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RUSSELL'S AMERICAN DIARY 1
T. O. H. P. BURNHAM,
143 WASHINGTON' STREET, BOSTON,
HAS JUST PUBLISHED
MY DIARY,
NORTH AND SOUTH.
BY WILLIAM HOWARD RUSSELL, LL. D.
One Volume, 12mo. Price in paper 50cts. cloth $!.25.
Mr. T. 0. H. P. Burnham has done a good service to the American public, by promptly bringing
out Mr. Russell's Diary in a handsome reprint; let us hope, by the way, with compensation to the
author. The book is certain to be widely read, not less from the interest attaching to the writer and the
subject, but on account of its picturesque style of narrative, which is admirable; and we believe that it
is a bo^k, a wide reading of which will do good on both sides of the Atlantic, by conveying truthful
views, on many subjects still imperfectly understood. In this rospect, Mr. Russell's Diary i*s better than
his Letters were, because the Diary records principally scenes and conversations just as they occurred,
from which the reader may draw his own inferences; and if the facts are truely stated (and we find no
traces of the contrary) we must all be content to accept the inferences which follow in the minds of
reasonable and candid men. We, of the North, certainly, do not shrink from this test. The book more-
over will serve to remove much of the obloquy which lias unjustly attached to its author. It will be
found that he has been at least a better friend of the Union than miny among ourselves; he said nothing
so bitter or so hard of us as many things which were said t-i him; and he dared even at Montgomery, to
lift up his voice against the hideousness of a new nation avowedly founding itself, by deliberation, upon
chattel slavery as a corner stone. He exposed to the Southerners at every turn the* absurdity of their
doctrine that Cotton is King, upon whiob they foolishly relied to force the preat powers of iiurope to
intervene for their independence. The answers he received, in such conversation, here faithfully
reported, will aid in opening the eyes of the British public to the facts of the case. We regard the
publication of the biok as timely, and despite a very few blemishes ascribable to not unnatural preju-
dices, the author deserves on the whole to receive the rare meed of praise which attaches to impartiality.
The unmerited abuse which has been poured upon him would have been cmsidered by many writers
under similar circumstances as inviting a retaliation in kind, from which Mr. Russell magnanimously
abstains.—Boston Advertiser.
SENT BY MAIL POST PAID ON RECEIPT OF THE PRICE.
He also has in Press to be Published during the Present Season,
SLAVES OF THE RING
OR, BEFORE AND AFTER.
1 By the Author of " Under the Spoil." etc., etc.
THE LADIES OF LOVEL-LEIGH.
By the Author of " Margaret and her Brides-
maids," etc.
JOHN A 1ST ID I-
A Novel.
GRANDMOTHER'S MONEY.
By the Author of " Slaves of the Ring,"
"Under the Spell," etc.
KING'S COPE.
By the Author of " Thti Silent Woman."

By the Author of " Charles Auchester,"
"Counterparts," etc., etc.
WATER BABIES.
A FAIRY TALE FOR LAND RABIES.
By Rev. Charles Kingsley, Author of " Ar.yaz
Leigh," "Two Years Ago," etc . etc.
'a



i


A Tangled Skein.
BY
ALBANY FONBLANQUE, JUN.
BOSTON:
T. 0. H. P. BURNHAM, 143 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: 0. S. FELT, 36 WALKER STREET.
1863.


KF 39122
HARVARD
UNIVERSITY
LIRDARY
JAN 11 1912
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON.


A TANGLED SKEIN.
CHAPTER I.
COMING HOME.
A blazing sunset in the Indian ocean,
— out of sight of land, — and a great steam-
ship throbbing her resolute way in solitary
grandeur through the glittering waves that
creamed and darkened in her wake! I
think I can picture the scene in my own
mind, but I had rather not try to describe
it; for I was born within the sound of Bow
bells, have never been to India, and conse-
quently never came back from thence. I
« have to deal with very stern realities af-
fecting persons, most of whom I can lay
my hands upon at a few hours' notice, and
associate them with scenes familiar to me
from my youth, — all but this. I should
not like to run the risk of marring what I
know, by attempting to detail what I have
only heard of. I have read, — (who has
not ?) — much print about the Overland
Route. Shall I take down from their
shelves half a dozen of the books in which
it is described, hash up for you as many
odds and ends of scenes and sketches
therein contained, and serve up the dish
in a sauce of my own composition? Will
it possess the genuine Indian flavor? I
am afraid not. It would taste of the pot;
and I should be sure to put in some ingre-
dient which, without being pleasing to the
palate of the uninitiated, would expose my
poor rechauffi in its true character. No!
I will, if you please, describe that which 1
have seen, — and that only.
The vessel in question was the Peninsu-
lar and Oriental steamship Ganges, Cap-
tain Stevenson, bound to Suez. She had
on board many sufferers by the Indian
mutiny, and amongst them Captain Ste-
phen Frankland, of the Bengal Light
Cavalry. You will be good enough to
picture for yourselves the good ship which
is bearing him, the persons of his fellow-
voyagers (other than those to whom you
will be introduced), and the appearances
of the sunset which he is watching on the
evening of the 8th of July, 1858, when
first he is presented to your notice.
Brave, honest, Stephen Frankland! If
there ever was a man who deserved to have
a smooth and pleasant pilgrimage through
life, it was he; but Fate, — chance, a com-
bination of untoward circumstances, call it
what you please, — took up the thread of
his life and tangled it, as we shall see, into
a dark web, in which all hope and happi-
ness seemed at one time to be lost. It is
his story that I am about to tell, therefore
let me photograph him at once, as it were,
on the title-page of my book.
He is incapable of resisting the indigni-
ty; for he has been to death's door with
jungle fever combined with sunstroke, and
is still very, very weak,—so weak that it has
taken him half an hour to totter from his
cabin to the spot where he now reclines,
wrapped in his regimental cloak, and gaz-
ing over the darkening sea westward, far
westward! towards the home he has not
seen for years, — that he may never see
again!
Did he stand upright, he would measure
| at least five feet eleven, and his wasted
limbs, that are now extended in such lam-
entable helplessness upon the deck, were,
a few weeks ago, full of grace and strength.
He has fought under Havelock, — he has
inarched with Chamberlayne, — he has
borne the whole brunt of the mutiny. He
is one of that scant band of heroes who
kept the tiger at bay, — hurling him back,
in spite of all his frantic bounds, till Eng-
land arose in her might and strangled the
bloody brute in his lair! He has won the
Victoria Cross, and by and by, when the
armies are amalgamated, will be made a
brevet-major, if he has a friend at the
Horse Guards to remind the authorities
of his services. Oh, his country is proud


4
A TANGLED SKEIN.
of him, — and very grateful too, of course!
Though, being a country of a naturally
phlegmatic temperament, she does not give
way to her feelings very warmly.
The young soldier's face is very grave,
and his fine brown eyes, which are unnat-
urally bright just now, have rather a hard
expression. His brow is calm and mas-
sive, but his mouth, though almost over-
shadowed by his tawny moustache, gives a
look to the lower part of his face which is
quite at variance with the sternness of its
upper features. Wait until he smiles, and
the stern look will melt away, and one of
almost womanly softness take its place.
To a fresh acquaintance, Stephen Frank-
land's manner is not pleasant: he is cold
and haughty, especially with men. No
one values the good-will of companions
and comrades more than he does; and I
think that his reserve springs more from
shyness than from pride, or any other feel-
ing. He values friendship so highly, that
he cannot bear the idea of forcing himself
on that of any one, and will not lightly
admit any one to his own. But if he be
slow in making friends, he is slower still in
losing them; and many a raw cornet, who
has complained loudly after the manner of
the tribe, "that Frankland was so con-
foundedly bumptious," has been checked by
the best men in the regiment, and told to
wait till he knew him better before he re-
peated such an opinion. It is a great pity
that people will go about masquerading in
manners which do not belong to them; but
my hero is a mortal man, and subject to
all the diseases, mental and bodily, that
flesh is heir to. So he will be introduced
to you to-morrow. Bow stiffly, say half a
dozen chilly common-places; and if you
go away disgusted with his reserve and
seek his society no more, — if you are a
good sort of fellow, and worth cultivating,
— he will take to heart your not liking
him, and be doubly cold to the next man
he meets by way of mending matters. Not
the sort of temperament, this, with which
to get on well in the world. Too sensitive
and self-accusing a great deal, as I am
afraid we shall find before long.
Have you ever met with a serious acci-
dent in a foreign country, or felt some
illness creeping over you when amongst
strangers? If you have, did not a wild
yearning seize you to hurry home, in spite
of all assurances that you would be safer
and better tended where you were? If
you have not, believe me that it is no use
arguing with the stricken one who has this
feeling upon him. He craves for home, —
home, no matter how humble it may be;
and staggers' thitherward with the unrea-
soning terror which makes a wounded bird
drag itself in torture from the hand that
would assuage its pain, to seek some well-
known haunt wherein to die.
Well! Home is distant, and the blow
has fallen before it can be reached. The
sufferer has to praise the All Merciful for
a great escape; for the crisis is over and
the danger past. But will he admit that
it is possible for him to become quite well
away from homef Does he believe that
there can be any medicine so potent for
his good as the sight of old familiar scenes,
the sound of old familiar voices, the sym-
pathy, above all, of those he loves? I
think not! Happy are you if you have
never known that weary, incurable dis-
ease,— the home-sickness of the sick.
I know of poor people who have died in
squalid cellars, because they were their
homes, rather than enter the hospitals, in
which they might have been cured in a
week. I know of men who have passed
all their lives abroad, whose associations,
friends, and fame all belong to foreign
scenes, but who have tottered back in
their old age to the home-land that
knows them not, — merely because it is
the home-land, — to enrich it with their
hard-won wealth, and ask of it nothing
but a grave. Ay! we may philosophize,
and scoff, and make merry, with these and
other human softnesses. Let us crown with
bays the clever fellows who are so fond of
depicting the morbid anatomy of Homes,
— who delight in tearing down the gay
hangings from the walls, — who smash
through the gay gilding and the lath-and-
plaster, and disclose to us, with many a
chuckle of triumph, the hidden closet
where the skeleton grins and clanks his
horrid bones. Ah, these are something
like writers! Their pens are lancets, their
ink a fluid caustic, and every printed page
a cataplasm. How the great world smarts
and simpers as they ply their trade, — each
half of it enjoying the discomfiture of the
other! I think, though, that there be pure
homes and home influences in the land,
after all; but, bless my soul! it would be
very insipid work to treat only of these.
Eau sucre is mawkish tipple at the best of
times. A squeeze of lemon and a dash of
something out of the gardi de vin improves
the flavor wonderfully.
The home-sickness was strong upon Ste-
phen Frankland as the sun went down up-
on this pleasant July evening, for the home
of his boyhood had been a very happy one,
— a breezy, crag-bound, leafy, stream-girt
home, snugly settled half-way down a Der-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
5
byshire valley, with a great rugged Tor
that was always ready to do battle with the
north-east wind on its behalf; to its rear,
and in all other directions, fat meadow-
lands, and hills with dark pine-woods
hanging on their slopes; and fern-carpet-
ed dells, and tangled coppices, with the
restless Wye lacing all the beauties of the
landscape together with a silver thread, —
a home in which he had been a free and
happy country-lad, revelling in field-sports
and feats of strength and daring, which
had made him the ready and dashing sol-
dier that he was before the fever struck
him down. He has closed his eyes now,
in his painful weakness, and the whole
panorama floats across his mind's eye.
There is the field in which he made that
famous double-shot of which his father was
so proud. Did he not have preserved and
stuffed the two unfortunate partridges who
fell victims to his boy's precocious skill?
and are they not now hanging up in a
glass-case in the hall? There is the quiet
pool in the bend of the river into which
he used to plunge in the summer time, to
the terror of his little brother Frank; and
the shady nook, hard by, where afterwards
he would loll, half-dressed, all the blazing
mid-day, hidden by the tall ferns, reading
the lives of the great soldiers and sailors
who were his heroes, or half-terrifying,
halMelighting, his childish companion
with wondrous tales about giants and fai-
ries, and other inhabitants of the dear old
realms of Fancy! There, far away to the
right, over the grass land, is the fence at
which he got that ugly fall out hunting,
when he mounted Lord Harkington's new
chestnut mare,— merely because some one
had said that he could not ride her. The
hot, blundering brute bolted with her head
in the air, and crashed right into the mid-
dle of the double post and rails without
rising an inch, rolling over her rider, and
nearly killing him in her frantic struggles
to rise. There again, close to the house,
hanging from the sycamore-tree, is the
swing where he and Laura Coleman used
to swing each other when they were chil-
dren together, and where he wished her
good-by, and pressed into her reluctant
hand a little gold pencil-case as a parting
gift the evening before he left for India!
There is Bill Grant's, the head-keeper's,
cottage. It was in the somewhat musty
kitchen of that tenement that he smoked
his first pipe, procured from Bill with
much diplomacy, and not without a bribe.
Ah! will he ever forget that first pipe?
At a certain period of its enjoyment, what
would he have given to Bill not to have
had it? There., close by the privet hedge
on the lawn, is old Ponto's grave. Poor
old Ponto! Would he have been a better
dog, in his life, if he had known what a
grand funeral he was to have when all was
over? There is the wood,—-that on the
hill yonder, near the bean-field, where
they had that tough tustle with the poach-
ers on Christmas-Eve! And there—there
— there! far and near, all around, is some
spot full of old recollections for Stephen
Frankland, on which his memory loves to
dwell. It dwells on them, and those with
whom they are associated, as they were in
the careless old times which are stamped
on his mind. He cannot realize them as
they are. He has heard that Bill Grant
is not head-keeper now. The poor fellow
has had a paralytic stroke, and is a hope-
less cripple; still his pupil finds himselt'
planning a long day's shooting, which he
intends to have in company with his old
tutor in woodcraft, directly the season
comes round again. He cannot think of
Laura as a grown-up woman who has been
engaged to be married. She is ever, for
him, the shy, timid child who cried when
she was swung too high. And Frank, his
little brother! the loved companion of all
his expeditions, — poor, gentle, delicate
little Frank, — whom he has carried for
miles upon his shoulders, rather than he
should be disappointed of being present at
some steeple-chase, or cricket-match, or
other sport that he wished to see, — little
Frank came of age a year ago! He was
but a little boy, and small and weak for his
age, when Stephen sailed for India. There
was a wide gulf between them then; the
one was quite a man, the other still a
child. Time had bridged it over now, and
the seven and a half years that separated
their ages was lost in their mutual man-
hood. A pleased smile played round Ste-
phen's lips and glistened in his eyes, as
he tried to picture little Frank as the
great country gentleman, and Justice of
the Peace, Deputy-Lieutenant, and High
Sheriff of the County, — posts of dignity
which letters from home had informed him
his brother was soon to fill. For, as will
presently appear more distinctly, Frank,
though his father's younger son, was sole
heir to Tremlett Towers and all its lands,
whilst Stephen, the first-born, would in-
herit a baronetcy, an honorable title at-
tached to very few possessions of any sort
for its support.
The idea of envying Frank his good
fortune never entered his half-brother's
mind; the possibility that Tremlett Tow-
ers might not be his home, to come and


6
A TANGLED SKEIN.
go in as he pleased all the days of his life,
never occurred to him for a moment.
How should it? Never by word, or act,
or look, has he been reminded of his posi-
tion under his father's roof. He knew it
well enough; his father had broken it to
him long before he left, and I think it re-
flected much credit on his stepmother that
he soon forgot what he was told. Now,
perhaps, you begin to see how matters
stand. He was his father's companion in
all the sports of the field, his alter ego
with the tenantry and servants. He was
his mother's right hand in her garden, the
distributor of her bounty in the village,
her representative in a dozen different
ways; for this lady was not given to ex-
ertion, and was fond of doing what she
did by deputy. His wishes were always
anticipated, his orders never questioned.
He was an universal favorite, the bright-
eyed, hearty lad! Like all brave men,
with a high sense of duty, he thought
little of what he had done, otherwise it
might have occurred to him that the news
of deeds which had won him the highest
object of a soldier's ambition, the Cross for
Valor, would quite dissipate the clouds
with which absence 'sometimes hides a va-
cant chair. But, as I said before, the idea
from which such a thought would spring
never occurred to him. He longed for
home with a sick man's longing as the sun
went down that July evening. And so
vividly did home and home faces come
back to him, that it seemed as though he
had never really left them, and that the
wonders of the strange land in which his
lot had been cast, and all its recent hor-
rors, were the baseless fabric of a vision
which was passing away.
He was aroused from such day-dream-
ing by a tap upon the shoulder, and, turn-
ing round, saw that a square-built man,
with a jolly, weather-beaten face, and
dressed in the handsome uniform of the
Peninsular and Oriental Company, had
taken a seat by his side.
"Glad to see you on deck, Sir!" said
the officer. "I am Captain Stevenson,
of this ship, at your service. How do you
feel yourself to-night — picking up your
crumbs, eh? There now, don't move;
I've got plenty of room where I am, thank
ye!" And the jolly seaman kindly pressed
Stephen Frankland back into the reclining
position from which he had started, and
smoothed the pillow that supported his
head.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
he added, when this was done —" any-
thing you want in your cabin?"
"Thank you very much!" Stephen re-
flied; "I have everything I require, and
shall soon cease to be the troublesome
fellow that I am sure I must have been to
you all. I feel as though every breath of
this cool sea-breeze was putting new life
into me."
"To be sure," said the Captain; "so it
does. Why, I've had young fellows carried
aboard further gone than you were — and
you hadn't much to spare on this side Davy
Jones's locker when we left Calcutta; but,
Lord bless you! as soon as ever they can
crawl on deck they sit gasping in the fresh
air like a shoal of blue-fish, and are on
their pins again calling out for bitter beer
before we sight Perim!"
"How long shall we be before we sight
Perim?" asked the sick man after a
pause.
"How long will you be before you get
to your bitter beer? you mean," said the
Captain with a jovial laugh. "But you
will get a chill if you stay out any longer.
The wind is freshening, and you have had
quite as much of it as you can bear for the
first time: the Doctor would tell you so
if he were here. You had better turn in,
and — Ha! just in the nick of time!" he
continued, as a tall figure moved silently
out of the shadow of the hatchway, and
took its stand by Stephen's side. "Here's
your servant come to help you in."
"Hush!" exclaimed the invalid in a
quick whisper; "he is not my servant."
Captain Stevenson opened his mouth
and raised his eyelids, and so made those
expressive features reply — " Who the
deuce, then, is he?" as plainly as though
he had articulated the words. The ques-
tion was lost upon the new-comer, so
busily was he engaged in collecting the
books, cushions, and other articles which
fell as the sick man rose and prepared to
pass below; but as he rose, he laid his fin-
ger on his lip with a meaning look, until the
old man had descended the companion-
ladder, and then replied in a whisper —
"You will think it very odd, but I know
absolutely nothing about him, beyond this
— I owe my life to his care! I will try
and find out who he is to-night."
CHAPTER II.
HOW CAPTAIN FRANKLAND AND MR.
BRANDRON COMPARED NOTES.
Arrived in his cabin, Stephen Frank-
land flung himself heavily upon the cot


A TANGLED SKEIN.
7
with an impatient moan. He had only
descended some eight or ten steps, and
walked as many yards; but so feeble was
his state that the exertion, slight as it was,
proved almost too much for him. I think
the worst part of an illness is when you
have gained strength enough to know how
weak it has made you. His attendant,
who had followed, carefully measured out
some tonic medicine, and handed it, with-
out a word. He then placed everything
that might be required within his reach,
and silently proceeded to set the cabin in
order for the night. This done, he was
about to retire, when Frankland raised
himself, and laid a hand upon his arm —
"Don't leave me," he said — " that is,
I mean, if you do not want to go on deck
again."
The person thus addressed paused, and
held the cabin-door half shut behind him
as he turned towards the cot.
"You see I am getting all right again,"
Frankland continued, in a cheerful tone.
"Yesterday I could scarcely stand, and
to-night I have walked ever so far, all by
myself. In a very few days I shall be off
the sick-list altogether."
"I am glad to find you so hopeful," was
the grave reply; "take care, though, that
you do not over-exert yourself. You know
what the Doctor said, and if I stay here
with you, you must promise not to talk."
"That is exactly what I want to do.
It's all bosh saying that I must not talk.
Why, I haven't coughed once for I don't
know how long! I am going to ask you
to redeem the promise that you made, 1
think, two days ago. My head is getting
clearer now, and it worries me awfully not
to know what has passed. I lay awake
all last night trying in vain to recall the
past; and I am sure I shall not sleep to-
night unless you help me. I do assure
you that I am quite strong enough now to
hear all you like to tell, — to ask what
I so much want to know."
His attendant closed the door softly,
and drawing a trunk close to the cot,
seated himself so that the wan detaining
hand still rested on his arm.
"Well?"
The sick man was a little disconcerted
by that monosyllabic reply to his anx-
iously urged request, but more so by
the sad, searching gaze with which the
speaker regarded him.
It was not easy to fix his exact age; his
face and figure were so wasted by the
ravages of the Indian climate. He looked
sixty, at least, but was, probably, some
years younger. He was unusually tall
and gaunt, with a square, massive brow,
and restless, though earnest eyes. A few
flowing locks of iron-gray hair, thrown
back from his temples and passed behind
each ear, would have given an air of be-
nevolence to almost any other face; but
there was a fixed sternness upon his pale
features which never left them even whilst
he was performing acts of womanly ten-
derness for his patient, — a sternness which
did not reflect anger or dislike, but be-
tokened the absence of all softer feelings
from a heart that had once been their
home.
Frankland sank back again into a re-
clining posture as the old man took his
seat; and when the hand that had been
laid on his slipped downwards, and the
arm swung heavily beside the cot, the
patient attendant took it in both his own,
and regarding it with a strange, cyn-
ical smile, pressed it almost tenderly and
placed it softly on the coverlet.
There was no light in the cabin, and the
shades of evening were rapidly closing in.
After waiting some moments to see if his
companion would volunteer the informa-
tion which he so much desired, Stephen
again broke the silence which had become
painful to him —
"I am afraid," he said, " that I have lost
all count of time. I am conscious that I
have been a long time ill, and that you
have all along tended me with a care and
patience for which I cannot account. I
feel that I owe you my life, and do not
even know your name."
"My name is Brandron —John Everett
Brandron. I am an uncovenanted servant
of the East India Company, if it still ex-
ists, and I am going ho , I am going to
England upon leave. I have done for
you what any other man would have done
for any other man whom he found as I
found you."
"But where did you find me? That is
what I want to know," Stephen said in an
excited tone, and starting up into a sitting
posture. "When was it ? — and where?
Why am I not with my regiment? How
is it that I am here? All this is a blank
to me, in which my mind goes wandering
till it is lost in distraction."
"This will never do! Compose your-
self, pray, or I must leave you," said
Brandron; "you shall know all you re-
quire; but have patience. There now,"
he added, as Stephen sank into his former
position; "tell me, as quietly as you can,
what you can last remember, and I will
recount the rest — at least, as far as I
know of it."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
9
wood that night; and I took his sword, a
lock of his hair, and a Bible with his
mother's name in it, that I found in his
pack, to send to his home. I do not know
what has become of them. There was a
vulgar cant about in England when I left,
that, to be a dashing soldier, one must be
a roue and a scamp. A braver and more
promising officer than Charley Treherne
never drew sword, and he lived and died
a Christian gentleman."
"I think you will find the things you
mention among your baggage," said Bran-
dron; "I especially noticed the Bible in
the palanquin with you when — But I, too,
am wandering; go on — what about Lai
Roogee?"
"I cannot say how he escaped that day.
We met again, as I have told you, on the
banks of the Raptee. I was nearly wild
with excitement as it was, but the sight of
his black face nearly maddened me. I
don't suppose that what followed occupied
more than two minutes from first to last,
but in this time a host of recollections
flashed through my mind. I saw poor
Mary Clayton with her little baby on her
lap. I heard her putting in a kind word
— as she often had done — for the villains
who afterwards took away her life. I was
at mess, and it was the first night that
Charley joined us. I was hunting, shoot-
ing, reading, listening in the verandah of
our Indian house to his merry songs and
ringing laugh; I was kneeling beside his
grave; I was vowing to avenge him ; —
better than that, I was plunging along
upon a fresh horse, with only a few yards
of' level ground between me and the man
who had killed him. What exultation I
felt as I gained upon him — for this time
he did not stand at bay, as the nature of
the ground had forced him to do on the
former occasion, but was riding for his life.
Nearer and nearer I came, till I could see
the whites of his evil eyes as he turned
and fired one of his long pistols at me.
He missed, and the next moment I was
on him! My sword was in the air; I had
risen in my stirrups to give impetus to the
stroke, when a sharp pang, like the prick
of a pin, ran through my body from head
to heel! Then came a dull, crushing
blow, as though a truss of hay had fall-
en from a height upon my head, and
then darkness, — a vague sensation of
pain somewhere, and a dreary unconscious-
ness of what was going on until I woke
up, as it were, a few days ago, and found
myself in this cabin, and you seated there,
as you are now, by my side. I must have
been cut down from behind."
"So you were," said Brandron, when
Frankland had thus concluded his ac-
count, "but not by a mortal enemy.
You were unhorsed by a sunstroke. In
addition to this, those who had charge of
you, whoever they were, managed to let
you be attacked by jungle fever."
"How do you know?"
"Because you were very bad with jun-
gle fever when I found you."
"But where did you find me, and
when?"
"On the grand trunk road, seven miles
from Agra."
"Will you tell me under what circum-
stances?"
"In my own way, if you will not inter-
rupt me. I am a man of few words, and
will not keep you long. I was travelling
by palqui. My bearers told me there was
a palqui on the road before us unattended,
and that there was a tiger trying hard to
overturn it. I shot that tiger, — I opened
that palqui, and there found you in deli-
rium. Your bearers had fled at the sight
of the beast, whose skin I will show you
one day. I got other bearers, had you
carried on to Agra, and gave you over to
the Staff Surgeon. He told me that noth-
ing but a sea voyage would save your life,
so I brought you to Calcutta, shipped you
on board this vessel, and here you are."
"But my leave, — mv papers, — my
debts ? "—
"Were all settled by an officer of your
own regiment, who was at Calcutta, and
helped me to get you off. You have two
years' leave, and all your baggage is on
board. So you see that I have done very
little for you. Your way happened to be
my way, and we travelled together, —
that is all. As for your recovery, — sav-
ing your life, as you call it, — that is no
business of mine. You have a good con-
stitution, and were lucky enough to fall
into the hands of a doctor who left it alone.
I have told you all I know. If you want
to learn what happened to you between
the times of your falling at the Raptee
and my finding you near Agra, you must
apply to some one else. The probability
is that you were sent off about a fortnight
after your fall The rest of the time had
been taken up in the journey."
"I want to hear no more," said Frank-
land; "I have heard enough to know that
I owe you my life twice over. Like you,
I am a man of few words in these matters;
words are but poor agents to express the
gratitude I feel. I must find other means
of paying the deep debt I have incurred;
and there are those in England, Mr. Bran-


10
A TANGLED SKEIN.
(Iron, who will help me in its discharge.
May I ask in what part of England is your
home?"
"I have no home. I have been in In-
dia twenty years."
"I mean, where do your friends re-
side?"
"I have no friends. Have I not told
you that I have been away twenty years?
Before I had left twenty days no one
cared to inquire whether I was dead or
alive. Yes, there was one" he added in
a low voice; "but his anxiety about me
would have been best satisfied if he had
heard that I was dead."
"You speak bitterly."
"I feel bitterly, — that is, when I am
fool enough to give way to my feelings,
but that is not often."
"Pray, do not misjudge me," said
Frankland, touched by the sadness of his
tone, and the deepening of the settled
melancholy on his face, " or think that I
am indulging idle curiosity in pursuing a
subject which I see is not a pleasant one;
but I must naturally take a deep interest
in one to whom I owe so much. I am
going to travel overland. A dozen chances
may part us any day. Will you not let
me know where I shall find you at home,
— I mean, where you will stay when you
arrive in England?"
"That I cannot do."
"You mean you will not," said Frank-
land, somewhat nettled at what he took
for a rebuff. "Be it so, then; I will
press you no further."
"I mean," replied Brandron, taking no
notice of the impatient gesture with which
Frankland had turned from him, " exactly
what I say. I cannot tell you where I
shall stay when I land in England, be-
cause I shall be there so short a time that
I shall have no settled abode."
"Where will you go then?"
"Back to India."
"Back to India," exclaimed Frankland,
"at your age! I thought" —
"1 have only six months' leave," said
Brandron, interrupting him. "My supe-
riors imagine that I shall spend it in the
hills, and no one is aware that I intended
to take this voyage. Were my purpose
known in certain quarters, perhaps it
might have been defeated. As it is, I
take my own course. Deducting the time
which will be spent going and returning
to my post, I shall have about ten weeks
in England. I could do all I have to do
in one, and shall probably return as soon
as I have done it."
"Do you like India, then? Do you
not care to remain in your own country as
long as you can?"
"All places are the same- to me," said
Brandron, gloomily.
"Then, why this flying visit?"
"Because," replied Brandron with vehe-
mence, a strange light flashing into his
eyes as he spoke, " / go to do an act of
justice."
Frankland started up, astonished at this
sudden change in the manner of his com-
panion, and for the first time he eluded his
gaze.
"You have struck a key-note, you see,"
Brandron said, turning his face aside;
"but pray do not dwell upon it. Come,
let us change the subject."
"I am most unfortunate in my ques-
tions," Frankland rejoined; "but you
cannot think that I would intentionally
touch upon what would give you pain?
I will not offend again."
"You cannot," replied his companion
in a gayer manner than he had as yet
assumed. "Avoid this one subject, and
the more questions you ask me the bet-
ter I shall be pleased. I have lived so
long alone in out-of-the-way places, where
I have scarcely seen a white face from
one year's end to another, that I have
become uncommunicative and gloomy. I
cannot change my nature all of a sudden.
I was a pleasant companion once, I be-
lieve, and may be so again; meanwhile,
bear with an old fellow's weakness, and,
with one restriction, ask me what you
please. It is quite new to meet with any
one who takes an interest in me, as you
appear to do; and it is a pleasure to
gratify it."
"There is one thing I should very much
like to ask you," said Frankland, after a
pause; "but I am afraid it approaches
forbidden ground."
"Never mind, if it does not touch it."
"I hope it will not; if it does, say so,
and I will not urge it."
"Go on."
"You tell me that you are going to
England to do an act of justice?
Brandron's brow grew dark.
"Hear me out," Frankland continued
quickly, checking the gesture intended
to silence him. "Hear me out first. In
performing this, you will do one of two
things — perhaps both. You will punish
some one who has committed an injustice,
or you will benefit some one who has been
wronged. Which is it?"
» Both."
"Then," replied Frankland quickly,
"you will not be, as you say, without a


A TANGLED SKEIN.
11
friend; for you will win the gratitude and
love of the person whose cause you uphold."
"It is too late," said Brandron, sorrow-
fully; "too late: years ago it might have
been as you say, but now it is too late :"
— and pressing the hand which had fallen
in sympathy upon his own, he rose with a
deep sigh and left the cabin.
The young dragoon regained health
and strength rapidly, and soon began to
mix with his fellow-passengers, and to
join in the pursuits with which they be-
guiled the monotony of the voyage. In
these, the stern companion of his hours of
sickness could not take part, for certain
mystic reasons, better known to the skilled
in Anglo-Indian etiquette than to this ig-
noramus. It has been whispered to me
that there are distinctions between the
rank of this officer and that, and that the
rules of precedence to be obeyed by Mrs.
General A. and Mrs. Resident B., are as
subtle and irremovable as the laws of
caste among the natives, which those en-
lightened persons join in deploring. I
am not going to enter into details upon
this subject, or I shall have Lieutenant-
Colonel Capsicum down upon me like a
shot. "Why, blank the fellow !" that dis-
tinguished officer would cry to his chums
in the smoking-room of the Circumnavi-
gators' Club, if the blundering lines were
printed in this book, "Blank his inso-
lence! Here is a fellow who pretends to
write about Indian life and manners, and,
blank him, he does not know the most
ordinary usages of society!" He does
not pretend to any such knowledge, my
dear Sir. He only deals with facts in
these matters, and leaves his readers to
account for them how they may. He
only knows that Mr. Brandron was shun-
ned by the ladies and gentlemen in the
saloon — Stephen Frankland alone ex-
cepted; and ventures to inquire of the
gallant Lieutenant-Colonel, if he had been
returning from India in company with an
elderly person not very well dressed, but
still having the demeanor and manners of
a gentleman, who was openly known as
one of the " uncovenanted,"— whether he
would cut in with him at whist, or intro-
duce him to his wife? The author does
not pause for a reply, but goes straight
on.
Frankland perceived what was going
on a little too late to take the sting out
of it. Brandron had ceased those at-
tentions towards him which had led Cap-
tain Stephenson to imagine that the grave
old man was his servant. This, however,
he attributed to the fact that he was no
longer in a condition to require them, and
did not notice the altered manner of his
friend; but when the latter hinted, in his
cold cynical way, that seeking his society
would lower the young officer in the esti-
mation of his new acquaintances, and
requested him to let their intimacy die
out, all Frankland's warm nature revolted
against such a policy and its cause.
"Confound their exclusiveness!" he
exclaimed: "may I not choose my own
friends?"
"It is not always wise to do so," said
Brandron, dryly.
"You do not want to be friends with
me any longer then?" rejoined Frank-
land, hurt at his coolness.
"I did not say so."
"But you keep on hinting that we had
better not be seen together. I will force
myself upon no man; but I wonder you
ever took an interest in me, and acted as
you did, if you intended to throw me off
like this."
Brandron smiled grimly. "Did you
ever fish a fly out of your cream-pot?"
he asked.
"What nonsense!"
"And help him to rub his wings clean
on the table-cloth?"
"What do you mean?"
"And feel a sort of weakness towards
him as though he belonged to you whilst
he was weak and crippled, till he got all
right again, and buzzed away to join the
other flies upon the window?"
"Well," said Frankland, with a smile,
"I might have done such a thing."
"1 actually have," Brandron replied;
"metaphorically speaking, I have fished
you out of the cream-pot; I have watched
you rub your wings clean; I have had a
sort of weakness towards you whilst you
were weak and crippled; but now you
have buzzed away, and joined the other
flies, and there's an end of it."
Frankland looked him hard in the face
— looked through the cynical grin, and saw
that there was a covert smile of kindness
on the other side gleaming out like the
sun from behind a cloud. He merely
said, very quietly, "There is not an end
of it — at least so far as the fly is con-
cerned."
Brandron took a turn up and down the
deck, and when he came back to where
Stephen stood, he laid his hand upon
his shoulder without saying a word, but
Stephen knew, or thought he knew, what
was meant. It was not till the next day
that he said, apropos of nothing, "Frank-
land, I do believe that you are an honest


12
A TANGLED SKEIN.
man." What could he have been think-
ing about in the interim?
"I should be a worthless cur, Sir, if I
were not—-to you."
"As it is," said Brandron, smiling, " you
are only a fly."
"And still on the table cloth?"
"Well; have it so if you like."
And the subject was never returned to
again.
Nor was any allusion made to the topic
which had broken off their first conversa-
tion in Frankland's cabin, when he had
unwittingly touched the mainspring of his
friend's melancholy; but he gleaned from
subsequent talk that the business that
Brandron had in England would take
him in the first instance to the neigh-
borhood of Westborough; and putting
this and that together, he was able to ac-
count for the start and change of manner
which the mention of that place, whilst
telling Charley Treherne's sad story, had
caused in his auditor. This brought him
to think that Brandron might take charge
of the relics of the poor boy, and deliver
them to his sorrowing parents; and Bran-
dron accepted the commission.
"You see," Frankland said, "they'll
have heard all about it by the last mail,
and will hardly be in a condition to see
anybody just yet. You can just leave
the things, or send them, that's all. I
will go later, when they will be more pre-
pared to hear what I can tell them. It is
a sad loss — poor Charley! But it would
be a farce for a stranger like me to offer
consolation. Besides, my first duty is to
my own family; and every day that
brings me nearer to my home, finds me
more fidgety to get there." And then he
began to tell Brandron of the happy life of
his boyhood, and to anticipate the pleasant
days he should pass amongst the well-loved
faces and unforgotten scenes; but was
checked in the midst of his enthusiasm
by the cynical smile and almost savage
retort which it produced from his auditor.
He turned away, vexed with the want of
consideration he had displayed in parad-
ing his own domestic happiness before one
who had not a friend or a home, and never
renewed the subject— but Brandron did,
some ten days afterwards. By this time
they had crossed the desert, and were in
sight of Malta.
"You will go straight through France,
I suppose ?" he inquired.
"Yes, and cross to Folkestone; but, of
course, I shall send my heavy luggage
round by Southampton."
"And this brother of yours, of whom you
were speaking some time ago, of course he
will be there to welcome you?"
"Of course not. He does not expect
me — no one expects me. How should
they? Unless, indeed," Frankland added
quickly, "you wrote from India. I could
not do so, as you are well aware. Did you
write?"
"I did not," replied Brandron; "for at
this moment I do not know where your
parents live."
"I will show you," said Frankland glee-
fully, " before many days are over. I shall
give you just one week to yourself; and
then, if you do not comte straight to Trem-
lett Towers, 1 shall have you taken, and
brought there in custody."
A grim smile broke over Brandron's
countenance, as he leant over the bul-
warks and watched the foam that hissed
and curdled in the steamer's wake and
was lost in the distance on the calm and
trackless sea; but he made no reply; and
Frankland having quite made up his own
mind upon the point, considered it as set-
tled, and did not refer to it again.
One thing, however, perplexed him a
little. In the course of a conversation
with Captain Stevenson, shortly after
their first interview, he recounted his
narrow escape from being devoured alive
upon the Agra road, and when he men-
tioned Brandron's name, "Who's he?''
asked the Captain. Stephen replied, that
the person whom the Captain had taken
to be his servant was so called. Where-
upon the Captain flushed up, and declared,
that that certainly was not the name under
which his passage had been taken; and
begging Stephen to accompany bim to his
cabin, he called for the ship's books, and
there it was plainly entered that the occu-
pant of berth No. 86 had described himself
as Robert Meynell, merchant, of Calcutta,
and that there was no such person as John
Everett Brandron, of the uncovenanted
civil service, on board. But when Ste-
phen remembered that his friend's visit
to England was a secret one, he ceased,
to attribute any importance to this fact.
Time passed on pleasantly enough, and
our travellers were approaching their jour-
ney's end very nearly, when Brandron
broke a long pause by saying, suddenly,
"Shall I tell you what I am thinking of,
Frankland?"
"Yes; go on."
"I'm thinking that it would be much
more considerate if you were to go in
person to Westborough and give old Mr.
Treherne his son's sword. It may be that
the news of the poor lad's death arrived


A TANGLED SKEIN.
13
by the last mail, and they will be anxious
to know many things that you alone can
tell them. Of course, I will fulfil my
promise if you hold me to it; but it cer-
tainly seems to me that you had better
come yourself."
"Does it really?"
"It does indeed. It will not delay you
more than a day. Besides, — and here
comes the selfish part of it, — as the time
for carrying out this business of mine ap-
proaches, I feel strangely nervous and
apprehensive; and though I cannot see
how you could possibly help me, I should
not be sorry to have a friend at hand. It
is your own fault that I am so trouble-
some," he added, with a smile, "for you
have taught me what weary work it is to
be all aione. Will you come with me to
Westborough, and then I will go with you
where you please?"
"How do we get there?"
"The nearest station is Poundbridge,
which is on the direct line between Dover
and London. We can start thence, —
you to Treherne's house, I to my appoint-
ment. A few hours will suffice to settle
everything, if the man I expect is to his
time. At any rate we can resume our
journey the next day. Shall it be so?"
Stephen readily assented. Could he
do less for a man who had saved his life
twice over!
CHAPTER III.
STRANGERS AT WESTBOROUGH.
How dreadful a battle would be if
those engaged in it could see the course
of every ball, and tell precisely when to
expect the cold steel amongst their vitals!
And what an unsatisfactory life we should
lead in this world of ours, if we knew ex-
actly what dangers and chances, what
benefits and disasters, would follow every
step we take! We can, indeed, avoid the
flaring rockets, hissing shells, and other
engines of destruction that advertise their
advents in an unmistakable manner upon
either field of action, or to which we know
that we must expose ourselves if we tres-
pass in forbidden localities. But I think,
upon the whole, it is better to move
straight forward in the path of duty, and
take our chance amongst the hidden
missiles. What is the use of dodging,
when, perhaps, you dodge away from a
shot that would not have hit you, right
into the line of another that will, when, by
remaining erect, you might have avoided
both? The same thing may happen in
the Battle of Life. There are rifle-pits
full of expert marksmen in our streets;
there are masked batteries before our
country-houses. The lover's walk down
yonder in the shrubbery is mined under
our feet . We can see the hits when our
friends fall, and the explosions when the
air is full of wreck and ruin. Let us not
trouble ourselves about the misses. Every
bullet has its billet, and ignorance of
which is the very one about to settle our
account is bliss indeed. Shall I stay at
home? I may make the acquaintance of
the girl who is to make delightful the rest
of my days, or I may miss the opportunity
which is to make me the happiest of men!
What shall I do? It will be best, I think,
to take things as they come, and go about
the ordinary business of the hour without
considering its fortuities, or we shall soon
become miserable cowards, unwilling to go
about at all. So went Stephen Frank-
land. If he had known what would have
been the consequences of his visit to
Westborough, he certainly would have
given that picturesque village the widest
berth, and probably would have been not
much better off in the long-run for his es-
cape.
So Stephen went to Westborough, to
hand over in person to the sorrowing
father the relics of poor Charley Tre-
herne; and, to his surprise, found his
usually stern and composed companion
becoming painfully nervous and appre-
hensive as he approached the spot. Twice
only during the whole of their voyage from
India had Brandron alluded to the serious
business, the act of justice, as he had
called it on board the steamer, to perform
which he was paying his flying visit to Eng-
land. Hitherto he had become very an-
gry and silent when Stephen appeared
even to be approaching the subject, but
for the last few hours it was hardly ever
off his tongue.
"Have you ever had a presentiment of
evil, Frankland?" he asked, as they were
about to land at Folkestone.
"No, — yes, — Well, sometimes; but I
don't know that it was ever fulfilled."
"I have one at this moment, and it is,
that as Bure as I put my foot on that land,
I shall never leave it again."
"Then I most heartily hope it may
come true," was Stephen's reply. "Why
should you go out to be broiled to death
again?"


14
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Frankland! I am going to put myself
in the hands of a man whom I cannot
trust, — a man who has managed to silence
me for twenty years, and who would not
scruple to silence me forever, if he
could."
"Tush! my dear Sir. Westborough is
in the county of Kent, — not in the Him-
alaya mountains," replied his friend, gayly.
"There's law in the land of England, —
and me; why not let me assist you in this
matter; you may depend upon my discre-
tion, and I'll take good care that you are
not wronged."
"No, no," said Brandron, with a sigh
that ended in a shudder; "I must go
through it by myself, — I must go through
it alone. I will do my duty, whatever
may be the result. When the time comes
I shall be prepared for it: it is only the
coming that unsettles me a little."
It was early hours when the train
reached Poundbridge, and our travellers
found themselves in the inn at Westbor-
ough by mid-day. Here Brandron en-
gaged a pleasant, cool little room, over-
looking the road, and Stephen Frank-
land inquired his way to Mr. Treherne's
house.
"Well, Sir," said the la dlord, "it's
about two mile from here, out Fenbury
way. I don't know if I'm intruding, Sir;
but was you one of the family?"
Stephen replied that he was not.
"Because," resumed his host, " I don't
know as he'll see you. He a'n't seen
anybody, not even the Squire, since he
heard of poor Master Charley's death."
"Then he does know?" said Frank-
land, quickly..
"Oh, yes! The news came, Let
me see, now, — the news came,—just a
fortnight ago; it came in a letter from
them as works things in India, — I don't
know justly what to call 'em; and it said
as Master Charley was dead, — nothing
more. The poor old gentleman does take
on above a bit; lor he thinks, — and it's
only likely, too,—that them devils of Se-
'poys got the poor lad prisoner, and tor-
tured him. Ah! he teas a nice lad, too,
was Master Charley."
This intelligence determined Frankland
to go on at once to the Rectory. He could,
at least, give the stricken father the slight
consolation that his gallant son had died
a soldier's death. Imagining that the
house would be near at hand, he had dis-
missed the fly, and was rather posed for a
conveyance; for the idea of walking to his
destination, be it far or near, is one which
rarely occurs to a man who has spent
much time in India. However, the land-
lord, who did a little farming, solved this
difficulty by offering to lend his pony;
and Captain Stephen rode out of the sta-
ble-yard of the Rising Sun astride upon
an animal the sight of which would have
spread consternation amongst the ranks of
the crack regiment to which he belonged.
But though his mount, to use an elegant
expression, was a " rum 'un to look at," it
was decidedly "a good 'un to go," and
trotted along merrily till he brought his
rider to where three cross-roads met
.
Now, he had been told to keep " straight
on," and as each of these roads diverged
at a considerable angle, he pulled up, and
was puzzled which to follow. At last he
proceeded down that which seemed to
lead in the right direction, and had not
gone far, when he saw a woman walking
on in front. "All right," he said to him-
self, " here's some one who will show me
the way," and he cantered up towards
her. As he approached, she sat down
upon the roadside, and began plucking
the grass, platting it up in a meaningless
manner. She was a full-grown woman,
dressed in a common blue print, heavy
boots, and battered straw bonnet, like one
who labors in the fields; but she had the
face of a child.
"Please tell me which is the way to
Kernden ?" asked Stephen.
The woman looked up vaguely.
"Perhaps you don't live about here?"
he asked, thinking he might be inquiring
of a stranger.
The woman's countenance instantly lit
up with a gleam of intelligence.
"I live at the third cottage opposite the
well, a mile and a bit from Westbor-
ough."
There was a strange accuracy in the
address, and it was spoken quickly, as a
child would repeat a lesson that she had
been taught, — galloping quickly over the
beginning, that she might not have time to
forget the end.
"Then please show me the way to
Kernden Rectory ?" Frankland said.
The look of intelligence faded away,
and an expression of blank wonder, not
unmixed with fear, took its place.
"Can't you tell me where the clergy-
man lives? Don't you know Mr. Tre-
herne?"
"Yes, yes!" she replied quickly.
"Kind Mr. Treherne! why has he not
come?" and she started up, and seized
Stephen by his coat.
"1 do not know what you mean, my
good woman," he answered, gently re-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
15
leasing himself from her grasp; "but if
you know this gentleman, as you seem to
do,* surely you can tell me whereabout he
lives?"
"It's no use your talking to her," said a
gruff voice from behind. "Don't you see
she's daft?"
Stephen, startled at the interruption,
turned round and saw that he was ad-
dressed by a travelling knife-grinder, who
stood leaning on his machine on the oppo-
site side of the road. He was not a nice-
looking person.
Small black eyes, set deep in his head
under lowering brows, — a nose which
had been smashed flat in some brawl, and
a jaw nearly as wide and as powerful as
that of a bull-dog, are not prepossessing
features. Moreover, when the new-comer
lifted off his fur cap to wipe his brow, it be-
came apparent that the last person who
had cut his hair had followed the style
adopted in her Majesty's Jails and Houses
of Correction, rather than that which Mr.
Marsh, of Piccadilly, would recommend.
It was clear, too, that the operator's ser-
vices had recently been in requisition.
Ragged and rough, and brutal as he
looked, he spoke very kindly, though, to
the woman.
"Get thee whoam, Nancy gal," he said.
"It's none reet for them to let ye be wan-
dering about this gait. Ye'll be run over
and hurted if ye dusn't mind. Come
along a' me. I'll see thee whoam lass,
come along a' me."
"Is she quite imbecile ?" asked Frank-
land, now interested in the poor crea-
ture.
"I don't know what ye mean be imbe-
cile. She's not roight in her mind, and
she never wor. She's no bisness wi' you,
nor you wi' her; and I'm a-going to take
her back to where she lives."
"Is that far from here?"
"None so fur, but too fur for her to be
abroad these times. There's tramps about
harvesting, as 'ud murder her for her
boots, poor thing!"
"I was asking her the way to Kernden
Rectory," said Stephen, " when you came
up. Perhaps you can tell me?"
"Ay, you mun folly us if you loike.
We be goin' that road, and when you see
old Treherne just tell him, will you," said
the knife-grinder fiercely, '' that you met
Jim Riley, and say that I towd yer that
the next time I wor sent to jail it should
be for summut, not for nought as last time,
— d'ye hear?"
"I should try and get an honest living,
and so keep out of jail altogether, if I
were you," said Frankland, kindly, as
he rode along at a foot's pace with his
guide.
"Would yer!" the man retorted, with a
scoff. "And suppose, while you was get-
tin' an honest living, a policeman should
come to your master's shop and say,—
'this 'ere fellow's bin convicted of felony,
turn him out'? and you was turned out
accordin', and not having brass enough to
pay for a night's lodgin', you went to sleep
in a shed by the roadside, and was took
up for a rogue and a vagabond, and sent
to quod for fourteen days, and no one
would trust you with work again? What
would you do then, if you was me, eh?"
"Is that your own case?"
"Ay, it is; what do you think of it?"
"That it is a hard one. See, my man,
here's five shillings for you. That will
keep you out of trouble for a day or two.
Where are you going now?"
"I've tramped from Maidstone to-day,
and when I've seen some one about here
as I wants to see," said the knife-grinder,
in a mollified tone, as he pocketed the
proffered money, " I'm off north, to Shef-
field."
"To Sheffield!" said Stephen. "Do
you know Durmstone?"
« Ay."
"Well, if you should be passing there
and want work — But what are you?"
"A cutler by trade; but I can put my
hand to a'most anything if I've a mind."
"Then, if you should go near Durm-
stone, call at Tremlett Towers and ask for
Captain Frankland. I will see what can
be done for you. Now, which turning am
I to take?"
They had by this time come to the cross
lanes where Stephen had missed his way.
"Well; ye'll go down there over the
brook, and go forward till ye come to a
plantation, when ye mun turn along it to
the roight; and as soon as ye get clear of
the wood ye'll see church steeple, and
when ye see church steeple parson's house
won't be far off. Good-day, master, and
thank ye! Come along, Nancy lass, gee
us yer hand !" saying which he helped the
imbecile over a style into a pathway that
led across the fields to a row of cottages on
the high road, whilst Stephen trotted on.
Into the little garden in front of the
third of these cottages Jim Riley led his
charge, and knocked at the door; but
there was no response. Impatient at
the delay, he knocked louder, and pres-
ently a woman came running out of the
next house.
"Lord bless us!" she exclaimed, "is


16
A TANGLED SKEIN.
that you, Jim! and Nancy, too! I'm so
glad. She a'n't been ip all the mornin',
and we was a'most afeerd she was lost."
"Why don't the old 'un take better care
on her, then !" said Riley, gruffly. "She
ought to be ashamed of hersel—she ought;
lettin' a poor daft thing like her run loose
about the place."
"Why, don't you know what has hap-
pened ?" asked the neighbor, in a tone of
astonishment.
"How should I? I only came out this
mornin'."
"The old 'un's dead."
"Dead?"
"Died the day before yesterday. Over-
seer's going to have her buried a Sunday,
and they're a-coming to take Nancy there
to the work'us to-morrow."
Riley staggered, and almost fell, as he
reiterated the word "dead!" and it was
some moments before he recovered his old
reckless bearing.
"I must go in. Who's got the key?"
he muttered, at last, in a husky voice.
The neighbor replied that it had been
left in her charge, and ran to get it. Riley
snatched it roughly from her hand, and let
himself into the darkened cottage.
It was a humble place enough, consist-
ing of a kitchen with a tiled floor, and a
small sleeping-room above; but every-
thing about it was wonderfully neat and
clean, and there were indications of a re-
fined way of living, here and there, which
you could not expect to find under so poor
a roof. The little garden in the front, too,
was laid out with much good taste, and
flowers of a superior class flourished in the
well-kept beds.
Riley was evidently no stranger in the
little cottage. He strode through the
kitchen, opened the door which concealed
the narrow stair leading to the sleeping-
room, and though it was quite dark, mount-
ed it without pause or stumble, and stood
beside the bed. In a while he stood mo-
tionless, with ashen lips and loudly-beating
heart, gazing upon the form which the
white sheet covered but could not con-
ceal. Then he drew the covering aside,
and scanned the frigid features closely.
"Dead," he repeated, " dead! and with
strangers and parsons about her to the
last, I'll be bound. Curse them! If I
had been free, she'd have told me all;
she said she would before she died. Has
she told aught to any one else?"
The sturdy tramp had passed most of
his life upon the road. He had visited
many strange places, and seen many
strange things. There were few people
who could enlighten Jim Riley upon sub-
jects connected with any one of his mqlti-
farious callings. What, then, could it be
that he desired so much to hear from a
lone woman who had not quitted that
quiet Kentish hamlet for nearly twenty
years! What could she have known to
interest him! and why should he look so
black and fierce when struck by the
thought that her knowledge had been
confided to another, before Death laid
his cold finger on her lips! These are
knots in my Tangled Skein which we
must not now attempt to loosen. The
tramp remained lost in thought by the
bedside, till poor Nancy, terrified at be-
ing left all alone in the gathering dark-
ness, plucked him by the skirt, and told
him, in her vague disjointed way, that it
was no use, mother would not wake; she
had tried, had shaken her hard, but she
would not stir. They must get supper
without her.
They were about to do so, when the
neighbor already mentioned came in, and
told them that it was no use hunting about,
all the victuals had been used up the day
before; but if Nancy would come in to
her place, the girl was welcome to what
she and her old man had got. She also
proposed that Nancy should sleep with
their children. "One more," said the
kind-hearted woman, "won't make no
such great difference, and it 'ud scare
the poor thing worse than she is to be
left alone up there," pointing to the room
which Riley had just left. "You, Jim,"
she added, " can make yourself comforta-'
ble here in the arm-chair, and we'll send
you a bit of victuals and a drop o' cider
Eresently." Jim Riley was evidently
etter known than trusted in that local-
ity. . .
He made no objection whatever to spend
the night where he was, and when he had
discussed the supper provided by the next-
door neighbor, he lit his pipe, and smoked
away very contentedly in the dark, till all
was quiet and the neighbors on either side
had retired to rest. Then he rose; and
from a drawer in his knife-grinding ma-
chine, which he had drawn in after him
when Nancy went out, he took a lantern,
and having lighted it, proceeded to search
every nook of the cottage. He made a
clean sweep of every shelf, carefully ex-
amining each crock and tin before he put
it up again; and when he came to any
box or cupboard that was locked, he had
recourse again to his machine, which-
seemed to have the faculty of producing
skeleton keys, jemmies, screwdrivers, files,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
17
and other instruments for opening places
of security at will.
He found very little of any interest or
value until he had opened one of those
very palpable depositaries called "secret
drawers," in the deceased woman's work-
box. There he found a letter, some silver
money, a broken brooch, a locket contain-
ing the miniature of a young and beautiful
girl, a curious old needle-book with covers
made of gold- filagree-work, in the centre
of which were what seemed to be initials
and a crest, but the little shield, upon
which they were engraved, was so worn,
that more intelligent eyes than Riley pos-
sessed could not have deciphered them.
The tramp eagerly seized these last-named
articles before he saw the letter, but hav-
ing perceived it, instantly laid them down
and opened it. It contained a five-pound
Bank of England note, but no other enclo-
sure; was directed to the owner of the
work-box, and the post-mark showed that
it had come from London, and that she
had received it two weeks before her
death. Riley knotted up in his handker-
chief the brooch, the locket, and the
needle-book, left the bank-note and the
money in the drawer, and having care-
fully wrapped the envelop in some leaves
which he tore from an old Bible, pro-
ceeded with his search. He even went so
far as to examine the tiles which com-
posed the floor, to see'if any one of them
had been recently removed, — and day-
light found him still searching.
In the mean time, Frankland had found
his way to the Rectory, and as he ex-
pected, was denied to the Rector. The
young ladies were at home, the servants
told him, and Mr. Cuthbert; but " Master
could not see any visitors." Further in-
quiry proved that Mr. Cuthbert was the
clergyman's nephew, and to him Stephen
sent in his card. Time to deliver it had
barely passed when a door was thrown open,
and a young man dressed in deep mourn-
ing bounced into the hall, and exclaimed:
"What! Steeve!"
Upon which Frankland started, grasped
his extended hand, and cried in the same
tone, —
"What! Cuddy! Who on earth would
have thought of seeing you here!"
"Why, don't you know that Mr. Tre-
herne is my uncle? But what in the
name of wonder brings you this way? I
thought you were in In . Ah, I see,
— poor Charley! Oh! Steeve, is it
true ?" he asked eagerly.
"I am sorry to say it is, — quite true."
"We had no hope; but I thought I saw
something in your face that roused one for
a moment."
"It was pleasure at meeting an old
chum so unexpectedly, — nothing more.
I can relieve some of your fears respect-
ing the manner of his death; that is all."
"And you have come all this way to
tell us! Dear old man! But it is just
like you. Don't let us stand here, though.
Come in, and I will introduce you to my
cousins, and they will break your arrival
to my uncle."
Stephen's name had gone before him to
the drawing-room. It was a well-known
name there, for the lost brother's letters
had been full of it. And in their happier
hours pretty Gertrude and Maud Tre-
herne had often tried to picture to each
other what this stern, honest, tender and
hearty Captain, whose praises Charley
had never tired of singing, could be like.
In playful mood they had drawn fancy
portraits of their brother's idol, in which
Maud pictured him with superhuman beau-
ty, and represented him in the act of per-
forming prodigies of valor; whilst merry
Gertrude delighted to put him into all
sorts of ridiculous positions. There is a
sheet of drawing-paper extant, upon which
various passages in the life of Captain
Frankland are spiritedly depicted. The
best of these, perhaps, are the sketches
entitled " Captain Frankland feels it hot,"
"Captain Frankland finds it difficult to
put on his boots," as well he might, for
they are brimful of snakes, — and " Pig-
sticking in India," in which a fine boar,
mounted upon a showy Arab, is depicted
in the act of thrusting his spear into the
person of an officer in the uniform of the
Bengal Cavalry, who bears a strong like-
ness to the hero of the other scenes. Ah!
they were pleasant days, — those days
never to dawn again upon the peaceful
Rectory, when the absent one's letters ar-
rived full of the wonders of the strange
land in which his lot was cast, to be thus
travestied in all love by the sprightly and
winsome Gerty. Her younger sister used
to protest vehemently against such dispar-
agement of her hero, which interference
caused Gerty to declare, that the bare-
faced manner in which that young woman,
— meaning dear little, timid Maud, — was
setting her cap at the Captain, was a dis-
grace to the ftimily. It will be a long
time before the merry laughter which
used to accompany these sallies, and the
repartees thereto, will be heard again;
and it was with a wild throb at their
hearts that the sisters sprang forward to
meet the object of their former merriment.


18
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Had he good news?" Grave Stephen
Frankland was at his gravest now, and
one glance at his face told the quick-wit-
ted girls to banish the hope which, as with
their cousin, had flashed across their minds
at the first mention of the well-known
name.
Cuthbert Lindsay began the common
form of introduction; but there was no
need for that. The frank girls held out
their hands to their dead brother's friend
before it was well begun, and no one
thought of ceremony at such a meeting.
I should like to pass over all that took
place when the bereaved father came
down to hear the sad story, and the relics
of his brave lad had to be produced and
wept over in the darkened room, and go
on to the evening, when the smart had
somewhat died out of the reopened
wounds, and all concerned felt more re-
signed to their loss. Frankland would
have ridden back to Poundbridge, and re-
mained there till it was time for him to re-
join Brandron, according to arrangement;
but this was not to be heard of. A bed
was prepared for him at the Rectory, and
his rejection at first of the proffered hospi-
tality seemed to give so much disappoint-
ment, that he withdrew it and remained.
He had quite mistaken the course best
to be adopted in such cases. He imagined
that, the bare facts in his possession once
told, he ought carefully to avoid all topics
which could remind the mourners of their
loss; but he found that they loved to
dwell upon the memory of the dead, re-
minding each other of well-known tales of
"dear Charley" as child, and boy, and
man, and constantly appealing to their
guest if their darling had spoken thus, in
India, or had forgotten so-and-so, amongst
his soldier friends. When Stephen saw,
thus, how their inclinations tended, they
had no reason to complain of him as un-
communicative. He recalled every act
which reflected credit upon his friend, and
faithfully recounted it amidst smiles and
tears, till the hours wore away, and the
girls reluctantly rose to retire for the
night. Then, in answer to some question
put by Cuthbert Lindsay, Tremlett Tow-
ers was mentioned, and at the sound of
those words Gertrude Treherne paused,
and, with a little puzzled look in her
pretty face, asked, —
"And what do you know of Tremlett
Towers?"
"Simply, that I was born there," was
Frankland's smiling reply.
"You don't say so! How came
that?"
"Because the estate belongs to my fa —
to my family."
"How very odd. Then Sir George
Tremlett" —
"Is my father."
"And Mr. Francis Tremlett ?" the in-
quirer continued, casting a queer look at
her sister.
"Is my half-brother."
"Then you will know Mr. Coleman, of
Ruxton Court?"
"Excellently well."
"And Grace?" interpolated Maud,
quickly.
"No," Frankland replied; "I can't
say that I remember any one of that name
down there. The names of Coleman's
daughters, if I recollect right, are, —
Laura, Emily Lavinia, Constance, and
Fanny."
"We do not mean any of the Misses
Coleman," said Maud, in a disparaging
tone; "we mean the dearest, the clever-
est, the prettiest and " —
"No, she's not pretty," interrupted Ger-
trude; "she's beautiful."
"Well, then, the most beautiful."
"And the best."
"Oh yes, and " —
"Ami the queerest girl in the wide
world," continued the elder sister, by way
of finish.
"Indeed," rejoined the Captain; "and
the name of this wonder?"
"Is Grace Lee. She was a parlor-
boarder at the school we used to be at.
She's much older than we are, — that is,
she'll be four-and-twenty on the nine-
teenth of next February," replied Ger-
trude; "and for the last two years she has
lived at Ruxton Court."
"A relation of the Colemans, per-
haps?"
"Well, I don't think so," Gertrude re-
plied. "She is without father or mother,
poor darling! and I think her relations
have not used her as well as they ought.
She was here staying with us all last sum-
mer, and how we managed to get on with-
out her when she left I really do not
know. Everybody loved her. Even pa-
pa's dreadful old clerk. But, oh! Cap-
tain Frankland, you can have no idea how
queer she is."
"May I ask in what her 'queerness'
consists ?" asked the Captain with one of
his grave smiles.
"Well; I can't exactly tell you, if you
put it in that way. She likes what no one
else cares about, and she pretends not to
care about what everybody likes. Now,
when you see her, and say that you have


A TANGLED SKEIN.
19
been here, I dare say she'll try and make
you think that we are quite ordinary ac-
quaintances."
"Thus pretending not to care about
what everybody likes?" observed the
Captain gallantly.
"No, no, — you must not catch me up
so; you know I did not mean that. Dear
Grace! I wish she were with us now."
And the happy recollections associated
with the name of her friend, which for the
moment had made her forget her sorrow,
died away, and repeating their "good-
night !" the sisters left the room. Pray-
ers had been read, and Mr. Treherne
and the servants had retired some time
before.
Then the young men adjourned to the
deserted kitchen, to smoke, and Frank-
land produced some exceedingly muscular
cheroots, which Lindsay essayed with a
solemnity worthy the occasion. Cuthbert
Lindsay and the Captain had been school-
fellows at Rugby, and the system there
pursued made them honest, manly fel-
lows, whom everybody liked, — Stephen
after some knowing, and Cuddy before
they knew him at all. It was impossible
to be in the fellow's company for ten min-
utes without taking a fancy to him. A
bright-eyed, wiry, spruce little fellow, with
a warm heart and a clear head, — he was
in the good books of everybody who had
good books for him to be in. There are
some people, as you may be aware, who
do not provide themselves with stationery
of this description. A sparkling, merry
little fellow was Cuddy, who spoke the
Queen's English plainly upon occasion,
and would stick up to friend or foe with-
out casting up the cost of word or blow.
For his soul and his body were not in pro-
portion, and being a small man, he was
dangerously pugnacious at times. Of
course, we do not see him to advantage
now as a jolly companion; for although
until the news of Charley's death he had
seen but little of his uncle and cousins, he
was not the man to be in the house with
them for a fortnight without feeling deeply
for their misfortune. He had been sent
there to try and bear them up in their trou-
ble, and he played his part well.
He had not met his old chum for so
many years, that it took some time to
bring their comparison of notes up to that
present speaking; and then, in reply to
Stephen's inquiries as to what he was do-
ing and how the world was treating him,
he replied that he was a barrister, — that
is to say, he had chambers in the Temple
which were very complete, and went the
Southern circuit, which was very jolly, but
that as yet his briefs were confined to a
peculiar order, which he designated as
"soup;" but Stephen, knowing that he
had a little patrimony of his own which
would keep up the complete chambers in
Sycamore Court, and provide for the jolli-
ties of the Southern circuit, did not con-
dole with him thereat.
With so much to talk about, it was late
hours, and more than three or four of the
muscular cheroots had melted away into
blue smoke, before they separated for the
night.
At breakfast the next morning, Stephen
remembered his rencontre with Jim Riley,
and the message of that worthy to the
Rector, which he delivered, with a view
of eliciting something of his history.
"Ah," said Mr. Treherne, " he's a bad
one, — a very bad one, I am sorry to say."
"There is no truth, then, in his story
that he has been unjustly condemned?"
"I am afraid, none; a burglary was
committed in a farmhouse near here, and
two days afterwards he was found at
Seven-Elms in possession of part of the
stolen property. It was found hidden in
his knife-grinding machine, and the only
account that he could give of it was, that
some one must have put it there."
"A lame excuse, indeed."
"And a very common one," observed
Lindsay. "The generosity of thieves is
unbounded. Go to the next county ses-
sions, and you will find that more than
sixty per cent. of the prisoners will say
that they have been presented with the
articles which incriminate them, by some
utter stranger (of course the real thief) —
no doubt as a token of his admiration and
esteem, — or else that they have picked
them up in some open and frequented
thoroughfare. It may be my misfortune,"
Cuddy continued, " or it may be my fault,
but I must confess that I never was pre-
sented with a leg of mutton and a brass
candlestick by an admiring costermonger
in Fleet Street, neither have I ever found
somebody else's gold watch secreted in my
wig-box. Jim Riley is evidently more
lucky."
"There can be no doubt that he was
one of the gang," said the Rector; "but
as it could not be shown that he was near
the place on the night of the burglary, he
was convicted only as a guilty receiver of
the stolen property. I was in hopes that
his long imprisonment would have had a
better effect upon his mind. He seems,
however, to be incorrigible."
"And I'm sure, papa, you have done


so
A TANGLED SKEIN.
all in your power to keep him honest,"
said Maud.
"I took an interest in him," the Rector
observed, "for his mother's sake. She,
poor woman, was a very respectable per-
son, and lived for many years in one of
those cottages that you might have seen to
the right, before you came to the three
cross roads."
"And where has she gone now?"
"To her last account! She died last
Wednesday; and I was much grieved to
find, when it was too late, that she had
sent an urgent message asking me to come
to her and receive a communication she
wished to make. Some unexplained care-
lessness in her messenger or my servants
prevented my being made aware of this
until I had heard of her death."
"Do you know, papa," observed Ger-
trude, as she handed him his tea, " I can-
not help thinking that she wanted to speak
to you about that Nancy, — the poor im-
becile you spoke to, Captain Frankland,
when you lost your way."
"She certainly has been most unfor-
tunate with her children," Frankland ob-
served.
"Most unfortunate," replied the Rector;
"I do not know what is to be done with
the girl, unless she goes to the County
Asylum. It sounds hard to send her there,
but perhaps it would be the best thing,
after all."
"Has not Mrs. Riley left any money,
then, papa?" asked Maud.
The Rector shook his head. "She was
a very careful woman; but it is impossible
with her earnings that she could have put
away anything considerable; the wonder
is how she lived as she did on her little
stipend; however, we shall see. The
neighbors very properly locked up all her
drawers and sent me the keys to take care
of, and I shall go over either to-day or to-
morrow and see how matters stand."
"Pardon me for suggesting," said Frank-
land, " that as this fellow Riley is such a
scoundrel, he might possibly be tempted to
make off' with any little provision left for
his sister, and that it would be as well, as
he is on the spot, for some one to take pos-
sessio of the place at once."
"Why, he's entitled by law to half of
her property," said Lindsay, "if the old
woman has not left a will leaving it to
some one else."
"Well, that's no reason why he should
take it all, Cousin Cuthbert, is it?" asked
Gertrude. "I am 6ure," she added, "that
Captain Frankland is quite right, and that
some one ought to go over directly and
turn that bad fellow out, and give all the
money and things they can find to who-
ever will promise to take care of Nancy
for the rest of her life."
"Yes, and get made into an executor de
son tort," said Cuthbert, glad of an oppor-
tunity of displaying the profundity of his
legal acquirements to his pretty cousin.
"And who's an executor de son tort in
the name of wonder?" asked the younger,
opening wide her great blue eyes.
"Never you mind, Maud; something
very dreadful I can tell you — between a
mad bull and the measles — which gets
into the house, spoils the dinner, raises the
price of hops, upsets the oil bottle on your
new dress, and makes you double up your
perambulators and bruise your oats. They
brought a bill before Parliament to trans-
port it for life and make a present of it to
the Emperor of Austria in a gold box;
but Lord Derby wants to have a lark with
it at Knowsley, and so the Tories are go-
ing to move that the bill be read a sec-
ond time — after goose — on Michaelmas
Day."
"When you've quite done talking non-
sense, Cuthbert, perhaps you'll hand me
the bread?" said the Rector. "Thank
you. I certainly agree with Captain
Frankland, that immediate steps should
be taken to protect this poor girl, and
should be much obliged to you, Cuthbert,
if you would go over as soon as possible."
"To beard the knife-grinder in his den,
— the Riley in his hall? Certainly, if
you desire it."
"And pray let them make you that thing
with the hard name, if it involves trans-
portation," said Gertrude; "for you're get-
ting very troublesome,— isn't he, Maud?"
"Oh, Gerty, how can you — when only
last night you said"
But Gerty flew at her sister and gagged
her fiercely with a piece of worsted-work.
So the sentence was not ended, and the
speaker all but smothered for commencing
it.
"What time are you to call for your
friend at Westborough, Steeve?" asked
Cuthbert, when order was restored.
"Oh, about four, so as to be in time
to catch the Express, if he has done his
business."
"And if he has not, shall you go on
without him?"
"That depends! I certainly am in
rather a hurry to get home, and But
I shall see when I get to the inn."
"Very well, then. Now listen to the
orders of the day, a breach of which will
subject the offender to all the pains and


A TANGLED SKEIN.
21
penalties of prcemunire, 'which are so awful
that nobody knows what they are. I go
now instanter, to do battle with the knife-
grinder. Captain Frankland is to be per-
mitted fo smoke one cheroot in the garden
without molestation. Then he is to be
taken into custody by Sergeant Gertrude
and Constable Maud, and sent to hard
labor in the church, the schools, the con-
servatory, to view the pigsties, and other
objects of local interest. When sufficiently
punished, he is to be brought in to lunch-
eon, and orders given for his high-mettled
racer to be at the door at three o'clock, at
which hour he must be liberated, and told
to make his way to Riley's cottage. There
he will find me installed as man in posses-
sion, and I will go on to Westborough with
him. If he goes to London — he goes,
and there's an end of him; if he stays, I'll
bring him back here to Kernden, and we'll
make a friend of him; which you will per-
ceive to be poetry. Are the arrangements
thus elegantly enunciated agreeable to the
persons interested? If so, you are re-
quested to stand in a semicircle, to raise
your right hands towards the chandelier,
and say 'we are,' in chorus."
The stage direction was not obeyed, but
the proposed plans were acquiesced in not-
withstanding.
Before he left, Cuthbert drew Frank-
land on one side, and said, "You can't
think, Steeve, what a lot of good you've
done the dear old governor. He's quite
resigned, and comparatively happy, now
that he knows what a good little fellow
Charley was, and how well he did his
duty. It's been an awful bore for you, of
course? but we shan't »forget your kind-
ness in a hurry—any of us—I can tell you."
Frankland found the time pass very
quickly, and parted with the good Rector
and his daughters with mutual regret.
"There goes a fine fellow," said Mr.
Treherne, as he rode away. "Ah me!
my lad would have been such another, —
brave, and tender, and true. The home
that owns him may well be a happy and
a proud one, as mine might have been.
Nevertheless, not my will, but Thine be
done;" and he bowed his head and went
his way without a tear.
Cuthbert Lindsay was waiting at the
cross-roads when his friend rode up. "I've
secured the Lares and Penates of the de-
ceased Riley," he said," including the cat;
and, by Jove! we've all been too hard
upon the illustrious Jim. He was in the
cottage all night, but has not touched any-
thing that was not his own. I found all
the drawers and places, and cupboards,
locked up, just as the neighbors had left
them."
"Then he is not so thorough a rascal,
after all?"
"No; and the most extraordinary part
of it is, that although he has left the mova-
bles, he has removed the incumbrances."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply this, — that he has taken his
mad sister away with him, no one knows
where. He knocked at the door where
she slept, called her out, — they tell me
she is always the first up, — an<J they
have gone as the dew-drop is blown from
the bough."
"Perhaps they have only left for the
day?"
"Perhaps; but it is not usual for peo-
ple who go out only for the day to pack
up and take away every rag that belongs
to them, bundled up in a blue and a yel-
low striped handkerchief."
"You have traced them, then?"
"As far as the turnpike, — no farther.
In reply to the keeper's questions, Jim said
that he was taking the girl to Sheffield, —
where they lived before they came here,
— to her grandmother. I believe there is
such a place as Sheffield, but the descrip-
tions given me of Jim Riley fill me with
the strongest doubts that he ever could
have had a grandmother."
"Then you ought to give information
to the police, and have them followed and
brought back."
"What for? To be obliged to let
them go again? Not I. This fellow is
the girl's nearest relation, and he has a
legal right to her custody, of which we
cannot deprive him, unless we can prove
that he treats her badly; but the evidence
of the neighbors is all the other way. No,
Steeve, they have gone from your gaze
like a beautiful dream, and you can mourn
them in vain over valley and stream;
only, if you want to catch the Express,
look sharp, and get on to Westborough
before four o'clock."
So on they went briskly, and soon ar-
rived at the inn. The landlord was at
the door leaning against the lentil, and
gazing at nothing in particular with a
contemplative frown, after the manner ot
landlords. Of him Frankland instantly
inquired if any person had called to see
Mr. Brandron; and learned no one, —
leastwise, to the landlord's knowledge, —
had been near the place since he (the in-
quirer) left, "excepting, in course, Mr.
Jawlings and the other gentlemen who
used the bar-parlor regular of a night.
Mr. Brandron had got up early, and had


22
A TANGLED SKEIN.
been a-writing all the day; they would
find him in his room." There Frankland
sought him, bidding Cuddy to wait a mo-
ment or two till he could tell him what
their movements would be, and knocked
at the door.
There was no reply.
He knocked louder; still no answer
came, and Stephen essayed to open the
door. It was locked. A cold tremor,
which he could not suppress, ran through
him from head to foot, as the forebodings
of evil, expressed by his old friend, flashed
through his mind. "Good God !" he ex-
claimed, "can anything have happened
to him?" and with one mighty rush he
brought his now sturdy shoulders against
the panels, and crash went the door into
the middle of the apartment.
No one was there!
Lindsay and the landlord, alarmed at
the noise, came rushing in, and Stephen
had to account as well as he could for his
apparently unreasonable violence. "But
where was Mr. Brandron?" The land-
lord could only say that about ten o'clock,
as he passed the window to cut some
vegetable marrows for the market, he'd
"seed him with his eyes " — with what
other organs he could have made the ob-
servation he did not mention, — "I seed
him," he said, " with my eyes a-sittin' at
that there table, a-writin' and a-foldin',
and a-messin' about with them there bits
of paper" — indicating some old letters
that the wind had scattered about the
floor. Stephen called for wax and a
taper, and instantly sealed them up in
a packet, so that their contents could not
be pried into. But what had become of
their owner? His habits were precise and
methodical; and he was clearly not the
sort of man to leave his desk open and his
papers lying about in a room with an
open window, even though he had locked
the door and put the key in his pocket.
The landlord was utterly unable to ac-
count for Frankland's anxiety, and Lind-
say could not exactly make out what he
feared. Brandron, he said, would be sure
to come back directly, as it would soon be
time to start for the station. They had
better sit down and wait patiently. Frank-
land did so, — for seven minutes; then he
rose and strode out of the house to make
inquiries in the village.
The village was dozing in the bright
sunshine, with not even one eye open. It
was so at the best of times, when it was on
the main. road to the fashionable watering-
place which lay two or three miles farther
on, and was perched upon the top of a
long, long chalky hill, toiling up the which
made horse and man thirsty, and not dis-
inclined to stop and take a long breath
and something short when they reached
its shade. It was not a lively place. I
do not mean to say that any one has lev-
elled the hill, — or taken up the church,
and the inn, and the two beer-houses, and
the butcher's shop, and the baker's
(where the post-office was), and the row
of thatched cottages with the old-fashioned
diamond panes in the windows, behind
which four pennyworth of sugar-sticks
were exhibited for sale in three pickle-
bottles, with a ball of string and a far-
thing battledoor, — and the lawyer's house
(what could they want with a lawyer ?),
and the seven gentlemen's villas, and the
green, the oak-tree, the stocks, and the
pump, — and carried them away bodily
from off that main road, and the top of
that winding hill, and deposited them
somewhere else. There they were! But
a railroad had come and skirted the hill,
and bored a tunnel through its weakest
point, and got on the other side of it, and
dashed into the favorite watering-place
round a sharp corner, in a manner that
seemed to say, — " Holloa! you're there,
are you ?" — and thus seemed to have
scared the little village that it circum-
vented into a state of despondency which
could not be thrown off. It was still on
the high road and the top of the hill? but
what is the use of being on a high road
that is superseded, and on the top of a high
hill which nobody wants to climb? So the
little village dozed in the sunshine when it
shone, — got sulky when the leaves fell
and the murky Autumn came, and sank
into a state of torpor when the winter set
in. It had taken no notice of the arrival
of the Captain and his friend, and did not
trouble itself about the departure of either.
It had no tidings to give of Mr. Bran-
dron.
At last Frankland came to the little
green just as some boys were liberated
from the village-school, and from one of
the most intelligent of these he got a clue.
He learned that a tall gentleman in black
had gone by in the forenoon with another
gentleman, whilst they were playing un-
der the shade of the big oak.
"Did they know who the other gentle-
man was?" "No, they did not. He was
a stranger thereabouts, for he had given
young Jack Todd sixpence to show him
the way to the Rising Sun."
"Did he go in there?" "No, the gen-
tleman who was there saw him through
the window as he was coming, and went


A TANGLED SKEIN.
23
out to meet him, and then they walked
away quickly together down there."
"Down there" was the road to the
church.
"What sort of a gentleman was the
other gentleman?"
"Oh! he was a very kind gentleman,
— had talked to them about their game;
asked why little William Thompson had
had his leg cut off, and gave him sixpence
too. He was quite a nice gentleman."
Stephen Frankland went back to the
Rising Sun much relieved by this infor-
mation. It was no use trying to catch the
Express now; besides, he could not leave
until he had seen Brandron, and learned
from his own lips that his presentiments
were unfounded. He determined, there-
fore, not to go back to Kernden, and told
Cuddy the reason why.
"Well, old man," he said, "you know
best. The governor and the girls will be
disappointed, that's all; and I don't think
you'll be quite as comfortable here as at
the Rectory. But if you will take to dry-
nursing elderly Indians with wandering
propensities", you must accept all the in-
conveniences of the situation. Give my
love to the baby when he comes in, and
get him to give you a character as being
steady, honest, and obliging. Good-by."
Again Stephen Frankland sat down
and tried to "wait patiently." He lit a
cheroot, called for something to drink, and
drank it. He lit another cheroot when
the first was done, called for something to
read, and read it. It was a Maidstone
journal, a week old; but that did not mat-
ter to one only a day returned to England
after eight years' absence. To say he read
it,—for his eyes followed the printed words
column after column, — but if you had
snatched the paper from his hand and
asked him what he was reading about, he
could not have told you. He was in the
fidgets; and a man who has the fidgets
cannot give up his mind to anything, —
not even to fidgeting. He took just trouble
to argue himself into the belief that there
was no cause for fidgetiness. Brandron he
thought had taken it for granted that he
was stopping at the Rectory. Had not
he (Brandron) prophesied that they would
be so glad of his visit, — have so much to
ask him; and had not his words proved
true? He had met the person. he ex-
pected, and they had walked on together,
— most probably to the fashionable wa-
tering-place, — where they would dine,
transact their business, and Brandron
would be back at, — well, if he came in a
fly, about half-past eight, or nine. It was
quite ridiculous for him to anticipate any
personal injury from so kind a person as
the stranger Had been represented to be;
and as for money matters, or anything of
that kind, the old Indian was shrewd
enough to take care of himself. Having
thus shown that he had no cause for fid-
geting, he was driven by the fidgets out
of the house, and vainly attempted to
walk them off.
It was now half-past five o'clock. The
sun had lost its fiery strength, and the
afternoon was a very pleasant one, —just
the sort of afternoon upon which a walk
through a picturesque part of the country
would be a very agreeable relaxation to
anybody who had not the fidgets. As it
was, Stephen did not find it to his taste,
and had not proceeded more than a mile,
when he turned back. Perhaps, after all,
Brandron would not stay away to dinner,
and had returned! The thought made him
quicken his pace; and coming to a path
by which he thought he could cut off a
long bend in the road, he diverged into
the fields; and having taken the wrong
turning and wandered about vaguely, after
the manner of people who try to make
short cuts on an unknown country, came
at last suddenly upon Riley's cottage.
"Now," he said to himself, " it's all right,
I know my way," and he sprang over the
stile, and began to walk briskly up the
lane, homewards. This lane curled about
a good deal, and at one of the twists he
caught sight of some one walking in front
of him. He quickened his steps, and per-
ceived that it was a man, — a well-dressed
man; but, he found, too short for Bran-
dron, — perhaps the person who had been
with him?
Now, when you are walking in an un-
frequented country lane, and each turn-
ing that you come to brings you in sight
of an individual who is proceeding in the
same direction as yourself, till the next
shuts him from your view, to be again
discovered plodding onward when you
turn again, it is excusable for you to be
seized with a curiosity to see what that
individual is like; at least I hope so; for
I have often, under such circumstances,
put on a spirt to get a front view of one
so journeying. It is so provoking to
watch a person's back going on before
you mile after mile! Stephen had a
better motive than mere inquisitiveness,
so he hurried on; and when the sound of
his approaching footsteps came within ear-
shot of the man in front, he, too, quick-
ened his pace. He evidently did not wish
to be overtaken, though he never looked


24
A TANGLED SKEIN.
back to see who followed, and the walk
bade fair to end in a race if he had not
stumbled and fallen over some loose
stones that in his hurry he did not ob-
serve on the path. His pursuer was then
close at hand. The man rose and turn-
ed upon him angrily, as he came up, —
and Stephen and Ids father stood face to
face!
CHAPTER IV.
SHOWS HOW A NEAR RELATIVE OF OUR
HERO "WENT TO THE BAD," AND
WHAT BEFELL HIM THERE.
From the first pages of a new story are
gleaned impressions which have a great
effect upon its future success, and it is very
provoking to have to devote them to dry
matters of detail. But what is to be done?
Shall we ask our friends to cruise with us
in our new yacht before it has left the
stocks? Will it be wise to issue invita-
tions to our grand house-warming before
the new mansion is roofed in? I think
not. Let us bide our time. We must
have patience and read the bill of the
play, dull as the information it contains
may be, or else, when the prompter tin-
kles his bell and the curtain rolls up upon
Scene I., we shall make all sorts of mis-
takes about the dramatis persona, and be
but ill able to follow the action of the plot.
There is much to be told concerning the
early life of George Frankland, the father
of our hero, before you can understand the
position which he now holds. He was de-
scended from one of those steady-going
old country families who formed a class
of themselves in the England of the last
century, but that have lost much of their
individuality in these faster days. There
is no Country now, so, how can there be
country gentlemen? The railway train,
indeed, carries you through woods and
fields, and gives you glimpses of cows and
sheep, and a farm-house here and there;
but all these things do not make Country,
as country used to be. They make the
places whereon they stand something that
is not exactly Town, — that is all! Put
your head out of the carriage-window as
you are whirled along, and you catch a
glimpse of a hedger and a milkmaid meet-
ing in a lane. Well, the hedger takes in
a penny newspaper, is learned in politics,
has wandered about in London, and has
seen the sea. The milkmaid has meat for
dinner every day, and wears a crinoline!
When Stephen Frankland's father was a
boy, the village near to which he lived,
and thousands of others like it, were
walled-in against the advancement of new
ideas, and defended against assaults upon
old ones, as completely as though a line of
fortifications, with rigid douaniers at every
gate, had been established to protect it
from improvement from without; and this
through no fault of any one in particular,
but merely because Town was town, and
Country, country. The time had not yet
come in which nimble engineers should es-
calade the old redoubts, send screaming
locomotives to batter down the old out-
works, and make into one community the
people whom space and sedentary habits
had split up into tribes and factions full of
the mutual distrust and aversion which it
is in our nature to feel for what we have
not seen, and are not able to understand.
You who are accustomed to have all the
news of the world telegraphed to you ev-
ery morning by breakfast-time, and think
nothing of travelling two hundred miles
in the day on business or pleasure, would
find some difficulty in realizing the sort of
existence that generation after generation
of the Franklands passed in that quiet
Derbyshire valley, and the sort of people
amongst whom their rough, but blameless
lives were spent. Little did they know, or
care, about what was going on in the great
world outside the ring fence that enclosed
their stony acres; and within that boun-
dary they ruled supreme. They were not
rich ; they were not courtly; they were not
ambitious. They were only thorough-bred
Englishmen, brave and loyal, tender and
true. At home, they held to the King as
long as he held to the law; and abroad,
they shed the last drop of their blood in his
cause, without stopping to consider wheth-
er it was right or wrong. What was it to
them what the fighting was about, so that
we got the best of it? So, when the Span-
iard threatened our coasts, old Guy Frank-
land melted down his silver and his gold,
and, with his seven sons to guard the treas-
ure by the way, rode up to London and
laid it at the feet of the Queen, to buy
gunpowder for Howard and for Drake to
singe the whiskers of the Don withal. Half
a century elapsed before another Frank-
land went that journey, and then it was as
Knight of his Shire, to withstand the King
in Parliament, and gather together the ele-
ment of that mighty storm which was to
sweep the Stuart blight from the land.
During less stirring times, these brave
and loyal gentlemen led eventless lives in


A TANGLED SKEIN.
25
their quiet home, — seldom strayed from it
i farther than the county town, and then
only when some great occasion called for
their presence. Their sons were born and
their daughters married in the ancient
Grange; and such of the heads of the
family as died in their beds went to their
last account in the quaint old chamber
where they had first seen the light. And
so Time passed on, and dealt kindly with
a race that it had known so long; and
great were the rejoicings which in the
earliest years of the present century fol-
lowed the birth of an heir to its lands and
honorable name. There were troubled
times, in the midst of which the long-ex-
pected youngster made his appearance.
He was born on the very day on which
that most rickety offspring of diplomacy,
the Peace of Amiens, was finally broken,
and the dogs of war once more let loose;
though the news only reached the old
Grange in time to throw a damper upon
the merry-making at his christening. I
dare say he was often frightened into
propriety and fits, by the threat that the
Corsican Ogre — as it was the fashion to
call the "uncle of his nephew"—would
have him if he were naughty; and an
intimation to any of the inhabitants of
his native valley that this dreaded indi-
vidual was not nine feet high, and did not
lead an army that was wholly provisioned
upon frogs, would have been met with ex-
clamations of contemptuous incredulity.
The world, however, was put to rights, as
everybody knows, for ever and ever, by
the wise heads that were laid together at
Vienna; and old John Frankland was not
the only man who thought that the best
way to keep clear of the troubles which
had produced such a shaking of thrones
all over Europe was resolutely to persist
in the causes which had produced them,
and to see if the earth could not be made
to stand still by Act of Parliament. These
doctrines he carefully instilled into the
mind of his only son; and that youth left
school fully prepared to affirm, if not to
argue, in any society, that England's de-
cline and fall would date from the day on
which her people were taught to read,
given a voice in parliamentary elections,
and allowed (without disability) to wor-
ship God according to the dictates of their
consciences.
It was an evil day for these fine old Tory
sentiments, and indeed for teaching of far
greater value, when young George Frank-
land received an invitation from a school
chum to spend a few weeks at his father's
house in London; and see, amongst other
sights, the coronation of the "first gentle-
man in Europe," and, incidentally, the
doors of the Abbey slammed in the face
of the "first lady." Long and earnest,
you may be sure, were the discussions
upon this important project, — London
was such a long way off, the road thither
so infested with peril to the goods and
purse of the young traveller, and the
place itself so dangerous to his moral
health. But then, was he not named after
the Regent? and would it not be a great
thing for him to be able to tell his children
that he had seen the crown placed upon
his anointed brow? Besides, the Prime
Minister, or the Lord Chancellor, or the
Archbishop of Canterbury, — ay, or per-
haps the King himself, — might catch sight
of the handsome boy and take a fancy to
him. Can you see the simple old couple,
sitting at eve under the great oak, which
had changed no more than the hearts that
had been won beneath its wide-spread
shade years and years ago, and weighing
these pros and cons; can you picture them
surrounded by the scenes amongst which
they had played as children, wandered as
lovers, and passed the quiet years of their
happy wedded life without a wish for
change, — contemplating with many mis-
givings the first departure of the child of
their old age from the parent nest? Do
you require to be told which of these old
birds it was who fancied that the great
ones of the State could not be under the
same roof with her one chick without sin-
gling him out for distinction; but who in-
stantly added, that she could not hear of
George being made anything that would
keep him away from home? In those
good old days there was no necessary
connection between pocketing public
money and earning it. Pass we over
the advice and warnings bestowed by
these fond parents upon the elated youth,
as though they were intimate — good, sim
pie folks — with all the quicksands, rocks,
and shoals in the strange waters upon
which he was soon to sail; nor detail the
stores of articles, of no earthly use to him
in the great Metropolis, which were labo-
riously devised and packed with care for his
use. Many a midnight found his moth-
er's busy fingers at work upon brave ap-
parel, that was to make her boy the finest
of the fine. Those gay London beaux
should grow pale with envy! They should
know a Frankland when he came amongst
them! Woe is me! In the very first letter
that arrived from the wanderer was con-
tained a long tailor's bill, as his host had
said that " really he could not take the boy


26
A TANGLED SKEIN.
abroad in the outlandish clothes which he
had brought from home."
The boy was sixteen when he paid that
memorable visit, — his companion some
two years older; and under the tutelage
of this grave philosopher and friend he
heard much treason, as it seemed, talked
in high places, and caught glimpses of a
life very different from the humdrum ex-
istence he had led in the old Derbyshire
Grange. I do not think that young Har-
court was a bad fellow, as young fellows
went, in those days. He too was an only
son; and his father, — an idle man of
fashion, let him do pretty much as he
pleased. He found the naivete of his
guest delightful, and lost no opportunity
of astonishing him with the wonders and
the sins of the town, till he could astonish
him no longer; so that, when the weeks
of the original leave of absence had been
grudgingly extended to months, and at
last a peremptory order, accompanied by
a stoppage of supplies, brought the truant
home, stout old Frankland could hardly
recognize his own son in the fine gentle-
man who sprang from the box-seat of the
Manchester coach, and began to give or-
ders about his luggage, iu which every
fourth word was an oath. He had been
taught that he was the " young Squire!"
the heir to a rapidly-improving estate, and
he " lorded it " accordingly.
It may readily be imagined that he did not
find home-life to his taste after the exciting
scenes he had left. Everything was bad
and wrong, in the old Grange, from a four-
post bed to a tea-cup; and its occupants
poor uneducated savages, in the eyes of
the young wiseacre who had been six
months in London. Great was the disturb-
ance of old ways, and the importation of
new-fashioned ideas and things, which fol-
lowed his arrival; and loud and bitter the
complaints, on all sides, of what Master
George had said or done. Still, I think
that in their heart of hearts his parents
were proud of their returned prodigal,
with his swagger and his strange oaths, his
fine dress, and grand talk about Sir Harry
This, and Lady Betty That, and the
great row which he and Lord Scampery
had with the watchmen in St. James's.
There was, to be sure, rather a long bill
to be paid for the schooling by which
these flattering results were produced;
but then, coal had been discovered, and
successfully worked in several places,
upon the estate, and John Frankland had
every prospect of dying a rich man. When
the young fellow recounted his experi-
ences of town life, a cold shudder ran
] through the old folks; and they thanked
their stars that they had got their boy
back in safety from temptations which
their fondest fears had under-estimated.
They congratulated each other upon being
very well out of a very bad business. There
was one thing, however, that troubled them
sorely. The conversations and cellar at
Mr. Harcourt's house had turned the
young fellow against his father's politics
and his mother's currant wine. He vehe-
mently protested against the one, and
threw a glassful of the other out of the
window, when produced as a special treat
to revive him after the fatigues of his long
journey!
The simple pair expected that the young
fellow would settle down again into his old
way of living, and were woefully disap-
pointed. He became moody and discon-
tented at home, and only seemed glad
when he had found, or made, an excuse
for riding away from it — to Manchester,
Derby, Doncaster, or Sheffield, where he
would stay for days playing the young
Squire amongst the horse-boys and sharp-
ers of a second-rate inn. It puzzled John
Frankland to conceive how his hopeful
obtained funds for the expenses of these
excursions. He knew little of the accom-
modating character of the tribes of Israel,
but was soon to learn how familiar they
had become with him — at least by name
— as the person mentioned in the post-obit
bonds of his son.
So, black care entered the old Grange,
and sat between the good pair upon their
now lonely hearth, mounted behind the
Squire upon his stout cob, made the wav-
ing corn-fields look thin and blighted,
changed the burly oxen into thin kine,
and filled the bright spring-time with dark
and gloomy days. It did not mend mat-
ters for the absent object of all this care
to be brought home in a chaise from Sal-
ford, intoxicated, by a dilapidated gentle-
man, who claimed fifty guineas as lost to
him by the insensible young reprobate on
a cock-fight!
Iu those days parental authority was
wont to be rather roughly enforced, espe-
cially by old-fashioned people like John
Frankland, who had been accustomed to
stand uncovered in the presence of their
fathers and mothers when they were men
of thirty, and to take their word as law
from which no appeal existed. The idea
that a youngster of nineteen should go
about as he pleased and do as he liked,
without asking "with your leave, or by
your leave," was a novelty to the worthy
Squire. It rather amused him at first —


A TANGLED SKEIN.
27
-which was a pity, as Master George was
emboldened by the immunity which fol-
lowed his first essays as a profligate, and
encouraged to advance still further upon
the downward road, from which it was
subsequently found impossible to turn him.
Come, ladies and gentlemen! draw round,
press round, gather round and see the
show! Here is a young gentleman going
to the Bad; he has accidentally stumbled
against one of the devil's footpaths, or has
been taken just to see it, you know —
nothing more — by a friend. Bless me!
how nice and smooth it looks, and what
pretty things grow yonder, on either side,
just a little way down! Observe, if you
please, how — mindful of certain warnings
— he turns away, and casually saunters
back again to have another look at the
forbidden ground. If he only could find
some excuse, now, to get rid of his Men-
tor, and take stock of it a little bit alone!
Or, if his friend would come with him a
little way! Man is a gregarious animal
only in certain respects. We say that we
like other people to be as lucky and as
successful as ourselves, and we don't mean
it; but when we go to the Bad, we are
glad of company on the way! It is so
consolatory to know that you are not go-
ing to be alone in a scrape! George
Fraukland fell in with a merry caravan
of kindred spirits in which Charley Har-
court was a leader, and required very lit-
tle pressing to accompany them down that
same pathway that we have spoken of.
Behold them commencing together the
descent! How gingerly they tread, —
how careful they are to get a good foot-
ing, so as to be able to spring back upon
the safer territory! They will go just as
far as the corner, and not a step beyond!
Oh, dear no! not for any consideration!
Only, unfortunately, that last slip, which
could not be helped, has taken them a
little beyond the proposed limit, and it
would look so foolish to go back again!
Beside, the travelling has become so pleas-
ant, now that they have got a little more
accustomed to it; and it is all nonsense to
tell them that it is dangerous. They know
better! They will be able to find their
way back by some by-path that is sure to
be met with lower down ! — and so forth,
and so on, till it ends in a headlong race
which cannot be checked, and a crashing
fall — head over heels — into the Slough
of Despond below.
The measures which old John Frank-
land took to stop his son in his downward
course only urged him forward. He tried
to pull him up short all at once, and the
youth turned restive, took the bit between
his teeth, and bolted. The sturdy coun-
try gentleman spoke very plain English,
and was, I am afraid, too honest a man
to be a good diplomatist. First, he com-
manded the rebel to return to his alle-
giance; then he entreated him, for his
mother's sake, to amend; then he swore at
him; and then — he knocked him down!
The last argument was a clincher. There
was no further dispute; and the next they
heard of Master George was, that he had
started off for London.
The rest is the old story. His father
disowned, and determined to disinherit,
him. His mother wept over him in se-
cret, and furtively sent off small sums
of money, pinched out of her savings, to
young flarcourt for her prodigal, with
prayers for his recovery — as is the fash-
ion with our English mothers, God bless
them! when thus afflicted. Has it not
been said elsewhere that Providence never
creates a scamp without raising up half a
dozen tender, loving women, humbly to
advocate his cause and become his patient
victims? Has the time yet come when
the words may be blotted out?
Wearily passed the days with the old
couple, and about once a month John
Frankiand swore that the lawyer should
be sent for "to-morrow" to alter his will,
and pass the estate, for the first time for
nine generations, out of the direct line.
But the morrow that was to do this act of
justice never came, until at last the sun
dawned upon one which found the good
Squire sitting, as was his wont at night,
with his great Bible upon his knee, open
at the 15th chapter of St. Luke, but quite
dead and cold, with a placid smile upon
his lips. In his old-fashioned way he had
been wont to follow the lines with his fore-
finger as he read, and this had stiffened
upon the words, "But when he was a
great way off, his father saw him, and had
compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck,
and kissed him." The prodigal was for-
given!
George was at this time travelling on
the Continent with his wife. He had run
through everything that he could borrow
upon his inheritance, and, not having a
shilling to support himself—had married.
If it be a creditable thing to marry for
love when you do not know but that you
will have to send the object of your affec-
tions to the workhouse for support, let him
have all the advantage which his conduct
deserves. If there ever was a woman well
calculated to redeem a scamp and pull
him through his difficulties, that woman


A TANGLED SKEIN.
29
and pay for all — and so, if you will be-
lieve me, they did, and I have heard of
other properties of a similar nature which
are now running a neck-and-neck race
with a spendthrift owner, and distancing
the constable. There are no diamonds
like the black ones, when all goes well in
the getting; and Sir George continued
his brilliant career, until, one day, a col-
lier struck his pick in the wrong place,
and a stream that no one had dreamed of
poured in, flooded the pit, burst its way
into the lower levels, chasing the panic-
stricken miners to death along the dark
passages, and, utterly ignoring all attempts
to pump it out, made the rich Frankland
Colliery into a dismal subterranean lake,
from which- no shilling of profit was ever
again to arise.
In the midst of this hopeless ruin came
the heaviest blow of all. George Frank-
land lost his good, patient, loving wife, and,
to his credit be it spoken, he mourned for
her like a man. There was no doubt
about the extent of his ruin this time. It
was the real, unadulterated article; and
if it had not been for the allowance made
to him by the Court of Chancery for the
support of his child, out of the little patri-
mony that had been settled on the boy
through his mother, the new baronet must
have begged or stolen for a living — for
he had not the wit to work for one —- for
every stick and stone of his inheritance
were eaten up by incumbrances. So
great, however, was his talent for getting
into scrapes, that neither grief nor poverty
could keep him out of hot water. Having
nothing else to do, he indulged about this
time in an amour, the consequences of
which embittered the remainder of his life
— as we shall see before long.
Now, old Mr. Coleman, the lawyer, had
a son who, about this time, began to man-
age the business; and this son had a wife
who, in all other matters, had long ago be-
gun to manage him; and as this lady will
not be an unimportant personage in my
story, I may as well present her at once.
She was a woman with a mission, and that
mission was, to marry everybody. She
had married her seven sisters; she had
married most of her school-friends; she
had married herself; and her first care,
after taking a fancy to bachelor or spin-
ster, was to find out some one with whom
to entangle them in the noose matrimo-
nial. At first this mission was proceeded
with upon sentimental grounds. The poor
things yearned towards each other, and it
was cruel not to bring them together!
Later on, when her own household cares
— for the elder Coleman was a frugal old
fellow, and liked young people to try their
experience and work their way — con-
vinced her that true love was, after all,
an imperfect substitute for legs of mutton,
she modified her views considerably; and,
still bent as resolutely as ever upon put-
ting an end to celibacy amongst all her
friends and acquaintances, determined that
they should not make any marriages- but
good ones in the £ s. d. consideration of
the term. George Frankland was a prime
favorite with the busy lady; and the grass
was not green over poor Hester's grave
before she began to look out for a rich
wife for the interesting and insolvent
mourner. "Now, my dear," she said one
evening to her lord, "do think if you have
not got some very rich client with an only
daughter, who would do for poor George!"
The possibility of poor George not "do-
ing " for the only daughter did not occur
to his well-wisher.
To this and similar requests her spouse
had but one reply, "My love! business!"
By which it was meant that clients, and
all pertaining unto them, were things upon
which no home influences were to be
brought to bear. It was a maxim in the
Coleman family that they were to be lodg-
ers in their own houses, but autocrats in
"the office." No wives or daughters were
allowed to enter the precincts of this
somewhat musty domain, and the transac-
tions therein conducted were preserved as
secrets to which the boldest did not pre-
sume to refer.
But though that one word " business" was
plainly understood to mean an uncondition-
al rejection of Mrs. Coleman's petition, it
was business which after all supplied the
very article for which she was in search.
In the spring which followed Hester's
decease, Coleman, Son, and Company had
a great patent case for trial in Westmin-
ster Hall, and " Son " obtained permission
to invite one of the parties, a Staffordshire
iron-master, to his house in Guildford Street
to dinner. He came, and not alone. He
had taken the liberty, he said, to bring his
little girl, who had come up with him to
see the town. This iron-master was not
the man to let his light shine under a
bushel. He would very soon let you know
what he was! He talked money, thought
money, clinked sovereigns at you in his
breeches pocket, and reckoned up you
and yours by what you were worth in
pounds, shillings, and pence. Before the
cloth was off the table Mrs. Coleman had
marked out that little girl as the heiress
who was to " do " for poor George.


30
A TANGLED SKEIN.
When the gentlemen had discussed their
wine and entered the drawing-room, they
found the pair with their arms round each
other's waists, as though they had been
bosom friends all their lives. The person
whom Mr. Tremlett, the iron man, had
spoken of as his " little girl," was his niece,
a remarkably artificial young lady of eigh-
teen, full of accomplishments and utter-
ly destitute of common sense — afflicted,
moreover, with that painful giggling and
affectation of superiority which, even in
these later days, is not unknown amongst
girls who have been accustomed to the
homage of a small country-town. Mrs.
Coleman expressed herself as taking such
an interest in the sweet motherless child;
and would her father trust her with them
whilst he remained in town, and she (the
disinterested matron) would be so happy
to take her to the Lady Mayoress's Ball,
and the Botanical Fete, by way of show-
ing her the lions? Rough, purse-proud
old Tremlett made great fuss over the
proffered hospitality, accepting it at last
quite as a favor to the Colemans. His
lawyer winced as he heard it urged, know-
ing full well towards what it tended; but
the Lady Mayoress's Ball and the Botani-
cal Fete were not to be considered as
"business" in any light, so he was com-
pelled to be silent. Tremlett chuckled in
his sleeve at getting so well rid of his
"little girl" for awhile, for he had ideas
of enjoying himself in London, with the
carrying out of which that young person's
company seriously interfered. No one
knew him in the great metropolis, and he
could do as he pleased. So Rhoda, the
heiress, took up her quarters in Guildford
Street. And who danced with her all
night at the Mansion House? And who,
by some curious coincidence, was entering
the gate at Chiswick just as Mrs. Coleman
and her young charge drove up? and who
found an excuse for calling at the house
about every other day, and was invariably
pressed to stay and spend the evening,
just to look at dear Rhoda's beautiful
drawings —just to hear dear Rhoda sing
—just to be ready to escort them in case
a box at the Opera might be sent, as it
sometimes was, at the last moment? Who,
but the pale and interesting young baro-
net, about whose virtues in the midst of
hardship and sorrows good Mrs. Coleman
was so eloquent! When the patent case
was over, and judge and jury had deliber-
ately determined that the man who had
spent half his life, and all his fortune, in
working out the new process which was
saving Air. Tremlett so much money, had
not the slightest right to profit by the in-
vention, and it was time to get back to
Staffordshire, Miss Rhoda begged hard to
be allowed to stay a little longer with her
dear friends, and, after a good deal of fuss
as before, was allowed to do so. Nothing
would have induced Mrs. Coleman to pry
into her visitor's desk, — but young ladies
are so careless; and this one having writ-
ten " Rhoda Frankland, Lady Frankland"
— no doubt to see how it would look —
upon a scrap of paper which, somehow or
other, fell into the possession of her hostess,
that valuable manuscript was handed, with
many a nod and smile, to Sir George, who
was not slow to act upon the hint it con-
tained.
The course of true love ran very smooth
as far as the principal parties were con-
cerned; but, in reply to the long letter to
Rhoda's uncle, in which Frankland for-
mally demanded her in marriage, came
the iron-master himself, crimson with fury,
in a yellow post-chaise, in which he whisked
off the weeping bride elect, without even
allowing her time to pack up her finery;
and he never rested until he had her safe
once more amidst his furnaces. "What!
his niece, who was wuth (Coketown for
worth) her fifty thousand, married to a
beggarly baronet whom his foreman could
buy up? Not if he knew it!"
Know it he certainly did not, — the con-
tracting parties, assisted by their ally in
Guildford Street, took good care of that!
But married she determined to be, and to
the person thus slightingly indicated, as
was foretold in a very prettily-written pink
note which was found upon her dressing-
table one morning about a fortnight after
her forced return. She was very sorry
indeed to disobey her dear papa, but dear-
est George was waiting under the window
to take her to Scotland, and by the time
this was read she should be his wife.
Now Rhoda Tremlett had been made a
ward in Chancery upon the death of her
parents, and there are inconveniences at-
tached to an elopement with young ladies
so circumstanced, which, had Mr. Coleman
made his wife a little more acquainted
with "business," she might not have al-
lowed her favorite to risk; or, having
risked them, would have warned him to
keep out of the jurisdiction of the Right
Honorable Henry, Baron Brougham, of
Brougham, in the County of Westmore-
land, Lord High Chancellor of England.
As it was, no time was lost in acquainting
that high functionary with what had hap-
pened to a young lady towards whom he
stood in loco parentis; and after a short


32
A TANGLED SKEIN.
He was one of those people, you see, who
never consider the future consequences of
an act, provided its first fruits give pleas-
ure or cause a temporary cessation of pain.
The conditions actually made came shortly
to this: Frankland and the estate were to
change names. "If my gal's fortune buys
the place," said the iron-master, " it shall
be called after her. I'll have no mistake
about it. And if her young 'uns expect
to get my brass they must bear my name.
I'll have no county-familying it."
So Sir George Frankland became Sir
George Tremlett, and his lady's eldest
son Francis of that ilk, and it was held a
high crime and misdemeanor down on the
Derbyshire estate to call the old house —
to which a modern front had been added
of the most florid Italian style — by any
other name than its new one of " Tremlett
Towers."
Sir George and Mr. Harcourt remained
firm friends — having many weaknesses in
common; and it was through the interest
of the latter that Stephen obtained his
cadetship. His age — suggested in the
first pages of this history — will show you
what time has elapsed between the changes
above mentioned and the year in which
our history begins. The quiet Franklands
have long been forgotten, and the purse-
proud and ostentatious Tremletts reigned
in their stead. Mr. Coleman, moderately
enriched by the railway mania of 1846,
had retired from the active practice of his
profession, and built himself a house near
"The Towers ;" for, having kept himself
out of the quarrel between his wife and
old Tremlett, he had been appointed to
manage the estates; and such was the con-
fidence which the iron-master had in his
care and skill, that he transferred to him
by will the trusts in Lady Tremlett's mar-
riage settlement, and left him sole execu-
tor of the large property which went to
swell that lady's wealth. To console the
lawyer for forsaken associations, a room,
into which no one was allowed to pene-
trate, was fitted up in the new house, and
made as fusty as possible, in imitation of
the office in Lincoln's Inn, and " My love,
business!" continued to warn his wife
cff the subjects which pertained to this
sanctum.
Now, Mr. Prompter, I think you may
ring your bell; for the scene is set, the
actors are dressed and in their places; and
hark! the big drum is thumping the final
notes of the overture. So now we may
up with the curtain and begin.
CHAPTER V.
SIR GEORGE TREMLETT LEAVES HOME
ON BUSINESS.
I have intimated that the old Grange,
which had seen the first and the last of so
many generations of Franklands, had to
be "improved" to suit the tastes of the
new family. In vain was the obstinate
iron-master told that it was one of the best
specimens of the genuine Tudor-gothic
style of architecture in the kingdom. He
would reply, that he did not care for Tu-
dor, nor for Gothic neither. Who were
they? Rubble and Square of Wolver-
hampton built his house, he said, and they
should build his niece's. They were re-
spectable tradesmen, they were; and so
Tudor and Gothic might he, for aught he
knew, but they should not have his money.
He evidently thought that the style men-
tioned was one adopted by some existing
firm of builders. He would have noth-
ing to do with their new-fangled fid-fads.
Give him a nice white wall, plenty of plate-
glass in the windows, and green Venetian
blinds! He liked a house to stand up
square and handsome, right Upon the
road, so that people could see it—he did!
That old place down in Derbyshire might
do very well for Franklands, and such
like; but it was only fit to make servants
offices for his gal. So, as 1 have said, a
modern Italian front was added, of which
the walls were very white, and the plate-
glass of the widest, and the Venetian
blinds behind it of the vividest green that
could be laid on.
The ancient mansion faced east and
west, looking straight over the valley; the
new portion partly turned its back upon
it, and looked south, — a drive having
been made to bring the visitors round to
the new entrance. The principal recep-
tion-rooms were all in the portion designed
by those eminent builders, Messrs. Rubble
and Square, and of the remainder only
two apartments escaped the doom which
old Mr. Tremlett had pronounced. These
were what once had been the main hall,
and a small chamber with an oriel window
at the westernmost extremity of the prin-
cipal wing. The oak carvings which
formed the wainscot of the hall and orna-
mented its staircase, were recommended
to the admiration of the iron-master, and
he is reported to have said, that they
would look "something like" if painted
French white and pecked out with plenty
of gilding. It was only when told that
they were worth from five to ten pounds


A TANGLED SKEIN.
33
the square foot to sell again in Wardour
Street that he saw their beauty, and
after this, was wont to brag, amongst his
chums, of the carvings " all over heathen
mythology and that, you know," which
"artist chaps" came to see in his gal's
house.
The old hall was changed into a billiard-
room, and My Lady appropriated, as her
boudoir, the cosey little chamber with the
oriel window. It was such an accommodat-
ing little room — so cool in summer, and
enug when the cold weather set in! My
Lady could not bear the cold weather.
My Lady had a rooted aversion to being
warm. The room with the oriel window
was a quiet, sleepy, indolent place, and
suited Ehoda Lady Tremlett exactly. As
a girl, she had had her ears boxed for dar-
ing to do something for herself; and under
her fond purse-proud uncle's tuition she
soon got over the weakness of self-depen-
dence, and learned to do nothing at all
with infinite grace and great assiduity.
A lady's age is a mystery which polite-
ness forbids us to fathom too nearly. We
know, however, that Miss Rhoda took that
secret trip to Gretna Green when she was,
in the estimation of the law, " an infant;"
and a remarkably fascinating and superb-
ly-attired infant she was. We likewise
are aware that Lady Tremlett's eldest son
is two-and-twenty at the commencement of
this story, which — (bother take all these
details!) — has hardly yet commenced.
We may gather, therefore, that she is
no longer young. She must be every day
of forty, and yet she looks quite girlish
of a morning, in her elegant morning
wrapper of clear muslin fastened round
her waist with a blue sash, and her fair
hair gathered up into a coquettish knot of
curls. She is wonderfully well preserved—
complexion, figure, and all. It would be
curious if she were not. What has she to
make her look old before her time! Care
killed a cat, we know, and cats have nine
lives; but let him do his worst, he will
never kill My Lady, though she has only
one.
It was breakfast time at Tremlett Tow-
ers, and the letters which had come by the
morning post for the family were laid out,
with the cold beef and fowls, upon the
glittering sideboard. There were one or
two feminine-looking epistles for Lady
Tremlett; some newspapers, several re-
ports of charitable institutions, pamphlets,
and letters from Oxford friends for Mr.
Francis; and for Sir George a whole pack
of communications, which looked painfully
like tradesmen's bills — all but one, which
was rather peculiar. It was a large sheet
of common rough paper folded together in
a very inartistic manner, and sealed with
the impression of the top of a thimble.
The direction — written in an illiterate
hand — was "To Mr. Sir George Frank-
land, Care of Atorney Coleman Linkeens
Inn London." A pen had been struck
through the address, and " Tremlett Tow-
ers, Derbyshire," substituted in a bold
clerkly hand.
Now, it is three-and-twenty years since
Her Majesty permitted the Baronet to
take his wife's name; and although the
firm of Coleman, Son, and Co. exists to
this day, the last Coleman retired fourteen
years ago. It was clear, therefore, that
the writer of this strange epistle had not
been in communication with Sir George
during all this time; and if it had not
been that one of the partners in the pres-
ent firm remembered to have heard of the
baronet when he was serving his clerk-
ship, and hunted his direction out of an
old diary — it would probably never have
reached its destination. There, however,
it was, in the hands of the stately butler at
Tremlett Towers, who, after careful exam-
ination of what had been scratched out,
the seal, and the folding — which was ef-
fective, if not symmetrical — showed it to
the second footman, and pronounced it to
be "a rum 'un." The second footman,
who was young in the service, scanned it
in turn, and expected it was " a begging-
letter ;" whereupon the butler, who knew
a thing or two, laughed, and observed that
"there aint much good in sending beg-
ging-letters to him " — meaning by " him"
the baronet, his master.
Lady Tremlett and her son made their
appearance, gathered up their correspon-
dence, and were seated at table, before Sir
George came bustling in. As was his wont,
he hummed a tune, and began to collect
his letters mechanically — for their gen-
eral purport was too well known to this
man of title and position who has £150 a
year independent of his wife, and he found
little pleasure in their perusal. But when
his eye fell on that dirty, blotted scrawl,
he seized it, shuffled it under some other
letters, got very red in the face, then very
white, and cold all over, and finally man-
aged to enfold the mysterious epistle in his
handkerchief and thrust both deep into his
pocket. When he sat down to breakfast he
was more than usually cheerful, and anx-
ious to know "the news " from his wife and
son; but his appetite was not as good as
usual this morning. The meal concluded,


34
A TANGLED SKEIN.
he hurried away to a back room where he
kept his boots and fishing-tackle, and which
he called his Study, and there, after hav-
ing carefully locked the door and drawn
down the window-blinds, he tore open the
letter, and read it eagerly. "My God!"
he exclaimed, "if I had been away, and
she had opened it!" Then he rent it into
a score of fragments, and threw them into
the empty grate — for it was summer time
— and as they fluttered and fell, a word or
part of a word caught his eye; so he knelt
down, swept them all together with trem-
bling hand into a heap, and burnt them to
ashes with a cigar light. If his nearest
friend had seen the ghastly face that the
Vesuvian lighted up, he could scarcely
have recognized it! This done, he rose,
wiped the perspiration from his forehead,
then paced up and down the apartment
moodily, and at last sank into his easy-
chair, and, burying his face in his hands,
moaned aloud.
Two hours afterwards he knocked at
the door of My Lady's boudoir, humming
a pleasant tune.
"Come in," said My Lady.
"How deliciously cool and comfortable
we are this abominably hot weather," ob-
served the Baronet, in a gay tone, snuff-
ing at some choice flowers which decorated
this charming sanctum.
"Did you come to tell me so, my love?"
was the languid response.
My Lady was reclining, in white mus-
lin, on a couch by the well-screened win-
dow.
"Why, no — not exactly, my dear," said
her husband, fidgeting with some ornament
on the table; "the fact is, that I have re-
ceived letters this morning which make it
necessary that I should go to London for a
few days — about our new railway," he
added quickly.
"You know I have not the slightest
wish to interfere with your movements,"
replied My Lady, slightly opening those
lustrous blue eyes of hers which, in the
mother of a lad of twenty-two, were still
most beautiful, — " pray go to London, or
anywhere you like."
"Then you don't mind being left?"
"Oh dear, no!"
"And — and — Ha, ha! I — the fact
is, that I — am rather short of money just
now (this state had been for some time
chronic with Sir George), and if you
could lend me ten pounds until Yes,
I know. Thank you very much, my
love!"
These last observations were made in
consequence of a lazy gesture made by
My Lady towards her canterbury, directly
her spouse mentioned the mystic word
"money."
Sir George wheeled the canterbury to
her side with a quickness which showed
that the performance had been well re-
hearsed.
"Ha! and this little fellow is the key,"
he said, selecting one from a tiny bunch
suspended to My Lady's watch-chain,
which she handed him. "So it is. Shall
I open the drawer? To be sure — this
is it! And there they are! Two fives
will be most convenient. Thank you,
again." And he was about to pocket the
money — to which his practised fingers
had found their way thus aptly — without
further ceremony, when his second son,
Mr. Tremlett, entered the room, without
knocking.
"I have just lent your father ten pounds,
Francis," said My Lady; "be good enough
to enter them in the accounts."
"In notes or gold, mother?"
"In notes."
"Be good enough to let me see those
notes, Sir," demanded his son.
"Fives, my boy — fives. Two of them
— it's all right."
"Yes, Francis, two fives, — your father
is quite right," said My Lady.
"I beg your pardon," was the filial reply,
"it is not all right. When I am intrusted
with the keeping of accounts, I choose to
keep them in the most systematic and busi-
ness-like manner. To enter the mere
gross sum of a loan is not systematic or
business-like, as I understand the terms.
I require to take down the date and num-
ber of those notes, and therefore request
that they may be shown to me for that
purpose."
"Francis is quite correct," observed My
Lady; "pray show them. Dear boy! his
methodical habits are so nice."
The Baronet bit his lip as he handed
the notes to this precise young gentleman.
Borrowing is not pleasant work under the
best circumstances; but when you have
to go begging to your wife, with your son
to note down the transaction "systemati-
cally," it must go greatly against the grain.
Sir George Tremlett's necessity, however,
was urgent,— and the night mail took him
up to London.
It will have appeared, from the conver-
sation which preceded his departure, that
"poor delicate little Frank" had grown
up a remarkably self-sufficient young gen-
tleman. His course of education had been
as follows: He had a private tutor at
home till he was fifteen, and then was sent


A TANGLED SKEIN.
35
to a famous public school, at which the
principle of making the elder boys re-
sponsible for the well-doing of their young-
er companions was carried out to a con-
siderable length. Mark me, that I have
nothing whatever to say against this prin-
ciple. In theory, it is excellent; and in
practice, I know that it has produced many
estimable men. But truth compels me to
add, that it has also afflicted us with some
insufferable prigs, and I am afraid we
must include Mr. Francis Tremlett in this
category.
Being a determined plodder, and not
without ability, he became head of the
school, and held that high post for nearly
eighteen months. During this period he
considered that the temporal and spiritual
welfare of some three hundred of his spe-
cies was placed under his care, and that
there was hope for no single one of them
without his exertions. In this state of
mind he proceeded to Oxford, accompani-
ed by some half a dozen lads of a similar
way of thinking, and there encountered
some half a dozen more, all earnest dis-
ciples of the same school. They were all
very steady, all very studious, all very High
Church — and, withal, exceedingly ego-
tistical and full of "responsibilities." They
kept themselves by themselves, and would
have nothing to say to persons with less
elevated missions.
Now, a little coterie like this, into which
fresh ideas are not allowed to enter, is apt
to get as musty as a little room from which
fresh air is excluded; and the well-inten-
tioned exertions of these young gentle-
men, guided by no other rules than those
which their own want of experience fur-
nished, only escaped being very imperti-
nent when they became ridiculous. For
example : — There was, about this time, at
Brazennose, a sinner known to his inti-
mates as Jack Cutler — as handsome,
dashing, and idle a dog as ever lounged on
the banks of Isis. He was the youngest
son of a physician at Derby with whom
Mr. Francis Tremlett had a slight profes-
sional acquaintance, which seemed to him
to impose a "responsibility." Upon the
strength of this, and as the delegate of his
clique, he visited Jack in his rooms, with-
out an introduction, and informed him that
he was doing no good at the university;
that the courses he was pursuing would
bring nothing but discredit upon his col-
lege; that his father was by no means a
rich man; and that in throwing away the
opportunities afforded him he (Jack, the
sinner) was behaving in a fraudulent and
ungrateful manner. Home-truths, all
these, which Jack well deserved to hear.
They would have come with great force
from his tutor, or from the Vice-Chancel-
lor, but from the mouth of a cotemporary
— nay, a junior — they were rather hard
to put up with. Jack, however, was a
very good-natured fellow. He heard his
visitor out, and then told him to be good
enough to mind his own business, or, as
he had come, to take a weed and be cheer-
ful.
Mr. Francis Tremlett indignantly de-
clined so insulting a proposition, and his
little set shook their wise heads solemnly
over the depravity it evinced, and mourn-
ed the fate that threatened all fast men,
and Jack Cutler in particular. But the
worst of it all was, that Jack took to read-
ing in his last two terms, and was bracketed
in honors with his would-be mentor when
they went in for their degree! It would have
been less galling if the reprobate had ta-
ken a first class. Then there would have
been no comparisons. But for him to be
written down as equal with the studious
Mr. F. Tremlett in the second; and for
men to say that if he had begun to grind
a week or two sooner he would have beat-
en that prig's head off— was gall and
wormwood to the person thus indicated
and his set.
Having left the university, Frank re-
tired to his home; instructed the tenants
how to manage their farms; called the
gray-haired Hector of the neighboring vil-
lage of Durmstone roundly to account for
the manner in which he conducted his
schools; gave his father and other country
magistrates lessons in the art of adminis-
tering justice; and taught various persons
old enough to be his grandmother how " to
suck eggs " of all sorts and sizes. It will
be easily understood, therefore, how it
came to pass that he made himself person-
ally offensive to almost everybody upon
the estate, gentle or simple. But then,
you see, he was the heir, and much had to
be excused and put up with in a young
fellow who would be so powerful in the
days to come. He was quite as precise in
his dress as he was in his manner and
opinions. He inclined to coats of a grave
and sober cut, wore old-fashioned neck-
ties, complained about his digestion, and
aped the country gentleman. His father
was the younger man of the two in every
respect but years. But then, you see, his
father had no responsibilities, and so could
turn down his collars, wear a shooting-coat
in the morning, and drive the dog-cart in-
to Durmstone when he could get leave to
take out a horse. Mr. Francis descended


36
A TANGLED SKEIN.
not to such trifling. His set at Oxford
were distinguished by their stiff necks, —
stiffened by more than starched linen.
His set at Oxford always wore long-skirt-
ed frock-coats, and left dog-carts to be
driven by sinners of the Jack Cutler tribe.
So, Mr. Francis Tremlett dressed like a
Secretary of State at one-and-twenty, and
when he went abroad was driven in his
brougham, with a footman to open the
door, as beseemed his dignity.
Poor, delicate, affectionate little Frank!
Those who expect him to have grown up in
the promise of his gentle childhood will be
rather disappointed.
Now, how an author may be led astray!
A few pages back I was crying out upon
those who go skeleton-hunting in gentle-
men'« houses, and here I have unearthed
two out of one covert in my fifth chapter!
It only shows that things do not go on
pleasantly in pleasant-looking places, as
one sometimes supposes they do. There
are many, I dare say, who quite envy Sir
George Tremlett, and think that he has
not a care in that fine house; and yet we
know that he is dependent upon his wife
and son for his daily bread, and that they
take care he shall know it. I have to ac-
count for some of the consequences which
sprung from this wretched and unnatural
Btate of affairs, and so am bound to dis-
close it.
Arrived in London, Sir George Trem-
lett put up at an hotel near the station,
and early the next morning hailed a Han-
som cab and drove, — not westwards,
where the business he had indicated to
his wife is transacted, but over London
Bridge to the South-Eastern Railway ter-
minus, and took a first-class return ticket
for Poundbridge.
It was about four hours after he had
arrived there that he met his son, face
to face, in Westborough Lane, as already
described.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. BRANDRON KEEPS HIS APPOINT-
MENT.
Supposing you had a son, and were so
confident that he was serving with his
regiment in India that you would stake
your head against a sugar-plum upon the
fact; or, supposing that you had a father,
whom for the last four weeks you had
been incessantly associating with a family
circle in Derbyshire; and thus positive as
to your respective whereabouts, you and
this father, or you and this son, were sud-
denly to come face to face in a secluded
Kentish lane, what would you say?—what
would you do? Shut this book for a moment,
try and realize the situation, and see what
words will properly express the feelings of
the actors. If you can find them, you are
more fortunate than your author. Were he
writing a melodrama now, there would be
no difficulty. The stage directions would
send father and son to opposite corners
of the scene, where they would strike
attitudes; and the father, clasping his
hands to the right, would exclaim, " Ha!"
and the son, clasping his hands to the left,
would ejaculate, "Heavens!" Where-
upon the father would shout, " Can it be?
Yes, it is! No, it isn't! Ha! ha! ha!
'Tis he! my long-lost che-ild!" And
then, with a stamp, a gurgle, and a rush,
they would fall into each other's arms, to
resume, as soon as the inevitable applause
had ceased, the ordinary business of the
play, as though nothing particular had oc-
curred. It is rather hard upon us story-
tellers that we are not allowed to make
use of fine old cut-and-dried conventional-
ities of this kind to help us over our diffi-
culties. The truth is so very common-
place! But the truth must be told; and
in telling it I have an observation to
make. It is not considered right, I be-
lieve, to cut down your neighbor's win-
dow-curtains, and to make up the material
into a dressing-gown for your own wear-
ing; but it is perfectly fair and proper, as
things go, to steal your neighbor's novel,
and turn it into a play for your own bene-
fit. Should it occur to any of those gen-
tlemen " connected with the Drama," who
have been good enough to convert certain
of my literary goods, that this story is a
good one to be " done" for the stage, they
will have to find their own dialogue for
this very striking situation; and I warn
them, that if the actor who is to undertake
the part of Sir George Tremlett should
conduct himself towards the actor who is
cast for Captain Frankland, — and vice
versa, — after the manner in which those
persons actually behaved to each other in
the Westborough lane, those unfortunate
performers will certainly be hissed off the
stage; for so completely crushed by sur-
prise were the senses of father and son,
that they stood stock-still, staring vaguely
in each other's faces, and said and did
exactly — nothing.
During the short space in which Stephen
| could treat this rencontre as a good joke, —


A TANGLED SKEIN.
37
before circumstances, yet to be related,
made it the starting-point of a dreadful
mystery, — he used to confess, that his first
impulse was to run away. "My heart," he
said, "gave a great jump up into my throat,
— my blood ran boiling hot for a moment
from head to heel, and then seemed to
flow away from me altogether, leaving me
weak and sick, with the hedge and the
road waltzing together round me." As
for Sir George, he uttered a cry, and fell
in a faint where he stood. There was a
little stream at hand, and Stephen got
some water as soon as he had collected his
Benses, and, after considerable trouble,
succeeded in restoring his father to con-
sciousness. His first words, delivered in a
tone of sorrow and reproach, were, " Oh,
Steeve! have you followed me?"
Stephen assured him that there was no
"following," except for the last few hun-
dred yards; and explained as briefly as
he could what had brought him to West-
borough. The Baronet seemed to gain
composure as the narrative proceeded;
and by the time his son had accounted for
his share in causing their meeting, he had
quite recovered, and began to chatter with
his usual vivacity.
"I never was so surprised in my life,—
never! And so you have been ill in India
— dying. Bless me, why didn't you write?
Dear, dear, dear! But you are not look-
ing any the worse, — only a little brown
and thin, — that's all. And what splen-
did weather for the harvest, eh?"
Stephen did not pay much attention to
this last observation, or, indeed, to any of
its predecessors. He was burning to
know what had brought his father so far
from home into that secluded spot, and he
pressed his questions with perhaps more
force than discretion.
"Why am I here ?" replied the Baron-
et; "why, for a constitutional, of course.
I cannot do without my constitutional, you
know. I am as great a walker as ever,
my boy, — bless you !" he added, puffing
out his chest and striking it, "I should
never have been the man I am if I did
not take my constitutional regularly."
"But you have not walked from
Derbyshire this afternoon, surely?" said
Stephen, smiling.
"Ha, ha, ha! What an idea! Very
food, — very good indeed! Walked from
)erbyshire! Capital! No, no. I am
staying at the Wells. I have been there,
— let me see, — I have been there, — I've
been there since — the morning. Had
business, you know. Finished it by lunch-
eon-time, rattled through it quickly, as
usual, and here I am, delighted to see you,
my dear boy, — delighted beyond measure,
I assure you."
Stephen's brow darkened when he
heard the word "business." "May I
ask," he said, "if your appointment was
with a gentleman from India, named
Brandron?"
"Brandron, — Brandron! Oh dear
no, — not Brandron. I came to see a
particular friend; Mr. — er — Mr.
Dear me, how stupid to forget his name!
Mr."
"Never mind, as it was not the person
I mentioned. I had a reason for asking,
but it does not matter. What do you pro-
pose to do now?"
"Oh, anything, — nothing! I'm my
own master."
"Then I'll tell you what we'll do. I
am staying for the present at the Rising
Sun, at Westborough, with my friend Mr.
Brandron. I had arranged to go to Lon-
don with him this afternoon, but he had
not returned when I came back from
Kernden. He must have arrived by this
time. Come with me, — it's only a step
from hence. If he is ready to start we
can all three go on together. I should
like to introduce you to him, for he saved
my life. If he is not ready, I will go home
straight with you."
"Excellent plan, — excellent!" replied
Sir George; "but" — (and he consulted
his watch in a very fussy and hurried
manner) — "I really have not a moment
to lose. I must run away to the station at
once, I expect a telegraphic message. I
must catch the train, or I don't know what
I shall do. I am late as it is. Very sorry
to leave you so soon, but time and train,
you know, — Good gracious! I shall be
late, — Good-by,' my dear boy! Come
home as soon as possible. How delighted
your- mother will be, to be sure! Good-
by!" And before Stephen could well
master his astonishment at these strange
contradictions, his father seized his hand,
wrung it affectionately, and literally ran
away from him.
His own master! Ready to do any-
thing or nothing! Expecting a tele-
graphic dispatch! Obliged to catch the
train! What train! The express was
half way to London by that time, and
there was not another till eight o'clock.
The more Stephen mused over his father's
behavior, the less was he able to make it
out. He knew, however, that resolution
was not among his parent's virtues, and
that he was given to rushing hither and
thither, full of hurry and importance, to


A TANGLED SKEIN.
39
us from the very best authority! With
what an air of reproach have we been
asked if we think that Mrs. Grundy would
tell a falsehood! Of course not, she has
only given currency to a set of particulars
which, when reason casts a stone into the
midst of them, fall to — like the armed
men which sprung of old from the dragon's
teeth — and knock each other about the
head and ears till there is not so much
residuum as was left of the Kilkenny cats,
to be found of any of them. But it is vul-
gar, and sometimes dangerous, to throw
stones; and so the dragon's progeny
march ofl7 with fixed bayonets, to stab
reputations, to part old friends, and stand
sentry at the doors of British Banks and
such like shams, investing them with an
appearance of stability and grandeur that
may not be lightly aspersed. As easy as
lying, forsooth! It is easy to hide a
lighted candle from a blind man ; but is
it easy to hide a lighted candle?
I do not think that Sir George Trem-
lett told lies for the mere sake of lying,
or to gain any profitable end. He was
one of those shallow-pated people who
cannot go straight from one point to
another for the life of them, and who
think it necessary to surround the com-
monest occurrences with a veil of mys-
tery.
The man who first said that liars should
have good memories was well up to his
work. When Stephen's father told his
son that big fib about not being expected
home for a few days, he knew perfectly
well he was going to return forthwith; but
he had forgotten all about it by the time
that the ink in which his signature was
written had dried, and he scribbled that
postscript in which he wrote himself down
a fibber. Not expected home for a few
days, and yet to see his wife, who was at
home, to-morrow! Oh, Sir George! If
Stephen had received such a contradic-
tory epistle when he had leisure to think
over its contradictions, they would have
cost him no little trouble and annoyance.
It came to hand, however, at a time when
his mind was full of one dreadful subject,
and it merely impressed upon him the
wish that he was not to hurry home yet
awhile. Had it urged his immediate pres-
ence at Tremlett Towers he could not
have obeyed the call, and so no harm
was done.
The eight o'clock train at last arrived,
and Sir George found a vacant place in a
first-class carriage, and speedily unbur-
dened his mind to his fellow-passengers
concerning the inconvenient arrangements
of the line, and the long time he had to
wait; and told them all about careless
William, and the horse that had a cold,
and the communication he was about to
make to his friend, Mr. Borham Davy,
who had so much interest in railways, and
married one of the Flintdens of Wilt-
shire.
The chatter only ceased with the jour-
ney, and the chatterer then hailed a
Hansom and drove westward ho! over
London Bridge.
Towards London Bridge, twelve hours
afterwards, journeyed two travellers, also
from the county of Kent- One was a
rough-looking fellow, in a faded velveteen
shooting-jacket and fur cap, and the other
a woman dressed -in a common print gown.
The man was travel-stained and dreary,
and his companion dead beat. He drag-
ged her almost from under the horses' feet,
and as she stood scared and motionless on
the curb-stone, said, not unkindly, " Come,
come, Nancy lass! cheer up! this is Lon-
don! only a little farther and we shall be
where we are going." Whereupon she
reiterated vaguely the word "London,
London," and added, " I live at the second
cottage opposite the well, a mile and a bit
from Westborough; please take me home."
Poor, witless thing! it was a formula she
had been taught to repeat by rote — like
a parrot — in case she should ever wander
away from her friends and lose herself.
Pardon the apparent brutality of the
question, O respectable reader, but if
ever you were to do anything for which
you might be "wanted " — (you under-
stand what I mean) — where would you
fly to hide? Will you go to Paris in twelve
hours, and remain there? Alas, there are
such things as -extradition treaties, and
you are not safe from Policeman X on the
Boulevards! Will you take ship for Aus-
tralia? The voyage is a long one, and it
would be unpleasant at the end of it to
find a detective who had outstripped you
in a fast steamer, waiting to take you back
before you could land. Besides, it is so
easy to watch the ships in the river and
the docks, and pounce upon the " wanted"
one as he comes on board. I fancy all
travelling must be dangerous to people
who are "wanted." Every ship — every
station, is a trap, and the railway train
itself a prison, with those uncomfortable
tale-telling wires running all along its
course. Well, but, surely a man may
walk away in the cool of the evening, and
take up his quarters in some quiet country
village where nobody knows him, and be


40
A TANGLED SKEIN.
in peace. Be in peace where nobody
knows you? My dear sir, you'd be the
gossip of the place in four-and-twenty
hours. No! when I get into trouble, I
will go where no one will notice me, or
even see me to pay any attention to what
I am, or look like, or do. I shall take a
first floor in Regent Street, and dine every
day at Simpson's, upon the principle that
the wise ones of the earth are always seri-
ously unconscious of what is going on di-
rectly under their noses. There were
those who were at some trouble to find
out where Jim Riley had gone with his
idiotic sister. He certainly did not take
lodgings in Regent Street, or dine every
day at the Divan in the Strand; but he
tramped on, and lost himself and Nancy
amongst the busy, toiling, heaving, and
rattling city, where men had enough to do
to attend to their own business without
troubling themselves with his.
Sir George Tremlett caught the night
mail after all.
In the mean time, Stephen Frankland
was watching and waiting at Westborough
for his friend Mr. Brandron; and as he
watched and waited, the words of the ab-
sent man, spoken in his cabin that night
when they conversed for the first time,
and his strange manner, came vividly back
upon Stephen's memory. He could see
again the flash which lit up Brandron's
usually cold gray eye as he spoke those
ominous words, "I go to do an act of
justice!" an act, as he subsequently ad-
mitted, by which an old wrong would be
punished and a long-standing injury re-
paired. When Stephen found that Brand-
ron was not the name in which his pre-
server's passage had been taken, he re-
membered what had fallen from him
respecting his secret departure from India.
"No one," he had said, "is aware that I
intended to take this voyage. Were my
purpose known in certain quarters, per-
haps it might have been defeated." Later
on he had acknowledged that he looked
forward with nervousness and apprehen-
sion to the coming interview, — that it was
to be with a man whom he could not trust,
a man who had managed to silence him
for two-and-twenty years, and who would
not scruple to silence him forever, if he
could. Those were his very words! This
dreaded interview had now taken place.
Who was it with V and what had been
the result?
Lost in such musing, Stephen Frank-
land sat under the great oak upon the
Green, twisting his tawny mustache and
puffing the inevitable cheroot, till the
shadows of the approaching night dark-
ened over the quiet village, and the night
itself set in. The stars came out one by
one, and the moon rose over the little
wood that lay behind the church. Many
a time, when a boy at Poundbridge School,
have I cut "hoeky sticks" in that little
wood, and been chased out of it stagger-
ing under a load of plunder by indignant
"navvies," — a name which the alumni on
good Sir Thomas Judd's foundation apply
to all aboriginal mankind of the lower
orders, unconnected with the school. A
pleasant, leafy covert it was; thick with
young ash-trees, verdant with open moss-
carpeted spaces spread here and there
round some giant tree, where the shy rab-
bits would come out to bask in the sun-
shine, and, at the sound of a human foot,
dart back and be lost to sight in the
tangled furze of fern and harebells, couch-
grass and foxglove, wild-brier, ivy, and
woodbine, that divided them, like a tangled,
flowery fringe, from the cool shade of the
thicket. Stephen Frankland knew noth-
ing of this wood, but, whilst wandering
round the church, came upon it unawares.
The moon was at the full, and a nightin-
gale, perched on the topmost spray of a
large elm, was filling the night with mel-
ody. He was, as we know, in a dreamy,
musing frame of mind, So he lazily climbed
the stile, and having sauntered into a
secluded part of the wood till he came to
what had been once used as a saw-pit, sat
himself down upon a pile of timber close
at hand, and listened to the nightingale
long after the songster had flown away.
Meditating about his illness, his journey,
and his home, and trying to imagine what
Brandron was doing at that moment,
wherever he was; why should he have
noticed in the uncertain light that the
ground was cut up and trampled, as though
by a struggle, and that the boards which
covered up the old saw-pit had been re-
cently moved? He could only have known
this by kneeling down, and observing that
the ends were not quite replaced on the
spots where the grass, that had been
hitherto covered by them, grew white and
crushed. Had he looked close enough, he
would have seen some dark stains upon
the herbage, and the print of a hand upon
the rotting planks that was not there in
the morning.
But he noticed nothing. His mind was
not where he sat, but at Tremlett Towers
— in the camp at Jansi — in his cabin on
board the " Ganges,"—at Tremlett Tow-
ers again — and at "the Wells," wonder-
ing what Brandron could be doing there.


A TANGLED SKEIN.
41
Afterwards he began to reason with him-
self about Brandron's disappearance. Dis-
appearance? Absurd! The idea of any
person "disappearing" in such a country
as England, and no one hearing of him
again! The thing was preposterous. Had
we not police, and constabulary, and rail-
ways, and electric telegraphs, and coroners,
and private inquiry offices, and habeas
corpus, and all the rest of it? Of course
we had! And any one of Her Majesty's
subjects who flattered himself that he could
hide away another, or conceal himself for
any improper purpose from the eye of the
law and the sure grasp of its myrmidons,
would very soon find out his mistake.
So thought Stephen Frankland; and I
know there are thousands who share his
confidence in the omniscience and pene-
tration of the powers that be. "Murder
will out," says the proverb; and it is con-
solatory to know that if you are murdered
some one is pretty sure to swing for it . I
believe that we are as quick and certain in
the detection of criminals as any of our
neighbors, and by no means join with those
who, panic-stricken at some late failure of
justice, cry out that crime is getting the
upper hand of the means for its detection.
Still, I am by no means sure that all things
are as safe and pleasant as we like to think
them. Are all the missing people who are
advertised about in the second column of
the Times cheats, and runaways, and ne'er-
do-wells? What is the meaning of those
placards, with the ghastly heading " Found
Dead," which glare at us from the doors
of police-stations and work-houses? The
black river has cast up its dreadful burden,
as though in horror, on the sedges, and
gone shuddering on its course from the
horrid spot. Are we quite sure that the
grinning corpse, that grasps at nothing so
vaguely with its distorted fingers, was
clothed, when last it stood upright upon
the earth, in those wretched dripping rags?
Has it never happened that hale men and
fair women, whose life was an annuity of
love and hope to all around them, have left
their pleasant homes for daily avocations,
and never returned again? I think that
we can reckon up, without much difficulty,
a grim category of murders that have not
come out, and — maybe — will not, to the
judgment-day. Who killed Saville Kent?
Who placed those bloody remains of mor-
tality upon the coping-stones of Waterloo
Bridge? and whose were they? Let us
say that these and other similar mysteries
are quite exceptional, and lay our heads
upon our pillows with the comforting as-
surance that no other child that has b^en
found dead in the morning came to a vio-
lent and murderous end — that no bones
lie mouldering under the dark water, the
stone flags of gloomy courts and cellars, or
the gay green carpeting of quiet woods,
unheard of and undiscovered. It is best
not to think too much of such things, if we
value our night's rest. Dead men tell no
tales; but I think that if the history of the
unknown dead ever comes to be written, it
will fill many a ghastly volume. Stephen
Frankland, musing in the moonlight, seated
by that old saw-pit in Westborough wood,
had no such uncomfortable doubts. He
only thought that his old friend's conduct
in staying away so long was rather strange,
and that if he did not return that night he
was sure to find him somewhere on the
morrow. Somewhere !— certainly! .
He was aroused from this revery by the
striking of the church-clock, and left the
spot by the path along which he had come;
but paused on the stile to take a last look
into the wood.
Nothing was stirring, but the night air
amidst the highest branches of the trees.
There was no sound but the faint flutter of
the leaves. It was almost as light as day,
and the moonbeams fell full pn the old moss-
grown saw-pit. They fell that night upon
many another spot as silent, and, to all out-
ward sign, as peaceful. They fell upon
green mounds in village church-yards, and
upon fields and moorland on which great
battles had been fought in times gone by,
where the bones of victor and of van-
quished crumbled to dust together under
the sod. They fell on the calm and glitter-
ing ocean, and danced on the unmarked
grave of many a gallant mariner. They
flitted between the chinks of the closed
shutters which had kept the daylight from
mocking the slumbers of the honored dead.
They flashed upon the dismal charnel-
houses of the great city — lit up with a fit-
ful gleam the caves in which hermits had
sighed away their useless lives, and glim-
mered on the horrid holes, the deep morass
and sluggish pool, where red-handed mur-
der hides its dead from sight. They lit
up the old saw-pit, and Stephen Frankland
hurried away towards the inn to seek bis'
friend once more.
He was not there! He had not yet
come! There were no tidings of him.
Ten o'clock! Midnight! One! Two!
chimed forth — and still no footstep, no
sound — no tidings. No sleep fell on
Frankland's eyes that night. In the
morning he was at "The Wells" before
the hotels had fairly opened, describing
the person of Brandron, and inquiring if


42
A TANGLED SKEIN.
he had been seen there. All was in vain.
By noon he had thoroughly exhausted the
town, even to its humblest tavern — and
no result. Once, indeed, he hoped that
he had obtained a clue. The head-waiter
at "The Kentish" distinctly recognized
the gentleman; he had come in with
another party yesterday afternoon, and
had dined and slept in the hotel. Was
he not a tall party in black? Yes! Well,
then, be had had two sodas and brandy,
and had gone off to the High Rocks about
an hour ago. Stephen drove off to the
High Rocks as fast as a hack-fly could
carry him, and found a lanky bobledy-hoy
dressed in mourning, smoking a huge cigar,
which seemed to be disagreeing with him,
and who acknowledged to staying at " The
Kwitish," and having had two sodas and
brandy for breakfast . Stephen, therefore,
had his drive for his pains. Thus occupied,
the prevailing impression amongst the na-
tives seemed to be that he was a detective
officer from London, and that the object of
his search had committed a murder, or was
a clerk in some public company who had
been driving mail-phaetons and giving
dinner parties in the Regent's Park upon
£150 a-year. JPopular feeling, therefore,
was certainly not in his favor. Is the mis-
trust that we English have of police, and
our hatred of anything like spying —
though exerted for the detection of crime
— a good or a bad sign? The virtue of
our mobs is of the most Spartan character.
They can hardly be prevented sometimes
from tearing a prisoner to pieces, even
whilst by that pleasant fiction of our law
he has a right to be considered an inno-
cent man. But, let a constable lay a hand
upon him roughly, and the attention of the
many-headed monster will be turned im-
mediately from the culprit to his captor,
and a perfectly harmless official be over-
whelmed with execration for doing, per-
haps, a necessary act!
Stephen Frankland rode back slowly,
and with a heavy heart. He had made
up his mind to one of two things: Either
Brandron had met with some foul play at
the hands of the person with whom he had
left Westborough in the morning; or he
had given him, Frankland, the slip, for
some purpose that he found it impossible
to divine. By no other cause could his
prolonged absence be accounted for. Dis-
appointed, and weary in body and mind,
he tramped on till he came to a bend in the
road from which a little inn was in sight,
and was surprised to see a crowd round
the door. A conviction that it had some-
thing to do with the disappearance of
Brandron flashed across his mind, and he
quickened his steps. As he approached,
and some of the assembly recognized him,
there arose a shout, and then a murmur of
"Here he is! here he his!" And the
people, dividing right and left, made him a
clear passage to the door. This was kept
by a couple of the county police ; and close
at hand stood a well-appointed gig, the
horse of which was in a perfect lather of
foam. The inn itself was in a state of wild
confusion. In the passage stood the land-
lady, wringing her hands and weeping
bitterly, surrounded by half a dozen vil-
lage gossips, who did their best to get in
everybody's way — each one telling the
other to do what he ought to have done
himself.
"In God's name, what has happened?"
cried Stephen, rushing into the passage.
The constable in charge recognized the
voice and manner of command, and touch-
ing his hat to the young soldier, replied —
"The gentleman who was missing, Sir,
has been found."
Found! Not returned — not brought
back; but — found!
There was a dark, fatal, passive sound
in the word that made Stephen's blood run
cold. Mr. Brandron had left that village,
full of health and vigor, was missing — and
had been found!
He entered the inn, and in a moment
the poor homely landlady blurted out the
fatal truth.
"Oh Sir!" she cried, "oh Sir! — the
poor gentleman — the poor, kind gentle-
man that nursed my little Teddy' oh Sir,
they've robbed and murdered him!"
"Murder I am afraid it will be," said a
grave-looking gentleman who at that mo-
ment descended the stairs, "as his case is,
I fear, quite hopeless; but robbery has not
been the motive for the crime. He has a
gold watch in his pocket, and his purse
with money in it has not been abstracted.
No common robber has done this." Then,
turning to Stephen, who stood almost para-
lyzed with horror and surprise, he added,
"I presume you are the person spoken
of as this gentleman's friend; if so, I
should like to have a word with you in
private."
"Tell me one thing at once, and quick-
ly," said Stephen; "Where did this hap-
pen — where was he found?"
"In an old saw-pit in Westborough
wood," was the reply. "He must have
lain there insensible all last night and the
greater part of yesterday."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
43
CHAPTER Vn.
IN WHICH A TRIUMPH IS PREPARED
FOR CAPTAIN FRANKLAND, V. C.
I must tell you that the fib which Sir
George Tremlett wrote to his son was not
a gratuitous one. He had a motive that
was, upon the whole, a good one. With
all his faults and foibles he had one re-
deeming point: he loved his soldier-boy
dearly, and was proud of him. He had
little else, poor fellow, to be proud of.
The young dragoon boro the good old
name that he had weakly given up. If
all the ironmasters in Staffordshire could
turn their ore into gold, and place it in
one glittering heap around the Throne,
they could not buy the little bit of bronze
that hung on Captain Stephen Frank-
land's breast. Mr. Francis Tremlett was
already a very influential person in his
way, and would be a rich man; but the
Bayard of India had not yet pressed his
hand and said of him, "If all our Officers
had been like that young man, Sir, the
Well of Cawnpore would have been pure
to this day." No, no! They had taken
away his house, his lands, and his name;
but the glory of his gallant son was still
his own. Of that no one could deprive
him. So he resolved that Stephen should
have a public reception at Tremlett Tow-
ers — a grand one, if possible; but at
any rate a reception that would be talked
about. Therefore, having accounted with
much circumlocution, and I am afraid
a fib or two, for knowing that his son
had returned, he broached the subject
to My Lady, and as usual Mr. Francis
Tremlett managed to join in the con-
versation. It was a curious fact, that
My Lady's boudoir door never closed
after Sir George but it admitted in less
than five minutes afterwards his second
son.
Lady Tremlett opened her pretty blue
eyes wider than they had been opened for
many a day. "Dear Stevie," she said:
"I'm so glad! It will be quite a treat to
have him home again. But how unkind
to go to those Trehernes instead of com-
ing straight to us."
"You see, my love, Kernden Rectory
was all in his way," replied her lord, in an
apologetic tone. "Besides, it was so good
of him to take charge of his poor young
friend's sword."
"I really cannot see what clergymen
should want with swords," observed My
Lady, peevishly. "Was it a very valua-
ble one?"
"I did not see it," said Sir George;
"but"
"I dare say it was not," interrupted his
wife. "Of course it was very good-
natured of dear Stevie to take so much
trouble; but I dare say the carriage cost
as much as it was worth."
"No doubt," Mr. Francis Tremlett ob-
served; "but you see there is a sentiment
about these sort of things which some peo-
ple think it right to indulge in. For my
part, I think it a very unwise practice to
preserve such so-called relics; they only
perpetuate feelings of regret, which as
Christians it is our duty to smother. Nay,
sometimes they cause weak-minded per-
sons to murmur at the decrees of Provi-
dence in a manner that is absolutely wick-
ed."
"Dear Francis," said his mother, pat-
ting him affectionately on the arm with
her jewelled fingers, "how cleverly you
speak; you are so very sensible."
Sir George did not appear to join in
these commendations. He turned round
rather sharply upon his second son, and
said, "Suppose your brother had fallen
instead of young Treherne in that charge,
would you have grudged his stainless sword
a place of honor in this house, or failed to
appreciate the kindness of a brother officer
who would bring it you?"
Mr. Francis flushed a little under this
direct appeal, and for a moment was a
little disconcerted. His mother came to
his rescue; and by the time she had asked
Sir George how he could suppose any-
thing so dreadful, and asserted that neither
she nor Francis could possibly recover
from the shock of losing dearest Stevie,
he was quite ready with a speech in re-
"There is no argument," he said, with
more than his usual sententiousness, "that
I disapprove of so thoroughly as the argu-
mentum ad hominem. I was speaking, as
I generally do, upon principle. Perhaps,
in the confusion of mind which would
naturally arise out of such an occurrence
(a capital word that, is it not, for the
death of a brother on the field of battle ?)
as you have supposed, I might perhaps
give way to a weakness which in calmer
moments I should overcome. But this is
nothing to the purpose. I have said, and
I repeat, that I consider it foolish, and, in-
deed, irreligious, to preserve things which
may keep alive unavailing regrets. It is
our duty, as I before intimated, as Chris-
tians, not to murmur at the decrees of
Providence."
Whilst this little sermon was being de-


46
A TANGLED SKEIN.
the Peace). Still, he would be bound to
take a leading part in it, and his conduct
might be misrepresented when he stood
for the county. He thought, that if they
were to put up one of the tents that had
been used when he came of age, and gave
the school children a treat of tea and buns
therein, and intimated that there was no
objection to the tenants coming, and call-
ing out " huzza," if they liked, they would
probably escape being compromised — do
all that was necessary for the occasion.
"Necessary!" cried Sir George, bit-
terly. "Oh, pray understand me that
nothing is necessary. Nothing that we
can do here will add to the honors of a
man who has won the Victoria Cross and
the friendship of a Lawrence. In trying
to do honor to Stephen we honor our-
selves, — that's all."
"You see, my dearest Francis, that Ste-
phen is quite a celebrated person now,"
Lady Tremlett exclaimed. "Dear me, I
wonder how many of those creatures he
has killed. I wonder if he will look very
cruel after it all! But about this fete!
We must have everything very nice, partic-
ularly as it will all be in the papers. Now,
what shall we do?"
"I am the worst person in the world to
consult in such matters, my dear mother,"
Francis replied. "The erection of tri-
umphant arches and similar trifling, is,
you know, quite out of my line. Consult
my father."
"Will you leave it all to me then?"
cried Sir George, eagerly.
"By all means!" said his wife. "Of
course, my dear George, I always meant
to leave it to you. Pray do as you please,
and let it be nice. Only do not tease me
about details. Stop! there is one thing
I must insist upon, and this1 is, that the
printer is more careful over the picture.
nl will not have a boy with a head like an
egg and no features, in the illustration of
our receiving Stephen. I cannot bear to
see boys without features."
"Do you mind me writing to Mrs. Cole-
man to ask the girls and Miss Lee to come
and help me to make the arrangement?"
said Sir George. "Miss Lee has such
capital taste. Don't you remember how
exquisitely she decorated the church last
Christmas? It was all her arranging."
Lady Tremlett rose, and looked her
husband full in the face, and a flash of
pain seemed to pass over her countenance.
It lasted but for an instant, and then she
slowly sank back into her reclining pos-
ture, and only said, " Very well; do so," in
a low voice, and with something like a sigh.
The truth is that Sir George was one
of those silly old gentlemen who fancy
they will be thought ungallant if they do
not begin to flirt with a lady the moment
they are introduced to her. In her early
married life Lady Tremlett had grave rea-
sons for being offended at this light con-
duct on the part of her spouse. But all
jealous feelings had long ago worn out,
with the passion of which jealousy is born.
Do you think that any woman who loved
her husband would let him feel that he
was dependent upon her bounty for his
daily bread? No! not if she had taken
him from sweeping a crossing, and had
all the gold in Australia for her marriage
portion.
The letter was written and despatched
to Ruxton Court, where it found the fam-
ily opportunely assembled at the children's
dinner. And a goodly assemblage it was!
The schoolroom brigade under command
of Miss Spicer, the governess, consisted of
Jane Coleman (16); Fanny (18); Eliza-
beth (12); and Bobby, the only boy, a
bright-eyed young rascal of seven, who ran
the best possible chance of being utterly
and irretrievably spoilt by everybody. The
drawing-room division, which was in re-
serve, only lunching, was headed by Ma-
terfamiiias in person, and was composed of
her three eldest daughters who were "out,"
viz.: Laura, Emily Lavinia, and Constance.
The age of the first-named young lady was
rather a sore subject with portly Mrs. Cole-
man, whose match-making propensities had
been only strengthened by time. Laura
was marriageable when Stephen Frank-
land left for India, and her mother had not
yet got her off her hands. Emily was eight
years younger than her eldest sister — three
intermediate Colemans having died early
in life. Constance was the beauty of the
family, and was just turned eighteen. I
do not exactly know how she made out her
claim to this distinction, unless it was that
she was the only one of the sisters who had
dark hair. Her eyes were not so good as
little Fanny's, and her figure not to be com-
pared with Laura's. Her complexion cer-
tainly was very beautiful, and this, with
good teeth and a haughty air, made her
light up pretty well. It was a superstition,
however, in Ruxton Court to suppose that
she was the belle of the county, and was
going to marry a Duke as soon as one
could be got ready for her. Laura and
Emily were, it must be admitted, common-
place girls. They had no colored hair and
no colored faces, and eyes of a hue that
you could not exactly make out. But their
flowing locks were always braided in the


48
A TANGLED SKEIN.
so.she must stop at home. Constance can
come; — and Jane, you'll be useful, I dare
say. But, love! I'm forgetting, there won't
be room for you."
"Why, mamma, you've only counted
three. Yourself, Laura, and Con. I"
"Hush, my love! I forgot something.
Sir George particularly requests the as-
sistance of Miss Lee. So, Grace dear, you
must come with us and make the fourth."
This was addressed to a tall, graceful
girl, with lovable brown eyes and glorious
auburn hair, who sat at the end of the
table, and had not spoken a word since
Stephen's name was mentioned.
"I tell you what it is," said Bobby, stout-
ly, " you girls may go in the carriage —
carriages are only fit for girls! I shall
ride."
"I don't know, Sir," said Mrs. Coleman,
severely, " that I shall let you go at all."
"The d ," Bobby just stopped him-
self in time.
"Now, what were you going to say, you
bad, wicked boy?"
"Please, Mar, it was only an axthcla-
mation of thurprise; but I didn't thay it.
I bit the end off just as it was coming out.
Mayn't I ride Spot?"
Bide Spot, his pony! of course he might.
He might have jumped on his mother's
back and ridden her over to "The Tow-
ers," if he had set his heart upon such a
conveyance!
The Coleman girls, selected as decora-
tors, left the room in high spirits. When
people lead quiet country lives it is won-
derful what a brightening effect the small-
est unforeseen event will have. They
danced along the passage, and, " Oh, come
along and make haste, you dear slow old
Grace!" they cried, twining their arms
round the waist of the silent girl with the
auburn hair, and trying to gallop with her
through the hall. They all ran up-stairs
together to get dressed, and Grace, who
was ready the first, went into Jane's room
and said, in her quiet way, " Get on your
hat, dear, I am not going!"
"Not going! Oh, but you must go. Sir
George particularly asked you."
"That is one reason why I decline to
join the party. What is Sir George to
me, that I should wait upon him because
he particularly asks me?"
"But mamma will be vexed."
"No, Fanny, she won't," said Grace,
with a queer little smile.
"You darling !" Jane exclaimed," you're
giving up your place to please me."
"I'm giving up my place to please my-
self. Why should I go pricking my fin-
gers with holly, and making my dress in a
mess, building triumphant arches for a man
whom I never saw, and whom I rather dis-
like, from what I have heard of him?"
"Oh, Grace, what have you heard
against Captain Frankland?"
"Simply this. That having been away
for I don't know how many years in India,
the first thing he does on his return is to
go and visit some friends instead of coming
home to his father! Ah, Janey," she add-
ed, in a saddened voice, " if my father were
alive, do you think that all the friends in
the world would keep me from him for a
moment after such an absence? But it is
just like a Tremlett! Heaven help us!
We're going to be plagued with two of
them now instead of one."
"But, Grace, the Captain is not a Trem-
lett."
"He is half one, just as his precious
brother is half a Frankland. I dare say
there's not a pin to choose between them."
"Oh no, dear; Laura says"
"Well, never mind what Laura says.
It's no use talking to me about it. I am
sure that I shall hate this soldier, Janey,
and I won't go — there!"
It was not often that Grace Lee refused
to do what she was asked, but when she
did, there was no moving her. So Jane
took her place in the carriage, which was
soon at the door; and to tell truth, good
Mrs. Coleman was not sorry for the change.
She was a little jealous of Grace. If she
had known that the frightened little orphan
child, whom she had consented four years
ago to adopt and educate with her own
girls, was going to turn out so much more
beautiful and clever than the best of them,
I do not think that Grace would ever have
entered the doors of Ruxton Court. It
was hard upon a mother, with three mar-
riageable daughters in esse, and as many
in posse, to have a ward who outshone
them in every respect.
"But, darling Grace," said Laura, as she
settled herself and her flounces in the front
seat of the carriage, " what are you going
to do whilst we are away?"
"I shall go down to the village and see
how Mrs. Kedger is," replied Grace.
"Oh, that horrid old creature! How
can you go near her? I believe she is a
witch."
"So do I, dear," replied Grace, demurely,
"and that is the reason I like her so much.
If I can only persuade her to lend me her
broomstick, I will fly after you, and build
your triumphant arch out of a cabbage-
stalk. That will be capital fun. Won't
it, Doggie 1"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
49
The last observation was addressed to
an apparition which burst out of the
stable-yard, and jumped upon Miss Lee,
with several yelps of delight; and as she
stooped to caress It, the carriage full of
laughing girls drove off, accompanied by
Bobby, mounted upon a shaggy Shetland
pony, as outrider.
The faithful historian is bound to admit,
that Doggie was a dreadful cur. His
body was too long, his legs were too short,
and he carried his tail in a dejected and
apologetic manner. His eyes were much
too small for his head, and his coat gave
you the idea that he had casually swal-
lowed a well-used scrubbing-brush, which
had taken root and sprouted through the
skin. He was moreover a contemptible
coward. I doubt if he dared look a good-
sized bluebottle in the face; and as for a
gun ! — if you put a steel-pen up to your
shoulder, in sporting fashion, he would run
a mile from it.
He was acquired in this wise: The
first time Grace Lee had passed through
Durmstone, after her arrival at Ruxton
Court, she had called with Mrs. Coleman
at a cottage, on some charitable errand,
and at an adjacent pond saw two boys
engaged in the very proper occupation of
drowning the blind pup which subsequent-
ly was developed into Doggie. She rushed
at them, boxed both their ears; and plung-
ing her arm, lace sleeve and all, into the
muddy water, rescued the victim; and be-
ing made much fun of for her champion-
ship of so ill-bred a specimen of dogdom,
stuck to him faithfully and reared him as
a pet. Gerty Treherne was quite right
when she said that this young lady was,
"Oh! so queer." Whoever heard of a
dog being called "Doggie" as a name?
The only redeeming point about the beast
was his affection for his mistress; but this
was not much to his credit, for it was the
easiest thing in the world to love Grace
Lee as soon as you knew her, although
she was " so queer." See her now, danc-
ing along the meadows, that Doggie may
run after her and bark — a very child in
heart — full of life, and fun, and kindness!
It was all humbug her refusing to go with
the girls to Tremiett Towers because she
did not want to prick her fingers with
holly, and make herself into a mess build-
ing the triumphant arch. She would have
torn her pretty fingers to the bone to give
any one pleasure. In the first place, she
saw that Jane was pained at being left out
of the party; in the second, people had
given her all the credit for decorating the
church, and so she wanted the girls to
have the opportunity now of distinguish-
ing themselves; and in the third place,
she had promised to visit a drunken old
hag, and read the Book of Books to her,
and would not disappoint the poor con-
science-stricken wretch to be appointed
designer-in-chief of triumphant arches to
all the heroes in the British Army.
So she spent that summer afternoon with
her ugly cur and still more repulsive peni-
tent, whilst the Coleman girls designed
festoons of laurel and evergreens for the
gay ceremony that was to take place at
"the Towers " when Stephen Frankland
came home.
CHAPTER Vm.
MR. BRANDRON'S LEGACY.
On the morning that Stephen Frank-
land sought Mr. Brandron at " The Wells,"
and found him not, a farm-bailiff, passing
through Westborough wood, missed his
dog. He called and whistled; but without
effect. He turned back towards where he
had last seen the animal, and found him in
a state of fierce excitement, trying to force
his way into the old sawpit. Concluding
that a rat or rabbit was in hiding beneath,
and fond of a bit of sport, the man encour-
aged his terrier; and having knocked aside
one of the rotting and moss-grown timbers,
knelt down and looked into the hole. It
seemed to be about eight feet deep. The
bottom was covered with water; and
crouched up in one corner was something
black, which the bailiff could not at first
make out — but the dog barked at it furi-
ously. The bailiff quickly stripped off the
rest of the covering, and let daylight into
the pit. The black object which crouched
in the corner was then disclosed, and the
man, thinking that it was some one hiding
there for an improper purpose, called to
him to come out; but there was no move-
ment or reply. The position of the body
was precisely that which a beaten child or
disabled person would assume to escape fur-
ther maltreatment. There it lay, crouched
in a corner, the limbs all huddled up to-
gether, the head bent, face downwards, and
the arm thrown over the top, as though to
ward off a blow. A second glance showed
the bailiff that the blow had not been
avoided. He jumped into the pit and
tried to raise the body. It was to him the
body of a dead man — the face and hands
stone cold, no blood in the lips, and a flut-


50
A TANGLED SKEIN.
ter at the heart so faint and fitful, that his
kindly but unskilled touch could detect no
sign of life. Leaving the wounded man
as he had found him, he sprang out of the
pit, rushed to the village, and gave the
alarm. A gate was lifted from its hinges,
and the mangled, helpless lump of human
clay, that once was John Everett Brandron,
they laid thereon — rough fellows as they
were — with no ungentle hands, and car-
ried him slowly to the Inn. The police
were sent for, and a surgeon; the latter
had arrived about half an hour when
Stephen Frankland came in from his
fruitless errand.
This practitioner had served in the
army, and was a shrewd, quick-witted
man; and what he had to say when he
drew Stephen aside was soon spoken.
He looked him full in the face, and asked
where he had been all yesterday?
Stephen had not the faintest idea that
suspicion had rested upon him, and con-
sequently gave a brief and unstudied ac-
count of his movements, which was so
obviously truthful, that the surgeon apolo-
gized for his abrupt question, and saw at
once that Stephen was his natural ally.
"This is no common robber's work," he
said; "and your business and mine is,
first of all, to try our best to save the poor
gentleman's life, and next to have a magis-
trate at hand ready to hear anything he
may have to say, if he should ever regain
consciousness. So, do you take my gig,
drive as hard as the mare will carry you
to ' The Wells,' and ask any one to direct
you to Mr. Grove, the surgeon. See his
son — his son, mind, not the old man; tell
him to pack up everything necessary for
raising a fracture of the skull, and bring
him back here. On your way out, tell
one of those useless, gaping idiots in blue
coats to go for the nearest Justice of the
Peace, and bid the others search about
near where the body was found for the
weapon that has been used, and foot tracks,
before half the village overrun the place
and obliterate all traces. Now, pray start
at once, without questioning. Question
afterwards, when there is nothing else to
do."
Stephen was not a man to disobey or-
ders from one who had a right to give
them; and although still half dizzy with
astonishment, and burning with anxiety to
ask a score of things concerning the find-
ing of the body — tor the bare fact that it
had been found in the old sawpit was all
he knew as yet— he lost not a moment in
carrying out Mr. Hillyard's instructions,
and returned with young Mr. Grove and
the instruments some half hour sooner
than expected. He did not spare the
flea-bitten gray, and that thorough-bred
screw had carried him along bravely.
Meanwhile, Brandron lay without sense
or motion on the bed where they had
placed him. His skull was beaten in; his
right arm was broken as by a heavy blow
from a club or bludgeon; he had bled pro-
fusely from his wounds, and had now been
twenty-four hours without food. The op-
eration of trepanning was performed as it
were upon a corpse, and about midnight
— restoratives having been administered
every half hour — he slowly opened his
eyes, and cast a terrified glance at those
who stood around. It fell — last of all —
on Stephen Frankland, who sat close to
the head of the couch; changed to a
vague stare; rested upon him for awhile;
and then flashed into a look of intelli-
gence and relief; upon which the heavy
eyelids fell for another long hour, when
the wounded man stretched forth his sound
arm and felt about towards the place where
Stephen had been sitting.
The surgeons — who had never both
left the room — saw the movement, and
divined its motive. "Go to him — softly
now!" they whispered to Stephen, who
was standing by the window gazing out
into the summer night, "he wants you."
They had noticed the change of his ex-
pression when his eyes fell on the young
soldier, and knew that consciousness was
now returning. Stephen sprang lightly
to the bedside and took Brandron's hand.
Instantly his eyes opened, with the old
look of confidence upon them; his grasp
tightened on Stephen's strong brown
palm, and never released it till soul and
clay had parted. Restoratives were again
administered, and his lips soon began to
move as though he were speaking.
Stephen bent down his ear very close,
to try and catch the sound; but the ut-
terance was disjoined and thick. All he
could make out was the word "deceived,"
repeated very often.
Shortly after daybreak the sounds be-
came more articulate, although the words
frequently began and ended in a moan.
"Deceived!" he murmured again and
again — " deceived after twenty years 1
We were suckled at the same breast, but
thank God no blood of mine moves in
your veins. Twenty years! Did I not
tell you how it would end? Did I not
warn you that the truth could not be hid
— that it would grow, and grow, and grow,
till it burst through the network of lies and
fraud, and plotting, in which you thought


A TANGLED SKEIN.
51
to imprison it, and would hunt you like a
felon at the last? And it is so! Twenty
years! And then the weakest of your
dupes — the least trusted of them all —
conscience-smitten, gives the clue which
brings me here to ask — to demand, jus-
tice! I say that justice shall be done —
mark me! shall. Deny it, obstruct it for
another month, and neither your title nor
your wealth shall save you from the "hulks.
You will do justice! Will you swear it?
Well, I will not be ungenerous and say
that you cannot help it now; but 1 cannot
trust you. No, no, no! No trust between
us. No! Twenty years, and all the time
deceived — deceived. No trust! Never,
never any more — never— never!" And
then the voice of the sufferer fell, and died
away into a low incessant moaning that
made Stephen's heart bleed to hear.
Towards morning a great change came
over Brandron. Unassisted, he turned
half round on the bed towards Stephen,
and looked about him with a perfectly
calm expression, and said firmly, " Lift me
up." They did so slightly, and raised his
wounded head with more pillows. "Now
some wine?" The surgeons filled a glass
with a drug, the powerful odour of which
I have learned to associate with death, and
gave it to him at his lips. Then again he
spoke with increased firmness and said,
"I wish to be alone with Captain Frank-
land. I wish no one to remain within
hearing."
Mr. Hillyard whispered a word or two
in Stephen's ear, and then left the room,
accompanied by the younger surgeon.
Stephen then knelt on the floor beside
the bed, so that his lips should be on a
level with the sufferer's ear, and said —
"Can you hear what I say?"
"Yes'"
"Do you wish to speak respecting the
mur respecting what has happened to
you?"
"Yes; listen."
"One moment. You may not have
strength to say what you wish twice over.
A magistrate is expected to be here very
shortly. Will you wait till he comes?"
"No, no, no; I will see no magistrate,"
was the reply.
"Then the ruffian who has assailed you
may escape."
"Let him, for her sake, for her dear
mother's sake; let him," said Brandron
eagerly. "I will have no pursuit, no pros-
ecution, no exposure, for her sake."
"Do you think it right to obstruct the
course of justice?"
"Right or wrong, I will do so. I know
that I have little time to spare, and speak-
ing pains me. Pray let this pass. I tell
you plainly, Stephen Frankland, that you
shall not get one word out of me to com-
promise that man — not for his sake
though. Now, listen. I have met the per-
son whom I expected."
"And have fallen by his hand?"
"I do not say so," replied Brandron
quickly. "Mark me well, and remember,
through all that follows, I do not say so —
I accuse no one. I find I cannot speak to
you as I thought I could. Why trouble
the mind of a dying man with thoughts of
vengeance? Vengeance is not mine."
"But Justice is," said Stephen; "and
this fearful crime"
"Seems to me," Brandron interrupted,
"as the work of Providence. I am as a
crushed worm, writhing out my last agony;
but I think I see the finger of God in this.
I could not have done all that should be
done. I could not have made, and seen
her, happy. Twenty years ago it might
have been ; but now — No, no! She would
mistrust me to the end. Stephen Frank-
land, you are young and honest; brave
and tender-hearted. You will take my
place, will you not, and do what I should
have done?"
"I will do anything and everything
for you; only tell me of whom do you
speak?"
"Of the only woman I ever loved, and
of her child; but before I say another
word, swear to me, as you hope for mercy
when you are as I am, that you will not
divulge one word of what I say, neither
will you let it be known that I have said
anything, or use what I do say, directly or
indirectly, for any other purpose than that
for which it is said. Why do you not
reply? Why this hesitation?"
"Because," Stephen replied, "I hope
you will think better of this; because —
let me be candid with you — I think you
are not well enough to be able to consider
the full effect of what you do. You may
repent of having confided in me. Wait a
few days, until you are calmer and stronger,
and in the mean time " —
"In a few days, Stephen Frankland, I
shall be a dead man," said Brandron, in a
solemn tone. "Nay, it's no use shaking
your head and trying to smile. Did I not
tell you that I had a presentiment of what
would happen? And do you think the
work has been left incomplete? I am
quite calm, quite sensible, now. I see by
the lighting up of your honest face that
you think this a good sign. You are mis
taken; it is the calm which precedes the


52
A TANGLED SKEIN.
storm — the last flare of the lamp before
it is extinguished. Let us talk of hours,
my boy, not days. In a few hours I shall
be delirious; even now I fancy that things
which should not move are moving all
about me; and that faces that no one on
earth can see are watching me from every
darkened corner. In a few hours more I
shall be silent forever; therefore, hear
me whilst you can. I have not been de-
lirious yet, Stephen ?" — he added quickly,
as though a thought had suddenly struck
him.
"You have been wandering a little —
not much."
"But have I said anything — anything
that you could understand?"
"You have been speaking; and I tell
you frankly that I paid great attention
to your words, disjointed though they
were."
Brandron groaned aloud — not with
bodily pain.
"Did I mention names?"
"No."
"Thank God! Did I speak of the
of what had happened to me?"
"You did."
"Oh, Frankland, tell me what I said
— all — all — as you are a true man."
"I will; your words were often repeat-
ed, and your sentences confused. It will
be best for me to tell you, not what you
said, but what I gathered from it."
"Yes, yes; pray go on."
"I gathered that you had been deceived
by some one for twenty years; that there
was a secret between you which was in
part shared by another; that this person
lately divulged the truth, and I conclude
that it is the discovery of this that has
brought you from India."
"You are right, so far — go on."
"I gather also," Stephen continued,
"that you met this man who had deceived
you, here, in Westborough. That he is a
person of rank and position, and your fos-
ter-brother."
A deadly pallor spread over Brandron's
face, and again he moaned aloud.
"And finally, that the act of justice
which you have undertaken to perform
was intended to redress an injury which
this man has done to one whom you loved
long ago."
"Did others hear all this?"
"I cannot say. Mr. Hillyard and his
young assistant were within earshot the
whole time you were speaking, and the
landlady a part; but I do not think that
they paid much attention to what you said,
treating it as mere wandering talk. They
had not the cause for listening that I
had."
"You are sure that I mentioned no
names?"
"Quite sure."
"And you have told me all that I have
divulged and you suspect?"
"I suspect — in short, I am convinced
— that the man who met you here by ap-
pointment is the villain who has tried to
murder you. I know nothing further. I
would to Heaven I did! It is monstrous
that such a crime should go unpunished.
Your forbearance towards him is wonder-
ful; but, mark my words, the police are
on his track, and he will be discovered
sooner or later."
"If they ever discover him — and I
pray God, Stephen Frankland, they never
may," said Brandron solemnly — " remem-
ber what I said just now. I make no ac-
cusation against him. If you will obey my
last request, you will not attempt to find
out who and what he is; but, mark me,
not one word shall pass my lips until you
have sworn — no, I will not ask you to
swear — until you have promised as a
gentleman, a soldier, and a friend, to use
the knowledge you have already gained,
and that which I shall impart presently,
for no other purpose than the one — to
carry out one act of justice."
"Let me tell you one thing more," said
Stephen, " before you proceed any further.
By sealing my lips, you by no means pre-
vent detection by others. In inquiring for
you, on my return from Kernden, I made
it known that you had met some one —
indeed, you were seen to leave this house
with him. He spoke to some boys in the
village, and they will be able to describe
and identify him." Stephen expected that
this news would have a great effect upon
Brandron, and he communicated it slowly,
and with caution. Brandron only smiled.
"I am quite content," he said, "to take
your promise of secresy, and leave all else
to Providence. But this I do authorize,"
he continued after a pause, a flash of
anger lighting up his eyes, "if — if this
man of whom we have been speaking re-
fuse to do justice, or delays it, let my blood
be upon his head — let the dog swing —
let the gallows have its own! But no
shame, no exposure, upon her; no pun-
ishment upon him, if he will do justice.
Promise me that, promise" But the
excitement caused by the revival of old
memories, and the exertion of speaking,
proved too much for the wounded man,
and he sank back upon the pillow, and
soon began to moan and wander as before.


A TANGLED SKEIN.
53
"Yes," he murmured, "you will do jus-
tice at last. Why did you ever delay it?
I told you that the secret never could be
hid. Twenty years! Poor child ! poor lit-
tle child f You told me she was dead, and
that was true. What? You will do it to
keep the old blood pure and unstained!
Is a felon's blood pure and unstained?
Away with such cursed pride! Here,
down in that wood, we can talk unob-
served. Come, follow me. Dead! yes,
dead years ago — but justice. Ah! cruel,
treacherous to the end! Where is Frank-
land — where, where? Do not leave me
again; I am very weak—very, very weak;
and my brain's on fire. Give me more of
that drink?"
"I do not know that I may," said Ste-
ghen, bending over him. "Let me call
lillyard?"
"No, no! I pray you do not leave me!
Give me the drink !" he added, almost
fiercely; "what does it matter if it does
make life burn away the quicker? It gives
me — strength, to — speak, and speak I
must, and will."
The two surgeons entered the room as
he spoke, and a meaning look passed be-
tween them as they saw the change that
had come over his expression.
"Oh, yes," said Hillyard, in reply to
Stephen's question, " you may give him
anything and everything he fancies, now.
Mr. Somers, the magistrate, has come, and
also the chief constable of the county. Will
he see them?"
The words were spoken almost in a
whisper, but Brandron heard them, and
replied for himself. "I will see no one,"
he said, slowly and with much firmness.
"I thank you all for what you have done
for me, but I wish to be left alone with
Captain Frankland — quite alone. Please
to give me some more of that drink, which
strengthens me, and then leave me with
my friend?"
They did as he desired, and quitted the
room.
"Are they gone — all gone ?" he asked.
Stephen assured him that they had.
"And yet," Brandron continued, gaz-
ing fixedly towards the foot of the bed,
"I see her sitting there as plainly as on
that fatal night, with her dear eyes full of
tears, and her bonnie young cheeks all
ploughed and sunken with sorrow. You
need not tell me it is a delusion. I know
it is — and more, a warning. Yes, justice
shall be done. You will take But,
stop; this must be done in proper form.
Please call in Mr. Hillyard once more. Do
not leave me — call."
Stephen called, and in a moment a
quick step was heard on the stair, and the
surgeon in the room, eagerly inquiring
what had happened.
"I only want you to witness what I say.
I believe that the law allows a dying man
to make a gift without going through the
formality of a deed or will. I am a dying
man, Mr. Hillyard."
The surgeon made no reply, but turned
his face aside.
"I therefore call you to witness that I
give Captain Frankland my desk, and all
that it contains, together with any papers
of mine that may be found here. Also, I
give him all the property belonging to me
now on its way from India. Let my desk
and papers be brought up to me now, that
I may formally hand over the bills of lading
relating to those goods. There is nothing
of any value," he added, as Hillyard left
the room; "but I will have no strangers
prying into my affairs."
The desk and papers, which Stephen
had sealed up, were brought, and formally
given to him by Brandron. He then bade
them bring his pocket-book, which he said
would be found in the breast-pocket of the
coat he had worn. They searched, but
could not find it; and in a few minutes he
seemed to have forgotten his request, and
again begged to be left alone with Frank-
land.
"Is it evening yet?" he asked, when
the door had closed upon the surgeon. "It
is very dark!"
A glorious summer sun, shining in a blue,
cloudless sky, was streaming upon the dark-
ened window, upon the honeysuckle that
clustered round it, upon the birds that were
singing in the golden laburnum, and the
flowers that were opening in the garden
below — streaming upon the ripening har-
vest, upon meadow, stream, and fen, strik,-
ingthe teeming earth as it were with a magic
wand, and bidding her increase come forth
and flourish — streaming upon cattle stand-
ing knee-deep in babbling brooks; flicker-
ing through thickets, and marking the trees
with checkered light and shade, varying
ceaselessly, as the boughs waved slowly in
the lazy summer breeze — blazing upon
weary travellers painfully plodding along
the dusty road; upon sturdy vagrants fast
asleep, stretched at full length, face down-
wards, upon its grassy margin; upon timid
little leverets, that stole out of their nest in
the tangled hedgerow to bask in its enliven-
ing rays. It shone upon snakes and creep-
ing things that writhed out of darksome
places to greet it; upon man in his strength,
and woman in her beauty; and upon a thou-


54
A TANGLED SKEIN.
sand insect forms, beautiful and loathsome,
that had no life in the morning, and would
be dead before the eve. Stephen Frank-
land gently released his hand from Bran-
dron's grasp, and having partly unclosed
the shutter which darkened the chamber
of death, the sunlight surged in like a
wave, and filled it.
"Do not leave me again!" Brandron
said when he had resumed his seat; "I
cannot bear being left here helpless and
alone, amongst all these strange people.
As long as I hold your hand I know that
you are not one of them, but when I loose
it I seem to be sinking back into an ocean
full of horrors. Why is it so very dark?"
"I am afraid the light has dazzled you;
shall I draw the curtain?"
"I think not. There is something white
over there; is that the light?"
"Oh yes. Is it too bright for you?"
"No, not too bright; only it flows over
her like a veil, and hides her features. I
am not afraid that he will come whilst she
sits there, Frankland; but promise me,
that if I should begin to say things that
you cannot understand — not to you, I
mean to some one else — you will clear
the room, and let no one hear."
Stephen gave the required pledge, to
quiet, as he hopeH, the wounded man in
his approaching delirium. He did not
know then of that marvellous duality of
the human mind which creates in it two
thoughts — the one rational, and the other
irrational — upon the same subject. Bran-
dron's insane thought was, that a female
figure was seated at the foot of his bed, and
that other phantoms might appear, when
she departed, to whom he would say some-
thing; and his sane thought was, that this
something, whatever it might be, should
not be overheard by the surgeons, the
landlady, and other real persons, whom he
knew would probably be in the chamber
from time to time.
Through all he said his manner was per-
fectly calm and collected until the very last,
and he seemed to be aware that his delu-
'sions were delusions, and by an effort of
will restrained himself in a great measure
from giving way to them.
"Tell me," he said, "what we were
speaking of before I sent for my desk and
papers?"
"You were asking me," Stephen replied,
"to promise that I would compel the per-
formance of some act of justice, when you
are in case you become unable to do
so yourself; and I was urging"
'* Yes, I know. You want me to give
information as to who struck me down in
the wood, and you have had your answer.
I can remember that. Did you notice the
look she gave me when I asked the doctor
if I was not dying? But I forgot. You
see only the light as it streams through
the window; you do not see her sitting in
the midst of it, waiting for me with that
dear, sad, patient smile. Was it not
enough for him that she should be happy
— that she should lead the life that to
her was the pleasantest and best? Why
should he step in with his cursed pride —
his vain ambition, and blight her in her
prime? Oh, Frankland, Frankland, for
God's sake, help me to keep my mind upon
the one point! Stop me when I begin to
wander thus. Can it be that it is too late?
Everything seems so dark, and the events
of yesterday and those of twenty years
ago are tangled up together so, that I am
lost amongst them."
"Will not these letters help to disclose
what you wish me to know?" Stephen in-
quired. "I found them scattered over the
table in your sitting-room, and sealed them
up thus."
"That was good — that was kind; I see
you will act faithfully, and she Look,
look, how she is smiling upon you!"
"You are mistaken; no one is there,"
said Stephen; "think only of the letters" .
— and he opened the packet and spread
out its contents on the coverlet as well as
he could, with one hand; "try and fix
your attention on these. Am I to read .
them?"
"Yes; but not now. Precious moments
are wasting fast. Put them away, and read
them all hereafter."
Stephen Frankland quickly gathered
them together, and thrust them into the
desk; but, as he did so, could not help
remarking that one was folded in a very
rough and peculiar manner, and that the
broken seal bore an impression of the top
of a thimble. Had the stately head-butler
from Tremlett Towers been present, he
would have recognized in that epistle a
very near relation of the one which had
arrived for his master on the day when he
left home "on business."
"Relying on my own powers," Brandron
continued, "and in a moment of foolish
confidence, I trusted him — you know of
whom I speak — and destroyed many
papers, which are unimportant for my
own guidance, but which would be valu-
able for yours. One that would have told
you all, I burnt the moment before I saw
him approaching the Inn. No, no," he
cried suddenly, turning a quick glance
towards the light, "not that — oh, no!


A TANGLED SKEIN. 55
Thai is safe with the others in the packet!
Safe? Oh, Heavens! Is this real? or
a delusion? I could not have told him
where it was, and yet his manner was so
plausible, and he so solemnly vowed to do
what I should direct, that I . Oh,
God, help us, if I have told him where
that packet is to be found!"
"If you will tell me where it is," said
Stephen, "I will take care that no im-
proper use is made of it. If you will tell
me the name of the person who is inter-
ested in obtaining it, 1 will do my best to
get it from him, act upon its contents as
you may desire, or destroy it unread."
Frankland's anxiety and suspense were
now becoming almost unbearable. For
hours a secret, which he knew must be a
terrible one, had been trembling upon the
lips of his friend, and was still unrevealed.
The shadow of death was falling rapidly
upon him, darkening his intellect, and
threatening to put the seal of the grave
upon the revelation which he was strug-
gling in vain to make. His voice had
been very weak, and his words — which
followed each other slowly — were pro-
nounced with an effort that became great-
er and more painful as he proceeded.
The change too which Mr. Hillyard had
noticed in his features, had deepened, and
'was plain enough now to the unskilled
but sorrowing eyes of Stephen Frankland.
Again and again did he repeat his ques-
tions respecting the important packet.
Brandron heeded him not, but addressed
himself exclusively to the figure which he
supposed to be seated in the sunlight, pray-
ing her to forgive him for some neglect
that he had been guilty of, and imploring
her to watch over the papers, as he — the
unknown author of her wrongs — would
not dare to lay a hand upon them if she
were by. The shock of the real impres-
sion that he had revealed their hiding-
place, so suddenly brought upon his mind,
had over-balanced his weakened and fail-
ing faculties, and made it wander more
than ever. His head fell back heavily
upon his pillow, his eyes closed, and he
babbled vaguely about this hidden packet.
"Come, come," he murmured, "follow me
quickly, lest he get there first. Now,
then — no, not there, woman! Not in
the cabinet; it is opened every day, and
Borne one might find them. We must get
them away out of this cursed house alto-'
gether; but you are watched, and so am
I, and we must find a place of safety for
them till we are free. See! thrust them
in here, for the present at any rate, till we
can find a better place."
Stephen saw in a moment what this
meant. Brandron had begun by imagin-
ing that he was seeking the concealed
papers; but by a very natural process his
memory flashed back to the moment in
which he had hidden them. Stephen re-
solved to fix it there.
"Tell me," he said, " who it is who holds
the packet, and was about to place it in
the cabinet when you prevented her?"
"Sarah Alston — no! not Alston ; she
was married then. Sarah — Sarah," he
repeated the name, trying in vain to rec-
ollect some other, —" Sarah — Sarah —
Alston. Yes, I know. You were faithless
after all, and repented after all. Twenty
years! until"
"When you prevented Sarah Alston
from placing the papers in the cabinet,"
Stephen interrupted, seeing that his mind
was wandering from the point, "where
did you tell her to thrust them?"
"There was a loose board in the wains-
coting. We dropped them into a hole be-
hind it; and I fastened it up that night as
well as I could when the house was quiet."
"What house ?" asked Frankland, quick-
"The house he took her to when she fled.
The house where the child was born."
"Do you mean where the child's father
took her?"
"Yes."
"Was he her husband!"
Brandron started from the state of trance
in which he had answered the previous
questions, and with flashing eyes cried —
"Who dares deny it? Husband! Ay,
that he was, in the sight of God, and ac-
cording to the strictest laws of man. The
proofs are there — there, I tell you!"
"Tell me his name, and that of his wife's
father, at once," said Frankland, "for I
think I can guess"
"Hush! guess nothing. The papers will
tell you all. You must get them. Promise
me you will get them 1"
"I do. Now tell me exactly where they
are?"
"Tap the skirting-board till it sounds
hollow, and then take out the panel.
They are within reach of your right arm
behind."
"And the room in which this panel is
— where is that?"
"Over the armory at the end of the cor-
ridor that runs along the far side of the
hall as you mount the staircase. Not the
chamber to the right — the one straight
on. You cannot mistake it. It is hung
with tapestry to within about four feet of
the ground. The wainscoting is dark oak;


A TANGLED SKEIN.
so is the cabinet. There is an old-fash-
ioned mirror with a suit of armor on each
side of it, facing the window. I see it now!
She sat by that window just as she is sit-
ting there, waiting for his return; and I
knew"
"You must tell me the name of the house
in which this room is, and in what part of
England it is to be found?"
that he would never come back
again to brighten your dear eyes," Brandron
continued, not heeding him, and speaking
again towards where the sunlight streamed
through the casement; " never, never; but
justice shall be done at last."
"Not unless the papers are found," said
Stephen, trying to turn his thoughts back
into the old channel; "and if this person
to whom you think that you have confided
there whereabouts should get possession of
them"
"He must not!" cried Brandron eager-
ly. "You must-discover and protect them.
You must go and get them, but not until
Not now — not for a little while
longer."
"I will; I promise you on my word, as
a soldier and a man, that I will; only tell
me where are they? I mean where?"
"Oh, will you not hear 1" the sufferer
replied in an impatient tone. "In the
tapestry chamber over the armory, close
to the floor — there, there!" and with a
great effort he raised himself into a sitting
posture on the bed, and releasing Frank-
land's hand, which he had held tightly
clasped all the time, pointed into a corner
of the room between the fire-place and the
door. At this. moment a cloud passed over
the sun, and the light which had blazed in
through the window faded away. Bran-
dron turned his eyes and watched it, with
a strange sweet smile upon his lips, as the
rays were quenched. Then, as the room
gradually darkened, he sank slowly back-
wards into Stephen's arms.
"I see the very spot," he said, " and I
shall know the room amongst a thousand.
Only one word more. The name of the
house is
"Mangerton Chase!"
"In this county?"
Brandron's eyes closed again; his head
fell heavily on Stephen's shoulder just
as the last beam of sunlight vanished.
"She has gone," he murmured; "let me
rest."
"In a moment you shall. These pa-
pers are hidden behind the panelling in
the room over the armory at Mangerton
Chase, and Mangerton Chase is .
Where? pray speak. Say what town or
county. How else shall I ever find it?
Will any of these letters tell me?"
He repeated these questions several
times, but received .no reply. Gently he
relaxed his support, and let Brandron
sink back upon his pillows.
He had remained thus motionless and
speechless, with the smile I have men-
tioned still upon his lips, and breathing
softly, for some ten minutes, when some
one knocked at the door. Stephen rose,
and having opened it, found the landlady
outside with a tray full of good things
which she had brought for his dinner.
"Now, do 'e, Sir, take something!
You've had no breakfast, and no supper
last night . I've roasted a nice chicken,
and got some prime cider for you. Now,
do 'e let me lay it out? The look of it
will make you hungry."
Stephen had not thought about being
hungry, or, indeed, of anything else than
his friend; but the savory odors which
steamed up as the good woman raised the
cover of her dish reminded him that he
had not tasted food for nearly twelve
hours. He therefore let his hostess into
the room.
"And how is the poor gentleman,
now?" she asked, as she deposited her
tray on the table. "Sleeping, I do de-
clare! as quietly as a child. Well; that
is good! But maybe we might wake him
with the clatter of the things. Let me
take 'em down again, Sir; and you have
your dinner in the parlor? Mr. Hillyard
is coming up, and will watch in your
place."
"She's quite right," said the surgeon in
a whisper. "You will be ill if you do not
take some rest and refreshment. Go
down, and I will relieve you. This sleep
is a very good sign, and I hope it may
last for many hours; but I give you my
word that I will call you the moment that
he begins to wake."
So Stephen went down, and made short
work of the chicken, for he was half fam-
ished, as he found as soon as the excite-
ment which had hitherto kept him up
abated. Then, his hunger appeased, he
felt tired and heavy-eyed, and having
thrown himself back on the sofa, in two
minutes was fast asleep.
He started awake after having slept, as
he supposed, about half an hour, and
found that it was night. The next mo-
ment he was springing up the stairs that
led to Brandron's room, and was about to
enter, when the landlady came out and
stopped him.
"Don't 'e go in just now, Sir," she


A TANGLED SKEIN.
57
said, with her apron to her eyes; "they've
not done yet!"
"In Heaven's name! done what?"
"Haven't Master Hillyard told 'e
then?" she asked in a tone of surprise.
"No; but do not speak so loud. Is he
awake yet?"
"You may speak as loud as you please
now; you'd not disturb him," said the
woman sorrowfully.
"Good God, he is dead!"
"Ay, Sir, two hours ago; but don't
take on like that. He went off in his
sleep without a groan, and he lies there
now with a smile upon his poor, cold
lips."
CHAPTER IX.
DOWN AMONGST THE BACK STREETS.
Little Union Street, Old Kent Road,
S., is a locality with which most of my read-
ers will probably be unacquainted. It is
a quiet, grimy, low-spirited, little, old-fash-
ioned street, which seems as though it had
quite lost itself in a labyrinth of noisy,
bustling thoroughfares, and had slunk
away into a corner afraid to come out and
struggle with the press. In ten minutes
you may walk from it into the busiest
parts of Southwark, — may bargain for
tens of thousands with hop-merchants in
the Borough, with tanners at Bermondsey,
with wharfingers in Tooley Street, with
warehousemen, in every line of business,
all around. You may have a fish dinner
at Billingsgate, — see a hanging at Horse-
monger Lane Jail, — have your head
broken by a drunken costermonger in the
New Cut, — get it plastered up at St.
Thomas's Hospital, — meet a friend from
Norwood, Paris, Grand Cairo, Timbuctoo
(where you will) at the London Bridge
Railway Station, — see a melodrama at
the Victoria Theatre, — purchase an out-
fit for Australia, and take your passage
to Tasmania, Nova Zembla, or Heme
Bay, without going beyond a sixpenny
cab fare from Little Union Street. But
Little Union Street, instead of assuming a
brisk and independent air, and pricking
up its ears — so to speak — at the sound
of the rattle and hum of mercantile life
that surrounded it, as much as to say,
"I'm ready for you as soon as ever you
like to step my way," suffered itself to
be scared by the prevailing activity, and
gradually subsided into the dejected state
in which it may now be found. The fact
was, it had seen better days. It once was
a thoroughfare; for some houses in a
street that crossed its end at right angles
were burnt down a very long time ago;
and the ground got — somehow or other
— into Chancery in 1785, and, as a mat-
ter of course, remained unbuilt upon (a
play-ground and vent for traffic through
Little Union Street) until — somehow or
other — it got out again, a few years ago,
when a huge Brewery, which turned its
back contemptuously upon the little street
and made it into a cul de sac, was erected
with inconceivable rapidity upon the va-
cant land.
There were no shops in Little Union
Street when this was done. The houses
(fifty-six in all) were dwelling-houses, two
stories high, with a railing, which enclosed
a little patch of black dirt — once a grass-
plot — in front of each; but the tide of
trade which swayed down Ruby Row, —
the thoroughfare which traversed the end
opposite to the Brewery, — oozed round
the corner, and caused shops to be built
upon the patches of dirt aforesaid, belong-
ing to three houses on the one side, and
two upon the other. The pawnbroker in
Ruby Row had his private door round in
Little Union Street; next to that was Mr.
Stubbs, the green-grocer; and next to
him Mr. Sykes, the baker. Opposite was
a shop which broke out about every three
months into a new business. First of all it
was opened by a milliner; then by a tobac-
conist j then, by a widow with two daughters,
in the worsted-work and fancy stationery
line; then it was " To Let" for a space;
and one fine morning, just before our first
visit is paid, a boy came out, took down
the shutters, and lo! Mr. Cornelius Bruf-
fer, Licentiate of the Royal College of
Surgeons, stood behind an imposing row
of gallipots, with a choice stock of tooth-
brushes and perfumery, sternly resolved
to cup, blister, and bleed, to draw the
teeth of all comers, to prepare prescrip-
tions with accuracy, and to give advice
upon all the ills that flesh is heir to, gratis,
every Tuesday and Friday, from nine
o'clock till two! (With his next-door
neighbor we are likely to become very
well acquainted.) And further on, at the
corner, resided old Chincks, the broker,
who appeared to drive a lucrative trade
by insulting every customer who entered
his dirty shop.
The intermediate establishment was the
humblest one of all, and the oldest; and
to tell truth, the neighborhood was rather
ashamed of it. It was kept by one Mrs.


58
A TANGLED SKEIN.
Wantley, who in the days of her youth
had been lady's-maid in a nobleman's
family, in which she had shown her wis-
dom by saving money, and her folly by
marrying the under-butler. Her husband
had not a frugal mind, but highly es-
teemed frugality in others, — particularly
in his wife. He borrowed two hundred
pounds, and set up with her as an hotel-
keeper. Being of a convivial and easy
disposition, he left his business to take
care of itself, whilst he smoked his pipe in
the bar-parlor; lost all he had in the
world; went through the Insolvent Court;
had a large family; took to drinking,
whilst his wife took lodgers in Little Union
Street; got delirium tremens, and died, —
leaving a silver watch, four masonic or-
ders, a gold-headed cane, an opera-glass,
and fourteen shillings and ninepence, to
pay sixty pounds worth of debts and pro-
vide for his widow and family of two sons
and five daughters.
A more patient, hard-working woman,
and a kinder mother, than poor Mrs.
Wantley, never lived; but she sadly
lacked the strength of mind and tact
requisite for keeping straight a family with
the reckless and jovial Sam Wantley's
blood in their veins. Flora, their eldest-
born, was far too fine a lady to do any-
thing for her living; and Bob, her brother,
got early in life into bad company, and
became at the age of sixteen as fully-de-
veloped a scamp and irreclaimable a
"ne'er-do-well" as ever was known to the
police. He has now nearly completed a
sentence of two years' imprisonment with
hard labor in Maidstone Jail for a bur-
glary, committed with six others, in a jew-
eller's shop at Dover. Helen, the second
girl, was the best of the bunch. She was
a good, pretty girl, and earned a guinea a
week in the ballet at one of the minor
theatres. Next to her, in age and merit,
was Charley, a youth of thirteen, who was
also a bread winner, holding the high and
responsible office of clerk to three brief-
less barristers in the Temple, at the salary
of six-and-sixpence a week, — earned, as
far as anybody could see, by opening the
door to his master's visitors, when not bet-
ter engaged in playing marbles with the
boys of the next court, sliding down the
bannisters, and having things thrown at
him for disobedience of orders.
The younger children were mere pock-
ethandkerehiefless brats, whose mission on
earth seemed to be to get in the way and
have their ears boxed by their eldest sis-
ter.
It was hard work to satisfy all these
hungry mouths out of the profits of the lit-
tle shop, though the net which it spread for
custom was a wide one. What was Mrs.
Wantley " by trade?" She was a fruit-
erer, — for there was a heap of venerable
apples for sale in one corner of the win-
dow. She was a tobacconist,—for a long-
sized box, divided into compartments, and
containing rolls of brown vegetable mat-
ter variously designated as " Prime Hav-
anas 2d. each," "Pickwicks, seven for
6d.," and "Full-flavored Cubas, Id.," was
placed prominently on the counter. She
was a haberdasher, — for she sold tapes
and thread. She was a stationer, — for
you might buy as much as two quires of
paper without quite exhausting her stocje.
She was a confectioner, — as proved by
the possession of four pickle-bottles, more
or less full of Bonaparte's ribs, almond
rock, bull's eyes, and some to me unknown
condiment, made into the semblance of
miniature barbers' poles, and apparently
composed of pumice-stone painted white
and red. She was a commission-agent in
the coal line. She kept a "Registry
Office for respectable Servants;" a toy-
shop for the supply of farthing battledoors
and whiptops to the juveniles of Little
Union Street. She sold pepper, snuff,
and birdseed. She was a retailer of
patent black-lead; of shilling Bibles and
Prayer-books; of penny balls of string;
bottles of ink; boxes of wafers; portraits
of the Bed Rover, the Black Knight,
Tiinour the Tartar, and other celebrities,
as they appeared, armed to the teeth, defy-
ing mankind with a limb in all four corners
of the paper. It is only in poor, old-fash-
ioned shops like Mrs. Wantley's, and in
poor, old-fashioned neighborhoods like Lit-
tle Union Street, that I see these works
of art nowadays, — and there they are
sadly fly-blown and dingy, and are, I am
afraid, unsalable. Has the youth of the
present day lost the taste lor gorgeous
illustrations which distinguished some of
its fathers? Does it cut out the space
printed as the petticoat of the Red Rover,
paste a bit of blue silk ribbon behind, and
dot it all over with little gold spangles at
three halfpence a dozen'! Does it invest
in gorgeous foil for the armor of its favor-
ite knights? Does it sigh for a silver cim-
eter, valued at the unrealizable sum of
sixpence, to place in the doughty hand of
the Conqueror of Bajazet? Have you
forgotten, oh, reader! the pride with which
you exhibited your first work in this style,
varnished all over with that pennyworth
of gum-arabic the better to display its
brilliant coloring? I have not. Where


60
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Please, Pop, I want to see it again."
Dear! dear! dear! What dolts these
children are! Why cannot they acquire
a taste for novelty?
I think there be grown-up men and
women as fond of repetitions as my little
prattler, or Mrs. Wantley would not have
so many penny prints on hand.
The good woman made a few shillings a
week by the sale of this class of literature;
but her main profit was not from thence.
She had a lodger. Her parlors were let
to a Mr. Sampson Lagger, a gentleman of
irregular habits and varying appearance.
Sometimes he was a slim gentleman,closely
buttoned up in a frock coat. Sometimes
he was a stout gentleman in an Inverness
cape. Sometimes he was a young gentle-
man, apparently from the country, smoking
a cigar. Sometimes he was an old gentle-
man in spectacles; but always a merry,
kind-spoken gentleman, with a great thirst
for information upon all sorts of topics. He
had a latch-key, had Sampson Lagger, and
came in and out without question. Little
Helen gave it as her opinion, that he was
doing low comedy business at some theatre,
and did not always change his dress when
he came home at nights; and, truly, Mr.
Lagger played many parts, but upon a
stage larger than that of Covent Garden
or the Britannia. Sometimes he would
come in regularly, every evening, at nine,
for a fortnight, and then would pack up
two shirts and a pair of socks in a clean
pocket-handkerchief, and not be seen again
for a month.
On the day of Mr. Brandron's death at
Westborough, Mr. Lagger returned some-
what earlier than usuaT, and ordered tea,
which was served to him by the fair Flora,
in her usual scornful manner. How is it,
that people who serve you with eatables
and drinkables always regard you with
such sovereign contempt? Talk about the
arrogant bearing of Empresses, Duchesses,
and great heiresses! They are pleasant
and condescending in their haughtiest hu-
mors, in comparison with bar-maids and the
young ladies who hand you your cup of
scalding infusion of birch-broom at a rail-
way station refreshment table.
As soon as the defiant Flora Wantley
had vacated his apartment, and he had fin-
ished his meal, Mr. Sampson Lagger lit his
pipe, and began to enter into a conversa-
tion with himself — as was his custom when
there was anything upon his mind. Not
aloud. Oh, no! It was his fashion to
speak to himself as though he were some
one else; and he had in himself so atten-
tive a listener, that his thoughts made them-
selves known and understood without even
a whisper of their meaning.
"You've bin a thinkin' many times, Lag-
ger my boy," he mused, " of re—tiring into
private life; and a many times summut has
turned up to stop yer. You was a thinkin'
of it no later than yesterday — and what
happens this afternoon? There's a good
murder down in Kent; and there hasn't
bin a good murder down there for one,
two, three — four assizes." He dived his
great hand into his coat pocket and pro-
duced an official-looking letter. "And the
Authorities re—quest that Mr. Lagger will
set off forthwith for Westborough, and
co—operate with the county police." He
dived into his trousers pocket and pro-
duced a printed hand-bill. "And there's
a re—ward of £100 for the capture and
con—viction of the murderer. Good!
Dooty sez — sez dooty, be off to Westbor-
ough, Sam Lagger, and co—operate with
the county police! That's what dooty sez.
Interest sez — sez interest, have nothin' to
do with them duffers, my man; but go in
for the £100 yourself, and win. Now this
ere's a ticklish case down at Westborough,
/ can see; and one pretty easy to be mud-
dled. Penny-a-liners is handy at muddlin'
a ticklish case; and so's crowners; but nei-
ther penny-a-liners nor crowners ain't fit
to hold a candle for muddlement, to the
county po—lice. So if you'll take my ad-
vice, Sergeant Lagger, you'll com—bine
dooty and interest in this ere business.
You'll co—operate with these parties, just
sufficiently to keep them a muddlin' them-
selves, and you'd go in quietly for the re-
ward on your own hook. That's what
you'd do, Sampson Lagger, and so I tell
yer."
"Going out again, Mr. Lagger?" said
Mrs. Wantley, as the detective passed
through the shop.
"Why, yes mum, I've a little matter to
attend to that will take me away for a day
or two, if it's quite con—venient to you."
"Lor, Mr. Lagger! Why, you know
you go in and out as you please."
"So I do, mum — that's just it," said he,
as though struck with the novelty of the
idea. "You're right mum, as you usually
is. And how's the family, Mrs. W.? Get-
ting on middling, eh?"
"Only middling, thank you Sir."
"Ah, you've had a deal of trouble, you
have. What did you say was the name of
your boy as is locked up?"
"Bob, Sir," and the poor woman's apron
twice was raised to her eyes.
"Well, well! don't cry. His time's
pretty nigh up now, isn't it?"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
61
"No, Sir; no. Not for six weeks come
Monday."
"And he was took at Dover," said Mr.
Lagger, musing. "Now I shouldn't won-
der if you'd got some friends down in
Kent?"
"Not I, Sir; I never was there in my
life."
"Never heard tell of a gentleman named
Brandron, I dare say?"
"Never to my knowledge."
"Well, it don't matter. I knows a party
in the hop line as wants to meet with him,
that's all. You aint in the hop line though,
are you?"
Mrs. Wantley could not say that she
was.
"And you don't know anybody that is
— down Westborough way?"
"Where's that, Sir?"
"Do you know Manchester?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And Pen — zance?"
"Can't say I do, Mr. Lagger."
"Well.; it's about as far from Manches-
ter as it is from Pen — zance, and you go
there by railway; now you know, don't
you?"
Mr. Lagger did not pause for a reply,
but nodded kindly to the widow, made a
violent blow, which ended in a pat on the
head, at each of the children (who invari-
ably surrounded everybody who entered
the shop, and glared at him with their
fingers in their mouths) — rushed out into
the street in feigned terror of reprisals,
turned the corner, and was lost in the ,
crowd that streamed up and down in
Ruby Row. He had not gone far when
he nearly ran against a man and a woman
who were proceeding towards Little Union
Street. The man was dressed in a faded
velveteen shooting-jacket, corduroy knee-
breeches, and a fur cap, and was half-
dragging, half-coaxing, the woman along.
Habit made the detective turn and look
after them; for there was something in
the manner and appearance of the man
that instantly attracted him. He watched
till he saw them turn the corner by the
pawnbroker's, and he had taken half a
dozen steps after them when he suddenly
checked himself.
"Lagger," he said to himself, "you're
an ass. You're gettin' painfully ad—die-
ted to wool-gathering; you're not bound
to keep your eyes in your waistcoat pock-
et; but when you're arter one game you
shouldn't go a worreting arter another;
you're a hunting for larks, my man, when
there's better game in the stubble; and if
you was a pointer-dog instead of a detec-
tive po-liceman, you'd get a warning for
it — that's what you'd get!"
Soliced by this reflection he turned his
back once more on Little Union Street,
and went his way.
In the mean time Jim Riley and his sis-
ter had entered Mrs. Wantley's shop, and
the former asked for a newspaper of the
day before. This was quickly produced
and paid for; but still the man remained
fumbling with his purchase, staring about
him in an embarrassed manner, and was
affected all at once with a dry cough. It
was meant that he had something to say,
and did not exactly know how to begin.
CHAPTER X.
THE INQUEST.
An inquest was, as a matter of course,
held upon the body of John Everett Bran-
dron deceased. The investigation lasted
some six hours, and it is quite unnecessary
that I should weary the reader with its
rambling details. Stephen Frankland was
the first witness; and all he knew was
soon told. It was no secret that the de-
ceased man had come to Westborough for
the purpose of meeting some one with
whom he had been acquainted in former
years. He had said so himself when he
engaged his room. It was clear that he
had met that person; and, the presump-
tion being that he had fallen by that per-
son's hand, to find out who that person
was, was, of course, the grand object to be
attained. The deceased had refused to
denounce him in the presence of Mr. Hill-
yard, and Stephen was able solemnly to
swear that no name had been mentioned
to him. The dead man had persisted in
refusing to give his assassin up to justice.
"He certainly began to give me his confi-
dence," said Stephen; "but what he said
related to another subject, and I must tell
you candidly that I am not at liberty to
divulge what he said. This much, how-
ever, I can say — all that he told me was
spoken by him whilst in a delirious state,
and in my judgment would not, if repeat-
ed, assist this case. But even if it would,
I gave him my word of honor that I would
not repeat it, and must decline to do so,
whatever may be the consequences."
Upon this five of the jurymen cried out
"Hear, hear!"
The next witnesses were the boys who


62
A TANGLED SKEIN.
had directed the stranger to the Rising
Sun. They fixed almost precisely the hour
at which they had seen the two gentlemen
walking together towards the wood; but
could not give any definite description of
the person who had spoken to them. He
was an elderly gentleman; a very kind-
spoken gentleman; and dressed just like
a gentleman, in dark clothes and a hat.
No! he was not like the Coroner, or the
foreman of the jury. He was much older-
looking than Captain Frankland. Yes —
they had seen his face; and one said that
he noticed grayish whiskers; whereupon
the rest were quite certain that he had no
whiskers at all. They would know him
again directly if they were to see him.
They could not remember whether he had
an umbrella, or a stick, or anything, in
his hand. He appeared to be a strong,
active gentleman. He seemed to be very
friendly with Mr. Brandron as they walk-
ed along. Mr. Brandron walked along
with his hands clasped together behind his
back, and with his head bent towards the
ground—-listening. The other gentleman
seemed to be telling him something par-
ticular. They did not seem to be quarrel-
ing at all. Several of the lads said that
they had been playing about the Green till
tea-time; and that if any one had shrieked
out "murder" in the wood they could
have heard it. They did not hear any
noise or loud speaking all the time. There
was no regular path through the wood;
but people sometimes went that way as a
short-cut to Harpenden. Would little Jack
Todd (who was decidedly the sharpest of
these boys) be a good lad — the Coroner
asked — and think a bit, and try to re-
member any person that the strange gen-
tleman was like ?" For example," said
the Coroner — as the door opened and an
elderly man with grayish whiskers made
his appearance, "was he anything like
that gentleman?"
Little Jack Todd immediately replied
that the stranger was not only like that
gentleman, but that that gentleman was
actually he! The other boys agreed in
chorus; and great was the excitement for
a few moments, until the gentleman in
question calmly took a seat by the Coro-
ner's side and announced himself as Mr.
Sampson Lagger the detective, from Lon-
don, just arrived with instructions from
Scotland Yard.
After this it was clear that the testi-
mony of the boys was not to be relied
upon; and they were ordered, with much
severity, to leave the room. The boys
took no particular notice — as they said
over and over again — of the other gen-
tleman, or, indeed, of Mr. Brandron; but
being badgered by the Coroner and jury
to find a likeness for the former, they did
so, and were fortunate enough to hit upon
the very man of all others least likely to
be prejudiced by their mistake.
A police constable, who had searched
the wood and found what appeared to be
the instrument with which the death-blows
had been inflicted, was the next witness.
He produced a heavy hedge-stake, cov-
ered with blood, to which several human
hairs, similar in color and length to those
of the deceased, adhered. This stake the
constable had found concealed in a ditch,
at the end of the wood farthest from West-
borough church. It was hidden amongst
a lot of nettles; and he had discovered it
by tracking some footsteps which led to
the place from the main pathway.
"And of course," said Mr. Lagger, —
whom the Coroner had asked to put any
questions that he deemed important,—
"of course you've covered those footmarks
over, and set a man to watch and see that
no one meddles with 'em till his worship
can send me down to dig up a pair on 'em
out of the ground for future use? Don't
you tell me you haven't thought of doing
that," continued the detective severely, as
the man's manner changed; "because,
you know, you're a constable — you
are."
The poor man (who up to this moment
had gained great kudos for his discovery
of the hedge-stake, and had been described
in the reporter's notes as "that able and
intelligent officer,") was obliged to confess
that it had not struck him to do anything
of the kind.
"Oh, dear me! dear me!" said the
Coroner, to whom the notion was also a
novelty, " that was very wrong. Run at
once, and do as Mr. Lagger has directed."
Constable Peter Brown was very sorry,
but he was afraid it would be no use. A
number of laborers had come running up
when he found the stake, and they had
quite trodden out all the marks. Least-
wise, he had tried to find them again, and
could not do so.
Mr. Lagger looked the crestfallen officer
up and down, from his head to his boots,
and from his boots back again to his head,
with an expression of sovereign contempt
.
"And now," he said, " shall I tell his wor-
ship why them laborers came a-rushin' up?
They came a-rushin' up because you was
so proud of findin' that there stick, that,
instead of keeping yourself to yourself,
and seeing what else you could see about,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
63
you shouts out, ' Holloa!' or, 'I've found
it!' or, 'Here it is!' or what not, just
like an old hen that had laid an egg.
That's why they catne up, and you can't
deny it!"
Constable Peter Brown did not attempt
to do so; and the reporter for the local
paper at once struck the words " able and
intelligent" out of his notes, and substi-
tuted, "but for the culpable stupidity
of this witness, an important clue would
doubtless have been obtained." Such is
Fame!
The man who had found the body was
then examined, and deposed to the state
in which he had found it. The clothes of
the deceased were only slightly deranged.
His watch was in his fob, his purse in his
pocket, his ring upon his finger. He had
evidently been lifted up from the ground
where the marks of blood were, and thrown
into the pit — for the water (which was
about two inches deep over the bottom)
having been bailed out, prints of his shoul-
der and knee were seen in the clay. This
examination, I must observe, was not made
till the next morning, before the inquest —
which was adjourned after a view of the
body — had been re-opened.
The cause of the adjournment was to
enable Mr. Lagger to make some inquiries
touching Jim Riley, whose presence in the
village on the day of the murder had not
escaped attention; and also to give Ster
phen Frankland an opportunity of recon-
sidering his determination not to allow the
Coroner to read the papers which the de-
ceased had confided to his charge.
"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the Cor-
oner — as he lost his handkerchief for the
thirty-first time, and his spectacles, which
had thrown themselves off' his nose and
were dancing a reel on the table indicative
of mingled triumph and contempt — " dear,
dear, dear! if you will not obey the law, I
really do not know how I am to deal with
you."
"I do" said Mr. Lagger. "This 'ere
deceased might have had reasons of his
own for not wishing to let out who it was
that assaulted him. The law ain't got noth-
ing to do with such reasons, and it sez —
'this 'ere man must be found out.' Good!
Well; these papers may help to find him
out, or they may not. Leastwise, the law
sez, ' let's look at 'em,' and the law must be
o—beyed. Now, the Captain knows what
it is to obey orders, else he wouldn't be a
Captain, and what he's a-going to do is
this"
"Certainly not to make their contents
public," interrupted Stephen," until"
"He's a-goin'," the detective continued,
addressing the Coroner, and not noticing
this interruption, "to give your worship
his word of honor that he won't destroy
none of 'em; that's what he's a-going to
do. And he's a-going to sleep upon what
he said just now, and to dream how very
inconvenient it would be if your worship
had to commit him for contempt of court,
and the law was obliged to take these 'ere
papers — as it has a right to do — by force.
He don't like to be worrited now about
'em; but he'll turn 'em up after the ad-
journment quite handsome. Bless your
hearts, I knows what gentlemen like the
Captain 'll do. When they're right they
never gives in at all, for anybody; and
when they're wrong, they gives in at last,
and makes the best of it. They're rum
customers is gentlemen like the Captain, to
Rooshians and wild Injians, and sich like;
but, bless your heart, they ain't no match
agin the law, and they knows it — thafs
what they knows."
Mr. Lagger had certainly an irresistible
way of putting things; and Stephen was
very glad of the respite thus afforded him.
The detective next took the jury in hand,
and, without the slightest consultation with
any one of them, told the Coroner what they
were going to do. "The jury," he said —
addressing that functionary — "are a-go-
ing to ask your worship to adjourn this 'ere
case till the day after to-morrow, in order
that you may give orders to the officer
from London — that's me — to co—oper-
ate with the county police in making in-
quiries after this Jim Riley. That's what
the jury are a-going to do. I haven't spent
two-and-twenty years in courts of justice,"
he added — turning round and gazing tri-
umphantly at the ceiling, " without being
able to tell, with half an eye, what twelve
respectable men are a-going to do in a
case like this."
And Mr. Lagger frowned, and the jury
looked wise, and nodded their heads in a
manner which indicated it to be their opin-
ion that Mr. Lagger was a person of much
discrimination, and not to be misled in his
estimate of them or any one else.
So the inquest was adjourned until the
next day but one; and Stephen, left alone
once more in the little inn, gave orders for
the funeral, which was to take place the
following afternoon; and, this done, sat
brooding over all that had passed at the
inquest, and worrying himself, not about
the evidence he had given, but about that
which he had withheld.
It was not his refusal to produce Bran-
dron's papers which troubled him. A very


64
A TANGLED SKEIN.
slight reflection sufficed to show that there
was wisdom in what Mr. Lagger had sug-
gested. The law had discovered the ex-
istence of certain old letters, and wanted
to see them. Well, the law might take
them. They did not relate to the secret.
But of those other papers which were hid-
den at Mangerton Chase (wherever that
might be) which did relate to it, the law
had, as yet, no knowledge; and Stephen
considered himself thoroughly justified in
declining to volunteer any information re-
specting them. It was by no means cer-
tain they would throw any light upon the
subject before the Coroner; and Frank-
land felt himself bound by the solemn prom-
ise he had given to make no use of them,
directly or indirectly, for any other pur-
pose than carrying out the act of justice.
True, he had sworn at the inquest to tell
the truth — the whole truth; but he easily
persuaded himself that this merely obliged
him to tell the whole truth relating to the
matter immediately in question before the
Court. "If the law wants those other pa-
pers for its own purposes," Stephen mused,
"let the law find them out for itself. 1
shall not interfere. Poor Brandron gave
them to my care. I intend to do my best
to find them. It will be time enough to
consider what is to be done with them
when they are in my hands, and if I never
discover them — there is an end of it."
I am giving you now the reasons which,
according to Stephen Frankland's own
showing, he gave himself for acting as he
did. It is no use arguing now whether they
were good ones or bad ones. Those who
were wise after the event said they were
bad ones, and perhaps they were right.
Stephen was not the man to palter with an
oath; and if you will review his position
you will find that it was a very embarrass-
ing one. He desired to obey the law, and
yet had determined to keep faith with
Brandron! He would gladly have given
ten years of his life to see the murderer
brought to justice, and yet he felt himself
bound to become almost an accessory to
his escape! It is all very well to say that
he had a duty to perform towards society
which should have overridden all other
considerations. Society had not saved his
life. Society had not watched over him
with fatherly tenderness all the long days
and nights of his illness. Society had not
clung to him upon its death-bed, and, with
eager eyes and faltering accents, won from
him a pledge to do its bidding. Brandron
had!
Let him be right, or let him be wrong,
in acting as he did, no man can say that
Stephen was actuated by one corrupt mo-
tive or a fear of consequences. What he
divulged, he divulged because he thought
it his duty to make it known; and what he
concealed, he concealed because he felt
bound in honor to keep it secret . So
far as Brandron was concerned his con-
science was quite clear; but there was
one thing that troubled him sorely. "How
came it — he asked himself in vain —
that he felt so anxious to keep his fath-
er's name out of the case? Why was it
that he felt guilty of deceit for not hav-
ing stated that he had met Sir George in
the lane leading from Mrs. Riley's cottage?
All the witnesses except himself had been
asked what strangers they had seen about
Westborough on the day of the murder.
What made him await the replies to such
queries so anxiously? He was not sup-
posed to know natives from visitors, and
no such question had been put to him.
Why did he not volunteer the information
for what it was worth, and say, " I met my
father here at about half-past five. He
had walked over from the Wells, and went
home by Poundbridge, as I know; for he
wrote a letter to me from thence." Why did
he not say this ?" Because " — as he ar-
gued to himself — " whether my father was
here, or at the Land's End, or at the bottom
of the Red Sea, on that day, can have no
possible bearing upon the question how
John Everett Brandron came to his death.
How could it?" And yet he was not quite
easy in his mind at having made no mention
of their meeting. This concealment might
look rather awkward, he thought, if the
fact came out from some third person, and
at one time he had resolved to mention it
at the adjourned inquest. But, upon con-
sideration, he thought that the mischief —
if mischief there were — was done, and
that the less said would be the soonest
mended. Besides, after all, what could
it matter?
These resolutions were not formed until
after Stephen had carefully examined the
papers left by his deceased friend. In the
desk he found a few receipted bills, the
official document granting Mr. J. E. Bran-
dron six months' leave, and some travel-
ling memoranda of no consequence. In
the packet which he had sealed up there
were eight letters, and two empty envel-
opes, the enclosures belonging to which
were probably amongst the papers which
Brandron was engaged in destroying when
he saw the stranger approaching the Inn.
Seven out of those eight letters were yel-
low with age, and bore date at various
times in the winter of the years 1838-9,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
65
and related to his Indian appointment.
They appeared to be written by some at-
torney acting for the person who had ob-
tained this for him, and one gave him
notice that a sum of £1200 had been paid
into Coutts's Bank to his credit. No name
was mentioned —- the writer stating, "My
client instructs me to say" this; or, "My
client begs that you will be so good as to
do" that — and so on, throughout. The
signature was " P. Williams, 14, Bucklers-
bury," or "Francis Sawyer, for P. Wil-
liams," &c.; and they were addressed to
"J. E. Brandron, Esq., 1, Clement's Inn,
Strand, London," — all but one, and that
to "J. E. B., Post Office, Dover." This
was the letter in which the £1200 was
mentioned.
The remaining epistle was that which
has already been mentioned as rudely
folded together and sealed with the im-
pression of a thimble-top. It was directed
to Mr. Brandron, of Richmond, Bengal,
Indies, in an uneducated and shaky hand.
Upon opening it, an enclosure fell out,
which subsequently appeared to be the
copy of a letter written by Brandron in
consequence of the information contained
in the communication with which it was
folded and preserved.
As these two letters are of great impor-
tance, and contain as it were one end of
the Tangle in which Stephen Frankland's
fortune and happiness were afterwards in-
volved, it will be necessary to give them
complete.
There was no date, local or other, to the
letter with the thimble seal, and it ran as
follows: —
"Mr. Brandron.
"Honored Sir, — You will be surprised
to hear from me after allitthese years. I
have bin a minded to write many times
and tell you what I have to say, but some-
how J couldn't. Honored Sir, I am in
great trouble, and nothing has ever gone
well with me since I deceived you. You
do not know what a wicked woman I have
bin. He told me you was as bad, and
that you had sworn to keep the secret for
£1200, and never to come back to Eng-
land any more. But I found out that this
was false, and oh, Sir, if you will believe
me, he is altogether false. All he told you
about the child being dead and my de-
stroying the papers is lies. It is alive and
well, as I can prove, if you or any other
gentleman will help and protect me from
him, for I darent, indeed I darent do it by
myself. And the papers is just where we
hid them at the Chase. He gave me the
money for burning them, and I swore to
him that I had put them in the fire; but, Sir,
I darent go into the room. It is haunted.
She comes there, wringing her hands, every
night, and a calling out for him, and what
would have happened to a wicked one like
me if I was to see her, poor dear! Hon-
ored Sir, I do hope you will forgive me;
but nothing as gone right with me since I
deceived you.
"Sister Lucy, who brought all that
shame upon us, is dead, and Mary has
turned Katholic, and is living in that In-
stitution which Father Eustace used to
belong to. If she new I was writin' I am
sure she would send her dooty. Oh, pray,
pray, honored Sir, do something for my
poor lady's child. And so no more at
present from your humble Servant,
"Susan."
The copy of a letter enclosed was in
Brandron's handwriting. It bore signs of
much thought, many words and sentences
having been scratched out, and altered;
but as it stood, it was short and to the pur-
pose. It was in these terms : —
"(Copy.) June 23rd, 1859.
"Almost immediately after you receive
this, I shall be in England. When I tell
you that one of your tools has exposed the
deceit of which for twenty years I have
been the victim, you will know what to
expect.
"As soon as I land I shall write again,
appointing a place and time for you to see
me. Fail not to attend, and prepare to do
justice upon your peril.
"John Everett Brandron."
There was no direction to this.
Stephen read and re-read these letters
till his head ached and his eyes swam ; and
it was midnight before he could fully real-
ize the difficulty of the task before any one
who sought to weave those contents into a
clue which would lead to the discovery of
the more important papers — the papers
which contained the secret. These, as we
know, were hidden in a certain room at
Mangerton Chase. Where was Mangerton
Chase 1 This place once discovered, and
the rest would be plain-sailing. So thought
Stephen Frankland; and at first he saw no
difficulties in his way. From the descrip-
tion of the room, given with such minute-
ness by Brandron, the house it contained
must, he concluded, be one of some con-
sequence. Tapestry hangings, suits of
armor, oak wainscoting, oak cabinet, a
corridor running along the far side of the
hall — all seemed to denote an ancient
country mansion. Were there not books of
reference in which the seats of the nobility
and county families were described? Ste-
5


66
A TANGLED SKEIN.
phen rode over to the fashionable water-
ing-place on the morning after Brandron's
death to try and get a sight of such a book,
and he got it; but there was no Mangerton
Chase mentioned therein. He called at the
office of an estate and house agent, and
asked him, in as casual a tone as he could
assume, if he knew of such a house there-
abouts. The house agent had no knowl-
edge whatever of it. Was it in Kent or
Sussex? Who lived there?
Stephen replied that he had only just
returned from India, and did not know —
that all the direction that had been given
to him was that the Chase was in England;
but whether East, West, North, or South
he could not tell. The person to whom
he had looked for further information was
dead, and it was of the utmost importance
that he should find out the house.
The agent was very civil, and procured
a large modern Gazetteer, together with
Histories of the surrounding counties and
several others, for Stephen to search in.
Amongst the latter was a Hislory of Derby-
shire, but Stephen put that aside with a
smile, saying, "Oh ! — that's my own
county; if Mangerton Chase were there I
should have had no occasion to trouble
you. It must be a great house, and if it
were there I should know it well."
For hours he pored over those ponder-
ous volumes, and found that they professed
to give account, and often some illustra-
tion, of every mansion of any note, splen-
dor, or antiquity, but they contained no
such name as Mangerton Chase; nor was
there — as proved by the Gazetteer —
throughout all England, Scotland, and
Wales, any town, village, hamlet, town-
ship, rape, hundred, borough, city, river,
mountain, forest, or any other geographical
expression which was known by the name
of Mangerton. He looked in the Directory,
and found many people so called, but not
one of them was represented as living in a
"Chase."
It was upon his return from this fruit-
less expedition that he first read the two
letters just mentioned; and his heart sank
as he saw what a mere shadow of a clue
they afforded.
He saw now, that to find out where was
Mangerton Chase he must just discover
"Susan," and concerning her he drew the
following deductions: The style of her
writing and composition, and the fact of
her speaking of some one as her "lady,"
showed that she was a servant. The man-
ner in which she spoke of hiding the pa-
pers containing the secret in " the Chase,"
pointed her out pretty clearly to be the
person of whom Brandron had spoken as
Susan Alston. But that was her maiden
title, and he had spoken of her as a mar-
ried woman, professing his inability to re-
member her husband's name. If there
had been any post-mark upon the letter it
would have been tolerably easy to have
found out, in the parish register of the post
town, who Sarah Alston had married some
twenty years ago; but the letter was so
worn and yellow with age, that Stephen's
eyes — which were of the sharpest — could
decipher no name upon it whatever. There
was a 3, and a J, and something that might
have been a V, or part of a W; but noth-
ing legible.
Still, Frankland did not despair. There
were not so very many Roman Catholic
Institutions in England, and "Susan"
might be traced through her sister Mary.
True it was that her surname was also left
in doubt, but the chances were, that, being
in such an Institution, she was a single
woman. Besides, there was Father Eus-
tace; he could be found by inquiry amongst
his co-religionists, or, at any rate, the In-
stitution with which he had been connected
could be ascertained. "There," Stephen
mused, " would be Mary. She would di-
rect me to Susan. Susan would tell me
where to find Mangerton Chase, and that
once discovered, it will be odd if I cannot
find an excuse to be alone for ten minutes
in the tapestried chamber over the ar-
mory that opens from the end of the cor-
ridor on the far side of the hall."
The day following the commencement
of the inquest the murdered man was
buried in Westborough church-yard. He
was followed to the grave by Stephen
Frankland as chief mourner, and a great
number of strangers, whom curiosity had
drawn to the spot. Upon his headstone
was engraved — by Stephen's orders —
these words: — ,
En iWemor.11
of
Jobn Sbetett JSranoron,
2S/J)o tuas
33aselj Jtlurnereo fix OTestboroujjJ) MPostl
ffin ttje 26ttj of Juls, 1859.
"-Penaeance fs j-tUtu, B totll JjUjiaj,
saittj ttje 2Lorlr."
Stephen had already written to his
father stating what had happened, and
that it would be impossible for him to be
at home on the day fixed for his return.
He had now to make a further postpone-
ment, on account of the adjournment of
the inquest. This was the more annoying,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
because, upon the investigation being re-
sumed, Mr. Lagger was obliged to admit
that he could produce no further evidence,
and at present did not know what to make
of the case. "But what have you dis-
covered respecting this suspicious per-
son named Riley?" asked the Coroner.
"That's exactly what I was sure your wor-
ship would want to know," said the de-
tective. "As I was a-coming along this
morning, I sez to myself, I sez, 'The first
thing the Coroner will ask you, Sampson
Lagger, is this — Have you, or have you
not, discovered anything respecting that
suspicious person named Riley ?' — that's
what the Coroner will say! And the an-
swer youll have to give, I sez to myself,
is plain. You aint — I sez — a born fool;
and your -superiors as always give you
credit for doing your dooty. Therefore
you can afford to tell the truth. You must
tell his worship — I sez — that for the pres-
ent Jim Riley's beat you. That you don't
know where to find him; but that if the
information given to you be cor—rect, this
'ere Jim Riley was a trampin' along to-
wards London, miles and miles away from
this, at the very hour when the murder
must have been committed! That's what
I sez to myself, and what I humbly sez to
you is this, Don't think any more about
this Jim, for he can prove an alibi that the
Archbishop of Canterbury himself couldn't
get over. No ! it aint Jim Riley." "Then
who is it?" asked the Coroner, feebly
struggling with his spectacles, and looking
at Mr. Lagaer with his chin.
"Well, Sir," replied the officer, " it. will
be my dooty to co—operate with the coun-
ty po—lice, and try and find out. But,"
he added with a significant smile, "as a
coroner's inquest aint bound to sit forever,
gentlemen of the jury having something
else to do, and as we can take the case
before the Justices any day if we find out
Mr. Right — considering all this, it seems
to me that poor Mr. B. was murdered by
some person or persons unknown — that's
what it seems to me!"
The hint was taken, and an open verdict
recorded.
"I tell you what it is, Stevie," said Cuth-
bert Lindsay, taking his old friend's arm
and leading him out of the room, "I'm
not so satisfied with this Mr. Lagger and
his off-handed exculpation of Riley. I
know you will not let this horrible mystery
remain unravelled; and if I can help you
in any way, don't hesitate to command me.
Confound the villain! If he were only
detected I'd hang him myself, if nobody
else would."
"And so, Master Jim Riley," mused Mr.
Lagger to himself, after his fashion, when
the last juryman had departed, "you left
here at nine minutes past six o'clock on
the morning of the 29th July, and you did
not arrive in London till the afternoon of
the 30th. Well, having a gal along with
you, you couldn't do it in much less time
— i/' you walked. But "(this reser-
vation Mr. Lagger did not breathe even
to himself) he added, however, after a
long pause, "In a few hours I shall have
my eye upon you, my lad; and, if you are
wanted, why I shall know where to put
my hand upon you — that's what / shall
know."
CHAPTER XL
"SEE THE CONQUERING HERO COMES."
If Stephen Prankland had had any
idea of the sort of reception which was
being prepared for him at Tremlett Tow-
ers, I think that he would have still further
postponed his return; certainly he would
not have left it to be supposed that he ac-
quiesced in the arrangement by writing —
as he did in his innocence — to let his
father know by what train he might be
expected. If there was one thing that he
disliked more than another it was being
made a fuss about.
As he was rattled along in the express
he could not help looking forward to the
happy meeting which had been so often in
his thoughts, and picturing where, and how,
and in what manner it would take place.
Frank, he thought, would drive over the
dog-cart for him, or perhaps his father
would come too; no one would recognize
him at the station. They need not pass
through the village, he thought; and he
would get dear old Frank to drive him
round the back way to " The Towers," so
that he might run up unperceived to his
mother's room, and have a quiet hour or
two of home-talk with the three nearest
and dearest to him, before he ran the
gauntlet through the kindly but embar-
rassing welcoming which he could not but
flatter himself would be in store as soon
as his actual return was known upon the
estate and throughout the neighborhood.
Then he arranged, that towards evening
he would go down to the storekeeper's
room, and shake hands with Mrs. Cooper
the "Juno," and Jones the "Jove," of that
domestic Olympus. The next morning he


68
A TANGLED SKEIN.
would walk over to Ruxton Court — with
Frank, most likely — and see them all
there; return by Durmstone; have a chat
with old Hoodgate the barber, who used
to sell him fishing-tackle and gunpowder
in his boyish days; and wind up the day
with a visit to poor paralytic Bill Grant,
the ex-head-keeper, at his cottage the
north lodge of the park. A railway car-
riage is a capital place for thinking in, if
your thoughts are pleasant ones, because
there is nothing to distract them; but I
think that, of all awful places to be shut
up in with a sorrow that has come, or the
shadow of one that is approaching, a rail-
way carriage is the most awful. When
people travelled in the old coaching days,
I suppose they made up their minds that
it was no use being anxious or impatient;
but now, if personal experience be worth
anything, it seems as though the speed at
which we travel serves, not to allay, but
to increase those feelings, and to make us
more and more impatient to get to such
and such a place, and know the best or
the worst of what is in store for us, in
proportion as we are wheeled along faster
and faster towards it.
Stephen's reflections, upon the whole,
were agreeable ones. He longed to get
to his home, yet was somewhat shy of the
first plunge into it —just as he might de-
sire to enjoy his shower-bath on some
frosty morning, but quaked at the idea of
pulling the string. The upshot was, that
although the last thirty miles of his jour-
ney were performed in little more than
half an hour, it seemed to him as though
the express were the slowest train he had
ever sat in. But when it began to slacken
speed at Durmstone he would have given
a good deal to have had another fifty miles
to travel before he had to face what he
was sure would there await him.
He was not surprised to see a quantity
of people assembled upon the platform, for
he remembered that it was market-day at
Derby. Nor was it strange to him that
his father should spring forward and open
the carriage-door; but he was astonished
when all the company took off their hats
and shouted with all their might, as he
alighted. An ovation was the last thing
that he expected; and his first notion was
that the inmates of the county asylum
were there in waiting for some excursion-
train that was to take them out into the
country for a holiday. He was glad, there-
fore, when Sir George hurried him through
the booking-office to where he saw an open
carriage waiting for him. In this was seated
Lady Tremlett, very elegantly dressed, and,
springing to her side, he clasped her in his
strong arms and kissed her heartily.
"Bless me!" exclaimed My Lady, ar-
ranging her rumpled finery, "I am so
happy — dearest Stevie! but you naughty
boy, you've been smoking — and, dear me,
how very brown you are!"
"And you, dearest mamma, are not one
bit changed — as beautiful — more beauti-
ful, than ever."
He had always been proud of his moth-
er's beauty. When a child, he had called
her his "pretty mamma," and as a stalwart
youth of eighteen had behaved towards
her more like her lover than her husband's
son. He was more of a man than she of a
woman in those happy days; and her sill}',
winning little manner, and thorough de-
pendence upon him in the—then — fre-
quent absences of Sir George, had won
for him a deep and faithful affection, such
as step-mothers but rarely enjoy. The
"poor delicate little Frank " of that time
— though her own flesh and blood — was
not a favorite. His weakness and petu-
lance troubled her; for, as we have seen,
she was of a selfish, indolent nature, and
clung with a helplessness, which is some-
times mistaken for affection, to any one
who would save her exertion and minister
to her wishes.
"Flatterer!" she replied, as the little
vexation she had felt at the derangement
of her toilet vanished under this incense
of her vanity, "you know I have grown
quite an old woman."
"I know no such thing. How kind it
was of you to come for me! But where's
Frank?" asked Stephen, looking eagerly
around for his half-brother.
"My love," said Lady Tremlett, ad-
dressing her husband, who had just come
up from fussing over Stephen's luggage,
"where's Francis?"
The radiant smile that had lighted up
the poor baronet's face since he had seen
his first-born died away at this question.
"Have you not told him?" he replied
in a low tone.
"My dear, I understood that he left the
message with you?"
"So he did. But I thought," he added,
in a tone of reproach, "that you might
have spared — I mean, that you might
have told him yourself."
"Why, George, how can you be so
absurd? He has only just asked me."
"The fact is, Stevie," said his father,
after a gulp or two, " that Francis is very
sorry, dreadfully grieved, I am sure, not to
be able to be here to welcome you. But
he has gone — he was obliged to go, I


72
A TANGLED SKEIN.
is stale, flat, and unprofitable, would, could,
should, or ought to be the least affected by
such dreadful things as ardent liquors, even
when confined in such aristocratic recep-
tacles as long-necked bottles tipped with
tin foil; and far be it from me to lay my-
self open to the well-merited punishment
which would follow any statement of mine
to the contrary. Only, were I given my
choice as to the time at which I should
join festive gatherings of a prandial char-
acter, I should postpone my advent until
the champagne had gone round. What a
dull affair is a dinner-party up to the
second course! And that first galop after
supper, Sir! Did you find Angelina less
agreeable than usual at that period of the
evening? Had "mamma's" goodnature
departed? or was Paterfamilias more than
properly grumpy, after his and her "slight
refreshment? These are questions which
you are not bound to answer, so pray lot
me proceed with my story.
At the proper period the ladies left the
table, and clustered round the entrance of
the tent to hear Stephen's health proposed,
and gloat over him whilst going through
the agony of returning thanks. In the
short interval which preceded this act of
cruelty, Mrs. Coleman drew her eldest
daughter aside, and said sharply:
"What made you faint, child, just
now?"
"Oh! mamma, the sun was so very
strong, and I was so tired with standing;
and those men frightened me so when they
broke the ropes, and rushed at Ste— Cap-
tain Frankland."
"Hum—m," said her mother, in reflec-
tive mood. "Now, tell me truth, Laura;
did anything pass between you and Steeve
before he went to India?"
"Anything pass, mamma?"
"Yes, yes — don't pretend that you don't
understand what I mean. Did he say any-
thing to you? Did he make anything like
a proposal, or had you reason to think he
would propose when he returned?"
"No, dear mamma," Laura replied some-
what sadly. "We were too good friends
for that," she added naively.
"Has he ever written to you?"
"Oh, no."
"Or you to him?"
"Mamma!"
"Well, I did not say you had, child.
Pray don't stare at me in that stupid way!
Come! we'll go back to the tent, and hear
the speeches."
They arrived just as the Honorable Joe
Pilkinton had risen, amidst a great thump-
ing of the table, to ask permission to pro-
pose a toast — a ceremony which was
hardly necessary, insomuch as he had been
requested by Sir George, at an early pe-
riod of the day, to do so when the right
time should come.
The Honorable Joe was an elderly dandy
in a wig, and labored under the impression
that his huge sky-blue stock and high-col-
lared coat were the height of the fashion.
Being a Member of Parliament, he was
fond of making speeches, and scorned to
come directly to the point of his address.
He adopted what I believe is irreverently
called the " bow-wow" style of oratory. I
mean, that he uttered his words as though
he were barking them like a dog. He
barked out a short sentence to the right,
and bobbed, violently, in that direction.
He barked out a short sentence to the left,
and bobbed again, that way. He barked
out a short sentence straight in front
of him, and then bent his body nearly
double over the table to emphasize the
conclusion; and at each bob, and at ev-
ery bend, he paused until some one said
"Hear, hear! The manner in which he
trifled with poor Stephen's feelings was
cruel in the extreme. He played with
him in his speech like a cat with a mouse.
He fenced and flirted with the subject in
the most provoking manner. Of course,
his victim knew what was coming, and a
dozen times thought it had come, when the
voluble M. P. flew off at a tangent, and
talked about something else.
He began by observing that it was very
beautiful weather, and that the next best
thing to beautiful weather was to see neigh-
bors assembled on an occasion like the pres-
ent, to do honor to a distinguished relative
of a gentleman for whom they had all the
highest regard ("Now for it!" quaked
poor Stevie). Their humble friends, he
(the Hon. Joe) understood (bob), were en-
joying themselves in another place — (by
which Parliamentary phrase he designated
a huge booth, from which sounds of riotry
were wafted now and then), — and he was
was delighted to think — he might say to
be sure (bob), — that the toast he was
about to have the honor of proposing would
meet with the cordial approbation of all
members of the community. (Bend over
the table, and cries of "Hear, hear!")
Here Stevie studied intently the pattern
of his plate. Some of them had heard,
the speaker continued with a bob to the
right, that the possessions of Her Majesty
in the East Indies (bob to the left) had
lately been the scene of a most cruel (bob)
and unnatural (bob), he might say unprec-
edented, rebellion (bow over the table and


A TANGLED SKEIN.
73
"Hear, hear!") And had it not been for
the brilliant and enduring services (bob)
of a band of men, whom he would not im-
properly designate as heroes (bob, and
'' Hear, hear"), he thought he might be
justified in saying that it was not impossi-
ble but that Her Majesty might have been
temporarily deprived of the possessions
(bob), to which (bob) he had alluded.
But Her Majesty had not been deprived
of those possessions (bend over the table,
and "Hear ! ") and the reason why she
was not deprived of them, was, that she
was served by men, who, as he before ob-
served, were not inferior to the heroes of
— of Thermopoli —and — and Waterloo
(bob, and lusty cheering). Now, what
were they to do — what were gentlemen
of the county of Derby to do, when one
of these men returned full of honors to his
home? Were they to give him the cold
shoulder? demanded the Honorable Joe
defiantly, amidst cries of "Hear, hear,"
and "No, no." Were they to decline to
place upon record their admiration of his
conduct? ("No, no.") Were they to
allow him to subside into the private life
which he adorned, without paying some
public — that is, quasi-public — tribute to
his worth? No, they were not! He (the
Hon. Joe) knew they were not. He could
see that they were not — (and the speak-
er bent double over the table, and gazed
eagerly into a blancmange.) They had
amongst them there that day (Stevie's chair
became uncomfortable) many persons who
had been acquainted with the family of his
excellent friend and host (cheers), Sir
George Tremlett, for years, and they would
rejoice with him (the Hon. Joe again) at
being permitted to express at his hospita-
ble board (bob and cheering), the pleasure
they felt in enjoying the privilege of wel-
coming back to his country one dear and
near to him (Sir George, this time), who
had been many years absent from its
shores. He meant Captain Stephen Frank-
land!
At the mention of the long-expected
name, the whole company rose, cheered,
stamped, waved handkerchiefs, broke wine-
glasses, shouted, upset plates of trifle into
each other's laps, and cheered again fit to
shake the tent down. The uproar having
at last subsided, the Hon. Joe came to the
point; briefly sketched Stevie's Indian ca-
reer, alluded gracefully to his winning the
Victoria Cross, sympathized with him upon
his sufferings, proposed his health, and sat
down amidst more cheering, and destruc-
tion of. glasses as before.
The tumult was renewed with increased
force when Stephen rose to return thanks;
and what he said was simply this : —
"Please excuse my making a speech.
You have filled my heart so full, that I
cannot get out the words. As for my ser-
vices under my dear old chief, no one could
help doing his duty under such a leader.
I did no more; and hundreds upon hun-
dreds of men deserve your praises better
than I do. I thank God for having spared
my life. I thank the Queen for awarding
me the honor which chance enabled me to
gain, and I thank you, with all my soul, for
the good wishes you have expressed to-
wards me this day." And then he sat
down, pulled his tawny moustache, thanked
his stars that he had got over his troubles
at last, and longed — oh, how he longed!
— to run away and hide himself.
"Oh, Grace !" said Laura Coleman, " I
never was so disappointed in my life. I
did think he would have made a better
speech."
"Did you, dear?" replied Grace, very
quietly.
"And Mr. Pilkinton spoke so beauti-
fully!"
"Beautifully !" said Grace, dryly.
An hour afterwards, as they were walk-
ing to their carriage, Mrs. Coleman thus
addressed her spouse:
"My love!"
"Well, my dear?"
"I really think that it is your duty, as
Lady Tremlett's trustee, to suggest her do-
ing something handsome for Stevie."
"My dear," said her husband, raising his
forefinger, "Business!"
"Oh, bother ' business;' I'm sure I love
him as though he were my own son."
"I am very fond of Stevie,"'said her
husband.
"Then why don't you see him properly
provided for?"
"My love !" — and the forefinger rose
again — " Business!"
"Bah! Do you know, I think he likes
our Laura!"
"Nonsense!"
"And I'm quite sure the poor child is in
love with him."
"That may be. She's a great goose."
"It's just like you, to run down your
own children, Coleman; and when it's in
your power to"
"Business!"
"And Rhoda would never miss a hun-
dred or two —"
"Business!"
"And I'm sure she would be only too
glad to take the hint if you"
"Mrs. Coleman, I have generally to


74
A TANGLED SKEIN.
speak the word once, and once only; but
I have already four times had to say —
Business!"
And so the subject dropped.
But as the good lady was retiring to rest
that night, she mused upon it, and thought,
"Well, I suppose they will be able to live
pretty comfortably upon their pay; and
ladies are made so much of in India. It
won't be much of a match for her, poor
thing; but then, she gets so dreadfully in
the way of her younger sisters!"
So we can see clearly enough what was
passing in her mind.
The meeting between Stephen and his
brother was, to all appearance, a cordial
one, though Lord de Cartarett had told the
former, in his off-hand way, that it was all
bosh about "dear Francis" being obliged
to go away on magisterial business. He
had only gone, that nobleman said, to wor-
ry the Governor of the House of Correc-
tion about some dirty little boys who were
going to be whipped for stealing apples.
But to this statement honest Stevie paid
no heed, and thought rather badly of his
old school-fellow for making it.
The hours spent by Sir George Trem-
lett in preparing for this fete were the hap-
piest he had known for many a day. He
dearly loved planning and settling and
arranging such things, and fidgeting about
with the workmen; and he chuckled in his
sleeve as he thought of "dearest Francis,"
with his charity children and his tea and
buns, his one tent, and his pretended fear
of being "compromised" by an ovation to
his soldier-brother!" It was perhaps as
well, after.all," thought his father, "that
he kept out of the way; for an ovation
there has been, and no mistake about it."
Lady Tremlett was delighted with all
that had been done. She came into the
Park to look on occasionally at the build-
ing of the triumphant arch; and " Dear,
dear," she would say, "what clever crea-
tures you all are! But what a mess you've
got your new frocks in! Will you ever
be able to get it all down again?" At last
she even began to take quite an interest in
what was doing, and actually exerted her-
self so far as to twine a piece of pink cal-
ico a great way up one of the poles of the
marquee! If, however, she was not lib-
eral in her assistance, she was so with he*
praises and thanks; and, as I have already
said, the poor Baronet was a happy man.
But, alas! retribution came with the
bill! And this having to pass through the
hands of the methodical Mr. Francis, pro-
vided, we may be sure, the text for many
a discourse upon extravagance, love of dis-
play, gluttony, self-adulation, and all the
vices. Nor did Lady Tremlett back up
her husband as she might have done, con-
sidering that she had given him full au-
thority to do what he thought proper, re-
gardless of expense; and had commended,
in no measured terms, what he had done.
You see, a grand dejeuner is all very nice
whilst it is taking place (especially when
others have the anxiety of seeing that all
goes well), whilst the band is playing, the
flags waving, the friends complimenting,
and everything has got to be enjoyed; you
are inclined to be wonderfully liberal then.
But when there is nothing left of these
grand doings but a bare brown mess upon
the greensward, a lot of faded flowers, tar-
nished spangles, the recollection of (per-
haps) a headache and a bundle of " little
accounts," to which Her Majesty's likeness
in blue has got to be attached — why, then
I fancy there is sometimes a good deal of
grumbling, and complaints of some one
having ordered so much this, and not hav-
ing managed to do without that, and that
objections which never arose before have
to be endured, if they cannot be answered.
Poor Sir George had a sorry time of it
when the youthful chancellor of his wife's
exchequer began to settle accounts in his
usual methodical manner. This process,
however, was not commenced until some
weeks after Stephen's return; and what
took place in the mean time had anything
but a softening effect upon its rigors.
Quickly passed the days with Stephen,
every one marked by some hearty meet-
ing, or the revival of some pleasant old
association. Sir George, too, had a good
time of it just then; for " dear Francis"
had been made to sing rather smaller than
usual since his brother's return. At first
he tried the high hand with Stephen, and
instructed that Indian officer concerning
the manners and customs of India. He
criticized, also, certain military operations
in which Stevie had been engaged with
such solemnity and correctness as nearly
to choke the latter with laughter. "Tou
will be the death of me, old boy, if you go
on like that," he said; "but pray don't
talk so before any one else who knows In-
dia, or they'll set you down as such an
awful Griff'."
This being said in the presence of his
father and mother, before whom "dear
Francis" could not bear to be taken down,
he essayed a formular which he had used
with great success on former occasions.
"I am not going to suffer myself," he
said," to be laughed out of a position. To
a casual observer, no doubt, the thing will


A TANGLED SKEIN.
75
appear as you would put it; but if you
will give the matter a little more attention,
you will perceive that I am quite correct
in what I have advanced."
At this, hearty Stevie laughed again,
and offered to bet his brother a " fiver"
that none of his dates were right to a fort-
night, or his distances to a hundred miles;
whereupon " dear Francis " indulged him
with a homily upon the folly of betting,
which, however, produced no other effect
than to make his brother laugh again, slap
him on the back, and declare that they
ought to make a parson of him, and he'd
be Archbishop of Canterbury in no time.
Whilst this was going on poor Sir
George sat quaking with fear, lest his
second son should push his obstinacy to
offensive lengths; and My Lady reclined
languidly upon her sofa, and backed up
the disputants by turns, declaring at one
time that M dearest Francis " was so very
clever that he could not be mistaken, and
observing at another that " dear Stevie"
had been in India, and therefore must
know best.
"Are you as certain of that, old fellow,"
he would say, when "dear Francis" be-
gan to preach upon some of his peculiar
doctrines, — " as that Goorzerat is on the
Ganges, eh?" Thus cruelly bringing to
light a dreadful blunder that his brother
had made in a recent speech at the Me-
chanics' Institute at Durmstone, — a fear-
fully penitential institution, of which he
was the founder and patron. Even when
he was right, Stephen laughed at him;
for, you see, the process by which Mr.
Tremlett's supposed intellectual acquire-
ments had become the terror of the neigh-
borhood was gradual. Stephen could only
think of him as "dear little delicate
Frank," the small brother whom he had
carried about on his back, and who had
cried for what he wanted; consequently
he treated him accordingly, with much
affection, but not a scrap of homage, — to
his intense disgust, and the secret satisfac-
tion of everybody else.
So, as I have said, the days passed
pleasantly enough with Stephen Frank-
land at" The Towers," until his conscience
began to prick him for neglecting Bran-
dron's dying request. True it was, that,
during the four or five hours that he had
been detained in London whilst on his
way home, he had made numerous in-
quiries respecting Mangerton Chase, and
neither from word of mouth or in books
of reference could he gain any information
whatever respecting it.
He saw therefore that he would have to
trace it out by steps, the first of which
would be to discover Father Eustace. He
did not expect to find anything that would
help him in the heavy luggage of the de-
ceased which he received notice had
now arrived at the Southampton Custom
House.
At first Sir George and Lady Tremlett
would not hear of his leaving home again
so soon; but the objections of the latter
were softened when she heard of certain
shawls and ivory ornaments which Stephen
had stored in his own impedimenta.
Any subject connected with Mr. Bran-
dron appeared to be distasteful to the
Baronet (who had never once alluded to
the rencontre at Westborough), and he
soon ceased to offer an opposition which,
of course, would raise the topics he evi-
dently desired to avoid.
So Stephen promised not to be away
longer than a week at the farthest, and
went his way into Babylon the Great,
there to do his best towards picking up
the clue which was to lead to the discov-
ery of the secret hidden behind the black
oak panelling in the room over the armory
at Mangerton Chase.
CHAPTER XII.
UNDER HIS NOSE.
When Mr. Sampson Lagger informed
himself that in a few hours he should have
his eye upon Jim Riley, and that if he was
wanted, why, he should know where to
put his hand upon him, — that's what he
should know, — he little thought that, ten
minutes after he had quitted Mrs. Want-
ley's shop in Little Union Street, that
same ex-convict and ostensible knife-
grinder had entered it, accompanied by
his idiotic sister, who had come with him
in his long tramp from Westborough.
When the patient reader last heard of
him he had just bought a newspaper, and
was shuffling about at the counter, having
evidently something on his mind to say
and lacking the courage or the wit to
speak it out. There he stood, drawing
lines with his great grimy forefinger on
the cigar-box that we have heard of, and
rubbing them out again in an abstracted
mood with the sleeve of his coat. At last,
in reply to reiterated questions from the
shopkeeper if there was anything else
that he pleased to want, he replied sud-
denly, —


76
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"I wants to speak to Missis Wantley."
"Well; that's me."
"Ah !" said Jim, looking at her fixedly,
"I thought so."
"And what did you please to want with
me ?" said the woman, edging a little far-
ther away, — for she did not like the looks
of the strange pair who had invaded her
premises.
"If you're the Missis Wantley as I'm a
seeking for, you've got a son called Bob,
leastwise, Robert Wantley?"
At the mention of this name she turned
very pale. One hand fell heavily on the
counter for support, and the other was
pressed to her heart.
"What of him? Is he well? Is he?
Oh, tell me, Sir, — do! What of my
poor, poor Bob 1"
"I suppose you knows where he is?"
"Ah, yes; I do indeed," replied his
mother, with a deep sigh.
"Well, up to last Wednesday at noon I
was there too," said Riley.
Mrs. Wantley drew still farther off.
There seemed to be an objection on either
side to give a name to the " there." The
reader knows it to be Maidstone jail.
"Maybe, then, you are one of those
who led my poor lad into crime and mis-
ery ?" said the widow, flushing up scarlet,
and regarding her visitor with an up-
braiding look.
"You're wrong. If you please, may
the gal sit down? She's fairly wearied
out. She's my sister, poor thing, and she's
daft."
Mrs. Wantley made no reply, but
brought a chair out of the back room, and
gave it over the counter to him, for
Nancy.
"Thank you kindly," said Jim, "I
shouldn't ha' come here if he hadn't sent
me; and what I've got to say is just this.
He, that's Bob, and two others, they made
an attempt to escape one night about, —
let me see, two month ago."
"An attempt! Oh dear! oh dear!"
"They made themselves tools, picked
the locks of their cells, and climbed out
on to the roof of the Governor's house.
Two of them got down all right; and Bob,
he was the last, would ha' got off all right
too, only one of the knots in the pieces of
blanket they'd torn up and made a rope
on slipped, and Bob, he fell, and hurted
hisself very bad."
"My God, he's killed!"
"No, no! Don't e' go on so! Not
killed I tell thee, though he had a hard
time of it, poor lad. Shall I tell thee all
about it?"
"Oh, do, do! But tell me, how is he
now? How is my poor boy?"
"Nicely, nicely, I do assure you. You've
no call to be afeard o' me. I ain't as bad
a one as I look, though I arn't an angel,
— that's true. I tell you this though, if I
was to fall down dead this moment for tell-
ing a lie, I am as innocent as your baby
of what they locked me up for along with
your son in that jail."
There was something in his manner,
more than in his words, that reassured the
poor woman, and she asked the pair of
tramps into her little back room behind
the shop; and having turned out the chil-
dren to play in the street, eagerly awaited
what Riley had to say about the erring
Bob.
"You see," he said, "our cells were
next to each other, and we was confined
solitary. You don't know, no one as has
not been confined solitary knows, what it
is. The days are all alike, and the nights
are all alike; and you see no one's face
but the chaplain's, and that only once in a
way; and you hear no sound, and have
nought to do but to stare at the bare walls,
until they seem to eat through your eyes
into your brain like to drive you inad. It
won't do to tell you or any one else how
prisoners confined solitary, as are in the
secret, can communicate with each other
all over the jail, — leastwise, all along
the side of a passage, holding, it may be,
fifty cells; but Bob being next to me in
chapel and at exercise, as he was next in
cells, give me the office."
« The office! What office?"
"Well, I don't justly know what else to
call it. I mean that he told me how the
thing was done; and then I found out
that he, and the next one to him, and the
next farther on, had made up their minds
to try and escape, and wanted me to join
them."
"And did you? Are you one of the
men who got off?"
"Only one of them got right off, and is
right off, for aught I know yet," Riley re-
plied. "The other was took. No! I'd
only about two weeks more to sarve, and
I wasn't agoing to risk being tried agin."
"Will my Bob be tried again?"
"Sartin — next assize, and get another
twelvemonth I'll be bound."
Poor Mrs. Wantley's tears burst out,
and she rocked herself to and fro in her
chair, moaning piteously and beating her
hands together at the bad news. When
she became a little more composed Riley
continued —
"For a good bit I thought they had


A TANGLED SKEIN.
77
made right off, all on 'em, as I could get
no answer from either cell, right hand or
left hand. But one day the chaplain comes
in, and says he, 'No. 37,' (that was my
number,) says he, ' No. 36 has met with a
severe accident trying to escape, and the
surgeon thinks that he will die.' But he
ain't dead you know," Jim added quickly,
"that was only what the chaplain said;
and says he,' As you're agoing out soon, he
wants you to take a message to his mother.
Will you take it?' That I will, said I,
glad enough to have any one to speak to.
So he says, ' Come along with me.' And
we went to the Infirmary. There I saw
your Bob, and heard that he had fallen
forty feet, right on to the flags. He had
put out his hip, his right arm was broken
in two places, so was some of his ribs,
and he was terribly shook and bruised all
over."
"My boy — my boy! But what did he
say?"
"First of all he asked me my name,
and I told him."
"Please tell me?" said Mrs. Wantley,
drawing her chair a little closer to where
Jim Riley sat.
"My name," he replied after a pause,
"is Brooks — Tom Brooks; and says he,
'Jim,' — leastwise, as I said, ' Tom, go to
my poor mother,' — and he told me where
to go —' and tell her from me that I've
been a thinkin' a good bit of all I've done,
and if I die, as they say I may do very
soon, I shan't, please God,' — this is just
his words —' I shan't, please God, die the
devil's imp I've bin all these years; and if
I live, why, I'll be a comfort to her yet.'"
"God bless him! — I knew he'd mend.
I knew it!"
"Well; he got mortal bad after that,
and they let me be with him a good deal,
on an' off; but he said nought else but
that what I've told you, many a time over;
and at last he took and got round agin
slowly, till the morning as I come out he
was a sittin' up eating his soup quite
perky."
"Heaven be praised! But if I was to
go to see him, do you think they would let
ine in?"
"I think they would," Mr. Brooks re-
plied. "The chaplain, he took to him very
kindly, and so did the surgeon; and I
think if you was to see them they'd get
you let in."
"I'll go directly — I'll go this very night!
Here, Flora!"
"Gently, gently!" said Riley, stopping
her as she rose and was rushing out of the
room. "To-morrow ain't visitors' day, j
nor Wednesday neither; and the Gover-
nor, he's a rare one for sticking to rules.
You go down on Thursday, and you'll
have a chance."
The poor widow thanked Mr. Thomas
Brooks heartily again and again, and, after
some further conversation about her son,
asked him where he had come from, and
where he was going that day; and upon
this Nancy, who had sat silent and motion-
less all the time, broke in —
"I live at the third cottage opposite the
well, a mile and a bit from Westborough."
"At Westborough!" said Mrs. Want-
ley, recalling the words of Mr. Sampson
Lagger. "Ah, yes; I know Westborough!
It's down near Penzance!"
Riley (or Brooks, as he chose to call
himself there) eyed her intently for a mo-
ment, and then replied, " Ay, sure; down
by Penzance."
"And have you walked all the way?"
"Every step from Westborough."
"Dear, dear, dear!" exclaimed the
widow, " how tired and hungry you must
be, and I not to oS'er you anything!
We're just going to tea, and if you and
the young woman could stop and take
share of what we have got, we shall be so
pleased."
By this time all the poor woman's fear
and antipathy had vanished, so they all sat
down to tea together in the back parlor.
But before the repast commenced Helen
took poor daft Nancy in hand — changed
her wet and muddy boots; combed out her
shaggy elf-locks that had not known care
since Mrs. Riley died; washed and tended
the poor helpless thing; ran together the
slits and tears in her tattered dress with
nimble needle; made her tidy and com-
fortable with some little things out of her
scanty wardrobe — so that you could hardly
recognize the wretched weary drab who
dragged herself up-stairs, led by this kind-
hearted girl, in the almost nice-looking
woman with whom she returned after a
brief half hour into the little back parlor.
Had not the poor creature's brother brought
good news of Bob? And if there be joy
in heaven over one sinner that repentctli,
shall no delight be expressed on earth, my
brothers?
Elegant Miss Flora was the only member
of the family that did not do his or her best
to make the strangers welcome. "If mother
chooses," this lady remarked, "to make
up to a lot of idiots and pickpockets out
of the street and ask them in to tea, just
because they pretend to have come with a
message from that disgraceful Bob, I ain't
agoing to demean myself by sitting down


78
A TANGLED SKEIN.
»!" saying which she tossed her
bead and flounced oat of the apartment.
Refined, however, as was Miss Flora's
mind, her appetite was considerable; and
when the savory odor of eggs and fried
ham — delicacies purchased suddenly as a
treat for the visitors — was wafted into
Mr. Lagger's room, which his fair attend-
ant invariably occupied, in state, during
his absences, she began to soften. First
she went down again into the back parlor,
under pretence of getting some work
which she had forgotten, and left the
room tossing her head with lessened se-
verity. Then she reentered, finding that
no one entreated her to stay, and intimated
that she had condemned Master Augustus
— (this was her youngest brother) — to
go supperless to bed on account of sundry
acts of insubordination committed by that
juvenile during the day; but added, that
perhaps she could be persuaded to let him
off if he begged her pardon. This Au-
gustus — who had gorged until he was ut-
terly unable to swallow another mouthful,
and was rapidly subsiding into a comatose
state — sleepily declined to do; whereupon
his mother whipped him with a severity
out of all proportion to the fearful howling
which followed the infliction, and carried
him off to bed. What, then, could the
fair Flora do but take the vacant place,
and preside ? — "just to mind the chil-
dren," as she protested, "nothing more,"
saying which she immediately helped her-
self to a plateful of the savory dish which
had been exciting her gastric juices, and
made a very excellent meal.
It was soon time for Helen to start for
her theatre — for she was to appear in the
first piece — and she departed smiling. It
was soon time for the nomadic and pred-
atory young Wantleys to go to bed.
Thitherward they were driven, for the
most part, howling; and then the way-
farers were left alone with the kindly
widow and her eldest daughter.
"Now, Mr. Brooks," said the latter,
when she had cleared the table, " I'm sure
you would like to smoke your pipe a bit.
So you take off your coat, and make your-
self comfortable."
Jim was not slow to accede to her re-
quest, and was soon puffing away at some
excellent tobacco which the omniferous
little shop provided; whilst the fair and
fragile Flora, whose dislike to the fragrant
weed was for a while subdued by curiosity
to hear what the — to her — unwelcome
visitor might have to say, sat at the window
pretending to read the current number of
"Crimes and Coronets; or, the Mysteries
of the Peerage." But although the pre-
vious number had left the innocent heroine
hotly pursued by the wicked nobleman
along the sewers under the Westminster
Bridge Road, into which she had dug ber
way with a pair of scissors from that repre-
hensible Peer's mansion in St. James's, the
judicious pursuer was too well versed in
such escapades to imagine for a moment
that any harm would result to injured in-
nocence; and consequently had plenty of
attention to give to the conversation which
ensued.
"But you don't mean to say," remarked
the widow, when Jim had stated that he
was bound to Sheffield, " that you're going
to drag this poor thing " — indicating Nan-
cy, who had crept to her side, and was
gazing wistfully in her motherly face —
"all that weary way?"
"What else am I to do?" asked Jim;
"I wouldn't if I could help it; for it's
most like I shall have to tramp back agin
if a gentleman as I met at West at
Pen — zance, you know, doesn't find me
summut to do."
"Hasn't she got any friends in London
who would take care of her whilst you
were away?"
"I wish she had."
"And I suppose — hoping I don't in-
trude in asking — I suppose you can't
afford to pay any one lor taking care of
her?"
"I could," said Jim gravely, puffing
away at his pipe; "I could, Mother left
a little money behind her — saved up for
Nancy, I'll be bound. Leastwise, / shan't
touch a penny of it. It comes altogether
to nigh upon five pound, and I'd give it all,
cheerful, to any one as would give the poor
lass board and lodging, and use her well,
for — well, say two months; and after that,
if I got work, I'd pay so much a week out
of my wages to keep her comfortable."
"I'm sure that's very good of you."
"You see," continued Jim, in a reflec-
tive tone, "if she was all right in her yead
she could cook and that for me, and keep
a bit of a room neat and clean for us to
live in. But, bless you! she can't do
nought, and a great rough chap like uie
ain't no use to her. Look what she was
afore your good gal cleaned her up a bit,
and look what she looks like now."
"I'm sure my Helen would be very
kind. Helen would do anything for any-
body who belonged to anybody who was
kind to our poor Bob," replied Mrs. Want-
ley.
"Ay!" said Brooks; "she's one of the
right sort, I can see; but it ain't likely


A TANGLED SKEIN.
79
that such as her would mind Nancy. You
don't happen to know any one," he con-
tinued, after a pause, "who haschilder of
her own, and would feel kindly like to a
poor half-witted thing — some one who'd
take care on her for a time? Because if
you did, I'd give her the money down, and
I'd go and look for work with a light heart."
And he cast a searching glance at the
widow, as though he were reading all that
was passing in her mind.
The sum named as a subsidy was not a
large one to feed and board a full-grown
woman upon, but as things went in that
frugal household it was quite sufficient, and
a little to spare. Moreover, it had been a
bad time lately in the little shop. A fast
young gentleman, who lodged higher up in
the street and had run up a longish score,
ran it off through the Insolvent Court just
as the water-rate (for which the expected
payment had been intended) became op-
pressively due. Then there was the in-
tended journey to Maidstone to see the
crippled prodigal, and cherish his good
resolves with more of the long-enduring
motherly tenderness which, like bread cast
upon the waters, had come home at last.
That must be taken, if all the stock had to
be sold up to raise the money, — " and it
will cost a good bit," thought poor Mrs.
Wantley. Be good enough to remember,
that these calculations relate to a house-
hold to which a few shillings a week, more
or less, made all the difference between
plenty and want — between the comfort
of owing nothing and the misery of debt.
Please to think of this, ladies and gentle-
men, when you make your bargains and
tell Styles's little girl to call again some
other day for her mother's little account,
as it is too much trouble to get change now.
You are at dinner, you are going out for
a drive, and are hurried. You are just
come in from a walk, and are tired.
"Bless the woman!" you exclaim, " why
does she tease one so! Let her send
again." These may seem small things to
moralize upon; but the Parish Unions can
tell you of hard-working folk who have
ended their days in misery, because they
had too often to " call again " at rich men's
doors. The jail and the reformatory can
tell you of children driven upon the streets
to starve when the bread-winner's little
shop was sold up, or his tools pawned to
satisfy those who would not "call again"
on him I Fingers that once were decorated
with the insignia of honest toil, but upon
which now glitter Vice's costly fetters,
could write the history of patient work-
girls, who would be patient work-girls still
if grim Hunger could be told, as they have
been, to " call again." Ay ! and the black
whirling river can show you the ghastly
forms of those who will never " call again,"
unless it be for vengeance on those whose
selfishness, indolence, or fraud, has brought
them to their nameless graves.
It was no use to "call again" on the
fast young gentleman, and the rate col-
lector had announced that he would pay
his last visit on the next morning but one.
The takings of the little shop, with Mr.
Lagger's rent and the earnings of Helen
and Charley, kept the honest household
afloat, despite the extravagances of Miss
Flora; but there was no surplus to be
drawn upon for a contingency like the
present. So good Mrs. Wantley, after
some hesitation, declared that she did
really think that she knew somebody who
would be likely to take good care of poor
Nancy. "You see," she said, " she seems
very quiet, and won't give much trouble
after all."
"Trouble!" exclaimed Jim, who knew
well what was coming; "just give her
some of them old pictures, or a pair of
scissors and a bit of paper to cut about,
and she'll sit as quiet as a mouse from
morning to night."
"The children would soon get fond of
her," mused Mrs. Wantley, "and she of
them. And we could easy put her up a
bed."
"You could?"
"Bless me! what am I talking about?
Well, my thought's out now, you see, Mr.
Brooks, and if you like to trust me with
your sister, why, I'll trust you to do what's
right in return."
Kiley sprang to his feet, and smacked
his hand in hers. "It's a bargain," he
cried joyfully. "By Goles, it was good
luck that sent me here this night!"
The compact was not concluded without
a protest from the fair Flora, who declared
that mother might do what she liked, but
she wasn't agoing to be put about by luna-
tics, and so she told them. She thanked
her stars that there was them about as
would soon see her settled somewhere else
— a hint of impending matrimony which
the gentle creature kept for occasions like
the present.
The bargain, however, was struck, and
the money paid over, Mrs. Wantley in-
sisting upon being allowed to draw up in
writing what she supposed to be an in-
flexibly formal document which would
bind her in the severest manner to per-
form her part of the contract. To her
sorrow, she had become acquainted with


80
A TANGLED SKEIN.
the roundabout phraseology of the law,
as contained in the various mortgages and
assignments make by her jovial but reck-
less husband; and she made use of her
knowledge, good, honest dame, in the fol-
lowing deed:—
"I hereby promise for myself, my heirs,
executors, administrators, and assigns, to
take care of her, and treat her well, and
give her as much victuals as she can eat
for two months, for this money, according
to arrangements now made. And I de-
clare this to be my act and deed, anything
herein contained to the contrary notwith-
standing."
But as it did not show who the "I"
might be, or who was the "her" who was
to be taken care of, or how much "this
money" amounted to, or what the "ar-
rangements now made" were; and as,
moreover, it bore no signature and no
date, it cannot be said to be a satisfactory
production in a legal point of view. It
answered, however, all the purposes for
which it was made, and Jim Riley wrapped
it up in a piece of old newspaper and pock-
eted it with much apparent satisfaction.
It was then resolved that Nancy should
stay and begin her sojourn that very night,
sleeping with Helen till a bed could be
prepared for her — that Jim should be
accommodated at a respectable lodging-
house known to Mrs. Wantley, in Ruby
Row — that he should depart for Sheffield
the next morning — and that out of his
first wages he should send up money to
buy Nancy some clothes, or, failing his
obtaining employment, that the little which
was requisite should be purchased out of
the five pounds and made up afterwards
— and, lastly, that Mrs. Wantley should go
to Maidstone by the Parliamentary train
on the following Friday to see her erring
son. Then they began to talk of things
in general, and, amongst others, of the
gentleman who had promised to help Riley
if he went to Sheffield.
"I've got other friends down there as is
likely to find me something .to do," said
Jim, "besides that gentleman. He lives
in a great house near Durmstone, and I
don't expect there's much in my line to be
done there."
"Near Durmstone!" replied Mrs. Want-
ley, in a tone of surprise; "what is his
name?"
"Captain Stephen Frankland."
"Ah, I've heard that name somewhere,
but I don't remember him. But, law! it's
twenty years and more since I was near
Durmstone, and I was there only for a
few weeks."
"In the town?"
"No; I was living in service with Lord
Penruthyn. It was my second place; I
wasn't married then. Haven't you ever
heard tell of the Honorable Horace Pen-
ruthyn?"
"No."
"He was a wild one! He was My
Lord's younger brother. My Lord was
only a young man himself, and rented an
old house down there for the fishing and
shooting, and what not. Eh! but it was
a gloomy place. It nearly give me the
horrors to live there; and I was not a bit
sorry when the establishment was broke
up and the family went abroad."
"Why was that, if I might make bold
to ask?" said Jim.
"Well, it was something to do with Mr.
Horace and a wild young friend of his —
as wild a one as himself. They was all as
poor as mice for all their title, and he —
that's the Honorable Horace — got his
brother into some awful scrape with bills,
and one thing and another, so that they
was obliged to make a flit of it without
any warning. I lost my wages, and so
did the other servants; but I did not mind
that. I was quite satisfied to get clear of
that ghastly old house. Don't talk about
it, it makes me creep to think of it."
So the subject was dropped; and soon
afterwards, Helen having returned early,
as she was not wanted in the afterpiece,
Nancy was again given into her charge,
and Mr. Brooks went his way to the lodg-
ing-house in Ruby Row, saying that he
would return in the morning to wish his
sister good-by.
A long account of the inquest upon the
murder in Westborough Wood appeared
in the next day's papers; and instead of
Jim Riley came a message from him, stat-
ing that he had fallen in with a friend
who was going into Yorkshire, and with
whom he had agreed to travel in com-
pany; but as this friend would start as
early as daybreak, why, Mr. Brooks would
not disturb Mrs. Wantley, but wished her
and Nancy good-by, and they should soon
hear from him. Nancy never missed him.
At first she was restless and querulous in
her new home; but Helen and Mrs.
Wantley were very good and gentle with
the poor creature, and the children kept
her constantly amused; so that in a very
short time she not only became quite con-
tented with the change, but seemed to
brighten up considerably. Her unchanged,
eventless life, in the little cottage at West-
borough, was almost enough of itself to
deaden any intellect that was not of the


A TANGLED SKEIN.
81
strongest. Certainly, it had the worst pos-
sible effect upon a mind which had never
yet awakened. Little Union Street —
not, as we have seen, the gayest of local-
ities — was to her full of wonders, and the
humble shop and its customers slowly
filled her mind with new but vague ideas,
which, confused and distorted as they
were, were better than no ideas at all.
In due time Mr. Lagger returned to his
lodgings. He sauntered in as though he
had just been as far as the door to see
whether it was fine or raining, and by
some chance stumbled over Nancy on the
staircase. This happened upon the day
on which Mrs. Wantley had gone to Maid-
stone. Helen was absent at a rehearsal,
Charley was in the Temple, and the
elegant Miss Flora, being engaged in a
flirtation with Mr. Cornelius Bruffer, the
chemist next door, the small Wantleys,
left to themselves, were devastating the
neighborhood, and getting amongst the
horses' hoofs and under the wheels of the
vehicles passing down Ruby Row. How
comes it that small children of this class
cannot be run over? If you were to
place the infant heir to ten thousand a
year alone in Little Union Street, he
would be a mangled corpse in as many
minutes!
Nancy was, therefore, all alone ^ and
having a vague notion that the person left
to "mind the shop " was expected to treat
all incomers as so many natural enemies
thereto, flew fiercely at the detective, and
would have ejected him summarily, to his
intense astonishment, if Miss Flora — at-
tracted by the disturbance — had not
made her appearance.
"Hoity-toity!" exclaimed Mr. Lagger;
"what's all this about?"
"If you please, Sir, it's only a poor
lunatic that mother would go and take
charge of, to worrit us all. She won't
hurt you."
"I won't take my oath of that," replied
the lodger, casting a doubtful glance at
Nancy's flushed and angry face. "Who
the dickins is she?"
Asking this, he gave what Helen would
call "a cue," and it was taken immedi-
ately, for Nancy replied, eagerly —
"1 lite at the third cottage opposite the
well, a mile and a bit from Westborough."
If Mr. Sampson Lagger had never yet
been taken aback during his long profes-
sional experience, he was fairly taken
aback now. His astonishment vented
itself in a long, low whistle.
"Whee — u — u! Westborough, eh!
And where's brother Jim?"
Ay, where was brother Jim? Nancy
could give no information; but Flora told
what she knew of his movements — and
Mr. Lagger did not sleep that night at
home.
CHAPTER XIH.
ON THE TRACK.
Stephen Frankland's anticipation
that there would be nothing in Brand-
ron's heavy luggage to give a clue to
Mangerton Chase was correct. It con-
sisted, for the most part, of articles evi-
dently intended as presents to the gentler
sex, and of great value. Cashmere shawls,
exquisite Indian muslins, bracelets and
other ornaments in gold and silver fila-
gree-work; boxes, ornaments, and puzzles
carved in ivory and sandalwood — curiosi-
ties of all sorts there were in plenty, and
underneath, at the bottom of the box,
Stephen found a bundle of shares in a
Calcutta Bank which he knew to be worth
near upon eight hundred pounds. There
was also some wearing apparel; but no
letters — no papers or memoranda of any
value whatever for carrying out the quon-
dam owner's dying request.
We have seen that Stevie had well con-
sidered- the manner in which the clue was
to be sought for. The key to the secret
was in the hands of Father Eustace; and
the first step was to find him out and
obtain an interview, or to ascertain with
what institution likely to afford a home to
such a person as Mary Alston he was con-
nected, some time between the years 1838
— when Brandron went to India — and
1859, when he received the letter signed
"Susan." But how was Stephen to com-
mence these inquiries — and where? He
had thought over this many a time before
he left home on his search, and from ques-
tions which he had put in a casual manner
to the Vicar of Durmstone and Lord de
Cartarett — who was a Roman Catholic,
but, I am afraid, not a very good one —
he learnt that something in the nature
of a Clergy List was issued at the office
of a notorious Roman Catholic newspa-
per which was published every week in
Strand. To the office of this journal he
went direct from the railway station, and
obtained permission to look over the cur-
rent list, and such of the lists for previous
years as were on the premises. These
went back as far as 1847, and the pub-
6


82
A TANGLED SKEIN.
lisher was not sure whether there were
any others. He rather thought that the
publication was commenced then, or there-
abouts; but was not quite certain. In
none of these was the name of Father
Eustace.
Stephen next began to inquire about
institutions in which a person in humble
life could obtain a home; but obtained
'very vague replies. Such public institu-
tions as existed in London would be men-
tioned in the Post-Office Directory. The
publisher knew nothing about those in the
country; perhaps the sub-editor did, only
he was out; and the editor never came to
the office. The publisher rather thought
there was one at Birmingham and one at
Salford, and had heard about one at Liver-
pool. This much, however, he could say,
there was no printed guide whatever which
would give the inquirer such information
as he desired, relative to all England, or
to private charities. Was the publisher
acquainted with any person who would be
likely to know? Well, perhaps the sub-
editor might. Would Stephen call again?
Stephen promised to do so, and left the
shop a little dashed by this failure in a
quarter from which he had been led to
expect so much.
An interview with the sub-editor was
fixed for the next day at two o'clock; and,
being so near the Temple, Stephen thought
he would call upon Cuddy Lindsay by way
of killing time. He found no difficulty in
getting into this abode of learning; but
after having wandered to and fro amongst
its courts and passages for about three-
quarters of an hour, he perceived it to be
by no means so easy for the stranger to
get out of it, or to find any point therein
of which he was in search — particularly
if he trusted to the directions of the clerks
and porters who infested its precincts.
At last he stumbled upon Sycamore
Court, and upon the lentil of No. 7 found
painted the name of Mr. Cuthbert Lind-
say, with two others, as occupying the third
floor. He sprang up the stairs; and when
he had mounted about half way, encoun-
tered a young gentleman laboriously en-
gaged in zoological investigations. He
had caught an unlucky mouse, and, hav-
ing tied a long piece of black thread se-
curely to its tail, was trying to make it
walk up one of the banisters backwards.
Of course Stephen boxed his ears. There
is a sort of boy to box whose ears in pass-
ing is a debt one owes to society, and
which society should exact . It may not
be quite legal, perhaps; but this is a fault
in the law, which will not be wholly just
until it makes boxing the ears of an elec-
tric telegraph boy discovered playing mar-
bles, a doctor's boy caught sliding on the
pavement, or an office-boy seen playing on
the staircase, an assault not only justifiable,
but compulsory.
The delinquent upon this occasion —
who was no other than our friend Charley
Wantley — resented the infliction after
the manner of his tribe. He stiffened his
arms, held them behind him, and, thrust-
ing his chin very close to the bottom of
Stephen's waistcoat, requested him to hit
him (Charley) again, in a tone which
threatened the severest consequences in
case the blow were repeated. In the con-
fusion the mouse escaped, and Stephen,
pushing its indignant tormentor aside, con-
tinued his ascent, and found Cuddy's door
open. He was about to enter, when Char-
ley ran up, and, seeing whither the stranger
was bound, assumed a penitential mien,
and asked whom he pleased to want.
He was about to reply, when strange
sounds from within attracted his attention.
First came a slight noise, as though of a
struggle; and then a voice, which he knew
to be Cuddy's, exclaimed, —
"Now, I say, put me down, Jackson,
please put me down! Con—found you!
Don't — don't! Don't be a fool! Put
me down!"
"Then swear you won't tell."
"I'll see you hanged first! Oh!"
. At this moment an inner door was
thrown open, and a gentleman in red
morocco slippers and a velvet shooting-
jacket, who could have commanded a
handsome salary as the giant in a travel-
ling show, appeared in the passage, carry-
ing Cuddy in his arms as a nurse would
carry an infant, and occasionally tossing
him as infants are tossed.
"You great idiot!" screamed Cuddy;
"put me down! Don't you see there's
some one at the door?"
The great idiot did not, for his back
was towards it; but thus appealed to, he
dropped Cuddy in so summary a manrier,
that if the little man had not had a good
hold on his nurse's whiskers he might have
come to grief.
"I think you used to know this person,
Stevie," said Lindsay, when the first greet-
ings were exchanged. "He was with us
at Rugby. He owns to the vulgar name
of Jackson. Jackson, Captain Frank-
land."
"I am ashamed," replied Stevie, "to
own that I do not remember Mr. Jack-
son."
"Oh, I only came just as you were


A TANGLED SKEIN.
83
leaving. I was quite a little fellow when
you were a preposter," was Jackson's reply.
"I hope to goodness that I never
thrashed you, then!" said Stephen gayly,
glancing at the Herculean proportions of
the speaker, who thereupon roared out a
hearty laugh, and observed, that if Stevie
had done so, he probably well deserved all
he had got.
There is a sort of freemasonry in these
things; and Stephen, who would have
been as stiff and cold as Gold-Stick-in-
Waiting towards the giant, had he been
a stranger, warmed up towards him di-
rectly he heard that they had been to-
gether for a few weeks at the same public
school.
"Your state is the more gracious, I as-
sure you," Cuddy observed, "for not re-
membering the creature called Jackson.
It was indulging its fierce and brutal na-
ture when you came in."
"If you only knew, Captain Frankland,
what a desperate little tyrant Cuddy is in
these chambers, you would consider him
mercifully dealt with. It is the only way
we have of bringing him to order."
"Don't say we," replied a voice from the
inner room; "and either come in or shut
the door."
"The person who now speaks," said
Cuddy, ushering Stephen into the apart-
ment from whence the voice proceeded,
"is another familiar, whom I picked up at
Merton. He is a working creature, and
has recently put us to open shame by get-
ting briefs. Captain Frankland — Lori-
mer. Jackson, you may smoke one pipe.
Stevie, behold some bitter beer! Lorimer,
put away those insulting briefs! And now,
my children, you know one another —
bless you ! — be happy!"
After a short but pleasant conversation,
Jackson and Lorimer left the room.
"Those are two of the best fellows in
the world," said Cuddy, shutting the door
} after them, "in diametrically opposite
ways. They have rooms of their own on
the opposite side of the lobby, but they
are always with me, or I with them.
Now, tell me how you found all at home?
What a grand splash you had on the 31st!
We saw it all in the Illustrated."
"To tell plain truth, it was an awful
bore to me," Stevie replied; "but the
dear old governor was pleased, and the
mater too; so it was all right in the end."
"Anything discovered about poor Bran-
dron?"
"Nothing. I have called to-day to ask
your advice about a matter closely con-
nected with him."
"What is it?"
"Don't be offended, old man, if I say
that I may not tell you. I can ask you
what I want to know, but must not tell
you why I want to know it. You must
have perceived at the inquest that there
was a secret between us that I cannot re-
veal."
"I did; and I know well that you are
not the man to break your word. Use
me just as you please, Stevie, and I shall
be delighted to give you any assistance in
my power, without asking why or where-
fore. What do you want to know?"
"I want to find out one Father Eustace,
a Eoman Catholic priest, who is, or was,
connected with some charitable institution
in England."
"Then Lorimer is your man!" Cuddy
exclaimed; "he is a great theologian, and
he and a distinguished Papist, who knows
everybody and everything, ar£ constantly
engaged in the profitable occupation of
consigning their mutual souls to perdition,
each supposing that he is rapidly convert-
ing the other. Here, Dagon!"
Dagon responded to the call, in the per-
son of Charley, so christened by Jackson
on account of his name of Wantley being
associated with dragons.
"Go and tell Mr. Lorimer he is wanted,"
Cuddy commanded; "but Mr. Jackson is
not to come. Quick now!"
Lorimer appeared, and Stephen's wish
being explained as far as was necessary,
he readily promised to give the latter an
introduction to his friend and polemical
foe, the Reverend Mr. O'Hara — "only,"
he added, as he sat down to write the note,
"you will excuse my advising you not to
let him draw you into a religious argu-
ment, unless you happen to be very well
up in controversy."
Stephen replied that he would take care
of that; and after some more jolly talk
and chaff amongst the friends, in which
the giant — or Gigas, as they called Jack-
son— was permitted to join, Stephen took
his departure; and not caring to trust
himself again in the labyrinths of the
Temple, hailed "a Hansom," which he
found in King's Bench Walk, and drove
off to Finsbury Circus, where the Rev-
erend Mr. O'Hara resided.
He found there a brawny middle-aged
Irishman, who received him with the great-
est bonhommie, and laughed a rich deep
laugh, that matched well with his rich
deep brogue, at almost every remark he
made.
"Assist you — Ha! ha! ha! Of course
I will — if I can. Glad to see any friend


84
A TANGLED SKEIN.
of Lorimer's ! — Ha! ha! ha! So you
want to find Father Eustace, eh ? — Ha!
ha! Well, sit ye down — sit ye down —
Ha! ha! ha! and before we go any far-
ther ye'll take a bit of lunch with me, for
I can't talk on an empty stomach, and I
have not tasted bit, bite, or sup, since one
o'clock this day." It was then half-past
four.
In vain Stephen protested against this
exercise of hospitality from a perfect stran-
ger. The jolly priest laughed louder than
ever, pooh-poohed his scruples, and rang
the bell. The summons was answered by
a neat-handed Phillis, who had an intuitive
knowledge of what would be wanted, as
she returned in about three minutes with
a tray, upon which the greater part of a
cold fowl, a Strasbourg pie, a crusty loaf
with its head set on in a confidential and
inviting manner, and a foaming tankard
of fat ale, were set out on the snowiest
of cloths.
Having done ample justice to these good
things, to his reverend entertainer's in-
tense delight, expressed by chuckles which
surged and bubbled up from depths deep
beneath his ample waistcoat, Stephen found
that he had been hungry, and gave the
most practical admissions of that fact, not-
withstanding all he had declared to the
contrary. At last the tray was cleared
off. "And now," said the padre — cross-
ing his comfortable legs and drawing back
his chair — "now to business. Are ye
quite sure ye'll not take a glass of toddy,
or anything else?"
"Quite sure!"
"Just to settle the pie!" insinuated the
jolly priest.
"Many thanks — no. I never touch
spirits."
"Ye're wrong. Indeed, ye're wrong —
Ha! ha! ha! A jug of wholesome punch
— in moderation, mind — is the stomach's
best friend."
"What would the Temperance folks say
to that doctrine 1"
"That! for the Temperance folks," re-
plied Mr. O'Hara, snapping his fat fingers.
"Let those who cannot master their ap-
petites take an oath to touch nothing, for
fear they should take too much; but let
moderate men enjoy the good things
Providence gives them, in their own
way."
"Well," said Stephen, smiling, "I did
not expect"
"Did not expect what?"
"Why, if I must finish a sentence im-
prudently began, I did not expect to hear
such — such"
"Go on — Ha ! ha! ha! Such common-
sense from a priest, eh? Was that what
you were going to say?"
"Something like it," said Stevie, "I
must confess."
"Know us a little longer, and a little
more, my boy," replied Mr. O'Hara, with
more earnestness than he had yet display-
ed, "and ye'll find that treating human
beings as human beings, and talking com-
mon-sense to them, is the secret of the
hold we have on our parishioners. Your
clergy, for the most part, preach over the
heads of the poor. This, and your pew
system, is what keeps them from your
churches. But, to business — to business
— Ha! ha! ha! Ye want to discover
Father Eustace."
"I do; and if you will"
"Sure, I'll do anything for ye that I
can. But tell me now, first of all, what's
his surname?"
"His surname?"
"Faith, yes; a man has two names, if
he's a Christian; and Eustace sounds to
me more like a Christian name than a
surname."
"I never thought of that," said Stephen,
in a tone of vexation.
"Maybe he is a foreigner?"
"That I cannot say. All I know of him
is, that he was connected with some Insti-
tution (which I suppose to be in England)
within the last twenty years. I own it
it seems absurd to trouble you upon so
meagre a clue."
"Not a bit of it — Ha! ha! ha! What
made me ask you if he is a foreigner is,
that our priests are not usually called
by their Christian names in this country.
Maybe it is a surname after all. Eustace
— Eustace! Eustace! The name seems
familiar too. Where can I have heard it?
Faith, I have it!" The padre did not
laugh this time, but grew suddenly grave,
and asked abruptly — " Wh at do you want
him for?"
"That, I may not tell you."
"Hum! Will you tell me what you
don't want him for, if I put a few questions
to ye?"
"Certainly."
"If ye did find him out, would it be to
his detriment?"
"No. I want him to direct me to a
certain place — no more."
"And if he directed you to this place,
whatever or wherever it may be, would
anything happen prejudicially to one of
our faith?"
"On the contrary, an act of justice
would be performed, in which I believe


A TANGLED SKEIN.
85
every good Christian, be he Protestant or
Catholic, would rejoice."
"You are connected with the law?"
said the priest quickly.
"Not V
"Or with some public department?"
"No. I am acting as a private individ-
ual, attempting; to carry out the wishes of
a friend who died before he could fully ex-'
'press them."
"One question more, and I have done.
Supposing that you are enabled to carry
out those wishes fully, will they, in your
judgment, and upon the honor of a gen-
tleman, affect, directly or indirectly, the
propagation of the Holy Faith (here the
priest crossed himself), in this country, or
abroad?"
"I think I can say, conscientiously, that
they will not. I give you my honor, that,
if I find them likely to do so, I will make
no use of any information I may glean from
Mr. Eustace in carrying them out. I can
say no more."
"You have said enough. I will give
you a letter to a person who I have every
reason to believe can tell you what you
require to know. Whether he will, or not,
is a matter for himself. Excuse me for a
short time." So saying, Mr. O'Hara left
the room, and returned in about a quar-
ter of an hour with a note in his hand.
"It is usual, I know," he said, " to send
letters of introduction open, but you must
excuse my sealing this. Go to the person
to whom it is addressed," he continued,
handing Stevie the note; "only, mind, I
do not say he will assist you, I only think
he can."
They then talked of things in general,
and the jolly priest began to laugh again.
It was too late that day for Stephen to
follow up his search ; but the next after-
noon he proceeded to the address given
by O'Hara, and sent up the letter of in-
troduction with his card.
He was shown into a spacious room
with folding doors. The carpet was of the
thickest velvet pile, into which the foot
sank deep at every step. The furniture,
which was of the most elegant and costly
description, was of walnut, covered, where
covering was required, with morocco leath-
er of a dark green tint. Curtains of dark
green cloth, bound with gold twist, half
closed the plate-glass windows. A few
choice water-color drawings hung upon
the walls, and statuettes in alabaster and
bronze of rare beauty were sprinkled here
and there, unobtrusively, throughout the
apartment, around all sides of which ran
a low bookcase well stored with richly-
bound volumes. Stephen saw at a glance
that he was in the domain of a man of
wealth and taste; and, absorbed in con-
templation of so many pleasing objects,
did not perceive that the folding-doors had
opened, and that its master was standing
between them, watching him.
He was a man of about forty — slight
and tall, and dressed entirely in black.
His brow was broad and massive, his face
pinched and sharp in the lower portion,
and he had glittering, restless eyes, which
seemed to eat into anything upon which
they fixed. He fixed them upon Stephen
Frahkland as he turned, and the cold
piercing glance sent a shudder creeping
through him from head to heel. The man-
ner of this person, though distant, was
courteous in the extreme — a wonderful
contrast, though, to that of the jovial priest
in Finsbury Circus.
'1 Captain Frankland, I presume ?" he
said, bowing politely. "Pray be seated.
You have seen Mr. O'Hara?"
"I have; upon a subject which, doubt-
less, he has named in his letter."
"He has done so. You seek informa-
tion respecting Father Eustace?"
Stephen bowed assent.
"He was here last night. He sat, if I
recollect aright, in the very chair which
you now occupy."
"Then he lives in England ?" exclaim-
ed Stephen, delighted with the news.
"Well, hardly so. He had just arrived
from Copenhagen when I saw him, and
early this morning he sailed for Australia."
Stephen's bright look fell.
"Will he be away long ?" he asked.
"He cannot tell; no one can tell how
long he may remain. He may return by
the next mail; he may spend the rest of
his life there."
"I owe you an apology for asking so
apparently vague a question," said Ste-
phen; "but as he is not approachable,
can you put me in the way of"
"Ascertaining what institutions he has
been connected with?" interposed the
gentleman with the restless eyes, consult-
ing O'Hara's letter, which he held open
in his hand. "Certainly. He was edu-
cated at Stoneyhurst. You are, probably,
acquainted with that college?"
"I cannot say that I am," said Stephen.
The previous speaker smiled, and con-
tinued: " He became one of its professors of
theology. Subsequently, he was made Mas-
ter of St. Patrick's Catholic Schools here,
in London, and left them to be Confessor
to the Queen of Spain. His next appoint-
ment was as Chaplain in the Work-house


86
A TANGLED SKEIN.
at Skibbercen in Ireland, and afterwards
he acted for some time as Secretary to the
Principal of one of our Convents, at Hull.
His movements upon leaving this were
very unsettled; do you wish me to follow
them? I can do so."
"I am giving you an infinity of trouble."
"Not at all. First he went to New
York; from thence to Mexico; from thence
he returned for a short time to the Isle of
Jersey; from thence he passed to France,
Constantinople, and Bengal. . He was at
Calcutta for, let me think, eighteen months,
and then"
"Pardon me! It may save you some
trouble if I ask, Was he connected during
this time with any institution in which an
English person of the grade of a domestic
servant would enter?"
"No; his last appointment, bearing any-
thing like a permanent character, was that
which I have mentioned at Hull."
"May I ask in what year he filled this?"
"He went in 1840, and left in 1845."
"And since that time he has been travel-
ling abroad?"
"Exactly."
"Then I think I have gained the clue
I seek."
"I hope you may be successful iu carry-
ing out your object." And the speaker
fixed his glistening eyes on Stephen's, as
though he were looking through them into
his mind and reading it there.
Stephen thanked him for his wish, and
the service rendered towards fulfilling it,
and took his leave well satisfied with that
day's work. He determined to go to Hull
by the night mail, but, having plenty of
time to spare, thought he would look up
Cuthbert Lindsay again and acquaint him
with the progress he had made.
Cuddy was out when he called, and so
was Gigas; but Lorimer was in, hard at
work upon some pleas.
"I won't disturb you," Stevie said;
"I only came to tell Cuddy I was going
out of town for a day or two, and to thank
.you for the very valuable assistance you
have rendered me."
"You've found out what you wanted
then?"
"Thanks to you, I have."
"From O'Hara?"
"No; from a friend of his to whom he
recommended me."
"Who was that, if I may ask?"
"Certainly." And Stephen repeated
the name which was written on the letter.
Lorimer appeared greatly astonished at
what he heard.
"Indeed! and did you see him?"
"Yes."
"And he told you —?"
"Exactly what I wanted to know — at
least, I hope so."
"I should not have thought he would,"
said Lorimer musingly.
« Why not?"
"Because he is not the sort of man to
'give information without knowing exactly
how it is to be used."
"Do you know him, then?"
"Only by name. Who does not?"
"I, for one," replied Stevie. "Who,
and what, is he?"
"You don't mean to say that you don't
know?"
"Not I. He seems to be a man of
taste, and speaks like a gentleman."
"He is the General of the Jesuits," said
Lorimer; "take care what you are about,
if what you have to do should interfere
with any of the schemes of his order."
Stephen was not so much struck as Lo-
rimer expected with this discovery. The
Jesuits and their chief were nothing to this
honest-hearted young soldier. The man
had been civil enough, and might have
easily declined to give the information if
he had not wished to do so. He had en-
tered into minute details respecting the
movements of Father Eustace, and so show-
ed that he had nothing to conceal about
him. This Stephen explained to his new
acquaintance, and so the matter ended for
the present.
The next morning found him in Hull, at
the Convent gate; but in the mean time he
had thought a little more deeply about
Lorimer's warning. "From excess of cau-
tion," he thought," they may perhaps throw
some obstacles in my way, so I will not ask
if they know anything about Susan's sister,
but boldly take it for granted that she is
here." So when his summons was an-
swered by the porteress he said —
"I want to see Mary Alston."
To which the porteress replied, " Please
to step in, Sir, and I will tell her."
She is here, then, thought Stephen. So
I far so good, and he entered the Convent
| hall.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHECK!
The Convent was an ordinary street
house, or rather, three ordinary street
houses knocked into one; and there was


A TANGLED SKEIN.
87
nothing about its appearance, external or
internal, as far as Stephen could see, to
indicate anything peculiar in the mode of
life of its inhabitants. It might have been
a boarding-house, a school, the residence
of a very large family, a "special" hospi-
tal, or, indeed, anything else. Butchers
and bakers came to its door, as to others;
received their orders, and sometimes did a
little bit of flirtation on their own account
with servants of the ordinary type. Post-
men brought letters and passed them into
the letter-box for every one to take her
own and read what she listed. Through
a glass door at the end of the hall Stephen
could see that there was a large and well-
laid-out garden behind the house, and in
the room into which he was shown to
wait he found most of the periodicals of
the day, from the Quarterly Review down
to the current number of Punch, which
openly displayed an illustration by no
means flattering to the Pope.
For a man naturally diffident and shy
of strangers as was Stephen Frankland,
he had hitherto got on remarkably well in
his interviews. The bonhommie of O'Hara,
and the curiosity and excitement which
his visit to the General of the Jesuits had
roused, prevented him from plaguing him-
self with a dozen-and-one tiresome scru-
ples which would have stood in his way
under other circumstances. But now that
he had so far successfully pursued the
track, and was, as he supposed, on the
very verge of an important discovery, he
felt as restless and apprehensive as a child.
"If it were a man now," he thought,
"that I am going to see, I should know
how to deal with him; but a woman! —
and of all sorts of women a nun! What
am I to say to her? How open the sub-
ject? Suppose she begins to cry, or
faints, what on earth am I to do? Of
course she has been taught to consider all
men monsters of iniquity, and if I am not
awfully careful she may get frightened,
and refuse to tell me anything."
As Stephen thus mused, a woman,
dressed as a Sister of Charity, in a plain
black stuff dress, and plain white linen cap
fastened with a broad band under the
chin, entered the room, closed the door
behind her, and stood with her arms folded
— as servants sometimes stand waiting for
orders — close inside it
.
Though her posture was that of a de-
pendant, there was no token of depend-
ency in her demeanor. A more masculine
figure — a harder and more cruel-looking
face, than that which she turned upon him,
Stephen never remembered to have seen,
as she stood biting her thin bloodless lips,
and staring at him boldly under her con-
tracted brows.
Stephen bowed, and placed a chair for
her.
"You have sent for me," she said, wav-
ing aside the proffered seat; " what do you
want?"
"I am going to ask you to let me have
a few moments' conversation with you.
Pray take a chair."
"No."
"Then I must stand too," said Stephen,
rising.
"You can do as you please. Go on
with what you have to say."
"First let me be sure that I am troub-
ling the right person. Do I address Miss
Alston?"
"My name is Mary Alston."
"Then will you be good enough to give
me the address of your sister?"
"I have no sister."
"Indeed! Am I not correct in suppos-
ing that you have a sister named Susan,
who once — long ago — lived at Mangerton
Chase?"
"I had such a sister; but she broke all
ties of relationship when she went to the
house you have mentioned. She has been
dead to me for more than twenty years.
She is dead to all now."
"Dead!" exclaimed Stephen.
"It is little I hear or care to know of
those whom I was associated with in other
days," replied the stern Sister of Charity;
"but I have lately learned that she is
dead. She has my prayers, but neither
my pity nor my regret. She should have
died long ago."
"It is not for me to ask why one in your
position should speak so bitterly of a near
relative," said Stephen, disgusted at her
harshness. "I have only now to request,
as I cannot get the information from her,
that you will be so obliging as to direct me
to Mangerton Chase?
"How can I?"
"Your sister lived there?"
"Well?"
"Surely, if, as I gather from what you
have just said, her going there gave you
offence, you must be able to tell where she
went?"
"She left her home," said Mary Alston,
"contrary to the wishes of her parents,
and against my advice. Her home was
too quiet and religious for her frivolous
and sinful mind. She persuaded her
youngest sister to accompany her, and led
the wretched girl to her perdition here and
hereafter. They shook the dust off their


88
A TANGLED SKEIN.
feet against us, and we closed our doors
and our thoughts to them forever. I know
that she who was once my sister Lucy
brought disgrace upon our honest name.
I know that she who was once my sister
Susan took menial service in some great
man's family. I know no more."
"Not even the name of that family?"
"No."
"Or where is Mangerton Chase, in
which they lived?"
"No."
"God help me!" moaned Stephen,
"this is bad news indeed. Pray excuse
my being importunate. I do assure you I
am actuated by no idle curiosity. To find
Mangerton Chase is of the greatest impor-
tance to me. Think — consider well, be-
fore you reply. Can you give me no clue
to it — no clue to any one who may know
it, or the name of its owner?"
"None."
"Will you tell me where you lived when
your sisters left home?"
"Close to Ipswich."
"Do you know where they went from
thence?"
"First to Cambridge, and then to Lon-
don."
"And how long after their departure
from Ipswich was it that you heard your
sister Susan had gone to live at Mangerton
Chase?"
"About eighteen months. She deceived
us by getting some stranger to direct the
letter in which she stated where she had
gone, otherwise we should not have opened
"One question more," said Stephen,
"and I will trouble you no further. Is
her husband alive?"
"I was not aware till three days ago
that she had been married."
"Some of your family may know; will
you"
"By associating herself with what
brought shame upon us all, she was dis-
owned by her family. There is not a
member of it, now that my father and
mother are no more, who are aware such
a person existed."
"She might have written to some of her
relations unknown to you?"
"Perhaps."
"Will you enable me to see some of
your connections to ask?"
"No."
"You have a reason for declining, I
suppose?"
"I have. I do not choose to rake up
old sores to please a stranger."
"Believe me that I wish to do no such
thing. I pledge you my word that I will
not mention your sister's name, but only
ask if they know Mangerton Chase."
"They will not know it."
"How can you tell."
The Sister of Charity made no reply,
but stood motionless, as she had stood all
the while, with her arms folded, biting her
thin lips, her cold stern gaze fixed on
Stephen.
"Am I to understand you as still refus-
ing?" he asked, after a long and, to him,
embarrassing pause.
"You are."
"Then," said Stephen, "I can do no
more, and so I take my leave."
The Sister of Charity stepped three
paces aside to let him pass, but did not re-
turn his bow, and left the room by an
opposite door, without glancing to the
right or left.
"It's queer, isn't it," said the porteress
to one of the other servants, soon after she
had let Stephen out, "that Sister Mary
should have had three visitors since Mon-
day?"
"Lor, Anne! what of that?" said the
Eerson addressed; "why, some of the
idies have four or five every week."
"So they do," replied the porteress;
"but I've been here sixteen years come
Christmas, and I never knew her have one
person to see her all that time. Now
three come one after the other. There's
something up, I'll be bound. I wonder
what it is?
If Sister Mary had been willing to tell
Stephen all she knew, and the result had
come to nothing, the chances are that his
failure upon, as he thought, the very brink
of success, would have dashed his spirits
and made him very hopeless for the future.
There are some people, however, for whom
opposition is the best spur, and Frankland
was one of them. "No," he said to him-
self— dealing his knee a mighty thump, as
the train started with him back again to
London — " no, I'll see her hanged first!
I'll not give it up. I'll find Mangerton
Chase yet, in spite of all the Sisters of
Charity that ever scowled. The old cata-
maran! I wonder if her relations could
have told me anything? Mangerton
Chase — Mangerton Chase. Confound it!
It sounds a name that everybody ought to
know — like Alton Towers, or Haddon
Hall, or Belvoir Castle ; but nobody seems
to have ever heard of it. If it were not
for ' Susan's' letter I should doubt there
was such a place, and treat it as a myth
of poor Brandron's delirium — like the
woman he fancied he saw sitting by the


88
A TANGLED ST
feet against us, and we closed our doors | thi
Coleman's delight at this
and our thoughts to them forever. I know
ets for her girls was great:
that she who was once my sister Lucy
ewhat bewildered by :
brought disgrace upon our honest name.
on Stephen Frank
I know that she who was once my sister,
ged by the att
Susan took menial service in some great
irett began to
man's family. I know no more."
easiness,
“ Not even the name of that family
counte
6 No."
at s
“Or where is Mangerton Cha
which they lived ? ”
"No."
“God help me!” moaned
“ this is bad news indeed. P
my being importunate. I do
am actuated by no idle curio
bi.
Mangerton Chase is of the :
ulation o.
tance to me. Think-
rtune! Ther
fore you reply. Can yo
ss in the matrimonia.
to it- no clue to any o
it, or the name of its c.'
enton, then, as merrily as marriage
“None.”
, till one day something happened
“ Will you tell me
nich jarred upon Stephen's happy but
your sisters left ho ;
sensitive heart, and gave him a glimpse
“ Close to Ipsw':
sie- behind the curtain that concealed his fa-
“ Do you knc
to do ther's miserable and dependent life, and
thence ?"
whe great the worthlessness of the brother whom he
“ First to .
comfiture of loved.
don.”
nagining for a It happened one bright Sunday afternoon,
66 And b
ganything strange when the Tremlett party, including even My
from Ipsw
e so natural to him. Lady, had agreed to walk home from church,
sister Su
vased by this except Mr. across the fields, accompanied by a goodly
Chase ? saw his power oozing grad- detachment from Ruxton Court, who were
"A and had nothing upon which invited to luncheon at “ The Towers,” that
us by is a complaint, — for Stephen, they sauntered along through the pleasant
lett innocence of his heart, would treat meadows in ever-changing groups of twos
os the dear little Frank of former and threes till they came near to a clump
and, “I say, old fellow, we're going of elm-trees upon the side of a hill, from
have a match with Castleton on Thurs- the crest of which the house could be seen
Por, and as you're a muff, and can't play, in the distance. Here Stephen halted,
cou're to come and score,” — or, “I say, and shouted out to his brother, who was in
jd fellow, the mammie says we're to get the rear of the party, “ I say, Frankie, do
ud a picnic at the Waterfall,” — or, “ I you remember when last you and I were
say, old fellow, look sharp, and get out here?”
your archery-tackle, for the Coleman girls, “I cannot say that I do,” was the stately
and Miss Lee and the Nevilles, are coming reply.
over to shoot after luncheon, and we are I Í have not forgotten. It was the
going to try and have the next club-meet- evening before I started for India,” Stevie
ing here," was the manner in which he continued to Laura Coleman, who, with
would arrange such matters as far as his Grace Lee, was walking by his side; "and
brother was concerned. And when the the poor old boy was awfully cut up about
disgusted Mr. Francis would begin to my leaving, — wasn't he now ?”
preach against such trivialities, he would " He was, indeed,” replied Laura.
be told to "shut up ;” and when he at-! « Well, we went wandering about in a
tempted to excuse himself from participat- disconsolate sort of way, till we came
ing in them upon the ground of having here ; and then he asked me to cut my
some important engagement elsewhere, at name on the trunk of one of those trees
Quarter Sessions or the like, he would be yonder, because he could always see it
told, — which was worse than all, - that from the house. When I had carved what
they would get on very well without him, he wanted, he said, “Oh, Stevie, how
or that he was to “come along, like a good long shall you be before you come back?”
fellow."
|I told him, perhaps ten years. “Then,'
it
was the
days; and, 507


'NGLED SKEIN.
93
or | dear Francis,' who loved to oppose his
he said, 'cut ten notches
| father, “ that must be looked to, for fear
ill come here this day
the mildew should get into the beams and
le one out till you
affect the rest of the wing.”
along this way,
“ And there are half a dozen carpenters
out the place eating their heads off for
ran on in f
it of something to do, who would put
gerow,
'to rights in less than no time,” con-
learin
Stevie.
th
ll you I will not have it touched !”
is father, stamping with anger.
wishes never to be consulted,
That room was shut up before
I- you know what I would
ut up it shall remain as long
's long as your mother lives;
whole
are mine in this respect.
wondering
id as for you, Stephen, I
oking for my name tu
at you should begin to
rements and annoy me
u of these trees just beforu
abroad.”
ost the moment you
“I do not think you will find it,"
Mr. Tremlett; “ for the tree has been cu
” Stevie said, let-
is perch; “ if you
down."
“ Cut down !” exclaimed Stevie, halting
e's an end of it
suddenly in his struggles with the bushes. spoke
2 you were so
“ Yes; cut down."
which wa
rou, Frank ?”
“ Oh, father !” said the poor fellow, in tapped at his
at there was
a reproachful tone ; “ how came that?” who, up to this
“ but if my
be left to
" My dear Stevie, - my dear boy,” | Could this kind
exclaimed Sir George, eagerly ; " I had foolish sensitive thou.
nothing whatever to do with it. I dare with them, be the ci
id Ste-
say the woodman,-1,-1 really don't strong-minded Grace Lee,
e that
know. If I had thought that you, — you, he had been warned ?
-1, – that is, but I assure you I was “I dare say you will think
rer
not consulted about it, — or, or, or," – fool, Miss Lee,” he said in an und
stammered the Baronet.
if I confess it seems to me that
“I had it felled,” said “ dear Francis,” they cut down that old tree with my
coolly.
upon it, they cut me away from my hon
“ You !” gasped Stevie ; “ you cut! "Do not say they," was her reply; " B
down my tree?"
see, Lady Tremlett has stopped, and
“ Your tree ? ” replied his younger waiting for us.” And they passed on with
brother, with a sneer.
out another word.
“ You know what I mean, Frank,” Ste Many a time after this Stephen found
phen said, in a low tone, and flushing himself chatting with Grace Lee. They
crimson. "I am sorry you did so. Were had mutually began, as Mrs. Malaprop ad-
there not others to cut down?”
vises, " with a little aversion.” Frankland
“ It spoilt the view from my study win- got over this at a bound when he saw, by
dow," replied “ dear Francis ; " " and her sympathizing with him in his first
really, I think it most absurd to make rebuff, that she had feelings congenial to
such a fuss about an old elm that was not his own; and a letter which Grace received
worth sixpence a foot for timber. If you shortly afterwards from Gerty Treherne
want to see your precious carving, I dare set right a misunderstanding under which
say you'll find it in the wood-stack, if they she had labored concerning his delay in
have not split it up into billets for the visiting his home. He had not gone to
fires."
stay with friends, as she had supposed.
Nothing further was said, and the whole He had not remained away from his pa-
party walked on, leaving Stevie to get out rents to give time for the preparation of a
of the hedge, where he had been standing grand reception. The fête which had
during this conversation, and follow. He taken place was arranged without his
did follow; but slowly, and apart from knowledge. He had gone to Westborough
them all, with a sharp pang at his heart. I to do one kind action, and he had been
and
ny nar
ut


A TANGLED SKEIN.
91
he said,' cut ten notches under it, and I
will come here this day every year and
hack one out till you are home again.'
Come along this way, and I will show it
you."
And he ran on in front; and springing
into the hedgerow, near the first of the
trees, began clearing away the brambles
which partly hid the trunk.
"I don't remember it as well as I
thought I did," he added, after a short ex-
amination of the bole. "It must be the
first beginning at the other end." And he
ran on again, and began to do the same
thing as before to the last of the elms. By
this time the whole party had come up
and halted, wondering what he could be
doing.
"Looking for my name that I cut on
one of these trees just before I went
abroad."
"I do not think you will find it," said
Mr. Tremlett; "for the tree has been cut
down."
"Cut down !" exclaimed Stevie, halting
suddenly in his struggles with the bushes.
"Yes; cut down."
"Oh, father!" said the poor fellow, in
a reproachful tone; "how came that?"
"My dear Stevie, — my dear boy,"
exclaimed Sir George, eagerly; "I had
nothing whatever to do with it. I dare
say the woodman, — I, — 1 really don't
know. If I had thought that you, — you,
— I, — that is, — but I assure you I was
not consulted about it, — or, or, or," —
stammered the Baronet.
"I had it felled," said " dear Francis,"
coolly.
"You!" gasped Stevie; "you cut
down my tree?"
"Your tree?" replied his younger
brother, with a sneer.
"You know what I mean, Frank," Ste-
phen said, in a low tone, and flushing
crimson. "I am sorry you did so. Were
there not others to cut down?"
"It spoilt the view from my study win-
dow," replied "dear Francis ;" "and
really, I think it most absurd to make
such a fuss about an old elm that was not
worth sixpence a foot for timber. If you
want to see your precious carving, I dare
say you'll find it in the wood-stack, if they
have not split it up into billets for the
fires."
Nothing further was said, and the whole
party walked on, leaving Stevie to get out
of the hedge, where he had been standing
during this conversation, and follow. He
did follow; but slowly, and apart from
them all, with a sharp pang at his heart.
I have told you, that, with all his strength
and all his bravery, he was a very child
when his feelings were touched.
He marched on gloomily, and did not
perceive that Grace Lee had lagged be-
hind the rest, under pretence of gathering
some wild flowers, till he was close up to
her.
"Captain Frankland," she said, softly,
"all people do not regard the same things
in the same way."
"We should quarrel dreadfully if they
did," replied Stevie with a gayety he did
not feel; "but why do you say so now?"
"Because I see you have taken some-
thing to heart which, perhaps, was not
meant heartlessly."
"Oh! you are mistaken. I was a little
disappointed, of course; but it's all right.
I — I don't worry myself about such
trifles."
"Do you really think it a trifle?" asked
Grace, bringing her gentle earnest eyes to
bear just'for one second on Stevie's.
Short and diffident as was the glance, it
spoke volumes. It drove back the fib
which was on the point of Stevie's tongue,
tapped at his heart, and opened it to one
who, up to this time, he had almost avoided.
Could this kind girl, who could read his
foolish sensitive thoughts and sympathize
with them, be the cold, matter-of-fact,
strong-minded Grace Lee, against whom
he had been warned?
"I dare say you will think me a great
fool, Miss Lee," he said in an under-tone,
"if I confess it seems to me that when
they cut down that old tree with my name
upon it, they cut me away from my home."
"Do not say they," was her reply; " but
see, Lady Tremlett has stopped, and is
waiting for us." And they passed on with-
out another word.
Many a time after this Stephen found
himself chatting with Grace Lee. They
had mutually began, as Mrs. Malaprop ad-
vises, "with a little aversion." Frankland
got over this at a bound when he saw, by
her sympathizing with him in his first
rebuff, that she had feelings congenial to
his own; and a letter which Grace received
shortly afterwards from Gerty Treherne
set right a misunderstanding under which
she had labored concerning his delay in
visiting his home. He had not gone to
stay with friends, as she had supposed.
He had not remained away from his pa-
rents to give time for the preparation of a
grand reception. The fete which had
taken place was arranged without his
knowledge. He had gone to Westborough
to do one kind action, and he had been


92
A TANGLED SKEIN.
detained there by another. In short, he
was not such a bad fellow after all.
"What do I think of Captain Frankland
now?" she said — in reply to a question
from Laura, on their return from the arch-
ery-meeting, which, to Lady Tremlett's
great delight, teas held at " The Towers,"
— "why, I think he is not a bit like his
brother."
"You goosey! who ever said he was?
Stevie's quite handsome."
"I was not speaking of his face, dear,"
was the quiet reply.
This interesting "he " was, as we know,
an inveterate smoker of cheroots — his In-
dian life having accustomed him to be
hardly ever without one in his mouth.
Now, there was every modern appliance
in his mother's house, except a smoking-
room. So he smoked in his bedchamber
whilst he was getting up, smoked in the
garden during the day, and smoked in his
bedchamber again when he retired for the
night, to the dissatisfaction of " dear Fran-
cis," who expressed a rooted antipathy to
the fumes of the fragrant weed.
One morning, soon after breakfast, he
lit up as usual; and, standing upon the
grass-plot under his mother's window, began
talking to her merrily, cheroot in hand.
She had just said how very nice dear
Stevie's cigar smelt, and how good it would
be for the Magnolia that climbed up the
wall to get some of the smoke over its
leaves, when "dear Francis" came up,
and in an angry voice declared that it
was disgusting! Stephen was making the
house like a tavern, with his beastly cigars.
The process, before described, under which
Stevie had unconsciously put down his po-
tent younger brother, had to be kept up as
its effect wore away; and the affair of the
tree — which Mr. Tremlett considered as
a victory—had reinstated him as the
great Panjandrum himself for despotism
and dignity.
He was echoed, of course, by his lady
mother, who observed that it certainly
was nasty to have smoking in the house.
Upon which Stephen replied, in the gay
affectionate tone which he always used
towards his mother—
"Then why don't you set up a smoking-
room, old woman? You'll want one when
all those fellows you've been talking about
come down to shoot."
"My friends do not require a smoking-
room," said Mr. Francis.
"Then your friends are muffs," was all
the reply that Stevie deigned.
Lady Tremlett declared, that to have a
smoking-room would be charming, and
they really must and should have one.
"And oh, Stevie," she said, "puff, puff,
puff — directly. Puff some smoke up here
— there's such a dreadful bee coming in
at the window, and he's going to sting
poor me — the nasty thing!"
So Stevie laughed, jumped on a garden-
seat, and puffed long whiffs of tobacco-
smoke at the intruder — and whether, like
"dear Francis," he did not fancy nicotine,
or had some other business to transact in-
stead of stinging Lady Tremlett, I cannot
say — but off he went; and off My Lady's
mind went, after him, the idea of setting
up a smoking-room.
Stephen, however, began to cast it over
in his, but could not hit upon a locality.
This room could not be spared; that was
too large; and the other was not conven-
iently situated. Musing as a man does
when he has a good weed between his
lips and enjoys it, he sat on the grass be-
neath one of the huge sycamore-trees, and
counted the windows on that side of the
house, in order that so the various rooms
Eossible for the contemplated divan might
e suggested. "By Jove," he thought,
"if there were only just such a little den
as the mammie's at the other end of the
wing, what a capital place that would be!
I wonder if it could be built!"
From the other end of the wing ex-
tended a row of silver poplars, as a sort
of screen to the lawn. The last tree grew
quite close up to the house — so close, that
some of the oranches grew over the roof,
and others ground and chafed themselves
away against the masonry. Stevie's bed-
room was the last along this side, and he
had often been disturbed by the scraping
and moaning sound made by the boughs,
when there was any wind to move them.
He knew there could be no chamber be-
yond his own, for the passage ended with
a dead wall close to his door. He had a
good deal of taste for engineering, and I
dare say, if he had been born a rich man
h'e would have spent a fortune in bricks
and mortar. As it was, he was quite ready
and willing to have a finger in the pie at
somebody else's expense, and sauntered
along with his hands in his pockets, puffing
away leisurely at his big cheroot, to survey
this unsymmetrical end of the wing.
He scrambled through the evergreens
which covered a high bank on which the
screen of poplars grew, and jumped on the
top of a dwarf-wail in their rear. What
was his astonishment to find that there was
an oriel window, exactly similar to that of
his mother's boudoir, entirely concealed
from without by the surrounding foliage,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
93
and which he had never before seen or
heard of! Beneath this was the laundry,
the lattices of which opened into the stable-
yard at the other side of the dwarf-wall.
"Well, there must be a room above,"
said Stevie, half aloud; "though hang me
if I know- how they get to it."
He was roused from puzzling himself
over this knotty point by hearing his own
name called out; and looking down — for
the wall was the whole height of the bank
on the stable-yard side — saw his father
and brother approaching from the coach-
house, where they had been to inspect a
new brougham that "dear Francis" had
set up for his private use.
"What a boy you are, Stevie," said the
Baronet, "climbing about like that. No!
don't jump down —you'll sting your feet
awfully if you do."
"I'm not going," Stevie said. "Come
here! I want to show you something."
And he pointed up towards the hidden
oriel window.
If Sir George had worn a mask upon
his face, and that gesture of his son's had
touched a spring which cast it off, the
countenance of the former could not have
assumed a more thorough change. His
gay fussy manner left him in an instant,
and he turned deadly pale. Stephen no-
ticed this slightly at the time; but oh ! how
the remembrance of it made his heart ache
afterwards.
"Is there a room up there?" he asked.
"No, no," replied his father, hurriedly,
"of course not — that is, I mean, not one
that is used."
"Time it was then," replied Stephen;
"it's the very place for our smoking-room."
"It has the advantage of being well
away from the habitable part of the house,
if you must have such a place," said Mr.
Tremlett.
"We must have this old tree down
though," Stevie observed: "it will make
it so dark." And he sat down on the top
of the wall, and rubbed the stains of climb-
ing off his hands, with a satisfied air, as
though the whole affair was settled.
"You will do no such thing!" cried the
Baronet, angrily. "I tell you that room
is not habitable; it has not been used since
you were born, and it has fallen into decay.
It's damp and unwholesome; and, and —
there's no floor; and — and no furniture;
and — I—I won't have that tree touched.
I value it exceedingly."
"Well, then, let it stand!" said Stevie;
"we shall only want to use the room at
night."
"As for its being in decay," chimed in
'dear Francis,' who loved to oppose his
father, "that must be looked to, for fear
the mildew should get into the beams and
affect the rest of the wing."
"And there are half a dozen carpenters
about the place eating their heads off for
want of something to do, who would put
it all to rights in less than no time," con-
tinued Stevie.
"I tell you I will not have it touched!"
cried his father, stamping with anger.
"Are my wishes never to be consulted,
Francis? That room was shut up before
— before — I — you know what I would
say. And shut up it shall remain as long
as I live, and as long as your mother lives;
for her wishes are mine in this respect.
There now! And as for you, Stephen, I
take it very ill that you should begin to
upset all our arrangements and annoy me
in this manner almost the moment you
come home."
"Oh, very well, Sir," Stevie said, let-
ting himself down from his perch; "if you
treat it in that way, there's an end of it
at once. I had no notion you were so
particular about it. Were you, Frank?"
"I did not even know that there was
such a place," was his answer; " but if my
mother assures me that it shall be left to
rot, of course she must be obeyed."
"Tell me one thing though," said Ste-
phen, with a smile; "is it up there that
you keep the ghost?"
His father took him by the arm, and
looked him full in the face. His anger
ceased as suddenly as it had broken out as
soon as the disagreeable project was aban-
doned; and though still very pale, and
trembling in his speech, he spoke collect-
edly, and with kindness.
"There are some things, my dear boy,"
he said, "which we Franklands cannot
afford to treat with levity. Take my ad-
vice, and trouble yourself no further about
that room."
"The dear old governor is awfully super-
stitious, isn't he?" Stephen remarked to
his brother when Sir George had left them;
"but we must let him have his own way,
and find a baccy-den elsewhere." And so
they did.
CHAPTER XV.
SHOWS HOW MR. TRBMLETT REASSUMED
HIS SWAY, AND HOW GRACE LEE
SPOILT HER BONNET-STRINGS.
The Vigil of the Feast of St. Partridge
— commonly known as the 31st of August


94
A TANGLED SKEIN.
— was a busy day with Stephen Frank-
land. We know how fond he was of field-
sports, and what pleasant memories he
preserved of those old days when the
prowess of his eager youth was the delight
of his father's shooting parties, and the
glory of Bill Grant. Many a bright after-
noon did he spend in the harvest fields,
sucking away at his big cheroots, and
watching the sacred coveys as they basked
in the newly-cut stubbles, innocent, as yet,
of dog and gun; or followed them with
excited gaze, as they skimmed over the
hedge-rows when disturbed by the glean-
ers. He looked forward to "the first"
with almost childish impatience. It was
so long since he had come face to face
with an honest English partridge — and
wouldn't he make up, now, for lost time!
Sir George had given up shooting for
some years. Frank did not care about
it; and his friends were not expected
till the third. "So," thought Stevie, "I
shall have three days quietly to myself.
I won't spoil their fun, though. I'll just
shoot over the outlying farms, and get as
much game as will keep the larder full;
and when they are ready to begin, will
show them what's what."
With one exception, the expected guests
were all strangers to Stephen, and when
we recollect that your thorough sportsman
is always close and selfish in matters of
sport, it will be seen that this concession of
the good-hearted fellow was no slight one.
Of course he never spoke of it. To do
what was right and kind came so natural
to him, that he never thought of mention-
ing the subject. Before he went to India,
whilst his father was yet a sportsman, all
the shooting arrangements had been con-
fided to him, and now he took them up
again as a matter of course.
So he sent for Mr. Maggs — who had
succeeded Bill Grant as head-keeper —
unpacked, and gave out his guns to be
cleaned and put in order; sent for his li-
cense; ordered powder and shot; saw that
his flasks and other gear were in good
condition; went down to the kennels and
made friends with the dogs; looked out
his shooting clothes; was very particular
over the oiling of his boots; fixed the when
and where for the morning; talked of
birds, and dogs, and guns, incessantly; and
fussed about his shooting-tackle as gentle-
men will talk and fuss on the eve of Saint
Grouse and Saint Partridge. Finally, he
had all his things laid on a table in the old
hall, where the family pictures and oak
carvings (which old Tremlett wanted to
have painted white, and gilt) were; and
constantly sauntered up to fidget with them,
making the day seem as though it had a
hundred and twenty-four hours, with his
impatience, and wondering if it would ever
come to an end.
Mr. Tremlett was more usefully em-
ployed. He had left home at an early
hour to attend the County Sessions; had
sat at the right hand of the Chairman all
day, looking so fearfully wise, that the
Judge was compelled at last to ask his
opinion upon a very important point —
namely, as to whether one month's impris-
onment, with hard labor, was a sufficient
punishment for a miserable urchin of eight
years old, who had pleaded guilty to steal-
ing four turnips. value three farthings. He
wisely suggested the addition of a whip-
ping, which was added, to his intense sat-
isfaction and the despair of the blubbering
culprit. He returned to "The Towers
swelling with importance, and was crossing
the hall, with all his honors thick upon him,
when Stephen, engaged in the trivial pur-
suits already mentioned, bawled out —
"I say, Frankie! are you coming out
with me to-morrow?"
"Where?"
"Well, we shall begin at Tittlestead, go
over Marsh's Farm and Burridge's, and
then try Shenstone Hill. Maggs says there
are a lot of birds there, and if we don't
drive them down into the meadows, we
shall never see them again; because there
are such a lot of poaching blackguards
about Chapel Furnace."
"Then you are going shooting?"
"What on earth else should I be going
to do on the 'first of September ?'"
"I think you might have consulted me
before you made such arrangements ;" re-
plied his brother, stopping short in his tri-
umphant entry.
"Consulted you? you dear old muff'!"
said Stevie, slapping him on the back.
"What do you know about shooting?"
"Dear Francis" tried hard to look dig-
nified; but only succeeded in assuming an
expression of stupid surprise, mixed with
vexation.
"I must confess," he said, after a pause,
"that I have paid little attention to a sport
which I consider cruel, and — and — a
waste of time. You might, however, have
asked my — my per that is, it would
have been more decorous if you had not
acted so entirely without — without — and
it was a great impertinence of Maggs !" he
added, with a burst.
"What was?"
"Taking upon himself to do this with-
out orders."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
95
"My dear boy, he took nothing upon
himself. He just told me where the out-
lying birds were to be found, and I gave
him his orders accordingly," Stephen an-
swered, clicking the locks of his double-
barrel, as innocent of what was passing in
his brother's mind as the child unborn.
"Does my father know you are going?"
"I believe so."
"And Lady Tremlett?"
"Yes. She has promised to drive me
to Tittlestead in the pony carriage."
"You seem to have settled everything
to your satisfaction ?" observed the dear
fellow, with one of his patent sneers.
"Perfectly!" replied the unconscious
Stevie. "Will you come?"
"Certainly not!" And the great man
turned on his heel and left the hall, with
his head in the air.
"All right!" said Stevie, shouldering
his gun, and bringing down an imaginary
brace of partridges, right and left. "Only
look sharp and dress, or you'll be late for
dinner."
He was late for dinner. So also were
Sir George and Lady Tremlett, and they
all came down together, looking very grave.
Any one but Stephen would have perceived
that there was something wrong, only he
was so full of his prospective engagement,
and so utterly unconscious of the high trea-
son he had committed, that he paid no at-
tention to their constrained manner, and
rattled on just as usual — chaffing Frank
and playing with his mother in his usual
cheery way.
When prayers were over, he lighted his
mother's bedroom candle (as he always
did), and, putting it into her hand, kissed
her, and said —
"Good-night, mamma, dear! I shall
go to bye-bye early, too! for I shall have
a long day's work to-morrow."
Generally speaking, she used merely to
lift up her cheek to his salute on these oc-
casions; now she threw her arms around
his neck, and pressed her lips to his affec-
tionately, with a strange look of pity —
which he did not notice — in her beautiful
eyes. Poor weak thing! she loved him as
far as her shallow nature could love any-
body. It was too much trouble, however,
to try and save him from what had been
agreed upon up-stairs, whilst dinner was
waiting.
Stephen lit his own candle and followed;
but was unable to resist having another last
fidget with his dear guns and tackle. Thus
engaged, he was joined by his father.
"And so you are going to shoot to-mor-
row?"
"Of course."
"Well, I hope you'll have a tine day.
Is this your gun?"
"Yes."
"Why, it's your old one!"
"And a better never was made. Do
you remember giving it to me?"
"That I do. But you really ought to
have a breech loader. Every one has a
breech loader now. Do let me give you a
breech loader."
"By all means, if you like," said Ste-
vie; "but this will last me for some time
to come."
"Oh, but you must have a breech loader.
I should not like you to go out with Lord
Rossthorne and Francis's friends without a
breech loader."
"All right."
"And I'll tell you what I'll do," con-
tinued the Baronet, fidgeting nervously
with a shot pouch, "I'll telegraph to Pur-
day to send one down, and you'll get it
before the third."
"How kind you are! I never say nay
to a good thing."
"Then you'll put off going out till the
third?"
"Why?" answered Stevie, raising his
eyebrows.
"You can't go out without a proper
gun."
"Bless your heart! I'll back myself
and my old gun against any one of them
and their new-fashioned things. I'll bet
you a pound now that I send home ten
brace before two hours."
"Then you are determined to go?"
asked the poor Baronet, sadly.
"Why not?"
"But to speak plainly, I — that is,
Francis — I mean we all, want to give
these people who are coming as good
sport as possible, and if you disturb the
birds —"
"Do you suppose I have not thought of
that?" interrupted his son; "I am going
to break along the outskirts in order that
they should have as good sport as possi-
ble."
. "But Francis —"
"Oh! he knows nothing about it
Never mind what he says."
"My dear boy," said Sir George, laying
his hand upon Stevie's shoulder, gazing
sorrowfully in his face, "I am obliged to
mind what he says."
Stephen put down his gun and was
serious in a moment.
"Frank has been saying something to
you about me?"
"He has indeed."


96
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Tell me what it was."
"Stevie, you know my position here?"
"Go on, Sir."
"I am not my own master; I never was
since my marriage; and when your broth-
er came of age the little authority I had
on the estate passed away to him. If your
mother were to die to-morrow it would be
his, and I should be dependent upon him,
as I now am upon her. It is painful —
bitter in the extreme — for me to speak
thus, but it must be said. My poor boy
— my poor Stevie, thanks to my own sad
follies, we are but lodgers and dependents
under the roof beneath which our fore-
fathers have been men and masters."
Stephen thought of the old elm-tree,
and the truth began to dawn upon him.
"Don't grieve over what has passed,"
he said, in a low, saddened tone; "I think
I know what you would say, and will save
you the pain of saying it. All that about
the breech loader was a kind pretext to
put me off my intended sport to-mor-
row?"
"It was indeed."
"Because my brother and my mother"
— the last words came with a gulp —
"refuse me permission to shoot over their
land."
"Only till the third — only till Thurs-
day, dear Stevie — only till Thursday,
when —"
"When their friends come. I under-
stand. It would have been more manly
if he had told me so himself."
"Oh, pray Stevie do not think that I
took any part in it. I did my very best.
I was very angry. I urged — I entreated;
but he was determined, and said he would
write, and —"
"You wished to break his unkindness
to me. It was like you. God bless you,
father; you, I think, are still unchanged
to me."
The poor Baronet fairly broke down at
this, and sobbed like a child on Stevie's
shoulder.
"You cannot think," he said at last,
"what bitter letters he can write. He
never speaks his mind, he always writes
it, and there is a blow in every measured
word."
"I would not have thought it of him;
but let it be as he wishes; and Stephen
slowly took his gun to pieces, and began
re-packing it in its case.
"Oh! don't do that," said Sir George,
"don't do that. You shall not lose your
sport. Coleman will give you a day —
two — a dozen, — with pleasure, I know.
I will send over the first thing in the
morning, and ask him. You shall shoot,
after all."
"My dear father," replied Stevie, with
one of his sad, sweet smiles, "do you sup-
pose it is the loss of the sport which has
upset me! Tell me that the first time I
fire that gun I shall blow off my right arm
and never see a day's sport again, but that
what you have told me to-night is untrue,
and I will thank you heartily."
"It is his way," pleaded Sir George.
"I do not think he means altogether un-
kindly, but he has a domineering way
about him. He thinks that you — that
you, being the heir to the title, you —
you—"
"Please go on. I should like to hear
all, now that you have begun."
"It is a miserable task for me, but I
think you are right. I think it only just
that you should know all he said of you
up-stairs. He wished it to be communi-
cated, and hang me if I spare him. Stevie,
although he is my own flesh and blood, I
say it, he is a heartless prig and a cur.
As for his mother —"
"Stop, stop! Pray let us keep her
name out of this. Frank may have her
consent, but I do not think her heart goes
with it."
"Stevie, it ought to go with it or against
it. It is her miserable weakness that makes
all this misery. If she had treated me
with respect — I don't say a word about
affection — Francis would never have
thought of behaving towards me as he
does."
"It is not for me to hear complaints
against my — against Frank's mother,"
Stevie replied, in a low broken voice.
"God help us ! —this is indeed an awak-
ening. I pictured you as being so happy
and united. I longed so to be amongst
you again, to share your happiness. At
this moment I cannot realize its being all
lost. Frank cannot mean what he does.
He is thoughtless and conceited, and may
have bad advisers. He cannot have a
deliberate intention to wound either of
us — why should he?"
"I would help you to think so, my boy,"
said the Baronet, "if I had the slightest
hope that any good would come of such
a delusion; but it would only lay you
open to new wounds — new pain. Stevie,
though he is my son, he has not one drop
of the Frankland blood in his veins. He
inherits his grandfather's obstinate, cruel,
vulgar pride. He hates me because I am
poor. He hates you, because you have
won the love and respect he never could
gain. Why did he absent himself from


A TANGLED SKEIN.
97
your reception here? Why destroy that
old tree? Why has he done a score of
paltry spiteful things of which you are yet
ignorant? Why! Because he is bitterly
jealous of you — that is why! Your popu-
larity is an incessant reproach to him. In
getting up all these cheerful gatherings
that have made the neighborhood so pleas-
ant, he deems that you have encroached
upon his prerogative to make everybody
stupid and unsociable like himself. He is
burning to avenge himself for it; and he
will — mark me, he will! I know him as he
is. Oh! it is a comfort to be able to speak
my mind about him," said the Baronet, an-
grily. "He is not worth quarrelling with,
Stevie. He has the power to annoy you,
which he is cur enough to use relentlessly,
if you submit to remain subject to it."
"What would you advise me to do?"
"Stevie! that was the proudest day of
my life on which I welcomed you home.
I had a foolish hope that your honest,
hearty presence — my own dear wife's
own child !— would have dispelled this
misery," sobbed the poor victim of " set-
tlements " — " but I am hopeless now. The
happiest moments in my life are those
-which I have spent in your society; but
this I say, and say deliberately — leave
us. Make a home elsewhere, for here
you will find only disappointment, injury,
and wrong."
"And you?"
"Oh, never mind about me," replied
Sir George, trying to force a smile, "1 am
accustomed to it. I have got thick-skinned.
I can stand his cursed airs and nonsense;
but I cannot and will not stand seeing
them played off on you."
"And there is one thing / will not stand,
father," said Stephen, with flashing eyes,
"I will not stand seeing you made light of
by my younger brother. I have no idea of
beating a cowardly retreat before what I
know to be unnatural and base. I shall
have it out with Master Frank, were he
fifty times master of Tremlett Towers. So,
God bless you, my dear father, for all your
kindness to me, and good-night."
But he did not have it out with Master
Frank after all. He retired to bed full of
great resolves — to speak his mind roundly
to that great potentate, and to leave his
mother's roof within the hour if his remon-
strances were unheeded — but he did what
every wise man ought to do with great re-
solves. He slept upon them; and they
had altogether changed before the morn-
ing.
He met his brother next morning, be-
fore breakfast, pacing up and down a
gravel walk on the lawn — in search, per-
haps, of an appetite — and "dear Fran-
cis " would have avoided him. Stephen,
hovvever, was not to be avoided when he
had a duty to perform.
"Frank," he said, "you and I have
misunderstood each other on some impor-
tant subjects — how and why, it is useless
now to inquire. I had forgotten that
many changes must have happened here
during my absence of ten years; and you,
I think, have not remembered that I might
so forget. You know how greatly I was
indulged before I left; and if I have of-
fended you by taking too much upon my-
self lately, I sincerely ask your pardon,
&c. &c."
He paused, expecting that his conces-
sions would be met half-way. He reck-
oned without his host. His brother' was
secretly chuckling at his supposed victory,
and stood with his head in the air, exult-
ing over Stevie at his banquet of humble
pie.
"I was wrong in giving those orders
about the shooting," continued Stevie,
"without consulting my father."
"Your father," replied Francis loftily,
"has nothing whatever to do with the
estate."
"Pardon me," said Stevie, sternly;
"whatever else may be his position here,
he is your father, and as such, in the sight
of God and man, Francis Tremlett, his
wishes in every respect should be con-
sulted, and treated with respect I hope.
I shall always so treat them; and this J
know, that I shall regard any member of
my family who fails to do so with the con-
tempt that he deserves."
This idea was quite a novelty with
"dear Francis," and its exponent left
him utterly nonplussed by it.
And why did not Stevie follow up his
advantage. Why did he not quit Tremlett
Towers as his father had recommended?
Because "sleeping upon it," or rather,
spending a sleepless night thinking about
it all, he came to the prudent conclusion
that a scene with "dear Francis" would
not make his father's life more comforta-
ble; and as for himself, he had but a few
months to spend in England, and deter-
mined to use them as a peace-maker. Be-
sides — and here we come to a very inter-
esting point — there was some one in the
neighborhood whom he did not like to lose
sight of. Unknown to himself, he was
getting fond of Grace Lee — quiet, earnest
Grace Lee, who had stood aloof from him
during the brief days of his happy return,
but whose sympathy had welled forth from
7


A TANGLED SKEIN.
99
mawy a little wife, and then I can make
her do what I pleathe."
"Just listen to the brat! " exclaimed his
delighted mother. "He thinks disparity
of rank means difference of size! Well,
I think that np to a certain point the one
has no more to do with happiness than the
other; don't you, Stevie?
"Stevie," interposed Mr. Coleman, ad-
dressing his remark not to his wife or to
that person, but to Grace Lee, " is a regu-
lar old-fashioned Frankland; and I'll be
bound that he would not dream of asking
any girl to become his wife who could not
show half a dozen quarterings."
Stevie laughed. "Who am I," he re-
plied, " that I should be so particular?"
"A member — the prospective head —
of a family that can show a longer, and,
taking it altogether, a purer pedigree than
half the House of Peers can boast of—
that's all!" said Mr. Coleman. "You are
proud of your family tree, and you know
it. The old Franklands took their wives
out of families like their own, and they
were happy. Some of them looked higher,
and a few lower, but no good came of it,
or ever will."
"Well I'm sure, Coleman!" observed
his wife, pausing in helping the great pie,
"you're going on at a tine rate. Stevie's
family is a very good and a very old one,
but I hope there are many others equal to
it in which good has come of making high
matches. 1 like a family to rise, as I told
my poor sister Janet when Lord Bally-
squander proposed for her. Not that there
was much of a rise in her marriage; for
my father was a Spencer on the mother's
side, and my own dear mother was the
grand-daughter of an earl. All your fam-
ily, too, are highly respectable, though they
were lawyers to begin with."
"Who said they were not, my love?"
"And although poor Janet died in her
first confinement — (dear! dear! how
scandalously they mismanaged her!) and
James — I mean Lord Ballysquander—
has been twice a widower since, he always
calls me his dear sister — always! So I'm
sure you must not go trying to set people
against our — our family."
"I'm sure I never thought of doing such
a thing. I merely say that people should
not marry out of their station."
"But Lord Ballysquander"
"Bother Lord Ballysquander!"
"That's right! abuse my relations be-
cause you have not a because you are
jealous of the good blood your children
have got in their veins."
"Not at all."
"You are! You know you are! We
must introduce you, Stevie," she continued,
addressing her guest, " to Lord Ballysquan-
der; you will like him so much. He is so
con — so kind."
"Particularly when he wants anything,"
growled paterfamilias.
"I am ashamed of you, Coleman, talk-
ing like that! Poor dear man! he is the
most open-hearted being alive; and I'm
sure you behaved shabbily about that mort-
gage."
"My love !" said Mr. Coleman — " busi-
ness!"
"Bah!" ejaculated his wife; but the
subject was dropped, and she went on
helping the pie, to Bobby's great relief.
Stephen Frankland had forgotten all
about this subject before the cloth was re-
moved; but there was one present into
whose heart it had sunk deeply.
"Let him be proud!" burst — (apropos
of nothing — in what I am afraid I must
call a vixenish tone) from the lips of Grace
Lee, accompanied by what was undoubt-
edly an impatient gesture — a stamp of
the foot, I think — as she tied her bonnet-
strings before the glass that afternoon.
"Let him be proud! I can be proud too.
It is cruel! cruel! cruel!! to despise a
poor girl because she is left alone in the
world, and does not know — never knew
— ah! but I can despise too, and I will."
Here then came a lug at the poor strings,
which did not improve their appear-
ance.
Afterwards they all went out for a walk,
accompanied by Doggie; and really it
seemed at first as though that morose and
repulsive quadruped must have recently
bitten his fair mistress, so altered was her
manner to every one. It was only when,
upon their return, they visited the old col-
liery, and Stephen told how it had been
drowned the year after he was born, and
spoke so humbly, but withal so content-
edly, of that calamity, making him a poor
man when otherwise he would have been
a rich one — that Grace looked down at
her tumbled bonnet-strings, and the sweet
smile which was born that day when Stevie
missed the old memorial elm mantled upon
her soft, fresh cheek. <
Bonnie Grace Lee! Henceforward, if
you please, "our Grace," for our Stevie —
my Stevie — my dear, true old friend, is
getting dear to her; and if there be any
truth in the language of eyes, she is get-
ting very dear to him.


100
A TANGLED SKEIN.
CHAPTER XVI.
A DISCOVERY.
The very day on which Stephen Frank-
land did not leave Tremlett Towers, and
Grace Lee spoilt her bonnet-strings, was to
have been rendered one of fasting and hu-
miliation to many inoffensive inhabitants
of Durmstone and the neighborhood, by
reason of its being fixed for one of Mr.
Tremlett's solemn dinner-parties; but by a
daring innovation of his brother's, exe-
cuted some days before the affair of the
old elm-tree, the Coleman girls, and one
or two intimate friends of Stevie, were in-
vited in the evening.
"Going to give a dinner!" this rebel
had exclaimed, in his hearty off-hand way.
"All right! Get the mammie to ask a few
girls, and we'll have a hop afterwards."
This was said in the presence of Lady
Tremlett, who became so charmed with the
idea, that " dear Francis " did not think it
prudent to oppose it. There were some
thousands a-year at My Lady's disposition,
to do what she pleased with by will.
So the little hop came off, and, for the
first time since she had come to Derbyshire,
Grace Lee was seen to dance. She danced
with Stephen once; and then with Lord
de Cartarett twice; and then with Percy
Neville; and then declared that she hated
dancing, and would no more of it. She
would play for them the rest of the even-
ing; and she did so — Stephen sometimes
sitting by her side, and talking to her the
while; for it so happened there were more
bachelors than girls, and he liked his
friends to have partners. Between the
dances, and at supper, Grace and our
Stevie had a good deal of conversation
upon a variety of subjects — more solid
than the usual talk of ball-rooms; for
Stephen had long since found out that
beneath her proud and strange manner
was a soft and kindly heart, and a vein of
sterling common-sense that was well worth
working. "Ah," he had thought more
than once, " if I might confide poor Bran-
dron's affairs to her and ask her advice, I
might get some hints worth having."
Later on in the evening somebody intro-
duced the subject of the oak carvings in
the old hall, and several of the guests went
away there to examine them afresh. Grace
had never seen them at all, she said, or
been in the ancient part of the house.
"Haven't you, really?" said Stephen;
"then pray come with me, and I will show
you all sorts of queer things."
He was as good as his word. Old ar-
mor, old pictures, old banners, quaint old
furniture, were just the things in which
Grace delighted.
"O what dear old things!" she ex-
claimed in her own voice and manner
(she had somebody else's voice and man-
ner which she used to Stevie until recent-
ly), " what dear old things! Haven't you
got a ghost story to match?"
"To be sure! And, as it's very short,
I'll tell it to you now."
No better time and place could there be
for such a tale. The harvest moon sent a
flood of light through the wide, unshut-
tered casements, making those parts of
the old hall into which the light did not
penetrate dark and gloomy with an un-
natural darkness and gloom. The moul-
dering banners waved to and fro solemnly
in the vaulted roof, like pendulums of
some huge and goblin timepiece that waa
marking, at every beat, the flight of cen-
turies. Armed warriors and dames of
ancient race frowned from dark oaken-
framed pictures on the walls, and here
and there a rusty suit of mail seemed as
though it were endowed with unearthly
life, and was moving in the fitful and un-
certain light, as Frankland moved here and
there the solitary lamp which lit up the
silent darkness, bringing into life strange
and uncouth shadows.
So engrossed was Grace in the recital,
that she did not notice the departure, one
by one, of the other guests, and that she
and Stephen were left alone in the old
hall.
"Wonderful!" she said, when he had
concluded, " and, of course, perfectly true.
It would never do to doubt a ghost story
in a place like this. But who is that
dreadful-looking old fellow up there?"
pointing to one of the pictures. "Is that
the ghost?"
"That! Oh, you must not call him a
dreadful old fellow. That's my famous
ancestor, Roger Frankland. He is not
the ghost, though he has made many in
his day. He was a famous navigator, and
did some things upon the Spanish Main
which will not bear moralizing upon;
but he fought with Drake and Frobisher
against the Armada, and afterwards went
down to the bottom of the sea in his ship,
with his glorious flag flying, sooner than
strike it to three Dutch men-of-war. That
young looking man to the right, in the
drab coat, was the friend and schoolfellow
of Hampden, and next to him is Clarence
Frankland, Knight Banneret, who died on
the field of Agincourt."
"You are proud of your ancestors."


102
A TANGLED SKEIN.
than any one hitherto — but anxious, lov-
ing eyes, on Stephen's pallid face, re-
doubled her endeavors to stanch his
wound. It was only when Dr. Cutler had
declared that he was only stunned, and
was coming to, and the warm motherly
arms of Mrs. Coleman had closed around
poor trembling Grace, that she did what a
young lady of well-regulated mind ought
— I believe — to have done long ago —
fainted dead away. But as the whole
affair did not occupy more than ten min-
utes, although the events of as many hours
seemed to be crowded into them, we may,
possibly, be allowed to offer some excuse
for her conduct upon the ground that she
behaved like a sensible human creature
only for a very short space, and then, see-
ing the error of her way, immediately be-
gan to conduct herself like a young lady.
They carried Stephen into the drawing-
room, and laid him upon one of the sofas,
where Dr. Cutler and his son Jack, the
traitor — whom, ignorant of his treason
against Francisco, the King, and conse-
quent banishment from the royal favor,
Stevie had invited to the party — accepted
a bottle of Eau de Cologne and a vinai-
grette, out of about thirty-seven similar
appliances which Lady Tremlett and her
anxious guests provided, and having loos-
ened his neck-tie and collar, set themselves
to bringing him round with all the proper
formalities.
Another detachment, commanded by
Mrs. Coleman, bore Grace towards Lady
Tremlett's boudoir; but she came to con-
sciousness on the way, and having begged
to be put down, sat herself on the stairs
and cried bitterly for some five minutes;
she then sprang up, ran away, and could
not be found for half an hour. when she
was discovered sitting all alone in the dark
in an old lumber-room there was at the
top of the house.
"My own darling Gracie, are you bet-
ter ?" was Laura's affectionate inquiry as
they helped her into the carriage.
, "Oh, don't speak to me."
"Why so cross, dear?"
"Cross! Who wouldn't be cross at hav-
ing made such a fool of one's self. What
will he think?"
"Who do you mean?"
"Why, this precious hero of yours, of
course! This clumsy idiot, who cannot
show his stupid old pictures without drop-
ping the lamp, and tumbling over furniture
on his thick head. Bah! I've no patience
with him!"
"I am sure he did not mean to frighten
you, dear," said Mrs. Coleman.
"Then why did he take me into that
villanous old musty hall? I was very hap-
py where T was in the drawing-room. Why
could not he leave me alone? Awkward
imbecile! A captain in the army and not
able to hold a lamp! He took too much
champagne at supper—that was it. Brute!
I'll never speak to him again — never,
never! But, oh, dear Mrs. Coleman, what
will people say? What will people say?"
And her poor little throbbing head sunk
again on the kind matronly bosom, and
her indignation was drowned in a flood of
tears.
What did he (meaning the " clumsy idi-
ot" aforesaid) think? Why, until he
awoke the next morning he had no dis-
tinct idea of what had happened to him.'
He then found his head very heavy and
painful; and his forehead very stiff with a
trellis-work of diachylum plaster. On the
thoughts which were troubling poor Grace
he dwelt but little, his mind being engross-
ed with other and graver considerations
as soon as he had collected it sufficiently to
think at all. Only when he rose and tried
to dress, there fell from his clothes, which
had been thrown all in a heap upon a
chair at his bedside, one of those pretty
scraps of cambric and lace which ladies
call a handkerchief, upon which—-though
soaked through and through with blood —
he could decipher the letters, G. L. He
could guess whose it was, but little imagin-
ed what hand had pressed it to his wound.
He smiled that sad sweet smile that we
know of; and I should not wonder if it
were pressed elsewhere before he locked
it up in the secret drawer of his dressing-
case.
And what did other people say? They
said a good many things that did not ac-
cord well with their prayers that night.
All sorts of ingenious and charitable con-
jectures as to the cause of Stevie's accident
were indulged in, the most harmless of
which, perhaps, was that most in favor
with the fair sex of Grace's own age,
namely, that Captain Frankland had pro-
posed to her, and that she had been told
some dreadful secret about herself. Broth-
ers, cousins, and other intimates of Stevie's
standing in the world dissented from this
view. Stevie was not the sort of man to
faint away at anything a girl could tell
him. No, no; it was quite clear what it
was. He had tried to snatch a kiss when
they were alone together in the old hall,
and the strong-minded damsel had knock-
ed him down with the lamp.
Paterfamilias and madame sa femme
could not, for the most part, be got to ex-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
103
press themselves otherwise than by Bur-
leighean shakes of the head, wise raising
of eyebrows, and pursing up of lips. Such
things were not to be talked about before
the young people, and what passed be-
tween those elders within the dread sanc-
tuaries of their bed-curtains is not for me
to divulge.
Into good Mrs. Coleman's thoughts we
have been accustomed to pry, and there-
fore may continue the objectionable prac-
tice, upon the prevailing principle of con-
tinuing doing what is wrong because you
have began to do it. This matron's thoughts
naturally took a matrimonial direction.
"Ugh !" she exclaimed within herself,
as she left poor Grace's room after having
seen her disposed of comfortably for the
night: "Ugh! it's been her, then, all this
time! And the goose has gone and re-
fused him. Who would be pestered with
girls and their foibles and fancies? Here's
one without a father or mother, or any
relation in the world to take care of her,
who flings over a young fellow like Stevie,
iust as though husbands were to be picked
off the hedges like blackberries. Ugh!
I've no patience with her."
Nevertheless, Mrs. Coleman was very
tender and considerate over Grace, and
would not allow any one to talk about the
affair in the old hall, as she saw that its
mention annoyed her. Nor did she recur
to it herself except once, when, after hav-
ing returned from a visit to " The Towers,"
she drew Grace aside and said —
"You'll be glad to learn, dear, that
Stevie is quite well again."
"Indeed! How lucky it was that he fell
on his head."
"How so."
"You see, dearest," Grace replied with
one of her odd looks, "if he had fallen on
anything else he might have hurt him-
self."
The affair, like most others, had its com-
ical side. Can you imagine the appear-
ance of Mr. Jones, the portly butler, bring-
ing up the rear of the frightened domes-
tics, carrying a huge blunderbuss, gingerly;
and looking as if he did not know which
to be most frightened at — the robbers
who were supposed to be sacking "The
Towers," or the unfamiliar instrument of
destruction with which he might be called
upon to face them? Try and picture also
nine yards and a quarter of footmen cut
up into lengths averaging some six feet
two in length, done up in plush and pow-
der, and exhibiting respectively the ex-
tremes of stupidity, stolidity, and fear upon
their countenances. Lastly, realize the
coachman — a dumpy and rotund body
with a red face and a wig, who had evi-
dently been seeing if anything were left
in the decanters as he took them from the
dining-room, and who, armed with the
kitchen poker, rolled into the middle of
the black coats and crinolines, heroically
requesting that they would stand aside,
and let him (Jehu) get at them (the sup-
posed robbers), for the purpose of warm-
ing them. "Let me get at 'em," roared
the little man, struggling violently, with
one leg through a tarlatan skirt, a late
scarf caught in the stiff curls of his coach-
man's wig, the round end of his poker job-
bed painfully against the third button of a
pale young gentleman's waistcoat, and the
point, still hot and smoking from the fire,
gyrating under Mrs. Coleman's nose ; "Let
me get at 'em, and I'll warm 'em!" Pic-
ture all this, I say, in the midst of a scene
which at first was really one of terror, and
you will see there was plenty to laugh
about when it was known that a broken
head and a fainting fit were its worst
consequences. The worst consequences
I mean, of course, that were known to
those who had not heard the apparently
simple words — " The old Name op
Tremlett Towers was Mangerton
Chase," and were ignorant of the disclos-
ure they made.
And how did Mr. Tremlett behave?
The reader has discovered that I have
taken a dislike to this young gentleman.
Most true I have; because I know him.
Nevertheless, I am not going to do him an
injustice. I think the shock of seeing his
brother stretched motionless on the ground,
with the long crimson lines stealing slowly
down his pallid face, struck off a large
piece of the husk which vanity and syco-
phantic worship of small minds had har-
dened round his heart, and let out some
of the emotions which the " dear little del-
icate Frank" of other days might have
felt in a like case. Of course he had not
sanctioned the dancing with his presence.
If it were not for the tear of offending his
mother he would have very soon put a
stop to that. It was easy enough to change
Lady Tremlett's first impressions when
they related to the interests of others, but
the idea of a pleasure to herself, once
roused, was permanent.
So the dance went on, and Mr. Trem-
lett took unto himself some half a dozen
of his slaves, and led them to an upper
room where he kept his books and scien-
tific instruments, and from the window of
which he had not been able to get a suf-
ficiently extensive view without cutting


104
A TANGLED SKEIN.
down poor Stevie's memorial tree, and
then proceeded to lecture them upon phi-
losophy and the sucking of eggs — to the
despair of some of the victims, who being
young fellows, would have given one of
their eyes to be amongst the dancers.
In the midst of a dreary palaver about
order, forces, or some such subject, which
might have been interesting if the assem-
bled sages understood what they were
talking about, Grace's wild scream rang
through the house, and they all rushed
pell-mell to see what had happened; and
the cause having been ascertained, Fran-
cis behaved, as I have said, with much
feeling and tenderness to his wounded
brother. Just one idea crossed his mind
which was not a meritorious one. "Will
he die?" thought dear Francis; "and if
he does will — will ? — but no matter " —
and the thought, whatever it was, passed
away almost as soon as it was entertained.
The shock of his discovery was a heavy
one enough for poor Stevie as it fell. But
I do not think that the worst of bad news
is its first delivery, however suddenly that
delivery may be. At first there is always
a chance — a faint one if you like, but still
a chance — that you have misunderstood
the messenger of evil. That he may be
mistaken. That, after all, it may not be
quite as bad as it seems. That it may
be confuted, combated, neutralized — any-
thing!
Wait till the morning!
Wait till the excitement of the wound-
ing has passed away, and nothing remains
but the dull aching of the wound. Wait
till you have slept upon the calamity, and
it comes back gradually and surely — fully
and hopelessly, upon your mind. Wait
till the waking for the worst — when you
know that the days which are to come will
be overshadowed by it — when it looms
more huge, and black, and crushing, upon
the horizon of your life. Wake, I say, in
the morning, to find that happiness is never
to be known again, save in your dreams;
and then bad news is bad indeed.
The bad news which Stephen had heard
became worse and worse the more he
thought upon it. He had made no inquiries
about Mangerton Chase in his own county,
because he felt sure it was not there. It
was not only in his own county, but in
the possession of his own father, at the
time when the papers containing the secret
were hid! The thought of their hiding-
place raised a gleam of hope, which flick-
ered for some moments in his mind. Grace
must have been misled. There was no
such room as Brandron had described in
Tremlett Towers — in the old part or in
the new. Every chamber was familiar to
him, except the closed room at the end of
the west wing; but then, that was not over
an armory. There was no armory ; so how
could there be a chamber over it? Ar-
mor was in the old hall certainly, but then
the roof of the hall was the roof of the
house. There was no space whatever be-
tween.
This hope was bearing his storm-tossed
mind into calmer waters, when it suffered
sudden shipwreck by remembrances which
flocked upon him. He had deemed them
of no consequence when they happened;
but they assumed a grave import in the
light of the discovery that Tremlett Tow-
ers had been called Mangerton Chase.
His father's unexplained visit to West-
borough, his conflicting statements respect-
ing its cause, his desire to have it concealed
from his wife, his anxiety to avoid all men-
tion of Brandron, his anger at the mere
suggestion of opening that closed chamber,
the mysterious hint he had thrown out
about there being certain things connected
with the Frankland family into which
Stephen was not to inquire — had been
treated by our hero as so many ciphers
representing the negative qualities which,
to his sorrow, he knew his parent to pos-
sess. But when the great discovery was
placed as an unit before them, they repre-
sented an awful sum of misery, suspicion,
and horror.
"Can it be possible ?" moaned poor Ste-
vie, "that my father is a — is ?No
— ten thousand times, No! God forgive
me forjudging him. He is weak, and has
been erring enough — may have been
compromised by villains and made their
scape-goat, but a murderer — the mur-
derer of the man who saved my life! Oh,
no! No, no! It is impossible." And his
strong loving heart gave way ; and he wept
like a child.
As soon as he had recovered himself a
little he began to think how he should test
the truth of Grace's information; and, after
consideration, resolved to go and see Bill
Grant, the ex head-keeper, and see what
he could tell him. In as unconcerned a
tone as he could assume he asked if it were
true that the old house had been called
Mangerton Chase, and the keeper, after
some demur, confessed that this was so.
"But don't you let the Squire know that
I told you," he said, " or he will be cross.
We used always to call it 'The Chase,'
you see, and many never knew the other
name."
Then Stephen pretended to take a great


A TANGLED SKEIN.
105
interest in the old house, and made Grant
describe it. He had not proceeded five
minutes before he mentioned the armory.
"Where was that?" asked Stephen
quickly.
"Why, they turned it into a laundry,
they did — moved all the coats of arms,
and such like, into the hall, and"
"There is a room above it."
"Ah, yes, Sir, there is," replied the old
keeper solemnly.
"Have you ever been in it?"
"Only once, when I was a lad and knew
nothing about it. I would not go in there
again, — no ! not for fifty thousand pound."
"Why not?"
"Because it's haunted."
"Haunted! By whom, or what, in the
name of wonder?"
"I don't think I ought to tell you, Mas-
ter Stevie; I don't indeed. It's a family
matter, and — and —"
"Therefore one I ought to be acquainted
with. Go on, Grant. I will know — if
not from you, from some one else."
"Well; but I don't half like telling
you."
"I'm quite determined to know."
"In that room, Sir," said the keeper in
a low voice, " all the heads of your family
die. Old John Frankland died there, and
his father before him, and his grandfather.
And there — mark me, Master Stevie —
some day your father will die."
"And I, too, then?"
"I pray God, Master Stevie," said the
faithful servant, " that the time may be far
off; but when Death, which comes upon
us all, comes upon you, he will find you in
that room."
Stephen could not help being impressed
with the solemn tone in which the paralytic
spoke, and the feeling of conviction which
marked his words.
"Tell me what you remember of the
appearance of the chamber?" he said,
alter a long and painful pause.
"Well, when I saw it — I mind it
well"
"One moment; was it shut up then?"
"No; your father was the first to shut
it up. In old days I've heard tell that the
Franklauds used to go there to die in their
old age — and they mostly lived long lives
— and that they passed away there with-
out pain or struggle. There's a tale of Sir
Oswald Frankland"
"I know; he fought in the wars of the
Roses."
"Maybe, maybe. Leastwise, he got
wounded to death, and made his people
carry him up there in his armor, and he
died standing upright with his sword in
his hand. But that's only a tale."
"I've heard of it before, but never heard
that it took place in any particular room."
"Well, the Squire he didn't like these
tales and things; so he had the door
bricked up; and quite right too."
"But you saw it when it was open?"
"Ay."
"Then tell me what it was like?"
"It's just shaped like My Lady's room
at the other end of the wing."
"And the walls?"
"Well, when I saw them, they was hung
with that sort of worsted work, like
"You mean tapestry."
"Ay, tapestry. And it was furnished
with dark carved oak furniture."
"Of what description?"
"There was a great cabinet."
"Anything else remarkable?"
"Yes; a looking-glass that makes you
seem smaller than you are."
"A mirror."
"That's it. Well, then, there was two
suits of armor, and a stag's head. It was
the last seen hereabouts, and Colonel Gil-
bert Frankland, your grandfather's brother,
shot it; but when he went up to the beast
to cut its throat, it gave him a tear in the
thigh with its antlers. It was nothing of a
wound, but the poison of the horn killed
him."
Stephen paid no attention to the con-
cluding sentence. He had heard enough
— too much! There was no doubt now.
The deserted chamber in Tremlett Towers
was the very one described by Brandron
on his death-bed; and there, within reach
of his hand, lay hid the papers which con-
tained The Secret.
CHAPTER XVII.
MANGERTON CHASE.
The reader will probably have shared
the curiosity of the portress of the convent
at Hull, and not only wonder why three
visitors should intrude upon the hitherto
undisturbed privacy of Sister Mary, in so
short a period as one week, but will want
to know who they were. The portress was
right. There was evidently "something
up."
The first visitor was Jim Riley — very
much changed, however, as to his outer
man from when we last beheld him. The


106
A TANGLED SKEIN.
fur cap, the nasty velveteen shooting-
jacket, the fustian smalls and hobnail
boots, had disappeared, and were replaced
by a suit of black, in which he looked
highly respectable, but wofully uncomfort-
able. I can understand why he should
purchase black clothes. He was in mourn-
ing for his mother. But why he should
have broken out in a satin waistcoat and
a tail-coat is one of those mysteries which
I have striven in vain to penetrate. My
deep but baffled researches convince me
that his mother's recent death had little or
nothing to do with his choice of those vest-
ments. Black is out and out the worst
wearing color we have. The newest black
cloth looks shabby in daytime after the
least provocation; and yet, go into the
streets on Sunday and you will find that
all the people who can apparently afford
only one suit a year choose it black. The
Honorable Reginald Fitz-Shultz, of the
Guards, has a suit for every day in the
month. When he is tired of them they go
to his valet; and yet I'll be bound that not
one of them is black. Evening dress I
put out of the question. Giles Scroggins,
the journeyman carpenter, has one. When
at last it has ceased to be his Sunday best
it has to be utilized as working apparel;
and yet I'll lay my head against that of
one of his tenpenny nails, it's black — the
dingiest, the most rotten color he can get
for money!
Would the Honorable Reginald Fitz-
Shultz think of wearing a tail-coat in the
daytime? The hideous solecism apart,
he could not wear a more uncomfortable,
useless garment. Still Giles cleaves to it
with a desperate affection. He will have
his black tail-coat — and very nice indeed
he looks — with its useless pockets full of
the missuss's little things, and the child's
etceteras banging to and fro against his
legs, or standing out at any angle but that
of beauty, as he takes them to tea with a
friend.
And a black satin waistcoat! Has your
bricklayer never come for orders in what
was once a black satin waistcoat? Do not
suppose for an instant that it is the cast-off'
garment of some other better-to-do person.
Visit him at his lodgings in Little Union
Street, or elsewhere, next Sunday, and you
will find him in his shirt-sleeves smoking his
pipe in the window, clad in the successor
of that rusty and frayed piece of unser-
viceable apparel, which, at its best, looks
greasy about the seams, and utterly imprac-
ticable and worthless after its kind. He
has a succession crop of black tail-coats
and black satin waistcoats, and his son will
have them after him. There is no hope
of change! His wife and his daughter
follow the last new fashion set by my Lady
Clara Vere de Vere. They have their
crinolines, their fancy pockets, their point-
ed belts, their pork-pie hats, their Balmoral
boots, their linsey petticoats, their flyaway,
their spoon-shaped, their Mary Stuart bon-
nets, their seal-skin (imitation) mantles,
their dull gold (imitation) solitaires and
bracelets, their velvet (cotton) head-dresses,
their sleeves, their skirts, their flounces —
all made in cheap imitation of Mv Lady;
but no power will get Giles to imitate My
Lord. Of the two I think I like Giles the
best. I have an impulse towards my hand-
kerchief when I see cheap, dirty finery.
There is Miss Woolley now, with her hair
waxed, and smeared, and twisted into a
wonderful network, which endures, inno-
cent of brush, from Sunday to Saturday,
and who spends as much money upon
tawdry finery as would keep all the family
in clean neat prints for a twelvemonth.
In her own neighborhood she is considered
"quite the lady." I have my suspicions
respecting the internal economy of the fair
Flora's toilette. It is all very well outside,
but Giles's black satin waistcoat has
the merit of disclosing a clean shirt. His
tail-coat, objectionable as it is. has been
well brushed. There is an odor of yellow
soap about the honest fellow, which is re-
assuring if not fragrant. Yes, I prefer
Scroggins as it is, and should like him all
the more if he took to wearing good ser-
viceable tweeds and doeskins, made up
into comfortable and useful jackets and
waistcoats upon the patterns of the Hon-
orable Fitz-Shultz, which would be cheap-
er in the end, and far more satisfactory
throughout, than his unsuitable black satin
"vest" and tail-coat.
Here the reader, who has, perhaps,
skipped this digression, must be informed
that it has not been indulged in without
a cause. Have I not said that if I am
"wanted " I should dine at Simpson's and
take lodgings in Regent Street upon the
reasoning before stated? And do you
think that I would go about in a fur cap
and velveteen shooting-jacket, or a curly
brimmed hat, and coaeh-and-four studs in
my shirt, or a light blue frock-coat with a
flower in my button-hole, or Hessian boots,
a High-Church uniform, or a suit of war
paint, to attract everybody's attention?
No! I should do as Jim Riley did. Adopt
the commonest costume I could think of,
and rub elbows with Inspector Lagger in
the street without a shade of fear.
How the quondam knife-grinder ob-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
107
tamed funds for this metamorphosis need
not at present appear. Perhaps he had ob-
tained remunerative employment through
the instrumentality of his grandmother at
Sheffield, — perhaps he had not.
The second visitor to Sister Mary was a
rough-looking sailor-man, who, previous to
Jim Riley's advent, had made a tender
impression upon one of the kitchen-maids
at the convent. He formally announced
his intention of " keeping company" with
her, and his offer was accepted. Her
"Sundays out" were spent with him.
They had oyster suppers in the evening,
and he never came empty-handed to the
rendezvous. Ribbons of the most resplen-
dent hue found their way to the caps and
dresses of Patty Marsh, in which she tim-
idly scuffled out of the convent's back-
door to gladden the eyes of her nautical
admirer. They had their photographs
taken at the sailor-man's expense. Pat-
ty's disclosed a libel upon a pretty buxom
lass, and the sailor-man's — bar a great
black beard — might have passed for a
portrait of Mr. Sampson Lagger.
This sailor-man was most curious about
all that took place in the convent; and
-when he heard that a Mr. Brooks had
called to see Sister Mary, desired and ob-
tained as correct a description of his per-
son as Patty could give. This obtained,
their converse was not so long that even-
ing as usual, the sailor-man having, as he
said, sundry important matters connected
with his ship to attend to. The next
morning Mr. Sampson Lagger in person
had an interview with Sister Mary, and
the sailor-man having been informed the
following Sunday that another gentleman
had visited that lady in the mean time, Mr.
Sampson Lagger again presented himself
at the convent-door. Patty had nothing
to do with opening it.
"The answer is," said the portress, when
the detective had been announced up-stairs,
"that you are to send up your business."
"And what am I to send it up in, my
dear?" asked Mr. Lagger.
"My dear" was an old woman of sixty-
two.
"You are to tell it to me, and I'll men-
tion it," she replied.
"Well, you've got an uncommon fine
head, you have," said the visitor, looking
at her with his own on one side and one
eye shut; "but I don't think it will hold
my business. You can't put a quart of
beer in a pint pot, can you now?"
The portress expressed herself as know-
ing nothing about pints and pots, and Mr.
Lagger continued —
"Just you tell the lady I must see her.
I won't trouble her long, but I must see
her."
The reply was, that she had seen him
once already, — that she had nothing fur-
ther to tell him, and therefore positively
declined to give him another interview.
"Very good," said Mr. Lagger; "now
I know what to do. I don't want to run
rusty with ladies, but must is must. You
take this 'ere card to the Principal, and
you say just this: 'Mr. Lagger, a detec-
tive officer from London, is below, and he
wants to see Sister Mary alone for ten
minutes; Sister Mary won't see him, and
all he wishes to know is this, — is he to
telegraph to the gentleman who lives on
the first floor with the green cloth curtains
in Jermyn Street, London, Middlesex, or
is he not ? — that's what he wants to
know !'"
The reply this time was, that he was
to please to walk up-stairs; Sister Mary
would come in a few minutes.
What passed between them is best told
by its results.
"Not know where Master Jim's got to!
Well; perhaps she don't. Not know why
Captain Frankland wants to find out
where Mangerton Chase is! Well; per-
haps she don't agin. But what brings the
Captain to her, and what's Mangerton
Chase to him? That's the question just
now for you, my man (addressing himself
as usual). That's about what you have
got to find out. The Captain knows a
precious deal more than he'd tell at the
inquest. He's got private information of
his own — that's what he's got! He's on
the track, that's sartain. Hang me if I
don't follow him where he goes, and see
what he does. I'll keep my eyes on him.
May be we'd come up to the clue together.
If we does, there'll be a fair race for it,
Sampson Lagger; and if you're the man
I takes you for, somebody else will have to
be second at the finish."
So he took himself off back again from
whence he came, and poor Patty never
set eyes on her sailor-man again. Ar-
rived in the metropolis, he had an inter-
view with a person in authority at Scot-
land Yard, and, having paid a flying visit
to Little Union Street, took the train the
same night for Durmstone.
A wonderful man for making acquaint-
ances was Mr. Sampson Lagger. Jones,
the Jupiter Tonans of the below-stairs
. Parnassus of Tremlett Towers, was not
the sort of person to be easily picked up
by a stranger. His air was dignified, his
words were few, he stood stiffly to his dig-


108
A TANGLED SKEIN.
nity, and resented the slightest approach
to familiarity. Nevertheless, Mr. Lagger
picked him up, and was high in his favor
before a week was out. Vanity was the
soft spot in Mr. Jones's character, and
into this the detective struck his hook and
led him about like a sheep. Vanity was
the tap of Mr. Jones's breast, and into
this the detective fitted his pump and
pumped it dry.
Their intimacy began at a pigeon-shoot-
ing match which was held in the neigh-
borhood. A dispute arose, and some one
having appealed to Mr. Lagger, he replied
angrily —
"Don't you appeal to me. You appeal
to some one as knows more than me; and
I see a gentleman here as knows more
than me, and more than you and all the
rest of the company put together. He's a
gentleman of judgment and discrimination
— that's what he is. 1'oe heard of him,
and bless me if I should like to be a pigeon
when he's shooting a match."
Having attracted general attention by
his loud voice and gestures, the company
requested to be informed who this paragon
could be, and fifteen small farmers began
to look sheepish in anticipation of their
being introduced as the Admirable Crich-
ton in question.
"Who is he?" retorted Mr. Lagger.
"Why, I am surprised at you! Who has
lived and spent all his life amongst gentle-
men as know about these sort of things?
Who is here that is in the confidence of
half the squires in the county? Who has
come down to this 'ere little game a pur-
pose to give a sanction to the pro—ceed-
mgs? I'm a stranger hereabouts — I am;
but I'm not such a born fool as not to
know an upright and talented referee
when I see one."
The upshot was that he indicated Mr.
Jones as the subject of his eulogy, and
won that person's heart, inside and out.
Such good friends did they become, that
Mr. Lagger was invited to " The Towers,"
was shown all over the house in the tem-
porary absence of the family, and regaled
afterwards in the butler's sanctum with
some rare port and cigars, to which the
guests of " dear Francis" and My Lady
were not often treated. Then Mr. Jones
proceeded to pump his visitor as to what
business brought him to Durmstone; and
Mr. Lagger would wink, place his finger
on the side of his nose most significantly,
and throw out mysterious hints about new
railways — bill before Parliament — land-
owners — rival company — secret infor-
mation — confidential service — and the
like. Upon which Mr. Jones would wink
his eye, lay his finger on the side of his
nose, most significantly of nothing, and
make belief that he understood all about
it, and was not the man to divulge the im-
portant secrets which had been confided
to him. Many an evening did the de-
tective pass in the butler's sanctum and
the wider circle of the housekeeper's
room. Mrs. Cooper declared she had
never met a more agreeable gentleman;
and Mr. Markleby, who was " gentleman"
to "dear Francis," was hurled into the
depths of despair by the flirtation which
was instituted between this welcome guest
and Mrs. Patten, My Lady's lady's-maid.
Nor was Mr. Lagger the only visitor in
those regions. The servants' hall of Trem-
lett Towers was filled with strange liv-
eries; the more extensive apartments de-
voted to upper servants were full of
strange Ladies' ladies and Gentlemen's
gentlemen. The expected guests had ar-
rived, and the partridges and hares were
having a bad time of it. Not such a bad
time as they might have had if our Stevie
had been in the field. Nothing, however,
would induce him to join the party. It
was a small sort of revenge to take, and
was, I think, unworthy of him. Your
very sensitive people often make geese
of themselves in this way, and think that
they are punishing others when they are
only vexing themselves.
He had made an inward vow that he
would never draw trigger again upon his
mother's land, and even if that harrowing
disclosure had not been made and ab-
sorbed every other thought than the
wretched fears and fancies it engendered,
he would have kept his word. As it was,
he had a good excuse for keeping aloof
from the new comers, — none of whom,
with one exception, he knew or cared for.
His head, he said, was still very painful,
and his face was so stuck about with plas-
ters that it was not fit to be seen.
So he kept his room, sitting within a
few yards of where the secret was hidden,
fretting his heart out, not daring to make
a bold stroke'and know the worst at once.
Have you ever received a letter which
you hope may contain news of some- great
pleasure or advantage, or fear may bring
home to you some great loss or grief; and
have you always had the courage at once
to break the seal? Have you ever had a
question trembling on your lips which you
would give the world to have answered,
but dared not ask? Do you know what
it is to have received a wound which you
have not nerve enough to look at? If you


A TANGLED SKEIN.
Ill
ing it again as before, descended by it till
he remained half standing on the window-
sill, half swinging by the rope. With the
hand that was at liberty he next broke
and removed one of the small diamond-
shaped panes of glass, and opened the
window from within. In another moment
he had sprung into the chamber.
"Blazes!" exclaimed Mr. Lagger, who
had dodged behind a bed of lauristinus
when first he saw the light. "Blazes!
here's a pretty go! That chap ain't up
to no good, and it's your dooty, Inspector
Lagger, to see what he's up to — that's
about what your dooty is."
CHAPTER XVIIL
a rat! — a rat!
When Professor Spraggle retired to
rest the second night after his arrival at
Tremlett Towers, he found his better half
sitting up in bed — her fair person describ-
ing the most correct of right angles—with
sternness upon her features and a watch
in her hand. Every one of the numerous
curl-papers which decorated her classic
brow, appeared as though it had screwed
itself up extra tight for the occasion, and
each particular frill of the severely-starch-
ed garment which her position displayed,
seemed to stand on end with terror, as the
learned man stole mildly into the apart-
ment. He was a mighty Don in his Uni-
versity; an object of awe to quaking Un-
dergraduates in "the Schools;" a very
lion as he paced " the High " in full Pro-
fessorial costume; but the gentlest of ewe
lambs in the presence of his wife, especi-
ally when that authority had assumed her
diadem of curl-papers, and sat in awful
state, enthroned between the bed-curtains.
There was then no hope for him until the
morning. He knew that she was shaking
her head at him as he entered, for he
heard the curl-papers rustling together.
They seemed to be ringing a muffled peal
in memory of his hope for a night's rest,
which had then departed.
"Spraggle," said the lady, in a severe
tone; "it is a quarter to one o'clock."
"Is it really, my love? I did not think
it could be so late."
"Think!" retorted the injured fair one.
"What business have you to think? You
know that you are allowed twenty minutes
when I retire, and I told you that it was
twelve o'clock as I left the room. You've
been drinking soda-water, Spraggle, with
those young men."
The Professor eagerly repudiated any
participation in so wild an orgie.
"I assure you, my dear," he said, "that'
you are mistaken. I have touched nothing
since you left. The fact is, that I got into
a very interesting conversation with Mr.
Tremlett, respecting Pre-Adamite litera-
ture, and"
"Pre-Adamite fiddle-stick's end!" in-
terrupted his lady. "What do you know
about Adam more than you hear in church,
or Mr. Tremlett either?"
"But you must know, my dear,-that a
very learned Russian"
"Don't talk to me, Sir, about your
Russians, or your Prussians either," ex-
claimed Mrs. Spraggle. "If they teach
you to keep your lawful wife awake all
night, destroying her health in this way,
they ought to be ashamed of themselves.
I've no patience with people who pretend
to know more than their betters. Pre-
Adamite literature indeed! Why you
will be wanting to persuade me next that
Abel kept a circulating library, and that
Noah had a printing-press in the Ark."
"The Professor assumed a dignified air,
and replied, " I would have you to know,
Madam, that"
"Spraggle! Spraggle!! If you go on
talking in this incessant manner, — if you
do not get into bed without one other
word, you will put my poor nerves into
such a state, that I shall not get a wink of
sleep all night."
This was enough. In three minutes the
Professor had assumed an horizontal posi-
tion parallel to his better half, and at the
farthest possible distance from her pillow.
He had just resigned himself to descending
slumbers, when his spouse sprang up into
her former angular position, with the agil-
ity of a " Jack-in-the-box."
"Spraggle!"
"My love?"
"This is not such a good room as the
one we had last night."
"No, my dear," replied the Professor.
"Perhaps not; but then, you know, it's
very quiet."
"I am not so sure of that. I heard a
noise just before you came in."
"It was somebody going to bed."
"Do you believe it was a tree scraping
against the wall, that made the noise last
night?"
"Of course it was, my dear. Did not
Sir George say so?"


112
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Then why did he not have the tree
cut down ?" demanded the lady.
"Cut down, my love?"
"Yes; cut down! Don't repeat my
words, Mr. Spraggle, like that."
"Because, my life, he thought it would
be best to change us into another room,"
pleaded her husband, mildly.
"I will not be changed about into dif-
ferent rooms every night, Mr. Spraggle,
for you or anybody. My father was a
Bishop, and I'm not going to be made
nothing of. It's just like your mean-spirit-
ed ways to want it."
"My dear," expostulated the poor Pro-
fessor, " did I say I wanted it?"
"I don't care whether you do, or whether
you don't," replied his wife, making a hur-
ricane of her curl-papers. "All I say is
this, — if people are allowed to go about
the house, sharpening chisels to-night, I
shall pack up my things and leave to-mor-
row. I will not endure it. There !" and
the curl-papers rang out another peal, as
the offended lady flopped back again upon
her couch.
Half an hour afterwards, when the Pro-
fessor was in his first sleep, dreaming of a
lecture he was about to give upon his re-
turn to Oxford, respecting the use of the
Digamma, Mrs. Spraggle again became
suddenly rectangular.
"Spraggle!"
"Oh dear! oh dear! What is it my
love?"
"There's a noise."
Spraggle groaned.
"Don't presume to groan at me like
that, Mr. Spraggle, for I'll not endure it!"
exclaimed his better half. "I say, I be-
lieve there is a noise."
"Then you are not quite certain, my
love ?" said the Professor, greatly relieved
by the doubt expressed.
"No !" she replied, after a pause. "I
can say, conscientiously, that I am not
quite certain. You may go to sleep again,
Spraggle; and if I hear anything I will
be sure to wake you."
"Thank you, my dear," said her hus-
band, and again he lapsed into Dream-
land, but only to be violently torn once
more from its charms. He was dreaming
that his great treatise, in fourteen volumes,
on the Greek particles, had been given to
a discerning public, and that he had been
elected Dean of Christ Church by accla-
mation, but that some one insisted upon
pulling his academical gown off his shoul-
ders, just as he was going to be installed.
He awoke, and found that it was his wife
who was shaking him.
"Whatever may be your conduct to-
wards me, Spraggle," said the lady, as
soon as she had thoroughly aroused him,
"I shall always be fair and candid to-
wards you. I am not obstinate, like some
people I could mention, and do not mind
acknowledging myself to be in error. I
find that I was mistaken when I woke
you and said that there was a noise."
"I am very glad to hear you say so, my
dear," said the Professor.
"Of course you are!" retorted his
spouse; "of course you are glad to find
something which you can throw in my
teeth hereafter. I dare say I shall never
hear the end of the admission which my
truthful nature compels me to make; but
I am not going to tell a lie for you, Sprag-
gle, or any one else!"
"Of course not, my love. I"
"Will you let me speak! I was say-
ing, when you interrupted me, that I am
determined to tell the truth come what
may; and the truth is, that I have not
been able to hear any noise. I have lis-
tened attentively for the last three quar-
ters of an hour, and I can conscientiously
affirm that the house is quite quiet. There-
fore pray let me go to sleep, Mr. Spraggle,
if you do not wish to have me quite ill
from want of rest."
So the Professor slept the sleep of the
blessed at last.
Nevertheless, the house was not quite
quiet all that night; though the fact of there
being a slight break in the silence cannot
be taken to disparage Mrs. Spraggle's
highly sensitive acoustic powers, when we
consider the distance which separated her
from the scene of the disturbance. One
of Mr. Tremlett's university friends, — a
stout young gentleman with white eye-
lashes and pink hands, who had asserted
his ability to sleep anywhere, — had been
transferred into the chamber originally
occupied by the Professor and his wife;
and some chaff was indulged in at the ex-
pense of the learned man, when Colonel
Vincent and one or two of the least serious
of the visitors assembled the next morning
in the breakfast-room.
"Well, Mr. Roundleby," said the Colo-
nel, when the stout young gentleman
made his appearance; "did the ghost
come and sharpen chisels in your room
last night?"
"Well, not exactly."
"What do you mean by ' Not exactly?'
How did you sleep?"
"Pretty well."
"Is that all? We all thought, from
your own account, that you were a lineal


A TANGLED SKEIN.
113
descendant of the Seven Sleepers, and
that nothing would disturb you."
"Oh, I sleep very soundly as a general
rule," replied Roundleby; "only you see
when a man expects to hear anything, he
gets fidgety, and that keeps him awake."
"Did you hear anything, then ?" asked
his intimate friend, Mr. Octavius Floun-
der, a profound metaphysician of twenty,
and one of "dear Francis's" most ardent
admirers.
"Well, I think, — I may say I am sure,
— quite sure I did."
"What was it?" asked the Colonel,
quickly.
"Just such a noise as Mrs. Spraggle
described, — a grating, scraping sound, as
though somebody were at work with a
chisel."
"But did you not hear how Sir George
accounted for it?" asked Mr. Flounder.
"The boughs of the tree that grows out-
side, by the window, scrape against the
wall when swayed by the wind."
"When swayed by the wind, perhaps,
they do," said Roundleby; "but there was
no wind last night, — not a breath."
"It was certainly very sultry," mused the
metaphysician; "but are you quite sure, my
dear Augustus, that you were not misled
by fancy? The human mind, in reflect-
ing impressions conveyed by what we vul-
garly call our ' senses,' frequently"
"Yes, I know," interrupted his friend,
who apparently was prepared for what
was coming. "I dare say it was all fancy,
— that an ideal something was, by an
effort of the imagination, supposed to be
rubbed against an ideal something else,
and that the result was a purely ideal
noise. Nevertheless, it was such a noise
as no one could help hearing."
"From whence did it proceed?"
"From the end of the passage."
"Where all that old tapestry hangs?"
"Exactly."
"Why did you not get up and see what
was making it?"
"Oh, it was no business of mine."
"I should think anything that kept me
awake all night a business of mine," re-
plied the metaphysician.
"What! if it were only an idea? But
your usually logical mind has taken a
jump, my dear Flounder. The noise, —
whatever it was, — did not keep me awake
all night. It lasted at the utmost for about
half an hour, and was not continuous. It
may have began again, though, after I had
fallen asleep."
"I think I can explain the mystery,"
observed Colonel Vincent, who had been
listening to the foregoing conversation.
"The sound you describe is very like that
which would be made by a rat gnawing
through the oak wainscoting."
"But, my dear Colonel," replied Roun-
dleby, " a rat would not take two nights
to eat his way through a board, and he
would hardly masticate that hard old wood
for amusement."
"For amusement, No, — from necessity,
taught by instinct, Yes," said the Colonel.
"Are you not aware that the incisor teeth
of the rat grow so fast that it is obliged to
gnaw to keep them down. Take my word
for it now, that you were disturbed by a
rat, and don't notice the noise when you
hear it again. You can do no good by
getting up and driving it away. The ras-
cal will come back to his work when all is
silent again, and I dare say, — ah, here
comes Sir George, he will tell us. Are
you troubled with rats here, Sir George?"
"Rats !" exclaimed the Baronet, as he
came fussing, as usual, into the room; "I
should think so. We have got some of
the most ancient families of rats in the
country. They breed amongst the hollow
floors of the old house, and I am sorry to
say that they have overrun the whole
building."
"You should have a grand battue some
day. We had one at Keystone Castle
last month, and it was capital fun," said
the Colonel.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Sir George; "a
capital thought! So we will, — so we
will — we'll have a grand battue, and you
shall manage it, — will you?"
"By all means. You have only to or-
der the keepers to bring their ferrets, and
a few sharp terriers; and I dare say," —
the Colonel continued, turning to Roun-
dleby, " that we shall polish off your ene-
my amongst the rest."
"Enemy ! — enemy ! — what enemy?"
inquired Sir George, looking from one to
the other.
"Colonel Vincent thinks that it is a rat
which makes that noise in the passage
close to my room," replied Roundleby.
"By all means begin your battue there."
"There!" exclaimed the Baronet;
"No, No, No; that would never do.
There are no rats about that passage."
"Not behind the tapestry under the
skirting boards?" replied the Colonel.
"I should have thought that the very best
place to look for them."
"But pray don't; you are quite mis-
taken," said Sir George, becoming sud-
denly flushed and excited. "I, — I must
ask you, really as a favor, not to, — not to
8


114
A TANGLED SKEIN.
move the tapestry. It, — it, — is very
old, and, — and, — fragile, and I will, — I
say I value it highly, and, — and there is
a great deal of dust accumulated behind,
— don't you see. So pray do not touch it.
Now, will you promise me, — will you
gentlemen promise me, — not to touch
this very old, and ha, — ha, — ha, — very
dusty tapestry? Because you see," con-
tinued their host without waiting for a
reply; "it would be no use doing so, —
only make a mess, — as all the rats are in
the new part of the house, — every one."
"Well," said Colonel Vincent; " we can
begin the slaughter there."
"I think," replied the Baronet, after a
pause, "that it would be hardly worth
while; we have trapped so many lately
that there are not more than one or two
of the creatures about. Now, if you were
to go to the granary in the farm-yard, you
would find excellent sport."
"Sport!" exclaimed Colonel Vincent;
"my dear Sir George, you do not suppose
I consider ratting ' sport ?' I only suggested
it as a means of abating a nuisance, for I
certainly understood you to say that your
house, and especially the older part of it,
was infested with those vermin; but, of
course, you know best, and I may be mis-
taken."
"Oh, quite so — quite so — quite so.
Ah! here are the ladies," and the Baronet
hearing the distant rustle of silk, fussed
away into the hall, received his fair guests,
and passed back with them into the break-
fast-room.
"And so we really were successful in
finding you a comfortable room, my dear
Mrs. Spraggle? I am so glad! You were
not disturbed again?"
"No, Sir George, I am happy to say
that I was not," replied the lady. "It was
very good of you to prevent the recurrence
of that odious noise."
"And yet," replied the Baronet, "here
is a gentleman who fancies that he heard
it."
"Who is he ?" demanded Mrs. Spraggle,
severely. "Show him to me. Let him
step forward."
Roundleby was indicated as the pre-
tender, and confronted — looking very
sheepish — with the indignant lady.
"Mr. Spraggle," she said to her hus-
band, who had just entered the room, " be
so good as to inform this gentleman whether
I did, or whether I did not, make a com-
munication to you last night, with regard
to the house being, or not being, perfectly
quiet."
"You certainly made several observa-
tions on the subject, my love," replied the
Professor.
"And what was the opinion, Mr. Sprag-
gle, that, after careful consideration, I ar-
rived at?"
"That the house was quiet — quite
quiet, my dear."
"I believe that, after having expressed
myself to that effect, I went to sleep."
"You did, my love."
"We have been married, if I am not
incorrect, Mr. Spraggle, for eleven years?"
"We have, my dear," replied the Pro-
fessor, with a sigh.
"From observation of my nervous sys-
tem during that time, do you think it pos-
sible that I could have slumbered, had
there been a noise in the house?"
"Certainly not, my love!" replied the
Professor, emphatically.
"Then I think that the gentleman had
better not make himself ridiculous by re-
peating a statement which cannot have any
foundation in fact," observed the lady, gaz-
ing sternly at the wall, about two yards over
Roundleby's head. "I never was so in-
sulted in my life," she observed, afterwards;
"a mere Bachelor of Arts to tell me that
he heard noises whilst I was asleep! Let
him take care what he is about, or either
he or I will have to leave the house!"
It was on this same morning that Ste-
phen Frankland made his first appearance
in public, since his accident; and was in-
troduced to his brother's guests, to all of
whom — as I have already said — he con-
sidered himself to be a stranger. When,
however, he was presented to Colonel Vin-
cent, a bright flush suffused his pale face,
and instead of frankly shaking his hand,
as he had done with Roundleby and the
others, the grave young soldier assumed
his gravest manner, and passed this new
acquaintance with a distant bow. The gay
Colonel was rather taken aback by this
sudden change in the demeanor of the eld-
est son of the house, but he was too much,
a man of the world to show his vexation;
he only bit his lip and said nothing. Nor
was Stephen's apparent rudeness noticed
by the other visitors, for Lady Tremiett
entered the room at the moment, and en-
grossed the general attention.
She had been greatly affected, as we
know, by Stephen's misfortune when it
happened; but had forgotten all about it
by luncheon-time the next day. She had
even gone so far as to declare to Lord
Rossthorne that it was very unkind indeed
of " dear Stevie" to stay up in his room,
and not help to entertain the company.
If he was well enough, she complained, to


116
A TANGLED SKEIN.
is not an officer. Ask him, casually, in
what regiment he has served, and show me
his name in the Army List — you have a
whole collection of them, I know, some-
where — and I withdraw all I have said,
and ask your pardon for having cast
wrongful aspersions on your guest. Only
be careful, for if I should happen to be
right, you have no minor villain to deal
with."
Lord Rossthorne did not come down to
breakfast this morning. The night before,
he paid Stevie a visit in his room, and sat
some time with him, chatting over old
times, and in the course of conversation,
had then complained that he felt bis old
enemy—the rheumatism — creeping over
him.
"He's tracing out his works, my boy,"
said the courteous old nobleman. "I got
my feet wet in those splendid turnip-fields
of yours, out shooting to-day, and he has
proclaimed war in consequence. I must
try if I cannot raise the siege by a coup
de main, or, at any rate, make terms of
truce; so if you do not see me to-morrow
morning, make my excuses to Lady Trem-
lett, and tell her that, if we old fellows will
be boys, we must take the consequences."
The shooting party, therefore, was de-
prived of its best shot.
As its various members are waiting for
the dog-cart, which was to take them on
their way, Colonel Vincent drew Roundle-
by aside, and observed —
"This eldest son seems a morose sort of
individual. How did he get that blow on
the head which he makes such a fuss
about?"
"Tremlett tells me that he tripped up
over some girl's dress, at a party they had
some nights before we came, and tumbled
against something."
"Was he screwed, then?"
"I dare say he was," replied Roundleby.
"These Indian officers are awful rips —
some of them."
"Is he in the Indian army?" asked the
Colonel, quickly.
"So I am told."
"Of what Presidency?"
"I don't know; but here comes his
brother, he will know. Oh, Mr. Tremlett,
tell us what Presidency does Captain
Frankland belong to?"
"Bengal."
"May I ask in what regiment?" in-
quired Colonel Vincent.
"The th Light Cavalry — but look!
look! Colonel. You have dropped your
cigar amongst the powder-flasks."
"I — no—have I? Well, it does not
matter, it is out," said Vincent, in rather
a confused tone and manner.
"I beg your pardon," replied our me-
thodical Francis; "I can see it smoking.
Why, the end is quite red hot."
"So it is! Very strange! I thought
it was out." And Colonel Vincent placed
it again between his lips, and having blown
out a dense cloud of smoke, took up his
gun, and sauntered away towards the
shrubbery.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE OLD, OLD STORY.
The Italian style of architecture so
admirably adapted by Messrs. Rubble and
Square, to enlarge the ancient Elizabeth-
an mansion, once known as Mangerton
Chase, had been followed in the erection
of Ruxton Court. Mrs. Coleman had her
weaknesses, and one of them was to fol-
low the lead of " The great house."
Her own particular room was situated
in a sort of gazebo, from which an exten-
sive view of the surrounding country, and
especially of the drive which led up to her
hall-door, could be obtained. There —
having duly performed her onerous do-
mestic duties — she sat on the watch, like
the warders of old, not for the purpose of
warning her stronghold into a state of de-
fence, upon the approach of any enemy
that might appear in array before it, with
the view of taking it by storm and carry-
ing otf its treasures; but that she might
be able to have a graceful reception pre-
pared for the foe, and exhibit those treas-
ures to him in their most attractive form,
with a view to their being carried ofF as
speedily as possible. By all which I mean
to say, that the good lady took care that
her "gals" should never be taken at a
disadvantage by a possible suitor. On
the contrary, that they should be dis-
covered, on all occasions, attired in the
most charming toilettes, and engaged in
the most elegant pursuits. About a quarter
of a mile from the house was an iron gate
through which every visitor had to pass,
and which, swinging to and fro till it
finally closed, made a loud clicking noise
that served as a preliminary signal. This
heard, the "gals" would be ordered into
the drawing-room, and when the coming
man was announced, he would find Laura
at the piano, in the paroxysms of some
well-studied fantasia; and the beautiful


118
A TANGLED SKEIN.
spiteful speeches she had overheard on
that eventful night.
"Do I understand you to hint, Miss
Lee," inquired Stephen gravely, "that
any one has dared to — to?"
"You understand me to hint nothing.
I never hint. I hate hints," Grace re-
joined, playing a tattoo upon the encaustic
tiles with one Tittle hob-nailed boot. "And
I dislike talking about disagreeable things.
Pray drop the subject. I was as much to
blame as you. What business had I to
go gaping at a lot of grimy old pictures of
people whom I don't care a straw about?
It served me right; but really 1 think that
you might have contented yourself with
making me look ridiculous before all those
people, without coming here to remind me
of my stupidity when I had forgotten all
about it."
"Oh, Miss Lee," replied Stevie, deeply
hurt by the levity and harshness of her
tone; "if you only knew the horror of
that revelation — if you would believe me
when I sav that I would give the best
days of my life that it should not have
been made — above all things, that you
should not have made it, you would not
— you could not speak thus."
"Revelation?"
"I can call it by no other word."
"Perhaps you misunderstood me," said
Grace, in a softer tone than she had
spoken heretofore. "I merely mentioned
that the ancient name of your father's
house was Mangerton Chase."
"And that fact," replied Stephen, bit-
terly, "is — but 1 cannot explain. That
is what I feel must place me in such a
contemptible position before you; but
pray give me credit, Miss Lee, for not
behaving like an idiot, or — or — worse,
in the presence of a lady; and believe me
when 1 say that a far stronger and better
man than I can ever pretend to be, would
have been, I am sure, struck down as I
was struck down by the thought which
flashed out of those — to you — simple
words."
"Are you in earnest?" asked Grace,
turning her kind and honest eyes full in
his face.
She found her answer there.
"How wretchedly ill you look," she
added, half to herself: "has your wound
been very painful?"
Stephen smiled sadly; but, remember-
ing the part he had to play, replied —
"Well, rather. You see my poor brains
had been half addled by the sun-stroke I
had in India, and this last shake has not
improved matters."
"You must remain quiet, and not think
about anything that is disagreeable; you
will soon be yourself again then," pre-
scribed Dr. Grace.
"Not think!" Stephen replied. "Ah,
if our minds were only like our arms, or
that we could use them or not at our
pleasure! Or, better still, like our eyes,
so that we could shut them upon that
which we do not wish them to dwell upon!
Not think! That would be a happy state
of being."
"Captain Frankland," replied Grace,
in her quietest manner; "you are talking
very wildly. You are, as you admit, not
fully recovered from a serious attack, and
are exciting yourself very unwisely. You
are saying things which you will wish un-
said some day; so please let us change
the subject and go into the house."
"You are right," said Stephen, with a
deep sigh, as he followed her towards the
door; "but you do not know what it is to
have a secret grief gnawing at your heart."
Grace had plucked a flower in passing,
and as Stevie spoke thus she paused and
began slowly tearing it to pieces; a deep
melancholy flowing over her face the
while. He stood by her side watching
the bright leaves as they fluttered all
bruised and mangled to the ground, and
the slow abstracted motions of the dear
hands that destroyed them. Do you not
know that sort of dreamy preoccupation
which sometimes steals over one when
alone with a person dreamily preoc-
cupied? Mr. Coleman passed along the
garden walk that ran along the outside of
the conservatory, within five yards of
where Stephen and Grace were standing,
and he stopped a few moments looking at
them, and trying to attract their attention.
He was on the point of making a stride
over the flower-plot to tap at the window,
for they stood with their backs towards
him, but he changed his mind and went
on. He had entered the house, and was
in his wife's room, up in the tower, before
Grace replied.
"You are mistaken," she said in a very
low tremulous voice, and turning her head
aside to conceal the tears which had been
gathering in her eyes, and which at last
fell on the little heap of floral ruin that
lay at her feet; "you are mistaken there,
/ do."
"Then," replied Stephen, in a tone
which was an echo of her own, "you
know, perhaps, what it is to yearn for
some one with whom to share that grief—
whom to seek for advice and comfort.' I
cannot tell why," he continued, after a lit-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
119
tie, seeing that she made no reply, and as
though thinking aloud; "but in all lny
troubles, none of my old friends suggest
themselves to me as advisers. I am al-
ways wondering what you would think,
what you would do, what you would ad-
vise."
An indescribable expression, in which
surprise, pleasure, and a little fear were
strangely blended, stole over the face of
his companion as our Stevie made this
confession. She looked up timidly, and
finding that his gaze was averted, the
puzzled look melted away and gave place
— must it be told — to one of sympathy
and tenderness? which deepened as it
lingered on his honest, handsome, haggard
face.
Ah! if some of us could only recognize
the splended chances which the whirligig
of time brings round for us now and again
— sometimes never to reappear, what a
blessing it would be! If Stevie had but
looked round at that moment, how differ-
ent might his life have been for many a
day!
The stupid fellow knew that he never
felt so peaceful and happy as when by her
side; that the air around her seemed full
of a delicious, languor-creating perfume;
that the slightest touch of her dress thrilled
through him to the quick; that every
movement of her lustrous eyes, in those
moments of enchantment, seemed as though
it drew his heart nearer and nearer to her
own, leaving him so faint and powerless,
that if he had had the surest knowledge
that the touch of her lips was death, and
they were bending towards him, he would
have yielded to that sweet poison and
drained it to the dregs. In a word, he
knew that he loved her as he had never
loved before; but the idea that she felt
any tenderness towards Mm; that that
sinking and trembling of her voice meant
anything in particular; that at the moment
when, fascinated by the sweet presence, he
stood spellbound, gazing at the scattered
leaves which had been swept along by the
train of her dress, she was watching him
and loving him with all the strength of
her pure strong heart — pouring over him
a flood of tenderness from her dear, gentle
eyes — never occurred to him for a mo-
ment.
It was perhaps as well that it did not;
for had he looked up, and caught her with
this expression on her face, and profited
by the mute avowal — it is just a toss up
whether she would have frankly held out
her hand, and said " Stevie, I do believe
you love me, and I know that I love you;"
or, whether she would have flown in a rage
with herself for betraying herself—have
vented it in refusing him — have told a
big fib declaring that she had no senti-
ment toward him but that of friendship,
&c., and then have ran away and fretted
her poor little heart out in secret for all
time to come.
Stephen was the first to break the
silence.
"Do you remember," he asked, "that
day when we came back from church,
through Collyer's farm, when I found that
my old tree was gone?"
Grace bowed her head.
"You seemed to understand me then —
to know what a foolish, soft-hearted fellow
I am; and it is because you spoke so
kindly, that I have learned to look upon
you really as a friend, notwithstanding
the comparative shortness of our acquaint-
ance."
Grace turned round upon him sharply
and demanded —
"What has that — what has Mr. Trem-
lett been doing now?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Grace,
resuming her former careless tone; "idle
curiosity, I suppose. You referred to an
occasion upon which he had annoyed you,
and, with the bad logic peculiar — as some
of you say — to my sex, I jumped to the
conclusion that he had been annoying you
again. But pray, if we are to stand here
talking at all, let us find something more
pleasant to talk about. I must admit that
I was vexed at what happened the other
night, it did look so very awkward, and as
I thought, so clumsy. You don't seem in-
clined to tell me what it was that could
affect you so deeply; and, though I am
so stupidly curious, I don't mean to ask.
I will take your word that — that there
was cause, and so let it end."
"I've made an idiot of myself again,"
muttered Stevie, as he followed her into
the drawing-room. "I've told her nothing,
and yet said too much. What a whining,
dreamy fool she must think me? Why
on earth could not I have said just what
I had made up my mind to say and no
more?"
For our Stevie had rehearsed, as he
came along, the part which he intended to
play on this occasion, and had concocted
an elaborate speech, in which he was to
express his sorrow at having annoyed Miss
Lee by his conduct in the old hall, without
giving any hint as to its cause; only, some-
how or other, it all went clean out of his
head the moment he began to address her.


120
A TANGLED SKEIN.
I fancy that he is not the first, and will not
be the last person that memory will play
those tricks upon.
"I'd give worlds," mused Grace, "to
know what he has got on his mind. Poor
fellow! he seems dreadfully perplexed and
worried by it. It's that precious brother.
Oh if I were a man!" and she set her
teeth and gave a little spiteful stamp.
This took place in her own room, whither
she had retired to wash her hands for
luncheon, and having done so she unlocked
a little box that stood upon her dressing-
table, and took out some letters in which
the m's and n's and w's were all alike,
very sharp and angular, and the y's and
g's had very long tails, and in which there
was a "dearest," or a "darling," or a
"sweet," in every fourth line. "That
goose of a Maud Treherne, what does
she mean by writing so much about him?"
she said to herself "Yes, here it is —
'always talking of his brother' — 'loves
him dearly' — 'longs to get home' — 'can-
not speak of anything else' — 'must be
very good.' Ah Maud, dear, he is good,
and he said all this before he knew what
a worthless pack he had left; and saw
how his home had changed. Oh God!"
she exclaimed, flinging up her arms, the
bitter tears starting in her eyes, " it is bad
enough to have no home, to know no
mother, father, brother—not even to have
their memory. But to have known them
— to have loved them — to fancy that they
still loved one, and to return and find all
changed, hardened, estranged! Oh, it is
cruel — cruel! Bah! if he had a spark
of courage he'd pull the place down about
their ears! I've no patience with such
tame-spirited nonsense. I half believe
that ninny of a Maud is in love with him.
She ought to be ashamed of herself, writ-
ing thus about any man, and I'll tell her
so — that I will!" and Grace made a dash
at the letter, and having torn it, angrily,
to shreds, bathed her eyes and went down
to luncheon.
"I say, Gracey," demanded Master
Bobby, confidentially sliding up to her,
and giving her a dig with his elbow, " has
Ma been rowing you?"
"No, you silly boy."
"Then what have you been crying
for?"
"I have not been crying, Sir."
"Yes, you have. Here, Captain Stevie!
- Grace says"
"Hush! Hold your tongue! Oh, Bob-
by, do be quiet," she whispered, seizing
him by the arm, " and I'll give you any-
thing; I'll give you sixpence."
The bribe was paid, and the terrible
child was pacified for a time.
Shortly afterwards Stephen took his de-
parture. Mr. Coleman accompanied him
towards the garden gate, and then, instead
of wishing him good-by, laid his hand af-
fectionately upon his shoulder, and said —
"I have seen very little of you, my boy,
during these years of your life, in which
character is formed for good or ill; but if
the promise of your youth has not been
belied, you should be an honest and an
honorable man, Stephen Frankland."
"You have something particular to say
to me, Sir," he said, after having cast a
look of surprise in the old lawyer's face,
and finding that it was very grave. "Pray
go on."
"I passed the conservatory just now,
when you and Grace were talking there."
Stevie felt the tell-tale blood rush into
his face, and thought it best to say nothing.
He nodded assent.
"Stevie, they call me a dry old stick;
and so, perhaps, I am; but I love that girl
as though she were my own child. She's
not the common sort of girl, who fancies
any man who will pay her a little atten-
tion, and can take up with one after
another, like — well, like a town flirt. If
any one she respected were to trifle with
little Grace it would make her very un-
happy for a long time, Stevie. Little
Grace must not be made unhappy."
"Certainly not, Sir; certainly."
"Therefore, my dear boy — to be plain
with you — though we all are very fond
of you, I think you had better not come
here so often."
"Good Heavens, Mr. Coleman! Why?"
— exclaimed Stephen aghast.
"Because I've noticed that you seek her
a good deal; and she — well! no matter
about her; you cannot marry her, and
you shall not break her heart. That's
why!" replied the lawyer, with a gulp.
"Be plainer still with me," said Stevie,
turning his honest gaze full upon his old
friend, "and tell me why I cannot marry
her; I can see many reasons why she
would not marry me. I am not a rich
man, never shall be, but —"
"Oh, it's not that."
"What is it, then?"
"My boy, she has no friends — no fami-
ly."
"So I have been told."
"Worse than that — she is an unac-
knowledged child. Do you understand
me? My good old friend, Spencer Fane
— now dead — knew, I believe, who ber
father — if not her mother — was; but I


A TANGLED SKEIN.
121
know nothing of her except that she is —
spare me repeating the hard name which
the law gives my good gentle little ward
— and the Franklands' pride"
"To the devil with the Franklands'
pride!" cried Stevie, bristling into a rage,
and bringing his fist down upon the gate
with a bang which nearly smashed it off
its hinges; "I beg your pardon, Mr. Cole-
man," he added, the next moment, wrap-
ping his handkerchief about his bleeding
knuckles, "but really it is hardly time
now to talk about the family pride. I
now understand what you were driving
at the other day at luncheon."
"Then I need not repeat to you what I
said on that occasion."
"No, Sir, you need not," replied Stevie.
"Grenville Frankland, my great great
something or other — married a woman
of low birth, low tastes, low associations,
for her beauty — and he was unhappy.
My father married for money and;
well, the less said on that head, perhaps,
the better. When I seek a wife I shall
take warning from this. I shall not be
allured by mere good looks, and I shall
certainly not sell myself for a fortune.
But when I hear from the lips of the girl
I love the glorious news that she loves me,
I shall be quite content in knowing that
she had one ancestor who was named
Adam, and another on the mother's side
who was called Eve; and if her more im-
mediate kindred have forsaken her, and
left her, poor darling! all alone in this
bad world, I'll take her still closer to my
heart, and make a present of my scorn to
those who have disowned her — praying
God that he may keep them out of our
path, though they may be the highest and
proudest in the land. And so, thanking
you very much, Mr. Coleman, for your
warning and good advice, I will take my-
self and my family pride back to — to
Mangerton Chase." So saying, Stevie
wrung his old friend's hand and strode
away, quickly, down the path.
"He's a noble follow,"said Mr. Coleman,
as he watched his retreating figure. "I
wish, though, that he had said something
more to the point. Poor Grace — poor
little girl! How the deuce, though, did he
get hold of that name? Who has been
talking to him about Mangerton Chase?"
"I'll do it this very night," muttered
Stevie, as he hastened along; "I'll put an
end to this miserable uncertainty, once
and for all; and to-morrow — ah! to-mor-
row!"
On his way home he called at Grant's
cottage and borrowed a dark lantern and
a piece of stout but slender rope of the
ex-head-keeper, both of which he conceal-
ed upon his person, and arrived at Trem-
lett Towers just in time to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER XX.
THE SECRET.
When some people make up their
minds to do a thing, that thing may be
considered as good as done. We are wont
to declare very glibly that to the brave
and resolute most things are easy; but
who is brave ? — who is resolute? I have
heard of an officer who stood waist-deep
in the Alma on that glorious day when the
river ran red with the blood of heroes,
and every yard of its surface was ploughed
with round shot, or spattered with musket-
balls, and there rallied his men as coolly
as though he was upon parade; but who
afterwards confessed that all the time he
was in mortal fear — of what ? — of horse
leeches, with which that stream is said to
abound! Was he brave? I know of one
who, to carry out a vain boast, essayed to
cross the Great St. Bernard alone — at
night, and in a snow-storm. Was he ir-
resolute? I am very much of the opinion
of Mr. Scrooge, who attributed the seat
of valor to a less honored organ than the
heart. When the ghost of the late Mr.
Marley complained of his partner's in-
credulity, he declared boldly that he was
by no means satisfied that the phantom
was what he pretended to be — " You may
be a bit of undigested potatoe, for aught I
know " — pleaded this philosopher! And
truly how many ghosts there are which
can be laid by a blue pill? How many
men's courage and resolution depend upon
the state of their stomachs! How many
men's courage and resolution depend upon
the state of that more delicate organ still
— their mind! There be bits of moral
potatoe which lay there undigested, and
play the deuce with us. You have begun,
some of you, perhaps, to think that Ste-
phen Frankland is but a wishy-washy sort
of fellow, after all — a man with no
strength of character. Be good enough
to consider what he has gone through since
his return to England, and that the very
qualities which made him brave and strong
have been grievously wounded of late.
Will you back a man with a rickety,
broken leg to win a foot-race? I think


122
A TANGLED SKEIN.
not. Is it unreasonable, then, for me to
ask you, not to expect a man with an
almost broken heart to act promptly —
decisively — in the matter which is actually
breaking it? Mind you, I am not saying
that the fears and suspicions to which he
was the prey should have had this effect.
I warned you — if you remember ? •— at
a very early period of this history that he
is not a hero; and you must kindly take
him as he is, for good or for bad.
If it had not been for his love for Grace
Lee, it is very probable that he never
would have solved the mystery of that
darkened chamber, where Brandron's se-
cret lay hid; but would have gone on worry-
ing his life out, and concluding for the
worst, and then trying to argue away his
conclusions. As a man of honor, however,
he determined that he would not attempt to
win her love, until he was convinced of his
father's innocence, and had done his duty
to his dead friend. Strange as it may
appear, he felt lighter and happier than
for many a long day, when he made up
his mind, at last, for action; and, as I
have said, when some people make up
their mind to do a thing, that thing may
be considered as good as done. Stephen
Frankland was one of these people.
His resolution was taken while Mr. Cole-
man spoke to him of Grace, as narrated
in the last chapter, and that same night,
as soon as the house was still, he climbed
from the window of his room (which, as
we know, was situated next to the deserted
chamber), mounted on to the roof of the
house, and, with the rope which he had
borrowed from Grant, let himself down to
the top of the oriel window, and from
thence to the sill of its casement, imme-
diately below. He then beat back the lead
work of one of the small diamond-shaped
Eanes of glass, inserted his hand, forced
ack the fastenings on the inside, and
sprang lightly into the room.
It was much larger than he had sup-
posed, running completely through that
wing of the house, and having another
window at the farther end, which was
hidden, and almost blocked up by a part
of the new house. There was a damp,
sickly smell in the place, which, together
with the exertions he had made in enter-
ing, made him feel a little faint at first,
but this soon passed away. He turned
the light of his lantern all round the
walls, and found the apartment exactly
as Brandron had described it. There was
the old oak cabinet; there the mirror;
there the armor — all rusty and covered
with cobwebs; there the stag's head and
antlers; there the black wainscoting, be-
hind which, somewhere., the papers were
to be discovered. Moreover, in a recess,
he saw a huge state bed, also of dark
carved oak, the hangings of which, once
of rich brocade, crumbled into dust in
his hand as he attempted to draw them
aside.
He lost no time in consideration, but
advanced at once towards the panelling
and sounded it.
It was all hard and immovable!
A gleam of joy passed over him — but
no superficial search would content him
now. His memory naturally reverted to
the little chamber at Westborough, and he
called to mind that the dying man, fancy-
ing himself in the scene of his thoughts,
had pointed to the spot where the papers
were hid. He had pointed a few yards
to the right of where the sun streamed
through the window, and Stephen reflected
that the mid-day rays would shine, not
upon the window by which he had en-
tered, but the other. He placed himself,
as nearly as he could calculate, in the
exact relative position where Brandron
lay, and found that the spot indicated
would be in the recess behind the mas-
sive bed. Perhaps it had not stood there
then? He thrust against it with all his
force, and with great exertion moved it a
few feet from the wall, and as he did so
one of the squares of the panelling fell
out!
In an instant, he was down on his knees
beside the opening, had thrust his right
arm into the cavity, and the first thing it
encountered was a parcel covered with
dust, which, upon being seized, gave forth
a crackling sound, as though full of papers.
Oh ! how his heart beat!
He rose, and having taken the packet
to the foot of the bed, settled his lantern
'on a ledge of the oaken cabinet, and be-
gan to examine it.
The outer covering had evidently been
a woman's silk apron, and in one part
was eaten away, probably by the rats, so
that the contents protruded. Stephen was
too excited to open it at its fastenings, so
he tore it still farther at this part, and
drew forth what it contained.
"Now !" he exclaimed, almost triumph-
antly, "at last I have it! Letters — a
sealed packet — a Bible, and — ah!" he
added, half aloud, as, upon opening the
book, a long narrow strip of paper, on
which were printed and written characters
arranged in columns, fell from between
the leaves, " what is this?"
"Why, a marriage certificate. That's


126
A TANGLED SKEIN.
the worker at his work, and to say and
know the worst at once. Procrastina-
tion had vanished with the doubt which
encouraged it.
At first he thought of bursting open the
door; but a moment's reflection sufficed to
show him that he might not be able to do
this with one effort, and that the worker,
alarmed at the noise, would escape him.
Moreover, the breach in the brickwork
might not, as yet, be large enough for
him to thrust his body through in pur-
suit . He might have waited, indeed, until
an entrance had been effectually made
from without, and the seeker of Bran-
dron's papers had entered the room, but
the suspense was too great for him: "And
how am I sure," he thought, "that his en-
trance will be made to-night at all?" No!
He felt that his only safe course would be
to return to his own chamber by the way
he had come, and to surprise the worker
in the passage. There could be no escape
then!
Silently he made his way to the open
window, and gained the roof of the house
by means of the rope which still hung
from the parapet. It was more difficult to
mount than to descend, of course, and yet
the great clock on the stairs which had
chimed the quarter to two o'clock some
minutes before he had began his retreat,
had not struck the hour before he found
himself again in his own room, with his
hand on the lock of the door prepared to
spring upon the worker in the act.
Do you think badly of Stephen Frank-
land when I say that he trembled in every
limb, and that a miserable sickness stole
over him and sapped his strength '(
He threw open the door, and staggered
rather than sprung into the corridor to-
wards which hung the tapestry which con-
cealed the entrance to the deserted cham-
ber.
No one was there!
Aghast at a discovery so opposite to
what he had expected, he paused and lis-
tened. The house was still as death, but
for the monotonous ticking of the great
clock and the louder beating of his heart.
There hung the old tapestry as it had
hung for years. Not a particle of dust or
mortar was on the floor. He drew aside
the hangings and there was the rough
brickwork complete.
Had he been dreaming?
Perplexed, bewildered, half - stupefied
with wonder, he leant for support against
the wall, and it gave way with him!
It was evidently no dream! The bricks
had been cut out and replaced carefully.
The worker had done his work for that
night, and would return to it the next!
He could now account for the mysteri-
ous noises which the guests had been talk-
ing about during the last two days, and
wondered how it was that he had not
heard them, — he whose bed-head was
within a few yards of the spot from
whence they proceeded, — he who was
usually such a light sleeper! Short had
been his hours of rest since Grace Lee
had made that portentous revelation, until
these last two nights, during which he had
slept, as he now remembered, long and
heavily, and in the morning had woke up
dull and unrefreshed. "Is it possible," he
thought, "that I have been drugged?"
No! A second thought showed him that
this could not be. He had taken nothing
from his father's hand which could contain
a narcotic. He had not even been in his
company for some hours before retiring for
rest. He had spent the latter part of each
evening with Lord Rossthorne, with whom
he had always been a favorite, and whose
gout had become so severe as to confine
him to his dressing-room. There Stevie
had sat chatting with him till nearly mid-
night, and smoking the inevitable cheroot.
On each occasion he remembered that he
had drank a tumbler of weak brandy and
water, as was his wont, just before retiring
for the night. The spirit had been taken
from the case of bottles in ordinary use.
The water had been brought up a moment
before by Sanderson, the old lord's valet,
for his master's use. The more Stephen
considered, the more he felt convinced
that the only person who had an interest
in drugging him could not have tampered
with this drink; and the more he consid-
ered the more he felt convinced that,
somehow or other, he had been drugged.
. Thus wise one can be after the event!
Stephen returned slowly to his own
chamber, but not to rest. If a narcotic
had been administered again this night,
the excitement which he had undergone
was sufficient to neutralize its effect. No
sleep for him.
He threw open the window, and, with a
heavy heart, gazed into the opening day,
— into the bright, opening hours of morn-
ing that so few of us see, except with jaded
eyes after a night of pleasure and of pain;
the bright, opening hours in which every
created thing but Man joins in a triumph-
ant hymn of praise to the Great Creator,
and of welcome to his sun. And the fresh
morning breeze, full of the perfume of a
thousand newly-opened flowers, — full of
the melody of newly-wakened birds,—


A TANGLED SKEIN.
127
full of health and promise, — played on
his throbbing brow, and brought him some
relief. Reflection began to point out one
little spot — not of light, but of less than
the surrounding blackness — in the storm-
clouds which had gathered over his life.
There was no direct mention of his father
in the papers over which he had glanced
with the detective in the old oak-panelled
room. The latter had not heard the
worker at his work. He had promised
that they should work out the clue to-
gether, and Stephen had given no pledge
which would prevent him from warning
his father the moment that he became in
peril. Brandron had wished him to es-
cape. The victim of his crime had not
called for vengeance, so that the act of
justice were completed. Who, then, had
a right to demand blood for blood?
The rising sun was not above the hills,
before Stephen had resolved upon the
course he should pursue. He might have
waited till the following night, and, taking
care that nothing should interfere with his
watchfulness, surprise the worker at his
work, or in the act of seeking for the se-
cret, and in the terror of the moment
wring from him a confession of all that the
papers left undisclosed. But he scorned
the idea of playing the spy on any one,
^ much more upon his father. Through all,
and in spite of all, he felt that he was his
lather, and, notwithstanding his crimes, to
be dealt with frankly and with compassion
by a son. "I will tell him plainly what I
know," resolved Stephen. "If he chooses
to have confidence in me, and explain this
fearful mystery, well and good; if not, I
must work it out my own way. In either
case," he mused, gazing with glittering
eyes over the brightening landscape, so
suggestive, as we know, of happy reminis-
cences, " one thing is quite clear, the house
which once was Mangerton Chase is no
longer a home for me."
So he set to work at once to make
preparations for his departure; and re-
membering that he had left in the library
his desk, which contained Brandron's let-
ters and other papers of importance, was
descending thither to obtain it, when, upon
passing a partly-opened door, a voice from
within called out —
"Sanderson — Sanderson! Is that
you?"
It was Lord Rossthorne's voice, and it
sounded as if he were in pain.
"No, it is I — Stephen. Can I do any-
thing for you? May I come in?"
"Oh, of course; but I did not know
you were such an early riser," added
the old nobleman, as Stevie entered the
room.
"I do not think that any one is up yet.
Shall I go and rouse your servant? or,
can I get you what you want?"
"You can, indeed, Stevie, if you do not
mind playing the sick-nurse to an old crip-
ple for five minutes. Do you see a bottle
on the mantel-piece containing a dark fluid
and marked chlorodyne. Well, measure
me out thirty drops of that, and give it
me in a wine-glassful of water. I have
had a wretched night, and my old enemy
has just opened a heavy battery upon my
right knee; but if you would only help me
to take him in reverse, and spike some of
his guns with the help of that little bottle,
— No, not that one, the next! Thanks."
Lord Rossthorne was sitting up in bed
as Stephen entered, wrapped in an old
dressing-gown of plain blue flannel; but
there was an innate look of grace and dig-
nity about him which nothing could lessen.
They say that no man is a hero to his
valet-de-chambre, and, perhaps, Lord Ross-
thorne was no exception to the rule. If
you were to take him, however, when
racked with agony and dress him in rags,
he would look every inch a peer!
The same thing with his words. There
was a charm — not so much in what he
said, but in his manner of saying it, which
it was very difficult to resist. He was so
courteous; so considerate, so ready with
some flattering expression of thanks for
the slightest service; and yet there was
an under-current of command running
through it all.
"I remember," he said, as Stephen was
preparing the medicine, "reading a very
clever little article some time ago, upon
bad nights. The writer discussed them
under two heads,— ' the bad night early'
and 'the bad night late.' In 'the bad
night early' you cannot get to sleep when
you go to bed, but doze off at last, and
wake up refreshed at your usual hour. In
'the bad night late' you get your first nap
without trouble, start up thinking it is
time to rise, find that you have only rested
for an hour or so, and spend the remainder
of your time making your bed uncomfort-
able, and counting the long hours as they
drag along. I have had 'the bad night
late.'"
"Did anything disturb you, then?"
asked Stephen, quickly, pausing in his
occupation.
"No. I woke about two or half-past,
and have not been able to close my eyes
for more than ten minutes at a time, since.
Ah! that's capital," he added, as he tossed


128
A TANGLED SKEIN.
off the draught which Stephen now handed
to hiin. "It is an excellent anodyne, and
is all the better for being administered by
a friendly hand. It is not a pleasant
thing, Stevie, my boy, to be left all alone
in the world at my time of life, — to re-
ceive no care or attention save what one
buys of servants. It is a natural conse-
quence of old age, though; one of the pen-
alties of having lived too long,'" he added,
sadly, " and I must not complain."
"One may have lived too long and in-
cur it," replied Stephen, in a low, tremu-
lous voice, " without being old."
Lord Rossthorne watched his averted
face attentively for a few moments, and
then, laying his hand kindly on his arm,
said —
"I have wished to speak to you, Stevie,
about yourself. The present seems a good
opportunity. Can you spare me a little
time, or are you going to be busy this
morning? If so, I"
Stephen drew a chair to the bedside
and sat down.
"Remember," said the peer," that I
knew your mother; that I have known
you since you were a child, and I think
we have always been good friends; have
we not?"
"You have always been very kind to
me, my Lord."
"Tut, tut! There is nothing so good
for an old man who has seen, perhaps, too
much of the world, as the society of a
frank, loyal boy who had yet to enter it.
You gave me that society, Stevie, a few
years ago. It was you who were kind to
me. I am younger in heart now than I
was then; and you, I am afraid, are older.
May we speak now as equals?"
"Say what you please. It is sure to be
generous and kind."
"Well, then, when last I saw Percy
Coryton — it is not often that he honors
me with his company, though he is my
heir, but let that pass — when we last met,
he could talk of nothing else but you and
your doings here. How well you looked,
how you were the life and soul of the
place, how cleverly — I suppose I must
out with it — you, to use his own expres-
sion, 'sat upon' your half-brother. In a
word, he gave me the idea that things
were going on here as they should be; for
I must confess," added Lord Rossthorne,
with a smile, " that the little I have seen
of Mr. Tremlett gives me the notion that
he wants a good deal of 'sitting upon,' —
whatever that operation may be, — if its
results are the abatement of pretentious,
and therefore offensive pride. But the
few days I have spent here suffice to show
me that my nephew has been very much
mistaken, or else that your position has
encountered some grave change. I know
that it is a most delicate and difficult one.
I am inclined to believe that my latter
view is the correct one, and I think I am
not presuming upon our friendship, Ste-
phen, when I ask you if I am not right?"
"You are; but you must not blame
Frank," added our Stevie, quickly, "1
mean he is not so much to blame, after all.
You see I had home so constantly before
my mind's eye whilst I was away in India,
that when I returned I could not realize
how many years had passed or how many
things had happened — how greatly my
brother's authority had advanced since I
left. His education has been so different
to mine — so much better. He has mixed
with a set so different, again, to the set I
have lived amongst — so much cleverer.
I own I think him hard and and
worldly; but I'll be bound there is many
a man who has double my brains who will
give him credit for much good sense."
"Double your brains !" mused the peer;
"Hum — m! this is a question more of
heart than brains, Stephen Frankland."
"Of course," replied the young soldier,
mistaking his meaning; "and when a man
is fried to death out in India, without any-
thing to do, or occupy his mind, he gets
dreamy and thin-skinned, and grows sulky,
like me, when he comes home, if everybody
does not fall down and worship him. I
don't know whether it is that the bond of
relationship slackens as we get on in life,
or whether other ties, contracted during
absence from one's kith and kin, take its
place. I would do a great deal for my
brother Frank, but I am not ashamed to
own — now that I have seen him as a man
— that there are those — my old Colonel,
for example — whom I like — no, that's too
cold a word — whom I love better than he.
Why, then, should I blame him for affect-
ing other people and their ways, more than
me and mine?"
"How is it that you speak entirely of
your half-brother?"
"Because I have no right to criticize the
conduct of any one else in this house —
nor will I do so. They take their own
course."
"Then why do not you take yours ?" re-
plied the peer. "It is tolerably clear to me
from what you say, and certain from your
manner of saying it, that your associations
here are no longer pleasant. Why not
form new ones? You are young, the
world is still all before you. You expected


130
A TANGLED SKEIN.
down the room. "Why do you speak to
me thus now? now, when give me
time, give me time! But oh, do not think
me ungrateful!" checking himself, he
added suddenly. "If I cannot find words
to tell you how I thank you — how heartily
I thank you — not for your generous of-
fers; no, no, I am not thinking of them
now, but for having saved me from the
bitter, bad thoughts which have been
haunting me. There are good men left
in the world after all. There is a use for
every life, however blighted it may ap-
pear."
"Bah! You have no business with
such thoughts at your age. You are
hipped and disappointed now, naturally
enough. Never mind what has passed;
you'll see it in a different light some day.
You are too sensitive. Besides, it may all
come right again."
"You would not say that if you knew
all," said Stevie, gloomily..
"I desire to know no more than I do at
this moment," replied the peer, " and that
is, that you can never be at peace here.
I have told you what to expect at my
death. Why wait till then? Take it now,
with the advice which I gave you just now.
Sit down by my side again, and hear me
quietly, for I have not done yet. That's
right . I am now going to act the father
confessor, and require to know the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,
upon a very delicate point. I have heard
some of the guests here couple your name
with that of a Miss Lee, in the vulgar
badinage which some people think it witty
to indulge in." »
"Who has dared to ?" burst out
Stevie.
"Never mind," interrupted the speaker.
"Do not let us diverge from the main
track. Was it that young lady who was
here with Mr. Coleman and his family the
night that I arrived?"
"It was."
"She is pretty, well educated evidently;
agreeable, and lady-like. You might do
worse, Master Stevie!"
"She is all you have said and more; but
I can never ask her to become my wife,"
he replied, gloomily.
Then came a lengthened pause, during
which the peer plucked nervously at the
tufts of the counterpane. At last he lifted
his head with a sigh, and said —
"Do you remember a conversation which
we had when you came to wish me good-
by, just before you left for India V"
"I do, well."
"I ventured to give you some advice
upon a subject which, I regret to learn,
applies to the position of this young lady.
I was much struck with one of your re-
plies. I have thought it over many times
since, and now repeat it to you. It is not
for us, Stephen Frankland, to visit the sins
of the fathers upon the children!"
"It is not that," cried Stevie, eagerly;
"believe me, it is not that. She would
make a wife of whom the proudest in the
land min;ht be proud. The obstacle is all
on my side — God help me!"
"Then you do love her?" exclaimed
the peer.
"I do — with all my heart — with all my
soul." And all his heart and all his soul
seemed to beam through his honest brown
eyes as he made the confession.
"She has refused you, then?"
"No."
"You have never spoken to her of
love?"
"Never."
"And you will not?"
"I have not done so."
"Hem!" mused Lord Rossthorne. "I
think I see. One more question, and this
the last. Who is this Colonel Vincent,
whom Sir George and Lady Tremlett ap-
pear to have taken such a fancy for? He
was talking a good deal about India a
night or two ago, before you reappeared,"
the peer continued, without waiting for a
reply; "and I thought perhaps you might
know him."
"I have no personal knowledge of him,"
Stevie replied; "but, if he be the person
I suspect him to be, I have heard of him,
and not to his advantage."
"Ha! I am not generally affected by
first impressions, but I must own that I
took a dislike to him from the moment
when we were introduced. I don't like
his eyes: you meet them incessantly when
he is not speaking to you, and never when
he is."
Thus craftily did the peer attempt to
divert Stephen's mind from dwelling upon
the main subject of their colloquy, perceiv-
ing with excellent tact that it was not one
to be pressed. Gradually he led the con-
versation back to it, and began to make
arrangements for the future, as though it
had been definitely settled as he wished.
But Stephen's manner was gloomy and
absent, and his replies were sometimes
strangely at variance with what had gone
before.
"You must fix a day to come to Ross-
thorne, before I leave," said the peer;
"and if I can shake off this attack, 1 must
bid you good-by the day after to-morrow."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
131
"J go to-day."
"Indeed! So soon?" exclaimed Lord
Rossthorne. "Can you not wait till I go,
and accompany me?"
"Much as I should like to do so, I fear
I must say no. I have that before me
which cannot be postponed. I must be in
Derby to-day at four o'clock."
"But surely you can return. How long
will this business, whatever it is, occupy
you?"
"I cannot tell. I"
"At any rate you will join me when it
is concluded."
"Ah, when" replied Stevie, with a deep
sigh. "If I only knew what would hap-
pen then?"
"There's something on your mind, my
boy, beyond what I know," said Lord
Rossthorne, after a pause. "Confidence
is seldom worth having when it is asked
for, but help proffered at the right time
has often a double value. Can I assist
you? If so — how? I will add this much
only, that should your troubles be those
which are commonest with young men in
your profession — an expensive and ill-
paid one — my solicitor shall give you a
panacea which will set them at rest for-
ever."
"You are all goodness. Oh, my Lord,"
Stevie exclaimed, "how shall I ever be
able to convince you how deeply grateful
I am; and should I be driven to decline
all your generous offers — if I should even
be compelled to renounce the privilege of
sharing your roof, and doing my little best
to solace you for the dear ones over whom
you mourn — if —" and the speaker's
face grew very sad — " if it must be that
this meeting should be our last — think of
me at my best. Deem me not ungrateful
—anything but that; and whatever you
may hear of me, — however unnatural
my conduct may seem — believe — and I
will never ask you to believe a lie — that
all I do is done in the execution of a
duty which I should be a villain to dis-
regard."
And whilst Lord Rossthorne was yet
overcome by the surprise which this
strange speech occasioned, Stephen had
fallen on his knees beside the bed, had
uttered one fervent "God bless you"
and pressed his hand, and without an-
other word or look rushed from the
room.
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW A STORM GATHERED OVER TREM-
LETT TOWERS.
For most of us who have led country
lives, there is, I think, some quiet spot
which we seek in times of trouble or of
joy. To stranger eyes it is merely a
shady nook — a pleasant walk, a seat in
an old arbor, or the corner of a window-
sill. In our eyes there is erected thereon
a temple sacred to Thought; and to us
— its chief and only Priest — alone is
revealed its mysteries. What sacrifices
have been made upon its altar — what
innocent and happy rites have been cele-
brated in its groves — what temptations
have been whispered amidst its cloisters
— what lamentations have echoed round
its garlands, no tongue but ours can tell.
Childhood first erected it; Love's rosy
fingers have piled its golden pinnacles;
and, even amongst its ruins, Age need
not look in vain for consolation.
Such a spot you may be sure there was
for a man of Stephen Frankland's tem-
perament, and thitherward he instinctively
wandered as soon as he found himself in
the open air, after having quitted Lord
Rossthorne in the abrupt fashion narrated
in my last chapter.
It was a spot down in the park, about a
mile from the house, where a little bab-
bling stream which appeared to be deviat-
ing its course through the open country
beyond, had apparently changed its mind
at some epoch in its existence, and with a-
sort of " No-I'll-be-hanged-if-I-do " air, had
turned sharp round and dashed into a
plantation of young ash-trees, over which
certain giant oaks watched with a fatherly
and protecting air, as though they had
been appointed their guardians by some
Court of Equity amongst the sylvan dei-
ties, in which perhaps the great god Pan
is Lord Chancellor. This was one of the
scenes to which his day-dreams on board
ship had so often transported him, and
there we may leave him with his thoughts
which the reader, who knows him pretty
well by this time, cannot fail to divine.
An hour afterwards—whilst the morn-
ing was still young — he retraced his
steps, and on entering the shrubbery »
which skirted Lady Tremlett's particular
flower-garden, he caught a glimpse of a
white dress through the laurels. My Lady
was not given to early rising, and suppos-
ing that the promenader might be Mrs.
i Spraggle, or the Hon. and Rev. Mrs.
| Theophilus Corbyle, — personages, either


132
A TANGLED SKEIN.
of whom he did not care to encounter in
his present frame of mind, — Stevie turned
into a thickly-planted by-path, which a
stranger would not be likely to find, and
hurried towards the house. At a bend,
however, in its maze-like windings, he
came full tilt against the wearer of the
white drapery, and found that it really
was his step-mother out at that unusual
hour, and not alone! An ugly frown
darkened over Stephen's brow when he
found that Colonel Vincent was her com-
panion.
Lady Tremlett uttered a shrill cry of
fear, and clung to the Colonel; then, when
she saw who it was that had surprised
them, uttered a little shrill cry of surprise
and clung to Stevie.
The Colonel was not in the least dis-
concerted, but drew lines on the gravel
walk with the point of his cane, and ob-
served —
"This charming spot seems to be a
place of general rendezvous. Lucky for
me that it is so. I should have lost my
way in the labyrinth, if Lady Tremlett
had not just come up by accident."
"Oh, yes, Stevie dear, I assure you,
quite by accident," added My Lady, ea-
gerly. "I have only just this moment
come out; breakfast is so late; I don't
know what Jones can be about."
Stevie made no reply, and all three
turned back together. As soon as they
reached the lawn, Colonel Vincent sud-
denly remembered that he had promised
to show Sir George some coins which he
had in his room, and went into the house
to get them.
"The first bell has not rung yet," said
Stevie, as soon as the visitor was out of
hearing; "will you walk a little way with
me, now?"
"But, Stevie, I was not walking with
him, and it's very wicked of you to say
sol"
"I did not say so."
"But you think I was; you know you
do, Stevie! And you'd go and tell Fran-
cis, and"
"Dear Mammie," said Stevie, taking
her arm, and drawing it within his own,
"why should you think that I would play
the spy upon your movements? I am
very glad that I have met you, though,
and I will tell you why. How, pray don't
be offended with what I am going to say.
I love you, and respect my father's wife
too much to venture, for one moment, to
dictate to her the course which she ought
to pursue towards any gentleman — any
person who might be under her roof; but
when I tell you that I am convinced this
Colonel Vincent is one with whom no man
of honor, knowing his antecedents, would
associate, I think you will see that you
ought to be very careful how you admit
him to the least degree of intimacy."
"He is a wicked — dreadful creature,
and I never will speak to him again. I
won't, indeed, Stevie," burst forth Lady
Tremlett, flushing crimson.
Stevie was surprised. "Has any one
else told you? How do you know ?" —
he asked.
"He has — that is, I — you. Oh, how
tiresome you are, Stevie!" stammered My
Lady; "did you not say so just now?"
"Well, Mammie dear," said her step-
son, caressing affectionately the little hand
which trembled on his arm, " we will not
talk any more about it; of course we must
be civil to him while he remains your
guest. Only, take my advice, and drop
his acquaintance."
"But he is a relation of the Dean; and
what has he done?"
"I cannot tell you. I have written to a
friend who can say if my suspicions are
well founded. You shall know when I
get an answer; but see! there's Frank
calling to us. Let us go in."
As they approached the open broad
windows of the breakfast-room "dearest
Francis" came running out to meet them
in a high state of excitement for so (gen-
erally) self-possessed a personage.
"Oh! I've found you at last," he said,
out of breath, and waving his arms about,
vaguely. "Come with me! come thiB
way, at once!"
"What do you mean ? — where ? —
what has happened? — can't you speak,
man ?" said Stephen.
"Ask no questions, but follow me. Come
and judge for yourself. Come this way!
I tell you, at once."
And he crossed the hall, followed quick-
ly by Lady Tremlett and Stevie, towards
his father's- so-called "study " — the room
where we saw that ugly - looking letter
burned a month or two ago — and flung
open the door with a crash, revealing Sir
George standing, the picture of misery,
by the mantel-piece, and two odd-looking
men seated on the extreme edges of two
chairs, brushing their two hats with the
cuffs of their two coats, nervously, and
watching him. One glance sufficed to
send the blood tingling to the roots of
Stephen's hair.
"My God!" he exclaimed, half aloud;
"it's come!"
"Dear! dear! dear!" cried Lady


134
A TANGLED SKEIN.
his mother, "he has gone on wasting the
means that he had, and incurring fresh
liabilities without the remotest prospect of
ever being able to discharge them. Ex-
posing us to strangers, too, in this way!
Bringing bailiffs into the house before all
my friends! What are we to think of
such conduct? If I were called upon in
my capacity as a county magistrate to ex-
press my opinion, I should call it
oh!"
Stephen had been endeavoring in vain
to frown the speaker into silence; but he
lectured with his head in the air, after his
usual lofty style, and did not perceive or
heed the gestures — now beseeching —
now angry — that were addressed to him.
In seizing him by the arm, our Stevie only
meant to compel his attention, but such
was the honest fellow's indignation that
his great brown fingers closed, in spite of
him, upon his brother's tender flesh with
such force, that the threatened judicial
dictum degenerated into the cry of a beat-
en child, and it was some days before five
black spots faded out of the dear fellow's
skin.
"Silence," whispered Stephen, huskily
on his ear, whilst he still writhed in that
iron grasp. "Have you no respect — no
pity?"
"Eh, let him be, Sir," said the spokes-
man bailiff; "let him have his little talk
out. We're accustomed to this sort of
thing, ain't us, Jim? Genelmen as as to
pay other genelman's debts ollus likes to
have a bit of talk fust. It's natural they
shud want summut for their money. Let
him be."
"I — I am not going to pay the debt!"
cried Francis, forgetting his bodily pain in
the keener anguish which the idea of be-
ing called upon to pay for his father's re-
lease occasioned. "I — I have nothing
whatever to do with this affair!"
"Then you ain't one of the parties as is
liable on these bills, supposing the Barrow-
knight's obleeged to go to quod," inquired
„the bailiff, producing the two ominous slips
of paper, on the back of which Sir George
Tremlett's dishonored acceptances were
set out.
"I never sign bills — upon principle."
"Pr'aps you're a going to lend him the
money?"
"No such thing, man! How dare
you?"
"If you ain't a party to the bills, and
ain't a going to lend the money to pay
'em, who the dickens are yer. You can't
be a relation by the way you talk."
"Fellow, I am a relation, and -"
"Then," cried the bailiff, in a burst of
honest indignation, "I'm damned — I beg
your Lordship's pardon, but I am damn-
ed if you oughtn't to have your bead
punched."
"Hold your tongue," thundered Stephen,
coming forward from the window where he
had stood chafing and burning with shame
during the above colloquy; "you forget
yourself. May I see those papers?"
"Certainly, Sir;" and the man placed
them in his hand.
"For God's sake bring this scene to an
end one way or the other," said Sir George,
faintly. "I am legally bound to pay this
money, or go to jail. Rhoda, what do
you say?"
My Lady thus appealed to, appealed in
turn to her son —
"Dearest Francis, you are so very
clever! Tell me, what do I say?"
The dear fellow maintained a dogged
silence for some moments, and then mut-
tered —
"It is bad enough to have to pay the
debts, but the costs are more disgraceful
still. Forty-five pounds, ten shillings and
sixpence for costs! all of which might
have been avoided. Why did he not
come and tell us — you, I mean — why
did he not go and tell you when the bills
were coming due that he could not pay
them."
"Oh yes, my love, you ought to have
come and told me— Francis is quite right."
"Still I suppose," continued the dear
fellow, "that the money must be paid —
that is, I mean advanced."
"I only ask it as a loan, my dear
Rhoda," the Baronet pleaded, " only as a
loan. In a year or two it will be re-
placed. You know," he added, in a low
voice, " that you have it in your power to
deduct it from my — my allowance."
At this moment Stephen, who had re-
tired with the writs to a side-table and
had there been writing, came forward
with them, and a third slip of paper in his
hand and addressed the bailiffs.
"There are, I see, two bills;" he said,
"one for a hundred and sixty-five pounds,
and the other for fifty-three. Here is a
cheque upon my agents in London for the
larger amount and the costs. In all, two
hundred and ten pounds ten and sixpence.
I am sorry that I cannot draw at present
for the balance, but I am going to town in
a few hours — I will accompany you, if
you desire it — and shall be able to give
your employers ample security for pay-
ment of the entire debt in three days.
Will this do?"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
135
"Dear Stevie," exclaimed My Lady,
"how very kind. I must really give him
a kiss — so generous!"
"Hum," sneered Mr. Tremlett, "I did
not know that captains in Indian regi-
ments could afford such romantic notions.
I only hope he is as just to his own credit-
ors, as he is inclined to be generous tow-
ards those of— of —"
"His father," said Stephen, sternly. "I
do not wonder, Frank," he added, in a
lower tone, " that the word sticks in your
throat."
"The genelman — who is a genelman
as I can see with half a eye," said the
bailiff, turning the cheque over in his
hand, " axes if this 'ere sort of thing will
do. Well, generally speaking, it won't.
Generally speaking, we has orders to take
nothing but the brass or bank-notes, which
comes to the same thing. But in this 'ere
case we has instructions not to be hard on
the Barrowknight, and to take any good
security for the debt. Well, is this 'ere
a good security? You ain't much of a
speaker, Jim, but you ain't often took in;
-what do you call it?"
Jim turned his little ferret eyes upon
Stevie's anxious face, and then upon the
cheque, and after a short deliberation gave
the following verdict, solemnly —
"I calls it a hout and houter."
"Then that's settled," said his chief,
rising and preparing to replace his papers
in a huge greasy pocket-book; "and I've
your word, Mr. — Mr. —"
"My name is Frankland. I am a cap-
tain in the army, and Sir George Trem-
lett's son — his eldest son."
"Hey! why didn't you say that before?
That makes right righter."
"Stop," interrupted Mr. Tremlett; "I
must interpose here. Rejoiced as I am to
find Sir George released from his painful
position, I cannot allow credit to be re-
ceived under a false pretence."
"A false pretence!" exclaimed Stephen.
"At any rate a suppression of the whole
truth. You have said that you are my
father's eldest son, and these good men
will go away under the impression that
you have some claim upon this property,
whereas —"
"I have none. If I had — but no mat-
ter. I am — as I am (this to the bailiffs),
and will pay the money in three days,
upon my honor as an officer and a gentle-
man. Knowing what you now know, will
you quit this house?"
"'ihe other genelman don't feel inclined
to put his name to the cheque, too, does
he?" asked the sheriff's officer.
"I object—upon principle," replied the
"other gentleman," loftily.
"Very well," said the bailiff, pouching
his pocket-book. "You ain't got no call
to come with us (this to Stevie) without
you like. Only as you are going to
London, you call to-morrow morning on
Messrs. Puddle and Snap, 287 A, Buck-
lersbury; have a talk with them, and
that'll settle it."
Several times during this conversation,
Sir George had tried to break in, and had
been prevented by a gesture from Stevie.
Now he could no longer be restrained —
"It shall not be! " he cried, " I will not
have it! My noble — noble boy — my
own true hearted Stevie! I will not owe
this to you. Take your hard-earned
savings — the earnings of your blood!
Never! I will rot in prison first. Give
him back that cheque. Take me with you
;— now! 1 am ready. And you," he
exclaimed, turning towards his second son,
with flashing eyes, " shame upon you. for
standing by and consenting to such a sac-
rifice! I will not accept it! Let me go,
I say. Stevie, let me go — let me go
— let me go!" and he struggled towards
the door through which the bailiffs were
passing."
"Calm yourself, Sir," said Stephen, re-
straining and gently forcing his father into
an arm-chair. "There has been no sac-
rifice. Mother, pray go to your guests,
and then no one need know what has
happened. Francis, I think you had bet-
ter leave us too."
"Allow me to explain, though, that what
I observed just now, about —"
"Oh, never mind what you observed,"
rejoined Stephen, wearily.
"But I must say that you have acted
very liberally; and as you are not a rich
man, I shall advise my mother that —"
"Spare your advice," said Stephen, in
his sternest tone. "I tell you, plainly,
brother, that but for your advice, and the
influence — gained I know not how —
which gives it weight, this house might
be the happy home it once was when —
when —"
"When your influence prevailed, I sup-
pose you would say," retorted "dearest
Francis," with his best sneer.
Was it because Lady Tremlett, who
had left the room at Stephen's request,
had overheard his words from the pas-
sage, that the moment Francis had passed
her, she came running back in tears, and
threw herself into her step-son's arms,
sobbing like a child!
Gently he disengaged himself from her


136 A TANGLED SKEIN.
embrace, and led her to the door; kissed
her on the forehead in his old tender, pro-
tecting way, and returned to where bis
father sat, with his face buried in his
hands.
For some time they remained there in
silence — the Baronet pondering painfully
over what had passed, and Stephen, bow-
ed down with sorrow for what had got to
be said. At last the former started from
the chair and exclaimed —
"Let me go with you to London, Stevie.
Let me try and manage this miserable
business my own way. I have pulled
through so much already. I can pull
through it all, if they will but give me
time; and they will; they will, indeed,
Stevie! They have had me arrested here
because they thought that Fran that
— that the money would be paid. Take
me with you; say you will, Stevie!"
"Stevie shook his head.
"Only for a little time — a day or two.
Don't leave me alone here, Stevie—don't!
I cannot bear to be left alone. Let me go
with you for a little time, until it has
blown over."
"It cannot be. But for this mischance
we two should not have met again. As
it is we must part — perhaps forever."
"In Heaven's name, why ?" cried the
Baronet, aghast.
"When I tell you," replied Stephen,
solemnly, " that I know what reason took
you to Westborough — whom you went
there to see, and what you — what hap-
pened; your own heart will tell you
why."
"My God, Stevie!" his father gasped,
turning absolutely livid with consternation
and terror. "My God ! — you will not
betray me?"
"Betray you! No! But beware; there
are those who, in spite of my utmost ef-
forts, have gained a clue to the secret
which at present is locked in my breast."
The Baronet groaned aloud.
"The time will come when they will
know all that I know — perhaps more!
Happily for you, I am able to follow their
movements, and the moment you are in
danger I will warn you. I can do no
more. Then you can onlv find safety in
flight."
"But where ? — how ? — I— I —"
"I will provide the means. Almost the
last breath of your victim was spent in a
prayer that you might escape the punish-
ment which this world awards to your
crime; provided — mark me well! — that
justice be done where it is due."
"You mean to the child. It shall be —
it shall be! But, oh! Stevie, I have lost
all clue to her. I have, indeed!"
"When and where did you see her
last?"
"I have never seen her — never. I had
a clue once, but — and now she is lost! —-
lost! — lost ! — lost!" and the Baronet
wrung his hands at every repetition of the
word.
"Be it my task to find her, then," said
Stephen; "and from henceforward I de-
vote myself to it, and to it alone."
"But you forgive me — say you forgive
me, Stevie?"
"God help me, I cannot. It was so base
— so treacherous."
"It was, it was; but oh, Stevie! if you
knew all."
"I know enough — too much. No more
need be said. You may escape its conse-
quences in this life; pray to Heaven that
it may be pardoned there."
"No! no! no! Stevie, you must not go
thus," cried his father, seizing upon him in
a frenzy of grief, as he turned to quit the
chamber; "you cannot have the heart to
leave me with this fresh horror on my
head?"
"I must."
"You will return soon — very soon.
Stevie, you will come back to us again?"
"Never."
"Oh, recall that word — that bitter,
cruel word. Oh, Stevie, my son ! my only
stay! — my hope ! — my loving, noble son!
— my son ! — my son !!" and Sir George
Tremlett — the tears streaming down his
cheeks, fell upon Stephen's neck, and sob-
bed and implored him to stay — to return,
in vain.
"Father," he said, " you have well-nigh
broken my heart. Do not add to my pain
by useless supplications, which must be re-
jected. I have a duty to perform towards
the living and the dead. The very day
this is completed I shall return to India —
would to God I had never left it. I came
home — it seems only a few days ago —
full of love for you all — full of I cannot
say what happy anticipations. You all
know how they have been realized. If I
had never met you at Westborough — if
I had never learnt the secret of that
darkened room " — the Baronet started —
"could this be any longer a home for me'!
You are silent. It was only the other day
that you bade me leave it for my own
peace of mind. How much more am I
bound to quit it now? God in his infinite
mercy bless you all. God turn your hearts
more to him, and to each other. Fare-
well!"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
137
So saying Stephen turned, and without
giving another look towards where his
father had sunk on his knees — crushed
and speechless — slowly left the room.
In the hall he had left a small bag, in
which he had packed what he required for
his journey. This he seized, and hurrying
out of a side-door, was making his way
through the shrubbery towards the park
gates, when he heard a quick step behind
him; and his own name called out faintly.
He looked back and saw that his step-
mother was following him.
"Oh, I am so glad I have caught you.
Are you going now'} " she panted, all out
of breath.
"I am."
"What ? — all alone — on foot?"
"I prefer to walk to the station."
"See here," said My Lady, looking
round her nervously, and trying to force a
roll of bank-notes into his hand; "see, see
— take them! You have been so good —
so generous; take them — but don't tell
Francis."
"Dear Mammie," replied Stevie, with
his sad sweet smile, rejecting the proffer-
ed gift, "let us forget about this weary
money. I do not need your help. Let me
go on in my own way."
"And you will very soon return, Stevie,
won't you ? — and we will try and be hap-
py together, as before."
Stevie pressed her hand in silence, and
turned his face aside.
"Only look at those dark clouds that
are flying up yonder," she added. "I am
sure there will be a dreadful storm. Do
let me order one of the carriages for you.
Francis will lend you his brougham — he
said be would, indeed he did, just now."
"Never mind the clouds," Stevie re-
plied, "they will not hurt me. Kiss me,
Mammie, dear. Be kind to my father.
Once more. Have I hurt you? No!
God bless you, and good-by."
And so he left her, and ran on into
the storm which was darkening over his
path.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SECRET.
"Now, I tell you what it is, Sir," said
Mr. Lagger to Stephen, when true to their
appointment they met on the platform of
the Derby Railway Station; "let's you
and me take a little country walk, and talk
this 'ere matter over quietly. It's done
raining now, and the fields 'ill be mighty
pleasant."
"Wouldn't it be better to engage a
private room in the hotel?"
"Beggin' your pardon, Sir, I don't like
ho—tels. Private rooms in such-like
places ain't always private. Give me the
open air for business where two's company
and three's none."
Stephen made no further objection and
forth they sallied, passed through the town
and its outskirts, struck into the meadows,
and soon arrived at a spot sufficiently
lonely for their purpose.
"Now, Sir," said the detective, " if you'll
set yourself down on that there bank, I'll
squat on this here stump; and if you
sees any one coming along the path to the
right, you say ' Hem;' and if I sees any
one coming along the path to the left, /
say ' Hem;' and when this person passes us
I shall say — pretty loud —' But my friend
can't give more than five-and-twenty shil-
lings a quarter for it,' to which you must
reply — ' Oh, he can't, can't he ;' where-
by this here person won't be much the
wiser about what we're really saying."
Stephen could not help smiling at this
quaint precaution, and seated himself as
the detective had suggested.
"You ain't repented having trusted me,
Captain Frankland, eh ?" he asked.
"Before I answer that question," said
Stephen, "you must tell me what brought
you to Tremlett Towers, and why you
entered that room?"
"To tell you plain truth, Sir, you've bin
watched ever since the inquest. I've bin
a watching you myself ever since you left
the Convent at Hull."
"How do you know I was there ?" asked
Stephen, sharply.
"I know it — that's enough; and I know
what you went there to find out — that's
more! Lord bless you, Captain, I sees
through all this like glass. Mr. Brandron
sez to you, sez he, 'There's papers at
Mangerton Chase hid away in such and
such a place; but he — he didn't make
you clearly understand where Mangerton
Chase is — or rather where it isn't—for
it's Tremlett Towers now. You set to
work to find it out, and as soon as I knew
your little game, I sez to myself, sez I,
'here's a hound,' — begging your pardon
— ' as is on the scent. Stick to his heels
Lagger, my man, and you won't go far out
of the way!' If I hadn't seen you get
into that room, I should still have had
my eye on you. That's why I got that
stupid old Crowner to let you down so


138
A TANGLED SKEIN.
easy at the inquest. Why, we might have
quodded you for not telling all you knew
— all what Mr. Brandron told you; but,
thinks I, ' no, give him time and he'll tell
us everything,' — and so you have."
"I have told you nothing, man! what
do you mean?"
"There's ways of telling a thing without
talking about it. Come, come, Captain;
if you and I had not met now, we should
have run against one another some day,
and then somebody would have been hurt-
ed. Let's work this business out together,
— you for your purpose, I for mine. You
can't prevent my getting along, and I can
help you. I ax you agin, — you ain't re-
pented having trusted me, eh?"
"Upon the whole, No," replied Stephen,
thoughtfully.
"That's right, — that's as it should be.
How about these here papers, have you
got them with you?"
"I have. They are here." And Ste-
phen produced the bundle just as he had
fastened it up with the detective the night
before.
"Ha, all right! Now, Sir, if you don't
mind reading those letters out slowly.
They're very nicely composed, they are.
I've bin a-thinking over them almost all
night, and I've pretty- nigh made plain
English out of 'em. There's nothing like
hearing a thing read, though, to draw the
broth out of it. Just begin at the begin-
ning, will you, Sir?"
Stephen assented. The paper was yel-
low with age and dust, and eaten through
here and there by rats; moreover, the
writing was blotted in places, as Stephen
thought, by tears. I give them as they
were, at last, deciphered, and the words in
italics are such as had to be guessed at by
help of the context.
"Tuesday.
"Mr. Howell presents his compliments
to Miss Bruce, and begs to send for her
perusal the books he mentioned this morn-
ing, and which she expressed a wish to
have."
No date.
« My Dear Miss Brucb,
"How could you have imagined that
you had offended me? You ask me to be
perfectly candid, and I will be so. I have
never passed pleasanter hours than those
which have been spent in your house, but
there was that in your father's manner
towards me which makes me fear that I
am not so welcome as I used to be. I am
not conscious of having offended him in
any way. What have I done? Pray
make my peace. I enclose the tickets that
will pass you through the lines at the
Review on Thursday, if you should like
to go.
"Your's faithfully,
"George Howell.
"P. S. — I suppose I ought to thank
you for returning the books, but I should
have been much more grateful if you had
deigned to accept them from me, as I hoped
you would."
"Saturday.
"Will I come to your cousin's ball?
Wont I? It was Mrs. Chappell who told
me that you thought you had offended me.
Am I to suppose that this invitation is
meant as a sort of peace-offering from your
family? What can I have done, though, to
provoke hostilities, and make one requisite,
I have no more idea than the man in the
moon. Shall you go early? Will you
keep a dance or two disengaged for me?
Signify your royal pleasure in this behalf
by coming without a bouquet. You will
find one for you in the lady's room. Who
is this Mr. Brandron?
"Your's,
"G. H."
"Wednesday night.
"My own Beloved,
"I cannot sleep, I cannot rest with those
ecstatic words ringing in my ear. You love
me? You have said so, Mary, with your
own sweet lips, — or is it a dream? Oh,
let me hear them again! Now that I
know that you are mine, — mine, Mary,
forever, in spite of all the world; I cannot
live a day without seeing you, I think, dar-
ling. How impossible it was for me to ex-
press one tithe of my love, — to thank
you, my glorious! brave! beautiful one!
for the inestimable gift of your own, in all
that crowd! Be in the Square garden
to-day at twelve, or any time. 1 will wait
all day to see you. I have made great
friends with Sarah, and she will give you
this. We must be very careful now, till
something can be settled.
"Your own ever loving
"Georgie."
"To-morrow, dearest, same time and
place. I met your father just now in Re-
gent Street, and got nothing but black
looks. Can he suspect?"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
139
"My own Darling Mary,
"I regret as much as you do the necessity
which compels us to deceive your family,
and, consequently, my own. But what
can I do? Were I to call on your father
and ask him to sanction our engagement,
he would set himself up in his foolish pride,
give me a long lecture about unequal mar-
riages, show me the door, more or less
politely, and forbid you to see or ' Ommu-
nicate with me again. As it is, he does
not forbid you to do so, and I do not see
that you are at all bound to tell him that
we meet daily, —- alas! naughty girl! not
daily. Why did you not come yesterday 1
I wandered up and down the banks of the
Serpentine, waiting for you, till really the
policeman looked as though he thought I
was going to run away with the bridge,
or commit suicide. No such nonsense. I
have something to live for now. And so you
still preserve that faded bouquet? Don't
keep faded flowers, bright one: come for
fresh ones everyday. I—jealous of old
Brandron! Nonsense!
"Your own
"Georgie."
"Oh, you Dear Little Goose!
"The idea of fretting about such a prop-
osition. Accept at once, but not too eager-
ly, for fear they may suspect. Say that
you are tired of the gayeties of the season,
and want country air. I have a friend
who lives among the Derbyshire wilds, not
more than a few miles from Macclesfield,
and consequently well within lover's dis-
tance of your aunt's home. Mary, dar-
ling, he is a clergyman, the best fellow in
the world, and the congregation of his lit-
tle out-of-the-way church does not count a
dozen. He has often asked me to go and
stay with him, and — but I must speak
what I have in my mind. I cannot write
it, it would frighten you, — and yet it is
not frightful, darling. Accept at once.
God bless you my love ! — my life ! — my
wife that shall be.
"Craigsleigh.
"Everything is arranged. Richard will
perform the ceremony. Be at the brook
at which we parted last at 10 on Monday.
Bring Susan, or Sarah, whichever her
name is, — I mean Alston, — that is, if
you think that you can really trust her.
"Jersey.
"My own Beloved Wipe,
"I find to my sorrow that / shall be de-
tained here much longer than I supposed.
You ask me if I did not feel guilty during
those two days which intervened between
your departure from Craigsleigh and your
arrival at home? Guilty of what? Of
spending the happiest hours of my life
in the company of the best, the most
beautiful, and the dearest of little wives?
'Not guilty, my Lady, upon my honor*
as my Lord Rossthorne would say. I wish
you were here. You have no idea what a
beautiful island this is, or how much more
lovely it would be in my eyes if your dear
presence were here to add to the charm of
the scene!
"Have you heard of Richard's good
luck? The appointment is worth £ 1,000
a year, and I hear that the climate is not
at all unwholesome.
"I cannot help thinking that you are
wrong, — oh, sapient wifey ! — in not let-
ting me have it out with your father be-
fore I left; but no more of this till we
meet again, which must be very shortly.
Be very careful, dear, with that fellow,
Brandron. I cannot make him out. Is
he a spy? I hate his quiet stealthy man-
ner, and have often caught him watching
you in a way that used to make me savage.
I was jealous of him, Mary, as I was of
any one who was permitted to come near
you, when I, who loved you, — who had
won your love, — was an exile from your
home. Of course I am not jealous of him
now, only be careful. We must not be
found out. We must take the initiative
and disclose all; and the sooner this takes
place the better pleased will be
"Your ever loving husband,
"Georgie."
"Jersey.
"My Beloved Wife,
"I seize an opportunity of replying to
your letter within an hour after its receipt.
The news you send delights me beyond
expression. We must make our marriage
public now. But oh, you wicked wife!
why did you not tell me before? The
slightest shade of blame must not fall on
your honor, or on our little child's good
name. I have been bandied about here
from pillar to post, and all my applications
for release have been disregarded. There
must be some influence at work, some-
where, against me. I shall leave directly,
at any risk, and be with you almost
as soon as my letter. Still, should any-
thing happen, on no account brave your
father's anger alone. Let me bear the
brunt of it, and if by any chance your con-
dition should be discovered before I can
arrive, fly at once to Mangerton Chase,


140
A TANGLED SKEIN.
No one lives there now, and the entire
house is at my disposal. Wait there, —
take Susan, — Sarah, I mean, with you,
— till I come. I have no time to add
more. That God may guide and watch
over you, beloved wife, is the incessant
prayer of your proud, happy, and ever
loving husband, Georgie."
"Now these here letters," said Mr. Lag-
ger, when Stephen had concluded, "is
very pretty writing, but what do they
come to when they're biled and peeled?
Shall I tell you?"
"By all means. Pray go on."
"They comes to this. The gentleman
as writes from Jersey, — Hem! — being a
friend of mine, says that he won't give
more than five-and-twenty shillings a quar-
ter for it. Don't you see?"
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHAT MR. LAGGER THOUGHT ABOUT
THE LETTERS, AND HOW HE VISITED
CHAIGSLEIGH CHAPEL.
The wayfarer whose appearance had
drawn from Mr. Lagger the preconcerted
signal and observation, was a wretched,
ragged, hungry-looking tramp; who slunk
along slowly, with his hands in his pockets,
and his eyes upon the ground, as though
he had left nothing behind him, had noth-
ing to hope for at his journey's end, and
nothing to do from one day to another, but
slink onward — here and there — towards
that somewhere where his weary pilgrimage
should end in a pauper's grave. There
was such an appearance of dejection and
This was the last of the letters.
From a paper in which the marriage
certificate was folded, Stephen Frankland
next read as follows, but the right hand
edge was so gnawed by the rats that the
words it contained were illegible.
Alston.
hopelessness in the fellow's manner as he
approached and climbed the stile, that our
soft-hearted Stevie's hand stole involun-
tarily towards his purse, from whence he
took a small coin, in anticipation of an
appeal to his charity. But no such an
appeal was made; on the contrary, when
the tramp came near to the spot where
Stevie and the detective sat, he struck
across the meadow so as to avoid them,
and rejoined the path by a detour.
"Humph!" reflected Mr. Sampson Lag-
ger, watching the retreating figure with a
professional eye, "I shouldn't wonder if
somebody wanted you.' You've got the
'I've - been - and-gone - and - done - it-and-
everybody-as-sees-me-knows-it' look in
your eyes, my fine fellow — that's about
what you've got! But, I say, Captain,
he added, turning to Stephen," you missed
your cue. When I sez, 'He won't give
more than five-and-twenty shillings a bushel
for it,' you should have re-plied 'Oh, he
won't, won't he ?' according to agreement.
Don't you forget that again, now, next
time as anybody comes along, and I say
'Humph!'"
"Well, well, well!" replied Stevie im-
patiently, " but you were going to tell me
what you deduced from the letters I have
just read."
"What I de-duce from them there letters
is — but where's the marriage certificate
you had in your hand last night when I
came in up yonder?"
"I certify that I was present in the chapel a
where my mistress, Miss Mary Bruce, only daugh
married by licence to Mr. George Howell, as this
from the Register will prove. I say that she
of grief, being deserted by her husband and acc
-ther, falsely, of having given birth to an illegit
In truth, it was born in lawful wedlock, on the sec
January.
"And I say that this child wai taken away
sister Mary to be nursed. And further, I de
be lost or the proofs of its legitimacy be destr
our will, the person who does this crime is
has already tried to bribe us to do so
may happen to me this is true and m
me God.
"Susan — sometimes called Sarah —
(Witness) "John Everett Brandron."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
141
Stephen handed it, and the detective
examined what remained decipherable of
its contents carefully. I say "what re-
mained decipherable," because, like the
paper in which it was folded, the extremity
of the right-hand side was more or less
eaten away by rats. In this mutilated
shape it remained as follows: —
1835
Jttarrfage Solemnised in the District Church of Crai
in the Parish of Exington, in the County of Derby

No.
57
When
Married.
Name and Surname.

"Ah!" said Lagger, when he had
turned it over and over after the manner
of persons who don't exactly make out
what they read — " ah! and if them there
cursed rats had taken counsel's opinion on
the matter, they couldn't have gnawed it
better; but, Lord! what does it matter?
We only have to go to Craigsleigh Chapel
to see the original."
"The original!"
"Of course; this 'ere's only a copy. I
went to the parish church here this after-
noon before you arrived, just to see what
particulars a marriage certificate as had
not been grubbed by rats should give, and
I find that it will tell us, over and above
what is set down here, the 'condition' of
the bridegroom — that is, whether he was
a bachelor or a widower at the time of this
marriage — his rank or profession, his place
of residence (but that we know), the sur-
name of the father or mother of the bride,
and their rank or profession. Bruce ain't
an uncommon name, no more ain't Howell
— that is, if so be as his name really was
Howell."
"Why should you doubt it?" asked
Stephen.
"I'll tell you by-and-by — everything
in its turn. I say these ain't uncommon
names, but when we get a clue to the
father of the young lady — if so be as she
was a young lady — and know what he
was, and where he lived, and the profes-
sion of this 'ere George Howell, why that's
business, that is."
"And we can find out all this at the
church?"
"In the registry book. We can go over
there in the morning. You ain't in a par-
ticular hurry to get to London, are you,
Captain?"
"I am, indeed; I have an appointment
— at least, I must see some one on a
matter of considerable importance to-mor-
row."
"Well, then, I'll go alone, and I'll bring
you a faithful copy of what I find. Will
that do?"
Stephen assented, determining in his
own mind that as soon as he had arranged
his father's affairs with Messrs. Puddle
and Snap, he would run down to Craigs-
leigh and make inquiries for himself.
"That's settled, then," said Mr. Lagger.
"I'm going to be all fair and above-board
with you, Captain, in this affair; all
through 'cordin to contract. So now I'll
tell you what I de-duce from these 'ere
love-letters.
"If it hadn't bin for what Sarah Alston
sez just at the last, I should 'a come to a
different con-clusion ; but settin' down what
she sez as truth, if George Howell was to
come to me, and say, 'Well, now, Mr.
Lagger, what do you think of me ?' I
should up and re-ply, 'Mr. Howell — if so
be as your name is Howell — I think it


A TANGLED SKEIN.
143
behold the well-directed attentions of his
son and heir towards a silver fork which
had fallen in his way, " that's as it should
be! I likes to see a gentleman sharp. I
likes to see people as has cut their eye-
teeth a-using on 'em. Why, if you was a
counsellor at the Old Bailey, a-trying to
make out a halabi, you couldn't be sharper."
The word alibi jarred upon Stephen's
ear, though it was strictly in harmony with
the thought which was uppermost in his
mind. He forced a laugh, and replied, —-
"What possible interest can I have in
making out that he was in one place more
than another? I do not know the man."
"Never heard tell of him?"
"Never."
"And you don't know how he come to
send his wife to Mangerton Chase?"
"No."
"Then I'll tell you," said the detective.
"You'll excuse me, but I've been pretty
busy with your family affairs for the last
fortnight, and I know as much about them
as most people."
Stephen flushed, and bit his lip.
"You see, Captain," Lagger continued,
"knowing that you was up to some little
game, I made my investigations with a
view of finding out what it was likely to
be. And knowing, as I did, that poor
Mr. Brandron left England a little more
than twenty years ago, and con-cluding
that whatever happened to rile him like,
took place about that time, I naturally set
to work to find out what your people was
a-doing just then. You couldn't have bin
up to mischief, leastwise this sort of mis-
chief, then; for you was a little curly-
headed boy, you was; and an out-and-out
little cock-o'-wax too, I'll be bound." This
compliment did not soften the frown which
was darkening over Stevie's brow. "Go
on," he said curtly; "never mind what I
was."
"Well — not to mince matters — your
governor Sir George, he was up a tree
just then — wery high up a tree he was.
My! what a fine gentleman he was while
the money lasted, and before these mines
went to the bad!"
"You may spare me all this."
"Wery good; well then, being hard up,
why, he let his house and land to Lord —
but there ain't no good mentioning names.
He let it to a fam'ly as went to the bad —
all on 'em — horse, foot, and dragoons soon
afterwards, and rum scenes went on in
Mangerton Chase while they had it, I can
tell you. They had to bolt in the autumn
of 1835. They went up a tree too — they
did! and never come down again. It
wasn't till some time after Sir George's
second marriage, when they built that fine
front part, that any of your family lived
down yonder."
"Consequently, we know nothing of this
George Howell."'
"Ex-actly; but putting this and that
together, I shouldn't wonder if it was that
rackety young lord's brother, or else one
of his harem-scarem friends, who married
this poor young lady. She, naturally
enough, ran off to the place he named,
when she could no longer conceal her
secret, and he, like a villain, absconded
abroad with the rest on 'em, leaving her
to die, may be of grief."
"You think she is dead, then?"
"Sartin. That letter which we found
at Westborough — the one from this Susan,
or Sarah what-do-you-call-her, sez so."
"But the child is alive!"
"Not a doubt of it, and now we comes
to business. Who has an interest in keep-
ing this marriage dark, except this 'ere
un-natural parent, who —"
"Stop one moment. Why should he do
so? It is not as though his wife were
alive, and he were a rich man. He le-
vanted from his creditors, and has long
been .free to marry again. Why should
he not acknowledge the child?"
"Ah! there's the pinch. Some one has
an interest in concealing its parentage.
You can't get over that."
"No; and that some one was in England
— at Mangerton Chase — soon after its
birth," mused Stephen, carried away, in
spite of himself, by the interest which these
inquiries aroused.
"Oh, Mr. Brandron said so, did he?"
asked the detective quickly.
"No — yes; that is, ah — well, he did
not say so in as many words, but I gather
the fact from the letter you have already
referred to —"
"And which corroborates my idea about
his being a great man."
"Just now you set him down as an ab-
sconding spendthrift!"
"Look you here, Captain Frankland, I
don't disguise it from you that I'm a-guess-
ing in the dark. It may be that he was
one of them young scamps — it must be
that it was some one connected with 'em,
else how could he get the run of Manger-
ton Chase? Now a young nobleman may
be ruined, and come round all right again
by a good marriage or what-not, and a
ready-made child might be a spoke in his
wheel in after-life. That this child is a
spoke in some one's wheel is plain, or Mr.
Brandron would never have been sent to


A TANGLED SKEIN.
145
line. I'm wery partial to the country, be-
cause I've seen so little on it . Why, bless
my soul! there ain't a bush, or a rock, or a
tuft of fuz hereabout as is not full of cu-
riosities for such as me; and there ain't no
harm, is there, Sir, in liking to look at
things, and to turn 'em over, even though
you don't know nothing about them skien-
tifically?"
One glance through the parsonage win-
dows had shown this fox that Mr. Thomas
was a naturalist; and having struck the right
chord, harmony was instantly established
between them. The good clergyman was
only too glad to find an auditor for dis-
coveries upon his favorite hobby, and had
not the faintest notion that it was being
converted into a pump, through which
most of the information which his disciple
required flowed freely. Thus did Mr.
Lagger become aware that the predecessor
of his instructor was the Rev. Richard
Stourton, who had been appointed Bishop
of Scalptown, somewhere on the east coast
of Africa; that his clerk — poor old man!
— had died last Christmas, and had been
succeeded by a very superior young per-
son, who had been recommended by some
charitable people in London. That " The
Elms," a neighboring mansion, was for-
merly occupied by a Mrs. Chappel, who,
however, had not lived there since Mr.
Thomas's arrival. That very few mar-
riages took place in the little church; so
few, that all which the present incumbent
had celebrated did not half fill one reg-
istry book. That this volume was in use
in Mr. Stourton's time, but that there were
others which the new clerk had discovered
in shocking bad condition, huddled away
in a vault, and which he had removed to
his own lodgings in a neighboring farm-
house. Very warm in praise of this new
clerk was Mr. Thomas, and why so well-
spoken and fairly-educated a person should
be content to fill so humble a position in
that out-of-the-way spot, the good gentle-
man could not think.
There were those who asked the self-
same question respecting the new clerk's
master.
Between each stroke of the pump, Mr.
Lagger craftily led his entertainer back
amongst the ferns and zoophites in which
he took delight, plunged him deep into the
old red sandstone, where his choicest treas-
ures had lain hidden, and, after allowing
him to revel there for a short space, drew
him off imperceptibly into the shallower
regions in which the facts that the detec-
tive desired to ascertain were embalmed.
And so pleasant was their converse, that
Mr. Thomas forgot all about some letters
of importance which he had to write be-
fore the lad who carried the post-bag to
Macclesfield should arrive. Having sud-
denly remembered this obligation, he beg-
ged Lagger to excuse him; "And, oh!
by the by," he said, "of course you'd like
to see the church (there is a general but
harmless mania amongst clergymen that
everybody wants to see their church);
so I'll send for Ferrers — my clerk, you
know, and he will show you over it. If
you will not mind waiting in the other
room, he will be with you in a few min-
utes. His school is close at hand, and it
is just time for him to break up for the
day."
So the detective left Mr. Thomas to his
letters, and retired to the apartment in-
dicated, from the window of which he
could see down the lane towards the farm-
house in which the new clerk lived, and
had set up his village-school. He saw the
messenger run down; then came a shout,
and a rush of smock-frocked urchins up
the path, and after them, proceeding more
leisurely, the new clerk, swinging the heavy
keys of the church in his hand, and look-
ing hot and tired, but still having that in-
describable something in his mien which
belongs to a man who has put his heart
into an honest day's work, and has done
it well. Mr. Thomas was quite right. Fer-
rers did not look the sort of young man
who would be content with £25 a year as
a parish clerk, and the weekly pence of
the little hedge-side school. But the in-
stant that he entered the room where the
detective was waiting, a change, awful to
behold, came over him, and he fell on his
knees, as if struck down by a blow.
"My God! my God!" he groaned,
"you have come to ruin me. Oh, it is
cruel, cruel! Have I not been punished
enough?"
Mr. Lagger started from his chair, and
though, as we are aware, not given to be
taken aback, was certainly not a little sur-
prised by this strange appeal. He quickly
made a rough guess at the state of affairs.
"Now don't you get talking anyhow,
like that," he said roughly. "That there
sort of gammon won't do you no good, and
so I tell you. Get up!"
The new clerk rose, and eyed him sul-
lenly, trembling the while in every limb.
"And so," continued Mr. Lagger, "you
call yourself Ferrers! What next?"
"I do not deny that the name is a feign-
ed one," replied the clerk. "What could
I do? Would any one give me employ-
ment under that which I have disgraced?"


A TANGLED SKEIN.
149
Condition —- Rank or Profession -— Resi-
dence at time of marriage — Father or
mother's surname — Rank or Profession
of father. Right! When you marry,"
observed the detective, shaking his fore-
finger at the new clerk, " it ain't sufficient
for you to know who was your wife's father
and mother, and what they was; or for
your wife to know who was your father
and mother, and what they was. The law
steps in and sez,' Des-cribe yourselves, every
one of you. I want to know all about
the lot,' that's what the law sez !' I ain't
a-going,' sez the law, ' to have you making
a row when you get tired of each other,
or any one else making a row for you
when you're dead, and saying, " This 'ere
John Smith was John Smith, but he wasn't
the identical John Smith as married Mary
Brown!" I ain't a-going to stand none
of those little games,' sez the law, and so I
tell you; consequently the law will make
you des-cribe yourself and your fam'ly,
and your lovely bride's fam'ly too, so that
there may be no mistake about it, — that's
-what the law does."
"I am perfectly aware of the regula-
tion and its intention," said the new clerk
humbly.
"Wery well, then; don't you get a-try-
ing to e-wade 'em, or else you'll catch it
hot, and so I tell you." This warning
was delivered by Mr. Lagger with much
severity of tone and gesture, as though the
new clerk were on the point of leaving
the room to contract a marriage in defi-
ance of the legal forms.
Ferrers could not help smiling — troub-
led and anxious as he was. "When I
marry," he replied, " you may depend up-
on it that I shall observe all due formali-
ties."
"You'd better," said the unrelenting
Lagger; "but where are we now? Oh,
March, 1834, when you enter the certifi-
cates properly; hem! not many of 'em;
January '35 — more people married about
Christmas time, I see, than any other sea-
son of the year. April, four entries —
one a week. April's got a page to itself.
Well done, April, 1835" (the detective
was getting gay), " and the merry month
of May's only got one. I wonder now,"
he continued, quoting from the entry,
"what has become of Georgina Bosser,
who was 19 years of age, and a spinster,
the daughter of Mark Bosser, of this
parish, farmer—and who married William
Cox, widower of full age, whose gover-
nor's name was likewise Bill, and farriers
the pair on 'em? I wonder how that
there young gal got along with her second-
hand article? Did he get a-naggin' at her
about the virtues of the dear departed, or
are they a comfortable old couple 'I Lord!
if any book-writing gentleman could put
down here what all these couples said
they'd do, and what they intended to do,
and after all what they really done —
what a rum story-book a marriage register
would be! But let's get on —let's get on.
June, 1835, has one, two—ah, and here the
book ends. Hand over the last volume,
young man," said Lagger, leaning back in
his chair and whistling a tune, "and let's
get along with June, 1835."
The new clerk removed the books
through which the scrutineer had passed,
and spread the last open at the first page
before him. Mr. Lagger was in no hurry
to look at it. He examined his boots, he
examined his finger-nails, he examined
nothing at all, very fixedly, out of the
window; at last his attention returned to
his task. "And so," he remarked, in the
most casual of tones, "this 'ere new book
— leastwise this 'ere book which is the one
in use now — begins in June, 1835; good!
How many entries was there in the last
one for this month of June, 1835?"
"Two: one on the 2d, and the other on
the 9th," replied Ferrers, referring to the
older volume.
"And here we have —. What were
the names in the other two?" asked Lag-
ger quickly.
"Job Stokes and Hannah Barnardiston,
on the 2d, and Jane Crofter and Charles
Shelmordine, of Manchester, on the 9th."
"And the numbers — the numbers?"
demanded the detective, his face getting
flushed, and his manner full of excitement,
in spite of him.
"Stokes's marriage is No. 54."
"Shelmordine's, then, is 55?"
"Of course! It is the last entry in the
book. The next will be that where your
hand is now."
"That," replied the detective sternly,
but in a very different tone from his as-
sumed severity of a few moments before,
"that is dated July 28th."
"Well, —what then?"
"Where are the entries of marriages
which took place in the mean time?"
"There were none, I suppose," replied
the new clerk. "You find only one for
May. Why should you suppose that there
should be more than two in June?"
"There were four marriages celebrated
in June and July which are not entered in
this book, or of which the certificates have
been destroyed," replied the detective de-
cisively.


150
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"How can you possibly know that?"
said Ferrers, smiling incredulously, but
turning a little pale. "Excuse me saying
so, but guesswork —"
"Goes for nothing of itself," said Lag-
ger, looking at him hard and full in the
face; "but it leads to a good deal, as
you shall find, my fine fellow. I guessed
there was some'at wrong about you, and
like-wise about these books; pretty much
as a beagle guesses there's a hare cutting
along somewhere, when he comes upon her
scent. Guesses is scent to me ; and here"
(bringing his fist down upon the first page
of the newest book, with a thump which
made the old table creak again), here's my
game run into and chopped up."
"I cannot see anything to complain of
there," replied Ferrers; "there is not an
erasure or a blot, and every particular
filled in as regularly as can be. What
fault do you find?"
"The last entry in the other book is
numbered 55; the first in this is numbered
60. There are four certificates in every
page, consequently a whole page is want-
ing!"
"Good God!" exclaimed Ferrers, "it
is so, indeed! But you do not think that
I — You cannot accuse me of—of—"
"For the present," replied the detec-
tive, in his quietest manner, " I say a whole
page is wanting. I don't accuse nobody
of nothing, but I must have this 'ere page.
Where is it?"
"I cannot tell you. I have never seen
it. Never till this moment noticed that
there was a gap in the dates."
"And yet you noticed the dates in the
other parts?"
"Because there were a lot of loose pages
which I had to fit in at their proper places."
"Where did you put them? You may
have forgotten this one."
"No; I am perfectly certain that I fixed
them all."
"All that you brought from the church,
perhaps; but it may be in that hole this
very moment."
"Impossible! I searched it thoroughly.
Besides, it was only about the middle of
the third book, where it was open, — hav-
ing fallen from the shelf, — that the leaves
were loose. If you look at the end, you
will see that they are all intact. Look at
the back, under the binding, and you will
see for yourself that what I say is true."
"Then how do you ac-count for the gap
in the numbers?"
"Probably the clergyman, or his clerk,
made a mistake. These entries in the
commencement of the new book are in the
latter's handwriting. He was an old man
even then. He might have forgotten the
number of the last entry, or made a guess
at it, to save the trouble of referring back.
Oh, really," added the new clerk, with an
attempt at a laugh, "there are a dozen
ways of accounting for such a trivial er-
ror."
"It ain't trivial," replied the detective
sternly; "and it's not to be accounted for
anyhow. I know there is another page
somewhere or other, and it's for vou to
find it."
"For me? I have nothing whatever to
do with it."
"Now, you jest attend to me," said
Lagger; "I ain't a-going to be too hard
upon you, and I ain't a-going to shirk my
duty. If you'd a let these 'ere books alone,
and stuck to your A-men, as you ought to
have done, you would have had nothing to
do with it; but you goes a-meddling with
things as don't concern you; as usual, you
burns your fingers. Suppose I goes to the
parson, or the two church-wardens, and
sez, 'There's an entry as I knows was
made, and which I can't find in your
books,' — what will they say? They'd say,
'The clerk's a been and meddled with
these volumes. He's routed 'em out of
their proper place. He's took 'em, and a
lot of them loose leaves home; and we
can't be held res-ponsible for any fraud
he's com-mitted.'"
"Fraud! What possible interest eould
I have in suppressing anything?"
"I ain't here to answer your questions,"
replied the detective; "I'm here to ex-
amine these books, and to re-port upon
their con-dition. Now, what I says, I
means; and what I means, I sticks to;
and what I sticks to is this 'ere: — You
find these 'ere missing entries. Not a
word. I won't hear it. Be they made on
a leaf torn out of either book, or be they
contained in another odd book, or a piece
of odd paper, — you find 'em, or you dis-
cover who's got 'em."
"But how am I to do this V"
"That's your business," replied the de-
tective, rising, and taking up his hat.
"You have no authority to require me
to make such a hopeless search," said Fer-
rers moodily; "and I refuse to attempt it."
"Wery well, wery well; then I must
make it myself."
"That will be far the better way."
"Ex-actly. So come along with me to
Mr. Thomas, and listen whilst I tell him
why I'm a-going to ask a lot of seemingly
impertinent questions in his parish. You
young ninny-hammer! Don't you see that


A TANGLED SKEIN.
151
yoji can make in-quiries without suspicion
agin you, having already took to meddlin'
with the books? It's one way or the other,
you know ; — either you have stole these
entries, and destroyed 'em, or you haven't."
"I swear to you most solemnly that I
have not."
"Well, then, if you haven't, you take
the high hand, and you go to Mr. Thomas
and the wardens, and you say,' Here's four
entries wanting; and it's your dooty to in-
vestigate the case; or else it's my dooty to
write to the bishop, and ask him what he
thinks of it.'"
"But you say I had no right to look into
the books."
"And you said as Mr. Thomas ap-proved
of your doing so."
"According to you, he is also without
authority to give such approbation."
"Humph — m! Never you mind. You're
on the popular side, and if you're wrong
in re-moving the books, the wardens are
wrong in keeping 'em where they did, so
they can't say nothing. Any way, you do
what I tell you. It'll be better for you to
be turned out for ex-ceeding your dooty,
than for being a con-victed felon."
"And if I fail in my search for the
missing leaf?" asked the miserable Fer-
rers.
"Well, then I shall be o-bliged to form
my own con-clusions as to how it come to
be missing, that's all," was Lagger's reply.
"No, I sha'nt take no tea," he said, in an-
swer to a gesture from the new clerk; "I
never breaks bread with those as I has my
eyes on professionally. You fill up a cup,
and chuck the stuff out o' winder, dirty a
plate, and make belief as though I'd had
some grub. And look here, — I shall stop
at Macclesfield for a week. It ain't far for
a young fellow like you to walk, so you
come over next Thursday, and let me
know what you've done. You'll find me
at the Stork inn. D'ye mind? Rout out
them entries, or discover the man who's
took 'em; or, as sure as eggs is eggs, you'll
never say A-men again after next Sunday."
And with this, the detective took his
leave.
"You've been precious hard upon that
young fellow, Sam Lagger, — precious
hard," he mused, as he passed along; "but
what are you to do? You must find that
page ; and if you can get hold upon a likely
cove to help you, why, — pro-fessionally, —
you'd be an ass not to squeeze him pretty
tight. As to the mo-rality of the thing, —
you jest wait, my man, till you're retired
into private life, before you goes bothering
yourself about morals."
CHAPTER XXVI.
NANCY.
Stephen Frankxand, in the mean
time, had arrived in London, and settled
affairs with Messrs. Puddle and Snap,
whom he found most accommodating gen-
tlemen, with almost a repugnance to ready
money, when presented in the form of a
payment in full of all demands. They
would take the captain's I O U; they would
take the captain's guarantee; they would
take the captain's bills at six, twelve, eigh-
teen months, — anything rather than his
crisp new bank notes for the entire sum
due on Sir George's acceptance. They
would renew, they would extend, they
would accept part payment, and leave the
rest to run on, with interest, till it was
quite convenient to the Baronet, — any-
thing rather than be paid and have done
with it. If people in difficulties will bor-
row money, — and there must be such a
class as bill discounters, — what a blessing
it is that these latter will sometimes put
their business into the hands of such de-
lightfully courteous gentlemen as Messrs.
Puddle and Snap, attorneys-at-law! How
fortunate for impecunious humanity that
this respectable firm exercised such a great
influence over their clients! Why, they
could make them do anything. "My dear
Sir," Puddle would say to some bewildered
youngster who had received some peremp-
tory demand, " never mind what that fel-
low, Smith, says. He's a vulgar fellow is
Smith, and does not know how to deal
with gentlemen. Let me have a couple of
ten pound notes for him by the day after
to-morrow, and take my word for it that
he will renew." Considerate Mr. Puddle!
"Proceed to execution!" would exclaim
Mr. Snap, under similar circumstances,
"not if I know it. If Brown wants to go
on like this, he must find another solicitor;
/sha'n't distress a gentleman who means
well. Give him a new bill for principal
and interest, and let him wait." Honest
Mr. Snap! These things, however, were
done only for those who were sure to pay
in the long run; and since the result of
such indulgences was that the original debt
would be paid half a dozen times over, as
in Sir George Tremlett's case, some one
was no loser by them. In short, Messrs.
Puddle and Snap farmed the turnpike on
the road to ruin, and kept it in remarkably
good travelling order.
Our Stevie, like most young Indian
officers, had gone a short stage upon that
famous and much-frequented thoroughfare.


156
A TANGLED SKEIN.
with poaching, and rows at fairs, and what
not, poor Jim had got a bad name, and
even his own mother dursn't tell him a
secret which would put other folks in his
power. 'Still,' she used to say, ' I'll tell
you some day, — I'll tell you some day
before I die.'
"Well, the ' some day ' came, in which,
perhaps, she would have told him, but he
wasn't there to be told; and so she died,
and the secret with her; but in searching
over her things, he found what convinced
him that Nancy was a lady's child."
"What did he find?"
"Ah! that I can't get him to tell; but
he says he has a clue, and is working on it
hard. He's not a man to be beaten by
trifles, isn't Jim Riley; and, depend upon
it, he'll hit the mark some day or
other."
"On the contrary," said Stephen, " he
appears to me to be a very foolish fellow,
and to be taking the worst possible course
to gain his end. Why, the persons of
whom I have spoken would have done ten
times more than he can ever do to get
Nancy her rights; but he stole her away
from Westborough in a most reprehensible
manner, and frustrated all their kind in-
tentions."
"Jim Riley's not so black as he's paint-
ed, Captain Frankland; but he's not an
angel, for all that. He looks after num-
ber one, like most of his betters; and he's
not going to give up the credit or the
profit of finding out whose child Nancy
is, to any one; and I don't blame him for
it."
"I see," said Stephen coldly. "It will
be much the same to him whether she be
acknowledged or remain as she is, so that
he gets his price."
"No," replied Mrs. Wantley firmly, "I
don't think so badly of Jim as that. Jim's
been cried down enough. He's tired of a
vagabond life, and his aim is to make an
honest name. He'll make it, Captain
Frankland, as sure as you sit there; and
I wouldn't, for a thousand pounds, be in
the shoes of those who have an interest in
keeping Nancy's birth a secret; for it will
come out. Mark my words, Captain, it
will come out, and before long, or I don't
know Jim Riley."
"Do you know where he is now?"
"No more than the child unborn, Sir.
As I said, he may be here to-night, and he
may not turn up for a month."
"And I believe that Mr. Lagger's move-
ments are equally unknown to you?"
"Oh, as tor him, he's always uncertain.
If you want to know where he is, you'd
better go to Scotland Yard. They know
where to find him."
"A capital hint!" said Stephen, " and
I will follow it."
"But now turn and turn about's fair
play," said Mrs. Wantley, whom the
lengthened gossip had put entirely at her
ease; "I've told you what you want to
know, as far as I can; now tell me what
you want with Jim Riley."
"Certainly. There was a murder com-
mitted at Westborough the day he left it
with Nancy. At first, suspicion fell on
him, but there is reason to think that it
was unfounded. Another person, a stran-
ger, was there also, on whom grave suspi-
cion still rests. It is possible that Riley
may have encountered him, and therefore
I wish to ask him a few questions, — that
is all."
Stevie had sample enough of his enter-
tainer's garrulity to make him keep si-
lence respecting the new suspicions which
her story had raised in his mind. What
if this poor half-witted girl were the child
towards whom the act of justice was to be
done, — the abandoned and disdained off-
spring of George Howell? What if Mrs.
Riley were connected in some way with
the writer of the letters found in Bran-
dron's room, — with the Susan or Sarah
Alston who had helped him to hide the
other papers in Mangerton Chase? The
idea was a mere guess. That there were
thousands of other unclaimed children in
the country, he knew; but the presence
of this one, in the very place chosen by
Brandron for the meeting with the person
undoubtedly interested in concealing the
identity of such a child, was at least
strange and suggestive, and, for want of
any other clue, a circumstance well worthy
of deep consideration.
Stephen soon took his leave, having re-
ceived Mrs. Wantley's promise that as
soon as she saw or heard of Jim Riley,
or Lagger, she would let him know by
Charley, otherwise Dagon, at his cham-
bers. As he passed through the shop, he
heard the quick thumping of a crutch be-
hind him, and a gaunt, sickly-looking lad
shambled forward and opened the door.
Stephen thanked him, and passed into the
street without looking into his face.
Messieurs et Mesdames, — enemies to
those in whom I hope the reader feels
some interest,—garde a vous! The hunt-
ers are out, and woe betide you if any one
of them fall upon your track! Jim Riley
is working on in his own way. Ferrers,
the new clerk at Craigsleigh, must find that
marriage certificate, and shortly, too, or


A TANGLED SKEIN.
157
he is a lost man; and Larger, the long-
headed, the cool, the ambidextrous, is not
idle, we may be certain, somewhere. A
poor cripple, reclaimed from a jail, opens
the door to Stephen Frankland, the most
earnest, but perhaps less skilful of the
huntsmen, and the chase has well begun.
Will the race be to the swift ? — the
prize to the strong? Who can tell?
The following morning Stephen betook
himself to Scotland Yard, and made in-
quiries for Mr. Sampson Lagger. Of all
people in the world who know the least
about the police, commend me to police-
men. Lagger's name was a household
word in that locality, but where to lay a
finger on its owner, no one knew; but
every one could direct Stevie to some
one else who did, and who, when applied
to, was just as much enlightened as the in-
dividual who had suggested him as omnis-
cient . Every official agreed that Lagger
was " on duty," but where, and what about,
no tongue could tell. Eventually, Stevie,
being in downright earnest, pushed his in-
quiries up to the fountain-head, and poured
them on the able and courteous head of
the metropolitan police. From him he got
an answer. He was happy to make the
acquaintance of so distinguished an officer
as Captain Frankland. He was sorry to
find him inquiring for a person in Lagger's
department. He trusted that the case was
not a serious one; but his rules did not
permit him to divulge where a detective
was employed on secret service. Lagger
was so employed; and much as he (the
chief) desired to oblige Captain Frank-
land, he must decline to give him the in-
formation he asked.
"One thing, perhaps, you will find your-
self at liberty to tell me," said Stevie.
"In some dealings — no matter what —
which I have already had with this man,
he referred me to you for his character, as
an honest and trustworthy man. What is
your opinion of him?"
"A little headstrong, and fond of his
own way. Slow, but sure. The most in-
corruptible and straightforward man in
the force. Were he otherwise, he would
not be employed as he is. Good-morn-
ing!"
And so Stephen was left in the dark.
In the mean while, what had the little
great world down in Derbyshire to say
about him? It had a good deal to say.
It saw him, by a credible witness, walk
over to the station that morning, which we
remember, with his carpet-bag in his hand.
It heard, by a credible witness again, that
he had sent a fly from Derby for his lug-
gage. It concluded, and not without rea-
son, that something had gone wrong at
Tremlett Towers; and it drew its own
conclusions according to its light. He had
fallen out with his father; he had fallen
out with his mother; he had fallen out
with his brother Francis; he had run
away from the snares of Laura Coleman;
he had run away from the snares of Grace
Lee; he had eloped with the under house-
maid; he had been jilted by each one of
those ladies; he had been arrested for
debt; he was obliged to go abroad, on ac-
count of that affair down in Kent, which
never had been cleared up; he was going
to be knighted, and receive a lucrative
appointment in Ceylon; he was going to
be tried by court-martial, for being absent
without leave. Lastly, he was not quite
right in his mind, poor fellow! and don't
you remember the fit of delirium tremens
which he had that night when he frighten-
ed Miss Lee so, in the old Hall? The
balance of testimony was certainly against
| him, and even kind-hearted Mr. Coleman
shook his head when he remembered the
conversation which they had had at the
garden-gate, and the cavalier manner in
which Stevie had thrown off his warn-
ings about Grace Lee.
Meanwhile, the object of all these con-
jectures lived in the dark, in blissful igno-
rance of all that the great little world said
or thought about him. No day passed in
which he did not expect to hear of Lagger
or Jim Riley, and in this state of uncer-
tainty, he had written to Lord Rossthorne,
postponing his promised visit, but promis-
ing that the next month should not pass
without seeing him. London became very
dull and still. Cuddy remained in the
Temple, and Gigas did not go to Italy, but
was allowed two days' barbel-fishing at
Teddington Lock, as an equivalent. So
time passed on, and Stevie — who had
devised a hundred plans of working out
his clue, but found himself unable to take
the first step in any of them — began to
fidget at double Frankland power, when,
one morning, Charley Wantley glided
mysteriously into his bedroom (he had a
bad habit of smoking in bed of a morn-
ing.) and gave him a note from his (Char-
ley's) mother, in which that lady informed
him that she had heard of Riley, and that,
to the best of her belief, he was, at that
moment, in or near Westborough, making
inquiries about Nancy.
Frankland dressed quickly, and joined
Cuddy and Jackson at breakfast. They
were in close converse.
"May we venture to inquire," asked


158
A TANGLED SKEIN.
the former, "to what we are indebted for
this unusual honor?"
"I'll tell you. I'm going to leave you
this afternoon for a day or two."
Jackson looked at Cuddy with a queer
expression on his great face, and Cuddy
smiled a smile of pity, not unmingled with
surprise.
"And pray where do you think you are
going in this unceremonious and highly
reprehensible manner?" asked Cuddy,
"without asking permission too!"
"I am going to Westborough."
The two friends burst out into a roar
of laughter.
"Stevie, you've been playing the eaves-
dropper, and are making a virtue of neces-
sity," said Cuddy severely; "this is a la-
mentable example to show our young friend
here."
"Playing the eavesdropper," replied
Stevie, coloring, "what do you mean?"
"It has been arranged ever so long —
for the last ten minutes, in fact — that you
are going to Westborough this afternoon,"
said Cuddy; "it has been arranged ever
so long that Gigas and I should go, though
Gigas did not know it, and pretended he
was going to loaf his unwieldy carcase
about the Colosseum. A letter received
this morning from my uncle, with a post-
script from Gertrude Treherne, which
profane eyes are not permitted to read,
has settled the when, and ordered that
you are to be brought. Therefore, Gigas,
you will please to see that a supply of
clean shirts and other necessaries proper
for the captain's appearance amongst la-
dies, be packed in his portmanteau, and
you will both be ready to escort me to the
station at half-past three o'clock ; — so,
thank goodness, that's off my mind."
"But," stammered Stevie, " I could not
think of—"
"It is not necessary that you should
think at all, Sir," responded Cuddy; "the
exercise of intellectual powers in these
chambers has long been confided solely to
me. Brute force, when necessary, is per-
formed by Gigas. As for you, being a dis-
tinguished officer and accustomed to com-
mand, your duty is to do as you are told
and to hold your tongue. Eat your break-
fast. Do you imagine that we should leave
you in these chambers alone with the sil-
ver spoons? Preposterous!"
"What a fellow you are, Stevie!" he
added shortly afterwards, in a more serious
tone; "how on earth did you know that
we were going?"
"I had determined to revisit the
place for purposes of my own, quite ir-
respective of your movements," replied
Stevie.
"I am glad of that — very glad of that;
for do you know I was afraid that the re-
miniscences you have of it would be too
painful to make you care about coming."
"I tell you frankly, I would not go
there, if I had not a purpose in view,
other than visiting Mr. Treherne, much
as I like him and his daughters; but as it
is, I do not see why I should not accom-
pany you."
"Which means that it is a horrid bore
our going, but that you will try and make
the best of a bad job," said Cuddy. "Never
you fear, old fellow; no one shall interfere
with you. You shall do exactly what you
like; go where you please, and no one
shall ask questions."
"I wish to God, Cuddy, I could tell you
all, and ask your guidance and help in this
wretched — you know not how wretched
— case. It looks so unfriendly. But I
cannot, I dare not;" and Stevie bowed
his head and moaned.
"Poor dear old man," said Cuddy, laying
his hand affectionately on his friend's
shoulder, "don't you see that you make
me respect and love you more than ever,
by the noble way in which you are keeping
this confidence? No! I'm horribly cu-
rious, I own, but I would not have you let
me into the secret for worlds. As for my
guidance and help — set me to do anything
you like, and I'll do it without asking why
or wherefore; yes, and I'll be hanged if
Gigas sha'n't, too; and if he opens his ugly
mouth to ask questions, I'll very soon stop
it."
So the trio went down to Poundbridge,
where they found Mr. Treherne's carriage
waiting for them. Cuddy insisted upon
driving, and away they went towards
Kernden merrily, but it was not without
a shudder that Stevie passed the lane
that led to the wood and the old sawpit
behind Westborough church. The road
was full of associations for him. Here it
was that Nancy Riley sat — here where
he had parted with Jim — here where he
had met his father. Pondering over these
recollections, he fell into a sort of dream;
and the little carriage had drawn up at the
rectory, before he knew where he was.
Suddenly roused from this revery, he was
the first to descend. He strode into the
porch, and began to rub the dust off his
boots on what he took to be a small rug
placed there for the purpose; but the rug
gave a howl, rushed into a corner, and
barked at him furiously.
The rug was Doggie!


A TANGLED SKEIN.
159
CHAPTER XXVII.
DEALS WITH PCZZLES, OB AT LEAST
ONE SORT OF THEM—WOMEN.
Yes! What Stephen took for a door-
mat was Doggie, and tremendous was the
resentment of that unprepossessing animal.
If it were possible for a dog to bark him-
self into convulsions, Doggie would have
done it. As it was, he barked till he could
bark no longer, and then his indignation
subsided into an angry and reproachful
whine, from which he would burst now and
again into a fresh paroxysm of barking, as
though it had suddenly occurred to his
mind that he had not sufficiently asserted
his wrongs.
Now, when Doggie was free from du-
rance vile — as, in his character of guest
at Kernden Rectory he was, just now —
he and his mistress were generally to be
found together— the only redeeming point
in Doggie's disposition being his affection
lor Grace. But how came Grace to Kern-
den? Simply thus. Very shortly after
Stephen's departure from Tremlett Tow-
ers, a great change came over this young
lady's demeanor and conduct. I wish I
could say that it was marked with those
results which my reading teaches me should
be observed in the deportment of damsels
with well-regulated minds, when laboring
under similar trials. Would the reader
like her better if I were to say that she
"brooded o'er her silent grief as in its nest
the dove;" that " she let concealment, like
a worm in the bud, prey on her damask
cheek;" that she " pined in solitude," and
so on? If he would, please let him skip
on to the next paragraph. Let him fancy
that she behaved in all respects as he would
wish the girl of his heart to behave, and
not seek to know the truth, which, as a
faithful historian, I am bound to tell. And
this is, that she became silent and — must
it be said ? — sulky; that she was cross
with her favorite Jane, and boxed Bobby's
ears; that she grew discontented with her-
self, and extremely disagreeable to the
whole Coleman family. Let me say just
a few words in her defence, and I will go
on. She loved Stephen Frankland with
all the strength of her pure, strong heart.
Her woman's tact taught her that her
affection was returned ; but she knew also
of the cruel rock which lay between her
and the haven of her happiness, and she
had seen — or thought she saw — her life's
hope shipwrecked upon it. Not a word
of all Mr. Coleman had said about the
pride of the Franklands, and the misery
of their unequal marriages, had been lost
upon her. With gentle eyes — love-soft-
ened — she watched Stevie from her win-
dow as he passed through the garden on
the day of his last visit to Ruxton Court.
She saw him pause with her guardian at
the iron gate, and, in her mind, heard all
that passed. Oh, how her heart leaped
with joy when she saw our Stevie snap his
fingers in the air, and turn away gayly
towards his home! How it sank when the
news came that he had left it — gone not
to return! He had taken counsel with
night, and prudence had come with the
morning. But she had no reproaches for
him. All her anger was directed against
herself. "Idiot that I am," she would
break out in the midst of her long fits of
musing, "to think that I could ever be-
come the wife of an honorable man! 1,
the poor disowned — perhaps the child of
shame! But, oh, father! oh, mother! if
you had only let me know you; if you had
only tried to love me; if you had only
trusted me, instead of leaving me all alone
and unloved, all alone in the world — God
help me! — all alone!" And then tears
would come to her relief, and she would
sob herself to sleep.
"My love," said Mr. Coleman to his wife
one day, " our Grace is fretting herself to
death after that fellow Ste after
Frankland. She ought to have some
change to divert her mind."
"So she ought," agreed his better half;
"I'll get Beatrice to invite her to Ellwood."
"Stuff! your sister Beatrice is a —
Well, she has not your pleasant qualities,
my dear. Ellwood is not a lively place,
and Grace would mope there more than
she does now."
"Let her go to her own relations, then!"
said Mrs. Coleman, in a decisive tone, with
a little vexation in it.
"My love!"
"Don't speak to me in that reproachful
way, Coleman, as though I had said .some-
thing wicked, when I am talking common
sense. The girl has relations, I suppose?"
"My dear — business!"
"If you go on in this way, Sir, I declare
I shall begin to think that —"
"No you won't, Laura!" was the law-
yer's reply, as he stole his arm round the
ample waist of his buxom wife; "no you
won't, old woman. We haven't lived to-
gether forty years for that. Have we
now?"
"Well, I don't mean to say that you
know more about her than you ought,"
replied Mrs. Coleman, mollified by the not
unfrequent act of affection from the hus-


160
A TANGLED SKEIN.
band she. really loved and respected ; "but
you will own that it is hard to have a girl
under one's own roof, interfering with the
prospects of one's own flesh and blood,
without knowing who she is, or where she
came from. Not one wife in a thousand
would put up with what I have, Coleman;
and you know it."
"Because you are a wife out of a thou-
sand, my love," replied the old lawyer,
with a quaint smile. "But, to be frank
with you, I do not talk about Grace and
her affairs, because, in the first place, it's
business; and in the second, because I
know no more about them at this moment
than you do."
"But you can guess."
"I never guess. When old Spencer
Fane asked me to become the girl's trus-
tee — it's all nonsense calling me her
guardian, for she is of age— he said that
there were reasons why her parentage
should not be discovered; and that he
had taken care it never should be. Now
I know enough of old Spencer to be sure
that the clue to a secret hidden by him is
not to be guessed out of its hiding-place."
"Could he have been her father?"
mused Mrs. Coleman — not to be done out
of her conjectures.
Her spouse shook his head gravely.
"But we are wandering away from our
subject," he said ; " Grace must have some
change. It's quite clear that she loves
Stephen, and that he has jilted her. Don't
you see how she clings to everything as-
sociated with him? Why, she has even
taken up with Lady Tremlett."
"That's true," replied Mrs. Coleman.
"Do you know that Khoda has been here
twice this week, evidently to see her ? and
Grace has promised to spend to-morrow
at the Towers."
"Well, it will do her no good to go
there. Now listen to me. Isn't she en-
gaged to spend Christmas with the Tre-
hernes1"
"She is, and it's a great bore. She is
so very useful at Christmas time."
"It will not do to put it in that way;
but if you were to hint that it would be a
pity for her to miss our little gayeties —
particularly as the Trehernes, being in
mourning, cannot have any parties—it
might, perhaps, be arranged that she
should go there at once. She's fonder of
those girls than she is of ours — naturally
enough, for she's known them longer, and
they would cheer her up if anybody can."
"But suppose Stevie were to go
there?"
"What! aud revive all his associations
with Brandron's murder? Nonsense, my
love, it's out of the question."
Only see what a prophet Mr. Coleman
was!
His ideas were communicated — diplo-
matically enough — to Grace, and jump-
ed at. And "how splendid of you to
come, you delicious thing!" wrote Gerty
Treherne, in reply to the letter in which
her friend asked if it would be quite con-
venient for her to change the time fixed
for her promised visit.
The only person whom this arrangement
displeased was Lady Tremlett, who — as
we know from the hint thrown out by Mr.
Coleman — had suddenly taken a violent
fancy for Grace.
"What!" she cried, when she heard the
news, " you going too— you going to leave
me? Oh, Grace! how can you be so un-
kind? What shall I do? what shall I
do?"
"Do ?" replied our candid Grace, " why,
pretty much the same as you did a week
ago, I suppose."
"But you cannot think — you don't
know how I have learned to cling to you
in that little time. I must have somebody
who is good to cling to now, Graeey dear.
Oh, if Stevie had only stayed — if you
would not go!"
"I can understand your wishing to have
Captain Frankland here," said Grace, in a
low tone.
"Do you think he would come back?"
asked my Lady, eagerly; "we will all beg
his pardon if he will. Oh, ask him to
come back, Gracey — do ask him!"
"Nonsense, Lady Tremlett! How can
you suppose that I could do such a
thing?"
"But if we were all to beg his pardon,"
reiterated Lady Tremlett, in a tone of
entreaty — " if Francis were to promise
to behave better! But f forgot — you
don't know why Stevie went away."
"I suppose he had his reasons," said
Grace, beginning to feel uncomfortable.
"Oh yes, that he had! and we all be-
haved so badly — he so well. Do you
think he will ever come back?"
"How can I possibly say?" replied
Grace, who was burning to know what
reason Lady Tremlett assigned for her
step-son's abrupt departure. "How can I
possibly say," replied the astute damsel,
"unless I know why he went?"
And then the poor weak woman told
her all — all about the arrest of Sir George,
and the conduct of Francis and Stephen
thereon, with many digressions touching
the behavior of the former towards his


A TANGLED SKEIN.
161
half-brother; and Grace went home a hap-
pier girl than she had been for many a
long day, but still not happy. Good reason
was there for Stevie to leave his home so
suddenly; but had he not left her too,
having heard that she was what she was,
and without a word — a line to say Good-
Knowing my Lady's silly, volatile na-
ture, Grace thought little of the sorrow —
almost despair — which she evinced at
their parting. The time came when she
saw what it meant.
So she went to Kernden, and there
learnt, for the first time, that Stephen
Frankland had taken up his quarters with
Cuthbert Lindsay, in the Temple, but
knew nothing of the latter's approaching
visit; for the best of reasons — because
he was not expected till the day before he
actually arrived, and poor Doggie was mis-
taken for a mat. Cuddy, you must know,
had a long-standing invitation from his
uncle to run down when he pleased, with
his friends, for such pheasant-shooting as
the neighborhood afforded; but having
heard that there was a probability of the
girls spending some time at the sea-side
with their aunt, the little man postponed
his trip; not wishing (for reasons of his
own) to expend his bidding upon a time
when they — at least, one of them—should
be away from-home. As soon, then, as he
heard that their departure was indefinitely
postponed, he wrote to say that he was
coming "immediately, if not sooner," and
asked for leave to bring a friend, whom he
described, in the slang of the day, as " a
young man from the country," in lieu of
Lorimer, who had gone abroad. "And
won't they be pleased, just" — he chuckled
to himself — "when they find it's old
Stevie 1"
If this reticence had not been preserved,
the county of Kent would not have con-
tained Miss Lee when the carriage drove
up with the three Templars to the rectory
door. As it happened, however, she was
standing in the little honeysuckle-shaded
porch, with Doggie at her feet, her hands
clasped before her, and her beautiful head
thrown back wearily—gazing up into the
clear autumn sky, and thinking — think-
ing — thinking.
Doggie did not hear the sound of ap-
proaching wheels, for, upon the principle
of " love me, love my dog," he had been
plied with all sorts of unaccustomed viands
at luncheon, and was sleeping the sleep of
innocence and dyspepsia. Grace's thoughts
were busy afar off, and the phaeton ap-
proached within a dozen yards of her
before she was roused from her revery.
Then one glance was enough, and she fled
— fled through the hall, up the stairs, and
into Gertrude's room, where she found her
friend preparing to dress for dinner, and
rushed upon her, and seized her by the
arm.
"Oh, you wicked girl! oh, you false,
wicked, wicked creature!" she gasped,
with flashing eyes, and lips all in a quiver
"you knew it, you knew it, and did not
tell me! Oh, Gerty!"
Gerty was really frightened — and well
she might be — by the suddenness of the
attack.
"Good heavens! what has happened?
Are you mad, Grace? What on earth
do you mean? I declare you have hurt
me dreadfully!" she continued, as she
shook oft' the grasp of her excited assailant,
and looked at her pretty white arm in the
glass. "You wild animal! I shall not be
fit to be seen to-morrow." And, indeed,
there were five red marks, which bade
fairly to become black ere long.
"You knew he was coming!" cried
Grace, with a stamp of her foot and un-
diminished anger. It's a plot between you,
and its shameful — shameful!" And here,
exhausted by the excitement, she broke
down, and began to cry.
"Dear Gracey," said Gertrude, mollified
by the sight of her tears, "do explain
yourself. I give you my word that I am
not conscious of having done anything to
make you speak and look thus. Gracey!
little mother! can you think that your
child — your own Gerty — would hurt
you?"
"Little mother" was the school name
of the Treherne girls for their friend and
protector; and now Gertrude took Grace
in her arms, as she had been taken many
a time by her in her own childish troubles,
and petted and soothed her, begging the
while for an explanation of what had so
distressed her.
"He's here!" she sobbed, "he's here
now,—just arrived with your cousin Lind-
say, and they'll say that I came to meet
him. I am sure they will. They've said
all sorts of horrid things about us already,
and you know I never expected him. You
know I did not, Gerty! How dare you
sit there and smile, you wicked girl, like
that? You know I did not!"
"Did not what, dear?"
"Why, know that he would come!
How could I?"
"Perhaps you will enlighten me as to
who this mysterious' he' is, and then, may-
be, I can answer you."


162
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Were you, or were you not, aware that
Captain Frankland was expected with
Mr. Lindsay? Tell me candidly, Ger-
trude."
"Candidly, no! — but has he really
come ?" she asked. "What a goose Cud-
dy is to play such tricks! He only told
papa that he was going to bring a friend.
But what a pleasant surprise!"
"Pleasant for you, I dare say," replied
Grace, dryly; as for me, I shall leave this
house- as soon as it is convenient for you
to send me to the station."
"Humph," mused Gertrude; "I think I
see. Grace, dearie, there used to be no
secrets between us. You don't love me
less than you used in the old days, do
you?"
"No, my darling, not one bit!"
"But you love some one else a good
deal more, slyboots! You love this hand-
some, grave Stevie!"
"Pshaw!" was Grace's contemptuous
reply. "Love him!"
"Not a little, — little bit?"
"Don't be silly, Gertrude."
"I am so glad you don't like him, dear,"
said Gerty, hiding her winsome face on
Grace's bosom, and creeping close to her,
"because, you see, you're so pretty and
clever, that other girls would have no
chance against you. He's just the man to
fancy a clever girl like you, and, — and
you're my own dearest friend; but you
don't love him the least bit, Gracey,
dear? I don't mind telling you that I —
I —"
A change, curious to behold, came over
Grace Lee as these faltering words fell on
her ear. The contemptuous smile left
her lip, and it quivered with a totally dif-
ferent emotion.
"You!" she gasped, turning deadly
pale, and repulsing the lithe and elegant
figure that reposed in her arms, as though
it had been a snake that had stung her,
"you! oh, Gerty!" And there was a
depth of reproach and misery thrown into
those two little words that 1 cannot at-
tempt to render. But Gerty only burst
out into a peal of merry, musical laugh-
ter, and shook her finger at Grace, say-
ing.—
"Oh, you hypocrite! If you do not
love him, why shouldn't I?"
"The man's a fool!" replied Grace,
vexed at having fallen into the trap.
"What for, dearie?"
"Because he's so mild and humble, —
that's why. He goes about just as though
he were nobody at all, and lets them all
trample upon him down at home, just as
their bad, cowardly hearts please, when,
— when —"
"When what? —eh?"
"Why, when the top of his little finger
is worth them all, body and soul together.
Because he's the noblest-hearted man, the
kindest, most honorable gentleman that
ever won a poor girl's heart. There! it's
out."
It was Grace's turn now to hide her
fa^e.
"Woe betide poor me," said Gerty,
with a smile, "if I had called him a
fool. He would be one if he did not
love you, though. He does love you,
Gracey?"
"A little — a very little, I think. That's
the worst of it."
"His loving you only a little?" asked
Gerty, archly.
"No, dear," said Grace, a shadow of
pain passing over her flushed face as she
spoke; "his loving me at all."
"You very strange child, why?"
"It will grieve him when — I mean,
if he should ever— Gerty, I can never
be his wife."
"Oh, Gracey! Why not?"
"No matter, love. You and yours have
been very good to me — most considerate
and kind; and in forgetting what —- what
I am, and giving me your friendship, think
that others are equally generous; or, per-
haps, do not think about it at all. Others
are not equally generous, Gerty."
"But, dearie, if we, who are only friends
— though very stanch and dear ones, you
know — love and honor you, as we do,
without considering that — without think-
ing of anything but your sweet, winsome
self — surely the man who loves you would
do the same."
"At first he might," replied Grace, sad-
ly; "but, in the course of time, ill-natured
people might pity him; he might repent
of having made a nameless girl his wife;
he might even tell me so."
"Not if he is the man you take him to
be."
"I do not think he would say so in
words. I don't depend on their words to
know what is going on in people's minds.
He has never told me that he loves me,
and yet I am sure he does — a little.
Were we to marry, he would never tell
me that he had grown weary of me — that
he was ashamed of his poor foundling of
a wife — but I should know it; and, oh,
Gerty, it would break my heart!"
Gerty could only reply with a caress.
"But it is no use talking thus," contin-
ued Grace, dashing aside her tears. "He


A TANGLED SKEIN.
163
knows what — what I am not, and perhaps
he is wise, and has determined to forget
me." And then she told of their last meet-
ing, and Stevie's abrupt departure from
his home, with what she had heard from
Lady Tremlett of its cause. She also nar-
rated, to the intense indignation of honest
Gerty, the versions told by the scandal-
mongers of the neighborhood, both of this
and the affair in the old hall. "And so,
dearie," she said in conclusion, "you see
that it would never do for me to remain
here now that he has come."
"It would never do for you to go, you
goose," replied Gerty, "for then they
would say that he had really attempted
something wrong. No; if any one has to
leave, it must be him."
"Yes, and of course people would de-
clare I had made a dead set at him, and
he had run away to escape! A likely
story, indeed!"
"Well, then, as there are objections
both ways, let's ask Maud what she thinks
best. You don't mind trusting little Maud,
do you, dearie?"
So Maud was called into the council,
and told all. It was a pretty sight to see
poor Grace seated between those affec-
tionate girls; the arm of one round her
neck, and the arm of the other round her
waist, and with a hand of each clasped in
both of hers. Not the fiery Grace of half
an hour ago, or the quiet, resolute little
woman whom we have been accustomed
to see at Ruxton Court, but a sad and
trembling Grace, full of fears and doubts;
one who required much love and sympa-
thy at that moment, and who got it.
"Well, dearest," said Maud, " you know
I don't pretend to be as wise as Gerty, but
it seems to me that you ought both to
remain — for the present, at any rate;
and I think that Gracey ought not to be
selfish."
"Selfish, Maud!"
"Don't be cross, dear. You've told me
to say exactly what I think; didn't you
now?"
"Yes! yes! Go on!"
"If Captain Frankland really loves you,
and tells you so, and you really love him,
you ought to take his feelings into consid-
eration. What right have you to make
him miserable for a certainly, because you
fancy there is a chance of his making you
unhappy some day years hence?"
"He will soon forget me," replied Grace,
abstractedly.
"I do not think so badly of him," said
Maud. "He has evidently got something
preying on his mind. He's unhappy, dear.
I never saw a man so altered. I should
have hardly known him again."
"Have you seen him, then?" asked
Grace, quickly.
"Yes, just now, in the garden with
Cuddy; and, oh! such a great big friend
of his, that Mr. Jackson he talks about."
"And how is he? how does he look,
dearie?"
"Oh, very good-humored, but rather
awkward, I must say."
"What Ste Captain Frankland, I
mean, awkward?" exclaimed Grace.
"No! no! not Captain Frankland. I
was speaking of Mr. Jackson."
"You goose!" said Gertrude. "Do
you suppose that Grace wants to hear
about your Johnsons and Thompsons?"
"His name is Jackson."
"What's in a name? Your tall, awk-
ward friend, Maud, by any other name,
would be quite as uninteresting to Gracey;
wouldn't he, dear? What about the man
of men?"
"Well, he's looking very haggard and
stern, poor fellow. I'm sure he has some-
thing on his mind."
"Or is in love," interrupted Gerty.
"Maud is right," said Grace. "He has
something on his mind -— something dread-
ful. He told me so."
"Oh gracious! What is it ?" demanded
the two girls in a breath.
"That he did not say. I only know the
fact. He did not give me any partic-
ulars."
"And you did not ask him?"
"Ask him, Gerty!"
"Excuse me. I spoke without reflect-
ing. What on earth can it be?"
"I think I can guess," said Maud, after
a short pause.
"You clever little thing, what is it?"
asked her elder sister.
"May I say, Grace dear?"
"Of course you may."
"Well, then, I think it's something to
do with the murder of his friend, poor
Mr. Brandron." But Grace, remember-
ing what had passed in the old hall, shook
her head; and then Maud quoted, in sup-
port of her view, Stephen's refusal to de-
liver up Brandron's papers at the inquest,
and all that the landlady of the Rising
Sun had told her father about there be-
ing a secret between the dead man and
Ste vie.
"But what strikes me as most odd," said
Maud, "is something that we heard only
the other day. It seems that on the
day of the funeral, Captain Frankland
went over to 'The Wells,' and made all


164
A TANGLED SKEIN.
sorts of inquiries about where Mangerton
Grange was. Now, did you not say in
one of your letters, when you first went to
live with the Colemans, that that was the
old name for Tremlett Towers?"
Grace started, flushed, and trembled, at
the thought which this statement created.
"Yes," she said at last, " I did say so."
"Then you may depend upon it," said
Maud, in the triumphant tone of one whose
prophecy is giving signs of fulfilment," that
there is some connection between this poor
Mr. Brandron and the Frankland family,
ihough, perhaps, your Stevie does not
know it."
Grace thought of the scene in the old
hall, and the strange words which Stevie
had spoken in the conservatory at Ruxton
Court, and was bewildered.
"It is this that is making him miser-
able," continued Maud, " and, oh, Grace,
if we — I mean if you could help him to
clear up his doubts, and drive this black
cloud away!"
"Shall I go up to him, drop a curtsey,
and say, ' Please, Sir, give me your confi-
dence ' ?" said Grace, with a grim attempt
at levity.
"No, dearie," replied Maud; " but you're
so clever, you might win it, if you liked,
without appearing to wish for it. It must
be so sad to have a grief, and not a friend
to share it with."
"How do you know he has not got a
friend to share it with?" asked Gerty.
"Don't be sentimental, puss."
"Perhaps he has told Cuddy."
"Cuddy's a goose! No one would dream
of confiding anything to him."
"You're always running poor Cuddy
down, Gerty," said her sister, "and it's
very unkind. Isn't it, Grace?"
"I don't know," she replied, wearily,
"perhaps it is; but you must remember
that I have never seen your cousin, and
therefore cannot judge whether or not he
is an injured innocent."
"Well, you will see him very soon,"
said Gertrude, rising, "for there goes the
half-hour bell, and we've none of us begun
to dress yet."
"I don't think, dear, that I can come
down. Please make some excuse for me,"
pleaded poor Grace.
"Oh, dearie, that would never do. You
must come down to-day, and we will hold
a council of war to-night, when we go to
bed, a'nd see what is to be done for the
future."
So the friends separated; and half an
hour afterwards, Grace sauntered into the
drawing-room with an air of the utmost
unconcern and indifference, attired in a
plain black silk dress, and shook hands
with Stephen as though meeting him thus
were the most natural thing in the world.
Dear ladies, was I wrong in taking the
general public into the sanctum of those
young girls, and playing the eaves-dropper
as I have done? Do you suppose, gentle-
men, that you have all the talk to your-
selves, in your club windows and smoking-
rooms? You have been treated to a con-
versation which, on the whole, is flattering
to your sex, but don't suppose that the
dear creatures to whom you devote your
hours of idleness invariably sing the same
| song. When you roll away in your han-
soms from opera or ball — when you stroll
off to the club after the promenade —
when you sit up at night over your soda-
water and brandy, in the pleasant country-
house wherein you are favored guests, and
talk over Mary This, and Clara That, and
what you suppose to be passing in the
mind of pretty little Rosina, together with
the mighty effect which your lordship's
gracious presence and condescension is
producing upon the sex in general, — in
Buch hours, I say, do not your lofty ears
burn sometimes, and are you not conscious
that you are being talked over roundly in
your turn? Can you flatter yourselves
that silent laughter lives only in sleeves
of broadcloth, and that nothing but cap-
tive sighs are heard in the small hours
around toileWables, upon which bracelets
glitter? Ha! ha! my tall friends, laugh
and be gay. "When ignorance" — you
know the rest. We are lords of the crea-
tion, are we not? we in white chokers!
Sultans every man of us, with the world
for a harem! Who shall dare to laugh at
our Crimean beards? As for me, it is
tolerably well known that I keep a famil-
iar, who assumes in public the form of a
large bluebottle fly, and whom I am bound
to provide with fifteen thousaud python's
eggs a day for his dinner, under pain of
being torn to pieces, but who unroofs
houses for me like another Asmodeus;
and I as faithfully assure you that I have
never heard anything that would make
you wince in the sacred places just indi-
cated. So let us be gay — mighty ones
that we are — quaff the flowing bowl,
and think of the trophies that we shall
win to-morrow.
The result of the council of war was
a determination that no notice should be
taken of Stephen's arrival; and, to judge
by Grace Lee's manner towards him on all
occasions, no one would have guessed that
his visit gave her the least uneasiness.


A TANGLED SKEIN.
165
As a general rule, it is not pleasant to
be bayed at by an ugly cur, but the howls
of Doggie were exquisite music in the
ears of Stephen Frankland. He had fore-
seen what interpretations the Coleman
family, and, indeed, Grace herself, might
place upon his sudden exit from Derby-
shire, and it fretted his sensitive mind
sorely to think that he should be so mis-
judged by those he respected — by her he
loved. Half a dozen times he essayed to
write to Mr. Coleman, to his wife, to his
old playmate, Laura, and account for his
apparently heartless conduct, but was
stopped by the utter impossibility of ex-
plaining it, and a sense of the futility of
saying anything that was not based upon
an explanation. "Now," he thought, " I
can find an opportunity to show her that
some better cause than this idiotic pride
people talk about, or idle superstition, pre-
vents me from trying to win her affection."
(The goose could not see that he had won
it already.) "Would to Heaven that I
could tell her all!" What occasion was
there to tell her anything — what need of
an explanation, if she did not care for
him? None whatever, of course. Stevie
was in love; and when people get into
that lamentable state, logic and common
sense are the last things which occur to
their distempered minds.
Accordingly, he, too, set about playing
a part, became gay and indifferent; and to
anybody who was behind the scenes, there
was more real acting going on daily in that
quiet Kentish parsonage than is to be seen
behind the foot-lights of several popular me-
tropolitan theatres that could be mentioned.
The two principal performers determined
that they would do nothing that could be-
tray their actual characters, and, in con-
sequence, made themselves as wretched
as their worst enemies could wish them to
be; not only themselves, but certain of
their very good friends; for no doubt the
astute reader has perceived that there was
something more than a mere cousinly lik-
ing between Cuddy and the lively Ger-
trude; and, consequently, may imagine
that it did not add to the comfort of the
former, or of poor Grace, to see the hand-
some captain always walking by Gerty's
side in their rambles, and constantly in
possession of her ear at other times. How-
ever, Grace took good care to disguise her
feelings during this game of cross pur-
poses, and you may imagine how pleas-
antly the time passed. If people will go
play-acting in private life, they must take
the consequences, and three days of this
work sufficed to cool considerably the
friendship between Gerty and Grace,
Cuddy and Stephen, and sowed the seeds
of a very pretty quarrel between the two
latter. However .
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOWEVER .
However! The idea of heading a
chapter however!
Dear reader, if I only had the wit to
write all that could be written under such
a text, I would print the work in five-and-
twenty volumes, bound in morocco, with
gilt edges, and my portrait — after a pho-
tograph by Smear — opposite the title-
page. I'd make my publisher's fortune;
think of that, long-suffering man! For
myself, I'd smash every ink-bottle in the
house, and have currant and raspberry
tart, with Devonshire cream, for dinner
every day of my life. However —. There
it is again!
What is "However"? It is the great
high bank, with double posts and rails on
the top, and ever such a ditch on each
side, which "pounds" us in full cry after
our favorite fox, be his name Pleasure,
Ambition, Gain, what you will. It is the
bane which fills the healthy draught with
death, the antidote which renders the
poisoned goblet harmless. It is the bridge
leading to and fro, connecting this world
with that place which is said to have such
a peculiar pavement. Look at it! See
the swarms of wayfarers going down, el-
bowing, laughing, struggling on, and say-
ing within themselves, "It's very danger-
ous, it's very wrong; however, we think
we'll go." How they press forward! how
impatient they are of delay! Amidst so
dense a crowd, you can hardly recognize
the few who are trying to stem the tide in
the contrary direction, and who say, '. It's
very pleasant, it's very easy; however,
we'd better turn back." Hustle them,
knock them down, trample them under
foot! What right have they to get in
honest people's way, and tread on their
corns? Turn back, indeed! We all in-
tend to turn back some day; don't we ? ,
Of course we do, and this good intention
is never destined to macadamize the region
just indicated; never, never! The reso-
lutions made for the future by such fellows
as Jack and Tom and Harry, are not
worth a snap of the fingers; but yours


166
A TANGLED SKEIN.
and mine, my dear Sir, are very different;
so come along.
This is one of those digressions which, I
am told, are knocking off fifty-seven pounds
eleven and sixpence a page from the com-
mercial value of this story. I don't care!
A pretty story it would be if I were to
stick to any facts. Shall I say, "Once
upon a time there was a secret, and two
people who were in love; and the secret
bothered them, and somebody found it out,
and then it was all right again ; you know"
— would that sort of thing suit? If so,
there it is; and I'll write half a dozen like
it every week, and sell them for three
hundred guineas apiece.
I concluded the last chapter with that
"will-o'-the-wisp" of a word, which has
led me thus astray, for a special purpose.
What a poor foolish bird is that which
sticks his thick head in the sand, and fan-
cies no one can see his plumes! What
vastly superior beings were the ladies and
gentlemen at Keruden Rectory! They
were all so sure that they were each
working towards his or her end undis-
covered, and that this end was a good
one. Grace Lee was quite sure that she
could play her cards so as never to give
Stephen the glimmering of an idea re-
specting the secret which fluttered in her
poor little breast. Stephen was quite sure
that he could let her see that there was
some hidden obstacle between him and her
heart, without touching it in the attempt.
The Treherne girls were quite sure that
they would smooth the path of true love
for their friends sooner or later, and that
Cuddy never could be jealous. Cuddy
was quite sure that he was beginning to
hate old Stevie. Good, simple Mr. Tre-
herne was quite sure that nothing extraor-
dinary was going on in his house; and all
were perfectly agreed that Gigas was far
too stupid to have anything out of the com-
mon way on his big hands. How I
had very nearly done it again!
Whilst all these heads were in the sand,
Stephen had not neglected the business
which had been the cause of his visit to
Westborough. He took an early oppor-
tunity of telling his host of the discoveries
he had made respecting Jim Riley, and
the poor afflicted girl who had passed
as his sister. The good rector was no less
delighted than surprised at the news, and
readily acceded to Stevie's request that
he would give him his aid towards discov-
ering Nancy's parentage. "And I'm sure
it's very noble in you, Captain Frankland,"
he said, "to take so much trouble about
one who has no sort of claim on you."
"No sort of claim upon me!" mused
Stephen. "If it should turn out as I sus-
pect!" But he kept his own counsel, and
the credit given to his disinterestedness.
Between them they discovered that Mrs.
Riley had come into the neighborhood
with the child some fifteen years ago.
That, from certain hints she had let drop,
it was generally understood that she had
come from Norfolk; that she had been in
service, and had saved money; that she
had married, and lately lost her husband;
that a lease of the cottage in which she
died had been bought for her by some at-
torney in London, whose name the steward
of the manor could not remember; and
that at first the child wore ver^ good
clothes — silks and laces — and had a gold
chain round its neck.
Stephen also found out that Mr. Lagger
had been staying at the Rising Sun, and
that since the departure of the detective,
Jim Riley had been beforehand with him
(Stephen) in the inquiries that he was
making amongst the old people of the vil-
lage. No more information could he obtain
far or near.
Oh ! if he could only discover the lawyer
who had negotiated the lease!
One day, whilst thinking of something
— perhaps it would be more true to say
some one — else, an idea ran full tilt into
his head, as ideas sometimes will run, when
you are not laboring after them. The
same person who had tried to keep Bran-
dron out of the way had, it might be con-
cluded, a hand in sending Mrs. Riley and
the child from where they were known.
That Mr. Williams, who had corresponded
with the murdered man just before his de-
parture for India, " Might it not be he,"
mused Stephen, " who had established Mrs.
Riley in that quiet Kentish lane? What
a blockhead I am not to have thought of
this before!" He determined to leave the
next day, return to London, see the attor-
ney, and try what else he could get out of
him.
It was on the road back to the Rectory
from Westborough, where he had been
prosecuting his inquiries, that this idea
struck him, and, on entering the garden,
he found Gertrude and her sister seated on
a rustic bench, which surrounded the bole
of a huge oak-tree, and working away at
their — I don't know what to call it — a
wondrous and bewildering tangle of colored
worsted, pretty fingers, and sticks; that's
what it was! Working away, I repeat,
and chatting confidentially. A little star-
tled, a half-guilty smile broke over Gerty's
face as Stevie made his presence known,


170
A TANGLED SKEIN.
every evil influence, and being what she
is."
"The darling! But oh, Stevie !— may
I call you Stevie just for a little time?"
continued Gerty, checking herself, and
clasping her little white hands together
with an imploring air that was not to be
resisted — "I should be able to say what I
have — what I want — to say to you so
much, oh, so much better, if you would not
think it odd, and let me call you Stevie.
Long before we saw you we all liked you
so much by that name, for it was the name
by which dear Charley knew and loved
you. Maud and I have always talked of
you as Stevie," said the frank girl, "as
Charley's Stevie, you know, and associ-
ated with the name so much that is brave
and true and gentle, that just now, when
I was going to take a very great liberty,
and say something which I could not say
to Captain Frankland, the familiar word
sprang unbidden to my lips. May I go
on? May I speak to dear Charley's friend
as I would have spoken to dear Charley
himself, if God had spared him to us?"
The grave look which had deepened al-
most into sternness as Gertrude began,
changed and grew sad when she men-
tioned her dead brother's name, and then
slowly melted into that sweet, almost wom-
anly smile of his that we know of. He
looked her searchingly in the face, but its
kind, anxious expression never wavered.
There was no romantic nonsense in Gerty.
"Call me what you please," he said;
"say on, and I will listen as poor Char-
ley's friend."
'. First of all," Gerty commenced, "tell
me; you have no sister?"
"No, thank God!"
Gertrude expected quite a different re-
ply, and was a little taken aback.
"I never had a sister," Stephen con-
tinued; "I am quite alone in the world
now. I have no home, no brother, no
mother! I am the last of my name, and
again I say, Thank God!"
"That expression betokens a strange
state of mind, Ste Captain Prank-
land, and — pardon me for saying so —
rather a morbid one."
"Miss Treherne," replied Stephen, turn-
ing his face aside, and speaking in a troub-
led but deliberate voice, "you will hear
and observe many things about me — per-
haps you have already heard and observed
some — which may make you consider my
conduct strange, my mind morbid. I should
like to be thought of kindly and well in
this house — to leave a good name amongst
your family, and — and your friends. It
is a bitter sorrow to me not to be liked
and respected by those I like and respect.
You will give me credit for this, Miss Tre-
herne?"
"Readily — entirely!"
"Then think what it must cost me to
say, 'I am going deliberately to do things
which will lose me your esteem, and I can-
not offer a single excuse for them — I
cannot even bid you suspend your judg-
ment, and let time justify me.'"
"I know what you mean," said Ger-
trude, quickly ; " you have discovered who
murdered Mr. Brandron—you are going
to give him up to justice, and you fancy
we will all think you revengeful and blood-
thirsty- Is it not so?"
"You are wrong — quite wrong," Ste-
phen replied. "If the—if that person
were to be discovered, and — and pun-
ished, it will not be through my instru-
mentality."
"I am glad of that — very glad! Not
but that I should like to know that such a
wretch should have his deserts; only one
does not like one's friends to be mixed up
in such things. Besides, fancy the after-
life of a murderer! It must be a far
greater punishment for him to let him live
in never-ending remorse, in hourly fear
of detection, than to strangle him on the
gallows. And then, villain though he must
be, I dare say there are some innocent
ones who care for him, and on whom cruel
people would visit his sins."
"Is it not written, that the sins of the
fathers shall be visited on the children?"
said Stephen, in a changed, husky voice.
"Ay, by God — not by man, Captain
Frankland; and not even by God under
the covenant of the New Testament, if I
read it aright."
"You asked to call me Stevie," he
said, with glittering eyes. "Dear, gen-
erous girl, you little know what comfort
there is in those words."
"You require comforting?"
"God help me! no one more," he
moaned, covering his face with his bands.
"Then seek it in His word and prom-
ises."
"I have, I have! But, oh! if I had a
— if I were not so utterly alone!"
"Stevie," she said, laying her hand
timidly, but with sisterly tenderness, upon
his bowed head, "dear Stevie, Charley's
Stevie! listen to what I was about to say
(but with far less reason and force than I
can say it now), when by mere accident I
touched upon a subject which — I know
not why, neither do I ask — has struck
such a sad chord in your heart. You are


A TANGLED SKEIN.
171
the prey of some deep and secret sorrow,
Stevie; we can all see that, and we have
all grieved in beholding it. Do not fancy
for an instant that I ask, or wish to be-
come your confidante," she added quickly,
as he raised his head, and was about to
make a reply, "but share your troubles
with some one you must, Stevie; or they
will wear your sensitive nature into the
grave. Who knows," she continued, more
gayly, "that you are not fretting yourself
about nothing at all? An explanation —
a reflection, in other eyes, of what appears
to you so black and gloomy -— in eyes that
love you, Stevie — may present a picture
vastly different from that over which you
brood so painfully. A sorrow shared is a
sorrow more than half assuaged. Share
your sorrows then, Stevie, but only with
her who has the right to bear them with
you. If poor Charley were alive you
-would be guided by him — be guided now
by poor Charley's sister, who cannot bear
to see his friend so wretched, and who
sympathizes with him from the very bot-
tom of her heart."
"What would you have me do?"
"Share your griefs, — whatever they
may be, — with the girl you love-"
"I do not, — I mean, I must not love
any one!"
"Now, Stevie," replied Gertrude, "this
is folly. Do you suppose that we are all
deaf and dumb and blind down in Kent
here? Unless we knew you to be the
good man and honorable soldier that you
are, we should — not being bereft of our
senses — think very badly of you; but we
are aware that love makes cowards, and
— geese of the bravest of you men; and
for all your Victoria cross, and your scars;
your bronzed cheek, and the battle-flash
-which sometimes lights up your eye, we
know you to be a very coward in the pres-
ence of a certain silken skirt. Do you
suppose that little Maud and I have not
noticed you start, and turn pale, and trem-
ble, when it has rustled past you? Take
heart of grace, Stevie, and — and don't
tell fibs. Look up, Sir, this moment, and
give a plain answer to a plain question."
Stephen did look up, but disclosed a
face so changed, so haggard and ghastly,
that the sight of it frightened the playful
words that hung on Gerty's lips, and she
merely said, —
"You love Grace Lee."
"With all my heart, with all my soul,"
Stevie exclaimed, with warmth. "I love
her now, and I shall love her till my last
hour, but I can never tell her so. Good
God! what is that?" he cried, starting
from his seat, as a low cry — half sob,
half wail — was heard from the other side
of the great oak.
He darted round, and there saw Grace
Lee herself, — or rather what might have
been taken for her wraith, so pale and life-
less did it seem, — standing with one
hand pressed upon her heart, and the
other stretched out towards the great tree,
vaguely seeking for support. She would
have fallen if Stephen had not caught her
in his arms; but at his touch a shudder
ran through her frame, and with a mighty
effort she regained sufficient strength to
repulse him.
"Maud told me you were here," she
gasped, — " that you were waiting for me;
and 1 heard you mention my name, Gerty,
and — and — I came; and, oh, Gerty,
you know you sent for me!"
But Gerty had disappeared, and there-
fore there came no response to this ap-
peal.
"Let go my hand, Captain Frankland,"
poor Grace cried, flushing crimson as she
saw that they were left alone. "It is
cruel, unmanly of you! How dare you
detain me thus, when I wish to leave?"
Grace had a manner of saying " How
dare you ?" on great occasions, which was
not to be withstood. Stephen released
her hand, and she sank upon the rustic-
seat, burst into tears, and sobbed, " Leave
me, oh, do, — do leave me!"
"I will," said Stephen, sadly; "but not
till I have said what, in common justice,
in common mercy, you should hear. You
have heard too much not to hear still
more."
"I heard my name. I thought —
Maud said Gertrude wanted me — and
— and -"
"Then you heard what followed?"
"Yes, — yes! but you did not intend it
for my ears. Do, do consider it unsaid,
and now go, — leave me here, and send
Gerty back."
"Presently. For the first and, may be,
the last time, I must say to you what I
have already said of you, — what has been
in my heart of you many and many a day;
I love you, Grace, as I never loved before,
j — as I shall never love again; but too
fondly, too well, to ask you to give one
kind thought for one who may bear a dis-
honored name."
"A dishonored name!"
"Hear me out, and judge how deep is
that love when it forces me to confide to
you a secret which I thought I should have
carried with me to my grave, unless,—
but no matter! And, oh, Grace, if, — no,


172
A TANGLED SKEIN.
I will not, dare not hope. Listen! A
few days before I first saw you, when I
was last here, a murder was committed in
the wood behind Westborough Church.
The man to whose gentleness and care I
owed my life was the victim. I have too
good reason to believe that he fell by the
hand of my own father."
Grace Lee sprang to her feet. "Gra-
cious heavens !" she exclaimed, " I see it
all!" and then, when he expected to see
horror and aversion stamped upon her
face, it was suffused by an expression of
unutterable love and pity, and in a tone
of ineffable tenderness, she murmured
softly, "My poor Stevie! oh, my poor,
poor Stevie!
It was enough. The next moment
she was clasped to his heart, and .
Come away, reader. No one but the lit-
tie birds saw what followed, and they won't
tell.
"Why, what can be keeping dinner?"
inquired Mr. Treherne, looking at his
watch. "I declare it is a quarter to
seven!"
"Hush, papa!" replied Maud, leading
the rector into the bow-window of the
drawing-room; "they've only just come
in."
"Who have only just come in?"
"Grace and Captain Frankland; they
— thev've been out for a walk."
"What, in the dark?"
"They did not know it was dark, —
they lost their way in the wood."
"Really?" rejoined the good clergy-
man; "how very disagreeable!"
Little Maud smiled.
"But I'm very glad," continued her
father, in a confidential whisper, "that
they seem to have overcome that coolness,
not to say antipathy, which they seemed
to have towards each other."
"Antipathy, papa! What do you
mean?"
"You are too young and giddy, my
pet," he said, patting his pretty daughter
fondly on her fair, cool shoulder, " to no-
tice such things; but it was quite clear
from their manner, and the way they have
avoided each other, that they had taken a
mutual dislike. It is very foolish and un-
charitable, Maud, to take dislikes; and I
hope when they become better acquainted,
— for they are both very estimable young
persons, — that they will overcome such
nonsense."
"Why, you dear darling of an old blind
bat!" cried little Maud, at the end of a
peal of musical laughter; "they " — and
she threw her arms round her father's
neck, and whispered in his ear.
"Well, I never was so much astonished
in my life !" he exclaimed; and his looks
did not belie the assertion.
Some twenty minutes or so before this
conversation took place, Grace rushed into
Gerty's room, flung herself upon that
young lady, and cried, " Oh, Gerty, what
am I to do? I am so happy!"
"Be as happy as you please, dear," re-
plied she, demurely; "but pray don't
tumble my berthe. I declare I shall be
obliged to change it, and I put it on fresh
not five minutes ago!"
"If you are so provoking, Gerty, I will
not tell you what has happened."
"Very well, dear; go and dress for
dinner. You're very late !" and the pro-
voking one proceeded leisurely to select
another lace berthe.
"Gerty, dear!"
"Well!"
"He loves me, he loves me, he loves
me," cried the happy girl, with a little
jump of delight at each repetition of the
phrase; "and I've told him —"
"Told him what?"
Strong-minded Grace Lee began to
cry; whereupon the provoking one (who,
in truth, was burning to hear the news,)
was provoking no longer, and heard with
great delight how it was that the pair,
whom she had left under the old oak, had
lost their way in the wood, and what sort
of conversation had made them forget all
about dinner-time, and that it was getting
dark.
"And he's going to write to Mr. Cole-
man to-night," said Grace; "and we're
going to India very soon, and you and lit-
tle Maud are to be bridesmaids, and your
papa is to marry us, — very quietly, you
know; and I believe that it was all through
you, you darling; and I told such a big
fib, — and, oh, I am so happy!"
She was certainly not coherent, though.
"But what fib did you tell, dear?"
asked Gerty.
"Why, I told him that I only came up
when I heard you say my name; and
really, I came just as you said his. I
heard you call him Stevie, Gerty; and,
oh, I was in such a rage! I was so wick-
edly jealous of you, it was all I could do to
prevent myself from springing upon you,
and tearing your eyes out!"
"Mercy on us! what an escape I've
had! And did you hear all we said after-
wards?"
"No, dear, not all; but Stevie told
me."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
173
"That was very silly of him," said Ger-
trude, looking vexed.
"No, dear, it was not. At the risk of
my taking offence at knowing how his pro-
posal had come about, he told me all that
had passed between you and him; and if
there is one quality that I prize more than
another in that man," she continued,
proudly, "it is his unswerving honesty
and truth."
"You are a pair for that, I think," said
Gerty, kissing her.
"No, no, we're not," Grace replied, de-
murely; "I did not tell him half how I
love him. I was very reserved and cold
to him, poor fellow."
"Well, we must not stop talking here.
They're waiting dinner; so run along to
your room, change your dress, dearie, and
I'll come and help you. It will not take
five minutes to slip on that black silk."
"Yes, but I should like—if you thought
there would be time — I should so like to
wear my white muslin with the pink spots.
Don't you think, dear " — and she sidled
up towards Gerty, and began to fidget with
the buckle of her waist, her eyes cast down
the while, — " don't you think, dear, that I
should look nicer in my muslin?"
Gerty laughed. "Why, where is our
strong-minded Grace, who used to profess
such contempt for finery, and all the van-
ities ?"'
"Gone, Gerty, clean gone, I think," she
replied, in a pitiful tone. "He is strong-
minded enough for both; and since his
strong arm has been round me, and his
big, brave heart open to my own, I have
felt so weak and happy, that I am afraid
I shall never be strong-minded any more,
— only don't tell him!"
Do not say "afraid," bonnie Grace Lee.
Never regret the loss of that which made
you less perfect woman, though you are
committing deadly sin in the lovely eyes
of the Honorable and Reverend Mrs.
Corbyle and her set. If "dearest Fran-
cis " had heard your confession, you would,
no doubt, have fallen greatly in the esteem
of that exemplary young man. There are
some even, I suppose, who, reading this
part of your history, will think you soft,
and sentimental, and Missyish. Let them!
Nature was altogether wrong, wasn't she?
when she ordained that woman's strength
should be in her weakness. Go forth, ye
strong-minded ones—sans crinoline-—in
blue spectacles, and stockings to match!
regenerate the world, and turn the milk
of human kindness sour with your vinegar
aspects. Teach the so-called lords of the
creation their proper places. Be lawyers,
doctors, statesmen, tax-collectors, — any-
thing you like; but spinsters forever!
Only when this flood of wisdom that you
would bring about does cover the world,
and demolish the sort of women some of us
love and honor, and who wield a power
over us, — that I have my doubts about
your ever attaining, — then let an ark be-
made, in which a few Grace Lees may be
preserved, in case it should turn out after
all that they make the best Christians,
wives, mothers, and friends.
And if there be a vacancy on board
for a cabin-boy, let application be made
to the publisher of this work for the ad-
dress of a young man, — steady, honest,
and obliging, with a good character from
his last place, — who will be glad to ac-
cept the situation.
So Grace Lee came down to dinner in
her white muslin with the pink spots; and
the fish was boiled to rags, and the haunch
of mutton overdone.
CHAPTER XXIX.
IN WHICH POOR GRACE LEE'S NEW-
BORN HOPES ARE SHIPWRECKED.
"Cuddy," said Mr. Treherne, as he
rose, and was about to quit the dinner-
table soon after the girls had left the
room, "you will find more claret in the
cellaret. Captain Frankland, when you
have quite done dessert, I should like to
speak to you for a few moments, in mv
study."
"Holloa !" said Jackson, when the door
close upon his host, "what's the mat-
ter?"
"Never you mind, Gigas," observed
Cuddy, who was in the secret; "you go
on eating those plums, and you shall have
the cholera morbus, and be buried like a
gentleman, to the great relief of your
family."
Stevie lost no time in following Mr.
Treherne, and found him deep in the
mysteries of Bradshaw.
"My daughter Maud has told me, Cap-
tain Frankland," he said, " that you have
made a proposal of marriage to our dear
friend, Miss Lee, and that you have been
so fortunate as to be accepted."
"You may, indeed, say fortunate, Sir.
I would have told you of this myself, Sir,
and so would Grace, I know, if we had
had an opportunity."


174
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"I am sure you would, — I am sure
you would. I give you joy with all my
heart; but there are other persons of more
importance than I, my dear young friend,
deep as is my interest in you both, to be
informed and consulted with."
"I know what you mean. I am going
to write to Mr. Coleman by this night's
post, and so is Grace."
"Grace may write, my dear boy, but
you must go and see him. You must go
and see your parents, and consult them.
There are so many things to be weighed
and discussed on a subject like this, that
if you were to write letters for a month
you would not conclude anything properly.
No! There is nothing like talking mat-
ters over face to face. Now I see here,"
he went on, pointing to his Bradshaw,
"that the early train, which leaves Pound-
bridge at seven," — poor Stevie winced.
He had been thinking how nice it would
be to show Grace, by the pleasant light
of early morning, how it was that they had
lost their way in the gloaming, — " arrives
in London," continued Mr. Treherne,
"just in time for you to catch the mid-day
express. By this you can get home to
dinner. You might have a long talk with
Sir George in the evening, and a couple
of hours next morning might suffice to ar-
range all that need at present be arranged
with dear Grace's guardian."
"She is of age, — her own mistress in
every respect. Mr. Coleman is only her
trustee."
"Be it so. You know best. Still he
must be consulted. Go then, my dear
friend; and the quicker you are back, the
better I shall be pleased; only you must
excuse my saying that I cannot consent to
your remaining in my house (under pres-
ent circumstances) for one hour more than
is absolutely necessary, until and unless
everything is properly arranged, with the
consent of your family and her — her
trustee."
The rector's tone was very kind, but so
firm, that Stevie gave in at once, — in-
deed, how could he do otherwise ?" It is
rather hard, you'll admit," he said, with a
brighter smile than had lighted his eye for
many a day, " to leave her so very soon;
but you are quite right, Mr. Treherne,
and I thank you much for your good coun-
sel. I will see Mr. Coleman, and, — and
I will undertake to bring you my father's
consent to my marriage."
"That's capital, — capital! I should
have thought very poorly of you if you
had not felt it a great bore to go; and
more poorly still if you hail not made up
your mind to do what is right in the end.
And now I will not keep you any longer
from the drawing-room. God bless you, my
dear young friend! If Grace had been
my own child, I could not give her to you
with more confidence or less regret. Ah,
poor Charley!"
In the hall Stephen encountered Jack-
son, who seized him by the hand, and
nearly dislocated three of his fingers in his
herculean grasp. "Cuddy's told me," he
whispered, "and, — and I ain't a clever
fellow, you know, or eloquent and that,
but I do wish you joy, Stevie; I do with
all my heart. It seems .like a good
omen."
"Of what?"
Gigas blushed like a girl of sixteen, and
began to stammer something about its
bringing good back to the chambers; in
the midst of which incoherent utterances,
Stevie thanked him for his good wishes,
and passed on.
The folks at Kernden Rectory were too
kind and well-bred to say or do anything
which could embarrass the happy lovers, and
so the evening passed much as many of its
predecessors had done; except that the
pleasant circle of friends broke up and
separated for the night rather earlier than
usual, as though by common consent.
Grace retired to her room alone, wrote
a short business-like letter to her' trustee,
and to Mrs. Coleman a long and affection-
ate epistle, in which she opened her heart
to the jolly matron from whom she had
received so many acts of kindness; and
this done, took out her Bible and began to
read, breaking off every now and then, as
her mind would stray from the page, to
wonder whether her happiness were real,
or merely a dream, from which she should
wake before the morning dawned.
It was long past midnight when a slim
figure, draped in white, and which might
have been taken for a ghost but tor its rosy
cheeks, glided into the room where the
Treherne girls slept, and sat itself at the
foot of the Ded.
"Gerty, Gerty," it said, in a low voice,
"are you awake, dear Gerty?"
This last appeal, in a louder tone, and
accompanied by a shake, settled the
question, and Gertrude and her sister
sprang up together with cries of alarm.
"Oh, Grace! what has happened 1"
gasped Gerty.
"Don't say it's thieves!" said Maud,
really frightened, and stopping her ears
lest she should hear the dreaded word.
"No, no, dears; there is nothing the
matter, — really nothing. I only came


176
A TANGLED SKEIN.
would be called upon to say and do upon
the occasion. However, he consoled him-
self by the thought that the ordeal would
only last for an hour or two, and would
end by his carrying away Grace, — his
first love, — to happier scenes, as his
wife.
From these reflections he was roused by
a crash of glass, and something hard and
heavy fell on the table, and rolled from
the table to the floor.
We know what followed. He went out,
searched the shrubbery, and the garden,
looked up and down the lane, but found
no one, heard no sound, and so returned
to his room.
"Some drunken tramp," he thought,
"passing by, and seeing a light in the
window, has thrown a stone at it."
But where was the stone?
Stephen searched where he had heard
it fall, and found it. To his surprise, he
saw that a folded paper was attached to it
firmly by a piece of faded black ribbon.
It was some time before he could undo
the knots, and then he read what was
written on the paper.
"This precious Stevie will miss his train
if he does not make haste," said Gertrude
Treherne to her sister, whilst busy making
the tea for the breakfast of the departing
guest. "Where's Grace?"
"Not down yet."
"Well, she's a nice girl, to wake people
up in the middle of the night to get them
to come down early with her, and not to
make her appearance after all."
"Perhaps they are out in the garden
together."
"No, Grace would not do that, I am
sure. It seems so odd that he's not down.
Oh, Williams," she said to the servant, as
he entered with some dish, "have you
called Captain Frankland?"
"Yes, Miss — more than an hour
ago."
"And I knocked at Grace's door my-
self," said Maud, " and she answered me."
"What can she be doing?"
"If you please, Miss," interpolated Will-
iams, "Elizabeth went up to Miss Lee's
room about half an hour since with a let-
ter."
"What! has the post come in already?"
"No, Miss. It was not a post letter."
"What was it, then? Who sent it?"
"I don't know, Miss. Perhaps Eliza-
beth —"
Gertrude did not wait to hear the rest,
but sprang two stairs at a time up to
Grace's room.
"Grace! Grace!" she cried, knocking
at the door.
No answer!
"Oh, Grace, do say something!
Grace?"
Still silence!
"Oh dear! what shall we do! what shall
we do!" she cried, wringing her hands,
whilst Maud, who had followed, stood by,
wondering and asking what could have
happened.
"Is anything wrong, Miss Treherne?"
demanded Jackson, who at that moment
appeared on the scene.
"Yes ! — no ! — that is — oh, Grace, do
answer!"
"Good heavens! is Miss Lee ill?
Where's Frankland?"
"Gone, Sir!" said the maid Elizabeth,
from the foot of the stairs. "He left be-
fore five o'clock, and gave me a letter for
Miss Lee, which I took up to her just
now."
"In her room?"
"Yes, Sir."
Jackson rattled the door, and banged it
with his knuckles loud enough to wake the
dead. It was locked inside.
"Miss Lee ! — answer, pray! Your
friends are dreadfully anxious. Miss
Lee!!!"
No sound in reply.
"Shall I break open the door?"
"Oh yes! please do — now at once!"
cried Gerty.
Gigas just seemed to lean his shoulder
against the door, and in it flew.
They found Grace completely dressed,
sitting on the floor, and staring at them
as they entered, but with no sight in her
gaze. Staring, pale as ashes, through
them, past them, into vacancy — staring
as a corpse might stare into futurity.
Gertrude and Maud flung themselves
upon the ground beside her, twined their
arms round her, called her by every en-
dearing name. They could not rouse
her. They brought every sort of restora-
tive, and forced them upon her — in vain!
Nothing that they could do averted that
stony, lack-lustre stare into vacancy.
She let them raise her to her feet. She
let Jackson lift her — and he did it tend-
erly — and carry her to her bed. She
let the girls take off the pretty dress —
never worn before — which she had put
on that morning because it was a color
that Stevie liked. She let the doctor
come and feel her pulse, and shake his
head over her. She even murmured
"Thank you" now and again, as little
services were rendered her; but still,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
179
matter which she had so much at heart —
increased as the time went on, whenever
she found herself alone with her husband
or her son. The former could not help
her — the latter would not.
This, you may be sure, made her son
very uncomfortable; nor was it all he had
to trouble him. He felt that he had made
a great mistake in that unpleasant affair
between his father and Messrs. Puddle and
Snap. He had held the ace of trumps in
his hand, and had let Stephen win the
game with a trumpery four! The old,
vulgar Tremlett love of money, as money,
had got into his eyes and blinded him. It
was not in the nature of Francis Tremlett
to think himself a fool; but he admitted,
in his own mind, that it would have been
much better for him if he had not acted
"upon principle " this time, and had let
his mother pay the debt and costs — better
even to have paid them himself, than to
have given so cheap a triumph to Stevie,
and through him to his father.
To his great discomfort the latter made
no secret of his arrest. Lord Rossthorne —
whose gout had got better — came down to
luncheon that very day, and was admiring
the horses in Lady Tremlett's carriage, as
it stood at the porch ready for her to
take her afternoon drive with the Honor-
able and Reverend Mrs. Corbyn, and the
lady of Professor Spraggle.
"Yes," observed Sir George, bitterly,
"they are very handsome—thorough-bred,
of course! They cost four hundred guin-
eas, a sum which was not forthcoming this
morning to save me from a jail."
"-4 what f" exclaimed the peer.
"Father," cried dearest Francis, in an
agony, " pray —"
But Sir George did not heed the exhor-
tation, or attend to the gestures —- now
threatening, now entreating — of his son.
He continued quite calmly, —
"Yes, a jail! You would not think it
to look at this house — the magnificent
country-seat of Sir George Tremlett, Bar-
onet, as the guide-books call it," he said,
with bitterness, " and at all that rich and
fertile land about, all pouring in its rents
regularly four times a year in thousands;
you would not think, I say, that I was
arrested here this morning for a debt of
.some four hundred pounds, and had not
four hundred shillings to pay it with."
"Disgraceful!" muttered Mr. Tremlett.
"What's disgraceful ?" echoed his father,
who had determined to humiliate him;
"that I should not have four hundred
shillings? Four hundred shillings make
twenty pounds, and how can you expect a
man whose whole annual income is only
£150, to have so much in his pocket in the
middle of a quarter? You are unreason-
able, Francis." There was an irony in
this — said before the peer — which cut
the dear fellow like the stroke of a whip,
and made him flinch again.
"But the arrest, the arrest," impatiently
interposed Lord Rossthorne. "I do not
understand — how — who You are
not now —"
"I will explain all," Sir George inter-
rupted, "in good time."
"I really do not see the necessity of
any explanation," pleaded Mr. Tremlett;
"the thing is past and over. It is a very
disagreeable subject — why not let it
drop?"
"Because, Sir," rejoined his father, stern-
ly, " you have used the word ' disgraceful'
in connection with my conduct in the af-
fair, before one of the oldest friends I have,
and so I choose to explain."
"If you like to expose yourself — " be-
gan dearest Francis, getting very hot.
"Silence, Sir!" said Lord Rossthorne,
in a subdued voice, and not a shade of vio-
lence in the gesture, but still with a tone
and manner which would have cowed a
bolder man than Francis Tremlett; "your
father is speaking to me. — You were
arrested this morning for four hundred
pounds?" he continued to Sir George, as
though there were no such person as his
second son in existence.
"There or thereabouts — the amount is
no matter. It was the residue, my Lord, of
an old loan of £1200, contracted by me
more than twenty years ago, for — for a
purpose which I need not mention. You
know what my position was about that
time. I was a rich man, as it were, yester-
day, and a beggar at post-time this morn-
ing. Well, I borrowed this money. Was
there anything disgraceful in that? No-
body supposed that those cursed mines
could not have been pumped out dry, and
that I should have been a rich man again.
I might have become a bankrupt, and wip-
ed off all my liabilities; but I did not. .
wish to God now I had. Is there any
thing disgraceful in that? I ran away
with an heiress; and out of her three
hundred thousand pounds, they gave me,
knowing my tastes and habits — the habits
and tastes of a gentleman — they gave me
one hundred and fifty pounds a year. That
was how they went to work to make old
Mark Tremlett's daughter and Joshua
Tremlett's niece love and honor me as my
wife, and prepare a happy future for us.
You know," he went on, in a lower tone,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
181
"Because he — Sir George — says — or
rather insinuates, that—that my mother
has not — that the allow the income,
I mean, that he gets is not — not enough.
That — in short, that my mother has not
been liberal towards him, when —"
"The question, then," interrupted the
peer, sharply, "is one between your par-
ents, according to your own showing."
"Certainly," replied Mr. Tremlett, think-
ing that his drift was now understood, and
that he should be allowed to continue the
investigation.
"Then who made you — their son — a
judge between them ?" replied Lord Koss-
thorne, severely. "For shame, young man!
If, after what has passed, you think proper
to remain a witness to what your father
has yet to explain respecting this arrest, I
cannot, of course, command your absence;
but you will have the goodness to remem-
ber that the conversation is between your
father and myself, and I must request that
it may not again be interrupted."
It would have been well for the dear
fellow if he had taken the hint and left
the room; but, as I have said before, his
mental cuticle was uncommonly tough.
He only thought that Lord Rossthoino
desired to be alone with Sir George, and
therefore remained in order to annoy him.
The annoyance, however, was quite the
other way, when his father came to re-
count Stephen's share in the transactions
of the morning. Then he saw the peer's
noble countenance light up with pleasure,
and heard the few eloquent words in which
he expressed his admiration of our Stevie's
act, and the way in which he had per-
formed it. This was gall and wormwood
to Mr. Tremlett, and the one contemptuous
glance with which the old lord regarded
him from head to foot, when his father
told, in a choking voice, how Stevie had
left them, never to return again, gave his
half-brother plenty to think of for the rest
of the day. Assuredly he was paying
rather dearty for his triumph. But the
worst had not come yet.
At dinner the following day, before all
the company, his father — taking a mean
advantage of the presence of his ally, Lord
Bossthorne — told him — him, Mr Trem-
lett, M. P., in prospect, and J. P. in fact,
the guide and philosopher, if not the friend
of all the country side — that he did not
know what he was talking about, and had
better change the conversation! Here
was revolution and anarchy with a ven-
geance. True it was that he had intro-
duced the subject in question on purpose
to annoy the Baronet; but little did he
anticipate such a burst of insubordina-
tion.
He began the conversation by delighting
the company with an account of certain
additions he was about to make to the
pleasure-gardens, and informed them that
he had engaged a new gardener — highly
recommended by the Duke of Devonshire
— to superintend the laying out of the
fresh ground. It was delightful to hear
the dear fellow mouthing out his I'a at his
father's table, and bragging about what I
am going to do with this or that, and how
much it is to cost me.
"And this man," he added, alluding to
the gardener, "I shall lodge in that cottage
that you remarked the other day, my dear
Mrs. Corbyle; do not you remember? I
mean the lodge that leads out of the park
into the Derby road."
"And what is to become of Bill Grant?"
asked Sir George, putting down his knife
and fork in astonishment.
"Grant has for many years ceased to be
of any service to me. He must make
way for others."
"But what on earth is he to do if he be de-
prived of a home? His pension is barely
sufficient to provide him with food, and he
cannot work!" expostulated Sir George.
"He must claim those rights which the
laws of his country afford to poor people
in his situation," replied Mr. Tremlett, in
a pompous tone.
"Go to the workhouse, I suppose you
mean?"
"Precisely!"
"He'd starve first!" exclaimed the Bar-
onet, excitedly. "He was born in that
lodge, and his father was head-keeper
there before him. You cannot mean
what you say."
"My dear father," simpered his son,
"you have given me two admirable rea-
sons, not only for meaning what I say, but
for carrying out strictly what I mean. In
the first place, I am determined to uproot
that absurd idea which seems to prevail
on the estate, that because I may happen
to be satisfied with the conduct of some
person in my employment, I am to be sad-
dled with his family. I presume that
Grant's father was paid his wages regu-
larly whilst he was head-keeper; and I
know that Grant himself has no complaint
to make in that respect."
"It is really quite wonderful to see how
careful dearest Francis is in seeing that all
the men are paid," commented Lady
Tremlett; and all Mr. Tremlett's friends
agreed that it was a monstrous thing for
families to expect successive employment,


182
A TANGLED SKEIN.
or to expect to retain in their old age the
cottages in which they were born.
"As to this man Grant refusing paro-
chial relief," continued the orator, " all I
can say is, that if he does so, he deserves
to starve. I have no sympathy for that
foolish pride in the poor, which causes
them to regard with aversion the assist-
ance provided for them in times of distress
by the institutions of their country."
"Nor I cither," replied the Honorable
and Reverend Mrs. Theodosius Corbyle,
to whom the above observation was made.
"As a clergyman's wife, I cannot too
strongly reprobate such stiff-neckedness.
They ought to be humble, and contented
with their lot," concluded the lady, piously,
sipping her iced champagne; " besides, the
workhouses are very comfortable."
"Delightful!" echoed Lady Tremlett;
"I went all over ours the other day — or
a year or two ago, perhaps it was — and
tasted the soup, and really it was excel-
lent!"
"Humph!" said her husband; "how
would you like to dine off nothing else for
a month?"
"Nonsense, George! how can you be so
ridiculous ?" retorted My Lady; "of course,
they have other things for dinner besides
soup. Roast beef and plum-pudding, and
that every day; and when Grant goes, I
dare say there would be no objection to
the keeper letting him have some game.
I don't mean partridges and pheasants, you
know ; only rabbits and weasels, and things
that are not quite wanted in the house."
Even Mr. Tremlett could not help smil-
ing at his mother's idea of workhouse fare,
and, feariug a reply from Lord Rossthorne,
was not sorry when the subject was changed.
Mr. Tremlett returned to his improvements,
Colonel Vincent Champneys told a won-
derful story or two, and then Professor
Spraggle asked if any one had heard how
the vacant living of Questerthorpe had
been filled up by the Crown.
"I have heard nothing official" replied
.dearest Francis, "but Carlton Chamber-
layne is sure to get it!" and this was said
with the' air of a man who speaks from
authority.
"I am sorry to say that my young friend
Carlton's chance is anything but secure."
said the professor. "Just before dressing
for dinner I received a letter from a per-
son usually well informed on these subjects,
and he tells me that the preferment is
likely to be offered to a gentleman of the
name of Treherne, whom I find by the
Clergy List holds a little living down in
Kent."
The Francis-ites were shocked; for the
aforesaid Carlton was of their set.
"Why, it's worth twelve hundred a
year!" said Mrs. Corbyle.
"Besides the glebe land," added her
husband.
"And such a charming rectory!" ob-
served Lady Tremlett.
"With so much good society all about,"
added the professor.
"Has the late incumbent resigned?"
asked Colonel Vincent Champneys.
"Resigned? oh dear, no! Poor old
gentleman, he's dead; he died about a
month ago."
"Having been all but imbecile for the
last twelve years, if I remember aright,"
interposed Lord Rossthorne, in his quiet,
smiling way.
"Why, yes," replied Mr. Spraggle ; "he
has not done duty for many years, but he
kept two curates, and his nephew officiated
occasionally."
"Dear, dear, dear," said Mrs. Corbyle,
sorrowfully; "what a shame not to give
the living to poor Carlton! and he such a
good young man, with such claims too."
"Too bad! too bad!" struck in dearest
Francis.
"Scandalous!" exclaimed Roundleby,
who had an uncle with a rectory, and
was going into the Church.
"Shameful!" echoed Mr. Octavius
Flounder, because his patron had said it
was " too bad."
"Just shows what you are to expect
from the present Government," observed
Colonel Champneys, who liked to be well
with the majority.
"I knew something of the family once,"
said Lord Rossthorne, after a pause, " but
have lately lost sight of it; tell me, please,
what were Mr. Carlton Chamberlayne's
claims?"
"My dear Lord," replied Mrs. Spraggle,
"his uncle was Rector of Questerthorpe
for forty-three years!"
"At twelve hundred a-year, beside the
glebe," rejoined the peer dryly; "but I
wanted to know young Mr. Chamber-
layne's claims."
"He is a gentleman of family, and an
accomplished scholar," replied Mr. Trem-
lett, in his loftiest tone.
"More so than Mr. Treherne?"
"Nobody seems ever to have heard of
him," said Francis, with a sneer.
"Or even read of him ? ""inquired the
peer, with a malicious twinkle in his eye.
Mr. Tremlett's evil star was in the as-
cendant, and he said, "No!" whereupon
Lord Rossthorne counted upon his fingers


184
A TANGLED SKEIN.
a clergyman's wife, she had set her face
against all officers in the army, believing
them to be an unregenerate set; but that
she had modified her views since becom-
ing acquainted with the Colonel. He was
so serious and thoroughly Christian, was
this Colonel Vincent Champneys.
The object of these somewhat contra-
dictory encomiums was not less satisfied
with his admirers than they were with
him. He was the sort of man who got
intimate with you very soon. Introduced
to you yesterday, as it were, you found
him calling you by your Christian name
to-day. Thus Mr. Spraggle soon became
"my dear professor ;" Mr. Roundleby,
"Sam ;" and the two young country jus-
tices (who were always shooting) respec-
tively " Mat." and "Charlie." The Col-
onel very rarely addressed himself to Sir
George; in fact, he treated him with scant
civility. Towards My Lady he was atten-
tion itself; and always spoke to and of
her son as Mr. Tremlett. Oh, the Colonel
knew what he was about!
Dearest Francis was not slow in making
his guests aware of the position held by
his father in Tremlett Towers, and a very
few hours sufficed to teach the Colonel
what was expected of one who wished to
be well with the heir. This alone would
have induced him to treat the poor Bar-
onet in an off-liand, semi-contemptuous
manner; but Sir George had been asking
him certain questions, unpleasant to hear
and difficult to answer, and therefore he
determined to put him down. This was
not so easily done.
The spell which had given over the
once gay and proud George Frankland,
bound hand and foot, to the mercy of his
rich wife and her methodical son and heir,
was one which has made slaves of many
better men than he, and crushed their
faces into the dust, before meaner scoun-
drels even than Mr. Francis Tremlett. It
was that which is woven by the demon
Debt — a fiend who produces more lies,
and tricks, and meannesses, I think, than
any other devil in or out of the pit.
Once let his clutch fasten upon you, and
good-by to self-respect; good-by to peace;
good-by even to exertion; for — unless,
erhaps, with the very strongest of us —
e paralyzes the powers which might be
used to throw him off. For years he had
sat constantly on Sir George Tremlett's
heart — he and another enemy to peace;
but in the relief which the Baronet felt,
when by Stephen's act he was released
from the one, he almost forgot the other,
although Stephen himself had warned him
that his secret was no longer his own. It
may be, that when he did remember this,
it made him restless, and led him to say
and do things which would have cost him
a shudder to contemplate a week ago.
One of these was to investigate the truth
of what his eldest son had hinted respect-
ing Colonel Vincent Champneys. He
cross-examined that gentleman so acutely
respecting certain statements which he had
made about himself and his services, and
pressed him so closely as to his right of
assuming a military title in England, that
the popular gentleman had no resource
but to be insolent, and so broke off the
conversation. Upon this the Baronet
sought his wife in her pretty boudoir, and
told her Stephen's misgivings and his own
more than suspicions, that the pretended
colonel was not a fit person to associate
with them, and readily convinced her that
it was so.
"Oh, yes," said My Lady, more earnest-
ly than was her wont; "I am sure that he
is a wicked, bad man, and he ought to
go. Why don't he go? Tell him to go,
please."
This resolution having been imparted to
her son, he also had an interview with My
Lady, the result of which was, that he as-
sured Sir George, the next time they met,
that it was all a mistake; that the Colonel
was a most exemplary person; and that
she had asked dearest Francis to request
that he would prolong his visit at "the
Towers."
At this juncture it was only necessary
for the Baronet to express a wish, however
proper or simple, to set "dearest Francis"
up in opposition to it. The reader is
aware that the "dear fellow " was not so
thoroughly as heretofore in his mother's
favor, but his father was in deeper dis-
grace. You will have noticed that in all
her complaints against Francis for having
caused his brother's departure, she never
once alluded to her son's conduct towards
his father, which had so roused honest
Stevie's indignation.
"How dare he go and get arrested!"
she cried, petulantly. "If he had not got
into debt, and made those horrid men
come after him, there would not have been
all that fuss, and dear Stevie would have
remained; and, oh! what shall I do with-
out him, now that Oh, Stevie, Stevie!
come back, come back!"
Mr. Tremlett was not one to test the ac-
curacy of his mother's logic. Anything
would do that brought blame upon the
poor Baronet; and when his wife's mind
was most bitter against him, his amiable
1


186
A TANGLED SKEIN.
Khoda. Your destiny is elsewhere, and
with another."
My Lady hung down her head, and was
silent. This took place on the day but
one before Stephen fled from Kernden
Rectory as narrated in the last chapter.
Ah, Stevie, old friend! if you had known
then — even then, in the hour of your
deepest agony — the retribution which
hung over the heads of those who had
driven you from your home, you would
have forgiven all, and hurried to their aid.
But so it was not to be.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE HARDEST KNOT OF ALL.
Lord Rossthorne was from home
when Stephen arrived at the castle, but
was expected to return in the course of
the day. He had left early in the morn-
ing by rail, without luggage, and had
taken a ticket for B , which was the
nearest station on the main line, the rail-
road which passed close to Rossthorne
being merely a " feeder." Whether their
master had booked again at the junction,
and, if so, whither he had gone, none of
the servants could tell; but he had or-
dered dinner for two, and a bed to be
prepared for a gentleman who was to ac-
company him home. He had received a
telegraphic despatch about half an hour
before he left.
Stephen had been expected, as we know,
for some time; and even if he had not,
his arrival would have caused no apparent
commotion in that well-managed house-
hold. My Lord's " own man " conducted
him to the rooms he was to occupy, and
respectfully inquired for his luggage. Had
Captain Frankland left it at the station?
If so, would he please to give him (the
valet) the tickets, and it should be sent
for. Stephen stammered out something
about not having come to make any stay
— merely wishing to speak to Lord Ross-
thorne for a few minutes — no; he had
not any luggage to be sent for. The man
begged to be excused if he presumed —
he was sure he did not mean any disre-
spect — but had anything happened ? —
was Captain Frankland ill ? — would he
take anything? Stephen assured him
that there was nothing amiss — he was
quite well — he was much obliged, but
would take nothing; only —. The well-
meaning servant understood what was re-
quired of him, and left the room.
"I never saw a gentleman so changed!"
he exclaimed, when he reached the house-
keeper's room; "he looks as though he
had seen a ghost—all haggard and scared,
you know."
Stephen sat, just where the valet had
left him, for some hours, before his mind
had become sufficiently calm to allow him
to think why he had come there, and
what good end was to be answered
by remaining. He had been thoroughly
stunned by the awful disclosure contained
in sister Mary's letter, and hitherto had
been staggering about vaguely, following
consistently but one idea, — that of seek-
ing Lord Rossthorne. Have you never,
in the midst of some unexpected paroxysm
of mental or bodily pain, felt irresistibly
impelled to fly to some person or to some
place with whom and where to endure it?
and until that person or that place is
gained, have you not almost forgotten your
agony in the anxiety to reach the goal
towards which you yearn so strongly, and,
it may be, without avail? I hope not; for
it is only great gaping heart-wounds which
create these fantasies,— wounds, the scars
of which the best and happiest after-life
cannot efface, and which ache at times
till the crack of doom, live how long we
may.
From the first, Stephen had felt assured
that sister Mary knew more than she
would own. Why else had she refused to
refer him to any member of her family
for information as to so (apparently)
simple a fact as the whereabouts of an old
house in which her sister had once lived?
The motive for secrecy was clear now.
In that house a child had been born, and
confided to that sister's care. There, also,
another sister had hidden the proof of that
child's legitimacy; and, having acted as
confidante between its mother and her un-
worthy husband, had, at his instigation,
falsely pretended that it was dead, till,
conscience-stricken, she confessed the truth.
She knew full well who was the father of
that child. She could guess too truly who
was the murderer of Brandron. So mused
Stephen Frankland.
We shudder, and our blood curdles,
when we read of brave men's bodies being
mangled by cannon-shot, or torn and
crushed by great accidents; and the most
callous of us are glad to throw a covering
over the poor bleeding relics, and hide
them decently from sight. Let us not pry
into the soul of a man smitten so heavily
as was poor Stevie. When I try to real-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
187
ize what must have been his thoughts on
this dreadful day, I thank the heavenly
mercy which made him a very child before
his God, as are always the best of those
who are, as he was, men of men amongst
their fellows in this world. Had it been
otherwise, Stephen Frankland would have
fallen by his own hand.
It was growing dusk before he roused
himself from the stupor into which he had
fallen, and leaned from the open window,
wondering when Lord Rossthorne would
come. His room overlooked a road, —
not the principal one, — which led up to
the castle from the village; and as he
mused, he saw three figures strike into this
from a bypath which led from a neighbor-
ing plantation. He did not notice the first
nor the second, but a chill ran through
his veins when he saw that the third was
Inspector Lagger, and remembered what
he had said when they had met at the
station a few hours ago. The detective
had declared that he should arrest the
murderer of Brandron that night. "I
have him as safe this moment as though
he were lodged in Maidstone Jail!" Those
were his words. What, then, could he be
doing under the walls of Rossthorne Cas-
tle? Whilst Stephen yet wondered, the
sound of a carriage approaching fell on his
ear. Another moment, and it was close
at hand. He heard Lord Rossthorne's
voice calling to the coachman to stop at
a side-door, which was used as an entrance
in wet weather. The carriage drew up
almost directly under tbe window, and the
first person who descended from it was Sir
George Tremlett!
A second glance showed Stephen that
Lagger was approaching the house. He
walked first of the three now, and, to his
amaze, Stephen recognized in the second
man, who slouched along by his side, the
long-missing Jim Riley. The third, who
was a much younger person than either
of his companions, carried a large book
under his arm.
Stephen sprang from his room to a cor-
ridor outside, which overlooked the en-
trance-hall, and watched. He saw his
father enter with the peer. He saw the
butler advance and speak to the latter.
He knew well what was said, from the
effect produced upon the hearers. The
poor Baronet turned pale as ashes, and
made as though he would return to the
carriage. Lord Rossthorne was no less
surprised.
"Captain Frankland!" he exclaimed,
"when did he come? where is he? Here,
show Sir George to his room," he contin-
ued, hurriedly, not waiting for a reply.
"Where is Captain Frankland?"
"In the blue room, my Lord.'
"Better not see him now, George," he
said, in a low voice, to the Baronet, who
stood trembling by his side. "Go to your
room. Leave it to me to break the news,
poor fellow. I will join you again pres-
ently."
Stephen did not hear these last words.
He had returned to his room as Sir
George was about to follow the servant
up-stairs, and he was hardly seated again
when Lord Rossthorne entered.
"Stevie," he said, holding out his hand,
"this is a surprise. I wish I could say
that it is a pleasant one."
Stephen rose from his seat, and flushed
crimson.
"Oh, don't misunderstand me, my dear
boy," resumed the peer; "you are as
welcome as ever, but — your father is
here."
"I saw him enter with you just now."
There was that in his tone and manner
which startled his host.
"Good heavens !" he said, in an agi-
tated voice; "is it possible that you already
know —"
"God help me!" sighed Stevie. "I
know too much. But to what do you al-
lude?"
Lord Rossthorne took his hand, and
wrung it in silence.
"It's a bad, bad business," he said, after
a long and painful pause, " but you must
bear it like a man, Stevie. Remember,
you are not the principal sufferer."
"Is all discovered?"
"All! But how on earth has the news
reached you? I only received it by tele-
graph this morning."
"From whom?"
"From himself. I have been over to
the Towers to-day. Of course, after what
has happened, he could not stay there
another hour, so I brought him here. It
is safest and best for him to remain here
till it has blown over a little."
"Blown over 1"
"Of course. This sort of scandal
makes a great noise at first, but something
else turns up to distract public attention,
and then it is forgotten. We must get
him abroad as soon as possible, and leave
the rest for the lawyers to settle."
"My Lord! my Lord !" exclaimed Ste-
phen, "there is no such chance for him.
Why, — why did you bring him here into
the very jaws of death? There is not a
moment to be lost. He must escape at
once. They are only three now; more


188
A TANGLED SKEIN.
may arrive at any moment. Let me go
to him;" and, wild and breathless with
excitement, Stephen sprang towards the
door, but the peer threw himself in the way.
"Are you mad?"
"No, but I shall be if you stop me. I
tell you I saw the detective Lagger and
two others under that window just as you
came in. Let me pass. I know him to
be a man who will do his duty without fear
and without favor. He may have arrested
my father whilst we are talking here.
Pray, — pray let me pass!"
"Nonsense, Stevie; you are excited,
naturally enough. You know not what
you are saying, my dear fellow. Sit
down."
"Lord Rossthorne," said Stephen, firm-
ly, but through quivering lips, "you are
about the last man in the world against
whom I would raise my hand, but I will
leave this room, — I will save my fath-
er."
The brows of the peer darkened. A
threat of personal violence was more than
he could stand, even from the man whom
he wished to adopt as a son.
"If I had known you less well than
I do, Captain Frankland," he replied,
haughtily, " I might be able to account for
this extraordinary conduct; as it is, I can-
not. You speak of escaping ' detectives'
and 'arrest.' You are laboring under
some extraordinary delusion. Nothing
that has passed would justify any one in
arresting your father. How on earth
should it? If you think it kind, or even
reasonable, to withdraw him in his afflic-
tion from beneath the roof of his oldest
friend, pray do so; only Stevie, what
is the matter? Are you ill? Lean on
me, my boy; you are faint," he said, as
Stephen staggered from him.
"No, no. I — I am better now," he
replied, sinking into a chair. "Forgive
me for what I said then; and tell me — as
quickly as — you can — please, what —
what has happened at ho at the Tow-
ers." He spoke with his hand pressed
upon his heart, and in gasps.
"I thought you knew?"
"No. Iwas thinking of something else.
Never mind what I said, and tell me all —
all."
"You remember that person who
called himself Colonel Vincent Champ-
neys?"
"I do. And I know now, — I have
conclusive evidence that he is the scoun-
drel that I took him for. I sent it to my
father the day before yesterday. I only
got it then."
"It came too late. He has since added
yet another act of villany to his list."
"What has he done? Go on, pray go
on."
"Stevie, with all her faults, you loved
your stepmother?"
"I did, — I do; but what of her?"
"She has left her home, — eloped."
"Impossible!"
"It is too true."
"But not with Champneys?" cried
Stephen. "No, no, my Lord, not with
him."
The old peer made no reply; but Ste-
vie saw, from the expression of his coun-
tenance, that his worst fears were real-
ized.
By this time the gloaming had darkened
into night, and there was no light in the
room. Neither of its occupants eared to
call for one, as they both felt they had
that to say which is best said if accom-
panying emotions could be veiled. Ste-
phen rose, and turned aside to the win-
dow, where he stood speechless, gazing
sternly out into the darkness. Suddenly
he returned to where Lord Rossthorne
sat, and demanded, —
"We must save her. When did they
go? Where have they gone? Is it pos-
sible to overtake — to save her?"
Lord Rossthorne shook his head.
"She left her home on Tuesday night,"
he replied. "This is Friday. They have
gone abroad."
"How do you know?"
"Your poor father received a letter
from that —" something rose in the peer's
throat, and prevented him from getting
out the word, — " that villain, this very
morning, stating where he will be found —"
Stephen started up with a gesture of
impatience and surprise.
"— This day month," resumed the
speaker. "My dear Stevie, the scoundrel
has us completely in his power. He offers
to give Sir George the satisfaction of a
gentleman, —- mark his words! he give
the satisfaction of a gentleman ! — at St.
Malo, a month hence. Do you think he
will take his poor victim there? Not he.
In the mean time, he says, he will give
your father any assistance in his power in
taking the necessary steps to obtain a
divorce."
"A divorce?"
"The very thing he desires himself.
Lady Tremlett's fortune is her own for
life; a good deal of it her own absolutely.
Of course it was for her money that he
has committed this act of treachery. It
will be all his when he marries her. Ab,


190
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"And yet you have done so?"
"Lord Rossthorne!"
"Oh, pardon me, Stevie. I am so agi-
tated — so confounded by what you say,
that — that But if his secret rests
with you, how can he be in danger now?"
"Unfortunately, the papers discovered
at Mangerton Chase fell into — it would
take too long to explain how — into the
hands of the detective who is below. He
was at the inquest on poor Brandron.
He has been on the search for a clue to
his murderer ever since, and now he has
him almost within his grasp."
"But I cannot understand — I do not
see Did you read the papers found
in Mangerton Chase?"
"I did — all of them, carefully."
"And yet you suspect Sir George Trem-
lett of being the murderer of John Bran-
dron?"
"Too surely. Because he is the father
of the child in whose cause poor Brandron
died."
"He! Oh, Stephen, think — think
again. You are excited now, and — and
may be speaking at random. How could
those papers prove that?"
"I have pondered painfully over all I
am saying to you, Lord Rossthorne," re-
plied Stephen, sadly. "You may be sure
that I should not readily come to a con-
clusion that condemns my own parent of
a fearful crime."
"I am sure of that; but to me it seems
so monstrous, so wild, and But go
on."
"From the papers, I found that the
child, when an infant, had been confided
to the charge of one Lucy Alston. There
are three Alstons, sisters, who are mixed
up in this case, — Susan, Lucy, and Mary.
Susan was the servant and confidante of
the child's mother. It was she who hid
the papers in Mangerton Chase. These
prove that the child was confided to Lucy.
Susan and Lucy are dead; but Mary lives,
till lately a recluse in a convent at Hull,
— a stern, unfeeling woman, not likely to
be deceived or to deceive; and from her
— oh! Lord Rossthorne, pity me, for now
I come to my crowning misery — from her
I learn that But I will tell you all.
"You remember the conversation we
had in your room at the Towers, respect-
ing — respecting my — my marrying I"
"I do, well."
"You asked me if I loved Grace Lee,
and I told you that I did, but there were
reasons why I could never marry her."
"Had you then those suspicions of your
father?"
"I had."
"Ah! I see, — go on."
"In a moment of happiness, — oh! such
deep, unalloyed happiness!" continued
poor Stevie, "I forgot the full misery of
my position. I told her that I loved her;
I asked her to be my wife. I found that
she — pure angel that she is ! — loved
me."
"Oh, Stevie," cried the peer, in an ex-
cited but joyful tone, "this makes up for
all. I am so glad. My dear, dear boy, I
wish you happiness with all my heart.
And you will be happy; you will be hap-
py, Stevie, in spite of all, with such a
wife."
"Oh, forbear, my Lord, forbear!" cried
Stephen, to whose heart every well-meant
word went like a stab. "You know not
what you say. Grace Lee — who, but for
God's mercy, I might have made my wife
— is my father's child."
Lord Rossthorne uttered an inarticulate
cry of surprise and pain.
"Now do you see," Stephen continued,
"how fearfully strong a chain of evidence
can be — perhaps already is — forged
against my wretched father? Between
the death of my dear mother and his
second public marriage, he contracted a
private one; and his wife having died, he
sought to conceal the existence of a child,
which might have proved an impediment.
He got Sarah Alston to pretend that the
child was dead; he deceived Brandron,
who was a friend of its mother, and pro-
cured him an appointment in India. But
what is the use of my going through link
after link, when I tell you that he has con-
fessed his guilt?"
"No, no; not confessed it, — impossi-
ble!"
"Not in words, but in acts. My Lord!
my Lord! there are dozens and dozens of
facts, all pointing to him as having killed
poor Brandron. It may have been in a
struggle; I think — I hope it was with-
out premeditation; but that he struck the
death-blow is — I say it to my grief— as
certain as —"
"That Grace Lee is his child?"
Stephen bowed his head in sorrowful
assent.
Lord Rossthorne rose, and paced two
or three times up and down the dark
chamber. Then he paused where Ste-
phen sat, and, laying his hand on his
shoulder, said, in a voice half choked with
emotion, —
"Do you love her?"
"Love her! when —"
"Tush! I know what you mean. I


A TANGLED SKEIN.
191
will put my question differently. Did
you love her yesterday?"
"With all my soul."
"When you found that she returned
your love, did you resolve to deserve it
all your life? The first love of a girl like
Grace Lee is a holy, solemn trust for a
man to receive, Stephen Frankland."
"It is indeed."
"There are few of us who can look
back into our lives and say that we de-
serve it."
"Very few, — not I, for one."
"Honest as ever. Did you resolve to
give her all your heart in return, and to
keep it always hers? Did you resolve to
make her happiness the first object of your
life, to shield ner from all sorrow, — in a
word, to do your utmost duty as a Chris-
tian gentleman towards her?"
"I did, I did, my Lord;" and the tears
which he could not restrain poured down
his worn cheeks
"But this was yesterday!" There was
a strange gleam in Lord Rossthorne's eyes
as he spoke, and the tone of his voice
made it almost seem as though he were
mocking Stephen's grief. He took one
other rapid turn up and down the room,
and was just on the point of speaking
again, when a violent altercation was
heard in the corridor outside; and before
he could reach the door to see what was
the matter, it was violently thrown open,
and a glare of light poured into the room,
and, for the moment, blinded its occu-
pants.
When their eyes became accustomed to
it, they saw Mr. Lagger in the act of lock-
ing the door on the inside. He had put
down his lamp on the table.
"You know what business has brought
me here, Captain," he said, in a firm but
respectful voice. "I depended upon the
county po-lice; but, as usual, they have
made fools of themselves and me. I'm
not a-going, though, to let night come on
without doing what I've got to do. I'm
sorry for you, Captain, very sorry; but
dooty's dooty, and must be done; so I call
on you in the Queen's name to aid and
assist me."
"And I decline to do so," said Stephen,
confronting him.
"Captain, you don't know the law. If
you assist in the escape of a murderer, you
make yourself an accessory after the fact
to the murder, and so I tell you."
"No matter, I refuse. Man, how can
you call upon me, — me, — to assist in
the apprehension of my — my 1 re-
fuse; there!"
"Then I shall do my dooty single-
handed," said Lagger, drawing a revolver
from his pocket; "and take care what you
are about. It's best to take these things
quietly. People don't get no sort of good
by resisting. Ha! at last!" he said, as
the sound of horses' hoofs rang in the road
below. "That's the patrol; and pretty
fellows they are to put on the outside of a
horse! Why, I'd have come in less time
on my hands and knees. Now," he added,
advancing to Lord Rossthorne, and laying
his hand on his shoulder, "you see that
resistance is useless. You are my pris-
oner."
"Lagger," cried Stephen, in amaze,
"you are wrong; that is not my That
is Lord Rossthorne."
"I know it; and he is my prisoner."
"Stand off, fellow!" exclaimed the
peer; "how dare you lay your hand on
me?"
"By virtue of a warrant issued yester-
day by Mr. Turner and Sir Joseph Sykes,
justices of the county of Kent."
"And what, in the name of fortune, do
they charge against me ?" asked the peer,
smiling in spite of his annoyance at this
scene.
"You are charged with the wilful mur-
der of John Everett Brandron, in West-
borough Wood, on the twenty-ninth of
July last. Now you're not obliged to
make any reply, but I caution you that if
you do say anything, I shall take it down,
and it may be used in evidence against
you."
Before the peer and Stephen could re-
cover from the astonishment caused by
these words of the detective, the tramp of
men was heard in the passage, Lagger
threw open the door, and half a dozen
armed police marched into the room, fol-
lowed by Sir George Frankland.
CHAPTER XXXII.
DISENTANGLEMENT.
"What on earth is the meaning of
this?" cried the Baronet. "What are
these men doing here?"
"They have arrested me for murder,"
replied Lord Rossthorne, in a hollow
voice. He was deadly pale, almost livid,
and huge drops of perspiration stood on
his brow.


192
A TANGLED SKEIN.
"Murder? Absurd! Whose mur-
der?"
"I am charged with having killed John
Brandron, at Westborough, on the twenty-
ninth of July last."
"There must be some horrible mistake,"
said the Baronet, getting very pale in his
turn, and trembling violently as he spoke.
"Why, he was not there at all."
"How do you know ?" demanded Lag-
ger, turning sharp round upon him.
"Because I was there myself," replied
Sir George, " on the very day."
"Ah! observed the detective, in his
reflective manner, " you was the other. I
know now. You was the one as went to
old Mrs. Riley's cottage, and wanted to
know " —
"Hush-h!"
"Well, that ain't no business of mine.
You're sure you did not see his Lordship
there — about Westborough, I mean —
that day?"
"No. I could take my oath he was not
there that day."
"There! you hear?" said Stephen.
"This is some folly, or worse, — a con-
spiracy to extort money."
Lagger cast a reproachful glance at the
speaker.
"Whatever it is," he said, firmly, " it's
no manner of use talking to me about it
here. You must talk to Mr. Turner and
Sir Joseph Sykes, in Poundbridge Town
Hall, where I'm bound to take his Lordship
as speedily as possible."
"The man is quite right, George," said
the peer; "his warrant is regular, and
must be obeyed. — Do you propose [this
to Lagger] taking me hence to-night?"
"Why, if so be as certain persons had
come when they ought to have come," re-
plied the detective, scraping his chin with
his fist, and eying the county police in a
not over-flattering manner, "we Could
have caught the mail-train, got safe to
London, and gone on the first thing in the
mornin'; but as they've bin to sleep, and
let the time slip by, it's impossible. You
can stop here to-night, my Lord, only you'll
ex-cuse my stopping outside your door,
and allow these officers to remain in the
house."
"Certainly. The inconvenience will
only be a temporary one."
"Of course. These sort of things al-
ways are," replied Lagger, dryly.
"For the present," continued the peer,
"1 suppose I may be left in peace with
these gentlemen [indicating Stevie and
his father]; I have much to say to
them."
"Say what you please," replied Lag-
ger; "only remember you are not obliged
to say anything, and —"
"I know; I know. Leave us now.
You need not look at the window; it is at
least forty feet from the ground, and I am
not a squirrel."
The officers then withdrew, and for
some moments there was a painful silence.
It was broken at last by Lord Rossthorne,
who said, —
"Sir George Tremlett, will you answer
me one or two questions as a man of honor
in the presence of your son, before I ask
you to hear what I have got to say in
answer to this incredible charge?"
"That I will."
"What do you know about the murder
of John Brandron?"
"As little as from the bottom of my
heart I believe you do."
"Thanks, old friend!" said the peer,
warmly pressing his hand, — " thanks!
You have said that you were at Westbor-
ough on that fatal day. Did you go there
to see him?"
"No."
"Did you see him when you were
there?"
"As I never knew him, I cannot say
whether I did or not."
"Were you aware that certain papers
bearing upon business of his were hidden
in your house, — I mean Mangerton Chase
that was?"
"Not I! Who says they were?"
"One more, and I have done," contin-
ued Lord Rossthorne, not heeding the
question. "Think well now before you
answer. Have you ever, in joke or earn-
est, or speaking ambiguously, given any
one to understand, or said what might lead
any one to suppose, that you had act or
part in Brandron's death?"
"My God! no. How could I? Does
any one presume to think that I —"
Stephen sprang forward with glittering
eyes, and half choking with the emotion
which he had with difficulty suppressed
during the above colloquy, but Lord Ross-
thorne spoke, —
"Hush-h ! — hush, my boy!" he whis-
pered in his ear; "enough has been said,
hush!"
"No, not enough yet!" replied honest
Stevie. I have done my father a bitter
wrong, and will atone for it. Father, can
you forgive me? Since the night of the
third of September I have looked upon
you as Brandron's murderer!"
"In Heaven's name, why ?" demanded
the Baronet, aghast.


194
A TANGLED SKEIN.
them into a throne which I usurped over
my less fortunate fellow-men; and, in the
plenitude of my power and self-conceit,
scorned them as though they belonged to
a different race — as though they were
beasts of burden, slaves to work my bid-
ding, or foils, to prove, by their misery
and disgrace, how great and good a man
was I. Pride was my besetting sin —
pride of race; and its punishment has
been that I am now alone in the world,
the last of my name. In those days I
lived some part of the year in London;
and what was it to me that thousands of
miserable wretches were herded together
like swine within a few hundred yards
of the fashionable square in which my
mansion stood? They were out of sight.
Their nakedness and squalor did not
offend the eye. They were generally
quiet in their wretchedness. If they broke
our law and disturbed our tranquillity,
care enough was taken to punish them,
and provide against a repetition of the
annoyance; but not a finger was lifted by
me, and those like me, to teach them
obedience to the natural laws of God, by
which Hia universe is governed. Igno-
rance, and filth, and crime — those Furies
more terrible than any that heathen imag-
ination has conceived — ran riot amongst
them, and their handiwork was death — a
sudden, terrible, all but incurable fever.
The poor creatures, by whose neglect of
common decency it was engendered, sel-
dom ventured into the wide, handsome
streets where we, who should have taught
them better, lived our lives of ease and
comfort. If they ventured to loiter there,
the police drove them back to their pesti-
lential, teeming courts and alleys. But
whose was the power to keep the deadly
fever they had produced within their
bounds? Who could prevent it from fly-
ing where an outraged Providence direct-
ed it? It found my dear wife surrounded
by every luxury that love could devise,
and struck her down. It found my eldest
son, — my heir, revelling in the strength
and spirits of approaching manhood, and
in two hours killed him. It passed over
his baby-brother, smiling in his cradle,
and he never smiled again. We fled from
the plague-stricken place; but it was no
use. The destroyer was in the midst of
us, — and not only of us, but of our neigh-
bors. The 3d of June is the anniversary
of my birthday. On the 3d of June, 1825,
a true, loving wife, and five happy, hand-
some children, wished me joy. On the
12th of the same month I was a heart-
broken widower, watching beside what
they told me must be the death-bed of the
only little one that was left me. All the
rest had perished. By God's mercy she
was saved."
"That was poor Mary," said Sir George,
seeing that the narrator paused.
"It was. Oh, how I loved that child!
She was the very light of my eyes; and as
she developed into a lovely womanhood,
the fear that she might be won away to
leave me preyed upon me day and night,
and made me suspicious and morose, even
to her. It is all vastly well to philosophize,
and say that parents must make up their
minds that their children will sooner or
later marry and leave them, even as they
have done their parents in their turn be-
fore. Mothers, I believe, feel a sort of
pride that their daughters should become
wives and mothers in due course of time
and nature; but (if I may judge by my
own feelings) it is vastly different with a
father. The idea that my beautiful, fra-
gile Mary could ever leave me for love of
another; that I — i, her father, — who
had hardly ever let her out of my sight for
fifteen lonely years, should give her over
to the arms of a stranger, was galling;
nay, more than that, it was horrible.
"I have no doubt that my great sorrow
had made me morbid," Lord Rossthorne
resumed, after a pause, and in a more
composed tone, "but so it was. I need
not tell you that I had long given up all
ambitious views. I had no heart for any-
thing, and lived here in close retirement
with Mary till she was in her eighteenth
year. Then I was over-persuaded by my
wife's sister, — you remember her, George?
she married Algernon Chappel, who after-
wards became Lord Manxover, — a good-
hearted but shallow woman of the world.
By her Mary was presented at Court and
introduced into society, I accompanying
her wherever she went. Will you believe
me, Stevie, when I tell you that when I
saw her the centre of attraction (as she
was at every ball we attended), I felt
more than once an almost irresistible im-
pulse to dash into the circle of young fel-
lows who were clamoring to engage her
for the dances, scatter them right and left,
and carry her off to this grim old castle
once more, away from them all!
"A great friend of Mrs. Chappel's was
one George Howell, a lieutenant in a line
regiment, on leave from Canada. Of all
the young men by whom Mary was sur-
rounded, I was least jealous, least appre-
hensive of him. He never obtruded him-
self upon her as others did; besides,
though by birth and profession a gentle-


A TANGLED SKEIN.
195
man, he was so very far below her, that I
considered it impossible that she could
ever give him a thought as a lover — she
whose beauty, birth, and wealth entitled
her to the highest coronet that our peer-
age could offer. Ah, what a blind fool I
was! I think he must have fascinated
her with his sad, stedt'ast eyes, and low,
soft voice; but I discovered the spell too
late to save her: she loved him!
Many and many a time have I cursed
myself for the folly of the course I pursued
on this discovery. What must I do in my
wisdom but insult the man she loved, in
her presence, by way of winning back her
heart from him to me; by constantly tell-
ing her that she should marry him only
over my dead body, by way of seeking to
make her forget him; be hard and cold to
her, by way of making her contented with
her lot with me; accuse, mistrust, and —
as a final piece of madness, — imprison
her in her rooms, by way of obtaining her
confidence, and teaching her not to de-
ceive me! She did deceive me. She
had a clandestine correspondence and
stolen interviews with Howell. But it
was I who drove her into deceit. Finally,
I sent her away into the country to live
with her aunt, who — I must do her jus-
tice — heartily opposed Howell's preten-
sions. Chappel's country residence was
then near his father's estate, in a wild,
lovely district on the borders of Derby-
shire, on the Lancashire side, not far from
Buxton. There, I thought, she will be
safe, particularly as I had used some influ-
ence I possessed at the Horse Guards to
get the remainder of Howell's leave can-
celled, and to have him ordered to join the
depdt of his regiment in the Channel
Islands.
"1 have said that I had no fears on this
score till it was too late. There was one
about me who saw clearer than I did, lov-
ing as I was,—jealous and fearsome of
this very danger. This was John Everett
Brandron, my foster-brother."
At these words a cold shudder ran
through Stephen Frankland, for they
brought upon him the remembrance of
what Brandron had said in his delirium;
how he had all but denounced this foster-
brother as his murderer, — as the man
who had done the wrong, to demand rep-
aration for which he had come from In-
dia.
"This Brandron had been for many
years my secretary, and a sort of general
manager of my estates and agent in my
affairs. He was of a stern, unprepossess-
ing character, but a man of the strictest
honor, and in heart and soul devoted to
me and mine. He had known my Mary
from her infancy, and, strange as it may
appear, loved her, — he, a man older than
myself! — with a patient, silent, and, of
course, hopeless affection. I was blind to
this also till the end came. He saw what
was passing, and told me of it. I was in-
dignant at the bare suggestion, and, in
return for his anxious warning, gave him
the first harsh words he had ever received
from my lips.
"Well, time passed by, and Mary re-
turned here, much changed, as I thought,
and looking worn and ill. She would sit
silent for hours, and I often saw tears
stealing down her cheeks. Woe is me!
They were of my causing, and they
washed away the roses from her bonny
face.
"One dreadful day, the memory of
which haunts me still, she fled; and so
well were her measures taken, that nearly
a month passed before I could obtain a
clue to where she had gone. At last I
received information which hurried me,
George, to your house in Derbyshire, then,
as you know, under lease to the Penru-
thyns; and there, attended only by her
maid, Sarah Alston, I found her on the
very eve of giving birth to a child!
"Penruthyn, I believe, was more sinned
against than sinning; but you may re-
member, Tremlett, what sort of reputation
his brothers enjoyed in those days. Not a
woman, — married or single, gentle or
simple, — was safe from thein. Judge,
then, what were my emotions when I found
my loved child in such a condition and in
such a house! The truth, bad enough in
itself, was a blessed relief; and the truth
was, that during her visit to Derbyshire
my daughter had been privately married
to George Howell."
"Who basely deserted her in her hour
of sorrow !" burst out Stephen, in a tone
of indignation.
"No, my boy," replied the peer, sadly;
"who was drowned at sea whilst hurrying
to console her. When the news came to
him that she could no longer conceal her
secret from me, he left Guernsey — where
he was stationed — in an open boat, and
tried to make Weymouth. Poor fellow!
A sudden squall arose, the boat foundered,
and he was lost in sight of the lights of the
town. This, however, was not discovered
till long after poor Mary's death, and up
to this moment is known only by me. Let
me pass quickly over what followed the
birth of the child. My darling faded
gradually away; and when she was gone,


196
A TANGLED SKEIN.
I committed the crime — the folly — which
has embittered my years. I was so en-
raged against Howell, that I resolved
never to acknowledge his child. I hushed
up my daughter's flight as well as I could,
pretending — whilst moving heaven and
earth, secretly, to find her — that we had
had a quarrel; that I wa9 in the wrong;
that she had merely returned to her aunt;
had written, asking me for forgiveness;
and that I had consented to her remain-
ing. I implored Lady Manxover to bear
me out in this, and she did. I had my
poor darling removed privately to her
house, and there she died. Only three
persons shared my secret, — Lady Manx-
over, Sarah Alston, and Brandron. I
won the first two over to my scheme, but
stern John Brandron was obdurate. He
swore that Mary's child should be acknowl-
edged, and urged her rights in spite of me
and my pride; and it was only by bribing
Sarah and Lucy Alston to declare that
the child had died (Lucy not knowing
whose child it was), that he reluctantly
agreed not to disclose the marriage. From
this moment our connection ceased. I ob-
tained him an appointment in India, and
we parted."
"I find from his papers," said Stevie,
"that he received a sum of twelve hun-
dred pounds shortly before he left Eng-
land. What was that for?"
"That was his savings. I had invested
them for him, and there was some difficulty
about realizing the securities; so that the
money could not be obtained till just a day
or two before he sailed."
"It was not a bribe, then?"
"A bribe! No," replied Lord Ross-
thorne; "the Bank of England could not
bribe John Brandron to be a party to a lie,
as I, — a peer of the realm, — was driven
by my cursed pride to be."
"Was the Lucy Alston whom you
have mentioned ever in the service of
the Penruthyns?" asked Sir George Trem-
lett.
"She was."
"How very strange!" ejaculated Sir
George. "This Lucy Alston was the
mother of my poor afflicted child. She
gave it birth about the time when poor
Mrs. Howell must have died."
"She did; and both children remained
with her till her death," resumed Lord
Rossthorne, "when they were taken
charge of by her sister Susan (or Sarah,
as she was sometimes called, because
there was another servant called Susan
in my house), until I removed my grand-
child."
"Is he still living?" asked Stephen,
unable to control his curiosity.
"It was a girl, Stevie — a poor helpless
girl — that I cast adrift in the world with-
out a protector. Many a time I repented
of the act. Do me the justice to remem-
ber that I was half mad when I committed
it. But it could not be recalled. My
heart yearned towards her as she grew
into womanhood and became the very
image of her mother. She lives still, Ste-
vie, and I have never lost sight of her.
Can you realize how I must love and
honor those who have loved and honored
my child in spite of the dark stain that I
have cast upon her birth? Will you won-
der at my wishing to make you my adopt-
ed son, when I tell you that the child of
my own darling is no other than your
affianced bride, Grace Lee?"
"Grace Lee!" exclaimed Sir George,
in amaze.
"Henceforward Grace Howell till I die,
then Lady Rossthorne, a peeress of Great
Britain in her own right. Poor Percy
Cory ton has lost his chance of a seat in the
House of Lords."
"By Jove, Stevie!" cried his father,
"think of that."
"I shall love her none the better for it,"
he answered, with a sigh; "but pray don't
mind me; I am so dazed with all that I
have heard. Go on, pray go on, Lord
Rossthorne, about Brandron."
"You are ashamed to love the daughter
of a murderer, I see."
"Nothing could make me ashamed to
love Grace Lee," replied Stephen, stoutly;
"but this must be cleared up. Was it
you who walked with John Brandron into
Westborough Wood on the afternoon of
the 29th July, 1858?"
"It was."
Sir George fell back aghast; and Ste-
phen resumed, " I have been so deceived
by circumstantial evidence that I will be-
lieve no more of it. This much I know
from Brandron himself, — Susan Alston
wrote to him in India, confessing that the
child — your daughter's child, as you own
— was living. He appointed a meeting
with you to compel justice to be done it;
and up to the hour of his death be be-
lieved that yours was the hand that struck
him down."
"Good heavens, Stevie!" cried the
peer, amazed by what he heard; "you
must mistake. It could not be. Did he
mention my name at all? No, he could
not, or you " —
"He did not mention your name, though
repeatedly urged to do so. I tell you, my


198
A TANGLED SKEIN.
description of the father — his rank, his
parents' names, and so on — is entered,
he went to compare it with the original,
for the purpose of supplying these de-
tails."
"But how did he know where the origi-
nal was to be found ?" asked Sir George.
"Oh, that was stated plainly enough on
the certificate. He will examine the
registry books of Craigsleigh, and there he
will find that the bride was the daughter
of Lord Rossthorne and —"
"Do I understand you that the descrip-
tion of the bride's parents is also obliterat-
ed from the certificate ?" asked the peer,
in an eager, excited tone.
"Yes. entirely."
"Then they have no case against me,"
said Lord Rossthorne, decisively. "Oh,
Stevie, I wish they had, as far as this goes,
for I am innocent; but the want of this
part of the certificate renders it impossible
that my dear grandchild's rights can ever
be lesrally established."
"flow so, when there is the register?"
"The page in the register which con-
tains the entry of her mother's marriage
has been destroyed."
"Then," said Stevie, smiling, " I shall
not marry a peeress. It is getting late
now, and I have too long delayed to do
what I ought to have done an hour ago,
only I have been too excited and confused
to think of it. Is there an electric tele-
graph, my Lord, at your station?"
"I am sorry to say there is not. It is
only a loop line."
"Which is the nearest station where
there is one?"
"B , but it is twelve miles off."
"Will you lend me a horse to carry me
there, and not mind my riding him hard?"
"With all my heart! but what do you
want to do?"
"Cannot you guess?"
"Humph! I think I can. Poor child!
poor child! This must have been a sharp,
though, thank God, a short trial for her.
Don't spare my horses, Stevie. I would
say send, but I know your heart says go."
Stephen raced to B , and set the
lightning in motion. CLICK! click ! went
a needle at Poundbridge station — one
message. CLICK ! click ! again — another,
— both from B . A sleepy flyman
woke up and sent to harness his horses.
He was to have five pounds — so said sec-
ond telegraphic message — if he delivered
the first at Kerndon Rectory in an hour.
It was long past midnight when Stephen
returned from B . He was quietly
making his way up to his bedroom when
one of the county police met him in the
passage, and thrust a slip of paper into his
hand.
It was a summons, requiring him to ap-
pear at the Town Hall, Poundbridge, on
the following day, as a witness against
Charles, Baron Rossthorne, on a charge of
wilful murder; and to produce all papers
in his custody or control which he had ob-
tained from John Everett Brandron, de-
ceased or otherwise, by reason of informa-
tion by him given.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
COMMITTED FOB TRIAL.
The news that the perpetrator of the
Westborough murder had been discovered
ran like wildfire through that village and
Poundbridge, and people came trooping in
from all directions, till the Town Hall was
crammed to suffocation ; and a goodly mob
collected in and about the railway-station
to see the prisoner taken out of his carriage,
and groan at him according to custom.
The latter assemblage, however, was disap-
pointed. Up came the train, and out bun-
dled its passengers, but no handcuffed ruf-
fian—no police—appeared. Three gentle-
men were helped out of a first-class car-
riage by a respectably dressed man, who
might have been their servant, so attentive
was he to them, particularly to the one
with the gray hair. A fly was engaged,
and the eldest two of these passengers, ac-
companied by the respectably dressed
man, were driven off' to the town. The
third, who remained behind on the plat-
form, was Stephen Frankland; and the
cause of his thus delaying was, that Cuth-
bert Lindsay was there to meet him, in
accordance with a request contained in the
telegraphic message of the night before.
"No, Sir,"said the little man, firmly, and
drawing back, as Stevie pressed forward
to shake him by the hand. "There is a
good deal to be explained before you and I
shake hands again, Captain Frankland."
"Have you not received my telegram,
then ?" he demanded.
"I have, but it tells me nothing. When
a gentleman proposes for a young lady, and
rushes out of the house the next morning,
telling her not to think of him again, it re-
quires something more than a vague tele-
gram, saying that he has been deceived as
to something which he does not condescend


A TANGLED SKEIN.
199
to mention, to set him right with her
friends," said Lindsay, dryly.
"True, Cuddy, and I am here to answer
everything. Now come more this way,
where we shall be out of hearing. Read
that; " and he placed Sister Mary's letter
in his friend's hand. "That was flung
through my window the night before last.
Can you wonder now that I fled the
house?" Cuddy's stern demeanor fell
from him like a mask.
"Oh, my poor fellow ! is it true ?" he ex-
claimed.
"Thank God! no, Cuddy. But I had
awfully strong reasons to believe that it
was, as I think you will admit, when I tell
you what must now be told."
"What an infamous wretch the woman
must be!"
"I am almost sure that she, too, has been
deceived, and acted conscientiously. But,
oh, Cuddy, do let me explain all after-
wards, and tell me now, how is she—how is
Grace?"
"Grace Lee's a thorough brick !" replied
Cuddy, with fervor. "At first we were
in an awful fright about her. Upon my
word, Stevie, we thought that she had
lost her reason."
"My poor darling! my poor, poor dar-
ling! Was her grief so wild?"
"No, that was the worst of it! If she
had cried, and gone into hysterics, and all
that, one would not have minded so much;
but she was so awfully calm. Half the day
she remained in a sort of trance ; and about
sunset she heaved a deep sigh, pressed
Gerty's hand, and whispered, 'It was like
a happy dream, dear—too happy to last.
Don't think badly of him, Gerty. for my
sake ;' and then she dressed and came
down, and tried to go about as usual, but
we could see that her heart was breaking."
"We are wasting time here!" cried
Stephen, petulantly. " Come away, Cuddy.
Let me go to her at once. I will explain all
as we drive along." And he kept his word.
"I got into an awful row with Gerty,"
said Cuthbert, when Stevie had concluded,
"for sticking up for you. Lord, what a lot
of lies I told for your sake, old boy! Hang
it! I knew you were not the man to do such
a thing for nothing, though I was cross
with you to your face at the station."
"You have not shaken hands with me
yet. No, no!" Stephen cried, as Cuddy
began to pull up the ponies in order to do
go. "Don't stop! I'll take the will for the
deed. Pitch into those fat brutes, and
make them go along. You don't half
drive, Cuddy!"
"Don't you be impatient! But, as I was
going to say, it's an ill wind that blows no-
body good. After having fought the whole
house on your account, and being pitched
into right and left, you may imagine how
cocky I was when your telegram came.
They had gone to bed; but I had them all
up, after having first of all sent little Maud
privately to tell Grace. I assembled them
in the dining-room, and talked to them like
a father about the folly of jumping to con-
clusions, for about a quarter of an hour, be-
fore I let them know what news was in the
telegram; and I would have kept them
longer in suspense, if that great blackguard
Jackson had not taken it away from me by
force. The upshot was that Gerty re-
lented, said she was sorry for having rowed
me, &c., &c. So then I went in and won."
"What, proposed for her?"
"Yes. Tremendously plucky thing for
a little fellow like me to do, wasn't it
now?"
"And have you been accepted?"
"Well, at first I was, unconditionally;
and I became the happiest little chap alive;
but this morning she said all depended upon
your making it right with Grace."
"Then consider yourself again the hap-
piest little fellow in the world, as you are
the best," said Stephen. "Cuddy, how
can I show you my gratitude?"
"By not thanking me; — but I have not
told you all. Scarcely had it got wind that
Gerty and I had — you know what, when
that ruffian Gigas comes sidling into my
room, looking like a great sheep; and, after
a deal of stammering, lets it out that he and
little Maud had been engaged for the last
three days, and that they had not pluck
enough between them to tell anybody. Of
course, I flung a boot at his head, and af-
terwards dragged him into the presence of
the injured ' parient.'"
"And what did the injured 'parient'
"Well, he had little Maud into his study,
and she said she liked the creature, though
how No, chaffing apart, he's a right
down good fellow, is old Gigas, and the
brute will have at least a couple of thou-
sand a year: so they are to be married in
the spring."
"And you?"
"Why, it never rains but it pours," re-
plied Cuddy. "I have not got rich uncles
and estates in Lincolnshire, you know; and
dear Gerty's face is her fortune. Will you
believe it, that this very morning comes a
letter, with a big official seal, containing
such a jolly letter from old Pam to Mr.
Treherne (they were at college together),
offering him the vacant Crown living of


202
A TANGLED SKEIN.
'I read the newspapers."
.' Regularly?"
"Pretty well."
"There appeared a long account of the
inquest in this case in most of the London
papers, I think?"
"I dare say there did."
"You dare say, Sir! Did you not read
it?"
"Yes, I have read it."
"When was it that you first informed
the police that you could give the evi-
dence we have just heard from your dep-
osition?"
"Last Monday."
"Four days ago?"
Mr. Torrington bowed.
"Now, Sir, will you explain," said the
learned sergeant, in his blandest manner,
"how it is that you have kept silence on
so important a subject from the 29th of
last July until last Monday — a period
of nearly two months?"
"Because I was abroad."
"When did you go abroad?"
"On the 29th of July. I was on my
way to Poundbridge station, to take the
train toFolkstone, when I saw Lord Ross-
thorne coming out of the wood."
"How do you know that the person you
saw was his lordship?"
"I know it was!"
"But how, man ? — how? You had no
motive for noticing him."
"Yes, I had! My brother-in —"
"I don't want to know anything about
your brother," interposed the sergeant.
"Ah, but wo do, Mr. Markham," said
the presiding magistrate. "The witness
was about to give his motives for noticing
the prisoner. These may be very impor-
tant. Go on, Mr. Torrington."
"My brother-in-law is a tenant of his
lordship's,*' resumed the witness, "and he
pointed him out to me a short time before
in London. He was very good to my
brother-in-law and my sister when they
were in a bit of trouble last year, and I
felt half inclined when I saw him there to
thank him for it . Besides, he looked tired,
and I thought, being on foot, he might
condescend to take a seat in my gig, but
he hurried past me, and I thought better
of it, and did not like to intrude."
"You considered it impossible, I dare
say," asked Markham, "that a man like
Lord Rossthorne could have any part in
such a crime?"
"I did not know that a crime had been
committed till I returned from Spain, last
Saturday."
"But you told me just now that you
read a report of the inquest in the pa-
pers."
"So I did, but only on Sunday, when I
amused myself by looking over the back
numbers of The Observer which had been
delivered at my house during my ab-
sence."
"Humph! You have said that his
lordship was coming from the wood?"
"Yes."
"And you were driving in the road?"
"I was."
"Whereabouts were you in the road
when you first saw him?"
"Just at the turn before you come to
the green."
"Where there are two heaps of stones?"
"There were no stones there then."
"Very well. I think we both mean
the same spot—just about twenty yards
short of the milestone?"
"Yes."
"Now, is there not a deep valley there,
between the road and the wood?"
"There is. When I first saw him he
was just mounting the slope."
"Very well. Are there not two path-
ways, right and left, at the bottom of that
valley, as well as the one straight on,
which leads past the church into the wood?
Is this not so, Mr. Torrington?"
"I believe it is."
"You did not see him in the wood?"
"No."
"Then all you can really say is, that
you saw him mounting the slope?"
"Coming from the wood," interposed
Sir Joseph Sykes.
"I beg your worship's pardon," said the
sergeant, sternly; "he might have come
from the church, or from along either of
the two paths, and not have been near the
wood at all. Is that not so, Mr. Torring-
ton?"
"He might have come from the church."
"Or from either of the two other
paths?"
"Of course."
"You may stand down."
"No, wait one moment," interposed the
attorney who conducted the prosecution.
"You said, when you were first exam-
ined, that he was coming from the wood."
"Well, he has explained that," said the
sergeant, impatiently.
"Not quite. Why did you say he was
coming from the wood, witness?"
"Because he was coming from the di-
rection of the wood."
"As also from the church. What rea-
son had you for speaking of the wood?"
"I had a reason."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
203
"What was it?"
"I thought he was coming from the
wood?"
"But why, Mr. Torrington ?— why?"
"Because he had a hazel switch in his
hand, with the leaves on."
"Bah!" exclaimed Mr. Sergeant Mark-
ham. "Hazel switches grow in every
hedge."
"But not in the church, Mr. Sergeant,
or nearer than the wood," was the reply
of the attorney.
The two justices put their heads to-
gether.
"The effect of the evidence of this wit-
ness," said the chairman," has been so much
modified since we sat last, that really, Mr.
Snugly, unless you can prove something
like motive —"
"I am about to do so, Sir," replied the
attorney. "Call Captain Frankland."
Stephen stepped into the witness-box,
and was sworn.
"Have you brought the papers you
were subpoenaed to produce, Captain
Frankland?"
"I have."
"Then produce a letter signed ' Susan,'
which was found in the deceased Mr.
Brandron's room at the ' Rising Sun.'"
The letter, which the reader will re-
member, was produced and read.
"Now a paper headed 'Copy/ written
by the deceased himself."
This was also read.
"Did Brandron tell you —"
"Stop! stop, stop!" said the sergeant.
"What he said is not evidence."
Mr. Lagger whispered something in the
attorney's ear.
Lord Rossthorne wrote three lines on a
scrap of paper, and handed it to his coun-
sel.
"Mr. Brandron knew that he could not
live when he spoke," said Snugly, address-
ing the bench; "and I submit to your
worships that if I prove this fact, — and I
can do so, — I am entitled to give evi-
dence of what he said, as a dying declara-
tion."
"Then I withdraw my objection," re-
joined the sergeant, in a careless tone,
and playing with his pen.
Those who knew the sergeant well, and
were opposed to him, got nervous when
he put on that tone, and flicked the table
in that idle way.
"Well, then, did Brandron direct you
to find any other papers relative to the
subject of those already in evidence?"
"He did."
"Where were you to find them?"
"Hidden in a room at Mangerton
Chase."
"Did you find them there?"
"I did."
"Exactly where he told you they would
be?"
"Exactly."
"Where are they?"
Stephen handed them in ; and all George
Howell's letters and the marriage certifi-
cate were read by the clerk of the court.
Last of all, the declaration made by Su-
san Alston, and witnessed by Brandron,
respecting the birth and legitimacy of the
child, was handed to the chairman.
"Have you any other questions to ask
Captain Frankland, Mr. Snugly?" he
said, when he had read it.
Mr. Snugly had not.
Sergeant Mark ham rose slowly, and
pressing a piece of blotting-paper on his
notes as he spoke, asked, —
"You were with Mr. Brandron, I think,
from the time he was brought to the ' Ris-
ing Sun ' till he died?"
"Almost until he died."
"Was he sensible?"
"I believe he was."
"At any rate, you found the papers just
produced exactly where he told you they
would be?"
"Yes; I have said so already."
"Now, Sir, I venture to ask you plainly,
did he make any accusation against Lord
Rossthorne?"
"He did not."
"Did he mention his name?"
"No."
"That will do, Captain Frankland." It
was clear now why the sergeant had per-
; mitted what Brandron said on his death-
bed to be given in evidence, even though
by doing so he admitted the papers found
in Mangerton Chase. Having got what
he wanted, he then proceeded to attack
what his adversary had gained.
"I am sure," he said, " that your hon-
ors will not allow your minds to be preju-
diced by the contents of those documents
until my client is connected with them in
some way. It really seems to me to be a
waste of time to go on in this fashion."
"If the learned gentleman will have a
little patience, he shall see that I am pro-
ceeding quite regularly," said Snugly.
"Call Charity Spence."
Charity Spence was called, and a very
old woman dressed in rusty black hobbled
into the witness-box.
"Are you a widow, Mrs. Spence ?" de-
manded the attorney, loudly; for the wit-
ness was deaf.


A TANGLED SKEIN.
207
who gave it as their opinion that Grace
Lee must be a very bold-faced young per-
son to behave as she did in court. Lastly,
there. were fogies who got red in the
face in their club windows, declaring that
the whole thing was a conspiracy, by God!
A got up thing to ruin Kossthorne. Ross-
thorne was a man of honor, Sir! He com-
mit a murder? Not he! If he did, the
fellow deserved it, by God! and that was
all about it. Those confounded Radicals
were ruining the country, and it would not
be fit for a gentleman to live in soon.
Afterwards, when no further disclosures
were forthcoming, and all these good peo-
ple had had their say, they found some-
thing else to talk about.
Few were more agreeably surprised and
perplexed at the disclosures which were
made, than our old friend Jim Riley. He,
too, had been hunting, and at first hit upon
the true secret. He was the first of the
three visitors who called on Sister Mary,
(whom he knew to be his mother's sister,)
in the convent at Hull. To her he com-
municated his suspicions that poor Nancy
was — as he called her — "a gentleman's
child." He urged that the mysterious hints
thrown out by his mother referred to her
— there he was right; and that the minia-
ture and other articles which he had found
in the cottage at Westborough would,
sooner or later, give a clue to her parent-
age — there he was wrong. Not much
help did he get from his grim aunt, until
after Stephen's visit, and Mr. Lagger's
enforced interview. Then she sent for
him, and was unnaturally communicative.
She told him of her sister Lucy's fall
whilst in the service of Lord Penruthyn,
and of the child being placed in his (Jim's)
mother's care.
"It was of this wretched infant," said
Sister Mary, " of which your mother spoke.
She was always a poor, weak-spirited fool,
ready to take the burden of other people's
sins upon herself; and this Nancy that
you speak of may or may not be her own
daughter. At any rate, your mother could
not have spoken of her. She spoke of the
chilil which was taken away from her by
its father when you were still a boy; and
the portrait and letter you have found re-
late to her. I will help you to trace out
this child." Then she told him that a man
named Williams had removed her from
Westborough, and that she had been placed
by him in a school, which she named,
at Worthing. At that time Williams
was clerk to an attorney in Bucklersbury,
London; but she (Sister Mary) knew
nothing more of him, or what had be-
come of the girl. Jim Riley traced the
clue thus afforded, and identified her as
Grace Lee — the more conclusively on
account of the wonderful resemblance she
bore to the miniature before mentioned;
and the story told by the grim Sister of
Charity being thus corroborated in an
important particular, he made up his mind
to believe it all. His next discovery was
an important one. He found out that a
gentleman had called at his mother's cot-
tage the very day that he had quitted it
with Nancy; that he had exhibited much
surprise and consternation when he heard
that Mrs. Riley was dead, and that her son
had carried off the imbecile woman who
passed as her daughter. In the course of
his inquiries as to who this person was,
what he was like, and where he had come
from, made of the neighbors and at the
railway-stations, he encountered Mr. Lag-
ger. By this time the detective had ob-
tained that evidence which connected Lord
Rossthorne with Brandron, and pointed
him out as the person whom the latter
had summoned to Westborough. He,
consequently, had ceased to "want " Jim
as a principal in the great murder case,
but he was very glad to find him, and
have him ready to produce in court at the
trial; because his presence there would
exclude one important topic which might
be urged in defence of the prisoner.
"If you'd 'a kept out of the way, Jim,"
explained Mr. Lagger, "they'd 'a sed,
'Where's Jim Riley ?' — that's what
they'd 'a sed. They'd 'a sed, 'You go
and take a nobleman of high character
into custody, because he was seen about
the spot that day, and you don't look ar-
ter a travelling tinker, who has bin in
trouble, who was thereabouts too!' Where
is this 'ere travelling tinker? Pro-duce
him. Have you searched for him? Well,
if you have not, you've ne-glected your
dooty, and in his absence there is a rea-
sonable doubt that the prisoner is guilty.
If you have, and cannot find him, there is
reasonable cause to believe that he has bolt-
ed because he is guilty; and in either case,
the prisoner might get off. I don't intend
this 'ere prisoner to get off. I intend to
con-vict him, and then to re-tire into pri-
vate life with my little niece. Therefore
you and me will keep company, Jim, and
be very good friends, and help each other.
Now, you've got a little game of your own,
you have," continued the detective, wink-
ing his right eye and jerking his elbow
into Jim's ribs. "Tell me what it is, and
I'll help you."
After a little demur Jim did tell him,


208
A TANGLED SKEIN.
and, in return for his confidence, and cer-
tain useful information which he incident-
ally gave, he received the important news,
that the gentleman who had called at Mrs.
Riley's cottage was Sir George Tremlett,
of Tremlett Towers.
It must be admitted that our worthy
Jim's motives in seeking and following up
these discoveries, were not of unmixed pu-
rity. He felt kindly enough towards poor
Nancy, but the thought that he should be
able to make a good bargain on his own
account, with those who might feel it in-
convenient to recognize her, was present
to his mind when he commenced his re-
searches; and great was his disappoint-
ment afterwards at finding what he had
thought the real scent about to be disclosed
by others. He was, therefore, not dissat-
isfied with the evidence he heard in
Poundbridge Town Hall —evidence which
left his chances exactly as they were when
Sister Mary diverted his search from the
right direction.
And why did she do this? Well, it
never was exactly cleared up; and she
was not the sort of woman to volunteer
an explanation. A story was, certainly,
put forward, that she acted under the or-
ders of her superiors, and notably of the
gentleman who lived in those sumptuous
apartments in St. James's; and that she
had deceived Jim Riley and Stephen for
the purpose of preventing the Rossthorne
estates from passing away from the Cory-
tons, (who were Roman Catholics,) as
would be the case if Grace Lee's legiti-
macy were established. I place no reli-
ance whatever in such an idle conjecture,
and think I can trace it to its source — a
foul one, from which springs much foolish
and vulgar abuse of a religion which is, at
all events, entitled to our Tespect, however
much we may differ from its teaching. No,
I believe that Sister Mary had exclusive
information, which was partly correct and
partly incorrect; and that the conviction
that the child which was taken away from
her sister Susan was really her sister Lu-
cy's offspring, having once entered her
obstinate head, no argument or considera-
tion could remove it. She was sent to
Westborough to take possession of Mrs.
Riley's cottage — the lease of which had
several years yet to run; she heard people
chattering about Stephen and Grace — as
people will chatter in small country places;
or, happening to see them that afternoon,
wandering, lover-like, in the wood, drew
her own deductions, and gave her terrible
and unnecessary warning conscientiously.
It was from her that Mr. Lagger learned
that the "Susan" who corresponded with
Brandron was Mrs. Riley, of Westborough;
and even he was thrown off the right tack
by the answers she gave him whilst under
the screw, on the day when poor Patty
Marsh lost her sailor sweetheart. Hence
the erroneous deductions which he drew
from George Howell's letters. Has the
reader forgotten the hungry-looking tramp
who passed by where Stephen and the de-
tective sat, just when the latter was about
to draw those deductions? There were
others which this poor fever-stricken
wretch could have disposed of, if he had
heard what was said on that occasion.
All doubt, however, as to Nancy's birth
and parentage was removed the night af-
ter Lord Rossthorne's commitment, when,
after a long conference with Stevie, Sir
George Tremlett sent for Jim Riley, and
claimed her as his child. The fears of a
discovery, which had haunted him ever
since his marriage, were now removed;
aud he could explain to Stevie, in faltering
tones, and with averted looks, the mistaken
inference he had drawn from his having
exclaimed, "Good God! Stevie, you will
not betray me?" when told by the latter
that the secret of his visit to Westborough
was known.
Great, as you may imagine, was the
excitement in Little Union Street when
the news about Nancy was brought; and
universal were the regrets felt by Mrs.
Wantley and her family, when, three
days afterwards, the poor girl was re-
moved to a cmiet little lodging near
Hampstead, which her father had taken
for her. Even the fair and haughty Flora
expressed herself graciously on that occa-
sion, and hinted the gratuitous services of
Mr. Cornelius Bruffor, the chemist next
door, to Stephen on Nancy's behalf. Mr.
Cornelius Bruffor was the abject slave of
Miss Flora Wantley, upon the strength
of a promise lately obtained, after months
of devotion, that she would swear to love,
honor, and obey him, as soon as he could
establish a private practice which should
be sufficiently remunerative to enable him
to give up the shop. Miss Wantley, who
had maintained an elegant appearance the
greater part of her life from the sale of
penny newspapers, could not "abide"
marrying a shopkeeper. To Mr. Bruffor's
credit be it said, that he had long since
declared that Nancy must have country
air, generous diet, and a tonic treatment
— recommendations which were echoed
by the celebrated doctor whom Stevie
called in, to the great delight of the little
chemist and druggist. So, as I have said,


A TANGLED SKEIN.
209
the patient was taken off to Hampstead,
and Helen — her first and best ally —
went with her.
Poor Nancy! they called her an idiot
down in Westborough. Idiocy was not
her affliction. She was merely of weak
mind from her birth, and nothing had been
done to rouse her from the mental lethargy
'into which she sank, and which grew upon
her, until the last spark of sanity was al-
most extinguished. Her entire change of
life, and the bustle of the little shop, did
Iwonders in developing her dormant intel-
lect; but the atmosphere of Little Union
Street and Ruby Row was almost fatal to
the bodily health of one who had spent her
life from infancy upwards amidst the hop-
gardens and pleasant pastures of breezy,
fragrant Kent. As the strength of her
mind increased, so — only in a greater and
swifter ratio — did her physical strength
seem to die away and leave her. She
never thoroughly recovered from the ex-
haustion of that long tramp from West-
borough, and the effect of sleeping in wet
clothes in the open air. It was only on
his arrival in London that honest Jim ob-
tained the money which he had paid Mrs.
Wantley. He was all but destitute when he
left his mother's cottage, (though he left
money there which he might have taken,)
and could not afford to pay for a night's
lodging on his way. Nancy was a stout,
strong, hale woman when she started on
that journey, and when Stephen saw her
two months afterwards he could hardly
recognize her, so fair and delicate did she
look.
Good Mrs. Wantley was very sorry to
lose her charge; nor was this her only
grievance about this time. Her eldest son
ad been discharged from jail — a cripple,
poor fellow, for life — and at first had
gladdened her heart by his improved lan-
guage and conduct; but a great change
came over him shortly after Nancy's de-
parture. He absented himself all day
from the little shop, never returning, ex-
cept to sleep and take his meals. Some-
times he would ask to have his dinner
packed up in a basin, and he would limp
away with it in the morning, and never
come back till dark. He was incessantly
begging money of his mother, and one
day she saw him emerging from the pawn-
broker's at the corner, and next Sunday
noticed, to her sorrow, that he appeared
in his every-day suit. In vain she scold-
ed, in vain she coaxed. He would not tell
where he spent his time and his money.
He tried to laugh off his mother's anxiety,
and gave her evasive answers. It was all
right; he was not up to any harm. He
would tell her about it some day; and so
on.
But how came he to have the opportu-
nity of thus distressing his worthy parent?
Why was he not expiating in Maidstone
Jail his defeated attempt to escape from
his punishment in that prison? Was Jim
Riley wrong in stating that he would be
tried for that offence? No; Robert
Wantley was tried, and acquitted. What,
acquitted? when he was found groaning
under the wall with a dislocated hip,
dressed in his prison dress, and with a
rope made of his bed-clothes clutched
broken in his hand! He was indeed;
and when you hear why this happened,
you can, if you please, moralize upon the
glorious uncertainty of the law.
Upon several of the circuits into which
England is divided for judicial purposes,
there were — there may be now, for aught
I know — certain young gentlemen of good
birth and fortune, who attend for the pur-
pose of amusing themselves and extending
the circle of their acquaintance; who have
no intention — as, indeed, they have no
necessity — to follow the law as a profes-
sion, but who see no impropriety in stand-
ing in the way of hard-working, necessi-
tous men who depend upon it for their
bread and cheese, and thus snatching a
few guineas from their hands. These in-
terlopers are, for the most part, very igno-
rant of their profession, and would avoid
a difficult brief as they would a friend
who wore an old coat. Providence, how-
ever, has created for them a certain class
of business in the criminal assize courts,
which a boy of fourteen years old and
average impudence could manage, and
has given a good deal of this for distribu-
tion into the' hands of a class of men who
take delight in gratifying rich young gen-
tlemen— sons and nephews of country
squires — and giving briefs and fees to
those who don't deserve the one nor re-
quire the other. Unto such a person, who
lounged yawning into court for the first
time in the day about one o'clock, came
an attorney of the order lately indicated,
who presented him with the brief against
Robert Wantley for an escape, and re-
quested that he would draw the indict-
ment, as the circumstances made it rather
a special one. Our fortunate and fashion-
able young friend, not being able to do
this himself, got an unfashionable, and,
consequently, unfortunate fellow-barrister,
who knew his business, to do it for him;
learned his brief by heart, and invited
half a dozen elegant ladies, his relations


A TANGLED SKEIN.
211
X 52; you stick to your instructions, and
then you won't burn your fingers. Who
keeps the lodging-house?"
"Jem Taylor."
"What, cranky Taylor V"
"Yes, Sir."
"Ah! then he ain't a very good charac-
ter, I should think. I'll go and see him my-
self," said Mr. Lagger. "What time does
young Wantley get there in the morning?"
"About half-past nine."
"Very well. Now you go to cranky
Taylor, and you sez — sez you, 'Mr. Lag-
ger — him as knowed you about the gold-
dust case — is a-coming to your house to-
morrow morning at nine o'clock, and he
don't want no public reception. He knows
you, he does; and you knows him pretty
well now — you'll know him better if you
tries to play any little games with him.
He Wants the room next to where this 'ere
sick man is, all to himself, and he can't ex-
actly say for how long. He'll be there
every day, till he sez he's not a-coming any
more, and nobody's to know he's there.'
D'ye understand?"
X 52 nodded. He was a man of few
words.
"Very well, then; you go and do it."
X 52 went and did it.
The following morning Mr. Lagger paid
his promised visit to "cranky " Taylor —
and went again, and again, and again,
every day.
The room in Ryder Street where Bob
Wantley passed so much of his time was a
wretched den at the very top of the
house, lighted by one garret window.
Its furniture consisted of one chair which
had once been rush-bottomed, and a
wretched straw mattress stretched on the
floor, in the corner where fell the few sun-
beams that struggled in through the neigh-
boring chimneys. On this mattress, cov-
ered only with a tattered patchwork quilt,
lay the tramp already twice mentioned in
this history, looking more hungry, more
hopeless, more ill than ever.
"Damn you !" he cried, raising himself
on his elbow, as Bob Wantley limped into
the room, " where have you been all this
time?"
"It's only just struck ten, Alf," said the
latter, in a soothing tone. "Lie down,
that's a good fellow."
"You talk to me as though I were a
dog," replied the other, sinking back with
a groan. "Have you brought me anything
to eat?"
"Yes, Alf, and some tea."
"Tea be damned! Have you got any
money?"
"No. I told you yesterday that mother
won't give me any more, and —"
"Why the hell don't you steal some
then ?" exclaimed the tramp, turning upon
him savagely.
"Now, I say, Alf, none of that. I get
into trouble enough about what I do for
you, as it is. You didn't talk like that a
fortnight ago, when I found you a'most
dying in the street."
"I wish you had left me to die. Why
didn't you?" said the tramp, turning
surlily aside.
"Because you once did me a good turn,
Alf, though it didn't come about as you ex-
pected. Breaking out of Maidstone jail
made a cripple of me; but it was the best
thing as could have happened. I thank
God, Alf Blakeley, that I was lamed and
taken back."
"I wish to God I had been caught too.
Oh, Lord! I do," moaned the sick man,
clasping his wasted hands. "Oh, Lord, if
I'd only had been taken like you and the
prowler, and locked up again, I'd not have
minded if it had bin for good." There was
a wild earnestness in his tone which
startled Bob Wantley.
"Why don't you give yourself up,
then?" he said. "They'd put you in hos-
pital, and cure you."
Blakeley shuddered. "No," he gasped,
after a long pause, "it's too late now.
Where's the doctor?"
"He'll be here presently, but I have
not got any money for him."
"And won't he give me any of that
stuff as does me good without?"
"He don't bring the physic; he only
orders it — gives me a paper to the shop."
"Tell them you'll pay 'em next week."
"No good! We owe twelve and six-
pence already. I tried 'em yesterday, but
they'll give no more credit. It's awful dear,
that stuff."
The sick man groaned.
"Bob, old fellow," he said at last, in a
wheedling voice, " I must have some more;
it makes me strong, —and — and — next
week I'll get well and work a bit. Can't
you borrow a sov. out of the till at home,
Bob? I wish I may die this very minute
if I won't pay you back, and nobody'll be
the wiser."
Bob rose from his seat with a gesture of
disgust.
"Don't — don't — don't go," almost
shrieked the tramp. "Damn you! you
know I go mad when I'm left alone.
Stop, Bob — sit down again, old fellow,
and — and — I must have more of that
stuff or some brandy. I must."


A TANGLED SKEIN.
217
jury at the assizes threw out the bill
against him, and put Alfred Blakeley on
his trial for wilful murder. He pleaded
guilty; but, as his captor predicted, never
lived to be executed. He was in a dying
state when carried into the dock to plead.
Nevertheless, Lord Rossthorne took a
hint given to him by the friendly detective,
and went abroad immediately after Ste-
phen's marriage.
, "It ain't pleasant, my Lord, to rake up
old scores," said Mr. Lagger, as they came
along together from the station, "but
there's that affair of the registers, you
know. People might make a fuss about it,
and if I might be so bold as to suggest that
you should make yourself scarce in this 'ere
country for a year or so, I don't think you'd
find it amiss. I should think, now, that
the air of Spain would be uncommon good
for your complaint," he concluded, with
his head on one side, and the old magpie
look upon him.
What more have I to tell? Very little.
You would like to 'know, perhaps, what
became of our " dearest Francis." Do you
think he turned out to be a hypocrite, and
came to a bad end? Bless you, no such
thing. He continued to be the highly ac-
complished, self-confident gentleman which
we have hitherto found him. His acts
were always founded "upon principle."
He took unto himself a wife, and schooled
her down to his own level. There is not
a more proper, well-bred, heartless pair in
all Loudon than Mr. and Mrs. Tremlett.
Their house is the best ordered and most
disagreeable establishment you were ever
in. The gentleman has got into Parlia-
ment for a northern borough, and the lady
writes papers for the meetings of the As-
sociation for the Promotion of Social Sci-
ence. The Tremletts do not visit the
Franklands. Stephen, willing to forgive
and forget, invited his half-brother to his
wedding, and received in reply a pompous
epistle, in which the writer said that the ca-
lamity which had fallen upon his family ut-
terly unfitted him from sharing in any sort
of revelry. (Stevie expressly stated that
there would be nothing of the sort.) He
congratulated him on his good fortune and
"management"— suggesting, in his nasty
little way, that he (Stevie) had known
Grace to be Lord Rossthorne's grandchild
from the first. So Mr. Tremlett did not
grace the marriage with his presence, and
its merriment did not suffer in conse-
quence— the fact of the matter being,
that the dear fellow was busy with his
lawyers, scheming how they could get a
portion of his mother's fortune settled on
him (poor innocent !), whom she had left
upon the wide world with the beggarly
three thousand a year, which was his by
right on his coming of age.
Let us do him full justice. Out of this
he offered his father an annuity of £100;
which, however, was not accepted, Sir
George Tremlett having taken up his quar-
ters in a pretty villa close to Rossthorne
Castle which had been furnished for him
and poor Nancy by Stephen. Alas, poor
Nancy! Small was the trouble she gave
to any one, and it did not last for long.
The new rector of Questerthorpe was a
lonely man for a short time in the spring
following Stevie's marriage. Cuddy and
Gigas were made the happiest of men on
the same day, and two fairer brides than
Gertrude and Maud Treherne never said
"Amen" at the altar. The dream of dear
old Mrs. Coleman's life was also realized
about this time in the marriage of her
eldest daughter with Ashton Neville.
The beautiful Constance had already given
her hand and heart to Percy Coryton;
and I understand there is a probability
of her wearing the coronet of a baroness
after all, as those learned in such mat-
ters say that Lord Rossthorne's views as
to his title are not correct, and that by
the Act of Edward III., reversing the
attainder of Nigel, the fourth baron, the
female line- had been excluded from the
succession. This his Lordship admits, but
says that the Act in question was repeal-
ed, with parts of others, in the following
reign, by a clerical error, and that the law
which was passed afterwards to set things
right, makes no mention of the female
line at all. I must confess that I do not
understand much about the question.
All I know is, that Mrs. Frankland was
perplexed and annoyed when she first
heard there was a probability of her be-
coming "my lady" in her own right, and
nut as Stevie's wife; and I am sure she
will be rather pleased to avoid an honor
so held. This is about the only subject
upon which she and her husband do not
agree. The latter declares loudly, toss-
ing his first-born in the air, that "he
looks every inch a. peer [the brat is five
months old], and shall not De done out of
his rights."
This sentiment Lord Rossthorne, who
has returned, applauds; and Mrs. Ste-
vie looks on with a mother's love-light in
her eyes, not knowing exactly what to say.
THE END.