Rights of Man' Club.  I have belonged to that since I
came to town.  Then we can look in at the Pearl Drinkers', and if by
chance our friend presses you, tell him what you saw there.  He probably
does not guess that I belong to more than one quiet club, and he may be
a little astonished at first, but that won't matter.  He has no power
over me out of the office.  Mr. Coppinger knows my merits, I flatter
myself, too much to dispense with my services at Mr. Roger Kyffin's
bidding."

"I don't like those remarks," thought Harry to himself.  "Ought I to go
with this man?"

He very often had thought as much, and yet had followed Sleech's lead.
The day's work was over.  Harry had thought of proposing to walk home
with Mr. Kyffin, but he went out, and had no opportunity afterwards of
speaking to him.  Was Roger Kyffin pleased with his ward?  Not
altogether.  He thought that he spent too much time in going to places
of public amusement.  He might more frequently have offered to go out to
Hampstead.  Still he did not like to lecture the young man.

"When I was young I should not have been contented with what now pleases
me.  Harry will soon have had enough of this sort of life, and then will
take to more useful pastimes."

"Come, Harry, let's be off," said Mr. Sleech, taking him by the arm.

Harry did not resist.  Mr. Sleech gave him a capital dinner at the "Blue
Posts," and looked in afterwards at the "Pearl Drinkers' Club."

"Come now," he said, "we will steer for the `Saracen's Head,' Gerard
Street, Soho.  I will introduce you there to some liberal-minded men,
who will make you open your eyes a little."

Mr. Sleech was a rapid walker, and they quickly got over the ground.
Giving his name, they were admitted into a large room, already full of
persons.  A considerable number were young men, but there were some
already advanced in life.  In address and appearance the greater number
had imitated the French Republicans, while all, as a sign of their
liberality, kept on their hats.  A young man was on his legs, his hair
escaping from under his hat, hanging over his shoulders.  His eyes
rolled wildly, while he flung his arms about in every direction, every
now and then bringing his doubled fist down upon the palm of his other
hand.  His oratory was fluent and bold.

"The past must be buried in oblivion!" he exclaimed.  "We dare not look
at it.  A hideous system of the domination of one class over the souls
and minds and bodies of the vast majority.  A new era must be organised,
but before a better system can be raised up, the ancient must be
levelled with the dust.  On a new foundation--the whole of the people--
we must build up a glorious temple, a superb superstructure, in which
people of all nations, united in the bonds of fraternity, must come and
worship together the great Goddess of Reason."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN DANGEROUS COMPANY.

Harry's visit to the Jacobin Club was several times repeated.  He met
there more than one man of note.  The members were, however, chiefly
those who, carried away by their ardent love of freedom, which in France
had degenerated into unbridled licence, and their hatred of tyranny,
failed to perceive the happy mean where a settled government and just
laws exist.

It would have been surprising had Harry not felt somewhat of the
enthusiasm of the speakers.  Silas Sleech only once or twice took a part
in the debates, and on these occasions he advocated the most extreme
measures; and although the assassination of the King of England was not
mentioned, the regicides of the first Charles were lauded to the skies,
as among the truest patriots of which history makes note.

"I wonder what your old mentor would say, if he heard of your attending
our meetings," said Sleech, as they were walking home.  "However, it's
your own fault if he finds out.  To-morrow we'll play a different sort
of game.  I am sadly in want of a few hundred pounds, and I have an idea
that I shall get them; if you will stand by me, Harry, I will explain
matters you by-and-bye."

The next evening Silas led Harry to one of the haunts which they had of
late frequented.  They entered in the same cautious way as before.  At
that time the police were actively engaged in endeavouring to destroy
the numerous gambling-houses, not improperly known as hells, in London.
Harry knew very well that he had no business to be there, and nearly
every day he persuaded himself that he would refuse to go again; but as
the evening came round, the tempter's persuasion overcame his scruples.
On this occasion a considerable number of well-dressed men were present,
many of them evidently men of rank and position.  If they went, why
should not he?  He had hitherto been wonderfully successful, and he had
made up his mind not to stake more than he had won.  There was an
abundance of sparkling wine and other refreshments on the sideboard.
The room also was brilliantly lighted with wax candles, and Harry felt
himself in remarkably good spirits.  Silas was already playing, and
placing somewhat heavy stakes on the table.  Harry approached him, and
followed the example of his friend.  Fortune seemed to have turned
against him.  He lost stake after stake.  Still Silas signed to him to
go on; a strange infatuation seized him.  He lost still more.  Suddenly
he looked up, when he saw the countenance of young Gilby, who was
watching him narrowly.  The young man came round to him, and placed his
hand on his shoulder.

"`Still waters run deep,' old boy.  I thought so," he whispered.  "I am
glad to see you are not such a muff as I took you for.  I don't know
what our friends in Broad Street would say to you, if they saw you here.
However, mum's the word with me.  Go on and prosper."

Harry felt himself abashed.  He could make no reply.

"If one or two hundred pounds are of any use to you, you are welcome to
them, young one," said Gilby, in a tone which he intended to be
good-natured.

"No, thank you," said Harry; "I don't intend to lose more than my purse
can bear."

"Oh, oh! the young one has a touch of pride about him!"  Gilby
whispered, loud enough, however, for Harry to hear him.

Harry drew out his last five guineas.  He staked them and lost.  Sleech
came up to him, and put a roll of gold into his hand.

"You can pay me at your convenience.  Don't stop now, or it would ruin
all."

Harry fully believed that he should recover his loss.  One hundred, two
hundred pounds soon went.  Again Sleech was by his side, and repeated
his offer.

"Nonsense; I will take no refusal."

Harry took the gold and lost it.  He retained his countenance
wonderfully.  Gilby smiled.

"You had better borrow of me," he whispered.

"No, thank you; my friend has my purse," answered Harry, with a certain
amount of prevarication.

It was getting late.  Harry lost still more.  Sleech poured out a
tumbler of wine, which Harry tossed off.  Silas led him away to a desk
in a recess.

"Here," he said, "between friends we do not want acknowledgment, but
business is business."

Harry signed the paper put before him.

"You need not be afraid of being cross-questioned, Harry," observed
Silas, as they walked home.  "It is a comfort to think that your
straight-laced guardian is safe across the seas in old Ireland.  I am
afraid you would think I was talking blasphemy, if I was to pray that he
might never come back again, always provided he has left you his heir,
which I have an idea he intends to do.  In that case, my boy, we each
should benefit.  You would get his fortune, and I should step into his
shoes."

"Don't talk so, Sleech," said Harry.  "He's the best friend I ever had,
and I don't expect to get another like him; and as to his fortune, I
pray that he may live to a green old age, and enjoy it himself.  I only
hope you were joking."  And Harry felt himself getting angry, not the
less so that he could not help secretly acknowledging that he had been
led by the nose by such an arch-hypocrite as Sleech.

"Of course, of course, I was joking," said that individual, in the bland
tone he could so well assume.  "There's no man I esteem more than our
managing clerk, Mr. Kyffin, and I admire you for your affection for him,
only I don't think he would be quite satisfied if he knew the way you
spend your spare hours."

Some important business with regard to a heavy mortgage on an estate had
taken Mr. Kyffin to Ireland; and from the state of the country and other
circumstances it seemed probable that he might be detained there for a
considerable time.  He little thought how serious an influence his
absence would have in the destiny of the youth in whose welfare he was
so deeply interested.

Not till the next morning did Harry reflect how completely he had put
himself in Mr. Sleech's power.  He was to dine that day at his uncle's.
He was far from happy; he felt ill; he looked pale.  It was not
surprising, for he had had but little sleep.  His cousins rallied him.

"A London life does not seem to suit you," said Mr. Coppinger.  "You
stick closely to business, and I am pleased with your diligence.  If you
apply to me I will allow you a few days' run down to Hampshire."

Harry thanked his uncle.  After dinner Mr. Gilby left the table before
the rest of the gentlemen.  Harry followed some little time afterwards.
When he got into the drawing-room he found Mr. Gilby stationed before
the young ladies, talking eagerly.  Looking up, they saw him.  They were
silent.  Harry heard his own name mentioned.

"I could not help it," exclaimed Gilby, as he approached.  "I have been
telling them what a deep fellow you are, Tryon.  Why, there's not a more
rollicking blade about town, I suspect, if we come to follow you into
all your haunts.  I have met you two or three times when you did not see
me.  Ah! ah! old boy.  Well, don't blush and be ashamed; I don't set up
to be straight-laced.  I am not a punctual man of business, no prim
knight in buckram."

Harry felt very much annoyed, but he restrained his temper.

"Mr. Gilby is making merry at my expense," he remarked.  "However, he is
welcome to do so.  I can only say that I wish I had never been to some
of the places he speaks of.  Until one has been to a place, one cannot
tell that it is objectionable."

Harry was beginning to practise some of the lessons in hypocrisy which
he had learned from Silas Sleech.  He was very uncomfortable all the
rest of the evening.  Gilby's mocking eye constantly fell on him, and he
fancied that even his cousins regarded him with looks of suspicion.  He
returned home.  Silas Sleech was sitting up for him.

"I am glad you have come at last," he said.  "I have been fearfully
troubled by a business of great importance, and I really do not know how
to settle it.  You can help me.  Indeed, I rather think that you are
bound to do so.  I handed over to you a pretty large sum last night.  I
little thought that not twenty-four hours would pass before I myself
should be in want of it."

Sleech dropped his voice.

"Harry, you are a good, honest fellow.  I must take you into my
confidence.  Don't be horrified--I'm an utterly ruined man."

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Harry.

"There's little use expressing sorrow unless you are disposed to help
me.  You can do it if you please, I can assure you.  All I want you to
do is to put your name to a few bits of paper and ask no questions.  I
know it's like begging you to put unbounded confidence in me.  Perhaps
you will say I don't deserve it, and yet I wish you knew my heart,
Harry, how anxious I am to serve you."

Several decanters stood on the table before Mr. Sleech.  Harry had
already taken a good deal of wine at his uncle's.  Sleech urged him to
take more.  The weather was hot.  He felt thirsty.  Those were drinking
days, the virtue of temperance was seldom inculcated.  On the contrary,
the more a man could drink, the better he was thought of by his ordinary
companions.  Sleech smiled as he saw Harry toss off tumbler after
tumbler of wine.  It was cool claret, and tasted like water.  The
tempter had now his victim more than ever in his hands.  The papers were
brought out.  Harry put his name to several.

"I wish you could write old Kyffin's name as well as you do your own,"
observed Sleech, "or your uncle's.  I say, Harry, why were you not
called Stephen Coppinger?  Your grandmother's name was Coppinger, wasn't
it?  In my opinion it's a better name than Tryon.  Better, at all
events, on 'change--Tryon's not worth much there, I have a notion, and
Coppinger is worth whatever amount Stephen Coppinger chooses to put
above it.  Don't trouble yourself about that amount you owe me--a few
hundreds only.  You forget all about it now, very likely.  However, just
let me get these papers in circulation, and I will never trouble you
again about it."

"Give it me," said Harry; "I wish I had never signed it," a sudden flash
of sense coming across his mind.

"So ho! boy, be calm, my dear fellow," answered Sleech.  "You will find
that you have got to deal with your master."

Harry Tryon never knew what papers he signed that fatal night, nor what
names he had written on them.  He had a faint idea that he had moved his
hand according to Sleech's guidance.

The next day Mr. Sleech declared himself indisposed, and told Harry he
should not go out that evening.  They were alone in the office.  It was
the business of Mr. Sleech to see it closed.  Harry's head ached
fearfully.  He had never felt so depressed.  Several bills had come in,
and he had already spent every farthing of his salary for the quarter.
Silas Sleech approached him.

"I rather think, Harry Tryon, this is the last day you will be at this
office--that is to say, if you take my advice."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"Why just this, my dear fellow, listen to reason.  There are certain
papers to which you have put your hand.  These will be brought before
your uncle in the course of a day or two, and will be strong evidence
against you, that you have aided in a serious fraud.  You are in my debt
for 500 pounds.  I have your acknowledgment.  You owe your tailor and
other tradesmen no small amount.  Now, you don't know Mr. Coppinger as I
do.  When he finds all this out, he will come down upon you with a
severity to which you are little accustomed.  I tell you, Harry, he
would, without the slightest compunction, have you shut up in Newgate,
and see you sent to the scaffold, even though you were his own son,
instead of his grand-nephew.  Thus you see your character is blasted,
and all hopes of success in business cut off."

Harry had sat with his hands clenched and his eyes fixed on Silas Sleech
while he made these remarks.

"Sleech, you are a villain!" he exclaimed with vehemence; "a cunning,
hypocritical scoundrel!"

"Very likely," answered the other.  "Go on, young one, what else am I?"

"You have deceived me, and led me into all sorts of vice," cried Harry,
clenching his fist.

"You are quite right.  You followed my lead.  I had an object, and I
have succeeded.  I wished to ruin you in our worthy principal's
estimation, and you'll find by to-morrow that he looks upon you as a
hopeless profligate.  You have no longer any chance of supplanting me.
As to Mr. Kyffin, I rather think that he will consider himself mistaken
with regard to you, and that you will no longer as of yore be precious
in his sight.  Thus you see, Harry, I have check-mated you completely."

"You have shown me clearly that I am a fool, and that you are a
consummate villain," exclaimed Harry.  "I will acknowledge my own fault
and exhibit your knavery."

"As you please," said Sleech, in an unmoved tone.  "You must remember
that in acknowledging your own folly you run the certainty of being
convicted of felony.  I have no especial personal dislike to you, except
that I have reason to believe you a rival in more cases than one, and
that you have been received on friendly terms by a family who have
looked upon me, though a relative, with haughty contempt.  You
understand me, Harry Tryon.  There is as good blood runs in my veins as
in yours, and do you think with that knowledge that I would consent to
be cut out and trampled upon without taking vengeance when I have it in
my own power?"

"Sleech, are you in earnest in what you say?" asked Harry, almost aghast
at this declaration of his companion.  "You are either mad or a most
fearful villain."

"You have called me so twice already," exclaimed Sleech, in the same
cool tone; "I don't mind it a bit.  Again I say, stay if you like and
brave your uncle's anger.  My character stands high with him, and I know
too many of the secrets of the house for him to venture to quarrel with
me, even should he wish it.  You see I know the ground I stand on, and I
again say, take your own course.  It's really a matter of indifference
to me."

Harry dared not longer trust himself with Sleech.  Seizing his candle,
he rushed up-stairs into his own room.  What should he do?  Had he known
more of the world he would have remained, and, acknowledging everything
he had done since he came to London, have repeated Mr. Sleech's threats;
but he did not know the world, nor Mr. Coppinger's character, while he
could not take advice of the friend who, he ought to have known, at all
events, if he did not, would certainly have given him such advice as a
wise father would give his best beloved son.  For a long time Harry
could not close his eyes.  At length, overcome by the violence of his
feelings, he dropped off to sleep.  The shutters were not closed.

It will make matters more clear if the full amount of Silas Sleech's
villainy is explained.  For several reasons he wished to get rid of
Harry.  He had induced him to put his signature to several I O U's, not,
however, to himself, but to different unknown persons.  On a part of the
very same paper he had himself forged Mr. Coppinger's signature in a way
by which it would, he thought, make it evident that it had been written
by Harry.  This made him more than ever anxious to induce the young man
to hurry away from London, knowing that his flight would assist in
fixing the crime on him.  Mr. Kyffin's absence would assist his object.

When Harry awoke the grey dawn was stealing into the room.  He sprang
up.  On his table was a purse; it contained ten guineas.  By it was a
paper, on which was written, "Take the advice of a friend, and go!"

It was not signed, and the handwriting was disguised.  "He has been too
cunning to give me the slightest proof of his villainy," he said to
himself.

"Go I must, I see it too clearly, but I will write to Mr. Kyffin, and
tell him all."

He packed a few articles of dress into a bag which he could easily
carry, and taking a stout stick in his hand, left his room.  He knocked
at Sleech's door as he went by.

"Close the door after me, I am going out," he said.

"Ah! you are wise," answered a voice from within.

Harry withdrew the bars and bolts.  He waited outside till he heard them
replaced.  Few people were in the streets at that early hour.  He walked
on rapidly westward.  He might be in time to catch the coach, which
started at an early hour from Piccadilly.  It would have carried him by
night for a considerable part of the journey.  He might hire a horse for
the following day, or proceed on foot.  He ran rather than walked along
the streets; there were no hackney coaches out at that hour, and he had
his legs alone to depend on.  The heavy coach was beginning to move just
as he reached its place of departure.  There was one seat vacant.  He
had just time to climb into it, when the vehicle commenced its rumbling,
rolling progress to the south-west.  The inside, which carried six
people, was full.  One person sat by the coachman on the box, and four
others were perched up behind him.  Harry's seat was facing the guard,
who was known by the large red coat, ornamented by yellow lace, and the
huge blunderbuss which was slung by his side.  Harry was not inclined
for conversation.  The guard eyed him narrowly for some time.

"You are all right," he said at last.  "It is necessary to be awake,
when people come as you did without booking their names.  We were robbed
three days ago by a gentleman on a fine horse, and even I took him for a
nobleman, till he cried, `Stand and deliver,' and somehow or other my
blunderbuss would not go off, and the passengers inside only screamed
and cried, and those outside only roared and swore.  However, if I
thought you were up to any tri

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