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Chetwynd Calverley

by William Harrison Ainsworth · English · Gutenberg #49680 · 560,466 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Chetwynd Calverley

Author: William Harrison Ainsworth


        
Release date: August 11, 2015 [eBook #49680]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHETWYND CALVERLEY ***

CHETWYND CALVERLEY

By William Harrison Ainsworth,

Author Of “Constable Of The Tower,”

“Lord Mayor Of London,”

“The Tower Of London,”

“Cardinal Pole,” Etc.

New Edition.

Chapman And Hall, 193 Piccadilly. 1877.




CHETWYND CALVERLEY.




INTRODUCTION.--THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER.

I. OUSELCROFT.

|One summer evening, Mildred Calverley, accounted the prettiest girl in
Cheshire, who had been seated in the drawing-room of her father's house,
Ouselcroft, near Daresbury, vainly trying to read, passed out from the
open French window, and made her way towards two magnificent cedars of
Lebanon, at the farther end of the lawn.

She was still pacing the lawn with distracted steps, when a well-known
voice called out to her, and a tall figure emerged from the shade of the
cedars, and Mildred uttered a cry of mingled surprise and delight.

“Is that you, Chetwynd?”

“Ay I don't you know your own brother, Mildred?”

And as they met, they embraced each other affectionately.

“Have you been here long, Chetwynd?” she asked. “Why didn't you come
into the house?”

“I didn't know whether I should be welcome, Mildred. Tell me how all is
going on?”

“Then you have not received my letters, addressed to Bellagio and Milan?
I wrote to tell you that papa is very seriously ill, and begged you to
return immediately. Did you get the letters?”

“No; in fact, I have heard nothing at all from any one of you, directly
nor indirectly, for more than two months.”

“How extraordinary! But how can the letters have miscarried?”

“I might give a guess, but you would think me unjustly suspicious. Is my
father really ill, Mildred?”

“Really very seriously ill. About a month ago he caught a bad cold, and
has never since been able to shake it off. Doctor Spencer, who has been
attending him the whole time, didn't apprehend any danger at first; but
now he almost despairs of papa's recovery.”

“Gracious heaven!” exclaimed the young man; “I didn't expect to be
greeted by this sad intelligence!”

“You have only just come in time to see papa alive! Within the last few
days a great change for the worse has taken place in him. Mamma has been
most attentive, and has scarcely ever left him.”

“She is acting her part well, it seems,” cried Chetwynd, bitterly. “But
don't call her mamma when you speak of her to me, Mildred. Let it be
Mrs. Calverley, if you please.”

“I don't wish to pain you, Chetwynd, but I must tell you the truth. Mrs.
Calverley, as you desire me to call her, has shown the greatest devotion
to her husband, and Doctor Spencer cannot speak too highly of her. She
has had a great deal to go through, I assure you. Since his illness,
poor papa has been very irritable and fretful, and would have tried
anybody's patience--but she has an angelic temper.”

“You give her an excellent character, Mildred,” he remarked, in a
sceptical tone.

“I give her the character she deserves, Chetwynd. Everybody will tell
you the same thing. All the servants idolise her. You know what my
opinion of her is, and how dearly I love her. She is quite a model of a
wife.”

“Don't speak of her in those rapturous terms to me, Mildred, unless you
desire to drive me away. I can't bear it. I wish to think kindly of
my father now. He has caused me much unhappiness, but I forgive him. I
never can forgive _her_.”

“I own you have a good deal to complain of, Chetwynd, and I have always
pitied you.”

“You are the only person who does pity me, I fancy, Mildred. It is not
often that a man is robbed of his intended bride by his own father.
It is quite true that Teresa and I had quarrelled, and that my father
declared if I didn't marry her, he would marry her himself. But I didn't
expect he would put his threats into execution--still less that she
would accept him. I didn't know the fickleness of your sex.”

“It is entirely your own fault, Chetwynd, that this has happened,” said
his sister. “But I know how much you have suffered in consequence of
your folly and hasty temper, and I won't, therefore, reproach you.
Whatever your feelings may be, it is your duty to control them now. Papa
passed a very bad night, and sent this morning for Mr. Carteret, the
attorney, and gave him instructions to prepare his will.”

“I always understood he had made his will, Mildred. He made a handsome
settlement upon--his wife?”

“It is as I tell you, Chetwynd. Mr. Carteret was alone with him in his
room for nearly two hours this morning; and I believe he was directed to
prepare the will without delay, and to return with it this evening.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Chetwynd, gloomily. “That bodes ill to me--to both
of us, in fact. He will leave all his property to Teresa--to his wife, I
am certain of it.”

“Nothing of the sort, Chetwynd!” cried his sister. “Come into the house,
and see him.”

“If he has made up his mind to commit this act of folly and injustice,
all I can say won't prevent it. Ah, here is Carteret!” he exclaimed, as
a mail phaeton entered the lodge gate, and drove up to the hall door.

The attorney and his clerk descended; and, leaving his carriage to the
care of a groom, Mr. Carteret rang the bell.

“Come in at once, Chetwynd, and you will be able to see papa before Mr.
Carteret is admitted. Come with me--quick!”

Chetwynd suffered himself to be persuaded, and passed through the
drawing-room window with his sister.

But he was too late. The attorney and his clerk had already gone
upstairs.




II. TERESA.

|Chetwynd, only son of Mr. Hugh Calverley, a retired Liverpool
merchant, residing at Ouselcroft, in Cheshire, was somewhat singularly
circumstanced, as will have been surmised from the conversation just
recounted--but he had only himself to blame.

Rather more than a year ago--when he was just of age--he had fallen
in love with his father's ward, Teresa Mildmay, a young lady of great
personal attractions, but very small fortune--had proposed to her, and
been accepted.

Teresa had lost both her parents. Her mother, Lady Eleanor Mildmay,
daughter of Lord Rockingham, died when she was quite a child. Her
father, General Mildmay, an Indian officer of distinction, was one of
Mr. Calverley's most intimate friends, and hence it chanced that the
latter was appointed Teresa's guardian.

General Mildmay's demise occurred at Cheltenham about two years prior
to the commencement of our story. By her guardian's desire, Teresa then
came to reside with his daughter at Ouselcroft. Though Mildred was two
or three years younger than her friend, and they were very dissimilar in
character, a sisterly affection subsisted between them. Originating when
they were at school together at Brighton, their friendship had never
since been disturbed. To Mildred, therefore, it was a source of the
greatest satisfaction when Teresa took up her abode with them.

The two girls differed as much in personal appearance as in character.
Both were remarkably goodlooking. Teresa Mildmay had a very striking
countenance. Her features were classical in mould, her complexion dark,
her eyes magnificent, and arched over by thick black brows. Her tresses
were black as jet, luxuriant, and of a silky texture, and were always
dressed in a manner that best suited her. Her figure was lofty and
beautifully proportioned. The expression of her face was decidedly
proud--too proud to be altogether agreeable. Nevertheless, she was
extremely admired.

Teresa possessed great good sense and good judgment, and was looked upon
by her guardian as a model of prudence and propriety. As he frequently
consulted her upon household matters, and, indeed, asked her advice upon
many other points, she naturally acquired considerable influence over
him.

A very charming girl was Mildred, though her style was quite different
from that of Teresa. She was a blonde. A ravishingly fair complexion,
a dimpled cheek, a lip fashioned like a Cupid's bow, teeth like
pearls--these constituted her attractions. Her figure was slight, but
perfectly symmetrical, and nothing could be sweeter than her smile.

Such were the two fair inmates of Ouselcroft, before a change took place
in the establishment.

Having proposed to his father's beautiful ward, as we have stated, and
been accepted, Chetwynd, who could not brook delay, was anxious that the
marriage should take place at once.

To this, however, the prudent Teresa objected. She was of a cold
temperament, and reflection convinced her that she had not done wisely
in accepting Chetwynd; but for several reasons she hesitated to break
off the engagement. She did not like to lose a comfortable home, and
hoped that the young man, who had hitherto been very careless and
extravagant, might turn over a new leaf.

In this expectation, she was disappointed. Chetwynd was very handsome
and agreeable, and had many good qualities, but his temper was
excessively irritable, and he was reckless in regard to expense. His
Oxford debts, which were heavy, had been paid by his father, and he
then promised amendment, but did not keep his word. On the contrary, he
continued his extravagant courses. Though intended for the law, he would
not study, but led a mere life of pleasure--riding daily in the parks,
and visiting all public places of amusement; and his father, who was a
great deal too indulgent, did not check him.

On his return to Ouselcroft, after an absence of a couple of months,
during which he had not deemed it necessary to write to Teresa, she
received him very coldly; and provoked by her manner, he told her next
day, when they were alone, that he did not think he should be happy with
her.

“If you really believe so, Chetwynd,” she said, “the marriage ought not
to take place. I release you from your engagement.”

The remarkable calmness--almost indifference--with which she spoke,
piqued him, and he exclaimed:

“Very well; I accept it! There is an end of all between us!”

Scarcely were the words uttered, than he repented, and would have
recalled them. He looked appealingly at her, but she seemed so cold,
that he became fortified in his resolution.

Mr. Calverley soon learnt what had happened from Mildred; but, feeling
sure he could set matters right, he sent for his son, and insisted on
his marrying Miss Mildmay, on pain of his severest displeasure.

Chetwynd refused point blank.

“You won't?” cried the old gentleman, ready to explode.

“I have already given you an answer, sir,” rejoined his son. “I adhere
to my determination! Pray don't put yourself in a passion. It won't have
any effect upon me!”

“Very well,” said Mr. Calverley, with difficulty controlling his rage.
“Since you decline to fulfil your engagement, I'll marry her myself!”

“Ridiculous!” cried his son.

“Ridiculous or not, you'll find I shall be as good as my word.”

“Pshaw! The young lady won't accept you.”

He was mistaken, however.

The young lady _did_ accept the old gentleman, and so readily that it
almost seemed she preferred him to his son. Within a month, they were
married.

Before the marriage Chetwynd went abroad, and did not keep up any
communication with his family. They ascertained, however, that he was at
Bellagio, on the Lake of Como.

Apparently, Mr. Calverley had no reason to regret the extraordinary
step he had taken. Teresa made him an excellent wife, and seemed quite
devoted to him. She studied him in everything--read the newspaper to him
of a morning, chatted agreeably to him when they drove out together in
the barouche, played and sang to him in the evening, and, in short,
kept him constantly amused. She managed his large establishment
perfectly--better than it had ever been managed before. She quarrelled
with none of his old friends--even though she might deem some of
them bores--but always appeared delighted to see them. Above all, she
continued on the most affectionate terms with Mildred, who had never
disapproved of the match. Nothing could be more judicious than her
conduct.

At first, everybody cried out Mr. Calverley was an “old fool;” but they
soon said he was a very sensible man, and exceedingly fortunate.

He was not, however, destined to enjoy a long term of happiness.
Hitherto, he had scarcely known a day's illness; but a few months after
his marriage his health began rapidly to decline.

Teresa tended him with the greatest solicitude.




III. MR. CALVERLEY.

|Repairing to the invalid's chamber, we shall find Mr. Calverley seated
in an easy-chair, his head supported by a pillow. For nearly a fortnight
he had not left his bed, but he insisted on getting up that day.

He had been a fine-looking old gentleman; but he was now wonderfully
reduced, and his attire hung loosely on him. Still his countenance was
very handsome.

His young wife was seated on a tabouret by his side, watching him
anxiously with her large black eyes. She was wrapped in an Indian
shawl dressing-gown, which could not conceal her perfectly-proportioned
figure.

“Give me a glass of wine, Teresa,” he said, in a scarcely audible voice.
“I feel that dreadful faintness coming on again.”

She eagerly obeyed him.

With difficulty he conveyed the wine to his lips; but having swallowed
it, he seemed better.

Taking his wife's hand, he looked at her earnestly, as he thus addressed
her:

“I must soon leave you, Teresa. Nay, do not interrupt me. I know what
you would say. It must be, my love. I cannot be deceived as to my state.
You have been an excellent wife, Teresa--a great comfort to me--a very
great comfort. You are aware I have given my solicitor, Mr. Carteret,
instructions respecting my will. I will now tell you what I have done.
I have the most perfect confidence in you, Teresa, and I know you will
carry out my instructions.”

“Be sure of it, my dear,” she murmured.

“Teresa,” he continued, speaking very deliberately, “I have left my
entire property to you.”

“To me!” she ejaculated, a slight flush tinging her pale cheek. “Oh,
love, it is not right you should do this! I am amply provided for
already by the handsome settlement you made upon me, and I tell you at
once, if you leave me your property, I shall not keep it. I shall divide
it between Chetwynd and Mildred.”

A faint smile lighted up the features of the dying man.

“I had formed a correct opinion of you, Teresa,” he said, looking at her
affectionately. “I know the goodness of your heart and the rectitude of
your principles.”

Then, slightly changing his manner, he added, “I must now make an effort
to explain myself, and I pray you to give strict attention to what I am
about to say. I have left you the whole of my property, because I feel
certain it will be placed in safe hands, and I mean you to represent
myself.”

“I listen!” she murmured.

“First, with regard to Chetwynd. I do not exactly know how he is
circumstanced, but I fear he is in debt. He has always been extravagant.
I think it will be best to continue the allowance I have hitherto made
him, of six hundred a year, for the present; and if he marries, or
reforms, let him have thirty thousand pounds.”

“It shall be done exactly as you enjoin,” said his wife, earnestly.

“Beyond the sum I have settled on you, Teresa,” continued the old man,
“I estimate my property at sixty thousand pounds. Of this one half is
to go to Chetwynd, provided he reforms; the other half to Mildred, on
her marriage, provided she marries with your consent. This house, with
the plate, pictures, books, furniture, carriages, and horses, and all
the lands attached to it, are yours--for life.”

“Oh! you are too good to me!” she exclaimed, her eyes filling with
tears.

“I have now told you all!” he said. “I leave you mistress of everything;
and; since you know my wishes, I am sure you will act up to them.”

“I will! I will!” she ejaculated, in broken accents.

“Enough! I shall now die content!”

He then closed his eyes, and his lips slightly moved, as if in prayer.

Teresa constrained her emotion by a strong effort; and, for a few
minutes, perfect silence prevailed.

The door was then softly opened by an elderly manservant, out of livery,
who came to inform his master that Mr. Carteret had returned.

“Show him up at once, Norris,” said Mr. Calverley, opening his eyes.

“His clerk is with him,” said the butler.

“Show the clerk up as well,” rejoined the old gentleman.

“Shall I withdraw?” asked Mrs. Calverley, as the butler retired.

“Perhaps you had better, my dear, till the will is signed,” replied her
husband.

Mrs. Calverley remained till the attorney appeared, and having exchanged
a word in a low tone with him, left the room.




IV. FATHER AND SON.

|Tall and thin, and very business-like in manner, was Mr. Carteret.
Sitting down quietly beside the old gentleman, and taking the will from
his clerk, he proceed to read it.

Though conducted with due deliberation, the ceremony did not occupy many
minutes, and when the attorney had finished reading the document, Mr.
Calverley declared himself perfectly satisfied.

“All you have to do is to sign it, sir,” said the attorney.

Accordingly, a small table was placed beside the invalid's chair, and
the will was duly executed and attested.

“Pray call in my wife,” said Mr. Calverley, as soon as this was done.

When Mrs. Calverley re-appeared, she was informed by her husband that
the will was executed.

“Yes; the business is done, madam,” observed Mr. Carteret, with a very
singular expression of countenance.

“Shall I leave the document with you, sir?”

“No; take charge of it,” replied Mr. Calverley.

“Well, perhaps, it will be best with me,” observed the attorney, glancing
at the lady as he spoke.

He was in the act of tying up the instrument preparatory to consigning
it to his clerk, when the door opened, and Chetwynd and his sister came
in.

The old gentleman looked greatly startled by the unexpected appearance
of his son, and did not, for a few moments, recover his composure.

Scarcely knowing what might ensue, Mrs. Calverley stepped between them.

“I was not aware of your return, Chetwynd,” said Mr. Calverley, as soon
as he was able to speak.

“I have only just come back sir,” replied his son, regarding him
steadfastly. “I hope I have arrived in time to prevent you from doing an
act of injustice to me and my sister?”

“You will have much to answer for, Chetwynd, if you agitate your father
at this moment,” interposed Mrs. Calverley. “You see what a critical
state he is in!”

“I cannot help it, madam,” rejoined the young man. “I must and will
speak to him while he is able to listen to me. Pray, don't go, I beg of
you, Mr. Carteret,” he continued, to the attorney, who was preparing to
follow his clerk out of the room. “It is proper you should hear what I
have to say. I have reason to believe, sir,” he added, to his father,
“that you have left your entire property to your wife, and have made my
sister and myself entirely dependent on her. If this is really the case,
I entreat you to alter your determination----”

“I don't understand why you permit yourself to talk to me thus,
Chetwynd,” interrupted the old gentleman, his anger supplying him with
strength. “At all events, I shall not tolerate it. Even supposing it
were as you state, I have a perfect right to bequeath my property as I
see fit, and you have not proved yourself such a dutiful son as to merit
consideration on my part. Wait till the fitting season, and you will
learn what I have done.”

“No, sir; I won't wait till your ears are deaf to my prayers! I _will_
speak while you are able to listen to me. I may have given you some
offence, but do not carry your resentment to the grave. Bethink you that
whatever you do now will be irreparable.”

“I cannot bear this!” cried the old man. “Take him away! He distracts
me!”

“Mr. Chetwynd,” said Carteret, “I am extremely reluctant to interfere;
but your presence certainly disturbs your father very much. Let me beg
you to retire!”

The young man showed no disposition to comply.

“Perhaps, Chetwynd, when I have spoken,” said Mr. Calverley, trying to
calm himself, “you will either go or keep silence. I have done what, on
mature consideration, and with the prospect of death before me, I deem
best for you and your sister; and I am certain my wishes will be most
faithfully carried out.”

“What you say, sir, seems to intimate that you have placed us entirely
in the hands of your wife,” cried his son. “Why should you compel us to
bow to her will and pleasure?”

“Because she will take care of you,” rejoined the old man; “and, though
you are two-and-twenty, you have not come to years of discretion.”

“That is your opinion, sir. But, granting it to be correct, does it
apply to my sister?”

“Your sister makes no complaint,” said his father, looking
affectionately at her. “She knows I have done all that is right. She is
in good hands.”

“Yes, I am quite sure of that, papa!” cried Mildred. “Pray don't think
about me!”

“Chetwynd,” she added to him, in a low tone, “I wouldn't have brought
you here had I imagined you would make this terrible scene!”

“I really must interfere to prevent the continuance of a discussion
which I am aware can lead to no beneficial result,” interposed Mr.
Carteret. “I would again beseech you, Mr. Chetwynd, not to trouble
your father! I know he has good reasons for what he has done. Have you
anything further to say to me, sir?” he added to Mr. Calverley.

“Stop a minute, Mr. Carteret, I beg of you!” cried Chetwynd. “I am yet
in hopes that I may move him. Let me make one more appeal to your sense
of justice, sir!” he added to his father. “I promise you it shall be the
last!”

“I cannot listen to you!” replied Mr. Calverley.

“You refuse, then, to alter your will?”

“Positively refuse!” rejoined the old gentleman. “For heaven's sake let
me die in peace! Can you not prevail on him to go,” he added to his wife
and daughter. “He will kill me outright!”

“You hear what your father says!” cried Mrs. Calverley, in an
authoritative tone. “Go, I command you!”

“Yes, I _will_ go,” rejoined Chetwynd; “but not at your bidding! You are
the sole cause of this misunderstanding between my father and myself. By
your arts you have cheated me out of my inheritance!”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Calverley.

“This is madness!” exclaimed Mr. Carteret, trying to drag him from the
room.

“Hear my last, words, sir!” cried Chetwynd to his father. “I never will
touch a shilling of your money if it is to be doled out to me by this
woman!”

And he rushed out of the room.




V. THE OLD BUTLER.

|Pushing aside the attorney's clerk, whom he found on the landing, he
hurried downstairs, and had just snatched up his hat in the hall, when
he perceived the old butler eyeing him wistfully.

He had a great regard for this faithful old servant, whom he had known
since he was a boy, so he went up to him, and patting him kindly on the
shoulder, said--

“Good-bye, dear old Norris. I don't mean to remain a minute longer in my
father's house, and I may never return to it. Farewell, old friend!”

“You shan't go out thus, sir, unless you knock me down,” rejoined
Norris, detaining him. “You'll do yourself a mischief. No one is in the
dining-room. Please to go in there. I want to have a few words with
you--to reason with you.”

And he tried to draw him towards the room in question; but Chetwynd
resisted.

“Reason with me!” he exclaimed. “I know what you'll say, Norris.
You'll advise me to make it up with my father, and bow the knee to my
stepmother; but I'll die rather!”

“Mr. Chetwynd, it's a chance if your father is alive to-morrow morning.
Think of that, and what your feelings will be when he's gone. You'll
reproach yourself then, sir, for I know you've a good heart. I've
got you out of many a scrape when you were a boy, and I'm persuaded
something may be done now, if you'll only condescend to listen to me.”

“Well, I'll stay a few minutes on purpose to talk to you. But I hear
Carteret coming downstairs. I don't want to meet him. I don't want to
meet anybody--not even my sister.”

“Then I'll tell you what to do, sir. Go up the back staircase to your
own room. It's just as you left it. No one will know you're here. I'll
come to you as soon as I can.”

And he almost forced him through a folding-door into a passage
communicating with the back staircase.

Chetwynd had disappeared before the attorney and his clerk reached the
hall; but Mr. Carteret stopped for a moment to speak to the old butler.

“Ah, we've had a frightful scene, Norris!” he said. “It will surprise me
if the old gentleman survives it. I suppose Mr. Chetwynd is gone?”

“I really can't say, sir. He was here a few minutes ago.”

“Looking rather wild, eh?”

“I'm sure he looked wild enough when he passed me just now,” observed
the clerk. “I thought he'd have thrown me over the banisters.”

“Serve you right, too!” muttered Norris.

“Nothing could be more injudicious, and, I may add, more unfeeling, than
his conduct to his father,” remarked Carteret.

“I'm sorry to hear it,” said the butler; “but you must make some
allowance for him.”

“I can make every allowance,” rejoined the attorney. “But no good purpose
can be answered by such violence as he gave way to. On the contrary,
irreparable harm is done.”

“Not irreparable harm, I hope, sir?”

“I very much fear so. He used language towards Mrs. Calverley that I
don't think she will ever forgive It's of the last importance that he
should be set right with her. Should you see him before he goes, tell
him so.”

“I will, sir--if I _do_ see him. There's master's bell. Excuse me; I
must go upstairs.”

“Don't mind me, Norris. I can let myself out. As I drive back, at Mrs.
Calverley's request, I shall call on Doctor Spencer, and send him to see
Mr. Calverley at once. That will save time.”

“Very good, sir,” replied the butler.

And he flew upstairs; while Mr. Carteret and his clerk went out at the
front door.

“Has anybody just left the house, Edward?” inquired Mr. Carteret of his
groom, who was waiting with the phaeton near the door.

“No, sir,” replied the man.

“I fancied he was not gone,” thought the attorney. “I am glad I spoke to
Norris.”




VI. SELF-EXAMINATION.

|Chetwynd had become more tranquillised since he entered the room
that had once belonged to him--and that might be said to belong to him
still--since it had always been kept for him.

A comfortable bed-chamber, with windows looking upon the garden. Night
was now coming on, but it was still light enough to see every object in
the room, and Chetwynd examined them with interest--almost with emotion.

The furniture was precisely the same he had left; the narrow iron bed,
without curtains, and covered with an eider-down quilt--the easy-chair
on which he used to sit and smoke--the books on the shelf and the prints
on the walls, were still there, as of yore. Nothing seemed to have been
disturbed.

When he last occupied that room Teresa was his father's ward, and
believing himself in love with her, he indulged in dreams of future
happiness--for there seemed no obstacle to their union.

Now, all was gone. Teresa had become hateful to him. Yet, somehow or
other, her image was associated with the room.

Throwing open the windows, he looked out into the garden, and, after
listening to the singing of the birds, sat down in the easy-chair, and
tried to lay out a plan for the future.

Impossible! His mind was much too confused for the task. He could
decide on nothing. Never having done anything during his life but amuse
himself, he had no idea what he should have to do when thrown upon his
own resources.

Compelled to examine himself, he found his knowledge of business
exceedingly limited. However, he had plenty of friends, and did not
doubt they would help him to a situation of some kind.

The thought that most annoyed him was that he had well-nigh spent all
his money. He had not enough to pay a passage to Australia.

At length, Norris made his appearance, and explained that he could
not come sooner, having had a good deal to do in Mr. Calverley's room.
Doctor Spencer had paid a visit to his patient, and had only just left.

“However, all is quiet for the present,” said the butler, “and I will
therefore beg you to come with me to my room, where I have got a little
supper for you.”

“I shall really be glad of it, Norris. I suppose we sha'n't meet any of
the other servants?”

“No; I have taken care of that, sir,” replied Norris.

In the butler's pantry, to which they repaired, they found a cold
pigeon-pie and a bottle of claret on the table, and being very hungry,
Chetwynd made a hearty meal.

“I'm sorry I cannot give you a very good report of what has been going
on upstairs, sir,” said the butler; “though your father is not so bad as
I feared. He has been put to bed, and Doctor Spencer has seen him, as I
told you. The doctor gave him some stimulant that helped to revive him,
and has left a small phial with Mrs. Calverley, from which she is to
administer a few drops to him, as she may deem fit. I hope he may last
out the night, and I think he will, for he seemed better when I left him
just now. Heaven grant you may see him again, sir!”

“I despair of doing anything with him, Norris.”

“Never despair, sir,--never despair!”

“Well, that's a good maxim. Extraordinary things have sometimes been
done when all has been deemed hopeless. Fresh wills have been made
almost _in extremis_. It may be so in my father's case, but I don't
think it likely.”

“You must remain in the house to-night, sir. It's your last chance.”

“_Is_ there a chance, Norris?”

“You shall judge for yourself, sir. When I was in your father's room
just now, standing by his bedside, he spoke to me about you in a way
that showed his good feelings towards you had returned. Evidently, he
didn't want Mrs. Calverley to hear what he said; but she was in the
dressing-room, though the door was partly open. He asked me, in a low
voice, if you were really gone; and seemed much relieved when I told
him you were still in the house, but begged me not to mention it to his
wife. 'It may alarm, her, Norris,' he said. I couldn't say anything more
to him at the time, for she came out of the dressing-room; but I shall
have another opportunity to-night. Of one thing I'm certain, sir; but
I shall have another opportunity to-night. Of one thing I'm certain,
sir--you haven't lost your hold of your father's affections.”

At this moment a slight sound outside caught Chet-wynd's ear.

Wishing to ascertain if there was a listener, he immediately got up,
and, opening the door, looked along the passage right and left; but it
was quite dark, and he could distinguish no one.

“It was a false alarm,” he said, as he came back. “For the moment I
fancied it might be Mrs. Calverley.”

“No fear of that, sir; she never comes down here.”

“Let us go back to my room. I shall feel easier there. After what you've
told me, Norris, I shan't think of leaving to-night.”

“That's the right thing to do, sir,” cried the butler, joyfully.

“Bring the bottle of claret and the glasses with you, and come along,”
 said Chetwynd.




VII. TERRIBLE SUSPICIONS.

|In half a minute more they were in the old room upstairs.

The blinds were drawn down, the candles on the chimney-piece lighted,
the claret and glasses set on the table, Chetwynd was seated in an
easy-chair, and old Norris had taken a place opposite him.

“Now, Norris,” said Chetwynd, “I should like to ask you a few questions.
In the first place, what is the matter with my father? Till I came here
this evening I have never heard he was unwell. What is his complaint?
What does Doctor Spencer say about him?”

“Doctor Spencer says it's a complete 'break up,'” replied the butler;
“but I don't think he understands the case at all. Your father used to
be a remarkably stout man for his years, as I needn't tell you, sir.
I never recollect him having a day's illness till his marriage; and,
indeed, he was as well as ever for three months, when he caught a cold,
and then a very sudden change occurred, and I thought all would soon he
over with him--but he rallied.”

“Did he quite recover from his cold?”

“No, sir, he was much weakened, and didn't regain his strength. He
looked to me as if gradually wasting away.”

“Why, so he was, I suppose, Norris. There is nothing but what is
perfectly natural in all this; yet you seem suspicious.”

“I hope he has been fairly treated, sir.”

“Why should you think otherwise?”

“Because he has symptoms that I don't exactly like, sir.”

Then lowering his voice, as if afraid to speak the words aloud, he
added, “It looks to me almost like a case of slow poisoning!”

Chetwynd seemed horror-stricken at the idea.

“You must be mistaken, Norris,” he said. “It cannot he. Whatever opinion
I may entertain of the person it is evident you suspect, I am certain
she is incapable of such a monstrous crime. Have you mentioned your
suspicions to Doctor Spencer, or any one else?”

“I told Doctor Spencer I thought it a very strange illness, but he said
there was nothing unusual in it--it was simply the result of a bad cold.
'It was quite impossible,' he said, 'that Mr. Calverley could be more
carefully attended to than by his wife. She had really kept him alive.'
I don't know what he would have said if I had ventured to breathe a word
against her.”

“Did you warn my father? It was your duty to do so, if you really
believed he was being poisoned.”

“My immediate discharge would have been the consequence,” said Norris.
“And how could I prove what I asserted? Doctor Spencer thought me a
stupid old fool; my master would have thought me crazy; Mrs. Calverley
would have thought a lunatic asylum fitter for me than Ouselcroft; and
Miss Mildred would have been of the same opinion. So I held my tongue,
and let things go on. Had you been at home, sir, I should have consulted
you, and you could have taken such steps as you deemed proper. But it is
now too late to save him.”

“If this were true it would be dreadful,” exclaimed Chetwynd. “But I
cannot believe it. It must have been found out. Doctor Spencer, who is
a very clever, shrewd man, has been in constant attendance on my father,
and must have been struck by any unusual symptoms in his illness, but
he appears to have been quite satisfied that everything was going on
properly. To make an accusation of this sort, with nothing to support
it, would have been culpable in the highest degree, and I am glad you
kept quiet.”

“Still, I can hardly reconcile my conduct to myself, sir,” said Norris;
“but I fear I should have done no good.”

“No; you would have done great mischief. I am quite certain you are
utterly mistaken.”

Norris did not seem to think so, but he made no further remark.

After a brief silence he got up, and said:

“I must now go up to my master's room, and see whether he wants
anything. Perhaps I may find an opportunity of speaking to him.”




VIII. DEATH OF MR. CALVERLEY.

|Left alone, Chetwynd revolved what the butler had told him; and on
considering the matter, he came to the conclusion he had previously
arrived at--that there was nothing whatever to justify the old man's
suspicions.

“I cannot imagine how he has got such a notion into his head,” he
thought; “but, according to his own account, he has not a shadow of
proof to support the charge. Besides, setting all else aside, there is
no motive for such a crime. She could not wish to get rid of my father.
Perhaps she might desire to come into the property, but, even if she
were bad enough to do it, she would never run such a frightful risk. No,
no, the supposition is absurd and monstrous!”

At this moment the very person of whom he was thinking came in, and
closed the door.

In her hand she had a small lamp, but she set it down.

She looked very pale, but her manner was perfectly composed, though
there was a slight quivering of the lip.

Chetwynd arose, and regarded her in astonishment.

“You need not be alarmed at my appearance,” she said. “I have no
unfriendly intentions towards you. I heard you were still here, and came
to speak to you. I am anxious to prevent further unpleasantness. You are
acting very foolishly. Why should you quarrel with me? Whatever you may
think, I mean you well.”

By this time Chetwynd had recovered from his surprise, and, regarding
her sternly, said:

“I have no desire to hold any conversation with you, madam; but my
conduct requires explanation. I was about to depart, but have been
induced to remain for various reasons. I have learnt matters that have
determined me to see my father again.”

The latter words were pronounced with great significance, but did not
seem to produce any impression upon Mrs. Calverley.

“I do not wish to prevent you from seeing him, Chetwynd, if you will
promise to behave quietly,” she replied.

“I cannot let him go out of the world in the belief that you have acted
properly to him,” said Chetwynd, fiercely.

“Then you shall not see him! Nothing you could allege against me would
produce the slightest effect upon him, but you shall not disturb his
latest moments.”

“You dare not leave me alone with him--”

“No,” she replied, in a severe tone, “because you cannot control
yourself. In my opinion, you ought to ask your father's pardon for your
manifold acts of disobedience, and if you do so in a proper spirit I am
certain you will obtain it.”

“You venture to give the advice,” he said. “But have you yourself
obtained pardon from my father?”

“Pardon for what?” she cried.

“For any crime you may have committed,” he replied. “It is not for me to
search your heart!”

“I disdain to answer such an infamous charge!” she rejoined,
contemptuously.

“Have you not shortened his days?”

“What mean you by that dark insinuation?” she cried.

“My meaning is intelligible enough,” he rejoined. “But I will make it
plainer, if you will.”

A singular change come over her countenance.

But she instantly recovered, and threw a scornful glance at Chetwynd.

“What have you done to him?” he demanded.

“Striven to make his latter days happy,” she replied, “and I believe I
have succeeded. At any rate, he seemed happy.”

“That was before his illness,” observed Chetwynd.

“Since his illness I have nursed him with so much care that those best
able to judge think I preserved his life. I saved him from all pain and
annoyance, and his confidence in me was such that he has left all to my
management.”

“I know it, madam; and you have been in haste to assume the power, but
it may be wrested from your hands!”

“Make the attempt,” she rejoined, defiantly. “You will only injure
yourself!”

Just then voices were heard outside that startled them both, and checked
their converse.

“Great heaven, it is your father!” exclaimed Mrs. Calverley. “He has
risen from the bed of death to come here!”

Next moment the door was thrown open, and the old gentleman came in,
sustained by Norris.

A dressing-gown scarcely concealed his emaciated frame. His features had
the most ghastly expression, and bore the impress of death. But for the
aid of the old butler he must have fallen to the ground.

Behind him came Mildred, carrying a light.

“Why did you allow him to quit his couch?” cried his wife, in a voice of
anguish.

“I remonstrated with him,” replied Norris. “But I could not prevent him.
He would come down to see his son.”

“I likewise tried to dissuade him, but in vain,” said Mildred,

“Chetwynd is here, is he not?” cried the old man. “I can't see him.”

“Yes, I am here, father,” he replied, springing towards him, and
throwing himself at his feet. “Have you come to grant me forgiveness?”

“Yes, my son,” replied the old man. “But first let me hear that you are
reconciled to my dear wife--your stepmother. Answer me truly. Is it so?”

“Father!” hesitated Chetwynd.

“Stand up, my son,” said the old man.

Chetwynd obeyed.

“Now, speak to me. Is there peace between you?”

“If you can forgive her, father, I will forgive her.”

“I have nothing to forgive. She has been the best of wives to me, and is
without a fault. These are my last words.”

“Your blessing, father--your blessing!” almost shrieked Chetwynd.

The old man made an effort to raise his hands; but strength and
utterance failed him, and he fell dead into his son's arms.


END OF THE INTRODUCTION




BOOK THE FIRST--MILDRED.




I. SUITORS.

|Mrs. Calverley had been nearly a year a widow.

She was still at Ouselcroft, and apparently meant to remain there. No
change whatever had been made in the establishment, and old Norris was
still in his place.

The will had not been disputed, and the widow was in possession of her
late husband's entire property.

She intended to allow Chetwynd six hundred a year, in accordance with
his father's request, and instructed Mr Carteret to pay him the amount
quarterly; but he peremptorily refused to accept any allowance from her,
and ordered the money to be returned.

He had remained at Ouselcroft until after the funeral, and then went
abroad. As may be supposed, no reconciliation took place between him and
his stepmother.

Hitherto the fair widow had lived in perfect retirement with Mildred,
and was only to be seen arrayed in deep mourning in Daresbury Church, in
the vaults of which her husband was interred; but she now began to pay
visits, and receive her friends.

When Mildred re-appeared in society, after her temporary seclusion, she
created quite a sensation.

We are afraid to say how many persons fell in love with her. She was
still in mourning, of course, but her dark attire set off her fair
tresses and exquisitely delicate complexion, and suited her slight
graceful figure. Then her amiable and captivating manner heightened the
effect of her charms, and rendered her almost irresistible.

During her father's lifetime she had been greatly admired, and was
accounted, as we have said, the prettiest girl in Cheshire; but her
beauty was more talked about now, and many a gallant youth thought
himself excessively fortunate if he could obtain her hand for a waltz.

But Mildred was by no means a flirt, and had no desire to make
conquests. On the contrary, she was a very quiet girl, and gave the
herd of young men who beset her at balls and parties very little
encouragement. She did not care to dance much, and would only dance with
those who pleased her, or amused her.

There was no sort of rivalry between the lovely girl and her beautiful
stepmother. That there were already numerous aspirants to the hand of
the wealthy young widow was certain; but it was equally certain she was
in no haste to take another husband. She, therefore, felt no jealousy
of Mildred, but was delighted to see her admired and sought after, and
would willingly have promoted any advantageous match.

Mildred, however, made some objection or other to all who were
recommended to her. Thus, when Mrs. Calverley praised young Mr.
Capesthorne, and said he would have a fine old Elizabethan mansion,
with a park attached to it, and asked if he wouldn't do, the young lady
replied that she admired Mr. Capesthorne's old house, but didn't care
for him.

Again, when Colonel Blakemere, who was about to return to Madras, and
wanted to take a wife with him, paid her marked attention, and got Mrs.
Calverley to back his suit, Mildred settled the matter by declaring she
would never go to India.

However, these were nothing as compared with what followed.

It never rains but it pours, and offers now came by the dozen.

Mrs. Calverley received a number of little notes, the writers whereof
begged permission to wait upon her, intimating that they had an
important matter to lay before her, and at the same time making some
slight reference to Mildred, that left her no doubt as to their object.

Before replying to any of them, she consulted Mildred; and, having
ascertained her sentiments, agreed to see a couple of them on a
particular day, and within half an hour of each other.

On the appointed day she was alone in the drawing-room, seated in an
easy-chair, and wondering who would appear first, when Mr. Vernon Brook
was announced by Norris.

Mr. Vernon Brook belonged to a good old family, but was a younger son.

Dark, sallow-complexioned, and long-visaged, he piqued himself upon
having a Vandyke face. To assist the expression, he scrupulously shaved
his cheeks, and cultivated a pointed beard.

He had ridden over from his father's place, which was about ten miles
off, and arrived in very good spirits, deeming himself sure of success.

Mrs. Calverley received him very graciously, and begged him to be
seated. After a few words had passed between them, he came to the point.

“I've a question to ask you, my dear Mrs. Calverley, which I hope you
will be able to answer in the affirmative. Your daughter--step-daughter,
I ought to say--is a very charming girl, and I want to know if I have
your permission to pay my addresses to her?”

He said this in a very easy manner, and as if quite certain the response
would be favourable.

Mrs. Calverley's looks rather discouraged him.

“I must be allowed to consider THe matter, Mr. Brook,” she replied. “My
late husband entrusted his daughter entirely to my care, and I cannot
allow an engagement to take place unless I feel sure it would conduce to
her happiness.”

“But this would not amount to an engagement, my dear madam, though it
might lead to one--at least, I hope so.”

“It will be best to come to a clear understanding at first, Mr. Brook.
I think it right to say that I see no objection to you. You have many
agreeable personal qualities, and are unexceptionable in regard to
family, but I am not exactly aware of your expectations.”

Vernon Brook's dark cheek coloured, and he rather hesitated. He was not
prepared for such a point-blank question.

“I am a younger son, as you are aware, Mrs. Calverley,” He said; “and,
like most younger sons, my expectations are not very great.”

“I may as well speak frankly, Mr. Brook,” she rejoined. “He who aspires
to Miss Calverley's hand must bring a corresponding fortune. He must
have a thousand a year, or a prospect of it.”

“I am sorry to say I have neither the one nor the other, but I hope
my want of fortune may not be a bar. I think we could be very happy
together.”

“Possibly; but the days of romantic marriages are over, and only exist
in novels. I have dealt with you very fairly, Mr. Brook. Miss Calverley,
as I have said, was left to my care by her father, and I shall act for
her as he would have acted.”

“But I have reason to believe Mr. Calverley would not have made it
a _sine qua non_ that a suitor to his daughter should be a man of
property.”

“You have been misinformed, Mr. Brook. No one can be so well acquainted
as myself with my late husband's intentions.”

“Then I am not to hope?”

“It would be useless, sir.”

Mr. Vernon Brook arose, and was reluctantly preparing to depart, when
Norris announced Sir Bridgnorth Charlton.

Thereupon he hurriedly bade Mrs. Calverley adieu, bowed stiffly to the
new-comer, and made his exit.




II. SIR BRIDGNORTH CHARLTON.

|Sir Bridgnorth Charlton, Baronet, of Charlton Hall, in. Staffordshire,
a very fine place, was a person of considerable importance. He had been
a member for the county, and was still a zealous politician. That he
had not married earlier in life was owing to a disappointment he
experienced, which had deeply affected him and caused him to remain a
bachelor.

In age Sir Bridgnorth was not far from sixty, still handsome, though
rather portly, and exceedingly gentlemanlike in manner. He had seen
Mildred at a county ball, and, being much struck by her resemblance to
his former love, the old flame was revived, and he determined to offer
his hand.

Accordingly, he wrote to Mrs. Calverley, as we have explained.

Sir Bridgnorth had never been in Ouselcroft before, and after a few
observations on the beauty of the grounds, he said:

“You will, no doubt, have conjectured why I have done myself the honour
of waiting upon you, ma'am?”

Mrs. Calverley slightly moved.

“You have a very lovely step-daughter. It is not necessary for me to
launch into her praises; but I may say I have only seen one person in
the course of my life who has charmed me so much. That person would have
been my wife had she not jilted me and wedded another. Miss Calverley
shall be Lady Charlton if she will accept me.

“You do us great honour, Sir Bridgnorth!” observed Mrs. Calverley.

“I don't know whether I am right, ma'am,” he pursued; “but I prefer
making this offer through you, instead of direct to the young lady, as
you can put an end to the affair at once, if you think proper. I needn't
enter into any particulars. You know my position; you know what sort of
place I have got you know I can make a good settlement on my wife, as
well as give her a title. The main question is--will Miss Calverley have
me? Is she wholly free? for I would not, for the world, interfere with
any other engagement. I have suffered too much myself not to be careful.
I am not foolish enough to persuade myself she can love me; but I
believe I could make her a very good husband, and hope she would be
happy. I am quite sure she would be indulged.”

He said this with an honest, manly sincerity, that produced a strong
effect upon Mrs. Calverley.

In a voice of some emotion, she remarked, “My own husband, as I needn't
tell you, Sir Bridgnorth, was considerably older than myself, and no one
could be happier than I was with him.”

“You encourage me to hope, madam, that the disparity of years may not
prove an objection. Supposing the young lady to be entirely disengaged,
may I be permitted to see her?”

“Most certainly, Sir Bridgnorth! I would much rather she answered for
herself than I should answer for her. Ah! I see her in the garden! If
you will step out with me to the lawn I will present you to her!”

Sir Bridgnorth willingly complied, though he felt some little internal
trepidation. A variety of emotions agitated him.

Mildred was at the further end of the lawn, but she came to meet them,
and he thought her even more charming in her simple morning costume than
in evening dress.

“I had the pleasure of seeing you at the ball at Stafford the other
night, Miss Calverley,” he said, after the presentation had taken place.
“You interested me exceedingly from the striking resemblance you bear to
a young lady to whom I was tenderly attached in former days. I will tell
you that little story some time or other should you desire to hear it.
Meantime, it may suffice to say that I was actually engaged to her, but
she threw me over for a better-looking man, and married him. It was a
severe blow, and I did not recover it for a long time. I made up my
mind never to marry, and for five-and-twenty years adhered to my
determination. But see what our resolutions are worth! The sight of
you dispelled mine in a moment! As I gazed at you, my youth seemed to
return. I felt as much enamoured as I had done before, and it was with
difficulty I could prevent myself from going up to you and saying,
'Behold your lover!'”

“I am very glad you didn't, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Mildred.

“I knew you would think me a madman!” he continued; “and fearing I might
be guilty of some indiscretion, I would not even be introduced to you.
But I watched you throughout the evening, and your image has haunted me
ever since. Feeling that my happiness is at stake, I have come here to
plead my cause in person, and have just spoken to Mrs. Calverley. Now
you know all.”

“Not quite all, my love,” said Mrs. Calverley. “I am bound to add, that,
in making his proposal to you through me, Sir Bridgnorth has behaved in
the handsomest manner.”

“I am convinced of it,” said Mildred; “but----”

“Do not crush my hopes at once,” cried Sir Bridgnorth, in alarm. “Give
me the chance of winning your affections. I don't desire an immediate
answer.”

“But I am very fickle myself, Sir Bridgnorth, and extremely liable to
change my mind. You shall have no reason to complain of me as you do of
your former love.”

“I don't complain of her,” he said, in a quiet tone.

“Then you are extremely forgiving; for, in my opinion, she used you
shamefully.”

“You must not say a word against her,” exclaimed Sir Bridgnorth.

“Why not?” inquired Mildred, in surprise.

“For an excellent reason,” he replied. “She was your own mother.”

Mildred could scarcely repress a cry.

“I thought as much,” said Mrs. Calverley. “Your fair inconstant was the
beautiful Annabella Chetwynd, my husband's first wife.”

“Exactly so,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “I never beheld her since her
marriage,” he added, to Mildred. “No wonder, therefore, your appearance
produced such an effect upon me. For a moment I thought she had come to
life again. I shall always take an interest in you, and shall always be
delighted to serve you. Since I cannot be your husband, you must allow
me to be a friend.”

“That offer I gladly accept, Sir Bridgnorth,” she replied, extending her
hand towards him.

He took it, and pressed it to his lips.

“You may rely upon me, as you could have done upon your own father,” he
said, with an earnestness that bespoke his sincerity. “Call on me when
you will, I will answer the appeal. And now farewell!”

“I hope you are not going, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Mrs. Calverley. “Pray
stay and spend the remainder of the day with us! I am charmed to make
your acquaintance.”

“I shall be quite grieved if you go, dear Sir Bridgnorth.” added
Mildred.

“Since you ask me, I cannot refuse,” he replied. “But my carriage is
waiting at the door.”

“I will give orders that it shall be put up immediately,” said Mrs.
Calverley. “It is so kind of you to stay.”

And she went into the house to give the necessary directions.




III. INQUIRIES.

|Mildred now felt quite at ease with Sir Bridgnorth. His manner towards
her was so kind, that she almost began to regard him in the light of a
father.

“Excuse me if I ask you a few questions relative to your brother
Chetwynd,” he said. “I am influenced by no impertinent curiosity, but
simply by the desire to ascertain if I can be of any service to him. I
am aware that a serious misunderstanding occurred between him and Mrs.
Calverley at the time of your father's death; and I have also heard that
he absolutely refuses to accept any allowance from her.”

“What you have heard is quite correct, Sir Bridgnorth,” replied Mildred.
“Mrs. Calverley desires to allow my brother six hundred a year, and has
instructed Mr. Carteret, her solicitor, to pay him the amount quarterly;
but he declines to receive the money, being excessively indignant that
my father should have left her the entire control of his property.”

“But what has become of your brother? What is he doing?”

“I really cannot tell you, Sir Bridgnorth,” she replied. “He came here
just before poor papa's death, and remained till after the funeral; but
he shut himself up in his own room, and saw no one except old Norris,
the butler, who is still with us. I had no idea he was going away so
suddenly, for he did not acquaint me with his intention, or even take
leave of me, or I would have tried to dissuade him from the step, though
I fear I should have been unsuccessful. His mind seemed a good deal
disturbed by painful circumstances that had occurred--chiefly, if not
entirely, of his own causing--and I dreaded to excite him still farther.
I have since reproached myself for my lukewarmness, but I acted under
the advice of Doctor Spencer. After his abrupt departure, he wrote to
me from an hotel in London, saying he was going abroad, and in all
probability should not return for two or three years; but Mr. Carteret
found out that he was still in town, and sent him a cheque for three
hundred pounds. The cheque was returned at once, accompanied by a
letter, stating that he would accept nothing from Mrs. Calverley.”

“His conduct is inexplicable!” said Sir Bridgnorth. “But I suppose some
effort has been made to communicate with him?”

“Every effort has been made, but without any satisfactory result. He
left the hotel I have mentioned with the expressed intention of going
abroad. Whether he really did so, we have been unable to discover. We
fear he has no resources. We know from Norris, whom he took into his
confidence while he was here, that he had very little money.”

“That is dreadful!” exclaimed Sir Bridgnorth. “He was pointed out to me
a year or two ago, at Ascot, and I thought him a remarkably fine young
man; but I was told he was very wild and extravagant--played and betted
heavily.”

“He has been very extravagant, Sir Bridgnorth. Poor papa paid his debts
more than once, but could never keep him in bounds. That was the reason
why he left him dependent upon mamma.”

“So I understood,” said Sir Bridgnorth; “and I think he did quite
right.”

“I am sure he acted for the best,” replied Mildred; “and I am quite
certain Mrs. Calverley would have carried out papa's intentions had
she been able, but Chetwynd thwarted their designs by his fiery
and ungovernable temper. Heaven knows what will become of him!” she
exclaimed, the tears starting to her eyes. “It makes me very unhappy to
think of him.”

“I fear I have distressed you,” observed Sir Bridgnorth, much touched.
“Perhaps I ought not to have spoken?”

“I thank you sincerely for talking to me about my poor brother,” she
replied. “I may appear indifferent to him, but I am not so. I love him
dearly, and would do anything for him. But I know not how to proceed.
Such is the peculiarity of his temper--such his pride, that if I could
find him, he would accept nothing from me if he thought it came from
Mrs. Calverley. Even if he were starving, he would refuse aid from her.”

“Well, I must try what I can do,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “He can have no
antipathy to me. The first thing is to discover where he is. I will see
Carteret, and hear what he has to say.”

“I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Sir Bridgnorth!” cried
Mildred, with effusion. “You are, indeed, a father, both to poor
Chetwynd and myself!”

Just then Mrs. Calverley reappeared.

“No more on this subject before mamma, I pray, Sir Bridgnorth!” said
Mildred. “It would be painful to her.”

“I will be careful.” he replied.

Mrs. Calverley came to say that luncheon was ready. And they went into
the house with her.




IV. PORTRAITS.

|The more Sir Bridgnorth saw of Mildred, the better pleased he was with
her.

Mrs. Calverley did not produce quite so favourable an impression upon
him, though he thought her very beautiful, and very clever. She seemed
to him wanting in heart--perhaps designing.

Taking this view of her character, he came to the conclusion that
she had married Mr. Calverley for his money, and possibly might have
alienated him from his son.

Three or four of Mildred's admirers called during the afternoon, and
they all seemed surprised at finding Sir Bridgnorth so much at home at
Ouselcroft. They could not believe that Mildred had accepted him--yet it
looked rather like it.

The young lady, however, did not trouble herself much about them; but,
leaving them to stroll about the garden with Mrs. Calverley, she took
Sir Bridgnorth to the library, telling him she wanted to show him a
picture.

It was the portrait of a very handsome young man, painted by a
well-known artist of the day. The features were regular and finely
formed, and very haughty in expression. The likeness was excellent, and
Sir Bridgnorth recognised it at once.

“'Tis your brother Chetwynd,” he said, “and wonderfully like him. I
should have known it anywhere.”

“He was extremely handsome then,” observed Mildred; “but I fear he must
be much changed now. At that time, he thought he should have all his
father's property, and expected to marry the beautiful Teresa Mildmay.”

“Yes; I know the story,” said Sir Bridgnorth, “and do not wonder at
his vexation at the double disappointment. He has suffered much for his
hasty temper. Things look very dark just now; but let us hope all may
come right in the end.”

She then drew his attention to another picture. “Your father. Yes; I
see. Time was, when I should have turned away from his portrait; but I
have quite forgiven him now.”

“Since poor papa's death, Mrs. Calverley cannot bear to look at that
portrait,” remarked Mildred. “But for my entreaties she would have it
put away, and she now rarely enters the room.”

“That is not surprising,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “The portrait awakens
painful memories.”

“But I am always pleased to look at it, and I loved papa dearly!” said
Mildred. “I often come here by myself, and think I am with him.”

At this juncture, their discourse was interrupted by the sudden entrance
of the very last person they expected to see.




V. THE POCKET-BOOK.


|It was Chetwynd.

He looked pale and haggard, and his features had a sombre and stern
expression, very different from that depicted in the canvas before them.

He closed the door after him as he came in, and started on perceiving
Sir Bridgnorth, whom he evidently had not expected to find there.

Uttering an exclamation of mingled surprise and delight, Mildred sprang
towards her brother, and flung her arms round his neck. While returning
her embrace, he said in a low voice, “Who have you got with you?”

“Sir Bridgnorth Charlton,” she replied. “He takes great interest in you,
and has just been making inquiries about you.”

“Not many minutes ago, I told your sister it would give me sincere
pleasure if I could render you any service,” said Sir Bridgnorth. “I did
not expect so soon to have an opportunity of saying the same thing to
you. I beg you will look upon me as a friend.”

“I am greatly beholden to you, Sir Bridgnorth,” replied the young man.
“I have very few friends left.”

“Mine are not mere idle professions, as you will find, if you choose to
put them to the proof,” said Sir Bridgnorth.

“You speak so earnestly and so kindly that I cannot but credit what you
say,” rejoined Chetwynd; “and I am the more inclined to believe you,
since I have never done you a favour. Indeed, if my recollection serves
me right, you have more reason to dislike than to befriend me.”

“Your sister will tell you that the past is forgotten.”

“Sir Bridgnorth has a noble heart,” said Mildred. “You may speak freely
before him. He knows all that has occurred, and is aware that you have
refused to accept any allowance from Mrs. Calverley.”

“And I may add that I sympathise with you,” said Sir Bridgnorth.

“What has brought you back so suddenly?” said Mildred. “Are you in any
difficulty?”

“In a most desperate difficulty,” he replied. “I want two hundred
pounds, and must have the money by to-morrow morning. I could procure
it at once from Carteret; but I would rather shoot myself than accept a
farthing from Mrs. Calveriey. Can you help me?”

“_I_ can,” interposed Sir Bridgnorth, quickly. “Luckily, I have the
amount about me. In this pocket-book,” he added, producing one as
he spoke, “you will find the sum you require. Repay me at your
convenience.”

“A thousand thanks, Sir Bridgnorth?” cried Chetwynd. “You have, indeed,
conferred a very great obligation upon me, and I shall not speedily
forget it. Ere long, I hope to be able to return you the money.”

“Don't trouble yourself on that score; but let me see you soon. Come to
me at Charlton.”

“I cannot promise to visit you immediately, Sir Bridgnorth,” replied the
young man.

“Why not?” inquired Mildred.

“Do not ask me to explain,” he rejoined. “I am scarcely my own master,
and where I to make a promise, I might not be able to fulfil it. I must
now begone.”

“Stay!” cried Sir Bridgnorth; “can I not bring about a reconciliation
between you and Mrs. Calveriey? I think I could accomplish it, if you
will consent to some arrangement.”

“Never,” replied Chetwynd. “And I beg that my visit and its object may
not be mentioned to her.”

“How did you discover I was in this room?” asked Mildred.

“Old Norris, whom I saw on my arrival, told me I should find you in the
library, and I concluded you were alone; but I have found a friend as
well. And now I can answer no more questions.”

“Ever mysterious and incomprehensible!” cried Mildred. “I do not like to
part with you thus.”

“You must!” he rejoined. “It is necessary that I should be in London
to-night.”

He then bade them both farewell, tenderly embracing his sister, and
renewing his thanks to Sir Bridgnorth.

Just as he was about to depart, the door was opened by old Norris, who
called out, “Mrs. Calverley is coming to the library!”

“I won't see her!” cried Chetwynd, fiercely.

But there was no retreat, and he was compelled to remain.

In another moment, Mrs. Calverley appeared. Her astonishment at
beholding Chetwynd may be imagined; nor, though she strove to veil it,
could she altogether conceal her annoyance.

“I did not expect to find you here, Chetwynd,” she said.

“I came to see my sister, madam,” he replied, haughtily; “and, having
had a brief interview with her, I am now about to depart.”

And, with a stiff bow, he quitted the room.

As soon as she could recover her speech, Mrs. Calverley observed to Sir
Bridgnorth, “You see with what impracticable material I have to deal.
Any friendly overture on my part is always scornfully rejected. Well,
Chetwynd must take his own course; and if he suffers for his wilfulness,
he has only himself to blame. Do you feel at liberty to tell me what he
came about, Mildred?”

“I do not,” she replied.

“You were present at the interview, I suppose, Sir Bridgnorth?”

“Quite unintentionally, madam,” he answered. “And my lips are sealed.”

This incident rather threw a damp upon the pleasure of the day.

Mrs. Calverley looked displeased, and Mildred appeared anxious and
thoughtful, so Sir Bridgnorth ordered his carriage.

But before taking his departure, he had a little private conversation
with Mildred, and promised to come over again to Ouselcroft on an early
day.




VI. BRACKLEY HEATH.

|Mrs. Calveriey had a very pretty pony phaeton, which she was accustomed
to drive herself. Easy as a lounging-chair, and with the two long-tailed
bay ponies attached to it, the luxurious little vehicle formed a very
nice turn-out.

One fine morning, about a week after Sir Bridgnorth's visit, Mrs.
Calverley and Mildred set out in the pony phaeton with the intention of
calling on Lady Barfleur and her daughter, at Brackley Hall, which was
about six or seven miles from Ouselcroft.

Usually, they were attended by a groom, but on this particular occasion
he was left at home.

The ponies were full of spirit, and eager to get on, but the ladies
would not indulge them, and proceeded quietly along the pleasant lanes,
through a rich and fertile district, abounding in farms, where some of
the best cheeses in the county are made.

To reach Brackley Hall, however, they had to cross an extensive heath, a
great part of which was very wild and marshy.

But this brown and uncultivated tract, where turf alone was cut, and
where there were two or three dangerous swamps, offered the charm of
contrast to the rich meadows they had just quitted. Here there were no
farm-houses, no cow-sheds, no large bams, no orchards; but the air
was fresh and pleasant, and lighted up by the brilliant sunshine, even
Brackley Heath looked well. At least, our fair friends thought so, and
the ponies were compelled to walk in consequence. Yet there was nothing
remarkable in the prospect, as the reader shall judge. The whole scene
owed its charm to the fine weather.

On the left the heath was bordered by the woods belonging to Brackley
Hall, and, through a break in them, the upper part of the fine old
timber and plaster mansion could be descried.

On the right the country was flat and uninteresting, planted in places
by rows of tall poplars, and a canal ran through it, communicating with
the River Mersey.

In front, but at some distance, rose a hill crowned by the ruins of
an old castle, and having a small village and grey old church in the
immediate neighbourhood.

In bad weather the heath had a dreary and desolate aspect. Here and
there a hut could be perceived, but these miserable habitations were
far removed from the road, and might have been deserted, since no smoke
issued from them, and nothing could be seen of their occupants. A few
sheep were scattered about in spots where the turf was covered with
herbage; but they seemed wholly untended. Rooks there were in flocks
from Brackley Park, plovers, and starlings. Even seagulls found their
way to the morass.

While the ladies were contemplating this scene, which they thought
highly picturesque, and commenting upon its beauties, they were
startled, and indeed terrified, by the sudden appearance of two
formidable-looking fellows, who had been watching their approach from
behind an aged and almost branchless oak that grew near the road.

Evidently, from their peculiar garb, tawny skin, black eyes, and raven
locks, these individuals were gipsies. They did not leave their purpose
in doubt for a moment, but rushing towards the ladies with threatening
gestures, shouted to them to stop.

Mrs. Calverley tried to whip on the ponies, but before they could start
off they were checked by one of the gipsies, who seized the reins, while
his comrade, addressing Mrs. Calverley, demanded her whip, and, as she
hesitated to give it up, he snatched it from her, and threw it on the
ground.

“Excuse my freedom, my lady,” he said, in accents meant to be polite,
but that sounded gruff and menacing. “We can't allow you to go till
we've had some talk with you; but we won't detain you longer nor we can
help. We wants any money you may have about you, together with
ornaments, rings, watches, ear-rings, and sich like. Deliver 'em up
quietly, and you won't be molested--will they, Ekiel?”

“No,” replied the other ruffian, who stood at the heads of the
ponies. “It would hurt our feelin's to use wiolence to two sich lovely
creaters.”

Meanwhile, Mildred, who wished to preserve her watch, which had been
given her by her father, was trying to detach it from the guard, but
could not accomplish her object without attracting the attention of the
gipsy near Mrs. Calverley.

Dashing round to the other side of the carriage, he caught hold of the
chain, and broke it, but failed to secure the watch.

Mildred screamed loudly, though she had little expectation of help.

“Look quick, Clynch!” shouted Ekiel, in a warning voice.

“Give me the watch without more ado!” cried the gipsy to Mildred.

But she spread her hands over it, and redoubled her outcries.

“Here, take my purse and begone!” said Mrs. Calverley.

“Thank ye, my lady,” rejoined Clynch, quickly appropriating the purse.
“But that's not enough. We must have everything you've got about you!”

“You shall have nothing more, fellow!” cried Mrs. Calverley, with great
spirit. “And see! assistance is at hand! If you stay a minute longer you
will be caught!”

And, as she spoke, a gentleman was seen galloping towards them, followed
by a groom.

Baulked of their prey, the gipsies ran off, and made for the morass,
with the intricacies of which they seemed well acquainted.

A minute or so afterwards their deliverer came up. A fine-looking young
man, between twenty and thirty, and having decidedly a military air, but
a stranger to them both.




VII. CAPTAIN DANVERS.

|I hope you have lost nothing, ladies?” cried the stranger.

“The robbers have taken, my purse,” replied Mrs. Calverley; “and but for
your timely aid, they would have carried off all our ornaments.”

“My chain is gone,” said Mildred. “But I don't mind it. They did not get
my watch, which I value extremely. I owe its preservation entirely to
you, sir,” she added, with a grateful look at the stranger.

“I am happy to find I have been of any service to you,” he replied,
bowing. “Follow the rascals, Tom,” he added to his groom, “and try to
capture one or both of them.”

“Impossible, I fear, captain,” replied the groom. “They can go where no
horse can go in that marsh, if they know the ground, as they seem to do.
But I'll do my best.”

And he speeded after the fugitives, who were still in sight.

“Hold the reins for a minute, Mildred, while I pick up my whip,” said
Mrs. Calverley.

“Allow me!” cried the stranger.

And, jumping down from the saddle, he presented the whip to Mrs.
Calverley, who gracefully acknowledged the attention.

“We are really very much indebted to you, sir,” she said.

“You greatly overrate the service,” he rejoined. “I have literally done
nothing. Hearing cries, and perceiving you were stopped by robbers, I
galloped on to your aid--that is all.”

“May we learn the name of our deliverer?” she asked.

“I am Captain Charles Danvers,” he replied; “nephew to Sir Lycester
Barfleur, of Brackley Hall, which you can see through the trees yonder.
But I dare say you know the place?”

“We were on our way thither, to call on Lady Barfleur, when we met with
this alarming adventure,” observed Mrs. Calverley.

An idea seemed suddenly to occur to Captain Danvers.

“Are you not Mrs. Calverley, of Ouselcroft?” he inquired.

She replied in the affirmative; adding, “And this is my step-daughter,
Miss Calverley.”

“I felt convinced of it!” he cried, again bowing. “I am indeed fortunate
in obtaining an introduction to a young lady of whom I have heard so
much.”

“You can pay compliments as well as rescue ladies from robbers, it
seems, Captain Danvers,” observed Mildred, slightly blushing. “We should
have met you, I have no doubt, at Brackley Hall.”

“Very likely,” he rejoined. “But I prefer an accidental meeting of this
kind; it is more romantic. I hope you are not going to turn back. If you
are, you must allow me to escort you. But they will be delighted to see
you, I am sure, at Brackley, and you can recount your adventure to
them.”

“And extol your gallantry at the same time, Captain Danvers,” laughed
Mildred. “I have quite recovered from my fright, mamma, so I think we
may as well go on.”

“Do, by all means!” cried Captain Danvers, vaulting on his horse.

Mrs. Calverley assented; and they were just setting off, when the groom
was seen returning, so they waited until he came up.

“I see you have failed, Tom,” said his master.

“Yes, captain,” replied the man, touching, his hat. “I'm very sorry, but
it was no use attempting to follow them. I should have got over head and
ears in a quagmire.”

“Immediate information of the robbery must be given to the police at
Frodsham,” said Captain Danvers.

“It is scarcely worth while to take any more trouble about the matter,”
 said Mrs. Calverley. “My purse had very little in it.”

“And I don't care much for my chain, since my watch is safe,” added
Mildred.

The party then set off, but not at a very quick pace, for Captain
Danvers rode by the side of the pony-carriage, and chatted with its fair
occupants.




VIII. BRACKLEY HALL.

|Captain Danvers lias already been described as a handsome young man
of about five-and-twenty, and it may now be added that he was tall,
well-made, and had marked features--the manly character of his
physiognomy being heightened by his brown moustaches.

A dark velveteen shooting-coat, boots of supple leather, that ascended
to the knee, where they were met by a pair of knickerbockers--loose,
Dutch-looking trousers--formed his costume, while his brown curling
locks were covered by a black felt hat. Such as it was, the dress suited
him, and both ladies thought it very becoming.

Captain Danvers was in a cavalry regiment, which was quartered at
Madras, and he had recently come home on leave. His father, Sir Gerard
Danvers, resided at Offham Court, in Kent, and was thought very wealthy.
Unluckily Charles Danvers was not an eldest son.

The party had now entered the park, and were proceeding along a fine
avenue leading to the house, which stood right in front of them.

Brackley Hall, which was in admirable preservation considering its
great antiquity, dated back to the period of Edward the Fourth, or even
earlier.

Constructed almost entirely of timber and plaster, it was remarkable for
the singularity of its form. It was only three storeys high, the upper
storey projecting far beyond the lower, but the summit of the building
was occupied by a lofty gallery, more than a hundred feet in length,
that looked externally like a lantern, since it had continuous ranges of
windows on every side.

Most curious was the timber-work, the gables and lintels being richly
carved, as was the porch. The immense bay windows, which constituted
the chief beauty of the house, were framed with heavy transom bars, and
exquisitely latticed.

In the court-yard was a chapel, surmounted in olden times by a tall,
square tower, but this had been taken down.

The hall was surrounded by a moat, and approached by a wide stone
bridge. Another bridge communicated with the gardens, which were
extensive, and laid out in a quaint, formal style, with terraces,
stone steps, fountains, quincunxes, clipped yew-trees, alleys, and a
bowling-green. We must not omit to mention that the old mansion had the
reputation of being haunted.

Adjoining the house was a grove of noble elms, wherein a colony of rooks
had been settled for centuries.

About half a mile off, at the rear of the mansion, was a small lake, or
mere, remarkable for the blackness of its water. But black as was the
mere, it abounded with fish, and at certain times of the year was a
great resort of wild fowl.

Captain Danvers had sent on his groom to the hall to inform Sir
Leycester and Lady Barfleur that Mrs. Calverley was coming on to call on
them, and also to explain what had occurred.

Consequently, when the ladies had crossed the bridge and entered the
court, they found Sir Leycester and Lady Barfleur, with the fair
Emmeline, waiting to receive them, and they had no sooner alighted than
they were overwhelmed with expressions of sympathy. Some of the servants
who were assembled in the court seemed likewise greatly excited.

Sir Leycester, an old fox-hunter and rather choleric, was excessively
wroth, and vowed he would never rest till he had caught the rascals. He
had no idea whatever, he said, that the country was infested with such
vermin, but catch them he would. Mrs. Calverley endeavoured to dissuade
him from his purpose, but in vain. “I only waited to see you, or I
should have been off before,” he said. “You'll excuse me quitting you so
abruptly, since I am going on your business.”

“But I'd much rather you didn't go, Sir Leycester,” said Mrs. Calverley.
“I'm afraid the gipsies may offer a desperate resistance.”

“I'm sure they will,” added Mildred.

“No matter; I'll have them!” rejoined Sir Leycester.

“If you really are going on this gipsy-hunt, my dear uncle, I'll go with
you,” said Captain Danvers.

“No, no; I don't want you, Charles,” rejoined Sir Leycester. “Remain
with the ladies. You must stay till I return, my dear Mrs. Calverley.”

She promised that she would; and, after a word or two with Lady
Barfleur, he proceeded to the stables, and ordered a hunter to be
saddled immediately. He also told Booth, the coachman, on whom he could
place reliance, that he should require him and a couple of grooms to
attend him.

While the horses were being saddled, a footman brought a brace of
pistols, which Sir Leycester had sent for.

Armed with these, and accompanied by Booth, and one of his own grooms,
together with his nephew's groom, Tom, he set out on the expedition,
shaping his course towards the further side of the morass, where he
expected to find some traces of the robbers.




IX. LADY BARFLEUR.

|Lady Barfleur had been a very fine woman in her day, and though her
beauty was now somewhat passed, she was still a stately dame, and
accorded extremely well with the old mansion of which she was mistress.

The drawing-room, to which she conducted her visitors, was a very
splendid apartment, and merits a brief description.

The ceiling was adorned with pendants, and the upper part of the walls
was covered with a profusion of plaster ornaments, among which were
the arms of Elizabeth and James the First. The dark oak wainscoting was
richly carved in arches and pilasters, producing a very fine effect.

The principal feature of the room, however, was the magnificent
fireplace. Rising to a great height, it was adorned with pillars and
sculptured figures that supported the architrave, above which were
emblazoned the arms of the Barfleurs.

The furniture was consistent with the antique character of the
room--none of it being of a later date than the early part of the
seventeenth century.

As Lady Barfleur moved slowly and somewhat stiffly about this noble
apartment, or seated herself in a high-backed chair, carved in oak,
black as ebony, she looked as if she belonged to the same date as the
furniture; and her hair, having become prematurely grey, aided the
illusion.

Not so Emmeline. She was a very charming representative of the young
lady of our own period.

An exceedingly pretty brunette, she had splendid black eyes, shaded by
long silken lashes, and arched over by finely-pencilled brows, lovely
features, ripe red lips, and teeth like pearls--and, as she was very
lively, the latter were often displayed.

She was not tall, but her figure was symmetry itself, and Cinderella
might have envied her tiny feet. She was about the same age as Mildred,
and they were great friends.

At first, the discourse turned chiefly upon the robbery, which Lady
Barfleur begged might be fully described to her; but it was soon changed
to other topics.

For awhile, Captain Danvers seemed undecided whether to devote himself
to the beautiful and wealthy widow or her lovely step-daughter; but
at length he began to pay exclusive attention to the former, probably
because she gave him most encouragement. Indeed, Mrs. Calverley seemed
more favourably inclined towards him than to any other suitor since her
husband's death.

Captain Danvers, it appeared, had only arrived at Brackley a few days
previously, and this accounted for his not having met the ladies of
Ouselcroft before.

Whether Mildred was altogether pleased by having him carried off in
this manner, we will not say. Not the slightest sign of annoyance was
manifest. She laughed and chatted gaily with Emmeline; and when that
young lady proposed that they should go and look at the gallery, she
readily assented, and left Mrs. Calverley in quiet possession of the
handsome captain.




X. THE GALLERY.

|Ascending a beautiful spiral oak staircase, the two young ladies soon
reached the gallery, which, it has already been mentioned, was situated
at the top of the house.

Like all the other rooms in the old mansion, the gallery was maintained
in its original state. At all events, it had undergone no alteration
since 1570, as appeared from an inscription above the door.

Exceedingly light and cheerful, as might be expected from the multitude
of windows, it seemed of immense size. It had a wooden roof--the rafters
being painted; and the panels were covered with tapestry, or hung with
family portraits. In the room were several curious old cabinets.

“I am always charmed with this gallery,” exclaimed Mildred, as she gazed
around it in admiration. “If I lived here, I should spend all my time in
it.”

“You would get tired of it,” rejoined Emmeline. “For my part, I prefer
my own little chamber, with its carved oak bedstead, and beautiful
bay-window.”

“Yes, your room is very pretty, but not to be compared with this grand
gallery.”

“The gallery is too large to be pleasant,” said Emmeline. “Indeed, I
rarely come here, unless we have company. But do sit down. I want to
have a little private and confidential talk with you.”

“I hope you have some affair of the heart to communicate,” said Mildred,
as she sat down on an old-fashioned sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet,
and just large enough for two, while Emmeline placed herself beside her,
and took her hand.

“You must know, then,” began Miss Barfleur, “that two or three years ago
I had a _tête-à-tête_ with a very handsome young man. We were seated on
this very sofa. Mamma and several other persons were present, but they
were too far off to overhear what passed.”

“That is one advantage of a very large room,” remarked Mildred. “But
I am sorry this _tête-à-tête_ occurred so long ago. I hope it has been
renewed.

“No; and I fear it never will be renewed,” sighed Emmeline. “But I have
not forgotten it.”

“Did it come to a positive proposal?” inquired Mildred.

“Not exactly; but if the gentleman _had_ proposed I am sure I should
have accepted him; and I feel I never can love any one else.”

“You think so now. I suppose he is still unmarried?”

“Shortly after the interview I have mentioned, he was engaged to another
person; but the engagement was broken off, and he is now free.”

“Have you seen him again lately?”

“Not for a long, long time, Mildred; but I love him still, despite his
inconstancy, and I should like to know something about him.”

“Emmeline,” said Mildred, regarding her fixedly, “you are not referring
to my brother Chetwynd?”

“To whom else could I refer?” was the reply. Mildred uttered an
exclamation of surprise.

“I perfectly remember Chetwynd speaking of you in rapturous terms,” she
said, “and telling me he had had a strong flirtation with you in the
gallery at Brackley Hall, but I had no idea you were at all serious on
the occasion. Oh, what a chance of happiness he has missed! Had he
been fortunate enough to possess you, how different would have been his
life!”

“I loved him!” said Emmeline, with emotion; “and I don't believe Teresa
Mildmay ever did.”

“I entirely agree with you,” remarked Mildred. “I have listened to your
recital with the deepest interest, dearest Emmeline, and I wish I could
give you a good account of Chetwynd, but I really cannot. I saw him the
other day, but only for a few minutes.”

“At Ouselcroft?” inquired Emmeline, eagerly.

“Yes. He came there quite unexpectedly, and left immediately.”

“I am afraid his hasty departure doesn't look as if he had made up his
quarrel with Mrs. Calverley.”

“Alas! no; and I greatly fear he never will become reconciled to her.
Perhaps you are aware he won't accept anything from her?”

“Yes; and I admire his spirit.”

“Still he is very foolish. He is punishing himself, not her.”

“But he adhered to his word. I shouldn't like him half so much if he
yielded.”

“Then your regard won't be lessened, for I feel certain he won't yield.”

“I judged him rightly, you see,” said Emmeline; “and I persuade myself he
will triumph in the end. And now, dearest Mildred, before we finish our
discourse, will you faithfully promise to let me know when you next see
him or hear from him?”

“I won't delude you, Emmeline. I don't expect either to see him or hear
from him. Sir Bridgnorth Charlton has very kindly undertaken to look
after him, but he may not have an opportunity of doing so. Unlike
anybody else, Chetwynd seems to shun those who love him or would serve
him.”

“I hope he won't shun me,” said Emmeline.

“Not if he could be made aware that you take an interest in him; but how
convey the information? He does not correspond with me, and I don't even
know his address, or what way a letter could reach him.”

“Then I must remain in the same state of uncertainty as ever,” said
Emmeline, in a despairing tone. “You give me small comfort, Mildred.”

“I pity you from my heart, dearest Emmeline; but comfort you I cannot.”

For a moment, Emmeline seemed overpowered by emotion. She then found
relief in tears, and her head dropped on Mildred's shoulder.

“Think of him no more--think of him no more!” cried Mildred. “He does not
deserve your love, I, his sister, say so.”

Emmeline made no response, but continued to sob.

Neither of them were aware that Lady Barfleur had entered the gallery.

Greatly surprised at what she beheld, her ladyship stood still.
Fortunately she did not hear the words uttered by Mildred, so she could
only guess at the cause of this sudden outburst of grief.

At length she announced her presence by a slight cough, and Mildred
perceived her.

“Calm yourself, dearest girl,” she whispered to Emmeline. “Your mother
is here.”

“Here!” exclaimed Emmeline, looking up. “Yes, I see. Can she have heard
anything?”

“I think not. But be calm, or you will betray yourself!”

Thereupon they both arose, and Emmeline did her best to repress her
emotion, and succeeded in forcing a smile.

“You will scold me, mamma, when you learn that I have been so foolish as
to weep at a very pathetic story told me by Mildred,” she said.

“I am glad to find it is nothing serious,” replied Lady Barfleur.

“Have you come to tell us that papa has captured the gipsies?”

“No; he has not yet returned,” replied Lady Barfleur. “I came to let you
know that Mrs. Calverly and Captain Danvers have gone to the garden.
Perhaps you may like to join them there.”

“Shall we, Mildred?”

“By all means,” was the reply. “I shouldn't think I had been at Brackley
unless I had had a stroll in the delightful old garden.”

“Don't wait for me; I'll follow,” said Lady Barfleur.

Glad to escape further questioning, the two delinquents flew down the
spiral staircase, and hastened to the garden.




XI. WHAT PASSED IN THE GARDEN.

|Do you know, Mrs. Calverley, I have never been at your place,
Ouselcroft, and I hear it's uncommonly pretty.”

This remark was made by Captain Danvers, as he was seated by the side of
the charming widow on a bench near one of the fountains.

“Come and see it, and judge,” she replied. “We shall be at home
to-morrow.”

“Give me the greatest pleasure to ride over,” he said. “A country place
is charming; but I almost wonder you haven't got a house in town.”

“I think of taking one,” she replied. “Mildred has never been in
town--never resided there, I ought to say. Her papa objected to noise
and racket--didn't care for the parks or the Opera, and disliked large
parties. I don't think he could have stood a season in town. I
prefer quietude and the country myself. However, Mildred ought to be
considered, and as she wishes to mix a little more with society than she
is able to do here, we shall go to London for a time.”

“'Pon my soul! you're exceedingly kind,” cried the captain. “Miss
Calverley is blessed with a most indulgent mamma--'sister,' I was going
to say, but I recollected myself in time.”

“I shall make her as happy as I can, so long as she remains with me,”
 replied Mrs. Calverley. “When my late husband entrusted his daughter to
my care, he knew I should do my duty to her.”

“And your first duty,” he remarked, with a smile, “is to get her well
married. That will be easily accomplished, for I hear there are many
_prétendants._ No wonder!--she is a most lovely creature.”

“And will have a very good fortune,” said Mrs. Calverley. “I make no
secret that I mean to give her thirty thousand pounds as a marriage
portion.” Captain Danvers was astounded. If she was to have such a
fortune as this, he began to think he had better turn his attention
to the step-daughter. He endeavoured to look indifferent, but Mrs.
Calverley perceived that the remark had told, as she intended it to do.

“You are the most generous of your sex, Mrs. Calverley,” he observed.
“Few women, circumstanced as you are, would make so great a sacrifice.”

“I don't consider it a sacrifice, Captain Danvers. I regard it as a
duty. I simply represent her father. What he would have done, I shall
do.”

“I cannot withhold my admiration of conduct as rare as it is
praiseworthy,” said the captain. “I repeat, you deserve infinite credit
for your generosity. But Mr. Calverley, I believe, left a son as well as
a daughter? What will he say to this magnificent portion?”

“He has no voice in the matter,” replied the lady. “My husband left the
entire control of his property to me.”

“A wise man!--a very wise man!” cried the captain.

“Chetwynd Calverley has been very wild and extravagant,” said the widow.
“It was necessary, therefore, to tie up the property.”

“Quite necessary!--quite proper!” remarked the captain. “Though I
shouldn't like it myself,” he thought. “Is Chetwynd satisfied with the
arrangement, may I ask?”

“Very much the reverse,” she replied. “But that is immaterial.”

“He doesn't know what is good for him,” said the captain. “None of us
do,” he mentally ejaculated.

“Then you approve of the course I am about to pursue, Captain Danvers?”

“Entirely, my dear madam--entirely,” he replied. “I think it most
judicious.”

“And now you have asked me a good many questions, let me ask you one in
return?” said Mrs. Calverley.

“Delighted to answer any questions you may put to me,” he replied,
wondering what she was going to say.

“But don't answer this, unless you like,” she observed.

“Let me hear it,” he rejoined, fearing something unpleasant was coming.

“How is it that your lovely cousin, Emmeline, has not married? I know
she has had several very good offers.”

“'Pon my honour, I can't tell. I fancy--but mind its only fancy--she has
had some disappointment.”

“I should think that scarcely possible,” observed Mrs. Calverley. “Why,
she is an only child, and will be a great heiress!”

“Well, that's the only solution I can give of the mystery. I know Lord
Bollington proposed to her, and I know my uncle would have liked the
match to take place, but the young lord was refused.”

“Possibly she has an attachment,” observed Mrs. Calverley, thoughtfully.
“If so, it's a great pity.”

“Here she comes, with Miss Calverley,” said Captain Danvers, as the two
young ladies were seen advancing along the terrace.




XII. BRACKLEY MERE.

|By this time, all traces of tears had disappeared, and Emmeline's dark
eyes looked lustrous as ever.

Judging from her lively manner, no one would have dreamed that she
nourished a secret attachment. But she kept it carefully locked up in
the recesses of her heart, and had no confidante except Mildred.

Captain Danvers rose to meet them, but Mrs. Calverley retained her seat.

“We shall see now how he acts,” she thought.

He did not leave her long in doubt. He immediately began an animated
conversation with Mildred, and kept by her side as they walked round the
garden, leaving Emmeline to amuse Mrs. Calverley.

No doubt the handsome captain could make himself extremely agreeable if
he chose, and he now exerted himself to the utmost, and succeeded.

Having expatiated upon the beauty of the formal old garden they were
surveying, and saying how much he preferred it to the landscape style,
he turned the discourse to the amusements and gaieties of London, and
soon found that Mildred was really anxious to spend a season in
town; whereupon he expressed the greatest satisfaction, as he should
frequently have an opportunity of meeting her.

By this time Lady Barfleur had made her appearance, and as she could
report nothing of Sir Leycester, she suggested a visit to the mere.

“It is a nice shady walk there through the wood,” she said; “and if you
have not seen the mere, I think you will be struck by it.”

“Not by its beauty, mamma,” remarked Emmeline, “but rather by its
blackness.”

“Well, such blackness as that water boasts _is_ a beauty,” said Captain
Danvers. “In my opinion, the mere is well worth seeing.”

“There are all sorts of legends attached to it,” said Emmeline. “Amongst
others, there is a superstition, that when anything is about to happen
to our house, a great piece of black oak, that has been sunk for ages at
the bottom of the lake, floats to the surface.”

“An idle story,” remarked Lady Barfleur.

“You excite my curiosity,” said Mrs. Calverley. “I should like to see
this mysterious lake.”

“You must excuse my accompanying you,” said Lady Barfleur. “Captain
Danvers will conduct you there.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the captain. “I hope you will go too,
Miss Calverley?”

“Oh, of course!” she replied.

So they all set off, with the exception of Lady Barfleur, who rarely got
beyond the garden.

In a very few minutes, they had plunged into a wood, through which a
narrow road led to the mere.

In some places, the path was overarched by trees, and the branches
formed a delightful screen on that hot day.

Captain Danvers led the way with Mildred, and the path being only wide
enough for two, the others were obliged to follow. As the wood seemed to
inspire such a tone, his accents became low and tender.

Suddenly they burst upon the lake in all its sombre grandeur. The water
looked intensely black, but when examined, it was found to be perfectly
clear. The broad expanse was surrounded by trees, which, in some
instances, advanced beyond the bank.

The surface of the mere was unruffled, for not a breath of wind was
stirring, and reflected the trees as in a mirror. Occasionally, however,
a fish would leap up, and the smooth water was, for a moment, rippled.

But the effect of the scene was not cheerful. An air of gloom brooded
over the place, that impressed the beholder with melancholy. Both Mrs.
Calverley and Mildred acknowledged the feeling.

At the point where the visitors had approached it, the lake was shallow,
and occupied by a large bed of reeds and bullrushes; but, at the opposite
extremity, the water was profoundly deep, and supposed, by the common
folk, to be unfathomable.

On the left, and not far from where they stood, was a boat-house, and
Captain Danvers offered to row them to the further end of the lake, so
that they might have an opportunity of completely surveying it.

The proposal was gladly accepted.

Repairing to the shed, they embarked in a large flat-bottomed boat,
better adapted for fishing than moving rapidly through the water.

However, it answered the purpose. Captain Danvers took the sculls, and
contrived to get Mildred next him. The clumsy craft moved slowly on, and
was now and then stopped that the ladies might look around.

As they drew near the lower end, the lake seemed to become darker, and
the trees that shut it in assumed a yet more sombre appearance.

Here it was deepest.

Captain Danvers was tugging at the sculls, but still making very slow
progress, when the boat struck against something in the water that gave
it a great shock.

The captain ceased rowing, and looking round to see what he had come in
contact with, to his surprise and consternation, he beheld the blackened
trunk of a huge oak.

Hitherto, the dusky mass had scarcely appeared above the surface, but on
being thus forcibly struck, it rolled round in such manner as to display
its enormous bulk, and then gradually sank.

All three ladies saw the ill-omened piece of timber at the same time as
Captain Danvers.

Uttering a cry of fright, Emmeline stood up, and, pointing to it,
exclaimed:

“'Tis the black oak I told you of. One of my father's house is doomed!”

The others looked aghast, but spoke not. Even Captain Danvers seemed
struck dumb.

Without a word, he turned the boat's head, and began to row back.

While he was moving round, Emmeline sat down, and covered her eyes, to
shut the hideous object from her view.

“It is gone,” said Mildred, in a low tone. “Try not to think about it.”

“I ought to think about it,” rejoined Emmeline, scarcely above her
breath. “It is a death-warning!”

“But not to you, dearest girl,” said Mildred.

“I would rather it applied to me than to those I love,” she returned.

Silence prevailed among the party till they landed. No more jesting on
the part of the captain. He looked very gloomy.

When they got out of the boat, he tried to cheer up his fair cousin, but
did not succeed.

They walked back quietly to the Hall, where a painful surprise awaited
them.




XIII. PURSUIT OF THE GIPSIES.

|Sir Leycester Barfleur, as we have shown, had ridden with his
attendants to the further side of the morass, where he hoped to
intercept the gipsies in their flight, but he could discover nothing of
them.

Posting himself with Booth, the coachman, on a little mound near the
marsh, he sent off the two grooms to the huts previously mentioned,
to ascertain whether the fugitives had taken refuge there; but his
emissaries brought him no satisfactory intelligence, and it was the
opinion of the turf-cutters who inhabited the huts that the gipsies had
gone off altogether.

Sir Leycester, however, felt convinced that the rascals were somewhere
about, and ordered his men to make a careful search, directing the
turf-cutters to assist them.

Again they were all at fault.

Sir Leycester next tried the wood that skirted the heath, and sent the
men on by different routes, fixing a place of meeting in the heart of
the thicket..

He himself pursued the main road, attended by Booth.

“It's a pity we didn't bring those two Scotch deerhounds with us, Sir
Leycester,” observed the coachman. “If the gipsies have taken shelter
in this wood,-we shall never be able to find 'em without a dog of some
sort.”

“I believe you're right, Booth,” replied Sir Leycester. “I don't like
hunting men in that way. But what's to be done, if we can't catch them
otherwise?”

“It's the only sure plan,” rejoined Booth. “We're wasting time now.”

“Well, go and fetch the hounds,” said Sir Leycester. “Ride to the
keeper's lodge as fast as you can. If Rushton shouldn't be at home, go
on to the Hall; but use despatch.”

“Shall I bring Rushton with me, as well as the hounds, Sir Leycester?”
 inquired Booth.

“Ay, do,” replied the baronet.

“And a bloodhound?” asked the coachman, with a grin.

Sir Leycester signified his assent, and Booth galloped off.

He had scarcely started, when the baronet regretted the last order
given, and called out to him not to bring the bloodhound.

Booth, however, was out of hearing.

Sir Leycester then proceeded to the centre of the wood, keeping a sharp
look-out on either side as he rode along.

The others had already arrived at the appointed spot, but had nothing to
tell.

The baronet felt very much inclined to swear; but, just at the moment, a
burly farmer, named Marple, who used to hunt with him, came up, mounted
on a well-bred horse.

On hearing what was going on, Marple told the baronet he had just seen a
couple of gipsies, who appeared to be hiding on the banks of the Weever,
and offered to take him to the exact spot.

“No doubt they are the rogues you are looking for, Sir Leycester,” he
added.

“No doubt of it!” cried the baronet, joyfully. “Come along!”

He then rode off with Marple, taking the two grooms with him, and
leaving the turf-cutters behind, to wait for Booth and the hounds.

The river Weever described a wide half-circle round the east side of the
wood, the spot referred to by Marple being about half a mile off.

As they rode at a rattling pace, they were there in a few minutes; but
when they approached the river, they proceeded cautiously.

If the gipsies had not decamped, they felt sure of catching them, the
Weever being here very deep, while there was no bridge within a mile.

But, cautiously as they came on, they had been descried, and perfectly
understanding their design, the gipsies were endeavouring to escape
by creeping along the bank of the river, which was here bordered by
willows.

Having got nearly to the end of this screen, the fugitives stopped,
determined, if hard pressed, to make for the adjoining wood, and being
both extremely fleet, they had no doubt of accomplishing their purpose.




XIV. THE BLOODHOUND.

|It soon became manifest to the gipsies that their pursuers were
following them, and searching carefully about among the willows; and
they were still more alarmed by the report of a pistol, discharged by
Sir Leycester, with the view of rousing them from the covert.

Accordingly, they dashed off; and so busily were their pursuers
occupied, that a minute or two elapsed before their flight was
discovered.

A piece of ground, level as a village green, and a couple of meadows,
lay between them and the desired place of shelter, and they had
gained the first hedge, and were scrambling through it, when they were
perceived by Sir Leycester, who instantly shouted a view-halloo, and the
whole party started in pursuit.

But not without reason had the gipsies reckoned upon their own speed.

Before Sir Leycester and his attendants cleared the first obstacle, they
had leaped a five-barred gate, and were flying across the second field.

In half a minute more they had plunged into the thicket, and fancied
themselves secure.

Sir Leycester, on the other hand, who was close at their heels, knew
very well they had run into the trap and chuckled at the thought of
their speedy capture.

Causing his companions to disperse, he went towards the centre of the
wood, expecting to find Booth with the keeper and the hounds.

Meanwhile, the gipsies, being well acquainted with the thicket, made
their way to its inmost recesses, where the brambles and underwood would
render it difficult, if not impossible, for the horsemen to follow them.

They heard Marple and the others on their left and right, pushing their
way through the trees, and vainly endeavouring to get near them. They,
therefore, felt quite safe; the only unpleasantness being that they
might be detained there till night.

But this feeling of security was quickly dispelled by some sounds they
did not at all like. They first heard voices at a distance, accompanied
by the crackling of small branches, announcing that some persons on
foot were searching for them, and Ekiel remarked, in a low tone, to his
comrade:

“Why, that's Ned Rushton, the keeper's voice. We're not safe here, if
he's after us.”

“Keep quiet,” muttered Clynch. “He mayn't come this way.”

Shortly afterwards, a low, ominous growl, not to be mistaken by the
experienced, reached their ears, and filled them with alarm.

“Ned has got a bloodhound with him, Ekiel,” said Clynch. “We must kill
the brute! Have you got your Spanish knife with you?”

“Ay! but I daren't attack that hound.”

“Give me the knife, then! I'll do it!” cried Clynch. “We must get out of
this place as quickly as we can, and run for life.”

“Run where?” demanded Ekiel.

“To the marsh,” replied Clynch. “That's our only chance.”

“That devil of a dog has taken all my strength out of me.”

“Don't be afeared of him!” cried Clynch, unclasping the cuchillo, the
point of which was as sharp as a needle.

Just then, a long bay proclaimed that the hound had got the scent,
while the voice, stated by Ekiel to be that of Ned Rushton, was heard
encouraging him.

The gipsies set off; but had not gone far when the formidable hound
burst upon them through the underwood.

Quick as lightening, Clynch turned, and dropping on one knee, faced the
enemy with the cuchillo in his hand.

For a moment, the hound fixed upon him a red, deep-seated eye, and then
sprang at his throat.

But Clynch, whose gaze had never quitted the terrible animal, received
him on the point of the knife, and drove the deadly weapon to his heart.
With a fierce yell, the hound fell back.

Having thus liberated himself from his formidable foe, Clynch was making
off, when Ned Rushton appeared.

Exasperated by the slaughter of his favourite, he discharged both
barrels of his gun at the flying gipsy, but without effect. The shot
rattled over the head of the fugitive, but did him no harm. Clynch
quickly overtook his comrade; and, as soon as the ground became clear of
underwood, they speeded off towards the morass.




XV. THE DEERHOUNDS.

|Meanwhile, Sir Leycester had not been idle.

He had sent off Ned Rushton with the bloodhound to unkennel the gipsies;
but would not allow the other hounds to be unleashed.

However, when he heard the shouts, and caught sight of the fugitives,
one of them with a bloodstained knife in his hand, running towards the
morass, he shouted to Booth to loose the dogs, and, cheering them on,
started in pursuit.

The deerhounds quite understood their business, and rushed after the
gipsies at a tremendous pace, followed by Sir Leycester, who vainly
endeavoured to keep up with them.

Marple, Booth, and the two grooms likewise joined in the exciting chase.

After a good run, Ekiel dropped; and as the hounds had to be pulled
away from him, the incident caused a short delay, that enabled Clynch to
reach the morass.

There was for no time hesitation, so he took the first path that
offered--a narrow footway that seemed to lead towards the middle of the
bog.

He soon found he had made a bad choice, for the path grew narrower, and
the ground became soft.

But the deerhounds were after him, and behind them came Sir Leycester,
who had ventured to ride along the pathway, in spite of the warning
shouts of Marple and the others.

Clynch ran on a little further, and then stood at bay, preparing to
defend himself against the deerhounds with the cuchillo, which he had
never relinquished.

At this juncture, Sir Leycester's horse missed his footing, and slipped
into the bog, and in the effort to recover himself, threw his rider over
his head, completely engulfing him.

Cries of consternation arose from all who witnessed the accident; but
they could render no assistance.

Marple, who had all along been apprehensive of disaster, flung himself
from his horse, and hurried to the spot; but only to find that the
unfortunate baronet had disappeared.

“Call off these dogs, and I'll help you to get him out!” shouted Clynch.

In the hope of saving the baronet's life, Marple complied; and as soon
as he was safe from attack, the gipsy flung away the knife, and, setting
to work, did his best.

But his help was of no avail. The horse was got out; but Sir Leycester
had sunk, and could not be found.

Plenty of other assistance soon arrived. Booth, the coachman; Ned
Rushton, the keeper; the turf-cutters--all were there.

But though every effort was made, and every available appliance used,
more than an hour elapsed before the body could be recovered.

It was then conveyed to the Hall--Marple having gone on before, to break
the sad intelligence to Lady Barfleur.


END OF THE FIRST BOOK




BOOK THE SECOND--THE HEIRESS OF BRACKLEY HALL.




I. THE LAST OF THE OLD CHESHIRE SQUIRES.

|A terrible sensation was caused at Brackley Hall when tidings were
brought there of the fatal accident that had befallen its owner. Sir
Leycester had been an excellent master, and was beloved by all his
household, and their regrets for his loss were heartfelt.

Lady Barfleur was completely stunned by the shock. Marple endeavoured
to break the sad intelligence to her gradually; but his countenance and
accents betrayed him.

Rising from the sofa on which she was seated, she seized him by the arm,
and commanded him to tell her the truth.

Thus interrogated, he felt compelled to give a direct reply. But he
regretted doing so, when he saw the effect his words produced upon
her. She looked aghast, placed her hand on her heart, and, then, with a
half-stifled cry, sank upon the sofa.

Marple had taken the precaution to station a female servant at the door;
and he now summoned her to her mistress. Lady Barfleur had fainted.

Emmeline did not hear of the direful event till she returned from the
lake; and she then instantly bethought her of the death-warning she had
received. She managed to restrain her emotions till she reached her own
room, whither she was accompanied by Mildred, who was almost equally
shocked, and then gave way to a paroxysm of grief.

Mrs. Calverley was likewise much distressed. She could not help
reproaching herself as being, in some degree, the cause of the accident;
though she had endeavoured to dissuade the unfortunate baronet from
pursuing the gipsies.

Feeling certain, under the present afflicting circumstances, that
Emmeline would not be willing to part with Mildred, she settled in her
own mind that the latter should remain with her friend for a few days.
Moreover, she herself would spend the night at Brackley, if she could be
of any use to Lady Barfleur. Such were her mental resolves.

Hitherto, she had remained in the garden. She now went into the house.
It was all in confusion, the servants appearing quite scared. There was
no one to whom she could speak, for Captain Danvers had gone off to the
marsh.

The drawing-room was deserted. Nothing was changed there. But how
different the noble room looked in her eyes from what it had done in the
morning! Its splendour seemed dimmed. The great emblazoned shield over
the mantelpiece looked like a hatchment.

After gazing round for a few minutes, she sat down. Melancholy thoughts
intruded upon her. Perhaps, even feelings of remorse assailed her. But
we shall not search her bosom. She began to feel some disquietude at
being left so long alone, and wondered why Mildred did not come down to
her. Possibly, she could not leave Emmeline.

Suddenly, her attention was roused by a disturbance in the
entrance-hall, that seemed to betoken an arrival.

What it was she could not fail to conjecture.

Trampling of feet, as if caused by men bearing a heavy burden, and
muttered voices, were heard. Then followed other sounds, almost equally
significant, the opening and shutting of doors, and the congregating of
servants in the hall.

She waited for some minutes, in the expectation of being summoned, but
as no one came near her, she went forth.

The hall was empty, but the dining-room door stood open, and at it was
stationed the butler.

The man had a very sorrowful countenance indeed. He bowed gravely as she
approached, and motioned her to enter the room.

A very touching spectacle was presented to her gaze.

On a large carved oak table, covered with a crimson cloth, and placed
in the centre of the apartment, was laid the body of the unfortunate
baronet.

It was partially covered by a cloak; and the stains from the swamp in
which he had been engulfed had been carefully removed from his face and
grey locks. Strange to say, his features were not changed, but seemed to
wear their customary kindly expression.

Around were grouped the different members of the household, all of whom
looked deeply afflicted, and some of the female servants were weeping
bitterly.

On one side stood Ned Eushton, with two of his helpers, behind him.
Rarely did Ned's manly visage exhibit such grief as it wore on this sad
occasion. After gazing steadfastly at his late kind-hearted master for
some minutes, he cast down his eyes, and did not raise them again till
the moment of departure.

On the other side stood Marple, who, though burly of frame, was as
soft-hearted as a woman. He deeply lamented Sir Leycester, and well he
might, for the baronet had ever been a good friend to him.

At the end of the apartment stood Captain Danvers, a quiet but not
unmoved spectator of the scene. If his grief made little outward show,
it was not the less deep and sincere. He was strongly attached to his
uncle, from whom, indeed, he had some expectations, that might never now
be realised.

But the principal figures in this touching picture have yet to be
described.

Emmeline and Mildred were kneeling down in prayer, at the back, when
Lady Barfleur entered the room. She had nerved herself, as she thought,
for the ordeal; but on catching sight of the body, she uttered a cry
that thrilled all who heard it, rushed up to her dead husband, clasped
her arms round his neck, and fell with her head upon his breast.

No one ventured to remove her; and she was still in this attitude when
Mrs. Calverley entered the room.

The dark oak ceiling, the dark oak panels, the dim windows, harmonised
with the sombre character of the picture, which made an ineffaceable
impression upon Mrs. Calverley.

The scene suggested many reflections.

In the room, where for many years he had exercised unbounded
hospitality, and where his ancestors had feasted before him, lay the
last male representative of the ancient house of Barfleur.

Sir Leycester had had a son, who died when quite young, and the title
was now extinct. All the late baronet's estates and possessions would go
to his daughter and sole heiress. But Emmeline thought not of the wealth
she had thus suddenly acquired. She thought only of the irreparable loss
she had sustained in the death of the father who had treated her with
constant tenderness and affection, and whom she dearly loved.

But if no selfish thoughts occupied her, reflections somewhat akin
to them occurred to one near to her, who well knew how she was
circumstanced. Mrs. Calverley knew that Emmeline was her father's sole
heiress, and looked upon her as a very important personage, over whom
it would be desirable to obtain an influence. Such influence could
be easily acquired by Mildred, to whom, it was evident, Emmeline was
strongly attached.

Mrs. Calverley knew much, but there was one important matter of which
she was totally ignorant. How could she have been aware that Emmeline
cherished a secret attachment to Chetwynd?

The picture we have attempted to describe remained undisturbed for a few
minutes, when the new-made widow recovered from the swoon into which she
had fallen.

As soon as she could, Mrs. Calverley, who had come up, gently raised
her, and helped her to quit the room. Emmeline and Mildred arose and
followed.

Captain Danvers remained till the household had withdrawn, and then held
a consultation with the butler, to whom the entire management of the
house had been entrusted for the present by Lady Barfleur.

As Mrs. Calverley had foreseen, Emmeline would not part with Mildred;
and she herself remained till the following day, having despatched a
messenger to Ousel-croft with a note to her housekeeper, explaining
matters, and desiring her to send back some things that she and Mildred
required.

Passing over the dreary interval that comprised the inquest, and the
examination and committal of the gipsies, we shall come on to the
funeral, to which a great number of important personages---relatives,
connexions, and friends of the deceased baronet--had been invited.

Sir Gerard Danvers, of Offham Grange and his eldest son Scrope,
Charles's brother, arrived at Brackley Hall on the eve of the sad
ceremonial.

Up to this time, Lady Barfleur had not quitted her room; but she could
not refuse to see her brother and nephew, and she, therefore, dined with
them. It was a _triste_ party, as may be imagined, for her ladyship's
presence cast a gloom over it. Emmeline looked ill; Mildred was out of
spirits; and Mrs. Calverley, who had come over that afternoon, had to
supply the conversation. Both Sir Gerard and Scrope thought her very
charming.

Scrope was about thirty, tall, thin, dark-complexioned, and by no means
so handsome as his brother; but he was exceedingly gentlemanlike, and
would be very rich, and that was much in Mrs. Calver-ley's opinion; so
she took some trouble to please him.

It was with difficulty that Captain Danvers could maintain a grave
exterior. Mr. Carteret, the solicitor, who had acted professionally for
Sir Leycester as he had done for Mr. Calverley, had been over that day;
and when the will of the deceased baronet was examined, it was found he
had left his nephew Charles five thousand pounds. Impossible, after such
a windfall as this, that the captain, who was not over-burdened with
cash, could look very dull.

Members of some of the oldest and best Cheshire families--Egerton,
Cholmondeley, Leigh, Venables, Vernon, Brereton, Mainwaring, Davenport,
and others--attended the funeral.

Sir Bridgnorth Charlton, who had been an old friend of the deceased
baronet, was likewise invited, and came.

Before the funeral _cortège_ set out, Sir Bridgnorth took an opportunity
of speaking to Mildred, and said he would call upon her in a few days,
as he had something to tell her respecting Chetwynd.

Sir Leycester was not interred in the little chapel in the court of the
old Hall, where some of his earlier ancestors reposed, but in his family
vault in the neighbouring church of Brackley, and was borne thither,
according to custom, on the shoulders of the tenantry. Sir Gerald
Danvers and his two sons followed on foot, with a long train of mourners
composed entirely of the deceased baronet's retainers. The carriages of
the important personages we have mentioned closed the procession.

A word respecting Sir Leycester ere we lose sight of him for ever.

Not inappropriately, he might be termed the last of the Cheshire
squires, since he left none behind who so completely answered to the
description of that traditional character.

He seemed to belong to another age--a ruder but manlier age than our
own. Yet Sir Leycester, though sometimes coarse and careless of speech,
could be most courteous.

His ancestors had always been loyal--always true to the Stuarts.
Brackley Hall had held out against the Parliamentarians in the time of
Charles the First, and Sir Chandos Barfleur was killed at the siege. His
son Delves was just as faithful to the king's fortunes, and lost part
of his property; but it was restored by Charles the Second, and again
jeopardised in 1715. Circumstances prevented Sir Wilbraham Barfleur from
joining the Rebellion of '45. From this date the Barfleurs became loyal
to the reigning family.

Born in the latter part of the last century, Sir Leycester belonged to
that epoch rather than to the present. He retained the manners of his
sire and grandsire, and thus became a type of the old school--a type
that has now completely disappeared.

In look, bearing, physiognomy, costume, manner, he differed from the
present generation. But there was no better gentleman, no cheerier
companion, no stauncher friend, no better rider to hounds, than Sir
Leycester Barfleur, the last of the old Cheshire squires.





II. A CONSULTATION.

|About a week after the funeral, Sir Bridgnorth Charlton rode over to
Brackley Hall, in fulfilment of his promise to call on Mildred.

Lady Barfleur was not well enough to appear; but Emmeline and Mildred,
who had been impatiently expecting his visit, received him in the
drawing-room.

They were attired in deep mourning; and, though there was no personal
resemblance between them, they looked like sisters.

After some inquiries respecting Lady Barfleur, and messages of
condolence to her, Sir Bridgnorth looked at Mildred, who interpreted his
glance correctly, and said:

“You may speak freely of Chetwynd before Miss Barfleur, Sir Bridgnorth.
She takes great interest in him.”

“A very great interest,” added Emmeline. “I hope you bring us some news
of him?”

“Very little,” replied Sir Bridgnorth. “And what I do bring is not
satisfactory. You desire me to speak plainly about your brother, Miss
Calverley?”

“Most certainly!” she replied.

“Well, then, you may remember, when I accidentally met him at
Ouselcroft, I gave him a pocket-book, containing a certain sum of
money?”

“I am not likely to forget your kindness,” replied Mildred.

“It appears there was rather more in the pocket-book than I thought,”
 pursued Sir Bridgnorth--“bank notes to the amount of three hundred
pounds. I mention this, because your brother has most scrupulously
repaid me the exact sum, of which he kept a memorandum.”

“He behaved like a man of honour!” cried Emmeline.

“Undoubtedly. But I did not want the money back. I want to assist him. I
want him to come to me--to talk to me.”

“Will he not do so?” said Mildred.

“I fear not. I suspect he is still in difficulties.”

“If so, he must be got out of them, and you must manage it, Sir
Bridgnorth,” said Mildred.

“But I can't manage it, my dear young lady. I don't know where to find
him.”

“But he _must_ be found!” cried Emmeline.

“Easily said; but not so easily accomplished,” rejoined Sir Bridgnorth,
smiling at her vivacity. “I have used every endeavour, but can obtain no
clue to him.”

“Is he in London?” asked Mildred.

“I believe so,” he replied.

“Surely then he can be discovered?” she remarked.

“I have not succeeded in discovering him, that is all I can say,”
 rejoined Sir Bridgnorth. “And I have really taken a great deal of
trouble in the business. He has been remarkably successful in hiding
himself.”

“Do not keep anything back from me, I pray you, dear Sir Bridgnorth!”
 said Mildred. “Is he without resources?”

“I cannot imagine so,” he replied. “He must have had some funds to
enable him to repay me, unless--” and he paused.

“Unless what?” said Mildred.

“You enjoin me to speak the truth,” replied Sir Bridgnorth; “and I will
do so at the hazard of giving you and Miss Barfleur pain. My idea is
that he has lost money at play. Mind, I have no proof of what I assert.
It is simply conjecture.”

“I fear you are right, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Mildred, heaving a deep
sigh.

“In your opinion, Sir Bridgnorth,” said Emmeline, who had listened
anxiously to the discourse--“in your opinion, I say, has Chetwynd lost a
considerable sum of money at play?”

“I fear so.”

“Has he paid it?”

“I fear not.”

There was a pause, during which the two young ladies regarded each other
wistfully.

At length, Mildred spoke.

“Sir Bridgnorth,” she said, “Chetwynd's debts of 'honour'”--and she
emphasised the word--“must be paid, and shall be paid, at any sacrifice,
by me! You will do me the greatest kindness by finding out exactly how
he is circumstanced, what he owes, and, especially, what are his debts
of honour.”

Emmeline looked earnestly at Sir Bridgnorth, as if she felt equally
interested in the inquiry.

Sir Bridgnorth was evidently troubled, and for some moments made no
answer.

“Excuse me, my dear Miss Calverley,” he said; “if your brother is in a
scrape, I think he should be allowed to get out of it--as he best can.”

“No!” exclaimed Mildred, decidedly. “It is not like me, Sir Bridgnorth,
to give such advice.”

“No!” added Emmeline, equally decidedly. “He must be freed!”

“Upon my word,” said Sir Bridgnorth, surprised, “whatever may have
happened to him, this young man cannot be called unfortunate.”

“Then act as a true friend to him, dear Sir Bridgnorth!” said
Mildred. “Make immediate arrangements to get him out of all difficulties.
You will incur no personal responsibility.”

“None whatever,” said Emmeline.

Sir Bridgnorth was much touched.

“I think you had better leave him to himself,” he said. “But, since you
won't, I must needs help you I'll do all I can. But I cannot proceed as
expeditiously as I could desire. I have reason to believe Chetwynd is
living in London under a feigned name. Since all private inquiries have
proved unsuccessful, I will cause some carefully-worded advertisements
to be inserted in the newspapers, that may catch his eye and bring him
forward. Could he be made aware that a beautiful young lady takes an
interest in him, I am sure he would speedily reappear. But fear no
indiscretion on my part. Nothing shall be disclosed till the proper
moment arrives.” Then, addressing Mildred, he added: “As soon as I can
ascertain the amount of his debts, I will let you know.”

“Pay them, dear Sir Bridgnorth--pay them!” she rejoined.

“But they may be very large?”

“Never mind; pay them!” cried Emmeline. “Mr. Carteret shall repay you.”

“No man ever had such a chance,” exclaimed Sir Bridgnorth. “If he does
not reform now, he is incorrigible.”

“I have no misgivings as to the future,” said Mildred.

“Well, I sincerely trust all will come right,” observed Sir Bridgnorth.
“There seems every probability of it, I must own.”

Just then Mrs. Calverley was announced.

“I must take my leave,” said Sir Bridgnorth, rising hastily. “You shall
hear from me soon, or see me.”

“Let us see you, please!” said both young ladies.

Before he could depart, Mrs. Calverley entered, and stopped him.

“Ah, Sir Bridgnorth!” she exclaimed; “I'm delighted to meet you! I want
to have a word with you.”

Sir Bridgnorth evidently wished to get away. But she begged him to
remain for a few minutes; and he could not very well refuse.

Mrs. Calverley then went on to the young ladies. After the usual
greetings had passed, she said to Mildred, “I have a letter for you; or,
rather, a packet. It arrived this morning.”

Having given her the letter, she moved to a little distance.

Glancing at the superscription, Mildred turned pale.

“What is it that disturbs you?” inquired Emmeline.

“A letter from Chetwynd,” replied Mildred, in a low voice. “Come to my
room, that we may read it together.”

Emmeline signified her assent by a look.

Mrs. Calverley took no notice of what was passing, though she must have
perceived it.

Before leaving the room, Mildred went up to Sir Bridgnorth, and,
addressing him in a low voice, said:

“You must not go, Sir Bridgnorth. I may have something important to tell
you about Chetwynd.”

“In that case, I will stay as long as you please,” he rejoined.

Meanwhile Emmeline prepared to follow her friend.

“Will you mind my leaving you for a few minutes, dear Mrs. Calverley?”
 she said.

“Don't stand on the slightest ceremony with me, my love,” replied the
other. “Besides, I want to have a little talk with Sir Bridgnorth.”

The two young ladies then went out.

“I am now quite at your service, madam,” said Sir Bridgnorth, as soon as
he and Mrs. Calverley were alone.

“Then sit down, that we may have a confidential chat,” replied the lady.




III. CHETWYND'S LETTER.

|In such haste were the two girls to open the packet that they almost
ran up the spiral-staircase to Mildred's bedroom, in which was a deep
bay window.

In this recess they sat down.

Mildred's hand trembled as she tore open the packet.

It contained a long, closely-written letter, inside which was a folded
sheet of paper that looked like a document of some kind.

This document dropped on the table, and was not examined at the moment.

The letter was dated on the previous day, but bore no address.

Ere she had read many lines, a mist seemed to gather over Mildred's
vision. Unable to proceed, she laid the letter down.

“You terrify me,” cried Emmeline. “What has happened?”

“He meditates self-destruction,” replied Mildred. “But read the letter,
dearest--I cannot.”

Mustering up all her courage, Emmeline read aloud as follows:

“This is the last letter you will ever receive from me, dearest sister,
and, in bidding you an eternal farewell, I implore you to think kindly
of me.

“With one exception you are the only person in the world whom I love,
and my latest thoughts will be of her and you.

“You know her, and will easily guess her name, but I shall not confide
it to this sheet of paper. In all respects she is superior to the artful
and treacherous woman by whom I allowed myself to be deceived--superior
in beauty and accomplishments, and amiable as beautiful. Had I been
fortunate enough to wed her, I should have been a different man. Now it
is too late, I see my folly, and comprehend my loss.”

“You see that he dearly loved you, Emmeline, for it is to you that he
refers,” observed Mildred. “But proceed, I entreat you!”

“I have met with the basest ingratitude. Men who have received from me
favours innumerable--hangers-on who have sponged upon me, and professed
the greatest regard for me, have shrunk from me, and avoided me in my
misfortunes--men who have fleeced me, who have ruined me, and driven
me to desperation! My funds are almost exhausted, but they will last
me out. I owe nothing, for I have paid that kind-hearted Sir Bridgnorth
Charlton the exact sum he lent me. Had I not obtained it from him, I
should have been called a defaulter. Fortune favoured me for the moment,
for I won sufficient to discharge my debt to him. He would lend me more,
I doubt not, but I will never borrow again. As to the woman who has
robbed me of my inheritance, I have sworn I will accept nothing from
her, and I will keep my oath. She will be responsible for her conduct
before Heaven.”

Again there was a pause, but neither made a remark and Emmeline went on:

“Fear nothing, dearest sister. I have changed my name, and have taken
such precautions that my retreat cannot be discovered. Nothing will be
found upon me that can establish my identity. A body will be found; that
will be all!”

“Gracious Heaven!” ejaculated Mildred. “Grant that this dreadful
catastrophe may be averted!”

Emmeline's voice had been suffocated by emotion, but after a pause she
proceeded:

“Mildred, I have been reckless and extravagant, and have led a most
foolish and most useless life. I have been a gambler and have squandered
large sums upon persons who profited by my follies; but I have done
nothing dishonourable--nothing to tarnish my name as a gentleman. I
think I could have retrieved my position, but it is not worth the
trouble. I am weary of life; sick of the hollowness, the ingratitude,
the perfidy of the world! Timon of Athens did not hate mankind more
bitterly than I do. I would consent to live if I felt certain of revenge
on some of those who have wronged me; but on no other condition. This is
not likely to happen; so it is best I should go!”

“Alas, poor Chetwynd!” exclaimed Mildred. “His fancied wrongs have
driven him to the verge of madness!”

“He seems extraordinarily sensitive, and to feel most acutely the
slights shown him by his ungrateful associates,” said Emmeline.

“Is the letter finished?” asked Mildred.

“No,” replied Emmeline. “There is a farewell to you. But I cannot read
it. My voice fails me!”

Mildred then took the letter, and went on with it:

“You know exactly how I am circumstanced, Mildred. I have nothing, that
I am aware of, to leave; but I have made my will, and in your favour,
and shall enclose it in this letter. I may have some rights of which I
am ignorant; and if it should prove so, I desire that you may benefit by
them.”

“Here is the will,” she remarked, taking up the little document and
examining it. “I see he has observed all necessary formalities. Strange
he should be able to do this at such a time!”

Though deeply affected, she resumed the perusal of the letter:

“And now farewell, dearest sister! Again I implore you to think of me
kindly! My faults are inexcusable; yet do not judge me harshly. The
world has done that, and with sufficient severity. Do not suppose these
lines are written to move your compassion. Long before they meet your
eye, I shall be indifferent to scorn, neglect, and treachery!

“Should an opportunity ever occur of breathing my name to her I have
loved, say that my chief regret was that I threw away the happiness that
might have been mine!”

Emmeline uttered an exclamation of despair, but it did not interrupt
Mildred:

“Trouble yourself no more about me. Search will be in vain. Nothing can
arrest my purpose. Ere tomorrow morn I shall have ceased to breathe, and
have quitted a world I hate. Neglect not my last request! Farewell, my
sister! May you be happier than your unfortunate brother!”

“Heaven have mercy on his soul!” exclaimed Mildred, dropping on her
knees, and praying fervently.

Emmeline, likewise, knelt down and prayed.

After awhile, they arose.

“Sit down for a moment, dearest Emmeline,” said Mildred; “I have
something to tell you. I believe the fatal act was committed at one
o'clock this morning.”

“Why at that precise hour?” inquired Emmeline.

“You shall hear. I was sleeping on yonder couch, and was awakened by the
striking of the clock. The moon was shining brightly through the window,
and I thought I saw a figure standing just where you are seated. I
should have felt much more frightened than I did, if I had not been
convinced it was Chetwynd; though how he came here at that time I could
not imagine. I called out, but no answer was made, and I then became
seriously alarmed. Suddenly, the figure, which had hitherto been looking
down, raised its head, and fixed its mournful gaze upon me. I then saw
that the features were those of Chetwynd, but pale as death! The phantom
did not move from its position, but seemed to wave a farewell to me, and
then melted away in the moonbeams.”

“And this phantom you beheld?” said Emmeline, who had listened with
intense interest in the narrative.

“I saw it as plainly as I now see you,” replied the other. “Why it
appeared to me, I now understand.”

The silence that ensued was broken by Mildred.

After carefully replacing the letter and the will in the envelope,
she said: “Let us go down-stairs and communicate the sad news to Sir
Bridgnorth. It is right he should know it.”

“True,” replied Emmeline. “But oh! dearest Mildred, I can never like
Mrs. Calverley again. I look upon her as the cause of this dreadful
event.”

“You do her an injustice, dear Emmeline,” said

Mildred, who, however, began to regard her stepmother with altered
feelings.

“We shall see how she bears the intelligence,” said Emmeline; “and from
that, some judgment may be formed.”




IV. HOW THE DIREFUL NEWS WAS RECEIVED BY MRS. CALVERLEY; AND HOW SIR
BRIDGNORTH VOLUNTEERED TO MAKE INQUIRIES AS TO ITS TRUTH.

|As the two girls entered the drawing-room, their changed appearance and
mournful looks struck both Sir Bridgnorth and Mrs. Calverley, who were
still seated on the sofa, conversing together earnestly.

Sir Bridgnorth immediately arose, and, advancing to meet them, said to
Mildred:

“I am afraid you have not received very good news of Chetwynd?”

“Alas! no, Sir Bridgnorth,” she replied, in a sorrowful voice. “You need
give yourself no further concern about my unfortunate brother!”

“Why not?” he interrupted, anxiously.

“He is gone!” she replied, sadly.

“You shock me greatly!” he ejaculated. “Mrs. Calverley and myself have
been considering what could be done for him, and have just devised a
scheme that we hoped might be successful.”

“All schemes for his benefit are now useless,” said Emmeline. “He no
longer needs our aid.”

“Did I hear aright?” said Mrs. Calverley, starting up, and coming
towards them. “It cannot be that Chetwynd is dead?”

“It is so,” said Emmeline.

“But how did he die?” asked Mrs. Calverley.

“By his own hand!” replied Emmeline, regarding her fixedly.

Mrs. Calverley looked aghast, and as if ready to drop.

“I did not understand he had destroyed himself,” said Sir Bridgnorth.
“When did this sad event occur? Can you give me any particulars?”

“I can only state that he contemplated suicide,” replied Mildred. “This
letter is a last farewell to me.”

“Ah! then we need not despair of beholding him again,” said Sir
Bridgnorth, with a sensation of relief. “Many a man, now alive, has
threatened to put an end to his existence. I hope it may turn out to be
so in Chetwynd's case.”

“I sincerely hope so!” said Mrs. Calverley.

“I have no such belief,” observed Mildred, sadly.

“If you had read his most affecting letter, you would entertain no doubt
as to his determination,” added Emmeline, with difficulty refraining
from tears.

“We shall soon be able to ascertain the truth,” said Sir Bridgnorth.

“Not so,” replied Mildred. “He has taken such precautions that his fate
will remain a mystery.”

Sir Bridgnorth shook his head.

“I can't believe that possible,” he said. “It will be important, on
several accounts, to have proof of his death. He may have made a will.”

“He _has_ made a will, and has sent it me in this letter,” replied
Mildred.

“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Calverley, surprised. “But he had nothing to
leave.”

“He seems to have thought otherwise,” said Mildred. “He fancied he had
certain rights and claims, and those he has left to me.”

The slight shade that passed over Mrs. Calverley's countenance was not
unnoticed by Emmeline.

“This shows it will be absolutely necessary to establish the fact of
his death,” observed Sir Bridgnorth. “What is the date of the letter you
have received?”

“It was written yesterday,” replied Mildred. “But he is not alive now,”
 she added, solemnly.

“You believe he destroyed himself last night?” asked Mrs. Calverley.

“I firmly believe so,” she rejoined.

Mrs. Calverley then turned to Sir Bridgnorth, and with a coldness that
appeared revolting to Mildred and Emmeline, said:

“Is any case of suicide reported in the papers this morning?”

“I have seen none,” he replied. “But it might have escaped me. I seldom
read such cases.”

Emmeline rang the bell, and desired the butler to bring the newspapers.

The order was promptly obeyed, and search made, but no “mysterious
death” or “supposed suicide” could be discovered.

“It is needless to ask if any address is given with your letter,”
 remarked Sir Bridgnorth to Mildred.

“It is not likely there would be.”

“And nothing mentioned that could serve as a guide?”

“Nothing.”

Sir Bridgnorth then bade them all a formal adieu, and made a final
attempt to give them comfort.

“I hope Chetwynd may have changed his mind at the last moment,” he
said. “I believe it will turn out so. To-morrow I shall set out on my
melancholy errand, and institute inquiries. You shall hear from me as
soon as I have anything to communicate; and I promise you one thing--I
will not remain idle. It shall not be my fault if the facts of this
painful affair are not discovered.”


END OF THE SECOND BOOK




BOOK THE THIRD--WALTER LIDDEL.




I. ON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

|Nearly at the same date as the incident related in the foregoing
chapters, and about two hours past midnight, a strongly-built,
middle-aged man, whose garb proclaimed him a mechanic, took his way
across Westminster Bridge.

He was not walking very fast, but when the hour was tolled forth from
the lofty tower, he began to mend his pace, glancing occasionally at the
sullen river that swept on beneath him.

The bridge was completely deserted. The last policeman he had seen was
standing near New Palace Yard, and the belated mechanic was thinking
how strange and solitary the usually crowded footway appeared, when he
descried a figure leaning over the low parapet.

He had heard many tales of suicide, and something in the attitude of the
figure caused him to hurry on.

As he advanced, he perceived, by the light of the lamp, that it was a
young man, bare-headed, for a felt hat was lying on the pavement.

The person was muttering to himself, and his demeanour was altogether so
wild, that the mechanic was convinced that his suspicions were correct,
and he, therefore, called out.

He instantly turned at the cry, and exhibited a haggard visage; but
instead of replying, made an attempt to spring upon the parapet.

But the workman was too quick for him, and seized him before he could
execute his desperate purpose.

The intended suicide quite shook in the grasp of his powerful preserver.

He was a young man, and his brown hair and beard made the ghastly hue of
his countenance yet more striking by the contrast. Moreover, he had the
look of a gentleman, but it was difficult to judge of his condition from
his grey tweed habiliments.

He offered very little resistance to his friendly captor, his strength
apparently being gone.

“Let me go!” he said in a hoarse voice. “I don't wish to live!”

“Madman!” cried the mechanic. “What's the matter, that you would throw
away life thus?”

“What's the matter?” echoed the other, with a laugh that had nothing
human in it. “I am ruined--utterly ruined! Had you let me alone, my
troubles would have been ended by this time!”

And he made another ineffectual attempt to free himself.

“Don't think to get away!” said the mechanic. “I'm sorry for you, but
it's my duty to prevent you from committing this wicked act. I shall
hold you till a policeman comes up!”

“No; don't do that!” cried the wretched man. “Though I don't know where
to turn for a night's lodging, I don't want to be locked up! Leave go
your hold; I promise not to make the attempt again!”

“Well, I'll trust you,” replied the mechanic, releasing him.

They looked at each other for a few moments, and both seemed satisfied
with the scrutiny.

The intended suicide was apparently about three or four and twenty;
tall, handsome, well-proportioned. As already intimated, he had brown
locks and a brown beard, and was dressed in such manner that no precise
idea could be formed of his rank.

In regard to his preserver, there could be no mistake. His working
attire and cap proclaimed his station. He had an honest, manly
countenance. In age he might be about forty-five.

“Here's your hat, sir,” he said picking it up. “I should like to have a
word with you before we part. Perhaps I may be warranted in asking you a
question or two, especially as my motive is a good one. I'm not
influenced by mere curiosity. I'll begin by telling you my name. It's
Joe Hartley. I'm a stonemason by trade, and live in Lambeth Palace
Road--at least, close beside it. The reason I'm out so late is that I've
been doing a job at Paddington. But I don't regret it, since I've been
the humble instrument of saving a fellow-creature. Now you know all you
may care to learn about me, and, in return, I should like to hear
something about you.”

“I can't tell you who I am, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, “nor can I
acquaint you with my strange history. You may guess that I must have
been brought to a desperate pass.”

His voice changed as he went on.

“What's a poor fellow to do when he's utterly ruined? I've spent all
my money, pawned my watch, my ring, and another little trinket. I've
nothing left--not a sou.”

“But have you no relatives--no friends?” inquired Hartley, kindly.

“Yes; I've relatives, but I've quarrelled with them, and would die
rather than go near them!” he cried, in a bitter, desperate tone, that
left no doubt of his fixed determination. “Friends I have none!”

“Well, well, I won't argue with you about that,” said Hartley. “But
there is no occasion for one so young as you are to starve. There are
hundreds of ways in which you may earn a living. Amongst others, you
might 'list for a soldier. I'm much mistaken if you don't stand six feet
two. They'd take you at the Horse Guards in a minute.

“I did think of that; and, perhaps, might have done it, but I was goaded
to this desperate act by a circumstance on which I won't dwell. I think
I must have been mad. Very likely I shall enlist tomorrow.

“But you want rest, and have nowhere to go. Come home with me,” said the
stonemason.

“You are very good, Mr. Hartley,” he replied, much affected. “This is
real kindness, and I feel it--feel it deeply!”

“Come along, then,” cried Hartley. “There's a policeman moving towards
us, and he'll wonder what we are about. You won't tell me your name, I
suppose?”

“Call me Liddel--Walter Liddel,” replied the other. “It's not my real
name, though I have a right to use it. At any rate, I mean to be known
by it henceforward, and it will serve me with the recruiting sergeant.”

“It will serve you with me as well,” said Hartley. “So come along, Mr.
Walter Liddel.”

Presently they encountered the policeman, who eyed them rather
suspiciously, but was satisfied with a few words from Hartley.

On quitting the bridge, the stonemason turned off on the right, into
Lambeth Palace Road.

They walked on in silence, for Liddel did not seem inclined to talk.

Gradually the street became wider, and Hartley, noticing that his
companion began to walk very feebly, told him he had not much further to
go.

Their course seemed to be stopped by the high wall of the palace
grounds; but Hartley turned into a narrow street on the left,
called Spencer's Rents, and halting before the door of a neat little
habitation, said:

“Here we are!”

Walter Liddel replied, in a faint voice, that he was glad of it.

Hartley then knocked softly at the door, which was presently opened by
his wife.




II. THE HOUSE IN SPENCER'S KENTS.

|Perceiving that some one was with her husband, Mrs. Hartley was about
to beat an immediate retreat, but Hartley stopped her, and after a short
colloquy between the pair, the stonemason entered with his companion.

Mrs. Hartley had disappeared, but there was a light in the kitchen, into
which Walter Liddel was introduced.

The hospitable stonemason begged him to sit down, and, opening a
cupboard, took from it some cold meat and bread, which he set before
him, and bade him fall to.

Next proceeding to the scullery, Hartley drew a jug of beer. Walter
Liddel ate as voraciously as a famished wolf.

Leaving him to enjoy the first good meal he had made for some days,
Hartley went up-stairs, and his voice could be heard in consultation
with his wife.

Evidently, some little preparation for their unexpected guest had to be
made by the worthy couple, but it was completed before he had finished
his meal. He was still engaged when Hartley reappeared.

“Glad to see you getting on so well, Mr. Liddel,” observed the
stonemason. “It ain't often we've a spare bed, but it so happens that
our daughter Rose is away, so you can have her room.”

“Anywhere will do for me,” replied Walter, who by this time had devoured
all the meat and bread, and emptied the jug of beer.

“Come on, then,” said Hartley, taking up the candle, and signing to his
guest to follow him.

A short, narrow staircase brought them to a landing, whence two or three
doors opened, one of which admitted them to a small chamber, simply
but very neatly furnished. It breathed an atmosphere of purity and
innocence, with which Walter, exhausted as he was, could not help being
struck.

“There's your bed,” said Hartley, pointing to the neat little couch, the
patchwork quilt of which being turned down, revealed the snowy sheets.

“Thank you, my good friend; I couldn't wish for a better,” replied
Walter, squeezing the mason's horny hand. “Heaven bless you for your
kindness to me.”

“Don't disturb yourself too soon,” observed Hartley. “I'm not going out
early myself to-morrow. I'll call you. Good night.”

So saying, he retired, and closed the door after him.

As soon as he was alone, the penitent knelt down, and besought Heaven's
forgiveness for the sinful act he had attempted, and which had been so
fortunately frustrated. His contrition was sincere, and his resolution
to lead a better life heartfelt.

His prayers ended, he took off his attire, and, lying down in the little
couch in which innocence alone had hitherto reposed, almost instantly
fell asleep.

His slumbers were sound, and he had not stirred when Hartley had entered
the room on the morrow.

On opening his eyes, Walter could hardly make out where he was; but by
degrees the recollection of all that occurred returned to him.

“Don't think any more of last night,” said Hartley, noticing the pained
expression of his countenance. “It's nearly noon, but if you feel tired
I'll come again later on.”

“Nearly noon!” cried Walter, preparing to spring out of bed. “I ought to
have been up hours ago!”

Thereupon, Hartley retired, and his guest proceeded to make his toilette
with a care that showed he had not forsaken early habits.

While thus employed he could not help casting his eyes round the
chamber, and was more than ever struck by its extreme simplicity and
neatness. Everything seemed in its place. It appeared like a profanation
to invade such a temple of purity.

On going down-stairs, he found Mrs. Hartley, a middle-aged, matronly
woman, decently attired as became her station, and still comely.

It was too late for breakfast, and the cloth was spread for dinner. On
the table was a baked shoulder of mutton and potatoes.

Mrs. Hartley greeted him very kindly, and, with great good feeling and
good taste, made no allusion to the circumstances that had brought him
to the house, though she could not have been ignorant of them. But his
appearance prepossessed her in his favour.

“Don't say a word about being so late, sir,” she observed with a kindly
smile. “I'm glad to see you looking so well. You must be content to make
breakfast and dinner together to-day, sir.”

While Walter was making a suitable reply, Hartley came in, and seemed
quite surprised and delighted at his guest's improved appearance.

“A few hours' rest has done wonders with you, Mr. Liddel,” he said.
“This is my wife,” he added; “and I will say it to her face, that no man
could have a better.”

“A good husband makes a good wife, Joe, as I always tell you,” she
replied, smiling. “Pray sit down, sir,” she added, to Walter.

Both Hartley and his guest had good appetites, and a large hole was made
in the shoulder of mutton before they had finished their meal. Far from
begrudging Walter, Mrs. Hartley seemed pleased.

“Now, Mr. Liddel,” said Hartley, as he laid down his knife and fork, “I
must go to my work. The missis will take care of you till my return. We
may have company in the evening.”

“I must go and look after some employment,” said Walter.

“Time enough for that to-morrow,” rejoined the mason. “We'll have some
talk together on the subject to-night. Meantime, keep quiet.”

And the worthy fellow went about his business.

Mrs. Hartley showed her guest into the little parlour, and when she had
cleared away the things, joined him there, and they had a little chat
together; but whatever curiosity she felt, she restrained it.

Limited as was her knowledge of the world, she felt convinced that
Walter was a gentleman. She talked to him in a kindly, motherly tone,
that soon drew him out.

At last, after beating about the bush, she said, in a straightforward
way:

“You must excuse me, sir, if I take upon me to give you advice, but
don't you think you had better go back to your friends?”

“Never!” he replied. “I will never go back to them. If you knew all, you
would agree that I have been infamously treated! No, Mrs. Hartley, my
resolution is taken. I am down, but I will make my way up in the world.
To mount the ladder, one must begin at the lowest step.”

“I approve of your resolution, sir,” she rejoined, kindly; “and if you
are determined, you cannot fail of success. You have youth, strength,
good looks. I dare say, now,” she added, unable to repress her desire
to know something more of him, “I dare say you think you have been
wronged?”

“I have had great injustice done me,” he replied. “But you must not ask
me any questions, Mrs. Hartley. I shall never speak of what I have been,
unless----”

“You reinstate yourself,” she supplied.

“Exactly, And many years may elapse before I can do that.”

“Ah! you don't know,” she replied with an encouraging smile. “But you
must excuse me. I have got the house to attend to. You may like to see
the paper?”

Having spent some little time over the daily paper which she gave him,
Walter took up his hat, and went out.

Strolling leisurely along, he came to Lambeth Palace, and standing near
the pier at the foot of the bridge, he watched the boats arriving and
departing--landing passengers and carrying them away.

The lively scene served to amuse him. Among those who were embarking,
he noticed a tall, thin man, dressed in black, whose sharp features were
familiar to him.

The individual in question was only just in time, and as soon as he got
on board, the boat was cast off, and took its course towards the other
side of the river.

It had not gone far, when the tall, thin man, approaching the stern,
descried Walter, and almost started at the sight of him.

They remained gazing at each other as long as the steam-boat continued
in view, but no sign of recognition passed between them.

The sight of this person, whoever he might be, seemed to awaken a train
of painful reflections in Walter's breast.

He sat down on a bench on the little esplanade, and remained there for
some time contemplating the busy scene on the river.

By degrees he recovered his serenity, and it was in a more cheerful
frame of mind that he returned to the house in Spencer's Rents.




III. INTRODUCES MR. TANKARD, MR. LAEKINS, AND MR. PLEDGER DAPP.

|The tea equipage was set out in the little parlour, and Walter enjoyed
a cup of bohea with Mrs. Hartley very much, and passed the evening with
her in tranquil converse. He began to feel a great regard for the good
dame, and listened to her advice.

Hartley did not return till nearly supper time, and brought with him a
friend--a neighbour--whom he introduced as Mr. Tankard.

Rather an important personage in his way was Mr. Tankard--stout, short,
red-faced, possessing a rich mellow voice, consequential in manner, and
respectably dressed in black. Some of his friends called him “Silver
Tankard,” but Hartley took no such liberty. Mr. Tankard had been a
butler before setting up in business in the Lambeth Road, where he now
kept a large china and glass shop.

Though generally distant and proud, Mr. Tankard unbent towards Walter,
and was unusually civil to him.

“I like the looks of that young man,” he observed, in a very loud
whisper to Hartley.

Mrs. Hartley deemed it necessary to apologise to Mr. Tankard for the
poorness of the supper, and told him if she had expected the honour and
pleasure of his company she would have provided something better; but he
begged her condescendingly not to mind--“he wasn't at all partickler.”

Mrs. Hartley knew better. She knew he was exceedingly particular.
However, she did the best that circumstances would allow, and as a
finish to the rather scanty meal, gave him a dish of stewed cheese,
and a jug, not a “tankard,” of ale with a toast in it. With this he was
tolerably well satisfied.

After supper, Hartley asked his guest if he would like to smoke, to
which proposal Mr. Tankard made no sort of objection. A flask of Scotch
whisky was likewise set on the table.

Scarcely were the pipes lighted, when the party was increased by the
arrival of Mr. Pledger Dapp and Mr. Larkins, who it seems were expected
by Hartley, though he had said nothing about them to his wife.

Pledger Dapp, a brisk little man, was a cook and confectioner in the
York Road, and Larkins was a greengrocer in the same neighbourhood, and
likewise went out to wait. They worked together with Mr. Tankard, and
each recommended his friends whenever he had the opportunity.

More glasses were placed on the table, and more hot water, and everybody
was puffing away.

The room was soon so full of smoke that Mrs. Hartley could stand it no
longer, and retired to the kitchen.

A great deal of merriment prevailed among the company, and they laughed
heartily at each other's stories. These related chiefly to their
customers.

At last, Hartley contrived to bring Walter forward by making a direct
allusion to him.

“I want to have your opinion about my young friend, gentlemen,” he
observed, taking the pipe from his mouth. “He thinks of joining the
cavalry, but I think it is a pity such a fine young man should throw
himself away. What do you say, gentlemen?”

After a sip of whisky and water, the person chiefly appealed to replied:

“I think it would be a thousand pities. No doubt he would make a very
fine Life Guardsman, but in my opinion, he would do much better as a
figure footman.”

“Much better,” echoed Pledger Dapp and Larkins.

“I'm not ashamed to say I began life as a page,” pursued Mr. Tankard;
“and you see what I've arrived at.”

“It's no secret that I was a cook in a gentleman's family before I set
up for myself as a confectioner,” said Pledger Dapp.

“And I was a gardener before I became a greengrocer,” said Larkins.
And he added, with a laugh, “I'm a gardener now, though no longer in
service.”

“Take the advice we all of us give you, sir, and become a footman,” said
Tankard. “I'll answer for it we'll soon find you a place.”

“But I've no qualifications,” replied Walter. “I don't know the
duties--that is, I know what a footman ought to be--”

“Well, that's quite enough,” interrupted Pledger Dapp. “You'll soon
learn all the rest.”

“It just occurs to me that Lady Thicknesse, of Belgrave Square, is in
want of a footman,” observed Tankard. “That would be a very good thing.
It's a first-rate place.”

“Lady Thicknesse! I think I've heard of her,” remarked Walter. “A widow,
isn't she?”

“Widow of Sir Thomas Thicknesse--middle-aged and rich. Besides her town
residence, she has got a country house in Cheshire.”

Walter reflected for a few minutes.

The proposition had taken him by surprise. The notion of becoming a
flunky amused him vastly, and he could hardly entertain it seriously.
However, there seemed to be no difficulty in assuming the part.

The result of his cogitations was that he felt inclined to adopt the
expedient, and he told Mr. Tankard so.

“But I cannot offer myself under any false pretence,” he said. “Lady
Thicknesse must be made aware that I have never served in this capacity
before.”

All his auditors, except Hartley, laughed loudly at his scruples.

“Bless you, my dear fellow, you needn't be so diffident,” cried Mr.
Tankard. “If Lady Thicknesse is satisfied, that's all you need mind.
I'll set about the business to-morrow. In a week I expect you'll thank
me for my pains.”

“You'll have a first-rate situation, if you get it, I promise you,”
 remarked Pledger Dapp.

“Very handsome livery and powder,” observed Larkins.

“Powder!” exclaimed Walter, in dismay. “Is it necessary to wear powder?”

“Indispensable,” replied Tankard. “But you'll find it very becoming,” he
added, with a laugh. “Powder will suit your hair. You're above six feet
in height, eh?”

“Six feet two,” replied Walter.

“Capital!” cried Tankard. “Stay! One thing mustn't be neglected,” he
added, rubbing his chin expressively. “You must get rid of that handsome
brown beard.”

“S'death! must I shave?” cried Walter, amid the general merriment.

“Certainly, my dear fellow,” replied Tankard. “Whoever heard of a
footman in a beard? Follow my instructions, and you may make yourself
quite easy about the place. I'll engage you shall obtain it.”

“But I've not quite decided myself,” said Walter.

“Pooh! nonsense! you can't do better,” cried Tankard. “Can he,
gentlemen?”

Everybody concurred with him in opinion.

Partly in jest, partly in earnest, Walter assented. So much, in fact,
was said in favour of the plan, that he began to grow reconciled to it.

As the clock struck eleven, Mrs. Hartley came in, and her appearance was
the signal for the breaking up of the party.

While shaking hands with Walter, Mr. Tankard renewed his promises, and
said:

“I'm a man of my word. What I say I'll do. Tomorrow I'll go to Belgrave
Square, and see my friend, Mr. Higgins, Lady Thicknesse's butler. On my
return I'll call and tell you all about it.”

“Really, Mr. Tankard, you are taking a vast deal of trouble----”

“Not in the least, my dear fellow!” replied the other. “It is a pleasure
to me--a very great pleasure.”

“And if you knew him as well as I do, you'd feel that it must be, or he
wouldn't do it,” observed Hartley, laughing.

In another minute the company were gone, and shortly afterwards the
whole of the little household had retired to rest.

Visions of his new life floated before Walter as he laid his head on the
pillow. He slept soundly enough, but on awakening next morning he rather
regretted the promise he had given.

“I don't like the idea of turning flunky,” he thought; “but the livery
will serve as a disguise.”




IV. SIGEBERT SMART.

|Before going out to his work, Hartley had a little talk in private with
Walter.

Fearing he might be inconvenienced from want of money--having heard him
say, at their first meeting on Westminster Bridge, that he had none--the
worthy stonemason, with great consideration, volunteered to lend him
five pounds, on the simple understanding that this sum was to be repaid
when Walter had earned so much wages.

Thus amply provided with funds, Walter sallied forth after breakfast
to make a few necessary purchases preparatory to entering upon the
situation, should he obtain it--and telling Mrs Hartley what to say
to Mr. Tankard, in case that obliging person should call during his
absence.

His first business was to seek out a hair-dresser's shop; and, hearing
there were several in the Lambeth Road, he went thither.

He had not proceeded far, when he came to an establishment that bore
the name _Sigebert Smart_, in large gilt letters, above the window, and
promised all he desired.

Entering the shop, he perceived two persons--one a showy-looking female,
stationed behind a counter laden with pots of pomade, flacons of oil,
brushes, sponges, and perfumery; the other, a dapper, fair-complexioned
young man, with his blonde hair brushed back from his forehead.

This was Sigebert Smart in person. Having been for a year in Paris, at a
large shop in the Rue St. Honoré, he considered himself perfectly versed
in all the arts and mysteries of a French coiffeur, and incomparably
superior to any of his rivals in the Lambeth Road.

Walter thought the hairdresser stared at him rather inquisitively as
he entered the shop; but the man's manner was perfectly polite, and,
on learning his customer's requirements, he begged him to step into an
inner room, communicating by a glass-door with the shop.

“Pray be seated, sir!” said Sigebert, pointing to a well-stuffed
arm-chair. “Shaved, I think you said, sir?”

“Shaved!” repeated Walter.

“Before taking the irreparable step,” said Sigebert, placing himself in
front of his customer, and regarding him steadfastly, “let me ask if you
have reflected?”

“What d'ye mean?” cried Walter, staring at him in surprise.

“Excuse me, sir,” rejoined the hairdresser, “but have you positively
determined to part with that magnificent beard?”

“I don't like to lose it, I confess,” replied Walter. “But I have no
choice.”

“That's hard. Never in my experience have I beheld a finer beard, nor
better grown. I shall be loth to cut it.”

“You are pleased to compliment me,” said Walter.

“It is not my habit, sir, I assure you. Generally I am frank to a fault.
_Apropos des barbes_, I will tell you a curious story. A gentleman
called here last evening, and inquired whether a very tall young man,
dressed in a grey tweed suit, exactly like yours, sir, and having a
particularly handsome brown beard, the very ditto of yours, sir, lodged
in the Lambeth Road, or hereabouts. I told him I had not remarked any
such person; but you, sir, answer precisely to the description. Strange
you should put in an appearance next day!”

“That's why you stared at me so hard when I entered the shop?” cried
Walter.

“Couldn't help it, sir. Quite startled.”

“And now for a description of the individual who has taken the liberty
to inquire about me?” said Walter.

“Tall, thin, sharp features; long, straight nose; professional-looking,”
 replied Sigebert.

“I know him,” said Walter. “I saw him yesterday.”

“At Lambeth Pier; he said he caught sight of you there. He appears most
anxious to find you, and has been making inquiries about you in the
neighbourhood.”

“Did he mention any name?”

“No; he was exceedingly reserved on that point. But I think he'll call
again.”

“I've no especial desire to see him. But now to work.”

“Must I really commit this outrage?” cried Sige-bert, flourishing his
scissors. “My soul revolts at the deed.”

Walter, however, insisted, and, in a very few minutes, his luxuriant
beard had vanished, and his cheeks and chin were perfectly smooth.

He had just got up from the arm-chair, when the glass-door opened, and a
tall man came in.

“You have found your friend at last, sir,” cried Sigebert, on beholding
him. “I suppose my wife told you he was here?”

“She did,” replied the other.

Walter, however, did not seem willing to acknowledge the intruder as a
friend, but drew himself up, and regarded him sternly--almost angrily.

“Perhaps I had better retire, gentlemen,” said Sigebert. “You may wish
to have a little private converse.”

With this, he went out, but we rather fancy the door was left slightly
ajar.

“How is it that you have presumed to follow me about in this way?” asked
Walter, in an offended tone.

“You must forgive me, sir. I saw you yesterday, and have searched for
you here to-day. It is my earnest desire to induce you to return to your
relatives and friends. They feared something terrible had happened to
you.”

“They need not trouble themselves about me,” rejoined Walter. “I shall
not trouble myself about them.”

“But I have certain propositions to make to you.”

“I reject all propositions. It is useless to talk to me.”

“I have, also, a sum of money at your disposal. Will you not receive
it?”

“If it comes from a particular quarter, and as an allowance, no!”

“Permit me to say, sir,” remarked the tall gentleman in a grave tone,
“that you are acting very injudiciously, and are throwing away a great
piece of good fortune. All can be easily put to rights if you will only
allow me to do it. And there are many other advantages that might accrue
to you, to which I cannot now more particularly advert.”

“I am the best judge of what concerns myself, sir.”

“I don't think so,” rejoined the other. “You seem obstinately bent upon
pursuing a wrong course. Have you any debts?”

“None!”

“Any liabilities?”

“None!”

“Then why not assume your proper position? You will have every aid. I
understand your objections, and though I deem them ridiculous, I shall
not attempt to combat them at this moment. But there are friends willing
and anxious to assist you. Amongst others,” he added, lowering his
voice, “Sir Bridgnorth Charlton.”

“Sir Bridgnorth is an excellent man--one in a thousand!”

“Then you cannot distrust him?”

“I do not distrust him! On the contrary, I have entire confidence in
him! He is a gentleman and a man of honour!”

“Let him have the management of your affairs.”

“Do you come from Sir Bridgnorth?”

“Sir Bridgnorth is not certain you are alive. He fears you have
committed suicide. It will be a great satisfaction to him and several
others to learn that you have not executed your fell purpose.”

“Suffer them to remain in ignorance. I would rather they supposed me
dead. Keep this secret for me, I beg of you. It is the sole favour you
can do me. I will reappear at the proper time.”

“But, meanwhile, you will make several persons very unhappy--your
sister, who has the greatest affection for you, as I can testify--and
Miss Barfleur.”

“Miss Barfleur!” exclaimed Walter, starting. “She has no interest in
me.”

“You are mistaken,” replied the other. “Sir Leycester Barfleur having
recently died, she is now a great heiress.”

“The very reason why she should not think of me.”

“Don't despair! Make your appearance!”

“I have said I will appear at the proper time--not before.”

“Won't you give me any idea of your projects?”

“No.”

“Do you want money? I am ready to advance it to you.”

“I want none.”

“Then our interview is at an end.”

“Once more, I must ask you not to mention that you have seen me.”

“I cannot consent to keep those persons who are attached to you in
doubt--nor ought you to ask it. If, for reasons of your own, you choose
to live in concealment and under a feigned name, however I may regret
your determination, I shall not attempt to interfere with it. But I am
persuaded you will speedily change your mind.”

“If I do, I'll write to you.”

“No; write to Sir Bridgnorth. He is searching for you. He ought to have
a letter. Address him at the 'Grosvenor Hotel.' He is now in town.”

“I will do it. Before we separate, give me your word that you won't
follow me, nor attempt to find out my abode. You will gain nothing by
the discovery.”

“I give you my word,” replied the other. “Enough,” said Walter. “I thank
you heartily for the trouble you have taken about me. Adieu!”

On issuing forth into the shop, Walter found the hairdresser standing
rather suspiciously near the glass-door. But he seemed to have some
employment at the counter. Walter, however, could not help remarking
that Sigebert's manner towards him seemed more respectful than it had
been.

As he received payment for the task he had performed, the hairdresser
exclaimed:

“Ah, sir, I fear you'll regret the loss of your beard. Your best friend
wouldn't recognise you--you're so much changed. But don't lay the blame
on me. I did my best to dissuade you.”

As he bowed the young man out, he looked after him for a moment, and saw
that he proceeded towards the bridge, whereupon the wily Sigebert made a
significant gesture to his wife as he returned.

At this juncture, the tall, professional-looking gentleman came forth,
and having nothing to pay, merely offered his thanks as he went out.

A hansom cab chancing to pass at the moment, he immediately got into it,
and ordered the driver to go to the “Grosvenor Hotel.”

Meanwhile, Sigebert, having divested himself of his apron and put on
a hat, nodded to his wife, and followed Walter, who was not yet out of
sight--his tall figure rendering him easily distinguishable.




V. ROMNEY.

|On his way back, Walter stopped at a large linen-draper's shop to
purchase some shirts and other articles, never dreaming he was followed
by Sigebert. Having provided himself with all he required, and given
orders where the parcel should be sent, he proceeded on his course.

Not till he had fairly housed him did the hairdresser discontinue the
quest, and he then hovered near the spot for some time.

There was a mystery about Walter that greatly excited Sigebert's
curiosity, and he determined to unravel it.

“Why, what have you done with your beard, sir?” cried Mrs. Hartley, as
Walter entered the house.

“Left it at the hairdresser's!” he replied, with a laugh.

“Well, I can't say your appearance is much improved. I wish Rose had
seen you as you were.”

“What! has your daughter come back?” cried Walter.

“No; but I expect her very shortly. She has been at Harrow-on-the-Hill,
on a visit, as I think I told you, and I've just got a letter from her,
telling me she will return to-day. 'Father must meet me at Lambeth Pier
at noon, and carry my carpet-bag'--that's what she says; but I don't
think he'll be back in time.”

“Well, I'll meet her, and carry the carpet-bag, with the greatest
pleasure!” said Walter.

“But you won't know her.”

“Describe her, and I shall. Not very tall, I suppose?”

“Not very--rather short.”

“Pretty figure?”

“I think so.”

“Blooming complexion?”

“Odd you should guess that. Well, she has a pink complexion.”

“That's why you call her Rose. What sort of eyes?--black, blue, grey, or
nondescript?”

“I never heard of nondescript eyes. Rose's are light blue. But how
stupid I am! Here's her photograph. Very like her it is.”

“And a very pretty girl it represents,” replied Walter, examining it.
“You might have said a great deal more in her praise without being
charged with maternal vanity. Having seen this, I can make no mistake.”

“Not easily; for she wears the same blue serge dress, and the same hat.
I'm sorry you'll lose your room, but we'll find a bed for you.”

“Oh, it can't be helped!” he cried, affecting an indifference he did not
feel. “Pray has Mr. Tankard been here to-day?”

“I've seen nothing of him as yet,” she replied.

“Well, then, I'll be off. I'll soon bring your daughter back to you.”

“Dear me, how surprised she'll be!” cried Mrs. Hartley. “She'll wonder
who you are.”

“Don't be afraid. I'll explain matters.”

As Walter went forth, he noticed a stout ash-plant hanging up in the
passage, and took it with him--very fortunately, as it turned out.

Pleased with the task he had undertaken, he marched along quickly, and
did not remark that Sigebert, who had seen him come out, was on his
track.

A boat had just landed its passengers as Walter reached the pier, but
he saw no one among them bearing the slightest resemblance to the pretty
damsel he was looking for. However, it was not yet twelve o'clock.

About a quarter of an hour later on, another steamboat could be seen
crossing the river; and on a near approach of the vessel, the deck not
being crowded, he easily made out Rose.

Her photograph did not do her justice. She was even handsomer than he
anticipated, and her good looks had evidently gained her the unwelcome
attentions of a young but dissipated-looking individual, who was
standing near her.

This person, whose looks, gait, dress, and manner showed that he
belonged to the Turf, was well known to Walter, and with good reason,
since he had won large sums of money from him. The young man's name was
Romney; and though he contrived to hold up his head in the betting-ring,
he was not in very good repute, and was regarded as a blackleg. Walter
held him in detestation, for he mainly attributed his ruin to him.

Though he must have perceived that his attentions were annoying to Rose,
Romney did not discontinue them, but became more impertinently assiduous
as the boat neared the pier, and seemed determined not to part with her.

Rose looked out anxiously for her father, but could not discover him,
nor did she perceive any person she knew, or whose protection she could
claim.

Stepping on shore before her, Romney offered her his hand, but she
refused to take it, and his proposal to carry her bag was peremptorily
declined.

At this juncture, Walter came up, and pushing the intruder forcibly
aside, bade him begone, and no longer molest the young lady.

“What business have you to interfere?” cried Romney, furiously. “Who are
you? Do you know him?” he added, to Rose.

“I never saw the gentleman before,” she rejoined. “But I am greatly
obliged by his assistance.”

“_Gentleman!_” echoed Romney, scornfully. “He doesn't deserve the term!”

“Blackleg and scoundrel!” vociferated Walter. “Do you dare to speak thus
of one you have cheated and plundered?”

And seizing him by the throat, he applied the ash-plant vigorously to
his shoulders.

No one attempted to interfere; and when Romney was released, he made
himself scarce as soon as he could; perceiving, from the observations
that reached his ears, that the feeling of the bystanders was decidedly
against him. He was followed by Sigebert, who had witnessed the
encounter, and determined to have a word with him.

Meanwhile, Rose had found another protector. Mr. Tankard had come up,
and was standing with her at a short distance. He had given her all
needful explanation respecting Walter; and when the latter joined them,
after the scuffle, she said to him:

“I never imagined you came from our house, Mr. Liddel. You have really
done me a great service. But how on earth did you know me? I never
remember seeing you before.”

“I don't suppose you ever did,” he replied. “I knew you from the
photograph your mother showed me when I offered to go and meet you at
the pier, in place of your father.”

“Well, I declare, that _is_ curious!” she cried.

“And I promised to carry your carpet-bag; but Mr. Tankard, I'm sure, is
too gallant to surrender it.”

“Quite right,” replied the other. “I'm proud to be of use to Miss Rose.
I was just coming to call upon you, Mr. Liddel. I've been to Belgrave
Square, and have got you the situation. I saw Mr. Higgins, the butler,
and he says you're to enter upon your duties the day after to-morrow.”

“Quite soon enough,” remarked Walter, laughing.

“There's something about the livery that I have to tell you; but that
will do by-and-by,” added Tankard.

“Dear me, Mr. Liddel!” exclaimed Rose, raising her finely-arched
eyebrows in surprise; “you're not going to wear a livery, are you?”

“Livery and powder,” supplied Tankard.

“Impossible!” exclaimed Rose.

“No; it's too true,” said Walter.

By this time they had reached the house. Rose rushed in, and was
welcomed by her mother with kisses and embraces.




VI. ROSE HARTLEY.

|Rose Hartley was just nineteen, and had all the freshness and bloom of
youth.

A remarkably neat, but rather plump, figure, comely features, brilliant
complexion, sparkling eyes, nut-brown hair and particularly small feet,
constituted the sum total of her charms; and she had considerably more
than fall to the lot of nine girls out of ten.

Rose was puzzled upon one point. She could not exactly understand how
Walter had found his way to her father's house; and her mother did not
care to enlighten her. However, his appearance and manner pleased her,
and she felt sure she should soon learn all about him.

“Mr. Tankard.” said Mrs. Hartley, “I must get you to help us out of a
difficulty.”

“With the greatest pleasure, my dear madam, if it lies in my power.”

“I needn't tell you our accommodation is very limited; and now Rose has
returned, I fear----”

“I know what you are going to say,” interrupted Tankard. “You wish
Mr. Liddel to have a bed at my house. I expected the request, and am,
luckily, able to comply with it. He _shall_ have a room.”

“Upon my word, Mr. Tankard, I'm very much obliged to you,” said Walter.

“Not in the least,” rejoined Tankard. “But we must have a merry meeting
to-night, Mrs. Hartley. You must all come and sup with me. Mr. Higgins,
Lady Thicknesse's butler, has promised to give the pleasure of his
company; and, since Miss Rose has returned, I'll ask Harry Netterville,
of Gray's Inn, as I'm well aware she likes the society of that amiable
and agreeable young man.”

“Pray don't ask Mr. Netterville on my account, Mr Tankard!” observed
Rose, with affected indifference. “I'm not particularly anxious to meet
him.”

Mr. Tankard, however, knew better; and said that as soon as he got
back, he would send off a note to the young gentleman in question. Mr.
Netterville, he explained to Walter, belonged to the legal profession,
being clerk to an eminent solicitor in Gray's Inn.

“And now, Mr. Liddel, I must take you with me,” said Tankard. “I've got
some arrangements to make with you. If we don't meet before,” he added
to Rose and her mother, “I shall see you all at nine this evening--that's
understood.”

Rose would have preferred Walter remaining a little longer, but as he
promised to come round in the course of the afternoon, she felt quite
reconciled to his departure.

Mr. Tankard first took his companion to the shop of Mr. Pledger Dapp,
in the York Road. Mr. Dapp, as we have said, was a pastrycook and
confectioner, and the numerous good things on the counter looked very
tempting at that hour.

Mr. Dapp was delighted to see them, insisted on serving each with a
basin of mock-turtle soup, and stood beside them while they discussed it
at a small table at the further end of the room.

“Well, is all satisfactorily settled, may I inquire, Mr. Liddel?” he
said.

“Yes; all's settled, Dapp,” said Tankard, answering for his friend. “The
very livery is ready!”

“Indeed!” cried Walter, looking up in surprise. “Has it appeared by
magic?”

“I've not yet had time to enter into details,” rejoined Tankard; “but
when I saw Higgins this morning, he told me Lady Thicknesse had left the
arrangements entirely to him, so we had only to talk them over together;
and it was then agreed that he should come to my house this evening,
where he could have an opportunity of meeting you, and judge for
himself, though he entertained no doubt, from description, that you
would suit.”

“So far good,” remarked Walter. “But about the livery?”

“You shall hear,” replied the other. “It seems that Charles Brownlow,
the late footman, who was as near as possible your height and figure,
was discharged at a moment's notice for impertinence. His livery, no
doubt, will fit you.”

“But has he worn it?” cried Walter.

“No; it has not been delivered. Higgins will order the suit to be sent
to me, so that you can try it in the evening, and we can judge of the
effect.”

“A capital plan,” laughed Dapp.

“A dress rehearsal, in fact,” said Walter. “Well, it may be useful.”

“No doubt you'll play your part to perfection,” said Tankard.

“I shall see how I like it myself,” rejoined Walter. “This is why you've
invited the party to supper, I conclude?”

“Exactly,” replied Tankard, laughing. “You've divined my purpose.
By-the-by, Dapp, you must send me a good supper to-night--a very good
supper, mind!”

“For how many guests?”

“A dozen; and make one of them yourself. That'll keep you up to the
mark.

“I'll give you a supper worthy of the 'Silver Tankard,'” replied Dapp.
“At what hour shall it be?

“Ten o'clock precisely. Direct Larkins to send me some flowers--cut
flowers; and tell him to come, too. We'll do the thing in style.”

“Nothing shall be neglected. I know how particular you are,” replied
Dapp. “But won't you take one of these?” he added, placing a dish of
pates before them.

Just then he was obliged to leave his friends to attend to some
customers. When a couple of pates had been devoured, Tankard and his
companion arose, and quitted the shop.

“Who is that tall young man?” remarked one of the customers at the
counter.

“Mr. Walter Liddel,” replied Dapp.

“I don't think that's the name,” said the individual. “I've heard it
before, and feel almost certain it's not Liddel.”

Dapp made no remark at the time; but he afterwards pondered a little
upon the matter.

“He's a very singular fellow, that Walter Liddel,” he thought. “I expect
he'll turn out a Claimant of some sort, or he may be a dook in disguise.
Shouldn't wonder.”




VII. TOM TANKARD.

|Mr. Tankard's establishment was larger and handsomer than Walter
expected to find it. In the windows there was a very good display of
china and glass, and the shop was tolerably spacious.

Mrs. Tankard, to whom he at once was presented, and who received him
very kindly, was still goodlooking, though somewhat on the wane; but she
was sharp and intelligent, and evidently very well able to attend to the
business in her husband's absence.

The Tankards had an only son--an only child, we ought to say.
Tom Tankard was a much smarter man than his father, and much more
self-important. Like his father, he had a sobriquet, and was called
“Cool Tankard.” Tom ought to have attended strictly to the shop; but
being allowed to do pretty much as he liked, as a natural consequence he
did little or nothing.

Tom was not handsome. On the contrary, he was decidedly an ugly dog.
Short, fat, snub-nosed, round-faced, he had deep-seated, grey eyes, and
these had a cunning, though rather comic, expression. His pink cheeks
were totally destitute of whisker, and his whity-brown hair was cut
extremely short.

A brown Newmarket coat was buttoned over his broad chest, but his
shoulders were out of proportion with his spindling legs, which were
cased in very tight trousers.

Nevertheless, Tom was a smart fellow in his way, though rather loud in
his style, and exceedingly particular about the flaming colour of his
tie and the size of his gold pin.

Now and then he used to drive in the Park when he could afford to hire
a drag, and took some smart young ladies with him. More than once he had
ridden at the Croydon Steeple-chases, and he occasionally contrived to
attend a meet of the Surrey hounds.

Tom chanced to be in the shop when Walter came in with his father, and,
being struck by his appearance, condescended to pay him some attention.

Mr. Tankard lost no time in informing his wife that Mr. Liddel would
occupy a bed in the house for a night or two; and then went on to
explain that he had invited a few friends for the evening, and had
directed Pledger Dapp to send in a little supper--thinking it would save
trouble.

Mrs. Tankard received the intelligence with great good nature, and Tom
was told to take Mr. Liddel up-stairs and show him the spare room, which
proved to be a very neat little chamber.

They were still talking together, when Mr. Tankard came up with a large
brown-paper parcel, and, deeming it advisable to mystify his son, winked
at Walter, to let him into his plan, and then said to the hopeful youth:

“Do you know, Tom, Mr. Liddel is going to a fancy dress ball?”

“How jolly!” exclaimed Tom. “What costume?”

“As a footman,” replied old Tankard. “Here's his dress.”

“As a footman!” exclaimed Tom, with a droll expression. “Jeames of
Buckley Square--or Chawles. Well, he's just the figure for one of those
gentry. Is he going to the ball to-night?”

“No; but I've persuaded him to appear in private at my little party this
evening, that we may see how he looks.”

“Oh! he can't fail to look well,” said Tom, somewhat sarcastically. “But
let's see the dress, guv'nor. Beg pardon, Mr. Liddel! I ought to have
asked your permission.”

“Oh, don't stand on any ceremony with me, I beg!” cried Walter.

The parcel was then opened, and a very handsome suit of livery produced.
There was likewise another rather smaller parcel inside.

“Here's a gorgeous coat! here's a brilliant pair of plooshes!” exclaimed
Tom, holding up the latter. “You'll look uncommon well in these, Mr.
Liddel.”

“No doubt he will,” said Mr. Tankard. “But no more of your chaff, sir.”

The smaller parcel was then opened, and was found to contain a pair of
thin shoes, buckles, silk stockings, shirt, and white cravat.

“I was going to put you in mind, Mr. Liddel,” observed Tankard, “that
you'd want several articles to rig you out completely--but here they all
are. I dare say the shoes will fit you.”

“I'm certain of it,” replied Walter, examining them.

“Another thing mustn't be forgotten, Mr. Liddel,” said Tom. “Since
you're going to appear as Jeames, or Chawles, you'll want your 'air
powderin'. I'll get you a _coiffeur_. When will you have him?”

“Not till evening,” replied Walter.

“Very good,” said Tom. “He shall be here at eight.”

“Now, go down to the shop, Tom,” cried Mr. Tankard. “Send off a note at
once to Harry Netterville, and ask him to supper. Consult your mother,
and if she approves, ask Mrs. Tripp and Clotilde, Mrs. Sicklemore and
Flora, or anybody else agreeable to her, but don't exceed half a dozen,
for we have got five or six already.

“Counting Harry Netterville?”

“No; not counting him.”

“You've seen Rose Hartley, of course, Mr. Liddel?” cried Tom. “Sweet
girl, ain't she? Harry Netterville is rather smitten in that quarter.'

“Then give him the chance of meeting her,” said his father.

Thereupon Tom disappeared.

After an early dinner with the Tankards, Walter betook himself to
Spencer's Rents, and saw Rose, who was alone in the little parlour.
Evidently she regarded him with more interest than she had done.

“My mother has told me all about you, Mr. Liddel,” she said, “at least,
all she knows, and I feel exceedingly sorry for you. But I hope all
will soon be right. I am neither old enough nor wise enough to give you
advice, nor is it right or proper for me to do so, but I am sorry
you are thinking of becoming a footman. I feel quite sure you are a
gentleman--”

“I have been one,” interrupted Walter. “But I have no money, and must
do something. The offer was made me, and I accepted it. Any honest
employment is respectable.”

“So it is, undoubtedly. What I fear is that you may hereafter regret
having taken the step.”

“I can leave if I don't like the employment. But I must say you talk
very sensibly, Miss Rose. I wish I had had such a counsellor a year or
two ago, before I committed my worst follies.”

“You wouldn't have listened to me,” she replied, shaking her head.

“I don't know--I might have done. But your remarks seem to produce some
salutary effect upon me, and that is more than I could say of myself
formerly.”

“Then you are improved by misfortune.”

“In some respects, I think I am. But there is considerable room for
further improvement.”

“Mr. Liddel, I am convinced you have a great deal of good in you. Only
do yourself justice.”

“I will try,” he replied. “But how is it, I must again ask, that you,
who are so young, are able to give such sensible advice?”

“I have a good mother,” she replied.

At this very moment Mrs. Hartley came into the room.

“I hope you heard what was said of you, ma'am?” observed Walter. “Your
daughter has just been telling me how much she owes you.”

“I owe quite as much to her,” cried the good dame, affectionately. “She
is the joy of the house, and I don't know what I shall do when I lose
her. But I suppose I must make up my mind to it one of these days.”

“Not yet, dearest mother,” said Rose.

“I suppose we shall meet the fortunate individual this evening?”
 observed Walter. “Mr. Harry Netterville, eh?”

“Yes, that's the name; and a very nice young fellow he is,” replied Mrs.
Hartley. “I only wish he was a little richer.”

“Well, we must wait contentedly till he becomes so,” sighed Rose.
“Poverty and happiness don't go together in married life.”

“Again I must compliment you on your good sense, Miss Rose,” remarked
Walter.

“That's one of my mother's maxims,” she rejoined. “But don't call me
_Miss_ Rose, please. After the service you rendered me this morning, I
shall always regard you as a friend, and so will Harry!”

“I think I told you that Romney, the insolent fellow by whom you were
affronted, was one of those who mainly contributed to my ruin?” remarked
Walter. “He is a great libertine, and I hope you may experience no more
annoyance from him. I may not always be at hand to protect you.”

“Luckily, he doesn't know where I live, or I might feel some
uneasiness,” said Rose.

“Ah, those rakes are dreadful--no keeping them off!” cried Mrs. Hartley.

At this moment there was a knock at the outer door.

Rather startled, Mrs. Hartley went to see who it was; and presently
returned with a letter in her hand.

“This is for you, Rose!” she cried. “It was left by a stranger, who said
no answer was required, and went away immediately.”

“For me!” exclaimed Rose, turning pale. “It is certainly addressed to
me, but I don't know the handwriting.”

She then opened the letter, and, after angrily scanning it, read it
aloud.

“The gentleman who had the great pleasure of meeting Miss Rose Hartley
on the steam-boat this morning, hopes soon to behold her again, as her
charms have made an ineffaceable impression upon him. He feels certain
that the incident that occurred on the pier must have been as vexatious
to her as to him; but she may rest assured that the ruffian who
committed the assault shall not pass unpunished.”

“So, then, he has discovered your address!” cried Walter. “I wonder how
he learnt it, since he ran off.”

“I could not have credited such audacity, without proof positive!”
 exclaimed Rose, indignantly. “Does Mr. Romney imagine I will ever
exchange another word with him, except to express my anger and scorn?
Have I given him any encouragement, that he should dare to write me such
a letter?” she added, tears of vexation starting to her eyes.

“No, no! I am sure not,” cried Walter. “But it is part of Romney's
system; he believes no woman can resist him. I now begin to think he
will persist in the attempt, notwithstanding the chastisement he has
received, and the utter want of encouragement on your part.”

“Dear me! I declare I'm all of a tremble!” cried Mrs. Hartley. “I don't
know what we shall do to get rid of him.”

“Never mind him,” cried Rose. “I'm not at all afraid.”

“Leave me to deal with him,” said Walter. “Tomorrow I'll look after him.”

“It is Harry Netterville's business to defend me,” cried Rose.

“But I understand the man,” rejoined Walter. “Besides, I have still an
account to settle with him. Leave him to me.”

“Yes; Mr. Liddel will manage him best,” said Mrs Hartley. “But I'll go
and bring in tea; a cup will do us all good after this bother.”

As the good dame had foreseen, the pleasant beverage soon produced
a tranquillising effect, and enabled them to spend an hour or two in
cheerful converse.

Walter then thought it time to go back to Mr. Tankard's, but offered to
stay and take charge of them if they felt at all afraid. Mrs. Hartley
said she expected her husband every minute, and he would bring them to
the party.

“In that case, you can dispense with me,” said Walter. “We shall meet
again before long, and then you'll find me completely transmogrified.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Rose; “I like you very well as you are.”

Walter laughed, and set out, taking with him his parcel of purchases.




VIII. AS A FOOTMAN.

|Preparations for the supper party had already commenced when Walter
arrived at Mr. Tankard's. The shop had been closed at an earlier hour
than usual, but was lighted up, and so arranged that the company could
walk about it if they thought proper.

After casting a look around, and exchanging a word with Mr. and Mrs.
Tankard, both of whom seemed very busy, Walter went up-stairs to his
own room, which had now been converted into a nice little _cabinet de
toilette_. No doubt he was indebted for this attention to Mrs. Tankard.

His first business was to try on the livery, and he was quite surprised
to find how well it fitted him. We have already said it was a handsome,
showy suit; and on Walter, who was very tall and extremely well
proportioned, it produced its full effect.

What was his first thought as he contemplated himself in the glass, when
thus metamorphosed, may be inferred from the loud laugh into which he
burst.

Just at this juncture, Tom Tankard, who was now in evening dress, came
into the room, and joined very heartily in the merriment.

“Excuse my laughing, Mr. Liddel,” he said; “but yourself set me off.
I never beheld such a swell footman before. You'll astonish 'em down
stairs presently. But I've come to tell you the _coiffeur_ is waiting
outside. I suppose you're pretty nearly ready for him?”

The hairdresser proved to be Sigebert Smart; and great was the surprise
of that inquisitive individual when he found that the customer who had
so much excited his curiosity had assumed a new _rôle_, and found a new
lodging.

“Can I believe my eyes?” he exclaimed, with a theatrical start. “Do
I, indeed, behold the gentleman whom I was compelled to deprive of his
beard? I now understand the meaning of that order. With a costume
like this, a beard would be incongruous. But is the dress worth the
sacrifice?”

“Cease this foolery, and begin!” said Tom. “The gent wants his 'air
powderin'. He's goin' to a fancy ball, as I told you!”

Begging Walter to take off his coat, and flinging a loose gown over his
shoulders, and giving him a napkin to protect his eyes, Sigebert set to
work, and carefully powdered the young man's fine brown locks, pausing
ever and anon in his task.

At length, he exclaimed, as he laid down the powder-puff:

“Now you'll do, sir--now you'll do! What do _you_ think of the effect,
Mr. Tom?” he added, appealing to our fat friend.

“Hum!” cried Tom, without delivering an opinion. “Wants a little more at
the back, don't it?”

“Not a particle! Couldn't be better!” said Sigebert. “Now, let me help
you on with your coat,” he added to Walter.

And having thus aided in arraying him, he exclaimed, in affected
admiration:

“Why, you're quite a picture, sir! You eclipse the finest of the Court
lacqueys! You'd get a first-rate place, if you wanted!”

“That he would!” laughed Tom. “What's the damage, Sigebert?”

“Would five shillings be too much?” said the _coiffeur_, with a droll
expression. “It's half a crown for a real footman!”

“Well, here's a crown,” replied Walter.

Sigebert received the money with a bow, and, while putting his things
together, said:

“May I inquire where the fancy ball takes place?”

“Not far off,” replied Tom.

“Here?” asked Sigebert.

Tom nodded.

“I guessed as much,” said Sigebert. “Judging from this specimen, it will
be very good. But how is it you're not in character, Mr. Tom?”

“Domino and mask easily put on!” replied Tom not caring to enlighten him
further.

Upon this, Sigebert bowed and departed, Tom attending him as far as the
shop.

As he went out, the hairdresser saw Pledger Dapp, whom he knew, with his
assistants, bringing in the supper; and he also saw Larkins, with some
flowers, but he did not say anything to either of them. In fact, he was
absorbed in thought.

When he got out into the street, he stood still for a few moments, and
reflected.

“What the deuce is he doing here?” he thought. “He seems to have changed
his quarters. And what's the meaning of this disguise?--for disguise I
believe it is. Something may be made of the discovery.”

Having arrived at this conclusion, he hailed a hansom cab, and bade the
coachman drive to the Grosvenor Hotel.




IX. IN WHICH MISS CLOTILDE TRIPP AND MISS FLORA SICKLE-MORE MAKE THEIR
APPE

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