Prir,ceton Unlrersity
L ibrary
CHECKMATE
v
BY
J. S. LE FANU
IJjiflt |lIustraiio«^

PHILADELPHIA
EVANS, STODDART & CO.
1871.





iv CONTENTS. ^
CHAPTER PAS1
LV. Mr. Longcluse sees a Friend 120
LVI. A Hope Expires 122
LVII. Levi's Apologue 124
LVIII. The Baron Comes to Town 126
LIX. Two Old Friends Meet and Part l28
LX. "Saul." 130
LXI. A Waking Dream 132
LXII. Love and Play 134
LXIII. Plans 136
LXIV. From Flower to Flower l38
LXV. Behind the Arras 141
LXVI. A Bubble Broken 142
LXVII. Bond and Deed 145
LXVIII. Sir Richard's Resolution '147
LX1X. The Meeting 149
LXX. Night 150
LXXI. Measures 152
LXXII. At the Bar op the Guy of Warwick 153
LSXIII. A Letter :156
LXXIV. Blight and Change 158
LXXV. Phebe Chiffinch 160
LXXVI. Mr. Longcluse and Uncle David 162
LXXVII. The Catacombs 162
LXXVIII. Resurrections 166
LXXIX. The Two Masks 167
LXXX. Broken 168
LXXXI. DOPPELOANGER - 171
LXXXII. Death of Baron Vanboeren 173
'LXXXIII. At Mortlake 174
LXXXIV. The Crisis 175
LXXXV. Pursuit 178
CONCLUSION , 180


6
CHECKMATE.
me, for you always know everything," said
Lady May — "is there still any hope of that
poor little child's recovering—I mean the
one in that dreadful murder in Thames
Street, where the six poor little children
were stabbed?" «
Mr. Longcluse smiled.
"I'm so glad, Lady May, I can answer
you upon good authority l I stopped to-day
to ask Sir Edwin Dudley that very question
through his carriage window, and he said
that he had just been to the hospital to see
the poor little thing, and that it was likely
to do well."
"I'm so glad! And what do they say
can have been the motive of the murder?"
"Jealousy, they say; or else the man
is mad."
"I should not wonder. I'm sure I hope
he is. But they should take care to put him
under lock and key."
"So they will, rely on it; that's a matter
of course."
"I don't know how it is," continued Lady
May, who was garrulous, "that murders
interest people so much, who ought to be
simply shocked at them."
"We have a murder in our family, you
know," said Richard Arden.
"That was poor Henry Arden — I know,"
she answered, lowering her voice and drop-
ping her eyes, with a sidp glance at Alice,
for she did not know how she might like to
hear it talked of.
"Oh, that happened when Alipe was only
five months old, I think," said Richard ; and
slipping into the chair beside Lady May, he
laid his hand upon hers with a smile, and
whispered, leaning toward her —
"You are always so thoughtful; it is so
nice of you!"
And this short speech ended, his eyes re-
mained fixed for some seconds, with a glow
of tender admiration, on those of fat Lady
May, who simpered with effusion, and did
not draw her hand away until she thought
she saw Mr. Longcluse glance their way.
It was quite true, all he said of Lady
May. It would not be easy to find a simpler
or more good-natured person. She was very
rich also, and, it was said by people who love
news and satire, had long been willing to
share her gold and other chattels with hand-
some Richard Arden, who, being but five-and-
tweuty, might very nearly have been her son.
"I remember that horrible affair," said
Mr. Longcluse, with a little shrug and shake
of his head. "Where was I then — Paris
or Vienna? Paris it was. I recollect it all
now, for my purse was stolen by the very
man who made his escape — Mace was his
name; he was a sort of low man on the turf.
I believe; I was very young then—some-
where about seventeen, I think."
"You can't have been more, of course,"
said good-natured Lady May.
"I should like very much some time to
hear all about it," continued Mr. Longcluse.
"So you shall," said Richard, "whenever
you like."
"Every old family has a murder, and a
ghost, and a beauty also, though she does
not always live and breathe, except in the
canvas of Lely, or Kneller, or Reynolds; and
they, you know, had roses and lilies to give
away at discretion, in their paint-boxes, and
were courtiers," remarked Mr. Longcluse.
"who dealt sometimes in the old-fashioned
business of making compliments. I say hap-
py the man who lives in those summers when
the loveliness of some beautiful family cul-
minates, and who may, at ever such a dis-
tance, gaze and worship."
This ugly man spoke in a low tone, and
his voice was rather sweet. He looked as
he spoke at Miss Arden, from whom, in-
deed, his eyes did not often wander.
"Very prettily said!" applauded Lady
May, affably.
"I forgot to ask you, Lady May," inquired
Alice, cruelly, at this moment, "how the
pretty little Italian greyhound is, that was
so ill —better, I hope."
"Ever so much — quite well almost. I'd
have taken him out for a drive to-day, poor
dear little Pepsie! but that I thought the
sun just a little overpowering. Did n't you?"
"Perhaps a little."
Mr Longcluse lowered his eyes as he
leaned against the wall and sighed, with a
pained smile, that even upon his plain, pal-
lid face, was pathetic.
Did proud Richard Arden perceive the de-
votion of the dubious Mr. Longcluse — un-
defined in position, in history, in origin, in
character, in all things but in wealth?. Of
course he did, perfectly. But that wealth
was said to be enormous. There were Jews,
who ought to know, who said he was worth
one million one hundred thousand pounds,
and that his annual income was considerably
more than fifty thousand pounds a year.
Was a man like that to be dismissed with-
out inquiry? Had he not found him good-
natured and gentlemanlike? What about
those stories that circulated among Jews and
croupiers? Enemies might affect to believe
them, and quote the old saw, "There is
never smoke without fire;" but dare one of
them utter a word -of the kind aloud? Did
they stand the test of five minutes' inquiry,
such even as he had given them? Had he
found a particle of proof, of evidence, of
suspicion? Not a spark. What man had
ever escaped stories who was worth forging
a lie about?
Here was a man worth more than a mil-
lion. Why, if he let him slip through his
fingers, some duchess would pounce on him
for her daughter.
It was well that Longcluse was really in
love—well, perhaps, that he did not appre-
ciate the social omnipotence of money.
"Where is Sir Reginald at present?"
asked Lady May.
"Not here, you may be sure," answered


CHECK
MATE. 7
Richard. "My father docs not admit my
visits, you know."
"Really! And is that miserable quarrel
kept up still?"
"Only too true. He is in France at
present; at Vichy — ain't it Vichy?" he
said to Alice.
But she, not choosing to talk, said simply,
•'Yes —Vichy."
"1 'm going to take Alice into town again;
she has promised to stay with me a little
longer. And I think you neglect her a lit-
tle, don't you? You ought to come and see
her a little oftener," pleaded Lady May.
"I only feared I was boring you all.
Nothing, you know, would give me half so
much pleasure," he answered, in a low tone.
"Well, then, she'll expect your visits,
mind."
A little silence followed. Richard was
vexed with his sister; she was, he thought,
snubbing his friend Longcluse.
Well, when once he had spoken his mind
and disclosed his treasures, Richard flattered
himself he had some influence; and did not
Lady May swear by Mr. Longcluse? And
was his father, the most despotic and vio-
lent of baronets, and very much dipt, likely
to listen to sentimental twaddle pleading
against fifty thousand a year?
So, Miss Alice, if you were disposed to
talk nonsense, it was not very likely to be
listened to, and sharp and short logic might
ensue.
How utterly unconscious of all this she
sits there, thinking, I dare say, of quite an-
other person!
Mr. Longcluse was also for a moment in
profound revcry; so was Richard Arden.
The secrecy of thought is a pleasant privi-
lege to the thinker — perhaps hardly less a
boon to the person pondered upon.
If each man's forehead could become trans-
parent, and the. light of his spirit shine
through, and the confluence of figures and
phantoms that cross and inarch behind it
become visible, how that magic-lantern
might appal good easy people!
And now the ladies fell to talking and
comparing notes about their guipure lace-
work.
"How charming yours looks, my dear,
round that little table!" exclaimed Lady
May, in a rapture. "I'm sure I hope mine
may turn out half as pretty. I wanted to
compare; I'm not quite sure whether it is
exactly the same pattern."
* And so on, until it was time for them to
order their wings for town.
The gentlemen have business of their own
to transact, or pleasures to pursue. Mr.
Longcluse has his trap there, to carry them
into town when their hour comes. They
can only put the ladies into their places,
and bid them good-by, and exchange part-
ing reminders and good-natured speeches.
Pale Mr. Longcluse, as he stands on the
steps, looks with his dark eyes after the dis-
appearing carriage, and sighs deeply. He
has forgotten all for the moment but one
dream. Richard Arden wakens him, by
laying his hand on his shoulder.
"Come, Longcluse, let us have a cigar in
the billiard-room, and a talk. I have a box
of Manillas that I think you will say are
delicious — that is, if you like them full-
flavored."
CHAPTER II.
MARTHA TANSEY.
"By-TnE-BY, Longcluse," said Richard, as
they entered together the long tiled passage
that leads to the billiard-room, "yon like
pictures. There is one here, banished to
the housekeeper's room, that they say is a
Vandyck; we must have it cleaned and
backed, and restored to its old place — but
would you care to look at it?"
"Certainly, I should like extremely," said
Mr. Longcluse.
They were now at the door of the house-
keeper's room, and Richard Arden knocked.
"Come in," said the quavering voice of
the old woman from within.
Richard Arden opened the door wide.
The misty rose-colored light of the setting
sun filled the roomw
From the wall right opposite, the pale por-
trait of Sir Thomas Arden, who fought for
the king during the great civil war, looked
forth from his deep dingy frame full upon
them, stern and melancholy; the misty
beams touching the softer lights of his long
hair and the gleam of his armor so happily,
that the figure came out from its dark hack-
ground, and seemed ready to step forth to
meet them.
As it happened, there was no one in the
room but old Mrs. Tansey, the housekeeper,
who received Richard Arden standing.
From the threshold, Mr. Longcluse, lost
in wonder at the noble picture, gazed on it,
with the exclamation, "Good heaven ! what
a noble work! I had no idea there could
be such a thing in existence and so little
known."
And he stood for a while in a rapture,
gazing from the threshold on the portrait.
At sound of that voice, with a vague and
terrible recognition, the housekeeper turned
with a start toward the door, expecting,
you'd have fancied from her face, the en-
trance of a ghost.
There was a tremble in the voice with
which she cried, "Lord, what's that?" a
tremble in the hand extended toward the
door, and a shake also in the pale frowning
face, from which shone her glassy eyes.
Mr. Longcluse stepped in, and the old
woman's gaze became, as he did so, more
shrinking and intense.
When he saw her he recoiled, as a man
might who had all but trod upon a snake;


8
CHECKMATE.
V
and these two people gazed at one another
with a strange, uncertain scowl.
In Mr. Longcluse's case, this dismal caprice
of countenance did not last beyond a second
or two. Richard Arden, as he turned his
eyes from the picture to say a word to his
companion, saw it for a moment, and it
faded from his features — saw it, and the
darkened countenance of the old house-
keeper, with a momentary shock.
He glanced from one to the other quickly,
with a look of unconscious surprise. That
look instantly recalled Mr. Longcluse, who,
laying his hand on Richard Arden's arm,
said, with a laugh —
"I do believe I'm the most nervous man
in the world." \
"You don't find the room too hot?" said
Richard, inwardly ruminating upon the
strange looks he had just seen exchanged.
"Mrs. Tansey keeps a fire all the year
round — don't you, Martha?"
He walked over and raised the lower end
of the frame gentiy from the wall.
"Yes, just as you said, it wants to be
backed. That portrait would not stand a
shake, I can tell you. The canvas is per-
fectly rotten, and the paint — if you stand
here you'll see — is ready to flake off. It is
an awful pity. You shouldn't leave it in
such danger."
"No," said Richard, who was looking at
the old; woman. "I don't think Martha's
well — will you excuse me for a moment?"
And he was at the housekeeper's side.
"What's the matter, Martha?" he said,
kindly. "Are you ill?" ,
"Very bad, sir. I beg your pardon for
sitting, but I could not help; a*d the gen-
tleman will excuse me."
"Of course — but what's the matter?"
said Richard.
"A sudden fright like, sir. I'm all over
on a tremble," she quavered.

SHE PRESSED HER LEAN HAND TO HER HEART
Martha did not answer, nor seem to hear;
she pressed her lean hand, instead, to her
heart, and drew back to a sofa and sat down,
muttering, "My God, lighten our darkness,
we beseech thee!" and she looked as if she
were on the point of fainting.
"That is a true Vandyck," said Mr. Long-
cluse, who was now again looking stead-
fastly at the picture. "It deserves to rank
among his finest portraits. I have never
seen anything of his more forcible. You
really ought not to have it here, and in this
state."
"See how exquisitely that hand is
painted," continued Mr. Longcluse, pursu-
ing his criticism, "and the art with which
the lights are managed. It is a wonderful
picture. It makes one positively angry to
see it in that state, and anywhere but in the
most conspicuous and honorable position.
If I owned that picture, I should never be
tired showing it. I should have it where
every one who came into my house should
see it; and I should watch every crack and
blur on its surface, as I should the symp-
toms of a dying child, or the looks of the


CHECK
11
MATE.
"You make too much of these. Lady
May thinks your face, she says, very inter-
esting— upon my honor, she does."
"Oh, Heaven I " exclaimed Mr. Longcluse,
with a shrug and a laugh.
"And, what is more to the purpose (will
you forgive my reporting all this — you won't
mind ?), some young lady friends of hers who
were by said, I assure you, that you had so
much expression, and that your features
were extremely refined."
"It won't do, Arden; you are too good-
natured," said he, laughing more bitterly.
"I should much rather be as I am, if I
were you, than be gifted with vulgar beauty
— plump, pink and white, with black, beady
eyes, and all that," said Arden.
"But the heaviest curse upon me is that
which, perhaps, you do not suspect —the
curse of secre.cy."
"Oh, really!" said Arden, laughing, as
if he had thought up to then that Mr. Long-
cluse's history was as well known as that
of the Emperor Napoleon.
"I don't say that I shall come out like
the enchanted hero in a fairy tale, and
change in a moment from a beast into a
prince; but I am something better than I
seem. In a short time, if you care to be
bored with it, I shall have a great deal to
tell you."
There followed here a silence of two or
three minutes, and then, on a sudden,
pathetically, Mr. Longcluse broke forth —
"What has a fellow like me to do with
love? and less than beloved, can I ever be
happy? I know something of the world —
not of this London world, where I live less
than I seem to do, and into which I came
too late ever to understand it thoroughly — I
know something of a greater world, and
human nature is the same everywhere.
You talk of a girl's pride inducing her to
marry a man for the sake of his riches.
Could I possess my beloved on those terms?
I would rather place a pistol in my mouth,
and blow my skull off. Arden, I'm unhappy;
I'm the most miserable dog alive."
"Come, Longcluse, that's all nonsense.
Beauty is no advantage to a man. The
being agreeable is an immense one. But
success is what women worship, and if, in
addition to that, you possess wealth — not,
as I said, that they are sordid, but only
vainglorious — you become very nearly irre-
sistible. Now you are agreeable, successful,
and wealthy — you must see what follows."
"I'm out of spirits," said Longcluse, and
relapsed into silence, with a great sigh.
By this time they had got within the
lamps, and were threading streets, and rap-
idly approaching their destination. Five
minutes more, and these gentlemen had
entered a vast room, in the centre of which
stood a billiard-table, with benches rising
tier above tier to the walls, and a gallery
running round the building above them,
brilliantly lighted, as such places are, and
already crowded with all kinds of people.
There is going to be a great match of a
"thousand up" played between Bill Hood
and Bob Markham. The betting has been
unusually high; it is still going on. The
play won't begin for nearly half an hour.
The "admirers of the game" have mustered
in great force and variety. There are young
peers, with sixty thousand a year, and there
are gentlemen who live by their billiards.
There are, for once and away, grave per-
sons, bankers, and counsel learned in the
law; there are Jews and a sprinkling of
foreigners; and there are members of Par-
liament and members of the swell mob.
Mr. Longcluse has a good deal to think
about this night. He is out of spirits.
Richard Arden is no longer with him,
having picked up a friend or.two in the
room.
Longcluse, with folded arms, and his
shoulders against the wall, is in a profound
revery, his dark eyes for the time lowered to
the floor, beside the point of his French boot.
There unfold themselves beneath him pic-
ture after picture, the scenes of many a year
ago-
Looking down, there creeps over him an
old horror, a supernatural disgust, and he
sees in the dark a pair of wide, white eyes,
staring up at him in an agony of terror, and
a shrill yell, piercing a distance of many
years, makes him shake his ears with a sud-
den chill.
Is this the witches' Sabbath of our pale
Mephistopheles — his night of goblins?
He raised his eyes, and they met those of
a person whom he had not seen for a very
long time — a third part of his whole life.
The two pairs of eyes, at nearly Ijalf across
the room, have met, and for a moment fixed.
The stranger smiles and nods. Mr. Long-
cluse does neither. He affects now to be
looking over the stranger's shoulder, at some
more distant object. There is a strange chill
and commotion at his heart.
CHAPTER IV.
MONSIEUR LEBAS.
Mr. Longcluse leaned still with folded
arms, and his shoulder to the wall. The
stranger, smiling and fussy, was. making
his way to him.
There is nothing in this man's appearance
to associate him with tragic incident or
emotion of any kind. He is plainly a
foreigner. He is short, fat, middle-aged,
with a round fat face, radiant with good-
humor and good-natured enjoyment. His
dress is cut in the somewhat grotesque style
of a low French tailor. It is not very new,
and has some spots of grease upon it. Mr.
Longcluse perceives that he is now making
his way toward him.


12
CHECKMATE.
Longcluse for a moment thought of mak-
ing his escape by the door which was close
to him; but he reflected, "He is about the
most innocent and good-natured soul on
earth, and why should I seem to avoid him?
Better, if he's looking for me, to let him
find me, and say his say."
So Longcluse looked another way, his
arms still folded, and his shoulder against
the wall, as before.
"Ah, hal monsieur is thinking profound-
ly," said a gay voice, in French. "Ah, ha,
ha, ha! you are surprised, sir, to see me
here. So am I, my faith! I saw you. I
never forget a face."
"Nor a friend, Lebas. Who could have
imagined anything to bringyou to London?"
answered Longcluse, in the same language,
shaking him warmly by the hand, and smil-
ing down on the little man. "I shall never
forget your kindness. I think I should have
died in that illness but for you. How can
I ever thank you half enough V*
"And the grand secret — the political dif-
ficulty— monsieur found it well evaded,"
he said, mysteriously touching his upper lip
with two fingers.
"Not all quiet yet. I suppose you thought
I was in Vienna?"
"Eh? well, yes — so I did," answered
Lebas, with a shrug. "But perhaps you
think this place safer?"
"Hush! You'll come to me to-morrow.
I 'll tell you where to find me before we part,
and you 'll bring your portmanteau and stay
with me while you remain in London, and
the longer the better."
"Monsieur is too kind, a great deal; but
I am staying for my visit to London with
my brother-in-law, Gabriel Laroque, the
watch-maker. He lives on the Hill of Lud-
gate, and he would be offended if I were to
reside anywhere but in his house while I
stay. But if monsieur wil be so good as to
permit me to call"
"You must come and dine with me to-
morrow; I have a box for the opera. You
love music, or you are not the Pierre Lebas
whom I remember sitting with his violin at
an open window. So come early, come
before six; I have ever so much to ask you.
And what has brought you to London?
"A very little business and a great deal
of pleasure ; but all in a week," said the
little man, with a shrug and a hearty laugh.
"I have come over here about some little
things like that." He smiled archly as he
produced from his waistcoat-pocket a little
flat box with a glass top, and shook some-
thing in it. "Commerce, you see. I have
to see two or three more of the London peo-
ple, and then my business will have termin-
ated, and nothing remain for the rest of the
week but pleasure — ha, ha!"
"You left all at home well, I hope—chil-
dren?" He was going to say "madame,"
but a good many years had passed.
"I have seven children. Monsieur will
remember two. Three are by my first mar-
riage, four by my second, and all enjoy of
the very best health. Three are very young
—three, two, one year old; and they say a
fourth is not impossible very soon," he
added, archly.
Longcluse laughed kindly, and laid his
hand upon his shoulder.
"You must take charge of a little present
for each from me, and one for madame. And
the old business still flourishes?"
"A thousand thanks ! yes, the business is
the same—the file, the chisel, and knife."
And he made a corresponding movement of
his hand as he mentioned each instrument.
"Hush!" said Longcluse, smiling, so
that no one who did not hear him would
have supposed there was so much cautious
emphasis in the word. "My good friend,
remember there are details we talk of, you
and I together, that are not to be mentioned
so suitably in a place like this," and he
pressed his hand on his wrist, and shook it
gently.
"A thousand pardons! I am, I know, too
careless, and let my tongue too often run
before my caution. My wife, she says, 'You
can't wash your shirt but you must tell the
world.' It is my weakness, truly. She is a
woman of extraordinary penetration."
Mr. Longcluse glanced from the corners
of his eyes about the room. Perhaps he
wished to ascertain whether his talk with
this man, whom you would have taken to be
a little above the level of a French me-
chanic, had excited any one's attention. But
there was nothing to make him think so.
"Now, Pierre, my friend, you must win
some money upon this match —do you see?
And you won't deny me the pleasure of put-
ting down your stake for you; and, if you
win, you shall buy something pretty for
madame — and, win or lose, I shall think it
friendly of you after so many years, and
like you the better."
"Monsieur is too good," he said, with
effusion.
"Now look. Do you see that fat Jew over
there on the front bench—you can't mistake
him — with the velvet waistcoat all in wrin-
kles, and the enormous lips, who talkes to
every second person that passes?"
"I see perfectly, monsieur."
"He is betting three to one on Markham.
You must take his offer and back Hood. I'm
told he 'll win. Here are ten pounds, you
may as well make them thirty. Don't say
a word. Our English custom is to tip, as
we say, our friende' sons at school, and to
make presents to everybody, as often as we
like. Now there — not a word."
He quietly slipped into his hand a lit-
tle rouleau often pounds in gold.
"If you say one word, you wound me," he
continued. "But, good Heaven! my dear
friend, have n't you a breast-pocket?
"No, monsieur; but this is quite safe. I
was paid, only five minutes before I came


CHECKMATE.
IS
§
here, fifteen pounds in gold, a cheque of
forty-four pounds, and"
"Be silent. You may be overheard. Speak
here in a very low tone, as I do. And do
you mean to tell me that you carry all that
money in your coat pocket?"
"But in a pocket-book, monsieur."
"All the more convenient for the chevalier
d'Industrie," said Longcluse. "Stop. Pray
don't produce it; your fate is, perhaps,
sealed if you do. There are gentlemen in
this room who would hustle and rob you in
the crowd as you get out; or, failing that,
who, seeing that you are a stranger, would
follow and murder you in the streets for the
sake of a twentieth part of that sum." -
"Gabriel thought there would be none
here but men distinguished," said Lebas, in
some consternation.
"Distinguished by the special attention
of the police, some of them," said Longcluse.
"He! thatis very true," said Monsieur
Lebas —" very true, I am sure of it. See
you that man there, monsieur? Regard him
for a moment. The tall man, who leans
with his shoulder to the metal pillar of the
gallery. My faithl h& has observed my steps
and followed me. I thought he was a spy.
But nay friend he says, 'No, that is a man
of bad character, dismissed for bad prac-
tices from the police.' Aha! he has watched
me sideways with the corner of his eye. I
will watch him with the corner of mine—
ha, ha I"
"It proves, at all events, Lebas, that there
are people here other than gentlemen and
men of honest lives," said Longcluse.
"But," said Lebas, brightening a little,
"I have this weapen," producing a dagger
from the same pocket.
"Put it back this instant. Worse and
worse, my good friend. Don't you know
that just now there is a police activity re-
specting foreigners, and that two have been
arrested only yesterday on no charge but
that of having weapons upon their persons?
I don't know what the devil you had best
do."
"I can return to the Hill of Ludgate—eh?"
"Pity to lose the game; they won't let
you back again," said Longcluse.
"What shall I do?" said Lebas, keeping
his hand now in his pocket on his treasure.
Longcluse rubbed the tip of his finger a
little over his eyebrow, thinking.
"Listen to me," said Longcluse, suddenly.
"Is your brother-in-law here?'"
"No, nionsieqj."
"Well, you have some London friend in
the room, haven't you?"
"One — yes."
"Only be sure he is one whom you can
trust, and who has a safe pocket."
"Oh, yes, monsieur, entirely! and I saw
him place his purse so," he said, touching
his coat, over his heart, with his fingers.
"Well, now, you can't manage it here,
under the gaze of the people; but — where is
best? Yes — you see those two doors at oppo-
site sides in the wall, at the far end of the
room? They open into two parallel corri-
dors leading to the hall, and a little way
down there is a cross passage, in the middle
of which is a door opening into a smoking-
room. That room will be deserted now, and
there, unseen, you can place your money and
dagger in his charge."
"Ah, thank you a hundred thousand times,
monsieur!" answered Lebas.' "I shall be
writing to the Baron van Boeren to-morrow,
and I will tell him I have met monsieur."
"How is the baron?" asked Longcluse.
"Very well. Beginning to be not so young,
you know, and thinking of retiring. I will
tell him his work has succeeded. If be de-
molishes, he also secures. If he sometimes
sheds blood"'
"Hush! " whispered Longcluse, sternly.
"There is no one," murmured little Lebas,
looking round, but dropping his voice to a
whisper. "He also saves many a neck from
the blade of the headsman."
Longcluse frowned, a little embarrassed.
Lebas smiled archly. In a moment Long-
cluse's impatient frown broke into a myste-
rious smile that responded.
"May I say one word more, and make one
request of monsieur, which I hope he will
not think very impertinent?" asked Mon-
sieur Lebas, who had just been on the point
of taking his leave.
"It may n't be in my power to grant it;
but you can't be what you say — I am too
much obliged to you — so speak quite freely,"
said Longcluse.
So they talked a little more, and parted,
and Monsieur Lebas went on his way.
CHAPTER V.
A CATASTROPHE.
The play has commenced. Longcluse, who
likes and understands the game, sitting be-
side Richard Arden, is all eye. He is in-
tensely eager and delighted. He joins
modestly in the clapping that now and then
follows a stroke of extraordinary brilliancy.
Now and then he whispers a criticism in
Arden's ear.
There are many vicissitudes in the game.
The players have entered on the third hun-
dred, and still "doubtful itttood."
The excitement is extraordinary. The
assembly is as hushed as if it were listening
to a sermon, and, I am afraid, more atten-
tive.
Now, on a sudden, Hood scores a hundred
and sixty-eight points in a single break. A
burst of prolonged applause follows, and,
during the clapping, in which he had at first
joined, Longcluse says to Arden —
"I can't tell you how that run of Hood's
delights me. I saw a poor little friend of


14
CHECKMATE.
mine here before the play began — I had not
seen him since I was little more than a boy
— a Frenchman, a good-natured little soul,
and I advised him to back Hood, and I have
been trembling up to this moment. But I
think he's safe now to win. Markham can't
score this time. If he's in 'Queer Street,'
as they whisper round the room, you'll find
l1o'll either give a simple miss, or put him-
self into the pocket."
"Well, I'm sure I hope your friend will
win, because it will put three hundred and
eighty pounds into my pocket," said Richard
Arden.
And now silence was called, and the build-
ing became, in a moment, hushed as a cathe-
dral before the anthem; and Markham
knocked his own ball into the pocket, as
Longcluse had predicted.
On .sped the game, and at last Hood scored
(a thousand, and won the match, greeted by
an uproar of applause that, now being no
longer restrained, lasted for nearly five
minutes.
The assemblage had by this time descend-
ed from the benches, and crowded the floor
in clusters, discussing the play or settling
bets. The people in the gallery were pour-
ing down by the four staircases, and add-
ing to the crowd and buzz.
Suddenly there is a sort of excitement
perceptible of a new kind — a gathering and
pressure of men about one of the doors at
the far corners of the room. Men are look-
ing back and Jaeckoning to their companions;
others are shouldering forward as strenu-
ously as they can. What is it — any dispute
about the score ? — a pair of men boxing in
the passage? "No suspicion of fire?" the
men at this near end exclaim, and sniff over
their shoulders, and look about them, and
move toward the point where the crowd is
thickening, not knowing what to make of
the matter. But soon there runs a rumor
about the room—"A man has just been
found murdered in a room outside," and the
crowd now press forward more energetically
to the point of attraction.
In the cross passage which connects the
two corridors, as Mr. Longcluse described,
there is an awful crush, and next to no light.
A single jet of gas burns in the smoking-
room, where the pressure of the crowd is not"
quite so much felt. There are two police-
men in that chamber, in the ordinary uni-
form of the force, and three detectives in
plain clothes, ,one supporting a corpse al-
ready stiffening, in a sitting posture, as it
waa found, in a far angle of the room, on
the bench to your left as you look in. All
the people are looking up the room. You
can see nothing but hats, and backs of heads,
and shoulders, and collars of coats. There
is a ceaseless buzz and clack of talk and con-
jecture. Even the policemen are looking, as
the rest do, at the body. The man who has
mounted on the chair near the door, with the
other beside him, who has one foot on the
rung and another on the seat, and an arm
round the first gentleman's neck, although
he has not the honor of his acquaintance, to
support himself, can see, over the others,
heads, the one silent face which looks back
toward the door, upon so many gaping, star-
ing, and gabbling ones. The light is faint. It
has occurred to no one to light the gas-lamps
in the centre. But that forlorn face is distinct
enough. Fixed and earthy it is, with the
chin a little raised. The eyes are wide open,
with a deep and awful gaze; the mouth
slightly distorted with what the doctors call
a " convulsive smile," which shows the teeth
a little, and has an odd, wincing look.
As I live, it is the little Frenchman,
Pierre Lebas, who was talking so gayly to-
night with Mr. Longcluse!
The ebony haft of a dagger, sticking
straight out, shows where the hand of the
assassin planted the last stab of four,
through his black satin waistcoat, embroid-
ered with green leaves, red strawberries,
and yellow flowers, which, I suppose, was
one of the finest articles in the little ward-
robe that Madame Lebas packed up for his
holiday. It is not worth much now. It has
four distinct cuts, as I nave said, on the left
side, right through it, and is soaked in blood.
His pockets have been rifled. The police
have found nothing in them but a red pockets
handkerchief and a papier-mache snuff-box.
If that dumb mouth could speak but fifty
words, what a world of conjecture it would
end, and poor Lebas' story would be listened
to as never was story of his before!
A policeman now takes his place at the
door to prevent further pressure. No new
comers will be admitted, except as others go
out. Those outside are asking questions of
those within, and transmitting, over their
shoulders, particulars, eagerly repeated.
On a sudden there is a subsidence of the
buzz and gabble within, and one voice,
speaking almost at the pitch of a shriek, is
heard declaiming.
White as a sheet, Mr. Longcluse, in high
excitement, is haranguing in the smoking-
room, mounted on a table.
"I say," he cried, "gentlemen, excuse
me. There are so many together here, so
many known to be wealthy, it is an oppor-
tunity for a word. Things are coming to a
pretty pass — garotters in our streets and
assassins in our houses of entertainment!
Here is a poor little fellow — look at him —
here to-night to see the game, perfectly well
and happy, murdered by s^ne miscreant for
the sake of the money he had about him.
It might have been t;he fate of any one of us.
I spoke to him to-night. I had not seen him
since I was a boy almost. Seven children
and a wife, he told me,\dependent on him.
I say there are two things wanted — first, a
reward of such magnitude as will induce
exertion. I promise, for my own share, to
put down double the amount promised by
the highest subscriber. Secondly, something


16
CHECKMATE.
street under the downpour of the rain. You
might have taken him for a man who knew
not where to lay his head that night.
He took off his hat, and let the refreshing
rain saturate his hair, and stream down his
forehead and temples.
"Your cab's rather stuffy and very hot,
ain't it? Standing half the day with the
glass in the sun, I dare say," said he to the
man, who was fumbling in his pockets, and
pretending a difficulty about finding change.
"See, never mind, if you haven't got
change; I'll go on. Heavier rain than I
fancied; very pleasant, though. When did
the rain begin?" asked Mr. Longcluse, who
seemed in no hurry to get back again.
"A trifle past ten, sir."
"I say, your horse's knees are a bit
broken, ain't they? Never mind, I don't
cave. He can pull you and nie to Bolton
Street, I dare say."
"Will you please to get in, sir ?" inquired
the cabman.
Mr. Longcluse nodded, frowning and
thinking of something else; the rain still
descending on his bare head, his hat in his
hand.
The cabman thought this "cove" had
been drinking, and must be a trifle "tight."
He would not mind if he stood so for a
couple of hours; it would run his fare up to
something pretty. So cabby had thoughts
of clapping a nose-bag to his horse's jaws,
and was making up his mind to a bivouac.
But Mr. Longcluse on a sudden got in,
repeating his direction to the driver in a gay
*and brisk tone, that did not represent his
real sensations.
"Why should I be so disturbed at that
little French fellow? Have I been ill, that
my nerve is gone and I such a cursed fool?
One would think I had never seen a dead
man till now. Better for him to be quiet
than at his wits' ends, devising ways and
means to keep his seven cubs in bread and
butter. I should have gone away when the
game was over. What earthly reason, led
me into that d d dark room, when I
heard the fuss there? I've a mind to go
and play hazard, or see a doctor. Arden
said he'd look in, in the morning. I should
like that; I'll talk to Arden. I shan't sleep,
I know, all night; I've got imprisoned in
that brown, suffocating room. Shall I ever
close my eyes again?"
They had now reached the door of the
small, unpretending house of this wealthy
man.
The servant who opened the door, though
he knew his business, stared a little, for he
had never seen his master return in such a
plight before, and looking so haggard.
"Where's Franklin?" ...
"Arranging things in your room, sir."
"Give me a candle. The cab is paid. Mr.
Arden, mind, may call in the morning; if I
should not be down, show him to my room.
You are not to lethim go without seeing me."
Up-stairs went the pale master of the
house. "Franklin !" he called, as ho mount-
ed the last flight of stairs, next his bed-room.
"Yes, sir."
"I shan't want you to-night, I think —
that is, I shall manage what I want for my-
self; but I mean to ring for you by-and-by."
He was in his dressing-room by this time,
and looked round to see that his comforts
were provided for as usual — his foot-bath
and hot water.
"Shall I fetch your tea, sir? '*
"I 'll drink no tea to-night; I've been dis-
gusted. I've seen a murdered man, quite
unexpectedly; and I shan't get over it for
some hours, I dare say. I feel ill. And
what you must do is this: when I ring my
bell, you come back, and you must sit up
here till eight in the morning. I shall leave
the door between this and the next room
open ; and should you hear me sleeping un-
easily, moaning, or anything like nightmare,
you must come in and waken me. And you
are not to go to sleep, mind; the moment I
call, I expect you in my room. Keep your-
self awake how you can: you may sleep all *
to-morrow, if you like."
With this charge Franklin departed.
But Mr. Longcluse's preparations for bed
occupied a longer time than he had antici-
pated. When nearly an hour had passed, Mr.
Franklin ventured up-stairs, and quietly ap-
proached the dressing-room door; but there
he heard his master still busy with his pre-
parations, and withdrew. It was not until
nearly half an hour more had passed that
his bell gave the promised signal, and Mr.
Franklin established himself for the night,
in the easy chair in the dressing-room, with
the connecting door between the two rooms
open.
The shock which Mr. Longcluse's nerves
had received did not permit that gentleman
to sleep very soon. Two hours later he
called for the eau-de-Cologne that stood, on
his dressing-table; and although he made
believe to wet his temples with it, and kept it
at his bedside with that professed design, it
was Mr. Franklin's belief that he drank the
better part of what remained in the capa-
cious cut-glass bottle. It was not until
people were beginning to " turn out" for
their daily labor that sleep at length visited
the wearied eye-balls of the Croesus.
Three hours of death-like sleep, and Mr.
Longcluse, with a little start, was wide
awake.
"Franklin l"
"Yes, sir." And Mr. Franklin stood at
his bedside.
"What o'clock is it?"
"Just struck ten, sir."
"Hand me the Times."
This was done.
"Tell them to get breakfast as usual. I'm
coming down. Open the shutters and draw
the curtain^, quite."
When Franklin had done this and gone


CHECKMATE.
17
down, Mr. Longcluse read the Time* with
a stern eagerness, still in bed. The great
billiard match between Hood and Markham
was given in spirited detail ; but he was
looking for something else. Just under this
niece of news, he found kt—"Murder and
Robbery, in the Saloon Tavern." He read
this twice over, and then searched the paper
in vain for any further news respecting it.
After this search, he again read the short
account he had seen before, very carefully,
and more than once. Then he jumped out
of bed, and looked at himself in the glass in
his dressing-room.
"How awfully seedy I am looking!" he
muttered, after a careful inspection. "Better
hy-and-by."
His hand was shaking like that of a man
who had made .a debauch, or was worn out
with ague. He looked ten/years older.
"I should hardly know myself," muttered
he. "What a confounded, sinful old fogey I
look, and I so young and innocent!"
The sneer was for himself and at himself.
The delivery of such is an odd luxury which,
at one time or other, most men have indulged
in. Perhaps it should teach us to take
them more kindly when other people crack
such cynical jokes on our heads, or, at least,
to perceive that they don't always argue
personal antipathy.
Tne sour smile which had for a moment,
flickered with a wintry light on his face,
Rave place suddenly to a dark fatigue; hig
features sunk, and he heaved a long, deep,
and almost shuddering sigli.
There are moments, happily very rare,
when the idea of suicide is distinct enough
to be dangerous, and having passed which,
a man feels that Death has looked him very
nearly in the face.
Nothing more trite and true than the
omnipresence of suffering. The possession
of wealth exempts the fortunate owner from,
say, two-thirds of the curse that lies heavy
on the human race. Two-thirds is a gretft
deal; but so is the other third, and it may
have in it, at times, something as terrible as
human nature can support.
Mr. Longcluse, the millionaire, had, of
course, many poor enviers. Had any one of
all these uttered such a sigh that morning?
Or did any one among them feel wearier of
life?
'• When I have had my tub, I shall be
quite another man," said he.
Hut it did not give him the usual fillip;
on the contrary, he felt rather chilled.
"What can the matter be? I'ma changed
man," said he, wondering, as people do
at the days growing shorter in autumn, that
time had produced some changes. "I re-
member when a scene or an excitement pro-
duced no more effect upon me, after the mo-
ment, than a glass of champagne; and now I
feel as if I had swallowed poison, or drunk the
cup of madness. Shaking ! —hand, heart,
every joint. I have grown such a muff!"
Mr. Longcluse had at length completed
his very careless toilet, and looking ill,
went down stairs in his dressing-gown and
slippers.


18
CHECKMATE.
CHAPTER VII.
FAST FRIENDS.
In little mire than half an hour, as Mr.
Longcluse was sitting at his breakfast in his
dining-room, Richard Arden was shown in.
"Dressing-gown and slippers—what a
lazy dog I am compared with you!" said
Longcluse, gayly, as he entered.
"Don't say another word on that subject,
I beg. I should have been later myself, had
I dared : but my uncle David had appointed
to meet me at ten."
"Won't you take something?"
"Well, as I have had no breakfast, I don't
mind if I do," said Arden, laughing.
Longcluse rang the bell.
"When did you leave that place last
night?" asked Longcluse.
"I fancy about the same time that you
went — about five or ten minutes after the
match ended. You heard there was a man
murdered in a passage there? I tried to
get down and see it, but the crowd was
awful."
"I was more lucky — I came earlier," said
Longcluse. "It was perfectly sickening,
and I have been seedy ever since. You may
guess what a shock it was to me. The mur-
dered man was that poor little Frenchman
I told you of, who had been talking to me,
in high spirits, just before the play began—
and there he was, poor fellow! quite dead.
You 'll see it all there; it makes me sick."
He handed him the Times.
"Yes, I see. I dare say the police will
make him out," said Arden, as he glanced
hastily over it. "Did you remark some
awfully ill-looking fellows there?"
"I never saw so many together in a place,
of the kind before," said Longcluse.
"That's a capital account of the match,"
said Arden, whom it interested more than
the tragedy of poor little Lebas did.
He read snatches of it aloud as he ate his
breakfast; and then, laying the paper down,
he said—
"By-the-by, I need not bother you by
asking your advice, as I intended. My uncle
David has been blowing me up, and I think
he 'll make everything straight. When he
sends for me and gives me an awful lecture,
he always makes it up to me afterwards."
"I wish, Arden, I stood as little in need
of your advice as yoti do, it seems, of mine,"
said Longcluse suddenly, after a short
silence. His dark eyes were fixed on
Richard Arden's. "I have been fifty times
on the point of making a confession to you,
and my heart has failed me. The hour is
coming. These things won't wait. I must
speak, Arden, soon or never — very soon, or
never. Never, perhaps, would be wisest."
"Speak now, on the contrary," said
Arden, laying down his knife and fork, and
leaning back. "Now is the best time al-
ways. If it's a bad thing, why it's over;
and if*it's a good one, the sooner wc have ifc
the better."
Longcluse rose, looking down in medita-
tion, and in silence walked slowly to the
window, where, for a time, without speak-
ing, he stood in a revery. Then, looking
up, he said—-
"No man likes a crisis. 'No good
general ever fi'^ts a pitched battle *if he
can help it.' Was n't that Napoleon's say-
ins? No man who has not lost his head
likes to get together all he has on earth,
and make one stake of it. I have been on
the point of speaking to you often. I have
always recoiled."
"Here I am, my dear Longcluse," said
Richard Arden, rising ano? following him to
the window, "ready to hear you. I ought
to say, only too happy if I' can be of. the
least use."
"Immense! everything!" said Long;-
cluse, vehemently. "And yet I don't know
how to ask you — how to begin — so much
depends. Don't you conjecture the subject?"
"Well, perhaps I do — perhaps I don't.
Give me some clue."
"Have you formed no conjecture?" asked
Longcluse. m
"Perhaps."
"Is it anything in any way connected
with your sister, Miss Arden?"
"It may be, possibly."
"Say what you think, Arden, I beseech.-
3*>u."
"AVell, I think, perhaps, you admire her."
"Do I? do I? Is that all? Would to
God I could say that is all! Admiration,
what is it?—Nothing. Love?—Nothing.
Mine is adoration and utter madness. I
have told my secret. What do you say?
Do you hate me for it?"
"Hate you, my dear fellow! why on
earth should I hate you? On the contrary,
I ought, I think, to like you better. I'm
only a little surprised that your feelings
should so much exceed anything I could
have supposed."
"Yesterday, Arden, you spoke as if you
liked me. As we drove into that place, I
fancied you half understood me; and,
cheered by what you then said, I have spoken
that which might have died with me, but
for that."
"Well, what's the matter? My dear
Longcluse, you talk as if I had shown signs
of wavering friendship. Havel? Quite the
contrary."
"Quite the contrary, that is true," said
Longclose, eagerly: "Yes, you should like
me better for it — that is true also. Yours is
no wavering friendship, I'm sure of it. Let
us shake hands upon it. A treaty, Arden,
a treaty."
With a fierce smile upon his pale face, and
a sudden firein hiseyes, he extended his hand
energetically, and took that of Arden, who
answered the invitation with a look in which
gleamed faintly something of amusement.


CHECKMATE.
19
"-Now, Richard Arden." he continued, ex-
citedly, "you have more influence with
Miss Arden than falls commonly to the lot
| of a brother. I have observed it. It results
from her having had during her earlier
years little society but yours, and from your
being some years her senior. It results
from her strong affection for you, from her
admiration of your talents, and from her
having neither brother nor sister to divide
t those feelings. I never yet saw brother
possessed of so tevident and powerful an in-
fluence with a sister. You must use it all
for me."
• He continued to hold Arden's hand in his
as he spoke.
"Yon can withdraw your hand, if you
decline," said ho. "I shan't complain. But
your hand remains—you don't. It is a treaty,
then. Henceforward we live fcedere icto.
I'm an exacting friend, but a good one."
"My dear fellow, you do me but justice.
I am your friend, altogether. But you must
not mistake me for a guardian or a father
in the matter. I wish I could make my
sister think exactly as I do upon every sub-
ject, and that above all others. All I can
say is, in me you have a fast friend."
Longcluse pressed his hand, which he
had not relinquished, at these words, with a
firm grasp and a quick shake.
"Now listen. I must speak on this point,
the one that is in my mind, my chief diffi-
culty. Personally, there is not, I think, a
living being in England who knows my his-
tory. I am glad of it, for reasons which
you will approve by-and-by. But this is an
enormous disadvantage, though only tem-
porary, and the friends of the young lady
must weigh my wealth against it for the
present. But when the time comes, which
can't now be distant, upon my honor! upon
my soul! — by Heaven, I 'll show you I'm of
as good and old a family as any in England!
We have been gentlemen up to the time of
the Conqueror, here in England, and as far
before him as record can be traced in Nor-
mandy. If I fail to show you this when the
hour comes, then stigmatize me how you
will."
"I have not a doubt, dear Longcluse. But
you are urging a point that really has no
weight with us people in England. We
have done taking off our hats to fSie gentle-
men in casques and tabards, and feudal
glories'are at a discount everywhere but in
Dobrett, where they are taken with allow-
ance. Your ideas upon these matters are
more Austrian than ours. We expect, per-
haps, a little more from the man, but cer-
tainly less from his ancestors than our
forefathers did. So till a title turns up,
and the heralds want them, make your mind
easy on matters of pedigree, and then you
can furnish them with effect. All I can tell
you is this — there are hardly fifty men in
Kngland who dare tell all the truth about
their families."
"We are friends, then; and in that rela-
tion, Arden, if there are privileges, there
are also liabilities, remember, and both ex-
tend into a possibly distant future."
Longcluse spoke with a gloomy excitement
that his companion did not quite understand.
"That is quite true, of course," said
Arden.
Each was looking in the other's face for
a moment, and each face grew suddenly
-dark, as the air was#OTershadowed by a
mass of cloud that eclipsed the sun, threat-
ening thunder.
"By Jove! How awfully dark in a mo-
ment!" said Arden, looking from the face
thus suddenly overcast through the window
toward the sky.
"Dark as the future we were speaking of,"
said Longcluse, with a sad smile. -
"Dark in one sense, I mean unseen, but not
dark in the ill-omened sense," said Richard
Arden. "I have great confidence in the
future. I suppose I am sanguine."
"I ought to be sanguine, if having been
lucky hitherto should make one so, and yet
I'm not. My happiness depends on that which
I cannot, in the least, control. Thought, ac-
tion, energy, contribute nothing, and so I but
drift, and — my heart fails me. Tell me,
Arden, for Heaven's sake, truth — spare me
nothing, conceal nothing. Let me but know
it, however bitter. First tell me, does Miss
Arden dislike me — has she an antipathy to
me?"
"Dislike you! Nonsense. How could
that be? She evidently enjoys your society,
when you are in spirits and choose to be
amusing. Dislike you? Oh, my dear Long-
cluse, you can't have fancied such a thing!"
said Arden.
"A man placed as I am may fancy any-
thing— things infinitely more improbable.
I sometimes hope she has never perceived
my admiration. It seems strange and cruel,
but I believe where a man cannot be beloved,
nothing is so likely to make him hated as his
presuming to love. There is the secret of
half the tragedies we read of. The man can-
not cease to love, and the idol of his passion
not only disregards but insults it. It is their
cruel nature ;• and thus the pangs of jealousy
and the agitations of despair are heightened
with a peculiar torture, the hardest of all
hell's tortures to endure."
"Well, I have seen you pretty often to-
gether, and you must see there is nothing of
that kind," said Arden.
"You speak quite frankly, do you? For
Heaven's sake, don't spare me!" urged
Longcluse.
"I say exactly what I think. There can't
be any such feeling," said Arden.
Longcluse sighed, looked down thought-
fully, and then, raising his eyes again, he
said — %
"You must answer me another question,
dear Arden, and I shall, for the present, task
your kindness no more. If you think it a
I


20
CHECKMATE.
fair question, will you promise to answer me
with unsparing frankness? Let me hear the
worst."
"Certainly," answered his companion.
"Does your sister like any one in particu-
lar— is she attached to any one — are her
affections quite disengaged?"
"So far as I am aware, certainly. She
never cared for any one among all the people
who admired her, and I am quite certain
such a thing could.not be without my observ-
ing it," answered Richard Arden.
"I don't know; perhaps not," said Long-
cluse. "But there is a young friend of
yours, who I thought was an admirer of
Miss Arden's, and possibly a favored one.
You guess, I dare say, who it is I mean?"
"I give you my honor I have not the least
idea.'"
"I mean an early friend of yours — a man
about your own age — who has often been
staying in Yorkshire and at Mortlake with
you, and who was almost like a brother in
your house — very intimate."
"Surely you can't mean Vivian Darnley?"
exclaimed Richard Arden.
"I do. I mean no other."
"Vivian Darnley! Why, he has hardly
enough to live on, much less to marry on.
He has not an idea of any such, thing. If
my father fancied such an absurdity possi-
ble, he would take measures to prevent his
ever seeing her more. You could not have
hit upon a more impossible man," he re-
sumed, after a moment's examination of a
theory wTbich, notwithstanding', made him a
little more uneasy than he would have cared
to confess. "Darnley is no fool, either, and
I think he is an honorable fellow; and alto-
gether, knowing him as l do, the thing is
utterly incredible. And as for Alice, the
idea of his imagining any such folly, I can
undertake to sayv positively never entered
her mind."
Here was another pause. Longcluse was
again thoughtful.
"May I ask one other question, which I
think you will have no difficulty in answer-
ing?" said he.
"What you please, dear Longcluse; you
may command me."
"Only this. How do you think Sir Regi-
nald would receive me?
"A great deal better than he will ever
receive me; with his best bow — no, not
that, but with open arms and his brightest
smile. I tell you, and you 'll find it true,
my father is a man of the world. Money
won't, of course, do everything; but it can
do a great deal. It can't make a vulgar man
a gentleman, but it may make a gentleman
anything. I really think you would find
him a very fast friend. And now I must
leave you, dear Longcluse. I have just time,
and no more, to keep my appointment with
old Mr. Dawe, to whom my uncle eommands
me to go at twelve."
"Heaven keep us both, dear Arden, in
this cheating world! Heaven keep us true
in this false London world! And God pun-
ish the first who breaks faith with the
other l"
So spoke Longcluse, taking his hand again,
and holding it hard for a moment, with his
unfathomable dark eyes on Arden.
Was there a faint and unconscious menace
in his pale face, as he uttered these words,
which a little stirred Arden's pride?
"That's a comfortable litany to part with
— a form of blessing elevated so neatly, at
the close, into a malediction. However, I
don't object. Amen, by all means," laughed
Arden.
Longcluse smiled.
," A malediction? I really believe it was.
Something very like it, and one that includes
myself, does n't it? But we are not likely
to earn it. An arrow shot into the sea, it
can hurt no one. But oh, dear Arden! what
does such language mean but suffering?
What is all bitterness but pain 1 Is any
mind that deserves the name ever cruel, ex-
cept from misery? We are good friends,
Arden; and if ever I seem to you for a mo-
ment other than friendly, just say 'It is his
heart-ache and not he that speaks.' Good-
by! God bless you!"
At the door was another parting.
"There's alongdull day before me — say,
rather, night; weary eyes, brain sleepless,
utter darkness," murmured Longcluse, in a
rather dismal soliloquy, standing in his slip-
pers and dressing-gown again at the window.
"Suspense! What a hell is in that word!
Chain a man across a rail, in a tunnel —
pleasant situation l — let him listen for the
faint fifing^ and drumming of the engine,
miles away, not knowing whether deliver-
ance or death may come first. Bad enough,
that suspense. What is it to mine? I shall
see her to-night. I shall see her, and how
will it all be? Richard Arden wishes it —
yes, he does. 'Away, slight man!' It is
Brutus who says that, I think. Good
Heaven! Think of my life — the giddy steps
I go by. That dizzy walk by moonlight,
when I lost my way in Switzerland — beau-
tiful nightmare! — the two-mile ledge of
rock before me, narrow as a plank; up from
my left, the sheer wall of rock; at my right,
so close that my glove might have dropped
over it, the precipice; and curling vapor on
the cliffs above, that seemed about to break,
and envelop all below in blinding" mist.
There is my life translated into landscape.
It has been one long adventure — danger —
fatigue. Nature is full of beauty — many
a quiet nook in life, where peace resides;
many a man whose path is broad and smooth.
Woe to the man who loses his way among
Alpine tracks and is benighted I"
Now Mr. Longcluse recollected himself.
He had letters to read and note. He did this
rapidly. He had business in town. He had
fifty things on his hands; and, the day over,
he would see Alice Arden again.


CHECKMATE.
21
CHAPTER VIII.
CONCERNING A BOOT.
Several pairs of boots were placed in Mr.
Longcluse's dressing-room.
"Where are the boots that I wore yester-
day?" asked he. •
"If you please, sir," said Mr. Franklin,
"the man called this morning for the right
boot of that pair."
"What man?" asked Mr. Longcluse,
rather grimly.
"Mr. Armagnac's man, sir."
"Did you desire him to call for it?" asked
Mr. Longcluse.
"No, sir. I^thought you must have told
some one else to order him to send for it,"
said Franklin.
"If You ought to know I leave those
tilings to you," said Mr. Longcluse, staring
at him more aghast and fierce than the pos-
sible mislaying of a bootVould seem quite
to warrant. "I)idyou see Armagnac's man?"
"No, sirT It was Charles who came up,
at eight o'clock, when you were still asleep,
and said the shoemaker had called for the
right boot of the pair you wore yesterday.
I had placed them outside the door, and I
gave it to him, sir, supposing it all right."
"Perhaps it was all right; but you know
Charles has not been a week here. Call him
up. I 'll come to the bottom of this."
Franklin disappeared, and Mr. Longcluse,
with a stern frown, was staring vaguely at
the varnished boot, as if it could tell some-
thing about its missing companion. His
brain was already at work
What the plague was the meaning of this
manoeuvre about his boot? And why on
earth, think I, should he make such a fuss
and a tragedy about it?
Charles followed Mr. Franklin up the
stairs. ,
"What's all this about my boot?" de-
manded Mr. Longcluse, peremptorily. "Who
has got it?" •
"A man called for it this morning, sir."
"What man?"
"I think he said he came from Mr. Ar-
magnac's, sir."
"You think. Say what you know, sir.
What did he say?" said Mr. Longcluse,
looking dangerous.
"Well, sir," said the man, mending his
case, "he did say, sir, he came from Mr.
Armagnac's, and wanted the right boot."
•' What right boot? — nny right boot?"
"No, sir, please ; the right boolrof the pair
you wore last night," answered the servant.
"And you gave it to him?"
"Yes, sir, 't was me," answered Charles.
"Well, you may n't be quite such a fool
as you look. I 'll sift all this to the bottom.
You go, if you please, this*moment, to Mon-
sieur Armagnac, and say I should be obliged
to him for a line to say whether he this
morning sent for my boot and got it — and
I must have it back, mind; you shall bring
it back, you understand? And you had
better make haste."
"I made bolfl, sir," said Mr. Franklin,
"to send for it myself, when you sent me
down for Charles ; and the boy will be back,
sir, in two or three minutes."
"Well, come you and Charles here again
when the boy comes back, and bring him
here also. I 'll make out who has been
playing tricks."
Mr. Longcluse shut his dressing-room door
sharply: he walked to the window, and
looked out with a vicious scowl; he turned
about, and lifted up his clenched hand, and
stamped on the floor.
'A sudden thought now struck him.
"The right foot? By Jove! it may not
be the one."
The boot that was left was already in his
hand. He was examining it curiously.
"Ay, by heaven! The right was the
boot! What's the meaning of this? Con-
spiracy? I should not wonder."
He examined it carefully again, and flung
it into its corner with violence.
"If it's an accident, it is a very odd one.
It is a suspicious accident. It may be, of
course, all right. I dare say it is all right.
The odds are ten, twenty, a thousand to one
that Armagnae has got it. I should have
had a warm bath last night, and taken a ten
miles' ride into the country this morning.
It must be all right, and I am plaguing my-
self without a cause."
Yet he took up the boot, and examined it
once more; then dropping it, went to the
window and looked into the street — came
back, opened his door, and listened for the
messenger's return.
It was not long deferred.
As he heard them approach, Mr. Long-
cluse flung open his door and confronted
them, in white waistcoat and shirt-sleeves,
and with a very white and stern face — face
and figure all white.
"Well, what about it? Where's the
boot?" he demanded, sharply.
"The boy inquired, sir," said Mr. Frank-
lin, indicating the messenger with his open
hand, and undertaking the office of spokes-
man; "and Mr. Armagnac did not send for
the boot, sir, and has not got it."
"Oh, oh! very good. And now, sir," he
said, in rising fury, turning upon Charles,
"what have you got to say for yourself?"
"The man said he came from Mr. Ar-
magnae, please, sir," said Charles, "and
wanted the boot, which Mr. Franklin should
have back as early as he could return it."
"Then you gave it to a common thief with
that cock-and-a-bull story, and you wish me
to believe that you took it all for gospel.
There are men who would pitch you over
the bannisters for a less thing. If I could
be certain of it, I'd put you beside him in
the dock. But, by heavens! I'll come to
the bottom of the whole thing yet."


22
CHECKMATE.
He shut the door with a crash, in the faces
of the three men who stood on the lobby.
Mr. Franklin was a little^ puzzled at these
transports, all about a boot. The servants
looked" at one another without a word. But
just as they were going down, the dressing-
room door opened, and the following dia-
logue ensued: ,
"See, Charles, it was you who saw and
spoke with that man?" said Longcluse.
"Yes, sir."
"Should you know him again?"
"Yes, sir, I think I should."
"What kind of man was he?"
"A very common person, sir."
"Was he tall or short? What sort of
figure?"
"Tall, sir.
"Goon; what more? Describe him."
"Tall, sir, with a long neck, and held
himself straight; very flat feet, I noticed; a
thin man, broad in the shoulders — pretty
, well that."
"Describe his face," said Longcluse.
"Nothing very particular, sir; a shabby
sort of face—a bad color."
"How?"
"A bad white, sir, and pock-marked
something; a broad face and flat, and a very
little bit of a nose; his eyes almost shut,
and a sort of smile about his mouth, and
stingy bits of red whiskers, in a curl, down
each cheek.
"How old?"
"He might be nigh fifty, sir."
"Ha, ha! very good. How was he dressed?"
"Black frock-coat, sir, a good deal worn;
an old flowered satin waistcoat, and worn
dirty, sir; and a pair of raither dirty tweed
trousers. Nothing fitted htm, and his hat
was brown and greasy, beggingyour parding,
sir; and he had a stick in nis hand, and
cotton gloves—a-trying to look genteel."
"And he asked for the right boot?" asked
Mr. Longcluse.
"Yes, sir."
"You are quite sure of that? Did he take
the boot without looking at it, or did he ex-
amine it before he took it away?"
"He looked at it sharp enough, sir, and
turned up the sole, and he said 'It's all
right,' and he went away taking it along
with him."
"He asked for the boot I wore yesterday,
or last night — which did he say?" asked
Mr. Longcluse.
"I think it was last night he said, sir,"
answered Charles.
"Try to recollect yourself. Can't you be
certain? Which was it?"
"I think it was last night, sir," he said.
"It does n't signify," said Mr. Longcluse;
"I wanted to see that your memory was
pretty clear on the subject. You seem to
remember all that passed pretty accurately."
"I recollect it perfect well, sir."
"H'm! That will do. Franklin, you 'll
remember that description — let every one
of you remember it. It is the description
of a thief; and when you see that fellow
again, hold him fast till you put him in the
hands of a policeman. And, Charles, you
must be prepared, d'ye see, to swear to that
description; for I am going to the detective
office, and I shall give it to the police."
"Yes, sir," answered Charles.
"I shan't want you, Franklin; let some
one call a cab."
So he returned to his dressing-room, and
shut the door, and thought —
"That 's the fellow whom that miserable
little fool, Lebas, pointed out to me at the
saloon last night. He watched him, he said,
wherever he went. I saw him. There may
be other circumstances. That is the fellow
— that is the very man. Here's matter to
think over! By heaven! that fellow must
be denounced, and discovered, and brought
to justice. It is a strong case — a pretty
hanging ca,se against him. We shall see."
Full of surmise' about his lost boot, Atra
Cura walking unheard behind him, with her
cold hand on his shoulder, and with the im-
age of the ex-detective always gliding before
or beside him, and peering with an odious
familiarity over his shoulder into his face,
Mr. Longcluse marched eastward with a firm
tread and cheerful countenance.
Friends who nodded to him, as he walked
along Piccadilly, down Saint James's Street,
and by Pall Mall, citywards, thought he had
just been listening to an amusing story.
Others, who, more deferentially, saluted the
great man as he walked lightly, by Temple
Bar, toward Ludgate Hill, for a moment
perplexed themselves with the thought,
"What stock is up, and what down, on a
sudden, to-day, that Longcluse looks so
radiant?"
CHAPTER IX.
THE MAN WITHOUT A NAME.
V
Mr. Longcluse had made up his mind to
a certain course — a sharp and bold one.
At the police office he made inquiry.
"He understood a man had been lately dis-
missed from the force, answering to a cer-
tain deseription, which he gave them; and
he wished to know whether he was rightly
informed, because a theft had been that
morning committed at his house by a man
whose appearance corresponded, and against
whom he hoped to have sufficient evidence."
"Yes, a man like, that had been dismissed
from the detective department within the
last fortnight."
"What was his name?" Mr. Longcluse
asked.
"Paul Davies, sir."
"If it should turn out to be the same, I
may have a more serious charge to bring
against him," said Mr. Longcluse.
"Do you wish to go before his worship,


CHECKMATE.
and give an information, sir?" urged the
officer, invitingly.
"Not quite ripe for that yet," said Mr.
longcluse, "but it is likely very soon."
"And what might be the nature of the
more serious charge, sir? " inquired the offi-
cer, who was curious in all such trifles.
"I mean to give my evidence at the coro-
ner's inquest that will be held to-day, on the
Frenchman who was murdered last night at
the Saloon Tavern. ^t is not conclusive —
it does not fix anything upon him; it is
merely inferential."
"Connecting him with the murder?"
whispered the man, something like rever-
ence mingling with his curiosity, as he dis-
covered the interesting character of his
interrogator.
"I can only say possibly connecting him
in some way with it. Where does the man
live?"
"He did live in Rosemary Court, but he
left that, I think. I 'll ask, if you please,
sir. Tompkins — hi! You know where
Paul Davies puts up. Left Rosemary
Court?"
"Yes, five weeks. He went to Gold Ring
Alley, but ho's left that a week ago, and I
don't know where he is now, but will easy
find him. Will it answer at eight this
evening, sir?"
"Quite. I want a servant of mine to have
a sight of him," said Longcluse.
"If you like, sir, to leave your address
and a stamp, we 'll send you the informa-
tion by post, and save you calling here."
"Thanks, yes, I 'll do that."
So Mr. Longcluse took his leave, and pro-
ceeded to the place where the coroner was
sitting. * 4
Mr. Longcluse was received in that place
with distinction. The moneyed man was
honored — eyes were gravely fixed on him,
and respectful whispers went about. A seat
was procured for him; and his evidence,
when he came to give it, was heard with
marked attention, and a general hush of
expectation.
The reader, with his permission, must
now pass awny, seaward, from this smoky
London, for a few minutes, into a clear air,
among the rustling foliage of ancient trees,
and the fragrance of hay-fields, and the song
of small birds.
On the London and Dover road stands,
as you know, the Royal Oak, still display-
ing its ancient signboard, whore you behold
King Charles II. sitting with laudable com-
posure, and a crown of Dutch gold on his
head, and displaying his finery through an
embrasure in the foliage, with an ostenta-
tion somewhat reckless, considering the
proximity of the points of the halberds of
the military emissaries in search of him to
the royal features. As you drive toward
London it shows at the left side of the road,
a good old substantial inn and posting house.
Its business has dwindled to something very
small indeed, for the traffic prefers the rail,,
and the once bustling line of road is now
quiet.
The sun had set, but a reflected glow
from the sky was still over everything; and
by this somewhat lurid light Mr. Truelock,
the innkeeper, was observing from the steps
the progress of a chaise, with four horses
and two postilions, which was driving at a
furious pace down the gentle declivity about
a quarter of a mile away, from the Dover
direction toward the Royal Oak and Lon-
don.
"It's a runaway. Them horses has took
head. What do you think, Thomas?" he
asked of the old waiter who stood beside
him.
"No. See, the post-boys is whippin' the
hosses. No, sir, it 'a a gallop, but no run-
away."
"There's luggage a' top?" said the inn-
keeper.
"Yes, sir, there's something," answered
Tom.
"I don't see nothing a-followin' them,"
said Mr. Truelock, shading his eyes with
his hand, as he gazed.
"No—-there is nothing," said Tom.
"They're in fear o' summat, or they'd
never go at that lick," observed Mr. True-
lock, who was inwardly conjecturing the
likelihood of their pulling up at his door.
"Lawk! tliere was a*jerk. They was
nigh over at the finger-post turn," said
Tom, with a grin.
And now the vehicle and the reeking
horses were near. The post-boys held up
their whips by way of signal to the Royal
Oak people on the steps, and pulled up the
horses, with all their force, before the door.
Trembling, snorting, rolling up wreaths of
steam, the exhausted horses stood.
"See to the gentleman, will ye?" cried
one of the postilions.
Mr. Truelock, with the old-fashioned po-
liteness of the English innkeeper, had run
down in person to the carriage-door, which
Tom had opened.
Master and man were a little shocked to r
behold inside an old gentleman, with a very
brown, or rather a very bilious visage, thin,
and with a high nose, who looked, as he lay
.stiffly back in the corner of the carriage,
enveloped in shawls, with a velvet cap on,
as if he was either dead or in a fit. Ills
eyes were half open, and nothing but the
white balls partly visible. There was a lit-
tle froth at his lips. His mouth and deli-
cately-formed hands were clenched, and all
the furrows and lines of a selfish face fixed,
as it seemed, in the lock of death.
John Truelock said not a word, but peered
at this visitor with a horrible curiosity.
"If he's dead," whispered Tom in his
ear, "we don't take in no dead men here.
Ye 'll have the coroner and his jury in the
house, and the place knocked up-side down;


24
C H E C K M A T E.

HE LAY STIFFLY BACK IN THE CORNER OF THE CARRIAGE.
and if ye make ffVe pounds one way you'll
lose ten the tother."
"Ye'll have to take him on, I'm think-
in'," said Mr. Truelock, rousing himself,
stepping back a little, and addressing the
post-boys sturdily. "You've no business
bringin' a deceased party to my house. You
must go somewhere else, if so be he is de-
ceased."
"He's not gone dead so quick as that?"
said the postilion, dismounting from the
near leader and throwing the bridle to a boy
who stood by, as he strutted round bandily
to have a peep into the chaise.
The postilion on the " wheeler " had turn-
ed himself about in the saddle in order to
have a peep through the front window of
the carriage.
The innkeeper returned to the door.
If the old London and Dover road had
been what it once wasj there would have
been a crowd about the carriage by this
time. Except, however, two or three serv-
ants of the Royal Oak, who had come out to
see, no one had yet joined the little group
but the boy who was detained, bridle in
hand, at the horse's head.
"He'll not be dead yet," repeated the
postilion, dogmatically.
"What happened him ?" asked Mr. True-
lock.
"I don't know," answered the post-boy.
"Then how can you say whether he be
dead or no?" demanded the innkeeper.
'' Fetch me a pint of half-and-half," said
the dismounted post-boy, aside, to one of the
Royal Oak people at his elbow.
"We was just at this side of High Hix-
ton," said his brother in the saddle, "when
he knocked at the window with his stick, and
I got a cove to hold the bridle, and I came
round to the window to him. Ift had scarce
any voice in him, and looked awful bad, and
he said he thought he was a-dying. 'And
how far on is it to the next inn?' he asked;
and I told him the Royal Oak was two miles;
and he said, 'Drive like lightning, and I 'll
give you half a guinea a-piece' — I hope he's
not gone dead — 'if you get there in time.'"
By this time their heads were in the car-
riage again.
"Do you notice a sort of little jerk in the
foot, just the least thing in the world?" in-
quired the landlord, who had sent for the
doctor. "It will be a fit, after all. If he's
living, we'll fetch him into the 'ouse."
The doctor's house was just round the cor-
ner of the road, where the clump of elms
stands, little more than a hundred yards
from the sign of the Royal Oak.
"Who is he?" inquired Mr. Truelock.
"I don't know," answered the postilion.
"What's his name?"
"Don't know that, neither."
"Why, it'll be on that box, won't it?" urged
the innkeeper, pointing to the roof, where a
portmanteau with a glazed coverwas secured.
"Nothing on that but • R. A.' " answered
the man, who had examined it half an hour
before, with the same object.


CHECKMATE.
27
and can tell you at any hour who is who in
the opera, all over Europe; and he really
understands, what so few of us here know
anything about, foreign politics, and all the
people and their stories and scandals he has
at his finger's ends. And he is such good
company, when he chooses, and such a gen-
tleman always l"
"He is very agreeable and amusing when
he takes the trouble; I always like to listen
when Mr. Longcluse talks," said Alice Ar-
den, to the secret satisfaction of her brother,
whose enthusiasm was, I think, directed a
good deal to her — and to, perhaps, the vex-
ation of other people, whom she did not care
at that moment to spare.
"An Admirable Crichton!" murmured
Vivian Darnley, with a rather hackneyed
sneer. "Do you like his style of—beauty,
I suppose I should call it? It has the merit
of being very uncommon, at least, don't you
think?" \
"Beauty, I think, matters very little. He
has no beauty, but his face has what in a
man I think a great deal better — I mean
refinement, and cleverness, and a kind of
satire that rather interests one," said Miss
Arden, with animation.
Sir Walter Scott, in his "Rob Roy" —
thinking, no doubt, of the Diana Vernon of
his early days, the then beautiful lady,
long afterward celebrated by Basil Hall as
the old Countess Purgstolf (if I rightly re-
member the title), and recurring to some
cherished incident, and the thrill of a pride
that had ceased to agitate, but was at once
pleasant and melancholy to remember —
wrote these words: "She proceeded to read
the first stanza, which was nearly to the fol-
lowing purpose. [Then follow the verses.]
■ There is a great deal of it,' said she, glanc-
ing along the paper, and interrupting the
sweetest sounds that mortal ears can drink
in — those of a youthful poet's verses,
namely, read by the lips which are dearest
to them." So writes Walter Scott. On the
other hand, in certain states, is there a pain
intenser than that of listening to the praises
of another man from the lips we love?
"Well," said Darnley, "as you say so, I
suppose there is all that, though I can't see
it. Of course, if he tries to make himself
agreeable (which he never does to me), it
makes a difference, it affects everything — it
affects even his looks. But I should not
have thought him good-looking. On the
contrary, he appears to me about as ugly a
fellow as one could see in a day."
"He's not that," said Alice. "No one
could be ugly with so much animation and
so much expression."
"You take up the cudgels very prettily,
my dear, for Mr. Longcluse," said Lady
May. "I'm sure he ought to be extremely
obliged to you."
"So he would be," said Richard Arden.
"It would upset him for a week, I have no
doubt."
There are few things harder to interpret
than a blush. At these words the beautiful
face of Alice Arden flushed, first with a faint
and then, as will happen, with a brighter
crimson.
If Lady May had seen it she would have
laughed, probably, and told her how much
it became her. But she was at that moment
going to her chair in the window, and
Richard Arden would, of course, accompany
her. He did see it, as distinctly as he saw
the glow in the sky over the park trees.
But, ki^)Wing what a slight matter will
sometimes make a recoH, and even found an
antipathy, he wisely chose to see it not —
and chatting gayly, followed Lady May to
the window.
But Vivian Darnley, though he said noth-
ing, saw that blush, of which Alice, with a
sort of haughty defiance, was conscious. It
did not make him like or admire Mr. Long-
cluse more.
"Well, I suppose he is very charming —
I don't know him well Enough myself to give
an opinion. But he makes his acquaintances
rather oddly, doesn't he? .1 don't think
any one will dispute that."
"I don't know really. Lady May intro-
duced him to me, and she seems to like him
very much. So far as I can see, people are
very well pleased at knowing him, and don't
trouble their heads as to how it came about,"
said Miss Arden.
"No, of course; but people not fortunate
enough to come within the influence of his
fascination, can't help observing. How did
he come to know your brother, for instance?
Did any one introduce him? Nothing of the
kind. Richard's horse was hurt or lame at
one of the hunts in Warwickshire, and he
lent him a horse, and introduced himself,
and they dined together that evening on the
way back, and so the things was done."
"Can there be a better introduction than
a kindness?" asked Alice.
"Yes, where it is a kindness, I agree; but
no one has a right to push his services upon
a stranger who does not ask for them."
"I really can't see. Richard need not
have taken his horse if he had not liked,"
she answered.
"And Lady May, who thinks him such a
paragon, knows no more about him than any
one else. She had her footman behind her
— didn't she tell you all about it?"
"I really don't recollect; but does it very
much matter?"
"I think it does — that is, it has been a
sort of system. He just gave her his arm
over a crossing, where she had taken fright,
and then pretended to think her a great deal
more frightened than she really can have
been, and made her sit down to recover in a
oonfeotioner's shop, and so saw her home,
and that affair was ooncluded. I don't say,
of course, that he is nevor introduced in the
regular way; but a year or two ago, when
I he was beginning, he always made his ap-


CHECKMATE.
29
P
"I should be very glad to forfeit any little
knowledge I have, if it were attended with
such a misfortune," said Longcluse, '" But
I don't flatter; I tell you truly, a critic has
only to admire, when he looks at your draw-
ings; they are quite above the level of an
amateur's work.
"Well; whether you mean it or not, I am
very much flattered," she laughed. "And
thrugh wise people say that flattery spoils
one, I can't help thinking it very agreeable
to be flattered."
At this point of the dialogue Mr. ViviKn
Darnley — who wished that it should be
Iain to all, and to one in particular, that
e did not care the least what was going on
in other parts of the room — began to stum-
ble through the treble of a tune at the piano
with his right hand. And whatever other
people may have thought of his performance,
to Miss Alice Arden it seemed very good music
indeed, and inspired her with fresh anima-
tion.
Such as it was, Mr. Darnley's solo also
turned the course of Miss Arden's thoughts
from drawing to another art, and she
said —
"You, Mr. Longcluse, who know every-
thing about the opera, can you tell me — of
course you can — anything about the great
basso who is coming?"
"Stentorqni?"
"Yes; the newspapers and critics promise
wonders."
"It is nearly two years since I heard him.
He- was very great, and deserves all they
say, in 'Robert le Diable.' But there his
greatness began and ended. The voice, of
course, you had, but everything else was
defective. It is plain, however, that the
man who could make so fine a study of one
opera, could with equal labor make as great
a success in others. He has not sung in
any opera for more than a year and a half,
and has been working diligently; and so
every one is in the dark very much, and I
am curious to hear the result — and nobody
knows more than I have told you. You are
sure of a good 'Robert le Diable,' but all
the rest is speculation."
"And now, Mr. Longcluse, I shall try
your good-nature."
"How?"
^" I am going to make Lady May ask you
to sing a song."
"Pray don't."
"Why not?"
"I should so much rather you asked me
yourself."
"That's very good of you; then I cer-
tainly shall. I do ask you."
"And I instantly obey. And what shall
the song be?'V asked he, approaching the
piano, to which she also walked.
"Oh, that ghostly one that I liked so
much when you sang it here about a week
ago," she answered.
"I know it—yes, with pleasure." And
he sat down at the piano, and, in a clear,
rich baritone, sang^ the following odd song: —
"The autumn leaf was falling
At midnight from the tree,
When at her casement calling,
'I 'm here, my lore,' says he.
'Come down and mount behind me,
And rest your little head,
And in your white arms wind me,
Before that I be dead.
*•' Yon 'to stolon my heart by magic,
I 've kissed your lips in dreams:
Our wooing, wild and tragic,
Has been in ghostly scenes.
The wondrous love I bear you
Has made one lifa of twain.
And it will bless or scare you,
In deathless peace or pain.
"'Our dreamland shall be glowing,
If you my bride will bo;
To darkness both are going,
Unless you come with me.
Come now, and mount behind me,
And rest your little head,
And in your white arms wind me,
Before that I be dead.'"
"Why, dear Alice, will you choose that
dismal song, when you know that Mr.'
Longcluse has so many others that are not
only charming, but cheery and natural?"
"Ip*is because it is ?mnatural that I like
that song so much ; the air is so ominous and
spectral, and yet so passionate. I think the
idea is Icelandic — those ghostly lovers that
came in the dark to win their beloved
maidens, who as yet knew nothing of their
having died, to ride with them over the
snowy fields and frozen rivers, to join their
friends at a merry-making which they were
never to see; but there is something more
mysterious even, in this lover, for his pas-
sion has unearthly beginnings that lose
themselves in utter darkness. Thank you
very much, Mr. Longcluse. It is so very
kind of you l And now, Lady May, is n't
it your turn to choose? May she choose,
Mr. Longcluse?"
"Any one, if you desire it, may choose
anything that I possess, and have it," said
he, in a low, impassioned murmur.
How the young lady would have taken
this, I know not, but all were suddenly in-
terrupted.
For at this moment a servant entered with
a note, which he presented, upon a salver,
to Mr. Longcluse.
"Your servant is waiting, sir, please, for
orders in the awl," murmured the man.
"Oh, yes — thanks," said Mr. Longcluse,
who saw a shabbv letter, with the words
"Private" and "Immediate " written in a
round, vulgar hand over the address.
"Pray read your note, Mr. Longcluse, and
don't mind us." said Lady May.
"Thank you very much. I think I know
what this is. I gave some evidence today
at an inquest," began Mr. Longcluse.
"That wretched Frenchman," interposed
Lady May, "Monsieur Lebrun, or"
"Lebas," said Vivian Darnley.
"Yes, so it was, Lebas; what a frightful


CHECKMATE.
thing that was!" continued Lady May, who
was always .well up in the day's horrors.
"Very melancholy, and very alarming
also. It is a selfish way of looking at it, but
one can't help thinking it might just as well
have happened to any one else who was
there. It brings it home to one a little un-
comfortably," said Mr. Longcluse, with an
uneasy smile and a shrug.
"And you actually gave evidence, Mr.
Longcluse?" said Lady May.
"Yes, a little," he answered. "It may
lead to something. I hope so. As yet it
only indicates a line of inquiry. It will be
in the papers, I suppose, in the morning.
There will be, I dare say, a pretty full re-
port of that inquest."
"Then you saw something occur that ex-
cited your suspicions 1" said Lady May.
Mr. Longcluse recounted all he had to
tell, and mentioned having made inquiries
as to the present abode of the man, Paul
Davies, at the police office.
"And this note, I dare say, is the one
they promised to send me, telling the result
of their inquiries," he added.
"Pray, open it and see," said Ladv^May.
He did so. He read it in silence.
From his foot to the crown of his head
there crept a cold influence as he read.
Stream after stream, this aura of fear spread
upward to his brain. Pale Mr. Longcluse
shrugged and smiled, and smiled and
shrugged, as his dark eye ran down the
lines, and with a careless finger he turned
the page over.
He smiled, as prize-fighters smile for the
spectators, while his nerves quivered with
pain.
He looked up, smiling still, and thrust
the note into his breast-pocket.
"Well, Mr. Longcluse, a long note it
seems to have been," said Lady May, curi-
ously.
"Not very long, but what is as bad, very
illegible," said Mr. Longcluse, gayly.
"And what about the man — the person
the police were to have inquired after?" she
persisted.
"I find it is no police information, nothing
of the kind,'.' answered Longcluse, with the
same smile. "It comes by no means from
one of that long-headed race of men; on the
contrary, poor fellow, I believe he is literally
a little mad. I make him a trifling present
every Christmas, and that is a very good ex-
cuse for his plaguing me all the year round.
I was in hopes this letter might turn out an
amusing one, but it is not: it is a failure.
It is rather sensible, and disgusting."
"Well, then, I must have my song, Mr.
Longcluse," said Lady May, who, under
cover of music, sometimes talked a little, in
gentle murmurs, to that person with whom
talk was particularly interesting.
But that song was not to be heard in Lady
May's drawing-room that night, for a kin-
dred interruption, though much more serious
in its effects upon Mr. Longcluse's compan-
ions, occurred.
A footman entered, and presented on a
salver a large brown envelope to Miss Alice
Arden.
"Oh, dear! It is a telegram," exclaimed
Miss Arden, who had taken it to the window.
Lady May Penrose was beside her by this
time. Alice looked on the point of fainting.
Her very lips were white. #
"I'm afraid papa is very ill," she whis-
pered, handing the paper, which trembled
very much in her hand, to Lady May.
"Hm! Yes — but you may be sure it's
exaggerated. Bring some sherry and water,
please. You look a little frightened, my
dear. Sit down, darling. There, now! These
messages are* always written in a panic.
What do you mean to do?"
"I'll go, of course," said Alice.
"Well, yes — I think you must go. What
is the place? Twyford, the Royal Oak?
Look out Twyford, please, Mr. Darnley —
there's a book, there. It must be a post-
town. It was thoughtful saying it is on the
Dover coach road."
Vivian Darnley was gazing in deep con-
cern at Alice. Instantly he began turning
over the book, and announced in a few mo-
ments more —
"It is a post-town — only thirty-six miles
from London," said Mr. Longcluse.
"Thanks," said Lady May. "Oh, here's
the wine — I'm so glad! You must have a
little, dear; and you'll take Louisa Diaper
with you, of course; and you shall have one
of my carriages, and I'll send a servant with
you, and he'll arrange everything; and how
soon do you wish to go?"
"Immediately, instantly — thanks, dar-
ling. I'm so much obliged!"
"Will your brother go with you?"
"No, dear. Papa, you know, has not for-
given him, and it is, I think, two years since
they met. It would only agitate him."
And with these words she hurried to her
room, and in another moment, with the aid
of her maid, was completing her hasty pre-
parations.
In wonderfully little time the carriage was
at the door. Mr. Longcluse had taken his
leave.
So had Richard Arden, with the one direc-
tion to the servant, "If anything should go
very wrong, be sure to telegraph for me.
Here is my address."
"Put this in your purse, dear," said Lady
May. "Your father is so thoughtless, he
may not have brought money enough with
him; and you will find it is as I say — he'll
be a great deal better by the time you get
there; and God bless you, my dear."
And she kissed her as heartily as she
dared, without communicating the rouge
and white powder which aided her com-
plexion.
As Alice ran down, Vivian Darnley
awaited her outside the drawing-room door,


82
CH ECK"M ATE.
With alow, long "0 — Oh! " and clasped
hands and upturned eyes, she leaned back
in the carriage, and a sudden flood of tears
relieved her.
Yes; he was a great deal better. The
attack was quite over; but he had not
spoken. He seemed much exhausted ; and,
having swallowed sotne claret, which the
doctor prescribed, he had sunk into a sound
and healthy sleep, in which he still lay. A
message by telegraph had been sent to an-
nounce the good news, but Alice was some
way on her journey before it had reached.
now the young lady got clown, and en-
tered the homely old inn, followed by her
maid. She could have dropped on her knees
in gratitude to her Maker; but true religion,
like true affection, is shy of demonstrating
its fervors where sympathy is doubtful.
Gently, hardly breathing, guided by the
"chamber-maid," she entered her father's
room, and stood at his bedside. There he
lay, yellow, lean, the lines of his face in
repose, still forbidding, the thin lips and
thin nose looking almost transparent, and
breathing deeply and regularly, as a child
in his slumbers. In that face Alice could
not discover what any stranger could have
seen. She only saw the face of her father.
Selfish and capricious as he was, and violent
too — a wicked old man, if one could see him
justly — he was yet proud of her, and had
many schemes and projects afloat in his
jaded old brain, of which her beauty was
the talisman, of which she suspected nothing,
and with which his head was never more
busy than at the very moment when he was
surprised by the aura of his coming fit.
The doctors conjecture was right. He
had crqssed the Channel that morning. In
his French eon pie, he had for companion
the very man he had most wished and con-
trived to travel homeward with.
This was Lord Wynderbroke.
Lord Wynderbroke was fifty years old and
Upward. He was very much taken with
Alice, whom he had met pretty often. He
was a man who was thought likely to marry.
His estate was in the nattiest order. He
had always been prudent, and cultivated a
character. He had, moreover, mortgages
over Sir Reginald Arden's estate, the in-
terest of which the baronet was beginning
to find it next to impossible to pay. They
had been making a little gouty visit to
Vichy, and Sir Reginald had taken good
care to make the journey homeward with
Lord Wynderbroke, who knew that when
he pleased he could be an amusing com-
panion, and who also felt that kind of in-
terest in him which every one experiences
in the kindred of the young lady of whom
he is enamored.
The baronet, who tore up or burnt his
letters for the most part, had kept this par-
ticular one by which his daughter had been
traced and summoned to the Royal Oak.
It was, he thought, clever. It was amusing,
and had some London gossip. He hod r<"v!
bits of it to Lord Wynderbroke in the ewiiter.
Lord Wynderbroke was delighted. When
they parted, he had asked leave to pay him
a visit at Mortlake.
"Only too happy, if you are not afraid of
the old house falling in upon us. Every-
thing there, you know, is very much as my
grandfather left it. I only use it as a cara-
vanserai, and alight there for a little, on a
journey. Everything there is tumbling to
pieces. But you won't mind — no more
than I do."
So the little visit was settled.
The passage was rough. Peer and baro-
net were ill. , They did not care to reunite
their fortunes, after they touched English
ground.
As the baronet drew near London, for
certain reasons he grew timid. He got out
with a portmanteau and dressirfj^-case, and
an umbrella, at Drowark station, sent his
servant on with the rest of the luggage by
rail, and himself took a chaise; and, after
one change of horses, hail reached the
Royal Oak in the state in which we first
saw him.
The doctor had told the people at that inn
that he would look in, in the course of the
night, some time after one o'clock, being a
little uneasy about a possible return of the
old man's malady.
There was- that in the aristocratic looks
and belongings of his patient, and in the
very fashionable address to which the mes-
sage to his daughter was transmitted, which
induced in the mind of the learned man a
suspicion that a "swell" might have acci-
dentally fallen into his-hands.
By this time, thanks to the diligence of
Louisa Diaper, every one in the house had
been made acquainted with the fact that the
sick man was no other than Sir Reginald
Arden, Bart., and with many other circum-
stances of splendor, which would not, per-
haps, have so well stood the test of inquiry.
The doctor and his crony, the rector —
simplest of parsons — who had agreed to
accompany him in this nocturnal call, being
a curious man, as gentlemen inhabiting quiet
villages will be — these two gentlemen now
heard all this lore in the hall at a quarter
past one, and entered the patient's chamber
(where they found Miss Arden and her
maid) accordingly.
In whispers, the doctor made to Miss
Arden a most satisfactory report. He made
his cautious inspection of the patient, and
again had nothing but what was cheery to
say.
If the rector had not prided himself upon
his manners, and had been content with
one bow on withdrawing from the lady's
presence, they would not that night have
heard the patient's voice — and, perhaps,
all things considered, so much the better.
"t'trust, madam, in the morning Sir
Reginald may be quite himself again. It is
*


34
CHECKMATE.
Upon my soul, I've been poisoned. To
think of a creature in my state, dependent
on nourishment every hour, having his di-
gestion destroyed! Doctor, indeed! Pay
him? Not I, begad," and he clenched his
sentence with a curse.
But all this concluding eloquence was lost
upon the doctor, who had mentioned, in a
lofty "aside" to Miss Arden, that "unless
sent for he should not call again;" and,
with a marked politeness to her, and no
recognition whatever of the baronet, he had
taken his departure.
"I'm not the doctor, Sir Reginald; I'm
the clergyman," said the Reverend Peter
Sprott, gravely and timidly, for the promi-
nent brown eyes were threatening him.
"Oh, the clergyman? Oh, I see. Will you
be so good as to ring the bell, please, and
excuse a sick man giving you that trouble.
And is there a post-office near this 1"
"Yes, sir — close by."
"This is you, Alice? I'm glad you 're here.
You must write a letter this moment — a
note to your brother. Don't be afraid —
I'm better, a good deal — and tell the people,
when they come, to get me some strong soup
this moment, and—good evening, sir, or
good night, or morning, or whatever it is,"
he added, to the clergyman, who was taking
his leave.
"What o'clock is it?" he asked Alice.
"Well, you 'll write to your brother to meet
me at Mortlake. I have not seen him, now,
for how many years? I forget. He's in
town, is he? Very good. And tell him it
is perhaps the last time, and I expect him.
I suppose he 'll come. Say at a quarter past
nine in the evening. The sooner it's over
the better. I expect no good of it; it is
only just to try. And I shall leave this
early — immediately after breakfast — as
quickly as we can. I hate it l"
CHAPTER XIII.
OK THE ROAD.
Next morning the baronet was in high
good humor. He has written a little remind-
er to Lord Wynderbroke. He will expect
him at Mortlake the day he named, to dinner.
He remembers he promised to stay the night.
He can offer him, still, as good a game of
Eiquet as he is likely to find in his club; and
e almost feels that he has no excuse but a
selfish one, for exacting the performance of
a promise which gave him a great deal of
pleasure. His daughter, who takes care
of her old father, will make their tea, and
— voild tout!
Sir Reginald was in particularly good
spirits as he sent the waiter to the post-office
with this little note. He thinks within himself
that he never saw Alice in such good looks.
His selfish elation waxes quite affectionate,
and Alice never remembered him so good-
natured. She don't know what to make of
it exactly; but it pleases her, and she lookfji
all the more brilliant.
And now these foreign birds, whom a
chance storm has thrown upon the hospi-
tality of the Royal Oak, are up and away
again.
The old baronet and his pretty daughter,
Louisa Diaper sitting behind, in cloaks and
rugs, and the footman in front, to watch the
old man's signals, are whirling dustily along
with a team of four horses; for Sir Regi-
nald's arrangements are never economical,
and a pair would have brought them over
these short stages and home very nearly as
fast.
Lady May's carriage pleases the old man,
and helps his transitory good-humor; it is
so much more luxurious than the jolty hired
vehicle in which he had arrived.
Alice is permitted her thoughts to herself.
The baronet has taken his into companion-
ship, and is leaning back in his corner, with
his eyes closed: and his pursed mouth, with
its wonderful involution of wrinkles round
it, is working unconsciously; and his still
dark eyebrows, now elevating, now knitting
themselves, indicate the same activity of
brain.
With a silent look now and theh at his
face — for she need not ask whether Sir
Reginald wants anything, or would like any-
thing, or would like anything changed, for
the baronet needs no inquiries of this kind,
and makes people speedily acquainted with
his wants and fancies—she occupies her
place beside him, for the most part looking
out listlessly from the window, and thinks
of many things.
The baronet opens his eyes at last, and
says abruptly —
"Charming prospect I Charming day!
You'll be glad to hear, Alice, I'm not tired;
I'm making my journey wonderfully! It is
so pretty, and the sun so cheery. You are
looking so well, it is quite a pleasure to look
at you — charming! You 'll come to me at
Mortlake for a few days, to take care of me,
you know. I shall go on to Buxton in a
week or so, and you can return to Lady
May to-night, and come to Mortlake to-mor-
row; and your brother, graceless creature!
I suppose, will come to-night. I expect
nothing from his visit, absolutely. He has
been nothing to me, but a curse, all his life.
I suppose, if there's justice anywhere, he'll
have his deserts some day. But for the
present I put him aside — J shan't speak
of him. He disturbs me.
They drove through London over West-
minster Bridge, the servant thinking that
they were to go to Lady May Penrose's in
Burlington Terrace.
It was the first time, that day, since he
had talked of his son, that a black shadow
crossed Sir Reginald's face. He shrunk
back. He drew up his Chinese silk muffler


CHECKMATE.
over his chin. lie was fearful lest some
prowling-beaked or eagle-eyed Jew should
see his face, for Sir Reginald was just then
in danger.
Glancing askance under the peak of bis
travelling cap, he saw Talkington, with
Wynderbroke on his arm, walking to their
club.
How free and fearless those happy mortals
looked! How the old man yearned for his
chat and his glass of wine at B 's, and
bis afternoon whist at W 's! How he
chafed and blasphemed inwardly at the
invisible obstacle that insurmountably inter-
posed, and with what a fiery sting of malice
he connected the idea of his son with the
fetters that bound him!
"You know that man 1" said Sir Reginald
sharply, as he saw Mr. Longcluse raise his
hat to her, as they passed.
"Yes, I've met him pretty often at Lady
May's."
"H'm! I had not an idea that any one knew
him. He's a man who might be of use to one."
Here followed a silence.
"I thought, papa, you wished to go direct
to Mortlake, and I don't think this is the
way," suggested Alice.
"Eh? heigho! You 're right, child ; upon
my life, I was not thinking," said Sir Regi-
nald, at the same time signalling vehemently
to the servant, who, having brought the car-
riage to a stand-still, came round to the
window.
"We don't stop anywhere in town; we go
straight to Mortlake Hall. It is beyond
Islington. Have you ever been there?
Well, you can tell them how to reach it."
And Sir Reginald placed himself again
in his corner.
They had not started early, and he had
frequently interrupted their journey on vari-
ous whimsical pretexts. He remembered
one house, for instance, where there was a
stock of the very best port he had ever tast-
ed, and then he stopped and went in, and
after a personal interview with the proprie-
tor, had a bottle opened, and took two glasses,
and so paid at the rate of half-a-guinea each
for them.
It had been an interrupted journey, late
begun, and the sun was near its setting by
the time they had got a mile beyond the out-
skirts of Islington, and were drawing near
the singular old house where their journey
was to end.
Always with a melancholy presentiment,
Alice approached Mortlake Hall. But never
had she felt that mysterious anticipation
more painfully than upon this occasion. If
there be in such misgivings a prophetic force,
was it to be justified in the coming events of
Miss Arden's life, which were awfully con-
nected with that melancholy place?
They passed a quaint little village of tall
stone houses, among great old trees, with a
rural and old-world air, and an ancient inn,
with the sign of "Guy of Warwick" — an
inn of which we shall see more by-and-by —
faded, and, like the rest of this little town,
standing under the shadow of old trees.
They entered the road, dark with double
hedge-rows, and with a moss-grown park-wall
on the right, in which, in a little time, they
reached a great iron gate with fluted pillars.
They drove up a broad avenue, flanked
with files of gigantic trees, and showing
grand old timber also upon the park-like
grounds beyond. The dusky light of evening
fell upon these objects, and the many win-
dows, the cornices, and the smokeless chim-
neys of a great old house.
You might have fancied yourself two hun-
dred miles away from London.
"You don't stay here to-night, Alice. I
wish you to return to Lady May, and give
her the note I am going to write* You and
she come out to dine here on Friday. If she
makes a difficulty, I rely on you to persuade
her. I must have some one to meet Mr.
Longcluse. I have reasons. Also, I shall
ask my brother David, and his ward Miss
Maubray. I knew her father: he was a
fool, with his head full of romance, and he
married a very pretty woman, who was a
devil, without a shilling on earth. The girl
is an orphan, and David is her guardian, and
he would like any little attention we can
show her. And we shall ask Vivian Darnley
also. And that will make a very suitable
party."
Sir Reginald wrote his note, talking at
intervals.
"You see, I want Lady May to come here
again in a day or two, to stay only for two
or three days. She can go into town and
remain there all day, if she likes it. But
Wynderbroke will be coming, and I should
not like him to find us quite deserted; and
she said she'd come, and she may as well do
it now as hereafter. David lives so quietly,
we are sure of him ; and I commit May Pen-
rose to you. You must persuade her to
come. It will be cruel to disappoint. Here
is her note — I will send the rest myself.
And now God bless you, dear Alice!"
"I am so uncomfortable at the idea of
leaving you, papa." Her hand was on his
arm, and she was looking anxiously into his
face.
"So, of course, you should be ; only that
I am so perfectly recovered, and I must have
a quiet evening with Richard ; and I prefer
your being in town to-night, aud you and
May Penrose can come out to-morrow. Good-
by, child, God bless you!"
CHAPTER XIV.
MR. LONGCLCSE's BOOT FINDS A TEMPORARY
ASYXUM.
In the papers of that morning had ap-
peared a voluminous report of the proceed-


CHECKMATE.
ings of the coroner's inquest which sat upon
the body of the deceased Pierre Lebas.
I shall notice but one passage of this re-
Eort—the evidence which, it seems, Mr.
ongcluse volunteered. It was given in
these terms: —
"At this point of the proceedings, Mr. R.
D. Longcluse, who had arrived about half
an hour before, expressed a wish to be ex-
amined. The coroner said that it would be most
desirable to hear what a gentleman of Mr.
Longcluse's position had to say with respect
to the fatal occurrence; he understood, also,
that Mr. Longcluse had something to offer
upon the general arrangements for the ordi-
nary protection of life and property in Lon-
don and its environs, as being inadequate.
Mr. Longcluse was accordingly sworn, arid
deposed that he had known the deceased,
Pierre Lebas, when he (Mr. Longcluse) was
little more than a boy, in Paris. Lebas at
that time let lodgings, which were neat and
comfortable', in the Rue Victoire. He was
a respectable and obliging man. He had
some other occupation besides that of letting
lodgings, but he (Mr. Longcluse) could not
say what it might be. -The deceased had
accosted him at the Saloon Tavern on the
previous evening, when the people were
assembling to witness the billiard match
between Hood and Markham. The deceased
seemed very glad to see the witness, and
they had some little conversation, in the
course of which he (the witness) advised the
deceased to place his money, either in a
safer pocket than that in which he had hith-
erto kept it, or else in charge of some friend
on whom he could depend. Witness was
induced to urge this precaution upon the
deceased by observing, when he had himself
made the deceased a trifling present (ten
pounds) by way of a stake upon the match,
that he placed it in his coat-pocket, which
was in the side of the skirt, and on his re-
monstrating, he (deceased) told him that he
had not a breast-pocket, or, in fact, any safe
pocket. He. seemed surprised when witness
told him that there might be in the room
persons of the worst character ; and he then,
in considerable alarm, pointed out to him
(witness) a man who was and had been fol-
lowing him from place to place, he fancied,
with a purpose. Witness observed the man,
and saw him watch deceased, turning his
eyes repeatedly upon him. The man had
no companions, so far as he could see, and
affected to be looking in a different direc-
tion. It was sideways and stealthily that he
was watching deceased, who had incautious-
ly taken out and counted some of his money
in the room. Deceased did not conceal from
the witness his apprehensions from this
man, and witness advised him again to
place his money in the hands of some friend
who had a secure pocket, and recommended,
in case his friend should object to take so
much money into his care — Lebas having
said he had a large sum about liim — under
the gaze of the public, that he should make
the transfer in the smoking-room, the situa-
tion of which he described to him. Mr.
Longcluse then proceeded to give an exact
description of the man who had been dog-
ging the deceased; the particulars were as
follows: —"
Here I arrest my quotation, for I need not
recapitulate the details of the tall man's
features, dress, and figure, which are al-
ready familiar to the reader.
In a court off High Holborn there was,
and perhaps is, a sort of coffee-shop, in the
small drawing-rooms of which, thrown into
one room, are many small and homely
tables, with penny and even half penny pa-
pers, and literature with startling woodcuts.
Here working mechanics and others snatch
a very early breakfast, and take their din-
ners, and such as can afford time loiter their
half-hour or so over the agreeable literature
and cheap weekly papers. One penny morn-
ing paper visited that place of refection, for
three hours daily, and then flitted away to
keep an appointment elsewhere. It was this
dull time in that peculiar establishment —
namely, about nine o'clock in the morning
— and there was but one listless guest in the
room. It was the identical tall man in
question. His flat feet were planted on the
bare floor, and he leaned a shoulder against
the window-case, with a plug of tobacco in
his jaw, as, at his leisure, he was getting
through the coroner's inquest on Pierre
Lebas.
He was smiling with half-closed eyes and
considerable enjoyment, up to the point
where Mr. Longcluse's evidence was sud-
denly directed upon him. There was a
twitching frown of his eyebrow, as if from
a sudden pain ; but his smile continued from
habit, although his face grew paler.
This man, whose name was Paul Davies,
winked hard with his left eye, as he got on,
and read fiercely with his right. His face
was whiter now, and his smile less easy.
It was a queerish situation, he thought, and
might lead to consequences.
There was a little bit of a looking-glass,
picked up at some rubbishing auction, as old
as the hills, with some tarnished gilding
about it, in the narrow bit of wall between
the windows. Paul Davies could look at
nothing quite straight. He looked now at
himself in this glass, but it was from the
corners of his eyes, askance, and with his
sly, sleepy depression of the eyelids, as if
he had not overmuch confidence even in his
own shadow. lie folded the morning paper,
and laid it with formal precision on the
table, as if no one had disturbed it; and
taking up the Halfpenny Illustrated Broad-
sheet of Fiction, and with it flourishing in
his hand by the corner, he called the waiter
and paid his reckoning, and went off swiftly
to his garret in another court, a quarter of a
mile nearer to Saint Paul's — taking an ob-


CHECKMATE.
37
scure and devious course through back-lanes
and sequestered courts.
When he got up to his garret, Mr. Davies
locked his door and sat down on the side of
his creaking settle-bed, and, in his playful
phrase, "put on his considering cap."
"That's a dangerous cove, that Mr. Long-
cluse. He's done a bold stroke. And now
it 'b him or me, I do suppose — him or me:
me or him. Come, Paul, shake up your
knowledge-box; I 'll not lose this cast simple.
He's gave a description of me. The force
will know it. And them feet o' mine, they
are a bit flat; but any chap can make a pair
of insteps with a penn'orth o' rags. I
wouldn't care tuppence if it wasn't for
them pock-marks. There's no managing
them. A scar or a wart you may touch over
-with paint and sollible gutta-percha, or pink
wafers and gelatine, but pock-marks is too
many for any man."
He was looking with some anxiety in the
triangular fragment of looking-glass — bal-
anced on a nail in the window-case — at his
features.
'• I can take off them whiskers, and the
long neck he makes so much oft If it was
as long as an oystrich, with fourpenn'orth
of cotton waste and a cabbage-net, I'd make
a bull of it, and run my shoulders up to my
ears. I'll take the whiskers off, anyhow.
That's no treason; and he may n't identify
me. If I'm not had up for a fortnight my
hair would be grew a bit, and that would be
a lift. But a fellow must think twice before
he begins disguisin'. Juries smells a rat.
Howsomever, a cove may shave, and no harm
done; or his hair may grow a bit, and how
can he help it? Longcluse knows what he's
about. He's a sharp lad, but for all that
Paul Davies 'ill sweat him yet."
Mr. Davies turned the button of his old-
fashioned window, and let it down. He shut
out his two scarlet geraniums, which accom-
panied him in all his changes from one lodg-
ing to another.
"Suppose he tries the larceny — that's
another thing he may do, seeing what my
lay is. It would n't do to lose that thing;
no more would it answer to let them find it."
This last idea seemed to cause Paul Davies
a good deal of serious uneasiness. He began
looking about at the walls, low down near
the skirting, and up near the ceiling, tap-
ping now and then with his knuckles, and
sounding the plaster as a doctor would the
chest of a patient. He was not satisfied.
He scratched his head, and fiddled with his
ear, and plucked it dubiously, and winked
hard at his geranium through the window.
Paul Davies knew that the front garret
was not let. He opened his door and listen-
ed. Then he entered that room. I think he
had a notion of changing his lodgings, if
only he could find what he wanted. That
was such a hiding-place as professional
seekers were not likely to discover. But he
could uot satisfy himself.
A thought struck him, however, and he
went into the lobby again ; he got on a chair
and pushed open the skylight, and out went
Mr. Davies on the roof.
He looked and poked about here. He
looked to the neighboring roofs, lest any eye
should be upon him ; but there was no one.
A maid hanging clothes upon a line, on a
sort of balcony, midway down the next
house, was singing "The Ratcatcher's
Daughter," he thought rather well — so
well, indeed, that he listened for two whole
verses — but that did not signify.
Paul Davies kneeled down, and loosed and
removed, one after the other, several slates
near the lead gutter, between the gables;
and, having made a sufficient opening in the
roof for his purpose, he let himself down
lightly through the skylight, entered his
room, and locked himself up.
He then unlocked his trunk and took from
under his clothes, where it lay, a French
boot — the veritable boot of Mr. Longcluse
— which, for greater security, he popped
under the coarse coverlet of his bed. He
next took from his trunk a large piece of
paper, which, being unfolded at the window,
disclosed a rude drawing with a sentence or
two underneath, and three signatures, with
a date preceding.
Having read this document over twice or
thrice, with a rather menacing smile, he
rolled it up in brown paper and thrust it
into the foot of the boot, which he popped
under the coverlet and bolster. He then
opened his door wide. Too long a silence
might possibly have seemed mysterious, and
called up prying eyes, so, while he filled his
pipe with tobacco, he whistled " Villikins and
his Dinah" lustily. He was very cautious
about this boot and paper.
He got on his great-coat and felt hat, and
took his pipe and some matches — the enjoy-
ing a quiet smoke without troubling others
with the perfume was a natural way of ac-
countingfor his visit to the roof. lie listened.
He slipped his boot and its contents into his
capacious great-coat pocket, with a rag of
old carpet tied round it; and then, whistling
still, cheerily, he mounted the roof again,
and placed the precious parcel within the
roof, which he, having some skill as a slater,
proceeded carefully and quickly to restore.
Down came Mr. Davies now, and shaved
off his whiskers. Then he walked out, with
a bundle consisting of the coat, waistcoat,
and blue necktie he had worn on the even-
ing of Lebas' murder. He was going to pay
a visit to his mother, a venerable green-
grocer, who lived near the Tower of London;
and on his way he pledged these articles at
two distinct and very remote pawnbrokers',
intending on his return to release, with the
proceeds, certain corresponding articles of
his wardrobe, now in ward in another estab-
lishment.
These measures of obliteration he was
taking quietly.


CHECKMATE.

"HE PLACED THE PRECIOUS PARCEL WITHIN THE ROOF,
His visit to his mother, a very honest old
woman, who helieved him to be the most
virtuous, agreeable, and beautiful young
man extant, was made with a very particular
purpose.
"Well, ma'am," he said, in reply to the
old lady's hospitable greeting, "I won't
refuse a pot of half-and-half and a couple of
eggs, and I 'll go so far as a cut or two
of bacon, bein' 'ungry; and I 'va a-goin' to
write a paper of some consequence, if you 'll
obleege me with a sheet of foolscap and a
pen and ink; and I may as well write it
while the things is a-gettin' ready, accordin'
to your kind intentions."
And accordingly Mr. Paul Davies sat in
silence, looking very important — as he
always did when stationery was before him
— at a small table, in a dark back room,
and slowly penned a couple of pages of
foolscap.
"And now," said he, producing the docu-
ment after his repast, "will you be so good,
ma'am, as to ask Mr. Sildyke and Mrs.
Rumble to come down and witness my sign-
ing of this, which I mean to leave it in your
hands and safe keepin' under lock and key, un-
til I take it away, or otherwise tells you what
you must do with it. It is a police paper,
ma'am, and may bo wanted any time. But
you keep it dark till I tells you."
This settled. Mr. Sildyke' and Mrs. Rum-
ble arrived obligingly; and Paul Davies,
with an adroit wink at his mother — who
was a little shocked and much embarrassed
by the ruse, being a truth-loving woman —
told them that here was his last will and testa-
ment, and he wanted only that they should
witness his signature: which, with the date,
was duly accomplished. Paul Davies was,
indeed, a man of that genius wh,ich requires
to proceed by stratagem, cherishing an ab-
horrence of straight lines, and a jicturesque
love of the curved and angular. So, if Mr.
Longcluse was doing his duty at one end of
the town, Mr. Davies, at the other, was by
no means wanting in activity, or, according
to the level of his intellect and experience,
in wisdom.
We have recurred to these scenes in which
Mr. Paul Davies figures, because it was in-
dispensable to the reader's right understand-
ing of some events that follow, that he should
be apprised of these occurrences.
Be so good, then, as to find Sir Reginald
exactly where you left him, standing on the
steps of Mortlake Hall.
His daughter would have stayed, but he
would not hear of it.
"You can come here on Friday, and tell
me all the news. I have more to do than I
can get through in the interval. I'm quite
well — those little things produce no after-
effects ; and don't say a word to your brother.
Observe what I say — not one word to him
respecting that little illness on my way from
Dover. I wish you to remember that."
Alice was trained to obey very implicitly.
She did not like the idea of leaving her
father, but his imperious will ruled at Mort-
lake: and, once determined by a word from
him, no question was debatable.
"1


CHECKMATE.
39
He stood on the steps and smirked a yel-
low and hollow farewell, waving his hand
as the carriage drove away. Then he turned
and entered the lofty hall, in which the light
was already failing.
Sir Reginald did not like the trouble of
mounting the stairs. His bed-room and
sitting-room were on a level with the hall.
As soon as he came in, the gloom of his old
prison-house began to overshadow him, and
his momentary cheer and good-humor dis-
appeared.
"Where is Tansey? I suppose she's in
her bed, or grumbling with the toothache,"
he snarled to the footman. "And where
the devil's Crozier? I have the fewest and
the worst servants, I believe, of any man in
England."
He poked open the door of his sitting-room
with the point of his walking-stick.
"Nothing ready, I dare swear," he qua-
vered, and shot a peevish and fiery glance
round it.
Things were not looking quite so badly
as he expected. There was just the little
bit of expiring fire in the grate which he
liked, even in summer. His sealskin slip-
pers were on the hearth-rug, and his easy-
chair was pushed into its proper place,
"Ha! Crozier, at last! Here, get ofF this
coat and these mufflers, and I was
devilish near dying in that vile chaise. I
don't remember how they got me into the
inn. There, don't mind condoling. You 're
privileged, but don't do that. As near dying
as possible — rather an awkward business
for useless old servants here, if I had. I 'll
dress in the next room. My son's coming
this evening. Admit him, mind. I'll see
him. How long is it since we met last?
Two years, egad! And Lord VVynderbroke
has his dinner here — I don't know what
day, but some day very soon; and don't
let the people here go to sleep. Remem-
ber l"
And so on, with his old servant, he talked,
and sneered, and snarled, and established
himself in his sitting-room, with his reviews,
and his wine, and his newspapers.
Night fell over dark Mortlake Hall, and
over the blazing city of London. Sir Regi-
nald listened, every now and then, for the
approach of his son. Talk as he might, he
did expect something — and a great deal —
from the coming interview. Two years
without a home, without -an allowance, with
no provision except a hundred and fifty
pounds a year, might well have tamed that
wil»il beast!
With the tremor of acute suspense the old
man watched and listened. Was it a good
or an ill sign his being so late?
The city of London, with its still roaring
traffic and blaze of gas-lamps, did not con-
trast more powerfully with the silent shadows
of the forest-grounds of Mortlake, than did
theidravving-room of Lady May Penrose,
Jgjgfiant with a profusion of light, and reso-
nant with the gay conversation of inmates,
all disposed to enjoy themselves, with the
dim and vast room in which Sir Reginald
sat silently communing with his own dismal
thoughts.
Nothing so contagious as gayety. Alice
Arden, laughingly, was " making her book"
rather prematurely, in dozens of pairs of
gloves, for the Derby. Lord Wynderbroke
was deep in it. So was Vivian Darnley.
"Your brother and I are to take the reins,
turn about, Lady May says. He's a crack
whip. He's better than I, I think," said
Vivian to Alice Arden.
"You mustn't upset us, though. I am so
afraid of you crack whips!" said Alice.
"Nor let your horses run away with us;
I've been twice run away with already."
"I don't the least wonder at Miss Arden's
being run away with very often," said Lord
Wynderbroke, with all the archness of a
polite man of fifty.
"Very prettily said, Wynderbroke,"
smiled Lady May. "And where is your
brother? I thought he'd have turned up to-
night," asked she of Alice.
"I quite forgot. He was to see papa this
evening. They wanted to talk over some-
thing together."
"Oh, I see!" said Lady May, and she
became thoughtful.
What was the exact nature of the interest
which good Lady May undoubtedly took in
Richard Arden? Was it quite so motherly
as years might warrant? At that time
people laughed over it, and were curious to
see the progress of the comedy.
Here was light and gayety — light within,
lamps without; spirited talk in young an-
ticipation of coming days of pleasure; and
outside, the roll of carriage-wheels making
a humming bass to this merry treble. v
Over the melancholy precincts of Mort-
lake the voiceless darkness of night descends
with unmitigated gloom. The centre — the
brain of this dark place — is the house ; and
in a large dim room, near the smouldering
fire, sits the image that haunts rather than
inhabits it.
CHAPTER XV.
FATHER AND SON.
Sir Reginald Arden had fallen into a
doze, as he sat by the fire with his Revue des
Deux Mondes, slipping between his finger
and thumb, on his knees. He was recalled
by Crozier's voice, and looking up, he saw,
standing near the door, as if in some slight
hesitation, a figure not seen for two years
before.
For a moment Sir Reginald doubted his
only half-awaKened senses. AVas that hand-
some oval face, with large, soft eyes, with
such brilliant lips, and the dark-brown
moustache, so fine and silken, that had


40
CHECKMATE.
never known a razor, an unsubstantial por-
trait hung in the dim air, or his living son?
There were perplexity and surprise in the
old man's stare.
"I should have been here before, sir, but
your letter did not reach me until an hour
ago," said Richard Arden.
"Hy heaven! Dick? And so you came!
I believe I was asleep. Give me your hand.
I hope, Dick, we may yet end this miserable
quarrel happily. Father and son can have
no real interests apart."
Sir Richard Arden extended his thin
hand, and smiled invitingly but rather
darkly on his son.
Graceful and easy this young man was,
and yet embarrassed, as he placed his hand
within his father's.
"You 'll take something, Dick, won't
you?"
"Nothing, sir, thanks."
Sir Reginald was stealthily reading his
face. At last he began circuitously —
"I've a little bit of news to tell you
about Alice. How long shall I allow you to
guess what it is?"
"I'm the worst guesser in the world —
pray don't wait for me, sir."
"Well, I have in my desk there — would
you mind putting it on the table here?—a
letter from Wynderbroke. You know him 1"
"Yes, a little."
"Well, Wynderbroke writes to ask my
leave to marry your sister, if she will con-
sent; and he says all he will do, which is
very handsome — very generous indeed.
Wait a moment. Yes, here it is. Read
that."
Richard Arden did read the letter, with
open eyes and breathless interest. The old
man's eyes were upon him as he did so.
"Well, Richard, what do you think?"
"There can be but one opinion about it.
Nothing can be more handsome. Every-
thing suitable. I only hope that Alice will
not be foolish."
"She shan't be that, I 'll take care," said
the old man, locking down his desk again
upon the letter.
"It might possibly be as well, sir, to pre-
pare her a little at first. I may possibly be
of some little use, and so may Lady May.
I only mean that it might hardly be expedi-
ent to make it from the first a matter of au-
thority, because she has romantic ideas, and
she is spirited."
"I 'll sleep upon it. I shan't see her
again till to-morrow evening. She does not
care about any one in particular, I sup-
pose?"
"Not that I know of," said Richard.
"You 'll find it will all be right— it will
— all right. It shall be right," said Sir
i Reginald. And then there was a silence.
lie was meditating the other business he
had in hand, and again circuitously he pro-
ceeded.'
"What's going on at the opera? Who is
your great danseuse at present?" inquired
thejjaronet, with a glimmer of a leer. "I
haven't seen a ballet for more than six years.
And why? I need n't toll you. You know
the miserable life I lead. Egad l there are
fellows placed everywhere to watch me.
There would be an execution in this house
this night, if the miserable tables and chairs
were not my brother David's property.
Upon my life, Craven, my attorney, had to
serve two notices on the sheriff in one term,
to caution him not to sell your uncle's furni-
ture for my debts. I should n't have had a
joint-stool to sit down on, if it had n't been
for that. And I had to get out of the rail-
way carriage, by heaven! for fear of arrest,
and come home — if home I can call this
ruin — by posting all the way, except a few
miles. I did not dare to tell Craven I was
coming back. I wrote from Twyford, where
I — I — took a fancy to sleep last night, to
no human being but yourself. My comfort
is that they and all the world believe that
I'm still in France. It is a pleasant state
of things!"
"I am grieved, sir, to think you suffer so
much."
"I know it. I knew it. I know you are,
Dick," said the old man, eagerly. "And
my life is a perfect hell. I can nowhere in
England find rest for the sole of my foot. I
am suffering perpetually the most miserable
mortifications, and the tortures of the damned.
I know you are sorry. It can't be pleasant
to you to see your father the miserable out-
cast, and fugitive, and victim he so often is.
And I 'll say distinctly — I 'll say at once —
for it was with this one purpose I sent for
you — that no son with a particle of human
feeling, with a grain of conscience, or an
atom of principle, could endure to see it,
when he knew that by a stroke of his pen
he could undo it all, and restore a miserable
parent to life and liberty! Now, Richard,
you have my mind. I have concealed noth-
ing, and I'm sure, Dick, I know, I knriwyou.
won't see your father perish by inches',
rather than sign the warrant for his libera-
tion. For God's sake, Dick, my boy, speak
out! Have you the heart to reject your
miserable father's petition? Do you wish
me to kneel to you? I love you, Dick,
although you don't admit it. I 'll kneel to
you, Dick — I'll kneel to you. I'll go on
my knees to you."
His hands were clasped; he made a move-
ment. His great, prominent eyes were fixed
on Richard Arden's face, which he was read-
ing with a great deal of eagerness, it is true,
but also with a dark and narrow shrewd-
ness.
"Good heaven, sir, don't stir, I implore!
If you do, I must leave the room," said
Richard, embarrassed to a degree that
amounted to agitation. "And I must tell
you, sir — it is very painful, but I could not
help it, necessity drove me to it — if I were
ever so desirous, it is out of my power\ \.


CHECKMATE.
41
I have dealt with my reversion. I have exe-
cuted a deed."
"You have heen with the Jews!" cried
the old man, jumping to his feet, "You
have heen dealing, by way of post obit, with
my estate!"
Richard Arden looked down. Sir Regin-
ald was as nearly white as his yellow tint
would allow; his large eyes were gleaming
fire — he looked as if ho woultj have snatched
the poker, and brained his son.
"But what could I do, sir? I had no
other resource. I was forbidden your house:
I had no money."
"You lie, sir !" yelled the old man, with
a sudden flash, and a hammer of his thin
trembling fist on the table. "You had a
hundred and fifty pounds a year of your
mother's."
"But that, sir, could not possibly support
any one. I was compelled to act as I did.
You really, sir, left me no choice."
"Now, now, now, now, now! you 're not
to run away with the thing; you 're not to
run away with it; you shan't run away with
it, sir. You could have made a submission,
you know you could. I was open to be re-
conciled at any time — always too ready.
You had only to do as you ought to have
done, and I'd have received you with open
arms: you know I would — I would — you
had only to unite our interests in the estates,
and I'd have done everything to make you
happy, and you know it. But you have
taken the step — you have done it, and it is
irrevocable. You have done it, and you've
ruined me; and I pray to God you'have
ruined yourself!"
With every sinew quivering, the old man
was pulling the bell-rope violently with his
left hand. Over his shoulder, on his son, he
glanced almost maniacally. "Turn him
out!" he screamed to Crozier, stamping;
"put him out by the collar. Shut the door
upon him, and lock it; and if he ever dares
to call here again, slam it in his face. I
have done with him forever!"
Richard Arden had already left the room,
and this closing passage was lost on him.
But he heard the old man's voice as he
walked along the corridor, and it was still
in his ears as he passed the hall-door; and.
running down the steps, he jumped into his
cab.
Crozier held the cab-door open, and wished
Mr. Richard a kind good-night. He stood
on the steps to sec the last of the cab as it
drove down the shadowy avenue and was
lost in gloom. lie sighed heavily. What
a broken family it was!
He was an old servant, born on their
northern estate — loyal, and somewhat rus-
tic— and, certainly, had the baronet been
less in want of money, not exactly the ser-
vant he would have chosen.
"The old gentleman cannot last long." he
saij3 "% he followed the sound of the retreat-
"X ^loclswith nis gaze> "and then Master
Richard will take' his turn, and what one
began the other will finish. It is all up with
the Ardens. Sir Reginald ruined, Master
Harry murdered, and Master David turned
tradesman! There's a curse on the old
house."
He heard the baronet's tread faintly,
pacing the floor in agitation, as he passed
his door; and when he reached the house-
keeper's room, that old lady, Mrs. Tansey,
was alone and all of a tremble, standing at
the door. Before her dim staring eyes had
risen an oft-remembered scene: the ivy-cov-
ered gate-house at Mortlake Hall; the cold
moon glittering down through the leafless
branches; the gray horse on its side across
the gig-shaft, and the two villains — one
rifling and the other murdering poor Henry
Arden, the baronet's gay and reckless
brother.
"Lord, Mr. Crozier! what's crossed Sir
Reginald?" she said, huskily, grasping the
servant's wrist with her lean hand. "Mas-
ter Dick, I do suppose. I thought he was
to come no more. They quarrel always.
I'm like to faint, Mr. Crozier."
"Sit ye down, Mrs. Tansey, ma'am; you
should take just a thimbleful of something.
What has frightened you?"
"There's a scritch in Sir Reginald's
voice — mercy on us! — when he raises it
so; it is the very cry of poor Master Harry
— his last cry, when the knife pierced him.
I 'll never forget it!"
The old woman clasped her fingers over
her eyes, and shook her head slowly.
"Well, that's over and ended this many
a day, and past cure. We need not fret
ourselves no more about it — 'tis thirty years
since."
"Two-and-twenty the day o' the Longden
steeple-chase. I've a right to remember it."
She closed her eyes again.
"Why can't they keep apart?" she re-
sumed. "If father and son can't look one
another in the face withput quarrelling, bet-
ter they should turn their backs on one
another for life. Why need they come under
one roof? The world's wide enough."
"So it is—and no good meeting and
argufying; for Mr. Dick will never open
the estate," remarked Mr. Crozier.
"And more shame for him !" said Mrs.
Tansey. "He's breaking his father's heart.
Ittroubles him more,"she added, in achanged
tone, "I'm thinking, than ever poor Master
Harry's death did. There's none living of
his kith or kin cares about it now but Master
David. He 'II never let it rest while he
lives."
"He may let it rest, for he'll never make
no hand of it," said Crozier. "Would you
object, ma'am, to my making a glass of
something hot? — you're gone very pale."
Mrs. Tansey assented, and the conversa-
tion grew more comfortable. And so the
night closed over the passions and the mel-
ancholy of Mortlake Hall.


CHECKMATE.
CHAPTER XVI.
A MIDNIGHT MEETING.
A couple of days passed; and. now I must
ask you to suppose yourself placed, at night,
in the centre of a vast heath, undulating
here and there like a sea arrested in a
ground-swell, lost in a horizon of monoton-
ous darkness all round., Here and there
rises a scrubby hillock of furze, black and
rough as the head of a monster. The eye
aches as it strains to discover objects or
measure distances over the blurred and black
expanse.
Here stand twp trees pretty near together
— one in thick foliage, a black elm, with a
funereal and plume-like stillness, and blot-
ting out many stars with its gigantic canopy;
the other, about fifty paces off, a withered
and half barkless fir, with one white branch
left, stretching forth like the arm of a gibbet.
Nearly under this is a flat rock, with one
end slanting downward, and half buried in
the ferns and the grass that grow about that
spot.
One other fir stands a little way off, smaller
than these two trees, which in daylight are
conspicuous far away as landmarks on a
trackless waste.
Overhead the stars are blinking, but the
desolate landscape lies beneath in shapeless
obscurity, like drifts of black mist melting
together into one wide vague sea of dark-
ness that forms the horizon.
Over this comes, in fitful moanings, a
melancholy wind. The eye stretches vainly
to define the objects that fancy sometimes
suggests, and the ear is strained to discrimi-
nate the sounds, real or unreal, that seem to
mingle in the uncertain distance.
If you can conjure up all this, and the
superstitious freaks that in such a situation
imagination will play in even the hardest
and coarsest natures, you have a pretty dis-
tinct idea of the feelings and surroundings
of a tall man who "lay that night his length
under the blighted tree I have mentioned,
stretched on its roots, with his chin support-
ed on his hands, and looking vaguely into
the darkness.
He had been smoking, but his pipe was
out now, and he had no occupation but that
of forming pictures on the dark background,
and listening to the moan and rush of the
distant wind, and imagining sometimes a
voice shouting, sometimes the drumming of
a horse's hoofs approaching over the plain.
There was a chill in the air that made
this man now and then shiver a little, and
get up and take a turn back and forward,
and stamp sharply as he did so, to keep the
blood stirring in his legs and feet.
Then down he would lie again, with his
elbows on the ground, and his hands prop-
Eing his chin. Perhaps he brought his
ead near the ground thinking that thus he
could hear distant sounds more sharply.
He was growing impatient, and well he
might.
The moon now began to break through the
mist in fierce red over the far horizon. A
streak of crimson, that glowed without illu-
minating anything, showed through the dis-
tant cloud close along the level of the heath.
Even this was a cheer, like a red ember or
two in a pitch-dark room.
Very far away he thought now he heard
the tread of a horse. Qne can hoar miles
away over that level expanse of death-like
silence. He pricked his ears, he raised him-
self on his hands, and listened with open
mouth. He lost the sound, but on leaning
his head again to the ground that vast sound-
ing-board carried its vibration once more to
his ear.
It was the canter of a horse upon the heath.
He was doubtful whether it was approach-
ing, for the sound subsided sometimes; hut
afterward it was renewed, and gradually he
became certain that it was coming nearer.
And now, like a huge, red-hot dome of cop-
per, the moon rose above the level strips of
cloud that lay upon the horizon of the heath,
and objects began to reveal themselves. The
stunted fir, that had looked to the fancy of
the solitary watcher like a ghostly police-
man, with arm and truncheon raised, just
starting in pursuit, now showed some lesser
branches, and was more satisfactorily a tree;
distances became measurable, though not
yet accurately, by the eye; and ridges and
hillocks caught faintly the dusky light, and
threw blurred but deep shadows backward.
The tread of the horse approaching had
become a gallop as the light improved, and
horse and horseman were soon visible.
Paul Davies stood erect, and took up a
position a few steps in advance of the
blighted tree at whose foot he had been
stretched.
The figure, seen against the dusky glare
of the moon, would have answered well
enough for one of those highwaymen who in
old times made the heath famous. His low-
crowned felt hat, his short coat with a cape
to it, and the leather casings, whieh looked
like jack-boots, gave this horseman, seen in
dark outline against the glow, a character
not unpicturesque.
With a sudden strain of the bridle, the
gaunt rider pulled up before the man who
awaited him.
"What are you doing there?" said the
horseman, roughly.
"Counting the stars," answered he.
Thus the signs and countersigns were ex-
changed, and the stranger said —
"You're alone, Paul Davies, I take it."
"No company but ourselves, mate," Un-
swered Davies.
"You're up to half-a-dozen dodges, Paul,
and knows how to lime a twig; that's your
little game, you know. This here tree is
clean enough, but that 'ere has a v**iful o'
leaves on it." *\"\
A> 


CHECKMATE.
43

WHAT ARE YOU DOING THEKE?' SAID THE HORSEMAN.1
"I didn't put them there," said Paul, a
little sulkily.
"Well, no. I do suppose a sight o' you
•would n't exactly put a tree in leaf, or a rose-
bush in blossom; nor even make wegitables
grow. More like to blast 'em, like that rum
un over your head."
"What's up?" asked the ex-detective.
"Jest this —there's leaves enough for a
bird to roost there, so this won't do. Now,
then, move on you with me."
As the gaunt rider thus spoke, his long
red beard was blowing this way and that in
the breeze; and he turned his horse, and
walked him toward that lonely tree in which,
as he lay gazing on its black outline, Paul
had-fancied the shape of a phantom police-
man.
"I don't care a cuss," said Davies. "I'm
half sorry I came a leg to meet yer."
"Growlin', eh?" said the horseman.
"I wish you was as cold as me, and
you'd growl a bit, maybe, yourself," said
Paul. "I'm jolly cold."
"Cold, are ye?'"
"Cold as a lock-up."
"Why did n't ye fetch a line o' the old
author with you?" asked the rider — mean-
ing brandy.
"I had a pipe or two."
"Who'd a guessed we was to have a
night like this in summer-time?"
"I do believe it freezes all the year round
in this queer place."
aid ye like a drop of the South-Sea
Mountain (gin)?" said the stranger, pro-
ducing a flask from his pocket, which Paul
Davies took with a great deal of good-will,
much to the donor's content, for he wished
to find that gentleman in good humor in the
conversation that \^s to follow.
"Drink what's there, mate. D'ye like
it?"
"It ain't to be by no means sneezed at,"
said Paul Davies.
The horseman looked back over his shoul-
der. Paul Davies remarked that his shoul-
ders were round enough to amount almost to
a deformity. He and his companion were
now a long way from the tree whose foliage
he feared might afford cover to some eaves-
dropper.
"This tree will answer. I suppose you
like a post to clap your back to while we are
palaverin'," said the rider. "Make a finish
of it, Mr. Davies," he continued, as that
person presented the half-emptied flask to
his hand. "I'm as hot as steam, myself,
and I'd rather have a smoke by-and-by."
He touched the bridle here, and the horse
stood still, and the rider patted his reeking
neck, as he stooped with a shake of his ears
and a snort, and began to sniff the scantherb-
age at his feet.
"I don't mind if I have another pull," said
Paul, replenishing the goblet that fitted over
the bottom of the flask.
"Fill it again, and no heel-taps," said his
companion.
Mr. Davies sat down, with his mug in his


CHECKMATE.
45
as knows what he's about, and can find out
the cove as threatens the rich fellow, and
deal with him handsome, according to cir-
cumstances. My terms is moderate. I
takes five shillins in the pound, and not a
pig under; and that puts you and I in the
same boat, d' ye see? Well, I gets all I
can out of him, and no harm can happen me,
for I'm but a cove n-carryin' of messages
betwixt you, and the more I gets for you the
better for me. I settled many a business
amigable the last five years that would never
have bin settled without me. I'm well
knowing to some of the swellest lawyers in
town, and whenever they has a dilikite case,
like a gentleman threatened with informa-
tions or the like, they sends for me, and I
arranges it amigable, to the satisfacshing of
both parties. It's the only way to settle
sich affairs with good profit and no risk. I
have spoke to Mr. Longcluse. lie was all
for having you? four bones in the block-
house, and yourself on the twister; and he's
not a cove to be bilked out of his'tin. But
he would not like the bother of your cross-
charge, either, and I think I could make all
square between ye. What do you say?"
"How can I tell that you ever set eyes on
Mr. Longcluse ?" said Davies, more satisfied,
as the conference proceeded, that he had mis-
directed his first guess at the identity of the
horseman. • "How can I tell you 're not
just a-gettin' all you can out o' me, to make
what you can of it on your own account in
that market?"
"That's true; you can't tell, mate."
"And what do I know about you? What's
your name? " pursued Paul Davies.
"I forgot my name. I left it at home in
the cupboard; and you know nothing about
me, that's true, excepting what I told you,
and you 'll hear no more."
• "I'm too old a bird for that; you 're a
born genius, only spoilt in the baking. I 'm
thinking, mate, l may as well paddle,my
own canoe, and sell my own secret on my
own account. What can you do for me that
I can't do as well for myself?"
"You don't think that, Paul. You dare
not show to Mr. Longcluse, and you know
he's in a Wax; and who can you send to
him? You 'll make nothing o' that brag.
Where's the good of talking like a blast to
a chap like me? Don't you suppose I take
all that at its vally? I tell you what, if it
ain't settled now, you 'll see me no more, for
I'll not undertake it." He pulled up his
horse's head, preparatory to starting.
"Well, what's up now — what's the
hurry ?" demanded Mr. Davies.
"Why, if this here meetin' won't lead to
business, the sooner we two parts and gets
home again,the less time wasted," answered
the cavalier, with his hand on the crupper
of the saddle, as he turned to speak.
Each seemed to wait for the other to add
something.
"If you let me go this time, Mr. What's-
your-name, you'll not catch nie a-walking out
here again," said Mr. Davies, sourly. "If
there's business to be done, now's the time."
"Well, I can't make it no plainer — 'tis


46
CHECKMATE.
as clear as mud in a wine-glass," said Mr.
Wheeler, gayly, and again he shook the bri-
dle and hitched himself in the saddle, and
the horse stirred uneasily as he added,
"Have you any more to say?"
"Well, supposin' I say aye, how soon
will it be settled? " said Paul Davies, think-
ing better of it.
"These things doesn't take long with a
rich cove like Mr. Longcluse. It's where
they has to scrape it up, by beggiu' here
and borrowin ' there, and selliri' this and
spoutin' that, there's await always. But
a chap with no end o' tin — that has only to
wish and have — that's your sort. He swears
a bit, and threatens, and stamps, and loses
his temper summat, ye see; and if I was
the principal, like you are in this 'ere case,
and the police convenient, or a poker in his
fist, he might make a row. But seein' I'm
only a messenger like, it don't come to
nothin '. He claps his hand in his pocket,
and outs with the rino, and there's all; and
jest a bit of paper to sign. But I won't
stay here no longer. I'm getting a bit cold
myself; so it's on or off now. Go yourself
to Longcluse, if you like, and see if you
don't catch it. The least you get will be
seven-penn'orth, for extortin' money by
threatenin' a prosecution, if he don't hang
you for the murder of the Saloon cove. How
would you like that?"
"It ain't the physic that suits my com-
plaint, guvnor. But I have him there. I
have the statement wrote, in sure hands,
and other hevidence, as he may suppose,
and dated, and signed by respectable peo-
ple; and I know his dodge. He thinks he
came out first with his charge against me,
but he's out there: and if he will have it,
and I split, he'd best look slippy."
"And how much do you want? Mind,
I 'll funk him all I can, though he's a wide-
awake chap; for it's my game to get every
pig I can out of him."
*' I 'll take two thousand pounds, and go
to Canada or to New York, my passage and
expenses being paid, and sign anything in
reason ho wants; and that's the shortest
chalk I 'll offer."
"Don't you wish you may get it? I do, I
know, but I'm thinking you might jest as
well look for the naytional debt."
"What's your name?" again asked Da-
vies, a little abruptly.
"My name fell out o' window, and was
broke, last Tuesday mornin'. But call me
Tom Wheeler, if you can't talk without call-
ing me something."
"Well, Tom, that's the figure," said
Davies.
"If you want to deal, speak now," said
Wheeler. "If I'm to stand between you, I
must have a power to close on the best offer
I'm like to get. I won't do nothing in the
matter elseways."
With this fresh exhortation, the confer-
ence on details proceeded; and when at last
it closed, with something like a definite un-
derstanding, Tom Wheeler said:
"Mind, Paul Davies, I comes from no
one, and I goes to no one; and I never seed
you in all my days."
"And where are you going?"
"A bit nearer the moon," said the myste-
rious Mr. Wheeler, lifting his hand and
pointing toward the red disk, with one of his
bearded grins. And wheeling his horse
suddenly, away he rode at a canter, right
toward the red moon, against which, for a
few moments, the figure of the retreating
horse and man showed black and sharp, as
if cut out of card-board.
Paul Davies looked after him with his left
eye screwed dose, as was his custom, in
shrewd rumination.
Before the horseman had got very far, the
moon passed under the edge of a thick cloud,
and the waste was once more enveloped in
total darkness.
In this absolute obscurity the retreating
figure was instantaneously swallowed, so
that the shrewd ex-detective, who had
learned by rote every article of his dress,
and every button on it, and could have
sworn to every mark on his horse at York
Fair, had no chance of discovering, in the
ultimate line of his retreat, any clue to his
destination.
He had simply emerged from darkness,
and darkness had swallowed him again.
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. LONGCLUSE AT MORTLAKE HALL.
We must now see how Sir Reginald's lit-
tle dinner-party, not a score of miles away,
went off only two days later. He was for-
tunate, considering that he had bidden his
guests upon very short notice. Not one dis-
appointed.
I dare say that Lady May — whose toilet,
considering how quiet everything was, had
been made elaborately — missed a face that
would have brightened the whole rooms for
her. But the interview between Richard
Arden and his father had not, as we know,
ended in reconciliation, and Lady May's
hopes were disappointed, and her toilet la-
bor in vain.
When Lady May entered the room with
Alice, she saw standing on the hearth-rug,
at the far end of the handsome room, a tall
and very good-looking man of sixty or up-
ward, chatting with Sir Reginald, one of
whose feet was in a slipper, and who was
sitting in an easy chair. A little bit of fire
burned in the grate, for the day had been
chill and showery.
This tall man, with white silken hay:, and
a countenance kind, frank, and thoi^itful,
with a little sadness in it, was, she -ElL no
doubt, David Arden, whom she had la A.'"o


CHECKMATE.
47
with silken brown locks, and the tints and
cheer of early manhood in it.
Sir Reginald stood up, with an uncomfort-
able effort, and, smiling, pointed to his slip-
per in excuse for his limping gait, as he set
forth across the carpet to meet her, with a
good-humored shrug.
"Was n't it good of her to come?" said
Alice.
"She's better than good," said Reginald,
with his thin, yellow smile, extending his
hand, and leading her to a chair; "it is visit-
ing the sick and the halt, and doing real
good, for it is a pleasure to see her — a pleas-
ure bestowed on a miserable poor soul who
has very few pleasures left;" and with his
other thin hand he patted gently the-ringed
fingers of her fat hand, for she had plucked
off her glove to gree.t her kinsman.
"Here is my brother David," continued
the baronet. "He says you will .hardly
know him."
"She'll hardly believe it. She was very
young when she last saw me, and the last
ten years have made some changes," said
uncle David, laughing gently.
At the baronet's allusion to that most diffi-
cult subject, fiie lapse of time, Lady May
winced and simpered uneasily, but she ex-
panded gratefully as David Arden disposed
of it so adroitly.
"We 'll not speak of years of change. I
knew you instantly," said Lady May, hap-
pily. "And you have been to Vichy, Regi-
nald. W£at stay do you make here?"
"None, almost; my crippled foot keeps
me always on a journey. It seems a para-
dox, but so it is. I'm ordered to visit Bux-
ton for a week or so, and then I go, for
change of air, to Yorkshire."
As Alice entered, she saw the oval face,
the original of the brilliant portrait which
had haunted her on her night journey to
Twyford, and she heard a very silvery voice
chatting gayly.
Mr. Longcluse was leaning on the end of
the sofa on which Grace Maubray sat; and
Vivian Darnley, it seemed in high spirits,
was standing and laughing nearly before
her.
Alice Maubray walked quickly over, smil-
ing, to welcome her beautiful guest. With
a misgiving and a strange pain at her heart,
she saw how much more beautiful this young
lady hfcd grown. Smiling radiantly, with
her hand extended, she greeted and kissed
her fair kinswoman, and, after a few words,
sat down for a little beside her, and asked
Mr. Longcluse how he did, and finally spoke
to Vivian Darnley, and then returned to her
conventional dialogue of welcome and polite-
ness with her cousin — how cousin, she could
not easily have explained.
The young ladies seemed so completely
taken up with one another that, after a little
wait, the gentlemen fell into a desultory talk,
and drew gradually a little nearer to the
window. They were talking now of dogs
and horses, and Mr. Longcluse was stealing
rapidly into the good graces of the young
man.
"When we come up after dinner, you
must tell me who these people are," said
Grace Maubray, who did not care very much
what she said. "That young man is a Mr.
Vivian, ain't he?"
"No—Darnley," whispered Alice; " Viv-
ian is his Christian name."
"Very romantic names; and, if he really
means half he says, he is a very romantic
person." She laughed.
"What has he been saying?" Alice won-
dered. But,/ after all, it was possible to be
romantic on almost any subject.
"And the other?"
"He's a Mr. Longcluse," answered Alice.
"He 's rather clever," said the young
lady, with a grave decision that amused
Alice.
"Do you think so? Well, so do I; that
is, I know his conversation often interests
me. He has been almost everywhere, and
he tells things rather pleasantly."
Before they could go any further, Vivian
Darnley, turning from the window toward
the two young ladies, said —
"I've just been saying that we must try
to persuade Lady May to get up a party to
the Derby."
"I can place a drag at her disposal,"
said Mr. Longcluse.
"And a splendid team — I saw them,"
threw in Darnley.
"There's nothing I should like so much,"
said Alice. "I've never been to the Derby.
What do you say, Grace? Can you manage
uncle David?"
"I 'll try," said the young lady, gayly.
"We must all set upon Lady May," said
Alice. "She is so good-natured, she can't
resist us."
"Suppose we begin now?" suggested
Darnley.
"Hadn't we better wait till we have her
quite to ourselves? Who knows what your
papa and your uncle might say?" said
Grace Maubray, turning to Alice. "I vote
for saying nothing to them until Lady May
has settled, and then they must only sub-
mit."
"I agree with you quite," said Alice,
laughing.
"Sage advice!" said Mr. Longcluse, with
a smile; "and there's time enough to choose
a favorable moment. It comes off exactly
ten days from this."
"Oh, anything might be done in ten
days," said Grace. "I'm sorry it is so far
away."
"Yes, a good deal might be done in ten
days; and a great deal might happen in ten
days," said Longcluse, listlessly looking
down at the floor—"a great deal might
happen."
He thought he saw Miss Arden's eye
upon him, curiously and quickly, as he


48
CHECKMATE.
uttered this common-place speech, rendered
odd, only, by the singularity of his manner.
"In this busy world, Miss Arden, there
is no such thing as quiet, and no one acts
without imposing on other people the neces-
sity for action," said Mr. Longcluse; "and
I believe often the greatest changes in life
are the least anticipated by those who seem
to bring them about spontaneously."
At this moment, dinner being announced,
the little party transferred itself to the
dining-room, and Miss Arden found herself
between Mr. Longcluse and uncle David.
- ——
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PARTY IN THE DINING-ROOM.
And now, all being seated, began the
talk and business of dinner.
"I believe," said Mr. Longcluse, with a
laugh, "i am growing metaphysical."
"Well, shall I confess, Mr. Longcluse,
you do sometimes say things that are, I
fear, a little too wise for my poor compre-
hension?"
"I don't express them; it is my fault,"
he answered, in a very low tone. "You
have mind. Miss Arden, for anything.
There is no one it is so delightful to con-
verse with, owing in part to that very faculty
— I mean, quick apprehension. But I know
my own defects. I know how imperfectly
I often express myself. By-the-by, you
seemed to wish to have that curious little
wild Bohemian air I sang the other night,
'The Wanderer's Bride'—the song about
the white lily, you know. I ventured to
get a friend, who really is a very good musi-
cian, to make a setting of it, which I so
much hope you will like. I brought it with
me. You will think me very presumptuous,
but I hoped.so much you might be tempted
to try it."
When Mr. Longcluse spoke to Alice, it
was always in a tone so very deferential
that it was next to impossible that a very
young girl should not be flattered by it,
considering, especially, that the man was
reputed clever, had seen the world, and had
certainly had a certain success, and that by
no means of a kind often obtained, or ever
quite despised. There was also a direct-
ness in his eulogy which was unusual, and
spoken with a different manner would have
been embarrassing, if not offensive. But in
Mr. Longcluse's manner, when he spoke
such phrases, there was such a real humility,
and even sadness, that the boldness of the
sentiment was lost in the sincerity and de-
jection of the speaker, which seemed to
place him on a sudden at the immeasur-
able distance of a melancholy worship.
"I am so much obliged!" said Alice. "I
did wish so much to have it, when you sang
it, It may not do for my voice at all, but I
longed to try it. When a song is sung so aa
to move one, it is sure to be looked out and
learned, without any thought wasted on
voice, or skill, or natural fitness. It is, I
suppose, like the vanity that makes one
person dress after another who is quite un-
like. Still, I do wish to sing that song, and
I am so much obliged."
From the other side, her uncle said very
softly —
"What do you think of my ward, Grace
Maubray?"
"Oughtn't I to ask, rather, what you
think of her?" she laughed, archly.
"Oh, I see," he answered, with a pleasant
and honest smile; "you have the, gift of
seeing as far as other clever people into a
millstone. But, no — though perhaps I
ought to thank you for giving me credit for so
much romance and good taste — I don't
think I shall ever introduce you to an aunt.
You must guess again, if you will have a
matrimonial . explanation ; though I don't
say there is any such design. And perhaps,
if there were, the best way to promote it
would be to leave the intended hero and
heroine very much to themselves. They are
both very good-looking."
"Who?" asked Alice, although she knew
very well whom he meant.
"I mean that pretty creature over there,
Grace Maubray, and Vivian Darnley," said
he, very low.
She smiled, looking very much pleased
and very arch. «
With how Spartan a completeness woman
cab hide the shootings anil quiverings of
mental pain, and of bodily pain, too, when
the motive is sufficient' Under this latter
they are often clamorous, to be sure, but the
demonstration expresses not want of pa-
tience, but the feminine yearning for com-
passion.
"I fancy nothing would please the young
rogue Vivian better. I wish I were half so
sure of her. You girls are so unaccountable,
so fanciful, and — don't be angry — so un-
certain."
"Well, I suppose, as you say, we must
only have patience, and leave the matter in
the hands of Time, who settles most things
pretty well."
She raised her eyes, and fancied she saw
Grace Maubray at the same moment with-
draw hers from her face. Lady Maf was
talking at this moment from the end of the
table with Mr. Longcluse.
"Your neighbor who is talking to Lady
May is a Mr. Longcluse."
"Yes,"
"He is a city notability; but, oddly, I
never happened to see him till this evening.
Do you think there is something odd in his
appearance?"
"Yes, a little, perhaps. Don't yoo*4T
"So odd that he makes my bloodstain
cold," said uncle David, with a shrug an' a
little laugh. "Seriously, I moan unpl-op-


CHECKMATE.
49
antlyodd. What is Lady May talking about?
Yes — I thought so—that horrid murder at
the Saloon Tavern. For so good-natured a
person, she has the most bloodthirsty tastes
I know of; she's always deep in some hor-
ror."
"My brother Dick told me that Mr. Long-
cluso made a speech there."
"Yes, so I heard; and I think he said
what is true enough. London is growing
more and more insecure; and that certainly
was a most audacious murder. People make
money a little faster, that is true ; but what
is the good of money, if their lives are not
their own? It is quite true that there are
streets in London, which I remember as safe
as this room, through which no one suspect-
ed of having five pounds in his pocket could
now walk without a likelihoed of being gar-
roted."
"How dreadful!" said Alice, and uncle
David laughed a little at her horror.
"It is too true, my dear. But, to pass to
pleasanter subjects, when do you mean to
choose among the young fellows, and present
me to a new nephew?" said uncle David.
"Do you fancy I would tell any one, if I
knew?" she answered, laughing. "How
is it that you men, who are always accusing
us weak women of thinking of nothing else,
can never get the subject of matrimony out
of your heads? Now, uncle, as you and I
may talk confidentially, and at our ease,
I'll tell you two things. I like my present
spinster life very well — I should like it
better, I think, if it were in the country:
but, town or country, I don't think I should
ever like a married life. I don't think I'm
fit for command."
"Command? I thought the prayer-book
said something about obeying, on the con-
trary," said uncle David.
"You know what I mean. I'm not fit to
rule a household; and I am afraid I am a
little idle, and I should not like to have it to
do — and so I could never do it well."
"Nevertheless, when the right man comes,
he need but beckon with his finger, and
away you go, Miss Alice, and undertake it
all.''
"So we are whistled away, like poodles
for a walk, and that kind of thing! Well,
I suppose, uncle, you are right, though I
can't see that I'm quite so docile a creature.
But if my poor sex is so willing to be won, I
don't know how you are to excuse your soli-
tary state, considering how very little trouble
it would have taken to make some poor crea-
ture happy." . •
"A very fair retort!" laughed uncle
David. And he added, in a changed tone,
for a sudden recollection of his own early
fortunes crossed him, "But even when the
right man does come, it does not always
follow, Miss Arden, that he dares make the
sign; fate often interposes years, and in
them death may come, and so the whole
card-castle falls."
"I've had a long talk," he resumed,
"with Richard; he has made me promises,
and I hope he will be a better boy for the
future. He has been getting himself into
money troubles, and acquiring — I'm afraid
I should say cultivating — a taste for play.
I know you have heard something of this
before; I told you myself. But he hastnade
me promises, and 1 hope, for your* sake,
he 'll keep them; because, you know, I and
your father can't last forever, and he ought
to take care of you; and how can he do
that, if he's not fit to take care of himself?
•But I believe there is no use in thinking too
much about what is to come. One has
enough to do in the present. I think poor
Lady May has been disappointed," he said,
with a cautious.smile, his eye having glanced
for a moment on her; "she looks a little
forlorn, I think."
"Does she? And why?"
"Well, they say she would not object to
be a little more nearly related to you than
she is."
"You can't mean papa — or yourself?"
"Oh, dear, no," he answered, laughing.
"I mean that she misses Dick a good deal."
"Oh, dear uncle, you can't be serious!"
"It might be a very serious affair for
her; but I don't know that he could do a
wiser. The old quarrel is still raging, be
tells me, and that he can't appear in this
house."
"It is a great pity," said she.
"Pity! Not at all. They never could
agree; and it is much better for Dick they
should not, on the terms Reginald proposes,
at least. I see Lady May trying to induce
you to make her the sign at which ladies
rise, and leave us, poor fellows, to shift for
ourselves."
"Ungallant old man! I" really believe
she is."
And in a moment more the ladies were
floating from the room, Vivian Darnley
standing at the door. Somehow he could
not catch Alice's eye as they passed; she
was smiling an answer to some gabble of
Lady May's. Grace gave him a very kind
look with her fine eyes as she went by ; and
so the door closed, and the young man, who
had followed them up the massive stairs
with his gaze, closed the door and sat down
again, before his claret glass, and his little
broken cluster of grapes, and half-dozen
distracted bits of candied fruit, and sighed
deeply.
"That murder in the city that you were
speaking of just now to Lady May is a seri-
ous business for men who walk the streets,
as I do sometimes, with money in my
pockets," said David Arden, addressing Mr.
Longcluse.
"So it struck me —one feels that instinct-
ively. When I saw that poor little good-
natured fellow dead, and thought how easily
I might have walked in there myself, with
the assassin behind me, it seemed to me
4


50
CHECKMATE
simply the turn of a die that the lot had not
fallen upon me," said Longcluse.
"He was robbed, too, wasn't he ?" croaked
Sir Reginald, who was growing tired; and
with his fatigue came evidences of his tem-
per.
"Oh, yes," said David; "nothing left in
his pockets."
; "And Laroque, a watchmaker, a relation
of his, said he had cheques about him,
and foreign money," said Longcluse ; "but,
of course, the cheques were not presented,
and foreign money is not easily traced in a
big town like London. I made him a present<j
of ten pounds to stake on the game; I could
not leavn that he did stake it, and I suppose
the poor fellow intended applying it in some
more prudent way. But my,present was in
gold, and that, of course, the robber applied
without apprehension."
"Now, you fellows who have a stake in
the city, it is a scandal your permitting
such a state of things to continue," said Sir
Reginald; "because, though your philan-
thropy may not be very diffused, each of
you cares most tenderly for one individual
at lea3t in the human race — I mean self —
and whatever you may think of personal
morality, and even life — for you don't seem
to me to think a great deal of grinding
operatives in the cranks of your mills, or
blowing them up by bursting steam-boilers,
to say nothing of all the people you poison
in adulterated food, or with strychnine in
beer, or with arsenic in candles, or pretty
green -papers for bed-rooms, or smash or
burn alive on railways — yet you should, on
selfish grounds, set your faces against a sys-
tem of assassination for pocket>books and
purses, the sort of things precisely you have
always about you. Don't you see? And
it'8 inconsistent beside, because, as I said,
although you care little for life — other
people's, I mean — in the abstract, yet you
care a great deal for property. I think it's
your idol, by Jove! and worshipping money
— positively worshipping it, as you do, it
seems a scandalous inconsistency that you
should—-of course, I don't mean you two
individually," he said, perhaps recollecting
that he might be going a little too fast;
"you never, of course, fancied that. I mean,
of course, the class of men we have all heard
of, or seen — but I do say, with sort of ado-
ration for money and property, I can't under-
stand their allowing their pockets to be
profaned and their purses made away with."
Sir Reginald, having thus delivered him-
self with considerable asperity, poured some
claret into his glass, and pushed the jug on
to his brother, and then, closing his eyes,
composed himself either to listen or to sleep.
"City or country, east end or west end, I
fancy we are all equally anxious to keep
other people's hands out of our pockets,"
said David Arden; "and I quite agree with
Mr. Longcluse in'all he is reported to have
said with respect to our police system."
"But is it so certain that the man was
robbed?" said Vivian Darnley.
"Everything he had about him was taken,"
said Mr. Longcluse.
"But they pretend to rob men sometimes,
when they murder them, only to conceal the
real motive," persisted Vivian Darnley.
"Yes, that's quite true; but then there
must be some motive," said Mr. Longcluse,
with something a little supercilious in his
smile; "and it is n't easy to conceive a mo-
tive for murdering a poor little good-natured
letter of lodgings, a person past the time of
life when jealousy could have anything to
do with it, and a most inoffensive and civil
creature. I confess, if I were obliged to
seek a motive other than the obvious one, for
the crime, I should be utterly puzzled."
"When I was travelling in Prussia," said
Vivian Darnley, "I saw two people in
different prisons — one a woman, the other
a middle-aged man, both for murder. They
had been found guilty, and they had been
keeping theni there, only to get a confession
from them before execution. They won't
put them to death, you know, unless they
have first admitted their guilt; and one had
actually confessed. Weil, each had borne
an unexceptionable character up to the time
when suspicion was accidentally aroused,
and then it turned out that they had been
poisoning, and otherwise making away with
people, at the rate of two or three a year,
for half their lives. Now, don't you see,
these masked assassins, having, as it ap-
peared, absolutely no intelligible motive,
either of passion or of interest, to commit
these murders, could have had no induce-
ment, as the woman had actually confessed,
except a sort of lust of murder. I suppose
it is a sort of madness, but these people were
not otherwise mad; and it i^ quite possible
that the same sort of thing may be going on
in other places. People say that the police
would have got a clue to the mystery by
means of the foreign coin and the bank-
notes, if they had not been destroyed."
"But there are traces of organization,"
said Mr. Longcluse. "In a crowded place
like that, such things could hardly be man-
aged without it, and insanity such as you
describe is very rare; and you 'll hardly get
people to believe in a swell-mob of madmen
committing murder in concert simply for the
pleasure of homicide. They will all lean
to a belief in the coarse but intelligible mo-
tive of the highwayman."
"I saw in the newspapers," said David
Arden, "some aridence of yours, Mr. Long-
cluse, which seemed rather to indicate a par-
ticular man as the murderer."
"I have my eye upon him," said Long-
cluse. "There are suspicious circumstances.
The case in a little time may begin to clear;
at present, the police are only groping," he
answered.
"That's satisfactory; and those fellows
are paid so handsomely for groping," said


CHECKMATE.
51
Sir Reginald, opening his eyes suddenly.
"I believe that we are the worst governed
and the worst managed people on earth, and
that our merchants and trades-people are
rich simply by flukes — simply by a con-
currence of lucky circumstances, with which
they have no more to do than Prester John
or the man in the moon. Take a little
claret, Mr. Longcluse, and send it on."
"No more, thanks."
And all the guests being of the same
mind, they marched up the broad stairs to
the ladies.
CHAPTER XIX.
IN MRS. TANSEV's ROOM.
There were sounds of music and laugh-
ter faintly audible through the drawing-
room door. The music ceased as the door
opened, and the gentlemen entered an at-
mosphere of brilliant light, and fragrant
with the pleasant aroma of tea.
"I say, Reginald," said David Arden, soft-
ly, to his brother, "I must run down and
pay Martha Tansey my usual visit. She's
in her room, I suppose. I 'll steal away
and return quietly."
And so he was gone. He closed the door
softly behind him, and slowly descended the
wide staircase, with many vague conjectures
and images revolving in his mind.
He paused at the great window on the
landing, and looked out upon the solemn
and familiar landscape. A brilliant moon
was high in the sky, and the stars glimmered
brightly. His hand was on the window as
he looked out thinking.
Uncle David was a man impulsive by na-
ture, impetuous in action, sanguine in spirit
— a temperament, in short, which, directed
by an able intellect, would have made a good
general. When an idea had got into his
head, he could not rest until he had worked
it out. On the whole, throughout his life
these fits of sudden and feverjsh concentra-
tion had been effective, and aided his for-
tunes. It is, perhaps, an unbusiness-like

"there was a palpable tremble in the thin hand she extended towards him
"Pray, Miss Arden, don't let us interrupt
you," said Mr. Longcluse. "I thought I
heard singing as we came up the stairs."
He had come to the piano, and was now at
her side.
She did not sing or play, but Vivian Darn-
ley thought that her conversation with Long-
cluse, as, with one knee on his chair, he
leaned over the back of it and talked, seemed
more interesting than usual.
temperament. But commercial habits and
example had failed to control that natural
ardor, and, when onoo inflamed, it governed
his action implicitly.
An idea, very vague, very little the pro-
duct of reason, had now taken possession of
his brain, and he relied upon it as an intui-
tion, lie had been thinking over it. It first
warmed, then simmered, then, as it were,
boiled. The process had been one of an


CHECKMATE.
hour and more, as he sat at his brother's
table and took his share in the conversation.
When the steam got up and the pressure
rose to the point of action, forth went uncle
David to have his talk with his early friend
Tansey. He stopped, as I have said, at the
great window on the staircase, and looked
out and up. The moon was splendid; the
stars were glimmering brightly. They look-
ed down like a thousand eyes set upon him,
to watch the prowess and perseverance of
the man on whom fate had imposed a mis-
sion.
Some idea like this seized him, for, like
many men of similar temperaments, he had
an odd and unconfessed vein of poetry in
his nature. He had looked out and up in a
listless abstraction, and the dark heaven
above him, brilliant with its eternal lights,
had for a moment withdrawn and elevated
his thoughts as if he had entered the gloom
of a cathedral.
"What specks and shadows we are, and
how eternal is duty. And if we are in
another place, to last like those unfailing
lights — to become happy or wretched and,
in either state, indestructible forever — what
signify the labor and troubles of life, com-
pared with that by which our everlasting fate
is fixed? God help us! Am I consulting
revenge or conscience in pursuing this bar-
ren inquiry? Do I mistake for the sublime
impulse of conscience a vulgar thirst for
blood? I think not. I never harbored
malice; I hate punishing people. But
murder is a crime against God himself, re-
specting which He imposes duties upon man,
and seconds them by all the instincts of af-
fection. Dare I neglect them, then, in the
case of poor loving Harry, my brother?"
The drawing-room door had been opened
a little, the night being sultry, and through
it now came the clear tones of a well-taught
baritone. It was singing a slow and im-
passioned air, and its tones, though sweet,
chilled him with a strange pain. It seemed
like instinct that told him it was the stranger's
voice. One moment's thought would have
proved it equally. There was no one else
there to suspect but Vivian Darnley, and he
was no musician. But to David Arden it
seemed that if a hundred people were there
he should have felt it all the same, and in-
tuitively recognized it as Longcluse's voice.
"What is it in that voice thaWis so hate-
ful? What is it in that passion that sounds
insincere? What gives to those sweet tones
a latent discord, that creeps so coldly through
my nerves?"
So thought David Arden, as, with one
hand still upon the window-sash, he listened
and turned toward the open door, with a
frown akin to one of pain contracting his
forehead.
Spell-bound, he listened till the song was
over, and sighed, and shook his ears with a
sort of shudder when the music ceased.
"I don't know why I staid to listen —
face — voice, what is the agency about that
fellow? I dare say I'm a fool; but I can't
help it, and I must bring the idea to the test."
He descended the stairs slowly, crossed
the hall, and walked thoughtfully down the
passage leading to the housekeeper's room.
At this hour the old woman had it usually
to herself. He knocked at the housekeeper's
door, and recognized the familiar voice that
answered.
"How do you do, Martha?" said he,
striding cheerily into the room.
"Ah! Master David? So it is, sure!"
"Ay, sure and sure, Martha," said he,
taking the old woman's hand, with his kind
smile. "And how are you, Martha? Tell
me how you are."
"I won't say much. I'm not so canty as
you 'll mind me. I'm an old wife now,
Master David, and not long for this world,
I'm thinkin'," she answered, dolorously.
"You may outlive much younger people,
Martha; we are al[ in the hands of God,"
said David, smiling. "It seems to me but
yesterday that I and poor Harry used to run
in here to you from our play in the grounds,
and you had always a bit of something good
for us hungry fellows to eat, come when we
might."
"Ah, ha! Yes, ye were hungry fellows
then — spirin' up, fine tall lads. Reginald
was never like ye; he was seven years
older than you. And hungry? Yes! The
cold turkey and ham, ye mind — by Jen ! —
I have seen ye eat hearty; and pancakes —
ye liked them best of all. And it went a'
into a good skin. I will say — you and
Master Harry (God be wi' him!)—a fine,
handsome pair o' lads ye were. And you 're
a handsome fellow still, Master David, and
might have married well, no doubt; but
man proposes and God disposes, and time
and tide '11 wait for no man, and what's one
man's meat's another man's poison. Who
knows, and all may be for the best? And
that Mr. Longcluse is dining here to-day?"
she added, not very coherently, and with a
sudden gloom.
"Yes, Martha, that Mr. Longcluse is din-
ing here to-day; and Master Dick tells me
you did not fall in love with him at first
sight, when they paid you a visit here. Is
that true?"
"I don't know. I don't know what.
The sight of him — or the sound of his
voice, I' don't know which — gave me a
turn." said the old woman.
"Well, Martha, I don't likehisface, either.
He gave me, also, what you call a turn.
He's very pale, and I felt as if I had been
frightened by him when I was a child; and
yet he must be some five-and-twenty years
younger than I am, and I'm almost certain
I never saw him before. So I say it must
be something that's no''canny, as you used
to say. What do you think, Martha?"
"Ye may be funnin', Master David. Ye
were always a canty lad. But it's o'er true.


CHECKMATE.
33
I can't bring to mind what it is — I can't
tell — but something in that man's face gev
me a sten. I conceited I was just goin' to
awound; and he looked sa straight at me,
like a ghost."
"Master Richard says you looked very
hard at Mr. Longcluse; you had both a great
stare at each other," said uncle David. "He
thought there was going to be a recognition."
"Did I? Well, no; I don't know him, I
think. "Tis all a jummlement, like. I
couldn't bring nout to mind.—"
"I know, Martha, you liked poor Harry
Well," said David Arden, not with a smile,
but with a very sad countenance.
"That I did," said Mrs. Tansey.
"And I think you like me, Martha?"
"Ye 're not far wrong there, Master Da-
vid."
"And, for both our sakes — for mine and
his, for the dead no less than the living — I
am sure you won't allow any thought of
trouble, or nervousness, or fear of lawyers'
browbeating, or that sort of thing to deter
you from saying, wherever and whenever
justice may require it, everything you know
or suspect respecting that dreadful occur-
rence."
"The death o' Master David, ye mean!"
exclaimed Mrs. Tansey, sternly, drawing
herself up on a sudden, with a pale frown,
and looking full at him. "Me to hide or
hold back aught that could bring" the truth
to light! My God! Master David, do you
know what ye 're sayin'?"
"Perfectly," said he, with a melancholy
smile; "and I am glad it vexes you, Martha,
because I need no answer on that point
more than your honest voice and face."
"Keep back aught, man!" she repeated-,
striking her hand on the table. "Why,
lad, I'd lose that old hand under the chopper
for one gliff o' the truth into that damned
story. Why, lawk ! where's yer head, boy?
Wasn't I 'maist killed myself, for sake o'
him, that night?"
"Ay, Martha, brave girl, I'm satisfied;
and I ask your pardon for the question. But
years bring alteration, you know; and I'm
changed in mind myself in many ways I
never could have believed. And every one
doesn't see with me that it is our duty to
explore a crime like that, to track the villain,
if we can, and bring him to justice. You do,
Martha; but there are many in whose veins
poor Harry's blood is running who don't
feel like you. Master Richard said that the
gentleman looked as if he did not know
what to make of you; and, 'by Jove !' said
he, '/didn't either — Martha stared so.'"
"I couldn't help. 'Twas scarce civil;
but truly I couldn't, sir," said Martha
Tansey, who had by this time recovered her
equanimity. He did remind me of sum-
mat."
"AVe will talk of that by-and-by, Martha;
we will try to recall it. What I want you
first to tell me is exactly your recollection
of the lamentable occurrence of that night.
I have a full note of it at home; but I have
not looked at it for years, and I want my
recollection confirmed to-night, that you and
I may talk over some possibilities which I
should like to examine with your help."
"I can talk of it now," said the old wo-
man; "but for many a year after it tiap-
pened I dare not. I could not sleep for
many a night after I told it to any one. But
now I can bear it. So, Master David, you
may ask what you please."
"First let me hear your recollection of
what happened," said David Arden.
"Ay, Master David, that I will. Sit ye
down, for my old bones won't carry me
standing no time now, and sit I must. Right
well ye 're lookin,' and right glad am I to
see it, Master David; and ye were always a
handsome laddie. God bless ye, and God
be wi' the old times! And poor Master
Harry — poor laddie! — I liked him well.
You two looked beautiful, walkin' up to
t'house together — two conny, handsome
boys ye were."
CHAPTER XX.
MRS. TANSEY'S STORY.
"The sun don't touch these windows till
nigh nightfall. In the short days o' winter,
the last sunbeam at the settin' just glints
along the wall, and touches a sprig or two
o' them scarlet geraniums on the winda-
stone. 'Tis a cold room, Master David. In
summer evenin's, like this, ye have just a
chilly flush o' the sun settin', and before it's
well on the windas the hats and beetles is
abroad, and the moth is flittin', and the
gloamin' fa's," said the old woman. "The
windas looks to the west, but also a bit to
the north, ye'll mind, and that's the cause
o't. I don't complain. I ha' suffered it these
thirty years and more, and 'taint worth
while for the few ye;irs that's left makin' a
blub and a blither about it. I ;m an old
wife now, Master David, and there can't be
many more years for me left aboon the grass,
sa I e'en let be and taks the world easy, ye
see; and that's the reason lay keep a bit
o' wood burnin' on the hearth —it keeps the
life in my old bones, and I hope it ain't too
warm for you, Master David."
"Not a bit, Martha. This side of the
house is cool. I remember that our room,
when we were boys, looked out from it, high
up, you recollect, and it never was hot."
"That's it, ye were in the top o' the
house; and poor Harry, wi' his pioturs o'
horses and dogs hangin' up on the wa's.
Lawk! it seems but last week. How the
years flits! I often thinks of him. See
what a moon there is to-night. 'Twas just
such a moon that night, only frostier, ye see
— the same clear sky and bright moon;
't would make ye wink to look at. Ye 're


54
CHECKMATR
not too hot wi' that bit o' wood lightin' in
the grate?"
"I like the fire, Martha, and I like the
moon, and I like your company best of all."
The truth was he did like the flicker of the
wood fire. The flame was cheery, and took
off something of the dismal shadow that
stole* over everything whenever he> applied
his affectionate mind to the horrors of the
i. - dreadful night on which he was now rumi-
nating. One of the window-shutters was
open, and the chill brilliancy of the moon,
and the deep blue sky were serenely visible
over the black foreground of trees. The
wavering of the redder light of the fire, as
its reflection spread and faded upon the
wainscot, was warm and pleasant, and had
their talk been of less ghastly things would
have brightened their thoughts with a sense
of comfort.
"I have not very long to stay, Martha,"
said David Arden, looking at his watch, "so
tell me your recollection as accurately as you
can. Let me hear that first; and then I
want to ask you for some particular infor-
mation, which I am sure you can give me."
"Why not? Who should I give it sooner
to? Will ye take a cup o' coffee? No.
Well, a glass o' curacoa? No. And what
will ye take?"
"You forget that I have taken everything,
and come to you with all my wants already
supplied. So now, dear Martha, let me hear
it all."
"I 'll tell ye all about it. I was younger
and stronger, mind, than I am now, by twen-
ty years and more. 'T is a short time to look
back on, but a good while passing, and leaves
many a gap and change, and many a scar
and wrinkle."
There was a palpable tremble always in
Mrs. Tansey's voice, in the thin hand she
extended toward him, and in the head from
which her old eyes glittered glassily on him.
"The road is very lonely by night — the
loneliest road in all England. When it passes
ten o'clock, you might listen till cock-crow
for a footfall. Well, I, and Thomas Ridley,
and Anne Ilaslett was all the people at Mort-
lake just then, the family being in the north,
except Master Harry. He went to a race
across country, that was run that day; and
he told me, laughing, he would not ask me
to throw an old shoe after him, for he stood
sure to win two thousand pounds. And away
he went, little thinking, him and me, how
our next meetin' would be. At that time
old Tom Clinton — ye'll mind Clinton?"
"To be sure I do," acquiesced David Ar-
den.
"Well, Tom was in the gate-house then;
after he died, his daughter's husband got it,
ye know. And when he had outstayed his
time by two hours — for he was going north-
ward in the morning, and told me he'd be
surely back before ten — I began to be
frightened, and I put on my bonnet and
cloak, and down I runs to the gate-house, and
knocks up Tom Clinton. It was nigh twelve
o'clock then. When Tom came to the door,
having dressed in haste, I said, ' Tom, which
way will Master Harry return? he's not
been since.' And says Tom,' If he's comin'
straight from the course, he'll come down
from the country ; but if he's dinin' instead
in London, he 'll come up the Islington
way.' 'Well,' said I, 'go you, Tom, to the
turn o' the road, and look and listen for sight
or sound, and bring me word.' I don't know
what was frightenin' me. He was often
Inter, and I never minded; but something
that night was on my mind, like a warning,
for I could n't get the fears out o' my heart.
Well, who comes ridin' back but Dick Wal-
lock, the groom, that had drove away with
him in the gig in the mornin'; and glad I
was to see his face at the gate. It was bright
moonlight, and savs I, ' Dick, how is Master
Harry? Is all well with him?' So he tells
me, ay, all was well, and he goin' to drive
the gig out himself from town. He was at
a place—you'll mind the name of it —
where it turned out they played cards and
dice, and won and lost like fools, or worse,
as some o' them no doubt was. 'Well,' says
I, 'go you up, as he told you, with the horse,
and I 'll stay here till he comes back, if it
wasn't till daybreak.' For all the time, ye
see, my heart misgave me that there was
summat bad to happen; and when Tom
Clinton came back, snys I, 'Tom, you go in,
and get to your room, and let me sit down
in your kitchen, and I 'll let him in when he
comes, for I can't go up to the house, nor
close an eye, till he comes.' Well, it was a
full hour after, and I was sittin' in the kitch-
en window that looks out on the road, starin'
wide awake, and lookin', now one way and
now another, up and down, when I hears
the clink of a footfall on the stones, and a
tall, ill-favored man walks slowly by, and
turns his face toward the window as he
passed."
"You saw him distinctly, then?" said
David.
"As plain as ever I saw you. An ill-fa-
vored fellow in a light drab ^reat-coat, he
looked white wi' fear, and wild big eyes,
and a high hooked nose — a tall chap wi'
his hands in his pockets, and a low-crowned
hat on. He went on slow, till a whistle
sounded, and then he ran down the road a
bit toward the signal."
"That was toward the Islington side?"
"Ay, sir, and I grew more uneaey. I was
scared wi' the sight o' such a man at that
time o' night, in that lonesome place, and
the whistlin' and runnin'."
"Did you see the same man again that
night?" asked David.
"Yes, 'twas the same I saw afterward.
Lord ha' mercy on us! I saw him again, at
his murderin' work. Oh, Master David! it
makes my brain wild, and my flesh creep to
think o' that sight."
"I did wrong to interrupt you; tell it


CHECK MlTE.
55
your own way, Martha, and I can afterward
ask you the questions that lie near my
heart," said Mr. Arden.
"'T is easy told, sir; the candle was burnt
down almost in the socket, and I went to
look out another — but before I could find
one it went out. 'T was but a stump I found,
and lighted after I saw that fellow in the
light drab surtout go by. I wished to let
them know, if they had any ill design, there
was folks awake in the lodge. But he was
gone by before I found the matches; and
now that he was comin' again, the candle
went out — things goes so cross. It was to
be, ye see. Well, while I was rummagin'
about, looking for a candle, I heard the
sound of a horse trotting hard, and wheels
rollin' along; so says I, 'Thank God!' for
then I was sure it must be Harry, poor lad.
So I claps on my bonnet, and out wi' me, wi't'
key. I thought I heard voices, as the hoofs
and wheels came clinkin' up to the gate;
but I could not be quite sure. I was huffed
wi' Master Harry, for the long wait he gev,
me, and the fright, and I took my time
comin' round the corner o' the gate-house.
And thinks I to myself, he 'll be offerin' me
a seat in the gig up to the house, but I won't
take it. God forgi'e me for them angry
thoughts to the poor laddie that I was never
to have a word wi' more l
"When I came to the gate there was
never a call, and nothing but voices talking
like, under their breath a'most, and a queer
scufflin' sound, that I could not make head
nor tail on. So I unlocked the wicket, and
out wi' me, and, Lord ha' mercy on us,
what a sight for me! The gig was there
with its shafts on the ground, and its back
cocked up, and the iron-gray flat on his side,
lashin' and scramblin', poor brute, and two
villians in the gig, both pullin' at poor Mas-
ter Harry, one robbin' and t' other murderin'
him. I took one o' them — a short, thick
fellow—by the skirt o' his coat, to drag him
out, and I screamed for Tom Clinton to come
out. The short fellow turned, and struck
at me wi' somethin'; but, lucky for me,
'appen, the lashin' horse that minute took
me on the foot, and brought me down. But
up I scrambles wi' a stone in my hand, and
I shied it, the best I could, at the head o'
the villain that was killin' Master Harry.
But what can a woman do? It did not go
near him, I'm thinkin'. I was, all the
time, calling on Tom to come, and cryin'
'Murder!' that you'd think my throat 'd
split. That bloody wretch in the gig had
got poor Master Harry's head back over the
edge of it, and his knee to his chest, a strivin'
to break his neck across the back-rails; and
poordearlad, Master Harry, hejustscritched,
'Villains, Mace! for God's sake!' They
were the last words I ever heard from him,
and I 'll never forget the horrid scritch, nor
the face of the villain that was over him
like a beast over its prey. He was tuggin'
at his throat, like you'd be tryin' to tear up
a tree by the roots — you never see such a
face. His teeth was set, and the froth
comin' through, and his black eyebrows
screwed together, you'd think they'd crack
the thin hooked nose of him between them;
and he pantin' like a wild beast. He looked
like a madman, I tell you; 't was bright
moonlight, and the trees bare, and the
shadows of the branches was switchin'
across his face."
"You saw that face distinctly?" asked
David Arden.
"As clear as yours this minute."
"Now tell me — and think first — was he
a bit like that Mr. Longcluse, whose appear-
ance startled you the other evening?" asked
Mr. Arden, in a very low tone, and with
his eyes fixed on her intensely.
"No, no, no, not a bit. He had a small
mouth and white teeth, and a great beak of
a nose. No, no, no, not h*e. I saw him
strike somethin' that shone — a knife or a
dagger — into the poor lad's throat, and he
struck it down at my head, as you know,
and I mind nothin' after that. I'll carry
the scar o' that murderer's blow to my
grave. There's the whole story, and God
forgi'e ye for asking me, for it gi'es me 't
creepins for a week after; and I did n't con-
ceit 't would 'a' made me sa excited, sir, or
I would not 'a' bargained to tell it to-night
— not that I blame ye, Master David, for I
thought, myself, that I could bear it better
— and I do believe, as I have gone so far in
it, 't is better to make but one job of it, and
a finish. So ye 'll ask me any question ye
like, and I 'll make the best answer I can;
only, Master David, ye'll not be o'er long
about it?"
"You are a good creature, Martha. I am
sorry to pain you, but I pain myself, and
you know why I ask these questions."
"Ay, sir, and I'd rather hear ye ask them
than see you sit as easy under all that as
some does, that owed the poor fellow as
much love as ever you did, and were as near
akin."
"I am puzzled, Martha, and hitherto I
have been baffled, but I won't give it up
yet. You say that the wretch who struck
you was a singular-looking man, at least as
you describe him. I know, Martha, I can
rely upon your caution — you will not re-
peat to any one what passes in our inter-
view." He lowered his voice. "You do
not think that this Mr. Longcluse — a rich
gentleman, you know, and a person who
thinks he's of some consequence, a person
at whom we must not look, you know, as if
he had two heads — you really don't think
that this Mr. Longcluse has any resemblance
to the villain whom you saw stab my
brother, and who struck you?"
"Not he — no more than I have. No, no,
Mr. Longcluse is quite another sort of face;
but for all that, when he came in here, and
I saw him before me, his face reminded me
of that night."


56
CHECKMATE.
"How was flin'. Martha? Did he resem-
ble the other mau — the man who was aid-
in*?"
•' That fellow was hanged, ye 'll mind,
Master David."
•' Yes, but a likeness might have struck,
and startled you."
"No, sir—no, Master Richard, not him;
surely, not him. I can't bring it to mind,
but it frightens me. It is queer, sir. All
I can say for certain is this, Master David.
The minute I heard his voice, and got sight
of his face, like that," and she dropped her
hand on the table, "the thought of that awful
night came back, bright and cold, sir, and
them black shadows—'twas all about me,
I can't tell how, and I hope I may never see
him again."
"Do you think there was another man by,
beside the two villains in the gig?" sug-
gested David Arden.
"Not a living soul except them and my-
self. Poor Master Harry said to Tom Clin-
ton, ye 'll mind, for he lived half-an-hour
after, and spoke a little, though faint and
with great labor, and says he, ' There were
two: Yelland Mace killed me, and Tom
Todry took the money.' Tom Clinton heard
him say that, and swore to it before the jus-
tice o' peace, and after on the trial. No,
no. there was n't a soul there but they two
villains, and the poor dear lad they mur-
dered, and me and Tom Clinton, that might
as well a' bin in York for any good we did.
Oh, no, Heaven forbid I should bo so un-
mannerly as compare a gentleman like Mr.
Longcluse to such folk as that! Oh, lawk,
no, sir! But there's something, there's a
look— or a sound in his voice — I can't get
round it quite — but it reminds me of some-
thing about that night, with a start like, I
can't tell how — something unlucky and aw-
ful— and I would not see him again for a
deal."
"Well, Martha, a thousand thanks. I'm
puzzled, as I said. Perhaps it is ouly some-
thing strange in his face that caused that
odd misgiving. For J, who saw but one of
the wretches engaged in the crime, the man
who wns convicted, who certainly did not, in
the slightest degree, resemble Mr. Long-
cluse, experienced the same unpleasant sen-'
sation on first seeing him. I don't know
how it is, Martha, but the idea clings to me,
as it does to you. Some light may come.
Something may turn up. I can't get it out
of my mind that somehow, it may be jcircuit-
ously, he has, at least, got the thread in his
fingers that may lead us right. Good night.
Martha. I have got the Bible with large
print you wished for; I hope you will like
the binding. And now, God bless you! it is
time I should bid them good night up stairs.
Farewell, my good old friend." And, so
saying, he shook her hard and shrivelled
hand.
His steps echoed along the long tiled
passage, with its one dim light, and his
mind was still haunted by its one obscure
idea.
"It is strange," he thought. "that Martha
and I, the only two living persons, I believe,
who cave still for poor Harry, and feel alike
respecting the expiation that is due to his
memory, should both have been struck with
the same odd feeling on seeing Longcluse.
From that white sinister face, it seems to me,
I know not why, will shine the light that
will yet clear all up."
CHAPTER XXI.
A WALK BY MOONLIGnT.
While Martha Tansey was telling her
grisly story in the housekeeper's room, and
David Arden listening to the oft-told tale,
for sake of the possible new lights which
the narration might throw upon his present
theory, the little party in the drawing-room
had their music and their talk. Mr. Long-
cluse sang the song which, standing beside
uncle David on the landing, near the great
window on the staircase, we have faintly
heard; and then he sang that other song,
of the goblin wooer, at Alice's desire.
"Was the poor girl fool enough to accept
his invitation?" inquired Miss Manbray.
"That I really can't say," laughed Mr.
Longcluse.
"Yes, indeed, poor thing! I so hope sh«
did n't," said Lady May.
"It's very likely she did." interposed Sir
Reginald, opening his eyes — every one
thought he was dozing—"nothing more
foolish, and, therefore, nothing more likely.
Besides, if she did n't, she probably did
worse. Better to go straight to the devil "—
"Oh! dear Reginald!" exclaimed Lady
May.
"Than by a tedious circumbendibus. I
suppose her parents highly disapproved of
the goblin: was n't that alone an excellent
reason for going away with him?"
And Sir Reginald closed his eyes again.
"Perhaps," said Miss Maubra'y, aside to'
Vivian Darnley, "that romantic young ladv
may have had a cross papa, and thought
that she could not change very much for the
worse."
"Shall I tell that to Sir Reginald — it
would amuse him ?" inquired Darnley.
"Not as my remark; but I make you a
present of it, if you like to make it."
"Thanks; but that, even with your per-
mission, would be a plagiarism, and robbing
you of Sir Reginald's applause."
Vivian Darnley was very inattentive to
his own nonsense. He was talking verv
much at random, for his mind and occa-
sionally his eyes were otherwise occupied.
Alice Arden was sitting near the piano,
and talking to Mr. Longcluse.
"Is that meant to be a ghost, I wonder,


CHECKMATE.
57
in our sense, like the ghost of Wilhelm in 1
the ballad of Leonora; or is the lover a
demon?"
"A demon, surely," answered Longeluse;
"a spirit appointed to her destruction. In
an old ghosty writer there is a Latin sen-
tence, which I will translate — Unicui-
que nasceuti, adest dcemon vitce mystagopus
(' There is present at the birth of every hu-
man being a demon, who is the conductor of
his life'). Be it fortunate, or be it direful,
to this supernatural influence he owes it all.
So they thought; and to families such a de-
mon is allotted also, and they prosper or
wane as his function is ordained. I wonder
whether such demons ever enter into human
beings, and, in the shape of living men,
haunt, plague, and ruin their predestinated
victims?"
This sort of mysticism for a time they
talked, and then wandered away to other
themes, and the talk grew general, and Mr.
Longeluse, with a pang, discovered that it
was late.
He had something on his mind that night.
He had an undivulged use, also, to which to
apply David Arden. As the hour drew near
it weighed more and more heavily at his
heart. That hour must be observed. He
wished to be at home before it arrived.
There was still ample time; but Lady May
was now talking of going, and he made up
his mind to say farewell.
Lingeringly. Mr. Longeluse took his leave.
But go he must; and so, a last touch of the
hand, a last look, and the parting is over.
Down stairs he runs; his groom and his
brougham are at the door.
What a glorious moon! The white light
upon all things round is absolutely dazzling.
How sharp and black the shadows! How
light and filmy rises the old house! How
black the nooks of the thick
Every
drop of dew that hangs upon its leaves or on
the drooping stalks of the neglected grass is
transmuted into diamond, and sparkles like
a brilliant. As he stands upon the broad
platform of the steps, he looks round with a
deep sigh, and with a strange smile of rap-
ture.
The man standing with the open door of
the brougham in his hand caught his eye.
"Go you down as far as the little church,
before 3'ou reach the 'Guy of Warwick,' in
the village, quite close to this — you know-
it— and wait there for me. ^ shall walk."
The man touched his hat, shut the door,
and mounted the box beside the driver, and
away wont the brougham.
Mr. Longeluse lit a cigarette, and slowly
walked down the broad avenue after the
vehicle.
By the time he had got about half way,
he heard the iron gate swing together, the
sound of the wheels was lost in distance, and
the feeling of seclusion returned.
In the same vague intoxication of poetry
and romance, he paused and looked round
again, and sighed. The trunk of a great
tree overthrown in the last year's autumnal

'never was man in a more romantic vein."


CHECKMATE.
CHAPTER XXII.
MS. LONGCLUSE MAKES AN ODD CONFIDENCE.
David Arden looked at Mr. Longcluse
with a sudden glance, that was, for a mo-
ment, shrinking and sharp. This confidence
connected with such a scene chimed in, with
a harmony that was full of pain, with the
utterly vague suspicions that had somehow
got into his imagination.
"Yes, and I have been a little puzzled,"
continued Longcluse. "They say the man
who is his own lawyer has a fool for his
client; but there are other things besides law
to which the spirit of the canon more strongly
still applies. I think you could give me just
the kind of advice I need, if you were not to
think my asking it too great a liberty. I
should not dream of doing so, if the matter
were simply a private one, and began and
ended in myself; but you will see in a mo-
ment that public interests of.some value are
involved, and I am a little doubtful whether
the course I am taking is in all respects the
right one. I have had two threatening
letters; would you mind glancing at them?
The moon is so brilliant, one has no diffi-
culty in reading. This is the first. And
may I ask you, kindly, until I shall have
determined, I hope with your aid, upon a
course, to treat the matter as quite between
ourselves. I have mentioned it to but one
other 'person.'"
"Certainly," said David, "you have a
right to your own terms."
He took the letter and stopped short where
he was, unfolding it. The light was quite
sufficient, and he read the odd and menacing
letter which Mr. Longcluse had received a
few evenings before, as we. know, at Lady
May's. It was to the following effect: —
Snt:—The unfortunate situation in which you stand,
the proof being so, as you must suppose, makes it neces-
sary for you to act considderetly, and no nonsense can be
permited by your well wishers. The poor man has his
consbence all one as as the rich, and must be causious as
well as him. I can not put myself in no dainger for you,
sir, nor won't hold back the truth, so welp mc.
I have heerd tell of your boote bin took away. I would
be hapy to lend an and, sir, to recover that property.
How all will end otherwise I regrett. Knowing well who
it will be that takes so much consern for your safety, you
can not dout who I am, and if you wishes to meat me
quiet to consult, you need only to name the place and
time in the times newspaper, wich I sees it every day.
It must be put part in one days times, for the daite, say-
ing a trend will show on sich a night, and in next days
times for the place, saying the dogs will meet at sich and
sich a place, and it shall hev the atenshen of your
Fast Frend.
"That's a cool letter, upon my word,"
said David Arden. "Have you an idea who
wrote iy"
"Yes, a very good guess. I 'll tell you all
that if you allow me, just now. I should
say, indeed, an absolute certainty, for I have
had another this afternoon with the name of
the writer signed, and he turns out to be the
very man whom I suspected. Here it is."
David Arden's curiosity was piqued. He
took the last note and read as follows —
. Sir :— My last Letter must have came to Hand, and you
been in Resect of it since the 11th instant, has took no
Notise thereoff, I havo No wish except for justice, as you
may Suppose, and has no Fealing against you Mr Long-
cluse Persanelly and to shew you plainly that Such is the
case, I will meet you for an Intervuo if such is your
Wishes in your Own house, if you should Rayther than
name another place I do not objeck To one frend boen
Present providing such Be not a lawyer. The subjock
been Dellicat, I will Attend any hour and Place you apoiiit.
If you should faile I must put my Proofs in the hands of
the police, for I will take it for a sure sine of guilt if you
fail after this to apoint for a meating.
I remain, Sir, Your obedient servent,
No. 2, Rosemary Court. Pint Da vies.
"Well, that's pretty frank," said Long-
cluse, observing that he had read to the
end.
"Extremely. What do you suppose his
object to be — to extort money?"
"Possibly; but he may have another ob-
ject. In any case he wants to make money
by this move."
« "Very audacious, then. He must know,
if he is fit for his trade, how much risk
there is in it: and his signing his name and
address to his letter, and seeking an inter-
view with a witness by, seems to me utterly
infatuated," said David Arden, with his eye
upon Mr. Longcluse.
"So it does, except upon one supposition;
I mean that the man believes his story," said
Mr. Longcluse, walking beside him, for they
had resumed their march toward the gate.
"Really! believes that you committed the
murder 1" said uncle David, again coming to
a halt and looking full at him.
"I can't account for it otherwise," said
Longcluse; "and I think the right course
for me is to meet him. But I have no inti-
macies in London, and that is my difficulty."
"How? Why don't you arrest him?"
said David Arden.
David Arden had seldom felt so oddly. A
quarter of an hour since, he had expected to
have been seated in his carriage with his
ward and Vivian Darnley, driving into town
in quiet humdrum fashion, by this time.
How like a dream was the actual scene!
Here he was, standing on the grass, among
the noble timber, under the moonlight, with
the pale face beside him which had begun
to haunt him so oddly. The strange smile
of his mysterious companion, the cold tones
that jarred sweetly, somehow, on his ear,
lending a sinister eccentricity to the extra-
ordinary confession he was making.
In this situation, which had come about
almost unaccountably, there was a strange
feeling of unreality. Was this man, from
whom he had felt an indescribable repulsion,
now by his side, and drawing him, in this
solitude, into a mysterious confidence? and
had not this confidence an unaccountable
though distant relation to the vague suspi-
cions that had touched his nfind?
With a little effort he resumed:
'! I beg pardon, but if the case were mine
I should put the letters at once into the
hands of the police and prosecute him."
"Precisely my own first impulse. But the


60
CHECKMATE.
letters are more cautiously framed than you
might at first sight suppose. I should be
placed in an awkward position were my
prosecution to fail. / am obliged to think
of this because, although I am nothing to
the public, I am a good deal to myself. But
I've resolved to take a course not less bold,
though less public. I am determined to meet
him face to face with an unexceptionable
witness present, and to discover distinctly
whether he acts from fraud or delusion, and
then to proceed accordingly. I have com-
municated with him."
"Oh, really!"
"Yes, I was clear I ought to meet him;
but I would consent to nothing with an air
of concealment."
"I think you were right, sir."
"He wanted our meeting by night on
board a Thames boat; then in a dilapidated
house in Southwark; then in a deserted
house that is to be let in Thames Street;
but I named my own house, in Bolton Street,
at half-past twelve to-night."
"Then you really wish to see him. I sup-
pose you have thought it well over; but I
am always for taking such miscreants
promptly bv the throat. However, as you
say, cases differ, and I dare say you are well
advised."
"And now may I venture a request,
which, were it not for two facts within my
knowledge, I should not presume to make.
But I venture it to you, who take so special
an interest in this case, because you have
already taken trouble, and, like myself, con-
tributed money to aid the chances of dis-
covery; and because only this evening you
said you would bestow more labor, more
time, and more money with pleasure to pro-
cure the least chance of an additional light
upon it: now it strikes me as just possible
that the writer of those letters may be, to
some extent, honest. Though utterly mis-
taken about me, still he may have evidence
to give, be it worth much or little; and so,
Mr. Arden, having the pleasure of being
known to some members of your family, al-
though till to-night by name only to you, I
beg as a great kindness to a man in a diffi-
culty, and possibly in the interest of the
public, that you will be so good as to accom-
pany me, and be present at the interview,
that cannot be so well conducted before any
other witness whom I can take with me."
David Arden paused for a moment, but
independently quite of his interest, in this
case; he felt a strange curiosity about this
pale man, whose eyes from under their ob-
lique brows gleamed back the cold moon-
light; while a smile, the character of which
a little puzzled him, curled his nostril and
his thin lip, and showed the glittering edge
of Ii is teeth.
]>id it look like treachery? or was it de-
fiance, or derision? It was a face, thus
seen, so cadaverous and Mephistophelian,
that an artist would have given something
for a minute to fix a note of it in white and
black.
David Arden was not to be disturbed in a
practical matter by a pictorial effect, how-
ever, and in another moment he said:
"Yes, Mr. Longcluse, as you desire it, I
will accompany you, and see this fellow,
and hear what he has to say. Certainly."
"That's very kind — only what I should
have expected, also, from your public spirit.
I'm extremely obliged."
They resumed their walk toward the gate.
"I shall get into my brougham and call at
home, to tell them not to expect me for an
hour or so. And what is the number of your
house?"
He told him; and David Arden having
offered to take him, in his carriage, to the
place where his own awaited him, which
however he declined, they parted for a little
time, and Mr. Arden's brougham quickly
disappeared under the shadow of the tall
trees that lined the curving road.
As David Arden .drove toward town, his
confusion rather increased. Why should
Mr. Longcluse select him for this confidence?
There were men in the city whom he must
know, if not intimately, at least much better
than he knew him. It was a very strange
occurrence; and was not Mr. Longcluse's
manner, also, strange? Was he not, some-
how, very oddly cool under a charge of
murder? There was something, it seemed,
indefinably incongruous in the nature of his
story, his request, and his manner.
CHAPTER •XXI.II.
TflE MEETING.
It was five or ten minutes before the ap-
pointed time when David Arden and Long-
cluse met in the latter gentleman's "study"
in Bolton Street. There was a slight, odd
flutter at Longcluse's heart, although his
pale face betrayed no sign of agitation, as
the shuffling tread of a foot on the step was
heard on the door-steps, followed by a faint
knock like that of a tremulous postman. It
was the preconcerted summons of Mr. Paul
Da vies.
Longcluse smiled at David Arden and
raised his finger, as he lightly drew near the
room-door, with an air of warning. He
wished to remind his companion that he w as
to receive their visitor alone. Mr. Arden
nodded, and Mr. Longcluse withdrew. In a
minute more the servant opened the study
door, and said:
"Mr. Davies, sir."
And the tall ex-detective entered, and
looked with a silly simper stealthily to the
right and to the left from the corners of his
eyes, and glided in, shutting the door behind
him.
Uncle David received this man without


CHECKMATE.
61
even a nod. He eyed him sternly, from his
chair at the end of the table.
"Sit in that chair, please," said he, point-
ing to a seat at the other end.
The ex-policeman made his best bow, and
turning out his toes very much, he shuffled,
with his habitual sly smirk on, to the chair,
in which he seated himself, and with his big
red hands on the table began turning, and
twisting, and twiddling a short pencil, which
was a good deal bitten at the uncut end, be-
tween his fingers and thumbs.
"You came here to see Mr. Longcluse?"
asked David Arden.
"A few words of business at his desire.
Sir, I ask your parding, I came, sir, by his
wishes, not mine, which has brought me
here at his request."
"And who am I, do you suppose?"
The man, still smiling, looked at him
shrewdly.
"Well, I don't know, I'm sure; I may a'
seen you."
"Did you ever see that gentleman ?" said
David Arden as Mr. Longcluse entered the
room.
The ex-detective looked also shrewdly at
Longcluse, but without any light of recogni-
tion.
"I may have seen him, sir. Yes, I saw
him in Saint George's, Hanover Square, the
day Lord Charles Dillingsworth married
Miss Wygram, the hairess. I saw him at
Sydenham the second week in February last,
when the Freemasons' dinner was there;
and I saw him on the night of the match be-
tween Hood and Markham, at the Saloon
Tavern."
"Do you know my name?" said David
Arden.
"Well, no, I don't at present remember."
"Do you know that gentleman's name?"
"His name?"
"Ay, his name."
"Well, no; I may have heard it, and I
may bring it to mind, by-and-by."
Longcluse smiled and shrugged, looking
at Mr. Arden, and he said to the man —
"So you don't know that gentleman's
name, nor mine?"
The man looked at each, hard and a little
anxiously, like a person who feels that he
may be making a very serious mistake; but
after a pause he said, decisively —
"No, I don't at present. I say I don't
know your names, either of you, gentlemen,
and I don't."
The two gentlemen exchanged glances.
"Is either of us as tall as Mr. Longcluse 1"
asked David Arden, standing up.
The man stood up also, to make his inspec-
tion.
"You 're both," he said after a pause,
"much about his height."
"Is either of us like him?"
"No," answered Davies, after a pause.
"Did you write these letters?" asked Mr.
LoDgcluse, laughing.
"Well, I did, or I did n't, and what's that
to you?"
"Something, as you shall know present-
"I think you 're trying it on. I reckon
this is a bit of a plant. I don't care a
scratch o' that pencil, if it be. I wrote them
letters, and I said nothin' but what's true,
and I 'll go with you now to the station, if
you like, and tell all I knows."
The fellow seemed nettled, and laughed
viciously a little, and swaggered at the close
of his speech.
The faintest flush imaginable tinged Long-
cluse's forehead, as he shot a searching
glance at him.
"No, we don't want that," said Longcluse;
"but you may be of more use in another
way, although just now you are in the wrong
box, and have mistaken your man, for / am
Mr. Longcluse. You have been misinform-
ed, you see, as to the identity of the person
you suspect; but some person you have, no
doubt, in your mind, and possibly a case
worth sifting, although you have been de-
ceived as to his name. Describe the appear-
ance of the man you supposed to be Mr.
Longcluse. You may be frank with me; I
mean you no harm."
"I defy any man to harm me, sir, if you
Slease, so long as I do my dooty," said Paul
avies. "Mr. Longcluse, if that be his
name, the man I mean, he's about your
height, with round shoulders and red hair,
and talks with a north-country twang on his
tongue; he's a bit rougher, and a swagger-
in' cove,.and a yard o' red beard over his
waistcoat, and bigger hands a deal than you,
and broader feet."
"And have you a case against him?"
"Partly, but it ain't, sir, if you please,
by no means so complete as would answer as
yet. If I was sure you were really Mr.
Longcluse I could say more, for I partly
guess who this other gent is — a most re-
spectable party. I think I do know you,
sir, by appearance; if you had your 'at on,
sir, I could say to a certainty. But I think,
sir, if you please, I 'm not very far wrong
when I say that I would identify you for Mr.
David Arden."
"So I am; that is quite true."
"Thank you, sir, I am obleeged; that's
very quietin' to my mind, sir, having full
confidence in your character; and if you,
sir, please to tell me, that gentleman is un-
doubtingly Mr. Longcluse, the proprietor of
this house. I must a' been let into a mis-
take; I don't think they was a-greenin' of
me, but it was a mistake, if you please, sir,
if you say so."
"This is Mr. Longcluse — I know of no
other — and he resides in this house." said
David Arden. "But if you have informa-
tion to give respecting that red-bearded fel-
low, there is no reason why you should not
give it forthwith to the police."
"Parding me, 8ir, if you please, Mr. Ar-


62
CHECKMATE.
den. There is, I would say, strong reasons
for a poor man in rayther anxious circum-
stances, like myself, sir, 'aving an affection-
ate mother to, in a measure, support, and
been himself unfortunately rayther hard up,
he can't answer it nohow to his conscience
if he lets a hoppertunity like the present
pass him and his aged mother by, unim-
proved. There been a reward offered, sir, I
naturally wish, sir, if you please, Mr. Ar-
den, to earn it myself by valuable evidence
leading to the conviction of the guilty cove;
and if I was to tell all I knows and 'av'
made out by my own hindustry to the force,
sir, other persons would, don't you conceive,
sir, draw the reward, and me and my mother
should go without. If I could get a hinter-
view with the man I 'av' been a-gettin'
things together for, I'd lead him, I 'av' no
doubt, to make such hadmissions as would
clench the prosecution, and vindicatejustice."
"I see what you mean," said David Arden.
"And fair enough, I think," added Long-
cluse.
The ex-detective cleared his voice, shook
his head, and smirked.
"A hinterview, gentlemen," said he, "is
worth much in the hands of a persuasive
party. I have hanged several obnoxious
characters, and let others in for penal for
life, by mearia of a hinterview. You re-
member Spikes, gentlemen, that got seven
penn'orth for breaking Mr. Winterbotham's
desk? Spikes would have frusterated justice,
if it was n't for me. It was done in one
hinterview. Says I, 'Mr. Spikes, you have
a wife and five children.'" •
The recollection of Mr. Paul Davies' diplo-
macy was so gratifying to that smiling gen-
tleman, that he could not forbear winking at
his auditors as he proceeded.
'"And my belief is, Mr. Spikes, sir,'"
he continued, "' that it was all the hinflu-
ence of Tom Sprowles._ It was Sprowles
persuaded yer, it was him as got the whole
thing up. That's my belief; and you did
not want to do it, no-wise, and only consent
ed to force the henges, in the belief that
Sprowles wanted to read the papers, and no
more. I have a bad opinion of Sprowles,'
says I, 'for deceiving you, I may say, inno-
cently ;' and talking this way, you conceive,
I got it all out of him, and he's under penal
for life. Whenever you want to get round
a man, and to turn him inside out, your way
is to sympathize with him. If I had but a
hinterview with that man, I know enough to
'draw it out of him, every bit. It's all done
by sympathizing."
"But do you think you can discover the
man?" asked Mr. Arden.
"I am sure to make him out, if you please,
sir; I'll find out all about him. I'd a
found out the facks long ago, but for the
mistake, which it occurred most unlucky.
I saw him twice sence, and I know well
where to look for him; and I 'll have it all
right before long, I'm thinkin'."
"That will do, then, for the present," said
Mr. Longcluse. "You have said all you
have to say, and you see into what a serious
mistake you have blundered; but I shan't
give you any trouble about it — it is too
ridiculous. Good night, Mr. Davies."
"No mistake of mine, sir, please. Misin-
formed, sir, you will kindly remark—mis-
informed, if you please — misinformed, as
may occur to the sharpest party going. Good
night, gentlemen; I takes my leave without
no unpleasant feelin', and good wishes for
your 'ealth and 'appiness, both, gentlemen."
And blandly, and with a sly, sleepy smile,
this insinuating person withdrew.
"It is the reward he is thinking of," said
Longcluse.
"Yes, he won't spare himself; you men:
tioned that your own suspicions respecting
him were but vague," said David Arden.
"I merely stated what I saw to the coroner,
and it was answered that he was watching
the Frenchman, Lebas, because the detective
police, before Paul Davies'(dismissal, had
received orders to keep an eye on all foreign-
ers; and he hoped to conciliate the author-
ities, and get a pension, by collecting and
furnishing information. The police did not
seem to think his dogging and watching the
unfortunate little fellow really meant more
than this."
"Very likely. It is a very odd affair. I
wonder who that fellow is whom he described.
He did not give a hint as to the circum-
stances which excited his suspicions."
"It w strange. But that man, Paul
Davies, kept his eye upon Lebas from the
motive I mentioned, and this circumstance
may have led to his seeing more of the mat-
ter than, with the reward in his mind, he
cares to make known at present. I thiifk I
did right in meeting him face to face."
"Quite right, sir."
"It has been always a rule with me to go
straight at everything. I think the best
diplomacy is directness, and that the truest
caution lies in courage."
"Precisely my opinion, Mr. Longcluse,"
said uncle David, looking on him with eyes
of approbation. He was near adding some-
thing hearty in the spirit of our ancestors'
saying, " I hope you and I, sir, may be better
acquainted ;" but something in the look and
peculiar face of this unknown Mr. Longcliise
chilled him, and he only said:
"As you say, Mr. Longcluse, courage is
safety, and honesty the best policy. Good
night, sir."
"A thousand thanks, Mr. Arden. Might
I ask one more favor, that you will endorse on
each of these threatening letters a memoran-
dum of the facts of this strange interview ? —
I mean a sentence or two, which may at any
time confound this fellow, should he turn out
to be a villain."
"Certainly," said Mr. Arden, thought-
fully, and he sat down again, and wrote a
few lines on the back of each, which, having


CHECKMATE.
63
signed, he handed them to Mr. Longcluse,
with the question, "Will that answer?"
"Perfectly, thank you very much; it is
indeed impossible for me to thank you as I
ought and wish to thank you," said Mr.
Longcluse with effusion, extending his hand
at the same time; but Mr. Arden took it
without much warmth, and said, in compari-
son a little dryly: •
"No need to thank me, Mr. Longcluse;
as you said at first, there are motives quite
sufficient, of a kind for which you can owe
me, personally, no thanks whatsoever, to in-
duce the very 'slight trouble of ooming
here."
"Well, Mr. Arden, I am very much
obliged to you, notwithstanding ; " and so he
gratefully saw him to the door, and smiled
and bowed him off, and stood for a moment
as his carriage whirled down the short
street.
"He does not like me — nor I, perhaps,
him. Ha! ha! ha l" he laughed very softly
and reservedly, looking down on the flags.
"What an odd thing it is! Those instincts
and antipathies, they are very odd."
All this, except the faint laughter, was in
thought.
Mr. Longclustf stepped back. He was
negatively happy— he was rid of an anxiety.
He was positively happy—he had been bet-
ter received by Miss Arden this evening,
than he had ever been before. So he went
to his bed with a light heart, and a head full
of dreams.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. LONGCLUSE FOLLOWS A SHADOW.
AVl the next day, one beautiful image
haunted Longcluse's imagination. Ho was
delayed in town; he had to consult about
operations in foreign stocks; he had many
words to say, directions to modify, and calls
to make on this man and that. He had
hoped to be at Mortlake Hall at three o'clock.
But it was past six before he could disen-
tangle himself from the tenacious meshes of
his business.
Never had he thought it so ijksome. Was
he not rich enough — too rich? Why
should he longer submit to a servitude so
wearisome? It was high time he should
begin to enjoy his days in the sunshine of
his gold and the compatfionship of his beau-
tiful idol. But "man proposes," says the
ancient saw, "and God disposes."
It was just seven o'clock when Mr. Long-
cluse descended at the steps of old Mortlake
Hall.
Sir Reginald, who is writhing under a
letter from the attorney of the millionaire
mortgagee of his Yorkshire estate, making
an alternative offer, either to call in the
principal sum or to allow it to stand out on
larger interest, had begged of Mr. Long-
cluse, last night, to give him a few words of
counsel some day.
He had, in a quiet talk the evening before,
taken the man of huge investments rather
into his confidence.
"I don't know, Mr. — a— Mr. Longcluse,
whether you are aware how cruelly my
property is tied up," he said, as he talked in
a low tone with him, in a corner of the large
drawing-room. "A life estate, and my son,
who declines bearing any part of the burden
of his own extravagance, will do nothing to
facilitate my efforts to pay his debts for him;
and I vow to Heaven, if they raise the in-
terest on this very oppressive mortgage, I
don't know how on earth I can possibly pay
my insurances. I don't see how I arti to do
it. I should be so extremely obliged to you,
Mr. Longcluse, if you would, with your vast
experience and knowledge in all — all finan-
cial matters, give me any advice that strikes
you — if you could with perfect convenience
afford so much time. I don't really know
what rate of interest is usual. I only know
this, that interest, as a rule, has been
steadily declining ever since l can remember
— perpetually declining; I mean, of course,
upon perfect security like this; and now this
d d harpy wants, after ten years, to raise
it. By heaven, I believe they want to drive
me out of the world, among them! and they
well know the cruelty of it, fdr I have never
been able to pay them a single hall-year
punctually. Will you take some tea?"
So Longcluse had promised his advice
very gladly next day; and now he asked for
Sir Reginald.
Sir Reginald was very particularly en-
gaged at this moment on business; Mr.
Arden was with him at present; but if Mr.
Longcluse would wait for a few minutes,
Sir Reginald would be happy to see him.
So there was to be a little wait. How
could he better pass the interval than in
Miss'Arden's company?
Up to the drawing-room went Mr. Long-
cluse, and there ho found Miss Arden finish-
ing a drawing. He fancied a very slight
flush on her cheek as he entered. Was there
really a little heightening of that beautiful
tint as she smiled? How beautiful her long
lashes, and her even little teeth, and the
lustrous darkness of her eyes, in that sub-
dued light!
"I so wanted advice, Mr. Longcluse, and
you have come in so fortunately! I am not
satisfied with my sky and mountains, and
the foreground where the light touches that
withered branch is a horrible failure. In
nature, it looked quite beautiful. I remem-
ber it so well. It looked on fire, almost. This
is Saxtean Castle, near Golden Friars, and
that is a bit of the lake, and those are the
fells. I sketched it in pencil, and trusted
to memory for coloring. It was just at the
most picturesque moment, when the sun was
going down between the two mountains that
overhang the little town on the west."


CHECKMATE.
65
himself over that terrible precipice, and so
perished. I have faith in instinct—faith in
passion, which is but a form of instinct. I
am sure he did wisely."
"I shan't dispute it; it is not a case
likely to happen often. These phantom
ladies seem to have given up practice of late
years, or else people have become proof
against their wiles, and neither follow, nor
t adore, nor lament them."
"I don't think these phantom ladies are
at all out of date," said Mr. Longcluse.
"Well, men have grown wiser, at all
events."
"No wiser, no happier; in such a case
there is no room for what the world calls
wisdom. Passion is absolute, and as for
happiness, that or despair, hangs on the
turn of a die."
"I have made that shadow a little more
purple; do you think it an improvement?"
"Yes, certainly. How well it throws
out that bit of the ruin that catches the
sunlight! You have made a very poet'cal
sketch; you have given not merely the out-
lines, but the character of that singular
place — the genius loci is there."
Just as Mr. Longcluse had finished this
complimentary criticism, the door opened,
and rather unexpectedly Richard Arden en-
tered the room.
CHAPTER XXV.
A tete-a-t£te.
Very decidedly de trop at that moment,
his friend thought Mr. Arden. Longcluse
meant again to have turned the current of
their talk into the channel he liked best, and
here was interruption. But was not Richard
Arden his sworn brother, and was he not
sure to make an excuse and take his leave,
and restore him to his ie'e-d-iiiet
But was there—or was it fancy — a
change scarcely perceptible, but unpleasant,
in the manner of this sworn brother?
Was it not very provoking, and a little
odd, that he did not go away, but stayed on
and on, till at length a servant came in with
a message from Sir Reginald to Mr. Long-
cluse, to say that he would be very happy to
see him whenever ho chose to come to his
room? Mr. Longcluse was profoundly vexed.
Richard Arden, however, had resumed his
old manner pretty nearly. Was the inter-
ruption he had persisted in designed, or only
accidental? Could he suppose Richard Ar-
den so stupid? He took his leave smiling,
but with an uncomfortable misgiving at his
heart.
Richard Arden now proceeded in his own
way, with some coloring and enormous sup-
pression at discretion, to give his sister such
an account as he thought would best answer,
of the interview he had just had with his
father. Honestly related, what occurred be-
tween them was strictly as follows: —
Richard Arden had come on summons
from his father. Without a special call, he
never appeared at Mortlake while his father
was there, and never in his absence but with
an understanding that Sir Reginald was to
hear nothing of it. He sat for a considera-
ble time in the apartment that opened from
his father's dressing-room. He heard the
baronet's peevish voice ordering Crozier
about. Something was dropped and broken,
and the same voice was heard in angrier
alto. Richard Arden looked out of the win-
dow and waited uncomfortably. He hated
his father's pleadings with him, and he did
not know for what purpose he had appointed
this interview.
The door opened and Sir Reginald entered,
limping a little, for his gout had returned
slightly. He was leaning on a stick. His
thin, dark face and prominent eyes looked
angry, and he turned about and poked his
dressing-room door s"hut with the point of his
stick, before taking any notice of his son.
"Sit down, if you please, in that chair,"
he said, pointing to the particular seat he
meant him to occupy with two vicious little
pokes, as if he were running a small-sword
through a rat. "I wrote to ask you to coriie,
sir, merely to say a word respecting your
sister, for whom, if not for other members of
your family, you will retain, I suppose, some
consideration and natural affection."
Here was a pause which Richard Arden
did not very well know what to do with.
However, as his father's fierce eyes were in-
terrogated upon him, he murmured:
"Certainly, sir."
"Yes, and under that impression I showed
you Lord Wynderbroke's letter. He is to
dine here to-morrow at quarter to eight;
please to recollect precisely. Do you hear?"
"I do, sir, everything."
"You must meet him. Let as not appear
more divided than we are. You know Wyn-
derbroke — he's peculiar. Why the devil
should n't we appear united? I don't say ba
united, for you won't. But there is some-
thing owed to decency. I suppose you admit
that? And,before people, d you, sir,
can't we appear affectionate? He's a quiet
man, Wynderbroke, and makes a great deal
of these domestic sentiments. So you 'll
please to show some respect and affection
while he's present, and I mean to show
some affection for you; and after that, sir,
you may go to the devil for me I I hope yous
understand?"
"Perfectly,, sir."
"As to Wynderbroke, the thing is settled
— it is tlhene." He pointed to his desk.
"What I told you before, I tell you now —
you most see that your sister does n't make
a f ool of 'herself. I have nothing more to say
to you at present — unless; yon have some-
thing to .say to me!"
This latter part of the sentence had some-
6


66
CHECKMATE.
thing sharp and interrogative in it. There
was just a chance, it seemed, to imply that
his son might have something to say upon
the one point that lay near the old man's
heart.
"Nothing, sir," said Richard, rising.
"No, no; so I supposed. You may go,
sir — nothing."
Of this interview, one word of the real
purport of which he could not tell to his
sister, ho gave her an account very slight
indeed, but rather pleasant.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE GARDEN AT MORTLAKK. .
Alice leaned back in her chair, smiling,
and very much pleased.
"So my father seems disposed to relent
ever so little, and ever so little, you know,
is better than nothing," said Richard Arden.
"I'm so glad, Dick, that he wishes you to
take your dinner with us to-morrow; it is a
very good sign. It would be so delightful
if you could be at home with us, as you used
to be."
"You are a good little soul, Alice — a
dear little thing! This is very pretty," he
said, looking at ner drawing. "What is it?"
"The ruined castle near the northern end
of the lake at Golden Friars. Mr. Longcluse
says it is pretty good. Is he to dine here,
do you know?"
"No — I don't know — I hope not," said
Richard, shortly.
"Hope not! why 1" said she. "I thought
you liked him extremely."
"I thought he was very well for a sort of
out-door's acquaintance for men; but I don't
even think thai, now. There's no use in
speaking to Lady May, but I warn you —
you had better drop him. There is very
little known about him, but there is a great
deal that is not pleasant said."
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"But you used to speak so highly of him.
I'm so surprised." ,
"I did not know half what people said of
him. I've heard a great deal since."
"But is it true 1" asked Alice.
"It is nothing to me whether it is true or
not. It is quite enough if a man is talked
about uncomfortably, to make it unpleasant
to know him. We owe nothing to Mr. Long-
cluse; there is no reason why you should
have an acquaintance that is not desirable.
/ mean to drop him quietly, and you can't
know him, really you must n't, Alice."
"I don't know. It seems to me very
hard," said Miss Alice, spiritedly. "It is
not many days since you spoke of him so
highly; and I was quite pained when you
came in just now. I don't know whether
he perceived it, but I think he must. I only
know that I thought you were so cold and
strange to him, your manner so unlike what
is always was before. I thought you had
been quarrelling. I fancied he was vexed,
and I felt quite sorry; and I don't think
what you say, Richard, is manly, or like
yourself. You used to praise him so, and
fight his battles; and he is, though very
eminent in some ways, rather a stranger in
London; and people, you told me, envy him, «
and try in a cowardly way to injure him;
and what more easy than to hint discredit-
able things of people? and you did not
believe a word of those reports when last
you spoke of him; and considering that he
had no people to stand by him in London, or
to take his part, and that he may never even
hear the things that are said by low people
about him, don't you think it would be cow-
ardly of us, and positively base, to treat him
so?"
"Upon my word, Miss Alice, that is very
good oratory indeed? I don't think I ever
heard you so eloquent before, at least upon
the wrongs of one of my sex."
"Now, Dick, that sneer won't do. There
may possibly be reasons why it would have
made Mr. Longcluse's acquaintance; I can't
say. Those reasons, however, you treated
very lightly indeed a little time ago — you
know you did — and now, upon no better,
you say you are going to cut him. 1 can't
bring myself to do any such thing. He is
always looking in at Lady May's, and I
can't help meeting him unless I am to cut
her also. Now don't you see how odious I
should appear, and how impossible it is?"
"I won't argue it now, dear Alice; there
is quite time enough. I shall come an hour
before dinner, to-morrow, and we can have,
you and I, a quiet talk ; and I am qTiite sare
I shall convince you. Mind, I don't say we
should insult him," he laughed. "I only
say this, and I 'll maintain it—and I 'll show
you why —that he is not a desirable ac-
quaintance. We have taken him up very
foolishly, and we must drop him. And now,
darling, good-by."
He kissed her — she kissed him. She
looked grave for a moment after he had run
down the stairs.
He had quarrelled with Mr. Longcluse
about something, she thought, as she stood
at the window with the tip of her finger to
her lip, looking at her brother as he mounted
the showy horse which had cantered with
him up and down Rotten Row for two hours
or more, before he had ridden out to Mort-
lake. She saw him now ride away. It was
near eight o'clock, and all this time Mr.
Longcluse had been in conference with Sir
Reginald about his miserable mortgage.
Mr. Longcluse was cautious. But there
floated in his mind certain possible contiu-
gencies, under which he might perhaps make
the financial adjustment which Sir Reginald
desired, very easy indeed to the worthy bar-
onet.


CHECKMATE.
67
It was the tempting hour of evening when
the birds begin to sing, and the level beams
from the west flood all objects with ruddy
tint. She put on her hat and ran out to the
old gardens of Mortlake. They are enclosed
in a gray wall, and lie one above the other
in three terraces, with tall standard fruit-
trees, so old that their fruit was now dwarfed
in size to half its earlier bearings, standing
high with a dark and sylvan luxuriance, and
at this moment sheltering, among their sun-
lit leaves, the small birds whose whistlings
cheered the saddened evening air.
Every tree and bush that bore fruit, in this
old garden, had grown quite beyond the com-
mon stature of its kind, and a good gardener
would have cut them all down fifty years ago.
But there was a kind of sylvan and stately
beauty in those wonderfully lofty pear-trees,
with their dense dark foliage, and in the
standard cherries so tall and prim, and some-
thing homely and comfortable in the great
straggling apples and plums, dappled with
gray lichens and tufted with moss. There
were flowers as well as fruits of all sorts, in
this garden. All its arrangements were out
of date. There was an air, not actually of
neglect — for it was weeded, and the walks
were trim and gravelled — but of careless-
ness and rusticity, not unpleasant, in the
place. Trees were allowed to straggle and
spread, and rise aloft in air, just as they
pleased. Tall roses climbed the walls about
the door, and clustered in nodding masses,
overhead; and no end of pretty annuals and
other flowers, quite out of fashion, crowded
the dishevelled currant-bushes, and the for-
est of raspberries. Here and there were
very tall myrtles, and the quince, and obso-
lete meddlers, were discoverable among the
other fruit-trees. The summits of the walls
were in some places crowned, to the scandal
of all decent gardening, with ivy, and a
carved stone shaft in the centre of each gar-
den supported a sun-dial as old as the Hall
itself.
There are fancies, as well as likings and
lovings. Where there is a real worship, how-
ever cautiously masked — and Mr. Long-
cluse's was by no means so — it is never a
mystery to a clever girl. And such adora-
tion, although it be not at all reciprocated,
is sometimes hard to part with.
There is something of the nature of com-
passion, with a little gratitude perhaps,
mingling in the pang which a gentle lady
feels at having to discharge for ever an hou-
est love and a true servant, and send him
away to solitary suffering for her sake.
Some little pang of reproach of this sensi-
tive kind had, perhaps, armed her against
her brother's sudden sentence of exclusion
pronounced against Mr. Longcluse.
The evening sunlight travelled over the
ivy on the discolored wall, and glittered on
the leaves of the tall fruit-trees, in whose
thick foliage the birds were singing their
vespers. Walking down the broad walk
toward the garden-door, she felt the sadden-
ing influence of the hour returning; and as
she reached the door, over-clustered with
roses, it opened, and Mr. Longcluse stood in
the shadow before her.
Miss Arden, thus "surprised in the midst
of thoughts which at that moment happened
to be employed about him, showed for a sec-
ond, as she suddenly stopped, something in
her beautiful face almost amounting to em-
barrassment.
"I was called away so suddenly to sec
Sir Reginald, that I went without saying
good-by; so I ran up to the drawing-room,
and the servant told rhe I should probably
find you here ; and, really without reflecting
— I act, I 'in afraid, so much from impulse
that I might appear very impertinent — I
ventured to follow. What a beautiful even-
ingj How charming the light! You, who
are such an artist, and understand the poetry
of color so, must admire this cloister-like
garden, so beautifully illuminated."
Was Mr. Longcluse also a very little em-
barrassed as he descanted thus on light and
color?
"It is a very old garden, and does very
little credit, I'm afraid, to our care; but
I greatly prefer it to our formal gardens and
all their finery, in Yorkshire."
She moved her hand as if she expected
Mr. Longcluse to take it and his leave, for
it was high time her visitor should order his
wings and be off to the west, in which quar-
ter, as we know, lay Mr. Longcluse's habi-
tation.
He had stepped in, however, and the door
closed softly before the light evening breeze
that swung it gently. She was standing
under the wild canopy of roses, and he under
the sterner arch of grooved and fluted stone
that overhung the doorway.
CHAPTER XXVII.
WINGED WORDS.
"I was afraid 1 had vexed your brother
somehow," said Mr. Longcluse—" I thought
he seemed to meet me a little formally. I
should be so sorry if I had annoyed him by
any accident l"
He paused, and Miss Arden said, half
laughing:
"Oh, don't you know, Mr. Longcluse,
that people are out of spirits sometimes, and
now and then a little offended with all the
world? It is nothing, of course."
"What a fib!" whispered conscience in
the young lady's pretty ear, while she smiled
and blushed.
Again she raised her hand a little, ex-
pecting Mr. Longcluse's farewell.
But she looked a great deal too beautiful
for a farewell. Mr. Longcluse could not
deny himself a minute more, and he said:


70
CHECKMATE.
convey anything by my manner; but, as
you know, when there is anything in one's
mind it is not always easy to prevent its
affecting, as you say, one's manner. I am
not sorry you have asked me, because I
spoke without reflection the other day. No
one should answer, I really think, for any-
one else, in ever so small a matter, in this
world."
"But you didn't — you spoke only for
yourself. You simply promised me your
friendship, kind offices — you said, in fact,
all I could have hoped for."
"Yes, perhaps — yes, I may — I suppose
I did. But don't you see, dear Longcluse,
things may come to mind, on thinking over."
"What things?" demanded Longcluse,
quickly, with a sudden energy that called a
flush to his temples; and fire gleamed for a
moment from his deep-set, gloomy eyes.
"What things? Whv, young ladies are
not always the most intelligible problems on
earth. I think you ought to know that; and
really I do think, in such matters, it is far
better that they should be left to themselves
as much as possible; and I think, besides,
that there are some difficulties that did not
strike us. I mean, that I now see that there
really are great difficulties — insuperable
difficulties."
"Can you define them?" said Longcluse,
coldly.
"I don't want to vex you, Longcluse,
and I don't want to quarrel."
"That 's extremely kind of you."
"I don't know whether you are serious,
but it is quite true. I don't wish any un-
pleasantness between us. I don't think I
need say more than that, having thought it
over: I don't see how it could ever be."
"Will you give me your reasons?"
"I really don't see that I can add any-
thing in particular to what I have said."
"I think, Mr. Arden, considering all that
has passed between us on this subject, that
you are bound to let me know your reasons
for so marked a change of opinion."
"I can't agree with you, Mr. Longcluse.
I don't see in the least why I need tell you
my particular reasons for the opinion I have
expressed. My sister can act for herself,
and I certainly shall not account to you for
my reasons or opinions in the matter"."
Mr. Longcluse's pale face grew whiter,
and his brows knit, as he fixed a momentary
stare on the young man; but he mastered
his anger, and said in a cold tone:
"We disagree totally upon that point,
and I rather think the time will come when
you must explain."
'.'I have no more to say upon the subject,
sir, except this," said Arden, very tartly,
"that it is certain your hopes can never
lead to anything, and that I object to your
continuing your visits to Mortlake."
"Why, the house does' not belong to you
— it belongs to Sir Reginald Arden, who
objects to your visits and receives mine.
Your ideas seem a little confused," and he
laughed gently and coldly.
"Very much the reverse, sir. I object
to my sister being exposed to the least
chance of annoyance from your visits. I
protest against it, and you will be so good
as to understand that I distinctly forbid
them."
"The young lady's father, I presume,
will hardly ask your advice in the matter,
and / certainly shall not ask your leave. I
shall call when I please, so long as I am
received at Mortlake, and shall direct my
own Conduct without troubling you for
counsel in my affairs." Mr. Longcluse
laughed again, icily.
"And so shall I mine," said Arden,
sharply.
"You have no right to treat any one so,"
said Longcluse, angrily; "as if one had
broken his honor, or committed a crime."
"A crime!" repeated Richard Arden.
"Oh! That, indeed, would pretty well end
all relations."
"Yes, as, perhaps, you shall find," an-
swered Longcluse, with sudden and oracular
ferocity.
Each gentleman had gone a little farther
than he had at first intended.
Richard Arden had a proud and fierce
temper when it was roused. He was near
saying what would have amounted to insult.
It was a chance opening of the door that pre-
vented it. Both gentlemen had stood up.
"Please, sir, have you done with the
room, sir? " asked the man.
"Yes," said Longcluse, and laughed again
as he turned on his heel.
"Because three gentlemen want the room,
if it's not engaged, sir. And .Lord Wyn-
derbroke is wanting for you, please, Mr.
Arden."
So with a little toss of his head, which he
held unusually high, and a flushed and
"glooming" countenance, Richard Arden
marched a little swaggeringly forth to his
dinner ttte-a-ffle with Lord VV'ynderbroke.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
STORIES ABOUT MR. LONGCLUSE.
The irritation of this unpleasant inter-
view soon subsided, but Mr. Longcluse's
anxiety rather increased.
Next day, early in the afternoon, he drove
to Lady May's, and she received him just as
usual. He learned from her, without ap-
pearing to seek the information, that Alice
Arden was still at Mortlake.
His visit was one of but two or three min-
utes. He jumped into a hansom and drove
out to Mortlake. He knocked. Man of the
world as he was, his heart beat faster.
"Is Miss Arden at home?"
"No, sir."


CHECKMATE.
71
"Not at home?"
"Miss Arden is gone out, sir."
"Oh I perhaps in the garden?"
"No, sir; she has gone out, and won't he
back for some time."
The man spoke with the promptitude and
decision of a servant instructed to deny his
mistress to the visitor.
He had not a card: he would call again
another day.
He heard the piano faintly and, he thought,
Alice's voice also; and certainly saw Vivian
Darnley in the drawing-room window, as his
cab turned away from the door. With a
swelling heart he drove into town. The
portcullis, then, had fallen; access was de-
nied him; and he should see her no more!
Good Heaven I what had he done? He
. walked distractedly, for a while, up and
down his study. Should he employ Lady
May's intervention, and tell her the whole
story? Good-natured Lady May! Perhaps
she would undertake his cause, and plead
for his re-admission. But was even that so
certain? How could he tell what view she
might take of the matter? And were she
to intercede for him ever so vehemently, how
could he tell that she had any chance of pre-
vailing?
No; on the whole" it was better to be his
own advocate. He would sit down then and
there, and write to the offended or alarmed
lady, ancflay his piteous case before her in
his own words, and rely on her compassion,
without an intervenient.
How many letters he began, how many he
even finished, and rejected, I need not tire
you by telling. Some were composed in the
first, other's in the third, person. Not one
satisfied him. Here was the man of a mil-
lion and more, who would dash off a note to
his stock-broker, to buy or sell a hundred
thousand pounds' worth of stock — who
would draft a resolution of the bank of which
he was the chairman, directing an operation
which would make men open their eyes,
without the tremor of a nerve or the hesita-
tion of a moment — unmanned, helpless, dis-
tracted in the endeavor to write a note to a
young and inexperienced girl!
O beautiful sex! what a triumph is here I
0 Love! what fools will you not make of us
oor masculine wiseacres! Did you not
ring the corpulent Gibbon to his knees,
from which he could not rise ; and make the
awful Cardinal Richelieu dance in doublet,
truhk-hose, and rosettes, in the chamber of
a cruel queen?
The letter he dispatched was in these
terms. I dare say he had torn better ones
to pieces : — *
"Dear Miss Arisen:— I had hoped that my profound
contrition might have atoned for a momentary indiscre-
tion— the declaration, though in terms the most respect-
ful, of feelings which I had not self-command sufficient
to suppress, aud which had for nearly a year remained
concealed in my own breast. I am sure, Miss Arden, that
you are incapable of a gratuitous cruelty. Have I not
sworn that one word to recall the remembrance of that,
to me, all but fatal madness, shall never escape my lips
in your presence f May I not entreat that you will for-
get it, that you will forbear to pass upon me the agoniz-
ing sentence of exclusion I You shall never again have
to complain of my uttering one word that the merest ac-
quaintance, who is permitted the happiness of conversing
with you, might not employ. You shall never regret
your forbearance. I shall never cease to bless you for it;
and whatever decision you arrive at, it shall be respected
by me as sacred law. I shall never cease to reverence and
bless the hand that spares or —afflicts me- May I be
permitted this one melancholy hope, may I be allowed
to interpret your omitting to answer this miserable letter
as a concession of its prayer? Unless forbidden, I will
endeavor to construe your silence as oblivion.
"I have the honor to remain, dear Miss Arden, with deep
compunction aud respect, but not altogether without hope
in your mercy,
"Yours the most unhappy and distracted man in Eng-
land.
"Walter Longclose."
Mr. Longcluse sealed this letter in its en-
velope, and addressed it. He would have
liked to send it that moment, by his servant,
but an odd shyness prevented. He did not
wish his servants to conjecture and put their
heads together over it'; he could not endure
the idea; so with his own hand he dropped
it in the post.
Somewhat in the style of the old novel
was this composition of Mr. Longcluse's — a
little theatrical, and, one would have fancied,
even affected; yet never was man more des-
perately sincere.
Night came, and brought no reply. Was
no news good news, or would the morning
bring, perhaps from Richard Arden, a with-
ering answer? *
Morning came, and no answer: what was
he to conjecture?
That day, in Grosvenor Square, he passed
Richard Arden.
Richard Arden looked steadily and sternly
a little to his right, and cut Mr. Longcluse.
It was a marked and decided cut. His
ears tingled as if he had received a slap in
the face. So things had assumed a very de-
cided attitude indeed! Longcluse felt very
oddly enraged, at first; then anxious.
It was insulting that Richard Arden
should have-taken the initiative in dissolv-
ing relations. But had he not been himself
studiously impertinent to Arden, in that
brief colloquy of yesterday? He ought to
have been prepared for this. Without ex-
planation, and the shaking of hands, it was
impossible that relations of amity should
have been resumed between them. But
Longcluse had been entirely absorbed by a
threatened alienation that affected him much
more nearly.
There was a thesis for conjecture in the
situation, which made him still more anxious.
A very little time would probably clear all
op-
He was walking homeward, saying to
himself as he went, "No, I shall find no
answer; I should be a fool to fancy any-
thing else ;" and yet walking all the more
quickly, as he approached his house, in the
hope of the very letter which he affected, to
himself, to have quite rejected as an impossi-
bility;
P
b


72
CHECKMATE.
Some letters had come, but none from
Mortlake. His letter to Alice was still un-
answered. He was now in the agony of sus-
pense and distraction.
The same evening Richard Arden was
talking about him, as he leaned with his
elbow on the mantel-piece, at Mortlake. He
and Alice were alone in the drawing-room,
awaiting the arrival of the little dinner
party.
This, as you know, was to include Lord
Wynderbroke, before whose advances, in
Richard Arden's vision, Mr. Longcluse had
waned, and even become an embarrassment
and a nuisance.
"It is easier to cut him than to explain,"
thought Richard Arden. "It bares one so
inexpressibly, giving reasons for what one
does, and I'm so glad he has saved me the
trouble by his vulgar impertinence."
They had talked for some time, Alice
chiefly a listener. How was she affected
toward Mr. Longcluse? He was agreeable;
he flattered her; he was passionately in love
with her.
All but this latter condition she liked very
well; but this was embarrassing, and quite
impracticable. Who knows what that tiny
spark we term a fancy, a whim, a penchant,
might have grown to, had it not been blown
away by this untimely guest? But, for my
part, I don't think it ever would have grown
to a matter of the heart. There was some-
thing in the way. A fancy is one thing,
and passion quite another. Pique is a com-
mon state of mind, and comes and goes, and
comes again, in many a courtship. But a
liking that has once entered the heart cannot
be torn out in a hasty moment, and takes a
long time, and many a struggle, to kill.
She was a little sorry, just then, to lose
him so inevitably. Perhaps his letter, to
which he had trusted to move her, had ren-
dered the return of old relations impossible.
In this letter she felt herself the owner of a
secret — a secret which she could not keep
without a sort of understanding growing up
between them — which therefore she had no
idea of keeping.
She was resolved to tell it. The letter she
had locked, in marked isolation, as if no
property of hers, but simply a document that
was in her keeping, in the pretty ormolu
casket that stood on the drawing-room chim-
ney-piece.
She had intended showing it, and telling
the story of the scene in the garden, to
Richard. But he was speaking with a mys-
terious asperity of Mr. Longcluse, which
made her hesitate. A very little thing, it
seemed to her, might suffice to make a very
violent quarrel out of a coldness.
Instinctively, therefore, she refrained, and
listened to Richard whilst, with his arm
touching the casket on the chimney-piece,
he descanted on the writer of the unknown
letter.
She experienced an odd feeling of insecu-
rity as, in the course of his talk, his fingers
began to trifle with the pretty figures that
stood out in relief upon the casket; for she
knew that the ordeal of the pistol, discoun-
tenanced in England, was still in force on
the Continent, and Mr. Longcluse's ideas
were all continental; and how near were
those fingers to the letter which might suffice
to explode the dangerous element that had
already accumulated!
"He has talked of us to his low compan-
ions; he chooses to associate with usurers
and worse people; and he has been speak-
ing of us in the most insolent terms."
"Really!" said Alice. Her large eyes
looked larger as they fixed on him.
"Yes, and I'll tell you how I heard it.
Yqu must know, dear Alice, thtit I happened
to want a little money; and when one does,
the usual course is to borrow it. So I paid
a visit to my harpy — and a harpy in need
is a harpy indeed. Being hard up, he
fleeced me; and the gentleman, I suppose
thinking he might be familiar, told me he
was on confidential terms with Mr. Long-
cluse, and wished me a great deal of joy.
'Of what?' I ventured to ask, for he had
just hit me rather hard. 'Of your chance,'
or as he called it, chanshe, he said, with a
delightfully arch leer. I thought he meant I
had backed the right horse for the Derby,
but it turned out he meant our chance of
inducing Mr. Longcluse to make up his mind
to marry you. I was very near knocking
him down; but a man who has one's bill for
three hundred pounds must be respected.
So I merely ventured to ask on whose au-
thority he congratulated me, when it ap-
peared it was on Mr. Longcluse's own, who,
it seems, had said a great deal more, equally
intolerable. In plain, coarse terms, he says
that, being poor, we have conspired with
you to secure him, Mr. Longcluse, for your
husband. As to the fact of his having actu-
ally conveyed that, and to more people than
one, there is and can be no doubt whatever.
I can imagine, considering all things, noth-
ing more vulgar, audacious, and cowardly."
A biush of anger glowed in Alice's face.
Richard Arden liked the proud fire that
gleamed from her dark gray eyes. It satis-
fied him that his words were not lost.
"I lighted on a man who knew more about
him than l had learned before," resumed
Richard Arden. "He was suspected at
Berlin of having been engaged in a conspir-
acy to pigeon Dacre and Wilmot, who were
travelling. He did not appear, but he is said'
to have supplied the money, and had a lion's
share of the spoil. There is no good in re-
peating these things generally, you know,
because they are so hard to prove; and a
fellow like that is dangerous. They say he
is very litigious."
"Upon my word, if your information is at
all to be relied on, -it is plain we have made
a groat mistake. It is a disappointing world,
but I could not have fancied him doing any-


CHECK
MATE. 75
made Mr. Longcluse's task of observation
easy. He was looking for Richard Arden's
•well-known figure among the groups, think-
ing that probably Alice was not far off.
But he was not there, nor was Alice; and
Walter Longcluse, gloomy and lonely in this
gay crowd, descended the steps at the end of
this terrace, and sauntered round again to
the front of the house, now .and then pass-
ing some one he knew, with an exchange of
a smile or a bow, and then lost again in the
Vanity Fair of strange faces and voices.
Now he is at the hall door — he mounts
the steps. Suddenly, as he stands upon the
level platform at top, he finds himself within
three steps of Richard Arden. He looks on
him as he might on the carved pilaster, at
the side of the hall-door; no one could have
guessed, by his inflexible but unaffected
glance, that he and Mr. Arden had ever
been acquainted. The younger man showed
something in his countenance, a sudden
hauteur, a little elevation of the chin, a cer-
tain sternness, more melo-dramatic, though
less effective, than the simple blank of Mr.
Longcluse's glance.
That gentleman looked about coolly. He
was in search of Miss Arden, but lie did not
see her. He entered the hall again, and
Richard Arden a little awkwardly resumed
his conversation, which had suddenly sub-
sided into silence on Longcluse's appearance.
By this time Lady May was more at ease,
having received all her company that were
reasonably punctual, and iu the hall Long-
cluse now encountered her.
"Have you seen Mr. Arden?" she inquired
of him.
"Yes, he's at the door, at the steps."
"Would you mind telling him kindly that
I want to say a word to him?"
"Certainly, most happy," said Longcluse,
without any distinct plan as to how he was
to execute her awkward commission.
"Thank you very much. But, oh dear!
here is Lady Hummington, and she wishes
so much to know you; I 'll send some one
else. I must introduce you; come with nie
, — Lady Hummington, I want to introduce
my friend, Mr. Longcluse." So Mr. Long-
cluse was presented to Lady Hummington,
who was very lean, and a " blue," and most
fatiguingly well up in archaeology, and all
new books on dry and difficult subjects. So
that Mr. Longcluse felt that he was, in Joe
Willett's phrase, "tackled" by a giant, and
was driven to hideous exertions of attention
and memory to hold his own. When Lady
Hummington, to whom it was plain kind
Lady May, with an unconscious cruelty, had
been describing Mr. Longcluse's accomplish-
ments and acquirements, had taken some tea
and other refection, and when Mr. Long-
cluse's kindness had her wants supplied;
and she, like Scott's "old man" in the
"Lay of the Last Minstrel," "was grati-
fied," she proposed visiting the music-room,
where she had heard a clever organist play,
on an harmonium, three distinct tunes at
the same time, which being composed on
certain principles, that she explained with
much animation and precision, harmonized
very prettily.
So this clever woman directed, and Mr.
Longcluse led, the way to the music-room.
CHAPTER XXX.
HE SEEs HER.
Mr. Longcluse's attention was beginning
to wander a little, and his eyes were now
busy in search of some one whom he had
not found; and knowing that the duration
of people's stay at a garden-party is always
uncertain, and that some of those gayly-
plumed birds who make the flutter, and
chirping, anil brilliancy of the scene, hardly
alight before they take wing again, he began
to fear that Alice Arden had gone.
"Just like my luck!" he thought, bitterly:
"and if she is gone, when shall I have an
opportunity of seeing her again?"
Lady Hummington's well-informed con-
versation had been, unheeded, accompanying
the ruminations and distractionsof this "pass-
ionate pilgrim;" and as they approached
the door of the music-room, the little crush
there brought the learned lady's lips so near
to his ear, that with a little start he heard
the words —
"All strictly arithmetical, you know, and
adjusted by the relative frequency of vibra-
tions. That theory, I am sure, you approve,
Mr. Longcluse."
To which the distracted lover made an-
wer, "I quite agree with you, Lady Hum-
mington."
The music-room at Raleigh Court is an
apartment of no great size, and therefore
when, with Lady Hummington on his arm,
he entered, it was at no great distance that
he saw Miss Arden standing near the win-
dow, and talking with an elderly gentleman,
whose appearance he did not know, but who
seemed to be extremely interested in her
conversation.
She saw him, he had not a doubt, for she
turned a little quickly, and looked ever so
little more directly out at the window, and
a very slight tinge flushed her cheek.
It was quite plain, he thought, and a
dreadful pang stole through his breast, that
she did not choose to see him —quite plain
that she did see him — and he thought, from
a subtle scrutiny of her beautiful features,
quite plain also that it gave her pain to
meet without acknowledging him.
Lady Hummington was conversing with
volubifity; but the air felt icy, and there
was a strange trombling at his heart, and
this, in many'respects, hard man of the
world felt that the tears were on the point
of welling from his eyes.


76
CHECKMATE.
The struggle was but for a few moments,
and he seemed quite himself again.
Lady Hummington wished to go to the
end of the room where the piano was, and
the harmonium on which the organist had
performed his feat of the three tunes. That
artist was taking his departure, having a
musical assignation of some kind to keep.
But to oblige Lady Hummington, who had
heard of Thalberg's doing something of the
kind, he sat down and played an elaborate
piece of music on the piano with his thumbs
only.
This charming effort over, and applauded,
the performer took his departure. And
Lady Hummington said:
"I am told, Mr. Longcluse, that you are
a very good musician."
"A very indifferent performer, Lady Hum-
mington."
"Lady May Penrose tells a very different
tale."
"Lady May Penrose is too kind to be
critical," said Longcluse; and, as he main-
tained this* dialogue, his eye was observing
every movement of Alice Arden. She seemed,
however, to have quite made up her mind to
stand her ground. There was a strange in-
terest, to him, even in being in the same
room with her. Perhaps Miss Arden saw
that Mr. Longcluse's movements were de-
pendent upon those of the lady whom he
accompanied, and might have thought that,
the musician having departed, their stay in
that room would not be very long.
"I should be so glad to hear you sing,
Mr. Longcluse," pursued Lady Humming-
ton. "You have been in the Bast, I think;
have you any of the Hindostanee songs?
There are some, I have read, that embody
ideas from the Brahmin philosophy."
"Long-winded songs, I fancy," said Mr.
Longcluse, laughing; "it is a very volumi-
nous philosophy; but the truth is, I've got
a little cold, and I should not like to make
a bad impression so early."
"But surely there are some simple little
things, without very much compass, that
would not distress you. How pretty those
old English songs are that they are collecting
and publishing now! I mean songs of
Shakspeare's time — Ben Jonson's, Beau-
mont and Fletcher's, arid Massinger's, you
know. Some of them are so extremely
pretty!"
"Oh, yes, I 'll sing you one of those with
pleasure," said he, with a strange alacrity,
quite forgetting his cold, sitting down at the
instrument, and striking two or three fierce
chords.
I am sure that most of my readers are
acquainted with that pretty old English
song, of the time of James the First, entitled,
"Once I Loved a Maiden Fair." That was
the song he chose.
Never, perhaps, did he sing so well be-
fore, with a fluctuation of pathos and scorn,
tenderness and hatred, expressed with rea.
dramatic fire, and with more power of voice
than at moments of less excitement he pos-
sessed. He sang it with real passion, and
produced, exactly where he wished, a strange

'AT THE FURTHER SIDE OF THE GREAT TRUNK.


CHECKMATE.
77
but unavowed sensation. He omitted one
verse, and the song as he delivered it was
thus: —
"Once I loved a maiden fair,
But she did deceive me:
She with Venus could compare,
In my mind, believe me.
She was young and among
All our maids the sweetest:
Now I say, Ah, welt-a-day!
Brightest hopes are fleetest.
"Maidens wavering and untrue
Many a heart have broken;
Sweetest lips the world e'er knew
Falsest words have spoken.
Fare thee well, faithless girl,
I'll not sorrow for thee;
Once I held thee dear as pearl,
Now I do abhor thee."
When he had finished the song, he said,
coldly, but very distinctly, as he rose:
"I like that song — there is a melancholy
Esychology in it. It is a song worthy of
hakspeare himself."
Lady Hummington urged him with an
encore, but he was proof against her en-
treaties. And so, after a little, she took
Mr. Longcluse's arm; and Alice felt re-
lieved when the room was rid of them.
CHAPTER XXXI.
ABOUT THE GROUNDS.
Lady Hummington, well pleased at hav-
ing found in Mr. Longcluse what she termed
a kindred mind, was warned by the hour
that she must depart. She took her leave
of Mr. Longcluse with regret, and made
him promise to come to luncheon with her
on the Thursday following. Mr. Longcluse
called her carriage for her, and put in,
besides herself, her maiden sister and two
daughters, who all exhibited the family lean-
ness, with noses more or less red and
aquiline, and small black eyes, set rather
close together.
As he ascended the steps he was accosted
by a damsel in distress.
"Mr. Longcluse, I'm so glad to see you!
You must do a very good-natured thing,"
said handsome Miss Maubray, smiling on
him. "I came here with old Sir Arthur
and Lady Tramway, and I've lost them;
and I've been bored to death by a Mr. Bag-
shot, and I've sent him to look for my
pocket-handkerchief in the tea-room; and
I want you, as you hope for mercy, to show
it now, and rescue me from my troubles."
"I'm too much honored. I'm only too
happy, Miss Maubray. I shall put Mr. Bag-
shot to death, if you wish it, and Sir Arthur
and Lady Tramway shall appear the mo-
ment you command."
Mr. Longcluse was talking his nonsense
with the high spirits which sometimes attend
a painful excitement.
"I told them' I should get to that tree if I
were lost in the crowd, and that they would
be sure to find me under it after six o'clock.
Do take me there; I am so afraid of Mr.
Bagshot's returning!"
So, over the short grass that handsome
girl walked, with Mr. Longcluse at her
side.
"I 'll sit at this side, thank you; I don't
want to be seen by Mr. Bagshot."
So she sat down, placing herself at the
farther side of the great trunk of the old
chestnut-tree.
Mr. Longcluse stood nearly opposite, but
so placed as to command a view of the hall-
door steps. He was still watching the
groups that emerged, with as much interest
as if his life depended on the order of their
to-ing and fro-ing. But, in spite of this,
very soon Miss Maubray's talk began to in-
terest him.
"Whom did Alice Arden come with?"
asked Miss Maubray. "I should like to
know; because, if I should lose my people,
I must find some one to take me home."
"With her brother, I fancy."
"Oh, yes, to be sure — I saw him here. I
forgot. But Alice is very independent, just
now, of his protection," and she laughed.
"How do mean?"
"Oh, Lord Wynderbroke, of course, takes
care of her while she's here. I saw them
walking about together, so happy! I sup-
pose it is all settled."
"About Lord Wynderbroke?" suggested
Longcluse, with a gentle carelessness, as if
he did not care a farthing — as if a dreadful
pain had not at that moment pierced his
heart.
"Yes, Lord Wynderbroke. Why, have n't
you heard of that?"
"Yes, I believe — I think so. I am sure I
have heard something of it; but one hears so
many things, one forgets, and I don't know
him. What kind of man is he?"
"lie's hard to describe; he's not disa-
greeable, and he's not dull; he has a great
deal to say for himself about pictures, and
the East, and the Crimea,' and the opera,
and all the people at all the Courts in Eu-
rope, and he ought to be amusing; but I
think he is the driest person I ever talked to.
And he is really good-natured; but I think
him much more teasing than the most ill-
natured man alive, he's so insufferably
punctual and precise."
"You know him very well, then?" said
Longcluse, with an effort to contribute his
share to the talk.
"Pretty well," said the young lady, with
just a slight tinge flushing her haughty
cheek. "But no one who has been a week
in the same house with him could fail to see
all that."
Miss Maubray herself, I am told, had hopes
of Lord Wynderbroke about a year before,
and was not amiably disposed toward him
now, and looked on the triumph of Alice a
little sourly; although something like the


CHECKMATE.
beginning of a real love had since stolen
into her heart — not, perhaps, destined to be
much more happy.
"Lord Wynderbroke — I don't know him.
Is that gentleman he whom I saw talking to
Miss Arden in the music-room, I wonder?
He's not actually thin, and he is not at all
stout; he's a little above the middle height,
and he stoops just a little. He appears past
fifty, and his hair looks like an old-fashioned
brown wig, brushed up into a sort of cone
over his forehead. He seems a^ittle formal,
and very polite and smiling, with a flower in
bis button-hole; a blue coat; and he has a
pair of those little gold Paris glasses, and
was looking out through the window with
them."
"Had he a high nose?"
"Yes, rather a thin, high nose, and his
face is very brown." •
"Well, if he was all that, and had a brown
face and a high nose, and was pretty near
fifty-three, and very near Alice Arden, he
was positively Lord Wynderbroke."
"And has this been going on for some
time, or is it a sudden thing?"
"Both, I believe. It has been going on a
long time, I believe, in old Sir Reginald's
head ; but it has come about, after all, rather
suddenly ; and my guardian says — Mr. Da-
vid Arden, you know — that he has written
a proposal in a letter to Sir Reginald, and
you see how happy the young lady looks.
So I think we may assume that the course
of true love, for once, runs smooth — don't
you?"
"And I suppose there is no objection any-
where?" said Longcluse, smiling. "It is a
pity he is not a little younger, perhaps."
"I don't hear any complaints ; let us rath-
er rejoice he is not ten or twenty years older.
I am sure it would not prevent his happi-
ness, but it would heighten the ridicule.
Are you. one of Lady May Penrose's party
to the Derby to-morrow?" inquired the
young lady.
"No; I have n't been asked."
"Lord Wynderbroke is going."
"Oh! of course he is."
"I don't think Mr. David Arden likes it;
but, of course, it is no business of his, if
other people are pleased. I wonder you did
not hear all this from Richard Arden, you
and he are so intimate."
So said the young lady, looking very in-
nocent. But I think she suspected more
than she said.
"No, I did not hear it," he said, carelessly;
"or, if I did, I forgot it. But do you blame
the young lady?"
"Blame her! not at all. Besides, I am
not so sure that she knows."
"How can you think so?"
"Because I think she likes quite another
person."
"Really. And who is he?"
"Can't you guess?"
"Upon my honor, I can't."
There was something so earnest, and even
vehement, in this sudden asseveration, that
Miss Maubray looked for a moment in his
face; and seeing her curious expression, he
said more quietly, "I assure you I don't
think I ever heard; I'm rather curious to
know."
"I mean Mr. Vivian Darnley."
"Oh! Well, I've suspected that a lonjr,
time. I told Richard Arden, one day—I
forget how it came about — but he said no."
"Well, I say yes," laughed the young
lady, " and we shall see who's right."
"Oh ! Recollect I'm only giving you his
opinion. I rather leaned to yours, but he
said there was positively nothing in it, and
that Mr. Darnley is too poor to marry."
"If Alice Arden resembles me," said the
young lady, "she thinks there are just two
things to marry for — either love or ambi-
tion."
"You place lovefirst, I'm glad to observe,"
said Mr. Longcluse, with a smile.
"So I do, because it is most likely to pre-
vail with a pig-headed girl ; but what I mean
is this: that social pre-eminence — I mean
rank, and not trumpery rank; but such as,
being accompanied with wealth and prece-
dence, is also attended with power — is
worth an immense sacrifice of all other ob-
jects; my reason tells me, worth the sacrifice
of love. But that is a sacrifice which impa-
tient, impetuous people can't always so
easily make — which I dare say I could not
make if I were tried; but I don't think I
shall ever be fool enough to become so in-
sane, for the state of a person in love is a
state of simple idiotism. It is pitiable, I
allow, but also contemptible; but, judging
by what I see, it . appears to me a more irre-
sistible delusion than ambition. But I don't
understand Alice well. I think if I knew a
little more of her brother— certain qualities
so run in families— I should be able to make
a better guess. What do you think of him?"
"He's very agreeable, isn't he? and,
for the rest, really, until men are tried as
events only can try them, it is neither wise
nor safe to pronounce."
"Is he affectionate?"
"His sister seems to worship him," he
answered; "but young ladies are so angelic,
that where they like they resent nothing,
and respect selfishness itself as a manly
virtue."
"But you know him intimately; surely
you must know something of him."
Under different circumstances, this auda-
cious lady's cross-examination would have
amused Mr. Longcluse; but in his present
relations, and spirits, it was otherwise.
"I should but mislead you if I were to
answer more distinctly. I answer for no
man, hardly for myself. Besides, I question
your theory. I don't think, except by acci-
dent, that a brother's character throws any
light upon a sister's; and I hope— I think, I
mean—that Miss Arden has qualities illimit-


CHECKMATE.
79
I
ably superior to those of her brother. Are
these your friends, Miss Maubray?" he con-
tinued.
"So they are," she answered. "I'm so
much obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse! I
think they are leaving."
Mr. Longcluse, having delivered her into
the hands of her chaperon, took his leave,
and walked into the broad alleys among the
trees; and in solitude under their shade, sat
himself down by a pond, on which two swans
were sailing majestically.
Looking down upon the water with a
pallid frown, he struck the bank beneath
him viciously with his heel, peeling off little
bits of the eward, which dropped into the
water.
"It is all plain enough, now. Richard
Arden has been playing me false. It ought
not to surprise me, perhaps. The girl, I
still believe, has neither act nor part in the
conspiracy. She has been duped by her
brother. I have thrown myself upon her
mercy -, I will now appeal to her justice. As
for him — what vermin mankind are! He
must return to his allegiance; he will. After
all, he may not like to lose me. He will
act in the way that most interests his selfish-
ness, . Come, come! it is no impracticable
problem. I'm not cruel? Not I! No, I'm
not cruel; but I am utterly just. I would
not hang a mouse up by the tail to die, as
they do in France, head downward, of hun-
ger, for eating my cheese; but should the
vermin nibble at my heart, in that case,
what says justice? Alice, beautiful Alice,
you shall have every chance before I tear
you from my heart—oh, forever! Ambi-
tion! That coarse girl, Miss Maubray, can't
understand you. Ambition, in her sense,
you have none; there is nothing venal in
your nature. Vivian Darnley, is there any-
thing in that either? I think nothing. I
observed them closely, that night, at Mort-
lake. No, there was nothing. My conver-
sation and music interested her, and when I
was by he was nothing. They are going to
the Derby to-morrow. I think Lady May
has treated me rather oddly, considering
that she had all but borrowed my drag. She
might have put me off civilly; but I don't
blame her. She is good-natured, and if she
has any idea that I and the Ardens are not
quite on pleasant terms, it quite excuses it.
Her asking me h«re, and her little note to
remind, were meant to show that she did not
take up the quarrel against me. Never
mind; I shall know all about it, time enough.
They are going to the Derby to-morrow.
Very well, / shall go also. It will all be
right yet. When did I fail? When did I
renounce an object? By Heaven, one way
or other, I 'll accomplish this!"
Tall Mr. Longcluse rose, and looked round
him; and, in deep thought, marched with a
resolute step toward the house.
CHAPTER XXXII.
UNDER THE LIME-TREES.
At this garden-party, marvellous as it may
appear, Lord Wynderbroke has an aunt.
How old she is I know not, nor yet with
what conscience her respectable relations
can permit her to haunt such places, and
run a risk of being suffocated in doorways,
or knocked down the steps by an enamored
couple hurrying off to more romantic quar-
ters, or of having her maudering old head
knocked with a croquet-mallet, as she tot-
ters drearily among the hoops.
This old lady is worth conciliating, for she
has plate and jewels, and three thousand a
year, to leave; and Lord Wynderbroke is a
prudent man. He can bear a great deal of
money, and has no objection to jewels, and
thinks that the plate of his bachelor and
old-maid kindred should gravitate to the
centre and head of the house. Lord Wyn-
derbroke was indulgent, and did not object
to her living a little longer, for this aunt
conduced to his air of juvenility more than
the flower in the button-hole. However,
she was occasionally troublesome, and on
this occasion made an unwise mixture of
fruit and other things ; and a servant glided
into the music-room, and with a proper in-
clination of his person, in a very low tone
said:
"My lord, Lady Witherspoons is in her
carriage at the door, my lord, and says her
ladyship is indisposed, and begs, my lord,
that your lordship will be as good as to
hacompany her 'dme in her carriage, my
lord."
"Oh! Tell her ladyship I am so vert/ sorry,
and will be with her in a moment." And
he turned with a very serious countenance
to Alice.
"How extremely unfortunate! When I
saw those miserable cherries, I know how it
would be; and now I am torn away from
this charming place; and I'm sure I hope
she may be hetter soon, it^is so (disgusting,
he thought, but he said) melancholy! With
whom shall I leave you, Miss Arden?"
"Thanks. I came with my brother, and
here is my cousin, Mr. Darnley, who can tell
me where he is."
"With a croquet party, near the little
bridge. I 'II be your guide, if you 'll allow
me," said Vivian Darnley, eagerly.
"Pray, Lord Wynderbroke, don't let me
delay you longer. I shall find my brother
quite easily now. I so hope Lady Wither-
spoons may soon be better!"
"Oh, yes, she always is better soon; but
in the mean time one is'carried away, you
see, and everything upset; and all because,
poor woman, she won't exercise the smallest
restraint. And she has, of course, a right
to command me, being my aunt, you know,
and — and—the whole thing is ineffably
provoking."


CHECKMATE.
"cruelty is too sublime a phrase. I don't
think I have ever experienced cruelty in my
life; and I don't think it likely that you
have. I certainly have never been cruel to
any one. I'm a very good-natured person,
on the contrary, as my birds and squirrel
would testify, if they could."
She laughed.
"I suppose people call that cruel which
makes them suffer very much; it may be
but a light look or a cold word, but still it
may be more than years of suffering to an-
other. But I don't think, Alice, you ought
to be so with me. I think you might re-
member old times a little more kindly."
"I remember them very kindly — as
Kindly as you do. We were always very
good friends, and always, I dare say, shall
be. J shan't quarrel. But I don't like
heroics: I think they are so unmeaning.
There may be people who like then*very
well and There is Richard, I think,
and he has thrown away his mallet. If his
game is over, he will come now, and Lady
May don't want the people to stay late; she
is going into town, and I stay with her
to-night. We are going to the Derby to-
morrow."
"I am going also—it was so kind of her!
— she asked me to be of her pvty," said
Vivian Darnley.
"Richard is coming also; I have never
been to the Derby, and I dare say we shall
be a very pleasant party; I know I like it
of all things. Here comes Richard — he
sees me. Was my uncle David here?"
"No."
"I hardly thought he was, but I saw
Grace Maubray, and I fancied he might
have come with her," she said, carelessly.
"Yes, she was here; she came with Lady
Tramway. They went away about half an
hour ago."
So Richard joined her, and they walked
to the house together, Vivian Darnley ac-
companying them.
"I think I saw you a little spoony to-
day, Vivian, did n't I?" said Richard Ar-
den, laughing. He remembered what Long-
cluse Ohee said to him about Vivian's tendre
for his sister, and did not choose that Alice
should suspect it. "Grace Maubray is a
very pretty girl."
"She may be that, though it doesn't strike
me," began Darnley.
"Oh ! come, I'm too old for that sort of
disclaimer; and I don't see why you should
be so modest about it. She is clever and
pretty."
"Yes, she is very pretty," said Alice.
"I suppose she is, but you 're quite mis-
taken if you really fancy I admire Miss
Maubray. I don't," said Vivian, vehemently.
Richard Arden laughed again, but pru-
dently urged the point no more, intending
to tell the story that evening, as he and Alice
drove together into town, in the way that
best answered his purpose.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE DERBY.
The morning of the Derby dawned auspi-
ciously.
The weather-cocks, the sky, and every
other prognostic portended a fine, cloudless
day, and many an eye peeped early from
bed-room window to read these signs, re-
joicing.
"Ascot would have been more in our way,"
said Lady May, glancing at Alice, when the
time arrived for taking their places in the
carriage. "But the time answered, and we
shall see a great many people we know there.
So you must not think I have led you into a
very fast expedition."
Richard Arden took the reins.- The foot-
men were behind, in charge of hampers
from Fortnum and Mason's, and inside oppo-
site to Alice sat Lord Wynderbroke; and
Lady M;iy's vis-a-vis was Vivian Darnley.
Soon they had got into the double stream
of carriages of. all sorts. There are closed
carriages with pairs of fours, gigs, hansom
cabs fitted with gauze curtains, dog-carts,
open carriages with hampers lashed to the
foot-boards, dandy drags, bright and pol-
ished, with crests; vans, cabs, and indes-
cribable contrivances. There are horses
worth a hundred and fifty guineas a-piece,
and there are others that look as if the
knacker should have them. There are all
sorts of raws, and sand-cracks, and broken
knees. There are kickers and roarers, and
bolter and jibbers — such a crush and medley
in that densely packed double line that jogs
and crushes along you can hardly tell how.
Sometimes one line passes the other, and
then sustains a momentary check, while the
other darts forward; and now and then a
panel is smashed, with the usual altercation,
and dust unspeakable eddying and floating
everywhere in the sun; all sorts of chaff
exchanged, mail-coach horns blowing, and
general impudence and hilarity; gentlemen
with veils on, and ladies with lighted hoods
over their bonnets, and all sorts of gauzy de-
fences against the dust.
The utter novelty of all these sights and
sounds highly amuses Alice, to whom they
are absolutely strange.
"I am so amused," she said, "at the
gravity with which you all seems to take
these wonderful doings. I could not have
fancied anything like it. Is n't that Bor-
rowdale?"
"So it is," said Lady May. "I thought he
was in France. He does n't see us, I think."
He did see them, but it was just as he
was cracking a personal joke with a busman,
in which the latter had decidedly the best
of it, and he did not care to recognize his
lady acquaintances at disadvantage.
"What a fright that man is!" said Lord
Wynderbroke.
"But his team is the prettiest in England,
6'


CHECKMATE.
83
his wont. "If there's a dragful of hangels
anyvere, she's one of them. I saw her yes-
terday in one of Lady .May Penrose's car-
riages in St. James's Street. Mr. Longcluse
is engaged to be married to her ; you may see
them linked arm-in arm, any day you please,
walkin' hug and down Hoxford Street. And
her brother, Richard Harden, is to marry
Lady May Penrose. That will be a warm
family yet, them Hardens, arter all."
"A family with a title, Mr. Ballard, be it
ne\ er so humble, sir, like 'ome, shweet 'ome,
hash nine livesh in it; they'll be down to
the last pig, and not the thickness of an old
tizzy between them and the glue-pot; and
while you'd write your name across the back
of a cheque, all's right again. The title
doash it. You never shaw a title in the'
workus yet, Mr. Ballard, and you 'll wait
awhile before you 'av a hoppertunity of shay-
in\ 'My lord dooke, I hope your grashe's
water-gruel is salted to your noble tashte
thish morning,' or, 'My noble marquishe, I
humbly hope you are pleashed with the fit
of them pepper-and-salts;' and, 'My lord
earl, 1 'm glad-to see by the register you took
a li^ht honorable twisht at the crank thish
morning.' No, Mishter Ballard, you nor me
won't shee that, shir."
While these gentlemen enjoyed their
agreeable banter, and settled the fortunes of
Richard Arden and Mr. Longcluse, the lat-
ter person was walking down the course in
the direction in which Mr. Levi had seen
Arden go, in the hope of discovering Lady
May's carriage. Longcluse was in an odd
state of excitement. He had entered into
the spirit of the carnival. Voices all around
were shouting, ' Twenty to five on Dothe-
boys ; " or, " A hundred to five against Para-
chute."
"In what?" called Mr. Longcluse to the
latter challenge.
•'.In assassins!" cried a voice from the
crowd.
Mr. Longcluse hustled his way into the
thick of it.
"Who.said that?" he thundered.
Jjjlo one could say. No one else had heard
it. "$Tio cared? He recovered his coolness
quickly, and made no further fuss about it.
People were too busy with other things to
bother themselves about his questions, or his
temper. He hurried forward after young
Arden, whom he saw at the turn of the
course, a little way on.
The first race no one cares much about;
compared with the ^reat event of the day, it
is as the farce before the pantomine, or the
oyster before the feast.
The bells had not yet rung out their warn-
ing, and Alice said to Vivian:
"How beautifully .that girl with the tam-
bourine danced and sang! I do so hope
she 'll come again: and she is, I think, so
perfectly lovely. She is so like the picture
of La Esmeralda; did n't you think so?"
"Do you really wish to see her again?"
said Vivian. "Then if she's to be found on
earth you shall see her."
He was smiling, but he spoke in the low
tone that love is said to employ and under-
stand, and his eyes looked softly on her. He
was pleased that she enjoyed everything so.
In a moment he had jumped to the ground,
and with one smile back at the eager girl he
disappeared.
And now the bells were ringing, and the
police clearing the course. And now the
cry "They're off! tjiey're off!" came roll-
ing down the crowd like a hedge-fire.
Lord Wynderbroke offers Alice his race-
glass, but ladies are not good at optical aids,
and she prefers her eyes; and the earl con-
stitutes himself her sentinel, and will report
all he sees, and stands on the roof beside her
place, with tbe glasses to his eyes. And
now the excitement grows. Beggar-boys,
butcher-boys, stable-helps, jump up on car-
riage-wheels unnoticed, and cling to the roof
with filthy fingers.
And now they are in sight, and a wild
clamor arises. "Red'sfirst!" "No. Blue!"
"White leads!" "Pink's first!"
And here they are! White, crimson,
pink, black, yellow — the silk jackets quiver-
ing like pennons in a storm — the jockeys
tossing their arms, madly about, the horses
seeming actually to fly:; swaying, reeling,
whirring, tl(e whole thing passes, in a beau-
tiful drift of a moment, and Is gone!
Lord Wynderbroke is standing on tip-toe,
trying to catch a glimpse of the caps as they
show at the opening nearer tho winning-post.
Vivian Darnley is away in search of La
Esmeralda. Miss Arden has seen the first
race of the day, the first she has ever seen,
and is amazed und delighted. The intruders
who had been clinging to the carriage now
jump down, and join the crowd thato crush
on toward the Vinning-post, or break in on
the course. But there rises at the point
next her a figure she little expected to see so
near, that day. Mr. Longcluse has swung
himself up, and stands upon the wheel. Ho
is bare-headed, his hat is in the hand he
clings by. In the other hand he holds up a
small giove — a lady's glove. His face is
very pale. He is not smiling; he looks with
an expression of pain, on the contrary, and
very great respect.
"Miss Arden, will you forgive my ventur-
ing to restore this glove, which I happened
to see you drop as the horses passed?"
She looked at him with something of sur-
prise and fear, and drew back a little instead
of taking the proffered glove.
"I find I have been too presumptuous,"
he said, gently. "I place it there. I see,
Miss Arden, I have been maligned. Some
one has wronged me cruelly. I plead only
for a fair chance — for God's sake, give me
a chance. I don't say hear me now, only
say you won't condemn me utterly un-
heard."
He spoke vehemently, -but so low that,


86
CHECKMATE.
dying as long as T can remember, and on his 1
his last legs; but those last legs carry some
fellows a long way, and I'm very sure he 'll
outlive me."
"And what pleasure can a person so very
ill as he looks take in going to places like
that?"
"The pleasure of winning other people's
money," laughed Arden, sourly. "Pindle-
dykes knows very well what he's about,
lie turns his time to very good account, and
wastes very little of it, I assure you, in
pitying other people's misfortunes." .
"I'm glad to see that you and Richard
are on pleasanter terms," said David Arden
to his brother, as he sipped his tea beside
him.
"Egad! we are not, though. I hate him
worse than ever. Would you oblige me by
putting a bit of wood on the fire? I told
you how he has treated me. I wonder,
David, how the devil you could suppose we
were on pleasanter terms!"
Sir Reginald was seated with his crutch-
liandle stick beside him, and an easy fur
slipper on his gouty foot, which rested on
_ a stool, and was a great deal better. He
leaned back in a cushioned arni'chair, and
his fierce, prominent eyes glanced across the
room, in the direction of his son, with a
flash like a scimitar's.
"There's no good, you know, David, in
exposing one's ulcers to strangers — there's
no use in plaguing one's guests with family
quarrels."
"Upon my word, you disguised this one
admirably, for I mistook you for two people
on tolerably friendly terms."
"I don't want to plague Wynderbroke
about the puppy; there is no need to men-
tion that he has made so much unhappiness.
You won't, neither will I."
David nodded.
'•Something has gone wrong with him,"
said David Arden, "and I thought you
might possibly know."
"Not I."
"I think he has lost money on the races
to-day," said David."
"I hope to heaven he has! I'm glad of
it. It will do me good; let him settle it out
of his blackguard post-obit," snarled Sir
Reginald, and ground his teeth.
"If he has been gambling, he has disap
pointed me. He can, however, disappoint
me hut once. I had better thoughts of
him."
So said David Arden, with displeasure in
his frank and manly face.
"Playing? Of course be plays, and of
course he's been making a blundering book
for the Derby. He likes the hazardrtable
and the turf, he likes play, and he likes
making books; and what he likes he does.
He always did. l 'm rather pleased you
have been trying to manage him. You 'll
fin* him a charming person, and you 'll un-
derstand what I have had to combat with.
He 'll never do any good; he is so utterly
graceless."
"I see my father looking at me, and I
know what he means," said Richard Arden,
with a smile, to Lady May; "I'm to go and
talk to Miss Maubray. He wishes to please
uncle David, and Miss Maubray must be
talked to; and I see that uncle David envies
me my little momentary happiness, and
meditates taking that empty chair beside
vou. You'll see whether I am right. By
Jove! here he comes; I shan't be turned
away so —"
"Oh, but really, Miss Maubray has been
quite alone," urged poor Lady May, very
n^uch pleased; "and you must, to please
me; I'm sure you will."
Instantly he arose.
"I don't know whether that speech is
most kind or wn-kind; you banish me, but
in language so flattering to my loyalty that
I don't know whether to be. pleased or
pained. Of course I obey." He said these
parting words in a very low tone, and had
hardly ended them when David Arden took
the vacant chair beside the good lady, and
entered into conversation with her.
Once or twice his eyes wandered to Rich-
ard Arden, who was by this time talking
with returning animation to Grace Mau-
bray, and the look was not cheerful.
The young lady, however, was soon inter-
ested, and her good-humor was clever and
exhilarating. I think that she a little ad-
mired this handsome and rather clever
young man, and who can tell what such a
fancy may grow to?
That night, as Richard Arden bid him
good-by, his uncle said, coldly enough:
"By-the-by, Richard, would you mind
looking in upon me to-morrow, at five in the
afternoon? I shall have a word to say to
you."
So the appointment was made, and Rich-'
ard entered his cab, and drove into town
dismally. ,
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A I.ADy's NOTE.
Next day, Mr. Longcluse paid an early
visit at uncle David's house, and saw Miss
Maubray in the drawing-room.
The transition from that young lady's
former to her new life was not less dazzling
than that of the heroine of an Arabian tale,
who is transported by friendly genii, while
she sleeps, from a prison to the palace of a
sultan.
Uncle David did not care for finery; no
man's tastes could be simpler and more
camp-like. Rut these drawing-rooms were
so splendid, so elegant and refined, and yef
so gorgeous in effect, that you wi^uld have
fancied that he had thought of nothing else
all his life but china, marqueterie,' buhl,


CHECKMATE.
87
Louis Quatorze clocks,^ mirrors, pale-green
and gold cabriole chairs, statuettes, bronzes,
pictures, and all the textile splendors, the
names of -which I know not, that make
floors and windows magnificent.
The feminine nature, facile and self-adapt-
ing, had at once accommodated itself to the
dominion over all this, and all that attended
it. And Miss Maubray being a lady, a girl
who had, in her troubled life, been much
thrown among high-bred people — her father
a gentle, fashionable, broken-down man ; and
her mother a very elegant and charming
woman —there was no contrast, in look, air,
or conversation, to mark that all this was
new to her; on the contrary, she became it
extremely. 4
The young lady was sitting at the piano
.when Longcluse came in, and to the expir-
ing vibration of the chord at which she was
interrupted she rose, with that light, floats
ing ascent which is so pretty, and gave him
her hand, and welcomed him with a very
engaging smile.
She thought he was a likely person to be
able to throw some light upon two rumors
which interested her.
"How do you contrive to keep your rooms
so deliciously cool? The blinds are down
and the windows open, but that alone won't
do, for I have just left a drawing-room that
is very nearly insupportable ; yours must be
the work of some of those pretty sylphs that
poets place in attendance upon their hero-
ines. - How fearfully hot yesterday was!
You did not go to the Derby with Lady
May's party, I believe."
lie watched her clever face, to discover
whether she had heard of the scene between
him and Richard Arden — "I don't think
she has."
"No," she said, "my guardian, Mr. Ar-
den, took me there instead. On second
thoughts, I feared I should very likely be in
the way. One is always dt trap where there
is so much^love making; and I am a very-
bad gooseberry."
"A very dangerous one, I should fancy.
And who are all these lovers?'"
"Oh, really, they are so many, it is not
easy to reckon them up. Alice Arden, for
instance, had two lovers — Lord Wynder-
broke and Vivian Darnley."
"What, two lovers charged upon one
lady? Is not that.false heraldry? And does
she really care for that young fellow, Darn-
ley?"
"I'm told she really is deeply attached
to him. But that does not prevent her ac-
cepting Lord Wynderbroke. He has spoken,
and be.en accepted. Old Sir Reginald told
my guardian, his brother, last night, and he
told me in the carriage, as we drove home.
I wonder how^ soon it will be. I should
rather like to be one of her* bridesmaids.
Perhaps she will ask me."
Mr. Longcluse felt giddy and stunned;
but he said, quite gayly:
"If she wishes to be suitably attended,
she certainly will. But young ladies gene-
rally prefer a foil to a rival, even when so
very beautiful as she is."
"And there was Vivian Darnley at one
side, I'm told, whispering all kinds of sweet
things, and poor old Wynderbroke at the
other, with his glasses to his eyes, reporting
all he saw. Only think! What a goose the
old creature must have looked!"
And the young lady laughed merrily.
"But can you tell me about the other
affair?" she asked.
"What is it?" /
"Oh! you know, of course—Lady May
and Richard Arden; is it true that it was
all settled the day before yesterday, at that
kettle-drum?"
"There again my information is quite
behind yours. I did not hear a word of it."
"But you must have seen how very much
in love they both are. Poor young man! I
really think it would have broken his heart
if she had been cruel, particularly if it is
true that he lost so much as they say on the
Derby yesterday. I suppose he did. Do
you know?"
"I'm sorry to say." said Mr. Longcluse,
"I'm afraid it's only too true. I don't'
know exactly how much it, is, but I believe
it is more than he can, at present, very well
bear. A mad "thing for him to do. I'm
really sorry, although he has chosen to
quarrel with me most unreasonably."
"Oh? I wasn't aware. I fancied you
would have heard all from him."
"No, not a word — no."
"Lady May was talking to me at Raleigh
Court, the day we were there — she can
talk of no one else, poor old thing ? — and
she said something had happened to make
him and his sister very angry. She would
not say what. She only said, 'You know
how very proud they are, and I really think,'
she said, 'they ought to have been very
much pleased, for everything, I think, was
most advantageous.' And from this I con-
clude there must have been a proposal for
Alice; I shall ask her when I see her."
"Yes, I dare say they are proud. Richard
Arden told me so. He said that his family
were always considered proud. He was
laughing, of course, but he meant it,"
"He's proud of being proud. I dare *nv.
I thought you would be likely to know
whether all they say is true. It would"be a
great pity he should be ruined; but, you
know, if all the rest is true, there are re-
sources."
Longcluse laughed.
"He has always been very particular and
a little tender in that quarter; very sweet
upon Lady May, I thought," said he.
"Oh, very much gone, poor thing!" said
Grace Maubray. "I think my guardian
will have heard all about it. He was very
angry, once or twice, with Richard Arden,
about his losing so much money at play. I


88
CHECKMATE.
believe he has lost a great deal at different
times."'
"A great many people do lose money so.
For the sake of excitement, they incur losses,
and risk even their utter ruin."
"How foolish l" exclaimed Miss Mau-
bray. "Have you heard anything more
about that affair of Lady Mary Playfair and
Captain Mayfair? He is now, by the death
of his cousin, quite sure of the title, they
say."
"Yes, it must come to him. His uncle
lias got something wrong with his leg, a
fracture that never united quite; it is an
old hurt, and I'm told he is quite breaking
up now. He is at Buxton, and going on to
Vichy, if he lives, poor man."
"Oh, then, there can be no difficulty now."
"No, I heard yesterday it is all settled."
"And what does Caroline Chambray say
to that?"
And so on they chatted, till his call was
ended, and Mr. Longcluse walked down the
steps, with his head pretty busy.
At the corner of a street he took a cab;
and, as he drove to Lady May's, those frag-
ments of his short talk with Grace Maubray
thatmost interested him were tumbling over
and over in his mind. "So they are angry,
very angry ; and very proud, haughty people.
I had no business dreaming of an alliance
with Mr. Richard Arden. Angry, he may
be — he may affect to be — but I don't believe
she is. And proud, is he? Proud of her he
might be, but what else has he to boast of?
Proud and angry—ha, ha! Angry and proud.
We shall see. Such people sometimes grow
suddenly mild and meek. And she has
accepted Lord Wynderbroke. I doubt it.
Miss Maubray, you are such a good-natured
girl that, if you suspected the torture your
story inflicted, you would invent it, rather
than spare a fellow-mortal that pang."
In this we know he was a little unjust.
"Well, Miss Arden, I understand your
brother; I shall soon understand you. At
present I hesitate. Alas I must I place you,
too, in the schedule of my lost friends. Is
it come to this ? —
"'Once I held thee dear as pearl,
Now I do abhor thee.'"
Mr. Longcluse's chin rests on his breast
as, with a faint smile, he thus ruminates.
The cab stops. The light frown that had
contracted his eyebrows disappears; he
glances quickly up at the drawing-room
windows. mounts the steps, and knofcks at
the hall-door.
"Is Lady May Penrose at home?" he
asked.
"I'll inquire, sir."
Was it fancy, or was there in his recep-
tion something a little unusual, and ominous
of exclusion?
He was, notwithstanding, shown up stairs.
Mr. Longcluse enters _the drawing-room:
Lady May will see him in a few minutes.
He is alone.
At the further end of this room is a smaller
one, furnished like the drawing-room, the
same curtains, carpet, and style, but much
more minute and elaborate in ornamentation
— an extremely pretty boudoir. He just
peeps in. No, no one there. Then slowly
he saunters into the other drawing-room,
picks up a book, lays it down, and looks
round.
Quite solitary is this room also. His coun-
tenance changes a little. With a swift, noise-
less step, he returns to the room he first en-
tered.
There is a little marqueterie table, to
which he directs his steps,1 just behind the
door from the staircase, under the pretty old
buhl clock, that ticks so merrily with its old
wheels and lever, exciting the reverential
curiosity of Monsieur Racine, who keeps it
in order, and comments on its antique works
with a mysterious smile every time he comes,
to any one who will listen to him.
The door is a little bit open. All the bet-
ter, Mr. Longcluse will hear any step that
approaches. On this little table lies an open
note, hastily thrown there, and the pretty
handwriting he has recognized. Ho knows
it is Alice Arden's.
Without the slightest scruple, this odd
gentleman takes it up and reads a bit, and
looks toward the door; reads a little more,
and looks.again, and so on to the end.
On the principle that listeners seldom hear
good of themselves, Mr. Longcluse's cautious
perusal of another person's letter did not tell
him a pleasant tale.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
WHAT ALICE COULD SAT.
The letter which Mr. Longcluse held be-
fore his eyes was destined to throw a strong
light upon the character of Alice Arden's
feelings respecting himself.
After a few lines, it went on to say: —
"And, darling, about going to you this even-
ing. I hardly know what to say, or, I mean,
I hardly know how to say it. Mr. Longcluse,
you know, may come in at any moment, and
I have quite made up my mind that I cannot
know him. I told you all about the incred-
ible scene in the garden at Mnrtlake, and I
showed you the very cool letter with which
he saw fit to follow it — and yesterday the
scene at the races, by which he contrived to
make everything so uncomfortable—so, my
dear creature, I mean to be icruel, and cut
him. I am quite serious. He has not an
idea how to behave himself; and the only
way to repair the folly of having made the
acquaintance of such an ill-bred person is,
as I said, to cut him — you must not be angry
— and Richard thinks exactly as I do. So,


CHECKMATE.
89
as I long to see you, and, in fact, can't live
away from you very long, we must contrive
some way of meeting now and then, without
the risk of being disturbed by him. In the
mean time, you must come more to Mortlake.
It is too bad that an impertinent, conceited
man should have caused me all this real vex-
ation."
There was but little more, and it did not
refer to the only subject that interested Long-
cluse, just then.
He would have liked to read it through
once more, but he thought he heard a step.
He let it fall where he had found it, and
walked to the window. Perhaps, if he had
read it again, it would have lost some'of the
force which a first impression gives to sen-
tences so terrible; as it was, they glared
upon his retina, through the same exaggera-
ting medium through which his excited imag-
ination and feelings had scanned them at first.
Lady May entered, and Mr. Longcluse paid
his respects, just as usual. You would not
have supposed that anything had occurred to
ruffle him.
Lady May was just as affable as usual, but
very much graver. She seemed to have some-
thing on her mind, and not to know how to
begin.
At length, after some little conversation,
which flagged once or twice —
"I have been thinking, Mr. Longcluse, I
must have appeared very stupid," says Lady
May. "I did not ask you to be one of our
party to the Derby; and I think it is always
best to be quite frank, and I know you like
it best. I'm afraid there has been some lit-
tle misunderstanding. I hope in a short time
it will be all got over, and everything quite
pleasant again. But some of our friends —
you, no doubt, know more about it than I do,
for, I must confess, I don't very well under-
stand it — are vexed at something that has
occurred, and"
Poor Lady May was obviously struggling
with the difficulties of her explanation, and
Mr. Longcluse relieved her.
"Pray, dear Lady May, not a word more;
you have alwuys been so kind to me. Miss
Arden and her brother choose to visit me
with their displeasure. I have nothing to
reproach myself with, except with having
misapprehended the terms on which Miss
Arden is pleased to place me. She may,
however, be very sure that I shan't disturb
h%r happy evenings here, or anywhere as-
sume my former friendly privileges."
"But, Mr. Longcluse, I'm not to lose your
acquaintance," said kindly Lady May, who
was disposed to take an indulgent and even
a romantic view of Mr. Longciuse's extrav-
agances. "Perhaps it may be better to
avoid a risk of meeting.under present circum-
stances; and, therefore, when I'm quite sure
that no such awkwardness can occur, I can
easily send you a line, and you will come if
you can. You will do just as it happens to
answer you best at the time."
"It is extremely kind of you, Lady May.
My evenings here have been so very happy,
that the idea of losing them altogether would
make me more melancholy than I can tell."
"Oh, no, I could not consent to lose you,
Mr. Longcluse, and I 'in sure this little
quarrel can't last very long. Where people
are amiable and friendly, there may be a
misunderstanding, but there can't be a real
quarrel, I maintain."
With this little speech the interview closed,
and the gentleman took a friendly leave.
Mr. Longcluse was in trouble. Blows had
fallen rapidly upon him of late. But, as
light is polarized by encountering certain
incidents of reflection and refraction, grief
entering his mind changed its character.
The only articles of expense in which Mr.
Longcluse indulged — and even in those
his indulgence was very moderate — were
horses. He was something of a judge of
horses, and had that tendency to form friend-
ships and intimacies with them which is
proper to some minds.
One of these he mounted, and rode away
into the country, unattended. He took a
long ride, at first at a tolerably hard pace.
He chose the loneliest roads he could find.
His exercise brought him no appetite; the
interesting hour of dinner passed unim-
proved.
The horse was tired now." Longcluse was
slowly returning, and looking listlessly to
his right, he thus soliloquized:
"Alone again. Not a soul in human
shape to disclose my wounds to, not a soul.
This is the way men go mad. He knows too
well the torture he consigns me to. How
often has my hand helped him out of the
penalties of the dice-box and betting-book!
How wildly have I committed myself to
him; how madly have I trusted him! How
plausibly has he promised! The confounded
miscreant! Has he good nature, gratitude,
justice, honor? Not a particle. He has
betrayed me, slandered me fatally, where
only on earth I dreaded slander, and he
knew it; and he has ruined the only good
hope I had on earth. He has launched it:
sharp and heavy is the ourse. Wait: it shall
find him out. And she! I did not think
Alice Arden could have written that letter.
My eyes are opened. Well, she has refused
to hear my good angel; the other may speak
differently."
He was riding along a narrow old road,
with pailings, and quaint old hedge-rows,
and now and then an old-fashioned brick
house, staid and comfortable, with a cluster
of lofty timber embowering it, and chimney
smoke curling cozily over the foliage; and
as he rode along, sometimes a window, with
very thick white sashes, and a multitude of
very small panes, sometimes the summit of
a gable appeared. The lowing of unseen
cows was heard over the fields, and the
whistle of the birds in the hedges; and be-
hind spread the cloudy sky of sunset, show-


CHECKMATE.
91
In the midst of this intermittent snarl,
the large, dark eyes of this man lighted on
Mr. Longcluse, and he arrested the sentence
that was about to fly over his shoulder, in
the disconsolate faces of the broken little
family in the passage. . A smile suddenly
beamed all over his dusky features, his airs
of lordship quite forsook him, and he lifted
his hat to the great man, with a cringing
salutation. The weaker spirit was overawed
by the more potent. Xt was the cat-ape,
crowning Mephistopheles, in the witch's
chamber.
"Shertainly, Mr. Longclooshe, shertainly,
shir."
And he hallooed to the cabman to tell the
"zhentleman " who was coming out to over-
take him in the cab on the soad to town.
This settled, Mr. Longcluse, walking his
horse along the road, and his city acquaint-
ance by his side, slowly made their way
toward the city, casting long shadows over
the low fence, into the field at thejr left; and
Mr. Goldshed's stumpy legs were projected
across the road in such slender proportions
that he felt for a moment rather slight and

'HE SHUFFLED OUT UPON THE ROAD.
He shuffled out upon the road, with a lazy
smile, lifting his hat again, and very defer-
entially greeted "Mishter Longclooshe."
He had thrown away his exhausted cigar,
and the red sun glittered in sparkles on the
chains and jewelry that were looped across
his wrinkled black satin waistcoat.
"How d 'ye do, Mr. Goldshed? Anything
particular to say to me?"
"Nothing, no, Mr. Longclooshe. I sposhe
you heard of that dip in the Honduras."
"They 'll get over it, but we shan't see
them so high again soon. Have you that
cab all to yourself, Mr. Goldshed t"
"No, shir, my partner'sh with me. He 'll
be out in a minute ; he'sh only puttin' a chap
on to make out an inventory."
"Well, I don't want him. Would you
mind walking.down the road here, a couple
of hundred steps or so? I have a word for
you. Your partner can overtake you in the
cab."
elegant, and was unusually disgusted, when
he glanced down upon the substance of those
shadows, at the unnecessarily clumsy style
in which Messrs. Shears and Goslin had cut
out his brown trousers.
Mr. Longcluse had a good deal to say
when they got on a little. Being earnest,
he stopped his horse; and Mr. Goldshed,
forgetting his reverence in his absorption,
placed his broad hand on the horse's shoul-
der, as he looked up into Mr. Longcluse's
face, and now and then nodded, or grunted
a " Surely."
It was not until the shadows had grown
perceptibly longer, until Mr. Longcluse's
hat had stolen away to th,e gilded stem of the
old ash-tree that was in perspective to their
left, and until Mr. Goldshed's legs had
grown so taper and elegant as to amount to
the spindle, that the talk ended, and Mr.
Longcluse, who was a little shy of being
seen in such company, bid him good even-


CHECKMATE.
93
He emphasized the words with a Lilipu-
tian thump with the side of his fist — that
which presents the edge of the doubled-up
little finger and palm — a sort of buffer,
which I suppose he thought he might safely
apply to the pane of glass on which he had
been drumming. But he hit a little too
hard, or there was a flaw in the glass, for the
pane flew out, touching the window-sill, and
alighted in the area with a musical jingle.
"There! seo what you hare made me do.
My luck! Now we can't talk without those
brutes at that open window, over the way,
hearing every word we say. By Jove, it is
later than I thought! I did not sleep last
night."
"Nor I, a moment," said Van.
"It seems like a week since those accursed
races, and I don't know whether it is morn-
ing or evening, or day or night. It is past
four, and I must dress and go to my uncle —
he said five. Don't leave me, Van, old fellow;
'I think I should cut my throat if I were
alone."
"Oh, no, I'll stay with pleasure, although
I don't see what comfort there is in me, for
I am about the most miserable dog in Lon-
don."
"Now don't make a fool of yourself any
more," said Richard Arden. "You have
only to tell them at home, or to tell your
aunt, and say that you are sorry, a prodigal
son, and all that sort of thing, and it will be
paid in a week. I look as if I was going to
be hanged — or is it the color of that glass?
I hate it. I 'll leave these cursed lodgings.
Did you ever see such a ghost?"
"Well, you do look a trifle seedy: you 'll
look better when you 're dressed. It's an
awful world to live in," said poor Van.
"I 'll not be five minutes; you must walk
with me a bit of the way. I wish I had
some fellow at my other side who had lost a
hundred thousand; I dare say he'd think
me a fool. They say Chiffington lost a hun-
dred and forty thousand. Perhaps he'd
think me as great an ass as I think you —
who knows? I may be making too much of
it — and my uncle is so very rich, and
neither wife nor child; and, I give you my
honor, I am sick of the whole thing. I'd
never take a card or a dice-box in my hand,
or back a horse, while I live, if I was once
fairly out of it. He viiyht try me, don't you
think? I'm the only near relation he has
on earth — I don't count my father, for he's
— it's a different thing, you know — I and
my sister, just. And, really, it would be
nothing to him. And I think he suspected
something about it last night; perhaps he
heard a little of it. And he's rather hot,
but he's a good-natured fellow, and he has
commercial ideas about a man's going into
the insolvent court; and, by Jove, you know,
I'm ruined, and I don't think he'd like to
see our name disgraced —'eh, do you?"
"No, I'm quite sure," said Van. "I
thought so all along."
"Peers and peeresses are very fine in their
way, and people, whenever the peers do any-
thing foolish, and throw out a bill, exclaim
'Thank Heaven, we have still a House of
Lords!' But you and I, Van, may thank
Heaven for a better estate, the order of aunts
and uncles. Do you remember the man you
and I saw in the vaudeville, who exclaims
every now and then, ' Vive mon oncle! Vive
ma tante' f"
So, in better spirits, Arden prepared tt>
visit his uncle.
"Let us get^nto a cab; people are staring
at you," said Richard Arden, when tney had
walked a little way toward his uncle's house.
"You look so utterly ruined, one would
think you had swallowed poison, and were
dying by inches, and expected to be in the
other world before you reached your doctor's
door. Here's a cab."
They got in, and sitting side by side, said
Vandeleur to him, after a moment's silence:
"I've been thinking of a thing — why did
not you take Mr. Lonffcluse into council?
He gave you a lift befdre, don't you remem-
ber? and he lost nothing by it, and made
everything smooth. Whv don't you look him
up?"
"I've been an awful fool, Van."
"How so?"
"I've had a sort of row with Longcluse,
and there are reasons.— I could not, at all
events, have asked him. It would have been
next to impossible, and now it is quite im-
possible."
"Why should it be? He seemed to like
you; and I venture to say he'd be very glad
to shake hands."
"So he might, but I should n't," said
Richard, imperiously. "No, no, there's noth-
ing in that. It would take too long*to tell;
but I should rather go over the precipice than
hold by that stay. I don't know how long
my uncle may keep me. Would you mind
waiting for me at my lodgings? Thompson
will give you cigars and brandy and water;
and I 'll come back and tell you what my
uncle intends."'
This appointment made, they parted, and
he knocked at his uncle's door. The sound
seemed to echo threateningly at his heart,
which sank with a sudden misgiving.
CHAPTER XL.
AN INTERVIEW IN THE STUDT.
"Is my uncle at home?"
"No sir; I expect him at five. It wants
about five minutes; but he desired me to
show you, sir, into the study."
He was now alone in that large square
room. The books, each in its place, with a
military precision and nattiness — seldom
disturbed, I fancy, for uncle David was not
much of a book-worm — chilled him with an


94
CHECKMATE.
aspect of inflexible formality ; and the busts,
in cold white marble, standing at intervals
on their pedestals, seemed to have called up
looks, like Mrs. Pentweezle, for the occasion.
Demosthenes, with his wrenched neck and
square brow, had evidently heard of his deal-
ings with Lord Pindledykes, and made up
his mind, when the proper time came, to sup-
port uncle David witli a tempest of appropri-
ate eloquence. There was in Cicero's face,
lie thought, something satirical and conceited
which was new and odious; and under Pla-
to's external solemnity he detected a pleas-
urable and roguish anticipation of the coming
scene.
His uncle was very punctual. A few min-
utes would see him in the room, and then two
or three sentences would disclose the purpose
he meditated.
In the midst of the trepidation which had
thus returned, he heard his uncle's knock at
the hall-door, and in another moment, he en-
tered the study.
"How d 'ye do, Richard? You 're punc-
tual. I wish our nrteting was a pleasanter
one. Sit down. You have n't kept faith with
me. It is scarcely a year since, with a large
sum of money, such as at your age I should
have thought a fortune, I rescued you from
bad hands and a great danger. Now, sir, do
you remember a promise you t*ien made me?
and have you kept your word"?"
"I confess, uncle, I know I can't excuse
myself; but I was tempted, and I am weak1
— I am a fool, worse than a'fool — whatever
- you please to call me, and I'm sorry. Can
I say more?" pleaded the young man.
"That is saying nothing. It simply means
that you do the thing that pleases you, and
break your word where your inclination
prompts; and you are sorry because it has
turned out unluckily. I have heard that you
are again in danger. I am not going to help
you." His blue eyes looked cold and hard,
and the oblique light showed severe lines at
his brows and mouth. It was a face which,
generally kindly, could yet look, on occasion,
stern enough. "Now, observe, I'm not going
to help you; I'm not even going to reason
with you — you can do that for yourself, if
you please — I will simply help you with
light. Thus forewarned you need not, of
course, answer any one of the questions I am
about to put, and to ask which, I have no
other claim than that which rests upon hav-
ing put you on your feet, and paid five thous-
and pnunds for you, only a year ago."
"But I entreat that you do put them. I'm
ashamed of myself, dear uncle David; I im-
Flore of you to ask me whatever you please:
'11 answer everything."
"Well, I.think I know everything; Lord
Pindledykes makes no secret of it. He's the
man, is n't he?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's the sallow, dissipated-looking
fellow, with the eye that Squints outward.
I knuw his appearance very well; I knew
his good-for-nothing father. No one likes to
have transactions with that fellow—he's
shunned — and you choose him, of all people;
and he has pigeoned you. I've heard all
about it. Everybody knows by this time.
And you have really lost fifteen thousand
pounds to him?"
"I am afraid, uncle, it is very near that."
"This, you know," resumed uncle David,
"is not debt:- it is ruin. You chose to mort-
gage your reversion to some Jews, for fifteen
hundred a year, 5uring your father's life-
time. Three hundred wyuld have been am-
ple, with the hundred a year you had before
— ample; but you chose to do it, and the
estates, whenever you succeed to them, will
come to you with a very heavy debt charge,
for those Jews, upon them. I don't 'suppose
the estates are destined to continue long in
our family: but that is a vexation which
don't touch you, nephew. 1 am, I confess,
sorry. They were in our family, some of
them, before the Conquest. No matter.
What you have to consider is your present
position. They will come to you. if ever,
saddled with a heavy debt: and, in the mean-
time, you have fifteen hundred a year for
your father's life; and I don't think it will
sell for anything like the fifteen thousand
pounds you have just lost. You are there-
fore insolvent: there is the story told. I see
nothing for it but your becoming formally an
insolvent. It is the bourgeoisie who shrink
from that sort of thing; titled men, arid men
of pleasure and fashion', don't seem to mind
it. There are Lord Harry Newgate, and the
Honorable Alfred Pentonville, and Sir Ay-
merick Pigeon, one of the oldest baronets in
England, have been in the Gazette within
'the last twelve months. The money I paid,
on the faith of your promise, is worse than
wasted. I'll pay no more into the pockets
of rooks and scoundrels; I 'll divide no more
of my money among blackguard jockeys and
villanous noblemen, simply to defer for a few
months the consequences of a fool's incorri-
gible folly."
"But, you know, uncle, I was not quite
so mad. The thing was a swindle ; it can't
stand. The horse was not fairly treated."
"I dare say; I suppose it was doctored.
Ldon't care; I only think that, unless you
mean! to go in for drugging horses and
bribing jockeys, you had no business among
such people, and at that sort of game. All
I want is that you clearly understand that
in this matter—though I would gladly see
you safely out of it — I 'll waste no more
money.in paying gambling debts."
"This might have happened to any one,
sir : .it might indeed, uncle. Every second
man you meet is more or less on the turf,
and they never come to grief by it. No one,
of course, can stand against a barefaced
swindle, like this thing."
"I don't care a farthing about other
people; I've seen how it tells upon you.
I don't affect to value your promises, Dick;


CHEU&MATK
I don't think that they are worth a shilling.
How many have you made me, and broken?
To me it seems the vice is incurable, like
drunkenness. Tattersall's, or whatever is
your place of business, is no better than the
gin-palace ; and when once a fellow is fairly
on the turf, the sonner he is under it, the
better for himself and all who like him.
And you have lost money at play besides.
I heard that quite accidentally; and I dare
say that is -a ruinous item in what I may
call your schedule."
"I know what people (tre saying; but it
isn't so immense a sum, by any means."
"I'm sorry to hear it. I wish it was
enormous; I wish it was a million. I wish
your failure could ruin every blackguard in
England; the more heavily you have hit
them all round, the better I am pleased.
They hit you and me, Dick, pretty hard
last time; it is our turn now. It is not my
fault now, Dick, if you don't understand me
perfectly. If at any future time I should
do anything for you — by my will, mind — l
shall take care so to tie it up that you can't
make away with a guinea. My advice is
not worth much to you, but I venture to
give it, and I think the best thing you can
do is to submit to your misfortune, and file
your schedule ; and.when you are your own
master again, I shall see if I can manage
some small thing for you. You will have
to work for your bread, you know, and you
can't expect very much at first: but there
are things — of course, 1 mean in commer-
cial establishments, and railways, and that
kind of thing — where I have an influence,
of from a hundred and twenty to two hun-
dred pounds a year, and for some of .them
you would answer pretty weU, and you can
tide over the time till you succeed to the*
title; and after a little while I may be able
to get you raised a step ; and when once you
get accustomed to work, you can't think
how you will come to like it. So that, on
the whole, the knock you have got may do
you some good, and make you prize your
position more when you come to it. Will
you go up stairs, and take a cup of tea with
Miss Maubray?"
He used to call her Grace, when speaking
to R'chard. Perhaps, in the concussion of
this earthquake, the fabric of a matrimonial
scheme may have fallen to the ground.
Richard Arden was too dejected and too
agitated to accept this invitation, I need
hardly tell you. He took his leave, chap-
ftllen.
CHAPTER XLI.
Taw appoints himself to a diplomatic
POST.
Mr. Vandeleur had availed himself very
freely of Richard Arden's invitation to
amuse himself during his absence with his
cheroots and manillas, as the clouded state
of the atmosphere of his drawing-room testi
fied to that luckless gentleman — if indeed
he was in a condition to observe anything,
on returning from his dreadful interview
with his uncle.
Richard's countenance was full of thunder
and disaster. Vandeleur looked in his face,
with his cigar in his fingers, and said, in a
faint and hollow tone:
"Well?"
To which inappropriate form of inquiry,
Richard Arden deigned no reply; but in
silence stalked to the box of cigars on the
table, threw himself into a chair, and smoked
violently for awhile.
Some minutes passed. Vandeleur's eyes
were fixed, through the smoke, on Richard's,
who had fixed his on the chimney-piece.
Van respected his ruminations.
With a delicate and noiseless attention,
inde«d, he ventured to slide gently to his
side the water carafe, and the brandy, and
a tumbler.
Still, mlence prevailed.
After a time, Richard Arden poured
brandy and water suddenly into his glass.
"Think of that fellow, that uncle of mine
— pretty uncle! Kind relation — rolling in
money! He sends for me simply to tell mo
that he won't give me a guinea. He might
have waited till he was asked. If he had
nothing better to say, he need not have given
me the trouble of going to his odious, bleak
study, to hear all his vulgar advice and
arithmetic, ending in — what do you think?
He says that I'm to be had up in the bank- a
rupt court, and when all that is over he'll
get me appointed a ticket-taker on a railway,
or a clerk in a pawn-office, or something. By
Heaven! when l think of it, I wonder how I
kept my temper. I'm not quite driven to
those curious expedients, that he seems to
think so natural. I've some cards still left
in my hand, and I 'll play them first, if it is
the same to him; and hang it! my luck
can't always run the same way. I 'll give it
another chance before I give up, and to-mor-
row morning things may be very different
with me."
"It is an awful pity you quarrelled with
Lonsrcluse l" exclaimed Vandeleur.
"That's done, and can't be undone," said
Richard Arden, resuming his cigar.
"l wonder why you quarrelled.with him.
Why, good heavens! that man is made of
money, and he got you safe out of that fel-
low's clutches — I forget his name—about
that bet with Mr. Slanter, don't you remem-
ber? — and he was so very kind about it; ami
I'm sure he'd shake hands if you'd only
ask him, and one way or another he'd pull
you through."
"I can't ask him, and I won't; he may
ask me if he likes. I'm very sure there is
nothing he would like better, for fifty rea-
sons, than to be on good terms with me
again, and I have no wish to quarrel any


OS
CHECKMATi
interesting, very profoundly, other persons
in this drama.
Old David Arden had returned early from
a ponderous dinner of the magnates of that
world which interested him more than the
world of fashion, or even of politics, and he
was sitting in his study ft half-past ten,
about a quarter of a mile westward of Mr.
Longcluse's house in Bolton Street,
Not many letters had come for him by the
late post. There were two which, he chose
to read forthwith. -The rest would, in
Swift's phrase, keep cool, and he could read
them before his breakfast in the morning.
The first was a note posted at Islington.
Xle knew his niece's pretty hand. This was
an "advice" from Mortlake. The second
which he picked from the little pack was a
foreign letter, of more, than usual bulk.
CHAPTER XLHL
A LETTER AND A SUMMONS.
Paris? Yes, he knew the hand well.
His face darkened a little with a peculiar
anxiety. This he will read first. He draws
the candles all together, near the corner of
the table at which he sits. He can't have
too much light on these formal lines, legible
and tall as the letters are. He opens the
thin envelope, and reads what follows: —
"Bear and Honored Sir :—lam in receipt of yours
of the 13th instant. You judge me rightly in supposing
that I have entered on my mission with a willing- mind,
and no thought of sparing myself. On the 11th instant I
presented the lett«r you wore so good as to provide me
with to M. de la Perrierre. He received me with much
consideration in consequence. You have not been misin-
formed with regard to his position. His influence is, and
so long as the present Cabinet remain in power will con-
tinue to he, more than sufficient to procure for me the
information and opportunities you so much desire. He
explained to me very ftu*ly the limits of that assistance
which official people here have it in their power to afford.
Their prerogative is more extensive than with us, but at
the name time it has its point* of circumscription. Every
private citizen has well defined rights, which they can in
no case invade. He says that had I come armed with affi-
davits criminating any individual, or even justifying a
strong and distinct suspicion, their powers would be much
larger. As it is, he cautions me against taking any steps
that might alarm Vanboeren. The baron is a suspicious
man, it seems, and has, moreover, once or twice been
under official surveillance, which has made him crafty.
He is not likely to be caught napping. He ostensibly
practises the professions of a surgeon and dentist. In the
latter capacity he has a very considerable business. But
his principal income is derived, I am informed, from
sources of a different kind."
"H'm! what can he mean? I suppose
he explains a little further on," mused Mr.
Arden.
M He is, in short, a practitioner about whom suspicions
of an infamous kind have prevailed. One branch of his
business, a rather strange one, has connected him with
persons, more considerable in number than you would
readily believe, who were, or are, political refugees."
"Can this noble baron be a distiller of
poisons? " David Arden ruminated,
"In all his other equivocal doings, he found, on the few
occasinus that seemed to threaten danger, mysterious pro-
tectors, sufficiently powerful to bring him off scot-free.
His relations of a political character were those which
chiefly brought him under the secret notice of the police.
It is believed that he has amassed a fortune, and it is cer-
tain that he is about to retire from business. I can much
tietter explain to you when I see you the remarkable cir-
cumstance to which I have but alluded. I hope to be in
town again, and to have the honor of waiting upon you,
on Thursday, the 29th instant."
"Ay, that's the day he named at parting.
What a punctual fellow that is ! M
•"They appear to me to have a very distinct bearing
upon some possible views of the case in which you are so
justly interested. The Baron Vanboeren is reputed very
wealthy, but he is by no means liberal in his dealings, and
is said to be insatiably avaricious. This last quality may
make him practicable"
"Yes, so it may," acquiesced uncle David.
"So that disclosures of importance may he obtained, if
he bo approached in the proper manner. Lcbas was con-
nected as a mechanic with the dentistry department of
his business. Mr. L has been extremely kind to Le-
bas' widow and children, and has settled a small annuity
upon lier, and fifteen hundred francs each upon his chil-
dren"
"Eh? Upon my life, that is very hand-
some— extremely haudsome. It gives me
rather new ideas of this man — that is, if
there's nothing odd in it," said Mr. Arden.
"The deed by which he has done all this is, in its reci-
ting part, an eccentric one. I waited, as I advised you in
mine of the 12th, upon M. Araattd, who is the legal man
employed by Madaino Lcbas, for the purpose of handing
him the ten napoleons which you were so good as to trans-
mit for the use of his family; which sum he has, with
many thanks on the part of Madame Lebas, declined, and
which, therefore, I bold still to your credit. When ex-
plaining to me that lady's reasons for declining your re-
mittance, he requested me.to read a deed of gift from Mr.
Longcluse, making the provisions I have before referred
to, and reciting, as nearly in these words as I can remem-
ber: 'Whereas I entertained for the deceased Pierre I*e-
bas, in whose house in Paris I lodged, when very young,
for more than a year and a half, a very great respect and
regard: and whereas I hold myself to have been the inno-
cent cause of his haying gone to the room, as appears
from my evidence, in which, unhappily, he lost his life:
and whereas I lodk upon it as a disgrace to our city of
London that such a crime could have been committed in
a place of public resort, frequented as that was at the time,
without either interruption or detection: and whereas, so
regarding it, I think that such citizens as could well afford
to subscribe.money, adequately to compensate the family
of the deceased for the pecuniary loss which both his
widow and children have sustained by reason of his death,
were bound to do so; his visit to London having been
strictly a commercial one; and all persons connected with
the trade of London being more or less interested in the
safety of the commercial intercourse between the two
countries: and whereas, the citizens of London have
failed, although applied to for the purpose, to make any
such compensation: now this deed witnesscth," etc."
"Well, in all that I certainly go with him.
We Londoners ought to be ash ate ed of our-
selves."
"The widow has taken her children to Avranches, her
native place, where she means to live. Please direct me
whether I shall proceed thither, and also upon what par-
ticular points you would wish mo to interrogate her. I
have learned, this moment, that the Baron Vanboeren re-
tires in October next. It is thought that he will fix his
residence after that at Berlin. My informant undertakes
to advise me of his address, whenever it is absolutely set-
tled. In approaching this baron, it is thought you will
have to exercise caution and dexterity, as he has the repu-
tation of being cunning and unscrupulous."
"I'm not good at dealing with such peo-
ple — I never was. I must engage some
long-headed fellow who understands them,"
said he.
"I debit myself with two thousand five hundred francs,
the amount of your remittance of the 15th inst., for which


CHECKMATE.
99
I will account at sight;—I remain, dear and honored sir,
your attached and most ubedient servant,
"Christopher Blount."
"I shall learn all he knows in a few days.
What is it that deprives me of quiet till a
clue be found to the discovery of Yelland
Mace? And why is it that the fancy has
seized me that Mr. Longcluse knows where
that villain may be found? He admitted,
in talking to Alice, she says, that he had
seen him in his young days. I will pick up
all the facts, and then consider well all that
they may point to. Let us but get the letters
together, and in time we may find out what
they spell. Here am I, a rich but sad old
bachelor, having missed forever the best
hope of my life. Poor Harry long dead, and
but one branch of the old tree with fruit
upon it — Reginald, with his two children:
Richard, my nephew — Richard Arden, in a
few years the sole representative of the old
family of Arden, and he such a scamp
and fool! If a childless old fellow could
care for such things, it would be enough to
break my heart. And poor little Alice! So
affectionate and so beautiful, left, as she will
be, alone, with such a protector as that fel-
low! I pity her."
At that moment her unopened note caught
his eye, as it lay on the table. He opened
it, and read these words:—
"My Dearest Uncle David.—I am bo miserable and
perplexed, and so ntterly without any one to befriend or
advise me in my present unexpected ^roubl*, that I must
implore of you to come to Mortlake, if you can, the mo-
ment this note reaches you. I know how unreasonable
and selfish this urgent request will appear. But when I
shall have told you all that has happened, you will say, I
know, that I could not have avoided imploring your aid.
Therefore, I entreat, distracted creature as I am, that you,
my beloved uncle, will come to aid and counsel me; and
believe me when I assure you that I am in extreme dis-
tress, and without, at this moment, any other friend to
help me.— Your very unhappy Niece, Alice."
He read this short note over again.
"No: it is not a sick lap-dog, or a saucy
maid; there is some real trouble. Alice has,
I think, more sense — I'll goat once. Regi-
nald is always late, and I shall find them"
(be looked at his watch) — "yes, I shall find
them still up at Mortlake."
, So instantly he sent for a cab, and pulled
on again a pair of boots, instead of the slip-
pers he had donned, and before five minutes
was driving at a rapid pace toward Mortlake.
CHAPTER XLIV.
THE REASON OF ALICE'S NOTE.
The long drive to Mortlake was expedited
by promises to the cabman; for, in this ac-
quisitive world, nothing for nothing is the
ruling law of reciprocity. It was about half-
past eleven o'clock when they reached the
gate of the avenue; it was a still night, and
a segment of the moon was high in the sky,
faintly silvering the old fluted piers and urns,
and the edges of the gigantic trees that over-
hung them.
They were now driving up the avenue.
How odd was the transition from the glare
and hurly-burly of the town to the shadowy
and silent woodlands on which this imperfect
light fell so picturesquely.
There were associations enough to induce
melancholy as he drove through those neg-
leoted scenes, his playground in boyish days,
where he, and Harry whom he loved, had
passed so many of the happy days that pre-
cede school. He could hear his laugh float-
ing still among the boughs of the familiar
trees, he could see his handsome face smiling
down through the leaves of the lordly chestnut
that stood, at that moment, by the point of the
avenue they were passing, like a forsaken old
friend overlooking the way without a stir.
"I 'll follow this clue to the end," said
David Arden. "I shan't make much of it, I
fear; but if it ends, as others in the same in-
quiry have, in smoke, I shall, at least, have
done my utmost, and may abandon the task
with a good grace, and conclude that Heaven
declines to favor the pursuit. Taken for all
in all, he was the best of his generation, and
the fittest to lead the house. Something, I
thought, was due, in mere respect to his
memory. The coldness of Reginald insulted
me. If a favorite dog had been poisoned, he
would have made more exertion to commit
the culprit. And once in pursuit of this dark
shadow, how intense and direful grew the in-
terest of the chase, and Here we are
at the hall-door. Don't mind knocking, ring
the bell," he said to the driver.
He was himself at the threshold before the
door was opened.
"Can I see my brother?" he asked.
"Sir Reginald is in the drawing-room — a
small dinner-party to-day, sir—Lady May
Penrose and Lady Mary Maypol, they re-
turned to town in Lady May Penrose's car-
riage; Lord Wynderbroke remains, sir, and
two gentlemen; they are at present with Sir
Reginald in the smoking-room."
He learned that Miss Arden was alone in
a small sitting-room, called the card-room.
David Arden had walked through the ves-
tibule and into the capacious hall. The
lights were all out but one.
"Well, I shan't disturb him. Is Miss
Alice"
"Yes, Alice is here. It is so kind of you
to come!" said a voice he well knew. "Here
I am! Won't you come up to the drawing-
room, uncle David?"
"So you want to consult uncle David," he
said, entering the room and looking round.
"In my father's time the other drawing-
rooms used to be open; it is a handsome suite
— very pretty rooms. But I think you have
been crying, my poor little Alice. What on
earth is all this about, my dear? Here I am,
and it is past eleven ; so we must come to the
point, if I am to hear it to-night. What is
the matter?"


100
CHECKMATE.
"My dear uncle, I have been so miser-
able!"
~ "Well, what is it?" he said, taking a
chair; "you have refused some fellow you
like, or accepted some fellow you don't like.
I am sure you are at the bottom of your own
misery, foolish little creature! Girls gener-
ally are, I think, the architects of their own
penitentiaries. Sit there, my dear, and if it
is anything I can be of. the least use in, you
can count on my doing my utmost. Only you
must tell me the whole case, and you must n't
color it a bit."
So they sat down on a sofa, and Miss
Alice told him in her own way that, to her
amazement, that day Lord Wynderbroke had
made something very like a confession of his
passion, and an offer of his hand, which this
unsophisticated young lady was on the point
of repelling, when Lady May entered the
room, accompanied by her friend, Lady Mary
Maypol; and, of course, the interesting sit-
uation, for that time, dissolved. About an
hour after, Alice, who was shocked at the
sudden distinction of which she had become
the object, and extremely vexed at the inter-
ruption which had compelled her to suspend
her reply, and very anxious for an opportu-
nity to answer with decision, found that op-
portunity in a little saunter which she and
the two ladies took in the grounds, accompa-
nied by Lord Wynderbroke and Sir Regi-
nald.
When the opportunity came, with a com-
mon inconsistency, she rather shrank from
the"erisis; and a slight uncertainty as to the
actual meaning of the noble lord, rendered
her perplexity still more disagreeable.
It occurred thus: the party had walked
some little distance^when Alice was ad-
dressed by her father —
"Here is Wynderbroke, who says he has
never seen my Roman inscription! You,
Alice, must do the honors, for I dare n't yet
venture on the grass " — he shrugged, and
shook his head over his foot— "and I will
take charge of Lady Mary and Lady May,
who want to see the Derbyshire thistles —
they have grown so enormous under my gar-
dener's care. You said, May, the other even-
ing, that you would like to see them."
Lady May acquiesced with true feminine
sympathy with the baronet's stratagem, not-
withstandingan imploring glancefrom Alice;
and Lady Mary Maypol, exchanging a glance
with Lady May, expressed equal interest in
the Derbyshire thistles.
"You will find the inscription at the door
of the grotto, only twenty steps from this; it
was dug up when my,grandfather made the
round pond, with the fountain in it. You 'll
find us in the garden."
Lord Wynderbroke beamed an insufferable
smile on Alice, and said something pretty
that she did not hear.
She knew perfectly what was coming, and
although resolved, she was yet in a state of
extreme confusion.
Lord Wynderbroke was talking all the way
as they approached the grotto; but not one
word of his harmonious periods did she clearly
hear. By the time they reached the little
rocky arch under the evergreens, through
the leaves of which the marble tablet and
Roman inscription were visible, they had
each totally forgotten the antiquarian object
with which they had set out.
Lord Wynderbroke came to a stand-still,
and then with a smiling precision and dis-
tinctness, and in accents that seemed, some-
how, to ring through her head, he made a
very explicit declaration and proposal; and
during the entire delivery of this perform-
ance, which was neat and lucid rather than
impassioned, she remained tongue-tied, lis-
tening as if to a tale told in a dream.
She withdrew her hand hastily from Lord
Wynderbroke's tender pressure, and the
young lady, with a sudden effort, replied col-
lectedly enough, in a way greatly to amaze
Lord Wynderbroke.
When she had done, that nobleman was
silent for some time, and stood in the same
attitude of attention with which he had heard
her. With a heightened color he cleared his
voice, and his answer, when it came, was dry
and pettish. He thought, with great defer-
ence, that he was, perhaps, entitled to a lit-
tle consideration, and it appeared to him that
he had quite unaccountably misunderstood
what had seemed the very distinct language
of Sir Reginald. For the present he had no
more to say. He hoped to explain more sat-
isfactorily to Miss Arden, after he had him-
self had a few words of explanation, to which
he thought he had a claim, from Sir Regi-
nald; and he must confess that, after the
lengths to which he had been induced to pro-
ceed, he was quite taken by surprise, and in-
expressibly wounded by the tone which Miss
Arden had adopted.
Side by side, at a somewhat quick pace,
Miss Arden with a heightened color, and
Lord Wynderbroke .with his ears tingling,
rejoined their friends.
"Well, my dear child," said uncle David,
with a laugh, " if you have nothing worse to
complain of, though I'm very glad to see
you, I think we might have put off our meet-
ing till daylight."
"Oh I but you have not heard half what
has happened. He has behaved in the most
cowardly, treacherous, ungentleman - like
way," she continued, vehemently. "Papa
sent for me, and I never saw him so angry
in my life. Lord Wynderbroke has been
making his unmanly complaints to him, and
papa spoke so violently! And lie, instead
of going away, having had from me the an-
swer which nothing on earth shall ever in-
duce me to change, he remains here; and
actually had the audacity to tell me, very
nearly in so many words, that my decision
went for nothing. I spoke to him quite
frankly, but said nothing that was at all rude
— nothing that could have made him the


CHECKMATE.
101
least angry. I implored of him to believe
me, that I never could change my mind; and
I could not help crying, I was so agitated and
wretched. But he seemed very much vexed,
and simply said that he placed Jiimself en-
tirely in papa's hands. In fact, I've been
utterly miserable and terrified, and I do not
know how I can endure these terrible scenes
with papa. The whole thing has come upon
me so suddenly. Could you have imagined
any gentleman capable of acting like Lord
Wynderbroke— so selfish, cruel, and das-
tardly?" and with these words she burst
into tears.
"Do you mean to say that he won't take
your refusal?" said her uncle, looking very
angry.
"That is what he says," she sobbed. "He
had an opportunity only for a few words,
and that was the purport of them; and I was
so astounded, I could not reply; and, instead
of going away, he remains here. Papa and
he have arranged to prolong his visit; so I
shall be teased and frightened, and I am so
nervous and agitated; and it is such an out-
rage!"
"Now, we must not lose our heads, my
dearchild; we must consult calmly. Itseems
you don't think it possible that you may come
to like Lord Wynderbroke sufficiently to mar-
ry him."
"I would rather die! If this goes on, I
shan't stay here. I'd go and be a governess
rather."
"I think you might give my house a trial
first," said uncle David, merrily; "but it is
time to talk about that by-and-by^. What
does May Penrose think of it? She some-
times, l believe, on an emergency, lights on
a sensible suggestion."
"She had to return to town with Lady
Mary, who dined here also; I did not know
she was going until a few minutes before they
left. 1 've been so miserably unlucky! and
I could not make an opportunity without its
seeming so rude to Lady Mary, and I don't
know her well enough to tell her; and, you
have no idea, papa is so incensed, and so
peremptory; and what am I to do? Oh,
dear uncle! think of something. I know
you 'll help me."
"That I will," said the old gentleman.
"But allowances are to be made for a poor
old devil so much in love as Lord Wynder-
broke."
"I don't think he likes me now — he can't
like me," said Alice. "But he is angry. It
is simply pride and vanity. From something
papa said, I am sure of it, Lord Wynder-
broke has been telling his friends, and speak-
ing, I fancy, as if everything was arranged,
and he never anticipated that I could have
any mind of my own; and I suppose he
thinks he would be laughed at, and so I am
to undergo a persecution, and he won't hear
of anything but what he pleases; and papa
is determined to accomplish it. And, oh!
what am I to do?"
"I 'll tell you, but you must do exactly as
Ibid you. Who's there?" he said, suddenly,
as Alice's maid opened the door.
"Oh ! I beg pardon — Miss Alice, please,"
she said, dropping a curtsey and drawing
back.
"Don't go," said uncle David ; " we shall
want you. What's the matter?"
"Sir Reginald has been took bad with his
foot again, please, miss."
"Nothing serious?" said uncle David.
"Only pain, please, sir, in the same place."
"All the better it should fix itself well in
his foot. You need not be uneasy about it,
Alice. You and your maid must be in my cab,
which is at the hall-door, in five minutes.
Take leave of no one, and don't waste time
over finery ; just put a few things into a car-
pet-bag, and take your dressing-case; and
you and your maid are coming to town with
me. Is my brother in the drawing-room?"
"No, sir, please; he is in his own room."
"Are the gentlemen who dined still here?"
"Two left, sir, when Sir Reginald took ill;
but Lord Wynderbroke remains."
"Oh! and where is he?"
"Sir Reginald sent for him, please, sir —
just as I came up — to his room."
"Very good, then I shall find them both
together. Now, Alice, I must find you and
your maid in the cab in five minutes. I
shall get your leave from Reginald. Lose
no time."
With this parting charge, uncle David ran
down the stairs, and met Lord Wynderbroke
at the foot of them, returning from his visit
of charity to Sir Reginald's room.
CHAPTER XLV.
COLLISION.
"Lord Wynderbboke I" said uncle David,
and bowed rather ceremoniously.
Lord Wynderbroke, a little surprised, ex-
tended two fingers and said, "How d 'ye do,
Mr. Arden?" and smiled dryly, and then
seemed disposed to pass on.
"I beg your pardon, Lord Wynderbroke,"
said David Arden, "but would you mind
giving me a few minutes? I have something
you may think a little important to say, and
if you will allow me, I 'II say it in this room"
— he indicated the half-open door of the din-
ing-room, in which there was still some-
light — " I shall not detain you long."
The urbane and smiling peer looked on
him for a moment— rather darkly — with a
shrewd eye; and he said, still smiling:
"Certainly, Mr. Arden; but at this hour,
and being about to write a note, you will
see that I have very little time indeed —
I'm very sorry."
He was speaking stiffly, and any one might
have seen that he suspected nothing very


CHECI
MATE. 103
never will; she has grown to hate him; his
own conduct has made her despise and detest
him; and she's not the kind of girl who
would marry for a mere title. She has un-
alterably made up her mind; and these are
n'it times when you can lock a young lady
into her room, and starve her into compli-
ance; and Alice is a spirited girl — all the
women of our family were. You're no goose
like Wynderbroke — you only need to know
that the girl has quite made up her mind,
or her heart, or her hatred, or whatever it
is, and she won't marry him. It is as well
he should know it at first, as at last; and I
don't think if he were a gentleman, peer
though he be, he would have been in this
house to-night. He counted on his title: he
was too sure. I am very proud of Alice,
and now he can't bear the mortification —
having, like a fool, disclosed his suit to
others before it had succeeded—of letting
the world know he has been refused; and to
this petty vanity he would sacrifice Alice;
and prevail on you, if he could, to bully her
into accepting him —a plan in which, if he
perseveres, I have told him he shall, besides
failing ridiculously, give me a meeting; for
I will make it a personal quarrel with him."
Sir Reginald sat in his chair, looking very
white and wicked, with his eyes gleaming
fire on his brother, lie opened his mouth
once or twice to speak, but only drew a
short breath at each attempt.
David Arden rather wondered that his
brother took all this so quietly. If he had
observed him a little more closely, he would
«
have seen that his hands were trembling,
and perceived also that he had tried re-
peatedly to speak, and that either voice or
articulation failed him.
On a sudden he recovered, and regardless
of his gout started to his feet, and limped
alons the floor, exclaiming:
"Help us — help us — God help us!
What's this? My — my — oh, my God! It's
very bad!" He was stumping round and
round the table, near which he had sat, and
restlessly shoving the pamphlets and books
hither and thither as he went. "What have
I done to earn this curse? was ever mortal
so pursued? The last thing, this was; now
all's gone — quite gonei—it's over, quite.
They've done it — they've done it. Bravo I
bravi tvttil braeal All — all, and every-
thing gone! To think of her — only to think
of her! She was my pet." (And in his
bleak, trembling voice, he cried a horrid
curse at her.) "I tell you," he screamed,
dashing his hand on the table, at the other
end of which he had arrested his monoto-
nous shuffle round it, when his brother
caught suddenly his vacant eye, "you think,
because I'm down in the world, and you are
prosperous, that you can do as you like. If
I was where I should be, you dare n't. I 'll
have her back, sir. I 'll have the police
with you. I'll — I'll indict you — it's a
police-office affair. They'll take her through
the streets. Where's the wretch like her?
l charge her — let them take her by the
shoulders. And my son, Richard — to think
of him — the cursed puppy ! —his jmstobii!


104 CHECK M A T E.
One foot in the grave, have I? No, I'm
not so near smoked out as you take me —
I've a long time for it—I've a long life.
I 'll live to see him broken — without a coat
to his back — you villanous, swindling dan-
dy, and I'll"
His voice got husky, and he struck his
thin fist on the table, and clung to it, and
the room was suddenly silent.
David Arden rang the bell violently, and
got his arm round his brother, who shook
himself feebly, and shrugged, as if he dis-
dained and hated that support.
In came Crozier, who looked aghast, but
wheeled his easy chair close to where he
stood, and between them they got him into
it, trembling from head to foot.
Martha Tansey came in and lent her aid.
and beckoning her to the door, David Arden
asked her if she thought him very ill.
"Ia seen him just so a dozen times over.
He 'll be well enough, soon, an' if ye knew
him as" weel in they takin's, ye'd ho'd wi'
me, there's nothing more than common in't;
he's a bit teathy and short-waisted, and
always was, and that's how he works him-
self into them fits."'
So spoke Tansey, into whose talk, in mo-
ments of excitement, returned something of
her old north-country dialect.
"Well, so he was vexed with me, as with
other people, and he was over-excited him-
self; but as he has this little gout about him,
I may as well send out his docter as I re-
turn."
This little conversation took place outside
Sir Reginald's room-door, which David did
not care to re-enter, as his brother might
have again become furious on seeing him.
So he took his leave of Martha Tansey,
and their whispered dialogue ended. One
or two sighs and groans showed that Sir
Reginald's energies were returning. David
Arden walked quickly across the vast hall,
in which now burned duskily but a single
candle, and let himself out into the clear,
cold night; and as he walked down the
broad avenue he congratulated himself on
having cut the Gordian knot, and liberated
his niece.
It was a pleasant walk by the narrow
road, with its lofty-growing foliage, down to
the village outpost of Islington, where, under
the shadow of the old church-spire, he found
his cab waiting, with Alice and her maid
in it.
CHAPTER XLVI.
AN UNKNOWN FRIEND.
As they drove into town, uncle David was
thinking how awkward it would be if Sir
Reginald should have recovered his activity,
and despatched a messenger to recall Alice,
and await their arrival at his door. Well,
he did not want a quarrel; he hated a fra-
cas; but he would not send Alice back till
next morning, come what might; and then
he would' return with her, and see Lord
Wynderbroke again, and take measures to
compel an immediate renunciation of his
suit. As for Reginald, he would find argu-
ments to reconcile him to the disappoint-
ment. At all events, Alice had thrown
herself upon his protection, and 'he would
not surrender her except on terms.
Uncle David was silent, having all this
matter to ruminate upon. He left a pen-
cilled line for Sir Henry Margate, his
brother's physician, and then drove on to-
ward home.
Turning into Saint James's Street, Alice
saw her brother standing at the side of a
crossing, with a great-coat and a white
muffler on, the air being sharp. A couple
of carriages drawn up near the pavement,
and the passing of two or three others on the
outside, for a moment checked their pro-
gress, and Alice, had not the window been
up, could have spoken to him as they passed.
He did not see them, but the light of a lamp
was on his face, and she was shocked to see
how ill he looked.
"There is Dick." she said, touching her
uncle's arm, ''looking so miserable! Shall
we speak to him 1"
"No, dear, never mind him—he's well
enough." David Arden peeped at his nephew
as they passed. "He is beginning to take
an interest in what really concerns him."
She looked at her uncle, not understand-
ing his meaning.
"We can talk of it another time, dear,"
he added, with a cautionary glance at the
maid, who sat in the corner at the other side.
Richard Arden was on his way to the
place where he meant to recover his losses.
He had been playing deep at Colonel Mar-
ston's lodgings, but not yet luckily. He
thought he had used his credit there as far
as he could successfully press it.
The polite young men who had their sup-
per there that night, and played after he
left till nearly five o'clock in the morning,
knew perfectly what he had lost at the
Derby; but they did not know how perilous-
ly, on the whole, he was already involved.
Was Richard Arden. who had lost nearly
seven hundred pounds at Colonel Marston's
little gathering, though he had not paid
them yet, now quite desperate? By no
means. It is true he had, while Vandeleur
was out, made an excursion to the city, and,
on rather hard terms, secured a loan of three
hundred pounds—a trifle which, if luck
favored, might grow to a fortune; but which,
if it proved contrary, half an hour would see
out.
He had locked this up in his desk, as a
reserve for a theatre quite different from
Marston's little party; and on his way to
that more public and also more secret haunt,
he had called at his lodgings for it. It was
not that small deposit that cheered him, "but


CHECKMATE.
105
a curious and unexpected little note which
he found there. It presented by no means
a gentlemanlike exterior. The baud was a
round clerk's-hand, with flourishing capitals,
on an oblong blue envelope, with a vulgar
little device. A dun, he took it to be; and
he was not immediately relieved when he
read at the foot of it, " Levi." . Then he
glanced to the top, and read, "Dear Sir."
This easy form of address he read with
proper disdaia.
*' I am instructed by a most respectable party who Is
desirous to assist you., to the figure of £1,000 or upwards,
at nominal discounts, to meet you and ascertain your
wishes thereupon, if possible to-night, lest you should
surfer inconvenience.— Yours truly,
"Israel Lf.vi.
*• P. S.— In furtherance of the above, I shall be at Dig-
num's Divan, titraud, from 11 p. H. to-nigbt to 1 A. H." .
Here then, at last, was a sail i n sight!
With this note in his pocket, he walked
direct to the place of rendezvous, in the
Strand'. It was on his way that, unseen by
him, his sister and his uncle had observed
him on their drive to David Arden's house.
There were two friends only whom he
strongly suspected of this verv well-timed
interposition — there was ].'...* May Pen-
rose, and there was uncle David". Lady May
was-rich, and quite capable of a generous
sacrifice fur him. Uncle David, also rich,
would like to show an intimidating front, as
he had done, but would hardly like to see
him go to the wall.
There was, I must confess, a trifling bill
due to Mr. Longcluse, who had kindly got
or given him cash for it. It was something
less than a hundred pounds — a mere noth-
ing; but in their altered relations, it would
not do to permit any miscarriage of this
particular-bill. He might have risked it in
the frenzy of play. But to stoop to ask
quarter from Longcluse was more than his
pride could endure. No; nor would the
humiliation avail to arrest the consequences
of his neglect. In the general uneasiness
and horror of his situation, this little point
was itself a centre of torture, and now his
unknown friend had come to the rescue, and
in the golden sunshine of his promise, it,
like a hundred minor troubles, was dissolving.
In Pall Mall he jumped into a cab, feeling
strangely like himself again. The lights,
the clubs, the well-known perspectives, the
stars above him, and the gliding vehicles
and figures that still peopled the streets had
recovered their old cheery look; he was
again in the upper world, and his dream of
misery had broken up and melted.
Under the great colored lamp, yellow,
crimson, and blue, that overhung the pave-
ment, emblazoned on every side with trans-
parent arabesques, and in gorgeous capitals
proclaiming to all whom it might concern,
"Dignum's Divan," he dismissed his cab,
took his counter in the cigar shop, and en-
tered the great rooms beyond.
The first of these, as many of my readers
remember, was as large as a good-sized
Methodist chapel; and five billiard-tables,
under a blaze of gas, kept the many-colored
balls rolling, and the marker busy calling
"Blue on brown, and pink your player."
and so forth; and gentlemen young and old,
Christians and Hebrews, in their shirt-
sleeves, picked up shillings when they took
"lives," or knocked the butts of their cues
fiercely on the floor when they unexpectedly
lost them.
Among a very motley crowd, Richard
Arden slowly sauntering through the room
found Mr. Levi, whose appearance he al-
ready knew, having once or twice had occa-
sion to consult him financially. His play
was over for the night. The slim little Jew,
with black curly head, farge fierce black
eyes, and sullen mouth, stood with his hands
in his pockets, gaping luridly over the table
where he had just, he observed to his friend
Isaao Blumer, who did not care if he was
hanged, "losht sheven pound sheveuteen,
azh I'm a shinner!"
Mr. Levi saw Richard Arden approaching,
and smiled on him with his wide show of
white fangs.
Richard Arden approached Mr. Levi with
a grave and haughty face. Here, to be sure,
was nothing but what Horace Walpole used
to call "the mob." Not a human being
whom he knew was in the room; still he
would have preferred seeing Mr. Levi at his
otlice; and the audacity of his presuming to
grin in that familiar fashion! He would
have liked to fling one of the billiard-balls
in his teeth.
In a freezing tone, and with his head high,
he said:
"I think you are Mr. Levi?"
"The shame," responded Levi, still smil-
ing," and 'owish Mr. Harden thishevening?"
"I had a note from you," said Arden,
passing by Mr. Levi's polite inquiry, "and
I shoufd like to know if any of that money
.you spoke of may be made available to-
night."
"Every shtiver," replied the Jew, cheer-
fully.
"I can have it all? Well, this is rather
a noisy place," hesitated Richard Arden,
looking around him.
"l can get into Mishter Dignum's book-
offish here, Mr. Harden, and it won't take a
moment. I haven't notes, but I 'll give you
our cheques, and there 'sh no place in town
they won't go down as slick as gold, I 'll
fetch you to where there's pen and iuk."
"Do so," said he.
In a very small room, where burned a
single jet of gas, Mr. Arden signed a prom-
issory note at three months for £l,0l2 10.?.,
for which Mr. Levi handed him cheques of
his firm for £l,000.
Having exchanged these securities, Rich-
ard Arden said:
"I wish to put one or two questions to
you, Mr. Levi." He glanced at a clerk who
was making " tots" from a huge folio be-


106
CHECKMATE.
fore him, on a slip of paper, and transfer-
ring them to a small book, with great in-
dustry.
Levi understood him, and beckoned in
silence, and when they both stood in the
passage he said:
"If you want a word private with me,
Mr. Harden, where there 'sh no one cart
shee us, you 'll be as private as the deshert
of Il-arabia if you walk round the corner of
the street."
Arden nodded, and walked out into the
Strand, accompanied by Mr. Levi. They
turned to the left, and a few steps brought
them to the oorner of Cecil Street.
The street widens a little after you pass
its narrow entntnee. It was still enough
to justify Mr. Levi's sublime comparison.
The moon shone mistily on the river, which
was dotted and streaked at its further edge
with occasional lights from windows, re-
lieved hy the black reflected outline of the
buildings which made their back-ground.
At the foot of the street, at that time, stood
a clumsy rail, and Richard Arden leaned his
arm on this, as he talked to the Jew, who
had pulled his short cloak about him; and
in the faint light he could not discern his
features, near as he stood, except, now and
then, his white eye-balls, faintly, as he
turned, or his teeth when he smiled.
CHAPTER XLV1I.
BY THE RIVER.
"You mentioned, Mr. Levi, in your note,
that you were instructed by some person
who takes an interest in me to open this
business," said Richard Arden, in a more
conciliatory tone. "Will your instructions
permit you to tell me who that person is?"
"No, no," drawled Mr. Levi, with a slow
shake of his head; "I declare to you
sholemnly, Mr. Harden, I could n't. I'm
employed by a third party, and though I
may make a tolerable near guess who's
firsht fiddle in the bishness, I can't shay
nothin.'"
"Surely you can say this — it is hardly a
question, I am so sure of it — is the friend
who lends this money a gentleman?"
"I think the pershon as makesh the ad-
vanshc is a bit of a shwell. There, now,
that 'sh enough."
"But I said a gentleman," persisted Ar-
den.
"You mean to ask, hash n't a lady got
nothing to do with it?"
"Well, suppose I do?"
Mr. Levi shook his head slowly, and all
his white teeth showed dimly, as he answered
with an unctuous significance that tempted
Arden strongly to knock him down:
"We puts the ladiesh first; ladiesh and
shentlemen, that's the way it goes at the
theaytre; if a good-looking chap's a hit in a
fix, there 'sh no one like a lady to pull him
through."
"I really want to know," said Richard
Arden, with difficulty restraining his fury:
"I have some relations who are likely
enough to give me a lift of this kind; some
are ladies, and some gentlemen, and I have
a right to know to whom I owe this money."
"To our firm; who elshe? We have took
your paper at three months, and you have
our cheques on Childs'."
"Your firm lend money at five per cent.!"
said Arden, with contempt. "You forget,
Mr. lievi, you mentioned in your note, dis-
tinctly, that you act for another person.
Who is that principal for whom you act?"
"I don't know."
"Come, Mr. Levi! you are no simpleton;
you may as well tell me —no one shall be a
bit the wiser — for I will know."
"Azh I'm a shinner — azh I hope to be
shaved —" began Mr. Levi.
"It won't do —you may just as well tell
me — out with it!"
"Well, here now: I don't know, but if I
did, upon Jqokshoul, I wouldn't tell you."
"It is pleasant to meet with so much sen-
sitive honor, Mr. Levi," said Richard Arden,
very'scornfully. "I have nothing particu-
lar to say, only that your firm were mistaken,
a little time ago, when they thought that I
was without resources; l 've friends, you
now perceive, who only need to learn that I
want money, to volunteer assistance. Have
you anything more to say?"
Richard Arden saw the little Jew's fine
fangs again displayed in the faint light, as
he thus spoke; but it was only prudent to
keep his temper with this lucky intervenient.
"I have nothing to shay, Mr, Harden,
only there 'sh more where that came from,
and I may tell you sho, for that'sh no she-
cret. But don't you go too fasht, young
gentleman — not that you won't get it — but
don't you go too fasht."
"If I should ever ask your advice, it will
be upon other things. I'm giving the lend-
er as good security as I have given to any
one else. I don't see any great wonder in
the matter. Good night," he said, haughtily,
not taking the trouble to look over his
shoulder as he walked away.
"Good night," responded Mr. Levi, taking
one of Dignum's cigars from his waistcoat-
pocket, and preparing to light it with a lazy
grin, "and take care of yourshelf for my
shake, do, and don't you be lettin' all them
fine women be throwin' their fortunes like
that into your hat, andbringin' themshelves
to the workus, for love of your pretty fashe
— poor, dear, love-sick little fools! There
you go, right off to Mallet and Turner's, I
dare shay, and good luck attend you, for a
reglar lady-killin', 'ansome, sweet-spoken,
broken-down jackass!"
And at this period of his valediction the
vesuvian was applied to his cigar, and


CHECKMATE.
CHAPTER XLIX.
PROMISES FOR THE FUTURE.
As he drove to his uncle's house, he was
tumbling over facts and figures, in the en-
deavor to arrive at some conclusion as to how
he stood in the balance-sheet that must now
be worked out.
What a thing that post-obit had turned
out! Those cursed Jews who had dealt with
him must have known ever so much more
about his poor father's health than he did.
~^th£y are Ruch fellows to worm out the se-
crets of a family — all through one's own
servants, and doctors, and apothecaries.
The spies! They stick at nothing — such
liars! How they pretended to wish to be
off! What torture they kept him in! How
they talked of the old man's nervous fibre,
and pretended to think he would live for
twenty years to come!
"And the deed was not six weeks signed
when I found out he had those epileptic fits,
and they knew it, the wretches — and so
I've been hit for that huge sum of money.
And there is interest, two years' nearly on
that other charge, and that swindle that
half ruined me on the Derby. And there
are those bills that Levi has got; but that is
only fifteen hundred, and I can manage that
any time, and a few other trifles."
And he thought what yeoman's service
Longcluse might and would have rendered
him in this situation. How translucent the
whole opaque complexity would have become
in an hour or two, and at what easy interest
he would have procured him funds to adjust
these complications! But here, too, fortune
had dealt maliciously. What a piece of
cross-grained luck that Longcluse should
have chosen to fall in love with Alice!
And now they two had exchanged, not
shots, but insults, harder to forgive. And that
ofticious fool, Vandeleur, had laid him open
to a more direct and humiliating affront than,
had before befallen him. Henceforward,
between him and Longcluse no reconciliation
was possible.
Fiery and proud by nature was this Rich-
ard Arden, and resentful. In Yorkshire, the
family bad been accounted a vindictive race.
I don't know. I have only to do with those
inheritors of the name who figure in this
story.
Yes, Longcluse's masterly finance would
have made all straight. But of Longcluse a
fiery scorn, and something very like hatred,
now possessed him. To seem to wish that
he might be beholden to him, even in thought,
for the smallest favor, would have been tor-
ture.
There remained an able accountant and
influential man on 'Change, on whose services
he might implicitly reckon — his uncle, David
Arden. But he was separated from him by
the undefinable chasm of years — the want
of sympathy, the sense of authority. He
—
would take not only the management of this
financial adjustment, but the carriage of tfie
future of this young, handsome, full-blooded
fellow, who had certainly no wish to take
unto himself a Mentor.
Here have been projected on this page, as
in the disk of an oxy-hydrogen -microscope,
some of the small and active thoughts that
swarmed almost unsuspected in Richard
Arden's mind. But it would be injustice to
Sir Richard Arden (we may as well let him
enjoy, while he may, the title which stately
Death has just presented him with — it seems
to me a mocking obeisance) to pretend that
higher and kinder feelings had no place in
his heart.
Suddenly redeemed from ruin, suddenly
smitten by an awful spectacle, a disturbance
of old associations where there had once
been kindness, where estrangements and
enmity had succeeded: there was in all this
something moving and agitating, that stirred
his affections strangely when he saw his
sister.
David Arden had left his house an hour
before the news reached its inmates. Sir
Richard was shown to the drawing-room,
where there was no one to receive him; aud
in a minute Alice, looking very pale and
miserable, entered, arid running up to him,
without saying a word, threw herarms about
his neck and sobbed piteously.
Her brother was moved. He folded her
to his heart. Broken and hurried words of
tendewess and affection he spoke, as he
kissed her again and again. Henceforward
he would live a better and wiser life. He
had tasted the dangers and miseries that
attend on play. He swore he would give it
up. He had done with the follies of his
youth. But for years he had not had a
home. He was thrown into the thick of
temptation. A fellow who had no home was
so likely to amuse himself with play; and
he had suffered enough to make him hate it,
and she should see what a brother he would
be, henceforward, to her.
Alice's heart was bursting with self-re-
proach; she told Richard the whole story
of her trouble of the day before, and the
circumstance of her departure from Mort-
lake, all in an agony of tears; and declared,
as young ladies often have done before, that
she never could be happy again.
He was disappointed, but generous and
gentle feelings had been stirred within him.
"Don't reproach yourself, darling; that
is mere folly. The entire responsibility of
your leaving Mortlake belongs to my uncle;
and about Wynderbroke, you must not tor-
ment yourself; you bad a right to a voice
in the matter surely, and I dare say you
would not be happier now if you had been
less decided, and found yourself at this mo-
ment committed to marry him. I have more
reason to upbraid myself; but I'm sure I
was right, though I sometimes lost my tem-
per; I know my uncle David thinks I was


110
CHECKMATE.
right; but there is no use now in thinking
more about it; right or wrong, it is all over,
and I won't distract myself uselessly. I 'll
try to be a better brother to you than I ever
have been; and I 'll make Mortlake our
head-quarters; or we'll live, if you like it
better, at Arden Manor, or I 'll go abroad
with you. I 'll lay myself out to make you
httppy. One thing I'm resolved on, and t
that is to give up play, and find some manly
and useful pursuit; and you'll see I'll do
you some credit yet, or at least, as n country
squire, do some little good and be not quite
useless in my generation; and I 'll do my
best, dear Alice, to make you a happy home,
and to be all that I ought to be to you, my
darling."
Very affectionately he both spoke and
felt, and left Alice with some of her anxie-
ties lightened, and already more interest in
the future than she had thought possible an
hour before.
Richard Arden had a good deal upon his
hands that morning. He had money lia-
bilities that were urgent. He had to catch
his friend Mardykes at his lodgings, and get
him to see the people in whose betting-books
ho stood for large figures, to represent to
them what had happened, and assure them
that a few days should see all settled. Then
he had to go to the office of his father's
attorney, and learn whether a will was
forthcoming; then to consult with his own
attorney, and finally to follow his uncle,
David Arden, from place to place, and find
him at last, at home, and talk over details,
and advise with him generally about many
things, but particularly about the further
dispositions respecting the funeral; for a
little note from his uncle David had offered
to relieve him of the direction of those hate-
ful details transacted with the undertaker,
which everyone is glad to depute.
CHAPTER L.
uncle david's suspicions.
Mr. David Arden, therefore, had made a
call at the office of Pallor, Crapely and Co.,
eminent undertakers in the most gentleman-
like and, indeed, aristocratic line of busi-
ness, with immense resources at command,
and who would undertake to bury a duke,
with all the necessary draperies, properties,
and dramatis per.sonce, if required, before
his grace was cold in his bed.
A little dialogue occurred here, which
highly interested uncle David.
A stout gentleman, with a fat, muddy,
and melancholy countenance, and a sad
suavity of manner, and in the perennial
mourning that belongs to gentlemen of his
doleful profession, presents himself to David
Arden, to receive his instructions respecting
the deceased baronet's obsequies. The top
of his head is bald, his face is furrowed and
baggy; he looks fully sixty-five, and he an-
nounces himself as the junior partner,
Plumes by name.
Having made his suggestions and his
notes, and token his order for a strictly pri-
vate funeral in the neighborhood of London,
Mr. Plumes thoughtfully observes that he
remembers the name well, having been
similarly employed for another member of
the family.
"Ah! How was that? How long ago?"
asked Mr. Arden.
"About twenty years," sir."
"And where was that funeral?"
"The same place, sir— Mortlake."
"Yes, I know that was?"
"It was Mr. 'Enry, or, rayther' 'Arry
Harden. We 'ad to take back the plate,
sir, and change 'Enry to 'Arry — 'Arry be-
ing the name he was baptized by. There
was a hinquest connected with thathorder."
** So there was, Mr. Plumes," said uncle
David, with awakened interest, for that gen-
tleman spoke as if he had something more
to say on the subject.
"There was, sir; and it affected me
My niece, sir, had a wery
Really? How could that
wery sensibly,
narrow escape.''
"Your niece!
be?"
"There was a Mister Yelland Mace, sir^
who paid his haddresses to her, and I do be-
lieve, sir, she rayther liked him. I don't
know, I'm sure, whether he was serious in
'is haddresses, but it looked very like as if
he meant to speak; though I do suppose he
was looking 'igher for a wife. Well, he was
believed to 'ave 'ad an 'and, sir, in that
'orrible business."
"I know— so he undoubtedly had —und
the poor young lady, I suppose, was greatly
shocked and distressed."
"Yes, sir; and she died about a year after."
David Arden expressed his regret, and
then he asked:
"You have often seen that man, Yelland
Mace?"
"Not often, sir."
"You remember his face pretty well, I
dare say?"
"Well, no, sir, "not very well. It is along
time."
"Do you recollect whether there was any-
thing noticeable in his features? — had he,
for instance, a remarkably prominent nose?"
"I don't remember that he 'ad, sir. I
rather think not, but I can't by no means
say for certain. It is a long time, and I
'ave n't much of a memory for faces. There
is a likeness of him among my poor niece's
letters."
"Really? I should be so much obliged if
you would allow me to see it"
"It is at 'ome, sir; but I shall be 'ome to
dinner before I go hout to Mortlake; and,
if you please, I shall borror it of my sister,
and take it with me."


CHECKMATE.
ill
This offer David Arden gladly accepted.
When the events were recent, he could
have had nodifficutty in identifying Yelland
Mace, by the evidence of fifty witnesses, if
necessary. But it was another thing now.
The lapse of time had made matters very
different. It was recent impressions of a
vague kind about Mr. Longcluse that had
revived the idea, and prompted a renewal of
the search. Martha Tansey was aged now,
and he had misgivings about the accuracy
of her recollection. Was it possible, after
all, that he was about to see that which
would corroborate his first vague suspicions?
Sir Richard had a busy and rather harass-
ing day, the first of his succession to an
old title and a new authority, and he was
not sorry when it closed. He had stolen
about from place to place in a hired cab,
and leaned back to avoid a chance recogni-
tion, like an absconding creditor; and had
talked with the people whom he was obliged
to call on and see, in low and hurried collo-
quy, through the window of the cab. And
now night had fallen, the lamps were glar-
ing, and, tired enough, he returned to his
lodgings, sent for his tailor, and arrange'd
promptly about the
*' inky cloak, grood mntlier,
And customary suits of solemn black;"
and that done, he wrote two or three notes
to kindred in Yorkshire, with whom it be-
hoved him to stand on good terms; and then
he determined to drive out to Mortlake Hall.
An unpleasant mixture of feelings was in
his mind as he thought of that visit, and the
cold tenant of the ancestral house, whom, in
the grim dignity of death, it would not have
been seemly to leave for a whole day and
night unvisited.
It was to him a repulsive visit; but how
could he postpone it?
Behold him, then, leaning back in his
cab, and driving through glaring lamps,
and dingy shops, and narrow, ill-thriven
streets, eastward and northward; and now,
through the little antique village, with trem-
bling lights, and by the faded splendors of
the " Guy of Warwick." And he sat up and
looked out of the window, as they entered
the narrow road that is darkened by the tall
overhanging timber of Mortlake grounds.
Now they are driving up the broad avenue,
with its noble old trees clumped at either
side; and with a shudder Sir Bichard Ar-
den leans back, and moves no more until
the cab pulls up at the door-steps, and th/f
knock sounds through hall and passages,
which he dared not so have disturbed; unin-
vited, a d«y or two before.
Crozier ran down the steps to greet Mas-
ter Richard.
"How are you, old Crozier?" he said,
shaking hands from the cab-window, for
somehow he liked to postpone entering the
bouse as long as he could. "I could not
come earlier. I have been detained in town
all day by business. of various kinds, con-
nected with this." And he moved his hand
toward the open hall-door, with a gloomy
nod or two.

"HE RAISED THE CANDLE TO EXAMINE IT."


112
CHECKMATE.
"How is Martha?"
"Tolerable, sir, thank ye, considerin'. It's
a great up-set to her
•'Yes, poor thing,
Mr. Paller been here
_to"
"The undertaker?
of course. And has
- the person who is to
Yes, sir; he was here
at two o'clock, and some of the people has
been busy in the room, and his men has
come out again with the coffin, sir. l think
they 'll soon be leaving; they've been here
a quarter of an hour, and — if I may make
bold to ask, sir — what day will the funeral
be?"
"I don't know myself, Crozier; I must
settle that with my uncle. He said he
thought he would come here himself this
evening, at about nine, and it must be very
near that now. Where is Martha?"
"In her room, sir, I think."
"I won't see her there. Ask her to come
to the oak-room."
Richard got out, and entered the house of
which he was now the master, with an op-
pressive misgiving for which he could not
account.
The oak-parlor was a fine old room, and
into the panels were let four full-length por-
traits. Two of these were a lady and gen-
tleman, in the costume of the beginning of
Charles the Second's reign. The lady held
an Italian greyhound by a blue ribbon, and
the gentleman stood booted for the field, and
falcon on list. It struck Richard, for the
firfct time, how wonderfully like Alice that
portrait of the beautiful lady was.
He raised the candle to examine it. There
was a story about this lady. She had been
compelled to marry the companion portrait,
with the hawk on his hand, and those beau-
tiful, lips had dropped a curse, in her de-
spair, when she was dying, childless, and
wild with grief. She prayed that no daughter
of the house of Arden might ever wed the
man of her love, and it was said that a fa-
tality had pursued the ladies of that family,
which looked like the accomplishment of the
malediction; and a great deal of curious
family lore was connected with this legend
and portrait.
As he held the candle up to this picture,
still scanning its features, the door slowly
opened, and Martha Tansey, arrayed in a
black silk dress of a fashion some twenty
years out of date, came in. He set down the
candle, and took the old woman's hand, and
greeted her very kindly.
"How's a' wi' you, Master Richard? A
dowly house ye've come to. Ye didna look
to see this sa soon?"
"Very sudden. Martha — awfully sudden.
I could not let the day pass without coming
out to see you."
"Not me, Master Richard, but to ha'e a
last look at the face of the father that begot
ye. He 'll be shrouded and coffined by this
time — the light 'ill not be lang on that face.
The lid will be aboon it and screwed down
to-morrow, I dar' say. Ay, there goes the
undertaker's men; and there's a man from
Mr. Paller—Mr. Plumes is hisname — that
says he 'II stay till your uncle David comes,
for he told him he had something very par-
ticular to say to him; and 1 desired him to
wait in my room after his business about
the poor master was over; and the a'ad
things is passin' awa', and it's time auld
Martha was flittin' herself."
"Don't say that, Martha, unless you
would have me think you expect to find me
less kind than my father wae."
"There's good and there's bad in every
one, Master Richard. Ye can't take it in
meal and take it in malt. A bit short-waisted
he was, there's no denyin', and a sharp word
now and again: but none so hard to live
wi' as many a one that was cooler-tempered
and more mealy-mouthed; and I think ye
were o'er hard wi' him, Master Richard.
Ye should have spared the estate. It was
that killed him," she continued, consider-
ately. "Ye broke his heart, Master Richard;
he was never the same man after he fell out
wi' you."
'"Some day, Martha, you 'll' learn all
about it," said he, gently. "It was no fault
of mine — ask my uncle David, I'm not
the person to persuade you; and, besides, I
have not courage to talk over that cruel
quarrel now."
"Come and see him,".said the old woman,
grimly, taking up the oandle.
"No, Martha, no; set it d jwn again —
I'll not go."
"And when will you see him?"
"Another time — not now — I can't."
"He's laid in his coffin now; they 'll be
out again in the mornin'. If you don't see
him now, ye'll never see him; and what
will the folk down in Yorkshire say, when
it's told at Arden Court that Master Richard
*iever looked on his dead father's face, nor
saw more of him after his flittin' than the
plate on his coffin? By Jen! 'twill stir the
blood o' the old tenants, and make them
clench their fists and swear, I warrant, at
the very sound o' yer name; for there never
was an Arden died yet, at Arden Court, but
he was waked, and treated wi' every respect,
and visited by every living soul of his kin-
dred, for ten mile round."
"If you think so, Martha, say no more.
I 'll go — as well now as another time —
and, as you say, sooner or later it must be
done."
CHAPTER LI.
THE SI LHOBETTE.
"He's lookin' very nice and like himself,"
mumbled the old woman, as she led the
way.
At the open door of Sir Reginald's room
stood Mr. Plumes, in professional black.


C II E C K M A T E.
113

MR. PLUMES IV PROFESSIONAL BLACK.
with a pensive and solemn countenance, in-
tending politely to do the honors.
"Thank you, sir," said the old woman,
graciously, taking the lead in the proceed-
ings. "This is the young master, and he
won't mind troublin' you, Mr. Plumes. If
you please to go to my room, sir, the third door
mi the right, you 'll find tea made, sir; and
Mr. Crozier, I think, will he there."
And having thus disposed of the stranger,
they entered the room, in which several can-
dles were burning.
Sir Reginald had, as it were, already made
dispositions for his final journey. He had
left his bed, and lay, instead, in the hand-
somely upholstered coffin which stood on
tressels beside it. Thin and fixed were the
cold, yellow features that looked upward
from their white trimmings. Sir Richard
Arden checked his step and held his breath
as he came in sight of these stern lineaments.
The pale light that surrounds the dead face
of the martyr was wanting here; in its stead,
upon selfish lines and contracted features, a
shadow stood.
Mrs. Tansey, with a feather-brush placed
near, drove away a fly that was trying to
alight on the still face.
•' I mind bin) when he was a boy," she
said, with a groan and a shake of the head.
"There was but six years between us, and
the life that's ended is but a dream, all like
yesterday — nothing to lookback on; and,
I'm sure, if there's rest for them that has
been troubled on earth, he's happy now: a
blessed change 'twill be."
"Yes, Martjfa, we all have troubles."
"Ay, it's well to know that in time: the
young seldom does," she answered, sardoni-
cally.
"I 'll go away, Martha. I 'll return to
the oak-room. I wish my uncle were come."
"Well, you have took your last look, and
that's hut decent, and Dear me, Mas-
ter Richard, you do look bad!"
"I feel a little faint, Martha. I'll go
there; and will you give me a glass of
sherry?"
He waited at the room-door, while Martha
nimbly ran to her room, and returned with
some sherry and a wine-glass. He had
hardly taken a glass. and begun to feel him-
self better, when David Anion's step was
heard approaching from the hall.
He greeted his nephew and Martha in a
hushed undertone, as he might in church;
and then, as people will enter such rooms,
he passed in and crossed w ith a very soft
tread, and said a word or two in whispers.
You would have thought that Sir Reginald
was tasting the sweet slumber of precarious
convalescence, so tremendously does death
simulate sleep.
When uncle David followed his nephew
to the oak-room, where the servants had now
placed candles, he appeared u little pale:-, as
a man might who had just witnessed an op-
eration. He looked through the unclosed
shutters on the dark scene; then he turned,
and placed his hand kindly on his nephew's
arm. and said he, with a sigh:
"Well, Dick, you 're the head of the house
8


114
CHECKMATE.
now: don't run the old ship on the rocks.
Remember, it is an old name, and, above
all, remember that Alice is thrown upon
your protection. Be a good brother, Dick.
She is a true-hearted, affectionate creature:
be you the same to her. You can't do your
duty by her unless you do it also by yourself.
For the first time in your life, a momentous
responsibility devolves upon you. In God's
name, Dick, give up play, and do your duty l"
"I have learned a lesson, uncle; l have
not suffered in vain. I 'll never take a dice-
box in my haud again; I'd as soon take a
burning coal. I shaU never back a horse
again while I live. I am quite cured, thank
God, of that madness. I shan't talk about
it; let time declare how I am changed."
"I'm glad to hear you speak so. You
are right, that is the true test. Spoken like
a man !" said uncle David, and he took his
hand very kindly.
The entrance of Martha Tansey at this
moment gave the talk a new turn.
"By-the-by, Martha," said he, "has Mr.
Plumes come? He said he would be here
at eight o'clock."
"He's waitin', sir; and 'twas to tell you
so I came in. Shall I tell him to come here?"
"I asked him to come, Dick; I knew you
would allow me. He has some information
to give me respecting the wretch who mur-
dered your poor uncle Harry."
"May I remain ?" asked Richard.
"Do; certainly."
"Then, Martha, will you tell him to come
here? " said Richard, and in another minute
the sable garments and melancholy visage
of Mr. Plumes entered the room'slowly.
When Mr. Plumes was seated, he said,
with much deliberation, in reply to uncle
David's question:
"Yes, sir; I have brought it with me.
You said, I think, you wished me to ^etch
it, and as my sister was at home, she hobleeg-
ed me with a loan of it. It belonged, you
may remember, to her deceased daughter —
my niece. I have got it in my breast-pocket;
perhaps you would wish me now to take it
bout?"
"I am, indeed, most anxious to look at
it," said uncle David, approaching with ex-
tended hand. "You said you had seen him;
was this a good likeness?
These questions and the answers to them
occupied the time during which Mr. Plumes,
whose proceedings were slow as a funeral,
disengaged the square parcel in question
from his pocket, and then went on to loosen
the knots in the tape which tied it up, and
afterwards to unfold the wrappings of paper
which enveloped it.
"I don't remember him well enough, only
that be was good-looking. And this was
took by machinery, and it must be like. The
ball and socket they called it. It must be
hexact, sir."
So saying, he produced a square black
leather case, which being opened displayed
a black profile, the hair and whiskers beiDg
indicated by a sort of gilding which, laid
upon sable, reminded one of the decorations
of a coffin, and harmonized cheerfully with
Mr. Plumes' profession.
"Oh !" exclaimed uncle David with con-
siderable cfisappoiutment, "I thought it was
a miniature; this is only a silhouette; but
vou are sure it is the profile of Yelland
Mace?"
"That is certain, sir. His name is on the
back of it, and she kept it, poor young wo-
man ! with a lock of his 'air, and some hother
relics in her work-box."
By this time uncle David was examining
it with deep interest. The outline demolished
all his fancies about Mr. Longcljise. The
nose, though delicately formed, was deci-
dedly the ruling feature of the face. It was
rather a parrot face, but with a good fore-
head.
David Arden was disappointed. He hand-
ed it to his nephew.
"That is a kind of face one would easily
remember," he observed to Richard, as he
looked. "It is not like any one that I know
or ever knew."
"No," said Richard; "I don't recollect
any one the least like it." And he replaced
it in his uncle's hand.
"We are very much obliged to you, Mr.
Plumes; it was your mention of it this morn-
ing and my great anxiety to discover all I
can respecting that man, Yelland Mace, that
induced me to make the request. Thank
you very much," said old Mr. Arden, placing *
the profile in the fat fingers of Mr. Plumes.
"You must take a glass of sherry before you
leave. And have you got a cab to return
in?"
"The men are waiting for me; I thank
you, and I have just'ad my tea, sir, much
hobleeged, and I think I had best return to
town, gentlemen, as I have some few words
to say to-night to our Mr. Trimmer ; so, with
your leave, gentlemen, I'll wish you good
night."
And with a solemn bow, first to Mr. Ar-
den, then to the young scion of the house,
and lastly a general bow to both, that grave
gentleman withdrew.
"I could see no likeness in that thing to
any one," repeated old Mr. Arden. "Mr.
Longcluse is a friend of yours?" he added,
a little abruptly.
"I can't say he was a friend; he was an
acquaintance; but even that is quite ended,"
"What! you don't know him any longer?"
"No."
"You 're quite sure?"
"Perfectly."
"Then I may say I'm very glad. I don't
like him, and I can't say why; but I can't
help connecting him with your poor uncle's
death. I must have dreamed about him and
forgot the dream, while the impression caused
by it continues; for I cannot discover in any
fact within my knowledge the slightest jus-


CHECK
:mate. 115
tification for the unpleasant persuasion that
constantly returns to my mind. I could not
trace a likeness to him in that silhouette."
He looked at his nephew, who returned
his steady look with one of utter surprise.
"Oh, dear ! no. There is not a vestige Of
a resemblance," said Richard. "I know his
features very well."
"No," said uncle David, lowering his eyes
to the table, on which he was tapping gently
with his fingers; " no, there certainly is not
— not any. But I can't dismiss the sus-
picion. I can't get it out of my head, Rich-
ard, and yet I can't account for it," he said,
raising his eyes again to his nephew's.
"There is something in it; I could not else
be so haunted."
CHAPTER LII.
MR. LONGCLUSE EMPLOYED.
The funeral was not to be for some days,
and then to be'conducted in the quietest
manner possible. He was to be buried in a
small vault under the little church, whose
steeple cast its shadow every sunny evening
across the garden-hedges of the "Guy of
Warwick," and could be seen to the left from
the door of Mortlake Hall, among distant
trees.
Further, it was settled by Richard Arden
and his uncle, on putting their heads to-
gether, that the funeral was to take place
after dark in the evening; and even the un-
dertaker's people were kept in ignorance of
the exact day and hour.
In the mean time, Mr. Longcluse did not
trouble any member of the family with his
condolences or inquiries. As a crow perched
on a solitary bough surveys the country
round, and observes many things — very
little noticed himself—so Mr. Longcluse
made his observations from his own perch
and in his Own way.
Perhaps he was a little surprised on re-
ceiving from Lady May Penrose a note, in
the following terms : —
"Dear Mb. Longchise. — I have just heard something
that troubles me; and as I know of no one who would
more readily do me a kindness, I hope you won't think
me very troublesome if 1 beg of you to make me a call to-
morrow morning, at any time before twelve. — Ever yours
sincerely, Mat Penrose."
Mr. Longcluse smiled darkly, as he read
this note again. "It is better to be sought
after than to obtrude one's self."
Accordingly, next morning, Mr. Long-
cluse presented himself in Lady May's draw-
ing-room; and after a little waiting that
good-natured lady entered the room. She
liked to make herself miserable about the
troubles of her friends, and on this occasion,
on entering the door, she lifted her hands
and eyes, and quickened her step towards
Mr. Longcluse, who advanced a step or two
to meet her.
"Oh! Mr. Longcluse, it is so kind of you
to come," she explained; "I am in such a
sea of troubles! and you are such a friend, I
know I may tell you. You have heard, of
course, of poor Reginald's death. How hor-
ribly sudden! shocking! and dear Alice is
so broken by it! He had been, the day be-
fore, so cross — poor Reginald, everybody
knows he had a temper, poor old soul ! —
and had made himself so disagreeable to her,
and now she is quite miserable, as if it had
been her fault. But no matter ; it's not about
that. Only do you happen to know of peo-
ple— bankers or something — called Chil-
ders and Ballard?"
"Oh, dear! yes; Childers and Ballard;
they are city people, on 'Change — stock-
brokers. They are people you can quite rely
on, so far as their solvency is concerned."
"Oh! it isn't that. They have-not been
doing any business for me. It is a very un-
pleasant thing to speftk about, even to a kind
friend like you; but I want you to advise
what is best to be done; and to ask you, if
it is not very unreasonable, to use any in-
fluence you can — without trouble, of course,
I mean — to prevent anything so distressing
as may possibly happen."
"You have only to say, dear Lady May,
what I can do. I am too happy to place my
poor services at your disposal."
"I knew you would say so," said Lady
May, again shaking hands in a very friendly
way ; "and I know what I say won't go any
further. I mean, of course, that you will re-
ceive it entirely as a confidence."
Mr. Longcluse was earnest in his assur-
ances of secrecy and good faith.
,," Well," said Lady May, lowering her
voice, "poor Reginald, he was my cousin,
you know, s,o it pains me to say it; but he
was a good deal embarrassed; his estates
were» very much in debt. He owed money
to a great many people, I believe."
"Oh! Really?" Mr. Longcluse expressed
his well-bred surprise very creditably.
"Yes, indeed; and these people, Childers
and Ballard, have something they call a
judgment, I think. It is a kind of debt, for
about twelve hundred pounds, which they
say must be paid at once; and they vow
that if it is not they will seize ,'ie coffin,
and — and — all that, at the funeral. And
David Arden is so angry, you can't think,
and he says that the money, is not owed
to them, and that they have, no right by
law to do any such thing, and that from
beginning to end it is a mere piece of ex-
tortion. And he won't hear of Richard's
paying a farthing of it; and he says that
Richard must bring a lawsuit against them,
for ever so much money, if they attempt
anything of the kind, and that he's sure to
win. But that is not what I am thinking
of—it is about poor Alice, she is so misera-
ble about the mere chance of its happening.
The profanation — the fracas — all so shock-
ing, and so public — the funeral, you know."


CHECK
MATE. 117
of an hour by the clock over the chimney,"
speedily it grew to "half an hour," and
finally to "upwards of an hour# by"
with a stare in the face of the wondering, or
curious, listener. And when clients looked
in, in the course of the day to consult him,
he would say, with a wag of his head and a
little looseness about minutes, "There was
a man sitting here a minute ago, Mr. Long-
cluse — you may have met him as you came
up the stairs — that could have given us a
wrinkle about that;" or, "Longcluse, who
was here consulting me this morning, is
clearly of opinion that Italian bonds will be
dQwn a quarter by settling day ;" or, "Take
my advice, and don't burn your-fingers with
thone things, for it is possible something
queer may happen any day after Wednesday.
l had Longcluse — I dare say you may have
heard of him," he parenthesised, jocularly —
"sitting in that cliair to-day for very nearly
an hour and a half, and that's a fellow one
does n't sit long with without hearing some-
thing worth remembering."
From the attorney of Sir Richard Arden
was served upon Messrs. Childers and Bal-
lard, that day, a cautionary notice in very
stern terms respecting their threatened at-
tack upon Sir Reginald's funeral appoint-
ments and body; to which they replied in
terms as sharp, and fixed three o'clock for
payment of the bond.
It was a. very short mile from Mortlake to
that small old church near the "Guy of War-
wick," the bit of whose gray spire and the
pinnacle of whose weather-cock you could
see between the two great clumps of elms to
the left. Sir Reginald, feet foremost, was
to make this little journey that evening,
under a grove of black plumes, to the small,
quiet room, which he was thenceforward to
share with his ancestor Sir Hugh Arden, of
Mortlake Hall, Baronet, whose pillared mon-
ument decorated the little church.
He lies now, soldered up and screwed
down, in his straight bed, triply secured in
lead, mahogany, and oak, and as safe as
"the old woman of Berkeley " hoped to be
from the grip of marauders.
Once there, and the stone door replaced
and mortared in, the irritable old gentleman
might sleep the quietest sleep his body had
ever enjoyed to the crack of doom. The
space was short, too, which separated that
from the bed-room he was leaving; but the
interval was "Jew's ground," trespassingon
which, it was thought, he ran a great risk
of being captured by frantic creditors. A
whisper of the danger had got into the house-
keeper's room; and Crozier, whose north-
country blood was hot, and temper warlike,
had loaded the horse-pistols, and swore that
he would shoot the first man who laid a hand
unfriendly on the old master's coffin. There
was an agitation simmering under the grim
formalities and tip-toe treadingsof the house
of death. Martha Tansey grew frightened,
angry as she was, and told Richard Arden
that Crozier was "neither to hold nor to
bind, and meant to walk by the hearse, and
stand by the coffin till it was shut into the
vault, with loaded pistols in his pockets, and
would make food for worms so sure as they
villains dar'd to interrupt the funeral."
Whereupon Richard saw Orozier, took the
pistols from him, shook him very hard by the
hand, for he liked him all the more, and told
him that he would desire nothing better than
their attempting to accomplish their threats,
as he was well advised the law would make
examples of them.
Theu he went up stairs, and saw Alice,
and he could not help thinking how her
black crapes became her. He kissed her,
and, sitting down beside her, said:
"Martha Tansey says, darling, that you
are unhappy abijut something she has been
tellingyou concerning this miserable funeral.
She ought not to have alarmed you about it.
If I had known that you were frightened, or,
in (act, knew anything about it, I should
have made a point of coming out here yester-
day, although I had fifty things to do."
"I had a very good-natured note to-day,
Dick, from Lady May," she said; "only a
word, but very kindly intended." And she
placed the open note in his fingers. When
he had read it, Richard dropped the note on
the table with a sneer.
"That man, I suspect, is himself the
secret promoter of this outrage — a very in-
expensive way, this, of making character
with Lady May, and placing you under an
obligation — the scoundrel l""
Looks and language of hatred are not very
pretty at any time, but in the atmosphere
of death they acquire a character of horror.
Some momentary disturbance of this kind
Richard may have seen in his sister's pale
face, for he said:
"Don't mind what I say about that fel-
low, for I have no patience with myself for
having ever known him."
"I am so glad, Dick, that you havedropped
that acquaintance!" said the young lady.
"You have come, at last, to think as I do,"
said Richard.
"It is not so much thinking as something
different: the uncertainty about him — the
appalling stories you have heard — and, oh!
Richard, I had such a dream last night! I
dreamed that Mr. Longcluse murdered-you.
You smile, but I could not have imagined
anything that was not real, so vivid, and it
was in this room, and — I don't know how,
for I forget the beginning of it — the candles
went out, and you were standing near the
door talking to me, and bright moonlight
was shining in at the window, and showed
you quite distinctly, and the open door; and
I saw Mr. Longcluse come from behind it
with a pistol, and raise it to shoot you; and
I tried to scream, but I could n't. But you
turned about and stabbed at him with a
knife or something; I saw it shine in the
moonlight, and instantly there was a line of


CHECKMATE.
119
tone, but with sharp and measured articula-
tion. "I have something important to say.
Open the window a little; I miSt not raise
my voice, and I have this to give you." He
held a note by the corner, and tapped it on
the glass.
Martha Tansey thought for^a moment. It
could not be a law-writ he had to serve; a
rich man like him would never do that.
Why should she not take.his note, and hear
what he had to say?
She removed the bolt from the sash, and
raised the window. There was not a breath
stirring.
CHAPTER LIV.
AMONG THE TREES.
When the old woman had raised the win-
dow, "Thanks," said Mr. Longcluse, almost
in a whisper. "There are people, Lady May
Penrose told me this morning, threatening
to interrupt the funeral to-night. Of course
you know — you must know."
"I have heard o' some such matter, but
'tis nout to no one here. We don't care a
snap for them, and if they try any sich lids,
by my sang, we 'll fit them! And I think,
sir, if ye've anything o' consequence to tell
the family, ye 'll not mind my saying't would
be better ye sud go, like ither folk, to the
hall-door, and leave your message there."
"Your reproof would be better deserved,
Mrs. Tansey," he answered, good-humoredly,
"if there had not been a difficulty. Mr.
Richard Arden is not on pleasant terms
with nip, and my business will not afford to
wait. i understand that Miss Arden has
suffered much anxiety. It is entirely on her
account that I have interested myself so
much in it; and l don't see, Mrs. Tansey.
why you and I should not be better friends,"
he added, extending his long slender hand
gently toward her.
She did not take it, but made a stiff little
curtsey instead, and drew back about six
inches.
Perhaps Mr. Longcluse had meditated
making her a present, but her severe looks
daunteil him. and he thought that he might
as wc'.l be a little better acquainted before he
made that venture. He went on.
"You have spoken very wisely, Mrs. Tan-
sey; I am sore if these people do as they
threaten it will be contrary to law, and so,
as you say. you may snap your fingers at
them at last. But, in the mean time, they
may enter the house and seize the coffin, or
possibly cause some disgraceful interruption
on the way. Lady May tells me that Miss
Alice has suffered a great deal in conse-
quence. Will you tell her to set her mind
art ease? Pray assure her that I have seen
the people, that I have threatened them into
submission, that I am confident no such at-
tempt will be made, and that should the
slightest annoyance be attempted, Crozier
has only to present the notice inclosed in
this to the person offering it, and it will in-
stantly be discontinued. I have done all
this entirely on her account, and pray lose
no time in quieting her alarms. I am sure.
Mrs. Tansey, you and I shall be better
friends some day."
Mrs. Tansey curtseyed again.
"Pray take this note."
She took it.
"Give it to Crozier, and tell him, if any
person should attempt to interrupt the fu-
neral, to place it in his hand; and pray tell
Miss Alice Arden, immediately, that she
need have no fears. Good night."
And pale Mr. Longcluse, with his smile
and his dismally dark gaze, and the strange
suggestion of something undefined in look,
or tone, or air that gradually overcame her
more and more till she almost felt faint, as
he smiledand murmured at the open window,
in the moonlight, was gone. Then she stood
with the note in her thin fingers, without
moving, and calling to Crozier with a shrill
and earnest summons, as one who has just
had a frightful dream will call up a sleeper
in the same room.
Mr. Longcluse walked boldly and listlessly
through this forbidden ground. He did not
care who might meet him. Near the house,
indeed, he would not have liked an encounter
with Sir Richard Arden, because he knew
that his being involved in a quarrel at such a
moment, so near, especially with her brother,
would not subserve his interests with Alice
Arden. For hours he strode or loitered along
through the solitary woodbinds. The moon-
light was beautiful : the old trees' stood black
and mournful against the luminous sky:
there was for him a fascination in the soli-
tude, as his noiseless steps led him alter-
nately into the black shadow cast on the
sward by the towering foliage, and into the
clear moonlight, on dewy grass that showed
gray in that cold brightness. He was in the
excitement of hope and suspense. Things
had looked very blaok, but a door had opened
and light came out. Was it a dream?
Ho leaned with folded arms against the
tr^ink of one of the huge trees that stand
there, and from the slight elevation of the
ground he could sec the avenue under the
boughs of the trees that flank it, and the
chimneys of Mortlake Hall through the sum-
mite of the opening clumps. How melan-
choly and still the whole scene looked under
that light!
"When I succeed to all this, who will be
mistress of it?" he said, with his strange
smile, looking toward the summits of the
chimneys that indicated the site of the Hall.
"No one knows who l am ; who can tell my
history? What about that opera-girl? What
about my money ? — money is always ex-
aggerated. How many humbugs ! how many
collapses! stealing into society by evasions,
on false pretences, in disguise! The man in


120
CHECKMATE.
the mask, ha! ha! Really? perhaps two
masks; not a bad fluke, that. The villain!
You would not take a thousand pounds and
know me — that is speaking boldly. A thou-
sand pounds is still something in your book.
You would not take it. The time will come,
perhaps, when you'd give a thousand — ten
thousand, if you had them — that I were
your friend. Slanderous villain! To think
of his talking so of me! The man in the
mask trying to excite suspicion. My two
masks are broken, and I all the better. By
! you shall meet me yet without a mask.
Alice! will you be my idol? There is no
neutrality with one like me in such a.case.
If I don t worship I must break that image.
What a speck we stand on between the illim-
itable — the eternal past and the eternal
future — always looking for a present that
shall be something tangible; always finding
it a mathematical point, cvjus nulla est pars
—the mere stand-point of a retrospect and a
conjecture. Ha! There are the wheels:
there goes the funeral \"
He held his breath, and watched. How
interesting was everything connected with
Alice! Slowly it passed along. Through
one opening made by the havoc of a storm
in the line of trees that formed the avenue,
he saw it plainly enough. A very scanty
procession — the plumed hearse, and three
carriages, and a few persons walking beside.
It passed. The great iron gate wailed its
long and dolorous note as it opened, and
Longcluse heard it clang after the last car-
riage had passed, and with this farewell the
old gate sent forth the dead master of Mort-
lake to darkness.
"Farewell to Mortlake." murmured Long-
cluse, as he heard these sounds, with a shrug
and his peculiar smile; "farewell, the
lights, the claret-jug, the whist, and all the
rest. You 'fear neither justices nor bailiffs,'
as the song says, any longer. Very easy
about your interest and your premiums;
very careless who arrests you in your leaden
vesture ; and having paid, if nothing else, at
least your beloved eon's.post-obit. Courage,
Sir Reginald ! your earthly troubles are over.
Here am I, erect at this tree, and as like to
live my term out, with all that money, and
no will made, and yet as tired as ever you
were, and very willing, if the transaction
were feasible, to die, and be bothered no
more, instead of you. Never did man walk
this world in such a chaos as I."
He sighed, and looked toward the house,
and sighed again.
"Does she relent? Was it not she who
told Lady May to ask this service of me 1
If I could only be sure of that, I should
stand here, this moment, the proudest man
in England. I think I know myself—a
very simple character: just two principles
— love and malice; for the rest, unscrupu-
lous. Mere cruelty gives me no pleasure;
well for some people it don't. Revenge does
make me happy: well for some people if it
didn't. Except for those I love or those I
hate, I live for none. The rest live for me.
I owe the*m no more than I do this rotten
stick. Let them rot and fatten my land;
let them burn and bake my bread."
With these words he kicked the fragments
of a decayed branch that lay at his fcot, and
glided over tne short grass, like a ghost, to-
ward the gate.
CHAPTER LV.
MR. LONGCLUSE SEES A FRIEND.
Sir Reginald Arden, then, is actually
dead and buried, and is quite done with the
pomps and vanities, the business and the
miseries of life — dead as King Duncan, and
cannot come out of his grave to trouble any
one with protestor interference ; and his son,
Sir Richard, is in possession of the title, and
seized of the acres, and uses them, without
caring to trouble himself with conjectures as
to what his father would have liked or ab-
horred.
A week has passed since the funeral.
Lady May has spent two days at Mortlake,
and then gone down to Brighton. Alice does
not leave Mortlake; her spirits do not rise.
Kind Lady May has done her best to per-
suade her to come down with her to Brigh-
ton, but the perversity or the indolence of
grief has prevailed, and Alice has grown
more melancholy and self-upbraiding about
her quarrel with her father, and will not be
persuaded to leave Mortlake, the very worst
place she could have chosen, as Lady May
protests, for a residence during her mourn-
ing. Perhaps in a little while she may feel
equal to the effort, but now she can't. She
has quite lost her energy, and the idea of a
place like Brighton, or even the chance af
meeting people, is odious to her.
"So, my dear, do what I may, there she
will remain, in the triste place," said Lady
May Penrose; "and her brother, Sir Rich-
ard, has so much business just now on his
hands, that he is often away two or three
days at a time, and then she stays moping
there quite alpne; and only that she likes
gardening and flowers, and that kind' of
thing, I really think she would go melan-
choly mad. But you know that kind of folly
can't go on always, and I am determined to
take her away in a month or so. People at
first are often in a morbid state, and make
recluses of themselves."
Lady May stayed, away at Brighton for
about a week. On her return, Mr. Long-
cluse called to see her.
"It was so kind of you, Mr. Longcluse, to
take all the trouble you did about that ter-
rible business! and it was perfectly success-
ful.. There was not the slightest unpleas-
antness."
"Yes; I knew I had made anything of
that kind but all impossible, but you are not


CHECKMATE.
121
to thank me. It made me only too happy to
have an opportunity of being of any use —
of relieving any anxiety."
Longcluse sighed.
"You have placed me, I know, under a
great obligation, and if every one felt it as I
do, you would have been thanked as you de-
served before now."
A little silence followed.
"How is Miss Arden?" asked he in a
low tone, and hardly raising his eyes.
"Pretty well," she answered, a little dryly;
"but she is not very wise, I think, to shut
herself up so entirely in that melancholy
place, Mortlake. You have seen it?"
"Yes, more than once," he answered.
Lady May appeared more embarrassed as
Mr. Longcluse grew less so. They became
silent again. Mr. Longcluse was the first
to speak, which he did a little hesitatingly.
'"I was going to say that I hoped Miss
Arden was not vexed at my having ventured
to interfere as I did."
'• Oh! about that, of course there ought to
be, as I said, but one opinion ; but you know
she is not herself just now, and I shall have,
perhaps, something to tell by-and-by; and,
to say truth — you won't be vexed — but l 'm
sorry I undertook to speak to her, for on that
poiat I really don't quite understand her;
and I am a little vexed — and — I'll talk to
you more another time. I'm obliged to keep
an appointment just now, and the carriage,"
she added, glancing at the pendule on the
bracket close by, " will be at tire door in two
or three minutes; so I must do a very un-
gracious thing, and say good-by; and" you
must come again very soon — come to lunch-
eon to-morrow — you must, really; I won't
let you off, I assure you; there are two or
three people coming to see me, whom I think
you would like to meet."
And, looking very good-natured, and a
little flushed, and rather avoiding Mr. Long-
cluse's dark eyes, she departed.
He had been thinking of paying Miss
Maubray a visit, but he had not avowed,
o^en to himself, how high his hopes had
mounted; and here was, in Lady May's omi-
nous manner and determined evasion, mat-
ter to disturb and even shock him. Instead,
therefore of pursuing the route he had origi-
nally designed, he strolled into the park,and
under the shade of green boughs he walked,
amid the twitter of birds and the prattle of
children and nursery-maids, with despair at
his heart, -and a brain full of images that
might have crowded chaos. ,
As he sauntered, with down-cast looks,
under the
Hebrew
his own .circle,
fore the paragothof _ ....
the grass, so_ u^preten^jo_usly,. ajid^jJSLth
way in advance of Mr. Longcluse, anxious
to attract his attention.
Mr. Longcluse did see him, as he saun-
tered on ; and the fat old Jew, with the seedy
velvet waistcoat, crossed with gold chains,
and with an old-fashioned gold eye-glass
dangling at his breast, first smiled engag-
ingly, then looked reverential and solemn,
and then smiled again with his great moist
lips, and raised his hat.
Longcluse gave him a sharp, short nod,
and intended to pass him.
"Will you shpare me one word, Mr. Long-
clooshe?"
'• Not to-day, sir."
"But I've been to your chambers, sir, and
to your houshe, Mr. Longclooshe."
"You've wasted time — waste no more."
"I do assure you, shir, it 'sh very urgent."
"I don't care."
"It'sh about that East Indian thing," and
he lowered his voice as he concluded the
sentence.
"I don't care a pin, sir."
The amiable Mr. Goldshed hesitated; Mr.
Longcluse passed him as if he had been a
post. He turned, however, and walked a
few steps by Mr. Longcluse's side.
"And everything elshe is going shovell;
and it would look fishy, don't you think, to
let thish thing go that way?"
"Let them go — and go you with them.
I wish the earth would open and swallow
you all — scrip, bonds, children, and bel- ,
dames." And if a stamp could have made
the earth open at his bidding, it would have
yawned wide enough at that instant. "If i
you follow me another step, by Heaven, I 'll r jL
make it unpleasant to you." 'iw
Mr. Longcluse looked so angry, that the
Jew made him an unctuous bow, and re-
mained fixed for awhile to the earth, gazing * .
after his patron with his hands in his
pockets; and, with a gloomy countenance,
he took forth a big cigar from his case,
lighted a vesuvian, and began to smoke, still
looking after Mr. Longcluse.
That gentleman sauntered on, striking his
stick now and then to the ground, or waving
it over the grass in as many odd flourishes
as a magician in a pantomime traces with
his wand.
If men are prone to tense themselves with
imaginations, they are equally disposed to
comfort themselves with the same shadowy
influences.'?
"I'm so nervous about this thing, and so
anxious, that I exaggerate everything which
seems to tell against nie.Nllow did I»e'ver .«
'ace as arueidtavaa JtWt of tire gr**tt-gjfAcer AJJere I a simple
vho Laii'Jnet Been "Sfp'i"ftmpf>tbj Jj»jr1o^4t4i^gase ufa&bqfa
i renewal of Ma tw£r»fcyfive piiund bilf/\.<v Jiothiijg in ]JEjn<. -
„ . 1W l ., a -'S^fatt^^tMj^teSfey^-all^bpu
a4<fy.,.A0}r Hdfcr 'Embarrassed, :*,'whV^th1Jff * ^jij
'," * '" pie.observer t»f sAilCa Seene in.
re than
ukl 'tg)^t!^,-i^.r^jjK,*>
liis — thsvt she had
t her premise. »jShe


122
CHECKMATE.

'STILL LOOKING AFTER MR. LONGCLUSE,
never mentioned my name, and when the
moment came, and I had come to ask for an
account, she did not know what to say. It
was well done, to see old Mrs. Tansey as I
did. Lady May is so good-natured, and
would feel her little neglect so much, and
she will be sure to make it up. Fifty things
may have prevented her. Yes, I 'll go and
hear what Miss Maubray has to say, and
I 'll lunch with Lady May to-morrow. I
suspect that her visitto-day was to Mortlake."
With these reflections, Mr. Longcl use's
pace became brisker, and his countenance
brightened.
CHAPTER LVI.
A HOPE EXPIRE!
Mr. Longci.use knocked at Mr. Arden's
door. Yes, Miss Maubray was at home. He
mounted the stairs, and was duly announced
at the drawing-room door, and saw the bril-
liant young lady, who received him very
graciously.
She was alone.
Mr. Longcluse began by saying that the
weather was cooler, and the.sun much less
intolerable.
. "I wish we could say as much for the
«•**» people.'thougjj, indeed, they are cool enough.
Ther^ are some people called Tramways:
ke 'sfl baronet — a^-very 'nw orfef Do you
know anything of them? Are they people
one Can know 1" , . >
"I only know that Lady Tramways chap-
eroned a very charming young lady, whom
everybody is very glad to know, to Lady
May's garden-party the other day, at Rich-
mond."
"Yes, very true: I'm that young lady,
and that is the very reason I want to know.
My uncle placed me in their hands."
"Oh, he knows everybody."
"Yes, and every one, which is quite
another thing; and the woman has never
given me an hour's quiet since. She pre-
sents me with bouquets, and fruit, and every
imaginable thing I don't want, herself in-
eluded, at least once a day: and I assure you
I live in hourly terror of her getting into the
drawing-room. You don't know anything
about them?"
"I only know that her husband made a
great deal of money by some contract."
"That sounds very badly; and she is such
a vulgar woman!"
"I know no more of them; but Lady May
had her to Raleigh Hall, and surely she can
satisfy your scruples."
"No ;. it was my guardian who asked for
their cards, so that goes for nothing. It is
j really too bad." '- -
"My^heart Weeds for you."
"By-the-by, talking of Lady May, I had
a visit from her not a quarter of an hour
•ago. \^'hat a fuss our friends at Mortlake
do make about tjie death of that disagreea-
ble old man! — Alice, I mean. Richard
Arden bears it wonderfully^ When«did you
"see either 1% she. asked ;nnoeently. •


CHECKMATE.
123
"You forget he has not been dead three
weeks, and Alice Arden is not likely to see
any one but very intimate friends for a long
time; and — and l dare say you have heard
that Sir Richard Arden and I are not on
very pleasant terms."
"' Oh ! Pity such difference should be—"'
"Thanks, and Tweedledum and Tweedle-
dee are not likely to make it up. I'm afraid
people aren't always reasonable, you know,
and expect, often, tilings that are not quite
fair."
"He ought to marry some one with money,
and give up play."
"What I give up play, and commence
husband? I'm afraid he'd think that a
rather dull life."
"Well, I'm sure I'm no judge of that,
although I give an opinion. Whatever he
niay be. you have a very staunch friend in
Lady May." . I
"t'm glad of that; she's alwaysso kind."
And he looked rather oddly at the young
lady.
Perhaps she seemed conscious of a knowl-
edge more than she had yet divulged.
This young lady was, I need not tell you,
a little coarse. She had, when she liked,
the frankness that can come pretty boldly
to the point; but I think she could be sly
enough when she pleased; and was she just
a little mischievous?
"Lady May has been talking to me a great
deal about Alice Arden. She has been to
see her very often since that poor old man
died, aud she says — she says, Mr. Long-
cluse — will you be upon honor not to repeat
this?"
"Certainly, upon my honor."
"Well, she says"
Miss Mauhray got up quickly, and settled
some flowers over the chimney-piece.
"She says that there is a coolness in that
quarter also."
"I don't quite see," said Mr. Longcluse.
"Well, l must tell you she has taken me
into council, and told me a great deal; and
she spoke to Alice, and wrote to her. Did
she say she would show you the answer? I
have got it; she left it with me, and asked
me — she's so good-natured — to use my in-
fluence — she said my influence! She ought
to know I've no influence." .
Longcluse felt very oddly indeed during
this speech; he had still presence of mind
not to add anything to the knowledge the
young lady might actually possess.
"You have not said a great deal, you
know; but Lady May certainly did promise
to show me an answer which she expected
to a letter she wrote about three weeks ago,
or less, to Miss Arden."
"I really don't know of what use I enn be
in the matter. I have no excuse for speaking
to Alice on the subject of her note—none in
the world. I think I may as well let you
see it; but you will promise — you have
promised — not to tell any one?"
"I have — I do — I promise. Lady May
herself said she would show me that letter."
"Well, I can't, I suppose, be very wrong.
It is only a note: it does not say much, but
quite enough, I'm afraid, to make it useless,
and almost impertinent, for me, or any one
else, to say a word more on the subject to
Alice Arden."
All this time she was opening a very pret-
ty marqueterie writing-desk, on spiral legs
which Longcluse had been listlessly admir-
ing, little thinking what it contained.
I She now produced a little note, which, dis-
engaging from its envelope, she placed in the
hand that Mr. Longcluse extended to re-
ceive it.
"I do so hope," she said, as she gave it to
him, "that I am doing what Lady May would
wish. I think she shrank a little from show-
ing it to you herself, but I am certain she
wished you to know what was in it."
He opened it quickly. It ran thus ("Mer-
ry," I must remark, was a pet name, origi-
nating, perhaps, in Shakspeare's song that
speaks of "the merry, merry month of
May"):
"Dearest Merry : — I hope you will come to see me to-
morrow. I cannot yet bear the idea of going into town.
I feel as if I never should, and 1 think 1 grow more and
more miserable overy day. You are one of the very few
friends whom I can see. You can't think what a pleasure
a call from you in — if, indeed, in my miserable state, I
can call anything a pleasure. I have read your letter
about Mr. Longdiise, and parts of it a little puzzle my.
I can't say that 1 have anything to forgive, and 1 am sure
he has acted just as kindly as you say. But our acquaint-
ance has endrd, and nothing shall ever induce me to re-
new it. I can give you fifty reasons, when I see you. tor
my not choosing to know him. Darling Merry. I have
quite made up my mind upon this point. I don't know
Mr. Longcluse, and I won't know Mr. Lonycluse; aud
I'll tell you all my reasons, if yon wish to hear them,
when we meet. Home of them, which seem to me more.
than sufficient,you do know. The only condition I make
is that you don't discuss them with me. I have grown
so stupid that / really cannot. I only know that I am
right, and that notning can change me. Come, darling,
and see me very soon. You have no idea how very
wretched I am. lJut I do not complain; it has drawn me,
I hope, to higher and better thoughts The world is not
what it was to-me,and I pray it never may Iks. Comu and
see me soon, darling; you cannot think how I long to see
you. — Your affectionate Alice Arden."
"What mountains of mole-hills!" s=aid
Mr. Longcluse, very gently, smiling with a
little shrug, as he placed the letter again in
Miss Maubray's hand.
"Making such a fuss about that- poor old
man's death! It certainly does look a little
like a pretty affectation. Isn't that what you
mean? He was so insnpportable I"
"No, I know nothing about that. I mean
such a ridiculous fuss about nothing. Why,
people are dropped every day for much less
reason. Sir Reginald chose to talk over his
money matters with me, and I think he ex-
pected me to do things which no stranger
could be reasonably invited to do. And I
suppose, now that he is gone, Miss Arden
resents my insensibility to Sir Reginald's
hints; and I dare say Sir Richard, who, I
may say, on precisely similar grounds,
chooses to quarrel with me, does not spare
invective, and has, of course, a friendly


124
CHECKMATE.
listener in his sister. But how absurdly
provoking that Lady May should have made
such a diplomacy, and given herself so much
trouble! And—I'm afraid I appear so
foolish—I merely assented to Lady May's
kind proposal to mediate, and I could not,
of course, appear to think it a less important
mission than she did; and — where are you
filing — Scotland? Italy?"
"'^y guardian, Mr. Arden, has not yet
settled anything," she answered; and upon
this, Mr. Longcluse began to recommend,
and with much animation to describe, sev-^
enil routes, and then he told her all his gos-
sip, and took his leave, apparently in very
happy spirits.
I doubt very much whether the face can
ever be taught to lie as implicitly as lan-
guage can. Its muscles, of course, can be
trained; but the young lady thought that
Mr. Longcluse's pallor, as he smiled and re-
turned tiie note, was more intense, and his
dark eyes strangely fierce.
"He was more vexed than he cared to
say," thought the young lady. "Lady May
has not told me the whole story yet. There
has been a great deal of fibbing, but I shall
know it all."
Mr. Longcluse had to dine out. He drove
home to dress. On arriving, he first sat down
and wrote a note to Lady May.
"Dear Lady Mat : — I am bo grateful. Miss Maubray
told me to-day all the trouble you have been taking for
me. Pray think no more of that little vexation. 1 never
took so serious a view of so commonplace all unpleasant-
ness as to dream of tasking your kindness so severely. 1
am quite ashamed of having given you so much trouble.
— Yours, dear Lady May, sincerely,
"Walter Longcluse.
"P. S. — I dou't forget your kiud invitation to lunch
to-morrow."
Longcluse dispatched this note, and then
wrote a few words of apology to the giver
of the city dinner, to which he had intended
to go. He could not go. He was very much
agitated: he knew that he could not endni'e
the long constraint of that banquet. He
was unfit, for the present, to have the com-
pany of any one. Gloomy and melancholy
was the pale face of this man, as if he were
going to the funeral of his darling, when he
stepped from his door in the dark. Was he
going to walk out to Mortlake and shoot
himself on the steps?
As Mr. Longcluse walked into town, he
caught a passing sight of a handsome young
face that jarred upon him. It was that of
Richard Arden, who was walking, also alone,
not under any wild impulse, but to keep an
appointment. .
This handsome faceappeared for a moment
gliding by, and was lost. Melancholy and
thoughtful he looked, and quite unconscious
of the near vicinity of his pale adversary.
We shall follow him to his place of ren-
dezvous.
lie walked quickly by Pall Mall, and down
Parliament Street, into the ancient quarter
of Westminster, turned into a street near
the Abbey, and from it into another that ran
toward the river. Here were tall and dingy
mansions, some of which were let out as
chambers.
In one of these, in a room over the front
drawing-room, Mr. Levi received his West-
end clients; and here, by appointment, he
awaited Sir Richard Arden.
The young baronet, a little paler, and
with the tired look of a man who was made
acquainted with care, entered this room, hot
with the dry atmosphere of gas-light. With
his back toward the door, and his feet on the
fender, smoking, sat Mr. Levi.
Sir Richard did not remove his hat, and
he stood by the table, which he slapped once
or twice sharply with his stick. Mr. Levi
turned about, looking, in his own phrase,
unusually "down in the mouth," and his
big black eyes were glowing angrily.
'•Ho! Sliir Richard Harden," he said,
rising, " I did not think we was sho near
the time. Izh it a bit too soon?" •
"A little later than the time I named."
"Crikey! sho it izh."
CHAPTER LVII.
LEVI S APOLOGUE.
The room had once been a stately one.
Three tall windows looked toward the street.
Its cornices and door-cases were ponderous,
and^ its furniture was heterogeneous, and
presented the contrasts that might be ex-
pected in a broker's store. A second-hand
Turkey carpet, in a very dusty state, cov-
ered part of the floor; and a dirty canvas
sack lay by the door, for people coming in
to rub their feet on. The tablewas a round
one, that turned on a pivot; it was oak, mas-
sive and carved, with drawers; there were
two huge gilt arm-chairs covered with
Utrecht velvet, a battered office-stool, and
two or three bedroom chairs that did not
match. There were two great iron safes on
tressels. On the top of one was some valu-
able old china, and on the other an electrify-
ing machine ; a French harp with only half-
a-dozeri strings stood in the corner near the
fire-place, and several dusty pictures of vari-
ous sizes Jeaned with their faces against
the wall. A jet of gas burned right over
the table, and had blackened the ceiling by
long use, and a dip candles, from which Mr.
Levi lighted his cigars, burned in a brass
candlestick on the hob of the empty grate.
Over everything lay a dark gray drift of
dust. And the two figures, the elegant
young man in deep mourning, and the fierce,
vulgar little Jew, shimmering all over with
chains, rings, pins, and trinkets, stood in a
narrow circle of light, in strong relief against
the dim walls of the large room.
"So you will want that bit o' money in
hand ?" said Mr. Levi.
"I told you bo."


CHECK
MATE. 125
"Don't you think they 'lrtver get tired
helpin' you, if you keep pulling alwaysh the
wrong way?"
"You said, this morning, I might reckon
upon the help of that friend to any extent
within reason," said Sir Richard, a little
sourly.
"Ye 're goin' fashtcr than yer friendsh
li-likesh; ye 're goin' al-ash — ye 're goin' a
terrible lick, you are!" said Mr. Levi, sol-
emnly.
His usually pale face was a little flushed;
he was speaking rather thickly, and there
came at intervals a small hiccough, which in-
dicated thai he hail been making merry.
"That's my own affair, I fancy," replied
Sir Richard, as haughtily as prudence would
permit. "You are simply an agent."
"Wish shome muff would take it off my
hands; 'shan ngeushy that 'll bring whoever
takesh it more tr-tr-ouble than tin. By my
shoul I Ml not keepsh long! I'm blowsh if
I 'll be fool no longer!"
"I'm to suppose that you have made up
your mind to act no longer for my friend,
whoever that friend may be?" said Sir
Richard, who boded no good to himself from
that step.
Mr. Levi nodded surlily.
"Have you drawn those bills?"
Mr. Levi gave the table a spin, unlocked
a drawer, and threw two bills across to Sir
Richard, who, glancing at them, said:
"The date is ridiculously short!"
"How can I'elp 't? and the interesht
shlesh than nothin': sh-shunder the hank
termsh f-or the besht paper going—I'm
blesht if it aint — it aint f-fair interesh ; the
timesh short becaushe the partiesh, theysh
— they shay they 're 'aid hup, shir, 'eavy
sharge to pay hoff, and a big purchashe in
Austriansh!"
"My uncle, David Arden, I happen to
know, is buying Austrian stock this week;
and Lady May Penrose is to pay off a charge
on her property next month.
The Jew smiled mysteriously.
"You may as well be frank with me,"
added Sir Richard Arden, pleased at having
detected the coincidence, which was strength-
ened /by his having, the day before, sur-
prised his uncle in conference with Lady May.
"If you don't like the time, why don't you
try shorn where elsh? why don't you try Lon-
clushe? There'sh a shwell! Two millionsh,
if he 'sh worth a pig! A year, or a month,
'twould n't matter a tizhy to him, and you
and him 'sh ash thick ash two pickpockets!"
"You 're mistaken; I don't choose to have
any transactions with Mr. Lpngcluse."
There was a little pause.
"By-the-by, I saw in Borne morning paper
— I forget which — a day or two ago, a let-
ter attacking Mr. Longcluse for an alleged
share in the bank-breaking combination;
and there was a short reply from him."
"I know, in the Timesh," interposed Levi.
"Yes," said Arden, who, in spite of him-
self, was always drawn into talk with this
fellow more than he intended; such was the
force of the ambiguously confidential rela-
tions in which he found himself. "What is
thought of that in the city?"
"There 'sh lotah of opinionsh about it;
not a sliafe chap to quar'l with. If you rub
Lonclushe one year, he'll tear you for itsh
ano'er. He'sh a bish — a bish — a bit — bit
of a bully, is Lonclushe. and don't alwaysh
treat 'ish people fair. If you've quar'led
with him, look onsh I shay, look oush!"
"Give me the check," said Sir Richard,
extending his lingers.
"Pleashe, Shir Richard, accept them
billsh," replied Levi, pushing an ink-stand
toward him, "and, I'll get our check for
you."
So Mr. Levi took the dip candle and
opened one of the safes, displaying for a
moment cases of old-fashioned jewelry, and
a number of watches. I dare say Mr. Levi
and his partner made advances on deposits.
"Why don't you cut them confounded
rashesh, Shir Richard? I'm Meshed if I
did n't lose five pounds on the Derby, myself!
There 'sh lotsh of field sportsh," he continued,
approaching the table with his check-book.
"Didn't you never shee a ferret kill a rab-
bit? It'sh a beautiful thing; it takesh it
shomeway down the back, and bit by bit it
mendsh itsh grip, moving up to-wards the
head. It it really beautiful, and not a
shound from either, only you'll see the rab-
bit'sh big eyes lookin' sho wonderful! and
the ferret hungsh on, swinging thish way and
that like a shna-ake — 't ish werry pretty !—
till It worksh itsh teeth up to where the
back-bone joinsh in with the brain ; and then
in with itsh teeth, through the shkull! and
the rabbit givesh a screech like a child in a
fit. Ha, ha, ha! I'm blesht if it aint done
ash clever ash a doctor could do it. "£ would
make you laugh. That will do."
And he took the bills from Sir Richard,
and handed him t*o checks, and as he
placed the bil Is in the safe, and locked them
up, he continued:
"It ish uncommon pretty l I'd rayther
shee it than a terrier on fifty rats. The rab-
bit's sho shimple—there'sh the fun of it —
and looksh sho foolish; and every rabbit
had besht look sharp," he continued, turn-
ing about as he put the keys in his pocket,
and looking with his burning black eyes full
on Sir Richard, "and not let a ferret get a
grip of hish back ; for if he getsh a good pur-
chase anywhere, he'll never let go tili he
hash his teeth in his brain, and then he 'sh off
with a shqueak, and there's an end of him."
"I can get notes for one of these checks
to-night?" said Sir Richard.
"The shmall one, yesh, eashy," answered
Mr.Levi. "I'm a bachelor," he added, jollily,
in something like a soliloquy, "and when-
ever I marry I 'll be the better of it; and
I'm no muff, and no cove can shay that I
ever shplit^m no one. And what do I care


CHECK
M A T E. 127
"You must not tell any one, because they I
would say it was sisterly vanity, but I think!
Bhe likes Dick."
"Sir Richard?" said Lady May, with as
much indifference as she could.
"Yes, I think she likes my brother."
Lady May smiled painfully.
"I aiways thought so," she said; "and
he admires her, of course?"
"No, I don't think he admires her at all.
I'm certain he does n't," said Alice.
"Well, certainly he always does speak of
her as if she belonged to Vivian Darnley,"
said Lady May, more happily.
'" So she does, and he to her, I hope," said
Alice.
"Hope?" repeated Lady May, interrog-
atively.
"Yes: I think nothing could be more
suitable."
"Perhaps so; you know them better than
I do."
"Yes, and I still think uncle David in-
tends them for one another."
"I would have asked Mr. Longcluse to
use his influence to get us good hearing-
places, but he is in such disgrace — is he
still, or is there any chance of his being for-
given?"
"I told you, darling, I have really nothing
to forgive — but I have a kind of fear of
Mr. Longcluse — a fear I can't account for.
It began, I think, with that affair that seemed
to me like a piece of insanity, and made me
angry and bewildered; and then there was
a dreani, in which I saw such a horrible
scene, and fancied he had murdered Richard,
and I could not get it out of my head. I
suppose I am in a nervous sta,te—and there
were other things; and, altogether, I think
of him with a kind of horror—and I find
that Martha Tansey has an unaccountable
dread of him exactly as I have; and even
uncle David says that he has a misgiving
about him, which he can't get rid of, or ex-
plain."
"I can't think, however, that he is a ghost
or even a malefactor," said Lady May, "or
anything worse than a very agreeable, good-
natured person. I never knew anything
more zealous than his good-nature on the,
occasion I told you of; and he has always
approached you with so much devotion and
respect—he seemed to me so sensitive, and
to watch your very looks; I really think
that a frown from you would have almost
killed him." -
Alice sighed, and looked wearily through
the window, as if the subject bored her; and
she said, listlessly:
"Oh, yes, he was kind, and gentleman-
like, and sang nicely, I grant you every-
thing; but—butthereis something ominous
about him, and I hate to hear him men-
tioned, and with my consent I 'll never meet
him move."
Connected with the musical venture which
the ladies were discussing, a remarkable per-
son visited London. He had a considerable
stake in its success. He was a penurious Ger-
man, reputed wealthy, who ran over from
Paris to complete arrangements about ticket
takers and treasurer, so as to ensure a sys-
tem of check, such as would make it next to
impossible for the gentlemen his partners, to
rob him. This person was the Baron Van-
boeren.
Mr, Blount had an intimation of this visit
from Paris, and Mr. David Arden invited
him to dine, of which invitation he took ab-
solutely no notice; and then Mr. Arden
called upon him in his lodging in St. Mar-
tin's Lane.
There he saw him, this man, possibly the
keeper of the secret which he had for twenty
years of his life been seeking for.
If he had a feudal ideal of this baron, he
was disappointed. He beheld a short, thick
man, with an enormous head and grizzled
hair, coarse pug features, very grimy skin,
and a pair of fierce black eyes, that never
rested for a moment, and swept the room
from corner to corner with a rapid and un-
settled glance that was full of fierce energy.
"The Baron Vanboeren ?" inquired uncle
Davids courteously.
The baron, who was smoking, nodded
gruffly.
"My name is Arden — David Arden. I
left my card two days ago, and having heard
that your stay was but for a few days, I ven-
tured to send you a very hurried invitation."
The baron grunted and nodded again.
"I wrote a note to beg the pleasure of a
very short interview, and you have been so
good as to admit me."
The baron smoked on. ,,,.
"I am told that you possibly are -^pos-
sessed of information which I ha.ye\Ji*,ng
been seeking in vain."
Another nod. . .:
"Monsieur Lebas, the unfortunate little
Frenchman who was murdered here in Lon-
don, was, I believe, in your employment?"
The baron here had a little fit of coughing.
Uncle David accepted this as an admission.
"He was acquainted with Mr. Long-
cluse?"
"Was he?" said the baron, removing and
returning his pipe quickly.
"Will you, Baron Vanboeren, be so good
as to give me any information you possess
respecting Mr. Longcluse? It is not, I
assure you, from mere curiosity I ask these
questions, and I hope you will excuse the
trouble I give you."
The baron took his pipe from his mouth,
and blew out a thin stream of Smoke.
"I have heard," said he, in short, harsh
tones, "since I came to London, nosing but
good of Mr. Longcluse. I have ze greadest
respect for zat excellent gendleman. I will
say nosing bud zat — ze greadest respect."
"You knew him in Paris, I believe?"
urged uncle David.
"Nosing bud zat — ze greadest respect,"


130
CHECKMATE.
Longcluse, farewell. I am already a little
lade."
"Farewell, dear baron. How can I thank
you enough for this kind meeting? Try one
of my cigars as you go home."
The baron, not being a proud man, took
half-a-dozen, and with a final shaking of
hands these merry gentlemen parted, and
Lnngcluse's door closed forever on the Baron
Vanboeren.
'• That bloated spider!" mused Mr. Long-
cluse. "How many flies has he sucked! It
is another matter when spiders take to catch-
ing wasps"
Every man of energetic passions has with-
in him a principle of self-destruction. Long-
cluse had his. It had expressed itself fa his
passion for Alice Arden. That passion had
undergone a wondrous change, but it was
imperishable in itsnewas in its pristine state.
This gentleman was in the dumps so soon
as he was left alone.
Always uncertainty; always the sword of
Damocles; always the little reminders of
perdition, each one contemptible, but each
one in succession touching the same set of
nerves, and like the fall of the drop of water
in the inquisition, non vi, sed scepe cadendo,
gradually heightening monotony into excite*
ment, and excitement into frenzy.
Living always with a sense of the unreal-
ity of life and the vicinity of death, with a
certain stern tremor of the heart, like that
of a man going into action, no wonder if he
sometimes sickened of his bargain with Fate,
and thought life purchased too dear on the
terms of such a lease.
Longcluse bolted his door, unlocked his
desk, and there what do we see? Six or
seven miniatures —two enamels, the rest on
ivory — all by different hands; some Eng-
lish, some Parisian; very exquisite, some
of them. Every one was Alice Arden.
Little did she dream that such a gallery
existed. How were they taken? Photo-
graphs are the colorless phantoms from
which these glowing lifelike beauties start.
Tender-hearted Lady May has in confidence
given him, from time to time, several of
these from her album; he has induced for-
eign artists to visit London, and managed
opportunities by which, at parties, in thea-
tres, and I am sorry to say even in church,
these clever persons succeeded in studying
from the life, and learning all the tints
which now glow before him.
If I had mentioned what this little collec-
tion i'ost him, you would have opened your
eyes. The Baron Vanboeren would have
laughed, and cursed him with hilarious de-
rision, and a money-getting Christian would
have been quite horror-struck on reading
the scandalous row of figures.
Each miniature he took in turn, and
looked at for a long time, holding it in both
hands, his hands resting on the desk, his
face inclined and sad, as if looking down into
the coffin of his darling.
One after the other he put them by, and
returned to his favorite one; and at last he
shut it up also, with a snap, and placed it
with the rest in the dark, under lock apd
key.
He leaned back and laid his thin hand
across his eyes. Was he looking at an image
that came out in the dark on the retina of
memory 1 Or was he shedding tears?
CHAPTER. LX.
The day arrived on which Alice Arden
had agreed to go with Lady May to West-
minster Abbey to hear the masterly per-
formance of Saul. When it came to the
point, she would have preferred staying at
home; but that was out of the question.
Every one has experienced that ominous
foreboding which overcomes us sometimes
with a shapeless forecasting of evil. It was
with that vague misgiving that she had all
the morning looked forward to her drive to
town, and the long-promised oratorio. It
was a dark day, and there was a thunderous
weight in the air, and the melancholy atmos-
phere deepened her gloom.
Her uncle David arrived in Lady May's
carriage, to take care of her. They were
to call at Lady May's house, where its
mistress and Sir Richard Arden awaited
them.
A few kind words followed uncle David's
affectionate greeting, as they drove into town.
He did not observe tha t Alice was unusually
low. He seemed to have something not
very pleasant himself to think upon, and he
became silent for some time.
"I want," said he at last, looking up
suddenly, "to give you a little advice, and
now mind what I say. Don't sign any legal
paper without consulting me, and don't
make any promise to Richard. It is just?
possible — I hope he may not, but it is just
Eossible — that he may ask you to deal in
is favor with your charge on the Yorkshire
estate. Do you tell him, if he should, that
you have promised me faithfully not to do
anything in the matter, except as I shall
advise. He may, as I said, never say a word
on the subject, but in any case my advice
will do you no harm. I have had bitter
experience, my dear, of which I begin to
grow rather ashamed, of the futility of try-
ing to assist Richard. I have thrown away
a great deal of money upon him, utterly
thrown it away. I can afford it, but you
cannot, and you shall not lose your little
provision." And here he changed the sub-
ject of his talk, I suppose to avoid the possi-
bility of discussion. "How very early the
autumn has set in this year! It is the ex-
traordinary heat of the summer. The elms
in Mortlake are quite yellow already."


CHECKMATE.
133
ready; he shall have his shot! Let him
come to Boulogne, or where he likes — I'll
stand it — and I don't think he'll need to
pay his way back again. He 'll stay in
trance; he 'll not walk in at your hall-door,
and call for luncheon, I promise you. Ila,
ha, ha!"
This pale man enjoyed her terror cruelly.
"I'm not worthy to speak to you, I be-
lieve— eh? That's odd, for the time isn't
far off when you 'll pray to God I may have
mercy on you. You had no business to en-
courage me. I'm afraid the crowd is getting
on very slowly, but I 'll try to entertain you:
you are such a good listener!"
Miss Arden often wondered afterwards at
her own passiveness through all this. There
were, no doubt, close by, many worthy
citizens, fathers of families, who would have
taken her for a few minutes under their
protection with honest alacrity. But it was
a fascination; her state was cataleptic; an#
she could no more escape" than the bird that
is throbbing in the gaze of a snake.
The cold murmur went distinctly on and
on:
"Your brother will probably think I
should treat you more ceremoniously. Don't
you agree with him? Pray, do complain to
him. Pray, send him to me, and I 'll thank
him for his share in this matter. He wanted
to make it a match between us — I'm speak-
ing coarsely, for the sake of distinctness —
till a title turned up. What has become of
the title, by-the-by? — I don't see him here.
The peer wasn't in the running, after all:
did n't even start! Ha, ha, ha! Remember
nie to your brother, pray, and tell him the
day will come when he 'll not need to be
reminded of me: I 'll take care of that. And
so Sir Richard is doomed to disappointment!
It is a world of disappointment. The earl is
nowhere! And the proudest family on
earth — what is left of it? — looks a little
foolish. And well it may: it has many
follies to expiate. You had no business en-
couraging me, and you are foolish enough
to be terribly afraid now—ha, ha, ha!
Too late, eh? I dare say you think I'll
punish you! Not I: nothing of the sort!
I'll never punish anyone. Why should I
take that trouble about you? Not I: not
even your brother. Fate does that. Fate
has always been kind to me, and hit my
enemies pretty hard. You had no business
encouraging me. Remember this: the day
is not far off when you will both rue the hour
you cheated me!"
She was gazing helplessly into that dread-
ful countenance.
There was a cruel elation in his face. He
looked on her, I think, with admiration.
Mixed with his hatred, did there remain a
fraction of love?
On a sudden the voice, which was the only
sound she heard, was in her ear no longer.
The face which had transfixed her gaze was
gone.
Longeluse had apparently pushed a way
for her to her friends, for she found herself
again next her uncle David. Holding his
arm fast, she looked round quickly for a mo-
ment: she saw Mr. Longcluse nowhere. She
felt on the point of fainting.
The scene must have lasted a shorter time
than she supposed, for her uncle had not
missed her.
"My dear, how pale you look! Are yon
tired?" exclaimed Lady May, when they
had come to a halt at the door.
"Yes, indeed; so she does. Are you ill,
dear?" added her uncle.
"No, nothing, thanks, only the crowd. I
shall be better immediately." And so wait-
ing in the air. near the door, they were soon
joined by Sir Richard, and in his carriage he
and she drove home to Mortlake. Lady May,
taking hers, went to a tea at old Lady Kl-
verstone's: and David Arden, bidding them
good-by, walked homeward across the park.
Richard had promised to spend the evening
at Mortlake with her, and side by side they
were driving out to that sad and sombre
scene. As they entered the shaded road upon
which the great gate of Mortlake opens, the
setting sun streamed through the huge
trunks of the trees, and tinted the landscape
with a subdued splendor.
"I can't imagine, dear Alice, why you
will stay here. It is enough to kill you,"
said Sir Richard, looking out peevishly on
the picturesque woodlands of Mortlake, and
interrupting a long silence. "You never
can recover your spirits while you stay here.
There is Lady May going all over the world
— I forget where, but she will be at Naples —
and she absolutely longs to take you with
her; and you won't go! I really sometimes
think you want to drive yourself mad."
"I don't know," said she, waking from a
revery in which, against the dark back-
ground of the empty arches she had loft, she
still saw the white, wicked face that had
leaned over her, and heard the low, mur-
mured stream of insult and menace. "I'm
not sure that I should not be worse anywhere
else. I don't feel energy to make a change.
I can't bear the idea of meeting people. By-
and-by, in a little time, it will be different.
For the present, quiet is what I most require.
But you, Dick, are not looking well, you
seem so over-worked and anxious. You
really do want a little holiday. Why don't
you go to Scotland to shoot, or take a few
weeks' yachting? All your business must
be pretty well settled now."
"It will never be settled," he said, a little
sourly. "I assure you there never was
property in such a mess — I mean leases and
everything. Such drudgery, you have no
idea; aud I owe a good fieal. It has not
done me any good. I'd rather be as I was
before that miserable Derby. I'd gladly ex-
change it all for a clear annuity of a thou-
sand a-yoar."
"Oh l my dear Dick, you can't mean that!


CHECKMATE.
All the northern property, and this, and
Morley?"
"I hate to talk about it. I 'ra tired of it
already. I have been so unlucky, so foolish;
and if I had not found a very good friend, I
should have been utterly ruined by that
'cursed race; and he has been aiding me very
generously, on rather easy terms, in some
difficulties that have followed; and you know
1 had to raise money on the estate before all
| this happened, and have had to make a very
heavy mortgage, and I am getting intp such
a mess — a confusion, I mean — and really
I should have sold the estates, if it had not
been for my unknown friend, for I don't
know his name."
"What friend?"
"The friend who has aided me through my
troubles — the best friend 1 ever met, unless
it be as I half suspect. Has any one spoken
to you lately, in a way to lead you to suppose
that he, or any one else among our friends,
has been lending me a helping hand?"
"Yes, as we were driving into town to-
day uncle David told me so distinctly; but 1
am not sure that I ought to have mentioned
it. I fancy, indeed," she added, as she re-
membered the reflections with which it was
accompanied, "that he meant it as a secret,
so you must not get me into disgrace with
him by appearing to know more than he has
told you himself."
"No, certainly," said Richard; "and he
said it was he who lent it?"
"Yes, distinctly."
"Well, I all but knew it before. Of course
it is very kind of him. But then, you know,
he is very wealthy; he does not feel it; and
he would not for the world that our house
should lose its position. I think he would
rather sell the coat off his back, than that
our name should be slurred."
Sir Richard was pleased that he had re-
ceived this light in corroboration of his sus-
picions. He was glad to have ascertained
that the powerful motives which he had con-
jectured were actually governing the con-
duct of David Arden, although, for obvious
reasons, he did not choose that his nephew
should be aware of his weakness.
The carriage drew up at the hall-door.
The old house, in the evening beams, looked
warm and cheery, and from every window
in its broad front flamed the reflection
which showed like so many hospitable win-
ter fires.
CHAPTER LXII.
LOVE AND PLAT.
"Here we are, Alice," said Sir Richard,
as they entered the hall. "We 'll have a
good talk this evening. We 'll make the
best of everything ; and I don't see, if uncle
David chooses to prevent it, why the old ship
should founder, after all."
They were now in the house. It was hard
to get rid of the sense of constraint that, in
his father's time, he always experienced
within those walls; to feel that the old in-
fluence was exorcised and utterly gone, and
that he was himself absolute master where,
so lately, he had hardly ventured to move on
tip-toe.
They did not talk so much as Sir Richard
had anticipated. There were upon his mind
some things that weighed heavily. He had got
from Levi a list of the advances made by his
luckily-found friend, and the total was much
heavier than he had expected. He began to
fear that he might possibly exceed the
limits which his uncle must certainly have
placed somewhere. He might not, indeed,
allow him to suffer the indignity of a bank-
ruptcy; but he would take a very short and
unpleasant course with him. He would
seize his rents, and, with a friendly rough-
ness, put his estates to nurse, and send the
prodigal on a Childe Harold's pilgrimage of
five or six years, with an allowance, perhaps,
of some three hundred a year, which, in his
frugal estimate of a young man's expendi-
ture, would be handsome.
While he was occupied in these rumina-
tions, Alice cared not to break the silence.
It was a very unsociable tilte-ct-tite. Alice
had a secret of her own to brood over. If
anything could have made Longcluse, now,
more terrible to her imagination, it would
have been a risk of her brother's knowing
anything of the language he had dared to
hold to her. She knew, from her brother's
own lips, that he was a duellist; and she
was also persuaded that Mr. Longcluse was,
in his own playful and sinister phrase, very
literally a "miscreant." His face, ever
since that interview, was always at her right
side, with its cruel pallor and the vindictive
sarcasm of lip and tone. How she wished
that she had never met that mysterious man!
What she would have given to be exempted
from his hatred and blotted from his re-
membrance l
One object only was in her mind, distinctly
with respect to that person. She was, thant
God, quite beyond his power. But men, she
knew, live necessarily a life so public, and
have so many points of contact, that better
opportunities present themselves in case of
a masculine hatred; and she trembled at
the thought of a collision.
Why, then, should not Dick seek a recon-
ciliation with him, and, by any honorable
means, abate that terrible enmity?
"I have been thinking, Dick, that, as
uncle David makes the interest he takes in
your affairs a secret, and you can't consult
him, it would be very w«ll indeed if you
could find some one else able to advise, who
would consult with you when you wished."
"Of course, I should be only too glad,"
said Sir Richard, yawning, and smiling as
well as he could at the same time: "but an
adviser one can depend on in such matters,
V


CHECKMATE.
135
mv good child, is not to be picked up every
day." .
"Poor papa, I think, was very wise in
choosing people of that kind. Uncle David,
I know, said that he made wonderfully
good bargains about his mortgages, or what-
ever they are called."
"I dare say —1 don't know—he was
always complaining, and always changing
them," said Sir Richard. "But if you can
introduce me to a person who can disen-
tangle all my complications, and take half
my cares off my shoulders, I 'll say you are
a very wise little woman indeed."
"I only know this — that poor papa had
the highest opinion of Mr. Longeluse, and
thought he was the cleverest person, and the
most able to assist, of any one he knew."
Sir Richard Arden heard this with a stare
of surprise.
"My dear Alice, you seem to forget every-
thing I told you. Why, Longeluse and I
are at deadly feud. He hates me implaca-
bly. There never could be anything but
enmity between us. Not that I care enough
about him. to hate him, but I have the worst
opinion of him. I have heard the most
shocking stories about him lately. They
insinuate that he committed a murder I I
told you of that jealousy and disappoint-
ment, about a girl he was in love with and
wanted to marry, and it ended in murder!
I'm told he had the reputation of being a
most unscrupulous villain. They. say he
was engaged in several conspiracies to
pigeon young fellows. He was the utter
ruin, they say, of young Thornley, the poor
wretch who shot himself some years ago;
and he was the principal proprietor of that
gaming-house in Vienna, where they found
all the apparatus for cheating so cleverly
contrived.
"But are any of these things proved?"
urged Miss Arden.
"I don't suppose he would be at large if
they were," said Sir Richard, with a smile.
"I only know that I believe them."
"Well, Dick, you know I reminded you
before—you used not to believe those stories
till you quarrelled with him."
"Why, what do you want, Alice?" he
exclaimed, looking hard at her. "What on
earth can you mean? And what can possi-
bly make you take an interest in the char-
acter of such a ruffian?"
Alice's face grew pale under his gaze.
She cleared her voice and looked down ; and
then she looked full at him, with burning
eyes, and said:
"It is because I am afraid of him, and
think be may do you some dreadful injury,
unless you are again on terms with him. I
can't get it out of my head; and I dare
say I am wrong, but I am sure I am miser-
able." /
She burst into tears.
• "Why, you darling little fool, what harm
can he do me 1" said Richard, fondly, throw-
ing his arms about her neck and kissing
her, as he laughed tenderly. "He ex-
hausted his utmost malice when he angrily
refused to lend me a shilling in my extremity,
or to be of the smallest use to me, at a
moment when he might have saved me,
without risk to himself, by simply willing it.
/ did n't ask him, you may be sure. An
officious, foolish little friend, doing all of
course for the best, did, without once con-
sulting me, or giving me a voice in the
matter, until he had effectually put his foot
in it, as I told you. I would not for any-
thing on earth have applied to him, I need
not tell you; but it was done, and it only
shows with what delight he would have seen
nie ruined, as in fact I should have been,
had not my own relations taken the matter
up.
"I do believe, Alice, the best thing I
could do for myself and for you would be to
marry," he said, a little suddenly, after a
considerable silence.
Alice looked at him to ascertain whether
he was serious.
"I really mean it. It is the only honest
way of making or mending a fortune now-a-
days."
"Well, Dick, it is time enough to think
of that by-and-by, don't you think?"
"Perhaps so; I hope so. At present it
seems to me that, as far as I am concerned,
it is just a race between the bishop and the
bailiff which shall have me first. If any
lady is good enough to hold out a hand to a
poor drowning fellow, she had better"
"Take care, Dick, that the poor drowning
fellow does not pull her in. Don't you
think it would be well to consider first what
you have got to live on?"
"I have plenty to live on; I know that
exactly," said Diclv
"What is it?"
"My wife's fortune."
"You are never serious for a minute,
Dickl Don't you think it would be better
first to get matters a little into order, so as
to know distinctly what you are worth?"
"Quite the contrary; she'd rather not
know. She'd rather exercise her imagina-
tion than learn distinctly what I am worth.
Any Woman of sense would prefer marrying
me so."
"I don't understand you."
"Why, if I succeeded in making matters
quite lucid, I don't think she would marry
.me at all. Is n't it better to say, 'My adored
Angelina,' or whatever else it may be, 'you
see before you Sir Richard Arden, who has
estates in Yorkshire, in Middlesex, and in
Devonshire, thus spanning all England from
north to south. We had these estates at the
Conquest. There is nothing modern about
them but the mortgages. I have never been
able to ascertain exactly what they bring in
by way of rents, or pay out by way of in-
terest. That I stand here, with flesh upon
my bones, and well-made clothes, I hope,


136
CHECKMATE.
upon both, is evidence in a confused way
that an English gentleman — a baronet —
can subsist upon them; and this magnificent
muddle I lay at your feet with the devotion
of a passionate admirer of your personal —
property!' That, I say, is better than ap-
pearing with a balance-sheet in your hand,
and saying, 'Madam, I propose marrying
you, and I beg to present you with a balance-
sheet of the incomings and outgoings of my
estates, the intense clearness of which will,
I hope, compensate for the nature of its dis-
closures. I am there shown in the most
satisfactory detail to be worth exactly fifteen
shillings per annum, and how unlimited is
my credit will appear from the immense
amount and variety of my debts. In press-
ing my suit I rely entirely upon your love
of perspicuity and your passion for arith-
metic, which will find in the ledgers of my
steward an almost inexhaustible gratification
and indulgence.' However, as you say,
Alice, I have time to look about me, and I
see you are tired. We 'll talk it over to-
morrow morning at breakfast. Don't think
I have made up my mind; I 'll do exactly-
whatever you like best. But get to your
bed, you poor little soul; you do look so
tired'!"
With great affection they parted for the
night. But Sir Richard did not meet her at
breakfast.
After she had left the room some time he
changed his mind, left a message for his
sister with old Crozier, ordered his servant
and trap to the door, and drove into town.
It was not his good angel who prompted
him. He drove to a place where he was
sure to find high play going on, and there
luck did not favor him.
What had become of Sir Richard Arden's
resolutions? The fasci^tions of his old vice
were irresistible. The ring of the dice, the
whirl of the roulette, the plodding pillage
of whist — any rite acknowledged by For-
tune, the goddess of his soul, was welcome
to that keen worshipper.
Luck was not always adverse; once or
twice he might have retreated in compara-
tive safety; but the temptation to "back his
luck" and go on prevailed, and left him
where he was.
About a week after the evening passed at
Mortlake, a black and awful night of disas-
ter befell him.
Every other extravagance and vice draws
its victim on at a regulated pace, but this4|
of gaming is an hourly trifling with life,
and one infatuated moment may end him.
How short had been the reign of the new
baronet, and where were prince and prince-
dom now.
Before five o'clock in the morning, he had
twice spent a quarter of an hour tugging
at Mr. Levi's office-bell, in the dismal old
street in Westminster. Then he drove off
toward his lodgings. The roulette was
whirling before his eyes, whenever for a
moment he closed them. He thought he
was going mad.
The cabman knew a place where, even at
that unreasonable hour, he might have a
warm bath ; and thither Sir Richard ordered
him to drive. After this, he again essayed
the Jew's office. The cool early morning
was over still, quiet London — hardly a soul
was stirring. On the steps he waited, pull-
ing the office-bell at intervals. In the still-
ness of the morning, he could hear it dis-
tinctly in the remote room, ringing unheeded
in that capacious house.
CHAPTER LXIII.
PLANS.
It was, of course, in vain looking for
Mr. Levi there at such an hour. Sir Rich-
ard Arden fancied that he had perhaps a
sleeping-room in the house, and on that
chance tried what his . protracted alarm
might do. .
Then he drove to his town place, ne had
a latch-key, and let himself in. Just as be
was, he threw himself into a chair in his
dressing-room. He knew there was no use
getting into his bed. Fatigued as he was,
sleep was quite out of the question. That
proud young man was longing to open his
heart to the mean, cruel little Jew.
Oh, madness! why had he broken with
his masterly and powerful friend, Long-
cluse? Quite unavailing, now, his repent^
ance. They had spoken and passed like
ships at sea, in this wide life, and now who
could count the miles and billows between
them? Never to cross or come in sight
again!
Uncle David? Yes; he might go to him:
he might spread out the broad evidences of
his ruin before him, and adjure him, by the
God of mercy, to save him from the great
public disgrace that was now imminent;
implore of him to give him any pittance he
pleased, to subsist on in exile, and to deal
with the estates as he himself thought best.
But uncle David was away, quite out of reach.
After his whimsical and inflexible custom,
lest business should track him in his holi-
day, he had left no address with his man of
business, who only knew that bis first desti-
nation was Scotland; none with Grace
Maubray, who only knew that, attended by
Vivian Darnley, she and Lady May were to
meet him in about a fortnight on the Conti-
nent, where they were to plan together a
little excursion in Switzerland or Italy.
Sir Richard quite forgot there was such a
meal as breakfast. He ordered his horse to
the door, and took a furious two hours' ride
beyond Brompton, and returned and saw
Levi at his office at his usual hour, eleven
o'clock. *
The Jew was alone. His large lowering


CHECKMATE.
137
eyes -were on Sir Richard as he entered and
approached.
"Look, now; listen," said Sir Richard,
who looked wofully wild and pale, and as he
neated himself never took his eyes off Mr.
Levi. "I don't care very much who knows
it —I think I'm totally ruined."
The Jew knew pretty well all about it;
but he stared and gaped in the face of his
visitor as if he was thunderstruck, and he
spoke never a word.
I suppose he thought it as well, for the
sake of brevity and clearness, to allow his
client " to let off the shteam " first, a process
which Sir Richard forthwith commenced,
with both hands on the table — sometimes
clenched, sometimes expanded, sometimes
with a thump, by blowing off a cloud of
oaths and curses, and incoherent expositions
of the wrongs and perversities of fortune.
"I don't think I can tell you how much
it is. I don't know," said Sir Richard
bleakly, in reply to a pertinent question of
the Jew's. "The'-e was that rich fellow,
what's his name, that makes candles — he \s
always winning. By Jove, what a thing
luck is! He won — I know it is more than
two thousand. I gave him I 0 U's for it.
lie'd be very glad, of course, to know me,
curse him. I don't care, now, who does,
and he'd let me owe him twice as much,
Tor as long as I like. I dare say, only too
glad — as smooth as one of his own filthy
candles. And there were three fellows
lending money there. I don't know how
much I got — I was stupid. I signed what-
ever they put before me. Those things
can't stand, by heavens; the chancellor will
set them all aside. The confounded villains!
What's the Government doing? What's
the Government about, I say? Why don't
Parliament interfere, to smash those cursed
nests of robbers and swindlers? Here I
am utterly robbed — I know, robbed—and
all by that cursed temptation; and — and —
and I don't know what cash I got, nor what
I have put my name to!"
"I 'll make out that for you in an hour's
time. They 'll tell me at the houshe who
the shentleman wazh."
11 And upon my soul, that's true — I owe
the people there something too; it can't be
much — it isn't much. And, Levi, like a
good fellow — by Heaven, I'll never forget
it to you, if you'll think of something.
You've pulled me through so often; I am
sure there's good-nature in you; you
would n't see a fellow you've known so
long driven to the wall and made a beggar
of, without — without thinking of some-
thing."
Levi looked down, with his hands in his
pockets, and whistled to himself, and Sir
Richard gazed on his vulgar features as if
his life or death depended upon every varia-
tion of them.
"You know," said Levi, looking up and
swaying his shoulders a little, " the old chap
can't do no more. He's taken a share in
that Austrian contract, and he 'll want his
capital, every pig. I told you lasht time.
Would n't Lonclushe give you a lift?"


l38
CHECKMATE.
"Not he. He'd rather give me a shove
under."
"Well, they tell me you and him wath
very thick; and your uncle'sh man, Blount,
knowshe him, and can just ashk him, from
himself, mind, not from you."
"For money?" exclaimed Richard.
"Not at a — all," drawled the Jew, impa-
tiently. "Lishen — mind. The old fellow,
your friend"
"He's out of town," interrupted Richard.
"No, he'sh not. I shaw him las tit night.
You're a — all wrong. He'sh not Mr.
David Harden, if that'sh what you mean.
He 'sh a better friend, and he 'll leave you a
lot when he diesh — an old friend of the
family — and if all goeshe shmooth he'll
come and have a talk with you fashe to
fashe, and tell you all his plansh about you,
before a ^Meeksh over. But he 'll be at hish
lasht pound for five or six weeksh to come,
till the firsht half million of the new shtock
is in the market; and he shaid, 'I can't
draw out a pound'of my balanshe, but if he
can get Lonclushe's na—anie, I'll get him
any shum he wantsh, and bear Lonclushe
harmlesh.'"
"I don't think I can," said Sir Richard;
"I can't be quite sure, though. It is just
possible he might."
"Well, let Blount try," said he.
There was another idea also in Mr. Levi's
head. He had been thinking whether the
situation might not be turned to some more
profitable account for him than the barren
agency for the "friend of the family," who
"lent out money gratis," like Antonio; and
if he did not "bring down the rate of
usance," at all events, deprived the Shy-
locks of London, in one instance at least, of
their fair game.
"If he won't do that, there'sh but one
chansh left."
• "What is that? " asked Sir Richard, with
a secret flutter at his heart. It was awful
to think of himself reduced to his last
chance, with his recent experience of what
a chance is.
"Well," said Mr. Levi, scrawling florid
capitals on the table with his office pen, and
speaking with much deliberation, " I heard
you were going to make a very rich match;
and if the shettlementsh was agreed on, I
don't know but we might shoe our way to
advancing all you want."
Sir Richard got up and walked slowly two
or three times up and down the room.
"I 'll see about Blount," said he;" I Ml talk
to him. I think those things are payable in
six or eight days; and that tallow-chandler
won't bother me to-morrow, I dare say. I 'll
go to-day and talk to Blount, and suppose
you come to me to-morrow evening at Mort-
lake. Will nine o'clock do for you? and I
shan't keep you half an hour."
"A— all right, shir — nine, at Mortlake.
If you want any diamondsh, I have a beoo
—ootiful collar and pendantshs in that
slmafe — brilliantsh. I can give you the
lot three thoushand under cosht prishe.
You 'll wa—ant a preshent for the young
la-ady." P * °
"Yes, I suppose bo," said Sir Richard,
abstractedly. "To-morrow night-to-morrow
evening at nine o'clock."
He stopped at the door, looking silently
at the stairs, and then, without leave-taking
or looking behind him, he ran down, and
drove to Mr. Blount's house, close by, in
Manchester Buildings.
For more than a year the young gentleman
whom we are following this morning had
cherished vague aspirations, of wnich good
Lady May had been the object.
There was nothing to prevent their union,
for the lady was very well disposed to listen.
But Richard Arden did not like ridicule,
and there was no need to hurry; and be-
sides, within the last half-year had arisen
another flame, less mercenary; also, per-
haps, reciprocated.
Grace Maubray was handsome, animated:
she had that combination of air, grace,
cleverness, get-up, and fashion which enter
into the idea of chick. But with him it had
been a financial, but notwithstanding rather
agreeable, speculation. Hitherto there seemed
ample time before him, and there was no
need to define or decidei
Now, you will understand the crisis had
arrived, which admitted of neither hesitation
nor delay.
He was now at Blount's hall-door. He
was certain that he could trust Blount with
anything, and he meant to learn from him
what dot his uncle David intended bestowing
on the young lady.
Mr. Blount was at home. He smiled
kindly, and took the young gentleman's
hand, and placed a chair for him.
CHAPTER LXIV.
PROM FLOWER TO FLOWER.
Mr. Blount was intelligent: he was an
effective though not an artful diplomatist.
He promptly undertook to sound Mr. Long-
cluse without betraying Sir Richard.
Richard Arden did not allude to his losses.
He took good care to appear as nearly as
possible as usual. When he confessed his
iendre for Miss Maubray, the grave gentle-
man smiled brightly, and took him by the
hand.
"If you should marry the young lady,
mark you, she will have sixty thousand
Sounds down, and sixty thousand more after
Ir. David Arden's death. That is splendid,
sir, and I think it will please him very
much."
"I have suffered a great deal, Mr. Blount,
by neglecting his advice hitherto. It shall
be my chief object, henceforward, to reform,


CHECKMATE.
189
and to live according to his wishes. I be-
lieve people can't learn wisdom without
suffering.
"Will you take a biscuit and a glass of
sherry, Sir Richard?" asked Mr. Blount.
"Nothing, thanks," said Sir Richard.
"You know, I'm not as rich as I might
have been, and marriage is a very serious
step; and you are one of the oldest and
most sensible friends I have, and you 'll
understand that it is only right that I should
be very sure before taking 6uch a step, in-
volving not myself only, but another who
ought to be dearer still, that there should be
no mistake about the means on which we
may reckon. Are you quite sure that my
uncle's intentions are still exactly what you
mentioned?"
"Perfectly; he authorized me to say so
two months ago, and on the eve of his de-
parture on Friday last he repeated his in-
structions."
Sir Richard, in silence, shook the old man
very cordially by the hand, and was gone.
As he drove to his house in May Fair, Sir
Richard's thoughts, among other things,
turned again upon the question, " Who could
his mysterious benefactor be?"
Once or twice had dimly visited his mind
a theory which, ever since his recent con-
versation with Mr. Levi, had been growing
more solid and vivid.
An illegitimate brother of his father's,
Edwin Raikes, had gone out to Australia
early in Kfe, with a purse to which three
brothers, the late Sir Reginald, Harry, and
David, had contributed. He had not main-
tained any correspondence with English
friends and kindred; but rumors from time
to time reached home that he had amassed
a fortune. His feelings to the family of Arden
had always been kindly. lie was older, he
knew, than his uncle David, and had well
earned a retirement from the life of exertion
and exile which had consumed all the vigor-
ous years of his manhood. Was this the " old
party" for whom Mr. Levi was acting?
With this thought opened a new and splen-
did hope upon the mind of Sir Richard.
Here was a fortune, if rumor spoke truly,
which, combined with David Arden's, would
be amply sufficient to establish the old
baronetage upon a basis of solid magnificence
such as it had never rested on before.
It would not do, however, to wait for this.
The urgency of the situation demanded im-
mediate action.
Sir Richard made an elaborate toilet,
after which, in a hansom, he drove to Lady
May Penrose's.
If our hero had fewer things to think
about he would have gone first, I fancy, to
Miss Grace Maubray. It could do no great
harm, however, to feel his way a little with
Lady May, he thought, as he chatted with
that plump alternative of his tender. di-
lemma.
But in this wooing there was a difficulty
of a whimsical kind. Poor Lady May was
so easily won, and made so many openings
for bis advances, that he was fairly at his
wit's ends to find evasions by which to post-
pone the happy crisis which she palpably
expected. He did succeed, however; and
with a promise of calling again, with the
lady's permission, that evening, he took his
leave.
Before making his call at his uncle's house,
in the hope of seeing' Grace Maubray, he
had to return to Mr. Blount, in Manchester
Buildings, where he hoped to receive from
that gentleman a report of his interview
with Mr. Longcluse.
I shall tell you here what that report re-
lated.
Mr. Longcluse was fortunately still at his
house when Mr. Blount called, and immedi-
ately admitted him.
Mr. Longcluse's horse and groom were at
the door; he was on the point of taking his
ride. His gloves and whip were beside him
on the table as Mr. Blount entered.
Mr. Blount made his apologies, and was
graciously received. His visit was, in truth,
by no means unwelcome.
"Mr. David Arden very well, I hope?"
"Quite well, thanks. He has left town."
"lodged I And where has he gone — the
moors t"
"To Scotland, but not to shoot, I think.
And he's going abroad then — going to tra-
vel on the Continent."
"On the Continent? How nice that is!
What part?"
"Switzerland and Italy, I think," said
Mr. Blount, omitting all mention of Paris,
where Mr. Arden was going first to make a
visit to the Baron Vanboeren.
"He's going overground that I know
very well," said Mr. Longcluse. "Happy
man! He can't quite break away from his
business, though, I dare say."
"He never tells us where a letter will find
him, and the consequence is his holidays are
never spoiled,"
"Not a bad plan, Mr. Blount Won't he
visit the Paris Exhibition?"
"I rather think not."
"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Blount?"
"Well, Mr. Longcluse, I just called to ask
you a question. I have been invited to take
part in arranging a little matter which I
take an interest in, because it affects the Ar-
den estates."
"Is Sir Richard Arden interested in it?"
inquired Mr. Longcluse, gently and coldly.
"Yes, I rather fancy he would bo bene-
fited."
"I have had a good deal of unpleasant-
ness, and, I might add, a great deal of in-
gratitude from that quarter, and I have
made up my mind never again to have any-
thing to do with him or his affairs. I have
no unpleasant feeling, you understand; no
resentment; there is nothing, of course, he
could say or do that could in the least affect



140
MATE.
CHECK
me. It is simply that, having coolly re-
viewed his conduct, I have quite made up
my mind to aid in nothing in which he has
act, part, or interest."
"It was not directly, but simply as a
surety"
." All the same, so far as I'm concerned,"
said Mr. Longcluse, sharply.
"And only, I fancied, it might be, as Mr.
David Arden is absent, and you should be
protected by satisfactory joint security."
"I won't do it," said Mr. Longcluse, a
ltttle brusquely; and he took out his watch
and glanced at it impatiently.
"Sir Richard, I think, will be in funds
immediately," said Mr. Blount.
"How so?" asked Mr. Longcluse. "You'll
excuse me, as you press the subject, for say-
ing that will be something new." -
"Well," said Mr. Blount, who saw that
his last words had made an impression, " Sir
Richard is likely to be married, very advan-
tageously, immediately."
"Are settlements agreed on ?" inquired
Mr. Longcluse, with real interest.
"No, not yet; but I know all about them."
"He is accepted, then?"
"He has not proposed yet; but there can
be, I believe, no doubt that the lady likes
him, and all will go right." »
"Oh! and who is the lady?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell."
"Quite right; I ought not to have asked,"
said Mr. Longcluse, and looked down, slap-
ping at intervals the sides of his trousers
lightly with his whip. He raised his eyes
to Mr. Blount's face, and looked on the point
of asking another question, but he did not.
"It is my opinion," said Mr. Blount, "the
kindness would involve absolutely no risk
whatever."
There was a little pause. Mr. Longcluse
looked rather dark and anxious; perhaps
his mind had wandered quite from the busi-
ness before them. But it returned, and he
said:
"Risk or no risk, Mr. Blount, I don't
mean to do him that kindness; and for how
long will Mr. David Arden be absent."
"Unless he should take a sudden thought
to return, he 'll be away at least two months."
"Where is he ? — in Scotland?"
"I really don't know."
"Couldn't one see him for a few minutes
before he starts? Where does he take the
steamer?"
"Southampton."'
"And on. what day?"
"You really want a word with him?"
asked Blount, whose hopes revived.
"I may."
"Well, the only person who will know
that is Mr. Humphries, of Pendle Castle,
near that town; for he has to transact some
trust-business with that gentleman as he
passes through."
"Humphries, of Pendle Castle. Very
good; thanks."
Mr. Longcluse looked again at his watch.
"And perhaps you will reconsider the
matter I spoke of?
"No use, Mr. Blount — not the least. I
have quite made up my mind. Anything
more? I am afraid I must be off."
"Nothing, thanks," said Mr. Blount.
And so the interview ended.
When he was gone, Mr. Longcluse thought
darkly for a minute.
"That's a straightforward fellow, they
say. I suppose the facts are so. It can't
be, though, that Miss Maubray, that hand-
some creature with so much money, is think-
ing of marrying that insolent coxcomb. It
may be Lady May, but the other is more
likely. We must not allow that, Sir Richard.
That would never do."
There was a fixed frown on his face, and
he was smiling in his dream. Out he went.
His pale face looked as if he meditated a
wicked joke, and, frowning still in utter ab-
straction, he took the bridle from his groom,
mounted, looked about him asifjustawakened,
and set off at a canter, followed by his ser-
vant, for David Arden's house.
Smiling, gay, as if no care had ever crossed
him, Longcluse entered the drawing-room,
where the handsome young lady was writing
a note at that moment.
"Mr. Longcluse, I'm so glad you've
come !" she said, with a brilliant smile. "I
was writing to poor Lady Ethel, who is
mourning, you know, in the country. The
death of her father in the house Was so aw-
fully sudden, and I'm telling her all the
news I can think of to amuse her. And is it
really true that old Sir Thomas Giggles has
grown so cross with his pretty young wife,
and objects to her allowing Lord Knocknea
to make love to her 1"
"Quite true. It is a very bad quarrel,
and I'm afraid it can't be made up," said
Mr. Longcluse.
"It must be very bad, indeed, if Sir
Thomas can'tfVnake it up; for he allowed his
first wife, I am told, to do anything. Is it
to be a separation?"'
"At least. And you beard, I suppose, of
poor old Lady Glare?"
"No!"
"She has been rolling ever so long, you
know, in* sea of troubles, and now, at last,
she has fairly foundered."
"How do you mean?"
"She has sold her diamonds," said Mr.
Longcluse. "Did n't you hear?"
"No! Really? Sold her diamonds?
Good Heaven! Then there's nothing left
of her but her teeth. I hope they won't sell
them."
"It is an awful misfortune," said Mr.
Longcluse.
"Misfortune! She's utterly ruined. It
was her diamonds that people asked. I am
really sorry. She was such fun ; she was so
fat, and such a fool, and said such delicious
things, and dressed herself so like a macaw.


CHECKMATE.
141
Alas I I shall never see her more ; and peo-
ple thought her only use on earth was to
carry about her diamonds. No one seemed
to perceive what a delightful creature she
was. What about Lady May Penrose? I
have not seen her since I came back from
Cowes, the day before yesterday, and we
leave London together on Tuesday."
"Lady May l Oh! she is to receive a very
interesting communication, I believe. She
is one name, on a pretty long and very dis-
tinguished list, which Sir Richard Arden, I
am told, has made out, and carries about
with him in his pocket-book."
"You're talking riddles; pray speak plain-
lj." . *
"Well, Lady May is one of several mar-
riageable ladies who are to be honored with
a proposal."
•' And would you have me believe that Sir
Richard Arden has really made such a fool
of himself as to make out a list of eligible
ladies whom he is about to ask to marry
him? and that he has had the excellent
good sense and taste to read this list to his
acquaintances?"
"I mean to say this — I 'll tell the whole
story. Sir Richard has ruined himself at
play — take that as a fact to start with. He
is literally ruined. His uncle is away ; but
I don't think any man in his senses would
think of paying his losses for him. He turns,
therefore, naturally to the more amiable
and less arithmetical sex, and means to
invite, in turn, a series of fair and affluent
ailuiirers to undertake, by means of suit-
able settlements, that interesting office for
him."
"I don't think you like him, Mr. Long-
cluse; is not that story a little too like 'The
Merry Wives of Windsor? '"
"It is quite certain I don't like him, and
it is quite certain," added Mr. Longcluse,
with one of his cold little laughs, "that if I
did like him, I should not tell the story; but
it is also certain that the story is, in all its
parts, strictly fact. If you permit me the
pleasure of a call in two or three days, you
will tell me you no longer doubt it."
Mr. Longcluse was looking down, as he
said that, with a gentle and smiling signifi-
cance. The young lady blushed a little, and
then more intensely, as he spoke, and, look-
ing through the window, asked, with a
laugh:
"But how shall we know whether he
really speaks to Lady May?"
"Possibly by his marrying her," laughed
Mr. Longcluse. "He certainly will if he
can, unless he is caught and married on the
way to her house."
"He was a little unfortunate in showing
you his list, was n't he?" said Grace Mau-
bray. ,
"I did not say that. If there had been
any, the least, confidence, nothing on earth
could have induced me to divulge it. We
are not even, at present, on speaking terms.
He had the coolness to send a Mr. Blount,
who transacts all Mr. David Arden's affairs,
to ask me to become his security, Mr. Arden
being away; and by way of inducing me to
do so, he disclosed, with the coarseness
which is the essence of business, the matri-
monial schemes which, are to recoup, within
a few days, the losses of the roulette, the
whist-table, or the dice-box."
"Oh! Mr. Blount, I'm told, is a very
honest man."
"Quite so; particularly accurate; and I
don't think anything on earth would induce
him to tell an untruth," testified Mr. Long-
cluse.
After a little pause, Miss Maubray laughed.
"One certainly does learn," she said,
"something new every day. Could any
one have fancied a gentleman descending
to so gross a meanness?"
"Everybody is a gentleman now-a-days,"
remarked Mr. Longcluse, with a smile;
"but everyone is not a hero — they give
way more or less under temptation. Those
who stand the test of the crucible and the
furnace are seldom met with."
At this moment the door opened, and
Lord Wynderbroke was announced.
A little start, a lighting qf the eyes, as
Grace rose, and a fluttered advance, with
a very pretty little hand extended to meet
him, testified, perhaps, rather more surprise
than one would have quite expected; for
even Mr. Longcluse, who did not know him
at all" so well as this young lady did, could
almost have sworn to his voice —which was
peculiar, and a little resembled the caw of a
jay — as he said something to the servaut
before the door was opened.
Mr. Longcluse took his leave.
He was not sorry that Lord Wynderbroke
had called. He wished no success to Sir
Richard's wooing. He thought he had
pretty well settled the question in Miss
Maubray's mind, and, smiling, he rode at a
pleasant canter to Lady May's. It was as
well, perhaps, that she should hear the
same story.
Lady May, however, unfortunately, had
just gone out for a drive.
CHAPTER LXV.
BEHIND THE ARRAS.
It was quite true that Lady May was not
at home. She was actually, with a charm-
ing little palpitation, driving to pay a very
interesting visit to Grace Maubray. In
affairs of the kind that now occupied her
mind, she had no confidants but very young
people.
Miss Maubray was at home; and in-
stantly Lady May's plump instep was seen
on the carriage-step. She disdained assist-
ance, and descended with a heavy skip upon


142
CHECKMATE.
the flags, where she executed an involuntary
frisk that carried her a little out of the line
of advance. .
As she ascended the stairs, she met her
friend Lord Wynderbroke coming down.
They stopped for a moment on the land-
ing, under a picture of Cupid and Venus;
and Lady May, smiling, remarked, a little
out of breath, what a charming day it was,
and expressed.her amazement at seeing him
in town — a surprise which he agreeably
reciprocated. He had been at Glenkiltie, in
the highlands, where- he had accidentally
met Mr. David Arden. "Miss Maubray is
in the drawing-room," be said, observing
that the eyes of the good lady glanced uncon-
sciously upward at the door of that room.
And then they parted aft'ectionately, and
turned their backs on each other with a
sense of relief.
"Well, my dear," she said to Grace Mau-
bray, as soon as they had kissed, " longing
to have a few minutes with you, with ever
so much to say. You have no idea what it
is to be stopped on the stairs by that tire-
some man — I 'll never quarrel with you
again for calling him an old bore. No mat-
ter, here I am; and really, my dear, it is
such an odd affair — not quite that: such
an odd scene, I don't know where or how to
begin."
"I wish I could help you," said Miss
Maubray, laughing.
"Oh, my dear! you'd never guess in a
hundred years."
"How do you know? Hasn't a certain
baronet something to do with it?"
"Well, well — dear me l That is very ex-
traordinary. Did he tell you he was going
to — to? Good gracious! My dear, it is
the most extraordinary thing. I believe you
hear everything ; but — a — but listen. Not
an hour ago, he came — Richard Arden, of
course, we mean — and, my dear Grace, he
spoke so very nicely of his troubles, poor
fellow, you know, — debts I mean, of
course — not the least his fault, and all that
kind of thing, and — and he went on — I
really don't know how to tell you. But he
said — he said — he said he liked me, and
no one else on earth ; and he was on the very
point of saying everything, when, just at that
moment, who should come in but that gos-
sipping old woman, Lady Botherton — and
he whispered, as he was going, that he
would return after I had had my drive.
The carriage was at the door, so, when I
/ got rid of the old woman, I got into it, and
came straight here to have a talk with you,
and what do you think I ought to say? Do
tell me, like a darling, do!
"I wish you wouldtell me what one ought
to say to that question," said Grace Mau-
bray, with a slight disdain, (that young lady
was in the most unreasonable way piqued.)
"for I'm told he's going to ask me pre-
cisely the same question."
"You, my dear?" said Lady May, after a
pause, during which she was staring at the
smiling face of the young lady; "you can't
be serious!"
"He can't be serious, you mean," answer-
ed the young lady. "And — who's this?"
she broke oft", as she saw a cab drive up to
the hall-door. "Dear me! is it? No.
Yes, indeed; it is Sir Richard Arden. We
must not be seen together. He 'll know
you have been talking to me. Just go in
here."
She opened the door of the boudoir ad-
joining the room.
"I 'll send him away in a moment. You
may hear every word I have to say. I
should like it/ I have to give him a lec-
ture."
As she thus spoke she heard his step on
the stair, and motioned Lady May into the
inner room, into which she hurried and
closed the door, leaving it only a little way
open.
These arrangements were hardly com-
pleted when Sir Richard was announced.
Grace felt positively angry. But never
had she looked so beautiful; her eyes so
tenderly lustrous under their long lashes; her
color so brilliant — an expression so maid-
enly and sad. If it was acting, it was very
well done. You would have sworn that the
melancholy and agitation of her looks, and
the slightly quickened movement of her
breathing, were those of a person who felt
that the hour of her fate had come.
With what elation Richard Arden saw
these beautiful signs!
CHAPTER LXVI.
A BUBBLE BROKEN.
After a few words had been exchanged,
Grace said, in reply to a question of Sir
Richard's:
"Lady May and I are going together, you
know: in a day or two we shall be at
Brighton. I mean to bid Alice good-by to-
day. There, I mean at Brighton, we are to
meet Vivian Darnley, and possibly another
friend; and we go to meet your uncle at
that pretty little town in Switzerland, where
Lady May I wonder, by-the-by, you
did not arrange to come with us; Lady May
travels with us the entire time. She says
there are some very interesting ruins
there."
"Why, dear old soul!" said Sir Richard,
who felt called upon to say something to set
himself right with respect to Lady May,
"she's thinking of quite another place.
She will be herself the only interesting ruin
there."
"You vex me," said pretty Grace, turning
away with a smile that showed, nevertheless,


CHECKMATE.
143

that this kind of joke was not an unmixed
vexation to her. "i don't care for ruins
myself."
"Nor do I," he said, with a shrug.
"But you don't think so of Lady May.
I know you don't. You are franker with
her than with me, and you tell her a very
different tale."
"I must be very frank, then, if I told her
more than I knew myself. I never said a
civil thing of Lady May, except once or
twice, to the poor old thing herself, when I
wanted her to do one or two little things to
please you."
"Oh! come, you can't deceive me; I've
Been you place your hand to your heart, like
a theatrical hero, when you spoke to her,
and little fancied any one but she saw it."
"Now, really, that is too bad. I may have
put my hand to my side when it ached from
laughing; for, poor old soul, you must know
she is the most ridiculous creature on earth."
"How can you talk so? You know very
well I have heard you tell her how accom-
plished she is, and how you admired her
music and her landscapes."
"No, no,—not landscapes: she paints
faces. But her coloring is, as artists say,
too chalky—and nothing but red and white,
like—what is it like?—a piece of currant
jelly in a dish of cream. Why did not she
get the late Mr. Etty — she's always talking
of him — to teach her something of his tints?
It would have prevented her looking so very
like a female clown."
"You are not to speak so of Lady May.
You forget she is my particular friend," ex-
postulated the young lady; but her pretty
face did not express so much displeasure as
her words would seem to convej. "I do
think you like her. You merely talk so to
throw dust in people's eyes. Why should
not you be frank with me?"
"I wish I dare be frank with you," said
Sir Richard.
"And why not?"
"How can I tell how my disclosures might
be punished? My frankness might extin-
guish the best hope I live for; a few rash
words might make me a very unhappv man
for life."
"Really? Then I can quite understand
that reflection alarming you in the midst of
a Ute-a-tUe with Lady May, and even inter-
rupting an interesting conversation."
Sir Richard looked at her quickly, but her
looks were perfectly artless.
"I really do wish you would spare me all
further allusion to that good woman. I can
bear that kind of fun frofc any one but you.
Why will you? You know she is old enough
to be my mother. She is fat, and painted,
and ridiculous. Do you think me totally
without romance? I wish to heaven I were.
There is a reason that makes your saying
all that particularly cruel. Oh, if I dare
tell it to you — if I dare say why it is; I am
not the sordid creature you take me for.
I'm not insensible. l 'm not a mere stock
or stone. Never was human being more


146
CHECKMATE.
"What about them shettlements, Sir Rich-
ard— a nishe young lady with a ha-a-tful o'
money?" insinuated Levi.
"I've been thinking over that, but it
would n't do with my affairs in this state; it
would not be honorable or straight; put
that quite aside."
Mr. Levi gaped at him for a moment sol-
emnly, and turned suddenly, and, brute as
he was, spit on the Turkey carpet. He was
not, as you perceive, ceremonious, but he
could not allow the baronet to see the laugh-
ter that without notice caught him for a mo-
ment, and could think of no better way to
account for his turning away his head.
"Thatsh wery honorable indeed," said the
Jew, more solemnly than ever; "and if you
can't play in that direction, I'm afraid
you 're in queer shtreet."
The baronet'was standing close before
Levi, and at these words from that dirty lit-
tle oracle, a terrible chill stole up from his
feet to the crown of his head. Like a frozen
man, he stood there, and the Jew saw that
his very lips were white. Sir Richard felt
that he was ruined.
The young man tried to speak twice. The
big eyes of the Jew were staring up at the
contortion. Sir Richard could see nothing
but those • two big fiery eyes; he turned
quickly away and walked to the end of the
room.
"There's just one fiddle-string left to play
on," mused the Jew.
"For God's sake!" exclaimed Sir Richard,
turning about, in a voice you would not have
known, and for fully a minute the room was
so silent you could scarcely have believed
that two men were breathing in it.
"Shir Richard, will you be so good to
come nearer a bit? there, that'sh the
cheeshe; I brought thish 'ere thing."
It was a square parchment with a good
deal of printed matter, and blanks written
in, and a law stamp fixed, with an awful
regularity, at the corner.
"Casht your eye over it," said Mr. Levi,
coaxingly, as he pushed it over the table to
the young gentleman, who was sitting now
at the other side.
The young man looked at it, read it, but
just then, if it had been a page of "Robin-
son Crusoe," he could not have understood
it.
"I'm not quite myself, I can't follow it;
too much to think of; what is it?"
"A bond and warrant to confess judg-
ment."
"What is it for?"
"Ten thoushand poundsh."
"Sign it, shall I? can you do anything
with it?"
"Don't raishe your voishe, but lishten.
Your friend " — and at the phrase Mr. Levi
winked mysteriously—"has enough to do it
twishe over; and upon my shoul, I'll shwear
on the book, azh I hope to be shaved, it will
never shee the light; he 'll never raishe a
pig on it, sho' 'elp me, nor let it out of hish
'ands, till he givesh it back to you. Ho
can't ma-ake no ushe of it; I knowshe him
well, and he'll pay you the ten thoushand
to-morrow morning, and he wantsh to shake
handsh with you, and make himshelf known
to you, and talk a bit."
"But — but my signature wouldn't sat-
isfy him," began Sir Richard, bewildered.
"0, no — no, no," murmured Mr. Levi,
fiddling with the corner of the bank's re-
minder which lay on the table.
"Mr. Longcluse won't sign it," said Sir
Richard.
Mr. Levi threw himself back in his chair,
and looked with a roguish expression still
upon the table, and gave the cdrner of the
note a little fillip.
"Well," said Levi, after both had been
some time silent; "it ain't much, only to
write his name on the penshil-line, there,
you see, and (here — he shouldn't make no
bonesh about it. Why, it's done every day.
Do you think I'd help in a thing of trie sort,
if there was any short of danger? The
Sheneral's come to town, is he? What are
you afraid of?/ Don't you be a shild —
ba-ah!"
All this Mr. Levi said so low that it
was as if he were whispering to the table,
and he kept looking down as he put the
parchment over to Sir Richard, who took
it in his hand, and the whole bond trem-
bled so much in his fingers that he set
it down again.
"Leave it with me," he said, faintly.
Levi got up with an unusual hectic in
each cheek, and his eyes were very brilliant.
He still looked down queerly, and his eyes
wandered from side to side, over the pattern
of the carpet, and he looked like a man in a
mysterious sulk.
"I 'll meet you at what time you shay to-
night; you besht take a little time. It 'sh
ten now. Three hoursh will do it. I 'll go
on to my offish byone o'clock, and you come
any tinoa from one to two."
Sir Richard was trembling.
"Between one and two, mind. D it,
Shir Richard don't you be a fool about
nothing," whispered the Jew, as black as
thunder.
He was fumbling in his breast-pocket, and
pulling out a sheaf of letters, he selected one,
which he threw upon the parchment which
lay on the table.
"That 'sh the note you forgot in my offish
yeshterday, with hish name shigned to it-
There, now, you have everything: don't jrou
be a fool; drink a bottle of Madeira."
Without any form of valediction, the Jew
had left the room.
Sir Richard sat with his teeth set, and a
strange frown upon his face, scarcely breath-
ing.
He heard the cab drive away. Before
him on the table lay the papers.


CHECKMATE.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
14Mt words flt up, my thoughts remain below;
Words without thoughts never to heaven go."
Two hours had passed, and more, of soli-
tude. With a candle in his hand, and his
hat and great-coat on, Sir Richard Arden
came out into the hall. His trap awaited
him at the door.
In the interval of his solitude, something
incredible had happened to him. It was
over. He had made up his mind. A spec-
tral secret accompanies him henceforward.
A devil sits in his pocket, in that parch-
ment. He dares not think of himself.
Something enormous enough to shake the
world of London, and set all English Chris-
tian tongues throughout the earth talking on
one theme, has happened.
Does he repent? One thing is certain: he
dares not falter. Something within him
once or twice commanded him to throw his
crime into the fire while yet it is obliter-
able.^ But what then? What of to-mor-
row? Into that sheer black sea of ruin,
that reels and yawns as deep as eye can
fathom beneath him, he must dive, and see
the light no more. Better his chance.
He won't think of what he has done, of
what he is going to do; he suspects his
courage. He dares not tempt his cowardice.
Braver, perhaps, it would have been to meet
the worst at once.
But surely,, according to the theory of
chances, we have played the true game. Is
not a little time gained, everything? Are
we not in friendly hands? Has not that
little scoundrel committed himself, by an all
but actual participation in the affair? It
can never come to that. "I have only to
confess, and throw myself at uncle David's
feet, and the one dangerous debt would in-
stantly be bought up and cancelled."
These thoughts came vaguely, and on his
heart lay an all. but insupportable load. The
sight of the staircase reminded him that
Alice must have long since gone to her
room. He yearned to see her and say good
night. It was the last farewell tBat the
brother she had known from her childhood
till now, should ever speak or look. That
brother was to die to-night, and a spirit of
darkness to come in his stead.
He tapped lightly at her door. She was
asleep. He opened it, and dimly saw her
innocent head upon the pillow. If his
shadow were cast upon her dream, what an
image would she have seen looking in at the
door! A sudden horror seized him; he
drew back and closed the door; on the lobby
he paused. It was a last moment of grace.
He stole down the stairs, mounted his tax-
cart, took the reins from his servant in si-
lence, and drove swiftly into town.
In Parliament Street, near the corner of
the street leading to Levi's office, they
passed a policeman, lounging on the flag-
way. Richard Arden fancied he would stop
and question him, and he touched the horse
with the whip to get quickly by.
In his breasVpocket he carried his ghastly
secret. A pretty business if he happened to
be thrown out, and a policeman should make
an inventory of his papers, as he lay insen-
sible in an hospital; a pleasant thing if he
were robbed in these villanous streets, and
the bond advertised, for a reward, by a pre-
tended finder. A nice thing, good heaven!
if it should wriggle and slip its way out of
his pocket, in the jolting and tremble of the
drive, and fall into London hands, either
rascally or severe. He pulled up, and gave
the reins to the servant, and felt, how grate-
fully! with his fingers the crisp crumple of
the parchment under the cloth. Did his
servant look at him oddly as he gave him
th« reins? Not he; but Sir Richard began
to suspect him and everything.
He made him stop near the angle of the
street; and there he got down, telling him
rather savagely — for his fancied look was
still in the baronet's brain — not to move an
inch from that spot.
It was half-past one as his steps echoed
down the street in which Mr. Levi had his
office.
"D them, every one's watching to-
night, I believe," muttered he, as he saw a
red light shining through the curtains of the
garret opposite Levi's quarters. It was a
candle in a sick child's room; but for him
it was a hostile camp-fire.
There was a figure leaning with its back
in the recess of Levi's door, smoking. Sir
Richard's temper was growing exasperated.
It was Levi himself.
Up-stairs they stumbled in the dark. Mr.
Levi had not said a word. He was not
treating his visitor with much ceremony.
He let himself into his office, secured with a
heavy iron bar, and a lock that made a great
clang, and he proceeded to light a candle.
The name expanded, and the light showed
well-barred shutters, and the objects with
which he was well acquainted, refreshed by
a few new triumphs of art, pieces of out-ol-
the-way furniture, and other rattle-traps.
When Mr. Levi had lighted a second can-
dle, he fixed his great black eyes on the
young baronet, who glanced over his shoulder
at the door; but the Jew had secured it.
Their eyes met for a moment, and Sir
Richard placed his hand nervously in his
breast-pocket and took out the parchment.
Levi nodded, and extended his hand. Each
now held it by a corner, and as Sir Richard
let go hesitatingly, he said, faintly:
"Levi, you would n't— you could not run
any risk with that."
Levi stood by his great iron safe, with the
big key in his hand. He nodded in reply,
and locking up the document, he knocked his
knuckles on the iron door, with a long and
solemn wink.
"Shafe! that'sh the word," said he, and
he dropped the keys into his pocket again.


148 CHECKMATE.
There was a silence of a minute or more.
A spell was over them; an influence was in
the room. Each eyed the other shrinkingly,
as a man might eye an assassin. The Jew
knew that there was danger in that silence;
and yet he could not break it—as a ghost
cannot speak till spoken to. He could not
disturb the influence that was acting on
Richard Arde*n's mind. It was his good
angel's last pleading before the last farewell.
In a dreadful whisper Richard Arden
_ spoke:
"Give me that parchment back," said he.
Satan found his tongue again.
*' Give it back?" repeated Levi, and a
pause ensued. "Of course I 'll give it back;
and I wash my hands of it and you, and
you're throwing away ten thoushand poundsh
for nothing." •
Levi was taking out his keys as he spoke.
And as he fumbled them over one by one,
Levi said: "You'll want a lawyer in the
Insholwent Court, and you'd find Mishter
Sholomonsh azh shatisfactory a shentleman
azh any in London. He'sh an auctioneer,
too; and there 'sh no good in your meetin'
that friendly cove here to-morrow, for he 'sh
one o' them honorable chaps, and he 'll never
look at you after your schedule's lodged,
and the shooner that 'sh done the better ; and
them women we was courting, won't they
laugh 1"»
Hereupon, with great alacrity, Mr. Levi
began to apply the key to the lock.
"Don't mind—I believe — I believe —
D it, it's done; I'll not disturb it.
Keep it; and — by my Almighty Maker!"
— Richard Arden was trembling violently,
"so sure as you stand there, if you play me
a trick, I 'll shoot you dead, if it were in the
police office!"
Mr. Levi looked hard at him, and nodded.
"Well," said he, coolly, a second time re-
turning the keys to his pocket, "your friend
• will be here at the time I said to-morrow,
and if you please him, as well as he expects,
who knows wha-at may be. If he leavesh
you half hish money, you 'll not 'ave many
bill transhactionsh on your handsh."
"That will be very nice — I don't see —
I suppose so —
"May God Almighty have mercy on me,"
groaned Sir Richard, hardly above his
breath.
"You shall have the checks then. He'll
be here, all right."
"I — I forget; did you say an hour?"
Levi repeated the hour.
Sir Richard walked slowly to the stairs,
down which Levi lighted him. Neither spoke.
In a few minutes more the young gentle-
man was driving rapidly to his town house,
where he meant to end that long-remembered
night.
When he had got to his room, and dis-
missed his valet, he sat down. He looked
round, and wondered how collected he now
was. The situation seemed like a dream, or
his sense of danger had grown torpid. lie
could not account for the strange indifference
that had come over him.
"I have opened my hand," he said, look-
ing at the hand he held before him, " and
let the bird go; that bird carries my life.
Volat irrevocabile. I take it coolly enough
now. I'm worn out, perhaps, or my old
courage has returned."
He got quickly into bed. It was late,
and exhausted, and aided, I know not by
what narcotic, he slept a constrained, odd
sleep — black as Erebus — the thread of
which snaps suddenly, and he is awake with
a heart beating fast, as if from a sudden
start. A hard, bitter voice has said close by
the pillow, "You are the first Arden that
ever did that!" and with these words in his
ears, he awoke, and had a confused remem-
brance of having been dreaming of his
father.
Another dream, later on, startled him still
more. He was in Levi's office, and while
they were talking over the horrid document,
in a moment it blew out of the window, and
a lean, ill-looking man, in a black coat, like
the famous person who, in old wood-cuts,
picked up the shadow of Peter Schlemel,
caught the parchment from the pavement,
and with his eyes fixed cornerwise upon him,
and a dreadful smile, tapped his long finger
on the bond, and with wide paces stepped
swiftly away with it in his hand.
Richard Arden started up in his bed, the
cold moisture of terror was upon him, and
for a moment he did not know where he was,
or how much of his vision was real. The
gray twilight of early morning was over the
town. He welcomed the light; he opened
the window-shutters wide. He looked from
the window down upon the street. A lean
man in tattered black, with a hammer in
his hand, just as the man in his dream had
held the roll of parchment, was slowly step-
ping, with long strides, away from his
house, along the street.
As his thoughts cleared, his panic in-
creased. His new agony justified the state-
ment that hell is not a place, but a state.
Nothing had happened between the time of
his lying down and his uprising to alter his
situation and chances, and the same room
sees him now half mad with horror. Every
particle of chance against him, every possi-
ble combination and miscarriage, and every
aggravation of the catastrophe, that imagi-
nation could evoke and accumulate, were
gathered about him. In his torture he
actually kneeled and prayed to his Maker,
to carry him through this great strait, and
to spare him this once the consequences
of his sin, and that his gratitude for this
great clemency should never die.
These agonies, too, are transitory, or at
least intermittent. His present despair is,
perhaps, as irrational as his previous insen-
sibility. It can't be denied, however, that
he has reasonable grounds for uneasiness.


CHEC
K M A T E. 149
CHAPTER LXIX.
THE MEETING.
Near the appointed hour, he walked across
the park, and through the Horse Guards,
and in a few minutes more was between the
tall old-fitshioned houses of the. street in
which Mr,sLevi's office is to be found.
He passed by a dingy hired coach, with a
tarnished crest on the door, and saw two
Jewish-looking men inside, both smiling
over some sly joke. What door were they
waiting at? He supposed another Jewish
office sought the shade of that pensive street.
Mr. Levi opened his office-door for his
handsome client. They were quite to them-
selves.'
Mr. Levi did not look well. He received
him with a nod. He shut the door when
Sir Richard was in the room.
"He 'sh not come yet. We 'll talk to him
inshide." He indicated the door of the inner
room, with a little side jerk of his head.
"That 'sh private. He hazh that — thing all
right."
Sir Richard said nothing. He followed
Levi into a small inner room, which had,
perhaps, originally been a lady's boudoir,
and had afterward, one might have conject-
ured, served as the treasury bf the cash and
jewels of a pawn-office, for its door was
secured with iron bars, and two great locks,
and the windows were well-barred with iron.
There were two great iron safes in the room,
built into the wall.
"I think he'sh coming," said Levi, sud-
denly, inclining his ear toward the door.
"Who?" asked the young man, a'little
uncertain.
"Yours—that — your friend, of course,"
said Levi, with his eyes again averted*, and
his ear near the door.
It was a moment of trepidation, and of
hope to Richard Arden.
lie heard the steps of several persons in
the next room.
Levi opened a little bit of the door, and
peeped through, and, with a quick glance
toward the baronet, he whispered:
"Ay, it's him."
Sir Richard glanced toward the door
through which the Jew was still looking,
and signing with his hand, as, little by little,
he opened it wider and wider, and a voice
in the next room, at sound of which Sir
Richard started to his feet, said sharply,
"Is all right?"
"Ali right," replied Levi, quickly getting
aside; and Mr. Longcluse entered the room.
His pale face looked paler than usual, his
thin cruel lips were closed, his nostrils di-
lated with a terrible triumph, and his eyes
were f^xed upon Arden, as he held the fatal
parchment in his hand.
Levi saw a scowl so dreadful contract Sir
Richard Arden's face — was it pain, or was
it fury ?— that drawing back as far as the
» \
wall would let him, he almost screamed, "It
aint me! it aint my fault! I can't help it!
I couldn't! I can't!" His rig^ht hand was
in his pocket, and his left,trembhngviolently,
extended toward him as if to catch his arm.
But Richard Arden was not thinking of
him. Did not hear him. He sat down
in his chair. He leaned back with a gasp
and a faint laugh, like a man just overtaken
by a wave and lifted half-drowned from
the sea. Then, with a sudden low cry, he
threw his hands and head on the table.
There was no token of relenting in Long-
cluse's cruel face. He did not remove his
eyes from that spectacle of abasement, as he
replaced the parchment in his pocket. There
was a silence of about a minute, and Sir
Richard sat up and said, vaguely, " Thank
God, it's all over! Take me away now;
I'm ready to go."
"You shall go, time enough; I have a
word to say first," said Longcluse, and he
signed to the Jew to leave them.
On being left to themselves, the first idea
that struck Sir Richard was the wild one of
escape. He glanced quickly at the window.
It was barred with iron. There were men
in the next room—he could not tell how
many; and he was without arms.
"Clear your head," said Mr. Longcluse,
seating himself before him, with the table
between; "you must conceive a^distinut
idea of your situation, sir, and I shall then
tell you something that remains. You have
committed a forgery under aggravated cir-
cumstances, for which I shall have you con-
victed and sentenced to penal servitude at
the next sessions. I have been a good friend
to you on many occasions; you have been a
false one to nie — who baser? and while I
was anonymously helping you with large
sums of money, you forged my name to a
legal instrument for ten thousand pounds, to
swindle your unknown benefactor, little sus-
pecting who he was."
Longcluae smiled.
"I have heard how you spoke of me. I'm
an adventurer, a leg, an assassin, a person
whom you were compelled to drop; rather a
low person, I fear, if a felon can't afford to
sit beside me! You were always too tine a
man for me. Your get-up was always pe-
culiar; you were famous for that. It will
soon be more singular still, when your hair
and your clothes are cut after the fashion of
the great world you are about to enter.
How your friends will laugh!"
Sir Richard heard all with a helpless
stare. 0
"I have only to stamp on the ground to
call up the men who will accomplish your
transformation. I can change your life, by
a touch, into convict dress, diet, labor, lodg-
ing, for the rest of your days. What plea
have you to oifer to my mercy?"
Sir Richard would have spoken, but his
voice failed him. With a second effort, how-
ever, he said:


150
CHECKMATE.
»
"It would be more manly if you let me
meet my fate, without this."
"And you are such an admirable judge
of what is manly or even gentlemanlike!"
said Longcluse. "Now mind, I shall arrest
you in five minutes, for your three over-due
bills. The men wijh the writ are in the
next room. I sha'n't immediately arrest
you for the forgery. That shall hang over
you. I mean to make you, for a while, my
instrument. Hear, and understand ; I mean
to marry your sister. She don't like me,
but she suits me; I have chosen her, and
I 'll not be baulked. When that is accorn-
Elished, you are safe. No man likes to see
is brother a spectaele of British justice,
with cropped hair and a log to his foot. I
may hate and despise you, as you deserve,
but that would not do. Failing that, how-
ever, you-shall have justice, I promise you.
The course I propose taking is this: you
shall be arrested here for debt. You will
be good enough to allow the people who take
you to select your present place of confine-
ment. It is arranged. I will then, by *i
note, appoint a place of meeting for this
evening, where I can instruct you as to the
particulars of the course of conduct I pre-
scribe for you. If you mean to attempt an
escape, you had better try it now; I will
give you fourteen hours' start, and un-
dertakeAo catch and bring^ou back to Lon-
don as a forger. If you make up your
mind to submit to fate, and do precisely as
you are ordered, you may emerge. But on
the slightest evasion, prevarication, or de-
fault, the blow descends. In the mean time
we treat each other civilly before these peo-
ple. Levi is in my hands, and you, I pre-
sume, keep your own secret."
"That is all?" inquired Sir Richard.
"All for the present," was the reply ; "you
will see more clearly by-and-by that you are
my property, and you will act accordingly."
The two Jewish-looking gentlemen whom
Richard had passed, in a conference in their
carriage, which stood now at the steps of the
house, were the sheriff's officers destined to
take charge of the fallen one, and convey
him, by Levi's, direction, to a "sponging-
house," which, I believe, belonged jointly to
him and his partner, Mr, Goldshed.
Mr. Longcluse left the baronet suddenly,
and returned no more.
Sir Richard's role was cast. He was to
figure, at least first, as a captive in the
drama for which fate had selected him. He
had no wish to retard the progress of the
apiece. Nothing more odious than his pres-
ent situation was likely to come.
"You have something to say to me?"
said the baronet, making tender, as it were,
of himself. The offer was, with much deli-
cacy, accepted, and the sheriff, by his lieu-
tenants, made prisoner of Sir Richard Ar-
deu, who strode down the stairs between
them, and entered the seedy coach, and drove
rapidly toward the city.
CHAPTER LXX.
NIGHT.
At about eighto'clock that evening, a har-
ried note reached Alice Arden, at Mortlake.
It was from her brother, and said:
"My Dakuno Alice : —I can't get away from town to-
night: I am overwhelmed with business: but to-morrow,
before dinner, I hope to see you, and stay at Mortlake
till next morning.
"Your affectionate brother,
"DlOK."
The house was quiet earlier than it used to
be in former times, when Sir Reginald, of rak-
ish memory, was never in his bed till past
three o'clock in themorning. Mortlake wasaa
early house now, and all quiet by a quarter
past eleven. The last candle burning was
in Mrs. Tansey's room. She had not yet got
to her bed, and was still in "the house-
keeper's room," when a tapping came at
the window. It reminded her of Mr. Long-
cluse's visit on the night of the funeral.
She was now the> only person up in the
house, except Alice, now at the far side, of
the building, with her maid, who was in bed
asleep. Alice, who sat at her dressing-table,
reading, with her long, rich hair dishevelled
over her shoulders, was, of courSe, quite out
of hearing.'
Martha went to the window with a little
frown of uncertainty. Opening a bit of the
shutter, she saw Sir Richard's face close to
her.
Was ever old housekeeper so pestered by
nightly tappings at her window-pane?
"La! who'd a thought o' seeing you,
Master Richard l why, you told Miss Alice
you'd not be here till to-morrow! "she said,
pettishly, holding the candle high above her
head?
He made a sign of caution to her, and,
placing his lips near the pane, said:
"Open the window the least bit in life."
Witl) a dark stare in his face, she obeyed.
An odd approach, surely, for a. master to
make to his own house!
"No one up in the house but you?" he
whispered, as soon as the"window was open.
"Not one!"
"Don't say a word, only listen: come
softly round to the hall-door, and let me in;
and light those candles there, and bring them
with you to the hall. Don't let a creature
know I have been here, and mako no noise,
for your life!"
The old woman nodded with the same
little frown; and he, pointing toward the
hall-door, walked away silently in that di-
rection.
"What makes him look sa white and dow-
ley?" muttered the old woman, as she se-
cured the window and barred the shutters
again.
"Good creature!" whispered Sir Richard,
as he entered the hall, and placed his hand
kindly on her shoulder, and with a very dark


CHECK
MATE. 153
lieve, to save me from destruction, you-would
sacrifice one of your least caprices, or recon-
cile one of your narrowest prejudices."
"What can you mean, dear Richard? only
tell me how I can be of any use. You can't
mean, of course"
She stopped, with a startled look at him.
"You know, dear Dick, that was always out
of the question; and surely you have heard
that Lord Wynderbroke is to be married to
Grace Maubray? It is all settled."
Quite another thought had been in Rich-
ard's mind, but he was glad to accept Alice's
conjecture.
"Yes, so it is — so, at least, it is said to
be; but I am so worried and distracted, I
half forget things. Girls are such jolly
fools; they throw good men away, and lose
themselves. What is to become of you,
Alice, if things go wrong with me? I think
the old times were best, when the old people
settled who was to marry whom, and there
was no disputing their decision, and mar-
riages were just as happy, and courtships a
great deal simpler; and I am very sure
there were fewer secret repininga, and broken
hearts, and t threadbare old maids. Don't
you be a fool, Alice; mind what I say."
He was leaving the room, but paused at
the door, and returned and placed his hand
on her arm, looking in her face, and said:
"Yes, mind what I say, for God's sake,
and we may all be a great deal happier."
He kissed her, and left the room.
Her eyes followed him, as she thought,
with a sigh:
"How strange Dick is growing! I'm
afraid he has been playing again, and losing.
It must have been something very urgent
that induced him to make it up again with
that low, malignant man; and this break-
up, and journey to Arden Court! I think I
should prefer being there. There is some-
thing ominous about this place, picturesque
as it is, and much as I like it. But the
journey to Yorkshire is only another of the
imaginary excursions Dick has been pro-
posing every fortnight; and nest year, and
the year after, will find us, I suppose, just
where we are."
But this conjecture, for once, was mis-
taken. It was this time a veritable break-
up; for notice of the intended migration
had been given to the servants. Shortly
afterward Martha Tansey entered with the
importance of one who has a matter of
moment to talk over.
"Here's something sudden, Miss Alice;
I suppose you've heard. Off to Arden
Court in the mornin'. Crozier and me, and
the footman discharged, and you to follow
with Master Richard in a week."
"Oh, then, it is settled. Well, Martha, I
am not sorry ; and I dare say you and Crozier
won't bo sorry to see old Yorkshire faces
again, and the Court, and the rookery, and
the orchard."
"I don't mind; glad enough to see a'ad
faces, but I'm a bit o'er a'ad myself for
such sudden flittin's, and Manx and Dar-
went, and the rest, is to go by night-train
to-morrow, and not a housemaid left in
Mortlake. But Master Richard says a's
provided, and't will be butafewdays after a's
done ; and ye 'll be down, then, at Arden by
the middle o' next week, and I'm no sa sure
the change mayn't serve ye; and as your
uncle, Master David, and Lady May Penrose,
and Miss Maubray — a strackle-brained lass
she is, I doubt; and to think o' that a'ad fule,
Lord Wynderbroke, takin'. sich a young,
bony hizzy to wife! La bless ye! she 'll
play the hangment wi' that a'ad gowk of a
lord, and all his goold guineas won't do. His
kist o' money won't hod na time, I warrant
ye, when once that lassie gets her pretty
fingers under the lid. There 'll be gaains
on in that house, I warrant, and he 'll find,
too late —
A fair wife and a back door,
Often makes a rich man poor ^
not but he's a gude man, and a fine gentle-
man as need be," she added, remembering
her own strenuous counsel in his favor,
when he was supposed to be payipg his
court to Alice; "and if he was mated wi' a
gude lassie, wi gude blude in her veins,
would doubtless keep as honorable a house,
and hod his head as high, as any lord o' them
a'. But as I was saying, Miss Alice, now that
Master David, and Lady May, and Miss
Maubray is left Lunnon, there's no one
here to pay ye a visit; and ye 'll be fairly
buried alive here in Mortlake, and ye'd be
better, and sa will we a', down at Arden,
for a bit; and there's gentle folk down
there as gude as ever rode in Lunnon
streets, mayhap, and better; and mony a
squire that ony leddy in the land might be
proud to marry, and not one but would be
glad to match wi' an Arden."
"That is a happy thought," said Alice,
laughing.
"And so it is, and no laughing matter,"
said Martha, a little offended, as she stalked
out of the room, and closed the door, graudly,
after her.
"And God bless you, dear old Martha,"
said the young lady, looking toward the
door, through which she had just passed;
"the truest and kindest soul on earth."
Sir Richard 4'd not come back. She saw
him no more that evening.
CHAPTER LXXII.
AT THE BAR OF THE GUT OF WARWICK.
Next evening there came, not Richard,
but a note, saying that ho would see her the
moment he could get away from town. As
the old servant departed northward, her
solitude for the first time began to grow irk-


154
CHECKMATE.
some, and as the night approached, worse
even than gloomy. Her extemporized house-
hold made her laugh. It was not even a
skeleton establishment. The kitchen de-
partment had dwindled to a single person,
who ordered her luncheon and dinner, only
two or three plats, daily, from the Guy of
Warwick. The housemaid's department was
undertaken by a single servant, a short,
strong woman of some sixty years of age.
This person puzzled Alice a good deal.
She came to her, like the others, with a note
from her brother, stating her name, and that
he had engaged her for the few days they
meant to remain roughing it at Mortlake,
and that she had received a very good ac-
count of her.
This woman had not a bad countenance.
There was, indeed, no tenderness in it; but
there was a sort of hard good-humor. There
was quickness and resolution. She talked
fluently of herself and her qualifications, and
now and then made a short curtsey. But she
took no notice of any one of Alice's questions.
A silence sometimes followed, during
which Alice would repeat her interrogatory
perhaps twice, with growing indignation;
and then the new comer would break into a
totally independent talk, and leave the young
lady wondering at her disciplined imperti-
nence. It was not till her second visit that
she enlightened her.
"I did not send for you. You can go!"
said Alice.
"I don't like a house that has children in
it; they gives a deal o' trouble," said the
woman.
"But I say you may go; you must go,
please."
.The woman looked round the room.
"When I was with Mrs. Montgomery, she
had five, three girls and two boys; la! there
never was five such"
"Go, this moment, please; I insist on your
going; do you hear me, pray?"
But so far from answering or obeying,
this cool intruder continued her harangue
before Miss Arden had got half-way to the
end of her little speech.
"That woman was the greatest fool alive
— nothing but spoiling and petting; I could
not stand it no longer; so I took Master
Tommy by the lug, and pulled him out of
the kitchen, the limb! along the passage to
the stairs, every inch, and I gave him a slap
in the chops, the fat young rascal! you could
hear all over the house! and didn't he raise
the roof? So missus and me we quarrelled
upon it."
"If you don't leave the room, I must;
and I shall tell my brother, Sir Richard,
how you have behaved yourself; and you
may rely upon it"
But here again she was overpowered by
the strong voice of her visitor.
"It was in my next place, at Mr. Crump's,
1 took cold in my head — very bad, miss,
indeed — looking out of the window to see two
fellows fighting in a lane — in both ears —
and so I lost my hearing, and I've bin deaf
as a post ever since!"
Alice could not resist a laugh at her own in-
dignant eloquence quite thrown away; and
she hastily wrote with a pencil on a slip of
paper:
"Please don't come to me except when I
send for you."
"La! ma'am, I forgot!" exclaimed the
woman, when she had examined it; "my
orders was not to read any of your writing."
"Not to read any of my writing!" said
Alice, amazed; "then how am I to tell you
what I wish about anything? " she inquired-,
for the moment forgetting that not one word
of . her question was heard. The woman
made a curtsey, and retired.
"What can Richard have meant by giving
her such a direction? I 'll ask him when he
comes."
It was likely enough that the woman had
misunderstood him; still, there was an un-
comfortable uncertainty about it, and she
began to wish that the little interval destined
to be passed at Mortlake before her journey
to Yorkshire was ended.
She told her maid, Louisa Diaper, with a
very pardonable curiosity, to go down to the
kitchen and find out all she could as to what
people were iij the house, and what duties
they had undertaken, and when her brother
was likely to arrive.
Louisa Diaper, slim, elegant, and demure,
descended among these barbarous animals.
She found in the kitchen, unexpectedly, a
male stranger, a smair, slight man, with
great black eyes, a big sullen mouth*, a
sallow complexion, and a profusion of black
ringlets. The deaf woman was conning
over some writing of his on a torn-oif blank
leaf of a letter, and he was twiddling about
the pencil, with which he had just traced it,
in his fingers, and, in a singing drawl, hold-
ing forth to the other woman who, with a
long and high canvas-apron on, and the
handle of an empty saucepan in her right
hand, stood gaping at him with her arms
hanging by her sides.
On the appearance of Miss Diaper, Mr.
Levi, for he it was, directed his solemn con-
versation to that young lady.
"I. was just telling them about the rob-
beries in the city and Wesht Hend. La!
there'sh bin nothin' like it for twenty year.
They don't tell them in the papersh, blesh ye!
The 'ome Shecretary takesh care o' that;
they don't want to frighten every livin'
shoul out of London. But there 'll be talk
of it in Parliament, I promish you. I know-
three opposition membersh myshelf that will
move the 'oushe upon it next session."
Mr. Levi wagged his head darkly as he
made this political revelation*
"Thish day twel'month the number o'
burglarish in London and the Wesht Hend,
including Ishlington, was no more than
fifteen and a half a night; and two rob-


CHECKMATE.
155
berish attended with wiolensh. What wazh
it lasht night? I have it in confidensh, from
the polishe-offish thish morning."
He pulled a pocket-book, rather greasy,
from his breast, and from this depository, it
is to be presumed, of statistical secrets, he
read the following official memorandum: —
"Numberof 'oushes burglarioushly hen-
tered lasht night, including banksh, chari-
table hinshtitutions, shops, lodging-'oushes,
female hacademies, and private dwellings,
and robbed with more or less wiolensh one
thoushand sheven hundred and shixty-
sheven. We regret to hadd," he continued—
the official return stealing, as it proceeded,
gradually into the style of the "Pictorial
Calendar of British Crime," a half - penny
paper which he took in — "this hinunda-
tion of crime seems flowing, or rayther
rushing northward, and hazh already en-
weloped Ishlington, where a bald - headed
clock- and watch-maker, named Halexander
Goggles, wazh murdered, together with his
sheven shmall children, with unigshampled
ba-arba-arity."
Mr. Levi eyed the woman horribly all
round, as he ended the sentence, and he
added:
"Ishlington'sh only down there. It
ain't five minutesh walk; only a shtep;
j usht enough to gi ve a fellow azh has polished
off a family there a happetite for another
up here. Azh I 'ope to be shaved, I shleep
every night with a pair of horshe-pistols, a
blunderbush, and a shabre by my bed; and
Shir Richard wantsh every door in the
'oushe fasht locked, and the keysh with him,
before dark thish evening, except only such
d6f>rs as you want open; and he gave me a
note to Miss Harden."
And he placed the note in Miss Diaper's
hand.
"He wants the 'oushe a bit more she-
cure," he added, following her toward the
hall; "he wishes to make you and she quite
shafe, and out of harm's way, if anything
should occur. It will be only a few days,
you know, till you 're both away."
The effect of this little alarm, accom-
panied by Sir Richard's note, was that Mr.
Levi carried out a temporary arrangement,
which assigned the suite of apartments in
which Alice's room was as those to which
she would restrict herself during the few
days she was to remain there, the rest of the
house, except the kitchen and a servant's
room or two down-stairs, being locked up.
By the time Mr. Levi had got the keys
together, and all safe in Mortlake, the sun
had set, and in the red twilight that fol-
lowed he set off in his cab toward town.
At the Guy of Warwick — from the bar
of which already was flaring a good broad
gas-light— he stopped, and got out.
There was a full view of the bar from
where he stood; and, pretending to rum-
mage his pockets for something, he was look-
ing in to see whether "the coast was clear."
"She's just your sort — not too bad, and
not too good — not too nashty, and not too
nishe; a good-humored, lash, rough and
ready, with aspishe o' the devil, and knowsh
a thing or two."
By this time he had pulled out a letter,
which he did not in the least want to see,
and hffving attentively read the address
upon it, he returned it to his pocket, and
stepped into the Guy of Warwick.
There was a lull in the business of that
ancient hostelry just at that hour.
"Ye're there, are ye?" inquired Mr.
Levi, playfully, as he crossed the door-stone,
and placed his fists on the bar, grinning.
"What will you take, sir, please?" in-
quired the young woman, at one side of
whom was the usual row of cocks and
pump-handles, and all round shelves of
bottles with scarlet, green, or golden labels,
containing those elixirs that pleasantly
sparkle, and warm far too many with a tiny
ripple of hell-fire.
The young woman did not look like a
witch dispensing her philtres and infernal
drops ; she was light-haired, blue-eyed, and
looked like a lass who could " chaff" with a
customer, laugh pleasantly, fear no one, and
take very good care of herself.
"Now, Miss Phebe, give me a brandy and
shoda-water, pleashe. When I talked to you
in thish 'ere place, 't other night, you wished
to engage for a lady's maid. What would you
shay to me, if I was to get you a firsht-clash
tip-top pla-ashe of the kind? Well, don't
you shay a word — that brandy ain't fair
measure — and I 'll tell you. It 'sh a la-ady
of ra-ank ! where wagesh ish no-o object; and
two vears' savings, and a good match with
a well-to-do 'andsome young fellow, will set
you hup in a better place than this 'ere."
"It comes very timely, sir, for I'm to
leave to-morrow; and I was thinking of
going home to my uncle, in a day or two, in
Chester; but I'd rather do for myself in a
service sich as that. Another brandy and
water, please, sir?"
"Well, it's all settled," said he, nod-
ding; "and no," he interposed, pulling
his tumbler to his chest, "I ain't punished
this yet. Come you down to my offishe, you
know where it is, to-morrow at three, and
I 'll-'av all particklars for you, and a note to
the lady from her brother, the baronet; and
if you be a good girl, and do as you 're bid,
you'll make a little fortune of it."
She curtsied, with her eyes very round,
as he, with a wag of his head, drank down
what remained of his "brandy and water,"
and, wiping his mouth with his glove, he
said, "Three o'clock sha-arp, mind; good-by,
Phebe, lass, and don't you forget all I said."
He stood ungallantly with his back to-
ward her on the threshold lighting a cigar,
and so soon as he had it, in his own phrase,
"working at full blast," he got into his cab,
and jingled toward his office, with all his
keys about him.


156 CHECKMATE.
While Miss Arden remained all uncon- ]
scious, and even a little amused, at the
strange shifts to which her brief stay and
extemporized household at Mortlake exposed
her, a wily and determined strategist was
drawing his toils around her.
The process of isolation was nearly com-
pleted, without having once excitedjier sus-
picions; and, with the same perfidious skill,
the house itself was virtually undergoing
those modifications which best suited his
designs.
Sir Richard appeared at his club as usual.
He was compelled to do so. The all-seeing
eye of his pale tyrant pursued him every-
where; he lived under a spell of terror.
There is a thought well .elaborated by De
Quincey, a thought which more or less dis-
tinctly must have at one timeorother struck
most people. In almost every life there
occurs at least one situation in which a man
finds himself so placed that he must either
be a hero or a villain. If he resists the tre-
mendous pressure of temptation, and in
such a case does right, he is sublime. If his
resolution wavers, and he yields, he is a
monster, at sight of whom humanity cries
out, and covers its eyes. Sir Richard Arden
was here between the heroic and the mon-
strous. No neutral ground — he must be
one or the other. Had he nerve to do so
simple a duty at so stupendous a sacrifice?
The gentle, suave Walter Longcluse, who
so seldom unmasked, did not believe that any
such prodigious ass walked about under a
hat. Mr. Longcluse smiled his silent an-
swer, as he thought how he held him in
"everlasting chains under darkness." But
between the good and the evil in every man,
so long as the good retains a spark of life,
there is a warfare. A dreadful agony all
this time convulsed Sir Richard Arden,
within whose heart Longcluse suspected
nothing but the serenity of death.
"What easier than to tell the story to the
police. Meditated duress. Compulsion.
Infernal villain. And then: what then?
A pistol to his head, and — darkness!"
CHAPTER LXXIII.
A letter.
Mr. Longcluse knocked at Sir Richard's
house in May Fair, and sent up-stairs for
the baronet. It was about the same hour at
which Mr. Levi was drinking his thirsty po-
tation of brandy and water at the Guy of
Warwick. The streets were darker than
that comparatively open place, and the
street lamp threw its red outline of the win-
dow upon the dark ceiling, as Mr. Longcluse
stood in the drawing-room between the win-
dows, in his great-coat, with his hat on, look-
ing in the dark like an image made of fog.
Sir Richard Arden entered the room.
"You were not at Mortlake to-day," said
he.
"No."
"There's a cab at the door that will take
you there; your absence for a whole day
would excite surmise. Don't stay more than
five minutes, and don't mention Louisa Dia-
per's name, and account for the locking up
of all the house, but one suite of rooms, I
directed, and come to my house in Bolton
Street, direct from Mortlake. That's all."
Without another word, Mr. Longcluse took
his departure.
In this cavalier way, and in a cold tone
that conveyed all the menace and insult in-
volved in his ruined position, had this con-
ceited young man been ordered about by his
betrayer, on his cruel behests, ever since he
had come under his dreadful rod.
The iron trap that held him fast, outraged
pride, the terrors of suspense, the shame and
remorse of his own enormous perfidy against
his only sister, locked him into a hell from
which, except through the door of death,
there seemed no escape.
As he drove out to Mortlake, pale, frown-
ing, with folded arms, his handsome face
thinned and drawn in the cords of pain, he
made up his mind.
He knocked furiously at Mortlake Hall
door. The woman in the canvas apron let
him in. The strange face startled him; he
had been thinking so intently of one thing.
Going up through the darkened house, with
but one candle, and tapping at the door, on
the floor above the drawing-room, within
which she was sitting, with Louisa Diaper
for company, and looking at her unsuspicious
smile, he felt what a heinous conspirato»he
was.
He made an excuse for sending the maid
to the next room after they had spoken a few
words, and he said:
"Suppose, Alice, we were to change our
plan ; would you like to come abroad? Out
of this you must come immediately." He
was speaking low. "I am in great danger;
I must go abroad. For your life, don't seem
to suspect anything. Do exactly as I tell
you, or else I am utterly ruined, and you,
Alice, on your own account, very miserable.
Don't ask a question, or look a look that may
make Louisa Diaper suspect that you have
any doubt as to your going to Arden, or any
suspicion of any danger. She is quite true,
but not wise, I dare say, and your left hand
must not know what your right hand is do-
ing. We are beset and watched; don't be
frightened, only be steady and calm. Get
together any jewels and money you have,
. and as little else as you can possibly manage
with. Do this yourself; Louisa Diaper must
know nothing about it. I will mature our
plans, and to-morrow or next day I shall see
you again; I can stay but a moment now,
and have but time to bid you good-night."
And he kissed her.
How horribly agitated he looked! How



CHECKMATE.
159
golden glow and transparent shadows made
that dimpling smile and beautiful face look
more than ever lovely. All around the air
was ringing with the farewell songs of the
small birds, and, with a heart almost re-
joicing in sympathy with 'that beautiful
hour, she walked lightly to the old garden,
which, in that luminous air, looked, she
thought, so sad and pretty.
The well-worn aphorism of the French-
man, "History repeats itself," was about to
assert itself. Sometimes it comes in literal
sobriety, sometimes in derisive travesti,
sometimes in tragic aggravation.
She was in the garden now. The associa-
tions of place recalled her strange interview
with Mr. Longcluse but a few months before.
Since then a blight had fallen on the scenery,
and what a change upon the persons!
The fruiHeaves were yellow now, and
drifts of them lay upon the walks. Mant-
ling ivy canopied the door, interlaced with
climbing roses which had long shed their
honors. - This thick mass of dark green
foliage and thorny tendrils formed a deep
arched porch, in the shadows of which, sud-
denly, as on her return she reached it, she
saw Mr. Longcluse standing within a step or
two of her.
He raised his hand; it might be in en-
treaty, it might be in menace; she could not,
in the few alarmed moments in which she
gazed at his dark eyes and pale equivocal
face, determine anything but that some in-
tense emotion excited him. «
'' Miss Arden, you may hate me; you
can't despise me. You must hear me, be-
cause you are in my power. I relent, beauti-
ful creature, thus far, that I give you one
chance more of reconciliation; don't, for
God's sake, throw it from you!" (he was
extending his open hand to receive hers).
"Why should you prefer an unequal war
with me? I tell you frankly you are in my
power — don't misunderstand me — in my
power to this degree, that you shall volun-
tarily, as the more tolerable of two alter-
natives, submit with abject acquiescence to
every one of my conditions. Here is my
hand; think of the degradation I submit to
in asking you to take it. You gave me no
chance when I asked forgiveness. I tender
you a full forgiveness: here is my hand; be-
ware how you despise it."
Fearful as he appeared in her sight, her
^fear gave way before her kindling spirit. She
Tiad stood before him pale as death — anger
now fired her eye and cheek.
"How dare you, sir, hold such language
to me? Do you suppose, if I had told my
brother of your cowardice and insolence as I
left the Abbey the other day, you would
have dared to speak to him, much less to
me? Let me pass, and never while you live
presume to address me more."
Mr. Longcluse, with a slow recoil, smiling
fixedly, and bowing, drew back, and opened
the door for her to pas's. He did not any
longer look like a villain whose heart had
failed him.
Her heart fluttered violently with fear, as
she saw that he stepped out afte*r her and
walked by her side toward the house.
She quickened her pace in great alarm.
"If you had liked me ever so little," said
he, in that faint and horrible tone she re-
membered, "one, the smallest particle of
disinterested liking — the grain of mustard-
seed— I would have had you fast, and made
you happy, made you adore me; such adora-
tion that you could have heard from my own
lips the confession of my crimes and loved
me still — loved me more desperately. Now
that you hate me, and I hate you, and have
you in my power, and while I hate, still ad-
mire you — still choose you for my wife —
you shall hear the same story, and think me
all the more dreadful. You sought to de-
grade me, and I'll fumble you in the dust.
Suppose I tell you I'm a criminal — the
kind of man you have read of in trials, and
can't understand, and can scarcely even be-
lieve in — the kind of man that seems to you
as unaccountable and monstrous as a ghost
— your terrors and horror will make, my
triumph exquisite with an immense delight.
I don't want to smooth the way for you ; you
do nothing for me. I disdain hypocrisy.
Terror drives you on; fate coerces you ; you
can't help yourself, and my delight is to
make the plunge terrible. I reveal myself
that you may know the sort of person you
are yoked to. Your sacrifice shall be the
agony of agonies, the death of deaths; and
yet you 'll find yourself unable to resist. I 'll
make you submissive as ever patient was to
a mad doctor. If it took years to do it, you
shall never stir out of this house till it is
done. Every spark of insolence in your na-
ture shall be trampled out; I 'll break you
thoroughly. The sound of my step shall
make your heart jump; a sight of me shall
silence you for an hour. You shall not be
able to take your eyes off me while I'm in
sight, or to forget me for' a momen| when I
am gone. The smallest thing you do, the
least word you speak, the very thoughts of
your heart, shall all be shaped under one
necessity and one fear, and to one purpose."
(She had reached the hall-door.) "Up the
steps l Yes; you wish to enter? Cer-
tainly."
With flashing eyes and head erect this
beautiful girl stepped into the hall, without
looking to the right or to the left, or utter-
ing one word, and walked quickly to the
foot of the great stair.
If she thought that Mr. Longcluse would
respect the barrier of the threshold, she was
mistaken. He entered but one step behind
her, shut the heavy hall-door with a crash,
dropped the key into his coat-pocket, and
signing with his finger to the man in the
room to the right, that person stood up brisk-
ly, and prepared for action. He closed the
door again, saying simply, " I'll call."


160
CHECKMATE.
The young lady, hearing his step, turned
round and stood on the stair, confronting
him fiercely.
"You m*st leave this house this moment,"
she cried, with a stamp, with gleaming eyes
and very pale.
"By-and-by," he replied, standing before
her.
Could this be the safe old house in which
childish days had passed, in which all
around were always friendly and familiar
faces? The window stood reflected upon the
wall beside her in the dim sunset splendor,
and the shadows of the flowers sharp and
still that stood there.
"I have friends here who will turn you
out!"
"You have no friends here," he replied,
with the same fixed smile.
She hesitated; she stepped down, but
stopped in the hall. She remembered in-
stant!}7 thflt, as she turned, she had seen him
take the key from the hall-door, and se-
cure it.
"My brother will protect me."
"Is he here?"
"IIo'll call you to account to-morrow,
when he comes."
"Will he say so?"
"Always — brave, true Richard!" she
sobbed, with a strange cry in her words.
"He 'll do as I bid him : he's a forger, in
my power."
To her wild stare he replied with a low,
faint laugh.
She clasped her fingers over her temples.
"Oh ! no, no, no, no, no, no!" she screamed,
and suddenly she rushed into the great room
at her right. Her brother — was it a phan-
tom ? — stood before her. With one long,
shrill scream, she threw herself into his
arms and cried: "It's a lie, darling; it's a
lie!" and she had fainted.
He laid her in the great chair by the fire-
place. With white lips, and with one fist
shaking wildly in the air, he said, with a
dreadful shiver in his voice:
"You* villain! you villain! you d d
villain!"
"Don't you be a fool!" said Longcluse.
"Ring for the maid. There must have been
a crisis some time. I'm giving yon a fair
chance — trying to save you; they all faint
— it's a trick with women."
Longcluse looked into her lifeless face,
with something dark of pity and horror
mingling in the villany of his countenance.
CHAPTER LXXV.
FEIEI CHIFFINCH.
Mr. Longcluse passed into the inner room,
as he heard a step approaching from the
hall. It was Louisa Diaper, in whose care,
with the simple remedy of cold water, the
young lady recovered. She was conveyed to
her room, and Richard Arden followed, at
Longcluse's command, to "keep things
quiet."
In an agony of remorse, he remained with
his sister's hand in his, sitting by the bed
on which she lay. Longcluse had spoken,
with the resolution that a few sharp and
short words should accomplish the crisis,
and show her plainly that her brother was,
in the most literal and terrible sense, in his
power, and thus, indirectly, she also. Per-
haps, if she must know the fact, it was as
well she should know it now.
Longcluse, I suppose, had reckoned upon
his throwing himself upon his sister's mercy.
He thought he had done so before, and moved
her as he would have wished. Longdate,
no doubt, had spoken to her, expecting to
find her in a different mood. Had she
yielded, what sort of husband would he
have made her? Not cruel, I dare say.
Proud of her, he would have been. She
should have had the best diamonds1 in Eng-
land. Jealous, violent when crossed, but
with all his malice and severity, easily by
Alice to have been won, had she cared to
win him, to tenderness.
Was Sir Richard now seconding his
scheme?
Sir Richard had no plan — none for escape,
none for a catastrophe, none for acting upon
Alice's feelings.
- "I am so agitated — in such despair— so
stunned! I£ I had but one clear hour!
Oh, God! if I had but one clear hour to
think in!"
Ho was now trying to persuade Alice that
Longcluse had, in his rage, used exagger-
ated language —that it was true he was in
his power, but it was for a large sum of
money, for which he was his debtor.
"Yes, darling," he whispered, "only be
firm. I shall get away, and take you with
me — only be secret, and don't mind one
word he says when he is angry — he is liter-
ally a madman; there is no limit to the vio1
lence and absurdity of what he says."
"Is he still in the house? " she whispered.
"Not he."
"Are you certain?"
"Perfectly; with all his rant, he dares
not stay: it would be a police-office affair.
He's gone long ago."
"Thank God!" she said, with a shudder.
Their agitated talk continued for some#
time longer.
At Jast, darkly and suddenly, as usual, he
took his leave.
When her brother had gone, she touched
the bell for Louisa Diaper. A stranger ap-
peared.
"Who are you?" said Alice, sitting up.
"I rang for my maid, Louisa Diaper."
"Please, my lady, she went into town to
fetch some things here from Sir Richard's
house."
"How long ago 1"


164
CHECKMATE.
between the candle and the door at which
David Arden entered, directed its light
strongly upon something which the baron
held, and laid upon the table, in his hand;
and now that he turned toward his visitor, it
was concentrated upon his large face, reveal-
ing, with the force of a Rembrandt, all its
furrows and fine wrinkles. He stood out
against a background of darkness like a
figure in a magic-lantern. •
.The baron stood before him —a short man
in a red waistcoat. He looked more broad-
shouldered and short-necked than ever in
his shirt-sleeves. He had an instrument in
his hand resembling a small bit and brace,
and some chips and sawdust on his flannel
waistcoat, which he brushed off with two or
three sweeps of his short fat fingers. He
looked now like a grim old mechanic. There
was no vivacity in his putty-colored features,
but there were promptitude and decision in
every abrupt gesture. It was his towering,
bald forehead, and something of command
and savage energy in his lowering face, that
redeemed the tout ensemble from an almost
brutal vulgarity.
The baron was not in the slightest degree
"put out," as the phrase is, at being de-
tected in his present occupation and disha-
bille.
He bowed twice to David Arden, and said,
in English, with a little foreign accent :.
"Here is a chair, Monsieur Arden; but
you can hardly see it until your eyes have
grown a little accustomed to our cre'puscule."
This was true enough, for David Arden,
though he saw him advance a step or two,
could not have known what he held in the
hand that was in shadow. The sound,
indeed, of the legs of the chair, as he set it
down upon the floor, he heard.
"I should make you an apology, Mr.
Harden, if I were any longer in my own
home, which I am not, although this is still
my house; for I have dismissed my servants,
sold my furniture, and sent what things I
cared to retain over the frontier to my new
habitation, whither I shall soon follow; and
this bouse, too, I shall sell. I have already
two or three gudgeons nibbling, monsieur."
"This house must have been the hotel of
some distinguished family, baron; it is no-
bly proportioned," said David Arden.
As his eye became accustomed to the
gloom, David Arden saw traces of gilding
on the walls. The shattered frames on
which the tapestry was stretched in old
times remained in the panels, with crops of
small, rusty nails visible. The faint candle-
light glimmered on a ponderous gilded cor-
nice, which had also sustained violence. The
floor was bare, with a great deal of litter,
and some scanty furniture. There was a
lathe near the spot where David Arden stood,
and shavings and splinters under his feet.
There was a great block with a vice attached.
In a portion of the fireplace was built a fur-
nace. There were pincers and other instru-
ments lying about the room, which had
more the appearance of an untidy workshop
than of a study, and seemed a suitable enough
abode for the uncouth figure that confronted
him.
"Ha! monsieur," growled the baron,
"stone walls have ears; you say if only they
had tongues, what tales these could tell!"
said the baron, who spoke rapidly and ab-
ruptly as ever, and never smiled. "This
house was one of Madame du Barry's, and
was sacked in the great Revolution. The
mirrors were let into the plaster in the
walls. In some of the rooms there are large
fragments still stuck in the wall so fast, yon
would need a hammer and chisel to dislodge
and break them up. This room was an
ante-room or boudoir, and admitted to the
lady's bedroom by two doors, this and that.
The panels of that other, by which you
entered from the stair, were of mirror.
They were quite smashed. The furniture,
I suppose, flew out of the window; every-
thing was broken up in small bits, and torn
to rags, or carried off to the broker after the
first furv, and sans culoiie families came in
and took possession of the wretched apart-
ments. You will say then, what was left?
The bricks, the stones, hardly the plaster on
the walls. Yet, Monsieur Arden, I have
discovered some of the best treasures the
house contained, and they are at present in
this room. Are you a collector, Monsieur
Arden?"
Uncle David disclaimed the honorable im-
putation. He was thinking of cutting all
this short, and bringing the baron to the
point. The old man was at the period when
the egotism of age asserts itself, and was
garrulous, and being, perhaps. despotic and
fierce, (he looked both), he might easily take
fire, and become impracticable. Therefore,
on second thoughts, he was cautious.
"You can now see more plainly," said the
baron. "Will you approach? Concealed
by a double covering of strong paper pasted
over it, and painted and gilded, each of these
two doors on its six panels contains six dis-
tinct masterpieces of Watteau's. I have
known that for ten years, and have post-
poned removing them. Twelve Watteaus,
as fine as any in the world! I would not
trust their removal to any other hand—and
so, the panel comes out without a shake.
Come here, monsieur, if you please. This
candle affords a light sufficient to see at
least some of the beauties of these incom-
parable works."
"Thanks, baron, a glance will suffice; for
I am nothing of an artist."
He approached". It was trne that his
sight had grown accustomed to the obscurity,
for he could now see the baron's features
much more distinctly. His large waxen
face was shorn smooth, except on the upper
lip, where a short mustache still bristled;
short black eyebrows contrasted also with
| the bald massive forehead, and round the


CHECKMATE.
165
eyes was a complication of mean and cun-
ning wrinkles. Some peculiar lines between
these contracted brows gave a character of
ferocity to this forbidding and sensual face.
"Now! See there! Those four pictures
— I would not sell those four Watteaus for
one hundred thousand francs. And the
other door is worth the same. Ha!"
"You are lucky, baron."
"I think so. I do not wish to part with
them; I don't think of selling them. See
the folds of that brocade! See the ease
and grace of the lady in the sack, who
sits on the bank, there, under the myrtles,
with the guitar on her lap! and see the ani-
mation and elegance of that dancing boy
with the tambourine! This is a chef-
d'ceuvre. I ought not to part with that, on
any terms — no, never! You, no doubt,
know many collectors, wealthy men, in Eng-
land. Look at that shot silk, green and
purple; and whom do you take that to be a
portrait of, that lady with the castanets 1"
He was pointing out each object, on which
he descanted, with his stumpy finger — his
hands being, I am bound to admit, by no
means clean.
'"If you do happen to know such people,
. nevertheless, I should not object to your
telling them where this treasure may be
seen: I've no objection. I should not like
to part with them, that is true. No, no, no;
but every man may be tempted; it is possi-
ble — possible, just possible."
"I shall certainly mention them to some
friends."
"Wealthy men, of course," said the
baron.
"It is an expensive taste, baron, and none
but wealthy people can indulge it."
"True, and these would be very expensive.
They are unique; that lady there is the Du
Barry — a portrait worth, alone, six thou-
sand francs. Ha! he! Yes, when I take
ssese out and place zem, as I mean before I
go, to be seen, they will bring all Europe
together. Mit Speck JUngt man Mause —
with bacon one catches mice!"
"No doubt they will excite attention,
baron. But I feel that I am wasting your
time and abusing your courtesy in permit-
ting my visit, the immediate object of which
was to earnestly beg from you some informa-
tion which, I thyik, no one else can give
me."
"Information? Oh! ha! Pray resume
your chair, sir. Information? yes, it is
quite possible I may have information such
as you need, Heaven knows! But know-
ledge, they say, is power; and if I do you a
service, I expect as much from you. Eine
Hand wascht die and're— one h and, mon sieu r,
washes ze ozer. No man parts wiz zat
which is valuable, to strangers, wizout a
proper honorarium. I receive no more
patients here; but, you understand, I may
be induced to attend a patient: I may be
tempted, you understand."
"But this is not a case of attending a pa-
tient, baron," said David Arden, a little
haughtily.
"And what ze devil in it, then ?" said the
baron, turning on him suddenly. "Mon-
sieur will pardon me, but we professional
men must turn our time and knowledge to
account, do you see? And we don't give
eizer wizout being paid, and well paid for
them, eh?"
"Of course. I meant nothing else," said
David Arden.
"Then, sir, we understand one another
so far, and that saves time. Now, what in-
formation can the Baron Vanboeren give to
Monsieur David Arden?"
"I think you would prefer my putting my
questions quite straight."
"Straight as a sword-thrust, sir."
"Then, baron, I want to know whether
you were acquainted with two persons, Yel-
land Mace and Walter Longcluse."
"Yes, I knew zem boz, slightly and yet
intimately — intimately and yet but slightly.
You wish, perhaps. to learn particulars about
those gentlemen?"
"I do."
"Go on: interrogate."
"Do you perfectly recollect the features
of these persons?"
"I ought."
"Can you give me an accurate description
of Yelland Mace?"
"I can bring you face to face with both."
"By Jove! sir, are you serious?"
"Mr. Longcluse is in London."
"But you talk of bringing me face to face
with them ; how soon?"
"In five minutes."
"Oh, you mean a photograph, or a pic-
ture."
"No, in the solid. Here is the key of the
catacombs." And he took a key that hung
from a nail on the wall.
"Bah, ha, yah!" exploded the baron, in
a ferocious sneer, rather than a laugh, and
shrugging his great shoulders to his ears, he
shook them in barbarous glee, crying:
"What clever fellow you are, Monsieur
Arden ! you see so well srough ze millstone!
Ich bin Mug und weise — you sing zat song?
I am intelligent and wise ; eh, he! gra-a, ha,
ha!"
He seized the candlestick in one hand,
and shaking the key in the other by the side
of his huge forehead, he nodded once or
twice to David Arden.
"Not much life where we are going; but
you shall see zem boz."
"You speak riddles, baron; but by all
means bring me, as you say, face to face with
them."
"Very good, monsieur ; you 'll follow me,"
said the baron. And he opened a door that
admitted to the gallery, and, with the can-
dle and the keys, he led the way, by this
corridor, to an iron door that had a singular
appearance, being sunk two feet back in a


166
. CHECKMATE.
deep wooden frame that threw it into
shadow. This he unlocked, and, with an
exertion of his weight and strength, swung
slowly open.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
RESURRECTIONS.
David Arden entered this door, and found
himself under a vaulted roof of brick. These
were the chambers, for there were at least
two, which the baron termed his catacombs.
Aloiig both walls of the narrow apartment
were iron presses, that looked like the huge
ovens of an ogre, sunk deep in the wall, and
the baron looked himself not an unworthy
proprietor.
The baron had the general's faculty of re-
membering faces and names.
"Monsieur Yelland Mace? yes, I will
show you him: ho is among the dead."
"Dead?"
"Ay, zis right side is dead— all zese."
"Do you mean," said David Arden, "lit-
erally that Yelland Mace is no longer liv-
ing?"
"A, B, C, D, E, F, G," muttered the
baron, slowly pointing his finger along the
right wall.
"I beg your pardon, baron, but I don't
think you heard me," said David Arden.
"Perfectly, excuse me: ft, I, J, K, L, M
— M. I will show you now, if you des;re it,
Yelland Mace; you shall see him now, and
never behold him more. Do you wish very
much?"
"Intensely — most intensely !" said uncle
David, earnestly.
The baron turned full upon him, and
leaned his shoulders against the iron door
of the press. He had taken from his pocket
a bunch of heavy keys, which he dangled
from his clenched fingers, and they made a
faint jingle in the silence that followed, for
a few seconds.
"Permit me to ask," said the baron, "are
your inquiries directed to a legal object?"
"I have no difficulty in saying yes," an-
swered he ; "a legal object, strictly."
"A legal object, by which you gain con-
siderably 1" he asked, slowly. ,
"By which I gain the satisfaction of see-
ing justice done upon a villain."
"That is fine, monsieur. Eternal justice!
I have thought and said that very often:
Vive la justice eternelle! especially when her
sword shears off the head of my enemy, and
her scale is laden with napoleons for my
purse."
"Monsieur le baron mistakes, in my case;
I have absolutely nothing to gain by the pro-
cedure I propose; it is strictly criminal,"
said David Arden, dryly.
"Not an estate? not a slice of an estate?
Come, come! Thorheit! That is foolish
talk."
"I have told you already, nothing," re-
peated David Arden.
"Then you don't care, in truth, a single
napoleon whether you win or lose. We
have been wasting our time, sir. I have no
time to bestow for nothing; my minutes
count by the crown, while I remain in Paris.
I shall soon depart, and practise no more;
and my time will become my own — still my
own, by no means yours. I am candid, sir,
and I think you cannot misunderstand me;
I must be paid for my time and opportuni-
ties."
"I never meant anything else," said Mr.
Arden, sturdily; "I shall pay you liberally
for any service you render me."
"That, sir, is equally frank; we under-
stand now the principle on which I assist
you. You wish to see Yelland Mace ; so you
shall."
He turned about, and struck the key
sharply on the iron door of the safe.
"There he waits," said the baron, "and
— did you ever see him?"
"No."
"Bah! what a wise man. Then I may
show you whom I please, and you know
nothing. Have you heard him described?" •
"Accurately."
"Well, there is some little sense in it,'
after all. You shall see."
He unlocked the safe, opened the door, and
displayed shelves, laden with rudely-made
deal boxes, each a little more than a foot
square. On these were marks and charac-
ters in red, some, and some in black, and
others in blue.
"He! you see," said the baron, pointing
with his key, "my mummies are cased in
hieroglyphics. Come! Here is the num-
ber, the date, and the man."
And lifting them carefully one off the
other, he took out a deal box that had stood
in the lowest stratum. The cover was loose,
except for a string tied about it.
He laid it upon the floor, and took out a
plaster mask, and, brushing and blowing off
the sawdust, held it up.
David Arden saw a face with large eyes
closed, a very high and thin nose, a good
forehead, a delicately-chiselled mouth; the
upper lip, though well formed after the
Greek model, projected a little, and gave to
the chin the effect of receding a little. This
slight defect showed itself in profile; but the
face, looked at full front, was on the whole
handsome.andinsomedegree eveninteresting.
"You are quite sure of the identity of
this? " asked uncle David, earnestly.
There was a square bit of parchment, with
two or three short lines in a character which
he did not know, glued in the concave re-
verse of the mask. The baron took it, and
holding the light near, read, " Yelland Mace,
suspected for his politics, May 2d, 1844."
"Yes," said Mr,. Arden, having renewed
his examination, "it very exactly tallies
with the description ; the nose aquiline, but


168
CHECKMATE.
"Well, I shall have my pipe and beer.
See, there is the barrel — not far to go."
He raised the candle, and David Arden saw
for the first time the outline of a veritable
beer-barrel in the corner, on tressels, such
as might have regaled a party of boors in
the clear shadow of a Teniers.
"There is the comely beer-cask, not often
seen in Paris, in the corner of our boudoir,
resting against the only remaining rags of
the sky-blue and gold silk — it is rotte*
now — with which the room was hung, and
a gilded cornice — it is black now — over its
head; and now, instead of beautiful women
and graceful youths, in gold lace and cut
velvets and perfumed powder, there are but
one rheumatic and crooked old woman, and
one old Prussian doctor, in his shirt-sleeves,
ha! ha! mutat terra vices! Come! we shall
look at these again, and you shall hear
more."
He placed the two masks upon the chim-
ney-piece leaning against the wall.
"And we will illuminate them," said he,
and took, one after the other, half-a-dozen
pieces of wax candle, and, dripping the
melting wax on the chimney-piece, he stuck
each candle in a little pool of its own wax.
"I spare nothing, you see, to make all
plain. Those two faces present a marked
contrast. Do you, Mr. Arden, know any-
thing, ever so little, of the fate of Yelland
Mace?"
"Nothing. Is he living?"
"Suppose he is dead, what then?"
"In that case, of course, I take my leave
of the inquiry, and of you, asking you sim-
ply one question, whether there was any
correspondence between Yelland Mace and
Walter Longcluse?"
"A very intimate correspondence," said
the baron.
"Of what nature?"
"Ha! They have been combined in busi-
ness, in pleasures, in crimes," said the
baron. "Look at them. Can you believe
it? So dissimilar! They are opposites in
form and character, as if fashioned in ex-
pression and in feature each to contradict
the other; yet so united!"
"And in crime, you say?"
"Ay, in crime — in all things."
"Is Yelland Mace still living?" urged
David Arden.
"Those features, in,life, you will never
behold, sir."
"He is dead. You said that you took that
mask from among the dead. Is he dead 1"
"No, sir; not actually dead, but under a
strange condition. Bah! Don't you see I
have a secret? Do you prize very highly
learning where he is?"
"Very highly, provided he may be secured
and brought to trial; and you, baron, must
arrange to give your testimony to prove his
identity."
"Yes, that would be indispensable," said
the baron, whose eyes were sweeping the
room from corner to corner fiercely and
swiftly. "Without me you can never lift
the veil; without me you can never unearth
your skulking Yelland Mace, nor without
me identify and hang him."
"I rely upon your aid, baron," said Mr.
Arden, who was becoming agUated. "Your
trouble shall be recompensed; you may de-
pend upon my honor."
"I am running a certain risk. I am not
a fool, though, like little Lebas. I am not
to be made away with like a kitten; and
once I move in this matter, I burn my ships
behind me, and return to my splendid prac-
tice under no circumstances ever again."
The baron's pallid face looked more blood-
less, his accent was fiercer, and his counte-
nance more frowning as he uttered all this.
"I understood, baron, that you had quite
made up your mind to retire within a very
few weeks, said David Arden.
"Does any man who has lived as long as
you or I, quite trust his own resolution?
No one likes to be nailed to a plan of action
an hour before he need be. I find my prac-
tice more lucrative every day. I may be
tempted to postpone my retirement, and for
a while longer to continue to gather the
golden harvest that ripens round me. But
once I take this step, all is up with that.
You see — you understand. Bah l you are
no fool; it is plain, all I sacrifice."
"Of course, baron, you shall take no
trouble, and make no sacrifice, without am-
ple compensation. But are you aware of the
nature of the crime committed by that man?"
"I never trouble my head about details;
it is enough the man is a political refugee,
and his object concealment."
"But he was no political refugee; he had
nothing to do with politics; he was simply a
murderer and a robber."
"What a rogue! Will you excuse my
smoking a pipe and drinking a little beer.
Now, he never hinted that, although I kuew
him very intimately, for he was my patient
for some months; never hinted it, he was so
sly."
"And Mr. Longcluse, was he your patient
also?"
"Ha! to be sure he was. You won't
drink some beer? No; well, in a moment."
He drew a little jugful from the cask, and
placed it, and a pewter goblet, on the table,
and then filled, lighted, and smoked his
pipe as he proceeded.
"1 will tell you something concerning
those gentlemen, Mr. Longcluse and Mr.
Mace, which may amuse you. Listen."
CHAPTER LXXX.
BROKEN.
"My hands wfcre very full," said the
baron, displaying his stumpy fingers. "I


CHECK
MATE. 169
received patients in this house; I had what
you call many irons in ze fire. I was mak-
ing napoleons then, — I don't mind telling
you, — as fast as a man could run bullets.
My minutes counted by the crown., It was
in the month of May, 1844, late at night, a
man called here, wanting to consult me.
He called himself Herr von Konigsmark. I
went down and saw him in my audience-
room. He knew I was to be depended upon.
Such people tell one another who may be
trusted. He told me he was an Austrian
proscribed: very good. He proposed to
place himself in my hands: very well. I
looked him in the face: you have there ex-
actly what I saw,."
He extended his hand toward the mask
of Yelland Mace.
"' You are an Austrian,' I said, 'a native
subject of the empire?'
"' Yes.'
"' Italian?'
"' No.'
"' Hungarian?'
"'No.'
"'Well, you are not Oerman — ha! ha!
— I can swear to that.'
"He was speaking to me in German.
"' Your accent is foreign. Come! con-
fidence. You must be no impostor. I must
make no mistake, and blunder into a na-
tional type of features, all wrong; if I make
your mask, it must do us credit. I know
muny gentlemen's secrets, and as many
ladies' secrets. A man of honor! What
are you afraid of?'
"You were not a statuary?" said uncle
David, astonished at his versatility.
"Oh, yes! A statuary, but only in gro-
tesque: you understand. I will show you
some of my work by-and-by."
"Arid I shall perhaps understand."
"You shall, perfectly. With some reluct-
ance, then, he admitted that what I posi-
tively asserted was true; for I had told him
I knew from his account he was an English-
man. Then, with some little pressure, I in-
vited him to tell his name. lie did: it was
Yelland Mace. That is Yelland Mace."
He hnd now finished his pipe; he went
over to the chimney-piece, and having
knocked out the ashes, and with his pipe
pointing to the tip of the long, thin, plaster
nose, he said, "Look well at him. Look
till you know all his features by rote. Look
till you fix them for the rest of your days
well in memory, and then say what in the
devil's name you could make of them. Look
at that high nose, as thin as a fish-knife.
Look at the line of the mouth and chin; see
the mild gentleman-like contour. If you
find a fellow with a flat nose, and a pair of
upper tusks sticking out an inch, and a
squint that turns out one eye like the
white of an egg. you pull out the tusks, you
raise the skin of the nosef slice a bit out of
the check, and make a false bridge, as high
as you please; heal the cheek with a stitch
or two, and operate with the lancet for the
squint, and your bust is complete. Bravo!
you understand?"
"I confess, baron, I do not."
"You shall, however. Here is the case
— a political refugee, like Monsieur Yelland
Mace"
"But he was no such thing."
"Well, a criminal—any man in such a
situation is, for me, a political refugee zat,
for reasons, desires to revisit his country,
and yet must be so thoroughly disguised zat
by no surprise, and by no process, can he be
satisfactorily recognized; he comes to me,
tells me his case, and says, 'I desire, baron,
to become your patient,' and so he places
himself in my hands, and so — ha ! ha!
You begin to perceive?"
"Yes, I do! I think I understand you
clearly. But, Lord bless me! what a nefari-
ous trade!" exclaimed uncle David.
The baron was not offended; he laughed.
"Nevertheless," said he, "there's no
harm in that. Not that I care much about
the question of right or wrong in the matter;
but there's none. Bah! who's the worse
of his going back? or, if he did not, who's
the better?"
Uncle David did not care to discuss this
point in ethics, but simply said:
"And Mr. Longcluse was also a patient
of yours?"
"Yes, certainly," said the baron.
"We Londoners know nothing of his
history," said Mr. Arden.
"A political refugee, like Mr. Mace," said
the baron. "Now, look at Herr Yelland
Mace. It was a severe operation, but a
beautiful one! I opened the skin with a
single straight cut frorn under the lachrymal
gland to the nostril, and one underneath
meeting it, you see," (he was tracing the
line of the scalpel with the stem of his
pine,) "along the base of the nose from the
point. Then I drew back the skin over the
bridge, and then I operated on the bone and
cartilage, cutting them and the muscle at
the extremity down to a level with the line
of the face, and drew the flap of skin back,
cutting it to meet the line of the skin of the
cheek; there, you see, so much for the nose.
Now see'the curved eyebrow. Instead of
that very well marked arch, I resolved it
should slant from the radix of the nose in a
straight line obliquely upward; to effect
which I removed at the upper edge of each
eyebrow, at the corner next the temple, a
portion of the skin and muscle, which being
reunited and healed, produced the requisite
contraction, and thus drew that end of each
brow upward. And now, having disposed
of the nose and brows, I came to the mouth.
Look at the profile of this mask."
lie was holding that of Yelland Mace
toward Mr. Arden, and with the bowl of the
pipe in his right hand} pointed out the lines
and features on which he descanted with
the point of the stem.


170
CHECKMATE.
"Now, if you observe, the chin in this
face, by reason of the marked prominence
of the nose, has the effect of receding; but
it does not. If you continue the perpendic-
ular line of ze forehead, ze chin, you see,
meets it. The upper lip, though short and
.well-formed, projects a good deal. Ze under
lip rather retires, and this adds to the reced-
ing effect of the chin, you see. My coup-
d'ceil assured me that it was practicable to
give to this feature the character of a pro-
jecting under-jaw. The complete depres-
sion of the nose more than half accomplished
it. The rest is done by cutting away two
upper and four under teeth, and substituting
false ones at the desired angle. By that
application of dentistry I obtained zis new
line." (He indicated the altered outline of
the features, as before, with his pipe.) "It
was a very pretty operation. The effect you
, could hardly believe. He was two months
recovering, confined to his bed, ha! ha!
We can't have an immovable mask of living
flesh, blood, and bone for nothing. He was
threatened with erysipelas, and there was a
rather critical inflammation of the left eye.
"When he could sit up, and hear the light,
and looked in the glass, instead of thanking
me, he screamed like a girl. He was glad
of it afterward: it was so complete. Look
. at it" (he held up the mask of Yelland
Mace): "a face, on the whole, good-looking,
but a little of a parrot-face, you know. I
took him into my hands with that face, and"
(taking up the mask of Mr. Longcluse and
turning it with a slow oscillation, so as to
present it in every aspect,) he added, "these
are the features of Yelland Mace as I sent
him into the world with the name of Herr
Longcluse l"
"You mean to say that Yelland Mace and
Walter Longcluse are the same person?"
cried David Arden, starting to his feet.
"I swear that here is Yelland Mace before,
and here after, the operation, call him what
you please. When I was in London, two
months ago, I saw Monsieur Longcluse. He
is Yelland Mace; and these two masks
are both masks of the same Yelland Mace."
"Then the evidence is complete," said
David Arden, with awe in his face, as he
stood for a moment gazing on the masks
which the Baron Vanboeren held up side by
side before him.
"Ay, the masks, and the witness to ex-
plain them," said the baron, sturdily.
"It is a perfect identification," murmured
Mr. Arden, with his eyes still riveted on
ilie plaster faces. "Good God! how won-
derful that proof, so complete in all its
parts, should remain!"
"Well, I don't love Longcluse, since so
he is named; he disobliged me when I was
in London," said the baron. "Let him
hang, since so you ordain it. I'm ready to
go to London, give my evidence, and pro-
duce these plaster casts. But my time and
trouble must be considered."
"Certainly."
"Yes," said the baron; "and to avoid
tedious arithmetic, and for sake of conveni-
ence, I will agree to visit London at what
time you appoint, to bring with me these
two masks, and to give my evidence against
Yelland Mace, otherwise Walter Longcluse,
my stay in London not to exceed a fortnight,
for five thousand pounds sterling."
"I don't think, baron, you can be seri-
ous," said Mr. Arden, as soon as he had re-
covered breath.
"Donner-wetter! I will show you that I
am1 " bawled the baron. "Now or never,
sir. Do as you please. I shan't abate a
franc. Do you like my offer?"
On the event of this bargain are depend-
ing issues of which David Ardeu knows
nothing; the dangers, the agonies, the sal-
vation of those who are nearest to him on
earth. The villain Longcluse, and the whole
fabric of his machinations, may be dashed
in pieces by a word.
How, then, did David Arden, who hated
a swindler, answer the old extortioner who
asked Itim, "Do you like my offer?"
"Certainly not, sir," said David Arden,
sternly.
"Then was scheert's mich! What do I
care! No more, no more about it!" yelled
the baron, in a fury, and dashed the two
masks to pieces on the hearth-stone at his
feet, and stamped the fragments into dust
with his clumsy shoes.
With a cry, old uncle David rushed for-
ward to arrest the demolition, but too late.
The baron, who was liable to such excesses
of rage, was grinding his teeth, and soiling
his eyes, and stamping in fury.
The masks, those priceless records, were
gone, past all hope of restoration. Uncle
David felt for a moment so transported with
anger that I think he was on the point of
striking him. How it would have fared
with him if he had, I can't tell.
"Now!" howled the baron, "five times
five thousand pounds would not place you
where you were, sir. You fancied, perhaps,
I would stand haggling with you all night,
and yield at last to your obstinacy. What
is my answer? The floor str«wn with, the
fragments of your calculation. Where will
you turn — what will you do now?"
"Suppose I do this," said uncle David,
fiercely; "report to the police what I have
seen — your masks and all the rest,—and ac-
complish, besides, all I require, by my own
evidence as to what I myself saw?"
"And I will confront you, as a witness,"
said the baron, with a cool sneer, " and deny
it all — swear it is a dream, and aid your
poor relatives in proving you unfit to man-
age your own money."
Uncle David paused for a moment. The
baron had no idea how near he was at that
moment to a trial of strength with his Eng-
lish visitor.
Uncle David thought better of it, and he


CHECKMATE.
171
contented himself with saying, "I shall
have advice, and you shall most certainly
hear from me again."
Forth from the room went David Arden in
high .wrath. Fearing to lose his way, he
bawled over the balusters, and through the
corridors, "Is any one there?" and after a
time, the old woman, who was awaiting him
in the hall, replied, and he was once more in
the open street.
CHAPTER LXXXI.
DOPPELOANOER.
It was late ; he did not know or care how
late. He was by no means familiar with
this quarter of the city. He was agitated
and angry, and did not wish to return to
his hotel till he had a little walked off his
excitement. Slowly he sauntered along
from street to street.
These were old-fashioned, such as were in
vogue in the days of the regency. Tall
houses with gables facing the street ;»few of
them showing any light from their windows,
and their dark outlines discernible on high
against the midnight sky.
Now he heard the voices of people near,
emerging from a low theatre in the street at
the right. A number of men came along
the trottoir toward uncle David. They
were going to a gaming-house and restaurant
at the end of the street, which he had nearly
reached. This troop of idlers he accom-
panied. They turned into an open door, and
entered a passage not very brilliantly
lighted. At the left was the open door of a
restaurant. The greater number of those
who entered followed the passage, however,
which led to the roulette-room.
As uncle David, with a caprice of curi-
osity, followed slowly in the wake of this
accession to the company, a figure passed
and went before him into the room.
With a stratige thrill, he took or mistook
this figure for Mr. Longcluse.
He paused, and saw the tall figure enter
the roulette-room.
He followed it as soon as he recollected
himself a little, and went into the room.
The players were, as usual, engrossed by the
game. But at the far side, beyond these
busy people, he saw this person, whom he
recognized by a light gray great-coat, stoop-
ing with his lips pretty near the ear of a
man who was sitting at the table. He raised
himself in a moment more, and stood before
uncle David, and at the first glance he was
quite certain that he saw Mr. Longcluse
before him. The tall man stood with folded
arms, and look carelessly round the room,
and at uncle David among the rest.
"Here," he thought, "is the man; and
the evidence, clear and conclusive but an
hour ago, and so near this very spot, now
reduced to dust and fragments, and the wit-
ness who might have clenched the case
utterly impracticable!"
This tall man, however, he began to per-
ceive, had points, and strong ones, of dis-
similarity, notwithstanding his general re-
semblance to Mr. Longcluse. His beard and
hair were red; his shoulders were broader,
and very round; much clumsier and more
powerful he looked; and there was an air
of vulgarity and swagger and boisterous
good spirits about him certainly in marked
contrast with Mr. Longcluse's very quiet de-
meanor.
Uncle David now found himself in that un-
comfortable state of oscillation between two
opposite convictions which, in a matter of
supreme importance, amounts very nearly
to torture.
This man did not appear at all put out by
Mr. Arden's presence, nor even conscious
of it. A place became vacant at the table,
and he took it, and staked some money, and
went on, and won and lost, and at last
yawned and turned away, and walked slowly
round to the door near which David Arden
was standing.
Was not this the very man whom he had
seen for a moment on board the steamer, as
he crossed?
As he passed a jet of gas, the light fell
upon his face at an angle that brought out
lines that seemed familiar to the English-
man, and fijr the moment determined his
doubts.
David Arden, with his eyes fixed upon
him, said, as he was about to pass him:
"How d' ye do, Mr. Longcluse?
The gentleman stopped, smiled, and
shrugged.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, in French;
"I do not speak English or German."
The quality of the vuice that spoke these
words was, he thought, different from Mr.
Longcluse's — less tone, less depth, and
more nasal.
The gentleman paused and smiled, with
his head inclined, evidently expecting to be
addressed in French.
"I believe I have made a mistake, sir,"
hesitated Mr. Arden.
The gentleman inclined his head lower,
smiled, and waited patiently for a second or
two. Mr. Arden, a little embarrassed,
said:
"I thought, monsieur, I had met you
before in England."
"I have never been in England, mon-
sieur," said the patient and polite gentle-
man; "I cannot have had the honor, there-
fore, of meeting monsieur there.".
He paused politely.
"Then I have only to make an apology.
I beg your — I beg — but — but surely — I
think — by Jove!" he broke into English,
"I can't be mistaken — you are Mr. Long-
cluse."
The tall gentleman looked so unaffectedly
puzzled, and so politely good-natured, as he


174
CHECKMATE.
be found who would search out the matrices,
or, at worst, piece the fragments of the mask
together, and so, in part, restore the demol-
ished evidence.
It turned out, however, that the destruc-
tion of these relics was too complete for any
such experiments ; and all that now remained
was, upon the baron's letter of the evening
before, to move in official quarters for a
search for those "matrices" from which it
was alleged the masks were taken.
This subject so engrossed his mind, that
it was not until after his late dinner that he
began once more to think of Monsieur St.
Ange and his resemblance to Mr. Longcluse;
and a new suspicion began to envelop those
gentlemen in his imagination. A thought
struck him, and up got uncle David, leaving
his wine unfinished, and a few minutes more
saw him in the telegraph office, writing the
following message:
"From Monsieur David Arden, etc., to Monsieur
Blouut, 5, Manchester Buildings, Westminster, London.
. "Pray- telegraph immediately to say whether Mr.
Longcluse is at his house, Bolton Street, Piccadily."
No answer reached him that night; but
in the morning he found a telegram dated
11.30 of the previous night, which said:
"Mr. Longcluse is ill at his house at Richmond— bet-
ter to-day."
To this promptly he replied: .
"See him, if possible, immediately at Richmond. The
surrender of the lease in Crown Alley will be an excuse.
See him, if there. Ascertain with certainty where. Tele-
graph immediately."
No answer had reached uncle David at
three o'clock p.m.; he had despatched his
message at nine. He was impatient, and
walked to the telegraph office to make in-
quiries, and to grumble. He sent another
message in querulous and peremptory lacon-
ics. But no answer came till near twelve
o'clock, w en the following was delivered to
him:
"Yours came while out. Received at 6 p. M. Saw Long-
cluse at Richmond. Looks seedy. Says he is all right
now."
He read this twice or thrice, and lowered
the hand whose fingers held it by the cor-
ner, and looked up, taking a turn or two
about the room; and he thought what a
precious fool he must have appeared to
Monsieur St. Ange, and then again, with
another view of that gentleman's character,
what an escape he had possibly had.
So there was no distraction any longer,
and he directed his mind now exclusively
upon the distinct object of securing posses-
sion of the moulds from which the masks
were taken; and for many reasons it is not
likely that very much will come of his
search.
CHAPTER LXXXIII.
AT MORTLAKE.
Events do not stand still at Mortlake. It
is now about four o'clock on a fine autumnal
afternoon.
Since we last saw her, Alice Arden has
not once sought to pass the hall-door. It
would not have been possible for her to
do so.
No one passed that barrier without a
scrutiny, and the aid of the key of the man
who kept guard at the door, as closely as
ever did the officer at the hatch of the
debtor's prison.
The suite of five rooms up-stairs, to which
Alice is now strictly confined, is not only
comfortable but luxurious.' It had been
fitted up for his own use by Sir Reginald,
years before he exchanged it for those rooms
down stairs which, as he grew older, he
preferred.
Levi, every day, visited the house, and
took a report of all that was said and planned
up-stairs, in a tMe-d-tUe with Phebe Chif-
finch, in the great parlor among the por-
traits.
The girl was true to her young and help-
less mistress, and was in her confidences,
outwitting the rascally Jew, who every time,
by Longcluse's order, bribed her handsomely
for the information that was misleading him.
From Phebe the young lady concealed no
pang of her agony. Weil was it for her that
in their craft they had exchanged the com-
paratively useless Miss Diaper for this poor
girl, on whose apprentfceship to strange ways,
and a not very fastidious life, they relied tor
a clever and unscrupulous instrument. Per-
haps she had more than the cunning they
reckoned upon. "But I 'ave took a liking
to ye, miss, and they'll not make nothing of
Phebe Chiffinch."
Each evening Mr. Levi was in attendance;
and this day, according to rule, she went
down to the grand old dining-room.
"How'sh Mish Chiffinch?" asked the lit-
tle Jew, advancing to meet her; "how'sh
her grashe the duchess, in the top o' the
houshe? Ish my Lady Mount-garret ash
proud ash ever?"
"Well, I do think, Mr. Levi, there's a
great change; she's bin growing better the
last two days, and she's got a.letter last
night that's seemed to please her."
"Wha-at letter?"
"The letter you gave me last night for
her."
"O-oh! Ah! I wonder—eh? Do you hap-
pen to know what wazh in it?" he asked,
in an insinuating whisper.
"No I, Mr. Levice. She don't trust me
not as far as you'd throw a bull by the horns.
You might 'ave managed that better. You
must 'a frightened her some way about me.
I try to be agreeable all I can, but she won't
a-look at me."


CHECKMATE.
175
""Well, I don't want to know, I'm sure.
Did she try to go out since?"
"No; there's a frost in the air still,
and she says till that's gone she won't stir
out."
"Any more newshe?"
"Nothing."
"Wait a minute 'ere," said Mr. Levi, and
he went into the room beyond this, where
she knew there were writing materials.
She waited some time, and at length took
the liberty of sitting down.
She was kept a good while longer. The
sun went down; the drowsy crimson that
heralds night overspread the sky. She
coughed; several fits of coughing she tried
at short intervals. Had Mr. Levice, as she
called him, forgotten her? He came out at
length in the twilight.
"Shtay you 'ere a few minutes more,"
said that gentleman, as he walked thought-
fully through the room, and paused. "You
wazh asking yesterday where ish Sir Rich-
ard Harden. Well, hizh took hishelf off to
Harden in Yorkshire, and he'll not be 'ome
again for a week." Having delivered this
piece of intelligence, he nodded, and slowly
went to the hall, and closed the door care-
fully. She followed to the door, and listened.
There was plainly a little fuss going on in
the hall. She heard feet in motion, and low
talking. She was curious, and would have
peeped, but the door was secured on the
outside.
The twilight had deepened, and for the
first time she saw that a ray of candle-light
came through the keyhole from the inner
room. She opened the door, and saw a gen-
tleman writing at the table. He was quite
alone. He turned and rose: a tall gentle-
man with a singular countenance that star-
tled her, and a very pale face.
"You are Phebe Chiffinch," said a deep,
clear voice, sternly, as the gentleman pointed
towards her with the plume end of the pen
he held in his fingers. "I am Mr. Longcluse.
It is I who have sent you two pounds each
day, by Levi. I hear you have got it all
right."
The girl curtsied, and said, "Yes, sir,"
at the second effort, for she was startled.
"Well, here are ten pounds," and he
handed her a rustling new note by the cor-
ner. "I'll treat you liberally, but you must
speak truth, and do exactly as you are or-
dered by Levi." She curtsied again.
There was something in that gentleman that
frightened her awfully.
"If you do so, I mean to give you a hun-
dred pounds when this business is over. I
have paid you as my servant, and if you de-
ceive me, I'll punish you; and there are two
or three little things they complain of at the
Guy of Warwick, down there, and" (he
swore a hard oath) "you shall hear of them,
if you do."
She curtsied, and felt, not angry, as she
would if any one else had said it, but fright-
ened, for Mr. Longcluse's was a name of
power at Mortlake.
"You gave Miss Arden a letter last night.
You know what was in it?"
"Yes, sir."
"What was it?"
"An offer of marriage from you, sir."
"Yes; how do you know that?"
"She told me, please, sir."
"How did she take it? Come, don't be
afraid."
"I'd say it pleased her well, sir."
He looked at her in great surprise, and
was silent for a time.
He repeated his question, and, receiving
a similar answer, reflected on it.
"Yes; it is the best way out of her
troubles; she begins to see that," he said,
with a strange smile.
He walked to the chimney-piece, and
leaned on it; and forgot the presence of
Phebe. She was too much in awe to make
any sign. Turning, he saw her, suddenly.
"You will receive some directions from
Mr. Levi; now take care you understand
and execute them."
He touched the bell, and Levi opened the
door; and she and that person walked to-
gether to the' foot of the stair, where, in a
low tone, they talked.
CHAPTER LXXXIV.
THE CRISIS.
When Phebe Chiffinch returned to Alice's
room, a brilliant moon was shining on the old
trees, and throwing their shadows on the
misty grass. The landscape from these up-
per windows was sad and beautiful, and
above the distant trees that were softened
by the haze of night rose the silvery spire
of the old church, in whose vault her father
sleeps with a cold brain, thinking no more
of mortgages and writs.
Alice had been wondering what had de-
tained her so long, and by the time she ar-
rived had become very much alarmed.
Relieved when she entered, she was again
struck with fear when Phebe Chiffinch had
come near enough to enable her to see her
face. She was deadly pale, and with her
eyes fixed on her, raised her finger in warn-
ing, and then glanced at the door which she
had just closed.
, Her young mistress got up and approached
her, also growing pale, for she perceived that
some new danger was at the door. -
"I wish there was bolts to these doors.
They 've got the keys. Never mind; I know
it all now," she whispered, as she walked
softly up to the end of the room farthest from
the door. "I said I'd stand by you, my
lady; don't you lose heart. They 're com-
ing here in about an hour."
"For God's sake, what is it?" said Alice,


CHECKMATE.
177
If he Tiad been looking on her with an eye
of suspicion, he might have seen her color
change. But Phebe was quick-witted and
prompt, and saying:
"Well, dear, aint I a fool, leaving the
lady's door open? Look ye, now, Mr. Var-
gers, she's lying fast asleep on her bed; and
that's the reason I took courage to come here
and ask a favor. But I'd rayther you'd lock
her door, for if she waked and missed me
she'd be out here, and all the fat in the fire."
"I dessay you 're right, miss," said he,
with a more business-like gallantry; and as
he shut the door and fumbled in his pocket
for the key, she stole a look over her shoulder.
The room was empty, and the door at the
other end closed.
With a secret shudder, she thanked God in
her heart, while, with a laugh, she slapped
Mr. Vargers' lusty shoulder, and said, whee-
dlingly, "And now for the favor, Mr. Var-
gers: you must let me down to the kitchen
for five minutes."
A little banter and spurring followed,
which ended in Vargers kissing her in spite
of the usual squall and protest; and on his
essaying to let her out, and finding the door
unlocked, he swore that it was well she had
asked, as "he'd 'av got it 'ot and 'eavy for
forgetting to lock it when the 'swells'
came up."
The door closed upon her; so far the en-
terprise was successful.
She stood at the head of the stairs: she
went down a few steps and listened; then
cautiously she descended. The moon shone
resplendent through the great window at
the landing below the drawing-room. It
was that at which uncle David had paused
to listen to the minstrelsy of Mr. Longcluse.
Here, in that flood of white light, stood
Alice Arden, like a statue of fear. The
girl, without saying a word, took her by
the cold hand, and led her quickly down to
the arch that opens on the hall.
Just as they reached this point, the door
of the room in the hall occupied by the man
who did duty as porter, opened, and step-
ping out with a candle in his hand, he
called, in a savage tone: .
"Who's there?"
Phebe pushed Alice's hand in the direc-
tion of the passage that leads to the house-
keeper's room, which hint she noiselessly
took, and entered that corridor as Phebe
advanced to answer his challenge. Happily
his suspicions were not roused. Phebe oc-
cupied a confidential post in this strange
prison, and the man offered no obstruction
to her going on, as she pretended, to the
kitchen, and withdrew again into his place.
In a moment more Phebe and Alice were
at the door which, seldom locked, except
when the house was shut up, admitted to a
passage leading laterally to the side of the
house. This door Phebe unlocked, and
when they had entered, locked again on the
inside. They stood now in the passage
leading to a side door, to which a few paces
brought them. She opened it. The cold
night air entered, and they stepped out
upon the grass. She locked the door behind
them, and threw the key among the nettles
that grew in a thick grove at her right.
"Hold my hand, my lady; it's .near
done now," she whispered, encouragingly;
and having listened for a few seconds, and
looked up to see if any light appeared in
the windows, she ventured, with a heating
heart, from under the deep shadow of the
house into the bright, broad moonlight, and
with light steps together they sped across
the grass, and reached the cover of a long
grove of tall trees and underwood. All was
silent here.
Soon a distant shouting brings them to a
terrified stand-still.
Breathlessly, Phebe listens.
No; it was not from the house.
They resume their flight.
Now under the ivy-iaden branches of a
tall old tree an owl startles them with its
shriek.
As Alice stares around her, when they
stop in such momentary alarm, how strange
the scene looks! How immense and gloomy
the trees about them! How black their
limbs stretch across the moonlit sky! How
chill and wild the moonlight spreads over
the undulating sward! What a spectral
and exaggerated shape all things take in
her scared and over-excited gaze!
Now they are approaching the long row
of noble beeches that line the boundary of
Mortlake. The ivy-bowered wall is near
them, and the screen of gigantic hollies that
guard the lonely postern through which
Phebe has shrewdly chosen to direct their
escape.
Thank God! they are at it. In her hand
she holds the key, which shines in the
moonbeams.
Hush! what is this? Voices close to the
door l Step back behind the holly clump,
for your lives, quickly! A key grinds in
the lock; the bolt works rustily; the door
opens, and tall .Mr. Longcluse enters, with
every sinister line and shadow of his pale
face marked with a death-like sternness in
the moonlight. Mr. Levi enters almost
beside him; how white his big eyeballs
gleam, as he steps in under the same cold
light! Who next? Her brother l 0 God!
The mad impulse to throw her hands about
his neck, and shriek her wild appeal to his
manhood, courage, love, and stake all on
that momentary frenzy l
Phebe ChifBnch, breathless, is holding
her wrist with a firm grasp. As they brush
the holly-leaves in passing, the very sprays
that touch the dresses of the scared girls
are stirring. The pale group drifts by in
silence. They have each something to medi-
tate on. They are not garrulous. On
they walk, like three shadows. The dis-
tance widens, the shapes grow fainter.
12


180
CHECKMATE.
course for him to adopt. The simple one of
flight he ultimately resolved upon. He knew
that Longcluse had still two executions
against him, on which, at any moment, he
might arrest him. He knew that he might
launch at him, at any moment, the thunder-
bolt which would blast him. He must wait,
however, until the morning had confirmed
the news; that uncertain, he dared not act.
With -a cold and fearless bearing, Long-
cluse had by this time entered the dreadful
door of a prison. His attorney was with
him nearly the entire night.
David Arden, as he promised, had dictated
to him in outline the awful case he had
amassed against his client.
"I don't want any man taken by surprise
or at disadvantage; I simply wish for truth,"
said he.
A copy of the written statement of Paul
Davies, whatever it was worth, duly wit-
nessed, was already in his hands; the sworn
depositions of the same person, made in his
last illness, were also there. There were
also the sworn depositions of Vanboeren,
who had, after all, recovered speech and re-
collection; and a deposition, besides, very
unexpected, of old Martha Tansey, who
swore distinctly to the scar, a very peculiar
mark indeed, on the back of his left hand.
This the old woman had recognized with
horror, at a moment so similar, as the scar,
long forgotten, which she had for a terrible
moment seen oa»the hand of Yelland Mace,
as he clutched the rail of the gig, while en-
gaged in the murder.
Other surviving witnesses had also turned
up, who had deposed when the murder of
Harry Arden was a recent event. The
whole case was, in the eyes of the attorney,
a very anxious one. Mr. Longcluse's coun-
sel was called up, like a physician whose
Eatient is in extremis, at dead of night, and
ad a talk with the attorney, and kept his
notes to ponder ov%r.
As early as prison rules would permit, he
was with Mr. Longcluse, where the attorney
awaited him.
Mr. Blinkinsop looked very gloomy.
"Do you despair?" asked Mr. Longcluse,
sharply, after a long disquisition.
"Let me ask you one question, Mr.
Longcluse. You have, before I ask it, I
assume, implicit confidence in us; am I
right?"
"Certainly — implicit."
"If you are innocent, we might venture
on a line of defence which may possibly
break down the case for the Crown. If you
are guilty, that line would be fatal." He
hesitated, and looked at Mr. Longcluse.
"I know such a question has been asked
in like circumstances, and I have no hesita-
tion in telling you that I am not innocent.
Assume my guilt."
The attorney, who had been drumming a
little tattoo on the table, watched Longcluse
earnestly as he spoke, suspending his tune,
now lowered his eyes to the table, and re-
sumed his drumming, slowly, with a very
dismal countenance. He had been talking
over the chances with this eminent counsel,
Mr. Blinkinsop, Q. C, and he knew what his
opinion would now be.
"One effect of a judgment in this case is
forfeiture? " inquired Mr. Longcluse.
"Yes," answered counsel.
"Everything goes to the Crown, eh?"
".Yes; clearly."
"Well, I have neither wife nor children.
I need not care; but suppose I make my
will now; that's a good will, ain't it, be-
tween this and judgment, if things should
go wrong?"
"Certainly," said Mr. Blinkinsop.
"And now, doctor, don't be afraid; tell
me truly, shall I do?" said Mr. Longcluse,
leaning back, and looking darkly and stead-
ily in his face.
"It is a nasty case."
"Don't be afraid, I say. I should like to
know, are the chances two to one against
me?"
"I'm afraid they are."
"Ten to one? Prav, say what you think."
"Well, I think so."
Mr. Longcluse grew paler. They were
all three silent. After about a minute, he
said, in a very low tone:
"You don't think I have a chance? Don't
mislead me."
"It is very gloomy."
Mr. Longcluse pressed his hand to his
mouth. There was a silence. Perhaps he
wished to hide some nervous movement there.
He stood up, walked about a little, and then
stood by Mr. Blinkinsop's chair, with his
fingers on the back of it.
"We must make a great fight of this,"
said Mr. Longcluse, suddenly. "We 'll fight
it hard; we must win it. We shall win it,
by 1"
And after a short pause, he added, gently:
"That will do. I think I 'll rest now;
more, perhaps, another time. Good-by."
As they left the room, he signed to the at-
torney to stay.
"I have something for you—, a word or.
two."
The attorney turned back, and they re-
mained closeted for a time.
CONCLUSION.
Sir Richard Arden had learned how
matters were with Mr. Longcluse. He hesi-
tated. Flight might provoke action of the
kind for which there seemed no longer a mo-
tive.
In an agony of dubitation, as the day wore
on, he was interrupted. Mr. Rooke, Mr.
Longcluse's attorney, had called. There
was no good in shirking a meeting. He was
shown in.


CHECK
MATE. 181
"This is for you, Sir Richard," said Mr.
Rooke, presenting a large letter. "Mr.
Longcluse wrote it about three hours ago,
and requested me to place it in your hand,
as I now do."
"It is not any legal paper —" began Sir
Richard.
"I have n't an idea," answered he. "lie
gave it to me thus. I had some things to do
for him afterwards, and a call to make, at
his desire, at Mr. David Arden's. When I
got home, I was sent for again. I suppose
you heard the news?"
"No; what is it?"
"Oh, dear! really? They have heard it
some time at Mr. Arden's. lou did n't hear
about Mr. Longcluse?"
"No, nothing, excepting what we all know
— his arrest."
The attorney's countenance darkened, and
he said, as low as he would have given a
message in church:
"Oh, poor gentleman! he died to-day.
Some kind of fit, I believe; he's gone!"
Then Mr. Rooke went into particulars, so
far as he knew them, and mentioned that the
coroner's inquest would be held that after-
noon; and so he departed.
Unmixed satisfaction accompanied the
hearing of this news in Sir Richard's mind.
But with reflection came the terrifying
question, "Has Levi got hold of that in-
strument of torture and ruin — the forged
signature?"
In this new horror he saw the envelope
which Rooke had handed to him, upon the
table. He opened it, and saw the forged
deed. Written across it, in Longcluse's
hand, were the words —
"Paid by W. Longcluse before due.
"W. Longcluse."
That day's date was added.
So the evidence of his guilt was no longer
in the hands of a stranger, and Sir Richard
Arden was saved.
David Arden had already received, under
like circumstances and by the same hand,
two papers of immense importance.
The first, written in Rooke's hand and
duly witnessed, was a very short will,
signed by the testator, Walter Longcluse,
aud leaving his enormous wealth absolutely
to David Arden.
The second was a letter which attached a
trust to this bequest. The letter said:
"I am the son of Edwirr Kaikes, your cousin. He bad
cast me off for my vices, when I committed the crime,
not intended to have amounted to murder. It was thirty
Arden's determined resistance and my danger that cost
him bis life. I did kill Lebas. I could not help it. , He
was a fool, and might have ruined me ; and that villain,
Vanboeren, has spoken truth for once.
"I meant to set up the Arden family in my person. I
should have taken the name. My father relented on his
deiith-bed, and left me his money. I went to New York,
and received it. I made a new start in life. On the
Bourse in Paris, and in Vienna, I made a fortune by specu-
lation: I improved it in London. You take it all by my j
will. Do with half the interest as you please, during!
your lifetime. The other half pay to Miss Alice Arden, j
and the entire capital yon are to secure to her on your
death.
"I had taken assignments of ay the mortgages affect-
ing the Arden estates. They must go to Miss Arden, and
be secured unaliennbly to her.
"My life has Wen arduous and direful. That miserable
crime hung over me, and its dangers impeded me at every
turn.
"You have played the game well, hut with all the odds
of the position in your favor. I am tired, beaten. The
match is oveA and you may now rise and say Checkmate.
"Walter Longcluse."
That Longcluse had committed suicide,
of course I can have no doubt. It must
have been effected by some unusually subtle
poison. The post-mortem examination failed
to discover its presence. <3ut there was
found in his desk a curious paper in French,
published about five months before, upon
certain vegetable poisons, whose presence
iii, the system no chemical tost detects, and
no external trace records. This paper was
noted here and there on the margin, and
had been obviously cnrefully read. Any
of these tinctures-he could without much
trouble have procured from Paris. But no
distinct light was ever thrown upon this
inquiry.
In a small and lonely house, tenanted by
Longcluse, in the then less crowded region
of Richmond, were found proofs, no longer
needed, of Longcluse's identity, both with
the horseman who had met Paul Davies on
Hampstead Heath, and the person who
crossed the Channel from Southampton with
David Arden, and afterward met him in
the streets of Paris, as we have seen.
There he had been watching his movements,
and traced him, with dreadful suspicion, to
the house of vanboeren. The turn of a
die had determined the fate of David Ar-
den that night. Longcluse had afterward
watched and seized an opportunity of en-
tering Vanboeren's house. He knew that
the baron expected the return of his mes-
senger, rang the bell, and was admitted.
The old servant had gone to her bed, and
was far away in that vast house.
Longcluse would have stabbed him, but
the baron recognised him, and sprang back
with a yell.
Instantly Longcluse had used his re-
volver; but before he could make assurance
doubly sure, his quick ear detected a step
outside.
He then made his exit through a window
into a deserted lane at the side of the house,
and had not lost a moment in commencing
his flight.
With respect to the murder of Lebas, the
letter of Longcluse pretty nearly explains
it. That unlucky Frenchman had at-
tended him through his recovery under the
hands of Vanboeren; and Longcluse feared
to trust, as it now might turn out, his life
in his giddy keeping. Of course Lebas had
no idea of the nature of his crime, or that
in England was the scene of its perpetra-
tion. Longcluse had made up his mind


182
CHECKMATE.
promptly on the night of the billiard-match
played in the Saloon Tavern. When every
eye was fixed upo*n the balls, he and Lebas
met. as they had ultimately agreed, in'the
smoking-room. A momentary meeting it
was to have been. The dagger which he
placed in his keeping Longcluse plunged
into his heart. In the stream ofjj)lood that
instantaneously flowed from the wound,
Longcluse stepped, and made one distinct
impression of his boot-sole on the boards.
A trac'ng of this Paul Davies had made,
and had got the signatures of two or three
respectable Londoners attesting its accu-
racy, he affecting, while he did so, to be a
member of th» detective police, from which
body, for a piece of ower-cleverness, he had
been, oniy a few weeks before, dismissed.
Having made his tracing, he obliterated the
blood-mark.
The opportunity of distinguishing him-
self at his old craft to the prejudice of the
force, whom he would have liked to mor-
tify, while earning, perhaps, his own resto-
ration, was his first object. The delicacy
of the shape of the boot struck him next.
He then remembered having seen Long-
cluse— and his was the only eye that ob-
served him — pass swiftly from the passage
leading to the smoking-room at the begin-
ning of the game. His mind had now
matter to work upon; and hence his visit
to Bolton Street to secure possession of the
boot, which he did by an audacious ruse.
His subsequent interview with Mr. Long-
cluse, in presence of David Arden, was sim-
ply a concerted piece of acting, on which
Longcluse, when he had made his terms
with Davies, insisted, as a security against
the re-opening of the extortion.
Nothing will induce Alice to accept one
farthing of this magnificent legacy. Se-
cretly, uncle David is resolved to make it
up to her from his own wealth, which is
very great.
Richard Arden's story is not known to
any living person but the Jew Levi, and
vaguely to his sister, in whose mind it re-
mains as something horrible, but never
approached.
Levi keeps the secret for reasons more
cogent than charitable. First he kept it
to himself as a future instrument of profit.
But on his insinuating something that
promised such relations to Sir Richard,
the young gentleman met it with so bold a
front, with fury so unaffected, and with
threats so alarming, founded upon a trifling
matter of which the Jew had never sus-
pected his knowledge, that Mr. Levi has not
ventured either to "utilize" his knowledge
in a profitable way, or afterward to circulate
the story for the solaceof his malice. They
seem, in Mr. Rooke's phrase, to have turned
their backs on one another; and as some
years have passed, and lapse of yme does
not improve the case of a person in Mr.
Levi's position, we may safely assume that
he will never dare to circulate any definite
stories to Sir Richard's prejudice. A suffi-
cient motive, indeed, for doing so exists no
longer, for Sir Richard, who had lived an
unsettled life, travelling on the Continent,
and still playing at foreign tables when he
could afford it, died suddenly at Florence
in the autumn of '69.
Vivian Darnley has been in "the House"
now nearly four years. Uncle David is
very proud of him; and more impartial
people think that he will, at last, take an
honorable place in that assembly. His lasj;
speech has been spoken of everywhere with
applause. David Arden's immensely in-
creased wealth enables him to entertain
very magnificent plans for this young man.
lie intends that he shall take the name of
Arden, and earn the transmission of the
title, or the distinction of a greater one.
A year ago he married Alice Arden, and
no two people can be happier.
Litdy May, although her girlish ways
have not forsaken her, has no present
thoughts of making any man happy. She
had a great cry all to herself when Sir
Richard died, and she still believes that he
never meant one word he said of her, and
that if the truth were known, although
after that day she never spoke to him more,
that he had never really cared for more than
one woman on earth. It was all spite of
that odious Lady Wynderhroke!
Alice has never seen Mortlake after the
night of her flight from its walls.
Of the two old servants, Crozier and Mar-
tha Tansey, whose acquaintance we made
in that suburban seat of the Ardens, neither,
I am glad to say, has died since.
Phebe Chiffinch, I am glad to say, was
jilted by her uninteresting lover, who little
knew what a fortune he was slighting. His
desertion does nojt seem to have broken her
heart, or at all affected her spirits. The
gratitude of Alice Arden has established
her in the prosperous little Yorkshire town,
the steep roofs, chimneys, and church-tower
of which are visible from the windows of
Arden Court. She is the energetic and
popular proprietress of the "Cat and Fid-
dle," to which thriving inn, at a nominal
rent, a valuable farm is attached. A for-
tune of two thousand pounds from the same
grateful friend awaits her marriage, which
can't be far off, with the handsome son of
rich farmer Shackleton.
THE END.