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Johnny Ludlow, Fifth Series

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Title: Johnny Ludlow, Fifth Series

Author: Mrs. Henry Wood


        
Release date: October 6, 2012 [eBook #40951]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JOHNNY LUDLOW, FIFTH SERIES ***

  JOHNNY LUDLOW




  [Illustration]




  JOHNNY LUDLOW

  BY
  MRS. HENRY WOOD
  AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "THE CHANNINGS," ETC.

  _FIFTH SERIES_

  +London+
  MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
  NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1899




  LONDON:
  PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
  STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.




CONTENTS.


                                 PAGE

  FEATHERSTON'S STORY               1
  WATCHING ON ST. MARK'S EVE      205
  SANKER'S VISIT                  224
  ROGER MONK                      245
  THE EBONY BOX                   271
  OUR FIRST TERM AT OXFORD        349




    "God sent his Singers upon earth
    With songs of sadness and of mirth,
    That they might touch the hearts of men,
    And bring them back to heaven again."
                                    LONGFELLOW.




JOHNNY LUDLOW.




FEATHERSTON'S STORY.


I.

I have called this Featherston's story, because it was through him that
I heard about it--and, indeed, saw a little of it towards the end.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Buttermead, the wide straggling district to which Featherston enjoyed
the honour of being doctor-in-ordinary, was as rural as any that can be
found in Worcestershire. Featherston's house stood at the end of the
village. Whitney Hall lay close by; as did our school, Dr. Frost's. In
the neighbourhood were scattered a few other substantial residences,
some farmers' homesteads and labourers' cottages. Featherston was a slim
man, with long thin legs and a face grey and careworn. His patients
(like the soldier's steam arm) gave him no rest day or night.

There is no need to go into details here about Featherston's people.
His sister, Mary Ann, lived in his house at one time, and for everyday
ailments was almost as good a doctor as he. She was not at all like
him: a merry, talkative, sociable little woman, with black hair and
quick, kindly dark eyes.

Our resident French master in those days at Dr. Frost's was one Monsieur
Jules Carimon: a small man with honest blue eyes in his clean-shaven
face, and light brown hair cropped close to his head. He was an awful
martinet at study, but a genial little gentleman out of it. To the
surprise of Buttermead, he and Mary Featherston set up a courtship. It
was carried on in sober fashion, as befitted a sober couple who had both
left thirty years, and the rest, behind them; and after a summer or two
of it they laid plans for their marriage and for living in France.

"I'm sure I don't know what on earth I shall do amongst the French,
Johnny Ludlow," Mary said to me in her laughing way, when I and Bill
Whitney were having tea at Featherston's one half-holiday, the week
before the wedding. "Jules protests they are easier to get on with than
the English; not so stiff and formal; but I don't pay attention to all
he says, you know."

Monsieur Jules Carimon was going to settle down at his native place,
Sainteville--a town on the opposite coast, which had a service of
English steamers running to it two or three times a-week. He had
obtained the post of first classical master at the college there, and
meant to eke out his salary (never large in French colleges) by teaching
French and mathematics to as many English pupils as he could obtain out
of hours. Like other northern French seaport towns, Sainteville had its
small colony of British residents.

"We shall get on; I am not afraid," answered Mary Featherston to a
doubting remark made to her by old Mrs. Selby of the Court. "Neither I
nor Jules have been accustomed to luxury, and we don't care for it. We
would as soon make our dinner of bread-and-butter and radishes, as of
chicken and apple-tart."

So the wedding took place, and they departed the same day for
Sainteville. And of the first two or three years after that there's
nothing good or bad to record.

Selby Court lay just outside Buttermead. Its mistress, an ancient lady
now, was related to the Preen family, of whom I spoke in that story
which told of the tragical death of Oliver. Lavinia Preen, sister to
Oliver's father, Gervase Preen, but younger, lived with Mrs. Selby as
a sort of adopted daughter; and when the death of the father, old Mr.
Preen, left nearly all his large family with scarcely any cheese to
their bread, Mrs. Selby told Ann Preen, the youngest of them all, that
she might come to her also. So Lavinia and Ann Preen lived at the Court,
and had no other home.

These two ladies were intimate with Mary Featherston, all three being
much attached to one another. When Mary married and left her country
for France, the Miss Preens openly resented it, saying she ought to
have had more consideration. Did some premonitory instinct prompt that
unreasonable resentment? I cannot say. No one can say. But it is certain
that had Mary Featherston not gone to live abroad, the ominous chain of
events fated to engulf the sisters could not have touched them, and this
account, which is a perfectly true one, would never have been written.

For a short time after the marriage they and Mary Carimon exchanged a
letter now and then; not often, for foreign postage was expensive; and
then it dropped altogether.

Mrs. Selby became an invalid, and died. She left each of the two sisters
seventy pounds a-year for life; if the one died, the other was to enjoy
the whole; when both were dead, it would lapse back to the Selby estate.

"Seventy pounds a-year!" remarked Ann Preen to her sister. "It does not
seem very much, does it, Lavinia? Shall we be able to live upon it?"

They were seated in the wainscoted parlour at Selby Court, talking of
the future. The funeral was over, and they must soon leave; for the
house was waiting to be done up for the reception of its new master, Mr.
Paul Selby, an old bachelor full of nervous fancies.

"We must live upon it, Nancy," said Lavinia in answer to her.

She was the stronger-minded of the two, and she looked it. A keen,
practical woman, of rather more than middle height, with smooth brown
hair, pleasant, dark hazel eyes, and a bright glow in her cheeks. Ann
(or Nancy, as she was more often called) was smaller and lighter, with
a pretty face, a shower of fair ringlets, and mild, light-blue eyes;
altogether not unlike a pink-and-white wax doll.

"We should have been worse off, Nancy, had she not left us anything; and
sometimes I have feared she might not," remarked Lavinia cheerfully. "It
will be a hundred and forty pounds between us, dear; we can live upon
that."

"Of course we can, if you think so, Lavinia," said the other, who deemed
her elder sister wiser than any one in the world, and revered her
accordingly.

"But we should live cheaper abroad than here, I expect," continued
Lavinia. "It's said money goes twice as far in France as in England.
Suppose we were to go over, Nancy, and try? We could come back if we did
not like it."

Nancy's eyes sparkled. "I think it would be delightful," she said.
"Money go further in France--why, to be sure it does! Aunt Emily is able
to live like a princess at Tours, by all accounts. Yes, yes, Lavinia,
let us try France!"

                 *       *       *       *       *

One fine spring morning the Miss Preens packed up their bag and baggage
and started for the Continent. They went direct to Tours, intending to
make that place their pied-à-terre, as the French phrase it; at any
rate, for a time. It was not, perhaps, the wisest thing they could have
done.

For Mrs. Magnus, formerly Emily Preen, and their late father's sister,
did not welcome them warmly. She lived in style herself, one of the
leading stars in the society of Tours; and she did not at all like that
two middle-aged nieces, of straitened means, should take up their abode
in the next street. So Mrs. Magnus met her nieces with the assurance
that Tours would not do for them; it was too expensive a place; they
would be swamped in it. Mrs. Magnus was drawing near to the close of her
life then; had she known it, she might have been kinder, and let them
remain; but she was not able to foresee the hour of that great event
which must happen to us all any more than other people are. Oliver
Preen was with her then, revelling in the sunny days which were flitting
away on gossamer wings.

"Lavinia, do you think we can stay at Tours?"

The Miss Preens had descended at a fourth-rate hotel, picked out of the
guide-book. When Ann asked this question, they were sitting after dinner
in the table d'hôte room, their feet on the sanded floor. Sanded floors
were quite usual at that time in many parts of France.

"Stay here to put up with Aunt Emily's pride and insolence!" quickly
answered Miss Preen. "No. I will tell you what I have done, Ann. I wrote
yesterday to Mary Carimon, asking her about Sainteville; whether she
thinks it will suit us, and so on. As soon as her answer comes--she's
certain to say yes--we will _go_, dear, and leave Mrs. Magnus to her
grandeur. And, once we are safe away, _I shall write her a letter_,"
added Lavinia, in decisive tones; "a letter which she won't like."

Madame Carimon's answer came by return of post. It was as cordial as
herself. Sainteville would be the very place for them, she said, and she
should count the hours until they were there.

The Miss Preens turned their backs upon Tours, shaking its dust off
their shoes. Lavinia had a little nest of accumulated money, so was at
ease in that respect. And when the evening of the following day the
railway terminus at Sainteville was reached, the pleasant, smiling face
of Mary Carimon was the first they saw outside the barrière. She must
have been nearly forty now, but she did not look a day older than when
she had left Buttermead. Miss Lavinia was a year or two older than
Mary; Miss Ann a year or two younger.

"You must put up at the Hôtel des Princes," remarked Madame Carimon. "It
is the only really good one in the town. They won't charge you too much;
my husband has spoken to the landlady. And you must spend to-morrow with
me."

The hotel omnibus was waiting for them and other passengers, the luggage
was piled on the roof, and Madame Carimon accompanied them to the hotel.
A handsome hotel, the sisters thought; quite another thing from the one
at Tours. Mary Carimon introduced them to the landlady, Madame Podevin,
saw them seated down to tea and a cold fowl, and then left for the
night.

With Sainteville the Miss Preens were simply charmed. It was a fresh,
clean town, with wide streets, and good houses and old families, and
some bright shops. The harbour was large, and the pier extended out to
the open sea.

"I _should_ like to live here!" exclaimed Miss Lavinia, sitting down at
Madame Carimon's, in a state of rapture. "I never saw such a nice town,
or such a lovely market."

They had been about all the morning with Madame Carimon. It was
market-day, Wednesday. The market was held on the Grande Place; and
the delicious butter, the eggs, the fresh vegetables, the flowers and
the poultry, took Miss Lavinia's heart by storm. Nancy was more taken
with the picturesque market-women, in their white caps and long gold
ear-rings. Other ladies were doing their marketing as well as Madame
Carimon. She spoke to most of them, in French or in English, as the
case might be. Under the able tuition of her husband, she talked French
fluently now.

Madame Carimon's habitation--very nice, small and compact--was in the
Rue Pomme Cuite. The streets have queer names in some of these old
French towns. It was near the college, which was convenient for Monsieur
Carimon. Here they lived, with their elderly servant, Pauline. The same
routine went on daily in the steady little domicile from year's end to
year's end.

"Jules goes to the college at eight o'clock every week-day, after a cup
of coffee and a petit pain," said madame to her guests, "and he returns
at five to dinner. He takes his déjeûner in the college at twelve, and I
take mine alone at home. On Sundays he has no duty: we attend the French
Protestant Church in a morning, dine at one o'clock, and go for a walk
in the afternoon."

"You have no children, Mary?"

Mary Carimon's lively face turned sad as she answered: "There was one
little one; she stayed with us six months, and then God took her. I
wrote to you of it, you know, Lavinia. No, we have not any children.
Best not, Jules says; and I agree with him. They might only leave us
when we have learnt to love them; and that's a trial hard to bear. Best
as it is."

"I'm sure I should never learn to speak French, though we lived here for
a century," exclaimed Miss Lavinia. "Only to hear you jabbering to your
servant, Mary, quite distracts one's ears."

"Yes, you would. You would soon pick up enough to be understood in the
shops and at market."

At five o'clock, home came Monsieur Carimon. He welcomed the Miss
Preens with honest, genuine pleasure, interspersed with a little French
ceremony; making them about a dozen bows apiece before he met the hands
held out to him.

They had quite a gala dinner. Soup to begin with--broth, the English
ladies inwardly pronounced it--and then fish. A small cod, bought by
Madame Carimon at the fish-market in the morning, with oyster sauce.
Ten sous she had given for the cod, for she knew how to bargain now,
and six sous for a dozen oysters, as large as a five-franc piece.
This was followed by a delicious little fricandeau of veal, and that
by a tarte à la crême from the pastrycook's. She told her guests
unreservedly what all the dishes cost, to show them how reasonably
people might live at Sainteville.

Over the coffee, after dinner, the question of their settling in the
place was fully gone into, for the benefit of Monsieur Carimon's
opinions, who gave them in good English.

"Depend upon it, Lavinia, you could not do better," remarked Mary
Carimon. "If you cannot make your income do here, you cannot anywhere."

"We want to make it do well; not to betray our poverty, but to be able
to maintain a fairly good appearance," said Lavinia. "You understand me,
I am sure, monsieur."

"But certainly, mademoiselle," he answered; "it is what we all like to
do at Sainteville, I reckon."

"And _can_ do, if we are provident," added madame. "French ways are not
English ways. Our own income is small, Lavinia, yet we put by out of
it."

"A fact that goes without saying," confirmed the pleasant little man.
"If we did not put by, where would my wife be when I am no longer able
to work?"

"Provisions being so cheap---- What did you say, Nancy?" asked Madame
Carimon, interrupting herself.

"I was going to say that I could live upon oysters, and should like to,"
replied Nancy, shaking back her flaxen curls with a laugh. "Half-a-dozen
of those great big oysters would make me a lovely dinner any day--and
the cost would be only three halfpence."

"And only fivepence the cost of that beautiful fish," put in her sister.
"In Sainteville our income would amply suffice."

"It seems to me that it would, mesdemoiselles," observed Monsieur
Carimon. "Three thousand five hundred francs yearly! We French should
think it a sufficient sum. Doubtless much would depend upon the way in
which you laid it out."

"What should we have to pay for lodgings, Mary?" inquired Lavinia. "Just
a nice sitting-room and two small bedrooms; or a large room with two
beds in it; and to be waited on?"

"Oh, you won't find that at Sainteville," was the unexpected answer.
"Nobody lets lodgings English fashion: it's not the custom over here.
You can find a furnished apartment, but the people will not wait upon
you. There is always a little kitchen let with the rooms, and you must
have your own servant."

It was the first check the ladies had received. They sat thinking. "Dear
me!" exclaimed Nancy. "No lodgings!"

"Would the apartments you speak of be very dear?" asked Lavinia.

"That depends upon the number of rooms and the situation," replied
Madame Carimon. "I cannot call to mind just now any small apartment that
is vacant. If you like, we will go to-morrow and look about."

It was so arranged. And little Monsieur Carimon attended the ladies
back to the Hôtel des Princes at the sober hour of nine, and bowed them
into the porte cochère with two sweeps of his hat, wishing them the
good-evening and the very good-night.


II.

Thursday morning. Nancy Preen awoke with a sick headache, and could not
get up. But in the afternoon, when she was better, they went to Mary
Carimon's, and all three set out to look for an apartment--not meeting
with great success.

All they saw were too large, and priced accordingly. There was one,
indeed, in the Rue Lamartine, which suited as to size, but the rooms
were inconvenient and stuffy; and there was another small one on the
Grande Place, dainty and desirable, but the rent was very high. Madame
Carimon at once offered the landlord half-price, French custom: she
dealt at his shop for her groceries. No, no, he answered; his apartment
was the nicest in the town for its size, as mesdames saw, and it was in
the best situation--and not a single sou would the worthy grocer abate.

They were growing tired, then; and five o'clock, the universal hour at
Sainteville for dinner, was approaching.

"Come round to me after dinner, and we will talk it over," said Mary
Carimon, when they parted. "I will give you a cup of tea."

They dined at the table d'hôte, which both of them thought charming, and
then proceeded to the Rue Pomme Cuite. Monsieur Carimon was on the point
of going out, to spend an hour at the Café Pillaud, but he put down his
hat to wait awhile, out of respect to the ladies. They told him about
not having found an apartment to suit them.

"Of course we have not searched all parts of the town, only the most
likely ones," said Madame Carimon. "There are large apartments to be
had, but no small ones. We can search again to-morrow."

"I suppose there's not a little house to be had cheap, if we cannot find
an apartment?" cried Miss Nancy, who was in love with Sainteville, and
had set her heart upon remaining there.

"Tiens," quickly spoke Monsieur Carimon in French to his wife, "there's
the Petite Maison Rouge belonging to Madame Veuve Sauvage, in the Place
Ronde. It is still to let: I saw the affiche in the shop window to-day.
What do you think of it, Marie?"

Madame Carimon did not seem to know quite what to think. She looked at
her husband, then at the eager faces of her two friends; but she did not
speak.

About half-way down the Rue Tessin, a busy street leading to the port,
was a wide opening, giving on to the Place Ronde. The Place Ronde agreed
with its name, for it was somewhat in form of a horseshoe. Some fifteen
or sixteen substantial houses were built round it, each having a shop
for its basement; and trees, green and feathery, were scattered about,
affording a slight though pleasant shelter from the hot sun in summer
weather.

The middle house at the bottom of the Place Ronde, exactly facing the
opening from the Rue Tessin, was a very conspicuous house indeed,
inasmuch as it was painted red, whilst the other houses were white. All
of them had green persienne shutters to the upper windows. The shop, a
large one, belonging to this red house was that of the late Monsieur
Jean Sauvage, "Marchand de Vin en gros et en détail," as the
announcement over his door used to run in the later years of his life.
But when Jean Sauvage commenced business, in that same shop, it was only
as a retail vendor. Casting about in his mind one day for some means by
which his shop might be distinguished from other wine-shops and attract
customers, he hit upon the plan of painting the house red. No sooner
thought of than done. A painter was called, who converted the white
walls into a fiery vermilion, and stretched a board across the upper
part, between the windows of the first and second floors, on which
appeared in large letters "A la Maison Rouge."

Whether this sort of advertisement drew the public, or whether it might
have been the sterling respectability and devotion to business of
Monsieur Sauvage, he got on most successfully. The Marchand en détail
became also Marchand en gros, and in course of time he added liqueurs to
his wines. No citizen of Sainteville was more highly esteemed than he,
both as a man and a tradesman. Since his death the business had been
carried on by his widow, aided by the two sons, Gustave and Emile.
Latterly Madame Veuve Sauvage had given up all work to them; she was now
in years, and had well earned her rest. They lived in the rooms over the
shop, which were large and handsome. In former days, when the energies
of herself and her husband were chiefly devoted to acquiring and saving
money, they had let these upper rooms for a good sum yearly. Old Madame
Sauvage might be seen any day now sitting at a front-window, looking out
upon the world between her embroidered white curtains.

The door of this prosperous shop was between the two windows. The one
window displayed a few bottles of wine, most of them in straw cases;
in the other window were clear flacons of liqueurs: chartreuse, green
and yellow; curaçoa, warm and ruby; eau de vie de Danzick, with its
fluttering gold leaf; and many other sorts.

However, it is not with the goods of Madame Veuve Sauvage that we
have to do, but with her premises. Standing in front of the shop, as
if coveting a bottle of that choice wine for to-day's dinner, or an
immediate glass of delicious liqueur, you may see on your right hand,
but to the left of the shop, the private door of the house. On the other
side the shop is also a door which opens to a narrow entry. The entry
looks dark, even in the mid-day sun, for it is pretty long, extending
down a portion of the side of the Maison Rouge, which is a deep house,
and terminating in a paved yard surrounded by high buildings. At the end
of the yard is a small dwelling, with two modern windows, one above the
other. Near the under window is the entrance-door, painted oak colour,
with a brass knob, a bell-wire with a curious handle, and a knocker.
This little house the late Monsieur Sauvage had also caused to be
converted into a red one, the same as the larger.

In earlier days, when Jean Sauvage and his wife were putting their
shoulders to the wheel, they had lived in the little house with their
children; the two sons and the daughter, Jeanne. Jeanne Sauvage married
early and very well, an avocat. But since they had left it, the house in
the yard seemed to have been, as the Widow Sauvage herself expressed it,
unlucky. The first of the tenants had died there; the second had
disappeared--decamped in fact, to avoid paying rent and other debts; the
third had moved into a better house; and the fourth, an old widow lady,
had also died, owing a year's rent to Madame Sauvage, and leaving no
money to pay it.

It was of this small dwelling, lying under the shadow of the Maison
Rouge, that Monsieur Carimon had thought. Turning to the Miss Preens, he
gave them briefly a few particulars, and said he believed the house was
to be had on very reasonable terms.

"What do you call it?" exclaimed Lavinia. "The little red house?"

"Yes, we call it so," said Monsieur Carimon. "Emile Sauvage was talking
of it to me the other evening at the café, saying they would be glad to
have it tenanted."

"I fear our good friends here would find it dull," remarked Madame
Carimon to him. "It is in so gloomy a situation, you know, Jules."

"Mon amie, I do not myself see how that signifies," said he in reply.
"If your house is comfortable inside, does it matter what it looks out
upon?"

"Very true," assented Miss Lavinia, whose hopes had gone up again. "But
this house may not be furnished, Mary."

"It is partly furnished," said Madame Carimon. "When the old lady who
was last in it died, they had to take her furniture for the rent. It was
not much, I have heard."

"We should not want much, only two of us," cried Miss Ann eagerly. "Do
let us go to look at it to-morrow!"

On the following day, Friday, the Miss Preens went to the Place Ronde,
piloted by Mary Carimon. They were struck with admiration at the Maison
Rouge, all a fiery glow in the morning sun, and a novelty to English
eyes. Whilst Madame Carimon went into the shop to explain and ask for
the key, the sisters gazed in at the windows. Lying on the wine-bottles
was a small black board on which was written in white letters, "Petite
Maison à louer."

Monsieur Gustave Sauvage, key in hand, saluted the ladies in English,
which he spoke fairly well, and accompanied them to view the house.
The sun was very bright that day, and the confined yard did not look so
dull as at a less favourable time; and perhaps the brilliant red of the
little house, at which Nancy laughed, imparted a cheerfulness to it.
Monsieur Gustave opened the door with a latch-key, drew back, and waited
for them to enter.

The first to do so, or to attempt to do so, was Miss Preen. But no
sooner had she put one foot over the threshold than she drew back with
a start, somewhat discomposing the others by the movement.

"What is it, Lavinia?" inquired Ann.

"Something seemed to startle me, and throw me backward!" exclaimed
Lavinia Preen, regaining her breath. "Perhaps it was the gloom of the
passage: it is very dark."

"Pardon, mesdames," spoke Monsieur Gustave politely. "If the ladies will
forgive my entering before them, I will open the salon door."

The passage was narrow. The broad shoulders of Monsieur Gustave almost
touched the wall on either side as he walked along. Almost at the other
end of it, on his left hand, was the salon door; he threw it open, and
a little light shone forth. The passage terminated in a small square
recess. At the back of this was fixed a shallow marble slab for holding
things, above which was a cupboard let into the wall. On the right
of the recess was the staircase; and opposite the staircase the
kitchen-door, the kitchen being behind the salon.

The salon was nice when they were in it; the paint was fresh, the paper
light and handsome. It was of good size, and its large window looked to
the front. The kitchen opened upon a small back-yard, furnished with a
pump and a shed for wood or coal. On the floor above were two very good
chambers, one behind the other. Opposite these, on the other side of
the passage, was another room, not so large, but of fair size. It was
apparently built out over some part of the next-door premises, and
was lighted by a skylight. All the rooms were fresh and good, and the
passage had a window at the end.

Altogether it was not an inconvenient abode for people who did not go
in for show. The furniture was plain, clean and useful, but it would
have to be added to. There were no grates, not even a cooking-stove in
the kitchen. It was very much the Sainteville custom at that period
for tenants to provide grates for themselves, plenty of which could
be bought or hired for a small sum. An easy-chair or two would be
needed; tea-cups and saucers and wine-glasses; and though, there were
washing-stands, these contained no jugs or basins; and there were no
sheets or tablecloths or towels, no knives or forks, no brooms or
brushes, and so on.

"There is only this one sitting-room, you perceive," remarked Madame
Carimon, as they turned about, looking at the salon again, after coming
downstairs.

"Yes, that's a pity, on account of dining," replied Miss Nancy.

"One of our tenants made a pretty salon of the room above this, and this
the salle à manger," replied Monsieur Gustave. "Mesdames might like to
do the same, possibly?"

He had pointedly addressed Miss Lavinia, near whom he stood. She did not
answer. In fact--it was a very curious thing, but a fact--Miss Lavinia
had not spoken a word since she entered. She had gone through the house
taking in its features in complete silence, just as if that shock at the
door had scared away her speech.

The rent asked by Monsieur Gustave, acting for his mother, was very
moderate indeed--twenty pounds a-year, including the use of the
furniture. There would be no taxes to pay, he said; absolutely none;
the taxes of this little house, being upon their premises, were included
in their own. But to ensure this low rental, the house must be taken for
five years.

"Of course we will take it--won't we, Lavinia?" cried Miss Ann in a loud
whisper. "_Only_ twenty pounds a-year! Just think of it!"

"Sir," Miss Lavinia said to Monsieur Gustave, speaking at last, "the
house would suit us in some respects, especially as regards rent. But we
might find it too lonely: and I should hardly like to be bound for five
years."

All that was of course for mesdames' consideration, he frankly
responded. But he thought that if the ladies were established in it
with their ménage about them, they would not find it lonely.

"We will give you an answer to-morrow or Monday," decided Miss Lavinia.

They went about the town all that day with Madame Carimon; but nothing
in the shape of an apartment could be found to suit them. Madame invited
them again to tea in the evening. And by that time they had decided to
take the house. Nancy was wild about it. What with the change from the
monotony of their country house to the bright and busy streets, the gay
outdoor life, the delights of the table d'hôte, Ann Preen looked upon
Sainteville as an earthly paradise.

"The house is certainly more suited to you than anything else we have
seen," observed Madame Carimon. "I have nothing to say against the
Petite Maison Rouge, except its dull situation."

"Did it strike you, Mary, apart from its situation, as being gloomy?"
asked Lavinia.

"No. Once you are in the rooms they are cheerful enough."

"It did me. Gloomy, with a peculiar gloom, you understand. I'm sure the
passage was dark as night. It must have been its darkness that startled
me as we were going in."

"By the way, Lavinia, what was the matter with you then?" interrupted
her sister.

"I don't know, Nancy; I said at the time I did not know. With my first
step into the passage, some horror seemed to meet me and drive me
backward."

"Some horror!" repeated Nancy.

"I seemed to feel it so. I had still the glare of the streets and the
fiery red walls in my eyes, which must have caused the house passage to
look darker than it ought. That was all, I suppose--but it turned me
sick with a sort of fear; sick and shivery."

"That salon may be made as pretty a room as any in Sainteville,"
remarked Madame Carimon. "Many of the English residents here have only
one salon in their apartments. You see, we don't go in for ceremony;
France is not like England."

On the morrow the little house under the wing of the Maison Rouge was
secured by the Miss Preens. They took it in their joint names for five
years. To complete the transaction they were ushered upstairs to the
salon and presence of Madame Veuve Sauvage--a rather stately looking old
lady, attired in a voluminous black silk robe and a mourning cap of fine
muslin. Madame, who could not speak a syllable of English, conversed
graciously with her future tenants through the interpretation of Mary
Carimon, offering to be useful to them in any way she could. Lavinia
and Ann Preen both signed the bail, or agreement, and Madame Veuve
Sauvage likewise signed it; by virtue of which she became their
landlady, and they her tenants of the little house for five years.
Madame Carimon, and a shopman who came upstairs for the purpose, signed
as witnesses.

Wine and the little cakes called pistolets were then introduced; and so
the bargain was complete.

Oh if some kindly spirit from the all-seeing world above could only
have whispered a hint to those ill-fated sisters of what they were
doing!--had only whispered a warning in time to prevent it! Might not
that horror, which fell upon Lavinia as she was about to pass over the
door-sill, have served her as such? But who regards these warnings when
they come to us? Who personally applies them? None.

Having purchased or hired the additional things required, the Miss
Preens took possession of their house. Nancy had the front bed-chamber,
which Lavinia thought rather the best, and so gave it up to her; Lavinia
took the back one. The one opposite, with the skylight, remained
unoccupied, as their servant did not sleep in the house. Not at all an
uncommon custom at Sainteville.

An excellent servant had been found for them in the person of Flore
Pamart, a widow, who was honest, cooked well, and could talk away in
English; all recommendations that the ladies liked. Flore let herself in
with a latch-key before breakfast, and left as soon after five o'clock
in the evening as she could get the dinner things removed. Madame Flore
Pamart had one little boy named Dion, who went to school by day, but
was at home night and morning; for which reason his mother could only
take a daily service.

Thus the Miss Preens became part of the small colony of English at
Sainteville. They took sittings in the English Protestant Church, which
was not much more than a room; and they subscribed to the casino on the
port when it opened for the summer season, spending many an evening
there, listening to the music, watching the dancing when there was any,
and chattering with the acquaintances they met. They were well regarded,
these new-comers, and they began to speak French after a fashion. Now
and then they went out to a soirée; once in a way gave one in return.
Very sober soirées indeed were those of Sainteville; consisting (as
Sam Weller might inform us) of tea at seven o'clock with, hot galette,
conversation, cake at ten (gâteau Suisse or gâteau au rhum), and a glass
of Picardin wine.

They were pleased with the house, once they had settled down in it, and
never a shadow of regret crossed either of them for having taken the
Petite Maison Rouge.

In this way about a twelvemonth wore on.


III.

It was a fine morning at the beginning of April; the sun being
particularly welcome, as Sainteville had latterly been favoured with
a spell of ill-natured, bitter east winds. About eleven o'clock, Miss
Preen and her sister turned out of their house to take a walk on the
pier--which they liked to do most days, wind and weather permitting. In
going down the Rue des Arbres, they were met by a fresh-looking little
elderly gentleman, with rather long white hair, and wearing a white
necktie. He stopped to salute the ladies, bowing ceremoniously low
to each of them. It was Monsieur le Docteur Dupuis, a kindly man of
skilful reputation, who had now mostly, though not altogether, given up
practice to his son, Monsieur Henri Dupuis. Miss Lavinia had a little
acquaintance with the doctor, and took occasion to ask him news of the
public welfare; for there was raging in the town the malady called "la
grippe," which, being interpreted, means influenza.

It was not much better at present, Monsieur Dupuis answered; but this
genial sunshine he hoped would begin to drive it away; and, with another
bow, he passed onward.

The pier was soon reached, and they enjoyed their walk upon it. The
sunlight glinted on the rather turbulent waves of the sea in the
distance, but there was not much breeze to be felt on land. When
nearing the end of the pier their attention was attracted to a
fishing-boat, which was tumbling about rather unaccountably in its
efforts to make the harbour.

"It almost looks from here as though it had lost its rudder, Nancy,"
remarked Miss Lavinia.

They halted, and stood looking over the side at the object of interest;
not particularly noticing that a gentleman stood near them, also looking
at the same through an opera-glass. He was spare, of middle height and
middle age; his hair was grey, his face pale and impassive; the light
over-coat he wore was of fashionable English cut.

"Oh, Lavinia, look, look! It is coming right on to the end of the pier,"
cried Ann Preen.

"Hush, Nancy, don't excite yourself," said Miss Lavinia, in lowered
tones. "It will take care not to do that."

The gentleman gave a wary glance at them. He saw two ladies dressed
alike, in handsome black velvet mantles, and bonnets with violet
feathers; by which he judged them to be sisters, though there was no
resemblance in face. The elder had clear-cut features, a healthy colour,
dark brown hair, worn plain, and a keen, sensible expression. The other
was fair, with blue eyes and light ringlets.

"Pardon me," he said, turning to them, and his accent was that of a
gentleman. "May I offer you the use of my glasses?"

"Oh, thank you!" exclaimed Nancy, in a light tone bordering on a giggle;
and she accepted the glasses. She was evidently pleased with the offer
and with the stranger.

Lavinia, on the contrary, was not. The moment she saw his full face
she shrank from it--shrank from him. The feeling might have been as
unaccountable as that which came over her when she had been first
entering the Petite Maison Rouge; but it was there. However, she put it
from her, and thanked him.

"I don't think I see so well with the glasses as without them; it seems
all a mist," remarked Nancy, who was standing next the stranger.

"They are not properly focused for you. Allow me," said he, as he took
the glasses from her to alter them. "Young eyes need a less powerful
focus than elderly ones like mine."

He spoke in a laughing tone; Nancy, fond of compliments, giggled
outright this time. She was approaching forty; he might have been ten
years older. They continued standing there, watching the fishing-boat,
and exchanging remarks at intervals. When it had made the harbour
without accident, the Miss Preens wished him good-morning, and went back
down the pier; he took off his hat to them, and walked the other way.

"What a _charming_ man!" exclaimed Nancy, when they were at a safe
distance.

"I don't like him," dissented Lavinia.

"Not like him!" echoed the other in surprise. "Why, Lavinia, his manners
are delightful. I wonder who he is?"

When nearly home, in turning into the Place Ronde, they met an English
lady of their acquaintance, the wife of Major Smith. She had been
ordering a dozen of vin Picardin from the Maison Rouge. As they stood
talking together, the gentleman of the pier passed up the Rue de Tessin.
He lifted his hat, and they all, including Mrs. Smith, bowed.

"Do you know him?" quickly asked Nancy, in a whisper.

"Hardly that," answered Mrs. Smith. "When we were passing the Hôtel des
Princes this morning, a gentleman turned out of the courtyard, and he
and my husband spoke to one another. The major said to me afterwards
that he had formerly been in the--I forget which--regiment. He called
him Mr. Fennel."

Now, as ill-fortune had it, Miss Preen found herself very poorly after
she got home. She began to sneeze and cough, and thought she must have
taken cold through standing on the pier to watch the vagaries of the
fishing-smack.

"I hope you are not going to have the influenza!" cried Nancy, her blue
eyes wide with concern.

But the influenza it proved to be. Miss Preen seemed about to have it
badly, and lay in bed the next day. Nancy proposed to send Flore for
Monsieur Dupuis, but Lavinia said she knew how to treat herself as well
as he could treat her.

The next day she was no better. Poor Nancy had to go out alone, or to
stay indoors. She did not like doing the latter at all; it was too dull;
her own inclination would have led her abroad all day long and every
day.

"I saw Captain Fennel on the pier again," said she to her sister that
afternoon, when she was making the tea at Lavinia's bedside, Flore
having carried up the tray.

"I hope you did not talk to him, Ann," spoke the invalid, as well as she
could articulate.

"I talked a little," said Nancy, turning hot, conscious that she had
gossiped with him for three-quarters-of-an-hour. "He stopped to speak to
me; I could not walk on rudely."

"Any way, don't talk to him again, my dear. I do not like that man."

"What is there to dislike in him, Lavinia?"

"That I can't say. His countenance is not a good one; it is shifty and
deceitful. He is a man you could never trust."

"I'm sure I've heard you say the same of other people."

"Because I can read faces," returned Lavinia.

"Oh--well--I consider Captain Fennel's is a _handsome_ face," debated
Nancy.

"Why do you call him 'Captain'?"

"He calls himself so," answered Nancy. "I suppose it was his rank in the
army when he retired. They retain it afterwards by courtesy, don't they,
Lavinia?"

"I am not sure. It depends upon whether they retire in rotation or sell
out, I fancy. Mrs. Smith said the major called him Mr. Fennel, and he
ought to know. There, I can't talk any more, Nancy, and the man is
nothing to us, that we need discuss him."

La grippe had taken rather sharp hold of Lavinia Preen, and she was
upstairs for ten days. On the first afternoon she went down to the
salon, Captain Fennel called, very much to her surprise; and, also to
her surprise, he and Nancy appeared to be pretty intimate.

In point of fact, they had met every day, generally upon the pier. Nancy
had said nothing about it at home. She was neither sly nor deceitful
in disposition; rather notably simple and unsophisticated; but, after
Lavinia's reproof the first time she told about meeting him, she would
not tell again.

Miss Preen behaved coolly to him; which he would not appear to see. She
sat over the fire, wrapped in a shawl, for it was a cold afternoon. He
stayed only a little time, and put his card down on the slab near the
stairs when he left. Lavinia had it brought to her.

"Mr. Edwin Fennel."

"Then he is not Captain Fennel," she observed. "But, Nancy, what in the
world could have induced the man to call here? And how is it you seem to
be familiar with him?"

"I have met him out-of-doors, sometimes, while you were ill," said
Nancy. "As to his calling here--he came, I suppose, out of politeness.
There's no harm in it, Lavinia."

Miss Lavinia did not say there was. But she disliked the man too much to
favour his acquaintanceship. Instinct warned her against him.

How little was she prepared for what was to follow! Before she was well
out-of-doors again, before she had been anywhere except to church, Nancy
gave her a shock. With no end of simperings and blushings, she confessed
that she had been asked to marry Captain Fennel.

Had Miss Lavinia Preen been herself politely asked to marry a certain
gentleman popularly supposed to reside underground, she would not have
been much more indignantly startled. Perhaps "frightened" would be the
better word for it.

"But--you _would_ not, Nancy!" she gasped, when she found her voice.

"I don't know," simpered foolish Nancy. "I--I--think him very nice and
gentlemanly, Lavinia."

Lavinia came out of her fright sufficiently to reason. She strove to
show Nancy how utterly unwise such a step would be. They knew nothing
of Captain Fennel or his antecedents; to become his wife might just be
courting misery and destruction. Nancy ceased to argue; and Lavinia
hoped she had yielded.

Both sisters kept a diary. But for that fact, and also that the diaries
were preserved, Featherston could not have arrived at the details of the
story so perfectly. About this time, a trifle earlier or later, Ann
Preen wrote as follows in hers:

"_April 16th._--I met Captain Fennel on the pier again this morning. I
do _think_ he goes there because he knows he may meet me. Lavinia is not
out yet; she has not quite got rid of that Grip, as they stupidly call
it here. I'm sure it has gripped _her_. We walked quite to the end of
the pier, and then I sat down on the edge for a little while, and he
stood talking to me. I do wish I could tell Lavinia of these meetings;
but she was so cross the first day I met him, and told her of it, that I
don't like to. Captain Fennel lent me his glasses as usual, and I looked
at the London steamer, which was coming in. Somehow we fell to talking
of the Smiths; he said they were poor, had not much more than the
major's half-pay. 'Not like you rich people, Miss Nancy,' he said--he
thinks that's my right name. 'Your income is different from theirs.'
'Oh,' I screamed out, 'why, it's only a hundred and forty pounds
a-year!' 'Well,' he answered, smiling, 'that's a comfortable sum for
a place like this; five francs will buy as much at Sainteville as
half-a-sovereign will in England.' Which is pretty nearly true."

Skipping a few entries of little importance, we come to another:

"_May 1st_, and such a lovely day!--It reminds me of one May-day at
home, when the Jacks-in-the-green were dancing on the grass-plot before
the Court windows at Buttermead, and Mrs. Selby sat watching them, as
pleased as they were, saying she should like to dance, too, if she
could only go first to the mill to be ground young again. Jane and Edith
Peckham were spending the day with us. It was just such a day as this,
warm and bright; light, fleecy clouds flitting across the blue sky. I
wish Lavinia were out to enjoy it! but she is hardly strong enough for
long walks yet, and only potters about, when she does get out, in the
Rue des Arbres or the Grande Place, or perhaps over to see Mary Carimon.

"I don't know what to do. I lay awake all last night, and sat moping
yesterday, thinking what I _could_ do. Edwin wants me to marry him; I
told Lavinia, and she absolutely forbids it, saying I should rush upon
misery. _He_ says I should be happy as the day's long. I feel like a
distracted lunatic, not knowing which of them is right, or which opinion
I ought to yield to. I have obeyed Lavinia all my life; we have never
had a difference before; her wishes have been mine, and mine have been
hers. But I _can't_ see why she need have taken up this prejudice
against him, for I'm sure he's more like an angel than a man; and, as he
whispers to me, Nancy Fennel would be a prettier name than Nancy Preen.
I said to him to-day, 'My name is Ann, not really Nancy.' 'My dear,' he
answered, 'I shall always call you Nancy; I love the simple name.'

"I no longer talk about him to Lavinia, or let her suspect that we still
meet on the pier. It would make her angry, and I can't bear that. I dare
not hint to her what Edwin said to-day--that he should take matters into
his own hands. He means to go over to Dover, _viâ_ Calais; stay at Dover
a fortnight, as the marriage law requires, and then come back to fetch
me; and after the marriage has taken place we shall return here to live.

"Oh dear, what am I to do? It will be a _dreadful_ thing to deceive
Lavinia; and it will be equally dreadful to lose _him_. He declares that
if I do not agree to this he shall set sail for India (where he used to
be with his regiment), and never, never see me again. Good gracious!
_never_ to see me again!

"The worst is, he wants to go off to Dover at once, giving one no time
for consideration! Must I say Yes, or No? The uncertainty shakes me to
pieces. He laughed to-day when I said something of this, assuring me
Lavinia's anger would pass away like a summer cloud when I was his wife;
that sisters had no authority over one another, and that Lavinia's
opposition arose from selfishness only, because she did not want to lose
me. '_Risk it_, Nancy,' said he; 'she will receive you with open arms
when I bring you back from Dover.' If I could only think so! Now and
then I feel inclined to confide my dilemma to Mary Carimon, and ask her
opinion, only that I fear she might tell Lavinia."

                 *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Edwin Fennel quitted Sainteville. When he was missed people thought
he might have gone for good. But one Saturday morning some time onwards,
when the month of May was drawing towards its close, Miss Lavinia, out
with Nancy at market, came full upon Captain Fennel in the crowd on the
Grande Place. He held out his hand.

"I thought you had left Sainteville, Mr. Fennel," she remarked, meeting
his hand and the sinister look in his face unwillingly.

"Got back this morning," he said; "travelled by night. Shall be leaving
again to-day or to-morrow. How are _you_, Miss Nancy?"

Lavinia pushed her way to the nearest poultry stall. "Will you come
here, Ann?" she said. "I want to choose a fowl."

She began to bargain, half in French, half in English, with the poultry
man, all to get rid of that other man, and she looked round, expecting
Nancy had followed her. Nancy had not stirred from the spot near the
butter-baskets: she and Captain Fennel had their heads together, he
talking hard and fast.

They saw Lavinia looking at them; looking angry, too. "Remember,"
impressively whispered Captain Fennel to Nancy: and, lifting his hat to
Lavinia, over the white caps of the market-women, he disappeared across
the Place.

"I wonder what that man has come back for?" cried Miss Preen, as Nancy
reached her--not that she had any suspicion. "And I wonder you should
stay talking with him, Nancy!"

Nancy did not answer.

Sending Flore--who had attended them with her market-basket--home with
the fowl and eggs and vegetables, they called at the butcher's and the
grocer's, and then went home themselves. Miss Preen then remembered
that she had forgotten one or two things, and must go out again. Nancy
remained at home. When Lavinia returned, which was not for an hour, for
she had met various friends and stayed to gossip, her sister was in
her room. Flore thought Mademoiselle Nancy was setting her drawers to
rights: she had heard her opening and shutting them.

Time went on until the afternoon. Just before five o'clock, when Flore
came into lay the cloth for dinner, Lavinia, sitting at the window, saw
her sister leave the house and cross the yard, a good-sized paper parcel
in her hand.

"Why, that is Miss Nancy," she exclaimed, in much surprise. "Where can
she be going to now?"

"Miss Nancy came down the stairs as I was coming in here," replied
Flore. "She said to me that she had just time to run to Madame Carimon's
before dinner."

"Hardly," dissented Miss Lavinia. "What can she be going for?"

As five o'clock struck, Flore (always punctual, from self-interest) came
in to ask if she should serve the fish; but was told to wait until Miss
Nancy returned. When half-past five was at hand, and Nancy had not
appeared, Miss Preen ordered the fish in, remarking that Madame Carimon
must be keeping her sister to dinner.

Afterwards Miss Preen set out for the casino, expecting she should meet
them both there; for Lavinia and Nancy had intended to go. Madame
Carimon was not a subscriber, but she sometimes paid her ten sous and
went in. It would be quite a pretty sight to-night--a children's dance.
Lavinia soon joined some friends there, but the others did not come.

At eight o'clock she was in the Rue Pomme Cuite, approaching Madame
Carimon's. Pauline, in her short woollen petticoats, and shoeless feet
thrust into wooden sabots, was splashing buckets of water before the
door to scrub the pavement, and keeping up a screaming chatter with the
other servants in the street, who were doing the same, Saturday-night
fashion.

Madame Carimon was in the salon, sitting idle in the fading light; her
sewing lay on the table. Lavinia's eyes went round the room, but she saw
no one else in it.

"Mary, where is Nancy?" she asked, as Madame Carimon rose to greet her
with outstretched hands.

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Madame Carimon lightly. "She has not
been here. Did you think she had?"

"She dined here--did she not?"

"What, Nancy? Oh no! I and Jules dined alone. He is out now, giving a
French lesson. I have not seen Nancy since--let me see--since Thursday,
I think; the day before yesterday."

Lavinia Preen sat down, half-bewildered. She related the history of the
evening.

"It is elsewhere that Nancy is gone," remarked Madame Carimon. "Flore
must have misunderstood her."

Concluding that to be the case, and that Nancy might already be at
home, Lavinia returned at once to the Petite Maison Rouge, Mary Carimon
bearing her company in the sweet summer twilight. Lavinia opened the
door with her latch-key. Flore had departed long before. There were
three latch-keys to the house, Nancy possessing one of them.

They looked into every room, and called out "Nancy! Nancy!" But she was
not there.

Nancy Preen had gone off with Captain Fennel by the six-o'clock train,
en route for Dover, there to be converted into Mrs. Fennel.

And had Nancy foreseen the terrible events and final crime which this
most disastrous step would bring about, she might have chosen, rather
than take it, to run away to the Protestant cemetery outside the gates
of Sainteville, there to lay herself down to die.


IV.

"Where _can_ Nancy be?"

Miss Preen spoke these words to Mary Carimon in a sort of flurry. After
letting themselves into the house, the Petite Maison Rouge, and calling
up and down it in vain for Nancy, the question as to where she could be
naturally arose.

"She must be spending the evening with the friends she stayed to dine
with," said Madame Carimon.

"I don't know where she would be likely to stay. Unless--yes--perhaps
at Mrs. Hardy's."

"That must be it, Lavinia," pronounced Madame Carimon.

It was then getting towards nine o'clock. They set out again for Mrs.
Hardy's to escort Nancy home. She lived in the Rue Lothaire; a long
street, leading to the railway-station.

Mrs. Hardy was an elderly lady. When near her door they saw her
grand-nephew, Charles Palliser, turn out of it. Charley was a
good-hearted young fellow, the son of a rich merchant in London. He
was staying at Sainteville for the purpose of acquiring the art of
speaking French as a native.

"Looking for Miss Ann Preen!" cried he, as they explained in a word or
two. "No, she is not at our house; has not been there. I saw her going
off this evening by the six-o'clock train."

"Going off by the six-o'clock train!" echoed Miss Lavinia, staring at
him. "Why, what do you mean, Mr. Charles? My sister has not gone off by
any train."

"It was in this way," answered the young man, too polite to flatly
contradict a lady. "Mrs. Hardy's cousin, Louise Soubitez, came to town
this morning; she spent the day with us, and after dinner I went to see
her off by the train. And there, at the station, was Miss Ann Preen."

"But not going away by train," returned Miss Lavinia.

"Why, yes, she was. I watched the train out of the station. She and
Louise Soubitez sat in the same compartment."

A smile stole to Charles Palliser's face. In truth, he was amused at
Miss Lavinia's consternation. It suddenly struck her that the young man
was joking.

"Did you speak to Ann, Mr. Charles?"

"Oh yes; just a few words. There was not time for much conversation;
Louise was late."

Miss Preen felt a little shaken.

"Was Ann alone?"

"No; she was with Captain Fennel."

And, with that, a suspicion of the truth, and the full horror of it,
dawned upon Lavinia Preen. She grasped Madame Carimon's arm and turned
white as death.

"It never can be," she whispered, her lips trembling: "it never can be!
She cannot have--have--run away--with that man!"

Unconsciously perhaps to herself, her eyes were fixed on Charles. He
thought the question was put to him, and answered it.

"Well--I--I'm afraid it looks like it, as she seems to have said nothing
to you," he slowly said. "But I give you my word, Miss Preen, that until
this moment that aspect of the matter never suggested itself to me. I
supposed they were just going up the line together for some purpose or
other; though, in fact, I hardly thought about it at all."

"And perhaps that is all the mystery!" interposed Madame Carimon
briskly. "He may have taken Ann to Drecques for a little jaunt, and they
will be back again by the last train. It must be almost due, Lavinia."

With one impulse they turned to the station, which was near at hand.
Drecques, a village, was the first place the trains stopped at on the
up-line. The passengers were already issuing from the gate. Standing
aside until all had passed, and not seeing Nancy anywhere, Charley
Palliser looked into the omnibuses. But she was not there.

"They may have intended to come back and missed the train, Miss Preen;
it's very easy to miss a train," said he in his good nature.

"I think it must be so, Lavinia," spoke up Madame Carimon. "Any way,
we will assume it until we hear to the contrary. And, Charley, we had
better not talk of this to-night."

"_I_ won't," answered Charley earnestly. "You may be sure of me."

Unless Captain Fennel and Miss Ann Preen chartered a balloon, there was
little probability of their reaching Sainteville that evening, for this
had been the last train. Lavinia Preen passed a night of discomfort,
striving to hope against hope, as the saying runs. Not a very wise
saying; it might run better, striving to hope against despair.

When Sunday did not bring back the truants, or any news of them, the
three in the secret--Mary Carimon, Lavinia, and Charley Palliser--had
little doubt that the disappearance meant an elopement. Monsieur Jules
Carimon, not easily understanding such an escapade, so little in
accordance with the customs and manners of his own country, said in his
wife's ear he hoped it would turn out that there was a marriage in the
case.

Miss Preen received a letter from Dover pretty early in the week,
written by Ann. She had been married that day to Captain Fennel.

Altogether, the matter was the most bitter blow ever yet dealt to
Lavinia Preen. No living being knew, or ever would know, how cruelly her
heart was wrung by it. But, being a kindly woman of good sound sense,
she saw that the best must be made of it, not the worst; and this she
set herself out to do. She began by hoping that her own instinct,
warning her against Captain Fennel, might be a mistaken one, and that he
had a good home to offer his wife and would make her happy in it.

She knew no more about him--his family, his fortune, his former life,
his antecedents--than she knew of the man in the moon. Major Smith
perhaps did; he had been acquainted with him in the past. Nancy's
letter, though written the previous day, had been delivered by the
afternoon post. As soon as she could get dinner over, Lavinia went to
Major Smith's. He lived at the top of the Rue Lambeau, a street turning
out of the Grande Place. He and his wife, their own dinner just removed,
were sitting together, the major indulging in a steaming glass of
schiedam and water, flavoured with a slice of lemon. He was a very jolly
little man, with rosy cheeks and a bald head. They welcomed Miss Lavinia
warmly. She, not quite as composed as usual, opened her business without
preamble; her sister Ann had married Captain Fennel, and she had come to
ask Major Smith what he knew of him.

"Not very much," answered the major.

There was something behind his tone, and Lavinia burst into tears.
Compassionating her distress, the major offered her a comforting glass,
similar to his own. Lavinia declined it.

"You will tell me what you know," she said; and he proceeded to do so.

Edwin Fennel, the son of Colonel Fennel, was stationed in India with
his regiment for several years. He got on well enough, but was not
much liked by his brother officers: they thought him unscrupulous and
deceitful. All at once, something very disagreeable occurred, which
obliged Captain Fennel to quit her Majesty's service. The affair was
hushed up, out of consideration to his family and his father's long term
of service. "In fact, I believe he was allowed to retire, instead of
being cashiered," added the major, "but I am not quite sure which it
was."

"What was it that occurred--that Captain Fennel did, to necessitate his
dismissal?" questioned Lavinia.

"I don't much like to mention it," said the major, shaking his head.
"It might get about, you see, Miss Preen, which would make it awkward
for him. I have no wish, or right either, to do the man a gratuitous
injury."

"I promise you it shall not get about through me," returned Lavinia; "my
sister's being his wife will be the best guarantee for that. You must
please tell me, Major Smith."

"Well, Fennel was suspected--detected, in short--of cheating at cards."

Lavinia drew a deep breath. "Do you know," she said presently, in an
undertone, "that when I first met the man I shrank from his face."

"Oh my! And it has such nice features!" put in Mrs. Smith, who was but
a silly little woman.

"There was something in its shifty look which spoke to me as a warning,"
continued Lavinia. "It did, indeed. All my life I have been able to read
faces, and my first instinct has rarely, if ever, deceived me. Each
time I have seen this man since, that instinct against him has become
stronger."

Major Smith took a sip at his schiedam. "I believe--between
ourselves--he is just a mauvais sujet," said he. "He has a brother who
is one, out and out; as I chance to know."

"What is Edwin Fennel's income, major?"

"I can't tell at all. I should not be surprised to hear that he has
none."

"How does he live then?" asked Lavinia, her heart going at a gallop.

"Don't know that either," said the major. "His father is dead now and
can't help him. A very respectable man, the old colonel, but always
poor."

"He cannot live upon air; he must have some means," debated Lavinia.

"Lives upon his wits, perhaps; some men do. He wanted to borrow ten
pounds from me a short time ago," added the major, taking another sip
at his tumbler; "but I told him I had no money to lend--which was a
fact. I have an idea that he got it out of Charley Palliser."

The more Lavinia Preen heard of this unhappy case, the worse it seemed
to be. Declining to stay for tea, as Mrs. Smith wished, she betook her
miserable steps home again, rather wishing that the sea would swallow up
Captain Fennel.

The next day she saw Charles Palliser. Pouncing upon him as he was
airing his long legs in the Grande Place, she put the question to him
in so determined a way that Charley had no chance against her. He
turned red.

"I don't know who can have set that about," said he. "But it's true,
Miss Preen. Fennel pressed me to lend him ten pounds for a month; and
I--well, I did it. I happened to have it in my pocket, you see, having
just cashed a remittance from my father."

"Has he repaid you, Mr. Charles?"

"Oh, the month's not quite up yet," cried Charley. "Please don't talk
of it, Miss Preen; he wouldn't like it, you know. How on earth it has
slipped out I can't imagine."

"No, I shall not talk of it," said Lavinia, as she wished him good-day
and walked onwards, wondering what sort of a home Captain Fennel meant
to provide for Ann.

Lavinia Preen's cup of sorrow was not yet full. A morning or two after
this she was seated at breakfast with the window open, when she saw the
postman come striding across the yard with a letter. It was from the
bride; a very short letter, and one that Miss Lavinia did not at once
understand. She read it again.

  "MY DEAR LAVINIA,

  "All being well, we shall be home to-morrow; that is, on the day you
  receive this letter; reaching Sainteville by the last train in the
  evening. Please get something nice and substantial for tea, Edwin
  says, and please see that Flore has the bedroom in good order.

  "Your affectionate sister,
  "ANN FENNEL."

The thing that Miss Lavinia did, when comprehension came to her, was to
fly into a passion.

"Come home here--_he!_--is that what she means?" cried she. "Never. Have
that man in my house? Never, never."

"But what has mademoiselle received?" exclaimed Flore, appearing just
then with a boiled egg. "Is it bad news?"

"It is news that I will not put up with--will not tolerate," cried Miss
Lavinia. And, in the moment's dismay, she told the woman what it was.

"Tiens!" commented Flore, taking a common-sense view of matters:
"they must be coming just to show themselves to mademoiselle on their
marriage. Likely enough they will not stay more than a night or two,
while looking out for an apartment."

Lavinia did not believe it; but the very suggestion somewhat soothed
her. To receive that man even for a night or two, as Flore put it, would
be to her most repugnant, cruel pain, and she resolved not to do it.
Breakfast over, she carried the letter and her trouble to the Rue Pomme
Cuite.

"But I am afraid, Lavinia, you cannot refuse to receive them," spoke
Madame Carimon, after considering the problem.

"Not refuse to receive them!" echoed Lavinia. "Why do you say that?"

"Well," replied Mary Carimon uneasily, for she disliked to add to
trouble, "you see the house is as much Ann's as yours. It was taken
in your joint names. Ann has the right to return to it; and also, I
suppose"--more dubiously--"to introduce her husband into it."

"Is that French law?"

"I think so. I'll ask Jules when he comes home to dinner. Would it not
be English law also, Lavinia?"

Lavinia was feeling wretchedly uncomfortable. With all her plain
common-sense, this phase of the matter had not struck her.

"Mary," said she--and there stopped, for she was seized with a violent
shivering, which seemed difficult to be accounted for. "Mary, if that
man has to take up his abode in the house, I can never remain in it. I
would rather die."

"Look here, dear friend," whispered Mary: "life is full of trouble--as
Job tells us in the Holy Scriptures--none of us are exempt from it. It
attacks us all in turn. The only one thing we can do is to strive to
make the best of it, under God; to ask Him to help us. I am afraid
there is a severe cross before you, Lavinia; better _bear_ it than fight
against it."

"I will never bear _that_," retorted Lavinia, turning a deaf ear in her
anger. "You ought not to wish me to do so."

"And I would not if I saw anything better for you."

Madame Veuve Sauvage, sitting as usual at her front-window that same
morning, was surprised at receiving an early call from her tenant, Miss
Preen. Madame handed her into her best crimson velvet fauteuil, and they
began talking.

Not to much purpose, however; for neither very well understood what the
other said. Lavinia tried to explain the object of her visit, but found
her French was not equal to it. Madame called her maid, Mariette, and
sent her into the shop below to ask Monsieur Gustave to be good enough
to step up.

Lavinia had gone to beg of them to cancel the agreement for the little
house, so far as her sister was concerned, and to place it in her name
only.

Monsieur Gustave, when he had mastered the request, politely answered
that such a thing was not practicable; Miss Ann's name could not be
struck out of the lease without her consent, or, as he expressed it,
breaking the bail. His mother and himself had every disposition to
oblige Miss Preen in any way, as indeed she must know, but they had no
power to act against the law.

So poor Miss Lavinia went into her home wringing her hands in despair.
She was perfectly helpless.


V.

The summer days went on. Mr. Edwin Fennel, with all the impudence in the
world, had taken up his abode in the Petite Maison Rouge, without saying
with your leave or by your leave.

"How could you _think_ of bringing him here, Ann?" Lavinia demanded of
her sister in the first days.

"I did not think of it; it was he thought of it," returned Mrs. Fennel
in her simple way. "I feared you would not like it, Lavinia; but what
could I do? He seemed to look upon it as a matter of course that he
should come."

Yes, there he was; "a matter of course;" making one in the home. Lavinia
could not show fight; he was Ann's husband, and the place was as much
Ann's as hers. The more Lavinia saw of him the more she disliked him;
which was perhaps unreasonable, since he made himself agreeable to her
in social intercourse, though he took care to have things his own way.
If Lavinia's will went one way in the house and his the other, she found
herself smilingly set at naught. Ann was his willing slave; and when
opinions differed she sided with her husband.

It was no light charge, having a third person in the house to live upon
their small income, especially one who studied his appetite. For a very
short time Lavinia, in her indignation at affairs generally, turned the
housekeeping over to Mrs. Fennel. But she had to take to it again. Ann
was naturally an incautious manager; she ordered in delicacies to please
her husband's palate without regard to cost, and nothing could have come
of that but debt and disaster.

That the gallant ex-Captain Fennel had married Ann Preen just to
have a roof over his head, Lavinia felt as sure of as that the moon
occasionally shone in the heavens. She did not suppose he had any other
refuge in the wide world. And through something told her by Ann she
judged that he had believed he was doing better for himself in marrying
than he had done.

The day after the marriage Mr. and Mrs. Fennel were sitting on a bench
at Dover, romantically gazing at the sea, honeymoon fashion, and talking
of course of hearts and darts. Suddenly the bridegroom turned his
thoughts to more practical things.

"Nancy, how do you receive your money--half-yearly or quarterly?" asked
he.

"Oh, quarterly," said Nancy. "It is paid punctually to us by the
acting-trustee, Colonel Selby."

"Ah, yes. Then you have thirty-five pounds every quarter?"

"Between us, we do," assented Nancy. "Lavinia has seventeen pounds ten,
and I have the same; and the colonel makes us each give a receipt for
our own share."

Captain Fennel turned his head and gazed at her with a hard stare.

"You told me your income was a hundred and forty pounds a-year."

"Yes, it is that exactly," said she quietly; "mine and Lavinia's
together. We do not each have that, Edwin; I never meant to imply----"

Mrs. Fennel broke off, frightened. On the captain's face, cruel enough
just then, there sat an expression which she might have thought
diabolical had it been any one else's face. Any way, it scared her.

"What is it?" she gasped.

Rising rapidly, Captain Fennel walked forward, caught up some pebbles,
flung them from him and waited, apparently watching to see where they
fell. Then he strolled back again.

"Were you angry with me?" faltered Nancy. "Had I done anything?"

"My dear, what should you have done? Angry?" repeated he, in a light
tone, as if intensely amused. "You must not take up fancies, Mrs.
Fennel."

"I suppose Mrs. Selby thought it would be sufficient income for us, both
living together," remarked Nancy. "If either of us should die it all
lapses to the other. We found it quite enough last year, I assure you,
Edwin; Sainteville is so cheap a place."

"Oh, delightfully cheap!" agreed the captain.

It was this conversation that Nancy repeated to Lavinia; but she did not
speak of the queer look which had frightened her. Lavinia saw that Mr.
Edwin Fennel had taken up a wrong idea of their income. Of course the
disappointment angered him.

An aspect of semi-courtesy was outwardly maintained in the intercourse
of home life. Lavinia was a gentlewoman; she had not spoken unpleasant
things to the captain's face, or hinted that he was a weight upon the
housekeeping pocket; whilst he, as yet, was quite officiously civil to
her. But there was no love lost between them; and Lavinia could not
divest her mind of an undercurrent of conviction that he was, in some
way or other, a man to be dreaded.

Thus Captain Fennel (as he was mostly called), being domiciled with the
estimable ladies in the Petite Maison Rouge, grew to be considered one
of the English colony of Sainteville, and was received as such. As
nobody knew aught against him, nobody thought anything. Major Smith had
not spoken of antecedents, neither had Miss Preen; the Carimons, who
were in the secret, never spoke ill of any one: and as the captain could
assume pleasing manners at will, he became fairly well liked by his
country-people in a passing sort of way.

Lavinia Preen sat one day upon the low edge of the pier, her back to the
sun and the sea. She had called in at the little shoe-shop on the port,
just as you turn out of the Rue Tessin, and had left her parasol there.
The sun was not then out in the grey sky, and she did not miss it. Now
that the sun was shining, and the grey canopy above had become blue, she
said to herself that she had been stupid. It was September weather, so
the sun was not unbearable.

Lavinia Preen was thinner; the thraldom of the past three months had
made her so. Now and then it would cross her mind to leave the Petite
Maison Rouge to its married inmates; but for Nancy's sake she hesitated.
Nancy had made the one love of her life, and Nancy had loved her in
return. Now, the love was chiefly given to the new tie she had formed;
Lavinia was second in every respect.

"They go their way now, and I have to go mine," sighed Lavinia, as she
sat this morning on the pier. "Even my walks have to be solitary."

A cloud came sailing up and the sun went in again. Lavinia rose; she
walked onwards till she came to the end of the pier, where she again sat
down. The next moment, chancing to look the way she had come, she saw a
lady and gentleman advancing arm-in-arm.

"Oh, _they_ are on the pier, are they!" mentally spoke Lavinia. For it
was Mr. and Mrs. Edwin Fennel.

Nancy sat down beside her. "It is a long walk!" cried she, drawing a
quick breath or two. "Lavinia, what do you think we have just heard?"

"How can I tell?" returned the elder sister.

"You know those queer people, an old English aunt and three nieces, who
took Madame Gibon's rooms in the Rue Ménar? They have all disappeared
and have paid nobody," continued Nancy. "Charley Palliser told us just
how; he was laughing like anything over it."

"I never thought they looked like people to be trusted," remarked
Lavinia. "Dear me! here's the sun coming out again."

"Where is your parasol?"

Lavinia recounted her negligence in having left it at the shoe-mart.
Captain Fennel had brought out a small silk umbrella; he turned from the
end of the pier, where he stood looking out to sea, opened the umbrella,
and offered it.

"It is not much larger than a good-sized parasol," remarked he. "Pray
take it, Miss Lavinia."

Lavinia did so after a moment's imperceptible hesitation, and thanked
him. She hated to be under the slightest obligation to him, but the sun
was now full in her eyes, and might make her head ache.

The pleasant smell of a cigar caused them to look up. A youngish man,
rather remarkably tall, with a shepherd's plaid across his broad
shoulders, was striding up the pier. He sat down near Miss Preen, and
she glanced round at him. Appearing to think that she looked at his
cigar, he immediately threw it into the sea behind him.

"Oh, I am sorry you did that," said Lavinia, speaking impulsively. "I
like the smell of a cigar."

"Oh, thank you; thank you very much," he answered. "I had nearly smoked
it out."

Voice and manner were alike pleasant and easy, and Lavinia spoke
again--some trivial remark about the fine expanse of sea; upon which
they drifted into conversation. We are reserved enough with strangers
at home, we Islanders, as the world knows, but most of us are less
ungracious abroad.

"Sainteville seems a clean, healthy place," remarked the new-comer.

"Very," said Miss Lavinia. "Do you know it well?"

"I never saw it before to-day," he replied. "I have come here from Douai
to meet a friend, having two or three days to spare."

"Douai is a fine town," remarked Captain Fennel, turning to speak, for
he was still looking out over the sea, and had his opera-glasses in his
hand. "I spent a week there not long ago."

"Douai!" exclaimed Nancy. "That's the place where the great Law Courts
are, is it not? Don't you remember the man last year, Lavinia, who
committed some dreadful crime, and was taken up to Douai to be tried at
the Assizes there?"

"We have a great case coming on there as soon as the Courts meet," said
the stranger, who seemed a talkative man; "and that's what I am at Douai
for. A case of extensive swindling."

"You are a lawyer, I presume?" said Miss Preen.

The stranger nodded. "Being the only one of our London firm who can
speak French readily, and we are four of us in it, I had to come over
and watch this affair and wait for the trial. For the young fellow is
an Englishman, I am sorry to say, and his people, worthy and well-to-do
merchants, are nearly mad over it."

"But did he commit it in England?" cried Miss Preen.

"Oh no; in France, within the arrondissement of the Douai Courts. He is
in prison there. I dare say you get some swindling in a petty way even
at Sainteville," added the speaker.

"That we do," put in Nancy. "An English family of ladies ran away only
yesterday, owing twenty pounds at least, it is said."

"Ah," said the stranger, with a smile. "I think the ladies are sometimes
more clever at that game than the men. By the way," he went on briskly,
"do you know a Mr. Dangerfield at Sainteville?"

"No," replied Lavinia.

"He is staying here, I believe, or has been."

"Not that I know of," said Lavinia. "I never heard his name."

"Changed it again, probably," carelessly observed the young man.

"Is Dangerfield not his true name, then?"

"Just as much as it is mine, madam. His real name is Fennel; but he has
found it convenient to drop that on occasion."

Now it was a curious fact that Nancy did not hear the name which the
stranger had given as the true one. Her attention was diverted by some
men who were working at the mud in the harbour, for it was low water,
and who were loudly disputing together. Nancy had moved to the side of
the pier to look down at them.

"Is he a swindler, that Mr. Dangerfield?" asked she, half-turning her
head to speak. But the stranger did not answer.

As to Lavinia, the avowal had struck her speechless. She glanced at
Captain Fennel. He had his back to them, and stood immovable, apparently
unconcerned, possibly not having heard. A thought struck her--and
frightened her.

"Do you know that Mr. Dangerfield yourself?" she asked the stranger, in
a tone of indifference.

"No, I do not," he said; "but there's a man coming over in yonder boat
who does."

He pointed over his shoulder at the sea as he spoke. Lavinia glanced
quickly in the same direction.

"In yonder boat?" she repeated vaguely.

"I mean the London boat, which is on its way here, and will get in this
evening," he explained.

"Oh, of course," said Lavinia, as if her wits had been wool-gathering.

The young man took out his watch and looked at it. Then he rose, lifted
his hat, and, with a general good-morning, walked quickly down the pier.

Nancy was still at the side of the pier, looking down at the men.
Captain Fennel put up his glasses and sat down beside Lavinia, his
impassive face still as usual.

"I wonder who that man is?" he cried, watching the footsteps of the
retreating stranger.

"Did you hear what he said?" asked Lavinia, dropping her voice.

"Yes. Had Nancy not been here, I should have given him a taste of my
mind; but she hates even the semblance of a quarrel. He had no right to
say what he did."

"What could it have meant?" murmured Lavinia.

"It meant my brother, I expect," said Captain Fennel savagely, and, as
Lavinia thought, with every appearance of truth. "But he has never been
at Sainteville, so far as I know; the fellow is mistaken in that."

"Does he pass under the name of Dangerfield?"

"Possibly. This is the first I've heard of it. He is an extravagant man,
often in embarrassment from debt. There's nothing worse against him."

He did not say more; neither did Lavinia. They sat on in silence. The
tall figure in the Scotch plaid disappeared from sight; the men in the
harbour kept on disputing.

"How long are you going to stay here?" asked Nancy, turning towards her
husband.

"I'm ready to go now," he answered. And giving his arm to Nancy, they
walked down the pier together.

Never a word to Lavinia; never a question put by him or by Nancy, if
only to say, "Are you not coming with us?" It was ever so now. Nancy,
absorbed in her husband, neglected her sister.

Lavinia sighed. She sat on a little while longer, and then took her
departure.

The shoe-shop on the port was opposite the place in the harbour where
the London steamers were generally moored. The one now there was
taking in cargo. As Lavinia was turning into the shop for her parasol,
she heard a stentorian English voice call out to a man who was
superintending the work in his shirt-sleeves: "At what hour does this
boat leave to-night?"

"At eight o'clock, sir," was the answer. "Eight sharp; we want to get
away with the first o' the tide."


_From Miss Lavinia Preen's Diary._

_September 22nd._--The town clocks have just struck eight, and I could
almost fancy that I hear the faint sound of the boat steaming down the
harbour in the dark night, carrying Nancy away with it, and carrying
_him_. However, that is fancy and nothing else, for the sound could not
penetrate to me here.

Perhaps it surprised me, perhaps it did not, when Nancy came to me this
afternoon as I was sitting in my bedroom reading Scott's "Legend of
Montrose," which Mary Carimon had lent me from her little stock of
English books, and said she and Captain Fennel were going to London that
night by the boat. He had received a letter, he told her, calling him
thither. He might tell Nancy that if he liked, but it would not do
for me. He is going, I can only believe, in consequence of what that
gentleman in the shepherd's plaid said on the pier to-day. Can it be
that the "Mr. Dangerfield" spoken of applies to Edwin Fennel himself and
not to his brother? Is he finding himself in some dangerous strait, and
is running away from the individual coming over in the approaching boat,
who personally knows Mr. Dangerfield? "Can you lend me a five-pound
note, Lavinia?" Nancy went on, when she had told me the news; "lend it
to myself, I mean. I will repay you when I receive my next quarter's
income, which is due, you know, in a few days." I chanced to have a
five-pound note by me in my own private store, and I gave it her,
reminding her that unless she did let me have it again, it would be so
much less in hand to meet expenses with, and that I had found difficulty
enough in the past quarter. "On the other hand," said Nancy, "if I and
Edwin stay away a week or two, you will be spared our housekeeping; and
when our money comes, Lavinia, you can open my letter and repay yourself
if I am not here. I don't at all know where we are going to stay," she
said, in answer to my question. "I was beginning to ask Edwin just now
in the other room, but he was busy packing his portmanteau, and told me
not to bother him."

And so, there it is: they are gone, and I am left here all alone.

I wonder whether any Mr. Dangerfield has been at Sainteville? I think we
should have heard the name. Why, that is the door-bell! I must go and
answer it.

It was Charley Palliser. He had come with a message from Major and
Mrs. Smith. They are going to Drecques to-morrow morning by the
eleven-o'clock train with a few friends and a basket of provisions,
and had sent Charley to say they would be glad of my company. "Do
come, Miss Preen," urged Charley as I hesitated; "you are all alone
now, and I'm sure it must be dreadfully dull."

"How do you know I am alone?" I asked.

"Because," said Charley, "I have been watching the London boat out, and
I saw Captain Fennel and your sister go by it. Major and Mrs. Smith were
with me. It is a lovely night."

"Wait a moment," I said, as Charley was about to depart when I had
accepted the invitation. "Do you know whether an Englishman named
Dangerfield is living here?"

"Don't think there is; I have not met with him," said Charley. "Why,
Miss Preen?"

"Oh, only that I was asked to-day whether I knew any one of that name,"
I returned carelessly. "Good-night, Mr. Charles. Thank you for coming."

They have invited me, finding I was left alone, and I think it very kind
of them. But the Smiths are both kind-hearted people.

_September 23rd._--Half-past nine o'clock, p.m. Have just returned from
Drecques by the last train after spending a pleasant day. Quiet, of
course, for there is not much to do at Drecques except stroll over the
ruins of the old castle, or saunter about the quaint little ancient
town, and go into the grand old church. It was so fine and warm that we
had dinner on the grass, the people at the cottage bringing our plates
and knives and forks. Later in the day we took tea indoors. In the
afternoon, when all the rest were scattered about and the major sat
smoking his cigar on the bench under the trees, I sat down by him to
tell him what happened yesterday, and I begged him to give me his
opinion. It was no betrayal of confidence, for Major Smith is better
acquainted with the shady side of the Fennels than I am.

"I heard there was an English lawyer staying at the Hôtel des Princes,
and that he had come here from Douai," observed the major. "His name's
Lockett. It must have been he who spoke to you on the pier."

"Yes, of course. Do you know, major, whether any one has stayed at
Sainteville passing as Mr. Dangerfield?"

"I don't think so," replied the major. "Unless he has kept himself
remarkably quiet."

"Could it apply to Captain Fennel?"

"I never knew that he had gone under an assumed name. The accusation is
one more likely to apply to his brother than to himself. James Fennel is
unscrupulous, very incautious: notwithstanding that, I like him better
than I like the other. There's something about Edwin Fennel that repels
you; at least, it does me; but one can hardly help liking James, mauvais
sujet though he is," added the speaker, pausing to flirt off the ashes
of his cigar.

"The doubt pointing to Edwin Fennel in the affair is his suddenly
decamping," continued Major Smith. "It was quite impromptu, you say,
Miss Preen?"

"Quite so. I feel sure he had no thought of going away in the morning;
and he did not receive any letter from England later, which was the
excuse he gave Nancy for departing. Rely upon it that what he heard
about the Mr. Dangerfield on the pier drove him away."

"Well, that looks suspicious, you see."

"Oh yes, I do see it," I answered, unable to conceal the pain I felt.
"It was a bitter calamity, Major Smith, when Nancy married him."

"I'll make a few cautious inquiries in the town, and try to find out if
there's anything against him in secret, or if any man named Dangerfield
has been in the place and got into a mess. But, indeed, I don't
altogether see that it could apply to him," concluded the major after a
pause. "One can't well go under two names in the same town; and every
one knows him as Edwin Fennel.--Here they are, some of them, coming
back!" And when the wanderers were close up, they found Major Smith
arguing with me about the architecture of the castle.

Ten o'clock. Time for bed. I am in no haste to go, for I don't sleep as
well as I used to.

A thought has lately sometimes crossed me that this miserable trouble
worries me more than it ought to do. "Accept it as your cross, and
_yield_ to it, Lavinia," says Mary Carimon to me. But I _cannot_ yield
to it; that is, I cannot in the least diminish the anxiety which always
clings to me, or forget the distress and dread that lie upon me like a
shadow. I know that my life has been on the whole an easy life--that
during all the years I spent at Selby Court I never had any trouble; I
know that crosses do come to us all, earlier or later, and that I ought
not to be surprised that "no new thing has happened to me," the world
being full of such experiences. I suppose it is because I have been so
exempt from care, that I feel this the more.

Half-past ten! just half-an-hour writing these last few lines and
_thinking_! Time I put up. I wonder when I shall hear from Nancy?


VI.

A curious phase, taken in conjunction with what was to follow, now
occurred in the history. Miss Preen began to experience a nervous dread
at going into the Petite Maison Rouge at night.

She could go into the house ten times a-day when it was empty; she could
stay in the house alone in the evening after Flore took her departure;
she could be its only inmate all night long; and never at these times
have the slightest sense of fear. But if she went out to spend the
evening, she felt an unaccountable dread, amounting to horror, at
entering it when she arrived home.

It came on suddenly. One evening when Lavinia had been at Mrs. Hardy's,
Charley Palliser having run over to London, she returned home a little
before ten o'clock. Opening the door with her latch-key, she was
stepping into the passage when a sharp horror of entering it seized her.
A dread, as it seemed to her, of going into the empty house, up the
long, dark, narrow passage. It was the same sort of sensation that had
struck her the first time she attempted to enter it under the escort of
Monsieur Gustave Sauvage, and it came on now with as little reason as it
had come on then. For Lavinia this night had not a thought in her mind
of fear or loneliness, or anything else unpleasant. Mrs. Hardy had been
relating a laughable adventure that Charley Palliser met with on board
the boat when going over, the account of which he had written to her,
and Lavinia was thinking brightly of it all the way home. She was
smiling to herself as she unlatched the door and opened it. And then,
without warning, arose the horrible fear.

How she conquered it sufficiently to enter the passage and reach the
slab, where her candle and matches were always placed, she did not know.
It had to be done, for Lavinia Preen could not remain in the dark yard
all night, or patrol the streets; but her face had turned moist, and her
hands trembled.

That was the beginning of it. Never since had she come home in the
same way at night but the same terror assailed her; and I must beg the
reader to understand that this is no invention. Devoid of reason and
unaccountable though the terror was, Lavinia Preen experienced it.

She went out often--two or three times a-week, perhaps--either to dine
or to spend the evening. Captain Fennel and Nancy were still away, and
friends, remembering Miss Preen's solitary position, invited her.

October had passed, November was passing, and as yet no news came to
Lavinia of the return of the travellers. At first they did not write to
her at all, leaving her to infer that as the boat reached London safely
they had done the same. After the lapse of a fortnight she received a
short letter from Nancy telling her really nothing, and not giving any
address. The next letter came towards the end of November, and was as
follows:

  "MY DEAR LAVINIA,

  "I have not written to you, for, truly, there is nothing to write
  about, and almost every day I expect Edwin to tell me we are going
  home. Will you _kindly_ lend me a ten-pound note? Please send it in
  a letter. We are staying at Camberwell, and I enclose you the
  address in strict confidence. Do not repeat it to any one--not even
  to Mary Carimon. It is a relation of Edwin's we are staying with,
  but he is not well off. I like his wife. Edwin desires his best
  regards.

  "Your loving sister,
  "NANCY."

Miss Preen did not send the ten-pound note. She wrote to tell Nancy that
she could not do it, and was uncomfortably pressed for money herself in
consequence of Nancy's own action.

The five-pound note borrowed from Lavinia by Nancy on her departure had
not been repaid; neither had Nancy's share of the previous quarter's
money been remitted. On the usual day of payment at the end of
September, Lavinia's quarterly income came to her at Sainteville, as was
customary; not Nancy's. For Nancy there came neither money nor letter.
The fact was, Nancy, escorted by her husband, had presented herself
at Colonel Selby's bank--he was junior partner and manager of a small
private bank in the City--the day before the dividends were due, and
personally claimed the quarterly payment, which was paid to her.

But now, the summary docking of just half their income was a matter
of embarrassment to Miss Preen, as may readily be imagined. The house
expenses had to go on, with only half the money to meet them. Lavinia
had a little nest-egg of her own, it has been said before, saved in
earlier years; and this she drew upon, and so kept debt down. But it was
very inconvenient, as well as vexatious. Lavinia told the whole truth
now to Mary Carimon and her husband, with Nancy's recent application for
a ten-pound note, and her refusal. Little Monsieur Carimon muttered a
word between his closed lips which sounded like "Rat," and was no doubt
applied to Edwin Fennel.

Pretty close upon this, Lavinia received a blowing-up letter from
Colonel Selby. Having known Lavinia when she was in pinafores, the
colonel, a peppery man, considered he had a right to take her to task at
will. He was brother to Paul Selby, of Selby Court, and heir presumptive
to it. The colonel had a wife and children, and much ado at times to
keep them, for his income was not large at present, and growing-up sons
are expensive.

  "DEAR LAVINIA,

  "What in the name of common sense could have induced you to imagine
  that I should pay the two quarterly incomes some weeks before they
  were due, and to send Ann and that man Fennel here with your orders
  that I should do so? Pretty ideas of trusteeship you must have! If
  you are over head and ears in debt, as they tell me, and for that
  reason wish to forestall the time for payment, _I_ can't help it. It
  is no reason with me. Your money will be forwarded to Sainteville,
  at the proper period, to _yourself_. Do not ask me again to pay it
  into Ann's hands, and to accept her receipt for it. I can do nothing
  of the kind. Ann's share will be sent at the same time. She tells me
  she is returning to you. She must give me her own receipt for it,
  and you must give me yours.

  "Your affectionate kinsman,
  "WILLIAM SELBY."

Just for a few minutes Lavinia Preen did not understand this letter.
What could it mean? Why had Colonel Selby written it to her? Then the
truth flashed into her mind.

Nancy (induced, of course, by Edwin Fennel) had gone with him to Colonel
Selby, purporting to have been sent by Lavinia, to ask him to pay them
the quarter's money not due until the end of December, and not only
Nancy's share but Lavinia's as well.

"Why, it would have been nothing short of swindling!" cried Lavinia, as
she gazed in dismay at the colonel's letter.

In the indignation of the moment, she took pen and ink and wrote an
answer to William Selby. Partly enlightening him--not quite--but telling
him that her money must never be paid to any one but herself, and that
the present matter had better be hushed up for Ann's sake, who was as a
reed in the hands of the man she had married.

Colonel Selby exploded a little when he received this answer. Down he
sat in his turn, and wrote a short, sharp note to Edwin Fennel, giving
that estimable man a little of his mind, and warning him that he must
not be surprised if the police were advised to look after him.

When Edward Fennel received this decisive note through an address he had
given to Colonel Selby, but not the one at Camberwell, he called Miss
Lavinia Preen all the laudatory names in the thieves' dictionary.

And on the feast of St. Andrew, which as every one knows is the last day
of November, the letters came to an end with the following one from
Nancy:

  "All being well, my dear Lavinia, we propose to return home by next
  Sunday's boat, which ought to get in before three o'clock in the
  afternoon. On Wednesday, Edwin met Charley Palliser in the Strand,
  and had a chat with him, and heard all the Sainteville news; not
  that there seemed much to hear. Charley says he runs over to London
  pretty often now, his mother being ill. Of course you will not mind
  waiting dinner for us on Sunday.

  "Ever your loving sister,
  "ANN."

So at length they were coming! Either that threat of being looked after
by the police had been too much for Captain Fennel, or the failure to
obtain funds was cutting short his stay in London. Any way, they were
coming. Lavinia laid the letter beside her breakfast-plate and fell into
thought. She resolved to welcome them graciously, and to say nothing
about bygones.

Flore was told the news, and warned that instead of dining at half-past
one on the morrow, the usual Sunday hour, it would be delayed until
three. Flore did not much like the prospect of her afternoon's holiday
being shortened, but there was no help for it. Lavinia provided a couple
of ducks for dinner, going into the market after breakfast to buy them;
the dish was an especial favourite of the captain's. She invited Mary
Carimon to partake of it, for Monsieur Carimon was going to spend Sunday
at Lille with an old friend of his, who was now master of the college
there.

On this evening, Saturday, Lavinia dined out herself. Some ladies named
Bosanquet, three sisters, with whom she had become pretty intimate,
called at the Petite Maison Rouge, and carried her off to their home in
the Rue Lamartine, where they had lived for years. After a very pleasant
evening with them, Lavinia left at ten o'clock.

And when she reached her own door, and was putting the latch-key into
the lock, the old fear came over her. Dropping her hands, she stood
there trembling. She looked round at the silent, deserted yard, she
looked up at the high encircling walls; she glanced at the frosty sky
and the bright stars; and she stood there shivering.

But she must go in. Throwing the door back with an effort of will, she
turned sick and faint: to enter that dark, lonely, empty house seemed
beyond her strength and courage. What could this strange feeling
portend?--why should it thus attack her? It was just as if some fatality
were in the house waiting to destroy her, and a subtle power would keep
her from entering it.

Her heart beating wildly, her breath laboured, Lavinia went in; she shut
the door behind her and sped up the passage. Feeling for the match-box
on the slab, put ready to her hand, she struck a match and lighted the
candle. At that moment, when turning round, she saw, or thought she saw,
Captain Fennel. He was standing just within the front-door, which she
had now come in at, staring at her with a fixed gaze, and with the most
malignant expression on his usually impassive face. Lavinia's terror
partly gave place to astonishment. Was it he himself? How had he come
in?

Turning to take the candle from the slab in her bewilderment, when she
looked again he was gone. What had become of him? Lavinia called to him
by name, but he did not answer. She took the candle into the salon,
though feeling sure he could not have come up the passage; but he was
not there. Had he slipped out again? Had she left the door open when
thinking she closed it, and had he followed her in, and was now gone
again? Lavinia carried her lighted candle to the door, and found it was
fastened. She had _not_ left it open.

Then, as she undressed in her room, trying all the while to solve the
problem, an idea crept into her mind that the appearance might have been
supernatural. Yet--supernatural visitants of the living do not appear to
us, but of the dead. Was Edwin Fennel dead?

So disturbed was the brain of Lavinia Preen that she could not get to
sleep; but tossed and turned about the bed almost until daybreak. At six
o'clock she fell into an uneasy slumber, and into a most distressing
dream.

It was a confused dream; nothing in it was clear. All she knew when
she awoke, was that she had appeared to be in a state of inexplicable
terror, of most intense apprehension throughout it, arising from some
evil threatened her by Captain Fennel.


VII.

It was a fine, frosty day, and the first of December. The sun shone on
the fair streets of Sainteville and on the small congregation turning
out of the English Protestant Church after morning service.

Lavinia Preen went straight home. There she found that Madame Carimon,
who was to spend the rest of the day with her--monsieur having gone to
Lille--had not yet arrived, though the French Church Evangélique was
always over before the English. After glancing at Flore in the kitchen,
busy over the fine ducks, Lavinia set off for the Rue Pomme Cuite.

She met Mary Carimon turning out of it. "Let us go and sit under the
wall in the sun," said Mary. "It is too early yet for the boat."

This was a high wall belonging to the strong north gates of the town,
near Madame Carimon's. The sun shone full upon the benches beneath it,
which it sheltered from the bleak winds; in front was a patch of green
grass, on which the children ran about amidst the straight poplar trees.
It was very pleasant sitting there, even on this December day--bright
and cheerful; the wall behind them was quite warm, the sunshine rested
upon all.

Sitting there, Lavinia Preen told Madame Carimon of the curious dread
of entering her house at night, which had pursued her for the past two
months that she had been alone in it, and which she had never spoken of
to any one before. She went on to speak of the belief that she had seen
Captain Fennel the previous night in the passage, and of the dream
which had visited her when at length she fell asleep.

Madame Carimon turned her kindly, sensible face and her quiet, dark,
surprised eyes upon Lavinia. "I cannot understand you," she said.

"You mean, I suppose, that you cannot understand the facts, Mary.
Neither can I. Why this fear of going into the house should lie upon me
is most strange. I never was nervous before."

"I don't know that that is so very strange," dissented Mary Carimon,
after a pause. "It must seem lonely to let one's self into a dark, empty
house in the middle of the night; and your house is in what may be
called an isolated situation; I should not much like it myself. That's
nothing. What I cannot understand, Lavinia, is the fancy that you saw
Captain Fennel."

"He appeared to be standing there, and was quite visible to me. The
expression on his face, which seemed to be looking straight into mine,
was most malicious. I never saw such an expression upon it in reality."

Mary Carimon laughed a little, saying she had never been troubled with
nervous fears herself; she was too practical for anything of the sort.

"And I have been practical hitherto," returned Lavinia. "When the first
surprise of seeing him there, or fancying I saw him there, was over, I
began to think, Mary, that he might be dead; that it was his apparition
which had stood there looking at me."

Mary Carimon shook her head. "Had anything of that sort happened, Nancy
would have telegraphed to you. Rely upon it, Lavinia, it was pure
fancy. You have been disagreeably exercised in mind lately, you know,
about that man; hearing he was coming home, your brain was somewhat
thrown off its balance."

"It may be so. The dream followed on it; and I did not like the dream."

"We all have bad dreams now and then. You say you do not remember much
of this one."

"I think I did not know much of it when dreaming it," quaintly spoke
Lavinia. "I was in a sea of trouble, throughout which I seemed to be
striving to escape some evil menaced me by Captain Fennel, and could not
do so. Whichever way I turned, there he was at a distance, scowling at
me with a threatening, evil countenance. Mary," she added in impassioned
tones, "I am sure some ill awaits me from that man."

"I am sure, were I you, I would put these foolish notions from me,"
calmly spoke Madame Carimon. "If Nancy set up a vocation for seeing
ghosts and dreaming dreams, one would not so much wonder at it. _You_
have always been reasonable, Lavinia; be so now."

Miss Preen took out her watch and looked at it. "We may as well be
walking towards the port, Mary," she remarked. "It is past two. The boat
ought to be in sight."

Not only in sight was the steamer, but rapidly nearing the port. She had
made a calm and quick passage. When at length she was in and about to
swing round, and the two ladies were looking down at it, with a small
crowd of other assembled spectators, the first passengers they saw on
board were Nancy and Captain Fennel, who began to wave their hands in
greeting and to nod their heads.

"Any way, Lavinia, it could not have been his ghost last night,"
whispered Mary Carimon.

                 *       *       *       *       *

Far from presenting an evil countenance to Lavinia, as the days passed
on, Captain Fennel appeared to wish to please her, and was all suavity.
So at present nothing disturbed the peace of the Petite Maison Rouge.

"What people were they that you stayed with in London, Nancy?" Lavinia
inquired of her sister on the first favourable opportunity.

Nancy glanced round the salon before answering, as if to make sure they
were alone; but Captain Fennel had gone out for a stroll.

"We were at James Fennel's, Lavinia."

"What--the brother's! And has he a wife?"

"Yes; a wife, but no children. Mrs. James Fennel has money of her own,
which she receives weekly."

"Receives weekly!" echoed Lavinia.

"She owns some little houses which are let out in weekly tenements;
an agent collects the rents, and brings her the money every Tuesday
morning. She dresses in the shabbiest things sometimes, and does her own
housework, and altogether is not what I should call quite a lady, but
she is very good-hearted. She did her best to make us comfortable,
and never grumbled at our staying so long. I expect Edwin paid her
something. James only came home by fits and starts. I think he was in
some embarrassment--debt, you know. He used to dash into the house like
a whirlwind when he did come, and steal out of it when he left, peering
about on all sides."

"Have they a nice house?" asked Lavinia.

"Oh, good gracious, no! It's not a house at all, only small lodgings.
And Mrs. James changed them twice over whilst we were there. When we
first went they were at a place called Ball's Pond."

"Why did you remain all that time?"

Mrs. Edwin Fennel shook her head helplessly; she could not answer the
question. "I should have liked to come back before," she said; "it was
very wearisome, knowing nobody and having nothing to do. Did you find it
dull here, Lavinia, all by yourself?"

"'Dull' is not the right word for it," answered Lavinia, catching her
breath with a sigh. "I felt more lonely, Ann, than I shall ever care
to feel again. Especially when I had to come home at night from some
soirée, or from spending the evening quietly with Mary Carimon or any
other friend." And she went on to tell of the feeling of terror which
had so tried her.

"I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed Ann. "How silly you must be,
Lavinia! What could there have been in the house to frighten you?"

"I don't know; I wish I did know," sighed Lavinia, just as she had said
more than once before.

Nancy, who was attired in a bright ruby cashmere robe, with a gold chain
and locket, some blue ribbons adorning her light ringlets, for she had
made a point of dressing more youthfully than ever since her marriage,
leaned back in her chair, as she sat staring at her sister and thinking.

"Lavinia," she said huskily, "you remember the feeling you had the
day we were about to look at the house with Mary Carimon, and which
you thought was through the darkness of the passage striking you
unpleasantly? Well, my opinion is that it must have given you a scare."

"Why, of course it did."

"Ah, but I mean a scare which lasts," said Ann; "one of those scares
which affect the mind and take very long to get rid of. You recollect
poor Mrs. Hunt, at Buttermead? She was frightened at a violent
thunderstorm, though she never had been before; and for years
afterwards, whenever it thundered, she became so alarmingly ill and
agitated that Mr. Featherston had to be run for. He called it a scare.
I think the fear you felt that past day must have left that sort of
scare upon you. How else can you account for what you tell me?"

Truth to say, the same idea had more than once struck Lavinia. She knew
how devoid of reason some of these "scares" are, and yet how terribly
they disturb the mind on which they fasten.

"But I had quite forgotten that fear, Ann," she urged in reply. "We had
lived in the house eighteen months when you went away, and I had never
recalled it."

"All the same, I think you received the scare; it had only lain
dormant," persisted Ann.

"Well, well; you are back again now, and it is over," said Lavinia. "Let
us forget it. Do not speak of it again at all to any one, Nancy love."


VIII.

Winter that year had quite set in when Sainteville found itself honoured
with rather a remarkable visitor; one Signor Talcke, who descended, one
morning at the beginning of December, at the Hôtel des Princes. Though
he called himself "Signor," it seemed uncertain to what country he
owed his birth. He spoke five or six languages as a native, including
Hindustani. Signor Talcke was a professor of occult sciences; he was
a great astronomer; astrology he had at his fingers' ends. He was a
powerful mesmerist; he would foretell the events of your life by your
hands, or your fortune by the cards.

For a fee of twenty-five francs, he would attend an evening party, and
exhibit some of his powers. Amidst others who engaged him were the Miss
Bosanquets, in the Rue Lamartine. A relative of theirs, Sir George
Bosanquet, K.C.B., had come over with his wife to spend Christmas with
them. Sir George laughed at what he heard of Signor Talcke's powers of
reading the future, and said he should much like to witness a specimen
of it. So Miss Bosanquet and her sisters hastily arranged an evening
entertainment, engaged the mystical man, and invited their friends and
acquaintances, those of the Petite Maison Rouge included.

It took place on the Friday after Christmas-Day. Something that occurred
during the evening was rather remarkable. Miss Preen's diary gives a
full account of it, and that shall be transcribed here. And I, Johnny
Ludlow, take this opportunity of assuring the reader that what she
wrote was in faithful accordance with the facts of the case.


_From Miss Preen's Diary._

_Saturday morning._--I feel very tired; fit for nothing. Nancy has
undertaken to do the marketing, and is gone out for that purpose with
her husband. It is to be hoped she will be moderate, and not attempt to
buy up half the market.

I lay awake all night, after the evening at Miss Bosanquet's, thinking
how foolish Ann was to have had her "future cast," as that Italian
(if he is Italian) called it, and how worse than foolish I was to let
what he said worry me. "As if there could be anything in it!" laughed
Ann, as we were coming home; fortunately she is not as I am in
temperament--nervously anxious. "It is only nonsense," said Miss Anna
Bosanquet to me when the signor's predictions were at an end; "he will
tell some one else just the same next time." But _I_ did not think
so. Of course, one is at a loss how to trust this kind of man. Take
him for all in all, I rather like him; and he appears to believe
implicitly in what he says: or, rather, in what he tell us the cards
say.

They are charming women, these three sisters--Grace, Rose, and Anna
Bosanquet; good, considerate, high-bred ladies. I wonder how it is they
have lived to middle life without any one of them marrying? And I often
wonder how they came to take up their residence at Sainteville, for they
are very well off, and have great connections. I remember, though, Anna
once said to me that the dry, pure air of the place suited her sister
Rose, who has bad health, better than any other they had tried.

When seven o'clock struck, the hour named, Nancy and I appeared together
in the sitting-room, ready to start, for we observe punctuality at
Sainteville. I wore my black satin, handsome yet, trimmed with the rich
white lace that Mrs. Selby gave me. Nancy looked very nice and young in
her lilac silk. She wore a white rose in her hair, and her gold chain
and locket round her neck. Captain Fennel surprised us by saying he was
not going--his neuralgia had come on. I fancied it was an excuse--that
he did not wish to meet Sir George Bosanquet. He had complained of the
same thing on Christmas-Day, so it might be true. Ann and I set off
together, leaving him nursing his cheek at the table.

It was a large gathering for Sainteville--forty guests, I should think;
but the rooms are large. Professor Talcke exhibited some wonderful feats
in--what shall I call it?--necromancy?--as good a word, perhaps, as any
other. He mesmerized some people, and put one of them into a state of
clairvoyance, and her revelations took my breath away. Signor Talcke
assured us that what she said would be found minutely true. I think he
has the strangest eyes I ever saw: grey eyes, with a sort of light in
their depths. His features are fair and delicate, his voice is gentle as
a woman's, his manner retiring; Sir George seemed much taken with him.

Later, when the evening was passing, he asked if any one present would
like to have their future cast, for he had cards which would do it.
Three of his listeners pressed forward at once; two of them with gay
laughter, the other pale and awestruck. The signor went into the recess
in the small room, and sat down behind the little table there, and as
many as could crowd round to look on, did so. I don't know what passed;
there was no room for me; or whether the "Futures" he disclosed were
good or bad. I had sat on the sofa at a distance, talking with Anna
Bosanquet and Madame Carimon.

Suddenly, as we were for a moment silent, Ann's voice was heard, eager
and laughing:

"Will you tell my fortune, Signor Talcke? I should like to have mine
revealed."

"With pleasure, madame," he answered.

We got up and drew near. I felt vexed that Ann should put herself
forward in any such matter, and whispered to her; but she only shook her
curls, laughed at me, and persisted. Signor Talcke put the cards in her
hands, telling her to shuffle them.

"It is all fun, Lavinia," she whispered to me. "Did you hear him tell
Miss Peet she was going to have money left her?"

After Ann had shuffled the cards, he made her cut them into three
divisions, and he then turned them up on the table himself, faces
upwards, and laid them out in three rows. They were not like the cards
we play with; quite different from those; nearly all were picture-cards,
and the plain ones bore cabalistic characters. We stood looking on with
two or three other people; the rest had dispersed, and had gone into the
next room to listen to the singing.

At first Signor Talcke never spoke a word. He looked at the cards, and
looked at Nancy; looked, and looked again. "They are not propitious," he
said in low tones, and picked them up, and asked Nancy to shuffle and
cut them again. Then he laid them as before, and we stood waiting in
silence.

Chancing at that moment to look at Signor Talcke, his face startled me.
He was frowning at the cards in so painful a manner as to quite alter
its expression. But he did not speak. He still only gazed at the cards
with bent eyes, and glanced up at Ann occasionally. Then, with an
impatient sweep of the hand, he pushed the cards together.

"I must trouble you to shuffle and cut them once more, madame," he said.
"Shuffle them well."

"Are they still unpropitious?" asked a jesting voice at my elbow.
Turning, I saw Charley Palliser's smiling face. He must have been
standing there, and heard Signor Talcke's previous remark.

"Yes, sir, they are," replied the signor, with marked emphasis. "I never
saw the cards so unpropitious in my life."

Nancy took up the cards, shuffled them well, and cut them three times.
Signor Talcke laid them out as before, bent his head, and looked
attentively at them. He did not speak, but there was no mistaking the
vexed, pained, and puzzled look on his face.

I do not think he knew Nancy, even by name. I do not think he knew me,
or had the least notion that we were related. Neither of us had ever met
him before. He put his hand to his brow, still gazing at the cards.

"But when are you going to begin my fortune, sir?" broke in Nancy.

"I would rather not tell it at all, madame," he answered.

"_Cannot_ you tell it?--have your powers of forecasting inconveniently
run away?" said she incautiously, her tone mocking in her
disappointment.

"I could tell it, all too surely; but you might not like to hear it,"
returned he.

"Our magician has lost his divining-rod just when he needed it,"
observed a gentleman with a grey beard, a stranger to me, who was
standing opposite, speaking in a tone of ill-natured satire; and a laugh
went round.

"It is not that," said the signor, keeping his temper perfectly. "I
could tell what the cards say, all too certainly; but it would not give
satisfaction."

"Oh yes, it would," returned Nancy. "I should like to hear it, every bit
of it. Please do begin."

"The cards are dark, very dark indeed," he said; "I don't remember ever
to have seen them like it. Each time they have been turned the darkness
has increased. _Nothing_ can show worse than they do now."

"Never mind that," gaily returned Ann. "You undertook to tell my
fortune, sir; and you ought not to make excuses in the middle of it.
Let the cards be as dark as night, we must hear what they say."

He drew in his thin lips for a moment, and then spoke, his tone quiet,
calm, unemotional.

"Some great evil threatens you," he began; "you seem to be living in
the midst of it. It is not only you that it threatens; there is another
also----"

"Oh, my goodness!" interrupted Nancy, in her childish way. "I hope it
does not threaten Edwin. What _is_ the evil?--sickness?"

"Worse than that. It--is----" Signor Talcke's attention was so absorbed
by the aspect of the cards that, as it struck me, he appeared hardly to
heed what he was saying. He had a long, thin black pencil in his long,
thin fingers, and kept pointing to different cards as if in accordance
with his thoughts, but not touching them. "There is some peculiar form
of terror here," he went on. "I cannot make it out; it is very unusual.
It does not come close to you; not yet, at any rate; and it seems to
surround you. It seems to be in the house. May I ask"--quickly lifting
his eyes to Ann--"whether you are given to superstitious fears?"

"Do you mean ghosts?" cried Ann, and Charley Palliser burst out
laughing. "Not at all, sir; I don't believe in ghosts. I'm sure there
are none in our house."

Remembering my own terror in regard to the house, and the nervous fancy
of having seen Captain Fennel in it when he was miles away, a curious
impression came over me that he must surely be reading my fortune as
well as Nancy's. But I was not prepared for her next words. Truly she
has no more reticence than a child.

"My sister has a feeling that the house is lonely. She shivers when she
has to go into it after night-fall."

Signor Talcke let his hands fall on the table, and lifted his face.
Apparently, he was digesting this revelation. I do not think he knew the
"sister" was present. For my part, disliking publicity, I slipped behind
Anna Bosanquet, and stood by Charley Palliser.

"Shivers?" repeated the Italian.

"Shivers and trembles, and turns sick at having to go in," affirmed
Nancy. "So she told me when I arrived home from England."

"If a feeling of that sort assailed me, I should never go into the house
again," said the signor.

"But how could you help it, if it were your home?" she argued.

"All the same. I should regard that feeling as a warning against the
house, and never enter it. Then you are not yourself troubled with
superstitious fears?" he broke off, returning to the business in hand,
and looking at the cards. "Well--at present--it does not seem to touch
you, this curious terror which is assuredly in the house----"

"I beg your pardon," interrupted Ann. "Why do you say 'at present'? Is
it to touch me later?"

"I cannot say. Each time that the cards have been spread it has
shown itself nearer to you. It is not yet very near. Apart from that
terror--or perhaps remotely connected with it--I see evil threatening
you--great evil."

"Is it in the house?"

"Yes; hovering about it. It is not only yourself it seems to threaten.
There is some one else. And it is nearer to that person than it is to
you."

"But who is that person?--man or woman?"

"It is a woman. See this ugly card," continued he, pointing with his
pencil; "it will not be got rid of, shuffle as you will; it has come
nearer to that woman each time."

The card he pointed to was more curious-looking than any other in the
pack. It was not unlike the nine of spades, but crowded with devices.
The gentleman opposite, whom I did not know, leaned forward and touched
the card with the tip of his forefinger.

"Le cercueil, n'est-ce-pas?" said he.

"My!" whispered an English lad's voice behind me. "Cercueil? that means
coffin."

"How did you know?" asked Signor Talcke of the grey-bearded man.

"I was at the Sous-Préfect's soirée on Sunday evening when you were
exhibiting. I heard you tell him in French that that was the ugliest
card in the pack: indicating death."

"Well, it is not this lady the card is pursuing," said the signor,
smiling at Ann to reassure her. "Not yet awhile, at least. And we must
all be pursued by it in our turn, whenever that shall come," he added,
bending over the cards again. "Pardon me, madame--may I ask whether
there has not been some unpleasantness in the house concerning money?"

Nancy's face turned red. "Not--exactly," she answered with hesitation.
"We are like a great many more people--not as rich as we should wish to
be."

"It does not appear to lie precisely in the want of money: but certainly
money is in some way connected with the evil," he was beginning to say,
his eyes fixed dreamily on the cards, when Ann interrupted him.

"That is too strong a word--evil. Why do you use it?"

"I use it because the evil is there. No lighter word would be
appropriate. There is some evil element pervading your house, very
grave and formidable; it is most threatening; likely to go on
to--to--darkness. I mean that it looks as if there would be some great
break-up," he corrected swiftly, as if to soften the other word.

"That the house would be broken up?" questioned Ann.

He stole a glance at her. "Something of that sort," he said carelessly.

"Do you mean that the evil comes from an enemy?" she went on.

"Assuredly."

"But we have no enemy. I'm sure we have not one in all the world."

He slightly shook his head. "You may not suspect it yet, though I should
have said"--waving the pencil thoughtfully over some of the cards--"that
he was already suspected--doubted."

Nancy took up the personal pronoun briskly. "He!--then the evil enemy
must be a man? I assure you we do not know any man likely to be our
enemy or to wish us harm. No, nor woman either. Perhaps your cards don't
tell true to-night, Signor Talcke?"

"Perhaps not, madame; we will let it be so if you will," he quietly
said, and shuffled all the cards together.

That ended the séance. As if determined not to tell any more fortunes,
the signor hurriedly put up the cards and disappeared from the recess.
Nancy did not appear to be in the least impressed.

"What a curious 'future' it was!" she exclaimed lightly to Mary Carimon.
"I might as well not have had it cast. He told me nothing."

They walked away together. I went back to the sofa and Anna Bosanquet
followed me.

"Mrs. Fennel calls it 'curious,'" I said to her. "I call it more than
that--strange; ominous. I wish I had not heard it."

"Dear Miss Preen, it is only nonsense," she answered. "He will tell some
one else the same next time." But she only so spoke to console me.

A wild wish flashed into my mind--that I should ask the man to tell
_my_ future. But had I not heard enough? Mine was blended with this of
Ann's. _I_ was the other woman whom the dark fate was more relentlessly
pursuing. There could be no doubt of that. There could be as little
doubt that it was I who already suspected the author of the "evil." What
can the "dark fate" be that we are threatened with? Debt? Will his debts
spring upon us and break up our home, and turn us out of it? Or will it
be something worse? That card which followed me meant a coffin, they
said. Ah me! Perhaps I am foolish to dwell upon such ideas. Certainly
they are more fitting for the world's dark ages than for this
enlightened nineteenth century of it.

Charley Palliser gallantly offered to see us home. I said no; as if we
were not old enough to go by ourselves; but he would come with us. As we
went along Ann began talking of the party, criticizing the dresses, and
so on. Charley seemed to be unusually silent.

"Was not mine a grand fortune?" she presently said with a laugh, as we
crossed the Place Ronde.

"Stunning," said he.

"As if there could be anything in it, you know! Does the man think we
believe him, I wonder?"

"Oh, these conjurers like to fancy they impose on us," remarked
Charley, shaking hands as we halted before the house of Madame Sauvage.

And I have had a wretched night, for somehow the thing has frightened
me. I never was superstitious; never; and I'm sure I never believed in
conjurers, as Charles had it. If I should come across Signor Talcke
again while he stays here, I would ask him---- Here comes Nancy! and
Flore behind her with the marketings. I'll put up my diary.

                 *       *       *       *       *

"I've bought such a lovely capon," began Nancy, as Lavinia went into the
kitchen. "Show it to madame, Flore."

It was one that even Lavinia could praise; they both understood poultry.
"It really is a beauty," said Lavinia. "And did you remember the
salsifis? And, Ann, where have you left your husband?"

"Oh, we met old Mr. Griffin, and Edwin has gone up to Drecques with him.
My opinion is, Lavinia, that that poor old Griffin dare not go about
far by himself since his attack. He had to see his landlord at Drecques
to-day, and he asked Edwin to accompany him. They went by the
eleven-o'clock train."

Lavinia felt it a relief. Even that little absence, part of a day, she
felt thankful for, so much had she grown to dislike the presence in the
house of Edwin Fennel.

"Did you tell your husband about your 'fortune' Nancy?"

"No; I was too sleepy last night to talk, and I was late in getting up
this morning. I'm not sure that I shall tell him," added Mrs. Fennel
thoughtfully; "he might be angry with me for having had it done."

"That is more than likely," replied Lavinia.

Late in the afternoon, as they were sitting together in the salon, they
saw the postman come marching up the yard. He brought two letters--one
for Miss Preen, the other for her sister.

"It is the remittance from William Selby," said Lavinia as she opened
hers. "He has sent it a day or two earlier than usual; it is not really
due until Monday or Tuesday."

Seventeen pounds ten shillings each. Nancy, in a hasty sort of manner,
put her cheque into the hands of Lavinia, almost as if she feared it
would burn her own fingers. "You had better take it from me whilst you
can," she said in low tones.

"Yes; for I must have it, Ann," was the answer. "We are in debt--as you
may readily conceive--with only half the usual amount to spend last
quarter."

"It was not my fault; I was very sorry," said Ann humbly; and she rose
hastily to go to the kitchen, saying she was thirsty, and wanted a glass
of water. But Lavinia thought she went to avoid being questioned.

Lavinia carried the two cheques to her room and locked them up. After
their five-o'clock dinner, each sister wrote a note to Colonel Selby,
enclosing her receipt. Flore took them out to post when she left. The
evening passed on. Lavinia worked; Nancy nodded over the fire: she was
very sleepy, and went to bed early.

It was past eleven o'clock when Captain Fennel came in, a little the
worse for something or other. After returning from Drecques by the last
train, he had gone home with Mr. Griffin to supper. He told Lavinia,
in words running into one another, that the jolting train had made him
giddy. Of course she believed as much of that as she liked, but did not
contradict it. He went to the cupboard in the recess, unlocked it to get
out the cognac, and then sat down with his pipe by the embers of the
dying fire. Lavinia, unasked, brought in a decanter of water, put it on
the table with a glass, and wished him good-night.

All next day Captain Fennel lay in bed with a racking headache. His wife
carried up a choice bit of the capon when they were dining after morning
service, but he could not so much as look at it. Being a fairly cautious
man as a rule, he had to pay for--for the jolting of the train.

He was better on Monday morning, but not well, still shaky, and did not
come down to breakfast. It was bitterly cold--a sort of black frost; but
Lavinia, wrapping herself up warmly, went out as soon as breakfast was
over.

Her first errand was to the bank, where she paid in the cheques and
received French money for them. Then she visited sundry shops; the
butcher's, the grocer's, and others, settling the accounts due. Last of
all, she made a call upon Madame Veuve Sauvage, and paid the rent for
the past quarter. All this left her with exactly nineteen pounds, which
was all the money she had to go on with for every purpose until the end
of March--three whole months.

Lunch was ready when she returned. Taking off her things upstairs and
locking up her cash, she went down to it. Flore had made some delicious
soupe maigre. Only those who have tried it know how good it is on a
sharp winter's day. Captain Fennel seemed to relish it much, though his
appetite had not quite come back to him, and he turned from the dish of
scrambled eggs which supplemented the soup. In the evening they went, by
appointment, to dine at Madame Carimon's, the other guests being
Monsieur Henri Dupuis with his recently married wife, and Charles
Palliser.

After dinner, over the coffee, Monsieur Henri Dupuis suddenly spoke of
the soirée at Miss Bosanquet's the previous Friday, regretting that he
and his wife had been unable to attend it. He was engaged the whole
evening with a patient dangerously ill, and his wife did not like to
appear at it without him. Nancy--Nancy!--then began to tell about the
"fortune" which had been forecast for her by Signor Talcke, thinking
possibly that her husband could not reproach her for it before company.
She was very gay over it; a proof that it had left no bad impression on
her mind.

"What's that, Nancy?" cried Captain Fennel, who had listened as if he
disbelieved his ears. "The fellow told you we had something evil in our
house?"

"Yes, he did," assented Nancy. "An evil influence, he said, which was
destined to bring forth something dark and dreadful."

"I am sorry you did not tell this before," returned the captain stiffly.
"I should have requested you not again to allude to such folly. It was
downright insolence."

"I--you--you were out on Saturday, you know, Edwin, and in bed with your
headache all Sunday; and to-day I forgot it," said Nancy in less brave
tones.

"Suppose we have a game at wholesome card-playing," interposed Mary
Carimon, bringing forth a new pack. "Open them, will you, Jules? Do
you remember, mon ami, having your fortune told once by a gipsy woman
when we were in Sir John Whitney's coppice with the two Peckham girls?
She told you you would fall into a rich inheritance and marry a
Frenchwoman."

"Neither of which agreeable promises is yet fulfilled," said little
Monsieur Carimon with his happy smile. Monsieur Carimon had heard the
account of Nancy's "forecast" from his wife; he was not himself present,
but taking a hand at whist in the card-room.

They sat down to a round game--spin. Monsieur Henri Dupuis and his
pretty young wife had never played it before, but they soon learned
it and liked it much. Both of them spoke English well; she with the
prettiest accent imaginable. Thus the evening passed, and no more
allusion was made to the fortune-telling at Miss Bosanquet's.

That was Monday. On Tuesday, Miss Preen was dispensing the coffee at
breakfast in the Petite Maison Rouge to her sister and Mr. Fennel, when
Flore came bustling in with a letter in her hand.

"Tenez, madame," she said, putting it beside Mrs. Fennel. "I laid it
down in the kitchen when the facteur brought it, whilst I was preparing
the déjeûner, and forgot it afterwards."

Before Nancy could touch the letter, her husband caught it up. He gazed
at the address, at the postmark, and turned it about to look at the
seal. The letters of gentlefolk were generally fastened with a seal in
those days: this had one in transparent bronze wax.

Mr. Fennel put the letter down with a remark peevishly uttered. "It is
not from London; it is from Buttermead."

"And from your old friend, Jane Peckham, Nancy," struck in Lavinia. "I
recognize her handwriting."

"I _am_ glad," exclaimed Nancy. "I have not heard from them for ages.
Why now--is it not odd?--that Madame Carimon should mention the Peckhams
last night, and I receive a letter from them this morning?"

"I supposed it might be from London, with your remittance," said Mr.
Fennel to his wife. "It is due, is it not?"

"Oh, that came on Saturday, Edwin," she said, as she opened her letter.

"Came on Saturday!" echoed Captain Fennel ungraciously, as if disputing
the assertion.

"By the afternoon post; you were at Drecques, you know."

"The _money_ came? _Your_ money?"

"Yes," said Nancy, who had stepped to the window to read her letter, for
it was a dark day, and stood there with her back to the room.

"And where is it?" demanded he.

"I gave it to Lavinia. I always give it to her."

Captain Fennel glared at his wife for a moment, then smoothed his face
to its ordinary placidity, and turned to Lavinia.

"Will you be good enough to hand over to me my wife's money, Miss
Preen?"

"No," she answered quietly.

"I must trouble you to do so, when breakfast shall be finished."

"I cannot," pursued Lavinia. "I have paid it away."

"That I do not believe. I claim it from you in right of my wife; and I
shall enforce the claim."

"The money is Nancy's, not yours," said Lavinia. "In consequence of your
having stopped her share last quarter in London, I was plunged here into
debt and great inconvenience. Yesterday morning I went out to settle the
debts--and it has taken the whole of her money to do it. That is the
state of things, Captain Fennel."

"I am in debt here myself," retorted he, but not angrily. "I owe money
to my tailor and bootmaker; I owe an account at the chemist's; I want
money in my pockets--and I must indeed have it."

"Not from me," returned Lavinia.

Edwin Fennel broke into a little access of temper. He dashed his
serviette on the table, strode to the window, and roughly caught his
wife by the arm. She cried out.

"How dared you hand your money to any one but me?" he asked in a low
voice of passion.

"But how are we to live if I don't give it to Lavinia for the
housekeeping?" returned Nancy, bursting into tears. "It takes all we
have; her share and mine; every farthing of it."

"Let my sister alone, Mr. Fennel," spoke up Lavinia with authority. "She
is responsible for the debts we contract in this house, just as much
as I am, and she must contribute her part to pay them. You ought to be
aware that the expenses are now increased by nearly a third; I assure
you I hardly like to face the difficulties I see before me."

"Do you suppose I can stop in the place without some loose cash to keep
me going?" he asked calmly. "Is that reasonable, Miss Lavinia?"

"And do you suppose I can keep you and Ann here without her money to
help me to do it?" she rejoined. "Perhaps the better plan will be for me
to take up my abode elsewhere, and leave the house to you and Ann to do
as you please in it."

Captain Fennel dropped his argument, returned to the table, and went on
with his breakfast. The last words had startled him. Without Lavinia,
which meant without her money, they could not live in the house at all.

Matters were partly patched up in the course of the day. Nancy came
upstairs to Lavinia, begging and praying, as if she were praying for her
life, for a little ready money for her husband--just a hundred francs.
Trembling and sobbing, she confessed that she dared not return to him
without it; she should be too frightened at his anger.

And Lavinia gave it to her.


IX.

Matters went on to the spring. There were no outward differences in the
Petite Maison Rouge, but it was full of an undercurrent of discomfort.
At least for Lavinia. Captain Fennel was simply to her an incubus; and
now and again petty accounts of his would be brought to the door by
tradespeople who wanted them settled. As to keeping up the legitimate
payments, she could not do it.

March was drawing to an end, when a surprise came to them. Lavinia
received a letter from Paris, written by Colonel Selby. He had been
there for two days on business, he said, and purposed returning viâ
Sainteville, to take a passing glimpse at herself and her sister. He
hoped to be down that afternoon by the three-o'clock train, and he asked
them to meet him at the Hôtel des Princes afterwards, and to stay and
dine with him. He proposed crossing to London by the night boat.

Lavinia read the letter aloud. Nancy went into ecstasies, for a wonder;
she had been curiously subdued in manner lately. Edwin Fennel made no
remark, but his pale face wore a look of thought.

During the morning he betook himself to the Rue Lothaire to call upon
Mr. Griffin; and he persuaded that easy-natured old gentleman to take
advantage of the sunny day and make an excursion en voiture to the
nearest town, a place called Pontipette. Of course the captain went
also, as his companion.

Colonel Selby arrived at three. Lavinia and Nancy met him at the
station, and went with him in the omnibus to the hotel. They then showed
him about Sainteville, to which he was a stranger, took him to see their
domicile, the little red house (which he did not seem to admire), and
thence to Madame Carimon's. In the Buttermead days, the colonel and Mary
Featherston had been great friends. He invited her and her husband to
join them at the table d'hôte dinner at five o'clock.

Lavinia and Nancy went home again to change their dresses for it. Nancy
put on a pretty light green silk, which had been recently modernized.
Mrs. Selby had kept up an extensive wardrobe, and had left it between
the two sisters.

"You should wear your gold chain and locket," remarked Lavinia, who
always took pride in her sister's appearance. "It will look very nice
upon that dress."

She alluded to a short, thick chain of gold, the gold locket attached to
it being set round with pearls, Nancy's best ornament; nay, the only one
she had of any value; it was the one she had worn at Miss Bosanquet's
celebrated party. Nancy made no answer. She was turning red and white.

"What's the matter?" cried Lavinia.

The matter was, that Mr. Edwin Fennel had obtained possession of the
chain and locket more than a month ago. Silly Nancy confessed with
trembling lips that she feared he had pledged it.

Or sold it, thought Lavinia. She felt terribly vexed and indignant. "I
suppose, Ann, it will end in his grasping everything," she said, "and
starving us out of house and home: _myself_, at any rate."

"He expects money from his brother James, and then he will get it back
for me," twittered Nancy.

Monsieur Jules Carimon was not able to come to the table d'hôte; his
duties that night would detain him at the college until seven o'clock.
It happened so on occasion. Colonel Selby sat at one end of their party,
Lavinia at the other; Mary Carimon and Nancy between them. A gentleman
was on the other side of Lavinia whom she did not particularly notice;
and, upon his asking the waiter for something, his voice seemed to
strike upon her memory. Turning, she saw that it was the tall Englishman
they had seen on the pier some months before in the shepherd's plaid,
the lawyer named Lockett. He recognized her face at the same moment, and
they entered into conversation.

"Are you making any stay at Sainteville?" she inquired.

"For a few days. I must be back in London on Monday morning."

Colonel Selby's attention was attracted to the speakers. "What, is it
you, Lockett?" he exclaimed.

Mr. Lockett bent forward to look beyond Lavinia and Madame Carimon.
"Why, colonel, are you here?" he cried. So it was evident that they knew
one another.

But you can't talk very much across people at a table d'hôte; and
Lavinia and Mr. Lockett were, so to say, left together again. She put a
question to him, dropping her voice to a whisper.

"Did you ever find that person you were looking for?"

"The person I was looking for?" repeated the lawyer, not remembering.
"What person was that?"

"The one you spoke of on the pier that day--a Mr. Dangerfield."

"Oh, ay; but I was not looking for him myself. No; I believe he is not
dropped upon yet. He is keeping quiet, I expect."

"Is he still being looked for?"

"Little doubt of that. My friend here, on my left, could tell you more
about him than I can, if you want to know."

"No, thank you," said Lavinia hastily, in a sort of fear. And she then
observed that next to Mr. Lockett another Englishman was sitting, who
looked very much like a lawyer also.

After dinner Colonel Selby took his guests, the three ladies, into the
little salon, which opened to Madame Podevin's bureau; for it was she
who, French fashion, kept the bureau and all its accounts, not her
husband. Whilst the coffee which the colonel ordered was preparing, he
took from his pocket-book two cheques, and gave one each to Lavinia and
Mrs. Fennel. It was their quarterly income, due about a week hence.

"I thought I might as well give it you now, as I am here, and save the
trouble of sending," he remarked. "You can write me a receipt for it;
here's pen, ink and paper."

Each wrote her receipt, and gave it him. Nancy held the cheque in her
hand, looking at her sister in a vacillating manner. "I suppose I ought
to give it you, Lavinia," she said. "Must I do so?"

"What do you think about it yourself?" coldly rejoined Lavinia.

"He was so very angry with me the last time," sighed Nancy, still
withholding the cheque. "He said I ought to keep possession of my own,
and he ordered me to do so in future."

"That he may have the pleasure of spending it," said Mary Carimon in a
sharp tone, though she laughed at the same time. "Lavinia has to pay for
the bread-and-cheese that you and he eat, Nancy; how can she do that
unless she receives your money?"

"Yes, I know; it is very difficult," said poor Nancy. "Take the cheque,
Lavinia; I shall tell him that you and Mary Carimon both said I must
give it up."

"Oh, tell him I said so, and welcome," spoke Madame Carimon. "I will
tell him so myself, if you like."

As Colonel Selby returned to the room--he had been seeing to his
luggage--the coffee was brought in, and close upon it came Monsieur
Carimon.

The boat for London was leaving early that night--eight o'clock; they
all went down to it to see William Selby off. It was a calm night, warm
for the time of year, the moon beautifully bright. After the boat's
departure, Lavinia and Ann went home, and found Captain Fennel there. He
had just got in, he said, and wanted some supper.

Whilst he was taking it, his wife told him of Mr. Lockett's having
sat by them at the table d'hôte, and that he and Colonel Selby were
acquainted with one another. Captain Fennel drew a grim face at the
information, and asked whether the lawyer had also "cleared out" for
London.

"I don't think so; I did not see him go on board," said Nancy. "Lavinia
knows; she was talking with Mr. Lockett all dinner-time."

Captain Fennel turned his impassive face to Lavinia, as if demanding an
answer to his question.

"Mr. Lockett intends to remain here until Sunday, I fancy; he said he
had to be in London on Monday morning. He has some friend with him here.
I inquired whether they had found the Mr. Dangerfield he spoke of last
autumn," added Lavinia slowly and distinctly. "'Not yet,' he answered,
'but he is still being looked for.'"

Whether Lavinia said this with a little spice of malice, or whether she
really meant to warn him, she best knew. Captain Fennel finished his
supper in silence.

"I presume the colonel did not hand you over your quarter's money?" he
next said to his wife in a mocking sort of way. "It is not due for a
week yet; he is not one to pay beforehand."

Upon which Nancy began to tremble and looked imploringly at her sister,
who was putting the plates together upon the tray. After Flore went home
they had to wait upon themselves.

"Colonel Selby did hand us the money," said Lavinia. "I hold both
cheques for it."

Well, there ensued a mild disturbance; what schoolboys might call a
genteel row. Mr. Edwin Fennel insisted upon his wife's cheque being
given to him. Lavinia decisively refused. She went into a bit of a
temper, and told him some home truths. He said he had a right to hold
his wife's money, and should appeal to the law on the morrow to enforce
it. He might do that, Lavinia retorted; no French law would make her
give it up. Nancy began to cry.

Probably he knew his threats were futile. Instead of appealing to the
law on the morrow, he went off by an early train, carrying Nancy with
him. Lavinia's private opinion was that he thought it safer to take her,
though it did increase the expense, than to leave her; she might get
talking with Mr. Lockett. Ann's eyes were red, as if she had spent the
night in crying.

"Has he _beaten_ you?" Lavinia inquired, snatching the opportunity of
a private moment.

"Oh, Lavinia, don't, don't! I shall _never_ dare to let you have the
cheque again," she wailed.

"Where is it that you are going?"

"He has not told me," Nancy whispered back again. "To Calais, I think,
or else up to Lille. We are to be away all the week."

"Until Mr. Lockett and his friend are gone," thought Lavinia. "Nancy,
how can he find money for it?"

"He has some napoleons in his pocket--borrowed yesterday, I think, from
old Griffin."

Lavinia understood. Old Griffin, as Nancy styled him, had been careless
of his money since his very slight attack of paralysis; he would freely
lend to any one who asked him. She had not the slightest doubt that
Captain Fennel had borrowed of him--and not for the first time.

It was on Wednesday morning that they went away, and for the rest of
the week Lavinia was at peace. She changed the cheques at the bank as
before, and paid the outstanding debts. But it left her so little to go
on with, that she really knew not how she should get through the months
until midsummer.

On Friday two of the Miss Bosanquets called. Hearing she was alone, they
came to ask her to dine with them in the evening. Lavinia did so. But
upon returning home at night, the old horror of going into the house
came on again. Lavinia was in despair; she had hoped it had passed away
for good.

On Saturday morning at market she met Madame Carimon, who invited her
for the following day, Sunday. Lavinia hesitated. Glad enough indeed
she was at the prospect of being taken out of her solitary home for
a happy day at Mary Carimon's; but she shrank from again risking the
dreadful feeling which would be sure to attack her when going into the
house at night.

"You must come, Lavinia," cheerily urged Madame Carimon. "I have invited
the English teacher at Madame Deauville's school; she has no friends
here, poor thing."

"Well, I will come, Mary; thank you," said Lavinia slowly.

"To be sure you will. Why do you hesitate at all?"

Lavinia could not say why in the midst of the jostling market-place;
perhaps would not had they been alone. "For one thing, they may be
coming home before to-morrow," observed Lavinia, alluding to Mr. and
Mrs. Fennel.

"Let them come. You are not obliged to stay at home with them," laughed
Mary.


_From the Diary of Miss Preen._

_Monday morning._--Well, it is over. The horror of last night is over,
and I have not died of it. That will be considered a strong expression,
should any eye save my own see this diary: but I truly believe the
horror would kill me if I were subjected many more times to it.

I went to Mary Carimon's after our service was over in the morning,
and we had a pleasant day there. The more I see of Monsieur Jules the
more I esteem and respect him. He is so genuine, so good at heart, so
simple in manner. Miss Perry is very agreeable; not so young as I
had thought--thirty last birthday, she says. Her English is good and
refined, and that is not always the case with the English teachers who
come over to France--the French ladies who engage them cannot judge of
our accent.

Miss Perry and I left together a little before ten. She wished me
good-night in the Rue Tessin, Madame Deauville's house lying one way,
mine another. The horror began to come over me as I crossed the Place
Ronde, which had never happened before. Stay; not the horror itself, but
the dread of it. An impulse actually crossed me to ring at Madame
Sauvage's, and ask Mariette to accompany me up the entry, and stand at
my open door whilst I went in to light the candle. But I could see no
light in the house, not even in madame's salon, and supposed she and
Mariette might be gone to bed. They are early people on Sundays, and the
two young men have their latch-keys.

I will try to overcome it this time, I bravely said to myself, and
not allow the fear to keep me halting outside the door as it has done
before. So I took out my latch-key, put it straight into the door,
opened it, went in, and closed it again. Before I had well reached the
top of the passage and felt for the match-box on the slab, I was in a
paroxysm of horror. Something, like an icy wind coming up the passage,
seemed to flutter the candle as I lighted it. Can I have left the door
open? I thought, and turned to look. There stood Edwin Fennel. He stood
just inside the door, which appeared to be shut, and he was looking
straight at me with a threatening, malignant expression on his pale
face.

"Oh! have you come home to-night?" I exclaimed aloud. For I really
thought it was so.

The candle continued to flicker quickly as if it meant to go out,
causing me to glance at it. When I looked up again Mr. Fennel was gone.
_It was not himself who had been there; it was only an illusion._

Exactly as he had seemed to appear to me the night before he and Nancy
returned from London in December, so he had appeared again, his back to
the door, and the evil menace on his countenance. Did the appearance
come to me as a warning? or was the thing nothing but a delusion of my
own optic nerves?

I dragged my shaking limbs upstairs, on the verge of screaming at each
step with the fear of what might be behind me, and undressed and went to
bed. For nearly the whole night I could not sleep, and when I did get to
sleep in the morning I was tormented by a distressing dream. All, all as
it had been that other night from three to four months ago.

A confused dream, no method in it. Several people were about--Nancy for
one; I saw her fair curls. We all seemed to be in grievous discomfort
and distress; whilst I, in worse fear than this world can know, was ever
striving to hide myself from Edwin Fennel, to escape some dreadful fate
which he held in store for me. And I knew I should not escape it.


X.

Like many another active housewife, Madame Carimon was always busy on
Monday mornings. On the one about to be referred to, she had finished
her household duties by eleven o'clock, and then sat down in her little
salle-à-manger, which she also made her workroom, to mend some of
Monsieur Carimon's cotton socks. By her side, on the small work-table,
lay a silver brooch which Miss Perry had inadvertently left behind her
the previous evening. Mary Carimon was considering at what hour she
could most conveniently go out to leave it at Madame Deauville's when
she heard Pauline answer a ring at the door-bell, and Miss Preen came
in.

"Oh, Lavinia, I am glad to see you. You are an early visitor. Are you
not well?" continued Madame Carimon, noticing the pale, sad face. "Is
anything the matter?"

"I am in great trouble, Mary; I cannot rest; and I have come to talk
to you about it," said Lavinia, taking the sable boa from her neck and
untying her bonnet-strings. "If things were to continue as they are now,
I should die of it."

Drawing a chair near to Mary Carimon, Lavinia entered upon her
narrative. She spoke first of general matters. The home discomfort, the
trouble with Captain Fennel regarding Nancy's money, and the difficulty
she had to keep up the indispensable payments to the tradespeople,
expressing her firm belief that in future he would inevitably seize upon
Nancy's portion when it came and confiscate it. Next, she went on to
tell the story of the past night--Sunday: how the old terrible horror
had come upon her of entering the house, of a fancied appearance of
Edwin Fennel in the passage, and of the dream that followed. All this
latter part was but a repetition of what she had told Madame Carimon
three or four months ago. Hearing it for the second time, it impressed
Mary Carimon's imagination. But she did not speak at once.

"I never in my life saw anything plainer or that looked more life-like
than Captain Fennel, as he stood and gazed at me from the end of the
passage with the evil look on his countenance," resumed Lavinia. "And I
hardly know why I tell you about it again, Mary, except that I have no
one else to speak to. You rather laughed at me the first time, if you
remember; perhaps you will laugh again now."

"No, no," dissented Mary Carimon. "I did not put faith in it before,
believing you were deceived by the uncertain light in the passage, and
were, perhaps, thinking of him, and that the dream afterwards was merely
the result of your fright; nothing else. But now that you have had a
second experience of it, I don't doubt that you do see this spectre, and
that the dream follows as a sequence to it. And I think," she added,
slowly and emphatically, "that it has come to warn you of some
threatened harm."

"I seem to see that it has," murmured Lavinia. "Why else should it
come at all? I wish I could picture it to you half vividly enough: the
reality of it and the horror. Mary, I am growing seriously afraid."

"Were I you, I should get away from the house," said Madame Carimon.
"Leave them to themselves."

"It is what I mean to do, Mary. I cannot remain in it, apart from this
undefined fear--which of course _may_ be only superstitious fancy,"
hastily acknowledged Lavinia. "If things continue in the present
state--and there is no prospect of their changing----"

"I should leave at once--as soon as they arrive home," rather sharply
interrupted Mary Carimon, who seemed to like the aspect of what she had
heard less and less.

"As soon as I can make arrangements. They come home to-night; I received
a letter from Nancy this morning. They have been only at Pontipette all
the time."

"Only at Pontipette!"

"Nancy says so. It did as well as any other place. Captain Fennel's
motive was to hide away from the lawyers we met at the table d'hôte."

"Have they left Sainteville, I wonder, those lawyers?"

"Yes," said Lavinia. "On Friday I met Mr. Lockett when I was going to
the Rue Lamartine, and he told me he was leaving for Calais with his
friend on Saturday morning. It is rather remarkable," she added, after
a pause, "that the first time I saw that appearance in the passage and
dreamed the dream, should have been the eve of Mr. Fennel's return
here, and that it is the same again now."

"You must leave the house, Lavinia," reiterated Madame Carimon.

"Let me see," considered Lavinia. "April comes in this week. Next week
will be Passion Week, preceding Easter. I will stay with them over
Easter, and then leave."

Monsieur Jules Carimon's sock, in process of renovation, had been
allowed to fall upon the mender's lap. She slowly took it up again,
speaking thoughtfully.

"I should leave at once; before Easter. But you will see how he behaves,
Lavinia. If not well; if he gives you any cause of annoyance, come away
there and then. We will take you in, mind, if you have not found a place
to go to."

Lavinia thanked her, and rearranged her bonnet preparatory to returning
home. She went out with a heavy heart. Only one poor twelvemonth to have
brought about all this change!

At the door of the Petite Maison Rouge, when she reached it, stood
Flore, parleying with a slim youth, who held an open paper in his
outstretched hand. Flore was refusing to touch the paper, which was
both printed and written on, and looked official.

"I tell him that Monsieur le Capitaine is not at home; he can bring it
when he is," explained Flore to her mistress in English.

Lavinia turned to the young man. "Captain Fennel has been away from
Sainteville for a few days; he probably will be here to-morrow," she
said. "Do you wish to leave this paper for him?"

"Yes," said the messenger, evidently understanding English but speaking
in French, as he contrived to slip the paper into Miss Preen's
unconscious hand. "You will have the politeness to give it to him,
madame."

And, with that, he went off down the entry, whistling.

"Do you know what the paper is, Flore?" asked Lavinia.

"I think so," said Flore. "I've seen these papers before to-day. It's
just a sort of order from the law court on Captain Fennel, to pay up
some debt that he owes; and, if he does not pay, the court will issue a
procès against him. That's what it is, madame."

Lavinia carried the paper into the salon, and sat studying it. As far as
she could make it out, Mr. Edwin Fennel was called upon to pay to some
creditor the sum of one hundred and eighty-three francs, without delay.

"Over seven pounds! And if he does not pay, the law expenses, to enforce
it, will increase the debt perhaps by one-half," sighed Lavinia. "There
may be, and no doubt _are_, other things at the back of this. Will he
turn us out of house and home?"

Propping the paper against the wall over the mantelpiece, she left it
there, that it might meet the captain's eye on his return.

Not until quite late that evening did Madame Carimon get her husband to
herself, for he brought in one of the young under-masters at the college
to dine with them. But as soon as they were sitting cosily alone, he
smoking his pipe before bed-time, she told him all she had heard from
Lavinia Preen.

"I don't like it, Jules; I don't indeed," she said. "It has made a
strangely disagreeable impression on me. What is your opinion?"

Placid Monsieur Jules did not seem to have much opinion one way or the
other. Upon the superstitious portion of the tale he, being a practical
Frenchman, totally declined to have any at all. He was very sorry for
the uncomfortable position Miss Preen found herself in, and he certainly
was not surprised she should wish to quit the Petite Maison Rouge if
affairs could not be made more agreeable there. As to the Capitaine
Fennel, he felt free to confess there was something about him which he
did not like: and he was sure no man of honour ought to have run away
clandestinely, as he did, with Miss Nancy.

"You see, Jules, what the man aims at is to get hold of Nancy's income
and apply it to his own uses--and for Lavinia to keep them upon hers."

"I see," said Jules.

"And Lavinia _cannot_ do it; she has not half enough. It troubles me
very much," flashed Madame Carimon. "She says she shall stay with
them until Easter is over. _I_ should not; I should leave them to it
to-morrow."

"Yes, my dear, that's all very well," nodded Monsieur Jules; "but we
cannot always do precisely what we would. Miss Preen is responsible for
the rent of that house, and if Fennel and his wife do not pay it, she
would have to. She must have a thorough understanding upon that point
before she leaves it."

By the nine-o'clock train that night they came home, Lavinia, pleading a
bad headache and feeling altogether out of sorts, got Flore to remain
for once, and went herself to bed. She dreaded the very sight of Captain
Fennel.

In the morning she saw that the paper had disappeared from the
mantelpiece. He was quite jaunty at breakfast, talking to her and Nancy
about Pontipette; and things passed pleasantly. About eleven o'clock he
began brushing his hat to go out.

"I'm going to have a look at Griffin, and see how he's getting on," he
remarked. "Perhaps the old man would enjoy a drive this fine day; if
so, you may not see me back till dinner-time."

But just as Captain Fennel turned out of the Place Ronde to the Rue
Tessin, he came upon Charles Palliser, strolling along.

"Fine day, Mr. Charles," he remarked graciously.

"Capital," assented Charles, "and I'm glad of it; the old gentleman will
have a good passage. I've just seen him off by the eleven train."

"Seems to me you spend your time in seeing people off by trains. Which
old gentleman is it now?--him from below?"

Charley laughed. "It's Griffin this time," said he. "Being feeble, I
thought I might be of use in starting him, and went up."

"Griffin!" exclaimed Captain Fennel. "Why, where's he gone to?"

"To Calais. En route for Dover and----"

"What's he gone for? When's he coming back?" interrupted the captain,
speaking like a man in great amazement.

"He is not coming back at all; he has gone for good," said Charley. "His
daughter came to fetch him."

"Why on earth should she do that?"

"It seems that her husband, a clergyman at Kensington, fell across Major
Smith last week in London, and put some pretty close questions to him
about the old man, for they had been made uneasy by his letters of late.
The major----"

"What business had the major in London?" questioned Captain Fennel
impatiently.

"You can ask him," said Charles equably, "I didn't. He is back again.
Well, Major Smith, being questioned, made no bones about it at all; said
Griffin and Griffin's money both wanted looking after. Upon that, the
daughter came straight off, arriving here on Sunday morning; she settled
things yesterday, and has carried her father away to-day. He was as
pleased as Punch, poor childish old fellow, at the prospect of a voyage
in the boat."

Whether this information put a check upon any little plan Captain Fennel
may have been entertaining, Charles Palliser could not positively know;
but he thought he had never seen so evil an eye as the one glaring upon
him. Only for a moment; just a flash; and then the face was smoothed
again. Charley had his ideas--and all his wits about him; and old
Griffin had babbled publicly.

Captain Fennel strolled by his side towards the port, talking of
Pontipette and other matters of indifference. When in sight of the
harbour, he halted.

"I must wish you good-day now, Palliser; I have letters to write," said
he; and walked briskly back again.

Lavinia and Nancy were sitting together in the salon when he reached
home. Nancy was looking scared.

"Edwin," she said, leaving her chair to meet him--"Edwin, what do you
think Lavinia has been saying? That she is going to leave us."

"Oh, indeed," he carelessly answered.

"But it is true, Edwin; she means it."

"Yes, I mean it," interposed Lavinia very quietly. "You and Nancy will
be better without me; perhaps happier."

He looked at her for a full minute in silence, then laughed a little.
"Like Darby and Joan," he remarked, as he put his writing-case on the
table and sat down to it.

Mrs. Fennel returned to her chair by Lavinia, who was sitting close to
the window mending a lace collar which had been torn in the ironing. As
usual Nancy was doing nothing.

"You _couldn't_ leave me, Lavinia, you know," she said in coaxing tones.

"I know that I never thought to do so, Ann, but circumstances alter
cases," answered the elder sister. Both of them had dropped their voices
to a low key, not to disturb the letter-writer. But he could hear if
he chose to listen. "I began putting my things together yesterday, and
shall finish doing it at leisure. I will stay over Easter with you; but
go then I shall."

"You must be cruel to think of such a thing, Lavinia."

"Not cruel," corrected Lavinia. "I am sorry, Ann, but the step is forced
upon me. The anxieties in regard to money matters are wearing me out;
they would wear me out altogether if I did not end them. And there are
other things which urge upon me the expediency of departure from this
house."

"What things?"

"I cannot speak of them. Never mind what they are, Ann. They concern
myself; not you."

Ann Fennel sat twirling one of her fair silken ringlets between her
thumb and finger; a habit of hers when thinking.

"Where shall you live, Lavinia, if you do leave? Take another apartment
at Sainteville?"

"I think not. It is a puzzling question. Possibly I may go back to
Buttermead, and get some family to take me in as a boarder," dreamily
answered Lavinia. "Seventy pounds a-year will not keep me luxuriously."

Captain Fennel lifted his face. "If it will not keep one, how is it to
keep two?" he demanded, in rather defiant tones.

"I don't know anything about that," said Lavinia civilly. "I have not
two to keep; only one."

Nancy chanced to catch a glimpse of his face just then, and its look
frightened her. Lavinia had her back to him, and did not see it. Nancy
began to cry quietly.

"Oh, Lavinia, you will think better of this; you will not leave us!"
she implored. "We could not do at all without you and your half of the
money."

Lavinia had finished her collar, and rose to take it upstairs. "Don't be
distressed, Nancy," she paused to say; "it is a thing that _must be_. I
am very sorry; but it is not my fault. As you----"

"You can stay in the house if you choose!" flashed Nancy, growing feebly
angry.

"No, I cannot. I _cannot_," repeated Lavinia. "I begin to foresee that I
might--might die of it."


XI.

Sainteville felt surprised and sorry to hear that Miss Preen was going
to leave it to its own devices, for the town had grown to like her.
Lavinia did not herself talk about going, but the news somehow got
wind. People wondered why she went. Matters, as connected with the
financial department of the Petite Maison Rouge, were known but
imperfectly--to most people not known at all; so that reason was not
thought of. It was quite understood that Ann Preen's stolen marriage,
capped by the bringing home of her husband to the Petite Maison Rouge,
had been a sharp blow to Miss Preen: perhaps, said Sainteville now, she
had tried living with them and found it did not answer. Or perhaps she
was only going away for a change, and would return after a while.

Passion week passed, and Easter week came in, and Lavinia made her
arrangements for the succeeding one. On the Tuesday in that next week,
all being well, she would quit Sainteville. Her preparations were
made; her larger box was already packed and corded. Nancy, of shallow
temperament and elastic spirits, seemed quite to have recovered from the
sting of the proposed parting; she helped Lavinia to put up her laces
and other little fine things, prattling all the time. Captain Fennel
maintained his suavity. Beyond the words he had spoken--as to how she
expected the income to keep two if it would not keep one--he had
said nothing. It might be that he hardly yet believed Lavinia would
positively go.

But she was going. At first only to Boulogne-sur-Mer. Monsieur
Jules Carimon had a cousin, Madame Degravier, who kept a superior
boarding-house there, much patronized by the English; he had written
to her to introduce Miss Preen, and to intimate that it would oblige
him if the terms were made très facile. Madame had written back to
Lavinia most satisfactorily, and, so far, that was arranged.

Once at Boulogne in peace and quietness, Lavinia would have leisure to
decide upon her future plans. She hoped to pay a visit to Buttermead in
the summer-time, for she had begun to yearn for a sight of the old place
and its people. After that--well, she should see. If things went on
pleasantly at Sainteville--that is, if Captain Fennel and Nancy were
still in the Petite Maison Rouge, and he was enabled to find means to
continue in it--then, perhaps, she might return to the town. Not to make
one of the household--never again that; but she might find a little
pied-à-terre in some other home.

Meanwhile, Lavinia heard no more of the procès, and she wondered how the
captain was meeting it. During the Easter week she made her farewell
calls. That week she was not very much at home; one or other of her old
acquaintances wanted her. Major and Mrs. Smith had her to spend a day
with them; the Miss Bosanquets invited her also; and so on.

One call, involving also private business, she made upon old Madame
Sauvage, Mary Carimon accompanying her. Monsieur Gustave was called up
to the salon to assist at the conference. Lavinia partly explained her
position to them in strict confidence, and the motive, as touching
pecuniary affairs, which was taking her away: she said nothing of that
other and greater motive, her superstitious fear.

"I have come to speak of the rent," she said to Monsieur Gustave, and
Mary Carimon repeated the words in French to old Madame Sauvage. "You
must in future look to Captain Fennel for it; you must make him pay it
if possible. At the same time, I admit my own responsibility," added
Lavinia, "and if it be found totally impracticable to get it from
Captain Fennel or my sister, I shall pay it to you. This must, of
course, be kept strictly between ourselves, Monsieur Gustave; you and
madame understand that. If Captain Fennel gained any intimation of it,
he would take care not to pay it."

Monsieur Gustave and madame his mother assured her that they fully
understood, and that she might rely upon their honour. They were grieved
to lose so excellent a tenant and neighbour as Miss Preen, and wished
circumstances had been more kindly. One thing she might rest assured
of--that they should feel at least as mortified at having to apply to
her for the rent as she herself would be, and they would not leave a
stone unturned to extract it from the hands of Captain Fennel.

"It has altogether been a most bitter trial to me," sighed Lavinia, as
she stood up to say farewell to madame.

The old lady understood, and the tears came into her compassionate eyes
as she held Lavinia's hands between her own. "Ay, for certain," she
replied in French. "She and her sons had said so privately to one
another ever since the abrupt coming home of the strange captain to the
petite maison à côté."

On Sunday, Lavinia, accompanied by Nancy and Captain Fennel, attended
morning service for the last time. She spoke to several acquaintances
coming out, wishing them good-bye, and was hastening to overtake her
sister, when she heard rapid steps behind her, and a voice speaking.
Turning, she saw Charley Palliser.

"Miss Preen," cried he, "my aunt wants you to come home and dine with
us. See, she is waiting for you. You could not come any one day last
week, you know."

"I was not able to come to you last week, Mr. Charles; I had so much to
do, and so many engagements," said Lavinia, as she walked back to Mrs.
Hardy, who stood smiling.

"But you will come to-day, dear Miss Preen," said old Mrs. Hardy, who
had caught the words. "We have a lovely fricandeau of veal, and----"

"Why, that is just our own dinner," interrupted Lavinia gaily. "I should
like to come to you, Mrs. Hardy, but I cannot. It is my last Sunday at
home, and I could not well go out and leave them."

They saw the force of the objection. Mrs. Hardy asked whether she should
be at church in the evening. Lavinia replied that she intended to be,
and they agreed to bid each other farewell then.

"You don't know what you've lost, Miss Preen," said Charley comically.
"There's a huge cream tart--lovely."

Captain Fennel was quite lively at the dinner-table. He related a rather
laughable story which had been told him by Major Smith, with whom he had
walked for ten minutes after church, and was otherwise gracious.

After dinner, while Flore was taking away the things, he left the room,
and came back with three glasses of liqueur, on a small waiter, handing
one to Lavinia, another to his wife, and keeping the third himself. It
was the yellow chartreuse; Captain Fennel kept a bottle of it and of one
or two other choice liqueurs in the little cupboard at the end of the
passage, and treated them to a glass sometimes.

"How delightful!" cried Nancy, who liked chartreuse and anything else
that was good.

They sat and sipped it, talking pleasantly together. The captain soon
finished his, and said he should take a stroll on the pier. It was a
bright day with a brisk wind, which seemed to be getting higher.

"The London boat ought to be in about four o'clock," he remarked.
"It's catching it sweetly, I know; passengers will look like ghosts.
Au revoir; don't get quarrelling." And thus, nodding to the two
ladies, he went out gaily.

Not much danger of their quarrelling. They turned their chairs to
the fire, and plunged into conversation, which chanced to turn upon
Buttermead. In calling up one reminiscence of the old place after
another, now Lavinia, now Nancy, the time passed on. Lavinia wore her
silver-grey silk dress that day, with some yellowish-looking lace
falling at the throat and wrists.

Flore came in to bring the tea-tray; she always put it on the table in
readiness on a Sunday afternoon. The water, she said, would be on the
boil in the kitchen by the time they wanted it. And then she went away
as usual for the rest of the day.

Not long afterwards, Lavinia, who was speaking, suddenly stopped in the
middle of a sentence. She started up in her chair, fell back again, and
clasped her hands below her chest with a great cry.

"Oh, Nancy!--Nancy!"

Nancy dashed across the hearthrug. "What is it?" she exclaimed. "What is
it, Lavinia?"

Lavinia apparently could not say what it was. She seemed to be in the
greatest agony; her face had turned livid. Nancy was next door to an
imbecile in any emergency, and fairly wrung her hands in her distress.

"Oh, what can be the matter with me?" gasped Lavinia. "Nancy, I think I
am dying."

The next moment she had glided from the chair to the floor, and lay
there shrieking and writhing. Bursting away, Nancy ran round to the
next house, all closed to-day, rang wildly at the private door, and
when it was opened by Mariette, rushed upstairs to madame's salon.

Madame Veuve Sauvage, comprehending that something was amiss, without
understanding Nancy's frantic words, put a shawl on her shoulders to
hasten to the other house, ordering Mariette to follow her. Her sons
were out.

There lay Lavinia, in the greatest agony. Madame Sauvage sent Mariette
off for Monsieur Dupuis, and told her to fly. "Better bring Monsieur
Henri Dupuis, Mariette," she called after her: "he will get quicker over
the ground than his old father."

But Monsieur Henri Dupuis, as it turned out, was absent. He had left
that morning for Calais with his wife, to spend two days with her
friends who lived there, purposing to be back early on Tuesday morning.
Old Monsieur Dupuis came very quickly. He thought Mademoiselle Preen
must have inward inflammation, he said to Madame Sauvage, and inquired
what she had eaten for dinner. Nancy told him as well as she could
between her sobs and her broken speech.

A fricandeau of veal, potatoes, a cauliflower au gratin, and a
frangipane tart from the pastrycook's. No fruit or any other dessert.
They took a little Bordeaux wine with dinner, and a liqueur glass of
chartreuse afterwards.

All very wholesome, pronounced Monsieur Dupuis, with satisfaction; not
at all likely to disagree with mademoiselle. Possibly she had caught a
chill.

Mariette had run for Flore, who came in great consternation. Between
them all they got Lavinia upstairs, undressed her and laid her in bed,
applying hot flannels to the pain--and Monsieur Dupuis administered in
a wine-glass of water every quarter-of-an-hour some drops from a glass
phial which he had brought in his pocket.

It was close upon half-past five when Captain Fennel came in. He
expressed much surprise and concern, saying, like the doctor, that she
must have eaten something which had disagreed with her. The doctor
avowed that he could not otherwise account for the seizure; he did not
altogether think it was produced by a chill; and he spoke again of the
dinner. Captain Fennel observed that as to the dinner they had all three
partaken of it, one the same as another; he did not see why it should
affect his sister-in-law and not himself or his wife. This reasoning was
evident, admitted Monsieur Dupuis; but Miss Preen had touched nothing
since her breakfast, except at dinner. In point of fact, he felt very
much at a loss, he did not scruple to add; but the more acute symptoms
were showing a slight improvement, he was thankful to perceive, and he
trusted to bring her round.

As he did. In a few hours the pain had so far abated, or yielded to
remedies, that poor Lavinia, worn out, dropped into a comfortable sleep.
Monsieur Dupuis was round again early in the morning, and found her
recovered, though still feeling tired and very weak. He advised her
to lie in bed until the afternoon; not to get up then unless she felt
inclined; and he charged her to take chiefly milk food all the day--no
solids whatever.

Lavinia slept again all the morning, and awoke very much refreshed. In
the afternoon she felt quite equal to getting up, and did so, dressing
herself in the grey silk she had worn the previous day, because it was
nearest at hand. She then penned a line to Madame Degravier, saying she
was unable to travel to Boulogne on the morrow, as had been fixed, but
hoped to be there on Wednesday, or, at the latest, Thursday.

Captain Fennel, who generally took possession of the easiest chair in
the salon, and the warmest place, resigned it to Lavinia the instant she
appeared downstairs. He shook her by the hand, said how glad he was that
she had recovered from her indisposition, and installed her in the chair
with a cushion at her back and a rug over her knees. All she had to
dread now, he thought, was cold; she must guard against that. Lavinia
replied that she could not in the least imagine what had been the matter
with her; she had never had a similar attack before, and had never been
in such dreadful pain.

Presently Mary Carimon came in, having heard of the affair from
Mariette, whom she had met in the fish-market during the morning. All
danger was over, Mariette said, and mademoiselle was then sleeping
quietly: so Madame Carimon, not to disturb her, put off calling until
the afternoon. Captain Fennel sat talking with her a few minutes, and
then went out. For some cause or other he never seemed to be quite at
ease in the presence of Madame Carimon.

"I know what it must have been," cried Mary Carimon, coming to one of
her rapid conclusions after listening to the description of the illness.
"Misled by the sunny spring days last week, you went and left off some
of your warm underclothing, Lavinia, and so caught cold."

"Good gracious!" exclaimed Nancy, who had curled herself up on the sofa
like a ball, not having yet recovered from her fatigue and fright.
"Leave off one's warm things the beginning of April! I never heard of
such imprudence! How came you to do it, Lavinia?"

"I did not do it," said Lavinia quietly. "I have not left off anything.
Should I be so silly as to do that with a journey before me?"

"Then what caused the attack?" debated Madame Carimon. "Something you
had eaten?"

Lavinia shook her head helplessly. "It could hardly have been that,
Mary. I took nothing whatever that Nancy and Captain Fennel did not
take. I wish I did know--that I might guard, if possible, against a
similar attack in future. The pain seized me all in a moment. I thought
I was dying."

"It sounds odd," said Madame Carimon. "Monsieur Dupuis does not know
either, it seems. That's why I thought you might have been leaving off
your things, and did not like to tell him."

"I conclude that it must have been one of those mysterious attacks of
sudden illness to which we are all liable, but for which no one can
account," sighed Lavinia. "I hope I shall never have it again. This
experience has been enough for a lifetime."

Mary Carimon warmly echoed the hope as she rose to take her departure.
She advised Lavinia to go to bed early, and promised to come again in
the morning.

While Captain Fennel and Nancy dined, Flore made her mistress some tea,
and brought in with it some thin bread-and-butter. Lavinia felt all the
better for the refreshment, laughingly remarking that by the morning
she was sure she should be as hungry as a hunter. She sat chatting, and
sometimes dozing between whiles, until about a quarter to nine o'clock,
when she said she would go to bed.

Nancy went to the kitchen to make her a cup of arrowroot. Lavinia then
wished Captain Fennel good-night, and went upstairs. Flore had left as
usual, after washing up the dinner-things.

"Lavinia, shall I---- Oh, she has gone on," broke off Nancy, who had
come in with the breakfast-cup of arrowroot in her hand. "Edwin, do you
think I may venture to put a little brandy into this?"

Captain Fennel sat reading with his face to the fire and the lamp at his
elbow. He turned round.

"Brandy?" said he. "I'm sure I don't know. If that pain meant
inflammation, brandy might do harm. Ask Lavinia; she had better decide
for herself. No, no; leave the arrowroot on the table here," he hastily
cried, as Nancy was going out of the room with the cup. "Tell Lavinia
to come down, and we'll discuss the matter with her. Of course a little
brandy would do her an immense deal of good, if she might take it with
safety."

Nancy did as she was told. Leaving the cup and saucer on the table, she
went up to her sister. In a minute or two she was back again.

"Lavinia won't come down again, Edwin; she is already half-undressed.
She thinks she had better be on the safe side, and not have the brandy."

"All right," replied the captain, who was sitting as before, intent on
his book. Nancy took the cup upstairs.

She helped her sister into bed, and then gave her the arrowroot,
inquiring whether she had made it well.

"Quite well, only it was rather sweet," answered Lavinia.

"Sweet!" echoed Nancy, in reply. "Why, I hardly put any sugar at all
into it; I remembered that you don't like it."

Lavinia finished the cupful. Nancy tucked her up, and gave her a
good-night kiss. "Pleasant dreams, Lavinia dear," she called back, as
she was shutting the door.

"Thank you, Nancy; but I hope I shall sleep to-night without dreaming,"
answered Lavinia.

As Nancy went downstairs she turned into the kitchen for her own
arrowroot, which she had left all that time in the saucepan. Being fond
of it, she had made enough for herself as well as for Lavinia.


XII.

It was between half-past ten and eleven, and Captain and Mrs. Fennel
were in their bedroom preparing to retire to rest. She stood before the
glass doing her hair, having thrown a thin print cotton cape upon her
shoulders as usual, to protect her dress; he had taken off his coat.

"What was that?" cried she, in startled tones.

Some sound had penetrated to their room. The captain put his coat on a
chair and bent his ear. "I did not hear anything, Nancy," he answered.

"There it is again!" exclaimed Nancy. "Oh, it is Lavinia! I do believe
it is Lavinia!"

Flinging the comb from her hand, Nancy dashed out at the room-door,
which was near the head of the stairs; Lavinia's door being nearly at
the end of the passage. Unmistakable sounds, now a shriek, now a wail,
came from Lavinia's chamber. Nancy flew into it, her fair hair falling
on her shoulders.

"What is it, Lavinia? Oh, Edwin, Edwin, come here!" called Mrs. Fennel,
beside herself with terror. Lavinia was rolling about the bed, as she
had the previous day rolled on the salon floor; her face was distorted
with pain, her moans and cries were agonizing.

Captain Fennel stayed to put on his coat, came to Lavinia's door, and
put his head inside it. "Is it the pain again?" he asked.

"Yes, it is the pain again," gasped Lavinia, in answer. "I am dying, I
am surely dying!"

That put the finishing-touch to timorous Nancy. "Edwin, run, run for
Monsieur Dupuis!" she implored. "Oh, what shall we do? What shall we
do?"

Captain Fennel descended the stairs. When Nancy thought he must have
been gone out at least a minute or two, he appeared again with a
wine-glass of hot brandy-and-water, which he had stayed to mix.

"Try and get her to take this," he said. "It can't do harm; it may do
good. And if you could put hot flannels to her, Nancy, it might be well;
they eased the pain yesterday. I'll bring Dupuis here as soon as I can."

Lavinia could not take the brandy-and-water, and it was left upon the
grey marble top of the chest of drawers. Her paroxysms increased; Nancy
had never seen or imagined such pain, for this attack was worse than the
other, and she almost lost her wits with terror. Could she see Lavinia
die before her eyes?--no helping hand near to strive to save her? Just
as Nancy had done before, she did again now.

Flying down the stairs and out of the house, across the yard and through
the dark entry, she seized the bell-handle of Madame Veuve Sauvage's
door and pulled it frantically. The household had all retired for the
night.

Presently a window above opened, and Monsieur Gustave--Nancy knew his
voice--looked out.

"Who's there?" he asked in French. "What's the matter?"

"Oh, Monsieur Gustave, come in for the love of Heaven!" responded poor
Nancy, looking up. "She has another attack, worse than the first; she's
dying, and there's no one in the house but me."

"Directly, madame; I am with you on the instant," he kindly answered.
"I but wait to put on my effects."

He was at the Petite Maison Rouge almost as soon as she; his brother
Emile followed him in, and Mariette, whom they had called, came shortly.
Miss Preen lay in dreadful paroxysms; it did appear to them that she
must die. Nancy and Mariette busied themselves in the kitchen, heating
flannels.

The doctor did not seem to come very quickly. Captain Fennel at length
made his appearance and said Monsieur Dupuis would be there in a minute
or two.

"I am content to hear that," remarked Monsieur Gustave in reply. "I was
just about to despatch my brother for the first doctor he could find."

"Never had such trouble in ringing up a doctor before," returned Captain
Fennel. "I suppose the old man sleeps too soundly to be easily aroused;
many elderly people do."

"I fear she is dying," whispered Monsieur Gustave.

"No, no, surely not!" cried Captain Fennel, recoiling a step at the
words. "What can it possibly be? What causes the attacks?"

Whilst Monsieur Gustave was shaking his head at this difficult question,
Monsieur Dupuis arrived. Monsieur Emile, anxious to make himself useful,
was requested by Mariette to go to Flore's domicile and ring her up.
Flore seemed to have been sleeping with her clothes on, for they came
back together.

Monsieur Dupuis could do nothing for his patient. He strove to
administer drops of medicinal remedies; he caused her to be nearly
smothered in scalding-hot flannels--all in vain. He despatched Monsieur
Emile Sauvage to bring in another doctor, Monsieur Podevin, who lived
near. All in vain. Lavinia died. Just at one o'clock in the morning,
before the cocks had begun to crow, Lavinia Preen died.

The shock to those in the house was great. It seemed to stun them, one
and all. The brothers Sauvage, leaving a few words of heartfelt sympathy
with Captain Fennel, withdrew silently to their own home. Mariette
stayed. The two doctors, shut up in the salon, talked with one another,
endeavouring to account for the death.

"Inflammation, no doubt," observed Monsieur Dupuis; "but even so, the
death has been too speedy."

"More like poison," rejoined the younger man, Monsieur Podevin. He
was brother to the proprietor of the Hôtel des Princes, and was much
respected by his fellow-citizens as a safe and skilful practitioner.

"The thought of poison naturally occurred to me on Sunday, when I was
first called to her," returned Monsieur Dupuis, "but it could not be
borne out. You see, she had partaken of nothing, either in food or
drink, but what the other inmates had taken; absolutely nothing. This
was assured me by them all, herself included."

"She seems to have taken nothing to-day, either, that could in any way
harm her," said Monsieur Podevin.

"Nothing. She took a cup of tea at five o'clock, which the servant,
Flore, prepared and also partook of herself--a cup out of the same
teapot. Later, when the poor lady went to bed, her sister made her a
basin of arrowroot, and made herself one at the same time."

"Well, it appears strange."

"It could not have been a chill. The symptoms----"

"A chill?--bah!" interrupted Monsieur Podevin. "We shall know more
after the post-mortem," he added, taking up his hat. "Of course there
must be one."

Wishing his brother practitioner good-night, he left. Monsieur Dupuis
went looking about for Captain Fennel, and found him in the kitchen,
standing by the hot stove, and drinking a glass of hot brandy-and-water.
The rest were upstairs.

"This event has shaken my nerves, doctor," apologized the captain, in
reference to the glass. "I never was so upset. Shall I mix you one?"

Monsieur Dupuis shook his head. He never took anything so strong. The
most calming thing, in his opinion, was a glass of eau sucrée, with a
teaspoonful of orange-flower water in it.

"Sir," he went on, "I have been conversing with my esteemed confrère. We
cannot, either of us, decide what mademoiselle has died of, being unable
to see any adequate cause for it; and we wish to hold a post-mortem
examination. I presume you will not object to it?"

"Certainly not; I think there should be one," briskly spoke Captain
Fennel after a moment's pause. "For our satisfaction, if for nothing
else, doctor."

"Very well. Will nine o'clock in the morning suit you, as to time? It
should be made early."

"I--expect it will," answered the captain, reflecting. "Do you hold it
here?"

"Undoubtedly. In her own room."

"Then wait just one minute, will you, doctor, whilst I speak to my wife.
Nine o'clock seems a little early, but I dare say it will suit."

Monsieur Dupuis went back into the salon. He had waited there a short
interval, when Mrs. Fennel burst in, wild with excitement. Her hair
still hung down her back, her eyes were swollen with weeping, her face
was one of piteous distress. She advanced to Monsieur Dupuis, and held
up her trembling hands.

The old doctor understood English fairly well when it was quietly
spoken; but he did not in the least understand it in a storm. Sobbing,
trembling, Mrs. Fennel was beseeching him not to hold a post-mortem on
her poor dead sister, for the love of mercy.

Surprised and distressed, he placed her on the sofa, soothed her into
calmness, and then bade her tell him quietly what her petition was. She
repeated it--begging, praying, imploring him not to disturb her sister
now she was at rest; but to let her be put into her grave in peace.
Well, well, said the compassionate old man; if it would pain the
relatives so greatly to have it done, he and Monsieur Podevin would, of
course, abandon the idea. It would be a satisfaction to them both to be
able to decide upon the cause of death, but they did not wish to proceed
in it against the feelings of the family.

Sainteville woke up in the morning to a shock. Half the townspeople
still believed that Miss Preen was leaving that day, Tuesday, for
Boulogne; and to hear that she would not go on that journey, that she
would never go on any earthly journey again, that she was _dead_, shook
them to the centre.

What had been the matter with her?--what had killed her so quickly in
the midst of life and health? Groups asked this; one group meeting
another. "Inflammation," was the answer--for that report had somehow
started itself. She caught a chill on the Sunday, probably when leaving
the church after morning service; it induced speedy and instant
inflammation, and she had died of it.

With softened steps and mournful faces, hosts of people made their way
to the Place Ronde. Only to take a glimpse at the outside of the Maison
Rouge brought satisfaction to excited feelings. Monsieur Gustave Sauvage
had caused his white shop window-blinds to be drawn half-way down, out
of respect to the dead; all the windows above had the green persiennes
closed before them. The calamity had so greatly affected old Madame
Sauvage that she lay in bed.

When her sons returned indoors after the death had taken place, their
mother called them to her room. Nancy's violent ringing had disturbed
her, and she had lain since then in anxiety, waiting for news.

"Better not tell the mother to-night," whispered Emile to his brother
outside her door.

But the mother's ears were quick; she was sitting up in bed, and the
door was ajar. "Yes, you will tell me, my sons," she said. "I am fearing
the worst."

"Well, mother, it is all over," avowed Gustave. "The attack was more
violent than the one last night, and the poor lady is gone."

"May the good God have taken her to His rest!" fervently aspirated
madame. But she lay down in the bed in her distress and covered her face
with the white-frilled pillow and sobbed a little. Gustave and Emile
related a few particulars.

"And what was really the malady? What is it that she has died of?"
questioned the mother, wiping her eyes.

"That is not settled; nobody seems to know," replied Gustave.

Madame Veuve Sauvage lay still, thinking.
"I--hope--that--man--has--not--done--her--any--injury!" she slowly said.

"I hope not either; there is no appearance of it," said Monsieur
Gustave. "Any way, mother, she had two skilful doctors with her, honest
men and upright. Better not admit such thoughts."

"True, true," murmured madame, appeased. "I fear the poor dear lady must
have taken a chill, which struck inwardly. That handsome demoiselle,
the cousin of Monsieur le Procureur, died of the same thing, you may
remember. Good-night, my sons; you leave me very unhappy."

About eight o'clock in the morning, Monsieur Jules Carimon heard of it.
In going through the large iron entrance-gates of the college to his
day's work, he found himself accosted by one of two or three young
gamins of pupils, who were also entering. It was Dion Pamart. The
well-informed reader is of course aware that the French educational
colleges are attended by all classes, high and low, indiscriminately.

"Monsieur, have you heard?" said the lad, with timid deprecation.
"Mademoiselle is dead."

Monsieur Jules Carimon turned his eyes on the speaker. At first he did
not recognize him: his own work lay with the advanced desks.

"Ah, c'est Pamart, n'est-ce-pas?" said he. "What did you say, my boy?
Some one is dead?"

Dion Pamart repeated his information. The master, inwardly shocked, took
refuge in disbelief.

"I think you must be mistaken, Pamart," said he.

"Oh no, I'm not, sir. Mademoiselle was taken frightfully ill again last
night, and they fetched my mother. They had two doctors to her and all;
but they couldn't do anything for her, and she died. Grandmother gave me
my breakfast just now; she said my mother was crying too much to come
home. The other lady, the captain's wife, has been in hysterics all
night."

"Go on to your desks," commanded Monsieur Carimon to the small fry now
gathered round him.

He turned back home himself. When he entered the salle-à-manger, Pauline
was carrying away the last of the breakfast-things. Her mistress stood
putting a little water on a musk plant in the window.

"Is it you, Jules?" she exclaimed. "Have you forgotten something?"

Monsieur Jules shut the door. "I have not forgotten anything," he
answered. "But I have heard of a sad calamity, and I have come back to
prepare you, Marie, before you hear it from others."

He spoke solemnly; he was looking solemn. His wife put down the jug of
water on the table. "A calamity?" she repeated.

"Yes. You will grieve to hear it. Your friend, Miss Preen, was--was
taken ill last night with the same sort of attack, but more violent; and
she----"

"Oh, Jules, don't tell me, don't tell me!" cried Mary Carimon, lifting
her hands to ward off the words with a too sure prevision of what they
were going to be.

"But, my dear, you must be told sooner or later," remonstrated he; "you
cannot go through even this morning without hearing it from one person
or another. Flore's boy was my informant. In spite of all that could be
done by those about her, poor lady--in spite of the two doctors who were
called to her aid--she died."

Madame Carimon was a great deal too much stunned for tears. She sank
back in a chair with a face of stone, feeling that the room was turning
upside down about her.

An hour later, when she had somewhat gathered her scattered senses
together, she set off for the Petite Maison Rouge. Her way lay past the
house of Monsieur Podevin; old Monsieur Dupuis was turning out of it as
she went by. Madame Carimon stopped.

"Yes," the doctor said, when a few words had passed, "it is a most
desolating affair. But, as madame knows, when Death has laid his grasp
upon a patient, medical craft loses its power to resist him."

"Too true," murmured Mary Carimon. "And what is it that she has died
of?"

Monsieur Dupuis shook his head to indicate that he did not know.

"I could have wished for an examination, to ascertain the true cause of
the seizure," continued the doctor, "and I come now from expressing my
regrets to my confrère, Monsieur Podevin. He agrees with me in deciding
that we cannot press it in opposition to the family. Captain Fennel
was quite willing it should take place, but his wife, poor distressed
woman, altogether objects to it."

Mary Carimon went on to the house of death. She saw Lavinia, looking so
peaceful in her stillness. A happy smile sat on her countenance. On her
white attire lay some sweet fresh primroses, which Flore had placed
there. Lavinia loved primroses. She used to say that when she looked at
them they brought to her mind the woods and dales of Buttermead, always
carpeted with the pale, fair blossoms in the spring of the year. Mrs.
Fennel lay in a heavy sleep, exhausted by her night of distress, Flore
informed Madame Carimon; and the captain, anxious about her, was sitting
in her room, to guard against her being disturbed.

On the next day, Wednesday, in obedience to the laws of France relating
to the dead, Lavinia Preen was buried. All the English gentlemen in the
town, and some Frenchmen, including Monsieur Carimon and the sons of
Madame Veuve Sauvage, assembled in the Place Ronde, and fell in behind
the coffin when it was brought forth. They walked after it to the
portion of the cemetery consecrated to Protestants, and there witnessed
the interment. The tears trickled down Ch

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