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ALL IN THE DARK
BY
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU
Author of
“THE House BY THE CHURCHYARD,” “GUY DEVERELL,”
“UNCLE SILAs,” ETC., ETC.
IN TWO WOLUMES.
WOL. I.
LONDON :
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1868.
[The Right of Translation is reserved.]


– , , -/- , sº a
cº º
UN 21 1918
\ºcraw
ºN



TO
MY DEA R B R OTHER,
WILLIAM RICHARD LE FANU,
Çt is Ça It
I N S C R IB E D
WITH GREAT A F FECTION
AND ADMIRATION.





coSTENTs To vol. I.
* * *** * *
1. GILI:0Y 1) II.ALL AND ITS MISTRESS
11. A LE ITER - - - - -
III. Miss LINAH PERFECT AND HEL: GUESTS .
IV. W 10LET DARK WELL - - - - -
W. AUNT DINAH IS IN THE HORRORS, AND DOCTOR
Iºn Ala E PUTs his NIGHT CAP 1 N H is POC in ET
W. I. ix. Which the Witch iEs Ass EMBLE . - -
* II. THE FAM11 LIAR spil.Aks .
viii. willian MAULRAY's vision .
1 *. In Wiiichi MISS WIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS
of Miº. WAN E THE WOR, AND IS WIOLET NO
L0N (, El: - - - - - -
* - VAN E TREVOR is DISCUSSED, ANL, APPEAI:S
x i. 1 > 1, p. ii. Thie C in Estn lºts - -
* II. 1:0. CET . - - - - - -
* 1: ... tº Nºt ºc [ABLE . - - - - -
* I v. A st N. NY MORNING . - - - - -
M. V. LIN N Eſ: AT I. EV ING To N . - - -
* - I. UW Eli THEIR CLA is at . - - - - -
* Wit. *.dºx -- ºn 1 N is . - - - - - -
* * * : I. at tº it iſ tº - - - - - - - -
* : * - I'llº Aſi. . - - - - - -
a 3
PAGE
11
20
2S
36
4!
53
62


vi CONTENTS.
chaptert pA gr.
XX. FAREWELL . - - - - - - . 162
xxi. WILLIAM CONSULTS A SAGE . - - - 170
xxII. An ADVERTISEMENT . - - - - . 177
XXIII. KINCTON HALL - - - - - - 185
XXIV. WILLIAM IS SUMMONED . - - - . 193
XXV. W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES . - - - - 202
xxvi. WILLIAM MAUBRAY BEGINS TO ExCITE AN Inte-
REST . - - - - - - - 212
XXVII. FROM KINCTON TO GILROY D . - - . 220
XXVIII. THE PIPING BULLFINCH - - • * * 229
xxix. A MEssage IN THE “TIMEs " . - - . 237
xxx. The Lord OF BURLeIGH - - - - 245
XXXI. A FRIEND APPEARS . - - - - . 254
XXXII. A CONFIDENCE - - - - . . 262
xxxi II. THE LADIES MAKE INQUISITION - - . 269
xxxiv. TREvoB AND MAUBRAY IN THE DRAWING-Room 277
XXXV. THEY CONVERSE - - - - - . 286
xxx WI. THE EVENING - - - - - - 292


ALL IN THE DARK,
CHAPTER I.
GILROYD HALL AND ITS MISTRESS.
NEAR the ancient and pretty village of Saxton,
with its gabled side to the road, stands an old
red-brick house of moderate dimensions, called
Gilroyd Hall, with some tall elms of very old
date about it; and an ancient, brick-walled
garden, overtopping the road with standard
fruit-trees, that have quite outgrown the com-
mon stature of such timber, and have acquired
a sylvan and venerable appearance.
Here dwelt my aunt, an old maid, Miss
Dinah Perfect by name; and here my cousin
William Maubray, the nephew whom she had
in effect adopted, used to spend his holidays.
I shall have a good deal to say of her by-
and-by, though my story chiefly concerns
WOL. I. 1


2 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
William Maubray, who was an orphan, and
very nearly absolutely dependent upon the
kindness of his aunt. Her love was true, but
crossed and ruffled now and then by temper
and caprice. Not an ill temper was hers, but
whimsical and despotic, and excited oftenest
upon the absurdities which she liked letting
into her active and perverse little head, which
must have been the proper nidus of all odd
fancies, they so prospered and multiplied there.
On the whole, Gilroyd Hall and the village
of Saxton were rather slow quarters for the
holidays. Besides his aunt, William had but
one companion under that steep and hospitable
roof. This was little Violet Darkwell, a child
of about eleven years, when he had attained to
the matured importance of seventeen, and was
in the first eleven at Rugby, had his cap, and
was, in fact, a person with a career to look
back upon, and who had long left childish
things behind him.
This little girl was—in some round-about
way, which, as a lazy man, I had rather take for
granted than investigate—a kinswoman ; and
Miss Dinah Perfect had made her in some sort
her property, and had her at least eight months


ALL IN THE DARK. 3
out of the twelve down at Gilroyd Hall.
Little Violet was lonely at home—an only
daughter, with a father working sternly at the
bar, not every day seen by her, and who
seemed like a visitor in his own house—
hurried, reserved, unobtrusive, and a little
awful.
To the slim, prettily-formed little girl, with
the large dark eyes, brown hair, and delicate
bright tints, the country was delightful—the
air, the flowers, the liberty; and old Aunt
Dinah, though with a will and a temper, still
so much kindlier and pleasanter than Miss
Placey, her governess, in town; and good old
Winnie Dobbs was so cosy and good-natured.
To this little maid, in her pleasant solitude,
the arrival of William Maubray for the holi-
days, was an event full of interest and even of
excitement. Shy as he was, and much in
awe of all young lady-kind, she was far too
young to be in his way. Her sparkling fuss
and silvery prattle were even pleasant to him.
There was life and something of comicality in
her interruptions and unreasonableness. She
made him visit her kittens and kiss them all
round, and learn and recite their names;
1—2


4 ALL IN THE DARK.
whistle after tea for her bulfinch, dig in her
garden, mend and even nurse her doll, and
perform many such tasks, quite beneath his
dignity as a “swell” at Rugby, which, however,
the gentle fellow did very merrily and indus-
triously for the imperious little woman, with
scant thanks, but some liking for his guerdon.
So, in his fancy, she grew to be mixed up
with the pleasant influences of Gilroyd Hall,
with the flowers and the birds, with the freaks
of the little dog Pixie, with the stories he read
there, and with his kindly welcomes and good-
byes.
Sitting, after breakfast, deep in his novel in
the “study,” with his white flannel cricket
trousers on, for he was to play against Winder-
broke for the town of Saxton that day, he
received a smart tweak by the hair, at the back
of his head, and, looking round, saw little Vi,
perched on the rung of his old-fashioned chair,
and dimly recollected having received several
gentler tweaks in succession, without evincing
the due attention.
“Pert little Wil what's all this?” said the
stalworth Rugby boy, turning round with a
little shake of his head, and his sweet smile


ALL IN THE DARK. 5
and leaning on his elbow. The sunny land-
scape from the window, which was clustered
round with roses, and a slanting sunbeam that
just touched her hair, helped to make the
picture very pretty.
“Great, big, old bear! you never listen to
one word I say.”
“Don’t you call names, Miss,” said Aunt
Dinah, who had just glided into the room.
“What was little silver-hair saying? What
does she want?” he replied, laughing at the
child's indignation, and pursuing the nomen-
clature of Southey's pleasant little nursery tale.
“Golden hair, I must call you, though,” he
said, looking on her sun-lit head; “and not
quite golden either; it is brown, and very
pretty brown, too. Who called you Violet?”
He was holding the tip of her pretty chin
between his fingers, and looking in her large
deep eyes; “Who called you Violet?”
“How should I know, Willie?” she replied,
disengaging her chin with a little toss.
“Why, your poor mamma called you Violet.
I told you so fifty times,” said Aunt Dinah
sharply.
“You said it was my godfathers and god-


6 ALL IN THE DARK.
mothers in my baptism, grannie I" said Miss
Wi, not really meaning to be pert.
“Don’t answer me, Miss—that's of course,
your catechism—we're speaking of your poor
mamma. 'Twas her mamma who called her
Violet. What about it?”
“Nothing,” answered William, gently look-
ing up at his aunt, “only it is such a pretty
name;” and glancing again at the child, “it
goes so well with her eyes. She is a jolly
little creature.”
“She has some good features, I suppose, like
every other child, and you should not try
to turn her head. Nothing extraordinary.
There's vanity enough in the world, and I
insist, William, you don't try to spoil her.”
“And what do you want of me, little
woman P” asked William.
“You come out and sow my lupins for me.”
“Why, foolish little woman, it isn't the
season; they would not grow.”
“Yes, they would though—you say that
just because you don't like; you story !”
“Violet” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, tapping
the table with the seal end of her silver pencil-
CaSC.


ALL IN THE DARK. 7
“Well, but he is, grannie, very disobliging.
You do nothing now but read your tiresome
old books, and never do anything I bid you.”
“Really Well that's very bad; I really
must do better,” said William, getting up with
a smile ; “I will sow the lupins.”
“What folly!” murmured Aunt Dinah,
grimly.
“We'll get the hoe and trowel. But—but
what's to be done? I forgot I'm to play for
the town to-day; and I don't think I have
time—no, certainly—no time to-day for the
lupins;” and William shook his head, smiling
disconsolately.
“Then I'll never ask you to do anything for
me again as long as I live—never—never—
never " she vowed with a tiny stamp.
“Yes you shall—you shall, indeed, and I'll
do ever so much ; and may she come and look
at the cricket?”
So, leave granted, she did, under old
Winnie's care; and when she returned, and for
days after, she boasted of Willie's long score,
and how he caught the ball.
When he returned at the end of next “half”
he found old Miss Dinah Perfect with her


8 ALL IN THE DARK.
spectacles on, in her comfortable old drawing-
room, in the cheer of a Christmas fire, with
her head full of the fancies and terrors of a
certain American tome, now laid with its face
downwards upon the table—as she jumped up
full of glee and affection, to greet him at the
threshold.
It was about this period, as we all remember,
that hats began to turn and heads with them,
and tables approved themselves the most
intelligent of quadrupeds; chests of drawers
and other grave pieces of furniture babbled of
family secrets, and houses resounded with
those creaks and cracks with which Bacon,
Shakespeare, and Lord Byron communicated
their several inspirations in detestable gram-
mar, to all who pleased to consult them.
Aunt Dinah was charmed. Her rapid
genius loved a short-cut, and here was, by
something better than a post-office, a direct
gossiping intimacy opened between her and
the people on t'other side of the Styx.
She ran into this as into her other whimsies,
might and main, with all her heart and soul.
She spent money very wildly, for her, upon the
gospels of the new religion, with which the


ALL IN THE DARK. 9.
transatlantic press was teeming; and in her
little green-papered dressing-room was accu-
mulating a library upon her favourite craze,
which might have grown to the dimensions of
Don Quixote's.
She had been practising for a year, however,
and all the minor tables in her house had
repeatedly prophesied before she disclosed her
conversion to her nephew, or to anyone else
except old Winnie.
It was no particular business of his if his
aunt chose to converse with ghosts and angels
by the mediation of her furniture. So, except
that he now and then assisted at a séance, the
phenomena of which were not very clear to
him, though perfectly so to his aunt, and
acquiesced in dimly and submissively by good
old Winnie, things went on in their old course;
and so, for some three or four years more,
during which William Maubray read a great
deal of all sorts of lore, and acquired an erudite
smattering of old English authors, dramatists,
divines, poets, and essayists, and time was
tracing fine wrinkles about Aunt Dinah's kind
eyes and candid forehead, and adding graceful
inches to the lithe figure of Violet Darkwell;


10 ALL IN THE DARK.
and the great law of decay and renewal was
asserting itself everywhere, and snows shroud-
ing the dead world in winter, and summer
fragrance, and glow of many hues in the
gardens and fields succeeding, and births and
deaths in all the newspapers every morning.


CHAPTER II.
A LETTER.
The following letter, posted at Saxton, reached
a rather solitary student in College,
Cambridge.
“DEAR WILLIAM, You will be sorry—I
know you will—to hear that poor old auntie
is not long for this world; I don't know
exactly what is wrong, but something I am
certain very bad. As for Doctor Drake, I
have no faith in him, or, indeed, in medicine,
and don't mean to trouble him except as a
friend. I am quite happy in the expectation
of the coming change, and have had within
the last week, with the assistance of good old
Winnie Dobbs some very delightful communica-
tions, you know, I dare say, what I mean.


12 ALL IN THE DARK.
Bring with you—for you must come immedi-
ately, if you care to see poor Aunt Dinah
before she departs—a basket-bottle of eau de
Cologne, like the former, you know the kind I
mean, and buy it at the same place. You need
not get the cameo ring for Doctor Drake, I
shan’t make him a present—in fact, we are not
now on terms. I had heard from many people
of his incivility and want of temper; God
forgive him his ingratitude, however, as I do.
The basket-bottle holds about a pint, remember.
I want to tell you exactly what I can do for
you by my will; I always told you, dear
William, it was very small; still, as the people
used to say, “every little makes a muckle,' and
though little, it will be a help. I cannot rest
till you come; I know, and am sure you love
poor old auntie, and would like to close her
eyes when the hour comes; therefore, dear
Willie, come without delay. Also bring with
you half a pound of the snuff, the same
mixture as before; they make it up at Figgs's
—yet it there—not in paper, observe; in a
canister, and rolled in lead, as will be poor
auntie before long | Old Dobbs will have your
room and bed comfortable, as usual; come by


ALL IN THE DARK. 13
the cross coach, at eight o'clock. Tea, and
anything else you like, will await you.
“Ever your fond old
“AUNTIE.
“PS.—I send you, to guard against mistakes,
the exact proportions of the mixture—the snuff
I mean, of course. I quite forgot a new collar
for Psyche, plated. Make them engrave “Mrs.
Perfect, Gilroyd Hall, upon it. Heaven bless
you. We are all progressing upward. Amen!
says your poor old Aunt Dinah, who loves
you.
It was in his quiet college room by candle-
light that William Maubray read this letter
from his kind, wild, preposterous, old aunt, who
had been to him as a mother from his early
days. -
Aunt Dinah! was it possible that he was
about to lose that familiar friend and face, the
only person on earth who cared about him.
He read the letter over again. A person
who did not know Aunt Dinah so well as he,
would have argued from the commissions about
scents, dog-collars, and snuff, that the old lady
had no honest intention of dying. But he


14 ALL IN THE DARK.
knew that incongruous and volatile soul too
well to infer reliable consolation from those
levities.
“Yes, yes—I shall lose her—she's gone,”
said the young man in great distress, laying
the letter, with the gentleness of despair, upon
the table, and looking down upon it in pain
and rumination.
It would certainly make a change—possibly
a fatal one in his prospects. A sudden change.
He read the letter through again, and then,
with a sinking heart, he opened the window
and looked out upon the moonlight prospect.
There are times when in her sweetest moods
nature seems unkind. Why all this smiling
light—this cheer and serenity of sky and earth
—when he was stricken only five minutes
since, perhaps undone, by the message of that
letter—that sorrow-laden burlesque?
This sort of suggestion, in such a moment,
comes despairingly. The vastness of creation
—the inflexibility of its laws, and “What is
man, and what am I among men, that the
great Projector of all this should look after
ephemeral me and my concerns P The human
sympathy that I could rely upon, and human


ALL IN THE DARK. 15
power—frail and fleeting—but still enough—
is gone, and in this solitary hour, as in the com-
ing one of death, experience fails me, and I
must rest all upon that which, according to
my light, is faith, or theory, or chance"
With a great sigh, and a heavy heart,
William Maubray turned away from the
window, and a gush of very true affection
flooded his heart as he thought of kind old
Aunt Dinah. He read the letter once more,
to make out what gleams of comfort he could.
A handsome fellow was William Maubray
—nearly three-and-twenty by this time—good
at cricket—great at football: three years ago,
in the school days, now, so old, tall, and lithe.
A studious man in his own way—a little pale,
with broad forehead, good blue eyes, and deli-
cately formed, but somewhat sad features.
He looked round his room. He had grown
very fond of that homely apartment. His
eyes wandered over his few shelves of beloved
old books, in all manner of dingy and decayed
bindings—some of them two centuries and a
half old, very few of later birth than a hun-
dred years ago. Delightful companions—ready
at a moment's call—ready to open their minds,


16 ALL IN THE DARK.
and say their best sayings on any subject he
might choose—resenting no neglect, obtruding
no counsel, always the same serene, cheerful,
inalienable friends.
The idea of parting with them was insup-
portable, nearly. But if the break-up came,
they must part company, and the world be a new
one for him. The young man spent much of
that night in dismal reveries and speculations
over his future schemes and chances, all of
which I spare the reader.
Good Dr. Sprague, whom he saw next day,
heard the news with much concern. He had
known Miss Perfect long ago, and was decor-
ously sorry on her account. But his real
regrets were for the young man.
“Well, you go, of course, and see your aunt,
and I do trust it mayn't be quite so bad.
Stay, you know, as long as she wants you, and
don’t despond. I could wish your reading had
been in a more available direction: but rely on
it, you'll find a way to make a start and get
into a profession, and with your abilities, I've
no doubt you'll make your way in the world.”
And the doctor, who was a shrewd as well
as a kindly little gentleman, having buttoned


ALL IN THE DARK. 17
the last button of his gaiter, stood, cap in
hand, erect, and smiling confidently, he shook
his hand, with a “God bless you, Maubray,”
and a few minutes later William Maubray,
with all his commissions stowed away in his
portmanteau, had commenced his little journey
to Gilroyd Hall.
The moon was up, and the little town of
Saxton very quiet, as Her Majesty's mail, drop-
ping a bag at the post office, whirled through
it, and pulled up at the further end, at the gate
of Gilroyd Hall, there to drop our friend, an
outside passenger.
The tall, florid iron gate was already locked.
William tugged at the bell, and drew back a
little to reconnoitre the premises. One of the
old brick gables overhangs the road, with only
a couple of windows high up, and he saw that
his summons had put a light in motion within
them. So he rejoined his hat-case, and his
portmanteau, awaiting him on its end, in front
of the white iron gate that looked like lace-
work in the moonlight.
“Ha! Tom ; glad to see you.”
“Welcome, Mr. William, sir; she a wearyin'
WOL. I. 2


18 ALL IN THE DARK.
to see ye, and scarce thought you'd a come to-
night.”
The wicket beside the great gate was now
open, and William shook hands with the old
retainer, and glancing anxiously up at the
stone-faced windows, as it were to read the
countenance of the old house, he asked, “And
how is she, Tom, to-night?”
“Complainin’ an’ down-hearted a bit for
her, that is now and again. She cried a good
bout to-day wi' old Winnie, in the little par-
lour.
“She’s up, then?”
“Ooh, ay; she's not a body to lay down
while she's a leg to stan' on. But I do think
she's nigh her endin'. Gie’t to me,” this referred
to the portmanteau. “I do, poor old girl! and
we's all be sorry, Master Willie.”
William's heart sank.
“Where is she?” he inquired.
“In the drawing-room, I think.”
By this time they were standing in the oak-
pannelled hall, and some one looked over the
banister from the lobby, upon them. It was
old Winnie, the light of her candle shining
pleasantly on her ruddy and kindly face.


ALL IN THE DARK. 19
“Oh! Master Willie. Thank God, you're
come at last. Glad she'll be to see you.”
Old Winnie ambled down the stairs with the
corner of her apron to her eye, and shook him
by both hands, and greeted him again very
kindly, and even kissed him according to the
tradition of a score of years.
“Is she very ill, Dobbs?” whispered he,
looking pale.
“Well, not to say very to look at, you'd say,
but she's 'ad a warnin', her and me sittin' in
the bedroom, an’ she's bin an’ made a new will;
the lawyer's bin up from Saxton. Don't ye
say I said nothing, mind; 'twould only fret
her, maybe.”
2
-
2


CHAPTER III.
MISS DINAH PERFECT AND HER GUESTS.
“Is she alone?” he asked, postponing the try-
ing moment of seeing her.
“No, the Doctor's with her still—Dr. Drake,
and Miss Letty, his sister, you remember;
they're drinkin’ a cup o' tea, and some crum-
pets, and they'll all be right glad you're come.”
“They ought to go away, don't you think?”
mildly suggested William Maubray, a good
deal shocked. “However, let me get to my
room for two or three minutes, and I shall be
ready then.”
They passed the drawing-room door, and
Miss Letty Drake's deliberate tones were audi-
ble from within. When he had got to his
room he asked Dobbs—
“What was the warning you spoke of P”
“Well, dear me ! It was the table; she and


ALL IN THE DARK. 21
me, she makes me sit before her, poor thing,
and we-well, there is cracks, sure, on and
off! And she puts this an’ that together; and
so one way or other—it puzzles my poor head,
how—she does make out a deal.”
William Maubray was an odd, rather soli-
tary young man, and more given to reading
and thinking than is usual at his years, and he
detested these incantations to which his aunt,
Miss Perfect, had addicted herself, of late years,
with her usual capricious impetuosity; and he
was very uncomfortable on hearing that she
was occupying her last days with these ques-
tionable divinations.
When, in a few minutes, William ran down
to the drawing-room, and with a chill of anti-
cipation opened the door of that comfortable
rather than imposing chamber, the tall slim
figure of his aunt rose up from her arm-chair,
beside the fire, for though it was early autumn,
the fire was pleasant, and the night-air was
frosty, and with light and wiry tread, stepped
across the carpet to meet him. Her kind,
energetic face was pale, and the smile she used
to greet him with was nowhere, and she was
arrayed from head to foot in deep mourning, in


22 ALL IN THE DARK.
which, particularly as she abhorred the modern
embellishment of crinoline, she looked more
slim and tall even than she was.
The presence of her guests in no wise
affected the greeting of the aunt and nephew,
which was very affectionate, and even agitated,
though silent.
“Good Willie, to come so quickly—I knew
you would.” Miss Perfect never wept, but
she was very near tears at that moment, and
there was a little silence, during which she
held his hands, and then recollecting her-
self, dropt them, and continued more like
herself.
“You did not expect to see me up and here;
everything happens oddly with me. Here I
am, you see, apparently, I dare say, much as
usual. By half-past twelve o'clock to-morrow
night I shall be dead | There, don't mind
now—I'll tell you all by and by. This is my
friend, Miss Drake, you know her.”
They shook hands, Miss Drake smiling as
brisk a smile as in a scene so awful she could
hazard.
“And this, my kind friend Dr. Drake.”
William had occasionally seen Dr. Drake in


ALL IN THE DARK. 23
the streets of Saxton, and on the surrounding
high roads at a distance, but he had never
before had the honour of an interview.
The doctor was short and fat, a little bald,
and rather dusty, and somehow, William
thought, resembled a jolly old sexton a good
deal more than a physician. He rose up, with
his hands in his trowsers pockets, and some
snuff in the wrinkles of his black cloth waist-
coat, and bowed, with raised eyebrows and
pursed mouth, gravely to his plate of crumpet.
William Maubray looked again on his aunt,
who was adjusting her black draperies in her
chair, and then once more at the doctor, whose
little eye he caught for a second, with a curi-
ous and even cunning expression in it; but it
was averted with a sudden accession of melan-
choly once more—and William asked—
“I—I hope, sir, there is nothing very im-
minent?”
The doctor cleared his voice, uneasily, and
Aunt Dinah interposed with a nod, a little
dryly—
“It is not quite in his department.”
And whose department is it in 2 the student
thought. -


24 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
“I dare say Doctor Drake would tell you.
I'm very well—so, perhaps, in a sense, I am ;
but—but Doctor Drake has kindly come here
as a friend.”
Doctor Drake bowed, looking steadfastly
into his cup.
“As a friend, dear Willie, just as you have
come—an old friend.” Miss Perfect spoke
low, with a little tremor in her voice, and was,
I believe, near crying, but braced her resolu-
tion. William drew near gently and sat down
beside her, and placing her hand upon his, she
proceeded.
“My dear friend Miss Drake, there, does
not agree with me, I’m aware; but Doctor
Drake who has read more, and perhaps, thought
more, thinks otherwise—at least, so I'm led to
suppose.”
The doctor coughed a little; Miss Drake
raised her long chin, and with raised eyebrows,
looked down on her finger tips which were
drumming on the table, and my cousin Wil-
liam glanced from one to the other, not quite
understanding her drift.
“But,” she continued, “I’ve apprised them
already, and I tell Jou of course; it is—you'll


ALL IN THE DARK. 25.
remember the name — an intimation from
Henbane.”
“Poison" said William, under his breath,
with a look of pale inquiry at Doctor Drake,
who at the moment was swallowing his tea
very fast, and was seized on a sudden with an
explosion of coughing, sneezing, and strangling,
which compelled him to jump to his feet, and
stagger about the room with his face in his
pocket-handkerchief and his back to the tea-
table.
“When Dr. Henbane,” said my aunt with
severity, “I mean a-Doctor Drake—has quite
done coughing, I’ll go on.”
There was a little pause.
“Confound it,” thought William, who was
half beside himself, “it’s a very odd dying
scene !"
The doctor, blowing his nose, returned very
red and solemn, and explained, still coughing
at intervals, that it was a little tea in the
trachea; it invariably occurred to him when
he drank tea in the evening; he must give it
up; “ you know, Letty.”
Miss Drake did not deign to assist him.
“She does not seem to know so much about


26 ALL IN THE DARK.
it as you do,” observed Aunt Dinah with an
irony.
“Owing to my not thinking so much,” re-
plied Miss Letty, sarcastically.
“Henbane !” murmured William again, in
a puzzled horror.
“H'm l—yes!—Henbane? you seem to have
forgotten; one of those—one of the spirits
who have attached themselves to me,” and
Aunt Dinah shot a quick glance at the doctor
who though looking again at his crumpet,
seemed to cower awfully under it.
“Oh—ay—Henbane !” exclaimed William
in a tone of familiarity, which indicated any-
thing but respect for that supernatural ac-
quaintance. “Henbane, to be sure.”
And he looked on his aunt with a half
amused recognition, which seemed to say,
“Well—and what about that humbug?”
But Aunt Dinah said decisively—
“So much for the present; you shall hear
more—everything, by-and-bye.”
And there followed a silence.
“Did you remember the snuff, dear Wil-
liam P' inquired the doomed lady, with rather
an abrupt transition.


ALL IN THE DARK. 27
“Certainly; shall I fetch it?” said William,
half rising. -
Miss Perfect nodded, and away he went,
somehow vastly relieved, and with his bed-
room candle in his hand, mounted the oak
stairs, which were broad and handsome in pro-
portion to the other dimensions of that snug
old house.


CHAPTER IV.
VIOLET DARK WEL L.
At the head of the stairs, the topmost step of
which had been their bench, there rose to him
two female figures. He did not instantly re-
cognise them, for one candle only was burning,
and it was on the little table nearly behind
them. One was old Winnie Dobbs, the other
Violet T)arkwell; she stood up slight and
girlish still, but looking taller than he had
expected, with an old faded silk quilted shawl
of Aunt Dinah’s about her shoulders, and
hood-wise over her head, for the night was
frosty.
“Ha! Wi–little Wi, I was going to say;
dear me ! how you have grown' So glad to
see you.”
He had the girl's slim hand in his, and was
speaking as he felt, very kindly.


ALL IN THE DARK. 29
“We’ve been waiting here, Winnie and I,
to hear what you thought of dear grannie."—
(grannie was merely a pet name in this case,
defining no relationship)—“ and what do you
think, William P”
“I really don't understand it,” he answered.
“I—I hope it's all nonsense; I really think
so. She says she is very well; and the doctor
—Drake, you know—I really think he was
laughing, and one thing I’m quite certain of-
it is connected in her mind with that foolish
spirit-rapping.”
“And you don't believe in it?” inquired
the young lady.
“All bosh and nonsense. Not a bit of it,”
he replied.
“Oh, William, I am so delighted to hear
you say sol” she exclaimed, much relieved by
the promulgation of so valuable an opinion.
“And you're quite right, I know, about gran-
nie. It is, really—is not it, Winnie?—all
all about that awful spirit-rapping. Grannie
never speaks of it to me; I believe she's
afraid of frightening me; but old Winnie,
here—you must not tell of her—she tells me
all about it—everything; and I am so afraid


30 ALL IN THE DARK.
of it; and it is entirely that. Grannie thinks
she has got a message 1 fancy! How awful!
And Winnie does not know what the words
were; for grannie writes down the letters with
a pencil, and tells her only what she thinks
fit ; and I am so delighted—you can't
think.”
“You good little Vi, I’m so glad to see
you!” She laughed a low little laugh—the
first for several days—as he shook her hand
again; and he said—
“Winnie, do, like a dear old thing, open my
portmanteau—here's the key—and fetch me a
canister you’ll see at the top, with a great
paper label, blue and red, on it.”
Away went Winnie Dobbs, with his key
and candle, and he said to the pretty girl who
stood leaning lightly against the banister—
“My old friend, Wil When I went into
the drawing-room just now, I looked all round
for you, and could not think what had become
of you, and was really afraid you had gone
away to London. I don't think I should ever
care to come to Gilroyd Hall again; I should
prefer seeing my aunt anywhere else—it would
not be like itself if you were gone.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 3I
“So you really missed me, William P” she
laughed.
“I should think so. And another thing—
you are not to call me William. Why don't
you call me Willie, or old bear, as you used to
do? If you change old names, I’ll begin and
call you Miss Darkwell.”
“How awful ''”
“Indeed I will, and be as formal as you
please, and treat you like a young lady, and
you'll never be “wicked little Wi’ any more.”
She was laughing as she leaned back, and
he could see her small teeth, and he bethought
him that she was looking really quite lovely;
so with two fingers he picked up her little
hand again, as it lay at her side, and he said—
“And we are always to be good friends you
know—great friends; and although you've no.
more dolls to mend, I'll still be of use. I’m
going to the bar, and I'll manage all your law-
suits, if you let me; and when you are going
to be married, I'll draw your settlements, and
you are to have me always for your counsel.”
She was still smiling, but said nothing, and
looked wonderfully pretty, with the old grey
silk hood wrapped all about her, so that sober


32 ALL IN THE DARK.
old William was on the very point of kissing
the slender hand he held in his. But a new
feeling of shyness prevented, and he only shook
her hand gently once more, and laid it by her
side again, as you replace some precious thing
you have been admiring where you found it.
“And you really think we may be happy
about dear old grannie again P” she said.
The sound of Winnie's footsteps was heard
approaching.
“Yes; certainly. I'll try to get a word
with Doctor Drake. I can't imagine anything
serious. Won't you come to the drawing-room
now P”
“No ; not to-night; not while those people
are there. I was so wretched about dear
grannie, I could not bear to go in at first ;
and now it would be odd, I think, going down
when tea is over.”
“As if I had brought you down from the
nursery, as I often did, Wi, on my back. Well,
old Winnie, have you got it?”
“Here, I think, Master William,” answered
Winnie.
“Yes; all right. So you won't come, Wi P”
“No.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 33
“Quite made up your mind?”
“Quite, Willie.”
“That's right—h'illie,” said he, with a
smile, and a nod of approbation. “I should
so. like to stay here a little longer, as you
won't come, and hear all the news, and tell
you mine ; but Aunt Dinah would lose
patience—I'm afraid she has.”
“Yes, indeed; you had better go. Good
night, bear.”
“Good night, wicked little Wi. Remember
we meet at breakfast—shan’t we ?”
“Oh, certainly. Good night.”
“Good night.”
And so the gray silk hood vanished, with a
smile, prettily, round the corner, and William
Maubray descended with his snuff to the
drawing-room, with the pretty oval portrait of
that young face still hovering before him in
the air.
Miss Letty Drake, whose countenance was
unpleasantly long in proportion to her height,
and pallid, and her small figure bony, and
who was dressed on this sad occasion in her
silk “half-mourning,” a sad and, it was thought,
a dyed garment, which had done duty during
WOL. I. 3


34. ALL IN THE I)ARK.
many periods of affliction, as William entered
the room, was concluding a sentence with a low
and pointed asperity, thus—“which seems to
me hardly compatible with Saint Paul's
description of Christian charity,” and a short
silence followed these words.
“I was going to ring the bell, William,”
said the doomed lady of the house. “One
would have thought you were making that
snuff. Let me see it—h’m. See, get off this
cover. Ho! what is this? A lead wrapper"
“You said, Aunt Dinah, you wished it.”
“Did I? Well, no matter. Get it open.
Thanks. Yes; that's it. Yes; very good.
You take snuff, doctor, don't you?”
“A yes, certainly, nothing like it, I do.
believe—where a man is obliged to work his
head—aw haw—a stimulus and a sedative.”
The Doctor, it was averred, “worked” his
occasionally with brandy and water, and not a
great deal otherwise.
“No, many thanks; don't care for perfumes;
high toast is my snuff.” And Doctor Drake
illustrated the fact by a huge pinch, which
shed another brown shower over the wrinkles.
of his waistcoat.


ALL IN THE DARK, 35
“Letty, dear,” said Aunt Dinah, turning
suddenly to Miss Drake, “we won't quarrel;
we can't agree, but I won't quarrel.”
“Well, dear, I’m glad to hear you say so.
I'm sure, for my part, I never quarrel. ‘Be
ye angry, and let not the sun go down on your
wrath.”


CHAPTER W.
AUNT DINAH IS IN THE HORRORS, AND DOCTOR
DRAKE PUTS HIS NIGHT CAP IN HIS POCKET.
“I wish to say good-by to you very kindly,”
said Aunt Dinah, quite sadly and gently, and
somehow not like herself, “and—and I’ve tried
to keep up ; I know it must happen, and I'm
sure it is for the best, but”
“I hope and expect, my dear Dinah,” inter-
posed Miss Letty, sharply—she was pulling on
her worsted “wrists”—“to see you in the
enjoyment of many years of your accustomed
health and spirits, and I have no doubt,
humanly speaking, that I shall.”
Miss Letty was quiet and peremptory, but
also a little excited. And the doctor, for want
of something better to do, cleared his voice, in
a grand abstraction, and wound up his watch
slowly, and held it to his ear, nobody knew
exactly why.


ALL IN THE DARK. 37
“You won't believe me, but I know it, and
so will you—too late; to-morrow night at
twelve o'clock I shall be dead. I’ve tried to
keep up—I have; I’ve tried it; but oh Ho,
ho, hoo, ooh,” and poor Aunt Dinah quite
broke down, and cried and hooted hysterically.
“Dr. Drake had now before him an intelli-
gible case, and took the command accord-
ingly with decision. Up went the window;
cold water was there, and spirit of hartshorn.
And when she had a little recovered, the
Doctor, who was a good-natured fellow,
said—
“Now, Miss Perfect, ma'am, it won't do, I
tell you; it's only right; you may want some
assistance; and if, as an old friend, you'll
allow me to return and remain here for the
night, a sofa, or an arm-chair, anything, I'll
be most happy, I do assure you.”
But Aunt Dinah, with many thanks, said,
“No,” peremptorily, and wilful man or woman,
who will contend with ?
So, like the awful banquet in Macbeth, Miss
I)inah Perfect's tea-party broke down and up,
and the guests, somewhat scared, got in to their
walking wrappers, rather silently, and their


38 ALL IN THE DARK.
entertainer remained behind unstrung and
melancholic.
But William Maubray, who came down to
assist in the rummage for cloaks and umbrellas,
asked leave, in his blunt modest way, to
accompany Miss Letty and her brother, the
doctor, to Saxton.
Now there seemed something real and grisly
in Aunt Dinah’s terror, which a little infected
William Maubray; and the little party marched
in silence along the frost-hardened road, white
in moonlight, with the bare switch-like shadows
of the trees across it, on their way to the
pretty old town of Saxton.
At last the doctor said—
“She won't miss you, do you think?”
“She told me she'd like to be quiet for half
an hour, and I should be so much obliged if
you could tell me, whether you really, that is,
still think that she ought to have a medical
man in attendance to-night.”
“Why, you know what hysteria is. Well,
she is in a highly hysterical state. She's a
woman who resists; it would be safer, you see,
if she gave way and cried a bit now and then,
when nature prompts, but she won't, except


ALL IN THE DARIX. 39
under awful high pressure, and then it might
be serious; those things sometimes run off into
fits.”
And so the doctor lectured William upon
his aunt's nerves, until they had arrived at the
door of his snug house in the High Street.
Here they shook hands; but William Mau-
bray, who was unhappy about Aunt Dinah,
after Miss Letty had mounted to her chamber,
very urgently entreated the doctor to return
and see how it might end.
With a bottle of valerian, his slippers, and
a night-cap in his packet, Doctor Drake did
consent to return, and he smuggled into Gilroyd
Hall.
“I don't know what to make of that spirit-
rapping quite,” said the doctor, as side by side
they approached the Hall. “There's a quan-
tity of books published on it—very unaccount-
able if half what they say is true. I suppose
you've read it all. You read a lot, Miss Per-
fect tells me.”
“I’ve read very little about it, except in the
papers. She fancies she has had a message,
telling her she is to die sometime to-morrow.
I can't believe there's really anything more


40 ALL IN THE DARK.
than self-deception; but is there not a
danger?”
“How P” asked the doctor.
“I mean, being so nervous as you suppose,
and quite convinced that she is to die at a par-
ticular time; might not her own mind–you.
know Lord Lyttelton died in consequence of
such a persuasion.”
William paused, Doctor Drake, lowered.
between his fingers, the cigar he was smoking,
and they came to a halt, with a little wheel to
the left, and the doctor, with his head aside,
blowing the smoke up in a thin stream, looked
with a thoughtful scrutiny up at the clear
bright moon; perhaps a not unsuitable source
of inspiration upon their crazy theme.
“I forget which Lord Lyttelton that was,”
said the doctor, wisely. “Isn't it Lyttelton,
you say? But the thing is quite possible.
There's a spirit you know she's always talking
about. She calls him Henbane. Egad, sir,
I was devilish near laughing at tea when she
named him so suddenly that time; I'd have
been up a tree if I had, you know. You did
not see what she was at, but I did. That
Henbane's her gospel, egad, and she thinks it


ALL IN THE DARK. 4}
was he who told her—d'ye see? Come along.
She'll be wondering where you are.”
So on they went towards Gilroyd Hall,
whose outline, black and sharp, against the
luminous sky, was relieved at one point by the
dull glow of candle-light through the red cur-
tains, of what William Maubray knew to be
Aunt Dinah’s bedchamber window.
“She is in her room, I think—there's light
in her window,” said William. The doctor
nodded, chucking his cigar stump far away,
for he knew Aunt Dinah's antipathy to tobacco,
and they were now on the door-step. He was
thinking, if the case were to end tragically,
what a capital paper he would make of it,
beside the interesting letter he would send to
the editor of the Spatula.
“Winnie's bin a callin' over the stairs for
you, Master Willie. Misses wants ye to her
room,” said Tom, who awaited them on the
door-steps.
“I’ll sit by the fire in the study,” whispered
the doctor. “I don't mind sitting up a night
now and then. Give me a cloak or something.
There's a sofa, and I'll do very well.”
The principle of life was strong in Aunt


42 ALL IN THE DARK.
Dinah, and three hours later that active-minded
lady was lying wide awake on her bed, with a
variety of topics, not all consisting with the
assumed shortness of her hours, drifting in
succession through her head. The last idea
that struck her was the most congruous, and
up she jumped, made a wild toilet, whose sole
principle was warmth, tied a faded silk hand-
kerchief over her nightcap, across her ears, and
with her long white flannel dressing-gown
about her, and a taper in her hand, issued, like
the apparition of the Bleeding Nun, upon the
gallery, and tapped sharply on William Mau-
bray's door.
“William, William ''” she called as she
tapped, and from within William answered
drowsily to the summons.
“Wait a moment,” said the lady, and
“In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.”
“We must have a séance, my dear boy; I’m
going to wake up old Winnie. It certainly
has a connexion with your arrival; but any-
thing like the cracking, knocking, and creak-
ing of everythinſ, I've never yet heard. I have


ALL IN THE DARK. 43
no doubt—so sure as you sit there”—(William
was sitting up in his bed with glazed eyes, and
senses only half awake)—“that your poor
dear mother is here to-night. We're sure of
Henbane; and—just get your clothes on—
I'm going for Winnie, and we meet in the
study, mind, in five minutes.”
And Aunt Dinah, having lighted William's
candle, disappeared, leaving him with a fund
of cheerful ideas to make his yawning and
bewildered toilet.


CHAPTER VI.
IN WII ICH THE WITCHES ASSEMBLE.
A FEw minutes later she glided into the study,
overthrowing a small table, round which her
little séances were accustomed to be made, and
which the doctor had providently placed against
the door.
Aunt Dinah held under her arm the Svo
“Revelations of Elihu Bung, the Pennsylva-
nian Prophet,” a contribution to spiritual
science which distanced all contemporary com-
petition; and the chapter which shows that a
table of a light, smart build, after having
served a proper apprenticeship to “rapping,”
may acquire the faculty of locomotion and
self-direction, flashed on her recollection as she
recognised prostrate at her feet, in the glimmer
of her taper, the altar of their mysteries, which


ALL IN THE DARK. 45
she had with reverent hands herself placed that
evening in its wonted corner, at the opposite
end of the room.
Such a manifestation was new to her. She
looked on it, a little paler than usual, and
bethought her of that other terrible chapter
in which Elihu Bung avers that spirits, grown
intimate by a long familiarity, will, in a pro-
perly regulated twilight—and her light at the
moment was no more—make themselves visible
to those whom they habitually favour with
their advices.
Therefore she was strangely thrilled at sight
of the indistinct and shadowy doctor, who
awakened by the noise, rose at the opposite
end of the room from the sofa on which he
had fallen asleep. Tall and thin, and quite
unrecognisable by him, was the white figure at
the door, with a taper elevated above its head,
and which whispered with a horrid distinct-
ness the word “Henbane l’—the first heard on
his awakening, the last in his fancy as he
dropped asleep, and which sounded to him like
the apparition's considerate announcement of
its name on entering the room; he echoed
“Henbane' in a suppressed diapason, and Aunt


46 ALL IN THE DARK.
Dinah, with an awful ejaculation, repeated the
word from the distance, and sank into a chair.
“Henbane" cried the doctor briskly, hav-
ing no other exclamation ready, and reassured
by these evidences of timidity in the spectre,
he exclaimed, “Hey, by Jove what the
plague !” and for some seconds he did not
know distinctly where he was.
“Merciful goodness Doctor Drake, why
will you try to frighten people in this manner?
Do you want to kill me, sir?”
“I? Ho! Ha, ha! ma'am,” replied the
learned gentleman, incoherently.
“What are you doing here, sir? I think
you're mad!” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, fiercely.
The doctor cleared his voice, and addressed
himself to explain, and before his first period
was reached, William and old Winnie, wofully
sleepy, had arrived.
Luckily the person who approaches such
oracles as ‘Henbane,” it is well known, must
do so with a peaceful and charitable soul. So
Miss Perfect was appeasable, and apologies
being made and accepted, she thus opened her
mind to the doctor—
“I don't complain, Doctor Drake—William,


ALL IN THE DARK. 47
light the candles over the chimney-piece—
although you terrified me a great deal more
than in my circumstances I ought to have been
capable of.”
The candles were now lighted, and shone
cheerfully upon the short, fat figure, and ruddy,
roguish face of Doctor Drake, and as he was
taking one of his huge pinches of snuff, she
added—
“And I won't deny that I did fancy for a
moment you might be a spirit-form, and pos-
sibly that of Henbane.”
William Maubray, who was looking at the
doctor, as Miss Perfect reverently lowered her
voice at these words, exploded into something
so like a laugh, though he tried to pass it off
for a cough, that his aunt looked sharply on
him in silence for a moment.
“And I'm blowed but I was a bit frightened
too, ma'am, when I saw you at the door there,”
said the doctor.
“Well, let us try,” said Miss Perfect.
“Come, we are four; let us try who are pre-
sent—what spirits, and seek to communicate.
You don't object, Dr. Drake P”
“I? Ho! oh! dear no. I should not de-


48 ALL IN THE DARK.
sire better—aw-haw—instruction, ma'am,” an-
swered the doctor.
I am afraid he was near saying “fun.”
“Winnie, place the table as usual. There,
yes. Now let us arrange ourselves.”
The doctor sat down, still blinking, and with
a great yawn inquired—
“Do we waw—haw — wa—w—want any
particular information ?”
“Let us first try whether they will commu-
nicate. We always want information,” said
Miss Perfect. “William, sit you there;
Winnie, there. I’ll take pencil and paper and
record.”
All being prepared, fingers extended, com-
pany intent, Aunt Dinah propounded the first
question—
“Is there any spirit present?”
There was a long wait and no rejoinder.
“Didn't you hear something?” inquired the
doctor.
William shook his head.
“I thought I felt it,” persisted the doctor.
“What do you say, ma'am " addressing him-
self to Winnie, who looked, after her wont,
towards her mistress for help.


ALL IN THE DARK. - 49
“Did you feel anything?” demanded Miss
Perfect, sharply.
“Nothing but a little wind like on the back
of my head, as I think,” replied Winnie,
driven to the wall.
“Wind on her head ' That's odd,” said
Miss Perfect, looking in the air, as if she
possessed the porcine gift of seeing it, “very
odd " she continued, with her small hand ex-
panded in the air. “Not a breath stirring,
and Winnie has no more imagination than
that sofa pillow. You never fancy anything,
Winnie P”
“Do I, ma'am!" inquired Winnie Dobbs,
mildly.
“Well, do you, I say? No, you don't; of
course, you don't. You know you don't as
well as I do.”
“Well, I did think so, sure, ma'am,” an-
swered Winnie.
“Pity we can't get an answer,” remarked
the doctor, and at the same moment William
felt the pressure of a large foot in a slipper—
under the table. It had the air of an inten-
tional squeeze, and he looked innocently at the
doctor, who was, however, so entirely uncon-
WOL. I. 4


50 ALL IN THE DARK.
seious, that it must have been an acci-
dent.
“I say it is a pity, Mr. Maubray, isn't it?
for we might hear something that might inte-
rest Miss Perfect very much, possibly, I
say?"
“I don't know: I can't say. I've never
heard anything,” answered William, who would
have liked to kick the table up to the ceiling
and go off to his bed.
“Suppose, ma'am, we try again,” inquired
Doctor Drake.
“Certainly” replied Aunt Dinah, “we must
have patience.”

“Will you ask, ma'am, please, again if
there's a spirit in the room?” solicited the
doctor; and the question being put, there cam
an upward heave of the table.
“Well?” exclaimed the doctor, looking at
Winnie, “did you feel that?”
“Tilt, ma'am,” said Winnie, who knew the
intelligence would be welcome.
“What do you say?” inquired Miss Perfec
triumphantly of William.
Doctor Drake was changing his position
the moment, and I perceived no othe


ALL IN THE DARK. 51
motion in the table—nothing but the little
push he gave it,” answered William. -
“Oh, pooh yes, of course, there was that,”
said the doctor a little crossly; “but I meant
a sort of a start—a crack like, in the leaf of
the table.” -
“I felt nothing of the kind,” said William
Maubray.
The doctor looked disgusted, and leaning
back, took a large pinch of snuff. There was
a silence. Aunt Dinah's lips were closed with
a thoughtful frown as she looked down upon
the top of the table.
“It is very strange. I certainly never wit-
nessed in this house more unequivocal evidences
—preliminary evidences, of course—of spiritual
activity.”
“I think, ma'am, I have read,” said the
doctor, with his hands in his pockets, “I thin/,
somewhere, that if any one of the manipulators
happens to be an unbeliever 23.
“An unbeliever in the manifestations, of
course the spirits won't communicate,” inter-
posed Miss Perfect, volubly laying down the
law. “Winnie is a believer as much as I.
We all know that. Nephew, how are you?
4–2


52 ALL IN THE DARK.
Do you believe? You shake your head. Speak
out. Yes or no P”
“Well, I don’t,” said he, a little sheepishly.
“You don't? And, not believing, you sit
here with your fingers on the table, keeping
Doctor Drake out of his—his > x
She could not say bed, and the doctor re-
lieved her by saying, “Oh, as to me, ma'am,
I'm only too happy; but you know it's a pity,
all the same.”
“Very true, doctor. Much obliged. We
shall set it to rights. My dear William, you
might have told us at starting ; but we'll com-
mence again. Sit by the fire, William, and
I trust in a little time you may be convinced.”


CHAPTER VII.
THE FAMILIAR SPEAKS.
So the excommunicated William, with his
feet upon the fender, leaning upon his elbow
in the great chair, made himself comfortable
by the fire, and heard his aunt propound the
questions, and the answers by the previously
appointed manifestations, duly noted down.
“Is there a spirit present?”
“Yes.”
“Are there more than one?”
“ No.”
“Is it a male or female spirit?”
No answer.
“Is it Henbane P”
“Yes” (emphatically).
William was surprised. All was now going
smoothly, and he could not for a moment sus-
pect a gentleman of Dr. Drake's respectability


54 ALL IN THE DARK.
of participating in a trick. But there was a
monotony in the matter of a quieting kind,
and William grew too drowsy to keep his eyes
long open.
“Did you give Miss Dinah Perfect a mes-
sage on Monday last?”
“Yes.”
“Did it concern her death P”
“Yes.”
“Is her death to take place at the time then
appointed P’’
Here the table made a positive jump, and in
spite of a grasp made at it by the doctor's
fingers, it fell flat on the floor, and it must have
been a very violent impulse, for Dr. Drake's
slipper was off, and he, very red, no doubt
from his effort to prevent the wilful fall of the
table.
“Very extraordinary" exclaimed he, stand-
ing up.
“Most wonderful" said my aunt.
Good old fat Winnie sat with her fingers
raised in the air, looking at the prostrate table
with placid astonishment.
“That's a tilt,” said the doctor, “that means
no—a very emphatic tilt.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 55
“I think it was a jump,” said my aunt,
sadly. -
“No, ma'am, no—a tilt, a tilt, I'll take my
oath. Besides, a jump has no meaning,” urged
he with energy.
“Pardon me; when a question is received
with marked impatience a jump is no unfre-
quent consequence.”
“Oh, ho!” groaned the doctor, reflectively.
“Then it counts for nothing P”
“Nothing,” said Miss Perfect in a low tone.
“Winnie, get the table up again.”
“Suppose, ma'am, to avoid mistakes,” said
the doctor, after reflection, “suppose we put
it upon it to express itself in language. Just
ask it what about Miss Dinah Perfect's
death.”
“I’ve no objection,” said Miss Perfect; and
in the terms prescribed by Dr. Drake the mo-
mentous question was put.
Hereupon the spelling commenced—
“A-D-J-o-U-R-N-E-D.”
“Postponed, put off, ma'am!” said the doctor,
expounding eagerly.
“I know ; good heaven! I understand,”
answered Aunt Dinah, faintly.


56 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Give her some water. Here, ma'am,” said
he, presenting a glass of water at her pale lips.
She sipped a little.
“Now we'll ask, ma'am, please, for how
long P’’ suggested the doctor.
And this question likewise having been
propounded, the table proceeded once more to
spell—
“s-I-N-E D-1-E.”
“It ends with die,” said my poor aunt,
faintly.
“Sine die, ma'am. It means indefinitely,
ma'am : your death is postponed without a
day named—for ever, ma'am! It's all over;
and I’m very happy it has ended so. What a
marvellous thing, ma'am—give her some more
water, please — those manifestations are. I
hope, ma'am, your mind is quite relieved—
perfectly, ma'am.”
Miss Dinah Perfect was taken with a violent
shivering, in which her very teeth chattered.
Then she cried, and then she laughed; and
finally Doctor Drake administered some of his
ammonia and valerian, and she became, at last,
composed.
With audible thanksgivings old Winnie


ALL IN THE DARK. 57
accompanied her mistress upstairs to her room,
where Aunt Dinah herself, who, notwithstand-
ing her necromancy, was a well-intending,
pious churchwoman, descended to her knees at
her bedside, and poured forth her gratitude for
the reprieve, and then in a loud and distinct
voice read to old Winnie Dobbs the twentieth
chapter of the Second Book of Kings, in which
we read how the good king Hezekiah obtained
by prayer ten years more of the light of life.
Then old Winnie persuaded her to have a
glass of very hot port wine-negus, which agreed
with her so well that she quickly fell asleep;
and never did poor lady need repose more, or
drink deeper and more tranquil draughts of
that Lethe.
William Maubray was now wide awake, and
he and the doctor, being a little chilly, sat
before the study fire.
“It's jolly, isn't it?” exclaimed William,
for the seventh time. “But isn't it all very
odd, sir, and very unaccountable — I — I
think P”
“Very, very odd, to be sure,” said the
doctor, poking the corner of a lump of coal—
“very, no doubt.”


5S ALL IN THE DARK.
“I wish I had been awake. I should like
to see one of those things—those séances. I
had no idea there really was anything so
coherent.”
“Very lucky for her,” replied the doctor,
with a sly little wink to William.
William looked inquiringly at the doctor,
who smiled on the poker's end, and pushed the
embers gently with it.
“You don't believe in it, sir—do you?”
inquired William, puzzled.
“I? Well, I don't know exactly what to say,
you know. I put my foot in it on Sunday
last, when I told her I did not believe a bit of
it; nor more I did. Egad, you never saw a
woman so angry, when I called it all bosh.
You'd better not vex her that way, my boy—
d'ye see ? She lent me one of those wonderful
queer books from America—very odd they are
—and I read it to please her. So, you see,
that's how we stand; very good friends again.”
“And you are convinced it's true?” urged
William, who, like other young men who sit
up late, and read wild books, and drink strong
coffee, was, under the rose, addicted to the
supernatural.


ALL IN THE DARK. 59
“Why, you see, as Shakespeare says, there
are more bubbles between heaven and earth
than are dreamt of by the philosophers,”
observed the doctor, with a little paraphrase.
“I wish to live at peace with my neighbours;
and I’d advise you to think over this subject,
old fellow, and not to tease the old lady
upstairs about it—that's all.”
“I wish he'd speak out, and tell me what
happened to-night, and tell me his real
opinion,” thought William Maubray. “I’ve
read in some old medical book,” he continued
aloud, “that the vital electricity escapes and
diffuses itself at the finger-tips.”
“Oh, to be sure All sorts of theories.
The hand's a very mysterious organ. The
hand of glory, you may be certain, was not
altogether a story. The electric light has been
seen at the finger-tips in consumptive cases in
the dark; and a patient convulsed, or in a
state of extreme nervous exhaustion, will
clench the hand so as to prevent the escape of
this influence at the finger-points, and then
joining hands, in love, you know, or friendship
—and in fact it is, sir, a very mysterious
organ; and I'm prepared to believe a great


60 ALL IN THE DARK.
deal that's curious about its occult powers.
Your aunt told you about the-toad she saw
climb over her coverlet one night, and turn
into a hand and grasp her wrist.”
“No,” said William.
“Egad, she's ready to swear to it. Last
winter she was so frightened, she was not fit
to stand for a week after. She reads too much
of those books. Egad, sir, she'll turn her
head, and that will be the end of it, How-
ever, we've pulled her through this, and I hope
she'll give it up, true or false. You see,
there's no good in it; and if she goes on,
sooner or later she'll frighten herself out of her
wits.” ,
“But that toad was a very curious idea,”
said William. “What does she make of it?
Does she think it was a fancy only, or a real
thing?” -
“Pooh A spirit of course. She calls it the
key-spirit that unlocks the spirit-world, you
see ; and from the time it touches you, you
are in rapport with the invisible world, and
subject, as she says she is, to their visitations,
you see—ha, ha, ha!”
William laughed too.


ALL IN THE DARK. 61
“Last winter?” he said. “She never told
me.”
“Pooh All fancies,” observed the doctor.
“Better she should not talk of them. Those
American people are all going mad. She'll get
touched in the upper story if she does not
mind.”
-


CHAPTER VIII.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY's vision.
AFTER some more talk of this kind, they
parted, and William Maubray, as he lay down
again in his bed, wondered whether the doctor,
whom he had heard described as a shrewd
man, believed in the revelations at which he
had assisted; or, was it possible—could he
have been accessory to—Oh! no, it could not
be
The student, as I have said, had a sort of
liking for the supernatural, and although now
and then he had experienced a qualm in his
solitary college chamber at dead of night,
when, as he read a well-authenticated horror,
the old press creaked suddenly, or the door of
the inner room swung slowly open of itself, it
yet was “a pleasing terror” that thrilled him ;


ALL IN THE DARK. • 63
and now as he lay this night awake, with a
patch of moonlight spread askance on the floor
—for Aunt Dinah insisted on a curfew, and
he, “preferring the light that heaven sheds”
to no lamp at all, left the window-shutter a
little open, and for a while allowed his eyes to
wander over the old-fashioned and faded
furniture of the apartment, and his fancy to
wander among those dreams of superstition
with which he rather liked to try his courage.
He conned over his aunt's story of the toad,
recounted to him by Doctor Drake, and which
he had never heard before, until the nodding
shadow of the sprig of jessamine on the floor
took the shape of the sprawling reptile, and
seemed to swagger clumsily toward his bed,
and every noise in the curtains suggested its
slimy clamberings.
Youth, fatigue, pure country air, in a little
while overpowered these whimsies, and William
Maubray fell into a deep sleep.
I am now going to relate a very extraor-
dinary incident; but upon my honour the
narrative is true. William Maubray dreamed
that he was in the room in which he actually
lay; that he was in bed, and that the moon-


64 - ALL IN THE DARK.
light entered the room, just as he had seen it
before going to sleep. He thought that he
heard a heavy tread traverse the room over his
head; he heard the same slow and ponderous
step descend the narrow back stair, that was
separated from him only by the wall at the
back of his bed. He knew intuitively that
the person thus approaching came in quest of
him, and he lay expecting, in a state of unac-
countable terror. The handle of his door
turned, and it seemed that his intending visitor
paused, having opened the door about a hand's
breadth, and William knew that he had only
suspended, not abandoned his purpose, be it
what it might. Then the door swung slowly
open, and in the deep shadow, a figure, of
gigantic stature, entered, paused beside his
bed, and seized his wrist with a tremendous
gripe.
For a time, unable to stir, he remained pas-
sive under its pressure. Then with a horrified
struggle he awoke. There was no figure
visible, but his wrist was actually compressed
in a cold grasp, and, with a ghastly ejaculation,
he sprang from his bed, and was released.
He had no means of lighting a candle; he


ALL IN THE DARK. 65
had nothing for it but to bounce to the
window, fling curtains and shutters wide, and
admit the full flood of moonlight, which
revealed the contents of the room, and showed
that no figure but his own was there. But
there were the marks of the grasp that had
held him, still visible. He secured his door,
and made search, in a state of horror, but was
convinced. There was no visible intruder in
the chamber.
Now William got back into his bed. For
the first time in his life he had experienced a
paroxysm of that wild fear with which it had
been so often his delight to trifle. He heard
the clock at the stair-head strike hour after
hour, and at last, after having experienced
every stage in the subsidence of such horrors,
fairly overcome by fatigue, he sunk to sleep.
How welcome and how beautiful shone the
morning ! Slanting by his window, the sun-
beam touched the quivering jessamine leaves
and the clustering roses, and in the dewy air
he heard the chirp and whistle of the happy
birds. He threw up his window, and breathed
the perfumed air, and welcomed all the pleasant
sounds of morning in that pleasant season.
WOL. I. 5


66 ALL IN THE DARK.
“The cock he crew,
Away then flew
The fiends from the church-door.”
And so the uncomfortable and odious shadows
of the night winged their foul flight before
these cheerful influences, and William Mau-
bray, though he felt the want of his accus-
tomed sleep, ran down the well-known stairs,
and heard with a happy heart from Winnie
Dobbs that his kind old aunt was ever so
much better.
Doctor Drake had withdrawn from his
uncomfortable bivouac, carrying with him his
night-cap and slippers, and hastening to his
toilet in the pleasant town of Saxton, where,
no doubt, Miss Letty cross-questioned him
minutely upon the occurrences of the night.
I have said before that the resources of
Gilroyd were nothing very remarkable; still
there was the Saxton Cricket Club, who prac-
tised zealously, and always welcomed William,
whose hit to leg was famous, and even recorded
as commendable in the annual volume of the
great Mr. Lillywhite; where he was noted, in
terms that perplexed Aunt Dinah, as a pro-
mising young bat, with a good defence. He


ALL IN THE DARK. 67
fished a little; and he played at fives with
young Trevor of Revington, whom nobody
very much liked—the squire of Saxton, who
assumed territorial and other airs that were
oppressive, although Revington was only two
thousand five hundred pounds a year; but, in
that modest neighbourhood, he was a very
important person, and knew that fact very well.
He had of late distinguished Violet with a
slight admiration, that ought to have been
gratifying. Once or twice he paid old Miss
Perfect a little neighbourly, condescending
visit, and loitered a good deal about the
garden, and that acre and a half of shrubbery,
which she called “the grounds.” He some-
times joined in the walk home from church,
and sometimes in other walks; and Aunt Per-
fect was pleased and favourable, and many of
the Saxton mothers and daughters were moved
to envy and malice.
“I played to-day,” said William, giving an
account of his hours at tea to the ladies, “two
rubbers of fives; with whom do you think?”
He stopped, smiling slily on Violet, who
was stedfastly looking down on Miss Perfect's
erest on her tea-spoon.
5–2


6S ALL IN THE DARK.
“Well, I'm sure you know, by that unerring
instinct that poets speak of,” said William ;
“but it is hardly fair to ask you to name
him.”
Violet looked up, having blushed very pret-
tily, but not very well pleased.
“Of course I mean Trevor—Vane Trevor—
of Revington. It sounds very well. Trevor
was two years my senior at school; he left at
the end of the third half after I came ; that
makes him nearly twenty-five now. How old
are you, Wi-you'd make a very pretty mis-
tress of Revington; yes, indeed, Vi, or any-
where else. Don't be vexed, but tell me exactly
how old you are.”
He tapped with his pencil on the table to
hasten her answer, as he looked at her, smiling
a little sadly.
“How old?” she repeated.
“Well ?”
“Past seventeen. Why do you want to
know?” she added, laughing.
“Well, he's not quite five-and-twenty yet;
only twenty-four to your seventeen. Seven
years is a very pretty difference.”
“What are you talking about, William P


ALL IN THE DARK. (39
This kind of thing is thought very funny: it
is very disagreeable. If people will talk non-
sense, do let it be amusing. You used to be
sometimes amusing.”
“That was long ago, when I told you ‘Sin-
bad the Sailor,’ and “The Romance of the
Forest;’ before the romance of the shrubbery
commenced.”
“Folly!” exclaimed Violet.


CHAPTER IX.
IN WHICH MISS WIOLET SAYS WHAT SHE THINKS:
OF MR. VANE TREVOR, AND IS WIOLET NO.
LONGER.
“Now, I tell you,” continued William Mau-
bray, and he glanced at Aunt Dinah; but she
was reading, with her gold spectacles on, the
second of a series of old letters, which she
had in an old stamped leather box beside her,
and had forgotten all else. “You really must
tell me what you think of Vane Trevor?”
Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon
his for a moment, and then dropped them sud-
denly. His were full of their old, gentle,
good-natured mirth.
There was a little pause, and, suddenly look-
ing up, she said, rather petulantly:
“Think of him? Why, I suppose I think


ALL IN THE DARK. 71
what every one else does. I think him hand-
some; I think him agreeable; I think he has
an estate; I think he looks like a gentleman;
and I think he is the only man who ever
appears in this neighbourhood that is not in
one way or other a bore. Shall I sing you a
song?”
And with heightened colour and bright eyes,
this handsome girl sat down to the piano,
which had a cracked and ancient voice, like
the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, contrasting
quaintly with her own mellow tones, and she
sang—nothing to the purpose, nothing with a
sly, allegoric satire in it, but the first thing
that came into her head—sweet and sad as a
song of old times; and ancient Miss Perfect,
for a verse or so, lowered her letter, and
listened, smiling, with a little sigh; and
William, listening also, fell into a brown
study, as he looked on the pretty songstress,
and her warblings mingled with his dreams.
“Thank you, little Vi,” said he, rising with
a sudden smile, and standing beside her as the
music ceased. “Very pretty—very sweet.”
“I am glad you like it, William,” she said,
kindly.


72 ALL IN THE DARK.
“William, again!” he repeated.
“Well—yes.”
“And why not Willie, as it used to be?” he
persisted.
“Because it sounds foolish, somehow. I'm
sure you think so. I do.”
It seemed to him, as, with a sad smile, he
looked at her, thinking over the words that
sounded so like a farewell, so light and cruel,
too, that there yet was wisdom—that preco-
cious wisdom with which nature accomplishes
the weaker sex—in her decision; and some-
thing of approval lighted up his sad smile,
and he said, with a little nod:
“I believe the young lady says wisely; yes,
you are a wise little woman, and I submit.”
Perhaps, she was a little disappointed at his
ready acquiescence; at all events, she wound
up with a loud chord on the piano, and, stand-
ing up, said:
“Yes, it sounds foolish, and so, indeed, I
think, does Hilliam ; and people can't go on
being children always, and talking nonsense;
and you know we are no relations—at least,
that I know of and I'll call you—yes, I will
—Mr. Maubray. People may be just as


ALL IN THE DARK. 73
friendly, and yet—and yet call one another by
their right names. And now, Mr. Maubray,
will you have some tea?”
“No t hanks; no more tea to-night. I'm
sure it has lost its flavour. It would not taste
like tea.”
“What's the matter with the tea?” asked
Miss Perfect, over the edge of her letter.
“You don't like your tea, William P. Is not it
strong enough P”
“Quite; too much ; almost bitter, and a
little cold.”
“Fancy, child,” said Aunt Dinah, who ap-
prehended a new attack on her tea-chest, and
hated waste. “I think it particularly ſood
this evening,” and she sipped a little in evi-
dence of her liking, and once more relapsed
into reading.
“I can add water,” said Violet, touching the
little ivory handle of the tea-urn with the tip
of her finger, and not choosing to apprehend
William's allegory.
“No, thank you, Wi–Violet, I mean—Miss
Darkwell; indeed, I forgot. What shall I
read to-night?” and he strode listlessly to the
little book case, whose polished surface flashed


74 ALL IN THE DARK.
pleasantly to the flicker of the wood fire.
“‘ Boswell's Johnson,’ ‘Sir Charles Grandison,’
“Bishop Horsley's Sermons,’ ‘Trimmer's
Works,” “A Simple Story,’ ‘Watts' Sacred
Songs,’ ‘Rasselas,” “Poems, by Alfred Tenny-
son.’”
His quiet voice as he read the names on the
backs of Aunt Dinah’s miscellaneous collection,
sounded changed and older, ever so much, in
Violet's ear. All on a sudden for both, a part
of their lives had been cut off, and a very
pleasant time changed irrevocably to a retro-
spect.
“I think ‘Tennyson.’ What do you?” he
asked, turning a smile that seemed faded now,
but kindly as ever, upon her.
As the old name was gone, and the new
intolerable, he compounded by calling her by
none; and she, likewise, in her answer:
“Oh yes, Tennyson, Tennyson, by all
means; that is, if Miss Perfect wishes.”
“Yes— oh! to be sure; but haven't you
read it before?” acquiesced Miss Perfect.
William smiled at Violet, and said to Miss
Dinah, “I think—and don't you?”—this was
to Wi, parenthetically, “that poetry is never


ALL IN THE DARK. 75
heard fairly on a first reading. It resembles
music—you must know it a little to enjoy
it.”
“That's just what I think,” said Violet,
eagerly.
“Very good, young people,” said my aunt,
with a little toss of her head. “For my part,
I think there's but one Book will bear repeated
reading, and that is the Bible.”
“Not even ‘Elihu Bung P’” suggested
William.
“There—read your poetry,” said Miss Per-
fect. “I shan’t interrupt; I’m reading these,
looking back for the date of a family event.”
This was an exercise not unfrequently im-
posed on her by Henbane, who now and then
made a slip in such matters, and thus per-
plexed and troubled Aunt Dinah, who had
sometimes her secret misgivings about his
accuracy and morality.
“What shall I read P” asked William in a
lower tone. -
“Anything, “Mariana,’” she answered.
“The ‘Moated Grange,’” repeated William,
and smiled. “The poetry of monotony.' I
could fancy, if a few pleasant faces were gone,


76 ALL IN THE DARK.
this Gilroyd Hall, much as I like it, very like
the Moated Grange.”
And without more preface he read that ex-
quisite little poem through, and then leaned
back in his chair, the book open upon the
table, pretty Violet sat opposite, working at
her crochet, in a reverie, as was he as he gazed
on her.
“Where did she learn all that P. How much
wiser they are than we. What a jolly ass I
was at seventeen, and all the fellows. What
fools—weren't they –in things like that ; and
by Jove' she's quite right, I could not go on
Wi-ing her all my days, just because when she
was a child she used to be here. They are
certainly awfully wise in that sort of thing.
Pretty head she has—busy, busy—quite a
little world within it now, I dare say. What
a wonder of wonders, that little casket !
Pretty hair, awfully pretty; and the shape of
her head, so pretty, and yet the oval reminds
me, right or wrong, of a serpent's head; but
she has nothing of that in her, only the wis-
dom; yes, the wisdom, and, perhaps, the fasci-
nation. She'll make some fellow's heart sore
yet; she'll make some great match, I dare say ;


ALL IN THE DARK. 77
but that's a long way off, eight years; yes,
she'll be twenty-four then ; time enough before
her.”
“Is there any cricket for to-morrow?” asked
Vi on a sudden.
“No match, no. I'm going up to look at
Revington. Trevor said he'd call for me early
—eleven o'clock—for me, mind; and you
know I begin to feel an interest in Re-
vington.”
“Oh it's very pretty, great old timber,”
she said, “and a handsome place, and a good
estate—three thousand a year, only it owes
some money. What an ambitious, audacious
person I must be. I'm certain you think so,
because it is quite plain I covet my neighbour's
house, and his ox, and his ass, and everything
that is his ; and coveting, Dr. Mainwaring
tells us, is the fountain-head of all iniquity,
for how could a person so poor as I ever obtain
all these fine things without fraud and chi-
canery?”
Miss Violet was talking a little recklessly
and angrily, but she looked unusually hand-
some, her colour was so beautiful, and there
was so strange a fire in her vexed eyes. What


TS ALL IN THE DARK.
was the meaning of this half-suppressed scorn,
and who its real object? How enigmatical
they grow so soon as the summer hours of
fascination, and of passion with its disguises
and sorrows, in all their transient glow and
beauty, approach — the season of hope, of
triumph, and of aching hearts.


CHAPTER X.
VANE TREVOR IS DISCUSSED AND APPEARS.
It was in this mysterious turbulent frame of
mind that old Winnie Dobbs, bearing the Bible
and book of family prayers, surprised Miss
Violet Darkwell, and recalled Aunt Dinah from
the sound and fury of forty years ago, now
signifying no more than the discoloured paper
on which they were recorded.
“Dear me! can it be a quarter to ten
already?” exclaimed Miss Perfect, plucking
her watch from her side and inspecting it.
“So it is ; come in.”
And fat Mrs. Podgers, the cook, and Tom,
with his grimmest countenance, and the little
girl with a cap on, looking mild and fright-
ened.
So, according to the ancient usage of Gilroyd


S0 ALL IN THE DARK.
Hall, to William's lot fell the reading of the
Bible, and to Aunt Dinah’s that of the prayers,
and then the little congregation broke up, and
away went Vi to her bed-room, with old
Winnie.
William was not worse, nor, I dare say, much
better than other young Cambridge men of
his day and college; but he liked these little
“services” in which he officiated, and they
entered into his serene and pleasant recollec-
tions of that sequestered habitation.
“Well, William dear, I thank God I am
spared to be with you a little longer.”
“Amen,” he said, “you dear aunt, dear, dear
old Aunt Dinah.”
And they kissed very lovingly, and there
was a silence, which Aunt Dinah in a few
minutes broke by mentioning the very subject
at that moment in his mind.
“You saw Violet a good deal grown—very
pretty figure—in fact, I think her lovely; but
we must not tell her so, you know. She has
been very much admired, and a good, affection-
ate, amiable little soul she is. There's young
Mr. Trevor. I can tell you people are begin-
ning to talk about it. What do you think?”


ALL IN THE DARK. Sl
William set down his bedroom candle on the
tea table, rubbed the apex of its extinguisher
with the tip of his finger, and returned an
answer answerless.
“He’s very good-looking; isn't he But
he thinks a lot of himself; and don't you
think it would be an awful pity little Vi should
be married so soon P”
“Then you think he means to ask her?”
said Miss Perfect, her silver pencil-case to her
chin, her head a little aside, and looking very
curiously into her nephew's eyes.
“I don't know ; I haven’t a notion. He
said yesterday he thought her very pretty;
but Trevor always talks like no end of a swell,
and I really think he fancies a princess, or some-
thing of the sort, would hardly be good enough
for him.”
“It would, of course, be a very good match
for Wi,” said Miss Perfect, dropping her eyes,
perhaps a little disappointed, and running her
pencil-case back and forward slowly on the
edge of William's plated candlestick, from
which they both seemed to look for inspira-
tion; “but a girl so pretty as she may look
higher than Mr. Trevor without presumption.”
WOIL. I. (5


82 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Yes, indeed, and there's no hurry, Heaven
knows. I don't think Trevor half good enough
for her,” said William.
“Oh, I don't say that; but—but more
unlikely things have happened.”
“Does he—does he make love to her?”
said William, who drew altogether upon the
circulating library for his wisdom in those
matters.
“He certainly admires her very much; he
has been very attentive. I'm sure he likes
her, and I can't hear that he is anything but a
straightforward, honourable young man.”
“I suppose he is,” said William ; “I’m sure
he's that. And what does Violet—Miss Dark-
well—say?”
“Say! Why, of course I can't ask her to
say anything till he speaks. I dare say she
likes him, as why should she not? But that's
only conjecture, you know; and you are not
to hint it to him, mind, if he should question
or poke you on the subject.”
“Oh, no, certainly,” answered William, and
there came a long pause. “But indeed, aunt,
I don't think Vane Trevor half good enough
for her.” -


ALL IN THE DARK. S3
“Oh! that's for them, my dear, to settle.
There's nothing, in point of prudence, against
it.”
“No-oh, no. Everything very well. Lucky
fellow, to be able to marry when he likes.”
“And—but I forgot you don't mind. You
think there's nothing in it. Still I may tell
you. I have had—old Winnie and I–some
answers.”
“Table-rapping?” said William.
“A little séance. We sit down together,
Winnie and I; and some responses, in my
mind, can hardly refer to anything else, and
most sweet and comforting they have been.”
Once on this subject, my aunt was soon
deep in it, and told her story of the toad
which turned into a hand; whereupon Wil-
liam related his dream, and the evidences
afforded by his waking senses of the reality of
the visitation. My aunt was at once awe-
struck and delighted.
“Now, William, you'll read, I've no doubt,
the wonderful experiences of others, having
had such remarkable ones of your own. Since
my hand was held in that spirit-hand—no
doubt the same which seized yours—I have
6–2


S4 ALL IN THE DARK.
become accessible to impressions from the in-
visible world, such as I had no idea of before.
You need not be uncomfortable or nervous.
It is all benevolent—or, at worst, just. I've
never seen or felt that hand but once; the
relation is established for ever by a single
pressure. I have satisfied Dr. Drake—a very
intelligent man, and reasonable—convinced
him, he admits. And now, dear William,
there is another link between us; and if, in
the mysterious ways of Providence, you should
after all be taken first, I shall have the happi-
ness of communion with you. Good night,
dear, and God bless you, and be careful to put
out your candle.”
So William departed, and notwithstanding
Miss Perfect's grisly conversation, he slept
soundly, and did not dream of the shadowy
giant, nor even of Trevor and Violet.
Pleasant, listless Gilroyd Hall ! thought
William, as, after breakfast, he loitered up and
down before the rich, red-brick front of the old
gabled house, with its profusion of small win-
dows, with such thick, white sashes, and
casings of white stone; and the pointed gables,
with stone cornice and glittering weather-vane


ALL IN THE DARK. S5
on the summit. That house, somehow, bore a
rude resemblance to the old world dandyism
which reigned in its younger days, and re-
minded William of the crimson coats, the bars
of lace and quaint, gable-like cocked hats,
which had, no doubt, for many a year passed
in and out at its deep-porched door; where I
could fancy lovers loitering in a charmed mur-
mur, in summer shade, for an enchanted hour,
till old Sir Harry's voice and whistle, and the
pound of his crutch-handled cane, and the
scamper and yelp of the dogs, were heard in
the oak hall approaching.
Under the old chestnuts, clustered with ivy,
Violet joined him.
“Well, how are we to-day 2 I think we
were a little cross last night, weren't we?”
said William, with his old trick of lecturing
little Vi.
“We One of us may have been, but it
was not I,” she answered.
“I think my watch is wrong. Did you
happen to look at the clock as you passed:"
“Half-past eleven.”
“Ah! so I thought. How many hours
long, Miss—” (Vi he was going to say)—


86. ALL IN THE DARK.
“Darkwell, are contained in half an hour's
waiting * The spirit of Mariana has come
upon me:
“She only said, “My life is dreary,”
“He cometh not,” she said ;
She said, “I am a-weary, a-weary,
I would that I were dead!”.'
Can't you a little understand it, too?—not, of
course, quite like me, but a little?”
Vi was not going to answer, but suddenly
she changed her mind, and said—
“I don't know, but I think you were a great
deal more agreeable when you were a school-
boy. I assure you, I'm serious. I think
you've grown so tiresome and conceited. I
suppose all young men in the universities are.
‘A little learning is a dangerous thing,' you
used to tell me, and I think I can now agree
with you—at least, it seems to make people
vain and disagreeable.”
Maubray answered looking on her gently,
but speaking as if in a pensive soliloquy, and
wondering as he went along whether he had
really turned into a coxcomb; for he was one
of those sensitive, because diffident souls on


ALL IN THE DARK. 87
whom the lightest reproof tells, and induces
self-examination. -
“I don't know,” he said, “that I’ve even got
the little learning that qualifies for danger. I
don't think I am vain—that is, not a bit vainer
than I used to be ; but I’m sure I’m more dis-
agreeable—that is, to you. My babble and
dull jokes were very well for a child, but the
child has grown up, and left childish things
behind; and a young lady in her teens is
more fastidious, and—and, in fact, is a sort of
an angel whom I am not formed to talk to
with a chance of being anything but a bore.
Very unlearned, and yet a book-worm ; very
young, and yet not very merry; not a bad
fellow, I think, and yet, with hardly a friend
on earth, and—by Jovel here comes Trevor
at last.”
And Trevor entered the gate, and approached
them.


CHAPTER XI.
UNDER THE CHESTNUTS.
VANE TREvoR was rather good-looking ; a
young gentleman of the slender and delicate
type; his dark hair curled, and on his small
forehead one of those tresses, twisted, barber-
fashion, into a neat little Ionic volute, and his
glossy whiskers were curled on each cheek into
little rolls like pistol barrels. There was in
his toilet something of elaboration and pre-
cision which was uncomfortable, and made one
fear to shake hands with him, and wish him
safely back again in his band-box.
He approached simpering. There was a
general air of May Fair—cameo studs, var-
nished boots, and lavender gloves—that had
nothing of the rough and careless country in
it.
“How do, Miss Darkwell—charming day,


ALL IN THE DARK. 89
-is not it? Everything really so fresh ; you
can't imagine—as I came along, and a-this,
now really this little—a—place, it looks quite
charming—quite, really, now—a—as you turn
off the road, there's every thing you know to
make it charming.”
This latter period was delivered in a low
tone, and with a gracious significance.
“How d'ye do, Maubray?”
“Quite well, thank you,” said William, with
a smile that had a flicker of unconscious amuse-
ment in it. Perhaps without knowing it, he
was envying him at that moment. “He’s a
worse fool, by Jove' than I thought he was,”
was his mental criticism ; but he felf, more
conscious of his clumsy shoes, and careless
get-up. “That's the sort of thing they ad-
mire—why should a fellow be vexed—they
can't help it—it's pure instinct.”
“What delicious ground for croquet; posi-
tively I never saw anything so beautiful in my
life. Do you play, Miss Darkwell ?”
“Sometimes, at the Rectory—not here. The
Miss Mainwarings play, and once or twice I've
joined their party.”
“But they have no ground there,” insisted


90 ALL IN THE DARK.
Mr. Trevor; “it’s all on a slope. I happen to
know it very well, because, in fact, it belongs
to me. Old Mainwaring pays me a pretty
smart rent for it, at least he thinks so. Ha!
ha! hal” and Vane Trevor cackled gaily over
his joke, such as it was.
“Do you play?” demanded Violet of Wil-
liam.
“Croquet 2—no, not much—just a little—
once or twice—I’ll do to fill a place if you
want a very bad player.”
“Oh, never mind, we'll pull you through,
or push you — ha, ha, ha! — we will, in-
deed. You'll learn it a-in no time, it's so
simple—isn't it, Miss Darkwell? And then
if you can get up one of those Miss Main-
warings—awfully slow girls, I'm told, but
they'll do to play with you, Maubray, just by
way of ballast, he's such a fast fellow—ha, ha,
ha! You'll want a- a slow partner, eh?”
“Yes, and you'll want a clever one, so I
surrender Miss Darkwell, just to—to balance
the game,” answered William, who was a little
combative that morning.
“Egad, I should like uncommonly to be
balanced that way, I can tell you; much


ALL IN THE DARK. 91.
better, I assure you, Miss Darkwell, than the
sort of balancing I’ve been at the last two
days, with my steward's books—ha, ha, ha!
Awful slow work, figures. A regular dose of
arithmetic. Upon my honour you'd pity me
if you knew; you really would.”
“You really would,” echoed William, “if
you knew how little he knows of it.”
“Come, now, old fellow, none of your chaft,
but get the balls and hoops, if Miss Dark-
well will allow you, and we will choose the
ground.”
“Lots of ground—I’ll choose that if you
like—only you'll just run and get the hoops
and balls, for we have none here,” answered
Maubray.
“No croquet !” ejaculated Mr. Trevor, ex-
panding his lavender kid fingers, and elevating
his eyebrows. “I thought every one had
croquet now—I mean, you know, the mallet-
things, and hoops, and balls, and—and those
little painted sticks, you know—and what are
we to do, Miss Darkwell ?”
“I really don't know. It's quite true; and
besides we have not got Miss Mainwaring, you
forget.”


92 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Oh you'll send Maubray, won't you, to
fetch her?” -
“Yes,” said Maubray, “I’ll go with great
pleasure, if Miss Darkwell wishes; but as I
never saw the young lady before, I'm not quite
sure that she'll come away with me.”
“Well no—ha, ha, ha!—I don't think she'd
run away with Maubray at first sight.”
“Particularly to come to you,” replied
Maubray. -
“There now, let's be serious—there's a little
fellow I saw at your gate—yes, there he is,
Miss Darkwell. Suppose you let me send him
to Revington. I've no end of those things
there; and I'll give him a note to Sparks, and
we shall have them in no time.”
“A long time, I'm afraid,” objected Violet.
“No, I assure you ; a mere nothing ; not
twenty minutes. Do, pray, allow me.”
And he wrote with a pencil on the back of
, a card, an order to Sparks for the croquet
apparatus, and away trotted the messenger.
“Three can play, you know, or two for that
matter, as well as twenty, and so we can do
quite well without troubling Miss Main-
waring.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 93.
There was now a knocking at the drawing-
room window, where William had seen dimly
through the glass, the form of Aunt Dinah at
her knitting, with Psyche in her new collar,
seated by her. All looked towards the signal,
and Miss Perfect threw up the window and
said :
“How do you do, Mr. Trevor? what a sweet
morning.”
“Perfectly charming,” responded the master
of Revington, with a tender emphasis which
Violet could not fail to understand, and smiling
toward Miss Perfect with his hat in his hand;
and Aunt Dinah smiled and nodded again in
return.
“William, I want you for a moment—here,
dear, you need not come in.”
The instinct which makes old ladies afford
a dole now and then of a few minutes to lovers,
is in harmony with the general rule of mercy
and mitigation which alleviates every human
situation.
As soon as Miss Dinah raised the window,
William saw standing in the chiaroscuro of the
apartment, a tall and rather handsome old
clergyman. A little rusty was his black suit—-


94 ALL IN THE DARK.
a little dust was on his gaiters. It must have
been he whom William had mistaken for the
attorney who was to have visited his aunt that
morning. He had seen him walk his nag up
to the door about an hour ago, and dismount.
The old clergyman was looking observantly
and kindly on William ; and, nodding to him,
and with her thin hand extended toward her
nephew, she said, “This is hel” with a proud
smile in her old eyes, for she thought William
the handsomest fellow alive.
“Happy to make your acquaintance, sir,”
said the cleric stepping forward and shaking
William's hand. “I knew your father, and
grandfather, and your aunt and I are very old
friends; and I've just been telling her how
happy I shall be.”—
“This is Doctor Wagget, my very good and
kind old friend; you may have heard me speak
of him often, I dare say,” interposed my aunt.
“And your reading, sir, has been rather
desultory, your aunt tells me, like my own,
sir—ha, ha, ha! We had rather give our time
than pay it; read what is not exacted of us
than what is. But I don't know, Miss Per-
fect,” continued the doctor, turning to that


ALL IN THE DARK. 95
lady, as if they were in consultation upon
William's case, “reading—that is in the case
of a man who thinks, and I am sure our young
friend here thinks for himself—resembles the
browsing of cattle: they choose their own
herbage, and the particular flowers and grasses
that answer their special conditions best, eh?
and so they thrive. Instinct directs us
creatures, in the one as in the other; and so
we read, he and I-ha, ha! what best nourishes,
you see—what we can assimilate and enjoy.
For plodding fellows, that devour the curri-
culum set before them—neither more nor
less—are, you see, stall-fed, bulkier fellows;
higher priced in the market; but they haven't
our flavour and texture. Oh, no—ha, ha!—eh?”
The ecclesiastic was cheery and kindly, and
in his manner was a curious mixture of energy
and simplicity, which William Maubray liked.
The conclusion of this little harangue he
had addressed to William Maubray; and I am
afraid that Miss Perfect was more interested
by the picture on the lawn; for, without
reference to the doctor's subject, she desired to
know, looking with a pleased inquisitiveness
at the young people, whether they were going


96 ALL IN THE DARK.
to take a walk, or what 2 And prolonged her
little tete-à-téfe with William over the window-
stool.
When William Maubray looked up again at
Doctor Wagget, that divine had picked up a
book, a trick of his, like that of the cattle from
whom his illustration was borrowed, and who
employ every moment's pause at the wayside,
in a pluck at the nearest foliage or tuft of
grass; and with the intimation, “you may as
well join them,” Miss Perfect dismissed her
nephew.


CHAPTER XII.
CROQUET.
While William Maubray was thus employed,
Mr. Trevor agreeably accosted Miss Violet.
“Now we are to choose the ground, you
know Miss Darkwell—you are to choose it, in
fact. I think, don't you, it looks particularly
smooth just there. By Jove it does '+really,
now, just like a billiard-table, behind those a—
those a-what-d'ye-callem's—the evergreens
there.”
“I think it does, really,” said Miss Vi,
gliding very contentedly into his ambuscade.
“There's a little shade too.”
“Yes, lots of shade; I hate the sun. I'm
afraid my deeds are darkness as Dr. Main-
waring says. There's only one sort of light I
really like, now, upon my honour—the light-
VOL. I. - 7


9S ALL IN THE DARK.
the light you—you know, the light that comes
from Miss Darkwell's eyes—ha, ha! upon my
honour.”
The idea was not quite original perhaps, but
Miss Darkwell blushed a little, and smiled as
it were, on the leaves, and wondered how soon
the messenger with the croquet things would
return. And Mr. Trevor consulted his watch,
and said he would allow him a quarter of an
hour more, and added that he would willingly
allow the poor little beggar an hour, or any
time; for his part, the-the time, in fact, went
only too fast for him.
Miss Perfect, looking over her spectacles,
and then with elevated chin through them,
said:
“Where have they gone to? can you see?”
“Yes—that is, I don't know—I suppose
sauntering about—they can't be very far.”
answered William, looking a little uneasily. .
And somehow forgetting that he was in the
midst of a dialogue with Aunt Dinah, he strode
away, whistling a little air, anxiously, in the
direction in which he had left them.
“We have such a charming piece of ground
here,” exclaimed Violet, on whose cheeks was


ALL IN THE DARK. 99
a flush, and in whose beautiful eyes a light
which Maubray did not like. -
“First rate; capital, by Jovel it is,” ex-
claimed Trevor in corroboration.
“I don’t see anything very wonderful about
it. I think the ground on the other side of these
trees better, decidedly; and this is out of sight
of the windows,” said William, a little drily.
“We don’t want a view of the windows—do
we ?” asked Mr. Trevor, with an agreeable
simplicity, of Miss Darkwell. “The windows?
I really did not think of them ; but, perhaps,
Mr. Maubray wishes to be within call for
lunch.”
Mr. Trevor laughed pleasantly at this cruel
sally. -
“Well, yes, that, of course,” said William,
and, beside, “my aunt might want to speak to
me again, as she did just now ; and I don't
want to be out of sight, in case she should.”
This was very bitter of William ; and,
perhaps, Miss Violet was a little put out, as
she certainly was a little more flushed, and a
short silence followed, during which, looking
and walking slowly toward the gate, she asked,
“Is that the boy with the croquet P”
7–2


100 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Yes—no—yes, by Jove, it is What won-
derful eyes yours are, Miss Darkwell ?”
The latter remark was in a tender under-
tone, the music of which was accompanied by
the long-drawn screak of the iron gate, as the
boy entered with a holland bag, mallets, and
hoops.
The hoops were hardly placed, when Miss
Perfect once more knocked at the window and
beckoned.
“Aunt Dinah wants meagain,” said William,
and he ran to the window, mallet in hand.
The old clergyman had gone away, and I
think Aunt Dinah only wanted to give the
lovers a few minutes.
“Willikens and his Dinah,” said Mr. Trevor,
and exploded in repeated cachinations over his
joke. “I vote we call him Willikens—capital
name, isn't it—I really do. But, by Jove, I
hope the old lady won't go on calling him up
from his game every minute. We'd have been
a great deal better at the other side of the
trees, where we were going to play, don't you
think P”
“He is coming at last,” said Miss Violet.
“Shall we be partners, you and I? Do let


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 101
us, and give him two balls,” urged Mr. Trevor,
graciously, and a little archly.
“Well, I think that's dull, rather, isn't it?
one playing with two balls,” remonstrated
Miss Darkwell.
And before the debate could proceed William
Maubray had arrived.
“Every one for himself, eh?” said Trevor;
and so the game set in, Trevor and William
Maubray playing rather acrimoniously, and
making savage roquets upon one another; and
Miss Darkwell—though William dealt tenderly
with her—was hard upon him, and, so far as
her slender force would go, knocked him about
inconveniently. “Capital roquet, Miss Dark-
well,” Trevor would cry, as William's ball
bounded away into perspective, and his heart
felt sore, as if her ungrateful mallet had smitten
it ; and his reprisals on Trevor were terrific.
Thus, amid laughter, a little hypocritical,
and honest hard knocks, the game proceeded,
and Miss Darkwell, at its close, was the
winner.
William Maubray could lose as good-
humouredly as any fellow at other games, but
he was somehow sore and angry here. He


102 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
was spited by Violet's partial dealing. Violet,
how unnaturall Little Wil his bird! his pro-
perty, it seemed, leagued with that coxcomb
to whack him about—to make a butt and a fool
of him.
“I’m not going to play any more. I’ll sit
down here, if you like, and do”—/ooseberry,
he was on the point of saying, for he was very
angry, and young enough, in his wrath, to talk
away like a schoolboy—“ and do audience, or
rather spectator; or, if you choose, Trevor, to
take that walk over the Warren you promised
me, I’m ready. I’ll do exactly whatever Miss
Darkwell prefers. If she wishes to play on
with you, I'll remain, and if she has had
enough of us, I'll go.”
“I can't play—there is not time for another
game,” said Miss Wi, peeping at her watch.
“My aunt will want me in a few minutes
about that old woman—old Widow Grey. I
—I'm afraid I must go. Good-bye.”
“Awfully sorry! But, perhaps you can P
Well, I suppose, no help for it,” said Trevor.
And they walked slowly to the door, where
Miss Wipronounced the conventional invitation
to enter, which was, however, wistfully de-


ALL IN THE DARK. 103
clined, and Trevor and William Maubray set
out upon their walk, and Miss Wi, in the
drawing-room, sat down on the old-fashioned
window-seat, and looked out, silent, and a little
sulkily, after them. º
Miss Perfect glanced over her spectacles,
with a stealthy and grave inquisitiveness, at
the pretty girl.
“Well, dear, they went away?” she said,
after a silence.
“Oh yes; I was tired playing, and, I think,
William wanted to go for a walk.”
“There seemed to be a great deal of fun
over the game,” said Aunt Dinah, who wanted
to hear everything.
“Yes, I believe so; but one tires of it. I
do, I know :” and saying this, Miss Violet
took up her novel, and Aunt Dinah scrutinized
her, from time to time, obliquely, over her
crochet needles, and silence reigned in the
drawing room.
“Very pretty Miss Darkwell is. I quite
envy you. Your cousin, isn't she?” said
Trevor, graciously. He felt that William
would be flattered by the envy, even playful,
of Vane Trevor, Esq., of Revington.


I 0.1 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Cousin, or something, someway or other
connected or related, I don't know exactly.
Yes, I believe she is very well. She was
prettier as a child, though. Isn't there a short
way to the Warren?”
“Yes, I'll take you right. She looks, I’d
say, about seventeen.”
“Yes, I dare say,” answered William. “ Do.
you know those Miss Mainwarings—Doctor
Mainwaring's daughters ?”
But it would not do. Vane Trevor would
go on talking of Violet Darkwell, in spite of
William's dry answers and repeated divergences,
unaccountably to that philosophical young
gentleman's annoyance.


CHAPTER XIII.
UN SOCIABI, E.
At dinner, in the parlour of Gilroyd Hall,
there was silence for some time. William
looked a little gloomy, Violet rather fierce and
stately, and Aunt Dinah eyed her two guests
covertly, without remark, but curiously. At
last she said to William—
“You took a walk with Mr. Trevor P”
“Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered.
“Where º’’
“All about and round that stupid Warren—
six or seven miles,” answered William.
“How very fatiguing" exclaimed Violet,
compassionately, as if to herself.
“No, not the exercise; that was the only
thing that made it endurable,” answered
William, a little crossly. “But the place is


106 ALL IN THE DARK.
uglier than I fancied, and Trevor is such a
donkey.”
Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixedon William's,
made a nod and a frown, to arrest that line of
remark, which, she felt, might possibly preju-
dice Wi, and could do no possible good. And
Miss Vi, looking all the time on the wing of
the chicken on her plate, said, “The salt,
please,” and nothing more.
“Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endea-
vouring to be cheery, “he asked my leave last
Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He
has two, he says, at Revington. Did he men-
tion it to-day?”
“I—I-perhaps he did. I really forget,”
said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork,
and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for
as she raised her eyes, she perceived that
William was smiling.
“I know what you mean,” she said, with a
sudden directness to William. “You want me
—that is, I think you want me to think you
think—”
“Oh do stop one moment. There are so
many ‘thinks' there, I’m quite bewildered
among them all. Let's breathe an instant.


ALL IN THE DARK. 107
You think I want to make you think that I
think. Yes, now I have it, I think. Pray go
xx
On. -
“Polite '" said Miss Wi, and turned toward
Aunt Dinah.
“Well, no,” said William, for the first time
laughing a little like himself; “it was not
polite, but very rude and ill-bred, and I'm very
sorry; and I assure you,” he continued more
earnestly, “I should be very angry, if any one
else had made the stupid speech that I have
just made; and, really, I believe it is just this
—you have been too patient with me, and
allowed me to go on lecturing you like an old
tutor—and—and—really, I'm certain I’ve been
a horrid bore.”
Vi made no reply, but looked, and, no doubt,
thought herself more ill-used for his apologies.
After tea she played industriously, having
avowed a little cold, which prevented her sing-
ing. William had asked her. He turned over
the leaves of a book, as he sat back in an
elbow-chair, and Aunt Dinah was once more
deep in her old box of letters, with her gold
spectacles on.
They were as silent a party as could be


10S ALL IN THE DARK.
fancied ; more silent than at dinner. Still, the
pleasant light of fire and candle—the handsome
young faces and the kindly old one—and the
general air of old-fashioned comfort that per-
vaded the apartment, made the picture plea-
sant; and the valses and the nigger ditties, with
snatches of Verdi, and who knows what com-
poser beside, made the air ring with amerrymed-
ley, which supplied the lack of conversation.
To William, with nothing but his book to
amuse him, time moved slowly enough. But
Miss Violet had many things to think of; and
one could see that her eyes saw other scenes
and shapes far away, perhaps, from the music,
and that she was reading to herself the
romance that was unrolled within her pretty
girlish head.
So prayers came, and William read the
chapter; and I am afraid his thoughts wan-
dered, and he felt a little sore and affronted,
he could not tell why, for no one had ill-used
him; and, when their devotions were over,
Miss Vi took her candle, and bid Grannie good
night, with an embrace and a kiss, and William
with a nod and a cold little smile, as he stood
beside the door, having opened it for her.


ALL IN THE DARK. 109
He was growing formal in spite of himself,
and she quite changed. What heartless, cruel
creatures these pretty girls are
She had quite vanished up the stairs, and
he still held the door-handle in his fingers,
and stood looking up the vacant steps, and, as
it were, listening to distant music. Then,
with a little sigh, he suddenly closed the door,
and sat down drowsily before the fire, and
began to think that he ought to return to his
Cambridge chambers, his books, and monastic
life: and he thought how fortunate those fel-
lows were, who, like Trevor—what a goose
that fellow is 1–were born to idleness, respect,
and admiration.
“Money!—d—n money—curse it! I wish
I had a lot of it !” and William clutched the
poker, but the fire did not want poking, and
he gave it a rather vicious knock upon the bar,
which startled Miss Perfect, and recalled his
own thoughts from unprofitable speculations
upon the preposterous injustice of Fate, and
some ultimate state of poetical compensation,
in which scholars and men of mind, who
played all sorts of games excellently, and
noodles, who never did anything decently—in


110 ALL IN THE DARK.
fact, he and Trevor—would be dealt with dis-
criminately, and with common fairness.
“Don’t, dear William, pray, make such a
clatter. I’m so nervous.”
“I beg a thousand pardons. I’m so
stupid.”
“Well, it does not signify—an accident—
but don't mind touching the fire-irons,” said
Miss Perfect; “and how did your walk with
Mr. Trevor—a—a—proceed? Did he-a-
talk of anything?”
“Oh! didn't he? Fifty things. He's a
wonderful fellow to talk, is Trevor,” said
William, looking with half-closed eyes into
the fire.
“Oh, yes,” persisted Aunt Dinah; “but
was there anything—anything particular—
anything that could interest us?”
“Next to nothing that could interest any
one,” said William, uncommunicatively.
“Well, it would interest me, if he talked of
Violet,” said Aunt Dinah, coming directly to
the point. “Did he?”
“Of Violet? Yes, I believe he did,”
answered William, rather reluctantly.
“Well, and why did not you say so? Of


ALL IN THE DARK. 111
course, you knew that's what I meant,” said
Miss Perfect.
“How could I know, Auntie P”
“I think, William Maubray, you are a little
disagreeable to-night.”
William, at these words, recollected that
there was truth in the reproof. His mood
was disagreeable to himself, and, therefore, to
others.
“My dear Auntie, I'm very sorry. I'm
sure I have been—not a little, but very—and
I beg your pardon. What was it? Yes—
about Violet. He did, a great deal. He—in
fact—he talked about her till he quite tired
me.”
“He admires her, evidently. Did he-a-
talk of her good looks? She is, you know,
extremely pretty,” said Aunt I)inah.
“Yes, he thinks her very pretty. She is
very pretty. In fact, I don't think—judging
by the women who come to church—there is
a good-looking girl, except herself, in this part
of the world; and she would be considered
pretty anywhere—rery pretty."
“Revington is a very nice place, and the
Trevors a good old family. The-the-con-


112 ALL IN THE DARK.
nection would be a very desirable one; and I
—though, of course, not knowing, in the
least, whether the young man had any serious
intentions—I never alluded to the possibility
to Vi herself. Yet, I do think she likes him.”
“I should not wonder,” said William.
“And—and—he talked pretty frankly P”
continued Aunt Dinah.
“I suppose so. He did not seem to have
anything to conceal; and he always talks a
great deal, an enormous quantity;” and
William yawned, as it seemed, over the recol-
lection.


CHAPTER XIV.
A SUNNY MORNING.
“I suppose, if he likes her, there's nothing to
conceal in that?” challenged Miss Perfect.
“No, of course,” replied William, spiritedly;
“I think she's a thousand times too good for
him, every way—that's what I think; and I
wonder, young as she is, Vi can be such a
fool. What can she see in him? He has got
two thousand a-year, and that's all you can say
for him.”
“I don't know that—I can't see—in fact,
he strikes me as a very pretty young man,
quite apart from his property,” said Aunt
Dinah, resolutely; “and I could quite under-
stand a young girl's falling in love with him.”
William, leaning with his elbow on the
chimney-piece, smiled a little bitterly, and
said, quietly, “I dare say.”
VOL. I. S


114; ALL IN THE DARK.
“I don't say, mind, that she is. I don't.
upon my life, know the least, whether she
cares twopence about him,” said Aunt Dinah.
“I hope she doesn't,” rejoined William.
“And why so?” asked Aunt Dinah.
“Because, I’m perfectly certain he has not
the least notion of ever asking her to marry
him. He's not thinking seriously about her,
and never will,” replied he.
“Well, it's nothing to vaunt of You need
not talk as if you wished her to be mortified,”
said Aunt Dinah.
“I ſ—I wish no such thing, I assure you;
but, even if she admires and adores the fellow
all you say, still I can't wish her his wife—
because—because I'm sure he's not the least
worthy of her. I assure you he's no better
than a goose. You don't know him—you
can't—as the fellows in the same school did—
and Violet ought to do fifty times better.”
“You said he does not think seriously about
her,” said Miss Perfect. “Remember, we are
only talking, you and I, together, and—and I
assure you I never asked her whether she liked
him or not, nor hinted a possibility of any-
thing, as you say, serious coming of it; but


ALL IN THE DARK. 113
what makes you think the young man disposed
to trifle P”
“I didn't say to trifle,” answered William ;
“but every fellow will go on like that where
there's a pretty girl, and no one supposes they
mean anything. And from what he said to-
day, I would gather that he's thinking of
some swell, whenever he marries, which he
talks of like a thing so far away as to be
nearly out of sight; in fact, nothing could be
more contrary to any sign of there being any
such notion in his head—and there isn't. I
assure you he has no more idea, at present, of
marrying than I have.”
“H'm " was the only sign of attention
which Aunt Dinah emitted, with closed lips,
as she looked gloomily into her work-basket,
I believe for nothing.
William whistled “Rule Britannia,” in a
low key, to the little oval portrait of the Very
Rev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, Dean of Crutch
Friars, the sainted and ascetic parent of the
eccentric old lady, who was poking in her
work-basket, his own maternal grandfather;
and a silence ensued, and the conversation
expired.
S
-
2


116 ALL IN THE DARK.
Next morning, William, returning from his
early saunter in the fields, saw the graceful
head of Miss Violet peeping through the open
window of the parlour, through the jessamine
and roses that clustered round it. Her eyes
glanced on him, and she smiled and nodded.
“Uncertain as the weather!” thought he,
as he smiled and kissed his hand, approaching,
“a lowering evening yesterday, and now so
sunny a morning.”
“How do you do, Miss Violet? you said
you wanted a water-lily, so I found two in my
morning's ramble, and here they are.”
“How beautiful. Thank you very much.
Where did you find them P’’ said Miss Vi quite
glowing.
“In the Miller's Tarn,” he answered. “I’m
so glad you like them.”
“Quite beautiful! The Miller's Tarn?”
She remembered that she had mentioned it
yesterday as a likely place, but it was two
miles away; four miles there and back, for a
flower. It deserved her thanks, and she did
thank him ; and reminded him in tone and
look of that little Vi of other years, very plea-
santly yet somehow sadly.


ALL IN THE DARK. 117
“I mean to return to Cambridge to-morrow,”
said William, a little regretfully; he had
glanced round at the familiar scene; “and I
am sorry to leave so soon.”
“And must you go?” asked Violet.
“Not quite must, but I think I ought. If
I had brought with me some papers I have
been transcribing for Doctor Sprague, I might
have stayed a little longer, but they are locked
up, and he wants the copy on Tuesday, and so
I can't help it.”
“It was hardly worth while coming. Poor
Grannie will miss you very much.”
“And you, not at all.”
“I? Oh, yes, of course we shall all miss
you.”
“Some, but not you, Vi.”
The old “Wi" passed quite unnoticed.
“I, and why not I ?”
“Because your time is so pleasantly oc-
cupied.”
“I don't know what you mean,” said the
young lady coldly, with a little toss of her
head. “More riddles I suppose.”
“Mine are poor riddles; very easily found
out. Are we to have croquet to-day ?”


118 ALL IN THE DARK.
“I’m sure I can't tell,” replied she.
“Did not Trevor tell you he was coming
here at eleven F" asked William.
“I don't recollect that he said anything
about coming to-day,” she answered carelessly.
“I did not say to-day,” said William pro-
vokingly.
“You did. I’m nearly certain. At all
events I understood it, and really it does not the
least signify.”
“Don’t be vexed—but he told me he had
settled with you to come here to-day, at eleven,
to play as he did yesterday,” said William.
“Ho! Then I suppose I have been telling fibs
as usual? I remark I never do anything right
when you are here. You can't think how plea-
sant it is to have some one by you always in-
sinuating that you are about something
shabby.”
“You put it in a very inexcusable light,”
said William, laughing. It may have been a
vaunt of Trevor's, for I think he's addicted to
boasting a little ; or a misapprehension, or—
or an indistinctness; there are fibs logical and .
fibs ethical, and fibs logical and ethical; but
you don't read logic, nor care for metaphysics.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 119
“Nor metaphysicians,” she acquiesced with
cruel scorn.
“Well,” said William, “he says he's coming
xx
at eleven, and
“I think we are going to have prayers,”
interrupted Miss Violet, turning coldly from
the window, through which William saw the
little congregation of Gilroyd Hall assembling
at the row of chairs by the parlour door, and
Aunt Dinah's slight figure gliding to the
corner of the chimney-piece, to the right of
the Very Rev. Simeon Lewis Perfect, some-
time I)ean of Crutch Friars, where the bible
and prayer-book lay, and in the shadow her
golden spectacles glimmered like a saintly
glory round her chaste head.
So William hastened to do his office of
deacon, and read the appointed chapter; and
their serene devotions over, the little party of
three, with the windows open, and the fra-
grance and twitterings of that summer-like
morning entering through those leafy aper-
tures, sat down to breakfast, and William did
his best to entertain the ladies with recollec-
tions lively and awful of his college life.
“Half-past nine, Miss Violet; don't forget


120 ALL IN THE DARK.
eleven,” said William, leaning by the window-
frame, and looking out upon the bright and
beautiful landscape. “I’ll go out just now
and put down the hoops.”
“Going to play again to-day,” enquired
Miss Perfect briskly; “charming morning for
a game—is he coming, William *
“Yes, at eleven.”
“H’m ‘’’ murmured Aunt Dinah, in satis-
factory rumination.
And William, not caring to be drawn into
another discussion of this interesting situation,
jumped from the window upon the sward, and
kissing his hand to Aunt Dinah, strolled away
toward the river.


CHAPTER XV.
DINNER AT REVINGTON.
TREvor did appear, and was received smil-
ingly; and Aunt Dinah came out and sat a
little apart on the rustic seat, and looked on
cheerfully, the day was so very charming.
Perhaps she fancied it a case for a Chaperone,
and being a little more in evidence, than a seat
in the drawing-room window would make her,
and with her work, and with Psyche at her
feet, she presided very cheerily.
When, after two or three games, Trevor was
taking his leave, Miss Violet Darkwell having,
notwithstanding various nods and small frowns
from Grannie, persisted in announcing that
she was tired, and had beside a long letter to
write before Tom left for the town, the master
of Revington said—(he and Maubray were
knocking the balls about at random)—


122 ALL IN THE DARK.
“I say, Maubray, you must come over to
Revington and have a mutton chop, or some-
thing. You really must; an old schoolfellow,
you know, and I want to talk to you a bit,
upon my honour I do. I'm totally alone, you
know, at present, and you must come.”
“But I'm going to-morrow, and this is my
last evening here,” said William, who felt un-
accountably queer and reluctant.
What could Trevor want to talk to him
about? There was something in Trevor's
look and manner a little odd and serious—he
fancied even embarrassed. Perhaps it is some
nonsense about little Wi.
“I want him to come and dine with me,
Miss Perfect, and he says you can't spare him,”
said Trevor, addressing that lady. “I really
do. I’ve no one to talk to. Do tell him to
come.”
“Certainly,” said Aunt Dinah, with an im-
perious little nod to William Maubray. “Go,
William, my dear, we shall see you to-night,
and to-morrow morning. He'll be very happy
I'm sure,” said Aunt Dinah, who, like William
Maubray, possibly anticipated a revelation.
So William, having no excuses, did walk


ALL IN THE DARK. 123
over to Revington to dine. There was almost
a pain at his heart as he paused for a moment
at the stile, only one field away, and saw pretty
Vi on the dark green grass, looking at the
flowers, with little Psyche frisking beside her,
and the kindly old front of Gilroyd Hall, and
its lofty chestnuts in the sad evening light,
and he sighed, thinking—“Why won't things
stay as they are as they rere 2 What is the
drift of this perpetual mutation? Is it really
progress * Do we improve * Don't we” (he
would have said Violet?) “ grow more selfish
and less high-minded : It is all a beautiful
decay, and the end is death.”
Violet was plainly intent on her flowers, she
had her hoe and her rake, and her movements
somehow were so pretty that, unseen, he paused
for another moment.
“It is a blessed thing to have so little affec-
tion as that pretty creature; old times are no-
thing for her, and I, like a fool, yearn after
them. The future for her no doubt looks all
brilliant; for me it is a story, to the end of
which I dare not look, and the pleasant past is
a volume shut up and over; she is little Wi
and Violet no longer, and even Miss Darkwell


124 ALL IN THE DARK.
will very soon be like the song of a dead bird
—a note only remembered ; and—and I sup-
pose I shall bring back the news to-night, a
message from Mr. Vane Trevor, of Revington,
to say that he lays his heart and his title-deeds
at her feet. It's all over; I look on it as all
settled.”
Just at these words the edge of the red sun
sank behind the hills, and the last level beams
of sunset gave place to the tender gray of
twilight, except on the uplands of Revington,
where they lingered for a few seconds.
“Ay,” said William, allegorizing ; “the
shade for William Maubray; the golden light
of life for Vane Trevor' Vane Trevor of
Revington | William Maubray of—nothing
at all!-charming contrast.”
And looking still on Gilroyd Hall, and the
fading image of Violet Darkwell and Psyche
frisking about, no longer white, but a moving
gray spot on the sloping grass, he said, touch-
ing his finger-tips to his lip and waving them
lightly towards her, “Good-by, little Vi; good-
by, wicked little Wi; good-by, dear, old,
wicked little Wi, and may God bless you, you
darling !”


ALL IN THE DARK. 125
So with a sigh and a sad smile he turned
and walked up to Revington. It is a good
ancestral looking place, only a little too large
for the estate as it now is. The Trevors had
parted from time to time with many acres, and
a house upon a scale which would have corre-
sponded with three times their income, was
rather a tax upon what remained.
“I never liked this place,” thought William,
as the iron gate clanged behind him; “I
always thought it gloomy, and stingy, and
pompous. I wish he had let this dinner alone,
I'd have been pleasanter at home, though it's
as well, perhaps, to hear what he has to say.
I think he has something to say: but, hang
it, why could not he tell it as well at Gilroyd,
and to the people it concerns? why need he
bring me this stupid walk up his hill 2" And
William as he talked was switching the laurel
leaves at his side with his cane, and leaving
here and there half a leaf or a whole one on
the gravel, and sometimes half a dozen—not
quite unconsciously; there was something of
defiance, I am afraid, in this trespass.
William came in ; the hall was not lighted;
he was received in the dusk by a serious and


126 ALL IN THE DARK.
rather broad gentleman in black, who took his
hat and cane with a bow, led him through an
anteroom, illuminated dismally by a single
lamp, and announced his name at the drawing-
room, where Vane Trevor received him, ad-
vancing from the hearth-rug to the middle of
the room, in an unexceptionable evening toilet,
and in French boots, and shook hands with
just a little inclination which implied some-
thing of state, though smilingly performed.
Mr. Trevor was very conscious of the extent
of the mansion of Revington, of the scale of
the rooms, of the pictures, and in short of
everything that was grand about him.
William was a little disgusted and rather
uncomfortable, and eat his soup, and cutlets,
and kickshaws, gloomily, while Trevor, leaning
on his elbow, talked away, with a conscious
superiority that was at once depressing and
irritating.
They had a jug of claret—not the best even
in Trevor's cellar, I am afraid—after dinner,
and sat facing the fire, and sipping that
nectar. -
“Snug little room this,” said Trevor looking
along the ceiling, with his napkin over his


ALL IN THE DARK. 127
knee, and his claret glass in his fingers. “It
isn't the parlour, only a sort of breakfast-room.
The parlour, you know, is a-it's considered a
handsome room. Thirty-five feet by twenty.”
“Yes, I know,” said William, with a dry
carelessness.
“Ah! well, yes--I dare say. A good many
people—it's an old place, rather—do know
something about Revington.”
“Especially those who have lived the greater
part of their lives within half a mile of it,”
rejoined William. -
“Ah, ha!—yes; to be sure; I forgot you
have been so constantly at Gilroyd. What a
nice little bit of a thing it is. I could fancy
growing quite in love with it—isn't it?”
“Yes,” said William, shortly, and filled his
glass, and drank it in a hurry. He fancied
that Trevor was about to come to the point.


CHAPTER XVI.
OVER THEIR CLARET.
“GREAT fun, croquet, isn't it? Awful fun with
pretty girls,” exclaimed Vane Trevor, rising,
and standing on the hearthrug, with his back
to the fire, and his glass in his hand, and
simpering agreeably, with his chin in the air.
“I think it capital fun, I know. There's so
much cheating—ha, ha!—isn't there?—and
such lots of of whispering and conspiring—
and—and—all that sort of thing, you know ;
and the girls like it awfully. At Torhampton
we had capital games, and such glorious
ground. Do you know the Torhamptons?”
“The Marquess?—ha—ha!—no, of course
I don’t ; how should I?” said William with a
little laugh of disgust.
“Oh well I—I thought a-but Lady


ALL IN THE DARK. 129
Louisa, she is so sweetly pretty; I was told
off pretty often to play with her, and we had
such fun knocking the fellows about. Capital
player and awfully clever—they're all clever—
one of the cleverest families in England they're
thought; the old lady is so witty—you can't
imagine—and such a pleasant party staying
there. I was almost the only fellow not a
swell, by Jove, among them,” and he ran his
eye along his handsome cornices, with a sort
of smile that seemed to say something different.
“I fancy they wish to be civil, however, I—
from something Lady Fanny said—I rather
fancy they have an idea of putting up Lord
Edward—you know, for the county, but don't
let that go further, and I suppose they thought
I might be of use. Won't you have some
more claret?”
“I don't know them—I don't understand
these things; I don't care if all the Marquesses
in England were up the chimney,” said
William, cynically, throwing himself back in
his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and
looking sulkily into the fire.
“Well—ha, ha!—that need not prevent
your filling your glass, eh?” laughed Trevor,
VOL. I. 9


I 30 ALL IN THE DARK.
graciously and indulgently, as though he
belonged himself to that order of Marquesses
of whom Maubray spoke so slightly, and forgave
him.
“Thanks; I will,” and so he did, and sipped
a little; and after a little silence he asked with
a surly quietude, “And why don’t you marry
that lady—what's her name—Louisa—if she
liked you?”
“It doesn't follow that she likes me, and
you know there are difficulties; and even if
she did, it does not follow that I like her ;
don't you see?” and he cackled in gay self-
complacency; “that is, of course, I mean
liking in the way you mean.”
Again this desultory conversation flagged
for a little time, and Trevor, leaning on the
chimney-piece, and looking down on William,
remarked profoundly—
“It’s odd–isn't it?”—when you come to
think of it, how few things follow from one
another; I've observed it in conversation—
almost nothing, by Jove"
“Nothing from nothing, and nothing re-
mains,” said William drowsily, to the fire,
repeating his old arithmetical formula.


ALL IN THE DARK. 131
“And about marrying and that sort of
thing; seriously, you know — your glass is
empty again; do have some more.” .
So William poured a little into his glass
and his heart seemed to stop and listen,
although he looked as if he only half heard,
and was weary of the subject.
“And as we were saying, about marrying—
and, by-the-bye, Maubray, it's the sort of thing
would just answer you, a quiet fellow—why
don't you think about it, old fellow, eh?”
It was a way Trevor had of always forget-
ting those little differences of circumstance
which, in contrast, redounded to his import-
ance, and he asked such questions, of course,
quite innocently.
“You know very well I couldn't,” said
William, poking the fire, unbidden, with a few
angry stabs. “How the devil can a fellow
marry in college, and without a shil-
ling?” -
. “Ah, ah, it isn't quite so bad; come! But
of course there is a difference, and, as you say,
there's lots of time to look about—only if a
fellow is really spooney on a girl—I mean
awfully spooney, the big wigs say—don't they?
9–2


132 ALL IN THE DARK.
The best thing a fellow going to the bar can
do is to marry, and have a wife and lots of
babbies—it makes them work so hard—doesn't
it? You're going to the bar, you say, and that
is the way to get on, eh?”
“I’m glad there's any way, but I don't
mean to try that,” murmured William, a little
bitterly, and after a little pause, during which
who knows what a dance his fancy led him,
“I know that sort of talk very well; but I
never could see what right a fellow has to
carry off a poor girl to his den, merely that
her hunger, and misery, and cries may stimu-
late him to get on at the bar; and the fact is,
some fellows are slaves, and some can do just
as they please; and life is damnably bitter for
some, and very pleasant for others, and that's
the whole story; you can marry whenever you
please, and I can't.”
“I’m afraid it’s a true bill,” said Trevor, com-
placently; whereupon there issued a silence,
and twice and again was William Maubray
moved to break it with a question, and as often
his voice seemed to fail him. At last, however,
he did say, quite quietly—


ALL IN THE DARK. 133
“And why don't you marry, if you think it
so good a thing?”
Was it something in William's tone and air,
although he was trying his best to seem quite
unconcerned, that elicited the quick, and some-
what cunning glance that Trevor shot on him *
At all events Trevor's manner became a little
diplomatic and reserved.
“Why don't I? Oh! fifty reasons—a hun-
dred. There are all sorts of difficulties; I
don't mean, of course, anything mysterious—
or—or that sort of bosh; and—and this house
and the property, every one knows, are very
well. I've been four years in possession, and
I've no fault to find with Revington—either
tenants or this,” and he nodded towards the
ceiling, indicating that he meant the house.
“But—but you know—for a fellow like me;
we've been here, you know, a long time; there
was a Trevor here in Henry the Fifth's time—
but you know more history than I do.”
Trevor considered his family and his domi-
cile as a part of English history, and William,
who was in an unpleasant mood just then,
said—
“And the estate was larger, wasn't it?”


134 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Ah, ha-yes certainly—that is, there was
another estate,” acquiesced Trevor, eagerly,
but looking a little put out. “The Torhamp-
tons, by-the-bye, have got it now ; a marriage,
or something.”
“A purchase, I thought,” insisted Maubray.
“A purchase 1 very likely. It does not sig-
nify sixpence if the thing's gone, and gone it
is. But you see, having been here for a longer
time, I'm afraid, than you and I are likely to
live; and—and having a sort of place among
the people—you understand—a kind of a-
quite undeserved—only because we have been
here so long—that sort of an influence—or
whatever it is—a fellow isn't as free as you'd
fancy. By Jovel he's tied up, I can tell you;
horribly tied up. A poor devil like me. Egad,
he's not like a man with an income out of the
funds—there's that sort of thing, I suppose it
is the shadow—don't you see—of the old
feudal thing, but so it is. There's a sort of
rural opinion, a kind of loyalty, in a very small
way, of course; but it is that sort of feeling—
and there's no use, you know, in blinking it;
and a fellow has to consider, you know, how
his tenants and people would receive it; and—


ALL IN THE DARK. 135
ask any one—you can't conceive how a fellow's
hampered, really hampered, now.”
“Do you really think they care a farthing?”
asked Maubray.
“Care ' You've no idea,” exclaimed his
friend.
“Well, when I make my fortune, I’ll keep
it in the funds,” said Maubray.
“I stron/ly advise you,” said Trevor, with
admirable solemnity. “Have some coffee?
And—and here's curacoa.”
“When will he talk about Vi,” thought
William, as he set down his coffee cup; “he
can't have brought me here to dinner merely
to hear that pompous lecture.”
And, indeed, it seemed to William that
- Trevor had something more to say, but did
not know how to begin it.


CHAPTER XVII.
MOON-SHINE.
AND now, for they kept early hours at Gilroyd.
William, with a peep at his watch, declared he
must go, and Trevor popped on his fez and pro-
duced his cigars, and he set out with Maubray,
in the moonlight, to see his friend out of the
grounds.
As they walked down the slope, with the
thick chestnuts of Gilroyd Hall and two of its
chimneys full in view—the misty lights and
impenetrable shadows of moonlight—and all
the familiar distances translated into such soft
and airy outline—the landscape threw them,
I dare say, somewhat into musing, and that
sort of sympathy with the pensive moods of
nature which has, time out of mind, made
moonlight the lamp of lovers. Aid some


ALL IN THE DARK. 137
special associations of the scenery induced
them to smoke on in silence for some time,
insensibly slackening their pace, the night
scene was so well worth lingering over.
“And—and your cousin—isn't she?—down
there, how awfully pretty she is,” said Trevor,
at last, lowering his cigar between his fingers.
“Cousin; I suppose we're all cousins in
some roundabout way related—I don't know
how. Yes, she is—she's very pretty.”
“Darkwell; connected, are they, with the
Darkwells of Shropshire 2" asked Trevor.
“Perhaps—I really don't know—I never
knew there were Darkwells in Shropshire,”
said William.
“Oh, dear, yes! I thought every one knew
that. Darkwell's the name of the place, too.
A very old family,” said Trevor.
“I did not know ; but her father is a bar-
rister, and lives in London, and has some sons,
but I never saw them,” answered William.
Trevor sighed. He was thinking what low
fellows these sons might possibly be. A
barrister! He remembered ‘young Boles’s’
father visiting Rugby once, a barrister, making
fifteen hundred a year, a shabby, lean-looking


13S ALL IN THE DARK.
fellow, with a stoop, and a seedy black frock
coat, and grizzled whiskers, who talked in a
sharp, dry way, with sometimes a little brow-
beating tendency—not a bit like a gentleman.
On the other hand, to be sure, there were lots
of swells among them. But still there was
the image of old Boles's father intruding into
the moonlight, and poking about the old trees
of Gilroyd. They had come to a halt under
the mighty clump of beech trees that you can
see against the sky from the distant road to
Audminton, and, after a silence, Trevor said—
“I remember a thing I saw in a play in
London, about a fellow that married a mermaid,
or something of the sort; and—and, egad, they
got on capitally till her family began to appear,
and—and the situation began to grow too—
too fishy, in fact, for him; so, by Jove, he cut
and ran ; and—and I forget how the play ends;
but it was awfully funny.”
“Yes,” said William, “they ought to come
to us like Aphrodite, from the foam of the
sea, and have no kindred—in utter isolation.”
“Who?” asked Trevor.
“Our beautiful brides" exclaimed Maubray,
a little mockingly.


ALL IN THE DARK. 139
“It’s a confounded world we live in,” re-
sumed Trevor, after a little silence. “Look at
me, now, for instance, how we are, and all this
belongs to me, and has been hours for—good-
ness knows how many centuries; and I assure
you I sometimes feel I'd rather be a simple
fellow with a few hundreds a-year, and my way
to make in the world, and my liberty along
with it—than—than all this.”
“Suppose we exchange,” said William, “I’ll
take the estate off your hands, and allow you
three hundred a-year, and your liberty, and
wish you joy of the pleasant excitement of
inaking your way in the world, and applaud
when you get on a bit, and condole when you're
in the mud.”
Trevor only smiled grandly, and shook his
head at William's waggery.
“But seriously, just consider. You know
I'm telling you things, old fellow, that I
wouldn't say to every one, and this won't, I
know, go further.” He resumed after a little
interval spent in smoking, “But just think
now : here's everything, as you see ; but the
estate owes some money; and I give you
my honour, it does not bring me in, net,


140 ALL IN THE DARK.
when everything's paid, three thousand a-
year.”
“Oh, no " said William, in a tone which
unconsciously implied, “a great deal less, as
we all know.”
“No, not three thousand—I wish it was,”
said Trevor, with an eager frankness, that
savoured of annoyance. He had not intended
to be quite believed. “And there's the—the
position. You're expected to take a lead in
things, you see, as if you had your six thousand
a-year, egad, or whatever it is ; and how the
devil are you to manage it? Don't you see.
And you tumble in love with a girl; and—and
you find yourself encumbered with a pedigree
—a confounded family tree, by Jove' and
every one expects you to—to marry accord-
ingly. And I don't say they're not right,
mind, for, by Jove' on the whole, I believe
they are. So here I am with—with all this
about me, and not a soul on earth to bully me,
and yet I can't do as I like. I don't say, by
Jove, that I do want to marry. I dare say it
would not answer at all, at least for a jolly good
number of years, and then, I suppose, I must
do as the rest of the world does. I must, you


ALL IN THE DARK. 141
see, have some money, and I must have some-
thing of-of, you know, a-a-family; and
that's how I stand. Come along, it's growing
awfully late, and—and it's very likely—ha-
ha—ha!—I may die an old bachelor.”
“Well, you know,” said William, who
thought that Trevor had spoken with extra-
ordinary good sense, “there's no such hurry.
Fellows wait, as you say, and look about
them; and it's a very serious thing—and, by
Jovel here we are at the gate; and I’ve had
a very pleasant evening—jolly! I did not
think two fellows, by themselves, could be
so jolly, and—and that capital claret !” Poor
William was no great judge, nor, for that
matter, indeed, was his great friend, Mr.
Trevor, who, however, knew its price, and
laying his hand on William's arm, said—
“Well, old fellow, I'm glad—I really am—
you enjoyed yourself; and I hope when
next you come, you'll have another glass or .
two with me. There's one thing I say about
wine, be it what it may—hang it, let it be
real, and get it from a good house; and give
my respects to your ladies—don't forget; and
when you come again, we must have more


142 ALL IN THE DARK.
croquet. Let the balls and mallets stay where
they are, you know, till then ; and God bless
you, Maubray, old boy, and if I can give you
a lift, you know, any way, tell me, and I dare
say, my solicitor can give you a lift when you
get to the bar. Sends out a lot of briefs, you
know. I’ll speak to him, if you wish.”
“A good time before that,” laughed Wil-
liam. “Many thanks, though ; I suppose I
shall turn up in a few weeks again, and I’m
beginning to take to the croquet rather, and
we can have lots of play; but, by Jove! I'm
keeping you all night—good bye.”
So they shook hands, each thinking more
highly of the other. I'm afraid our mutual
estimates are seldom metaphysically justifiable.
“Well,” thought Trevor, as he smoked his
way up hill to the house, “no one can say I
have not spoken plain enough. I should not
like to have to give up that little acquaintance.
It's an awfully slow part of the world. And
now they know everything. If the old woman
was thinking about anything, this will put it
quite out of her head; and I can be careful,
poor little thing! It would be a devil of a
thing if she did grow to like me.”
*


ALL IN THE DARK. 143
And with a lazy smile he let himself in, and
had a little sherry and water, and Bell's Life
in the drawing-room.
William Maubray experienced an unaccount-
able expansion of spirits and sympathies, as he
strode along the pathway that debouches close
upon the gate of Gilroyd Hall. Everything
looked so beautiful, and so interesting, and so
serene. He loitered for a moment to gaze on
the moon; and, recollecting how late it was, he
rang at the bell fiercely, hoping to find Violet
Darkwell still in the drawing-room.
“Well, Tom, my aunt in the drawing-
room *" said William, as he confided his coat
and hat to that faithful domestic.
“Ay, sir, she be.”
“And Miss Darkwell ?”
“Gone up wi' Mrs. Winnie some time.”
“Oh, that's all right, nothing like early
sleep for young heads, Tom ; and it's rather
late,” said William Maubray, disappointed, in
a cheerful tone.
So he opened the door, and found Aunt
Dinah in the drawing-room.


CHAPTER XVIII.
SUPPER.
“ELIHU BUNG” was open upon the table, also
the Bible; and in the latter volume, it is but
fair to say, she had been reading as William
rang the bell. With her pleasant smile of
welcome Miss Perfect greeted him.
“Now, sit down, William, and warm your-
self at the fire—you are very cold, I dare say.”
“Oh, no: it's quite a summer night.”
“And, Thomas, tell Mrs. Podgers to send
up something for Master William's supper.”
Vainly William protested he could eat
nothing; but Mrs. Podgers had been kept out
of her bed—an allusion which was meant to
make him feel, too, his late return—for the
express purpose of broiling the bones with
which he was to refresh himself; and Aunt


ALL IN THE DARK. 145
Dinah, who had the military qualities strong
within her, ordered Tom to obey her
promptly.
“Well, dear William, how did you like your
dinner. Everything very nice, I dare say.
Had he any one to meet you?”
“No, quite alone; everything very good
and very pleasant—a very jolly evening, and
Trevor very chatty, chiefly about himself, of
course.”
Aunt Dinah looked at him with expectation,
and William, who understood her, was not one
of those agreeable persons who love to tantalize
their neighbours, and force them to put their
questions broadly.
“Violet has gone to bed” said William.
“Oh, yes, some time.”
“Yes, so Tom said,” pursued William.
“Well, I've no great news about Trevor's
suit; in fact, I'm quite certain there's nothing
in it.”
Aunt Dinah’s countenance fell.
“And why?” she enquired.
“He mentioned her. He admires her—he
thinks her very pretty, and all that,” said
William.
WOL. I. | ()


146 ALL IN THE DARK.
“I should think so,” interposed Miss Per-
fect, with the scorn of one who hears that
Queen Ann is dead.
“But he made quite a long speech, at the
same time—I mean in continuation—and
there's nothing — nothing serious—nothing
whatever—nothing on earth in it,” con-
cluded he.
“But what did he say? Come, try and
remember. You are young, and don't know
how reserved, and—and how hypocritical—all
lovers are; they affect indifference often merely
to conceal their feelings.
“I hope she does not like him,” began
William.
“I’m very sure she doesn't,” interpolated
Aunt Dinah rapidly; “no girl likes a man till
she first knows that he likes her.”
“Because he took care to make it perfectly
clear that he could not think of marrying her,”
added William.
“Upon my life,” exclaimed the old lady
briskly, “remarkably civil ' To invite her
cousin to dinner in order to entertain him with
such an uncalled-for impertinence. And what
did you say, pray?”


ALL IN THE DARK. 147
“He did not mention her, you see, in con-
nection with all this,” said William.
“Oh! pooh! then I dare say there's no-
thing in it,” exclaimed Aunt Dinah, vigor-
ously grasping at this straw.
“Oh But there is, I assure you. He
made a long speech about his—his circum-
stances,” commenced William.
“Well, surely he can afford to keep a wife,”
interrupted Dinah, again.
“And the upshot of it was just this—that
he could not afford to marry without money—
a lot of money and rank.”
“Money and rank | Pretty well for a young
coxcomb like Mr. Vane Trevor, upon my word.”
This was perhaps a little inconsistent, for
Aunt Dinah had of late been in the habit of
speaking very highly of the young gentleman.
“Yes, I assure you, and he said it all in a
very pointed way. It was, you see, a kind of
explanation of his position, and although there
was nothing—no—no actual connecting of it at
all with Violet's name, you know he couldn't do
that ; yet there was no mistaking what he
meant.”
Aunt Dinah looked with compressed lips
10–2


148 ALL IN THE DARK.
on a verse of the Bible which lay open before
her.
“Well, and what did he mean P” she re-
sumed defiantly. “That he can't marry Violet !
And pray who ever asked him P I, for one,
never encouraged him, and I can answer for
Violet. And you always thought it would be
a very disadvantageous thing for her, so young,
and so extremely beautiful as she unquestion-
ably is; and I really don't know any one here
who has the smallest reason to look foolish on
the occasion.”
“Well, I thought I'd tell you,” said Wil-
liam, “tell you what he said, I mean.”
“Of course—quite right!” exclaimed she.
“And there could be no mistake as to his
intention. I know there isn't, and—and
really, as it is so, I thought it rather honour-
able his being so explicit. Don't you?” said
William.
“That's as it may be,” said Aunt Dinah, ora-
cularly shutting the Bible and “Elihu Bung,”
and putting that volume on the top of the
other; “young people now-a-days are fuller a
great deal of duplicity and—and worldliness,
than old people used to be in my time. That's


ALL IN THE DARK. 149
my opinion, and home goes his croquet in the
morning. I've no notion of his coming about
here, with his simpering airs and graces, get-
ting my child, I may call her, talked about and
sneered at.”
“But,” said William, who instinctively saw
humiliation in anything that savoured of re-
sentment, “don’t you think any haste like
that might connect in his view with what he
said to me this evening P” -
“At seven o'clock to-morrow morning, that's
precisely what I wish,” exclaimed Aunt
Dinah.
At this moment Tom entered with the bones
and other good things, and William, with the
accommodating appetite of youth, on second
thoughts accepted and honoured the repast.
“And, Thomas, mind, at seven o'clock to-
morrow morning, let little Billy Willocks bring
over those great hammers, and wooden balls,
and—and iron things; they're horribly in the
way in the hall, with my compliments, to Rev-
ington, to Mr. Trevor, and—and don't fail.
He'll say—Billy Willocks—that they were
forgotten at Gilroyd. At seven o'clock, mind,
with Miss Perfect's compliments.”


150 ALL IN THE DARK.
“And I'm very glad, on the whole,” said
Miss Perfect, after about a minute had
elapsed, “that that matter is quite off my
mind.”
William, who was eating his broiled drum-
stick, with diligence and in a genial mood, was
agreeably abstracted, and made no effort to keep
the conversation alive.
“He talks very grandly, no doubt, of his
family. But he'll hardly venture his high and
mighty airs with you or me. The Maubrays
are older than the Trevors; and, for my part,
I would not change the name of Perfect with
any in England. We are Athelstanes, and
took the name of Perfect in the civil wars, as
I’ve told you. As to family, William, you
could not stand higher. You have, thank
God, splendid talents, and, as I am satisfied,
excellent—indeed, magnificent prospects. Do
you see much of your cousin Winston at Cam-
bridge?”
“Nothing,” said William, who was, it must
be confessed, a little surprised at his aunt's
glowing testimony to his genius, and particu-
larly to “his prospects,” which he knew to be
of a dismal character, and he conjectured that


ALL IN THE DARK. 151
a supernatural light had been thrown upon
both by Henbane.
“Do you mean to say that Winston Mau-
bray has not sought you out or showed you
any kindness?”
“I don't need his kindness, thank goodness.
He could not be, in fact, of the least use to
me; and I think he's ashamed of me
rather.”
“Ha!” ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with
SCOTI).
“I spoke to him but once in my life—when
Sir Richard came to Cambridge, and he and
Winston called on Dr. Sprague, who pre-
sented me to my uncle,” and William
laughed.
“Well ?”
“Well, he gave me two fingers to shake, and
that sort of thing, and he said, “Winston,
here's your cousin,' and Winston smiled, and
just took my hand, with a sort of slight
bow.”
“A bow ! Well — a first cousin, and a
bow " -
“Yes, and he pretended not to know me
next day at cricket. I wish he was any-


1:52 ALL IN THE DARK.
where else, or that no one knew we were con-
nected.”
“Well, never mind. They'll be of use
— of immense use to you. I'll tell you
how,” said Aunt Dinah, nodding resolutely to
William.


CHAPTER XIX.
DEBATE.
“I'd rather work my own way, auntie. It
would be intolerable to owe them anything,”
said William Maubray.
“I don't say Winston, but Sir Richard—he
can be of the most immense use to you, and
without placing you or me under the slightest
obligation.”
This seemed one of Aunt Dinah's paradoxes,
or of her scampish table's promises, and made
a commensurate impression on William's mind.
“You saw Doctor Waggett here yesterday?”
“I know—yes—the old clergyman, isn't he
who paid you a visit?”
“Just so; he is a very old friend—rery—
and thinks it a most desirable arrangement.”
“What arrangement? I don't quite


154 ALL IN THE DARK.
“You shall see,” interrupted Aunt Dinah.
“One moment's patience. I must first show
you a-a paper to read.” She walked over to
a little japanned cabinet, and as she fumbled at
the lock, continued, “And—and when you—
when you have read it—you—ah ! that's it—
when you have read it, I'll tell you exactly
what I mean.”
So saying, she presented a large, official-look-
ing envelope to William, who found that it
contained a letter and a paper, headed “Extract
from the will and testament of the late Sir
Nathaniel Maubray, of Queen's Maubray, bear-
ing date , and proved, &c., on —,
1831.”
The letter was simply a courteous attorney's
intimation that he enclosed herewith a copy,
extract of the will, &c., as requested, together
with a note of the expenses.
The extract was to the following effect:
“And I bequeath to my said son Richard
the advowson of, and right of perpetual pre-
sentation to the living and vicarage of St.
Maudlen of Caudley, otherwise Maudlin, in
the diocese of Shovel-on-Headley, now abso-
lutely vested in me, and to his heirs for ever,


ALL IN THE DARK. 155
but upon the following conditions—namely,
that if there be a kinsman, not being a son or
stepson, of my said son or of his heir, &c., in
possession, then, provided the said kinsman
shall bear the name of Maubray, his father's
name having been Maubray, and provided the
same kinsman shall be in holy orders at the
time of the said living becoming vacant, and
shall be a good and religious man, and a pro-
per person to be the incumbent of the said
living, he shall appoint and nominate the said
kinsman; and if there be two or more kinsmen
so qualified, then him that is nearest of kin;
and if there be two of equal consanguinity,
then the elder of them ; and if they be of the
same age, then either, at the election of the
bishop.”
Then there was a provision that in case there
were no such kinsman, the Dean and Chapter
of the Cathedral of Dawdle-cum-Drone should
elect a cleric, being of the said diocese, but not
of the said chapter, or of kin to any one of the
said chapter; and that the said Richard, or his
heir should nominate the person so elected.
And it was also conditioned that his son
Richard should procure, if practicable, a pri-


156 ALL IN THE DARK.
vate Act of Parliament to make these condi-
tions permanent.
“He must have been a precious odd old fel-
low, my grand-uncle, observed William, as
he sheathed the document again in the enve-
lope.
“A conscientious man, anxious—with due
regard to his family—to secure a good incum-
bent, and to prevent simony. The living is
fifteen hundred a year, and there is this fact
about it, that out of the seven last incumbents,
three were made bishops. Three *
“That's a great many,” said William, with
a yawn.
“And you'll make the fourth,” said Aunt
Dinah, spiritedly, and took a pinch of her
famous snuff.
“I gº repeated William, not quite believing
his ears. “I am going to the bar.”
“Into the Church you mean, dear William.”
“But,” remonstrated William, “but, I as-
sure you, I, without a feeling of fitness—I—
in fact, I could not think of it.”
“Into the Church, sir.” Aunt Dinah rose
up, and, as it were, mounted guard over him,
as she sternly spoke these words.


ALL IN THE DARK. 157
William looked rather puzzled, and very
much annoyed.
“Into–the–Church " she repeated, with a
terrible deliberation.
“My dear Aunt,” William began.
“Yes, the Church. Listen to me. I—I
have reason to—to know you'll be a bishop.
Now mind, William, I’ll hear no nonsense on
this subject. Henbane ! Is that what you
mutter?”
“Well, speak out. What of Henbane 2
Suppose I have been favoured with a-a com-
munication; suppose I have tried to learn by
that most beautiful and innocent communion,
something of the – the expediency of the
course I proposed, and have succeeded. What
then P”
William did not answer the challenge, and
after a brief pause she continued—
“Come, come, my dear William, you know
your poor old aunt loves you; you have been
her first, and very nearly her only object, and
you won't begin to vex her now, and after all,
to—to break her heart about nothing.”
“But I assure you,” William began.
“A moment's patience,” broke in Aunt


158 ALL IN THE DARK.
Dinah, “you won't let me speak. Of course
you may argue till doomsday, if you keep all
the talk to yourself. I say, William, there are
not six peers in England can show as good
blood as you, and I'll not hear of your being
shut up in a beggarly garret in Westminster
Hall, or the Temple, or wherever it is they put
the–the paltry young barristers, when you
might and must have a bishopric if you choose
it, and marry a peer's daughter. And choose
what you will, I choose that, and into the
Church you go ; yes, into the Church, the
Church, sir, the Church 1 and that's enough, I
hope.”
William was stunned, and looked helplessly
at his aunt, whom he loved very much. But
the idea of going into the Church, the image
of his old friend Dykes, turned into a demure
curate as he had seen him three weeks ago.
The form of stout Doctor Dalrymple, with his
pimples and shovel hat, and a general sense of
simony and blasphemy came sickenly over
him; his likings, his conscience, his fears, his
whole nature rose up against it in one abhor-
rent protest, and he said, very pale and in the
voice of a sick man, gently placing his hand


ALL IN THE DARK. 159
upon his aunt's arm, and looking with entreat-
ing eyes into hers:
“My dear aunt, to go into the Church with-
out any kind of suitability, is a tremendous
thing, for mere gain, a dreadful kind of sin. I
know I'm quite unfit. I could not.”
William did not know for how many years
his aunt had been brooding over this one idea,
how she had lived in this air-built castle, and
what a crash of hopes and darkness of despair
was in its downfall. But if he had, he could
not help it. Down it must go. Orders were
not for him. Deacon, priest, or bishop, Wil-
liam Maubray never could be.
Miss Perfect stared at him with pallid face.
“I tell you what, William,” she exclaimed,
“you had better think twice—you had bet-
ter—”
“I have thought—indeed I have—for Doctor
Sprague suggested the Church as a profession
long ago; but I can't. I'm not fit.”
“You had better grow fit, then, and give up
your sins, sir, and save both your soul and
your prospects. It can be nothing but wick-
edness that prevents your taking orders—holy
orders. Mercy on us! A blasphemy and a


160 ALL IN THE DARK.
sin to take holy orders! What sort of state
can you be in P”
“I wish to heaven I were good enough, but
I'm not. I may be no worse than many who
do go into the Church. Others may, but I
couldn't.”
“You couldn't You conceited, young, pro-
voking coxcomb As if all the world were
looking for miracles of piety from you! //70
on earth expects you to be one bit more pious
than other curates who do their best? Who
are you, pray, that anything more should be
expected from you? Do your duty in that
state of life to which it shall please God to
call you. That's simple. We expect no more.”
“But that's everything,” said William, with
a hopeless shake of his head.
“What's everything? I can't see. I don't
comprehend you. Of course there's a pleasure
in crossing and thwarting me. But of let or
hindrance to your entering the Church, there
is and can be none, except your secret resolu-
tion to lead a wicked life.”
“I’m not worse than other fellows. I’m
better, I believe, than many who do get or-
dained; but I do assure you, I have thought


ALL IN THE DARK. 161
of it before now, often, and it is quite out of
the question.” -
“You won't " said Aunt Dinah, aghast, in
a low tone, and she gaped at him with flashing
eyes, her gold spectacles shut up, and tightly
grasped like a weapon in her hand. He had
never seen her, or any one, look so pallid.
And after a pause, she said slowly, in a very
low tone—
“Once more, William—yes or no.”
“My dear aunt, forgive me; don't be vexed,
but I must say no,” moaned poor William
Maubray thus sorely pressed.
Aunt Dinah Perfect looked at him in silence;
the same white, bright stare. William was
afraid that she was on the point of having a
fit. Who could have imagined the discussion
of his profession so convulsive and frightful an
ordeal P
VOL. I. 11


CHAPTER XX.
FAREWELL.
For a minute or two, I think she could not
speak; she closed her lips tightly, and pressed
two of her fingers on them, perhaps to hide
some tremor there; and she went and placed
one of her slender feet on the fender, and
looked steadfastly on the macerated counte-
nance of the Very Rev. the Dean of Crutch
Friars, who, in his oval frame, over the chim-
ney-piece, seemed to hear and endure Wil-
liam's perversities with the meekness of a good,
sad, suffering Christian.
Aunt Dinah sighed twice, two deep, long,
laborious sighs, and tapped the steel of her
stays ferociously with her finger tips. In his
distress and confusion, William rose irreso-
lutely. He would have approached her, but
he feared that his doing so would but preci-


ALL IN THE DARK. 163
pitate an explosion, and he remained standing,
with his fingers extended on the table as if on
the keys of a piano, and looking wan and sad
over his shoulder on the back of Aunt Dinah’s
natty old-fashioned cap.
“Well, young gentleman, you have made
up your mind, and so have I,” said Aunt
Dinah, abruptly returning to the table. “You
go your own way. I shall not interfere in
your concerns. I shall see your face no more—
never! I have done with you, and depend
upon it I shan’t change. I never change. I
put you away from me. I wash my hands of
you. I have done with you. I shall send a
hundred pounds to Dr. Sprague, when you
leave to-morrow, first, to pay college expenses,
and the balance you may take, and that ends
all between us. I hate the world, ungrateful,
stiff-necked, rebellious, heartless. All I have
been to you, you know. What you would
have been without me, you also know, a beg-
gar—simply a beggar. I shall now find other
objects. You are free, sir, henceforward. I
hope you may enjoy your liberty, and that
you may never have reason to repent your per-
versity and ingratitude as bitterly as I now see
11—2


164 ALL IN THE DARK.
my folly. Go, sir, good night, and let me see
your face no more.”
William stood looking on his transformed
aunt; he felt his ears tingle with the insult of
her speech, and a great ball seemed rising in
his throat.
Her face was darkened by a dismal anger;
her look was hard and cold, and it seemed to
him that the gates of reconciliation were closed
against him for ever, and that he had come
into that place of exclusion at whose entrance
hope is left behind.
William was proud, too, and sensitive. It
was no equal battle. His obligations had
never before been weighed against his claims,
and he felt the cruel truth of Aunt Dinah's
words beating him down into the dust.
With her chin in the air, and averted gaze,
she sat stiff and upright in her accustomed
chair by the fire. William stood looking at
her for a time, his thoughts not very clear, and
a great vague pain throbbing at his heart.
There was that in her countenance which indi-
cated something different from anger—a cold
alienation.


ALL IN THE DARK. 165
William Maubray silently and softly left
the room. -
“He thinks it will be all over in the morn-
ing, but he does not know me.” So thought
Aunt Dinah, folding her cold hands together.
“Gone to bed; his last night at Gilroyd.”
Holding her mind stiffly in this attitude,
with a corresponding pose and look she sate,
and in a minute more William Maubray en-
tered the room very pale, his outside coat was
on, and his hat in his band. His lip trembled
a little, and he walked very quickly to the
side of her chair, laid his hand softly on her
shoulder, and stooping down kissed her cheek,
and without a word left the room.
She heard the hall door open, and Tom's
voice talking with him as their steps traversed
the gravel, and the jarring sound of the iron
gate on its hinges. “Good night,” said the
well-known voice, so long beloved; and “Good
night, Mr. William, good night, sir,” in Tom's
gruff voice, and a little more time the gate
clanged, and Tom's lonely step came back.
“He had no business to open the gate with-
out my order,” said Miss Perfect.


166 ALL IN THE DARK.
She was thinking of blowing Tom up, but
her pride prevented; and, as Tom entered in
reply to her bell, she asked as nearly as she
could in her usual way—
“My nephew did not take away his
trunk?”
“No, mum.”
“He gave directions about his things, of
course?”
“Yes, they're to follow, mum, by the
mornin' coach to Cambridge.”
“H'm very good; that's all. You had
better get to your bed now. Good
night.”
And thus, with a dry and stately air, dis-
missed, he withdrew, and Aunt Dinah said,
“I’m glad that's off my mind; I've done
right; I know I have. Who'd have thought?
But there's no help, and I'm glad it's over.”
Aunt Dinah sat for a long time in the
drawing-room, uttering short sentences like
these, from time to time. Then she read some
verses in the Bible; and I don’t think she
could have told you, when she closed the
book, what they were about. She had


ALL IN THE DARK. 167
thoughts of a séance with old Winnie Dobbs,
but somehow she was not exactly in the
mood.
“Master William is not in his room yet,”
observed that ancient domestic.
“Master William has gone to Cambridge
to-night,” said Miss Perfect, drily and coldly,
“and his luggage follows in the morning. I
can't find my night-cap.”
So old Winnie, though surprised, was
nothing wiser that night respecting the real
character of the movement. And Aunt Dinah
said her prayers stiffly; and, bidding old
Winnie a peremptory good-night, put out her
candle, and re-stated to herself the fact she
had already frequently mentioned: “I have
acted rightly; I have nothing to regret.
William will, I dare say, come to his senses,
and recollect all he owes me.”
In the mean time, William, with no very
distinct ideas, and only his huge pain and
humiliation at his heart, trudged along the
solitary road to Saxton. He sat down on the
stile, under the great ash tree by the road-
side, to gather up his thoughts. Little more


168 ALL IN THE DARK.
than half an hour before, he had been so
unusually happy; and now, here he sat ship-
wrecked, wounded, and forlorn.
He looked at his watch again. A dreadful
three-quarters of an hour must elapse before
the Cambridge coach would draw up at the
Golden Posts, in High Street. Had he not
better go on, and await its arrival there? Yet
what need he care? What was it to him
whether he were late or not? In his outcast
desperation he fancied he would rather like to
wear out his shoes and his strength in a long
march to Cambridge. He would have liked
to lift his dusty hat grimly to Violet, as he
strode footsore and cheerless on his way. But
alas! he was leaving Violet there, among
those dark-tufted outlines, and under the high
steep roof whose edge he could just discern.
There could be no chance meeting. Farewell!
Back to Cambridge he was going, and through
Cambridge into space, where by those who
once liked him he should be found no more;
on that he was resolved.
So up he got again, without a plan, without
a reason, as he had sat down; and he lifted


ALL IN THE DARK. 169
his hat, and, with extended arm, waved his
farewell toward Gilroyd. And the old ash
tree looked down sadly, murmuring, in the
fickle night breeze, over his folly.


CHAPTER XXI.
WILLIAM CONSULTS A SAGE.
STARTING afresh, at a pace wholly uncalled for
by time or distance, William Maubray was
soon in the silent street of Saxton, with the
bright moonlight on one side of it, and the
houses and half the road black in shadow on
the other.
There was a light in Doctor Drake's front
parlour, which he called his study. The
doctor himself was in evidence, leaning upon
the sash of the window, which he had lowered,
and smoking dreamily from a “church-warden”
toward the brilliant moon. It was plain that
Miss Letty had retired, and, in his desolation,
human sympathy, some one to talk to, ever so
little, on his sudden calamity—a friendly soul,
who knew Aunt Dinah long and well, and was


ALL IN THE DARK. 171
even half as wise as Doctor Drake was reputed
to be, would be a God-send. He yearned to
shake the honest fellow's hand, and his haste
was less, and subsided to a loitering pace, as
he approached the window, from which he
was hailed, but not in a way to make it quite
clear what the learned physician exactly
wanted.
“I shay—shizzy—shizhte—shizh-shizh-
shizhte—V-V-Viator, I shay,” said the
Doctor—playfully meaning, I believe, Siste
Viator.
And Doctor Drake's long pipe, like a shep-
herd's crook, was hospitably extended, so that
the embers fell out on the highway, to arrest
the wayfarer. So William stopped and said:
“What a sweet night—how beautiful, and
I'm so glad to find you still up, Doctor Drake.”
“Alwayzh — all — alwayzh up,” said the
Doctor, oracularly, smiling rather at one side
of his cheek, and with his eyes pretty nearly
closed, and his long pipe swaying gently, hori-
zontally, over the trottoir; “you'll look—
insh’r pleashure—acquaintensh.”
By this time the doctor, with his disengaged
hand, had seized William's, and his pipe had


172 ALL IN THE DARK.
dropped on the pavement, and was
smashed.
“Bl—bloke—bl—boke" murmured the
doctor, smiling celestially, with a little vague
wave of his fingers toward the fragments of
his churchwarden, from the bowl of which the
sparks were flitting lightly along High Street.
“Bio-boke—my—p—p—phife."
“I—shay, ole boy, you—come—in,” and
he beckoned William, grandly, through the
window.
William glanced at the door, and the doctor,
comprehending, said, with awful solemnity:
“All—thingsh deeshenly—in an—in or—
or—orrer, I shay. Come—ole fellow—wone
ye?—toothe th’—th' door sh’r—an'—an'you'll
norr regresh—no—never.”
William, though not very sharp on such
points, perceived that Doctor Drake had been
making merry in his study; and the learned
gentleman received him at the hall-door, laying
his hand lovingly and grandly on his arm.
“Howzhe th’— th’ ladle — th’ admir’bl’
womr, over there, Mish Perfek?”
“My aunt is very well—perfectly well,
thanks,” answered William.


ALL IN THE DARK. 173
“No thangs—I thang you sh’r—I thang
Prover'll” and the doctor sank with a com-
fortable sigh, and his back against the wall,
shaking William's hand slowly, and looking
piously up at the cornice.
“She's quite well, but—but I've something
to tell you,” said William.
“Comle—comle—ong '" said the doctor,
encouragingly, and led the way unsteadily into
his study.
There was a jug of cold water, a “tumbler,”
and a large black bottle on the table, to
which the doctor waved a gracious introduc-
tion.
“Ole Tom, ole Tom, an’ wiwawr hizh
dring the chryshle brook”
The doctor was given to quotation in his
cups, and this was his paraphrase of “The
Hermit.”
“Thanks, no,” said William ; “I have had
my glass long ago. I–I'm going back to
Cambridge, sir; I'm going to make a push in
life. I've been too long a burden on my
aunt.”
“Admiral wom’le sh'r? Wurle—worry—
no wurrier—ladle !” (worthier lady! I believe


174 ALL IN THE DARK.
he meant) exclaimed the doctor, with growing
enthusiasm.
Contented with these evidences of mental
vigour, William, who must have spoken to the
roadside trees, rather than refrain himself, pro-
ceeded to tell his woeful story—to which
Doctor Drake listened, clinging rather to the
chimney-piece with his right hand, and in his
left sustaining a large glass of his favourite
“Old Tom” and water, a little of which occa-
sionally poured upon the hearth-rug.
“And, Doctor Drake, you won't mention
what I’m going to say?”
The doctor intended to say, “silent as the
sepulchre,” but broke down, and merely nodded,
funereally pointing his finger perpendicularly
toward the hearthstone; and having let go his
hold on the chimney, he made an involuntary
wheel backward, and sat down quite unex-
pectedly, and rather violently, in an elbow-
chair.
“You promise, really and truly, sir?” pressed
William.
“Reel-reel-reelan'-tooral,” repeated the doc-
tor as nearly as he could.
And upon this assurance William Maubray


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 175
proceeded to state his case, and feeling re-
lieved as he poured forth his wrongs, waxed
voluble ; and the doctor sat and heard,
looking like Solomon, and refreshing his lips
now and again, as if William's oration parched
them.
“And what, sir, do you think I had best
do?” said William, not very wisely it must be
owned, applying to Philip, certainly not sober—
for judgment.
“Return to my duty P” repeated William,
interpreting as well as he could the doctor's
somewhat vague articulation. “Why, I am
certain I never left it. I have done all I eould
to please her; but this you know is what no
one on earth could be expected to do—what
no one ou/ht to do.”
“Wron/, sh’r!” exclaimed the doctor with
decision. “Thersh—r—r—right, and th’rsh
wrong—r—ry—an' wrony—moshe admira'l
ladle, Mish Perfeck l—moshe amiable; we all
appresheay—sheniorib—bush pie—ri—pie—
oribush—ole Latt'n, you know. I 'preshiay
an’ love Mish Perfey.”
Senioriºus prioribus There was a want of
clearness, William felt, in the doctor's views;


176 ALL IN THE DARK.
still it weighed on him that such as they were
they were against him.
“The principle on which I have acted, sir,
can't be shaken. If I were, at my aunt's desire,
now to enter the Church, I should do so entirely
from worldly motives, which I know would
be an impiety such as I could not endure to
practise.”
“Conn'ry toop—toop—prinsh'p'l—conn'ry—
conn'ry,” murmured the doctor, with an awful
shake to his head.
The coach was now seen to pass the windows,
with a couple of outside passengers, and a pile
of luggage on top, and pulled up some sixty
yards lower down the street, at the Golden
Posts. With a hasty shake of the hand,
William Maubray took his leave, and mounted
to his elevated seat, as the horses, with their
looped traces hanging by them, emerged from
the inn-yard gate, like shadows, by the rapid
sleight-of-hand of groom and hostler—to replace
the wayworn team, now snorting and shaking
their flanks, with drooping necks, and emitting
a white steam in the moonlight, as they waited
to be led off to rest and comfort in the stables
of the Golden Posts.


CHAPTER XXII.
AN ADVERTISEMENT.
CHILL was the night. The slight motion of
the air was against them, and made a cutting
breeze as they drove on. The gentleman who
sat beside him in a huge cloak and fur cap,
with several yards of cashmere swathing his
throat and chin and chops, was taciturn, except
when he offered William a cigar. The cold,
dark, and solitude helped his depression—and
longing to see Dr. Sprague, to whom, in his
helplessness he looked for practical counsel.
The way seemed more than usually long.
There was one conclusion clearly fixed in the
chaos of his thoughts. He had done with
dependence. No matter to what level it
might reduce him, he would earn his own
bread. He was leaving Gilroyd Hall behind
VOI,. I. ] 2


I7S ALL IN THE DARK.
him, and all its dreams, to be dreamed no.
more. Perhaps there was in the surrounding
gloom that romantic vista, which youth in its
irrepressible hopefulness will open for itself.
And William Maubray in the filmy perspective
saw a shadow of himself as he would be a few
years hence—wealthy, famous, the outcast
restored, with the lawn and the chestnuts
about him, and pretty old Gilroyd spreading
its faint crimson gables and glittering window-
frames behind, and old Aunt Dinah, and
another form in the foreground, all smiles and
tears, and welcome.
Poor fellow ! He knows not how few
succeed—how long it takes to make a fortune.
—how the process transforms, and how seldom.
that kind of gilding touches any but white
heads, and when the sun is near its setting,
and all the old things past or passing away.
In the morning William Maubray presented
himself before Dr. Sprague, who asked him
briskly—“How is Miss Perfect?”
“Quite well sir, thank you; but—but
something very serious has happened—very
serious sir, and I am very anxious to ask your
advice.”


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 179
“Eh!” said the doctor; “wait a moment,”
and he quaffed what remained of his cup of
tea, for William had surprised him at breakfast.
“Hey P—Nothing very bad, I hope P” and
the doctor put on his spectacles and looked in
William's face, as a physician does into that of
a patient, to read something of his case in his
countenance.
So William reported the great debate, and
alas ! the division on the question of holy
orders, to all which the good little man
listened, leaning back in his chair, with his leg
crossed and his chin raised.
“You’re in the right, sir,” he said, so soon
as he had heard the young man out—“perfectly.
What do you wish me to do? I'll write to
Miss Perfect if you wish it.”
“Very kind of you, sir; but I'd rather not,
on that subject, at least till I'm quite out of
the way. I should not wish her to suppose
that I could seek to return to my old position
of-of obligation. I must never cost her a
farthing more.”
So William explained his feelings fully and
very candidly, and Doctor Sprague listened,
and looked pleased though grave; and, said he-
12–2


180 ALL IN THE DARK.
“You haven't been writing for any of the
Magazines, or that sort of thing P”
No, he had no resource of that kind. He
had a good deal of loose manuscript, he con-
fessed with a blush, but he had no introduction.
“Well, no,” said Doctor Sprague, “you'd
probably have a long wait, too long for your
purpose. You have, you know, a trifle of
your own, about twenty-three pounds a year,
isn't it P” and he looked in the direction of his
desk, where the memorandum was ; “ some-
thing thereabout, that I received for you.
There's a money order for eleven pounds and
something in my desk since yesterday.”
“Don’t you think, sir, that I should apply
that little annuity to pay back all I can to my
aunt, who has been so good to me.”
“Tut-tut, your aunt would not accept a
guinea, and would mistake your motive ; don't
talk of any such thing. Her past affection is
a matter of kindly recollection. You could
not reduce it to money—no, no ; but on the
whole I think you have resolved wisely. You
must, undertake, for a little, something in the
way of tuition; I don't mean here. You're
hardly well enough up in the business for


ALL IN THE DARK. 181
that; but we'll find out something here,” and
he tapped the Times, which lay open on the
table beside him. “I dare say, to suit you—
not a school, that would not do either—a tutor
in a country house. You need not stay away
more than six months, and you’ll have some-
thing to go on with then ; and in the mean-
time you can send your manuscripts round,
and try if you can’t get into some of the
periodicals.
“It is very odd, sir, but some months since
I spoke of such a plan when I was at Gilroyd,
and my aunt was positively horrified; she is
full of fancies, you know, and she told me that
none of my family had ever done anything of
the kind.”
“I don't know about that ; but I’ve done it,
I can tell you, and better men than I,” said
the doctor.
“I only mean that she made such a point of
it; she would think I had done it expressly to
vex her, or she might come wherever I was,
and try to make me leave it.”
“So she might,” said the cleric, and laughed
a little to himself, for he knew her, and fancied
a scene, “but what can you do? I think you


182 ALL IN THE DARK.
must in fact, and the best way will be to tell
her nothing about it. She has cut you, you
know, for the present, and—and you need not,
if you think it would vex her, go in your own
name, do you see P. We'll call you Mr. Herbert,
you're descended maternally, you know, from
Herberts; now—not for a moment, now, just
hear me out; there shall be no deception,
of course. I'll tell them that for certain family
reasons I have advised you to take that measure.
I'll take it all on myself, and say all I think of
you, and know of you, and I saw, just now, in
this very paper, something that I think would
answer very nicely. Yes, yes, I'll make it all
quite straight and easy. But you must do as
I say.”
The kind little gentleman was thinking that
eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might never
forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, without
at least that disguise, and he looked forward
as he murmured varium et mutabile semper, to a
much earlier redintegratio amoris than William
dreamed of.
“It's unlucky her having made a point of
it. But what is the poor fellow to do? She
must not, however, be offended more than we


ALL IN THE DARK. 1S3
can help, and that will show a wish as far as
was practicable, to consult her feelings.”
Doctor Sprague looked along a column in
the Times, and said he, after his scrutiny—
“I think there's just one of these you'll like
—say which you prefer, and I'll tell you if it's
the one I think.”
So William conned over the advertisements,
and, in Aunt Dinah’s phrase, put on his con-
sidering cap, and having pondered a good while,
“This one, I think?” he half decided and half
inquired.
“The very thing!” said Dr. Sprague, cheerily.
“One boy—country-house—just the thing;
he'll be in his bed early, you know, and you
can take your books and write away till twelve
at night; and now you had better drop them
a line—or stay, I'll do it; you can't sign your
name, you know.”
So, communications being opened, in a day
or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew
the gentleman who advertised. It was a very
old and long interrupted acquaintance.
“He’s a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton
Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I'll
write to Knox.”


T84. ALL IN THE DARK. -
The Knoxes of Kincton Hall William had
heard Trevor occasionally mention, but tried
in vain to recollect what he used to say of
them; six months, however, was no great ven-
ture, and the experiment could hardly break
down very badly in that time.
“Maubray, your cousin, has quarrelled with
his father, you heard?”
“No.”
“Oh, yes, just about the time when you left
this—a few days ago. Young Maubray has
some little property from his mother, and
chooses to take his own way; and Sir Richard
was in here with me yesterday, very angry and
violent, poor man, and vows (the doctor would
not say “swears” which would have described
the procedure more accurately) he'll cut him
off with a shilling; but that's all moonshine.
The estates are under settlement, and the young
fellow knows it, and that's at the bottom of
his independence ; and he's gone abroad, I be-
lieve, to amuse himself: and he has been no
credit to his college, from all I hear.”


CHAPTER XXIII.
KINCTON HALL.
IN the parlour of Kincton Hall the family
were assembled at breakfast ; Mrs. Kincton
Knox dispensed tea and coffee in a queenlike
way, hardly called for, seeing that her husband,
daughter, and little son, formed the entire
party. *
Mrs. Kincton Knox was what some people
call a clever woman—that is, she did nearly
everything with an object, but somehow she
had not succeeded. Mr. Kincton Knox was
not Deputy Lieutenant or a Member for his
county. Her daughter Clara—with blue eyes
and golden hair—a handsome girl, now leaning
back in her chair and looking listlessly through
the window across the table—was admitted
confidentially to be near five-and-twenty, and


1S6 ALL IN THE DARK.
was in fact past eight-and-twenty, and un-
married still. There was not that intimacy
between the Croydon family and the Kincton
Knoxes for which she had laboured so cleverly
and industriously. She was not among the
patronesses, and only one of the committee, of
the great county ball, at which the Prince
figured, and which, on the plea of illness, she
had with proper dignity declined attending.
She blamed her daughter, she blamed her hus-
band, she blamed the envy and combination
of neighbours, for her failures. There was no-
thing that the wit and industry of woman
could do she had not done. She was the best
bred and most far-seeing woman in the country
round, radiant with a grave sort of fascina-
tion, always in supreme command, never for a
moment losing sight of her object, yet, great
or small, somehow never compassing it—a
Wanderdecken, thwarted invisibly, and her
crew growing old around her. Was ever ad-
mirable woman so persecuted by fortune 2
Perhaps if the accomplished Mrs. Kincton
Rnox had been some twenty years before
bereft of her brilliant intellect and shut up in
a remote mad-house, or consigned under an


ALL IN THE DARK. 187
unexceptionable epitaph to the family vault in
Smolderton Church, the afflicted family might
have prospered; for Miss Clara was really
pretty, and could draw and sing better than
most well-married young ladies of her rank in
life. And, though he was not very bright, no
man was more inoffensive and genial than
portly old Kincton Knox, if only she had per-
mitted his popularity to grow, and had left
him and his belongings a little to nature.
“Hollo! What are those fellows doing?”
exclaimed Kincton Knox, attracted by a sound
of chopping from without. “Hollo! ho!”
and with his arms extended, he made a rush at
the window, which he threw up, shouting,
“Hollo there ! stop that.”
A man stood erect with an axe in his hand,
by the trunk of one of the great walnut trees.
“What the devil are you doing, sir, cutting
down my tree?” cried the old gentleman, his
handsome face flushed with wrath, and his
silver fork, with a bit of ham on the end of it,
grasped fiercely in his left hand. “Who the
devil ordered you, sir, to—to how—pow—cut
down my trees, sir?”
“I’ve spoken to you till I'm tired, Kincton,


18S ALL IN THE IDARK.
about that tree; it buries us in perfect damp
and darkness, and I”—began the dignified lady
in purple silk, and lace coif.
“Don’t you presume, sir, to cut down a tree
of mine without my orders; don't you dare
sir; don't—don't attempt it, sir, or it will be
worse for you; take that hatchet away, sir, and
send Wall the gardener here this moment, sir,
to see what can be done, and I’ve a mind to
send you about your business, and egad if I
find you’ve injured the tree, I will too, sir;
send him this moment; get out of my sight,
sir.”
It was not more than once in two years that
Mr. Kincton Knox broke out in this way, and
only on extraordinary and sudden provocation.
He returned to the table and sat down in his
chair having shut the windows with an un-
necessary display of physical force. His
countenance was red and lowering, and his
eyes still staring and blinking rapidly, and his
white waistcoat heaving, and even the brass
buttons of his blue coat uneasy. You might
have observed the tremulous shuffle of his
fingers as his fist rested on the tablecloth, while
lv
he gazed through the window and mut-


ALL IN THE DARK. 189
tered and puffed to the agitation of his
chops. -
Upon such unusual occasions Mrs. Kincton
Rnox was a little alarmed and even crestfallen.
It was a sudden accession of mania in an
animal usually perfectly docile, and therefore
it was startling, and called not for chastisement
so much as management.
“I may be permitted to mention, now that
there's a little quiet, that it was I who ordered
that tree to be removed—of course if it makes
you violent to take it down, let it stand; let
the house be darkened and the inhabitants take
the ague. I've simply endeavoured to do what
I thought right. I'm never thanked; I don't
expect thanks; I hope I know my duty, and
do it from higher motives. But this I know,
and you'll see it when I'm in my grave, that
if it were not for me, every single individual
thing connected with you and yours would be
in a state of the most inextricable neglect and
confusion, and I may say ruin.”
“I object to the place being denuded. There
is not much in that,” blustered Mr. Kincton
Knox, plaintively.
He was now subsiding ; and she, availing


190 ALL IN THE DARK.
herself of this frame of mind, proceeded with
even more force, and dignity, till interrupted
by Miss Clara, who observed serenely—
“Mamma, that greedy little pig will choke
himself with apricot-stones, if you allow
him.”
Master Howard Seymore Knox—a stunted
and bilious boy—scowled at Miss Clara, with
muddy eyes, his mouth being too full for con-
venient articulation, and clutched his plate
with both hands.
“My precious rosebud, be careful,” remon-
strated his mamma with gentle fervour.
Stooping over his plate, a clatter of fruit-
stones was heard upon it, and Master Howard
ejaculated—
“You lie, you do, you tell-tale-tit !”
“Oh! my love,” remonstrated Mrs. Kinc-
ton.
“Briggs shall box your ears for that, my fine
fellow,” said Miss Clara.
“There's another cram | I’d like to see
her,” retorted the youth.
“Greedy little beast !” observed Clara.
“Clara, my love " suggested her mamma.
“Not half so greedy as you. Who took the


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 19]
woodcock pie up to her bedroom? Ah-ha!”
vociferated the young gentleman. -
“Now I’ll do it myself!” exclaimed the
languid young lady, rising with sudden energy.
“I’ll fling these in your ugly face, if you
come near me,” cried he, jumping up, and
behind his mamma's chair, with a knife and
fork in his right hand covered with Savory
pie. -
“I won't have this ; I won’t have it,” said
Mrs. Kincton Knox with peremptory dignity.
“Howard, be quiet, my love; Clara, sit down.”
“The imp! he'll never stop till he murders
some one,” exclaimed Miss Clara, with intense
feeling, as she sat down with brilliant cheeks
and flashing eyes. “Look at him, mamma;
he's saying ha-ha, and shaking his knife and
fork at me, the little murderer; and the liar !”
“Clara, I insist,” interposed Mrs. Kincton
Knox.
“Yes, I do believe he's an actual devil,”
persisted the young lady.
“I won’t have this,” continued the mater
familias, peremptorily.
“Ha, ha!” whispered the imp obliquely,
from the other side, wagging his head, and


192 ALL IN THE DARK.
clutching his knife and fork, while he touched
the points of the fork, with a horrid signifi-
cance, with the finger-tip of his disengaged
hand.
Miss Clara raised her hand, and opened her
mouth to exclaim ; but at this moment the
servant entered with the letters, and the current
of conversation was diverted.


CHAPTER XXIV.
WILLIAM IS SUMMONED.
Mrs. Kincton KNox had no less than seven
notes and letters, her husband one, and Miss
Clara two crossed manuscripts, which engrossed
her speedily ; and, possibly, these figures would
have indicated pretty accurately their relative
influence in the household.
The matron deigned no account of her letters
to mortal, and exacted from all others an
habitual candour in this respect; and so much
had it grown to be a matter of conscience with
her husband, that I don’t think he could have
slept in his bed if he had failed to submit any
one such communication to her inspection.
Her own were now neatly arranged, one over
the other, like the discarded cards in piquet,
beside her plate.
VOL. I. 13


I94 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Well, my dear, what is it?” she said to
her husband, accompanying the inquiry with a
little motion, like a miniature beckoning, of
her fore-finger.
“Something about the Times—the tutor,” he
began.
“Oh " said Mrs. Kincton Knox, interrupt-
ing, with a warning nod and an awful look,
and a glance at Master Howard, who was
fortunately so busy in tying bits of paper, in
imitation of a kite-tail, on the string of the
window-blind, that he had heard nothing.
“Oh!” murmured Mr. Kincton Knox, pro-
longing the interjection softly—he was accus-
tomed, with a guilty and abject submission,
every now and then, to receive that sort of
awful signal—“I did not know.” And he
whistled a little through his round mouth, and
looked a little frightened, and ashamed of his
clumsiness, though he seldom knew in what
exactly the danger consisted.
“Howard, my precious rosebud, I’ve told
Togers he may fire the pistol for you three
times this morning; he says he has powder,
and you may go now.”
So away ran Master Howard to plague


ALL IN THE DARK. 195
Rogers the footman; and Mrs. Kincton Knox
said with a nod—
“ Notc.”
“Here,” said he, mildly pushing the letter
towards her, “ you'll understand it better;”
and she read aloud—
“MY DEAR SIR,--I venture to renew an old
acquaintance at the instance of a young friend
of mine, who has seen your advertisement in
the Times, for a tutor, and desires to accept
that office. He is capitally qualified, as your
advertisement says, “to prepare a boy of twelve
for school.' He is a fair scholar, and a gentle-
man, and for his character, I can undertake to
answer almost as for my own. I feel pretty
certain that you will like him. There is but
one condition, to which I am sure you will not
object.”
“He shan’t smoke or sit up all night, if
that's it,” said the lady loftily, by way of
gloss.
“He and I agree,” she read on, “that he
should be received under the name of William
Herbert.” This paragraph she read twice over
very deliberately. “As I have pressed upon
him, for reasons which, you will readily believe,
13–2


196 ALL IN THE DARK.
are not dishonourable—what strikes me as a
strong objection to his accepting the position
you offer under his own name.”
“That's very odd, it strikes me. Why
shouldn’t he tell his name P” observed Mrs.
Kincton Knox, with grim curiosity.
“I dare say he's a low person, and his name
is not pretty,” sneered Miss Clara, carelessly.
“Who is that Mr. Edmund — Edward
Sprague P’ inquired the matron.
Mr. Kincton Knox testified to his character.
“But, just stop a moment—it is very odd.
Why should he be, if he is a fit person to be
received at Kincton — why should he be
ashamed of his name * repeated Mrs. Kincton
Knox, grandly.
“Perhaps it may be as well to let it drop,”
suggested Kincton Knox, in the hope that he
was anticipating his wife's wishes. But that
grave lady raised her nose at his remark, and
turned away, not vouchsafing an answer.
“Of course; I don't say it is not all quite
proper; but say what you may, and take it
how you please, it is a very odd condition.”
There was a pause here. Clara did not care
enough to engage in the discussion, and old


ALL IN THE DARK. 197
Kincton Knox rumpled his Times uneasily, not
knowing whether he was called on for a solu-
tion, and not caring to hazard one, for he was
seldom lucky.
“Well, and what do you propose to do?”
demanded his wife, who thus sometimes cruelly
forced the peaceable old gentleman into debate.
“Why,” said he, cautiously, “whatever you
think best, my dear.”
“I’m not likely to receive much assistance
from you, Mr. Kincton Knox. However, pro-
vided I'm not blamed for doing my best, and my
servants stormed at for obeying me * >
Mr. Kincton Knox glanced unconsciously
and penitently at the walnut tree.
“I suppose, as something must be done, and
nothing will be done otherwise, I may as well
take this trouble and responsibility upon my-
self.”
“And what am I to say to Sprague 2" mur-
mured Mr. Kincton Knox.
“I suppose the young man had better come.
Mr. Sprague, you say, is a proper person, and
I suppose we may rely upon what he says. I
hope so, I'm sure, and, if he does not answer,
why he can go about his business."


198 ALL IN THE DARK.
In due course, therefore, Mr. Kincton Knox's
reply, which he had previously read aloud to
his wife, was despatched.
So Fate had resolved that William Maubray
should visit Kincton Hall, while Aunt Dinah
was daily expecting the return of her prodigal
to Gilroyd.
“If I don't hear from William Maubray
before Sunday, I shall write on Monday morn-
ing to Doctor Sprague,” said she, after a long
silence at breakfast.
She looked at Miss Violet, but the young
lady was looking on the cloth, and with her
finger-tips stirring hither and thither some
flowers that lay there—not her eyes, only her
long eyelashes were visible—and the invitation
to say something conveyed in Aunt Dinah's
glance, miscarried.
“And I think it very strange—not what I
should have expected from William—that he
has not written. I don't mean an apology,
that's a matter between his own conscience and
his Maker. I mean some little inquiry.
Affection of course we cannot command, but
respect and courtesy we may.”
“I had thought better of William. I think


ALL IN THE DARK. 199
Doctor Sprague will be surprised,” she re-
sumed. “I did not think he could have
parted on the terms he did, and never written
a line after, for nearly a week. He seems to
me quite a—a changed person.”
“Just at that age,” said Miss Violet, in a
low tone, looking nearer to her flowers, and
growing interested in a rose whose rumpled
leaves she was adjusting with her finger-tips,
“some one says—I read it lately somewhere—
I forget who—they grow weary of home, and
home faces, and want change and adventure,
that is action and danger, of one kind or
another, what they are sent into the world for,
I suppose—that and liberty.” She spoke very
low, as if to her flowers, and when she ceased,
Miss Perfect listened still, and finding she had
no more to say, Aunt Dinah added–
“And a wise business they make of it—fifty
blunders in as many days, and begin looking
out for wives before they know how to earn a
guinea.”
Miss Violet looked up and smiled, and
popped her rose gently into the water glass
beside her, and went on adjusting her flowers.
“Wives, indeed, Yes—just what his poor


200 ALL IN THE DARK.
father did before him, and his grandfather, old
Sir Everard, he was married, privately, at
twenty! It runs in the blood, my dear, like
gaming or drinking; and the next I shall hear
of William, I dare say, will be a note to ask
my blessing on his marriage."
Again Miss Violet laughed softly, and
smiling for a moment, with a pretty slip of
verbena in her fingers, she added it to the
growing bouquet in the glass.
“You may laugh, my dear, but it is what
I'm afraid of. I assure you I am serious.”
“But it may turn out very happy, or very
splendid, you know; he may meet with a
young lady more foolish than himself, and with
a great dot.”
“No, my dear, he's a soft, romantic goose,
and I really think if it were not imprudent,
the romance would lose all its attraction. I tell
you, it runs in the family, and he's not a bit
wiser than his father, or his grandfather before
him.”
“This will never do without a bit of blue.
May I run out to the flowers?”
“Certainly, dear;” and Aunt Dinah peered
through her spectacles at the half made-up,


ALL IN THE DARK. 201
bouquet in the glass. “Yes, it does—it wants
blue. Isn't there blue verbena?”
And away ran Violet, and her pretty figure
and gay face flitted before the windows in the
early sun among the flowers. And Aunt
Tinah looked for a moment with a smile and a
sigh. Perhaps she was thinking of the time
when it was morning sun and opening flowers
for her, and young fellows—one of whom, long
dead in India, was still a dream for her—used
to talk their foolish flatteries, that sounded
now like muffled music in the distant air; and
she looked down dreamily on the back of her
slim wrinkled hand that lay on the table.


CHAPTER XXV.
W. MAUBRAY ARRIVES.
WHEN, a few days later, Maubray, who was a
shy man, stepped down from his fly, as the
vehicle which conveyed him from the neigh-
bouring railway station, though it more re-
sembled a snail, was called, and found himself
under the cold, grey, Ionic colonnade which
received people at Kincton with a dismal and
exclusive hospitality, his heart sank, a chilly
shadow descended upon him, and in the silent
panic of the moment he felt tempted to re-
enter the vehicle, return to Dr. Sprague, and
confess that he wanted nerve to fulfil his
engagement.
William was conducted through the hall, up
the great stairs, over a sombre lobby and up a
second and narrower stair, to a gallery cold and


ALL IN THE DARK. 203
dim, from which his room-door opened. Upon
this floor the quietude of desertion reigned.
He looked from his low window into a small
court-yard, formed on three sides by the
house itself, and on the fourth by a rear of
the offices, behind which a thick mass of
autumnal foliage showed itself in the distance.
The circumscribed view was dreary and for-
mal. How different from homely, genial old
Gilroyd But that was a dream, and this
reality; and so his toilet proceeded rapidly,
and he descended, looking by no means
like a threadbare dominie, but handsome and
presentable, and with the refinement of his
good birth and breeding in his features.
“Can I see Mr. Kincton Knox F" inquired
William of the servant in the hall.
“I’ll inquire, sir.”
And William was left in that tesselated and
pillared apartment, while the servant entered
his master's study, and speedily returning,
informed him with a superciliousness which
was new to William, and decidedly uncomfort-
able, that he might enter.
It was a handsome study, stored with hand-
some books and sundry busts, one of the


204 ALL IN THE DARK.
deceased Horace Kincton Knox, in porphyry,
received William on a pedestal near the door,
and looked alarmingly like a case of small-
pox.
The present master of Kincton, portly, hand-
some, though threescore years had not passed
over him in vain, with a bald forehead, and a
sort of simple dignity, as William fancied, rose
smiling, and came to meet him with his hand
extended, and with a cordial glow about him,
as though he had known him for years.
“You are very welcome, sir—very happy to
see you—very happy to make your acquaint-
ance; and how is my good friend, Sprague? a
very old friend of mine, though we have
dropped out of sight a good deal; and I corre-
spond very little—so—so we lose sight of one
another; but he's well, and doing well too?
I'm very happy to see you.”
There was something homely and reassuring
in this kind old man, which was very pleasant
to William.
“Doctor Sprague was very well when I left
him, and gave me this note, sir, for you,”
replied William, presenting it to his host, who
took it, and glanced at it as they stood on the


ALL IN THE DARK. 205
hearthrug together; and as he read it, he ,
observed : -
“Very cold the weather is. I don't re-
member—very cold—at this time of year.
You’ve had a cold drive. Not had luncheon
yet? Two o'clock, you know : yes, about a
quarter to two now, in a quarter of an hour.”
He had by this time laid Doctor Sprague's
note on the table.
“And the little boy, sir, where is he ”
suggested William.
“Oh, oh! little Howard I—I suppose we
shall see him at lunch.”
“I should wish very much to hear any
directions or suggestions, and to know some-
thing as to what he has been doing,” said
William.
“Very true—very right, Mr.—Mr.,” and
old Kincton Knox groped towards the note,
intending to refresh his memory.
“Herbert,” interposed William, colouring a
little. “Doctor Sprague made a point of the
name, and I believe, sir, wrote particularly
about it.”
“Quite so—very right, sir. It is Herbert.
I quite approve—quite, sir. He did—perfectly


200 ALL IN THE DARK.
explicit; and about the boy. The fact is, Mr.
Herbert, I leave him very much to his mother.
She can tell you much more what he has been
doing—very young, you know, still—and—and
she'll tell you all about him ; and I hope you
will be happy, I'm sure; and don't fail to tell
the people whatever you want, you know ; I
live very much to myself—quiet room this—
fond of books, I suppose? Well, I shall be
always very happy to see you here; in fact it
will be a great pleasure. We may as well sit
down, do, pray; for you know ladies don't
care very much for this sort of reading ;” and
he waved his short white hand towards the
bookcases; “and sometimes one feels a little
lonely ; and Sprague tells me you have a turn
for reading.”
The door opened, and a servant announced
that Mrs. Kincton Knox wished to see Mr.
IHerbert in the schoolroom.
“Ho!” exclaimed the master of Kincton,
with a grave countenance and a promptitude
which savoured of discipline. “Well, at lunch
I shall see you, Mr. Herbert; we'll meet in
ten minutes or so ; and, Edward, you'll show
Mr.—a—Herbert to the schoolroom.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 207
Across the hall was he conducted, to a room
in which were some sporting prints and two
dingy oil paintings of “sometime,” favourite
hunters who sniffed and heard their last
of field and bugle a century ago. There were
also some guns and fishing rods; and, through
this to the school-room, where Mrs. Kincton
Knox, in purple silk, with a turban on her
head, loomed awfully before him as he entered,
and made him a slight and rustling courtesy,
which rather warned him off than greeted
him.
“Mr.—a—a—Herbert?” said the lady of
the prominent black eyes, with a lofty inquiry.
“I—a—Doctor Sprague—told me he had
written very fully about the -the,” stammered
William, who began to feel like a concealed
ticket-of-leave man.
“The name, yes,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox,
looking steadily on him, and then ensued a
silence.
“He informed me that having explained the
circumstances fully, and also that it was his
not my particular wish, you had seen no diffi-
culty in it,” said William.
“Difficulty—none—there can be no diffi-


208 ALL IN THE DARK.
culty when there's no constraint,” replied Mrs.
Rincton Knox, laying down a metaphysical
axiom, as she sometimes did, which William
could not quite clearly understand; “and
although I have always maintained the posi-
tion that where there's mystery there is guilt;
yet feeling a confidence in Doctor Sprague's
character and profession—of both of which
Mr. Kincton Knox happened to know some-
thing—we have endeavoured to overcome our
objection.”
“I understood there was no objection,”
interposed William, flushing.
“Pray allow me. An objection satisfied is
not necessarily an objection foregone; in this
case, however, you are at liberty to treat it in
that light. We waive our objection, and we
have every reasonable confidence that we shall
not have occasion to repent having done so.”
This was spoken graciously and condescend-
ingly, for she thought that a person who
looked so decidedly like a gentleman would
rather conduce to the dignity of the Kincton
“household.” But it did not seem to strike the
young man at all in that light.
“You are about, Mr.—a—sir, to undertake


ALL IN THE DARK. 209
the charge of my precious child—sensitive,
delicate—too delicate and too impressionable to
have permitted his making all the progress I
could have wished in the rudiments—you
understand—of future—a—a—education and
accomplishment; a little wild, but full of affec-
tion, and—and of natural docility—but still
unused—from the causes I have mentioned—
to restraint or coercion. Your duty will there-
fore be a delicate one. I need not say that
nothing of the nature of punishment will be
permitted or endured. You will bear in mind
the illustration of the sacred writer—the sun
and the tempest, and the traveller's cloak.”
At this point William coughed slightly into
his handkerchief. “Mild influences, in my
mind, effect more than ever was accomplished
by harshness; and such is the system under
which our precious Howard must learn. Am
I understood P”
“Quite,” said William. “I should not my-
self undertake the task of punishing any child;
but I am afraid, unless the parents are pre-
pared to pull him up now and then, for idleness
or inattention, you will find his progress far
from satisfactory.”
VOI. I. | ||


216 ALL IN THE DARK.
“That is a question quite for them,” said
Mrs. Kincton Knox, in her queenlike way.
William bowed. -
“What I want chiefly in a person—in a
gentleman in your capacity—is that he shall
begin to—a—my precious child shall begin to
associate with a superior mind, and imbibe
rather by contact than task-work. Do I
make myself clear? The-a-the–you know,
of course, the kind of thing.”
William did not apprehend quite so clearly
the nature of his duties as he would have
wished, but said nothing.
“You and he will breakfast with us at half-
past nine. I regret I cannot ask you to lunch.
But you and Howard will dine at three o'clock
in this room, and have tea—and—and any
little thing that Mrs. Ridgeway, the house-
keeper, may send you at six. The boy goes to
his bed at half-past nine, and I conclude you
already know your own room.”
“And where is your—my pupil?” inquired
William.
Mrs. Kincton Knox rang the bell. “He
shall be with you presently, Mr. Herbert, and
you will please to bear in mind that the dear


ALL IN THE DARK. 211
boy's health is just at present our first object,
and that he must not be pressed to study more
than he wishes.”
Master Howard Seymour Knox entered,
eyeing the tutor suspiciously and loweringly.
He had, perhaps, heard confidently of possible
canings, and viewed William Maubray with a
sheepish kind of malevolence.
14–2


ALL IN THE DARK. 213
man, who lived in a monastic seclusion among
his books and trees and flowers, and to whom
William's occasional company was a cheer and
a happiness, no one at the breakfast table
seemed, after the first slight and silent saluta-
tion was over, conscious of his presence.
Miss Clara and her mamma talked of mat-
ters that interested them—their neighbours,
and the fashions, and the peerage, and even
the furniture, as if William were a picture, or
nothing at all.
He could not fail, notwithstanding his exclu-
sion, to perceive that Clara was handsome—
very handsome, indeed — quite a brilliant
blonde, and with that confident and haughty
air of was it fashion—was it blood—was it
, the habit of being adored with incense and all
sorts of worship—he could not tell. He only
knew that it became her, and helped to over-
power him.
We are not to suppose that all this time
female curiosity at Kincton slumbered and
slept over such a problem as William Maubray.
Treat him how they might in his presence, he
was a topic both of interest and inquiry in his
absence. The few letters that reached him


214 ALL IN THE DARK.
afforded no clue; they were addressed with
uniform exactitude to “W. Herbert, Esq.” The
books he had brought with him to Kincton
contributed no light; for William had not
inscribed his name in his books. Miss Clara's
maid, who was intensely interested in the in-
vestigation, brought a pocket-handkerchief of
the tutor's to her young mistress's room,
where both she and her mamma conned over
the initials “W.M.” in a small but florid
arabesque in the corner. It was, no doubt, a
condescension such as William ought to have
been proud of.
“There's five on 'em so, Miss—the rest
unmarked, and nothing else marked, except
three old shirts.” -
“Why, you goose, what can I care?” laughed
Miss Clara. “I’m not his nurse, or his seam-
stress. Take it away this moment. What a
pretty discussion."
This “W.M,” however, was not without its
interest, and two days later the maid exhibited
an old copy of Feltham’s “Resolves,” abstracted
from William's little file of books, with
“William Martin” neatly inscribed on the fly-
leaf, but in a hand so quaint and ancient, and


ALL IN THE DARK. 215
with ink so brown, that even Miss Clara
“pooh-poohed” the discovery.
Now, the young lady could not help in some
sort requiting William's secret estimate of her
good looks. She thought the young tutor
decidedly handsome; in fact, there could be
sho question about it. He was well formed,
too; and with that undefinable grace which
people are apt to refer to gentle blood.
There was, moreover, a certain refinement and
sensitiveness in his countenance utterly incom-
patible with the idea of vulgarity of any kind.
Now, a tutor might be anything—a decayed
nobleman or a chandler's son. Was not Louis
Philippe an usher in a school? All you were
to assume was that he could teach Latin gram-
mar, and was in want of money.
There were some little signs of superfluity,
too, in William's valuables. The butler, who
was a native of Geneva, presuming on William's
tutorship, had, on a fitting opportunity, begged
leave to inspect his watch, and appraised it at
twenty guineas among his fellow-servants.
This and the massive gold chain, which also
excited his admiration, were gifts from Miss
Perfect, as was also that glorious dressing-case,


216 ALL IN THE DARK.
presented on his attaining his twenty-first
year, resplendent with gold and mother-o’pearl,
and which the same competent authority
valued at seventy guineas at least. Now,
those things, though little, and some not at all
seen outside the walls of his own little bed-
room, emitted, like the concealed relics of a
saint, so to speak, a glory and a fragrance
which permeated the house. It was quite im-
possible, then, that want of money had driven
this Mr. Herbert, or whoever he was, into his
present position.
On the plate on top of this resplendent
dressing-case the maid, who, fired by Monsieur
Drouet's report, had visited the treasure clan-
destinely, were inscribed, as she reported to
Miss Clare, the same mysterious characters
“W. M.”
“I like the old gentleman—kind old man.
What wonderful things books are ; nourish-
ment for all sorts and sizes of minds—poor old
Mr. Kincton Knox. How he reads and posi-
tively enjoys them. Yet the best things in
them might just as well never have been
written or thought, for any real perception he
has of them A kind man; I like him so.


ALL IN THE DARK. 217
much ; I feel so obliged to him. And what
ill-bred, insupportable persons the ladies are ;
that pompous, strong-willed, stupid old wo-
man; her magnificence positively stifles me;
and the young lady, how disagreeably hand-
some she is, and how impertinent. It must be
a love of inflicting pain and degradation—how
cruel, how shabby, how low !”
Such was William's review of the adult
members of the family among whom he had
come to reside, as he lay down with his fair
hair on the pillow, and his sad eyes long open
in the dark, looking at scenes and forms of the
past, crossed and troubled by coming sorrows
and apprehensions.
The ice and snow spread crisp and hard, and
the frosty sun has little heat, but yet the thaw
will come. And the radiance emitted by
William's dressing - case, watch and other
glories, began imperceptibly to tell upon the
frozen rigour of his first reception. There
was a word now and then about the weather,
he was asked more graciously to take some
more tea. The ladies sometimes smiled when
they thus invited him, and Miss Clara began
to take an interest in her brother, and even


218 ALL IN THE DARK.
one day in her riding habit, in which she
looked particularly well, looked into the school-
room for a moment, just to give Howard a
little box of bon-bons she had promised him
before she went out.
“May I, Mr. Herbert?” asked Miss Clara,
with that smile which no one could resist.
“Certainly,” said William, bowing very
low, and she thought there was something
haughty in his grave humility.
So she thanked him, smiling more, and
made her present to Howard, who broke out
with—
“This ain't the one you said. You've been
and eat it, you greedy"
“Now!” pleaded Miss Clara, whose fingers
tingled to box his ears, though she prolonged
the word in her most coaxing tone, “Howard
Howard could you? your own poor Clara !
You shall come up and have any two others
you like best, when I come back, if Mr. Her-
bert allows it,” and with a smile, and a light
kiss on the boy's forehead, who plunged away
from her muttering, that brilliant vision
vanished, leaving William standing for a
moment wondering, and thinking how grace-


ALL IN THE DARK. 219
ful and pretty she looked in that becoming
get-up. -
“Well,” thought William, that night com-
punctiously and pleased, “I believe I have
done them an injustice. I forgot that I was
a total stranger, and expected a reception
different perhaps from what I was entitled to.
But this perhaps is better; people whose
likings and confidence move slowly, and whose
friendship bestowed gradually is not suddenly
withdrawn.”
And so he went to sleep more happily.


CHAPTER XXVII.
FROM KINCTON TO GILROY 1).
A MONTH passed away with little change.
Thanks to the every explicit injunction, con-
stantly repeated, to teach his pupil no more
than his pupil wished to learn, William Mau-
bray got on wonderfully well with that ill-
conditioned brat, who was “the hope of the
house of Kincton Knox.” Still, notwithstand-
ing this, and all those flattering evidences of
growing favour vouchsafed by the ladies of the
mansion, the weeks were very long. Miss
Clara, although now and then she beamed on
him with a transient light, yet never actually
conversed; and magnificent and dreary Mrs.
Rincton Knox, whether gracious or repellant,
was nearly equally insupportable.
Every time he walked out, and, pausing on


ALL IN THE DARK. 221
the upland, looked long and mournfully in the
direction in which he fancied lay Gilroyd, with
its sunset blush of old red brick, its roses, deep
green sward, and chestnut shadows, a sort of
home sickness overcame him. Beyond that
horizon there was affection, and in old times
the never-failing welcome, the smile, the cordial
sympathy, and the liberty that knew not
Kincton. And with a pain and swelling at
his heart came the scene of his expulsion—a
mute, hurried leave-taking; the clang of the
iron gate, never to open more for him; and
Aunt Dinah's fierce and cruel gaze, like the
sword of fire in the way, forbidding his return.
How was it with fierce and cruel Aunt
Dinah all this time. “The boy will come to
his senses,” she was constantly repeating to
herself, as she closed her book from which her
thoughts had been straying, upon her finger,
with a short sigh and a proud look. Or when
she looked up from her work, with the same
little sigh, on the pretty flower landscape, with
its back ground of foliage, seen so sunnily
through the jessamine and rose clusters, “Time
will bring him to reason ; a little time, a very
little time.”


222 ALL IN THE DARK.
But when a little time passed away, and no
signs came with the next week of returning
reason, Aunt Dinah grew fiercer and more
warlike. “Sulky and obstinate Ungrateful
young man | Well, so be it. We’ll see who
can maintain silence longest. Let him cool;
let him take his own time. I won't hurry
him, I promise him,” and so forth.
But another week passed, still in silence,
and Miss Perfect “presented her compliments
to Dr. Sprague, and begged to inquire whether
her nephew, William Maubray, had returned
to Cambridge a little more than a fortnight
since. Not that she had the least right or
wish to inquire minutely henceforward into his
plans, place of residence, pursuits, or associates;
but simply that having for so long a time
taken an interest in him, and, as she hoped,
been of some little use to him—if supporting
and educating him entirely might so be deemed
—she thought she had a claim to be informed
how he was, whether well or ill. Beyond that
she begged to be excused from asking, and re-
quested that Doctor Sprague would be so good
as to confine himself to answering that simple


ALL IN THE DARK. 223.
inquiry, and abstain from mentioning anything
further about William Maubray.”
In reply to this, Doctor Sprague “begged to
inform Miss Perfect that when he last saw
him, about ten days since, when he left Cam-
bridge, her nephew, William Maubray, was
very well. On his return from his recent visit
to Gilroyd, he had remained but a week in his
rooms, and had then left to prosecute a plan
by which he hoped to succeed in laying a foun-
dation for future efforts and success. Doctor
Sprague was not very well, and had been
ordered to take a little exceptional holiday
abroad, and Miss Perfect's letter had reached
him just on the eve of his departure for the
Continent.”
Unobserved, almost to herself, there had
been before Aunt Dinah's eyes, as she read her
book, or worked at her crochet, or looked out
wearied on the lawn, a little vignette, repre-
senting a college tutor's chamber, Gothic in
character, and a high-backed oaken chair, anti-
quated and carved, in which, like Faust philo-
sophising to the respectful Wagner, sat Doctor
Sprague, with his finger on the open letter she
had sent him, exhorting and reproving the


224 ALL IN THE DARK.
contumacious William Maubray, and in the
act of despatching him, in a suit of sackcloth,
with peas in his shoes, on a penitential pil-
grimage to Gilroyd.
This pleasing shadow, like an illusion of the
magic lantern, vanished in pitch darkness, as
Miss Perfect read the good doctor's answer.
With a pallid, patient smile, and feeling sud-
denly cold from her head to her feet, she con-
tinued to gaze in sore distress upon the letter.
Had William enlisted, or had he embarked as
steward on board an American steamer ? Was
he about working his passage to New Zealand,
or had he turned billiard marker P
Neighbours dropped in now and then to pay
a visit, and Violet had such conversation as
the vicinity afforded, and chatted and laughed
all she could. But Miss Perfect was very
silent for some days after the arrival of Dr.
Sprague's letter. She was more gentle, and
smiled a good deal, but was wan, and sighed
from time to time, and her dinner was a mere
make belief. And looking out of her bed-
room window in the evening, toward Saxton,
she did not hear old Winnie Dobbs who had
thrice accosted her. But after a little she


ALL IN THE DARK. 225
turned to the patient old handmaid, and
said—
“Pretty the old church looks in the sun; I
sometimes wish I were there.”
Old Winnie followed the direction of her
eyes, and gazed also, saying mildly—
“Good sermons, indeed, ma'am, and a good
parson, kind to the poor; and very comfort-
able it is, sure, if they did not raise the stove
so high. I think 'twas warmer before they
raised it.”
“For a hundred and fifty years the Gilroyd
people have been all buried there,” continued
Aunt Dinah, talking more to the old church
than to Winnie.
“Well, I should not wonder,” said Winnie,
“there is a deal o' them lies there. My grand-
mother minded the time old Lady Maubray
was buried yonder, with that fine marble thing
outside o' the church. The rails is gone very
rusty now, and that coat of arms, and the
writing, it's wearing out—it is worn, the rain
or something, and indeed I sometimes do think
where is the good of grandeur, when we die
it's all equal, the time being so short as it is.
Master Willie asked me show it him last Sun-
VOL. I. 15


226 ALL IN THE DARR.
day three weeks coming out o' church, and
xx.
even his young eyes
“Don’t name him, don’t mention him,”
said Aunt Dinah suddenly, in a tone of cold
decision.
Winnie's guileless light blue eyes looked up
in helpless wonder in her mistress's face.
“IDon't name his name, Winnie Dobbs.
FHe's ſome,” said she in the same severe tone.
“Gone” repeated Winnie. “Yes, sure
but—but he’ll come back.”
“No, he shan’t, Winnie ; he’ll darken my
doors no more. Come what may, that shan't
be. I--I'll, perhaps, I may assist him occa-
sionally still, but see him, never! He—he
has renounced me, and I–I wash my hands
of him.” She was answering Winnie's look
of consternation. “Let him go his own way
as he chooses it—I’ve done with him.”
There was a long pause here, during which
ancient Winnie Dobbs stared with an imbecile
incredulity at her mistress, who was looking
still at the old church. Then old Winnie
sighed. Then she shook her head, touching
the tip of her tongue with a piteous little
“ tick, tick, tick,” to the back of her teeth.


ALL IN THE DARK. 227
And Aunt Dinah continued drearily—
“And Miss Violet must find this very dull—
very. I've no right to keep her here. She
would be happier in some other home, poor
child. I’m but a dismal companion—very;
and how long is it since young Mr. Trevor
was here? You don't remember—there, don't
try, but it must be three weeks or more, and—
and I do think he was very attentive. I mean
Winnie, but you are to say nothing below
stairs, you know—I mean, I really think he
was in love with Miss Wi.”
“Well, indeed, they did talk about it—the
neighbours; there was talk, a deal o' talk, and
I don't know, but I often thought she liked
him.”
“Well, that's off too, quite, I think; you
know it is very rude, impertinent, in fact, his
never having called here once, or done more
than just raise his hat to us in the church door
on Sundays, ever since William Maubray went
away. I look upon his conduct as altogether
outrageous, and being the kind of person he
is, I'm very glad he disclosed himself so early,
and certainly it would have been a thousand
pities the girl should have ever thought of
15–2


228 ALL IN THE DARK.
him. So that's over too, and all the better it
is, and I begin to grow tired of the whole
thing—very tired, Winnie; and I believe the
people over there,” and she nodded toward the
churchyard, “are best provided for, and it's
time, Winnie, I should be thinking of joining
them where the wicked cease from troubling,
and the weary are at rest.”
“God forbid, ma'am!” remonstrated old
Winnie, mildly, and they turned together from
the window to accomplish Aunt Dinah's toilet.


CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE PIPIN G BULL FINCH.
Next Sunday Mr. Vane Trevor, after church,
happened to be carried in one of the converg-
ing currents of decently-dressed Christianity
into the main channel through the porch,
almost side by side with the two Gilroyd
ladies then emerging.
Mr. Vane Trevor, in pursuance of his pru-
dent reserve, would have avoided this meeting.
But so it was. In the crowded church porch,
out of which the congregation emerges so
slowly, with a sort of decent crush, almost
pressed inconveniently against good Miss
Perfect, the young gentleman found himself,
and in a becoming manner, with a chastened
simper, inquiring after their health, and
making the proper remarks about the weather.


230 ALL IN THE DARK.
Aunt Dinah received these attentions very
drily ; but Miss Wi, in such an arch, becoming
little shell-like bonnet, looked perfectly lovely;
and to do her justice, was just as friendly as
usual.
It was no contrivance of his, the meeting
with this bewitching little bonnet where he
did. How could he help the strange little
thrill with which he found himself so near—
and was it in human nature, or even in good
manners, to deny himself a very little walk,
perhaps only to the church-yard gate, beside
Miss Violet Darkwell?
“How is my friend Maubray ?” inquired
Trevor of Miss Perfect, whom he found him-
self next.
“I really don't know—I have not heard—I
suppose he is very well,” she answered, with
an icy severity that rather surprised the young
man, who had heard nothing of the quarrel.
“I must write. I ought to have asked him
when he meant to return. I am so anxious
for an excuse to renew our croquet on the lawn
at Gilroyd.”
This little speech was accompanied with a
look which Violet could hardly mistake.


ALL IN THE DARK. 231
“I don't think it likely,” said Miss Perfect,
in the same dry tone.
“Any time within the next three weeks.
The weather will answer charmingly,” con-
tinued Trevor, addressing Miss Darkwell.
“But I rather think Miss Dark well will have
to make her papa a little visit. He's to return
on the eighteenth, you remember, my dear;
and he says, you know, you are to meet him
at Richmond.”
So said Aunt Dinah, who had no notion of
this kind of trifling.
Trevor again saw the vision of a lean, vul-
gar, hard-voiced barrister, trudging beside him
with a stoop, and a seedy black frock-coat; and
for a minute was silent. But he looked across
at pretty Miss Vi, so naturally elegant, and in
another moment the barrister had melted into
air, and he saw only that beautiful nymph.
“I want to look at old Lady Maubray's
monument round the east end, here, of the
church. You would not dislike, dear, to come
—only a step. I must have any repairs done
that may be needed. Good morning, Mr.
Trevor.”
But Mr. Trevor begged leave to be of the


232 ALL IN THE DARK.
party, knowing exactly where the monument
stood.
There is a vein of love-making with which
a country church-yard somehow harmonizes
very tenderly. Among the grass-grown graves
the pretty small feet, stepping lightly and
reverently, the hues and outlines of beauty
and young life; the gay faces shadowed with
a passing sadness—nothing ghastly, nothing
desolate—only a sentiment of the solemn and
the melancholy, and underlying that tender
sadness, the trembling fountains of life and
gladness, the pulses of youth and hope.
“Yes; very, very much neglected,” said
Miss Perfect. “We can do nothing with that
marble, of course,” she observed, nodding
toward the arched cornice at top, which time
and weather had sadly worn and furrowed.
“It was her wish, my dear father often told
me; she would have it outside, not in the
church; but the rails, and this masonry—we
must have that set to rights—yes.”
And so, stepping lightly among weeds and
long grass, and by humble headstones and
time-worn tombs, they came forth under the
shadow of the tall elms by the church-yard


ALL IN THE DARK. 233
gate, and again Miss Perfect intimated a fare-
well to Trevor, who, however, said he would
go home by the stile—a path which would
lead him by the gate of Gilroyd; and before
he had quite reached that, he had begun to
make quite a favourable impression once more
on the old lady; insomuch that, in her forget-
fulness, she asked him at the gate of Gilroyd
to come in, which very readily he did; and ,
the little party sat down together in the
drawing-room of Gilroyd, and chatted in a
very kindly and agreeable way; and Vane
Trevor, who, like Aunt Dinah, was a con-
noisseur in birds, persuaded her to accept a
bullfinch, which he would send her next morn-
ing in a new sort of cage, which had just come
out.
He waited in vain, however, for one of those
little momentary absences which, at other
times, had left him and Violet alone. Miss
Perfect, though mollified, sat him out very
determinedly. So, at last, having paid a very
long visit, Mr. Vane Trevor could decently
prolong it no further, and he went away with
an unsatisfactory and disappointed feeling, not
quite reasonable, considering the inflexible rule


234 ALL IN THE DARK.
he had imposed upon himself in the matter of
Gilroyd Hall and its inhabitants.
“Maubray has told her all I said,” thought
Vane Trevor, as he pursued the solitary path
along the uplands of Revington. “The old
woman—what a bore she is—was quite plainly
vexed at first; but—but that jolly little crea-
ture—Violet—Violet, it is a pretty name—she
was exactly as usual. By Jove' I thought
she'd have been a bit vexed; but she's an
angel,” he dreamed on, disappointed. “I
don't think she can have even begun to care
for me the least bit in the world—I really
don't.” He was looking down on the path,
his hands in his pockets, and his cane under
his arm; and he kicked a little stone out of
his way at the emphatic word, rather fiercely.
“And so much the better; there's no need of
all that caution. Stuff! they know quite well
I've no idea of marrying; and what more?
And there's no danger of her, for she is plainly
quite content with those terms, and does not
care for me—now, that's all right.”
It is not always easy to analyze one's own
motives; but, beneath that satisfaction, there
was very considerable soreness, and something


ALL IN THE DARK. 235
like a resolution to make her like him, in spite
of her coldness. The pretty, little, imperti-
ment, cold, bewitching gipsy. It was so
absurd. She did not seem the least flattered
by the distinction of his admiration.
Next morning, after breakfast, he drove
down in his dog-cart, instead of sending the
bird as he had proposed. There were some
ingenious contrivances in this model cage
which required explanation. The oddest thing
about the present was that the piping bullfinch
sang two of Miss Violet's favourite airs.
Trevor had no small difficulty, and a diffuse
correspondence, in his search for one so parti-
cularly accomplished.
When in the drawing-room at Gilroyd, he
waved a feather before its eyes, and the little
songster displayed his acquirements. Trevor
stole a glance at Miss Vi; but she looked per-
fectly innocent, and smiled with a provoking
simplicity on the bird. Miss Perfect was,
however, charmed, and fancied she knew the
airs, but was, honestly, a little uncertain.
“It is really too good of you, Mr. Trevor,”
she exclaimed.
“On the contrary, I'm much obliged by


236 ALL IN THE DARK.
your accepting the charge. I'm a sort of of
wandering Arab, you know, and I shall be
making the tour of my friends' country
houses; so poor little Pipe would have been
very lonely, perhaps neglected; and I should
very likely have had a letter some day
announcing his death, and that, for fifty
reasons, would have half broken my heart;”
whereat he laughed a little, for Aunt Dinah,
and glanced one very meaning and tender ogle
on Miss Violet.
“Well, Mr. Trevor, disguise it how you
may, you are very good-natured,” said Miss
Perfect, much pleased with her new pet; “and
I'm very much obliged.”


CHAPTER XXIX.
A MEssage IN THE “times.”
With this little speech, Aunt Dinah, thinking
for the moment of nothing but her bird, and
very much pleased with Mr. Trevor, carried
the little songster away to her room, leaving
the young people together at the open parlour
window.
“I hope you like him?” Trevor said, in a
low tone.
“Oh, charming " replied Miss Wi.
“I should not for all the word—you'll never
know the reason why, perhaps—have let him
go to any place else, but here—upon my
honour,” said Mr. Vane Trevor, speaking very
much in earnest.
“Miss Perfect, I can see, is charmed,” said
Miss Violet.


23S ALL IN THE DARK.
“Ah, yes—you think so—very happy, I'm
sure; but—but I shall miss him very much.
I—I—you've no idea what company he has
been to me; and—and what a lot of trouble I
had in finding one to—-in fact, the sort of one
I wanted.”
“They are very pretty, very sweet; but,
after all, don't you think the natural song the
best. I should be afraid of the repetition; I
should tire of the same airs,” said Miss Dark-
well.
“Of others—yes, perhaps, I should, but of
those, never,” said Mr. Vane Trevor, elo-
quently.
No romantic young gentleman, who means
to walk in the straight and narrow path of
prudence, does well in falling into such a dia-
logue of covert-meanings with so very pretty
a girl as Miss Violet Darkwell. It is like
going up in a balloon, among invisible and
irresistible currents, and the prince of the
powers of the air alone can tell how long a
voyage you are in for, and in what direction
you may come down.
The flattering tongues of men! sweet airy
music attuned to love and vanity, to woman's


ALL IN THE DARK. 23 9
pride and weakness, half despised, half
cherished. Long after—a phrase—a fragment
of a sentence, like a broken bar, or half-
remembered cadence of some sweet old air,
that sounded in your young ears, in dances
and merry-makings, now far and filmy as bye-
gone dreams, turns up unbidden—comes back
upon remembrance, and is told, with a sad-
dened smile, to another generation. Drink in
the sweet music at your pretty ears; it will
not last always. There is a day for enjoy-
ment, and a day for remembrance, and then
the days of darkness. -
A little blush—the glory, too, of ever so
faint a smile ! the beautiful flush of beauty's
happy triumph was on the fair face of the
girl, as she listened for a moment, with down-
cast eyes; and Vane Trevor, conceited young
man as he was, had never felt so elated as
when he saw that transient, but beautiful
glow, answering to his folly.
I may look on her with different eyes, like
the Choragus of an old play, and wonder and
speculate which it is she likes—the flattery or
the lover— or each for sake of the other; or
the flattery only, caring not that bullfinch's


240 ALL IN THE DARK.
feather on the carpet for him? There is not
much in her face to guide me; I can only see,
for certain, that she is pleased.
“I— I shall never forget those airs; they—
you know, you sang them the first time I
heard you sing; and I'm afraid I have been
awfully unreasonable about them, asking you
to sing them for me every time nearly I had
an opportunity; and I-Iassure you—I don't
know what I shall do without my poor bird;
and—”
Exactly at this point Aunt Dinah returned,
and Mr. Vane Trevor, with admirable presence
of mind, said:
“I was just saying to Miss Darkwell, I am
sure I have heard her sing those little songs
the bird whistles.”
“So she does,” interrupted Miss Perfect.
“I could not think where I heard them. You
know those airs, Vi P”
“Yes—I think they are among my songs,”
answered Violet, carelessly.
“It would be very good of you, Miss Perfect
—now that I've parted with my — my —
musician, you know—if you would allow me—
just perhaps once before I leave Revington—I


ALL IN THE DARK. 241
shall be away probably some months—to look
in some evening, when Miss Darkwell is at her
music—it is very impertinent I'm afraid to ask
—but knowing those airs so well, I should like
so much to hear them sung, if you happened to
—to be able to find them.” The concluding
words were to Violet.
“Oh, dear yes—won't you, Wi–certainly,
any evening, we shall be very happy; but you
know we are very early people, and our tea
hour seven o’clock.”
“Oh, quite delightful,” exclaimed the ac-
commodating Vane Trevor, “I have no hours
at all at Revington—when I'm alone there, I
just eat when I'm hungry and sleep when I'm
sleepy.”
“The certain way to lose your health !”
exclaimed Miss Perfect.
“Very much obliged—I’ll certainly turn up,
you know, seven o'clock, some evening.
And so he took his leave, and was haunted
day and night by Violet Darkwell's beautiful
down-cast face, as he had seen it that morn-
ing.
“I knew I'd make her like me—by Jove, I
knew I should—she does, I’m quite sure of it,
VOL. I. 16


242 ALL IN THE DARK.
she's beginning to like me, and if I choose
I'll make her like me awfully.”
Now, all the rest of that day,Trevor thought
a great deal less than he had ever done before,
of the pomps and vanities of Revington, and
the vain glories of the Trevors of that Ilk.
Wrestling with love is sometimes like wrestling
with an angel, and when the struggle seems
well nigh over, and the athlete sure of his
victory, one unexpected touch of the angelic
hand sets him limping again for many a day.
Little did he fancy that the chance meeting in
the shadowy porch of Saxton church would
rivet again the sightless chains which it had
taken some time and trouble to unclasp, and
send him maundering and spiritless in his
fetters among the woods and lonely paths of
Revington; not yet, indeed, bewailing in vain
his captivity, but still conscious of the invisible
influence in which he was again intangled, and
with no very clear analysis of the present, or
thoughts for the future.
Time had brought no tidings of William
Maubray, and, except on occasions, Aunt
Dinah's fits of silence were growing longer, and
her old face more wan and sad.


ALL IN THE DARK. 243
“Ungrateful creature" said she, uncon-
sciously aloud.
“Who, ma'am P” asked old Winnie, mildly.
Her mistress was disrobing for bed.
“Eh, who?” repeated Miss Perfect. “My
nephew, William Maubray, to think of his
never once sending me a line, or a message —
we might all be dead here and he never know.
Not that I care for his indifference and heart-
less ingratitude, for as I told you before, I
shall never see his face again. You need not
stare, you need not say a word, Winnie; it is
quite fixed. You may go to see him at Cam-
bridge if he's there, or wherever he is, but the
door of Gilroyd he shall never enter more while
I live, and he and his concerns shall trouble
me just as little as I and mine do him.”
It was about this time that William Mau-
bray, who was permitted regularly to look into
the Times, saw the following notification among
its advertisements:—
“If the young gentleman who abruptly left
his old relative's house, under displeasure, on
the night of , is willing to enter the
Church, a path to reconciliation may be opened;
but none otherwise. If he needs pecuniary
16–2


244 ALL IN THE DARK.
assistance it will be supplied to the extent of
£50, on his applying through his tutor, Doctor
S—, but not directly.”
“How insulting—how severe and unfor-
* giving,” murmured William. “How could
she fancy it possible that I could accept the
insult of her gift”
With a swelling heart he turned to another
part of the paper, and tried to read. But the
odious serpent coiled and hissing at him from
its little tabulated compartment, was too near,
and he could think of nothing else.


CHAPTER XXX.
THE LORD OF BURLEIGH.
ONE morning at breakfast, the Kincton letters
having arrived, Miss Clara, who had only one,
tossed it carelessly to her mamma, who, having
just closed one of her own, asked—
“Who is it P”
“Vane; he's coming here he says on Thurs-
day, instead of Wednesday,” answered the
young lady.
“Cool young gentleman" observed Mrs.
Kincton Knox. “He ought to know that
people don't invite themselves to Kincton—
any news?”
“Yes; there has been an awful battle, and
young Maubray has gone off, no one knows
where, and everyone curious to find out—quite
irreconcilable, they say.”


246 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Does he say what about?” inquired the
old lady taking up the letter.
“No, nothing; only that,” answered
Clara.
“Mamma, Mr. Herbert's blushing all over,
like fun,” cried Master Howard from the other
side of the table, with a great grin on his jam-
bedaubed mouth, and his spoon pointed at
poor William's countenance.
The ladies involuntarily glanced at William,
who blushed more fiercely than ever, and began
to fiddle with his knife and fork. Miss Clara's
glance only, as it were, touched him, and was
instantly fixed on the view through the win-
dow, in apparent abstraction. Mrs. Kincton
Rnox's prominent dark eyes rested gravely a
little longer on poor William's face, and the
boy, waving his spoon, and kicking his chair,
cried, “Ha, ha!”
“Don’t sir, that's extremely rude—lay down
your spoon; you're never to point at any one,
sir. Mr. Herbert's quite ashamed of you, and
so am I.”
“Come here,” said William. “May he
come to me?” asked William.
“Oh, no! you all want me to hold my


ALL IN THE DARK. 247
tongue. It's always so, and that great beast
of a Clara,” bawled “the hope of the house,”
as his mamma was wont to call him.
“Come to me,” said poor William, mildly.
“Or, if you permit me, Mr. Herbert,” said
Mrs. Kincton Knox. “ Howard 1 I can’t
tolerate this. You are to sit quiet, and eat
your breakfast—do you hear—and do you like
sardines?—Mr. Herbert, may I trouble you—
thanks; and no personalities, mind—never !
Mr. Herbert, a little more tea?”
The ladies fell into earnest conference that
morning after breakfast, so soon as William
and his pupil had withdrawn.
“W. M. Everything marked with W. M.
—Wynston Maubray. Don't you see?” said
the old lady, with a nod, and her dark and
prominent eyes fixed suddenly on her daughter.
“Yes, of course; and did you look at his
face when I mentioned the quarrel with Sir
Richard?” said the young lady.
“Did you ever see anything like it?” ex-
-Claimed her mother.
Miss Clara smiled mysteriously, and nodded
her acquiescence.
“Why, my dear, it was the colour of that,”


248 ALL IN THE DARK.
continued Mrs. Kincton Knox, pointing her
finger fiercely at the red leather back of the
chair that stood by them. “I don't think
there can be a doubt. I know there's none
in my mind.”
“It is very curious—very romantic. I only
hope that we have not been using him very
ill,” said Miss Clara, and she laughed more
heartily than was her wont.
“Ill! I don't know what you mean. I
trust, Clara, no one is ever ill-used at Kincton.
It certainly would rather surprise me to hear
anything of the kind,” retorted the lady of
Kincton, loftily. *
“Well, I did not mean ill, exactly. I ought
to have said rudely, I hope we have not been
treating him like a—a—what shall I say?—
all this time,” and the young lady laughed
again.
“We have shown him, Clara, all the kind-
ness and consideration which a person entering
this house in the capacity he chose to assume
could possibly have expected. I don't sup-
pose he expected us to divine by witchcraft
who and what he was ; and I am very certain
that he would not have thought as—as highly


ALL IN THE DARK. 249
of us, if we had acted in the slightest degree
differently.”
But though she spoke so confidently, Mrs.
Kincton Knox, that perfect woman, was secretly
troubled with misgivings of the same uncom-
fortable kind, and would have given a good
deal to be able to modify the past, or even dis-
tinctly to call its incidents to mind.
“Of course, Clara, I shan't observe upon
those odd coincidences to Mr.—Mr. Herbert
himself. It is his wish to be private for the
present. We have no right to pry. But
there is certainly justifiable—I may say, even
called for—some little modification of our own
demeanour toward him, in short; and know-
ing now—as I feel confident we do—who he
is, there is no need of the same degree of re-
serve and—and distance; and I am very glad,
if for this reason only, that you may more
frequently, my dear Clara, look in and see your
little brother, who is so much shut up; it
would be only kind.”
In fact this old warrior, with the Roman
nose and eagle eye, surveying the position, felt,
in Cromwell's phrase, that the “Lord had
delivered him into her hand.” There he was


250 ALL IN THE DARK.
domesticated, in what she might regard as a
romantic incognito, without parental authority
to impede or suspicion to alarm him Could
a more favourable conjuncture be fancied?
How a little real kindness would tell just now
upon his young heart; and he would have such
an opportunity in his disguise of estimating
and being touched by the real amiability of
the Kincton Knoxes; and the Maubray estates
and an old baronetage would close Miss Clara's
campaigning with eclat.
The young lady did look into the school-
r0Om.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, you'll think me
very tiresome,” she said.
William had risen as she entered, with a
bow.
“But mamma is thinking of taking Howard
a drive, if you approve, and Howard, we are
going to Bolton Priory. Mamma wishes so
much to know whether you will allow him to
come.”
“I—I can have no objection. He's not
now at his lessons. I’m sure it will do him a
great deal of good.”
Miss Clara, in a pretty attitude, leaning with


ALL IN THE DARK. 251
one hand on the table, was smiling down on
Master Howard, and caressingly running her
taper fingers through his curls.
“Let my head be—will you,” he bawled,
disengaging himself, with a bounce and a
thump at her hand.
The young lady smiled and shrugged plain-
tively at William, who said, “Howard, I shall
tell your mamma, if you are rude to Miss
Knox, and I'll ask her not to take you out
to-day.”
“That's just it,” retorted Master Howard.
“That's the way you men always take her
part against me, because you think she's young
and pretty. Ah-ha! I wish you'd ask her
maid—Winter.”
“Be quiet, sir,” said William, in so stern a
tone, and with so angry a flash of his blue
eyes, that the young gentleman was actually
overawed, and returned lowering and mutter-
ing to the ship he had been rigging, only
making an ugly grimace over his shoulder, and
uttering the word “crocodile !”
Though Miss Clara smiled plaintively down
upon the copy of Tennyson which lay open on
the table, and turned over a page or two with


252 ALL IN THE DARK.
her finger-tip, serenely, she inwardly quaked
while Howard declaimed, and in her soul
wished him the fate of Cicero; and when she
got to her room planted her chair before the
cheval glass with a crash, and exclaimed, “I
do believe that the fiendish imp is raised up
expressly to torture me! Other parents would
beat such a brat into mummy, and knock his
head off rather than their daughter should be
degraded by him ; but mine seem to like it
positively. I wish—oh don't I, just ;”
And the aposiopesis and the look were elo-
quent.
But she had not yet left the school-room,
and as she looked down on the open pages, she
murmured, sadly, “The Lord of Burleigh"
And looking up she said to William, “I see
you read my poet and my favourite poem, too,
only I think it too heart-rending. I can't read
it. I lose my spirits for the whole day after,
and I wonder whether the story is really true,”
she paused with a look of sad inquiry,
and William answered that he had read it
Was SO.
And she said, with a little sigh, “That only
makes it sadder,” and she seemed to have


ALL IN THE DARK. 253
something more to say, but did not ; and after
a moment, with a little smile and a nod, she
went from the room. And William thought
he had never seen her look so handsome, and
had not before suspected her of so much mind
and so much feeling, and he took the book up
and read the poem through, and dreamed over
it till the servant came with a knock at the
door, and his mistress's compliments, to know
if Master Howard might go now.


CHAPTER XXXI.
A FRIEND APPEARS.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY's harmless self love was
flattered by the growing consideration with
which he was treated. The more they saw of
him plainly the better they liked him, and
William began, too, dimly to fancy that
there must be something very engaging about
him.
A night or two later, his pupil having just
gone to bed, a footman came with a little
scrap of pink paper, pencilled over, in
Mrs. Kincton Knox's hand, on a salver, for
William, who found these words:
“It has just struck me that I might possibly
prevail upon your good-nature, to look in upon
our solitude for half an hour; though we
don't like abridging your hours of liberty, it


ALL IN THE DARK. 255
would really be quite a kindness to indulge
me; and if you can lay your hand upon
your volume of Tennyson, pray bring it with
you.”
Up got William, and with his book in his
hand, followed the servant, who announced
Mr. Herbert at the drawing-room door, and
William found himself in that vast apart-
ment, the lights of which were crowded
about the fire, and the rest comparatively
dim.
“So good of you, Mr. Herbert,” said Mrs.
Kincton Knox, with a superb smile, and even
extending her fingers in the solemn exuber-
ance of her welcome. “It is so very kind of
you to come; so unreasonable, I fear; we had
a debate, I assure you,” and she smiled with
awful archness toward Miss Clara, “but my
audacity carried it—you've brought the book
too—he has brought the book, Clara : how
very kind, is not it?”
Miss Clara answered by a glance at their
visitor, almost grateful, and a smile at her
mother, who continued—
“You have no idea, Mr. Herbert—pray sit
where we can both hear and see you—how very


256 ALL IN THE DARK.
lonely we are in these great rooms, when we
are tele-à-téte, as you see.”
William's remarks in reply were not very
original or very many, but such as they were
nothing could be more successful, and the
ladies exchanged smiles of approbation over
the timid little joke, which had all but broken
down.
So William read aloud, and the ladies, each
in her way, were charmed, and next night he
was invited again, and there was more con-
versation and rather less reading, and so he
grew much more easy and intimate, and began
to look forward to these little reunions with a
very pleasant interest; and Miss Clara's bril-
liant beauty and some little indications of a
penchant very flattering began to visit his
fancy oftener than I should have supposed
likely; although it is hard to say when the
way-side flowers on the longest journey quite
lose their interest; or how much care and
fatigue are needed to make a man cease to
smile now and then, or whistle a stave on his
way.
William and his pupil were walking down
the thick fir wood that lies on the slope be-


ALL IN THE DARK. 257
tween Kincton and the Old London road, when
just at a curve in the path, within twenty
yards, whom should he come upon suddenly
in this darksome by-way but Mr. Wane
Trevor. -
They both stopped short.
“By Jove | Maubray P’’ exclaimed Trevor,
after a pause, and he cackled one of his agree-
able laughs.
“Did not expect to see you here, Trevor,”
replied William, looking on the whole rather
dismally surprised.
“Why, what are you afraid of, old Maubray?
I'm not going to do you any harm, upon my
honour,” and he laughed again, approaching
his friend, who likewise advanced to meet him,
smiling, with rather an effort. “Very glad to
see you, and—and I've a lot to tell you,” said
he, “I don't mean any nonsense, but—but
really serious things.”
“All well at home?” asked William, ea-
gerly. -
“Oh, dear, yes, quite well—all flourishing.
It is not—it's nothing unpleasant, you know,
only I mean something I–I, it's of importance
VOL. I. 17


25S ALL IN THE DARIX.
to me, by Jove' and to—to, I fancy, other
people also ; and I-I see you're puzzled.
Can we get rid of that little wretch for a
minute or two P’’ and he glanced at Howard
Seymour Knox, to whom, he just remembered,
he had not yet spoken.
“And how do you do, Howard, my boy?
Flourishing, I see. Would you like to have a
shot with my revolver? I left it at the game-
keeper's down there. Well, give them this
card, and they'll give it to you—and we'll try
and shoot a rabbit—eh P”
Away went Master Howard, and Trevor
said—
“And do tell me, what are you doing here,
of all places in the world 2"
“I’m a resident tutor—neither more nor
less,” said William Maubray, with a bitter
gaiety.
“You mean you've come here to Kincton to
teach that little cur—I hope you lick him a
trifle P’ inquired Trevor.
“Yes; but I don’t lick him, and in fact the
situation—that's the right word, isn't it?—is
very, what's the word? We get on quietly,
and they're all very civil to me, and it's very


ALL IN THE DARK. 259
good of a swell like you to talk so to a poor
devil of a pedagogue.” -
“Come, Maubray, none of your chaff. I
knew by your aunt's manner there was a screw
loose somewhere—something about a living,
wasn’t there?”
It was plain, however, that Trevor was
thinking of something that concerned him
more nearly than William Maubray's squabble
with his aunt.
“It’s a long story,” said William ; “she
wants me to go into the Church, and I won’t,
and so there's a quarrel, and that's all.”
“And the supplies stopped P” exclaimed
Trevor.
“Well, I think she would not stop them ;
she is very generous—but I could not, you
know, it's time I should do something; and
I'm here—Doctor Sprague thought it right—
under the name of Herbert. They know its
an assumed name—we took care to tell them
that—so there's no trick, you know, and please
don't say my name's Maubray, it would half
break my aunt's heart.”
“Secret as the tomb, Herbert, I’ll remember,
and—and I hope that nasty little dog won't
17—2


260 - ALL IN THE DARK.
be coming back in a minute—it's a good way
though—and, by Jove' it's very comical,
though, and almost providential this, meeting
you here, for I did want a friend to talk a bit
to, awfully, and, you know, Maubray, I really
have always looked on you in the light of a
friend.
There was a consciousness of the honour
which such a distinction conferred in the tone
in which this was spoken, and William, in the
cynical irony which, in this interview, he had
used with Trevor, interposed with—
“A humble friend, and very much flat-
tered.”
“You’re no such thing, upon my honour,
and I think you're joking. But I really do
regard you as a friend, and I want to tell you
no end of things, that I really think will sur-
prise you.”
William Maubray looked in Trevor's face,
gravely and, dubiously, and said he, with the
air of a man of the world, “Well, I should
like to hear—and any advice I can offer, it is
not of any great value I fear, is quite at your
service.”
“Let's sit down here,” said Trevor, and side


ALL IN THE DARK. 261
by side they seated themselves on a rustic seat,
and in the golden shade of the firs and pines,
, Vane Trevor began to open his case to
William.
- - -


CHAPTER XXXII.
A CONFIDENCE.
“I Don't know what you'll think of it after
all I’ve said, but I’m going to marry your
cousin, Violet Darkwell,” said Vane Trevor,
after a little pause, and with a kind of effort,
and a rather deprecatory smile.
“Oh P” exclaimed William Maubray, cheer-
ily, and with a smile. But the smile was wan,
and the voice sounded ever so far away.
“There's no use, Maubray, in a fellow's re-
sisting his destiny; and there's an old saying,
you know, about marriages being made in
heaven. By Jove' when it comes to a certain
point with a fellow, it's all over; no good
struggling, and he may as well accomplish his
—his destiny—by Jove, with a good grace.
And—and I know, Maubray, you'll be glad to


ALL IN THE DARK. 263
hear, and—and I really believe it's the best,
and wisest thing I could have done—don't
you think so *"
“I’m sure of that,” said William, in the
same tone, with the same smile. “You’re—
everyone says it's better to marry, when a
fellow can afford it; but—but, I did not think
you had a notion; that is, for ever so long;
and then, some—some, great lady.”
“No more I had,” answered Trevor. “By
Jovel a month ago, you weren't a more unlikely
man; but how can I help it? You never
were spoony on a girl in all your life, and
of course you can't tell; but you've no idea
how impossible it is for a fellow, when once he
comes to be really in—in love—to-to make
himself happy, and be content to lose her.
I can't I know.”
“No, of course,” answered William, with
the same smile and an involuntary sigh.
“And then, you know, money and that sort
of thing, it's all very fine, all very good in a
wife; but by Jove' there's more than you
think in—in fascination and beauty, and
manner, and that sort of thing. There's Sir
John Sludgeleigh—old family, capital fellow


264 ALL IN THE DARK.
—he chose to marry a woman from some of
those cotton mill places, with no end of money,
and by Jove, I think he has been ashamed to
show ever since ; you never saw such a brute.
He's ashamed of her, and they say he'd give
his right hand he had never set eyes on her.
I can quite understand, of course, a fellow that
has not a guinea left; but, by Jove, if you saw
her, you could not conceive such a thing.
And there's old Lord Ricketts, he married
quite a nobody. Sweetly pretty, to be sure.
but out of a boarding school, and so clever,
you know, but no money, and no family, and
he so awfully dipt; and she set herself to work
and looked after everything, awfully clever,
and at this moment the estate does not owe a
guinea, and she found it with a hundred and
twenty thousand pounds mortgage over it;
and when he married her every one said it was
all up, and his ruin certain, and by Jove it was
that marriage that saved him.”
“Very curious !” said William, dismally.
“To be sure it is ; there's no subject, I tell
you, there's so much nonsense talked about as
marriage; if a woman brings you a fortune or
connexion, by Jove, she'll make you pay for it.


ALL IN THE DARK. 265
I could tell you half a dozen who have been
simply ruined by making what all the world
thought wonderfully good marriages.”
“I dare say,” said William, in a dream.
“And then about family and connexion,
really the thing, when you examine it, there's
wonderfully little in it; the good blood of
England isn't in the peerage at all, it is really,
as a rule, all in the landed gentry. Now, look
at us, for example, I give you leave to search
the peerage through, and you'll not find four
houses—I don't speak of titles, but families—
older than we. Except four, there is not one
as old. And really, if people are nice, and
quite well bred, what more do you want?”
“Oh, nothing,” sighed William.
“And do you know, I've rather a prejudice
against barristers, I mean as being generally
an awfully low, vulgar set; and I assure you,
I—I know I may say whatever I think to you;
but I, when I was thinking about all this
thing, you know, I could not get the idea out
of my head. I knew her father was a barrister,
and he was always turning up in my mind;
you know the sort of thing, as-as a sort of
fellow one could not like.”


266 ALL IN THE DARK.
“But he's a particularly gentlemanlike
man,” broke in William, to whom Sergeant
Darkwell had always been very kind.
“Oh you need not tell me, for I walked
with him home to Gilroyd, last Sunday, from
church. I did not know who he was—stupid
of me not to guess—and you can’t think what
an agreeable—really nice fellow.”
“I know him; he has been always very
kind to me, and very encouraging about the
bar,” said Maubray.
“Yes,” interrupted Trevor, “and they say,
certain to rise, and very high, too. Chancery,
you know, and that—and—and such a really
gentleman-like fellow, might be anything, and
so—and so clever, I'm sure.”
“Come down to draw the settlements,”
thought William, with a pang. But he could
not somehow say it. There are events to which
you can submit, but the details of which you
shrink from. Here was for William, in some
sort, a death. A familiar face gone. The rest
was the undertaker's business. The stretching
and shrouding, and screwing down, he had
rather not hear of.
“You are going to tell the people here?”


ALL IN THE DARK. 267
said William Maubray, not knowing well what
to say. - -
- “Tell them here, at Kincton | Not if I
knows it. Why, I know pretty well, for fifty
reasons, how they'll receive it. Oh! no, I'll
just send them the prettiest little bit of a
note in a week or two, when everything is
quite settled, and I’ll not mind seeing them
again for some time, I can tell you. Here's
this little wretch coming again. Well, Howard,
have you got the revolver?”
Master Howard's face was swollen with tears
and fury P -
“No, they wouldn't give it me. You knew
right well they would not, without mamma
told 'em. I wished mamma was hanged ; I
do; she's always a plaguing every one; her
and that great brute, Clara.”
This explosion seemed to divert Mr. Trevor
extremely; but William was, of course, obliged
to rebuke his pupil. -
“If you say that again, Master Howard,
I'll tell your mamma.”
“I don't care.”
“Very well, sir.”
“I say, come with me,” said Trevor. “We'll


268 ALL IN THE DARK.
ask mamma about the pistol. May he come 2
and I shall be here again in half an hour.”
“Very well, do so, and just remember,
though I don't much care,” said Maubray,
in an under tone, “they don't know my name
here.” -
“All right,” said Trevor; “I shan’t forget,”
and he and his interesting companion took
their departure, leaving William to his medi-
tations.
“So going to be married—little Wi-pretty
little Wi-little Vi, that used to climb up at
the back of my chair. I’ll try and remember
her always the same little wayward, beautiful
darling. I've seen my last of her, at least for
a long time, a very long time. I wonder—I
wonder—Gilroyd—I’ll never see it again.”
And thoughts, vague and sad, came swelling
up the stormy channels of his heart, breaking
wildly and mournfully one over the other, and
poor William Maubray, in his solitude, wept
some bitter tears.


CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE LADIES MAKE INQUISITION.
ON the steps Vane Trevor was encountered by
Mr. Kincton Knox, in his drab gaiters and
portly white waistcoat, and white hat, and
smiling in guileless hospitality, with both
hands extended. “Very glad, Vane, my dear
boy—very happy—now we've got you, we'll
keep you three weeks at least. You must
not be running away as usual. We'll not let
you off this time, mind.”
Vane knew that the hospitable exuberances
of the worthy gentleman were liable to be
overruled by another power, and did not com-
bat the hospitable seizure, as vigorously as if
there had been no appeal. But he chatted a
while with the old gentleman, and promised
to walk down and see the plantations, and the


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 271
into the drawing-room, to demand an order
upon the gamekeeper's wife for Vane Trevor's
revolver.
“Vane Trevor come?” exclaimed Clara.
“I want a note,” cried Howard.
“We shall hear all about the quarrel,”
observed the old lady emphatically, and with
a mysterious nod, to her daughter.
“I won't be kept here all day,” cried Master
Howard, with a stamp.
“Well, wait a moment,” cried Clara, “ and
you shall have the other box of bonbons. I’ll
ring and send Brooks; but you've to tell me
where Vane Trevor is.”
“No I won't till I get the bonbons.”
Miss Clara was on the point of bursting
forth into invective, but being curious, she did
not choose a rupture, and only said,
“And why not, pray?”
“Because you cheated me of the shilling
you promised me the same way, and I told all
the servants, and they all said you were a beast.”
“I don't know what you mean, sir.”
“You do, right well,” he replied, “you
asked me to tell you all about the tutor, and
when I did you said it was not worth a farthing,


272 ALL IN THE DARK,
and you would not give the shilling you pro-
mised, that was cheating; you cheat l”
“Do you hear him, mamma P”
“Howard, my dear! what's all this? Tut,
tut !” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox.
The arrival of the bonbons, however, did
more to re-establish peaceful relations; and
the boy, who was anxious to get away,
delivered his news as rapidly as he could.
“Yes, Vane Trevor's come. When I and
Herbert were in the long larch walk he met
us, and they seemed very glad to meet.”
“Ah! Like people who knew one another
before ?” asked Miss Clara, eagerly, in tones
little above a whisper.
“Yes, and Vane called Herbert, Maubray—
yes he did.”
“Maubray & Are you quite sure of that?”
demanded the elder lady, peering into his face
and forgetting her dignity in the intensity of
her curiosity.
“Yes, that I am, quite sure,” replied the
boy wagging his head, and then spinning
himself round on his heel.
“Be quiet, sir,” hissed Miss Clara, clutching
him by the arm ; “answer me, now do be a


274 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Yes, that is, Pane. I don't think Herberà
was.” -
Again the ladies interchanged a meaning
glance.
“Where is Vane Trevor now?” inquired
the elder lady, gathering up her majestic man-
ner again.
“He was talking to the governor at the hall-
door.” -
“Oh then we shall see him in a moment,”
said Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“Mind now, Howard, you're not to say one
word to Mr. Herbert or to Wane Trevor about
your telling us anything,” added Miss Clara.
“Ain’t I though 2 I just will, both of them,
my man, unless you pay me my shilling,”
replied Master Howard.
“Mamma do you hear him l’exclaimed Miss
Clara in a piteous fury.
“What do you mean, sir?” interposed his
mamma vigorously, for she was nearly as
much frightened as the young lady.
“I mean I'll tell them; yes I will, I'm
going,” and he skipped with a horrid grimace,
and his thumb to his nose, toward the
door. -


ALL IN THE DARK. 275
“Come back, sir; how dare you?” almost
screamed Miss Clara.
“Here, sir, take your shilling,” cried Mrs.
Kincton Knox, with a stamp on the floor and
flashing eye, fumbling hurriedly at her purse
to produce the coin in question. “There it is,
sir, and remember.”
Whether the oracular “remember” was a
menace or an entreaty I know not; but the
young gentleman fixed the coin in his eye
after the manner of an eyeglass, and with
some horrid skips and a grin of triumph at
Miss Clara, he made his exit.
“Where can he learn those vile, low tricks 2"
exclaimed Miss Clara. “I don't believe there
is another such boy in England. He'll disgrace
us, you'll find, and he'll kill me, I know.”
“He has been extremely troublesome; and
I'll speak to him by-and-bye,” said the
matron.
“Speak, indeed; much he cares"
“I’ll make him care, though.”
There was a little silence, and the ladies
mentally returned to the more momentous
topic from which the extortion of Howard
Seymour had for a moment diverted them.
| S-2


276 ALL IN THE DARK.
“What do you think of it?” murmured
Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“Oh I think there's but one thing to
think,” answered Miss Clara.
“I look upon it as perfectly conclusive; and,
in fact, his appearance tallies so exactly with
the descriptions we have heard that we hardly
needed all this corroboration. As it is, I am
satisfied.”
At this moment the door opened, and Vane
Trevor was announced.


CHAPTER XXXIV.
TREVOR AND MAUBRAY IN THE DRAWING-ROOM.
VANE TREvoR was a remote cousin, and so
received as a kinsman ; he entered and was
greeted smilingly.
“We have secured such a treasure since we
saw you, a tutor for my precious Howard; and
such a young man—I can't tell you half what
I think of him.” (That, perhaps, was true).
“He’s so accomplished.” -
“Accomplished—is he?” said Trevor.
“Well, not perhaps in the common accepta-
tion of the term, that I know of, but I referred
particularly to that charming accomplishment
of reading aloud with feeling and point, you
know, so sadly neglected, and yet so conducive
to real enjoyment and one's appreciation of
good authors, when cultivated. You would


278 ALL IN THE DARK.
hardly believe what a resource it is to us poor
solitaries. I am quite in love with Mr. Her-
bert; and I will answer for Clara there ; she
is as nearly so as a young lady ought to be.”
Playfulness was not Mrs. Kincton Knox's
happiest vein. She was tall, tragic, and un-
gainly ; and her conscious graciousness made
one uncomfortable, and her smile was in-
timidating.
“He certainly does read charmingly,” threw
in Miss Clara.
“We have grown, I fear,” continued Mrs.
Kincton Knox, “almost too dependent on
him for the enjoyment of our evenings; and I
sometimes say, quite seriously to my girl
there, Clara, I do trust we are not spoiling
Mr. Herbert.”
“He does not look like a spoiled child—
rather sad and seedy, doesn't he?” replied
Vane Trevor.
“Tut—does he?” said Miss Clara.
“You’ve seen him, then P” supplemented
her mother. -
“Yes; had that honour as I mounted the
steep walk—how charming that walk is—
y


ALL IN THE DARK. 279
among the fir-trees. But I did not see any-
thing very unusual about him.”
“I can only say I like him eatremely,”
observed Mrs. Kincton Knox, in a tone which
concluded debate.
“And what do you say, Miss Knox P” in-
quired Vane Trevor, with one of his arch cackles.
“No ; young ladies are not to say all they
think, like us old people,” interposed Mrs.
Knox; “but he's a very agreeable young
man.”
“Is he?” said Vane Trevor, with irrepres-
sible amazement. “That's the first time, by
Jovel I ever heard poor Maubray”—and
hereupon he stopped, remembering that Mau-
bray's identity was a secret, and he looked,
perhaps, a little foolish.
Mrs. Kincton Knox coughed a little, though
she was glad to be quite sure that Mr. Wynston
Maubray was safe under her roof, and did not
want him or Vane Trevor to know that she
knew it. She therefore coughed a little
grandly, and also looked a little put out. But
Miss Clara, with admirable coolness, said quite
innocently—
“What of Mr. Maubray? What have vou


2S() ALL IN THE DARK.
heard of him P do tell us. How is poor Sir
Richard * We never saw his son, you know,
here; and is the quarrel made up 2" -
“That's just what I was going to tell you
about,” said Vane Trevor, scrambling rather
clumsily on his legs again after his tumble.
“Not the least chance—none in the world—
of a reconciliation. And the poor old fellow,
in one of his fits of passion, got a fit, by Jove,
and old Sprague at Cambridge, told me one-
half his body is perfectly dead, paralytic, you
know, and he can't last; so Wynston, you see,
is more eligible than ever.”
“Poor old man you ought not to speak
with so much levity,” said Mrs. Kincton
Knox. “I did not hear a word of it—how
horrible! And when had poor Sir Richard
his paralytic stroke P”
“About a week ago. He knew some people
yesterday; but they say he's awfully shaken,
and his face all—you know—pulled up on one
side, and hanging down at the other; old
Sprague says, a horrible object; by Jove, you
can't help pitying him, though he was a fearful
old screw.”
“Melancholy —and he was such a hand-


ALL IN THE DARK. 2
S
l
2”
some man Dear me ! Is his son like him
said Mrs. Kincton Knox ruefully.
“Why, not particularly just now. They
say the two sides of his face are pretty much
alike , and his right limbs are about as lively
as his left;" and Vane Trevor cackled very
agreeably over this sally.
“So I should hope, Mr. Trevor,” said the
matron of the high nose and dark brows with
a gloomy superiority, “and if there is any
objection to answering my question, I should
rather not hear it jested upon, especially with so
shocking a reference to Sir Richard's calamity
—whom I knew, poor man when he was as
strong and as good looking as you are.”
“But seriously,” said Miss Clara, who saw
that her mother had not loſt herself room to
repeat her question, “What is he like: is he
light or dark, or tall or short—or what?”
“Well, he's dark at night, you know, when
he's put out his candle, and light enough in
the daytime, when the sun's shining, and he's
decidedly short sometimes—in his temper, I
mean—he, he, he "-and tall in his talk
always,” replied Vane Trevor, and he enjoyed
a very exhilarating laugh at his witty conceits.


282 ALL IN THE DARK.
“You used to be capable of a little con-
versation,” said the matron grandly. “You
seem to have abandoned yourself to-to”
“To chaff, you were going to say,” suggested
Vane, waggishly.
“No, certainly not, that's a slang phrase
such as is not usual among ladies, nor ever
spoken at Kincton,” retorted the old lady.
“Well, it is though, whenever I'm here,”
he replied agreeably. “But I’ll really tell
you all I can : there's nothing very remark-
able in his appearance; he's rather tall, very
light; he has light hair, blue eyes, pretty good
bat.”
“What's that *" demanded the elder lady.
“He handles the willow pretty well, and
would treat you to a tolerably straight, well
pitched slow underhand.”
“I think you intimated that you were about
making yourself intelligible P” interposed Mrs.
Rincton Knox.
“And don't you understand me?” inquired
Vane Trevor of Miss Clara. -
“Yes, I think it's cricket, ain't it?” she replied.
“Well, you see I was intelligible; yes,
cricket, of course,” replied Vane.
»


ALL IN THE DARK. 283
“I can't say, I'm sure, where Miss Kincton
Knox learned those phrases; it certainly
was not in this drawing-room,” observed her
mamma, with a gloomy severity.
“Well, I mean he's a tolerably good crick-
eter, and he reads poetry, and quarrels with
his father, and he's just going to step into
the poor old fellow's shoes, for, jesting apart,
he really is in an awful state from all I can
hear.”
“Is it thought he may linger long P” in-
quired Mrs. Kington Knox; “though, indeed,
poor man, it is hardly desirable he should,
from all you say.”
“Anything but desirable. I fancy he's very
shaky indeed, not safe for a week—may go
any day—that's what Sprague says, and he's
awfully anxious his son should come and see
him; don't you think he ought?” said Mr.
Vane Trevor.
“That depends,” said the old lady thought-
fully, for the idea of her bird in the hand flit-
ting suddenly away at Old Sprague's whistle,
to the bush of uncertainty, was uncomfortable
and alarming. “I have always understood
that in a case like poor Sir Richard's nothing


2S4 ALL IN THE DARK.
can be more unwise, and, humanly speaking,
more certain to precipitate a fatal catastrophe
than a-a-adopting any step likely to be
attended with agitation. Nothing of the kind,
at least, ought to be hazarded for at least six
weeks or so, I should say, and not even then
unless the patient has rallied very decidedly,
and in such a state as the miserable man now
is, a reconciliation would be a mere delusion.
I should certainly say no to any such proposi-
tion, and I can't think how Dr. Sprague could
contemplate such an experiment in any other
light than as a possible murder.” -
At this moment the drawing-room door
opened, and William Maubray's pale and sad
face appeared at it.
“Howard says you wished to see me?” said
he.
“We are very happy, indeed, to see you,”
replied the old lady, graciously. “Pray come
in and join us, Mr. Herbert. Mr. Herbert,
allow me to introduce my cousin, Mr. Trevor.
You have heard us speak of Mr. Vane Trevor,
of Revington?”
“I had the pleasure—I met him on his way
here, and we talked—and—and—I know him


ALL IN THE DARK. 2S5
quite well,” said William, blushing, but coming
out with his concluding sentence quite stoutly,
for before Vane Trevor's sly gaze he would have
felt like a trickster if he had not.
But the ladies were determined to suspect
nothing, and Mrs. Knox observed—
“We make acquaintance very quickly in the
country—a ten minutes' walk together. Mr.
Herbert, would you object to poor Howard's
having a holiday ? — and, pray, join us at
lunch, and you really must not leave us
now.”
“I—oh very happy—yes—a holiday—
certainly,” replied he, like a man whose thoughts
were a little scattered, and he stood leaning on
the back of a chair, and showing, as both ladies
agreed, by his absent manner and pale and
saddened countenance, that Vane Trevor had
been delivering Doctor Sprague's message, de-
siring his presence at the death-bed of the
departing baronet.


CHAPTER xxxv.
THEY CONVERSE.
“WE were discussing a knotty point, Mr.
Herbert, when you arrived,” said Mrs. Kinc-
ton Knox. “I say that nothing can warrant
an agitating intrusion upon a sick bed. Mr.
Trevor here was mentioning a case—a patient
in a most critical state—who had an unhappy
quarrel with his son. The old gentleman, a
baronet, is now in a most precarious state.”
Miss Clara stole a glance at William, who was
bearing it like a brick. “A paralytic stroke;
and they talked of sending for his son Was
ever such madness heard of? If they want to
kill the old man outright, they could not go
more direct to their object. I happen to know
something of that awful complaint. My dar-
ling Clara's grandfather, my beloved father,


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 287
was taken in that way—a severe paralytic
attack, from which he was slowly recovering,
and a servant stupidly dropped a china cup
containing my dear father's gruel, and broke
it—a kind of thing which always a little ex-
cited him—and not being able to articulate
distinctly, or in any way adequately to express
his irritation, he had, in about twenty minutes
after the occurrence, a second seizure, which
quite prostrated him, and in fact he never
spoke intelligibly after, nor were we certain
that he recognised one of his immediate family.
So trifling are the ways, so mysterious—h—
hem —and apparently inadequate the causes,
which of course, under Divine regulation, in
paralytic affections, invariably overpower the
patient. Now, what I say is this, don't you
think a son, in such a case, instead of ob-
truding himself at the sick man's bedside,
ought to wait quietly for a month or two—
quietly, I would say, in France or wherever he
is, and to allow his father just to rally P
William had been looking rather drearily
on the carpet during this long statement, and
I am afraid he had hardly listened to it as
closely as he ought, and on being appealed to


2SS ALL IN THE DARK.
on the subject he did the best he could, and
answered –
“It's an awful pity these quarrels.”
“He knows something of the case, too,” in-
terposed Vane Trevor.
The ladies looked, one upon the flowers in
the vase, and the other out of the window, in
painful expectation of an immediate eclaireisse-
ment. But William only nodded a little frown
at Trevor, to warn him off the dangerous
ground he was treading, and he went on.
“The blame is always thrown on the young
fellows; it isn't fair.” William spoke a little
warmly. “It’s the fault of the old ones a
great deal oftener, they are so dictatorial and
unreasonable, and expect you to have no will
or conscience, or body or soul, except as they
please. They forget that they were young
themselves once, and would not have sub-
mitted to it; and then they talk of you as a
rebel, by Jove' and a-a parricide almost, for
presuming to have either a thought or a scruple,
Ol' ” On a sudden William perceived that,
fired with his subject, he was declaiming a
little more vehemently than was usual in draw-
ing-rooms, and his inspiration failed him.


ALL IN THE DARK. 289
“Hear, hear, hear !” cried Trevor, with a
tiny clapping of his hands, and a laugh.
Miss Clara looked all aglow with his elo-
quence, and her mamma said grandly—
“There's truth, I’m sorry to say, in your
remarks. Heaven knows I’ve suffered from
unreasonableness, if ever mortal has. Here
we sit in shadow of that great ugly, positively
ugly tree there, and there it seems it must
stand I daren't remove it;” and Mrs. Kinc-
ton Knox lifted her head and her chin, and
looked round like a queen shorn of her regali-
ties, and inviting the indignant sympathy of
the well affected. “There is, no question of
it, a vast deal of unreasonableness and selfish-
ness among the old. We all feel it,” and she
happened to glance upon Miss Clara, who was
smiling a little cynically on the snowy ringlets
of her little white dog, Bijou. She continued
fiercely, “And to return to the subject. I
should think no son, who did not wish to kill
his father, and to have the world believe so,
would think of such a thing.”
“ Killing's a serious business,” observed
Trevor. -
“A man killed,” observed Mrs. Kincton
WOL. I. 19


200 ALL IN THE DARK.
Knox, “is a man lost to society. His place
knows him no more. All his thoughts
perish.”
“And they're not often any great loss,”
moralized Trevor.
“Very true !” acquiesced Mrs. Kincton
Knox, with alacrity, recollecting how little
rational matter her spouse ever contributed to
the council board of Kincton. “Still, I main-
tain, a son would not like to be supposed to
have caused the death of his father. That is,
unless my views of human nature are much
too favourable. What do you think, Mr. Her-
bert?” and the lady turned her prominent
dark eyes, with their whites so curiously
veined, encouragingly upon the young man.
“I think if I were that fellow,” he replied,
and Mrs. Kincton Knox admired his diplo-
macy. “I should not run the risk.”
“Quite right !” approved the lady radiantly.
Trevor looked at his watch and stood up.
“Your trunk and things, gone up to your
room, Vane *" inquired Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“I’ve no trunk; ha, ha! and no things—
he, he, he no, upon my honour. I can't stay,
really; I’m awfully sorry; but my plans were


ALL IN THE DARK. 24) ||
all upset, and I’m going back to the station,
and must walk at an awful pace too ; only
half an hour—a very short visit; well, yes,
but I could not deny myself—short as it is—
and I hope to look in upon you again soon.”
“It's very ill-natured, I think,” said Miss
Clara.
“Very,” said Mrs. Kincton Knox, yet both
ladies were very well pleased to be relieved of
Vane Trevor's agreeable society. He would
have been in the way—unutterably de trop.
His eye upon their operations would have been
disconcerting; he would have been taking the
—the tutor long walks, or trying, perhaps, to
flirt with Clara, as he did two years ago, and
never leaving her to herself. So the regrets
and upbraidings with which they followed
Vane Trevor, who had unconsciously been
helping to mystify them, were mild and a little
hypocritical.
10–3


CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE EVENING.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY was bidden to luncheon,
and was sad and abstemious at that pleasant
refection, and when it was over Mrs. Kincton
Knox said—
“My dear Clara, it's quite out of the ques-
tion my going with you to-day, I'm suffering
so—that horrid neuralgia.”
“Oh darling ! how sorry I am " exclaimed
Miss Clara, with a look of such beautiful pity
and affection as must have moved William
Maubray if he had the slightest liking for
ministering angels. “What can I do for you?
You must, you know, try something.”
“No, love, no ; nature—nature and rest. I
shall lie down for a little ; but you must have
your ride all the same to Coverdale, and I am


ALL IN THE DARK. 293
certain Mr. Herbert will be so kind as to
accompany you. -
William Maubray would have given a great
deal for a solitary ramble; but, of course, he
was only too happy, and the happy pair
scampered off on their ponies side by side, and
two hours after Miss Clara walked into her
mamma's room, looking cross and tired, and
sat down silently in a chair, before the cheval
glass. -
“Well, dear?” inquired her mother, inquisi-
tively.
“Nothing, mamma. I hope your head's
better l’’
“My head? Oh! yes, better, thanks. But
—a—how did you like your ride?”
“Very stupid,” answered the young lady.
“I suppose you've been in one of your
tempers, and never spoke a word—and you
know he's so shy? Will you ever learn, Miss
Kincton Knox, to command your miserable
temper?” exclaimed her mother very grimly,
but the young lady only flapped the folds of
her skirt lazily with her whip.
“You quite mistake, mamma, I'm not cross;
I'm only tired. I'm sorry you did not let him
19–3


ALL IN THE DARK. 295
mother, with an uneasy scorn. “You had
better call Brookes and get your habit off.
And where did you leave him P’’
“At the hall door,” replied Miss Clara, as
she walked out of the room.
“H'm, stuff!” repeated Mrs. Kincton Knox,
still more uneasily, for she knew that Clara
had her wits about her. “Married, indeed
It's probable just this—Vane Trevor has come
here with a foolish long exhortation from
Doctor—what's his name?—Sprague — and
upset the young man a little, and perhaps agi-
tated him. He'll be quite a different person
to-morrow.”
And so indeed it proved. Whatever his
secret feelings, William Maubray was exter-
nally a great deal more like himself. In the
state which follows such a shock as William
had experienced before the monotony of sad-
ness sets in, there is sometimes an oscillation
of spirits from extreme depression to an equally
morbid hilarity, the symbol of excitement only.
So in a long ride, which William took with
the young lady to-day, accompanied by his
pupil, who, on his pony, entertained himself
by pursuing the sheep on the hill side, Miss


296 ALL IN THE DARK.
Clara found him very agreeable, and also ready
at times to philosophize, eloquently and sadly,
in the sort of Byronic vein into which bitter
young lovers will break. So the sky was
brightening, and William, who suspected no-
thing of the peculiar interest with which his
varying moods were observed, was yet flattered
by the gradual but striking improvement of
his relations, accepted the interest displayed
by the ladies as a feminine indication of com-
passion and appreciation, and expressed a
growing confidence and gratitude, the indirect
expressions of which they, perhaps, a little
misapprehended.
In the evening Mrs. Kincton Knox called
again for the “Lord of Burleigh,” not being
fertile in resource—Miss Clara turned her chair
toward the fire, and with her feet on a boss,
near the fender, leaned back, with a handscreen
in her fingers, and listened.
“That is what I call poetry !” exclaimed
the matron with the decision of a brigadier,
and a nod of intimidating approbation, toward
William, “and so charmin/ly read"
“I’m afraid Miss Knox must have grown a
little tired of it,” suggested William.


ALL IN THE DARK. 297
“One can never tire of poetry so true to
nature,” answered Miss Clara.
“She's all romance, that creature,” confi-
dentially murmured her mamma, with a com-
passionating smile.
“What is it?” inquired Miss Clara. .
“You’re not to hear, but we were saying,
wern’t we, Mr. Herbert P that she has not a
particle of romance in her nature,” replied her
mamma with her gloomy pleasantry.
“No romance certainly, and I'm afraid no
common sense either,” replied the young lady
naively.
“Do you write poetry?” asked the old lady
of William.
“You need not ask him, he could not read
as he did, if he did not write,” said Miss Clara
turning round in an eager glow, which mo-
mentary enthusiasm some other feeling over-
powered, and she turned away again a little
bashfully.
“You do write, I see it confessed in your
eyes,” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox. “He
does, Clara, you're right. I really think some-
times she's a–a–fairy.”
“Ask him, mamma, to read us some of


298 ALL IN THE DARK.
his verses,” pleaded Clara, just a little
timidly.
“You really must, Mr. Herbert—no, no, I'll
hear of no excuses; our sex has its privileges,
you know, and where we say must, opposition
vanishes.”
“Really,” urged William, “any little at-
tempts of mine are so unworthy”—
“We must, and will have them to-morrow
evening ; dear me, how the hours do fly. You
have no idea, Clara dear, how late it is, quite
dreadful. I’m really angry with you, Mr.
Herbert, for beguiling us into such late
hours.
So the party broke up, and when Mrs.
Kincton Knox entered her daughter's room
where she was in a dishevelled stage of prepar-
ation for bed; she said, her maid being just
despatched on a message—
“I really wish, mamma, you'd stop about
that Lord of Burleigh; I saw him look quite
oddly when you asked for it again to-night,
and he must know, unless he's a fool, that
you don't care two pence about poetry, and
you'll just make him think we know who he
x >
is.


ALL IN THE DARK. 299
“Pooh nonsense, Clara ! don’t be ridi-
culous,” said her mother, a little awkwardly,
for she had a secret sense of Clara's superiority.
“I don't want you to teach me what I'm to
do, I hope, and who brought him here, pray,
and investigated, and, in fact—here's Brookes
back again—and you know we are to have his
own verses to-morrow night, so we don't want
that, nor any more, if you'd rather not, and
you can't possibly be more sick of it than I
am.” -
So, on the whole well pleased, the ladies
betook themselves to their beds, and Mrs.
Kincton Knox lay long awake, constructing
her clumsy castles in the air.
END OF WOL. I.
BiLLING, PRINTER, GUILD Foºd.


|-


ALL IN THE I) A.R.R
By
J. SHERIDAN LE FANU
Auſtriot. Of
“The House by The church YARD,” “GUY DEVERELI,”
“ UNCLE silas,” Etc., Etc.
IN TWO WOLUMES.
WOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1866.
[The Right of Translation is reserved )





CONTENTS TO WOL. II.
chaptert PA Gr.
I. WANE TREVOR AT THE GATE OF GILROYD . - l
II. WANE TREVOR WALKS DOWN TO SEE MISS VIOLET 10
III. WANE treWOR OPENS HIS MIND . - . . 19
IV. MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH
WILLIAM - - - - - - . 27
W. HOW THEY TALKED - - - - - 35
WI. CONFIDENCES . - - - - - . 46
VII. M.R. KINCTON KNOX RECEIVES A SUMMON's . 5S
VIII. BACK TO CAM bri DGE - - - - . 66
IX. WIOLET DARK WELL AT GILROYD AGAIN . - 72
X. WANE TREVOR AT THE WINDOW. - - ... 81
x1. Miss PERFECT's ToILET - - - - 90
xii. The ProDIGAL . - - - - - . 96
XIII. “AFTER DEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAUNT YOU” 105
XIV. VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM. 114
XV. A DREAM - - - - - - - 123
XVI. NEXT MORNING - - - - - . 130
xWII. THE FLOWER - - - - - - 138
XVIII. DOCTOR DRAKE GOES to GIL roy D . - . 147
xix. SUSPENSE - - - - - - - 155
xx. SOME PARTICULARS . - - - - . 164
xxi. Doctor wagget : FURTHER PARTICULARs . 171


iv. CONTENTS.
chapter=
xxii. previ NGTON FLOW ers - -
xx III. WAN e Trevor sees MISS WIOLet .
xxiv. THE MOMENToUS QUESTION -
xxv. A DOUBT Troubles MAU bray
xx VI. THE FURNITUre begins to TALK
XXVII. WILLIAM MAU Bray Is TORMENTED -
xxWIII. AN AMBUSCADE
xxix. PURSUIT . - - -
xxx. THE GEIOST ReAPPEArs - -
xxx I. THE PHANTOM Is TrAcked . -
xxx II. SOME SMALL EVENTS AND PLANs -
XXXIII. WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON . - -
xxx IV. VIOLET DARK WELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT
QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD - - -
XXXV. THE CHIMES OF SAxTON .


ALL IN THE DARK,
CHAPTER I.
VANE TREVOR AT THE GATE OF GILROYD.
NEXT morning, at breakfast, as usual, the post-
bag brought its store of letters and news, and
Mrs. Kincton Knox dispensed its contents in
her usual magisterial manner. There were
two addressed in Vane Trevor's handwriting;
one to the tutor, which the matron recognized,
as she sent it round to him in Howard's hand,
the other to herself.
“Pray, no ceremony with us,” said the lady
of the house, with a gorgeous complacency;
“read your letter here, Mr. Herbert: we are
all opening ours, you see.”
WOL. II. 1


2. ALL IN THE DARK.
'So William Maubray, with an odd little
flutter at his heart, opened the letter, which he
knew would speak of those of whom it agi-
tated him to think.
It was dated from Revington, whither, with
a sort of home sickness new to him, Trevor
had returned almost directly after his visit to
Rincton.
Vane Trevor had, without intending it, left,
perhaps, on Maubray's mind an impression,
that a little more had occurred than the pro-
gress of the drama could actually show. He
had not yet committed himself irrevocably;
but he had quite made up his mind to take
the decisive step, and only awaited the oppor-
tunity.
The day after his arrival he joined the Gil-
royd ladies as they left the Rectory, where—
for the great law of change and succession is
at work continually and everywhere—the
Mainwarings were no more, and good old
Doctor Wagget was now installed, and begin-
ning to unpack and get his books into their
shelves, and he and old Miss Wagget were
still nodding, and kissing their hands, and


ALL IN THE DARK. 3
smiling genially on the door-steps on their
departing visitors.
Just here Vane Trevor lighted upon them.
How lovely Miss Violet Darkwell looked!
Was not that a blush, or only the rosy shadow
under her bonnet?
“A blush, by Jove" thought Vane
Trevor, and he felt as elated as, a few
weeks before, he would have been had he got
a peerage. -
So they stopped in a little group on the
road under the parsonage trees; and, the usual
greeting accomplished, the young man accom-
panied them on their way toward Gilroyd, and
said he—
“I looked in the other day, on my way back
from Lowton, on my cousins, the Kincton
Knoxes, at Kincton, you know, and, by Jove!
I met—who do you think?”
“I haven't an idea,” replied Miss Dark-
well, to whom he had chiefly addressed him-
self.
“Anne Dowlass, I dare say, my roguish,
runaway little girl,” suggested Miss Perfect,
inquisitively.
1—2


4 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Oh, no! not a girl,” answered Tre-
VOr.
“Well, it was the Bishop of Shovel-on-
Headly,” said she, firmly.
“No ; by Jovel I don't think you'd guess
in half an hour. Upon my honour! He
he hel Well, what do you think of Mau-
bray?”
“William P’’ repeated Miss Perfect, faintly,
and in a tone such as would indicate sudden
pain.
“Yes, by Jove' the very man, upon my
honour—as large as life. He's xx
Suddenly, Vane Trevor recollected that he
was not to divulge the secret of his being there
in the office of tutor.
“Well, he's—what is he doing?” urged
Aunt Dinah.
“He’s—he's staying there; and, upon my
honour—you won't tell, I know, but, upon my
honour—the old lady, and—he he he l—
the young one are both—I give you my honour
—in love with him l’’
And Trevor laughed shrilly.
“But, I really ain't joking — I’m quite


ALL IN THE DARK. 5
serious, I do assure you. The old woman told
me, in so many words almost, that Clara's
in love with him — awfully in love, by
Jovel”
Trevor's narrative was told in screams of
laughter.
“And, you know, she's really, awfully
pretty: a stunning girl she was a year or two
ago; and—and—you know that kind of thing
could not be—both in the same house—and
the girl in love with him—and nothing come
of it. It's a case, I assure you; and it will
be a match, as sure as I'm walking beside
you.”
“H'm " ejaculated Aunt Dinah, with a
quick little nod and closed lips, looking straight
before her.
“How pretty that light is, breaking on the
woods; how splendid the colours;” said Miss
Darkwell.
“Yes — well! It really is now, jolly!”
responded Vane Trevor; and he would have
made a pretty little speech on that text; but
the presence of Miss Perfect, of course, put
that out of the question.


6 ALL IN THE DARK.
Miss Perfect was silent during nearly all
the rest of the walk; and the conversation
remained to the young people, and Vane
Trevor was as tenderly outspoken as a lunatic
in his case dare be under restraint and observa-
tion.
They had reached the poplars, only a stone's
throw from the gate of Gilroyd, when Miss
Perfect asked abruptly, “How was the young
man looking?”
Vane Trevor had just ended a description of
old Puttles, the keeper of the “Garter,” whom
he had seen removed in a drunken apoplexy to
the hospital yesterday; and Aunt Dinah's
question for a moment puzzled him, but he
Quickly recovered the thread of the by-gone
allusion.
“Oh! Maubray? I beg pardon. Maubray
was looking very well, I think; a little like a
hero in love, of course, you know, but very
well. He was just going to lunch with the
ladies when I left, and looked precious hungry,
I can tell you. I don't think you need trouble
yourself about Maubray, Miss Perfect, I
assure you you needn't, for he's taking


ALL IN THE DARK. 7
very good care of himself, every way, by
Jove.”
“I don't trouble myself,” said Aunt Dinah,
rather sternly, interrupting Trevor's agreeable
cackle. “He has quite broken with me, as I
already informed you—quite, and I don't care
who knows it. I shall never interfere with
him or his concerns more. He shall never
enter that gate, or see my face more; that's no
great privation, of course; but I don't wish
his death or destruction, little as he deserves
of me, and that's the reason I asked how he
looked; and, having heard, I don't desire to
hear more about him, or to mention his name
again.”
And Miss Perfect stared on Vane Trevor
with a grim decision, which the young man
was a little puzzled how to receive, and, with
the gold head of his cane to his lip, looked up
at a cloud, with a rueful and rather vacant
countenance, intended to express something of
a tragic sympathy.
He walked with them to the pretty porch;
but Aunt Dinah was still absent and grim,
and bid him good-bye, and shook hands at the


8 ALL IN THE DARK.
door, without asking him in ; and though he-
seemed to linger a little, there was nothing
for it, but to take his departure, rather
vexed.
That evening was silent and listless at Gil-
royd, and though Miss Perfect left the parlour
early, I think there was a séance, for, as she
lay in her bed, Violet heard signs of life in the
study beneath her, and Miss Perfect was very
thoughtful, and old Winnie Dobbs very sleepy,
all next day.
It was odd now that Vane Trevor had
come to set his heart upon marrying Violet
Darkwell; that his confidence in his claims,
which he would have thought it simple
lunacy to question a few weeks ago, began
to waver. He began to think how that
gentlemanlike Mr. Sergeant Darkwell, with
the bright and thoughtful face, who was,
no doubt, ambitious, would regard the rental
and estate of Revington with those onerous
charges upon it; how Miss Perfect, with
her whims and fancies, and positive temper,
might view the whole thing; and, lastly,
whether he was quite so certain of the young


ALL IN THE DARK. 9
lady's “inclinations,” as the old novels have
it, as he felt a little time before: and so he
lay awake in an agitation of modesty, quite
new to him.


CHAPTER II.
VANE TREVOR WALKS DOWN TO SEE MISS
VIOLET.
LookING at himself in his glass next morning,
Vane Trevor pronounced the coup d'ail “aw-
fully seedy. This sort of thing, by Jove, it
will never do, it would wear out any fellow;
where's the good in putting off? there's no
screw loose, there's nothing against me; I hope
I stand pretty well here—hang it—I'll walk
down to-day,” and he looked over the slopes
to sunny Gilroyd, “and if a good oppor-
tunity turns up, I’ll speak to Miss Dark-
well.”
And though he had taken care, in secret
mercy to his nerves, to state his resolve hypo-
thetically, his heart made two or three strange


ALL IN THE DARK. 11
throbs and experienced a kind of sinking like
that said to attend, on the eve of battle, an
order to prepare for action.
Accordingly, before twelve o'clock Vane
Trevor walked into the porch of Gilroyd, and
rang the bell beside the open door, and stood
with the gold head of his cane to his chin,
looking on the woodlands toward Revington,
and feeling as he might have felt in an omin-
ous dream.
“Miss Perfect at home?” he inquired of the
maid, with a haggard simper.
“She was in the drawing-room,” into which
room, forgetting the preliminary of announce-
ment, he pushed his way. She was not there,
but he heard her talking to Winnie Dobbs in
the gallery.
“Just passing by ; afraid I’m very trouble-
some, but I could not resist,” pleaded Vane
Trevor, as he glanced over Miss Perfect's gray
silk shoulder, and somewhat old-fashioned
collar, toward the door, expecting, perhaps,
another apparition.
“I’m very glad you've come, Mr. Trevor.


12 ALL IN THE DARK.
—Shall we sit down, for I—I want to ask you.
to satisfy me upon a point.”
This was a day of agitations for Trevor,
and his heart made an odd little dance, and a
sudden drop, and though he smiled, he felt his
cheek grow a little pale.
“By Jove" thought Trevor as he placed
himself near Aunt Dinah, “she'll save me a
lot of trouble, and open the subject all in a
sentence.”
He was leaning against the window case,
and the damask curtains, though somewhat the
worse of the sun, made a gorgeous drapery
about him, as with folded arms, and trying to
look perfectly serene, he looked down on Miss
Perfect's face. The lady seemed to have some
little difficulty about speaking, and cleared her
voice, and looked out of the window for help,
and all the time the young man felt very oddly.
At last she said—
“I had made up my mind not to allude to
the subject, but I–I—last night, in fact,
something occurred which has induced me just
to ask a question or two.” Aunt Dinah
paused; and with rather pale lips, Vane Trevor


ALL IN THE DARK. 13
smiled an assurance that he would be too
happy to answer any question which Miss
Perfect might please to ask.
Again a little silence—again the odd sensa-
tion in Vane's heart, and the same sickening
sense of suspense, and he felt he could not
stand it much longer.
“I—I said I would not allude again to
William Maubray, but I—I have altered that
resolution. I mean, however, to ask but a
question or two.”
“Oh P” was all that Trevor uttered, but
he felt that he could have wished the old
woman and William Maubray in a sack
at the bottom of his best pond at Re-
vington. -
“I—I wish to know, the Kincton Knoxes,
aren't they a leading people rather, in their
part of the world?”
“Oh, dear, yes. Kincton is one of the best
places in the county,” ejaculated Trevor,
who being a kinsman, bore a handsome testi-
mony.
“And—and—the young lady, Miss Clara
Knox, she, I suppose, is—is admired P”


14 ALL IN THE DARK.
“So she is, by Jove—I know, I admired her
awfully—so admired that the fellows won't let
one another marry her, by Jovel—he, he, he'
Very fine girl, though, and I believe her
father, or rather her mother, will give her a
lot of money.” -
Miss Perfect looked on the table, not
pleased, very thoughtfully, and Vane Trevor
looked down at her fore-shortened countenance
listlessly.
“And—and you spoke, you remember, of
an idea that—that in fact it would end in a
marriage,” resumed Miss Perfect.
“Did I really say? well, but you won't
mention what I say, I, upon my honour, and
quite seriously, I should not wonder a bit. It
is not altogether what she said, you know,
Mrs. Kincton Knox, I mean, though that was
as strong as you could well imagine—but her
manner; I know her perfectly, and when she
wishes you to understand a thing; and I
assure you that's what she wished me to sup-
pose—and I really, I can't understand it; it
seems to me perfectly incomprehensible, like a
sort of infatuation, for she's one of the sharp-


ALL IN THE DARK. 15
est women alive, Mrs. Kincton Knox; but, by
Jove, both she and Clara, they seem to have
quite lost their heads about Maubray. I
never heard anything like it, upon my ho-
nour.”
And Trevor, who had by this time quite
shaken off the chill of his suspense, laughed
very hilariously, till Aunt Dinah said, with
some displeasure—
“For the life of me, I can't see anything
ridiculous in it. William Maubray is better
connected than they, and he's the handsomest
young man I ever beheld in my life; and if
she has money enough of her own, for both,
I can't see what objection or difficulty there
can be.”
“Oh certainly—certainly not on those
grounds; only what amused me was, there's
a disparity; you know — she's, by Jove'
She is—she's five years elder, and that's some-
thing.”
“And—and if it is to be, how soon do you
suppose it likely 2” asked Miss Perfect, fixing
her eyes anxiously on him.
“Well, you know I know no more than the


16 ALL IN THE DARK.
man in the moon; but if they really mean it,
I don't see what's to delay it,” answered
Trevor.
“Because—because”—hesitated Aunt Dinah,
“I have reason to know that if that unfor-
tunate young man—not that I have any rea-
son to care more than any one else, should
marry before the lapse of five years, he
will be utterly ruined, and undone by so
doing.”
Vane Trevor stood expecting an astound-
ing revelation, but Aunt Dinah pro-
ceeded—
“And therefore as you are his friend—of
course it's nothing to me — I thought you
might as well hear it, and if you chose to
take that trouble, let him know,” said Miss
Perfect.
He looked a little hard at Miss Perfect, and
she as steadily on him.
“I will, certainly—that is, if you think I
ought. But—but I hope it won't get me into
a scrape with the people there.”
“I do think you ought,” said Miss Per-
fect.


ALT, IN THE DARK. 17
“I—I suppose he'll understand the rea-
sons?” suggested Vane Trevor, half interro-
gatively.
“If you say—I think, if you say—that I
said I had reason to know”—and Aunt Dinah
paused.
Vane Trevor, looking a little amazed, re-
peated—
“I’m to say, you said you had reason to
know?”
“Yes, and—and—I thin/ he'll understand—
and if he should not, you may say—a—yes,
you may, it has reached me through Hen-
bane.”
“I beg pardon—through what 2 said Vane
Trevor, inclining his ear.
“Henbane,” said Miss Perfect very sharply.
“Henbane?”
“Yes.”
“By Jove" exclaimed Trevor.
A considerable silence ensued, during which
a variety of uncomfortable misgivings respect-
ing the state of Miss Perfect's mind floated
through his own. He concluded, however,
that there was some language of symbols
WOL. II. 2


It S ALL IN THE DARK.
established between Miss Perfect and her
nephew, in which Henbane stood for some
refractory trustee, or rich old uncle.
So he said, more like himself—
“Well, I shan't forget. I'll take care to
let him know, and you may depend upon,
Inne.


CHAPTER III.
VANE TREVOR OPENS HIS MIND.
-
AFTER a silence, Mr. Vane Trevor, whose
thoughts were not quite abandoned to Hen-
bane and his friend William Maubray, but
had begun to flow in a more selfish channel,
said— -
“Miss Darkwell, I suppose, in the gar-
den?”
“Violet's gone for a few days to our friends,
the Mainwarings, at their new Rectory; they
seem to like it extremely.”
“Oh, do they? That's delightful,” said
Trevor, who looked very dismal. “And so
Miss Darkwell is there?”
Miss Perfect nodded.


20 ALL IN THE DARK.
“I’m — I’m very unlucky. I—I thought
such a fine day, I—I might have induced you
both to—to—there's such a pretty drive to
Wilton.”
“Yes—I know—I’m sure she'd have liked
it of all things.”
“Do you really think so P” exclaimed the
young man, inquiringly. “I wish — I wish
very much I could — I could flatter my-
self.”
Aunt Dinah looked up, and at him earn-
estly but kindly, and said nothing, and so
looked down again. There was encourage-
ment in that look, and Trevor waxed elo-
quent.
“I—I wish I could—I wish I dare—I—I
think her so beautiful. I—I can't express all
I think, and I–there's nothing I would not
do to make her friends approve—a—a—in
fact I should be so much obliged if I thought
you would wish me well, and be my friend—
and—and >>
And Vane Trevor for want of anything dis-
tinct to add to all this, came to a pause.


ALL IN THE DARK. 21
And Miss Perfect, with a very honest sur-
prise in her face, said: -
“Am I to understand, Mr. Vane Trevor?”
and she too came to a stop.
But with those magical words the flood-
gates of his eloquence were opened once
In Ore.
“Yes, I do. I do indeed. I mean to—to
propose for Miss Darkwell, if—if I were sure
that her friends liked the idea, and that I
could think she really liked me. I—I came
to-day with the intention of speaking to
her.”
He was now standing erect, no longer lean-
ing against the window shutter, and holding
his walking-cane very hard in both hands, and
impressing Miss Perfect with a conviction of
his being thoroughly in earnest.
“I—I tell you frankly, Mr. Trevor,” said
Aunt Dinah, a little flushed with a sympa-
thetic excitement, and evidently much pleased,
“I did not expect this. I—I had fancied
that you were not a likely person to marry,
and to say truth, I sometimes doubted whether
I ought to have allowed your visits here so


22 ALL IN THE DARK.
frequently, at least as you have made them for
the last few weeks. Of course I can see no-
thing that is not desirable, in fact highly
advantageous in the proposal you make. Am
I at liberty to write to Sergeant Darkwell on
the subject?”
“Oh certainly — exactly what I should
wish.”
“I’m very sure he will see it in the same
light that I do. We all know the Trevors of
Revington, the position they have always
held; and though I detest the line they took
in the great civil war, and think your poor
father had no business helping to introduce
machinery into this part of the world as he
did, and I always said so, I yet can see the
many amiable qualities of his son, and I have
no doubt that you will make a kind and affec-
tionate husband. I must, however, tell you
candidly, that I have never spoken of you to
Violet Darkwell as a-in fact, in any other
light than that of an acquaintance, and I can-
not throw any light upon her feelings. You
can ascertain them best for yourself. My
belief is, that a girl should be left quite free


ALL IN THE DARK. 23
to accept or decline in such a case, and I
know that her father thinks exactly as I
do.”
“I—I may write to Miss Darkwell, do you
think? I suppose I had better?”
“No,” said Miss Perfect, with decision ;
“were I you I should much prefer speaking.
Depend upon it, there's more to be done by
speaking. But as you are acquainted with her
father, don't you think you might write to
him. Violet may return in three days, but
will not, I think, quite so soon ; and mean-
while you will have heard from him.”
“I think so. I’ll do it, certainly ; and 1–
I feel that you're my friend, Miss Perfect;”
and he took her hand, and she took his very
kindly. -
“I’ve said my say, I highly approve, and
I’m quiet certain her father will also ; he
agrees with me on most points; he's a very
superior man.”
Vane Trevor, there and then, with Aunt
Dinah’s concurrence, wrote his letter to Mr.
Sergeant Darkwell; and then he walked with
Aunt Dinah in the garden, talking incessantly


2 p. ALI, IN THE I)ARK.
ef Violet, and it must be added, very much
pleased with Miss Perfect's evident satisfac-
tion and elation; and he remained to dinner,
a situation which two months ago would have
appeared the most ludicrous and dismal in
nature, and he gabbled of his lady love, ask-
ing questions and starting plans of all
sorts.
And time flew so in this téte-à-féfe, that they
were surprised by the entrance of the house-
hold with the Bible and Prayer-book; and
Mr. Vane Trevor, though not a particularly
sober-minded youth, could not avoid accepting
the role of the absent William Maubray, and
officiated, much to the edification of the maids,
in whose eyes the owner of Revington was a
very high personage indeed; and, “the
chapter” for that evening delighted and over-
awed them, and they could hardly believe
their eyes that the great squire of Revington
was pent up with them in that small drawing-
room, and kneeling and saying “amen,”
and repeating the Lord's Prayer after Miss
Perfect, “as mild and humble' as one of
themselves.


ALL IN THE DARK. 25
When he got home to Revington, not be-
ing able to tranquillize his mind, he vented
his excitement upon the two letters which I
have mentioned as having reached the family
of Kincton, at the breakfast-table.
“Read that, Clara, my dear,” said Mrs.
Kincton Knox, with a funereal nod and in a
cautious under-tone.
Miss Clara read the letter, and when she
came to the passage which related that poor
old Sir Richard Maubray had had a second
and much severer paralytic stroke, and was
now in articulo, she raised her eyes for a mo-
ment to her mother's, and both for a moment
looked with a solemn shrewdness into the
other's, Miss Clara dropped hers again to the
letter, and then stole a momentary glance
at William, who looked as if he were very
ill.
As a man who receives a letter announc-
ing that judgment is marked, and bailiffs
on his track, will hide away the awful
crumpled note in his pocket, and try to be-
guile his friends by a pallid smile, and a
vague and incoherent attempt to join in


26 ALL IN THE DARK.
the conversation, so William strove to
seem quite unconcerned, and the more
he tried the more conscious was he of his
failure.


CHAPTER IV.
MRS. KINCTON KNOX PROPOSES A WALK WITH
WILLIAM.
IN fact William Maubray had received a con-
ceited and exulting letter from Trevor, written
in the expansion of his triumph once more as
the Lord of Revington, the representative of
the historic Trevors, the man of traditions and
Ayrestige, before whom the world bowed down
and displayed its treasures, and who, being
restored to reason and self-estimation by his
conversation with Miss Perfect, knew well
what a prize he was—what a sacrifice he was
making, and yet bore and gave away all with
a splendid magnanimity.
So as he says, “it is all virtually settled.
I have talked fully with Miss Perfect, a very


2S ALL IN THE DARK.
intelligent and superior woman, who looks
upon the situation just as I could wish; and
I have written announcing my intentions to
her father, and under such auspices, and with
the evidence I hope I have, of not being quiet
indifferent where I most wished to please, I
almost venture to ask for your congratula-
tions,” &c.
“He is quite right, it is all over, she likes
him, I saw that long ago, I fancied she would
have been a little harder to please; they fall
in love with any fellow that's tall, and pink,
and white, and dresses absurdly, and talks like
a fool, provided he has money—money—d
money :
Such were the mutterings of William Mau-
bray, as he leaned dismally on the window
of the school-room, and looked out upon
the sear and thinning foliage of the late
autumn.
“This is very important—this about unfor-
tunate Sir Richard ; his son will succeed im-
mediately; but he seems a good deal, indeed
very much agitated, however, it's a–a great
point in his favour otherwise.” So said Mrs.


ALL IN THE DARK. 29
Kincton Knox to her daughter, so soon as
being alone together they could safely talk
over the missives of the breakfast table.
“I rather think he has been summoned to—
to the dying man, and he'll go—he must—and
we shall never see more of him,” said Miss
Clara, with superb indifference.
“Yes, of course, it may have been, I was
going to say so,” said her mother, who, how-
ever, had not seen that view. “I’ll make him
come out and walk up and down the terrace
with me a little, poor young man.”
“You’ll do him no good by that,” said the
young lady, with a sneer.
“We'll see that, Miss Kincton Knox; at all
events, it will do no good sitting here, and
sneering into the fire; please sit a little away
and raise the hand-screen, unless you really
wish to ruin your complexion.”
“It can't be of the least importance to any
one whether I do or not, certainly not to me,”
said the young lady, who, however, took her
advice peevishly.
“You are one of those conceited young
persons; pray allow me to speak, I'm your


30 ALL IN THE DARK.
mother, and have a right I hope to speak in
this house—who fancy that no one can see
anything but they—I’m not disposed to flatter
you—I never did flatter you, but I think the
young man (her voice was lowered here) likes
you—I do. I'm sure he does. It can't possi-
bly be for my sake that he likes coming every
evening to read all that stuff for us. You
make no allowance for the position he is in,
his father dying, in the very crisis of a painful
domestic quarrel, it must be most uncomfort-
able; and then he's here in a position which
precludes his uttering any sentiments except
such as should be found on the lips of a resi-
dent teacher. I’ve frequently observed him
on the point of speaking in his real character,
and chilled in a moment by the recollection of
the apparent distance between us; but I think
I know something of countenance, and tones,
and those indications of feeling, which are more
and more significant than words.”
Miss Clara made no sign by look, word, or
motion; and after a little pause her mamma
went on sturdily.
“Yes, I ought, at my time of life, and


ALL IN THE DARK. 31
having been I may say a good deal admired in
my day, and married, not quite as I might have
been perhaps, but—but still pretty well. I
ought to know something more of such matters
than my daughter, I think, and I can't be mis-
taken. I don't say passion, I say a liking—a
fancy, and that there is I’ll stake my life. If
you only take the trouble to think you'll see.
I hold it quite impossible that a young man
should be as he is, alone for several weeks in a
country-house with a person, I will say, of your
advantages and—and attractions without some
such feeling, im—possible.”
Miss Kincton Knox looked indolently on
her fair image in the mirror at the further end
of the room.
“In those rides he and Howard have taken
with you, I venture to say he has said things
which I should have understood had I been
by.”
“I told you he never said anything—any-
thing particular—anything he might not
have said to any one else,” said the young
lady, wearily. “He is evidently very shy,
I allow.”


32 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Pery 1 entremely shy,” acquiesced her
mamma, eagerly; “and when all these things
are considered, I don't think in the time you
could possibly have expected more.”
“I never expected anything,” said Miss
Clara, with another weary sneer.
“Didn't you? then I did,” answered the
matron.
Miss Clara simply yawned.
“You are in one of your unfortunate tem-
pers. Don't you think, Miss Kincton Knox,
even on the supposition that he is about leaving
our house, that you may as well command
your—your spirit of opposition and—and ill
temper, which has uniformly defeated every
endeavour of mine to—to be of use to you, and
here you are at eight-and-twenty.” The young
lady looked round alarmed, but there was no
listener, “and you seem to have learned no-
thing.” *
“I’ll write all round the country, and tell
the people I'm eight-and-twenty or thirty, for
anything I know, if you have no objection. I
don't see any harm it can do, telling truth


ALL IN THE DARK. 33
perhaps mayn't do one much good; but if
I've learned nothing else, I've learned this at
all events, that there's absolutely no good in
the other course.”
“I don't know what you mean by courses.
No one I hope has been committing any fraud
in this house. If you please to tell people you
are thirty, which is perfectly contrary to fact,
you must only take the consequences. Your
miserable temper, Clara, has been the ruin of
you, and when I'm in my grave you'll re-
pent it.” -
So saying she left the room, and coming
down in a few minutes in a black velvet gar-
ment, trimmed with ermine, and with a muff
of the same judicial fur, she repaired to the
schoolroom, where, much to William's relief,
she graciously begged a holiday for Howard,
and then asked William with, at the end of
her invitation, a great smile, which plainly
said, “I know you can hardly believe your
ears, but it's true notwithstanding,” to lend an
old woman his arm in a walk up and down the
terrace.
VOL. II. 3


34 ALL IN THE DARK.
William was of course at her service, though
the honour was one which at that moment was
almost oppressive.


CHAPTER W.
HOW THEY TALKED.
AFTER a few turns, and some little talk, Mrs.
Kincton Knox said:—
“I’m afraid, Mr. Herbert, like most of us,
young as you are, you have your troubles. You
will excuse an old woman, old enough to be
your mother, and who likes you, who really
feels a very deep interest in you, for saying so.
I wish—I wish, in fact, there was a little more
confidence, but all in good time. I said you
were—you were—it's perhaps impertinent of
me to say I observed it, but my motive is not
curiosity, nor, you will believe, unkind. I did
see you were distressed this morning by the
letter that reached you, I trust there was no
illness, nor ->
3–2


36 ALL IN THE DARK.
“No, nothing—that is which I had not—
which was not,” he replied. “Nothing very
unexpected.”
“For if there was any necessity, any wish to
leave Kincton for a little, I should offer my
poor services as a substitute with your pupil, if
you would trust him to me.”
Although her graciousness was oppressive,
and her playfulness awful, there were welcome
signs of sympathy in this speech, and William
Maubray greeted them with something like
confidence, and, said he –
“It's awfully kind of you, Mrs. Kincton
Knox, to think about me. I—I don't know
exactly what to say, except that I am very
grateful, and—and it's quite true, I've had a
great deal of vexation and suffering—a kind of
quarrel—a very bad quarrel, indeed, at home,
as I call it, and—and some other things.”
“Other things!—no doubt. There is one
trouble to which the young are exposed, and
from which old people are quite exempt. The
course of true love, you know, as our great
moralist says, never did run smooth.”
Her prominent eyes were fixed with an awful


ALL IN THE DARK. 37
archness upon Maubray, and conscious as he
was, he blushed and paled under her gaze, and
was dumb.
“My maxim in all such cases is, never
despair. When a young man is endowed, like
you, with good looks, and a-a refinement.
You see I am talking to you almost as I would
to a son, that darling boy of mine is such a
link, and one grows so soon to know a 7uest, and
those delightful evenings, and I think—I think,
Mr. Herbert, I can see a little with my old
eyes, and I’ve divined your secret.”
“I may—that is, I think it may have been
—a fancy, just. I don't know,” said William,
very much put out.
“But I know. You may be perfectly
certain you are in love, if you ain't quite cer-
tain that you are not. Trust an old woman
who has seen something of life—that is, of
human nature,” insisted Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“I—I don't know, I did not know it myself
until, I think, within the last few days. I
dare say I'm a great fool. I’m sure I am, in
fact, and I ought not to have allowed—but I
really did not know.”


3S ALL IN THE DARK.
He suspected that Trevor had told all he
knew of his story, and that the women, with
the sagacity of their sex, had divined the rest.
“You see, Mr. Herbert, I have not guessed
amiss. When I see a young person very much
dejected and distrait, I at once suspect a
romance; and now let me say a word of a-
comfort, derived from observation. As I said
before—I’ve known such things happen—never
despair. There is a spark of romance in our
sex as well as in yours. I think I may be of
use to you. I dare say things are not quite so
desperate as they appear. But do trust me—
do be frank.”
“I will. I’ll tell you everything. I—I
don't know where to begin. But I’m so much
obliged. I’ve no one to speak to, and ->
At this moment the “darling boy” Howard
bounced from behind a thick shrub, with a
shriek which was echoed by his fond mother,
who, if anything so dignified could jump, did
jump, and even William's manly heart made
an uncomfortable bounce in his breast. At
the same time Master Howard Seymour turned
his ankle, and tumbled with a second horrid


ALL IN THE DARK. 39
roar on the walk, from which his mother and
his instructor lifted him, not much hurt, but
bellowing in a fury, and requiring to be con-
ducted for comfort to the house.
“I shall call upon you again, Mr. Herbert,
when my poor darling is better, and we can—
there, there ! my rosebud,” began Mrs. Kincton
Knox, distracted between her curiosity and her
compassion.
“Shall I take him on my back? Get up.
May he?” And so, with the lady's approval,
he took the urchin, who was hopping round
them in circles with hideous uproar, in his
arms, and bore him away beside his anxious
parent towards the house, where, having
ministered to the sufferer, Mrs. Kincton Knox
looked into the drawing-room, and found Miss
Clara seated by the fire, with her slender feet
as usual, on a boss, reading her novel.
Mrs. Kincton Knox, stooping over her,
kissed her, and Miss Clara, knowing that the
unusual caress indicated something extraordi-
nary, looked up with a dreary curiosity into
her mother's face. When they were tete-à-lete,
these ladies did not trouble one another much


40 ALL IN THE DARK.
with smiles or caresses. Still her mother was
smiling with a mysterious triumph, and nodded
encouragingly upon her.
“Well?” asked Miss Clara.
“I think you'll find that I was right, and
that somebody will ask you a question before
long,” answered her mother, with an oracular
smile.
Miss Clara certainly did look a little inter-
ested at this intimation, and sat up with
comparative energy, looking rather earnestly
into her mother's prominent, hard brown
eyes.
“He’s been talking very, I may say, frankly
to me, and although we were interrupted by a
—an accident, yet there was no mistaking him.
At least that's my opinion.”
And Mrs. Kincton Knox sat down, and with
her imposing coiffure nodding over her daugh-
ter's ear, recounted, with perhaps some little
colouring, her interesting conversation with
William Maubray. While this conference was
proceeding, the door opened, and Mr. Kincton
Knox, his gloves, white hat, and stick in his
hand, walked in.


ALL IN THE DARK. 41
It was one of Mrs. Kincton Knox's unpub-
lished theories that her husband's presence in
the drawing-room was a trespass, as that of
a cow among the flower-beds under the win-
dows.
As that portly figure in the gray woollen
suit and white waistcoat entered mildly, the
matron sat erect, and eyed him with a gaze of
astonishment, which, however, was quite lost
upon him, as he had not his spectacles on.
“I hope, Mr. Kincton Knox, your shoes are
not covered with mud —unless you are pre-
pared to buy another carpet,” she said, glancing
at the clumsy articles in question.
“Oh, dear! no—I haven't been out—just
going, but I want you and Clara to look over
there,” and he pointed with his stick, at which
Mrs. Kincton Knox winced with the ejacula-
tion, “the China."
“You see those three trees,” he continued,
approaching the window with his stick ex-
tended.
“Yes, you needn't go on, perfectly,” she
answered.
“Well, the one to the right is, in fact, I


42 ALL IN THE DARK.
think it's an ugly tree; I’ve been for a long
time considering it. You see it there, Clara,
on the rising ground, near the paling?”
She did.
“Well, I'm thinking of taking him down;
what do you say?”
“Do lower your stick, Mr. Kincton Knox,
pray, we can see perfectly without breakin/
anything,” expostulated his wife. -
“Well, what do you say?” he repeated,
pointing with his hand instead.
“Do you want my opinion as to what trees
should come down P’’ said Mrs. Knox, with
admirable perseverance, “I shall be happy to
give it with respect to all—as to that particular
tree it is so far away, I really don't think the
question worth debating.”
“Take it down, papa,” said Miss Clara, who
rather liked her father, and encouraged him
when too much put down. “I really think
you're always right about trees. I think
you've such wonderful taste, I do indeed, and
judgment about all those things.”
The old man gave her a hearty kiss on the
cheek, and smiling ruddily, said—


ALL IN THE DARK. 43
“Well, I think I ought; I've read some-
thing, and thought something on the subject,
and as you don't dissent, my dear, and Clara
says it's to come down—down it comes. She's
looking very pretty ; egad she is—wonderfully
pretty, she is, to-day.”
“Folly!” exclaimed Miss Clara, pleased
notwithstanding.
“Other people think her good-looking too,
I can tell you,” exclaimed her mother, whose
thoughts were all in that channel, and who
could not forbear saying something on the
subject; “I think, even you, Mr. Kincton
Knox, will see that I have done my duty by
our child, and have been the means under
Providence of promoting her happiness.”
“And what is it P” said Mr. Kincton Knox,
looking solemnly on his daughter.
“I don't know that there is anything at
all,” replied she quietly.
Mrs. Kincton Knox beckoned him imperi-
ously, and they drew near the window, while
the young lady resumed her novel.
“He’s in love with her,” she mur-
mured.


44 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Who, my dear?”
“Mr. Maubray.”
“Oh is he?—what, Mr. Maubray,” in-
quired the old gentleman.
“Wynston Maubray—probably Sir Wynston
Maubray, at this moment, his father, you
know, is dying; if not dead.”
“Sir Richard, you mean?”
“Of course, I mean Sir Richard.”
“Yes, he is ; he wasn't a bad fellow, poor
Maubray. But it's a long time—thirty—
thirty-eight years – yes — since we were at
Oxford.”
“And his son's in the house.”
“Here?”
“Yes, this house, here.”
“Very happy to see him, I'm sure, very
happy—we'll do all in our power,” said Mr.
Rincton Knox, very much at sea as to the
cause of his arrival.
“You know Mr. Herbert?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that's he – Mr. Herbert is Mr.
Wynston Maubray. If you were to stare till
Doomsday it won't change the fact; here he


ALL IN THE DARK. 45
is, and has been—and has confessed to me that
he likes Clara. He's very modest, almost shy,
and without any kind of management on my
part; had I stooped to that as other mothers
do, she'd have been married, no doubt, long
ago—simply placing them under the same
roof, perceiving that he was a gentleman;
ascertaining who he was, I left the rest to—to
—you see, and the consequence is—as I’ve
told you, and—and humanly speaking—she'll
be Lady Maubray.”
“Oh !” said Mr. Kincton Knox.
“Perhaps you don't like it?”
“Oh! like it?—very well; but—but she's
very young—there's no great hurry; I—I
would not hurry her.”
“Pooh!” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox,
turning abruptly away from her husband, one
of whose teazing hallucinations was that Clara
had hardly emerged from the nursery,


CHAPTER VI.
CONFIDENCES.
MRs. KINGTON KNox, still in walking costume,
entered the school-room, intending to invite the
pseudo-tutor to continue his walk with her;
and with one of her awful smiles she began :
“I’ve come to claim your promise, Mr.
Maubray.” The name had escaped her. It
reverberated in her ear like a cannon-shot.
Hardly less astounded stood our friend William
before her. For a full minute she could not
think of a presentable fib, and stared at him a
good deal flushed ; and dropped her huge,
goggle eyes upon a “copy book” of Master
Howard's, which she raised and inspected with
a sudden interest, and having read—
“Necessity is the mo”


ALL IN THE DARK. 47
“Necessity is the moth”
“Necessity is the moth”
“Necessity is the mo”
upon its successive lines, she replaced it firmly,
raised her head and said—
“I have addressed you by the name of
Maubray, which I’ve learned, just five minutes
since, is your real name; but, should you pre-
fer my employing that of Herbert—my using
the other, indeed, was simply an accident; and,
perhaps, it is better—I shall certainly do so.
Your little confidence has interested me unaf-
fectedly—very much, indeed—deeply interested
me; the more particularly as Mr. Kincton
Knox was once acquainted with a family of
your name. Sir Richard Maubray, possibly a
relation.”
William, who was still a little confused,
assented, and the lady, with growing confidence,
proceeded:
“You mentioned some unhappy family dis-
cord; and it struck me—Mr. Kincton Knox,
you know, and I-in fact, we have a good
many friends, that possibly some—a—inter-
vention—”


48 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Oh ! thanks; very kind of you; but I
don't know any one likely to have much
influence—except, perhaps, Mr. Wagget; and
I was thinking of writing to him, although I
hardly know him sufficiently.” -
“And, may I ask who Mr. Wagget is "
inquired the lady, who had intentions of tak-
ing the carriage of the affair.
“The-a clergyman—a very good man, I
believe.”
“Oh ! in attendance at the sick bed P” in-
quired the matron, with proper awe.
“No–no; not that I know of; but a very
old friend of my aunt’s.”
“I see—I understand—and he and your
aunt would unite their influence to reconcile
you.”
“Oh, my quarrel, as we've been calling it,
is with my aunt.”
“Oh! oh!—I see, and your father has
taken it up F" suggested Mrs. Kincton Knox,
promptly.
“My father's dead,” said William, with
the gravity becoming such an announce-
ment.


ALL IN THE DARK. 49
“Oh ! dear me !—I’m shocked to think I
should–-I beg your pardon. I ought to have
anticipated. You have, I assure you, my
deep sympathy—all our sympathies. I do
recollect now having heard something of his
illness; but, dear ! oh, dear! What a world
it is.”
William could only bow, with his former
seriousness. It was more than twenty years
since his excellent father had deceased ; and
though he could not remember, Mrs. Kincton
Knox very well might, an event of that date.
Still the fervour of her surprise and her
sympathy were, considering all things, a little
uncalled for.
“The rupture, then, is with your aunt—
dear me ! you must have wonderful self-com-
mand, admirable—admirable, in so young a
person.” A brief pause followed this oracular
speech.
“And your aunt is married?” inquired
Mrs. Kincton Knox.
“No, unmarried—in fact an old maid,” he
replied.
WOL. II. 4.


50 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Oh! yes, quite so. Then she's Miss
Maubray?” said the lady.
“No, Miss Perfect,” said he.
“Miss Perfect, maternal aunt, it must be;”
and Mrs. Kincton Knox paused, a little per-
plexed, for she did not recollect that name in
that interesting page in the Peerage, which
she had looked into more than once. She
concluded, however, it must be so, and said,
slowly, “I see—I see.”
“And what—you'll do me the justice to
believe, it ain't curiosity but a higher motive
that actuates me—what is the ground of this
unhappy dispute?”
“She has set her heart on my going into
the Church,” said William sadly, “and I’m
not fit for it.”
“Certainly;” exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox,
“nothing, begging the old lady's pardon,
could be more absurd—you're not fit of course,
nor is it fit for you—there is no fitness whatever.
There's the Very Rev. the Earl of Epsom, and
the Rev. Sir James St. Leger, and many
others I could name. Can anything be more
ridiculous 2 They both have their estates,


ALL IN THE DARK. 51
and—and position to look after; and their
ordination vow pledges them to give their
entire thoughts to their holy calling. I and
Mr. Kincton Knox have had many arguments
upon the subject; as you see, I'm quite with
you. Mr.—Mr. Herbert, you must allow me
still to call you by that name—that dear old
name. I was going to say"—
William could only acquiesce — a little
puzzled at her general exuberance; she seemed,
in fact, quite tipsy with good nature. How
little one can judge of character at first
sight !
“And, of course, it is not for me to say—
but your reserve about your name-I suppose
that is at an end. Since the -the melancholy
termination of your hopes and fears—I mean
there can hardly be—now that you apprize
me of your domestic loss”
“It was entirely in deference to my aunt's
prejudices, that I–I)octor Sprague, in fact,”
began William.
“I know, an old friend of poor Sir Richard's ;
but whatever else you do, I suppose we must
make up our minds to lose you for a week or
4–2


ALL IN THE DARK. 53
“And, considering the circumstances under
which, although you will not admit the—the
estrangement, poor Sir Richard Maubray has
been taken”
“Sir Richard | Is Sir Richard dead?” ex-
claimed William.
“Dead of course he is dead. Why you
told me so yourself, this moment.”
“I—I couldn't ; I–I didn’t know—I—if I
said anything like that, it was the merest
slip.”
“He’s either dead or alive, sir, I suppose;
and, whether intentionally or by a slip, it is for
you to determine; but I’m positive you did
tell me that he's dead; and if he be so, pray, as
between friends, let there be an end of con-
cealments, which can have no object or effect
but a few hours' delay in making known a fact
which must immediately appear in all the
newspapers,” expostulated Mrs. Kincton Knox
as nearly offended as it was possible to be with
so very eligible a young man, so opportunely
placed, and in so docile a mood.
“He’s dying, at all events,” she added.


54 ALL IN THE DARK.
“That I know,” said William, with that
coolness which had before struck Mrs. Kincton
Knox, during this interview, as a new filial
phenomenon.
“And although we shall miss you, some of
us very much, yet, of course, knowing all, we
have no claim—no right—only you must
pledge me your honour—you really must.”
She was holding his hand and pressed it im-
pressively between both hers, “that you won't
forget your Kincton friends—that so soon as
you can, you will return, and give us at least
those weeks on which we reckon.”
“It is very kind—it's very good of you. It
is very odd, but I had such a wish to go, just
for a day or two—only to see Dr. Sprague—
and—and to consult him about writing to Gil-
royd before finally determining on a course of
life. I was thinking of-in fact going away
and leaving England altogether.”
Mrs. Kincton Knox stared, and at last
asked—
“Who is Gilroyd?”
“My aunt's house, a small place, Gilroyd
Hall.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 55
“I was merely thinking of your attending
poor Sir Richard's obsequies.” -
“The funeral P I—I should not like to
attend it uninvited,” answered William. “I
don't know that I should be a welcome guest;
in fact, I know I should not—young Mau-
bray 22
“Your brother?” inquired the lady, who
did not remember any such incumbrance in
the record she had consulted.
“No, my cousin.”
“Cousin & And what right could a cousin
pretend to exclude you from your father's fune-
ral P’ exclaimed Mrs. Kincton Knox, unfeign-
edly amazed.
“I’m speaking of Sir Richard Maubray, my
uncle. My father has been a long time dead—
when I was a mere child.”
“Oh, yes, of course—dead a long time,” re-
peated Mrs. Kincton Knox, slowly, as the
horrible bewilderment in which she had been
lost began to clear away. “Oh, yes, your
wncle, Sir Richard Maubray; . of course—of
course that would alter—I—I was speaking of


56 ALL IN THE DARK.
your father—I did not know you had lost
him so long ago—it, of course, it's quite an-
other thing, and—a—and–you wish to go to
Mrs. Purity?”
“No–a–Perfect—not to go there—not to
Gilroyd, only to Cambridge, to see Doctor
Sprague.”
“Very well—a—very well—I don't see—I
shall mention it to Mr. Kincton Knox; have
you anything more to say to me. Mr. — Mr.
—pray what am I to call you? Herbert, I
suppose #"
“Nothing, but to thank you—you've been
so good, so very kind to me.”
“I—I make it a rule to be kind to—a—to
every body. I endeavour to be so—I believe I
hare,” said the majestic lady with a dignity in-
describably dry. “I shall mention your wish
to Mr. Kincton Knox. Good evening, Mr.—
Mr. Herbert.”
It seemed to our friend William, that the
lady was very much offended with him ; but
what he had done to provoke her resentment
he could not divine. He reproached him-


CHAPTER VII.
MR. KINCTON KNOX RECEIVES A SUMMONS.
MR. KINCTON KNox, with a couple of dogs at
his heels, was tranquilly consulting his chief
commissioner of woods and forests, when he
was summoned from his sylvan discourses by
a loud tapping on his study window, within
whose frame he saw, like a full-length portrait
of Mrs. Siddons, on a sign-board, if such a
thing exists, the commanding figure of his
wife, who was beckoning him imperiously.
The window at which she stood was in fact
a glass door opening upon two steps, to which
the peaceable old gentleman of sixty-two won-
deringly drew near.
“Come in,” she exclaimed, beckoning again
grimly, and superadding a fierce nod.


ALL IN THE DARK. 59
So up went the sash, and the little hatch
which simulated a window-sill was pulled open
by the old gentleman, who was vexed some-
what at the interruption.
She read this in his honest countenance, and
said, as he entered—
“I don't mean to detain you, Mr. Kincton
Knox, I shan't keep you more than five
minutes away from your timber; but I think,
for once, you may give that time to your
family. It's becoming a little too much for
me, perfectly unaided as I've always been.”
“Well, I'm sorry you're annoyed. Some-
thing has happened, I suppose. What do you
wish me to do?” said that accommodating
gentleman in the grey tweed and copious white
waistcoat.
“I told you, Mr. Kincton Knox, if you re-
member, when your friend, Doctor Sprague,
of whose character, recollect, I know nothing,
except from your representations—I told you
distinctly my impression when that gentleman
was persuading you to accept the—the-a-
person who's here in the capacity of tutor,
under a feigned name. I then stated my con-


60 ALL IN THE DARK.
viction that there was danger in disguise. I
declared myself unable to assign any creditable
reason for such a step. Wiser people, how-
ever, thought differently—my scruples were
overruled by you and your friend Doctor—
Doctor—what’s his name?”
“Sprague—eh * said her husband.
“Yes—Sprague. It is not the first time
that my warning voice has been disregarded.
It does not in this case signify much—fortu-
nately very little; but it is not pleasant to
have one's house made a scene of duplicity to
please Dr. Sprague, or to convenience some
low young puppy.”
“I thought you said he was the son
of my friend Maubray — Sir Richard, you
know?”
“It signifies very little whose son he is:
but he's not—I simply conjectured he might,
and certainly everything was artfully, or not I
can't say, laid in train to induce that belief on
my part; but he's not—I thought it best to
clear it up. He says he's some relation—
goodness knows; but in point of everything
else he's a mere pretender—the-the merest


ALL IN THE DARK. 61
adventurer, and the sooner we part with him
the better.” -
“And what do you wish me to do?” said
Mr. Kincton Knox, with some little vehe-
Innen Ce.
“I’ve given you my views,” replied the
lady.
“Yes, but you like to do everything your-
self, and you always say I'm wrong whatever I
say or do,” said the old gentleman, sonorously,
flushing a little, and prodding the point of his
stick on the floor.
“See the young man and dismiss him,” said
his wife, peremptorily.
“Well, that's easily done, of course. But
what has he done & I–I—there ought to be
a rea-son.”
“The reason is that I'm tired of disguises.
We can't go on in that absurd manner. It
never was known at Kincton, and I-I-"
Suddenly Mrs. Kincton Knox paused in her
sentence, and with a great rustling hurried to
the study window, where she began to knock
with a vehemence which alarmed her husband
for the safety of his panes.


62 ALL IN THE DARK.
The object of the summons was Miss Clara
in that exquisitely becoming black velvet cloak
and little bonnet which was so nearly irresist-
ible, all grace and radiance, and smiling—upon
whom 2 Why, upon that odious tutor to
whom she was pointing out some of those
flowers which she claimed to have planted and
tended with her own fingers.
Her mother beckoned fiercely.
“Assist me, if you please, Mr. Kincton
Knox; open this horrid window, no one else
can.”
So it was opened, and she called rather
huskily to Clara to come in.
“I want to say a word to you, please.”
And without condescending to perceive Wil-
liam Maubray, who had raised his hat, she
said, with an appearance of excitement not of
a pleasant kind, and in presence of which
somehow the young lady's heart sunk with a
sudden misgiving—
“We'll go up, my dear, to my room, I’ve a
word to say,+and—and I think Mr. Kincton
Knox, as you ask me what you shall do, you
may as well, in this instance, as usual, do no-
l


ALL IN THE I)ARK. 63.
thing. I'll write. I'll do it myself. Come,
Clara.”
So suspending questions until the apart-
ment up stairs was reached, the young lady,
in silence and with a very grave face, accom-
panied her mother.
“Charming day—sweet day—we shall soon
have the storms, though—they must come;
we had them ten days earlier last year. Will
you come with me to the Farm-road planta-
tion, and give me your ideas about what I'm
going to do?”
And the old gentleman came down the two
steps from the glass door upon the closely-
shorn grass, looking a little red, but smiling
kindly, for he saw no reason for what his wife
intended, and thought the young man was
about to be treated unfairly, and felt a liking
for him.
“No ; she can't come down again; I know
her mother wants her, so you may as well
come with me.”
So off they set together, and I dare say
William liked that ramble better than he would
have done the other. The old man was


64 ALL IN THE DARK.
sociable, genial, and modest, and had taken
rather late in life, tempted thereto, no doubt,
by solitude, to his books, some of which, such
as “Captain Lemuel Gulliver's Travels,” were
enigmatical, and William was able to throw
some lights which were new to the elderly
student, who conceived a large and honest
admiration for his young friend, and would
have liked to see a great deal more of him
than he was quite sure Mrs. Kincton Knox
would allow.
In the course of their walk, William Mau-
bray observed that he seemed even more than
usually kindly, and once or twice talked a
little mysteriously of women's caprices, and
told him not to mind them ; and told him also
when he was at Oxford he had got once or
twice a little dipped—young fellows always do
—and he wanted to know—he was not, of course,
to say a word about it—if fifty pounds would
be of any use to him—he'd be so happy, and
he could pay him any time, in ten years or
twenty for that matter, for the old gentleman
dimly intended to live on indefinitely.
But William did not need this kindly help,


ALL IN THE DARK. 65
and when his pleasant ramble with the old
man and his dogs was over, and he returned
to the “school-room,” William found a note
awaiting him on the table, in the large-hand
of Mrs. Kincton Knox.
VOL. II. 5


CHAPTER VIII.
BACK TO CAMBRIDGE.
THE letter upon the table was thus —
& 4 October, —— lS60.
“Mrs. Kincton Knox understanding from
Mr. Herbert that he wishes to visit Cambridge
upon business, begs to say that she will
oppose no difficulty to his departing on to-
morrow morning with that view; she begs
also to mention that Mr. Kincton Knox will
write by an early post to the Rev. Dr. Sprague
upon the subject of Mr. Herbert's engage-
ment. A carriage will be at the door at eight
o'clock, A.M., to convey Mr. Herbert to the
railway station.”
“What have I done. I’ve certainly offended
her—she who wrote all those friendly little


ALL IN THE DARK. (37
notes; I can't think of anything, unless that
boy Howard has been telling lies. She'll give
me an opportunity of explaining, I suppose,
and it will all be right; it can't be much.”
Glad he was to get away even for two or
three days to his old haunts, and to something
like his old life. He made his preparations
early for his next morning's journey, and sate
in the evening with his ingenious pupil,
wondering whether a change of mood might
not bring him a relenting note on the usual
pink paper, inviting him to visit them in the
drawing-room, and debating whether it might
not be a wholesome lesson to the capricious
old lady to excuse himself, and so impose on
her the onus of explanation.
“I say, old chap, listen. What do you
think?” said Master Howard, who had been
whistling, and on a sudden, being prompted to
speak, poked the point of his pen uncomfort-
ably into the back of William's hand.
“Stop that, young un. I told you before
you're not to do that. What have you got to
say? Come.”
“I say, I heard mamma say to Clara this
5–2


68 ALL IN THE DARK.
afternoon, that you ain't to be trusted; and I
told Clara I'd tell you, because she teazed me;
and mamma said you deceived papa. I heard
every word.”
“She could not have said that, because
I never did anything of the kind,” said
William, flushing a little.
“Yes, but she did. I heard her, I’d swear;
and Clara said, he's a low person. I told her
I'd tell you. She did, upon my word—a low
person and I said I'd tell you; and I'll tell
you ever so much more.”
“Not now, please, nor ever.' I don't want
to hear that sort of thing, even if it was said.
I’d rather not, I think, unless it was said to
myself.”
“And I heard Clara say, let him go about
his business. I did, upon my honour.”
“I say, young un, this is one of your fibs to
vex Miss Knox.”
Master Howard began to vociferate.
“Quiet, sir! If your mamma had any
complaint to make, she'd make it to me, I
suppose; and if you say a word more on the
subject, I’ll go in and mention the matter


ALL IN THE DARK. 69
... to your mamma,” said William, growing
angry. -
“Catch me telling you anything ever again,
as long as I live, that's all,” said Master
Howard, and broke into mutterings; and then
whistled a tune as loud as he could, with his
hands in his pockets, and his heels on the
table. But he did not succeed in disturbing
William. Thoughts that are thoroughly un-
pleasant hold fast like bull-dogs. It is only
the pleasant ones that take wing at noise, like
a flight of birds.
Away in due time went Master Howard—
no sign appeared from the drawing-room—
and William Maubray, who in his elevation
and his fall had experienced for the second
time something of the uncertainty of human
affairs, went to his bed mortified and dismal,
and feeling that, go where he would, repulse
and insult awaited him.
His early breakfast despatched—William
mounted the dog cart, which, in her official
letter, Mrs. Kincton Knox had dignified with
the title of carriage, and drove at a rapid pace
away from Kincton, with a sense of relief and


70 ALL IN THE DARK.
hope as the distance increased, and a rising .
confidence that somehow he was to see that
abode of formality and caprice no more.
Doctor Sprague was now at Cambridge, and
greeted him very kindly. He had not much
news to tell. It was true Sir Richard Mau-
bray was actually dead at Gilston, whence the
body was to be removed that day to Wyndel-
ston, where in about a week would be the
funeral.
“No, William would not go—he was not
recognised, it would not do—Sir Wynston, as
he now was, would take care to let him know
he was not wanted.” -
So said William in reply to the Doctor's
question, and having related his experience of
Kincton, Doctor Sprague told him frankly,
that although Kincton Knox was a very good
fellow, and very kind, though a little weak,
you know, that he had always heard his wife
was a particularly odious woman.
“Well, and what of Miss Perfect; any
conciliatory symptoms in that quarter?” asked
Doctor Sprague.
“Oh, none; she is very inflexible, sir; her
dislikes never change.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 71
While they were talking some letters
arrived, one of which was actually from
Kincton, and in the hand of its mistress.
“Hey? Haw ha—ha! I protest, Mau-
bray, the lady has cut you—read,” and he
threw the letter across the table to William.


CHAPTER IX.
VIOLET DARK WELI, AT GILROYD AGAIN.
“MRs. KINGTON KNox” it said, “presents
her compliments to the Rev. W. H. Sprague,
and as Mr. Kincton Knox is suffering from
gout in his hand, which though slight, pre-
vents his writing, she is deputed to apprise
him that the gentleman calling himself Mr.
Herbert, who has been acting as tutor at
Kincton, need not return to complete his
engagement. Mr. Kincton Knox desires to
remit to him, through your hands, the en-
closed cheque, payable to you, and for the full
amount of the term he was to have completed.
Should the young man feel that under the
circumstances, he can have no right to retain
the entire amount, he will be so good as to.


ALL IN THE DARK. ry
73
return that portion of the sum to which he
feels himself unentitled. We wish to men-
tion that we part with him not in consequence
of any specific fault, so much as from a feeling,
upon consideration, that we could no longer
tolerate the practice of a concealment at
Kincton, the character and nature of which—
although we impute nothing—might not con-
sist with our own ideas upon the subject.”
“She begins in the third person and ends
in the first,” said Doctor Sprague, “otherwise
it is a very fine performance. What am I to
do about the cheque?”
“I will not touch a farthing,” said William.
“Tut, tut; I think you've a right to it all,
but if you object, we'll send them back all
that represents the unexpired part of your en-
gagement, but I’ll have no Quixotism. I'm
half sorry, Maubray, we ever thought of tui-
tions; we must think of some other way.
You're quite right in resolving not to vex
Miss Perfect more than you can help, I'm
clear upon that ; but I’ve been thinking of
quite another thing—I have not time now to
tell you all.” He glanced at his watch. “But


74 ALL IN THE DARK.
you can speak French, and you would have to
reside in Paris. I think it would answer you
very nicely, and I think you ought to let Miss
Perfect know something of your plans, consi-
dering all she has done. I'll see you here
again in an hour.”
And William took his leave.
That evening Miss Violet Darkwell arrived
at Gilroyd. She did not think old “grannie”
looking well—was it a sadness or a feebleness
—there was something unusual in her look
that troubled her. She thought her Violet
looking quite beautiful—more so than ever—so
perhaps she was. And she asked her all sorts
of questions about all sorts of things, and how
the Mainwarings had arranged the rooms, for
Aunt Dinah had known the house long ago,
and whether the paint had ever been taken off
that covered the old oak wainscot in the
parlour, and ever so many other particulars
besides.
And at last she said—
“Great news Mr. Trevor tells me of Wil-
liam.” She had already resolved against open-
ing the Trevor budget to its more interesting


ALL IN THE DARK. 75
recesses. “William Maubray—he's going to
marry—to make a great match in some re-
spects—money, beauty—”
“Oh l’’ said Violet with a smile.
“Yes; a Miss Kincton Knox. He has been
residing in the house ; an only daughter.
Kincton is the place.”
Something of this Violet had heard before
she left Gilroyd, but not all; and Aunt Dinah
went on—
“They are connected somehow with Mr.
Trevor, whom I've grown to like extremely,
and he saw William there; and from what he
told me I look upon it as settled, and so in
fact does he.” s
“It's very cold, isn't it, to-night?” said
Miss Violet. “That's all very nice—very well
for William Maubray.”
“Very well; better, perhaps, than he de-
serves. Had I been, however, as we used to
be, I should have endeavoured to postpone it,
to induce the parties to defer it for a little—in
fact for five years. I may say, indeed, I should
have made a point of it; because I—I happen
to know that his marrying within that time


76 ALL IN THE DARK.
will be attended with the worst conse-
quences.”
There was a silence.
“Very cold,” repeated Miss Violet, drawing
a little nearer to the fire.
“It seems odd, as a mere matter of respect
—that's all, of course; he should not have
written me a single line upon the subject,”
said Miss Perfect, grimly.
“Well, perhaps not very odd,” answered
Miss Darkwell carelessly, yet somehow, ever
so little, sadly. “I’m beginning to think it a
worse world than I used to think it, and—and
so hard to know any one in it, except dear old
grannie.”
And up got the girl, and threw her pretty
arms round old Aunt Dinah’s neck, and kissed
her.
“Little Vi, little Vi" said Aunt Dinah,
with a tender tremour in her voice, and she
laughed a little.
“I think you are tired, darling. Your long
drive,” she added.
“I believe I am, grannie. Shall I run away
to my bed ”


ALL IN THE DARK. 77
“God bless you, darling !” said grannie, and
rang the bell for old Winnie Dobbs, who ap-
peared; and away, with a second good night,
they went.
“Well, old Winnie Dobbs, great doings, I
hear. Grannie says Mr. William's to be
married—a great lady, Miss Kincton Knox, she
says—and very pretty—quite a beauty, quite
a belle.”
She was looking with a faint little smile
down upon the trinkets she was laying upon
the dressing-table, and she spoke in the tones
in which people recall a very far-off remem-
brance.
“Well, she did tell me so, Miss Vi; and
very glad I was, poor fellow; but very young.
I that knows him when he was only the length
o' my arm—to think of him now. But very
sensible—always was ; a good head—wiser
than many an older body.”
“You’ve never seen the lady?” said
Wi.
“No ; but Mr. Trevor's groom was stop-
ping there last summer for a week with Mr.
Trevor, you know, and he did not much like


7S ALL IN THE DARK.
the family—that's the old lady—no one has a
good word of her; and the young one,
Miss Clara—do you like the name Clara,
miss P’’
“Yes; a pretty name, I think.”
“Well, they don't say much about her;
only she's very distant like *
“And she's the lady?” asked Violet.
“Ah! that she is, miss—the only daugh-
ter.”
“She’s tall?”
“Well, yes; he says she is.”
“Taller than I, I dare say?”
“Well, he did not say that ; you're a good
height you know yourself, miss—a nice figure,
yes indeed.”
“And what colour is her hair P’’ asked
Vi.
“Light—light hair,” he said.
“Yes; he always liked light hair, I think,”
she said, still with the same faint smile and in
the same soft and saddened tones. Vi was
arranging her own rich dark brown tresses at
the glass.
“And blue eyes—large—something the


ALL IN THE DARK. 79
colour o' yours, he said, miss; he used to take
great notice to her, the groom—everything.
She used to go out a ridin'. A hair-pin,
miss P”
“No, Winnie, thanks.”
“He says she's a fine rider; showy, hand-
some, that sort, you know.”
“And when is it all to be P’’
“Well, they don't know; but once it's
settled, I do suppose it won't be long delayed.
Why should it?”
“No why, once it's settled, as you say.”
“And is it not well for him, poor fellow, he
should have some one to love him, and look
after him 2 What's the good o' life without
kindness, both o' them handsome, and young,
and loving. What more need they ask?” said
old Winnie. “And if they aren't happy, who
will P”
“Yes, old Winnie, they will, very happy,
I'm sure; and now I'll bid you good night,
I'm so tired, very tired; it's a long tedious
way, and I’m always wishing to come back to
you, and dear old grannie, and poor old Gil-
royd, where we were all so happy, where I


80 ALL IN THE DARK.
always feel so safe—but I believe we always
fancy the old times the pleasantest—when I
was a child, I think — Good night, old
Winnie.”


CHAPTER X.
VANE TREVOR AT THE WINDOW.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY liked the appointment
which his kind friend, Doctor Sprague, had
virtually secured for him. It was not a great
deal in salary, but opening abundant oppor-
tunities for that kind of employment which he
most coveted, and for which, in fact, a very
little training would now suffice to accomplish
him. Literary work, the ambition of so many,
not a wise one perhaps for those who have any
other path before them, but to which men will
devote themselves, as to a perverse marriage,
contrary to other men's warnings, and even to
their own legible experiences of life—in a
dream.
For three years he would sojourn in Paris.
VOL. II. 6


S2 ALL IN THE IDARK.
He preferred that distant exile to one at the
gates of the early paradise from which he had
been excluded. From thence he would send
to his good friend, Doctor Sprague, those little
intimations of his doings and his prosperings,
which he, according to his wisdom, might
transmit for inspection to the old lady at
Gilroyd, who might, if she pleased, re-open a
distant correspondence with the outcast.
Doctor Sprague, at William's desire, had
written to accept and arrange, and would hear
by the return of post, or nearly, and them
William might have to leave at a day's notice.
Three years! It was a long time, and Aunt
Dinah old ! He might never see her or Gilroyd
more, and a kind of home sickness fell upon
him.
At Gilroyd that morning, Aunt Dinah and
Vi sat at breakfast téte-à-téte. The spirits of
the old lady were not altogether so bright, the
alacrity was gone, and though she smiled there
was a sadness and a subsidence. William was
banished. The pang of that sharp decision
was over. Some little help he should have
circuitously through Doctor Sprague; but


ALL IN THE DARK. S3
meet again on earth they never should. So
that care was over; and now her other tie,
pretty Violet Darkwell, she, too, was going;
and although she sate beside her at the little
breakfast-table, prattling pleasantly, and tell-
ing her all the news of her friends, the Main-
warings and their new neighbours, yet her
voice sounded already faint in distance, and
the old lady's cares were pretty well over.
Our business here is work of some sort, and
not for ourselves ; and when that is ended it is
time, as Fuller says, to put out the candle and
go to bed.
“I’m going to see old Mrs. Wagget to-day.
I promised her the day before I went to the
Mainwarings,” said Vi, recalling this engage-
ment.
“But, my dear, some one may call here.
Your friends and mine will be looking in,”
said Aunt Dinah, who knew that Trevor would
arrive at about twelve o'clock.
“Well, I can return their visits all the same,
and see them in their own houses,” said Vi,
“just as well.”
“And what need to go to Mrs. Wagget to-
6–2


84 ALL IN THE DARK.
day—to-morrow I fancy would answer,” said
Miss Perfect.
“But I promised, you know, and she wrote
to remind me.”
“Promised to leave your old Granny alone
again the day after your return" she ex-
claimed, a little huffed.
“Why, darling, it was you who made me
promise, don't you recollect?” pleaded Miss
Violet, “the day we paid them our last
visit.”
“H'm—did I? Well, if there really was a
promise, and I suppose you remember, we
must keep it I suppose.” Aunt Dinah had
made that kind of scrupulousness an emphatic
point in Violet's simple education, and of
course it could not now be trifled with. And
now she did recollect the appointment, and
something about walking to the school-house
together at twelve o'clock—could anything
be more unlucky? Aunt Dinah looked up at
the sky; but no, it was not threatening—clear
blue, with a pleasant white cloud or two, and a
sea of sunshine.
“I’m so sorry, Granny, we settled, it would


ALL IN THE DARK, S5
have been so much pleasanter to have staid
with you to-day, and I'm afraid it's very
wicked; but that school, except to very good
people, it is really insupportable,” said Miss
Wi, whose inflexible estimate of such appoint-
ments rather vexed Aunt Dinah, and not the
less that she could not deny that it was her
own work.
“It's right in the main,” thought she.
“But there are distinctions—there's danger,
however, in casuistry, and so let it be.”
There was an odd little sense of relief too in
the postponement of the crisis.
At about half-past eleven, Vane Trevor
arrived. He came by the path, and from the
drawing-room window Miss Perfect, sitting
there at her work, saw him, and knocked
and beckoned with her slender mittened
hand.
“He looks pale, poor young man,” he was
smiling as he approached, “and haggard too,”
she pronounced, notwithstanding. “He’s
anxious, I dare say,” and she pushed up the
window as he approached. “What a sweet
morning,” she said, taking off her gold spec-


S6 ALL IN THE DARK.
tacles, and smilipg with that soft look of
sympathy which in such cases makes even old
women's faces so pretty again.
“Charming morning—quite—really—quite
charming.”
She saw him peeping into the shadow of
the room for a second figure. Aunt Dinah's
hand was now within reach, and they ex-
changed a friendly greeting.
“My little Violet has returned,” she said,
still holding Trevor's hand kindly, “quite well
—looking so well—and most unluckily I quite
forgot; but I had made an appointment for
her this morning with Mrs. Wagget, and—
and in fact I have always made the keeping of
appointments so much a moral duty with her,
that unless I had opened the subject on which
you talked with me, and told her plainly that
I expected your call, and that she must wait—
which would have been a-a-not a favourable
way of proceeding; and in fact I should have
been obliged to say very badly what you would
say, probably, very well; and indeed it is a
thing that makes me nervous—always did.
When my dear sister was proposed for, I


ALL IN THE DARK. S7
refused to take the message, in fact—I could
not—and—he spoke for himself—poor Charles
Maubray—like a man and—and a very happy”
Suddenly she stopped, and Trevor saw
that tears were trickling slowly down her
cheeks; and her lips were resolutely closed;
and she fumbled for a minute or two among
her silks and worsteds; and the young man
felt that he liked her better than ever he did
before; and he sat on the window-stone out-
side, and they chatted kindly for a long time.
Then they took a little walk together among
the flowers, and under the chestnuts till it
grew to be near two o'clock, and Aunt Dinah
began to look for Violet's return; and if the
great Duke of Wellington on the field of
Waterloo consulted his watch half so often as
Mr. Vane Trevor did his on the green sward
of Gilroyd that afternoon, I’m not surprised at
it having excited all the observation it did,
and being noted in the history of that great
day of thunder and suspense.
Not the Iron Duke, however, but his Im-
perial rival on the field, when lowering his
glass, he muttered, “c'est les Prussien,” is the


ALL IN THE DARK. S9
old Miss Perfect so sensible and altogether
interesting that Trevor was glad to linger a
little, and postpone the evil hour of departure.
It came at last, however, and Aunt Dinah
called old Winnie Dobbs, and went listlessly
to her room to make her toilet for her solitary
dinner.


CHAPTER XI.
Miss PERFECT's ToILET.
“Short the evenings growing,” said Aunt
Dinah, looking out upon the slanting amber
sun-light, that made the landscape all so
golden. “Long shadows already" and she
glanced at her broad old gold watch. “How
the years go over us; Winnie, you've been
a long time with me now—ha, ha, a long
time. When first you came to me, you
thought me such a shrew, and I thought you
such a fool, that we both thought a parting
must very soon come of it—an old termagant
and an old goose,” continued Miss Perfect,
nodding her head at her image in the glass.
“We were not altogether wrong in that,
perhaps, old Dobbs—don't interrupt me—


ALL IN THE DARK. 91
but, though we were neither lambs nor
Solomons, we answered one another. We
never parted, and we'll live on so, don't you
think, to the end of the chapter, and a pretty
long chapter it has been, and pretty near the
end, Winnie Dobbs, it must be for both of
us. ‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ and then
comes the judgment, Winnie— here endeth
the second lesson,'—our two great lessons,
death and judgment: think of that, my good
old Winnie, when you hear Doctor Main-
waring, or Doctor Wagget, it is now, saying,
“here endeth the first lesson, and “here endeth
the second lesson,' and much good may it do
you.”
Aunt Dinah's lectures on such themes were
generally very odd, and her manner sometimes
a little flighty—people who did not know her
would have almost said waggish. But her
handmaiden received them always with a
reverent acquiescence, having as full a faith in
her mistress as honest Sancho, in his most
trusting moods, ever reposed in the wisdom of
the Knight of La Mancha.
“Death and judgment, sure enough. Death,


ALL IN THE DARK. 93
mind—not a word—and that will be, I think,
to-morrow.”
“To-morrow !” exclaimed Winnie.
“Not the wedding, old goose, but the talk
of it. I think it will be all settled to-morrow,
and I'm glad, and I'm sorry. Give me
my snuff-box — thanks. She has never
spoken to you on the subject?” said Aunt
Dinah.
“No, no, ma'am ; never,” answered Win-
nie.
“Nor to me. Dut I know all about it from
another quarter, and I hope she'll not be a
fool. She'll never have so good an offer
again. I like him extremely. I have the
best opinion of him, and the Sergeant is very
much pleased; indeed, it's quite unexception-
able, and I do expect, Winnie Dobbs, if she
should talk to you, you'll not try to frighten
her. You and I are old maids, and I believe
we chose wisely; but we are not to frighten
nervous girls by drawing terrific pictures of
matrimony, and maundering about bad hus-
bands and unprovided children; young girls
are so easily frightened away from any-


94 ALL IN THE DARK.
thing that's prudent: and, though we are
old maids, there's a good deal to be said on
the other side of the question—so, do you
mind?”
“Dear me, ma'am, I'd be sorry she wasn't to
get a good husband, I would.”
“And you remember the last evening,
Friday last, when we were in the study, at the
table, you know, where the word ‘eminently”
came. Do you remember?”
“Well, I ought to, I'm sure; but my old
head is not as good at bringing a thing
to mind as it used to be,” hesitated Win-
nie.
“No more it is; but the word eminently
was all we got that night, and you didn't
know what the question was. Well, I'll
tell you. I asked simply, will Violet
Darkwell's marriage—hook my body, please
—will Violet Darkwell's marriage prove
happy? and the answer was eminently.”
“Ay, so it was, I’ll be bound, though I
can't bring it to mind; but it's a hard word
for the like o' me to come round.”
“You are provoking, Winnie Dobbs,”


ALL IN THE DARK. 95
exclaimed her mistress, looking at herself
defiantly in the glass.
“Well, dear me! I often think I am,”
acquiesced Winnie.
“Well, Winnie, we are too old to change
much now—the leopard his spots, and the
Ethiopian his skin. There's no good in
trying to teach an old dog tricks. They
must make the best of us now, Winnie, such
as we are; and if this wedding does happen,
I'll trick you out in a new dress, silk every
inch, for the occasion, and the handsomest
cap I can find in Saxton. I'll make you such
a dandy, you'll not know yourself in the look-
ing-glass. You'll come to the church as her
own maid, you know; but you're not to
go away with her. You'll stay with me,
Winnie. I don't think you'd like to leave
Gilroyd.”
Old Winnie hereupon witnessed a good and
kindly confession.


CHAPTER XII.
THE PRODIG.A.L.
THEN came one of those little silences, during
which thoughts glide on with the stroke, as it
were, of the last sentence or two ; and old
Winnie Dobbs said at last:
“But I don't think it would be like a
wedding if Master Willie wasn't here.”
“Stop that,” said Miss Perfect, grimly, and
placing the end of the comb, with which she
had been adjusting her grey locks, that lay
smoothly over her resolute forehead, on a
sudden upon old Winnie's wrist. “I never
change my mind when once I've made it up.
You don’t know, and you can't know, for your
wits are always wool-gathering, all I’ve done
for that boy—young man, indeed, I ought to


98. ALL IN THE DARK-
any longer, but as a-a human being—just
that; and you know, Winnie Dobbs, when I
make a resolution I can keep it; you remem-
ber ->
Miss Perfect had reached this point in her
oration when old Winnie, who had been look-
ing out of the window with unusual scrutiny,
on a sudden exclaimed—
“I’m blest if here baint Master William
> 17,
a comin'!
Aunt Dinah uttered a little exclamation,
with her shut hand pressing on her breast, as
she looked over her old servant's shoulder.
I don't know how it was, but as William
Maubray entered the old iron gate, he heard
the swift tread of a light foot, and Aunt
Dinah, hurrying from the red brick porch, ran
towards him with a little cry, and “My
darling !” and threw her thin arms round his
neck, and they both stood still.
“Oh Willie, you've come back.”
William did not answer, he was looking
down in her face, pale, with his hands very
gently on her shoulders.
“Come in, darling,” she said at last.


ALL IN THE DARK. 99
“Am I to come in P” said William, wistfully
and softly.
And she looked at him, pleadingly with tears
in her eyes, and said—
“Poor old Aunt Dinah.”
And he leant down and kissed her.
“Come in, my boy—my Willie man—
my only precious boy that I was so proud
of.”
And William kissed her again, and cried
over her thin shoulder, and she, close laid to
his breast, sobbed also ; each felt the tremble
in the other's kindly arms. Thank God, it
was made up now—the two loving hearts so
near again—sweet and bitter the angelic love
and mortal sadness—the sense of uncertainty
and parting mingling with the great affection
that welled up from the eternal fountain of
love. Improve the hours of light. The time
is near when the poor heart will tremble no
more, and all the world of loving thoughts lie
in dust and silence.
“I am going to give you the silver tobacco-
box that was on Marston Moor—it is the most
valuable thing I have—it has the inscription
7—2


100 ALL IN THE DARK.
on the inside of the cover. It was in my
foolish old head to send it to Doctor Sprague
for you. It was your ancestor's. The ‘War-
wickshire Knight,’ we called him—Sir Edwin.
He joined the Parliament, you know, and took
the name of Perfect. I always intended the
tobacco-box for you, Willie, even when I was
offended—come in—come, my darling.”
And she drew in the prodigal with her arm
in his, and her hand on his fingers, liking to
feel as well as to see and to hear him—to be
quite sure of him '
“Dinner, Tom, this minute,” said she to old
Tom, who grinning spoke his hearty word of
welcome in the hall, “Master William is very
hungry—he has come ever so far—tell Mrs.
Podgers—come Willie—are you cold P’’
So before the bright fire, which was plea-
sant that clear red, frosty evening, they sat
—and looking fondly on him—her hand on
his, she said—
“A little thin—certainly, a little thin—have
you been quite well, Willie—quite well?”
“Yes, quite well—all right—and how have
you been P” he answered and asked.


ALL IN THE DARK. 101
“Very well—that is, pretty well—indeed I
can't say I have—I’ve not been well—but time
enough about that. And tell me—and tell
me about this news—about Miss Kincton
Knox—is it true—is there really an engage-
ment P”
“I’ve left them—I came from Cambridge.
Engagement' by Jovel I—I don't know
exactly what you mean.”
So said William, who was struck by some-
thing more in Aunt Dinah's look and tone
than could possibly arise from the contempla-
tion merely of that engagement he had been
fulfilling at Kincton.
“I—I heard—I thought—was not there—
isn't there”—Aunt Dinah paused, gazing
dubiously on William —“I mean — some-
thing of-of-she's very handsome—I’m
told.”
“Going to be married to Miss Kincton
Knox l—I assure you, if you knew her, such
an idea would strike you as the most absurdly
incredible thing the people who invented it
could possibly have told you"—and William
actually laughed.


102 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Hal” exclaimed she, rather dismally—
“that's very odd–that is really very odd-it
must have been a mistake—people do make
such mistakes—it must—and you have heard
of —Vi—it seems so odd–little Vi ! There's
no mistake there, for Mr. Trevor has had a
long conversation with me, and has written to
her father, and we both approve highly. But
—but about Miss Kincton Knox—it was an
odd mistake, though I can't say I'm sorry,
because——but it does not signify now ; you
would never have waited, and so sure as you -
sit there, if you had not, you'd have re-
gretted your precipitation all the days of your
life.”
And thrice she nodded darkly on Wil-
liam, in such a way as to assure him
that Henbane had been looking after his
interests.
After dinner she ordered Tom to call Winnie
Dobbs, who had already had her chat with
William.
“Winnie,” said she, producing a large key
from her bag, “you must go to the store-room


ALL IN THE DARK. 105
and fetch one of the three bottles on the
shelf.”
“We dust them every week, old, Winnie
and I,” said she as soon as Dobbs had gone.
“They have been there fifteen years—Fron-
tignac—the doctor ordered it—sillabubs in the
morning, when I was recovering, and I don't
think they did me a bit of good; and we must
open one of them now.”
William protested in vain.
“Yes, it's the kind of wine young people
like—they like it—sweet wine—you must. I
hear her coming. What are you dawdling
there for, Winnie 2 Come in—bring it in—
why don't you?”
So, sitting side by side, her hand on his, and
looking often in his face as they talked, they
sipped their wine; and old Winnie, standing
by, had her glass, and drank their healths, and
declared it was “a beautiful sight to see them.”
And Aunt Dinah sent Tom to Saxton for some
muffins for tea. Mr. William liked muffins—
“be quiet—you know you do.” -
“I’m so sorry Violet should have been out,
drinking tea at the Rectory; but you're to stay


104. ALL IN THE DARIX.
to-night; you say you'll be in time at Mr.
Cleaver's chambers at five to-morrow evening ;
and you have a London up train at half-past
eleven at our station : and you must sleep at
Gilroyd; it would not be like the old times if
you didn't.”


CHAPTER XIII.
“AFTER DEATH MY GHOST SHALL HAUNT You.”
It was a clear, frosty, moonlight night, and
the stars blinking and staring fiercely in the
dark sky, as William Maubray peeped between
the drawing-room shutters, and listened in
vain for the ring of the wheels of the promised
brougham ; and Aunt Dinah returned just as
he let the curtains fall together, having in her
hand a little card-board box tied round with a
little blue ribbon. -
“Blue, you see, for loyalty—not to princes,
but to right—I tied it with blue ribbon,” said
Aunt Dinah, sitting down beside him, and
untying the knot, and taking out the silver
box, with embossed windmills, trees, dogs, and
Dutchmen upon it. “Here it is—the tobacco-


106 ALL IN THE DARK.
box; it is yours, mind, and your eldest boy's to
have it—an heirloom,” said she, with a gentle
smile, looking into that dim but sunny vista,
and among the golden-haired and blue-eyed
group, painted in fancy, where she would have
no place; “and it's never to go out of the
family, and who knows what it may inspire.
It was a brave man's tobacco-box—my hero.
The courtiers, I believe did not smoke, and he
did not like tobacco, indeed I can't abide the
smell, except in snuff—the kind you know you
bring me sometimes; but he would not be
different from the other officers about him, and
so he did smoke , though, my dear father
told me, always sparingly ; and so, dear
William, here it is, and I have had your
name placed underneath, and you can take it
with you.”
Hereupon the tea and muffins entered, and
after a time the conversation took another
turn.
“And I’m not sorry, William, about that
Kincton Knox business; indeed I'm very glad;
I never knew before—I never knew intima-
tions—and you know I implicitly believe in


ALL IN THE DARK. 107
them—so peremptory upon any point as on
that ; and you're not to marry—mind, you
shall promise me you will not—till after the
expiration of five years.”
“I think I might promise you safely
enough, I'll never marry,” said William, with
a little laugh.
“Don’t be rash—no—don't promise more
than I ask; but that you must,” replied the old
lady.
“You’ll not ask me to make promises,
I'm sure?” said William ; “I hate them
so.”
“For five years,” said Miss Perfect, holding
up her head a little sternly.
“For five years, dear aunt *" replied Wil-
liam, with a smile, and shaking his head.
“It is not much,” said Aunt Dinah, looking
sadly down on her muffin, and chopping it
lightly with the edge of her knife, as if she
cut off the head of a miniature argument at
every stroke. “I don't thing it's very much
for a person, that is, who says he'll never
marry.”
“I’ll never marry—I'm sure I shall never


110 ALL IN THE DARK.
her eyes out, but I won't suffer you to ruin
yourself.”
Preposterous as was this harangue, Aunt
Dinah delivered it like a Pythoness, with a
vehemence that half awed her nephew.
“I’ll speak of this no more,” she said, more
like herself, after two or three minutes' silence.
“I’ll not mention it—I’ll let it rest in your
mind—it's nothing to me, but for your sake,
my mind's made up though, and if I’ve power
in this world or the next, you'll hear of me,
remember that, William Maubray.”
William was bound to listen to this flighty
rigmarole, with respect as coming from his
aunt, but her spiritual thunders rather amused
than alarmed him, and of Henbane he en-
tertained, I must confess, the meanest possible
opinion. Connected with all this diablerie,
indeed there was but one phenomenon which
had unpleasantly fastened upon his imagin-
ation, and that was the mysterious adventure
which had befallen him in this old house of
Gilroyd when in his bed, his wrist was seized
and held first in the grasp of an unseen hand,
and the intensely disagreeable sensations of


ALL IN THE DARK. 111
that night recurred to his memory oftener than
he would have cared to admit.
“I wonder you have so little curiosity,
sometimes,” said Aunt Dinah, speaking now,
though gravely, much more in her usual way,
“you young people think, you are so far away
from the world of spirits, material and scepti-
cal. You've never once cared to ask me for
Elihu Bung. I'll lend it to you with pleasure,
while you are here. But that portion of the
Almighty's empire has no interest—is dead—
for you.”
There was abundant truth in this reproach,
for William indeed could not without great
offence, have told his aunt what rubbish he
thought it all. But said he
“I dare say it is very curious.”
“Not a bit curious; that's not the word;
it is serious and it’s certain; bread and butter
is not very curious, your foot is not very curi-
ous, nor your hat; but there they are, facts
that's all. I’m glad you say you have no
present intention of marrying, in fact, dear
William, the idea has caused me the most
extreme anxiety, having the warning I have ;


112 ALL IN THE DARK.
as for me, however, my course is taken. I
expect to be what we call a mocking spirit—
yes a mocking spirit—and I'll play you such
tricks as will make you think twice, if such an
idea should be in your head. Mind I told
you, though I be dead you shan’t escape me,”
and she smiled oddly, and nodded her head,
and then frowned a little bit.
“But I dare say it won't happen. Now
that this Kincton Knox business has turned
out a mistake — thank God — a canard.
There's no hurry; you are too young. Re-
member it was on the 28th of September
the warning came, five years, and you count
from that; but goodness knows you have
time enough. I think I hear the broug-
ham.”
William was already at the window and the
gate-bell ringing.
“And William, remember, not a word to
Violet about Mr. Trevor—not a hint.”
“Oh certainly,” cried he, and he was at
the hall door in time to open the carriage door,
and take little Violet's hand.
“Oh you come P’’ said she smiling, and de-


ALL IN THE DARK. 113
scending lightly with a bouquet of old Miss
Wagget's best flowers in her fingers. “I
had not an idea—only just come I suppose?”
“Yes, this evening: and you quite well,
Violet P”
“Quite well, flourishing, Grannie in the
drawing-room P And I'm glad you've come
to Gilroyd, poor old Grannie, I think she has
been in very low spirits; let us go to her.”
"VOL. II. 8


CHAPTER XIV.
VIOLET AND WILLIAM IN THE DRAWING-ROOM.
Viol.ET seemed merry and good-natured, Wil-
liam thought, but somewhat cold. No one
else would have perceived it; but this little
chill, hardly measurable by the moral ther-
mometer, was for him an Icelandic frost, in
which his very heart ached.
This pretty girl kissed Aunt Dinah, and
put off her bonnet, and out gushed her beau-
tiful dark brown hair, but kept her other
mufflers on, and said smilingly towards Wil-
liam,
“I was so surprised to see him at the door,
I could scarcely believe my eyes.” -
“And looking very well—a little thin per-
haps, but very well,” added Aunt Dinah.


ALL IN THE DARK. 115
“And how is Mr. Wagget?” asked William,
who did not care to come formally under cri-
tical discussion.
“Oh, very well, and Miss Wagget too; but
I don't know that you've made her acquaint-
ance. She's quite charming, and I doubt very
much whether so susceptible a person as you
would do wisely in putting himself in her
way.”
She has been hearing that nonsense about
Miss Kincton Knox, thought William, and
he said rather drily,
“I’m not a bit susceptible. How did I ever
show it P I'd like to know who I ever was in
love with in my life. Susceptible, by Jove'
but I see you're laughing,
Miss Vi looked curiously at him for a mo-
ment, and then she said,
“We heard quite another account of him,
didn't we, Grannie P”
“It was all a mistake though, it seems,” said
Aunt Dinah.
“I should like to know who the kind per-
son is who cares enough about me to invent all
these lies.”
S–2


116 ALL IN THE DARK.
“The ladies there liked you extremely, we
have the best authority for believing that,” said
Miss Perfect.
“I don't know; I'm sure they detest me
now, and I really don't know any reason they
ever had for doing either.”
“Detest you, my dear!” exclaimed Aunt
Dinah.
“Mrs. Kincton Knox is awfully offended
with me, I don't know for what. I've nothing
on earth to charge myself with, and I really
don't care two pence, and I hate to think about
them,” said William testily; “and I'd rather
talk about anything else.”
Miss Vi looked at William, and glanced at
Aunt Dinah, and then laughed, with a pleasant
little silvery cadence.
“Dear me! Grannie, what a disappointment.
We simple people in this part of the world
have been lost for weeks in wonder and respect
—we heard such stories of your prowess, and
here comes the lady-killer home, harmless
William Maubray, as he went.”
“Just so,” said he. “Not William the
Conqueror—nothing of the kind; and I don't


ALL IN THE DARK. 117
think it likely I shall ever try to kill a lady,
nor a lady ever kill me. Weapons of iron
won't do now-a-days, and a knight-errant of
that sort must arm himself with the precious
metals, and know how to talk the modern
euphuism, and be a much finer man than ever
I can hope to be ; and even so, when all's
done, it's a poor profession enough. By Jove'
I don't envy them their adventures, and their
exploits, and their drubbings and their Dulci-
neas—the best among them is often laid on his
back; and I’m not ashamed to say I have
more of Sancho Panza than of the Don in my
nature.”
“He rails like a wounded knight—doesn't
he, Grannie?” laughed Violet.
“I’d like to know who wounded me,” said
he.
“We'll take your own account, William,”
said Aunt Dinah, who saw that he was vexed
and sore, “and whoever is to blame, I'm very
glad—Oh! prayers,” and the little household
of Gilroyd trooped solemnly into the room,
and the family devotions were performed,
William officiating in his old capacity.


118 ALL IN THE DARK.
“William leaves us early to - morrow,”
said Aunt Dinah, glancing regretfully at
him. -
“Oh P” said Miss Violet.
“Yes, to London' and from London perhaps
to Paris, there to remain for some time,” said
William, spiritedly.
“Charming excursion,” exclaimed the young
lady. -
“Why London is not particularly lively at
this moment, and I hope to be pretty hard
worked in Paris. There's nothing very charm-
ing about it, but I'm glad to go ;” and thinking
this a little strong, he added, “because it is
time I should begin, if ever I am to do any
good for myself or any one else.” -
“He’s like the good boy in a story-book, he
makes such wise reflections; and I'm certain
he'll grow rich and prosper,” said Miss Vi to
Aunt Dinah. “My only wise saw is ‘Early
to bed and early to rise, makes a man healthy,
wealthy, and wise.' I learned it from good
old Winnie, and I'm going to act on it now.
Good night, dear old Grannie,” and she kissed


I2() ALL IN THE DARK.
better to do. I like work. ‘Man delights not
me, nor woman neither.’ And, dear Aunt, I'm
a little bit sleepy, too; but I'll see you early,
shan't I?”
And William yawned dismally.
“Good night, dear, it is better,” said Aunt
Dinah ; “but I don’t know, it strikes me
that you and Vi are not as friendly together
as you used to be, and I think it is a
pity.”
“Not so friendly,” exclaimed William.
“Ha, ha! That did not strike me ; but I
assure you there's no change, at least that I
know of none on my part, I'm sure. I sup-
pose it's just that our heads are full of other
things; we have each got our business to
think of—don't you see?—and hers, you know,
is very serious,” and William Maubray laughed
again a little bitterly,
“Well, she is a dear little creature, an
affectionate little soul. I've always found her
quite the same,” said Aunt Dinah.
“I’m sure she is—I dare say—I don't see
why she shouldn't, that is, as affectionate as


ALL IN THE DARK. 12I
other young ladies. You know it isn't I who
say she's changed.”
“I did not say she's changed more than you.
I think you don't seem so kindly as you used,
and more disposed to be disagreeable; and I
think, considering you have been so long
together, and are so soon to part, and life is so
uncertain, I think it a pity; and you can't
see even how pretty she is looking.”
“I must have been thinking of something
else, for she is in particularly good looks;” and
he added, quite like himself, “Yes, indeed, I
think she improves every time I see her, but
that may be the old partiality, you know.
Good night, Aunt Dinah.”
Aunt Dinah took both his hands to hers,
and kissed him. -
“Good night, my dear William—my dear
boy. You will never know, dear William, all
the pain you have cost me. Pray, my dear
child, for a reasonable spirit, and that you may
have power to conquer the demon of pride—
the besetting sin of youth, and, my dear
William, you must reconsider the question of


122 ALL IN THE DARK.
ordination, and pray for light. God bless you,
and don't forget to put out your candle.
There"—another kiss—“Good night.”


CHAPTER XV.
A DREAM.
“AFFEctioMATE, indeed '" said William. “I
do believe they have no other idea but to
mortify and wound every one that seems to
like them—cats and monkeys.”
William had closed the door; he poked
his fire, and sat before it, eyeing it scorn-
fully.
“I can't think why anyone likes them—
why we go on liking them—they are so odious.
I suppose they used not to be so. There's
Aunt Dinah—kind, true old Aunt Dinah—she
never could have been a heartless, insolent
creature, like that—never. We are all grow-
ing worse; the world will soon be ripe for
judgment.”


124 ALL IN THE DARK.
And William pulled off his coat as savagely
as if he was going to fight “Old Crump"
again, behind the Chapel at Rugby.
“I hate myself for liking her. No, I don't
like her—for admiring her; but she is pretty.
She is—there's no good in denying it—she's
awfully pretty — lorely 1 and till that great
goose, Trevor, came and turned her head with
his boots, and his gloves, and his house, and
his trumpery, she was the nicest little creature
in the world. Yes, there was no one like her;
not one on earth, I'll maintain.”
And he knocked his hand so hard on the
back of the chair beside him, that he thought
his knuckles were bleeding.
“I wish they rere, by Jove" he said. “I
don't care what happens, I don't care if I was
knocked to smash, to think of that great,
gawky, goose. What on earth can she see in
him 2 Such rot!”
“Yes, she is—there's no use in disputing it
—she's the prettiest girl I ever saur, in all my
life,” he went on, putting himself down and
overbearing his affected indifference with honest
vehemence. “Aunt Dinah has promised me


126 ALL IN THE DARK.
In this mood William rambled over many
old recollections of the place and people he
was leaving, and he laid his waistcoat on the
chair much more gently than his coat; and he
thought how Aunt Dinah had taught him to
say his prayers long ago, under that friendly
roof, and so down he kneeled and said them
with a sadder heart, and rose up with a great
sigh, and a sense of leave-taking that made his
heart ache.
And now his candle was out, and he soon
fast asleep; and again he had a dream so
strange that I must relate it.
The scenery of his dream, as before, pre-
sented simply the room in which he lay, with
the flickering fire-light in which he had gone
to sleep. He lay, in his vision, in his bed,
just as he really did, with his back to the fire
and looking toward the curtains, which were
closed on the side between him and the door,
when he heard a sound of naked feet running
up to his chamber door, which was flung open
with a precipitation which made the windows
rattle, and his bed-curtain was drawn aside,
and Miss Perfect, with only a sheet, as it


ALL IN THE DARK. 127
seemed, wrapt over her night dress, and with
a face white, and fixed with horror, said, “Oh,
my God! William I'm dead—don't let me
go " and under the clothes she clasped his
wrist with a hand that felt like cold metal.
The figure crouched, with its features ad-
vanced towards his, and William Maubray
could neither speak nor move, and lay so for
some time, till with a “Ho!” he suddenly
recovered the power of motion, and sprang
out of bed at the side farthest from the
visionary Aunt Dinah ; and as he did so, he
distinctly felt the grasp of a cold hand upon
his wrist, which, just as before, vanished as he
recovered the full possession of his waking
faculties, leaving, however, its impression
there.
William lighted his candle at the fire, and
listened for a long time before he could find
courage to look to the other side of the bed.
When he did, however, no sign of Aunt
Dinah, sane or mad, was there. The door
was shut, and the old fashioned furniture stood
there prim and faded as usual, and everything
maintained its old serenity. On his wrist, how-


12S ALL IN THE DARK.
ever, were the marks of a recent violent pres-
sure, and William was seized with an uncon-
trollable anxiety about Aunt Dinah which
quite overcame his panic; and getting on his
clothes, and making a preliminary survey of
the gallery, which was still and empty,
he hurried to Aunt Dinah’s door and
knocked.
“It’s I—William. How are you, auntº
are you quite well ?” asked he, in reply to
her.
“Who’s there P what’s all that P”
“I, William.”
“Come in, child; you may. I'm in my
bed; what takes you out of yours?”
“I had a dream, and fancied you were in
my room, and—and ill.”
“Pooh, pooh, my dear William, get back to
your room. It is all a fancy. I've been here
in bed for an hour or more, reading my dear
father's sermon on the Woman of Endor.”
There she was, sitting up in a flannel dress-
ing gown, with the sometime dean's large and
legible manuscript before her, and no doubt
investigating, with the lights thrown by


ALL IN THE DARK. 129
Elihu Bung, the phenomena in which the
witch of those remote times dealt.
“I heard you talk a little time ago,” said
Aunt Dinah, after a short and curious stare at
William's pallid countenance.
“No,” said William, “I didn't ; I heard it
too. It was that in fact that partly alarmed
me. It is very odd.”
“Were there knockings?” inquired she.
“No, no knocking,” said William ; “it
opened with a push.”
“What, my dear?” demanded Aunt Dinah,
sitting very erect as she gazed with a dark
curiosity in William's face, and abandoned the
dean's manuscript on the coverlet.
“The door,” he answered. “It is very
odd. It's the most horrid thing I ever heard
of. I’m sorry I slept in that room.”
WOL. II. 9


CHAPTER XVI.
NEXT MORNING.
AUNT DINAH leaned on her thin hand, looking
with something like fear at William fixed and
silently. -
“What o'clock is it, aunt?” asked he.
“Three minutes to four,” she replied, con-
sulting her broad old gold watch, and then
holding it to her ear. “Yes; three minutes.
to four. I thought it was later. You saw
something, William Maubray—you did. You
have seen something; haven't you?”
So William, bit by bit, scared and very un-
comfortable, recounted his adventure, to which
Miss Perfect listened attentively, and she
said—
“Yes—it is remarkable—very wonderful—


ALL IN THE DARK. 13 I
if anything can be said to be particularly so,
where all is marvellous. I understand it,
quite.”
“And what is it?” asked he.
“The spirit key again—my name and image
—don't you see; and “don’t let me go,' and
the other intimation—take it all together, its
quite plain.”
“Do tell me, dear aunt, what you mean?”
“It all connects, dear William, with what
I told you; the grasp of that hand links you
with the spirit world; the image was mine—
my double, I do suppose. Hand me that snuff.
box. It spoke as if after my death; it urged
upon you to maintain your correspondence
with me—" don't let me go'-and it plainly
intimates that I shall have the power of doing
as I promised and certainly shall, in case you
should meditate disregarding my solemn warn-
ing about your marriage, and think of uniting
yourself, William dear, to any one, before the
expiration of five years—there's the whole
thing in a nutshell.”
“May I sit here for a little?” asked William,
who from childish years had been accustomed
9–2


132 ALL IN THE DARK.
to visit his aunt's room often, and when
she was ill used to sit there and read for
her.
“Certainly, my dear; but don't go to sleep
and fall into the fire.”
Aunt Dinah resumed her sermon, with now
and then a furtive reference to Elihu Bung,
concealed under her pillow, and William
Maubray sat near the bed with his feet on the
fender; and thus for nearly five minutes—he
looking on the bars, and she on her sermon
and her volume of reference—-at the end of
that time she laid it again on the coverlet, and
looked for some time thoughtfully on the back
of William's head; and she said so suddenly
as to make him start—
“Five years is nothing; it's quite ridiculous
making a fuss about it. I've known girls
engaged that time, and longer, too; for ten
and even twelve years.”
“Pretty girls they must have been by that
time,” thought William, who was recovering
from the panic of his vision.
“And I think they made fonder couples
than people that are married three weeks after


ALL IN THE DARK. 133
their engagement,” added Aunt Dinah.
“Therefore do have a little patience.”
“But I'm in no hurry about anything.”
said William ; “least of all about marriage.
I have not an idea; and if I had I couldn't,
and my honest belief is I shall die an old
bachelor.”
“H'm I never mind what people say on
that subject,” said Miss Perfect; “but I hope
what you've experienced to-night will be a
warning. Yes, dear William, I'm very glad it
has happened; it is always well to know the
truth—it may affright, but when it comes in
the shape of warning it is always welcome—
that is it ought to be. I needed nothing
more to convince me, but you did, and you've
got it. Depend upon it, if you disobey you
are a ruined man all your days; and if I die
before the time, I'll watch you as an old grey
cat watches a mouse—ha, ha, ha! and if you
so much as think of it, I'll plague you—I
will. Yes, William, I'll save you in spite of
yourself, and mortal was never haunted and
tormented as you'll be, till you give it up.”
William could not have forborne a joke,


134 ALL IN THE DARK.
though a kindly one, upon such a speech at
another time; but somehow now he could not.
The spectre of Aunt Dinah cowering at his
bedside was present with him; and when she
bid him good-night, although he was ashamed
to confess his trepidation, he hated a return
to that old-fashioned room where he had
twice experienced the same kind of visita-
tion.
When he returned he made up his fire, drew
his window curtains wide open to admit the
earliest streak of sunrise, pulled his bed-cur-
tains back to the posts, and placed his candle
on the table in the centre of the room, resolved
that Aunt Dinah's double should not at all
events steal on him unawares.
At last the pleasant October morning came.
The wind that had blown wildly in the night
was quiet now, having left its spoil of yellow
leaves strewn upon the lawn or rustling over
the gravel walks.
The cheerful yellow light cleared the room
of all unearthly shadows, and the song of
birds refreshed his ears, as he made his early
toilet.


ALL IN THE DARK. T 35
The joyous bark of little Psyche scampering
Before the windows, the call of the driver to
his team, the whistling of birds, the voices of
the inmates of the house, and at last the laugh
of Violet Darkwell from the porch.
Beautiful music like merry spirits in the
air departing, soon to be heard no more. He
stood with his hand on his half open door—
smiling — scarcely breathing — listening, as
never did Fanatico per la musica, to the
favourite roulade of Prima Donna. It ceased
—he listened still, and then sighed in the
silence, and seemed to himself to waken.
In his ear that music sounded sadly, and
his heart was full as he ran down the stairs
smiling. And pretty Violet's slender figure
was leaning at the side of the porch; and she
looked up, knowing his step, with a smile.
The old kindly smile, for a moment, and then
its character a little changed, something of the
inscrutable but beautiful reserves of girlhood,
which baffled, and interested, and pained Wil-
liam so. He would have liked to have called
her Vi. The name was at his lips; but there
was something of pride, which even thus, while


136 ALL IN THE DARK.
his boat is on the shore and his bark is on the
sea, restrained him.
“Miss—mind I’m calling you rightly—Miss
Violet Darkwell, I'm so glad I’ve found you so
early,” he said, smiling, “my hours—I ought
to say minutes—are so precious. I go at half-
past ten, and I hardly saw or heard you last
night, you were so anxious to be off.”
“You forget how wise we all were, and wis-
dom, though it's a very good thing, is not
lively; and its chief use, I suppose, is that—a
sort of lullaby, for I’m sure nobody ever minds.
it. You don't, nor I, nor darling Grannie; and
I think if you wanted to be put to sleep there
would be nothing like having a tranquil old
sage, like Winnie Dobbs, at your bedside to
repeat a string of her sayings, like ‘early to
bed and early to rise make a man healthy,
wealthy, and wise;’ and besides being very
wise, I think you were just, if it is not very
disrespectful to say so, ever so little cross, so
that altogether I thought it best to go to bed
and to sleep as fast as I could.”
“I quite forget. Was I cross? I dare say
I was. I think ill-temper is one expression of


ALL IN THE DARK. 137
suffering ; and I have not been very happy
lately,” said William. -
“You have been strangely misrepresented,
then,” said the young lady, slily.
“So I have ; and I do so wish you'd stop
about that nonsense. You can't conceive un-
less you knew the people—”
“I thought she was very pretty,” inter-
rupted Miss Darkwell, innocently.
“So she is—perhaps—I dare say; but pretty
or plain, as I said before, I'm not in love with
her. I'm not in love, thank heaven, with any
xx.
one, and I
“Come in to prayers, William, dear,” Aunt
Dinah called aloud from the parlour door,
“I’ve had breakfast early, expressly for you,
and you must not delay it.”


CHAPTER XVII.
THE FLOWER.
AT breakfast the little party had a great deal
to talk about, topics of hope, and topics of
regret, glanced at in all sorts of spirits, sad
and cheerful, black spirits and white, blue
spirits and grey; but on the whole one would
have said, looking on and a stranger to all
that was possibly passing within, that it was a
cheerful meal.
“Five miles and a half to the Station, and
the up train at eleven forty-five.” The cab,
or whatever it is, will be here at half-past ten,
and then good-by. Farewell, perhaps, for
three years to Gilroyd,” so said William, as
he and Violet Darkwell stood side by side,
-


140 ALL IN THE DARK.
with her, even in this longing and vain an-
guish, and near her was a strange despairing
delight.
“Oh, yes, everyone changes every day
almost, except dear Grannie and old Winnie
Dobbs. I'm sure I change, and so do you,
and what won't three years do? You've
changed very much, and not for the better,”
and saying this Miss Violet laughed.
“My changes, be they what they may,
don't seem to trouble you much,” replied Wil-
liam,
“Trouble?—not at all. I dare say they
are improvements, though I don't like them,”
laughed she.
“I don't think I'm a bit changed. I know
I'm not, in fact. Tell me any one thing in
which I am changed.”
“Well, it is generally; you have grown so
disagreeable, that's all—it is not much to me,
but I dare say it will be to other people,” said
she.
“I’m disagreeable—yes, of course—because
I have my opinion about men and things, and
fools and nonsense. I don't know anything


ALL IN THE DARK. 141
I've said to you, at least since I came yester-
day, that could annoy you. I have not men-
tioned a single subject that could possibly
even interest you. I dare say it is tiresome my
talking so much as Aunt Dinah makes me,
about myself. But I couldn't help it.”
“It won't do, William ; you know very well
how cross you always are now, at least with
me, not that I mind it much, but there's no
denying.”
“You accused me of that before, and I said
I was sorry. I—perhaps I am. I'm going
away, and everything breaking up, you know,
and you must make allowances. I used not
to be cross long ago, and I'm not changed.
No—I’m the same—I never said an unkind
word to you, Wi, all the time when you were a
little thing, and if I ever speak differently
now, it is not from unkindness, only that
things have gone wrong with me, and I've
seen something of the world; and things hap-
pen to sour one, and—I don't know—but I'm
not changed. You mustn't think it now that
I'm going away. I'm such a fool, I'm such a
beast, I can't help talking bitterly sometimes,


142 ALL IN THE IDARK.
and sometimes I think I am a-a fiend almost,
but I hope I am not as bad as I seem.”
So spoke this Penruddock, who fancied him-
self soured for life, and soliloquized at times
in the vein of Elshender of Muckle-stane
Muir, but still cherished at the age of three-
and-twenty some sparks of his original huma-
nity.
“There goes Tom with my things to the
gate. Yes, it ought to be here now,” said
William looking at his watch. “I’ll send you
something pretty from Paris if you let me;
nothing very splendid you know, only a little
reminder such as a poor beggar like me, can
offer,”and he laughed, not very merrily. “And
I shall hear all the news from Aunt Dinah, .
and send her all mine; and I like flowers. I
always remember the Gilroyd flowers along
with you. You were always among them, you
know, and will you give me that little violet
—a namesake. No one ever refuses a flower,
it is the keepsake every one gets for the
asking.” -
“Here it is,” said Violet, with a little laugh,
but looking not mockingly, but a little down-


ALL IN THE DARK. 143.
ward and oddly, and William placed it very
carefully in a recess of his complicated purse,
that was a cardcase also, and I know not what
else beside. He was on the point of saying
something very romantic and foolish, but sud-
denly recollected himself, and pulled up at the
verge just before he went over.
“This is a souvenir of very old days, you
know,” said William, remembering Trevor, and
how humiliating because vain any love-making
of his own must prove, “of a very early
friend — one of your earliest. Wasn't
I ?”
“Yes, so you were, a very good-natured
friend, and very useful. Sometimes a little bit
prosy, you know, always giving me excellent
advice; and I think I always, often at least,
listened to your lectures with respect. But
why is it, will you tell me who know every-
thing, that gentlemen always ask for a rose or
a violet, or a flower of some sort, as a keep-
sake? Nothing so perishable. Would not a
thimble or even a slipper be better? I sup-
pose you have us all in what you used to call a
hortus siccus, brown roses, and yellow violets,


144 ALL IN THE DARK.
and venerable polyanthuses, thoroughly dried
up and stiff as chips, and now and then with
a sort of triumph review your prisoners, and
please yourselves with these awful images of
old maidhood. How can we tell what witch-
crafts go on over our withering types and
emblems. Give me back my violet and you
shall have a hair-pin instead.”
“Many thanks; I'll keep my violet, how-
ever. It may grow dry and brown to other
eyes, to mine it will never change. Just be-
cause it is an enchanted violet, and there is a
spell upon my eyes as often as I look on it,
and the glow and fragrance will never pass
away.”
“Very good song, and very well sung ! only
I suspect that's the usual speech, and you
asked for the violet for an opportunity of mak-
ing it.”
At this moment Aunt Dinah entered the
room accompanied by old Winnie Dobbs, sup-
porting a small hamper tray fashion. William
recognised the old commissariat of Gilroyd in
this nutritious incumbrance, against which he
had often and vainly protested, as he now


ALL IN THE DARK. 145
did more faintly by a smile and lifting his
hands.
“Now there's really very little in this; just
a fowl cut up, half a ham, one of the Saxton
plumcakes, and a pint bottle with a little
sherry. You'll find bread by itself, and some
salt in white paper, and a few Ripston pippins,
and it is really no weight at all; is it,
Winnie P”
“No, nothing to them porter fellows.
What else be they paid for, if it baint to carry
loads; what's a hamper like this here to one of
them 2 and he'll want something on the
way. You'll be hungry, you will, Master
William.”
“And whatever's left will be of use to you
when you reach your destination,” said Aunt
Dinah, repeating her ancient formula on similar
occasions. “Now, William, you promise me
you'll not leave this behind. Surely you can't
be such a fool as to be ashamed to take a little
refreshment before the passengers. Well-bred
people won't stare at you, and I know
you won't vex me by refusing the little pro-
vision.”
VOL. II. 1()


|46 ALL IN THE DARK.
So William laughed and promised, and Miss
Vi looked as if she could have quizzed him,
but at this moment the Saxton vehicle from
the Golden Posts pulled up at the iron gate of
Gilroyd, and William glanced at his watch, and
though he smiled, it was with the pale smile
of a man going to execution, and trying to
cheer his friends rather than being of good
comfort himself. -


CHAPTER XVIII.
DOCTOR DRAKE GOES TO GILROYD.
“And now I must say farewell, and if I can,
or if you want me, I'll come soon and see you
again; and God bless you, Violet; and good-
bye, my darling Aunt. I'll write from London
this evening, and let you know what my Paris
address will be.”
“God Almighty bless you, my precious
man, Willie; and I'm very glad—” and here
Aunt Dinah's sentence broke short, and tears
were in her eyes, and she bit her lip. “I am,
my darling, Willie, that we met; and you'll
really come soon, if I write for you; and you
won't forget your Bible and your prayers;
and, oh! goodness gracious ! have you forgot
the tobacco-box P”
10–2


14S ALL IN THE DARK.
It was safe in his dressing-case. So another
hurried farewell, and a smiling and kissing of
hands. “Good-bye, good-bye!” from the cab
window; and away it rattled, and William
was gone; and the two ladies, and old Winnie
in the rear, stood silently looking for
a minute or so where the carriage had
been, and then they turned, with the faded
smile of farewell still on their faces, and
slowly reentered old Gilroyd Hall, which all
in a moment had grown so lonely.
In the drawing-room they were silent.
Violet was looking through the window, but
not, I think, taking much note of the view,
pretty as it is.
“I’m going away, and everything breaking
up, and you must make allowances”—William's
words were in her lonely ears now. A break-
up had partly come, and a greater was coming.
William's words sounded like a prophecy.
“Breaking-up.” Poor Gilroyd! Many a
pleasant summer day and winter evening had
she known in that serene old place.
Pleasant times, no doubt, were before her—
a more splendid home, perhaps. Still memory


ALL IN THE DARK. 149.
would always look back regretfully on those
early times, and the familiar view of Gilroyd;
its mellow pink-tinted brick, and window-panes,
flashing in the setting sun, half seen through
the stooping branches of the old chestnuts,
would rise kindly and quaint before her,
better beloved than the new and colder glories
that might await her. Had the break-up in-
deed come? There was a foreboding of
change, a presage as of death at her heart.
When she looked at Miss Perfect she saw that
she had been crying, and it made her heart
heavier.
“Remember, he said he'd come to you when-
ever you write. You can bring him back
whenever you please; and really Paris is no
distance at all.”
“I don't know, little Violet, I'm very low.
It's all very true, what you say, but I've a
misgiving. I've looked my last on my fine
fellow—my boy. If I did as I am prompted,
I think I should follow him to London, just to
have one look more.”
“You're tired, Grannie, darling, and you
look pale; you must have a little wine.”


150 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Pooh, child—no—nothing,” said Aunt
Dinah, with a flicker of her usual man-
ner; but there was a fatigue and feeble-
ness in her look which Violet did not
like.
“Give me my desk, like a darling,” said Miss
Perfect; and she wrote a note, pondering a
good while over it; and she leaned back, tired,
when she had completed it. “I did my duty
by him, I hope. I think he does me credit
—a handsome fellow ! I don't see any-
where
There was a pause here, and a kind of groan,
and, coming near, Violet Darkwell saw that
she had fainted.
Great commotion was there in Gilroyd Hall.
Miss Perfect's seizure did not pass away like a
common swoon. Away went Tom for Doctor
Drake, and Vi and the servants got poor Aunt
Dinah, cold, and breathing heavily, and still
insensible, to her bed.
Doctor Drake arrived quickly, and came up
to her room, with his great coat buttoned up
to his chin, looking rather stern, in a reserved
but friendly sort of fuss.


I'52 ALL IN THE DARK.
was time at last, to think of William Mau-
bray. s
“Shall we telegraph a message to London P”
asked Violet.
“Not a bit; she's going on as nicely as
possible. He'd only be in the way here, and
it would frighten her. She's doing capitally;
and she may never have a return, if she just
takes care. She must take care, you know,
and I'll give you full directions how to treat
her.”
And so he did ; Miss Vi being accurate and
intelligent, and rising with the occasion, so
that Doctor Drake that evening celebrated
Miss Darkwell to his friend Dignum, of the
Golden Posts, as a trump and a brick, and
the nicest little creature he ever saw, almost.
Mr. Vane Trevor, who had called at Gilroyd
that morning, but found all things in confu-
sion and panic, called again in the evening,
and had the pleasure of an interview with
Winnie Dobbs; but he could not see Miss
Tarkwell. The young lady had given peremp-
tory directions respecting all visitors, and would
not leave Miss Perfect's room.


ALL IN THE DARK. 153.
Doctor Drake was honoured that evening
by a call from the proprietor of Revington,
and gave him a history of the case ; and
Trevor accompanied him back again to Gil-
royd, where he was about to make his evening
visit, and awaited his report in the little gravel
court-yard, stealing, now and then, a wistful
glance up to the old-fashioned stone-faced
windows. But Violet did not appear. It
might have been different—I can't say—had
she known all that had passed between Miss
Perfect and Vane Trevor respecting her. As
it was, the young gentleman's long wait was
rewarded only by the return of Doctor Drake,
and a saunter with him back again to Saxton.
Pretty nearly the same was the routine of
several subsequent days. Fruits and veget-
ables, too, with messages came down from
Revington; and in his interviews with old
Winnie Dobbs he betrayed a great solicitude
that the young lady should not wear herself
out with watching and attendance.
On Sunday he was in the church-yard
almost as early as the doors opened, and
loitered there till the bell ceased ringing ; and


154 ALL IN THE DARK.
sat in his pew so as to command an easy view
of the church door, and not a late arrival
escaped his observation. But Violet Dark-
well did not appear; and Vane Trevor walked
home with little comfort from the Rev. Dr.
Wagget's learned sermon; and made his usual
calls at Gilroyd and at Doctor Drake's, and
began to think seriously of writing to Violet,
and begging an interview, or even penning
the promptings of his ardent passion in the
most intelligible terms. And I have little
doubt that had he had a friend by him, to
counsel him ever so little in that direction, he
would have done so.


CHAPTER XIX.
SUSPENSE.
ONE day Trevor actually made up his mind to
bring about the crisis; and, pale as a man
about to be hanged, and with the phantom of
a smile upon his lips, after his accustomed
inquiries, he told Mrs. Podgers, the cook, who,
in the absence of Winnie Dobbs, officiated as
hall-porter, to ask Miss Violet Darkwell if she
would be so good as to give him just a
moment. And on getting through his message
his heart made two or three such odd jumps
and rolls, that he was almost relieved when
she told him that old Doctor Wagget had
come by appointment, and that Miss Violet
and Winnie were receiving the sacrament with
the mistress, who, thank God, was getting on
better every day.


156 ALL IN THE DARK.
“It's wiser for me to wait,” thought Trevor,
as he walked away, determined to take a long
ride through the Warren, and over Calston
Moor, and to tire himself effectually. “They
never think what they're doing, girls are so
hand-over-head—by Jove, if she had not Miss
Perfect to talk to she might refuse me, and be
awfully sorry for it in a day or two. I must
only have patience, and wait till the old
woman is better. I forget how the woman
said she is to-day. No matter—old Drake
will tell me. It's hanged unlucky, I know.
I suppose she eat too much dinner with that
great fellow, Maubray; or some nonsense—
however, I'll think it over in my ride; or, by
Jove, I'll take my gun and have a shot at the
rabbits.”
Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor
Drake, though a little reserved, spoke, on the
whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a
good deal of her kind old friend, Parson
Wagget; and also, was pronounced well
enough to see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not
that Doctor Drake quite approved of business
yet, but he thought that so eager a patient as


ALL IN THE DARK. 159.
wondering whether train had ever dragged so
tediously before—thinking every moment of
Gilroyd and dear old Aunt Dinah—reading
the telegram over and over, and making for it
sometimes a cheery, and sometimes the most
portentous interpretation ; then leaning back
with closed eyes, and picturing a funereal
group receiving him with tears, on the
door-steps at home. Then again looking
out on the gliding landscape, and in his
despairing impatience pressing his foot upon
the opposite seat as if to impel the lagging
train.
When William reached London he found
at his old lodgings two letters, one from
Doctor Sprague, the other from Miss Perfect,
which had been lying there for some days.
Having a wait of two hours for his train he
was glad to find even this obsolete intelligence.
That which, of course, interested him most
was written with a very aged tremble in the
hand, and was very short, but bore the sig-
nature of “poor old auntie.” It was as
follows—


160 ALL IN THE DARK.
“MY DEAR WILLIE,
“I suppose they given you some ac-
count of my indisposition — not much, and
need not not you be disquieted. My old head
is a little confused, some medicine I dare say,
but shall well again in a day or two two.
This note is under the rose. The doctor says
I must not write, so you need not it. I have
eaten a morsel for three days—so the pen a
little. Do remember, dear boy, all told you,
dear, about the five years. I dreamed much
since. If you think of such a thing, I
must do it. Willie, sorry I should be you
shoul fear or dislike me. I should haunt tor-
ment Willie. But you will do right. When
you go go to France, I will send £4 to amuse
yourself with sights, &c. And Heaven bless
and guard my precious Willie by every and
influence, says his fond
“poor old AUNTIE.
“Better.”
William Maubray's trouble increased on
reading this letter. The slips and oddities of
º


ALL IN THE DARK. 161
style instinctively alarmed him. There was
something very bad the matter, he was sure.
The letter was eight days old, the telegram
scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however
âll she might be, it was certain she was living
when the message was despatched. So he
went on assuring himself, although there lay
on his mind a dreadful misgiving that he was
summoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a
death-bed, but to a funeral.
Early that evening William drove from the
station toward Gilroyd. The people at Dol-
worth had heard nothing of Miss Perfect's
illness. How should they, living so far away,
and hardly ever seeing a Saxton face, and not
earing enough about her to be very likely to
inquire.
At last, at the sudden turn in the road, as
it crosses the brow of Drindle Hill, the pretty
little place, the ruddy brick and tall chestnuts,
touched with the golden smile of sunset, and
throwing long gray shadows over the undulat-
ing grass, revealed themselves. The small
birds were singing their pleasant vespers, and
the crows sailing home to the woods of Wyn-
WOL. II. 11


ALL IN THE DARK. 163
seemed to fall on all around him, and William
Maubray went into the parlour, and leaning
on the chimney-piece, wept bitterly, with his
face to the wall.
11–2


CHAPTER XX.
SOME PARTICULARS.
THE air is forlorn—the house is vocal no more
—love is gone.
“When was it, Tom, at what hour?” asked
he.
“Late cock-crow, just the gray of the morn-
ing. She was always early, poor little thing
—somewhere betwixt five and six—it must 'a'
bin. Will you please have something a'ter
your ride?”
“Nothing, Tom, nothing, thanks, but I'd
like very much to see Winnie. Call her, Tom,
and I'll wait here—or no-I’ll be in the draw-
ing-room, tell her.”
And to that room he went, standing for a
while at the threshold, and making his deso-


156 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
“It's wiser for me to wait,” thought Trevor,
as he walked away, determined to take a long
ride through the Warren, and over Calston
Moor, and to tire himself effectually. “They
never think what they're doing, girls are so
hand-over-head—by Jove, if she had not Miss
Perfect to talk to she might refuse me, and be
awfully sorry for it in a day or two. I must
only have patience, and wait till the old
woman is better. I forget how the woman
said she is to-day. No matter—old Drake
will tell me. It's hanged unlucky, I know.
I suppose she eat too much dinner with that
great fellow, Maubray; or some nonsense—
however, I’ll think it over in my ride; or, by
Jove, I'll take my gun and have a shot at the
rabbits.”
Miss Perfect was, indeed, better, and Doctor
Drake, though a little reserved, spoke, on the
whole, cheerily about her. And she saw a
good deal of her kind old friend, Parson
Wagget ; and also, was pronounced well
enough to see her lawyer, Mr. Jones, not
that Doctor Drake quite approved of business
yet, but he thought that so eager a patient as


ALL IN THE DARK. 157
Miss Perfect might suffer more from delay
and disappointment. So there were a few
quiet interviews on temporal matters.
William was a little disquieted at receiving
no letter from Gilroyd for some days after his
arrival. But there came at last a short one
from Doctor Drake, which mentioned that he
had seen the ladies at Gilroyd that morning—
both as well as he could desire ; and that Miss
Perfect had got into a troublesome dispute
with some tenants, which might delay her
letter a little longer, and then it passed to
shooting anecdotes and village news. Such as
it was, he welcomed it fondly—enclosing as it
did the air of Gilroyd—passing, as it must
have done, in its Town-ward flight from
Saxton, the tall gate of Gilroyd, penned by
the hand which had touched Violet Dark-
well's that very day, and conned over by eyes
on whose retinas her graceful image lingered
still. Even tipsy Dr. Drake's letter was
inexpressibly interesting, and kept all the
poetry of his soul in play for that entire
evening.
Miss Violet consulted with Miss Wagget,


158 ALL IN THE DARK.
and agreed that in a day or two they might
write a full account of Miss Perfect's attack
and recovery to William, whom it had been
judged best, while there was still any anxiety,
to spare the suspense of a distant and doubtful
illness.
But this is an uncertain world. The
message, when it did go, went not by post but
by telegraph, and was not of the cheery kind
they contemplated.
When William returned to his lodgings
that evening, oddly enough projecting a letter
to Aunt Dinah, in the vein of the agreeable
Baron de Grimm, whose correspondence he
had been studying, he found upon his table a
telegram, only half an hour arrived.
It was sent “from the Rev. J. Wagget,
Saxton Rectory, to M. William Maubray,”
&c., &c., and said simply—
“Miss Perfect is dangerously ill. Come to
Gilroyd immediately.”
A few hours later William was speeding
northward in the dark, for a long time the
only occupant of his carriage, looking out
from time to time from the window, and


160 ALL IN THE DARK.
“MY DEAR WILLIE,
“I suppose they given you some ac-
count of my indisposition —not much, and
need not not you be disquieted. My old head
is a little confused, some medicine I dare say,
but shall well again in a day or two two.
This note is under the rose. The doctor says
I must not write, so you need not it. I have
eaten a morsel for three days—so the pen a
little. Do remember, dear boy, all told you,
dear, about the five years. I dreamed much
since. If you think of such a thing, I
must do it. Willie, sorry I should be you
shoul fear or dislike me. I should haunt tor-
ment Willie. But you will do right. When
you go go to France, I will send £4 to amuse
yourself with sights, &c. And Heaven bless
and guard my precious Willie by every and
influence, says his fond
“poor old AUNTIE.
“Better.”
William Maubray's trouble increased on
reading this letter. The slips and oddities of


ALL IN THE DARK. 16I
style instinctively alarmed him. There was
something very bad the matter, he was sure.
The letter was eight days old, the telegram
scarce four-and-twenty hours. But however
ăll she might be, it was certain she was living
when the message was despatched. So he
went on assuring himself, although there lay
on his mind a dreadful misgiving that he was
summoned not to a sick bed, nor even to a
death-bed, but to a funeral.
Early that evening William drove from the
station toward Gilroyd. The people at Dol-
worth had heard nothing of Miss Perfect's
illness. How should they, living so far away,
and hardly ever seeing a Saxton face, and not
earing enough about her to be very likely to
inquire.
At last, at the sudden turn in the road, as
it crosses the brow of Drindle Hill, the pretty
little place, the ruddy brick and tall chestnuts,
touched with the golden smile of sunset, and
throwing long gray shadows over the undulat-
ing grass, revealed themselves. The small
birds were singing their pleasant vespers, and
the crows sailing home to the woods of Wyn-
VOL. II. 11


T62 ALL IN THE DARK.
dleford, mottled the faint green sky, and filled
the upper air with their mellowed cawings.
The very spirit of peace seemed dreaming
there, Pretty Gilroyd!
Now he was looking on the lawn, and could
see the hall-door. Were the blinds down P
He was gazing at Aunt Dinah's windows, but
a cross-shadow prevented his seeing distinctly.
There was no one on the steps, no one at the
drawing-room window, not a living thing on
the lawn. And now that view of Gilroyd
was hidden from his eyes, and they were driv-
ing round the slope of the pretty road to
the old iron gate, where, under the long shadow
of the giant ash tree opposite, they pulled
up. The driver had already run at the gate-
way.
Pushing his way through the wicket, Wil-
liam Maubray had reached the porch before
any sign of life encountered him. There he
was met by honest Tom. He looked awfully
dismal and changed, as if he had not eaten,
or slept, or spoken for ever so long. Aunt
Dinah was dead. Yes, she was dead. And
three or four dark shadows, deeper and deeper,


CHAPTER XX.
SOME PARTICULARS.
THE air is forlorn—the house is vocal no more
—love is gone.
“When was it, Tom, at what hour?” asked
he.
“Late cock-crow, just the gray of the morn-
ing. She was always early, poor little thing
—somewhere betwixt five and six—it must 'a'
bin. Will you please have something a'ter
your ride?”
“Nothing, Tom, nothing, thanks, but I'd
like very much to see Winnie. Call her, Tom,
and I’ll wait here—or no–I'll be in the draw-
ing-room, tell her.”
And to that room he went, standing for a
while at the threshold, and making his deso-


ALL IN THE DARK. 165
late survey; and then to the window, and then
from place to place. -
The small table at which she used to sit in
the evenings stood in its old place by the sofa.
Her little basket of coloured worsted balls,
the unfinished work with the ivory crotchet-
needles stuck through it, were there await-
ing the return that was not to be. There
lay the old piano open. How well he knew
that little oval landscape over the notes mel-
low by time, the lake and ruined tower, and
solitary fisherman—poor enough, I dare say,
as a work of art; but to William's mind
always the sweetest and saddest little painting
the world contained. Under that roofless
tower that lonely fisherman there had heard
all Violet's pretty music, and before it poor
Aunt Dinah's grand and plaintive minuets,
until, years ago, she had abdicated the music-
stool in favour of the lighter finger and the
rich young voice.
He remembered dear Aunt Dinah's face as
she, sitting by that little table there, would
lower her book or letter and listen to the
pretty girl's song, sadly, in some untold


I 66 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
poetry of memory. Oh, Aunt Dinah!—He
did not know till now how much you were to
him—how much of Gilroyd itself was in your
kindly old face. The walls of Gilroyd speak
and smile no more.
He heard old Winnie Dobbs talking to Tom
in the passage, and her slow foot approach-
ing. Poor Aunt Dinah’s light step and pleasant
tones would come no more on stair or lobby.
Such a welcome at Gilroyd, or anywhere, as
the old one, for him would be no more—no,
nowhere—never.
In came old Winnie. Could old Winnie
be quite old Winnie, and Aunt Dinah gone?
The yearnings of love were strong within him,
and he hugged good old Dobbs on the thres-
hold, and her fat arms were round him, and
her fat fingers were grotesquely patting his
back, and the sounds of sobbing were heard
by the servants in the kitchen through the
silent house. At last old Winnie, drying her
eyes, related all she had to tell.
“It happened, early this morning, a little
before sunrise, she went very quit—like a
child. She talked a deal about Master Wil-


ALL IN THE DARK. 167
liam, when she was well enough, an' more
loving-like than ever. She did not wish to
live; but she thought she would though—ay,
she thought she'd do well, poor thing. Miss
Vi was with her all the time—she was break-
ing her heart like about it; and Miss Wagget
came down in the carriage, and took her away
wi' her—and better, sure it was. This was
no place for her — poor Miss Wi. Doctor
Drake was very kind, and sat up all the night
wi' her. And sure was Winnie, if doctors
could a saved her she would a' bin on her
feet still ; but everyone has their time. It's
right, of course, to have the doctors in ; but,
dear me, we all know 'tis no more use than
nothink—there's a time you know and all is
one, first or last. I have mine, and you yours,
and she had hers— the dear mistress; and
time and tide waits for no man; and as the
tree falleth so it lieth ; and man is born unto
trouble, as the sparks fly upward—and, indeed,
that's true, dear knows. Would you like to
see her, Master William P”
“Does she look happy—does she look like
herself?” inquired William.


170 ALL IN THE DARK.
indeed, with this strange direction of poor
Aunt Dinah's, whose coffin lay on tressels in
the little tiled room in the small two-storied
cubical brick domicile, which stood even with
the garden wall, old Winnie's revelations
ended. -
William walked down to Saxton, and had a
long talk with Doctor Drake, who was always
sober up to nine o'clock, about poor Aunt
Dinah’s case; and he wrote to Doctor Wagget,
not caring to present himself at the Rectory so
late, to report his arrival. And in the morn-
ing Doctor Wagget, came down and saw him
at Gilroyd, when a conversation ensued, which
I am about to relate.


CHAPTER XXI.
DOCTOR. W.AGGET : FURTHER PARTICULARS.
T}octor WAGGET found William in the study at
Gilroyd; he met him without the conventional
long face, and with a kindly look, and a
little sad, and shaking his hand warmly, he
said,
“Ah, sir, your good aunt, my old friend,
Miss Perfect, we've lost her; my loss is
small compared with yours, but I can grieve
with you.”
The Doctor laid his hat, and gloves, and
cane upon the table, and fixing his earnest
eyes on William, he went on—
“We had a great deal of conversation in her
last illness which will interest you. On reli-
gious subjects I found her views—poor lady—


172 ALL IN THE DARK.
all very sound; indeed, if it had not been for
that foolish spirit-rapping, which a little led
her away—that is, confused her—I don't think
there was anything in her opinions to which
exception could have been taken. She had the
sacrament twice, and I visited and prayed with
her constantly, and very devout and earnest
she was, and indeed her mind was in a very
happy state—very serene and hopeful.”
“Thank you, sir, it is a great comfort.”
“And about that spiritualism, mind you, I
don't say there's nothing in it,” continued the
Rector, “there may be a great deal—in fact,
a great deal too much—but take it what
way we may, to my mind, it is too like what
Scripture deals with as witchcraft to be
tampered with. If there be no familiar spirit,
it's nothin/, and if there be, what is it? I
talked very fully with the poor lady the last
day but one I saw her on this subject, to
which indeed she led me. I hope you don't
practise it—no—that's right; nothing would
induce me to sit at a seance, I should as
soon think of praying to the devil. I don't
say, of course, that every one who does is as


ALL IN THE DARK. 173
bad as I should be ; it depends in some
measure on the view you take. The spirit
world is veiled from us, no doubt in mercy—
in mercy, sir, and we have no right to lift
that veil; few do with impunity; but of
that another time. She made a will, you
know P”
“No, I did not hear.”
“Oh, yes; Jones drew it; it's in my cus-
tody; it leaves you everything. It is not a very
great deal, you know ; two annuities die with
her; but it's somewhere about four hundred
a year, Jones says, and this house. So it
makes you quite easy, you see.”
To William, who had never paid taxes, and
knew nothing of servants' wages, four hundred
a year and a house was Aladdin's lamp. The
pale image of poor Aunt Dinah came with
a plaintive smile, making him this splendid
gift, and he burst into tears.
“I wish, sir, I had been better to her. She
was always so good to me. Oh, sir, I'd give
anything, I would, for a few minutes to tell
her how much I really loved her; I'm afraid
she did not know.”


174 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Pooh she knew very well. You need
not trouble yourself on that point. You were
better to her than a son to a mother. You
are not to trouble yourself about that little—
a—a—difference of opinion about taking
orders; for I tell you plainly, she was wrong,
and you were right; one of her fancies, poor
little thing. But that's not a matter to be
trifled with, it's a very awful step; I doubt
whether we make quite solemnity enough
about it; there are so few things in life irre-
vocable; but however that may be, you are
better as you are, and there's nothing to
reproach yourself with on that head. When I
said, by-the-bye, that she had left you every-
thing, I ought to have excepted her little
jewellery, which she has left to Miss Darkwell,
and a few books to me, that mad fellow, Bung,
you know, among them, and an old silver
salver to Saxton church, which there was a
tradition was stolen by a Puritan tenant of Sir
—what's-his name—that had the tobacco-box,
you know, from some church, she did not
know what, in this county, when his troop was
quartered at Hentley Towers. And—and she


176 ALL IN THE DARK.
to enter his name at Lincoln's Inn, which was
the learned Sergeant's, and to follow in the
steps of that, the most interesting of all the
sages of the law, past or present.
Vane Trevor looked in upon William very
often. Gilroyd, William Maubray, even the
servants, interested him ; for there it was, and
thus surrounded, he had seen Miss Violet
Darkwell. There, too, he might talk of her;
and William, too, with a bitter sort of interest,
would listen, an angry contempt of Vane
rising at his heart; yet he did not quite hate
him, though he would often have been glad
to break his head.
Trevor, too, had his grounds for vexation.
“I thought she'd have gone to church last
Sunday,” he observed to Maubray, and I
must allow that he had made the same state-
ment in various forms of language no less than
five times in the course of their conversation.
“I think she might; don't you? I can't see
why she should not ; can you? The relation-
ship between her and poor Miss Perfect was a
very round-about affair; wasn't it?”
“Yes, so it was ; but it isn't that—I told you


ATLL IN THE DARK. 177
before it couldn't be that; it's just that she
was so fond of her; and really, here, I don't
see any great temptation to come out; do
you?” -
“No-perhaps—no, of course, there may
not; but I don't see any great temptation to
shut one's self up either. I called at the
Rectory yesterday, and did not see her. I
have not seen her since poor Miss Perfect's
death, in fact.”
“So did I; I've called very often,” answered
William : “as often as you, I dare say, and
I have not seen her ; and that's odder, don't
you think? and I gather from it, I suppose,
pretty much what you do.”
“Very likely; what is it?” said Vane.
“I mean that she doesn't expect much
comfort or pleasure from our society.”
William had a fierce and ill - natured
pleasure in placing his friend Trevor in the
same boat with himself, and then scuttling
it."
Vane remarked that the rain was awfully
tiresome, and then looking from the window,
VOL. II. 12


17S ALL IN THE DARK.
whistled an air from “I Puritani” abstractedly,
and he said suddenly—
“There's a lot of affectation, I think, about
grief—particularly among women—they like
making a fuss about it.”
“To be sure they do,” replied William :
“ when any one dies they make such a row—
and lock themselves up—and all but take the
veil; but, by Jove, they don't waste much
compassion on the living. There are you, for
instance, talking and thinking all day, and
night-mared all night about her, and for any-
thing you know she never troubles her head
about you. It's awfully ridiculous, the whole
thing.”
“I thought you said she was very fond
of your poor aunt?” said Vane, a little
nettled.
“So I did—so she was—I was speaking of
us—you and me — you know, I'm an old
friend—the earliest she has almost—and you a
lover—no one's listening—you need not be
afraid—and you see how much she distin-
guishes us—by Jove, she likes old Wagget


ALL IN THE DARK. 179
better!” and William laughed with dismal
disgust, and proposed a walk—to which Vane,
with a rueful impression that he was a particu-
larly disagreeable fellow, acceded.


CHAPTER XXII.
REVINGTON FLOWERS.
ThAT very afternoon William did see Violet
Darkwell; and he fancied he never saw her
look so pretty as in her black silk dress. There
was no crying—no scene—she met him gravely
and sadly in the old-fashioned drawing-room
of the Rectory, and was frankly glad to see
him, and her wayward spirit seemed quite laid.
His heart smote him for having acquiesced in
Trevor's fancy that there could be affectation
in her grief.
Good Miss Wagget being in a fuss with the
schoolmistress of the Saxton Ragged School
(why will benevolent people go on leavening
the bread of knowledge which they offer with
the bitterness of that insulting epithet?)—


ALL IN THE DARK. IS]
counting out copy-books, and primers, and
slate-pencils, and rustling to and fro from the
press to the hall-table, where they were getting
those treasures into order—was little in the
way of their conversation, except for an inter-
jectional word now and then, or a smile or a
nod, as she bustled in and out of the room,
talking still to the matron in the hall.
Violet had a great deal to ask about old
Winnie Dobbs, and the servants, and even
little Psyche, and the bird, which latter inmate
William did not somehow love, and regarded
him in the light of an intruder who had
established himself under false pretences, and
was there with a design.
“I think papa means to take me with him
to London,” said Violet, in reply to William's
question, “Mr. and Mrs. Wagget—they are
so kind—I think they would make me stay
here a long time, if he would let me; but he
says he will have a day in about three weeks,
and will run down and see us, and I think he
intends taking me away.”
“What can the meaning of that be *"
thought William. “More likely he comes to


182 ALL IN THE DARK.
see Trevor, and bring matters to a decisive
issue of some sort,” and his heart sank at the
thought; but why should William suffer these
foolish agitations—had he not bid her farewell
in his silent soul long ago? What of this
business of Trevor of Revington Was it not
the same to him in a day, or three weeks, or a
year, since be it must And thus stoically
armed, he looked up and saw Violet Darkwell's
large eyes and oval face, and felt the pang
again. -
“In three weeks? Oh! I'm sorry, if he's to
take you away—but I was thinking of going
up to town to see him—about the bar—he has
been so kind—and there are two or three
things I want advice about—I’m going to the
bar, you know.”
“Papa seems always doubtful whether it is
a good profession,” said Miss Violet, wisely,
“though he has succeeded very well; but it's
sad, don't you think, being so shut away from
one's friends as he is P”
“Well, for him I’m sure it is—in his case, I
mean. I miss him I know, and so do you, I'm
sure. But my case would be very different.


ALL IN THE DARK. 183
1've hardly a friend on earth to be cut off from.
There's he, and Doctor Sprague, and Doctor
Wagget here, and there's poor Winnie, and
Tom—I can count them up you see, on the
fingers of one hand—and I really don't think
I've another friend on earth; and some of these
I could see still, and none I think would miss
me, very much ; and the best friends I believe,
as Doctor Wagget says, are books, they never
die, or what's worse, change; they are always
the same, and won't go away, and they speak
to you as they used to do, and always show
you the same faces as long as you have sight
to look at them.”
“How sensible and amiable of Doctor Wag- .
get to like his Johnson's Dictionary so much
better than his sister,” exclaimed Miss Vi,
with a momentary flash of her old mood.
“There's certainly one thing about books, as
you say, they NEveR grow disagreeable ; and if
there—” she was going to be sarcastic, but she
reined in her fancy, and said sadly, instead,
“About books I know very little—nothing;
and about friends—you and I have lost the
Best friend we'll ever know.”


FS f ALT, IN THE DARK.
And as she spoke tears glimmered under her
lashes, and she looked out of the window over
the wooded slope toward Gilroyd, and after a
little pause said in a gentle cheerful voice, with
perhaps a little effort—
“How pretty it all looks to-day, the slanting
sun — poor Grannie used to like it so —
and it is the sweetest light in the world,
look '"
And William did look out on the familiar
landscape, faintly gilded in that ačrial light,
and looking still he said—
“You ought to come over some day with
Miss Wagget, to see old Winnie.”
“I should like very much in a little time,
but not now ; it would be very sad. I was
looking at it from a distance, yesterday, from
where you see the ash tree there; you know
that view; Gilroyd looks so pretty from it;
but I could not go in yet. I feel as if I never
could go into the house again.”
“And about friends,” she resumed, “I some-
times think one has more than one suspects.
Of course you like them differently in degree
—and differently even in the the kind of


ALL IN THE DARK. 185
liking, I reckon little Psyche among my
friends.”
“And the bird P” said William.
“Yes, the bullfinch,” said Miss Vi, firmly ;
and at this moment Miss Wagget entered the
room with a great bouquet in her hand, and
exclaimed—
“Isn't this perfectly beautiful; it's positively
wronderful for this time of year; look at it, my
dear, all from the conservatory. It's a very
nice taste. I wonder how he keeps it so
beautifully, and very kind, I'm sure, to think
of us; these are Revington flowers, Mr. Mau-
bray. It is very kind of Mr. Trevor; you'll
arrange them, won't you dear?”
This was addressed to the young lady, and
at the same time she held the bouquet toward
William, to gaze on, and he stooped over and
smelled at the flowers which were really odour-
less, in some confusion, and then turned his
eyes on Violet, who blushed first a little, and
then in a brilliant glow all over her face, and
William looked down and smelled at the
flowers again, and then he recollected it was
time for him to go so he bid Miss Wagget


1S6 ALL IN THE DARK.
good-bye, and took his leave of Violet, whose
large eyes he thought, looked vexed, and on
whose cheeks the fading scarlet still hovered;
had he ever beheld her so handsome before, or
with a sadder gaze; and he took her hand ex-
tended to him rather coldly, he fancied, and
with a pale smile left the room, feeling as if he
had just heard his sentence read. So he stood
on the steps for a moment, bewildered, and
answered good Doctor Wagget's cheery salu-
tation and pleasantry that issued from the
study window, rather confusedly.


CHAPTER XXIII.
VANE TREVOR SEES MISS VIOLET.
NEXT morning William was surprised by a
visit from Vane Trevor.
“Just dropped in to see how you are, old
fellow, this morning.”
“Very good of you,” rejoined William with
ironical gravity.
“Well, but are you well—is there anything
wrong?” inquired Vane, who was struck by
his friend's savage and distracted looks.
“Nothing—I'm quite well; what could go
wrong with a fellow so magnificently provided
for. The Lord of Gilroyd, with such lots of
small talk, and fine friends, and lavender gloves,
and clothes cut so exquisitely in the fashion,”
and William laughed rather horribly.


190 ALL IN THE DARK.
and William glanced in his eyes, and saw what
he was about, and thought, “He’ll be sure to
see her this morning.”
So William took leave of him, and stood
for a while in a troubled brown study on the
steps, with a great weight at his heart, and
after a while recollecting himself he said,
“Pish Pshaw!” and lifting his head defi-
antly, he strode into the parlour, and sat him-
self down grimly to write, but could not get
on ; and took a walk instead in the direction
of the London railway, with his back to the
Rectory and to Revington.
Our friend Vane Trevor had made up his
mind to see Miss Darkwell this day, and speak,
and in fact arrange everything ; and as usual
the crisis being upon him his confidence in
himself and his surroundings began to wane
and he experienced the qualms of doubt, and
the shiver of suspense. So, as there was
usually between the prison and the gallows-
tree a point at which the gentleman on the
hurdle drew up and partook of a glass of some-
thing comfortable, Mr. Vane Trevor halted on
his way at Gilroyd and had his word or two,


ALL IN THE DARK. 191
and shake of the hand with William Maubray,
and went on.
On he went looking much as usual, except
for a little pallor, but feeling strange sensations
at his heart, and now and then rehearsing his
speech, and more and more agitated inwardly
as he drew near the door of the Rectory.
It was early, but Miss Wagget and Miss
Darkwell were at home, and Vane Trevor,
wondering whether an opportunity would
occur, crossed the hall and was announced.
Miss Darkwell was sitting near a window
copying music, and he went over and shook
hands, and felt very oddly; and after a word
or two, she looked down again and resumed
her work. Old Miss Wagget led the conver-
sation, and began with a speech on her flowers,
and was eloquent in admiration and acknow-
ledgements. Now, poor Miss Perfect had
told Miss Wagget the whole story of the
Revington courtship, and the Rector's sister
had quite taken Aunt Dinah's view of the case,
and agreed that it was better the subject
should be opened by the suitor himself; and,
willing to make the opportunity desired at


ALL IN THE DARK. 193
where Miss Violet was sitting, and tapped his
chin with his cane, and said:—
“Music—a hal—copying music!—I—I—a
—I used to copy music pretty well; they said
I did it uncommonly well; but I used to
make those pops round like the copperplate,
you know ; you make them oval. They have
a bookful of my copying at Kincton. They
said–Clara did—they could read it just like
print—and—and I wish you could give me
some employment that way—I really wish you
would. I'm afraid you find it awfully slow—
don't you?”
“No-thanks; no, indeed—I'm very much
obliged though, but I rather like it; I don't
think it tiresome work at all.”
“I—I should so like—and I was so glad to
hear from Miss Wagget that you thought the
flowers pretty—yesterday, I mean. These are
beginning to look a little seedy—aren't they P
I'll send over more to-day—I only wish, Miss
Darkwell, I knew your pet flowers, that I
might send a lot of them—I—I assure you
I do.”
VOL. II. 13


I-94 ALL IN THE DARK.
Miss Darkwell here looked closer at her
work, and drew two parallel lines connect-
ing the stems of her semi-quavers very
nicely. -
-


CHAPTER XXIV.
The MoMENToUs QUEstion.
“I—I REALLY would be so very much obliged
if you would,” resumed Trevor. “Do now,
pray—tell me any one you like particu-
larly "
“I like all flowers so well,” said Miss Violet,
compelled to speak, “that I could hardly
choose a favourite—at least, without thinking
a great deal; and I should feel then as if I
had slighted the rest.”
“And awfully jealous I’m sure they'd be—I
should—I know I should, indeed—I should,
indeed. If I–if you—if I were a flower—I
mean, the-the ugliest flower in the garden,
by Jove, and that you preferred—a—a any-
thing—I-I think I'd almost wither away—I
13–2


ALL IN THE DARK. 197
anything but—but just how sorry I am, and
how much obliged for your liking me—and I
—it could not be.” And Miss Violet Dark-
well, with a very beautiful and bright colour,
and eyes that looked darker than ever, stood
up to go.
“I—pray don't—I—I'm sure you misunder-
stood me—I think I could—I–do pray—just
a minute,” said Vane Trevor, awfully con-
founded.
Miss Darkwell waited where she stood, look-
ing down upon the carpet.
“I—I don't want you to answer me now ;
I—I’d rather you didn't. I—I–you'll not
answer me for a week. I—I'd rather you
thought it over just a little—pray.”
“It would make no difference, I assure you,
Mr. Trevor. It would merely prolong what is
very painful to me. It is very kind of you
to think so well of me, and I'm very much
obliged; but I think I'll go.” And she
extended her hand to take leave, and was on
the point of going.
“But really, Miss Darkwell,” said Mr.
Trevor, who began to feel a little insulted, and


198 ALL IN THE DARK.
to remember the Trevors, the Vanes, and the
historic fame of Revington, “I–I don't quite
see—I think I–I–I do think I have a right
to—to some explanation.”
“There's nothing to explain; I've said
everything,” said Miss Vi very quietly.
“That's very easy, of course, to say; but I
—I don't think it's using a fellow quite—”
“Did I ever lead you to think I thought
otherwise?” exclaimed Miss Violet with a
grave but fearless glance.
There was a pause. Trevor was angry, and
looked it. At last he said—
“I did not say that, but—but I know—I
know I’m not a mere nobody here. The
Trevors of Revington are pretty well known,
and they have always married in—in a certain
rank; and I think when I’ve spoken to you
as I have done, I might have expected some-
thing more than a simple no, and—and Ithink,
if you did not appear to like me—at all events
there was nothing to make me think you
didn't, and that's why I say I think I’ve a right
to ask for an explanation?”
“You can have no right to make me say


200 ALL IN THE I)ARK.
and then the air refreshed and the sky
Serene.
Mr. Vane Trevor felt as if he had been
drinking too much brandy and water, and had
been beaten heavily about the head; he was
confounded and heated, and half blind. He
walked very fast, and did not think where he
was going until he stopped close to the gate
of Gilroyd.
He went in, and rang the bell at the hall-
door, which stood open. William came into
the hall.
“Come in, Trevor,” said he. He had taken
his walk of a couple of miles, and was more
Serene.
“No. Come out and have a walk with me,
will you?” answered Vane.
“Where P” asked William.
“Any where. Wherever you like—here
among the trees.”
“I don't care if I do,” said William, who
saw that in Trevor's countenance which excited
his curiosity; and out he came with his wide-
awake on, and Trevor walked beside him, look-
ing very luridly on the ground, and march-


202 ALL IN THE DARK.
go to Kincton, but it's too slow ; and—and
Revington's such a wilderness. I wish some
one would take it. I don't want to marry for
ever so long. I don't know what put it in my
head.”
Mr. Vane Trevor resumed his walk at a
slower pace, and he whistled a low and con-
templative air, looking down on the grass with
his hands in his pocket, and then he said
again—
“I thought I'd just come down and tell you;
and you're not to mention it, you know—not
to that fellow Drake, or any one, mind—not
that I much care, but it would not do to be
talked about, and you won't, I know, thanks,
and the Waggets are honourable people, they
won't talk either I suppose; and—and I
depend on you ; and—and you know you and
I are friends all the same.”
“Certainly no worse,” said William, very
truly, shaking his hand cordially.
“And I'll be off to-day. I'll go to the
opera, or something to-night. I've been too
long shut up; a fellow grows rusty, you know


ALL IN THE DARK. 203
in this tiresome corner. I wish some fool of a
fellow would take a lease of it. Good-bye,
old fellow ; you must come up to town and
see me when I'm settled, mind.”
And so they parted.


CHAPTER XXV.
A DOUBT TROUBLES MAUBRAY.
I come now to some incidents, the relation of
which partakes, I can't deny, of the marvellous.
I can, however, vouch for the literal truth of
the narrative; so can William Maubray; so
can my excellent friend Doctor Wagget; so
also can my friend Doctor Drake, a shrewd and
sceptical physician, all thoroughly cognizant
of the facts. If therefore, anything related
in the course of the next two or three chapters
should appear to you wholly incredible, I beg
that you will not ascribe the prodigious
character of the narrative to any moral laxities
on the part of the writer.
I believe William Maubray liked Vane
Trevor very honestly, and that he was as


ALL IN THE DARK. 205
capable of friendship as any man I have ever
met with ; but this I will aver, that he had
not been so cheerful since poor Aunt Dinah's
death as for the remainder of the day on which
he had heard the authentic report of his
friend's overthrow.
Down to the town of Saxton, that evening,
walked William, for in his comfortable moods
he required human society, as he yearned for
sympathy in his afflictions. He visited his
hospitable friend Doctor Drake, now in his
pardonable elation on the occasion of his friend's
downfall, as he had done when writhing under
the thunderbolts of poor Aunt Dinah.
In this case, however, he could not disclose
what lay nearest to his heart. It would not
have done to commit poor Trevor's little secret
to Doctor Drake, nor yet to tell him how
wildly in love he was, and how the events of
this day had lighted up his hopes. In fact,
Doctor Drake had long ceased to be the sort
of doctor whom a gay fellow suffering from
one of Cupid's bow-shot wounds would have
cared to consult, and William visited him on
this occasion simply because he was elated,


200 ALL IN THE DARK.
excited, and could not do without company
of some sort.
At about half-past nine o'clock Doctor
I}rake was called away to visit Mr. Thomas,
the draper.
“Gouty pain in the duodenum—there's a
man, now, wansh—a-kill himself. He is
killing himself. Advice' You might as well
advise that ub—bottle. You might, a bilious
fellow—lithic acid—gouty—’sgouty a fellow,
by Jove, sir, as you'd like to see, and all I can
do he wone rink his—his little—whatever it
is, anyway but hot—hot, sir, and with sugar
—sugar, and you know that's poison, simple
p—poison. You see me, any lil' thing I take
—sometimes a liddle she'y, sometimes a li'l'
ole Tom, or branle; I take it cole, without—
quite innocent—rather usefle—shlight impulse
—all the organs—never affec’ the head—never
touch the liver—that's the way, sir; that's
how you come to live lony—lots o' waw'r, cole
waw'r, and just sprinkle over, that's your sort,
sir, stick a that, sir; cole, cole traw'r—lots o'
waw'r, sir; never make too stiff, you know,
an' you may go on all nigh'—don' go, you


20S ALL IN THE DARK.
disposed on the whole to think pretty well of
himself. The hypothesis did cross his fancy
frequently, that the downfall of his friend
Trevor was somehow connected with the for-
tunes of William Maubray. Was there —
might there not be—did he not remember
signs and tokens, such as none but lover's
eyes can read or see, that seemed to indicate
a—a preference; might there not be a pre-
occupation?
What a charm in the enigmatic conditions
of a lover's happiness! How beautiful the
eastles in the air in which his habitation is
How she stands at the open portal, or leans
from the casement, in beautiful shadow, or
golden light divine! How he reads his fate
in air-drawn characters, in faintest signs, re-
membered looks, light words, a tone ! How
latent meanings hover in all she says, or sings,
or looks, or does; and how imagination is en-
thralled by the mystery, and he never tires of
exploring, and guessing, and wondering, and
sighing. Those deep reserves and natural
wiles of girls are given to interest us others,
with those sweet doubts and trembling hopes


ALL IN THE DARK. 211
*
The menace was in his ear—a shadow stood
by him. There were memoranda in his desk,
and poor Aunt Dinah’s last letter. He would
read them over. He had fancied, very likely,
that she meant more—and more seriously, than
a reperusal would support. So eagerly he
opened his desk, and got out these momentous
papers.
14–2


ALL IN THE DARK. 213
Bung! I wish Elihu Bung was sunk in a
barrel at the bottom of the sea.
Then William looked to his diary, for about
that period of his life he kept one for two
years and seven months, and he read these
entries:
--
Dear Aunt Dinah pressed me very
much to give her a distinct promise not to
marry for five years—marry indeed I —
poor, penniless William Maubray ! I shall
never marry—yet I can't make this vow—
and she threatened me, saying, “If I'm dead
there's nothing that spirit can do, if you so
much as harbour the thought, be I good, or
evil, or mocking, I’ll not do to prevent it. I'll
trouble you, I'll torment you, I'll pick her eyes
out, but I won't suffer you to ruin yourself.'
And she said very often that she expected to
be a mockinſ, spirit; and said again, ‘Mind I
told you, though I be dead, you shan't escape
me.’ ‘That night I had an odious night-
mare. An apparition like my aunt came to
my bedside, and caught my arm with its hand,
and said quite distinctly, “Oh my God!
William, I am dead; don't let me go.” I


21S ALL IN THE DARK.
“Fire away old fool, much I mind you /
A gentlemanlike cabinet may be permitted,
but a vulgar cupboard, impudence.”
So William got to his bed, and fell asleep;
in no mood I think to submit to a five years'
wait, if a chance of acceptance opened; and
in the morning he was astonished.
Again, my reader's incredulity compels me
to aver in the most solemn manner that the
particulars I now relate of William Maubray's
history are strictly true. He is living to
depose to all. My excellent friend Doctor
Drake can certify to others, and as I said, the
Rector of the parish, to some of the oddest.
Upon this evidence, not doubting, I found
my narrative.


CHAPTER XXVII.
WILLIAM MAU BRAY IS TORMENTED.
ON the little table at his bedside, where his
candle stood, to his surprise, on awaking, he
saw one of the boots which he had put off in
the passage on the previous night. There it
was, no possible mistake about it; and what
was more it was placed like one of his orna-
mental bronze weights ; one of those indeed
was fashioned like a buskin upon some papers.
What were these papers? With growing
amazement he saw that they were pre-
cisely those which he had been reading the
night before, and had carefully locked up
in his desk—poor Aunt Dinah's warning
letter—and his own notes of her threatening
words !


ALL IN THE DARK. 221
William sat down utterly puzzled, and
looked at the black japanned cabinet, with its
straggling bass-reliefs of golden Chinamen,
pagodas, and dragons glimmering in the cold
morning light, with more real suspicion than
he had ever eyed it before.
Old Winnie thought that day that Mr. Wil-
liam was unusually “dull.” The fact is, that
he was beginning to acquire, not a hatred, but
a fear of Gilroyd, and to revolve in his mind
thoughts of selling the old house and place, or
letting it, and getting out of reach of its am-
biguous influences. He was constantly think-
ing over these things, puzzling his brain over
an inscrutable problem, still brooding over the
strange words of Aunt Dinah, “A mocking
spirit; I'll trouble; I'll torment you. You
shan’t escape me. Though I be dead, I'll
watch you as an old grey cat watches a mouse.
If you so much as think of it, I’ll plague
you!” and so forth.
William walked over to the Rectory. He
asked first for Miss Wagget—she was out;
then for the Rector—so was he.


ALL IN THE DARK. 223
news was disappointing. The ladies had
driven away, neither clerk nor sexton could
tell whither, except that it was through High
Street; and William mounted the elevated
ground about the yew tree, and gazed along
the High Street, but all in vain, and along
the upward road to Treworth, but equally
without result: and the voice of the Rector,
who thought he was admiring the landscape,
recalled him.
Mr. Wagget was not only an honourable
and a religious man—he was kindly and gay;
he enjoyed everything — his trees and his
flowers, his dinner, his friends, even his busi-
ness, but, above all things, his books; and
herein was a powerful sympathy with the
younger student, who was won besides to con-
fidence by the general spirits of the good man.
The loneliness of Gilroyd, too—insupport-
able, had it not been for the vicinity of Violet
—made his company very welcome. So, fall-
ing into discourse, it naturally befel that Wil-
liam came to talk of that which lay nearest
his heart at that moment—his unaccountable
adventure of the night before.


224 ALL IN THE DARK.
“Very curious, and, as it seems to me, quite
inexplicable,” said Doctor Wagget, very much
interested. “The best authenticated thing I've
heard—much the best—of the kind. You must
tell it all over again. It's the best and most
satisfactory case I know.”
Thus oddly encouraged, William again re-
counted his strange story, and unfolded some-
thing of the horror with which his doubts
were fraught.
“You said nothing?” asked the parson.
“Nothing.”
“Ha! It is the very best case I ever heard
or read. Every one knows, in fact, there hare
been such things. I believe in apparitions.
I don't put them in my sermons, though, be-
cause so many people don't, and it weakens
one's influence to run unnecessarily into dis-
puted subjects, and it's time enough to talk of
such things when people are visited, as you
have been. You must not be frightened,
though : you've no need. If these things be,
they form part of the great scheme of nature,
and any evil that may befal you in conse-
quence is as much a subject for legitimate


ALL IN THE DARK. 225
ſ
prayer as sickness or any other affliction; in-
deed, more obviously so, because we are fur-
nished with no other imaginable means than
prayer alone, and a life conformable to God's
will, to resist them. Poor little thing ! She
talked very flightily. I had a great deal of
conversation, and latterly she listened, and I
had hoped with some effect. Especially I
urged her to clear her mind of all idea of spi-
ritual action, except such as is presented for .
our comfort and warning in the Holy Scrip-
tures. But here, you see, she, poor little
thing, is restless, and you troubled. It's the
oddest case I ever heard of.”
“Pray don't mention what I’ve told you,
sir, to any one.
“Certainly not, for the world—not a human
being, not even my sister. By-the-bye,
couldn't you come over and dine with us, and
sleep; you must sleep to-night by way of
experiment.”
So William promised, well pleased, and
went; but, alas ! this was a day of disappoint-
ments. Violet had gone again to make a short
stay at the Mainwarings.
VOI,. II. 15


226 ALL IN THE DARK.
“What can the Mainwarings want of her?
She's always going there; what is there about
them so charming *" demanded William of
himself; and an outline of the military son
of the family, Captain Mainwaring, possibly
on leave and at home, disturbed him.
Now, to the further wonderment, and even
delight of Doctor Wagget, a very curious
result followed from the “experiment” of
William's one night's sojourn at the Rectory.
At his host's request, he had locked his bed-
room door, just as he had done at Gilroyd, and
in the morning he found his stick, which he
had left in the hall, tied fast in the loops in
which in the daytime the curtains were
gathered. There it hung across the bed over
his head, an image, as it seemed to him, of
suspended castigation.
The Doctor was early at William's door,
and found his guest's toilet half completed.
In real panic, Maubray pointed out the evi-
dence of this last freak.
“What an absurd ghost!” thought Mr.
Wagget, in a pleasing terror, as he examined
and pondered over the arrangement.


ALL IN THE DARK. 227
“It only shows that change of place won't
do,” said the Rector. “Consider this, how-
ever,” he resumed, after an interval consumed
in search of consolation, “these manifesta-
tions, and very characteristic they are, if we
assume they come from my poor friend, are
made in furtherance of what she conceives your
interests, in the spirit of that love which she
manifested for you all your life, and you may
be well assured they will never be pushed to
such a point as to hurt you.
William got on the bed, and untied his
stick, which on his way home he broke to
pieces, as a thing bewitched, in a nervous
paroxysm, and flung into the little brook that
runs by Revington.
At breakfast, Miss Wagget asked of her
brother,
“Did you hear the noise at the hat-stand in
the hall last night? Your hat was knocked
down, and rolled all across the hall.” (The
parson and William glanced at one another
here.) “It was certainly that horrid grey
cat that comes in at the lobby window.”
At mention of the grey cat the remem-
15–2


228 ALL IN THE DARK.
brance of poor Aunt Dinah's simile struck
William.
“By Jove' my stick was at the hat-stand,”
exclaimed he.
“Your stick? but this was a hat,” replied
Miss Wagget, who did not see why he
should be so floored by the recollection of his
stick.
“Ha! your stick? so it was—was it,” ex-
claimed Doctor Wagget, with a sudden awe,
equally puzzling.
And staring at her brother, and then again
at William, Miss Wagget suffered the water
from the tea-urn to overflow her cup and her
saucer in succession.


• CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN AM BUSCADE.
GILRoyd was awfully slow, and even the
town of Saxton dull. Cricket was quite over.
There was no football there. William Mau-
bray used to play at the ancient game of
quoits with Arthur Jones, Esq., the Saxton
attorney, who was a little huffy when he lost,
and very positive on points of play; but on
the whole a good fellow. Sometimes in the
smoking-room, under the reading-room, he and
Doctor Drake played clattering games of
backgammon, with sixpenny stakes, and called
their throws loudly, and crowed ungenerously
when they won. But these gaieties and dis-
sipations failed to restore William altogether
to his pristine serenity. Although he had


232 ALL IN THE DARK.
there which we found had been pulled out of
the wall. Without waiting to get my clothes
on, down I went with him, but our search
showed nothing but one very curious dis-
covery.”
“Ha P Go on, sir.”
“I must tell you, sir, there was a print, a
German coloured thing. I had forgotten it—
it was in my poor Aunt's portfolio in a drawer
there, of a great tabby cat pretending to doze,
and in reality-slily watching a mouse that half
emerges from its hole, approaching a bit of
biscuit, and this we found nailed to the middle
of the door.”
“The inside P”
“Yes.”
“You did not see anything of the appari-
tion yourself?” asked Doctor Wagget.
“No, I was asleep. I’ve seen nothing
whatever but such things as I’ve described;
and the fact is I’m worried to death, and I
don't in the least know what to do.”
“I tell you what,” said the clergyman, after
a pause. “I’ll go down and spend the night
at Gilroyd, if you allow me, and we'll get.


ALL IN THE DARK. 233
Doctor Drake to come also, if you approve,
and we'll watch, sir, we–we'll spy it out—
we'll get at the heart of the mystery. Drake's
afraid of nothing, no more am I–and–and
what do you say, may we go?”
So the bargain was concluded, and at nine
o'clock that evening the Parson and Doctor
Drake in friendly chat together walked up to
the door of Gilroyd, and were welcomed by
William, who led these learned witch-finders
into his study, which commanded easy access
to both drawing-room and parlour, and to the
back and the great staircase.
The study looked bright and pleasant—a
cheery fire flashed on the silver teapot and
cream-ewer, and old China tea things, and
glimmered warmly over the faded gilded backs
of the books. This and the candles lighted
up the room so brightly that it needed an effort
—notwithstanding the dark wainscot—to admit
a thought of a ghost.
I don't know whether the parson had really
any faith in ghosts or not. He thought he
had, and cultivated in private a taste for that
curious luxury, though he was reserved on the


234 ALL IN THE DARK.
subject among his parishioners. I don't think,
however, if his nerves had been as much en-
gaged as they might, he could have turned
over the old tomes of the late Dean of Crutched
Friars with so much interest as he did, or com-
mented so energetically upon the authors and
editions.
Doctor Drake was utterly sceptical, and
being “threatened with one of his ugly
colds,” preferred brandy and water to tea—a
little stimulus seasonably applied, often routing
the enemy before he had time to make an
impression. So, very snugly they sat round
their table. The conversation was chiefly
between the Rector and the Doctor, William
being plainly out of spirits and a good deal in
the clouds. The churchman sipped his tea,
and the physician his strong drink, and there
was adjusted a plan for the operations of the
night.
“Now, Mr. Maubray, you must do as we
order, when we bid you, you go to bed—do
you see—everything must proceed precisely as
usual, and Doctor Drake and I will sit up and
watch here—you go, at your accustomed


CHAPTER XXIX.
PURSUIT.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY, in obedience to orders
went to his bed, having locked his chamber
door. He grew tired of listening for sound or
signal from the picket in the parlour, as he lay
in his bed reading, his eyes failed him. He
had walked fifteen miles that day, and in spite
of his determination to remain awake, perhaps
partly in consequence of it he fell into a pro-
found slumber, from which he was awakened
in a way that surprised him.
The sages in the study had drawn their
arm-chairs about the fire. The servants had
gone to bed—all was quiet, and it was now
past one o'clock. The conversation was hardly
so vigorous as at first—there were long pauses,


23S ALL IN THE DARK.
Up started the doctor, and also saw in the
shadow the spectre which had paused in the
hall, looking awfully tall.
The doctor's hand was on the candlestick.
and uttering a prayer, he flung it, in a
paroxysm of horror; but it was a wild shot,
and hit the sofa near the study door, and re-
bounded under the table. The study was now
dark, but not so the hall. One tall window
admitted a wide sheet of moonlight. The
clatter of the doctor's projectile seemed to affect
the apparition, for it suddenly began to run
round and round the hall, in wide circles,
regularly crossing the broad strip of moonlight,
and displaying its white draperies every time
for half a second ; the philosophers in the study
could not tell whether each new revolution
might not bring it into the room, to deal with
them in some unknown way. One word they did
not utter, but groped and pulled one another
fiercely, and groaned, and panted, and snorted,
like two men wrestling, and I am afraid that
each would have liked to get his friend between
himself and the object, which, after whirling
some half dozen times round the hall, passed


ALL IN THE DARK. 241
“Well, any news — anything?” asked
William. -
“Get some clothes on and come down with
us. Yes. We have seen something odd,” said
the clergyman.
“Could it have been Rebecca?” inquired
William. -
“Hoo ! no, sir—two feet taller,” said the
Rector.
“Four feet taller,” said Doctor Drake.
“Did you see its face?” asked William,
using, awfully, the neuter gender.
“No,” said the Parson.
“But I did,” said Drake—“ as long as my
arm.”
The learned gentlemen stood very close
together on the lobby, and looked over their
shoulders.
“Come into my room, sir—won't you?
You may as well” (the “sir” applying to both
gentlemen), said William, doing the honours
in his night-shirt.
“I don't see any great good,” observed
Doctor Drake, turning the key again in the
door, as he followed the clergyman in, “we
VOI,... II. l(5


342 ALL IN THE DARK.
can do by going down again. If there was a
chance of finding anything, but whatever it is
it's gone by this time, and — and going
down would be a mere flourish, don't you
think P”
“I wish we had the bottle of Old Tom
that's in the locker,” said William, who,
behind the curtain, was making an imperfect
toilet; “but I suppose it's too far,” and they
all looked a little uneasy.
“No, no,” said the clergyman, morally,
“we’ve had enough—quite enough.”
“ Unless we all went down together for it,”
said Doctor Drake.
“No, no, pray no more to-night,” said the
Rector, peremptorily.
“I’ve pipes and a lot of latachia here,”
said William, emerging in trowsers and dress-
ing-gown. “I’ve been trying it for the last
ten days. Suppose we smoke a little.
“Very good idea,” said the Rector, who had
no objection to an occasional pipe under the
I’OSe. -
So they poked up the fire, and laid a block
of coal on, and found that it was half-past


ALL IN THE DARK. 243
four o'clock, and they chatted, thoughtfully,
but no more upon the subject of the appari-
tion; and when daylight appeared they made
a hasty toilet, had an early breakfast in the
parlour; and the good Doctor Wagget, with
his eyes very red, and looking as rakish as so
respectable a clergyman could, appointed
William an hour to meet him at the Rectory
that day, and the party broke up.
16–2


2 ps ALL IN THE DARK.
haps my spirits a little, and my appetite per-
haps, this thing has affected my health at
all.” -
“No matter, answer my questions,” said
the Doctor, who after a while fell into a mys-
terious silence, and seemed amused, and after
a little time further, he expressed a great wish
to remain and watch as on the former oc-
casion.
“But,” said William, very glad of the offer,
“the Rector is not coming, and you would
wish some one with you.”
“No — no one — I don't mind,” said the
I)octor, smiling with half-closed eyes into
his tumbler. “Or, yes, we'll have your
man up when you go to bed; that will
(lo.”
“I missed Dr. Wagget to-day; he called
here,” said William.
“Not after nightfall, though,” said the
physician, with a screw of his lips and eye-
brows. “I saw him early to-day; he's
awfully frightened, and spoke like a sermon
about it.”


ALL IN THE DARK. 253
closely, and Tom with his candle in the
Tear.
On a peg in the gallery opposite to the door
of William Maubray's bed-room, hung an old
dressing-gown of his, into the pocket of which
the apparition slipped the papers it had taken
from his desk. Then it opened William's
door, as easily as if he had not locked it upon
the inside. The Doctor and Tom followed,
and saw the figure approach the bed and place
the desk very neatly under the bolster, then
return to the door, and shut and lock it on the
inside. Then the figure marched in a stately
way to the far side of the bed, drew both
curtains, and stood at the bedside, like a ghost,
for about a minute ; after which it walked in
the same stately way to the door, unlocked it,
and walked forth again upon the gallery; the
Doctor still following, and Tom behind, bear-
ing the light. Down the stairs it glided, and
halted on the lobby, where it seemed to look
from the window fixedly.
“Come along,” said the Doctor to Tom ;
and down the stairs he went, followed by the
torch-bearer, and, on reaching the lobby, he


254 ALL IN THE DARK.
clapped the apparition on the back, and shook
it lustily by the arm.
With the sort of gasp and sob which accom-
pany sudden immersion in cold water, William
Maubray, for the ghost was he, awakened,
dropped the coverlet, which formed his drapery,
on the floor, and stood the picture of bewilder-
ment and horror, in his night-shirt, staring at
his friends and repeating—“Lord have mercy
on us !”
“It's only Tom and I. Shake yourself up
a bit, man. Doctor Drake—here we are—all
old friends.”
And the Doctor spoke very cheerily, and all
sorts of encouraging speeches; but it was long
before William got out of his horror, and even
then he seemed for a good while on the point
of fainting.
“I’ll never be myself again,” groaned Wil-
liam, in his night-shirt, seating himself, half
dead, upon the lobby table.
Tom stood by, holding the candle aloft, and
staring in his face and praying in short sen-
tences, with awful unction ; while the Doctor
kept all the time laughing and patting William


ALL IN THE DARK. 255.
on the shoulder and repeating, “Nonsense —
nonsense —nonsense ""
When William had got again into his room,
and had some clothes on, he broke again into
talk:
“Somnambulism'— walk in my sleep. I
could not have believed it possible. I—I never
perceived the slightest tendency — I — the
only thing was that catching my own wrist in
my sleep and thinking it was another person
who held me ; but—but actually walking in
my sleep, isn't it frightful ?”
“I don't think you'll ever do it again—ha,
ha, ha!” said the Doctor.
“And why not?” asked William.
“The fright of being wakened as you
were, cures it. That's the reason I shook
you out of your doldrum,” chuckled the
Doctor.
“I’m frightened — frightened out of my
wits.”
“Glad of it,” said the Doctor. “Be the
less likely to do it again.”
“Do you think I–I'm really cured 2" asked
William.


ALL IN THE DARK. 257
table. Poor Aunt Dinah had kept it by
her during her illness, preferring it to any other.
“I’ll read a chapter every day—by Jove, I
will,” resolved William, in the grateful sense
of his deliverance. “It’s only decent—it's
only the old custom. It may make me good
some day, and hit or miss, it never did any man
harm.” i
So he turned over the leaves, and lighted
on an open sheet of note paper. It was
written over in poor Miss Perfect's hand, with
a perceptible tremble; and he read the follow-
ing lines, bearing date only two days before
her death :—
“DEAR WILLIE,
“To-day I am not quite so, but trust
to be better; and wish you to know, that
having convers much with Doctor, my friend,
the Rector, I make for future the Bible my only
guide, and you are not to mind what I said
about waiting five—only do all things—things
— with prayer, and marry whenever you
see goo, seeking first God's blessing by
pra
VOL. II. 17


25S ALL IN THE DARK-
“So, lest anything should happen, to remove-
from your mind all anxiet, writes
“Your poor old fond
“AUNTIE.”
Thus ended the note, which William, with a
strange mixture of feelings, kissed again and
again, with a heart at once saddened and im–
mensely relieved.


CHAPTER XXXII.
SOME SMAI, I, EVENTS AND PLANS.
Willi AM MAUBRAy heard from Trevor, who
affected boisterous spirits and the intensest
enjoyment of his town life, though there was
not a great deal doing just then to amuse any-
body. He had been thinking of running
over to Paris to the Sourburys, who had asked
him to join their party, but thought he must
go first to Kincton for a week or two, as the
ladies insisted on a sort of promise he had
made, and would not let him off. He hinted,
moreover, that there was a perfectly charming
Lady Louisa Sourbury, of whom he spoke in a
rapture; and possibly all this, and a great deal
more in the same vein, was intended to reach
the ear of Miss Violet Darkwell, who was to
17–2


CHAPTER XXXIII.
WILLIAM MAUBRAY IN LONDON.
Violet DARRw ELL's stay in London lengthened.
Saxton was growing intolerable. William
began to despond. He ran up to town, and
stayed there for a few weeks. He eat his
dinner in Lincoln's Inn Hall for two terms,
and dined every Sunday, and twice beside, at
the Darkwells'. The Sergeant was so busy
that, on these occasions, he appeared like a
guest—an unexpected presence, and was still
evidently haunted by briefs – fatigued and
thoughtful; but very kind to William. In
their short after-dinner sittings I do not think
that William ever opened the subject that was
nearest his heart. He had, I think, and with
a great deal better reason than poor Vane


26S ALL IN THE DARK.
himself, as he trudged home that night,
dejectedly. “He wishes me to understand
that I shan’t have his consent till then. A
hundred pounds in a term ' He had been
seven years called before he made that? Could
William hope to succeed so well? Not quite,
he rather thought.” And then grasping his
stick hard he swore it was like Jacob's service
for Rachel—a seven years' business; and
all for a Rachel, who had no thought of
waiting.
On all these occasions he saw Violet. But
was there not a change, a sense of distance,
and above all, was there not that awful old
“she-cousin” (to borrow Sam Papy's con-
venient phrase), of Sergeant Darkwell, silent,
vigilant, in stiff silk, whose thin face smiled
not, and whose cold gray eyes followed him
steadily everywhere, and who exercised an
authority over Violet more than aunt-
like?”
William called again and again, but never
saw pretty Violet without this prudent and
dreadful old lady. Her indeed he twice saw
alone. In a fête-à-téfe she was not more agree-


ALL IN THE DARK. 269
able. She listened to what few things, with a
piteous ransacking of his invention and his
memory he could bring up, and looked upon
him with a silent suspicion and secret aversion
under which his spirit gradually despaired and
died within him. Glimpses of Violet, under
the condition of this presence, were tantalizing,
even agonizing sometimes. The liberty of
speech so dear to Englishmen was denied him,
life was gliding away in this speechless dream,
the spell of that lean and silent old lady was
upon him. How he yearned for the easy
country life with its kindly chaperons and end-
less opportunities. Love, as we all know, is a
madness, and it is the property of madmen to
imagine conspiracies, and William began to
think that there was an understanding between
Sergeant Darkwell and the “she-cousin,” and
that she was there to prevent his ever having
an opportunity of saying one confidential word
in Violet's ear. It seemed to him, moreover,
that this was unspeakably worse, that Violet
was quite happy in this state of things. He
began to suspect that he had been a fool, that
his egotism had made him, in a measure, mad,


270 ALL IN THE DARK.
and that it was time for him to awake and look
the sad truth in the face.
William left London. He wavered in his
allegiance to the Bar. He doubted his fitness
for it. Had he not money enough for all his
wants? Why should he live a town life, and
grieve his soul over contingent remainders,
and follow after leading cases in objectless
pursuit, and lose himself in Bacon's inter-
minable Abridgment, all for nothing?
He returned to keep his next term, and
suffer a like penance. It seemed to him there
was a kind of coldness and reserve in Violet
that was hardly tangible, and yet it was half
breaking his heart. She was further away
than ever, and he could not win her back.
He sate there under the eye of silent Miss
Janet Smedley — the inexorable she-cousin.
There was no whispering in her presence.
She was so silent you might hear a pin drop.
Not a syllable escaped her observant ear.
There was no speaking in her presence, and
that presence never failed—though Violet's
sometimes did. The situation was insupport-
able. Away went William again—and this


CHAPTER XXXIV.
VIOLET DARK WELL TELLS MISS WAGGET THAT
QUEEN ANNE IS DEAD.
The sun was near the western horizon, and
sky and clouds were already flooded with the
sunset glow, as William Maubray drove up to
the high and formal piers of Gilroyd, with
their tall urns at top — decorations which
belong to old-world fancy—a little formal, like
the stately dress of by-gone beauties and beaux,
but with a sentiment and a prettiness of their
own. Sad looked to him the smile of the old
building and lordly trees in the fading sun-
light; the windows sparkled redly in it, the
ivy rustled in the light air, and the sparrows
twittered and fluttered up and down among
its glittering leaves—the time, the sights, and


ALL IN THE DARK, 273
sounds recalling many an arrival at the same
pleasant hour, and many a welcome look and
tone—gone now—faint and far away in me-
mory, and ever to grow more and more dis-
tant.
The hall door was open—in went William
without a summons—and in the hall he heard
voices issuing from the drawing-room. Old
Miss Wagget's kindly and cheering tones
were distinctly audible, and Winnie Dobbs was
making answer as he entered. From the two
old women, as he stepped in, there was a simul-
taneous ejaculation; and Winnie's two hands
"were lifted in amaze, and she beamed on him
with a ruddy smile of welcome, crying aloud,
“Well, law'” 'Tis him, sure enough ſ” and
“There you are; what a charming surprise !”
exclaimed Miss Wagget, trotting up to him
with her hands extended, and shaking both his
with a jolly little laugh.
“We walked over to pay our respects to good
Winnie Dobbs here, little expecting to meet
the lord of the Castle. Ha, ha, ha! why we
thought you were at Hamburg, and lo and be-
hold! Here we have you ! And I ventured
VOL. II. IS


274 ALL IN THE DARK.
to bring a friend, will you allow me to intro-
duce P”
But Violet Darkwell—for she was the friend
—not waiting for Miss Wagget's mock cere-
mony, came a step or two to meet him, and
again, in Gilroyd, he held that prettiest of
slender hands in his.
“Oh! pretty Wi, who could forget you ?
How I wish you liked me ever so little !
Oh! that you were the mistress of Gilroyd!”
These were his thoughts as with a smile and
a quiet word or two of greeting he took her
hand.
“Did you come through London?” asked
Miss Waggett.
“No ; direct here,” he answered.
“Surprised to find us, I dare say?” and she
glanced at Violet. “Our friend here—like a
good little creature, assheis—came down to keep
me company for a week, and as much longer as
I can make her stay, while my brother is at
Westthorpe, and you must come over with us
to tea.”
William acquiesced.
“And, Winnie Dobbs, you must tell me all


276 ALL IN THE DARK.
and he led her towards them, she going will-
ingly, with a little laugh that sounded low and
sadly.
Among their stems, he stopped before that
of a solitary beech tree.
“Do you remember that tree?” said Wil-
liam, speaking very low.
“I do indeed,” said Violet, with the faintest
little laugh in the world.
“It's more than three years ago—it's four
years ago—since I carved them.” He was
pointing to two lines of letters, already begin-
ning to spread and close in as such memorials
on the living bark will do—but still legible
enough. They were—
Wi Darkwell,
William Maubray.
“These are going,” he said with a sigh,
“like the old inscriptions in Saxton church-
yard; I believe it is impossible to make any
lasting memorial; even memory fails as we
grow old; God only remembers always; and
this little carving here seems to me like an


278 ALL IN THE DARK.
could have heard it, and the little wood ane-
monies nodded their pretty heads, and the
groups of wood-sorrel round trembled, it
seemed with joy; and William said, in a wild
whisper— -
“My darling—oh Wi–my darling. My
only love—dearer, and dearer, every year. Oh!
darling, my love is everlasting !” and he kissed
her hand again and again, and he kissed her
lips, and the leaves and flowers were hushed,
nature was listening, pleased, and, I think, the
angels looking down smiled on those fair young
mortals, and those blessed moments that come
with the glory of paradise, and being gone, are
remembered for ever.
“Why, young people, what has become of
you?” cried the well known voice of Miss
Wagget. “Ho! here you are. I guessed I
should find you among the trees, grand old
timber, Mr. Maubray.” The guilty pair ap-
proached Miss Wagget side by side, looking
as unconcerned as they could, and she talked
on. “I sometimes think, Mr. Maubray, that
Gilroyd must be a much older place than most
people fancy. That house, now, what style is


ALL IN THE DARK. 279
it in 2 My brother says there were such
houses built in Charles the Second's time, but
the timber you know is—particularly the oaks
down there—the trees are enormously old, and
there are traces of a moat. I don't under-
stand these things, but my brother says, at the
side of the house toward the road,” and so on
kind Miss Wagget laboured, little assisted by
William, upon topics about which none of them
were thinking.
That evening Miss Wagget was seized
with a sort of musical frenzy, and sat down
and played through ever so many old books
of such pieces as were current in her youth,
and very odd and quaint they sound now—
more changed the fashion of our music even
than of our language.
I'm afraid that the young people were
not so attentive as they might, and Wil-
liam whispered incessantly, sitting beside Vio-
let on the sofa.
It was rather late when that little musical
party broke up. -
To Gilroyd, William walked in a dream,
in the air, all the world at his feet, a demi-


CHAPTER XXXV.
THE CIH IMES OF SANTON.
Next morning Miss Wagget was busy, in a
great fuss, writing the news to her brother and
the Sergeant, and for the benefit of the latter
she drew such a picture of William Maubray's
virtues and perfections in general as must have
made that sagacious man long to possess such
a son-in-law. The good lady enclosed a duti-
ful little note to him from Violet, and wound
up with an eloquent lecture, in which she
demonstrated that if the Sergeant were to
oppose this palpable adjustment of Providence,
he should be found to fight against heaven,
the consequences of which enterprise she left
him to conjecture.
William also spent the entire forenoon over


2S2 ALL IN. THE DARK.
a letter to the same supreme authority; and
the letters despatched, there intervened a few
days of suspense and wonderful happiness,
notwithstanding.
William was waiting in the little post-office
of Saxton when the answering letters came.
Mrs. Beggs having sorted the contents of the
mail with an anxious eye, delivered his letters
and at his desire, those for the rectory, to
William. There was a letter from the Ser-
geant for him. There was no mistaking the
tall and peculiar hand. There were two others
addressed severally to the ladies at the rectory.
William did not care to read his in Mrs.
Begg's little parlour, so he took his leave
cheerfully, even gaily, with an awful load at
his heart.
In his pocket lay his fate sealed. Hardly
a soul was stirring in the drowsy little street.
Here and there a listless pair of eyes peeped
through the miniature panes of a shop window.
He could not read the letter where any eye
could see him. He hurried round the corner
of Garden Row, got on the road leading to
Gilroyd, crossed the style that places you upon


ALL IN THE DARK. 2S5
Sergeant Darkwell of course gave pretty Violet
away.
Honest Dr. Drake was there, in an unpro-
fessional blue coat and buff waistcoat, and with
a bouquet in his button-hole, in which not a
single camomile flower figured. Miss Drake,
too, in a lavender silk; and wishing the gay
couple every good from her heart, notwith-
standing her surprise that Sergeant Darkwell
should have permitted his child to marry at so
early an age as eighteen — nineteen 2 Well,
one year here or there doesn't signify a great
deal, she fancied. Good old Winnie Dobbs,
too, in a purple silk and new bonnet, which
must have been quite in the fashion, for all
Saxton admired it honestly. A little way
from the communion rails, behind the gentle-
folks, she stood or kneeled, edified, only half
credulous, smiling sometimes, and crying a
great deal—thinking, I am sure, of kind old
Aunt Dinah, who was not to see that hour.
Winnie, I mention parenthetically, is still
housekeeper at Gilroyd, and very happy, with
nothing but a little rheumatism to trouble
her.


2S6 ALL IN THE DARK.
Here every year William and Violet pass
some time, and the happiest month of all the
twelve, though the estates and title have come
to him, and he is Sir William and she Lady
Maubray. But the change has not spoiled
either. The honest affections and friendly
nature delight in the old scenes and associates;
and in summer sunsets, under the ancient
chestnuts, they ramble sometimes, her hand
locked in his; and often, I daresay, he runs
over those delightful remembrances, still low
—still in a lover's tone, she looking down on
the grass and wild-flowers, as she walks beside
him and listens as she might to a sweet air,
always welcome, the more welcome that she
knows it so well; and they read the inscrip-
tion on the beech tree, time has not effaced it
yet, they read it smiling, in their happy dream,
with that something of regret that belongs
to the past, and all the tenderness that tones
the uncertain mortal future.
Sometimes William says a word of Trevor,
and she laughs, perhaps a little flattered at the
remembrance of a conquest. Vane Trevor is
very well, not married yet, they say, grown a


ALL IN THE DARK. 287
little stout, not often at Revington. He does
not put himself much in the way of Sir Wil-
liam, but is very friendly when they correspond
on Saxton matters, Workhouse, and others.
He has not renewed his attentions at Kincton.
Clara has grown “awfully old,” he has been
heard to remark. She has latterly declined
gaieties, has got to the very topmost platform
of high-churchism, from which a mere step-
ladder may carry her still higher. Dean San-
croft, who fought the Rev. John Blastus in
the great controversy, you must remem-
ber, on credence tables, candles, and super-
altars is not unfrequently an inmate of
Kincton, and people begin to canvass probabi-
lities.
But whither have I drifted P Let us come
back to quiet old Saxton Church, and the mar-
riage service. The Miss Mainwarings and a
pretty Miss Darkwell, a cousin of the bride's,
attended as bridesmaids. And with Sergeant
Darkwell had arrived the “silent woman.”
She could not help her taciturnity any more
than her steady gray eyes, which used to
terrify William so, while he haunted the


28S ALL IN THE DARK.
drawing-room in town. She attended, in very
handsome and appropriate costume, and made
Via very pretty present of old-fashioned jewel-
lery, and was seen to dry her gray eyes during
the beautiful “solemnization of matrimony,”
as good Doctor Wagget, in the old church,
under the oak-roof which had looked down
for so many centuries on so many young
kneeling couples, in the soft glow of the old
stained windows whose saints looked smiling
on with arms crossed over their breasts; read
the irrevocable words aloud, and the village
congregation reverently listening, heard how
these two young mortals, like the rest, had
“given and pledged their troth, either to other,
and declared the same by giving and receiving
of a ring, and by joining of hands,” and how
the good Rector pronounced that “they be
man and wife together,” in the name of the
glorious Trinity.
As we walk to the village church, through
the church-yard, among the gray, discoloured
headstones that seem to troop slowly by us as
we pass, the lesson of change and mortality is
hardly told so sublimely as in the simple order